Shakespear illustrated: or the novels and histories, on which the plays of Shakespear are founded, collected and translated from the original authors. With critical remarks. The third and last volume. By the author of The female Quixote. [pt.3]

Shakeſpear Illuſtrated.

Fable of the TWO GENTLEMEN of VERONA.

VALENTINE, a young Gentleman of Verona, is ſent by his Father to travel; he goes to Milan to attend the Emperor, and falls▪ in love with Silvia, Daughter to the Duke of that Place: ſhe returns his Affection with equal Ardour, but being promiſed by her Father to Thurio, a Man whom ſhe hates, they are obliged to keep their mutual Paſſion ſecret.

Protheus, the Friend of Valentine, remains at Veróna, courting Julia, a Lady with whom he had been long enamoured; juſt as he had obtained her Promiſe to reward his Love, his Father ſends him likewiſe to the Emperor's Court: he parts with Julia with many Proteſtations of eternal Conſtancy; but, at his Arrival at Milan, being introduced by his Friend Valentine to Sylvia, he forgets Julia, falls paſſionately in love with that Lady, and reſolves to gain her for himſelf.

Valentine not ſuſpecting this Treachery in his Friend, acquaints him with the Hiſtory of his Love, and begs his Aſſiſtance in ſtealing away the Lady, who had conſented to marry him privately that Night.

Protheus promiſes to ſerve him, but pretending Buſineſs to avoid him, goes to the Duke, to whom he relates all that his Friend had juſt before intruſted him with. The Duke in a Rage confines his Daughter in a Tower, and baniſhes Valentiné from Milan.

Protheus he employs to plead for Thurio to his Daughter, who by that Means getting Acceſs to her, declares his own Paſſion, and is repulſed with Diſdain.

Julia, ignorant of her Lover's Falſhood, and impatient of his Abſence, diſguiſes herſelf in the Habit of a Page, and travels to Milan; there ſhe lodges at the ſame Inn where her Lover does, and is informed by the Hoſt that Protheus was in love with the Duke's Daughter, to whom that Night, in Thurio's Name, he gives a Serenade.

Julia is preſent at the Muſic, which being over, Protheus entertains Sylvia with his Paſſion, in the hearing of his diſguiſed Miſtreſs, who retires to her Inn in great Diſcontent, where Protheus coming ſoon after, ſees her, and not knowing her, hires her for his Page.

Valentine in his Journey to Mantua, is ſeized in a Foreſt by ſome Out-laws, who make him their King.

Silvia having contrived to eſcape out of her Tower, follows her Lover, and paſſing through the Foreſt, is taken by thoſe Out-laws: the Duke, Protheus and Thurio follow her, and Julia Protheus.

Protheus finding her in the Hands of theſe Ruffians, who were going to offer her Violence, reſcues her, but his Service being ill received, and his Love abſolutely denied, he threatens her with Force likewiſe. This happening near Valentine's Cave, who, unſeen, had been a Witneſs of his Friend's Treachery, he ruſhes out, delivers Silvia, and making himſelf known, paſſionately upbraids Protheus with his Baſeneſs.

Protheus, ſtruck with Remorſe and Shame, acknowledges his Guilt, profeſſes his Repentance, and implores of his Friend Pardon. Valentine readily grants it, and as a Proof of his ſincere Reconcilement, offers to reſign Silvia to him; the diſguiſed Julia being preſent at this Declaration, ſwoons away; recovering, makes herſelf-known, and Protheus reconciles himſelf to her. The Out-laws bring in the Duke and Thurio, whom they had taken Priſoners; Valentine releaſes the Duke, but ſeeing Thurio about to ſeize Silvia; whom he calls his own▪ he threatens him with inſtant Death if he does not reſign his Pretenſions. Thurio yields her with Contempt, which ſo diſpleaſes the Duke, who declares he is charmed with the Spirit and Conſtancy of Valentine, that he beſtows her upon him, and pardoning the Out-laws at his Requeſt, they all return to Milan, to celebrate the double Nuptials.

Part of the Plot of this Play is taken, from the Story of Feliſmena, in the Second Book of the Diana of George Montemayor, a Paſtoral Romance, tranſlated from the Spaniſh in Shakeſpear's time; the Loves of Protheus and Julia, in the Play their Characters and Adventures are the ſame, with thoſe of Felix and Feliſmena in this Romance, whoſe Hiſtory is thus introduced.

Three Nymphs dedicated to the Service of Diana, ſtraying too far from the Temple of that Goddeſs, in which they reſided, are met in the Woods by as many ſavage Men, who, ſtruck with their Beauty, attempted to carry them away by force: their Cries drew a young Shepherdeſs to their Aſſiſtance, who being armed with a Bow and Quiver, ſhot her Arrows ſo ſucceſsfully at the Raviſhers, that, in a few Moments, ſhe laid them all breathleſs at her Feet, and delivered the Nymphs from the Danger that threatened them. Her uncommon Beauty, the Dignity of her Mien, but above all, her ſurpriſing Valour, perſuaded the Nymphs ſhe was ſome Goddeſs, who had deſcended from Heaven to ſave them from Diſhonour.

Full of this Idea they threw themſelves at her Feet, and, addreſſing her as a Divinity, return Thanks for the Aſſiſtance ſhe had vouchſafed them. The Shepherdeſs raiſing them from the Ground, aſſured them with Tears, that ſhe was no Goddeſs, but a mere Woman, and one of the weakeſt of her Sex, undone by Love, and ſinking under the Oppreſſion of the moſt cruel Fortune.

The Nymphs, moved by Compaſſion, and a grateful Senſe of the Obligation they owed her, endeavoured to ſooth her ſorrow, preſſed her to relate her Story, and promiſed her their Aſſiſtance. The Shepherdeſs being willing to gratify their friendly Curioſity, they ſeated themſelves on the Banks of a Rivulet that ran murmuring by them, when ſhe thus began her Story.

"Know, fair Nymphs of the chaſte Goddeſs, that my native Country is Vandalia, a Province not far hence; my Father Andronius, eminent for his Birth, his Riches, and above all, for the native Sweetneſs and Integrity of his Manners, was married very young to a Lady named Delia, with whom he was paſſionately in love.

Many Years elapſed, before it pleaſed the Gods to bleſs them with a Child; at length my Mother conceived in her old Age, and one Night, during her Pregnancy, being diſcompoſed with uneaſy Apprehenſions, and unable to ſleep, ſhe deſired my Father to diſſipate her Anxiety by reading ſome amuſing Story to her. My Father complied, and read The Judgment of Paris.

My Mother taking Occaſion to moralize on this Story, condemned the Partiality of the Shepherd's Sentence. Paris, ſaid ſhe, being intoxicated with a ſenſual Paſſion for Beauty, was incapable of conſidering, as he ought, the nobler Qualities of the Mind; heroic Virtue is the brighteſt of them all, and therefore the Goddeſs of Battles merited his Preference.

The Contention was n • t for the Prize of Virtue, but Beauty, replied my Father; the Apple was to be given to the faireſt; juſtly then did Paris beſtow it upon Venus, whoſe Charms were ſo greatly ſuperior to thoſe of her Competitors.

The Apple was indeed inſcribed to the faireſt, anſwered my Mother, but that was not to be underſtood of corporeal, but intellectual Beauty, Fortitude being one of the chiefeſt Virtues of the Mind, and the Exerciſe of Arms, an exterior Act of this Virtue; had Paris been a wiſe and diſpaſſionate Judge, he would have given the Apple to the Goddeſs of Battles.

This Controverſy laſted ſo long, that my Mother being fatigued with talking, fell faſt aſleep. When, lo, the Goddeſs Venus appeared to her in a Dream, ſhining with celeſtial Charms; her Eyes expreſſed a certain Kind of amiable Severity; for Anger could have no dwelling on the Face of this charming Divinity, and with a Voice, majeſtically ſweet, ſhe thus accoſted her.

Whence Delia is this Contempt of a Power, who has been always favourable to thee? Haſt thou forgot the Time when thy ſoft Heart firſt glowed with tender Fires for thy Andronius? then didſt thou ſeek my Altars; then didſt thou implore my Aid; I heard, and granted all thy Deſires; and is it thus thou repayeſt me? but know, ungrateful Woman, thou ſhalt not eſcape the Vengeance of an affronted Deity; thou ſhalt bring forth a Son and Daughter, but thou ſhalt not live to taſte the Joys of a Mother; the Moment of their Birth ſhall be the laſt of thy Life; nor ſhall my Vengeance ſtop here; thy wretched Offspring ſhall feel the Fury of my juſt Reſentment; they both ſhall languiſh with the Pangs of hopeleſs Love, and be the Victims of that Power thou haſt dared to deſpiſe.

The Goddeſs ended, and vaniſhed from her Sight, when immediately the heavenly Form of Jove's own Daughter, the Divine Minerva, appeared before her, awfully ſweet ſhe ſmiled, and with a grave, but melodious Accent, thus ſpoke to her:

The Goddeſs Pallas thanks thee, Delia, for the Concern thou haſt expreſſed for her Honour, and, as a Reward, ſhe promiſes thee to make thy Son and Daughter ſo powerful in Arms, that their Valour ſhall be the Wonder of their own, and the Admiration of all future Ages."

This ſaid, ſhe diſappeared, and my Mother trembling with holy Awe, awaked.

In leſs than a Month after, ſhe was delivered of me and a Twin-Brother, and, as the Goddeſs threatened, died immediately. My Father ſinking under an Exceſs of Sorrow for her Loſs, followed her in a few Months, leaving my Infant-Brother and myſelf to the Care of an Aunt, who was Abbeſs of a Nunnery; with her we lived 'till we were twelve Years old, at which Age my Brother was carried to the Court of the King of Portugal, where, in a few Years, the heroic Actions he performed in War, gained him an immortal Glory, which yet was not ſufficient to compenſate for the Pains he has endured in Love.

As for myſelf, I was removed from the Nunnery to the Houſe of my Grandmother, under whoſe Care I had hardly reached my ſeventeenth Year, ere I was ſeen, and to my Misfortune, loved by the ungrateful Felix.

This young Nobleman having beheld me walking on a Terras, which was behind my Grandmother's Houſe, and not far diſtant from his, he took all Opportunities to make his Paſſion known to me by ardent Looks, which I not ſeeming to underſtand, he determined to write to me, and practiſed ſo ſucceſsfully upon the eaſy yielding Temper of one of my Maids, named Roſina, that ſhe undertook to deliver his Letter to me.

The crafty Wench made uſe of a thouſand little Artifices to induce me to receive this Letter, and though I was not diſpleaſed with her Importunities, yet aſſuming a Countenance as angry as I was able, I told her ſternly, that were I not reſtrained by a Senſe of what I owed my own Rank, and the Fear of the World's Cenſure, I would diſmiſs her from my Service, with the Infamy her Preſumption merited.

Methinks I have the artful Girl this Moment before my Eyes, cunningly diſſembling the Grief and Confuſion my Anger gave her with a counterfeited Smile.

Believe me, Madam, ſaid ſhe, I meant no more by preſſing you to take this Letter, than to make you laugh. I did not imagine you would be offended, but ſince, contrary to my Expectations, I find you are, I will trouble you no more on this Subject; ſaying this, ſhe put the Letter again into her Pocket, and quitted my Chamber.

Ah, how eagerly did my ſtraining By purſue her Steps! I died with deſire to ſee the Letter; but Pride and Modeſty, that made me refuſe it when ſhe intreated me, now joined with Shame to keep me from requiring it after the Anger I had affected.

All that Day I continued penſive and uneaſy; at Night, when Roſina attended me in my Chamber, I waited with an anxious Impatience for a Renewal of that Diſcourſe with which I had ſeemed ſo much diſpleaſed in the Morning; but alas, I was diſappointed, Roſina either was, or appeared reſolved to mention the Letter no more. Yet to try if ſhe would faſten upon any Occaſion to offer it me again:

And is it really ſo, Roſina, ſaid I, that Don Felix, without having any Regard to my Honour, dare preſume to write to me?

"Alas, Madam, ſaid ſhe demurely, theſe Things will happen to young Ladies ſo lovely as you; I am indeed concerned to find I have offended you by ſolliciting you to take his Letter, but it was occaſioned by my Ignorance of your Severity in theſe Matters; but I beſeech you pardon me, for from this Moment I will never mention it to you again.

This Steadineſs cruelly mortified me, yet did I diſſemble my Uneaſineſs while ſhe was preſent; that Night ſeemed twice as long as uſual; full of a Thouſand perplexing Thoughts I waited anxiouſly for Day, without once cloſeing my Eyes. At length the Morning came, and Roſina, at her accuſtomed Hour, attending me at my Toilet, let fall the Letter near me, and, as I thought, on Purpoſe; which when I perceived, what is that you have dropt? ſaid I, ſhe anſwered, "it was nothing;" but I inſiſted upon ſeeing what had fallen.

Bleſs me, Madam, ſaid ſhe, why ſhould you be ſo deſirous to ſee it? it is the Letter I would have given you Yeſterday.

I don't believe you, anſwered I, therefore give it me that I may convict you of a Falſhood; immediately ſhe put it into my Hands, aſſuring me, with an Emotion I knew to be feigned, that it was no other.

