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But that the son of Virtue, Penyus,
Seeing me steer through all these storms of danger,
My helm still in my band (my sword) my prow
Turn'd to my foe (my face) he cried out nobly,
« Go Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely ;

Thy manly sword has ransom'd thee: grow strong, “ And let me meet thee once again in arms: “ Then if thou stand’st, thou art mine.” I took his

offer, And here I am to honour him.





Rollo, Duke of Normandy, a bloody tyrant, puts to death

his tutor Baldwin, for too freely reproving him for his crimes; but afterwards fulls in love with Edith, daughter to the man he has slain. She makes a show of returning his love, and invites him to a banquet ; her design being to train him there, that she may kill him : but overcome by his flatteries, and real or dissembled remorse, she faints in her resolution.

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Rol. What bright star, taking beauty's form upon her, In all the happy lustre of heaven's glory, Has dropt down from the sky to comfort me ? Wonder of Nature, let it not prophane thee My rude hand touch thy beauty, nor this kiss, The gentle sacrifice of love and service, Be offer'd to the honour of thy sweetness.

Edi. My gracious lord, no deity dwells hete, Nor nothing of that virtue but obedience; *The servant to your will affects no flattery.


Rol. Can it be flattery to swear those eyes
Are Love's eternal lamps he fires all hearts with:
That tongue the smart string to his bow? those sighs

The deadly shafts he sends into our souls ?
Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty.

Edi. Your grace is full of game.

Rol. By heaven, my Edith,
Thy mother fed on roses when she bred thee.
The sweetness of the Arabian wind still blowing
Upon the treasures of perfumes and spices,
In all their pride and pleasures, call thee mistress.

Edi. Wilt please you sit, sir?

Rol. So you please sit by me.
Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee,
The excellency that appears upon thee

up my tongue: pray speak to me,
Edi. Of what, sir?
Rol. Of any thing, any thing is excellent.
Will you take my directions? speak of love then";
Speak of thy fair self, Edith : and while thou speak’st.
Let me thus languishing give up myself, wench.
Edi. H'as a strange cunning tongue. Why do

you sigh, sir?
How masterly he turns himself to catch me,

Rol. The way to paradise, my gentle maid,
Is hard and crooked; scarce repentance finding,
With all her holy helps, the door to enter,
Give me thy hand, what dost thou feel?

Edi. Your tears, sir;
You weep extremely; strengthen me now, justice,
Why are these sorrows, sir?

Rol. Thou'lt never love me,
If I should tell thee; yet there's no way left
Ever to purchase this blest paradise,
But swimming thither in these tears.

Edi. I stagger.
Rol. Are they not drops of blood ?
Edi. No.


Rol. They're for blood then,
For guiltless blood; and they must drop, my Edith,
They must thus drop, till I have drown'd my

mischiefs. Edi. If this be true, I have no strength to touch him.

Rol. I prithee look upon me, turn not from me ;
Alas I do confess I'm made of mischiefs,
Begot with all man's miseries upon me:
But see my sorrows, maid, and do not thou,
Whose only sweetest sacrifice is softness,
Whose true condition, tenderness of nature, —

Edi. My anger melts, oh, I shall lose my justice.

Rol. Do not thou learn to kill with cruelty,
As I have done, to murder with thine eyes,
(Those blessed eyes) as I have done with malice,
When thou hast wounded me to death with scorn,
(As I deserve it, lady) for my true love,
When thou hast loaden me with earth for ever,
Take heed my sorrows, and the stings I suffer,
Take heed my nightly dreams of death and horror
Pursue thee not: no time shall tell thy griefs then,
Nor shall an hour of joy add to thy beauties,
Look not upon me as I kill'd thy father,
As I was smear'd in blood, do not thou hate me;
But thus in whiteness of my wash'd repentance,

heart's tears and truth of love to Edith, In my fair life hereafter.

Edi. He will fool me.

Rol. Oh, with thine angel eyes behold and bless me: Of heaven we call for mercy and obtain it, To justice for our right on earth and have it, Of thee I beg for love, save me, and give it.

Edi. Now, heaven, thy help, or I am gone for ever, His tongue has turn'd me into melting pity.




Thierry, King of France, being childless, is foretold by an

Astrologer, that he shall hare Children if he sacrifice the first Woman that he shall meet at sun-rise coming out of the Temple of Diana. He waits before the Temple, and the first Woman he sees, proves to be his own Wife Ordella.

THIERRY, MARTEL, a Nobleman.
Mart. Your grace is early stirring.

Thier. How can he sleep
Whose happiness is laid up in an hour
He knows comes stealing towards him? Oh Martel!
Is't possible the longing

bride, whose wishes
Out-run her fears, can on that day she is married
Consume in slumbers; or his arms rust in case,
That hears the charge, and sees the honour'd purchase
Ready to guild his valour? Mine is more,
A power above these passions; this day France,
France, that in want of issue withers with us,
And like an aged river, runs his head
Into forgotten ways, again I ransom,
And his fair course turn right.

Mart. Happy woman, that dies to do these things.
Thier. The Gods have heard me now, and those that

scorn'd me,
Mothers of many children and blest fathers
That see their issue like the stars unnumber'd,
Their comfort more than them, shall in my praises
Now teach their infants songs; and tell their ages
From such a son of mine, or such a queen,
That chaste Ordella brings me.


Mart. The day wears,
And those that have been offering early prayers,
Are now retiring homeward.

Thier. Stand and mark then.
Mart. Is it the first must suffer?
Thier. The first woman.
Mart. What hand shall do it, sir?

Thier. This hand, Martel :
For who less dare presume to give the gods
An incense of this offering?

Mart. Would I were she,
For such a way to die, and such a blessing,
Can' never crown my parting.
Here comes a woman.

Ordella comes out from the Temple, veiled.
Thier. Stand and behold her then.
Mart. I think a fair one.
Thier. Move not whilst I prepare her: may her

Like his whose innocence the gods are pleas'd with,
And offering at their altars, gives his soul
Far purer

than those fires, pull heaven upon her ;
You holy powers, no human spot dwell in her;
No love of any thing, but you and goodness,
Tie her to earth; fear be a stranger to her,
And all weak blood's affections, but thy hope,
Let her bequeath to women: hear me, heaven,
Give her a spirit masculine and noble,
Fit for yourselves to ask, and me to offer.
O let her meet my blow, doat on her death;
And as a wanton vine bows to the pruner,
That by his cutting off more may increase,
So let her fall to raise me fruit. Hail womar !
The happiest and the best (if the dull will
Do not abuse thy fortune) France e'er found yet.
Ordel. She's more than dull, sir, less and worse than wo-

man, That may inherit such an infinite


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