You, who can steal the jewels of men's hearts
With your enchanting sorceries, will not fear
To make a venture upon pettier theft.

Isa. My lord,

I'm so secure in my own innocence,
That should your fury riot on my life,

'Twould not affright me; I should meet my death
As willingly as I should do my rest,

After a tedious watching: there's no armour
Like that of innocence, with which I'm guarded,
And, therefore, laugh at punishment.

Enter a Guard.

Wal. So brave? I shall soon quell your insolence! Lay hands On this ignoble strumpet! hang her up here in my presence. Alb. Stay, sir! I do beseech you hear me.

Wal. Your entreaties are cast on me, as fools throw oil on fire,

Striving to extinguish it: hang her up!
I'll hang you all else.

Alb. Then, sir, I will speak;

Since you forget to be a father to me,
I will put off my duty. I'm resolv'd,
Since 'tis impossible that we should live,
To die together: nor do not, slave, presume
To touch this mine of purity; 'tis a treasure,
While I'm alive, hell cannot ravish from me,
For fiends would fear to touch it. If you murder
This spotless innocent virgin, you are such,

So merciless a tyrant, as do love

To feed on your own bowels; one whom nature

Created for a curse, and to get curses:

Such prodigies as I am, one whom all lovers

Shall tremble at, if mentioned; one

Wal. Death! have I lost my command? is he or I

To be obey'd? Hang her! If he resist,

Kill the unnatural traitor!

Isa. Dear Albertus! draw not a ruin on thy priceless life
For my despised sake: I will go to death.

In full peace, as does an Anchorite, that's assur'd of all his
Sins' forgiveness.
[they lay hands on her.
Alb. Saucy devil! carry that touch of her to hell, 'twill serve
To mitigate thy tortures.

[he kills one of the guard, and is stabbed by Walleustein.

Dutch. O, my lord, what has your fury acted?
Dear Albertus !

Alb. 'Twas a most friendly hand, and I could kiss it
For the most welcome benefit. Isabella!

In death thou giv'st me life; thy innocence
Will, like my guardian angel, safely convey me
To yonder heav'nly mansion; pray, forgive me,
Dear sir, if, in my over-hasty zeal

In this poor innocent's quarrel, my wild fury,
Transgress'd my natural duty, and, as the last
Request your dying son can ask, take pity

On this most innocent maid. Thy hand, my fair one:

And now as willingly I do expire,

As a blest martyr who does court the fire. O, Isabella! [dies.

Dutch. O, my dear Albert!

Wal. Death! slave, dare you play with a flame

That shall consume you? Hang her

up!

Or torments shall pay your breach of duty.

Isa. There, friend; there's all the jewels I am mistress of, And that thou merit'st. 'Pr'ythee, be as speedy

In thy dispatch, as fate itself. There is

A

pure white ghost, in yon same azure cloud,

Expects me straight: I come, my dear Albertus!" [is hanged.

The following soliloquy of Wallenstein, though not entitled to the praise of originality, is written with considerable power.

"Sure I beheld them, or the air condens'd Into their lively figures. In their shrouds, Pale and as meagre as they had convers'd year with the inhabitants of the earth,

A

And drunk the dew of charnel houses, shew'd,
Albertus and his lovely bride. They wav'd
Their ghastly hands to me, as if in that
Dumb language they'd invited me to come
And visit them in their cold urns. To die—
Why, 'tis man's nature, not his punishment.
With this condition we all enter life,

To put it off again; 'tis but a garment,

And cannot last for ever; both its fashion

And stuff will soon wear out: why then should death
(If I were now creeping into my marble),
To me be terrible, since 'tis main folly
To fear that which we no way can avoid?

Nor is't much matter how we die-by force,
Or naturally chequered with grisly wounds,

Or in our beds, since all 's but the same death still-
Oh! but to die surcharg'd with mortal sins,

Such as can kill our everlasting beings

Our souls, and send them hence to bathe in floods
Of living fire; there, that's the frightful mischief;
The other's but a trifle: I, who never

Could fear the other, at the thought of this
Am more with death already; my vast crimes,
My horrid murders, fill that conscience in me,
Which makes me know my guilt-that conscience
Which, as my shadow, follows me."

