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Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou patient
carth? Dost thou not labour with thy murd'rous weight? And you, ye glitt'ring, heav'nly host of stars, Hide your fair heads in clouds, or I shall blast you; 246 For I am all contagion, death, and ruin, And nature sickens at me. Rest, thou world, This parricide shall be thy plague no more ; Thus, thus I set thee free.
(Stabs herself. Hor. Oh, fatal rashness!
Alt. Thou dost instruct me well. To lengthen life, Is but to trifle now.
[Altamont offers to kill himself; Horatio pre.
vents him, and wrests his sword from him.
Enter SCIOLTO, pale and bloody, supported by servants.
Cal. Oh, my heart !
260 Sci. Alas, my daughter!
Thou hast rashly ventur'd in a stormy sea,
Cal. Celestial sounds! Peace dawns upon my soul,
-Had I but early known
[She dies. Alt. Cold ! dead, and cold! and yet thou art not
For thou hast been my son-Oh, gracious Heav'n!
Hor. The storm of grief bears hard upon his youth, And bends him, like a drooping flower, to earth. 300 By such examples are we taught to prove The sorrows that attend unlawful love. Death, or some worse misfortune, soon divide, The injur'd bridegroom from his guilty bride. If you would have the nuptial union last, Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast.
see the tripping dame could find no favour; Dearly she paid for breach of good behaviour; Nor could her loving husband's fondness save her. Italian ladies lead but scurvy lives, There's dreadful dealings with eloping wives : Thus ’tis, because these husbands are obey'd By force of laws, which for themselves they made. With tales of old prescriptions, they confine The right of marriage-rules to their male line, And huff, and domineer by right divine. Had we the pow'r, we'd make the tyrants know, What 'tis to fail in duties which they owe; We'd teach the saunt'ring squire, who loves to roam, Forgetful of his own dear spouse at home; Who snores, at night, supinely by her side; 'Twas not for this the nuptial knot was ty’d. The plodding petty - fogger, and the cit, Have learn'd, at least, this modern way of wit. Each ill--bred, senseless rogue, tho' ne'er so dull, Has th’ impudence to think his wife a fool; He spends the night, where merry wags resort, With joking clubs, and eighteen-penny port; While she, poor soul, 's contented to regale, By a sad sea-coal fire, with wigs and ale.
Well may the cuckold-making tribe find grace,
wou'd e'er bring constancy in fashion,
married man shall toast his wife;