Nor can thy tender, trembling heart sustain it. Long years of bliss remain in store for thee; And smiling time his treasures shall unfold To bribe thy stay!
Rut. Thou cruel comforter! Alas! what's life-what's hated life to me? Alas, this universe, this goodly frame, Shall all as one continued curse appear, And every object blast, when thou art gone. Esser. Oh, strain not thus the little strength I've left,
The weak support that holds up life! to bear A few short moments more, its weight of woe, Its loss of thee! Oh, turn away those eyes! Nor with that look melt down my fixed resolve! And yet, a little longer let me gaze
On that loved form! Alas! I feel my sight Grows dim, and reason from her throne retires : For pity's sake, let go my breaking heart, And leave me to my fate!
Rut. Why wilt thou still
Of parting talk?
Oh, that the friendly hand of Heaven would snatch
Us both at once, above the distant stars, Where fortune's venomed shafts can never pierce, Nor cruel queens destroy!
Esser. The awful Searcher, whose impartial
Ah! whither wouldst thou go? Ah, do not leave [Faints. Esser. Thou sinking excellence! thou matchless woman!
Shall fortune rob me of thy dear embrace, Or earth's whole power, or death divide us now? Stay, stay, thou spotless injured saint!
Lieut. My lord, already you have been indulged
Beyond what I can warrant by my orders. Essex. One moment more
Afford me to my sorrows-Oh, look there! Could bitter anguish pierce your heart, like mine, You'd pity now the mortal pangs I feel, The throbs that tear my vital strings away, And rend my agonizing soul! Lieut. My lord
Esser. But one short moment, and I will attend.
Ye sacred ministers, that virtue guard, And shield the righteous in the paths of peril, Restore her back to life, and lengthened years Of joy! dry up her bleeding sorrows all! Oh, cancel from her thoughts this dismal hour, And blot my image from her sad remembrance!
And now, ye trembling cords of life, give way! Nature and time, let go your hold !-eternity Demands me. [Exeunt ESSEX and Lieut. Rut. Where has my lost, benighted soul, been wandering?
What means this mist, that hangs about my mind,
Through which reflection's painful eye discerns Imperfect forms, and horrid shapes of woe?— The cloud dispels, the shades withdraw, and all My dreadful fate appears.-Oh! where's my lord?
My life! my Essex! Oh! whither have they ta'en him?
Enter Queen ELIZABETH and Attendants.
Qu. Eliz. To execution!-Fly with lightning's wing,
And save him! Be calm, he shall not die! Rise up-I came To save his life.
Rut. 'Tis mercy's voice that speaks!— My Essex shall again be mine! My queen, My bounteous, gracious queen! has said the word. May troops of angels guard thy sacred life! And, in thy latest moments, waft thy soul Which, now, thy royal goodness grants to me! To meet that mercy in the realms of joy,
What fiend art thou, that draws the horrid scene? Ah! Burleigh! bloody murderer! where's my husband?
Oh! where's my lord, my Essex? Destruction seize, and madness rend, my brain! See-see, they bend him to the fatal block! Now-now the horrid axe is lifted high— It falls it falls! he bleeds-he bleeds! he dies! Qu. Eliz. Alas! her sorrows pierce my suffer- ing heart!
Rut. Eternal discord tear the social world, And nature's laws dissolve! expunge-erase The hated marks of time's engraving hand, And every trace destroy! Arise, despair! Assert thy rightful claim-possess me all ! Bear, bear me to my murdered lord--to clasp His bleeding body in my dying arms! And, in the tomb, embrace his dear remains, And mingle with his dust-for ever! [Exit.
Qu. Eliz. Hapless woman! She shall henceforth be partner of my sorrows; And we'll contend who most shall weep for Essex. Oh, quick to kill, and ready to destroy!
[To BURLEIGH. Could no pretext be found--no cause appear, To lengthen mercy out a moment more, And stretch the span of grace !-Oh, cruel Burleigh!
This, this, was thy dark work, unpitying man!
Bur. My gracious mistress, blame not thus my duty,
My firm obedience to your high command. The laws condemned him first to die; nor think I stood between your mercy and his life. It was the lady Nottingham, not I. Herself confessed it all, in wild despair, That, from your majesty to Essex sent With terms of proffered grace, she then received, From his own hand, a fatal ring, a pledge, It seems, of much importance, which the earl, With earnest suit and warm entreaty, begged her, As she would prize his life, to give your majesty; In this she failed--In this she murdered Essex.
