:

Banks. I do, witch; I do:
And worse I would, knew I a name more hateful.
What makest thou upon my ground?

Saw. Gather a few rotten sticks to warm me. Banks. Down with them when I bid thee, quickly; I'll make thy bones rattle in thy skin else.

Saw. You won't! churl, cut-throat, miser! there they be. Would they stuck 'cross thy throat, thy bowels, thy maw, thy midriff

Banks. Say'st thou me so? Hag, out of my ground. Saw. Dost strike me, slave, curmudgeon? Now thy bones ache, thy joints cramp,

And convulsions stretch and crack thy sinews.

Banks. Cursing, thou hag? take that, and that. [Exit. Saw. Strike, do: and withered may that hand and

And hated like a sickness; made a scorn

To all degrees and sexes. I have heard old beldams Talk of familiars in the shape of mice,

Rats, ferrets, weasels, and I wot not what,

That have appeared; and sucked, some say, their blood.
But by what means they came acquainted with them,
I'm now ignorant. Would some power, good or bad,
Instruct me which way I might be revenged
Upon this churl, I'd go out of myself,
And give this fury leave to dwell within
This ruined cottage, ready to fall with age :
Abjure all goodness, be at hate with prayer,
And study curses, imprecations,
Blasphemous speeches, oaths, detested oaths,
Or anything that's ill; so I might work
Revenge upon this miser, this black cur,
That barks, and bites, and sucks the very blood
Of me, and of my credit. 'Tis all one
To be a witch as to be counted one.

A Drowned Soldier.

From Tourneur's Atheist's Tragedy.
Walking upon the fatal shore,
Among the slaughtered bodies of their men,
Which the full stomached sea had cast upon
The sands, it was my unhappy chance to light
Upon a face, whose favour, when it lived,
My astonished mind informed me I had seen.
He lay in his armour, as if that had been
His coffin; and the weeping sea-like one
Whose milder temper doth lament the death
Of him whom in his rage he slew-runs up
The shore, embraces him, kisses his cheek;
Goes back again, and forces up the sands
To bury him; and every time it parts,
Sheds tears upon him; till at last as if
It could no longer endure to see the man
Whom it had slain, yet loath to leave him-with
A kind of unresolved unwilling pace,
Winding her waves one in another-like
A man that folds his arms, or wrings his hands,
For grief-ebbed from the body, and descends;
As if it would sink down into the earth,
And hide itself for shame of such a deed.

An anonymous play, the Return from Parnassus, was acted by the students of St John's College, Cambridge, about the year 1602: it is remarkable for containing criticisms on contemporary authors, all poets. Each author is summoned up for judgment, and dismissed after a few words of commendation or censure. Some of these poetical criticisms are finely written, as well as curious. Of Spenser :

A sweeter swan than ever sung in Po;
A shriller nightingale than ever blest
The prouder groves of self-admiring Rome.
Blithe was each valley, and each shepherd proud
While he did chant his rural minstrelsy.
Attentive was full many a dainty ear;
Nay, hearers hung upon his melting tongue,
While sweetly of the Faery Queen he sung;
While to the water's fall he tuned her fame,
And in each bark engraved Eliza's name.

The following extract introduces us to Marlowe, Jonson, and Shakspeare; but to the last only as the author of the Venus and Lucrece. Ingenioso reads out the names, and Judicio pronounces judg

ment:

Ingenioso. Christopher Marlowe.

Judicio. Marlowe was happy in his buskined muse;

Alas! unhappy in his life and end.
Pity it is that wit so ill should well,

Wit lent from heaven, but vices sent from hell.

Ing. Our theatre hath lost, Pluto hath got, A tragic penman for a dreary plot.Benjamin Jonson.

Jud. The wittiest fellow of a bricklayer in England. Ing. A mere empiric, one that gets what he hath by observation, and makes only nature privy to what he indites; so slow an inventor, that he were better betake himself to his old trade of bricklaying; a blood whoreson, as confident now in making of a book, as he was in times past in laying of a brick.William Shakspeare.

Jud. Who loves Adonis' love or Lucrece' rape;
His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life,
Could but a graver subject him content,
Without love's lazy foolish languishment.

