He spurns from him, and calls it little beggar!
Bids it be gone, and of its grandsire ask,

The proud Duke Longueville, to give it bread.
Unaw'd by Beaufort's presence, he has rav'd
Against my father, and has vow'd revenge.
O when I hear that sacred name revil'd,
My soul, indignant, rushes to my lips :

But conscience checks the yet unspoken words;
For what have I to do with rash replies,
Who mark'd out my own fate-who ruin chose?

Cla. May Heaven, all just, avenge your woeful wrong

Upon the heads of that detested crew

Who lure your husband to the paths of vice!
And wither'd be her charms for whom you lose
The love that once was yours!

Mistaken Clara!

Theo.
Pray rather that my husband's heart be alter'd.
'Tis not Lavinia's charms I've cause to dread;
It is his changeful spirit, from his home,
From peace and virtue that bewilders him.
Lavinia's loss some other would supply;
I gather thence no hope. Virtue has left
His bosom dark and void, and vice usurps
Dominion o'er that breast where virtue dwells not.
Pray with me, Clara, that no farther evils
Than those already known, are suffer'd from him.
In time he may repent in time be wise-
And find, though late, how fruitless the pursuit
Of happiness, by aught but lawful means.

Cla. Alas! that one so wise, so fair, so young,
Should waste in vain regrets each passing hour!
Theo. O Clara! little wisdom have I shown.
But, since the time when Beaufort is expected
Draws on apace,
tell me if thou hast rais'd
That sum of money on my wedding jewels?

Worn once in guilty joy-because the price
Was filial disobedience. Well I know
We are, and largely too, in debt to Beaufort,
Which much my mind revolts at; and this sum
Will serve a little to discharge the debt.

Cla. These, Madam, are the notes—

Theo.

Deceitful Clara!

Declare to me by whom these notes were given,

Or dread to meet my bitterest indignation.

Cla. Dear Madam, hear me

Theo.

Vainly would you hide

What my good genius has discovered to me.

These notes are Beaufort's! Where are then the jewels?

Cla. Madam, believe I meant not to offend you.

Mere chance conducted all. The jeweller

Was looking at the diamonds, to determine

What money he should give, when Beaufort euter'd.
Starting as he perceiv'd them, he demanded

If I had brought them, and to what intent;
Which, ere I could prevent, the man declar'd.
O had you then beheld the noble youth!
Raising his eyes to Heaven, he smote his breast,
"And is it come to this, my Theodora ?"
He softly spoke; then told me you had order'd
The diamonds should be given to him; and asking
What was their worth, paid me, before the man,
The full amount, and left me instantly.

Theo. O there is more in this than meets my ear!
But, Clara, leave me; let me think a moment
How, in this intricate and dangerous labyrinth,
I may conduct myself.

Cla
Madam, be assur'd
I would not have deceiv'd you. Your surprise
At sight of Beaufort's hand, and exclamation,
Cut shoat my speech, or you had known it all.
VOL. I.
Rej. Th. No. III.

U

Theo. It is enough, my Clara; and now leave me.

A moment's recollection, O my soul!

[Exit Clara.

Ere thou art call'd to action. Generous Beaufort!

And dost thou pity Theodora's sorrows?

And would'st thou, if kind fate allow'd, relieve them?

But no: stern fate frowns awful, and forbids it;

The wife of Doricourt devoted falls,

Nor dares attempt to seek a friendly shelter.
Methinks 'tis hard I should be thus forlorn!
No friend to screen me from approaching ruin,
But one, whose stretch'd-out arm I dare not grasp,
Not e'en to save an infant! O'tis hard

A mother's breast must thus be turn'd to marble!
Yet, when the frame is moulder'd into dust,
Then, Beaufort, thou may'st be the orphan's friend,
Nor fear a censuring world. O Doricourt!
Thy child must by another hand be fed!

That child which, by its birth made dearer to you,
You fondly swore, its then exulting mother,
Who bless'd the babe for the lov'd father's sake.
Yes, once I lov'd him! Be thou witness, Heaven,
And all ye passing hours, stamp'd with his image,
Witness how much I lov'd him! Like the rose,
Its opening sweets disclosing to the morn,
My love commenc'd; but when that blooming flower
Becomes the prey of some devouring insect,

Or, blighted by some cold and noxious blast,
Falls withering to the ground ere reach'd its prime,
So grief, than canker-worm or noxious blast
Still more destructive, triumphs o'er my frame,
Has conquer'd love, and soon must conquer life!
Enter BEAUFORT.

Beau. My Theodora!
Wherefore this sorrow? Answer, I conjure thee

Gracious heavens! in tears!

Theo. 'Twas but a momentary burst of anguish. Beau. I met your husband as I enter'd hither; Smiling, he spoke; excus'd his being absent; Would soon return, and (for I question'd him) Said, Theodora and her child were well.

Theo. And could he look so happy? could he smile, When he had left his wretched wife a prey

To heart-corroding anguish ?

Beau.

0 my sister!

By that soft name, so cherish'd once by Beaufort,
When, during childhood, the fond appellation

Dwelt ever on my lips; disclose to me

What can have caus'd such anguish.

Theo.

It is impossible.

Beau. Recall to mind the dear delightful days

Of playful infancy, when every sport

Was shared by each, each thought and wish the same.

Your kind and honor'd father I call'd mine;

And even then, how did my little heart

Swell with exulting joy, when Theodora

Call'd Beaufort by the tender name of brother.

Theo. Ah Beaufort! those were happy days indeed! Beau. Happy! How cold that word; 'twas bliss supreme; And every fond and trifling recollection

Of those dear times, more warms my soul to rapture
Than all that beauty, pomp and power now give.

Theo. O memory! thou fatal foe to peace!
Who, when the mind would slumber o'er its woes,
Like the harsh-sounding drum to the tir'd soldier,
Bids him, with wounds as yet unclos'd, prepare
For further dangerous and doubtful combat!
Cease then reviving to my tortur'd mind
Scenes which, in circles of returning pleasures,
Made us forget the rapid flight of time;
For all is vanish'd like a dream, and both

Are different beings from what once they were!
Thou art the friend of Doricourt, and I

His wife. Therefore accept again

These notes, too-gen'rous Beaufort, and restore me
What you receiv'd from Clara.

Beau.

Heaven! and didst thou

Deem me so selfish as to doubt a moment

I meant not to restore them? For that purpose,
And that alone, I rescued them from Clara.
Though all the splendor of Golconda's mines
Would fail to render thee more fair, more noble,
In Beaufort's eyes; yet has the world its claims,
Who think thee injur'd, if debarr'd such ornaments,
Thy right by birth and beauty, and once thine.

Theo. Beaufort, those days are past, ne'er to return,
When with some pleasure I could deck this form,
To render it more pleasing in the eyes

Of partial fondness. Thence rose all the value
My mind could ever place on outward splendor.
But long-lost love no diamonds can restore;
And in whose eyes would splendor now become me?
The world talk loudly of our ruin'd fortunes.
Thou art not ignorant of our deep distress;
We are indebted to thee much too largely,

I know we are, and meant to gain thee payment,
But thou hast marr'd my project.

Noble creature!

Beau.
Friend of my soul, which in wild tumult rises,
Nor can the magic of thy voice control it.
Talk not to me of payment, who but render
Back to the daughter what I owe her father,

Nor can I ere discharge the mighty debt.

Theo. Thou art ingenious, Beaufort, to deceive; But Theodora's pride forbids deceit.

'Tis gratitude that prompts my father's kindness;