My heart still doubts if I should love or hate you- And call him to this hated light again,
But, oh, since you resolve to wed another,
Defer your cruel purpose till to-morrow,
That I may not be here to grace your triumph!
This is the last request I e'er shall make you.
See, if the barbarous prince vouchsafes an
answer!

To see Andromache in Pyrrhus' arms?
Would Hector, were he living, and I dead,
Forget Andromache, and wed her foe?

Ceph. I cannot guess what drift your thoughts

pursue;

But, oh, I fear there's something dreadful in it!
Must then Astyanax be doom'd to die,
And you to linger out a life in bondage?
Andro. Know then the secret purpose of

Go, then, to the lov'd Phrygian; hence! be gone!
And bear to her those vows that once were mine:
Go, in defiance to the avenging gods!!
Be gone! the priest expects you at the altar;
But, tyrant, have a care I come not thither. [Exit.

Enter PHOENIX.

Phoe. Sir, did you mind her threats? your life's in danger:

There is no trifling with a woman's rage.

my soul:
Andromache will not be false to Pyrrhus,
Nor violate her sacred love to Hector.
This hour I'll meet the king; the holy priest
Shall join us, and confirm our mutual vows.
This will secure a father to my child:
That done, I have no further use for life:

The Greeks that swarm about the court, all This pointed dagger, this determin'd hand,

hate you;
Will treat you as their country's enemy,
And join in her revenge: besides, Orestes
Still loves her to distraction. Sir, I beg -

Pyr. How, Phoenix, should I fear a wo-
man's threats ?

Shall save my virtue, and conclude my woes.
Cephisa, thou
Wilt lend a hand to close thy mistress' eyes.
Ceph. Oh, never think that I will stay behind

you!

Andro. No, my Cephisa, I must have theelive.
I must commit into thy faithful hands
All that is dear and precious to my soul.
Live, and supply my absence to my child;

A nobler passion takes up all my thoughts:
I must prepare to meet Andromache.
Do thou place all my guards about her son:
If he be safe, Pyrrhus is free from fear. [Exit. All that remains of Troy; a future progeny
Phoe. Oh, Pyrrhus! oh, what pity 'tis, the gods, Of heroes, and a distant line of kings,
Who fill'd thy soul with every kingly virtue, In him, is all intrusted to thy care.
Form'd thee for empire and consummate Tell him my soul repos'd itself on him,

greatness,
Should leave thee so expos'd to wild desires,
That hurry thee beyond the bounds of reason!
[Flourish.

Enter ANDROMACHE and CEPHISA.
Ceph. Madam, once more you look and

When I resign'd my son to his protection.
Ceph. Oh, for a spirit to support my grief!
Is there aught more, before you go for ever?
Andro. Oh, my Cephisa! my swoln heart

is full!

But see, the queen,
Magnificent in royal pride, appears.
I have a thousand farewells to my son-
I must obey, and guard her son from danger. But tears break in! Grief interrupts my speech!
[Exit. My soul o'erflows in fondness! Let him know
I died to save him and would die again.
Season his mind with early hints of glory;
Make him acquainted with his ancestors;
Trace out their shining story in his thoughts;
Dwell on the exploits of his immortal father;
And sometimes let him hear his mother's name.
He must be taught to stifle his resentments,
And sacrifice his vengeance to his safety.
Should he prove headstrong, rash, or unadvis'd,
He then will frustrate all his mother's virtue,

move a queen.

Your sorrows are dispers'd, your charms revive,
And every faded beauty blooms anew.

Andro. Yet all is not as I could wish, Cephisa.
Ceph. You see the king is watchful o'er

your son;

Decks him with princely robes, with guards

surrounds him.

Astyanax begins to reign already.

Andro. Pyrrhus is nobly minded; and I fain
Would live to thank him for Astyanax:
Tis a vain thought. However, since my child
Has such a friend, I ought not to repine.

Ceph. These dark untoldings of your soul

perplex me.

For heaven's sake, madam, let me know your griefs.

If you distrust my faith

Andro. That were to wrong thee.
Oh, my Cephisa! This gay, borrow'd air,
This blaze of jewels, and this bridal dress,
Are but mock trappings, to conceal my woe:
My heart still mourns; I still am Hector's widow.

Ceph. Will you then break the promise

giv'n to Pyrrhus, Blow up his rage again, and blast your hopes? Andro. I thought, Cephisa, thou hadst known

thy mistress. Couldst thou believe I would be false to Hector? Fall off from such a husband! Break his rest,

Provoke his fate, and I shall die in vain.

