Didst thou not strike thy father's cruel present,
My sword, into thy breast?

HIPPOLITUS.

I aim'd it there,

But turn'd it from myself, and flew Cratander;
The guards, not trufted with his fatal orders,
Granted my wifh, and brought me to the king:
I fear'd not death, but could not bear the thought-
Of Thefeus' forrow, and Ifmena's lofs;

Therefore I haften'd to your royal presence,
Here to receive my doom.

THESEUS.

Be this thy doom,

To live for ever in Ifmena's arms.

Go, heavenly pair, and with your dazling virtues,
Your courage, truth, your innocence, and love,
Amaze and charm mankind; and rule that empire,
For which in vain your rival fathers fought.

Oh killing joy!

ISMENA,

HIPPOLITUS.

Oh extafy of bliss!

Am I poffefs'd at laft of my Ifmena?

Of that cœleftial maid, oh pitying gods!

How fhall I thank your bounties for my fufferings,.

For all my pains, and all the pangs I 've born?
Since 't was to them I owe divine Ifmena,
To them I owe the dear confent of Thefeus.
Yet there's a pain lies heavy on my heart,
For the difaftrous fate of hapless Phædra.

THESEUS,

THESEUS.

Deep was her anguish; for the wrongs fhe did you She chose to die, and in her death deplor'd

'Your fate, and not her own.

HIPPOLITUS.

I've heard it all.

O! had not paffion fully'd her renown,

None e'er on earth had shone with equal lustre;
So glorious liv'd, or fo lamented dy'd.

Her faults were only faults of raging love,
Her virtues all her own.

ISMENA.

Unhappy Phædra!

Was there no other way, ye pitying Powers,
No other way to crown Ifmena's love?
Then must I ever mourn her cruel fate,
And in the midst of my triumphant joy,
Ev'n in my hero's arms, confefs fome forrow.

THESEUS.

O tender maid! forbear, with ill-tim'd grief, To damp our bleffings, and incense the gods : But let's away, and pay kind Heaven our thanks For all the wonders in our favour wrought; That Heaven, whofe mercy rescued erring Thefeus From execrable crimes, and endless woes. Then learn from me, ye kings that rule the world, With equal poize let steady justice sway, And flagrant crimes, with certain vengeance pay, But, till the proofs are clear, the stroke delay.

HIPPOLITUS.

The righteous gods, that innocence require, Protect the goodness which themselves inspire Unguarded virtue human arts defiés,

Th' accus'd is happy, while th' accufer dies.

1

[Exeunt omnes

EIN. I Sa

A POEM

SINCE

The Bard who spread her fame to distant shores; Since nobler pens their mournful lays fufpend, My honest zeal, if not my verse, commend, Forgive the poet, and approve the friend. Your care had long his fleeting life restrain'd, One table fed you, and one bed contain'd; For his dear fake long reftless nights you bore, While rattling coughs his heaving veffels tore, Much was his pain, but your affliction more. Oh! had no fummons from the noisy gown Call'd thee, unwilling, to the nauseous town, Thy love had o'er the dull disease prevail'd, Thy mirth had cur'd where baffled physic fail'd ;' But fince the will of Heaven his fate decreed, To thy kind care my worthless lines fucceed; Fruitless our hopes, though pious our effays, Yours to preserve a friend, and mine to praise. Oh! might I paint him in Miltonian verse, With trains like those he sung on Glo'fter's herfe;

But

But with the meaner tribe I 'm forc'd to chime,
And, wanting strength to rife, defcend to rhyme.

With other fire his glorious Blenheim fhines,
And all the battle thunders in his lines;
His nervous verse great Boileau's ftrength transcends,
And France to Philips, as to Churchill, bends.

Oh! various bard, you all our powers control,
You now difturb, and now divert the foul;
Milton and Butler in thy mufe combine,
Above the last thy manly beauties shine;
For as I've feen, when rival wits contend,
One gayly charge, one gravely wife defend;
This on quick turns and points in vain relies,
This with a look demure, and fteady eyes,
With dry rebukes, or fneering praife, replies.
So thy grave lines extort a jufter fiile,
Reach Butler's fancy, but furpafs his ftyle;
He speaks Scarron's low phrafe in humble ftrains,
In thee the folemn air of great Cervantes reigns.

What founding lines his abject themes express!
What fhining words the pompous Shilling dress!
There, there my cell, immortal made, outvies
The frailer piles which o'er its ruins rife.
In her beft light the Comic Muse appears,
When fhe, with borrow'd pride, the buskin wears.

So when nurfe Nokes, to act young Ammon tries, With fhambling legs, long chin, and foolish eyes; With dangling hands he ftrokes th' Imperial robe, And, with a cuckold's air, eommands the globe;