Drive them like pikes-Ha, ha, ha!
Perd. How wild he talks!

Lys. Yet warring in his wildness.

Alex. Sound, sound, keep your ranks close; ay, now they come:

O the brave din, the noble clank of arms!
Charge, charge apace, and let the phalanx move;
darius comes-ha! let me in, none Dare
To cross my fury.-Philotas is unhorsed; ay,
'tis Darius;

I see, I know him by the sparkling plumes,
And his gold chariot, drawn by ten white horses:
But, like a tempest, thus I pour upon him-
He bleeds! with that last blow I brought him

down;

He tumbles! take him, snatch the imperial crown. They fly, they fly!--follow, follow!--Victoria! Victoria!

Victoria!O let me sleep.

Perd. Let's raise him softly, and bear him to his bed.

Aler. Hold, the least motion gives me sudden
death;

My vital spirits are quite parched up,
And all my smoky entrails turned to ashes.
Lys. When you, the brightest star that ever
shone,

Shall set, it must be night with us for ever.

Alex. Let me embrace you all before I die : Weep not, my dear companions; the good gods Shall send you, in my stead, a nobler prince, One that shall lead you forth with matchless conduct.

WHATE ER they mean, yet ought they to be curst,
Who this censorious age did polish first,
Who the best play for one poor error blame,
As priests against our ladies's arts declaim,
And for one patch both soul and body damn.
But what does more provoke the actor's rage,
(For we must shew the grievance of the stage)
Is, that our women, which adorn each play,
Bred at our cost, become at length your prey:
While green and sour, like trees we bear them
all,

But when they're mellow, straight to you they fall;

You watch them bare and squab, and let them

rest,

But with the first young down you snatch the

nest.

Pray leave those poaching tricks, if you are wise,
Ere we take out one letter of reprise;
For we have vowed to find a sort of toys
Known to black friars, a tribe of chopping boys;
If once they come, they'll quickly spoil your
sport;

There's not one lady will receive your court:

But for the youth in petticoats run wild,
With," oh! the archest wag, the sweetest child!"
The panting breast, white hands, and lily feet,
No more shall your pall'd thoughts with plea-

sure meet:

The woman in boy's clothes all boy shall be, And never raise your thoughts above the knee. Well, if our women knew how false you are, They would stay here, and this new trouble

spare:

Poor souls! they think all gospel you relate,
Charmed with the noise of settling an estate;
But when at last your appetites are full,
And the tired Cupid grows with action dull,
You'll find some tricks to cut off the entail,
And send them back to us all worn and stale.
Perhaps they'll find our stage, while they have
rang'd,

To some vile canting conventicle chang'd;
Where, for the sparks who once resorted there,
With their curl'd wigs that scented all the air,
They'll see grave blockheads with short greasy
hair,

Green aprons, steeple-hats, and collar-bands,

Dull sniv❜ling rogues that wring-not clap their | hands;

Where for gay punks that drew the shining crowd,

And misses that in vizards laugh'd aloud,
They'll hear young sisters sigh, see matrons old

To their chopp'd cheeks their pickled kerchers hold,

Whose zeal too might persuade, in spite to you,
Our flying angels to augment their crew;
While Farringdon, their hero, struts about 'em,
And ne'er a damning critic dares to flout 'em.

WIT long opprest, and fill'd at last with rage,
Thus in a sullen mood rebukes the age:
What loads of fame do modern heroes bear,
For an inglorious, long, and lazy war?
Who for some skirmish, or a safe retreat,
(Not to be dragg'd to battle) are called great.
But oh, what do ambitious statesmen gain,
Who into private chests whole nations drain?
What sums of gold they hoard, is daily known,
To all men's cost, and sometimes to their own.
Your lawyer too, that like an oyes bawls,
That drowns the market-higler in the stalls,
That seems begot, conceiv'd, and born in
brawls,

Yet thrives: he and his crowd get what they please,

Swarming all term-time through the Strand like bees,

They buz at Westminster, and lie for fees.
The godly too their ways of getting have,
But none so much as your fanatic knave:
Wisely the wealthiest livings they refuse,
Who by the fattest bishoprics would lose ;
Who with short hair, large ears, and small blue
band,

True rogues, their own, not god's elect, command.
Let pigs then be prophane; but broth's allow'd,
Possets and christian caudles may be good,
Meat helps, to reinforce a brother's blood;
Therefore each female saint he doth advise,
With groans, and hums, and ha's, and goggling
eyes,

