Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 1.pdf/310

De Mon. No my kind host, I am oblig'd to thee.

Jer. How fares it with your honour?

De Mon.Well enough.

Jer. Here is a little of the fav'rite wine
That you were wont to praise. Pray honour me.
(Fills a glass.)

De Mon. (After drinking.) I thank you, Jerome, 'tis delicious.

Jer. Ay, my dear wife did ever make it so.

De Mon. And how does she?

Jer. Alas, my lord! she's dead.

De Mon. Well, then she is at rest.

Jer.How well, my lord?

De Mon. Is she not with the dead, the quiet dead,
Where all is peace. Not e'en the impious wretch,
Who tears the coffin from its earthy vault,
And strews the mould'ring ashes to the wind
Can break their rest.

Jer. Woe's me! I thought you would have griev'd for her.
She was a kindly soul! Before she died,
When pining sickness bent her cheerless head,
She set my house in order—
And but the morning ere she breath'd her last,
Bade me preserve some flaskets of this wine,
That should the Lord De Monfort come again
His cup might sparkle still. (De Monfort walks across the stage, and wipes his eyes.)
Indeed I fear I have distress'd you, sir: