Evan. My child! my daughter! saved again [Embraces her.

by thee!

A flourish of Trumpets.—Enter PHOCION, MELANTHON, PHILOTAS, &c.

Pho. Now, let the monster yield. My best Euphrasia!

Euph. My lord! my Phocion! welcome to my heart.

Lo! there the wonders of Euphrasia's arm!
Pho. And is the proud one fallen! The dawn
shall see him

A spectacle for public view. Euphrasia!
Evander too! Thus to behold you both-

Evan. To her direct thy looks; there fix thy praise,

And gaze with wonder there. The life I gave

her,

Oh, she has used it for the noblest ends!
To fill each duty; make her father feel
The purest joy, the heart-dissolving bliss
To have a grateful child. But has the rage
Of slaughter ceased?

Pho. It has.

Evan. Where is Timoleon?

Pho. He guards the citadel; there gives his

orders

To calm the uproar, and recall from carnage
His conquering troops.

Euph. Oh! once again, my father,
Thy sway shall bless the land. Not for himself
Timoleon conquers; to redress the wrongs
Of bleeding Sicily the hero comes.
Thee, good Melanthon, thee, thou generous man,
His justice shall reward. Thee, too, Philotas,
Whose sympathizing heart could feel the touch
Of soft humanity, the hero's bounty,
His brightest honours, shall be lavished on thee.
Evander, too, will place thee near his throne;
And shew mankind, even on this shore of being,
That virtue still shall meet its sure reward.

Phil. I am rewarded: feelings such as mine Are worth all dignities; my heart repays me. Evan. Come, let us seek Timoleon; to his

care

I will commend ye both: for now, alas !
Thrones and dominions now no more for me.
To thee I give my crown: yes, thou Euphrasia,
Shall reign in Sicily. And oh! ye powers,
In that bright eminence of care and peril,
Watch over all her ways; conduct and guide
The goodness you inspired; that she may prove
If e'er distress like mine invade the land,
A parent to her people; stretch the ray
Of filial piety to times unborn,

That men may hear her unexampled virtue,
And learn to emulate THE GRECIAN DAUGHTER!
[Exeunt omnes.

THE Grecian Daughter's compliments to all;
Begs that for Epilogue you will not call ;
For leering, giggling would be out of season,
But hopes, by me, you'll hear a little reason.

A father rais'd from death! a nation sav'd!
A tyrant's crimes by female spirit brav❜d!
The tyrant stabb'd, and by her nerveless arm,
With virtue's spell surrounding guards could
charm!

Can she, this sacred tumult in her breast,
Turn Father, Freedom, Virtue, all to jest?
Wake you, ye fair ones, from your sweet repose,
As wanton zephyrs wake the sleeping rose?
Dispel these clouds which o'er your eye-lids
crept,

Which our wise bard mistook, and swore you wept?

Shall she to macaronies life restore,

Who yawn'd half dead, and curs'd the tragic Bore?

Dismiss 'em smirking to their nightly haunt, Where dice and cards their moon-struck minds

enchant?

Some, muffled like the witches in Macbeth,
Brood o'er the magic circle, pale as death!
Others the cauldron go about-about!
And Ruin enters as the Fates go out.

Bubble, bubble, Toil and trouble,

Passions burn,

And bets are double!
Double, double!
Toil and trouble,
Passions burn,
And all is bubble.

But jest apart, (for scandal forms these tales,)
Falsehoods be mute; let Justice hold the scales.
Britons were ne'er enslav'd by evil pow'rs:
To peace and wedded love they give the midnight
hours.

From slumbers pure no rattling dice can wake ’em: Who make the laws, were never known to break 'em.

'Tis false, ye fair, whatever spleen may say, That you down folly's tide are borne away. You never wish at deep distress to sneer; For eyes, tho' bright, are brighter thro' a tear.

Should it e'er be the nation's wretched fate, To laugh at all that's good and wise and great: Let Genius rouse, the friend of human kind, To break those spells which charm, and sink the mind:

Let Comedy, with pointed ridicule,

Pierce to the quick each knave and vicious fool:
Let Tragedy a warning to the times,
Lift high her dagger at exalted crimes;

Drive from the heart each base, unmanly passion,
Till Virtue triumph in despite of Fashion.

BY

SEVERE each poet's lot; but sure most hard Is the condition of the play-house bard: Doom'd to hear all that would-be critics talk, And in the go-cart of dull rules to walk!

Yet authors multiply,' you say. 'Tis true, But what a rumerous crop of critics too! Scholars alone of old durst judge and write: But now each journalist turns Stagyrite; Quintilians in each coffee-house you meet, And many a Longinus walks the street.

