His jolly match with that fame buxom widow The queen he left behind him

Haft. Ill befal

Such meddling priests, who kindle up confufion, And vex the quiet world with their vain fcruples! By Heaven, 'tis done in perfect fpite to peace. Did not the king,

Our royal master, Edward, in concurrence
With his eftates affembled, well determine
What course the fov'reign rule should take hence-
forward?

When fhall the deadly hate of faction cease,
When fhall our long-divided land have reft,
If every peevish, moody malecontent
Shall fet the fenfelefs rabble in an uproar,
Fright them with dangers, and perplex their
brains,

Each day, with fome fantastic giddy change?
Gloft. What if fome patriot, for the public good,
Should vary from your fcheme, new-mould the
ftate?

Haft. Curfe on the innovating hand attempts it!
Remember him, the villain, righteous Heaven,
In thy great day of vengeance! Blaft the traitor
And his pernicious counfels, who for wealth,
For pow'r, the pride of greatnefs, or revenge,
Would plunge his native land in civil wars!
Gloft. You go too far, my lord.
Haft. Your highnefs' pardon-
Have we fo foon forgot thofe days of ruin,

When York and Lancaster drew forth the battles?
When, like a matron butcher'd by her fons,
And caft befide fome common way, a fpectacle
Of horror and affright to paffers by,
Our groaning country bled at ev'ry vein ;
When murders, rapes, and maffacres prevail'd;
When churches, palaces, and cities blaz'd;
When infolence and barbarifm triumph'd,
And fwept away diftinction; paafauts trod
Upon the necks of nobles: low were laid
The reverend crofier and the holy mitre,
And defolation cover'd all the land;
Who can remember this, and not, like me,
Here vow to fheath a dagger in his heart
Whose damn'd ambition would renew thofe hor-

For me, I ask no more than honour gives,
To think me yours, and rank me with your friends.
Haft. Accept what thanks a grateful heart
fhould pay.

O princely Glofter! judge me not ungentle,
Of manners rude, and infolent of speech,
If, when the public fafety is in question,
My, zeal flows warm and eager from my tongue.
Gloft. Enough of this; to deal in wordy com-
pliment

Is much against the plainnefs of my nature:
I judge you by myself, a clear true fpirit;
And, as fuch, once more join you to my bofom.
Farewel, and be my friend.
[Exit..

Haft. I am not read,

Nor kill'd and practis'd, in the arts of greatness,
To kindle thus, and give a scope to paflion.
The duke is furely noble; but he touch'd me
Ev'n on the tend'reft point, the mafter-string
That makes moft harmony or difcord to me.
I own the glorious fubject fires my breaft,
And my foul's darling paffion ftands confefs'd;
Beyond or love's or friendship's facred band,
Beyond myself, I prize my native land:
On this foundation would I build my fame,
And emulate the Greek and Roman name;
Think England's peace bought cheaply with my
blood,

And die with pleasure for my country's good.'

[hearts,

Guf. Amazement I perceive hath fill'd your And joy for that your loft Gustavus, 'cap'd Thro' wounds, imprisonments, and chains, and deaths,

Thus fudden, thus unlook'd for, ftands before ye.
As one efcap'd from cruel hands I come,
From hearts that ne'er knew pity, dark and
vengeful;

Who quaff the tears of orphans, bathe in blood,
And know no mufic but the groans of Sweden,
Yet, not for that my fifter's early innocence,
And mother's age, now grind beneath captivity;
Nor that one bloody, one remorfeless hour
Swept my great fire and kindred from my fide;
For them Guftavus weeps not, tho' my eyes
Were far lefs dear, for them I will not weep.
But, O great parent, when I think on thee!
Thy numberless, thy nameless, shameful infamies,

That crowns are vilely propertied, like coin,

To be the means, the fpecialty of luft,
And fenfual attribution; if thou think'st
That empire is of titled birth or blood;
That nature, in the proud behalf of one,
Shall difenfranchite all her lordly race,
And bow her gen'ral iffue to the yoke
Of private domination; then, thou proud one,
Here know me for thy king. Howe'er be told,
Not claim hereditary, not the trust

Of frank election,

Not ev'n the high anointing hand of Heaven,
Can authorife oppreffion, give a law
For lawless pow'r, wed faith to violation,
On reafon build mifrule, or juftly bind
Allegiance to injustice. Tyranny

