Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 3.pdf/48

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I might have stuck it. O! thou wrong'st me much To think my merriment a reference hath To any one but him. (Laughing.)

El. Nay, Orra; these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter, Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, As it has low'r'd of late, so keenly cast, Unsuited seem and strange.

Or. O nothing strange, my gentle Eleonora! Did'st thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, Winging the air beneath some murky cloud In the sunn'd glimpses of a stormy day, Shiver in silv'ry brightness? Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake? Or lonely Tower, from its brown mass of woods, Give to the parting of a wintry sun One hasty glance in mockery of the night Closing in darkness round it?—Gentle Friend! Chide not her mirth, who was sad yesterday, And may be so to-morrow.

Glot. And wherefore art thou sad, unless it is From thine own wayward humour? Other Dames, Were they so courted, would be gay and happy.

Or. Wayward it needs must be, since I am sad When such perfection woos me. Pray good Glottenbal,