And since that time my language has been harsh,
My words too heavy for my tongue, too earthly;
I was not born so, trust me, Aphelia ;

Before I was possess'd with these black thoughts,
I could sit by thy side, and rest my head
Upon the rising pillows of thy breast,
Whose natural sweetness would invite mine eyes
To sink in pleasing slumbers, wake, and kiss
The rose-beds that afforded me such bliss;
But thou art now a general disease

That eat'st into my marrow, turn'st my blood,
And makest my veins run poison, that each sense
Groans at the alteration. Am I the Monsieur ?
Does Clovis talk his sorrows, and not act?
O man bewomanized! Wert thou not mine?
How comes it thou art his?

Clotair. You have done ill,

And must be taught so; you capitulate
Not with your equal, Clovis, she's thy queen.
Clovis. Upon my knees I do acknowledge her
Queen of my thoughts and my affections.
O pardon me, if my ill-tutor'd tongue
Has forfeited my head; if not, behold
Before the sacred altar of thy feet
I lie, a willing sacrifice.

Aphelia. Arise :

And henceforth, Clovis, thus instruct thy soul;
There lies a depth in fate which earthly eyes
May faintly look into, but cannot fathom;
You had my vow till death to be your wife,
You being dead my vows were cancelled,

And I, as thus you see, bestow'd.
Clovis. Farewell;

I will no more offend you: would to God
These cruel hands, not enough barbarous,
That made these bleeding witnesses of love,
Had set an endless period to my life too!

Clotair. Where there's no help its bootless to complain;

Clovis, she's mine: let not your spirit war
Or mutiny within you; because I say 't;
Nor let thy tongue from henceforth dare presume
To say she might or ever should be thine;
What's past once more I pardon, 'tis our wedding-
day.

Clovis. A long farewell to love; thus do I break
[Breaks the ring.
Your broken pledge of faith; and with this kiss,
The last that ever Clovis must print here,
Unkiss the kiss that seal'd it on thy lips.
Ye powers, ye are unjust, for her wild breath,
That has the sacred tie of contract broken,
Is still the same Arabia that it was.

[The king, CLOTAIR, pulls him. Nay, I have done: beware of jealousy! I would not have you nourish jealous thoughts; Though she has broke her faith to me, to you, Against her reputation, she'll be true: Farewell my first love lost, I'll choose to have No wife till death shall wed me to my grave. Come, Strephon, come and teach me how to die, That gavest me life so unadvisedly.

JAMES SHIRLEY was born in London. educated at Cambridge, where he took the degree of A. M., and had a curacy for some time at or near St. Alban's, but embracing popery, became a schoolmaster [1623] in that town. Leaving this employment, he settled in London as a dramatic writer, and between the years 1625 and 1666 published thirty-nine plays. In the civil wars he followed his patron, the Earl of Newcastle, to the field; but on the decline of the royal cause, returned to London, and as the

FROM THE TRAGEDY OF "THE CARDINAL."
Persons.-The DUCHESS and her Ladies.
Valeria. SWEET madam, be less thoughtful;
this obedience

To passion will destroy the noblest frame
Of beauty that this kingdom ever boasted.
Celinda. This sadness might become your
other habit,

He had studied also at Oxford, where Wood says that Laud objected to his taking orders, on account of a mole on his left cheek, which greatly disfigured him. This fastidiousness about personal beauty, is certainly beyond the Levitical law. [As no mention of Shirley occurs in any of the public records of Oxford, the duration of his residence at St. John's College cannot be determined.-DYCE'S Life, p. v.]

theatres were now shut, kept a school in Whitefriars, where he educated many eminent characters. At the reopening of the theatres he must have been too old to have renewed his dramatic labours; and what benefit the Restoration brought him as a royalist, we are not informed. Both he and his wife died on the same day, immediately after the great fire of London, by which they had been driven out of their house, and probably owed their deaths to their losses and terror on that occasion.†

And ceremonies black for him that died.
The times of sorrow are expired, and all
The joys that wait upon the court-your birth,
And a new Hymen that is coming towards you,
Invite a change.

