Are not to be entreated or believed:

O! think on that, and be no more deceived. Oro. What can we do?

Imo. Can I do any thing!

Oro. But we were born to suffer.

Imo. Suffer both.

Both die, and so prevent them.

Oro. By thy death!

O! let me hunt my travell'd thoughts again;
Range the wide waste of desolate despair;
Start any hope. Alas! I lose myself,
'Tis pathless, dark, and barren all to me.
Thou art my only guide, my light of life,
And thou art leaving me.-Send out thy beams
Upon the wing; let them fly all around,
Discover every way: is there a dawn,
A glimmering of comfort? The great God,
That rises on the world, must shine on us.
Imo. And see us set before him.
Oro. Thou bespeak'st,

And goest before me.

Imo. So I would in love,

In the dear unsuspected part of life,

In death for love. Alas! what hopes for me? I was preserved but to acquit myself,

To beg to die with you.

Oro. And can'st thou ask it?

I never durst inquire into myself
About thy fate, and thou resolv'st it all.

Imo. Alas! my lord! my fate's resolv'd in yours.

Oro. O keep thee there: let not thy virtue shrink

From my support, and I will gather strength,
Fast as I can, to tell thee-

Imo. I must die:

you,

As you
have ever been: for though I am
Resigned, and ready to obey my doom,
Methinks it should not be pronounc'd by you.
Oro. O! that was all the labour of my grief.
My heart and tongue forsook me in the strife:
I never could pronounce it.

Imo. I have for you, for both of us.
Oro. Alas! for me! my death

I could regard as the last scene of life,
And act it through with joy, to have it done.
But then to part with thee!-

Imo. 'Tis hard to part.

But parting thus, as the most happy must,

Parting in death, makes it the easier.
You might have thrown me off, forsaken me,
And my misfortunes: that had been a death
Indeed of terror, to have trembled at.

Oro. Forsaken! thrown thee off!

Imo. But 'tis a pleasure more than life can give,

That with unconquer'd passion to the last,
You struggle still, and fain would hold me to

you.

But quick, make haste, our enemies have eyes
To find us out, and shew us the worst way
Of parting: think on them.

Oro. Why dost thou wake me?
Imo. O! no more of love!
For if I listen to you, I shall quite
Forget my dangers, and desire to live.
I can't live yours.

[Takes up the dagger.
Oro. There all the stings of death
Are shot into my heart:--What shall I do?
Imo. This dagger will instruct you.

Oro. Ha! this dagger!

[Gives it him,

Like fate, it points me to the horrid deed.
Imo. Strike, strike it home, and bravely save

us both,

There is no other safety.

Oro. It must beBut first a dying kissThis last embraceAnd now

Imo. I'm ready.

[Kisses her. [Embracing her.

Oro. O! where shall I strike?
Is there the smallest grain of that lov'd body
That is not dearer to me than my eyes,
My bosom'd heart, and all the life-blood there?
Bid me cut off these limbs, hew off these hands,
Dig out these eyes, though I would keep them
last

To gaze upon thee: But to murder thee!
The joy, and charm of every ravish'd sense,
My wife! forbid it, nature.

Imo. 'Tis your wife,

Who on her knees conjures you. O! in time
Prevent those mischiefs that are falling on us.
You may be hurried to a shameful death,
And I too dragg'd to the vile governor;
Then I may cry aloud: when you are gone,
Where shall I find a friend again to save me?
Oro. It will be so. Thou unexampled virtue!

Thy resolution has recovered mine:

Imo. Thus with open arms,

And now prepare thee.

I welcome you, and death.

But let me pay the tribute of my grief, A few sad tears to thy loved memory, And then I follow

But I stay too long.

throws himself on the ground.

Oro. I cannot bear it.

O let me dash against this rock of fate,
Dig up this earth, tear, tear her bowels out,
To make a grave, deep as the centre down,
To swallow wide, and bury us together!
It will not be. O! then some pitying God
(If there be one a friend to innocence)
Find yet a way to lay her beauties down
Gently in death, and save me from her blood!
Imo. O rise! 'tis more than death to see you
thus.

I'll ease your love, and do the deed myself—
[She takes up the dagger, he rises in haste to
take it from her.

Oro. O! hold, I charge thee, hold.
Imo. Though I must own,

It would be nobler for us both from

you.

