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Whom art had never taught cliffs, 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.

The bird (ordained to be

Music's first martyr) strove to imitate

These several sounds: which when her warbling throat

Failed in, for grief down dropped 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.

He looks upon the trophies of his art,

Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed, and cried,
"Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge

This cruelty upon the author of it.

Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,

Shall never more betray a harmless peace

To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow,
As he was pashing it against a tree,

I suddenly stepped in.

95. JOHN WEBSTER. Fl. 1623. (Manual, p. 163.)

FROM THE DUCHESS Of Malfy.

The Duchess's marriage with Antonio being discovered, her brother Ferdinand shuts her up in a prison, and torments her with various trials of studied cruelty. By his command, Bosola, the instrument of his devices, shows her the bodies of her husband and children counterfeited in wax, as dead.

Bos.

He doth present you this sad spectacle,
That now you know directly they are dead,
Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve
For that which cannot be recovered.

Duch. There is not between heaven and earth one wish
I stay for after this: it wastes me more

Bos.

Than were 't my picture fashioned out of wax,
Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried

In some foul dunghill; and 'yond's an excellent property
For a tyrant, which I would account mercy.

What's that?

Duch. If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk,
And let me freeze to death.

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Leave this vain sorrow.

Things being at the worst begin to mend.
The bee,

When he hath shot his sting into your hand,
May then play with your eyelid.

Duch. Good comfortable fellow,

Persuade a wretch that's broke upon the wheel
To have all his bones new set; entreat him live
To be executed again. Who must despatch me?

I account this world a tedious theatre,

For I do play a part in't 'gainst my will.

Bos. Come, be of comfort; I will save your life.

Duch. Indeed I have not leisure to attend

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Duch. And those three smiling seasons of the year
Into a Russian winter: nay, the world

To its first chaos.

Plagues (that make lanes through largest families)
Consume them!1

Let them like tyrants

Ne'er be remembered but for the ill they've done!
Let all the zealous prayers of mortified

Churchmen forget them!

Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs,

To punish them! go, howl them this; and say, I long to bleed:

It is some mercy when men kill with speed.

1 Her brothers.

96. JAMES SHIRLEY. 1594-1666. (Manual, p. 164.)

FROM THE LADY OF PLEASURE.

Sir Thomas Bornewell expostulates with his Lady on her extravagance and love of pleasure.

BORNEWELL. ARETINA, his lady.

Are. I am angry with myself;

To be so miserably restrained in things,
Wherein it doth concern your love and honor
To see me satisfied.

Bor.

In what, Aretina, Dost thou accuse me? have I not obeyed All thy desires, against mine, own opinion; Quitted the country, and removed the hope Of our return, by sale of that fair lordship We lived in: changed a calm and retired life For this wild town, composed of noise and charge? Are. What charge, more than is necessary

For a lady of my birth and education?

Bor. I am not ignorant how much nobility

Are.

Bor.

Are.

Flows in your blood, your kinsmen great and powerful
In the 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 wit by loss of mine, employed
To serve your vast expenses.

Am I then
Brought in the balance? so, sir.

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 effect,
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
Antic and novel; vanities of tires,

Fourscore pound suppers for my lord your kinsman,
Banquets for the other lady, aunt, and cousins;
And perfumes that exceed all; train of servants,
To stifle us at home, and show abroad

More motley than the French, or the Venetian,
About your coach, whose rude postilion

Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers
And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls,
And common cries pursue your ladyship

For hindering of their market.

Have you done, sir. Bor. I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe, And prodigal embroideries, under which, Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not show their own complexions; your jewels, Able to burn out the spectators' eyes,

And show like bonfires on you by the tapers:
Something might here be spared, with safety of
Your birth and honor, since the truest wealth
Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers.
I could urge something more.

Are.

Your homily of thrift.

Bor.

Pray, do. I like

I could wish, madam,
You would not game so much.

A gamester, too!

Are.
Bor. But are not come to that repentance yet,
Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit;
You look not through the subtilty of cards,
And mysteries of dice, nor can you save
Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls,
And keep your family by the precious income;
Nor do I wish you should: my poorest servant
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire
Purchased beneath my honor: you make play
Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex
Yourself and my estate by it.

Are.
Good, proceed.
Bor. Another game you have, which consumes more
Your fame than purse, your revels in the night,
*Your meetings, called the ball, to which appear
As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants
And ladies, thither bound by a subpœna
Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure:
'Tis but the family of Love, translated

Are.

Bor.

Are.

Into more costly sin; there was a play on it;
And had the poet not been bribed to a modest
Expression of your antic gambols in it,

Some darks had been discovered; and the deeds too;

In time he may repent, and make some blush,

To see the second part danced on the stage.
My thoughts acquit you for dishonoring me
By any foul act; but the virtuous know,
'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the
Suspicions of our shame.

Your lecture?

Have you concluded

I have done, and howsoever
My language may appear to you, it carries

No other than my fair and just intent

To your delights, without curb to their modest
And noble freedom.

I'll not be so tedious

In my reply, but, without art or elegance,

Assure you I keep still my first opinion;
And though you veil your avaricious meaning
With handsome names of modesty and thrift,
I find you would intrench and wound the liberty
I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged
By example; while my judgment thought them fit,
You ought not to oppose; but when the practice
And tract of every honorable lady

Authorize me, I take it great injustice

To have my pleasures circumscribed and taught me.

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