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He should be cousin) solemnly invested
In all those honors, titles, and preferments,
Which his dear friend and my neglected husband
Too short a time enjoy'd.

Proph. I am unworthy
To live in your remembrance.

Euph. Excellent Lady.
Near. Madam, what means that word, neglected hus-

band ? Cal. Forgive me: Now I turn to thee, thou shadow

(To the dead Body of Ithocles.) Of my contracted Lord: bear witness all, I put my mother's wedding ring upon His finger; 'twas my father's last bequest: Thus I new marry him, whose wife I am ; Death shall not separate us.

O my lords,
I but deceiv'd your eyes with antick gesture,
When one news straight came huddling on another,
Of death, and death, and death, still I danc'd forward ;
But it struck home, and here, and in an instant.
Be such mere women, who with shrieks and outcries
Can vow a present end to all their sorrows :
Yet live to vow new pleasures, and out-live them.
They are the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings:
Let me die smiling.

Near. 'Tis a truth too ominous.
Cal. One kiss on these cold lips; my last. Crack,

Argos now's Sparta's King.


[I do not know where to find in any Play a catastrophe so grand, so solemn, and so surprising as this. This is indeed, according to Milton, to “ describe high passions and high actions." The fortitude of the Spartan Boy who let a beast gnaw out his bowels till he died without expressing a groan, is a faint bodily image of this dilaceration of the spirit, and exente

ration of the inmost mind, which Calantha with a holy violence against her nature keeps closely covered, till the last duties of a Wife and a Queen are fulfilled. Stories of martyrdom are but of chains and the stake; a little bodily suffering; these torments

On the purest spirits prey
As on entrails, joints, and limbs,

With answerable pains, but more intense. What a noble thing is the soul in its strengths and in its weak. nesses ! who would be less weak than Calantha ? who can be so strong ? the expression of this transcendant scene almost bears me in imagination to Calvary and the Cross; and I seem to perceive some analogy between the scenical sufferings which I am here contemplating, and the real agonies of that final completion to which I dare no more than hint a reference.

Ford was of the first order of Poets. He sought for sublimity not by parcels in metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full residence in the heart of man ; in the actions and sufferings of the greatest minds. There is a grandeur of the soul above mountains, seas, and the elements. Even in the poor perverted reason of Giovanni and Annabella (in the Play which precedes this) we discern traces of that fiery particle, which in the irregular starting from out of the road of beaten action, discovers something of a right line even in obliquity, and shews hints of an improveable greatness in the lowest descents and degradations of our nature.]



Love in Infancy.
Ah, I remember well (and how can I
But evermore remember well) when first
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was
The flame we felt: when as we sat and sigh'd
And look'd upon each other, and conceiv'd
Not what we aild, yet something we did ail;

And yet were well, and yet we were not well,
And what was our disease we could not tell.
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look: And thus
In that first garden of our simpleness
We spent our childhood : But when years began
To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah, how then
Would she with graver looks, with sweet stern brow,
Check my presumption and my forwardness ;
Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show
What she would have me, yet not have me know.

Love after Death.

Palæmon. Fie, Thirsis, with what fond remembrances Dost thou these idle passions entertain ! For shame leave off to waste your youth in vain, And feed on shadows : make your choice anew; You other nymphs shall find, no doubt will be As lovely, and as fair, and sweet as she.

Thirsis. As fair and sweet as she! Palæmon, peace : Ah, what can pictures be unto the life ? What sweetness can be found in images ? Which all nymphs else besides her seem to me. She only was a real creature, she, Whose memory must take up all of me. Should I another love, then must I have Another heart, for this is full of her, And evermore shall be: here is she drawn At length, and whole: and more, this table is A story, and is all of her; and all Wrought in the liveliest colours of my blood; And can there be a room for others here? Should I disfigure such a piece, and blot The perfect'st workmanship that love e'er wrought ? Palæmon, no, ah no, it cost too dear;

It must remain entire whilst life remains,
The monument of her and of my pains.

The Story of Isulia.

There was sometimes a nymph, Isulia named, and an Arcadian born, Whose mother dying left her very young Unto her father's charge, who carefully Did breed her up until she came to years Of womanhood, and then provides a match Both rich and young, and fit enough for her. But she, who to another shepherd had, Callid Sirthis, vow'd her love, as unto one Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, Could not by all her father's means be wrought To leave her choice, and to forget her vow. This nymph one day, surcharg'd with love and grief, Which commonly (the more the pity) dwell As inmates both together, walking forth With other maids to fish upon the shore; Estrays apart, and leaves her company, To entertain herself with her own thoughts : And wanders on so far, and out of sight, As she at length was suddenly surpriz'd By pirates, who lay lurking underneath Those hollow rocks, expecting there some prize. And notwithstanding all her piteous cries, Intreaties, tears, and prayers, those fierce men Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force Into their ship, which in a little creek Hard by at anchor lay, And presently hoisted sail and so away. When she was thus inshipp'd and woefully Had cast her eyes about to view that hell Of horror, whereinto she was so suddenly emplung'd,

She spies a woman sitting with a child
Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife.
To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies ;
* O woman, if that name of a woman may
" Move you to pity, pity a poor

maid; “ The most distressed soul that ever breath'd ; “ And save me from the hands of those fierce men. “ Let me not be defild and made unclean, “ Dear woman, now, and I will be to you “ The faithfull’st slave that ever mistress serv'd; “ Never poor soul shall be more dutiful, “ To do whatever you command, than I.

No toil will I refuse ; so that I may “ Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd, “ Which is all I will ever seek. For know “ It is not fear of death lays me thus low, “ But of that stain will make my death to blush." All this would nothing move the woman's heart, Whom yet she would not leave, but still besought; “ () woman, by that infant at your breast, “ And by the pains it cost you in the birth, “ Save me, as ever you desire to have “ Your babe to joy and prosper in the world : “ Which will the better prosper sure, if you “ Śhall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid !" Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too The infant's feet; and,“ Oh, sweet babe," (said she) “ Could'st thou but to thy mother speak for me, “ And crave her to have pity on my case, “ Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so much “ Although I cannot ; child, ah, could'st thou speak.” The infant, whether by her touching it, Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep, Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks Upon the mother, then on her again,

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