Talk of your clothes, your last debauches tell, And witty bargains to each other sell;

sake

Glout on the silly she who for your
Can vanity and noise for love mistake,
Till the coquet, sung in the next lampoon,
Is by her jealous friends sent out of town;
For in this duelling intriguing age,
The love you make is like the war you wage,
Y'are still prevented e'er you come t'engage
But it is not such trifling foes as you
The mighty Alexander deigns to sue;
Ye Persians of the pit he does despise,
But to the men of sense for aid he flies;
On their experienc'd arms he now depends,
Nor fears he odds if they but prove his friends;
For as he once a little handful chose
The numerous armies of the world t' oppose:
So back'd by you who understands the rules,
He hopes to rout the mighty host of fools.

SYSIGAMBIS, Mother of the Royal Family, Mrs. Booth.

PARISATIS, in love with Lysimachus,

STATIRA, married to Alexander,

Miss Dayes.

Mrs. Hartley.

SCENE, Babylon.

THE RIVAL QUEENS.

ACT I. SCENE 1.

The Gardens of Semiramis. Enter HEPHESTION and LYSIMACHUS fighting, CLYTUS parting them.

Clytus.

WHAT! are ye madmen? This a time for quarrel
Put up I say or by the gods that form'd me
He who refuses makes a foe of Clytus.

Lys. I have his sword.

Clyt. But must not have his life.

Lys. Must not, old Clytus !

Clyt. Hair-brain'd boy, you must not.

Heph. Lend me thy sword, thou father of the war,

Thou far-fam'd guard of Alexander's life,

Curse on this weak unexecuting arm !

Lend it, old Clytus. to redeem my fame;

Lysimachus is brave, snd else will scorn me. Lys. There, take thy sword; and since thou 'rt bent on death,

Know 't is thy glory that thou dy'st by me.

1

Clyt. Stay thee, Lysimachus; Hephestion hold; I bar you both. My body interpos'd,

Now let me see which of you dares to strike.

By Jove you 'ave stirr'd the old man 1-that rash arm That first advances moves against the gods

And our great king, whose deputy I stand.

Lys. Some prop'rer time must terminate our quarrel. Heph. And cure the bleeding wounds my honour bears.

Clyt. Some prop'rer time ! 't is false-no hour is proper;

No time should see a brave man do amiss.

Say what's the noble cause of all this madness, What vast ambition blows the dang❜rous fire? Why, a vain, smiling, whining, coz'ning, woman! By all my triumphs in the heat of youth,

When towns were 'sack'd and beauties prostrate lay,]
When my blood boil'd, and nature work'd me high,
Clytus ne'er bow'd his body to such shame;

I knew 'em, and despis'd their cobweb arts-
The whole sex is not worth a soldier's thought.

Lys. Our cause of quarrel may to thee seem light, But know a less hath set the word in arms.

Clyt. Yes, Troy they tell us by a woman fell; Curse on the sex, they are the bane of virtue! Death! I'd rather this right arm were lost Than that the king should hear of your imprudenceWhat, on a day thus set apart for triumph!

Lys. We were indeed to blame.

Clyt. This memorable day,