Page:Representative American plays.pdf/108

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. (Sportively to .) His mood is all untoward; let us leave him.

Tho' he may think that he is bound to rail,

We are not bound to hear him. (To .) Grant you that?

. O, freely, freely! You I never rail on.

. No thanks for that; you 've courtesy for office.

. You slander me.

. Slander that would not wound.

Worthy M'Donald, though it suits full well

The virtuous man to frown on all misdeeds,

Yet ever keep in mind that man is frail;

His tide of passion struggling still with Reason's

Fair and favorable gale, and adverse

Driving his unstable Bark upon the

Rocks of error. Should he sink thus shipwreck'd,

Sure, it is not Virtue's voice that triumphs

In his ruin. I must seek rest. Adieu!

(Exeunt and .)

. Both good and great thou art; first among men;

By nature, or by early habit, grac'd

With that blest quality which gives due force

To every faculty, and keeps the mind

In healthful equipoise, ready for action;

Invaluable temperance—by all

To be acquired, yet scarcely known to any.

, a Prison. discovered, in a pensive posture, sitting at a table; a book by him and candles; his dress neglected, his hair dishevelled; he rises and comes forward.

. Kind Heaven be thank'd for that I stand alone

In this sad hour of life's brief pilgrimage!

Single in misery; no one else involving.

In grief, in shame, and ruin. 'T is my comfort.

Thou, my thrice honor'd sire, in peace went'st down

Unto the tomb, nor knew to blush, nor knew

A pang for me. And thou, revered matron,

Could'st bless thy child, and yield thy breath in peace!

No wife shall weep, no child lament my loss.

Thus may I consolation find in what

Was once my woe. I little thought to joy

In not possessing, as I erst possest,

Thy love, Honora! André's death, perhaps,

May cause a cloud pass o'er thy lovely face;

The pearly tear may steal from either eye;

For thou mayest feel a transient pang, nor wrong

A husband's rights: more than a transient pang

O mayest thou never feel! The mom draws nigh

To light me to my shame. Frail nature shrinks—

And is death then so fearful? I have brav'd

Him, fearless, in the field, and steel'd my breast

Against his thousand horrors; but his cool,

His sure approach, requires a fortitude

Which naught but conscious rectitude can give.

(Retires, and sits leaning.)

. And is that André? O, how changed! Alas!

Where is that martial fire, that generous warmth,

Which glow'd his manly countenance throughout,

And gave to every look, to every act,

The tone of high chivalrous animation?

André, my friend, look up!

. Who calls me friend?

. Young Arthur Bland.

. (Rising.) That name sounds like a friend's. (With emotion.)

I have inquired for thee—wish'd much to see thee—

I prythee take no note of these fool's tears—

My heart was full—and seeing thee—

. (Embracing him.) André!

I have but now arrived from the South—