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But hopes of life reviving from my wounds,
I was preserved but to be made a slave.
I often writ to my hard father, but never had
An answer; I writ to thee too.

ISA. What a world of woe
Had been prevented but in hearing from you!

Bır. Alas! thou couldst not hep me.

Isa. You do not know how much I could have done;
At least, I'm sure I could have suffered all;
I would have sold myself to slavery,
Without redemption; given up my child,
The dearest part of me, to basest wants.
BiR. My little boy !

ISA, My life, but to have heard
You were alive.

Bir. No more, my love; complaining of the past,
We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price
Of all my pains, that thus we meet again !
I have a thousand things' way to thee.

Isa. Would I were ,ast ..- hearing.

BIR. How does my child, my boy, my father too?
I hear he's living stili.

Isa. Well, both; both well;
And may be prove a father o your hopes,
Though we have found in 1 be.

Bir. Come, no more tears.

Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss
Have mourned with me,

BIR. And all my days to came
Shall be employed in a kind recompense
For thy amictions. Can't Ice my boy?

Isa. He's gone to bed ; I 'll have him brought to you.

Bir. To-morrow I shall coo him, I want rest Myself, after this we..dy 1 ilgrimage.

Isa. Alus! what shall I get for you?

Bir. Nothing ut rest, my love. To-night I would not
Be known, if possible, to your family:
be knowl, 11Post w
I see my nurse is with you; her welcome

Would be tedious at this time;
To-inorrow will do better.

Isa, l'll dispose of her, and order everything
As you would have it.

Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the means
To make this wondrous goodness some amende ;
And let me then forget her, if I can.
Oh! she deserves of me much more than I
Can lose for her, though I again could venture
A father and his fortune for her love!
You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all!
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth
Weighs down the portions you provide your song,
What is your trash, what ail your heaps of gold,
Compared to this, my heartfelt happiness?
What has slie, in my absence, undergone ?
I must not think of that; it drives me back
Upon myself, the fatal cause of al.

Isa. I have oveyed yonr pleasure;
Everything is ready for you.

Bix. I can want nothing here; possessing thee, All my desires are carried to their aim


[Exit Biron,

Of happiness; there's no room for a wish,
But to continue still this blessing to me;
I know the way, my love, I shall sleep sound.

Isa. Shall I attend you?

Bır. By no means;
I've been so long a slave to others' pride,
To learn, at least, to wait upon myself;
You'll make haste after ?

ISA. I'll but say my prayers, and follow you.
My prayers! 1o, I must never pray again.
Prayers have their blessings, to reward our hopes,
But I have nothing left to hope for more,
What Heaven could give I have enjoyed; but now
The baneful planet rises on my fate,
And what's to come is a long life of woe;
Yet I may shorten it
I promised him to follow-bim !
Is he without a name ? Biron, my husband
My husband! Ha! What, then, is Villeroy ?
Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner!
What's to be done ? for something must be done.
Two hosbands ! married to both,
And yet a wife to neither. Hold, my brain-
Ha! a lucky thought
Works the right way to rid me of them all.
All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns,
That every tongue and finger will find for me.
Let the just horror of my apprehensions
But keep me warm; no matter what can come.
'Tis but a blow; yet I will see him first,
Have a last look, to heighten my despair,
And then to rest forever.


