SONG. From p. 11 of "Cromwell's Conspiracy, a tragi-comedy, relating to our latter Times; beginning at the death of King Charles the First, and ending with the happy Restauration of King Charles the Second. Written by a Person of Quality." 4to, Lond. 1660. How happy's the pris'ner that conquers his fate With silence, and ne'er on bad fortune complains, But carelessly plays with his keys on the grate, And makes a sweet concert with them and his chains ! He drowns care with sack, while his thoughts are oppress'd, And makes his heart float like a cork in his breast. Then since w'are all slaves who islanders be, And theworld's a large prison enclosed with the sea, We will drink up the ocean, and set ourselves free, For man is the world's epitome. [* To this song, which was written by Sir Robert Ayton, Burns gave a Scots dress, but failed to improve.] LOYALTY CONFINED. FROM THE SAME. Ascribed to Sir Roger L'Estrange. BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; That innocence is tempest-proof: Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; That which the world miscalls a gaol, And innocence my liberty: Into this private room was turn'd, The salamander should be burn'd; THE INQUIRY. If we no old historian's name Authentic will admit, But think all said of friendship's fame But poetry or wit; Yet what's revered by minds so pure Must be a bright idea sure. But as our immortality By inward sense we find, Judging that if it could not be, It would not be design'd: So here how could such copies fall, If there were no original? But if truth be in ancient song, Or story we believe; If the inspired and greater throng Have scorned to deceive; There have been hearts whose friendship gave Them thoughts at once both soft and grave.. Among that consecrated crew Some more seraphic shade Lend me a favourable clew, Now mists my eyes invade. Why, having fill'd the world with fame, Why is't so difficult to see Two bodies and one mind? So difficultly kind? Hath nature such fantastic art, Why are the bands of friendship tied With so remiss a knot, That by the most it is defied, And by the most forgot? Why do we step with so light sense From friendship to indifference? If friendship sympathy impart, Why this ill-shuffled game, That heart can never meet with heart, Is't the intrigue of love or fate? Had friendship ne'er been known to men, (The ghost at last confest) The world had then a stranger been A FRIEND. LOVE, nature's plot, this great creation's soul, Friendship's an abstract of this noble flame, 'Tis love refined and purged from all its dross, The next to angel's love, if not the same, As strong in passion is, though not so gross: It antedates a glad eternity, And is an heaven in epitome. Essential honour must be in a friend, Not such as every breath fans to and fro; But born within, is its own judge and end, [know. And dares not sin though sure that none should Where friendship 's spoke, honesty 's understood; For none can be a friend that is not good. Thick waters show no images of things; WILLIAM HEMINGE. great poet's works. He was born in 1602, and received his education at Oxford. This is all that is mentioned of him by the compilers of the THIS writer was the son of John Heminge the famous player, who was contemporary with Shakspeare, and whose name is prefixed, together with that of Condell, to the folio edition of the | Biographia Dramatica. FROM "THE FATAL CONTRACT," ACT II. SCENE II. Aphelia has been contracted by mutual vows to Clovis, younger brother of the young king of France, Clotair, and imagines in this scene that she is to be brought into the presence of Clovis, instead of whom she is brought to Clotair by the treachery of the Eunuch. Enter APHELIA, and the Eunuch with a wax-taper. Aph. INTO what labyrinth do you lead me, sir? What by, perplexed ways? I should much fear, Had you not used his name, which is to me A strength 'gainst terror, and himself so good, A silent sorrow from mine eyes would steal, Eun. You are too tender of your honour, lady, Save what is lawful, he not owns that heat, [APHELIA reads the book. The queen as rootedly does hate her sons She must be brought by me: she'll steel them on Fitting a midnight season: here I see Enter CLOTAIR. Clot. Methinks I stand like Tarquin in the night When he defiled the chastity of Rome, Doubtful of what to do; and like a thief, I take each noise to be an officer. [She still reads on. She has a ravishing feature, and her mind Is of a purer temper than her body: Her virtues more than beauty ravish'd me, And I commit, even with her piety, A kind of incest with religion. Though I do know it is a deed of death, Condemn'd to torments in the other world. Such tempting sweetness dwells in every limb, That I must venture. Alack, why not? say he should offer foul, The evil counsel of a secret place, And night, his friend, might overtempt his will. Aph. Ha! what man art thou, That hast thy countenance clouded with thy cloak, Clot. I came to find one beautiful as thou Aph. I understand you not. Clot. But you must; yea, and the right way too. Aph. Help! help! help! Clot. Peace! none of your loud music, lady: If you raise a note, or beat the air with clamour, You see your death. [Draws his dagger. Aph. What violence is this, inhuman sir? Why do you threaten war, fright my soft peace With most ungentle steel? What have I done Dangerous, or am like to do? Why do you wrack me thus ? Mine arms are guilty of no crimes, do not torment 'em ; Mine heart and they have been heaved up together Clot. Come, do not seem more holy than you are, I know your heart. Aph. Let your dagger too, noble sir, strike home, And sacrifice a soul to chastity, As pure as is itself, or innocence. Aph. The majesty of France! Aph. I dare not fear; it's treason to suspect My king can harbour thoughts that tend to ill : I know your God-like good, and have but tried How far weak woman durst be virtuous. Clot. Cunning simplicity, thou art deceived; And only gaze, not surfeit on thy beauty; More than a living scorn upon your name? The ashes in your urn shall suffer for❜t, Virgins will sow their curses on your grave, Time blot your kingly parentage, and call Your birth in question. Do you think Than had Aphelia brought me forth an heir, Clovis. O that in nature there was left an art This deed will lie conceal'd? the faults kings do Why dost thou harbour such unhallow'd guests, Shine like the fiery beacons on a hill, Clot. I will endure no longer : come along, Monster of men! Thou king of darkness! down unto thy hell! Eun. Beat' down their swords-what do the princes mean? Ring out the 'larum-bell-call up the court ANOTHER SCENE FROM THE SAME. Persons. CLOVIS, CLOTAIR, STREPHON, LAMOT the In the sequel of the story, the guards of the king having fallen upon Clovis, he is apparently killed, but is nevertheless secretly cured of his wounds, and assumes a disguise. In the mean time, the queen mother, anxious to get rid of Aphelia, causes one of her own paramours to dress in the armour of Prince Clovis, and to demand, in the character of his ghost, that Aphelia shall be sacrificed upon his hearse. Clotair pretends to comply with this sacrifice, and Aphelia is brought out to execution; but when all is ready, he takes the sword from the headsman, lays it at her feet, and declares her his queen. Clovis attends in disguise, and the poet makes him behave with rather more composure than we should expect from his trying situation; but when he sees his mistress accept the hand of his royal brother, he at last breaks out. To house within thy bosom perjury? If that our vows are register'd in heaven, Has not yet cool'd the breath with which thou Eu. The queen! she faints. Clovis. Is there a God left so propitious Lamot. Are you mad? Clovis. Nothing so happy, Strephon; would I In time's first progress I despair the hour [were! That brings such fortune with it; I should then Forget that she was ever pleasing to me; I should no more remember she would sit Lamot. See,she's return'd, and with majestic gaze, In pity rather than contempt, beholds you. Clovis. Convey me hence, some charitable man, Clotair. Rule your disorder'd tongue; Clovis. I had forgot myself, yet well remember That eat'st into my marrow, turn'st my blood, O man bewomanized! Wert thou not mine? |