Page:The Mysterious Mother - Walpole (1781).djvu/57

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A TRAGEDY.
49
COUNTESS.
What means this complicated scenDistraction!
What means this complicated scene of horrors?
Why thus assail my splitting brain?—be quick—
Art thou my husband wing'd from other orbs
To taunt my soul? What is this dubious form,
Impress'd with ev'ry feature I adore,
And every lineament I dread to look on!
Art thou my dead or living son?

EDMUND.
Art thou my dead or living son?I am
Thy living Edmund. Let these scalding tears
Attest th' existence of thy suff'ring son.

COUNTESS.
Ah! touch me not—

EDMUND.
Revive then all sensatioHow!—in that cruel breast
Revive then all sensations, but affection?
Why so ador'd the memory of the father,
And so abhorr'd the presence of the son?
But now, and to thy eyes I seem'd my father—
At least for that resemblance-sake embrace me.

COUNTESS.
Horror on horror! Blasted be thy tongue!
What sounds are those!

BENEDICT
This young lord's disobedLady, tho' I excuse not
This young lord's disobedience, His contrition
Bespeaks no rebel principle. I doubt not,
Your blessing first obtain'd and gracious pardon,
But soon as morning streaks the ruddy East,
He will obey your pleasure, and return
To stranger climes—

EDMUND.

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