And oft before his lady's face,

As thinking her her friend,

He would the maiden's modest grace

And comeliness commend.

All which incens'd his lady so,

She burnt with wrath extreame;

At length the fire that long did glow,
Burst forth into a flame.

For on a day it so befell,

When he was gone from home,

The lady all with rage did swell,

And to the damsell come.

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Where they were wont, in days of yore,

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Offenders great to keep.

There never light of chearful day

Dispers'd the hideous gloom;

But dank and noisome vapours play

Around the wretched room:

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And adders, snakes, and toads therein,
As afterwards was known,

Long in this loathsome vault had bin,

And were to monsters grown.

The toads to croak, and snakes to hiss:

With bleeding heart he goes agen
To mark the maiden's groans;
And plainly hears, within the den,
How she herself bemoans.

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The virgin now had ceas'd to mourn;
Which fill'd him with surprize.

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In grief, and horror, and affright,

He listens at the walls;

But finding all was silent quite,

He to his lady calls.

Too sure, O lady, now quoth he,

Your cruelty hath sped;

Make hast, for shame, and come and see;

I fear the virgin's dead.

She starts to hear her sudden fate,
And does with torches run:
But all her haste was now too late,

For death his worst had done.

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The door being open'd, strait they found

The virgin stretch'd along :

Two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round.

Which her to death had stung.

One round her legs, her thighs, her wast,

Had twin'd his fatal wreath :

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The wicked lady, at this sight,

With horror strait ran mad;
So raving dy'd, as was most right,
'Cause she no pity had.

Let me advise you, ladies all,
Of jealousy beware:

It causeth many a one to fall,
And is the devil's snare.

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IX.

JEALOUSY, TYRANT OF THE MIND.

This Song is by DRYDEN, being inserted in his Tragi-Comedy of LOVE TRIUMPHANT, &c.-On account of the subject, it is inserted here.

WHAT state of life can be so blest,
As love that warms the gentle brest;
Two souls in one; the same desire

To grant the bliss, and to require ?

But, oh, no cure but death we find

To sett us free

From jealousie,

Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.

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