You deceive me, cried I, ſtill diſſembling, it is a Letter to yourſelf, from one of your Lovers, and I am reſolved to read it, that I may judge if he deſerves your Favour; ſaying this, I opened the Letter, which, as I expected, was addreſſed from Don Felix to myſelf.

The tender and paſſionate Sentiments it contained, ſo wrought upon the native Softneſs of my Temper, that I could not reſiſt the Deſire I felt to return an Anſwer to it, that might give him Hopes of my future Favour. I now aſked Forgiveneſs of my Maid, for the Severity I had aſſumed, and wholly conſiding in her Truth and Affection, I communicated the Contents of Don Felix's Letter to her, and begged her Aſſiſtance in conveying one to him: this ſhe readily promiſed, and as faithfully performed.

My Letter being calculated to give him Hope, rather than Deſpair, my Lover omitted nothing that might contribute towards ſettling me in a firm Opinion of his Paſſion; every Day brought me a Letter, or ſome paſſionate Verſes; every Evening a Serenade under my Chamber Window. A whole Year rolled away in this Manner: at length being firmly perſuaded of the Truth and Ardency of his Affection, I reſolved to make myſelf by Promiſe hi • , when (oh! my adverſe Fortune!) the Father of Don Felix, having received ſome Intimation of his Son's Paſſion for me, to prevent his marrying me, as he apprehended, ſent him away immediately to the Court of the Great Princeſs Auguſta Caeſarina, telling him, it was not fit a young Gentleman of his noble Extraction, ſhould ſpend his Youth at Home, where Idleneſs, and the Force of bad Examples might draw him into dangerous Vices.

Don Felix could not reſolve to acquaint me with this cruel News, apprehenſive that my extream Grief upon bearing it, would affect him too deeply, he departed without taking leave.

Ah, chaſte and lovely Nymphs! how ſhall I give you an Idea of the Pangs I ſuffered in his Abſence! Strangers as ye are to the ſort Tyranny of Love, how ſhall I make you comprehend the Torments divided Lovers feel? I found them ſo inſupportable, that forgetting what I owed my Sex, my Rank, and Fame, I quitted my Grandmother's Houſe, and in the Diſguiſe of a Page, travelled to that Court, where the dear Object of all my Wiſhes was.

I was twenty Days in performing this journey, during which time my Diſguiſe expoſed me to great Inconveniences; but my eager Deſire to ſee Don Felix, made me deſpiſe them all. At my Arrival I hired a Lodging in a Street leſs frequented than any other with Company. My anxious Impatience to ſee Don Felix, left me not room for any other Thoughts, but how to gratify this Wiſh; yet I durſt not enquire for him of my Hoſt, leſt my Flight being noiſed abroad, my Sex and Condition might have been ſuſpected; nor did I think it prudent to venture out to ſeek him, for fear I ſhould be obſerved.

All Day I paſſed in this Perplexity; at length the Night approached, and brought with it an Increaſe of my Affliction, notwithſtanding the Fatigue both of Body and Mind which I had endured, yet I could take no Repoſe; I toſſed and tumbled on my uneaſy Bed 'till Midnight, when my Hoſt knocking at my Chamber Door, told me, if I had any Inclination to hear ſome fine Muſic, I had nothing to do but to riſe and open the Window that lo ••• d towards t • e Street. Ah me! in the diſtracted State my Mind was then in, I was little capable of reliſhing Muſic, however charming it might be; yet did I riſe without thinking on what I was doing, and opening the Window, my Attention was immediately engaged by the Sound of a Voice that ſeemed familiar to my Ears; and liſtening eagerly, I perceived it was Fabius, a Page belonging to Don Felix, who calling to ſome Perſons at a little Diſtance, ſaid, now, my Maſters, it is time to begin, for the Lady is come into the Gallery this Moment.

Then immediately they began to play upon ſeveral Inſtruments, which, had I not been racked with a thouſand various Thoughts, might with the celeſtial Harmony they made, have charmed me into an Extaſy.

The Muſic no ſooner ceaſed, than a Voice, which, by its raviſhing Sweetneſs, I knew to be Don Felix's, ſung ſome tender and paſſionate Verſes, in which he complained of the extream Rigour of a Lady to whom he had devoted his Affections.

That well known Voice lulled me into ſuch a ſweet Delirium of Joy, that forgetting thoſe fatal Verſes were addreſſed to another, the Image of our paſt Loves roſe freſh to my Remembrance, and my deceitful Imagination repreſented my Lover as formerly, breathing out thoſe melting Sounds to me: but this pleaſing Deluſion laſted not long; I ſoon recovered to a Senſe, a bitter Senſe of my deplorable Condition, and turning to my Hoſt, I aſked him with a Sigh, that ſhook my whole Frame, if he knew the Lady for whoſe Sake that Muſic was performed.

He anſwered, he did not, for there were ſo many fair and noble Ladies lived in that Street, that it was not eaſy to diſcover to which of them it was addreſſed.

Finding he could not ſatisfy me in this particular, I lent my whole Attention again to the Voice of my unfaithful Lover, but ah! with different Senſations; for now my Soul was filled with the moſt gloomy Deſpair. The Morning dawn'd before this hateful Serenade was ended; I withdrew again to my Bed, and with a River of Tears bewailed my own Misfortune, and the Inconſtancy of Don Felix.

Great Part of the Day being waſted in this Manner, I roſe, and putting on my Diſguiſe, went out of my Lodging, wandering thro' the Streets, without any determined Deſign, yet anxiouſly wiſhing to ſee my perjured Lover.

Chance brought me to the Gates of the Palace; I entered a broad paved Court that was before it, and beheld a great many Ladies, young, beautiful, and richly adorned, ſhewing themſelves at the Windows to the young Noblemen, who were riding backwards and forwards below, and whoſe Eyes were differently directed, as the Objects of their Deſires were placed.

While I continued ſtanding near the Palace-Gate in hopes of ſeeing Don Felix, whoſe new Miſtreſs I did not doubt was amongſt the Ladies there, I ſaw Fabius approach, and after ſpeaking a few Words to the Porter that kept the ſecond Entry, return, the ſame Way he came; my Heart beat with eager Expectation; I imagined Don Felix was coming; I was not deceived, he came attended with ſeveral Servants, all dreſſed in rich Liveries of yellow Velvet, with white and blue Feathers in their Hats; my Lover himſelf was dreſt with the utmoſt Exactneſs, and wore Feathers of the ſame Colours in his Hat.

As ſoon as he arrived at the Palace-Gate, he diſmounted, and went up the Stairs that led to the Chamber of Preſence.

The Extreams of Joy and Grief in which my Soul was toſt at that tranſient View of him, whom I ſo paſſionately loved, and whoſe Falſhood I ſo tenderly lamented, kept me a long Time motionleſs in the Place where I ſtood.

At laſt recovering myſelf a little, I obſerved Fabius waiting his coming out with the reſt of his Attendants, and ſtepping up to him, I drew him aſide, and aſked him who that Nobleman was that had juſt entered the Palace."

Thou muſt beeds be a Stranger here, replied he, if thou knoweſt not Don Felix; why, Youth, I tell thee, there is not any Nobleman in the Court better known than Don Felix.

It may be ſo, ſaid I, but I am a Stranger, and would be glad to be informed if he has any particular Reaſon for giving Liveries of theſe Colours.

If it were not ſo well known, replied he, I would conceal it, but ſince any other Perſon can acquaint thee with it as well as myſelf, I'll tell thee the Reaſon; he loves a Lady of this City, named Celia, and 'tis her Colours that he wears.

My wounded Heart bled afreſh at this Confirmation of my Unhappineſs, yet I diſſembled my Emotion, and continued talking to the Page about his Maſter's Paſſion, from whom I gathered that the Lady did not receive it with any Marks of Kindneſs.

This Aſſurance animated my drooping Spirits, I purſued the Converſation, and Fabius following the Cuſtom of Pages, very freely acquainted me with all his Maſter's Affairs, from which making a quick Tranſition to mine, he aſked me my Name, Country and Condition.

I told him my Name was Valerius, my Country, Vandalia, and that as yet I had ſerved no Perſon.

Fabius being deſirous, as I was his Countryman, to have me for a Fellow-ſervant, told me, that his Lord had ordered him to enquire for a Page for him, and that he would recommend me, provided it was agreeable to my Inclination: this Propoſal I immediately accepted, as it afforded me the Means of ſeeing my Don Felix every Day.

Fabius having mentioned me to him, he ordered my Attendance on him that Evening, and being pleaſed with my Appearance, hired me immediately. Alas, this Situation was productive of new Miſeries, for now I was a Witneſs, a mournful Witneſs to the Meſſages, Letters, and Preſents that were daily ſent my Rival.

"After I had been a Month in his Service, Don Felix, who had conceived an extraordinary Liking for me, communicated to me the whole Story of his Paſſion for Celia, and gave me a Letter for her, which he charged me to deliver, if poſſible, into her own Hands. Judge, charming Nymphs, if this Commiſſion was not painful, yet I undertook it, and procuring an Audience of the Lady, preſented her the Letter: Celia looking fixedly upon me, received the Letter, as it ſhould ſeem, without knowing what ſhe did. She bluſhed, and grew pale alternately, and not able for ſeveral Minutes to remove her Eyes from my Face, ſhe gazed on me with ſuch a viſible Emotion, that I plainly perceived my Sight had cauſed ſome great Alteration in her Heart.

Recovering herſelf, at length ſhe opened the Letter, and haſtily glancing it over, threw it aſide, and again directed her Looks to me."

Fortune, ſaid ſhe, after a little Pauſe, has been very favourable to Don Felix, in bringing thee to this Court to be his Page."

And to me alſo, Madam, ſaid I, by giving me an Opportunity of ſeeing a Lady, whoſe Beauty has, in my Opinion, no equal in the World."

Celia ſmiling, told me, I had learned of my Maſter to flatter; yet ſhe did not ſeem diſpleaſed with my Diſcourſe, but protracted my Stay by aſking me a great many Queſtions concerning Feliſmena, to whom ſhe had heard Don Felix had formerly paid his Addreſſes.

I ſighed and bluſhed when ſhe mentioned my Name, but my Emotion eſcaped her Obſervation, and having ſatisfied her Curioſity about Feliſmena, whoſe Beauty, Wit, and Love for Don Felix, were the Subjects of her Interrogatories, I entreated her to ſend ſome kind Meſſage to my Maſter."

Tell him, ſaid ſhe, that I have read his Letter, and am willing to believe the Truth of his Profeſſions; but, Valerius, added ſhe, in a lower Voice, this Favour your Maſter owes to you, I perceive you love him, and, and to oblige you I condeſcend to give him this Satisfaction."

She accompanied theſe Words with a Look ſo extreamly expreſſive, that I had not the leaſt Room to doubt the ſecret Purport of them. I bowed reſpectfully, and retired, full of Surprize at this unexpected Incident, yet not without a Hope it might produce ſomething favourable to my Love.

Don Felix finding the never received any Anſwer from Celia, unleſs I was the Bearer of his Letter, took Care always to aſſign me this Employment. Celia, by theſe Means, ſeeing me every Day, conceived a very violent Affection for me, which, however, ſhe only diſcovered by her Sighs and Looks; but her Indifference towards Don Felix was far from producing the Effects I hoped and expected: his Paſſion ſeemed to increaſe in Proportion as ſhe neglected him; and ſo great was his Deſpair, that apprehending it might endanger his Life, I, whom it might well be imagined, was the laſt Perſon in the World, who would ſollicit her Compaſſion for him, I, fair Nymphs, threw myſelf at her Feet, and with Tears beſought her to have ſome Regard to the ſad Condition to which her Rigour had reduced my Maſter.

Celia, who had flattered herſelf with the Hopes of having made ſome Impreſſion on my Heart; imagined by my ſuppliant Poſture, and the firſt Words I uttered, that I was going to plead for myſelf; but no ſooner did ſhe hear the Name of Don Felix, than, loſing in an Inſtant all her former Complacency, her Cheeks glowed with indignant Bluſhes, her Eyes flaſhed a look of Rage and Diſappointment, and riſing from her Chair with trembling Emotion; 'Be gone, ungrateful, ſaid ſhe to me, is it for thy Maſter then thou pleadeſt, when thou haſt long known my Soul was devoted to thee? have I lived to be deſpiſed by ſuch a one as thou art? oh! curſed Fortune, oh, more curſed Love! but I will be revenged, if not on thee, I will on myſelf. My Death ſhall free me at once from thy ſcorn, and the Upbraidings of my own conſcious Mind."

Saying this, ſhe flew into an adjoining Apartment, making faſt the Door after her, which left me not the Poſſibility of purſuing her, if I had had an Inclination to it.

Grief and Amazement kept me for ſome Moments immoveable as a Statue; at length I departed, but my Thoughts were in ſuch Confuſion at the ſtrange Accident which had happened, that I came into the Preſence of Don Felix without being prepared with any Anſwer from Celia.

His eager Interrogatories rouſing me from the deep Reverie into which I was plunged, I replied at Random that Celia was engaged with Company, and that I could not procure an Opportunity of ſpeaking to her.

