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And know what's best to do: yet, if you please,
Marc. Where is this monster,
Without a seal of shame?
How ugly thou appear'st now! Thy intent
Marc. Return'd thee the dishonour thou
Sfor. Your chosen favourite, your woo'd
flas dearly paid for't; for, wretch! know, he's
And by my hand.
Marc. Thou hast kill'd then,
A man I do profess I lov'd; a man
For whom a thousand queens might well be
But he, I speak it to thy teeth, that dares be
Sfor. I begin now
In this my justice.
Marc. Oh! I have fool'd myself
You needs must suffer.
Sfor. An innocent! Let one
Indeed, the unkindness to be sentenc'd by you,
Sfor. Then I believe thee;
Tib. Her sweet soul has left
Steph. Look to the duke; he stands
SCENE I.-The MILANESE. A Room in Et-
Enter FRANCISCO and EUGENIA. Fran. Why, couldst thou think, Eugenia, that rewards,
Graces, or favours, though strew'd thick upon
Could ever bribe me to forget mine honour?
By the fire of my revenge? Look
Thy promis'd hopes, and robb'd thee of a fortune
But hasten'd her sad ruin.
A grief that is beneath it; for, however
Fran. Such indeed, I grant,
The stream of his affection was, and ran,
Fran. And by Sforza's hand. Does it not
How coldly you receive it! I expected
Steph. Seignior Francisco, sir, but even now For if my sorrows could receive addition,
Her sad fate would increase, not lessen them.
That you sign'd for my death. But, being
Upon his knees with tears he did beseech me,
Fran. Have you then no gall,
Eug. Yes, of him
That did deceive me. There's no passion, that
Of teeming women; and will hazard all
Fran. Still mine own, and dearer!
I did begin his tragedy in her death,
Eug. Upon those terms
I yield myself and cause, to be dispos'd of
Speak, my oraculous Graccho.
Of men in debt that, laid for by their creditors,
Fran. But what infer you from it?
That since all ways of your escape are stopp'd,
Fran. By thee? Alas! I know thee honest,
And I will put thy counsel into act,
Grac. In the devil's name, what means he?
Appear to me as written in thy forehead, In plain and easy characters: and, but that and I scorn a slave's base blood should rust that sword
And your head rated at ten thousand ducats
Grac. All passengers
Are intercepted, and your picture sent
Eug. Why, let us then turn Romans.
Fran. Twould show nobly:
But that the honour of our full revenge
And I dare trust him with my latest secret.
Grac. He instructs me
What I should do.
Fran. What's that?
Grac. I labour with
That few shall understand how 'twas begun,
SCENE II.-MILAN. A Room in the Castle.
Pes. Troth, I'll tell you,
A strong desire to assist you with my service; Of his physicians, he was brought to life,
And now I am deliver'd of it,
Fran. I told you.
He call'd for fair Marcelia, and being told
(I would not say blasphem'd); then it came
And thrice his desp'rate hand was on his sword
Tib. 'Twas well thought on.
Pes. He, easily believing what he wish'd,
Sfor. [Within] Support her gently.
Enter LUDOVICO SFORZA, ISABELLA, MARIANA, Doctors, and Servants, with the Body of MARCELIA.
Sfor. Carefully, I beseech you. How pale and wan she looks! O pardon me, presume, dyed o'er with bloody guilt, To touch this snow-white hand, How cold it is!
This once was Cupid's fire-brand, and still
Isa Oh! cross him not, dear daughter,
Enter a Servant, and whispers PESCARA.
Pes. With me? What is he?
By his profession, as he says; who, hearing
Pes. Bring me to him,
As I find cause, I'll do.
[Apart. Exeunt Pescara and Servants.
Sfor. How sound she sleeps!
Sfor. I am hush'd.
1 Doc. He's past hope: we can no longer cover the imposture.
Re-enter PESCARA, with FRANCISCO, as a Jew
To give a new life to her; yet I'll hazard
Till we use means to win upon his passions,
Admits no looker on: I only ask
Have leave to make a trial of our skill
Pes. About it straight. [Exit Eugenia.
