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But hopes of life reviving from my wounds,
I was preserved but to be made a slave.
I often writ to my hard father, but never had
An answer; I writ to thee too.

Isa. What a world of woe
Had been prevented but in hearing from you!

Bir. Alas! thou couldst not hep me.

Isa. You do not know how much I could have done;
At least, I'm sure I could have suffered all;
I would have sold myself to slavery,
Without redemption; given up my child,
The dearest part of me, to basest wants.

BIR. My little boy!

Isa. My life, but to have heard
You were alive.

Bır. No more, my love; complaining of the past,
We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price
Of all my pains, that thus we meet again!
I have a thousand things

way to thee,
ISA. Would I were past hearing.
Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father too?
I hear he's living stili.

Isa. Well, both; both well;
And may he prove a father o your hopes,
Though we have found uim n ne.

Bır. Come, no more tears.
Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss
Have mourned with me,

Bır. And all my days to came
Shall be employed in a kind recompense
For thy afflictions. Can't Ise my boy?

Isa. He's gone to bed ; I 'll have him brought to you.

Bır. To-morrow I challcco him ; I want rest Myself, after this weuly lilgrimage.

ISA. Alas! what shall I get for you?

Bir. Nothing ut rest, my love. To-night I would not
Be known, if possible, to your family:
I see my nurse is with you; her welcome
Would be tedious at this time;
To-morrow will do better.

Isa. L 'll dispose of her, and order everything
As you would have it.

Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the means
To make this wondrous goodness some amends ;
And let me then forget her, it I can.
O she deserves of me much more than I
Can lose for her, though I again could venture
A father and his fortune for her love!
You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all !
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth
Weighs down the portions you provide your B008.
What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold,
Compared to this, iny heartfelt happiness ?
What has she, in my abscuce, undergone ?
I inust vot think of that; it drives me back
Upon myself, the fatal cause of all.

Isa. I have obeyed yonr pleasure ;
Everything is ready for you.

Bir. I can want nothing here; possessing thee, U my desires are carried to their aim

(Exit, [Exit Biron.

Of happiness; there's no room for a wish,
But to continue still this blessing to me;
I know the way, my love, I shall sleep sound.

Isa. Shall I attend you ?

BIR. By no means:
I've been so long a slave to others' pride,
To learn, at least, to wait upon myself;
You'll make haste after ?

Isa. I'll but say my prayers, and follow yon.
My prayers! no, I must never pray again.
Prayers have their blessings, to reward our hopes,
But I have nothing left to hope for more,
What Heaven could give I have enjoyed; but now
The baneful planet rises on my fate,
And what's to come is a long life of woe;
Yet I may shorten it
I promised him to follow-him !
Is he without a name ? Biron, my husband
My husband! Ha! What, then, is Villeroy ?
Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner!
What's to be done ? for something inust be done.
Two husbands ! married to both,
And yet a wife to neither. Hold, my brain-
Ha! a lucky thought
Works the right way to rid me of them all.
All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns,
That every tongue and finger will find for me.
Let the just horror of my apprehensions
But keep me warm ; no matter what can come.
'Tis but a blow; yet I will see him first,
Have a last look, to heighten my despair,
And then to rest forever.



