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THE STRIPLING: A TRAGEDY.
171


ACT IV.

A green Lawn, with Borders of Flowers, in front of Robinair's House, near Chelsea. Moonlight.

Enter Robinair and Bruton from the house.

ROBINAIR.

The night air is cool and refreshing here: it is stifling to sit in that close library, which you are so fond of. (Walking quickly up and down, and sometimes stopping to listen.)

BRUTON.

Yet you give yourself no time to enjoy it. Is that hurried pace the motions of one who comes forth to breathe the still air of evening? There is a sky, too, over your head, with that peaceful, brilliant moon shining from it, to which the dullest eye might be turned with a species of devotion, yet you look not up once to behold it.

ROBINAIR.

This vile state of suspense! Who thinks of moon, clouds, or sky, when enduring it? (Listening.) I hear a footstep coming up the lane.