Critics, he knows, for this may damn his books: But he makes feasts for friends, and not for cooks. Though errant-knights of late no favour find, Sure you will be to ladies-errant kind.

To follow fame, knights-errant make profession:

We damsels fly, to save our reputation :
So they their valour shew, we our discretion.
To lands of monsters, and fierce beasts they go:~
We, to those islands, where rich husbands
grow:

Though they're no monsters, we may make em so.

If they're of English growth, they'll bear't with patience:

But save us from a spouse of Oroonoko's nations! Then bless your stars, you happy London wives, Who love at large, each day, yet keep your lives!

Nor envy poor Imoinda's doating blindness, Who thought her husband kill'd her out of kind

ness.

Death with a husband ne'er had shewn such charms,

Had she once dy'd within a lover's arms.
Her error was from ignorance proceeding:
Poor soul! she wanted some of our town-breed-
ing.

Forgive this Indian's fondness of her spouse;
Their law no Christian liberty allows :
Alas! they make a conscience of their vows!
If virtue in a heathen be a fault,

Then damn the heathen school, where she was taught.

She might have learn'd to cuckold, jilt, and sham, Had Covent-Garden been in Surinam.

THE time has been when plays were not so plenty,

And a less number, new, would well content ye.
New plays did then like almanacks appear,
And one was thought sufficient for a year:
Though they are more like almanacks of late;
For in one year, I think they're out of date.
Nor were they, without reason, join'd together;
For just as one prognosticates the weather,
How plentiful the crop, or scarce the grain,
What peals of thunder, or what showers of rain;
So t'other can foretell, by certain rules,
What crops of coxcombs, or what floods of fools.
In suchlike prophecies were poets skill'd,
Which now they find in their own tribe fulfill'd.
The dearth of wit they did so long presage,
Is fallen on us, and almost starves the stage.
Were you not grieved, as often as you saw
Poor actors thresh such empty sheafs of straw?
Toiling and lab'ring at their lungs' expence
To start a jest, or force a little sense?
Hard fate for us, still harder in th' event:
Our authors sin, but we alone repent,

Still they proceed, and, at our charge, write worse; 'Twere some amends, if they could reimburse.

But there's the devil, though their cause is lost,
There's no recovering damages or cost.
Good wits, forgive this liberty we take,
Since custom gives the losers leave to speak.
But if provok'd your dreadful wrath remains,
Take your revenge upon the coming scenes:
For that damn'd poet's spar'd, who damns a
brother,

As one thief 'scapes, that executes another.
Thus far alone does to the wits relate;
But from the rest we hope a better fate.
To please, and move, has been one poet's theme,
Art may direct, but nature is his aim;
And, nature miss'd, in vain he boasts his art,
For only nature can affect the heart.

Then freely judge the scenes that shall ensue;
But, as with freedom, judge with candour too.
He would not lose, through prejudice, his cause;
Nor would obtain, precariously, applause.
Impartial censure he requests from all,
Prepar'd by just decrees to stand or fall.

SCENE I.

A Room of State. The curtain rising slowly to soft music, discovers ALMERIA in mourning, LEONORA waiting in mourning. After the music, ALMERIA rises from her chair, and comes forward.

Alm. Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. I've read, that things inanimate have moved, And, as with living souls, have been informed By magic numbers and persuasive sound. What then am I? Am I more senseless grown Than trees or flint? O, force of constant woe! 'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs. Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace; last night The silent tomb received the good old king. He and his sorrows now are safely lodged Within its cold, but hospitable bosom. Why am not I at peace?

Leon. Dear madam, cease,

Or moderate your grief; there is no cause-Alm. No cause! Peace, peace; there is eternal cause,

And misery eternal will succeed.

Thou canst not tell-thou hast indeed no cause.
Leon. Believe me, madam, I lament Anselmo,
And always did compassionate his fortune;
Have often wept, to see how cruelly
Your father kept in chains his fellow-king:
And oft, at night, when all have been retired,
Have stolen from bed, and to his prison crept;
Where, while his gaoler slept, I through the grate
Have softly whispered, and enquired his health;
Sent in my sighs and prayers for his deliverance,
For sighs and prayers were all that I could offer.
Alm. Indeed thou hast a soft and gentle na-
ture,

That thus could melt to see a stranger's wrongs.
Oh, Leonora! hadst thou known Anselmo,
How would thy heart have bled to see his suffer-
ings!

Thou hadst no cause, but general compassion.

Leon. Love of my royal mistress gave me cause; My love of you begot my grief for him: For I had heard, that when the chance of war Had blessed Anselmo's arms with victory, And the rich spoil of all the field, and you, The glory of the whole, were made the prey Of his success; that then, in spite of hate, Revenge, and that hereditary feud Between Valentia's and Granada's kings, He did endear himself to your affection, By all the worthy and indulgent ways His most industrious goodness could invent; Proposing, by a match between Alphonso, His son, the brave Valentian prince, and you, To end the long dissention, and unite The jarring crowns.