NICHOLAS ROWE was also bred to the law, and forsook it for the tragic drama. He was born in 1673 or 1674 of a good family at Little Barford, in Bedfordshire. His father had an estate at Lamerton, in Devonshire, and was a serjeant-at-law in the Temple. Nicholas, during the earlier years of manhood, lived on a patrimony of £300 á year in chambers in the Temple. His first trageily, “The Ambitious Stepmother,' acted in 1700, was performed with great success; and it was followed by • Tamerlane,' "The Fair Penitent,'«Ulysses,' "The Royal Convert,' Jane Shore,' and 'Lady Jane Grey.' Rowe, on rising into fame as an author, was munificently patronized. The Duke of Queensberry made him bis secretary for public affairs. On the accession of George I. he was made poet-laureate and a surveyor of customs.; the Prince of Wales appointed him clerk of his council; and the Lord Chancellor gave him the office of clerk of the presentations. Rowe was a favourite in society. It is stated that his voice was uncommonly sweet, his observations lively, and his manners so engaging, that his friends, amongst whom were Pope, Swist, and Addison, deliglated in his conversation Yet it is also reported by Spence, that there was a certain levity and carelessness about him, which made Pope, on one occasion, declarc him to have no heart. Rowe was the first editor of Shakspeare entitled to the name, and the first to attempt the collection of a few biographical particulars of the iminortal dramatist. He was twice married, and died in 1718. His widow-who afterwards married a Colonel Dean-received a pension from the crown, ‘in consideration, not of his dramatic genius, but ‘of the translation of Lucan's “Pharsalia ” made by her late husband! The widow erected a handsome monument over her husband's grave in Westminster Abbey.

In addition to the dramatic works we have enumerated, Rowe was the author of two volumes of miscellaneous poetry, which scarcely ever rises above dull and respectable mediocrity. His tragedies are passionate and tender, with an equable and smooth style of versification, not unlike that of Ford. His ' Jane Shore' is still occasionally performed, and is effective in the pathetic scenes descriptive of the sufferings of the heroine. "The Fair Penitent' was long a popular play, and the 'gallant gay Lothario’ was the prototype of many stage seducers and romance heroes. Richardson elevated the character in his Lovelace, giving at the same time a purity and sanctity to the sorrows of his Clarissa, which leave Row's Calista imineasurably behind. The incidents of Rowe's dramas are well arranged for stage effect; they are studied and prepared in the manner of the French school, and were adapted to the taste of the age. As the study of Shakspeare and the romantic drama has advanced in this country, Rowe has proportionally declined, and is now but seldom read or acted. His popularity in bis own day is best seen in the epitaph by Pope-a beautiful and tender effusion of friendship, which, however, is perhaps not irreconcilable with the anecdote preserved by Spence:

Thy relics, Rowe, to this sad shrine we trust,
And near thy Shakspeare place thy honoured bust;
Oh! next him, skilled to draw the tender tear,
For never heart felt passion more sincere:
To nobler sentiment to fire the brave,
For never Britain more disdained a slave.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Biest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest !
And blest, that timely from our scene removed,
Thy sonl enjoys the liberty it loved.'

Penitence and Death of Jane Shore.

BELMOUR. How fare yon, lady?
JANE SHORE. My heait is thrilled with horror.

BEL. Be of courage;
Your husband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend.

JANE S. Still art thou there? still dost thou hover round me ?
Oh, save me, Belmûur, from his angry shade!

BEL. 'Tis he himself! he lives! look up.

JANE S. I dare not.
Oh, that my eyes could shut him out for ever!


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SAORE. Am I so hateful, ther, so deadly to thee,
To blust try eyes with horror ? Since I'nı grown
A burden to the world, myself, and thee,
Would I had ne'er survised to see thee more.

JANE S. Oh! thou most injured-dost thou live, indeed ?
Fall then, ye maountains, ou my guilty lead !
Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns;
Cast thy black veil upon my sbare, night!
And shield ine with thy sable wing for cvet.

SHORE. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble thus ?
Wiry thus indulge thy fears, and in despair
Abandon thiy distracted soul to horror ?
Cast every black and guilty thought behind thce,
And let 'em never vex thy quiet more.
My arms, my heart, are op u to receive thee,
To bring the back to thy forsaken home,
With tender joy, with fond, forgiving love.
Let us heste.
Now, while occasion seems to smile upon us,
Forsake tliis place of shame, and find a shelter.

JANE S. What shall I say to you! But I obey:
SUORE. Lean on my arm.
JANE S. Alas! I ain woundrons faint:
But that's not strange, I have nei ate these three dag
SEORE. Oh, merciless!.
JANE S. Ohi i'm sick at heart!

