Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 1.pdf/185

Rh

Ros. O Basil! O my friend! what hast thou done?

''Bas. (Covering his face with his hand.)'' Why art thou come? I thought to die in peace.

Ros. Thou knowst me not—I am thy Rosinberg, Thy dearest, truest friend, thy loving kinsman; Thou dost not say to me. Why art thou come?

Bas. Shame knows no kindred; I am fall'n, disgrac'd; My fame is gone, I cannot look upon thee.

Ros. My Basil, noble spirit! talk not thus! The greatest mind untoward fate may prove: Thou art our gen'rous, valiant leader still, Fall'n as thou art—and yet thou art not fall'n; Who says thou art, must put his hairness on, And prove his words in blood.

Bas. Ah Rosinberg! this is no time to boast! I once had hopes a glorious name to gain; Too proud of heart, I did too much aspire; The hour of trial came, and found me wanting. Talk not of me, but let me be forgotten;— And O! my friend! something upbraids me here, (Laying his hand on his breast.) For that I now remember, how oft-times, I have usurp'd it o'er thy better worth, Most vainly teaching where I should have learnt; But thou wilt pardon me—

''Ros. (Taking Basil's hand, and pressing it to his breast.)'' Rend not my heart in twain! O! talk not thus!