But thy own health, and pronounce general pardon To all through France.

Adm. Sir, I must kneel to thank you,

It is not seal'd else; your blest hand; live happy. May all you trust have no less faith than Chabot. O!

Wife. His heart is broken.

Father. And kneeling, sir,

As his ambition were, in death to show
The truth of his obedience.

[Dies.

FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM
THE SAME

No advice to self-advice.

another's knowledge,

Applied to my instruction, cannot equal

My own soul's knowledge, how to inform acts; The sun's rich radiance, shot through waves most

fair,

Is but a shadow to his beams i' the air ;
His beams that in the air we so admire,
Is but a darkness to his flame in fire ;
In fire his fervour but in vapour flies,
To what his own pure bosom rarefies:
And the Almighty wisdom, having given
Each man within himself an apter light
To guide his acts, than any light without him,
(Creating nothing not in all things equal,)
It seems a fault in any that depend

On other's knowledge, and exile their own.

Virtue under calumny.

as in cloudy days, we see the sun Glide over turrets, temples, richest fields,

All those left dark, and slighted in his way,
And on the wretched plight of some poor shed
Pours all the glories of his golden head :
So heavenly virtue, on this envied lord
Points all his graces.

THE HISTORY OF ANTONIO AND

MELLIDA.

THE FIRST PART.

BY JOHN MARSTON.

ANDRUGIO Duke of Genoa banished his country, with the loss of a son supposed drowned, is cast upon the territory of his mortal enemy the DUKE OF VENICE; with no attendants but LUCIO an old nobleman, and a Page.

Andr. Is not yon gleam the shuddering morn that flakes

With silver tincture the east verge of heaven?
Luc. I think it is, so please your excellence.
Andr. Away, I have no excellence to please.
Prithee observe the custom of the world,
That only flatters greatness, states exalts.
And please my excellence! O Lucio,
Thou hast been ever held respected dear,
Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love.
Good, flatter not.

My thoughts are fixt in contemplation

Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal
That eats her children, should not have eyes and

ears.

Philosophy maintains that Nature 's wise,
And forms no useless or unperfect thing.

Did Nature make the earth, or the earth Nature ?
For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man,
Moulds me up honour; and, like a cunning Dutch-

man,

Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath,

And gives a sot appearance of a soul.
Go to, go to; thou liest, Philosophy.
Nature forms things unperfect, useless, vain.
Why made she not the earth with eyes and ears?
That she might see desert, and hear men's plaints;
That when a soul is splitted, sunk with grief,
He might fall thus, upon the breast of earth,
And in her ear halloo his misery,

Exclaiming thus: O thou all-bearing earth,
Which men do gape for, till thou cram'st their

mouths

And chok'st their throats with dust; open thy

breast,

And let me sink into thee.

Look who knocks; Andrugio calls. But O, she 's deaf and blind. A wretch but lean relief on earth can find. Luc. Sweet lord, abandon passion, and disarm. Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea, We are roll'd up upon the Venice marsh, Let's clip all fortune, lest more low'ring fateAndr. More low'ring fate! O Lucio, choke that

breath.

Now I defy chance.

Even to the utmost

Fortune's brow hath frown'd, wrinkle it can bend :

Her venom's spit. Alas! what country rests,
What son, what comfort that she can deprive?
Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow?
Gapes not my native country for my blood?
Lies not my son tomb'd in the swelling main?
And yet more low'ring fate? There's nothing
left

Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio:

And that

Nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell can take : Fortune my fortunes, not my mind, shall shake. Luc. Speak like yourself; but give me leave, my lord, To wish your safety. If you are but seen,

Your arms display you; therefore put them off,
And take

Andr. Wouldst have me go unarm'd among my foes?
Being besieg'd by passion, ent'ring lists,

To combat with despair and mighty grief:

My soul beleaguer'd with the crushing strength
Of sharp impatience. Ha, Lucio, go unarm'd?
Come soul, resume the valour of thy birth;
Myself, myself will dare all opposites :
I'll muster forces, an unvanquish'd power:
Cornets of horse shall press th' ungrateful earth;
This hollow-wombed mass shall inly groan
And murmur to sustain the weight of arms:
Ghastly amazement, with upstarted hair,
Shall hurry on before, and usher us,

Whilst trumpets clamour with a sound of death.
Luc. Peace, good my lord, your speech is all too light.
Alas! survey your fortunes, look what's left
Of all your forces, and your utmost hopes:
A weak old man, a page, and your poor self.
Andr. Andrugio lives, and a fair cause of arms,-
Why that 's an army all invincible !

He who hath that, hath a battalion royal,
Armour of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds,
Main squares of pikes, millions of harquebush.
O, a fair cause stands firm, and will abide;
Legions of angels fight upon her side.

[The situation of Andrugio and Lucio resembles that of Lear and Kent, in that king's distresses. Andrugio, like Lear, manifests a kind of royal impatience, a turbulent greatness, an affected resignation. The enemies which he enters lists to combat, "despair, and mighty grief, and sharp impatience," and the forces ("cornets of horse," &c.) which he brings to vanquish them, are in the boldest style of allegory. They are such a "race of mourners as "the infection of sorrows loud" in the intellect might beget on "some pregnant cloud" in the imagination.]

ANTONIO'S REVENGE. THE SECOND PART OF THE HISTORY OF ANTONIO AND MELLIDA.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

The Prologue.1

THE rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps
The fluent summer's vein; and drizzling sleet
Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numb'd earth,
Whilst snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leaves
From the nak'd shuddering branch; and pills 2 the
skin

From off the soft and delicate aspects.

O now, methinks, a sullen tragic scene
Would suit the time with pleasing congruence.
May we be happy in our weak devoir,
And all part pleased in most wish'd content;
But sweat of Hercules can ne'er beget
So blest an issue. Therefore, we proclaim,
If any spirit breathes within this round,
Uncapable of weighty passion,

(As from his birth being hugged in the arms,
And nuzzled 'twixt the breasts of happiness 3)
Who winks, and shuts his apprehension up
From common sense of what men were, and are,
Who would not know what men must be—let such

1 This prologue, for its passionate earnestness, and for the tragic note of preparation which it sounds, might have preceded one of those old tales of Thebes, or Pelops' line, which Milton has so highly commended, as free from the common error of the poets in his days, "of intermixing common stuff with tragic sadness and gravity, brought in without discretion corruptly to gratify the people."—It is as solemn a preparative as the "warning voice which he who saw the Apocalypse, heard cry"

2 peels.

3Sleek favourites of Fortune." Preface to Poems by S T. Coleridge.