Scene V. Gloucester Castle.

Enter BIRTHA.

Hast thou, O Misery! torture more severe,
Than still to love, to love one lost to honour?
To dote, and yet despise; to glow with shame,
Hearing the deeds of him we idolize?
Such tortures rend my heart. Persidious Edrick!
Why hast thou sham'd the promise of thy youth
By crimes, most horrid, most detestable?
Hypocrify was deem'd of alien growth.
Oh! that its baleful foliage should o'ershade
The royal plant I nourish'd with such care.

Enter EMMA,

Again in tears?

BIRTHA.

Never had wretch such cause!

EMMA.

Yes, trust me, millions! Thy unhappy country
Can furnish numbers destitute and old,
Poor pensioners of icy Charity!
And shall the sorrows of an ill-plac'd passion,
Compare with griefs like theirs?

BIRTHA.

Oh! spare me, Madam;
Th' unstricken heart has licence to condemn.

EMMA.

Ah! Friend, did Emma number all the pangs
Her breast has felt, and honour them with tears;
Twould fursnih coverse for a summer's day!
Tho' the sharp sting of grief decays by time, —
This heavy calm — this slumber of the soul —
This stupid, cold, indifferent apathy,
Time ne'er can conquer. So to stormy days,
When Autumn reigns, dult misty nights succeed,
Uncheer'd with light of Moon or friendly Star.

BIRTHA.

Hard are the lessons of Adversity
To the weak minds of fragile womanhood.
Can'st thou, with all thy sex's softness fraught,
Learn the hard duty?

EMMA.

Birtha! have I not
Desire of fame? Abhorrence of reproach?
A mind that seeks Eternity's applause?
A soul that pants for Immortality,
That med'cine for despair?

Enter a Servant ,

Lady! from Denmark
A warlike Knight craves audience.

EMMA.

Ha! of me?
Well, let him come — 'tis strange what this imports.