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. servant, 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 spy 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.-Io 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 obc 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. 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 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 noticed 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 Lecoming delicacy In this arduous effort, Mr. Murphy has evinced the most exact judgment, and the nicest cxecution."—Inchbald Thus wilt thou spurn me, when a king distress'd, Phil. Urge thy suit no further; Mel. Thou canst not mean it: his to give the law! Detested spoiler !-his! a vile usurper! 1 Have we forgot the elder Dionysius, Now close encircled by the Grecian bands; 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 Phil. Alas, Evander Will ne'er behold the golden time you look for! Thy dark, half-hinted purpose-lead me to 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. Mel. 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'erlcap 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, Mel. Ha! mov'd him, say'st thou ? To where the elder Dionysius form'd, Mel. Clandestine murderer! Yes, there's the scene Of horrid massacre. Full oft I've walk'd, Phil. Forbear; thou plead'st in vain; Mel. Oh, lost Evander! Lost Euphrasia too! How will her gentle nature bear the shock Of a dear father, thus in ling'ring pangs A prey to famine, like the veriest wretch Whom the hard hand of misery hath grip'd? In vain she'll rage with impotence of sorrow; Perhaps provoke her fate: Greece arms in vain; All's lost; Evander dies! Euph. War on, ye heroes, Ye great assertors of a monarch's cause! Let the wild tempest rage. Melanthon, ha! Didst thou not hear the vast tremendous roar? Down tumbling from its base the castern tower Burst on the tyrant's ranks, and on the plain Lies an extended ruin. Mel. Still new horrors Once more, Melanthon, once again, my Mel. Alas! that hour father Would come with joy to every honest heart; spair Depress thy spirit? Lo! Timoleon comes Forebode for thee. Would thou hadst left this place, 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 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. Catch his last breath, and close his eyes in peace. 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. And o'er your sorrows cast a dawn of gladness. 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. Euph. O Dionysius, if distracting fears 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, Thy couch invites thec. When the tumult's o'er, To moor his ships, and issue on the land. Euph. How?-Speak! unfold! Euph. How is my father? Say, Melanthon- I fear to shock thee with the tale of horror! Euph. Well, my heart, Well do your vital drops forget to flow! Euph. Yet why despair? Is that the tribute to a father due? Melanthon, come; my wrongs will lend me force; This arm shall vindicate a father's cause. The groan of anguish from Evander's cell, Enter PHILOTAS, from the Cavern. 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 Your royal pris'ner? Phil. Arcas, shall I own A secret weakness? My heart inward melts Oh! would I could relieve him! Thou withdraw; The watch is mine. Arc. May no alarm disturb thee. [Exit. ho! Speak, ere thou dar'st advance. Unfold thy purpose: Who and what art thou? Oh! give him to me;-if ever The touch of nature throbb'd within your breast, I know he pines in want; let me convey Phil. Alas! Euphrasia, would I dare comply. rent Nay, stay; thou shalt not fly; Philotas, stay; Chain'd to the earth, with slow consuming pangs Of thy own aged sire, and pity mine. Thy tears, thy wild entreaties, are in vain. Evander wants not; it is fruitless all; no more; I understand thee;-butchers, you have shed Retire, and seek the couch of balmy sleep, Euph. [Behind the scenes.] Thou need'st not Advise a wretch like me to know repose? fear, It is a friend approaches. Phil. Ha! what mean Those plaintive notes ? Euph. Here is no ambush'd Greek, What art thou? what thy errand? quickly say hour All things are mute around us; all but This is my last abode: these caves, these rocks, Phil. Yet calm this violence; reflect, Euphrasia, If here thou'rt found |