JANE SHORE.

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Nicholas Rowe

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I. THE TOWER.

Enter the Duke of Gloster, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, and Catesby.

Glos. Thus far success attends upon our councils,
And each event has answer'd to my wish;
The queen and all her upstart race are quell'd;
Dorset is banish'd, and her brother Rivers,
Ere this, lies shorter by the head at Pomfret.
The nobles have, with joint concurrence, nam'd me
Protector of the realm: my brother's children,
Young Edward and the little York, are lodg'd
Here, safe within the Tower. How say you, sirs,
Does not this business wear a lucky face?
The sceptre and the golden wreath of royalty
Seem hung within my reach.
Sir R. Then take 'em to you,
And wear them long and worthily: you are
The last remaining male of princely York,
(For Edward's boys, the state esteems not of 'em,)
And therefore on your sov'reignty and rule
The commonweal does her dependence make,
And leans upon your highness' able hand.
Cates. And yet to-morrow does the council meet
To fix a day for Edward's coronation.
Who can expound this riddle?
Glos. That can I.
Those lords are each one my approv'd good friends,
Of special trust and nearness to my bosom;
And, howsoever busy they may seem,
And diligent to bustle in the state,
Their zeal goes on no further than we lead,
And at our bidding stays.
Cates. Yet there is one,
And he amongst the foremost in his power,
Of whom I wish your highness were assur'd.
For me, perhaps it is my nature's fault,
I own I doubt of his inclining much.
Glos. I guess the man at whom your words would point:
Hastings—
Cates. The same.
Glos. He bears me great good will.
Cates. 'Tis true, to you, as to the lord protector,
And Gloster's duke, he bows with lowly service:
But were he bid to cry, God save king Richard,
Then tell me in what terms he would reply.
Believe me, I have prov'd the man, and found him:
I know he bears a most religious reverence
To his dead master Edward's royal memory,
And whither that may lead him, is most plain.
Yet more—One of that stubborn sort he is,
Who, if they once grow fond of an opinion,
They call it honour, honesty, and faith,
And sooner part with life than let it go.
Glos. And yet this tough, impracticable, heart,
Is govern'd by a dainty-finger'd girl;
Such flaws are found in the most worthy natures;
A laughing, toying, wheedling, whimpering, she,
Shall make him amble on a gossip's message,
And take the distaff with a hand as patient
As e'er did Hercules.
Sir R. The fair Alicia,
Of noble birth and exquisite of feature,
Has held him long a vassal to her beauty.
Cates. I fear, he fails in his allegiance there;
Or my intelligence is false, or else
The dame has been too lavish of her feast,
And fed him till he loathes.
Glos. No more, he comes.
Enter Lord Hastings.
Lord H. Health, and the happiness of many days,
Attend upon your grace.
Glos. My good lord chamberlain,
We're much beholden to your gentle friendship.
Lord H. My lord, I come an humble suitor to you.
Glos. In right good time. Speak out year pleasure freely.
Lord H. I am to move your highness in behalf
Of Shore's unhappy wile.
Glos. Say you, of Shore?
Lord H. Once a bright star, that held her place on high:
The first and fairest of our English dames,
While royal Edward held the sov'reign rule.
Now, sunk in grief and pining with despair,
Her waning form no longer shall incite
Envy in woman, or desire in man.
She never sees the sun, but through her tears,
And wakes to sigh the live-long night away.
Glos. Marry! the times are badly chang'd with her,
From Edward's days to these. Then all was jollity,
Feasting and mirth, light wantonness and laughter,
Piping and playing, minstrelsy and masking;
'Till life fled from us like an idle dream,
A show of mummery without a meaning.
My brother, rest and pardon to his soul,
Is gone to his account; for this his minion,
The revel-rout is done—But you were speaking
Concerning her—I have been told, that you
Are frequent in your visitation to her.
Lord H. No further, my good lord, than friendly pity
And tender-hearted charity allow.
Glos. Go to: I did not mean to chide you for it.
For, sooth to say, I hold it noble in you
To cherish the distress'd.—On with your tale.
