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Haste from this fatal place—I cannot leave her!
■Whom did I strike? Was this the act of love?
Swallow me, earth!—She's silent—Zara's dead!
And should I live to see returning day,
Twill 'shew me but her blood !—shew me left

In a wide, empty world, with nothing round me,
But penitence and pain—And yet 'twas just:—
Hark !—Destiny has sent her lover to me,
To fill my vengeance, and restore my joy.

Enter ORASMIN vith Nerestan.

Approach, thou wretch! thou more than cursed!

come near— Thou, who, in gratitude for freedom gained, Hast given me miseries beyond thy own! Thou heart of hero with a traitors soul! Go—reap thy due reward! prepare to suffer, Whate'er inventive malice can inflict, To make thee feel thy death, and perish slow. Are my commands obeyed?

Orai. All is prepared.

Osm. Thy wanton eyes look round, in search of her, Whose love, descending to a slave like thee, From my dishonoured hand received her doom. See, where she lies!

Nt;. Oh fatal, rash mistake 1

Osm. Dost thou behold her, slave?

Ner. Unhappy sister!

Otm. Sister!—Didst thou say sister? If thou didst, Bless me with deafness, Heaven!

Ner. Tyrant! I did— She was my sister—All that now is left thee, Dispatch—From my distracted heart drain next The remnant of the royal Christian blood: Old Lusignan, expiring in my arms, Sent his too wretched son, with his last blessing, .To his now murdered daughter!— Would I had seen the bleeding innocent! I would have lived to speak to her in death: Would have awakened, in her languid heart, A livelier sense of her abandoned God: That God, who, left by her, forsook her too, And gave the poor lost sufferer to thy rage.

Osm. Thy sister!—Lusignan her father!—Selima! Can this be true?—and have I wronged thec, Zara?

Scl. Thy love was all the cloud 'twixt her and Heaven!

Osm. Be dumb—for thou art base, to add distraction To my already more than bleeding heart. And was thy love sincere ?—What then remains?

Ner. Why should a tyrant hesitate on murder? There now remains but mine, of all the blood, Which, through thy father's cruel reign and

thine, Has never ceased to stream on Syria's sands. Restore a wretch to his unhappy race; Nor hope that torments, after such a scene, Can force one feeble groan to feast thy anger. I waste my fruitless words in empty air; The tyrant, o'er the bleeding wound he made, Hangs his unmoving eye, and heeds not me.

Osm. Oh Zara!—

Oras. Alas! my lord, return—whither would grief Transport your generous heart ?—This Christian dog—

Osm. 'lake off his fetters, and observe my will; To him, and all his friends, give instant liberty: Pour a profusion of the richest gifts On these unhappy Christians; and, when heaped With varied benefits, and charged with riches, Give them safe conduct to the nearest port.

Oras. But, sir—

Otm. Reply not, but obey.— Fly—nor dispute thy master's last command, Thy prince, who orders—and thy friend, who

loves thee! Go—lose no time—farewell—begone—and thou! Unhappy warrior—yet less lost than I— Haste from our bloody land—and to thy own Convey this poor, pale object of my rage. Thy king, and all his Christians, when they hear Thy miseries, shall mourn them with their tears; But, if thou tell'st them mine, and tell'st them

truly, They, who shall hate my crime, shall pity me. Take, too, this poniard with thee, which my

hand Has stained with blood far dearer than my own; Tell them—with this I murdered her I loved; The noblest and most virtuous among women! The sold of innocence, and pride of truth: Tell them I laid my empire at her feet: Tell them I plunged my dagger in her blood; Tell them, I so adored—and thus revenged her.

[Stubs himself. Reverence this hero—and conduct him safe.


Ner. Direct me, great inspirer of the soul! How should I act, how judge in this distress? Amazing grandeur! and detested rage! Even I, amidst my tears, admire this foe, And mourn his death, who lived to give me woe.

