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Hath long deserted me; with her lov'd mate,
Seraphic innocence, she wing'd her flight,
-This retir'd abode,

I fear for ever.

Grac'd with each ornament inventive fancy
Can furnish, to allure th' admiring eye,
Serves but to sting me deeper with remorse;
Upon my cheek imprint a stronger glow
Of conscious shame, reflecting on the cause,
The wretched cause, that brought me to their view.
Ethel. These are the dictates of deforming spleen,
That to the low dejected mind presents

False and disgustful objects. Henry's absence
Is the sad source that casts this mournful gloom
On all around: three days have now elaps'd
Unmark'd by him and love; when he arrives
The bow'r, the groves, will wear a fairer aspect,
And all be drest in beauty and delight.

In

Rosa. 'Tis true, I try to wear the smile of joy my dear conqueror's sight: nay, I do wear it; My heart acknowledges the soft delight

His presence gives. Had I not lov'd too well,
I had not been this wretch!-my soul dotes on him!
I live but in his looks. Why was he not,
By fate ordain'd, some rustic villager,
And I, the mistress of a neighbouring cot,
That we had met, as happy equals do,
And liv'd in pleasures unallay'd by guilt!

Ethel. Yet to engage the dear, the tender hours,
Which royal Henry spares from public toils;
To call that heart your own, which all agree

To love and honour; feast upon those smiles,
Which millions sigh for-

Rosa. Cease, my Ethelinda;

Thou know'st not how thy words afflict my breast.
Think not, tho' fall'n from innocence, my mind
Is callous to the feelings of humanity,

Of truth, or justice. I reflect full oft,
Ev'n in my happiest moments, there lives one
Who has a right to Henry's ev'ry hour,
Each tender vow, and each attractive smile:
I know it, and condemn my feeble heart,
For yielding to desires all moral laws
Forbid, and in-born reason disapproves.
Ethel. You school yourself too harshly.
Rosa. Oh, not so!

I have much more to bear. I have not yet
Learn'd the great duty expiation claims:
To part, my Ethelinda.

Ethel. Part! from whom?

Rosa. From Henry-from the monarch of my heart, My wishes lord, my all of earthly bliss!

Thou marvel'st at my words-but it must be;

It is the sole atonement I can make

To a fond father's woes, his injur'd fame,
The tarnish'd glories of a noble line,

The royal Eleanor's insulted rights,

And my own conscious, self-arraigning heart.

Ethel. Oh! do not flatter that fond heart with hope

Of such exertive power! beneath the trial,

Your strength would fail, your resolution droop;
You could not yield him up.

Rosa. By my warm hopes

Of mild remission to my great offences,
I feel my bosom equal to the task,
Hard as it is; so Henry left me not
In anger or unkindness, but resign'd me,
With the dear care of a protecting friend,
To the soft paths of penitence and peace,
I would embrace the torment it entail'd,
And bless him for each pang.

Ethel. Behold, he comes!

Enter the King.

King. My Rosamond! my ever new delight! Receive me to thy arms, enfold me there, Where ever blooming sweets perpetual rise, And lull my cares to rest.

[Exit.

Bright chearfulness was wont to dance around him,
Complacent sweetness sat upon his brow,

And soft content beam'd lovely from his eye.

King. Well thou reprov'st me; I will strive to chace The gloomy cloud, that overhangs my spirit, Th' effect of public business, public cares. (My tell-tale looks, I fear, will speak the pain. My heart still suffers, from that stranger's converse.)

Oft do I mourn the duties of my station,

[Aside.

That call my thoughts to them, and claim the hours, Which I would dedicate to love and thee,

Rosa. I meant not to reproach thee; 'twas my zeal, For the dear quiet of thy mind, that spoke. I cannot see the slightest shade of grief Dim the bright lustre of thy chearing eye, But apprehension pains me, lest for me Thy glory be diminish'd to the world. King. 1 seek not empty popular acclaims; Thy tender accents falling on mine ear, Like rural warblings on the panting breeze, Convey more rapture, more supreme delight, Than Io-peans of a shouting world.

Rosa. To see bright satisfaction glow within Thy manly cheek, behold the rising smile, And hear thee speak the gladness of thy heart, Is my best joy, my triumph and my pride; And yet, my Henry, ought it to be so? Still should I listen to the syren, pleasure, While awful virtue lifts her sober voice, And warns my heart of her neglected precepts? King. Forbear, forbear these soft complaints, and speak Of rapture; speak of my improving ardour, And thy unceasing love.

Rosa. Oh! thou divin'st not

How many heavy hours, and sleepless nights,
Thy Rose endures! how much my faulty state
(Bless'd as I am in thee) arraigns my mind;
Oft in the bitter hours when thou art absent,
My father's image rises to my view,

Array'd in gloomy grief, and stern reproof.
Nay, do not eye me with that melting fondness;

Hast thou not often bade me cast my cares

On thee, and told me, thou wou'dst bear them for me? Hear then, oh, hear me! for to whom but thee

Can I unload my heart?

King. Oh, speak not thus.

Should these sad accents stain the precious moments,

When Henry flies from a tumultuous world

To tranquil joys, to happiness, and thee?
What busy fiend, invidious to our loves,
Torments thy gentle breast?

Rosa. Trust me, my Henry,

This is no sudden gust of wayward temper,
'Tis reason's impulse; oft hath my heart endur'd
Afflictive pangs, when my unclouded face
Hath worn a forc'd and temporary smile,
Because I would not hurt thy noble mind.
Advancing time but multiplies my torments,
And gives them double strength; they will have vent:
Oh! my protector, make one glorious effort
Worthy thyself-remove me from thy arms;
Yield me to solitude's repentant shade.

King. Renounce thee, didst thou say! my Rosamond ! Were those the words of her and love?

Rosa. They were;

It is my love intreats; that love which owns
Thee for its first, its last, its only lord.
Allow me to indulge it, undisturb'd

By the sore miseries which now surround me,
Without the sense of guilt, that fiend who waits
On all my actions, on my every thought,