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"He reasons well-his eyes their wildness lose, "He vows the keepers his wrong'd sense abuse. "But if you hint the cause that hurt his brain, "Then his teeth gnash, he foams, he shakes his chain,

"His eyeballs roll, and he is mad again."

Lee was, happily, restored to society from his miserable confinement, though he did not long enjoy his liberty.

He died suddenly in the streets, at the age of thirty-four.

The severe indisposition to which he was subject, may possibly have had influence in guiding his pen to some of those flights of imagination, called by the sober critic-phrenzy. But thus the great Dryden speaks of those flights, and of those critics who censure them.

66

Despise those drones, who praise, while they

accuse,

"The too much vigour of your youthful muse.
"That humble style, which they their virtue make,
"Is in your power-you need but stoop and take.
"Your beauteous images must be allow'd

"By all, but some vile poets of the crowd:
"But how should any sign-post dauber know
"The worth of Titian, or of Angelo?

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RIVAL QUEENS.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

Alexander's Camp before Babylon.

Enter HEPHESTION and LYSIMACHUS, fighting; CLYTUS parting them.

Clyt. What are ye madmen? This a time for quarrel?

Put up,

I

say-or, by the gods that formed me,

He, who refuses, makes a foe of Clytus.

Lys. I have his sword.

Clyt. But must not have his life.

Lys. Must not, old Clytus!

Clyt. Hair-brained boy, you must not.

Heph. Lend me thy sword, thou father of the war, Thou far-famed guard of Alexander's life :

Curse on this weak, unexecuting arm!

Lend it, old Clytus, to redeem my fame;
Lysimachus is brave, and else will scorn me.
Lys. There, take thy sword; and, since thou'rt
bent on death,

Know, 'tis thy glory, that thou diest by me.

Clut. Stay thee, Lysimachus; Hephestion, hold

I bar you both. My body interposed,

Now let me see, which of you dares to strike.

By Jove, you have stirred the old man! That rash

arm,

That first advances, moves against the gods,

And our great king, whose deputy I stand.

Lys. Some properer time must terminate our quarrel.

Heph. And cure the bleeding wounds my honour bears.

Clyt. Some properer time! 'tis false-no hour is

proper;

No time should see a brave man do amiss.

Say, what's the noble cause of all this madness,
What vast ambition blows the dangerous fire?
Why, a vain, smiling, whining, cozening, woman!
By all my triumphs, in the heat of youth,

When towns were sack'd, and beauties prostrate lay,
When my blood boil'd, and nature worked me high,
Clytus ne'er bow'd his body to such shame ;

I knew them, and despised their cobweb arts-
The whole sex is not worth a soldier's thought.
Lys. Our cause of quarrel may to thee seem light
But know, a less hath set the world in arms.

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Clyt. Yes, Troy, they tell us, by a woman fell Curse on the sex, they are the bane of virtue ! Death! I had rather this right arm were lost, Than that the king should hear of your imprudenceWhat, on a day thus set apart for triumph! Lys. We were, indeed, to blame.

Clyt. This memorable day!

When our hot master, whose impatient soul
Out-rides the sun, and sighs for other worlds
To spread his conquests, and diffuse his glory,
Now bids the trumpet for a while be silent,
And plays with monarchs whom he us'd to drive;
Shall we, by broils, awake him into rage,
And rouse the lion that has ceas'd to roar ?

Lys. Clytus, thou'rt right-put up thy sword,
Hephestion:

Had passion not eclipsed the light of reason,
Untold we might this consequence have seen.
Heph. Why has not reason power to conquer love?
Why are we thus enslaved ?

Clyt. Because unmanned;

Because ye follow Alexander's steps.

Heavens! that a face should thus bewitch his soul,
And ruin all that's great and godlike in it!
Talk be my bane-yet the old man must talk.
Not so he loved, when he at Issus fought,
And joined in mighty combat with Darius,
Whom, from his chariot, flaming all with gems,
He hurled to earth, and catch'd th' imperial crown.
'Twas not the shaft of love performed that feat;
He knew no Cupids then. Now mark the change;
A brace of rival queens embroil the court,
And, while each hand is thus employ'd in beauty,
Where has he room for glory?

Heph. In his heart.

Clyt. Well said, young minion!-I indeed forgot To whom I spoke-But Sysigambis comes: Now is your time, for with her comes an idol, That claims homage.-I'll attend the king.

[Exit.

Enter SYSIGAMBIS with a Letter, and PARISATIS.

Sys. Why will ye wound me with your fond complaints,

And urge a suit that I can never grant ;
You know, my child, 'tis Alexander's will?
He demands you for his lov'd Hephestion;
To disobey him might inflame his wrath,
And plunge our house in ruins yet unknown.

Par. To sooth this god, and charm him into temper,

Is there no victim, none but Parisatis ?

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