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Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou patient
[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 !
260 Şci. Alas, my daughter!
Thou hast rashly ventur'd in a stormy sea,
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 wond'rous 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!
my love, And find my only portion in the grave.
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.
would have the nuptial union last, Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast.
You see the tripping dame could find no favour;
lives, There's dreadful dealings with eloping wives : Thus ’tis, because these husbands are obey'd By force of laws, which for themselves they made. With tales of old prescriptions, they confine The right of marriage-rules to their male line, And huff, and domineer by right divine. Had we the pow'r, we'd make the tyrants know, What 'tis to fail in duties which they owe; We'd teach the saunt'ring squire, who loves to roam, Forgetful of his own dear spouse at home; Who snores, at night, supinely by her side ; 'Twas not for this the nuptial knot was ty’d. The plodding petty-fogger, and the cit, Have learn'd, at least, this modern way of wit. Each ill-bred, senseless rogue, tho' ne’er so dull, Has th' impudence to think his wife a fool; He spends the night, where merry wags resort, With joking clubs, and eighteen-penny port; While she, poor soul, 's contented to regale, By a sad sea-coal fire, with wigs and ale.
Well may the cuckold-making tribe find grace,