I'll close mine eyes,

And in a melancholy thought I'll frame
Her figure 'fore me. Now I have it ---
Imagination works! how she can frame

how strong

Things which are not! methinks she stands afore me.

WEBSTER.. The White Devil, Act III.

Evad. Stay, sir, stay:

You are too hot, and I have brought you physic

To temper your high veins.

King. Thou dost not mean this; 'tis impossible:
Thou art too sweet and gentle.

LUDOVICO SFORZA.

This scene is founded partly on a fact in Italian history. Ludovico Sforza was the uncle of the young Duke of Milan, and was present at his marriage with Isabella, grand-daughter of the king of Naples. Sforza was much struck with the beauty of Isabella; and it was supposed that he caused his nephew, Galeazzo, to be poisoned. The last scene, which occurs after the lapse of a year, is imaginary.

SCENE I. A Street.

DUKE OF MILAN, LUDOVICO Sforza.

Duke. And this proud lady-was she chaste as fair? Sforza. Pure as the flame that burnt on Dian's altar, And lovely as the morning.-Oh! she stood

Like one of those bright shapes of fabling Greece,
(Born of the elements,) which, as they tell,

Woo'd mortals to their arms. A form more beautiful,
Houri or child of the air, ne'er glanced upon

A poet's dream, nor in Arabian story

Gave promise of that vaunted paradise
Not they who from the stars look watchfully
Upon the deeds of men, and oft 'tis said
Dart like a vapour from their wheeling orbs
In streaming splendour hither, to redress

Or guide, were lovelier. Her voice was sweet
And full of music, and did bear a charm

Like numbers floating from the breathed flute,
Caught afar off,-and which the idle winds
Of June, through wantonness at eve, do fling
O'er banks and beds of flowers.

Duke. What! have you done, my lord?
Sforza. Extravagant boy,

Art not content? Well, I could say for ever.
Her step? 'twas light as Dian's when she tripp'd
Amidst her frolic nymphs, laughing, or when
Just risen from the bath she fled in sport
'Round oaks and sparkling fountains,

Chas'd by the wanton Oreades: Her brow

Pale as Athenian marble, but around it

Grew fillets like the raven's wing; her mouth
(Jove would have kissed 't) did keep as prisoners
Within its perfum'd gates white pearls, more rich
Than Cleopatra got from Antony :

Her eyes, and one might look on them at times,
In lustre did outvie that Egyptian queen,

When on the Cydnus' banks in pride she stuck
Rare gems, each one a province, in her hair,
And bade the Roman worship her.

Duke. And she

Is dead?

[ISABELLA appears at a window.

Sforza. Dead, dead. No-what is this?

Fair vision!

Duke. Uncle, look upon her,-there.

Sforza, What, can the grave give up its habitant?

Or have the sheeted dead a power at will
To visit us, and claim their wonted guise;
And from that eager reveller the worm
Regain their fleshy substance-his fair spoil?
It is herself: and can the mouldering eye

Resume its lustre, and when death has drawn
His filmy veil around it, sweep 't away?
Duke. My Lord!

Sforza. I've heard, and some believe't, that when
The soul doth quit its prison here, 'tis checked
At times, and is ordained to sink again

And give life, feeling, to some ruder shape;
But that's in punishment for such dark spirits
As have ill filled their part: 'twas not for thee
Struck in thy prime with scarce one acted sin
Upon thee.-Ha!-She's vanished.

Duke. 'Tis Isabella.

Sforza. No more.

[ISABELLA leaves the window.

Duke. I thought you'd seen her picture, sir.

Sforza. I have, I have; no, no, I wander,-never.

This is the very mockery of the dead.

And this is your bride, Galeazzo?

Duke. Yes.

Sforza. She's very fair. You knew her face before,