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O never better!

Athen. I doubt thee, dear Varanes; Yet, if thou dy'st, I shall not long be from thee. Once more farewell, and take these last embraces. Oh! I could crush him to my heart! Farewell; And as a dying pledge of my last love, Take this, which all thy prayers could never [Embraces him. What have I done? Oh lead me, lead me, Delia! Ah, prince, farewell! angels protect and guard thee. Vara. Turn back, O Athenais, and behold me! Hear my last words, and then farewell for ever! Thou hast undone me more by this confession:

charm.

SCENE I.

You say, you swear, you love me more than ever;
Yet I must see you married to another:
Can there be any plague or hell like this!
O Athenais! whither shall I turn me?
You've brought me back to life; but, oh! what life?
To a life more terrible than a thousand deaths.
Like one that had been buried in a trance,
With racking starts he wakes, and gazes round,
Forc'd by despair his whirling limbs to wound,
And bellow like a spirit under ground;
Still urg'd by fate, to turn, to toss and rave,
Tormented, dash'd, and broken in the grave.
[Exeunt,

ACT V.

ATHENAIS, dressed in imperial Robes, and crowned; DELIA. A Table with a Bowl of Poison. Athen. A midnight marriage! Must I to the

temple

Thus, at the murderer's hour? 'Tis wond'rous strange !

But so, thou say'st, my father has commanded, And that's almighty reason.

Delia. The emp'ror, in compassion to the prince,

gave

thee.

Who would perhaps fly to extravagance,
If he in public should resolve to espouse you,
Contriv'd by this close marriage to deceive him.
Athen. Go fetch thy lute, and sing those lines
I
[Exit DEL.
So, now I am alone; yet my soul shakes;
For where this dreadful draught may carry me
The heavens can only tell; yet I am resolv'd
To drink it off in spite of consequence.
Whisper him, O some angel! what I'm doing;
By sympathy of soul let him too tremble
To hear my wond'rous faith, my wond'rous love,
Whose spirit, not content with an ovation
Of ling'ring fate, with triumph thus resolv'd,
Thus in the rapid chariot of the soul,
To mount and dare as never woman dar'd.

'Tis done haste, Delia, haste!-come bring thy
lute,
[Drinks.

And sing my waftage to immortal joys.
Methinks I can but smile at my own bravery!
Thus from my lowest fortune rais'd to empire,
Crown'd and adorn'd, worship'd by half the earth,
While a young monarch dies for my embraces;
Yet now to wave the glories of the world-
O, my Varanes! though my birth's unequal,
My virtue sure has richly recompenc'd,"
And quite outgone example!

SONG.

Ah, cruel bloody fate!

What canst thou now do more? Alas! 'tis all too late, Philander to restore!

Why should the heavenly powers persuade
Poor mortals to believe
That they guard us here,
And reward us there,
Yet all our joys deceive?

Her poignard then she took,
And held it in her hand;
And with a dying look,
Cry'd, thus I fate command.
Philander, ah, my love, I come,
To meet thy shade below,
Ah, I come! she cry'd,
With a wound so wide,
There needs no second blow.

In purple waves her blood
Ran streaming down the floor;
Unmoo'd she saw the flood,
And blest her dying hour:
Philander! Ah, Philander! still
The bleeding Phillis cry'd;
She wept a while,

And forc'd a smile,

Then clos'd her eyes and died.

Enter PULCHERIA.

Pulch. How fares my dear Eudosia? Ha! thou

look'st,

Or else the tapers cheat my sight, like one
That's fitter for thy tomb than Cæsar's bed:
A fatal sorrow dims thy shaded eyes,
And, in despite of all thy ornaments,
Thou seem'st to me the ghost of Athenais.
Athen. And what's the punishment, my dear
Pulcheria,

What torments are allotted those sad spirits,
Who, groaning with the burden of despair,
No longer will endure the cares of life,
But boldly set themselves at liberty,

Through the dark caves of death to wander on,
Like wilder'd travellers, without a guide,
Eternal rovers in the gloomy maze,

Where scarce the twilight of an infant moon,

By a faint glimmer checquering through the trees,
Reflects to dismal view the walking ghosts,
And never hope to reach the blessed fields?

Pulch. No more of that; Atticus shall resolve | Through the vast shades where I am doom'd to

thee:

But see, he waits thee from the emperor ; Thy father too attends.

Enter LEONTINE, ATTICUS, &c.

go;

Nor shall I need a violence to wound,

The storm is here that drives me on the ground;
Sure means to make the soul and body part,

A burning fever, and a broken heart,

Leont. Come, Athenais-Ha! what now! in What, hoa, Aranthes!

tears?

