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Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left
To teach me something;-for instruction then-
He teaches holy sorrow and contrition,
And penitence.-Is it become an art then?
A trick that lazy, dull, luxurious gownmen
Can teach us to do over? I'll no more on't;

[Throwing away the Book.
I have more real anguish in my heart,
Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew.
What charnel has been rifled for these bones ?
Fie! this is pageantry;-they look uncouthly.
But what of that, if he or she that own'd 'em
Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see
The farce their miserable relics play?
But here's a sight is terrible indeed!

Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario,
That dear, perfidious-Ah!-how pale he looks!
And those dead eyes!

Ascend, ye ghosts, fantastic forms of night,
In all your different dreadful shapes ascend,
And match the present horror, if you can.

Enter SCIOLTO.

Sci. 'Tis justly thought, and worthy of that spirit [Rome That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Was mistress of the world. I would go on, And tell thee all my purpose; but it sticks Here at my heart, and cannot find a way.

Cal. Then spare the telling, if it be a pain, And write the meaning with your poniard here. Sci. Oh! truly guess'd-seest thou this trembling hand? [Holding up a Dagger. Thrice justice urg'd-and thrice the slack ning

sinews

Forgot their office, and confess'd the father.
At length the stubborn virtue has prevail'd;
It must, it must be so-Oh! take it then,
[Gives the Dagger.

And know the rest untaught.
Cal. I understand you.

It is but thus, and both are satisfied.

[Offers to kill herself; SCIOLTO catches

her arm.

Sci. A moment, give me yet a moment's space. The stern, the rigid judge has been obey'd;

Sei. This dread of night, this silent hour of Now nature, and the father, claim their turns.

darkness,

Nature for rest ordain'd, and soft repose;
And yet distraction and tumultuous jars
Keep all our frighted citizens awake:
Amidst the general wreck, see where she stands,
[Pointing to CALISTA.
Like Helen, in the night when Troy was sack'd,
Spectatress of the mischief which she made.

Cal. It is Sciolto! Be thyself, my soul,
Be strong to bear his fatal indignation,
That he may see thou art not lost so far,
But somewhat still of his great spirit lives
In the forlorn Calista.

Sci. Thou wert once

My daughter.

Cal. Happy were it I had died, And never lost that name.

Sci. That's something yet;

Thou wert the very darling of my age:

I thought the day too short to gaze upon thee;
That all the blessings I could gather for thee,
By cares on earth, and by my prayers to heaven,
Were little for my fondness to bestow,
Why didst thou turn to folly then, and curse me?
Cal. Because my soul was rudely drawn from

yours,

A poor, imperfect copy of my father;

It was because I lov'd, and was a woman.

I've held the balance with an iron hand,
And put off every tender human thought,
To doom my child to death; but spare my eyes
The most unnatural sight, lest their strings
crack,

My old brain split, and I grow mad with horror.
Cal. Ha! is it possible? and is there yet
Some little, dear remain of love and tenderness
For poor, undone Calista, in your heart?

Sci. Oh! when I think what pleasure I took in thee,

What joys thou gav'st me in thy prattling infancy,

Thy sprightly wit, and early blooming beauty; How have I stood and fed my eyes upon thee, Then, lifting up my hands and wond'ring, bless'd thee;

By my strong grief, my heart even melts within

me;

I could curse nature, and that tyrant honour,
For making me thy father and thy judge;
Thou art my daughter still.

Cal. For that kind word,

Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth, Weep on your feet, and bless you for this good

ness.

Oh! 'tis too much for this offending wretch,
This parricide, that murders with her crimes,

Sci. Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off

a cherub:

But of that joy, as of a gem long lost,
Beyond redemption gone, think we no more.
Hast thou e'er dar'd to meditate on death?
Cal. I have, as on the end of shame and sor-

row.

Sci. Ha! answer me! Say, hast thou coolly thought?

Tis not the stoic's lessons got by rote,
The pomp of words, and pedant dissertations,
That can sustain thee in that hour of terror:
Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it,
But when the trial comes they stand aghast;
Hast thou consider'd what may happen after it?
How thy account may stand, and what to answer?
Cal. I've turn'd my eyes inward upon myself,
Where foul offence and shame have laid all waste;
Therefore my soul abhors the wretched dwelling,
And longs to find some better place of rest.

Ere little more than half his years be number'd. Sei. Would it were otherwise-but thou must

die.

Cal. That I must die, it is my only comfort: Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth our taking: Come then,

Thou meagre shade; here let me breathe my last Charm'd with my father's pity and forgiveness, More than if angels tun'd their golden viols, And sung a requiem to my parting soul.

