THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. BY JOHN FORD. Contention of a Bird and a Musician. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales To Thessaly I came, and living private, Without acquaintance of more sweet companions This youth, this fair fac'd youth, upon his lute Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge; and, for every several strain The well-shap'd youth could touch, she sung her down; Upon his quaking instrument, than she Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, The bird (ordain'd to be Musick's first martyr) strove to imitate These several sounds: which when her warbling throat To weep a funeral elegy of tears. He looks upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, and cried, "Alas, poor creature, I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it. Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow, I suddenly stept in. [This Story, which is originally to be met with in Strada's Prolusions, has been paraphrased in rhyme by Crashaw, Ambrose Phillips, and others: but none of those versions can at all compare for harmony and grace with this blank verse of Ford's: It is as fine as any thing in Beaumont and Fletcher; and almost equals the strife which it celebrates. THE LADIES TRIAL. BY JOHN FORD. Auria, in the possession of Honors, Preferment, Fame, can find no peace in his mind while he thinks his Wife unchaste. AURIA. Aurelio. Auria. Count of Savona, Genoa's Admiral, A Worthy of my country, sought and sued to, -My triumphs Are echoed under every roof, the air Is streightned with the sound, there is not room Aurelio. Glories in public view but add to misery, Auria. At home! That home, Aurelio speaks of, I have lost : wife LOVE'S SACRIFICE. A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FORD. Biancha, Wife to Caraffa, Duke of Pavia, loves and is loved by Fernando the Duke's favorite. She long resists his importunate suit; at length, she enters the room where he is sleeping, and awakens him, to hear her confession of her love for him. BIANCHA. FERDINAND, sleeping. Bian. Resolve, and do; 'tis done. What, are those eyes, Which lately were so over-drown'd in tears, So easy to take rest? O happy man, How sweetly sleep hath seal'd up sorrows here! Fer. Who calls? Sleeping, or waking? Fer. Ha, who is't? Bian. "Tis I: Have you forgot my voice? or is your ear But useful to your eye? Sit Fer. Madam the Duchess! Bian. She, 'tis she; sit up: up and wonder, whiles my sorrow swell: The nights are short and I have much to say. Fer. Is't possible 'tis you? Bian. 'Tis possible : Why do you think I come? Fer. Why? to crown joys, And make me master of my best desires. Bian. 'Tis true, you guess aright; sit up and listen. With shame and passion now I must confess, Since first mine eyes beheld you, in my heart You have been only king. If there can be A violence in love, then I have felt The justice which I for this folly fear. Poor wretched woman liv'd, that lov'd like me; So truly, so unfeignedly. Fer. Oh Madam Bian. To witness that I speak is truth, look here; Thus singly I adventure to thy bed, And do confess my weakness: if thou temp'st My bosom to thy pleasures, I will yield. Fer. Perpetual happiness! Bian. Now hear me out : When first Caraffa, Pavy's Duke, my Lord, Not mov'd by counsel, or remov'd by greatness: I have done so nor was there in the world Bian. True, I do, Beyond imagination: if no pledge Of love can instance what I speak is true, But loss of my best joys, here, here, Fernando, Fer. What do you mean? |