Lord H. Thus it is, gracious sir, that certain officers,
Using the warrant of your mighty name,
With insolence unjust, and lawless power,
Have seiz'd upon the lands, which late she held
By grant, from her great master Edward's bounty.
Glos. Somewhat of this, but slightly, have I heard;
And though some counsellors of forward zeal,
Some of most ceremonious sanctity
And bearded wisdom, often have provok'd
The hand of justice to fall heavy on her;
Yet still, in kind compassion of her weakness,
And tender memory of Edward's love,
I have withheld the merciless stern law
From doing outrage on her helpless beauty.
Lord H. Good heav'n, who renders mercy back for mercy,
With open-handed bounty shall repay you:
This gentle deed shall fairly he set foremost,
To screen the wild escapes of lawless passion,
And the long train of frailties flesh is heir to.
Glos. Thus far, the voice of pity pleaded only:
Our further and more full extent of grace
Is given to your request. Let her attend,
And to ourself deliver up her griefs.
She shall be heard with patience, and each wrong
At full redress'd. But I have other news,
Which much import us both; for still my fortunes
Go hand in hand with yours: our common foes,
The queen's relations, our new-fangled gentry,
Have fall'n their haughty crests—that for your privacy.[exeunt.

SCENE II. AN APARTMENT IN JANE SHORE'S HOUSE.

Enter Belmour and Dumont.

Bel. How she has liv'd you have heard my tale already;
The rest your own attendance in her family,
Where I have found the means this day to place you,
And nearer observation, best will tell you.
See with what sad and sober cheer she comes.
Enter Jane Shore.
Sure, or I read her visage much amiss,
Or grief besets her hard. Save you, fair lady,
The blessings of the cheerful morn be on you,
And greet your beauty with its opening sweets.
Jane S. My gentle neighbour! your good wishes still
Pursue my hapless fortunes; ah! good Belmour!
How few, like thee, inquire the wretched out,
And court the offices of soft humanity.
Like thee, reserve their raiment for the naked,
Reach out their bread to feed the crying orphan,
Or mix their pitying tears with those that weep.
Thy praise deserves a better tongue than mine,
To speak and bless thy name. Is this the gentleman,
Whose friendly service you commended to me?
Bel. Madam, it is.
Jane S. A venerable aspect![aside.
Age sits with decent grace upon his visage,
And worthily becomes his silver locks;
He wears the marks of many years well spent,
Of virtue, truth well tried, and wise experience;
A friend like this would suit my sorrows well.
Fortune, I fear me, sir, has meant you ill,[to Dumont.
Who pays your merit with that scanty pittance,
Which my poor hand and humble roof can give.
But to supply those golden vantages,
Which elsewhere you might find, expect to meet
A just regard and value for your worth,
The welcome of a friend, and the free partnership
Of all that little good the world allows me.
Dum. You over-rate me much; and all my answer
Must be my future truth; let that speak for me,
And make up my deserving.
Jane S. Are you of England?
Dum. No, gracious lady, Flanders claims my birth;
At Antwerp has my constant biding been,
Where sometimes I have known more plenteous days
Than these which now my failing-age affords.
Jane S. Alas! at Antwerp! O, forgive my tears![weeping.
They fall for my offences——and must fall
Long, long, ere they shall wash my stains away.
You knew perhaps—O, grief! O, shame!—my husband.
Dum. I knew him well; but stay this flood of anguish.
The senseless grave feels not your pious sorrows:
Three years and more are past, since I was bid,
With many of our common friends, to wait him
To his last peaceful mansion. I attended,
Sprinkled his clay-cold corse with holy drops,
According to our church's rev'rend rite,
And saw him laid, in hallow'd ground, to rest.
Jane S. Oh,that my soul had known no joy but him!
That I had liv'd within his guiltless arms,
And dying slept in innocence beside him!
But now his honest dust abhors the fellowship,
Enter a Servant.
And scorns to mix with mine.
Serv. The lady Alicia
Attends your leisure.
Jane S. Say, I wish to see her.[exit Servant.
Please, gentle sir, one moment to retire,
I'll wait you on the instant, and inform you
Of each unhappy circumstance, in which
Your friendly aid and counsel much may stead me.
