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Declares his guilt. Most bloody embassy!
Most unexampled deeds! Where, where, ye gods,
Is majesty secure, if in your temples
You give it no protection? See, the queen.
A Flourish of Trumpets. Enter ANDROMACHE
and CEPHISA with Attendants.
Andro. Yes, ye inhuman Greeks! the time
will come

Will never cease; for I was born to grieve.
Give present orders for the funeral pomp.
[To Phoenix.

Let him be rob'd in all his regal state;
Place round him every shining mark of honour;
And let the pile that consecrates his ashes,
Rise like his fame, and blaze above the clouds.
[Exit Phoenix. A Flourish of Trumpets.
Ceph. The sound proclaims th' arrival of
the prince,

When you shall dearly pay your bloody deeds!
How should the Trojans hope for mercy from you,
When thus you turn your impious rage on The guards conduct him from the citadel.
Andro. With open arms I'll meet him!-
O' Cephisa!

Pyrrhus?

Pyrrhus, the bravest man in all your league;
The man, whose single valour made you triumph. A springing joy, mix'd with a soft concern,
[4 dead March behind. A pleasure, which no language can express,
An ecstasy that mothers only feel,
Plays round my heart, and brightens up my

sorrow,

Is my child there?
Ceph. It is the corpse of Pyrrhus;
The weeping soldiers bear him on their shields.
Andro. Ill-fated prince! too negligent of life, Like gleams of sunshine in a low'ring sky.
And too unwary of the faithless Greeks! Though plung'd in ills, and exercis'd in care,
Cut off in the fresh rip'ning prime of manhood, Yet never let the noble mind despair.
E'en in the prime of life! thy triumphs new,
And all thy glories in full blossom round thee!
The very Trojans would bewail thy fate.
Ceph. Alas! then will your sorrows never end?
Andro. Oh, never, never! While I live, By unforeseen expedients bring relief. [Exeunt.
my tears

When press'd by dangers, and beset with foes,
The gods their timely succour interpose;
And when our virtue sinks, o'erwhelm'd with
grief,

ROWE.

NICHOLAS ROWE, son of John Rowe, Esq. sergeant at law, was born at Little Berkford, in Bedfordshire, anno 1675. His education was begun at a private seminary in Highgate, from whence he was removed to Westminster school, where he was perfected in classical literature under Doctor Bushy. His father, designing him for his own profession, entered him, at sixteen years of age, a student of the Middle Temple. He soon made considerable progress in the law, and might have cut a figure in that profession, if the love of poetry and the belles lettres had not to much attracted his attention. At the age of twenty-five he wrote his first tragedy, The Ambitious Step-mother, the great success of which made him entirely lay aside all thoughts of the law. Dr. Johnson demands: "Whence then has Rowe his reputation? From the reasonableness and propriety of some of his scenes, from the elegance of his diction, and the suavity of his verse. He seldom moves either pity or terror, but he often elevates the sentiments; he seldom pierces the breast, but he always delights the ear, and often improves the understanding." Being a great admirer of Shakspeare, he gave the public an edition of his plays, to which he prefixed an account of that great man's life. But the most considerable of Mr. Rowe's performances, was a translation of Lucan's Pharsalia, which he just lived to finish, but not to publish; for it did not appear in print till tes years after his death. His attachment to the Muses, however, did not entirely unfit him for business; for when the Dake of Queensberry was secretary of state, he made Mr. Rowe his under-secretary for public affairs; but, after the Duke's death, the avenues to his preferment being stopped, he passed his time in retirement during the rest of Queen Anne's reign. On the accession of George I, he was made poet laureat, and one of the land-surveyors of the customs in the port of London. He was also Clerk of the council to the Prince of Wales, and the Lord Chancellor Parker made him his secretary for the presentations; but he did not long enjoy these promotions, for he died Dec. 6. 1718 in the 45th year of his age.

THE FAIR PENITENT.

