And then with chaste discourse, as we return'd, Imp feathers to the broken wings of time :And all this I must part from.

Cont. You forget

The haste upon us.

Giov. One word more,

And then I come.

And after this, when, with
Continued innocence of love and service,
I had grown ripe for hymeneal joys,
Embracing you, but with a lawful flame,
I might have been your husband.
Lid. Sir, I was,

And ever am, your servant; but it was,
And 'tis, far from me in a thought to cherish
Such saucy hopes. If I had been the heir
Of all the globes and sceptres mankind bows to,
At my best you had deserved me ; as I am,
Howe'er unworthy, in my virgin zeal
I wish you, as a partner of your bed,
A princess equal to you; such a one
That may make it the study of her life,

With all the obedience of a wife, to please you.
May you have happy issue, and I live
To be their humblest handmaid!

Giov. I am dumb,

And can make no reply.

Cont. Your excellence

Will be benighted.

Giov. This kiss, bathed in tears, May learn you what I should say.

FROM THE FATAL DOWRY*.

ACT II. SCENE I.

Enter PONTALIER, MALOTIN, and BEAUMONT. Mal. 'Tis strange. Beau. Methinks so.

Pont. In a man but young,

Yet old in judgment; theorick and practick
In all humanity, and to increase the wonder,
Religious, yet a soldier; that he should
Yield his free-living youth a captive for
The freedom of his aged father's corpse,
And rather choose to want life's necessaries,
Liberty, hope of fortune, than it should
In death be kept from Christian ceremony.
Mal. Come, 'tis a golden precedent in a son,
To let strong nature have the better hand,
In such a case, of all affected reason.
What years sit on this Charalois ?

Beau. Twenty-eight:

For since the clock did strike him seventeen old,
Under his father's wing this son hath fought,
Served and commanded, and so aptly both,
That sometimes he appeared his father's father,
And never less than 's son; the old man's virtues
So recent in him, as the world may swear,
Nought but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear.

*Mr. Gifford, in his edition of Massinger, has few doubts that it was written by Field.

Pont. But wherefore lets he such a barbarous law,

And men more barbarous to execute it,
Prevail on his soft disposition,

That he had rather die alive for debt

Of the old man, in prison, than they should
Rob him of sepulture; considering

These monies borrow'd bought the lenders peace,
And all the means they enjoy, nor were diffused
In any impious or licentious path?

Beau. True! formy part, were it my father's trunk, The tyrannous ram-heads with their horns should gore it,

Or cast it to their curs, than they less currish,
Ere prey on me so with their lion-law,
Being in my free will, as in his, to shun it.

Pont. Alas! he knows himself in poverty lost. For in this partial avaricious age

What price bears honour? virtue? long ago
It was but praised, and freezed ; but now-a-days
"Tis colder far, and has nor love nor praise :
The very praise now freezeth too; for nature
Did make the heathen far more Christian then,
Than knowledge us, less heathenish, Christian.
Mal. This morning is the funeral?
Pont. Certainly.

And from this prison,-'twas the son's request,
That his dear father might interment have,
See, the young son enter'd a lively grave!

Beau. They come :-observe their order. Solemn Music. Enter the Funeral Procession. The Coffin borne by four, preceded by a Priest. Captains, Lieutenants, Ensigns, and Soldiers; Mourners, Scutcheons, &c. and very good order. ROMONT and CHARALOIS, followed by the Gaolers and Officers, with Creditors, meet it.

[night,

Charal. How like a silent stream shaded with
And gliding softly with our windy sighs,
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!
Tears, sighs, and blacks filling the simile;
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove
Of death, thus hollowly break forth. Vouchsafe
[To the bearers.

To stay awhile. Rest, rest in peace, dear earth!
Thou that brought'st rest to their unthankful lives,
Whose cruelty denied thee rest in death!
Here stands thy poor exécutor, thy son,
That makes his life prisoner to bail thy death;
Who gladlier puts on this captivity,

Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds.
Of all that ever thou hast done good to,
These only have good memories; for they
Remember best forget not gratitude.

I thank you for this last and friendly love :
[To the Soldiers.
And though this country, like a viperous mother,
Not only hath eat up ungratefully
All means of thee, her son, but last, thyself,
Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent,
He cannot raise thee a poor monument,
Such as a flatterer or a usurer hath;

Thy worth, in every honest breast, builds one,
Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone.
Pont. Sir.

Charal. Peace! Oh, peace! this scene is wholly mine.

What! weep ye, soldiers? blanch not.-Romont

weeps.

Ha! let me see! my miracle is eased,

The gaolers and the creditors do weep;
Even they that make us weep, do weep themselves.
Be these thy body's balm! these and thy virtue
Keep thy fame ever odoriferous,

Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man,
Alive stinks in his vices, and being vanish'd,
The golden calf, that was an idol deck'd
With marble pillars, jet, and porphyry,
Shall quickly, both in bone and name, consume,
Though wrapt in lead, spice, searcloth, and perfume!

Priest. On.

Charal. One moment more,
But to bestow a few poor legacies,

All I have left in my dead father's rights,
And I have done. Captain, wear thou these spurs,

That yet ne'er made his horse run from a foe.
Lieutenant, thou this scarf; and may it tie
Thy valour and thy honesty together!
For so it did in him. Ensign, this cuirass,
Your general's necklace once. You, gentle bearers,
Divide this purse of gold; this other strew
Among the poor; 'tis all I have. Romont-
Wear thou this medal of himself that, like

A hearty oak, grew'st close to this tall pine,
Even in the wildest wilderness of war, [selves :
Whereon foes broke their swords, and tired them-
Wounded and hack'd ye were, but never fell'd.
For me, my portion provide in heaven!-
My root is earth'd, and I, a desolate branch,
Left scatter'd in the highway of the world,
Trod under foot, that might have been a column
Mainly supporting our demolish'd house.
This would I wear as my inheritance-
And what hope can arise to me from it,
When I and it are both here prisoners!
*His father's sword.

