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Let no nice taste the poet's art arraign, If some frail vicious characters he feign:

Who writes, should still let nature be his care,

Mix shades with lights, and not paint all things fair,
But shew you men and women as they are.
With def'rence to the fair, he bade me say,
Few to perfection ever found the way :
Many in many parts are known t' excel,
But 'twere too hard for one to act all well;
Whom justly life would through each scene commend,
The maid, the wife, the mistress, and the friend;
This age, 'tis true, has one great instance seen,

And Heav'n, in justice, made that one a queen.

Dramatis Personae.

DRURY-LANE.

SCIOLTO, a nobleman of Genoa
ALTAMONT, a young lord, in love with

Calista

HORATIO, his friend

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LOTHARIO, a young lord and enemy to Al

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Men.

Mr. Aickin.

Mr. Barrymore.
Mr. Bensley.

Mr. Palmer.

Mr. Williames.

Women.

Mrs. Siddons.

Mrs. Ward.
Miss Palmer.

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HORATIO, bis friend

LOTHARIO, a young lord, and enemy to Al

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Mr. Harley.

Mr. Holman.
Mr. Evatt.

Women.

Miss Brunton.

Miss Chapman.

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Miss Stuart.

Servants to Sciolto.

SCENE, Sciolto's palace and garden, with some part of the street near it, in Genoa.

THE

FAIR PENITENT.

ACTI. SCENE 1.

A garden belonging to SCIOLTO's palace. Enter ALTAMONT and HORATIO.

Altamont.

LET this auspicious day be ever sacred,

No mourning, no misfortunes happen on it :
Let it be mark'd for triumphs and rejoicings;
Let happy lovers ever make it holy,

Choose it to bless their hopes, and crown their wishes,
This happy day, that gives me my Calista.

Hor. Yes, Altamont; to-day thy better stars Are join'd to shed their kindest influence on thee; Sciolto's noble hand that rais'd thee first, Half dead and drooping o'er thy father's grave, Completes it's bounty, and restores thy name To that high rank and lustre which it boasted, Before ungrateful Genoa had forgot The merit of thy god-like father's arms; Before that country, which he long had serv'd In watchful councils, and in winter-camps,

Had cast off his white age to want and wretchedness,

And made their court to faction by his ruin.

Alt. Oh, great Sciolto! Oh, my more than father! Let me not live, but at thy very name;

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My eager heart springs up, and leaps with joy.
When I forget the vast, vast debt I owe thee-
Forget! (but 'tis impossible) then let me
Forget the use and privilege of reason,
Be driven from the commerce of mankind,
To wander in the desert among brutes,
"To bear the various fury of the seasons,
"The night's unwholsome dew and noon-day's heat,"
To be the scorn of earth and curse of Heav'n !

Hor. So open, so unbounded was his goodness,
It reach'd ev'n me, because I was thy friend.
When that great man I lov'd, thy noble father,
Bequeath'd thy gentle sister to my arms,
His last dear pledge and legacy of friendship,
That happy tie made me Sciolto's son ;

He call'd us his, and, with a parent's fondness,
Indulg'd us in his wealth, bless'd us with plenty,
Heal'd all our cares, and sweeten'd love itself.

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Alt. By Heav'n he found my fortunes so abandon'd, That nothing but a miracle could raise 'em : My father's bounty, and the state's ingratitude, Had stripp'd him bare, nor left him ev❜n a grave. Undone myself and sinking with his ruin, I had no wealth to bring, nothing to succour him, But fruitless tears.

Hor. Yet what thou could'st, thou didst,

And didst it like a son; when his hard creditors,

Urg'd and assisted by Lothario's father,

(Foe to thy house, and rival of their greatness)

By sentence of the cruel law forbid

His venerable corpse to rest in earth,

Thou gav'st thyself a ransom for his bones;

With piety uncommon didst give up

Thy hopeful youth to slaves who ne'er knew mercy,
Sour, unrelenting, money-loving villains,
Who laugh at human nature and forgiveness,
And are like fiends, the factors of destruction.
Heav'n, who beheld the pious act, approv'd it,
And bade Sciolto's bounty be its proxy,
To bless thy filial virtue with abundance.

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Alt. But see he comes, the author of my happiness, The man who sav'd my life from deadly sorrow, Who bids my days be blest with peace and plenty, And satisfies my soul with love and beauty.

Enter SCIOLTO; he runs to ALTAMONT, and embraces him.

Sci. Joy to thee, Altamont! Joy to myself! Joy to this happy morn that makes thee mine; That kindly grants what nature had denied me, And makes me father of a son like thee.

Alt. My father! Oh, let me unlade my breast, Pour out the fulness of my soul before you; Shew every tender, every grateful thought, This wond'rous goodness stirs. But 'tis impossible, And utterance all is vile; since I can only Swear you reign here, but never tell how much. "Sci. It is enough; I know thee, thou art honest;

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