El. Off-murderer, off! Do not defile me with those crimson hands. (shows the scarf.) This is his winding sheet-I'll wrap him in it I wrought it for my love-there, now I've dressed him. He dearly loved him once See where he comes-beware, my gallant Percy! (she faints; they run to her; DOUGLAS takes up his sword, and stabs himself.) Doug. Thus, thus I follow thee. Ed. Hold thy rash hand. Doug. It is too late. No remedy but this Could med'cine a disease so desperate. Raby. Ah! she revives! Doug. (raising himself.) She lives! bear, bear me to her! We shall be happy yet. (he struggles to get to her, but sinks down.) It will not be O for a last embrace-Alas! I faint She lives-Now death is terrible indeed— Fair spirit, how I loved thee—O—Elwina! (dies.) El. Where have I been? The damps of death are on me. Raby. Look up, my child! O do not leave me thus: Pity the anguish of thy aged father. Hast thou forgotten me? El. You are my father; O you are kindly come to close my eyes, And take the kiss of death from my cold lips. El. We soon shall meet in peace. I've but a faint remembrance of the past But something tells me-O these painful struggles! (she sees the body of DOUGLAS.) A sword, and bloody? Ah! and Douglas murdered? El. This adds another, sharper pang to death. O thou Eternal! take him to thy mercy! Nor let this sin be on his head or mine! Raby. I have undone you all-the crime is mine! O thou poor injured saint, forgive thy father! He kneels to his wronged child. El. A father's blessing. Once-and now 'tis over. (she dies.) Raby. She's gone! forever gone! Cold, dead and cold. Am I a father? Fathers love their children I murder mine! With impious pride I snatched EPILOGUE. WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK. I MUST, will speak-I hope my dress and air Announce the man of fashion, not the player; Though gentlemen are now forbid the scenes, Yet have I rushed through heroes, kings, and queens; Resolved, in pity to this polished age, To drive these ballad-heroes from the stage. "To drive the deer with hound and horn, The child may rue, that is unborn, A pretty basis, truly, for a modern play! And youths of yore with ours can ne'er agree— From such barbarity (thank Heaven) we're much refined. From home they separate carriages abhorred One horse served both-my lady rode behind my lord. "Twas death alone could snap their bonds asunder Now tacked so slightly, not to snap's the wonder. Why scour their rusty armors? What's the use? Should we our limbs with iron doublets bruise, Good Heaven! how much court-plaster we should use ! We wear no armor now-but on our shoes. Let not with barbarism true taste be blended; Old vulgar virtues cannot be defended; Let the dead rest-we living can't be mended. |