NEWS! news! good folks, rare news, and you shall know it--
I've got intelligence about the poet. Who do you think he is?---You'll never guess; An Irish bricklayer, neither more nor less. And now the secret's out, you cannot wonder, That in commencing bard he makes a blunder. Has he not left the better for the worse, In quitting solid brick for empty verse? Can he believe the example of old Ben, Who changed, like him, the trowel for the pen, Will in his favour move your critic bowels?--- You rather wish most poet's pens were trowels. One man is honest, sensible, and plain, Nor has the poet made him pert, in vain : No beau, no courtier, nor conceited youth; But then so rude, he always speaks the truth. I told him he must flatter, learn address, And gain the heart of some rich patroness: 'Tis she, said I, your labours will reward, If you but join the bricklayer with the bard;
As thus--should she be old, and worse for wear, You must new-case her, front her, and repair; If cracked in fame, as scarce to bear a touch, You cannot use your trowel then too much; In short, whate'er her morals, age, or station, Plaster and whitewash in your dedication. Thus I advised--but he detests the plan: What can be done with such a simple man? A poet's nothing worth, and nought availing, Unless he'll furnish where there is a failing. Authors in these good times are made and used, To grant these favours nature has refused. If he won't fish, what bounty can he crave? We pay for what we want, not what we have.- Nay, though of every blessing we have store, Our sex will always wish-a little more.-- If he'll not bend his heart to do his duty, And sell, to who will buy, wit, honour, beauty; The bricklayer still for him the proper trade is, Too rough to deal with gentlemen and ladies.
WRITTEN BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. AND SPOKEN BY HIM IN THE CHARACTER OF A COUNTRY BOY.
He must be there among you look about- A weezen pale-fac❜d man, do-find him out———— Pray, measter, come-or all will fall to sheame; Call mister,-hold-I must not tell his name.
Law! what a crowd is here! what noise and pother!
Fine lads and lasses! one o' top o' t' other.
[Pointing to the rows of Pit and Gallery. I could for ever here with wonder geaze! I ne'er saw church so full in all my days! Your servant, surs!—what do you laugh for? Eh! You donna take me sure for one o' the play? You should not flout an honest country ladYou think me fool, and I think you half mad: You're all as strange as I, and stranger too, And if you laugh at me, I'll laugh at you.
[Laughing. I donna like your London tricks, not I, And since you rais'd my blood, I'll tell you why; And if you wull, since now I am before For want of pro-log, I'll relate my story. I came from country here to try my fate, And get a place among the rich and great; But troth I'm sick o' th' journey I ha' ta'en, I like it not-would I were home again! First, in the city I took up my station, And got a place with one o' th' corporation, A round big man--he eat a plaguy deal, Zooks, he'd have beat five plowmen at a meal!
But long with him I could not make abode, For, could you think it?—he eat a great sea-toad! He call'd it belly-patch and capapee! Law, how I star'd-I thought-who knows but I For want of monsters, may be made a pye! Rather than tarry here for bribe or gain, I'll back to whoame, and country fare again. I left toad-eater; then I served a lord, And there they promised-but ne'er kept their word.
While 'mong the great, this geaming work the trade is,
They mind no more poor servants, than their ladies.
A lady next, who lik'd a smart young lad, Hir'd me forthwith-but, troth I thought her mad:
She turn'd the world top down, as I may say, She chang'd the day to neet, the neet to day! I stood one day with coach, and did but stoop To put the foot-board down, and with her hoop She cover'd me all o'er-"Where are you, lout?" Here, ma'am, says I, for heav'n's sake let me out! I was so sheam'd with all her freakish ways, She wore her gear so short, so low her stays- Fine folks shew all for nothing now-a-days!
Now I'm the poet's man-I find with wits There's nothing sartain-nay, we eat by fits. Our meals, indeed, are slender,-what of that? There are but three on's-measter, I, and cat. Did you but see us all, as I'm a sinner, You'd scarcely say which of us three is thinner. My wages all depend on this night's piece, But should you find that all our swans are geese, E'feck I'll trust no more to measter's brain, But pack up all, and whistle whoame again.
This habit, which, to thy mistaken eye, Confirms my guilt, I wear a heart as true As Sadi's to my king.
Sadi. Why then beneath
This cursed roof, this black usurper's palace, Dar'st thou to draw infected air, and live The slave of insolence? Why lick the dust Beneath his feet, who laid Algiers in ruin? But age, which should have taught thee honest caution,
Has taught thee treachery!
Oth. Mistaken man!
Slave. Even now, while twilight closed the day, Could passion prompt me to licentious speech
Musing amid the ruins of yon tower, That overhangs the flood. On my approach, With aspect stern, and words of import dark, He questioned me of Othman. Then the tear Stole from his eye. But when I talked of power And courtly honours here conferred on thee, His frown grew darker: All I wish,' he cried, Is to confer with him, and then to die! Oth. What may this mean?-Conduct the stranger to me. [Exit Slave. Perhaps some worthy citizen, returned From voluntary exile to Algiers, Once known in happier days.