Duch. Ladies, I thank you both.
I pray excuse a little melancholy
That is behind. My year of mourning hath not
So clear'd my account with sorrow, but there may
Some dark thoughts stay with sad reflections

[+ Shirley was the last of a great race, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common. A new language, and quite a new turn of tragic and comic interest, came in with the Restoration.-LAMB.]

Upon my heart, for him I lost. Even this
New dress and smiling garment, meant to show
A peace concluded 'twixt my grief and me,
Is but a sad remembrance: but I resolve
To entertain more pleasing thoughts, and if
You wish me heartily to smile, you must
Not mention grief: not in advice to leave it.
Such counsels open but afresh the wounds
You would close up, and keep alive the cause
Whose bleeding you would cure; let's talk of
something

That may delight. You two are read in all
The histories of our court; tell me, Valeria,
Who has thy vote for the most handsome man.
Thus I must counterfeit a peace, when all [Aside.
Within me is at mutiny.

Val. I have examined

All that are candidates for praise of ladies,
But find-may I speak boldly to your grace,
And will you not return it, in your mirth,
To make me blush?

Duch. No, no; speak freely.

Val. I will not rack your patience, madam, but Were I a princess, I should think Count D'Alvarez Had sweetness to deserve me from the world.

Duch. Alvarez! she's a spy upon my heart.

[Aside. Val. He's young and active, and composed most sweetly.

Duch. I have seen a face more tempting.
Val. It had then

Too much of woman in 't; his eyes speak movingly,
Which may excuse his voice, and lead away
All female pride his captive. His black hair,
Which naturally falling into curls-

Duch. Prithee no more, thou art in love with him. The man in your esteem, Celinda, now.

Cel. Alvarez is, I must confess, a gentleman
Of handsome composition, but with
His mind (the greater excellence) I think
Another may delight a lady more,

If man be well consider'd, that's Columbo,
Now, madam, voted to be yours.

Duch. My torment!

Val. She affects him not.

[Aside.

Cel. He has a person and a bravery beyond All men that I observe.

Val. He is a soldier,

A rough-hewn man, and may show well at distance;
His talk will fright a lady: war and grim-
Faced Honour are his mistresses-he raves
To hear a lute-Love meant him not his priest.
Again your pardon, madam: we may talk,
But you have art to choose and crown affection.
[Exeunt.

Duch. What is it to be born above these ladies,
And want their freedom? They are not constrain'd,
Nor slaved by their own greatness, or the king's,
But let their free hearts look abroad and choose
By their own eyes to love. I must repair
My poor afflicted bosom, and assume
The privilege I was born with, which now
prompts me

To tell the king he hath no power nor art
To steer a lover's soul.

Our mutual vows, thou canst suspect it possible
I should revoke a promise made to heaven
And thee, so soon? This must arise from some
Distrust of thy own faith.

D'Alv. Your grace's pardon:

To speak with freedom, I am not so old
In cunning to betray, nor young in time
Not to see where and when I am at loss,
And how to bear my fortune and my wounds;
Which, if I look for health, must still bleed inward,
A hard and desperate condition.

I am not ignorant your birth and greatness
Have placed you to grow up with the king's grace
And jealousy, which to remove his power
Hath chosen a fit object for your beauty
To shine upon-Columbo, his great favourite.

I am a man on whom but late the king
Has pleased to cast a beam, which was not meant
To make me proud, but wisely to direct
And light me to my safety. Oh, dear madam,
I will not call more witness of my love,
If you will let me still give it that name,
Than this, that I dare make myself a loser,
And to you will give all my blessings up.
Preserve your greatness, and forget a trifle,
That shall at best, when you have drawn me up,
But hang about you like a cloud, and dim
The glories you are born to.

Duch. Misery

Of birth and state! that I could shift into
A meaner blood, or find some art to purge
That part which makes my veins unequal. Yet
Those nice distinctions have no place in us;
There's but a shadow difference, a title;
Thy stock partakes as much of noble sap
As that which feeds the root of kings; and he
That writes a lord, hath all the essence of
Nobility.

