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most careless of all versifiers, their style is more remarkably and offensively artificial than that of any other class of writers. They bave mixed in, too, so much of the mawkish u.w oí pastoral innocence and babyish sim¡'hoity. with a sort of pedantic emphasis and ostentatious glitter, «hat it is difficult not to be disgusted with their perversity, and with the solemn self-complacency, and keen and vindictive jealousy, with which they have put ¡11 their claims on public admiration. But we have said enough elsewhere of the faults of thn*e authors ; and shall only add, at present, tbat, notwithstanding all these faults, there is a fertility and a force, a warmth of feeling and an exaltation of imagination about them, which classes them, in our estimation, with a much higher order of poets than the folluwersof Dryden and Addison; and justifies a;i anxiety for their fame, in all the admirers of Milton and Shakespeare.

Of Scott, or of Campbell, we need scarcely »y any thing, with reference to our present object, after the very copious accounts we luve ¡riven of them on former occasions. The i ¿ппег professes to copy something a good deal older than what we consider as the golden »->? of Knglish poetry,—and, in reality, has 01 pied every style, and borrowed from every manner that has prevailed, from the times of i'Laueer to his own :—illuminating and unitвд. if not harmonizing them all, by a force of colouring, and a rapidity of succession, which is not to be met with in any of his mauy models. The latter, we think, can scarcely be said to have copied his pathos, or b:s energy, from any models whatever, either [•-•cent or early. The exquisite harmony of ai!1 versification is elaborated, perhaps, from '••V Castle of Indolence of Thomson, and the *nocs pieces of Goldsmith;—and it seems '•' be his misfortune, not to be able to reconcile li'mself lo any thing which he cannot reduce »ithin the limits of this elaborate harmony. Го. 5 extreme fastidiousness, and the limitation of hie efforts to themes of unbroken ten!• raes? or sublimity, distinguish him from the arelcjs, prolific, and miscellaneous authors pfonr primitive poetry ;—while the enchant;lî«:tnessof his pathetic passages, and the power and originality of his more sublime - iiecptions, place him at a still greater disj'nce from the wits, as they truly called fcraselves, of Charles II. and Queen Anne.

We do not know what other apology to °eer for this hasty, and, we fear, tedious Welch of the history of our poetry, but that 1 appeared to us to be necessary, in order to ^iplain the peculiar merit of that class of *nters to which the author before us belongs; Л that it will very greatly shorten what we '«e still to say on the characteristics of our "•Jer dramatists. An opinion prevails very ïw.erally on the Continent, and with foreignл<ч) scholars among ourselves, that our naLnnal taste has been corrupted chiefly by our 11'Jiatry of Shakespeare ;—and that it is our ¡atnotic and traditional admiration of that waalar writer, that reconciles us to the mondos compound of faults and beauties that

occur in his performances, and must to all impartial judges appear quite absurd and unnatural. Before entering upon the character of a contemporary dramatist, it was of some importance, therefore, to show that there was a distinct, original, and independent school of literature in England in the time of Shakespeare; to the general tone of \vho?e productions his works were sufficient!} c«i,formable; and that it was owing to ciicuiiistances in a great measure accidental, that tins native school was superseded about the time of the Restoration, and a foreign standard of excellence intruded on us, not in the drama only, but in every other department of poetry. This new style of composition, however, though adorned and recommended by the splendid talents of many of its followers, was never perfectly naturalised, we think, in this country; and has ceased, in a great measure, to be cultivated by those who have lately aimed with the greatest success at the higher honours of poetry. Our love of Shakespeare, therefore, is not a monomania or solitary and unaccountable infatuation; but is merely the natural love which all men bear to those forme of excellence that are accommodated to their peculiar character, temperament, and situation ; and which will always return, and assert its power over their affections, long after authority has lost its reverence, fashions been antiquated, and artificial tastes passed away. In endeavouring, therefore, to bespeak some share of favour for such of his contemporaries as had fallen out of notice, during the prevalence of an imported literature, we conceive that we are only enlarging that foundation of native genius on which alone any lasting superstructure can be raised, and invigorating that deep-rooted stock upon which all the perennial blossoms of our literature must still be engrafted.

