Pier. Ha, ha, ha-oh! oh!
Jaf. Now, ye curs'd rulers,
Thus of the blood y'ave shed, I make libation
idle. And sprinkle it mingling. May it rest upon you,
And all your your race. race Be henceforth peace a stranger
Within your walls; let plagues and famine waste
Your generation-Oh, poor Belvidera!

At such a rate, as Venice long shall groan for. Sir, I have a wife, bear this in safety to her, Pier. Wilt thou?

Fought nation's quarrels, and been crown'd Are you return'd? See, father, here he's come

Am I to blame to love him? O, thou dear one,
Why do you fly me? Are you angry still then?
Jaffier, where art thou? father, why do you

do thus?
Stand off, don't hide him from me. He's here
somewhere.

Stand off, I say: What gone? Remember't,
tyrant:
I may revenge myself for this trick, one day.
I'll do't-I'll do't.

Enter Officer.

Pri. News, what news?

[Officer whispers Priuli.

Offi. Most sad, sir;

Here they went down-Oh, I'll dig, dig the
den up!

You shan't delude me thus. Hoa, Jaffier, Jaffier,
Peep up, and give me but a look. I have him!
I've got him, father: Oh!

My love! my dear! my blessing! help me!
help me!

They have hold on me, and drag me to the
bottom.

Jaffier, upon the scaffold, to prevent
A shameful death, stabb'd Pierre, and next himself; Nay-now they pull so hard-farewell-

Both fell together.

[Dies. The Curtain falls slowly to Music.

THE ORPHAN OF CHINA;

OR, The Unhappy Marriage. Tragedy by Thomas Otway. Acted at the Duke's Theatre 1680. The plot is founded on the history of Brandon, in a novel called English Adventures, published in 1667. The language is truly poctical, tender, and sentimental, the circumstances are affecting and the catastrophe is distressfull. Yet there is somewhat improbable in the particular on which all the distresses are founded; and we must own that we incline to the opinion of that person, who, on first seeing it, exclaimed, "Oh! what an infinite deal of mischief would a farthing rushlight have prevented!" We cannot avoid remarking, says the Biographia Dramatica, that the compassion of the audience has commonly appeared misplaced; it lighting in general on the whining, irresolute Castalio, instead of falling, where it ought to do, on the more spirited and open-hearted Polydore, who, in consequence of concealments on the side of his brother, which he could not have any reason to expect, and by which he is really injured, is tempted in his love and resentment to an act which involves him in greater horror and distress than any of the other characters can undergo, from the more bloody effects it produces. This partiality has, however, always appeared to us to arise from some strokes of libertinism thrown into the early parts of Polydore's character, which give an air of looseness to it, and prejudice the audience against him through the whole play. As Dr. Johnson observes, "it is one of the few pieces that keep possession of the stage, and has pleased for almost a century, through all the vicissitudes of dramatic fashion. Of this play nothing new can easily be said. It is a domestic tragedy drawn from middle life. Its whole power is upon the affections; for it is not written with much comprehension of thought, or elegance of expression. But if the heart is interested, many other beauties may be wanting, yet not be missed." Voltaire, who (from his egregious vanity) seldom spoke of an English author but in a strain of ridicule, has sarcastically, yet not without some appearance of truth, observed of the impetuous Chamont: "There is a brother of Monimia, a soldier of fortune, who, because he and his sister are cherished and maintained by this worthy family, abuses them all round. 'Do me justice, you old Put,' says he to the father, 'or, damme, I'll set your house on fire,'-'My dear boy,' says the accommodating old gentleman, 'you shall have justice."

ACT I.

SCENE I-A Garden.

ERNESTо.
PAGE.

SCENE. Bohemia.

Enter CASTALIO, POLYDORE, and Page.
Cas. POLYDORE, our sport

CHAMON
SERINA.

FLORELLA.
ΜΟΝΙΜΙΑ.

Cas. So, Polydore, methinks, we might in war
Rush on together; thou shouldst be my guard,
And I be thine. What is't could hurt us then?
Now half the youth of Europe are in arms,
How fulsome must it be to stay behind,
And die of rank diseases here at home!