SUCKLING, who gives levity its gayest expression, was the son of the comptroller of the household to Charles I. Langbaine tells us that he spoke Latin at five years of age; but with what correctness or fluency we are not informed. His versatile mind certainly acquired many accomplishments, and filled a short life with many pursuits, for he was a traveller, a soldier, a lyric and dramatic poet, and a musician. After serving a campaign under Gustavus Adolphus, he returned to England, was favoured by Charles I., and wrote some pieces, which were exhibited for the amusement of the court with sumptuous splendour. When the civil wars broke out he expended 12007.*

on the equipment of a regiment for the king, which was distinguished, however, only by its finery and cowardice. A brother poet crowned his disgrace with a ludicrous song. The event is said to have affected him deeply with shame; but he did not live long to experience that most incurable of the heart's diseases. Having learnt that his servant had robbed him, he drew on his boots in great haste; a rusty nailt, that was concealed in one of them, pierced his heel, and produced a mortification, of which he died. His poems, his five plays, together with his letters, speeches, and tracts, have been collected into one volume.

civil wars.

'Tis affection but dissembled,

Or dissembled liberty,

To pretend thy passion changed With changes of thy mistress' eye, Following her inconstancy.

Hopes, which do from favour flourish,
May perhaps as soon expire

As the cause which did them nourish,
And disdain'd they may retire ;
But love is another fire.

For if beauty cause thy passion,
If a fair resistless eye
Melt thee with its soft expression,
Then thy hopes will never die,
Nor be cured by cruelty.

"Tis not scorn that can remove thee,

For thou either wilt not see
Such loved beauty not to love thee,
Or will else consent that she
Judge not as she ought of thee.
Thus thou either canst not sever

Hope from what appears so fair,
Or, unhappier, thou canst never
Find contentment in despair,
Nor make love a trifling care.
There are seen but few retiring
Steps in all the paths of love,
Made by such who in aspiring

Meeting scorn their hopes remove;
Yet even these ne'er change their love.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT was the son of an innkeeper at Cirencester, who had been reduced to that situation by spending a good estate. He was a king's scholar at Westminster, and took orders at Oxford, where he became, says Wood, “a most florid and seraphic preacher." Bishop Duppa, his intimate friend, appointed him succentor of the church of Salisbury in 1642. In the same year he was one of the council of war, or delegacy, appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops sent by the king to protect, or as the opposite party alleged, to overawe the universities. His zeal in this service occasioned his being imprisoned by the parliamentary forces on their arrival; but he

was speedily released on bail. Early in the year 1643 he was appointed junior proctor of his university, and also reader in metaphysics. The latter office we may well suppose him to have filled with ability, as, according to Lloyd's account, he studied at the rate of sixteen hours a day: but he survived his appointment to it for a very short time, being carried off by a malignant fever, called the camp-disease, which was then epidemical at Oxford. Cartwright died in his thirty-second year; but he lived long enough to earn the distinguishing praise of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, "My son, Cartwright, writes all like a man."

ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.

NOT to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride,
To a compliance with the thriving side;
Not to take arms for love of change, or spite,
But only to maintain afflicted right;
Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame,
Perversely seeking after voice and name;
Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do,
And thus did he, soldier and martyr too.

*

When now th' incensed legions proudly came
Down like a torrent without bank or dam:,
When undeserved success urged on their force;
That thunder must come down to stop their course,
Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood,
And with himself opposed, and check'd the flood.
Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire
Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire:
His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about,
Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out;
Not any pike in that renowned stand,
But took new force from his inspiring hand :
Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man,
And he urged all; so much example can ;
Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call,
He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all:
His soul this while retired from cell to cell,
At last flew up from all, and then he fell.
But the devoted stand enraged more
From that his fate, plied hotter than before,
And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield,
Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field.
Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew:
And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.
This was not nature's courage, not that thing
We valour call, which time and reason bring;
But a diviner fury, fierce and high,
Valour transported into ecstacy,
Which angels, looking on us from above,
Use to convey into the souls they love.

You now that boast the spirit, and its sway,
Show us his second, and we'll give the day:
We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly;
Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die :
And though you thank God that you lost none there,
'Cause they were such who lived not when they were;
Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall,
As his successes do, whom you dare call,
As fame unto you doth reports dispense,
Either a
or his excellence)
Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws,
Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame,
As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name,
Whose life affords what doth content both eyes,
Glory for people, substance for the wise,
Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat
To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat :
And when thou seest an happy period sent
To these distractions, and the storm quite spent,
Look down and say, I have my share in all,
Much good grew from my life, much from my fall

LOVE'S DARTS.

WHERE is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the veil'd god throws?
O let him tell me ere I die

When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold, or lead,
Quicken, or dull the head:

I will anoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heal the harm.

Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of human eye
These arrows (as their ways are) fly:

The flights of angels part
Not air with so much art;
And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.

So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

A sudden fire of blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;
A subtle taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace
Of motion, limbs, and face ;
These misconceit entitles darts,
And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

But as the feathers in the wing
Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;
So lights of flowing graces
Sparkling in several places,
Only adorn the parts,

Till that we make them darts; Themselves are only twigs and quills: We give them shape, and force for ills.

Beauty's our grief, but in the ore,
We mint, and stamp, and then adore :
Like heathen we the image crown,
And indiscreetly then fall down:
Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires

We turn those lights to fires,
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
And out of cures do poisons make.