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sufferings, 'tis easing myself to relieve you: know, therefore, all that's past I freely forgive. Gay. You cannot mean it, sure! I am lost in wonder!

Mel. Prepare yourself for more wonder. You have another friend in masquerade here. Mr. Cook, pray throw aside your drunkenness, and make your sober appearance.-Don't you know that face, Sir?

Cook. Ay, master; what! you have forgot your friend, Dick, as you used to call me?

Gay. More wonder indeed! Don't you live with my father?

Mel. Just after your hopeful servant there had left me, comes this man from Sir William, with a letter to me; upon which (being by that wholly convinced of your necessitous condition) I invented, by the help of Kitty and Mrs. Gadabout, this little plot, in which your friend Dick there has acted miracles, resolving to tease you a little, that you might have a greater relish for a happy turn in your affairs. Now, Sir, read that letter, and complete your joy.

ærtant,

Gay. [Reads.] Madam, I am father to the unfortunate young man, who, I hear, by a friend of mine (that by my desire has been a continual epy upon him) is making his addresses to you. If he is so happy as to make himself agreeable to you, whose character I am charmed with, I shall own him with joy for my son, and forget his former follies.-I am, madam, your most humble WILLIAM GAYLESS. P. S.--I will be soon in town myself to congratulate his reformation and marriage. Oh, Melissa, this is too much! Thus let me show my thanks and gratitude; for here 'tis only due. [Kneels; she raises him. Sharp. A reprieve! a reprieve! a reprieve! Kitty. I have been, Sir, a most bitter enemy to you; but since you are likely to be a little more

conversant with cash than you have been, I am now, with the greatest sincerity, your most obe dient friend, and humble servant.

Gay. Oh, Mrs. Pry, I have been too much indulged with forgiveness myself, not to forgive lesser offences in other people.

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Sharp. Well then, Madam, since my master has vouchsafed pardon to your handmaid Kitty, I hope you'll not deny it to his footman Timothy. Mel. Pardon! for what?

Sharp. Only for telling you about ten thousand lies, Madam; and, among the rest, insinuating that your ladyship would

Mel. I understand you; and can forgive any thing Sharp, that was designed for the service of your master; and if Pry and you will follow our example, I'll give her a small fortune, as a reward for both your fidelities.

Sharp. I fancy, Madam, 'twould be better to halve the small fortune between us, and keep us both single; for as we shall live in the same house, in all probability we may taste the comforts of matrimony and not be troubled with its inconveniences. What say you, Kitty?

Kitty. Do you hear, Sharp; before you talk of the comforts of matrimony, take the comforts of a good dinner, and recover your flesh a little; do puppy.

Sharp. The devil backs her, that's certain, and I am no match for her at any weapon.

[Aside.

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VOL. I....E

THE GRECIAN DAUGHTER:

A TRAGEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

BY ARTHUR MURPHY.

REMARKS.

This tragedy was produced at Drury Lane in 1772. A picture of the Roman Charity, which Mr. Murphy no ticed at the house of a celebrated painter, wherein the centinel bursts into tears at "The pious fraud of charity and love," first suggested the idea to our author.

"Perhaps, of all the events recorded in history, that filial piety, on which the fable of this play is founded, may be classed amongst the most affecting-yet it was one of the most hazardous for a dramatist to adopt : for nothing less than complete skill could have given to this singular occurrence effectual force, joined to becoming delicacy In this arduous effort, Mr. Murphy has evinced the most exact judgment, and the nicest execut on."-Inchbald

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Groans in captivity? In his own palace
Lives a sequester'd pris'ner? Oh! Philotas,
If thou hast not renounc'd humanity,
Let me behold my sovereign; once again
Admit me to his presence; let me see

Mel. Yet, a moment; hear, Philotas, hear me. My royal master."
Phil. No more; it must not be.

Mel. Obdurate man!

Thus wilt thou spurn me, when a king distress'd,
A good, a virtuous, venerable king,
The father of his people, from a throne,
Which long with every virtue he adorn'd,
Torn by a ruffian, by a tyrant's hand,

Phil. Urge thy suit no further;
Thy words are fruitless; Dionysius' orders
Forbid access; he is our sov'reign now;
'Tis his to give the law, mine to obey.

Mel. Thou canst not mean it: his to give the
law!!
Detested spoiler!-his! a vile usurper!