[exeunt Belmour and Dumont.
Enter Alicia.
Alic. Still, my fair friend, still shall I find you thus?
Still shall these sighs heave after one another,
These trickling drops chase one another still,
As if the posting messengers of grief
Could overtake the hours fled far away,
And make old time come back?
Jane S. No, my Alicia,
Heaven and his saints be witness to my thoughts,
There is no hour of all my life o'er past,
That I could wish should take its turn again.
Alic. And yet some of those days my friend has known,
Some of those years, might pass for golden ones,
At least if womankind can judge of happiness.
What could we wish, we who delight in empire,
Whose beauty is our sov'reign good, and gives us
Our reasons to rebel, and pow'r to reign;
What could we more than to behold a monarch,
Lovely, renown'd, a conqueror, and young,
Bound in our chains, and sighing at our feet?
Jane S. 'Tis true, the royal Edward was a wonder,
The goodly pride of all our English youth;
He was the very joy of all that saw him.
Form'd to delight, to love, and to persuade.
But what had I to do with kings and courts?
My humble lot had cast me far beneath him;
And that he was the first of all mankind,
The bravest, and most lovely, was my curse.
Alic. Sure something more than fortune join'd your loves:
Nor could his greatness, and his gracious form,
Be elsewhere match'd so well, as to the sweetness
And beauty of my friend.
Jane S. Name him no more:
He was the bane and ruin of my peace.
This anguish, and these tears, these are the legacies
His fatal love has left me. Thou wilt see me,
Believe me, my Alicia, thou wilt see me,
Ere yet a few short days pass o'er my head,
Abandon'd to the very utmost wretchedness.
The hand of pow'r has seiz'd almost the whole
Of what was left for needy life's support;
Shortly thou will behold me poor, and kneeling
Before thy charitable door for bread.
Alic. Joy of my life, my dearest Shore, forbear
To wound my heart with thy foreboding sorrows;
Raise thy sad soul to better hopes than these,
Lift up thy eyes, and let them shine once more,
Bright as the morning sun above the mist.
Exert thy charms, seek out the stern protector,
And sooth his savage temper with thy beauty;
Spite of his deadly, unrelenting, nature,
He shall be mov'd to pity, and redress thee.
Jane S. My form, alas! has long forgot to please;
The scene of beauty and delight is chang'd;
No roses bloom upon my fading cheek,
Nor laughing graces wanton in my eyes;
But haggard grief, lean-looking, sallow, care,
And pining discontent, a rueful train,
Dwell on my brow, all hideous and forlorn.
One only shadow of a hope is left me;
The noble-minded Hastings, of his goodness,
Has kindly underta'en to be my advocate,
And move my humble suit to angry Gloster.
Alic. Does Hastings undertake to plead your cause?
But wherefore should he not? Hastings has eyes:
The gentle lord has a right tender heart,
Melting and easy, yielding to impression,
And catching the soft flame from each new beauty;
But yours shall charm him long.
Jane S. Away, you flatterer!
Nor charge his gen'rous meaning with a weakness,
Which his great soul and virtue must disdain.
Too much of love thy hapless friend has prov'd,
Too many giddy, foolish, hours are gone,
And in fantastic measures danc'd away:
May the remaining few know only friendship.
So thou, my dearest, truest, best, Alicia,
Vouchsafe to lodge me in thy gentle heart,
A partner there, I will give up mankind,
Forget the transports of increasing passion,
And all the pangs we feel for its decay.
Alic. Live! live and reign for ever in my bosom;[embracing.
Safe and unrivall'd there, possess thy own;
And you, the brightest of the stars above,
Ye saints that once were women here below,
Be witness of the truth, the holy friendship,
Which here to this my other self I vow.
If I not hold her nearer to my soul,
Than every other joy the world can give,
Let poverty, deformity, and shame,
Distraction and despair, seize me on earth,
Let not my faithless ghost have peace hereafter,
Nor taste the bliss of your celestial fellowship.
Jane S. Yes, thou art true, and only thou art true;
Therefore, these jewels, once the lavish bounty
Of royal Edward's love, I trust to thee;[giving a casket.
