That jealousy, though just, is still a crime;
And will be still; for (not to blame the plot)
That same Alonzo was a stupid sot,
To kill a bride, a mistress unenjoyed—
'Twere some excuse, had the poor man been
cloy'd:

To kill her on suspicion, ere he knew
Whether the heinous crime were false or true-
The priest said grace, she met him in the bower,
In hopes she might anticipate an hour-

Love was her errand, but the hot-brain'd Spaniard, Instead of love-produc'd-a filthy poignardHad he been wise, at this their private meeting, The proof o'th' pudding had been in the eating; Madam had then been pleas'd, and Don contented,

And all this blood and murder been prevented.Britons, be wise, and from this sad example, Ne'er break a bargain, but first take a sample.

THE tragic muse, revolving many a page
Of Time's long records, drawn from every age,
Forms not her plans on low or trivial deeds,
But marks the striking! When some hero bleeds,
To save his country, then her powers inspire,
And souls congenial catch her patriot fire.
When bold oppression grinds a suffering land;
When the keen dagger gleams in Murder's hand;
When black conspiracy infects the throng;
Or fell Revenge sits brooding o'er his wrong;
Then walks she forth in terror; at her frown
Guilt shrinks appall'd, though seated on a throne.
But the rack'd soul, when dark suspicions rend,
When brothers hate, and sons with sons contend;
When clashing interests war eternal wage,
And love, the tenderest passion, turns to rage;
Then grief on every visage stands imprest,

And pity throbs in every feeling breast;
Hope, fear, and indignation rise by turns,
And the strong scene with various passion burns.
Such is our tale.-Nor blush if tears should flow:
They're virtue's tribute paid to human woe.
Such drops new lustre to bright eyes impart,
The silent witness of a tender heart:
Such drops adorn the noblest hero's cheek,
And paint his worth in strokes that more than
speak:

Not he who cannot weep, but he who can,
Shews the great soul, and proves himself a man.
Yet do not idly grieve at others' pain,
Nor let the tears of nature fall in vain :
Watch the close crimes from whence their ills
have grown,

And from their frailties learn to mend your own.

SCENE I.

Enter CURTIUS and POSTHUMIUS.

Cur. I've partly heard Her smothered story.

Post. Smothered by the king;
And wisely too: but thou shalt hear it all.
Not seas of adamant, not mountains whelmed
On guilty secrets, can exclude the day.
Long burnt a fixed hereditary hate
Between the crowns of Macedon and Thrace;
The sword by both too much indulged in blood.
Philip, at length, prevailed; he took, by night,
The town and palace of his deadly foe;
Rushed through the flames, which he had kindled
round,

And slew him, bold in vain; nor rested there,
But, with unkingly cruelty, destroyed
Two little sons within their mother's arms;
Thus meaning to tread out those sparks of war,
Which might one day flame up to strong revenge.
The queen, through grief, on her dead sons ex-
pired.

One child alone survived; a female infant,
Amidst these horrors, in the cradle smiled.

Cur. What of that infant?

Post. Stung with sharp remorse, The victor took, and gave her to his queen. The child was bred, and honoured as her own; She grew, she bloomed; and now her eyes repay Her brothers' wounds, on Philip's rival sons.

Cur. Is, then, Erixene that Thracian child? How just the gods! from out that ruined house He took a brand, to set his own on fire.

Post. To give thee, friend, the whole in minia

ture,

This is the picture of great Philip's court:
The proud, but melancholy king, on high
Majestic sits, like Jove enthroned in darkness;
His sons are as the thunder in his hand;
And the fair Thracian princess is a star,
That sparkles by, and gilds the solemn scene.
[Shouts heard.

'Tis their great day, supreme of all their year,
The famed lustration of their martial powers;
Thence, for our audience, chosen by the king.
If he provokes a war, his empire shakes,
And all her lofty glories nod to ruin,

Cur. Who comes?

