Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 1.pdf/134

132

Where aught appear'd of dignity or grace; I've listen'd to the tone of ev'ry voice; I've watch'd the entrance of each female mask; My flutt'ring heart rous'd like a startled hare, With the imagin'd rustling of her robes, At ev'ry dame's approach. Deceitful night, How art thou spent? where are thy promis'd joys? How much of thee is spent! O! spiteful fate! And yet within the compass of these walls Somewhere she is, altho' to me she is not. Some other eye doth gaze upon her form, Some other ear doth listen to her voice; Some happy fav'rite doth enjoy the bliss My spiteful stars deny. Disturber of my soul! what veil conceals thee? W hat dev'lish spell is o'er this cursed hour? O! heav'ns and earth, where art thou?

Mask. Methinks thou art impatient, valiant soldier, Thy wound doth gall thee sorely; is it so?

Bas. Away, away, I cannot fool with thee.

Mask. I have some potent drugs may ease thy smart. Where is thy wound? is't here? (pointing to the bandage on his arm.)

Bas.Poo, poo, begone! Thou canst do nought—'tis in my head, my heart— 'Tis ev'ry where, where med'cine cannot cure.