Ceph. Alas, I fear I never shall outlive you!
Andro. No more; thy tears, Cephisa, will

betray me;
Assume a cheerful look. But still remember-
[Flourish within.
Hark how the trumpet, with its sprightly notes,
Proclaims th'appointed hour, and calls us hence:
Hector, I come once more a queen, to join thee!
Thus the gay victim, with fresh garlands crown'd,
Pleas'd with the sacred fife's enlivening sound,
Through gazing crowds, in solemn state proceeds,
And dress'd in fatal pomp magnificently bleeds.
[Exeunt.

What brought me to this place? What keeps me here?

Her. No; I'll avenge myself; I'll to the temple;
I'll overturn the altar, stab the priest;
I'll hurl destruction, like a whirlwind, round me!
They must not wed! they must not live! they
shall not!

The court of Pyrrhus has no room for me!
Do I still doubt if I should love or hate him?
Hard-hearted man! how unconcern'd he left me!
Did he once sigh? bestow one pitying look? Let me be gone; I have no time to lose;
lose;
Once shed a tear? or speak one soft, kind word? Stand off! hold me not! I am all distraction!
Did he so much as feign one moment's sorrow, O Pyrrhus! tyrant! traitor! thou shalt bleed.

To calm my grief, and mitigate his falsehood?

Why am I still thus anxious for his life?
Why do I start at his impending fate?

Shall he then live? Shall the base traitor live

To laugh at my distress? No, let him perish!
Be quick, Orestes! Execute my orders!
Alas! my orders! Oh, preposterous guilt!
Can I decree the death of him I love?
Was it for this my soul delighted in him?
Was it for this I left my father's court?
Have I then cross'd so many realms and seas
To murder Pyrrhus?

Enter CLEONE.

Oh, Cleone, help me!

What have I done? Is Pyrrhus yet alive?
What say'st thou? Answer me. Where is

the king?

Ores. Even now he gasps in death.

Our Greeks, all undistinguish'd in the crowd, Flock'd to the temple and dispers'd themselves On every side the altar: I was there: Pyrrhus observ'd me with a haughty eye, And, proud to triumph over Greece in me, From his own brows he took the diadem, And bound it on the temples of his captive. Receive, said he, my crown; receive my faith; Mine and my people's sovereign reign for ever. From this blest hour, a father to your son, I'll scourge his foes: henceforward be he styl'd The Trojan king: I swear it at the altar, And call the gods to ratify my vows. His subjects with loud acclamations shook The spacious dome! our Greeks enrag'd cry'd out She pass'd along with a dejected air, "Revenge! revenge!" broke through the throngAnd seem'd to mourn her Hector to the last. ing press, Her. Insulting tyrant! I shall burst with rage! And rush'd tumultuous on the unguarded king. But say, Cleone, didst thou mark him well? Pyrrhus awhile oppos'd their clashing swords, Was his brow smooth? Say, did there not appear And dealt his fatal blows on every side Some shade of grief? some little cloud of sorrow? With manly fierceness; till oppress'd by Did he not stop? Did he not once look back?

Cle. Madam, I saw the cruel prince set forward,
Triumphant in his looks, and full of joy.
Still as he walk'd, his ravish'd eyes were fix'd
On the fair captive; while through shouting

crowds

numbers,

Didst thou approach him? Was he not con- Streaming with blood, all over gash'd with

founded?

Did he not-Oh, be quick, and tell me all!

Cle. Madam, the tumult of his joy admits
No thought but love. Unguarded he march'd on,
'Midst a promiscuous throng of friends and foes,
His cares all turn upon Astyanax,
Whom he has lodg'd within the citadel,
Defended by the strength of all his guards.
Her. Enough! he dies! the traitor! Where's
Orestes?

Cle. He's in the temple, with his whole retinue.
Her. Is he still resolute? Is he still determin'd?
Cle. Madam, I fear-
Her. How? Is Orestes false?

Does he betray me too?

Cle. A thousand doubts

Perplex his soul, and wound him with remorse;
His virtue and his love prevail by turns.
He told me Pyrrhus should not fall ignobly;
Pyrrhus, the warlike son of great Achilles,
He dreads the censure of the Grecian states,
Of all mankind, and fears to stain his honour.
Her. Poor tim'rous wretch! 'tis false! he

basely fears

To cope with dangers, and encounter death!
'Tis that he fears. Am I bright Helen's daughter?
To vindicate her wrongs all Greece conspir'd;
For her confederate nations fought, and kings
were slain;
Troy was o'erthrown, and a whole empire fell.
My eyes want force to raise a lover's arm
Against a tyrant that has dar'd to wrong me!

wounds,

He reel'd, he groan'd, and at the altar fell.
Haste, madam, let us fly! haste to our ships!
They lie unmoor'd: our friends attend us there.
Her. What have they done?
Ores. Madam, forgive their rage.

