T'attempt his heart, and bring it back to honour. Jaf. No. I'll bless thee.
Great love prevail'd, and bless'd me with success! I came on purpose, Belvidera, to bless thee.
He came, confess'd, betray'd his dearest friends 'Tis now, I think, three years, we've liv'd together.
For promis'd mercy. Now they're doom'd to Bel. And may no fatal minute ever part us,
suffer.
Till, reverend grown for age and love, we go
Down to one grave, as our last bed, together;
There sleep in peace, till an eternal morning.
Jaf. Did I not say, I came to bless thee?
Bel. You did.

Gall'd with remembrance of what then was

sworn,

If they are lost, he vows t'appease the gods
With his poor life, and make my blood th'

Pri. Heav'ns!

atonement.

Bel. If I was ever then your care, now hear me
Fly to the senate, save the promis'd lives
Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice.
Pri. Oh, my heart's comfort!

Bel. Will you not, my father?
Weep not, but answer me.

Pri. By heav'n I will.

Not one of them but what shall be immortal.
Canst thou forgive me all my follies past?
I'll henceforth be indeed a father; never,
Never more thus expose, but cherish thee,
Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life,
Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o'er thee.
Peace to thy heart. Farewell.

Bel. Go and remember,
'Tis Belvidera's life her father pleads for.
[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.-A Garden.
Enter JAFFIER.

Jaf. Final destruction seize on all the world. Bend down ye heav'ns, and shutting round this earth,

Crush the vile globe into its first confusion!

;

Jaf. Then hear me, bounteous heav'n:
Pour down your blessings on this beauteous head,
Where everlasting sweets are always springing,
With a continual giving hand: let peace,
Honour, and safety, always hover round her;
Feed her with plenty; let her eyes ne'er see
A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know mourning:
Crown all her days with joy, her nights with rest,
Harmless as her own thoughts; and prop her
virtue,

To bear the loss of one that too much lov'd;
And comfort her with patience in our parting.
Bel. How! Parting, parting!

Jaf. Yes, for ever parting;

I have sworn, Belvidera, by yon heav'n,
That best can tell how much I lose to leave thee,
We part this hour for ever.

Bel. O! call back

Your cruel blessing; stay with me and curse me.
Jaf. Now hold, heart, or never.

Bel. By all the tender day's we've liv'd together,
Pity my sad condition; speak, but speak.
Jaf. Oh! hh!

Bel. By these arms, that now cling round
thy neck,
By these poor streaming eyes-
Jaf. Murder! unhold me:
By th' immortal destiny that doom'd me.
[Draws the Dagger.
I'll not live one longer;
or see me fall-

To this curs'd minute,
Resolve to let me go,
Hark, the dismal bell' [Passing-bell tolls.
Tolls out for death! I must attend its call too;
For my poor friend, my dying Pierre, expects me:
He sent a message to require I'd see him
Before he died, and take his last forgiveness.
Farewell, for ever.

Bel. Leave thy dagger with me,
Bequeath me something Not one kiss at
parling?

Oh! my poor heart, when wilt thou break?
[Going out, looks back at him.

Jaf. Yet stay:
We have a child, as yet a tender infant:
Be a kind mother to him when I'm gone;
Breed him in virtue, and the paths of honour,
But never let him know his father's story;
I charge thee, guard him from the wrongs my fate
May do his future fortune, or his name.
Now-nearer yet- [Approaching each other.
Oh! that my arms were rivetted
Thus round thee ever! But my friend! my oath!
This and no more.
[Kisses her.

Bel. Another, sure another,
For that poor little one you've ta'en such care of.
I'll giv't him truly.

Jaf. So now farewell.

Bel. For ever?

[He and Jaffier ascend the Scaffold. Captain, you should be a gentleman of honour; Keep off the rabble, that I may have room Suffer'd the shameful fate thou'rt going to taste of. To entertain my fate, and die with decency. Off. The time grows short, your friends Come. Takes off his Gown, Executioner

Pier. Ha, ha, ha-oh! oh!
Jaf. Now, ye curs'd rulers,
Thus of the blood y'ave shed, I make libation
And sprinkle it mingling. May it rest upon you,
And all your race. Be henceforth peace a stranger
Within your walls; let plagues and famine waste
Your generation-Oh, poor Belvidera!

At such a rate, as Venice long shall groan for. Sir, I have a wife, bear this in safety to her,

Pri. Daughter!
Bel. Ha! look there!

