Within her rising bosom all was calm,
As peaceful seas that know no storms, and only
Are gently lifted up and down by tides.
I snatch'd the glorious, golden opportunity,
And with prevailing youthful ardour press'd her;
Till, with short sighs, and murmuring reluctance,
The yielding fair one gave me perfect happiness.
Even all the live-long night we pass'd in bliss.
In ecstasies too fierce to last for ever;

At length the morn and cold indiff'rence came:
When, fully sated with the luscious banquet,
I hastily took leave, and left the nymph
To think on what was past, and sigh alone.
Ros. You saw her soon again?
Loth. Too soon I saw her:

For, oh! that meeting was not like the former:
I found my heart no more beat high with transport,
No more I sigh'd and languish'd for enjoyment;
'Twas past, and reason took her turn to reign,
While every weakness fell before her throne.
Ros. What of the lady?

Loth. With uneasy fondness

She hung upon me, wept, and sigh'd, and swore
She was undone; talk'd of a priest and marriage;
Of flying with me from her father's power;
Call'd every saint and blessed angel down,
To witness for her that she was my wife.
I started at that name.

Ros. What answer made you?

Loth. None; but, pretending sudden pain and illness,

Escap'd the persecution. Two nights since,
By message urg'd, and frequent importunity,
Again I saw her. Straight with tears and sighs,
With swelling breasts, with swooning and dis-
traction,

With all the subtleties and powerful arts
Of wilful woman, lab'ring for her purpose,
Again she told the same dull, nauseous tale.
Unmov'd, I begg'd her spare th' ungrateful subject,
Since I resolv'd, that love and peace of mind
Might flourish long inviolate betwixt us,
Never to load it with the marriage chain;
That I would still retain her in my heart,
My ever gentle mistress and my friend;
But for those other names of wife and husband,
They only meant ill nature, cares, and quarrels.
Ros. How hore she this reply?

Loth. At first her rage was dumb, and wanted
words;
[loud;
But when the storm found way, 'twas wild and
Mad as the priestess of the Delphic god,
Enthusiastic passion swell'd her breast,
Enlarg'd her voice, and ruffled all her form.
Proud, and disdainful of the love I proffer'd,
She call'd me, villain! monster! base betrayer!
At last, in very bitterness of soul,
With deadly imprecations on herself,
She vow'd severely ne'er to see me more;
Then bid me fly this minute; I obey'd,
And, bowing, left her to grow cool at leisure.

Ros. She has relented since, else why this message,

To meet the keeper of her secrets here
This morning?

Loth. See the person whom you nam'd.
Enter LUCILLA.

Well, my ambassadress, what must we treat of?
Come you to menace war and proud defiance,
Or does the peaceful olive grace your message?
Is your fair mistress calmer? does she soften?

And must we love again? perhaps she means
To treat in juncture with her new ally,
And make her husband party to th' agreemen.
Luc. Is this well done, my lord? have you
put off

[you.

All sense of human nature? keep a little,
A little pity to distinguish manhood;
Lest other men, though cruel, should disclaim
And judge you to be number'd with the brutes.
Loth. I see thou'st learn'd to rail.

Luc. I've learn'd to weep.

That lesson my sad mistress often gives me :
By day she seeks some melancholy shade,
To hide her sorrows from the prying world;
At night she watches, all the long, long hours,
And listens to the winds and beating rain,
With sighs as loud, and tears that fall as fast.
Then ever and anon she wrings her hands,
And cries, False, false Lothario!

Loth. Oh, no more!

I swear, thou'lt spoil thy pretty face with crying.
And thou hast beauty that may make thy fortune:
Some keeping cardinal shall dote upon thee,
And barter his church treasure for thy freshness.
Luc. What! shall I sell my innocence and
youth,

For wealth or titles, to perfidious man?
To man, who makes his mirth of our undoing!
The base, profess'd betrayer of our sex!
Let me grow old in all misfortunes else,
Rather than know the sorrows of Calista !

Loth. Does she send thee to chide in her behalf?
I swear thou dost it with so good a grace,
That I could almost love thee for thy frowning.
Luc. Read there, my lord, there, in her own
[Giving a letter.
Which best can tell the story of her woes,
That grief of heart which your unkindness gives

sad lines,

her.

Luc. How, my lord!

[sure;

Loth. Nay, no more angry words: say to Calista, The humblest of her slaves shall wait her pleaIf she can leave her happy husband's arms, To think upon so lost a thing as I am.

Luc. Alas! for pity come with gentler looks: Wound not her heart with this unmanly triumph;

And though you love her not, yet swear you do: So shall dissembling once be virtuous in you. Loth. Ha! who comes here?

Luc. The bridegroom's friend, Horatio. He must not see us here. To-morrow early Be at the garden gate.

Loth. Bear to my love

⚫ [her.

My kindest thoughts, and swear I will not fail [LOTH, putting up the letter hastily, dropa

it; Exeunt.

Enter HORATIO.

