Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. Thy praises were unjust; but I'll deserve 'em, And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt; Lead me to victory; thou know'st the way.

Vent. And will you leave this-—

Ant. Pr'ythee, do not curse her,

And I will leave her; though, heav'n knows, I love
Beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honour;
But I will leave her.

Vent. That's my royal master.

And shall we fight?

Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier ;

Thou shalt behold me once again in iron,
And, at the head of our old troops, that beat
The Parthians, cry aloud, Come, follow me.'

Vent. Oh, now I hear my emperor! In that word
Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day,
And, if I have ten years behind, take all;
I'll thank you for th' exchange.

Ant. Oh, Cleopatra !

Vent. Again!

Ant. I've done. In that last sigh she went; Cæsar shall know what 'tis to force a lover From all he holds most dear.

Vent. Methinks you breathe

Another soul; your looks are more divine;
You speak a hero, and you move a god.

Ant. Oh, thou hast fir'd me; my soul's up in arms,
And man's each part about me. Once again
That noble eagerness of fight has seiz'd me;
That eagerness with which I darted upward
To Cassius' camp. In vain the steepy hill
Oppos'd my way; in vain a war of spears
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield;
I won the trenches, while my foremost men
Lagg'd on the plain below.

Vent. Ye gods, ye gods, For such another honour!

Ant. Come on, my soldier;

Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long
Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I,
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops,
May taste fate to 'em, mow 'em on a passage,
And, ent'ring where the utmost squadrons yield,
Begin the noble harvest of the field.

[Scene between Dorax and Sebastian.] [Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, is defeated in battle, and taken prisoner by the Moors. He is saved from death by Dorax, a noble Portuguese, then a renegade in the court of the Emperor of Barbary, but formerly Don Alonzo of Alcazar. The train being dismissed, Dorax takes off his turban, and assumes his Portuguese dress and manner.]

Dor. Now, do you know me?

Seb. Thou shouldst be Alonzo.

Dor. So you should be Sebastian;

But when Sebastian ceas'd to be himself,

I ceased to be Alonzo.

Seb. As in a dream

I see thee here, and scarce believe mine eyes.
Dor. Is it so strange to find me where my wrongs,
And your inhuman tyranny, have sent me?
Think not you dream: or, if you did, my injuries
Shall call so loud, that lethargy should wake,
And death should give you back to answer nic.
A thousand nights have brush'd their balmy wings
Over these eyes; but ever when they clos'd,
Your tyrant image forc'd them ope again,
And dried the dews they brought.
The long-expected hour is come at length,
By manly vengeance to redeem my fame:
And that once clear'd, eternal sleep is welcome.
Seb. I have not yet forgot I am a king,
Whose royal office is redress of wrongs:
If I have wrong'd thee, charge me face to face;
I have not yet forgot I am a soldier.

Dor. 'Tis the first justice thou hast ever done me;
Then, though I loathe this woman's war of tongues,
Yet shall my cause of vengeance first be clear;
And, Honour, be thou judge.

Seb. Honour befriend us both.
Beware, I warn thee yet, to tell thy griefs
In terms becoming majesty to hear:

I warn thee thus, because I know thy temper
Is insolent and haughty to superiors:
How often hast thou brav'd my peaceful court,
Fill'd it with noisy brawls and windy boasts;
And with past service, nauseously repeated,
Reproach'd ev'n me, thy prince?

Dor. And well I might, when you forgot reward,
The part of heav'n in kings; for punishment
Is hangman's work, and drudgery for devils.
I must and will reproach thee with my service,
Tyrant! It irks me so to call my prince;
But just resentment and hard usage coin'd
Th' unwilling word, and, grating as it is,
Take it, for 'tis thy due.

Seb. How, tyrant?

Dor. Tyrant!

Seb. Traitor! that name thou canst not echo back: That robe of infamy, that circumcision,

Ill hid beneath that robe, proclaim thee traitor;
And if a name

More foul than traitor be, 'tis renegade.

Dor. If I'm a traitor, think, and blush, thou tyrant, Whose injuries betray'd me into treason, Effac'd my loyalty, unhing'd my faith, And hurried me from hopes of heav'n to hell; All these, and all my yet unfinish'd crimes, When I shall rise to plead before the saints, I charge on thee, to make thy damning sure. Seb. Thy old presumptuous arrogance again, That bred my first dislike, and then my loathing; Once more be warn'd, and know me for thy king.

