SCENE L-A Garden lelonging to Sciolto's Palace.

Enter ALTAMONT and HORATIO.

Alt. Let this auspicious day be ever sacred; No mourning, no misfortunes happen on it: Let it be mark'd for triumphs and rejoicings; Let happy lovers always make it holy, Choose it to bless their hopes, and crown their wishes;

This happy day, that gives me my Calista.

Hor. Yes, Altamont; to-day thy better stars Are joined to shed their kindest influence on thee; Sciolto's noble band, that rais'd thee first, Half dead and drooping o'er thy father's grave, Completes its bounty, and restores thy name To that high rauk and lustre which it boasted, Before ungrateful Genoa bat! fergot

CALISTA.

LAVINIA. LUCILLA.

The merit of thy god-like father's arms;
Before that country, which he long had serv'd
In watchful councils and in winter camps,
Had cast off his white age to want and wretched-
ness,

And made their court to factions by his ruin.
Alt. Oh, great Sciolto! Oh, my more than

father!

Let me not live, but at thy very name
My eager heart springs up, and leaps with joy.
When I forget the vast, vast debt I owe thee,-
(Forget!-but 'tis impossible) then let me
Forget the use and privilege of reason;
Be driven from the commerce of mankind,
To wander in the desert among brutes,
To be the scorn of earth, and carse of heaven!
lior. So open, so anbounded was his goodness,
It reach'd even me, because I was thy friend.

When that great man I lov'd, thy noble father,
Bequeath'd thy gentle sister to my arms,
His last dear pledge and legacy of friendship,
That happy tie made me Sciolto's son;
He call'd us his, and, with a parent's fondness,
Indulg'd us in his wealth, bless'd us with plenty,
Heal'd all our cares, and sweeten'd love itself.

Alt. By heaven, he found my fortunes so abandon'd,

That nothing but a miracle could raise 'em :
My father's bounty, and the state's ingratitude,
Had stripp'd him bare, nor left him e'en a grave.
Undone myself, and sinking in his ruin,

I had no wealth to bring, nothing to succour him,
But fruitless tears.

Hor, Yet what thou couldst thou didst,

And didst it like a son; when his hard creditors, Urg'd and assisted by Lothario's father,

(Foe to thy house, and rival of their greatness,)
By sentence of the cruel law forbade

His venerable corpse to rest in earth,
Thou gav'st thyself a ransom for his bones;
Heav'n, who beheld the pious act, approv'd it,
And bade Sciolto's bounty be its proxy,
To bless thy filial virtue with abundance.

Alt. But see, he comes, the author of my happiness,

The man who sav'd my life from deadly sorrow,
Who bids my days be blest with peace and plenty,
And satisfies my soul with love and beauty.
Enter SCIOLTO; he runs to Altamont, aud embraces
him.

Sci. Joy to thee, Altamont! Joy to myself!
Joy to this happy morn, that makes thee mine;
That kindly grants what nature had denied me,
And makes me father of a son like thee.

Alt. My father! Oh, let me unlade my breast, Pour out the fulness of my soul before you; Shew ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful thought,

And then she sigh'd as if her heart were breaking. With all the tend'rest eloquence of love

I begg'd to be a sharer in her grief;

But she, with looks averse, and eyes that froze me,

Sadly reply'd, her sorrows were her own,
Nor in a father's power to dispose of.

Sci. Away! it is the coz'nage of their sex;
One of the common arts they practise on us:
To sigh and weep then when their hearts beat high
With expectation of the coming joy.

Thou hast in camps and fighting fields been bred,
Unknowing in the subtleties of women;

The virgin bride, who swoons with deadly fear,
To see the end of all her wishes near,
When, blushing, from the light and public eyes,
To the kind covert of the night she flies,
With equal fires to meet the bridegroom moves,
Melts in his arms, and with a loose she loves.

[Exeunt.

Loth. I lik'd her, would have marry'd her, But that it pleas'd her father to refuse me, To make this honourable fool her husband; For which, if I forget him, may the shame I mean to brand his name with, stick on mine. Ros. She, gentle soul, was kinder than her father.

Loth. She was, and oft in private gave me hearing;

Till, by long list'ning to the soothing tale,

possible,

And utterance all is vile; since I can only
Swear your reign here, but never tell how much.

Sci. O, noble youth! I swear, since first I knew thee,

Ev'n from that day of sorrow when I saw thee
Adorn'd and lovely in thy filial tears,
The mourner and redeemer of thy father,
I set thee down and seal'd thee for my own:
Thou art my son, ev'n near me as Calista.
Horatio and Lavinia, too, are mine;

(Embraces Hor.)
All are my children, and shall share my heart.
But wherefore waste we thus this happy day?
The laughing minutes summon thee to joy,
And with new pleasures court thee as they pass;
Thy waiting bride e'en chides thee for delaying,
And swears thou com'st not with a bridegroom's
Alt. Oh! could I hope there was one thought of
Altamont,
[haste.
One kind remembrance in Calista's breast,
The winds, with all their wings, would be too slow
To bear me to her feet. For, oh, my father!
Amidst the stream of joy that bears me on,
Blest as I am, and honour'd in your friendship,
There is one pain that hangs upon my heart.
Sci. What means my son?