Abfolves all faith; and who invades our rights,
Howe'er his own commence, can never be
But an ufurper. But for thee, for thee
There is no name. Thou haft abjur'd mankind,
Dafh'd fafety from thy bleak, unfocial fide,
And wag'd wild war with univerfal nature.
Crif. Licentious traitor! thou canft talk it largely.
Who made thee umpire of the rights of kings,
And pow'r, prime attribute-as on thy tongue
The poife of battle lay, and arms of force,
To throw defiance in the front of duty?
Look round, unruly boy! thy battle comes
Like raw, disjointed muft'ring, feeble wrath,
A war of waters, borne against the rock
Of our firm continent, to fume, and chafe,
And, fhiver in the toil.

Guf. Miftaken man!

In whom vice fanctifies, whofe precepts teach
Zeal without truth, religion without virtue;
Who ne'er preach Heaven but with a downward
eye,
[loofe
That turns your fouls to drofs! who, shouting,
The dogs of hell upon us. Thefts and rapes,
Sack'd towns, and midnight howlings thro' the
realin,

Receive your fanction. O, 'tis glorious mischief!
When vice turns holy, puts religion on,
Affumes the robe pontifical, the eye

Of faintly elevation, bleffeth fin,

And makes the feal of tweet offended Heaven
A fign of blood, a label for decrees
That Hell would fhrink to own.

nefs;

For tho' the ftructure of a tyrant's throne
Rife on the necks of half the fuffring world,
Fear trembles in the cement; pray'rs, and tears,
And secret curfes, fap its mould'ring bafe,
And fteal the pillars of allegiance from it:
Then let a fingle arm but dare the fway,
Headlong it turas, and drives upon destruction.
Trol. Profane, and alien to the love of heaven!
Art thou still harden'd to the wrath divine,
That hangs o'er thy rebellion? Know'st thou not
Thou art at enmity with grace, caft out,
Made an anathema, a curie enroll'd
Among the faithful, thou and thy adherents
Shorn from our holy church, and offer'd up
As facred to damnation ?

Guf. Yes, I know,

When fuch as thou, with facrilegious hand,
Seize on the apoftolic key of heaven,
It then becomes a tool for crafty knaves
To fhut out virtue, and unfold thofe gates
That Heaven itself had barr'd against the lufts
Of avarice and ambition. Soft and sweet,
As looks of charity, or voice of lambs
That bleat upon the mountain, are the words
Of Christian meeknefs! miffion all divine!
The law of love fole mandate. But your gall,
Ye Swedish prelacy, your gall hath turn'd
The words of fweet, but indigefted peace,

For Sweden? No, fo hold my heart but firm, Altho' it wring for't, tho' blood drop for tears, And at the fight my ftraining eyes ftart forthThey both fhall perish first.

ne

LE

$43. Brutus and Titus. Brut. WELL, Titus, fpeak; how is it with thes I would attend awhile this mighty motion, Wait till the tempeft were quite overblown, That I may take thee in the calm of nature, With all thy gentler virtues brooding on thee; So hufh'd a ftillnefs, as if all the gods Look'd down, and liften'd to what we were faying, Speak then, and tell me, O my heft belov'd, My fon, my Titus, is all well again? [thing;

Tit. So well, that faying how muft make it no So well, that I could wish to die this moment, For fo my heart with pow'rful throbs perfuades me; That were indeed to make you reparation, That were, my lord, to thank you home, to die: And that for Titus too would be most happy. Brut. How's that, my fon? Would death for

thee be happy?

Tit. Moft certain, fir; for in my grave I 'scape All thofe affronts which I in life muft look for, All thofe reproaches which the eyes, and fingers, And tongues of Rome will daily caft upon me;

From

From whom, to a foul fo fenfible as mine,
Each fingle fcorn would be far worse than dying:
Befides, I fcape the ftings of my own confcience,
Which will for ever rack me with remembrance,
Haunt me by day, and torture me by night,
Cafting my blotted honour in the way
Where er my melancholy thoughts fhall guide me.
Brut. But is not death a very dreadful thing?
Tit. Not to a mind refolv'd. No, fir, to me
Tr feems as natural as to be born:

Groans, and convulfions, and difcolour'd faces,
in is weeping round us, blacks and obfequies,
15e it a dreadful thing; the pomp of death
For more terrible than death itself.

Yes, fir, I call the pow'rs of heaven to witness,
Teras dares die, if fo you have decreed;
Nay, he fhall die with joy to honour Brutus,
To make your justice famous thro' the world,
And fix the liberty of Rome for ever:
Not but I must confefs my weakness too;
Yet it is great thus to refolve against it,

To have the frailty of a mortal man,
But the fecurity of the immortal gods.

Brut. O Titus! O thou abfolute young man! Thou flatt'ring mirror of thy father's image, Where I beheld myfeif at fich advantage! Thou perfect glory of the Junia. race

Let me endear thee once more to my bofom,
Groan au eternal farewel to thy soul;
Inftead of tears, weep blood, if poffible,
Blood, the heart-blood of Brutus, on his child:
For thou muit die, my Titus, die, my fon;
I fwear the gods have doom'd thee to the grave:
The violated genius of thy country
Rears his fad head, and paffes fentence on thee:
This morning fun, that lights my forrows on
To the tribunal of this horrid vengeance,
Shall never fee thee more.

[forrow?

T. Alas, my lord! Why are you mov'd thus? Why am I worth your Why should the godlike Brutus fhake to doom me? Why all thefe trappings for a traitor's hearse? The gods will have it fo.

Brut. They will, my Titus :

Nor heaven nor carth can have it otherwife.
Nay, Titus, mark: the deeper that I fearch,
My harafs'd foul returns the more confirm'd:
Methinks I fee the very hand of Jove
Moving the dreadful wheels of this affair,
That whirl thee, like a machine, to thy fate.
It feems as if the gods had pre-ordain'd it,
To fix the reeling fpirits of the people,.
And fettle the loose liberty of Rome.
'Tis fix'd; O therefore let not fancy fond thee:
So fix'd thy death, that 'tis not in the pow'r
Of gods or men to fave thee from the axe.

And heal her wounded freedom with thy blood:
I will afcend myself the fad tribunal,
And fit upon my fons; on thee, my Titus;
Behold thee fuffer all the fhame of death,
The lictor's lafhes, bleed before the people;
Then with thy hopes, and all thy youth upon thee,
See thy head taken by the common axe,
Without a groan, without one pitying tear,
If that the gods can hold me to my purpose,
To make my juftice quite tranfcend example.
Tit. Scourg'd like a bondman! ah! a beaten
flave!

But I deferve it all; yet here I fail!
The image of this fuff ring quite unmans me;
Nor can I longer ftop the gushing tears.
O Sir! O Brutus! muft I call you father,
Yet have no token of your tenderness ?
No fign of mercy? What, not bate me that!
Can you refolve, O all th' extremity
Of cruel rigour! to behold me too?
To fit unmov'd, and see me whipt to death ›
Where are your bowels now? Is this a father?
Ah, fir, why fhould you make my heart fufpect
That all your late compaffion was diffembled?
How can I think that you did ever love me?

Brut. Think that I love thee by my prefent

paffion,

By thefe unmanly tears, thefe earthquakes here,
Thefe fighs, that twitch the very ftrings of life:
Think that no other caufe on earth could move me
To tremble thus, to fob, or fhed a tear,
Nor fhake my folid virtue from her point,
But Titus' death: O do not call it fhameful,
That thus fhall fix the glory of the world.
I own thy fuff'rings ought t' unman me thus,
To make me throw my body on the ground,
To bellow like a beaft, to gnaw the earth,
To tear my hair, to curfe the cruel fates,
That force a father thus' to drag his bowels.
Tit. O rife, thou violated majesty,
Rife from the earth, or I shall beg those fates
Which you would curfe, to bolt me to the centre,
I now fubmit to all your threaten'd vengeance:
Come forth, you executioners of justice,
Nay, all you lictors, flaves, and common hangmen,
Come, ftrip me bare, unrobe me in his fight,
And lafh me till I bleed, whip me like furies;
And when you've fcourg'd me till I foam and fall,
For want of fpirits groveling in the duft,
Then take my head, and give it his revenge;
By all the gods, I greedily refign it!

Brut. No more-farewel, eternally farewel!
If there be gods, they will referve a room,
A throne for thee in heaven. One laft embrace!
What is it makes thy eyes thus fwim again?
Tit. I had forgot: be good to Teraminta

Brut. Leave her to my care.

See her thou must not, for thou cauft not bear it. O for one more, this pull, this tug of heartftrings!

Farewel for ever!

Tit. O Brutus! O my father!
Brut. Canft thou not fay farewel?