O fall of honour! but no more, I charge thee, I charge thee, as thou ever hop'st my blessing, Or fear'st my curse, to banish from thy soul All thoughts, if possible, the memory

Of that ungrateful prince that has undone thee. Attend me to the temple on this instant,

To make the emp'ror thine, this night to wed him,

And lie within his arms.

Athen. Yes, sir, I'll go;

Let me but dry my eyes, and I will go:
Eudosia, this unhappy bride, shall go :
Thus like a victim crown'd and doom'd to bleed,
I'll wait you to the altar, wed the emp❜ror,
And, if he pleases, lie within his arms.

Leont. Thou art my child again.

Athen. But do not, sir, imagine that any charms
Or threat'nings shall compel me
Never to think of poor Varanes more:
No, my Varanes! no-

While I have breath, I will remember thee;
To thee alone I will my thoughts confine,
And all my meditations shall be thine:
The image of thy woes my soul shall fill,
Fate and my end, and thy remembrance still.
As in some pop'lar shade the nightingale,
With piercing moans, does her lost young bewail,
Which the rough hind, observing as they lay
Warm in their downy nest, had stolen away;
But she in mournful sounds does still complain,
Sings all the night, though all her songs are vain,
And still renews her miserable strain:
So, my Varanes, 'till my death comes on,
Shall sad Eudosia thy dear loss bemoan.

SCENE II.

Enter VARANES.

}

[Exeunt.

Enter ARANTHES.

I sent thee to the apartment of Athenais;
I sent thee, did I not, to be admitted?
Aran. You did, my lord; but, oh!
I fear to give you an account.
Vara. Alas,

Aranthes, I am got on the other side
Of this bad world, and now am past all fear.
O ye avenging gods! is there a plague
Among your hoarded bolts and heaps of vengeance
Beyond the mighty loss of Athenais?

"Tis contradiction-Speak, then speak, Aranthes;
For all misfortunes, if compar'd with that,
Will make Varanes smile.

Aran. My lord, the empress,

Crown'd and adorn'd with the imperial robes,
At this dead time of night, with silent pomp,
As they design'd from all to keep it secret,
But chiefly sure from you; I say, the empress
Is now conducted by the general,

Atticus, and her father, to the temple,
There to espouse the emperor Theodosius.

Vara. Say'st thou? Is't certain? ha!

Aran. Most certain, sir. I saw 'em in proces

sion.

Vara. Give me thy sword. Malicious fate! Ó fortune!

O giddy chance! O turn of love and greatness!
Married-she has kept her promise now indeed;
And, oh! her pointed fame and nice revenge
Have reach'd their end. No, Aranthes, no;
I will not stay the lazy execution

Of a slow fever. Give me thy hand, and swear
By all the love and duty that thou ow'st me,
To observe the last commands that I shall give
thee;

Stir not against my purpose, as thou fear'st
My anger and disdain; nor dare t' oppose me
With troublesome unnecessary formal reasons;

Vara. 'Tis night, dead night, and weary Na- For what my thought has doom'd, my hand shall

ture lies

So fast, as if she never were to rise;

No breath of wind now whispers through the trees,

No noise at land, nor murmur in the seas;
Lean wolves forget to howl at night's pale noon,
No wakeful dogs bark at the silent moon,
Nor bay the ghosts that glide with horror by,
To view the caverns where their bodies lie;
The ravens perch, and no presages give,
Nor to the windows of the dying cleave;
The owls forget to scream; no midnight sound
Calls drowsy Echo from the hollow ground;
In vaults the walking fires extinguish'd lie;
The stars, heav'n's sentries, wink and seem to die:
Such universal silence spreads below,

seal.

I charge thee hold it stedfast to my heart,
Fix'd as the fate that throws me on the point,
Though I have liv'd a Persian, I will fall
As fair, as fearless, and as full resolv'd,
As any Greek or Roman of 'em all.

Aran. What you command is terrible but sa cred;

And to atone for this too cruel duty,
My lord, I'll follow you.

Vara. I charge thee, not;

But when I am dead, take the attending slaves, And bear me, with my blood distilling down, Straight to the temple; lay me, O Aranthes! Lay my cold corse at Athenais' feet,

And say,-O why! why, do my eyes run o'er?

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From your own mouth-Now, in the name of all
The gods at once, my lord, why are you silent?
Take heed, sir, mark your opportunity;
For if the woman lays it in your way,
And you o'ersee it, she is lost for ever.
Marc. Madam, I come to take my eternal
leave;

Your doom has banish'd me, and I obey:
The court and I shake hands, and now we part,
Never to see each other more; the court
Where I was born and bred a gentleman,
No more, till your illustrious bounty rais'd me,
And drew the earth-born vapour to the clouds:
But, as the gods ordain'd it, I have lost,
I know not how, through ignorance, your grace;
And now the exhalation of my glory
Is quite consum'd and vanish'd into air.
Pulch. Proceed, sir.