The author afterwards introduces Kempe and Burbage, the actors, and makes the former state, in reference to the university dramatists: 'Why, here's our fellow Shakspeare puts them all down; ay, and Ben Jonson too.' Posterity has confirmed this Return from Parnassus.

GEORGE COOKE-THOMAS NABBES-NATHANIEL FIELD-JOHN DAY-HENRY GLAPTHORNETHOMAS RANDOLPH-RICHARD BROME.

A lively comedy, called Green's Tu Quoque, was written by GEORGE COOKE, a contemporary of Shakspeare.- THOMAS NABBES (died about 1645) was the author of Microcosmus, a mask, and of several other plays. In Microcosmus is the following fine song of love:

Welcome, welcome, happy pair,
To these abodes where spicy air
Breathes perfumes, and every sense
Doth find his object's excellence;
Where's no heat, nor cold extreme,
No winter's ice, no summer's scorching beam;
Where's no sun, yet never night,

Day always springing from eternal light.
Chorus. All mortal sufferings laid aside,
Here in endless bliss abide.

- NATHANIEL FIELD (who was one of the actors in Ben Jonson's Poetaster) began to write for the stage about 1609 or 1610, and produced Woman is a Weathercock, Amends for Ladies, &c. He had the honour of being associated with Massinger in the composition of the Fatal Dowry.-JOHN DAY, in conjunction with Chettle, wrote the Blina Beggar of Bethnal Green, a popular comedy, and

was also author of two or three other plays, and some miscellaneous poems.-HENRY GLAPTHORNE is mentioned as 'one of the chiefest dramatic poets of the reign of Charles I.' Five of his plays are printed-Albertus Wallenstein, the Hollander, Argalus and Parthenia, Wit in a Constable, the Lady's Privilege, &c. There is a certain smoothness and prettiness of expression about Glapthorne, particularly in his Albertus, but he is deficient in passion and energy. THOMAS RANDOLPH (1605-34) wrote the Muses Looking-glass, the Jealous Lovers, &c. In an anonymous play, Sweetman the Woman-hater, is the following happy simile :

&c.

Justice, like lightning, ever should appear

To few men's ruin, but to all men's fear.

-RICHARD BROME (died 1652), one of the best of the secondary dramatists, produced several plays, the Antipodes, the City Wit, the Court Beggar, Little is known of the personal history of these authors: a few scattered dates usually make up the whole amount of their biography. The public demand for theatrical novelties called forth a succession of writers in this popular and profitable walk of literature, who seem to have discharged their ephemeral tasks, and sunk with their works into oblivion. The glory of Shakspeare has revived some of the number, like halos round his name; and the rich stamp of the age, in style and thought, is visible on the pages of

most of them.

PHILIP MASSINGER.

The reign of James produced no other tragic poet equal to PHILIP MASSINGER, an unfortunate author, whose life was spent in obscurity and poverty, and who, dying almost unknown, was buried with no other inscri inscription than the note in the parish register, 'Philip Massinger, a stranger' -meaning he did not belong to the parish. This poet was born about the year 1584, and it is supposed at Salisbury. His father, as appears from the dedication of one of his plays, was in the service of the Earl of Pembroke; and as he was at one time intrusted with letters to Queen Elizabeth, and employed in delicate negotiations by Lord Pembroke, the situation of the elder Massinger must have been a confidential one. Whether Philip ever 'wandered in the marble halls and pictured galleries of Wilton, that princely seat of old magnificence, where Sir Philip Sidney composed his Arcadia, is not known: in 1602, he was entered of Alban Hall, Oxford. He is supposed to have quitted the university abruptly in 1606, and to have commenced writing for the stage. The first notice of him is in Henslowe's diary, about 1614, where he makes a joint application, with N. Field and R. Daborne, for a loan off without which, they say, they could not be bailed. Field and Daborne were both actors and dramatic authors. The sequel of Massinger's history is only an enumeration of his plays. He wrote a great number of pieces, of which nineteen have been preserved. The manuscripts of eight of his plays were in existence in the middle of the last century, but they fell into the hands of a certain John Warburton, Somerset herald, who had collected no less than fifty-five genuine unpublished English dramas of the golden period,