Post. O, that's the jealous elder brother; Irregular in manners as in form.

Observe the fire, high birth and empire kindle! Cur. He holds his conference with much emo

tion.

Post. The brothers both can talk, and, in their turn,

Have borne away the prize of eloquence
At Athens. Shun his walk: our own debate
Is now at hand. We'll seek his lion sire,
Who dares to frown on us, his conquerors;
And carries so much monarch on his brow,
As if he'd fright us with the wounds we gave
him.
[Exeunt.

Enter PERSEUS and PERICLES. Per. 'Tis empire! empire! empire! let that word

Make sacred all I do, or can attempt!
Had I been born a slave, I should affect it;
My nature's fiery, and, of course, aspires.
Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats
All end of giving; and procures contempt
Instead of gratitude. An empire lost,
Destroyed, would less confound me, than resigned.
Peri. But are you sure Demetrius will at-
tempt?

Per. Why does Rome court him? For his virtues? No.

To fire him to dominion; to blow up
A cival war; then to support him in it:
He gains the name of king, and Rome the power.
Peri. This is, indeed, the common art of Rome.
Per. That source of justice through the won-
dring world!

His youth and valour second Rome's designs:
The first impels him to presumptuous hope;
The last supports him in it. Then his person!
Thy hand, Q nature, has made bold with mine.
Yet more! what words distil from his red lip,
To gull the multitude! and they make kings.
Ten thousand fools, knaves, cowards, lumped to-
gether,

Become all wise, all righteous, and almighty!
Nor is this all: the foolish Thracian maid
Prefers the boy to me!

Peri. And does that pain you?

Per. O Pericles, to death! It is most true, Through hate to him, and not through love for

her,

I paid my first addresses; but became

The fool I feigned: my sighs are now sincere. It smarts; it burns: O that 'twere fiction still! By Heaven, she seems more beauteous than dominion!

Peri. Dominion and the princess both are lost, Unless you gain the king.

Per. But how to gain him? Old men love novelties; the last arrived Still pleases best; the youngest steals their smiles. Peri. Dymas alone can work him to his plea

sure;

First in esteem, and keeper of his heart.

Per. To Dymas thou, and win him to thy will. In the mean time, I'll seek my double rival; Curb his presumption, and erect myself In all the dignity of birth before him. Whate'er can stir the blood, or sway the mind, Is now at stake; and double is the loss, When an inferior bears away the prize.

Peri. Your brother, dressed for the solemnity! Per. To Dymas fly! gain him, and think on this;

A prince indebted is a fortune made.

[Exit PERICLES.

Enter DEMETRIUS.

What pomps are due to this illustrious day?
Per. I am no gew-gaw for the throng to gaze

at:

Some are designed by nature but for shew;
The tinsel and the feather of mankind.

Dem. Brother, of that no more: for shame, gird on

Your glittering arms, and look like any Roman.
Per. No, brother, let the Romans look like me,
If they're ambitious. But, I prithee, stand;
Let me gaze on thee:-No inglorious figure!
More Romano, as it ought to be.

But what is this, that dazzles my weak sight?
There's sunshine in thy beaver.

Dem. 'Tis that helmet,

Which Alexander wore at Granicus.

Per. When he subdued the world? Ha! is't

Our mother shudders at it in her grave!

got

And awful king; but, oh! the tenderest parent,

That ever wept, in fondness, o'er a child. Per. Why, ay, go tell your father; fondly throw

Your arms around him ; stroke him to your purpose,

As you are wont: I boast not so much worth;
I am no picture, by the doating eye

To be surveyed, and hung about his neck;
I fight his battles; that's all I can do.
But, if you boast a piety sincere,

One way you may secure your father's peace;
And one alone-resign Erixene.

Dem. You flatter me, to think her in my power. We run our fates together: you deserve, And she can judge: proceed we, then, like friends; And he, who gains her heart, and gains it fairly, Let him enjoy his generous rival's too.

