(Wear thou this medal of himself) that like A hearty oak grew'st close to this tall pine, Even in the wildest wilderness of war,

Whereon foes broke their swords, and tir'd themselves :

Wounded and hack'd ye were, but never fell'd.
For me, my portion provide in heaven :

My root is earth'd, and I, a desolate branch,
Left scatter'd in the highway of the world,
Trod under foot, that might have been a column
Mainly supporting our demolish'd house,
This would I wear as my inheritance.
And what hope can arise to me from it,
When I and it are here both prisoners ?
Only may this, if ever we be free,
Keep, or redeem me from all infamy.
Jailer. You must no farther ;

The prison limits you, and the creditors
Exact the strictness.

THE VIRGIN MARTYR, A TRAGEDY:

BY PHILIP MASSINGER AND THOMAS DECker.

ANGELO, an Angel, attends DOROTHEA as a page.

ANGELO. DOROTHEA. The time, midnight.

Dor. My book and taper.

Ang. Here, most holy mistress.

Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never

Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound.

Were every servant in the world like thee,
So full of goodness, angels would come down
To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo,

And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest;
Thy youth with too much watching is oppress'd.

Ang. No, my dear lady, I could weary stars,
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes
By my late watching, but to wait on you.
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar,
Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven,
So blest I hold me in your company:
Therefore, my most lov'd mistress, do not bid
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence,
For then you break his heart.

Dor. Be nigh me still, then;

In golden letters down I 'll set that day,
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope
To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself,
This little pretty body, when I coming
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy,
My sweet-fac'd godly beggar-boy, crave an alms,
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand;
And when I took thee home, my most chaste
bosom

Methought was fill'd with no hot wanton fire,
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher,
On wings of cherubims, than it did before.
Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye
So likes so poor a servant.

Dor. I have offer'd

Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents;
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some,
To dwell with thy good father; for, the son
Bewitching me so deeply with his presence,
He that begot him must do 't ten times more :
I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents,
Be not asham'd.

Ang. I am not : I did never

Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace, Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure

you,

And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand,

My father is in heaven; and, pretty mistress,
If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand
No worse, than yet it doth, upon my life,
You and I both shall meet my father there,
And he shall bid you welcome.

Dor. A blessed day!

[This scene has beauties of so very high an order, that, with all my respect for Massinger, I do not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of furnishing them. His associate Decker, who wrote old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for any thing. The very impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of this play (like Satan among the sons of heaven) and which the brief scope of my plan fortunately enables me to leave out, have a strength of contrast, a raciness, and a glow in them, which are above Massinger. They set off the religion of the rest, somehow as Caliban serves to show Miranda.]

A VERY WOMAN; OR, THE PRINCE OF TARENT. A TRAGI-COMEDY:

BY PHILIP MASSINGER AND JOHN FLETCHER.

DON JOHN ANTONIO, Prince of Tarent, in the disguise of a slave recounts to the LADY ALMIRA, she not knowing him in that disguise, the story of his own passion for her, and of the unworthy treatment which he found from her.

John. Not far from where my father lives, a lady,
A neighbour by, blest with as great a beauty
As Nature durst bestow without undoing,
Dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then,
And bless'd the house a thousand times she dwelt
in.

This beauty, in the blossom of my youth,
When my first fire knew no adulterate incense,
Nor I no way to flatter, but my fondness,
In all the bravery my friends could show me,
In all the faith my innocence could give me,

In the best language my true tongue could tell

me,

And all the broken sighs my sick heart lent me, I sued, and served. Long did I love this lady, Long was my travail, long my trade, to win her; With all the duty of my soul, I served her. Alm. How feelingly he speaks!

too?

It must be so.

John. I would it had, dear lady;

And she loved you

This story had been needless, and this place,

I think, unknown to me.

Alm. Were your bloods equal?

John. Yes, and I thought our hearts too.

Alm. Then she must love.

John. She did-but never me; she could not love

me,

She would not love, she hated, more, she scorn'd

me,

And in so poor and base a way abused me,

For all my services, for all my bounties,
So bold neglects flung on me-

Alm. An ill woman!

Belike you found some rival in your love, then? John. How perfectly she points me to my story! [Aside. Madam, I did; and one whose pride and anger, Ill manners, and worse mien, she doted on; Doted, to my undoing, and my ruin. And, but for honour to your sacred beauty, And reverence to the noble sex, though she fall, As she must fall that durst be so unnoble, I should say something unbeseeming me. What out of love, and worthy love, I gave her, Shame to her most unworthy mind! to fools, To girls, and fiddlers, to her boys she flung, And in disdain of me.

Last, to blot me

From all remembrance what I had been to her, And how, how honestly, how nobly served her, 'Twas thought she set her gallant to despatch me. 'Tis true, he quarrel'd without place or reason; We fought, I kill'd him; Heaven's strong hand was with me;

For which I lost my country, friends, acquaintance, And put myself to sea, where a pirate took me, And sold me here.

THE TRAGEDY OF NERO.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

Scenical Personation.

"TIs better in play

Be Agamemnon than himself indeed;
How oft, with danger of the field beset,
Or with home mutinies, would he unbe
Himself, or, over cruel altars weeping,
Wish, that with putting off a vizard, he
Might his true inward sorrow lay aside;
The shows of things are better than themselves.
How doth it stir this airy part of us,
To hear our Poets tell imagin'd fights,

And the strange blows, that feigned courage gives;
When I'd Achilles hear upon the stage
Speak Honour, and the greatness of his soul,
Methinks I too, could on a Phrygian spear
Run boldly, and make tales for after times;
But when we come to act it in the deed,
Death mars this bravery, and the ugly fears
Of th' other world, sit on the proudest brow,
And boasting valour loseth his red cheek.