In Shakspeare's days, when his advent'rous

muse,

A muse of fire! durst each bold licence use,
Her noble ardour met no critic's phlegm,
To check wild fancy, or her flights condemn:
Ariels and Calibans, unblam'd, she drew,
Or goblins, ghosts, and witches brought to view.
If to historic truth she shap'd her verse,
A nation's annals freely she'd rehearse;
Bring Rome's or England's story on the stage,
And run, in three short hours, thro' half an age.
Our bard, all terror-struck, and fill'd with dread,

In Shakspeare's awful footsteps does not tread;
Thro' the wild field of hist'ry fears to stray,
And builds upon one narrow spot his play;
Steps not from realm to realm, whole seas be-

tween,

But barely changes twice or thrice his scene:
While Shakspeare vaults on the poetic wire,
And pleas'd spectators fearfully admire,
Our bard, a critic pole between his hands,
On the tight rope, scarce balanc'd, trembling
stands;

Slowly and cautiously his way he makes,
And fears to fall at every step he takes.
While then fierce Warwick be before you brings,
That setter-up and puller-down of kings,
With British candour dissipate his fear!
An English story fits an English ear.
Tho' hoarse and crude you deem his first essay,
A second may your favours well repay :
Applause may nerve his verse and cheer his heart,
And teach the practice of this dangerous art.

SCENE I.-A Palace.

Enter MARGARET of ANJOU, and Lady CLIF

FORD.

Clif. THANKS, gracious Heaven! my royal mistress smiles,

Unusual gladness sparkles in her eye,
And bids me welcome in the stranger, Joy,
To his new mansion.

Marg. Yes, my faithful Clifford,
Fortune is weary of oppressing me:
Through my dark cloud of grief a cheerful ray
Of light breaks forth, and gilds the whole horizon.
Clif. Henry in chains, and Edward on the
throne

Of Lancaster; thyself a prisoner here;

Thy captive son torn from his mother's arms,
And in the tyrant's power; a kingdom lost:
Amidst so many sorrows, what new hope
Hath wrought this wondrous change?
Marg. That, which alone,

In sorrow's bitterest hour, can minister
Sweet comfort to the daughters of affliction,
And bid misfortune smile the hope of vengeance:
Vengeance! benignant patron of distress,
Thee I have oft invoked, propitious now
Thou smil'st upon me; if I do not grasp
The glorious opportunity, henceforth
Indignant frown, and leave me to my fate!
Clif. Unhappy princess! that deceiver, Hope,
Hath often flattered, and as oft betrayed thee;
What hast thou gained by all its promises?
What's the reward of all thy toils?

Marg. Experience

Yes, Clifford, I have read the instructive volume
Of human nature, there long since have learned,
The way to conquer men is by their passions;
Catch but the ruling foible of their hearts,
And all their boasted virtues shrink before you.
Edward and Warwick, those detested names,
Too well thou know'st, united to destroy me.
Clif. That was, indeed, a fatal league.
Marg. But mark me;

If we could break this adamantine chain,
We might again be free: this mighty warrior,
This dread of kings, the unconquerable Warwick,
Is plighted to the fair Elizabeth.

Clif. The lady Gray, you mean, the beauteous widow,

Whose husband fell in arms for Lancaster? Marg. The same, my Clifford-Warwick long has loved

Clif. And means to wed her
Marg. But if I have art,

Or she ambition, that shall never be

Clif. Canst thou prevent it?

Marg. Yes, my Clifford; Warwick

Were a mean choice for such transcendent beauty;

I shall provide her with a fitter husband,
A nobler far, and worthier of her charms-
Young Edward

Clif Ha! the king! impossible!
Warwick, even now, commissioned by the state
To treat with Lewis, offers England's throne
To France's daughter; and, ere this, perhaps,
Hath signed the solemn contract.

Marg. Solemn trifles!

Mere cobweb ties-Love's a despotic tyrant,
And laughs, like other kings, at public faith,
When it opposes private happiness:
Edward is youthful, gay, and amorous;
His soul is ever open to the lure
Of beauty; and Elizabeth hath charms
Might shake a hermit's virtue.
Clif. Hath he seen

This peerless fair one?

Marg. Yes-by my contrivance,

When last he hunted in the forest, some,
Whom I had planted there, as if by chance
Alone directed, led him cross the lawn

To Grafton. There, even as my soul had wished,
The dazzling lustre of her charms surprised
His unsuspecting heart-

Clif. What followed? Marg. Oh!

He gazed and wondered; for awhile his pride
Indignant rose, and struggled with his passion,
But love was soon victorious: and last night,
The earl of Suffolk-so my trusty spies
Inform me-was dispatched, on wings of love,
To plead his master's cause, and offer her
The throne of England.

Clif. What if she refuse
The golden bribe?

Marg. No matter; all I wish

Is but to make them foes: the generous Warwick

Is fiery, and impatient of reproof;
He will not brook a rival in his love,
Though seated on a throne; besides, thou know's,
The haughty earl looks down with scorn on Ed-
ward,

As the mere work of his all-powerful hand,
The baby monarch of his own creation.

Clif. Believe me, madam, Edward still reveres.
And loves him; still, as conscious of the debt,
Pays him with trust and confidence; their souls
Are linked together in the strictest bonds
Of sacred friendship.

Marg. That but serves my cause: Where ties are close, and interests united, The slightest injuries are severely felt; Offended friendship never can forgive.

Clif. Now the full prospect opens to my view;

I see thy distant aim, and trace the paths
Of vengeance: England soon will be a scene