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Have we forgot the elder Dionysius,
Surnam'd the Tyrant? To Sicilia's throne
The monster waded through whole seas of blood.
Sore groaned the land beneath his iron rod,
Till rous'd at length, Evander came from Greece,
Like freedom's genius came, and sent the tyrant,
Stripp'd of the crown, and to his humble rank
Once more reduc'd, to roam, for vile subsistence,
A wand'ring sophist, through the realms of Greece.
Phil. Whate er his right, to him in Syracuse
All bend the knee; his the supreme dominion,
And death and torment wait his sovereign nod.
Mel. But soon that power shall cease; behold
his walls

Now close encircled by the Grecian bands;
Timoleon leads them on; indignant Corinth
Sends her avenger forth, array'd in terror,
To hurl ambition from a throne usurp'd,
And bid all Sicily resume her rights.

Phil. Thou wert a statesman once, Melanthon;

now,

Grown dim with age, thy eye pervades no more
The deep-laid schemes which Dionysius plans.
Know, then, a fleet from Carthage even now
Stems the rough billow; and, ere yonder sun,
That, now declining, seeks the western wave,
Shall to the shades of night resign the world,
Thou'lt see the Punic sails in yonder bay,
Whose waters wash the walls of Syracuse.
Mel. Art thou a stranger to Timoleon's name?
Intent to plan, and circumspect to see
All possible events, he rushes on

Resistless in his course! Your boasted master Scarce stands at bay; each hour the strong blockade

Hems him in closer, and ere long thou'lt view
Oppression's iron rod to fragments shiver'd!
The good Evander then-

Phil. Alas, Evander

Will ne'er behold the golden time you look for!
Mel. How! not behold it! Say, Philotas, speak;
Has the fell tyrant, have his felon murderers-
Phil. As yet, my friend, Evander lives.
Mel. And vet

Thy dark, half-hinted purpose-lead me to him;
If thou hast murdered him-

Phil. By heaven, he lives.

Mel. Then bless me with one tender interview. Thrice has the sun gone down since last these eyes Have seen the good old king; say, why is this? Wherefore debarr'd his presence? Thee, Philotas, The troops obey, that guard the royal pris'ner; Each avenue to thee is open; thou Canst grant admittance; let me, let me, see him. Phil. Entreat no more; the soul of Dionysius Is ever wakeful; rent with all the pangs That wait on conscious guilt.

Me!. But when dun night

Phil. Alas it cannot be: but mark my words.
Let Greece urge on her general assault.
Despatch some friend, who may o'erleap the walls,
And tell Timoleon, the good old Evander
Has liv'd three days, by Dionysius' order,
Lock'd up from every sustenance of nature,
And life now wearied out, almost expires.
Mel. If any spark of virtue dwells within thee,
Lead me, Philotas, lead me to his prison.
Phil. The tyrant's jealous care hath mov'd him
thence.

Mel. Ha! mov'd him, say'st thou ?
Phil. At the midnight hour,
Silent convey'd him up the steep ascent,

To where the elder Dionysius form'd,
On the sharp summit of the pointed rock,
Which overhangs the deep, a dungeon drear;
Cell within cell, a labyrinth of horror,
Deep cavern'd in the cliff, where many a wretch,
Unseen by mortal eye, has groan'd in anguish,
And died obscure, unpitied and unknown.

Mel. Clandestine murderer! Yes, there's the

scene

Of horrid massacre. Full oft I've walk'd,
When all things lay in sleep and darkness hush'd.
Yes, oft I've walk'd the lonely sullen beach,
And heard the mournful sound of many a corse
Plung'd from the rock into the wave beneath,
That murmurs on the shore. And means he thus
To end a monarch's life? Oh grant my prayer;
My timely succour may protect his days:
The guard is yours-

Phil. Forbear; thou plead'st in vain;
And though I feel soft pity throbbing here,
Though each emotion prompts the gen'rous deed,
I must not yield; it were assur'd destruction.
Farewell, despatch a message to the Greeks;
I'll to my station; now thou know'st the worst.

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Arm'd with the power of Greece; the brave, the Euph. O Dionysius, if distracting fears

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Would thou hadst left this

When hence your husband, the brave Phocion, fled;

Fled with your infant son!

Euph. In duty fix'd,

Here I remain'd, while my brave, gen'rous Phocion
Fled with my child, and from his mother's arms
Bore my sweet little one. Full well thou know'st
The pangs I suffer'd in that trying moment.
Did I not weep? Did I not rave and shriek,
And by the roots tear my dishevell'd hair?
Did I not follow to the sea-beat shore,
Resolved, with him and with my blooming boy,
To trust the winds and waves?

Mel. The pious act, whate'er the fates intend, Shall merit heart-felt praise.

