Salisb.
How fares the Cardinal?

Warw.
As one, just launching
Into Eternity!—

York.
Behold him, gasping!

Beauf.
Why do you stifle me?—I have been at Shrift.—
My Soul is white, as Snow!—What needed we
Have purchas'd Votes?—Was not the Murder cheaper?

Salisb.
My Lord, the King has sent us—

Beauf.
King of Terrours!—
If thou beest Death, I'll give thee England's Treasure;
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no Pain.

York.
The King my Lord, your royal Nephew, sends—

Beauf.
Bring me, then, to my Trial, when you will.—
Died he not in his Bed?—Where should he die?—
Can I make Men live, whether they will, or no?—
Alive again?—Then, shew me, where he is!—
Combe down his Hair.—Look; look!—It stands upright:
Like Lime-Twigs, set to catch my winged Soul!

Elean.
Pray; pray, for Mercy!—

Beauf.
Oh, my Niece;
The Gates of Heaven are shut!—O, save me; save me!
I shudder, on the Margin of the Gulph!—
Headlong, I rush!—I fall; deep, deep, I plunge:
I fathom Misery; the Depths of endless Woe!

Elean.
O, Thou eternal Mover of the Heavens;
Look, with a gentle Eye, upon this Wretch!—
Oh, beat away the busy, medling Fiend,
That lays strong Siege to his departing Soul;
And, from his Bosome, purge this black Despair!

Warw.
See, how the Pangs of Death work, in his Features!

York.
Disturb him not.—Let him pass, peaceably.

Elean.
Lord Cardinal;—If thou think'st on Heaven's Bliss;
Hold up thy Hand:—Make Signal of thy Hope.—
He dies;—and makes No Sign!—

Warw.
O, Gloucester;—While Thy Vertues are remember'd;
So long, shall Beaufort's Infamy endure!

Elean.
The tenderest Husband!—The most inhuman Uncle!

Salisb.
The Best, and Worst, of Men!

Elean.
Alas, my Lords;
How, shall I bear to live!—

York.
Be comforted.—
With You, the Nation mourns: And Henry's Sorrows

Are equall to your Own.—Number'd among the Blest,
Gloucester partakes of everlasting Rest.—
Let high-presuming Men with Dread attend,
Divinely warn'd, to Beaufort's direfull End!—
Though bold Offenders human Laws defy;
They draw down heavier Weight of Vengeance, from on High! End of the Fifth ACT.

EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD.

The Business of an Epilogue, they say,
Is, to destroy the Moral of the PLAY:
To wipe the Tears of Vertue from your Eyes;
And make your Merry,—lest you should grow Wise.

Well!—You have heard a dismall Tale, I own:
It, almost, makes One dread—to lie, alone.
Ruffians, and Ghosts, and Murder, and Despair,
May chace more pleasing Visions from the Fair.
Wives can awake their Husbands, in their Fright:
But, if poor Damsels be disturb'd, by Night;
How shall They (helpless Creatures!) lay the Spright?

Forget it all;—And, Beaufort's Crime forgive:—
Duke Humfrey was—too Good a Man, to live.
And, yet;—his Merit, rightly understood;
We, Now, have Store of Patriots,—full as Good!
Great Souls; Who, for their Countrey's Sake, would be content,
Their Spouses should be doom'd—to Banishment.

Since Chronicles have drawn our Duke, so tame;
Is Eleanor, if she survives, to blame?
A Widow knows the Good, and Bad, of Life:
And, has it in her Choice, to be, or not to be, a Wife!—
Virgins, impatient, cannot stay to choose:
They risque it all;—not having Much to lose!—
I mean,—such Nymphs, as sigh in rural Shades;
No Midnight Shepherdess, at Masquerades:
Or, such ill-fated Maids, as pine in Grotto's;
And, Never, had the Experience of Ridotto's!
Where (notwithstanding They their Market smother)
Some gain One Trinket; and, Some lose Another.

These Novelties, with Grief, considerate Women see:
For, should Italian Modes prevail; pray, What are We?
How oft' do Men our tender Spirits vex,
By telling us; We are a Trifling Sex!—
Yet,—I am told, Philosophers maintain;
Nature makes not the smallest Thing, in vain:
And, let demurest Prudes say, What they will;
The Best of Women would be Women, still. FINIS.

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