SCENE IV.--_A Room in_ PRIULI'S _House_.

_Soft Music. Enter_ BELVIDERA _distracted, led by two_ _of her_ Women, PRIULI, _and_ Servants.

_Priu._ Strengthen her heart with patience, pitying Heaven!

_Belv._ Come, come, come, come--nay, come to bed, Pr'ythee, my love. The winds! hark how they whistle! And the rain beats: oh, how the weather shrinks me! You're angry now; who cares? pish, no, indeed! Choose then; I say you shall not go, you shall not. Whip your ill-nature; get you gone then--oh!

[JAFFIER'S Ghost _rises_.

Are you returned? See, father, here he's come again: Am I to blame to love him? O, thou dear one! [Ghost _sinks_. Why do you fly me? are you angry still then? Jaffier! where art thou? Father, why do you do thus? Stand off, don't hide him from me. He's here somewhere. Stand off, I say! what, gone? remember it, tyrant! I may revenge myself for this trick one day. I'll do't--I'll do't. Renault's a nasty fellow: Hang him, hang him, hang him!

_Enter_ Officer _and others_.

_Priu._ News--what news? [Officer _whispers_ PRIULI.

_Offi._ Most sad, sir. Jaffier, upon the scaffold, to prevent A shameful death, stabbed Pierre, and next himself: Both fell together.

_Priu._ Daughter!

[_The_ Ghosts _of_ JAFFIER _and_ PIERRE _rise together, both bloody_.

_Belv._ Ha, look there! My husband bloody, and his friend too! Murder! Who has done this? speak to me, thou sad vision; [Ghosts _sink_. On these poor trembling knees I beg it. Vanished!-- Here they went down. Oh, I'll dig, dig the den up. You shan't delude me thus. Ho, Jaffier, Jaffier, Peep up and give me but a look. I have him! I've got him, father: oh, now how I'll smuggle him! My love! my dear! my blessing! help me! help me! They've hold on me, and drag me to the bottom. Nay--now they pull so hard--farewell! [_Dies._

_Maid._ She's dead-- Breathless and dead.

_Priu._ Then guard me from the sight on't. Lead me into some place that's fit for mourning, Where the free air, light, and the cheerful sun May never enter; hang it round with black; Set up one taper that may last a day, As long as I've to live; and there all leave me,-- Sparing no tears when you this tale relate; But bid all cruel fathers dread my fate. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[77] This was the burden of many songs of that period, as in the following:

"We'll drive the doctors out of doors, And parts whate'er they be, We'll cry all parts and learning down, And _heigh then up go we_."

_Collec. of Songs_, 1731.--_Thornton._

The text is done, and now for application, And when that's ended, pass your approbation. Though the conspiracy's prevented here, Methinks I see another hatching there; And there's a certain faction fain would sway, If they had strength enough, and damn this play. But this the author bade me boldly say:-- If any take his plainness in ill part, He's glad on't from the bottom of his heart; Poets in honour of the truth should write, With the same spirit brave men for it fight; And though against him causeless hatreds rise, And daily where he goes of late, he spies The scowls of sullen and revengeful eyes, 'Tis what he knows with much contempt to bear, And serves a cause too good to let him fear. He fears no poison from an incensed drab, No ruffian's five-foot-sword, nor rascal's stab, Nor any other snares of mischief laid,-- Not a Rose-alley cudgel-ambuscade,[78] From any private cause where malice reigns, Or general pique all blockheads have to brains: Nothing shall daunt his pen when truth does call-- No, not the picture-mangler[79] at Guildhall. The rebel tribe, of which that vermin's one, Have now set forward, and their course begun; And while that prince's figure they deface, As they before had massacred his name, Durst their base fears but look him in the face, They'd use his person as they've used his fame: A face in which such lineaments they read Of that great martyr's, whose rich blood they shed, That their rebellious hate they still retain, And in his son would murder him again. With indignation, then, let each brave heart Rouse and unite to take his injured part; Till Royal love and goodness call him home,[80] And songs of triumph meet him as he come; Till Heaven his honour and our peace restore, And villains never wrong his virtue more.

FOOTNOTES:

[78] This refers to the attack upon Dryden in Rose Street, Covent Garden, in December 1679--made by order of Rochester in consequence, it is supposed, of Dryden being reputed the author of the _Essay on Satire_. The preceding verse probably contains an allusion to the stabbing of Mr. Scroop by Sir Thomas Armstrong, in the pit of the Duke's Theatre, which is mentioned by Langbaine (_Dram. Poets_, p. 460).

[79] The same incident is referred to by other writers. The Duke of York's picture had been cut from the legs downwards.

[80] The Duke was then in a sort of exile in Scotland.

The following letters were first published among a collection of _Familiar Letters by Lord Rochester and others_, &c. 8vo, 1697; and were afterwards subjoined to an edition of Otway's Works in 1727, under the title of "Love Letters." They have no superscription, but are supposed to have been written to Mrs. Barry, the actress.