SCENE II.—Another Room in the same.
Enter Belvidera.
Belv. I'm sacrificed! I'm sold! betrayed to shame!
Inevitable ruin has inclosed me!
No sooner was I to my bed repaired,
To weigh and (weeping) ponder my condition,
But the old hoary wretch, to whose false care
My peace and honour was entrusted came,
Like Tarquin, ghastly with infernal lust.
O thou Roman Lucrece!
Thou couldst find friends to vindicate thy wrong;
I never had but one, and he's proved false;
He that should guard my virtue, has betrayed it;
Left me! undone me! oh, that I could hate him!
Where shall I go? oh, whither, whither wander?
Enter Jaffier.
Jaff. Can Belvidera want a resting-place,
When these poor arms are open to receive her?
Oh, 'tis in vain to struggle with desires
Strong as my love to thee; for every moment
I'm from thy sight, the heart within my bosom
Moans like a tender infant in its cradle,
Whose nurse had left it: come, and with the songs
Of gentle love, persuade it to its peace.
Belv. I fear the stubborn wanderer will not own me;
'Tis grown a rebel to be ruled no longer,
Scorns the indulgent bosom that first lulled it;
And, like a disobedient child, disdains
The soft authority of Belvidera.
Jaff. There was a time—
Belv. Yes, yes, there was a time
When Belvidera's tears, her cries, and sorrows,
Were not despised; when if she chanced to sigh,
Or look but sad—there was indeed a time
When Jaffier would have ta'en her in his arms,
Eased her declining head upon his breast,
And never left her till he found the cause.
But let her now weep seas,
Cry till she rend the earth, sigh till she burst
Her heart asunder; still he bears it all,
Deaf as the wind, and as the rocks unshaken.
Jaff. Have I been deaf? am I that rock unmoved,
Against whose root tears beat, and sighs are sent
In vain? have I beheld thy sorrows calmly?
Witness against me, Heavens, have I done this?
Then bear me in a whirlwind back again,
And let that angry dear one ne'er forgive me!
Oh, thou too rashly censurest[70] of my love!
Couldst thou but think how I have spent this night,
Dark and alone, no pillow to my head,
Rest in my eyes, nor quiet in my heart,
Thou wouldst not, Belvidera, sure thou wouldst not
Talk to me thus; but like a pitying angel,
Spreading thy wings, come settle on my breast,
And hatch warm comfort there, ere sorrows freeze it.
Belv. Why then, poor mourner, in what baleful corner
Hast thou been talking with that witch the Night?
On what cold stone hast thou been stretched along,
Gathering the grumbling winds about thy head,
To mix with theirs the accents of thy woes?
Oh, now I find the cause my love forsakes me!
I am no longer fit to bear a share
In his concernments: my weak female virtue
Must not be trusted; 'tis too frail and tender.