BONDUCA: OR, The British Heroine, A TRAGEDY.  
Acted at the Theatre Royal. BY His MAJESTY's SERVANTS. With a New Entertainment of MUSIC, Vocal and Instrumental  
Never Printed or Acted before.  
LONDON, Printed for Richard Bentley, in Russel-Street near Covent-Garden, 1696.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, The LORD JEFFEREYS, BARON of WEM, etc.  
My Lord,  
THE fairest Excuse I can find for this Presumption, is, That the Modern Publications of Plays, are like the Roman Buildings, under the Umbrage of some Household Deity, Erected over some Portico, to Fence and keep all safe within. And indeed, as Plays are but Piles of Wit, the Structure of Ingenuity, a Noble Name in the Frontispiece, is much the same Domestic Guardian; at least, for my own part, I have made the most proper Choice of such a Tutelar Power in your Lordship. For where should the Muses seek Covert and Protection, but there, where both Apollo and Minerva are Your Lordship's Hereditaries; whilst you spring from those Veins that so entirely Entitle and Quality You for a Maecenas?  
And whilst Bonduca stands so shelterd under Your Lordship's Protection, I must say, 'tis a Fabric of Antiquity; a Foundation of that Celebrated Poetical Architect, the Famous Fletcher: But with several Alterations, besides the two First Acts New Writ.  
But whilst I make this bold Address to Your Lordship, there are two Considerations requisite to an Epistle Dedicatory: The Present, and the Hand that makes it. For the First of these, 'tis the Offspring of Beaumond and Fletcher, I lay at Your Lordship's Feet; and under that Name, the very Parentage stamps that Merit upon it, as should carry its own Safety; for methinks when Great Authors revive, they should have no Ordeal to pass either to the Stage or the Press. Both Censure and Malice should stand Awed and Silenced there; insomuch that instead of Supplications, either to the Audience, or Readers good Humour and Smiles; on the contrary, they should enjoy all the Benefits of the Great Dead, be past any Danger of the Critics Purgatory, in an immediate state of Felicity: And consequently by the Canons of the Muses, as well as the Church's Rubric, to be above the want of Prayers.  
Besides, as the Present I make Your Lordship, is all our own Native Growth; the History of a British Heroine; it carries some more favourable Recommendation to your Lordship's Acceptance: For where can our Noblest English Memoirs be more gracefully or more suitably lodged, than in the Hands of the Noblest English Honour? And it has this further Advantage, as being an English Story; That the Glory of Worthies and Heroes sounds sweetest, where the Music is Tuned at Home.  
But for the Unworthy Hand that makes the Present (my other Dedicatory Consideration) There even Poetry itself is at aloss for an Apology; nay the very Player almost Blushes too. 'Tis true, my Lord, Your Lordship has vouchsafed to Grace and Encourage our willing Endeavours with Extraordinary Smiles, being that Condescension and Goodness in You, that show Your Lordship is resolved not to suffer the Gems of your Nobleman's Coronet, to outdazle the Sparks of the Gentleman, that Shines through your whole Conversation.  
And to tell the Truth, my Lord, You have so Exalted and wrapped us up with Your Lordship's Generous Favours; that as Pride is naturally its own Trumpet; my, very Vanity alone is Argument and Encouragement sufficient to make this Publication to the whole World, of the Infinite Obligations due to Your Lordship, from,  
My LORD, Your Lordship's most Humble, and Most Obedient Servant GEO. POWELL.   

TO THE READER.  
I Must make room for one Page more, to tell you how our Bonduca set Foot upon the Stage. The Value of the Original is not unknown to those who have read it in Fletcher: A Value that has often times been prized so high, that the whole Brotherhood of the Quill have for many Years been blamed for letting so Ingenious a Relic of the Last Age, as Bonduca, lie dormant, when so inconsiderable an Additional Touch of the Pen was wanting, to make it fit for an Honourable Reception in This.  
This Consideration prompted a Friend of mine, a much abler Hand than my own, to attempt it; not that his Leisure, Attendance or Inclinations, would permit him to make any long Toil of it. For to tell the Truth, the whole Play was revised quite through, and likewise studied up in one Fortnight.  
This Undertaker, who beslowed but Four Days Labour upon it, being above the Interest Part of an Author; and likewise a Person of that Modesty, as to affect no Plumes from Poetry, he was generously pleased to put it into my Hands to usher it into the World.   

PROLOGUE.  Spoken by Mr. POWEL. 

WEll, Gallants of the Pit, first to be just  
To the great Dead, the sleeping Fletcher's Dust,  
His proud Bonduca, in this fighting Age,  
That English Heroine wakes to tread our Stage,  
That Bard— But let him sleep i' th' Laurel Bed,  
We've business with the Living, not the Dead.  
Between us and the other Theatre  
There is proclaimed, and still maintained a War,  
And all, but knocking out of Brains, is fair.  
We're blamed for raising in one Night, what they  
In thirty tedious days can scarce display;  
But that to our Advantage sure, is spoke;  
So Heusler by swift Marches, gained his Work:  
And Cut off the Provision of the Turk.  
And therefore, if the Truth you would declare;  
Say Gallants, to your Smiles, who bids most fair;  
Our Growing Spring, or Fading Autumn there?  
Besides, though our weak Merit shincs less Bright,  
Yet we've the Advantage, a Fairer Light,  
Our Nobler Theatre's. Nay we are bringing  
Machine's, Scenes, Operas, Music, Dancing, Singing;  
Translated from the Chiller, Bleaker Strand,  
To your Sweet Covent-Garden's Warmer Land.  
To us, Young Players, then let some Smiles fall:  
Let not their dear Antiquities sweep all.  
Antiquity on a Stage? Oh Fie! 'tis Idle:  
Age in Good Wine is well, or in a Fiddle.  
Ay than it has a little Music there;  
But in an Old, Decrepit, Withered Player;  
It looks like a stale Maid at her last Prayer.  
Yet if you think it better, we can play  
Like whining Zanger, or stiff Mustapha:  
Or else, Gad mend me Rustan, you shall see;  
But who can make a Figure such as he?   

Therefore divide your Favours the right way,  
To th' Young your Love, to th' old your Reverence pay.    

Personae Dramatis.  
 MEN. Suetonius, General of the Romans. Mr. Verbruggen. Petilius, a Roman Officer. Mr. Harland. Junius, another Roman Officer. Mr. Hill. Decius, a Roman Officer. Mr. Eldred. Macer, a Hungry Roman Soldier. Mr. Mic. Lee. Caratach, General of the Britain's. Mr. Powel, Jun. Venutius, in Love with Claudia. Mr. Horden. Hengo, Nephew to Bonduca. Miss. Allison. Nennius, a British Officer. Mr. Mills. Macquaire, a Pict, in Love with Claudia. Mr. Simpson.  WOMEN. Bonduca, Queen of Britain. Mrs. Knight. 

Claudia, 

Daughters to Bonduca.    
Bonvica,   

Mrs. Rogers.  
Miss Cross.    
Roman and British Guards and Attendants, Druids, etc.   

