Round the room waltzed the elegant revelers. Softly and slowly, led by their host, they glided along like spirits of air; but each time that the duke passed the musicians, the music became livelier, and the motion more brisk, till at length you might have mistaken them for a college of spinning dervishes. One by one, an exhausted couple slunk away. Some threw themselves on a sofa, some monopolized an easy-chair; but in twenty minutes all the dancers had disappeared. At length Peacock Piggott gave a groan, which denoted returning energy, and raised a stretching leg in air, bringing up, though most unwittingly, on his foot one of the Bird's sublime and beautiful caps.

"Halloo! Piggott, armed cap au pied, I see," said Lord Squib. This joke was a signal for general resuscitation....

Here they lounged in different parties, 'talking on such subjects as idlers ever fall upon; now and then plucking a flower—now and then listening to the fountain—now and then lingering over the distant music—and now and then strolling through a small apartment which opened to their walks, and which bore the title of the Temple of Gnidus. Here Canova's Venus breathed an atmosphere of perfume and of light—that wonderful statue whose full-charged eye is not very classical, to be sure—but then, how true!

Lord Squib proposed a visit to the theatre, which he had ordered to be lit up. To the theatre they repaired. They rambled over every part of the house, amused themselves, to the horror of Mr. Annesley, with a visit to the gallery, and then collected behind the scenes. They were excessively amused with the properties; and Lord Squib proposed they should dress themselves. Enough champagne had been quaffed to render any proposition palatable, and in a few minutes they were all in costume. A crowd of queens and chambermaids, Jews and chimney-sweeps, lawyers and charleys, Spanish dons and Irish officers, rushed upon the stage. The little Spaniard was Almaviva, and fell into magnificent attitudes, with her sword and plume. Lord Squib was the old woman of Brentford, and very funny. Sir Lucius Grafton, Harlequin; and Darrell, Grimaldi. The prince and the count, without knowing it, figured as watchmen. Squib whispered Annesley that Sir Lucius O'Trigger might appear in character, but was prudent enough to suppress the joke.

The band was summoned, and they danced quadrilles with infinite spirit, and finished the night, at the suggestion of Lord Squib, by breakfasting on the stage. By the time this meal was dispatched, the purple light of morn had broken into the building, and the ladies proposed an immediate departure. Mrs. Montfort and her sister were sent home in one of the duke's carriages; and the foreign guests were requested by him to be their escort. The respective parties drove off. Two cabriolets lingered to the last, and finally carried away the French actress and the Spanish dancer, Lord Darrell, and Peacock Piggott; but whether the two gentlemen went in one and two ladies in the other I cannot aver. I hope not.

There was at length a dead silence, and the young duke was left to solitude and the signora!

SQUIBS PROM 'THE YOUNG DUKE'

CHARLES ANNESLEY

Dandy has been voted vulgar, and beau is now the word. I doubt whether the revival will stand; and as for the exploded title, though it had its faults at first, the muse or Byron has made it not only English, but classical. However, I dare say I can do without either of these words at present. Charles Annesley could hardly be called a dandy or a beau. There was nothing in his dress, though some mysterious arrangement in his costume—some rare simplicity—some curious happiness—always made it distinguished; there was nothing, however, in his dress which could account for the influence which he exercised over the manners of his contemporaries. Charles Annesley was about thirty. He had inherited from his father, a younger brother, a small estate; and though heir to a wealthy earldom, he had never abused what the world called "his prospects." Yet his establishments—his little house in Mayfair—his horses—his moderate stud at Melton—were all unique, and everything connected with him was unparalleled for its elegance, its invention, and its refinement. But his manner was his magic. His natural and subdued nonchalance, so different from the assumed non-emotion of a mere dandy; his coldness of heart, which was hereditary, not acquired; his cautious courage, and his unadulterated self-love, had permitted him to mingle much with mankind without being too deeply involved in the play of their passions; while his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly revealed those weaknesses to him which his delicate satire did not spare, even while it refrained from wounding. All feared, many admired, and none hated him. He was too powerful not to dread, too dexterous not to admire, too superior to hate. Perhaps the great secret of his manner was his exquisite superciliousness; a quality which, of all, is the most difficult to manage. Even with his intimates he was never confidential, and perpetually assumed his public character with the private coterie which he loved to rule. On the whole, he was unlike any of the leading men of modern days, and rather reminded one of the fine gentlemen of our old brilliant comedy—the Dorimants, the Bellairs, and the Mirabels.

THE FUSSY HOSTESS

Men shrink from a fussy woman. And few can aspire to regulate the destinies of their species, even in so slight a point as an hour's amusement, without rare powers. There is no greater sin than to be trop prononcee. A want of tact is worse than a want of virtue. Some women, it is said, work on pretty well against the tide without the last. I never knew one who did not sink who ever dared to sail without the first.

Loud when they should be low, quoting the wrong person, talking on the wrong subject, teasing with notice, excruciating with attentions, disturbing a tete-a-tete in order to make up a dance; wasting eloquence in persuading a man to participate in amusement whose reputation depends on his social sullenness; exacting homage with a restless eye, and not permitting the least worthy knot to be untwined without their divinityships' interference; patronizing the meek, anticipating the slow, intoxicating with compliment, plastering with praise that you in return may gild with flattery; in short, energetic without elegance, active without grace, and loquacious without wit; mistaking bustle for style, raillery for badinage, and noise for gayety—these are the characters who mar the very career they think they are creating, and who exercise a fatal influence on the destinies of all those who have the misfortune to be connected with them.

PUBLIC SPEAKING

Eloquence is the child of Knowledge. When a mind is full, like a wholesome river, it is also clear. Confusion and obscurity are much oftener the results of ignorance than of inefficiency. Few are the men who cannot express their meaning when the occasion demands the energy; as the lowest will defend their lives with acuteness, and sometimes even with eloquence. They are masters of their subject. Knowledge must be gained by ourselves. Mankind may supply us with facts; but the results, even if they agree with previous ones, must be the work of our own mind. To make others feel, we must feel ourselves; and to feel ourselves, we must be natural. This we can never be when we are vomiting forth the dogmas of the schools. Knowledge is not a mere collection of words; and it is a delusion to suppose that thought can be obtained by the aid of any other intellect than our own. What is repetition, by a curious mystery, ceases to be truth, even if it were truth when it was first heard; as the shadow in a mirror, though it move and mimic all the actions of vitality, is not life. When a man is not speaking or writing from his own mind, he is as insipid company as a looking-glass. Before a man can address a popular assembly with command, he must know something of mankind, and he can know nothing of mankind without he knows something of himself. Self-knowledge is the property of that man whose passions have their play, but who ponders over their results. Such a man sympathizes by inspiration with his kind. He has a key to every heart. He can divine, in the flash of a single thought, all that they require, all that they wish. Such a man speaks to their very core. All feel that a master hand tears off the veil of cant, with which, from necessity, they have enveloped their souls; for cant is nothing more than the sophistry which results from attempting to account for what is unintelligible, or to defend what is improper.

FEMALE BEAUTY

There are some sorts of beauty which defy description, and almost scrutiny. Some faces rise upon us in the tumult of life, like stars from out the sea, or as if they had moved out of a picture. Our first impression is anything but fleshly. We are struck dumb—we gasp for breath—our limbs quiver—a faintness glides over our frame—we are awed; instead of gazing upon the apparition, we avert the eyes, which yet will feed upon its beauty. A strange sort of unearthly pain mixes with the intense pleasure. And not till, with a struggle, we call back to our memory the commonplaces of existence, can we recover our commonplace demeanor. These, indeed, are rare visions—these, indeed, are early feelings, when our young existence leaps with its mountain torrents; but as the river of our life rolls on, our eyes grow dimmer, or our blood more cold.

LOTHAIR IN PALESTINE

From 'Lothair'

A person approached Lothair by the pathway from Bethany. It was the Syrian gentleman whom he had met at the consulate. As he was passing Lothair, he saluted him with the grace which had been before remarked; and Lothair, who was by nature courteous, and even inclined a little to ceremony in his manners, especially with those with whom he was not intimate, immediately rose, as he would not receive such a salutation in a reclining posture.

"Let me not disturb you," said the stranger; "or, if we must be on equal terms, let me also be seated, for this is a view that never palls."

"It is perhaps familiar to you," said Lothair; "but with me, only a pilgrim, its effect is fascinating, almost overwhelming."

"The view of Jerusalem never becomes familiar," said the Syrian; "for its associations are so transcendent, so various, so inexhaustible, that the mind can never anticipate its course of thought and feeling, when one sits, as we do now, on this immortal mount." ...

"I have often wished to visit the Sea of Galilee," said Lothair.

"Well, you have now an opportunity," said the Syrian: "the north of Palestine, though it has no tropical splendor, has much variety and a peculiar natural charm. The burst and brightness of spring have not yet quite vanished; you would find our plains radiant with wild-flowers, and our hills green with young crops, and though we cannot rival Lebanon, we have forest glades among our famous hills that when once seen are remembered."

"But there is something to me more interesting than the splendor of tropical scenery," said Lothair, "even if Galilee could offer it. I wish to visit the cradle of my faith."