Dor. Too well I know thee, but for king no more: This is not Lisbon, nor the circle this,

Where, like a statue, thou hast stood besieg'd
By sycophants, and fools, the growth of courts;
Where thy gull'd eyes, in all the gaudy round,
Met nothing but a lie in every face;

And the gross flattery of a gaping crowd,
Envious who first should catch, and first applaud
The stuff or royal nonsense: when I spoke,
My honest homely words were carp'd, and censur'd,
For want of courtly style: related actions,
Though modestly reported, pass'd for boasts:
Secure of merit, if I ask'd reward,
Thy hungry minions thought their rights invaded,
And the bread snatch'd from pimps and parasites.
Henriquez answer'd, with a ready lie,

To save his king's, the boon was begg'd before.
Seb. What say'st thou of Henriquez? Now, by
heav'n,

Thou mov'st me more by barely naming him,
Than all thy foul, unmanner'd, scurril taunts.
Dor. And therefore 'twas to gall thee that I nam'd

him;

That thing, that nothing, but a cringe and smile;
That woman, but more daub'd; or if a man,
Corrupted to a woman; thy man-mistress.
Seb. All false as hell or thou.

Dor. Yes; full as false

As that I serv'd thee fifteen hard campaigns,
And pitch'd thy standard in these foreign fields:
By me thy greatness grew; thy years grew with it;
But thy ingratitude outgrew them both.

Seb. I see to what thou tend'st; but tell me first,
If those great acts were done alone for me:
If love produc'd not some, and pride the rest!
Dor. Why, love does all that's noble here below:
But all th' advantage of that love was thine:
For, coming fraughted back, in either hand

Dor. Beware of patience too;

With palm and olive, victory and peace,
I was indeed prepar'd to ask my own
(For Violante's vows were mine before):
Thy malice had prevention, ere I spoke;
And ask'd me Violante for Henriquez.

Seb. I meant thee a reward of greater worth.
Dor. Where justice wanted, could reward be hop'd?
Could the robb'd passenger expect a bounty
From those rapacious hands who stripp'd him first?
Seb. He had my promise ere I knew thy love.
Dor. My services deserv'd thou shouldst revoke it.
Seb. Thy insolence had cancell'd all thy service;
To violate my laws, even in my court,
Sacred to peace, and safe from all affronts;
Ev'n to my face, and done in my despite,
Under the wing of awful majesty

To strike the man I lov'd!

Dor. Ev'n in the face of heav'n, a place more sacred, Would I have struck the man who, prompt by power, Would seize my right, and rob me of my love: But, for a blow provoked by thy injustice, The hasty product of a just despair, When he refus'd to meet me in the field,

That thou shouldst make a coward's cause thy own! Seb. He durst: nay, more, desir'd and begg'd with tears,

To meet thy challenge fairly: 'twas thy fault
To make it public; but my duty, then

To interpose, on pain of my displeasure,
Betwixt your swords.

Dor. On pain of infamy

He should have disobey'd.

Seb. Th' indignity thou didst was meant to me:
Thy gloomy eyes were cast on me with scorn,
As who should say, the blow was there intended;
But that thou didst not dare to lift thy hands
Against anointed power: so was I forc'd
To do a sovereign justice to myself,
And spurn thee from my presence.
Dor. Thou hast dar'd

To tell me what I durst not tell myself:

I durst not think that I was spurn'd, and live;
And live to hear it boasted to my face.
All my long avarice of honour lost,
Heap'd up in youth, and hoarded up

for age:

Has Honour's fountain then suck'd back the stream?
He has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass,
And gather pebbles from the naked ford.
Give me my love, my honour; give them back-
Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it.

Seb. Now, by this honour'd order which I wear,
More gladly would I give than thou dar'st ask it.
Nor shall the sacred character of king

Be urg'd to shield me from thy bold appeal.
If I have injur'd thee, that makes us equal:
The wrong, if done, debas'd me down to thee:
But thou hast charg'd me with ingratitude;
Hast thou not charg'd me? Speak.

Dor. Thou know'st I have:

If thou disown'st that imputation, draw,
And prove my charge a lie.

Seb. No; to disprove that lie, I must not draw:
Be conscious to thy worth, and tell thy soul
What thou hast done this day in my defence:
To fight thee, after this, what were it else
Than owning that ingratitude thou urgest?
That isthmus stands between two rushing seas;
Which, mounting, view each other from afar,
And strive in vain to meet.

