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. ACT V. 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, From the coverts where you stray, Chide Calista for delay, Cul. 'Tis well! these solemn sounds, this pomp Are fit to feed the frenzy in my soul. Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see Is this that haughty, gallant, gay, Lothario? 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; Sci. Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been a cherubim ; But of that joy, as of a gem long lost, 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 That dwelt in antient Latian breasts, when Rome 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. [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, Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss. Alt. Then happiness is still within our reach. Cal. What! in death! Alt. Then thou art fixed to die?-But be it so; In gloomy groves, with discontented ghosts; Cal. Oh, no! Heaven has some other better 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 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. Lift up your hand, and bless me, ere I go Thou'st rashly ventured on a stormy sea, lost. For thou hast been my son—Oh, gracious Heaven! Let grief, disgrace, and want be far away, 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, [He dies. And find my only portion in the grave! And bends him, like a drooping flower, to earth. EPILOGUE. SPOKEN BY LAVINIA. You see the tripping dame could find no favour; There's dreadful dealings with eloping wives : 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. JANE SHORE. BY ROWE. PROLOGUE. TO-NIGHT, if you have brought your good old taste, Their words no shuffling double-meaning knew, 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; The dames of wit and pleasure about town, |