NICHOLAS ROWE. NICHOLAS ROWE was also bred to the law, and forsook it for the tragic drama. He was born in 1673 or 1674 of a good family at Little Barford, in Bedfordshire. His father had an estate at Lamerton, in Devonshire, and was a serjeant-at-law in the Temple. Nicholas, during the earlier years of manhood, lived on a patrimony of £300 a year in chambers in the Temple. His first trageily, · The Ambitious Stepmother,' acted in 1700, was performed with great success; and it was followed by Tamerlane,'The Fair Penitent,''Ulysses,'The Royal Convert,' Jane Shore,' and 'Lady Jane Grey. Rowe, on rising into fame as an author, was munificently patronized. The Duke of Queensberry made him bis secretary for public affairs. On the accession of George I. he was made poet-laureate and a surveyor of customs; the Prince of Wales appointed him clerk of his council; and the Lord Chancellor gave him the office of clerk of the presentations. Rowe was a favourite in society. It is stated that his voice was uncommonly sweet, his observations lively, and his manners so engaging, that his friends, amongst whom were Pope, Swift, and Addison, deliglted in his conversation Yet it is also reported by Spence, that there was a certain levity and carelessness about him, which made Pope, on one occasion, dcclare him to have no heart. Rowe was the first editor of Shakspeare entitled to the name, and the first to attempt the collection of a few biographical particulars of the iminortal dramatist. He was twice married, and died in 1718. His widow-who afterwards married a Colonel Dean-received a pension from the crown, ‘in consideration, not of his dramatic genius, but ‘of the translation of Lucan's “Pharsalia ” made by her late husband! The widow erected a handsome monument over her husband's grave in Westminster Abbey.

In addition to the dramatic works we have enumerated, Rowe was the author of two volumes of miscellaneous poetry, which scarcely ever rises above dull and respectable mediocrity. His tragedies are passionate and tender, with an equable and smooth style of versification, not unlike that of Ford. His · Jane Shore' is still occasionally performed, and is effective in the pathetic scenes descriptive of the sufferings of the heroine. "The Fair Penitent' was long a popular play, and the 'gallant gay Lothario' was the prototype of many stage seducers and romance heroes. Richardson elevated the character in his Lovelace, giving at the same time a purity and sanctity to the sorrows of his Clarissa, which leave Row's Calista imineasurably behind. The incidents of Rowe's dramas are well arranged for stage effect; they are studied and prepared in the manner of the French school, and were adapted to the taste of the age. As the study of Shakspeare and the romantic drama has advanced in this country, Rowe has proportionally declined, and is now but seldom read or acted. His popularity in bis own day is best seen in the epitaph by Pope-a beautiful and tender effusion of friendship, whichi, however, is perhaps not irreconcilable with the anecdote preserved by Spence:

Thy relics, Rowe, to this sad shrine we trust,
And near thy Shakspeare place thy honoured bust;
Oh! next him, skilled to draw the tender tear,
For never heart felt passion more sincere :
To nobler sentiment to fire the brave,
For never Britain more disdained a slave.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Biest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest!
And blest, that timely from our scene removed,
Thy soul enjoys the liberty it loved.'

Penitence and Death of Jane Shore.

BELMOUR. How fare yon, lady?
JANE SHORE. My heait is thrilled with horror.

BEL. Be of courage;
Your husband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend.

JANE S. Still art thou there? still dost thou hover round me?
Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade!

BEL. 'Tis he himself! he lives! look up.

JANE S. I dare not.
Oh, that my eyes could shut him out for ever!

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ORE. Am I go hateful, ther, so deadly to thee,
To blust try eyes with horror? Since I'm grown
A burden to the world, myself, and thee,
Would I had ne'er survived to see thee more.
JANE S. Oh! thou most injured-dost thou live, indeed ?

, ye mountains, on my guilty head !
Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns;
Cast thy black veil upon my sbane, night!
And shield me with thay sable wing for ever.

SHORE. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble thms?
Wify thus indulge thay fears, and in desgair
Abandon thy distracted soul to hoiyor ?
Cast every black and guilty tkought behind thee,
And let'em never vex thy quiet more.
My arms, my heart, are opeu to receive theey
To brizg the back to thy forsaken hoine,
With tender joy, with fond, forgiving love.
Let us heste.
Now, while occasion seems to smile upon us,
Forsake this place of shame, ard find a shelter.
JANE S. What siall I say to you? But I obey
SHORE. Lean on my arm.
JANE S. Alas! I ain woundrous faint:

aot strange, I have nei ate these three dag..
SEORE. Oh, merciless!....
JANE S. Ohi l'm sick at heart?