I say

I lov'd you, and I love you still,
More than my life, and equal to my glory.
Methinks the warring spirit that inspires

This frame, the very genius of old Rome,
That makes me talk without the fear of death,
And drives my daring soul to acts of honour,
Flames in your eyes; our thoughts too are akin,
Ambitious, fierce, and burn alike for glory.
Now, by the gods, I lov'd you in your fury,
In all the thunder that quite riv'd my hopes;
I lov'd you most, ev'n when you did destroy me.
Madam, I've spoke my heart, and could say more,
But that I see it grieves you; your high blood
Frets at the arrogance and saucy pride

Of this bold vagabond-May the gods forgive me―
Farewell-a worthier general may succeed me;
But none more faithful to the emperor's interest
Than him you are pleas'd to call the traitor
Marcian.

Pulch. Come back; you've subt❜ly play'd your

part indeed;

For first the emperor, whom you lately school'd,
Restores you your commission; next commands

you,

As you're a subject, not to leave the court;
Next,-but, oh heav'n! which way shall I express
His cruel pleasure, he that is so mild
In all things else, yet obstinate in this,-
Spite of my tears, my birth, and my disdain,
Commands me, as I dread his high displeasure,
O Marcian! to receive you as my husband.

Marc. Ha, Lucius! what, what does my fate

intend?

Luc. Pursue her, sir; 'tis as I said; she yields,
And rages that you follow her no faster.

Pulch, Is then at last my great authority
And my intrusted pow'r declin'd to this?
Yet, oh my fate! what way can I avoid it?
He charg'd me straight to wait him to the temple,
And there resolve, oh Marcian! on this marriage.
Now, generous soldier, as you're truly noble,
O help me forth, lost in this labyrinth;

Marc. Yet let those gods, that doom'd me to Help me to loose this more than gordian-knot

displease you,

Be witnesses how much I honour you→→
Thus, worshipping, I swear by your bright self,
I leave this infamous court with more content
Than fools and flatt'rers seek it; but, oh heaven!
I cannot go, if still your hate pursues me!
Yes, I declare it is impossible

Το go to banishment without your pardon.
Fulch. You have it, Marcian; is there aught
beside

That you would speak, for I am free to hear?
Marc. Since I shall never see you more, what
hinders

But my last words should here protest the truth?
Know then, imperial princess, matchless woman!
Since first you cast your eyes upon my meanness,
Ev'n till you rais'd me to my envy'd height,
I have in secret lov'd you-

Pulch. Is this Marcian?

And make me and yourself for ever happy!

Marc, Madam, I'll speak as briefly as I can,
And as a soldier ought: the only way
To help this knot is yet to tie it faster.
Since then the emperor has resolv❜d you mine,
For which I will for ever thank the gods,
And make this holiday throughout my life,
I take him at his word, and claim his promise;
The empire of the world shall not redeem you.
Nay, weep not, madam; though my outside's
rough,

Yet, by those eyes, your soldier has a heart
Compassionate and tender as a virgin's;
Ev'n now it bleeds to see those falling sorrows,
Perhaps this grief may move the emperor
To a repentance; come then to the trial;
For by my arms, my life, and dearer honour,
If you go back, when given me by his hand,
In distant wars my fate I will deplore,

Marc. You frown, but I am still prepar'd for And Marcian's name shall ne'er be heard of

all;

more.

[Excunt.

SCENE IV.-The Temple.

THEODOSIUS, ATHENAIS; ATTICUS joining their hands-MARCIAN, PULCHERIA, LUCIUS, JULIA, DELIA, and LEONTINE.

Attic. The more than gordian-knot is ty'd,
Which Death's strong arm shall ne'er divide;
For when to bliss ye wafted are,
Your spirits shall be wedded there:
Waters are lost, and fires will die,
But love alone can fate defy.

Enter ARANTHES with the Body of VARANES.
Arant. Where is the empress? Where shall
I find Eudosia?

By fate I'm sent to tell that cruel beauty,
She has robb'd the world of fame; her eyes have
given

A blast to the big blossom of the war.
Behold him there nipp'd in his flow'ry morn,
Compell'd to break his promise of a day;

A day that conquest would have made her boast;
Behold her laurel wither'd to the root,
Canker'd and kill'd by Athenais' scorn.
Athen. Dead, dead, Varanes!
Theo. O ye eternal pow'rs

That guide the world! why do you shock our

reason

With acts like these, that lay our thoughts in dust?

