That their rebellious hate they still retain, And in his son would murder him again. With indignation, then, let each brave heart Rouse and unite to take his injured part; Till Royal love and goodness call him home,[80] And songs of triumph meet him as he come; Till Heaven his honour and our peace restore, And villains never wrong his virtue more. FOOTNOTES: [78] This refers to the attack upon Dryden in Rose Street, Covent Garden, in December 1679--made by order of Rochester in consequence, it is supposed, of Dryden being reputed the author of the _Essay on Satire_. The preceding verse probably contains an allusion to the stabbing of Mr. Scroop by Sir Thomas Armstrong, in the pit of the Duke's Theatre, which is mentioned by Langbaine (_Dram. Poets_, p. 460). [79] The same incident is referred to by other writers. The Duke of York's picture had been cut from the legs downwards. [80] The Duke was then in a sort of exile in Scotland. [Illustration: APPENDIX.] The following letters were first published among a collection of _Familiar Letters by Lord Rochester and others_, &c. 8vo, 1697; and were afterwards subjoined to an edition of Otway's Works in 1727, under the title of "Love Letters." They have no superscription, but are supposed to have been written to Mrs. Barry, the actress. LETTER I. My Tyrant! I endure too much torment to be silent, and have endured it too long not to make the severest complaint. I love you, I dote on you; desire makes me mad when I am near you, and despair when I am from you. Sure, of all miseries, love is to me the most intolerable: it haunts me in my sleep, perplexes me when waking; every melancholy thought makes my fears more powerful, and every delightful one makes my wishes more unruly. In all other uneasy chances of a man's life, there is an immediate recourse to some kind of succour or another: in wants we apply ourselves to our friends, in sickness to physicians; but love, the sum, the total of all misfortunes, must be endured with silence; no friend so dear to trust with such a secret, nor remedy in art so powerful to remove its anguish. Since the first day I saw you, I have hardly enjoyed one hour of perfect quiet. I loved you early; and no sooner had I beheld that soft bewitching face of yours, but I felt in my heart the very foundation of all my peace give way: but when you became another's I must confess that I did then rebel, had foolish pride enough to promise myself I would in time recover my liberty: in spite of my enslaved nature, I swore, against myself, I would not love you; I affected a resentment, stifled my spirit, and would not let it bend so much as once to upbraid you, each day it was my chance to see or to be near you: with stubborn sufferance I resolved to bear, and brave your power: nay, did it often too, successfully.