D'Alv. "Tis not a name that makes
Our separation-the king's displeasure

Hangs a portent to fright us, and the matter
That feeds this exhalation is the cardinal's
Plot to advance his nephew; then Columbo,
A man made up for some prodigious act,
Is fit to be consider'd: in all three
There is no character you fix upon
But has a form of ruin to us both.

Duch. Then you do look on them with fear?
D'Alv. With eyes

That should think tears a duty to lament

Your least unkind fate; but my youth dares boldly
Meet all the tyranny of the stars, whose black
Malevolence but shoot my single tragedy;
You are above the value of many worlds
Peopled with such as I am.

Duch. What if Columbo,

Engaged in war, in his hot thirst of honour,
Find out the way to death?

D'Alv. "Tis possible.

Duch. Or say, no matter by what art or motive, He gives his title up, and leave me to My own election.

D'Alv. If I then be happy

To have a name within your thought, there can
Be nothing left to crown me with new blessing.
But I dream thus of heaven, and wake to find
My am'rous soul a mockery, when the priest
Shall tie you to another, and the joys
Of marriage leave no thought at leisure to
Look back upon Alvarez, that must wither
For loss of you: yet then I cannot lose

So much of what I was once in your favour,
But in a sigh pray still you may live happy.
Duch. My heart is in a mist; some good star smile
Upon my resolution, and direct

Two lovers in their chaste embrace to meet.
Columbo's bed contains my winding-sheet.

They are a pair of burning-glasses, and
His envious blood doth give them flame.

Card. What lethargy could thus unspirit him?
I am all wonder. Do not believe, madam,
But that Columbo's love is yet more sacred
To honour and yourself, than thus to forfeit
What I have heard him call the glorious wreath
To all his merits, given him by the king,
From whom he took you with more pride than ever
He came from victory; his kisses hang
Yet panting on your lips, and he but now
Exchanged religious farewell, to return
But with more triumph to be yours.

Duch. My lord,

You do believe your nephew's hand was not
Surprised or strain'd to this?

Curd. Strange arts and windings in the world— most dark

And subtle progresses. Who brought this letter? Duch. I inquired not his name. I thought it not Considerable to take such narrow notice.

Card. Desert and honour urged it here, nor can I blame you to be angry; yet his person Obliged you should have given a nobler pause Before you made your faith and change so violent From his known worth, into the arms of one, However fashion'd to your amorous wish, Not equal to his cheapest fame, with all The gloss of blood and merit.

Duch. This compassion,

My good lord cardinal, I cannot think
Flows from an even justice, it betrays
You partial where your blood runs.
Card. I fear, madam,

Your own takes too much license, and will soon
Fall to the censure of unruly tongues.
Because Alvarez has a softer cheek,
Can, like a woman, trim his wanton hair,
Spend half a day with looking in the glass
To find a posture to present himself,
And bring more effeminacy than man

Or honour, to your bed-must he supplant him?
Take heed, the common murmur, when it catches
The scent of a lost fame,

Duch. My fame, lord cardinal!

It stands upon an innocence as clear
As the devotions you pay to heaven.

I shall not urge, my lord, your soft indulgence
At my next shrift.

Card. You are a fine court lady.

Duch. And you should be a reverend churchman. Card. One that, if you have not thrown off Would counsel you to leave Alvarez. [modesty, Duch. 'Cause you dare do worse

Than marriage, must not I be admitted what
The church and law allow me?

Card. Insolent! then you dare marry him?
Duch. Dare! let your contracted flame and
malice with

Columbo's rage higher than that, meet us
When we approach the holy place, clasp'd hand
In hand, we'll break through all your force, and fix
Our sacred vows together there.

Card. I knew

How vast are your corruptions and abuse

Of a king's ear, at which you hang a pendant,
Not to adorn, but ulcerate; whilst the honest
Nobility, like pictures in the arras,

Serve only for court-ornament: if they speak,
"Tis when you set their tongues, which you wind up
Like clocks to strike at the just hour you please.
Leave, leave, my lord, these usurpations,
And be what you were meant, a man to cure,
Not let in agues to religion.