ACTED at Lincoln's Inn Fields 1703. This, as Dr. Johnson observes, 'is one of the most pleasing tragedies on the stage, where it still keeps its turns of appearing, and probably will long keep them; for there is scarcely any work of any poet at once so interesting by the fable, and so delightful by the language. The story is domestic, and therefore easily received by the imagination, and assimilated to common life; the diction is exquisitely harmonious, and soft or sprightly as occasion requires. The character of Lothario seems to have been expanded by Richardson into Lovelace; but he has excelled his original in the moral effect of the fiction. Lothario, with gaiety which can not be hated, and bravery which cannot be despised, retains too much of the spectators kindness. It was in the power of Richardson alone to teach us at once esteem and detestation, to make virtuous resentment overpower all the benevolence which wit, and elegance, and courage, naturally excite; and to loose at last the hero in the villain. In the year 1699 Mr. Powell played Lothario, and his dresser Warren performed the dead Lothario, unknown to Powell. About the middle of the distressful scene, Powell called aloud for his man, who answered him as loudly from the bier on the stage, "Here, Sir!" Powell ignorant of the part his man was acting, repeated immediately, "Come here this moment, you rascal! or I'll break all the bones in your skin." Warren knew his hasty temper; therefore, without any reply, jumped off, with all his sabler about him, which unfortunately were tied fast to the handles of the bier, and dragged it after him. But this was no all; the laugh and roar began in the audience, till it frightened poor Warren so much, that, with the bier at his tail he drew down Calista, and overwhelmed her with the table, lamp, book, bones, together with all the lumber of the charnel-house. He lugged, till he broke off his trammels, and made his escape; and the play, at once, ended with inmoderate fits of laughter

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SCENE. SCIOLTO's Palace and the Garden, with some Part of the Street near it, in GENOA,

ACT I.

That kindly grants what nature had deny'd me, SCENE L-A Garden belonging to SCIOLTO'S And makes me father of a son like thee.

Palace.

Enter ALTAMONT and HORATIO.
All LET this auspicious day be ever sacred,
No mourning, no misfortunes happen on it:
Let it be mark'd for triumphs and rejoicings;
Let happy lovers ever make it holy,

Choose it to bless their hopes, and crown their
wishes.

Alt. My father! Oh, let me unlade my breast,
Pour out the fulness of my soul before you;
Show ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful thought,
This wondrous goodness stirs. But'tis impossible,
And utterance all is vile; since I can only
Swear you reign here, but never tell how much.
Sci. O, noble youth! I swear, since first I
knew thee,

Ev'n from that day of sorrow when I saw thee
Adorn'd and lovely in thy filial tears,
The mourner and redeemer of thy father,
I set thee down and seal'd thee for my own:
Thou art my son, ev'n near me as Calista.
Horatio and Lavinia too are mine;

[Embraces Hor.

This happy day, that gives me my Calista.
Hor. Yes, Altamont; to-day thy better stars
Are join'd to shed their kindest influence on thee;
Sciolto's noble hand, that rais'd thee first,
Halt dead and drooping o'er thy father's grave,
Completes its bounty, and restores thy name
To that high rank and lustre which it boasted,
Before ungrateful Genoa had forgot
The merit of thy god-like father's arms;
Before that country, which he long had serv'd
In watchful councils and in winter camps,
Had cast off his white age to want and wretch-And swears thou com'st not with a bridegroom's

edness,

And made their court to factions by his ruin.
Alt. Oh, great Sciolto! Oh, my more than

father!

All are my children, and shall share my heart.
But wherefore waste we thus this happy day?
The laughing minutes summon thee to joy,
And with new pleasures court thee as they pass;
Thy waiting bride ev'n chides thee for delaying,

baste.

Alt. Oh! could I hope there was one thought of Altamont,

One kind remembrance in Calista's breast, The winds, with all their wings, would be too slow

bear me to her feet. For, oh, my father!
Amidst the stream of joy that bears me on,
Blest as I am, and honour'd in your friendship,
There is one pain that hangs upon my heart.
Sci. What means my son?

Alt. When, at your intercession,
Last night, Calista yielded to my happiness,
Just ere we parted, as I seal'd my vows
With rapture on her lips, I found her cold,
As a dead lover's statue on his tomb;
A rising storm of passion shook her breast,
Her eyes a piteous show'r of tears let fall,
And then she sigh'd as if her heart were
breaking.

