What stirr'd it so.

Alas! I found it love,

Yet far from lust, for could I have but liv'd
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feign'd pilgrimage, and drest myself
In habit of a boy, and, for I knew

My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you. And understanding well,
That when I made discovery of my sex,
I could not stay with you, I made a vow
By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known,

Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,
For other than I seem'd; that I might ever

Abide with you: then sate I by the fount

Where first you took me up."

*

*The character of Bellario must have been extremely popular in its day. For many years after the date of Philaster's first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be found without one of these women pages in it, following in the train of some pre-engaged lover, calling on the gods to bless her happy rival (his mistress) whom no doubt she secretly curses in her heart, giving rise to many pretty equivoques by the way on the confusion of sex, and either made happy at last by some surprising turn of fate, or dismissed with the joint pity of the lovers and the audience. Our ancestors seem to have been wonderfully delighted with these transformations of Women's parts were then acted by young men. What an odd double confusion it must have made, to see a boy play a woman playing a man: one cannot disentangle the perplexity without some violence to the imagination.

sex.

Donne has a copy of verses addrest to his mistress, dissuading her from a resolution, which she seems to have taken up from some of these scenical representations, of following him abroad as a page. It is so earnest, so weighty, so rich in poetry, in sense, in wit, and pathos, that I have thought fit to insert it, as a solemn close in future to all such sickly fancies as he there deprecates. The story of his romantic and unfortunate marriage with the daughter of Sir George Moore, the Lady here supposed to be addrest, may be read in Walton's Lives.

ELEGY.

By our first strange and fatal interview,
By all desires which thereof did ensue,
By our long striving hopes, by that remorse
Which my words' masculine persuasive force

Natural Antipathies.

Nature that loves not to be questioned
Why she did this, or that, but has her ends,

Begot in thee, and by the memory

Of hurts, which spies and rivals threatened me,
I calmly beg. But by thy father's wrath,
By all pains which want and divorcement hath,
I conjure thee; and all the oaths, which I
And thou have sworn to seal joint constancy,
I here unswear, and overswear them thus:
Thou shalt not love by means so dangerous.
Temper, O fair love, love's impetuous rage;
Be my true mistress, not my feigned page.
I'll go, and, by thy kind leave, leave behind
Thee, only worthy to nurse in my mind
Thirst to come back; O, if thou die before,
My soul from other lands to thee shall soar.
Thy (else almighty) beauty cannot move

Rage from the seas, nor thy love teach them love,
Nor tame wild Boreas' harshness; thou hast read
How roughly he in pieces shivered

The fair Orithea, whom he swore he lov'd.
Fall ill or good, 'tis madness to have prov'd
Dangers unurged; feed on this flattery,
That absent lovers one in th' other be.
Dissemble nothing, not a boy, nor change
Thy body's habit, nor mind: be not strange
To thyself only. All will spy in thy face
A blushing womanly discovering grace.

Richly cloath'd apes are call'd apes, and as soon
Eclips'd as bright we call the moon the moon.
Men of France, changeable camelions,
Spittles of diseases, shops of fashions,
Lives' fuellers, and the rightest company
Of players which upon the world's stage be,
Will too too quickly know thee: and alas,
Th' indifferent Italian, as we pass

His warm land, well content to think thee page,
Will hunt thee with such lust, and hideous rage,
As Lot's fair guests were vext. But none of these,
Nor spungy Aydroptique Dutch shall thee displease,
If thou stay here. O stay here; for, for thee
England is only a worthy gallery,

To walk in expectation, till from thence
Our greatest king call thee to his presence.

And knows she does well, never gave the world
Two things so opposite, so contrary,

As he and I am: if a bowl of blood

Drawn from this arm of mine would poison thee
A draught of his would cure thee.

Interest in Virtue.

Why, my lord, are you so moved at this?
When any falls from virtue, I am distract,
I have an interest in 't.