The Tragedy OF BONDUCA  

ACT I. SCENE I.  Enter Nennius and another Captain. Nenn. 
SVETONIUS will Repent his Landing here:  
Conquest hath already Enriched our Soil;  
Our British Fields fatten with Roman slaughter▪  
So much stale Carrion lies in every Ditch,  
That the Rank Steams rise from the rotting Heaps,  
And Choke up all the Air.  Capt. 
They have scarce Men enough  
To try the Fortune of another Battle.  Nenn. 
And those not worth our Conquest:  
A Famine Rages in their pining Troops;  
The Mighty Roman Spirit sickens in 'em,  
And the poor starved Remains of all their Forces,  
Can scarce Advance to make a Feeble War.  Capt. 
What may not our Victorious Queen expect,  
That thus has shook the Daring Power of Rome?  
Our mighty Queen! the Warlike Bonduca,  
That greatly Towers above the humble Sex,  
Aspires to more than Man, and Soars to Hero.  Nenn. 
Our Hardy Britain's ne re will stoop to Rome:  
What Courage can oppose our numerous Forces,  
Whilst that Great Female Spirit bears against it,  
And the Rough Caratach appears himself,  
on  
 Capt. 
He is indeed,  
Our Guard in Peace, and Father of the War.  
The True, Blunt, Honest Britain's stamped upon him:  
His hard, Old Weathered Trunk; his Scars and Wounds,  
And all the Noble Ruins of his Body  
She 〈◊〉 him a Soldier, Nurst, and Bred in Danger;  
His strength, his Vigour, and Majestic look  
Seem to deny his Age, and bear him up  
To perfect Youth.  Nenn. 
The Hero's finished in him.  
Oh Caratach!  
The Everlasting Scourge to wondering Rome,  
Whilst thou art here, to lead us on to Conquest,  
Britain will never droop; never submit,  
Tho' Caesar Raging for his present loss,  
Should start with Fury from the lazy Throne;  
Draw all his Distant Troops to one vast Body,  
And come himself to head the Crowded War.  
But see! the Mighty Caratach appears,  
And Bonduca with her Royal Offspring;  
The Partners of her Blood and Spirit.  Capt. 
I must retire.  Nenn. 
I'll stay.  Enter Caratach, Bonduca, Claudia, Bonvica, Hengo, the Women in an Amazon Dress. Bond. 
Are these the Hero's that Inherit Conquest?  
These hardy Romans? O ye Gods of Britain!  
Are these the Fortune Makers? these the Julian's,  
That with the Sun, measure the end of Nature!  
Shame, how they Fly! Caesar's soft Soul Inspires  
Their Fainting Limbs; their Fathers got 'em sleeping,  
In lazy Lukewarm Fills, and Pleasure Nursed 'em:  
Dare they send these, these smooth Faced Roman Boys,  
To Conquer our well tempered Manly Britain's?  
Twice have they felt the Fury of our Arms;  
A Woman Beat 'em, Caratach, a weak Woman,  
A Woman beat these Romans!  Car. 
So it seems!  
A Man would blush to talk so.  Bond. 
What Caratach, d'ye grieve at my Success?  Car. 
No, Bonduca.  
'Tis at your bearing it, I grieve: Discretion  
And hardy Valour are the Twins of Honour,  
And must together make a Conqueror,  
Divided, but a Talker: 'Tis a Truth,  
That Rome has fled before us twice, and Routed;  
A Noble Truth, we ought to Crown the Gods for.  
But when we meanly would Insult, our Tongues  
Forfeit the Honours which our Swords have won.  Nenn. 
Is this Insulting, is it mean to say  
What Fortune and the Gods allow us?  Car. 
No;  
So what we say, exceeds not what we do.  
What, call the Romans fearful, smooth-faced Boys?  
Does this commend our Conquest? Are they Boys?  Bond. 
Forgive me Soldier, 'tis a Woman's Frailty;  
I must, and will Reproach 'em: Caesar sent 'em  
To Conquer us, and make us Slaves to Rome:  
Now he may send his Vultures too, to feed  
And Riot on 'em, here they lie on heaps;  
And once more Britain, I pronounce 'em Boys.  Car. 
Are Boys the Hero's that must Grace your Triumphs?  
Where's then the glory of your Victory?  
Why are your Altars Crowned with Wreaths of Flowers?  
Why are your Oxen Lowing by the Priest,  
Adorned and Gilded for the Pomp of Death?  
Is this for frighting a poor Herd of Children?  
Is it no more? Shut up your Temples Britain's;  
Putskie out your Holy Fires; forbear to tune  
Your Hymns of Joy; let all go home and sleep:  
For such a Conquest, such a shameful Conquest,  
A Candle burns too bright a Sacrifice.  Bond. 
Sure, Caratach, thou dotest upon these Romans.  Sar. 
Witness these Wounds, I do: A Roman gave 'em.  
I love an Enemy. I was Born a Soldier;  
And he that at the head of's Men, defies me,  
Bending my Manly Body with his Sword;  
I make a Mistress.  Bon. 
Were I of that Mind too,  
My Heart would be wonderfully Engaged  
The next Battle. [Aside.]  Car. 
Ten Years of bitter Nights and heavy Marches,  
Have I wrought through to try these Noble Romans;  
On the hard Ground I've weathered out ten Winters,  
All Chopped with Cold, and stiffning in my Arms,  
When Frozen Storms sung through my battered Helmet;  
And all to try the Romans. Ten times a Night  
I've swom the Rivers, when pursuing Rome  
Shot at me as I floated; when these Arms  
Stemmed the rough Tide, and broke the Rolling Billows;  
And still to try these Romans: 'Tis dishonour,  
And followed will be worse, to taint 'em thus,  
Have not I seen the Britain's—  Bond. 
What?  Car. 
Run, Bonduca, basely screaming out  
Mercy and Quarter from their trembling Lips:  
I've seen these Britain's that you magnify,  
Fly like a Shadow scouring o'er the Plains:  
I've seen thee run, courageous Nennius,  
And you too, Bonduca, run like Winds,  
When that great Chief, the Roman Boy, pursued ye,  
Cut through your armed Carts, and drove 'em headlong.  
Why, I ran too;  
But not so fast. Your Jewel had been lost then,  
Young Hengo there; for when your Fears outran him,  
I in the Head of all the Roman Fury  
Took him, and girding him in my tough Belt,  
Buckled this Bud of Britain to my Back,  
And placed my Shield as a Defence behind him:  
Five times in vain I fought to bear him off;  
We had perished, had not their gallant General  
Cried like a Roman, like a noble Roman,  
Go Britain, bear thy Lion's Whelp off safely;  
Thy manly Sword has ransomed thee; grow strong,  
And let me meet thee once again in Arms.  
Then if thou stand'st thou'rt mine; I took his Offer,  
And here I am to honour him.  Bond. 
Well then,  
Let 'em be Boys or Hero's, still we have conquered;  
And I am proud to think the richest Blood  
Of all the Martial World, now only serves  
To dung my Fields.  Car. 
And I am proud on't too:  
But where we have found Virtue, tho' in those  
That came to make us Slaves, let's cherish it:  
There's not a Blow we gave, since Julius landed,  
That was of Strength or Worth; but like Records,  
They File to After-Ages. The Romans are  
Our Registers for noble Deeds of Honour;  
And shall we burn their Mentions with Upbraid?  Bond. 
My Fortune wound my Female Soul too high,  
And lifted me above myself; but thou  
Hast kindly worked down all my Towering Thoughts:  
Shall we have Peace? For now I love these Romans.  Car. 
Peace! Rather rail on, than think of Peace.  Nenn. 
Why did we fight? isn't Peace the end of War?  Car. 
Not where the Cause implies a General Conquest.  
Had we a Difference with some petty Isle,  
Or with some peevish Neighbour for our Landmarks,  
We'd think of Peace:  
But where we grapple for the Ground we live on,  
The Liberty we hold as dear as Life;  
And with these Swords, that know no end of Battle,  
That where they march, but measure out more Ground  
To add to Rome, and here i'th' Bowels of us:  
It must not be, whilst there's an Eagle waved  
In British Air, we'll never think of Peace.  Bond. 
O Caratach!  
As thou hast nobly spoken shall be done.  
The Romans shall have worthy Wars to thee:  
I give in Charge this little Royal Graft,  
The tender Care and future Price of Britain:  
With thee he's safe, as in his Mother's Arms.  Car. 
And little Sir, when your young Bones grow stiffer,  
And when I see you able in a Morning  
To beat a dozen Boys, and then to Breakfast,  
I'll tie ye to a Sword.  Heng. 
And what then, Uncle?  Car. 
Then you must kill, Sir, the next valiant Roman  
That calls you Knave.  Heng. 
And must I kill but one?  Car. 
A Hundred, Boy, I hope.  Heng. 
I hope Five Hundred.  Car. 
That's a Noble Boy. Come, Madam,  
Let's to our several Charges. Is Venutius  
Returned from viewing the Roman Camp?  Bond. 
Where's your Venutius, Girl? You best can tell.  
Is he come back, my Claudia?  Car. 
Nay, blush not Lady; for with Pride I speak it.  
A braver Britain never shone in Armour:  
Nature has polished every part so smoothly,  
As if she only meant him for a Lover,  
But when (as I have oft with Pleasure seen him)  
He calls up all the Man to rush to War,  
Then Fury sparkles from Majestic Beauty;  
The Soldier kindles, and I lose the Lover,  
Only to wonder at the Godlike Hero.  Clau. 
You've nobly recompensed his Service,  
Greatly returned that Praise, that loud as Fame  
Has often sounded of the Mighty Caratach.  Bond. 
Venutius has deserved your Love, my Daughter,  
And here he comes to claim it.  Enter Venutius. 
Venutius, welcome: Have ye viewed the Romans?  Ven. 
Yes; they are few, and meanly skulked behind  
Their laboured Trenches.  Ben. 
Where thy Courage drove'em.  
Go my Venutius to thy Mistress Arms:  
Thus I reward thy Toil, and crown thy Wishes.  Ven. 
Thus then I'll thank ye:  
By the mighty Joys that fill my Soul,  
Thou'rt dearer, dearer to me,  
Than all the Triumphs that the War could promise.  Bond. 
To morrow let us push the Conquest home,  
And drive th' unwilling Romans from our Isle,  
And then we'll solemnize your Loves in Peace;  
The Holy Priest shall join your Souls for ever.  Ven. 
Speak that again! I'm lost in Ecstasy!  
The Trumpet that alarmed my Soul to War  
Ne'er raised me half so high.  Car. 
Spoke like a Soldier.  
I've always been thy Leader, but to morrow  
I'll follow thee; Love leads us on to Conquest.  
Methinks I see the Toils of Battle cease,  
And weary Britain hushed once more in Peace,  
And thee presented to thy Claudia's Arms,  
Free from the Midnight Terror of Alarms:  
For who, what Roman can our Rage oppose,  
When Love and Courage shoot us on our Foes?  [Exeunt Car. Bond. Bonvica, Hengo: manet Ven. & Claudia. Ven. 
Now I am truly happy. Oh my Claudia!  
With this Reward, the great Reward of Beauty,  
The battered Soldier crowns his glorious Labours,  
And softens all the rugged Toils of Danger.  
To morrow! Oh! Woued thou not joy, my Claudia,  
When from a bloody Field of slaughtered Romans,  
Thy weary Soldier comes with full Desire,  
And brings thee Love and Conquest?  Clau. 
Yes, and with these soft Arms I'll hold you fast,  
Till Honour calls you from me:  
And when fresh Dangers court you to new Wars,  
When your Soul springs to follow dreadful Glory,  
Like a true Britain, like Bonduca's Daughter,  
I'll dress my Hero, bring his Shining Armour;  
Admire my Soldier, while with Pride I view  
The graceful Horrors graven on his Shield,  
And Terror sitting on his haughty Crest;  
Then praise, embrace, and urge him to the War,  
And then—  Ven. 
And then,  
When the rough business of the day is o'er,  
When all my glittering Arms are red with Slaughter,  
And shouting Britain's bring me home in Triumph,  
Let these dear Arms be open to receive me,  
To lull my Cares, and soften 'em to Rest;  
To make me lose the Hero in the Lover,  
And all the Soldier melt to Love and Peace.  Clau. 
Yes, and I'll torture you a thousand ways,  
With thousand thousand Questions of the War;  
With trembling pleasure I will hear it all,  
Heal every Wound you name with balmy Love,  
Clasp my Victorious Hero in my Arms,  
Praise him in every little tender way,  
And bless kind Heaven for all the danger past.  Ven. 
Ye Gods! Is there such Excellence in Woman?  
By all the Promises of glorious Love,  
I'm so impatient till thou art all my own,  
I dare not lose a moment, though with thee;  
New dawning Glory breaks upon my Soul,  
And all my Spirits up to rush to Battle,  
To launch with Fury on the wondering Romans,  
Drive 'em to Fate, then big with Love and Conquest  
Fly to the Altar with a Bridegroom's Joy,  
Perform the hasty Rites of Holy Marriage,  
And seize the noble Prize of all my Labours.  Claud. 
Then sure I shall be free from odious Love.  Ven. 
What means my Blessing?  Claud 
Oh my Venutius, that grim Royal Pict,  
That joins his Troops with us against the Romans,  
That we've so often doubted for a Traitor;  
That Fiend still troubles all my softer hours,  
And haunts me with his saucy Brutal Passion.  Ven. 
Gods! what, that finished piece of perfect Monster?  
Durst he blaspheme the Sacred Name of Love? [Comes peeps.  
I pity him; use him, my Claudia, use him  
For thy Diversion; he's beneath thy Scorn:  
'Tis but a Day, and then with envious Eyes  
He'll see me triumph in my Claudia's Beauty,  
And never dare to own his Passion more.  
Farewell my Love, and tho' 'tis Death to part,  
Yet for a while my Glory calls me from thee.  Claud. 
And will you go so soon? One moment longer.  Ven. 
Oh, I could stay an Age, and still complain  
Of leaving thee too soon. But my Charge waits me,  
And I must see my Troops prepared for Battle.  
Farewell: We part to meet in Peace to join  
For ever; join, and give an Age to Love. [Exit Venutius.  Enter Comes and meets Claudia as she's going out. Com. 
What! my brightest Amazon in Arms again?  
The Toil and Danger of the War is o'er.  Claud. 
Have I not cause to wear a stronger Guard,  
When a worse Foe comes on?  Com. 
The Romans sure will tempt your Rage no more.  Claud. 
But I fear thou wilt.  Com. 
Ha! then am I  
The Foe you meant? I come, my Beauteous Claudia,  
To talk of Friendly things, of Peace and Love.  Claud. 
O think again, Sir; for they both disown thee;  
There is no Peace and Love, where thou art present,  
To mix thyself and spoil, the Godlike Compound.  Com. 
Why dost thou dart at me those scornful Beams  
Of Angry Beauty? Oh! Look milder on me.  
'Twas Love that made me first a Foe to Rome;  
To Fight and Conquer with my Beauteous Claudia.  
'Tis o'er, and that great Love that first began 'em,  
Should Crown our Labours, sweeten all our Toils;  
Spring like our Souls in the first heat of Battle;  
And shoot with fury to each others Arms;  
To Clasp and Grapple midst Triumphant Joys.  Claud. 
Ha, this to me, the Virgin Pride of all Britain?  
Shall I be treated like a Common Prostitute?  
Am I thought mean enough for Beastly Passion,  
The Recreation of his Ranker Hours?  Com. 
Forgive my hasty Zeal; I love with Honour.  
The Sacred Innocence that atoned the Gods,  
Before we drew our Swords against the Romans,  
Burnt not a purer Flame.  Claud. 
Urge me no more: Thou talk of sacred Love!  
Hast thou a Nook in all that huddled Frame,  
Fit for so soft a Guest? It cannot be.  
Fly from my sight, thou bungled Botch of Nature;  
Thou Snuff of Life, and Ruins of a Man.  Com. 
Once I was worthy your Imperious Beauty:  
Curse o''at British Boy, that charmed you from me.  
Am I despised for him?  Claud. 
Rather Curse Nature, thou blaspheming Fiend,  
That ne'er reformed thy Dross: Curse thy own Fate,  
That warmed that uncocted Lump to Life,  
Half finished into Man. Art thou still here?  
Be gone: I would not tell thee—  Com. 
More you cannot;  
The Proudest of your Sex, tho' scorned and loathed,  
Could not have vented more true Woman's spite  
Than you, for being Loved; Loved by a Prince;  
And since you urge me thus, a Prince above you.  Claud. 
Above me!  
This Insolence has given me leave to tell thee,  
And I will speak:  
Have ye forgot the time, when like a Slave,  
Thou went'st prepared to gorge thy rank Desire,  
Where a lewd Strumpet kept her Midnight Court?  
Dost thou remember, how she loathed thy Person?  
E'en she, a Prostitute to all beside,  
Started at this Appearance: I must laugh,  
And tell thee what the public Voice confirms,  
That thou didst force, force even that common Jilt,  
And in the very Stews commit a Rape;  
And dar'st thou own thy monstrous Love to me,  
Scorned by a Whore that every Swain has sullied?  Com. 
Gods! Can I bear all this, and still desire?  
All the rank Malice of your haughty Sex  
Is surely lodged in thee, to make me hate thee  
More than I ever loved; to make thy Soul  
Ugly and loathsome as that ghastly Terror  
Your Impious Fancy drew for me. Go then,  
Go to your Lover's Arms, and wanton there:  
I'll court Disdain no more, no longer feast  
My hungry Eyes on that proud Beauty.  Claud. 
Then I'm your Friend again; and now let's part,  
Part in this very pleasing careless Mood,  
And ne'er from this kind Resolution move:  
I will forget my Scorn, and you your Love. [Exit Claudia, Manet Comus solas.  Com. 
And I my Love? Gods! Can she think I loved her?  
I'm unacquainted with that Boyish Passion;  
My Soul's inspired with a nobler Flame,  
A mighty Governing Lust shoots through my Veins;  
I'll fawn no more, but force her to the Bliss,  
And glut at once my Vengeance and Desire:  
I'll ravish her; my old experienced way:  
And generally too, 'tis the Consequence  
Of all my awkward Wooing; the Thought warms me.  
Ye Gods! ye Gods! How it would 〈◊〉 my Soul,  
To clasp this lovely Fury in my Arms!  
Whilst scorning to be pleased, she'd curse the Pleasure;  
Till with a sudden Rapture seized she'd melt away,  
And springing give a Loose to lusty Joy.  [Exit. 
The End of the First Act.   