"And you would do wisely," said the Syrian, "for there is no doubt the spiritual nature of man is developed in this land."

"And yet there are persons at the present day who doubt—even deny—the spiritual nature of man," said Lothair. "I do not, I could not—there are reasons why I could not."

"There are some things I know, and some things I believe," said the Syrian. "I know that I have a soul, and I believe that it is immortal."

"It is science that, by demonstrating the insignificance of this globe in the vast scale of creation, has led to this infidelity," said Lothair.

"Science may prove the insignificance of this globe in the scale of creation," said the stranger, "but it cannot prove the insignificance of man. What is the earth compared with the sun? a molehill by a mountain; yet the inhabitants of this earth can discover the elements of which the great orb consists, and will probably ere long ascertain all the conditions of its being. Nay, the human mind can penetrate far beyond the sun. There is no relation, therefore, between the faculties of man and the scale in creation of the planet which he inhabits."

"I was glad to hear you assert the other night the spiritual nature of man in opposition to Mr. Phoebus."

"Ah, Mr. Phoebus!" said the stranger, with a smile. "He is an old acquaintance of mine. And I must say he is very consistent—except in paying a visit to Jerusalem. That does surprise me. He said to me the other night the same things as he said to me at Rome many years ago. He would revive the worship of Nature. The deities whom he so eloquently describes and so exquisitely delineates are the ideal personifications of the most eminent human qualities, and chiefly the physical. Physical beauty is his standard of excellence, and he has a fanciful theory that moral order would be the consequence of the worship of physical beauty; for without moral order he holds physical beauty cannot be maintained. But the answer to Mr. Phoebus is, that his system has been tried and has failed, and under conditions more favorable than are likely to exist again; the worship of Nature ended in the degradation of the human race."

"But Mr. Phoebus cannot really believe in Apollo and Venus," said Lothair. "These are phrases. He is, I suppose, what is called a Pantheist."

"No doubt the Olympus of Mr. Phoebus is the creation of his easel," replied the Syrian. "I should not, however, describe him as a Pantheist, whose creed requires more abstraction than Mr. Phoebus, the worshiper of Nature, would tolerate. His school never care to pursue any investigation which cannot be followed by the eye—and the worship of the beautiful always ends in an orgy. As for Pantheism, it is Atheism in domino. The belief in a Creator who is unconscious of creating is more monstrous than any dogma of any of the churches in this city, and we have them all here."

"But there are people now who tell you that there never was any creation, and therefore there never could have been a Creator," said Lothair.

"And which is now advanced with the confidence of novelty," said the Syrian, "though all of it has been urged, and vainly urged, thousands of years ago. There must be design, or all we see would be without sense, and I do not believe in the unmeaning. As for the natural forces to which all creation is now attributed, we know they are unconscious, while consciousness is as inevitable a portion of our existence as the eye or the hand. The conscious cannot be derived from the unconscious. Man is divine."

"I wish I could assure myself of the personality of the Creator," said Lothair. "I cling to that, but they say it is unphilosophical."

"In what sense?" asked the Syrian. "Is it more unphilosophical to believe in a personal God, omnipotent and omniscient, than in natural forces unconscious and irresistible? Is it unphilosophical to combine power with intelligence? Goethe, a Spinozist who did not believe in Spinoza, said that he could bring his mind to the conception that in the centre of space we might meet with a monad of pure intelligence. What may be the centre of space I leave to the daedal imagination of the author of 'Faust'; but a monad of pure intelligence—is that more philosophical than the truth first revealed to man amid these everlasting hills," said the Syrian, "that God made man in his own image?"

"I have often found in that assurance a source of sublime consolation," said Lothair.

"It is the charter of the nobility of man," said the Syrian, "one of the divine dogmas revealed in this land; not the invention of councils, not one of which was held on this sacred soil, confused assemblies first got together by the Greeks, and then by barbarous nations in barbarous times."

"Yet the divine land no longer tells us divine things," said Lothair.

"It may or may not have fulfilled its destiny," said the Syrian. "'In my Father's house are many mansions,' and by the various families of nations the designs of the Creator are accomplished. God works by races, and one was appointed in due season and after many developments to reveal and expound in this land the spiritual nature of man. The Aryan and the Semite are of the same blood and origin, but when they quitted their central land they were ordained to follow opposite courses. Each division of the great race has developed one portion of the double nature of humanity, till, after all their wanderings, they met again, and, represented by their two choicest families, the Hellenes and the Hebrews, brought together the treasures of their accumulated wisdom, and secured the civilization of man."

"Those among whom I have lived of late," said Lothair, "have taught me to trust much in councils, and to believe that without them there could be no foundation for the Church. I observe you do not speak in that vein, though, like myself, you find solace in those dogmas which recognize the relations between the created and the Creator."

"There can be no religion without that recognition," said the Syrian, "and no creed can possibly be devised without such a recognition that would satisfy man. Why we are here, whence we come, whither we go—these are questions which man is organically framed and forced to ask himself, and that would not be the case if they could not be answered. As for churches depending on councils, the first council was held more than three centuries after the Sermon on the Mount. We Syrians had churches in the interval; no one can deny that. I bow before the divine decree that swept them away from Antioch to Jerusalem, but I am not yet prepared to transfer my spiritual allegiance to Italian popes and Greek patriarchs. We believe that our family were among the first followers of Jesus, and that we then held lands in Bashan which we hold now. We had a gospel once in our district where there was some allusion to this, and being written by neighbors, and probably at the time, I dare say it was accurate; but the Western Churches declared our gospel was not authentic, though why I cannot tell, and they succeeded in extirpating it. It was not an additional reason why we should enter into their fold. So I am content to dwell in Galilee and trace the footsteps of my Divine Master, musing over his life and pregnant sayings amid the mounts he sanctified and the waters he loved so well."



BEAUMARCHAIS

(1732-1799)

BY BRANDER MATTHEWS

Pierre Augustin Caron was born in Paris, January 24th, 1732. He was the son of a watchmaker, and learned his father's trade. He invented a new escapement, and was allowed to call himself "Clockmaker to the King"—Louis XV. At twenty-four he married a widow, and took the name of Beaumarchais from a small fief belonging to her. Within a year his wife died. Being a fine musician, he was appointed instructor of the King's daughters; and he was quick to turn to good account the influence thus acquired. In 1764 he made a sudden trip to Spain to vindicate a sister of his, who had been betrothed to a man called Clavijo and whom this Spaniard had refused to marry. He succeeded in his mission, and his own brilliant account of this characteristic episode in his career suggested to Goethe the play of 'Clavigo.' Beaumarchais himself brought back from Madrid a liking for things Spanish and a knowledge of Iberian customs and character.



He had been a watchmaker, a musician, a court official, a speculator, and it was only when he was thirty-five that he turned dramatist. Various French authors, Diderot especially, weary of confinement to tragedy and comedy, the only two forms then admitted on the French stage, were seeking a new dramatic formula in which they might treat pathetic situations of modern life; and it is due largely to their efforts that the modern "play" or "drama," the story of every-day existence, has been evolved. The first dramatic attempt of Beaumarchais was a drama called 'Eugenie,' acted at the Theatre Francais in 1767, and succeeding just enough to encourage him to try again. The second, 'The Two Friends,' acted in 1770, was a frank failure. For the pathetic, Beaumarchais had little aptitude; and these two serious efforts were of use to him only so far as their performance may have helped him to master the many technical difficulties of the theatre.

Beaumarchais had married a second time in 1768, and he had been engaged in various speculations with the financier Paris-Duverney. In 1770 his wife died, and so did his associate; and he found himself soon involved in lawsuits, into the details of which it is needless to go, but in the course of which he published a series of memoirs, or statements of his case for the public at large. These memoirs are among the most vigorous of all polemical writings; they were very clever and very witty; they were vivacious and audacious; they were unfailingly interesting; and they were read as eagerly as the 'Letters of Junius.' Personal at first, the suits soon became political; and part of the public approval given to the attack of Beaumarchais on judicial injustice was due no doubt to the general discontent with the existing order in France. His daring conduct of his own cause made him a personality. He was intrusted with one secret mission by Louis XV; and when Louis XVI came to the throne, he managed to get him again employed confidentially.

Not long after his two attempts at the serious drama, he had tried to turn to account his musical faculty by writing both the book and the score of a comic opera, which had, however, been rejected by the Comedie-Italienne (the predecessor of the present Opera Comique). After a while Beaumarchais cut out his music and worked over his plot into a five-act comedy in prose, 'The Barber of Seville.' It was produced by the Theatre Francais in 1775, and like the contemporary 'Rivals' of Sheridan,—the one English author with whom Beaumarchais must always be compared,—it was a failure on the first night and a lasting success after the author had reduced it and rearranged it. 'The Barber of Seville' was like the 'Gil Blas' of Lesage in that, while it was seemingly Spanish in its scenes, it was in reality essentially French. It contained one of the strongest characters in literature,—Figaro, a reincarnation of the intriguing servant of Menander and Plautus and Moliere. Simple in plot, ingenious in incident, brisk in dialogue, broadly effective in character-drawing, 'The Barber of Seville' is the most famous French comedy of the eighteenth century, with the single exception of its successor from the same pen, which appeared nine years later.

