T

Fools, ah fools are we that so contrive,

And do strive,

In each gaudy ornament,

Who shall his corpse in the best dish present.

BLURT, MASTER CONSTABLE: A COMEDY. BY T.
MIDDLETON, 1602.

Lover kept awake by Love.

Ah! how can I sleep? he, who truly loves,

Burns out the day in idle fantasies;

And when the lamb bleating doth bid good night

Unto the closing day, then tears begin

To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice
Shrieks like the bellman in the lover's ears:

Love's eye the jewel of sleep oh! seldom wears.
The early lark is waken'd from her bed,
Being only by Love's plaints disquieted;
And singing in the morning's ear she weeps,
Being deep in love, at Lovers' broken sleeps.
But say a golden slumber chance to tie

With silken strings the cover of Love's eye;
Then dreams, magician-like, mocking present
Pleasures, whose fading leaves more discontent.

Violetta comes to seek her Husband at the house of a Curtizan.
VIOLETTA. IMPERIA, the Curtizan.

Vio. By your leave, sweet Beauty, pardon my excuse, which sought entrance into this house: good Sweetness, have you not a Property here, improper to your house; my husband?

Imp. Hah! your husband here?

Vio. Nay, be as you seem to be, White Dove, without gall. Do not mock me, fairest Venetian. Come, I know he is here. I do not blame him, for your beauty gilds over his error. "Troth, I am right glad that you, my Countrywoman, have received the pawn of his affections. You cannot be hardhearted, loving him; nor hate me, for I love him too. Since we both love him, let us not leave him, till we have called home the ill husbandry of a sweet Straggler. Prithee, good wench, use him well.

Imp. So, so, so

Vio. If he deserve not to be used well (as I'd be loth he should deserve it), I'll engage myself, dear Beauty, to thine honest heart: give me leave to love him, and I'll give him a kind of leave to love thee. I know he hears me. I prithee try my eyes, if they know him; that have almost drowned themselves in their own saltwater, because they cannot see him. In truth, I'll not chide him. If I speak words rougher than soft kisses, my penance shall be to see him kiss thee, yet to hold

my peace.

Good Partner, lodge me in thy private bed;
Where, in supposed folly, he may end
Determin'd Sin. Thou smilest.

I know thou wilt.
What looseness may term dotage,-truly read,
Is Love ripe-gather'd, not soon withered.

Imp. Good truth, pretty Wedlock, thou makest my little eyes smart with washing themselves in brine. I mar such a sweet face!-and wipe off that dainty red! and make Cupid toll the bell for your love-sick heart! —no, no, no—if he were Jove's own ingle Ganymedefie, fie, fie-I'll none. Your Chamber-fellow is within.

Thou shalt enjoy him.

Vio. Star of Venetian Beauty, thanks!

HOFFMAN'S TRAGEDY, OR REVENGE FOR A FATHER, 1631. AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

The Sons of the Duke of Saxony run away with Lucibel, the Duke of Austria's Daughter.-The two Dukes, in separate pursuit of their children, meet at the Cell of a Hermit: in which Hermit, Saxony recognizes a banished Brother; at which surprised, all three are reconciled.

Aust. That should be Saxon's tongue.

Sax. Indeed I am the Duke of Saxony.
Aust. Then thou art father to lascivious sons,
That have made Austria childless.

Sax. Oh subtle Duke,

Thy craft appears in framing the excuse.
Thou dost accuse my young sons' innocence.
I sent them to get knowledge, learn the tongues,
Not to be metamorphosed with the view
Of flattering Beauty-peradventure painted.
Aust. No, I defy thee, John of Saxony.

My Lucibel for beauty needs no art;
Nor, do I think, the beauties of her mind
Ever inclin❜d to this ignoble course,

But by the charms and forcings of thy sons.

Sax. O would thou would'st maintain thy words, proud

Duke!

Her. I hope, great princes, neither of you dare

Commit a deed so sacrilegious.

This holy Cell

Is dedicated to the Prince of Peace.

The foot of man never profan'd this floor;
Nor doth wrath here with his consuming voice
Affright these buildings. Charity with Prayer,

Humility with Abstinence combined,
Are here the guardians of a grieved mind.
Aust. Father, we obey thy holy voice.
Duke John of Saxony, receive my faith;
Till our ears hear the true course, which thy sons
Have taken with my fond and misled child,

I proclaim truce. Why dost thou sullen stand?
If thou mean peace, give me thy princely hand.

Sax. Thus do I plight thee truth, and promise peace.
Aust. Nay, but thy eyes agree not with thy heart.
In vows of combination there's a grace,

That shews th' intention in the outward face.
Look chearfully, or I expect no league.

Sax. First give me leave to view awhile the person Of this Hermit—Austria, view him well.

Is he not like my brother Roderic?

Aust. He's like him. But I heard, he lost his life Long since in Persia by the Sophy's wars.

Her. I heard so much, my Lord.

But that report Was purely feign'd; spread by my erring tongue, As double as my heart, when I was young. I am that Roderic, that aspired thy throne; That vile false brother, that with rebel breath,

Drawn sword, and treach'rous heart, threaten'd your

death.

Sax. My brother!

lay by

nay then i' faith, old John

Thy sorrowing thoughts; turn to thy wonted vein,
And be mad John of Saxony again.

Mad Roderic, art alive?-my mother's son,

Her joy, and her last birth!-oh, she conjured me

To use thee thus; [embracing him] and yet I banished

thee.-~

Body o' me! I was unkind, I know;

But thou deserv'dst it then: but let it go.

Say thou wilt leave this life, thus truly idle,
And live a Statesman; thou shalt share in reign,
Commanding all but me thy Sovereign.

Her. I thank your Highness; I will think on it :
But for my sins this sufferance is more fit.

Sax. Tut, tittle tattle, tell not me of sin.-
Now, Austria, once again thy princely hand :
I'll look thee in the face, and smile; and swear,
If any of my sons have wrong'd thy child,
I'll help thee in revenging it myself.

But if, as I believe, they mean but honour,

(As it appeareth by these Jousts proclaim'd,) Then thou shalt be content to name * him thine, And thy fair daughter I'll account as mine.

Aust. Agreed.

Sax. Ah, Austria ! 'twas a world, when you and I Ran these careers; but now we are stiff and dry. Aust. I'm glad you are so pleasant, good my Lord. Sax. 'Twas my old mood: but I was soon turn'd sad. With over-grieving for this long lost Lad,

And now the Boy is grown as old as I;

His very face as full of gravity.

By one of the Duke's sons (her Lover) in honour of Lucibel.