The notoriety of Shakespeare may seem to make it superfluous to speak of the peculiarities of those old dramatists, of whom he will be admitted to be so worthy a representative. Nor shall we venture to say any thing of the confusion of their plots, the disorders of their chronology, their contempt of the unities, or their imperfect discrimination between the provinces of Tragedy and Comedy. Yet there are characteristics which the lovers of literature may not be displeased to find enumerated, and which may constitute no dishonourable distinction for the whole fraternity, independent of the splendid talents and incommunicable graces of their great chieftain.

Of the old English dramatists, then, including under this name (besides Shakespeare), Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Jonson, Ford, Shirley. Webster, Dekkar, Field, and Rowley, it may be said, in general, that they are more poetical, and more original in their diction, than the dramatists of any other age or country. Their scenes abound more in varied images, and gratuitous excursions of fancy. Their illustrations, and figures of speech, are more borrowed from rural life, and from the simple occupations or universal feelings of mankind. They are not confined to a certain range of dignified expressions, nor restricted to a particular assortment of imagery, beyond which it is not lawful to look for embellishments. Let any one compare the prodigious variety, and wide-ranging freedom of Shakespeare, with the narrow round of flames, tempests, treasons, victims, and tyrants, that scantily adorn the sententious pomp of the French drama, and he will not fail .0 recognise the vast superiority of the former, in the excitement of the imagination, and all the diversities of poetical delight. That very mixture of styles, of which the French critics have so fastidiously complained, forms, when not carried to any neight of extravagance, one of the greatest charms of our ancient dramatists. It is equally sweet and natural for personages toiling on the barren heights of life, to be occasionally recalled to some vision of pastoral innocence and tranquillity, as for the victims or votaries of ambition to cast a glance of envy and agony on the joys of humble content.

Those charming old writers, however, have a still more striking peculiarity in their conduet of the dialogue. On the modern stage, every scene is visibly studied and digested beforehand.—and every thing from beginning to end, whether it be description, or argument, or vituperation, is very obviously and ostentatiously set forth in the most advantageous light, and with all the decorations of the most elaborate rhetoric. Now, for mere rhetoric, and fine composition, this is very right;—but, for an imitation of nature, it is not quite so well: And however we may admire the skill of the a-tist, we are not very likely to be moved with any very lively sympathy in the emotions of those very rhetorical interlocutors. When we come to any important part of the play, on the Continental or modern stage, we are sure to have a most complete, formal, and exhaustingdiscussionof it, in long flourishing orations;—argument after argument propounded and answered with infinite ingenuity, and topic after topic brought forward in welldigested method, without an)- deviation that the most industrious and practised pleader would not approve of,—till nothing more remains to be said, and a new scene introduces US to a new set of gladiators, as expert and persevering as the former. It is exactly the same when a story is to be told,—a tyrant to be bullied.—or a princess to be wooed. On the old English stage, however, the proceedings were by no means so regular. There the discussions always appear to be casual, and the argument quite artless and disorderly. The persons of the drama, in short, are made to speak like men and women who meet without preparation, in real life. Their reasonings are perpetually broken by passion, or left imperfect for want of skill. They constantly wander from the point in hand, in the most unbusinesslike manner in the world ;— and after hitting upon a topic that would afford a judicious playwright room for a magnificent seesaw of pompous declamation, they have generally the awkwardness to let it slip, as if perfectly unconscious of its value ; and uni

formly leave the scene without ехпаишсг the controversy, or stating half the plausib:» things for themselves that any ordinal; advisers might have suggested—after a iei weeks' reflection. As specimens of eloquea! argumentation, we must admit the signai inferiority of our native favourites; but as in;» copies of nature,—as vehicles of passion, ud representations of character, we confess we are tempted to give them the preference When a dramatist brings his chief cliarac!?r? on the stage, we readily admit that he mu-: give them something to say,—and that tnj something must be interesting and characteristic ;—but he should recollect also, that they are supposed to come there without havirj anticipated all they were to hear, or mutated on all they were to deliver; and that i: cannot be characteristic, therefore, because .1 must be glaringly unnatural, that they shoL.,: proceed regularly through every possible \>т of the subject, and exhaust, in set order, lie whole magazine of reflections thai car. be brought to bear upon their situation.