Hor. Sure, 'tis the very error of my eyes! Waking I dream, or I beheld Lothario; He seem'd conferring with Calista's woman: At my approach they started and retir'd. What business could he have here, and with her?

I know he bears the noble Altamont Profess'd and deadly hate-What paper's this? Ha! To Lothario!-'Sdeath! Calista's name! [Reads. Your cruelty has at length determined me; and I have resolved this morning to yield a perfect obedience to my father, and to give my hand to Altamont, in spite of my weakness for the false Lothario. I could almost wish I had that heart and that honour to bestow with it, which you

have robbed me of;

Damnation to the rest

But, oh! I fear; could I retrieve 'em, I should again be undone by the too faithless, yet too lovely

Lothario. This is the last weakness of my pen,
and to-morrow shall be the last in which I will
indulge my eyes.
Lucilla shall conduct you, if
you are kind enough, to let me see you: it shall
be the last trouble you shall meet with from the lost
CALISTA.

The lost indeed! for thou art gone as far
As there can be perdition. Fire and sulphur!
Hell is the sole avenger of such crimes.
Oh, that the ruin were but all thy own!
Thou wilt even make thy father curse his age:
At sight of this black scroll, the gentle Altamont
(For, oh! I know his heart is set upon thee)
Shall droop and hang his discontented head,
Like merit scorn'd by insolent authority,
And never grace the public with his virtues-
What if I give this paper to her father?
It follows that his justice dooms her dead,
And breaks his heart with sorrow; hard return
For all the good his hand has heap'd on us!
Hold, let me take a moment's thought-
Enter LAVINIA.

Lav. My lord!
Trust me it joys my heart that I have found you.
Inquiring wherefore you had left the company,
Before my brother's nuptial rites were ended,
They told me you had felt some sudden illness..
Hor. It were unjust-No, let me spare my friend,
Lock up the fatal secret in my breast,
Nor tell him that which will undo his quiet.
Lav. What means my lord?

Hor. Ha! said'st thou, my Lavinia?

Lav. Alas! you know not what you make me suffer. [eyes Whence is that sigh? And wherefore are your Severely rais'd to heaven? The sick man thus, Acknowledging the summons of his fate, Lifts up his feeble hands and eyes for mercy, And with confusion thinks upon his exit.

Hor. Oh, no! thou hast mistook my sickness quite:

These pangs are of the soul. Would I had met Sharpest convulsions, spotted pestilence,

Or any other deadly foe to life,

Rather than heave beneath this load of thought. Lav, Alas! what is it? Wherefore turn you

from me?

Why did you falsely call me your Lavinia, And swear I was Horatio's better half, Since now you mourn unkindly by yourself, And reo me of my partnership of sadness?

Hor. Seek not to know what would hide from all,

But most from thee. I never knew a pleasure,
Aught that was joyful, fortunate, or good,
But straight I ran to bless thee with the tidings,
And laid up all my happiness with thee:
But wherefore, wherefore should I give thee pain?
Then spare me, I conjure thee; ask no further;
Allow my melancholy thoughts this privilege,
And let 'em brood in secret o'er their sorrows.

Lav. It is enough; chide not, and all is well!
Forgive me if I saw you sad, Horatio,
And ask'd to weep out part of your misfortunes
I wo' not press to know what you forbid me.
Yet, my lov'd lord, yet you must grant me this,
Devote this day to mirth, and to your Altamont;
Forget your cares for this one happy day,
For his dear sake, let peace be in your looks.
Even now the jocund bridegroom waits your
He thinks the priest has but half bless'd his

wishes.

marriage,

Till his friend hails him with the sound of joy. Hor. Oh, never, never, never! Thou art innocent;

Simplicity from ill, pure native truth,

And candour of the mind, adorn thee ever;
But there are such, such false ones, in the world,
'Twould fill thy gentle soul with wild amazement,
To hear their story told.

Luv. False ones, my lord!

Hor. Fatally fair they are, and in their smiles The graces, little loves, and young desires inhabit;

But all that gaze upon 'em are undone;
For they are false, luxurious in their appetites,
And all the heaven they hope for is variety:
One lover to another still succeeds,
Another, and another after that,

And the last fool is welcome as the former;
Till, having lov'd his hour out, he gives place,
And mingles with the herd that went before him
Lav. Can there be such, and have they peace

of mind?

Have they, in all the series of their changing,
One happy hour? If women are such things,
How was I form'd so different from my sex?
My little heart is satisfy'd with you;
You take up all her room as in a cottage
Which harbours some benighted princely stranger,
Where the good man, proud of his hospitality,
Yields all his homely dwelling to his guest,
And hardly keeps a corner for himself.

Hor. Oh, were they all like thee, men would adore 'em,

And all the business of their lives be loving;
The nuptial band should be the pledge of peace,
And all domestic cares and quarrels cease!
The world should learn to love by virtuous rules
And marriage be no more the jest of fools.

ACT II.

