Page:The Mysterious Mother - Walpole (1781).djvu/29
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A TRAGEDY.
21
To cheat th' uneasy feeling. Sable chambers,
The winking lamp, and pomp of midnight woe,
Are but a specious theatre, on which
Th' inconstant mind with decency forgets
Its inward tribute. Who can doubt the love
Which to a father's shade devotes the son?
[Ironically.
The winking lamp, and pomp of midnight woe,
Are but a specious theatre, on which
Th' inconstant mind with decency forgets
Its inward tribute. Who can doubt the love
Which to a father's shade devotes the son?
[Ironically.
EDMUND.
Still must I doubt: still deem some mystery,
Beyond a widow's pious artifice,
Lies hid beneath aversion so relentless.
All my inheritance, my lordships, castles,
My father's lavish love bequeath'd my mother.
Chose she some second partner of her bed,
Or did she waste her wealth on begging saints,
And rogues that act contrition, it were proof
Of her hypocrisy, or lust of fame
In monkish annals. But to me her hand
Is bounteous, as her heart is cold. I tell thee,
Bating enjoyment of my native soil,
Narbonne's revenues are as fully mine,
As if I held them by the strength of charters.
Still must I doubt: still deem some mystery,
Beyond a widow's pious artifice,
Lies hid beneath aversion so relentless.
All my inheritance, my lordships, castles,
My father's lavish love bequeath'd my mother.
Chose she some second partner of her bed,
Or did she waste her wealth on begging saints,
And rogues that act contrition, it were proof
Of her hypocrisy, or lust of fame
In monkish annals. But to me her hand
Is bounteous, as her heart is cold. I tell thee,
Bating enjoyment of my native soil,
Narbonne's revenues are as fully mine,
As if I held them by the strength of charters.
FLORIAN.
Why set them on the hazard then, when she,
Who deals them may revoke? Your absence hence
The sole condition.
Why set them on the hazard then, when she,
Who deals them may revoke? Your absence hence
The sole condition.
EDMUND.
I am weary, Florian,
Of such a vagrant life. Befits it me,
Sprung from a race of heroes, Narbonne's prince,
To lend my casual arm's approved valour
To quarrels, nor my country's nor my own?
To stain my sword with random blood !—I fought
At Buda 'gainst the Turk—a holy war,
I am weary, Florian,
Of such a vagrant life. Befits it me,
Sprung from a race of heroes, Narbonne's prince,
To lend my casual arm's approved valour
To quarrels, nor my country's nor my own?
To stain my sword with random blood !—I fought
At Buda 'gainst the Turk—a holy war,
So