Am I to blame to love him? O, thou dear one,
Why do you fly me? Are you angry still then?
Jaffier, where art thou? father, why do you My husband bloody, and his friend too! Murder!
Who has done this? Speak to me, thou sad

do thus?
Stand off, don't hide him from me. He's here
somewhere.
Stand off, I say: What gone? Remember't,
tyrant:

I may revenge myself for this trick, one day.
I'll do't-I'll do't.

THE ORPHAN OF CHINA;

OR, The Unhappy Marriage. Tragedy by Thomas Otway. Acted at the Duke's Theatre 1680. The plot is founded on the history of Brandon, in a novel called English Adventures, published in 1667. The language is truly poetical, tender, and sentimental, the circumstances are affecting and the catastrophe is distressfull. Yet there is somewhat improbable in the particular on which all the distresses are founded; and we must own that we incline to the opinion of that person, who, on first seeing it, exclaimed, "Oh! what an infinite deal of mischief would a farthing rushlight have prevented!" We cannot avoid remarking, says the Biographia Dramatica, that the compassion of the audience has commonly appeared misplaced; it lighting in general on the whining, irresolute Castalio, instead of falling, where it ought to do, on the more spirited and open-hearted Polydore, who, in consequence of concealments on the side of his brother, which he could not have any reason to expect, and by which he is really injured, is tempted in his love and resentment to an act which involves him in greater horror and distress than any of the other characters can undergo, from the more bloody effects it produces. This partiality has, however, always appeared to us to arise from some strokes of libertinism thrown into the early parts of Polydore's character, which give an air of looseness to it, and prejudice the audience against him through the whole play. As Dr. Johnson observes, "it is one of the few pieces that keep possession of the stage, and has pleased for almost a century, through all the vicissitudes of dramatic fashion. Of this play nothing new can easily be said. It is a domestic tragedy drawn from middle life. Its whole power is upon the affections; for it is not written with much comprehension of thought, or elegance of expression. But if the heart is interested, many other beauties may be wanting, yet not be missed." Voltaire, who (from his egregious vanity) seldom spoke of an English author but in a strain of ridicule, has sarcastically, yet not without some appearance of truth, observed of the impetuous Chamont: There is a brother of Monimia, a soldier of fortune, who, be cause he and his sister are cherished and maintained by this worthy family, abuses them all round. Do me justice, you old Put,' says he to the father, or, damme, I'll set your house on fire.'-'My dear boy,' says the accommodating old gentleman, you shall have justice.""

ACT I.

SCENE. Bohemia.

SCENE I-4 Garden.
Enter CASTALIO, POLYDORE, and Page.
Cas. POLYDORE, our sport
Has been to-day much better for the danger:
When on the brink the foaming boar I met,
And in his side thought to have lodg'd my spear,
The desperate savage rush'd within my foree,
And bore me headlong with him down the rock.
Pol. But then-

Cas. Ay, then, my brother, my friend, Po-
lydore,

Like Perseus mounted on his winged steed, Came on, and down the dang'rous precipice leap'd

To save Castalio.-'Twas a godlike act!

Pol. But when I came, I found you conqueror. Oh! my heart danc'd, to see your danger past! The heat and fury of the chase was cold, And I had nothing in my mind but joy.

Cas. So, Polydore, methinks, we might in war
Rush on together; thou shouldst be my guard,
And I be thing. What is't could hurt us then?
Now half the youth of Europe are in arms,
How fulsome must it be to stay behind,
And die of rank diseases here at home!

Pol. No, let me purchase in my youth renown,
To make me lov'd and valu'd when I'm old;
I would be busy in the world, and learn,
Not like a coarse and useless dunghill weed,
Fix'd to one spot, and rot just as I grow.
Cas. Our father

Has ta'en himself a surfeit of the world,
And cries, it is not safe that we should taste it.
I own, I have duty very pow'rful in me:
And though I'd hazard all to raise my name,
Yet he's so tender, and so good a father,
I could not do a thing to cross his will.

Pol. Castalio, I have doubts within my heart,
Which you, and only you, can satisfy.
Will you be free and candid to your friend?

For he was never half so kind as you are,
What must I do?

Mon. Inform me how thou'st heard
Castalio and his brother use my name.