During those years Beaumarchais was not idle. Like Defoe, he was always devising projects for money-making. A few months after 'The Barber of Seville' had been acted, the American Revolution began, and Beaumarchais was a chief agent in supplying the Americans with arms, ammunition, and supplies. He had a cruiser of his own, Le Fier Roderigue, which was in D'Estaing's fleet. When the independence of the United States was recognized at last, Beaumarchais had a pecuniary claim against the young nation which long remained unsettled.

Not content with making war on his own account almost, Beaumarchais also undertook the immense task of publishing a complete edition of Voltaire. He also prepared a sequel to the 'Barber,' in which Figaro should be even more important, and should serve as a mouthpiece for declamatory criticism of the social order. But his 'Marriage of Figaro' was so full of the revolutionary ferment that its performance was forbidden. Following the example of Moliere under the similar interdiction of 'Tartuffe,' Beaumarchais was untiring in arousing interest in his unacted play, reading it himself in the houses of the great. Finally it was authorized, and when the first performance took place at the Theatre Francais in 1784, the crush to see it was so great that three persons were stifled to death. The new comedy was as amusing and as adroit as its predecessor, and the hits at the times were sharper and swifter and more frequent. How demoralized society was then may be gauged by the fact that this disintegrating satire was soon acted by the amateurs of the court, a chief character being impersonated by Marie Antoinette herself.

The career of Beaumarchais reached its climax with the production of the second of the Figaro plays. Afterward he wrote the libretto for an opera, 'Tarare,' produced with Salieri's music in 1787; the year before he had married for the third time. In a heavy play called 'The Guilty Mother,' acted with slight success in 1790, he brought in Figaro yet once more. During the Terror he emigrated to Holland, returning to Paris in 1796 to find his sumptuous mansion despoiled. May 18th, 1799, he died, leaving a fortune of $200,000, besides numerous claims against the French nation and the United States.

An interesting parallel could be drawn between 'The Rivals' and the 'School for Scandal' on the one side, and on the other 'The Barber of Seville' and 'The Marriage of Figaro'; and there are also piquant points of likeness between Sheridan and Beaumarchais. But Sheridan, with all his failings, was of sterner stuff than Beaumarchais. He had a loftier political morality, and he served the State more loyally. Yet the two comedies of Beaumarchais are like the two comedies of Sheridan in their incessant wit, in their dramaturgic effectiveness, and in the histrionic opportunities they afford. Indeed, the French comedies have had a wider audience than the English, thanks to an Italian and a German,—to Rossini who set 'The Barber of Seville' to music, and to Mozart who did a like service for 'The Marriage of Figaro.'



FROM 'THE BARBER OF SEVILLE'

OUTWITTING A GUARDIAN

[Rosina's lover, Count Almaviva, attempts to meet and converse with her by hoodwinking Dr. Bartolo, her zealous guardian. He comes in disguise to Bartolo's dwelling, in a room of which the scene is laid.]

[Enter Count Almaviva, dressed as a student.]

Count [solemnly]—May peace and joy abide here evermore!

Bartolo [brusquely]—Never, young sir, was wish more apropos! What do you want?

Count—Sir, I am one Alonzo, a bachelor of arts—

Bartolo—Sir, I need no instructor.

Count—— —— a pupil of Don Basilio, the organist of the convent, who teaches music to Madame your—

Bartolo [suspiciously]—Basilio! Organist! Yes, I know him. Well?

Count [aside]—What a man! [Aloud.] He's confined to his bed with a sudden illness.

Bartolo—Confined to his bed! Basilio! He's very good to send word, for I've just seen him.

Count [aside]—Oh, the devil! [Aloud.] When I say to his bed, sir, it's—I mean to his room.

Bartolo—Whatever's the matter with him, go, if you please.

Count [embarrassed]—Sir, I was asked—Can no one hear us?

Bartolo [aside]—It's some rogue! [Aloud.] What's that? No, Monsieur Mysterious, no one can hear! Speak frankly—if you can.

Count [aside]—Plague take the old rascal! [Aloud.] Don Basilio asked me to tell you—

Bartolo—Speak louder. I'm deaf in one ear.

Count [raising his voice]—Ah! quite right: he asks me to say to you that one Count Almaviva, who was lodging on the great square—

Bartolo [frightened]—Speak low, speak low.

Count [louder]——moved away from there this morning. As it was I who told him that this Count Almaviva—

Bartolo—Low, speak lower, I beg of you.

Count [in the same tone]—Was in this city, and as I have discovered that Senorita Rosina has been writing to him—

Bartolo—Has been writing to him? My dear friend, I implore you, do speak low! Come, let's sit down, let's have a friendly chat. You have discovered, you say, that Rosina—

Count [angrily]—Certainly. Basilio, anxious about this correspondence on your account, asked me to show you her letter; but the way you take things—

Bartolo—Good Lord! I take them well enough. But can't you possibly speak a little lower?

Count—You told me you were deaf in one ear.

Bartolo—I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, if I've been surly and suspicious, Signor Alonzo: I'm surrounded with spies—and then your figure, your age, your whole air—I beg your pardon. Well? Have you the letter?

Count—I'm glad you're barely civil at last, sir. But are you quite sure no one can overhear us?

Bartolo—Not a soul. My servants are all tired out. Senorita Rosina has shut herself up in a rage! The very devil's to pay in this house. Still I'll go and make sure. [He goes to peep into Rosina's room.]

Count [aside]—Well, I've caught myself now in my own trap. Now what shall I do about the letter? If I were to run off?—but then I might just as well not have come. Shall I show it to him? If I could only warn Rosina beforehand! To show it would be a master-stroke.

Bartolo [returning on tiptoe]—She's sitting by the window with her back to the door, and re-reading a cousin's letter which I opened. Now, now—let me see hers.

Count [handing him Rosina's letter]—Here it is. [Aside.] She's re-reading my letter.

Bartolo [reads quickly]—"Since you have told me your name and estate—" Ah, the little traitress! Yes, it's her writing.

Count [frightened]—Speak low yourself, won't you?

Bartolo—What for, if you please?

Count—When we've finished, you can do as you choose. But after all, Don Basilio's negotiation with a lawyer—

Bartolo—With a lawyer? About my marriage?

Count—Would I have stopped you for anything else? He told me to say that all can be ready to-morrow. Then, if she resists—

Bartolo—She will.

Count [wants to take back the letter; Bartolo clutches it]—I'll tell you what we'll do. We will show her her letter; and then, if necessary, [more mysteriously] I'll even tell her that it was given to me by a woman—to whom the Count is sacrificing her. Shame and rage may bring her to terms on the spot.

Bartolo [laughing]—Calumny, eh? My dear fellow, I see very well now that you come from Basilio. But lest we should seem to have planned this together, don't you think it would be better if she'd met you before?

Count [repressing a start of joy]—Don Basilio thought so, I know. But how can we manage it? It is late already. There's not much time left.

Bartolo—I will tell her you've come in his place. Couldn't you give her a lesson?

Count—I'll do anything you like. But take care she doesn't suspect. All these dodges of pretended masters are rather old and theatrical.

Bartolo—She won't suspect if I introduce you. But how you do look! You've much more the air of a disguised lover than of a zealous student-friend.

Count—Really? Don't you think I can hoodwink her all the better for that?

Bartolo—She'll never guess. She's in a horrible temper this evening. But if she'll only see you—Her harpsichord is in this room. Amuse yourself while you're waiting. I'll do all I can to bring her here.

Count—Don't say a word about the letter.

Bartolo—Before the right moment? It would lose all effect if I did. It's not necessary to tell me things twice; it's not necessary to tell me things twice. [He goes.]

Count [alone, soliloquizes]—At last I've won! Ouf! What a difficult little old imp he is! Figaro understands him. I found myself lying, and that made me awkward; and he has eyes for everything! On my honor, if the letter hadn't inspired me he'd have thought me a fool!—Ah, how they are disputing in there!—What if she refuses to come? Listen—If she won't, my coming is all thrown away. There she is: I won't show myself at first.

[Rosina enters.]

Rosina [angrily]—There's no use talking about it, sir. I've made up my mind. I don't want to hear anything more about music.

Bartolo—But, my child, do listen! It is Senor Alonzo, the friend and pupil of Don Basilio, whom he has chosen as one of our marriage witnesses. I'm sure that music will calm you.

Rosina—Oh! you needn't concern yourself about that; and as for singing this evening—Where is this master you're so afraid of dismissing? I'll settle him in a minute—and Senor Basilio too. [She sees her lover and exclaims:] Ah!

Bartolo—Eh, eh, what is the matter?

Rosina [pressing her hands to her heart]—Ah, sir! Ah, sir!

Bartolo—She is ill again! Senor Alonzo!

Rosina—No, I am not ill—but as I was turning—ah!

Count—Did you sprain your foot, Madame?

Rosina—Yes, yes, I sprained my foot! I—hurt myself dreadfully.

Count—So I perceived.

Rosina [looking at the Count]—The pain really makes me feel faint.

Bartolo—A chair—a chair there! And not a single chair here! [He goes to get one.]

Count—Ah, Rosina!

