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Though mine's a little all, yet were it more,
SCENE I-A Garden.
LOTHARIO and CALISTA discovered. Loth. Weep not, my fair; but let the god of love
Laugh in thy eyes, and revel in thy heart,
To charm me with thy softness: 'tis in vain:
Are wasted all, and fled; those that remain
Cal. Oh, let me hear no more; I cannot bear it;
'Tis deadly to remembrance. Let that night, That guilty night, be blotted from the year; For 'twas the night that gave me up to shame, To sorrow, to the false Lothario.
Loth. Hear this, ye pow'rs! mark, how the fair deceiver'
Sadly complains of violated truth;
She calls me false, ev'n she, the faithless she, Whom day and night, whom heav'n and earth, have heard
Sighing to vow, and tenderly protest,
Ev'n now my heart beats high, I languish for thee,
A slave to base desires and brutal pleasures,
And I must yield before it. Wert thou calm,
Enter ALTAMONT behind.
Alt. Ha! do I live and wake? [Aside.
Not Altamont, but thou, hadst been my lord.
Alt. The wretch! whom thou hast made. Curses and sorrows hast thou heap'd upon him, And vengeance is the only good that's left. [Drawing. Loth. Thou hast ta'en me somewhat unawares, 'tis true: But love and war take turns, like day and night, And little preparation serves my turn, Equal to both, and arm'd for either field,. We've long been foes; this moment ends our quarrel;
Earth, heav'n, and fair Calista, judge the combat! [They fight; Lothario fulls. Oh, Altamont! thy genius is the stronger! Thou hast prevail'd!-My fierce, ambitious soul Declining droops, and all her fires grow pale; Yet let not this advantage swell thy pride, conquer'd in my turn, in love I triumph'd. Those joys are lodg'd beyond the reach of fate; That sweet revenge comes smiling to my thoughts,
Adorns my fall, and cheers my heart in dying. [Dies.
Cal. And what remains for me, beset with shame, Encompass'd round with wretchedness? There is But this one way to break the toil, and 'scape.
[She catches up Lothario's Sword,
Alt. What means thy frantic rage?
Alt. Oh! thou hast more than murder'd me
Which nothing but thy cruelty could cause?
Still art thou here! and my soul starts with horro
I would not bear to be reproach'd by them, But dig down deep to find a grave beneath, And hide me from their beams.
Sci. [Within] What, ho! my son!
Cal. Is it the voice of thunder, or my father? Madness! Confusion! let the storm come on, Let the tumultuous roar drive all upon me; Dash my devoted bark, ye surges, break it! Tis for my ruin that the tempest rises. When I am lost, sunk to the bottom low, Peace shall return, and all be calm again.
Sci. Ev'n now Rossano leap'd the garden wall
Ha! death has been among you-Oh, my fears! Last night thou hadst a diff'rence with thy friend, The cause thou gav'st me for it, was a damn'd one. Didst thou not wrong the man who told thee truth?
Answer me quick
Alt. Oh! press me not to speak;
[Offers to kill Calista; Altamont holds him.
Shall never be indebted to thy pity.
Ev'n thee, thou venerable, good, old man,
Sci. Thy pious care has giv'n me time to think,
Evo to a Roman strictness; and thou, nature,
groan beneath your scorn and fierce braiding, Daily to be reproach'd, and have my misery At morn, at noon, at night, told over to me? Is this, is this the mercy of a father? I only beg to die, and he denies me. Sei. Hence from my sight! thy father cannot
Fly with thy infamy to some dark cell,
Where ugly shame hides her opprobrious head, And death and hell detested rule maintain; There howl out the remainder of thy life, And wish thy name may be no more remember'd.
Cal. Yes, I will fly to some such dismal place, And be more curs'd than you can wish I were; This fatal form, that drew on my undoing, Fasting, and tears, and hardships, shall destroy; Nor light, nor food, nor comfort will I know, Nor aught that may continue hated life. Then when you see me meagre, wan, and chang'd, Stretch'd at my length, and dying in my cave, On that cold earth I mean shall be my grave, Perhaps you may relent, and sighing say, At length her tears have wash'd her stains away; At length 'tis time her punishment should cease; Die, thou poor suff'ring wretch, and be at peace. Exit.
Sci. Who of my servants wait there?
Enter two or three Servants. Raise that body, and bear it in. On your lives Take care my doors be guarded well, that none Pass out, or enter, but by my appointment.
