Cham.

No, but I fear her weakness May make her pay a debt at any rate; And to deal freely with your lordship's goodness, I've heard a story lately much disturbs me.

Acas. Then first charge her; and if the offence be found

Within my reach, though it should touch my nature,

In my own offspring, by the dear remembrance
Of thy brave father, whom my heart rejoiced in,
I'd prosecute it with severest vengeance. [Exit.
Cham. I thank you from my soul.
Mon.
Alas, my brother!
What have I done? and why do you abuse me?
My heart quakes in me; in your settled face
And clouded brow methinks I see my fate :
You will not kill me!

Cham.
Pr'ythee, why dost talk so?
Mon. Look kindly on me, then. I cannot bear
Severity; it daunts, and does amaze me:
My heart's so tender, should you charge me rough,
I should but weep, and answer you with sobbing.
But use me gently like a loving brother,
And search through all the secrets of my soul.
Cham. Fear nothing, I will show myself a brother,
A tender, honest, and a loving brother.
You've not forgot our father?

Cham. Then you'll remember too, he was a man
That lived up to the standard of his honour,
And prized that jewel more than mines of wealth:
He'd not have done a shameful thing but once,
Though kept in darkness from the world, and
He could not have forgiven it to himself: [hidden,
This was the only portion that he left us;
And I more glory in it, than if possess'd
Of all that ever fortune threw on fools.
'Twas a large trust, and must be managed nicely:
Now if by any chance, Monimia,

You have soil'd this gem, and taken from its value,
How will you account with me?
Mon.
I challenge envy,
Malice, and all the practices of hell,
To censure all the actions of my past
Unhappy life, and taint me if they can!
Cham. I'll tell thee, then: three nights ago, as I
Lay musing in my bed, all darkness round me,
A sudden damp struck to my heart, cold sweat
Dew'd all my face, and trembling seized my limbs:
My bed shook under me, the curtains started,
And to my tortured fancy there appear'd
The form of thee, thus beauteous as thou art,
Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand
A wanton lover, who by turns caress'd thee
With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure:
I snatch'd my sword, and in the very moment
Darted at the phantom, straight it left me;
Then rose and call'd for lights, when, O dire omen!
I found my weapon had the arras pierced,
Just where that famous tale was interwoven,
How the unhappy Theban slew his father.

Mon. And for this cause my virtue is suspected! Because in dreams your fancy has been ridden, I must be tortured waking! Chum. Have a care.

Labour not to be justified too fast :

Hear all, and then let justice hold the scale.
What follow'd was the riddle that confounds me:
Through a close lane, as I pursued my journey,
And meditated on the last night's vision,

I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red;
Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd
wither'd,

And on her crook'd shoulders had she wrapt
The tatter'd remnant of an old striped hanging,
Which served to keep her carcass from the cold;
So there was nothing of a piece about her;
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd
With diff'rent colour'd rags, black, red, white, yel-
And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness. [low,
I asked her of my way, which she inform'd me;
Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten
To save a sister: at that word I started.

Mon. The common cheat of beggars every day!
They flock about our doors, pretend to gifts
Of prophecy, and telling fools their fortunes.
Cham. Oh! but she told me such a tale, Monimia,
As in it bore great circumstance of truth;
Castalio and Polydore, my sister.

Or more, to make me wretched, may you know it!
Cham. Oh then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me
Than all the comforts ever yet bless'd man.
But let not marriage bait thee to thy ruin.
Trust not a man; we are by nature false,
Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and inconstant:
When a man talks of love, with caution trust him;
But if he swears, he'll certainly deceive thee:
I charge thee let no more Castalio soothe thee:
Avoid it as thou wouldst preserve the peace
Of a poor brother, to whose soul thou'rt precious.

Mon. Oh, shouldst thou know the cause of my lamenting,

[me; I'm satisfied, Chamont, that thou wouldst scorn Thou wouldst despise the abject, lost Monimia, No more wouldst praise this hated beauty; but When in some cell distracted, as I shall be, Thou seest me lie; these unregarded locks Matted like furies' tresses; my poor limbs Chain'd to the ground, and 'stead of the delights Which happy lovers taste, my keeper's stripes, A bed of straw, and a coarse wooden dish

Of wretched sustenance; when thus thou seest me,

Pr'ythee, have charity and pity for me.
Let me enjoy this thought.

Cham.

Why wilt thou rack My soul so long, Monimia? ease me quickly; Or thou wilt run me into madness first.

Mon. Could you be secret?
Cham.
Secret as the grave.
Mon. But when I've told you, will you keep
your fury

Within its bounds? Will you not do some rash
And horrid mischief? for indeed, Chamont,

You would not think how hardly I've been used From a near friend: from one that has my soul A slave, and therefore treats it like a tyrant.

*

*

*

*

Enter ACASTO.

Acas. Sure some ill fate is towards me; in my I only meet with oddness and disorder; [house Each vassal has a wild distracted face; And looks as full of business as a blockhead In times of danger: Just this very moment I met Castalio_

Have a care, young soldier,

How thou'rt too busy with Acasto's fame;
I have a sword, my arm's good old acquaintance.
Villain to thee-

Cham. Curse on thy scandalous age,
Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat,
And tear the root up of that cursed bramble!