Don Felix ſighing profoundly, told me, I muſt go then the next Day. I did, but oh! fair Nymphs of the chaſte Goddeſs, what was my Aſtoniſhment and Grief, when I was informed by Celia's chief Attendant that ſhe was dead, having expired ſome Hours after I left her, in a fainting Fit.

Had my Soul been leſs ſuſceptible of Tenderneſs and Gratitude than it was, the Death of a Rival had not diſturbed it ſo much, but knowing myſelf to be the unhappy, though innocent Cauſe of her Death, I could not hear of it without feeling the deepeſt Affliction, which, the Apprehenſion of Don Felix's Sorrow, increaſed to ſuch a Degree, that I was almoſt diſtracted.

At my Return Home I found him loſt in the wildeſt Agonies of Deſpair; the News had already reached him; none of his Servants durſt approach him; he even commanded me, who was his Favourite, out of his Preſence: Heaven knows with what Reluctance I obeyed. —From that fatal Day I ſaw him no more, he departed without acquainting any of his Friends or Servants with the Place to which he deſigned to go.

No Words can paint the Torments I endured at this new Misfortune; deprived of his Preſence for whom I only wiſhed to live, I loathed the Sight of Day, I curſed my Fate, my hapleſs Love, and all Things, but my Felix.

Theſe Agonies were too violent to continue long; Nature was too weak to ſupport them; their Rage at Length ſubſided; a calm of Grief enſued, and Hope, the falſe intoxicating Friend, of Love, repreſented it ſtill poſſible for me to be happy if I could find my Felix.

Rouſed by this flattering Thought, I reſolved to ſeek him through the World, and have already waſted two Years in my Purſuit of him.

Chance brought me to theſe Plains, where being ſtruck with the peaceful Simplicity of a paſtoral Life, and abſolutely deſpairing ever to ſee Don Felix more, I threw off the Habit of a Man, and in the Weeds of a Shepherdeſs, wandered through theſe Woods, ſtill nouriſhing with Solitude and Tears the fatal Paſſion that conſumes me.

Heaven, by affording me an Opportunity of delivering you, fair Nymphs, from the Danger with which you were threatened, ſeems to be preparing a Reverſe of Fate for me; the firſt Ray of Joy that ever dawned upon my Soul ſince the Abſence of my beloved Don Felix, was occaſioned by being made the Inſtrument of your Deliverance; oh! may it be a happy Omen of Fortune's future Favours; let me hail it as the Beginning of that Happineſs which the Sight of my Don Felix will raiſe me to."

The beautiful Feliſmena ended here, and the fair Votaries of Diana confirmed her in that agreeable Hope, with Reaſons founded on the true Delicacy, and noble Perſeverance of her Paſſion; and all joining to intreat ſhe would conſent to reſide with them in the Palace of the ſage Felicia, 'till Fortune had made ſome Change in her Affairs, ſhe readily embraced their Offer, and ſet out with them for the Temple of Diana.

The Reader, by comparing the Incidents that compoſe the Fable of The Two Gentlemen of Verona, with thoſe in the foregoing Story, will eaſily perceive that Protheus and Julia in the Play are the ſame with Felix and Feliſmena in the Novel.

The Story, indeed, is highly romantic and improbable, and Shakeſpear's Judgment in rejecting many of the Circumſtances might be praiſed, if thoſe he has invented were not equally abſurd: 'tis generally allowed, that the Plot, Conduct, Manners, and Sentiments of this Play are extreamly deficient.

The Court and Palace of the Duke of Milan, to which firſt Sir Valentine, and then Sir Protheus, are ſent to improve their Politeneſs in, has leſs Dignity and Decorum in it, than the Houſe of a private Gentleman. Silvia, the Duke's Daughter, notwithſtanding we are told with wonderful Simplicity, in different Paſſages of the Play, that ſhe is a virtuous civil Gentlewoman, yet behaves with all the ruſtic Smartneſs, and awkward Gaiety of a Village Coquet.

She is introduced flirting from Room to Room, followed by two of her Lovers, and laughing equally at the Man ſhe favours, and him ſhe rejects, ſlyly inciting them to quarrel, and when ſhe has ſet them together by the Ears, enjoys the Jeſt, 'till the good Prince, her Father, comes in to part them.

Sir Valentine's Courtſhip of this Princeſs, it muſt be confeſſed, is extreamly ſingular, and the Appearance of his dirty Footman, Speed, in the Preſence-Chamber, breaking Jeſts upon his Maſter and her Highneſs, while they are diſcourſing, has ſomething in it very new and uncommon. The following Scene will give the Reader a Specimen of Sir Valentine's Gallantry, the Wit of his Servant, and the princely Breeding of Silvia, the Duke's Daughter.

VALENTINE.

Madam and Miſtreſs, a Thouſand good Morrows.

SPEED.

Oh! give ye good Ev'n; here's a Million of Manners.

SILVIA.

Sir Valentine and Servant, to you two Thouſand.

SPEED.

He ſhould give her Intereſt; and ſhe gives it him.

VALENTINE. As you enjoin'd me, I have wrote your Letter Unto the ſecret, nameleſs Friend of yours; Which I was much unwilling to proceed in, But for my Duty to your Ladyſhip. SILVIA.

I thank you, gentle Servant; 'tis very clerkly done.

VALENTINE. Now truſt me, Madam, it came hardly off; For being ignorant to whom it goes, I writ at Random, very doubtfully. SILVIA.

Perchance, you think too much of ſo much Pains.

VALENTINE. No, Madam, ſo it ſteed you, I will write, Pleaſe you command a Thouſand Times as much, And yet— SILVIA. A pretty Period; well, I gueſs the Sequel; And yet I will not name it; and yet I care not; And yet take this again, and yet I thank you; Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. SPEED.

And yet you will; and yet, another yet.

Aſide. VALENTINE.

What means your Ladyſhip? do you not like it?

SILVIA. Yes, yes, the Lines are very quaintly writ; But ſince unwillingly, take them again; Nay, take them. VALENTINE.

Madam, they are for you.

SILVIA. Ay, ay; you writ them, Sir, at my Requeſt; But I will none of them; they are for you; I would have had them wrote more movingly. VALENTINE.

Pleaſe you, I'll write your Ladyſhip another.

SILVIA. And when it's writ, for my Sake read it over; And if it pleaſe you, ſo; if not, why ſo. VALENTINE. If it pleaſe me, Madam, what then? SILVIA. Why if it pleaſe you, take it for your Labour: And ſo good Morrow Servant. Exit. SPEED. O Teſt unſeen inſcrutable, inviſible, As a Noſe on a Man's Face, or a Weathercock on a Steeple, My Maſter ſues to her, and ſhe hath taught her Suitor, He being her Pupil, to become her Tutor: O excellent Device! was there ever heard a better, That my Maſter being the Scribe to himſelf ſhould write the Letter! VALENTINE.

How now, Sir, what are you reaſoning with yourſelf?

SPEED.

Nay, I was rhiming; 'tis you that have the Reaſon.

VALENTINE.

To do what?

SPEED.

To be a Spokeſman for Madam Silvia.

VALENTINE.

To whom?

SPEED.

To yourſelf, why, ſhe wooes you by a Figure.

VALENTINE.

What Figure?

SPEED.

By a Letter I ſhould ſay.

VALENTINE.

Why, ſhe hath not writ to me.

SEEED. What need ſhe. When ſhe hath made you write to yourſelf; Why, do you not perceive the Jeſt? VALENTINE.

No, believe me.

SPEED.

No believing you, indeed Sir, but did you perceive her earneſt?

VALENTINE.

She gave me none, except an angry Word.

SPEED.

Why, ſhe hath given you a Letter.

VALENTINE.

That's the Letter I wrote to her Friend.

SPEED.

And that Letter hath ſhe delivered, and there's an End.

VALENTINE.

I would it were no worſe.

SPEED. I'll warrant you, 'tis as well: "For often have you writ to her, and ſhe in "Modeſty, "Or elſe, for want of idle Time, could not "again reply; "Or fearing elſe ſome Meſſenger, that might "her Mind diſcover, "Herſelf hath taught her Love himſelf to write "unto her Lover." All this I ſpeak in Print; for in Print I found it. Why muſe you, Sir? 'tis Dinner-time. VALENTINE.

I have dined;

SPEED. Ay, but hearken, Sir; tho' the Cameleon Love Can feed on the Air, I am one that am nouriſhed By my Victuals, and would fain have Meat: Oh be not like your Miſtreſs; be moved, be moved.

Silvia, notwithſtanding this ſeeming Indifference, is ſo violently in Love with Valentine, that being prevented in her Deſign of marrying him privately, and in Conſequence of her refuſing to marry Sir Thurio (a fooliſh Knight whom the Duke thinks a fit Match for the Princeſs, his Daughter, becauſe he has a great deal of Money) being confined in a high Tower, reſolves to forſake her Father's Court, and follow the baniſhed Valentine to Mantua.

The poor Princeſs being in ſuch a perplexing Situation, confined, guarded, and not ſuffered to have any Correſpondence with any Perſon, but her deſtined Husband Thurio, and her Lover's falſe Friend Protheus one would imagine ſome great Degree of Invention muſt be exerted to contrive a probable Stratagem to releaſe her.

The Poet gets over this Difficulty with wonderful Eaſe: Silvia is ſhewn talking from her Chamber-window in the Tower in broad Day, to Sir Eglamour, her Confidant, below, ſettling with him, whom ſhe deſires to accompany her, the Method of her Eſcape, which is to be effected by his meeting her with Horſes at Friar Patrick's Cell, whither ſhe intends to go to Confeſſion.

To make all this probable, 'tis neceſſary that the Spies and Guards ſet over this Princeſs, muſt be all blind, otherwiſe ſhe and Sir Eglamour muſt unavoidably be ſeen by them. —Tis alſo neceſſary that they ſhould be deaf, or elſe they could not fail to hear the whole Contrivance; for her Chamber, we are informed, is in a high Tower, at a great Diſtance from the Ground, which made it impaſſible for Sir Eglamour and her to ſettle their Schemes in Whiſpers: and laſtly, 'tis abſolutely neceſſary, that this confined Princeſs ſhould have the Liberty of rambling alone out of her Tower to Confeſſion, or ſhe could not ſo confidently make an Aſſignation with Eglamour at Friar Patrick's Cell, nor ſo ſecurely keep it.

Nothing, can be more inconſiſtent than the Character of Valentine; nothing more improper than the Manners attributed to him as a Lover.

Paſſionately enamoured as he is with Silvia, he recommends a new Lover to her with the utmoſt Earneſtneſs, and will not be ſatisfied 'till ſhe promiſes to entertain him.

When he is baniſhed to Milan, and in the extreameſt Deſpair for the Loſs of his Miſtreſs, the Fear of Death prevails upon him to become the Head of a Gang of Banditti, and having in this Situation fortunately reſcued his beloved Silvia, from the Violence of his treacherous Friend, who was going to raviſh her, a few repentant Words uttered by that Friend, makes him reſolve to reſign her to him, notwithſtanding the generous Proof ſhe had given him of her Tenderneſs, in running ſo many Hazards to be with him.

PROTHEUS. Forgive me, Valentine; if hearty Sorrow Be a ſufficient Ranſom for Offence I tender't here; I do as truly ſuffer As e'er I did commit. VALENTINE. —Then I am paid: And once again I do receive thee, Who by Repentance is not ſatisfied, Is nor of Heaven, nor Earth; for theſe are pleas'd By Penitence the Eternal's Wrath's appeas'd, And that my Love may appear plain and free, All that was mine, in Silvia I give thee.

This Part of the Intrigue of the Play, ſuch as it is, that relates to the Loves of Silvia and Valentine, is probably the Poet's own Invention; but the Adventure of Julia and Protheus are copied cloſely from the Paſtoral Romance.

The Poet drops the Story at the Flight of Silvia, and adds all the remaining Circumſtances.

He alſo paints Protheus in much more diſadvantageous Colours, than he is repreſented in the Original; there we find him indeed inconſtant to his Miſtreſs, who loves him paſſionately, and forſaking her for one that treats him with the utmoſt Diſdain.

But Shakeſpear ſhews him treacherous in the higheſt Degree to his Friend, baſe and ungrateful to the Duke his Benefactor, and guilty of intended Violence towards the Woman he profeſſes to love; yet, wicked as he is, he eſcapes not only without Puniſhment, but is made as happy as the renewed Tenderneſs of his injured Friend, and the inviolable Fidelity of his once loved Julia can make him.

The Character of Julia is much nearer the Original than that of Protheus; but in the Romance we find her, when ſhe is in the Quality of a Page to Don Felix, exerting a very extraordinary kind of Generoſity, in ſolliciting her Rival's Favour for her Lover.

Shakeſpear very judiciouſly makes her act a quite contrary Part, inſtead of endeavouring to move her Rival's Compaſſion for Protheus, ſhe tries to engage it for the unhappy Object of his former Affection, repreſenting her Love, her Conſtancy, her Grief at being abandoned, in the moſt pathetic Terms, and by artfully intermixing ſome Praiſes of her Beauty, inſinuates the little Reliance ſhe ought to have upon the proſtituted Vows of a Man ſo prone to change.