£5,

all of which were destroyed by his cook for culinary purposes. Massinger was found dead in his bed, at his house on the Bankside, one morning in March 1639. The Virgin Martyr (about 1620), the Bondman (1623), the Fatal Dowry (about 1620), the New Way to Pay Old Debts (about 1623), and the City Madam (1632), are his best-known productions. The New Way to Pa Old Debts has kept possession of the stage, chiefly on account of the effective and original character of Sir Giles Overreach, which has been a favourite with great English actors. A tragedy of Massinger's, entitled Believe as you List, which had been long lost, was discovered in 1844, and was included in the poet's works, by his latest editor, Lieutenant-colonel Cunningham (1868). Massinger's comedy resembles Ben Jonson's, in its eccentric strength and wayward exhibitions of human nature. The greediness of avarice, the tyranny of unjust laws, and the miseries of poverty, are drawn with a powerful hand. The luxuries and vices of a city-life, also, afford Massinger scope for his indignant and forcible invective. Genuine humour or sprightliness he had none. dialogue is often coarse and indelicate, and his characters in low life too depraved. The tragedies of Massinger have a calm and dignified seriousness, a lofty pride, that impresses the imagination very strongly. His genius was more eloquent and descriptive than impassioned or inventive; yet his pictures of suffering virtue, its struggles and its trials, are calculated to touch the heart, as well as gratify the taste. His versification is smooth and mellifluous. Owing, perhaps, to the sedate and dignified tone of Massinger's plays, they were not revived after the Restoration. Even Dryden did not think him worthy of mention, or had forgot his works, when he wrote his Essay on Dramatic Poesy.

A Midnight Scene. From the 'Virgin Martyr.
ANGELO, an Angel, attends DOROTHEA as a Page.

Dorothea. My book and taper.
Angelo. Here, most holy mistress.

His

Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never

Was ravished with a more celestial sound.
Were every servant in the world like thee,
So full of goodness, angels would come down
To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo,
And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest;
Thy youth with too much watching is opprest.

Ang. No, my dear lady. I could weary stars,
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes,
By my late watching, but to wait on you.
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar,
Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven,
So blest I hold me in your company.
Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence;
For then you break his heart.

Dor. Be nigh me still, then.

In golden letters down I'll set that day
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope
To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself,
This little, pretty body, when I, coming
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy,
My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms,
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand;
And when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom,
Methought, was filled with no hot wanton fire,
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher,
On wings of cherubims, than it did before.

175

Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye
So likes so poor a servant.
Dor. I have offered

Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents.
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some,
To dwell with thy good father; for, the son
Bewitching me so deeply with his presence,
He that begot him must do't ten times more.
I pray thee, my sweet boy, shew me thy parents;
Be not ashamed.

Ang. I am not: I did never
Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace,
Filled with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure you,
And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand,
My father is in heaven; and, pretty mistress,
If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand
No worse, than yet it doth, upon my life,
You and I both shall meet my father there,
And he shall bid you welcome.

Dor. A blessed day!

Pride of Sir Giles Overreach in his Daughter. From the New Way to Pay Old Debts.

LOVEL. OVERREACH.

Overreach. To my wish: we are private.
I come not to make offer with my daughter
A certain portion; that were poor and trivial:
In one word, I pronounce all that is mine,
In lands or leases, ready coin or goods,

With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have
One motive to induce you to believe

I live too long, since every year I'll add

Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too. Lovel. You are a right kind father.

Over. You shall have reason

To think me such. How do you like this seat?
It is well wooded and well watered, the acres
Fertile and rich: would it not serve for change,
To entertain your friends in a summer's progress ?
What thinks my noble lord?

Lov. 'Tis a wholesome air,

And well built pile; and she that's mistress of it,

Worthy the large revenue.

Over. She the mistress!

It may be so for a time; but let my lord

Say only that he but like it, and would have it;
I say, ere long 'tis his.

Lov. Impossible.