It would not be fair, however, to leave Hi« view of the matter, without observing trthis unsteadiness and irregularity of dialer:?. which gives euch an air of nature to euro! it: plays, and keepe the curiosity and attention so perpetually awake, is frequently carril v a most blameable excess; and that. inrfer*-: dent of their passion for verbal quibble.«. ih!-;e is an inequality and a capricious uncen»:: !y in the taste and judgment of these euoJ с: writers, which excites at once our amazenr.,: and our compassion. If it be true, that M other man has ever written so finely as Srci- • speare has done in his happier pasease?, n > no less true that there is not a scribbler now alive who could possibly write worse thai; 'it has sometimes written.—who could, on crc& sion, devise more contemptible ideas, or m;fplace them so abominably, by the side 01 *uil incomparable excellence. That there vi rt no critics, and no critical readers in those <hv> appears to us but an imperfect solution o: it» difficulty. He who could write so admirabj, must have been a critic to himself. CAiWrr. indeed, may play with the most precio» gems, and the most worthless pebbles, with out being aware of any difference in thei value ; but the fiery powers which are necessary to the production of intellectual excel lence, must enable the possessor to гесогг-'й it as excellence; and he who knows when he succeeds, can scarcely be unconscious of ks failures. Unaccountable, however, as it л the fact is certain, that almost all the dramaù writers of this age appear to be aliénetela inspired, and bereft of understanding; ar>! pass, apparently without being conscious oi the change, from the most beautiful dispbrJ of genius to the most melancholy exemplifications of stupidity.

There is only one other peculiarity whirl; we shall notice in those ancient dramas: аЫ {hat is, the singular, though very beantiml style, in which the greater part of them a:* composed,—a style which we think must b« felt as peculiar by all who peruse them, though it is by no means easy to describe in what ite peculiarity consists. It is not, for the most part, a lofty or sonorous style,—nor can it be gaid generally to be finical or affected,—or strained, quaint, or pedantic:—But it is, at the same time, a style full of turn and contriTance,—with some little degree of constraint and involution.—very often characterised by a studied briefness and simplicity of diction, yt't relieved by a certain indirect and figuratif? catt of expression,—and almost always coloured with a modest tinge of ingenuity, and fashioned, rather too visibly, upon a parlienlar model of elegance and purity. In «enes of powerful passion, this sort of artificia! prettiness is commonly shaken off; and, in Shakespeare, it disappears under all his forme of animation: But it sticks closer to mo«t of his contemporaries. In Massinger (who has no passion), it is almost always discernable; and, in the author before us, it gives a peculiar tone to almost all the estimable puts of his productions.—It is now time, however, and more than time, that we should turn to this author.

Hi? biography will not detain us long; for »ery little is known about him. He was born m Devonshire, in 1586; and entered as a student in the Middle Temple; where he began to publish poetry, and probably to write plays, soon after his twenty-first year. He aid not publish any of his dramatic works, however, Ш1 1629 ; and though he is supposed to have written fourteen or fifteen pieces for the theatres, only nine appear to have been printed, or to have found their way down to the present times. He is known to have written in conjunction with Rowley and Dekkir.am! is supposed to have died about 1640; —and this is the whole that the industry of Mr. Weber, assisted by the researches of Npívens and Malone, has been able to discover of this author.

It would be useless, and worse than uselees, to give our readers an abstract of the fable and management of each of the nine pttys contained in the volumes before из. А very few brief remarks upon their general cnaracter, will form a sufficient introduction to the extracts, by which we propose to let oar readers judge for themselves of the merits of their execution. The comic parts are all utterly bad. With none of the richness of Shakespeare's humour, the extravagant merriment of Beaumont and Fletcher, or the «ron« colouring of Ben Johnson, they are as heavy and as indecent as those of Massinger, and not more witty, though a little more varied, than the buffooneries of Wycherley or Dryden. Fortunately, however, the author's merry vein is not displayed ш тегу many parts of hie performances. His plots are not VP7 cunningly digested: nor developed, for the most part, by a -train of probable incidents. Hi» characters are drawn rather with occa«onal felicity, than with general sagacity and ]'J tment. Like those of Maseinger, they are Tpry apt to startle the reader with sudden and '•npxpected transformations, and to turn ont, 'с the latter half of the play, very differently 39

from what they promised to do in the beginning. This kind of surprise has been repiesented by some as a master-stroke of art in the author, and a great merit in the performance. We have no doubt at all, however, that it is to be ascribed merely to the writer's carelessness, or change of purpose; and have never failed to feel it a great blemish in every serious piece where it occurs.