The Behaviour of Feliſmena upon her Maid's offering her a Letter from Don Felix, in the Romance, is plainly the Foundation of the following Scene in the Play; and though the Dialogue is not copied, yet the ridiculous Prudery of the Miſtreſs, and the artful Management of the Maid, have ſo near a Reſemblance, that it cannot be doubted Shakeſpear had it in his Eye.

SCENE JULIA's Chamber. Enter JULIA and LUCETTA. JULIA. But ſay, Lucetta, now we are alone, Woud'ſt thou then counſel me to fall in Love. LUCETTA.

Ay, Madam, ſo you ſtumble not unheedfully.

JULIA. Of all the fair Reſort of Gentlemen, That ev'ry Day with parl encounter me, In thy Opinion which is the worthieſt Love? LUCETTA. Pleaſe you, repeat their Names; I'll ſhew my Mind According to my ſhallow ſimple Skill. JULIA.

What think'ſt thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?

LUCETTA. As of a Knight well ſpoken, neat and fine; But were I you, he never ſhould be mine. JULIA.

What think'ſt thou of the rich Mercutio?

LUCETTA.

Well of his wealth, but of himſelf, ſo, ſo.

JULIA.

What think'ſt thou of the gentle Protheus?

LUCETTA.

Lord, Lord, to ſee what Folly reigns in us!

JULIA.

How now, what means this Paſſion at his Name?

LUCETTA. Pardon, dear Madam, 'tis a paſſing Shame, That I unworthy Body as I am, Should cenſure thus one lovely Gentleman. JULIA.

Why not on Protheus, as of all the reſt?

LUCETTA.

Then thus; of many good, I think him beſt.

JULIA.

Your Reaſon?

LUCETTA. I have no other but a Woman's Reaſon, I think him ſo, becauſe I think him ſo. JULIA.

And would'ſt thou have me caſt my Love on him?

LUCETTA.

Ay, if you thought your Love not caſt away.

JULIA.

Why he of all the reſt hath never mov'd me.

LUCETTA.

Yet he of all the reſt I think beſt loves ye.

JULIA.

His little ſpeaking ſhews his Love but ſmall.

LUCETTA.

The Fire that's cloſeſt kept, burns moſt of all.

JULIA.

They do not love, that do not ſhew their Love.

LUCETTA.

Oh, they love leaſt, that let Men know their Love.

JULIA.

I would I knew his Mind.

LUCETTA.

Peruſe this Paper, Madam.

JULIA.

To Julia; ſay, from whom?

LUCETTA.

That the Contents will ſhew.

JULIA.

Say, ſay; who gave it thee?

LUCETTA. Sir Valentine's Page; and ſent, I think, from Protheus, He would have given it you, but I, being in the Way, Did in your Name receive it; pardon the Fault, I pray. JULIA. Now, by my Modeſty, a goodly Broker! Dare you preſume to harbour wanton Lines, To whiſper and conſpire againſt my Youth? Now, truſt me, 'tis an Office of great Worth, And you an Officer fit for the Place. There, take the Paper, ſee it be return'd; Or elſe return no more into my Sight. LUCETTA.

To plead for Love deſerves more Fee than Hate.

JUILA.

Will ye be gone?

LUCETTA.

Thus you may ruminate. Exit.

JULIA. And yet I would I had o'erlook'd the Letter, It were a Shame to call her back again; And pray her to a Fault for which I chid her. What Fool is ſhe, that knows I am a Maid, And would not force the Letter to my View? Since Maids in Modeſty ſay No to that Which they would have the Proff'rer conſtrue, Ay. Fie, fie, how wayward is this fooliſh Love, That like a teſty Babe, will ſcratch the Nurſe, And preſently, all humbled, kiſs the Rod? How churliſhly I chid Lucetta hence, When willingly I would have had her here; How angerly I taught my Brow to frown, When inward Joy enforc'd my Heart to ſmile, My Penance is to call Lucetta back, And aſk Remiſſion for my Folly paſt. What, ho! Lucetta! Re-enter LUCETTA. LUCETTA.

What would your Ladyſhip?

JULIA.

Is't near Dinner-time.

LUCETTA. I would it were; That you might kill your Stomach on your Meat, And not upon your Maid. JULIA. What is't that you Took up ſo gingerly? LUCETTA.

Nothing.

JULIA.

Why didſt thou ſtoop then?

LUCETTA.

To take a Paper up that I let fall,

JULIA.

And is that Paper nothing?

LUCETTA.

Nothing concerning me.

JULIA.

Then let it lye for thoſe that it concerns.

LUCETTA. Madam, it will not lye where it concerns, Unleſs it have a falſe Interpreter. JULIA.

Some Love of yours hath writ to you in Rhime.

LUCETTA. That I might ſing it, Madam, to a Tune; Give me a Note, your Ladyſhip can ſet. JULIA. As little by ſuch Lays as may be poſſible; Beſt ſing it to the Tune of Light o' Love. LUCETTA.

It is too heavy for ſo light a Tune.

JULIA.

Heavy! belike, it hath ſome burthen then.

LUCETTA.

Ay, and melodious were it, would you ſing it.

JULIA.

And why not you?

LUCETTA.

I cannot reach ſo high.

JULIA. Let's ſee your Song; How now, Minion! LUCETTA. Keep Tune there ſtill, ſo you will ſing it out; And yet, methinks, I do not like this Tune. JULIA.

You do not?

LUCETTA.

No, Madam, 'tis too ſharp.

JULIA.

You, Minion, are too ſaucy.

LUCETTA. Nay, now you are too flat; And mar the Concord with too harſh a Diſcant▪ There wanteth but a Mean, to fill your Song. JULIA.

The Mean is drown'd with your unruly Baſs.

LUCETTA.

Indeed, I bid the Baſs for Protheus.

JULIA. This Babble ſhall not henceforth trouble me; Here is a Coil with Proteſtation. tears it. Go, get you gone; and let the Papers lye; You would be fingering them to anger me. LUCETTA. She makes it ſtrange, but ſhe would be beſt pleas'd To be ſo anger'd with another Letter. Exit. JULIA. Nay, would I were ſo anger'd with the ſame! Oh hateful Hands, to tear ſuch loving Words! Injurious Waſps, to feed on ſuch ſweet Honey, And kill the Bees, that yield it, with your Stings! I'll kiſs each ſeveral Paper for Amends: Look, here is writ kind Julia,—unkind Julia, As in Revenge of thy Ingratitude I throw thy Name againſt the bruiſing Stones; Trampling contemptuouſly on thy Diſdain. Look here is writ, Love-wounded Protheus. Poor wounded Name i • my Boſom as a Bed Shall lodge thee, 'till thy Wound be throughly heal'd And thus I ſearch it with a ſav'ring Kiſs. But, twice, or thrice, was Protheus written down; Be calm, good Wind, blow not a Word away; 'Till I have found each Letter in the Letter, Except mine own Name: That ſome Whirlwind bear Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging Rock, And throw it thence into the raging Sea; So here in one Line is his Name twice writ: Poor forlorn Protheus, paſſionate Protheus, To the ſweet Julia: that I'll tear away; And yet I will not, ſith ſo prettily He couples it to his complaining Names: Thus will I fold them one upon another; Now kiſs, embrace, contend, do what you will. Enter LUCETTA. LUCETTA.

Madam, Dinner is ready, and your Father ſtays.

JULIA.

Well, let us go.

LUCETTA.

What, ſhall theſe Papers lye like Tell-tales here?

JULIA.

If thou reſpect them, beſt to take them up.

LUCETTA. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down Yet here they ſhall not lye, for catching Cold. JULIA.

I ſee you have a Month's Mind to them.

LUCETTA. Ay, Madam, you may ſay what Sights you ſee, I ſee Things too, although your judge I wink. JULIA.

Come, come, will't pleaſe you go.

Exeunt.

This Play every where abounds with the moſt ridiculous Abſurdities in the Plot and Conduct of the Incidents, as well as with the greateſt Improprieties in the Manners and Sentiments of the Perſons.

The Princeſs, becauſe it is neceſſary ſhe ſhould meet with her Lover in the Wood, without having the Power of making herſelf inviſible, gets away from her Guards, and out of her high Tower, and gallops like an Amazon, attended only by one Squire to Mantua.

'Tis no Wonder therefore, that in ſuch an Equipage, and engaged in ſuch a romantic Deſign, ſhe ſhould fall into the Hands of the Banditti; nor that ſhe ſhould meet with her Lover amongſt them, ſince the Poet had prepared us for this wonderful Incident, by a preceding one, full as aſtoniſhing, in making the noble Youth the Captain of this Band of Villains.

It ſeeming neceſſary alſo to the Poet's Deſign, that the Duke of Milan ſhould fall into the ſame Danger, we find the good old Prince, upon the News of his Daughter's Flight, inſtead of diſpatching ſeveral Parties of his Guards different Ways to overtake and bring her back, mounting his Horſe himſelf, and with no other Attendants than Protheus, who is a Stranger in his Dominions, and Thurio, the fooliſh Knight he deſigned for his Son-in-law, riding-away in Search of her.

'Tis eaſy to ſee, that by this Management he muſt fall into the Hands of the Banditti, and accordingly there we meet with him next. The Duke's beſtowing his Daughter upon Valentine, whom he finds at the Head of this deſperate Gang of Ruffians, after refuſing her to him, when he lived in his Court with an unblemiſhed Reputation, is indeed a little incomprehenſible, as is alſo Valentine's Willingneſs to reſign his beloved Miſtreſs to his falſe Friend, who had offered Violence to her Chaſtity, and Silvia's giving her Hand to him, after ſo ſtriking a Proof of his Indifference and Ingratitude.

I cannot omit taking Notice of one Blunder among many others I ſhall paſs over; Valentine; after having juſt before declared, that it is with Difficulty he reſtrains the Villains who had choſen him for their Chief from the moſt brutal Outrages, recommends them to the Duke's Favour with theſe Words; Theſe baniſh'd Men that I have kept withal, Are Men endow'd with worthy Qualities: Forgive them what they have committed here, And let them be recalled from their Exile; They are reform'd, civil, full of Good, And fit for great Employment, worthy Lord.

Their Reformation muſt be very ſudden indeed, for 'tis not more than three Minutes ſince he had complained of their Villainy, and he could have no Opportunity of knowing this Change in their Manners, for from that Time, 'till the End of the Play, he has no farther Communication with them.

Yet it is not enough to make him ſollicit their Pardon, but he muſt alſo recommend them to great Employments, and the poor eaſy Duke gives him an abſolute Power of providing for them as he pleaſes.

The Wit in this Play conſiſts in Puns, Quibbles, Antitheſes's, and playing upon Words, and the Humour is all divided between Launce and his Dog. The laſt of theſe Perſonages is indeed a Mute, which thoſe, who contend for the Learning of Shakeſpear, may ſay, he introduced in Imitation of the Ancients, as he gives Riſe like thoſe in the ancient Comedy to ſeveral Incidents in the Play. I ſhall tranſcribe a Scene between Protheus and Speed, and a Speech of Launcet to his Dog, which may ſerve as a Specimen of the Wit and Humour of the Comedy.

SPEED.

Sir Protheus, ſave you; ſave you, my Maſter.

PROTHEUS.

But now he parted hence, t'embark for Milan.

SPEED. Twenty to one then he is ſhipp'd already, And I have play'd the Sheep in loſing him. PROTHEUS. Indeed, a Sheep doth very often ſtray, An if the Shepherd be awhile away. SPEED.

You conclude that my Maſter is a Shepherd then, and I a Sheep?

PROTHEUS.

I do.

SPEED.

Why then my Horns are his Horns, whether I wake or ſleep.

PROTHEUS.

A ſilly Anſwer, and fitting well a Sheep.

SPEED.

This proves me ſtill a Sheep.

PROTHEUS.

True; and thy Maſter a Shepherd.

SPEED.

Nay, that I can deny by a Circumſtance.

PROTHEUS.

It ſhall go hard, but I'll prove it by another.

SPEED.

The Shepherd ſeeks the Sheep, and not the Sheep the Shepherd; but I ſeek my Maſter, and my Maſter ſeeks not me; therefore I am no Sheep.

PROTHEUS.

The Sheep for Fodder follows the Shepherd, the Shepherd for the Food follows not the Sheep; thou for Wages followeſt thy Maſter, thy Maſter for Wages follows not thee; therefore thou art a Sheep.

SPEED.

Such another Proof will make me cry Baâ.

PROTHEUS.

But doſt thou hear? gaveſt thou my Letter to Julia?

SPEED.

Aye, Sir, I, a loſt Mutton, gave your Letter to her, a lac'd Mutton; and ſhe, a lac'd Mutton, gave me, a loſt Mutton, nothing for my Labour.

PROTHEUS.

Here's too ſmall a Paſture for ſuch Store of Muttons.

SPEED.

If the Ground be over-charg'd, you were beſt ſtick her.

PROTHEUS.

Nay, in that you are aſtray; 'twere beſt pound you.

SPEED.

Nay, Sir, leſs than a Pound ſhall ſerve me for carrying your Letter.

PROTHEUS.

You miſtake: I mean the Pound; a Penfold.

SPEED.

From a Pound to a Pin; fold it over and over, it is three-fold too little for carrying a Letter to your Lover.

PROTHEUS.