To rub him down, and make the spirit rise;
While with his zeal transported from the ground,
He mounts, and sanctifies the sisters round.
On poets only no kind star e'er smil'd;
Curst fate has damn'd 'em every mother's child:
Therefore he warns his brothers of the stage,
To write no more for an ungrateful age.
Think what penurious masters you have serv'd;
Tasso run mad, and noble Spencer starv'd:
Turn then, whoe're thou art that canst write
well,

Thy ink to gall, and in lampoons excel.
Forswear all honesty, traduce the great,
Grow impudent, and rail against the state;
Bursting with spleen, abroad thy pasquils send,
And chuse some libel-spreader for thy friend:
The wit and want of Timon point thy mind,
And for thy satyr-subject chuse mankind.

SCENE I.-A stately Temple, which represents the Christian religion, as in its first_magnificence, being but lately established at Rome and Constantinople. The side scenes shew the horrid tortures, with which the Roman tyrants persecuted the church; and the flat scene, which is the limit of the prospect, discovers an altar richly adorned, before which Constantine is seen kneeling, with commanders about him, gazing at a bloody cross in the air, which, being encompassed with many angels, offers itself to view, with those words distinctly written, In hoc signo vinces! instruments are heard, and many attendants. The ministers, at divine ser vice, walk busily up and down, till ATTICUS, the chief of all the priests, and successor of St Chrysostom, in rich robes, comes forward with the philosopher LEONTINE; the waiters in ranks, bowing all the way before him.

A chorus heard at distance.
Prepare, prepare! the rites begin,
Let none unhallowed enter in.
The temple with new glory shines;
Adorn the altars, wash the shrines,
And purge the place from sin.

Attic. O Leontine! was ever morn like this,
Since the celestial incarnation dawn'd?
I think no day, since that, such glory gave
To Christian altars, as this morning brings.

Leont. Great successor of holy Chrysostom, Who now triumphs above, a saint of honour, Next in degree to those bright sons of heaven, Who never fell, nor stain'd their orient beams; What shall I answer? How shall I approach you Since my conversion, which your breath inspir'd? Attic. To see, this day, the emperor of the

To-day with Theodosius leave the world.
Leont. Methinks at such a glorious resigna-
tion,

The angelic orders should at once descend,
In all the paint and drapery of heaven,
With charming voices, and with lulling strings,
To give full grace to such triumphant zeal.

Attic. No, Leontine; I fear there is a fault:
For when I last confessed the emperor,
Whether disgust and melancholy blood,
From restless passions, urg'd not this divorce?
He only answered me with sighs and blushes.
'Tis sure, his soul is of the tenderest make,
Therefore I'll tax him strictly: but, my friend,
Why should I give his character to you,
Who, when his father sent him into Persia,
Were by that mighty monarch then appointed
To breed him with his son, the prince Varanes.

Leont. And what will raise your admiration is,
That two such different tempers should agree:
You know that Theodosius is compos'd
Of all the softness that should make a woman;
Judgment almost like fear fore-runs his actions,
And he will poise an injury so long,

As if he had rather pardon than revenge it:
But the young Persian prince quite opposite,
So fiery fierce, that those who view him nearly
May see his haughty soul still mounting in his
face;

Yet did I study these so different tempers,
Till I at last had formed a perfect union,
As if two souls did but inform one body;
A friendship that may challenge all the world,
And at the proof be matchless.

Attic. I long to read

This gallant prince, who, as you have informed me, Comes from his father's court to see our emperor.

Leont. So he intended till he came to Athens, And at my homely board beheld my daughter; Where, as fate ordered, she,-who never saw The glories of a court, bred up to books In closets like a Sybil,-she, I say,

Long since from Persia brought by me to Athens, Unskill'd in charms, but those which nature gave her,

Wounded this scornful prince. In short, he forced me

To wait him thither, with deep protestations,
That moment that bereft him of the sight
Of Athenais, gave him certain death.

Enter VARANES and ATHENAIS.
But see my daughter honoured with his pre-

sence.

Vara. 'Tis strange, O Athenais! wond'rous all; Wondrous the shrines, and wonderful the altars! The martyrs, though but drawn in painted flames, Amaze me with the image of their sufferings; Saints canoniz'd that dared with Roman tyrants,

Hermits that liv'd in caves, and fed with angels,
By Orosmades, it is wond'rous all.
That bloody cross, in yonder azure sky,
Above the head of kneeling Constantine,
Inscribed about with golden characters,

Thou shalt o'ercome in this;' if it be true,
I say again, by heaven, 'tis wond'rous strange.
Athen. O prince, if thus imagination stirs you,
A fancy rais'd from figures in dead walls,
How would the sacred breath of Atticus
Inspire your breast, purge all your dross away,
And drive this Athenais from your soul,
To make a virgin room, whom yet the mould
Of your rude fancy cannot comprehend!
Vara. What says my fair? Drive Athenais

from me!

