From The Battle of Hexham; or, Days of Old: a play in three acts by George Colman

"Buz, quoth the blue-fly." Lurk o'er the green-sword; Mum let us be:-- Lurk, and mum's the word, For you and me! Thro' the brake, thro' the wood, prowl, prowl around! (We watch the footsteps, with ears to the ground.) (Ears to the ground.) [ (Exeunt ROBBERS.) Gondi. Here is another moment snatch'd--a short one-- To commune with myself:--yet, wherefore, think? Why court consuming sorrow to my bosom, Which, like the nurs'ling pelican, drinks the blood Of its fond cherisher? Why rather should not turbulence of action Shake off the tax of tyrannous remembrance? 'Tis not the mere, and actual suffering, That bends the noble spirit to the earth, And cracks the proud heart's chord:--The prisoner, Whose feverish limbs, for many a long, long year, No summer breeze has fann'd, might still be patient,-- Did not remembrance, yoked with cursed comparison, Enter his dungeon walls, and conjure up The shadows of past joys;--then, thought on thought, Like molten lead, run thro' the wretch's brain, And burning fancy mads him.--Hence, Remembrance! How baneful art thou to me, when this course Must be thy antidote! I'll thro' the forest, And seek these wanderers.--Fell necessity, And the rude band that I am link'd withal, Demand that I should prey on them:--yet, still, My heart leans to them, tho' their fatal cause Has shorn me to the quick:--for them I fled My home, my dear loved----Oh, peace, Gondibert! Touch not that string!--If I must think, I'll think That Heaven one day may smile. [ (Exit.)

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