[Exeunt Servants, with Lothario's Body. Alt. There is a fatal fury in your visage, It blazes fierce, and menaces destruction. I tremble at the vengeance which you meditate On the poor, faithless, lovely, dear Calista.
Sci. Hast thou not read what brave Virgi-
With his own hand he slew his only daughter,
But thou hast ty'd my hand.-I wo'not kill her;
Alt. You mean that she shall die then?
While I, from busy life and care set free,
Enter a Servant.
Sci. By heav'n, their fury rises to my wish, Nor shall misfortune know my house alone; But thou, Lothario, and thy race shall pay me For all the sorrows which my age is curs'd with. I think my name as great, my friends as potent, As any in the state; all shall be summon'd; I know that all will join their hands to ours, And vindicate thy vengeance. When our force Is full and arm'd, we shall expect thy sword
Were little for my fondness to bestow;
To join with us, and sacrifice to justice. [Exit. By cares on earth, and by my pray'rs to heav'n,
A poor, imperfect copy of my father;
But of that joy, as of a gem long lost,
Sci. Ha! answer me! Say, hast thou coolly
Cal. 'Tis well! these solemn sounds, this How thy account may stand, and what to
pomp of horror,
Cal. I've turn'd my eyes inward upon myself, Where foul offence and shame have laid all waste;
Sci. 'Tis justly thought, and worthy of that
That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Rome
Are fit to feed the frenzy in my soul.
Ascend, ye ghosts, fantastic forms of night,
Sci. This dead of night, this silent hour of
Nature for rest ordain'd, and soft repose;
Cal. It is Sciolto! Be thyself, my soul,
Sci. Thou wert once
Cal. Happy were it I had dy'd,
And never lost that name.
Sci. That's something yet;
Thou wert the very darling of my age:
I thought the day too short to gaze upon thee,
Cal. Then spare the telling, if it be a pain, And write the meaning with your poniard here. Sci. Oh! truly guess'd-seest thou this trembling hand?
[Holding up a Dagger. Thrice justice urg'd-and thrice the slackning sinews
Forgot their office, and confess'd the father.
And know the rest untaught.
It is but thus, and both are satisfied.
[She offers to kill herself; Sciolto catches hold of her arm.
Sci. A moment, give me yet a moment's space.
Cal. Ha! is it possible? and is there yet
What joys thou gav'st me in thy prattling infancy.
By my strong grief, my heart ev'n melts with in me;
That all the blessings I could gather for thee, I could curse nature, and that tyrant, honou
For making me thy father and thy judge;
Cal. For that kind word,
Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth,
Oh! tis too much for this offending wretch,
Cal. That I must die, it is my only comfort;
Thou meagre shade; here let me breathe my last,
Sci, I'm summon'd hence; ere this my friends
There is I know not what of sad presage,
That, were I not abandon'd to destruction,
Hor. Now mourn indeed, ye miserable pair! For now the measure of your woes is full. The great, the good Sciolto dies this moment. Cal. My father!
Alt. That's a deadly stroke indeed.
Hor. Not long ago, he privately went forth,
But found him compass'd by Lothario's faction,
Ere that, his frantic valour had provok'd
Dost thou not labour with thy murd'rous weight? And you, ye glitt'ring, heav'nly host of stars, Hide your fair heads in clouds, or I shall blast you; And these the parting pangs, which nature feels, For I am all contagion, death, and ruin, When anguish reads the heartstrings — Oh, And nature sickens at me. Rest, thou world, my daughter! [Exit. This parricide shall be thy plague no more; Cal. Now think, thou curs'd Calista, now Thus, thus I set thee free. Stabs herself. be hold
The desolation, horror, blood, and ruin,
How blind with passions, and how prone to evil,
Hor. Oh, fatal rashness!
Enter SCIOLTO, pale and bloody, supported
Cal. Oh, my heart!
Lift up your hand and bless me, ere I go
Sci. Alas, my daughter!
All Hail to you, horrors! hail, thou house Where life, fame, virtue, all were wreck'd
And thou, the lovely mistress of these shades, But sure thou hast borne thy part in all the Whose beauty gilds the more than midnight darkness,
And smarted with the pain. Then rest in peace:
And makes it grateful as the dawn of day.
Thou com'st to urge me with the wrongs I've
But know I stand upon the brink of life,
Dost thou accuse me! O, forbid me not
To wish some better fate had rul'd our loves,
And ev'ry pain grows less -Oh, gentle Altamont!
Thy wondrous worth, thou excellent young man,
Sci. Oh, turn thee from that fatal object,
Come near, and let me bless thee ere I die.