Receive this, all that I can call my own,
And let it rest unknown, and safe with thee:
That, if the state's injustice should oppress me,
Strip me of all, and turn me out a wanderer,
My wretchedness may find relief from thee,
And shelter from the storm.
Alic. My all is thine;
One common hazard shall attend us both,
And both be fortunate, or both be wretched.
But let thy fearful, doubting, heart be still;
The saints and angels have thee in their charge,
And all things shall be well. Think not, the good,
The gentle, deeds of mercy thou hast done,
Shall die forgotten all; the poor, the pris'ner,
The fatherless, the friendless, and the widow,
Who daily own the bounty of thy hand,
Shall cry to heav'n, and pull a blessing on thee.
Ev'n man, the merciless insulter, man,
Man, who rejoices in our sex's weakness,
Shall pity thee, and with unwonted goodness
Forget thy tailings, and record thy praise.
Jane S. Why should I think that man will do for me,
What yet he never did for wretches like me?
Mark by what partial justice we are judg'd;
Such is the fate unhappy women find,
And such the curse entail'd upon our kind,
That man, the lawless libertine, may rove,
Free and unquestion'd through the wilds of love;
While woman,—sense and nature's easy fool,
If poor, weak, woman swerve from virtue's rule;
If, strongly charm'd, she leave the thorny way,
And in the softer paths of pleasure stray;
Ruin ensues, reproach and endless shame,
And one false step entirely damns her fame;
In vain, with tears the loss she may deplore, }
In vain, look back on what she was before;
She sets, like stars that fall, to rise no more.[exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE 1. AN APARTMENT IN JANE SHORE'S HOUSE.

Enter Alicia, speaking to Jane Shore as entering.

Alic. No further, gentle friend; good angels guard you,
And spread their gracious wings about your slumbers.
The drowsy night grows on the world, and now
The busy craftsmen and the o'er-labour'd hind
Forget the travail of the day in sleep:
Care only wakes, and moping pensiveness;
With meagre discontented looks they sit,
And watch the wasting of the midnight taper.
Such vigils must I keep, so wakes my soul,
Restless and self-tormented! O, false Hastings!
Thou hast destroy'd my peace.[knocking without.
What noise is that?
What visitor is this, who, with bold freedom,
Breaks in upon the peaceful night and rest,
With such a rude approach?
Enter a Servant.
Serv. One from the court,
Lord Hastings (as I think) demands my lady.
Alic. Hastings! Be still, my heart, and try to meet him
With his own arts! with falsehood.—But he comes.
Enter Lord Hastings, speaking to a Servant as entering.
Lord H. Dismiss my train, and wait alone without.
Alicia here! Unfortunate encounter!
But be it as it may.
Alic. When humbly, thus,
The great descend to visit the afflicted,
When thus, unmindful of their rest, they come
To sooth the sorrows of the midnight mourner,
Comfort comes with them; like the golden sun,
Dispels the sullen shades with her sweet influence,
And cheers the melancholy house of care.
Lord H. 'Tis true, I would not over-rate a courtesy,
Nor let the coldness of delay hang on it,
To nip and blast its favour, like a frost;
But rather chose, at this late hour, to come,
That your fair friend may know I have prevail'd;
The lord protector has receiv'd her suit,
And means to show her grace.
Alic. My friend! my lord.
Lord H. Yes, lady, yours; none has a right more ample
To task my pow'r than you.
Alic. I want the words,
To pay you back a compliment so courtly;
But my heart guesses at the friendly meaning,
And wo' not die your debtor.
Lord H. 'Tis well, madam.
But I would see your friend.
Alic. O, thou false lord!
I would be mistress of my heaving heart,
Stifle this rising rage, and learn from thee
To dress my face in easy, dull, indiff'rence;
But 'two' not be; my wrongs will tear their way,
And rush at once upon thee.
Lord H. Are you wise?
Have you the use of reason? Do you wake?
What means this raving, this transporting passion?
Alic. O, thou cool traitor! thou insulting tyrant!
Dost thou behold my poor, distracted, heart,
Thus rent with agonizing love and rage,
And ask me, what it means? Art thou not false?
