MRS. KATHERINE PHILIPS, wife of James Philips, Esq., of the Priory of Cardigan. Her maiden name was Fowler. She died of the small-pox, in her thirty-third year. The matchless Orinda, as she was called,* cannot be said to have been a woman of genius; but her verses betoken an interesting and placid enthusiasm of heart, and a cultivated taste, that form a beauti

THE INQUIRY.

If we no old historian's name
Authentic will admit,

But think all said of friendship's fame

But poetry or wit;

Yet what's revered by minds so pure
Must be a bright idea sure.

But as our immortality

By inward sense we find, Judging that if it could not be,

It would not be design'd:

So here how could such copies fall,
If there were no original?

But if truth be in ancient song,
Or story we believe;

If the inspired and greater throng

Have scorned to deceive;

There have been hearts whose friendship gave Them thoughts at once both soft and grave.

Among that consecrated crew

Some more seraphic shade

Lend me a favourable clew,

Now mists my eyes invade.

Why, having fill'd the world with fame,
Left you so little of your flame?

Why is't so difficult to see

Two bodies and one mind?

And why are those who else agree

So difficultly kind?
Hath nature such fantastic art,
That she can vary every heart?

Why are the bands of friendship tied
With so remiss a knot,
That by the most it is defied,

And by the most forgot?
Why do we step with so light sense
From friendship to indifference?

[* But thus Orinda died:

Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
DRYDEN, Ode to Mrs. Anne Killigrew.-C.]

ful specimen of female character. She translated two of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a volume of letters to Sir Charles Cotterell, which were published a considerable time after her death. Jeremy Taylor addressed to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship," and Cowley, as also Flatman, his imitator, honoured her memory with poetical tributes.

If friendship sympathy impart,
Why this ill-shuffled game,

That heart can never meet with heart,
Or flame encounter flame?
What does this cruelty create?

Is't the intrigue of love or fate?

Had friendship ne'er been known to men, (The ghost at last confest)

The world had then a stranger been

To all that heaven possest.
But could it all be here acquired,
Not heaven itself would be desired.

A FRIEND.

LOVE, nature's plot, this great creation's soul,
The being and the harmony of things,
Doth still preserve and propagate the whole,
From whence man's happiness and safety
springs:

The earliest, whitest, blessed'st times did draw
From her alone their universal law.

Friendship 's an abstract of this noble flame,
"Tis love refined and purged from all its dross,
The next to angel's love, if not the same,
As strong in passion is, though not so gross:
It antedates a glad eternity,
And is an heaven in epitome....
Essential honour must be in a friend,

Not such as every breath fans to and fro;
But born within, is its own judge and end,

And dares not sin though sure that none should know.

Where friendship's spoke, honesty's understood; For none can be a friend that is not good..... Thick waters show no images of things;

Friends are each other's mirrors, and should be Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs, And free from clouds, design or flattery. For vulgar souls no part of friendship share; Poets and friends are born to what they are.

34

X

265

THIS writer was the son of John Heminge the famous player, who was contemporary with Shakspeare, and whose name is prefixed, together with that of Condell, to the folio edition of the

FROM "THE FATAL CONTRACT." ACT II. SCENE II. Aphelia has been contracted by mutual vows to Clovis, younger brother of the young king of France, Clotair, and imagines in this scene that she is to be brought into the presence of Clovis, instead of whom she is brought to Clotair by the treachery of the Eunuch.

Enter APHELIA, and the Eunuch, with a wax-taper.
Aph. INTO what labyrinth do you lead me, sir ?
What by, perplexed ways? I should much fear,
Had you not used his name, which is to me
A strength 'gainst terror, and himself so good,
Occasion cannot vary, nor the night,
Youth, nor his wild desire; otherwise

A silent sorrow from mine eyes would steal,
And tell sad stories for me.