But, what ſaid ſhe? Did ſhe nod?

Speed nods. SPEED.

PROTHEUS.

Nod I: Why that's Noddy.

SPEED. You miſtook, Sir: I ſaid, She did nod: And you aſk me, if ſhe did nod; and I ſaid, I. PROTHEUS.

And that, ſet together, is Noddy.

SPEED.

Now you have taken the Pains to ſet it together, take it for your Pains.

PROTHEUS.

No, no; you ſhall have it for bearing the Letter.

SPEED.

Well, I perceive I muſt be fain to bear with you.

PROTHEUS.

Why, Sir; how do you bear with me?

SPEED. Marry, Sir, the Letter, very orderly; Having nothing but the Word Noddy for my Pains. PROTHEUS.

Beſhrew me, but you have a quick Wit.

SPEED.

And yet it cannot overtake your ſlow Purſe.

PROTHEUS.

Come, come, open the Matter in brief: What ſaid ſhe?

SPEED.

Open your Purſe, that the Money and the Matter may be both at once delivered.

PROTHEUS.

Well, Sir; here is for your Pains. What ſaid ſhe?

SPEED.

Truly, Sir, I think you'll hardly win her.

PROTHEUS.

Why? Could'ſt thou perceive ſo much from her?

SPEED. Sir, I cou'd perceive nothing at all from her: No, not ſo much as a Ducat for delivering your Letter: And being ſo hard to me that brought your Mind, I fear ſhe'll prove as hard to you in telling her Mind. PROTHEUS.

What! ſaid ſhe nothing?

SPEED. No, not ſo much as—take this for your Pains. To teſtify your Bounty, I thank you; you have teſter'd me; In requital whereof, henceforth carry your Letter yourſelf; And, Sir, I'll commend you to my Maſter. Enter LAUNCE with his Dog.

When a Man's Servant ſhall play the Cur with him, look you, it goes hard: One that I brought up of a Puppy; one that I ſaved from drowning, when three or four of his blind Brothers and Siſters went to it; I have taught him even as one would ſay, preciſely, Thus would I teach a Dog. I went to deliver him as a Preſent to Mrs. Sylvia, from my Maſter; and I came no ſooner into the Dining-Chamber, but he ſteps me to her Trencher, and ſteals her Capon's Leg. Oh! 'tis a foul Thing, when a Cur cannot keep himſelf in all Companies. I would have, as one would ſay, one that takes upon him to be a Dog indeed, to be, as it were, a Dog at all things. If I had no more Wit than he, to take a Fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged for it; ſure as I live he had ſuffered for't. You ſhall judge: He thruſt me himſelf into the Company of three or four Gentlemen-like Dogs, under the Duke's Table. He had not been there (bleſs the Mark!) — — — Out with the Dog, ſays one: What Cur is that? ſays another: Whip him out, ſays a third: Hang him up, ſays the Duke. I having been acquainted with the Smell before, knew it was Crab; and goes me to the Fellow that whips the Dog; Friend, quoth I, you mean to whip the Dog: Ay, marry, I do, quoth he: You do him the more Wrong, quoth I; 'twas I did the Thing you wot of. He makes no more ado, but whips me out of the Chamber. How many Maſters would do this for their Servants! Nay, I'll be ſworn, I have ſat in the Stocks for Puddings he hath ſtolen; otherwiſe he had been executed. I have ſtood on the Pillory for Geeſe he hath killed; otherwiſe he had ſuffer'd for it. Thou think'ſt not of this now: Nay, I remember the Trick you ſerved me; when I took my Leave of Madam Silvia, did I not bid thee mark me, and do as I do? — — — — &c. &c.

The Story of Troilus and Creſſida, From CHAUCER.

THE Story of the Trojan War is well known; the Princes of Greece united in Arms for the Recovery of Helen, and to revenge her Rape, had beſieged Troy almoſt ten Years with various Succeſs; when Calcas, one of the principal Lords of Troy, went over to their Party.

To this Nobleman, who was very well ſkilled in Divine Myſteries, Apollo revealed the certain Deſtruction of Troy, and to prevent his being a Partaker in the foredoom'd Deſolation of his Country, he ſtole privately out of the City, and fled to the Grecian Camp, making Uſe of his Skill in foreſeeing Things to come, to recommend him to the Greeks, who finding great Advantage from this his Science, held him in high Eſteem.

The News of Calcas's Flight being ſpread through the City, the People enraged at his Treachery, were for ſacrificing all the Relations and Friends he had left behind him to their Revenge.

Creſſida, his only Daughter, a young Lady of exquiſite Beauty, being wholly ignorant of her Father's Flight, was more than any other aſtoniſhed at the News. Diſtracted with Shame for the Baſeneſs and Treachery of her Father, and wild with her Fears of the Inſults of the enraged Populace, ſhe caſt herſelf at the Feet of Hector in a mourning Habit, and, with Tears proteſting her own Innocence, implored his Protection.

The generous Heart of Hector was greatly moved with the Diſtreſs of the kneeling Beauty. He raiſed her up, and aſſured her, her Father's Treaſon ſhould reflect no Diſhonour upon her, that ſhe ſhould enjoy his Eſtates, and, if ſhe pleaſed, live happy in Troy under his Protection.

Creſſida thanked him with a graceful Humility, and returning to her Houſe, began, from thenceforward, to live with the greateſt Privacy and Retirement; ſo nicely conſcious ſhe was of her Father's Diſgrace, and ſo delicately attentive to her own unhappy Situation, that the People, charmed with her Conduct, no longer remembered the Treaſon of her Father to her Diſadvantage.

It was the Cuſtom in Troy to celebrate the Feaſt of Pallas in the Month of April, the King's Sons, with the Matrons and Maids of Quality, and the Knights of Troy, aſſiſted at this Solemnity.

The charming Creſſida, though dreſſed in a Widow's Habit, appeared with a thouſand Advantages among the Reſt. Her Beauty, like a bright Star breaking through the Veil of an envious Cloud, dazzled the whole Aſſembly; unmoved with the murmured Praiſes ſhe heard around her, and deſirous of eſcaping Notice, ſhe ſtood with humble Modeſty near the Door; bending her lovely Eyes on the Ground, while the Bluſhes which ſometimes crimſoned over her fair Face, and the ſweet Penſiveneſs of her Attitude, ſhewed her Thoughts were more employed on her Father's Unhappineſs, than the Admiration her Form excited.

Troilus, whoſe Eyes were ever wandering in ſearch of fair Objects, though fixed on no particular one, was among the laſt, who took Notice of the beauteous Creſſida. This young Prince, gay, handſome, and a Warrior, had never felt the ſoft Inquietudes of Love; he deſpiſed the Power of the winged Deity, and triumphing in his own Indifference, laughed at the Torments of others; roving, as was his Cuſtom, through the Temple with ſome of his young Knights, and beholding with wandering Glances the Ladies as they ſtood, often ſlily leering on his Companions, to obſerve if any of them breathed a Sigh, or darted a deſiring Look at one of them. The God of Love, offended with his continual Mockeries, bent his Bow that Moment in a Rage, and ſent one of his keeneſt Arrows to his Heart: the lovely penſive Creſſida was the Object that fixed his Attention.

Oh Heavens! cried he to himſelf, while his Eyes feaſted on the raviſhing Beauties of her Face, Where haſt thou been hid thus long, thou that art ſo lovely fair? Where has ſuch matchleſs Beauty been concealed, that my delighted Eyes were never bleſſed with it before? While he was thus contemplating her with Emotions he had 'till then been a Stranger to, Creſſida raiſing her Head, turned her bright Eyes by Chance on Troilus, and with that Look compleated the Conqueſt of his Heart. He ſighed, as with an ardent Gaze he met the languiſhing, yet too powerful Glance of the afflicted Beauty; and ſhe haſtily averting her Face, again he ſighed, and conſcious of his former Injuries to Love, turned to his Companions to ſee if any of them obſerved his new Diſorder, leaving the Temple, at length he went Home to his own Palace.

Solitude now was all he ſought, and diſmiſsing his Companions, on Pretence of private Buſineſs, he retired to his Chamber to indulge his new Meditations, there making a Mirror of his Mind, he contemplated the Image of the beauteous Creſſida; his raptured Fancy dwelt upon the inchanting Look ſhe gave him, and every recollected Charm added Strength to the fatal Paſſion that conſumed him.

Love giving new Ardour to the bright Flames of Glory, he ruſhed with more than mortal Courage to the Field; yet was it not his Hatred to the Greeks, nor his Deſire of preſerving the Town, which poured the Thunder of his reſiſtleſs Arm upon the Foe: Renown he fought, but fought it only to make him more worthy of the lovely Creſſida. True Love is ever accompanied with Diffidence and Fear: Troilus, though a Prince, young, lovely, and the Object of general Eſteem; yet pined in ſeeret, without daring to reveal his Paſſion to her who inſpired it.

Deſpair took Poſſeſſion of his Soul at the ſame Moment that he became a Slave to Love; he paſſed whole Nights in S • ghs, Tears, and Complaints; his Cheeks had no longer the Freſhneſs of Youth, his Eyes loſt their ſparkling Luſtre, Melancholy was painted in his Mien, and Dejection ſat on every Feature.

Pandarus, the Uncle of Creſſida, and the intimate Friend of Troilus, having for ſome time obſerved, and wondered at this ſtrange Alteration, reſolved to make him, if poſſible, diſcloſe the Cauſe: For this Purpoſe he went early one Morning to his Palace, and entering his Apartment, without giving any previous Notice, found the unhappy Youth ſeated on his Bed, his Arms folded paſſionately on his Breaſt, his Head reclined, and all the Marks of the moſt profound Sorrow ſtrongly impreſſed on his Countenance.

Pandarus, loſt in Aſtoniſhment and Grief, ſtood ſome Moments at a Diſtance, contemplating him without being perceived by the love-ſick Prince, whoſe Thoughts were ſo intenſely fixed on the Idea of the lovely Creſſida, that he had no Eyes or Ears for external Objects. O ye Gods! exclaimed Pandarus at laſt, what can this mean, is it the Greeks, my Prince, that have reduced you to this Condition? O Shame to Manhood! ſhall thoſe Enemies of our Country boaſt of having overthrown one of its ſtrongeſt Pillars? Or has ſome enthuſiaſtic Fit of Devotion ſiezed thy Mind, and given thee up to more than Woman's Softneſs? Art thou mourning for ſome imaginary Crime, and trying to appeaſe the offended Deities with Tears?

The artful Pandarus ſpoke in this Manner, not becauſe he doubted the Courage of Troilus, of which he had given a Thouſand glorious Proofs, but that by this Reproach, he might awake him from that Lethargy of Woe in which he ſaw him ſunk, and rouſe him to a more noble Paſſion.

The Prince ſlowly raiſing his Head, and beholding his Friend, with Eyes that betrayed no other Emotion than Grief; Ah, ſaid he, with a Voice almoſt ſmothered with Sighs, what ill Chance brought thee hither to behold my loſt Condition? Leave me, I conjure thee by the Gods, ſtay not to ſee me die, for well I know my Death will give thee Pain; and yet, alas, ſuch is my extream Affliction, that Death is all the Relief I can expect; but yet, purſued he, after a little Pauſe, and raiſing his Voice, while a faint Bluſh diſpelled for a Moment the languid Paleneſs of his Cheek, Think not, my Pandarus, that it is Dread of the Greeks which has brought thy Friend thus low; ah! 'tis a Power ſtronger far than theirs; not the united Force of their whole Army could ſink thy Troilus thus. My Soul, my Soul's ſubdued, and that's beyond their Reach. Oh, my Pandarus, enquire no more; I cannot, dare not, will not tell thee more; leave me, again I bid thee leave me, it is not fit the Cauſe of my Deſpair ſhould be revealed; no, let it reſt in everlaſting Silence, and periſh with myſelf.

Alas! ſaid Pandarus, exceſſively moved, what is this Affliction that is to be concealed from me? Oh, Prince, if ever there was Love and Truth betwixt us, do not, I beſeech thee, do not commit ſo great a Cruelty, as to hide your Sorrows from me; if I cannot give you Comfort, I will partake your Pain. I have a Friend's Right in your Diſtreſs, deprive me not of it, leſt I ſuſpect your Truth, or imagine you doubt mine.

Ah! ſaid Troilus, ſighing, you have conquered, my Pandarus; to you, and you only will I diſcover my Weakneſs. Love, to whoſe Power I have been ſo long a Rebel, hath ſhot his fierceſt Fires into my Heart; I burn, I rage with ardent Paſſion; I languiſh with Deſire, and, oh! Deſpair conſumes me. What have I then to do but die? ſince Death alone can free me from my Torments!

Ah, Prince! ſaid Pandarus, it was unkindly done to conceal ſo long your Paſſion from your Friend. My Advice, my Aſſiſtance might, perhaps, 'ere this have made you happy. Alas! interrupted Troilus, thou who haſt been ſo unſucceſsful in Love, with what Confidence can'ſt thou undertake to make me happy?

