Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide,
When flatt'ring opportunity enticed,
And desperation drove, have been committed
By those who once would start to hear them
named.

Agnes. And add to these detested suicide, Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid. O. Wilm. How couldst thou form a thought so very damning,

So advantageous, so secure, and easy,
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror?
Agnes. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature,
To ask another's life, than end our own.

O. Wilm. No matter which, the less or
greater crime:

Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others,
We act from inclination, not by rule,
Or none could act amiss: and that all err,
None but the conscious hypocrite denies.
-Oh! what is man, his excellence
strength,

and

When in an hour of trial and desertion,
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborn'd
To plead the cause of vile assassination!
Agnes. You're too severe Reason may
For our own preservation. [justly plead

O. Wilm. Rest contented:
Whate'er resistance I may seem to make,
I am betray'd within; my will's seduced,
And my whole soul's infected. The desire
Of life returns, and brings with it a train
Of appetites, that rage to be supplied.
Whoever stands to parley with temptation,
Parleys to be o'ercome.

Agnes. Then naught remains,
But the swift execution of a deed
That is not to be thought on, or delay'd-
O. Wilm. Gen'rous, unhappy man! Oh!
what could move thee

To put thy life and fortune in the hands
Of wretches mad with anguish!
Agnes. By what means

Shall we effect his death?

O. Wilm. Why, what a fiend !-

How cruel, how remorseless and impatient
Have pride and poverty made thee!
Agnes. Barbarous man!

Whose wasteful riots ruin'd our estate,
And drove our son, ere the first down had
spread

His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages,
Earnest entreaties, agonics, and tears,
To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to
In some remote, inhospitable land [perish
The loveliest youth, in person and in mind,
That ever crown'd a groaning mother's pains!
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then?
Thou cruel husband! thou unnat`ral father!
Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man!
To waste my fortune, rob me of my son,
To drive me to despair, and then reproach me
For being what thou'st made me!

O. Wilm. Dry thy tears:

I ought not to reproach thee. I confess
That thou hast suffer'd much: so have we both.
But chide no more; I'm wrought up to thy

purpose.

The poor, ill-fated, unsuspecting victim,
Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch,
From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash,
And costly dagger, that thou saw'st him wear,
And thus, unthinking, furnish'd us with arms
Against himself. Steal to the door,
And bring me word, if he be still asleep.
[Exit Agnes.

Or I'm deceived, or he pronounced himself
The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch!
Thy thoughts are perishing, thy youthful joys,
Touch'd by the icy hand of grisly death,
Are with ring in their bloom.But, thought
extinguish'd,

He'll never know the loss,

Nor feel the bitter pang of disappointment—
Then I was wrong in counting him a wretch:
To die well pleased

Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
To be a wretch is to survive the loss

Of every joy, and even hope itself,

As I have done-Why do I mourn him then?
For, by the anguish of my tortured soul,
He's to be envied, if compared with me!

[Exit.

SCENE II-A Room, with Young Wilmot asleep upon a Bed, in the Distance.

Enter Old Wilmot and Agnes.

Agnes. The stranger sleeps at present; but so restless

His slumbers seem, they can't continue long. Here, I've secured his dagger.

O. Wilm. Oh, Agnes! Agnes! if there be 'Tis just we should expect it. [a hell, [Goes to take the dagger, but lets it fall. Agnes. Shake off this panic, and be more [we determin'd? O. Wilm. What's to be done? On what had Agnes. You're quite dismay'd.

yourself.

[Takes up the dagger. O. Wilm. Give me the fatal steel. "Tis but a single murder,

Necessity, impatience, and despair,
The three wide mouths of that true Cerberus,
Grim Poverty, demand; they shall be stopp'd.
Ambition, persecution, and revenge,
Devour their millions daily: and shall I—
But follow me, and see how little cause
You had to think there was the least remain
Of manhood, pity, mercy, or remorse,
Left in this savage breast.

[Going the wrong way.

Agnes. Where do you go? The street is that way.

O. Wilm. True! I had forgot. Agnes. Quite, quite confounded! O. Wilm. Well, I recover.-I shall find the [Retires towards the bed. Agnes. Oh, softly! softly! The least noise undoes us.

way.

What are we doing? Misery and want
Are lighter ills than this! I cannot bear it!
Stop, hold thy hand!-Inconstant, wretched

woman!

Wilmot ! What pow'r shall I invoke to aid thee, Wilmot!

[Scene closes.

SCENE III.-Another Room.

Enter Charlotte, Eustace, and Randal.

Char. What strange neglect! The doors are all unbarr'd,

And not a living creature to be seen!

