'Her. Dear madam, do not weep. I have done; I will not shed a tear more He was a fine young gentleman, and sung sweetly; We were married, you would have sworn he had been But we'll talk o' the Cardinal. Her. Would his death Might ransom your fair sense! he should not live But I begin to melt. Beshrew my manhood, Duch. I pray, sir, tell me, For I can understand, although they say I have lost my wits; but they are safe enough, Since he was slain. Duch. I know not where he is. But in some bower Within a garden he is making chaplets, And means to send me one; but I'll not take it ; I have flowers enough, I thank him, while I live. Duch. Yes, but I'll never marry him; I am promis'd Already. Her. To whom, madam? Duch. Do not you Blush when you ask me that? must not you be My husband? I know why, but that's a secret. No man alive so well as you: the Cardinal He says To make me well again; but I'm afraid, One time or other, he will give me poison. Her. Prevent him, madam, and take nothing from him. Duch. Why, do you think 'twill hurt me? Her. It will kill you. Duch. I shall but die, and meet my dear-lov'd lord, Whom, when I have kiss'd, I'll come again and work A bracelet of my hair for you to carry him, When you are going to heaven; the poesy shall Be my own name, in little tears, that I Will weep next winter, which congeal'd i' the frost, I know he'll love, and wear it for my sake. Her. She is quite lost. Duch. Pray, give me, sir, your pardon: -vol. v. pp. 341, 342. Shirley is still more successful in a kind of romantic tragi-comedy, crowded in general with incident and adventure, often wild and extravagant, but always full of life and amusement; sometimes, as in the diverting play of the Sisters,' the comic part greatly predominating; sometimes, as in the Young Admiral,' the interest being serious and tragic, but the catastrophe without bloodshed. It is not easy to give a fair notion of these pieces, by extracting single speeches or even scenes. It is the general effect of the whole drama, with all its intricacies of plot, however inconsistent, its rapid succession of perilous or diverting situations, however strangely brought about, and its varieties of character-it is the animation, the excitement of the dramatized romance-for such, as in a former article we attempted to explain, are all the plays of this school,-which constitutes their chief excellence. The Brothers' is another drama of the same class, though less raised above the level of common life. In this play, the bustle and intricacy of a Spanish plot is mingled up with scenes of a kind of quiet pathos, in which Shirley, apt to overstrain the more violent passions, is often inimitably happy. There is something exquisitely touching in the following scene. Nothing is laboured, nothing forced. The truth,-the simplicity of nature is perfectly preserved, while a hue of poetic fancy is thrown over the whole dialogue. Its very tranquillity is affecting, and a deep emotion is produced by the absence of all effort to produce emotion. Fernando, the elder son of Don Ramirez, is in love with Felisarda, the poor daughter of Theodoro, and the humble companion of Jacinta. Ramirez is supposed to have died in a fit of passion at the disobedience of Fernando, in refusing to pay his court to the rich heiress Jacinta, of whom his brother Francisco is enamoured. With his dying breath he disinherits Fernando, who is reduced to the most abject poverty. 'Fel. Why should I Give any entertainment to my fears? As Fel. Shall I want fortitude to bid him welcome? [Aside. Sir, if you think there is a heart alive That can be grateful, and with humble thought Am fearful to come near, and breathe a kiss With one warm sigh, meet and dry up this sorrow. I look upon the world, and race of men, Thyself, poor Felisarda; I am mortal; The life I bear about me is not mine, But borrow'd to come to thee once again, And, ere I go, to clear how much I love thee- A tale will make thee sad, but I must tell it,- Fel. One dead That lov'd me not? this carries, sir, in nature A charity at death. Fer. Thy cruel enemy, And my best friend, hath took eternal leave, And's gone to heaven, I hope; excuse my tears, For I did love my father. Fel. Fel. Ha! your father? Yes, Felisarda, he is gone, that in The morning promis'd many years; but death The winds of winter had thrown cold upon him, Fel. Now trust me, My heart weeps for him; but I understand Fer. He did Command me, on his blessing, to forsake thee. The soul, and curse his son for honest love? Fer. But not so mortal; For his last breath was balsam pour'd upon it, Where night and heavy shades hung round about me, Found myself rising like the morning star To view the world. Fel. Never, I hope, to be Eclips'd again. Fer. This was a welcome blessing. Fel. Heaven had a care of both: my joys are mighty. And say I love, but rather than the peace Those accents did Not sound so cheerfully. Fer. Dost love me? Fel. Sir? Fer. Do not, I prithee, do not; I am lost, Alas! I am no more Fernando, there Is nothing but the empty name of him That did betray thee; place a guard about Thy heart betime, I am not worth this sweetness. Fer. Desert me, goodness, When I upbraid thy wants. "Tis I am poor, For For I have not a stock in all the world Of so much dust, as would contrive one narrow But the small earth I borrow, thus to walk on ;] Fel. I must beseech you stay a little, sir, Fer. 'Tis sad truth. Fel. This is a happiness I did not look for. Fel. Yes, sir, a happiness. Fer. Can Felisarda take delight to hear What hath undone her servant? Fel. Heaven avert it. But 'tis not worth my grief to be assured I can deserve you now, and love you more The pride and blossoms of the spring upon it. Fer. Those shadows will not feed more than your fancies: Two poverties will keep but a thin table; And while we dream of this high nourishment, We do but starve more gloriously. Fel. "Tis ease And wealth first taught us art to surfeit by: And the kind earth keep us alive and healthful, Health to our loves; our lives shall there be free Fel. |