WIT long opprest, and fill'd at last with rage,
Thus in a sullen mood rebukes the age:
What loads of fame do modern heroes bear,
For an inglorious, long, and lazy war?
Who for some skirmish, or a safe retreat,
(Not to be dragg'd to battle) are called great.
But oh, what do ambitious statesmen gain,
Who into private chests whole nations drain?
What sums of gold they hoard, is daily known,
To all men's cost, and sometimes to their own.
Your lawyer too, that like an oyes bawls,
That drowns the market-higler in the stalls,
That seems begot, conceiv'd, and born in
brawls,

Yet thrives: he and his crowd get what they please,

Swarming all term-time through the Strand like bees,

They buz at Westminster, and lie for fees.
The godly too their ways of getting have,
But none so much as your fanatic knave:
Wisely the wealthiest livings they refuse,
Who by the fattest bishoprics would lose;
Who with short hair, large ears, and small blue
band,

True rogues, their own, not god's elect, command.
Let pigs then be prophane; but broth's allow'd,
Possets and christian caudles may be good,
Meat helps, to reinforce a brother's blood;
Therefore each female saint he doth advise,
With groans, and hums, and ha's, and goggling
eyes,

To rub him down, and make the spirit rise;
While with his zeal transported from the ground,
He mounts, and sanctifies the sisters round.
On poets only no kind star e'er smil'd;
Curst fate has damn'd 'em every mother's child:
Therefore he warns his brothers of the stage,
To write no more for an ungrateful age.
Think what penurious masters you have serv'd;
Tasso run mad, and noble Spencer starv'd:
Turn then, whoe're thou art that canst write
well,

Thy ink to gall, and in lampoons excel.
Forswear all honesty, traduce the great,
Grow impudent, and rail against the state;
Bursting with spleen, abroad thy pasquils send,
And chuse some libel-spreader for thy friend:
The wit and want of Timon point thy mind,
And for thy satyr-subject chuse mankind.

SCENE I-A stately Temple, which represents the Christian religion, as in its first magnificence, being but lately established at Rome and Constantinople. The side scenes shew the horrid tortures, with which the Roman tyrants persecuted the church; and the flat scene, which is the limit of the prospect, discovers an altar richly adorned, before which Constantine is seen kneeling, with commanders about him, gazing at a bloody cross in the air, which, being encompassed with many angels, offers itself to view, with those words distinctly written, In hoc signo vinces! instruments are heard, and many attendants. The ministers, at divine service, walk busily up and down, till ATTICUS, the chief of all the priests, and successor of St Chrysostom, in rich robes, comes forward with the philosopher LEONTINE; the waiters in ranks, bowing all the way before him.

A chorus heard at distance.
Prepare, prepare! the rites begin,
Let none unhallowed enter in.
The temple with new glory shines;
Adorn the altars, wash the shrines,
And purge the place from sin.

Attic. O Leontine! was ever morn like this,
Since the celestial incarnation dawn'd?
I think no day, since that, such glory gave
To Christian altars, as this morning brings.

Leont. Great successor of holy Chrysostom, Who now triumphs above, a saint of honour, Next in degree to those bright sons of heaven, Who never fell, nor stain'd their orient beams; What shall I answer? How shall I approach you Since my conversion, which your breath inspir'd? Attic. To see, this day, the emperor of the

east

Leave all the pleasures that the earth can yield,
That nature can bestow, or art invent,
In his life's spring, and bloom of gaudy years,
To undergo the penance of a cloyster,
Confined to narrow rooms, and gloomy walks,
Fastings, and exercises of devotion,

Which from his bed at midnight must awake him,

Methinks, O Leontine! is something more,
Than yet philosophy could ever reach.

Leont. True, Atticus; you have amaz'd my

reason.

Attic. Yet more, to our religion's lasting ho

nour,

Marina and Flavilla, two young virgins,
Imperial born, cast in the fairest mould,
That e'er the hands of beauty form'd for woman;
The mirrors of our court, where chastity
And innocence might copy spotless lustre ;

To-day with Theodosius leave the world.
Leont. Methinks at such a glorious resigna-
tion,

The angelic orders should at once descend,
In all the paint and drapery of heaven,
With charming voices, and with luiling strings,
To give full grace to such triumphant zeal.

Attic. No, Leontine; I fear there is a fault:
For when I last confessed the emperor,
Whether disgust and melancholy blood,
From restless passions, urg'd not this divorce?
He only answered me with sighs and blushes.
'Tis sure, his soul is of the tenderest make,
Therefore I'll tax him strictly: but, my friend,
Why should I give his character to you,
Who, when his father sent him into Persia,
Were by that mighty monarch then appointed
To breed him with his son, the prince Varanes.