Rosina—What imprudence!

Count—There are a hundred things I must say to you.

Rosina—He won't leave us alone.

Count—Figaro will help us.

Bartolo [bringing an arm-chair]—Wait a minute, my child. Sit down here. She can't take a lesson this evening, Senor: you must postpone it. Good-by.

Rosina [to the Count]—No, wait; my pain is better. [To Bartolo.] I feel that I've acted foolishly! I'll imitate you, and atone at once by taking my lesson.

Bartolo—Oh! Such a kind little woman at heart! But after so much excitement, my child, I can't let you make any exertion. So good-bye, Senor, good-bye.

Rosina [to the Count]—Do wait a minute! [To Bartolo.] I shall think that you don't care to please me if you won't let me show my regret by taking my lesson.

Count [aside to Bartolo]—I wouldn't oppose her, if I were you.

Bartolo—That settles it, my love: I am so anxious to please you that I shall stay here all the time you are practicing.

Rosina—No, don't. I know you don't care for music.

Bartolo—It will charm me this evening, I'm sure.

Rosina [aside to the Count]—I'm tormented to death!

Count [taking a sheet of music from the stand]—Will you sing this, Madame?

Rosina—Yes, indeed—it's a very pretty thing out of the opera 'The Useless Precaution.'

Bartolo—Why do you always sing from 'The Useless Precaution'?

Count—There is nothing newer! It's a picture of spring in a very bright style. So if Madame wants to try it—

Rosina [looking at the Count]—With pleasure. A picture of spring is delightful! It is the youth of nature. It seems as if the heart always feels more when winter's just over. It's like a slave who finds liberty all the more charming after a long confinement.

Bartolo [to the Count]—Always romantic ideas in her head!

Count [in a low tone]—Did you notice the application?

Bartolo—Zounds!

[He sits down in the chair which Rosina has been occupying. Rosina sings, during which Bartolo goes to sleep. Under cover of the refrain the Count seizes Rosina's hand and covers it with kisses. In her emotion she sings brokenly, and finally breaks off altogether. The sudden silence awakens Bartolo. The Count starts up, and Rosina quickly resumes her song.]

* * * * *

[Don Basilio enters. Figaro in background.]

Rosina [startled, to herself]—Don Basilio!

Count [aside]—Good Heaven!

Figaro—The devil!

Bartolo [going to meet him]—Ah! welcome, Basilio. So your accident was not very serious? Alonzo quite alarmed me about you. He will tell you that I was just going to see you, and if he had not detained me—

Basilio [in astonishment]—Senor Alonzo?

Figaro [stamping his foot]—Well, well! How long must I wait? Two hours wasted already over your beard—Miserable business!

Basilio [looking at every one in amazement]—But, gentlemen, will you please tell me—

Figaro—You can talk to him after I've gone.

Basilio—But still, would—

Count—You'd better be quiet, Basilio. Do you think you can inform him of anything new? I've told him that you sent me for the music lesson instead of coming himself.

Basilio [still more astonished]—The music lesson! Alonzo!

Rosina [aside to Basilio]—Do hold your tongue, can't you?

Basilio—She, too!

Count [to Bartolo]—Let him know what you and I have agreed upon.

Bartolo [aside to Basilio]—Don't contradict, and say that he is not your pupil, or you will spoil everything.

Basilio—Ah! Ah!

Bartolo [aloud]—Indeed, Basilio, your pupil has a great deal of talent.

Basilio [stupefied]—My pupil! [In a low tone.] I came to tell you that the Count has moved.

Bartolo [low]—I know it. Hush.

Basilio [low]—Who told you?

Bartolo [low]—He did, of course.

Count [low]—It was I, naturally. Just listen, won't you?

Rosina [low to Basilio]—Is it so hard to keep still?

Figaro [low to Basilio]—Hum! The sharper! He is deaf!

Basilio [aside]—Who the devil are they trying to deceive here? Everybody seems to be in it!

Bartolo [aloud]—Well, Basilio—about your lawyer—?

Figaro—You have the whole evening to talk about the lawyer.

Bartolo [to Basilio]—One word; only tell me if you are satisfied with the lawyer.

Basilio [startled]—With the lawyer?

Count [smiling]—Haven't you seen the lawyer?

Basilio [impatient]—Eh? No, I haven't seen the lawyer.

Count [aside to Bartolo]—Do you want him to explain matters before her? Send him away.

Bartolo [low to the Count]—You are right. [To Basilio.] But what made you ill, all of a sudden?

Basilio [angrily]—I don't understand you.

Count [secretly slipping a purse into his hands]—Yes: he wants to know what you are doing here, when you are so far from well?

Figaro—He's as pale as a ghost!

Basilio—Ah! I understand.

Count—Go to bed, dear Basilio. You are not at all well, and you make us all anxious. Go to bed.

Figaro—He looks quite upset. Go to bed.

Bartolo—I'm sure he seems feverish. Go to bed.

Rosina—Why did you come out? They say that it's catching. Go to bed.

Basilio [in the greatest amazement]—I'm to go to bed!

All the others together—Yes, you must.

Basilio [looking at them all]—Indeed, I think I will have to withdraw. I don't feel quite as well as usual.

Bartolo—We'll look for you to-morrow, if you are better.

Count—I'll see you soon, Basilio.

Basilio [aside]—Devil take it if I understand all this! And if it weren't for this purse—

All—Good-night, Basilio, good-night.

Basilio [going]—Very well, then; good-night, good-night.

[The others, all laughing, push him civilly out of the room.]

FROM 'THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO'

OUTWITTING A HUSBAND

[The scene is the boudoir of young Countess Almaviva, the Rosina of the previous selection. She is seated alone, when her clever maid Susanna ushers in the young page Cherubino, just banished from the house because obnoxious to the jealous Count.]

Susanna—Here's our young Captain, Madame.

Cherubino [timidly]—The title is a sad reminder that—that I must leave this delightful home and the godmother who has been so kind—

Susanna—And so beautiful!

Cherubino [sighing]—Ah, yes!

Susanna [mocking his sigh]—Ah, yes! Just look at his hypocritical eyelids! Madame, make him sing his new song. [She gives it to him.] Come now, my beautiful bluebird, sing away.

Countess—Does the manuscript say who wrote this—song?

Susanna—The blushes of guilt betray him.

Cherubino—Madame, I—I—tremble so.

Susanna—Ta, ta, ta, ta—! Come, modest author—since you are so commanded. Madame, I'll accompany him.

Countess [to Susanna]—Take my guitar.

[Cherubino sings his ballad to the air of 'Malbrouck.' The Countess reads the words of it from his manuscript, with an occasional glance at him; he sometimes looks at her and sometimes lowers his eyes as he sings. Susanna, accompanying him, watches them both, laughing.]

Countess [folding the song]—Enough, my boy. Thank you. It is very good—full of feeling—

Susanna—Ah! as for feeling—this is a young man who—well!

[Cherubino tries to stop her by catching hold of her dress. Susanna whispers to him]—Ah, you good-for-nothing! I'm going to tell her. [Aloud.] Well—Captain! We'll amuse ourselves by seeing how you look in one of my dresses!

Countess—Susanna, how can you go on so?

Susanna [going up to Cherubino and measuring herself with him]—He's just the right height. Off with your coat. [She draws it off.]

Countess—But what if some one should come?

Susanna—What if they do? We're doing no wrong. But I'll lock the door, just the same. [Locks it.] I want to see him in a woman's head-dress!

Countess—Well, you'll find my little cap in my dressing-room on the toilet table.

[Susanna gets the cap, and then, sitting down on a stool, she makes Cherubino kneel before her and arranges it on his hair.]

Susanna—Goodness, isn't he a pretty girl? I'm jealous. Cherubino, you're altogether too pretty.

Countess—Undo his collar a little; that will give a more feminine air. [Susanna loosens his collar so as to show his neck.] Now push up his sleeves, so that the under ones show more. [While Susanna rolls up Cherubino's sleeves, the Countess notices her lost ribbon around his wrist.] What is that? My ribbon?

Susanna—Ah! I'm very glad you've seen it, for I told him I should tell. I should certainly have taken it away from him if the Count hadn't come just then; for I am almost as strong as he is.

Countess [with surprise, unrolling the ribbon]—There's blood on it!

Cherubino—Yes, I was tightening the curb of my horse this morning, he curvetted and gave me a push with his head, and the bridle stud grazed my arm.

Countess—I never saw a ribbon used as a bandage before.

Susanna—Especially a stolen ribbon. What may all those things be—the curb, the curvetting, the bridle stud? [Glances at his arms.] What white arms he has! just like a woman's. Madame, they are whiter than mine.

Countess—Never mind that, but run and find me some oiled silk.

[Susanna goes out, after humorously pushing Cherubino over so that he falls forward on his hands. He and the Countess look at each other for some time; then she breaks the silence.]

Countess—I hope you are plucky enough. Don't show yourself before the Count again to-day. We'll tell him to hurry up your commission in his regiment.

Cherubino—I already have it, Madame. Basilio brought it to me. [He draws the commission from his pocket and hands it to her.]

Countess—Already! They haven't lost any time. [She opens it.] Oh, in their hurry they've forgotten to add the seal to it.

