Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes
The challenge, and for every several strain
The well-shaped youth could touch, she

own;

He could not run division with more art

Upon his quaking instrument, than she,

sung her

The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to: for a voice, and for a sound,
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe

That such they were, than hope to hear again.
Amet. How did the rivals part?

Men. You term them rightly;

For they were rivals, and their mistress, har

mony.—

Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird

Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice:
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,

Concord in discord, lines of differing method

Meeting in one full centre of delight.

Amet. Now for the bird.

Men. The bird, ordain'd to be

Music's first martyr, strove to imitate

These several sounds; which, when her warbling

throat

Fail'd in, for grief, down dropp'd she on his lute,

And brake her heart! It was the quaintest sadness, To see the conqueror upon her hearse,

To weep a funeral elegy of tears;

That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide'
Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me
A fellow-mourner with him.

Amet. I believe thee.

Men. He look'd upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd and cried:

"Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge
This cruelty upon the author of it;

Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow,
As he was pashing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in.

Amet. Thou hast discours'd

A truth of mirth and pity."
Men. I repriev'd

The intended execution with intreaties,
And interruption.-But, my princely friend,

I could chide, &c.] It should rather be, I could not chide; unless the speaker means to insinuate that his grief was too poignant and profuse, for a man.

As he was pashing it against a tree.] i. e. dashing it. See Massinger, vol. i. p. 38.

7

Thou hast discours'd

A truth of mirth and pity.]

This is evidently corrupt; but I can suggest no remedy. The sense might be somewhat improved by reading tale for truth, or, with less violence, I' truth, of, &c.: but what can be done with mirth? pathetic, indeed, this most beautiful tale is, but it certainly contains nothing of merriment.

It was not strange the music of his hand

Did overmatch birds, when his voice and beauty,
Youth, carriage and discretion must, from men
Indued with reason, ravish admiration:
From me, they did.

Amet. But is this miracle

Not to be seen?

Men. I won him by degrees

To choose me his companion. Whence he is,
Or who, as I durst modestly inquire,

So gently he would woo not to make known;
Only (for reasons to himself reserv'd)

He told me, that some remnant of his life
Was to be spent in travel: for his fortunes,
They were nor mean, nor riotous; his friends
Not publish'd to the world, though not obscure;
His country Athens, and his name Parthenophill.
Amet. Came he with you to Cyprus?

Men. Willingly.

The fame of our young melancholy prince,
Meleander's rare distractions, the obedience
Of young Cleophila, Thamasta's glory,

Your matchless friendship, and my desperate love
Prevail'd with him; and I have lodg'd him privately
In Famagosta.

Amet. Now thou art doubly welcome :

I will not lose the sight of such a rarity

For one part of my hopes. When do you intend To visit my great-spirited sister?

Men. May I Without offence?

C

Amet. Without offence!-Parthenophill

Shall find a worthy entertainment too.
Thou art not still a coward?

.Men. She's too excellent,

And I too low in merit.

Amet. I'll prepare

A noble welcome; and, friend, ere we part,
Unload to thee an overcharged heart.

SCENE II.

[Exeunt.

Another Room in the Palace,mile

Enter RHETIAS, carelessly attired.

Rhe. I will not court the madness of the times; Not fawn upon the riots that embalm

Our wanton gentry, to preserve the dust
Of their affected vanities in coffins

Of memorable shame. When commonwealths
Totter and reel from that nobility,

And ancient virtue which renowns the great,
Who steer the helm of government, while mush-

rooms

Grow up, and make new laws to license folly;

8

Why should not I, a May-game, scorn the weight

8

Why should not I, a May-game, &c.] i. e. an unconsidered trifle, a jest, a piece of mirth. This expression occurs in the same sense in the next piece :

"Wilt thou make thyself a May-game

To all the world?"

The motive which Rhetias assigns for assuming the part of an alllicensed fool is not very creditable to him: nor does he turn the character to much account. Some part of what he here says, however, though it might be expressed with less effort, is the result of sound observation.

Of my sunk fortunes? snarl at the vices?
Which rot the land, and, without fear or wit,
Be mine own antick? Tis a sport to live
When life is irksome, if we will not hug
Prosperity in others, and contemn
Affliction in ourselves. This rule is certain :
"He that pursues his safety from the school
"Of state, must learn to be madman or fool."
Ambition, wealth, ease I renounce-the devil
That damns you here on earth.-Or I will be
Mine own mirth, or mine own tormentor.-So!

Enter PELIAS.

Here comes intelligence; a buzz o' the court.
Pel. Rhetias, I sought thee out to tell thee news,
New, excellent new news. Cuculus, sirrah,
That gull, that young old gull, is coming this way.
Rhe. And thou art his forerunner!

Pel. Prithee, hear me.

Instead of a fine guarded' page we have got him A boy, trick'd up in neat and handsome fashion; Persuaded him, that 'tis indeed a wench,

And he has entertain'd him; he does follow him,

Snarl at the vices.] Snarl (as well as girl) is commonly made a dissyllable by our poet: he passed his youth in the neighbourhood of Dartmoor, and probably adopted the practice of that wild district. This mode of enunciation still prevails in the northern counties, at least in poetry, where, what to an English ear sounds like a soft d, is interposed between r and l, in such monosyllables as end with these two letters.

Instead of a fine guarded page.] i. e. of a page with a livery richly laced, or turned up. The expression is common to all our old writers.