And know what's best to do: yet, if you please,
To prove her temper to the height, say only
That I am dead, and then observe how far
She'll be transported. I'll remove a little,
But be within your call. Now to the upshot!
Howe'er, I'll shift for one. [Aside, and exit.
Re-enter TIBERIO, STEPHANO, and Guard,
with MARCEelia.

Marc. Where is this monster,
This walking tree of jealousy? Are you here?
Is it by your commandment or allowance,
I am thus basely us'd? Which of my virtues,
My labours, services, and cares to please you,
Invites this barbarous course? Dare you look

on me

Without a seal of shame?

Sfor. Impudence,

How ugly thou appear'st now! Thy intent
To be a wanton, leaves thee not blood enough
To make an honest blush: what had the act
done?

Marc. Return'd thee the dishonour thou
deserv'st.

Sfor. Your chosen favourite, your woo'd
Francisco,

flas dearly paid for't; for, wretch! know, he's
dead,

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
rivals.

But he, I speak it to thy teeth, that dares be
A jealous fool, dares be a murderer,
And knows no end in mischief.

Sfor. I begin now

In this my justice.

[Stabs her.

Marc. Oh! I have fool'd myself
Into my grave, and only grieve for that
Which, when you know you've slain an in-
nocent,

You needs must suffer.

Sfor. An innocent! Let one
Call in Francisco; for he lives, vile creature,
[Exit Stephano.
To justify thy falsehood.
With wanton flatteries thou hast tempted him.

Re-enter STEPHANO.

Indeed, the unkindness to be sentenc'd by you,
Before that I was guilty in a thought,
Made me put on a seeming anger towards you,
And now-behold the issue! As I do,
May heaven forgive you!

Sfor. Then I believe thee;
Believe thee innocent too.

Tib. Her sweet soul has left
Her beauteous prison.

Steph. Look to the duke; he stands
As if he wanted motion.
Tib. Grief hath stopp'd
The organ of his speech.
Sfor. O my heart-strings!

ACT V.

[Dies.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.-The MILANESE. A Room in Et-
GENIA'S House.

Enter FRANCISCO and EUGENIA. Fran. Why, couldst thou think, Eugenia, that rewards,

Graces, or favours, though strew'd thick upon

me,

Could ever bribe me to forget mine honour?
Or that I tamely would set down, before
I had dried these eyes, still wet with showers
of tears

By the fire of my revenge? Look
up, my dearest!
For that proud fair, that thief-like, stepp'd

between

Thy promis'd hopes, and robb'd thee of a fortune
Almost in thy possession, hath found,
With horrid proof, his love she thought her
glory,

But hasten'd her sad ruin.
Eug. Do not flatter

A grief that is beneath it; for, however
The credulous duke to me prov'd false and cruel,
It is impossible he could be wrought on
So to serve her.

Fran. Such indeed, I grant,

The stream of his affection was, and ran,
A constant course, till I, with cunning malice
(And yet I wrong my act, for it was justice),
Made it turn backward; and hate, in extremes
|(Love banish'd from his heart), to fill the room:
In a word, know the fair Marcelia's dead.
Eug. Dead!

Fran. And by Sforza's hand. Does it not
move you?

How coldly you receive it! I expected
The mere relation of so great a blessing,
Borne proudly on the wings of sweet revenge,
Would have call'd on a sacrifice of thanks.
You entertain it with a look, as if
You wish'd it were undone.
Eug. Indeed I do:

Steph. Seignior Francisco, sir, but even now For if my sorrows could receive addition,
Took horse without the ports.
Marc. We are both abus'd,
And both by him undone. Stay, death, a little,
Till I have clear'd me to my lord, and then
1 willingly obey thee. O my Sforza!
Francisco was not tempted, but the tempter;
And, as he thought to win me, show'd the

Her sad fate would increase, not lessen them.
She never injur'd me.

warrant

That you sign'd for my death. But, being
contemn'd,

Upon his knees with tears he did beseech me,
Not to reveal it: I, soft-hearted fool,
Judging his penitence true, was won unto it:

Fran. Have you then no gall,
Anger, or spleen, familiar to your sex?
Or is it possible that you could see
Another to possess what was your due,
And not grow pale with envy?

