II.
The conquest gain'd, he left his prize,
He left her to complain;
To talk of joy with weeping eyes,
And measure time by pain.
But heav'n will take the mourner's part,
In pity to despair;
And the last sigh that rends the heart,
Shall waft the spirit there.
Mrs. Bev. I thank thee, Lucy; I thank heaven too my griefs are none of these. Yet Stukely deals in hints—He talks of rumours—I'll urge him to speak plainly—Hark?—There's some one entering.
Lucy. Perhaps my master, madam.
[Exit.
Mrs. Bev. Let him be well too, and I am satisfied. (Goes to the door, and listens.) No; 'tis another's voice; his had been music to me. Who is it, Lucy?
SCENE VII.