_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._ [Illustration] 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._ [Illustration: EPILOGUE] 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,