Mr. Cibber, junior, took the nobleft method to improve others, by doing justice to his own character; and, though he labours under the present disadvantage of fmall ftature, I cannot help concurring with the opinion of many others, that in action and elocution, he is certainly a prodigy!

Lady Frances Howard, niece to the
Earl of Northampton, formerly

wife of the Earl of Effex, divorc->Mrs. Campbell.
ed from him, and afterwards mar-
ried to the Earl of Somerfet,

Ifabella, an orphan,under the guar-7 dianfhip of the Earl of Somerfet, in love with Sir Thomas Overbury,

Cleora, confidante to the Countess

Mrs. Bret.

of Somerset, fecretly a friend Mrs. Davifon. to Ifabella,

Officer, guards, and attendants.

SCENE LONDON

SIR THOMAS OVERBURY.

ACT I

SCENE I

Earl of Northampton and Sir Gervas Elloways..

Nor.

How

OW cheerfully hath this day's light-
broke forth!

The new-rifen fun, dreft rich in orient beams,
Beholds, with triumph, the late wife of Effex
Transplant her beauties, from his barren fhade,
To flourish by the heat of love and Somerfet.

Ell. Never fhall I forget the tempting bride!
Such dazzling luftre fparkled from her eyes,
That the proud gems fhe wore fhone dim beneath
'em-;

Inviting warmth glow'd lovely on her cheeks,

And from her tongue flow'd fuch melodious founds,,
That lift'ning rage grew gentle as her accents,
And age was youth again by looking on her!
Nor. Yet, tho' her features are as foft as air,
Strong paffions urge her mind to manly daring!
Work'd up by nature with unusual strength,
Vengeance, ambition, and the warmth of greatnefs
Swell in her foul, and lift her above woman.

Ell. That Overbury, who oppos'd this marriage,. Will frown on its conclufion-He's your enemy!

When

When correfponding with the court of Rome, 'Twas he who intercepted dangerous letters.

Nor. He did, nor think that I forget he did it: My genius, baleful as a comet's blaze,

Hangs o'er his head, and burns with red revenge!
Nay, he's my rival too!-That fiery thought
Glows in my breast; and as I weigh my wrongs,
I fwell like Ætna, when her fulph'rous rage
Burfts o'er the earth, and rolls in floods of fire.
Ell. Your Ifabella, Somerfet's fair charge,
Is sure an abstract of divine perfection!
While Overbury's love, like a black cloud,
Cuts off, and intercepts the glittering prospect.

Nor. O! name it not-it must not, fhall not be! Old as I am, I'll fnatch the pleasure from him; And love and policy fhall join to crush him.

Ell. You know her charms are Somerset's disposal. Warm in the luftre of our late Queen's graces, 'Tis strange, to mark the power of time to change

us.

Her father fhone the favourite of the court:
But when his day of hope at length declin'd,
Drove by his enemies, he fled to Scotland,
Pin'd there, and, chill'd with forrows, died an exilet
Nor. 'Tis well -but I have news more worth
relating!

Wade, the lieutenant of the Tower's displac'd..
Ell. May I remind your lordship of a promise?
Nor. Thou need'ft not, Ell'ways, I fo truly
prize thee,

That were my mind big with my country's fate, With plots, which known, would blast my life and

honour,

I fhou'd,

I fhou'd, I think, unfold 'em to thy friendshipOf that hereafter-See, the bride approaches! Exit Ell.

Enter the Countess of Somerset.

Nor. Hail, to those charms! that fmile upon the

morn,

And fweetly gild it, like a milder fun!

May joys, in circles, dance away your days!
And length of years fuftain your bridle pleasures!
Fair Somerfet! now happy too, and great!
Bleft with perfection to the height of thought!
The worth that could deferve beauty like your's,
Infures foft blifs, and heaps long life with pleasure:

Gount. Thus--while a lover, talk'd my Somerset, His words fell foft like hov'ring flakes of fnow, And in cold tremblings melted on my bofom! But now, alas !

Nor. You cannot, fure, fufpect him!

Count. He has alarm'd

A pride that catches the first spark, and kindles
To be forfaken, is a thought of horror!

Oh! it would grate the woman in my soul,
To have my pride fubdu'd, and make me mad!
Tho' but last night our nuptials fix'd him mine!
Starting this morning from my flighted arms,
Thought feem'd to prefs his mind, fighs heav'd his
bofom,

And, as repenting of his wifh poffefs'd,

Fulk in the blushing dawn, he rose and left me. Nor. There is a damp, I know, that clouds his

joys,

A vapour, which your warmth might foon difperfe, Count. What points my uncle at?

Nor.