Alt. You mean that she shall die then?

Sci. Ask me not what, nor how, I have resolv'd, For all within is anarchy and uproar.

Oh, Altamont! What a vast scheme of joy
Has this one day destroy'd! Well did I hope
This daughter would have bless'd my latter days;
That I should live to see you the world's wonder,
So happy, great, and good, that none were like you,
While I, from busy life and care set free,

Had spent the evening of my age at home,
Among a little prattling race of yours:

There, like an old man, talk'd a while, and then
Laid down and slept in peace. Instead of this,
Sorrow and shame must bring me to my grave-
Enter a SERVANT.

Serv. Arm yourself, my lord:

Rossano, who but now escap'd the garden,
Has gather'd in the street a band of rioters,
Who threaten you and all your friends with ruin,
Unless Lothario be return'd in safety.

Sci. By Heav'n, their fury rises to my wish,
Nor shall misfortune know my house alone.
But thou, Lothario, and thy race, shall pay me
For all the sorrows which my age is curs'd with.
I think my name as great, my friends as potent,
As any in the state; all shall be summon'd;
I know that all will join their hands to ours,
And vindicate thy vengeance. When our force
Is full, and arm'd, we shall expect thy sword
To join with us, and sacrifice to justice.

[Exit.

[Exeunt.

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.

A Room hung with Black; on one Side, LOTHARIO'S Body on a Bier; on the other, a Table, with a Skull and other Bones, a Book and a Lamp on it.

CALISTA is discovered in Black; her Hair hanging loose, and disordered. After soft Music, she rises and comes forward.

Cal. 'Tis well! these solemn sounds, this pomp of horror,

Are fit to feed the phrenzy in my soul.

Here's room for meditation, ev'n to madness;

Till the mind burst with thinking. This dull flame
Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left
To tell me something;--for instruction then-
He teaches holy sorrow, and contrition,
And penitence.-Is it become an art, then?
A trick that lazy, dull, luxurious gownmen,
Can teach us to do over? I'll no more on't;

[Throwing away the Book

I have more real anguish in my heart,
Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew.
What charnel has been rifled for these bones?
Fie! this is pageantry;-they look uncouthly;
But what of that, if he or she that own'd them
Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see
The farce their miserable relicks play?
But here's a sight is terrible indeed!

Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario,
That dear perfidious-Ah!-how pale he looks!
How grim with clotted blood, and those dead eyes!
Ascend, ye ghosts, fantastic forms of night,