[Eieunt omnes. HERE, take a surfeit, sirs, of being jealous,


And shun the pains that plague these Turkish fellows:

Where love and death join hands, their darts confounding:

Save us, good Heaven, from this new way of wounding.

Curst climate! where to cards a lone-left woman

Has only one of her black guards to summon!

Sighs, and sits moped, with her tame beast to gaze at:

And that cold treat is all the game she plays at!

For, should she once some abler hand be trying,

Poniard's the word! and the first deal is—dying! 'Slife! should the bloody whim get ground in Britain,

Where woman's freedom has such heights to sit on,

Dagger, provok'd, would bring on desolation,

And murdered belles unpeople half the nation!— Fain would I hope this play, to move compassion,

And live to hunt suspicion out of fashion.—

Four motives strongly recommend the lover's

Hate of this weakness that our scene discovers.

First, then—A woman will or won't, depend on't: If she will do't, she will:—and there's an end

on't. But if she won't—since safe and sound your trust

is, Fear is affront, and jealousy injustice.

Next—he who bids his dear do what she pleases, Blunts wedlock's edge; and all its torture eases: For—not to feel your sufferings, is the same, As not to suffer:—all the difference—name. Thirdly—The jealous husband wrongs bis honour; No wife goes lame, without some hurt upon her: And the malicious world will still be guessing, Who oft dines out, dislikes her own cook's dressing. Fourthly, and lastly—to conclude my lecture, If you would fix the inconstant wife, respect her. She who perceives her virtues overrated, Will fear to have the account more justly stated: And borrowing, from her pride, the good wife's

seeming, Grow really such—to merit your esteeming.

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Is former times, when wit was no offence,
And men submitted to be pleased with sense—
Then was the stage fair virtue's fav'rite school,
Scourge of the knave, and mirror of the fool.
Here oft the villain's conscious blush would rise,
And fools become, by viewing folly, wise.
Our bard, as then, despises song and dance,
The notes of Italy, and jigs of France:
With home distress he nobly hopes to move,

And fire each bosom with its country's love

So much a Briton—that he scorns to roam

To foreign climes, to fetch his hero home

Conscious that in these scenes is clearly shewn Britain can boast true heroes of her own. Murder avowed by law he boldly paints,

Heroes and patriots, hypocrites and saints;
Rebellion fighting for the public good,
And treason smiling in a monarch's blood.

Party, be dumb in each pathetic scene,

Our muse, to-night, asserts an honest mean;
Shows you a prince triumphant o'er his fate,
Glorious in death, as in misfortunes great;
By nature virtuous, though misled by slaves,
By tools of power, by sycophants and knaves,
When Charles submits to faction's deadly blow,
What loyal heart but shares the monarch's woe i
Nor less Maria's grief, ye gentle fair,
Claims the sad tribute of a tender tear.
From British scenes to-night we hope applause,
And Britons sure will aid a British cause.

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Enter Bishop Juxon and Duke of Richmond.
Jui. Good day, my lord, if, in a time like
Aught that is fortunate or good can happen;
When desolation, wedded to despair,
Strides o'er the land, and marks her way with

Plenty is fled with justice; rage and rapine
Have robb'd the widow'd matron, England, quite,
And left her now no dowry—but her tears.
Hull. Is it then certain that the lawless com-
Have formed a court of justice (so they call it)
To bring the king to trial?

Jus. Tig most true; And though the lords refus'd to join the hill, Yet they proceed without them. Lawless man! Whither, at last, will thy impieties, Thv daring insolence extend, when kings Feel from a subject-hand the scourge of pow'r? Where may an injur'd monarch ho[>e for safety, If he not find it in his people's hearts?

Rich. Oh, Naseby, Naseby, wliat a deadly stroke Was thy ill-fated field to royalty! On thy success depended monarchy; The fate of rebels anil the fate of kings Hung on thy battle: but thou, faithless too, ConspirM with faction to o'erthrow us all, And bring to sight these more than bloody times.

