Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine;
But thou wert born to massacre mankind.

How
many
old men's sighs, and widow's moans;
How many orphans' water-standing eyes;

Men for their sons', wives for their husbands' fate,
And children for their parents' timeless death,
Will rue the hour that ever thou wert born?
The owl shriek'd at thy birth, an evil sign!
The night-crow cry'd, forboding luckless times;
Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempests shook down trees;
The raven rook'd her on the chimney top,

And chattering pies in dismal discord sung;

Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wert born,
Which plainly said, thou cam'st to bite mankind;
And if the rest be true which I have heard,

Thou cam'st

Glos. I'll hear no more;-die, prophet, in thy speech: For this, among the rest, was I ordained. (Stabs him.) King H. Oh! and for much more slaughter after this: Just heav'n forgive my sins, and pardon thee!

(Dies.)

Glos. What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster
Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted.
See how my sword weeps for the poor king's death.
Oh, may such purple tears be always shed

From those that wish the downfall of our house!

If any spark of life be yet remaining,
Down, down to hell, and say I sent thee thither

(Stabs him.)

I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear.
Indeed, 'tis true what Henry told me of;
Then since the heav'ns have shaped my body so,
Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it!
I have no brother, and am like no brother—
Let this word love, which grey-beards call divine,

Be resident in men like one another,

And not in me; — I am

-myself alone.

Clarence, beware, thou keep'st me from the light;

But if I fail not in my deep intent,

Thou'st not another day to live; which done,
Heaven take the weak king Edward to his mercy,

And leave the world for me to bustle in.

But soft;- I'm sharing spoil before the field is won.
Clarence still breathes, Edward still lives and reigns,-
When they are gone, then I must count my gains. (Exit R.)

SCENE FROM THE PLAY OF LOVE.

BY SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

COSTUMES.

HUON. A dark-colored blouse, COUNTESS. A handsome, white silk, satin, or muslin dress.

and black belt.

REMARKS. The lowly in station, though possessed in mind of all that ennobles, are too often compelled to feel their inferiority, as recognized by the arbitrary laws which govern society, to those, who, perhaps, by the aid of adventitious circumstances alone, rank amongst the rich, the noble. The serf may be in all respects, so far as his manhood is concerned, his master's superior; but to the world he is known only as that master's vassal. He may love one, who, in rank, towers far above him, with a holy love, but death awaits him if he but breathes a hint of his passion; he may be loved in return; but what high-born dame would dare stoop to an alliance with one of lowly birth and vulgar lineage? Vulgar only by the laws of heraldry, not by the laws of God. Such is the situation of the characters in the play-the Countess, and Huon, the serf- from which the following scene is taken. As yet, the Countess is not represented as loving the serf: she feels an interest in his welfare, which her pride will not allow her to acknowledge to herself; nothing more. Huon, reasoning from the poet's text, that station should not build up itself as a barrier between two souls

destined for each other, and loving her with whom he reasons, speaks the very language of his soul; hesitates not in pointing out her duty to his mistress; to her, whose power could, without being for an instant questioned, doom him to a vassal's death. The language of the scene will, to the careful reader, suggest the manner in which the characters should be represented.

The COUNTESS discovered, R. C. HUON reading to her, L Countess. Give o'er! I hate the poet's argument! 'Tis falsehood-'tis offence. A noble maid

Stoop to a peasant!-Ancestry, sire, dam,
Kindred and all, of perfect blood, despised
For love!

Huon. The peasant, though of humble stock,
High nature did ennoble—

Coun. What was that?

Mean you to justify it? But go on.

Huon. Not to offend

Coun.

(Rises and comes forward.)

Offend!-No fear of that,

I hope, 'twixt thee and me! I pray you, sir,
To recollect yourself, and be at ease,
And as bid you, do. Go on.

Huon. Descent,

You'll grant, is not alone nobility,

Will you not? Never yet was line so long,
But it beginning had: and that was found
In rarity of nature, giving one

Advantage over many; aptitude

For arms, for counsel, so superlative
As baffled all competitors, and made
The many glad to follow him as guide

Or safeguard: "and with title to endow him,
For his high honor, or to gain some end
Supposed propitious to the general weal,

On those who should descend from him entailed."
Not in descent alone, then, lies degree,

Which from descent to nature may be traced,
Its proper fount? And that which nature did,
You'll grant she may be like to do again;
And in a very peasant, yea, a slave,
Enlodge the worth that roots the noble tree.

I trust I seem not bold, to argue so.

(The Countess eyes him.)

Coun. Sir, when to me it matters what you seem, Make question on't. If you have more to say,

Proceed-yet mark you how the poet mocks

Himself your advocacy; in the sequel

His hero is a hind in masquerade!

He proves to be a lord.

Huon. The poet sinned

Against himself in that! He should have known
A better trick, who had at hand his own

Excelling nature to admonish him,

Than the low cunning of the common craft.

A hind, his hero, won the lady's love:
He had worth enough for that!

Her heart was his.

Wedlock joins nothing, if it joins not hearts.
Marriage was never meant for coats of arms.
Heraldry flourishes on metal, silk,

Or wood. Examine as you will the blood,
No painting on 't, is there?
The peasant's as the noble's!

as red, as warm,

Coun. Dost thou know

Thou speak'st to me?

Huon. "T is therefore so I speak.

Coun. And know'st thy duty to me?

That towerest 'bove thy station!-Pardon me!
Oh, would'st thou set thy rank before thyself?
Would'st thou be honored for thyself, or that?
Rank that excels its wearer, doth degrade;
Riches impoverish, that divide respect.
Oh, to be cherished for oneself alone!

To owe the love that cleaves to us to naught
Which fortune's summer-winter-gives or takes!
To know that while we wear the heart and mind,
Feature and form, high heaven endowed us with,
Let the storm pelt us, or fair weather warm,

We shall be loved! Kings, from their thrones cast down,
Have blessed their fate, that they were valued for
Themselves, and not their stations, when some knee,

That hardly bowed to them in plenitude,

Has kissed the dust before them stripped of all!

Coun. (confused.) I nothing see that's relative in this,

That bears upon the argument.

Huon. Oh, much,

Durst but my heart explain.

Coun. Hast thou a heart?