I own your vengeance had been more complete
Had Pyrrhus fall'n by me; and had he known
Hermione chastis'd him by my arm.

Her. Peace, monster, peace! Go tell thy
horrid tale

To savages, and howl it out in deserts.
Wouldst thou impute to me thy barbarous guilt ?
Me wouldst thou make th' accomplice of thy

crimes?

Her. What if, transported by my boundless
passion,

I could not bear to see him wed another,
Were you t' obey a jealous woman's frenzy?
You should have div'd into my inmost thoughts:
malice;

Cle. Madam, like Helen, trust your cause My heart, though full of rage, was free from

But chiefly I renounce thee! monster, thee!
[Exit.
Ores. Am I awake? where am I? Soft,
my soul;

Be not too rash. Was that Hermione?
Why should her anger thunder against me?
Was not this blood shed all by her command?
I am indeed a most outrageous monster!
A ruffian, murderer, a base assassin!

And all to please a false ungrateful woman.
Henceforward let the laws of nature cease;
And let the pale that severs right and wrong,
Things sacred and profane, be broken down;
Gods in their temples, kings upon their thrones,
Are not in safety while Orestes lives.
Oh, never more shall my torn mind be heal'd,
Nor taste the gentle comforts of repose!

A dreadful band of gloomy cares surround me,
And lay strong siege to my distracted soul.

Enter PYLADES, attended by Greeks.
Pyl. Haste, prince; let us be gone: 'tis death

to stay.

Andromache reigns queen: she gives the alarm,
And vows revenge upon the foes of Pyrrhus.
The people arm and muster in the streets:
Our Greeks will not he able long to guard
The palace gates, and to secure our flight.
We must be speedy, sir.

Ores. You may depart,
My friends: Hermione and I remain.
Her cruelty has quite undone me. Go.

It is Hermione that strikes. Confusion!
She catches Pyrrhus in her arms. Oh, save me!
How terrible she looks! She knits her brow;
She frowns me dead; she frights me into madness.
Where am I? Who are you?

Pyl. Alas, poor prince!

Help to support him. How he pants for breath!
Ores. This is most kind, my Pylades. Oh, why,
Why was I born to give thee endless trouble?
Pyl. All will go well: he settles into reason.
Ores. Who talks of reason? Better to have

I

none,

Than not enough. Run, some one, tell my Greeks
I will not have them touch the king. Now, now!
blaze again! See there: look where they come;
A shoal of furies. How they swarm about me!
My terror! Hide me! Oh, their snaky locks!
Hark, how they hiss! See, see their flaming brands!
Now they let drive at me! How they grin,
And shake their iron whips! My ears! what

yelling!
And see, Hermione! she sets them on.
Thrust not your scorpions thus into my bosom!
Oh, I am stung to death! Dispatch me soon!
There-take my heart, Hermione! Tear it out!
Disjoint me! kill me! Oh, my tortur'd soul!
Pyl. Kind heaven, restore him to his wonted
calm!

Pyl Alas, unhappy princess! she's no more. Oft have I seen him rave, but never thus. Ores. Hermione no more! O, all ye powers! Quite spent! Assist me, friends, to bear him off. Pyl. Full of disorder, wildness in her looks, Our time is short: should his strong rage return, With hands expanded, and dishevell'd hair, 'Twould be beyond our power to force him hence. Breathless and pale, with shrieks she sought Away, my friends! I hear the portal open. the temple; [Exeunt. In the mid-way she met the corpse of Pyrrhus: Enter PHOENIX, attended by Guards. She startled at the sight; then, stiff with horror, Phoe. All, all are fled! Orestes is not here! Gaz'd frightful! Waken'd from the dire amaze, Triumphant villains! The base, giddy rabble, She rais'd her eyes to heaven with such a look Whose hands should all have been employ'd As spoke her sorrows, and reproach'd the gods;

Then plung'd a poniard deep within her breast, To waste the fleet, flock'd round the dying And fell on Pyrrhus, grasping him in death.

with fire,

princess:

Ores. I thank you, gods: I never could expect And, while they stand agaze, the Greeks embark. To be so wretched! You have been industrious Oh, 'tis too plain! this sacrileg'ous murder To finish your decrees; to make Orestes

