BY

TO-NIGHT, if you have brought your good old taste,
We'll treat you with a downright English feast:
A tale, which told long since in homely wise,
Hath never fail'd of melting gentle eyes.
Let no nice sir despise our hapless dame,
Because recording ballads chaunt her name:
Those venerable ancient song-enditers
Soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers:
They caterwaul'd in no romantic ditty,
Sighing for Phillis's or Chloe's pity.
Justly they drew the fair, and spoke her plain,
And sung her by her Christian name 'twas Jane.
Our numbers may be more refined than those,
But what we've gained in verse, we've lost in
prose.

Their words no shuffling double-meaning knew,
Their speech was homely, but their hearts were

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;
And in these scenes has made it more his care,
To rouse the passions, than to charm the ear;
Yet, for those gentle beaux, who love the chime,
The ends of acts still jingle into rhyme.
The ladies too, he hopes, will not complain,-
Here are some subjects for a softer strain,—
A nymph forsaken, and a perjur'd swain.
What most he fears, is, lest the dames should
frown,

The dames of wit and pleasure about town,
To see our picture drawn unlike their own.
But, lest that error should provoke to fury
The hospitable hundreds of Old Drury,
He bid me say, in our Jane Shore's defence,
She doled about the charitable pence,
Built hospitals, turn'd saint, and dy'd long since.
For her example, whatsoe'er we make it,
They have their choice to let alone or take it.
Though few, as I conceive, will think it meet,
To weep so sorely for a sin so sweet;
Or mourn and mortify the pleasant sense,
To rise in tragedy two ages hence.

SCENE I.-The Tower.

And he amongst the foremost in his power, Of whom I wish your highness were assured. For me, perhaps it is my nature's fault,

I own, I doubt of his inclining, much.

Glost. And yet this tough impracticable heart
Is governed by a dainty-fingered girl.
Such flaws are found in the most worthy na-
tures;

A laughing, toying, wheedling, whimpering she
Shall make him amble on a gossip's message,
And take the distaff with a hand as patient
As e'er did Hercules.

Rat. The fair Alicia,

Of noble birth and exquisite of feature,
Has held him long a vassal to her beauty.

Cut. I fear, he fails in his allegiance there;
Or my intelligence is false, or else
The dame has been too lavish of her feast,
And fed him till he loathes.

Glost. No more, he comes.

Enter Lord HASTINGS.

Hast. Health, and the happiness of many days, Attend upon your grace.

Glost. My good lord chamberlain, We're much beholden to your gentle friendship. Hast. My lord, I come an humble suitor to

you.

Glost. In right good time. Speak out your pleasure freely.

Hast. I am to move your highness in behalf Of Shore's unhappy wife.

Glost. Say you, of Shore?

Hast. Once a bright star, that held her place on high;

The first and fairest of our English dames,
While royal Edward held the sovereign rule.
Now sunk in grief, and pining with despair,
Her waning form no longer shall incite
Envy in woman, or desire in man.
She never sees the sun, but through her tears,
And wakes to sigh the live-long night away.
Glost. Marry! the times are badly changed
with her,

From Edward's days to these. Then all was jollity,

Hastings

would point:

Cat. The same.

Glost. He bears me great good-will.

Cat. 'Tis true, to you, as to the lord protector,

And Gloster's duke, he bows with lowly service:
But were he bid to cry, God save king Richard,
Then tell me in what terms he would reply?
Believe me, I have proved the man, and found
him:

I know he bears a most religious reverence
To his dead master Edward's royal memory,
And whither that may lead him is most plain.
Yet more-One of that stubborn sort he is,
Who, if they once grow fond of an opinion,
They call it honour, honesty, and faith,
And sooner part with life than let it go.

ter, Piping and playing, minstrelsy and masquing; Till life fled from us like an idle dream, A shew of mummery without a meaning. My brother,―rest and pardon to his soul! Is gone to his account; for this his minion, The revel rout is done-But you were speaking Concerning her-I have been told, that you Are frequent in your visitation to her.

Hast. No farther, my good lord, than friendly pity,

And tender-hearted charity allow.

Glost. Go to; I did not mean to chide you for it.

For, sooth to say, I hold it noble in you
To cherish the distressed-On with your tale.
Hast. Thus it is, gracious sir, that certain offi-

cers,

Using the warrant of your mighty name,
With insolent, unjust, and lawless power,
Have seized upon the lands which late she held
By grant, from her great master Edward's bounty.
Glost. Somewhat of this, but slightly, have I
heard;

And though some counsellors of forward zeal,
Some of most ceremonious sanctity,
And bearded wisdom, often have provoked
The hand of justice to fall heavy on her;
Yet still, in kind compassion of her weakness,
And tender memory of Edward's love,
I have withheld the merciless stern law
From doing outrage on her helpless beauty.
Hast. Good Heaven, who renders mercy back
for mercy,

With open-handed bounty shall repay you:
This gentle deed shall fairly be set foremost,
To screen the wild escapes of lawless passion,
And the long train of frailties flesh is heir to.
Glost. Thus far the voice of pity pleaded only:
Our farther and more full extent of grace
Is given to your request. Let her attend,
And to ourself deliver up her griefs.
She shall be heard with patience, and each wrong
At full redressed. But I have other news,
Which much import us both; for still my fortunes
Go hand in hand with yours: our common foes,
The queen's relations, our new-fangled gentry,
Have fallen their haughty crests-That for your
privacy.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—An Apartment in JANE SHORE'S House.