Pes. He is a man that can do wonders. [Beckons Francisco. Exit Francisco. Do not hinder
Heaven keep her from a lethargy! How long The dutchess's wish'd recovery, to inquire (But answer me with comfort, I beseech you) Or what he is, or to give thanks; but leave him Does your judgment tell you that her sleep To work this miracle.
1 Doc. We have given her, sir,
A sleepy potion, that will hold her long;
You see I do not rage, but wait your pleasure.
Although her body's organs are bound fast, Her fancy cannot slumber.
1 Doc. That, sir, looks on
Your sorrow for your late rash act, and prepares
To meet the free confession of your guilt
Sfor. She was ever kind.
Let her behold me in a pleasing dream
[Kneels. Thus, on my knees before her (yet that duty) In me is not sufficient); let her see me Compel my mother, from whom I took life, And this my sister, partner of my being, To bow thus low unto her:
Sfor. Sure 'tis my good angel. do obey in all things. Be it death For any to disturb him, or come near, Till he be pleas'd to call us. O be prosperous, And make a duke thy bondman.
In the grim court of death, whose senses taste And after breath'd a jealousy upon thee,
Eug. I yield myself and cause up, to be dispos'd
As thou think'st fit. [Sits down veiled.
Enter with joy, and see the sudden change, Your servant's hand hath wrought.
Re-enter, LUDOVICO SFORZA and the Rest. Sfor. I live again
In my full confidence that Marcelia may Pronounce my pardon. Can she speak yet? Fran. No:
You must not look for all your joys at once; That will ask longer time. Sfor. By all the dues of love I have had from her, This hand seems as it was when first I kiss'd it. [Kisses her Hand.
Pes. Tis wondrous strange!
The saints will smile and look on't.
[Kisses her Hand again. Eugenia
She wakes! she lives! and I am blest again.
Eug. This is
Pes. Monster of men!
Fran. Give me all attributes
Of all you can imagine, yet I glory
Sfor. Call forth the tortures For all that flesh can feel. Fran. I dare the worst. Only, to yield some reason to the world Why I pursu'd this course-look on this face, Made old by thy base falsehood! 'tis Eugenia. Sfor. Eugenia!
Fran. Does it start you, sir? my sister, Seduc'd and fool'd by thee; but thou must pay
The forfeit of thy falsehood. Does it not work yet?
Whate'er becomes of me, which I esteem not, Thou art mark'd for the grave: I've given thee poison
In this cup; now observe me: which, thy lust
[To Ludovico Sforza.
That learns to know in death what punish
EDWARD MOORE was bred a linen-draper; but having a stronger attachment to Pegasus than the yard, and a more ardent zeal in the pursuit of fame than in the hant after fortune, he quitted business and applied to the Muses for a support. In verse he had certainly a very happy and pleasing manner; in his Trial of Selim the Persian, which a compliment to the ingenious Lord Lyttelton, he has shewn himself a perfect master of the most elegant kind of panegyric, viz. that which is couched under the appearance of accusation; and his Fables for the Female Sex seem, not only in the freedom and ease of the versification, but also in the forcibleness of the moral and poignancy of the satire, to approach nearer to the manner of Mr. Gay, than any of the numerous imitations of that author which have breu attempted since the publication of his Fables. As a dramatic writer, Mr. Moore has, by no means, met with the
success his works had merited; since, out of three plays that he wrote, one of them, The Foundling, has been condemned for its supposed resemblance to a very celebrated comedy (The Conscious Lovers), but to which great prefer ence must be given; and another, The Gamester, met with a cold reception, for no other apparent reason, but because it too nearly touched a favourite and fashionable vice. Yet on the whole his plots are interesting his sentiments delicate, and his language poetical and pleasing; and, what crowns the whole of his recommendation, the greatest purity runs through all his writings, and the apparent tendency of every piece is towards the promotion of morality and virtne. The two plays mentioned, and one more, (Gil Blas) with a serenata (Solomon) make the whole of his dramatic works. Mr. Moore married a lady of the name of Hamilton, whose father was table-decker to the princesses; she had also a very poetical turn, and has been said to have assisted him in the writing of his tragedy. One specimen of her poetry, however, was handed about before their marriage; it was addressed to a daughter of the famous Stephen Duck; and begins with the following stanza:
Would you think it, my Duck, for the fault I must own
Though millions if fortune should lavishly pour,
And after half a dozen stauzas more, in which, with great ingenuity and delicacy, and yet in a manner that expresses a sincere affection, she has quibbled on our author's name, she concludes with the following lines;
You will wonder, my girl, who this dear one can be,
But you shan't know his name; though I told you before,
Mr. Moore died the 28. of Febr. 1757, soon after his celebrated papers, entitled The World, were collected inta volumes.