Susanna [returning with the oiled silk]—Seal what?

Countess—His commission in the regiment.

Susanna—Already?

Countess—That's what I said.

Susanna—And the bandage?

Countess—Oh, when you are getting my things, take a ribbon from one of your caps. [Susanna goes out again]

Countess—This ribbon is of my favorite color. I must tell you I was greatly displeased at your taking it.

Cherubino—That one would heal me quickest.

Countess—And—why so?

Cherubino—When a ribbon—has pressed the head, and—touched the skin of one—

Countess [hastily]—Very strange—then it can cure wounds? I never heard that before. I shall certainly try it on the first wound of any of—my maids—

Cherubino [sadly]—I must go away from here!

Countess—But not for always? [Cherubino begins to weep.] And now you are crying! At that prediction of Figaro?

Cherubino—I'm just where he said I'd be. [Some one knocks on the door].

Countess—Who can be knocking like that?

The Count [outside]—Open the door!

Countess—Heavens! It's my husband. Where can you hide?

The Count [outside]—Open the door, I say.

Countess—There's no one here, you see.

The Count—But who are you talking to then?

Countess—To you, I suppose. [To Cherubino.] Hide yourself, quick—in the dressing-room!

Cherubino—Ah, after this morning, he'd kill me if he found me here.

[He runs into the dressing-room on the right, which is also Susanna's room; the Countess, after locking him in and taking the key, admits the Count.]

Count—You don't usually lock yourself in, Madame.

Countess—I—I—was gossiping with Susanna. She's gone. [Pointing to her maid's room.]

Count—And you seem very much agitated, Madame.

Countess—Not at all, I assure you! We were talking about you. She's just gone—as I told you.

Count—I must say, Madame, you and I seem to be surrounded by spiteful people. Just as I'm starting for a ride, I'm handed a note which informs me that a certain person whom I suppose far enough away is to visit you this evening.

Countess—The bold fellow, whoever he is, will have to come here, then; for I don't intend to leave my room to-day.

[Something falls heavily in the dressing-room where Cherubino is.]

Count—Ah, Madame, something dropped just then!

Countess—I didn't hear anything.

Count—You must be very absent-minded, then. Somebody is in that room!

Countess—Who do you think could be there?

Count—Madame, that is what I'm asking you. I have just come in.

Countess—Probably it's Susanna wandering about.

Count [pointing]—But you just told me that she went that way.

Countess—This way or that—I don't know which.

Count—Very well, Madame, I must see her.—Come here, Susanna.

Countess—She cannot. Pray wait! She's but half dressed. She's trying on things that I've given her for her wedding.

Count—Dressed or not, I wish to see her at once.

Countess—I can't prevent your doing so anywhere else, but here—

Count—You may say what you choose—I will see her.

Countess—I thoroughly believe you'd like to see her in that state! but—

Count—Very well, Madame. If Susanna can't come out, at least she can talk. [Turning toward the dressing-room.] Susanna, are you there? Answer, I command you.

Countess [peremptorily]—Don't answer, Susanna! I forbid you! Sir, how can you be such a petty tyrant? Fine suspicions, indeed!

[Susanna slips by and hides behind the Countess's bed without being noticed either by her or by the Count.]

Count—They are all the easier to dispel. I can see that it would be useless to ask you for the key, but it's easy enough to break in the door. Here, somebody!

Countess—Will you really make yourself the laughing-stock of the chateau for such a silly suspicion?

Count—- You are quite right. I shall simply force the door myself. I am going for tools.

Countess—Sir, if your conduct were prompted by love, I'd forgive your jealousy for the sake of the motive. But its cause is only your vanity.

Count—Love or vanity, Madame, I mean to know who is in that room! And to guard against any tricks, I am going to lock the door to your maid's room. You, Madame, will kindly come with me, and without any noise, if you please. [He leads her away.] As for the Susanna in the dressing-room, she will please wait a few minutes.

Countess [going out with him]—Sir, I assure you—

Susanna [coming out from behind the bed and running to the dressing-room]—Cherubino! Open quick! It's Susanna. [Cherubino hurries out of the dressing-room.] Escape—you haven't a minute to lose!

Cherubino—Where can I go?

Susanna—I don't know, I don't know at all! but do go somewhere!

Cherubino [running to the window, then coming back]—The window isn't so very high.

Susanna [frightened and holding him back]—He'll kill himself!

Cherubino—Ah, Susie, I'd rather jump into a gulf than put the Countess in danger. [He snatches a kiss, then runs to the window, hesitates, and finally jumps down into the garden.]

Susanna—Ah! [She falls fainting into an arm-chair. Recovering slowly, she rises, and seeing Cherubino running through the garden she comes forward panting.] He's far away already! ... Little scamp! as nimble as he is handsome! [She next runs to the dressing-room.] Now, Count Almaviva, knock as hard as you like, break down the door. Plague take me if I answer you. [Goes into the dressing-room and shuts the door.]

[Count and Countess return.]

Count—Now, Madame, consider well before you drive me to extremes.

Countess—I—I beg of you—!

Count [preparing to burst open the door]—You can't cajole me now.

Countess [throwing herself on her knees]—Then I will open it! Here is the key.

Count—So it is not Susanna?

Countess—No, but it's no one who should offend you.

Count—If it's a man I kill him! Unworthy wife! You wish to stay shut up in your room—you shall stay in it long enough, I promise you. Now I understand the note—my suspicions are justified!

Countess—Will you listen to me one minute?

Count—Who is in that room?

Countess—Your page.

Count—Cherubino! The little scoundrel!—just let me catch him! I don't wonder you were so agitated.

Countess—I—I assure you we were only planning an innocent joke.

[The Count snatches the key, and goes to the dressing-room door; the Countess throws herself at his feet.]

Countess—Have mercy, Count! Spare this poor child; and although the disorder in which you will find him—

Count—What, Madame? What do you mean? What disorder?

Countess—He was just changing his coat—his neck and arms are bare—

[The Countess throws herself into a chair and turns away her head.]

Count [running to the dressing-room]—Come out here, you young villain!

Count [seeing Susanna come out of the dressing-room]—Eh! Why, it is Susanna! [Aside.] What, a lesson!

Susanna [mocking him]—"I will kill him! I will kill him!" Well, then, why don't you kill this mischievous page?

Count [to the Countess, who at the sight of Susanna shows the greatest surprise]—So you also play astonishment, Madame?

Countess—Why shouldn't I?

Count—But perhaps she wasn't alone in there. I'll find out. [He goes into the dressing-room.]

Countess—- Susanna, I'm nearly dead.

Count [aside, as he returns]—No one there! So this time I really am wrong. [To the Countess, coldly.] You excel at comedy, Madame.

Susanna—And what about me, sir?

Count—And so do you.

Countess—Aren't you glad you found her instead of Cherubino? [Meaningly.] You are generally pleased to come across her.

Susanna—Madame ought to have let you break in the doors, call the servants—

Count—Yes, it's quite true—I'm at fault—I'm humiliated enough! But why didn't you answer, you cruel girl, when I called you?

Susanna—I was dressing as well as I could—with the aid of pins, and Madame knew why she forbade me to answer. She had her lessons.

Count—Why don't you help me get pardon, instead of making me out as bad as you can?

Countess—Did I marry you to be eternally subjected to jealousy and neglect? I mean to join the Ursulines, and—

Count—But, Rosina!

Countess—I am no longer the Rosina whom you loved so well. I am only poor Countess Almaviva, deserted wife of a madly jealous husband.

Count—I assure you, Rosina, this man, this letter, had excited me so—

Countess—I never gave my consent.

Count—What, you knew about it?

Countess—This rattlepate Figaro, without my sanction—

Count—He did it, eh! and Basilio pretended that a peasant brought it. Crafty wag, ready to impose on everybody!

Countess—You beg pardon, but you never grant pardon. If I grant it, it shall only be on condition of a general amnesty.

Count—Well, then, so be it. I agree. But I don't understand how your sex can adapt itself to circumstances so quickly and so nicely. You were certainly much agitated; and for that matter, you are yet.

Countess—Men aren't sharp enough to distinguish between honest indignation at unjust suspicion, and the confusion of guilt.

Count—We men think we know something of politics, but we are only children. Madame, the King ought to name you his ambassador to London.—And now pray forget this unfortunate business, so humiliating for me.

Countess—For us both.

Count—Won't you tell me again that you forgive me?

Countess—Have I said that, Susanna?

Count—Ah, say it now.

Countess—Do you deserve it, culprit?

Count—Yes, honestly, for my repentance.

Countess [giving him her hand]—How weak I am! What an example I set you, Susanna! He'll never believe in a woman's anger.

Susanna—You are prisoner on parole; and you shall see we are honorable.



