1

The pomp of words, and pedant dissertations, That can sustain thee in that hour of terror; Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it, But when the trial comes, they stand aghast; Hast thou considered what may happen after it? How thy account may stand, and what to answer?

Cal. I have turned my eyes inward upon myself,

Where foul offence and shame have laid all waste; Therefore my soul abhors the wretched dwelling, And longs to find some better place of rest.

Sci. 'Tis justly thought, and worthy of that
spirit,

That dwelt in antient Latian breasts, when Rome
Was mistress of the world. I would go on,
And tell thee all my purpose; but it sticks
Here at my heart, and cannot find a way.

Cal. Then spare the telling, if it be a pain, And write the meaning with your poniard here. Sci. Oh! truly guessed-see'st thou this trembling hand [Holding up a dagger. Thrice justice urged-and thrice the slackening

sinews

And know the rest untaught !

SCIOLTO catches

Cal. I understand you. It is but thus, and both are satisfied. [She offers to kill herself: hold of her arm. Sci. A moment! give me yet a moment's space. The stern, the rigid judge has been obeyed; Now nature, and the father, claim their turns. I've held the balance with an iron hand, And put off every tender human thought,

To doom my child to death; but spare my eyes The most unnatural sight, lest their strings crack, My old brain split, and I grow mad with horror! Cal. Ha! Is it possible! and is there yet Some little dear remains of love and tenderness For poor, undone Calista, in your heart?

Sci. Oh! when I think what pleasure I took in thee,

What joys thou gav'st me in thy prattling infancy,

Thy sprightly wit, and early blooming beauty! How have I stood, and fed my eyes upon thee, Then, lifting up my hands, and wondering, blest thee

By my strong grief, my heart even melts within

me;

I could curse Nature, and that tyrant, Honour, For making me thy father, and thy judge; Thou art my daughter still!

Cal. For that kind word,

Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth, Weep on your feet, and bless you for this good

ness.

Oh! 'tis too much for this offending wretch,
This parricide, that murders with her crimes,
Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off,
Ere little more than half his years be numbered.

Sci. Would it were otherwise-but thou must die!

Cal. That I must die, it is my only comfort; Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth our taking: Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner, Fly for relief, and lay their burthens down. Come then, and take me into thy cold arms, Thou meagre shade; here let me breathe my last,

Charmed with my father's pity and forgiveness, More than if angels tuned their golden viols, And sung a requiem to my parting soul.

Sci. I am summoned hence; ere this my friends expect me.

There is I know not what of sad presage, That tells me I shall never see thee more; If it be so, this is our last farewell, And these the parting pangs which nature feels, When anguish rends the heart-strings-Oh, my daughter! [Exit SCIOLTO.

Cal. Now think, thou cursed Calista! now be

hold ·

The desolation, horror, blood, and ruin,
Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around,
That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head.
Yet Heaven, who knows our weak, imperfect na-
tures,

How blind with passions, and how prone to evil,
Makes not too strict inquiry for offences,
But is atoned by penitence and prayer:
Cheap recompence! here 'twould not be recei

ved.

Nothing but blood can make the expiation, And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep pollu

tion.

Oh, then, forbid me not to mourn thy loss,
To wish some better fate had ruled our loves,
And that Calista had been mine, and true.

Cal. Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like mine,

Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss.
But, oh, behold! my proud disdainful heart

Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own,
Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love,
Such are the graces that adorn thy youth,
That, were I not abandoned to destruction,
With thee I might have lived for ages blest,
And died in peace within thy faithful arms.

Alt. Then happiness is still within our reach.
Here let remembrance lose our past misfortunes,
Tear all records that hold the fatal story;
Here let our joys begin, from hence go on,
In long successive order.

Cal. What! in death!

