SPECIMENS OF HIS FIRST PLAY.

57

Yet he thou talk'st of is above the sun.

No more! I may not hear it.

Gio.

Gentle father,

To you I have unclasp'd my burden'd soul,
Emptied the storehouse of my thoughts and heart,
Made myself poor of secrets; have not left
Another word untold, which hath not spoke
All what I ever durst, or think, or know;
And yet is here the comfort I shall have?
Must I not do what all men else may,-love?
No, father! in your eyes I see the change
Of pity and compassion; from your age,
As from a sacred oracle, distils

The life of counsel. Tell me, holy man,

What cure shall give me ease in these extremes?
Friar. Repentance, son, and sorrow for this sin:
For thou hast mov'd a majesty above

With thy unranged, almost, blasphemy.

Gio. O do not speak of that, dear confessor.
Friar. Then I have done, and in thy wilful flames
Already see thy ruin; Heaven is just.

Yet hear my counsel!

Friar. Hie to thy father's house; there lock thee fast Alone within thy chamber; then fall down

On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground;

Cry to thy heart; wash every word thou utter'st

In tears (and if 't be possible) of blood:

Beg Heaven to cleanse the leprosy of love
That rots thy soul; weep, sigh, pray

Three times a day, and three times every night:

For seven days' space do this; then, if thou find'st
No change in thy desires, return to me;

I'll think on remedy. Pray for thyself

At home, whilst I pray for thee here. Away!

My blessing with thee! We have need to pray."-vol i. p. 9-12. In a subsequent scene with the sister, the same holy person maintains the dignity of his style.

"Friar. I am glad to see this penance; for, believe me, You have unripp'd a soul so foul and guilty,

As I must tell you true, I marvel how

The earth hath borne you up; but weep, weep on,
These tears may do you good; weep faster yet,

Whilst I do read a lecture.

Friar. Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched,

Almost condemned alive. There is a place,

(List, daughter) in a black and hollow vault,

Where day is never seen; there shines no sun,

58

STRIKING CATASTROPHE.

But flaming horror of consuming fires;
A lightless sulphur, chok'd with smoky fogs
Of an infected darkness; in this place
Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts
Of never-dying deaths. There damned souls
Roar without pity; there are gluttons fed
With toads and adders; there is burning oil
Pour'd down the drunkard's throat; the usurer
Is forc'd to sup whole draughts of molten gold;
There is the murderer for ever stabb'd,
Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton
On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul
He feels the torment of his raging lust.
Ann. Mercy! oh mercy!
Friar.

There stand these wretched things,

Who have dream'd out whole years in lawless sheets

And secret incests, cursing one another," &c.— vol. i. p. 63, 64. The most striking scene of the play, however, is that which contains the catastrophe of the lady's fate. Her husband, after shutting her up for some time in gloomy privacy, invites her brother, and all his family, to a solemn banquet; and even introduces him, before it is served up, into her private chamber, where he finds her sitting on her marriage-bed, in splendid attire, but filled with boding terrors and agonising anxiety. He, though equally aware of the fate that was prepared for them, addresses her at first with a kind of wild and desperate gaiety, to which she tries for a while to answer with sober and earnest warnings,-and at last exclaims impatiently,

These precious hours in vain and useless speech.
Alas, these gay attires were not put on

But to some end; this sudden solemn feast

Was not ordain'd to riot in expense;

I that have now been chamber'd here alone,
Barr'd of my guardian, or of any else,
Am not for nothing at an instant freed

To fresh access. Be not deceiv'd, my brother;
This banquet is an harbinger of Death
To you and me! resolve yourself it is,

And be prepar'd to welcome it.

Gio. Look up, look here; what see you in my
Ann. Distraction and a troubled countenance.

face?

Gio. Death, and a swift repining wrath! -Yet look,
What see you in mine eyes?

Methinks you weep.

Gio. I do indeed.

Shed on your grave!

These are the funeral tears
These furrow'd up my cheeks

When first I lov'd and knew not how to woo.
Fair Annabella! should I here repeat

The story of my life, we might lose time!

Be record, all the spirits of the air,

And all things else that are, that day and night,
Early and late, the tribute which

my heart

Hath paid to Annabella's sacred love

Hath been these tears, which are her mourners now!
Never till now did nature do her best

To show a matchless beauty to the world,

Which in an instant, ere it scarce was seen,
The jealous destinies require again.

Pray, Annabella, pray! since we must part,
Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne
Of innocence and sanctity in heaven.
Pray, pray, my sister.

Ann.

Then I see your drift; Ye blessed angels, guard me!

So say I.