The next production of our author was a comedy, called The Hollander, which was written 1635, but not published until 1640. This play contains some fine writing, but very little comic power, except in the character of Captain Pirke, a very diminutive personage, who breathes nothing but big phrases, and struts about with a most valorous magniloquence. Sconce, the Dutchman, from whom the piece is named, is, we think, a failure.

The following scene between two quarreling lovers, Freewit and Mrs. Know-worth, exhibits that redundancy of imagery which we have censured in Glapthorne. It contains some pretty images, but the whole passage is spoiled by the bad taste and extravagance of the author.

"Free. O reserve that breath

Which ought, like sacred incense, to be spent
Only on heaven, or in delivering notes

May charm the world to peace, when raging wars
Or earthquakes have affrighted it. Consume it,
On no such use, horrid and ominous,

As if it threaten'd thunder to the earth;
Or would infect the genius of the air
With mists contagious, as if compos'd
Of viper steam. O, you were wont
To be so good, that virtue would have sigh'd
At the unwelcome spectacle, if you
Had appeared woman in a passion,

Though of the slightest consequence. O, do not
Renounce that saint-like temper, it will be
A change hereafter burthenous to your soul,
A sin to one who, all his life time blest

With peace of conscience, at his dying minute
Falls into mortal enmity with heaven,
And perishes eternally.

Know. These words

Have not the effectual orat'ry you first had,
When I was confident, as day of light,
Your youth had been as destitute of vice
As of deformity. So a sweet stream,
Whose bubbling harmony allur'd the birds
To court its moving music, when it mixes
With impure waters, with the noise affrights
The ears before delighted in it.

Free. This is too severe a justice, and extends
To cruelty. Had some intemperate rage
Purpl'd my hand in murder, though the guilt
Would have been written in a larger text,
In conscience's black book, yet the punishment
Had not been half so hideous. I should for that
Have suffered but a temporary pain

At worst, and my truly repentant soul
Perhaps have had free entrance to the place
Consign'd to penitents; when now, like some
Manacled captive, or diseased wretch,
On whom each minute does beget a death,

I, like a slow fire, by my own soft flames,

With tortoise speed extinguish.

Know. Sir, your words are superficial, as a shadow which The morning sun produces, and black night

Renders forgotten, and no more excite

Belief in me, that what you utter 's truth,
Than mandrakes' groans do a conceit of death
In persons resolute; while I have yet

A specious mem'ry left, that once my heart
Tender'd you dearly, I would counsel you,
First to endeavour to find out that maid,
(If that succeed not, not to think of me,)
As one affianc'd to you by a nearer
Interest than other women are,
That ne'er had conversation with you.
Free. Had a frost, sharp

As a tedious winter's northern blasts,

Congeal'd your mercy, my unfeign'd tears

Should with moist warmth dissolve it. Mistress, you

Approach so near the attributes of heaven,

That had you liv'd in the superstitious age,

More precious gums had fum'd upon your altars
Than on all female deities'. O, forgive me;
A rigorous tyrant's breath will scarce pronounce
For one, and the first crime, so strict a sentence.
You shall not go; yet if you will recall it,

Lovers will bless your piety, and subscribe to your
Superlative goodness.

Know. Pray desist; afford me liberty to retire :
I cannot alter my resolution.

Free. Yet, reclaim it: some devil's spleen has lately fraught
Your breast, and banish'd thence mild pity; boist'rous winds,
Force so the gentle and untroubled seas,

To swallow up some ships, its natural calmness
Would have transported safely, with their wealth,
To their desired harbours; were my thoughts
Not fix'd with that religion upon you,

That are my prayers (when I repent) on heaven,
I should not thus transcend the laws and strength
Of manhood; and, like some distressed babe,
Left by its parent to the desolate wood,

Or air's cold charity, so long implore

A new and holier union 'twixt our souls

Than ere had link'd them; which when you have tied,
Time shall depend like summer on your brow,
And your whole life be one continued youth :-
(Such were the springs in Paradise),-and when
You pass, to be a sharer in Heaven's bliss,
Virgins and innocent lovers' spotless tears,
Hardened to pearl by the strong heat of sighs,
Shall be your monument."

The last seven lines were, we presume, considered by the author as peculiarly good, for he has also introduced them in The Lady's Privilege.

We shall make two or three additional extracts from this play, which are in the heightened style of the author, but are at the same time highly poetical.

Pop. I love you, lady,

With the religious fancy that one saint

Affects another; such a heat as mine

Was that with which the first who e'er knew love,