Leont. And what will raise your admiration is, That two such different tempers should agree : You know that Theodosius is compos'd

Of all the softness that should make a woman;
Judgment almost like fear fore-runs his actions,
And he will poise an injury so long,

As if he had rather pardon than revenge it:
But the young Persian prince quite opposite,
So fiery fierce, that those who view him nearly
May see his haughty soul still mounting in his
face;

Yet did I study these so different tempers,
Till I at last had formed a perfect union,
As if two souls did but inform one body;
A friendship that may challenge all the world,
And at the proof be matchless.

Attic. I long to read

This gallant prince, who, as you have informed me, Comes from his father's court to see our emperor.

Leont. So he intended till he came to Athens, And at my homely board beheld my daughter; Where, as fate ordered, she,-who never saw The glories of a court, bred up to books In closets like a Sybil,-she, I say,

Long since from Persia brought by me to Athens, Unskill'd in charms, but those which nature gave her,

Wounded this scornful prince. In short, he forced me

To wait him thither, with deep protestations,
That moment that bereft him of the sight
Of Athenais, gave him certain death.

Enter VARANES and ATHENAIS.
But see my daughter honoured with his pre-

sence.

Vara. 'Tis strange, O Athenais! wond'rous all; Wond'rous the shrines, and wonderful the altars! The martyrs, though but drawn in painted flames, Amaze me with the image of their sufferings; Saints canoniz'd that dared with Roman tyrants,

The satyrs could not grin, for she was veil'd; Nothing immodest, from her naked bosom Down to her knees, the nymph was wrapt in lawn:

But oh for me! for me, that was too much!
Her legs, her arms, her hands, her neck, her
breasts,

So nicely shap'd, so matchless in their lustre,
Such all-perfection, that I took whole draughts
Of killing love, and ever since have languish'd
With ling'ring surfeits of her fatal beauty!
Alas, too fatal, sure! O Atticus,

Forgive me, for my story now is done.

The nymph was drest, and with her two companions,

Having descry'd me, shriek'd and fled away,
Leaving me motionless, till Leontine,

The instructor of my youth, by chance came in,
And wak'd me from the wonder that entranc'd me.
Attic. Behold, my lord, the man whom you
have nam'd,

The harbinger of prince Varanes, here.

Theo. O Leontine! ten thousand welcomes
meet thee!

Thou foster-father of my tender youth,
Who rear'd the plant, and prun'd it with such

care,

How shall I look upon thee, who am fallen
From all the principles of manlier reason,
By thee infus'd, to more than woman's weakness?
Now by the majesty divine, that awes
This sacred place, I swear you must not kneel;
And tell me, for I have a thousand things
To ask thee, where, where is my godlike friend?
Is he arriv'd, and shall I see his face,

Before I am cloyster'd from the world for ever? Leont. He comes, my lord, with all the expecting joys

Of a young promis'd lover; from his eyes
Big hopes look forth, and boiling fancy forms
Nothing but Theodosius still before him;
His thought, his every word, is Theodosius.

Theo. Yet, Leontine, yet answer me once more, With tremblings I demand thee,—

Say, hast thou seen,-Oh, has that heavenly form

Appear'd to thee again ?--Behold he's dumb!
Proceed then to the solemn last farewell;
Never was man so willing, and prepar❜d.
Enter VARANES, ARANTHES, and Attendants.
Vara. Where is my friend! oh where is my
belov'd,

My Theodosius! Point him out, ye gods,
That I may press him dead betwixt my arms,
Devour him thus with over-hasty joys,

That languish at his breast, quite out of breath,
And cannot utter more!

Theo. Thou mightiest pleasure, And greatest blessing, that kind heaven could send,

To glad my parting soul, a thousand welcomes! O, when I look on thee, new starts of glory Spring in my breast, and, with a backward bound,

I run the race of lusty youth again.
Vara. By heaven it joys me too when I re-
member

Our thousand pastimes! when we borrow'd names,
Alcides I, and thou my dearest Theseus;
When through the woods we chas'd the foaming
boar,

With hounds that open'd like Thessalian bulls,
Like tygers flu'd, and sanded as the shoar,
With ears and chests that dash'd the morning
dew:

Driv'n with the sport, as ships are tost in storms,
We ran like winds, and matchless was our course;
Now sweeping o'er the limit of a hill,
Now with a full career come thund'ring down
The precipice, and sweat along the vale.

Theo. O glorious time! and when the gather-
ing clouds

Have called us home, say, did we rest, my brother?

When on the stage, to the admiring court,
We strove to represent Alcides' fury,

In all that raging heat, and pomp of madness,
With which the stately Seneca adorned him;
So lively drawn, and painted with such horror,
That we were forced to give it o'er; so loud
The virgins shriek'd, so fast they died away.

