t his desponding Heart;
But your last Rites require my present Care. [_Exit._

SCENE II. _The Senate-House._

_PONTEACH, TENESCO, and others._

PONTEACH.

Let all be worthy of the royal Dead;
Spare no Expense to grace th' unhappy Scene,
And aggrandize the solemn, gloomy Pomp
With all our mournful, melancholy Rites.

TENESCO.

It shall be done; all Things are now preparing.

PONTEACH.

Never were Funeral Rites bestow'd more just;
Who knew them living, must lament them dead;
Who sees them dead, must wish to grace their Tombs
With all the sad Respect of Grief and Tears.

TENESCO.

The Mourning is as general as the News;
Grief sits on every Face, in every Eye,
And gloomy Melancholy in Silence reigns:
Nothing is heard but Sighs and sad Complaints,
As if the First-born of the Realm were slain.

PONTEACH.

Thus would I have it; let no Eye be dry
No Heart unmov'd, let every Bosom swell
With Sighs and Groans. What Shouting do I hear?
[_A shouting without, repeated several times._

TENESCO.

It is the Shout of Warriors from the Battle;
The Sound of Victory and great Success. [_He goes to listen to it._

PONTEACH.

Such is the State of Men and human Things;
We weep, we smile, we mourn, and laugh thro' Life,
Here falls a Blessing, there alights a Curse,
As the good Genius or the evil reigns.
It's right it should be so. Should either conquer,
The World would cease, and Mankind be undone
By constant Frowns or Flatteries from Fate;
This constant Mixture makes the Potion safe,
And keeps the sickly Mind of Man in Health.

_Enter CHEKITAN._

It is my Son. What has been your Success?

CHEKITAN.

We've fought the Enemy, broke thro' their Ranks,
Slain many on the Spot, pursu'd the rest
Till Night conceal'd and sav'd them from our Arms.

PONTEACH.

'Tis bravely done, and shall be duly honour'd
With all the Signs and Marks of public Joy.

CHEKITAN.

What means this Gloom I see in every Face?
These smother'd Groans and stifled half-drawn Sighs;
Does it offend that I've return'd in Triumph?

PONTEACH.

I fear to name--And yet it must be known. [_Aside._
Be not alarm'd, my Son, the Laws of Fate
Must be obey'd: She will not hear our Dictates.
I'm not a Stranger to your youthful Passion,
And fear the Disappointment will confound you.

CHEKITAN.

Has he not sped? Has ill befell my Brother?

PONTEACH.

Yes, he is wounded but--Monel