Page:The Mysterious Mother - Walpole (1781).djvu/53

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A TRAGEDY.
45
Not at impracticable, vain perfection,
But rates its prodigality of blessings
At the slight credence of its pow'r to grant them;
Shall man with stoic pride reject the boon,
And cry, we will do more, we will deserve it?[1]

COUNTESS.
Deserve it!—oh! have all your sainted hosts,
Your choirs of martyrs, or your clouds of cherubim,
Deserv'd to feel the transport but of hope?
Away; nor tell me of this holy juggle
'Twixt faith and conscience. Shall the latter roam,
Wasting and spoiling with a ruffian hand,
While her accomplice faith, wrapt up at home
In proud security of self-existence,
Thinks that existence shall absolve them both?

BENEDICT.
'Twas not to war with words, so heav'n's my judge,
That your poor rated servant sought your presence.
I came with charitable friendly purpose
To sooth—but wherefore mitigate your griefs?
You mock my friendship, and miscall my zeal.
Since then to council, comfort, and reproof
Obdurate—learn the measure of your woes.
Learn, if the mother's fortitude can brave
The bolt the woman's arrogance defied.

COUNTESS.
The mother! said'st thou?

BENEDICT.
Yes, 'twas no vision rais'dYes, imperious dame:
Yes, 'twas no vision rais'd by dreams and fumes,
Begot 'twixt nightly fear and indigestion:

  1. ↑ We will do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it. Portius in Cato.

Nor

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