Jus. To-morrow docs the black tribunal sit When majesty is cited to appear Before his tyrant subjects. Oh, preposterous! Is't not as bad as if these rebel hands Should from their seats tear forth their ruling

eyes, Whose watch directs the body's use and safety r

Rich. It cannot be! 'Tis not in cruelty To think of spilling royal blood. Mercy, sure, , And the pretended justice of their cause, Will save them from the weight of so much guilt. Jux. What added guilt can that black bosom feel, That has shook off allegiance to its king? Whole seas of common and of noble blood Will not suffice; the banquet must be crown'd, And the brain heated with the blond of kings. But see where Cromwell comes! upon his brow Dissimulation stamp'd. If I can judge By lineament and feature, that man's heart Can both contrive and execute the worst And the most daring actions yet conceiv'd. Ambitious, bloody, resolute and wise, He ne'er betrays his meaning till he acts, And ne'er looks out but with the eye of purpose. His head so cool, that it appears the top

Of Alpine hill, clad with slow-wasting snow;
His execution rapid as the force
Of falling waters thund'ring down its base.
Let us avoid him; for my conscious soul
Fears him in wonder, and in praise condemns him.



Crom. Now through the maze of gloomy policy Has fire-eyed faction worked her way to light, And deck d ambition in the robe of power. Our fears in Charles's safety are remov'd, And but one blow remains to fix our state— The lopping oft' his head. No more the royal

tree Shall, from legitimacy's root, presume To sprout forth tyrant branches. Commonwealths Own no hereditary right, unless our worth Shine equal to our birth. Wherefore, at once, Down with nobility—the commons rule! Avaunt prerogative and lineal title, And be the right superior merit.

Enter Fairfax.

Fair. I was to seek you, sir'; some lab'ring doubts, Which, in the uncertainty of these strange times. Call for the ray of clearness, make me press (Perhaps unseasonably) to your ear. You will forgive the impatience of a man Who labours to be right—by your example.

Crom. Good Fairfax, spare me; I am ill at words, And utter badly where I mean respect: Uncouth my answers are to truth and plainness; But to a compliment I ne'er could speak: Yet could you look into my secret mind, There my soul speaks to Fairfax as to one Book'd in the fairest page of my esteem, And written on my heart—But to your doubts.

Fair. You may remember, sir, when first my sword, My fortune, life, and still, yet more—my honour, Were all engag'd to fight the cause of justice; You thought, with me, the wrongs to be redress'd Were the attempts upon the subjects' right, The unregarded laws, and bold design To stretch prerogative to boundless rule. Design full fair and noble! and th' event Has crown'd our utmost wishes. England owns No arbitrary sway; the king's adherents Are all dispers'd, or the remains so few, They are not worth a fear; the king himself In close confinement. Now, let reason judge, And blend discretion with success. Let us be just—but let us stop at justice, Nor by too hasty zeal o'ershoot the mark. The Roman spirits, savage as they were,