Over. You do conclude too fast; not knowing me,

Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone
The Lady Allworth's lands, for those once Wellborn's
(As by her dotage on him I know they will be)
Shall soon be mine; but point out any man's
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient
And useful for your lordship, and once more,
I say aloud, they are yours.

Lov. I dare not own

What's by unjust and cruel means extorted:
My fame and credit are more dear to me
Than so to expose 'em to be censured by
The public voice.

Over. You run, my lord, no hazard :

Your reputation shall stand as fair
In all good men's opinions as now :
Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill,
Cast any foul aspersion upon yours.

For though I do contemn report myself

As a mere sound, I still will be so tender

Of what concerns you in all points of honour,
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame,
Nor your unquestioned integrity,

Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot

That may take from your innocence and candour. All my ambition is to have my daughter

Right honourable; which my lord can make her:

And might I live to dance upon my knee
A young Lord Lovel, born by her unto you,
I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes.
As for possessions and annual rents,
Equivalent to maintain you in the port
Your noble birth and present state require,
I do remove that burden from your shoulders,
And take it on mine own; for though I ruin
The country to supply your riotous waste,

The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you.

Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations

And curses of whole families, made wretched
By your sinister practices?

Over. Yes, as rocks are

When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved

When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her bright

ness.

I am of a solid temper, and, like these,
Steer on a constant course with mine own sword,
If called into the field, I can make that right
Which fearful enemies murmured at as wrong.
Now, for those other piddling complaints,
Breathed out in bitterness; as, when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbour's right, or grand incloser
Of what was common to my private use;
Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold,
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter
Right honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm,
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.

Lov. I admire

I hope, shall give offence: nor let it relish

Of flattery, though I proclaim aloud,

I glory in the bravery of your mind,

To which your wealth 's a servant. Not that riches

Is, or should be, contemned, it being a blessing
Derived from heave heaven, and by your industry

Pulled down upon you; but in this,

dear sir

You have many equals: such a man's possessions
Extend as far as yours; a second hath
His bags as full; a third in credit flies

As high in the popular voice: but the distinction
And noble difference by which you are
Divided from them, is, that you are styled
Gentle in your abundance, good in plenty;
And that you feel compassion in your bowels
Of other's miseries-I have found it, sir;
Heaven keep me thankful for 't!-while they are cursed
As rigid and inexorable.

Sir John. I delight not

To hear this spoke to my face.

Luke. That shall not grieve you. Your affability and mildness, clothed

In the garments of your thankful debtors' breath,
Shall everywhere, though you strive to conceal it,
Be seen and wondered at, and in the act

With a prodigal hand rewarded. Whereas, such
As are born only for themselves, and live so,
Though prosperous in worldly understandings,
Are but like beasts of rapine, that, by odds
Of strength, usurp and tyrannise o'er others
Brought under their subjection.

Can you think, sir,

...

In your unquestioned wisdom, I beseech you, The goods of this poor man sold at an outcry, His wife turned out of doors, his children forced

To beg their bread; this gentleman's estate
By wrong extorted, can advantage you?
Or that the ruin of this once brave merchant,
For such he was esteemed, though now decayed,
Will raise your reputation with good men?
But you may urge-pray you, pardon me, my zeal
Makes me thus bold and vehement-in this
You satisfy your anger, and revenge

For being defeated. Suppose this, it will not
Repair your loss, and there was never yet
But shame and scandal in a victory,
When the rebels unto reason, passions, fought it.
Then for revenge, by great souls it was ever
Contemned, though offered; entertained by none
But cowards, base and abject spirits, strangers
To moral honesty, and never yet
Acquainted with religion.

Lord Lacy. Our divines
Cannot speak more effectually.
Sir John. Shall I be
Talked out of my money?

Luke. No, sir, but entreated

To do yourself a benefit, and preserve
What you possess entire.

Sir John. How, my good brother?

Luke. By making these your beadsmen.

they eat,

When

Their thanks, next heaven, will be paid to your mercy;
When your ships are at sea, their prayers will swell
The sails with prosperous winds, and guard them from
Tempests and pirates; keep your warehouses
From fire, or quench them with their tears.

Sir John. No more.