Start me not into frenzy, lest I rail
At all religion, and fall out with heaven.
And what is she, alas, that should supplant thee?
Were she the mistress of the world, as fair
As winter stars, or summer setting suns,
And thou set by in nature's plainest dress,
With that chaste modest look when first I saw
thee,

The heiress of a poor philosopher,
[Recorders ready to flourish.
I swear by all I wish, by all I love,
Glory and thee, I would not lose a thought,
Nor cast an eye that way, but rush to thee,
To these loved arms, and lose myself for ever.
Athen. Forbear, my lord.
Vura. O cruel Athenais!

Why dost thou put me off, who pine to death, And thrust me from thee when I would approach thee?

Can there be aught in this? Curse then thy

birth-right,

Thy glorious titles and ill-suited greatness,
Since Athenais scorns thee. Take again
Your ill-timed honours; take'em, take 'em, gods!
And change me to some humble villager,
If so at last for toils at scorching noon,
In mowing meadows, or in reaping fields,
At night she will but crown me with a smile,
Or reach the bounty of her hand to bless me.
Athen. When princes speak, their subjects
should be silent;

Yet with humility I would demand,
Wherein appears my scorn, or my aversion?
Have I not for your sake abandoned home,
Where I had vowed to spend my calmer days?
But you perhaps imagine it but little
For a poor maid to follow you abroad,
Especially the daughter of old Leontine ;
Yet I must tell you, prince,-

Vara. I cannot bear

Those frowns: I have offended, but forgive me.
For who, Athenais, that is toss'd

With such tempestuous tides of love as I,
Can steer a steady course? Retire, my fair,
[Recorders flourish.
Hark! the solemnities are now beginning,
And Theodosius comes. Hide, hide thy charms!
If to his clouded eyes such day should break,
The royal youth, who dotes to death for love,

I fear would forfeit all his vows to heaven, And fix upon thy world, thy world of beauty. [Exeunt.

Enter THEODOSIUS leading MARINA and FLAVILLA (all three drest in white) followed by PULCHERIA.

Theo. Farewell, Pulcheria! and I pray, no

more;

For all thy kind complaints are lost upon me.
Have I not sworn the world and I must part?
Fate has proclaimed it, therefore weep no more;
Wound not the tenderest part of Theodosius,
My yielding soul, that would expire in calms!
Wound me not with thy tears, and I will tell
thee,

Yet ere I take my last farewell for ever,
The cause of all my sufferings. Oh, my sister!
A bleeding heart, the stings of pointed love,
What constitution soft as mine can bear?

Pulch. My lord, my emperor, my dearest brother,

Why all this while did you conceal it from me? Theo. Because I was ashamed to own my weakness;

I knew thy sharper wit, and stricter wisdom,
Would dart reproofs, which I could not endure.
Draw near, O Atticus, and mark me well,
For never yet did my complaining spirit
Unload this weighty secret upon him,
Nor groan a syllable of her oppression.

Attic. Concealment was a fault; but speak at large,

Make bare the wound, and I will pour in balm. Theo. 'Tis folly all, and fondness.-O, remembrance!

Why dost thou open thus my wound again,
And from my heart call down those warmer drops
That make me die with shame? Hear then, Pul-
cheria!

Some few preceding days before I left
The Persian court, hunting one morning early,
I lost myself and all the company.
Still wandering on as fortune would direct me,
I past a rivulet, and alighted in
The sweetest solitude I ever saw.
When straight, as if enchantment had been there,
Two charming voices drew me, till I came
Where divers arbours overlook'd the river.
Upon the osier bank two women sate,
Who, when their song was ended, talk'd to one,
Who, bathing, stood far in the crystal stream.
But oh, what thought can paint that fair perfec
tion,

Or give a glimpse of such a naked glory!
Not sea-born Venus, in the courts beneath,
When the green nymphs first kiss'd her coral lips,
All polish'd, fair, and wash'd with orient beauty,
Could in my dazzling fancy match her brightness.
Attic. Think where you are.

Theo. O, sir, you must forgive me!
The chaste enthusiastic form appears,
As when I saw her yet I swear, Pulcheria,
Had cold Diana been a looker-on,

She must have praised the virtues of the virgin