The Mysterious Mother: A Tragedy (1791)

This historic book may have numerous typos, missing text, images, or index. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. 1791. Not illustrated. Excerpt: ... A C T II. The SCENE continues. Count Edmund, Florian. Edm. Doubt not, my friend; Time's pencil, hard? mips, war, Some taste of pleasure too, have chas'd the bloom Of ruddy comeliness, and stamp'd this face With harsher lineaments,-that well may mock The prying^of a mother's eye--A mother, ThrO' whose firm nerves tumultuous instinct's flood Ne'er gush'd with eager eloquence, to tell her, This is your son! your heart's owa voice proclaims him. Flor. If not her love, my lord, suspect her hatred. Those jarring passions spring from the same source: Hate is distempered love. Edm. Why should she hate me? For that my opening passion's' swelling ardour Prompted congenial necessary joy, Was that a cause ?_Nor was lhe then so rigid. No sanctisied dissembler had possess'd Her scar'd imagination, teaching her That holineis-begins where nature ends. No, Florian; she herself was woman then, A sensual woman. Nor satiety, Sickness and age, and virtue's frowardnefs, Had so obliterated pleasure's relish- She might have pardon'd what she felt so well. F/or. Forgive me, Edmund; nay, nor think I preach. If I, God wot, of morals loose enough, Seem to condemn you You have often told me, The night, the very night that to your arms Gave pretty Beatrice's melting beauties, "Was the fame night on which your father died. Edni. 'Tis true--and thou, sage monitor, dost thou Hold love a crime so irremissible? Woudst thou have turn'd thee from a willing girl. To sing a r^cmieja to thy-father's foul? I thought my mother busied with her tears, Her faintings' and her masses, while I stole To Beatrice's chamber.--How my mother Became appriz'd, I know not: but her heart, Never too partial to me, grew estrang'd. Estrang'd !--aversion in its fellest mood Scowl'd from her eye, and drove me from...