A TRAGEDY.
25
It is thyself and not thy gifts I prize:
Thou know'st too well how my fond doating heart
Is moved with the soft witch'ry of thy tongue;
Yet thou wilt vex me thus, and break my heart.
Oh! 'tis too much! (pretending to burst into tears.)
COUNT ZATERLOO.
MIRA.
COUNT ZATERLOO.
MIRA.
O that some friendly hand would end my days,
Since I have lived to see me thus despis'd.
COUNT ZATERLOO (aside to Bernard).
See thou to Rayner: I will soon return.
(Aloud.) Then let us go, my love, thou dost compel me.
Thy hand, sweet Mira. (Exeunt Zaterloo and Mira.)
BERNARD.
Our noble chief enjoys. I must to Rayner.