_Belv._ Oh, well regard me; is this voice a strange one? Consider, too, when beggars once pretend A case like mine, no little will content them. _Priu._ What wouldst thou beg for? _Belv._ Pity and forgiveness. [_Throws up her veil._ By the kind tender names of child and father, Hear my complaints, and take me to your love. _Priu._ My daughter! _Belv._ Yes, your daughter, by a mother Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honour, Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes, Dear to your arms: by all the joys she gave you, When in her blooming years she was your treasure, Look kindly on me; in my face behold The lineaments of hers you've kissed so often, Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child. _Priu._ Thou art my daughter. _Belv._ Yes;--and you've oft told me With smiles of love, and chaste paternal kisses, I'd much resemblance of my mother. _Priu._ Oh! Hadst thou inherited her matchless virtues, I'd been too blest. _Belv._ Nay, do not call to memory My disobedience, but let pity enter Into your heart, and quite deface the impression; For could you think how mine's perplexed, what sadness, Fears, and despairs distract the peace within me, Oh! you would take me in your dear, dear arms, Hover with strong compassion o'er your young one, To shelter me with a protecting wing, From the black gathered storm, that's just, just breaking. _Priu._ Don't talk thus. _Belv._ Yes, I must, and you must hear too. I have a husband-- _Priu._ Damn him! _Belv._ Oh! do not curse him; He would not speak so hard a word towards you On any terms, howe'er he deal with me. _Priu._ Ha! what means my child? _Bel._ Oh, there's but this short moment 'Twixt me and fate: yet send me not with curses Down to my grave; afford me one kind blessing Before we part; just take me in your arms, And recommend me with a prayer to Heaven, That I may die in peace; and when I'm dead-- _Priu._ How my soul's catched! _Belv._ Lay me, I beg you, lay me By the dear ashes of my tender mother: She would have pitied me, had fate yet spared her. _Priu._ By Heaven, my aching heart forebodes much mischief. Tell me thy story, for I'm still thy father. _Belv._ No, I'm contented, _Priu._ Speak. _Belv._ No matter. _Priu._ Tell me. By yon blest Heaven, my heart runs o'er with fondness! _Belv._ Oh! _Priu._ Utter it. _Belv._ Oh, my husband, my dear husband Carries a dagger in his once kind bosom, To pierce the heart of your poor Belvidera. _Priu._ Kill thee?