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Alic. Nay! tell not me! Where is thy king, thy Edward,

And all the smiling cringing train of courtiers, That bent the knee before thee?

J. Sh. Oh! for mercy!

Alic. Mercy! I know it not-for I am miserable.

I'll give thee misery, for here she dwells;
This is her house, where the sun never dawns;
The bird of night sits screaming o'er the roof,
Grim spectres sweep along the horrid gloom,
And nought is heard but wailings and lament-
ings.

Hark! something cracks above! it shakes, it totters!

And see, the nodding ruin falls to crush me! 'Tis fallen, 'tis here! I felt it on my brain!

1 Ser. This sight disorders her

2 Ser. Retire, dear lady—

And leave this woman

Alic. Let her take my counsel:

J. Sh. Ah, Belmour! where indeed? They stand aloof,

And view my desolation from afar!

When they pass by, they shake their heads in scorn,

And cry, behold the harlot and her end!
And yet thy goodness turns aside to pity me.
Alas! there may be danger; get thee gone!
Let me not pull a ruin on thy head.
Leave me to die alone, for I am fallen
Never to rise, and all relief is vain.

Bel. Yet raise thy drooping head; for I am

come

To chase away despair. Behold! where yonder That honest man, that faithful, brave Dumont, Is hasting to thy aid

J. Sh. Dumont! ha! where!

[Raising herself, and looking aghast. Then Heaven has heard my prayer; his very

name

Renews the springs of life, and cheers my soul.

Why shouldst thou be a wretch? Stab, tear thy Has he then 'scaped the snare?

heart,

And rid thyself of this detested being!
I will not linger long behind thee here.

A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er me-
And now 'tis out, and I am drown'd in blood.
Ha! what art thou? thou horrid headless
trunk-

It is my Hastings! see, he wafts me on!
Away! I go, I fly! I follow thee!

But come not thou, with mischief-making beauty,
To interpose between us! look not on him!
Give thy fond arts and thy delusions o'er,
For thou shalt never, never part us more.

[She runs off, her servants following. J. Sh. Alas! she raves; her brain, I fear, is turned.

In mercy look upon her, gracious Heaven,
Nor visit her for any wrong to me.
Sure I am near upon my journey's end;
My head runs round, my eyes begin to fail,
And dancing shadows swim before my sight.

I can no more. [Lies down.] Receive me, thou cold earth,

Thou common parent, take me to thy bosom,
And let me rest with thee.

Enter BELMOUR.

Bel. Upon the ground!

Thy miseries can never lay thee lower.
Look up, thou poor afflicted one! thou mourner,
Whom none has comforted! Where are thy
friends,

The dear companions of thy joyful days,

Whose hearts thy warm prosperity made glad, Whose arms were taught to grow like ivy round thee,

And bind thee to their bosoms? Thus with thee,

Thus let us live, and let us die, they said,
For such thou art, the sister of our loves,
And nothing shall divide us. Now where are
they?

Bel. He has; but see

He comes unlike to that Dumont you knew; For now he wears your better angel's form, And comes to visit you with peace and pardon.

Enter SHORE.

J. Sh. Speak, tell me! Which is he? And ha! what would

This dreadful vision! see it comes upon me— It is my husband-Ah! [She swoons.

Sh. She faints! support her! Sustain her head, while I infuse this cordial Into her dying lips-from spicy drugs, Rich herbs and flowers, the potent juice is drawn ;

With wondrous force it strikes the lazy spirits, Drives them around, and wakens life anew.

Bel. Her weakness could not bear the strong

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Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade! Bel. 'Tis he himself! he lives! look upJ. Sh. I dare not!

Oh! that my eyes could shut him out for ever!

Sh. Am I so hateful, then, so deadly to thee, To blast thy eyes with horror? Since I'm grown A burthen to the world, myself, and thee, Would I had ne'er survived to see thee more! J. Sh. Oh! thou most injured-dost thou live, indeed!

Fall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head;

Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns;
Cast thy black veil upon my shame, O night!
And shield me with thy sable wings for ever.
Sh. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble
thus?

Why thus indulge thy fears, and in despair,
Abandon thy distracted soul to horror?
Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee,
And let them never vex thy quiet more.
My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee,
To bring thee back to thy forsaken home,
With tender joy, with fond forgiving love,
And all the longings of my first desires.

J. Sh. No, arm thy brow with vengeance, and

appear

The minister of Heaven's inquiring justice.
Array thyself all terrible for judgment,
Wrath in thy eyes, and thunder in thy voice;
Pronounce my sentence, and if yet there be
A woe I have not felt, inflict it on me.

Sh. The measure of thy sorrows is complete! And I am come to snatch thee from injustice. The hand of power no more shall crush thy

weakness,

Nor proud oppression grind thy humble soul.
J. Sh. Art thou not risen by miracle from
death?

Thy shroud is fallen from off thee, and the grave
Was bid to give thee up, that thou mightst come
The messenger of grace and goodness to me,
To seal my peace, and bless me e'er I go.
Oh! let me then fall down beneath thy feet,
And weep my gratitude for ever there;
Give me your drops, ye soft descending rains,
Give me your streams, ye never ceasing springs,
That my sad eyes may still supply my duty,
And feed an everlasting flood of sorrow.

