She reflected with horror, how much she was in his power, what
ill usage he might inflict, and to what extremities he might reduce her.
She now seriously thought of exerting herself to melt him into pity, and
to persuade him, by every argument she could invent, to spare and to
release her. "Ah, where," thought she, "is my Damon? Why does not he
appear to succour me? Alas, what distresses, what agonies may he not even
now endure!"
Full of these, and a thousand other tormenting reflections, she burst into
a flood of tears. Lord Martin drew from his pocket a clean cambric
handkerchief, and, carefully unfolding it, wiped away the drops as they
fell. "Loveliest of creatures," said he, "by the murmuring of thy voice,
the heaving of thy bosom, the distraction of thy looks, and by these
tears, I should imagine thou wert uneasy." "Ah," cried Delia unheedful of
his words, "what shall I say to move him?" "Oh, talk for ever," replied
his lordship. "The winds shall forget to whistle, and the seas to roar.
Noisy mobs shall cease their huzzas, and the din of war be still; for
there is music in thy voice." "Oh," exclaimed our heroine, "let one touch
of compassion approach thy soul. Indeed, my lord, I can never have you.
Release me, and I will forgive what is past, and Damon shall never notice
it." "Zounds and fire!" cried the peer, "dost thou think to prevail with
me by the motives of a coward? But why dost thou talk of Damon? Look on
me.
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