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though he

conquer their countries. Love falleth like a dew, as well upon the low grass, as upon the high cedar; sparks have their heat,-ants their gall,—fies their spleen. Well, enjoy one another; I give her thee frankly Apelles. Thou shalt see that Alexander maketh but a toy of love, and leadeth affection in fetters, using fancy as a fool to make him sport, or a minstrel to make him merry. It is not the amorous glance of the eye than can settle an idle thought in the heart. Go Apelles, take with you your Campaspe, Alexander is cloyed with looking on that

which thou wond'rest at. Apel. Thanks to your majesty on bended knee, you

have honoured A pelles: Camp.—Thanks with bowed heart, you have blessed Campaspe.

[exeuni.] Alex.—Page, go warn. Clytus and Parmenio and the

other lords, to be in readiness : let the trumpet sound, strike up the drum, and I will presently into Persia. How now Hephestion, is Alex

ander able to resist love as he list ? Heph.—The conquering of Thebes was not so honour

able as the subduing of these thoughts. Alex.-)t were a shame Alexander should desire to

command the world, if he could not command himself. But come, let us go, I will try whether I can better bear my hand with my heart, than I could with mine eye. And good Hephestion, when all the world is won, and

every country is thine and mine, either find me out another to subdue, or of my word I will fall in love.


We must not part with “ the only rare poet of his time, the facetiously-quick, and comically conceited old John Lilly," without a specimen of his wit, which is " to make the reader merry in his chamber.” Perhaps the following sample, which is of the best quality, will suffice:

From Mother Bombie. Present, three serving men, Dromio, Risio, and Half

penny; enter to them a Hackney-man and a Ser

geant. Serg.-I arrest you. Dro. Me sir, why then did'st not bring a stool with

thee, that I might sit down? Hack.—He arrests you at my suit for a horse. Risio.---The more ass he; if he had arrested a unare

instead of a horse, it had been a slight oversight, but to arrest a man that hath no likeness

of a horse, is flat lunacy, or alecie. Hack.–Tush! I hired him a horse. Dro.--I swear then he was well ridden. Hack.I think in two days he was never baited. Half.- Why, was it a bear thou riddest on? Hack.-I mean he never gave him bait. Ris.-Why, he took him for no fish. Hack. I mistake none of you when I take you for fools --I say


never gavest my horse meat. Dro.—Yes, in four and forty hours I am sure he had a

bottle of hay as big as his belly. Serg.-Nothing else, thou should'st have given him

provender. Dro.—Why, he never asked for

any. Hack.--Why, dost thou think a horse can speak? Dro.—No, for I spurred him till my heels ached, and

he said never a word.

Hack. Well, thou shalt pay sweetly for spoiling him ;

it was as lusty a nag as any in Rochester, and

one that would stand upon no ground. Dro. Then he is as good as ever he was; I'll warrant

he'll do nothing but lie down. Hack.--I lent him thee gently. Dro.And I restored him so gently that he neither

would cry wybie, nor wag his tail, Hack. But why did'st thou bore him through the cars ? Ris.-It may be he was set in the pillory, because he

had not a true pace. Half.-No, it was for tiring. Hack.He would never tire; it may be he would be

weary, he would go no further, or so. Dro.--Yes, he was a notable horse for service, he

would tire and retire. Hack.-Do you think I'll be jested out of my horse?

Sergeant wreak thy office on him. Ris.-Nay, let him be bailed. Hack.So he shall be when I make him a bargain. Dro.-It was a very good horse I must needs confess :

and now hearken of his qualities, and have patience to hear them since I must pay for him. He would stumble one mile in three hours. I had thought I had rode upon addices between this and Canterbury. If I gave him water, why he would lie down and bathe himself like a hawk. If one ran him, he would simper and mump, as though he had gone a wooing to a malt-mare at Rochester. He trotted before and ambled behind, and was so obedient, that he would do duty every minute on his knees, as though every stone had been his father,

Hack.--I am sure he had no diseases.
Dro.— A little rheum or pose, he lacked nothing but a

hand-keecher. Serj.—Come, what a tale of a horse have we bere ;

I cannot stay, thou must with me to prison.”


And was not this a dainty dish to set before a Queen!”

It remains now to notice what Mr. Campbell is pleased to call our author's “sweet lyric songs,” and these are reserved to the last that the reader and hopest John Lilly may part good friends. They constitute much the better portion of his dramatic labours. It is however most necessary, in selecting these “musical notes which felt so admirably into the ears of our ever famous Queen,” to proceed with caution. Much of this poet's music is married to words so gross, that it is better suited to the tap-room than the court; indeed it must be a matter of wonder to all who explore, it, how the Queen and her ladies could ever sit it out. The following are unobjectionable.

From Alexarder and Campaspe.
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses : Cupid paid.-
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows :
Loses them too: then down he throws
The coral of his lips, the rose
Growing on his cheek—but none knows how,
With these the chrystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his cbin :
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?
What then alas! becomes of me !

From the same.
What bird so sings, yet so does wail ?
Oh! 'tis the ravished nightingale,
Jug, jug, - jug, jug,-terue,-she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.

Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wiags,
The morn not waking ’till she sings.
Hark, hark! with what a pretty note
Poor Robin red-breast tunes his throat!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
“Cuckoo,”—to welcome in the spring ?

From Sappho and Phaon.
O cruel love! on thee I lay
My curse, which shall strike blind thy day.
Never may sleep with velvet hand
Charm thine


with sacred wand !
Thy jailors shall be hopes and fears,
Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears :
Thy play, to wear out weary times,
Fantastic passions, vows, and rhymes.
Thy bed thou liest on be despair,
Thy sleep fond dreams, thy dreams long care.
Hope, like a fool, at thy bed's head
Mock thee, 'till madness strike thee dead.

As Phaon, thou dost me with thy proud eyes ::
In thee poor Sappho lives, for thee she dies !

From Galathea.
O yes! O yes ! if any maid
Whom jeering Cupid has betrayed
To frowns of spite, to eyes of scorn,
And would in madness now see torn.

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