ACT. II. SCENE I.  Enter Petillius and Decius, two Roman Captains. Pet. 
WEll, Captain; what Commands from our General Suetonius?  
Are we all drawn yet? All prepared and ordered,  
Fit to be slaughtered?  Dec. 
Brave News, Captain; our General has sent  
To have a Treaty to day with Caratach.  Pet. 
And fight with him to morrow: For, my Life on't,  
They'll never conclude a Peace. They may make Treaties,  
But all they agree on will be, to knock one another o'th' Head.  
Where do they meet?  Dec. 
Here on this Eminence, between the two Camps:  
And for my part I think it no Scandal  
For the bravest Roman amongst us to wish  
They may come to Articles: For what can our  
Shattered Troops do against a Hundred thousand Britain's?  Pet. 
Between no Bread and pitched Battles we have not  
Men left enough to storm a Village.  
Suetonius is a Noble General; but I see no reason  
Why we should be all sliced and slaughtered,  
And Dung Land here, because he loves fighting.  Enter Junius. 
Stay, Stay, here comes the languishing Captain Junius:  
Poor Gentleman, he's drawing on—  Dec. 
Not to his End I hope,  Pet. 
The end of all Flesh, Woman: His Thoughts ramble  
After the Grecian Captive he left behind at Rome.  Jun. 
Why, what a Wretch am I? This Grecian Beauty  
Has softened all that's Great and Roman in me:  
I shall be hooted at by all the Camp.  
There's not a Slave that calls himself a Soldier,  
But's brave enough to storm a Whining Lover.  
Leave me, Petillius, my Thoughts are busy.  Pet. 
Thou want'st Drink: For what Affliction  
Can light so heavy on a Soldier, and dry him up  
As thou art; but no Drink? Thou shalt have Drink.  Jun. 
Prithee Petillius—  Pet. 
By my Honour, much Drink, valiant Drink:  
I see like a true Friend into thy Wants, 'tis Drink.  
And when I leave thee to a Dissolution,  
Especially of that dry Nature; hang me.  Jun. 
Your Fooling's Nauseous: Why this Drink?  
Drink to me—  Pet. 
Did I not find thee gaping like an Oyster,  
For a New Tide? Why, thy very Thoughts lie bare  
Like a Low Ebb. Thy Soul, that rid in Sack,  
Lies Moored for want of liquour: I say still,  
Thou want'st Drink.  Jun. 
You have too much on't; therefore leave me, Sir:  
Belch not your Drunken Jests on me;  
I'm not disposed for Mirth.  Pet. 
May be thou want'st a Whore too? Thou shalt have both?  
A pretty Valiant Fellow; die for a little Lap and Lechery!  
Hear, thou Son of Her  
That loves a Soldier; hear what I promised for thee:  
Thus I said, Madam, I take your Son for my Companion:  
Madam, I Love your Son; your Son loves War:  
War loves Danger; Danger, Drink; Drink, Discipline,  
Which is Society and Lechery; these two beget Commanders.  
Fear not, Madam, your Son shall lead with Honour.  Jun. 
Does so Ridiculous and loose a Mirth,  
Become a Man of Arms?  Pet. 
Any Mirth, or any Subject is better  
Than Unmanly Mustiness: What harm's in Drink?  
In a good wholesome Wench? It cannot out  
Of my Head yet, handsomely: But thou wouldst  
Feign be Drunk; come, no more Fooling:  
The General has new Wine come over.  Jun. 
He must have New Acquaintance for it too,  
For I will of none, I thank ye.  Pet. 
None, I thank ye; a short and pithy Answer.  
No Company, no Drink, no Wench, I thank ye:  
A decent and modest Resolution.  Enter Corporal, Macer, and Soldiers. 
What do these Hungry Rascals here?  Mac. 
A Bean, a Bean; a Princely Diet;  
A full Banquet, to what we compass.  1 Sold. 
Fight like Hogs for Acorns.  2 Sold. 
If this hold, Corporal Macer, we are starved.  Mac. 
For my part I'm starved already;  
Not worth another Bean:  
A hard saying for an Officer, and a Man of Action:  
Look ye Gentlemen, my Belly's run away  
From my Coat; and my Doublet hangs so loose,  
That I can pull him over my Head, like  
A Shirt: Who'd guests by the sharpness of my Fiz,  
That I had any Jaws! and truly they are so  
Very weak for want of Chewing, that they  
Can scarce keep open my Face, so that the  
Two Flapps of my Countenance are in danger  
Of meeting; and so for my part, I'll Fight no more.  
How stand the rest of your Stomachs affected?  All. 
No Bits, no Blows.  Pet. 
D'ye Mutiny, you Eating Rascals?  
You Fight no more? No Bits, no Blows?  
Does Rome depend on your Resolution,  
For Eating Beef and Brews?  Mac. 
Would we had it.  Pet. 
Avaunt, ye Slaves, or I'll have ye all hanged:  
A Sovereign help for Hunger.  Mac. 
I may do Service, Captain.  Pet. 
Yes, in a Butcher-row. Come hither, Corporal:  
Thou art the Ringleader of'em, and I'll take  
Care to get a particular Reward for thee.  Mac. 
How much Beef?  Pet. 
Beef! The Forks, Sirrah:  
Where thou shalt be taught the true Virtue  
Of Temperance, by a Lictor, and Cat of Nine Tails  
This you've deserved: But Beef, Sirrah!  
How dar'st thou expect Beef?  
Hast thou done any thing to deserve Eating?  Mac. 
Done Miracles Captain, Miracles!  
Enough to deserve Feasting a Twelvemonth.  Pet. 
What Miracles, Sirrah?  Mac. 
What Miracles have I done? Let me see;  
Done? Why I have fasted a Fortnight, which  
Is a greater Miracle than any Hero of ye all  
Can boast of; and enough to Merit a Banquet for Life.  Pet. 
A Fortnight! What dost thou call Fasting?  
How long is't since thou Eatest last?  
Tell the Truth.  Mac. 
I have not Eat to the Purpose—  Pet. 
To the Purpose? Ye Rogues, my Company Eat Turf,  
And ne'er Grumble: They can Digest Timber,  
And Fight upon't: Dare ye Cry out for Hunger,  
And wear Shoes? Suck your Sword Hilts, ye Slaves,  
If ye be Valiant to the purpose. A grievous penance!  
Dost thou see that Melancholy Gentleman?  [Pointing to Junius. Jun. 
For shame, what mean ye Petillius?  Pet. 
He has not Eat these three Weeks.  Mac. 
He has Drank the more then, and that's all one.  Pet. 
Nor Drank, nor Eat, nor slept these two Months.  Jun. 
No more of this on your Life, Petillius,  Pet. 
Go to him, Corporal; 'tis common Profit:  
Urge him to the Point; he'll find you out  
A strange Food, that needs neither Teeth, nor Stomach;  
That will feed ye as Fat as a Crammed Capon,  
And make ye Fight like Devils: To him Corporal;  
I'll warrant thee, he'll teach thee a new way  
Of Getting Dinners.  Mac. 
Captain, we do beseech you as poor Soldiers, [Bowing to Jun.  
Men that have seen good days;  
Whose Mortal Stomachs may some times  
Feel Afflictions—  Jun. 
D'ye long to have your Throats Cut?  Pet. 
See what Mettle it makes in him:  
Two more Meals of this, and there lies Caratach.  Mac. 
We do beseech you but to render in way  
Of general Good, in Preservation— [to Junius.  Jun. 
Out of my Thoughts, ye Scoundrels.  Mac. 
Out of your Pity, to give us your Warlike Remedy  
Against the Maw-Morms; or Notable Receipt,  
To Live by Nothing.  Pet. 
Out with your Table Books.  Jun. 
Am I become your sport, Petillius?  
Stand from my Swords Point, Slaves;  
Your Poor starved Spirits can make me no Oblation  
For my Love; Else I would Sacrifice ye all. [Exit Junius.  Mac. 
Alas! he lives by Love, Sir!  Pet. 
So he does, Sir, and can't you do so too?  
All my Company are now in Love; ne'er think of Meat,  
Ah-mee's, and good hearty Heigh-hoes, are Salads  
Fit for Soldiers: Live by Meat, by Larding up  
Your Bodies? 'Tis Lewd and Lazy, and shows ye  
Merely Mortal, Dull; and drives ye to Fight  
Like Camels, with Baskets at your Noses.  
Get ye in Love; ye can Whore well enough,  
Tho' ye Fast till ye are Famished, yet still  
Ye can Crawl like Crabs to Wenches.  
Away, the General's coming; get ye in love all,  
Up to the Ears in Love, That I may hear no more  
Of these Rude murmurings, and discreetly carry  
Your Stomachs.  Mac. 
Food must be had: Jog Boys, keep your Files.  [Exuent Macr. and Companions Enter Suetonius Attended. Suet. 
This is the fatal Field, the very place  
Where Caratach has led his Troops to face us;  
And with Rude Fury, and unskilful Conduct,  
Broke through the Force of all our Noble Order:  
Where e'er we set a Foot in all this place,  
We trample on a Romans Tomb; but now old Caratach,  
Now we shall meet thee here  
On milder Terms, to Treat of Peace.  Pet. 
Well then; I shall meet him once at least,  
Without the Hazard of my Person:  
Now I may possibly retreat without that  
Honourable comfort to a Soldier, of good substantial  
Hacks, and Wounds; the gracefulness of half a Face;  
An Arm dangling by my side, and three parts of me  
Groaning for a Surgeon.  Suet. 
Their Valour and Success are perfect Miracles.  
How strange 'twas to behold their First Encounter!  
Ten thousand Carts, and all with Scytheses and Hooks,  
In full Career, they drove amidst our Army,  
And mowed whole Troops: Here half a Roman  
Lay ghastly sprawling on the bearded Hooks,  
His other half left starving on the Bloody Plain.  
There Ranks of Veteranes, the Pride of Rome,  
We snatched up whole, and mixed their hideous Cries.  Pet. 
Two or three of their Carts were very Decently  
Hung Round with my Company.  Enter Caratach and 4 Gentlemen. Suet. 
But see, Petillius, Caratach appears;  
The only Man that dares be Foe to Rome.  Car. 
The only Man that dares be Friend to Rome:  
Never a Foe, but when my Sword is drawn,  
For honourable Slaughter: Now 'tis sheathed,  
And here I'm come to make a League with Caesar.  
What are the Terms that Great Suetonius offers?  Suet. 
I offer Peace, the Greatest, Noblest Gift,  
And such a one, as Romans rarely offer,  
Or stoop to grant.  Car. 
And such an one as Britain's too,  
Will always scorn to take, without such Terms  
We can accept with Honour.  Suet. 
What the Success  
Of the last Battle gave ye, keep secure.  
We give you back too, all the Towns, the Wealth,  
And Captives taken in the last Campaign.  Car. 
I will not Bargain like a sly shroud Trader:  
But hear a Soldier speak. There's not one Inch  
Of Ground you've got since the First Caesar Landed,  
But must be ours; or let the War decide it:  
For by Your Heaven, and Great Andates' Power,  
Whilst there's one Eagle waved in British Air,  
I'll never hear of Peace, but War, eternal War.  Suet. 
Then War, eternal War, I echo back.  
Shall I now Sacrifice my whole Life's Honour?  
I that ne'er marched, but to increase our Empire:  
And shall I now for a Weeks ill Success  
Resign at once the Conquest of an Age?  
I that so oft have entered Rome, when placed  
On high amidst a Crowd of Captive Princes,  
I sat like one enthroned, and careless viewed  
A Nation shouting by my loaded Chariot,  
That slowly wheeled along the Royal Pomp,  
And cracked beneath the Burden of the Triumph:  
And shall I now at last return the Scorn,  
And everlasting Scandal of a Roman?  
Could I do this, not only pointing Rome,  
But thou too, Caratach, thou'dst call me Coward.  Car. 
By Heaven I should. Now by the Blood that warms thee,  
By that true rigid Temper that has forged  
Our Tempers so alike: I swear, O Roman,  
Thou'st fired my Soul to Arms; I long to meet thee  
Dressed in my dinted Armour, hue my Passage,  
To reach Suetonius in the midst of Havoc,  
And grapple with thee for this spot of Earth,  
Till one of us fall dead.  Suet. 
O more than Britain!  Car. 
O truly Equal  
To the great Spirits that informed Old Rome!  
Were't thou a God, I could not call thee more.  
Why are we Foes? Sure Nature means us Friends,  
And hand in hand, when the loud Signal sounds,  
To start out jointly in the Race of Fame,  
To pant along the rough unbeaten way  
At our full Stretches, and touch the Goal together.  Suet. 
Whatever Nature meant, in spite of War,  
And all the Roman Blood thou'st bravely spilled,  
We will be Friends to day.  Car. 
Thus I advance  
To meet thee then, and once without a Wound.  Suet. 
Come on, my Friend, I will not be outdone [B come to one another.  
In Kindness. What, so near, and not embrace?  Car. 
Yes firmly, close, as if we never meant  
To hew each other down, and end the Scene  
In Blood. Should Caesar see us linked together,  
Riveted thus like the first furious Clasps  
Of Lovers in the heat of stolen Delight,  
Thinkst thou his boding Soul could yet look forward,  
And see us in the Field, where clashing Swords,  
Chopped Arms, cleft Helmets, and the dying Groans  
Of slaughtered Troops shall drown our Warlike Trum pets,  
And show a thousand ways our Rage in Battle?  Suet. 
No; he, e'en he, might study here the Hero,  
And learn with us to change Revenge for Honour.  Car. 
Honour does nothing; all the World's at Peace  
Till some stale Malice hurries them to War;  
And then the fretful Hero's rail abroad  
Worse than their Wives at home insult when Victors;  
As if their only business was Revenge.  
But let them that are truly valiant, know  
From us, what 'tis to be a Friendly Foe.  
We'll part in all the Laws of Love and Peace,  
The Crush of Death must be our next Embrace. [Exit Caratach.  Suet. 
Now by the Gods of Rome, one single Valour,  
The Courage of the mighty Caratach,  
More doubts me than all the Britain's. He's a Soldier,  
So forged out and so tempered for great Fortunes,  
So much Man thrust into him, that his mere Name  
Fights in a thousand Men. Besure you hearten  
Your shattered Troops, to give the Onset briskly.  
Since we must fight, Fury must be our Fortune.  
Look to those eating Rogues that bawl for Victuals;  
Tell'em, if now they push the Conquest home,  
The Fat of all the Kingdom lies before 'em.  Pet. 
That's the best Argument. The generous Soldiers  
Spare begging conquered Foes, but when they Dine  
They give no Quarter to a lusty Chine.  
Thus the well-booted Greeks before Troy Town  
Still prayed for Beef enough to swallow down;  
And ●at as well as fought to get Renown. [Exeunt.  Enter Corporal, Macer, and other Soldiers as a Foraging. CATCH, Sung by the Soldiers. 
JAck, thou'rt a Toper, let's have t'other Quart:  
Ring, we're so sober, 'twere a shame to part.  
None but a Cuckold, Bullyed by his Wife  
For coming late, fears a Domestic Strife.  
I'm free, and so are you, to call and knock boldly,  
Tho' Watchmen cry, Past Two a Clock.  Maker. 
Keep your Files, keep your Files,  
I begin to have a strange Aversion for  
This side of the Camp.  1 Sold. 
If we venture any further, our Throats are in Danger.  Mac. 
Not of swallowing any thing, I fear. We're just upon the Out Guards of the Britain's, but one Comfort is, they'll have but a poor Booty of us, if we are taken: For my part, I have'nt Flesh enough left to dine a Louse. If we could but meet some good ●at straggling Britain's now.  2 Sold. 
What then, Corporal?  Mac. 
What then, you Rog●●? A good fat corpulent well-crammed Britain is Provision for a Prince. I am a Soldier of Prey, and will kill all I meet, and devour all I kill.  1 Sold. 
You'd let's have some share in the eating, as well as the killing; Corporal; woud'nt ye?  Mac. 
We'd make a Dividend on 'em; I woud'nt cheat ye of one single Chitterling; all the Garbage should be your own; good substantial Tripe; where, for aught I know, you might find Beef ready chewed, and Capers, happily not digested.  3 Sold. 
Shall we venture on? There's no great difference between Hanging and Starving.  Mac. 
On, on; there's a comfortable thing called a Head of Cattle hard by: March, keep your Files. If I could but meet some good fat Britain's, as I said before, I'd so maul 'em.  [Exeunt, and after a little while re-enter, running over the Stage, the Britain's after them. Mac. 
Fly, fly, fly; the Enemy, the Enemy;  
A whole Troop of 'em.  Britain's. 
Are you so bold, Sirs? have at ye.  [Exeunt Britain's pursuing Macer and the rest, after a little time re-enter Britain's dragging in Macer and his Companions. Britain's. 
Learn to keep your Quarters, Scoundrel.  
What make ye here? D'ye long to be trust up?  Mac. 
You are such lean Rogues, I've no Stomach t' ye;  
You are'nt worth a fighting for.  Brit. 
You're scarce worth a hanging. But because you're Romans, you shall have the Honour conferred on you in due time. Come on, Cowards.  Mac. 
O all ye Mortals that are wise,  
Abstain from fasting, I advise.  
'Twas fasting brought these honest Fellows,  
And Corporal Macer, to the Gallows. [Speaking in a lamentable Bellman's tone.  [Exeunt Britain's, dragging Macer out, and his Confederates. 
The End of the Second Act.   