SCENE 1.--A Hall.

[Exeunt.

Enter CALISTA and LUCILLA. Cal. Be dumb for ever, silent as the grave; Nor let thy fond, officious love disturb My solemn sadness with the sound of joy. If thou wilt sooth me, tell some dismal tale Of pining discontent, and black despair: For, oh! I've gone around through all my thoughts,

Hor. What if, while all are here intent on revelling,

I privately went forth, and sought Lothario? This letter may be forg'd! perhaps the wanton

ness

Of his vain youth, to stain a lady's fame; Perhaps his malice, to disturb my friend." Oh, no! my heart forbodes it must be true. Methought, even now, 1 mark'd the starts of guilt [lation That shook her soul; though damn'd dissimuScreen'd her dark thoughts, and set to public view

A specious face of innocence and beauty.
With such smooth looks and many a gentle
word,

The first fair she beguil'd her easy lord;
Too blind with love and beauty to beware,
He fell unthinking in the fatal snare;
Nor could believe that such a heavenly face
Had bargain'd with the devil to damn her wretch-
ed race.

[Exit. SCENE II-The Garden of SCIOLTO's Palace. Enter LOTHARIO and ROSSANO.

Loth. To tell thee then the purport of my thoughts;

The loss of this fond paper would not give me
A moment of disquiet, were it not
My instrument of vengeance on this Altamont;
Therefore I mean to wait some opportunity
Of speaking with the maid we saw this morning.
Ros. I wish you, Sir, to think upon the danger
Of being seen; to-day their friends are round 'em;
And any eye that lights by chance on you,
Shall put your life and safety to the hazard.

Enter HORATIO.

[Exeunt.

Hor. Still I must doubt some mystery of mischief,

Some artifice beneath. Lothario's father!
I knew him well; he was sagacious, cunning,
Fluent in words, and bold in peaceful counsels,
But of a cold, unactive hand in war;
Yet with these coward's virtues, he undid
My unsuspecting, valiant, honest friend.
This son, if fame mistakes not, is more hot,
More
open and unartful-

Re-enter LOTHARIO and ROSSANO.

Ha! he's here! [Seeing him. Loth. Damnation! he again!-This second

time

To-day he has cross'd me like my evil genius.
Hor. I sought you, Sir.

Loth. 'Tis well then I am found.

Hor. 'Tis well you are. The man who wrongs my friend

To the earth's utmost verge I would pursue.
No place, though e'er so holy, should protect him;
No shape that artful fear e'er form'd should hide
him,

Till he fair answer made, and did me justice.
Loth. Ha! dost thou know me ? that I am
Lothario?

As great a name as this proud city boasts of.
Who is this mighty man, then, this Horatio,
That I should basely hide me from his anger,
Lest he should chide me for his friend's displea-

sure?

spirit,

When but this very morning I surpris'd thee,
In base dishonest privacy, consulting
And bribing a poor mercenary wretch,
To sell her lady's secrets, stain her honour,
And, with a forg'd contrivance, blast her virtue?
At sight of me thou fled'st.

Loth. Ha! fled from thee?

Hor. Thou fled'st, and guilt was on thee like a thief,

A pilferer, descried in some dark corner
Who there had lodg'd, with mischievous intent,
To rob and ravage at the hour of rest,
And do a midnight murder on the sleepers.
Loth. Slave! villain!
[Offers to draw.

Ros. Hold, my lord! think where you are,
Think how unsafe and hurtful to your honour
It were to urge a quarrel in this place,
And shock the peaceful city with a broil.

Loth. Then, since thou dost provoke my venI would not, for this city's wealth, for all geance, know Which the sea wafts to our Ligurian shore, But that the joys I reap'd with that fond wanton, The wife of Altamont, should be as public As is the noon-day sun, air, earth, or water Or any common benefit of nature. Think'st thou I meant that shame should be con

ceal'd?

Oh, no! by hell and vengeance, all I wanted
Was some fit messenger, to bear the news
To the dull doting husband: now I have found
him,

And thou art he.

Hor. I hold thee base enough

To break through law, and spurn at sacred order,
And do a brutal injury like this.

Yet mark me well, young lord, I think Calista
Too nice, too noble, and too great of soul,
To be the prey of such a thing as thou art.
'Twas base and poor, unworthy of a man,
To forge a scroll so villanous and loose,
And mark it with a noble lady's name.
These are the mean, dishonest arts of cowards,
Who, bred at home in idleness and riot,
Ransack for mistresses th' unwholesome stew
And never know the worth of virtuous love.

Loth. Think'st thou I forg'd the letter?

Think so still,

Till the broad shame come staring in thy face,
And boys shall hoot the cuckold as he passes.

Hor Away! no woman could descend so low.
A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are;
Fit only for yourselves, you herd together;
And when the circling glass warms your vain
hearts,

You talk of beauties that you never saw,
And fancy raptures that you never knew.

Loth. But that I do not hold it worth my

leisure.