Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 1.pdf/183

Rh

I can bear scorpions' stings, tread fields of fire, In frozen gulphs of cold eternal lie; Be toss'd aloft through tracks of endless void, But cannot live in shame—(Pauses.) O! impious thought! Will the great God of mercy, mercy have On all but those who are most miserable? Will he not punish with a pitying hand The poor fall'n, froward child? (Pauses.) And shall I then against his will offend, Because he is most good and merciful? O! horrid baseness! what, what shall I do? I'll think no more—it turns my dizzy brain— It is too late to think—what must be, must be— I cannot live, therefore I needs must die. Here is an entry to some darksome cave, Where an uncoffin'd corse may rest in peace, And hide its foul corruption from the earth. The threshold is unmark'd by mortal foot, I'll do it here.

Ros. This way the sound did come.

Valt. How came ye, soldiers? heard ye that report?