Sh. Waste not thy feeble spirits-I have long
Beheld, unknown, thy mourning and repentance;
Therefore my heart has set aside the past,
And holds thee white, as unoffending innocence:
Therefore, in spite of cruel Gloster's rage,
Soon as my friend had broke my prison doors,
I flew to thy assistance. Let us haste,

Now while occasion seems to smile upon us, Forsake this place of shame, and find a shelter. J. Sh. What shall I say to you? But I obeySh. Lean on my arm

J. Sh. Alas! I'm wondrous faint:

But that's not strange; I have not eat these

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Say, gentle Belmour, is he not? How pale
Your visage is become! Your eyes are hollow;
Nay, you are wrinkled too--Alas, the day!
My wretchedness has cost you many a tear,
And many a bitter pang, since last we parted.
Sh. No more of that--Thou talk'st, but
dost not eat.

J. Sh. My feeble jaws forget their common office,

My tasteless tongue cleaves to the clammy roof,
And now a general loathing grows upon me.
Oh! I am sick at heart!-

Sh. Thou murderous sorrow!

Wilt thou still drink her blood, pursue her still! Must she then die! Oh, my poor penitent! Speak peace to my sad heart: she hears me not; Grief masters every sense-help me to hold her! Enter CATESBY, with a guard.

Cat. Seize on them both, as traitors to the state!

Bel. What means this violence?

[Guards lay hold on SHORE and BELMOUR. Cat. Have we not found you,

In scorn of the protector's strict command,
Assisting this base woman, and abetting
Her infamy?

Sh. Infamy on thy head!

Thou tool of power, thou pandar to authority!
I tell thee, knave, thou know'st of none so vir-

tuous,

And she that bore thee was an Æthiop to her. Cat. You'll answer this at full-Away with

them!

Sh. Is charity grown treason to your court? What honest man would live beneath such rulers!

I am content that we should die together

Cat. Convey the men to prison; but for her, Leave her to hunt her fortune as she may. J. Sh. I will not part with him-for me!-for me!

Oh! must he die for me!

[Following him as he is carried off-She falls. Sh. Inhuman villains!

[Breaking from the guards. Stand off! The agonies of death are on her-She pulls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand. J. Sh. Was this blow wanting to complete my

ruin?

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Accords to thee, and begs of Heaven to shew The light that cheered my soul? Oh, heavy

thee,

May such befall me at my latest hour,

And make my portion blest or curs'd for ever! J. Sh. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace

'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now

queathed you?

hour!

But I will fix my trembling lips to thine, 'Till I am cold and senseless quite, as thou art. What, must we part, then?——will you— [To the guards taking him away. Fare thee well[Kissing her.

Was there not something I would have be- Now execute your tyrant's will, and lead me
To bonds, or death, 'tis equally indifferent.
Bel. Let those who view this sad example,
know,

But I have nothing left me to bestow,
Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh! mercy, Heaven!

Bel. There fled the soul, And left her load of misery behind.

[Dies.

Sh. Oh, my heart's treasure! Is this pale sad visage

All that remains of thee? Are these dead eyes

What fate attends the broken marriage vow; And teach their children, in succeeding times, No common vengeance waits upon these crimes, When such severe repentance could not save From want, from shame, and an untimely grave. [Exeunt omnes,

EPILOGUE.

Ye modest matrons all, ye virtuous wives,
Who lead, with horrid husbands, decent lives;
You, who, for all you are in such a taking,
To see your spouses drinking, gaming, raking,
Yet make a conscience still of cuckold-making;
What can we say your pardon to obtain?
This matter here was prov'd against poor Jane:
She never once denied it; but, in short,
Whimper'd and cry'd-" Sweet sir, I'm sorry
for't."

'Twas well he met a kind, good-natur'd soul,
We are not all so easy to controul :
I fancy one might find in this good town,
Some would ha' told the gentleman his own;
Have answer'd swart" To what do you pre-
tend,

"Blockhead! as if I must not see a friend: "Tell me of hackney-coaches-jaunts to th' city

"Where should I buy my china? Faith, I'll fit ye."

Our wife was of a milder, meeker spirit;

You! lords and masters!-Was not that some merit?

Don't you allow it to be virtuous bearing,
When we submit thus to your domineering?
Well, peace be with her, she did wrong most
surely;

But so do many more who look demurely.
Nor should our mourning madam weep alone,
There are more ways of wickedness than one.
If the reforming stage should fall to shaming
Ill-nature, pride, hypocrisy, and gaming;
The poets frequently might move compassion,
And with she-tragedies o'er-run the nation.
Then judge the fair offender with good-nature,
And let your fellow-feeling curb your satire.
What, if our neighbours have some little failing,
Must we needs fall to damning and to railing?
For her excuse too, be it understood,
That if the woman was not quite so good,
Her lover was a king, she flesh and blood.
And since sh'has dearly paid the sinful score,
Be kind at last, and pity poor Jane Shore.

