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Gior. There's no evasion, Lidia,

To gain the least delay, though I would buy it
At any rate. Greatness, with private men
Esteem'd a blessing, is to me a curse;

And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude
The only freemen, are the only slaves:
Happy the golden mean! Had I been born
In a poor sordid cottage, not nursed up
With expectation to command a court,

I might, like such of your condition, sweetest,
Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not,
As I am now, against my choice, compell'd;
Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised
So high upon the pinnacles of state,

That I must either keep my height with danger,
Or fall with certain ruin.

Lidia. Your own goodness

Will be your faithful guard.

Giov. O, Lidia! For had I been your equal,

I might have seen and lik'd with mine own eyes,
And not, as now, with others. might still,

And without observation or envy,
As I have done, continued my delights
With you, that are alone, in my esteem,
The abstract of society: we might walk
In solitary groves, or in choice gardens;
From the variety of curious flowers
Contemplate nature's workmanship and wonders:
And then, for change, near to the murmur of
Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing,
And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue,
In my imagination conceive

With what melodious harmony a choir

Of angels sing above their Maker's praises.
And then, with chaste discourse, as we return'd,
Imp feathers to the broken wings of Time:
And all this I must part from.

One word more,

And then I come. And after this, when, with
Continued innocence of love and service,
I had grown ripe for hymeneal joys,
Embracing you, but with a lawful flame,
I might have been your husband.

Lidia. Sir, I was,

And ever am, your servant; but it was,
And 'tis far from me in a thought to cherish,
Such saucy hopes. If I had been the heir

Of all the globes and sceptres mankind bows to,

At my best you had deserv'd me; as I am,
Howe'er unworthy, in my virgin zeal,

I wish you, as a partner of your bed,

A princess equal to you; such a one

That may make it the study of her life,

With all the obedience of a wife, to please you; May you have happy issue, and I live

To be their humblest handmaid!

Giov. I am dumb, and can make no reply; This kiss, bathed in tears,

May learn you what I should say.

JOHN FORD.

Contemporary with Massinger, and possessing kindred tastes and powers, was JOHN FORD (15861639). This author wisely trusted to a regular profession, not to dramatic literature, for his support. He was of a good Devonshire family, and bred to the law. His first efforts as a writer for the stage, were made in unison with Webster and Dekker. He also joined with the latter, and with Rowley, in composing the Witch of Edmonton, already mentioned, the last act of which seems to be Ford's. In 1628 appeared the Lover's Melancholy, dedicated to his friends of the Society of Gray's Inn. In 1633 were printed his three tragedies, the Brother and

Sister, the Broken Heart, and Love's Sacrifice. He next wrote Perkin Warbeck, a correct and spirited historical drama. Two other pieces, Fancies Chaste and Noble, and the Lady's Trial, produced in 1638 and 1639, complete the list of Ford's works. He is supposed to have died shortly after the production of his last play.

