A TRAGEDY.
77
And would'st thou have a stranger come to thee?
Alas! alas! where can thy aching head
So softly rest as on a parent's lap?
Yes, I will wrap me in the Pilgrim's weeds,
Nor storm nor rugged wild shall bar my way.
And tho' declining years impare my strength,
These arms shall yet support thy feeble frame,
When fairer friends desert thee.
(To the Messenger, beckoning him to come forward.)
Good friend, this is no place to question thee!
Come with me to my home.
(Exuent.
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