Sci. I'm summon'd hence; ere this my friends expect me.

There is, I know not what of sad presage,
That tells me I shall never see thee more;
If it be so, this is our last farewell,
And these the parting pangs, which nature feels,
When anguish rends the heart-strings-Oh, my
daughter!

[Exit

Cal. Now think, thou curs'd Calista, now behold

The desolation, horror, blood, and ruin,
Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around,
That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head;
Yet heaven, who knows our weak imperfect
natures,

How blind with passions, and how prone to evil,
Makes not too strict inquiry for offences,
But is aton'd by penitence and prayer:
Cheap recompense! here 'twould not be receiv'd;
Nothing but blood can make the expiation,
And cleanse the soul from inbred deep pollution.
And see, another injur'd wretch appears,
To call for justice from my tardy hand.

Alt. Falsely, falsely

Dost thou accuse me!. O, forbid me not
To mourn thy loss,

To wish some better fate had rul'd our loves,
And that Calista had been mine, and true.

Cal. Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like mine,

Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss.
But, oh, behold! my proud, disdainful heart,
Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own,
Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love,
That, were I not abandon'd to destruction,
With thee I might have liv'd for ages bless'd,
And died in peace within thy faithful arms.

Enter HORATIO.

Hor. Now mourn indeed, ye miserable pair! For now the measure of your woes is full. The great, the good Sciolto dies this moment. Cal. My father!

Alt. That's a deadly stroke, indeed.

Hor. Not long ago, he privately went forth, Attended but by few, and those unbidden. I heard which way he took, and straight pursued him;

But found him compass'd by Lothario's faction, Almost alone, amidst a crowd of foes.

Too late we brought him aid, and drove them

Cal. Oh, my heart!

[fed
Well may'st thou fail; for see, the spring that
Thy vital stream, is wasted, and runs low.
My father! will you now, at last, forgive me,
If, after all my crimes, and all ycur 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 !

Sci. Alas, my daughter!
Thou hast rashly ventur'd in a stormy sea,
Where life, fame, virtue, all were wreck'd and
[anguish,

lost.

But sure thou hast borne thy part in all the
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 heaven the same
forgiveness,

As with thy father here.-Die, and be happy.
Cal. Celestial sounds! peace dawns upon my
soul,
[mont!
And every pain grows less-Oh, gentle Alta-
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, heaven!

[Dies.

Sci. Oh, turn thee from that fatal object,
Altamont!

Come near, and let me bless thee ere I die.
To thee and brave Horatio I bequeath
My fortunes-Lay me by thy noble father,
And love my memory as thou hast his;
For thou hast been my son-Oh, gracious
heaven'

Thou that hast endless blessings still in store
For virtue and for filial piety,

Let grief, disgrace, and want be far away;
But multiply thy mercies on his head.
Let honour, greatness, goodness, still be with
And peace in all his ways

[him,

[Dies.

Hor. The storm of grief bears hard upon his youth,

And bends him, like a drooping flower, to earth.
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

A BOLD STROKE FOR A WIFE:

A COMEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

BY MRS. CENTLIVRE.

REMARKS.

THE busy variety of this lively comedy, produced at the Theatre, Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, in the year 1713, has aj ways procured it a great share of popular favour; notwithstanding its numerous offences against probability, decorum, and nature.

In the principal characters, there is great scope for that rich comic talent, which is always displayed, to the deaght of their audiences, at the Theatres Royal of this great metropolis.

Col. F. Why, 'faith, Freeman, there is something in't: I have seen a lady at Bath, who has kindled such a flame in me, that all the waters there can't quench.

Free. Is she not to be had, colonel ?

Col. F. That's a difficult question to answer; however, I resolve to try; perhaps you may be able to serve me; you merchants know one ano ther. The lady told me herself she was under the charge of four persons.

Free. Odso! 'tis Miss Anne Lovely. Col. F. The same do you know her? Free. Know her? ay 'Faith, colonel, your condition is more desperate than you imagine: why, she is the talk and pity of the whole town; and it is the opinion of the learned, that she must

die a maid.

Col. F. Say you so? That's somewhat odd, in this charitable city.-She's a woman, I hope Free. For aught I know-but it had been as well for her had nature made her any other part of the creation. The man who keeps this house served her father; he is a very honest fellow, and may be of use to you: we 'll send for him to take a glass with us: he'll give you her whole history, and 'tis worth your hearing.

Col. F. But may one trust him? Free. With your life: I have obligations enough upon him, to make him do any thing: I serve him with wine. [Rings.

