Rome! Who loves his country will obey her laws; Who most obeys them is the truest patriot.

Reg. Be our last parting worthy of ourselves. Farewell! my friends.—I bless the gods who rule us, Since I must leave you, that I leave you Romans. Preserve the glorious name untainted still, And you shall be the rulers of the globe, The arbiters of earth. The farthest east, Beyond where Ganges rolls his rapid flood, Shall proudly emulate the Roman name. (Kneels.) Ye gods, the guardians of this glorious people, Who watch with jealous eye Æneas' race, This land of heroes I commit to you! This ground, these walls, this people be your care! Oh! bless them, bless them with a liberal hand! Let fortitude and valour, truth and justice, For ever flourish and increase among them! And if some baneful planet threat the Capitol With its malignant influence, oh, avert it!— Be Regulus the victim of your wrath.— On this white head be all your vengeance pour'd, But spare, oh, spare, and bless immortal Rome! Ah! tears? my Romans weep? Farewell! farewell!

Attilia

Regulus

Man. (looking after him.) Farewell! farewell! thou glory of mankind! Protector, father, saviour of thy country! Through Regulus the Roman name shall live, Shall triumph over time, and mock oblivion. Farewell! thou pride of this immortal coast! 'Tis Rome alone a Regulus can boast.

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. SPOKEN BY MISS MANSELL.

What son of physic, but his art extends, As well as hand, when call'd on by his friends? What landlord is so weak to make you fast, When guests like you bespeak a good repast? But weaker still were he whom fate has plac'd To soothe your cares, and gratify your taste, Should he neglect to bring before your eyes Those dainty dramas which from genius rise; Whether your luxury be to smile or weep, His and your profits just proportion keep. To-night he brought, nor fears a due reward, A Roman Patriot by a Female Bard. Britons who feel his flame, his worth will rate, No common spirit his, no common fate. Inflexible and Captive must be great. "How!" cries a sucking fop, thus lounging, straddling (Whose head shows want of ballast by its nodding), "A woman write? Learn, Madam, of your betters, And read a noble Lord's Post-hù-mous Letters. There you will learn the sex may merit praise By making puddings—not by making plays: They can make tea and mischief, dance and sing; Their heads, though full of feathers, can't take wing." I thought they could, 

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