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Lady T. My lord, you ever have complained I wanted love; but as you kindly have allowed I never gave it to another, so, when you hear the story of my heart, though you may still complain, you will not wonder at my cold

ness.

Lady G. This promises a reverse of temper. [Apart. Man. This, my lord, you are concerned to hear.

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Lady T. Before I was your bride, my lord, the flattering world had talked me into beauty; which, at my glass, my youthful vanity confirmed. Wild with that fame, I thought mankind my slaves: I triumphed over hearts, while all my pleasure was their pain; yet was my own so equally insensible to all, that, when a father's firm commands enjoined me to make choice of one, I even there declined the liberty he gave, and to his own election

yielded up my youth

rected him to you

His tender care, my lord, diOur hands were joined - but still my heart was wedded to it's folly! My only joy was power, command, society, profuseness, and to lead in pleasures: the husband's right to rule I thought a vulgar law, which only the deformed or meanly spirited obeyed! I knew know directors but my passions; no master but my will! Even you, my lord, some time o'ercome by love, was pleased with my delights; nor then foresaw this mad misuse of your indulgence And, though I call my

self ungrateful while I own it, yet, as a truth, it cannot be denied that kind indulgence has undone me; it added strength to my habitual failings, and, in a heart thus warm, in wild unthinking life, no wonder if the gentler sense of love was lost.

Lord T. Oh, Manly! where has this creature's heart been buried?

[Apart.

Lady T. What I have said, my lord, is not my excuse, but my confession; my errours (give 'em, if you please,

a harder name) cannot be defended! No! What's in it's nature wrong, no words can palliate, no plea can alter ! What the remains, in my condition, but resignation to your pleasures? Time only can convince you of my future conduct therefore, till I have lived an object of forgiveness, I dare not hope for pardon The penance of a lonely contrite life were little to the innocent; but to have deserved this separation will strew perpetual thorns upon my pillow.

Lady G. Oh, happy, heavenly hearing!

Lady T. Sister, farewell! [Kissing her.] Your virtue needs no warning from the shame, that falls on me: but, when you think I have atoned my follies past, persuade your injured brother to forgive them.

Lord T. No, madam! Your errours, thus renounced, this instant are forgotten! So deep, so due a sense of them, has made you what my utmost wishes formed, and all my heart has sighed for. PROVOKED HUSBAND.

AGIB AND SECANDER.

Scene, A Mountain in Circassia. Time, Midnight.
IN fair Circassia, where, to love inclin'd,
Each swain was blest, for ev'ry maid was kind;
At that still hour when awful midnight reigns,
And none but wretches haunt the twilight plains,
What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,
And pass'd in radiance through the cloudless sky,
Sad, o'er the dews, two brother shepherds. fled,
Where wild'ring Fear and desp'rate Sorrow led:
Fast as they press'd their flight, behind them lay
Wild ravag'd plains, and valleys stole away.
Along the mountain's bending sides they ran,
Till, faint and weak, Secander thus began;

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Secan. O stay thee, Agib! for my feet deny,
No longer friendly to my life, to fly.

Friend of my heart! O turn thee and survey,
Trace our sad flight through all it's length of way:
And, first, review that long extended plain;
And yon wide groves, already pass'd with pain;
Yon ragged cliff, whose dang'rous path we tried;
And, last, this lofty mountain's weary side.

Agib. Weak as thou art, yet, hapless, must thou know

The toils of flight, or some severer wo!

Still, as I haste, the Tartar shouts behind,
And shrieks and sorrows load the sadd'ning wind:
In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,

He blasts our harvests, and deforms our land.
Yon citron grove, whence first in fear we came,
Droops it's fair honours to the conqu'ring flame :
Far fly the swains, like us, in deep despair,
And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care.

Secan. Unhappy land, whose blessings tempt the

sword!

In vain, unheard, thou call'st thy Persian lord;
In vain thou court'st him, helpless, to thine aid,
To shield the shepherd, and protect the maid:
Far off, in thoughtless indolence resign'd,
Soft dreams of love and pleasure sooth his mind;
'Midst fair sultanas, lost in idle joy,

No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.

Agib. Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat,

Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat.

Sweet to the sight is Zabran's flow'y plain,
And once by maids and shepherds lov'd-in vain:
No more the virgins shall delight to rove
By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's shady grove;

On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale;
Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flow'ry vale:

Fair scenes! but, ab, no more with peace possess'd,
With ease alluring, and with plenty blest.

No more the shepherd's whit'ning tents appear;
Nor the kind products of a bounteous year;
No more the date, with snowy blossoms crown'd,
But Ruin spreads her baleful fires around.

Secan. In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves, For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves:

In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair,

Their eyes' blue languish, and their golden hair ;
Their eyes, in tears, their fruitless grief must send;
Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.

Agib. Ye Georgian swains! that, piteous, learn from

far

prepare,

Circassia's ruin and the waste of war;
Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs
To shield your harvests and defend your fair.
The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue,
Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo;
Wild as his land, in native deserts bred,
By lust incited, or by malice led,
The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey,

Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way:
Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,

To death inur'd, and nurs'd in scenes of wo.

He said; when, loud, along the vale was heard
A shriller shriek, and nearer fires appear'd;
Th' affrighted shepherds, through the dews of night;
Wide o'er the moonlight hills renew'd their flight.

COLLINS

THE DIRGE.

Bumkinet, Grubbinol.

Bumk. Why, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem? There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem. 'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear, And chilly blasts begin to nip the year; From the tall elm a show'r of leaves is borne, And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn; Yet ev❜n this season pleasance blithe affords; Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards. Come, let us hie, and quaff a cheery bowl.

Let cider new wash sorrow from thy soul.

Grub. Ah! Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone
From these sad plains all merriment is flown;
Should I reveal my grief, 'twould spoil thy cheer,
And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.
Bumk. Hang sorrow! let's to yonder but repair,
And, with trim sonnets, cast away our care.
Gillian of Croydon well thy pipe can play,
Thou sing'st most sweet " O'er hills and far away."
Of Patient Grissel I devise to sing,

And catches quaint shall make the valleys ring;
Come Grubbinol! beneath this shelter, come,
From hence we view our flocks securely roam.

Grub. Yes, blithesome lad, a tale I mean to sing,

But with my wo shall distant valleys ring;
The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head,
For, wo is me! - our Blouzelind is dead.

Bumk. Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell my glee! —

No happiness is now reserv'd for me.

As the wood pigeon coos without his mate,
So shall my doleful dirge bewail her fate.
Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,
The peerless maid, that did all maids excel.

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