Enter Old Wilmot and Agnes.

Sir, we are come to give and to receive
A thousand greetings-Ha! what can this

mean?

Why do you look with such amazement on us?
Are these your transports for your son's return?
Where is my Wilmot?-Has he not been here?
Would he defer your happiness so long,
Or could a habit so disguise your son,
That you refused to own him?
Agnes. Heard you that?-

What prodigy of horror is disclosing,
To render murder venial!

O. Wilm. Pr'ythee, peace:

The miserable damn'd suspend their howling, And the swift orbs are fix'd in deep attention. Rand. What mean these dreadful words, and frantic air!

That is the dagger my young master wore. Eust. My mind misgives me. Do not stand

to gaze On these dumb phantoms of despair and horror! Let us search further; Randal, show the way. [Exeunt Randal, Eustace, and Charlotte. Agnes. Let life forsake the earth, and light

the sun, And death and darkness bury in oblivion Mankind and all their deeds, that no posterity May ever rise to hear our horrid tale, Or view the grave of such detested parricides! O. Wilm. Curses and deprecations are in vain : [course, The sun will shine, and all things have their When we, the curse and burden of the earth, Shall be absorb'd, and mingled with its dust. Our guilt and desolation must be told, From age to age, to teach desponding mortals, How far beyond the reach of human thought Heaven, when incensed, can punish-Die thou first. [Stabs Agnes.

I durst not trust thy weakness.
Agnes. Ever kind,

But most in this!

O. Wilm. I will not long survive thee.
Agnes. Do not accuse thy erring mother,
Wilmot!

With too much rigour, when we meet above.
To give thee life for life, and blood for blood,
Is not enough. Had I ten thousand lives,
I'd give them all to speak my penitence,
Deep and sincere, and equal to my crime.
Oh, Wilmot! oh, my son! my son! [Dies.

Enter Randal and Eustace.
Eust. Oh, Wilmot! Wilmot!

My sovereign right of grief?-Was he thy

son?

[blood, Say! canst thou show thy hands, reeking with That flow'd, through purer channels, from thy loins? [ocean,

Compute the sands that bound the spacious
And swell their numbers with a single grain;
Increase the noise of thunder with thy voices
Or, when the raging wind lays nature waste,
Assist the tempest with thy feeble breath;
But name not thy faint sorrow with the anguish
Of a cursed wretch, who only hopes from this
[Stabbing himself.

To change the scene, but not relieve his pain.

Rand. A dreadful instance of the last reMay all your woes end here! [morse! Ó. Wilm. O would they end

A thousand ages hence, I then should suffer
Much less than I deserve. Yet let me say,
You'll do but justice to inform the world,
This horrid deed, that punishes itself,
Was not intended, thinking him our son;
For that we knew not, till it was too late.
Proud and impatient under our afflictions,
While Heaven was labouring to make us happy,
We brought this dreadful ruin on ourselves.
Mankind may learn-But▬▬▬▬oh▬▬▬▬▬▬

[Dies.

Rand. Heaven grant they may! 'Tend well the hapless Charlottte, and bear And may thy penitence atone thy crime!

hence

These bleeding victims of despair and pride; Toll the death-bell! and follow to the grave The wretched parents and ill-fated son.

I sat me down, more heavily oppress'd,
More desolate at heart than e'er I felt
Before; when Philomela o'er my head
Began to tune her melancholy strain,
As piteous of my woes: till, by degrees,
Composing sleep on wounded nature shed
A kind but short relief. At early morn,
Wak'd by the chant of birds, I look'd around
For usual objects: objects found I none,
Except before me stretch'd the toiling main,
And rocks and woods, in savage view, behind.

$54. The first Feats of a young Eagle. Rowe.

-So the Eagle,

me,

You, Sir, have been my study. I have plac'd
Before mine eyes, in every light of life,
The father and the king. What weight of duty
Lay on a son from such a parent sprung,
What virtuous toil to shine with his renown,
Has been my thought by day, my dream by
night:

But first and ever nearest to my heart
Was this prime duty, so to frame my conduct
Tow'rd such a father, as were I a father,
My soul would wish to meet with from a son.
And may reproach transmit my name abhorr'd
To latest time-if ever thought was mine
Unjust to filial reverence, filial love!

HAVE I then no tears for thee, my father? Can I forget thy cares, from helpless years Thy tenderness for me? an eye still beam'd With love? A brow that never knew a frown? Nor a harsh word thy tongue? Shall I for these Repay thy stooping venerable age

With shame, disquiet, anguish, and dishonor?
It must not be!-thou first of angels! come,
Sweet filial piety! and firm my breast:
Yes! let one daughter to her fate submit,
Be nobly wretched-but her father happy.