Dor. I'll cut that isthmus:

Thou know'st I meant not to preserve thy life,
But to reprieve it, for my own revenge.

I sav'd thee out of honourable malice:

Now draw; I should be loath to think thou dar'st not: Beware of such another vile excuse.

Seb. Oh, patience, heav'n!

That's a suspicious word: it had been proper,
Before thy foot had spurn'd me; now 'tis base:
Yet, to disarm thee of thy last defence,

I have thy oath for my security:

The only boon I begg'd was this fair combat:
Fight, or be perjur'd now; that's all thy choice.

Seb. Now can I thank thee as thou wouldst be
thank'd:
[Drawing.

Never was vow of honour better paid,

If my true sword but hold, than this shall be.
The sprightly bridegroom, on his wedding-night,
More gladly enters not the lists of love.
Why, 'tis enjoyment to be summon'd thus.
Go; bear my message to Henriquez' ghost;
And say his master and his friend reveng'd him.
Dor. His ghost! then is my hated rival dead?
Seb. The question is beside our present purpose;
Thou seest me ready; we delay too long.

Dor. A minute is not much in either's life,
When there's but one betwixt us; throw it in,
And give it him of us who is to fall.

Seb. He's dead: make haste, and thou may'st yet o'ertake him.

Dor. When I was hasty, thou delay'dst me longer. I pr'ythee, let me hedge one moment more Into thy promise: for thy life preserved, Be kind; and tell me how that rival died, Whose death, next thine, I wish'd.

Seb. If it would please thee, thou shouldst never But thou, like jealousy, inquir'st a truth, [know. Which found, will torture thee: he died in fight: Fought next my person; as in concert fought: Kept pace for pace, and blow for every blow; Save when he heav'd his shield in my defence, And on his naked side received my wound: Then, when he could no more, he fell at once, But roll'd his falling body cross their way, And made a bulwark of it for his prince.

Dor. I never can forgive him such a death! Seb. I prophesied thy proud soul could not bear it. Now, judge thyself, who best deserv'd my love. I knew you both; and, durst I say, as heav'n Foreknew among the shining angel host

Who should stand firm, who fall.

Dor. Had he been tempted so, so had he fall'n; And so had I been favour'd, had I stood.

Seb. What had been, is unknown; what is, appears ; Confess he justly was preferr'd to thee.

Dor. Had I been born with his indulgent stars,
My fortune had been his, and his been mine.
Oh, worse than hell! what glory have I lost,
And what has he acquir'd by such a death!
I should have fallen by Sebastian's side;
My corpse had been the bulwark of my king.
His glorious end was a patch'd work of fate,
Ill-sorted with a soft effeminate life:
It suited better with my life than his
So to have died: mine had been of a piece,
Spent in your service, dying at your feet.

Seb. The more effeminate and soft his life,
The more his fame, to struggle to the field,
And meet his glorious fate: confess, proud spirit
(For I will have it from thy very mouth),
That better he deserv'd my love than thou.

Dor. Oh, whither would you drive me! I must grant, Yes, I must grant, but with a swelling soul, Henriquez had your love with more desert:

For you he fought and died; I fought against you;
Through all the mazes of the bloody field
Hunted your sacred life; which that I miss'd,
Was the propitious error of my fate,

Not of my soul; my soul's a regicide.

Seb. Thou mightst have given it a more gentle name; Thou meant'st to kill a tyrant, not a king. Speak; didst thou not, Alonzo?

25

Dor. Can I speak?

Alas! I cannot answer to Alonzo: No, Dorax cannot answer to Alonzo: Alonzo was too kind a name for me.

Then, when I fought and conquer'd with your arms,
In that bless'd age I was the man you nam'd;
Till rage and pride debas'd me into Dorax,
And lost, like Lucifer, my name above.

Seb. Yet twice this day I ow'd my life to Dorax. Dor. I sav'd you but to kill you: there's my grief. Seb. Nay, if thou canst be griev'd, thou canst repent; Thou couldst not be a villain, though thou wouldst': Thou own'st too much, in owning thou hast err'd; And I too little, who provok'd thy crime.

Dor. Oh, stop this headlong torrent of your goodness; It comes too fast upon a feeble soul

Half drown'd in tears before; spare my confusion:
For pity, spare, and say not first you err'd.

For yet I have not dar'd, through guilt and shame,
To throw myself beneath your royal feet.
Now spurn this rebel, this proud renegade:
"Tis just you should, nor will I more complain.

