And lose not one in thousands, they're dispers'd Cle. Nor you Hip. I heard a Cle. Hark, again Leon. Bless my joy, What ails it on a sudden? Cle. Now since lately Leon. 'Tis nothing but a symptom of thy care, man. Cle. Alas! you do not hear well. Leon. What was't, daughter? Hip. I heard a sound, twice. Cle. Hark! louder and nearer. In, for the precious good of virtue, quick, sir. A hunting here! 'tis strange! I never knew (Leonides goes in.) Hip. Now let them come, and spare not. Enter Duke, Courtiers, Attendants, as if hunting. Cle. Ha! 'tis ingly. is't not the Duke? look spar Hip. 'Tis he, but what of that? alas! take heed, sir; Your care will overthrow us. Cle. Come, it shall not. Let's set a pleasant face upon our fears, Though our hearts shake with horror. Ha! ha! ha! Cle. Prithee, proceed; I'm taken with these light things infinitely, Since the old man's decease.-Ha! ha! ha! Duke. Duke. Why, how should I believe this? Look, he's merry, As if he had no such charge. One with that care Court. Aye, he may laugh, my lord; That shews but how he glories in his cunning; Duke. If a contempt can be so neatly carried, Cle. My lov'd lord Duke. Not mov'd a whit! Constant to lightning still!-'tis strange to meet you This does not fit your passion; you are for mirth, Cle. But finding it Grow to a noted imperfection in me (For any thing too much is vicious), I come to these disconsolate walks of purpose Duke. It seems then you take pleasure in these walks, sir? Cle. Contemplative content I do, my lord: They bring into my mind oft meditations So sweetly precious, that in the parting Duke. So, sir cheeks, Cle. Which is a kind of grave delight, my lord. Duke. And I've small cause, Cleanthes, to afford you The least delight that has a name. Cle. My lord Duke. In your excess of joy you have express'd Which might be death, a little more incensed. But all that's known to be contentful to thee, Into these walks again--aye, or that woman-— 1st Court. Now, now, his colour ebbs and flows. Hip. Oh! who shall bring food to the poor old man now? Speak somewhat, good sir, or we are lost for ever. (Apart to Cleanthes.) Cle. Oh! you did wondrous ill to call me again. There are not words to help us. If I intreat, 'Tis found; that will betray us worse than silence. Pr'ithee, let heaven alone, and let's say nothing. (Apart to Hippolita.) 1st Court. You have struck them dumb, my lord. 2d Court. Look how guilt looks! Cle. He is safe still, is he not? Hip. Oh! you do ill to doubt it. Cle. Thou art all goodness. } Apart. 2d Court. Now does your grace believe? Search, make a speedy search; for the imposture Cle. Ha! 24 2d Court. He has the lapwing's cunning, I'm afraid, my lord, That cries most when she is farthest from the nest. THE TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT, ADMIRAL OF FRANCE. BY GEORGE CHAPMAN, AND JAMES SHIRLEY. The Admiral is accused of treason, a criminal process is instituted against him, and his faithful servant Allegre is put on the rack to make him discover: his innocence is at length established by the confession of his enemies; but the disgrace of having been suspected for a traitor by his royal Master, sinks so deep into him, that he falls into a mortal sickness. ADMIRAL. ALLEGRE, supported between two. Adm. Welcome my injured servant: what a misery Have they made on thee! Al. Though some change appear Upon my body, whose severe affliction Hath brought it thus to be sustain'd by others, My heart is still the same in faith to you, Not broken with their rage. Adm. Alas poor man. Were There is an exquisiteness of moral sensibility, making one to gush out tears of delight, and a poetical strangeness in all the improbable circumstances of this wild play, which are unlike any thing in the dramas which Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of a subtler edge. Middleton and Rowley, who assisted in this play, had both of them finer geniuses than their associate. Were all my joys essential, and so mighty, More grief, than all my imagination Upon the torture? Al. Good my lord, let not Didst not curse me The thought of what I suffer'd dwell upon For you and justice: but there's something in Arm'd with fierce lightning and the power of thunder, Rage ever yet brought forth. What accident, sir, can blast, Can be so black and 'fatal, to distract The calm, the triumph, that should sit upon Your noble brow: misfortune could have no Time to conspire with fate, since you were rescued Those garlands, that now grow about your forehead, Adm. Allegre, thou dost bear thy wounds upon thee In wide and spacious characters, but in The volume of my sadness thou dost want An eye to read. An open force hath torn Thy manly sinews, which some time may cure. The |