More than Mounchensey's:

Nor ever in my life did see the man,
Whom for his wit, and many virtuous parts,
I think more worthy of my sister's love.
But since the matter grows into this pass,
I must not seem to cross my father's will;
But when thou list to visit her by night,
My horse is saddled, and the stable door
Stands ready for thee; use them at thy pleasure.
In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy;
And if thou getst her, lad, God give thee joy.
Raym. Then care away! let fate my fall pretend,
Back'd with the favors of so true a friend.

Fab. Let us alone to bustle for the set;
For age and craft with wit and art hath met.
I'll make my Spirits dance such nightly jigs
Along the way 'twixt this and Tot'nam Cross,
The Carriers' Jades shall cast their heavy packs,
And the strong hedges scarce shall keep them in.
The milk-maids' cuts shall turn the wenches off,
And lay their dossers tumbling in the dust :
The frank and merry London Prentices,
That come for cream and lusty country cheer,
Shall lose their way, and scrambling in the ditches

All night, shall whoop and hollow, cry, and call,

And none to other find the way at all.

Raym. Pursue the project, scholar; what we can do To help endeavor, join our lives thereto.*

*This scene has much of Shakspeare's manner in the sweetness and goodnaturedness of it. It seems written to make the reader happy. Few of our dramatists or novelists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and noble, than the conversation and compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a "Saint in Essex :" and how sweetly his friend reminds him!-I wish it could be ascertained that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece: it would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my native Earth; who has gone over her soil (in his Polyolbion) with the fidelity of a herald, and the

The Prioress of Cheston's charge to fair Millisent.

Jesus' daughter, Mary's child,

Holy matron, woman mild,

For thee a Mass shall still be said,

Every sister drop a bead

And those again, succeeding them,

For you shall sing a Requiem.

To her Father. May your soul be blithe, That so truly pay your tythe;

He, that many children gave,

'Tis fit that he one child should have.

To Millisent. Then, fair virgin, hear my spell,

For I must your duty tell.

First at mornings take your book,

The glass wherein yourself must look ;

Your young thoughts so proud and jolly
Must be turn'd to motions holy;
For your busk, attires and toys,
Have your thoughts on heavenly joys:
And for all your follies past,

You must do penance, pray and fast.
You shall ring the sacring bell,

Keep your hours, and tell

your knell.

Rise at midnight to your matins,

Read your psalter, sing your Latins ;
And when your blood shall kindle pleasure,
Scourge yourself in plenteous measure.

You must read the morning mass,
You must creep unto the cross,
Put cold ashes on your head,
Have a hair-cloth for your bed,

Bind your beads and tell your needs,
Your holy Aves and your Creeds;
Holy maid, this must be done,

If you mean to live a Nun.

painful love of a son; who has not left a rivulet (so narrow that it may be stept over) without honorable mention; and has animated Hills and

Streams with life and passion above the dreams of old mythology.

GREEN'S TU QUOQUE; OR, THE CITY GALLANT. A COMEDY. BY JOSEPH COOKE.

Men more niggardly of their love than women.

Thrice happy days they were, and too soon gone,
When as the heart was coupled with the tongue;
And no deceitful flattery, or guile

Hung on the lover's tear-commixed smile.
Could women learn but that imperiousness,
By which men use to stint our happiness
(When they have purchas'd us for to be theirs
By customary sighs and forced tears)
To give us bits of kindness, lest we faint,
But no abundance; that we ever want,

And still are begging: which too well they know
Endears affection, and doth make it grow.

Had we those sleights, how happy were we then
That we might glory over love-sick men !
But arts we know not, nor have any skill
To feign a sour look to a pleasing will;
Nor couch a secret love in show of hate :
But, if we like, must be compassionate.

Adversity.

How ruthless men are to adversity!

My acquaintance scarce will know me; when we meet
They cannot stay to talk, they must be gone;
And shake me by the hand as if I burnt them.

Prodigality.

That which gilded over his imperfections,
Is wasted and consumed, even like ice,
Which by the vehemence of heat dissoives,
And glides to many rivers; so his wealth,
That felt a prodigal hand, hot in expense,
Melted within his gripe, and from his coffers
Ran like a violent stream to other men's.

* This is so like Shakspeare, that one seems almost to remember it as a speech of Desdemona's, upon perceiving an alteration in the behavior of the Moor.

THE COMEDY OF OLD FORTUNATUS. BY THOMAS DECKER.

The Goddess Fortune appears to Fortunatus, and offers him the choice of six things. He chooses Riches.

FORTUNE. FORTUNATUS.

Fortune. Before thy soul at this deep lottery Draw forth her prize, ordain'd by destiny, Know that here's no recanting a first choice. Choose then discreetly for the laws of fate, Being grav'n in steel, must stand inviolate.

Fortunat. Daughters of Jove and the unblemish'd Night,
Most righteous Parcæ, guide my genius right:

Wisdom, Strength, Health, Beauty, Long Life, and Riches.
Fortune. Stay, Fortunatus; once more hear me speak.

If thou kiss Wisdom's cheek and make her thine,
She'll breathe into thy lips divinity,

And thou (like Phoebus) shall speak oracle ;
Thy heav'n-inspired soul on Wisdom's wings
Shall fly up to the Parliament of Jove,
And read the Statutes of Eternity,

And see what's past and learn what is to come.
If thou lay claim to Strength, armies shall quake
To see thee frown: as Kings at mine do lie,
So shall thy feet trample on empery.

Make Health thine object, thou shalt be strong proof
'Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting,
Be ever merry, ever revelling.

Wish but for Beauty, and within thine eyes

Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim,

And on thy cheeks I'll mix such white and red,
That Jove shall turn away young Ganimede,
And with immortal arms shall circle thee.
Are thy desires Long Life? thy vital thread
Shall be stretch'd out, thou shalt behold the change
Of monarchies, and see those children die
Whose great great grandsires now in cradles lie.
If through Gold's sacred hunger thou dost pine;

Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run
To warm their slender bodies in the sun,
Shall stand for number of those golden piles
Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet:
As those are, so shall these be infinite.

Fortunat. O whither am I wrapt beyond myself? More violent conflicts fight in every thought

Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall wrought.
Shall I contract myself to Wisdom's love?
Then I lose Riches; and a wise man poor

Is like a sacred book that's never read;

To himself he lives and to all else seems dead.
This age thinks better of a gilded fool,

Than of a threadbare saint in Wisdom's school.
I will be Strong: then I refuse Long Life;

And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds,
There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors:
The greatest Strength expires with loss of breath,
The mightiest in one minute stoop to death.
Then take Long Life, or Health; should I do so,
I might grow ugly, and that tedious scroll

Of months and years much misery might enroll :
Therefore I'll beg for Beauty; yet I will not :
The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul
Leprous as sin itself, than hell more foul.
The Wisdom of this world is idiotism;

Strength a week reed; Health Sickness' enemy,
And it at length will have the victory.
Beauty is but a painting; and Long Life
Is a long journey in December gone,
Tedious and full of tribulation,

Therefore dread sacred Empress, make me rich:
My choice is Store of Gold; the Rich are Wise,
He that upon his back rich garments wears
Is Wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears.
Gold is the Strength, the Sinews of the world,
The Health, the Soul, the Beauty most divine;
A mask of gold hides all deformities;