Thy. What do you mean?

Atr. Does not good wine beget good blood?

Thy. 'Tis true.

Atr. Your lips then and the wine may be a-kin. Off with your kindred wine; leave not a drop

To die alone, bewilder'd in that bowl.

Help him to heave it to his head; that's well.

(Thyestes drinks. A clap of thunder. The lights go out.) Thy. What pond'rous crimes pull heav'n upon our heads? Nature is choak'd with some vast villainy,

And all her face is black.

Atr. Some lights, some lights.

Thy. The sky is stunn'd, and reels 'twixt night and day; Old Chaos is return'd.

Atr. It is to see

A young One born, more dreadful than herself;
That promises great comfort to her age,

And to restore her empire.

Thy. What do you mean?

Atr. Confusion I have in thy bowels made.

Thy. Dire thoughts, like Furies, break into my mind With flaming brands, and shew me what he means. Where is Philisthenes ?

Atr. Ask thy own bowels:

Thou heardst them groan; perhaps they now will speak.
Thy. Thou hast not, Tyrant-what I dare not ask?
Atr. I kill'd thy Son, and thou hast drunk his blood.1
[Act v., Sc. 1.]

BRUTUS OF ALBA. A TRAGEDY [PUBLISHED 1678]. BY NAHUM TATE [1652-1715]

Ragusa, and four more Witches, about to raise a storm.

Rag. "Tis time we were preparing for the storm.

Heed me, ye daughters of the mystic art;

Look that it be no common hurricane,

But such as rend the Caspian cliffs, and from

Th' Hyrcanian hills sweep cedars, roots and all.

Speak; goes all right? 2

All. Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh ! 3

[See also "Serious Fragments," p. 571. For other extracts from Crowne see note on page 536.]

[Five and a half lines omitted.]

[Two lines omitted.]

1st W. The cricket leaves our cave, and chirps no more. 2nd W. I stuck a ram, but could not stain my steel. 3rd W. His fat consumed in th' fire, and never smok'd. 4th W. I found this morn upon our furnace wall Mysterious words wrought by a slimy snail, Whose night-walk fate had guided in that form.1

2nd W. Thou'rt queen of mysteries, great Ragusa.
How hast thou stemm'd the abyss of our black science,
Traced dodging nature thro' her blind 'scape-roads,
And brought her naked and trembling to the light!
Rag. Now to our task-2

Stand off; and, crouching, mystic postures make,
Gnawing your rivel'd knuckles till they bleed,
Whilst I fall prostrate to consult my art,

And mutter sounds too secret for your ear.

(Storm rises.)

Rag. The storm's on wing, comes powdering from the Nore;

"Tis past the Alps already, and whirls forward

To th' Apennine, whose rifted snow is swept

To th' vales beneath, while cots and folds lie buried.3

Thou Myrza tak'st to-night an airy march

To th' Pontic shore for drugs; and for more speed
On my own maple crutch thou shalt be mounted,
Which bridled turns to a steed so manageable,
That thou may'st rein him, with a spider's thread.
4th W. And how if I o'ertake a bark in the way?
Rag. Then, if aloft thou goest, to tinder scorch
The fanns ; but if thou tak'st a lower cut,
Then snatch the whips off from the steersman's hand,
And souse him in the foam.

4th W. He shall be drench'd.5

Rag. Aye, this is music! now methinks I hear

The shrieks of sinking sailors, tackle rent,

Rudders unhing'd, while the sea-raveners swift

(Storm thickens.)

Scour thro' the dark flood for the diving corpses. (The owl cries.) Ha! art thou there, my melancholy sister?

Thou think'st thy nap was short, and art surpris'd

To find night fallen already.

More turf to th' fire, till the black mesh ferment;

Burn th' oil of basilisk to fret the storm.

That was a merry clap: I know that cloud
Was of my Fricker's rending, Fricker rent it;
O'tis an ardent Spirit: but beshrew him,
"Twas he seduced me first to hellish arts.
He found me pensive in a desart glin,

1 [Fifteen lines omitted.] 3 [Six lines.]

4

[Sails.]

[Eight and a half lines.] [A page.]

Near a lone oak forlorn and thunder-cleft,
Where discontented, I abjured the Gods,
And bann'd the cruel creditor that seiz'd
My Mullees,1 sole subsistence of my life.
He promised me full twelve years' absolute reign
To banquet all my senses, but he lied,

For vipers' flesh is now my only food,

My drink of springs that stream from sulph'rous mines;
Beside with midnight cramps and scalding sweats

I am almost inured for hell's worst tortures.

I hear the wood-nymphs cry; by that I know
My charm has took-2

but day clears up,

And heav'nly light wounds my infectious eyes.

