Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 1.pdf/399

De Mon. (Looking at her with admiration.)
Heav'n bless thy gen'rous soul, my noble Jane!
I thought to sink beneath this load of ill,
Depress'd with infamy and open shame;
I thought to sink in abject wretchedness:
But for thy sake I'll rouse my manhood up,
And meet it bravely; no unseemly weakness,
I feel my rising strength, shall blot my end,
To clothe thy cheek with shame.

Jane. Yes, thou art noble still.

De Mon. With thee I am; who were not so with thee?
But, ah, my sister! short will be the term:
Death's stroke will come, and in that state beyond,
Where things unutterable wait the soul,
New from its earthly tenement discharg'd,
We shall be sever'd far.
Far as the spotless purity of virtue
Is from the murd'rer's guilt, far shall we be.
This is the gulf of dread uncertainty
From which the soul recoils.

Jane. The God who made thee is a God of mercy;
Think upon this.

De Mon. (Shaking his head.) No, no! this blood! this blood!

Jane. Yea, e'en the sin of blood may be forgiv'n,
When humble penitence hath once aton'd,

De Mon. (Eagerly.) What, after terms of lengthen'd misery,
Imprison'd anguish of tormented spirits,