Edgar, or the English monarch an heroick tragedy. By Mr. Thomas Rymer, servant to Their Majesties.
Rymer, Thomas, 1641-1713.
SCENE XII.
Enter Kenneth.
Ken.
Guilty again—condemn'd so late before—
She in my Friend do's a new Love explore.
False—false—a second time—But rashly I
Aside.
Unchain a Thought that out to Rage would flie.
Here I shall Homage pay with less regret,
To her.
Since here are all my centred Wishes met.
My Glory—my Gunilda—here is found.
Gun.
Your Triumph drives on an ill-chosen ground.
What Glory, or what Mistress yours is made
By Deeds so mean?—
Ken.
—What Fact would you upbraid?
Gun.
Your Royall name no base Submissions blot,
The Pageantry—and painted Oar forgot—
I saw you not with red-swoln Fingers row,
And o're vile Labour hang your sweating Brow.
I nothing can reproach—
Ken.
—I Lewis fear,
And a false Friend in your Reproaches hear.
Blinded by him, my Actions you deface,
And in my room an odious Image place.
Him my Revenge shall instantly pursue.
Exit.
