ence now?
Your life is in my hand, and did not honour,
The gentleness of blood, and inborn virtue,
(Howe'er unworthy I may seem to you,)
Plead in my bosom, I should take the forfeit.
But wear your sword again; and know, a lord,
Oppos'd against a man, is but a man.

_Lord H._ Curse on my failing hand! your better fortune
Has giv'n you 'vantage o'er me; but perhaps
Your triumph may be bought with dear repentance. [_exit._

_Re-enter Jane Shore._

_Jane S._ Alas! what have you done? Know ye the pow'r,
The mightiness, that waits upon this lord?

_Dum._ Fear not, my worthiest mistress; 'tis a cause
In which heaven's guards shall wait you. O pursue,
Pursue, the sacred counsels of your soul,
Which urge you on to virtue;
Assisting angels shall conduct your steps,
Bring you to bliss, and crown your days with peace.

_Jane S._ O that my head were laid, my sad eyes clos'd,
And my cold corse wound in my shroud to rest!
My painful heart will never cease to beat,
Will never know a moment's peace, till then.

_Dum._ Would you he happy, leave this fatal place;
Fly from the court's pernicious neighbourhood;
Where innocence is sham'd, and blushing modesty
Is made the scorner's jest; where hate, deceit,
And deadly ruin, wear the masks of beauty,
And draw deluded fools with shows of pleasure.

_Jane S._ Where should I fly, thus helpless and forlorn,
Of friends and all the means of life bereft?

_Dum._ Belmour, whose friendly care still wakes to serve you,
Has found you out a little peaceful refuge,
Far from the court and the tumultuous city.
Within an ancient forest's ample verge,
There stands a lonely but a healthful dwelling,
Built for convenience and the use of life:
Around it, fallows, meads, and pastures fair,
A little garden, and a limpid brook,
By nature's own contrivance seem'd dispos'd;
No neighbours, but a few poor simple clowns,
Honest and true, with a well-meaning priest:
No faction, or domestic fury's rage,
Did e'er disturb the quiet of that place,
When the contending nobles shook the land
With York and Lancaster's disputed sway.
Your virtue there may find a safe retreat
From the insulting pow'rs of wicked greatness.

_Jane S._ Can there be so much happiness in store?
A cell like that is all my hopes aspire to.
Haste then, and thither let us take our flight,
E'er the clouds gather, and the wintry sky
Descends in storms to intercept our passage.

_Dum._ Will you then go? You glad my very soul.
Ban