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Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou patient
earth? 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; 240 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 trife 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 ! Well may'st thou fail; for see, the spring that fed Thy vital stream is wasted, and runs low. My father! will you now, at last, forgive me, If, after all my crimes, and all your suff'rings, I call you once again by that dear name? Will you forget my shame, and those wide wounds? Lift up your hand, and bless me, ere I go Down to my dark abode ?
Şci. Alas, my daughter!
Thou hast rashly ventur'd in a stormy sea, Where life, fame, virtue, all were wreck'd and lost. But sure thou hast borne thy part in all the anguish, And smarted with the pain. Then, rest in peace: Let silence and oblivion hide thy name, And save thee from the malice of posterity; And may'st thou find with Heav'n the same forgive
ness, As with thy father here.- Die, and be happy.
Cal. Celestial sounds! Peace dawns upon my soul, And ev'ry pain grows less—Oh, gentle Altamont! Think not too hardly of me when I'm gone; But pity me- Had I but early known Thy wondrous worth, thou excellent young man, We had been happier both Now, 'tis too late ; And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold thee; Thou art their last dear object- Mercy, Heav'n!
[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.
Exeunt omnes. EPILOGUE.
YOU see the tripping dame could find no favour;
Well may the cuckold-making tribe find grace,