And knows me for its counterpart no more! Hor. Thou know'st thy rule, thy empire in Horatio;

Nor canst thou ask in vain, command in vain,
Where nature, reason, nay, where love is judge;
But when you urge my temper to comply
With what it most abhors, I cannot do it.

Lav. Where didst thou get this sullen gloomy hate?

It was not in thy nature to be thus ;
Come, put it off, and let thy heart be cheerful!
Be gay again, and know the joys of friendship,
The trust, security, and mutual tenderness,
The double joys, where each is glad for both;
Friendship, the wealth, the last retreat and
strength,

Secure against ill fortune, and the world.

Hor. I am not apt to take a light offence, But patient of the failings of my friends, And willing to forgive; but when an injury Stabs to the heart, and rouses my resentment, (Perhaps it is the fault of my rude nature) I own I cannot easily forgive it.

Alt. Thou hast forgot me!

Hor. No.

Alt. Why are thy eyes
Impatient of me then, scornful, and fierce?
Hor. Because they speak the meaning of my
heart;

Because they're honest, and disdain a villain !
Alt. I've wronged thee much, Horatio.
Hor. True, thou hast.

When I forget it, may I be a wretch,
Vile as thyself, a false perfidious fellow,
An infamous, believing, British husband.

Alt. I've wronged thee much, and Heaven has
well avenged it.

I have not, since we parted, been at peace, Nor known one joy sincere; our broken friendship

Pursued me to the last retreat of love, Stood glaring like a ghost, and made me cold with horror.

Misfortunes on misfortunes press upon me,
Swell o'er my head like waves, and dash me down;
Sorrow, remorse, and shame, have torn my soul;
They hang, like winter, on, my youthful hopes,
And blast the spring and promise of my year.
Lav. So flowers are gathered to adorn a grave,
To lose their freshness amongst bones and rot-
tenness,

And have their odours stifled in the dust.
Canst thou hear this, thou cruel, hard Horatio?
Canst thou behold thy Altamont undone ?
That gentle, that dear youth! canst thou behold
him,

His poor heart broken, death in his pale visage,
And groaning out his woes, yet stand unmoved?
Hor. The brave and wise I pity in misfortune;
But when ingratitude and folly suffers,
"Tis weakness to be touched.

Alt. I will not ask thee
To pity or forgive me; but confess,
This scorn, this insolence of hate, is just ;
'Tis constancy of mind, and manly in thee.

But, Oh! had I been wronged by thee, Hor
There is a yielding softness in my heart
Could ne'er have stood it out; but I had ran,
With streaming eyes, and open arms, upon tie,
And pressed thee close, close!

Hor. I must hear no more;

Thy weakness is contagious; I shall catch it, And be a tame, fond wretch.

Lav. Where wouldst thou go? Wouldst thou part thus? you shall not, 'tis inpossible;

For I will bar thy passage, kneeling thus:
Perhaps, thy cruel hand may spurn me off,
But I will throw my body in thy way,
And thou shalt trample o'er my faithful boson,
Tread on me, wound me, kill me, ere thou pass

Alt. Urge not in vain thy pious suit, Lavinia,
I have enough to rid me of my pain.
Calista, thou hadst reached my heart before;
To make all sure, my friend repeats the blow:
But in the grave our cares shall be forgotten,
There love and friendship cease.

[LAVINIA runs to him, and endeavours to rain him.

Lav. Speak to me, Altamont !He faints! He dies! Now, turn and see thy tre umph!

My brother! But our cares shall end together; Here will I lay me down by thy dear side, Bemoan thy too hard fate, then share it with thee,

And never see my cruel lord again.

[HORATIO runs to ALTAMONT, and raises kin in his arms.

Hor. It is too much to bear! Look up, of

my soul;

That long ere this her flight had reached the stars;

But thy known voice has lured her back again. Methinks, I fain would set all right with thee, Make up this most unlucky breach, and then, With thine and Heaven's forgiveness on my soul, Shrink to my grave, and be at ease for ever.

Hor. By Heaven, my heart bleeds for thee; even this moment,

I feel thy pangs of disappointed love.
Is it not pity that this youth should fall,
That all his wondrous goodness should be lost,
And the world never know it? Oh, my Altamont!
Give me thy sorrows, let me bear them for thee,
And shelter thee from ruin!

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.

Ascend, ye ghosts, fantastic forms of night,
In all your different dreadful shapes ascend,
And match the present horror, if
ye can!

Enter SCIOLTO.

Sci. This dead of night, this silent hour of darkness,

Nature for rest ordained, and soft repose;
And yet distraction, and tumultuous jars,
Keep all our frighted citizens awake:
The senate, weak, divided, and irresolute,
Want power to succour the afflicted state.
Vainly in words and long debates they're wise,
While the fierce factions scorn their peaceful or-

ders,

And drown the voice of law in noise and anar

chy.

Amidst the general wreck, see where she stands, [Pointing to CALISTA. Like Helen, in the night when Troy was sacked, Spectatress of the mischief which she made.

Cal. It is Sciolto! Be thyself, my soul; Be strong to bear his fatal indignation, That he may see thou art not lost so far, But somewhat still of his great spirit lives In the forlorn Calista.

Sci. Thou wert once

My daughter.

"Cal. Happy were it had I died, And never lost that name!

Sci. That's something yet;

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

I thought the day too short to gaze upon thee,
That all the blessings i could gather for thee,
By cares on earth, and by my prayers to Hea-

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 trem

bling 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 undone Calista, in your heart?

poor,

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

me;

I could curse Nature, and that tyrant, Honour, For making me thy father, and thy judge; Thou art my daughter still!

Cal. For that kind word,

Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth, Weep on your feet, and bless you for this good

ness.

Oh! 'tis too much for this offending wretch,
This parricide, that murders with her crimes,
Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off,
Ere little more than half his years be numbered.

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! [Exit SCIOLTO.

Cal. Now think, thou cursed Calista! now behold

The desolation, horror, blood, and ruin,
Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around,
That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head.
Yet Heaven, who knows our weak, imperfect na-
tures,

How blind with passions, and how prone to evil,
Makes not too strict inquiry for offences,
But is atoned by penitence and prayer:
Cheap recompence! here 'twould not be recei
ved.

Nothing but blood can make the expiation,
And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep pollu

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:

Well may'st thou fail; for see, the spring that fed

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 suffering
ngs,
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?

Sci. Alas, my daughter!

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?

Dost thou not labour with thy murderous weight?

Where life, fame, virtue, all were wrecked and

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' neʼer so dull,
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 man and I.