Per. Smooth-speaking, insincere, insulting boy! Is, then, my crown usurped but half thy crime? Desist; or by the gods, that smile on blood, Not thy fine form, nor yet thy boasted peace, Nor patronizing Rome, nor Philip's tears, Nor Alexander's helmet; no, nor more, His radiant form, should it alight in thunder, And spread its new divinity between us, Should save a brother from a brother's fury!

[Exit.

Dem. How's this? the waves ne'er ran thus
high before;

Resign thee! yes, Erixene, with life!
Thou, in whose eyes, so modest, and so bright,
Love ever wakes, and keeps a vestal fire;
Ne'er shall I wean my fond, fond heart from
thee!

But Perseus warns me to rouse all my powers.
As yet I float in dark uncertainty;
For though she smiles, I sound not her designs:
I'll fly, fall, tremble, weep upon her feet,
And learn (O all ye gods!) my final doom!—
My father! ha! and on his brow deep thought
And pale concern! Kind Heaven assuage his sor-
rows,

Which strike a damp through all my flames of [Exit.

love!

Enter King and ANTIGONUS. King. Kings of their envy cheat a foolish world: Fate gives us all in spite, that we alone Might have the pain of knowing all is nothing! The seeming means of bliss but heighten woe, When impotent to make their promise good: Hence, kings, at least, bid fairest to be wretched. Ant. True, sir; 'tis empty, or tormenting, all; The days of life are sisters; all alike, None just the same; which serves to fool us on Through blasted hopes with change of fallacy: While joy is like to-morrow, still to come; Nor ends the fruitless chase but in the grave! King. Ay, there, Antigonus, this pain will

Conscience, what art thou? thou tremendous

power!

Who dost inhabit us without our leave;
And art, within ourselves, another self,
A master self, that loves to domineer,
And treat the monarch frankly as the slave,
How dost thou light a torch to distant deeds!
Make the past present, and the future frown!
How, ever and anon, awake the soul,

As with a peal of thunder, to strange horrors,
In this long restless dream, which idiots hug,
Nay, wise men flatter with the name of life?
Ant. You think too much.
King. I do not think at all:

The gods impose, the gods inflict, my thoughts,
And paint my dreams with images of dread!
Last night, in sleep, I saw the Thracian queen
And her two murdered sons. She frowned upon

me,

And pointed at their wounds! How throbbed my heart!

How shook my couch! and when the morning

came,

The formidable picture still subsisted,
And slowly vanished from my waking eye!
I fear some heavy vengeance hangs in air,
And conscious deities infuse these thoughts,
To warn my soul of her approaching doom.
The gods are rigid, when they weigh such deeds
As speak a ruthless heart; they measure blood
By drops, and bate not one in the repay.
Could infants hurt me? 'Twas not like a king!

Ant. My lord, I do confess the gods are with us ;
Stand at our side in every act of life,
And on our pillow watch each secret thought;
Nay, see it in its embryo, yet unborn.
But their wrath ceases on remorse for guilt:
And well I know your sorrows touch your sons;
Nor is it possible but time must quench
Their flaming spirits in a father's tears.

King. Vain comfort! I this moment overheard My jarring sons, with fury, shake my walls. Ah! why my curse from those, who ought to bless

me!

The queen of Thrace can answer that sad ques tion.

She had two sons; but two: and so have I. Misfortune stands with her bow ever bent Over the world; and he, who wounds another, Directs the goddess, by that part he wounds, Where to strike deep her arrows in himself.

Ant. I own, I think it time your sons receive A father's awful counsel; or, while here, Now weary nature calls for kind repose, Your curtains will be shaken with their broils: And, when you die, sons' blood may stain your tomb!

But other cares demand you now,-the Romans. King. O change of pain! the Romans? Perisk

Rome!

Thrice happy they, who sleep in humble life, Beneath the storm ambition blows. 'Tis meet The great should have the fame of happiness,