Alt. When, at your intercession,
Last night, Calista yielded to my happiness,
Just ere we parted, as I seal'd my vows
With rapture on her lips, I found her cold
As a dead lover's statue on his tomb:
A rising storm of passion shook her breast,
Her eyes a piteous show'r of tears let fall,

Ros. I've heard you oft describe her haughty, in

solent,

And fierce with high disdain: it moves my wonder,

That virtue thus defended, should be yielded
A prey to loose desires.

Loth. Hear, then, I'll tell thee:

Once, in a lone and secret hour of night,
When ev'ry eye was clos'd, and the pale moon
And stars alone shone conscious of the theft,
Hot with the Tuscan grape, and high in blood,
Haply I stole, unheeded, to her chamber.
Ros. That minute sure was lucky.
Loth. Oh, 'twas great!

I found the fond, believing, love-sick maid,
Loose, unattir'd, warm, tender, full of wishes;
Fierceness and pride, the guardians of her honour
Were charm'd to rest, and love alone was waking.
Within her rising bosom all was calm,
As peaceful seas that know no storms, and only
Are gently lifted up and down by tides.
I snatch'd the glorious, golden opportunity,
And with prevailing, youthful ardour, press'd her;
Till, with short sighs, and murmuring reluctance,
The yielding fair one gave me perfect happiness.
Ev'n all the live-long night we pass'd in bliss,
In ecstasies too fierce to last for ever;

At length the morn, and cold indifference, came;
When, fully sated with the luscious banquet,

I hastily took leave, and left the nymph
To think on what was past, and sigh alone.
Ro. You saw her soon again?

Loth. Too soon I saw her:

For, oh that meeting was not like the former;

Then ever and anon she wrings her hands, And cries, false, false Lothario!

Loth. With uneasy fondness

She hung upon me, wept, and sigh'd, and swore
She was undone; talk'd of a priest and marriage;
Of flying with me from her father's power;
Call' ev'ry saint and blessed angel down,

To witness for her that she was my wife.

I started at that name.

Ros. What answer made you?

Loth. Oh, no more!

illness,

Escap'd the persecution. Two nights since,
By message urg'd, and frequent importunity,
Again I saw her. Straight, with tears and sighs,
With swelling breasts, with swooning and distrac-
tion,

With all the subtleties, and pow'rful arts
Of wilful woman lab'ring for her purpose,
Again she told the same dull, nauseous tale.
Unmov'd, I begg'd her spare th' ungrateful
ject,

Since I resolv'd, that love and peace of mind
Might flourish long inviolate betwixt us,
Never to load it with the marriage chain:
That I would still retain her in my heart,
My ever gentle mistress, and my friend;

sub

But for those other names, of wife and husband, They only meant ill nature, cares, and quarrels. Ros. How bore she this reply?

Loth. At first her rage was dumb, and wanted words;

But, when the storm found way, 'twas wild and

loud:

Mad as the priestess of the Delphic god,
Enthusiastic passion swell'd her breast,
Enlarg'd her voice, and ruffled all her form.
Proud, and disdainful of the love I proffer'd,
She call'd me villain! monster! base betrayer!
At last, in very bitterness of soul,

With deadly imprecations on herself,
She vow'd severely ne'er to see me more;

Then bade me fly that minute: I obey'd,

And, bowing, left her to grow cool at leisure.

Ros. She has relented since, else why this message,

To meet the keeper of her secrets here,
This morning?

Loth. See the person whom you nam'd.
Enter LUCILLA.

Well, my ambassadress, what must we treat of?
Come you to menace war and proud defiance,
Or does the peaceful olive grace your message?
Is your fair mistress calmer? Does she soften?
And must we love again? Perhaps she means
To treat in juncture with her new ally,
And make her husband party to th' agreement.
Luc. Is this well done, my lord? Have you put
off

All sense of human nature? Keep a little,
A little pity, to distinguish manhood,
Lest other men, though cruel, should disclaim you,
And judge you to be number'd with the brutes.
Loth. I see thou'st learnt to rail.
Luc. I've learn'd to weep:

That lesson my sad mistress often gives me :
By day she seeks some melancholy shade,
To hide her sorrows from the prying world;
At night she watches all the long, long hours,
And listens to the winds and beating rain,

Loth. Does she send thee to chide in her behalf? I swear thou dost it with so good a grace, That I could almost love thee for thy frowning. Luc. Read there, my lord, there in her own sad line,

(Gives a letter.) Which best can tell the story of her woes, That grief of heart which your unkindness gives her.

Loth. (Read.) "Your cruelty-Obedience to my father-give my hand to Altamont."