Enter BELMOUR and DUMONT.

Bel. How she has lived, you have heard my tale already;

The rest your own attendance in her family, Where I have found the means this day to place

you,

And nearer observation, best will tell you.
See, with what sad and sober cheer she comes.
Enter JANE SHORE.

Sure, or I read her visage much amiss,
Or grief besets her hard. Save you, fair lady!
The blessings of the cheerful morn be on you,
And greet your beauty with its opening sweets!
J. Sh. My gentle neighbour, your good wishes
still

Pursue my hapless fortunes. Ah, good Belmour!
How few, like thee, inquire the wretched out,
And court the offices of soft humanity!
Like thee reserve their raiment for the naked,
Reach out their bread to feed the crying orphan,
Or mix their pitying tears with those that weep!
Thy praise deserves a better tongue than mine,
To speak and bless thy name. Is this the gentle-

He wears the marks of many years well spent, Of virtue, truth well tried, and wise experience; A friend like this would suit my sorrows well.Fortune, I fear me, sir, has meant you ill,

[To DUM.
Who pays your merit with that scanty pittance,
Which my poor hand and humble roof can give.
But to supply these golden 'vantages,
Which elsewhere you might find, expect to meet
A just regard and value for your worth,
The welcome of a friend, and the free partner-
ship

Of all that little good the world allows me.
Dum. You over-rate me much; and all my

answer

Must be my future truth; let them speak for me, And make up my deserving.

J.. Sh. Are you of England?

Dum. No, gracious lady, Flanders claims my birth;

| At Antwerp has my constant biding been, Where sometimes I have known more plenteous days

Than these which now my failing age affords.
J. Sh. Alas! at Antwerp!-Oh, forgive my
tears!
[Weeping.

They fall for my offences-and must fall
Long, long ere they shall wash my stains away.
You knew perhaps-Oh grief! oh shame!-my

husband?

Dum. I knew him well-but stay this flood of

anguish !

The senseless grave feels not your pious sorrows:
Three years and more are past, since I was bid,
With many of our common friends, to wait him
To his last peaceful mansion. I attended,
Sprinkled his clay-cold corse with holy drops
According to our church's rev'rend rite,
And saw him laid in hallow'd ground, to rest.
J. Sh. Oh, that my soul had known no joy but
him!

That I had lived within his guiltless arms,
And, dying, slept in innocence beside him!
But now his dust abhors the fellowship,
And scorns to mix with mine.

Alic. And yet some of those days my friend has known,

Some of those years might pass for golden ones,
At least if womankind can judge of happiness.
What could we wish, we, who delight in empire,
Whose beauty is our sovereign good, and gives us
Our reasons to rebel, and power to reign,
What could we more than to behold a monarch,
Lovely, renowned, a conqueror, and young,
Bound in our chains, and sighing at our feet?
J. Sh. 'Tis true, the royal Edward was a won-
der,

The goodly pride of all our English youth;
He was the very joy of all that saw him;
Formed to delight, to love, and to persuade.
Impassive spirits and angelic natures
Might have been charmed, like yielding human
weakness,

Stooped from their heaven, and listened to his

talking.

But what had I to do with kings and courts?
My humble lot had cast me far beneath him;
And that he was the first of all mankind,
The bravest, and most lovely, was my curse.
Alic. Sure, something more than fortune
joined your loves:

Nor could his greatness, and his gracious form,
Be elsewhere matched so well, as to the sweet-

ness

And beauty of my friend.

J. Sh. Name him no more!

He was the bane and ruin of my peace.

This anguish and these tears, these are the legacies

His fatal love has left me. Thou wilt see me,
Believe me, my Alicia, thou wilt see me,
E'er yet a few short days pass o'er my head,
Abandoned to the very utmost wretchedness.
The hand of power has seized almost the whole
Of what was left for needy life's support;
Shortly thou wilt behold me poor, and kneeling
Before thy charitable door for bread.

Alic. Joy of my life, my dearest Shore, forbear
To wound my heart with thy foreboding sorrows!
Raise thy sad soul to better hopes than these;
Lift up thy eyes, and let them shine once more,
Bright as the morning sun above the mist.
Exert thy charms, seek out the stern protector,
And soothe his savage temper with thy beauty:
Spite of his deadly, unrelenting nature,
He shall be moved to pity, and redress thee.
J. Sh. My form, alas! has long forgot to please;.
The scene of beauty and delight is changed;
No roses bloom upon my fading cheek,
Nor laughing graces wanton in my eyes;
But haggard grief, lean-looking sallow care,
And pining discontent, a rueful train,
Dwell on my brow, all hideous and forlorn.
One only shadow of a hope is left me;
The noble-minded Hastings, of his goodness,
Has kindly underta'en to be my advocate,

cause!

