of my weakness for the false Lothario. I could almost wish I had that heart and that honour to bestow with it, which you have robbed me of:"
"But, O! I fear, could I retrieve 'em, I should again be undone by the too faithless, yet too lovely Lothario. This is the last weakness of my pen, and to-morrow shall be the last in which I will indulge my eyes. Lucilla shall conduct you, if you are kind enough to let me see you: it shall be the last trouble you shall meet with
The lost, indeed! for thou art gone as far
As there can be perdition. Fire and sulphur!
Hell is the sole avenger of such crimes.
Oh, that the ruin were but all thy own!
Thou wilt ev'n make thy father curse his age:
At sight of this black scroll, the gentle Altamont-
-For oh! I know his heart is set upon thee-
Shall droop and hang his discontented head,
Like merit scorn'd by insolent authority,
And never grace the public with his virtues.
What if I give this paper to her father?
It follows that his justice dooms her dead,
And breaks his heart with sorrow: hard return
For all the good his hand has heap'd on us!
Hold, let me take a moment's thought-
Trust me, it joys my heart that I have found you.
Inquiring wherefore you had left the company,
Before my brother's nuptial rites were ended,
They told me you had felt some sudden illness.
Hor. It were unjust :-No, let me spare my friend, Lock up the fatal secret in my breast,
Nor tell him that which will undo his quiet.
Lav. What means my lord?
Hor. Ha! saidst thou, my Lavinia?
Lav. Alas! you know not what you make me suffer, Whence is that sigh? And wherefore are your eyes
Severely raised to Heaven? The sick man thus,
Acknowledging the summons of his fate,
Lifts up his feeble hands and eyes for mercy,
And with confusion thinks upon his audit.
Hor. O, no! thou hast mistook my sickness quite ;
These pangs are of the soul. Wou'd I had met
Sharpest convulsions, spotted pestilence,
Or any other deadly foe to life,
Rather than heave beneath this load of thought! Lav. Alas! what is it! Wherefore turn you from me?
Why did you falsely call me your Lavinia,
And swear I was Horatio's better half,
Since now you mourn unkindly by yourself,
And rob me of my partnership of sadness?
Hor. Seek not to know what I would hide from all,
But most from thee. I never knew a pleasure,
Aught that was joyful, fortunate, or good,
But straight I ran to bless thee with the tidings,
And laid up all my happiness with thee:
But wherefore, wherefore should I give thee pain?
Then spare me, I conjure thee; ask no further;
Allow my melancholy thoughts this privilege,
And let 'em brood in secret o'er their sorrows.
Lav. It is enough: chide not, and all is well.
Forgive me, if I saw you sad, Horatio,
And ask'd to weep out part of your misfortunes:
I wo' not press to know what you forbid me.
Yet, my loved lord, yet you must grant me this;
Forget your cares for this one happy day,
Devote this day to mirth, and to your Altamont ;
For his dear sake, let peace be in your looks.
Ev'n now the jocund bridegroom waits your wishes,
He thinks the priest has but half bless'd his marriage,
Till his friend hails him with the sound of joy.
Hor. Oh, never, never! Thou art innocent:
Simplicity from ill, pure native truth,
And candour of the mind adorn thee ever;
But there are such, such false ones in the world,
"Twould fill thy gentle soul with wild amazement
To hear their story told.
Lav. False ones, my lord!
Hor. Fatally fair they are, and in their smiles
The graces, little loves, and young desires inhabit;
But all that gaze upon 'em are undone;
For they are false, luxurious in their appetites,
And all the heaven they hope for is variety:
One lover to another still succeeds,
Another, and another after that,
And the last fool is welcome as the former;
"Till, having loved his hour out, he gives place,
And mingles with the herd that went before him.
Lav. Can there be such, and have they peace of
Have they, in all the series of their changing,
One happy hour? If women are such things,
How was I form'd so different from my sex?
My little heart is satisfied with you;
You take up all her room,-as in a cottage
Which harbours some benighted princely stranger;
Where the good man, proud of his hospitality,
Yields all his homely dwelling to his guest,
And hardly keeps a corner for himself.
