Unthought of mischief in thy fiend-like power, Make me more wretch, more cursed if thou canst, My woes more weighty than my soul can bear." Antonio visits the vault in which the body of his father is placed. "I purify the air with odorous fume. Graves, vaults, and tombs, groan not to bear my weight. I press you softly with a tender foot. Most honour'd sepulchre, vouchsafe a wretch Leave to weep o'er thee. Tomb, I'll not be long Ere I creep in thee, and with bloodless lips Thou royal spirit of Andrugio, where'er thou hoverest, Once every night I'll dew thy funeral hearse O blessed father of a cursed son, Thou diedst most happy, since thou livedst not The account of Mellida's death is exceedingly beautiful. The fool is Antonio in disguise. "Being laid upon her bed, she grasp'd my hand, With that her head sunk down upon her breast; Her cheek chang'd earth, her senses slept in rest; Screech'd out so loud, that he brought back her soul, And star'd upon him: he, audacious fool, Dar'd kiss her hand, wish'd her soft rest, lov'd bride; His two other tragedies, Sophonisba and The Insatiate Countess, are vastly inferior to Antonio and Mellida. In the former, there is little worthy of notice. We shall, however, make two short extracts from it. There is a striking description of the witch Erictho's cave. "There once a charnel house, now a vast cave, Over whose brow a pale and untrod grove Throws out her heavy shade, the mouth thick arms Yields not so lazy air." The inhabitant of this appalling abode is drawn in a manner as horrid and as disgusting as can well be conceived. "A loathsome yellow leanness spreads her face, She makes fierce spoil; and swells with wicked triumph Then doth she gnaw the pale and o'ergrown nails Yet lurking close, she bites his gelid lips, And sticking her black tongue in his dry throat, The tragedy of the Insatiate Countess is not only worthless, but disgusting. There is, however, one touching passage, which we shall extract. Isabella, the insatiate Countess, after yielding to an inordinate indulgence of her passion, is brought to punishment. Duke Robert appears on the scaffold, in the habit of a friar, to take his leave of her. "Bear record, all you blessed saints in heaven, I come not to torment thee in thy death; Jealous the air should ravish her chaste looks; Who views them every minute and with care And he, poor wretch, hoping some better fate The comedy of What you Will is after the author's own heart. In it he has poured out the whole bitterness of his satirical spirit. Quadratus and Lampatho rival each other in the asperity of their invective. Every man rails at his neighbour. In short, there is nothing but railing from beginning to end. There are two passages which are more particularly worth extracting, and which we shall accordingly present to our readers' notice. Lampatho, an indigent scholar, describes his laborious life, and the vanity of scholastic learning, in a manner the most forcible, and illustrated by an illusion the most impressive. "Lam. In heaven's handy-work there's nought, None more vile, accursed, reprobate to bliss Than man, 'mong men a scholar most. Of things o'erpast, or stagger'd infant doubts Of things succeeding: but leave the manly beasts, Of beastly man now Sim. (From within.) What so, Lampatho! good truth I will not pay your ordinary if you come not. Lam. Dost hear that voice? I'll make a parrot now As good a man as he in fourteen nights; I never heard him vent a syllable Of his own creating since I knew the use "Twixt my dog and him. The whoreson sot is bless'd, Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man ; Sim. (From within.) Nay, come, good Signior, I stay all the gentlemen here, I wou'd fain give my pretty page a puddingpie. Lam. Honest Epicure. Nay mark, list! Delight, Delight, my spaniel, slept, whilst I baus'd leaves, Toss'd o'er the dunces, por'd on the old print Of titled words, and still my spaniel slept. Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, 'bated my flesh, Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw Then, an it were mortal; oh, hold, hold, At that they are at brain buffets; fell by the ears, Extraduce; but whether 't had free will Stood banding factions, all so strongly propp'd, Sim. (From within.) Delicate good Lampatho, come away, Lam. How 'twas created, how the soul exists; One talks of motes, the soul was made of motes; Aristoxenus, music; Critias, I know not what; A Did eat my youth; and when I crept abroad, I fell a railing; but now soft and slow, I know, I know nought, but I nought do know; There are some thoughts on conjugal love, expressed in a pure and beautiful strain. ،، If love be holy, if that mystery Into our species; if those amorous joys, Those sweets of life, those comforts even in death, Our love is hollow, vaulted, stands on props In addition to these two extracts, we think that the following song will not be unacceptable, as a specimen of our author's lyrical powers. |