CUPID'S REVENGE: A TRAGEDY. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER.

Leucippus, the King's Son, takes to mistress Bacha, a Widow; but being questioned by his Father, to preserve her honor, swears that she is chaste. The old King admires her, and on the credit of that Oath, while his Son is absent, marries her. Leucippus, when he discovers the dreadful consequences of the deceit which he had used to his Father, counsels his friend Ismenus never to speak a falsehood in any case,

Leu. My sin, Ismenus, has wrought all this ill:
And I beseech thee to be warn'd by me,
And do not lie, if any man should ask thee
But how thou dost, or what o'clock 'tis now,
Be sure thou do not lie, make no excuse
For him that is most near thee; never let
The most officious falsehood 'scape thy tongue;
For they above (that are entirely truth)

When I am gone, dream me some happiness;
Nor let thy looks our long hid love confess;
Nor praise, nor dispraise me, nor bless, nor curse,
Openly love's force; nor in bed fright thy nurse
With midnights' startings, crying out, oh, oh,
Nurse, O my love is slain, I saw him go
O'er the white Alps alone; I saw him, I,

Assail'd, fight, taken, stabb'd, bleed, fall, and die.
Augur me better chance, except dread Jove

Think it enough for me to have had thy love.

Will make that seed which thou hast sown of lies,

Yield miseries a thousand fold

Upon thine head, as they have done on mine.

Leucippus and his wicked Mother-in-law, Bacha, are left alone together for the first time after her marriage with the King, his Father.

Bach. He stands

As if he grew there, with his eyes on earth.

Sir, you and I when we were last together

Kept not this distance, as we were afraid
Of blasting by ourselves.

Leu. Madam, 'tis true,

Heaven pardon it.

Bach. Amen, sir: you may think

That I have done you wrong in this strange marriage.

Leu. 'Tis past now.

Bach. But it was no fault of mine:

The world had call'd me mad, had I refus'd
The king: nor laid I any train to catch him,
It was your own oaths did it.

Leu. 'Tis a truth,

That takes my sleep away; but would to heaven,
If it had so been pleas'd, you had refus'd him,
Though I had gratified that courtesy
With having you myself: but since 'tis thus,
I do beseech you that you will be honest

From henceforth; and not abuse his credulous age,
Which you may easily do. As for myself,
What I can say, you know alas too well,

Is tied within me; here it will sit like lead,
But shall offend no other, it will pluck me
Back from my entrance into any mirth,
As if a servant came and whisper'd with me
Of some friend's death: but I will bear myself
To you, with all the due obedience

A son owes to a mother; more than this
Is not in me, but I must leave the rest
To the just gods, who in their blessed time,

When they have given me punishment enough
For my rash sin, will mercifully find
As unexpected means to ease my grief
As they did now to bring it.

Bach. Grown so godly?

This must not be, and I will be to you
No other than a natural mother ought;
And for my honesty, so you will swear
Never to urge me, I shall keep it safe
From any other.

Leu. Bless me, I should urge you!

Bach. Nay, but swear then, that I may be at peace, For I do feel a weakness in myself

That can deny you nothing; if you tempt me

I shall embrace sin as it were a friend,

And run to meet it.

Leu. If you knew how far

It were from me, you would not urge an oath.
But for your satisfaction, when I tempt you

Bach. Swear not. I cannot move him. This sad talk Of things past help, does not become us well.

Shall I send one for my musicians, and we'll dance?
Leu. Dance, madam?

Bach. Yes, a lavolta.

Leu. I cannot dance, madam.

Bach. Then let's be merry.

Leu. I am as my fortunes bid me.

Do not you see me sour?

Bach. Yes.

And why think you I smile?

Leu. I am so far from any joy myself,

I cannot fancy a cause of mirth.
Bach. I'll tell you. We are alone.

Leu. Alone!

Bach. Yes.

Leu. 'Tis true: what then?

Bach. What then?

You make my smiling now break into laughter :