FRANCIS BEAUMONT and JOHN FLETCHER

(1584-1616) (1579-1625)

"The names of Beaumont and Fletcher," says Lowell, in his lectures on 'Old English Dramatists,' "are as inseparably linked together as those of Castor and Pollux. They are the double star of our poetical firmament, and their beams are so indissolubly mingled that it is vain to attempt any division of them that shall assign to each his rightful share." Theirs was not that dramatic collaboration all too common among the lesser Elizabethan dramatists, at a time when managers, eager to satisfy a restless public incessantly clamoring for novelty, parceled out single acts or even scenes of a play among two or three playwrights, to put together a more or less congruous piece of work. Beaumont and Fletcher joined partnership, not from any outward necessity, but inspired by a common love of their art and true congeniality of mind. Unlike many of their brother dramatists, whom the necessities of a lowly origin drove to seek a livelihood in writing for the theatres, Beaumont and Fletcher were of gentle birth, and sprung from families eminent at the bar and in the Church.



Beaumont was born at Grace-Dieu in Leicestershire, 1584, the son of a chief justice. His name is first mentioned as a gentleman commoner at Broadgate Hall, now Pembroke College, Oxford. At sixteen he was entered a member of the Inner Temple, but the dry facts of the law did not appeal to his romantic imagination. Nowhere in his work does he draw upon his barrister's experience to the extent that makes the plays of Middleton, who also knew the Inner Temple at first hand, a storehouse of information in things legal. His feet soon strayed, therefore, into the more congenial fields of dramatic invention.

Fletcher was born in Rye, Sussex, the son of a minister who later became Bishop of London. Giles Fletcher the Younger, and Phineas Fletcher, both well-known poets in their day, were his cousins. His early life is as little known as that of Beaumont, and indeed as the lives of most of the other Elizabethan dramatists. He was a pensioner at Benet College, now Corpus Christi, Cambridge, in 1591, and in 1593 he was "Bible-clerk" there. Then we hear nothing of him until 'The Woman Hater' was brought out in 1607. The play has been ascribed to Beaumont alone, to Fletcher alone, and to the two jointly. Whoever may be the author, it is the firstling of his dramatic muse, and worth merely a passing mention. How or when their literary friendship began is not known; but since both were friends of Jonson, both prefixing commendatory verses to the great realist's play of 'The Fox,' it is fair to assume that through him they were brought together, and that both belonged to that brilliant circle of wits, poets, and dramatists who made famous the gatherings at the Mermaid Inn.

They lived in the closest intimacy on the Bankside, near the Globe Theatre in Southwark, sharing everything in common, even the bed, and some say their clothing,—which is likely enough, as it can be paralleled without going back three centuries. It is certain that the more affluent circumstances of Beaumont tided his less fortunate friend over many a difficulty; and the astonishing dramatic productivity of Fletcher's later period was probably due to Beaumont's untimely death, making it necessary for Fletcher to rely on his pen for support.

In 1613 Beaumont's marriage to a Kentish heiress put an end to the communistic bachelor establishment. He died March 6th, 1616, not quite six weeks before Shakespeare, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Fletcher survived him nine years, dying of the plague in 1625. He was buried, not by the side of the poet with whose name his own is forever linked, but at St. Saviour's, Southwark.

"A student of physiognomy," says Swinburne, "will not fail to mark the points of likeness and of difference between the faces of the two friends; both models of noble manhood.... Beaumont the statelier and serener of the two, with clear, thoughtful eyes, full arched brows, and strong aquiline nose, with a little cleft at the tip; a grave and beautiful mouth, with full and finely curved lips; the form of face a very pure oval, and the imperial head, with its 'fair large front' and clustering hair, set firm and carried high with an aspect of quiet command and knightly observation. Fletcher with more keen and fervid face, sharper in outline every way, with an air of bright ardor and glad, fiery impatience; sanguine and nervous, suiting the complexion and color of hair; the expression of the eager eyes and lips almost rivaling that of a noble hound in act to break the leash it strains at;—two heads as lordly of feature and as expressive of aspect as any gallery of great men can show."

It may not be altogether fanciful to transfer this description of their physical bearing to their mental equipment, and draw some conclusions as to their several endowments and their respective share in the work that goes under their common name. Of course it is impossible to draw hard and fast lines of demarkation, and assign to each poet his own words. They, above all others, would probably have resented so dogmatic a procedure, and affirmed the dramas to be their joint offspring,—even as a child partakes of the nature of both its parents.

Their plays are organic structures, with well worked-out plots and for the most part well-sustained characters. They present a complete fusion of the different elements contributed by each author; never showing that agglomeration of incongruous matter so often found among the work of the lesser playwrights, where each hand can be singled out and held responsible for its share. Elaborate attempts, based on verse tests, have been made to disentangle the two threads of their poetic fabric. These attempts show much patient analysis, and are interesting as evidences of ingenuity; but they appeal more to the scholar than to the lover of poetry. Yet a sympathetic reading and a comparison of the plays professedly written by Fletcher alone, after Beaumont's death, with those jointly produced by them in the early part of Fletcher's career, shows the different qualities of mind that went to the making of the work, and the individual characteristics of the men that wrote it. Here Swinburne's eloquence gives concreteness to the picture.

In the joint plays there is a surer touch, a deeper, more pathetic note, a greater intensity of emotion; there is more tragic pathos and passion, more strong genuine humor, nobler sentiments. The predominance of these graver, sweeter qualities may well be attributed to Beaumont's influence. Although a disciple of Jonson in comedy, he was a close follower of Shakespeare in tragedy, and a student of the rhythms and metres of Shakespeare's second manner,—of the period that saw 'Hamlet,' 'Macbeth,' and the plays clustering around them. Too great a poet himself merely to imitate, Beaumont yet felt the influence of that still greater poet who swayed every one of the later dramatists, with the single exception perhaps of Jonson. But in pure comedy, mixed with farce and mock-heroic parody, he belongs to the school of "rare Ben."

Fletcher, on the other hand, is more brilliant, more rapid and supple, readier in his resources, of more startling invention. He has an extraordinary swiftness and fluency of speech; and no other dramatist, not even Shakespeare, equals him in the remarkable facility with which he reproduces in light, airy verse the bantering conversations of the young beaux and court-gentlemen of the time of James I. His peculiar trick of the redundant syllable at the end of many of his lines is largely responsible in producing this effect of ordinary speech, that yet is verse without being prosy. There is a flavor about Fletcher's work peculiarly its own. He created a new form of mixed comedy and dramatic romance, dealing with the humors and mischances of men, yet possessing a romantic coloring. He had great skill in combining his effects, and threw a fresh charm and vividness over his fanciful world. The quality of his genius is essentially bright and sunny, and therefore he is best in his comic and romantic work. His tragedy, although it has great pathos and passion, does not compel tears, nor does it subdue by its terror. It lacks the note of inevitableness which is the final touchstone of tragic greatness.

Their first joint play, 'Philaster, or Love Lies a-Bleeding,' acted in 1608, is in its detached passages the most famous. Among the others, 'The Maid's Tragedy,' produced about the same time, is their finest play on its purely tragic side, although the plot is disagreeable. 'King and No King' attracts because of the tender character-drawing of Panthea. 'The Scornful Lady' is noteworthy as the best exponent, outside his own work, of the school of Jonson on its grosser side. 'The Knight of the Burning Pestle' is at once a burlesque on knight-errantry and a comedy of manners.

Among the tragedies presumably produced by Fletcher alone, 'Bonduca' is one of the best, followed closely by 'The False One,' 'Valentinian,' and 'Thierry and Theodoret.' 'The Chances' and 'The Wild Goose Chase' may be taken as examples of the whole work on its comic side. 'The Humorous Lieutenant' is the best expression of the faults and merits of Fletcher, whose comedies Swinburne has divided into three groups: pure comedies, heroic or romantic dramas, and mixed comedy and romance. To the first group belong 'Rule a Wife and Have a Wife,' Fletcher's comic masterpiece, 'Wit without Money,' 'The Wild Goose Chase,' 'The Chances,' 'The Noble Gentleman.' The second group includes 'The Knight of Malta,' full of heroic passion and Catholic devotion, 'The Pilgrim,' 'The Loyal Subject,' 'A Wife for a Month,' 'Love's Pilgrimage,' 'The Lover's Progress.' The third group comprises 'The Spanish Curate,' 'Monsieur Thomas,' 'The Custom of the Country,' 'The Elder Brother,' 'The Little French Lawyer,' 'The Humorous Lieutenant,' 'Women Pleased,' 'Beggar's Bush,' 'The Fair Maid of the Inn.'

Fletcher had a part with Shakespeare in the 'Two Noble Kinsmen,' and he wrote also in conjunction with Massinger, Rowley, and others; Shirley, too, is believed to have finished some of his plays.

