Prince Edward, stop not at the fatall doome,

But stabb it home, end both my loves and life.

Marg. Brave Prince of Wales, honour'd for royal deeds, "Twere sinne to staine fair Venus' courts with blood, Love's conquest ends, my lord, in courtesie; Spare Lacie, gentle Edward, let me die.

For so both you and he doe cease your loves.

Edw. Lacie shall die as traitor to his lord.

Lacie. I have deserved it; Edward, act it well.

Marg. What hopes the prince to gaine by Lacie's death?
Edw. To end the loves 'twixt him and Margret.

Marg. Why, thinks king Henrie's sonne that Margret's love
Hangs in the uncertaine ballance of proud time,
That death shall make a discord of our thoughts;
No, stab the earle, and, fore the morning sun
Shall vaunt him thrice over the loftie east,
Margret will meet her Lacie in the heavens.

Lacie. If ought betides to lovely Margret, That wrongs or wrings her honour from content, Europe's rich wealth nor England's monarchie Should not allure Lacie to overlive;

Then, Edward, short my life and end her love.

Marg. Rid me, and keepe a friend worthe many loves. Lacie. Nay, Edward, keepe a love worthe many friends. Marg. And, if thy mind be such as fame hath blazde, Then, princely Edward, let us both abide

The fatal resolution of thy rage;

Banish thou fancie and imbrace revenge,

And in one toombe knit both our carkases,

Whose hearts were linked in one perfect love.

Edw. Edward, art thou that famous prince of Wales

Who, at Damasco, beat the Sarasens,

And brought'st home triumph on thy launce's point?
And shall thy plumes be pul'd by Venus down?

Is it princely to dissever lovers' leagues,

To part such friends as glorie in their loves?
Leave, Ned, and make a vertue of this fault,
And further Peg and Lacie in their loves;
So, in subduing fancie's passion,

Conquering thyselfe, thou getst the richest spoile.—
Lacie, rise up; fair Peggie, heere's my hand,

The Prince of Wales hath conquered all his thoughts,
And all his loves he yeelds unto the earle :

Lacie, enjoy the maid of Fresingfield,

Make her thy Lincolne countesse at the church;

And Ned, as he is true Plantagenet,
Will give her to thee franckly for thy wife.

Lacie. Humbly I take her of my soveraigne,
As if that Edward gave me England's right,
And richt me with the Albion diadem.

Marg. And doth the English prince mean true?
Will he vouchsafe to cease his former loves,
And yeeld the title of a countrie maid

Unto Lord Lacie?

Edw. I will, faire Peggie, as I am true lord.

Marg. Then, lordly sir, whose conquest is as great,

In conquering love, as Cæsar's victories,

Margret, as milde and humble in her thoughts

As was Aspasia unto Cirus' selfe,

Yeelds thanks, and next lord Lacie doth inshrine

Edward, the second secret in her heart."

Bacon, worn out with watching the brazen head which he had framed, enjoins his schollar to supply his place, and awaken him at the propitious moment of its speaking.

"Bacon. Miles, thou knowest that I have dived into hell,

And sought the darkest pallaces of fiendes,

That with my magic spels great Belcephon

Hath left his lodge and kneeled at my cell;
The rafters of the earth rent from the poles,
And three-form'd Luna hid her silver looks,
Trembling upon her concave contenent
When Bacon red upon his magick booke;
With seven yeares' tossing nigromanticke charmes,
Poring upon darke Hecat's principles,

I have fram'd out a monstrous head of brasse,
That, by the inchanting forces of the devil,
Shall tell out strange and uncoth aphorismes,
And girt faire England with a wall of brasse.
Bongay and I have watcht these threescore dayes,
And now our vitall spirites crave some rest:
If Argus liv'd and had his hundred eyes,
He could not overwatch Phobeter's night.
Now, Miles, in thee rests Frier Bacon's weale-
The honour and renown of all his life,
Hangs in the watching of this brazen-head:
Therefore, I charge thee, by the immortall God
That holds the soules of men within his fist,
This night thou watch; for ere the morning star
Sends out his glorious glister on the north,
The head will speake; then, Miles, upon thy life

Wake me, for then by magicke art I'le worke
To end my seven yeares' task with excellence :
If but a winke but shut thy watchfull eye,
Then, farewell Bacon's glory and his fame."

"time

The head at length finds a tongue- it speaks, is"-Miles thinks this too insignificant a speech for which to disturb his master;-again it is heard, "time was"-Miles waits for something more ;-the head exclaims, "time's past"a horrible noise succeeds, the head is dashed to pieces, and the friar awakes to see his hopes of fame crumbled in the dust, with the object of his seven years' labour.-In consequence of this failure, and the tragical effect of one of his magical representations, the friar becomes penitent, and abandons the black art. Margaret, when about to retire to a nunnery, thus tenderly bids adieu to her young hopes, with "sweet reluctant amorous delay."

"Marg. Now, farewell, world, the engin of all woe! Farewell to friends and father,—-welcome Christ!

Adew to daintie robes; this base attire

Better befits an humble minde to God,
Than all the shew of rich abilliments.

Love, oh! love, and with fond love, farewell!
Sweet Lacie, whom I loved once so deare,
Ever be well, but never in my thoughts,
Least I offend to thinke on Lacie's love:
But even to that as to the rest, farewell."

