_Dum._ Oh, that day! The thought of it must live for ever with me. I met her, Belmour, when the royal spoiler Bore her in triumph from my widow'd home! Within his chariot, by his side, she sat, And listen'd to his talk with downward looks, 'Till, sudden as she chanc'd aside to glance, Her eyes encounter'd mine--Oh! then, my friend! Oh! who can paint my grief and her amazement! As at the stroke of death, twice turn'd she pale; And twice a burning crimson blush'd all o'er her; Then, with a shriek heart-wounding, loud she cry'd, While down her cheeks two gushing torrents ran Fast falling on her hands, which thus she wrung---- Mov'd at her grief, the tyrant ravisher, With courteous action, woo'd her oft to turn; Earnest he seem'd to plead, but all in vain; Ev'n to the last she bent her sight towards me, And follow'd me----till I had lost myself. _Bel._ Alas, for pity! Oh! those speaking tears! Could they be false? did she not suffer with you. For, though the king by force possess'd her person, Her unconsenting heart dwelt still with you? If all her former woes were not enough, Look on her now; behold her where she wanders, Hunted to death, distress'd on every side, With no one hand to help; and tell me then, If ever misery were known like hers? _Dum._ And can she bear it? Can that delicate frame Endure the beating of a storm so rude? Can she, for whom the various seasons chang'd To court her appetite and crown her board, For whom the foreign vintages were press'd, For whom the merchant spread his silken stores, Can she---- Entreat for bread, and want the needful raiment To wrap her shiv'ring bosom from the weather? When she was mine, no care came ever nigh her; I thought the gentlest breeze that wakes the spring Too rough to breathe upon her; cheerfulness Danc'd all the day before her, and at night Soft slumbers waited on her downy pillow--. Now, sad and shelterless, perhaps she lies, Where piercing winds blow sharp, and the chill rain Drops from some pent-house on her wretched head, Drenches her locks, and kills her with the cold. It is too much.----Hence with her past offences, They are aton'd at full.----Why stay we then? Oh! let us haste, my friend, and find her out. _Bel._ Somewhere about this quarter of the town, I hear the poor abandon'd creature lingers: Her guard, though set with strictest watch to keep All food and friendship from her, yet permit her To wander in the streets, there choose her bed, And rest her head on what cold stone she pleases. _Dum._ Here then let us divide; each in his round To search her sorrows out; whose hap it is First to behold her, this way let him lead Her fainting steps, and meet we here together. [_exeunt._ SCENE II. A STREET. _Enter Jane Shore, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders, and bare-footed._