A tone of pensive tenderness and pathos, with a peculiarly soft and musical style of blank verse, characterise this poet. The choice of his subjects was unhappy, for he has devoted to incestuous passion the noblest offerings of his muse. The scenes in his 'Brother and Sister,' descriptive of the criminal loves of Annabella and Giovanni, are painfully interesting and harrowing to the feelings, but contain his finest poetry and expression. The old dramatists loved to sport and dally with such forbidden themes, which tempted the imagination, and awoke those slumbering fires of pride, passion, and wickedness, that lurk in the recesses of the human heart. They lived in an age of excitement-the newly-awakened intellect warring with the senses -the baser parts of humanity with its noblest qualities. In this struggle, the dramatic poets were plunged, and they depicted forcibly what they saw and felt. Much as they wrote, their time was not spent in shady retirement; they flung themselves into the full tide of the passions, sounded its depths, wrestled with its difficulties and defilements, and were borne onwards in headlong career. A few, like poor Marlow and Greene, sunk early in undeplored misery, and nearly all were unhappy. This very recklessness and daring, however, gave a mighty impulse and freedom to their genius. They were emancipated from ordinary restraints; they were strong in their sceptic pride and self-will; they surveyed the whole of life, and gave expression to those wild half-shaped thoughts and unnatural promptings, which wiser conduct and reflection would have instantly repressed and condemned. With them, the passion of love was an all-pervading fire, that consumed the decencies of life; sometimes it was gross and sensual, but in other moments imbued with a wild preternatural sweetness and fervour. Anger, pity, jealousy, revenge, remorse, and the other primary feelings and elements of our nature, were crowded into their short existence as into their scenes. Nor was the light of religion quenched: there were glimpses of heaven in the midst of the darkest vice and debauchery. The better genius of Shakspeare lifted him above this agitated region; yet his Venus and Adonis,' and the Sonnets,' show that he had been at one time soiled by some of its impurities. Ford was apparently of regular deportment, but of morbid diseased imagination. His latest biographer (Mr Hartley Coleridge) suggests, that the choice of horrible stories for his two best plays may have been merely an exercise of intellectual power. His moral sense was gratified by indignation at the dark possibilities of sin, and by compassion for rare extremes of suffering.' Ford was destitute of the fire and grandeur of the heroic drama. Mr Charles Lamb ranks him with the first order of poets; but this praise is excessive. Admitting his sway over the tender passions, and the occasional beauty of his language and conceptions, he wants the elevation of great genius. He has, as Hallam remarks, the power over tears; for he makes his readers sympathise even with his vicious characters.

* Some unknown contemporary has preserved a graphic trait of Ford's appearance and reserved deportment

'Deep in a dump John Ford alone was got,
With folded arms and melancholy hat.'

[A Dying Bequest.]

(From the Broken Heart.")

CALANTHA-PENTHEA.

Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted The opportunity you sought, and might At all times have commanded.

Pen. 'Tis a benefit

Which I shall owe your goodness even in death for.
My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes
Remaining to run down; the sands are spent :
For, by an inward messenger, I feel
The summons of departure short and certain.
Cal. You feed too much your melancholy.
Pen. Glories

Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams,
And shadows soon decaying: on the stage
Of my mortality my youth hath acted
Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length;
By varied pleasures sweeten'd in the mixture,
But tragical in issue.

Cal. Contemn not your condition for the proof
Of bare opinion only to what end
Reach all these moral texts ?

Pen. To place before ye

A perfect mirror, wherein you may see How weary I am of a lingering life, Who count the best a misery.

Cal. Indeed

You have no little cause; yet none so great As to distrust a remedy.

Pen. That remedy

Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead,
And some untrod-on corner in the earth.
Not to detain your expectation, princess,
I have an humble suit.

Cal. Speak, and enjoy it.

Pen. Vouchsafe, then, to be my executrix; And take that trouble on ye, to dispose Such legacies as I bequeath impartially: I have not much to give, the pains are easy; Heaven will reward your piety and thank it, When I am dead: for sure I must not live; I hope I cannot.

Cal. Now beshrew thy sadness; Thou turn'st me too much woman.

Pen. Her fair eyes

Melt into passion: then I have assurance
Encouraging my boldness. In this paper

My will was character'd; which you, with pardon,
Shall now know from mine own mouth.

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Of mere imagination! Speak the last. I strangely like thy will.

Pen. This jewel, madam,

Is dearly precious to me; you must use The best of your discretion, to employ This gift as I intend it.

Cal. Do not doubt me.

Pen. 'Tis long ago, since first I lost my heart; Long I have liv'd without it: but instead Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir, By service bound, and by affection vow'd, I do bequeath in holiest rites of love Mine only brother Ithocles.

Cal. What saidst thou?

Pen. Impute not, heav'n-blest lady, to ambition, A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers Of a devoted suppliant can endow it: Look on him, princess, with an eye of pity; How like the ghost of what he late appear'd He moves before you!

Cal. Shall I answer here, Or lend my ear too grossly!