I have been unfortunate, 'tis true, replied Pandarus; but thoſe Misfortunes have taught me that Experience which you want: hence am I qualified to give you Counſel that may prevent your falling into the Evils I have ſuffered. Oft have I ſeen a blind Man walk ſecurely, where one who was bleſt with perfect Sight has ſtumbled. Well does the Proverb ſay, A Fool full often may, a wiſe Man guide. A Whetſtone is not, indeed, an Inſtrument to carve with; but it ſharpens thoſe that do. If then you think I have committed Errors, let my Folly be your School; and learn therein to avoid what I have been undone by. Everything, my dear Prince, is beſt explained by its contrary. The Palate that never taſted Bitterneſs has not ſo quick a Reliſh for Sweets: The Heart that never languiſhed with Diſtreſs, is blunted to the gentle Thrils of Pleaſure. With White be Black compared; with Honour Shame; each by its different Qualities ſhews the other.

The Prince appeared wholly inſenſible to this Diſcourſe, not once lifting up his Eyes, or giving the ſmalleſt Indication that he heard it. Pandarus, whoſe Reſentment was awakened by this Neglect, began to ſhake him by the Arm, as if he ſuppoſed him in a Lethargy; Rouſe, rouſe yourſelf, for ſhame, he cried, from this Stupidity; nor liſten like the droniſh Beaſt of Burden to what I ſay, who, when a Harp is playing, hears the Sound, but knows not that 'tis Muſic.

Troilus, at this Reproach, raiſing his Head, with a deep Sigh, and fixing a languiſhing Look upon his Friend—Peace, Peace, cried he, I am not deaf, I have heard all thy Diſcourſe; but, in the Name of the immortal Gods! what are thy Proverbs to me? how will they help me? Leave me, O leave me to bewail my Fate: Thou can'ſt not cure me, Friend; I wiſh not to be cured; leave me, and let me die.

Why, this is Madneſs, Prince, ſaid Pandarus (haſtily)—But one Word more, tell me the Name of this powerful Beauty that has charmed you; I'll haſten to her; I'll plead your Cauſe; I'll force her to have Compaſſion on you.

Oh, no! interrupted Troilus (vehemently) that muſt not be, Wilt thou then die for a Woman, reſumed Pandarus! ſigh out thy Soul inglorious here at home, and preſs a loveſick Couch with thy languid Limbs? Ah! rather caſe them in Armour as thou waſt wont, ruſh on the inſulting Foe, and turn your Grief to Fury and Revenge; ſo ſhall your Fall be uſeful to your Country: But if you ſink thus poorly under your Paſſion, and rather than reveal it die, your Name will be conſigned to Infamy for ever; your Death will be imputed to your Fear of the Greeks; and her you love, in common with the reſt of the World, will ſcorn and hate your Memory.

Troilus, touched to his inmoſt Soul with this predicted Shame, ſtarted wildly from his Seat; and traverſing the Room with great Emotion, ſtopt ſuddenly, and looking fixedly on his Friend, Oh! ſaid he with a Sigh, what muſt I do!

Tell me the Name of her you love, ſaid Pandarus; ſay, do I know her? If ſo, I ſhall ſucceed the better in my Applications.

This Queſtion threw the love-ſick Prince into ſuch Confuſion, that, not being able, to ſtand, again he ſunk upon his Bed; his Face glowed with Bluſhes; his conſcious Eyes bent their Looks upon the Ground; he ſigh'd, he trembled, but continued ſilent.

Pandarus, heedfully obſerving his Emotion, exclaimed in a tranſported Tone; Ah, Prince! I ſee I am intereſted in this Fair One: by Venus and her ſportful Son you ſhall conceal her Name no longer.

And will you know her Name, ſaid Troilus, (trembling) Oh, my Pandarus! the Name of my ſweet Enemy is Creſſida, thy Niece, my Friend.

Here his Voice falter'd; he ſtop'd, he ſigh'd, while Fear, Hope, and anxious Expectation at once aſſailed his Heart with all their Force, and gave ſuch Meaning to his wiſhing Eyes, that Pandarus, eager to relieve his Inquietude, ſtrained him to his Breaſt with an affectionate Embrace: Be comforted, my Prince, cried he (in a Tone that expreſſed the higheſt Degree of Satisfaction) Creſſida ſhall be yours, if I have any Power over her; you are worthy of her and ſhe of you; not Hellen herſelf can boaſt a brighter Form than Creſſida; add to that, her blooming Youth, her amiable Modeſty, the mingled Sweetneſs and Dignity of her Manners. —Oh, Prince! ſhe ſhall be yours; I ſwear by Heaven ſhe ſhall: no more complaining then; baniſh your Fears, and rely upon my Will and Power to make you happy.

Troilus, almoſt out of himſelf with Joy at this unexpected good Fortune, hung upon his Neck awhile in ſpeechleſs Tranſports; then ſuddenly exclaiming, Come now, ye Greeks! cried he, oppoſe your whole united Force againſt this Breaſt; Troilus ſhall ſtand it all! his Love ſhall give him double Vigour, and ye ſhall feel it to your Coſt! Oh, Pandarus! my Life and Death are in thy Hand; thou haſt reſtored me to myſelf; continue ſtill thy friendly Offices, and be the Guardian God of Troilus.

Farewell, my Friend, ſaid Pandarus (getting looſe from his Embraces) I will deſerve your Thanks; aſſure yourſelf I will: In the mean time, ſtrengthen your Heart with Hope; I go to ſeek your Happineſs.

With theſe Words he retired; and Troilus, now animated with double Fires, called eagerly for his Armour, and, mounting his Horſe, ruſhed terrible to the Field: Happy was the Greek that fled the Thunder of his Arm that Day; inſpired with more than mortal Courage, like a vaſt Torrent, he poured reſiſtleſs on the Foe, and bore down all before him.

In the mean time, Pandarus, anxiouſly ſollicitous to perform the Promiſes he had made to Troilus, went to his Niece's Houſe; he found her alone in her Apartment, reading; and placing himſelf near her, after ſome general Diſcourſe, he objected to her mourning Habit and ſolitary Way of Life; which, on Account of her Father's diſgraceful Flight to the Enemies of his Country, ſhe ſtill continued to obſerve.

Why, my charming Niece! ſaid he (purſuing his Diſcourſe) why do you waſte your Days in Lonelineſs and Woe? Your Beauty was not given you to be wrapt in Shades; nor muſt your Bloom of Youth be loſt in Sol • tude: Love courts you now with all his Train of Pleaſures; admit the ſmiling God into your Boſom; and bleſs ſome worthy Lover with your Charms.

Ah! Uncle, interrupted Creſſida, her Face glowing with Bluſhes, from you I little expected to hear ſuch Diſcourſe; you, who ought rather to defend my Heart againſt the dangerous Power of Love; will you aſſiſt the ſly Invader, and betray your Creſſida to Bondage? Alas! it is not for me to mix among the happy Youth of Troy; preſſed down as I am by my Father's Diſgrace, and my too conſcious feeling of it: No; let me in Retirement conceal the Part I take in his Shame; Retirement, which, from being neceſſary, is become my Choice: Love will not ſeek me here; he flies the Miſerable, and only dwells with Chearfulneſs and Peace.

No more of theſe melancholy Reflexions, ſaid Pandarus (kiſſing away the Tears that fell from her charming Eyes) you know not how bountiful the Gods have been to you. Oh, Niece! they have beſtowed a Bleſſing on you greater than your moſt ſanguine Wiſhes durſt aſpire at.

He ſtopp'd abruptly here; and, thinking he had ſaid enough to awaken the Woman's Curioſity in her, affected to talk of other Things; and, ſhortly after, roſe up to be gone.

Creſſida, who had been pleaſingly alarmed by what her Uncle had ſaid, and was greatly diſappointed at his diſcontinuing the Diſcourſe, ſaw him about to depart with Uneaſineſs; ſhe wiſhed to be delivered from the Perplexity his Hints had thrown her into, but Shame prevented her from aſking an Explanation of them.

Pandarus obſerved her Confuſion with Pleaſure; he moved on towards the Door; ſhe followed him with downcaſt Eyes; he turned to bid her farewel; adieu! anſwered ſhe, with Heſitation, then ſeeming to recollect at that Inſtant what had paſt, But will you go, ſaid ſhe, (bluſhing, and half averting her fair Face) without telling me what good Fortune it is for which I ought this Day to thank the Gods?

Panadarus, having brought her to the Point he deſired, took her Hand with a Smile, and leading her to a Chair, ſeated himſelf cloſe by her: It would be cruel, my deareſt Niece, ſaid he, to keep you longer in Suſpence; know then you are beloved by one of the Sons of your King, the young, the brave, the lovely Troilus; never did any Heart glow with more ardent Fires than his: he languiſhes, he dies for you, my Creſſida; compaſſionate his Pains, reward him with your Heart, and taſte the Sweets of mutual Love.

Ah, me! interrupted Creſſida, and is it for a Lover then, that I muſt thank the Gods! Is this the glorious Fortune they have deſtined for me! and can you, Oh, my Uncle! can you reſolve to lead me through the dangerous Paths of Pleaſure? You, who ought rather to watch over my unguarded Steps, and ſave me from the treacherous Baits of Love! Oh, Pallas! Guardian Goddeſs of my Youth, aſſiſt me now! direct me in this doubtful Maze of Fate, and ſave thy wretched Votary!

Pandarus, beholding her in this Emotion, roſe from his Chair; I ſee, fair Niece, ſaid he, you are not diſpoſed to liſten to the Paſſion my Friend has for you; your Diſdain will kill him; I know it will; his Life depends upon your Smiles; and ſince my Intereſt with you is ſo ſmall, I'll ſhare his Fate: I cannot bear the Reproaches he will with Juſtice load me, when he finds how ineffectual my Sollicitations have been.— Do you ſigh, cruel Maid! ſaid he; (for, almoſt unknown to herſelf, ſhe breathed a deep-drawn Sigh) Ah, may it pleaſe the Gods to make you ſuffer in your Turn! As for me, ſince you ſuſpect I would betray your Virtue, you ſhall not ſee me ſoon again; happy if, by ſacrificing my own Life, I could ſave that of the noble Troilus; but it will not be: he loves too ardently to bear your Scorn without Deſperation; but I will ſhare his Fate, whatever it be; and ſince I cannot ſave him, I'll die with him.

Creſſida, alarmed at this Menace of her Uncle's, and at his riſing to leave her haſtily, ſeized his Arm; Stay, Oh ſtay! ſhe cried; all that is conſiſtent with my Honour I'll do to ſave you both: I'll ſee the Prince; I'll treat him mildly; I'll not forbid him to hope;—but aſk no more: my Honour's dearer to me than Life; ſwear your Deſigns extend no farther than what I have promiſed, and I am ſatisfied.

Pandarus, aſſuring her, with the moſt ſolemn Oaths, that he would not preſs her to any greater Compliances, perceiving her Fears were quieted, began to talk of indifferent Matters; which, Creſſida, whoſe Soul was all in Tumult, liſtened to with great Impatience; interrupting him, at length; I would fain know, ſaid ſhe, (with a conſcious Bluſh) in what Manner you firſt became acquainted with Prince Troilu's Paſſion for me? Did he declare it to you himſelf? Does he know how to gild a Love-ſick Tale with ſoft prevailing Eloquence?

Pandarus, with a Smile of Pleaſure at this Demand, related to her, ſuccinctly, all that had paſſed between him and Troilus, and painted his Love and his Deſpair in Colours ſo lively, that the half-vanquiſhed Creſſida, unwilling her Uncle ſhould ſee her Emotions, roſe up, and begging his Excuſe, retired to her Cloſet, to contemplate at leiſure on what had befallen her: There firſt the Idea of Troilus, young, brave, and lovely as ſhe had ſeen him; tender, paſſionate, and languiſhing as her Uncle repreſented him, roſe to her Imagination. Softened and prepared by her artful Uncle to receive the dangerous Impreſſion, her Fancy dwelt with a Pleaſure, till then unknown, upon the Graces of his Form, his royal Birth, his exalted Courage, in a Youth ſo blooming: her Vanity was flattered by the Preference he gave her to all the Trojan Beauties of the Court; and her Compaſſion, inſenſibly engaged by the Pains he ſuffer'd for her Sake, Love firſt entering her Soul in the Diſguiſe of Gratitude, waked there a lambent Flame, whoſe pleaſing Warmth play'd gently round her Heart, and filled it with a new and ſweet Senſation.

While ſhe ſat thus, wholly loſt in pleaſing Reflexions, ſhe heard a loud Shouting in the Street, that rouſed her from her Reverie, and made her haſtily run to her Window to ſee the Occaſion of it; but what was her mingled Surpriſe and Confuſion when ſhe beheld Prince Troilus, the Object of her Contemplation!

The young Hero having that Day performed the moſt amazing Acts of Valour, and driven the Greeks quite back to their Ships, was returning home, amidſt the Acclamations of a numerous Croud, who made the Skies reſound with their loud Praiſes: He was ſeated on a bay Steed, who, by reaſon of the Wounds he had received in the Fight, carried him along with a ſlow Pace; all richly armed he was, except his Head; ſo that his lovely Face being expoſed to View, and made more lovely by the decent Shame which glowed in bright Vermilion on his Cheek, he charmed the eager Gazers into a Rapture of Delight: His Helmet, which hung careleſsly by a String behind, was hewn in twenty Places; his Shield was pierced with Spears, and many Arrows were to be ſeen ſtill ſticking in different Parts of it; his Horſe was marked with Blood that ſtreamed from ſeveral Parts of his Body.