ACTED at Drury Lane 1753. This tragedy is written in prose, and is the best drama that Mr. Moore produced, The language is nervous, and yet pathetic; the plot is artful, yet clearly conducted; the characters are highly marked, yet not unnatural; and the catastrophe is truly tragic, yet not unjust. Still with all these merits it met with but middling success, the general cry against it being, that the distress was too deep to be borne; yet we are rather apt to imagine its want of perfect approbation arose in one part, and that no inconsiderable one, of the audience, from a tenderness of another kind than that of compassion; and that they were less hurt by the distress of Beverley, than by finding their darling vice, their favourite folly, thus vehemently attacked by the strong lance of reason and dramatic execution. has often been disputed, whether plays, in which the plots are taken from domestic life, should be written in prose or metre; and the access of the present performance and George Barnwell must incline one very strongly in favour of the former. A at author, however, appears to be of a different opinion. Mr. Howard says, that having communicated his play of The Female Gamester to Dr. Samuel Johnson, that gentleman observed that he could hardly consider a prose tragedy as dramatic; that it was difficult to performers to speak it; that, let it be either in the middling or in low life, it may, though in metre and spirited, be properly familiar and colloquial; that many in the middling rank are not without erudition; that they have the feelings and sensations of nature, and every emotion in consequence thereof, as well as the great; that even the lowest, when impassioned, raise their language; and that the writing of prose is generally the plea and excuse of poverty of genius." We have heard that the interview between Lewson and Stakely, in the fourth act, was the production of Mr. Garrick's pen. When the play was shown in manuscript to Dr. Young, he remarked, that "Gaming wanted such a caustic as the concluding scene of the play presented."
one vice driven him from every virtue!-Nay, from his affections too!-The time was, sisterMrs. B. And is. I have no fear of his affections. Would I knew that he were safe!
MRS. BEVERLEY and CHARLOTTE discovered. Mrs. B. Be comforted, my dear, all may be Char. From ruin and his companions. But well yet. And now, methinks, the lodging that's impossible. His poor little boy too! begins to look with another face. Oh, sister! What must become of him?
sister! if these were all my hardships; if all I Mrs. B. Why, want shall teach him indushad to complain of were no more than quit- try. From his father's mistakes he shall learn ting my house, servants, equipage, and show, prudence, and from his mother's resignation, your pity would be weakness. patience. Poverty has no such terrors in it Char. Is poverty nothing, then? as you imagine. There's no condition of life, Mrs. B. Nothing in the world, if it affected sickness and pain excepted, where happiness only me. While we had a fortune, I was is excluded. The husbandman, who rises early the happiest of the rich; and now 'tis gone, to his labour, enjoys more welcome rest at give me but a bare subsistence and my hus-night for't. His bread is sweeter to him; his band's smiles, and I shall be the happiest of home happier; his family dearer; his enjoypoor. Why do you look at me? Char. That I may hate my brother. Mrs. B. Don't talk so, Charlotte.
ments surer. The sun that rouses him in the morning, sets in the evening to release him. All situations have their comforts if sweet Char. Has he not undone you?-Oh, this contentment dwell in the heart. But my poor pernicious vice of gaming! But methinks his Beverley has none. The thought of having usual hours of four or five in the morning ruined those he loves is misery for ever to might have contented him. Need he have him. Would I could ease his mind of that! staid out all night?—I shall learn to detest him. Char. If he alone were ruined 'twere just Mrs. B. Not for the first fault. He never he should be punished. He is my brother, slept from me before. 'tis true; but when I think of what he has Char. Slept from you! No, no, his nights done-of the fortune you brought him—of his ve nothing to do with sleep. How has this own large estate too, squandered away upon