Luke. Write you a good man in the people's hearts,

Follow you everywhere.

Sir John. If this could be

Luke. It must, or our devotions are but words.

I see a gentle promise in your eye,

Make it a blessed act, and poor me rich

In being the instrument.

Sir John. You shall prevail;

Should this arrive at twelve on the Exchange,
I shall be laughed at for my foolish pity,

The abstract of society: we might walk
In solitary groves, or in choice gardens;
From the variety of curious flowers
Contemplate nature's workmanship and wonders :
And then, for change, near to the murmur of
Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing,
And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue,
In my imagination conceive

With what melodious harmony a choir

Of angels sing above their Maker's praises.
And then, with chaste discourse, as we returned,
Imp feathers to the broken wings of Time :
And all this I must part from.

Contarini. You forget

The haste imposed 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.

Lidia. 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;

This kiss, bathed in tears,

May learn you what I should say.

JOHN FORD.

Contemporary with Massinger, and possessing 1639). This author wisely trusted to a regular profession, not to dramatic literature, for his support. He was of a good Devonshire family, and bred to the law. His first efforts as a writer for

the stage were made in unison with Webster and

Which money-men hate deadly.

Unequal Love. From the 'Great Duke of Florence. GIOVANNI, nephew to the Grand-duke, taking leave of LIDIA, daughter of his Tutor.

Lidia. Must you go, then,

So suddenly?

Giovanni. There's no evasion, Lidia,
To gain the least delay, though I would buy it
At any rate. Greatness, with private men
Esteemed a blessing, is to me a curse;
And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude
The only freemen, are the only slaves :
Happy the golden mean! Had I been born
In a poor sordid cottage, not nursed up
With expectation to command a court,

I might, like such of your condition, sweetest,
Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not,
As I am now, against my choice, compelled
Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised
So high upon the pinnacles of state,

That I must either keep my height with danger,
Or fall with certain ruin.

Lidia. Your own goodness Will be your faithful guard.

Giov. O Lidia! For had I been your equal, I might have seen and liked with mine own eyes, And not, as now, with others. I might still, And without observation or envy, As I have done, continued my delights With you, that are alone, in my esteem,

Dekker. He also joined with the latter, and with Rowley, in composing the Witch of Edmonton, already mentioned, the last act of which seems to be Ford's. In 1628 appeared the Lover's Melancholy, dedicated to his friends of the Society of Gray's Inn. In 1633 were printed his three tragedies, the Brother and Sister, the Broken Heart, and Love's Sacrifice. He next wrote Perkin Warbeck, a correct and spirited historical drama. Two other pieces, Fancies Chaste and Noble, and the Lady's Trial, produced in 1638 and 1639, complete the list of Ford's works. He is supposed to have died shortly after the production of his last play.

A tone of pensive tenderness and pathos, with a peculiarly soft and musical style of blank verse, characterise this poet. The choice of his subjects was unhappy, for he has devoted to incestuous passion the noblest offerings of his muse. The scenes in his Brother and Sister, descriptive of the criminal loves of Annabella and Giovanni, are painfully interesting and harrowing to the feelings, but contain his finest poetry and expression. The old dramatists loved to sport and dally with such forbidden themes, which tempted the imagination, and awoke those slumbering fires of pride, passion, and wickedness that lurk in the recesses of the

