L. Doug. Yet have mercy, Lords!
Oh! you are far more gentle, Shrewsbury!
Drive not her few, poor, faithful maids from her;
Let them receive her bleffing, and behold
Their dying Mistress' looks, and clofe her eyes.
In pity, nay, in decency, comply;
Is't fit the perfon of a royal Queen
Should lie a mangled and unheeded corfe,
Without her maids to shroud those precious limbs,
Which kneeling Princeffes were proud to adorn ?
Shrews. 'Tis not in nature to refift the claim.
Enter Mary from her Oratory, dressed gorgeously,
with a Cross and Beads.
Mary This world to me is as a thing that's past;
A burden fhaken off-The retrospect
Exhibits nothing but a wearifome
And tedious pilgrimage-What is to come
Opens a scene of glory to my eyes:
Therefore with joy I haften to begin
This course of triumph- Oh! my faithful friends!
Ye all-all of you, my poor followers,
Have facrific'd your days to fhare my woes.
Now let me afk forgiveness for the past;
Pardon my many negligences!—
Thus, on our knees, we crave your bleffing all.
Mary. Yes, I will blefs you with my latest breath; 'Tis all I have to give; except, perchance,
Some trifles, which I here bequeath among you. [Delivering her Will, Beton, accept this ring-take that-And thou! [Giving a Ring to Beton, and her Physician,
These tokens may remind you
Come hither, all my maids! [The Maids rife and ap. proach.] Farewel, fweet friends.
[Mary kiffes each of them. We foon fhall meet.-Come, Douglas! let me bind Thine arm with this my bracelet; that fo oft
As you behold it, you may think on me.
[Clasping her in her arms.
Now let me hold thee thus-Nay, do not weep That I'm tranflated from this fcene of care To endless joy-Once more farewel!-lead on! [Mary makes a Sign for the Procession to go on, and is proceeding, when Melvin, an old Man with grey Locks, throws himself at her Feet, in
Mel. Oh, mercy! mercy Heav'n! alas, my Queen !
That I fhou'd live to fuch an age for this,
To fee this fight, and carry back this tale!'
Mary. Melvin! my faithful fervant, Melvin, here!
In my last moments-They have kept thee long
Out of thy Miftrefs' fight-thou comeft in time
For her poor bleffing-Good old man, return;
• Commend me to my fon-tell him I've done
No prejudice to Scotland's crown-tell him
My latest words were those of Scotland's Queen.'
[Melvin tries to speak, and is unable.
Poor foul, thy griefs have choak'd thy fpeech! Adieu!
Bear witnefs all, tell it throughout the world,
But chiefly to my family in France,
That I die firmly in their holy faith!
And you, ye Minifters from England's Queen!
Tell her, the hath my pardon; and relate,
That, with my dying breath, I do befeech
Her kindness to my fervants; and request
Safe conduct for them into France; that done,
I've naught to afk, but that my poor remains
May be beftow'd in Lorrain, or in France,
Where I may hope for pious obfequies;
For here the tombs of my progenitors.
Are all profan'd-Remember my requests!--
Now lead me on in triumph, till I gain
Immortal joys, and an immortal reign.
Written by the AUTHOR,
And spoken by Mrs. SIDDONS.
WERE you not told, before the play began,
Our Author ventur'd on a daring plan?
A tale of woe, a deep hiftoric Play
Giv'n in an age so debonnair and gay.
Was this a place to fet up a defence,
And talk of injur'd Mary's innocence?
Of late discoveries, drawn from dates and words,
Old rotten parchments, mufty, dull records?
No-all is now for tinfel, fhow!-
this age
Turns a deaf ear- but keenly views the stage!
The Tragic Mufe, nay. all the fifters nine,
Are now eclips'd- -Aladin's lamp doth fhine!
Exulting o'er their tomb- now boxers spar!
And beaux, in raptures, envy every scar!
Learning and wit were once efteem'd, and then
The ftage produced Ben Johnfon-now, Big Ben !
Shakespeare make room for Humphries!
that's the way,
To bring the men of fashion to the play!
But to our BardHow fhall we judge his cafe
Who fcorns the unities of time and place,
Critics, what fay ye?Muft he fue for peace
To wits of modern France, or ancient Greece?
The great Voltaire has told us, that a play
Should be within one houfe, and in one day-
But in one evening, how can it be right,
To reprefent the morning, noon, and night?
To hail Aurora, fwear the fun-beam glows,
While thefe vile lamps ftill flare beneath my nofe.
And as to place-deception's all in vain-
We've known all night, that this is Drury Lane.
Thus English Johnfon's fterling wit and fenfe
Treats this French rule, as a poor, weak pretence
To cloak their narrow genius- -an expedient
To make their fable, like themselves, obedient.
When action, uniform in every part,
Guides the clear tale directly to the heart,
In vain dramatic pedants may combine
The free born Mufe, by weakning, to refine,
Whene er the mounts, their damp, cold veil to fling,
Or clip the malter feather of her wing.
No; let the Tragic Mufe range far and wide,
Bind not in chains the paffions' faithful guide;
Let the full heart expand, and feek relief
From the fvect luxury of virtuous grief.
May no ftern critic or falfe thame control
This noble weaknefs of each generous foul:
For with the tender heart alone vou'll find,
The higheft fpirit and the firmeft mini.
BY WILLIAM CARR,
AUTHOR OF AMURATH AND ZARA, A TURKISH TALE, &c.
now Minister in
"O truly generous maid! when envious time,
Hath, after thousands of revolving years,
Swept ev'ry trace of lesser names away,
Thine still shall flourish 'midst the dreadful wreck,
A bright example of true constancy
PRINTED BY D. M'KINZIE, 20. SALTMARKET;
FOR THE AUTHOR; AND SOLD BY THE BOOKSELLERS.
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