Am I not scorn'd, forsaken, and abandon'd;
Left, like a common wretch, to shame and infamy;
Giv'n up to be the sport of villains' tongues,
Of laughing parasites, and lewd buffoons?
And all because my soul has doated on thee
With love, with truth, and tenderness unutterable!
Lord H. Are these the proofs of tenderness and love?
These endless quarrels, discontents, and jealousies,
These never-ceasing waitings and complainings,
These furious starts, these whirlwinds of the soul,
Which every other moment rise to madness?
Alic. What proof, alas! have I not giv'n of love?
What have I not abandon'd to thy arms?
Have I not set at nought my noble birth,
A spotless fame, and an unblemish'd race,
The peace of innocence, and pride of virtue?
My prodigality has giv'n thee all;
And now, I've nothing left me to bestow,
You hate the wretched bankrupt you have made.
Lord H. Why am I thus pursu'd from place to place,
Kept in the view, and cross'd at ev'ry turn?
In vain I fly, and, like a hunted deer,
Scud o'er the lawns, and hasten to the covert;
E'er I can reach my safety, you o'ertake me
With the swift malice of some keen reproach,
And drive the winged shaft deep in my heart.
Alic. Hither you fly, and here you seek repose;
Spite of the poor deceit, your arts are known,
Your pious, charitable, midnight visits.
Lord H. If you are wise, and prize your peace of mind,
Yet take the friendly counsel of my love;
Believe me true, nor listen to your jealousy.
Let not that devil, which undoes your sex,
That cursed curiosity, seduce you
To hunt for needless secrets, which, neglected,
Shall never hurt your quiet; but, once known,
Shall sit upon your heart, pinch it with pain,
And banish the sweet sleep for ever from you.
Go to—be yet advis'd—
Alic. Dost thou in scorn
Preach patience to my rage, and bid me tamely
Sit like a poor, contented, idiot down,
Nor dare to think thou'st wrong'd me? Ruin seize thee,
And swift perdition overtake thy treachery.
Have I the least remaining cause to doubt?
Hast thou endeavour'd once to hide thy falsehood?
To hide it might have spoke some little tenderness,
And shown thee half unwilling to undo me:
But thou disdain'st the weakness of humanity.
Thy words, and all thy actions, have confess'd it;
Ev'n now thy eyes avow it, now they speak,
And insolently own the glorious villany.
Lord H. Well then, I own my heart has broke your chains.
Patient, I bore the painful bondage long,
At length my gen'rous love disdains your tyranny;
The bitterness and stings of taunting jealousy,
Vexations days, and jarring, joyless, nights,
Have driv'n him forth to seek some safer shelter,
Where he may rest his weary wings in peace.
Alic. You triumph!—do! and with gigantic pride
Defy impending vengeance. Heav'n shall wink;
No more his arm shall roll the dreadful thunder,
Nor send his lightnings forth: no more his justice
Shall visit the presuming sons of men,
But perjury, like thine, shall dwell in safety.
Lord H. Whate'er my fate decrees for me hereafter,
Be present to me now, my better angel!
Preserve me from the storm that threatens now,
And, if I have beyond atonement sinn'd,
Let any other kind of plague o'ertake me,
So I escape the fury of that tongue.
Alic. Thy prayer is heard—I go—but know, proud lord,
Howe'er thou scorn'st the weakness of my sex,
This feeble hand may find the means to reach thee,
Howe'er sublime in pow'r and greatness plac'd,
With royal favour guarded round and graced;
On eagle's wings my rage shall urge her flight,
And hurl thee headlong from thy topmast height;
Then, like thy fate, superior will I sit,
And view thee fall'n, and grov'ling at my feet;
See thy last breath with indignation go,
And tread thee sinking to the shades below.[exit.
Lord H. How fierce a fiend is passion! With what wildness,
What tyranny, untam'd it reigns in woman!
Unhappy sex! whose easy, yielding, temper
Gives way to ev'ry appetite alike:
And love in their weak bosoms is a rage
As terrible as hate, and as destructive.
But soft ye now—for here comes one, disclaims
Strife and her wrangling train; of equal elements,
Without one jarring atom, was she form'd,
And gentleness and joy make up her being.
