With his own hand he cuts his root away,
And leaves you room to spread.

Ag. O curst estate of kings! O fatal glory!
O victories dear-bought! pernicious greatness!
What must I lose to purchase the vain breath
Of fools and fycophants, the voice of fame!
Chru. The gods have for themselves alone referv'd
A quiet ftate: kings are their stewards here
Entrusted with the conduct of the world:
And like good careful fervants, must fubmit
Their fingle profit, to the general welfare.
Had Agamemnon been a private man,
Some thepherd or an humble villager,
Our loves had then been happy.

Ag. Take back your office, gods, your royal thraldom ;
I'll be your flave no longer on these terms:
Here I discharge myself of kingly burthen,
Diveft myself of pow'r and dignities,

Of crowns and scepters, your imperial loads.
Be conftant to thy word thy Agamemnon
Will make himself the thing that thou hast wish'd,
A fhepherd, or an humble villager :

In fome far cave, remote from interruption,
We'll love away our lives: not the least dream
Of glory shall invade our lone recefs.
Thefe arms fhall be the circle of my wishes,
Thy eyes, the only lights that I'll adore:
Morning and night I'll facrifice to them;
Be they propitious, let them fhine upon me,
I'll own no other gods.

Chru. My virtue fhrinks within the close embrace,

O let me fly, I cannot stand the combat,

Another fuch, and we are loft for ever.

[Trumpets within.

Hark, hark! the trumpets found, the clash of swords

Draws near, the gods have given me notice,

The flaughter is renew'd, and ev'ry man
That falls, Chrufeis is his murderer.
Have patience, gods, but yet a little while,
I come, I come, your will fhall be fulfill'd,
Give me but time to take one laft embrace,

Let me thus rush upon him

Once more, for my whole life, and then come death,
Come madness, any thing but life or sense,

My dearest, dearest Agamemnon.

Ag. Thus will I clafp thee fast, thus, thus for ever.
In vain, in vain thou'lt struggle to get loofe,

Not men nor gods fhall cut thee from my arms,
I'll die, but I will never quit my hold.

Chru. Thus let us kneel: thus lock'd in my embrace, Whilst I implore the gods with this last prayer.

Oh all ye pow'rs! that unrelenting fee

These griefs, and have deny'd our loves your mercy,
Accept the facrifice that here I make,
The noblest love, the trueft; undefil'd
With the least stain. If ought is due to virtue
Let the reward of what I do be his,

And let not me out-live this fatal day.
Depriv'd of love, upon his precious head
Double all other bleffings: crown his life
With honours equal to his noble mind,
Let him not pass a day without fome triumph:
Let him not have a foe in earth or heaven,
Or if he must have foes, make 'em his means
Only to come at glory —

Farewel for ever. His lips are cold,

-

Speechlefs and pale! and on my bofom droops
His head like a dead weight-help, princes, help,

And raise him gently.

[They raise him: he stands fupported between 'em, they weeping over him.

My brain is touch'd- I feel it-here it is

At this dead lift, thou'rt welcome, honest frenzy ;
The king shall conquer now, he shall, he shall,
Right fhall triumph, the ravisher shall bleed,
I'll be the champion, and begin the charge,

Thus at one stroke I cut off all the gods,

And leave the Trojans helpless to themselves;
They run, they run- O cruel reason, worst of foes,
Why art thou come again?

O Neftor! Oh Ulysses! pity me,

Forgive the ills that have already happen'd;
All will be well, the gods are now appeas'd.
Fight for the king, and when the battles join,
Do you your duty, as I have done mine.

[Exit Chrufeis. Ulyf. Scarce was my aking heart more pierc'd with grief When from my own Penelope I parted.

[Agam. coming to himself.

Ag. The gods have doom'd in vain, they fhall not have her, Where is Chrufeis?

Ulyf. Her noble virtue has obey'd

The cruel call of strong neceffity;

And fhe who would have dy'd to stay, is gone,
That you may live.

Ag. Thou hast done this, Ulyffes, 'twas thy plot,
Thou hast been working long against our loves,
Thy life fhall answer it

Ulyf. O rob her not of glories all her own,
Be hers the praise entire, as was the deed.
I hate myself for that I injur'd once

So good, fuch noble nature O fhe is,
And to all ages fhall remain

The brighteft pattern of Heroic love

And perfect virtue, that the world e'er knew.

Neft. Trust me, Atrides, much I grieve your lofs,

But glory waits to make you full amends.

Ag. Unite, unite ye Dardans, and ye gods,

Defpair's undaunted, and defies all odds,

At me let ev'ry fpear and jav'lin fly,

[Drawing his fword.

I fight not now to conquer but to die. [Exit Agamemnon. Flourish of Trumpets.

Neft. Mark, mark, Ulyffes, how the gods preferve The men they love, ev'n in their own despight;

They guide us, and we travel in the dark,

But when we most defpair to hit the way,

And leaft expect, we find our felves arriv'd.

Ulyf. Fate holds the ftrings, and men like children move But as they're led: fuccefs is from above.

E PI

W

By BEVILL HIGGONS, Efq;

HAT will the galleries, nay boxes say?
There's not one man destroy'd in all our play.
Murder and blood have long poffefs'd the stage,

And pleas'd the genius of a barbarous age:
But fince the poet's talk's the foul to move,
And with his objects, make you grieve or love,
Surviving wretches fhould more pity find
Than they who die, and leave their woes behind.

On Athens' ftoge, when Greece the world gave
Her sprightly dames our Agamemnon faw;
They fhar'd his forrows, did his fate bemoan,
And always made the hero's wrongs their own.
But then the world was gay, and nature young,
Mens paffions were more high, and fancy strong;
Poets could either raise, or make so fad.
That going home, whole audiences ran mad.
In vain we would your colder hearts infpire,
And blow up flames, witbout the feeds of fire.

Three thousand years ago, illuftrious dames
Attended camps, and gave the heroes flames;
Now ev'ry wench, when batter'd and decay'd,
To Flanders fled, where straight the rampant jade
At once the colonel ferv'd, and the brigade.
If poets have the privilege of laws

To challenge juries, who must try their cause?
To judge of wit, the critic be debarr'd,
Who often damns what he ne'er faw nor heard ;
Befides, he fill to poets bears a spite,

For never yet was critic who could write.

For you, the viler rabble of the pit,

Who want good-nature, tho' you have no wit,
Maliciously you imitate the times,

Like judges, try the men, and not their crimes;

E

law,

With noife and nonfense whom you hate decry,
And if demanded, give no reason why;
But when no pity can the torrent ftem,
Attaint the poet, whom you can't condemn.
'Tis on that fining circle we depend,
For you

Our poet writes, in gratitude defend:

Of love and honour, he a pattern meant,
And took the bright ideas that you lent :

Your picture drawn, how then the painter grace,
Who fails in an inj

Un equalisable face.

[To the ladies.

How Hand a tack a passion to Resign

From Hearts, sobouche, We lost, so fundas nine in such about Regains its peaceful State Now often must it love how often Wate How then hope despair wevent, legact, wal disdain, do all things, but Tregot. Connel

Propesion is the Grace of
Dear