THE MAID'S TRAGEDY:

BY THE SAME AUTHORS.

AMINTOR, a noble gentleman, promises marriage to ASPATIA, and forsakes her by the king's command to wed EVADNE.-The grief of ASPATIA at being forsaken described.

'This lady

Walks discontented, with her watery eyes
Bent on the earth. The unfrequented woods
Are her delight; where, when she seeks a bank
Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell
Her servants what a pretty place it were
To bury lovers in; and make her maids
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse.
She carries with her an infectious grief,
That strikes all her beholders: she will sing
The mournful'st things that ever ear have heard,
And sigh, and sing again; and when the rest
Of our young ladies, in their wanton blood,
Tell mirthful tales in course, that fill the room
With laughter, she will, with so sad a look,
Bring forth a story of the silent death
Of some forsaken virgin, which her grief
Will put in such a phrase that, ere she end,
She 'll send them weeping one by one away.

The marriage-night of AMINTOR and Evadne.

EVADNE. ASPATIA. DULA, and other Ladies.

Evad. Would thou couldst instil
Some of thy mirth into Aspatia!

[To DULA.

Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek :
It were a fitter hour for me to laugh,
When at the altar the religious priest

Were pacifying the offended powers

With sacrifice, than now. This should have been My right, and all your hands have been employ'd

In giving me a spotless offering

Το

young Amintor's bed, as we are now For you. Pardon, Evadne: would my worth Were great as yours, or that the King, or he, Or both, thought so! Perhaps he found me worthless :

But till he did so, in these ears of mine,

These credulous ears, he poured the sweetest words That art or love could frame.

Evad. Nay, leave this sad talk, madam.

Asp. Would I could! then should I leave the cause.
Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew.
Evad. That's one of your sad songs, madam.
Asp. Believe me, 'tis a very pretty one.
Evad. How is it, madam?

Asp. Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear; say I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm from my hour of birth:

Upon my buried body lay lightly, gentle earth!

Madam, good night. May no discontent
Grow 'twixt your love and you! but, if there do,
Inquire of me, and I will guide your moan;
Teach you an artificial way to grieve,

To keep your sorrow waking. Love your lord
No worse than I: but, if you love so well,
Alas, you may displease him! so did I.
This is the last time you shall look on me.-
Ladies, farewell. As soon as I am dead,
Come all and watch one night about my hearse;
Bring each a mournful story and a tear,
To offer at it when I go to earth :

With flattering ivy clasp my coffin round;

Write on my brow my fortune; let my bier Be borne by virgins, that shall sing by course The truth of maids and perjuries of men. Evad. Alas, I pity thee!

[AMINTOR enters.

Asp. Go, and be happy in your lady's love.

[To AMINTOR.

May all the
wrongs that you have done to me
Be utterly forgotten in my death!
I'll trouble you no more; yet I will take
A parting kiss, and will not be denied.

[Kisses AMINTOR.
You'll come, my lord, and see the virgins weep
When I am laid in earth, though you yourself
Can know no pity. Thus I wind myself
Into this willow garland, and am prouder
That I was once your love, though now refus'd,
Than to have had another true to me.-

ASPATIA wills her Maidens to be sorrowful, because she is so.

ASPATIA. ANTIPHILA. OLYMPIAS.

Asp. Come, let's be sad, my girls.

That downcast of thine eye, Olympias, Shows a fine sorrow. Mark, Antiphila : Just such another was the nymph none, When Paris brought home Helen. Now, a tear; And then thou art a piece expressing fully The Carthage queen, when from a cold sea rock, Full with her sorrow, she tied fast her eyes To the fair Trojan ships; and, having lost them, Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear.-Antiphila, What would this wench do, if she were Aspatia? Here she would stand, till some more pitying god Turn'd her to marble.-'Tis enough, my wench.— Show me the piece of needle-work you wrought. Ant. Of Ariadne, madam ?

Asp. Yes, that piece.

This should be Theseus; h'as a cozening face.-
You meant him for a man?

Ant. He was so, madam.

Asp. Why, then, 'tis well enough.-Never look back; You have a full wind and a false heart, Theseus.—

Does not the story say, his keel was split,

Or his masts spent, or some kind rock or other
Met with his vessel.

Ant. Not as I remember.

Asp. It should have been so. Could the gods know this,

And not, of all their number, raise a storm?

But they are all as evil. This false smile

Was well express'd, just such another caught me.— You shall not go so.

Antiphila, in this place work a quicksand,

And over it a shallow smiling water,

And his ship ploughing it; and then a Fear:
Do that Fear bravely, wench.

Ant. "Twill wrong the story.

Asp. "Twill make the story, wrong'd by wanton poets, Live long and be believ'd. But where's the lady?

Ant. There, madam.

Asp. Fie, you have miss'd it here, Antiphila;

You are much mistaken, wench :

These colours are not dull and pale enough
To show a soul so full of misery

As this sad lady's was.

Do it by me,

Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia ;

And you shall find all true but the wild island.

I stand upon the sea beach now,

Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the

wind,

Wild as that desert; and let all about me

Tell that I am forsaken. Do my face
(If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow)

Thus, thus, Antiphila : strive to make me look
Like Sorrow's monument; and the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. See, see, wenches,
A miserable life of this poor picture!

Olym. Dear madam !

Asp. I have done. Sit down; and let us

Upon that point fix all our eyes, that point there,
Make a dull silence, till you feel a sudden sadnesss
Give us new souls.1

EVADNE implores forgiveness of AMINTOR for marrying him while she was
the King's Mistress.
Evad. Oh, my lord !
Amin. How now?
Evad. My much-abused lord!

[Kneels.

1 One characteristic of the excellent old poets is their being able to bestow grace upon subjects which naturally do not seem susceptible of any. I will mention two instances: Zelmane in the Arcadia of Sidney, and Helena in the All's Well that Ends Well of Shakspeare. What can be more unpromising at first sight than the idea of a young man disguising himself in woman's attire, and passing himself off for a woman among women? and that too for a long space of time? yet Sir Philip has preserved such a matchless decorum, that neither does Pyrocles' manhood suffer any stain for the effeminacy of Zelmane, nor is the respect due to the princesses at all diminished when the deception comes to be known. In the sweetly constituted mind of Sir Philip Sidney it seems as if no ugly thought nor unhandsome meditation could find a harbour. He turned all that he touched into images of honour and virtue. Helena, in Shakspeare, is a young woman seeking a man in marriage. The ordinary laws of courtship are reversed; the habitual feelings are violated. Yet with such exquisite address this dangerous subject is handled, that Helena's forwardness loses her no honour; delicacy dispenses with her laws in her favour, and Nature in her single case seems content to suffer a sweet violation.

Aspatia, in this tragedy, is a character equally difficult with Helena of being managed with grace. She too is a slighted woman, refused by the man who had once engaged to marry her. Yet it is artfully contrived, that while we pity her, we respect her, and she descends without degradation. So much true poetry and passion can do to confer dignity upon subjects which do not seem capable of it. But Aspatia must not be compared at all points with Helena; she does not so absolutely predominate over her situation, but she suffers some diminution, some abatement of the full lustre of the female character; which Helena never does : her character has many degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy, but it has weakness, which, if we do not despise, we are sorry for. After all, Beaumont and Fletcher were but an inferior sort of Shakspeares and Sidneys.