Come let's talk wisely now.
Was thy son murder'd ?

Pain. Ay, sir.

Hier. So was mine. How dost thou take it ? art thou not sometime mad ? Is there no tricks that come before thine eyes ?

Pain. O lord, yes, sir.

Hier. Art a painter? canst paint me a tear, a wound? A groan or a sigh? canst paint me such a tree as this ?

Pain. Sir, I am sure you have heard of my painting; My name's Bazardo.

Hier. Bazardo! 'fore God an excellent fellow. Look

you, sir.

Do you see? I'd have you paint me in my gallery, in your oil colours matted, and draw me five years younger than I am : do you see, sir ? let five years go, let them go,-my wife Isabella standing by me, with a speaking look to my son Horatio, which should intend to this, or some such like purpose ; God bless thee, my sweet son ; and my hand leaning upon his head thus, sir, do you see? may it be done?

Pain. Very well, sir.
Hier. Nay, I pray mark me, sir.

Ι
Then, sir, would I have you paint me this tree, this

very tree : Canst paint a doleful cry?

Pain. Seemingly, sir.

Hier. Nay, it should cry; but all is one. Well, sir, paint me a youth run thro' and thro' with

villains' swords hanging upon this tree. Canst thou draw a murd'rer ?

Pain. I'll warrant you, sir ; I have the pattern of the most notorious villains that ever lived in all Spain.

Hier. 0, let them be worse, worse: stretch thine art, And let their beards be of Judas's own colour, And let their eye-brows jut over : in any case observe

that ;

Then, sir, after some violent noise,
Bring me forth in my shirt and my gown under my

arm, with my torch in my hand, and my sword
rear'd up thus,-

And with these words ; What noise is this? who calls

Hieronimo? May it be done?

Pain. Yea, sir. Hier. Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me thro' alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap.

Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve.

And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tott'ring, and tott'ring, as you know the wind will wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him down.

And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch, find it to be my son Horatio.

There you may shew a passion, there you may shew a passion.

Draw me like old Priam of Troy, crying, the house is a fire, the house is a fire; and the torch over my head; make me curse, make me rave, make me cry, Inake me mad, make me well again, make me curse hell, invocate, and in the end leave me in a trance, and so forth.

Pain. And is this the end ?
Hier. O no, there is no end : the end is death and

madness ;
And I am never better than when I 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.

[le 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, bas 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 authorise 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.]

THE LOVE OF KING DAVID AND FAIR

BETHSABE,

WITH

THE TRAGEDY OF ABSALOM.

BY GEORGE PEELE.

BETHSABE, with her maid, bathing. She sings : and David sits

above, viewing her.

THE SONG.
Hot sun, cool fire, temper'd with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair :
Shine sun, burn fire, breathe air and ease me,
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me ;
Shadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause, cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty's fire
Enflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.
Bethsabe. Come gentle Zephyr trick'd with those

perfumes
That erst in Eden sweetened Adam's love,
And stroke my bosom with the silken fan :
This shade (sun-proof) is yet no proof for thee,
Thy body smoother than this waveless spring,
And purer than the substance of the same,
Can creep through that his * lances cannot pierce.
Thou and thy sister soft and sacred Air,

# The sun's rays.

Goddess of life, and governess of health,
Keeps every fountain fresh and arbour sweet ;
No brazen gate her passage can repulse,
Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath.
Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes,
And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes,
To play the wantons with us through the leaves.
David. What tunes, what words, what looks, what

wonders pierce
My soul, incensed with a sudden fire !
What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise,
Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame !
Fair Eva, plac'd in perfect happiness,
Lending her praise-notes to the liberal heavens,
Struck with the accents of Arch-angels' tunes,
Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's thoughts,
Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine.
May that sweet plain that bears her pleasant weight,
Be still enamelld with discolour'd flowers ;
That precious fount bear sand of purest gold ;
And for the pebble, let the silver streams
That pierce earth’s bowels to maintain the source,
Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites ;
The brim let be imbrac'd with golden curls
Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters make
For joy to feed the fount with their recourse;
Let all the grass that beautifies her bower
Bear manna every morn instead of dew ;
Or let the dew be sweeter far than that
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,
Or balm which trickled from old Aaron's beard.

Enter CUSAY.
See Cusay, see the flower of Israel,
The fairest daughter that obeys the king
In all the land the Lord subdued to me.
Fairer than Isaac's lover at the well,
Brighter than inside bark of new-hewn cedar,
Sweeter than flames of fine perfumed myrrh ;
And comelier than the silver clouds that dance
On Zephyr's wings before the king of Heaven.

Cusay. Is it not Bethsabe the Hethite's wife Urias, now at Rabeth siege with Joab?

David. Go now and bring her quickly to the King ; Tell her, her graces hath found grace with him. Cusay. I will my Lord.

[Exit. David. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David's bower In water mix'd with purest almond flower, And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids ; Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires, Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers, To flowers sweet odours, and to odours wings, That carries pleasures to the hearts of Kings. Now comes my Lover tripping like the Roe, And brings my longings tangled in her hair. To joy her love I'll build a kingly bower, Seated in hearing of a hundred streams, That, for their homage to her sovereign joys, Shall, as the serpents fold into their nests, In oblique turnings wind the nimble waves About the circles of her curious walks, And with their murmur summon easeful sleep To lay his golden sceptre on her brows.

*

[There is more of the same stuff, but I suppose the reader has a surfeit; especially as this Canticle of David has never been suspected to contain any pious sense couched underneath it, whatever his son's may.

The Kingly bower “ seated in hearing of a hundred streams," is the best of it.]

LUST'S DOMINION, OR THE LASCIVIOUS QUEEN.

A TRAGEDY, BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

The QUEEN MOTHER of Spain loves an insolent Moor *.

QUEEN.-ELEAZAR, the Moor. Queen. Chime out your softest strains of harmony, And on delicious Music's silken wings