ar 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.

HONNYMAN.

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!

PONTEACH.

Plant down the Stakes, and let them be confin'd:
[_They loose them from each other._
First kill the Tygers, then destroy their Whelps.

PHILIP.

This Brat is in our Way, I will dispatch it.
[_Offering to snatch the sucking infant._

MRS. HONNYMAN.

No, my dear Babe shall in my Bosom die;
There is its Nourishment, and there its End.

PHILIP.

Die both together then, 'twill mend the Sport;
Tie the other to his Father, make a Pair;
Then each will have a Consort in their Pains;
Their sweet Brats with them, to increase the Dance.
[_They are tied down, facing each other upon their knees, and
their backs to the stakes._

WARRIOR.

All now is ready; they are bound secure.

PHILIP.

Whene'er you please, their jovial Dance begins. [_To PONTEACH._

MRS. HONNYMAN.

Oh, my dear Husband! What a Sight is this!
Could ever fabling Poet draw Distress
To such Perfection! Sad Catastrophe!
There are not Colours for such deep-dyed Woe,
Nor words expressive of such heighten'd Anguish.
Ourselves, our Babes, O cruel, cruel Fate!
This, this is Death indeed with all its Terrors.

HONNYMAN.

Is there no secret Pity in your Minds?
Can you not feel some tender Passion move,
When you behold the Innocent distress'd?
True, I am guilty, and will bear your Tortures:
Take your Revenge by all the Arts of Torment;
Invent new Torments, lengthen out my Woe,
And let me feel th