Leaving aside Shakespeare, Beaumont and Fletcher's plays are the best dramatic expression of the romantic spirit of Elizabethan England. Their luxurious, playful fancy delighted in the highly colored, spicy tales of the Southern imagination which the Renaissance was then bringing into England. They drew especially upon Spanish material, and their plays are rightly interpreted only when studied in reference to this Spanish foundation. But they are at the same time true Englishmen, and above all true Elizabethans; which is as much as to say that, borne along by the eager, strenuous spirit of their time, reaching out toward new sensations and impressions, new countries and customs, and dazzled by the romanesque and fantastic, they took up this exotic material and made it acceptable to the English mind. They satisfied the curiosity of their time, and expressed its surface ideas and longings. This accounts for their great popularity, which in their day eclipsed even Shakespeare's, as it accounts also for their shortcomings. They skimmed over the surface of passion, they saw the pathos and the pity of it but not the terror; they lacked Shakespeare's profound insight into the well-springs of human action, and sacrificed truth of life to stage effect. They shared with him one grave fault which is indeed the besetting sin of dramatists, resulting in part from the necessarily curt and outline action of the drama, in part from the love of audiences for strong emotional effects; namely, the abrupt and unexplained moral revolutions of their characters. Effects are too often produced without apparent causes; a novelist has space to fill in the blanks. The sudden contrition of the usurper in 'As You Like It' is a familiar instance; Beaumont and Fletcher have plenty as bad. Probably there was more of this in real life during the Middle Ages, when most people still had much barbaric instability of feeling and were liable to sudden revulsions of purpose, than in our more equable society. On the other hand, virtue often suffers needlessly and acquiescingly.

In their speech they indulged in much license, Fletcher especially; he was prone to confuse right and wrong. The strenuousness of the earlier Elizabethan age was passing away, and the relaxing morality of Jacobean society was making its way into literature, culminating in the entire disintegration of the time of Charles II., which it is very shallow to lay entirely to the Puritans. There would have been a time of great laxity had Cromwell or the Puritan ascendancy never existed. Beaumont and Fletcher, in their eagerness to please, took no thought of the after-effects of their plays; morality did not enter into their scheme of life. Yet they were not immoral, but merely unmoral. They lacked the high seriousness that gives its permanent value to Shakespeare's tragic work. They wrote not to embody the everlasting truths of life, as he did; not because they were oppressed with the weight of a new message striving for utterance; not because they were aflame with the passion for the unattainable, as Marlowe; not to lash with the stings of bitter mockery the follies and vices of their fellow-men, as Ben Jonson; not primarily to make us shudder at the terrible tragedies enacted by corrupted hearts, and the needless unending sufferings of persecuted virtue, as Webster; nor yet to give us a faithful picture of the different phases of life in Jacobean London, as Dekker, Heywood, Middleton, and others. They wrote for the very joy of writing, to give vent to their over-bubbling fancy and their tender feeling.

They are lyrical and descriptive poets of the first order, with a wonderful ease and grace of expression. The songs scattered throughout their plays are second only to Shakespeare's. The volume and variety of their work is astonishing. They left more than fifty-two printed plays, and all of these show an extraordinary power of invention; the most diverse passions, characters, and situations enter into the work, their stories stimulate our curiosity, and their characters appeal to our sympathies. Especially in half-farcical, half-pathetic comedy they have no superior; their wit and spirit here find freest play. Despite much coarseness, their work is full of delicate sensibility, and suffused with a romantic grace of form and a tenderness of expression that endears them to our hearts, and makes them more lovable than any of their brother dramatists, with the possible exception of genial Dekker. The spirit of chivalry breathes through their work, and the gentleman and scholar is always present. For in contradiction to most of their fellow-workers, they were not on the stage; they never took part in its more practical affairs either as actors or managers; they derived the technical knowledge necessary to a successful playwright from their intimacy with stage folk.

As poets, aside from their dramatic work, they occupy a secondary place. Beaumont especially has left, beyond one or two exquisite lyrics, little that is noteworthy, except some commendatory verses addressed to Jonson. On the other hand, Fletcher's 'Faithful Shepherdess,' with Jonson's 'Sad Shepherd' and Milton's 'Comus,' form that delightful trilogy of the first pastoral poems in the English language.

The popularity of Beaumont and Fletcher in the seventeenth century, as compared to that of Shakespeare, has been over-emphasized; for between 1623 and 1685 they have only two folio editions, those of 1647 and 1679, as against four of Shakespeare. Their position among the Elizabethans is unique. They did not found a school either in comedy or tragedy. Massinger, who had more in common with them than any other of the leading dramatists, cannot be called their disciple; for though he worked in the same field, he is more sober and severe, more careful in the construction of his plots, more of a satirist and stern judge of society. With the succeeding playwrights the decadence of the Elizabethan drama began.

THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS

BY FLETCHER

[Clorin, a shepherdess, watching by the grave of her lover, is found by a Satyr.]

CLORIN—Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace The truest man that ever fed his flocks By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly. Thus I salute thy grave, thus do I pay My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes, To thy still loved ashes: thus I free Myself from all ensuing heats and fires Of love: all sports, delights, and jolly games, That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off. Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt With youthful coronals, and lead the dance. No more the company of fresh fair maids And wanton shepherds be to me delightful: Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes Under some shady dell, when the cool wind Plays on the leaves: all be far away, Since thou art far away, by whose dear side How often have I sat, crowned with fresh flowers For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook, And hanging script of finest cordevan! But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee, And all are dead but thy dear memory; That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring, Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing. And here will I, in honor of thy love, Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys That former times made precious to mine eyes, Only remembering what my youth did gain In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs. That will I practice, and as freely give All my endeavors, as I gained them free. Of all green wounds I know the remedies In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes, Or charmed with powerful words of wicked art; Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat Grown wild, or lunatic; their eyes, or ears, Thickened with misty film of dulling rheum:

These I can cure, such secret virtue lies In herbs applied by a virgin's hand. My meat shall be what these wild woods afford, Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit Pulled from the fair head of the straight-grown pine. On these I'll feed with free content and rest, When night shall blind the world, by thy side blessed

[A Satyr enters.]

Satyr—Through yon same bending plain That flings his arms down to the main, And through these thick woods have I run, Whose bottom never kissed the sun. Since the lusty spring began, All to please my master Pan, Have I trotted without rest To get him fruit; for at a feast He entertains this coming night His paramour the Syrinx bright: But behold a fairer sight! By that heavenly form of thine, Brightest fair, thou art divine, Sprung from great immortal race Of the gods, for in thy face Shines more awful majesty Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold, And live: therefore on this mold Lowly do I bend my knee In worship of thy deity. Deign it, goddess, from my hand To receive whate'er this land From her fertile womb doth send Of her choice fruits; and—but lend Belief to that the Satyr tells— Fairer by the famous wells To this present day ne'er grew, Never better, nor more true. Here be grapes, whose lusty blood Is the learned poet's good; Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus: nuts more brown Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them; Deign, O fairest fair, to take them. For these, black-eyed Driope Hath oftentimes commanded me With my clasped knee to climb. See how well the lusty time Hath decked their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Here be berries for a queen; Some be red, some be green; These are of that luscious meat The great god Pan himself doth eat: All these, and what the woods can yield, The hanging mountain, or the field, I freely offer, and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong; Till when humbly leave I take, Lest the great Pan do awake, That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Under a broad beech's shade. I must go, I must run, Swifter than the fiery sun.

Clorin—And all my fears go with thee. What greatness, or what private hidden power, Is there in me to draw submission From this rude man and beast? sure. I am mortal, The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal, And she that bore me mortal; prick my hand And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink, Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal: Yet I have heard (my mother told it me) And now I do believe it, if I keep My virgin flower uncropped, pure, chaste, and fair, No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves, Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion Draw me to wander after idle fires, Or voices calling me in dead of night To make me follow, and so tole me on Through mire, and standing pools, to find my ruin. Else why should this rough thing, who never knew Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen, Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there's a power In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity, Be thou my strongest guard; for here I'll dwell In opposition against fate and hell.

SONG

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose On this afflicted prince; fall, like a cloud, In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud Or painful to his slumbers; easy, light, And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain, Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain; Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!

SONG

God Lyaeus, ever young, Ever honored, ever sung, Stained with blood of lusty grapes, In a thousand lusty shapes, Dance upon the mazer's brim, In the crimson liquor swim; From thy plenteous hand divine, Let a river run with wine. God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear!

ASPATIA'S SONG

Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow-branches bear; Say I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth: Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!

LEANDRO'S SONG

BY FLETCHER

Dearest, do not you delay me, Since thou know'st I must be gone; Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me, But 'tis wind that must be blown From that breath, whose native smell Indian odors far excel.

Oh then speak, thou fairest fair! Kill not him that vows to serve thee; But perfume this neighboring air, Else dull silence, sure, will starve me: 'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, Which being restrained, a heart is broken.

TRUE BEAUTY

May I find a woman fair, And her mind as clear as air: If her beauty go alone, 'Tis to me as if 'twere none.

May I find a woman rich, And not of too high a pitch: If that pride should cause disdain, Tell me, lover, where's thy gain?

May I find a woman wise, And her falsehood not disguise: Hath she wit as she hath will, Double armed she is to ill.

May I find a woman kind, And not wavering like the wind: How should I call that love mine, When 'tis his, and his, and thine?

May I find a woman true, There is beauty's fairest hue, There is beauty, love, and wit: Happy he can compass it!

ODE TO MELANCHOLY

By Fletcher

Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! There's naught in this life sweet, If man were wise to see 't, But only melancholy; Oh, sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound!

