Seof. Where will this Fury drive you?
King, To my Heav'n,

To Ethelinda's Arms. This very Evening,
While the deluded Britons urge our Foes,
And wreak my Vengeance on the Saxon Offa,
Amidst the first Disorder of the Fray,

Twill not be hard to feize the weeping Fair;
And, while the fighting Fools contend in vain,
With all the Wings the God of Love can lend,
To bear her far away.

Seof. Ha!--whither mean you

To bend this rafh (I fear) this fatal Flight?

King. Near where the Medway rolls her gentle Waves To meet the Thames in his Imperial Stream,

Thou know'st I have a Caftle of fuch Strength,
As well may fcorn the Menace of a Siege.
Thither I mean to bear my lovely Prize,
And, in Defpight of all the envious World,
There riot in her Arms. But break we off.

Hafte to perform my Orders, and then follow,
And share in all the Fortunes of thy King. [Exit King.
Manet Seofrid.

Seof. Fools that we are! to vex the lab'ring Brain,
And wafte decaying Nature thus with Thought;
To keep the weary Spirits waking still;
To goad and drive 'em in eternal Rounds
Of restless racking Care; 'tis all in vain.
Blind Goddefs Chance! henceforth I follow thee.
The Politicians of the World may talk,

May make a mighty Bustle with their Forefight,
Their Schemes and Arts; their Wisdom is thy Slave.

SCENE changes to the Temple.

Enter Aribert and Ethelinda.

Ethel. When this, the last of all our Days of Sorrow, Flies faft, and haftens to fulfil its Courfe;

When the blest Hour of Death at length is near,

Why doft thou mourn? when that good time is come,
When we fhall weep no more, but live for ever:
In that dear Place, where no Misfortunes come;
Where Age, and Want, and Sickness are not known,
And where this wicked World shall cease from troubling;
When thick defcending Angels croud the Air,

And wait with Crowns of Glory to reward us;
Why art thou fad, my Love, my Lord, my Aribert?
Ari. It comes, indeed, the cruel Moment comes,
That muft divide our faithful Loves for ever.
A few fhort Minutes more, and both fhall perish,
Sink to the Place where all things are forgotten.
Our Youth and fair Affections fhall be barren;
Shall know no Joys, which other Lovers know.
Shall leave no Name behind us, no Posterity,
Only the fad Remembrance of our Woes,

To draw a Tear from each who reads our Story.
And doft thou ask me wherefore I am fad?

Ethel. 'Tis hard indeed, 'tis very hard to part.
Tho' my Heart grieves to want its Heav'n so long,
Pants for its Blifs, and fickens with Delay;
Yet I could be content to live for thee.
Yes, I will own thy Image stands before me,
And intercepts my Journey to the Stars,
Calls back the fervent Breathings of my Soul
D

OL

To Earth and thee; with longing Looks I turn,
Forget my Flight, and linger here below.

Ari. Is it decreed, by Heav'n's eternal Will,
That none fhall pass the golden Gates above,
But those who forrow here? Muft we be wretched?
Muft we be drown'd in many Floods of Tears,
To wash our deep, our inborn Stains away,
Or never fee the Saints, and taste their Joys?
Ethel. The great o'er-ruling Author of our Beings,
Deals with his Creature Man in various Ways,
Gracious and good in all; fome feel the Rod,
And own, like us, the Father's chaft'ning Hand.
Sev'n times, like Gold, they pafs the purging Flame,
And are at laft refin'd: while gently fome

Tread all the Paths of Life without a Rub,

With Honour, Health, with Friends and Plenty blefs'd,
Their Years roul round in Innocence and Eafe.
Hoary at length, and in a good old Age,

They go declining to the Grave in Peace,
And change their Pleasures here for Joys above
Ari. To have fo many Bleffings heap'd upon me,
Tranfcends my Wish. I ask'd but only thee.
Give me, I faid, but Life, and Ethelinda;
Let us but run the common Course together,
Grow kindly old in one another's Arms,
And take us to thy Mercy then, good Heav'n.
But Heav'n thought that too much.

Ethel. If our dear Hopes,

If what we value moft on Earth, our Loves,
Are blafted thus by Death's untimely Hand;
If nothing good remains for us below,
so much the rather let us turn our Thoughts,
To feek beyond the Stars our better Portion;

That

That wond'rous Blifs which Heav'n referves in ftore,
Well to reward us for our Loffes here;

That Blifs which Heav'n, and only Heav'n can give,
Which fhall be more to thee than Ethelinda,

And more to me-Oh vaft Excefs of Happiness! Where fhall my Soul make room for more than Aribert

Enter Rodogune and Attendants.

Rodo. If, while fhe lives, ftill I am doom'd to suffer,
Why am I cruel to my felf? -No more-

'Tis foolish Pity-How fecure of Conqueft
The foft Enchantress looks! but be at Peace;
Beat not, my Heart, for she shall fall thy Victim.
Appear, ye Priests, ye dreadful holy Men;
Ye Minifters of the Gods Wrath and mine,
Appear and feize your Sacrifice, this Chriftian.
Bear her to Death, and let her Blood atone
For all the Mifchiefs of her Eyes and Tongue.

The SCENE draws, and difcovers the inner Part of the Temple. A Fire is prepar'd on: one of the Altars, near it are plac'da Rack,. Knives, Axes, and other Inftruments of Torture; feveral Priefts attending as for a Sa-crifice.

Ari. See where Death comes, array'd in all its Ter

rors;

The Rack, confuming Flames, and wounding Steel.
Your cruel Triumph had not been compleat,
Without this Pomp of Horror. Come, begin;
Tear off my Robes, and bind me to the Rack;

Stretch

Stretch out my corded Sinews 'till they burft,
And let your Knives drink deep the flowing Blood.
You shall behold how a Prince ought to die,

And what a Chriftian dares to fuffer.

Offic. Hold!

[The Guards feize Aribert and Ethelinda

The Prince's Fate is yet deferr'd: The Woman
Is first ordain'd to fuffer.-

- E'er fhe fall

A Victim to our Gods, fhe muft kneel to 'em,
Or prove the Torture.

Ethel. I difdain those Gods..

Offic. Bind her ftrait, and bear her to the Rack.
Ari. What her!-Oh merciless!

Ethel. Oh, ftay me not, my Love! with Joy I go
To prove the bitter Pains of Death before thee,
And lead thee on in the triumphant Way.

Ari. And can my Eyes endure it! to behold.
Thy tender Body torn? thofe dear, foft Arms,
That oft have wreath'd their snowy. Folds about me,
Distorted, bent, and broke with rending Pain?

Oh Rodogune! read, read in my full Eyes,

More than my Tongue can speak, and spare my Love

Rodo. And couldft thou find no other Name but that?

Thy Love! oh fatal, curft, diftracting Sound!

No, I will steel my Heart against thy Pray's,

And whisper to my felf with fullen Pleasure,
The Gods are just at length, and thou shalt feel
Pains fuch as I have known,

Ari. Let me but die,

Cut off this hated Object from your Sight

Bode: Not that for know that I can too-deny,

And