Had their souls warm'd, essential, not as now,
The common garb is to adore a lip,

Or

any other lineament; but, for

The abstract of perfection, which does glory

In being deriv'd from one so good as you are,

Am I become your captive?

Dal. This to me sounds as the empty whistling of the air Does in some hollow vault: unspotted truth

Informs my ignorance, there's not a person,

In all the multitude of men, loves chastely.
Pop. Be so charitable

As to believe I can, who never yet

Knew flame was vicious; my desires retain

Their maiden purity: no other object

Did ere attract my soul's unblinded eyes, but your fair self.

Dal. Then, I believe you,

sir:

No man will be so worthless to dissemble

With me, who cannot think but all the world

Intends the same reality that I do;

Yet, 'tis an error which persuasion scarce
Shall free me from, that every woman ought
To love a man with that indifferent heat
She fancies other women, without sense
Of difference 'twixt the sexes.

Pop. Soul of sweetness !

How equally an angel's intellect

Informs her sacred reason; to love chastely
Could not have been defin'd with juster strictness,
Had we produc'd the constancy of swans,

Or never-changing turtles, as our patterns;

It had but describ'd chaste love. The palm that prospers,
Not but by its fellow and the vine that weaves
Of her own leaves a thin, yet glorious mantle,

For her naked lover, do but emblem what
Her truth has utter'd; but resolve me, fair one;
Could you affect so?

Popingay appears in disguise before his Mistress.

"Pop. Trust me, lady, the solitary nightingale, who sings

To her lost honour a harmonious ditty,

Loves not the thorn so dearly, to whose pricks

She sets her feather'd bosom, as I'm sure

My brother tenders you; the gaudy light

May sooner be obscur'd by wand'ring smoke,
Nay, the eternal essence of the soul

Become corporeal, and revisit earth,
After its flight to paradise, ere he

Descend to variation of his love, could you affect him.
Dal. Had your brother been

Of the same disposition, and soft sweetness,

That I perceive in you, (though this be our

First interview) there could not have been moulded (Had I been born to entertain love's heat)

A man that would so fitly sympathize

With my condition, nor whom I should fancy
With more entire perfection.

Pop. Behold him, lady,

Whose every motion does, as from the sphere,
Receive a lively influence from your looks;
The modest silence of the temperate even,
When zephyrs softly murmur to the flowers
A wholesome farewell, undisturb'd by storms,
May sooner rest in one continued night,
Than can my soul in quiet, without just
Assurance of your love; which, if you grant,
Time's native bellman, the shrill organ'd cock,
Shall cease to carol mattens to the morn;
The early lark, that whispers to the sun

A constant augury of a beauteous day,

Shall lose his light plumes in the chequer'd clouds,

Ere I my resolute charity; nor can you

Invent evasions to decline my suit,

Since on its grant relies the only hopes

Of your redemption from the barbarous arms

Of him you were espous'd to.

JEALOUSY.

Sir Martin Yellow and his Lady.

Sir Mar. Thou art so bad, the present age will question The truth of history, which does but mention A virtuous woman. With what impudence Canst thou behold me, and a shivering cold, Strong as the hand of winter casts on brooks, Not freeze thy spirits up, congeal thy blood To an e'erlasting lethargy? The stars," Like stragglers, wander, by successive course, To various seats, yet constantly revisit

The place they mov'd from: the phoenix, whose sweetness
Becomes her sepulchre, ascends again,

Vested in younger feathers, from her pile
Of spicy ashes; but man's honour lost

Is irrecoverable, the force of fate cannot revive it.
Lady. Sir, 'tis past my thoughts

What should incense you to this jealous rage
'Gainst me your loyal wife, when no one blemish
Lies on my soul that can give testimony
Unto my conscience, that I have not ever
Truly and chastely lov'd you.

Sir Mar. Yes; just so the green

Willow and shady poplar love the brook
Upon whose banks they are planted, yet infect
By frequent dropping of their wither'd boughs
Its wholesome waters: that thou should'st be fair,
And, on the white leaves of thy face bear writ
The character of foulness, swallows up
In the abyss of sin thy native pureness;
As the high seas that do, with flattering curls,
Intice the spotless streams to mix their waves

With the insatiate billows that entomb the innocent rivers."

A SALUTATION.

"I hope you grow to perfect health.

The native beauty that once fill'd your cheeks,
Like the budding rose, puts forth again
After cold winter's violence; and your lips
On whose soft touch, bad it, been possible,
Death would have died himself, begin to shew
Like untouch'd cherries pale with morning dew,
Which once shak'd off, the purple fruit aspires,
With amorous blushes, to intice the small
Linnet and wanton sparrow from their lays
To doat upon its pure tincture, till they eat
What they admir'd."