Let me not live, but at thy very name
My eager heart springs up, and leaps with joy.
When I forget the vast, vast debt I owe thee-To
Forget! (but 'tis impossible) then let me
Forget the use and privilege of reason,
Be driven from the commerce of mankind,
To wander in the desert among brutes,
To be the scorn of earth, and curse of heav'n!
Hor. So open, so unbounded was his goodness,
It reach'd even me, because I was thy friend.
When that great man I lov'd, thy noble father,
Bequeath'd thy gentle sister to my arms,
His last dear pledge and legacy of friendship,
Iat happy tie made me Sciolto's son;
fle call'd us his, and with a parent's fondness,
Indulg'd us in his wealth, bless'd us with plenty,
Beard all our cares, and sweeten'd love itself.
ALL By heav'n, he found my fortunes so
abandon'd,
That nothing but a miracle could raise 'em:
Mis father's bounty, and the state's ingratitude,
stripp'd him bare, nor left him e'en a grave.
Indone myself, and sinking with his ruin,
ad no wealth to bring, nothing to succour him,
but fruitless tears.

Hor. Yet what thou couldst thou didst,
And didst it like a son; when his hard creditors,
-g'd and assisted by Lothario's father
be to thy house, and rival of their greatness),
sentence of the cruel law forbade
venerable corpse to rest in earth,

gav'st thyself a ransom for his bones; 4ay, who beheld the pious act, approv'd it, dbade Sciolto's bounty be its proxy, ** Lless thy filial virtue with abundance. Ait But see, he comes, the author of my happiness,

-man who sav'd my life from deadly sorrow, Wo bids my days be blest with peace and plenty, d satisfies my soul with love and beauty. Eter SCIOLTO; he runs to ALTAMONT, and

embraces him.

I

With all the tend'rest eloquence of love
begg'd to be a sharer in her grief:
But she, with looks averse, and eyes that froze me,
Sadly reply'd, her sorrows were her own,
Nor in a father's power to dispose of.

Sci. Away! it is the coz'nage of their sex;
One of the common arts they practise on us:
To sigh and weep then when their hearts beat high
With expectation of the coming joy.
Thou hast in camps and fighting fields been bred,
Unknowing in the subtleties of women;
The virgin bride, who swoons with deadly fear,
To see the end of all her wishes near,
When blushing from the light and public eyes,
To the kind covert of the night she flies,
With equal fires to meet the bridegroom moves,
Melts in his arms, and with a loose she loves.
[Exeunt.

Enter LOTHARIO and ROSSANO.
Loth. The father, and the husband!
Ros. Let them pass.

They saw us not.

Lot. I care not if they did;
Ere long I mean to meet 'em face to face,
And gall 'em with my triumph o'er Calista.
Ros. You lov'd her once.

Sei. Joy to thee, Altamont! Joy to myself! Loth. I lik'd her, would have marry'd her, to this happy morn, that makes thee mine; But that it pleas'd her father to refuse me,

To make this honourable fool her husband;
For which, if I forget him, may the shame
I mean to brand his name with, stick on mine.
Ros. She, gentle soul, was kinder than her
father.

Loth. She was, and oft in private gave me
hearing;

Till, by long list'ning to the soothing tale,
At length her easy heart was wholly mine.
Ros. I've heard you oft describe her haughty,
insolent,

And fierce with high disdain: it moves my
wonder,

Never to load it with the marriage chain:
That I would still retain her in my heart,
My ever gentle mistress and my friend;
But for those other names of wife and husband,
They only meant ill nature, cares, and quarrels.
Ros. How bore she this reply?

Loth. At first her rage was dumb, and
wanted words;

But when the storm found way, 'twas wild and
loud:

Mad as the priestess of the Delphic god,
Enthusiastic passion swell'd her breast,
Enlarg'd her voice, and ruffled all her form.

That virtue thus defended, should be yielded Proud, and disdainful of the love I proffer'd,
A prey to loose desires.

Loth. Hear then I'll tell thee:
Once in a lone and secret hour of night,
When ev'ry eye was clos'd, and the pale moon
And stars alone shone conscious of the theft,
Hot with the Tuscan grape, and high in blood,
Hap'ly I stole unheeded to her chamber.

Ros. That minute sure was lucky.
Loth. Oh, 'twas great!

