To fit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to fee the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full compleat,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live:
When this is known, then to divide the time;
So many
hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my reft;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I fport myself;

So many days, my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks, ere the poor fools will yean;
So many months, ere I fhall fheer the fleece;
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, nonths and years,
Paft over, to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Oh! what a life were this! how fweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bufh a sweeter fhade

To

known are the following lines from Seneca's Hercules Oetteus on the fubject, and perhaps they may therefore be more agreeable:

Stretch'd on the turf in fylvan ffades,
No fear the peafant's reft invades,
While gilded roofs, and beds of state,
Perplex the flumbers of the great.

Secure he rears the beachen bowl,
With steady hand and fearless foul:
Pleas'd with his plain and homely meats,
No fwords furround him as he eats.

His modeft wife of virtue try'd
Knows not th' expenfive arts of pride;
Her eafy with, the home-spun fleece
Plain in its native hue can please,
And happy in her nuptial bed,
No jealous doubts disturb her head;
Unlike the dame whofe day of birth
Is folemniz'd thro' half the earth.

WARD

To fhepherds looking on their filly sheep,
(7) Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To

(7) Than, &c.] The miseries of royalty (as have been before obferved, 2 Henry IV. A. 4. S. 10.) is a very general topic with the poets; on which, as indeed on most others, they muft yield the fuperiority to Shakespear; Monfieur Racine in his celebrated tragedy of Efther, fpeaks thus on the subject.

A prince encompass'd with a busy crowd
Is ever call'd away by fome new object,
The prefent ftrikes, futurity difturbs,
But fwift as lightning ftill the past escapes;
Of all who hourly court our royal favour,
And wou'd commend their loyalty and zeal,
Not one is found so just and truly faithful
To give us notice of neglected merit,

But all with one confent promote our vengeance.

In another part of this performance, the author fets in contrast the pleasures and pains of vicious greatnefs; thus the wicked man's alluring pomp is described,

Again,

His days appear a conftant scene of joy ;
Gold glitters in his precious robes,
His pride's as boundless as his wealth;
He never wounds the air with mournful fighs;
The voice of harmony falutes his ear,

When he lies down to fleep, and when he wakes;
Triumphant plenty with a chearful grace,
Balks in his eyes, and fparkles in his face.

To crown his tow'ring and ambitious hopes,
A laughing train of children at his boards
Seem to quaff joy with him in copious bowls.

Now fee the reverse.

With plenty crown'd, his conscious heart repines,
And gall is mingled with his fweeteft wines.
On the rough waves of paffions toft,

He still unnumber'd pleafures tries:

But finds his expectations croft,

And happiness his fond embraces flies.
For virtue is the only bafe

Of happiness and lasting peace.

The

To kings that fear their fubjects treachery?
O, yes, it doth, a thousand fold it doth.
And to conclude, the fhepherd's homely curds
His cold thin drink out of his leathern bottle,
His wonted fleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which fecure and fweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands fparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,

When cares, mistrust, and treason, wait on him.

Look, as I blow this feather from my face,
And as the air blows it to me again,
Obeying with my wind, when I do blow,
And yielding to another when it blows,
Commanded always by the greater guft;
Such is the lightness of you common men.

SCENE III. A Simile on ambitious Thoughts.

Why, then I do but dream on fovʼreignty,
Like one that ftands upon a promontory,
And fpies a far-off fhore where he would tread,
Withing his foot were equal with his eye,
And chides the fea that funders him from thence
Saying, he'll lade it dry, to have his way.

Gloucefter's

The Reader with me, is indebted to my worthy friend Mr. Duncombe for the tranflation of thefe paffages from the French, who hath finished the whole of this tragedy, and fome years fince published a tranflation of our author's other moft famous performance, Athaliab.

Gloucester's Deformity.

(8) Why, love forfwore me in my mother's womb;
And, for I fhould not deal in her soft laws,
She did corrupt frail nature with fome bribe
To fhrink mine arm up like a wither'd fhrub;
To make an envious mountain on my
back;
Where fits deformity to mock my body;
To fhape my legs of an unequal fize;
To difproportion ine in every part:
Like to a chaos, or unlick'd bear-whelp,
That carries no impreffion like the dam.
And am I then a man to be belov'd?

Gloucester's Diffimulation.

Why, I can fmile, and murder while I fimile;
And cry content to that which grieves my heart;
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears;
And frame my face to all occafions:

I'll drown more failors than the mermaid fhall;
I'll flay more gazers than the bafilisk ;
I'll play the orator, as well as Neftor;
Deceive more flily than Ulyffes could;
And, like a Sinon, take another Troy :
I can add colours even to the camelion;
Change fhapes with Proteus, for advantages;
(9) And fet th' aspiring Catiline to fchool.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

ACT

(8) Why, &c.] See the beginning of Richard the Third.

·(9) And fet, &c.] I am of Mr. Warburton's opinion, this reading which is of the old quarto, is greatly preferable to that commonly received; not only becaufe we thereby avoid an anachronism, but because Richard, perhaps, may be more aptly compared to Catiline, and because he inftances, all through the speech, from the ancients. The other reading is,

And fet the murd'rous Machiavel to school,
VOL. III.
E

I have not stopt mine ears to their demands,
Nor pofted off their fuits with flow delays;
My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds;
My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griefs;
My mercy dry'd their water-flowing tears.
I have not been defirous of their wealth,
Nor much oppreft them with great fubfidies,
Nor forward of revenge, tho' they much err'd.

The Earl of Warwick's dying Speech.

Ah, who is nigh? Come to me, friend, or foe, And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick?

Why afk I that? My mangled body fhews

My blood, my want of ftrength, my fick heart shews,
That I must yield my body to the earth,

And, by my fall, the conqueft to my foe.
(10) Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge,

Whofe

(10) Thus yields, &c.] For this grand and noble fimile, Shakefpear is plainly indebted there, where for the first time through this work, I am obliged, and gladly, to acknowledge him outdone. 'Tis from the 31ft chapter of the prophet Ezekiel, ver. 3. "Behold the Affyrian was a cedar in Lebanon with fair branches, and with a fhadowing fhroud, and of an high ftature, and his top was among the thick boughs. 4. The waters made him great, the deep fet him up on high with her rivers running round about his plants, and fent out her little rivers unto all the trees of the field. 5. Therefore his height was exalted above all' the trees of the field, and his boughs were multiplied, and his branches became long, becaufe of the multitude of waters, when he shot forth. 6. All the fowls of heaven made their nefts in his boughs, and under his branches did all the beasts of the field bring forth their young, and under his fhadow dwelt all great nations. 7. Thus was he fair in his greatness, in

the