Atr. The wine will lighten it.
Thy. The wine will not
Come near my lips.

Atr. Why should they be so strange?

They are near akin.

Thy. Ákin?

Atr. As possible; father and son not nearer.
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 akin.
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.) heaven upon our

Thy. What ponderous crimes pull

heads?

Nature is chok'd with some vast villany,

And all her face is black.

Atr. Some lights! some lights!

Thy. The sun is stunn'd, and reels 'tween 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 show me what he

means.

Where is Philisthenes?

Atr. Ask thy own bowels:

Thou heardst 'em 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.

THE MARRIED BEAU, A COMEDY: BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 1694.

Wife tempted: she pleads religion.

Lover. Our happy love may have a secret church
Under the church, as Faith's was under Paul's,
Where we may carry on our sweet devotion,
And the cathedral marriage keep its state,
And all its decency and ceremonies.

BELPHEGOR, A COMEDY :

BY JOHN WILSON, 1691.

Doria Palace described.

THAT thou 'dst been with us at duke Doria's garden,

The pretty contest between art and nature;
To see the wilderness, grots, arbours, ponds,
And in the midst, over a stately fountain,
The Neptune of the Ligurian sea-
Andrew Doria-the man who first

Taught Genoa not to serve; then to behold
The curious waterworks, and wanton streams
Wind here and there, as if they had forgot
Their errand to the sea—

and then again, within

The vast prodigious cage, to see the groves
Of myrtle, orange, jessamine, beguile
The winged quire into a native warble,
And pride of their restraint.-Then, up and down,
An antiquated marble, or broken statue,
Majestic, even in ruin-

and such a glorious palace!

Such picture, carving, furniture! my words
Cannot reach half the splendour. And, after all,
To see the sea, fond of the goodly sight,
One while glide amorous, and lick her walls,
As who would say, Come, follow; but, repuls'd,
Rally its whole artillery of waves,

And crowd into a storm.

DON QUIXOTE, A COMEDY IN THREE PARTS:

BY THOMAS D'URFEY, 1694.

Dirge, at the hearse of Chrysostom.
SLEEP, poor youth, sleep in peace,

Reliev'd from love and mortal care;
Whilst we, that pine in life's disease,
Uncertain-bless'd, less happy are.
Couch'd in the dark and silent grave,
No ills of fate thou now canst fear;
In vain would tyrant Power enslave,
Or scornful Beauty be severe.

Wars, that do fatal storms disperse,

Far from thy happy mansion keep ;
Earthquakes, that shake the universe,
Can't rock thee into sounder sleep.