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 flush was spread,
Feeble she seem'd, and sorely smit with pain;
While bare-foot 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 them,
And beg that mercy man denied her here.
Shore. 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 deliv❜rance,
Which, but for Hastings' death, I had not gain'd.
During that time, altho' 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.

Shore. Let them threaten :

Let proud oppression prove its fiercest malice;
So Heaven 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?
Shore. I do.

Bel. And have you thought upon the consequence?
Shore. What is there I should fear?

Bel. Have you examin'd

Into your inmost heart, and tried 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?

'Shore. Why dost thou search so deep and urge my To set in dread array my wrongs again?

"I have long labour'd to forget myself,

[memory

To think on all time, backward, like a space,
Idle and void, where nothing e'er had being;
But thou hast peopled it again; revenge
And jealousy renew their horrid forms,

Shoot all their fires, and drive me to distraction.
'Bel. Far be the thought from me! my care was only
To arm you for the meeting: Better were it
Never to see her, than to let that name

'Recall forgotten rage, and make the husband
Destroy the gen'rous pity of Dumont.'

6

Shore. Oh! 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 lovely face on which my dotage hung!
How have I 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.—

Shore. 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 sate,
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 cried,
While down her cheeks the 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;
F'en 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?
And tho' 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 her's?+

Shore. 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

Intreat 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,

* And, to the last, bended their light on me.

Hamlet, A. 11. S. I.

+"Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? behold and see, if "there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me. wherewith the Lord hath afflicted me in the day of his fierce anger.' Lamentations 1, 12.

So loving to my mother,

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven

Visit her face too roughly.

Hamlet, A. I. S. II.

Drenches her locks, and kills her with the cold.
It is too much-Hence with her past offences,
With me they are no more- -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. Shore. Here let us, then, 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. Another Street.

JANE SHORE is discovered leaning against an archway in the middle of the stage, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders, and bare-footed.*

J. Sho. Yet, yet endure, nor murmur, oh! 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?+
Does not the hand of righteousness afflict thee?
And who shall plead against it? who shall say
To Power Almighty, Thou hast done enough:

* It appears an impropriety when this play is acted and the scene draws and discovers Jane Shore, in a clean white dress, (as, I believe, is invariably the case,) though Belmour has been giving an account of her sufferings in the streets for three days, and the rabble "gathering the filth from out the common ways to hurl upon her head." Something is certainly due to decent appearance in the character, and allowance may be justly made for the stage selecting and requiring the least disgusting modes of exhibiting real life. Perhaps a dark coloured dress of flowing picturesque drapery might come nearer to a compromise between reality and what an audience would bear.

+"Abundance of waters cover thee." Job, XXII. II. See before p. 113. Note*.

"Take me out of the mire, that I sink not: O let me be de"livered from them that hate me, and out of the deep waters. "Let not the water flood drown me, neither let the deep swallow ་་ me up." Psalm LXIX. 15, 16.

Or bid his dreadful rod of vengeance, stay?
Wait, then, with patience, till the circling hours
Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest,

And lay thee down in death. 'The hireling thus
With labour drudges out the painful day,*
And often looks with long-expecting eyes
To see the shadows rise, and be dismiss'd.'
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.

Is your lady,

[She knocks at the door.

Enter a SERVANT.

My gentle friend, at home? Oh! bring me to her.

Serv. Hold, mistress, whither would you?"

J. Sho. Do you not know me?

[Going in.

[Putting her back.

Serv. I know you well, and know my orders, too..

You must not enter here.

J. Sho. Tell my Alicia,

'Tis I would see her.

Serv. She is ill at ease,+

And will admit no visitor..

J. Sho. But, tell her

'Tis I, her friend, the partner of her heart,

Wait at the door, and beg

* "Turn from him that he may rest, till he shall accomplish as

Job, XIV. 6.

an hireling bis day.”

+ I am very ill at ease,

Othello, A. III. S.-III