Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 1.pdf/392

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390
DE MONFORT: A TRAGEDY.

E'en with the death's wound gor'd. O horrid, horrid!
Methinks I feel him still.—What sound is that?
I heard a smother'd groan.—It is impossible!
(Looking steadfastly at the body.)
It moves! it moves! the cloth doth heave and swell.
It moves again.—I cannot suffer this—
Whate'er it be I will uncover it.

(Runs to the corps and tears of the cloth in despair.)

All still beneath.

Nought is there here but fix'd and grizly death.
How sternly fixed! Oh! those glazed eyes!
They look me still.
(Shrinks back with horrour.)
Come, madness! come unto me senseless death!
I cannot suffer this! Here, rocky wall,
Scatter these brains, or dull them.

(Runs furiously, and, dashmg his head against the wall, falls upon the floor.)


Enter two Monks, hastily.


1st Monk. See; wretched man, he hath destroy'd himself.

2d Monk. He does but faint. Let us remove him hence.

1st Monk. We did not well to leave him here alone.

2d Monk. Come, let us bear him to the open air.

Exeunt, bearing out De Monfort.