Seb. Indeed thou shouldst not ask forgiveness first;
But thou prevent'st me still, in all that's noble.
Yes, I will raise thee up with better news:
Thy Violante's heart was ever thine;

Compell'd to wed, because she was my ward,
Her soul was absent when she gave her hand:
Nor could my threats, or his pursuing courtship,
Effect the consummation of his love:

So, still indulging tears, she pines for thee,

A widow and a maid.

Dor. Have I been cursing heav'n, while heaven bless'd me?

shall run mad with ecstacy of joy:
What, in one moment to be reconcil'd
To heav'n, and to my king, and to my love!
But pity is my friend, and stops me short,
For my unhappy rival. Poor Henriquez!

Seb. Art thou so generous, too, to pity him?"
Nay, then, I was unjust to love him better.
Here let me ever hold thee in my arms;
And all our quarrels be but such as these,
Who shall love best, and closest shall embrace:
Be what Henriquez was: be my Alonzo.

Dor. What! my Alonzo, said you? My Alonzo?
Let my tears thank you; for I cannot speak;
And if I could,

Words were not made to vent such thoughts as mine.
Seb. Thou canst not speak, and I can ne'er be silent.
Some strange reverse of fate must sure attend
This vast profusion, this extravagance
Of heav'n to bless me thus. 'Tis gold so pure,
It cannot bear the stamp, without alloy.
Be kind, ye pow'rs, and take but half away:
With ease the gifts of fortune I resign;
But let my love, and friend, be ever mine.

THOMAS OTWAY.

Where Dryden failed, one of his young contemporaries succeeded. The tones of domestic tragedy and the deepest distress were sounded, with a power and intenseness of feeling never surpassed, by the unfortunate THOMAS OTWAY; a brilliant name associated with the most melancholy history. Otway was born at Trotting in Sussex, March 3, 1651, the son of a clergyman. He was educated first at Winchester school and afterwards at Oxford, but left college without taking his degree. In 1672 he made his appearance as an actor on the London stage. To this profession his talents were ill adapted, but he probably acquired a knowledge of dramatic art, which was serviceable to him when he began to write for the theatre. He produced three tragedies, Alcibiades, Don Carlos, and Titus and Berenice, which

travagance, was prematurely closed in 1685. One of his biographers relates, that the immediate cause of his death was his hastily swallowing, after a long fast, a piece of bread which charity had supplied. According to another account he died of fever, occasioned by fatigue, or by drinking water when violently heated. Whatever was the immediate cause of his death, he was at the time in circumstances of great poverty.

The fame of Otway now rests on his two tragedies, the 'Orphan,' and 'Venice Preserved;' but on these it rests as on the pillars of Hercules. His talents in scenes of passionate affection 'rival, at least, and sometimes excel, those of Shakspeare: more tears have been shed, probably, for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia than for those of Juliet and Desdemona. The plot of the 'Orphan,' from its inherent indelicacy and painful associations, has driven this play from the theatres; but 'Venice Preserved' is still one of the most popular and effective tragedies. The stern plotting character of Pierre is well contrasted with the irresolute, sensitive, and affectionate nature of Jaffier; and the harsh unnatural cruelty of Priuli serves as a dark shade, to set off the bright purity and tenderness of his daughter. The pathetic and harrowing plot is well managed, and deepens towards the close; and the genius of Otway shines in his delineation of the passions of the heart, the ardour of love, and the excess of misery and despair. The versification of these dramas is sometimes rugged and irregular, and there are occasional redundancies and inflated expressions, which a more correct taste would have expunged; yet, even in propriety of style and character, how much does this young and care less poet excel the great master Dryden!

*Sir Walter Scott.

[Scenes from Venice Preserved.]

Scene St Mark's. Enter PRIULI and JAFFIER.

Pri. No more! I'll hear no more! begone, and leave me!

Jaf. Not hear me ! by my sufferings but you shall! My lord-my lord! I'm not that abject wretch You think me. Patience! where's the distance throws Me back so far, but I may boldly speak

In right, though proud oppression will not hear me? Pri. Have you not wrong'd me?

Jaf. Could my nature e'er

Have brook'd injustice, or the doing wrongs,
I need not now thus low have bent myself
To gain a hearing from a cruel father.
Wrong'd you?