LADY JANE GRAY.

BY

ROWE.

PROLOGUE.

TO-NIGHT the noblest subject swells our scene,
A heroine, a martyr, and a queen;
And though the poet dares not boast his art,
The very theme shall something great impart,
To warm the generous soul, and touch the
tender heart.

theS

To you, fair judges, we the cause submit;
Your eyes shall tell us how the tale is writ.
If your soft pity waits upon our woe,
If silent tears for suff'ring virtue flow;
Your grief the muses labour shall confess,
The lively passions, and the just distress.
Oh, could our author's pencil justly paint,
Such as she was in life, the beauteous saint!
Boldly your strict attention we might claim,
And bid you mark and copy out the dame.
No wand'ring glance one wanton thought con-
fess'd,

No guilty wish inflam'd her spotless breast:
The only love that warm'd her blooming youth,
Was husband, England, liberty and truth.

For these she fell, while, with too weak a hand,
She strove to save a blind, ungrateful land.
But thus the secret laws of fate ordain;
William's great hand was doom'd to break the
chain,

And end the hopes of Rome's tyrannic reign.
For ever, as the circling years return,
Ye grateful Britons, crown the hero's urn;
To his just care you ev'ry blessing owe,
Which, or his own, or following reigns bestow.
Though his hard fate a father's name decry'd;
To you a father, he that loss supplied.
Then while you view the royal line's increase,
And count the pledges of your future peace;
From this great stock, while still new glories

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PROLOGUE.

SENT BY AN UNKNOWN HAND.

WHEN waking terrors rouse the guilty breast,
And fatal visions break the murderer's rest;
When vengeance does ambition's fate decree,
And tyrants bleed, to set whole nations free;
Though the muse saddens each distressed scene,
Unmov'd is ev'ry breast, and ev'ry face serene:
The mournful lines no tender heart subdue;
Compassion is to suff'ring goodness due.
The poet your attention begs once more,
T'atone for characters here drawn before;
No royal mistress sighs through ev'ry page,
And breathes her dying sorrows on the stage:
No lovely fair, by soft persuasion won,
Lays down the load of life, when honour's gone.
Nobly to bear the changes of our state,
To stand unmov'd against the storms of fate,

A brave contempt of life, and grandeur lost :
Such glorious toils a female name can boast.
Our author draws not beauty's heavenly smile,
T'invite our wishes, and our hearts beguile;
No soft enchantments languish in her eye,
No blossoms fade, nor sick'ning roses die.
A nobler passion ev'ry breast must move,
Than youthful raptures, or the joys of love,
A mind unchang'd, superior to a crown,
Bravely defies the angry tyrant's frown;
The same, if fortune sinks, or mounts on high,
Or if the world's extended ruins lie:
With gen'rous scorn she lays the sceptre down;
Great souls shine brightest by misfortunes shewn.
With patient courage she sustains the blow,
And triumphs o'er variety of woe.

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Enter the Duke of NORTHUMBERLAND, Duke of SUFFOLK, and Sir JOHN GATES. North. 'Tis all in vain; Heaven has required its pledge, And he must die.

Suff. Is there an honest heart,

That loves our England, does not mourn for Edward?

The genius of our isle is shook with sorrow;
He bows his venerable head with pain,
And labours with the sickness of his lord.
Religion melts in every holy eye;
All comfortless, afflicted, and forlorn,
She sits on earth, and weeps upon her cross,
Weary of man, and his detested ways:
Even now she seems to meditate her flight,
And waft her angels to the thrones above.
North. Ay, there, my lord, you touch our hea-
viest loss.

With him our holy faith is doomed to suffer;
With him our church shall veil her sacred front,
That late from heaps of Gothic ruins rose,
In her first native simple majesty;
The toil of saints, and price of martyrs' blood,
Shall fail with Edward, and again old Rome
Shall spread her banners; and her monkish host,
Pride, ignorance, and rapine, shall return;
Blind bloody zeal, and cruel priestly power,
Shall scourge the land for ten dark ages more.

Gates. Is there no help in all the healing art, No potent juice or drug to save a life So precious, and prevent a nation's fate? North. What has been left untried, that art

could do?

The hoary wrinkled leech has watched and toiled,
Tried every health-restoring herb and gum,
And wearied out his painful skill in vain.
Close, like a dragon folded in his den,
Some secret venom preys upon his heart;
A stubborn and unconquerable flame
Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life;
His youthful sinews are unstrung; cold sweats
And deadly paleness sit upon his visage;
And every gasp we look shall be his last.

Gates. Doubt not, your graces, but the Popish
faction

Will at this juncture urge their utmost force.
All on the princess Mary turn their eyes,
Well hoping she shall build again their altars,
And bring their idol-worship back in triumph.
North. Good Heaven, ordain some better fate
for England!

Suff. What better can we hope, if she should
reign?

I know her well; a blinded zealot is she;
A gloomy nature, sullen and severe;
Nurtured by proud presuming Romish priests,
Taught to believe they only cannot err,
Because they cannot err; bred up in scorn
Of reason, and the whole lay world; instructed
To hate whoe'er dissent from what they teach;

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