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Think on the soft, the tender fires,
QUE E N.
[Offering the dagger to her breaki Presumptuous woman! plead no more!
RÒS A MOND. o Queen, your lifted arm restrain ! Behold thefe tears!
QUEEN. ---They flow in vain,
ROS'AMOND Look with compassion on my
fate! O hear my fighs!
Hope not a day's, an hour's reprieve.
ROS A MO N D.
[Offering the dagger. ROS A MO N D. Give me but one moment's stay.
[Afide. -Q Henry, why so far away.
QUE E N.
[Offering the dagger.
And let me grasp the deadly bowl.
[Takes the bowl in her band.
QUE E N. Ye pow'rs, how pity rends my soul!
[Afide. ROS A MO N Di Thus proftrate at your feet I fall. Olet ine ftill for mercy call! (Falling on her knees Accept, great Queen, like injur'd beau'n, The soul that begs to be forgiven ; If in the latest galp of breath, If in the dreadful pains of death, When the cold damp bedews your brow, You hope for mercy, soew it now.
QUE EN Mercy to lighter crimes is due, Horrors and deaths shall thine pursue.[Offering the dagger.
ROS A MO N D. Thus I prevent the fatal blow, -Whither, ah! whither shall I go! [Drinks.
Think not, thou autbor of my uve,
At dead of nigbla
P'll haunt thy dreams ;
My Henry fall rovenge my cause.
[Ta ber attendants. Beneath those hills a convent stands, Where the fam'd streams of Ifis ftray ; 'Thither the breathless coarse
convey, And bid the cloister'd maids with care The due folemnities
prepare. [Exeunt with the body. When vanquist'd foes beneath us. lie, How great it is to bid them die! But buww much greater to forgive, And lid & vanquish'd fee to live!
SCENE SCENE VII.
Sir TRUSTY in a frighta
A breathless corpse! what have I seen!
[Drinks The King this doleful news shall read
In lines of my inditing: • Great Sir,
[Writer. “ Your Rosamond is dead “ As I am at this present writing. The bower turns round, my brain's aburd, The labyrinth grows more confus’d, The thickets dance fretch, 1 yawn. Deatb bas tripp'd up my
(Staggers and falls.
QUEEN fola. The conflict of my mind is o’er, And Rofamond shall charm no more.