Flo. Sir, now you know my house, pray make

not strange;

And if you find my daughter need your art,
I'll be your pay-master.

Rich. Sir, what I am

She shall command.

Flo. You shall bind me to you.

Daughter, I must have conference with you
About some matters that concern us both.
Good master doctor, please you but walk in,
We'll crave a little of your cousin's cunning;'
I think my girl' hath not quite forgot

To touch an instrument; she could have don't;
We'll hear them both.

Rich. I'll wait upon you, sir.

SCENE II.

A Room in SORANZO's House.

Enter SORANZO, with a Book.

Love's measure is extreme, the comfort pain;
The life unrest, and the reward disdain.

[Exeunt.

What's here? look't o'er again.-'Tis so; so
writes

This smooth licentious poet in his rhymes:
But, Sannazar, thou ly'st; for, had thy bosom
Felt such oppression as is laid on mine,

Cunning.] i. e skill in music: the word is used in this sense by all our old writers.

I think my girl.] See pp. 19 and 146.

Thou would'st have kiss'd the rod that made

the[e] smart.

[Writes.

To work then, happy muse, and contradict
What Sannazar hath in his envy writ.
Love's measure is the mean, sweet his annoys;
His pleasures life, and his reward all joys.
Had Annabella liv'd when Sannazar
Did, in his brief Encomium,3 celebrate
Venice, that queen of cities, he had left
That verse which gain'd him such a sum of gold,
And for one only look from Annabel,

Had writ of her, and her diviner cheeks.

O, how my thoughts are

Vas. (within) Pray forbear; in rules of civility, let me give notice on't: I shall be tax'd of my neglect of duty and service.

Sor. What rude intrusion interrupts my peace? Can I be no where private?

3

Vas. (within) Troth, you wrong your modesty. Sor. What's the matter, Vasques? who is't?

when Sannazar

Did in his brief Encomium, &c.]

This is the well known Epigram, beginning

"Viderat Hadriacis Venetam Neptunus in undis

Stare urbem," &c. It is given by Coryat, who thus speaks of it: "I heard in Venice that a certaine Italian poet, called Jacobus Sannazarius, had a hundred crownes bestowed upon him by the Senate of Venice for each of these verses following. I would to God my poeticall friend Master Benjamin Johnson were so well rewarded for his poems here in England, seeing he hath made many as good verses (in my opinion) as those of Sannazarius." Tom is right. The verses have nothing very extraordinary in them; but they flattered the vanity of the republic: and after all, there is no great evil in overpaying a poet once in fifteen centuries, for so long it is between the times of Virgil and Sannazarius.

Enter HIPPOLITA and VASQUES.

Hip. 'Tis I;

Do you know me now? Look, perjur'd man, on her
Whom thou and thy distracted lust have wrong'd.
Thy sensual rage of blood hath made my youth
A scorn to men and angels; and shall I
Be now a foil to thy unsated change?

Thou know'st, false wanton, when my modest fame
Stood free from stain or scandal, all the charms
Of hell or sorcery could not prevail

Against the honour of my chaster bosom.

Thine eyes did plead in tears, thy tongue in oaths,
Such, and so many, that a heart of steel
Would have been wrought to pity, as was mine;
And shall the conquest of my lawful bed,
My husband's death, urg'd on by his disgrace,
My loss of womanhood, be ill-rewarded

With hatred and contempt? No; know, Soranzo,
I have a spirit doth as much distaste

The slavery of fearing thee, as thou

Dost loath the memory of what hath past.

Sor. Nay, dear Hippolita

Hip. Call me not dear,

Nor think with supple words to smooth the gross

ness

Of my abuses; 'tis not your new mistress,
Your goodly madam-merchant, shall triumph
On my dejection; tell her thus from me,
My birth was nobler, and by much more free.
Sor. You are too violent.

In

Hip. You are too double

your dissimulation. Seest thou this,

This habit, these black mourning weeds of care? "Tis thou art cause of this; and hast divorced

My husband from his life, and me from him,

And made me widow in my

Sor. Will you yet hear?

widowhood.

Hip. More of thy perjuries?

Thy soul is drown'd too deeply in those sins;
Thou need'st not add to th' number.

Sor. Then I'll leave you;
You are past all rules of sense.

Hip. And thou of grace.

Vas. Fie, mistress, you are not near the limits of reason; if my lord had a resolution as noble as virtue itself, you take the course to unedge it all. Sir, I beseech you do not perplex her; griefs, alas, will have a vent: I dare undertake madam Hippolita will now freely hear you.

Sor. Talk to a woman frantic!-Are these the fruits of your love?

Hip. They are the fruits of thy untruth, false

man!

Did'st thou not swear, whilst yet my husband liv'd,
That thou would'st wish no happiness on earth
More than to call me wife? did'st thou not vow,
When he should die, to marry me? for which
The devil in my blood, and thy protests,
Caus'd me to counsel him to undertake
A voyage to Ligorne, for that we heard

His brother there was dead, and left a daughter

Young and unfriended, whom, with much ado, I wish'd him to bring hither: he did so,

And went; and, as thou know'st, died on the way. Unhappy man, to buy his death so dear,

With my advice! yet thou, for whom I did it, Forget'st thy vows, and leav'st me to my shame. Sor. Who could help this?

Hip. Who? perjur'd man! thou could'st, If thou had'st faith or love.

Sor. You are deceiv'd;

The vows I made, if you remember well,
Were wicked and unlawful; 'twere more sin
To keep them than to break them: as for me,
I cannot mask my penitence. Think thou
How much thou hast digress'd from honest shame,
In bringing of a gentleman to death,

Who was thy husband; such a one as he,
So noble in his quality, condition,

Learning, behaviour, entertainment, lové,
As Parma could not show a braver man.

Vas. You do not well; this was not your promise.

Sor. I care not; let her know her monstrous life. Ere I'll be servile to so black a sin, I'll be a curse.-Woman, come here no more; Learn to repent, and die; for, by my honour, I hate thee and thy lust: you have been too foul. [Exit.

Vas. This part has been scurvily play'd. [Aside. Hip. How foolishly this beast contemns his fate, And shuns the use of that, which I more scorn