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Scene m.

Enter Zanga.

Zan. How stands the great account 'twixt me

and vengeance? Though much is paid, yet still it owes me much, And I will not abate a single groan.— Ha! that were well—but that were fatal too— Why, be it so—Revenge, so truly great, Would come too cheap, if bought with less than

life. Come, death, come, hell, then! 'tis resolved, 'tis

done.

Enter ISABELLA.

he. Ah, Zanga, see me tremble! Has not yet Thy cruel heart its fill? Poor Leonora—

Zan. Welters in blood, and gasps for her last breath. What then 1 We all must die.

Ita. Alonzo raves, And, in the tempest of his grief, has thrice Attempted on his life. At length disarmed, He calls his friends that save him his worst foes, And importunes the skies for swift perdition. Thus in his storm of sorrow. After a pause, He started up, and called aloud for Zanga, For Zanga raved; aud see, he seeks you here, To learn the truth which most he dreads to know.

Zan. Begone.—Now, now, my soul, consummate all! [Exit I Sail

Enter Alonzo.

AIon. Oh Zanga!

Zan. Do not tremble so; but speak.

Alan. I dare not. [Falls on Mm.

Zan. You will drown me with your tears.

.1 '■■•■. Have I not cause?

Zan. As yet vou have no cause.

Alon. Dost thou too rave?

Zan. Your anguish is to come: You much have been abused.

Alon. Abused! by whom?

Zan. To know were little comfort.

Alon. Oh,'twere much!

Zan. Indeed!

Alon. By Heaven! Oh, give him to my fury!

Zan. Born for your use, I live but to oblige you. Know, then, 'twas—I.

Alon. Am I awake?

Zan. For ever. Thy wife is guiltless—that's one transport to me; And I, I let thee know it—that's another. I urged Don Carlos to resign his mistress, I forged the letter, I disposed the picture, I hated, I despised, and I destroy!

Ahn. Oh! [Swoons.

Zan. Why, this is well—why, this is blow for blow! Where are you? Crown me, shadow me with

laurels, Ye spirits who delight in just revenge! Let Europe and her pallid sons go weep;

Let Afric and her hundred thrones rejoice:
Oh, my dear countrymen, look down, and see
How I bestride your prostrate conqueror!
I tread on haughty Spain, and all her kings.
But this is mercy, this is my indulgence;
'Tis peace, 'tis refuge from my indignation.
I must awake him into horrors. Hoa!
Alonzo, hoa! the Moor is at the gate!
Awake, invincible, omnipotent!
Thou who dost all subdue J
Alon. Inhuman slave!

Zan. Fallen Christian, thou mistak'st my cha-
ra ter.
Look on m Who am I? I know, thou sayst,
The Moor, a slave, an abject, beaten slave:
(Eternal woes to him that made me so!)
But look again. Has six years cruel bondage
Extinguished majesty so far, that nought
Shines here to give an awe of one above thee?
When the great Moorish king, Abdullah, fell—
Fell by thy hand accurs'd—I fought fast by him,
His son, though, through liis fondness, in dis-
guise,

Less to expose me to the ambitious foe.

Ha! does it wake thee? O'er my father's

corse, I stood astride, till I had clove thy crest; And then was made the captive of a squadron,

And sunk into thy servant rBut oul what,

What were my wages? Hear nor Heaven nor

earth! My wages were a blow! by Heaven, a blow! And from a mortal hand! Alon. Oh villain, villain! Zan. All strife is vain. [Sharing a dagger. Alon. Is thus my love returned }. Is this my recompence i Make friends of tigers! Lay not your young, oh mothers! on the breast, For fear they turn to serpents as they lie, And pay you for their nourishment with death!— Carlos is dead, and Leonora dying! Both innocent! both murdered! both by me !— That heavenly maid, who should have lived for

ever, At least have gently slept her soul away, Whose life should have shut up, as evenin"

flowers Atthedeparting sun—was murdered ! murdered! Oh shame! oh gui't! oh horror! oh remorse! Oh punishment! Had Satan never fell,

Hell had been made for me. Oh Leonora!

Zan. Must I despise thee, too, as well as hate thee: Complain of grief— complain thou art a man.— Priam from Fortune's lofty summit fell; Great Alexander 'midst his conquests mourned; Heroes and demi-gods have known their sorrows; Caesars have wept; and I have had my blow: But 'tis revenged, and now my work is done. Yet, ere I fall, be it one part of vengeance To make thee to confess that I am just.— Thou sec'st a prince, whose father thou hast

slain; Whose native country thou hast laid m blood,

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Whose sacred person (oh!) thou hast profaned,
Whose reign extinguished. What was left to me,
So highly born? No kingdom, but revenge!
No treasure, but thy tortures and thy groans.
If men should ask who brought thee to thy end,
Tell them, the Moor, and they will not despise

thee.
If cold white mortals censure this great deed,
Warn them, they judge not of superior beings,
Souls made of fire, ami children of the sun,
With whom revenge is virtue. Fare thee well—
Now, fully satisfied, I should take leave:
But one thing grieves me, since thy death is near,
I leave thee my example how to die.