Oro. O for a whirlwind's wing to hurry us
To yonder cliff, which frowns upon the flood:
That in embraces lock'd we might plunge in,
And perish thus in one another's arms!
Imo. Alas! what shout is that?
Oro. I see 'em coming.

They shall not overtake us. This last kiss,
And now farewell.

Imo. Farewell, farewell for ever!

Oro. I'll turn my face away, and do it so. Now, are you ready?

Imo. Now. But do not grudge me The pleasure in my death of a last look: Pray look upon me-Now I'm satisfied. Oro. So fate must be by this.

[Going to stab her, he stops short; she lays her hand on his, in order to give the blow. Imo. Nay, then I must assist you; And since it is the common cause of both, 'Tis just that both should be employ'd in it. Thus, thus 'tis finish'd, and I bless my fate,

[Stabs herself. That where I lived, I die, in these loved arms. [Dies. Oro. She's gone. And now all's at an end with me.

Soft, lay her down; O we will part no more. [Throws himself by her.

[Weeps over her. [A noise again.

Hold, before I go,

There's something would be done. It shall

[They gather about the body. Alas! there was no other remedy. Gov. Who did the bloody deed? Oro. The deed was mine:

Bloody I know it is, and I expect

Your laws should tell me so. Thus self-condemn'd,

I do resign myself into your hands,
The hands of justice-But I hold the sword
For you-and for myself.

[Stabs the Governor, and himself, then throws himself by IMOINDA's body.

Stan. He has kill'd the governor, and stabb'd

Your different tastes divide our poet's cares: One foot the sock, t'other the buskin wears. Thus while he strives to please, he's forced to do't, Like Volscius, hip-hop, in a single boot.

Critics, he knows, for this may damn his books:
But he makes feasts for friends, and not for cooks.
Though errant-knights of late no favour find,
Sure you will be to ladies-errant kind.
To follow fame, knights-errant make profes-
sion :

We damsels fly, to save our reputation:
So they their valour shew, we our discretion.
To lands of monsters, and fierce beasts they go:
We, to those islands, where rich husbands
grow:
Though they're no monsters, we may make
ake
em so.
If they're of English growth, they'll bear't with
patience:

But save us from a spouse of Oroonoko's nations! Then bless your stars, you happy London wives, Who love at large, each day, yet keep your lives!

| Nor envy poor Imoinda's doating blindness, Who thought her husband kill'd her out of kind

ness.

Death with a husband ne'er had shewn such charms,

Had she once dy'd within a lover's arms.
Her error was from ignorance proceeding:
Poor soul! she wanted some of our town-breed-
ing.

Forgive this Indian's fondness of her spouse;
Their law no Christian liberty allows:
Alas! they make a conscience of their vows!
If virtue in a heathen be a fault,

Then damn the heathen school, where she was taught.

She might have learn'd to cuckold, jilt, and sham, Had Covent-Garden been in Surinam.

BY

THE time has been when plays were not so plenty,

And a less number, new, would well content ye.
New plays did then like almanacks appear,
And one was thought sufficient for a year:
Though they are more like almanacks of late;
For in one year, I think they're out of date.
Nor were they, without reason, join'd together;
For just as one prognosticates the weather,
How plentiful the crop, or scarce the grain,
What peals of thunder, or what showers of rain;
So t'other can foretell, by certain rules,
What crops of coxcombs, or what floods of fools.
In suchlike prophecies were poets skill'd,
Which now they find in their own tribe fulfill'd.
The dearth of wit they did so long presage,
Is fallen on us, and almost starves the stage.
Were you not grieved, as often as you saw
Poor actors thresh such empty sheafs of straw?
Toiling and lab'ring at their lungs' expence
To start a jest, or force a little sense?
Hard fate for us, still harder in th' event:
Our authors sin, but we alone repent.

Still they proceed, and, at our charge, write worse; 'Twere some amends, if they could reimburse.

But there's the devil, though their cause is lost,
There's no recovering damages or cost.
Good wits, forgive this liberty we take,
Since custom gives the losers leave to speak.
But if provok'd your dreadful wrath remains,
Take your revenge upon the coming scenes:
For that damn'd poet's spar'd, who damns a
brother,

As one thief 'scapes, that executes another.
Thus far alone does to the wits relate;
But from the rest we hope a better fate.
To please, and move, has been one poet's theme,
Art may direct, but nature is his aim;
And, nature miss'd, in vain he boasts his art,
For only nature can affect the heart.

