A long war disturb'd your mind, Here your perfect peace is sign'd;

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping:
Their life a general mist of error;

Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powder sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet;
And (the foul fiend more to check)

A crucifix let bless your neck:

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day, End your groan and come away."

Cari. Hence villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas!
What will you do with my lady? call for help.
Duch. To whom, to our next neighbours? they
Bos. Remove that noise.
[are mad folks.
Duch. Farewell, Cariola;

In my last will I have not much to give―
A many hungry guests have fed upon me-
Thine will be a poor reversion.

Cari. I will die with her.

Duch. I pray thee look thou givest my little boy Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl

Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please. What death?

Bos. Strangling: here are your executioners.
Duch. I forgive them :

The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' lungs,
Would do as much as they do.

Bos. Doth not death fright you?
Duch. Who would be afraid on't,
Knowing to meet such excellent company
In th' other world?

Bos. Yet, methinks,

The manner of your death should much afflict you? This cord should terrify you.

Duch. Not a whit:

What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
With diamonds? or to be smother'd

With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?
I know death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits; and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them both ways: any way, (for
heaven's sake,)

So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers
That I perceive death (now I am well awake)
Best gift is they can give, or I can take.
I would fain put off my last woman's fault:
I'll not be tedious to you.

Exec. We are ready.

Duch. Dispose my breath how please you; but Bestow upon my women, will you? [my body

Exec. Yes.

Duch. Pull, and pull strongly; for your able Must pull down heaven upon me :— [strength Yet stay, heaven's gates are not so highly arch'd As princes' palaces; they that enter there Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, Serve for mandragora to make me sleep. Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out, They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her. Bos. Where's the waiting-woman? Fetch her some other strangle the children. Look you, there sleeps your mistress.

Of young wolves is never to be pitied.
Bos. Fix your eye here.
Ferd. Constantly.

Bos. Do you not weep?

Other sins only speak, murder shrieks out,

The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens.
Ferd. Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle. She
died young.

Bos. I think not so; her infelicity

Seem'd to have years too many.

Ferd. She and I were twins;

And should I die this instant, I had lived
Her time to a minute.

Bos. It seems she was born first.

You have bloodily approved the ancient truth,
That kindred commonly do worse agree
Than remote strangers.

Ferd. Let me see her face again.
Why didst not thou pity her? what
An excellent honest man might'st thou have been,
If thou hadst borne her to some sanctuary,
Or, bold in a good cause, opposed thyself,
With thy advanced sword above thy head,
Between her innocence and my revenge!
I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits,
Go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done't.
For let me but examine well the cause:
What was the meanness of her match to me?
Only I must confess I had a hope,
Had she continued widow, to have gain'd
An infinite mass of treasure by her death;
And what was the main cause? Her marriage!

That not the fear of Him which binds the devils Can prescribe man obedience!

Never look upon me more.

Bos. Why, fare thee well:

Your brother and yourself are worthy men:
You have a pair of hearts are hollow graves,
Rotten, and rotting others; and your vengeance,
Like two chain'd bullets, still goes arm in arm.
You may be brothers: for treason, like the plague,
Doth take much in a blood. I stand like one
That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream.
I am angry with myself, now that I wake.
Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' th'
That I may never see thee.

Bos. Let me know

[world,

Wherefore I should be thus neglected? Sir,
I served your tyranny, and rather strove
To satisfy yourself than all the world;
And though I loathed the evil, yet I loved
You that did counsel it, and rather sought
To appear a true servant than an honest man.
Ferd. I'll go hunt the badger by owl-light:
"Tis a deed of darkness.

[Exit. Bos. He's much distracted. Off, my painted

honour

While with vain hopes our faculties we tire,
We seem to sweat in ice, and freeze in fire;
What would I do, were this to do again?
I would not change my peace of conscience
For all the wealth of Europe. She stirs! here's life!
Return, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine
Out of this sensible hell. She's warm, she breathes.
Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart,

To store them with fresh colour. Who's there?
Some cordial drink! Alas, I dare not call:
So pity would destroy pity. Her eye opes,
And heaven in it seems to ope, that late was shut,
To take me up to mercy.

Duch. Antonio!

Bos. Yes, madam, he is living:

The dead bodies you saw were but feign'd statues; He's reconciled to your brother; the Pope hath The atonement.

Duch. Mercy.

[wrought [She dies.

