To bring me comfort, say that you have made Let them at once dispatch me.

My peace

with my Marcelia.

Isa. I had rather

Wait on you to your funeral.

Sfor. You are my mother;

Or, by her life, you were dead else.
Mari. Would you were,

To your dishonour! Here your mother was
Committed by your servant (for I scorn
To call him husband), and myself, your sister,
If that you dare remember such a name,
Mew'd up, to make the way open and free
For the adultress; I am unwilling
To say, a part of Sforza.

Sfor. She hath blasphem'd, and by our law
must die.

Isa. Blasphem'd! for giving a false woman her true name.

Sfor. O hell, what do I suffer?

Mari. Or is it treason

For me, that an a subject, to endeavour

To save the honour of the duke, and, that
He should not be a wittol on record?
Sfor. Some proof, vile creature!
Or thou hast spoke thy last.
Mari. The public fame,

Their hourly private meetings; and, e'en now,
When, under a pretence of grief or anger,
You are denied the joys due to a husband,
And made a stranger to her, at all times
The door stands open to him.

Sfor. O the malice

And envy of base women! Wretches! you
have rais'd

A monumental trophy to her. I'm so far
From giving credit to you, this would teach me
More to admire and serve her. You are not
worthy

To fall as sacrifices to appease her;

And therefore live till your own envy burst

you.

Isa. All is in vain; he is not to be mov'd.
Mari. She has bewitch'd him.

Pes. Tis so past_belief,

To me it shows a fable.

Fran. Draw your sword then,

And, as you wish your own peace, quickly

kill me ;

Sfor. Oh!

Fran. And from hence grew
Her late neglect of you.

Sfor. O women! women!

Fran. I labour'd to divert her by persuasion,
Then urg'd your much love to her, and the
danger;
Denied her and with scorn.
Sfor. 'Twas like thyself.

Fran. But when I saw her smile, then heard
her say,

Your love and extreme dotage, as a cloak,
Should cover our embraces, and your power
Fright others from suspicion; and all favours
That should preserve her in her innocence,
By lust inverted to be us'd as bawds;
I could not but in duty (though I know
That the relation kills in you all hope
Of peace hereafter, and in me 'twill show

Enter FRANCISCO, speaking to a Servant Both base and poor to rise up her accuser)

within.

Fran. Great sir,

I would impart,

Freely discover it.

Sfor. Eternal plagues

Pursue and overtake her! But, like a village

Stephano,

Please you to lend your ear, a weighty secret, Tiberio, and the rest! I will be sudden,

I am in labour to deliver to you.

Sfor. All leave the room.

[Exeunt Isa. and Mari.]

Excuse me, good Pescara,

Ere long I will wait on you.

Pes. You speak, sir,

The language I should use.

Sfor. Be within call,

Perhaps we may have use of you.
Tib. We shall, sir.

[Exit.

[Exeunt Tiberio and Stephano.

Sfor. Say on, my comfort!

Fran. Comfort! no, your torment,
For so my fate appoints me. I could curse
The hour that gave me being.
Sfor. What new monsters

Of misery stand ready to devour me?

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,

Has 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.

SCENE L-The MILANESE.

[Dies.

[Exeunt.

A Room in Ev

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
I willingly obey thee. O my Sforza!
Francisco was not tempted, but the tempter:
And, as he thought to win me, show'd the

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:

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

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,

[Exeunt.

Graccho is wise; my friend too, not my SCENE II.-MILAN. A Room in the Castle.

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.

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
Has drunk his death-draught from thy hand
he spurn'd.

Eug. I yield myself and cause up, to be
dispos'd

As thou think'st fit. [Sits down veiled.
Fran. Now to the upshot;
And, as it proves, applaud it.-My lord the
duke!

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!
Sfor. This act will bind e'en heaven your
debtor:

The saints will smile and look on't.
Oh, I could ever feed upon this native
Sweetness.

[Kisses her Hand again. Eugenia
throws away the Flower, and
sobs.

She wakes! she lives! and I am blest again.
[She lifts up her Feil.
Oh! horror! shield me from that face.
Eug. I can no more-thou'rt mark'd for death.
Pes. Treason, treason!
Tib. Call up the guard.
Fran. Then we are lost.
Sfor. Speak.

Eug. This is

Enter Guard.

Fran. Francisco.

Pes. Monster of men!

Fran. Give me all attributes
Of all you can imagine, yet I glory
To be the thing I was born. I am Francisco;
Francisco, that was rais'd by you, and made
The minion of the time; the same Francisco,
That would have us'd thy wife while she had life,

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

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 hunt 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 is 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 been attempted since the publication of his Fables. As a dramatic writer, Mr. Moore has, by no means, met with the