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Bid them their betters jostle

From day and its delights!

But at night, brother Howlet, far over the woods,
Toll the world to thy chantry—
Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods
Full complines with gallantry-
Then, owls and bats, cowls and twats,
Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods,
Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry!

[After she has begun to undress herself. Now, one thing I should like really to know: How near I ever might approach all these I only fancied being, this long day-Approach, I mean, so as to touch themAs to.. in some way. move them—if you please, Do good or evil to them some slight way.

For instance, if I wind

Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind

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[Sitting on the bedside.

Ah, me and my important part with them,
This morning's hymn half promised when I rose!
True in some sense or other, I suppose,
Though I passed by them all, and felt no sign.

With God, whose puppets, best and worst,
Are we: there is no last nor first—

[As she lies down.

God bless me! I can pray no more to-night.
No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right.
All service is the same with God-

[She sleeps.


A Tragedy.

So far as I know, this Tragedy is the first artistical consequence of what Voltaire termed "a terrible event without consequences;" and although it professes to be historical, I have taken more pains to arrive at the history than most readers would thank me for particularizing: since acquainted, as I will hope them to be, with the chief circumstances of Victor's remarkable European career-nor quite ignorant of the sad and surprising facts I am about to reproduce (tolerable accounts of which are to be found, for instance, in Abbé Roman's Récit, or even the fifth of Lord Orrery's Letters from Italy) -I cannot expect them to be versed, nor desirous of becoming so, in all the details of the memoirs, correspondence, and relations of the time. From these only may be obtained a knowledge of the fiery and audacious temper, unscrupulous selfishness, profound dissimulation, and singular fertility in resources, of Victor—the extreme and painful sensibility, prolonged immaturity of powers, earnest good purpose and vacillating will, of Charles-the noble and right woman's-manliness of his wife-and the ill-considered rascality and subsequent better-advised rectitude of D'Ormea. When I say, therefore, that I cannot but believe my statement (combining as it does what appears correct in Voltaire and plausible in Condorcet) more true to person and thing than any it has hitherto been my fortune to meet with, no doubt my word will be taken, and my evidence spared as readily.



VICTOR AMADEUS, First King of Sardinia.

CHARLES EMANUEL, his Son, Prince of Piedmont.
POLYXENA, Wife of Charles.

D'ORMEA, Minister.

SCENE-The Council Chamber of Rivoli Palace, near Turin, communicating with a Hall at the back, an Apartment to the left and another to the right of the stage.

TIME, 1730-1.



CHARLES, POlyxena.

Cha. You think so? Well, I do not.

My beloved,

All must clear up-we shall be happy yet :
This cannot last forever . . oh, may change
To-day, or any day!

May change!

-May change? Ah yes

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Endure it, then.

No doubt, a life

Like this drags on, now better and now worse;
My father may may take to loving me;
And he may take, too, D'Ormea closer yet
To counsel him ;-may even cast off her
-That bad Sebastian; but he also may
.. Or, no, Polyxena, my only friend,
He may not force you from me?

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Now, force me
From you !-me, close by you as if there gloomed
No D'Ormeas, no Sebastians on our path-
At Rivoli or Turin, still at hand,
Arch-counsellor, prime confidant . . . force me!
Cha. Because I felt as sure, as I feel sure
We clasp hands now, of being happy once.
Young was I, quite neglected, nor concerned
By the world's business that engrossed so much
My father and my brother: if I peered

From out my privacy,-amid the crash

And blaze of nations, domineered those two;

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'Twas war, peace-France our foe, now-England friend

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In love with Spain-at feud with Austria !-Well—
I wondered-laughed a moment's laugh for pride

In the chivalrous couple-then let drop

My curtain-"I am out of it," I said—


Pol. You have told me, Charles.

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