§ 58. Bad Fortune more easily borne than good. Rowe.

In a close lane, as I pursu'd my journey, I spied a wither'd hag, with age grown double, Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself; Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red,

Cold palsy shook her head, her hand seem'd wither'd,

And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapp'd The tatter'd remnants of an old strip'd hanging, Which serv'd to keep her carcase from the cold: So there was nothing of a piece about her. Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd With different color'd rags, black, red, white, yellow,

And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness.

$ 64. In what Manner Princes ought to be taught. MALLET.

LET truth and virtue be their earliest teachers; Keep from their ear the syren-voice of flattery, Keep from their eye the harlot form of vice, Who spread in every court their silken snares, And charm but to betray. Betimes instruct them,

Superior rank demands superior worth;
Pre-eminence of valor, justice, mercy:
But chief, that, though exalted o'er mankind,
They are themselves but men-frail suffering
dust;

From no one injury of human lot

Exempt; but fever'd by the same heat, chill'd By the same cold, torn by the same disease, That scorches, freezes, racks, and kills the beg

gar.

§ 65. True End of Royalty. MALLET. -O WITNESS, Heaven!

Whose

eye

the heart's profoundest depth ex

plores,
That if not to perform my regal task ;
To be the common father of my people,
Patron of honor, virtue, and religion;
If not to shelter useful worth, to guard
His well-earn'd portion from the sons of rapine,
And deal out justice with impartial hand;
If not to spread on all good men my bounty,
The treasures trusted to me, not my own;

If not to raise anew our English name
By peaceful arts, that grace the land they bless,
And generous war to humble proud oppressors:
Yet more, if not to build the public weal
on that firm base, which can alone resist
Both time and chance, fair liberty and law;
If for these great ends am not ordain'd-
May I ne'er poorly fill the throne of England.

The good exalted, and depress'd the bad: He spurn'd the flattering crew, with scorn rejected

[selves, Their smooth advice, that only means themTheir schemes to aggrandize him into baseness, Well knowing that a people in their rights And industry protected; living safe Beneath the sacred shelter of the laws; Encourag'd in their genius, arts, and labors; And happy each as he himself deserves, Are ne'er ungrateful. With unsparing hand They will for him provide: their filial love And confidence are his unfailing treasury, And every honest man his faithful guard.

§ 68. The Guilt of bad Kings. MALLET. WHEN those whom Heaven distinguishes o'er millions,

And show'rs profusely pow'r and splendor on
them,
[they,
Whate'er th' expanded heart can wish: when
Accepting the reward, neglect the duty,
Or, worse, pervert those gifts to deeds of ruin,
Is there a wretch they rule so base as they?
Guilty, at once, of sacrilege to Heaven,
And of perfidious robbery to man!

§ 69. The true End of Life. THOMSON.

WHO, who would live, my Narva, just to

breathe

This idle air, and indolently run,
Day after day, the still returning round
Of life's mean offices and sickly joys?
But in the service of mankind to be
A guardian god below; still to employ
The mind's brave ardor in heroic arms,
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd,
And make us shine for ever-that is life.

§ 70. The same. S. JOHNSON. REFLECT that life and death, affecting sounds,

Are only varied modes of endless being.
Reflect that life, like every other blessing,
Derives its value from its use alone;
Nor for itself, but for a nobler end,
Th' Eternal gave it, and that end is virtue.
When inconsistent with a greater good,
Reason commands to cast the less away;
Thus life, with loss of wealth, is well preserv'd,
And virtue cheaply sav'd with loss of life.

$71. A Lion overcome by a Man. LEE.

THE prince in a lone court was plac'd, Unarm'd, all but his hands, on which he wore A pair of gantlets.

up,

At last, the door of an old lion's den
Being drawn the horrid beast appear'd:
The flames which from his eye shot glaring
red,

Made the sun start, as the spectators thought,
And round them cast a day of blood and death.
The prince walk'd forward: the large beast des-

cried

$73. Virtue the only true Source of Nobility. THOMSON

I TELL thee, then, whoe'er amidst the sons
Of reason, valor, liberty, and virtue,
Displays distinguish'd merit, is a noble
Of nature's own creating. Such have risen,
Sprung from the dust, or where had been our
honors?

And such, in radiant bands, will rise again
In

yon immortal city; that, when most Deprest by fate, and near apparent ruin, Returns, as with an energy divine,

On her astonish'd foes, and shakes them from her.