Was authoriz'd. The ambassador's escape

Ceph. It is the corpse of Pyrrhus;
The weeping soldiers bear him on their shields.
Andro. Ill-fated prince! too negligent of life,
And too unwary of the faithless Greeks!
Cut off in the fresh rip'ning prime of manhood,
E'en in the prime of life! thy triumphs new,
And all thy glories in full blossom round thee!
The very Trojans would bewail thy fate.
Ceph. Alas! then will your sorrow sorrows never end?

sorrow,

Like gleams of sunshine in a low'ring sky.
Though plung'd in ills, and exercis'd in care,
Yet never let the noble mind despair.
When press'd by dangers, and beset with foes,
The gods their timely succour interpose;
And when our virtue sinks, o'erwhelm'd with
grief,

Andro. Oh, never, never! - While I live, By unforeseen expedients bring relief. [Exeunt.

my tears

ROWE.

NICHOLAS ROWE, son of John Rowe, Esq. sergeant at law, was born at Little Berkford, in Bedfordshire, anno 1675. His education was begun at a private seminary in Highgate, from whence he was removed to Westminster school, where he was perfected in classical literature under Doctor Busby. His father, designing him for his own profession, entered him, at sixteen years of age, a student of the Middle Temple. He soon made considerable progress in the law, aud might have cut a figure in that profession, if the love of poetry and the belles lettres had not to much attracted his attention. At the age of twenty-five he wrote his first tragedy, The Ambitious Step-mother, the great success of which made him entirely lay aside all thoughts of the law. Dr. Johnson demands: "Whence then has Rowe his reputation? From the reasonableness and propriety of some of his scenes, from the elegance of his diction, and the suavity of his verse. He seldom moves either pity or terror, but he often elevates the sentiments; he seldom pierces the breast, but he always delights the car, and often improves the understanding." Being a great admirer of Shakspeare, he gave the public an edition of his plays, to which he prefixed an account of that great man's life. But the most considerable of Mr. Rowe's performances, was a translation of Lucan's Pharsalia, which he just lived to finish, but not to publish for it did not appear in print till ten years after his death. His attachment to the Muses, however, did not entirely unfit him for business; for when the Duke of Queensberry was secretary of state, he made Mr. Rowe his under-secretary for public affairs; but, after the Duke's death, the avenues to his preferment being stopped, he passed his time in retirement during the rest of Queen Anne's reign. On the accession of George I, he was made poet laureat, and one of the land-surveyors of the customs in the port of London. He was also Clerk of the council to the Prince of Wales, and the Lord Chancellor Parker made him his secretary for the presentations; but he did not long enjoy these promotions, for he died Dec. 6. 1718 in the 45th year of his age.

THE FAIR PENITENT.

ACTED at Lincoln's Inn Fields 1705. This, as Dr. Johnson observes, 'is one of the most pleasing tragedies on the stage, where it still keeps its turns of appearing, and probably will long keep them; for there is scarcely any work of any poet at once so interesting by the fable, and so delightful by the language. The story is domestic, and therefore easily received by the imagination, and assimilated to common life; the diction is exquisitely harmonious, and soft or sprightly as occasion requires. The character of Lothario seems to have been expanded by Richardson into Lovelace; but he has excelled his original in the moral effect of the fiction. Lothario, with gaiety which can not be hated, and bravery which cannot be despised, retains too much of the spectators kindness. It was in the power of Richardson alone to teach us at once esteem and detestation, to make virtuous resentment overpower all the benevolence which wit, and elegance, and courage, naturally excite; and to loose at last the hero in the villain. In the year 1699 Mr. Powell played Lothario, and his dresser Warren performed the dead Lothario, unknown to Powell. About the middle of the distressful scene, Powell called aloud for his man, who answered him as loudly from the bier on the stage, "Here, Sir!" Powell ignorant of the part his man was acting, repeated immediately, "Come here this moment, you rascal! or I'll break all the bones in your skin." Warren knew his hasty temper; therefore, without any reply, jumped off, with all his sables about him, which unfortunately were tied fast to the handles of the bier, and dragged it after him. But this was not all; the laugh and roar began in the audience, till it frightened poor Warren so much, that, with the bier at his tail, he drew down Calista, and overwhelmed her with the table, lamp, book, bones, together with all the lumber of the charnel-house. He lugged, till he broke off his trammels, and made his escape; and the play, at once, ended with immoderate fits of laughter.

SCENE.-SCIOLTO's Palace and the Garden, with some Part of the Street near it, in GENOA.

That kindly grants what nature had deny'd me, SCENE I-A Garden belonging to SCIOLTO'S And makes me father of a son like thee.

Sci. Joy to thee, Altamont! Joy to myself! Joy to this happy morn, that makes thee mine; But that it pleas'd her father to refuse me,