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Luc. Nor any from the camp ?
Maid. Neither, madam.

Luc. Go, begone, and leave me to the truest grief of heart, That ever enter'd any matron's breast; Oh!

Maid. Why weep you, lady? alas! why do you stain
Your modest cheeks with these offensive tears?

Luc. Nothing, nay, nothing; oh, you powerful gods,
That should have angel guardants on your throne,
To protect innocence and chastity! oh, why
Suffer

you

such inhuman massacre
Of harmless virtue? wherefore take you charge
Of sinless souls to see them wounded thus
With

rape and violence? or give white innocence
Armour of proof 'gainst sin, or by oppression
Kill virtue quite, and guerdon base transgression.
Is it my fate above all other women ?
Or is my sin more heinous than the rest,
That amongst thousands, millions, infinites,
I, only I, should to this shame be born,
To be a stain to women, nature's scorn? oh!

Maid. What ails you, madam ? truth, you make me weep.
To see you shed salt tears: what hath oppress'd you?
Why is your chamber hung with mourning black?
Your habit sable, and your eyes thus swoln
With ominous tears; alas! what troubles you

u ?
Luc. I am not sad : thou didst deceive thyself;
I did not weep, there's nothing troubles me:
But wherefore dost thou blush?

Maid. Madam, not I.

Luc. Indeed, thou didst,
And in that blush my guilt thou didst betray;
How cam’st thou by the notice of my sin ?

Maid. What sin ?
Luc. My blot, my scandal, and my shame:
O Tarquin! thou my honour did'st betray;
Disgrace, no time, no age, can wipe away; oh!

Maid. Sweet lady, cheer yourself; I'll fetch my viol,
And see if I can sing you fast asleep:
A little rest would wear away this passion.

Luc. Do what thou wilt, I can command no more;
Being no more a woman, I am now
Devote to death and an inhabitant
Of th' other world: these eyes must ever weep
Till fate hath clos'd them with eternal sleep. ;

Not the least singular part of this play is the songs, which are freely introduced, and somewhat too freely expressed. Some of them are strange and fantastical productions, and one is written in a sort of Dutch jargon. Three of them, however, we consider worth a place here. Valerius is the great master of harmony " amongst the Roman peers.”

The first is a wild, pretty thing, though not very pregnant with meaning.

« Now what is love? I will thee tell :

It is the fountain and the well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell:
It is perhaps the sansing bell,
That rings all into heaven or hell,
And this is love, and this is love, as I hear tell.
Now what is love I will

you

show :
A thing that creeps and cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for me, a thing for mo,
And he that proves shall find it so;

And this is love, and this is love, sweet friend, I trow." The second is very beautiful of its kind, and extremely melodious.

“ Pack clouds away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft,
To give my love good morrow.
Wings from the wind, to please her mind,
Notes from the lark. I'll borrow :
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
To give my love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill, let music shrill
Give my fair love good morrow.
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

The next appears to have been a favourite with the author if we may judge from the circumstance of his having also introduced it in the “ Challenge for Beauty.” It is on national predilection, and is an odd and at the same time an amusing collection of contrasts.

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The Spanish Donna, French Madam,
He will not fear to go to ;
Nothing so full of hazard dread,
Nought lives above the centre,
No fashion, health, no wine, no wench,

On which he dare not venture.” In this play there is a strange mixture of the solemn and ludicrous. Heywood has assigned to most of the honest patricians of Rome an assumed gaiety, a reckless spirit of merriment, a love of " merry tunes, which have no mirth in them :" all to hide the discontent and sorrow which lurk beneath; bui, instead of making them merry patricians, he has overstepped the modesty of nature, and converted them into vulgar buffoons, and invested them with the livery of fools.

The next play we shall notice, is “ The English Traveller;" a production which abounds with good scenes, good writing, and excellent sentiment, and is distinguished by pure, gentle, and attractive characters-Heywood's characters. “His country gentlemen,” says the writer before quoted, “ are exactly what we see (but of the best kind we see) in life:" we should say, that they are what we might, rather than what we do, see in real life. They are perfectly natural, and yet appear to belong to a superior order to any which we see in ordinary life, not in reach of intellect, but in sweetness of disposition and perfection of moral character, the influence of which is diffused over the whole of the dialogues of his best plays. They are calculated, as we have before intimated, to make us wiser and better. We might instance, for example, Mr. Generous, in " The Lancashire Witches,” a play in which Heywood was assisted by Brome; in two or three characters in “ The Woman killed with Kindness;" and in Young Geraldine, in “ The English Traveller.” The chief and most interesting part of this play turns on the following circumstances :-Young Geraldine, on his return from travel, visits his father's friend, Wincot, a kind-hearted, honest old gentleman, who has married a young lady, formerly the traveller's playmate, and whom it had been reported, previously to his going abroad, he was to have married. Without children himself, Wincot has the utmost fondness for Young Geraldine, and when he is present can hardly bear to hear any other person speak; he desires him to command his house, servants, &c.;in short, treats him like a son.

The following scene is as admirable for beauty and simplicity, and for noble innocence of feeling, as it is felicitous in diction. Such a colloquy might well have occurred in the golden age of the world. It is between Geraldine and Wincot's wife.

your travel,

“ Y. Ger. We now are left alone,

Wife. Why, say we be, who should be jealous of us ?
This is not first of many hundred nights,
That we two have been in private, from the first
Of our acquaintance: when our tongues but clipp'd
Our mother's tongue, and could not speak it plain,
We knew each other: as in stature, so
Increas'd our sweet society: since
And my late marriage, through my husband's love,
Midnight haig been as midday, and my bed-chamber
As free to you, as your own father's house.
And you as welcome to't.

Y. Ger. I must confess,
It is in you, your noble courtesy:
In him, a more than common confidence,
And, in this age, can scarce find precedent.

Wife. Most true: it is withal an argument,
That both our virtues are so deep impress'd
In his good thoughts, he knows we cannot err.

Y. Ger. A villain were he to deceive such trust,
Or (were there one) a much worse character.

Wife. And she no less, whom either beauty, youth,
Time, place, or opportunity, could tempt,
To injure such a husband.

Y. Ger. You deserve,
Even for his sake, to be for ever young;
And he for yours, to have his youth renew'd ;
So mutual is your true conjugal love.
Yet had the fates so pleas’d-

Wife. I know your meaning:
It was once voic'd, that we two should have match'd ;
The world so thought, and many tongues so spake ;
But heaven hath now dispos'd us otherwise ;
And being as it is, (a thing in me,
Which I protest was never wish'd por sought),
Now done, I not repent it..

Y. Ger. In those times,
Of all the treasures of my hopes, and love,
You were th’exchequer, they were stor’d in you ;
And had not my unfortunate travel cross'd them,
They had been here reserved still.

Wife. Troth they had,
I should have been your trusty treasurer.

Y, Ger. However, let us love still, I entreat;

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