Bos. Oh, she's gone again: there the cords of

life broke.

Oh, sacred innocence! that sweetly sleeps
On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty conscience
Is a black register, wherein is writ
All our good deeds, and bad; a perspective
That shows us hell, that we cannot be suffer'd
To do good when we have a mind to it!
This is manly sorrow;

These tears, I am very certain, never grew
In my mother's milk. My estate is sunk
Below the degree of fear: where were
These penitent fountains while she was living?
Oh, they were frozen up. Here is a sight
As direful to my soul as is the sword

Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come, I'll bear thee hence,

And execute thy last will; that's deliver
Thy body to the reverend dispose

Of some good women; that the cruel tyrant
Shall not deny me: then I'll post to Milan,
Where somewhat I will speedily enact
Worth my dejection.

Echo. Oh, fly your fate.

Del. Hark: the dead stones seem to have pity And give you good counsel.

Ant. Echo, I will not talk with thee,

For thou art a dead thing.

Echo. Thou art a dead thing.

Ant. My duchess is asleep now,

[on you,

And her little ones, I hope sweetly: Oh, heaven! Shall I never see her more?

Echo. Never see her more.

Ant. I mark'd not one repetition of the Echo But that, and on the sudden a clear light Presented me a face folded in sorrow.

Del. Your fancy, merely,

Ant. Come, I'll be out of this ague;
For to live thus, is not indeed to live;
It is a mockery and abuse of life:

I will not henceforth save myself by halves,
Lose all or nothing.

Del. Your own virtue save you.

I'll fetch your eldest son, and second you,
It may be that the sight of his own blood,
Spread in so sweet a figure, may beget
The more compassion.

However, fare you well!

Though in our miseries Fortune have a part,
Yet, in our noble suff'rings, she hath none;
Contempt of pain, that we may call our own.

OF William Rowley nothing more is known than that he was a player by profession, and for several years at the head of the Prince's* company of comedians. Though his name is found in one instance affixed to a piece conjointly with Shakspeare's, he is generally classed only in the third rank of our dramatists. His Muse is evidently a plebeian nymph, and had not been educated in the school of the Graces. His most tolerable production is the "New Wonder, or

SCENE FROM THE COMEDY OF "A NEW WONDER, OR A WOMAN NEVER VEXT." Persons.-The WIDOW and DOCTOR. Doct. You sent for me, gentlewoman? Wid. Sir, I did; and to this end: I have scruples in my conscience; Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain.

Doct. This is my duty: pray speak your mind.
Wid. And as I speak, I must remember heaven,
That gave those blessings which I must relate:
Sir, you now behold a wondrous woman;
You only wonder at the epithet;

I can approve it good; guess at mine age.
Doct. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty.

Prince Charles, afterwards Charles I. The play in which his name is printed conjointly with Shakspeare's is called The Birth of Merlin.

a Woman never vext." Its drafts of citizen life and manners have an air of reality and honest truth-the situations and characters are forcible, and the sentiments earnest and unaffected. The author seems to move in the sphere of life which he imitates, with no false fears about its dignity, and is not ashamed to exhibit his broken merchant hanging out the bag for charity among the debtors of a prison-house.

[last.

Wid. 'Twas not much amiss; yet nearest to the How think you then, is not this a wonder? That a woman lives full seven-and-thirty years Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow, Now widow'd, and mine own, yet all this while From the extremest verge of my remembrance, Even from my weaning hour unto this minute, Did never taste what was calamity?

I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought
An hundred ways for its acquaintance: with me
Prosperity hath kept so close a watch,

That even those things that I have meant a cross,
Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange?
Doct. Unparallel'd; this gift is singular,
And to you alone belonging: you are the moon,
For there's but one, all women else are stars,
For there are none of like condition.
Full oft, and many, have I heard complain
Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities,

But a second to yourself I never knew:
To groan under the superflux of blessings,
To have ever been alien unto sorrow.
No trip of fate? Sure it is wonderful.

Wid. Ay, sir, 'tis wonderful: but is it well? For it is now my chief affliction.

I have heard you say, that the child of heaven
Shall suffer many tribulations; [subjects:
Nay, kings and princes share them with their
Then I that know not any chastisement,
How may I know my part of childhood?

