"With the new flushing ardour of my cheek; "Into thy lips pour the soft trickling balm "Of cordial sighs; and reinspire thy bosom "With the breath of love. Shine, awake, Almeria, Give a new birth to thy long-shaded eyes,

Then double on the day reflected light.

Alm. Where am I? Heav'n! what does this dream intend?

Alph. Oh, may'st thou never dream of less delight, Nor ever wake to less substantial joys.

Alm. Giv'n me again from death! Oh, all ye pow'rs, Confirm this miracle! Can I believe

My sight "against my sight? and shall I trust "That sense, which in one instant shews him dead “And living?”—Yes, I will; I've been abus'd With apparitions and affrighting phantoms: This is my lord, my life, my only husband, I have him now, and we no more will part. My father, too, shall have compassion

Alph. Oh, my heart's comfort; 'tis not giv'n to this Frail life to be entirely bless'd. E'en now,

In this extremest joy my soul can taste,

Yet I am dash'd to think that thou must weep;
Thy father fell where he design'd my death.
Gonsalez and Alonzo, both of wounds
Expiring, have, with their last breath, confess'd
The just decrees of Heav'n, which on themselves
Has turn'd their own most bloody purposes.
Nay, I must grant, 'tis fit you should be thus

[She weeps.

"Let 'em remove the body from her sight."
Ill-fated Zara! Ha! a cup! Alas!

Thy error then is plain! but I were flint
Not to o'erflow in tribute to thy memory.

Oh, Garcia!

Whose virtue has renounc'd thy father's crimes,
Seest thou how just the hand of Heav'n has been ?
Let us, who through our innocence survive,

Still in the paths of honour persevere,
And not from past or present ills despair;
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds;
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.

[Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by ALMERIA.

THE tragedy thus done, I am, you know,
No more a princess, but in statu quo;
And now as unconcern'd this mourning wear,
As if indeed a widow or an heir.

I've leisure, now, to mark your sev'ral faces,
And know each critic by his sour grimaces.
To poison plays, I see them where they sit,
Scatter'd, like ratsbane, up and down the pit;
While others watch, like parish searchers hir'd,
To tell of what disease the play expir'd.
Oh, with what joy they run to spread the news
Of a damn'd poet and departed muse!

But if he 'scape, with what regret they're seiz'd!
And how they're disappointed, when they're pleas'd!
Critics to plays for the same end resort,
That surgeons wait on trials in a court:
For innocence condemn'd they've no respect,
Provided they've a body to dissect.

As Sussex men, that dwell upon the shore,
Look out when storms arise, and billows roar,
Devoutly praying, with uplifted hands,

That some well-laden ship may strike the sands,
To whose rich cargo they may make pretence,
And fatten on the spoils of Providence:
So critics throng to see a new play split,
And thrive and prosper on the wrecks of wit.
Small hope our poet from these prospects draws;
And therefore to the fair commends his cause.
Your tender hearts to mercy are inclin'd,
With whom he hopes this play will favour find,
Which was an off'ring to the sex design'd.

A

TRAGEDY.

BY JOHN HOME.

ADAPTED FOR

THEATRICAL REPRESENTATION,

AS PERFORMED AT THE

THEATRES-ROYAL

DRURY-LANE AND COVENT-GARDEN.

REGULATED FROM THE PROMPT BOOK,
By Permission of the Managers.

"The Lines distinguished by inverted Commas, are omitted in the Representation."

LONDON:

Printed for the Proprietors, under the Direction of JOHN BELL, British-Library, STRAND, Bookseller to His Royal Highness the PRINCE of WALES.

M DCC XCI.