Alm. Alphonso! O Alphonso! Thou too art quiet-long hast been at peace→ Both, both! father and son are now no more. Then why am I? Oh, when shall I have rest? Why do I live to say you are no more? Why are all these things thus? Is it of force? Is there necessity I must be miserable? Is it of moment to the peace of heaven, That I should be afflicted thus? If not, Why is it thus contrived? Why are things laid By some unseen hand, so as of sure consequence, They must to me bring curses, grief of heart, The last distress of life, and sure despair? Leon. Alas! you search too far, and think too deeply.

Alm. Why was I carried to Anselmo's court?
Or there, why was I used so tenderly?
Why not ill-treated, like an enemy?
For so my father would have used his child.
Oh, Alphonso, Alphonso!

Devouring seas have washed thee from my sight-
No time shall raze thee from my memory;
No, I will live to be thy monument:
The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb,
But in my heart thou art interred; there, there,
Thy dear resemblance is for ever fixed;
My love, my lord, my husband still, though lost.
Leon. Husband! Oh, Heavens !

Alm. Alas! what have I said?
My grief has hurried me beyond all thought.
I would have kept that secret; though I know
Thy love, and faith to me deserve all confidence.
But 'tis the wretch's comfort still to have
Some small reserve of near and inward woe,
Some unsuspected hoard of darling grief,
Which they unseen may wail, and weep,

and

Alm. Oh, no, thou know'st not half, Know'st nothing of my sorrows-if thou didstIf I should tell thee, wouldst thou pity me? Tell me; I know thou wouldst; thou art com passionate.

Leon. Witness these tears

Alm. I thank thee, LeonoraIndeed I do, for pitying thy sad mistress : For 'tis, alas! the poor prerogative Of greatness to be wretched, and unpitiedBut I did promise I would tell thee-What? My miseries! Thou dost already know them: And when I told thee thou didst nothing know, It was because thou didst not know Alphonso: For to have known my loss, thou must have known

His worth, his truth, and tenderness of love. Leon. The memory of that brave prince stands

fair In all report

And I have heard imperfectly his loss;
But, fearful to renew your troubles past,
I never did presume to ask the story.

Alm. If for my swelling heart I can, I'll tell thee.
I was a welcome captive in Valentia,
Even on the day when Manuel, my father,
Led on his conquering troops high as the gates
Of king Anselmo's palace; which, in rage,
And heat of war, and dire revenge, he fired.
The good king, flying to avoid the flames,
Started amidst his foes, and made captivity
His fatal refuge-Would that I had fallen
Amidst those flames-but 'twas not so decreed.
Alphonso, who foresaw my father's cruelty,
Had borne the queen and me on board a ship,
Ready to sail; and, when this news was brought,
We put to sea; but being betrayed by some
Who knew our flight, we closely were pursued
And almost taken; when a sudden storm
Drove us, and those that followed, on the coast
Of Afric: There our vessel struck the shore,
And, bulging 'gainst a rock, was dashed in pieces;
But heaven spared me for yet much more afflic-
tion!

Conducting them who followed us, to shun
The shore, and save me floating on the waves,
While the good queen and my Alphonso perished.
Leon. Alas! were you then wedded to Al-
phonso?

Alm. That day, that fatal day, our hands were

joined.

For when my lord beheld the ship pursuing,
And saw her rate so far exceeding ours,
He came to me, and begged me by my love,
I would consent the priest should make us one;
That, whether death or victory ensued,
I might be his, beyond the power of fate;
The queen too did assist his suit-I granted;
And in one day was wedded and a widow.
Leon. Indeed 'twas mournful-
Alm. 'Twas as I have told thee-
For which I mourn, and will for ever mourn;
Nor will I change these black and dismal robes,
Or ever dry these swoln and watery eyes,
Or ever taste content, or peace of heart,
While I have life, and thought of my Alphonso.
Leon. Look down, good heaven, with pity on
her sorrows,

And grant that time may bring her some relief! Alm. Oh, no! time gives increase to my afflictions.

The circling hours, that gather all the woes
Which are diffused through the revolving year,
Come heavy laden with the oppressing weight
To me; with me successively, they leave
The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares,
And all the damps of grief, that did retard their
flight:

They shake their downy wings, and scatter all
The dire collected dews on my poor head,
Then fly with joy and swiftness from me.
[Shouts at a distance.

Leon. Hark!

The distant shouts proclaim your father's triumph. O cease, for heaven's sake, assuage a little

This torrent of your grief; for, this I fear, 'Twill urge his wrath, to see you drowned in tears. When joy appears in every other face.

Alm. And joy he brings to every other heart,
But double, double weight of woe to mine:
For with him Garcia comes-Garcia, to whom
I must be sacrificed, and all the vows
I gave my dear Alphonso basely broken.
No, it shall never be; for I will die
First, die ten thousand deaths-Look down, look
down,

Alphonso, hear the sacred vow I make! [Kneels.
One moment, cease to gaze on perfect bliss,
And bend thy glorious eyes to earth and me!
And thou, Anselmo, if yet thou art arrived,
Through all impediments of purging fire,
To that bright heaven, where my Alphonso reigns,
Behold thou also, and attend my vow!
If ever I do yield, or give consent,
By any action, word, or thought, to wed
Another lord, may then just heaven shower down
Unheard of curses on me, greater far
(If such there be in angry heaven's vengeance)
Than any I have yet endur'd! And now [Rising.
My heart has some relief; having so well
Discharged this debt, incumbent on my love.
Yet one thing more I would engage from thee.
Leon. My heart, my life, and will, are only

yours.