But wherefore should he not? Hastings has eyes;
The gentle lord has a right tender heart,
Melting and easy, yielding to impression,
And catching the soft flame from each new
beauty;

But yours shall charm him long.
J. Sh. Away, you flatterer!

Nor charge his generous meaning with a weakness,

Which his great soul and virtue must disdain.
Too much of love thy hapless friend has proved,
Too many giddy foolish hours are gone,
And in fantastic measures danced away:
May the remaining few know only friendship!
So thou, my dearest, truest, best Alicia,
Vouchsafe to lodge me in thy gentle heart,
A partner there, I will give up mankind,
Forget the transports of increasing passion,
And all the pangs we feel for its decay.
Alic. Live! live and reign for ever in my bo-
som!
[Embracing.
Safe and unrivalled there, possess thy own;
And you, the brightest of the stars above,
Ye saints, that once were women here below,
Be witness of the truth, the holy friendship,
Which here to this my other self I vow!
If I not hold her nearer to my soul,
Than every other joy the world can give;
Let poverty, deformity, and shame,

Distraction and despair seize me on earth!
Let not my faithless ghost have peace hereafter,
Nor taste the bliss of your celestial fellowship!

J. Sh. Yes, thou art true, and only thou art

true;

Therefore these jewels, once the lavish bounty Of royal Edward's love, I trust to thee;

[Giving a casket. Receive this, all that I can call my own, And let it rest unknown, and safe with thee: That if the state's injustice should oppress me, Strip me of all, and turn me out a wanderer, My wretchedness may find relief from thee, And shelter from the storm.

Alic. My all is thine;

One common hazard shall attend us both,
And both be fortunate, or both be wretched.
But let thy fearful doubting heart be still;
The saints and angels have thee in their charge,
And all things shall be well. Think not, the
good,

The gentle deeds of mercy thou hast done,
Shall die forgotten all; the poor, the prisoner,
The fatherless, the friendless, and the widow,
Who daily own the bounty of thy hand,
Shall cry to Heaven, and pull a blessing on
thee;

Even man, the merciless insulter man,
Man, who rejoices in our sex's weakness,
Shall pity thee, and with unwonted goodness
Forget thy failings, and record thy praise.

J. Sh. Why should I think that man will do for me,

What yet he never did for wretches like me?
Mark by what partial justice we are judged :
Such is the fate unhappy women find,
And such the curse entailed upon our kind,
That man, the lawless libertine, may rove,
Free and unquestioned through the wilds of love;
While woman, sense and nature's easy fool,
If poor weak woman swerve from virtue's rule,

If, strongly charmed, she leave the thorny way,
And in the softer paths of pleasure stray,
Ruin ensues, reproach and endless shame,
And one false step entirely damns her fame:
In vain with tears the loss she may deplore,
In vain look back on what she was before;
She sets, like stars that fall, to rise no more.
[Exeunt.

SCENE I.-Continues.

Enter ALICIA, speaking to JANE SHORE as en

tering.

Alic. No farther, gentle friend; good angels guard you,

And spread their gracious wings about your slumbers!

The drowsy night grows on the world, and now
The busy craftsman and o'er-laboured hind
Forget the travail of the day in sleep:
Care only wakes, and moping pensiveness;
With meagre discontented looks they sit,
And watch the wasting of the midnight taper.
Such vigils must I keep, so wakes my soul,
Restless and self-tormented! Oh, false Hastings!
Thou hast destroyed my peace.—

What noise is that?

[Knocking within.

The lord protector has received her suit,
And means to shew her grace.

Alic. My friend, my lord!

Hast. Yes, lady, yours: none has a right more ample

To task my power than you.

Alic. I want the words,

To pay you back a compliment so courtly; But my heart guesses at the friendly meaning, And will not die your debtor.

Hast. 'Tis well, madam. But I would see your friend.

Alic. Oh, thou false lord!

I would be mistress of my heaving heart,
Stifle this rising rage, and learn from thee
To dress my face in easy dull indifference:
But 'twill not be; my wrongs will tear their way,
And rush at once upon thee.

Hast. Are you wise?

Have you the use of reason? Do you wake?
What means this raving, this transporting passion?
Alic. Oh, thou cool traitor! thou insulting
tyrant!

Dost thou behold my poor distracted heart,
Thus rent with agonizing love and rage,

And ask me what it means? Art thou not false?
Am I not scorned, forsaken, and abandoned,
Left, like a common wretch, to shame and in-

famy,

These endless quarrels, discontents, and jealousies, These never-ceasing wailings and complainings, These furious starts, these whirlwinds of the soul, Which every other moment rise to madness?

Alic. What proof, alas! have I not given of
love?
What have I not abandoned to thy arms?
Have I not set at nought my noble birth,
A spotless fame, and an unblemished race,
The peace of innocence, and pride of virtue ?
My prodigality has given thee all;

And now I've nothing left me to bestow,
You hate the wretched bankrupt you have made.
Hast. Why am I thus pursued from place to