Edgar, or the English monarch an heroick tragedy. By Mr. Thomas Rymer, servant to Their Majesties.
Rymer, Thomas, 1641-1713.
SCENE II.
Enter Ethelwold and Ethelgede.
Ethelg.
To this bright Face you owe your Liberty.
Pointing at Alfrid.
Thus from her Frailty precious Merit grows,
And She her Honour piously bestows.
Alfr.
If his Release was granted at my Suit,
Blame not the Tree, since you approve the Fruit.
Nor to a Crime imputing the Success,
Make the King's Favour, or my Vertue, less.
Ethelw.
Curse on the Favours married Women boast!
Thus they grow rich, but to the Husband's cost.
What seems free Gift, she in the dark must earn;
For what she takes, engag'd to make return.
And wanting Substance otherwise to pay't,
Her Body lies obnoxious for the Debt.
Ethelg.
Denying now, Ungratefull you remain:
And that's a Vice must not your Beauty stain.
Alfr.
My Gratitude to nothing can enjoin
Whence you, or strictest Vertue, may repine.
The Bounty that do's flow from God and Kings,
Not from Design, but their high Nature springs.
Nor do they with their Gift convey a Snare;
Or make a Prey, when seeming to prefer.
Ethelw.
Your Kings, howe're resembling Gods above,
Ungodded, are like Mortalls in their Love.
My work shall be to break your Traffick there.
You think the Court a Market for the Fair.
Exeunt Ethelwold and Ethelgede.