I found the fond, believing, love-sick_maid,
Loose, unattir'd, warm, tender, full of wishes;
Fierceness and pride, the guardians of her
honour,

Were charm'd to rest, and love alone was waking.
Within her rising bosom all was calm,
As peaceful seas that know no storms, and only
Are gently lifted up and down by tides.
I snatch'd the glorious, golden opportunity,
And with prevailing, youthful ardour press'd her;
Till, with short sighs, and murmuring reluctance,
The yielding fair one gave me perfect happiness.
Ev'n all the live-long night we pass'd in "bliss,
In ecstasies too fierce to last for ever;
At length the morn and cold indiff'rence came;
When, fully sated with the luscious banquet,
I hastily took leave, and left the nymph
To think on what was past, and sigh alone.
Ros. You saw her soon again?
Loth. Too soon I saw her:

She call'd me villain! monster! base betrayer!
At last, in very bitterness of soul,
With deadly imprecations on herself,
She vow'd severely ne'er to see me more;
Then bid me fly that minute: I obey'd,
And, bowing, left her to grow cool at leisure.
Ros. She has relented since, else why this
message,

To meet the keeper of her secrets here
This morning?

Loth. See the person whom you nam'd.

Enter LUCILLA.

Well, my ambassadress, what must we treat of?
Come you to menace war and proud defiance,
Or does the peaceful olive grace your message?
Is your fair mistress calmer? Does she soften?
And must we love again? Perhaps she means
To treat in juncture with her new ally,
And make her husband party to th' agreement.
Luc. Is this well done, my lord? Have you
put off

All sense of human nature? Keep a little,
A little pity, to distinguish manhood.
Lest other men,though cruel,should disclaim you,
And judge you to be number'd with the brutes.
Loth. I see thou'st learn'd to rail.
Luc. I've learn'd to weep:

That lesson my sad mistress often gives me:
For, oh! that meeting was not like the former: By day she seeks some melancholy shade,
I found my heart no more beat high with trans-
port,

No more I sigh'd and languish'd for enjoyment;
'Twas past, and reason took her turn to reign,
While ev'ry weakness fell before her throne.
Ros. What of the lady?
Loth. With uneasy fondness

She hung upon me, wept, and, sigh'd and swore
She was undone; talk'd of a priest and marriage;
Of flying with me from her father's pow'r;
Call'd ev'ry saint and blessed angel down,
To witness for her that she was my wife.
I started at that name.

Ros. What answer made you?
Loth. None; but pretendíng sudden pain
and 'illness,
Escap'd the persecution. Two nights since,
By message urg'd and frequent importunity,
Again I saw her. Straight with tears and sighs,
With swelling breasts, with swooning and
distraction,

With all the subtleties and pow'rful arts
Of wilful woman lab'ring for her purpose,
Again she told the same dull, nauseous tale.
Unmov'd, I begg'd her spare th' ungrateful
subject,

Since I resolv'd, that love and peace of mind
Might flourish long inviolate betwixt us,

To hide her sorrows from the prying world;
At night she watches all the long, long hours,
And listens to the winds and beating rain,
With sighs as loud, and tears that fall as fast.
Then ever and anon she wrings her hands,
And cries, false, false Lothario!

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Loth. Does she send thee to chide in her behalf swear thou dost it with so good a grace, That I could almost love thee for thy frowning Luc. Read there, my lord, there, in her own sa lines, [Giving a Letter Which best can tell the story of her woes, That grief of heart which your unkindne gives her.

Loth. [Reads] Your cruelty - Obedien to my father-give my hand to Altamon

By heav'n, 'tis well! such ever be the gifts

But to go on

hates.

And never grace the public with his virtues.With which I greet the man, whom my soul What if I give this paper to her father? It follows that his justice dooms her dead, And breaks his heart with sorrow; hard return For all the good his hand has heap'd on us! Hold, let me take a moment's thoughtEnter LAVINIA.

[Aside. -wish-heart-honour-too faithless- last trouble-lost

weakness-to-morrow ·

Calista.
Women, I see, can change as well as men.
She writes me here, forsaken as I am,.
That I should bind my brows with mournful
willow,

For she has giv'n her hand to Altamont:
Yet tell the fair inconstant-

Luc. How, my lord!

Loth. Nay, no more angry words: say to
Calista,

The humblest of her slaves shall wait her pleasure;
If she can leave her happy husband's arms,
To think upon so lost a thing as I am.