Acas. Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend Was ne'er thy father; nothing of him's in thee: What have I done in my unhappy age, To be thus used? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy, But I could put thee in remembranceCham.

Acas. I scorn itCham.

Do.

No, I'll calmly hear the story, For I would fain know all, to see which scale Weighs most-Hah, is not that good old Acasto? What have I done? Can you forgive this folly? Acas. Why dost thou ask it? Cham.

"Twas the rude o'erflowing Of too much passion; pray, my lord, forgive me. [Kneels.

Acas. Mock me not, youth; I can revenge a

wrong.

Cham. I know it well; but for this thought of Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it. [mine, Acas. I will; but henceforth, pr'ythee be more kind. [Raises him.

Whence came the cause?
Cham.
Indeed I've been to blame,
But I'll learn better; for you've been my father:
You've been her father too-

[Takes MONIMIA by the hand.
Acas. Forbear the prologue-
And let me know the substance of thy tale.
Cham. You took her up a little tender flower.
Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost
Had nipp'd; and, with a careful loving hand,
Transplanted her into your own fair garden,
Where the sun always shines: There long she
flourish'd,

Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye,
Till at the last a cruel spoiler came,
Cropp'd this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,
Then cast it like a loathsome weed away.

Acas. You talk to me in parables; Chamont,
You may have known that I'm no wordy man;
Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves
Or fools, that use them, when they want good
But honesty
[sense;
Needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain.
Cham. Your son-

Pri. WHY, cruel Heaven, have my unhappy days
Been lengthen'd to this sad one? Oh! dishonour
And deathless infamy are fallen upon me.
Was it my fault? Am I a traitor? No.

But then, my only child, my daughter, wedded;
There my best blood runs foul, and a disease
Incurable has seized upon my memory,
To make it rot, and stink to after ages.
Cursed be the fatal minute when I got her,
Or would that I'd been any thing but man,
And raised an issue which would ne'er have
wrong'd me.

The miserable creatures, man excepted,
Are not the less esteem'd, though their posterity
Degenerate from the virtues of their fathers;
The vilest beasts are happy in their offsprings,
While only man gets traitors, whores, and villains.
Cursed be the names, and some swift blow from
fate

Lay his head deep, where mine may be forgotten.

Enter BELVIDERA, in a long mourning veil. Bel. He's there, my father, my inhuman father, That for three years has left an only child Exposed to all the outrages of fate, And cruel ruin-oh!—

Pri. Bel.

Damn him.

Oh! do not curse him; He would not speak so hard a word towards you On any terms, howe'er he deal with me. Pri. Hah! what means my child? Bel. Oh! there's but this short moment "Twixt me and fate; yet send me not with curses Down to my grave; afford me one kind blessing Before we part: just take me in your arms, And recommend me with a prayer to Heaven, That I may die in peace; and when I'm deadPri. How my soul's catch'd! Bel.

Lay me, I beg you, lay me By the dear ashes of my tender mother. She would have pitied me, had fate yet spared her.

Pri. By Heaven, my aching heart forebodes much mischief:

Tell me thy story, for I'm still thy father.
Bel. No, I'm contented.

By yon bless'd heaven, my heart runs o'er with

[fondness.

Oh my husband, my dear husband Carries a dagger in his once kind bosom, To pierce the heart of your poor Belvidera. Pri. Kill thee!

Bel. Yes, kill me. When he pass'd his faith And covenant against your state and senate, He gave me up as hostage for his truth: With me a dagger, and a dire commission, Whene'er he fail'd, to plunge it through this bosom.

Is thy voice mellow, is it smart?
Art Venus for thy beauty?

If kind, and tart, and chaste thou art,
I'm bound to do thee duty.
Though pretty Mall or bonny Kate,
Hast thou one hair adulterate,

I'm blind, and deaf, and out of heart.

Amanda, thou art kind, well-bred,
Harmonious, sweetly kind;

If thou wilt wed my virgin bed,

And taste my love, thou'rt to my mind;
Take hands, lips, heart, and eyes,
Are all too mean a sacrifice.

[* This song is by Aphra Behn, the Astræa of Pope"The stage how loosely does Astræa tread,"

and is in "Abdelazer, or the Moor's Revenge."]

[N. Hook and Philip Ayres are writers very little known, and scarcely meriting a place in these Selections. In no collection of our poets (and our so-called "British Poets" have been made general and mediocre enough), have they ever found a place, in no Biographical Dictionary are their names included, and without Mr. Campbell's resurrection

With me that languish in despair, Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn; And do not this poor boon deny,

I ask but silence while I die.

ON THE SIGHT OF HIS MISTRESS'S HOUSE.

FROM THE SAME.

To view these walls each night I come alone,
And pay my adoration to the stone;
Whence joy and peace are influenced on me,
For 'tis the temple of my deity.

As nights and days an anxious wretch by stealth Creeps out to view the place which hoards his wealth,

So to this house, that keeps from me my heart, I come, look, traverse, weep, and then depart.†

of them they must have slept with "Time and with Tom Hearne." A reader may be allowed to smile at Mr. Campbell's very general love for poetry in its essence, and his endeavours to recover and embalm decayed bodies, at his taste, and his general goodnature. Mr. Campbell's criticisms are everywhere distinguished by a discerning and cultivated mind, his selections at times by a kindness for the dead, and an anxiety to give what Mr. Ellis had not given.]