There are throughout this play, we dare be bold to affirm, as affecting scenes as ever melted the hearts of an audience.  Why it is not revived, may be difficult to account for.  Shall we charge it to want of taste in the town, or want of discernment in the managers? or are our present actors conscious that they may be unequal to some of the parts in it? yet were Mr. Quin engaged, at either theatre, to do the author justice in the character of Brutus, we are not wanting in a Garrick or a Barry, to perform the part of Titus; nor is either stage destitute of a Teraminta.  This is one of those plays that Mr. Booth proposed to revive (with some few alterations) had he lived to return to the stage:  And the part of Brutus was what he purposed to have appeared in.

As to Lee’s works, they are in every body’s hands, so that we need not trouble the reader with a list of them.

In his tragedy of the Rival Queens, our author has shewn what he could do on the subject of Love; he has there almost exhausted the passion, painted it in its various forms, and delineated the workings of the human soul, when influenced by it.

He makes Statira thus speak of Alexander.

  Not the spring’s mouth, nor breath of Jessamin,
  Nor Vi’lets infant sweets, nor op’ning buds
  Are half so sweet as Alexander’s breast! 
  From every pore of him a perfume falls,
  He kisses softer than a Southern wind
  Curls like a Vine, and touches like a God! 
  Then he will talk! good Gods! how he will talk! 
  Even when the joy he sigh’d for is possess’d,
  He speaks the kindest words, and looks such things,
  Vows with such passion, swears with so much grace
  That ’tis a kind of Heaven to be deluded by him. 
  If I but mention him the tears will fall,
  Sure there is not a letter in his name,
  But is a charm to melt a woman’s eyes.

His Tragedy of Theodosius, or the Force of Love, is the only play of Lee’s that at present keeps possession of the stage, an argument, in my opinion, not much in favour of our taste, that a Genius should be so neglected.

It is said, that Lee died in the night, in the streets, upon a frolic, and that his father never assisted him in his frequent and pressing necessity, which he was able to do.  It appears that tho’ Lee was a player, yet, for want of execution, he did not much succeed, though Mr. Cibber says, that he read excellently, and that the players used to tell him, unless they could act the part as he read it, they could not hope success, which, it seems, was not the case with Dryden, who could hardly read to be understood.  Lee was certainly a man of great genius; when it is considered how young he died, he performed miracles, and had he lived ’till his fervour cooled, and his judgment strengthened, which might have been the consequence of years, he would have made a greater figure in poetry than some of his contemporaries, who are now placed in superior rank.