Pri. Yes, wrong'd me! in the nicest point,
The honour of my house, you've done me wrong.
You may remember (for I now will speak,
And urge its baseness) when you first came home
From travel, with such hopes as made you look'd on
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation;
Pleas'd with your growing virtue, I receiv'd you;
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits;
My house, my table, nay, my fortune too,

My very self, was yours; you might have us'd me
To your best service; like an open friend
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine;
When, in requital of my best endeavours,
You treacherously practis'd to undo me;
Seduc'd the weakness of my age's darling,
My only child, and stole her from my bosom.
Oh! Belvidera!

Jaf. "Tis to me you owe her:

Childless had you been else, and in the grave
Your name extinct; no more Priuli heard of.
You may remember, scarce five years are past,
Since in your brigantine you sail'd to see
The Adriatic wedded by our duke;
And I was with you: your unskilful pilot
Dash'd us upon a rock; when to your boat
You made for safety: enter'd first yourself;
Th' affrighted Belvidera, following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was by a wave wash'd off into the deep;
When instantly I plung'd into the sea,
And buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeem'd her life with half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her,
And with the other dash'd the saucy waves,
That throng'd and press'd to rob me of my prize.
I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms:
Indeed you thank'd me; but a nobler gratitude
Rose in her soul: for from that hour she lov'd me,
Till for her life she paid me with herself.

Pri. You stole her from me; like a thief you stole her,

At dead of night! that cursed hour you chose
To rifle me of all my heart held dear.
May all your joys in her prove false, like mine!
A sterile fortune and a barren bed
Attend you both: continual discord make
Your days and nights bitter, and grievous still:
May the hard hand of a vexatious need
Oppress and grind you; till at last you find
The curse of disobedience all your portion.
Jaf. Half of your curse you have bestow'd in vain.
Heav'n has already crown'd our faithful loves
With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty:
May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire,
And happier than his father!

Jaf. You talk as if 'twould please you.

Pri. "Twould, by heaven!

Jaf. Would I were in my grave!

Pri. And she, too, with thee;

For, living here, you 're but my curs'd remembrancers I once was happy!

Jaf. You use me thus, because you know my soul Is fond of Belvidera. You perceive

My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me.
Were I that thief, the doer of such wrongs
As you upbraid me with, what hinders me
But I might send her back to you with contumely,
And court my fortune where she would be kinder.
Pri. You dare not do't.

Jaf. Indeed, my lord, I dare not.

My heart, that awes me, is too much my master: Three years are past since first our vows were plighted,

During which time the world must bear me witness
I've treated Belvidera like your daughter,

The daughter of a senator of Venice:
Distinction, place, attendance, and observance,
Due to her birth, she always has commanded:
Out of my little fortune I've done this;
Because (though hopeless e'er to win your nature)
The world might see I lov'd her for herself;
Not as the heiress of the great Priuli.

Jaf. Yes, all, and then adieu for ever. There's not a wretch that lives on common charity But's happier than me; for I have known The luscious sweets of plenty; every night Have slept with soft content about my head, And never wak'd but to a joyful morning: Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn, Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in the ripening. Pri. Home, and be humble; study to retrench; Discharge the lazy vermin in thy hall,

Those pageants of thy folly:

Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state:
Then to some suburb cottage both retire;
Drudge to feed loathsome life; get brats and starve.
Home, home, I say.

[Exit.

Jaf. Yes, if my heart would let meThis proud, this swelling heart: home I would go, But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, Fill'd and damm'd up with gaping creditors: I've now not fifty ducats in the world, Yet still I am in love, and pleas'd with ruin. O Belvidera! Oh! she is my wifeAnd we will bear our wayward fate together, But ne'er know comfort more.

Bel. My lord, my love, my refuge! Happy my eyes when they behold thy face! My heavy heart will leave its doleful beating At sight of thee, and bound with sprightly joys. Oh, smile, as when our loves were in their spring, And cheer my fainting soul !

Were in their spring! Has, then, my fortune chang'd thee?

Art thou not, Belvidera, still the same,

Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first found thee?

If thou art alter'd, where shall I have harbour?
Where ease my loaded heart? Oh! where complain?
Bel. Does this appear like change, or love decaying,
When thus I throw myself into thy bosom,
With all the resolution of strong truth?
I joy more in thee

Than did thy mother, when she hugg'd thee first,
And bless'd the gods for all her travail past.

Jaf. Can there in woman be such glorious faith? Sure, all ill stories of thy sex are false ! Oh, woman! lovely woman! Nature made thee To temper man: we had been brutes without you! Angels are painted fair, to look like you: There's in you all that we believe of Heav'n; Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love!