In this fierce Equipage he would have look'd like the great God of War himſelf, had not his charming Face expreſſed a ſofter and more amiable Divinity: Creſſida drew back her Head the Moment ſhe beheld him; conſcious of what paſſed in her Heart, a crimſon Bluſh glowed in each lovely Cheek; but though ſhe had determined in her Mind not to look on him, again her Eyes involuntary ſought him out; again ſhe bluſhed, alarm'd at her own Weakneſs; again with an averted Look ſhe tried to conceal the new-born ſweet Anxiety from herſelf; but it was in vain: ſhe could not reſiſt the powerful Impulſe that drew her Eyes, towards him; and kept them fixed upon him till he was out of Sight.

This unexpected View of the young Hero, in all the Pomp and Pageantry of War, bearing away the chiefeſt Honours of the Field, and crowned with the grateful Praiſes of his delivered Country, compleated what her Uncle's Artifices had begun, and made an entire Conqueſt of her Heart: Love, with all its Train of gentle Wiſhes, Hopes, Fears, and ſoft Inquietudes, took Poſſeſſion of her Breaſt: Awhile ſhe reſiſted the ſweet Invader, and oppoſed her Reaſon to the ſubtle Flame; but ſo unequal was the Conteſt, ſo weak her Defence, ſo powerful the Aſſault, that neither hoping, nor perhaps deſiring to be free, ſhe gave herſelf up a willing Slave to the ſoft Chains of Love.

In the mean time Troilus, full of eager Anxiety to know his Fate, no ſooner arrived at his own Palace than he diſpatched ſome of his Attendants to different Places to find out Pandarus, and to bring him thither.

Pandarus immediately obeyed the Summons, and related, to his impatient Friend, all the Converſation that had paſſed between him and his Niece. He deſcribed her Looks, her Sighs, her Bluſhes, her ſweet Irreſolution, and thence derived ſufficient Encouragement for the trembling Lover to write, and, in his own pathetic language, ſollicit her future Favour.

Love having dictated, to the ready Pen of Troilus, the ſofteſt and moſt perſuaſive Eloquence that ever won a female Heart, Pandarus undertook to deliver the Letter, and accordingly carried it that Inſtant to Creſſida: The mounting Blood fluſh'd in her charming Face as ſoon as he offered the Billet to her Peruſal; then ran again in Tides tumultuous to her Heart, and left her pale, trembling, and ready to ſink before him; he took her Hand, he preſſed it tenderly in his, he ſwore by all the celeſtial Deities, no Harm was meant to her Honour, and conjured her, if ſhe had not reſolved the Deſtruction of the noble Troilus, to read and anſwer his Letter.

Creſſida, reaſſured by her Uncle's Proteſtations, took the Letter from him, and retired to her Chamber to read it. The moving language it contained, had ſo ſudden and ſo powerful an Effect on her ſoft Heart, that ſhe was eaſily prevailed upon, by her Uncle to write a favourable Anſwer.

The Correſpondence thus happily begun, the officious Pandarus never failed every Day to carry Letters, Meſſages, and Preſents between the Lovers, nor ceaſed his Solicitations in favour of Troilus to his Niece, till he had won her to yield to his Deſires.

Troilus, at once the happy Favourite of Cupid and of Mars, was as glorious in the Field as ſucceſsful in his Love; the Greeks trembled at his Name, and the Trojans in him revered a ſecond Hector.

Creſſida ſtill continuing her ſolitary way of Life, ſilently enjoyed the Praiſes of her beloved Hero; at her Feet the paſſionate Warrior offered all his laurels; for her he fought and conquered, and ſought his Recompence only in her Smiles. But Fortune, weary of ſhowering Favours, on theſe happy Lovers, prepared a ſad Reverſe of Fate for them, and, when they leaſt expected it, ſtunned them with the Blow.

The Trojans in a general Battle with the Greeks, notwithſtanding the godlike Valour of their Chiefs, received a dreadful Defeat; the Loſs was ſo great, on their Side, that the venerable Priam found himſelf reduced to the Neceſſity of deſiring a Truce and an Exchange of Priſoners.

When Chalcas, the Father of Creſſida, heard of this Propoſition, he preſented himſelf before the Council of War, and earneſtly intreated the Princes, that they would ſuffer Anterior, then a Priſoner in their Camp, to be exchanged for Creſſida his Daughter, whom he had left in Troy at his Departure. The Greek Princes conſented to his Requeſt, and thoſe that were named Commiſſioners for the Greeks with the Trojans, were ordered to demand Creſſida in exchange for Antenor.

At the Arrival of the Grecian Envoys in Troy, King Priam ſummoned a Council to meet, before which they appeared and gave an Account of their Commiſſion.

As ſoon as Creſſida was named, the great Heart of Troilus ſunk within him, an aſhy Paleneſs overſpread his Face; convulſive ſhiverings ſeized every Limb, and Grief and Rage were painted in his Eyes. With trembling Impatience he waited to hear the Opinion of the Council, revolving, in his diſtracted Soul, what he ſhould do in caſe they gave up Creſſida. Love ſuggeſted to him, that he ought rather to die than ſuffer Creſſida to be raviſhed from his Arms; but Reaſon repreſented, that it was fit the Charmer of his Soul ſhould be conſulted, as to her Intentions, ere he proceeded to Extremities, and then, if ſhe approved his firm Deſign to keep her, he would defend her againſt the united Force of all the Powers on Earth. Fain would he ſave her Honour, and prevent her Departure; and while his Thoughts were in this Tumult, Hector, who had well weighed the Grecians Demand, turned to the Envoys, and told them, that Creſſida was not a Priſoner, and therefore could not be included in the Treaty for Exchange of Priſoners; and tell your Princes, added he, We ſell no Women here.

Scarce had he uttered theſe Words, when a Murmur of Diſlike ran through the whole Aſſembly, which at laſt broke out into a tumultuous Exclamation againſt Hector for oppoſing the Return of Antenor on account of a Woman.

The venerable Priam, by his Authority, put an End to the Conteſt; and, declaring that it was his Will the Daughter of Calchas ſhould be exchanged for Antenor, the Aſſembly broke up ſatisfied with this determination.

Troilus, impatient of the ſmothered Grief and Rage that tore his inmoſt Soul, haſtened to his own Palace; with a frantic Air he flew to his Apartment, ſhut every Door and Window, and having, as much as lay in his Power, excluded the hateful Light, he threw himſelf, with a deep and deadly Groan, upon his Bed; there, giving a Looſe to Sorrow, he paſſionately upbraided the cruel Gods as Authors of his Miſfortunes; he curſed his Fate, the Greeks, himſelf, and Troy: Then, in the fierceſt Tranſport of his Grief, he threw his groveling Body on the Ground; with cruel Blows he beat his groaning Breaſt, tore his disſheveled Hair, and abandoned himſelf to all the wild Exceſſes of the moſt confirmed Deſpair.

Theſe Agonies at length ſubſiding, a Calm of Grief enſued; again he fell extended on his Bed, and, in faſt heaving Sighs and ſtreaming Tears, gave Vent to the Anguiſh of his labouring Heart.

Pandarus entering his Chamber, and finding him in this Condition, endeavoured, by all the ſoothing Arts he was Maſter of, to give him Comfort; but Troilus was deaf to his Perſuaſions, and exaſperated rather than ſoothed by the ineffectual Arguments he urged; again his Grief roſe up to Frenzy; again he uttered Imprecations againſt the Gods, and, in the Wildneſs of his Woe, devoted himſelf to Deſtruction.

Pandarus, terrified at a Deſpair ſo vehement, threw himſelf at his Feet, and conjured him to moderate his Affliction, and take no Reſolutions to his own Prejudice till he had conſulted Creſſida, and heard what ſhe had to propoſe; adding, that he would go immediately to his Niece, and take Order for their private Interview.

Troilus liſtened attentively to this Propoſal, and, a little ſoothed with the Hopes of ſeeing Creſſida, preſſed Pandarus to go that Inſtant and prepare her to receive him, promiſing his Confidant to commit no Violence againſt himſelf, but to acquieſce patiently in what his Miſtreſs ſhould ordain for him.

Pandarus ſatisfied with this Aſſurance, left him, and went to his Niece's Houſe. The Report of her being exchanged for Antenor had already reached her Ears. She was reclined on a Couch in her Chamber, pale, motionleſs, and bathed in Tears. At her Uncle's Approach ſhe newly raiſed her Head, a freſh Stream of Tears guſhed from her charming Eyes, and paſſionately claſping her ivory Hands together, "Oh! Uncle, cried ſhe, with a Voice almoſt drowned in thick ſucceeding Sighs, to what Miſery hath Love and you introduced me!"

Grief prevented her from ſpeaking more; her beauteous Head, like a Lilly overcharged with Rain, ſunk again upon her Pillow, and a Groan, that ſeemed to rend her lovely Frame to Pieces, ſpoke her Diſtreſs more eloquently than the moſt expreſſive Words could do.

Pandarus ſeating himſelf near her, beſought her, for her Lovers ſake, whoſe Grief had almoſt deprived him of Reaſon, to moderate her Sorrow, and give him an Example of Patience and Conſtancy that might, by inciting him to imitate it, prevent the fatal Effects of his Deſpair.

Creſſida, alarmed for her Lover's Safety, and ſuffering more in his Affliction than her own, ſummoned up all her Courage in Order to receive him with ſome Degree of Conſtancy. On his Entrance into her Chamber ſhe roſe and met him with an eager Embrace, endeavouring, by a forced Serenity in her Aſpect, to diſpel that Cloud of Anguiſh that ſaddened every Feature; but alas! her Face, that Image of Paradiſe, was pale and wan; the roſy Bloom was fled, the laughing Loves that uſed to play upon each dimpled Cheek was gone; Tears had dimmed the Luſtre of her ſtarry Eyes, and all the ſprightly Graces, that decked her every Look and Motion, were loſt in languiſhing Dejection.

Troilus, ſtepping a few Paces back, gazed on her for ſome Moments in an emphatic Silence; while the big Sorrow, labouring for a Vent, ſo totally oppreſſed his vital Powers, that, ſtanding without Senſe or Motion, he looked like the ſad Image of Deſpair: Tears at one Inſtant gave Relief to both.

The Power of Speech returned, and they broke into Complaints that might have pierced the moſt ſavage and inſenſible Hearts. A thouſand Schemes were planned to prevent their Parting, but all upon Reflexion proved impracticable: The paſſionate Troilus, incapable of liſtning to any Thing but the Dictates of his Love, was for leaving his King and Father, his diſtreſſed Country, his weeping Friends, blaſting that Glory which in ſo many Well-fought Fields he had acquired, and only ſollicitous to preſerve his Creſſida, ſteal with her away from Troy, and give up all to Love.

Creſſida heard this Propoſal with Horror; ſhe loved his Fame; ſhe would not ſuffer him to ſacrifice it to her; ſhe repreſented to him the Weakneſs and Baſeneſs of ſuch a Reſolution, and deeply vowed never to conſent to any thing that might wound his Honour. Hear my Troilus, added ſhe, the only Expedient Fortune has left in our Power; ſuffer me to be ſent, according to the Decree of the Council, to my Father; I will carry with me a large Quantity of Treaſure which I will pretend was ſent to his Care by ſome of our Relations, who intend to take the firſt Opportunity of eſcaping to the Grecian Camp. Before the Truce is expired I will urge him to let me come once more to Troy, in order to ſecure the Remainder of our Friends Treaſure; he is covetous, and will be eaſily prevailed upon; on the tenth Day from my Departure you may expect me, and once more met, nothing but Death ſhall ſeparate us.

Troilus, with Heart-breaking Sighs, gave a ſlow and ſad Aſſent to what ſhe had propoſed; but, full of racking Apprehenſions, a thouſand Times he begged her to be true. And ſhe, invoking all the celeſtial Deities, the Satyrs, Nymphs, and Fawns, and the infernal Gods, imprecated Curſes on herſelf if ever ſhe received a ſecond Love. The Morning was now broke, with ſpeechleſs Grief they parted.

Troilus went home to put himſelf in a condition to attend his beloved Creſſida to the appointed Place, where ſhe was to be exchanged for Antenor. At his return to her Houſe he found Diomede one of the Grecian Chiefs, with many Attendants waiting her coming out. The unhappy Lover could hardly prevent the mingled Rage and Grief that took Poſeſſion of his Soul at this Sight, from breaking into ſome Act of Violence againſt the Man that was going to rob him of all his Soul held dear. But mindful of the ſacred Truce, and more of his Creſſida's Honour, he repreſſed the riſing Fury, nor gave the ſmothered Anguiſh leave to vent itſelf in Sighs. This painful Reſtraint laſted not long; the beautious Creſſida appeared, and ſaluting Diomede with a languiſhing Sweetneſs, ſhe gave her Hand to Troilus; who having helped her on her Horſe they rode apart from the reſt of the Company, and poured out their Souls in mutual proteſtations of eternal Love and Fidelity.

