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The REVENGE.
57
Alon.Serious as Death.

Leon.Then Heav'n have Mercy on thee.
'Till now I struggled not to think it true,
I fought Conviction, and would not believe it.
And dost thou force me? This shall not be born,
Thou shalt repent this Insult. [Going.


Alon.Madam, stay.
Your Passion's wise, 'tis a Disguise for Guilt:
'Tis my Turn now to fix you here awhile;
You, and your Thousand Arts shall not escape me.

Leon.Arts?

Alon.Arts. Confess; for Death is in my Hand.

Leon.'Tis in your Words.

Alon.Confess, Confess, Confess;
Nor tear my Veins with Passion to compel thee.

Leon.I scorn to answer thee, presumptuous Man!

Alon.Deny then, and incur a fouler Shame.
Where did I find this Picture?

Leon.Ha! Don Carlos?
By my best Hopes, more welcome than thy own.

Alon.I know it; but is Vice so very rank,
That thou should'st dare to dash it in my Face?
Nature is sick of thee, abandon'd Woman!

Leon.Repent.

Alon.Is that for me?

Leon.Fall, ask my Pardon.

Alon.Astonishment!

Leon.Dar'st thou persist to think I am dishonest?

Alon.I know thee so.

Leon.This Blow then to thy Heart———
[She stabs her self, he endeavouring to prevent her.


Alon.Hoa! Zanga! Isabella! Hoa! She Bleeds.
Descend ye blessed Angels, to assist her.

Leon.This is the only Way I would wound Thee:
Tho' most unjust. Now think me guilty still.

Enter Isabella.

Alon.Bear her to instant Help. The World to save her!

Leon.

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