Eug. Yes, of him

That did deceive me. There's no passion, that
A maid so injur'd ever could partake of,
But I have dearly suffer'd. These three years,
In my desire and labour of revenge,
Trusted to you, I have endur'd the throes

Of teeming women; and will hazard all
Fate can inflict on me, but I will reach
Thy heart, false Sforza!

Fran. Still mine own, and dearer!

And

yet
in this you but pour oil on fire,
And offer your assistance where it needs not:
And that you may perceive I lay not fallow,
But had your wrongs stamp'd deeply on my
heart,

I did begin his tragedy in her death,
To which it serv'd as prologue, and will make
A memorable story of your fortunes
In my assur'd revenge: only, best sister,
Let us not lose ourselves in the performance,
By your rash undertaking: we will be
As sudden as you could wish.

Eug. Upon those terms

I yield myself and cause, to be dispos'd of
As you think fit.

Speak, my oraculous Graccho.
Grac. I have heard, sir,

Of men in debt that, laid for by their creditors,
In all such places where it could be thought
They would take shelter, chose for sanctuary
Their lodgings underneath their creditors' noses;
Confident that there they never should be
sought for.

Fran. But what infer you from it?
Grac. This, my lord;

That since all ways of your escape are stopp'd,
In Milan only, or, what's more, in the court,
Whither it is presum'd you dare not come,
Conceal'd in some disguise, you may live safe.
Fran. And not to be discover'd?"
Grac. But by myself.

Fran. By thee? Alas! I know thee honest,
Graccho,

And I will put thy counsel into act,
And suddenly. Yet, not to be ungrateful
For all thy loving travail to preserve me,
What bloody end soe'er my stars appoint,
Thou shalt be safe, good Graccho.-Who's
within there?

Grac. In the devil's name, what means he?
[Aside.

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
To him that brings it.
Fran. Very good.

Grac. All passengers

Are intercepted, and your picture sent
To every state confederate with Milan:
It is impossible you should escape
Their curious search.

Eug. Why, let us then turn Romans.
And, falling by our own hands, mock their
`threats.

Fran. Twould show nobly:

But that the honour of our full revenge
Were lost in the rash action. No, Eugenia,
Graccho is wise; my friend too, not my

servant;

And I dare trust him with my latest secret.
We would, and thou must help us to perform it,
First kill the duke-then, fall what can upon us!
For injuries are writ in brass, kind Graccho,
And not to be forgotten.

Grac. He instructs me

What I should do.

Fran. What's that?

Grac. I labour with

[Aside.

carry,

That few shall understand how 'twas begun,
Till all, with half an eye, may see 'tis done.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-MILAN. A Room in the Castle.
Enter PESCARA, TIBERIO, and STEPHANO.
Pes. The like was never read of.
Steph. But that melancholy should work
So far upon a man, as to compel him
To court a thing that has nor sense nor being,
Is unto me a miracle.

Pes. Troth, I'll tell you,
And briefly as I can, by what degrees
He fell into this madness. When, by the care

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
That she was dead, he broke forth in extremes

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.

In the grim court of death, whose senses taste And after breath'd a jealousy upon thee,
The poisonous powder scatter'd o'er its leaves. As killing as those damps that belch out plagues
Now mark, that when with rapturous lust,
When the foundation of the earth is shaken:
Thinking the dead Marcelia reviv'd,
I made thee do a deed heaven will not pardon,
The duke shall fix his lips upon thy hand,
Which was-to kill an innocent.
Hold fast the poison'd herb, till the fond fool
Hlas drunk his death-draught from thy hand
he spurn'd

MOORE.

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
Your Jenny, at last, is quite covetous grown;

Though millions if fortune should lavishly pour,
I still should be wretched if I had not MORE,

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,
Whose merit can boast such a conquest as me;

But you shan't know his name; though I told you before,
It begins with an M.; but I dare not say MORE.

Mr. Moore died the 28. of Febr. 1757, soon after his celebrated papers, entitled The World, were collected inta volumes.

THE GAMESTER.

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.

the

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