SHORE. Thou maurderous corrow!
Would thou still drink hier blood, pursue her still?
Müst she then die! Oh, my poor penitent!

peak peace to thy sad keant: she hears me not:
Griei lasters every sense elp me to hold her.

Enter CATES Y With a Gaard.
CATESBY. Seize ou 'em beth, as traitors to the state 1
BEL. What means this violence ?

{Guards lay hold on Share and Belomour.
CATES. Have we not found yoll,
In scorn of the Protector's strict command
Assisting this base woman, and abetting
Her infamy?
_SHORE. Infamy on thy head!
Thou tool of power, thon pander to authority ?
I tes thee, knave, thoukuow'st of none so virtuous,
And she that bore tuce was an Ethiop to her.
CATES. You'll answer this at full : away with 'enta
SIMORE. Is eharity crown treason to your court?
Y hat honest ma weuld live beneath such rulers i
I am content that we should die together.

CATES. Convey the men to prison: but cor ver-
Leave her to hunt her fortare as she inay.
JANE 8. I will act part with laim: IGI' Bie!-or me!

Must he die for me? Followine kim ile he is carried off she fall
SEORE. Iakunan villains !

[Breaks from the Granda
istaut off ! the acronies of death are 041 ker!
She puls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand.

ANE. Was this blow wanting to complete my roin!
Oh! let ne goTe ministers of terror.
He shall offend no more, for I will die,
And yield obedience to your eruel master
Tarry a little, but a little longer,
Aug wake my last breath with yoll.

thou knowost of hicp to lepas

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SHORE. Oh, my love!
Why have I lived to see this bitter moment
This grief by far surpassing all my former?
Why dost thca fix thy dying eyes upon me
With such an earnest, such a piteous look,
As if thy heart were full of some sad meaning
Thon couldstot stak?

JANE S. Forgive ine! hat forgive me !

SHORE. Be winess for me, ye celestial host,
Such mercy and such pardon as my soul
Accords to thee, and begs of Heaven ro shew the
May such befall me at my latest hour,
And make my portion b'est or curst for ever!

JANE S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace.
Tis very dark, and I have lost yon now:
Was there not something I would have bequeathed you?
But I have nothing left me to bestow,
Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh! mercy, Heaven !


Calista's Passion for Lothario.

A Hall-Calista and LUCILLA.
CALISTA. Be dumb for ever, silent as the grave,
Nor let thy fond, oflicioas love disturb
My solemn sadness with the sound of joy.
If thou wilt soothe me, tell some dismal tale
Of piping discontent and black despair ;
For, oh! I've gone around throogh all my thonghts,
But all are indignation, love, or shame,
And my dear peace of mind is lost for ever.

LUCILLA. Why do yon follow still that wandering ire,
That has misled your weary steps, and leaves you
Benighted in a wilderness of woe,
That false Lothario? Turn from the deceiver:
Turn, and behold where gentle Altamout
Sighs at your feet, and woos you to be happy.

CAL Away! I think not of him. My ead soul
Has formed a dismal, melancholy scene,
Such a retreat as I would wish to find:
An unfrequented vale, o'ergrown with trees
Mossy and old, within whose lonesome shade
Ravens and birds ill-omened only dwell :
No sound to break the silence, but a brook
That bubbling winds among the weeds: no mark
Of any hamad shape that had been there,
Unless the skeleton of some poor wretch
Who had long since, like ine, by love undone,
Sought that sad place ont to despair and die in.

Luc. Alas! for pity.
CAL. There I fain would hide me.
From the base world, from malice, and from shame;
For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul
Never to live with public loss of honour:

Tis fixed to die, rather than bear the insolence
Of each affected she that tells my story,
And blesses her good stars that she is virtuous,
To be a tale for tools! Scorned by the women,
And pitted by the men. Oh! insupportable !

Luc. Oh! hear me, hear your ever-faithful creature;
By all the good I wish you, by all the ill
My trembling heart for bodes, let me entreat you

ned by mortable creature;

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