am mad: then methinks I am a brave fellow; then I do wonders: but reason abuseth me; and there's the torment, there's the hell. At last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers; were he as strong as Hector, thus would I tear and drag him up and down.

[He beats the Painter in.

[These scenes, which are the very salt of the old play (which without them is but a caput mortuum, such another piece of flatness as Locrine), Hawkins, in his republication of this tragedy, has thrust out of the text into the notes; as omitted in the Second Edition, "printed for Ed. Allde, amended of such gross blunders as passed in the first:" and thinks them to have been foisted in by the players.-A late discovery at Dulwich College has ascertained that two sundry payments were made to Ben Jonson by the Theatre for furnishing additions to Hieronimo. See last edition of Shakspeare by Reed. There is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which would authorize us to suppose that he could have supplied the scenes in question. I should suspect the agency of some "more potent spirit." Webster might have furnished them. They are full of that wild solemn preternatural cast of grief which bewilders us in the Duchess of Malfy.]

ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM, HIS TRUE AND LAMENTABLE TRAGEDY. AUTHOR UNKNOWN, 1592.

ALICE ARDEN with MOSBIE her Paramour conspire the murder of her husband.

Mos. How now, Alice? what, sad and passionate ? Make me partaker of thy pensiveness:

Fire divided burns with lesser force.

Al. But I will dam that fire in my breast,
Till by the force thereof my part consume.
Ah, Mosbie!

Mos. Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon's burst
Discharged against a ruinated wall,

Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces.

Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore;
Thou know'st it well, and 'tis thy policy
To forge distressful looks to wound a breast
Where lies a heart which dies when thou art sad.
It is not love that loves to anger love.

Al. It is not love that loves to murder love.

Mos. How mean you that?

Al. Thou knowest how dearly Arden loved me.
Mos. And then?

Al. And then-conceal the rest, for 'tis too bad,
Lest that my words be carried to the wind,

And published in the world to both our shames.
I pray thee, Mosbie, let our spring-time wither;
Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds.
Forget, I pray thee, what hath passed betwixt us,
For how I blush and tremble at the thoughts!
Mos. What? are you changed?

Al. Ay, to my former happy life again,

From title of an odious strumpet's name

To honest Arden's wife, not Arden's honest wife-
Ha, Mosbie! 'tis thou hast rifled me of that
And made me slanderous to all my kin;
Even in my forehead is thy name ingraven,
A mean artificer, that low-born name.

I was bewitched: woe worth the hapless hour
And all the causes that enchanted me!

Mos. Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth,
And if you stand so nicely at your fame,
Let me repent the credit I have lost.

I have neglected matters of import

That would have stated me above thy state,
Forslowed advantages, and spurned at time :
Ay, Fortune's right hand Mosbie hath forsook
To take a wanton giglot by the left.

I left the marriage of an honest maid,

Whose dowry would have weighed down all thy wealth,

Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee:
This certain good I lost for changing bad,
And wrapt my credit in thy company.
I was bewitched, that is no theme of thine,
And thou unhallowed hast enchanted me.
But I will break thy spells and exorcisms,
And put another sight upon these eyes
That showed my heart a raven for a dove.
Thou art not fair, I viewed thee not till now;
Thou art not kind, till now I knew thee not;
And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt,
Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit.
It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,
But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.
Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds;
I am too good to be thy favourite.

Al. Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true,
Which often hath been told me by my friends,
That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth,
Which too incredulous I ne'er believed.
Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two;
I'll bite my tongue if I speak bitterly.
Look on me, Mosbie, or else I'll kill myself:
Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look.
If thou cry war, there is no peace for me;
I will do penance for offending thee,
And burn this prayer-book, which I here use,
The holy word that had converted me.
See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,
And all the leaves, and in this golden cover
Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell;
And thereon will I chiefly meditate,

And hold no other sect but such devotion.
Wilt thou not look? is all thy love o'erwhelmed?
Wilt thou not hear? what malice stops thine ears?
Why speaks thou not? what silence ties thy tongue ?
Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is,

And heard as quickly as the fearful hare,
And spoke as smoothly as an orator,

When I have bid thee hear or see or speak,
And art thou sensible in none of these?
Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault,
And I deserve not Mosbie's muddy looks.
A fence of trouble is not thickened still :
Be clear again, I'll ne'er more trouble thee.
Mos. O no, I am a base artificer :

My wings are feathered for a lowly flight.
Mosbie? fie! no, not for a thousand pound.
Make love to you? why, 'tis unpardonable;
We beggars must not breathe where gentles are.
Al. Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king,

And I too blind to judge him otherwise. Flowers sometimes spring in fallow lands, Weeds in gardens, roses grow on thorns; So, whatsoe'er my Mosbie's father was, Himself is valued gentle by his worth. Mos. Ah, how you women can insinuate, And clear a trespass with your sweet-set tongue! I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice, Provided I'll be tempted so no more.

ARDEN, with his friend FRANKLIN, travelling at night to ARDEN's house at Feversham, where he is lain in wait for by Ruffians, hired by ALICE and MOSBIE to murder him; FRANKLIN is interrupted in a story he was beginning to tell by the way of a BAD WIFE, by an indisposition, ominous of the impending danger of his friend.

Ard. Come, master Franklin, onwards with your tale.
Frank. I'll assure you, sir, you task me much :
A heavy blood is gathered at my heart,
And on the sudden is my wind so short
As hindereth the passage of my speech;
So fierce a qualm yet ne'er assailed me.

Ard. Come, master Franklin, let us go on softly:
The annoyance of the dust or else some meat
You ate at dinner cannot brook with you.

I have been often so, and soon amended. Frank. Do you remember where my tale did leave? Ard. Ay, where the gentleman did check his wifeFrank. She being reprehended for the fact,

Witness produced that took her with the deed, Her glove brought in which there she left behind, And many other assured arguments,

Her husband asked her whether it were not so.
Ard. Her answer then? I wonder how she looked,
Having forsworn it with so vehement oaths,
And at the instant so approved upon her.

Frank. First did she cast her eyes down on the earth,
Watching the drops that fell amain from thence;
Then softly draws she forth her handkercher,
And modestly she wipes her tear-stained face;
Then hemmed she out, to clear her voice should
seem,

And with a majesty addressed herself

To encounter all their accusations.

Pardon me, master Arden, I can no more; This fighting at my heart makes short my wind. Ard. Come, we are almost now at Raynum Down : Your pretty tale beguiles the weary way;

I would you were in state to tell it out.

[They are set upon by the Ruffians.

THE WARS OF CYRUS: A TRAGEDY.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN, 1594.

Dumb show exploded.

Chorus (to the audience).

Xenophon

Warrants what we record of Panthea.

It is writ in sad and tragic terms,

May move you tears; then, you content, our Muse,