Hor. O, were they all like thee, men would adore 'em,
And all the bus'ness of their lives be loving;
The nuptial band should be the pledge of peace,
And all domestic cares and quarrels cease;
The men should learn to love by virtuous rules,
And marriage be no more the jest of fools. [Exeunt, L
Enter CALISTA and LUCILLA, L.
Cal. (R. c.) Be dumb for ever, silent as the grave,
Nor let thy fond officious love disturb
My solemn sadness with the sound of joy !—
If thou wilt sooth me, tell some dismal tale
Of pining discontent, and black despair;
For, oh! I've gone around through all my thoughts,
But all are indignation, love or shame,
And my dear peace of mind is lost for ever.
Luc. (L. C.) That false Lothario!
Turn, and behold where gentle Altamont
Sighs at your feet, and wooes you to be happy.
Cal. Away! I think not of him. My sad 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-omen'd, only dwell:
No sound to break the silence, but a brook
That bubbling winds among the weeds: no mark
Of any human shape that had been there,
Unless a skeleton of some poor wretch,
Who had, long since, like me, by love undone,
Sought that sad place out, to despair and die in.
Luc. (c.) Alas, for pity!
Cal. (R.) 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 fix'd 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 fools? Scorn'd by the women,
And pity'd by the men! O, insupportable!
[Crosses to L. Luc. Oh, hear me, hear your ever faithful creature! By all the good I wish, by all the ill
My trembling heart forebodes, let me entreat you,
Never to see this faithless man again;
Let me forbid his coming.
Cal. (L. C.) On thy life,
I charge thee, no: my genius drives me on;
I must, I will behold him once again :
Perhaps, it is the crisis of my fate,
And this one interview shall end my cares.
My lab'ring heart that swells with indignation,
Heaves to discharge the burden: that once done,
The busy thing shall rest within its cell,
And never beat again.
Luc. Trust not to that:
Rage is the shortest passion of our souls':
Like narrow brooks that rise with sudden showers,
It swells in haste, and falls again as soon ;
Still, as it ebbs, the softer thoughts flow in,
And the deceiver Love supplies its place.
Cal. (R. c.) I have been wrong'd enough, to arm my temper
Against the smooth delusion; but, alas!
Chide not my weakness, gentle maid, but pity me,—
A woman's softness hangs about me still:
Then let me blush, and tell thee all my folly.
I swear I could not see the dear betrayer
Kneel at my feet, and sigh to be forgiven,
But my relenting heart would pardon all,
And quite forget 'twas he that had undone me.-
Ha, Altamont!-Calista, now be wary;
Nor let this hostile husband's eyes explore
The warring passions, and tumultuous thoughts,
That rage within thee, and deform thy reason.
Alt. (L. c.) Begone, my cares, I give you to the
winds,
Far to be borne, far from the happy Altamont !
Calista is the mistress of the year;
She crowns the seasons with auspicious beauty,
And bids even all my hours be good and joyful,
Cal. If I were ever mistress of such happiness,
O wherefore did I play th' unthrifty fool,
And wasting all on others, leave myself
Without one thought of joy to give me comfort?
Alt. (c.) O, mighty Love, shall that fair face profane
This thy great festival with frowns and sadness!
I swear, it sha' not be; for I will woo thee
With sighs so moving, with so warm a transport,
That thou shalt catch the gentle flame from me,
And kindle into joy.
Cal. I tell thee, Altamont,
Such hearts as ours were never pair'd above,
Ill-suited to each other; join'd, not match'd;
Some sullen influence, a foe to both,
Has wrought this fatal marriage to undo us.
Mark but the frame and temper of our minds,
How very much we differ. Ev'n this day,
That fills thee with such ecstacy and transport,
To me brings nothing that should make me bless it,
Or think it better than the day before,
Or any other in the course of time,
That duly took its turn, and was forgotten.
Alt. If to behold thee as my pledge of happiness, To know none fair, none excellent but thee; If still to love thee with unwearied constancy, Through ev'ry season, ev'ry change of life, Through wrinkled age, through sickness and misfor
Be worth the least return of grateful love,
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