Isa. Will nothing do? I did not hope to find
Justice on earth; 'tis not in Heav'n neither.
Biron has watch'd his opportunity-

Softly; he steals it from the sleeping gods,
And 'sends it thus-

Now, now I laugh at you, defy you all,
You tyrant-murderers.

[Stabs herself

fil. Call, call for help-Oh, Heav'n! this was

too much.

C. Bald. Oh, thou most injur'd innocence!

live,

Live but to witness for me to the world,

How much I do repent me of the wrongs,

Yet

Th' unnatural wrongs, which I have heap'd on thee, And have pull'd down this judgment on us all.

Vil. Oh, speak, speak but a word of comfort to me!

C. Bald. If the most tender father's care and love Of thee, and thy poor child, can make amends

Oh, yet look up and live!

Isa. Where is that little wretch?

[They raise her.

I die in peace, to leave him to your care.
I have a wretched mother's legacy,
A-dying kisspray let me give it him,

My blessing; that, that's all I have to leave thee.
Oh, may thy father's virtues live in thee,

[Diese

And all his wrongs be buried in my gravel
Vil. She's gone,
and all my joys of life with her.
"Where are your officers of justice now?
"Seize, bind me, drag me to the bloody bar.

H

"Accuse, condemn me; let the sentence reach
"My hated life- No matter how it comes;
"I'll think it just, and thank you as it falls.
"Self-murder is deny'd me; else how soon
"Could I be past the pain of my remembrance!
"But I must live, grow grey with ling❜ring grief,
"To die at last in telling this sad tale."

C. Bald. Poor wretched orphan of most wretched parents!

"'Scaping the storm, thou'rt thrown upon a rock, "To perish there." The very rocks would melt, Soften their nature, sure, to foster thee;

I find it by myself: my flinty heart,

That barren rock, on which thy father starv'd,
Opens its springs of nourishment to thee.
There's not a vein but shall run milk for thee.
Oh, had I pardon'd my poor Biron's fault,
His first, his only fault-this had not been t
To erring youth there's some compassion due ;
But while with rigour you their crimes pursue,
What's their misfortune, is a crime for you.
Hence, learn offending children to forgive:

Leave punishment to Heav'n—'tis Heav'n's prerogative.

THE END.

OR,

THE KIND IMPOSTOR.

A

COMEDY,

BY COLLEY CIBBER, Esq.

ADAPTED FOR

THEATRICAL REPRESENTATION,

AS PERFORMED AT THE

THEATRES ROYAL,

DRURY-LANE AND COVENT-GARDEN.

REGULATED FROM THE PROMPT-BOOKS,
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.

MDCCXCII.

His wit, if any, mingles with his plot,
Which should on no temptation be forgot:
His action's in the time of acting done,

No more than from the curtain, up and down:
While the first music plays he moves his scene
A little space, but never shifts again.

From his design no person can be sparʼd,
Or speeches lopt, unless the whole be marr'd.
No scenes of talk for talking's sake are shown,
Where most abruptly, when their chat is done,
Actors go off because the poet-cann't go on.
His first act offers something to be done,
And all the rest but lead that action on;
Which, when pursuing scenes i' th' end discover,
The game's run down, of course the play is over:
Thus much he thought 'twas requisite to say,
(For all here are not critics born) that they
Who only us'd to like, might learn to taste a play.

But now he flies for refuge to the fair, Whom he must own the ablest judges here. Since all the springs of his design but move From beauty's cruelty subdu'd by love;

E'en they, whose hearts are yet untouch'd, must know, In the same case, sure, what their own wou'd do:

You best should judge of love, since love is born of you.