Col. F. Nay, I know him very well myself. once used to frequent a club that was kept here. Enter DRAWER.

Draw. Gentlemen, d'ye call?

Free. Ay, send up your master.
Draw. Yes, Sir.

Col. F. Do you know any of this lady dians, Freeman?

Free. I know two of them very well.

Enter SACKBUT.

her father, my old master, was the most whimsical, out-of-the-way-tempered man I ever heard of, as you will guess by his last will and testament.This was his only child; and I have heard him wish her dead a thousand times. He died worth thirty thousand pounds, which he left to his daughter, provided she married with the consent of her guardians, but that she might be sure never to do so, he left her in the care of four men, as opposite to each other as the four elements; each has his quarterly rule, and three months in the year she is obliged to be subject to each of their humours, and they are pretty different, I assure you. She is just come from Bath.

Col. F. "Twas there I saw her.

Sack. Ay, Sir, the last quarter was her beau guardian's. She appears in all public places during his reign.

Col. F. She visited a lady who boarded in the same house with me: I liked her person, and found an opportunity to tell her so. She replied, she had no objection to mine; but if I could not reconcile contradictions, I must not think of her, for that she was condemned to the caprice of four persons, who never yet agreed in any one thing, and she was obliged to please them all.

[Erit. Suck. 'Tis most true, Sir: I'll give you a short guar-description of the men, and leave you to judge of the poor lady's condition. One is a kind of a virtuoso, a silly half-witted fellow, but positive and surly, fond of every thing antique and foreign, and wears his clothes of the fashion of the last century, dotes upon travellers, and believes more of Sir John Mandeville than he does of the Bible.

Free. Here comes one will give you an account of them all. Mr. Sackbut, we sent for you to take a glass with us. 'Tis a maxim among the friends of the bottle, that as long as the master is in company, one may be sure of good wine.

Sack. Sir, you shall be sure to have as good wine as you send in. Colonel, your most humble servant; you are welcome to town.

Col. F. I thank you, Mr. Sackbut.

Sack. I am as glad to see you as I should a hundred tun of French claret, custom free.-My service to you, Sir, [Drinks.] You don't look so merry as you used to do; aren't you well, colonel? Free. He has got a woman in his head, landlord: can you help him?

Suck. If 'tis in my power, I shan't scruple to serve my friend.

Col. F. 'Tis one perquisite of your calling, Sack. Ay, at 'tother end of the town, where you officers use, women are good forcers of trade: a well-customed house, a handsome bar-keeper, with clean obliging drawers, soon get the master an estate; but our citizens seldom do any thing but cheat within the walls.-But as to the lady, colonel, point you at particulars? or have you a good Champagne stomach? Are you in full pay, or reduced, colonel ?

Col. F. Reduced, reduced, landlord!

Free. To the miserable condition of a lover! Sack. Pish! that's preferable to half-pay: a woman's resolution may break before the peace: push her home, colonel, there's no parleying with the fair sex.

Col. F. Were the lady her own mistress, I have some reasons to believe I should soon command in chief.

Free. You know Miss Lovely, Mr. Sackbut? Sack. Know her! Ay, poor Nancy: I have carried her to school many a frosty morning. Alas! if she's the woman, I pity you, colonel:

Col. F. That must be a rare odd fellow. Sack. Another is a change-broker: a fellow that will out-lie the devil for the advantage of stock, and cheat his father that got him in a bargain: he is a great stickler for trade, and hates every man that wears a sword.

Free. He is a great admirer of the Dutch management, and swears they understand trade better than any nation under the sun.

Sack. The third is an old beau, that has May in his fancy and dress, but December in his face and his heels: he admires all new fashions, and those must be French; loves operas, balls, masquerades, and is always the most tawdry of the whole company on a birth-day.

Col. F. These are pretty opposite one to another, truly; and the fourth, what is he, landlord

Sack. A very rigid quaker, whose quarter began this day. I saw Miss Lovely go in, not above two hours ago. Sir Philip set her down. What think you now, colonel? Is not the poor lady to be pitied?

Col. F. Ay, and rescued too, landlord.
Free. In my opinion, that 's impossible.

Col. F. There is nothing impossible to a lover! What would not a man attempt for a fine woman and thirty thousand pounds? Besides, my honour is at stake: I promised to deliver her, and she bid me win her and wear her.

Sack. That's fair, 'faith!

Free. If it depended upon knight-errantry, I should not doubt your setting free the damsel; but to have avarice, impertinence, hypocrisy, and pride, at once to deal with, requires more cunning than generally attends a man of honour.

