To injure helpless woman, by my soul,
(Prove but my weapon true,) thy turbai ed head
Shall roll a trunkless ball the ground,
For crows to peck at!

upon

Bulca. Busy fools! begone!

Ye do seem Christian, and it shocks my sight
To look on any of your tribe. Get hence!
Nor cross a father's vengeance on his child.
could have pardoned her, had she not stopped
To mingle with thy herd; but she has fled
Our holy prophet's laws, fled, like a wanton,
To wander with a dog of thy persuasion!

Oct. Love and Religion mingled! Brighter flames
Ne'er glowed within a virgin beauty's bosom ;

And thou wouldst smother them!-Thou'rt a true father!
Wretch! did the savage spirit that gives strength

To twenty thousand Moors now brace thy sinews,
I'd grapple with thee thus, [Seizing him,] nor quit my

hold

Till I had offered thee a sacrifice
On injured Love's pure altar!

[They struggle Octavian overthrows Bulcazın, and
wrenches the cimetar from him.

Zoray. Oh, heaven! My father, my dear father!-Save him!

Re-enter VIROLET and KILMALLOCK, L.

Viro. Zorayda! her father! [To Octavian.] Step thy hand!

'Twere better thou didst plunge thy weapon here,
Home to my very heart, than let it fall

On him thou hast o'erthrown. By heaven! it is
The lost Octavian!

Oct. Thy word can charm me:

Thou art Floranthe's brother; and, I swear,
For no man else could I restrain the transport
That gushes on my soul, when I have pulled
At last one flinty father to my feet,

Who tears the bands of love asunder,

And strews his children's path with thorns!

[Gives the cimetar to Virolet, and retires up with Flo ranthe, L.

Viro. (c.) [To Bulcazin.] Sir, this which I restore into

your hand,

I fear me, in my absence, has been raised

(Receive it now) against a daughter's life.

He, for whose sake you would bereave her of it,
Is bred in Christian faith! and it does teach him
To shelter yours, and, in the hour of anguish,
To offer succour to his enemy.

Kilm. Spoke, Count, like a noble gentleman. Oh! let a Christian alone for a good action: he'll do you twenty in a breath, without preaching, when a Mussulman will shut up his Koran, to go kick his fellow-creatures about like a parcel of foot-balls.

Bulca. [To Virolet.] Christian, it seems I owe my life to thee.

'Tis a vast debt that thou hast heaped upon me;
And I have now a something working here,

Does urge me to requite thee. Trust me, Christian,
The rough and dusky bosom of a Moor

Does carry feeling in it. My Zorayda!

My child! come hither to me.

Oh, this struggle!
Zorayda, thy mother once was Catholic;
Her nature haply rises in thee.

Well,

I see 'twere vain to check it. Take her, Christian,
But speak not to me now-my heart is full.

I will as far as Ronda with thee; there

We may confer more calmly.

Zoray. Oh, my father!

Viro. This is a gift indeed!

Enter SADI and AGNES, R.

Sadi. Nay, come on, Agnes. With thee under one arm, and a flagon under t'other, a fig for mountains, and let the world wag!

Agnes. Mercy! here's goodly company!-The Lady Zorayda!--Oh, happy day!

Sadi. And my old master, the Moor, by all the saints in Christendom!

Viro. Peace, honest fellow; now thou meet'st all friends let that content you.

Sadi. An' a man be not content when he meets all friends, I know not what will satisfy him; and that friends

may not sunder again, here comes a whole posse of goat herds at our heels, going our road towards the foot of the mountain.

Enter Male and Female GOATHERDS, and other Pastora Characters, R. and L.

Oct. [Coming forward, c.] Then let us on; and when the shepherd tunes

His rustic pipe along the mountain's side,

We will beguile the way, as we recount
Each turn that fortune, in her sport, has marked,
As she has led us through Love's labyrinth.

Chorus.

Chorus.

Chorus.

FINALE AND CHORUS.

As we goatherds trudge along,

O'er the mountains bleak and brown,

Merrily we troll the song,

Till we reach the distant town.

With scrip and wine that sparkling smiles,

The dreary journey each beguiles;

Through cold and heat, through sun, through snow

We sing to market as we go.

As we goatherds, &c.

And each a female by his side,

Wedded wife or wished-for bride,

Cheerily descends the dale,

Whisp'ring soft a true-love tale.

As we goatherds, &c.

Blessed be every faithful pair!
May no rigid sires control,

In the bosom of the fair,

The pure emotions of the soul!

Thus we goatherds, &c.

No. LXIV.

THREE WEEKS AFTER MARRIAGE.

A Comedy

IN TWO ACTS.

BY ARTHUR MURPHY.

WITH THE STAGE BUSINESS, CAST OF CHARACTERS COSTUMES, RELATIVE POSITIONS, ETC.