The play of A Looking Glasse for London was written by Thomas Lodge, in conjunction with Greene. The subject is the abominations of Nineveh, which, by means of a monologue, spoken by the prophet " Oseas" in the nature of a chorus, is made applicable to London. On this foundation, the writers have framed a sort of drama, which they have peopled with divers insane persons. Indeed, we never met with any thing more outrageously extravagant than the greater part of it. The style, which is abundantly metaphorical, is in the most vile and perverted taste. The comic parts are infinitely the best, and are by no means contemptible.

The following is the only sober piece of blank verse we could find, which is not without a touch of feeling. A son having, on his elevation to a place of dignity, disowned his parents, the mother appeals to Rasni, the king.

"Samia. O, politicke in sinne and wickednesse,

Too impudent for to delude thy prince;

Oh, Rasni, this same wombe brought him forth,

This is his father, worne with care and age,
This is his brother, poore unhappy lad,

And I, his mother, though contemn'd by him,-
With tedious toyle we got our little good,

And brought him up to schoole with mickle charge.
Lord, how we joy'd to see his towardnesse;
And to ourselves we oft in silence sayde,
This youth, when we are old, may succour us.
But now prefer'd and lifted up by thee,

We quite destroy'd by cursed usurie,

He scorneth me, his father, and this child.”

From the comic parts of the drama, we extract the following short scene as a specimen.

"Clowne. Why, but heare you mistresse, you know a woman's eyes are like a paire of pattens, fit to save shoo-leather in summer, and to keepe away the colde in winter; so you may like your husband with the one eye, because you are marryed, and mee with the other, because I am your man. Alasse, alasse, thinke, mistresse, what a thing love is; why, it is like to an ostry-faggot, that once set on fire, is as hardly to be quenched, as the bird crocodill driven out of her neast.

Wife. Why, Adam, cannot a woman winke but shee must sleep: and can shee not love, but shee must crie it out at the crosse? know, Adam, I love thee as myselfe, now that wee are together in secret.

Clowne. Mistresse, these wordes of yours are like a foxe-tayle, placed in a gentlewoman's-fanne, which, as it is light, so it giveth life. Oh, these wordes are as sweete as a lilly, whereupon, offering a borachio of kisses to your unseemely personage, I entertaine you upon further acquaintance.

Wife. Alasse, my husband comes.

Clowne. Strike up the drum, and say no words but mum.

Smith. Syrrha you, and you houswife, well taken together, I have long suspected you, and now I am glad I have found you together. Clowne. Truly, sir, and I am glad I may doe you any way pleasure, either in helping you or my mistresse.

Smith. Boy, here, and knave, you shall knowe it straight, I will have you both before the magistrate, and there have you severely punished.

Clowne. Why then, maister, you are jealous?

Smith. Jealous, knave, how can I be but jealous to see you ever so familiar together? Thou art not onely content to drinke away my goods, but to abuse my wife.

Clowne. Two good qualities, drunkennesse and letchery; but, maister, are you jealous?

Smith. Yea, knave: and that thou shalt knowe it ere I passe, for I will beswindge thee while this roape will hold.

Wife. My good husband, abuse him not, for he never proffered you any wrong.

Smith. Nay, woman, and thy part shall not be behinde.

Clowne. Why suppose, maister, I have offended you, is it lawful for the maister to beate the servant for all offences?

Smith. I, marry is it, knave.

Clowne. Then, maister, will I proove by lodgicke, that seeing all sinnes are to receyve correction, the maister is to be corrected of the man: and, sir, I pray you, what greater sinne is then jealousie? 'tis like a mad dogge, that for anger bites himselfe. Therefore, that I may do my duty to you, my good maister, and make a white sonne of you, I will beswinge jealousie out of you, as you shall love me the better while you live.

Smith. What, beat thy master, knave?

Clowne. What, beat thy man, knave? I, maister, and double beate you, because you are a man of credite; and therefore have at you, the fayrest of forty pence.

Smith. Alasse, wife, helpe, helpe, my man kils me.

Wife. Nay, even as you have baked, so brue; jealousie must be driven out by extremities.

Clowne. And that will I doe, mistresse.

Smith. Hold thy hand, Adam, and not onely I forgive and forget all, but I will give thee a good farme to live on.

Clowne. Bee gone, peasant, out of the compasse of my further wrathe, for I am a corrector of vice; and at night I will bring home my mistresse.

Smith. Even when you please, good Adam.

Clowne. When I please; marke thy words, tis a lease paroll, to have and to hold; thou shalt be mine for ever; and so let's goe to the alehouse." [exeunt.

The authors we have been considering possess not, it must be confessed, magicians' wands to move our feelings to any point they list. They do not display any deep insight into the mysteries of the heart, whose sweet affections they hardly touch, neither is there any strong exhibition of the stormy conflicts of the mind, nor yet any deep vein of impassioned poetry. We see things as in "a glass darkly." But we must not forget that the drama was then in its nonage, nor expect that infancy will produce the fruits of maturity. For, although Greene as well as Kyd, Lilly, Peele, and Marlowe, were living at the time when Shakspeare began his dramatic career, they preceded him as writers for the stage, from which they departed just as he appeared.

ART. V. The Miscellaneous Works in Verse and Prose of Sir Thomas Overbury, Knt. with Memoirs of his Life. The tenth edition. London, 1754.

This little volume contains the remains of the unfortunate Sir Thomas Overbury, "one of the most finished gentlemen