I'm born a man: reason may step aside,
And lead a father's love out of the way:
Forgive me, my good boy, I went astray;
Look, on my knees I beg it : not for joy,
Thou bring'st this golden rubbish; which I spurn:
But glad in this, the heavens mine eye-balls turn,
And fix them right to look upon that face,
Where love remains with pity, duty, grace.
Oh my dear wronged boy.

Rob. Gladness o'erwhelms

My heart with joy : I cannot speak.
Wife. Crosses of this foolish world

Did never grieve my heart with torments more
Than it is now grown light

With joy and comfort of this happy sight. 51

51 The old play-writers are distinguished by an honest boldness of exhibition, they shew every thing without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune be the thing to be personified, they fairly bring us to the prison-grate and the alms-basket. A poor man on our stage is always a gentleman, he may be known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and by wearing black. Our delicacy, in fact, forbids the dramatizing of Distress at all. It is never shewn in its essential properties ;* it appears but as the adjunct to some virtue, as something which is to be relieved, from the approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We turn away from the real essences of things to hunt after their relative shadows, moral duties: whereas, if the truth of things were fairly represented, the relative duties might be safely trusted to themselves, and moral philosophy lose the name of a science.

* Guzman de Alfarache in that good old book "The Spanish Rogue," has summed up a few of the properties of poverty "that poverty, which is not the daughter of the spirit, is but the mother of shame and reproach; it is a disreputation that drowns all the other good parts that are in man; it is a disposition to all kind of evil; it is man's most foe; it is a leprosy full of anguish ; it is a way that leads unto hell; it is a sea wherein our patience is overwhelmed, our honor is consumed, our lives are ended, and our souls are utterly lost and cast away for ever. The poor man is a kind of money that is not current; the subject of every idle huswive's chat; the offscum of the people; the dust of the street, first trampled under foot and then thrown on the dunghill; in conclusion, the poor

man is the rich man's ass. He dineth with the last, fareth of the worst, and payeth dearest: his sixpence will not go so far as a rich man's threepence; his opinion is ignorance; his discretion, foolishness; his suffrage scorn; his stock upon the common, abused by many and abhorred of all. If he come in company, he is not heard; if any chance to meet him, they seek to shun him; if he advise, though never so wisely, they grudge and murmur at him; if he work miracles, they say he is a witch; if virtuous, that he goeth about to deceive; his venial sin is a blasphemy; his thought is made treason; his cause, be it never so just, it is not regarded; and, to have his wrongs righted, he must appeal to that other life. All men crush him; no man favoreth him; there is no man that will relieve his wants; no man that will comfort him in his miseries; nor no man that will bear him company, when he is all alone, and oppressed with grief. None help him; all hinder him; none give him, all take from him; he is debtor to none, and yet must make payment to all. O the unfortunate and poor condition of him that is poor, to whom even the very hours are sold, which the clock striketh, and pays custom for the sun-shine in August."

WOMEN

WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. A TRAGEDY.

THOMAS MIDDLETON.

BY

Livia, the Duke's creature, cajoles a poor Widow with the appearance of Hospitality and neighborly Attentions, that she may get her Daughter in Law (who is left in the Mother's care in the Son's absence) into her trains, to serve the Duke's pleasure.

LIVIA. WIDOW. A Gentleman, Livia's guest.

Liv. Widow, come, come, I have a great quarrel to you,

Faith I must chide you that you must be sent for;
You make yourself so strange, never come at us,
And yet so near a neighbor, and so unkind;

Troth, you're to blame; you cannot be more welcome
Το
any house in Florence, that I'll tell you.

Wid. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much,

madam.

Liv. How can you be so strange then? I sit here Sometimes whole days together without company, When business draws this gentleman from home, And should be happy in society

Which I so well affect as that of yours.

I know you're alone too; why should not we
Like two kind neighbors then supply the wants
Of one another, having tongue-discourse,
Experience in the world, and such kind helps,
To laugh down time and meet age merrily?

Wid. Age, madam! you speak mirth: 'tis at my door,
But a long journey from your Ladyship yet.

Liv. My faith, I'm nine and thirty, every stroke, wench: And 'tis a general observation

'Mongst

'Mongst knights; wives, or widows, we account ourselves
Then old, when young men's eyes leave looking at us.
Come, now I have thy company, I'll not part with it
Till after supper.

Wid. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam.

Liv. I swear you shall stay supper; we have no strangers, woman,

None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman

And the young heir his ward; you know your company. Wid. Some other time I will make bold with you, madam.

Liv. Faith she shall not go.

Do you think I'll be forsworn?
Wid. 'Tis a great while

Till supper time;

I'll take my leave then now, madam, And come again in the evening, since your ladyship

Will have it so.

Liv. In the evening! by my troth, wench,

I'll keep you while I have you; you've great business sure,
To sit alone at home: I wonder strangely

What pleasure you take in't. Were't to me now,
I should be ever at one neighbour's house

Or other all day long; having no charge,

Or

none to chide you, if you go, or stay,

Who may live merrier, aye, or more at heart's ease ? Come, we'll to chess or draughts, there are an hundred

tricks

To drive out time till supper, never fear't, wench.

Το

(A Chess-board is set.) Wid. I'll but make one step home, and return straight,

madam.

Liv. Come, I'll not trust you, you make more excuses your kind friends than ever I knew any. What business can you have, if you be sure

You've lock'd the doors? and, that being all you have,
I know you're careful on't: one afternoon

So much to spend here! say I should entreat you now
To lie a night or two, or a week, with me,

Or

Or leave your own house for a month together;
It were a kindness that long neighbourhood
And friendship might well hope to prevail in :
Would you deny such a request? i'faith
Speak truth and freely.

Wid. I were then uncivil, madam.

Liv. Go to then, set your men: we'll have whole nights

Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench,

Wid. As good now tell her then, for she will know it; I've always found her a most friendly lady.

Liv. Why, widow, where's your mind?
Wid. Troth, even at home, madam.
To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman
Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable,
Especially to young bloods.

Liv. Another excuse.

(Aside).

Wid. No, as I hope for health, madam, that's a

truth;

Please you to send and see.

Liv. What gentlewoman? pish.

Wid. Wife to my son indeed.

Liv. Now I beshrew you.

Could you be so unkind to her and me,

To come and not bring her? faith, 'tis not friendly.
Wid. I fear'd to be too bold.

Liv. Too bold! Oh what's become

Of the true hearty love was wont to be

'Mongst neighbours in old time?

Wid. And she's a stranger, madam.

Liv. The more should be her welcome: when is

courtesy

In better practice, than when 'tis employ'd

In entertaining strangers. I could chide ye in faith.
Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman, alone too!
Make some amends, and send for her betimes, gɔ.

Wid. Please you command one of your servants, ma

dam.

Liv.