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THE ROBBERS.

thirsted for the sight of you.—Stay, I conjure you.—Here, poisoner, let me enjoy my highest pleasure, let me curse thee to thy face.

Francis.

Why am I thus treated?—You wrong me, child;—go to the father, who——

Amelia.

The father, Ha! that father, who gives his son the bread of despair to eat—while he pampers himself with the richest delicacies;—who gluts his palled appetite with costly wines, and rests his palsied limbs in down,—while his son,—his noble son,—the paragon of all that's worthy, all that's amiable, that's great,—wants the bare necessaries of life.—Shame to you, monsters of inhumanity, unfeeling, brutal monsters!—His only son!

Francis.

I thought he had two sons.

Amelia

Ay! he deserves many sons such as you.—Yes, when stretch'd on the bed of death, he shall extend his feeble hands, and seek to grasp for the last time his injured noble Charles, let him feel thy

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