Alt. Then thou art fixed to die?-But be it so; We'll go together; my adventurous love Shall follow thee to those uncertain beings. Whether our lifeless shades are doomed to wander

In gloomy groves, with discontented ghosts; Or whether through the upper air we flit, And tread the fields of light; still I'll pursue thee, 'Till fate ordains that we shall part no more. Cal. Oh, no! Heaven has some other better lot in store

To crown thee with. Live, and be happy long:

Lift up your hand, and bless me, ere I go
Down to my dark abode?
Sci. Alas, my daughter!

ness,

Some kind, unpractised heart, that never yet
Has listened to the false ones of thy sex,

Nor known the arts of ours; she shall reward thee,

Meet thee with virtues equal to thy own, Charm thee with sweetness, beauty, and with truth;

Be blest in thee alone, and thou in `her.

Where life, fame, virtue, all were wrecked and

For thou hast been my son-Oh, gracious Heaven!
Thou that hast endless blessings still in store
For virtue, and for filial piety,

Let grief, disgrace, and want be far away,
But multiply thy mercies on his head!

Let honour, greatness, goodness, still be with him,

And peace in all his ways

Alt. Take, take it all:

To thee, Horatio, I resign the gift,
While I pursue my father, and my love,

[He dies.

And find my only portion in the grave!
Hor. The storm of grief bears hard upon his
youth,

And bends him, like a drooping flower, to earth.
By such examples are we taught to prove
The sorrows that attend unlawful love.
Death, or some worse misfortune, soon divide
The injured bridegroom from his guilty bride.
If you would have the nuptial union last,
Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast.

[Exeunt omnes.

You see the tripping dame could find no favour;
Dearly she paid for breach of good behaviour;
Nor could her loving husband's fondness save her.
Italian ladies lead but scurvy lives,

There's dreadful dealings with eloping wives:
Thus 'tis, because these husbands are obeyed
By force of laws, which for themselves they made.
With tales of old prescriptions they confine
The right of marriage-rules to their male line,
And buff and domineer by right divine.

Had we the pow'r, we'd make the tyrants know
What 'tis to fail in duties which they owe;
We'd teach the saunt'ring squire, who loves to

roam,

Forgetful of his own dear spouse at home; Who snores, at night, supinely by her side; 'Twas not for this the nuptial knot was ty'd. The plodding petty-fogger, and the cit,

Have learned, at least, this modern way of wit,

Each ill-bred, senseless rogue, tho' ne'er so dull,
Has th' impudence to think his wife a fool;
He spends the night where merry wags resort,
With joking clubs, and eighteen-penny port;
While she, poor soul, 's contented to regale,
By a sad sea-coal fire, with wigs and ale.

Well may the cuckold-making tribe find grace,
And fill an absent husband's empty place.
If you would e'er bring constancy in fashion,
You men must first begin the reformation.
Then shall the golden age of love return,
No turtle for her wand'ring mate shall mourn;
No foreign charms shall cause domestic strife,
But ev'ry married man shall toast his wife;
Phillis shall not be to the country sent,

For carnivals in town, to keep a tedious Lent; Lampoons shall cease, and envious scandal die; And all shall live in peace, like my good man and I.

BY

ROWE.

TO-NIGHT, if you have brought your good old taste,
We'll treat you with a downright English feast:
A tale, which told long since in homely wise,
Hath never fail'd of melting gentle eyes.
Let no nice sir despise our hapless dame,
Because recording ballads chaunt her name:
Those venerable ancient song-enditers
Soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers:
They caterwaul'd in no romantic ditty,
Sighing for Phillis's or Chloe's pity.

Justly they drew the fair, and spoke her plain,
And sung her by her Christian name-'twas Jane.
Our numbers may be more refined than those,
But what we've gained in verse, we've lost in
prose.

Their words no shuffling double-meaning knew, Their speech was homely, but their hearts were

true.

