Page:The Mysterious Mother - Walpole (1781).djvu/13
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
A TRAGEDY.
5
Last night the raven croak'd, and from the bars
Of our lodge-fire flitted a messenger—
I knew no good would follow—bring you ill tidings,
Sir gentleman?
Of our lodge-fire flitted a messenger—
I knew no good would follow—bring you ill tidings,
Sir gentleman?
FLORIAN.
(This is a solemn fool, [Aside.
Or solemn knave.) Shouldst thou indeed rejoice
To see count Edmund? Would thy noble mistress
Spring with a mother's joy to clasp her son?
(This is a solemn fool, [Aside.
Or solemn knave.) Shouldst thou indeed rejoice
To see count Edmund? Would thy noble mistress
Spring with a mother's joy to clasp her son?
PORTER.
Oh! no, no, no.—He must not here—alas!
He must not here set foot—But tell me, stranger,
I prithee say, does my old master's heir
Still breathe this vital air? Is he in France?
Is he within some ten, or twenty leagues,
Or fifty? I am hearty yet, have all my limbs,
And I would make a weary pilgrimage
To kiss his gracious hand, and at his feet
Lay my old bones—for here I ne'er must see him.
[Weeps.
Oh! no, no, no.—He must not here—alas!
He must not here set foot—But tell me, stranger,
I prithee say, does my old master's heir
Still breathe this vital air? Is he in France?
Is he within some ten, or twenty leagues,
Or fifty? I am hearty yet, have all my limbs,
And I would make a weary pilgrimage
To kiss his gracious hand, and at his feet
Lay my old bones—for here I ne'er must see him.
[Weeps.
FLORIAN.
Thou good old man, forgive a soldier's mirth.
But say, why Narbonne's heir from Narbonne's lands
Is banish'd, driven by a ruthless mother?
Thou good old man, forgive a soldier's mirth.
But say, why Narbonne's heir from Narbonne's lands
Is banish'd, driven by a ruthless mother?
PORTER.
Ah! sir, 'tis hard indeed—but spare his mother;
Such virtue never dwelt in female form.
Count Edmund—but he was indeed a stripling,
A very lad—it was the trick of youth,
And we have all our sins, or we have had;
Yet still no pardon—Thinkst thou not, my lord,
My late kind master, e'er he knew my lady,
Wist not what woman was?—I warrant him—
Ah! sir, 'tis hard indeed—but spare his mother;
Such virtue never dwelt in female form.
Count Edmund—but he was indeed a stripling,
A very lad—it was the trick of youth,
And we have all our sins, or we have had;
Yet still no pardon—Thinkst thou not, my lord,
My late kind master, e'er he knew my lady,
Wist not what woman was?—I warrant him—
But