ACT III. SCENE I.  Enter Nennius, Soldiers with Macer, and other Soldiers with Halters about their Necks. Nenn. 
COme, hang 'em presently. What made your Rogueships  
Harrying for Victuals here? Are we your Friends?  
Or do you come for Spies? Tell me directly,  
Would you not willingly be hanged now?  
D'ye not long for't?  Mac. 
No, not much: I'll ask my Fellow Skeletons  
How they approve of it. What say you?  
Shall we hang in this vein? Hang we must;  
And 'tis as good to dispatch it merrily,  
As hang an Arse to't.  1 Sold. 
Any way, so it be handsome.  Mac. 
I'd as leave 'twere toothsome too.  Sold. 
Nay faith, since we must hang,  
Let's hang pleasantly.  Mac. 
Then pleasantly be it, Captain. The Truth on't is,  
We had as live hang with Meat in our Mouths,  
As ask your Pardon empty.  Nenn. 
What say you to a Chine of Beef now, Sirrah?  Mac. 
Bring me acquainted with it, and I'll tell you.  Nenn. 
Or what think you of a Wench, Sirrah?  Mac. 
'Twou'd be excellent if she were well boiled,  
Or Roasted; but I am somewhat too low kept  
To make use of her any way but with my Teeth. Enter Caratach.  Car. 
Now what's the matter?  
What are these Fellows? What's the Crime committed,  
That they wear Necklaces?  Nenn. 
They are Roman Rogues, taken a Foraging.  Car. 
Is that all, Nennius?  Mac. 
Would I were fairly hanged! This is that Devil,  
That Kill-crow Caratach.  Car. 
And would you hang 'em?  Nenn. 
Are they not our Enemies?  Car. 
Enemies! Flea-traps.  
Pluck off your Halters, Fellows.  Nenn. 
Take heed, Caratach: Taint not your Wisdom.  Car. 
Wisdom, Nennius?  
Why, who shall fight against us? make our Honours,  
And give a glorious Day into our Hands,  
If we dispatch our Foes thus? What's their Offence?  
Stealing a Loaf or two to keep out Hunger?  
Does this deserve the Gallows? Poor Hungry Knaves,  
That have no Meat at home: Are you not hungry?  Mac. 
Monstrous Hungry.  Car. 
That Fellow wears the very Face of Hunger:  
Get 'em some Meat and Wine, to cheer their Hearts.  
Make hast I say.  1. Sould. 
What does he mean by this, Captain?  Mac. 
To let us alone, because we are not worth Hanging.  Car. 
Sit down poor Knaves: Why where's this Wine,  
And Meat? Who waits there?  Enter Servants with Wine and Meat, and Hengo with 'em. Seru. 
'Tis here Sir.  Heng. 
Who are these Uncle?  Car. 
They are Romans, Boy.  Heng. 
Are these they  
That vex my Aunt so? Can these Fight?  
They look like Men of Clouts, set to keep Crows  
From Orchards: Why I dare Fight with these.  Car. 
That's my good Chicken.  
Well Gentlemen, how d'ye feel your stomachs?  Mac. 
Mightily coming, Sir.  Car. 
I find a little Grace will serve your turns.  
Give 'em some Wine.  Mac. 
Not yet, we're very Busy.  Heng. 
Hark'e Fellow, Can ye do any thing but Eat?  Mac. 
Yes, I can Drink too; prithee hold thy Peace,  
Little Boy, I'm busy.  Car. 
Here Famine, here's to thy General.  Mac. 
Thank you; now I believe I have time  
To Pledge you.  Car. 
Fill 'em more Wine, give 'em full Bowls.  
Now which of you all, in Recompense  
Of this Favour, dare give me a home Thrust,  
In the next Battle?  Mac. 
Why Faith Sir, to do you a sufficient Recompense,  
I don't much care, If I knock Your Brains out.  Can. 
〈◊〉, Faith I'll forgive thee.  Hen. 
Thou dar'st as well be hanged:  
〈…〉 his Brains out? Thou Skin of Man!  
〈…〉 not 〈◊〉 this.  〈◊〉 
〈…〉▪ done't s 〈…〉 my 〈…〉▪  
 
When I can get it.  Hengo. 
You kill my Uncle?  Car. 
He shan't Child.  Hengo. 
He cannot, he's a Rogue;  
An Eating Rogue: Oh that I wear a Man!  Mac. 
By this Wine, the Youth's brim-ful of Provocation;  
But 'tis no matter: Here Noble Caratach,  
Thy Health.  1. Sold. 
Hark ye, Macer, if he should hang us now  
After all?  Mac. 
Let him, I'll hang like a Gentleman and a Roman.  
Capt. your humble Servant: We thank you heartily  
For your good Cheer; and shall be glad to meet you  
As well provided as we meet you now.  Car. 
Go, see 'em to their Tents, their Wine  
Has overmastered them.  [Exeunt Caratach, Hengo, and Nennius. Mac. 
Well; Bless the Founder, I say: A Pox of  
These Britain's, I say, how many pound of Beef  
Do they Devour to our one pound of Horseflesh? [Exeunt.  

SCENE the Temple.  Enter Druids Singing; Bonduca, Claudia 2d. Daughter, Venutius, Nennius, Comes, Hengo, etc. 1 Dr. 
HEAR us, Great Ruguith, hear our Prayers:  2 
Defend, defend thy British Isle.  
Revive our Hopes.  
D 〈…〉 our Fears.  3 
Nor Let 〈◊〉 Altars be the Roman Spoil.  Chor. 
Descend, 〈◊〉 Powers Divine, Descend  4 
In Chariots of Etherial Flame,  
And touch 〈…〉 s you Defend.  Chor. 
O Save our Nation, and our Name.  5 
H 〈…〉, ye Gods of 〈◊〉; Fear us this Day:  
Let us not fali the 〈◊〉 〈…〉 ' s Prey.  
Clip, Clip their Wings, 〈…〉 n home;  
And Check the Towering 〈…〉 Rome.  Oracle. 
—— First learn 〈…〉. [Thunder here.  Bond. 
You Powerful Gods of Britain, 〈…〉 our Prayers.  
Hear us, you Great Revengers: 〈…〉 ay  
Take Pity from our 〈…〉 s; Doughty 〈…〉 Valour's:  
Double the sad Remembrance of our Wrongs  
In every Breast: The Vengeance due to those  
Make Infinite and Endless.  
Rise from the Dust, the Relics of the Dead;  
Whose Noble Deeds our Holy Druids Sing.  
O Rise, ye Valiant Bones; let not Base Earth  
Oppress your Honour, whilst the Pride of Rome  
Treads on your Stocks, and wipes out all your Stories.  Ven. 
Thou great Tyranes, whom your Sacred Priests,  
Armed with their Dreadful Thunder, played on high;  
Above the rest of the Immortal Gods.  
Send thy Consuming Fires, and deadly Bolts,  
And shoot 'em home: Stick in each Roman Heart,  
A Fear fit for Confusion. Blast their Spirits:  
Dwell in 'em to Destruction: Through their Phalanx,  
Strike as thou strik'st a proud Tree;  
Shake their Bodies; make their Strengths totter,  
And their hopeless Fortunes Unroot:  
And Reel to Rome.  Claud. 
O thou God If ever to thy Justice,  
Insulting Wrongs and Ravishments of Women,  
With Virgin Innocence have Access: Now hear me;  
Now snatch that Thunder up: Now on these Romans,  
Despisers of thy Power, and of thy Altars,  
Revenge thyself: Take to thy Killing Anger,  
To make thy great Work full; thy Justice spoken:  
And Utter Rooting from this Blessed Isle,  
Of what Rome is or has been.  Bond. 
Give more Incense;  
The God's are Deaf or Drowsy. No happy Flame  
Rises to raise our Thoughts: Pour on.  2d Daugh. 
See Heaven, and all you Powers that guide us:  
See, and shame we kneel so long for Pity  
At your alters; since 'tis no light Oblation,  
That you look for: No Incense Offering;  
We will 〈◊〉 our Eyes: And as we wear  
These Sto 〈…〉 Hourly Weeping;  
So will we m 〈…〉 ur Powers into Compassion.  Hengo. 
This Tear for Prosutagus. My brave Father,  
Ye God's! Now think on Rome: This for my Mother,  
And all her Miseries: O see and Save us.  [A Smo●● from the Altar. Bond. 
The first taketh!  Car. 