By heav'n, 'tis well such ever be the gifts

(Aside.) With which I greet the man whom my soul hates But to go on-wish-heart-honour-too faithlessweakness-to-morrow-last trouble-lost Calista." Women, I see, can change, as well as men. She writes me here, forsaken as I am, That I should bind my brows with mournful willow,

For she has given her hand to Altamont:
Yet tell the fair inconstant-

Luc. How, my lord!

Loth. Nay, no more angry words: say to Calista, The humblest of her slaves shall wait her plea

CALISTA."

The lost, indeed! for thou art gone as far
As there can be perdition. Fire and sulphur!
Hell is the sole avenger of such crimes.
Oh, that the ruin were but all thy own!
Thou wilt even make thy father curse his age:
At sight of this black scroll, the gentle Altamont
(For, oh! I know his heart is set upon thee)
Shall droop and hang his discontented head,
Like merit scorn'd by insolent authority,
And never grace the public with his virtues.
What if I give this paper to her father?
It follows that his justice dooms her dead,
And breaks his heart with sorrow; hard return
For all the good his hand has heap'd on us!
Hold, let me take a moment's thought.
Enter LAVINIA.

Lav. My lord!

Trust me, it joys my heart that I have found you.
Inquiring wherefore you had left the company,
Before my brother's nuptial rites were ended,
They told me you had felt some sudden illness.
Hor. It were unjust. No, let me spare my
friend,

Lock up the fatal secret in my breast,
Nor tell him that which will undo his quiet.
Lav. What means my lord?

lor. Ha! said'st thou, my Lavinia ?

Lav. Alas! you know not what you make me suffer.

Whence is that sigh? And wherefore are your eyes

Severely rais'd to heav'd? The sick man thus,
Acknowledging the summons of his fate,
Lifts up his feeble hands and eyes for mercy,
And with confusion thinks upon his audit.

Hor. Oh, no! thou hast mistook my sickness

quite;

These pangs are of the soul. Would I had met
Sharpest convulsions, spotted pestilence,

Or any other deadly foe to life,

Rather than heave beneath this load of thought!

Lav. Alas! what is it? Wherefore turn you from me?

Why did you falsely call me your Lavinia,
And swear I was Horatio's better half,
Since now you mean unkinaly by yourself,
And rob me of my partnersnip of sadness?

Hor. Seek not to know what I would hide from all,

But most from thee. I never knew a pleasure,
Aught that was joyful, fortunate, or good,
But straight I ran to bless thee with the tidings,
And laid up all my happiness with thee:

But wherefore, wherefore should I give thee pain?
Then spare me, I conjure thee; ask no further;
Allow my melancholy thoughts this privilege,
And let 'em brood in secret o'er their sorrows.
Lav. It is enough; chide not, and all is well!
Forgive me if I saw you sad, Horatio,
And ask'd to weep out part of your misfortunes:
I wo'not press to know what you forbid me,
Yet, my lov'd lord, yet you must grant me this,
Forgot your cares for this one happy day,
Devote this day to mirth, and to your A'mont;

Till his friend hails him with the sound of joy.
Hor. Oh, never, never, never! Thou art inno-

cent:

Simplicity from ill, pure native truth,

And candour of the mind, adorn thee ever: But there are such, such false ones, in the world, "Twould fill thy gentle soul with wild amaze

ment

To hear their story told.

Lav. False ones, my lord?

Hor. Fatally fair they are, and in their smiles The graces, little loves, and young desires inhabit:

But all that gaze upon 'em are undone;

For they are false, luxurious in their appetites,
And all the heaven they hope for is variety:
One lover to another still succeeds,
Another, and another after that,

And the last fool is welcome as the former;
Till having lov'd his hour out, he gives place,
And mingles with the herd that went before him.
Lav. Can there be such, and have they peace of
mind?

Have they, in all the series of their changing,
One happy hour? If women are such things,
How was I form'd so diff'rent from my sex?
My little heart is satisfy'd with you;
You take up all her room, as in a cottage
Which harbours some benighted princely stran-
ger,

Where the good man, proud of his hospitality,
Yields all his homely dwelling to his guest,
And hardly keeps a corner for himself.

Hor. Oh, were they all like thee, men would adore 'em,

And all the business of their lives be loving:
The nuptial band should be the pledge of peace,
And all domestic cares and quarrels cease!
The world should learn to love by virtuous rules,
And marriage be no more the jest of fools.

ACT IL

SCENE I-A Hall.

Enter CALISTA and LUCILLA.

[Exeunt.

That has misled your weary steps, and leaves you

Benighted in a wilderness of woe,

That alse Lothario? Turn from the deceiver;
Turn, and behold where gentle Altamont,
Sighs at your feet, and wooes you to be happy.
Cal. Away! I think not of him. My sad soul
Has form'd a dismal, melancholy scene,
Such a retreat as I would wish to find;
An unfrequented vale, o'ergrown with trees
Mossy and old, within whose lonesome shade
Ravens and birds ill-omen'd only dwell;