Enter DON ALVAREZ and LEONORA.

Alv. Don Carlos, I am labouring in your favour With all a parent's soft authority,

And earnest counsel.

Car. Angels second you!

For all my bliss or misery hangs on it.

Al Daughter, the happiness of life depends
On our discretion, and a prudent choice;
Don Carlos is of ancient, noble blood,

And then his wealth might mend a prince's fortune.
For him the sun is labouring in the mines,
A faithful slave, and turning earth to gold.
His keels are freighted with that sacred power
By which even kings and emperors are made.
Sir, you have my good wishes, and I hope

[TO CARLOS. My daughter is not indisposed to hear you. [Exit. Car. Oh, Leonora ! why art thou in tears? Because I am less wretched than I was?

Before your father gave me leave to woo you,
Hush'd was your bosom, and your eye serene.
Leon. Think you my father too indulgent to me,
That he claims no dominion o'er my tears?
A daughter, sure, may be right dutiful,
Whose tears alone are free from a restraint.
Car. Ah, my torn heart!

Leon. Regard not me, my lord,

I shall obey my father.

Car. Disobey him,

Rather than come thus coldly, than come thus
With absent eyes and alienated mien,
Suff'ring address, the victim of my love.

Love calls for love. Not all the pride of beauty,
Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of,
Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life,
Those hills of driven snow, which seen art felt;

B

PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWNa PATERNOSTER-ROW.

EDINBURGH:

Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.

REMARKS.

It is certain that Dr Young was no enthusiastic admirer of Shakspeare's "Othello."-To suppose he was, is to accuse him of high presumption in hoping to write a still better play. For that he could take the same subject, which an admired author had used with infinite success, and not hope to transcend him, agrees but ill with the ambition of any dramatist, much less with that of the aspiring Young.

"The Revenge" is so excellent a production, that the reader will forgive the author's attempt, and compassionate his failure. In one of his characters, indeed, he has surpassed the genius of Shakspeare-but immorally so he has adorned malice and its kindred vices with a sentiment appropriate to the rarest virtue-scrupulous regard for unblemished honour.

The high-sounding vengeance of Zanga charms every heart, whilst the malicious purposes of Iago fill every bosom with abhorrence.

Another advantage is given to Zanga in his guilt; the persons whom he involves in utter ruin claim far less sympathy than Shakspeare's Othello and Desdemona. Alonzo can excite no interest equal to the first, and Leonora sinks even beneath comparison before the last.