Gio.
Kiss me! If ever after-times should hear
Of our fast-knit affections, though perhaps
The laws of conscience and of civil use
May justly blame us, yet when they but know
Our loves, that love will wipe away that rigour,
Which would in other incests be abhorr'd.
Give me your hand. How sweetly life doth run
In these well-colour'd veins! how constantly
These palms do promise health! but I could chide
With nature for this cunning flattery.-

Kiss me again;-forgive me!

Ann.

With my heart.

Gio. Farewell.

Ann.

Will you be gone?

Gio.

Be dark, bright sun,

59

And make this mid-day night, that thy gilt rays
May not behold a deed will turn their splendour
More sooty than the poets feign their Styx!
One other kiss, my sister!

What means this?

Ann.
Gio. To save thy fame, and kill thee in a kiss!
Thus die! and die by me, and by my hand!
Ann. Oh brother, by your hand!

Gio.

[Stabs her.

When thou art dead

I'll give my reasons for 't; for to dispute

With thee, even in thy death, most lovely beauty,
Would make me stagger to perform this act
Which I most glory in.

60

FORD HIS TRAGEDY OF THE BROKEN HEART.

Ann. Forgive him, Heaven and me my sins! Farewell.
Brother unkind, unkind, ― mercy, great Heaven,— oh — oh.

Gio. She's dead, alas, good soul! This marriage-bed,
In all her best, bore her alive and dead.
Soranzo, thou hast miss'd thy aim in this;

I have prevented now thy reaching plots,

And kill'd a love, for whose each drop of blood
I would have pawn'd my heart. Fair Annabella,
How over-glorious art thou in thy wounds,
Triumphing over infamy and hate!

Shrink not, courageous hand; stand up, my heart,
And boldly act my last, and greater part!

[Dies.

[Exit with the Body." vol. i. p. 98-101.

There are few things finer than this in Shakespeare. It bears an obvious resemblance indeed to the death of Desdemona; and, taking it as a detached scene, we think it rather the more beautiful of the two. The sweetness of the diction-the natural tone of tenderness and passion-the strange perversion of kind and magnanimous natures, and the horrid catastrophe by which their guilt is at once consummated and avenged, have not often been rivalled, in the pages either of the modern or the ancient drama.

The play entitled "The Broken Heart," is in our author's best manner; and would supply more beautiful quotations than we have left room for inserting. The story is a little complicated; but the following slight sketch of it will make our extracts sufficiently intelligible. Penthea, a noble lady of Sparta, was betrothed, with her father's approbation and her own full consent, to Orgilus; but being solicited, at the same time, by Bassanes, a person of more splendid fortune, was, after her father's death, in a manner compelled by her brother Ithocles to violate her first engagement, and yield him her hand. In this ill-sorted alliance, though living a life of unimpeachable purity, she was harassed and degraded by the perpetual jealousies of her unworthy husband; and pined away, like her deserted lover, in sad and bitter recollec tions of the happy promise of their youth. Ithocles, in the meantime, had pursued the course of ambition with a bold and commanding spirit, and had obtained the

highest honours of his country; but too much occupied in the pursuit to think of the misery to which he had condemned the sister who was left to his protection: At last, however, in the midst of his proud career, he is seized with a sudden passion for Calantha, the heiress of the sovereign; and, after many struggles, is reduced to ask the intercession and advice of his unhappy sister, who was much in favour with the princess. The following is the scene in which he makes this request;-and to those who have learned, from the preceding passages, the lofty and unbending temper of the suppliant, and the rooted and bitter anguish of her whom he addresses, it cannot fail to appear one of the most striking in the whole compass of dramatic composition.*

"Ith. Sit nearer, sister, to me-nearer yet!
We had one father; in one womb took life;
Were brought up twins together; -Yet have liv'd
At distance, like two strangers! I could wish
That the first pillow, whereon I was cradled,
Had proved to me a grave!

Pen.

You had been happy!

Then had you never known that sin of life

Which blots all following glories with a vengeance,
For forfeiting the last will of the dead,

From whom you had your being.

Ith.

Sad Penthea!

Thou canst not be too cruel; my rash spleen

Hath with a violent hand pluck'd from thy bosom

A love-blest heart, to grind it into dust

For which mine 's now a-breaking.

Pen.

Not yet, heaven,

I do beseech thee! first, let some wild fires

Scorch, not consume it! may the heat be cherish'd

With desires infinite, but hopes impossible!

Ith. Wrong'd soul, thy prayers are heard.
Pen.

A miserable creature, led to ruin

By an unnatural brother!

Here, lo, I breathe,

I have often fancied what a splendid effect Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble would have given to the opening of this scene, in actual representation! with the deep throb of their low voices, their pathetic pauses, and majestic attitudes and movements!