Eun. You are too tender of your honour, lady,
Too full of aguish trembling; the noble prince
Is as December frosty in desire;

Save what is lawful, he not owns that heat,
Which, were you snow, would thaw a tear from you.
Aph. This is the place appointed: pray heavens
Go well!
[all things
Eun. I will go call him: please you rest yourself:
Here lies a book will bear you company
Till I return, which will be presently.-

[APHELIA reads the book.
Hither I'll send the king; not that I mean [Aside.
To give him leave to cool his burning lust,
For Clovis shall prevent him in the fact,
And thus I shall endear myself to both,
Clovis, enraged, perhaps will kill the king,
Or by the king will perish; if both fall,
Or either, both ways make for me.
The queen as rootedly does hate her sons
As I her ladyship. To see this fray
She must be brought by me: she'll steel them on
To one another's damage; for her sake
I'll say I set on foot this hopeful brawl.
Thus on all sides the eunuch will play foul,
And as his face is black he'll have his soul.
Aph. (Reading.) How witty sorrow has found
out discourse

Fitting a midnight season: here I see
One bathed in virgin's tears, whose purity
Might blanch a black-a-moor, turn nature's stream
Back on itself; words pure, and of that strain
Might move the Parca to be pitiful.

Enter CLOTAIR.

Alack, why not? say he should offer foul,
The evil counsel of a secret place,

And night, his friend, might overtempt his will.
I dare not stand the hazard; guide me, light,
To some untrodden place, where poor I may
Wear out the night with sighs till it be day.

Clot. I am resolved, I will be bold and resolute : Hail, beauteous damsel!

Aph. Ha! what man art thou,

That hast thy countenance clouded with thy cloak,
And hidest thy face from darkness and the night
If thy intents deserve a muffler too,
Withdraw, and act them not-What art thou?

speak,

And wherefore camest thou hither?

Clot. I came to find one beautiful as thou-.... Aph. I understand you not.

Clot. But you must; yea, and the right way too. Aph. Help! help! help!

Clot. Peace! none of your loud music, lady: If you raise a note, or beat the air with clamour, You see your death. [Draws his dagger. Aph. What violence is this, inhuman sir? Why do you threaten war, fright my soft peace With most ungentle steel? What have I done Dangerous, or am like to do? Why do you wrack

me thus ?

Mine arms are guilty of no crimes, do not torment

'em;

Mine heart and they have been heaved up together For mankind that was holy; if in that act

When he defiled the chastity of Rome,

Doubtful of what to do; and like a thief,

I take each noise to be an officer.

[She still reads on.

She has a ravishing feature, and her mind Is of a purer temper than her body:

The fault is none of theirs.

Clot. Come, do not seem more holy than you are, I know your heart.

Aph. Let your dagger too, noble sir, strike home, And sacrifice a soul to chastity,

As pure as is itself, or innocence.

Clot. This is not the way: know you me, beauty? [Discovers himself.

Aph. The majesty of France!
Clot. Be not afraid.

Aph. I dare not fear; it's treason to suspect My king can harbour thoughts that tend to ill: I know your godlike good, and have but tried How far weak woman durst be virtuous.

Clot. Cunning simplicity, thou art deceived; Thy wit as well as beauty wounds me, and thy tongue

In pleading for thee pleads against thyself:
It is thy virtue moves me, and thy good
Tempts me to acts of evil; wert thou bad,
Or loose in thy desires, I could stand
And only gaze, not surfeit on thy beauty;
But as thou art, there's witchcraft in thy face....
Aph. You are my king, and may command
my life,

My will to sin you cannot; you may force
Unhallow'd deeds upon me, spot my fame,
And make my body suffer, not my mind.
When you have done this unreligious deed,
Conquer'd a poor weak maid, a trembling maid,
What trophy, or what triumph will it bring
More than a living scorn upon your name?
The ashes in your urn shall suffer for't,
Virgins will sow their curses on your grave,
Time blot your kingly parentage, and call
Your birth in question. Do you think

This deed will lie conceal'd? the faults kings do
Shine like the fiery beacons on a hill,
For all to see, and, seeing, tremble at.
It's not a single ill which you commit;
What in the subject is a petty fault
Monsters your actions, and 's a foul offence:
You give your subjects license to offend
When you do teach them how.

