Page:Dramas 3.pdf/363

Rh

Your son, my lord; A volunteer for death, whom no persuasion Can move to be divided from his mother.

I cannot credit this; it is some craft,— Some poor device. Go, bring the boy to me. [ leads to his father.] Why art thou here, my child? and is it so, That thou dost wish to die?

I wish to be where'er my mother is, Alive or dead.

Think well of what thou say'st! It shall be so if thou indeed desire it. But be advised; death is a dreadful thing.

They say it is: but I will be with her; I'll die her death, and feel but what she suffers.

And art thou not afraid? Thou 'rt ignorant; Thou dost not know the misery of drowning;— The booming waters closing over thee, And thou still sinking, struggling in the tank, On whose deep bottom weeds and water snakes.