Doct. "Tis a good doubt; but make it not extreme.
'Tis some affliction, that you are afflicted
For want of affliction; cherish that:
Yet wrest it not to misconstruction;
For all your blessings are free gifts from heaven;
Health, wealth, and peace; nor can they turn to
But by abuse. Pray, let me question you: [curses,
You lost a husband, was it no grief to you?

Wid. It was; but very small: no sooner I
Had given it entertainment as a sorrow,
But straight it turn'd unto my treble joy:
A comfortable revelation prompts me then,
That husband (whom in life I held so dear)
Had changed a frailty to unchanging joys;
Methought I saw him stellified in heaven,
And singing hallelujahs 'mongst a quire
Of white-sainted souls: then again it spake,
And said; it was a sin for me to grieve
At his best good, that I esteemed best:
And thus this slender shadow of a grief
Vanish'd again.

[from

Doct. All this was happy; nor can you wrest it
A heavenly blessing: do not appoint the rod;
Leave still the stroke unto the magistrate:
The time is not past, but you may feel enough.
Wid. One taste more I had, although but little,
Yet I would aggravate to make the most on't;
Thus 'twas: the other day it was my hap,
In crossing of the Thames,

To drop that wedlock ring from off my finger,
That once conjoined me and my dead husband,
It sunk; I prized it dear; the dearer, 'cause it kept
Still in mine eye the memory of my loss;
Yet I grieved the loss; and did joy withal,
That I had found a grief: and this is all
The sorrow I can boast of.

Doct. This is but small.

Wid, Nay, sure I am of this opinion, That had I suffer'd a draught to be made for it, The bottom would have sent it up again, I am so wondrously fortunate.

Doct. You would not suffer it?

STEPHEN, A RECLAIMED GAMESTER, NEWLY MARRIED TO THE OVER-FORTUNATE WIDOW. Persons.-STEPHEN, ROBERT his nephew, and WIDOW. Enter STEPHEN with bills and bonds.

Wife. How now, sweetheart? what hast thou there?

Steph. I find much debts belonging to you, sweet; And my care must be now to fetch them in.

Wife. Ha! ha! prithee do not mistake thyself, Nor my true purpose; I did not wed to thrall,

Or bind thy large expense, but rather to add
A plenty to that liberty; I thought by this,
Thou wouldst have stuff'd thy pockets full of gold,
And thrown it at a hazard; made ducks and drakes,
And baited fishes with thy silver flies;

Lost, and fetch'd more; why, this had been my joy, Perhaps at length thou wouldst have wasted my store;

Why, this had been a blessing too good for me.
Steph. Content thee, sweet, those days are gone,
Ay, even from my memory;

I have forgot that e'er I had such follies,
And I'll not call 'em back: my cares are bent
To keep your state, and give you all content.
Roger, go, call your fellow-servants up to me,
And to my chamber bring all books of debt;
I will o'erlook, and cast up all accounts,
That I may know the weight of all my cares,
And once a year give up my stewardship. . . . .

Enter ROBERT.

Steph. Oh, nephew, are you come! the welcomest wish

That my heart has; this is my kinsman, sweet.
Wife. Let him be largely texted in your love,
That all the city may read it fairly:
You cannot remember me, and him forget;
We were alike to you in poverty.

[love,

Steph. I should have begg'd that bounty of your Though you had scanted me to have given't him; For we are one, I an uncle nephew, He a nephew uncle. But, my sweet self, My slow request you have anticipated With proffer'd kindness; and I thank you for it. But how, kind cousin, does your father use you? Is your name found again within his books? Can he read son there?

Rob. "Tis now blotted quite:

For by the violent instigation

Of my cruel step-mother, his vows and oaths
Are stamp'd against me, ne'er to acknowledge me
Never to call, or bless me as a child;

But in his brow, his bounty and behaviour
I read it all most plainly.

Steph. Cousin, grieve not at it; that father lost

at home,

You shall find here; and with the loss of his inheritance,

You meet another amply proffer'd you;

Be my adopted son, no more my kinsman : (To his Wife.) So that this borrow'd bounty do not stray

From your consent.

Wife. Call it not borrow'd, sir; 'tis all your own;
Here 'fore this reverend man I make it known,
Thou art our child as free by adoption
As derived from us by conception,
Birth, and propinquity; inheritor
To our full substance.

Rob. You were born to bless us both;
My knee shall practise a son's duty
Even beneath a son's; giving you all
The comely dues of parents; yet not
Forgetting my duty to my father:
Where'er I meet him he shall have my knee,
Although his blessing ne'er return to me.

