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Ob bow dreadful 'tis to die!
To those whom foul dishonours ftain,
Life itfelf fhould be a pain.
Who could refift great Henry's charms,
And drive the hero from her arms?
Think on the foft, the tender fires,
Melting thoughts, and gay defires,
That in your own warm bosom rise,
When languifbing with lovefick eyes.
That great, that charming man you see:
Think on yourself, and pity me!
Hope not a day's, an hour's reprieve.
Tho' I live wretched, let me live,
In fome deep dungeon let me lie,
Cover'd from ev'ry human eye,
Banish'd the day, debarr'd the light a
Where fhades of everlafting night
May this unhappy face difarm,
And caft a veil o'er ev'ry charm:
Offended heav'n I'll there adore,
Nor fee the fun, nor Henry more.
Moving language, fbining tears,
Glowing guilt, and graceful fears,
Kindling pity, kindling rage,
At once provoke me, and affuage.
[Offering the dagger.
O fpare my blood,
And let me grafp the deadly bowl.
Ye pow'rs, how pity rends my foul!
[Takes the bowl in her band.
Thus proftrate at your feet I fall.
Olet me ftill for mercy call!
Accept, great Queen, like injur'd beav'n,
The foul that begs to be forgiven;
If in the latest gasp of breath,
If in the dreadful pains of death,
When the cold damp bedews your brow,
You hope for mercy, shew it now.
Thus I prevent the fatal blow,
Mercy to lighter crimes is due,
Horrors and deaths fhall thine purfue. [Offering the dagger.
Whither, ah! whither fhall I go! [Drinks.
Where thy past life thou shalt lament,
And wish thou hadst been innocent.
Tyrant! to aggravate the stroke,
And wound a heart, already broke!
My dying foul with fury burns,
And flighted grief to madness turns.
Think not, thou author of my woe,
That Rofamond will leave thee so,
At dead of night,
A glaring Spright,
With hideous fcreams,
I'll haunt thy dreams;
And when the painful night withdraws,
My Henry fhall revenge my cause.
O whither does my frenzy drive!
Forgive my rage, your wrongs forgive,
My veins are froze; my blood grows
The weary fprings of life ftand ftill;
The fleep of death benumbs all o'er
chill I å
My fainting limbs, and I'm no more. [Falls on the couch. QUEEN.
Hear and obferve your Queen's.commands.
Beneath thofe hills a convent ftands,
Where the fam'd ftreams of Ifis fray;
Thither the breathlefs coarfe convey,
And bid the cloifter'd maids with care
The due folemnities
prepare. [Exeunt with the body.
When vanquife'd foes beneath us. We,
great it is to bid them die!
But how much greater to forgive,
And bid a vanquish'd foe to live!
Sir TRUSTY in a fright.
A breathlefs corpfe! what have I feen!
And follow'd by the jealous Queen!
It must be fhe! my fears are true :
The bowl of pois'nous juice I view.
How can the fam'd Sir Truly live
To hear his Mafter chide and grieve?
No! tho' I hate fuch bitter beer,
Fair Rofamond, I'll pledge thee here.
The King this doleful news fhall read
In lines of my inditing:
"Your Rofamond is dead "As I am at this present writing. The bower turns round, my brain's abus'd, The labyrinth grows more confus'd, The thickets dance-Iftretch, 1 yawn. Death bas tripp'd up my beels-I'm gone.
The conflict of my mind is o'er,
And Rofamond fhall charm no more.