MARGARET. (rising.) Go whither, John? Go in with me, JOHN. And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds? MARGARET. That I will, John. (Exeunt.) SCENE-An inner Apartment. John is discovered kneeling.-Margaret standing over him. I cannot bear JOHN. (rises.) To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, ("Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) In tending such a broken wretch as I am. MARGARET. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so. O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) And I must chide these pestilent humours from you. They are gone. JOHN. Mark, love, how chearfully I speak! I can smile too, and I almost begin To understand what kind of creature Hope is. MARGARET. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John. JOHN. Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth. (Being but a novice, I may fall into that error,) That were a sad indecency, you know. Nay, never fear. MARGARET. I will be mistress of your humours, And you shall frown or smile by the book. And herein I shall be most peremptory, Cry, "this shews well, but that inclines to "levity, "This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, "But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite.” JOHN. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself! MARGARET. To give you in your stead a better self! Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery, Sir Rowland my father's gift, And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. I was a young thing then, being newly come Home from my convent education, where Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France: Returning home true protestant, you call'd me Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful Did John salute his love, being newly seen. Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, And prais'd it in a youth. JOHN. Now Margaret weeps herself. (A noise of bells heard.) MARGARET. Hark the bells, John. JOHN. Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery. In the sweet shire of Devon. Those are the bells. MARGARET. Wilt go to church, John? JOHN. I have been there already. MARGARET. How can'st say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already? JOHN. I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise; And the first object I discern'd Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery. Well, John. MARGARET. JOHN. Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day. Immediately a wish arose in my mind, To go to church and pray with Christian people. And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, "Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two 66 years past, (Not having been at church in all that time,) "And is it fit, that now for the first time "Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian "people "With a murderer's presence in the house of "prayer? "Thou would'st but discompose their pious "thoughts, "And do thyself no good: for how could'st "thou pray, "With unwash'd hands, and lips unus'd to the "offices?" And then I at my own presumption smiled; And I began to pray, and found I could pray; And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church. "Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection, Or was about to act unlawful business At that dead time of dawn, I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open, |