Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/455

 COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA 317 �Go soberly home, and look to my charge, A rare time, there's not one now �But will come, At the beat of my drum, Or the tossing up of my feather. �[Exit singing. �The Scene drawn, discovers Blanfort lying upon a couch, Month: sitting by him �Blan. It is indeed a melancholy story, But will he leave us, does he say Monthaleon ? �Mon. He does my Lord, For having heard the riots of the Town, And how they ground em all on his example, It strikes him so, together with the thoughts That he must n'er attempt to stop itts fury, And that 'tis now their int'rest to maintain His seeming Vice, to guild their own the better, That he resolves, some more successful arm, 10 �Shall take that task, and bear the publick sway, Whilst he retires, to secrecy, and prayers. Blan. Oh! thou art wretched Blanfort, [Aside �What said the Maid, For such I sure beleive her. �Month. No word she uttered, yet her silence spoke, Att least to me, that so did understand it, And said, that she was wrong'd, was wrong'd, and guiltlesse. And more I must observe to clear her farther, That since she as a youth, has served the Master, 20 �Not all his gentle chidings, cou'd prevail To make her once attend him in his chamber. �Blan. How look'd she f reind, in such a sad surprise ? �Month. Modest, and lovely Blanfort, As looks the fair, and gentle rising morning, When watry vapours, half conceal her blushes. ��� �