Has been to-day much better for the danger:
When on the brink the foaming boar I met,
And in his side thought to havelodg'd my spear,
The desperate savage rush'd within my force, I would be busy in the world, and learn,

And bore me headlong with him down the rock.
Pol. But then

Cas. Ay, then, my brother, my friend, Po-
lydore,

Like Perseus mounted on his winged steed,
Came on, and down the dang'rous precipice
Icap'd

To save Castalio.-'Twas a godlike act!

Pol. But when I came, I found you conqueror. Oh! my heart danc'd, to see your danger past! The heat and fury of the chase was cold, And I had nothing in my mind but joy.

Pol. No, let me purchase in my youth renown,
To make me lov'd and valu'd when I'm old;
Not like a coarse and useless dunghill weed,
Fix'd to one spot, and rot just as I grow.
Cas. Our father

Has ta'en himself a surfeit of the world,
And cries, it is not safe that we should taste it.
I own, I have duty very pow'rful in me:
And though I'd hazard all to raise my name,
Yet he's so tender, and so good a father,
I could not do a thing to cross his will.

Pol. Castalio, I have doubts within my heart,
Which you, and only you, can satisfy.
Will you be free and candid to your friend?

For he was never half so kind as you are.
What must I do?

Mon. Inform me how thou'st heard
Castalio and his brother use my name.
Page. With all the tenderness of love,
You were the subject of their last discourse.
At first I thought it would have fatal prov'd;
But as the one grew hot, the other cool'd,
And yielded to the frailty of his friend;
At last, after much struggling, 'twas resolv'd-

Mon. What, good Cordelio?
Page. Not to

quarrel for you.

created,

Man, when

At first alone long wander'd up and down
Forlorn, and silent as his vassal beasts:
But t when a heav'n-born maid, like you, appear'd,

Mon. I would not have 'em, by my dearest Strange pleasures fill'd his eyes and fir'd his heart,

hopes;
I would not be the argument of strife.
But surely my Castalio won't forsake me,
And make a mock'ry of my easy love!
Went they together?

Page. Yes, to seek you, madam.
Castalio promis'd Polydore to bring him,
Where he alone might meet you,
And fairly try the fortune of his wishes.

Mon. Am I then grown so cheap, just to

be made

A common stake stake, a prize for love in jest?
Was not Castalio very loath to yield it?
Or was it Polydore's unruly passion,
That heighten'd the debate?

Page. The fault was Polydore's..
Castalio play'd with love, and smiling show'd
The pleasure, not the pangs of his desire.
He said, no woman's smiles should buy his

freedom:

And marriage is a mortifying thing.

Unloos'd his tongue, and his first talk was love.
Mon. The first created pair indeed were

bless'd;

families;

And therefore when my tender parents dy'd, [Exit. Whose ruin'd fortunes too expir'd with them,

Mon. Then I am ruin'd! if Castalio's false, Your father's pity and his bounty took me, Where is there faith and honour to be found? A poor and helpless orphan, to his care. Ye gods, that guard the innocent, and guide

Pol. "Twas Heav'n ordain'd it so, to make

The weak, protect and take me to your care.
O, but I love him! There's the rock will wreck me! Hence with this
Why was I made with all my sex's fondness, And those who taught
Yet want the cunning to conceal its follies?
I'll see Castalio, tax him with his falsehoods,
Be a true woman, rail, protest my wrongs;
Resolve to hate him, and yet love him still.

Re-enter CASTALIO and POLYDORE.

Cas. Madam!

Mon. Have you purpos'd

To abuse me palpably? What means this usage?

Why am I left with Polydore alone?

Cas. He best can tell you. importance

Business of

Calls me away: I must attend my father.
Mon. Will you then leave me thus?
Cas. But for a moment.