Pen. First his heart

Shall fall in cinders, scorch'd by your disdain, Ere he will dare, poor man, to ope an eye

On these divine looks, but with low-bent thoughts
Accusing such presumption: as for words,

He dares not utter any but of service;
Yet this lost creature loves you. Be a princess
In sweetness as in blood; give him his doom,
Or raise him up to comfort.

Cal. What new change

Appears in my behaviour, that thou darest
Tempt my displeasure?

Pen. I must leave the world,

To revel in Elysium; and 'tis just

To wish my brother some advantage here.
Yet by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant
Of this pursuit. But if you please to kill him,
Lend him one angry look, or one harsh word,
And you shall soon conclude how strong a power
Your absolute authority holds over
His life and end.

Cal. You have forgot, Penthea,
How still I have a father.

Pen. But remember

I am sister: though to me this brother
Hath been, you know, unkind, O most unkind.
Cal. Christalla, Philema, where are ye? Lady,
Your check lies in my silence.

[Contention of a Bird and a Musician.]*
(From the Lover's Melancholy.")

MENAPHON and AMETHUS.

Men. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me
Desire of visiting that paradise.

To Thessaly I came; and living private,
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
I day by day frequented silent groves,
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encounter'd me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention,
That art [and] nature ever were at strife in.
Amet. I cannot yet conceive what you infer
By art and nature.

Men. I shall soon resolve you.

A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather,
Indeed, entranced my soul: As I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw

* For an amplification of the subject of this extract, see article RICHARD CRASHAW.'

This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute,
With strains of strange variety and harmony,
Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds,
That, as they flock'd about him, all stood silent,
Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too.
Amet. And so do I; good! on-

Men. A nightingale,

Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain

his ready pen down to the year 1640. In one of his prologues, he thus adverts to the various sources of his multifarious labours:

To give content to this most curious age,

The gods themselves we've brought down to the stage,
And figured them in planets; made even hell
Deliver up the furies, by no spell

(Saving the muse's rapture) further we
Have traffick'd by their help; no history
We have left unrifled; our pens have been dipt

The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own; As well in opening each hid manuscript

He could not run division with more art

Upon his quaking instrument, than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to: for a voice, and for a sound,
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe

That such they were, than hope to hear again.
Amet. How did the rivals part!

Men. You term them rightly;

For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird

Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice:

To end the controversy, in a rapture

Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.
Amet. Now for the bird.

Men. The bird, ordain'd to be
Music's first martyr, strove to imitate
These several sounds: which, when her warbling
throat

Fail'd in, for grief, down dropp'd she on his lute,
And brake her heart! It was the quaintest sadness,
To see the conqueror upon her hearse,

To weep a funeral elegy of tears;

That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide

Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me
A fellow-mourner with him.

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THOMAS HEYWOOD.

THOMAS HEYWOOD was one of the most indefatigable of dramatic writers. He had, as he informs his readers, an entire hand, or at least a main finger,' in two hundred and twenty plays. He wrote also several prose works, besides attending to his business as an actor. Of his huge dramatic library, only twenty-three plays have come down to us, the best of which are, A Woman Killed with Kindness, the English Traveller, A Challenge for Beauty, the Royal King and Loyal Subject, the Lancashire Witches, the Rape of Lucrece, Love's Mistress, &c. The few particulars respecting Heywood's life and history have been gleaned from his own writings and the dates of his plays. The time of his birth is not known; but he was a native of Lincolnshire, and was a fellow of Peter-House, Cambridge: he is found writing for the stage in 1596, and he continued to exercise

As tracks more vulgar, whether read or sung
In our domestic or more foreign tongue :
Of fairies, elves, nymphs of the sea and land,
The lawns, the groves, no number can be scaun'd
Which we have not given feet to.

