Sfor. Add to her Goodness,
Her Tenderness of me, her Care to please me, Her unfufpected Chaftity, ne'er equall'd, Her Innocence, her Honour-O I am loft In the Ocean of her Virtues, and her Graces, When I think of them.
Fran. Now I find the End
Of all your Conjurations: There's fome Service To be done for this fweet Lady. If the have Enemies That fhe would have remov'd
Sfor. Alas! Francifco,
Her greatest Enemy is her greatest Lover; Yet, in that Hatred, her Idolater.
One Smile of her's would make a Savage tame; One Accent of that Tongue would calm the Seas, Though all the Winds at once ftrove there for Empire. Yet I, for whom fhe thinks all this too little, Should I miscarry in this prefent Journey, (From whence it is all Number to a Cypher, I ne'er return with Honour) by thy Hand Must have her murther'd.
Fran. Murther'd!-She that loves fo, And fo deferves to be belov'd again?
And I, who fometimes you were pleas'd to favour, Pick'd out the Inftrument?
Sfor. Do not fly off:
What is decreed, can never be recall'd.
'Tis more than Love to her, that marks her out A wifh'd Companion to me, in both Fortunes: And ftrong Affurance of thy zealous Faith, That gives up to thy Truft a Secret, that Racks should not have forc'd from me.-O Francifco, There is no Heav'n without her; nor a Hell, Where the refides. I ask from her but Juftice, And what I would have paid to her, had Sickness, Or any other Accident, divorc'd
Her purer Soul from her unfpotted Body. The lavish Indian Princes, when they die,
Are chearfully attended to the Fire
By the Wife and Slave, that living they lov'd beft, To do them Service in another World:
Nor will I be less honour'd, that love more. And therefore trifle not, but in thy Looks Express a ready Purpose to perform
What I command; or, by Marcelia's Soul, This is thy latest Minute.
Of Death, but Love to you, makes me embrace it. But, for mine own Security, when 'tis done, What Warrant have I? If you please to sign one, I fhall, though with Unwillingness and Horror, Perform your dreadful Charge.
But ftill remember, that a Prince's Secrets Are Balm, conceal'd; but Poison, if discover'd. I may come back; then this is but a Trial,
At the Opening of the THEATRE in DRURY
WHEN Learning's Triumph o'er her bar
Firft rear'd the Stage, immortal Skakespeare rofe, Each Change of many-colour'd Life he drew, Exhaufted Worlds, and then imagin'd new: Existence faw him fpurn her bounded Reign, And panting Time toil'd after him in vain. His powerful Strokes prefiding Truth imprefs'd, And unrefifting Paffion ftorm'd the Breaft.
Then Fonfon came, inftructed from the School, To pleafe in Method, and invent by Rule;
His ftudious Patience, and laborious Art,
By regular Approach affail'd the Heart:
Cold Approbation gave the ling'ring Bays For those who durft not cenfure, fcarce could praife. A Mortal born, he met the general Doom, But left, like Egypt's Kings, a lafting Tomb. The Wits of Charles found eafier Ways to Fame, Nor with'd for Jonjon's Art, or Shakespeare's Flame;
Themfelves they ftudied, as they felt they writ; Intrigue was Plot, Obfcenity was Wit. Vice always found a fympathetic Friend, They pleas'd their Age, and did not aim to mend. Yet Bards like these afpir'd to lafting Praise, And proudly hop'd to pimp in future Days. Their Caufe was gen'ral, their Supports were ftrong, Their Slaves were willing, and their Reign was long;
Till Shame regain'd the Poft that Senfe betray'd, And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her Aid.
Then crush'd by Rules, and weaken'd as refin❜d, For Years the Power of Tragedy declin'd: From Bard to Bard the frigid Caution crept Till Declamation foar'd, while Paffion flept. Yet ftill did Virtue deign the Stage to tread, Philofophy remain'd, though Nature fled. But forc'd at length her ancient Reign to quit, She faw great Fauftus lay the Ghost of Wit; Exulting Folly hail'd the joyful Day, And Pantomime and Song confirm'd her Sway. But who the coming Changes can prefage, And mark the future Periods of the Stage? Perhaps if Skill could diftant Times explore, New Bhens, new Durfeys, yet remain in Store. Perhaps, where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet dy'd, On flying Cars new Sorcerers may ride, Perhaps (for who can guefs the Effects of Chance?) Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance. Hard is his Lot, that here by Fortune plac'd, Muft watch the wild Viciffitudes of Tafte, With every Meteor of Caprice muft play, And chace the new-blown Bubbles of the Day. Ah! let not Cenfure term our Fate, our Choice: The Stage but echoes back the public Voice, The Drama's Laws, the Drama's Patrons give, For we that live to please, muft please to live.
Then prompt no more the Follies you decry, As Tyrants doom their Tools of Guilt to die: Tis yours this Night to bid the Reign commence Of refcu'd Nature, and reviving Sense;
To chace the Charms of Sound, the Pomp of Show, For useful Mirth and falutary Woe,
Bid Scenic Virtue form the rifing Age,
And Truth diffufe her Radiance from the Stage.
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