Mon. It has been otherwise: the time has been, When business might have stay'd, and I been heard.

yielding.

me happy. peevish peevish virtue, 'tis a cheat; it first were hypocrites. Come, these soft, tender limbs were made for Mon. Here on my knees, by heav'n's blest pow'r I swear, [Kneels. If you persist, I ne'er henceforth will see you, But rather wander through the world a beggar, And live on sordid scraps at proud men's doors; For though to fortune lost, I'll still inherit My mother's virtues, and my father's honour. Pol. Intolerable vanity! your sex Was never in the right; y'are always false, Or silly; ev'n your dresses are not more Fantastic than your appetites; you think Of nothing twice; opinion you have none. To-day y'are nice, to-morrow not so free; Now smile, then frown; now sorrowful, then

glad;

Now pleas'd, now not: and all, you know
not why!

Mon. Indeed, my lord,
I own my sex's follies; I have 'em all;
And, to avoid its fault, must fly from you.
Therefore, believe me, could you raise me high
As most fantastic woman's wish could reach,

Cas. I could for ever hear thee; but this time And lay all nature's riches at my feet;
Matters of such odd circumstances press me, I'd rather run a savage in the woods,
That I must go.

[Exit. Amongst brute

Mon. Then go, and, if't be possible, for ever. Well, my lord Polydore, I guess your business, So I might still enjoy my honour safe, And read th' ill-natur'd purpose in your eyes. From the destroying wiles of faithless men. [Exit. Pol. If to desire you more than misers wealth, Pol. Who'd be that sordid thing call'd man? Or dying men an hour of added life; I'll yet possess my love, it shall be so. [Exeunt.

Another sister! sure, it must be so;
Though I remember well I had but one:
But I feel something in my heart that prompts,
And tells me, she has claim and interest there.
Acas. Young soldier, you've not only studied

war,

Acas. To-day has been a day of glorious sport:
When you, Castalio, and your brother left me,
Forth from the thickets rush'd another boar,
So large, he seem'd the tyrant of the woods,
With all his dreadful bristles rais'd up high,
They seem'd a grove of spears upon his back; And I'm at least her brother by adoption;
Foaming he came at me, where I was posted For you have made yourself to me a father,
Best to observe which way he'd lead the chase, And by that patent I have leave to love her.

Courtship, I see, has been your practice too,
And may not prove' unwelcome to my daughter.
Cham. Is she your daughter? then my heart

Whetting his huge large tusks, and gaping wide,
As if he already had me for his prey!
Till brandishing my well-pois'd javelin high,
With this bold executing arm I struck
The ugly brindled monster to the heart.

Cas. The actions of your life were always

wondrous.

Acas. No flattery, boy! live by't;

an honest man can't

It is a little sneaking art, which knaves
U'se to cajole and soften fools withal.
If thou hast flattery in thy nature, out with't,
Or send it to a court, for there 'twill thrive.
Cas. Your lordship's wrongs have been

So great, that you with justice may complain;
Bat sufier us, whose younger minds ne'er felt
Fortune's deceits, to court her, as she's fair:
Were she a common mistress, kind to all,

Her worth would cease, and half the world

grow idle. Methinks I would be busy.

-Pol. So would I,

Not loiter out my life at home, and know
No further than one prospect gives me leave.
Acas. Busy your minds then, study arts and

told true,

Ser. Monimia, thou hast told me men are false, Will flatter, feign, and make an art of love: Is Chamont so? no, sure, he's more than man; Something that's near divine, and truth dwells in him.

Acas. Thus happy, who would envy pom-
pous pow'r,

The luxury of courts, or wealth of cities?
Let there be joy through all the house this day!
In ev'ry room let plenty flow at large!
It is the birth-day of my royal master!
You have not visited the court, Chamont,
Since your return?

Cham. I have no bus'ness there;
I have not slavish temperance enough
T'attend a favourite's heels, and watch his smiles,
Bear an ill office done me to my face,
And thank the lord that wrong'd me for his favour.
Acas. This you could do.
[To his Sons.
Cas. I'd serve my prince.

Acas. Who'd serve him?
Cas. I would, my lord.
Pol. And I; both would.
Acas. Away!

He needs not any servants such as you.
Serve him! he merits more than man can do!
He is so good, praise cannot speak his worth;
So merciful, sure he ne'er slept in wrath!
So just, that, were he but a private man,
He could not do a wrong! How would you

serve him?