Drop every star from his etherial height, Lord Sal. Friends, I am much beholden to you all. My love! the gloom that overspread our morn, And story of our future evening, oft That, to be truly good, is to be blessed. [Exeunt omnes. EPILOGUE. THIS virgin author's such a blushing rogueWhat! no gay, lively, laughing epilogue? Madam,' says he, and looked so wise! Greece' in (Greece, that's their cant) no jesting closed the piece. Play, epilogue, and all were grave and solemn'Then, sir, the town were fools that did not maul -Laugh'd, danc'd and sported it till spouse came over, Then kissed my dear-while Betty hid the lover. But here again our poet checks my flight: Nay, madam, you mistake the matter quite. My heroine liv'd in ancient, honest times; Cards were unknown, and gallantries were crimes !' Psha! what if females then were seldom rovers ? Husbands (aye, there's the cause) were warm as lovers. Their warlike days indeed were spent in killing; But then at night-no turtles were so billing. Well-though he gives me no smart things to say, I wish this begging face may save his play: ter Do then-nay, pray you shew him some good nature. SCENE, The Castle of Narbonne, partly on a Platform before the Gate, and partly in a Garden within the Walls. ACT I. SCENE I.-The Platform before the Castle. Enter FLORIAN. Flor. WHAT awful silence! how these antique towers And vacant courts dull the suspended soul, What a kind of being is circumstance! She wastes on monks and beggars his inheri- | They say his son count Edmund's mainly like him. 'Would these old arms, that serv'd his grand father, Could once enfold him! I should part in peace. Flor. What if I bring tidings of count Edmund? Por. Mercy befal me!-Now my dream is out. Last night the raven croak'd, and from the bars Of our lodge-fire flitted a messenger I knew no good would follow-Bring you ill tidings, Enter PETER, Porter of the Castle, and FLORIAN. Sir gentleman? Por. I do. Flor. Belike this castle is not thine. But be it whose it may, this is no haunt Thy lady, on my life, would not thus rudely Canst thou in hair-cloths vex those dainty limbs? Canst thou on reeking pavements and cold marble, In meditation the live-long night? From goblets foaming wine, and costly viands? These are the deeds, my youngster, must draw down My lady's ever heav'n-directed eye. Flor. In sooth, good friend, my knighthood is not school'd In voluntary rigours- -I can fast, When my companions know no choicer fare. Por. Angels defend us! What a reprobate! Yon mould'ring porch, for sixteen years and I Flor. Father grey-beard, cry you mercy; nor was it my intention To wound your reverence's saint-like organs. But come, thou hast known other days-canst tell Of banquettings and dancings-'twas not always thus. Por. No, no-time was-my lord, the count| A prosp'rous gentleman: were he alive, [Aside.] Shouldst thou in Flor. (This is a solemn fool, Or solemn knave.) deed rejoice To see count Edmund? Would thy noble mis tress Spring with a mother's joy to clasp her son? Por. Oh! no, no, no.-He must not here alas! He must not here set foot-But tell me, stranger, Flor. Thou good old man, forgive a soldier's mirth. But, say, why Narbonne's heir from Narbonne's lands Is banish'd, driven by a ruthless mother? Por. Ah! sir, 'tis hard indeed-but spare his mother; Such virtue never dwelt in female form. sir, Does my young master ever name old Peter? Flor. I do. Por. This Beatrice But hark! my lady comes-retire a while Por. For my office, no: 'Twere forfeit of my badge to hold a parley With one of near thy years. [FLORIAN withdraws. [The Countess in Weeds, with a Crucifix in her hand, issues from the Castle, accompanied by And rattle through the castle's farmost vaults. Observe our conf'rence, there were fine work toward. Flor. You will not leave your tale unfinished? These fifty winters have I borne my staff, Por. Aye, bless his name! at any leisure hour. SCENE III. BENEDICT and MARTIN. Ben. - -Ay: sift her, sift her As if I had not probed her very soul, Chaf'd by the hounds, with sudden onset slew Th' adventurous count. Ben. 'Twas so; and yet, my brother, My mind has more than once imputed blood To this incessant mourner. Beatrice, The damsel for whose sake she holds in exile Her only son, has never, since the night Of his incontinence, been seen or heard of. Mart. 'Tis clear, 'tis clear; nor will her pru dent tongue Accuse its owner. Ben. Judge not rashly, brother. I oft have shifted my discourse to murder: The failure of the sex, and aptest cause Mart. Aye, brother, there We master all their craft. Touch but that string Ben. Still, brother, do you err. She own'd to me, That, though of nature warm, the passion love sion. This, with such modest truth, and that truth heighten'd By conscious sense, that holds deceit a weakness, Mart. Then whither turn To worm her secret out? Ben. I know not that. She will be silent, but she scorns a falsehood, And thus while frank on all things, but her secret, And wound me round her heart-I tell thee, I know, I know it not. Nay, not confession, not repeating o'er I have mark'd her praying: not one wand'ring thought Seems to steal meaning from her words-She prays, Because she feels, and feels, because a sinner. Mart. What is this secret sin, this untold tale, That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse? Murt. Till she disclose it, Deny her absolution. Ben. She will take none: Offer'd, she scoffs it; and withheld, demands not; Nay, vows she will not load her sinking soul Mart. This is heresy, Ben. Not in solitude. I nurse her in new horrors; form her tenants To fancy visions, phantoms; and report them. She mocks their fond credulity-but, trust me, For lights, ere she could combat its impressions. me At least an honest bigot; nor remember I tried to practise on her fears, and, foil'd, Give o'er my purpose. Mart. This is masterly. Ben. Poor mastery! when I am more in awe Of my own penitent than she of me. My genius is command; art, but a tool, My grovelling fortune forces me to use. Oh! were I seated high as my ambition, I'd place this naked foot on necks of monarchs, And make them bow to creeds myself would laugh at. Mart. By humbler arts our mighty fabric rose. Win power by craft; wear it with ostentation; For confidence is half security. Deluded men think boldness conscious strength; ture, That speaks in characters of glowing rose Of young ideas to a fancied object. A mental spouse may fill her hov'ring thoughts, And bar their fixing on some earthly lover. Ben. This is already done-but Edmund's death Were hopes more solid Mart. First report him dead; His letters intercepted Ben. Greatly thought! Thou true son of the church!-and lo! where comes Our patroness-leave me; I will not lose An instant. I will sound her inmost soul, And mould it to the moment of projection. [Exit MARTIN. BENEDICT retires within the castle. SCENE IV. Countess, two Maidens. Coun. Haste thee, Maria, to the western tower, But scant the allowance of the red-hair'd urchin, |