Fountain heads, and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks when all the fowls Are warmly housed, save bats and owls! A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON,

UPON HIS 'FOX'

By Beaumont

If it might stand with justice to allow The swift conversion of all follies, now Such is my mercy, that I could admit All sorts should equally approve the wit Of this thy even work, whose growing fame Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name; And did not manners and my love command Me to forbear to make those understand Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom Long since firmly resolved, shall never come To know more than they do,—I would have shown To all the world the art which thou alone Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place, And other rites, delivered with the grace

Of comic style, which only is fat more Than any English stage hath known before. But since our subtle gallants think it good To like of naught that may be understood, Lest they should be disproved, or have, at best, Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest But what's obscene, or barks,—let us desire They may continue, simply to admire Fine clothes and strange words, and may live, in age To see themselves ill brought upon the stage, And like it; whilst thy bold and knowing Muse Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER

BY BEAUMONT

Mortality, behold, and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones: Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; Where from their pulpits, soiled with dust, They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royal'st seed, That, the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, "Though gods they were, as men they died:" Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

FROM 'PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING'

ARETHUSA'S DECLARATION

Lady—Here is my Lord Philaster.

Arethusa—Oh, 'tis well. Withdraw yourself. Exit Lady.

Philaster—Madam, your messenger Made me believe you wished to speak with me.

Arethusa—'Tis true, Philaster, but the words are such I have to say, and do so ill beseem The mouth of woman, that I wish them said, And yet am loath to speak them. Have you known That I have aught detracted from your worth? Have I in person wronged you? or have set My baser instruments to throw disgrace Upon your virtues?

Philaster—Never, madam, you.

Arethusa—Why then should you, in such a public place, Injure a princess, and a scandal lay Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great, Calling a great part of my dowry in question?

Philaster—Madam, this truth which I shall speak will be Foolish: but, for your fair and virtuous self, I could afford myself to have no right To any thing you wished.

Arethusa—Philaster, know, I must enjoy these kingdoms.

Philaster—Madam, both?

Arethusa—Both, or I die; by fate, I die, Philaster, If I not calmly may enjoy them both.

Philaster—I would do much to save that noble life, Yet would be loath to have posterity Find in our stories, that Philaster gave His right unto a sceptre and a crown To save a lady's longing.

Arethusa—Nay, then, hear: I must and will have them, and more—

Philaster—What more?

Arethusa—Or lose that little life the gods prepared To trouble this poor piece of earth withal.

Philaster—Madam, what more?

Arethusa—Turn, then, away thy face.

Philaster—No.

Arethusa—Do.

Philaster—I can endure it. Turn away my face! I never yet saw enemy that looked So dreadfully, but that I thought myself As great a basilisk as he; or spake So horribly, but that I thought my tongue Bore thunder underneath, as much as his; Nor beast that I could turn from: shall I then Begin to fear sweet sounds? a lady's voice, Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life: Why, I will give it you; for 'tis to me A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask Of so poor use, that I shall make no price: If you entreat, I will unmovedly hear.

Arethusa—Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks.

Philaster—I do.

Arethusa—Then know, I must have them and thee.

Philaster—And me?

Arethusa—Thy love; without which, all the land Discovered yet will serve me for no use But to be buried in.

Philaster—Is't possible?

Arethusa—With it, it were too little to bestow On thee. Now, though thy breath do strike me dead, (Which, know, it may,) I have unript my breast.

Philaster—Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts To lay a train for this contemned life, Which you may have for asking: to suspect Were base, where I deserve no ill. Love you! By all my hopes I do, above my life! But how this passion should proceed from you So violently, would amaze a man That would be jealous.

Arethusa—Another soul into my body shot Could not have filled me with more strength and spirit Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time In seeking how I came thus: 'tis the gods, The gods, that make me so; and sure, our love Will be the nobler and the better blest, In that the secret justice of the gods Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and kiss: Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us, And we should part without it.

Philaster—'Twill be ill I should abide here long.

Arethusa—'Tis true: and worse You should come often. How shall we devise To hold intelligence, that our true loves, On any new occasion, may agree What path is best to tread?

Philaster—I have a boy, Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, Yet not seen in the court. Hunting the buck, I found him sitting by a fountain's side, Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, And paid the nymph again as much in tears. A garland lay him by, made by himself Of many several flowers bred in the vale, Stuck in that mystic order that the rareness Delighted me; but ever when he turned His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep, As if he meant to make 'em grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story. He told me that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs, Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light. Then took he up his garland, and did show What every flower, as country-people hold, Did signify, and how all, ordered thus, Expressed his grief; and, to my thoughts, did read The prettiest lecture of his country-art That could be wished: so that methought I could Have studied it. I gladly entertained Him, who was glad to follow: and have got The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy That ever master kept. Him will I send To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.

THE STORY OF BELLARIO

PHILASTER—But, Bellario (For I must call thee still so), tell me why Thou didst conceal thy sex. It was a fault, A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds Of truth outweighed it: all these jealousies Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered What now we know.

Bellario—My father oft would speak Your worth and virtue; and as I did grow More and more apprehensive, I did thirst To see the man so praised. But yet all this Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost As soon as found; till, sitting in my window, Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, I thought (but it was you), enter our gates: My blood flew out and back again, as fast As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in Like breath; then was I called away in haste To entertain you. Never was a man Heaved from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, raised So high in thoughts as I. You left a kiss Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep From you for ever; I did hear you talk, Far above singing. After you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched What stirred it so: alas, I found it love! Yet far from lust; for, could I but have lived In presence of you, I had had my end. For this I did delude my noble father With a feigned pilgrimage, and dressed 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 seemed, that I might ever Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount, Where first you took me up.

King—Search out a match Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt, And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself Wilt well deserve him.

Bellario—Never, sir, will I Marry; it is a thing within my vow: But if I may have leave to serve the princess, To see the virtues of her lord and her, I shall have hope to live.

Arethusa—I, Philaster, Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady Drest like a page to serve you; nor will I Suspect her living here.—Come, live with me; Live free as I do. She that loves my lord, Cursed be the wife that hates her!

FROM 'THE MAID'S TRAGEDY'

CONFESSION OF EVADNE TO AMINTOR

Evadne—Would I could say so [farewell] to my black disgrace! Oh, where have I been all this time? how friended, That I should lose myself thus desperately, And none for pity show me how I wandered? There is not in the compass of the light A more unhappy creature: sure, I am monstrous; For I have done those follies, those mad mischiefs, Would dare a woman. Oh, my loaden soul, Be not so cruel to me; choke not up The way to my repentance!

[Enter Amintor.]

O my lord!

Amintor—How now?

Evadne—My much-abused lord! [Kneels.]

Amintor—This cannot be!

Evadne—I do not kneel to live; I dare not hope it; The wrongs I did are greater. Look upon me, Though I appear with all my faults.

Amintor—Stand up. This is a new way to beget more sorrows: Heaven knows I have too many. Do not mock me:

Though I am tame, and bred up with my wrongs, Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap, Like a hand-wolf, into my natural wildness, And do an outrage: prithee, do not mock me,

Evadne—My whole life is so leprous, it infects All my repentance. I would buy your pardon, Though at the highest set, even with my life: That slight contrition, that's no sacrifice For what I have committed.

Amintor—Sure, I dazzle: There cannot be a faith in that foul woman, That knows no God more mighty than her mischiefs. Thou dost still worse, still number on thy faults, To press my poor heart thus. Can I believe There's any seed of virtue in that woman Left to shoot up that dares go on in sin Known, and so known as thine is? O Evadne! Would there were any safety in thy sex, That I might put a thousand sorrows off, And credit thy repentance! but I must not: Thou hast brought me to that dull calamity, To that strange misbelief of all the world And all things that are in it, that I fear I shall fall like a tree, and find my grave, Only remembering that I grieve.

Evadne—My lord, Give me your griefs: you are an innocent, A soul as white as Heaven; let not my sins Perish your noble youth. I do not fall here To shadow by dissembling with my tears, (As all say women can,) or to make less What my hot will hath done, which Heaven and you Know to be tougher than the hand of time Can cut from man's remembrances; no, I do not; I do appear the same, the same Evadne, Drest in the shames I lived in, the same monster. But these are names of honor to what I am: I do present myself the foulest creature, Most poisonous, dangerous, and despised of men, Lerna e'er bred, or Nilus. I am hell, Till you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me, The beams of your forgiveness; I am soul-sick, And wither with the fear of one condemned, Till I have got your pardon.

Amintor—Rise, Evadne. Those heavenly powers that put this good into thee Grant a continuance of it! I forgive thee: Make thyself worthy of it; and take heed, Take heed, Evadne, this be serious. Mock not the powers above, that can and dare Give thee a great example of their justice To all ensuing ages, if thou playest With thy repentance, the best sacrifice.

Evadne—I have done nothing good to win belief, My life hath been so faithless. All the creatures Made for Heaven's honors have their ends, and good ones, All but the cozening crocodiles, false women: They reign here like those plagues, those killing sores, Men pray against; and when they die, like tales Ill told and unbelieved, they pass away, And go to dust forgotten. But, my lord, Those short days I shall number to my rest (As many must not see me) shall, though too late, Though in my evening, yet perceive a will, Since I can do no good, because a woman, Reach constantly at something that is near it; I will redeem one minute of my age, Or, like another Niobe, I'll weep, Till I am water.

Amintor—I am now dissolved: My frozen soul melts. May each sin thou hast, Find a new mercy! Rise; I am at peace.