Look on the church's wounds

Card. You dare presume,

In your rude spleen to me, to abuse the church?
Duch. Alas! you give false aim, my lord; 'tis your
Ambition and scarlet sins that rob

Her altar of the glory, and leave wounds
Upon her brow which fetches grief and paleness
Into her cheeks; making her troubled bosom
Pant with her groans, and shroud her holy blushes
Within your reverend purples.

Card. Will you now take breath?

Duch. In hope, my lord, you will behold yourself In a true glass, and see those unjust acts That so deform you, and by timely cure Prevent a shame before the short-hair'd men Do crowd and call for justice, I take leave. [Exit. Card. This woman has a spirit that may rise To tame the devil's,-there's no dealing with Her angry tongue, 'tis action and revenge Must calm her fury. Were Columbo here I could resolve, but letters shall be sent To th' army, which may wake him into sense Of his rash folly, or direct his spirit Some way to snatch his honour from this flame; All great men know "the soul of life is fame."

Take boldness too, and tell you, sir, it were
More for her honour she would mock no prince.
I am not lost to Florence yet, though I
Be Naples' guest; and I must tell him here,
I came to meet with fair and princely treaties
Of love, not to be made the tale of Italy,
The ground of scurril pasquils, or the mirth
Of any lady who shall pre-engage
Her heart to another's bosom, and then sneak
Off like a tame despised property
When her ends are advanced.

King. I understand not

This passion, yet it points at something

That may be dangerous; to conclude, Theodosia Is Naples' sister, and I must not see

Her lost to honour, though my kingdom bleed
To rescue her.

Duke. Now you are passionate.
This must be repair'd, my name is wounded,
And my affection betray'd: your sister,
That looks like a fair star within love's sky,
Is fall'n, and by the scattering of her fires
Declares she has alliance with the earth,
Not heavenly nature.

King. Are my senses perfect?

Be clearer, sir; teach me to understand
This prodigy. You do not scorn our sister?
Duke. Not I! as she has title to your blood,
She merits all ambition; she's a princess,
Yet no stain to her invention, we are parallels,
Equal, but never made to meet.

Of all o'er which our eagle shakes his wings,
But to set right her honour; and ere I challenge
Thee by thy birth, by all thy hopes and right
To fame, to tell me what malicious breath
Has poison'd her, hear what my sister sends
By me so late, Time is not old in minutes, [tell
The words yet warm with her own breath-Pray
The duke, she says, although I know not from
What root his discontents grow to devote him
To Domitilla-

[fancy;

Duke. How does she know that?
King. Whose beauty has more spell upon his
I did contract my heart when I thought his
Had been no stranger to his tongue, and can
Not find within it since what should divert
His princely thoughts from my first innocence,
Yet such is my stern fate I must still love him.
And though he frame his heart to unkind distance,
It hath embracing virtue upon mine,

And with his own remove draws my soul after him.
If he forget I am a princess, pray
Let Naples do so too, for my revenge
Shall be in prayers, that he may find my wrong,
And teach him soft repentance and more faith.
Duke. All this must not betray my freedom, sir.
King. You'll not accuse our sister of dishonour?
Duke. I would not grieve you, sir, to hear what I
Could say; and press me not, for your own peace;
Fames must be gently touch'd.

King. As thou art Florence, speak.
Duke. I shall displease,

Yet I but tell her brother that doth press me,
Lucrece was chaste after the rape, but where
The blood consents there needs no ravisher.

King. I do grow faint with wonder. Here's To blast an apprehension, and shoot [enough A quaking through the valiant soul of man. My sister's blood accused, and her fair name, Late chaste as trembling snow, whose fleeces clothe Our Alpine hills-sweet as the rose's spirit, Or violet's cheek, on which the morning leaves A tear at parting,-now begins to wither As it would haste to death and be forgotten. This Florence is a prince that does accuse her, And such men give not faith to every murmur Or slight intelligence that wounds a lady In her dear honour. But she is my sister; Think of that too, credit not all, but ask Of thy own veins what guilty flowings there May tempt thee to believe this accusation.

FROM "THE GENTLEMAN OF VENICE." Claudiana, on receiving a proposition from her husband Cornari, which she supposes to arise from his suspicion of her infidelity.

