'd the live-long day she pass'd without me;
Inclining fondly to me, she has sworn
She lov'd me more than all the world besides.

_Alic._ Ha! say'st thou? Let me look upon thee well--
'Tis true--I know thee now--A mischief on thee!
Thou art that fatal fair, that cursed she,
That set my brain a madding. Thou hast robb'd me;
Thou hast undone me--Murder! O, my Hastings!
See his pale bloody head shoots glaring by me!
Avaunt; and come not near me--

_Jane S._ To thy hand
I trusted all; gave my whole store to thee,
Nor do I ask it back; allow me but
The smallest pittance, give me but to eat,
Lest I fall down and perish here before thee.

_Alic._ Nay! tell not me! Where is thy king, thy Edward,
And all thy cringing train of courtiers,
That bent the knee before thee?

_Jane S._ Oh! for mercy!

_Alic._ Mercy! I know it not--for I am miserable.
I'll give thee misery, for here she dwells,
This is her house, where the sun never dawns;
The bird of night sits screaming o'er the roof,
Grim spectres sweep along the horrid gloom,
And nought is heard but wailings and lamentings.
Hark! something cracks above! it shakes! it totters!
And see the nodding ruin falls to crush me!
'Tis fall'n, 'tis here! I felt it on my brain!--
Let her take my counsel:
Why shouldst thou be a wretch? Stab, tear thy heart,
And rid thyself of this detested being:
I wo' not linger long behind thee here.
A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er me;
And now 'tis out, and I am drown'd in blood.
Ha! what art thou? thou horrid headless trunk?
It is my Hastings! see he wafts me on!
Away! I go! I fly! I follow thee. [_runs off._

_Jane S._ Alas! she raves; her brain, I fear, is turn'd;
In mercy look upon her, gracious heav'n,
Nor visit her for any wrong to me.
Sure I am near upon my journey's end;
My head runs round, my eyes begin to fail,
And dancing shadows swim before my sight.
I can no more, [_lies down_] receive me, thou cold earth,
Thou common parent, take me to thy bosom,
And let me rest with thee.

_Enter Belmour._

_Bel._ Upon the ground!
Thy miseries can never lay thee lower.
Look up, thou poor afflicted one! thou mourner,
Whom none has comforted! Where are thy friends,
The dear companions of thy joyful days,
Whose hearts thy warm prosperity made glad,
Whose arms were taught to grow like ivy round thee,
And bind thee to their bosoms? Thus, with thee,
Thus let us live, and let us die, they said.
Now where are they?

_Jane S._ Ah,