It back again, she'd freely grant whate'er Request I then should make.

Not. Give, give it me,

My lord! and let me fly, on friendship's wings, To bear it to the queen, and to it add.

My prayers and influence to preserve thy life. Esser. Oh! take it then-it is the pledge of life!

Oh! it is my dear Southampton's

Last, last remaining stay! his thread of being, Which, more than worlds, I prize!-Oh, take it then;

Take it, thou guardian angel of my life,
And offer up the incense of my prayer!
Oh beg, entreat, implore her majesty,
From public shame, and ignominious death,
And from the obdurate axe, to save my friend.
Not. My lord, with all the powers that nature

What says the earl?

Not. I wish, with all my soul,

Th' ungrateful task had been another's lot.
I dread to tell it-lost, ill-fated man!

Qu. Eliz. What means this mystery, this strange behaviour? Pronounce-declare at once; what said the earl? Not. Alas, my queen! I fear to say; his mind Is in the strangest mood, that ever pride On blackest thoughts begot.He scarce would speak:

And when he did, it was with sullenness,
With hasty tone, and downcast look.

Qu. Eliz. Impossible!

Could Essex treat me thus?You basely wrong him,

And wrest his meaning from the purpos'd point. Recall betimes the horrid words you've utter'd: Confess, and own the whole you've said, was false.

Not. Madam, by truth, and duty, both compell'd,

Against the pleadings of my pitying soul,

I must declare, (Heaven knows with what reluctance)

That never pride insulted mercy more.
He ran o'er all the dangers he had past;
His mighty deeds; his service to the state:
Accus'd your majesty of partial leaning
To favourite lords, to whom he falls a sacrifice;
Appeals to justice, and to future times,
How much he feels from proud oppression's arm:
Nay, something too he darkly hinted at,
Of jealous disappointment, and revenge.

Qu. Eliz. Eternal silence seal thy venom'd lips! What hast thou utter'd, wretch, to rouse at once A whirlwind in my soul, which roots up pity, And destroys my peace?

Let him this instant to the block be led.

[Exit Nor. Upbraid me with my fatal fondness for him! Ungrateful, barbarous ruffian! O, Elizabeth! Remember now thy long-establish'd fame, Thy envy'd glory, and thy father's spirit. Accuse me of injustice too, and cruelty! Yes, I'll this instant to the Tower, forget My regal state, and to his face confront him: Confound th' audacious villain with my presence, And add new terrors to the uplifted axe. [Exit.

SCENE III.-The Tower.

Enter ESSEX and SOUTHAMPTON.
Esser. Oh, name it not! my friend shall live-
he shall!

I know her 1oyal mercy, and her goodness,
Will give you back to life, to length of days,
And me to honour, loyalty, and truth.
Death is still distant far.

South. In life's first spring,

Our green affections grew apace and prosper'd';
The genial summer swell'd our joyful hearts,
To meet and mix each growing fruitful wish.
We're now embark'd upon that stormy flood,
Where all the wise and brave are gone before us,
E'er since the birth of time, to meet eternity.

And what is death, did we consider right?
Shall we, who sought him in the paths of terror,
And fac'd him in the dreadful walks of war,
Shall we astonish'd shrink, like frighted infants,
And start at scaffolds, and their gloomy trap-
pings?

Esser. Yet, still I trust long years remain of
friendship.

Let smiling hope drive doubt and fear away,
And death be banished far; where creeping age,
Disease and care, invite him to their dwelling.
I feel assurance rise within my breast,
That all will yet be well.

South. Count not on hope

We never can take leave, my friend, of life,
On nobler terms. Life! what is life? A sha-
dow!

Its date is but the immediate breath we draw ;
Nor have we surety for a second gale;
Ten thousand accidents in ambush lie
For the embodied dream.

A frail and fickle tenement it is,.
Which, like the brittle glass, that measures time,
Is often broke, ere half its sands are run.

Esser. Such cold philosophy the heart disdains,
And friendship shudders at the moral tale.
My friend, the fearful precipice is past,
And danger dare not meet us more. Fly swift,
Ye better angels, waft the welcome tidings
Of pardon to my friend-of life and joy

Enter Lieutenant.

Lieut. I grieve to be the messenger of woe, But must, my lords, entreat you to prepare For instant death. Here is the royal mandate, That orders your immediate execution.

Esser. Immediate execution! what, so sudden ?

No message from the queen, or Nottingham ? Lieut. None, sir.

Esser. Deluded hopes! Oh, worse than death!
Perfidious queen! to make a mock of life!
My friend my friend destroyed! Why could
not mine-

My life atone for both-my blood appease?
Can you, my friend, forgive me?

South. Yes, oh yes,

Wilt thou then tear him hence?-Severe divorce! Let me cling round thy sacred person still,— Still clasp thee to my bosom close, and keep Stern fate at distance.

Essex. Oh, my friend! we'll meet
Again, where virtue finds a just reward !—
Where factious malice never more can reach us!
I need not bid thee guard my fame from wrongs:
And, oh! a dearer treasure to thy care
I trust, than either life or fame-my wife!
Oh, she will want a friend!

Then take her to thy care-do thou pour balm
On her deep-wounded spirit, and let her find
My tender helps in thee!-I must be gone,
My ever faithful and my gallant friend!

I pr'ythee, leave this woman's work.-Farewell!
Take this last, dear embrace-Farewell for ever!
South. My bursting breast! I fain would speak,
but words

Are poor-Farewell!—

But we shall meet again-embrace in one Eternal band, which never shall be loosed.

[Erit.

Esser. To death's concluding stroke, lead on, lieutenant.

My wife!-Now reason, fortitude, support me! For now, indeed, comes on my sorest trial.

Enter Countess of RUTLAND.

Oh, thou last, dear reserve of fortune's malice!
For fate can add no more-
Oh, com'st thou now to arrest my parting soul,
And force it back to life?

Rut. Thou sole delight

Thou only joy which life could ever give,
Or death deprive me of-my wedded lord!
I come, with thee, determined to endure
The utmost rigour of our angry stars !—
To join thee, fearless, in the grasp of death,
And seek some dwelling in a world beyond it !

Esser. Too much, thou partner of this dismal

hour,

Thy generous soul would prompt thee to endure

Nor can thy tender, trembling heart sustain it. Long years of bliss remain in store for thee; And smiling time his treasures shall unfold To bribe thy stay!

Rut. Thou cruel comforter !
Alas! what's life-what's hated life to me?
Alas, this universe, this goodly frame,
Shall all as one continued curse appear,
And every object blast, when thou art gone.
Esser. Oh, strain not thus the little strength
I've left,

The weak support that holds up life! to bear
A few short moments more, its weight of woe,
Its loss of thee! Oh, turn away those eyes!
Nor with that look melt down my fixed resolve!
And yet, a little longer let me gaze

On that loved form! Alas! I feel my sight
Grows dim, and reason from her throne retires:
For pity's sake, let go my breaking heart,
And leave me to my fate!

Rut. Why wilt thou still

Of parting talk?

Oh, that the friendly hand of Heaven would snatch

Us both at once, above the distant stars,
Where fortune's venomed shafts can never pierce,
Nor cruel queens destroy!

Esser. The awful Searcher, whose impartial

Rut. Stay, stay, my love! my dearest, dying lord!

Ah! whither wouldst thou go? Ah, do not leave me! [Faints.

Esser. Thou sinking excellence! thou match-
less woman!

Shall fortune rob me of thy dear embrace,
Or earth's whole power, or death divide us now?
Stay, stay, thou spotless injured saint!

Lieut. My lord, already you have been in-
dulged

Beyond what I can warrant by my orders.

Esser. One moment more

Afford me to my sorrows-Oh, look there!
Could bitter anguish pierce your heart, like mine,
You'd pity now the mortal pangs I feel,
The throbs that tear my vital strings away,
And rend my agonizing soul!

Lieut. My lord

Essex. But one short moment, and I will attend.

Ye sacred ministers, that virtue guard,
And shield the righteous in the paths of peril,
Restore her back to life, and lengthened years
Of joy! dry up her bleeding sorrows all!
Oh, cancel from her thoughts this dismal hour,
And blot my image from her sad remembrance!

'Tis done.

And now, ye trembling cords of life, give way! Nature and time, let go your hold !-eternity Demands me. [Exeunt ESSEX and Lieut. Rut. Where has my lost, benighted soul, been wandering?

What means this mist, that hangs about my mind,

Through which reflection's painful eye discerns Imperfect forms, and horrid shapes of woe?— The cloud dispels, the shades withdraw, and all My dreadful fate appears.-Oh! where's my lord?

My life! my Essex! Oh! whither have they ta'en him?

What fiend art thou, that draws the horrid scene? Ah! Burleigh! bloody murderer! where's my husband?

Oh! where's my lord, my Essex?

Destruction seize, and madness rend, my brain!
See-see, they bend him to the fatal block!
Now-now the horrid axe is lifted high-
It falls-it falls! he bleeds-he bleeds! he dies!
Qu. Eliz. Alas! her sorrows pierce my suffer-
ing heart!

Rut. Eternal discord tear the social world,
And nature's laws dissolve! expunge-erase
The hated marks of time's engraving hand,
And every trace destroy! Arise, despair!
Assert thy rightful claim-possess me all!
Bear, bear me to my murdered lord--to clasp
His bleeding body in my dying arms!
And, in the tomb, embrace his dear remains,
And mingle with his dust-for ever!

[Exit.

Qu. Eliz. Hapless woman! She shall henceforth be partner of my sorrows; And we'll contend who most shall weep for Essex. Oh, quick to kill, and ready to destroy!

[To BURLEIGH. Could no pretext be found-no cause appear, To lengthen mercy out a moment more, And stretch the span of grace !-Oh, cruel Burleigh!

This, this, was thy dark work, unpitying man!

Bur. My gracious mistress, blame not thus my duty,

My firm obedience to your high command.
The laws condemned him first to die; nor think
I stood between your mercy and his life.
It was the lady Nottingham, not I.
Herself confessed it all, in wild despair,
That, from your majesty to Essex sent
With terms of proffered grace, she then received,
From his own hand, a fatal ring, a pledge,
It seems, of much importance, which the earl,
With earnest suit and warm entreaty, begged her,
As she would prize his life, to give your majesty;
In this she failed--In this she murdered Essex.

NEWS! news! good folks, rare news, and you shall know it

I've got intelligence about the poet.
Who do you think he is?--You'll never guess;
An Irish bricklayer, neither more nor less.
And now the secret's out, you cannot wonder,
That in commencing bard he makes a blunder.
Has he not left the better for the worse,
In quitting solid brick for empty verse?
Can he believe the example of old Ben,
Who changed, like him, the trowel for the pen,
Will in his favour move your critic bowels?---
You rather wish most poet's pens were trowels.
One man is honest, sensible, and plain,
Nor has the poet made him pert, in vain :
No beau, no courtier, nor conceited youth;
But then so rude, he always speaks the truth.
I told him he must flatter, learn address,
And gain the heart of some rich patroness:
'Tis she, said I, your labours will reward,
If you but join the bricklayer with the bard;

As thus---should she be old, and worse for wear,
You must new-case her, front her, and repair;
If cracked in fame, as scarce to bear a touch,
You cannot use your trowel then too much;
In short, whate'er her morals, age, or station,
Plaster and whitewash in your dedication.
Thus I advised--but he detests the plan:
What can be done with such a simple man?
A poet's nothing worth, and nought availing,
Unless he'll furnish where there is a failing.
Authors in these good times are made and used,
To grant these favours nature has refused.
If he won't fish, what bounty can he crave?
We pay for what we want, not what we have.-
Nay, though of every blessing we have store,
Our sex will always wish-a little more.---
If he'll not bend his heart to do his duty,
And sell, to who will buy, wit, honour, beauty;
The bricklayer still for him the proper trade is,
Too rough to deal with gentlemen and ladies.

BY

Measter! measter!

Is not my measter here among you, pray? Nay, speak-my measter wrote this fine new play.

The actor-folks are making such a clatter! They want the pro-log-I know nought o' th' matter!

He must be there among you look about—
A weezen pale-fac'd man, do-find him out-
Pray, measter, come-or all will fall to sheame;
Call mister,-hold-I must not tell his name.

Law! what a crowd is here! what noise and
pother!

Fine lads and lasses! one o' top o' t' other.

[Pointing to the rows of Pit and Gallery. I could for ever here with wonder geaze! I ne'er saw church so full in all my days! Your servant, surs !-what do you laugh for? Eh! You donna take me sure for one o' the play? You should not flout an honest country lad You think me fool, and I think you half mad: You're all as strange as I, and stranger too, And if you laugh at me, I'll laugh at you.

[Laughing. I donna like your London tricks, not I, And since you rais'd my blood, I'll tell you why; And if you wull, since now I am before ye, For want of pro-log, I'll relate my story.

I came from country here to try my fate, And get a place among the rich and great; But troth I'm sick o' th' journey I ha' ta'en, I like it not-would I were home again!

First, in the city I took up my station, And got a place with one o' th' corporation, A round big man-he cat a plaguy deal, Zooks, he'd have beat five plowmen at a meal!

But long with him I could not make abode,
For, could you think it?-he eat a great sea-toad!
He call'd it belly-patch and capapee!
Law, how I star'd-I thought-who knows but I
For want of monsters, may be made a pye!
Rather than tarry here for bribe or gain,
I'll back to whoame, and country fare again.
I left toad-eater; then I served a lord,
And there they promised—but ne'er kept their
word.

While 'mong the great, this geaming work the trade is,

They mind no more poor servants, than their

ladies.

A lady next, who lik'd a smart young lad, Hir'd me forthwith-but, troth I thought her mad:

She turn'd the world top down, as I may say,
She chang'd the day to neet, the neet to day!
I stood one day with coach, and did but stoop
To put the foot-board down, and with her hoop
She cover'd me all o'er-"Where are you, lout?"
Here, ma'am, says I, for heav'n's sake let me out!
I was so sheam'd with all her freakish ways,
She wore her gear so short, so low her stays-
Fine folks shew all for nothing now-a-days!

Now I'm the poet's man-I find with wits
There's nothing sartain-nay, we eat by fits.
Our meals, indeed, are slender,-what of that?
There are but three on's-measter, I, and cat.
Did you but see us all, as I'm a sinner,
You'd scarcely say which of us three is thinner.
My wages all depend on this night's piece,
But should you find that all our swans are geese,
E'feck I'll trust no more to measter's brain,
But pack up all, and whistle whoame again,