Permit me, ere I go, one short relation, And just three words by way of application. A home-spun country squire, who took his stand To see a dextrous juggler's sleight of hand, Was thus accosted by an envious wight, Who sought to hurt the artist from pure spite: "Sir, for these tricks I'll presently expose them; "There's nothing in't, I'll show you how he does them." How think you the proposal was receiv'd? "No," says the squire, "I pay to be deceiv'd." Thus wit, which favour'd authors would condemn, Mean nothing kind to you, but spleen to them; Then still mistrust, whate'er he may profess, The friend who strives to make your pleasure less,

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

As originally acted. Covent Garden, 1807

Count of Narbonne Mr. Wroughton. Mr. Kemble.

Austin

..

Mr. Henderson. Mr. Pope.

Mr. Lewis.

Mr. Thompson.

( Mr. Ledger.
Mr. Painter.

Miss Younge.
Miss Satchell.

Mrs. Platt.

Attendants, &c.

Mr. C. Kemble.

Mr. Murray.
Mr. Jefferies.

Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Brown.

Mr. Grant.

Mr. Heath.

Mr. Holland.

Mr. Louis.

Mr. Reeves.

Mrs. Siddons.

Miss Norton.
Miss Waddy.

Mrs. Bologna.
Mrs. J. Bologna

Miss Cox.

Mrs. Follett.

SCENE-NARBONNE Castle, and the Monastery of St. Nicholas, adjoining to the Castle.

Enter the COUNT of NARBONNE, speaking to un
Officer; followed by FABIAN.

Count. Nor to be found! Is this your faithful ser

vice?

How could she pass unseen? By hell, 'tis false!
Thou hast betray'd me.

Offi. Noble sir, my duty

Count. Your fraud, your negligence-away, reply

not.

Find her within this hour; else, by my life,

The gates of Narbonne shall be clos'd against thee.

Then make the world thy country.

Fabian, stay!

[Exit Officer.

Misfortunes fall so thick upon my head,
They will not give me time to think-to breathe.

Fab. Heav'n knows, I wish your peace; but am to

learn

What grief more fresh than my young lord's decease, A sorrow but of three days past, can move you.

Count. O bitter memory! gone, gone for ever!
The pillar of my house, my only son!
Fab. "Twas terrible indeed.

Count. Ay, was it not?

And then the manner of it! think on that.
Disease, that robb'd me of two infant sons,
Approaching slow, bade me prepare to lose them;
I saw my lilies drooping; and, accustom'd
To see them dying, bore to see them dead :
But oh, my Edmund!-Thou remember'st, Fabian,
How blithe he went to seek the forest's sport?
Fab. 'Would I could not remember!
Count. That curs'd barb

(My fatal gift), that dash'd him down the cliff,
Seem'd proud of his gay burden.-Breathless, mangled,
They bore him back to me. Fond man! I hop'd
This day his happy match with Isabel
Had made our line perpetual; and, this day,
The unfruitful grave receives him. Yes, 'tis fate!
That dreadful denunciation 'gainst my house
No prudence can avert, nor pray'rs can soften.

Fab. Think not on that; some visionary's dream,
What house, what family could e'er know peace,
If such enthusiasts' ravings were believ'd,
And frensy deem'd an insight of the future?
But may I dare to ask, is it of moment
To stir your anger thus, that Isabel
Has left the castle?

Count. Of the deepest moment:

My best hope hangs on her; some future time
I may instruct thee why. These cares unhinge me;
Just now, a herald from her angry father
Left me this dire election to resign
My titles, and this ample seigniory
(Worthy a monarch's envy), or to meet him,
And try my right by arms. But pr'ythee tell
(Nor let a fear to wound thy master's pride
Restrain thy licens'd speech), hast thou e'er heard
My father Raymond - (cast not down thine eye) —
By any indirect or bloody means,

Procur'd that instrument, Alphonso's will,
That made him heir to Narbonne?

Fab. My best lord,

At all times would I fain withhold from you
Intelligence unwelcome, but most now.
At seasons such as this, a friendly tongue
Should utter words like balm; but what you ask

Count. I ask to be inform'd of. Hast thou known

me

From childhood up to man, and canst thou fear
I am so weak of soul, like a thin reed,
To bend and stagger at each puny blast?
No, when the tempest rages round my head,
I give my branches wider to the air,
And strike my root more deeply. To thy tale:
Away with palliatives and compliments-
Speak plainly.

Fab. Plainly then, my lord, I have heard
What, for the little breath I have to draw,
I would not, to the black extent of rumour,
Give credit to. But you command me speak-

Count. Thy pauses torture me.-Can I hear worse
Than this black scroll contains? this challenge here,
From Isabella's father, haughty Godfrey?
In broad and unambiguous words he tells me,
My father was a murderer, and forg'd
Alphonso's testament.

Fab. From Palestine

That tale crept hither; where, foul slander says,
The good Alphonso, not, as we believe,
Died of a fever, but a venom'd draught,
Your father, his companion of the cross,
Did with his own hand mingle; his hand too,
Assisted by some cunning practisers,
Model'd that deed, which, barring Godfrey's right,
And other claims from kindred, nam'd count Raymond

Lord of these fair possessions.

Count. Ha! I have it;

'Tis Godfrey's calumny; he has coin'd this lie; And his late visit to the Holy Land,