As he is going to stab himself, ALONZO rushes upon him to prevent him. In the mean time, enter Don ALVAREZ, attended. They disarm and seize '/.AM.A. Alonzo puts the dagger in his bosom.

Aton. No, monster, thou shall not escape by death.— Oh, father!

Ah. Oh, Alonzo.—Isabella, Touched with remorse to see her mistress' pangs, Told all the dreadful tale. Alon. What groan was that? Zan. As I have been a vulture to thy heart, So will I be a raven to thine car, As true as ever snuffed the scent of blood, As ever flapped its heavy wing against The window of the sick, and croaked despair. Thy wife is dead.

[alvarez goes to the side of the stage, and returns. Ah. The dreadful news is true. Alon. Prepare the rack; invent new torments

for him. Zan. This too is well. The fixed and noble mind Turns all occurrents to its own advantage; And I'll make vengeance of calamity. Were I not thus reduced, thou wouldst not know, That, thus reduced, I dare defy thee still. Torture thou may'st, but thou shalt ne'er despise

me. The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear, And sighs and cries by nature grow on pain.

But these are foreign to the soul: not mine
The groans that issue, or the tears that fall,;
1 hey disobey me; on the rack I scorn thee,
As when my faulchion clove thy helm in battle.
Ah. Peace, villain!
Zan. While I live, old man, I'll speak:
And well I know thou dar'st not kill me yet;
For that would rob thy blood-hounds of their
prey.
Alon. Who called Alonzo?
Ah. No one called, my son.

Alon. Again! 'Tis Carlos' voice, and I

obey.— Oh, how I laugh at all that this can do!

[Shewing the dagger. The wounds that pained, the wounds that murdered me, Were given before; I am already dead; This only marks my body for the grave.

[Sfa/is himself. Afric, thou art revenged.—Oh, Leonora! [Vies. Zan. Good ruffians, give me leave; my blood is yours, The wheel's prepared, and you shall have it all. Let me but look one moment on the dead, And pay yourselves with gazing on my pangs.

[Be goes to Alonzo's body. Is this Alonzo? Where's the haughty mcin? Is that the hand which smote me? Heavens, how

pale! And art thou dead? So is my enmity. I war not with the dust. The great,, the proud,. The conqueror of Afric was my foe; A lion preys not upon carcases. This was thy only method to subdue me. Terror and doubt fall on me: all thy good Now blazes, all thy guilt is in the grave. Never had man such funeral applause: If I lament thee, sure thy worth was great Oh, vengeance,-1 have followed thee too far, And, to receive me, hell blows all her fires!

[He is borne off". Ah. Dreadful effects of jealousy! a rage In which the wise with caution will engage; Reluctant long, and tardy to believe, Where, swayed by nature, we ourselves deceive, Where our own folly joins the villain's art, And each man finds a Zanga in his heart.

[Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUE.

Our author sent me, in an humble strain,
To beg you'd bless the offspring of his brain;
And I, your proxy, promis d in your name,
The child should live, at least six days of fame.
I like the brat, but still his faults can find;
And, by the parent's leave, will speak my mind.
Gallants, pray, tell me, do you think 'twas well,
To let a willing maid lead apes in hell .'
You nicer ladies, should you think it right,

To eat no suppers—on your wedding night? Should English husbands dare to starve their

wives, Be sure they'd lead most comfortable lives! But he loves mischief, and, with groundless fears, Would fain set loving couples by the ears; Would spoil the tender husbands of our nation. By teaching them his vile, outlandish fashion. But we've been taught, in our good-natur'd dime.

That jealousy, though just, is still a crime;
And will be still; for (not to blame the plot)
That same Alonzo was a stupid sot,
To kill a bride, a mistress unenjoyed—
Twere some excuse, had the poor man been

dofd:
To kill her on suspicion, ere he knew
Whether the heinous crime were false or true—
The priest said grace, she met him in the bower,
In hopes she might anticipate an hour-

Love was her errand, but the hot-brain'd Spaniard,
Instead of love—producM—a filthv poijnard—
Had he been wise, at this their private meeting,
The proof o'th' pudding had been in the eating;
Madam had then been pleas'd, and Don con-
tented,
And all this blood and murder been prevented.—
Pritons, be wise, and from this sad example,
Ne'er break a bargain, but first take a sample.

The

BROTHERS.

BY

YOUNG.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY MR. DODSLEY.