Col. F. My fancy tells me I shall come off with glory. I resolve to try, however. Do you know all the guardians, Mr. Sackbut?

Sack. Very well; they all use my house.

the woman has fortune enough to make the man

Col. F. And will you assist me, if occasion re- happy, if he has either honour or good manners, quires?

Sack. In every thing I can, colonel.
Free. I'll answer for him.

Col. F. First I'll attack my beau guardian: where lives he?

Sack. 'Faith, somewhere about St. James'; though to say in what street I cannot: but any chairman will tell you where Sir Philip Modelove lives.

Free. Oh! you'll find him in the Park at eleven every day; at least I never pass through at that hour without seeing him there-But what do you intend?

Col. F. To address him in his own way, and find what he designs to do with the lady.

Free. And what then?

Col. F. Nay, that I can't tell; but I shall take my measures accordingly. Sack. Well, 'tis a mad undertaking, in my mind; but here's to your success, colonel.

he'll make her easy. Love makes but a slovenly figure in a house, where poverty keeps the door. Betty. And so you resolve to die a maid, do you, Madam?

Miss L. Or have it in my power to make the man I love master of my fortune.

Betty. Then you don't like the colonel so well as I thought you did, Madam, or you would not

take such a resolution.

[Drinks. Betty. Well! I have read of enchanted castles, Col. F. 'Tis something out of the way, I con- ladies delivered from the chains of magic, giants fess; but fortune may chance to smile, and I suc-killed, and monsters overcome; so that I shall be ceed.

Bold was the man who ventur'd first to sea, But the first vent'ring lovers bolder were. The path of love's a dark and dang'rous way, Without a land-mark or one friendly star. And he, that runs the risk, deserves the fair. [Exeunt. SCENE II-An Apartment in PRIM's House. Enter Miss LOVELY, and her maid BETTY. Betty. Bless me, Madam! why do you fret and tease yourself so? This is giving them the advantage, with a witness.

Miss L. Must I be condemned all my life to the preposterous humours of other people, and pointed at by every boy in town!-Oh! I could tear my flesh and curse the hour I was born. Isn't it monstrously ridiculous that they should desire to impose their quaking dress upon me at these years? When I was a child, no matter what they made me wear; but now

Betty. I would resolve against it, Madam; I'd see 'em hanged before I'd put on the pinched cap again.

Miss L. Then I must never expect one moment's ease: she has rung such a peal in my ears already, that I shan't have the right use of them this month.-What can I do?

Betty. What can you not do, if you will but give your mind to it? Marry, Madam.

Miss L. What! and have my fortune go to build churches and hospitals?

Betty. Why, let it go.-If the colonel loves you, as he pretends, he'll marry you without a fortune, Madam; and I assure you a colonel's lady is no despicable thing.

Miss L. So you would advise me to give up my own fortune, and throw myself upon the colonel's!

Betty. I would advise you to make yourself easy, Madam.

Miss L. That's not the way, I'm sure. No, no, girl, there are certain ingredients to be mingled with matrimony, without which I may as well change for the worse as the better. When

the less surprised if the colonel shall conjure you out of the power of your four guardians: if he does, I am sure he deserves your fortune.

Miss L. And shall have it, girl, if it were ten times as much-For I'll ingenuously confess to thee, that I do love the colonel above all the men I ever saw-There's something so jantee in a soldier, a kind of je ne scais quoi air, that makes them more agreeable than all the rest of mankind.

They command regard, as who shall say, We are your defenders; we preserve your beauties from the insults of rude and unpolished foes, and ought to be preferred before those lazy indolent mortals, who, by dropping into their father' estates, set up their coaches, and think to rattle themselves into our affections.

Betty. Nay, Madam, I confess that the army has engrossed all the prettiest fellows-A laced coat and a feather have irresistible charms.

Miss L. But the colonel has all the beauties of

the mind as well as the body.-O all ye powers that favour happy lovers, grant that he may be mine! Thou god of love, if thou be'st aught but name, assist my Feignwell!

Point all thy darts to aid his just design,
And make his plots as prevalent as thine.
[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I-The Park.

SIR PHILIP MODELOVE on a bench, with a
WOMAN masked.

Sir P. Well but, my dear, are you really constant to your keeper?

Wom. Yes, really, Sir.-Hey-day! who comes yonder? He cuts a mighty figure.

Sir P. Ha! a stranger, by his equipage keeping so close at his heels. He has the appearance of a man of quality.-Positively French, by his dancing air. Wom. He crosses, as if he meant to sit down Sir P. He has a mind to make love to thee

here.

child.

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