Fort. Boys, be proud; your father hath the whole world in this compass. I am all felicity, up to the brims. In a minute am I come from Babylon; I have been this half hour in Famagosta.

And. How! in a minute, father? I see travellers must lie.
Fort. I have cut through the air like a falcon. I would have
it seem strange to you. But 'tis true. I would not
have you believe it neither. But 'tis miraculous and
true. Desire to see you brought me to Cyprus. I'll
leave you more gold, and go to visit more countries.
Amp. The frosty hand of age now nips your blood,
And strews her snowy flowers upon your head,
And gives you warning that within few
years

Death needs must marry you: those short lines, minutes,
That dribble out your life, must needs be spent
In peace, not travel; rest in Cyprus then.
Could you survey ten worlds, yet you must die;
And bitter is the sweet that's reap'd thereby.

And. Faith, father, what pleasure have you met by walking your stations ?

Fort. What pleasure, boy? I have revelled with kings, danced with queens, dallied with ladies; worn strange attires; seen fantasticoes; conversed with humourists; been ravished with divine raptures of Doric, Lydian and Phrygian harmonies; I have spent the day in triumphs and the night in banqueting.

And. O, rare! this was heavenly.-He that would not be an Arabian phoenix to burn in these sweet fires, let him live like an owl for the world to wonder at.

Amp. Why, brother, are not all these vanities?

Fort. Vanities! Ampedo, thy soul is made of lead, too dull, too ponderous, to mount up to the incomprehensible glory that Travel lifts men to.

And. Sweeten mine ears, good father, with some more.
Fort. When in the warmth of mine own country's arms
We yawn'd like sluggards, when this small horizon
Imprison'd up my body, then mine eyes

Worship'd these clouds as brightest: but, my boys,
The glistering beams which do abroad appear
In other heavens, fire is not half so clear.
For still in all the regions I have seen,

I scorn'd to crowd among the muddy throng
Of the rank multitude, whose thicken'd breath
(Like to condensed fogs) do choke that beauty,
Which else would dwell in every kingdom's cheek.
No; I still boldly stepp'd into their courts:
For there to live 'tis rare, O, 'tis divine,
There shall you see faces angelical;

There shall you see troops of chaste goddesses,
Whose star-like eyes have power (might they still shine)
To make night day, and day more crystalline.
Near these you shall behold great heroes,
White-headed counsellors, and jovial spirits,
Standing like fiery cherubins to guard
The monarch, who in godlike glory sits
In midst of these, as if this deity

Had with a look created a new world,

The standers by being the fair workmanship. And. O, how my soul is rapt to a third heaven!

I'll travel sure, and live with none but kings.
Amp. But tell me, father, have you in all courts
Beheld such glory, so majestical,

In all perfection, no way blemished?
Fort. In some courts shall you see Ambitior.
Sit, piecing Dedalus' old waxen wings;
But being clapt on, and they about to fly,
Ev'n when their hopes are busied in the clouds,
They melt against the sun of majesty,
And down they tumble to destruction.
By travel, boys, I have seen all these things.
Fantastic Compliment stalks up and down,
Trick'd in outlandish feathers; all his words,
His looks, his oaths, are all ridiculous,
All apish, childish, and Italianate.

Orleans to his friend Galloway defends the passion with which (being a prisoner in the English King's Court) he is enamoured to frenzy of the King's daughter Agripyna.

Orl. This music makes me but more out of tune.

O Agripyna!

Gall. Gentle friend, no more.

Thou sayst Love is a madness: hate it then,
Ev'n for the name's sake.

Orl. O, I love that madness,

Ev'n for the name's sake.

Gall. Let me tame this frenzy,

By telling thee thou art a prisoner here,
By telling thee she's daughter to a king,
By telling thee the king of Cyprus' son
Shines like a sun between her looks and thine,
Whilst thou seem'st but a star to Agripyne.
He loves her. -

Orl. If he do, why so do I.

Gall. Love is ambitious and loves majesty.

Orl. Dear friend, thou art deceived: Love's voice doth sing
As sweetly in a beggar as a king.