Alm. I thank thee. 'Tis but this: anon, when
all

Are wrapped and busied in the general joy,
Thou wilt withdraw, and privately with me
Steal forth, to visit good Anselmo's tomb.

Leon. Alas! I fear some fatal resolution.
Alm. No, on my life, my faith, I mean no ill,
Nor violence-I feel myself more light,
And more at large, since I have made this vow.
Perhaps I would repeat it there more solemnly.
'Tis that, or some such melancholy thought;
Upon my word, no more.

Leon. I will attend you.

Enter ALONZO.

Chariots of war, adorned with glittering gems,
Succeed; and next, a hundred neighing steeds,
White as the fleecy rain on Alpine hills,
That bound and foam, and champ the golden bit,
As they disdained the victory they grace.
Prisoners of war in shining fetters follow;
And captains of the noblest blood of Afric
Sweat by his chariot wheel, and lick and grind,
With gnashing teeth, the dust his triumphs raise.
The swarming populace spread every wall,
And cling, as if with claws they did enforce
Their hold; through clifted stones stretching and
staring,

As if they were all eyes, and every limb
Would feel its faculty of admiration;
While you alone retire, and shun this sight;
This sight, which is indeed not seen (though
twice

The multitude should gaze) in absence of your

eyes.

Alm. My lord, my eyes ungratefully behold The gilded trophies of exterior honours;

Nor will my ears be charmed with sounding words,

Or pompous phrase, the pageantry of fools.
But that my father is returned in safety,
I bend to heaven with thanks.

Gon. Excellent princess!

But 'tis a task unfit for my weak age,
With dying words to offer at your praise.
Garcia, my son, your beauty's lowest slave,
Has better done, in proving with his sword
The force and influence of your matchless charms.
Alm. I doubt not of the worth of Garcia's deeds,
Which had been brave, though I had ne'er been
born.

Gon. But tears of joy.

Believe me, sir, to see you thus, has filled
Mine eyes with more delight than they can hold.
King. By heaven, thou lov'st me, and I'm
pleased thou dost;

Take it for thanks, old man, that I rejoice
To see thee weep on this occasion-Some
Here are, who seem to mourn at our success. -
Why is't, Almeria, that you meet our eyes,
Upon this solemn day, in these sad weeds?
In opposition to my brightness, you
And yours are all like daughters of affliction.

Alm. Forgive me, sir, if I in this offend.
The year, which I have vowed to pay to heaven,
In mourning and strict life, for my deliverance
From wreck and death, wants yet to be expired.

King. Your zeal to heaven is great, so is your debt:

Yet something, too, is due to me, who gave That life, which heaven preserved. A day bestowed

In filial duty, had atoned and given
A dispensation to your vow-No more!
'Twas weak and wilful-and a woman's error.
Yet, upon thought, it doubly wounds my sight,
To see that sable worn upon the day,
Succeeding that, in which our deadliest foe,
Hated Anselmo, was interred-By heaven,
It looks as thou didst mourn for him! just so
Thy senseless vow appeared to bear its date,
Not from that hour wherein thou wert preserved,
But that wherein the cursed Alphonso perished.
Ha! What? thou dost not weep to think of that!
Gon. Have patience, royal sir; the princess

weeps

To have offended you. If fate decreed,
One 'pointed hour should be Alphonso's loss,
And her deliverance, is she to blame?

King. I tell thee she's to blame, not to have

feasted

When my first foe was laid in earth; such enmity,
Such detestation bears my blood to his,

My daughter should have revelled at his death,
She should have made these palace walls to shake,
And all this high and ample roof to ring
With her rejoicings. What, to mourn and weep!
Then, then to weep, and pray, and grieve! by
heaven,

There's not a slave, a shackled slave of mine, But should have smiled that hour through all his care,

And shook his chains, in transport and rude har mony.

Gon. What she has done, was in excess of

goodness;

Betrayed by too much piety, to seem
As if she had offended. Sure, no more.

King. To seem is to commit, at this conjuncture.
I would not have a seeming sorrow seen
To-day.-Retire; divest yourself with speed
Of that offensive black: on me be all
The violation of your vow; for you

It shall be your excuse, that I command it. Gar. [Kneeling.] Your pardon, sir, if I pre sume so far,

As to remind you of your gracious promise. King. Rise, Garcia, I forgot.-Yet stay, Al

méria.

Alm. My boding heart!-What is your pleasure, sir?

King. Draw near, and give your hand, and,

Garcia, yours:

Receive this lord, as one whom I have found Worthy to be your husband, and my son.

Gar. Thus let me kneel to take-O not to takeBut to devote, and yield myself for ever The slave and creature of my royal mistress! Gon. O let me prostrate pay my worthless

thanks

King. No more: my promise long since passed, thy services,