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When highly born and meanly-minded nobles
Would barter freedom for a great man's feast,
And sell their country for a smile? The stream,
With a more sure, eternal tendency,

Seeks not the ocean, than a sensual race
Their own devouring slavery. I am sick
At my inmost heart, of every thing I see
And hear!-Oh Syracuse, I am at last,
Forced to despair of thee! And yet thou art
My land of birth,-thou art my country still;
And like an unkind mother, thou hast left
The claims of holiest nature in my heart,
And I must sorrow for-not hate thee!

[Shouts.] Ha!

What shouts are these? 'Tis from the citadel
The uproar is descending.

Speak, Lucullus, what has befallen?

[Enter Lucullus.]

Lucullus. Have you heard the news?

Da. What news?

Luc. As through the streets I passed, the people Said that the citadel was in the hands

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In Dionysius' hands? What dost thou tell me? How, wherefore,-when? In Dionysius' hands! The traitor Dionysius! Speak, Lucullus,

And quickly.

Luc. It was said, that by rude force,
Heading a troop of soldiers, he has taken
Possession of the citadel, and seized
The arms and treasure in't.

Da. I am thunder stricken!

The citadel assaulted, and the armory

[Exit.]

In that fierce soldier's power! [Shouts.] Again!

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The gods on high Olympus, I behold
His standard waving over it, and they come,
His most notorious satellites, high heaped
With arms and plunder! Paricidial slaves,
What have ye done?

[Enter Procles and Soldiers.]

Soldiers. For Dionysius! Ho!
For Dionysius !

Da. Silence!Obstreperous traitors!
Your throats offend the quiet of the city;

And thou, who standest foremost of these knaves,
Stand back and answer me,--a senator;

What have you done?

Proc. But that I know 'twill gall thee,
Thou poor and talking pedant of the school
Of dul! Pythagoras, I'd let thee make
Conjecture from thy senses. But, in hope
'T will stir thy solemn anger, learn from me,
We have taken possession of the citadel,
And-

Da. Patience, ye good gods! a moment's patience, That these too ready hands may not enforce

The desperate precept of my rising heart—

Thou most contemptible and meanest tool
That ever tyrants used !

Proc. Do you hear him, soldiers?
First, for thy coward railings at myself,
And since thou hast called our Dionysius tyrant,
Here, in the open streets of Syracuse,

I brand thee for a liar and a traitor !

Da. Audacious slave !

Proc. Upon him, soldiers, Hew him to pieces!

[Enter Pythias, as they rush on Damon.]

Pythias. Back, on your lives!

Cowards, treacherous cowards, back! I say!

Do you know me? Look upon me: Do you know
This honest sword I brandish? You have seen it
Among the ranks of Carthage; would you now
Taste its shrewd coldness in your quaking selves?
Back! back! I say. He hath his armor on.

I am his sword, shield, helm; I but enclose
Myself, and my own heart, and heart's blood, when
I thus stand before him.

Da. False hearted cravens !

We are but two-my Pythias, my halved heart-
My Pythias and myself; but dare come on,
Ye hirelings of a tyrant! dare advance
A foot, or raise an arm, or bend a bow,
And ye shall learn what two such arms can do
Amongst a thousand of ye. My good friend,
The gods have sent thee to me.

Who had deemed

To find thee here from Agrigentum ?

[Soldiers advance.]

Pyth. Off! off! villains, off!

Why, Procles,-art thou not ashamed-for I,
I have seen thee do good work in battle time-
Art not ashamed, here on a single man

To rush in coward numbers? Fie upon thee!
I took thee for a soldier.

Proc. For thy sake,

Who art a warrior like ourselves, we spare him.
'T was a good star of his that led thee hither
From Agrigentum, to lift up thine arm
In the defence of that long robe of peace,
Wherein he wraps his stern philosophy.

Come, teach him better manners. Soldiers, on,-
Let us to Dionysius. [Exit Procles and Soldiers.]

Pyth. (To Damon.) Art thou safe From these infuriate stabbers?

Da. Thanks to thee,

I am safe, my gallant soldier and fast friend:
My better genius sent thee to my side,
When I did think thee far from Syracuse.

Pyth. I have won leave to spend some interval From the fierce war, and come to Syracuse, With purpose to espouse the fair Calanthe. The gods have led me hither, since I come In time to rescue thee.

How grew this rude broil up?

Da. Things go on here

Most execrably, Pythias. But you are come
To be a husband, are you not?

Pyth. To-morrow, I call the fair Calanthe, wife.

Da. Then, Pythias,

I will not shade the prospect of your joys
With any griefs of mine. I cry you mercy—
These are experiments too over-nice

For one that has a mistress, and would wed her
With an uncut throat. I have wished myself,
That to the blessed retreats of private life
My lot had been awarded; every hour
Makes one more sick and weary with the sense
Of this same hopeless service of a State,
Where there is not of virtue left

To feed the flarings of our liberty.
But, my soldier,

I will not make thee a participant
In my most sad forebodings. Pythias,
I say 'twere better to be the Persian's slave,
And let him tread upon thee when he would
Ascend his horse's back, than-yet not so,
I am too much galled and fretted to pronouce

A sober judgment, and the very mask
Of freedom is yet better than the bold,

Uncovered front of tyranny.-Farewell!-Shiel.

Dionysius, king of Sicily, was a tyrant. He reigned over the island of Sicily 40 years, and died 336 years before Christ. One great reason why he was unhappy in the midst of all the treasures and honors, with which royalty furnished him, arises from the consideration, that he was a stranger to that purity of motive which created the disintersted and undying friendship that subsisted between Damon and Pythias. The ty rant believed that self-interest is the sole mover of human actions, until he was taught better by witnessing this example of sacred and immortal friendship.

ISABELLA, PLEADING BEFORE ANGELO, LORD DEPUTY OF VIENNA, FOR THE LIFE OF RER CONDEMNED BROTHER, CLAUDIO.

ANGELO, ISABELLA, AND LUCIO.

Isabella. I am a woful suitor to your honor; Please but your honor hear me.

Angelo. Well; what's your suit?

Isab.

There is a vice, that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice, For which I would not plead, but that I must;

For which I must not plead, but that I am

At

war, 'twixt will, and will not.

Ang, Well, the matter, the matter?

Isab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die :

I do beseech you, let it be his fault,

And not my brother.

Ang. Condemn the fault and not the actor of it! Why, every fault's condemned, ere it be done :

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