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Are all my anthem-singing quiristers.
Such sapless roots, and liveless wither'd woods,
Are pleasanter to me than to behold

The jocund month of May, in whose green head of youth
The amorous Flora strews her various flowers,

And smiles to see how brave she has deckt her girl.

But pass we May, as game for fangled fools,
That dare not set a foot in Art's dark, se-
-cret, and bewitching path, as Calib has.
Here is my mansion.

Within the rugged bowels of this cave,
This crag, this cliff, this den; which to behold
Would freeze to ice the hissing trammels of Medusa.
Yet here enthroned I sit, more richer in my spells
And potent charms, than is the stately Mountain Queen,
Drest with the beauty of her sparkling gems,
To vie a lustre 'gainst the heavenly lamps.

But we are sunk in these antipodes; so choakt
With darkness is great Calib's cave, that it

Can stifle day. It can ?-it shall-for we do loath the


And, as our deeds are black, we hug the night.

But where's this Boy, my GEORGE, my Love, my Life,
Whom Calib lately dotes on more than life?
I must not have him wander from my love
Farther than summons of my eye, or beck,
Can call him back again. But 'tis my fiend-
-begotten and deform'd Issue*, misleads him:
For which I'll rock him in a storm of hail,
And dash him 'gainst the pavement on the rocky den;
He must not lead my Joy astray from me.

The parents of that Boy, begetting him,

* A sort of young Caliban, her son, who presently enters, complaining of a "bloody coxcomb" which the Young Saint George had given him.

Begot and bore the issue of their deaths;
Which done*, the Child I stole,
Thinking alone to triumph in his death,
And bathe my body in his popular gore;
But dove-like Nature favour'd so the Child,
That Calib's killing knife fell from her hand;
And, 'stead of stabs, I kiss'd the red-lipt Boy.


Truth, the Chorus, to the Spectators.

All you, the sad Spectators of this Act,
Whose hearts do taste a feeling pensiveness
Of this unheard-of savage massacre :
Oh be far off to harbour such a thought,
As this audacious murderer put in act!
I see your sorrows flow up to the brim,
And overflow your cheeks with brinish tears:
But though this sight bring surfeit to the eye,
Delight your ears with pleasing harmony,
That ears may countercheck your eyes, and say,


Why shed you tears? this deed is but a Play t." Murderer to his Sister, about to stow away the trunk of the body, having severed it from the limbs.

Hark, Rachel! I will cross the water strait,
And fling this middle mention of a Man
Into some ditch.

• Calib had killed the parents of the Young Saint George.

+ The whole eory of the reason of our delight in Tragic Repre sentations, which has cost so many elaborate chapters of Criticism, is condensed in these four last lines: Aristotle quintessentialised.

[It is curious. that this old Play comprises the distinct action of two Atrocities; the one a vulgar murder, committed in our own Thames Street, with the names and incidents truly and historically set down; the other a Murder in high life, supposed to be acting at the same time in Italy, the scenes alternating between that country and England: the Story of the latter is mutatis mutandis no other than that of our own "Babes in the Wood," transferred to Italy, from delicacy no doubt to some of the family of the rich Wicked Uncle, who might yet be living. The treatment of the two differs as the romance-like narratives in "God's Revenge against Murder," in which the Actors of the Murders (with the trifling exception that they were Murderers) are represented as most accomplished and every way amiable young Gentlefolks of either sex-as much as that differs from the honest unglossing pages of the homely Newgate Ordinary.]


Flora dresses Ida Hill, to honour the coming of the Three Goddesses.

Flora. Not Iris in her pride and bravery
Adorns her Arch with such variety;

Nor doth the Milk-white Way in frosty night
Appear so fair and beautiful in sight,

As done these fields, and groves, and sweetest bowers,
Bestrew'd and deck'd with parti-colour'd flowers.

Along the bubbling brooks, and silver glide,
That at the bottom doth in silence slide,
The watery flowers and lilies on the banks
Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks;
Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree,
Where sacred Phoebe may delight to be:
The primrose, and the purple hyacinth,
The dainty violet, and the wholesome minth;

The double daisy, and the cowslip (Queen

Of summer flowers), do over-peer the green;
And round about the valley as ye pass,

Ye may ne see (for peeping flowers) the grass.-
They are at hand by this.

Juno hath left her chariot long ago,

And hath return'd her peacocks by her Rainbow;
And bravely, as becomes the Wife of Jove,
Doth honour by her presence to our grove:
Fair Venus she hath let her sparrows fly,
To tend on her, and make her melody;
Her turtles and her swans unyoked be,
And flicker near her side for company:
Pallas hath set her tigers loose to feed,
Commanding them to wait when she hath need:
And hitherward with proud and stately pace,
To do us honour in the sylvan chace,

They march, like to the pomp of heav'n above,
Juno, the Wife and Sister of King Jove,
The warlike Pallas, and the Queen of Love.

The Muses, and Country Girls, assemble to welcome the Goddesses.


with country store like friends we venture forth.

Think'st, Faunus, that these Goddesses will take our gifts in worth?

Faun. Nay, doubtless; for, 'shall tell thee, Dame, 'twere better give a thing,

A sign of love, unto a mighty person, or a King,
Than to a rude and barbarous swain both bad and basely




The Welcoming Song.

Country Gods. Ó Ida, O Ida, O Ida, happy hill! This honour done to Ida may it continue still!

Muses. Ye Country Gods, that in this Ida wonne, Bring down your gifts of welcome,

For honour done to Ida.

Gods. Behold in sign of joy we sing,
And signs of joyful welcome bring,
For honour done to Ida.

Pan. The God of Shepherds, and his mates,
With country cheer salutes your States:
Fair, wise, and worthy, as you be!
And thank the gracious Ladies Three,
For honour done to Ida.



Par. Enone, while we bin disposed to walk,
Tell me, what shall be subject of our talk?
Thou hast a sort of pretty tales in store;
'Dare say no nymph in Ida's woods hath more.
Again, beside thy sweet alluring face,
In telling them thou hast a special grace.
Then prithee, sweet, afford some pretty thing,
Some toy that from thy pleasant wit doth spring.
En. Paris, my heart's contentment, and my
Use thou thy pipe, and I will use my voice;
So shall thy just request not be denied,
And time well spent, and both be satisfied.

Par. Well, gentle nymph, although thou do me wrong,

That can ne tune my pipe unto a song,
Me list this once, Enone, for thy sake,
This idle task on me to undertake.


(They sit under a tree together.)

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