The author has not much of the oratorical stateliness and imposing flow of Massinger; nor a great deal of the smooth and flexible diction, the wandering fancy, and romantic sweetness of Beaumont and Fletcher; and yet he comes nearer to these qualités than to any of the distinguishing characteristics of Jonson or Shakespeare. He excels most in representing the pride and gallantry, and high-toned honour of youth, and the enchanting softness, or the mild and graceful magnanimity of female character. There is a certain melancholy air about his most striking representations; and. in the tender and afflicting pathetic, he appears to us occasionally to be second only to him who has never yet had an equal. The greater part of every play, however, is bad; and there is not one which does not contain faults sufficient to justify the derision even of those who are incapable of comprehending its contrasted beauties.

The diction we think for the most part beautiful, and worthy of the inspired age which produced it. That we may not be suspected of misleading our readers by partial and selected quotations, we shall lay before them the very first sentence of the play which stands first in this collection. The subject is somewhat revolting; though managed with great spirit, and, in the more dangerous parts, with considerable dignity. A brother and sister fall mutually in love with each other, and abandon themselves, with a sort of splendid and perverted devotedness, to their incestuous passion. The bister is afterwards married, and their criminal intercourse detected by her husband,—when the brother, perceiving their destruction inevitable, first kills her, and then throws himself upon the sword of her injured husband. The playopens with his attempting to justify his passion to a holy friar, his tutor—who thus addresses him.

"Friar. Dispute no more in this; wr know

young man,

These are no school points; Nice philosophy
May tolerate unlikely arguments,
Bui heaven admits no jest. Wits that presum'd
On wit too much, by striving how to prove
There was no God, with foolish grounds of art,
Discover'd first the nearest way to hell,
And filled thp world with dev'lish atheism.
Such questions, youth, are fond: for belter 'tis
To bices the Bun. than reason why it shines
Ye! he ihou talk's! of is above the sun.
No more! I mcy not hear it.

Gio. Gentle father,

To you I have unclasp'd my burden'd soul,
Emptied the storehouse of my thoughts and heart,
Made myself poor of secrets; have not left
Another word untold, which hath not spoke
All what I ever durst, or think, or knew;
And yet is here the comfort I shall have 1
Must I not do what all men else may,—love Í
2 A 2

No, father! in your eyes I see the change

Of pity and compassion; from your age,

Ab from a sacred oracle, distils

The life of counsel. Tell me, holy man,

What cure shall give me ease in these extremes Î

Friar. Repentance, son, and sorrow for this sin: For ilifiu hast mov'd a majesty above With thy unranged, almost, blasphemy.

(•«i. O do not speak of that, dear confessor.

Friar. Then I have done, and in thy wilful Sames Already see thy ruin; Heaven is just. Yet hear my counsel!

Gio. As a voice of life.

Friar. Hie to thy father's house; there lock thee Alone within thy chamber; then fall down [fast On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground; Cry to ihy heart; wash every word thou utter*st In tears (and if 't be possible) of blood: Beg Heaven to cleanse the leprosy of love That rote thy soul; weep, sign, pray Three times a day, and three times every night: For seven days' space do this; then, if thou find'st No change in thy desires, return to me; I'll think on remedy. Pray for thyself At home, whilst I pray for thee here. Away! My blessing with thee! We have need to pray." Vol. i. pp. 9—12.

In a subsequent scene with the sister, the game holy person maintains the dignity of hie style.

Friar. I am glad to see this penance ; for, believe You have unripp'd a soul so foul and guilty, [me As I must tell you true, I marvel how The earth haih borne you up; but weep, weep on, These tears may do you good; weep faster yet, Whilst I do read a lecture.

Ann. Wretched creature!

Friar. Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretchAlmost condemned alive. There is a place, [ed. Lis!, daughter,) in a black and hollow vault, Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, But flaming horror of consuming fires; A lightless sulphur, chok'd with smoky fogs Of an infected darkness; in this place Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts Of never-dying deaths. There damned souls Roar without pity; there are gluttons fed With toads and adders; there is burning oil Pour'd down the drunkard's throat; the usurer It forc'd to sup whole draughts of molten gold; There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul He feels the torment of his raging lust.

