་ Hath long deserted me; with her lov'd mate, I fear for ever. Grac'd with each ornament inventive fancy False and disgustful objects. Henry's absence 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, Ethel. Yet to engage the dear, the tender hours, To love and honour; feast upon those smiles, Rosa. Cease, my Ethelinda; Thou know'st not how thy words afflict my breast. Of truth, or justice. I reflect full oft, I have much more to bear. I have not yet 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 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; Rosa. By my warm hopes Of mild remission to my great offences, 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, 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, Array'd in gloomy grief, and stern reproof. 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? Rosa. Trust me, my Henry, This is no sudden gust of wayward temper, 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 By the sore miseries which now surround me, |