Gall. Dear friend, thou art deceived: O bid thy soul
Lift up her intellectual eyes to heaven,

And in this ample book of wonders read,
Of what celestial mould, what sacred essence,
Her self is form'd: the search whereof will drive,
Sounds musical among the jarring spirits,

And in sweet tune set that which none inherits.
Orl. I'll gaze on heaven if Agripyne be there.
If not: fa, la, la, sol, la, &c.

Gall. O call this madness in: see, from the windows
Of every eye Derision thrusts out cheeks
Wrinkled with idiot laughter; every finger
Is like a dart shot from the hand of Scorn,
By which thy name is hurt, thy honour torn.
Orl. Laugh they at me, sweet Galloway?
Gall. Even at thee.

Orl. Ha, ha, I laugh at them: are they not mad,
That let my true true sorrow make them glad?
I dance and sing only to anger Grief,
That in his anger he might smite life down
With his iron fist: good heart! it seemeth then,
They laugh to see grief kill me: O fond men,
You laugh at others' tears; when others smile,
You tear yourselves in pieces; vile, vile, vile.
Ha, ha, when I behold a swarm of fools

Crowding together to be counted wise,
I laugh because sweet Agripyne 's not there.
But weep because she is not anywhere;

And weep because (whether she be or not)

My love was ever and is still forgot: forgot, forgot, forgot. Gall. Draw back this stream: why should my Orleans mourn?

Orl. Look yonder, Galloway, dost thou see that sun?
Nay, good friend, stare upon it, mark it well :
Ere he be two hours elder, all that glory

Is banish'd heaven, and then, for grief, this sky
(That's now so jocund) will mourn all in black.
And shall not Orleans mourn? alack, alack!
O what a savage tyranny it were

To enforce Care laugh, and Woe not shed a tear!
Dead is my Love; I am buried in her scorn:
That is my sunset; and shall I not mourn ?
Yes, by my troth I will.

Gall. Dear friend, forbear;

Beauty (like sorrow) dwelleth everywhere.
Rase out this strong idea of her face:
As fair as her's shineth in any place.
Orl. Thou art a traitor to that white and red,

Which sitting on her cheeks (being Cupid's throne)

Is my heart's soveraine: O, when she is dead,

This wonder (beauty) shall be found in none.
Now Agripyne's not mine, I vow to be
In love with nothing but deformity.

O fair Deformity, I muse all eyes

Are not enamour'd of thee: thou didst never
Murder men's hearts, or let them pine like wax
Melting against the sun of thy destiny;

Thou art a faithful nurse to chastity;
Thy beauty is not like to Agripyne's,

For

cares, and age, and sickness her's deface,

But thine's eternal: O Deformity,

Thy fairness is not like to Agripyne's,
For (dead) her beauty will no beauty have,
But thy face looks most lovely in the grave.

[The humour of a frantic lover is here done to the life. Orleans is as passionate an Inamorato as any which Shakspeare ever drew. He is

just such another adept in Love's reasons. The sober people of the world are with him

a swarm of fools

Crowding together to be counted wise.

He talks "pure Biron and Romeo," he is almost as poetical as they, quite as philosophical, only a little madder. After all, Love's sectaries are a "reason unto themselves." We have gone retrograde in the noble heresy since the days when Sidney proselyted our nation to this mixed health and disease; the kindliest symptom yet the most alarming crisis in the ticklish state of youth; the nourisher and the destroyer of hopeful wits; the mother of twin-births, wisdom and folly, valour and weakness; the servitude above freedom; the gentle mind's religion; the liberal superstition.]

THE HONEST WHORE: A COMEDY, BY THOMAS DECKER. Hospital for Lunatics.

There are of mad men, as there are of tame,

All humour'd not alike. We have here some

So apish and fantastick, play with a feather;

smile.

And, though 'twould grieve a soul to see God's image
So blemish'd and defaced, yet do they act
Such antick and such pretty lunacies,
That, spite of sorrow, they will make you
Others again we have, like hungry lions,
Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies.-
Patience.

Patience! why, 'tis the soul of peace:
Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven;
It makes men look like gods.-The best of men
That e'er wore earth about him was a Sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit;
The first true gentleman that ever breathed.

THE SECOND PART OF THE HONEST WHORE.
BY THOMAS DECKER.

Bellafront, a reclaimed harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her profession.

Like an ill husband, though I knew the same

To be my undoing, follow'd I that game.