_Usurer._ Groaning in conscience, burden'd with my crimes, The hell of sorrow haunts me up and down. Tread where I list, methinks the bleeding ghosts Of those whom my corruption brought to naught Do serve for stumbling-blocks before my steps; The fatherless and widow wrong'd by me, The poor oppressèd by my usury, Methinks I see their hands rear'd up to heaven, To cry for vengeance of my covetousness. Whereso I walk, all sigh and shun my way; Thus am I made a monster of the world: Hell gapes for me, heaven will not hold my soul. You mountains, shroud me from the God of truth: Methinks I see him sit to judge the earth; See how he blots me out o' the book of life! O burden, more than Ætna, that I bear! Cover me, hills, and shroud me from the Lord; Swallow me, Lycus, shield me from the Lord. In life no peace: each murmuring that I hear, Methinks the sentence of damnation sounds, "Die, reprobate, and hie thee hence to hell." [_The_ Evil Angel _tempts him, offering the knife and rope._ What fiend is this that tempts me to the death? What, is my death the harbour of my rest? Then let me die:--what second charge is this? Methinks I hear a voice amidst mine ears, That bids me stay, and tells me that the Lord Is merciful to those that do repent. May I repent? O thou, my doubtful soul, Thou mayst repent, the judge is merciful! Hence, tools of wrath, stales[122] of temptation! For I will pray and sigh unto the Lord; In sackcloth will I sigh, and fasting pray: O Lord, in rigour look not on my sins! [_He sits down in sackcloth, his hands and eyes reared to heaven._ _Enter_ ALVIDA _with her_ Ladies, _with dispersed locks._ _Alvi._ Come, mournful dames, lay off your broider'd locks, And on your shoulders spread dispersèd hairs: Let voice of music cease where sorrow dwells: Clothèd in sackcloth, sigh your sins with me; Bemoan your pride, bewail your lawless lusts; With fasting mortify your pamper'd loins: O, think upon the horror of your sins, Think, think with me, the burden of your blames! Woe to thy pomp, false beauty, fading flower, Blasted by age, by sickness, and by death! Woe to our painted cheeks, our curious oils, Our rich array, that foster'd us in sin! Woe to our idle thoughts, that wound our souls! O, would to God all nations might receive A good example by our grievous fall! _First Lady._ You that are planted there where pleasure dwells, And think your pomp as great as Nineveh's, May fall for sin as Nineveh doth now. _Alvi._ Mourn, mourn, let moan be all your melody, And pray with me, and I will pray for all:-- O Lord of heaven, forgive us our misdeeds! _Ladies._ O Lord of heaven, forgive us our misdeeds! _Usurer._ O Lord of light, forgive me my misdeeds!