Enter Jane Shore.
Forgive me, fair one, if officious friendship
Intrudes on your repose, and comes thus late
To greet you with the tidings of success.
The princely Gloster has vouchsaf'd your hearing,
To-morrow he expects you at the court;
There plead your cause, with never-failing beauty,
Speak all your griefs, and find a full redress.
Jane S. Thus humbly let your lowly servant bend.[kneeling.
Thus let me bow my grateful knee to earth,
And bless your noble nature for this goodness.
Lord H. Rise, gentle dame, you wrong my meaning much,
Think me not guilty of a thought so vain,
To sell my courtesy for thanks like these.
Jane S. 'Tis true, your bounty is beyond my speaking:
But, though my mouth be dumb, my heart shall thank you;
And when it melts before the throne of mercy,
Mourning and bleeding for my past offences,
My fervent soul shall breathe one pray'r for you,
That heav'n will pay you back, when most you need,
The grace and goodness you have shown to me.
Lord H. If there be aught of merit in my service,
Impute it there, where most 'tis due, to love;
Be kind, my gentle mistress, to my wishes,
And satisfy my panting heart with beauty.
Jane S. Alas! my lord——
Lord H. Why bend thy eyes to earth?
Wherefore these looks of heaviness and sorrow?
Why breathes that sigh, my love? And wherefore falls
This trickling show'r of tears, to stain thy sweetness?
Jane S. If pity dwells within your noble breast,
(As sure it does), oh, speak not to me thus.
Lord H. Can I behold thee, and not speak of love?
Ev'n now, thus sadly as thou stand'st before me,
Thus desolate, dejected, and forlorn,
Thy softness steals upon my yielding senses,
Till my soul faints, and sickens with desire;
How canst thou give this motion to my heart,
And bid my tongue be still?
Jane S. Cast round your eyes
Upon the high-born beauties of the court;
Behold, like opening roses, where they bloom,
Sweet to the sense, unsully'd all, and spotless;
There choose some worthy partner of your heart,
To fill your arms and bless your virtuous bed;
Nor turn your eyes this way.
Lord H. What means this peevish, this fantastic, change?
Where is thy wonted pleasantness of face,
Thy wonted graces, and thy dimpled smiles?
Where hast thou lost thy wit and sportive mirth?
That cheerful heart, which us'd to dance for ever,
And cast a ray of gladness all around thee?
Jane S. Yes, I will own I merit the reproach;
And for those foolish days of wanton pride,
My soul is justly humbled to the dust:
All tongues, like yours, are licens'd to upbraid me,
Still to repeat my guilt; and urge my infamy,
And treat me like that abject thing I have been.
Lord H. No more of this dull stuff. 'Tis time enough
To whine and mortify thyself with penance,
The present moment claims more gen'rous use;
Thy beauty, night, and solitude, reproach me,
For having talk'd thus long—come, let me press thee,
[laying hold of her.
Pant on thy bosom, sink into thy arms,
And lose myself in the luxurious flood.
Jane S. Forbear, my lord!—here let me rather die,[kneeling.
And end my sorrows and my shame for ever.
Lord H. Away with this perverseness——'tis too much.
Nay, if you strive—'tis monstrous affectation![striving.
Jane S. Retire! I beg you, leave me——
Lord H. Thus to coy it!——
With one who knows you too.——
Jane S. For mercy's sake——
Lord H. Ungrateful woman! Is it thus you pay
My services?——
Jane S. Abandon me to ruin——
Rather than urge me——
Lord H. This way to your chamber;[pulling her.
There if you struggle——
Jane S. Help, O gracious heaven!
Help! Save me! Help![exit.
Enter Dumont; he interposes.
Dum. My lord! for honour's sake——
Lord H. Hah! What art thou?—Be gone!
Dum. My duty calls me
To my attendance on my mistress here.
Lord H. Avaunt! base groom——
At distance wait, and know thy office better.
Dum. No, my lord——
The common ties of manhood call me now,
And bid me thus stand up in the defence
Of an oppress'd, unhappy, helpless, woman.
Lord H. And dost thou know me, slave?
Dum. Yes, thou proud lord!