Luc. Alas! for pity, come with gentler looks:
Wound not her heart with this unmanly triumph;
And though you love her not, yet swear you do;
So shall dissembling once be virtuous in you.
Loth. Ha! who comes here?

Luc. The bridegroom's friend, Horatio.
He must not see us here. To morrow early
Be at the garden gate.

Loth. Bear to my love

My kindest thoughts, and swear I will not fail her.

Lav. My lord!

Trust me it joys my heart that I have found you.
Inquiring wherefore you had left the company,
Before my brother's nuptial rites were ended,
They told me you had felt some sudden illness.
Hor. It were unjust-No, let me spare my
friend,

Lock up the fatal secret in my breast,
Nor tell him that which will undo his quiet.
Lav. What means my lord?

Hor. Ha! said'st thou, my Lavinia?
Lav. Alas! you know not what you make
me suffer.

Whence is that sigh? And wherefore are your

eyes

Severely rais'd to heav'n? The sick man thus,
Acknowledging the summons of his fate,
Lifts up his feeble hands and eyes for mercy,
And with confusion thinks upon his exit.
Hor. Oh, no! thou hast mistook my sick-
ness quite;

Lothario putting up the Letter hastily, These pangs are of the soul. Would I had met
drops it as he goes out. Exeunt Lo- Sharpest convulsions, spotted pestilence,
thario and Rossano one Way, Lucilla Or any other, deadly foe to life,
Rather than heave beneath this load of thought!
Lav. Alas! what is it? Wherefore turn you
from me?

another.

Enter HORATIO.

Hor. Sure 'tis the very error of my eyes;
Waking I dream, or I beheld Lothario;
He seem'd conferring with Calista's woman:
At my approach they started and retir'd.
What business could he have here, and with her?
I know he bears the noble Altamont
Profess'd and deadly hate-What paper's this? But most from thee. I never knew a pleasure,
[Taking up the Letter. Aught that was joyful, fortunate, or good,
Ha! To Lothario!-'Sdeath! Calista's name! But straight I ran to bless thee with the tidings,
[Opens it and reads. And laid up all my happiness with thee:
Your cruelty has at length determined me; But wherefore, wherefore should I give thee
and I have resolo'd this morning to yield

Why did you falsely call me your Lavinia,
And swear I was Horatio's better half,
Since now you mourn unkindly by yourself,
And rob me of my partnership of sadness?
Hor. Seek not to know what I would hide
from all,

pain?

a perfect obedience to my father, and to Then spare me, I conjure thee; ask no further; give my hand to Altamont, in spite of my Allow my melancholy thoughts this privilege, weakness for the false Lothario. I could And let 'em brood in secret o'er their sorrows. almost wish I had that heart and that honour Lav. It is enough; chide not, and all is well! to bestow with it, which you have robbed Forgive me if I saw you sad, Horatio, me of:

Damnation! to the rest

And ask'd to weep out part of your misfortunes: I wo'not press to know what you forbid me. But, oh! I fear, could I retrieve 'em, I Yet, my lov'd lord, yet you must grant me this, should again be undone by the too faithless, Forget your cares for this one happy day, yet too lovely Lothario. This is the last Devote this day to mirth, and to your Altamont; weakness of my pen, and to-morrow shall For his dear sake, let peace be in your looks. be the last in which I will indulge my eyes. Ev'n now the jocund bridegroom waits your Lucilla shall conduct you, if you are kind

wishes.

enough to let me see you; it shall be the He thinks the priest has but half bless'd 'his shall meet with from the

last trouble

Last

you

marriage,

CALISTA. Till his friend hails him with the sound of joy. Hor. Oh, never, never, never! Thou art innocent:

The lost, indeed! for thou art gone as far
As there can be perdition. Fire and sulphur!
Hell is the sole avenger of such crimes.
Oh, that the ruin were but all thy own!
Thou wilt ev'n make thy father curse his age:
At sight of this black scroll, the gentle Altamont
(For, oh! I know his heart is set upon thee)
Shall droop and hang his discontented head,
Like merit scorn'd by insolent authority,

Simplicity from ill, pure native truth,
And candour of the mind, adorn thee ever;
But there are such, such false ones, in the world,
Twould fill thy gentle soul with wild amazement
To hear their story told.

Lav. False ones, my lord!