Sadi. Peace, false one! peace! The slave to
Still wears a pliant tongue.-Oh, shame! to dwell With murder, lust, and rapine! did he not Come from the depths of Barca's solitude, With fair pretence of faith and firm alliance? Did not our grateful king, with open arms, Receive him as his guest? O fatal hour! Did he not, then, with hot, adulterous eye, Gaze on the queen Zaphira? Yes, 'twas lust, Lust gave the infernal whisper to his soul, And bade him murder, if he would enjoy! O complicated horrors! hell-born treachery! Then fell our country, when good Selim died! Yet thou, pernicious traitor, unabashed, Canst wear the murderer's badge!
Oth. Mistaken man!
Yet hear me, Sadi
Sadi. What can dishonour plead? Oth. Yet blame not prudence.
Sadi. Prudence the stale pretence of every knave!
The traitor's ready mask!
Oth. Yet still I love thee; Still, unprovoked by thy intemperate zeal : Could passion prompt me to licentious speech, Bethink thee!-might I not reproach thy flight With the foul names of fear and perfidy?
Didst thou not fly, when Barbarossa's sword Reeked with the blood of thy brave countrymen? What then did I?-Beneath this hated roof, In pity to my widowed queen- Sadi. In pity?
Oth. Yes, Sadi; Heaven is my witness, pity swayed me.
Sadi. Words, words! dissimulation all, and guilt!
Oth. With honest guile I did inrol my name In the black list of Barbarossa's friends: In hope, that some propitious hour might rise, When heaven would dash the murderer from his throne,
And give young Selim to his orphaned people. Sadi. Indeed! can'st thou be true?
Oth. By Heaven, I am.
Sudi. Why then dissemble thus? Oth. Have I not told thee?
I held it vain to stem the tyrant's power By the weak efforts of an ill-timed rage. Sadi. Enough: I find thee honest; and with pride
Will join thy counsels. This, my faithful arm, Wasted with misery, shall gain new nerves For brave resolves. Can aught, my friend, be done?
Oth. We groan beneath the scourge. This very morn, on false pretence of vengeance For the foul murder of our honoured king, Five guiltless wretches perished on the rack. Our long-loved friends, and bravest citizens, Self-banished to the desert, mourn in exile: While the fell tyrant lords it o'er a crew Of abject sycophants, the needy tools Of power usurped, and a degenerate train Of slaves in arms.
Sadi. O my devoted country!
But say, the widowed queen-my heart bleeds
Oth. If pain be life, she lives: But in such
As want and slavery might view with pity, And bless their happier lot! Hemmed round by terrors,
Of every joy through seven long years bereft, She mourns her murdered lord, her exiled son, Her people fallen! the murderer of her lord, Returning now from conquest o'er the Moors, Tempts her to marriage: spurred at once by lust, And black ambition. But with noble firmness, Surpassing female, she rejects his vows, Scorning the horrid union. Meantime he, With ceaseless hate, pursues her exiled son; And-O detested monster
Sadi. Yet more deeds Of cruelty! Just Heaven!
Deep in his heart was fixed! His royal blood, The life-blood of his people, o'er the bath Ran purple! Oh, remember! and revenge!
Oth. Doubt not my zeal. But haste, and seek our friends.
Near to the western port Almanzor dwells, Yet unseduced by Barbarossa's power. He will disclose to thee if aught be heard Of Selim's safety, or (what more I dread) Of Selim's death. Thence best may our resolves Be drawn hereafter. But let caution guide thee. For in these walks, where tyranny and guilt Usurp the throne, wakeful suspicion dwells, And squint-eyed jealousy, prone to pervert Even looks and smiles to treason.
Near to the western port, thou say'st. Oth. Even there;
Close by the blasted palm-tree, where the mosque O'erlooks the city. Haste thee hence, my friend. I would not have thee found within these walls. [Flourish.
And hark! these warlike sounds proclaim the approach
Of the proud Barbarossa, with his train. Begone-
Sadi. May dire disease and pestilence Hang o'er his steps! Farewell-remember, Oth-
Thy queen's, thy prince's, and thy country's [Exit SADI
Oth. When I forget them, be contempt my lot! Yet, for the love I bear them, I must wrap My deep resentments in the specious guise Of smiles, and fair deportment.
Enter BARBAROSSA, Guards, &c. Bar. Valiant Othman, Are these vile slaves impaled?
Oth. My lord, they are.
Bur. Did not the rack extort confession from
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