Art author or accomplice of this murder,
And shun'st the justice, which by public ban
Thou hast incurr'd.

Tir. O! if the guilt were mine,

It were not half so great: know, wretched

Thou only, thou art guilty; thy own curse
Falls heavy on thyself.

Ed. Speak this again:

man,

But speak it to the winds, when they are loudest;
Or to the raging seas, they'll hear as soon,
And sooner will believe.

Tir. Then hear me, Heav'n,

For blushing thou hast seen it; hear me, earth,
Whose hollow womb could not contain this murder,
But sent it back to light; and thou, hell, hear me,
Whose own black seal has firm'd this horrid truth,
Edipus murder'd Laius.

Ed. Rot the tongue,

And blasted be the mouth that spoke that lie,
Thou blind of sight, but thou more blind of soul.
Tir. Thy parents thought not so.

Ed. Who were my parents?

Tir. Thou shalt know too soon.

Tir. So short a time as I have yet to live
Exceeds thy 'pointed hour. Remember Laius.
No more; if e'er we meet again, 'twill be
In mutual darkness; we shall feel before us
To reach each other's hand. Remember Laius.

[Ex. TIRESIAS; Priests follow.

CEDIPUS solus.

Remember Laius! that's the burthen still:
Murder and incest! but to hear them nam'd,
My soul starts in me: the good sentinel
Stands to her weapons; takes the first alarm
To guard me from such crimes.- -Did I kill Laius?

Then I walk'd sleeping, in some frightful dream;
My soul then stole my body out by night,

And brought me back to bed ere morning-wake.
It cannot be, ev'n this remotest way,

But some dark hint would jostle forward now,
And goad my memory.

Ed. To you, good gods, I make my last appeal; Or clear my virtue, or my crimes reveal: If wand'ring in the maze of fate I run, And backward trod the paths I sought to shun, Impute my errors to your own decree; My hands are guilty, but my heart is free.

THE SPANISH FRIAR. 1682.

Bertran. Short let it be,

For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more, There has been heard a distant humming noise, Like bees disturb'd, and arming in their hives.

Captain. To arms, my lord, to arms!

From the Moors' camp the noise grows louder still:
Rattling of armour, trumpets, drums, and ataballes;
And sometimes peals of shouts that rend the heav'ns,
Like victory: then groans again, and howlings,
Like those of vanquish'd men; but every echo
Goes fainter off; and dies in distant sounds.

Bert. Some false attack: expect on th' other side.

Bert. A glorious conquest, noble Torrismond! The people rend the skies with loud applause,

And Heav'n can hear no other name but yours.
The thronging crowds press on you as you pass,
And with their eager joy make triumph slow.
Torrismond. My lord, I have no taste
Of popular applause; the noisy praise
Of giddy crowds, as changeable as winds;
Still vehement, and still without a cause:
Servants to chance, and blowing in the tide
Of swol❜n success; but veering with its ebb,
It leaves the channel dry.

Bert. So young a stoic!

Tor. You wrong me, if you think I'll sell one drop Within these veins for pageants: but let honour Call for my blood, and sluice it into streams; Turn Fortune loose again to my pursuit, And let me hunt her through embattled foes, In dusty plains, amidst the cannons' roar, There will I be the first.

Tor, 'Tis true, my hopes are vanishing as clouds;
Lighter than children's bubbles blown by winds:
My merit's but the rash result of chance:
My birth unequal: all the stars against me:
Pow'r, promise, choice, the living and the dead:
Mankind my foes; and only love my friend:
But such a love, kept at such awful distance,
As, what it loudly dares to tell a rival,

Shall fear to whisper there; queens may be lov'd,
And so may gods; else why are altars rais'd?
Why shines the sun, but that he may be view'd?
But, oh! when he's too bright, if then we gaze,
'Tis but to weep; and close our eyes in darkness.

Tor. O seek not to convince me of a crime Which I can ne'er repent, nor can you pardon; Or, if you needs will know it, think, oh think,

That he who, thus commanded, dares to speak,
Unless commanded, would have died in silence.
But you adjur'd me, madam, by my hopes!
Hopes I have none, for I am all despair;
Friends I have none, for friendship follows favour;
Desert I've none, for what I did was duty:
Oh that it were! that it were duty all!
Queen. Why do you pause? proceed.

Tor. As one condemn'd to leap a precipice,
Who sees before his eyes the depth below,
Stops short and looks about for some kind shrub
To break his dreadful fall;-

so I:But whither am I going? If to death,

He looks so lovely sweet in beauty's pomp,
He draws me to his dart.-

I dare no more.

Queen. A change so swift what heart did ever feel!

It rush'd upon me like a mighty stream,

And bore me in a moment far from shore.
I've lov'd away myself; in one short hour
Already am I gone an age of passion.
Was it his youth, his valour, or success?
These might perhaps be found in other men.
'Twas that respect, that awful homage paid me,
That fearful love which trembled in his eyes,
And with a silent earthquake shook his soul.
But, when he spoke, what tender words he said!
So softly, that, like flakes of feather'd snow,
They melted as they fell.

Tor. And who could dare to disavow his crime,
When that, for which he is accus'd and seiz'd,
He bears about him still! My eyes confess it;
heart aloud.

My every

action speaks my But, oh, the madness of my high attempt

Speaks louder yet! and all together cry,
I love and I despair.

Queen. Have you not heard,

My father, with his dying voice, bequeath'd

My crown and me to Bertran? And dare you,
A private man, presume to love a queen?

Tor. That, that's the wound! I see you sit so high, As no desert or services can reach.

Good Heav'ns, why gave you me a monarch's soul,
And crusted it with base plebeian clay?
Why gave you me desires of such extent,
And such a span to grasp them? Sure my
By some o'er-hasty angel was misplaced
In Fate's eternal volume!-
But I rave,

lot

And, like a giddy bird in dead of night,
Fly round the fire that scorches me to death.

Queen. Were I no queen

Or you of royal blood

Tor. What have I lost by my forefathers' fault! Why was not I the twentieth by descent

From a long restive race of droning kings?

Love! what a poor omnipotence hast thou,
When gold and titles buy thee!

Queen [sighs]. Oh, my torture!

Tor. Might I presume, but, oh, I dare not hope That sigh was added to your alms for me!

you

Queen. I give you leave to guess, and not forbid To make the best construction for your love. Be secret and discreet; these fairy favours Are lost when not conceal'd;-provoke not Bertran.Retire: I must no more but this,-hope, Torrismond.

[Exit.

Tor. She bids me hope; oh Heav'ns, she pities me! And pity still foreruns approaching love, As lightning does the thunder! Tune your harps,

H