Ann. Mercy! oh mercy! [things,

Friar. There stand these wretched

Who have dream'd out whole years in lawless sheets And secret incests, cursing one another," &c.

Vol. i. pp. 63, fi4.

The most striking scene of the play, however, is that which contains the catastrophe of the lady's fate. Her husband, after shutting her up for some lime in gloomy privacy, invites her brother, and all his family, to a solemn banquet; and even introduces him, before it is served up, into her private chamber, where he finds her sitting on her marriage-bed, in splendid attire, but filled with boding terrors and agonising anxiety. He, though equally aware of the fate that was prepared for them, addresses her at first with a kind of wild and desperate gaiety, to which ehe tries for a while to answer with sober and earnest warnings, —and at last exclaims impatiently,

"Ann. О let'« not waste

T lw»t prrooei bourt in rain tnd useless speech.

Alas, these gay attires were not pat on

But to some end; this sudden solemn feast

Was not ordain'd to riot in expense;

I that have now been chamber'd here alone,

Barr'd of my guardian, or of any else,

Am not for nothing at an instant freed

To fresh access. Be not deceiv'd, my brother;

This banquet is an harbinger of Death

To you and me! resolve yourself it is,

Ana be prepar'd to welcome it. [&cc

Gin. Look up, look here; what see you in mj

Ann. Distraction and a troubled countenance.

Gio. Death and a swift repining wrath !- Yrt What see you in mine eyes 1 Hook,

Ann. Methinks you weep.

Gio. I do indeed. These are the funeral tfsrs
Shed on your grave! These furrow'd up mychetu
When first I lov'd and knew not how to woo.
Fair Annabella Ï should I here repeat
The story of my life, we might lose time!
Be record, all the spirits of the air,
And all things else that are, that day and nighi,
Early and late, the tribute which my bean
Hath paid to Annabella' s sacred love [now!

Hath been these tears, — which are her mourner»
Never till now did nature do her best
To show a matchless beauty to the world,
Which in an instant, ere it scarce was seen,
The jealous destinies require again.
Pray, Annabella, pray! since we must part,
Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne
Of innocence and sanctity in heaven.
Pray, pray, my sister.

Анн. Then I see your drift;

Ye blessed angels, guard me!

Gio. So eay I.

Kiss me! If ever after-times should hear
Of our fast-knit affections, though pcrhap*
The laws of conscience and of civil use
May justly blame us, yet when they but know
Our loves, that love will wipe away that rigour,
Which would in other incests be abhorr'd
Give me your hand. How sweetly life doth гая
In these well-colour'd veins! how constantly
These palms do promise health! but I could ch-.it
With nature for this cunning flattery. —
Kiss me again !— forgive me!

Ann. With my bent

Gio. Farewell.

A nn. Will you be gone f

Gio. Be dark, bright»»».

And make this mid-day night, that thy g:lt rtjn
May rot behold a deed will turn their splendour
More sooty than the poets feign their Styx!
One other kiss, my sister!

.•1ии. What means that

Gio. To save thy fame, and kill thee in a kiss'

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indeeù to the death of Desdemona; and, taking it as a detached scene, we think it rather the more beautiful of the two. The sweetness of the diction—the natural tone of tenderness and passion—the strange perversion of kind and magnanimous natures, and the horrid catastrophe by which their guilt is at one« consummated and avenged, have not often been rivalled, in the pages either of the modern or the ancient drama.

The play entitled "The Broken Heart," is in our author's best manner; and would supplr more beautiful quotations than we have left room for inserting. The story is a little complicated; but the following slight sketch of it will make our extracts sufficiently intelligible. Penthea, a noble lady of Sparta, was Detrothed, with her fathers approbation and her own full consent, to Orgilus; but being solicited, at the same time, by Bassanes, a person of more splendid fortune, was, after her father's death, in a manner compelled by her brother Ithocles to violate her first engagement, and yield him her hand. In this Ш-íOrted alliance, though living a life of unimpeachable purity, she was harassed and degraded by the perpetual jealousies of her unworthy husband ; and pined away, like her deserted lover, in sad and bitter recollections of the happy promise of their youth. Ithocles. in the meantime, had pursued the course of ambition with a bold and commanding spirit, and had obtained the highest honours of his country; but too much occupied in the pursuit to think of the misery to which he had condemned the sister who was left to hie protection: At last, however, in the midst of ni« proud career, he is seized with a sudden passion for Calantha, the heiress of the sovereign; and, after many struggles, is reduced to ask the intercession and advice of his unhappy sister, who was much in favour with the princess. The following is the scene in which he makes this request ;—and to those who have learned, from the preceding passages, the lofty and unbending temper of the -uppliant, and the rooted and bitter anguish of her whom he addresses, it cannot fail to appear one of the most striking in the whole compass of dramatic composition.*