Bel. If love be treasure, we'll be wondrous rich;
Oh! lead me to some desert, wide and wild,
Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul
May have its vent, where I may tell aloud
To the high heavens, and ev'ry list'ning planet,
With what a boundless stock my bosom's fraught.
Jaf. Oh, Belvidera! doubly I'm a beggar:
Undone by fortune, and in debt to thee.
Want, worldly want, that hungry meagre fiend,
Is at my heels, and chases me in view.
Canst thou bear cold and hunger? Can these limbs,
Fram'd for the tender offices of love,
Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty?
When banish'd by our miseries abroad
(As suddenly we shall be), to seek out

In some far climate, where our names are strangers,
For charitable succour, wilt thou then,
When in a bed of straw we shrink together,

And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads;
Wilt thou then talk thus to me? Wilt thou then
Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love?

Bel. Oh! I will love, even in madness love thee!
Though my distracted senses should forsake me,
I'd find some intervals when my poor heart
Should 'suage itself, and be let loose to thine.
Though the bare earth be all our resting place,
Its roots our food, some cliff our habitation,
I'll make this arm a pillow for thine head;
And, as thou sighing liest, and swell'd with sorrow,
Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love
Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest;
Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning.
Jaf. Hear this, you Heav'ns, and wonder how you
made her!

Reign, reign, ye monarchs, that divide the world,
Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know
Tranquillity and happiness like mine;
Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows fall,
And rise again, to lift you in your pride;

They wait but for a storm, and then devour you!
I, in my private bark already wreck'd,

Like a poor merchant, driven to unknown land,
That had, by chance, pack'd up his choicest treasure
In one dear casket, and sav'd only that:
Since I must wander farther on the shore,
Thus hug my little, but my precious store,
Resolv'd to scorn and trust my fate no more. [Exeunt.

[Jaffier joins with Pierre and others in a conspiracy against the senate. He communicates the secret to Belvidera, and she, anxious to save her father's life, prevails on Jaffier to disclose the whole to the senators. The betrayed conspirators are condemned to death.]

Scene A Street. Enter JAFFIER,

Jaf. Final destruction seize on all the world! Bend down, ye heav'ns, and, shutting round the earth, Crush the vile globe into its own confusion!

Jaf. 'Twas a rash oath.

Bel. Then why am I not curs'd too.

Jaf. No, Belvidera; by th' eternal truth,

I dote with too much fondness.
Bel. Still so kind?

Still, then, do you love me?

Jaf. Man ne'er was bless'd,

Since the first pair first met, as I have been.
Bel. Then sure you will not curse me?
Jaf. No, I'll bless thee.

I came on purpose, Belvidera, to bless thee.
'Tis now, I think, three years we've liv'd together.

Bel. And may no fatal minute ever part us, Till, reverend grown, for age and love, we go Down to one grave, as our last bed, together; There sleep in peace till an eternal morning. Jaf. Did not I say I came to bless thee? Bel. You did.

Jaf. Then hear me, bounteous Heaven, Pour down your blessings on this beauteous head, Where everlasting sweets are always springing, With a continual giving hand: let peace, Honour, and safety, always hover round her: Feed her with plenty; let her eyes ne'er see A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know mourning; Crown all her days with joy, her nights with rest, Harmless as her own thoughts; and prop her virtue, To bear the loss of one that too much lov'd; And comfort her with patience in our parting. Bel. How? parting, parting?

Jaf. Yes, for ever parting!

I have sworn, Belvidera, by yon Heav'n,
That best can tell how much I lose to leave thee,
We part this hour for ever.

Bel. Oh! call back

Your cruel blessing; stay with me, and curse me. Jaf. Now hold, heart, or never.

Bel. By all the tender days we've liv'd together,
Pity my sad condition; speak, but speak.
Jaf. Murder! unhold me:

Or by th' immortal destiny that doom'd me
[Draws his dagger.
Resolve to let me go, or see me fall-
To this curs'd minute, I'll not live one longer:

Hark-the dismal bell

[Passing bell tolls. '|

Tolls out for death! I must attend its call too;
For my poor friend, my dying Pierre, expects me:
He sent a message to require I'd see him
Before he died, and take his last forgiveness.
Farewell for ever!

Bel. Leave thy dagger with me:

Bequeath me something. Not one kiss at parting!
Oh, my poor heart, when wilt thou break!
Jaf. Yet stay:

We have a child, as yet a tender infant:
Be a kind mother to him when I am gone: