And lose not one in thousands, they're dispers'd
So gloriously, I know not which are brightest;
I find them, as angels are found, by legions.

Cle. Nor you

Hip. I heard a

Cle. Hark, again

Leon. Bless my joy,

What ails it on a sudden?

Cle. Now since

lately

Leon. 'Tis nothing but a symptom of thy care, man.

Cle. Alas! you do not hear well.

Leon. What was't, daughter?

Hip. I heard a sound, twice.

Cle. Hark! louder and nearer.

In, for the precious good of virtue, quick, sir.
Louder and nearer yet; at hand, at hand;

A hunting here! 'tis strange! I never knew
Game follow'd in these woods before.

(Leonides goes in.) Hip. Now let them come, and spare not.

Enter Duke, Courtiers, Attendants, as if hunting. Cle. Ha! 'tis

ingly.

is't not the Duke?

look spar

Hip. 'Tis he, but what of that? alas! take heed, sir; Your care will overthrow us.

Cle. Come, it shall not.

Let's set a pleasant face upon our fears,

Though our hearts shake with horror. Ha! ha! ha!
Duke. Hark!

Cle. Prithee, proceed;

I'm taken with these light things infinitely,

Since the old man's decease.-Ha! ha! ha!

Duke.

Duke. Why, how should I believe this? Look, he's

merry,

As if he had no such charge. One with that care
Could never be so still; he holds his temper,
And 'tis the same still, with no difference,
He brought his father's corpse to the grave with.
He laugh'd thus then, you know.

Court. Aye, he may laugh, my lord;

That shews but how he glories in his cunning;
And, perhaps, done more to advance his wit,
Than to express affection to his father,
That only he has over-reach'd the law.

Duke. If a contempt can be so neatly carried,
It gives me cause of wonder.---
Cleanthes▬▬▬▬▬▬

Cle. My lov'd lord

Duke. Not mov'd a whit!

Constant to lightning still!-'tis strange to meet you
Upon a ground so unfrequented, sir:

This does not fit your passion; you are for mirth,
Or I mistake you much.

Cle. But finding it

Grow to a noted imperfection in me

(For any thing too much is vicious),

I come to these disconsolate walks of purpose
Only to dull and take away the edge on't.
I ever had a greater zeal to sadness,
A natural propension, I confess, my lord,
Before that chearful accident fell out,-
If I may call a father's funeral chearful,
Without wrong done to duty or my love.

Duke. It seems then you take pleasure in these walks, sir?

Cle. Contemplative content I do, my lord:

They bring into my mind oft meditations

So sweetly precious, that in the parting
I find a shower of grace upon my
They take their leave so feelingly.

Duke. So, sir

cheeks,

Cle. Which is a kind of grave delight, my lord.

Duke. And I've small cause, Cleanthes, to afford you

The least delight that has a name.

Cle. My lord

Duke. In your excess of joy you have express'd
Your rancour and contempt against my law:
Your smiles deserve fining; you have profess'd
Derision openly ev'n to my face,

Which might be death, a little more incensed.
You do not come for any freedom here,
But for a project of your own;

But all that's known to be contentful to thee,
Shall in the use prove deadly. Your life's mine,
If ever thy presumption do but lead thee

Into these walks again--aye, or that woman-—
I'll have them watch'd a purpose.

1st Court. Now, now, his colour ebbs and flows.
2d Court. Mark hers too.

Hip. Oh! who shall bring food to the poor old man

now?

Speak somewhat, good sir, or we are lost for ever. (Apart to Cleanthes.) Cle. Oh! you did wondrous ill to call me again. There are not words to help us. If I intreat, 'Tis found; that will betray us worse than silence. Pr'ithee, let heaven alone, and let's say nothing. (Apart to Hippolita.) 1st Court. You have struck them dumb, my lord. 2d Court. Look how guilt looks! Cle. He is safe still, is he not? Hip. Oh! you do ill to doubt it. Cle. Thou art all goodness.

}

Apart.

2d Court. Now does your grace believe?
Duke. 'Tis too apparent.

Search, make a speedy search; for the imposture
Cannot be far off, by the fear it sends.

Cle. Ha!

24

2d Court. He has the lapwing's cunning, I'm afraid, my

lord,

That cries most when she is farthest from the nest.
Cle. Oh! we are betrayed.111

THE TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT, ADMIRAL OF FRANCE. BY GEORGE CHAPMAN, AND JAMES

SHIRLEY.

The Admiral is accused of treason, a criminal process is instituted against him, and his faithful servant Allegre is put on the rack to make him discover: his innocence is at length established by the confession of his enemies; but the disgrace of having been suspected for a traitor by his royal Master, sinks so deep into him, that he falls into a mortal sickness.

ADMIRAL. ALLEGRE, supported between two.

Adm. Welcome my injured servant: what a misery Have they made on thee!

Al. Though some change appear

Upon my body, whose severe affliction

Hath brought it thus to be sustain'd by others,

My heart is still the same in faith to you,

Not broken with their rage.

Adm. Alas poor man.

Were

There is an exquisiteness of moral sensibility, making one to gush out tears of delight, and a poetical strangeness in all the improbable circumstances of this wild play, which are unlike any thing in the dramas which Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of a subtler edge. Middleton and Rowley, who assisted in this play, had both of them finer geniuses than their associate.

Were all my joys essential, and so mighty,
As the affected world believes I taste,
This object were enough t' unsweeten all.
Though, in thy absence, I had suffering,
And felt within me a strong sympathy,
While for my sake their cruelty did vex
And fright thy nerves with horror of thy sense,
Yet in this spectacle I apprehend

More grief, than all my imagination
Could let before into me.

Upon the torture?

Al. Good my lord, let not

Didst not curse me

The thought of what I suffer'd dwell upon
Your memory; they could not punish more
Than what my duty did oblige to bear

For you and justice: but there's something in
Your looks presents more fear, than all the malice
Of my tormentors could affect my soul with.
That paleness, and the other forms you wear,
Would well become a guilty admiral, one
Lost to his hopes and honour, not the man
Upon whose life the fury of injustice,

Arm'd with fierce lightning and the power of thunder,
Can make no breach. I was not rack'd till now.
There's more death in that falling eye, than all

Rage ever yet brought forth. What accident, sir, can blast,

Can be so black and 'fatal, to distract

The calm, the triumph, that should sit upon

Your noble brow: misfortune could have no

Time to conspire with fate, since you were rescued
By the great arm of Providence; nor can

Those garlands, that now grow about your forehead,
With all the poison of the world be blasted.

Adm. Allegre, thou dost bear thy wounds upon thee In wide and spacious characters, but in The volume of my sadness thou dost want An eye to read. An open force hath torn

Thy manly sinews, which some time may cure.

The