human heart. They lived in an age of excitement -the newly awakened intellect warring with the senses-the baser parts of humanity with its noblest qualities. In this struggle the dramatic poets were plunged, and they depicted forcibly what they saw and felt. Much as they wrote, their time was not spent in shady retirement; they flung themselves into the full tide of the passions, sounded its depths, wrestled with its difficulties and defilements, and were borne onwards in headlong career. A few, like poor Marlowe and Greene, sunk early in undeplored misery, and nearly all were unhappy. This very recklessness and daring, however, gave a mighty impulse and freedom to their genius. They were emancipated from ordinary restraints; they were strong in their sceptic pride and self-will; they surveyed the whole of life, and gave expression to those wild half-shaped thoughts and unnatural promptings, which wiser conduct and reflection would have instantly repressed and condemned. With them, the passion of love was an all-pervading fire, that consumed the decencies of life; sometimes it was gross and sensual, but in other moments imbued with a wild preternatural sweetness and fervour. Anger, pity, jealousy, revenge, remorse, and the other primary feelings and elements of our nature, were crowded into their short existence as into their scenes. Nor was the light of religion quenched: there were glimpses of heaven in the midst of the darkest vice and debauchery. The better genius of Shakspeare lifted him above this agitated region; yet his Venus and Adonis, and the Sonnets, shew that he had been at one time soiled by some of its impurities. Ford was apparently of regular deportment, but of morbid diseased imagination. His latest bi biographer (Mr Hartley Coleridge) suggests, that the choice of horrible stories for his two best plays may have been merely an exercise of intellectual power. 'His moral sense was gratified by indignation at the dark possibilities of sin, and by compassion for rare extremes of suffering.' Ford was destitute of the fire and grandeur of the heroic drama. Charles Lamb ranks him with the first order of poets; but this praise is excessive. Admitting his sway over the tender passions, and the occasional beauty of his language and conceptions, he wants the elevation of great genius. He has, as Hallam remarks, the power over tears; for he makes his readers sympathise even with his vicious characters.

A Dying Bequest. From the 'Broken Heart?

CALANTHA.-PENTHEA.

Calantha. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted The opportunity you sought, and might At all times have commanded.

Penthea. 'Tis a benefit

Which I shall owe your goodness even in death for. My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes Remaining to run down; the sands are spent:

For, by an inward messenger, I feel

The summons of departure short and certain.

Cal. You feed too much your melancholy.
Pen. Glories

Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams,

* Some unknown contemporary has preserved a graphic trait of Ford's appearance and reserved deportment:

Deep in a dump John Ford alone was got, With folded arms and melancholy hat.

Cal. Contemn not your condition for the proof
Of bare opinion only: to what end
Reach all these moral texts?

Pen. To place before ye
A perfect mirror, wherein you may see
How weary I am of a lingering life,
Who count the best a misery.

Cal. Indeed,

You have no little cause; yet none so great As to distrust a remedy.

Pen. That remedy

Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead,
And some untrod-on corner in the earth.
Not to detain your expectation, princess,
I have an humble suit.

Cal. Speak, and enjoy it.

Pen. Vouchsafe, then, to be my executrix; And take that trouble on ye, to dispose Such legacies as I bequeath impartially: I have not much to give, the pains pai are easy; Heaven will reward your piety and thank it, When I am dead: for sure I must not live; I hope I cannot.

Cal. Now beshrew thy sadness; Thou turn'st me too much woman.

Pen. Her fair eyes

Melt into passion: then I have assurance
Encouraging my boldness. In this paper
My will was charactered; which you, with pardon,
Shall now know from mine own mouth.

Cal. Talk on, prithee;

It is a pretty earnest.
Pen. I have left me

Pen. To virgin wives; such as abuse not wedlock

By freedom of desires, but covet chiefly
The pledges of chaste beds, for ties of love
Rather than ranging of their blood: and next,
To married maids; such as prefer the number
Of honourable issue in their virtues,
Before the flattery of delights by marriage;
May those be ever young.

Cal. A second jewel
You mean to part with?

Pen. 'Tis my fame; I trust

By scandal yet untouched: this I bequeath
To Memory and Time's old daughter, Truth.
If ever my unhappy name find mention,
When I am fallen to dust, may it deserve
Beseeming charity without dishonour.

Cal. How handsomely thou play'st with harmless

sport

Of mere imagination! Speak the last.
I strangely like thy will.

Pen. This jewel, madam,

Is dearly precious to me; you must use

The best of your discretion, to employ

This gift as I intend it.

Cal. Do not doubt me.

Pen. 'Tis long ago, since first I lost my heart;

Long I have lived without it: but instead

Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir,

By service bound, and by affection vowed,

I do bequeath in holiest rites of love

Mine only brother Ithocles.

Cal. What saidst thou ?

Pen. Impute not, heaven-blest lady, to ambition,

A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers

Of a devoted suppliant can endow it: