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Come let's talk wisely now.
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
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.
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
Then, sir, after some violent noise,
arm, with my torch in my hand, and my sword
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 ?
[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
THE TRAGEDY OF ABSALOM.
BY GEORGE PEELE.
BETHSABE, with her maid, bathing. She sings : and David sits
above, viewing her.
# The sun's rays.
Goddess of life, and governess of health,
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
* Such another as Aaron in Titus Andronicus.