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THE MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.
Hear my last breath. Avoid the scorpion pleasure.
Death lurks beneath the velvet of his lip,
And but to think him over, is perdition!
—O retrospect of horror!—To the altar!
Haste, Adeliza,—vow thou wilt be wretched!
Death lurks beneath the velvet of his lip,
And but to think him over, is perdition!
—O retrospect of horror!—To the altar!
Haste, Adeliza,—vow thou wilt be wretched!
ADELIZA.
Dost thou then doom me to eternal sorrows?
Hast thou deceiv'd me? is not virtue, happiness?
Dost thou then doom me to eternal sorrows?
Hast thou deceiv'd me? is not virtue, happiness?
COUNTESS.
I know not that. I know that guilt is torture.
I know not that. I know that guilt is torture.
ADELIZA.
Sure pestilence has flapp'd his baleful wing,
And shed its poison o'er thy saintlike reason!
When thou so patient, holy, so resign'd,
Doubtest of virtue's health, of virtue's peace.
—But 'tis to try me—look upon this relick:
'Twas the good abbess's bequest. 'Twill chase
The fiend that walks at twilight.
Sure pestilence has flapp'd his baleful wing,
And shed its poison o'er thy saintlike reason!
When thou so patient, holy, so resign'd,
Doubtest of virtue's health, of virtue's peace.
—But 'tis to try me—look upon this relick:
'Twas the good abbess's bequest. 'Twill chase
The fiend that walks at twilight.
COUNTESS.
How she melts me!
What have I said—my lovely innocence,
Thou art my only thought—Oh! wast thou form'd
The child of sin?—and dare I not embrace thee?
Must I with eager ecstacy gaze on thee,
Yet curse the hour that stamp'd thee with a being!
How she melts me!
What have I said—my lovely innocence,
Thou art my only thought—Oh! wast thou form'd
The child of sin?—and dare I not embrace thee?
Must I with eager ecstacy gaze on thee,
Yet curse the hour that stamp'd thee with a being!
ADELIZA.
Alas! was I then born the child of sin!
Who were my parents? I will pray for them.
Alas! was I then born the child of sin!
Who were my parents? I will pray for them.
COUNTESS.
Oh! if the bolt must come, here let it strike me!
[Flinging herself on the ground.
Nature! these feelings were thy gift. Thou knowest
How ill I can resist thy forceful impulse.
Oh! if the bolt must come, here let it strike me!
[Flinging herself on the ground.
Nature! these feelings were thy gift. Thou knowest
How ill I can resist thy forceful impulse.
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