Vara. My Theodosius still! 'tis my lov❜d brother;

And by the gods we'll see those times again! Why then has rumour wrong'd thee, that reported

Christian enthusiasm had charm'd thee from us; That, drawn by priests, and work'd by melancholy,

Thou'dst laid the golden reins of empire down, And sworn thyself a votary for ever!

Theo. 'Tis almost true; and had not you ar

riv'd,

The solemn business had by this been ended.
This I have made the empress of the east,
My eldest sister; these with me retire,
Devoted to the pow'r whom we adore.

Vara. What power is that, that merits such oblations?

I thought the sun more great and glorious,
Than any that e'er mingled with the gods;
Yet even to him my father never offer'd
More than a hecatomb of bulls and horses:
Now by those golden beams, that glad the world,
I swear it is too much! For one of these,
But half so bright, our god would drive no more,
He'd leave the darken'd globe, and in some cave
Enjoy such charms for ever.

Attic. My lord, forbear!

Such language does not suit with our devotion:
Nothing prophane must dare to murmur here,
Nor stain the hallow'd beauties of the place.
Yet, thus far we must yield; the emperor
Is not enough prepar'd to leave the world.

Vara. Thus low, most reverend of this sacred
place,

I kneel for pardon, and am half-converted,
By your permission that my Theodosius

Theo. Cruel destiny!

Why am not I thus too, O my Varanes!
Why are these costly dishes set before me?
Why do these sounds of pleasure strike my ears,
Why are these joys brought to my sick remem-
brance,

Who have no appetite, but am to sense,
From head to foot, all a dead palsy o'er?

Vara. Fear not, my friend, all shall be well
again;

For I have thousand ways, and thousand stories,
To raise thee up to pleasure: we'll unlock
Our fastest secrets, shed upon each other
Our tender'st cares, and quite unbar those doors,
Which shall be shut to all mankind beside.

Attic. Silence and reverence are the temple's
dues:

Therefore, while we pursue the sacred rites, . Be these observ'd, or quit the awful place.Imperial sisters, now twin-stars of heaven, Answer the successor of Chrysostom; Without least reservation answer me, By those harmonious rules I charg'd ye learn.

ATTICUS sings.

Attic. Canst thou, Marina, leave the world,
The world that is devotion's bane,
Wherecrowns are tost, and sceptres hurl'd
Where lust and proud ambition reign ?
Priest. Can you your costly robes forbear,
To live with us in poor attire?
Can you from courts to cells repair,
To sing at midnight in our quire?

3 Priest. Can you forget your golden beds, Where you might sleep beyond the morn, On mats to lay your royal heads,

And have your beauteous tresses shorn? Attic. Can you resolve to fast all day,

And weep and groan to be forgiven? Can you in broken slumbers pray, And by affliction merit heav'n? Chor. Say, votaries, can this be done?--While we the grace divine implore, The world has lost, the battle's won, And sin shall never charm ye more. Marina The gate to bliss does open stand, sings. And all my penance is in view ; The world, upon the other hand, Cries out, O do not bid adieu!

Yet, sacred sirs, in these extremes,
Where pomp and pride their glories tell;
Where youth and beauty are the themes,
And plead their moving cause so well;
If aught that's vain my thoughts possess,
Ör
any passions govern here,
But what divinity may bless,
0 may I never enter there!

Flavilla What can pomp or glory do;
sings. Or what can human charms persuade;
That mind that has a heav'n in view,
How can it be by earth betrayed?
No monarch full of youth and fame,
The joy of eyes, and nature's pride,
Should once my thoughts from heav'n re-
claim,

Though now he woo'd me for his bride.

Haste then, oh haste, and take us in!
For ever lock Religion's door,
Secure us from the charms of sin,

And let us see the world no more.
Attic. Hark! hark! behold the heavenly choir,
sings. They cleave the air in bright attire,
And see his lute each angel brings,
And, hark, divinely thus he sings!
To the pow'rs divine all glory be given,
By men upon earth, and angels in heaven.
Scene shuts, and all the Priests, with
MARINA and FLAV. disappear.

Pulch. For ever gone! for ever parted from me!

O Theodosius, till this cruel moment

I never knew how tenderly I lov'd them;
But on this everlasting separation,
Methinks my soul has left me, and my time
Of dissolution points me to the grave.

Theo. O my Varanes, does not now thy tem

choly,

Which I ne'er felt before, now comes upon me,
And I begin to loath all human greatness.
Oh! sigh not then, nor thy hard fate deplore,
For, 'tis resolv'd, we will be kings no more:
We'll fly all courts, and love shall be our guide;
Love, that's more worth than all the world be-
side.

Princes are barr'd the liberty to roam,
The fetter'd mind still languishes at home;
In golden bands she treads the thoughtful round,
Business and cares eternally abound.
And when for air the goddess would unbind,
She's clogged with scepters and to crowns
[Exeunt.

confin'd.