INFIDELITY.

"Your breath expos'd a mist

Of infidelity before the eyes

Of my clear-seeing soul, and left it blind
As the black mole, that, like a pioneer, digs
A winding labyrinth through the earth, to find
A
passage
to the comfortable light
He never has fruition of."

Wit in a Constable, which was written in 1639, is an entertaining comedy, without possessing any passages which are particularly worth extracting; it certainly does not satisfy the expectations which the title is calculated to raise. If the constable has much wit, he is like Hudibras, "very shy in using it."

Argalus and Parthenia is one of the many rhythmical versions of the poetical prose of Sir Philip Sidney, and is distinguished by all Glapthorne's extravagances without his beauties. The latest and best of our author's productions is, The Lady's Privilege, a comedy abounding in poetry, and written with more feeling, more of the eloquence of real passion, and less deformed with hyperbole than any of his plays. As a specimen of fervid and beautiful composition, it might be quoted from the beginning to the end; but we must, at the same time remark, that it is by no means free from that vicious redundancy of figure, for which we have censured the author, in the early part of this article. But even in this, the best of his dramas, he does not arrive at any great degree of pathos, although the subject is eminently susceptible of it. The story is of a very dramatic cast, and yet the play is, as a whole, deficient in dramatic art: the character of Doria, however, is admirably conceived and well sustained. The plot is simple, and is in substance as follows:

Chrisea, the niece of Trivulci, Duke of Genoa, surprises Doria, the victorious Genoese admiral, whom she was engaged to marry, into a vow that he will not only renounce his own claim to her, but exert his utmost efforts to gain her the hand of his most intimate friend Vitelli. This arrangement of the faithless fair one, is as disagreeable to Vitelli, who is in love with her sister Eurione, as it is to Doria. The admiral, however, performs his vow with such laudable zeal and sincerity, that he prevails upon Vitelli, in the warmth of friendship, to sacrifice his own wishes to those of his friend. In the mean time, this unexpected change in the situation of the parties, without any apparent cause, produces a quarrel between Doria and Bonivet, one of Chrisea's kinsmen, which terminates in the supposed death of the latter. Doria is brought to trial, and is about to be sentenced to death, when the privilege which any virgin of Genoa has of redeeming a condemned person, on condition of her marrying him, is claimed by a young lady. Doria, at first, absolutely refuses to avail himself of the offer; but the lady, threatening to die with him if he persist in his ungallant refusal, he, at length, with extreme reluctance, yields his consent, and is married. Chrisea had, notwithstanding the urgent solicitations of Vitelli and Euroine, refused to claim the privilege, and save her former lover; but, at this period, she makes her appearance in court, and, to her inexpressible grief, finds that Doria is mar

ried. It appears, that for the purpose of trying the constancy of Doria, she had only feigned a passion for Vitelli, and, for the purpose of proving his fortitude, had secreted Bonivet, who suddenly appears amidst the astonished group. This, of course, annuls the sentence; but as it does not annul the marriage, the lovers are still in a dilemma; fortunately, the bride relieves them from their painful difficulty, by announcing herself to be Sabelli, Doria's page.

Having already given a general character of the author's works, we shall proceed, at once, to the extracts we intend to make from this play, in which the reader, besides the qualities before described, as characterizing Glapthorne's dramas, will frequently find great felicity of phrase and expression.

In the following scene, Chrisea discloses her affection for Vitelli, and imposes the vow on Doria.

"Doria. The modest turtles which,

In view of more lascivious birds,

Exchange their innocent loves in timorous sighs,
Do, when alone, most piteously convert

Their chirps to billing, and, with feather'd arms,
Excompass mutually their gawdy necks.

Chri. You would infer, that we

Should, in their imitation, spend this time,
Intended for a conference, which concerns us

Nearer than compliment.

Dor. Why, my Chrisea,

We

may entwine as freely, since our loves

Are not at age to conceive a sin,

Thine being new born, and mine too young to speak

A lawless passion: for my services

Pay me with priceless treasure of a kiss,

While from the balmy fountains of thy lips,

Distils a moisture precious as the dew,

The amorous bounty of the morn,

Cast on the rose's cheek: what wary distance
Do

you observe? speak, and enrich my ears
With accents more harmonious than the lark's,
When she sings hymns to harvest.

Chri. Sure, my lord,

You've studied compliment; I thought the war
Had taught men resolution, and not language.

Dor. Oh! you instruct me justly: I should rather
Have taken the modest privilege of your lip,
And then endeavour'd to repay the grace
With my extremest eloquence.