The child I stole, thinking alone to triumph in his

death,

And bathe my body in his popular gore;

But dove-like nature favoured so the child,
That Calib's killing knife fell from her hand,
And, 'stead of stabs, I kiss'd the red-lipp'd boy.

THE CONSPIRACY, A TRAGEDY : BY HENRY KILLIGREW, 1638. AUTHOR'S AGE 17.

The rightful heir to the crown kept from his inheritance: an Angel sings to him sleeping.

Song.

WHILE Morpheus thus doth gently lay
His powerful charge upon each part,
Making thy spirits even obey

The silver charms of his dull art;

I, thy good Angel, from thy side,
As smoke doth from the altar rise,
Making no noise as it doth glide,

Will leave thee in this soft surprise;

And from the clouds will fetch thee down

A holy vision, to express

Thy right unto an earthly crown;

No power can make this kingdom less.

But gently, gently, lest I bring

A start in sleep by sudden flight,

Playing aloof, and hovering,

Till I am lost unto the sight.

This is a motion, still and soft,
So free from noise and cry,
That Jove himself, who hears a thought,
Knows not when we pass by.

TOTTENHAM COURT, A COMEDY:
BY THOMAS NABBES, 1638.

Lovers pursued.

WORTHGOOD, BELLAMIE, as travelling together before daylight.

Worth. Come, my delight! let not such painted

griefs

Press down thy soul: the darkness but presents
Shadows of fear, which should secure us best
From danger of pursuit.

Bell. Would it were day!

My apprehension is so full of horror,

I think each sound, the air's light motion
Makes in these thickets, is my uncle's voice,
Threatening our ruins.

Worth. Let his rage persist

To enterprise a vengeance, we 'll prevent it. Wrapp'd in the arms of Night, that favours lovers, We hitherto have 'scaped his eager search,

And are arriv'd near London. Sure I hear The bridge's cataracts, and such-like murmurs As night and sleep yield from a populous number. Bell. But when will it be day? the light hath com

fort;

Our first of useful senses being lost,

The rest are less delighted.

Worth. Th' early cock

Hath sung his summons to the day's approach: 'Twill instantly appear. Why startled, Bellamie?

Bell. Did no amazing sounds arrive your ear?

Pray listen.

Worth. Come, come; 'tis thy fear suggests

Illusive fancies.

Under love's protection

We may presume of safety.

(Within.) Follow, follow, follow.

Bell. Ay me, 'tis sure my uncle, dear love Worthgood.

Worth. Astonishment hath seiz'd my faculties.

My love, my Bellamie, ha!

Bell. Dost thou forsake me, Worthgood?

Worth. Where's my love?

[Exit, as losing him.

Dart from thy silver crescent one fair beam

Through this black air, thou Governess of Night,
To show me whither she is led by fear ;
Thou envious Darkness, to assist us here,
And then prove fatal !

(Within.) Follow, follow, follow.

Worth. Silence your noise, ye clamorous ministers Of this injustice. Bellamie is lost ;

She's lost to me. Not her fierce uncle's rage,

Who whets your eager aptness to pursue me
With threats or promises, not his painted terrors
Of laws' severity, could ever work

Upon the temper of my resolute soul
To soften it to fear, till she was lost.
Not all the illusive horrors, which the night
Presents unto th' imagination,

T'affright a guilty conscience, could possess me,
While I possess'd my love. The dismal shrieks
Of fatal owls, and groans of dying mandrakes,
Whilst her soft palm warm'd mine, were music to

me.

Their light appears.-No safety doth consist
In passion or complaints. Night, let thine arms
Again assist me; and, if no kind minister

Of better fate guide me to Bellamie,
Be thou eternal.

(Within.) Follow, follow, follow.

BELLAMIE, alone, in Marybone Park.

Bell. The day begins to break; and trembling light,
As if affrighted with this night's disaster,
Steals through the farthest air, and by degrees
Salutes my weary longings.-Oh, my Worthgood,
Thy presence would have check'd these passions,
And shot delight through all the mists of sadness,
To guide my fear safe through the paths of danger :
Now fears assault me.-'Tis a woman's voice-
She sings; and in her music's cheerfulness
Seems to express the freedom of a heart,
Not chain'd to any passions.

Song, within.

What a dainty life the milkmaid leads!

When over the flow'ry meads

She dabbles in the dew,

And sings to her cow;

And feels not the pain

Of love or disdain.

She sleeps in the night, though she toils in the day;
And merrily passeth her time away.

Bell. Oh, might I change my misery
For such a shape of quiet!

THE BRIDE, A COMEDY:
BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 1640.

Antiquities.

HORTEN, a collector. His friend.

Friend. You are learned in antiquities?

Hort. A little, sir.

I should affect them more, were not tradition

One of the best assurances to show

They are the things we think them. What more proofs,

Unless perhaps a little circumstance,

Have we for this or that to be a piece
Of Delphos' ruins? or the marble statues,
Made Athens glorious, when she was suppos'd
To have more images of men than men ?
A weather-beaten stone, with an inscription
That is not legible but through an optic,
Tells us its age; that in some Sibyl's cave,
Three thousand years ago, it was an altar ;
"Tis satisfaction to our curiosity,

But ought not to necessitate belief.-
For antiquity,

I do not store up any under Grecian;

Your Roman antiques are but modern toys
Compar'd to them; besides, they are so counterfeit
With mouldings, 'tis scarce possible to find
Any but copies.

Friend. Yet you are confident

Of yours, that are of more doubt.

Hort. Others from their easiness

My trial 's such

May credit what they please.
Of any thing I doubt, all the impostors
That ever made antiquity ridiculous,
Cannot deceive me. If I light upon
Aught that 's above my skill, I have recourse
To those, whose judgment at the second view
(If not the first) will tell me what philosopher's
That eye-less, nose-less, mouth-less statue is,
And who the workman was; though since his death
Thousands of years have been revolv❜d.

Accidents to frustrate purpose.

How various are th' events that

may depend

Upon one action, yet the end propos'd