Thou that hast endless blessings still in store
|And bends him, like a drooping flow'r, to earth. By such examples are we taught to prove Let grief, disgrace, and want be far away; The sorrows that attend unlawful love. But multiply thy mercies on his head. Death, or some worse misfortune, soon divide Let honour, greatness, goodness, still be with him, The injur'd bridegroom from his guilty bride. And peace in all his ways[Dies. If you would have the nuptial union last, Hor. The storm of grief bears hard upon Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast. his youth,
THIS amiable man, and elegant author, was the son of a citizen of London, and was born at Marlborough, in Wiltshire, on the 29th of Jan. 1677, but received the rudiments of his education in private schools at London. Even in the very earliest parts of life his genius seemed to show itself equally inclined to each of the three sister arts, music, poetry, and design, in all which he made a very considerable progress. To his excellence in these qualifications, his contemporary and friend, Sir Richard Steele, bears the following extraordinary testimonial: He may (says that author) be the emulation of more persons of different talents than any one I have ever known. His head, hands, or heart, were always employed in something worthy imitation. His pencil, his bow, or his pen, each of which he used in a masterly manner, were always directed to raise and entertain his own mind, or that of others, to a more cheerful prosecution of what is noble and virtuous." Such is the evidence borne to his talents by a writer of the first rank; yet he seems, for the most part, to have pursued these and other polite studies little further than by the way of agreeable amusements, under frequent confinement, occasioned by indisposition and a valetudinarian state of health. Mr. Hughes had, for some time, an employment in the office of ordnance, and was secretary to two or three commissions under the great seal for the purchase of lands, in order to the better securing the docks and harbours at Portsmouth, Chatham, and Harwich. In the year 1717, the Lord Chancellor Cowper, to whom our author had not long been known, thought proper, without any previous solicitation, to nominate him his secretary for the commissions of the peace, and to distinguish him with singular marks of his favour and affection; and, upon his Lordship's laying down the great seal, he was, at the particular recommendation of this his patron, and with the ready concurrence of his successor the Earl of Macclesfield, continued in the same employment, which he held till the time of his decease, the 17th, of Feb. 1719, being the very night on which his celebrated tragedy of The Siege of Damascus made its first appearance on the stage; when, after a life mosily spent in pain and sickness, he was carried off by a consumption having but barely completed his ad year, and at a period in which he had just arrived at an agreeable competence, and was advancing, with rapid steps, towards the pinnacle of fame and fortune. He was privately buried in the vault under the chancel of St Andrew's church, in Holborn.
THE SIEGE OF DAMASCUS.
ACTED at Drury Lane 1719. It is generally allowed, that the characters in this tragedy are finely varied and distinguished; that the sentiments are just and well adapted to the characters; that it abounds with beautiful descriptions, apt allusions to the manners and opinions of the times wherein the scene is laid, and with noble morals; that the dic tion is pure, unaffected and sublime, without any meteors of style or ambitious ornaments; and that the plot is conducted in a simple and clear mander, When it was offered to the managers of Drury Lane House, in the year 1718, they refused to act it, unless the author made an alteration in the character of Phocyas, who, in the original, had been prevailed upon to profess himself a Mahometan: pretending that he could not be a hero, if he changed his religion, and that the audience would not bear the sight of him after it, in how lively a manner soever his remorse and repentance might be described. The author (being then in a very languishing condition) finding, if he did not comply, his relations would probably loose the benefit of the play, consented, though with reluctance, to new-model the character of Phocyas The story on which this play is founded, is amply detailed in Mr. Gibbon's History, vol. V. p. 510, where we find the real name of Phocyas to have been Jonas. That author says, "Instead of a base renegado, Phocyas serves the Arabs as an honourable ally; instead of prompting their pursuit, he flies to the succour of his countrymen, and. after killing Caled and Daran, is himself mortally wounded, and expires in the presence of Eudocia, who professes her resolution to take the veil at Constantinople.
SCENE. - The City of DAMASCUS, in SYRIA, and the Saracen Camp before it; and, in the last Act, a Valley adjacent.
SCENE I.-The City.
As brave men should.-Pity your wives and children!
Yes, I do pity them, heav'n knows I do,
Enter EUMENES, followed by a Crowd of E'en more than you; nor will I yield them up
Or stop your clam'rous mouths, that still are open
Though at your own request, a prey to ruffians.
Her. News!-we're betray'd, deserted;
And follow to the walls; there earn your safety, The works are but half mann'd; the Sarace