Euph. Yes, Phocion, go,

Go with my child, torn from this matron breast, This breast that still should yield its nurture to him,

Fly with my infant to some happier shore.
If he be safe, Euphrasia dies content.
Till that sad close of all, the task be mine
To tend a father with delighted care,
To smooth the pillow of declining age,
See him sink gradual into mere decay,
On the last verge of life watch every look,
Explore each fond unutterable wish,

Catch his last breath, and close his eyes in peace.
Mel. I would not add to thy afflictions; yet
My heart misgives; Evander's fatal period-
Euph. Still is far off: the gods have sent relief,
And once again I shall behold him king.

Mel. Alas! those glitt'ring hopes but lend a

ray

To gild the clouds, that hover o'er your head, Soon to rain sorrow down, and plunge you deeper In black despair.

Euph. The spirit-stirring virtue,

That glows within me, ne'er shall know despair.
No, I will trust the gods. Desponding man!
Hast thou not heard with what resistless ardour
Timoleon drives the tumult of the war?
Hast thou not heard him thund'ring at our gates?
The tyrant's pent up in his last retreat;
Anon thou'lt see his battlements in dust,
His walls, his ramparts, and his towers, in ruin;
Destruction pouring in on ev'ry side,
Pride and oppression at their utmost need,
And nought to save him in his hopeless hour.
[Flourish of Trumpets.
Mel. Ha! the fell tyrant comes—
-Beguile his
rage,
And o'er your sorrows cast a dawn of gladness,
Enter DIONYSIUS, CALIPPUS, OFFICERS, &c.
Dion. The vain presumptuous Greek! his
hopes of conquest,

Like a gay dream, are vanish'd into air.
Proudly elate, and flush'd with easy triumph
O'er vulgar warriors, to the gates of Syracuse
He urg'd the war, till Dionysius' arm

Let slaughter loose, and taught his dastard train
To seek their safety by inglorious flight.

Alarm this throbbing bosom, you will pardon
A frail and tender sex. Till the fury
Of war subside, the wild, the horrid interval
In safety let me soothe to dear delight
In a lov'd father's presence: from his sight,
For three long days, with specious feign'd excuse
Your guards debarr'd me. Oh! while yet he
lives,

Indulge a daughter's love; worn out with age,
Soon must he seal his eyes in endless night,
And with his converse charm my ears no more.
Dion. Afflicted fair,

Thy couch invites thee. When the tumult's o'er,
Thou'lt see Evander with redoubled joy.
Though now unequal to the cares of empire
His age sequester him, yet honours high
Shall gild the evening of his various day.-
Perdiccas, ere the morn's revolving light
Unveil the face of things, do thou despatch
A well-oar'd galley to Hamilcar's fleet;
At the north point of yonder promontory
Let some select officer instruct him

To moor his ships, and issue on the land.
Then may Timoleon tremble: vengeance then
Shall overwhelm his camp, pursue his bands
With fatal havoc to the ocean's margin,
And cast their limbs to glut the vulture's famine,
In mangled heaps upon the naked shore. [Erit
Euph. What do I hear? Melanthon, can it be?
If Carthage comes, if her perfidious sons
List in his cause, the dawn of freedom's gone.
Mel. Woe, bitt'rest woe, impends; thou
would'st not think-

Euph. How?-Speak! unfold!
Mel. My tongue denies its office.

Euph. How is my father? Say, Melanthon--
Mei. He,

I fear to shock thee with the tale of horror!
Perhaps he dies this moment.-Since Timoleon
First form'd his lines round this beleaguer'd city,
No nutriment has touch'd Evander's lips.
In the deep caverns of the rock imprison'd,
He pines în bitterest want.

Euph. Well, my heart,
Well do your vital drops forget to flow!
Mel. Despair, alas! is all the sad resource
Our fate allows us now.

Euph. Yet why despair?

Is that the tribute to a father due ?
Blood is his due.

Melanthon, come; my wrongs will lend me force;
The weakness of my sex is gone; this arm
Feels tenfold strength; this arm shall do a deed
For heaven and earth, for men and gods to won-
der at!

This arm shall vindicate a father's cause.

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The groan of anguish from Evander's cell,
Piercing the midnight gloom ?-It is the sound
Of bustling prows, that cleave the briny deep.
Perhaps at this dead hour Hamilcar's fleet
Rides in the bay.

Enter PHILOTAS, from the Cavern.
Phil. What, ho! brave Arcas! ho!
Arc. Why thus desert thy couch?
Phil. Methought the sound

Of distant uproar chas'd affrighted sleep.

Arc. At intervals the oar's resounding stroke Comes echoing from the main. Save that report, A death-like silence through the wide expanse Broods o'er the dreary coast.

Phil. Do thou retire,

And seek repose; the duty of thy watch
Is now perform'd; I take thy post.
Arc. How fares

Your royal pris'ner?