Clot. I will endure no longer: come along,
Or by the curious spinstry of thy head,
Which nature's cunningest finger twisted out,
I'll drag thee to my couch. Tempt not my fury.
Clovis. Hold !-hold, my heart; can I endure
this?..

....

Monster of men!
Thou king of darkness! down unto thy hell!
I have a spell will lay thy honesty,
And this abused goodness..

Eun. Beat down their swords-what do the
princes mean?

Ring out the 'larum-bell-call up the court

ANOTHER SCENE FROM THE SAME. Persons.-CLOVIS, CLOTAIR, STREPHON, LAMOT the Physician, Eunuch, APHELIA.

In the sequel of the story, the guards of the king having fallen upon Clovis, he is apparently killed, but is nevertheless secretly cured of his wounds, and assumes a disguise. In the mean time, the queen mother, anxious to get rid of Aphelia, causes one of her own paramours to dress in the armour of Prince Clovis, and to demand, in the character of his ghost, that Aphelia shall be sacrificed upon his hearse. Clotair pretends to comply with this sacrifice, and Aphelia is brought out to execution; but when all is ready, he takes the sword from the headsman, lays it at her feet, and declares her his queen. Clovis attends in disguise, and the poet makes

him behave with rather more composure than we should expect from his trying situation; but when he sees his mistress accept the hand of his royal brother, he at last breaks out.

Clovis. WHERE am I?

Awake! for ever rather let me sleep.

Is this a funeral? O that I were a hearse,
And not the mock of what is pageanted.*

Clotair. Amazement quite confounds me-Clo-
vis alive!
[desire

Lamot. Yes, sir, by my art he lives, though his Was not to have it known; this chest contains Nothing but spices sweetly odoriferous.

Clotair. Into my soul I welcome thee, dear brother;

This second birth of thine brings me more joy Than had Aphelia brought me forth an heir, Whom now you must remember as a sister.

Clovis. O that in nature there was left an art
Could teach me to forget I ever loved
This her great masterpiece! O well-built frame,
Why dost thou harbour such unhallow'd guests,
To house within thy bosom perjury?

If that our vows are register'd in heaven,
Why are they broke on earth? Aphelia,
This was a hasty match, the subtle air

Has not yet cool'd the breath with which thou

sworest

Thyself into my soul; and on thy cheeks
The print and pathway of those tears remain,
That woo'd me to believe so; fly me not,

I am no spirit; taste my active pulse,
And you shall find it make such harmony
As youth and health enjoy.

Eun. The queen! she faints.

Clovis. Is there a God left so propitious To rid me of my fears? still let her sleep, For if she wake (O king!) she will appear Too monstrous a spectre for frail eyes To see and keep their senses.

Lamot. Are you mad?

[were!
Clovis. Nothing so happy, Strephon; would I
In time's first progress I despair the hour
That brings such fortune with it; I should then
Forget that she was ever pleasing to me;

I should no more remember she would sit
And sing me into dreams of Paradise;
Never more hang about her ivory neck,
Believing such a one Diana's was;
Never more doat she breathes Arabia,
Or kiss her coral lips into a paleness.

[gaze,

Lamot. See, she's return'd, and with majestic In pity rather than contempt, beholds you.

Clovis. Convey me hence, some charitable man, Lest this same creature, looking like a saint, Hurry my soul to hell; she is a fiend Apparell'd like a woman, sent on earth For man's destruction.

Clotair. Rule your disorder'd tongue; Clovis, what's past we are content to think It was our brother spoke, and not our subject. Clovis. I had forgot myself, yet well remember Yon gorgon has transform'd me into stone;

A hearse, supposed to contain the corpse of Clovis, forms a part of the pageant here introduced.