When they determin'd to abolish kings,
Shed not the blood of Tarquin, but expell'd him;
And shall we, owners of the Christian law,
Where mercy shines the foremost attribute,
Be harder to appease? If not more mild,
Let us not be more cruel than barbarians.
Charles grasped, we own, at arbitrary sway,
And would have been a tyrant—for which crime
The kingdoms he was born to we have seiz'd.
But let ns not despoil him of his life.
Crowns, as the gift of men, men may resume;
But life, the gift of Heaven, let Heaven dispose of.
Ci-uh. Well have you weigh'd each growing
And held discretion in the nicest scale.
Our fears remov'd, the subjects' rights restor'd,
What have we more to do, than to sit down,
And each enjoy the vineyard of his toil?
Tis true—but yet some clamours are abroad;
Petitions daily crowd the parliament,
That loudly call for justice on the king,
Imputing to his charge the guilt of murders,
The desolation that has bared the land,
And swept the crops of plenty from our fields.
Fair. What, shall the rabble judge—those ser-
vile curs,
Who, as they eat in plenty, snarl sedition?
Are these to be regarded r
Crom. You mistake me.
Tis not their outcries only; but, indeed,
Those who see farther, and with better judgment,
Fear, while he lives, his friends will never die;
But, by some foreign force or. home design,
May some time shake the safety of the state.
Besides, they speak of an approv'd good maxim,
Remove the cause, and-theefffact -will cease.
Oh, worthy Fairfax, thou art wise and valiant!
lhave seen thee watch occasion, till advantage
Came smiling to thy arms, and crown'd thy pa-
And then, in fight, I have beheld thy sword
Outfly the pace of pestilential air,
And kill in multitudes.
Fair. Good sir, forbear.
Crom. Blush not to hear a truth, when Crom-
well speaks it:
My uncouth manner, ill at varnishing,
Ber~nrs my will, and dresses praise uncomely.
Methinks I see thee in the rage of banle,
When Naseb/s field confess'd thy victor arm,
And thy decision was the fate of kings.
Methinks 1 view thee in the bustling ranks,
Where danger was the nearest—(for you brought

Unhelm'd, encounter armies, and despise
The safety that the meanest soldier wore;
And when a private man, with bold assertion,
Challeng'd a conquest which your arm had gain'd;
And was reprov'd; methinks, I hear you say,
J have enough of glory, let him own it.

Fair. Whither does all this tend? I pray for-
I never fought in hopes to have it told:
The man whose actions speak, expects no answer.
Crom. I do but barely tell thee what thou art,

And what the world may yet expect of Fairfax.
The diamond, merit, in the quarry hid,
Being unknown, unseen, attracts no eyes;
But, digg'd up by the lab'rer's curiosity,
And polished by the hand of gratitude,
It shines the ornament of human life,—
Think therefore what you are, and what this

The fairest lock of fortune is displa/d,
And should be seiz'd on by the bold and worthy.
Fair. You talk in clouds above my purpose
Which was but to enforce the cause of mercy,
And show how much is gain'd by stopping here;
To tell you what my conscience makes opinion,
And strengthen that opinion by your voice.

Crom. 'Tis true indeed—I had forgot myself;
But whither was I hurried in my zeal?
E'en I can descant on a pleasing theme:
Can you forgive me? though 'tis hard indeed:
Exalted virtue can with ease forgive
A calumny, but not a praise.—No more.
Heav'n can witness for me, with what true accord
My thoughts meet yours! how willing I would

The arm of violence, and make the law,
Stern as she is, assume a face of smiles.
The death of Charles is far from my design—
And yet the general outcry is for justice:
He has been much to blame, you know he has;
And (but I soften those unruly thoughts)
Were I to speak the dictates of my heart,
I could not find a punishment too great,
To fall upon the man, who should, like Charles,
Forget all right, and waste with lavish hand
The rich revenue of his people's love.

FViir. Dearly he suffers for misguided steps,
And knows that misery he meant to give;
He feels the bondage he design'd for us,
And by the want of freedom counts its value.
Crom. I pity him; and would the commons
think with me,
He were as safe as Cromwell; and, brave Fair'

We will endeavour it.; and may that power*
Whose arm has fought the battle of our cause,
Incline them all to think like you—or me! [Aside.
I will about it. Yet remember, Fairfax,
The posture of these times: consider too,
How great A >ur expectations ought to be:
Would Fairfax listen to the voice of Cromwell,
He should have nearer hopes than Charles's life:
Somewhat as great as your desert should crown

And make you partner of the highest honours.

Fair. The highest honours! what can Crom-
well mean i
Acquit me, Heav'n ! I fought not but for justice;
Rage fir'd me not, nor did ambition blind;
No party led me, and no interest bound;
My tie was conscience, and my cause was free-
When Fairfax listens to another call,
Mav his next stroke in battle be his last!

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