Steph. Come then, my dearest son, I'll now give thee

A taste of my love to thee: be thou my deputy,
The factor and disposer of my business;
Keep my accounts, and order my affairs;
They must be all your own: for you, dear sweet,
Be merry, take your pleasure at home, abroad;
Visit your neighbours; aught that may seem
good

To your own will; down to the country ride;
For cares and troubles lay them all aside,
And I will take them up; it's fit that weight
Should now lie all on me: take thou the height

Of quiet and content, let nothing grieve thee; I brought thee nothing else, and that I'll give thee. [Exit STEPHEN and ROBERT.

Wife. Will the tide never turn? was ever woman Thus burden'd with unhappy happiness? Did I from riot take him, to waste my goods, And he strives to augment it? I did mistake him.

Doct. Spoil not a good text with a false comment; All these are blessings, and from heaven sent; It is your husband's good, he's now transform'd To a better shade, the prodigal's return'd. Come, come, know joy, make not abundance scant; You 'plain of that which thousand women want.

It is painful to find the name of Ford a barren spot in our poetical biography, marked by nothing but a few dates and conjectures, chiefly drawn from his own dedications. He was born of a respectable family in Devonshire; was bred to the law, and entered of the Middle Temple at the age of seventeen. At the age of twenty, he published a poem, entitled Fame's Memorial, in honour of the deceased Earl of Devonshire; and from the dedication of that piece it appears that he chiefly subsisted upon his professional labours, making poetry the solace of his leisure hours. All his plays were published between the year 1629 and 1639; but before the former period he

FROM "THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY."*
ACT. IV. SCENE III.

Palador, Prince of Cyprus, having fallen into melancholy from the disappointment of losing Eroclea, to whom he was attached, a masque is prepared to divert his thoughts, at the representation of which he sees a youth, passing by the name of Parthenophill, whose resemblance to his mistress strikes him.

SCENE-A Room at the Palace.

Persons-PALADOR, Prince of Cyprus; ARETUS, his tutor; SOPHRONOS, uncle to EROCLEA; PELIAS, a courtier; MENAPHON, son of SOPHRONOS; AMETHUS, cousin to the Prince; RHETIAS, servant to EROCLEA.

Enter ARETUS and SOPHRONOS.

Are. THE prince is thoroughly moved.
Soph. I never saw him

So much distemper'd.

Are. What should this young man be,

Or whither can he be convey'd?

Soph. "Tis to me

A mystery; I understand it not.
Are. Nor I.

Enter PALADOR, AMETHUS and PELIAS.
Pal. You have consented all to work upon
The softness of my nature; but take heed:

* I have declined obtruding on the reader some passages in Ford's plays which possess a superior power to the present scene, because they have been anticipated by Mr. Lamb in his Dramatic Specimens. Even if this had not been the case, I should have felt reluctant to give a place to one dreadfully beautiful specimen of his affecting powers, in the tragedy of the Brother and Sister. Better that poetry should cease, than have to do with such sub

had for some time been known as a dramatic writer, his works having been printed a considerable time after their appearance on the stage; and, according to the custom of the age, had been associated in several works with other composers. With Dekker he joined in dramatizing a story, which reflects more disgrace upon the age than all its genius could redeem; namely, the fate of Mother Sawyer, the Witch of Edmonton, an aged woman, who had been recently the victim of legal and superstitious murder

Nil adeo foedum quod non exacta vetustas
Ediderit.

The time of his death is unknown.

Where is the youth, your friend? Is he found yet? Men. Not to be heard of.

Pal. Fly then to the desert,

Where thou didst first encounter this fantastic,
This airy apparition: come no more

In sight! Get ye all from me! He that stays
Is not my friend.

Amet. 'Tis strange.

Are. and Soph. We must obey.

[Exeunt all but PALADOR. Pal. Some angry power cheats, with rare delusions,

My credulous sense: the very soul of reason

jects. The Lover's Melancholy has much of the grace and sweetness that distinguishes the genius of Ford. ["Mr. Campbell speaks favourably of the poetic portion of this play; he thinks, and I fully agree with him, that it has much of the grace and sweetness which distinguish the genius of Ford. It has also somewhat more of the sprightliness in the language of the secondary characters, than is commonly found in his plays."-GIFFORD.-C.]