Claudiana. LET me fall
Beneath that which sustains me, ere I take
In a belief that will destroy my peace;
Not in the apprehension of what
You frame t'accuse yourself, but in fear
My honour is betray'd to your suspicion.

[Kneels.

Cornari. Rise! with thy tears I kiss Away thy tremblings. I suspect thy honour? My heart will want faith to believe an angel, That should traduce thy fair name; thou art chaste As the white down of heaven, whose feathers play Upon the wings of a cold winter's gale, Trembling with fear to touch th' impurer earth. How are the roses frighted in thy cheeks To paleness, weeping out transparent dew, When a loose story is but named? thou art The miracle of a chaste wife, from which fair Original, drawn out by Heaven's own hand, To have had one copy I had writ perfection.

FROM "THE DOUBTFUL HEIR."

Persons.-FERDINAND in prison for asserting his right to the kingdom of Murcia. ROSANIA, his mistress, disguised like a Page.

Rosania. PRAY do not grieve for me. I have a heart

That can for your sake suffer more; and when
The tyranny of your fate calls me to die,
I can as willingly resign my breath
As go to sleep.

Ferdinand. Can I hear this
Without a fresh wound, that thy love to me
Should be so ill rewarded? thou hast engaged
Thyself too much already; 'tis within
Thy will yet to be safe,-reveal thyself, [ness,
Throw off the cloud that doth eclipse that bright-
And they will court thy person, and be proud
With all becoming honour to receive thee;
No fear shall rob thy cheek of her chaste blood.
Oh, leave me to my own stars, and expect,
Whate'er become of wretched Ferdinand,
A happy fate.

Ros. Your counsel is unkind; This language would become your charity To a stranger, but my interest is more In thee, than thus with words to be sent off. Our vows have made us one, nor can the names Of father, country, or what can be dear In nature, bribe one thought to wish myself In heaven without thy company: it were poor, then, To leave thee here. Then, by thy faith I charge thee; By this, the first and last seal of our love; [Kisses him. By all our promises, when we did flatter Ourselves, and in our fancy took the world A pieces, and collected what did like Us best, to make us a new paradise; By that the noblest ornament of thy soul, Thy honour, I conjure thee, let me still Be undiscover'd. What will it avail

To leave me, whom thou lovest, and walk alone,
Sad pilgrim, to another world? We will
Converse in soul, and shoot like stars whose beams
Are twisted, and make bright the sullen groves
Of lovers, as we pass.

Fer. These are but dreams
Of happiness: be wise, Rosania,

Thy love is not a friend to make thee miserable;
Society in death, where we affect,

But multiplies our grief. Live thou, oh live!
And if thou hast a tear, when I am dead,
But drop it to my memory, shall

More precious than embalming dwell upon me,
And keep my ashes pure; my spirit shall
At the same instant, in some innocent shape,
Descend upon that earth thou hast bedew'd,
And, kissing the bright tribute of thine eye,
Shall after wait like thy good angel on thee.
There will be none to speak of Ferdinand
Without disdain if thou diest too. Oh, live
A little to defend me, or at least

To say I was no traitor to thy love;
And lay the shame on death and my false stars,
That would not let me live to be a king.

Ros. O Ferdinand!

Thou dost not love me now!

Fer. Not love, Rosania?

If wooing thee to live will not assure thee,
Command me then to die, and spare the cruelty
Of the fair queen. Not love, Rosania?
If thou wilt but delight to see me bleed,

I will at such a narrow passage let

Out life, it shall be many hours in ebbing;
And my soul, bathing in the crimson stream,
Take pleasure to be drown'd. I have small time
To love and be alive, but I will carry

So true a faith to woman hence as shall
Make poor the world, when I am gone to tell
The story yonder.—We are interrupted.
Enter Keeper.

Keeper. You must prepare yourself for present
I have command t' attend you to the judges. [trial;
That gentleman, and all that did adhere
To your conspiracy, are by the queen's
Most gracious mercy pardon'd.

Fer. In that word

Thou hast brought me more than life. I shall betray,

And with my too much joy undo thee again.