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O scize me, Madness-Did she call on me!
I feel, I see the ruffian's barb'rous rage.
He seiz'd her melting in the fond appeal,
And stopp'd the heav'nly voice that callid on me.
My spirits fail; awhile support me, Vengeance
Be just, ye slaves; and, to be just, be cruel ;
Contrive new racks, imbitter ev'ry pang.
Inflict whatever treason can deserve,
Which inurder'd innocence that call'd on me.
[Exit Mahomet; Abdalla is dragged off,
HASAN, CARAZA, MUSTAPHA, MURZA.
MUSTAPHA tO MURZA. What plagues, what tortures, are in store for thee, Thou sluggish idler, dilatory slave! Behold the model of consummate beauty, Torn from the mourning earth by thy neglect.
MURZA. Such was the will of Heav'n—A band of Greeks, That mark'd my course, suspicious of my purpose, Rush'd out and seiz'd me, thoughtless and unarm’d, Breathless, amaz'd, and on the guarded beach Detain'd me, till Demetrius set me free.
So sure the fall of greatness, rais'd on crimes !
So fix'd the justice of all-conscious Heav'n!
When haughty guilt exults with impious joy,
Mistake shall blast, or accident destroy ;
Weak man with erring rage may throw the dart,
But Heav'n shall guide it to the guilty heart.
MARRY a Turk! a haughty, tyrant king!
Who thinks us 'women born to dress and sing
To please his fancy! see no other man !
Let him persuade me to it--if he can;
Besides, he has fifty wives, and who can bear
To have the fiftieth part her paltry share?
'Tis true, the fellow's handsome, straight, and tall, But how the devil'should he please us all! My swain is little-true-but, be it known, May pride's to have that little all my own. Men will be ever to their errors blind, Where woman's not allow'd to speak her mind,,, I swear this Eastern pageantry is nonsense, And for one man-one wife's enough of conscience,
In vain proud man usurps what's woman's due; For us alone, they honour's paths pursue: Inspir’d by us, they glory's heights ascend ; Woman the source, the object, and the end. Though wealth, and pow'r, and glory, they receive, These are all trifles to what we can give. For us the statesman labours, hero fights, is Bears toilsome days, and wakes long tedious nights ; And, when blest peace has silenc'd war's-alarms, Receives his full reward in Beauty's arms,
SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, APRIL 5, 1750,
BEFORE THE MASQUE OF COMUS.
Acted at Drury-Lane Theatre, for the Benefit of
.. Milton's Grand-daughter*,
| Ye patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame, .
Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name, :
Whose gen'rous zeal, unbought by flatt'ring rhymes,
Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times,
Immortal patrons of succeeding days, i
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise ;
Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With close malevolence, or publick rage,
Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this theatre, and grieve no more.
This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall tell
That never Britain can in vain excel; son
The-slighted arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.
At length our mighty bard's victorious lays'
Fill the loud voice of universal praise;
And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
Yields to renown the centuries to come;
With ardent haste each candidate of fame,
Ambitious, catches at his tow'ring name;
He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow,
Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureat bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold,
Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And want hung threat'ning o'er her slow decay.
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No fav’ring Muse her morning dreams inspire;
Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age;
Hers the mild merits of domestic life.
The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife.
Thus, grac'd with huinble virtue's native charms.
Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms;
Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell,
While tutelary nations guard her cell.
Your's is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave!
'Tis yours to crown desert-beyond the grave.
THE GOOD-NATUR’D MAN, 1769.
PREST by the load of life, the weary mind
Surveys the gen'ral toil of human kind,
With cool submission joins the lab'ring train,
And social sorrow loses half its pain :
Our anxious bard without complaint may shart
This bustling season's epidemic care;
Like Cæsar's pilot dignify'd by Fate,
Tost in one common storm with all the great;
Distrest alike the statesman and the wit,
When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit.
The busy candidates for power and fame
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same;
Disabled both to combat or to fly,
Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.
Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.
Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale,
For that blest year when all that vote may rail ;
Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss,
Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss.
" This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,' Says swelling Crispin, “ begg'd a cobler's vote.” “ This night our wit,” the pert apprentice cries, “ Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charin th' electing tribe; The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold, He feels no want of ill-persuading gold; But, confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts without fear to merit and to you,