"Ilk. Sit nearer, sister, to rne !—nearer yet! We had one father; ¡л one womb took life; Were brought up twins together ;—Yet have liv'd At distance, like two strangers! I could wish That the first pillow, whereon I was cradled, Ibf) proved to me a grave!

Pen. You had been happy!

Then had you never known that sin of life
Which blots all following glories with a vengeance,
For forfeiting the lost will of the dead,
Fmm whom you had your being.

Ith. Sad Penthea!

T'iou cnnst not be too cruel; my rash spleen
Hath with a violent hand pluck'd from thy bosom
A love-blest heart, to grind it into dust—
For which mine'» now a-breaking.

• I have often fancied what a splendid effect Mrs. irddone end John Kemblc would have given to the opening of this scene, in actual representation !— »i;h the deep throb of their low voices, their pathetic pauses, and majestic attitudes and movement«!

Pf- Not yet, heaven

I do beseech thee! first, let some wild fires Scorch, not consume it! may the heat be cheriih'd With desires infinite, but hopes impossible!

Ith. Wrong'd soul, thy prayers are heard.

Pen. Here, lo, I breathe,

A miserable creature, led to ruin
By an unnatural brother!

1th. I consume

In languishing affections ofthat trespass;
Yet cannot die.

I'm- The handmaid to the wages.

The untroubled but of country toil, drinks streams
With leaping kids and with the bleating lambs,
And so allays her thirst secure; whilst I
Quench my hot sighs with Meetings of my tears.

Ith. The labourer doth eat his coarsest bread,
Earn'd with his sweat, and lies him down to sleep;
Whilst every bit I touch turns in digestion
To gall, as bitter as Penthea's curse.
Put me to any penance for my tyranny
And I will call thee merciful.

Pen. Pray kill me!

Rid me from living with a jealous husband.
Then we will join in friendship, be again
Brother and sister.—Kill me, pray! nay, will ye t

Itk. Thou shall stand
A deity, my sister, and be worshipp'd
For thy resolved martyrdom: wrong'd maids
And married wives shall to thy hallow'd shrine
Offer their orisons, and sacrifice
Pure turtles, crown'd with myrtle, if thy pity
Unto a yielding brother's pressure, tend
One finger but, to ease it.

Pen. Who is the saint you serve t [daughter '.

1th. Calantha 'tis!—the princess! the king's
Sole heir of Sparta.—Me, most miserable !—
Do I now love thee? For my injuries
Revenge thyself with bravery, and gossip
My treasons to the king's ears! Do !—Catamhi
Knows it not yet; nor Prophilus, my nearest.

Pen. We nre reconcil'd !—
Alas, sir, being children, but two branches
Of one stock, 'tis not fit we should divide:
Have comfort; you may find it.

lih. Yes, in thee;

Only in thee, Penthea mine!

Pen. If sorrows

Have not too much dull'd my infected brain,
I'll cheer invention for an active strain.

Ith. Mad man! why have I wrong'd a maid so excellent f" Vol. i. pp. 273—277.

We cannot resist the temptation of adding a part of the scene in which this sad ambassadress acquits herself of the task she had undertaken. There is a tone of heart-struck sorrow and female gentleness and purity about it that is singularly engaging, and contrasts strangely with the atrocious indecencies with which the author has polluted his paper in other parts of the same play.—The princess says,

"Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you now have The opportunity you sought; and might [granted At all times have commanded.

Pen. 'Tis a benefit

Which I shall owe your goodness even in death for:
My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes
Remaining to run down; the sands are spent;
For by an inward messenger I feel
The summons of departure short and certain.

Cal. You feed too much your melancholy.

Pen. Glories

Of human greatness are but pleasing d'oams
And shadows soon decaying. On the liage
Of my mortality, my youth hath acleb
Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length
By varied pleasures, sweetened in the mixture,
But tragical in issue. Beauty, pomp,

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