In such an age, immortal Shakespeare wrote,
By no quaint rules, nor hampering critics taught;
With rough majestic force he mov'd the heart,
And strength and nature made amends for art.
Our humble author does his steps pursue,

He owns he had the mighty bard in view ;
And in these scenes has made it more his care,
To rouse the passions, than to charm the ear;
Yet, for those gentle beaux, who love the chime,
The ends of acts still jingle into rhyme.
The ladies too, he hopes, will not complain,—
Here are some subjects for a softer strain,-
A nymph forsaken, and a perjur'd swain.
What most he fears, is, lest the dames should
frown,

The dames of wit and pleasure about town,
To see our picture drawn unlike their own.
But, lest that error should provoke to fury
The hospitable hundreds of Old Drury,
He bid me say, in our Jane Shore's defence,
She doled about the charitable pence,
Built hospitals, turn'd saint, and dy'd long since.
For her example, whatsoe'er we make it,
They have their choice to let alone or take it.
Though few, as I conceive, will think it meet,
To weep so sorely for a sin so sweet;
Or mourn and mortify the pleasant sense,
To rise in tragedy two ages hence.

And therefore on your sovereignty and rule, The common weal does her dependence make, And leans upon your highness" able hand.

Cat. And yet to-morrow does the council meet, To fix a day for Edward's coronation. Who can expound this riddle?

Glost. That can I.

Those lords are each one my approved good friends,

Of special trust and nearness to my bosom;
And howsoever busy they may seem,
And diligent to bustle in the state,
Their zeal goes on no farther than we lead,
And at our bidding stays.

Cat. Yet there is one,

And he amongst the foremost in his power, Of whom I wish your highness were assured, For me, perhaps it is my nature's fault,

I own, I doubt of his inclining, much.

Glost. And yet this tough impracticable heart
Is governed by a dainty-fingered girl.
Such flaws are found in the most worthy na-
tures;

A laughing, toying, wheedling, whimpering she
Shall make him amble on a gossip's message,
And take the distaff with a hand as patient
As e'er did Hercules.

Rat. The fair Alicia,

Of noble birth and exquisite of feature,
Has held him long a vassal to her beauty.

Cat. I fear, he fails in his allegiance there;
Or my intelligence is false, or else
The dame has been too lavish of her feast,
And fed him till he loathes.

Glost. No more, he comes.

Enter Lord HASTINGS.

Hast. Health, and the happiness of many days, Attend upon your grace.

Glost. My good lord chamberlain,

We're much beholden to your gentle friendship. Hast. My lord, I come an humble suitor to

you.

Glost. In right good time. Speak out your pleasure freely.

Hast. I am to move your highness in behalf Of Shore's unhappy wife.

Glost. Say you, of Shore?

Hast. Once a bright star, that held her place on high;

The first and fairest of our English dames,
While royal Edward held the sovereign rule.
Now sunk in grief, and pining with despair,
Her waning form no longer shall incite
Envy in woman, or desire in man.
She never sees the sun, but through her tears,
And wakes to sigh the live-long night away.
Glost. Marry! the times are badly changed
with her,

From Edward's days to these. Then all was jollity,

Hastings

would point:

Cut. The same.

Glost. He bears me great good-will.

Cat. 'Tis true, to you, as to the lord protector,

And Gloster's duke, he bows with lowly service:
But were he bid to cry, God save king Richard,
Then tell me in what terms he would reply?
Believe me, I have proved the man, and found
him:

I know he bears a most religious reverence
To his dead master Edward's royal memory,
And whither that may lead him is most plain.
Yet more-One of that stubborn sort he is,
Who, if they once grow fond of an opinion,
They call it honour, honesty, and faith,
And sooner part with life than let it go.

ter, Piping and playing, minstrelsy and masquing; Till life fled from us like an idle dream, A shew of mummery without a meaning. My brother, rest and pardon to his soul! Is gone to his account; for this his minion, The revel rout is done-But you were speaking Concerning her-I have been told, that you Are frequent in your visitation to her.

Hast. No farther, my good lord, than friendly pity,

And tender-hearted charity allow.

Glost. Go to; I did not mean to chide you for it.

For, sooth to say, I hold it noble in you
To cherish the distressed-On with your tale.
Hast. Thus it is, gracious sir, that certain offi-

cers,