I know thee well; know thee with each advantage
Which wealth, or pow'r, or noble birth, can give thee.
I know thee too for one who stains those honours,
And blots a long illustrious line of ancestry,
By poorly daring thus to wrong a woman.
Lord H. 'Tis wondrous well! I see, my saint-like dame,
You stand provided of your braves and ruffians,
To man your cause, and bluster in your brothel.
Dum. Take back the foul reproach, unmanner'd railer!
Nor urge my rage too far, lest thou shouldst find
I have as daring spirits in my blood
As thou or any of thy race e'er boasted;
And though no gaudy titles grac'd my birth,
Yet heav'n that made me honest, made me more
Than ever king did, when he made a lord.
Lord H. Insolent villain! henceforth let this teach thee
[draws, and strikes him.
The distance 'twixt a peasant and a prince.
Dum. Nay then, my lord, [drawing] learn you by this, how well
An arm resolv'd can guard its master's life.
[they fight; Dumont disarms Lord Hastings.
Lord H. Confusion! baffled by a base-born hind!
Dum. Now, haughty sir, where is our difference now?
Your life is in my hand, and did not honour,
The gentleness of blood, and inborn virtue,
(Howe'er unworthy I may seem to you,)
Plead in my bosom, I should take the forfeit.
But wear your sword again; and know, a lord,
Oppos'd against a man, is but a man.
Lord H. Curse on my failing hand! your better fortune
Has giv'n you 'vantage o'er me; but perhaps
Your triumph may be bought with dear repentance.[exit.
Re-enter Jane Shore.
Jane S. Alas! what have you done? Know ye the pow'r,
The mightiness, that waits upon this lord?
Dum. Fear not, my worthiest mistress; 'tis a cause
In which heaven's guards shall wait you. O pursue,
Pursue, the sacred counsels of your soul,
Which urge you on to virtue;
Assisting angels shall conduct your steps,
Bring you to bliss, and crown your days with peace.
Jane S. O that my head were laid, my sad eyes clos'd,
And my cold corse wound in my shroud to rest!
My painful heart will never cease to beat,
Will never know a moment's peace, till then.
Dum. Would you he happy, leave this fatal place;
Fly from the court's pernicious neighbourhood;
Where innocence is sham'd, and blushing modesty
Is made the scorner's jest; where hate, deceit,
And deadly ruin, wear the masks of beauty,
And draw deluded fools with shows of pleasure.
Jane S. Where should I fly, thus helpless and forlorn,
Of friends and all the means of life bereft?
Dum. Belmour, whose friendly care still wakes to serve you,
Has found you out a little peaceful refuge,
Far from the court and the tumultuous city.
Within an ancient forest's ample verge,
There stands a lonely but a healthful dwelling,
Built for convenience and the use of life:
Around it, fallows, meads, and pastures fair,
A little garden, and a limpid brook,
By nature's own contrivance seem'd dispos'd;
No neighbours, but a few poor simple clowns,
Honest and true, with a well-meaning priest:
No faction, or domestic fury's rage,
Did e'er disturb the quiet of that place,
When the contending nobles shook the land
With York and Lancaster's disputed sway.
Your virtue there may find a safe retreat
From the insulting pow'rs of wicked greatness.
Jane S. Can there be so much happiness in store?
A cell like that is all my hopes aspire to.
Haste then, and thither let us take our flight,
E'er the clouds gather, and the wintry sky
Descends in storms to intercept our passage.
Dum. Will you then go? You glad my very soul.
Banish your fears, cast all your cares on me;
Plenty and ease, and peace of mind, shall wait you,
And make your latter days of life most happy.
O lady! but I must not, cannot, tell you,
How anxious I have been for all your dangers,
And how my heart rejoices at your safety.
So when the spring renews the flow'ry field,
And warns the pregnant nightingale to build,
She seeks the safest shelter of the wood,
Where she may trust her little tuneful brood;
Where no rude swains her shady cell may know,
No serpents climb, nor blasting winds may blow;
Fond of the chosen place, she views it o'er,
Sits there, and wanders through the grove no more;
Warbling, she charms it each returning night,
And loves it with a mother's dear delight.[exeunt.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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