Page. With all the tenderness of love, You were the subject of their last discourse. At first I thought it would have fatal prov'd; But as the one grew hot, the other cool'd, And yielded to the frailty of his friend;

If softest wishes, and a heart more true
Than ever suffer'd yet for love disdain'd,
Speak an ill nature, you accuse me justly.
Mon. Talk not of love, my lord, I must not
hear it.

Pol. Who can behold such beauty, and be
silent?
Desire first taught us words.
Man, when
created,

At last, after much struggling, 'twas resolv'd-At first alone long wander'd up and down
Mon. What, good Cordelio?
Page. Not to quarrel for you.
Mon. I would not have 'em, by my dearest
hopes;

I would not be the argument of strife.
But surely my Castalio won't forsake me,
And make a mock'ry of my easy love!
Went they together?

Page. Yes, to seek you, madam.
Castalio promis'd Polydore to bring him,
Where he alone might meet you,
And fairly try the fortune of his wishes.
Mon. Am I then grown so cheap, just to
be made

A common stake, a prize for love in jest?
Was not Castalio very loath to yield it?
Or was it Polydore's unruly passion,
That heighten'd the debate?

Page. The fault was Polydore's.
Castalio play'd with love, and smiling show'd
The pleasure, not the pangs of his desire.
He said, no woman's smiles should buy his
freedom:

Forlorn, and silent as his vassal beasts:
But when a heav'n-born maid, like you, appear'd,
Strange pleasures fill'd his eyes and fir'd his heart,
Unloos'd his tongue, and his first talk was love.
Mon. The first created pair indeed were

bless'd;

They were the only objects of each other,
Therefore he courted her, and her alone;
But in this peopled world of beauty, where
There's roving room, where you may court,

and ruin

A thousand more, why need you talk to me?
Pol. Oh! I could talk to thee for ever, Thus
Eternally admiring, fix, and gaze

On those dear eyes; for every glance they send
Darts through my soul.

Mon. How can you labour thus for my
undoing?

I must confess indeed, I owe you more
Than ever I can hope, or think, to pay.
There always was a friendship 'twixt our
families;

me happy.

And therefore when my tender parents dy'd, And marriage is a mortifying thing. [Exit. Whose ruin'd fortunes too expir'd with them, Mon. Then I am ruin'd! if Castalio's false, Your father's pity and his bounty took me, Where is there faith and honour to be found? A poor and helpless orphan, to his care. Ye gods, that guard the innocent, and guide Pol, 'Twas Heav'n ordain'd it so, to make The weak, protect and take me to your care. O, but I love him! There's the rock will wreck me! Why was I made with all my sex's fondness, Yet want the cunning to conceal its follies? I'll see Castalio, tax him with his falsehoods, Be a true woman, rail, protest my wrongs; Resolve to hate him, and yet love him still."

Hence with this peevish virtue, 'tis a cheat;
And those who taught it first were hypocrites.
Come, these soft, tender limbs were made for
yielding.

Mon. Here on my knees, by heav'n's blest
pow'r I swear, [Kneels.

If you persist, I ne'er henceforth will see you,
But rather wander through the world a beggar,
And live on sordid scraps at proud men's doors;
For though to fortune lost, I'll still inherit
My mother's virtues, and my father's honour.
Pol. Intolerable vanity! your sex
Was never in the right; y'are always false,
Or silly; ev'n your dresses are not more
Fantastic than your appetites; you think
Of nothing twice; opinion you have none.
To-day y'are nice, to-morrow not so free;
Now smile, then frown; now sorrowful, then
glad;
Now pleas'd, now not: and all, you know
not why!

Mon, Indeed, my lord,

I own my sex's follies; I have 'em all;
And, to avoid its fault, must fly from you.
Therefore, believe me, could you raise me high
As most fantastic woman's wish could reach,
And lay all nature's riches at my feet;
I'd rather run a savage in the woods,
[Exit. Amongst brute beasts, grow wrinkled and
deform'd,

Cas. I could for ever hear thee; but this time Matters of such odd circumstances press me, That I must go.

Mon. Then go, and, if't be possible, for ever. Well, my lord Polydore, I guess your business, So I might still enjoy my honour safe, And read th' ill-natur'd purpose in your eyes. From the destroying wiles of faithless men. [Exit. Pol. If to desire you more than misers wealth, Pol. Who'd be that sordid thing call'd man? Or dying men an hour of added life; I'll yet possess my love, it shall be so. [Exeunt.