Phil. Arcas, shall I own

A secret weakness? My heart inward melts
To see that suffering virtue. On the earth,
The cold, damp earth, the royal victim lies;
And, while pale famine drinks his vital spirit,
He welcomes death, and smiles himself to rest.
Oh! would I could relieve him! Thou withdraw;
Thy wearied nature claims repose; and now
The watch is mine.

Arc. May no alarm disturb thee. [Exit.
Phil. Some dread event is lab'ring into birth.
At close of day the sullen sky held forth
Unerring signals. With disastrous glare
The moon's full orb rose crimson'd o'er with blood;
And, lo! athwart the gloom a falling star
Trails a long tract of fire!-What daring step
Sounds on the flinty rock? Stand there; what,

ho!

Speak, ere thou dar'st advance. Unfold thy purpose:

Who and what art thou?

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Oh! give him to me;-if ever

The touch of nature throbb'd within your breast,
Admit me to Evander; in these caves

I know he pines in want; let me convey
Some charitable succour to a father.

Phil. Alas! Euphrasia, would I dare comply. Euph. It will be virtue in thee. Thou, like me, Wert born in Greece:-Oh! by our common pa

rent

Nay, stay; thou shalt not fly; Philotas, stay;
Hard as Evander's; if by felon hands
You have a father too; think, were his lot

Chain'd to the earth, with slow consuming pangs
He felt sharp want, and with an asking eye
Implor'd relief, yet cruel men deny'd it,
Would'st thou not burst through adamantine gates,
Through walls and rocks, to save him? Think,
Philotas,

Of thy own aged sire, and pity mine.
Think of the agonies a daughter feels,
When thus a parent wants the common food,
The bounteous hand of nature meant for all.
Phil. 'Twere best withdraw thee, princess;
thy assistance

Thy tears, thy wild entreaties, are in vain.
Evander wants not; it is fruitless all;
Euph. Ha!-thou hast murder'd him; he is

no more ;

I understand thee;-butchers, you have shed
The precious drops of life; yet, e'en in death,
Let me behold him; let a daughter close
With duteous hand a father's beamless eyes;
Print her last kisses on his honour'd hand,
And lay him decent in the shroud of death

Retire, and seek the couch of balmy sleep,
Phil. Alas! this frantic grief can nought avail.
In this dead hour, this season of repose.

Euph. And dost thou then, inhuman that thou art,

Advise a wretch like me to know repose?

Euph. [Behind the scenes.] Thou need'st not This is my last abode: these caves, these rocks,

fear,

It is a friend approaches.

Phil. Ha! what mean

Those plaintive notes ?

Euph. Here is no ambush'd Greek, No warrior to surprise thee on the watch. An humble suppliant comes.-Alas, my strength Exhausted quite forsakes this weary frame. Phil. What voice thus piercing through the gleam of night

What art thou? what thy errand? quickly say What wretch, with what intent, at this dread

hour

Wherefore alarm'st thou thus our peaceful watch? [Exit.

Re-enter PHILOTAS, with EUPHRASIA.

Euphrasia!

Why, princess, thus anticipate the dawn?
Still sleep and silence wrap the weary world,
The stars in mid career usurp the pole;

The Grecian bands, the winds, the waves, are hush'd;

All things are mute around us; all but you
Rest in oblivious slumber from their cares.
Euph. Yes, all; all rest: the very murd'rer
sleeps;

Guilt is at rest: I only wake to misery.

Shall ring for ever with Euphrasia's wrongs;
All Sicily shall hear me; yonder deep
Shall echo back an injur'd daughter's cause;
Here will I dwell, and rave, and shriek, and give
These scatter'd locks to all the passing winds;
Call on Evander lost; and, pouring curses,
And cruel gods, and cruel stars invoking,
Stand on the cliff in madness and despair.

Phil. Yet calm this violence; reflect, Euphrasia,
With what severe enforcement Dionysius
Exacts obedience to his dread command.

If here thou'rt found

Her fix'd eternal home;-inhuman savages, Euph. Here is Euphrasia's mansion. [Falls Here stretch me with a father's murder'd corse. Phil. By heaven,

My heart in pity bleeds.

Her vehemence of grief o'erpowers me quite. My honest heart condemns the barb'rous deed, And if I dare

Euph. And if you dare!-Is that

The voice of manhood? Honest, if you dare!
'Tis the slave's virtue! 'tis the utmost limit
Of the base coward's honour.-Not a wretch,
There's not a villain, not a tool of power,
But, silence interest, extinguish fear,
And he will prove benevolent to man.

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