This was written in 1637, and it shows how eager the play-going public were then for novelties, though they possessed the theatre of Shakspeare and his contemporaries. The death of Heywood is equally unknown with the date of his birth. As a dramatist, he had a poetical fancy and abundance of classical imagery; but his taste was defective; and scenes of low buffoonery, 'merry accidents, intermixed with apt and witty jests,' deform his pieces. His humour, however, is more pure and moral than that of most of his contemporaries, There is a natural repose in his scenes,' says a dramatic critic, which contrasts pleasingly with the excitement that reigns in most of his contemporaries. Middleton looks upon his characters with the feverish anxiety with which we listen to the trial of great criminals, or watch their behaviour upon the scaffold. Webster lays out their corpses in the prison, and sings the dirge over them when they are buried at midnight in unhallowed ground. Heywood leaves his characters before they come into these situations. He walks quietly to and fro among them while they are yet at large as members of society; contenting himself with a sad smile at their follies, or with a frequent warning to them on the consequences of their crimes.'* The following description of Psyche, from Love's Mistress,' is in his best manner:

ADMETUS. ASTIOCHE.-PETREA.

Adm. Welcome to both in one! Oh, can you tell What fate your sister hath ?

Both. Psyche is well.

Adm. So among mortals it is often said,

Children and friends are well when they are dead.
Ast. But Psyche lives, and on her breath attend
Delights that far surmount all earthly joy;
Music, sweet voices, and ambrosian fare;
Winds, and the light-wing'd creatures of the air;
Clear channell❜d rivers, springs, and flowery meads,
Are proud when Psyche wantons on their streains,
When Psyche on their rich embroidery treads,
When Psyche gilds their crystal with her beams.
We have but seen our sister, and, behold!
She sends us with our laps full brimm'd with gold.

In 1635, Heywood published a poem entitled the Hierarchy of Angels. Various songs are scattered through Heywood's neglected plays, some of them easy and flowing :

Song.

Pack clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow:
Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft,
To give my love good morrow:
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow :

* Edinburgh Review, vol. 63, p. 223.

Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good morrow.

To give my love good morrow,
Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair love good morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good morrow.

To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

Shepherd's Song.

We that have known no greater state
Than this we live in, praise our fate;
For courtly silks in cares are spent,
When country's russet breeds content.
The power of sceptres we admire,
But sheep-hooks for our use desire.
Simple and low is our condition,
For here with us is no ambition:
We with the sun our flocks unfold,
Whose rising makes their fleeces gold;
Our music from the birds we borrow,
They bidding us, we them, good morrow.
Our habits are but coarse and plain,
Yet they defend from wind and rain ;
As warm too, in an equal eye,
As those be-stain'd in scarlet dye.
The shepherd, with his home-spun lass,
As many merry hours doth pass,
As courtiers with their costly girls,
Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls ;
And, though but plain, to purpose woo,
Nay, often with less danger too.
Those that delight in dainties' store,
One stomach feed at once, no more;
And, when with homely fare we feast,
With us it doth as well digest;
And many times we better speed,
For our wild fruits no surfeits breed.
If we sometimes the willow wear,
By subtle swains that dare forswear,
We wonder whence it comes, and fear
They've been at court and learnt it there.

[Shipwreck by Drink.]

(From the English Traveller.")

-This gentleman and I Pass'd but just now by your next neighbour's house, Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, An unthrift youth; his father now at sea: And there this night was held a sumptuous feast. In the height of their carousing, all their brains Warm'd with the heat of wine, discourse was offer'd Of ships and storms at sea: when suddenly, Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives The room wherein they quaff'd to be a pinnace Moving and floating, and the confus'd noise To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners; That their unsteadfast footing did proceed From rocking of the vessel. This conceiv'd, Each one begins to apprehend the danger, And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one, Up to the main-top, and discover. He Climbs by the bed-post to the tester, there Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards; And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives, To cast their lading overboard. At this All fall to work, and hoist into the street,

As to the sea, what next came to their hand,
Stools, tables, tressels, trenches, bedsteads, cups,
Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles;
They take him for the boatswain: one lies struggling
Upon the floor, as if he swam for life:

A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat,
Sits in the bellow on't, labours, and rows;
His oar the stick with which the fiddler play'd:
A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to 'scape
(As did Arion) on the dolphin's back,
Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude,
Watching without, and gaping for the spoil
Cast from the windows, went by th' ears about it;
The constable is call'd t' atone the broil;
Which done, and hearing such a noise within
Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and finds them
In this confusion: they adore his staff,
And think it Neptune's trident; and that he
Comes with his Tritons (so they call'd his watch)
To calm the tempest, and appease the waves:
And at this point we left them.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

The last of these dramatists-' a great race,' says Mr Charles Lamb, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common'--was JAMES SHIRLEY, born in London in 1596. Designed for holy orders, Shirley was educated first at Oxford, where Archbishop Laud refused to ordain him on account of his appearance being disfigured by a mole on his left cheek. He afterwards took the degree of A.M. at Cambridge, and officiated as curate near St Albans. Like his brother divine and poet, Crashaw, Shirley embraced the communion of the church of Rome. He lived as a schoolmaster in St Albans, but afterwards settled in London, and became a voluminous dramatic writer. Thirty-nine plays proceeded from his prolific pen; and a modern edition of his works, edited by Gifford, is in six octavo volumes. When the Master of the Revels, in 1633, licensed Shirley's play of the Young Admiral, he entered on his books an expression of his admiration of the drama, because it was free from oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness; trusting that his approbation would encourage the poet to pursue this beneficial and cleanly way of poetry.' Shirley is certainly less impure than most of his contemporaries, but he is far from faultless in this respect. His dramas seem to have been tolerably successful. When the civil wars broke out, the poet exchanged the pen for the sword, and took the field under his patron the Earl of Newcastle. After the cessation of this struggle, a still worse misfortune befell our author, in the shutting of the theatres, and he was forced to betake himself to his former occupation of a teacher. The Restoration does not seem to have mended his fortunes. In 1666, the great fire of London drove the poet and his family from their house in Whitefriars; and shortly after this event, both he and his wife died on the same day. A life of various labours and reverses, thus found a sudden and tragic termination. Shirley's plays have less force and dignity than those of Massinger; less pathos than those of Ford. His comedies have the tone and manner of good society, Mr Campbell has praised his polished and refined dialect, the airy touches of his expression, the delicacy of his sentiments, and the beauty of his similes.' He admits, however, what every reader feels, the want in Shirley of any strong passion or engrossing interest. Hallam more justly and comprehensively states- Shirley has no originality, no force in conceiving or delineating character, little of pathos, and less, perhaps, of wit; his dramas produce no deep impression in reading, and of course can leave none

in the memory. But his mind was poetical; his better characters, especially females, express pure thoughts in pure language; he is never tumid or affected, and seldom obscure; the incidents succeed rapidly, the personages are numerous, and there is a general animation in the scenes, which causes us to read him with some pleasure. No very good play, nor possibly any very good scene, could be found in Shirley; but he has many lines of considerable beauty.' Of these fine lines, Dr Farmer, in his Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare,' quoted perhaps the most beautiful, being part of Fernando's description, in the 'Brothers,' of the charms of his

mistress :

Her eye did seem to labour with a tear,
Which suddenly took birth, but overweigh'd,
With its own swelling, dropt upon her bosom,
Which, by reflection of her light appear'd
As nature meant her sorrow for an ornament.
After, her looks grew cheerful, and I saw
A smile shoot graceful upward from her eyes,
As if they had gain'd a victory o'er grief;
And with it many beams twisted themselves,
Upon whose golden threads the angels walk
To and again from heaven.

In the same vein of delicate fancy and feeling is the following passage in the Grateful Servant, where Cleona learns of the existence of Foscari, from her page Dulcino:

Cle. The day breaks glorious to my darken'd thoughts. He lives, he lives yet! Cease, ye amorous fears, More to perplex me. Prithee speak, sweet youth; How fares my lord? Upon my virgin heart I'll build a flaming altar, to offer up

A thankful sacrifice for his return

To life and me. Speak, and increase my comforts.
Is he in perfect health?

