Or like the black and melancholic yew-tree, Dying Man. See, see how firmly he doth fix his eye O,,hold it constant. settles his wild spirits: and so his eyes Melt into tears. Despair. O, the cursed devil, Which doth present us with all other sins THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY, BY JOHN FORD. Contention of a Bird and a Musician. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Desire of visiting that paradise. To Thessaly I came, and living private, Without acquaintance of more sweet companions This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge; and, for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her down; Upon his quaking instrument, than she Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, To end the controversy, in a rapture Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method Meeting in one full centre of delight. The bird (ordain'd to be Music's first martyr) strove to imitate These several sounds: which when her warbling throat Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness, To see the conqueror upon her hearse To weep a funeral elegy of tears. He looks upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, and cried, "Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it. Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow, I suddenly stept in. [This story, which is originally to be met with in Strada's Prolusions, has been paraphrased in rhyme by Crashaw, Ambrose Phillips, and others: but none of those versions can at all compare for harmony and grace with this blank verse of Ford's: it is as fine as anything in Beaumont and Fletcher; and almost equals the strife which it celebrates.] THE LADIES' TRIAL, BY JOHN FORD. AURIA, in the possession of honours, preferment, fame, can find no peace in his mind while he thinks his Wife unchaste. AURIA. AURELIO. Auria. Count of Savona, Genoa's admiral, A worthy of my country, sought and sued to, My triumphs Are echoed under every roof, the air Is streighten'd with the sound, there is not room Auria. At home! That home, Aurelio speaks of, I have lost: LOVE'S SACRIFICE: A TRAGEDY, BY JOHN FORD. BIANCHA, Wife to CARAFFA, Duke of Pavia, loves and is loved by FERNANDO the Duke's favourite. She long resists his importunate suit; at length, she enters the room where he is sleeping, and awakens him, to hear her confession of her love for him. BIANCHA. FERDINAND, sleeping. Bian. Resolve, and do; 'tis done. What, are those eyes, Which lately were so over-drown'd in tears, So easy to take rest? O happy man, How sweetly sleep hath seal'd up sorrows here! Fer. Who calls? Bian. My lord: Sleeping, or waking? Fer. Ha, who is 't? Bian. 'Tis I: voice? or is your ear Have you forgot my Fer. Madam the duchess! Sit up and wonder, whiles my sorrows swell: The nights are short, and I have much to say. Fer. Is 't possible 'tis you? Bian. 'Tis possible: Why do you think I come ? Fer. Why? to crown joys, And make me master of my best desires. Bian. 'Tis true, you guess aright; sit up and listen. Fernando, in short words, howe'er my tongue Poor wretched woman lived, that loved like me; Fer. O, madam Bian. To witness that I speak is truth, look here; And do confess my weakness: if thou tempt'st Fer. Perpetual happiness! Bian. Now hear me out: When first Caraffa, Pavy's duke, my lord, Advanced me to the titles I possess, Not moved by counsel, or removed by greatness: I have done so: nor was there in the world Bian. True, I do, Beyond imagination: if no pledge Of love can instance what I speak is true, Fer. What do you mean? Bian. To give my body up to thy embraces; Fer. How, madam, how! Bian. I will: Do what thou wilt, 'tis in thy choice; what say ye? Fer. Pish, do you come to try me? tell me first, Will you but grant a kiss? Bian. Yes, take it; that, Or what thy heart can wish: I am all thine. Bian. Fernando! Jest not at my calamity: I kneel: By these dishevel'd hairs, these wretched tears, [Kneels. |