Forgive me, heaven, this start, or elevate
Imagination more, and make it nothing.
Alas! alas, Varanes! But speak, Aranthes,
The manner of his fate-Groans choke my words,
But speak, and we will answer thee with tears.
Aran. His fever would, no doubt, by this have
done

What some few minutes past his sword perform'd.
He heard from me your progress to the temple,
How you design'd at midnight to deceive him,
By a clandestine marriage: But, my lord,
Had you beheld his racks at my relation;
Or had your empress seen him in those torments,
When from his dying eyes, swol'n to the brim,
The big round drops roll'd down his manly face;
When from his hallowed breast a murmuring
crowd

Of groans rush'd forth, and echo'd all is well:
Then had you seen him, O ye cruel gods!
Rush on the sword I held against his breast,
And dye it to the hilt, with these last words-
Bear me to Athenais-

Athen. Give me way, my lord;

I have most strictly kept my promise with you:
I am your bride, and you can ask no more,
Or, if you did, I'm past the power to give;
But here! O here! on his cold bloody breast,
Thus let me breathe my last.

Theo. O, empress! what, what can this trans-
port mean?

Are these our nuptials? These my promis'd joys?
Athen. Forgive me, sir, this last respect I pay
These sad remains-And oh, thou mighty spirit!
If yet thou art not mingled with the stars,
Look down and hear the wretched Athenais!
When thou shalt know, before I gave consent
To this indecent marriage, I had taken
Into my veins a cold and deadly draught,
Which soon would render me, alas! unfit
For the warm joys of an imperial lover,
And make me ever thine, yet keep my word
With Theodosius, wilt thou not forgive me?

Theo. Poison'd to free thee from the emperor!
Oh, Athenais! thou hast done a deed
That tears my heart! What have I done against
thee,

That thou should'st brand me thus with infamy
And everlasting shame? Thou might'st have made
Thy choice without this cruel act of death;
I left thee to thy will, and in requital
Thou hast murder'd all my fame!-
Athen. O pardon me!

I lay my dying body at your feet,

And beg, my lord, with my last sighs intreat you,
To impute the fault, if 'tis a fault, to love,
And the ingratitude of Athenais,

To her too cruel stars. Remember, too,
I beg'd you would not let me see the prince,
Presaging what has happen'd; yet my word,
As to our nuptials, was inviolable.

Theo. Ha! she is going!-see her languishing

eyes

Draw in their beams; the sleep of death is on her.

Athen. Farewell, my lord! Alas, alas, Varanes! To embrace thee now is not immodesty; Or, if it were, I think my bleeding heart Would make me criminal in death to clasp thee, Break all the tender niceties of honour, To fold thee thus, and warm thee into life; For oh what man, like him, could woman move! O prince belov'd! O spirit most divine! Thus, by my death, I give thee all my love, And seal my soul and body ever thine.- [Dies. Theo. O Marcian! O Pulcheria! did not the

power

Whom we adore, plant all his thunderbolts
Against self-murderers, I would perish too;
But as I am, I swear to leave the empire.
To thee, my sister, I bequeath the world,
And, yet a gift more great, the gallant Marcian.
On then, my friend, now shew thy Roman spirit!
As to her sex fair Athenais was,

Be thou to thine a pattern of true honour;
Thus we'll atone for all the present crimes,
That yet it may be said in after-times,
No age with such examples could compare,
So great, so good, so virtuous, and so fair!

[Exeunt omnes.

ALL FOR LOVE;

OR,

THE WORLD WELL LOST.

BY

DRYDEN.

PROLOGUE.

WHAT flocks of critics hover here to-day,
As vultures wait on armies for their prey,
All gaping for the carcase of a play!
With croaking notes they bode some dire event,
And follow dying poets by the scent.
Our's gives himself for gone, you've watch'd
your time!

He fights this day unarm'd, without his rhyme;
And brings a tale which often has been told,
As sad as Dido's, and almost as old.
His hero, whom you wits his bully call,
Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all:
He's somewhat lewd, but a well-meaning mind,
Weeps much, fights little, but is wond'rous kind;
In short, a pattern and companion fit
For all the keeping Tonies of the pit.
I could name more: a wife, and mistress too;
Both, (to be plain) too good for most of you,
The wife well-natured, and the mistress true.
Now, poets, if your fame has been his care,
Allow him all the candour you can spare.
A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day,

Like Hectors, in at every party-fray.
Let those find fault whose wit's so very small,
They've need to show that they can think at all:
Errors like straws upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls, must dive below,
Fops may have leave to level all they can,
As pigmies would be glad to lop a man.
Half wits are fleas; so little and so light,
We scarce could know they live, but that they
bite.

But as the rich, when tired with daily feasts,
For change, become their next poor tenant's guests,
Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown
bowls,

And snatch the homely rasher from the coals;
So you, retiring from much better cheer,
For once, may venture to do penance here.
And since that plenteous autumn now is past,
Whose grapes and peaches have indulg'd your
taste,

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Take in good part, from our poor poet's board, Such rivelled fruits as winter can afford.

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