Rag. Near my cell, 'Mongst circling rocks (in form a theatre) Lies a snug vale Soz. With horror I have view'd it ; 'Tis blasted all and bare as th' ocean beach, And seems a round for elves to revel in. Rag. With my attendants there each waning moon With gambols, dances, masks and revelling songs, RAGUSA, with the other Witches, having finished the bracelet. Seven hours odd minutes has it steept i' th' gall And with th' infectious dew of your black breaths THE FATAL UNION: A TRAGEDY. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. Dirge. Noblest bodies are but gilded clay. Put away But the precious shining rind, The inmost rottenness remains behind. He, a thousand Kings before, Now is vassal unto more. And dig for diamonds in each eye; Fools, ah! fools are we that so contrive, In each gaudy ornament, Who shall his corpse in the best dish present. BLURT, MASTER CONSTABLE: A COMEDY, BY T. MIDDLETON, 1602. Lover kept awake by Love. Ah! how can I sleep? he, who truly loves, And when the lamb bleating doth bid good night To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice VIOLETTA comes to seek her Husband at the house of a Curtizan, Vio. By your leave, sweet Beauty, pardon my excuse, which sought entrance into this house: good Sweetness, have you not a Property here, improper to your house; my husband? Imp. Hah! your husband here? Vio. Nay, be as you seem to be, White Dove, without gall. Do not mock me, fairest Venetian. Come, I know he is here. I do not blame him, for your beauty gilds over his error. "Troth, I am right glad that you, my Countrywoman, have received the pawn of his affections. You cannot be hardhearted, loving him; nor hate me, for I love him too. Since we both love him, let us not leave him, till we have called home the ill husbandry of a sweet Straggler. Prithee, good wench, use him well. Imp. So, so, so Vio. If he deserve not to be used well (as I'd be loth he should deserve it), I'll engage myself, dear Beauty, to thine honest heart: give me leave to love him, and I'll give him a kind of leave to love thee. I know he hears me. I prithee try my eyes, if they know him; that have almost drowned themselves in their own salt-water, because they cannot see him. In truth, I'll not chide him. If I speak words rougher than soft kisses, my penance shall be to see him kiss thee, yet to hold my peace. Good Partner, lodge me in thy private bed; Determin'd Sin. Thou smilest. I know thou wilt. I Imp. Good truth, pretty Wedlock, thou makest my little eyes smart with washing themselves in brine. mar such a sweet face !—and wipe off that dainty red! and make Cupid toll the bell for your love-sick heart! -no, no, no-if he were Jove's own ingle Ganymedefie, fie, fie-I'll none. Your Chamber-fellow is within. Thou shalt enjoy him. Vio. Star of Venetian Beauty, thanks! HOFFMAN'S TRAGEDY: OR REVENGE FOR A FATHER, 1631. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. The Sons of the Duke of Saxony run away with LUCIBEL, the Duke of Austria's Daughter.-The two Dukes, in separate pursuit of their children, meet at the Cell of a Hermit: in which Hermit, Saxony recognises a banished Brother; at which surprised, all three are reconciled. Aust. That should be Saxon's tongue. Sax. Indeed I am the Duke of Saxony. Sax. Oh subtle Duke, Thy craft appears in framing the excuse. But by the charms and forcings of thy sons. Sax. O would thou would'st maintain thy words, proud Duke ! Her. I hope, great princes, neither of you dare Commit a deed so sacrilegious. This holy Cell Is dedicated to the Prince of Peace. The foot of man never profan'd this floor; Till our ears hear the true course, which thy sons I proclaim truce. Why dost thou sullen stand? That shews th' intention in the outward face. Look chearfully, or I expect no league. Sax. First give me leave to view awhile the person Of this Hermit-Austria, view him well. Is he not like my brother Roderic? Aust. He's like him. But I heard, he lost his life Long since in Persia by the Sophy's wars. Her. I heard so much, my Lord. But that report I am that Roderic, that aspir'd thy throne; Sax. My brother !-nay then i' faith, old John lay by Thy sorrowing thoughts; turn to thy wonted vein, And be mad John of Saxony again. Mad Roderic, art alive ?-my mother's son, Her joy, and her last birth!-oh, she conjured me [thee. But thou deserv'dst it then: but let it go. Her. I thank your Highness; I will think on it: Sax. Tut, tittle tattle, tell not me of sin.- If any But if, as I believe, they mean but honour, |