Hor. Fatally fair they are, and in their smiles

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I

Luc. Oh, hear me, hear your ever faithful
creature!

By all the good I wish, by all the ill
My trembling heart forebodes, let me entreat you
Never to see this faithless man again;
Let me forbid his coming.

Cal. On thy life

charge thee no: my genius drives me on;
I must, I will behold him once again:
Perhaps it is the crisis of my fate,
And this one interview shall end my cares.
My lab'ring heart, that swells with indignation,
Heaves to discharge the burden; that once done,
The busy thing shall rest within its cell,
And never beat again.

Luc. Trust not to that:

Rage is the shortest passion of our souls:
Like narrow brooks that rise with sudden show'rs.
It swells in haste, and falls again as soon;
Still as it ebbs the softer thoughts flow in,
And the deceiver, love, supplies its place.
Cal. I have been wrong'd enough to arm
my temper

And all the business of their lives be loving; Against the smooth delusion; but, alas!
The nuptial band should be the pledge of peace, (Chide not my weakness, gentle maid, but
And all domestic cares and quarrels cease!
The world should learn to love by virtuous rules,
And marriage be no more the jest of fools.

ACT II.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I-A Hall.
Enter CALISTA and LUCILLA.
Cal. Be dumb for ever, silent as the grave,
Nor let thy fond, officious love disturb
My solemn sadness with the sound of joy.
If thou wilt sooth me, tell some dismal tale
Of pining discontent, and black despair;
For, oh! I've gone around through all my
thoughts,

But all are indignation, love, or shame,
And my dear peace
of mind is lost for ever.
Luc. Why do you follow still that wand'-
ring fire,

That has misled your weary steps, and leaves you
Benighted in a wilderness of woe,
That false Lothario? Turn from the deceiver;
Turn, and behold where gentle Altamont,
Sighs at your feet, and woos you to be happy.
Cal. Away! I think not of him. My sad soul
Has form'd 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-omen'd only dwell:
No sound to break the silence, but a brook
That bubbling winds among the weeds: no mark
Of any human shape that had been there,
Unless a skeleton of some poor wretch,
Who had long since, like me, by love undone,
Sought that sad place out to despair and die in.
Luc. Alas, for pity!

Cal. There I fain would hide me

pity me)

A woman's softness hangs about me still;
Then let me blush, and tell thee all my folly.
I swear I could not see the dear betrayer
Kneel at my feet and sigh to be forgiv'n,
But my relenting heart would pardon all,
And quite forget 'twas he that had undone me.
[Exit Lucilla.

Ha! Altamont! Calista, now be wary,
And guard thy soul's excesses with dissembling.
Nor let this hostile husband's eyes explore
The warring passions and tumultuous thoughts
That rage within thee, and deform thy reason.
Enter ALTAMONT.

All. Be gone, my cares, I give you to the winds,
Far to be borne, far from the happy Altamont;
Calista is the mistress of the year;
She crowns the seasons with suspicious beauty,
And bids ev'n all my hours be good and joyful.

Cal. If I were ever mistress of such happiness,
Oh! wherefore did I play th'unthrifty fool,
And, wasting all on others, leave myself
Without one thought of joy to give me comfort.
Alt. Oh, mighty love! Shall that fair face

profane

This thy great festival with frowns and sadness?
I swear it sha'not be, for I will woo thee
With sighs so moving, with so warm a transport
That thou shalt catch the gentle flame from me
And kindle into joy.

Cal. I tell thee, Altamont,

Such hearts as ours were never pair'd above
Ill suited to each other: join'd, not match'd;
Some sullen influence, a foe to both,
Has wrought this fatal marriage to undo us.
Mark but the frame and temper of our mind
How very much we differ. Ev'n this day,

From the base world, from malice, and from That fills thee with such ecstacy and transpor

shame;

For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul
Never to live with public loss of honour:
Tis fix'd to die, rather than bear the insolence
Of each affected she that tells my story,
And blesses her good stars that she is virtuous.
To be a tale for fools! Scorn'd by the women,
And pity'd by the men! Oh, insupportable!

To me brings nothing that should make m
bless it,

Or think it better than the day before,
Or any other in the course of time,
That duly took its turn, and was forgotten.
Alt. If to behold thee as my pledge
happiness,

To know none fair, none excellent, but the

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