Upbraid me not, nor lay my Guilt to Heart; You and these Fruits of our past Morning Love Are innocent. I feel the Smart and Anguish, The Stings of Conscience, and my Soul on Fire. There's not a Hell more painful than my Bosom, Nor Torments for the Damn'd more keenly pointed. How could I think to murder was no Sin? Oh, my lost Neighbour! I seduc'd him too. Now death with all its Terrors disappears, And all I fear 's a dreadful Something-after; My Mind forebodes a horrid, woful Scene, Where Guilt is chain'd and tortur'd with Despair. (MRS. HONNYMAN: The Mind oppress'd with Guilt may find Relief.) Oh, could I reach the pitying Ear of Heaven, And all my Soul evaporate in Sound, 'T would ask Forgiveness! but I fear too late; And next I'd ask that you and these dear Babes Might bear no Part in my just Punishment. Who knows but by pathetic Prayers and Tears Their savage Bosoms may relent towards you, And fix their Vengeance where just Heaven points it? I still will hope, and every Motive urge. Should I succeed, and melt their rocky Hearts, I'd take it as a Presage of my Pardon, And die with Comfort when I see you live. [ (Death halloo is heard without.) (MRS. HONNYMAN: Hark! they are coming--Hear that dreadful Halloo.) It is Death's solemn Sentence to us all; They are resolv'd, and all Entreaty's vain. Oh horrid Scene! how shall I act my Part? Was it but simple Death to me alone! But all your Deaths are mine, and mine the Guilt. (Enter INDIANS with stakes, hatchets, and firebrands.) Oh, horrid Preparation, more than Death!

Honnyman Monologue from Ponteach; Or, The Savages of America

Rehearse Honnyman's monologue