And then how constant she did still abide.
I then at this would joy, as if my breast
Had sympathized in equal happiness

With my true friend, but now, when joy should be,
Who but a damn'd one would have done like me?
He hath been married now at least a month;

In all which time I have not once beheld him.

This is his house.

I'll call to know his health, but will not see him;
My looks would then betray me, for, should he ask
My cause of seeming sadness or the like,

I could not but reveal, and so pour on
Worse unto ill, which breeds confusion.

A Servant opens.

Alb. Is the master of the house within ?

[He knocks.

Serv. Yes, marry, is he, sir: would you speak with him?
Alb. My business is not so troublesome :

Is he in health with his late espoused wife?

Serv. Both are exceeding well, sir.

Alb. I am truly glad on't: farewell, good friend.

Serv. I pray you, let's crave your name, sir; I may else have

anger.

Alb. You may say, one Albert, riding by this way, only inquired their health.

Serv. I will acquaint so much.

Alb. How like a poisonous doctor have I come
To inquire their welfare, knowing that myself
Have giv'n the potion of their ne'er-recovery;
For which I will afflict myself with torture ever.
And since the earth yields not a remedy
Able to salve the sores my lust hath made,
I'll now take farewell of society,

And the abode of men, to entertain a life

Fitting my fellowship in desart woods,

Where beasts like me consort; there may I live,
Far off from wronging virtuous Carracus.
There's no Maria, that shall satisfy

[Exit Servant.

My hateful lust: the trees shall shelter

This wretched trunk of mine, upon whose barks
I will engrave the story of my sin.

And there this short breath of mortality

I'll finish up in that repentant state,

Where not the allurements of earth's vanities
Can e'er o'ertake me: there's no baits for lust,
No friend to ruin; I shall then be free
From practising the art of treachery.

Thither then, steps, where such content abides,
Where penitency not disturb'd may grieve,
Where on each tree and springing plant I'll carve
This heavy motto of my misery,

Who but a damn'd one could have done like me?

THE TRAGEDY OF NERO. AUTHOR UNCERTAIN

Scenical Personation.

"Tis better in a play

Be Agamemnon, than himself indeed.
How oft, with danger of the field beset,
Or with home-mutinies, would he un-be
Himself; or, over cruel altars weeping,
Wish, that with putting off a vizard he
Might his true inward sorrow lay aside!
The shows of things are better than themselves,
How doth it stir this airy part of us

To hear our poets tell imagin'd fights
And the strange blows that feigned courage gives.
When I Achilles hear upon the Stage
Speak honor and the greatness of his soul,
Methinks I too could on a Phrygian spear
Run boldly, and make tales for after times:
But when we come to act it in the deed,
Death mars this bravery, and the ugly fears
Of th' other world sit on the proudest brow:
And boasting valor loseth his red cheek.

THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON.
AUTHOR UNCERTAIN.*

Millisent, the fair daughter of Clare, was betrothed, with the consent of her parents, to Raymond, son of Mounchensey; but the elder Mounchensey, being since fallen in his fortunes, Clare revokes his consent and plots a marriage for his daughter with the rich heir of Jerningham. Peter Fabel, a good magician, who had been Tutor to young Raymond Mounchensey at College, determines by the aid of his art to assist his pupil in obtaining fair Millisent.

PETER FABEL, solus.

Fab. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill,
That for thy bounty and thy royal parts,

Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn;
And after all these promises by Clare,
Refuse to give his daughter to thy son,
Only because thy revenues cannot reach
To make her dowage of so rich a jointure,
As can the heir of wealthy Jerningham?
And therefore is the false fox now in hand
To strike a match betwixt her and the other,
And the old grey-beards now are close together,
Plotting in the garden. Is it even so?
Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I
Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts,
The metaphysics, magic, and those parts
Of the most secret deep philosophy?

Have I so many melancholy nights

Watch'd on the top of Peter House highest tower?
And come we back unto our native home,

For want of skill to lose the wench thou lovest ?
We'll first hang Envil† in such rings of mist,
As never rose from any dampish fen;
I'll make the brinish sea to rise at Ware,

And drown the marshes unto Stratford bridge;

* It has been ascribed without much proof to Shakspeare, and to Michael

Drayton.

† Enfield.

I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks,
And scatter them like sheep in every field.

We

may perhaps be crost; but if we be,
He shall cross the devil that but crosses me.
But here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad ;
And here comes the gallant must have his wench.

Enter RAYMOND MOUNCHENSEY, young JERNINGHAM, and
young CLARE.

Jern. I prithee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps,
Revive thy spirits; thou that before hast been
More watchful than the day-proclaiming cock,
As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry
As mirth herself.-

If aught in me may thy content procure,

It is thy own, thou mayst thyself assure.

Raym. Ha! Jerningham, if any but thyself
Had spoke that word, it would have come as cold
As the bleak northern winds upon the face of winter,
From thee they have some power on my blood;
Yet being from thee, had but that hollow sound
Come from the lips of any living man,

It might have won the credit of mine ear,
From thee it cannot.

Jern. If I understand thee I am a villain :

What! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend;

Fab. (to Jern.) You are the man, sir, must have Millisent,

The match is making in the garden now;

Her jointure is agreed on, and the old men,
Your fathers, mean to launch their pursy bags,

But in mean time to thrust Mounchensey off,

For color of this new intended match.

Fair Millisent to Cheston* must be sent,

To take the approbation of a Nun.

Ne'er look upon me, lad, the match is done.

Jern. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief

With the true feeling of a zealous friend.

* Cheshunt.

And as for thy fair beauteous Millisent,
With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber
Her angel-like perfections. But thou know'st
That Essex hath the saint that I adore.
Where'er didst meet me, that we two were jovial,
But like a wag thou hast not laughed at me,
And with regardless jesting mock'd my love?
How many a sad and weary summer's night
My sighs have drunk the dew from off the earth,
And I have taught the nightingale to wake,
And from the meadows sprung the early lark
An hour before she should have list to sing?
I have loaded the poor minutes with my moans,
That I have made the heavy slow pac'd hours
To hang like heavy clogs upon the day.
But, dear Mounchensey, had not my affection
Seiz'd on the beauty of another dame,
Before I'd wrong the chase, and leave the love
Of one so worthy, and so true a friend,

I will abjure both beauty and her sight,
And will in love become a counterfeit.

Raym. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life,
And from the mouth of hell, where now I sat,

I feel my spirit rebound against the stars;

Thou hast conquer'd me, dear friend, and my free soul Nor time nor death can by their power control.

Fab. Frank Jerningham, thou art a gallant boy;

And were he not my pupil, I would say,
He were as fine a metal'd Gentleman,
Of as free a spirit, and as fine a temper,
As any in England; and he is a man,
That very richly may deserve thy love.
But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse,
What may Mounchensey's honor to thyself
Exact upon the measure of thy grace?

Cla. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know, He does not breathe this air,

Whose love I cherish, and whose soul I love,