The tragic muse, revolving many a page
Of Timers long records, drawn from every age,
Forms not her plans on low or trivial deeds,
But marks the striking! When some hero bleeds,
To save his country, then her powers inspire,
And souls congenial catch her patriot fire.
When bold oppression grinds a suffering land;
When the keen dagger gleams in Murder's hand;
When black conspiracy infects the throng;
Or fell Revenge sits brooding o'er his wrong;
Then walks she forth in terror; at her frown
Guilt shrinks appall'd, though seated on a throne.
But the rack'd soul, when dark suspicions rend,
When brothers hate, and sons with sons contend;
When clashing interests war eternal wage,
And love, the tenderest passion, turns to rage;
Then grief on every visage stands imprest,

And pity throbs in every feeling breast;
Hope, fear, and indignation rise by turns,
And the strong scene with various passion burns.
Such is our tale.—Nor blush if tears should flow;
They're virtue's tribute paid to human woe.
Such drops new lustre to bright eyes impart,
The silent witness of a tender heart :•
Such drops adorn the noblest hero's cheek,
And paint his worth in strokes that more than

Not he who cannot weep, but he who can,
Shews the great soul, and proves himself a man.
Yet do not idly grieve at others' pain,
Nor let the tears of nature fall in vain:
Watch the close crimes from whence their ills'

have grown, And from their frailties learn to mend your own.

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ACT I.

SCENE I.

Enter CCMTCS and PoSTHTJMIUS. Cur. There's something of magnificence about us, I have not seen at Rome. But you can tell me.

[Gazes round. Pott. True: hither sent on former embassies, I know this splendid court of Macedon, And haughty Philip, well.

Cur. His pride presumes To treat us here like subjects more than Romans, More than ambassadors, who in our bosoms Bear peace and war, and throw him which we

please, At Jove his storm, or sunshine, on his creatures. Post. This Philip only, since Rome's glory rose, Preserves its grandeur to the name of king; Like a bold star, that shews its fires by day. The Greek, who won the world, was sent before

him, As the grey dawn before the blaze of noon: Philip had ne'er been conquered, but by Rome; And what can fame say more of mortal man i Cur. I know his public character. Post. It pains, me To turn my thought on his domestic state. There Philip is no god; but pours his heart, In ceaseless groans, o'er his contending sons; And pays the secret tax of mighty men To their mortality.

Cur. But whence this strife, Which thus afflicts him?'

Post. From this Philip's bed Two Alexanders spring.

Cur. And but one world I Twill never do.

Post. They both are bright; but one, Benignly bright, as stars to mariners; And one a comet, with malignant blaze, Denouncing ruin. Cur. You mean Perseus, Past. True. The younger son, Demetrius, you well know, Was bred at Rome, our hostage from his father. Soon after, he was sent ambassador, When Philip feared the thunder of our arms. Some's manners won him, and his manners

Rome;
Who granted peace, declaring she forgave
To his high worth the conduct of his father.
This gave him all the hearts of Macedon;
Which, joined to his high patronage from Rome,
Inflames his jealous brother.

Cur. Glows there not
A second brand of enmity?

Post. O yes;
The fair Erixene,

Cur. I've partly heard Her smothered story.

Post. Smothered by the king; And wisely too: but thou shalt hear it all. Not seas of adamant, not mountains whelmed On guilty secrets, can exclude the day. Long burnt a fixed hereditary hate Between the crowns of Macedon and Thrace; The sword by both too much indulged in blood. Philip, at length, prevailed; he took, by night, The town and palace of his deadly foe; Rushed through the flames, which he had kindled

round, And slew him, bold in vain; nor rested there, But, with unkingly cruelty, destroyed Two little sons within their mother's arms; Thus meaning to tread out those sparks of war, Which might one day flame up to strong revenge. The queen, through grief, on her dead sons expired. One child alone survived; a female infant, Amidst these horrors, in the cradle smiled. Cur. What of that infant? Post. Stung with sharp remorse, The victor took, and gave her to his queen. The child was bred, and honoured as ner own; She grew, she bloomed; and now her eyes repay Her brothers' wounds, on Philip's rival sons.

Cur. Is, then, Erixene that Thracian child? How just the gods! from out that ruined house He took a brand, to set his own on fire.

Post. To give thee, friend, the whole in ininiature, This is the picture of great Philip's court: The proud, but melancholy king, on high Majestic sits, like Jove enthroned in darkness; His sons are as the thunder in his hand; And the fair Thracian princess is ft star, That sparkles by, and gilds the solemn scene.

tShouts heard* their year, The famed lustration of their martial powers; Thence, for our audience, chosen by the king. If he provokes a war, his empire shakes, And all her lofty glories nod to ruin. Car. Who comes?

Post. O, that's the jealous elder brother; Irregular in manners as in form. Observe the fire, high birth and empire kindle! Car. He holds his conference with much emotion. Post. The brothers both can talk, and, in their turn, Have borne away the prize of eloquence At Athens. Shun his walk: our own debate Is now at hand. Well seek his lion sire, ■ Who dares to frown on us, his conquerors; I And carries so much monarch on his brow, As if he'd fright us with the wounds we gave him. [Erevnt.

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