We'll fix our grief, and our complaining there; We'll curse the nymph that drew the ruin on,

And mourn the youth that was, like thee, undone. [Exeunt.

SCENE I.-A Room hung with black; on one side LOTHARIO's body on a bier; on the other a table, with a skull and other bones, a book and a lamp on it.

CALISTA is discovered on a couch, in black; her hair hanging loose and disordered. After soft music, she rises and comes forward.

SONG.

Hear, you midnight phantoms, hear,
You who pale and wan appear,
And fill the wretch who wakes with fear;
You, who wander, scream and groan
Round the mansions once your own;
You, who still your crimes upbraid;
You, who rest not with the dead;

From the coverts where you stray,
Where you lurk and shun the day,
From the charnel and the tomb,
Hither haste ye, hither come.

Chide Calista for delay,
Tell her, 'tis for her you stay;
Bid her die and come away.
See the sexton with his spade,
See the grave already made;
Listen, fair one, to thy knell,
This music is thy passing bell.

Cul. 'Tis well! these solemn sounds, this pomp
of horror,

Are fit to feed the frenzy in my soul.
Here's room for meditation even to madness;
Till the mind burst with thinking. This dull
flame

Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left
To tell me something; for instruction then-
He teaches holy sorrow and contrition,
And penitence. Is it become an art, then?
A trick, that lazy, dull, luxurious gownmen
Can teach us to do over? I'll no more on't;
[Throwing away the book.
I have more real anguish in my heart,
Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew.
What charnel has been rifled for these bones?
Fie! this is pageantry; they look uncouthly.
But what of that, if he or she, that owned
them,

Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see
The farce their miserable relics play?
But here's a sight is terrible indeed!

Is this that haughty, gallant, gay, Lothario?
That dear perfidious-Ah! how pale he looks!
How grim with clotted blood, and those dead
eyes!

10

Were little for my fondness to bestow; Why didst thou turn to folly, then, and curse me?

Cal. Because my soul was rudely drawn from yours;

A poor imperfect copy of my father,

Where goodness, and the strength of manly virtue,

Was thinly planted, and the idle void

Filled up with light belief, and easy fondness;
It was, because I loved, and was a woman.

Sci. Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been a cherubim ;

But of that joy, as of a gem long lost,
Beyond redemption gone, think we no more.
Hast thou e'er dared to meditate on death?

Cal. I have, as on the end of shame and sor

row.

Sci. Ha! answer me! Say, hast thou coolly thought?

'Tis not the stoick's lessons got by rote,

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

Forgot their office, and confessed the father.
At length the stubborn virtue has prevailed,
It must, it must be so-Oh! take it then,

[Giving the dagger.

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

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! (Erit SCIOLTO.

Cal. Now think, thou cursed Calista! now be

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 wan-
der

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: Live, for some maid that shall deserve thy good

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.

Enter HORATIO.

Hor. Now, mourn indeed, ye miserable pair ; For now the measure of your woes is full. Alt. What dost thou mean, Horatio? Hor. Oh, 'tis dreadful!

The great, the good Sciolto dies this moment. Cal. My father!

Alt. That's a deadly stroke, indeed. Hor. Not long ago he privately went forth, Attended but by few, and those unbidden. I heard which way he took, and straight pursued him;

But found him compassed by Lothario's faction, Almost alone, amidst a crowd of foes.

Too late we brought him aid, and drove them back;

Ere that, his frantic valour had provoked The death he seemed to wish for from their swords.

Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou patient earth?

Dəst thou not labour with thy murderous weight?

The vital stream is wasted, and runs low.
My father! will you now, at last, forgive me,
If, after all my crimes, and all your suffer gs,
I call you once again by that dear name?
Will you forget my shame, and those wide
wounds?

Lift up your hand, and bless me, ere I go
Down to my dark abode?

Thou'st rashly ventured on a stormy sea,
Sci. Alas, my daughter!
Where life, fame, virtue, all were wrecked and

lost.

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 omne

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 du, 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 ma 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.