Dul. Not perfect, madam,

Until you bless him with the knowledge of
Your constancy.

Cle. O get thee wings and fly then;
Tell him my love doth burn like vestal fire,
Which, with his memory richer than all spices,
Disperses odours round about my soul,

And did refresh it when 'twas dull and sad,
With thinking of his absence.

-Yet stay,
Thou goest away too soon; where is he? speak.
Dul. He gave me no commission for that, lady;
He will soon save that question by his presence.
Cle. Time has no feathers; he walks now on
crutches.

Relate his gestures when he gave thee this.

What other words? Did mirth smile on his brow?
I would not for the wealth of this great world
He should suspect my faith. What said he, prithee?
Dul. He said what a warm lover, when desire
Makes eloquent, could speak; he said you were
Both star and pilot.

Cle. The sun's lov'd flower, that shuts his yellow

curtain

When he declineth, opens it again

At his fair rising with my parting lord
I clos'd all my delight; till his approach
It shall not spread itself.

The Prodigal Lady.

[From the Lady of Pleasure."]

ARETINA and the STEWARD.

Stew. Be patient, madam, you may have your plea

sure.

Aret. 'Tis that I came to town for; I would not Endure again the country conversation

To be the lady of six shires! The men,
So near the primitive making, they retain
A sense of nothing but the earth; their brains
And barren heads standing as much in want
Of ploughing as their ground: to hear a fellow
Make himself merry and his horse with whistling
Sellinger's round; t' observe with what solemnity
They keep their wakes, and throw for pewter candle-
sticks;
How they become the morris, with whose bells
They ring all into Whitsun ales, and swear
Through twenty scarfs and napkins, till the hobbyhorse
Tire, and the Maid-Marian, dissolved to a jelly,
Be kept for spoon meat.

Stew. These, with your pardon, are no argument
To make the country life appear so hateful;
At least to your particular, who enjoy'd
A blessing in that calm, would you be pleas'd
To think so, and the pleasure of a kingdom:
While your own will commanded what should move
Delights, your husband's love and power joined
To give your life more harmony. You liv'd there
Secure and innocent, belov'd of all;

Prais'd for your hospitality, and pray'd for:
You might be envied, but malice knew
Not where you dwelt.-I would not prophesy,
But leave to your own apprehension
What may succeed your change.

Arct. You do imagine,

No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted London past all defence. Your master should Do well to send you back into the country, With title of superintendent bailie.

Enter SIR THOMAS BORNWELL.

Born. How now, what's the matter? Angry, sweetheart?

Aret. I am angry with myself,

To be so miserably restrain'd in things Wherein it doth concern your love and honour To see me satisfied.

Born. In what, Aretina,

Dost thou accuse me? Have I not obeyed
All thy desires against mine own opinion?
Quitted the country, and remov'd the hope
Of our return by sale of that fair lordship
We liv'd in; chang'd a calm and retir'd life
For this wild town, compos'd of noise and charge?
Aret. What charge more than is necessary

For a lady of my birth and education?

Born. I am not ignorant how much nobility
Flows in your blood; your kinsmen, great and powerful
I' th' state, but with this lose not your memory
Of being my wife. I shall be studious,
Madam, to give the dignity of your birth
All the best ornaments which become my fortune,
But would not flatter it to ruin both,

And be the fable of the town, to teach
Other men loss of wit by mine, employed
To serve your vast expenses.
Aret. Am I then

Brought in the balance so, sir?

Born. Though you weigh

Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest,
And must take liberty to think you have
Obeyed no modest counsel to affect,

Nay study, ways of pride and costly ceremony.
Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures
Of this Italian master and that Dutchman's;
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery,
Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate
Antique and novel; vanities of tires;
Fourscore pound suppers for my lord, your kinsman;
Banquets for t'other lady, aunt and cousins;

1 A favourite though homely dance of those days, taking its title from an actor named St Leger.

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