Among the cherubim. Murd'rers too will live; But where? I'll tell you where-down, down, down, down.

How deep it is! 'tis fathomless-'tis dark!

No-there's a pale blue flame-ah, poor Orlando!
Guild. My heart will burst.

Or.

Pierce mine, and that will ease it.

Em. (comes up to her father) I knew a maid/who lov'd-but she was mad

Fond, foolish girl! Thank Heav'n, I am not mad;
Yet the afflicting angel has been with me;
But do not tell my father, he would grieve;
Sweet, good old man-perhaps he'd weep to hear it:
I never saw my father weep but once;

I'll tell you when it was. I did not weep;

'Twas when-but soft, my brother must not know it, "Twas when his poor fond daughter was refused. Guild. Who can bear this?

Or.

I will not live to bear it."

A

Em. (comes up to ORLANDO.) Take comfort, thou poor wretch! I'll not appear

Against thee, nor shall Rivers; but blood must,
Blood will appear; there's no concealing blood.
What's that? my brother's ghost-it vanishes;

(Catches hold of RIVERS.)

Stay, take me with thee, take me to the skies;
I have thee fast; thou shalt not go without me.
But hold-may we not take the murd'rer with us?
That look says-No. Why then I'll not go with thee.
Yet hold me fast-'tis dark-I'm lost-I'm gone (Dies.)
Or. One crime makes many needful; this day's sin
Blots out a life of virtue. Good old man!"
My bosom bleeds for thee; thy child is dead.
And I the cause. 'Tis but a poor atonement;
But I can make no other.

Riv.

(Stabs himself)

What hast thou done?

Or. Fill'd up the measure of my sins. Oh, mercy! Eternal goodness, pardon this last guilt!

Rivers, thy hand!-farewell! forgive me, Heaven!
Yet is it not an act which bars forgiveness,

And shuts the door of grace for ever ?-Oh!

(The curtain falls to soft music.)

A

(Dies.)

A

UNHAND me, gentlemen, by Heaven, I say,
I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way.

[Behind the Scenes.

Forth let me come-A Poetaster true,
As lean as Envy, and as baneful too;
On the dull audience let me vent my rage,
Or drive these female scribblers from the stage.
For scene or history, we've none but these,
The law of liberty and wit they seize;
In tragic-comic-pastoral-they dare to please.
Each puny bard must surely burst with spite,
To find that women with such fame can write,
But, oh, your partial favour is the cause,
Which feeds their follies with such full applatise.
Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame,"
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim;
Where the dull duties of domestic life
Wage with the muse's toils eternal strife."

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
While maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious dishabille behold her sit,"
A letter'd gossip, and a housewife wit,
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse,
Round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies,
A chequer'd wreck of notable and wise;
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet, and obscure the glass;
Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid,

And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid':

Here new-born plays foretaste the town's applause,
There, dormant patterns pine for future gauze ;
A moral essay now is all her care,

A satire next, and then a bill of fare:

A scene she now projects, and now a dish,
Here's act the first-and here-remove with fish.
Now while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,
That, soberly casts up a bill for coals;

Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears, and thread, and balls, and thimbles mix.
Sappho, 'tis true, long vers'd in epic song,
For years esteem'd all household studies wrong;
When dire mishap, though neither shame nor sin,
Sappho herself, and not her muse, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower,
And matron Juno claims despotic power;
Soon gothic hags the classic pile o'erturn,
A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn;
Nor books nor implements escape their rage,
They spike the inkstand, and they rend the page;
Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake,
Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake,

And Aristotle's only sav'd-to wrap plumb-cake.
Yet, shall a woman tempt the tragic scene ?
And dare-but hold-I must repress my spleen;
I see your hearts are pledg'd to her applause,
While Shakspeare's spirit seems to aid her cause;
Well pleas'd to aid-since o'er his sacred bier
A female hand did ample trophies rear,

And gave the greenest laurel that is worshipp'd there.