well counterfeited tears, and ſighs, he ſtabb’d her with the wounding relation of his wife’s being ſtill alive; and with a hypocrite’s pangs conjured her to have ſome mercy on a loſt man as he was, in an obſtinate, inveterate paſſion, that had no alternative but death, or poſſeſſion.
He urged, that could he have ſupported the pain of living without her, he never would have made himſelf ſo great a villain; but when the abſolute queſtion was, whether he ſhould deſtroy himſelf, or betray her, ſelf-love had turned the ballance, though not without that anguiſh to his ſoul, which had poiſoned all his delights, and planted dangers to ſtab his peace. That he had a thouſand times ſtarted in his ſleep with guilty apprehenſions; the form of her honoured father perpetually haunting his troubled dreams, reproaching him as a traitor to that truſt which in his departing moments he had repoſed in him; repreſenting to his tortured imagination the care he took of his education, more like a father than an uncle, with which he had rewarded him by effecting the perdition of his favourite daughter, who was the lovely image of his benefactor.
With this artful contrition he endeavoured to ſooth his injured wife: But what ſoothing could heal the wounds ſhe had received? Horror! amazement! ſenſe of honour loſt! the world’s opinion! ten thouſand diſtreſſes crowded her diſtracted imagination, and ſhe caſt looks upon the conſcious traitor with horrible diſmay! Her fortune was in his hands, the greateſt part of which was already laviſhed away in the exceſſes of drinking and gaming. She was young, unacquainted with the world; had never experienced neceſſity, and knew no arts of redreſſing it; ſo that thus forlorn and diſtreſſed, to whom could ſhe run for refuge, even from want, and miſery, but to the very traitor that had undone her. She was acquainted with none that could or
