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THE ROBBERS.

SCENE, An Inn on the frontiers of Saxony.

Charles de Moor.

(Alone walking about with impatience.) What is become of those fellows? Sure they have been upon some scamper.—Here, house! get me some more wine! 'Tis very late, and the post not yet arrived. (Putting his hand on his heart.) How it beats here! Halloah! More wine! wine, I say! I need a double portion of courage to day—for joy, or for despair. (Wine is brought,—Moor drinks, and strikes the table violently with the glass.) What a damn'd inequality in the lot of mankind!—While the gold lies useless in the moudly coffer of the miser, the leaden hand of poverty checks the daring flight of youth, and chills the fire of enterprise:—Wretches, whose income is beyond computation, have worn my threshold in dunning payment of a few miserable debts;—yet so kindly have I entreated them;—grasp'd them by the hand;—give me but a single day!—All in vain.—What are prayers, oaths, tears to them;—they touch not the scaly armour of an impenetrable heart!—

Enter Spiegelberg with Letters.

Spiegelberg.

A plague consume it! One stroke after ano-

ther!

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