Then freely judge the scenes that shall ensue;
But, as with freedom, judge with candour too.
He would not lose, through prejudice, his cause;
Nor would obtain, precariously, applause.
Impartial censure he requests from all,
Prepar'd by just decrees to stand or fall.

SCENE I.

A Room of State. The curtain rising slowly to soft music, discovers ALMERIA in mourning, LEONORA waiting in mourning. After the music, ALMERIA rises from her chair, and comes forward.

Alm. Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. I've read, that things inanimate have moved, And, as with living souls, have been informed By magic numbers and persuasive sound. What then am I? Am I more senseless grown Than trees or flint? O, force of constant woe! 'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs. Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace; last night The silent tomb received the good old king. He and his sorrows now are safely lodged Within its cold, but hospitable bosom. Why am not I at peace?

Leon. Dear madam, cease,

Or moderate your grief; there is no cause-Alm. No cause! Peace, peace; there is eternal cause,

And misery eternal will succeed.

Thou canst not tell-thou hast indeed no cause.
Leon. Believe me, madam, I lament Anselmo,
And always did compassionate his fortune;
Have often wept, to see how cruelly
Your father kept in chains his fellow-king:
And oft, at night, when all have been retired,
Have stolen from bed, and to his prison crept;
Where, while his gaoler slept, I through the grate
Have softly whispered, and enquired his health;
Sent in my sighs and prayers for his deliverance,
For sighs and prayers were all that I could offer.
Alm. Indeed thou hast a soft and gentle na-

ture,

That thus could melt to see a stranger's wrongs. Oh, Leonora! hadst thou known Anselmo, How would thy heart have bled to see his sufferings!

Thou hadst no cause, but general compassion.

Leon. Love of my royal mistress gave me cause; My love of you begot my grief for him: For I had heard, that when the chance of war Had blessed Anselmo's arms with victory, And the rich spoil of all the field, and you, The glory of the whole, were made the prey Of his success; that then, in spite of hate, Revenge, and that hereditary feud Between Valentia's and Granada's kings, He did endear himself to your affection, By all the worthy and indulgent ways His most industrious goodness could invent; Proposing, by a match between Alphonso, His son, the brave Valentian prince, and you, To end the long dissention, and unite The jarring crowns.

Alm. Alphonso! O Alphonso! Thou too art quiet-long hast been at peace→ Both, both! father and son are now no more. Then why am I? Oh, when shall I have rest? Why do I live to say you are no more? Why are all these things thus? Is it of force? Is there necessity I must be miserable? Is it of moment to the peace of heaven, That I should be afflicted thus? If not, Why is it thus contrived? Why are things laid By some unseen hand, so as of sure consequence, They must to me bring curses, grief of heart, The last distress of life, and sure despair?

Leon. Alas! you search too far, and think too deeply.

Alm. Why was I carried to Anselmo's court?
Or there, why was I used so tenderly?
Why not ill-treated, like an enemy?
For so my father would have used his child.
Oh, Alphonso, Alphonso!

Devouring seas have washed thee from my sight-
No time shall raze thee from my memory;
No, I will live to be thy monument:
The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb,
But in my heart thou art interred; there, there,
Thy dear resemblance is for ever fixed;
My love, my lord, my husband still, though lost.
Leon. Husband! Oh, Heavens !

Alm. Alas! what have I said?

My grief has hurried me beyond all thought.
I would have kept that secret; though I know
Thy love, and faith to me deserve all confidence.
But 'tis the wretch's comfort still to have
Some small reserve of near and inward woe,
Some unsuspected hoard of darling grief,
Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and

Alm. Oh, no, thou know'st not half, Know'st nothing of my sorrows-if thou didstIf I should tell thee, wouldst thou pity me? Tell me; I know thou wouldst; thou art compassionate.

Leon. Witness these tears

Alm. I thank thee, Leonora-
Indeed I do, for pitying thy sad mistress :
For 'tis, alas! the poor prerogative
Of greatness to be wretched, and unpitied—
But I did promise I would tell thee What?
My miseries! Thou dost already know them:
And when I told thee thou didst nothing know,
It was because thou didst not know Alphonso:
For to have known my loss, thou must have
known

His worth, his truth, and tenderness of love.
Leon. The memory of that brave prince stands
fair
In all report-