1st W. Now, sullen Dame, dost thou approve our works?
Rag. "Twas a brave wreck: O, you have well perform'd.
2nd W. Myrza and I bestrid a cloud, and soar'd

To lash the storm, which we pursued to th' City,
Where in my flight I snatch'd the golden globe,
That high on Saturn's pillar blaz'd i' th' air.

3rd W. I fired the turret of Minerva's fane.
4th W. I staid i' th' cell to set the spell a work.
The lamps burnt ghastly blue, the furnace shook;
The Salamander felt the heat redoubled,

And frisk'd about, so well I plied the fire.

Rag. Now as I hate bright day, and love moonshine, You shall be all my sisters in the art:

I will instruct thee in each mystery;

Make ye all Ragusas.

All. Ho! Ho! Ho!

Rag. Around me, and I'll deal to each her dole. There's an elf-lock, tooth of hermaphrodite,

A brace of mandrakes digg'd in fairy ground,

A lamprey's chain, snake's eggs, dead sparks of thunder
Quench'd in its passage thro' the cold mid air,
A mermaid's fin, a cockatrice's comb

Wrapt i' the dried caul of a brat still-born.
Burn 'em.-

In whispers take the rest, which named aloud
Would fright the day, and raise another storm.
All. Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

1 Her cows. 3 [Ed. of 1678.]

[Act iii.3]

2["The Tempter has prevailed, 'T was a sure philtre."]

Soziman, a wicked Statesman, employs Ragusa for a charm.

Rag. my drudges I'll employ

To frame with their best arts a bracelet for thee,
Which, while thou wear'st it lock'd on thy left arm,
Treason shall ne'er annoy thee, sword and poison
In vain attempt; Nature alone have power
Thy substance to dissolve, nor she herself
Till many a winter-shock hath broke thy temper.
Soz. Medea for her Jason less performed!
My greatening soul aspires to range like thee,
In unknown worlds, to search the reign of Night.
Admitted to thy dreadful mysteries,

I should be more than mortal.

Rag. Near my cell,

'Mongst circling rocks (in form a theatre) Lies a snug vale—

Soz. With horror I have view'd it;

"Tis blasted all and bare as th' ocean beach,

And seems a round for elves to revel in.

Rag. With my attendants there each waning moon
My dreadful Court I hold, and sit in state:-
And when the dire transactions are dispatch'd,
Our zany Spirits ascend to make us mirth

With gambols, dances, masks and revelling songs,
Till our mad din strike terror through the waste,
Spreads far and wide to th' cliffs that bank the main,
And scarce is lost in the wide ocean's roar.
Here seated by me thou shalt view the sports,

While demons kiss thy foot, and swear thee homage.

[Act iv., p. 33.]

Ragusa, with the other Witches, having finished the bracelet.

Rag. Proceed we then to finish our black projects.—

View here, till from your green distilling eyes

The poisonous glances center on this bracelet,

A fatal gift for our projecting son ;

Seven hours odd minutes has it steept i' th' gall
Of a vile Moor swine-rooted from his grave.
Now to your bloated lips apply it round,

And with th' infectious dew of your black breaths
Compleat its baleful force.

[Act v., p. 45.]

A

[SICILY AND NAPLES OR] THE FATAL UNION. TRAGEDY [PUBLISHED 1640]. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. [BY SAMUEL HARDING (FLOURISHED 1641)]

Dirge.

Noblest bodies are but gilded clay.
Put away

But the precious shining rind,

The inmost rottenness remains behind.
Kings, on earth though Gods they be,
Yet in death are vile as we.

He, a thousand Kings before,
Now is vassal unto more.
Vermin now insulting lie,

And dig for diamonds in each eye;
Whilst the sceptre-bearing hand
Cannot their inroads withstand.
Here doth one in odours wade,
By the regal unction made;
While another dares to gnaw

On that tongue, his people's law.

Fools, ah! fools are we that [who] so contrive,
And do strive,

In each gaudy ornament,

Who shall his corpse in the best dish present.

[Act iii., Sc. 2.1]

BLURT, MASTER CONSTABLE.

A COMEDY [PUB

LISHED 1602]. BY T. MIDDLETON

Lover kept awake by Love.

Ah! how can I sleep? 2 he, who truly loves,
Burns out the day in idle fantasies;

And when the lamb bleating doth bid good night
Unto the closing day, then tears begin

To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice

Shrieks like the bellman in the lover's ears:

Love's eye the jewel of sleep oh! seldom wears.

The early lark is waken'd from her bed,

Being only by Love's plaints disquieted ;

1 1 [Ed. of 1640.]

"["Sleep" is inserted by Lamb, from the previous speaker's words.]