Theo. I understand you not.
Eug. It is Matilda,
The slaughter'd Scudmore's love, his virtuous love,
Whose life by me unhappily was spilt.
The sad, melodious ditty, which so late
Did pierce our ravish'd ears, was but the note
Of this fair turtle for her slaughter'd mate;
In which perchance, amidst her woes, she sends
Black curses up against my spotted self.
But I with prayers and blessings will repay
Whate'er thou vent'st 'gainst me. O, do not wish
More wretchedness to my distracted soul
Than I already feel! Sad sighs and tears
Are all the satisfaction that is left
For me to make to thy dead love and thee.
Theo. Those lips can vent no curses; 'twould take off
Much from the sweetness of her virtuous sorrow.
Where lives this lovely maid?
Eug. In the next village.
Theo. Has she a father living?
Eug. No, friend; he died
When she was in her infancy. Her mother
Two years ago deceas'd, and left her all
The substance that she had; which was not great,
But does maintain her. In that little house,
E'er since this fatal accident, she lives
A miracle of truth and constancy,
Wailing her love; and now, it seems, has[13] come
To vent her woful passions to the woods.
Theo. How happy had he been in such a love,
If fate had spar'd his life! But he is dead,
And time at last may wear this sorrow off,
And make her relish the true joys of love.
But why do I thus wander in my thoughts?
This passion must be curb'd in the beginning;
'Twill prove too stubborn for me, if it grow. [Aside.
Eug. Come, let us to my cave, as we intended,
Ere this sad object stay'd us.
Theo. Sad indeed!
Believe me, friend, I suffer with thee in it;
But we were wounded in two different kinds. [Aside.
Come, let's be gone; though—I could still—dwell here. [Exeunt.
Enter Matilda.