Beaufort.
At length, I find the Stilness, I have wish'd.—
The Mutineers are pacified: The Friends
Of Gloucester are retir'd: The Centinels,
O'erpower'd with Wine, Sleep a dead Sleep.—The Hour,
Past Midnight, wastes in the Glass.—Soon the Bell,
That parcels Time, will give the appointed Signal:
The Minute for the Deed.—Hark!—Was That, a Groan?—
Again?—The hollow-whirling Wind.—O, lull the Duke

To his eternal Rest!—Yet;—I feel Somewhat,
Bids me forbear;—and pleads, within, for Mercy.—
Idle Remorse!—What though He be my Nephew?—
Were he my Father:—Must I imbitter Life;
Quit all my Hopes;—and forfeit my Ambition?—
Did he not, Twice, attempt my Overthrow?—
And, will he, exasperated as he is,
Spare me, to Morrow?—Then,—Self-Defence,
Nature's first Law, acquits me, to my Self.—
He makes Me wretched:—I set Him at Ease.—
What Injury?—He leaves no helpless Orphan:
And, to his Wife he is, allready, dead.—
And; What is Loss of Life?—A Loss, we never
Regret.—Would it were done!—And, I a sleep!—
It strikes!—The Stroke of unrelenting Fate!—
Sleep, Humfrey; sleep!—The Period of Thy Cares,
And Mine, is come.—Ha!—What warning Voice? Whence?—
Methinks, I hear a Voice cry; Gloucester, awake!—
Who comes?—

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