It does so: But no Flame Rises.  
Cease your Fearful Prayers;  
Your W 〈…〉 ing, and your Lame Petitions:  
The God's Love Courage Armed with Innocence▪  
And Prayers fit to pull 'em down; weak Tears  
And Troubled Hearts, the Dull Twins of Cold Spirits,  
They sit and Smile at. Hear how I salute them;  
Divine Andate: Thou who hold'st the Reins  
Of Furious Battles, and Disordered War,  
And Proudly Roll'st thy swarthy Chariot Wheels,  
Over the Heaps and Wounds of Carcases:  
Sailing through Seas of Blood: Thou sure Steeled,  
Give us this Day good Hearts; good Enemies,  
Good Blows o' both sides: Wounds that Fear or Flight  
Can claim no share in: Steel us both with Anger's,  
And Warlike Executions, fit thy Viewing.   

Let Rome put on her best strength: And thy Britain,  
Thy little Britain; but as great in Fortune,  
Meet her as strong as she; as proud as daring:  
And then look on, thou Red Eyed God, who does  
Reward with Honour: Who Despair makes fly;  
Unarm for ever, and Brand with Infancy.  
Grant this Divine Andate; 'tis but Justice,  
And my first Blow, Thus on this Holy Altar,  
I sacrifice unto thee. [A Flame arises.   Bon. 
It flames out.  Car. 
Now sing ye Druids:  
Sing, Sing ye Druids! All your Voices Raise,  
To Celebrate Divine Andate's Praise.  
Sing, Sing Divine Andate's Praise.  
Divine Andate! Precedent of War,  
The Fortune of the Day Declare.  
Shall we to the Romans yield:  
Or shall each arm that wields a Spear,  
Strike it through a Massy Shield;  
And die with Roman Blood the Field? [Thunder here.  Oracle. 
—— Much will be spilled.  & 4 Dr. 
TO Arms, to Arms: Your Ensigns straight display:  
Now, now, now, set the Battle in Array.  
The Oracle of War Declares,  
Success Depends upon our Hearts and Spears.  Verse. & Cho. 
Britain's, Strike Home: Revenge your Country's Wrongs:  
Fight and Record yourselves in Druids Songs.  Bond. 
'Tis out again.  Car. 
They've given us leave to Fight yet:  
We ask no more; the rest hangs on our Resolutions.  
Tempt Her no more.  Bond. 
I would know further, Cousin.  Car. 
Her hidden meaning dwells in our Endeavours;  
Our Valours are our best Gods. Come, let's march.  
This Day the Romans gain no more Ground here  
Than what his Body lies in.  Bond. 
On then my Soldiers;  
Thy Words have made me certain of Success.  
For when brave Caratach does lead the way,  
The Britain's cannot fail to win the Day. [Exeunt omnes praeter Comus and Venutius.  Com. 
They must not then have Boys to fight their Battles.  Ven. 
What says Comus?  Com. 
I said,  
Whilst Women Rule, and Boys Command in War,  
We've asked the Gods what they will never grant us.  
Nor need Rome triumph for a Victory  
(O my Prophetic Fears) so cheaply purchased.  Ven. 
A Victory, and by the Romans gotten?  
Where's then the Courage of our generous Britain's,  
So lately tried in the successful Battles?  
O all ye Gods! Can there be more in Men?  
More daring Spirits? Still they make good their Fortunes,  
And let the Romans know, this little Isle  
Itself a World is, more than that they've conquered.  Com. 
And let the bold Venutius know, and tell it  
His proud vainglorious Heart, ere the Sun sets  
Poor Britain veils her Glories in everlasting Darkness.  Ven. 
O no, she'll yet raise her victorious Head,  
Look o'er the Rugged Alps, and make Rome tremble,  
Methinks I see the big War moving forwards:  
Hark how they shout to th' Battle! how the Air  
Totters and reels, and rends apieces  
With the huge volleyed Clamours! Hear the Romans  
Tearing the Earth i'th' the bitter Pangs of Death.  
The Britain's there (Comus, methinks I see it)  
I'th' face of Danger pressing on to Conquest.  Com. 
Here the unhappy Queen  
(Hard Chance of War) by common Hands  
Stripped of her Majesty, and to the Roman General  
Led a Captive; there her two beauteous  
Daughters made the Slaves of Lust and Scorn,  
Methinks I do behold that Heavenly Form,  
An Abstract of all Goodness,  
The poor much pitied Claudia.  Ven. 
Ha! what sayst thou?  
By Heaven, I fear thou art about to utter  
Something the basest Roman Slave would start at!  
Shall she, my Claudia, sayst thou? But we trifle;  
And sure thou didst it only to whet my Courage,  
Of its self apt and prone to execute.  Com. 
Be it so then. See who dares most to day  
For Love and for thy Claudia, Thou or I  Ven. 
Now thou'rt brave, and I shall truly love thee:  
Sound all your dreadful Instruments of War,  
Till Romans best Sons start at the Warlike Noise.  
Come on, and whilst we thus together move,  
I'll show Rome how to fight, Thee how to love. [Exeunt.  Enter Suetonius, Petillius, and Roman-Officers. Suet. 
Now my brave Countrymen, the time is come▪  
To gain a Conquest, or a Grave, in Britain.  
The Enemy, my Fellow-Soldiers, wait us.  
Are ye all ready?  Pet. 
All our Troops attend, Sir.  Suet. 
To bid you fight is needless, you are Romans,  
The Name will fight itself. To tell you  
Who you go to fight against, his Power and Nature,  
But loss of Time: Go on in full Assurance;  
Draw your Swords as daring  
And as confident as Justice.  
Go on, I say, valiant and wise; rule Heaven;  
And all ye great Aspects attend 'em.  
Do but blow upon this Enemy, who but that  
We want Foes, cannot deserve that Name;  
And like a Mist, a lazy Fog before your burning  
Valours, you'll find him fly to nothing. This is all;  
We have Swords, and are the Sons of Ancient Romans,  
Heirs to their endless Valours; fight and conquer.  Pet. 
That Man who loves not this day,  
And hugs not in his Arms the Noble Danger,  
May he die fameless and forgot!  Suet. 
Sufficient.  
Up to your Troops, and let your Drums beat Thunder;  
March close, and sudden as a Tempest; keep your Phalanx  
Sure lined and pieced together; your Spears forward,  
And so march like a moving Fort; ere Night shall come  
Britain shall give us Graves, or yield to Rome. [Exeunt omnes.  Enter Caratach, Nennius, and Soldiers. Nen. 
The Romans are advanced; from yonder Hills  
We may behold them, Caratach.  Car. 
Let's thither. [Moves forward.  
I see the Dust fly; now I see the Body:  
Observe 'em, Nennius; by Heaven a handsome Body!  
And of a few, strongly and wisely jointed.  
Suetonius is a Soldier.  Nen. 
As I take it,  
That's he that Gallops by their Regiments,  
Viewing their Preparation.  Car. 
Very likely.  
He shows no less than General; see how bravely  
The Body moves; and in the Head, how proudly  
The Captains stick like Plumes! He comes on apace:  
Good Nennius, go hasten my Brave Lieutenant;  
Bring on the first square Body to oppose 'em;  
The Queen move next with hers, and wheel about,  
So gain their Backs, in which I'll Led  
The Van Guard. We shall have bloody Crowns  
This day, I see by it; haste thee, good Nennius,  
I'll follow instantly. How close they March,  
As if they grew together: no place but lined alike,  
Sure from Oppression.  
They will not change this Figure.  
We must Charge 'em, and Charge 'em home,  
They'll never totter else.  
Hark! I hear our Music, and must attend it.  
Hold, good Sword, but this day, and hereafter  
I'll make a Relic of thee for young Soldiers  
To come like Pilgrims to, and kiss for Conquests.  
Oh, Great Andate, on thy Soldier smile,  
And drive these Romans from thy British Isle.  Enter Suetonius, Petilius, etc. Suet. 
O bravely fought! Honour till now, ne'er showed  
Her Glorious Face in the Field. Like Lion Soldi'rs,  
You've held your Heads up this day.  
Where's young Junius?  Pet. 
Gone to Heaven, I think, Sir; I saw him fall.  Suet. 
His worth go with him, for he was a Soldier.  
See he has all the Noble Rites of Funeral.  
Bravely he fought, my Friends, bravely he fell.  
And since i'th' bloody Field, he sought a Grave,  
Let Warlike Instruments attend him thither.  
Hark, They come on again! Charge, Charge my Soldiers.  Enter Caratach, Bonduca, Claudia, Venutius, Bonvica, and Hengo. Car. 
〈◊〉 'em i'th' Flank: Oh, you have played the Fool,  
The 〈…〉 lie!  Bond. 
〈◊〉 Cousin?  Car. 
The 〈◊〉 Fool: Why did you give the word  
Unto the Carts to 〈◊〉 down, and our People  
In grow 〈…〉 before the Enemy? We pay for it: our own  
Swords cut our Throats.  
Why do you offer to Command?  
Why do ye meddle in mens' Affairs?  Bond. 
〈◊〉 help all yet, my Soldier.  [Exeunt. Car. 
Go home and Spin.  
Now comes the Tempest on: ['a shout within.  
Oh Woman! Woman! At the first designed  
A Plague, and sure Destruction to Mankind. [Exeunt.  An Alarm. Enter Suetonius, Petilius, etc. Suet. 
Close my brave Fellows; Honourable Romans:  
The World cannot Redeem 'em, they are ours.  
Charge close, Petilius haste, one sudden blow  
Must be the Britain's certain overthrow. [Exeunt.  Enter Bonduca, Venutius, Claudia, Bonvica, etc. Bond. 
Whither fly you? Stay you shames of Britain:  
Back, back ye Cowards; Oh ye fearful Hares!  
Doves in your Anger? Will you leave your Queen?  
Leave her thus desolate with her hapless Children,  
To Roman Rape and Fury?  Enter Caratach, and Hengo. Car. 
Fly ye Buzzards, ye have Wings enough I find.  
Oh, Woman, Woman, thou hast lost all!  Bond. 
Forgive me, Noble Caratach.  Car. 
May Heaven forgive you; hasten to your Castle,  
〈…〉 Refuge; farewell, wretched Queen.  
〈◊〉, how the Romans ring [〈◊〉  
〈…〉 Away. [Exeunt Bonduca, etc.  Hengo. 
Good Uncle, let me go too;  
I'm frighted at this noise; it sounds, methinks,  
Like Thunder.  Car. 
No, my Boy:  
Thy Fortune's mine, and I will never leave thee:  
Thou might'st have been an Heir to Britain's  
Crown; but that the ill Conduct of thy Mother lost that.  
But hark, the Enemy approaches near;  
We must be gone, my Boy; but Heaven knows where:  
For Britain now submits to Roman Powers,  
And nothing but our lengths of Earth are ours. [Exeunt.    

ACT IU.  Enter Venutius and Claudia. Ven. 
ALL's lost! All's lost! And our British Soil  
So often fed with dying Roman's Blood,  
Is now all covered o'er with slaughtered Britain's;  
Whose yet warm Gore lies reeking on the Plains,  
As if our Mother Earth refused a draught  
So horrid and unnatural.  Claud. 
Wherever  
Our Fears Conduct us, still we may behold  
The Dead, or Dying, whose louder Cries o'ercome  
The Exclamations of the Conquering Romans.  Ven. 
Let 'em cry on, till their wild Voices reach  
You Auzure-Mansion of the Partial Gods;  
But they are Deaf, or sure we might have hoped for  
A happier Harvest of our well-tuned Prayers.  Claud. 
Injurious Heaven, where's now our Promised Bliss?  
The good old Priest that should have joined our Loves!  
The Virgin Hands to lead us to the Temple,  
And Hymen's Lamp to smile upon our Joys!  
No Priests! No Virgins Hands, or Lamp of Hymen!  
Or if there is, 'tis blown into a Flame:  
The Flame of War, that with devoaring haste,  
Bounds o'er the Land.  Ven. 
O Claudia! Thou Beauty's Excellence!  
Thou Glorious Prize of my yet fruitless Labours!  
The Cause, and the Reward of all my Toils!  
Did I for thee, and Honour draw my Sword,  
And must I, must I sheathe it in Dishonour?  Claud. 
No more my Hero! For in spite of Fortune,  
(Fortune, a Coward-Slave, t'a Soul like thine)  
Thou still art Great, far greater in thyself,  
Than all the Conquests of Insulting Rome.  
Let me gaze on thee, fly into thy Arms;  
Drown all my Cares in Ecstacies of Joy!  
For tho' the World is lost, I'll Triumph here.  Ven. 
Hear this, ye Gods! Hear this! And from the Crowd  
Of all the Darling Romans, bring a Faith  
That dares to match with Hers.  Claud. 
No. Tho' Conquered, I'm still a Princess; Daughter  
To a Queen, the Great Bonduca: Her  
Whose powerful Arms have lashed the Fury  
Of those stubborn Tyrants: these Sons of the Empire;  
Thunderbolts of War; whose wild Ambition  
Seems t'out brave the Stars.  Ven. 
O thou Great Soul! Thou Generous Heir to all  
Thy Mother's Beauty, and thy Father's Virtue!  
How oft in times to come, when Fame shall ripen  
The Stories of thy Fortune, will the Virgin's  
Bow to thy Name, and in the height of Wonder,  
Change all their Woman's Fears for Manly Courage;  
And the young Hero sledged with dear-bought Conquest  
Melt into Love; with to have lived like me,  
Thus to admire, thus close to press thee ever.  Enter Comes. Claud 
No more, my Love; see where the Pict appears!  
Good Heaven! Does he still live? And could not Fate,  
Armed with so many Weapons, find his Head,  
And 〈◊〉 the Earth that Groans beneath the Monster?  
I could not sight, my itching Flesh opposed  
The Dictates of my Soul: Truth is, I never knew  
A wh 〈…〉 Lover, but he was a Coward;  
And yet they say, that Woman's Joy, Venutius,  
That Youth, who has the Hero and the Lover  
Blended together, did work Miracles;  
And in the foremost Ranks sustain, the Battle.  
Why be it so, had she encouraged me,  
Like him, perhaps I might have dared beyond him.  Ven. 
How gloomy, and distracted he appears!  Claud. 
His Looks wear Horror, and his Thoughts Destruction.  Com. 
She's but a Woman, proud and obstinate:  
And when I know a thousand may be had,  
Why should I vilely lose one thought on her,  
And to her Folly, Sacrifice my Quiet?  
Ha! She's here, and her proud Minion with her:  
'Tis fixed within, and Fate waits ready for him.  
Hail wondrous Youth! Thou Glory of this Isle;  
Blessed Britain's Hopes, and Terror of the Romans,  
Whose Eagles that once led 'em on to Conquest,  
Now hide their Heads, and flag their trembling Wings.  Claud. 
What means this Sycophant?  Com. 
Whose very Name  
Can do the work of twenty thousand Soldiers;  
The Nobl'st Tempers e'er drew Sword for Slaughter,  
Are proud to be compared to thee, thou Hero,  
Whose yet Green Youth has done the work of Ages.  Ven. 
Come, no more; I know thy Pride, and scorn it:  
But if thou art wise don't urge me beyond bearing.  
This Sword, still warm with the bold Romans Blood,  
Ne'er yet unsheathed, but in bright Honour's Field,  
Shall do a Murder on thee, if thou dost.  Com. 
Yes, now thou talk'st, stay, let me view him nearer:  
Is this Venutius? This the Youth that basely  
Whistled his Honour off to the Wind, and coldly  
Shrunk his inglorious Head, whilst the tough Soldier  
Sweat Blood and Spirit for a Glorious Harvest?  
Thou Popinjay? Thou ten degrees beyond  
A Coward! What, fly to a Woman's Arms!  
Forsake the Field so basely! Out upon't!  
Thou fit to fight with Romans! Thou a Soldier!  
Go home and hang thy Arms up; le 〈…〉 ot 'em:  
Go take a Distaff, Fool; for what brave Soldier,  
What Man that loves to fight for Britain,  
Will ever follow thee?  Ven. 
Did I do this? Did I forsake the Field?  
Did I, when Courted by loud Fame and Fortune,  
Shrink back my Head, or in a Woman's Arms  
Melt down my Manly Courage? O all ye Gods!  
Must I bear this? Must I with Patience hear it?  
Nay, than I am that Fool, that Thing he called me.  
Follow thou, Friend, follow me if thou dar'st.  
Come to the Field, there thou shalt see this Coward,  
This Woman's Toy, this Popinjay, do Wonders;  
And what before the Admiring Army saw,  
Thou shalt behold again.  
Ha! Laughest thou, Hell hound?  Com. 
Yes, to see thee Rave.  
Where's now thy Wisdom, and that Manly temper  
Thou hast so often bragged of? Behold now  
That Object Pict, as thou hast proudly called me,  
Can move thy Soul, and work it beyond Madness.  Claud. 
Out, thou infernal Monster,  
Half Man, half Devil; but ten times worse than both.  Com. 
Good Lady Variety, are all my Actions  
So poor and lost, my Services so barren,  
That I'm remembered in no Nobler Language?  Claud. 
Remember! I'd blot thee from my Thoughts;  
Thy Person is so foul, thy Name so loathsome,  
It blisters every Tongue dares mention it.  
Come, my Venutius, let us to the Fort  
Whither the lost Bonduca is retired  
With my unhappy Sister, and leave him  
To the worst of Torments, his own Conscience. [Exeunt.  Com. 
Farewell, proud Fool, next time we meet,  
Your Tongue shall move in softer Terms,  
And your stiff heart bow down in Prayers  
To this loathsome Monster,  
This hated Pict; for ere tomorrow's Light  
Your Sun shall set in Everlasting Night. [Exit.  Enter Caratach and Hengo. Car. 
How does my Boy?  Hen. 
I would do well; my Heart's well;  
I beened afraid, Uncle.  Car. 
My good Boy.  Hen. 
I know, Uncle, we must all die:  
My little Brother died, I saw him die;  
And he died smilingly; sure there is no  
Great Pain in't, Uncle: But pray tell me  
Whither must we go when we are dead, Uncle?  Car. 
Strange Questions!  
Why, to the blessedest Place, Boy: Eternal Sweetness  
And Happiness dwells there.  Hen. 
Will you come to me?  Car. 
Yes, my sweet Boy.  Hen. 
My Aunt too, and my Cousins?  Car. 
All, my good Child.  Hen. 
No Romans, Uncle.  Car. 
No, Boy.  Hen. 
I should be loath to meet them there.  Car. 
No ill Men,  
That live by Violence and strong Oppression  
Come thither; 'tis for those the God's love, good Men.  Hen. 
Why then, I care not when I go; for surely  
I am persuaded they love me: I never did any thing  
To vex my Mother in my Life; and indeed, Uncle,  
Every Night, before I went to Bed, I said my Prayers.  Car. 
Thou shalt go there then,  
Indeed thou shalt.  Heng. 
When they please, Uncle.  Car. 
That's my good Boy:  
Art thou not weary, Hengo?  Heng. 
Weary, Uncle!  
I've heard you say, you've marched all day in Armour.  Car. 
I have, Boy.  Hen. 
Am I not of your Blood?  Car. 
Yes, my Child.  Heng. 
Then, pray, why can't I do so too?  Car. 
Thou art too tender.  Heng. 
What, to go upon my Legs, why they were  
Made to bear me; I can play Twenty Mile a day.  
I see no reason but to preserve my Country  
And myself, I should walk forty.  Car. 
What wouldst thou be? Living to wear a Man's strength?  Heng. 
Why, a Caratach:  
A Roman-Hater; a Scourge sent from Heaven,  
To whip these proud Thiefs from our Kingdom.  
Hark! Hark, Uncle! I hear a Drum!  Enter Macer, and Soldiers. Mac. 
Beat softly; softly, I say. They are here.  
Who dares Charge,?  1. Sold. 
He that dares be knocked o'th' Head.  
I'll not come near him.  Mac. 
Retire again, and watch then: how he stares!  
He has Eyes would kill a Dragon.  
Mark the Boy well; if we could take, or kill him:  
A pox upon you, how fierce you look!  
Back, on's Back I say; he has found us. [Retire.  Car. 
Do you hunt us?  Heng. 
Uncle, good Uncle; see the thin starved Rascal!  
The eating Roman! Kill him, dear Uncle, kill him.  Car. 
Do you make us Foxes?  
Here, hold my Spear, and keep the place, Boy:  
I am at Bay, and like a Bull I'll bear him.  
Stand, stand ye Rogues; ye Squirrels. [Exeunt.  Heng. 
Look, how he pays 'em! O, that I had a Man's strength!  Enter Macer. Mac. 
A plague of your heavy Hands; I'm glad  
I've cleped you: Ha! Here's the Boy! My own,  
I thank my Fortune.  Heng. 
O Lord! Uncle! Uncle! Famine is fallen upon me, Uncle.  Mac. 
Come, Sir; yield willingly: your Uncle's out of hearing.  
Hark ye, Sirrah, give me the Spear; I shall  
Tickle your young Tail else.  Heng. 
I defy thee, than Mock-made-Man of Mat.  
Heark'y, Sirrah; Charge home, or I shall tickle  
Your lean Carcase for you.  Mac. 
As I live, the Boy will beat me.  
How it looks! Look, look; how the little Toad swells!  
Ye little Rogue, you; yield, or I'll cut your Head off.  Heng. 
You cut my Head off, Sirrah? If I thought you  
Had any Brains, I'd dash 'em out with the wrong end  
Of my Uncle's Staff: Come on, I have twenty ways  
To Charge thee; twenty Deaths attend my bloody Hand.  Mac. 
Sure, 'tis the Devil, a Dwarf-Devil in a Doublet.  Enter Soldiers running. Sold. 
Fly! Fly Corporal! He comes, he comes.  Mac. 
The Devil take the hindmost. [Exeunt running.  Heng. 
Ah you Rogues; you runaway Rogues.  
He comes, he comes, he comes: That's he, Boys.  
What a brave Cry they make.  Enter Caratach with a Head. Car. 
How does my Chicken?  Heng. 
Faith Uncle, grown a Soldier, a great Soldier:  
For by the Virtue of your Spear, and a strange  
Fighting Face I put upon't, I have outbraved  
Hunger.  Car. 
That's my Boy, my sweet Boy: Here, here's  
A Roman's Head for thee.  Heng. 
And very good Provision, Uncle. Before I starve,  
My pretty Gentleman, I shall make bold to taste  
The sweetness of your Calves Head.  Car. 
A right complete Soldier; come Chicken,  
Let's go seek some place of strength,  
(The country's full of Scouts) to rest a while in;  
Thou won't not else be able to endure  
The Journey to my Country: Fruits and Water  
Must be your Food awhile Boy.  Heng. 
Any thing.  
〈…〉 Moss! I can live on Anger,  
To vex these Romans: Let's be wary, Uncle.  Car. 
〈…〉 you.  
Since you 〈◊〉 ●all of Britain have decreed;  
And that your Votaries must by Romans bleed.  
O Ruggish! O Andate! Oh ye Powers!  
Since you the Fall of Britain have decreed,  
Let then your Votaries by these Romans bleed.  
Rather than make us to the Conqueror Slaves,  
Give them our Kingdom, and give us our Graves.   

ACT V. SCENE, 1.  Enter Suetonius, Comes Dragging in Claudia. Claud. 
O Whither, whither wouldst thou drag me, Villain?  Com. 
To do a Deed thou'lt thank me for, when done,  
Why all this vain resistance? Can you move  
The Rocks or Trees to pity your Complaints?  
I am as firm, and resolute in my purpose:  
Nor would I quit my Purchase for a Kingdom.  
Where now is all the Pride? That Woman's pride,  
With which you melt the Endearments of my Love?  Claud. 
'Tis here; 'tis fixed for ever in my Soul:  
I always scorned, but now I hate thee too.  
And sure—  
If there are Gods, and Virtue be their Care,  
I'm still secure from thy abhorred Attempts.  
Some unseen Power will strike thee in the Act;  
And Impotence blast all thy Expectations.  Comes. 
Why, be it so? I'll put it to the Trial,  
But Madam, you shall find, and find with Pleasure,  
Not all the Powers of Heaven can disarm me.  
Come on; your Tears are now as vain and fruitless,  
As were my Prayers, when I asked your Love.  Claud. 
Love! And to thee! Thou art a thing so Loathsome,  
Nature has shut thee quite from that thou art:  
Made like the Bird of Night, to be Pursued,  
Abhorred, and Loathed, by all thy fellow Creatures.  Com. 
Woman! Woman! Oh how I love this Pride!  
Thou now art fit to be beloved by me;  
Not made to fill our Arms the Vulgar way.  Claud. 
Oh, I have been to blame; my foolish Tongue  
Betrayed the weakness of my unwary Heart!  
thouart Fair as Light, and Innocent as Truth:  
Royal by Birth, by Nature Excellent.  Com. 
This is far more than my Revenge e'er hoped for:  
Not only to enjoy thy Body, but  
Bent down thy Soul in Fear and Flattery;  
Which feeds both my Anger, and my Love.  
Nay, come, your Mignion's safely laid:  
His Sword, proud Beauty, will never more  
Be drawn in your Defence.  Enter Venutius. Ven. 
Oh where! Where is this proud Imperious Villain?  Claud. 
He's here; he's here. Ye Gods, poor Claudia thanks you.  Ven. 
Have at thee Prince; thus I salute.  [Draws. Com. 
Are you so hot, Sir? I have that  
Shall cool you  [Fight hear, and Comes falls. 
Curse of your Sword! You are too sure a Marksman.  Venus 
Farewell; and tell thy fellow Devils below,  
'Tis to Venutius' Sword, thou ow'st thy Death.  
A Fate too Noble, for a Wretch like thee.  Com. 
I'm going, but leave my Curse behind me.  
May'st thou still Love, and be like me Rewarded.  
Death, Horror, and Despair! Where am I now?  [Dies Claud. 
Come to my Arms, my Hero, born for Conquest:  
Dearer and Greater in the single Combat,  
Than all the Labours of the busy day!  
Ha! But he bleeds! O all ye Gods! He bleeds!  
Those precious drops that might redeem a Kingdom;  
In silent pace, bear his dear life away.  
O fatal Conquest! dear bought Victory!  
O wondrous proof of unexampled Love!  Ven. 
Love! Yes, I call the unknowing Gods to witness,  
How much I love thee; through what Seas of Danger  
I have ventured for thee: Thou art that precious  
Diamond, that glorious Prize, which seated on a Rock;  
From far hast drawn the Eyes of the Beholders!  
I the bold Lover, who in spite of Fortune,  
By Heaven encouraged, and Guided by my Love,  
Rode o'er the raging Waves, and bore thee off.  
Ha! Have I not? What Pict shall now oppose us?  
What Roman Sword shall interrupt our Peace?  
The Winds are still; Heaven gently smiles upon us:  
'Tis all Serene, and I am thine for ever.  Claud. 
Alas! Thou Ravest! 'Tis Madness all thou ut terst▪  
Help, help! Where now are all those Gods,  
The Poets in their wild fancies Dreamt  
Were in the Woods? No kinder Power to hear  
A Virgin's Prayer? No Aesculapius near, or  
Great Apollo?  Venus 
No, 'tis too late: I find Death's Hand upon me;  
And feel my Soul, just ready for the sally.  
Weep not, my Claudia: there are Joys in store,  
For thee and me, tho' I am now no more.  [Dies. Claud. 
He's dead, he's dead; and in my Cause! Oh thou dear  
Youth! Winged like a Perseus for his rescued Andromeda,  
Thou flew'st all Soul, all Love, to my Deliverance:  
And this is thy Reward! Oh, where's your Justice,  
Heaven; when Virtue, that should be the Charge of  
God's, must thus neglected; thus untimely bleed;  
And all that most deserved to live, must die.  
But why do I live, ye Powers!  
Why gave ye us poor Lovers, one Soul,  
And not one twisted Thread of life, to break and  
Die toget her? No Venutius! The Gods are Partial.  
I'll mend the work of Heaven: But can Tears mend it?  
Tears, the April-shower of Girls! No, I'll weep Blood!  Enter Nennius, with Soldiers. Nen. 
Cease Madam, cease; by your untimely fall,  
You'll add to Royal Sorrow.  
The unhappy Queen, with your much Mourning Sister,  
Are i'th' Fort, by Roman Powers immured; nothing  
Remains but Death, or an Ignoble Flight, or Bondage.  Claud. 
Death, Nennius; Death! Look here, then talk of Life;  
Lead on, I'll show the way; and in my fall,  
Be great as any Roman of 'em all.  Enter Bonvica and Julia. Bonu. 
Where shall the wretched Off spring of Bonduca fly.  
To escape those dismal Screams of Horror,  
That fill the Britain's Ears? Oh whetched Mother!  
Unhappy Sister! More unhappy I!  
Their Courage makes th' appoach of Death  
Seem pleasing: But I have the true fearful  
Soul of Woman; and would not quit the World.  
Julia, call Lucius, and bid him bring his Lute;  
Feign would I leave this dire consuming Melancholy.  Enter Lucius with a Lute. Luc. 
I'd have the Song you taught me last.  
I fear, I do resemble now the Swan,  
That Sings before its Death.  

Second SONG, by Miss Cross.  
OH! Lead me to some Peaceful Gloom,  
Where none but sighing Lovers come.  
Where the shrill Trumpets never sound,  
But one Eternal Hush goes round.  
There let me soothe my pleasing Pain,  
And never think of War again.  
What Glory can a Lover have,  
To Conquer, yet be still a Slave?   After the Song, enter Messenger. Mess. 
Madam, the Queen expects you on the Walls;  
Your Sister with you: the Roman Powers  
Are all come down with Fury 'gainst the Castle.  Bonu. 
Then, then farewell to this World.  
I see, I see my Fate direct before me;  
My Mother's Fury greater than the Romans,  
Presents me Death in a thousand various forms.  
Oh all ye Britain Powers! Oh great Andate,  
Pity my Youth! Oh Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!  [Exit. Appear Bonduca, Claudia, Nennius and Bonvica above. Bond. 
Now Claudia, now Bonvica, O my Children!  
Is the time come to show your constant Valours?  
Think not, my Girls, we will be Slaves to Rome;  
No, we will show these Lords o'th' World, these Romans,  
How they should die with Honour: Hark!  
They come, since we must fall, fall bravely.  Enter Suetonius, Junius, Decius, Demetrius, Curius and Soldiers. Suet. 
Bring up the Catapults, and shake the Walls;  
We will not be outbraved thus.  Bond. 
Shake the Earth;  
You cannot shake our Souls: Bring up your Rams,  
And with their Armed Heads make the Fort totter.  
You do but rock us into Death.  Dec. 
Yield Noble Queen.  Bond. 
I'm unacquainted with that Language, Romans.  Suet. 
Yield Honoured Lady, and expect our Mercy;  
We love thy Nobleness.  [Exit Decius. Bond. 
I thank ye, you say well,  
But Mercy and Love, are sins in Rome and Hell.  Suet. 
You cannot scape our Strength, you must  
Yield, Lady, you must adore, and fear the Power of Rome.  Bond 
If Rome be Earthly, why should any Knee  
With Bending Adoration Worship her?  
She's Vicious, and your partial selves confess,  
Aspires the height of all Impiety;  
Therefore 'tis fitter I should Reverence  
The Thatched Houses where the Britain's dwell  
In careless Mirth; where the best Household Gods  
See nought but chaste and simple Purity,  
'Tis not high Power that makes a place Divine;  
But sacred Thoughts in holy Bosoms stored,  
Make People Noble and the place Adored.  [Exit Decius. Suet. 
Beat the Wall deeper.  Bond. 
Beat it to the Centre,  
We will not sink one Thought.  Bonu. 
O Mother! These are fearful Hours: Speak gently  
To these fierce Men, they will afford us pity.  Bond. 
Pity thou fearful Girl? 'Tis for those Wretches  
That Misery makes tame: Wouldst thou live less?  
Wast thou not Born a Princess? Can my Blood  
And thy brave Father's Spirit, suffer in thee  
So base a Separation from thyself,  
As Mercy from these Tyrants?  
Say they had Mercy.  
The Devil! A Releuting Conscience!  
The Lives of King's rest in their Diadems,  
Which to their Bodies, lively Souls do give,  
And ceasing to be Kings, they cease to Live.  Enter Decius. Decius. 
There's a Breach made, is it your Will  
We Charge, Sir?  Suet. 
Once more Mercy, Mercy to all that yield.  Bond. 
Hear me, mark me well, and look upon me  
Directly in my Face, my Woman's Face,  
Whose only Beauty, is the hate it bears you.  
See with thy narrowest Eyes, thy sharpest Wishes  
Into my Soul, and see what there inhabits;  
See if one fear, one shadow of a terror,  
One paleness dare appear, but from my Anger,  
To lay hold on your Mercies. No, ye Fools,  
Poor Fortune's Fools, we were not born for Triumphs  
To follow your gay sports, and fill your Slaves  
With ●oo●s and Acclamations.  Pet. 
Brave Behaviour!  Claud. 
The Children of as great as Rome; as Noble  
Our Names before her, and her Deeds our Envy;  
Must we gild o'er your Conquest, make your State  
That is not fairly strong but fortunate.  
No, no, ye Romans, we have ways to scape you  
To make you poor again, indeed our Prisoners,  
And stick our Triumphs full.  Bond. 
D'ye wonder we'll make our Monuments  
In spite of Fortune, in spite of all  
Your eagle's Wings? We'll work a pitch above ye.  Suet. 
Decius, go Charge the Breach.  Bond. 
Stick in thy Body, and make it good but half an hour.  Nenn. 
I'll do't.  Claud. 
And then be sure to Die.  Nenn. 
It shall go hard else.  Bond. 
Farewell, brave Nennius, we shall meet yonder,  
Where few of those must come.  [Exit. 
Bring up the Poison.  Bonu. 
O my Fortune!  Bond. 
Ha! What said you?  Bonu. 
Good Mother, nothing to offend you.  Bond. 
Here, Girl: behold us, Romans.  Suet. 
Mercy yet.  Bond. 
No Talking, come, short Prayers, and let's dispatch  
The Business. You begin, shrink not.  
I'll see you do't.  Bonu. 
O Gentle Mother!  
O Romans! O my Heart! I dare not.  Suet. 
Woman! Woman! Unnatural Woman!  Bonu. 
O! persuade her Romans: Alas I am Young,  
And would Live, Noble Mother. Can you kill  
That you gave Life to? Are my Years  
Fit for Destruction?  Suet. 
Yield, and be a Queen still, a Mother and a Friend.  Bond. 
Ye talk in vain, come Drink it.  Claud. 
Fie, Sister, fie! What would you live to be?  Bonu. 
Mercy. O Mercy!  Suet. 
Hear her, thou wretched Woman.  Bonu. 
Mercy, Mother! O whither will ye send me?  
I was once your Darling. Your Delight.  Bond. 
O Gods! Fear in my Family? Do it, and Nobly.  Bonu. 
O! Do not frown then.  Claud. 
Do it, Worthy Sister.  
'Tis nothing; 'tis but a Pleasure; we'll go with you.  Bonu. 
O! If I knew but whither!  Claud. 
To the Blessed above, where we shall meet our Father,  
Where nothing but true Joy is.  Bonu. 
O! Comfort me still for Heaven's sake.  Claud. 
No Wars, no Lustful Slaves to Ravish us.  Bonu. 
That steals me along; farewell to this World.  [Drinks. Bond. 
That's my Good Girl.  Claud. 
The next is mine.  
Show me a Roman Lady in all your Stories  
Dare do this for her Honour?  Bond. 
Make haste.  Claud. 
I will. Would you learn how to Die bravely, Romans;  
To fling off this Case of Flesh, lose all your Cares  
For ever, hunt Honour and not Nations with your Sword:  
Keep your Minds humble, your Devotions high,  
So shall you learn the Noblest part, to Die.  [Dies. Bond. 
I come, my Noble Children, here,  
Here's the Draught would ask no less than Caesar's self  
To pledge it for the Glories sake.  Suet. 
Madam, make up your own Conditions.  Bond. 
So we will.  Suet. 
Stay, be any thing.  Bond. 
A Saint, Suetonius, when thou shalt fear and Die  
Like a Slave; ye Fools, you should have tied  
Up Death first when ye Conquered.  
You sweat for us in vain else, see him here,  
He's ours still, and our Friend Laughs at your Pity's;  
And we command him with as easy Reins  
As do our Enemies. I feel the Poison.  
Poor Vanquished Romans, with what matchless  
Tortures could I now Rack you, but I pity ye,  
Desiring to Die quiet; nay, so much  
I hate to prosecute my Victory,  
That I will give you Counsel ere I Die,  
If you will keep your Laws and Empire whole,  
Place in your Romans Flesh, a British Soul.  [Dies. Suet. 
Desperate and Strange!  
Give her fair Funeral, she was Noble, and a Queen.  
Petilius haste, draw out three Companies,  
And make up instantly to Caratach.  
What means this Ceremony?  Pet. 
The Body of Young Junius, that was  
Slain in the last Battle.  Suet. 
Go then Petilius, do as I commanded.  
After due Ceremony done to th' Dead,  
The Noble Dead, we'll follow you.  [Exeunt. Enter Caratach upon a Rock, and Hengo by him Sleeping. Cara. 
Thus we Afflicted Britain's climb for Safeties,  
And to avoid our Dangers seek Destructions.  
Thus we awake to Sorrows, O thou Woman!  
Thou Agent for Adversities! What Curses  
This Day belong to thy Improvidence?  
To Britan's, by thy means? What sad Millions  
Of Widows weeping Eyes? The Strong Man's Valour  
Thou hast betrayed to Fury; the Child's Fortune  
To fear and want of Friends, whose Piety's  
Might wipe his Mournings off, and build his Sorrows  
A House of Rest by his Blessed Ancestors.  
The Virgins thou hast robbed of all their Wishes,  
Blasted their blowing hopes, turned their Songs,  
Their Mirthful Marriage Songs, to Funerals,  
The Land thou hast left a Wilderness of Wretches.  
The Boy begins to stir, thy safety made,  
Would my Soul were in Heaven.  Heng. 
O Noble Uncle! Look out, I dreamed we were betrayed.  Cara. 
No harm Boy, 'tis but thy Emptiness, that breeds  
These Fancies, thou shalt have Meat anon.  Hen. 
A little, Uncle, and I shall hold out bravely.  Enter Macer and Soldiers with Meat and a Bottle. Macer. 
Hang it o'th' side o'th' Rock, as tho' the Britain's  
Stole hither to Relieve him: who first ventures  
To fetch it off is ours; I cannot see him,  
He lies close in a hole above, I know it,  
Gnawing upon his Anger: Ha! No, 'tis not he.  1 Sol. 
'Tis but the shaking of the Boughs.  Macer. 
Plague shake 'em, I'm sure they shake me soundly.  
There.  1 Sol. 
'Tis nothing.  Macer. 
Make no noise, if he stir, a deadly Tempest  
Of huge Stones fall upon us: 'Tis done, close, close.  Cara 
Sleep still, sleep sweetly Child, 'tis all thou feedest on;  
No Gentle Britain near, no Valiant Charity  
To bring thee Food; poor K 〈…〉 thou art Sick,  
Extreme Sick, almost grown wild for Meat,  
And yet thy Goodness will not confess, nor show it;  
All the Woods are double loined with Soldiers,  
No way left us to make a Noble Escape;  
I'll si●down by thee, and when thou wakest,  
Either get Meat to save thee, or lose my Life  
I'th' Purchase: Good Gods comfort thee, Ha!  
Courage my Boy, I have found Meat; look Hengo,  
Where some Blessed Britain to preserve thee,  
Has hung a little Food and Drink: Cheer up Boy,  
Do not for sake me now.  Heng. 
O Uncle! Uncle! I feel I cannot stay long,  
Yet I'll fetch it to keep your Noble Life.  
Uncle I am heart-whole, and would live.  Cara. 
Thou shalt long, I hope.  Heng. 
But my Head, Uncle!  
Methinks the Rock goes round.  
Don't you hear the noise of Bells?  Cara. 
Of Bell's Boy! 'Tis thy fancy,  
Alas, thy Body's full of Wind.  Heng. 
Methinks, Sir, they ring a strange sad Knell,  
A Preparation to some near Funeral of State.  
Nay, weep not, my own sweet Uncle,  
You will kill me sooner.  Car. 
O my poor Chicken!  Heng. 
Fie, faint-hearted Uncle!  
Come tie me in your Belt, and let me down.  Car. 
I'll go myself, Boy.  Heng. 
No, as you love me, Uncle.  
I will not eat if I do not fetch it,  
The danger only I desire, pray tie me.  Cara. 
I will, and all my Care hang over thee;  
Come Child, my Valiant Child.  Heng. 
Let me down apace, Uncle,  
And you shall see how like a Daw I'll whip it  
From all their Policies; for 'tis most certain  
A Roman Train, and you must hold me sure too,  
You'll spoil all else; when I have got it Uncle,  
We'll be as merry—  Cara. 
Go i'th' Name of Heaven, Boy.  Heng. 
Quick, quick Uncle, I have it. Oh!  Cara. 
What ail'st thou?  Heng. 
O my best Uncle, I am slain!  Cara. 
I see ye, and Heaven direct my Hand.  
Destruction go with thy Coward Soul.  
How dost thou Boy? O Villain! Villain! Villain!  Heng. 
O Uncle, Uncle! How it pricks me!  
Am I preserved for this? Extremely pricks me.  Cara. 
Coward, Rascal, Coward, Dogs eat thy Flesh.  Heng. 
O! I bleed hard, I faint too upon't.  
How sick I am; the Lean Rogue, Uncle—  Cara. 
Look Boy, I have laid him sure enough.  Heng. 
Have ye knocked his Brains out?  Cara. 
I warrant thee, from stirring more;  
Cheer up Child.  Heng. 
Hold my Sides hard, stop, stop, O wretched Fortune!  
Must we part thus? Still I grow sicker, Uncle.  Cara. 
Heaven look upon this Noble Child!  Heng. 
I once hoped  
I should have lived to have met these bloody Romans  
At my Sword's point, to have Revenged my Father's,  
To have beaten 'em. O hold me hard Uncle—  Cara. 
Thou shalt live still I hope, Boy.  Heng. 
I would live a little longer;  
Spare me Heavens, but only to thank you  
For your tender Love. Good Uncle,  
Good Noble Uncle weep not.  Cara. 
O my Chicken! My Dear Boy! What shall I lose—  Hen. 
Why a Child that must have Died however,  
Had this escaped me, Fever, or Famine:  
I was Born to Die, Sir.  Cara. 
But thus unblown, my Boy.  Hen. 
I shall go the straighter my Journey to the Gods:  
Sure I shall know when you come, Uncle?  Cara. 
Yes, Boy.  Heng. 
And I hope we shall enjoy together  
That Great Blessedness you told me of?  Cara. 
Most certain, Child.  Heng. 
I grow Cold, my Eyes are going.  Cara. 
Lift 'em up.  Heng. 
Pray for me, and, Noble Uncle, when my  
Bones are Ashes, think of your little Nephew. Mercy.  Cara. 
Mercy, you Blessed Angels take him.  Heng. 
Kiss me, so farewell, farewell.  [Dies Cara. 
Farewell the Hopes of Britain,  
Thou Royal Graft, farewell, farewell:  
Time, and Death, you have done your worst.  
Fortune, now see, now proudly pluck off this Veil  
And view thy Triumph: Look, look  
What thou hast brought this Land to;  
O Fair Flower! How lovely yet thy Ruins show!  
How sweetly, even Death embraces thee.  
The Peace of Heaven; the Followship of all.  
Great Souls be with thee.  Enter Suetonius, Petilius, with Roman Soldiers, Suet. 
Yield thee, bold Caratach; by all the Gods, I swear,  
As I'm a Soldier, as I envy thee,  
I'll use thee like thyself, th' valiant Britain.  Petil. 
Brave Soldier, yield:  
Thou Stock of Arms and Honour!  
Thou filler of the World with Fame and Glory!  Suet. 
Excellent Britain, do me but that honour;  
That more to me than Conquest, that true happiness  
To be my Friend.  Car. 
O Romans! See what here is! 〈…〉 Boy lived!—  Suet. 
For Fame's sake, forty sweet 〈…〉  
As thou desir'st to build thy Virtues 〈…〉—  Car. 
No Roman! No! I wear 〈…〉 Soul:  
A Soul too great for Slavery.— 〈…〉 Boy!  
My dear loved Hengo! From thy 〈…〉 down!  
Behold the last of thy great Race 〈…〉 ing!  
Suetonius, view this little Cas 〈…〉,  
By Roman Rapine Robbed of all his Wealth.  
A fair rich Soil; that Precious Royal Gem,  
By Fate's too Barbarous Hand, untimely snatched!  
These Tears. I sacrifice to thee, my Boy!  
But to my Queen, and my unhappy Country,  
This richer Purple Stream, my Blood I give.  Suet. 
O thou too envied Miracles of Worth!  
What baste thou done? Nas Rome, too poor a Mistress,  
To Wed thee to her Arms? Not one Charm  
In all her Courting Smiles, and Proffered Laurels?  Car. 
Rome, Sir. ah, no! She bids a Price too small,  
To Bribe me into Life: my bleeding Country  
Calls me to Nobler. Wreaths; and in her Fall,  
To mount a Star in Albion's long, long Night:  
And when her Caratach dies in such a Cause,  
A British Tomb, outshines a Roman Triumph.  Suet. 
Prodigious Virtue!  Car. 
Outlive my Country's Liberty!  
Shall Caratach dare but to think that Thought!  
Now Britain is all yours; but as my Blood,  
From this small Fountain flows, grant me one Favour:  
Lay this Young British Rose, Cropped in the Bud,  
Close by my side; and since the World▪ your own,  
Spare us but Earth enough to cover o'er  
These small Remains, and I shall ask no more.  [Dies. Suet. 
That Hollowed Relic! Thou Rich Diamond!  
Cut with the own Dust! Thou, for whose wide Fame,  
The would appears too narrow all Man's thought,  
Had they all Tongues too silent! Thus I bow  
To thy most Honoured Ashes, tho' an Enemy,  
Yet Friend to all thy Worths: Sleep peaceably.  
Happiness Crown thy Soul, and in thy Earth  
Some▪ Laurel fix his Seat; there grow and Flourish:  
And make thy Grave an Everlasting Triumph  
Farewell all Glorious Wars, now thou art gone.  
All Noble Battles!  
Maintained in Thirs 〈…〉 and not of Blood.  
Farewell for ever. No 〈…〉 please,  
Bear off the Noble 〈…〉 a File  
High as Olympus, that may 〈…〉 wonder,  
To see a Star on Earth, o 〈…〉  
O ever Loved, and ever L 〈…〉  
Thy Honoured, and most 〈…〉 Memory!    

