We shall live long, and loving; no surfeits seek us;
The hand of War hurts none here, nor the seas
Swallow their youth were we at liberty,
A wife might part us lawfully, or business;
Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men

Crave our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin,
Where you should never know it, and so perish
Without your noble hand to close mine eyes,
Or prayers to the gods: a thousand chances,
Were we from hence, would sever us.
Pal. You have made me

(I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wanton With my captivity: what a misery

Is it to live abroad, and every where !

'Tis like a beast, methinks: I find the court here, I am sure, a more content; and all those pleasures That woo the wills of men to vanity,

I see through now; and am sufficient
To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow,
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.
What had we been, old in the court of Creon,
Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance
The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,
Had not the loving gods found this place for us,
We had died as they do, ill old men, unwept,
And had their epitaphs, the people's curses.

[This scene bears indubitable marks of Fletcher: the two which precede it give strong countenance to the tradition that Shakspeare had a hand in this Play. The same judgment may be formed of the death of Arcite, and some other passages, not here given. They have a luxuriance in them which strongly resembles Shakspeare's manner in those parts of his plays, where, the progress of the interest being subordinate, the poet was at leisure for description. I might fetch instances from Troilus and Timon. That Fletcher should have copied Shakspeare's manner through so many entire scenes (which is the theory of Mr Steevens) is not very probable, that he could have done it with such facility is to me not certain. His ideas moved slow; his versification, though sweet, is tedious; it stops every moment; he lays line upon line, making up one after the other, adding

image to image so deliberately that we see where they join: Shakspeare mingles everything, he runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and metaphors; before one idea has burst its shell, another is hatched and clamorous for disclosure. If Fletcher wrote some scenes in imitation, why did he stop? or shall we say that Shakspeare wrote the other scenes in imitation of Fletcher? that he gave Shakspeare a curb and a bridle, and that Shakspeare gave him a pair of spurs: as Blackmore and Lucan are brought in exchanging gifts in the Battle of the Books?]

THE BLOODY BROTHER; OR,
A TRAGEDY:

ROLLO

BY THE SAME Author.

ROLLO, Duke of Normandy, a bloody tyrant, puts to death his tutor BALDWIN, for too freely reproving him for his crimes; but afterwards falls in love with EDrTu, daughter to the man he has slain. She makes a show of returning his love, and invites him to a banquet; her design being to train him there, that she may kill him; but, overcome by his flatteries, and real or dissembled remorse, she faints in her resolution.

Rol. What bright star, taking Beauty's form upon her,
In all the happy lustre of Heaven's glory,
Has dropp'd down from the sky to comfort me?
Wonder of nature, let it not profane thee
My rude hand touch thy beauty; nor this kiss,
The gentle sacrifice of love and service,
Be offer'd to the honour of thy sweetness.
Edi. My gracious lord, no deity dwells here,
Nor nothing of that virtue, but obedience;
The servant to your will affects no flattery.
Rol. Can it be flattery to swear those eyes

Are Love's eternal lamps he fires all hearts with? That tongue the smart string to his brow? those sighs

The deadly shafts he sends into our souls?

Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty!

Edi. Your grace is full of

game. Rol. By Heaven, my Edith,

Thy mother fed on roses when she bred thee. The sweetness of the Arabian wind, still blowing Upon the treasures of perfumes and spices

In all their pride and pleasures, call thee mistress. Edi. Will it please you sit, sir?

Rol. So you please sit by me.

Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee;
The excellency that appears upon thee

Ties up my tongue. Pray, speak to me.

Edi. Of what, sir?

Rol. Of any thing; any thing that is excellent.
Will you take my direction? speak of love, then ;
Speak of thy fair self, Edith; and while thou
speak'st,

Let me, thus languishing, give up myself, wench. Edi. H'as a strange cunning tongue. Why do you sigh, sir?

How masterly he turns himself to catch me!
Rol. The way to Paradise, my gentle maid,
Is hard and crooked, scarce repentance finding,
With all her holy helps, the door to enter.
Give me thy hand; what dost thou feel?
Edi. Your tears, sir;

You weep extremely. Strengthen me
Justice!

Why are these sorrows, sir?

now,

[Aside.

Rol. Thou 'lt never love me,

If I should tell thee: yet there's no way

left

Ever to purchase this blest paradise,

But swimming thither in these tears.

Edi. I stagger.

Rol. Are they not drops of blood?

Edi. No.

Rol. They are for blood, then,

For guiltless blood; and they must drop, my Edith,

They must thus drop, till I have drown'd my mischiefs.

Edi. If this be true, I have no strength to touch

him.

[Aside.

Rol. I prithee, look upon me; turn not from me ;
Alas, I do confess I'm made of mischief,
Begot with all man's miseries upon me!
But see my sorrows, maid, and do not thou,
Whose only sweetest sacrifice is softness,
Whose true condition tenderness of nature-
Edi. My anger melts; oh, I shall lose my justice!
Rol. Do not thou learn to kill with cruelty,
As I have done; to murder with thy eyes,
Those blessed eyes, as I have done with malice.
When thou hast wounded me to death with scorn
(As I deserve it, lady,) for my true love,

When thou hast loaden me with earth for ever,
Take heed my sorrows, and the stings I suffer,
Take heed my nightly dreams of death and horror,
Pursue thee not; no time shall tell thy griefs then,
Nor shall an hour of joy add to thy beauties.
Look not upon me as I kill'd thy father;

As I was smear'd in blood, do thou not hate me ;
But thus, in whiteness of my wash'd repentance,
In my heart's tears and truth of love to Edith,
In
my fair life hereafter-

Edi. He will fool me.

Rol. Oh, with thine angel-eyes behold and bless me !
Of Heaven we call for mercy, and obtain it;
To justice for our right on earth, and have it;
Of thee I beg for love; save me, and give it.
Edi. Now, Heaven, thy help, or I am gone for ever!
His tongue has turn'd me into melting pity.

LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE, A COMEDY :

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

LEOCADIA leaves her father's house, disguised in man's apparel, to travel in search of MARK ANTONIO, to whom she is contracted, but has been deserted by him. When at length she meets with him, she finds, that by a precontract he is the husband of THEODOSIA. In this extremity,

PHILIPPO, brother to THEODOSIA, offers LEOCADIA marriage.

Phi. Will you not hear me?

Leo. I have heard so much

Will keep me deaf for ever. No, Mark-Antony,
After thy sentence, I may hear no more :
Thou hast pronounc'd me dead.

Phi. Appeal to Reason:

She will reprieve you from the power of grief,
Which rules but in her absence: hear me say
A sovereign message from her, which in duty
And love to your own safety you ought hear.
Why do you strive so? whither would you fly?
You cannot wrest yourself away from care,
You may from counsel; you may shift your place,
But not your person; and another clime
Makes you no other.

Leo. Oh!

Phi. For passion's sake,

(Which I do serve, honour, and love in you,)
If you will sigh, sigh here; if you would vary
A sigh to tears or out-cry, do it here:
No shade, no desert, darkness, nor the grave,
Shall be more equal to your thoughts than I
Only but hear me speak!

Leo. What would you say?

:

Phi. That which shall raise your heart, or pull down

mine,

Quiet your passion, or provoke mine own;