SHORE. Thou murderous corrow!
Would thou still drink hier blood,
Must she then die? Oh, my poor penitent!
Speak peace to thy sad keait: she hears me not:
Grief inasters every sense—help me to hold her.

Enter CATESBY with a Gaarde
CATESBY. Seize on 'em beth, as traitors to the state i
BEL. What means this violence ?

{Guards læy hold on Share and Belussur.
CATES. Have we not found your
In scorn of the Protector's strict command
Assisting this base woman, and abetting
Her infamy?

SHOBE. Infamy on thy head !
Thou tool of power, thox pander to authority?
I teß thee, knave, thou know'st of none so virtuous,
And she that bore thce was an Ethiop to her.

CATES. You 'll answer this at full: away with 'eth
SIL@RE. Is charity grown treason to your court?
What Lonest man weukl live beneath sech rulers ?
I am content that we should die together.

Cares. Convey the man to prison; but for her-
Leave her to hunt her fortaxe as the inay.

JANE 8. I will not part with him: Cer me!-kor me!
Oh! must lie die for me? [ Following kim usle is carried of the falla.
SEORE. Inkunan villains !

[Breaks from the Grandes
Staud off ! the agonies of death are on her!
She pulls, she gripes ine hard with her cold hand.

JANE E. Was this blow wanting to complete my rin!
Oh! let me go ye ministers of terror.
He shall offend no more, for I will die,
And yield obedience to your cruel master
Tarry è little, but a little longer,
And take my last breath with yoll.

E L , jji-

SHORE. Oh, my love!
Why have I lived to see this bitter moment-
This grief by far surpassing all my former ?
Why dost thoa fix thiy dying eyes upon me
With sach an earnest, sneh a piteons look,
As if thy heart were full of some sad meaning
Thou couldstot sprak?
JANE S. Forgive ine! hat forgive me !

SHORE. Be winess for me, ye celestial host,
Such mercy and such pardon as my soul
Accords to thee, and begs of Heaven ro shew thee,
May such befall me at my latest hour,
And make my portion b'est or curst for ever!

JANE S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace.
"Tis very dark, and I have lost yon now:
Was there not something I would have bequeathed you?
But I have nothing left me to bestow,
Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh! mercy, Heaven!


Calista's Passion for Lothario.

CALISTA. Be dumb for ever, silent as the grave,
Nor let thy fond, officions love disturb
My solemn sadness with the sound of joy.
If thou wilt soothe me, tell some dismal tale
Of piping discontent and black despair ;
For, oh! I've gone around throngh all my thoughts,
But all are indignation, love, or shame,
And my dear peace of mind is lost for ever.

LUCILLA. Why do yon follow still that wandering fire,
That has misled your weary steps, apd leaves you
Benighted in a wilderness of woe,
That False Lothario? Tur from the deceiver;
Turn, and behold where gentle Altamont
Sighs at your feet, and woos yon to be happy.

CAL. Away! I think not of him. My sad sonl
Has formed a dismal, melancholy scene,
Such a retreat as I would wish to find;
An unfrequented vale, o'ergrown with trees
Mossy and old, within whose lonesome shade
Ravens and birds ill-omened only dwell :
No sound to break the silence, bat a brook
That bubbling winds among the weeds: no mark
Of any hamad shape that had been there,
Unless the skeleton of some poor wretch
Who had long since, like ine, by love undone,
Sought that sad place ont to despair and die in.

Luc. Alas! for pity.

CAL. There I fain would hide me.
From the base world, from malice, and from shame;
For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul
Never to live with public loss of honour:
'Tis fixed to die, rather than bear the insolence
Of each affected she that tells my story,
And blesses her good stars that she is virtnous.'
To be a tale for tools! Scorned by the women,
And pitied by the men. Oh! insupportable !

LUC. Oh! hear me, hear your ever-faithful creatare;
By all the good I wish you, hy all the ill
My trembling heart forebodes, let me entreat you

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