EPILOGUE  Spoken by Miss. DENNY CHOCK, But Six Years Old. 

WELL, now to speak a Good Word for the Play,  
Dear Gallants, but alas, What can I say?  
I am too Young for your kind Smiles to pray.  
When we ask Favours, Naughty Men, from you,  
We must be Old enough to grant 'em too.  
Old! Pray how Old! O Yes, our Cupid's Darts  
Must first be Feathered, ere we shoot at Hearts;  
But these weak Eyes, too feeble Charms; 'tis true,  
You may look Babies there, but that won't do;  
We must be able to make Babies too.  
Who knows what Charms I have? I hear  
A Gentle Story whispered in your Ear,  
Has that strange power, nay, Sirs, if that will get ye,  
You'll find that I can prattle very pretty,  
You heard me t'other Day in Young Queen Betty.  
Such Honey-words, such dear soft words I'll call,  
Say such fine things, if saying will do all:  
Ah no, the soft white Birds that sing to you,  
Must be grown up to Bill as well as Cooe,  
And I'm too small to win your Hearts that way,  
But tho' I'm yet too Young for Turtles play,  
By your warm Suns a Blooming Flower I'll grow,  
And keep my Rose-bud, for your Smiles to Blow.   
FINIS.   

A Catalogue of some Plays Printed for 〈◊〉. 〈…〉 tley in Russel-street in Covent Garden.  

BEaumont and Fletcher s Plays: In all 51. in large Fol.  
Mr. Shakespeare's Plays: In one large Fol. Volume, containing 43 Plays  
Mr. Nathaniel Lee's Plays: In one Volume.  
Mr. Otway's Plays: In one Volume.  
Mr. Shadwel's Plays: In one Volume.  
Mr. Dryden's Plays: In two Volumes.  
His other Poems: One Volume more.   

A.  
1 All mistaken, or the mad Couple.  
2 Alexander the Great.  
3 Andromache.  
4 Ambitious Statesman, or the Loyal Favourite.  
5 Virtue Betrayed, or Anna-Bullen.  
6 Abdellazor, or the Moor's Revenge.  
7 Amorous Prince.  
8 Amends for Ladies.  
9 Albumazor.  
10 Amboyna, a Tragedy.  
11 All for Love, or the World well lost.  
12 Aurinzeb, or the Great Mogul.  
13 Assignation, or Love in a Nunnery.   

B.  
14 Brutus of Alba.  
15 Byron's Conspiracy, 1st. Part.  
16 Byron's Conspiracy, 2d. Part.  
17 Banditti, or the Lady in distress.  
18 Busey d'Ambois.   

C.  
19 Cambyses King of Persia, a Tragedy.  
20 Chances, a Comedy, altered by the Duke of Buckingham.  
21 Cleomenes, or the Spartan Hero.  
22 Caesar Borgia.  
23 Country Wit..  
24 Calisto, or the chaste Nymph.  
25 Country Wife.  
26 City Politics.  
27 Constantive.  
28 Commonwealth of Women.  
29 Counterf 〈…〉.  
30 Caius Marius.   

D.  
31 Darius King of Persia, a Tragedy  
32 Dramatic 〈◊〉, by Mr. Dryden  
33 Destruction of Jerusalem, in two Parts.  
34 Duke of Guise.  
35 Dutch Lovers.  
36 Duke of 〈◊〉.  
37 Disappointment.   

E.  
38 Epsome-Wells:  
39 English Monsieur.  
40 Esquire Old Sap, or the Night Adventures.  
41 Essex and Elizabeth, or the Unhappy Favourite.  
42 Empress of Morocco.  
43 Evening Love, or, Mock ginger.   

F.  
44 Forced Marriage, or the Jealous Bridegroom.  
45 The Fond Husband, or, Plotting Sisters.  
46 Fool turned Critic.  
47 The Fatal Wager.  
48 Fatal Jealousy.  
49 False Count   

G.  
50 Gentleman Dancing Master.  
51 Generous Enemies, or the Ridiculous Lovers.  
52 Gloriana, or the Court of Augustus Caesar.  
53 Grateful Servant.