The Greeks, with Antenor, appearing in ſight, Troilus was obliged to yield to the ſad Neceſſity of parting. Remember, oh! remember to be true, he cried, and keep your appointed Day. His faultering Tongue could pronounce no more. An aſhy Paleneſs overſpread his Face; he turned away abruptly and joined Antenor, while Diomede eagerly flew to the weeping Creſſida, and conducting her to the Grecian Camp, left her in the Embraces of her Father. The unhappy Troilus ſinking under the Weight of an unſupportable Sorrow, returned to Troy unable to endure the Sight or Converſation of any of his Friends; he gave himſelf wholly up to Solitude and Deſpair.

The ten Days in which ſhe had promiſed to come back, ſeemed, to his impatient Mind, as many tedious Ages; anxiouſly he counted the tardy Hours, and wondered at their unuſual Length; now eagerly wiſhing for the Shades of Night, and now as impatient for the riſing Dawn.

Pandarus, whom only he would admit to his Preſence, endeavoured to prevail upon him to bear the Abſence of his Niece with Moderation, and to wait calmly for her Return; but the diſtracted Lover was incapable of following this Advice; his Soul was racked between the contrary Extremes of Hope and Fear; ſcarce were four Days of the deſtined Ten elapſed when, wild with Impatience, he rode to the Place where ſhe had appointed to meet him; there ſtopping, he caſt his wiſhing Eyes around, as if he expected to ſee her; and being diſappointed, returned with languiſhing Dejection to his Palace, and wore away the Night in Sighs and Tears.

At length the appointed Day came; with fear-check'd Tranſport he traced the well-known Path, ſending his longing Eyes before to hail the wiſhed Appearance of his Creſſida; and now the whiſpering Buſhes, and fleeting Shadows at a Diſtance, would cheat his Ears and Eyes with her Approach; then would he paſſionately fold his Arms, as if already they incloſed her, and with an exulting Voice cry out to Pandarus, She comes, my Friend, ſhe comes, dear, lovely, faithful Creſſida, oh how ſhall I repay ſuch wonderous Truth! But when Expectation was wearied by Delay, and no Creſſida appeared to confirm the flattering Hope, then would he ſink into a tender Deſpondency, and chide her Slowneſs with a Lover's Anger, which ſome new aſpiring Hope again removed, and gave him up to eager Expectation again to be followed by Diſappointment and Deſpair.

The whole Day being paſt in this continued Succeſſion of Hopes and Fears, the Approach of Night brought with it a ſad Addition to his Grief; for having no longer any Probability of ſeeing his beloved Creſſida, he reſigned himſelf up to the moſt cruel Apprehenſions; ah! without doubt ſhe is falſe, he cried, the wretched Troilus is no more her Care! what have I to do but die, my Pandarus, ſince Creſſida has forſaken me?

Pandarus, tho' greatly ſurprized at his Niece's Breach of Promiſe, and perhaps ſuſpecting the worſt, yet anxious to remove from the unhappy Youth that Load of Anguiſh that ſeemed ready to overwhelm him, invented a hundred Excuſes for her Delay; which he who dreaded nothing ſo much as a Confirmation of her Falſhood, eagerly graſped at, and, in Compliance with the preſſing Inſtances of his Friend, returned to the City. After a Night of agonizing Woe, no ſooner did the Morning dawn than he aroſe, and flew again to the appointed Place, hoping, and anxiouſly wiſhing, he had miſtaken the Day on which his Creſſida had promiſed to meet him; for many ſucceſſive Days did he continue this Practice, living all the while in ſuch a Whirl of contrary Paſſions, as drove him almoſt to Frenzy.

In the mean time Creſſida, whoſe Violence of Grief had long ago ſubſided, and left only a gentle Senſibility in her Soul, that but diſpoſed it for new Impreſſions, having found ſome Difficulty in proſecuting her Deſign of returning to Troy on the appointed Day, reſolved to lay aſide all Thoughts of ſuch a dangerous Enterpriſe, and began to liſten favourably to the Vows of Diomede: This young Warrior, whoſe Heart the Sight of her in Troy had enflamed, made Uſe of all the pleaſing Arts with which the God of Love inſpires his Votaries, to engage her to return his Paſſion.

Creſſida at firſt would melt into Tears, murmur the Name of Troy with a Sigh, and faintly own ſhe had a Lover there who claimed a Right to her Affection. But the gallant Son of Tydieus was not ſo repulſed; well did he know the changing Sex, and how weak an Obſtacle an abſent Lover was; to thoſe faint Remembrances he oppoſed his Royal Birth, his Fame in Arms, his never-dying Paſſion, flattering her Ambition with the Hopes of making her his Queen, and her Vanity with an Aſſurance that ſhe only could have ſubdued his Heart. He repreſented to her the certain Deſtruction that hung over Troy, and the little Probability there was of her being happy with a Lover of that devoted City.

The ungrateful Creſſida, influenced by theſe ſelfiſh Motives, forgot, or did not regard, her Vows of everlaſting Faith to Troilus, and charmed with the Perſon, Valour, and exalted Dignity of her new Adorer, yielded, at length, to his Sollicitations; nor was the inſulting Greek ſatisfied with thus triumphing in ſecret over his unhappy Rival: A rich Jewel which Troilus had given to Creſſida at parting, and the abandoned Fair had now beſtowed on Diomede, he wore upon his Armour in the Battle, as a Trophy of his Victory, and the Trojan Prince's Diſgrace.

Troilus, ſtill pining with Deſire, and forſaken as he was by Creſſida, yet not capable of thinking her falſe, nouriſhed the fatal Flame that preyed upon his Heart, with vain deluſive Hopes of her return; which though every ſucceeding Day proved to be ill-grounded, yet fond of the deceit he ſtill hoped on, and, like a drowning Wretch, graſped eagerly at every faint Relief, to avoid that Death which was, notwithſtanding, inevitable.

Leaning anxiouſly one Day over the Walls of the City, from whence he ſent many a longing Look towards the Grecian Camp, and breathed Heart-breaking Sighs at the Remembrance of his Creſſida, he ſaw a Coat of Mail carried in Triumph before his Brother Deiphobas, as he was returning from the Field of Battle.

This Sight would have had but little Effect on the Heart of the now inglorious Youth, ſunk as he was in the ſoft Lethargy of Love, conſuming away with fruitleſs Wiſhes, and languiſhing with diſappointed Hope, but a Jewel that blazed upon its Sleeve was no ſooner obſerved than it claimed all his Attention; the Shape and Size, recalling to his Mind the Pledge he gave his Creſſida at parting. With trembling Impatience, he fixed his eager Eyes upon it, his Heart took the alarm and beat as if it would have left his Breaſt; cold Damps bedewed his ſhivering Limbs, a mortal Paleneſs overſpread his Face; yet ſtill inſatiate of the Sight, he gazed and trembling prayed it might not be what he feared; at length a near Approach put it paſt a doubt that it was the ſame Jewel, that, wet with his Tears, and hallowed by a thouſand tender Invocations he had given his Creſſida at the ſad Moment of their parting; thunderſtruck at this Conviction of her Falſhood, wildly he raiſed his haggard Eyes to Heaven, then ſtriking with his Hands his groaning Breaſt, "Oh! Creſſida, he cried, where, where is now thy Faith?"

Fixed, for a while, he ſtood in ſilent ſad Deſpair; then ſuddenly, looking up he demanded of ſome of the Soldiers, whoſe Armour that was which his Brother Deiphobas had won; they replied, it was Diomedes. Grief giving way to Fury at the Sound of that deteſted Name, he ran tranſported with a Deſire of Vengeance to his Palace; there, arming himſelf with a tumultuous Haſte, he ruſhed into the Field, and, with loud Cries, called upon Diomede; ſeeking his Rival amidſt the thickeſt ranks of his Foes, madly he raged about the hoſtile Field, provoking Death, and ſacrificing whole Hecatombs of ſlaughtered Greeks to his Revenge; Rage and Deſpair rekindling all his martial Heat, ſent him each Day with more than mortal Courage to the Fight.

Pale Greece with horror beheld the matchleſs Chief thinning their Ranks, and driving whole Squadrons before his conquering Sword, but Diomede the partial Gods denied to his Revenge. Rivals alike in Glory as in Love, they often met, oft fought, but neither vanquiſhed. The Son of Tideus was reſerved by Fate to meet a more ignoble End at Home, and Troilus could only fall by the reſiſtleſs Force of Achilles.

FABLE OF Troilus and Creſſida.

CReſſida, the Daughter of Calchas, a Trojan of Diſtinction, who had fled to the Grecian Camp, is in Love with, and beloved by Troilus, one of the Sons of Priam King of Troy. Pandarus, her Uncle, ſollicits her in behalf of Troilus, and gives her up to his Embraces.

The Greeks having taken Antenor Priſoner, a Trojan Nobleman of great Merit, Calchas petitions them to exchange him for Creſſida his Daughter, whom he had left behind him in Troy. His Requeſt is granted, the Lovers are obliged to part, and Diomede, when the Exchange is made, conducts Creſſida, with whom he falls paſſionately in Love, to the Grecian Camp.

Hector ſends a Challenge to the Greeks, inviting the moſt valiant amongſt them to a ſingle Combat; Ajax accepts it, they fight, and when parted by the Heralds, Hector declares that Ajax is nearly related to him, being Son to his Aunt.

This produces mutual Civilities on the Part of each Champion; Ajax invites Hector to the Camp, in which Requeſt he is joined by Agamemnon and Achilles; Hector conſents; the Trojan Princes, who had attended him to the Field, follow him to the General's Tent; but Troilus, eager to ſee his beloved Creſſida, takes Advantage of this Opportunity to intreat Ulyſſes would conduct him to Calchas's Tent.

Ulyſſes informs him that Diomede is in Love with Creſſida, and that he ſups there that Night; Troilus thereupon ſtands concealed to obſerve their Behaviour; Creſſida, after coquetting a little with Diomede, makes an Aſſignation with him, and he demanding a Pledge, ſhe gives him a Sleeve which ſhe had received from Troilus; but refuſing to tell him to whom it belonged, he declares he will wear it on his Helmet the next Day in Battle, that he may ſacrifice the Perſon who claims it to his Revenge.

As ſoon as he is gone, Creſſida, in a Soliloquy, profeſſes that ſhe no longer loves Troilus, and that Diomede is Maſter of her Heart; Troilus, in a Tranſport of Grief and Rage, exclaims againſt her Inconſtancy, vows to take ample Vengeance on his Rival, and the next Day in Battle, performs ſuch wonderful Acts of Valour, that the Grecians are almoſt put to flight.

Achilles having abſented himſelf from the Field, in compliance with the Commands of Polyxena, Priam's Daughter, with whom he is in Love, and carries on a ſecret Correſpondence, Hector, who had been warn'd in vain to deſiſt from fighting that Day, rages uncontrouled through the Field; at length, having killed Patroclus, Achilles, to revenge the Death of his Friend, arms and ruſhes into the Battle.

Hector obſerving a Greek in Golden Armour, fights with him and wins it, and ſatisfied with the Exploits of the Day, is beginning to diſarm himſelf when Achilles, at the Head of his Myrmidons, appears.

Hector in vain pleads that he is unarmed, and taken at a Diſadvantage; Achilles commands his Myrmidons to ſurround and ſlay him; that done he ties his Body to his Horſe's Tail, and drags it through the Grecian Army.

Troilus brings the News of Hector's Death to the Trojans, and leads them back to Troy, while the Grecian Army, ſatisfied with the Death of Hector, ſound a Retreat, and ſuffer their Enemy quietly to re-enter their City.

The Story of this Play is partly taken from Chaucer's Poem of Troilus and Creſſida, and partly from an old Story Book, called The three Deſtructions of Troy.

The firſt furniſhed Shakeſpear with the Love Plot, and the ſecond with all the Incidents that relate to the War.

This Play has been ſeverely cenſured on account of the Faults of its Plot (if that can be called a Plot which is only a Succeſſion of Incidents, without Order, Connexion, or any Dependance upon each other) as well as the Inequality of the Manners the Poet has given to his Perſons.

The Loves of Troilus and Creſſida are, in all the Circumſtances, exactly copied from Chaucer; but theſe Circumſtances are intirely detached from the reſt of the Play, and produce no Event worthy our Attention.

Troilus and Creſſida give Name to the Tragedy, and, by Conſequence, are the moſt conſiderable Perſons in it; yet Troilus is left alive, and Creſſida, too ſcandalous a Character to draw our Pity, does not ſatisfy that Deteſtation her Crimes raiſe in us by her Death, but eſcaping Puniſhment, leaves the Play without a Moral, and abſolutely deficient in poetical Juſtice.

The Manners of theſe two Perſons, however, ought to eſcape the general Charge of Inequality.

Troilus, who is drawn exactly after Chaucer, is every where conſiſtent with his Character of a brave Soldier, and a paſſionate and faithful Lover.

From Creſſida's firſt and ſecond Appearance we may eaſily gueſs what her future Conduct will be; the deep Art with which ſhe conceals her Paſſion for Troilus, her looſe Converſation with her Uncle, her free Coquettry with the Prince, and her eaſy yielding to his Addreſſes, prepare us for her Falſhood in the ſucceeding Part of the Play, and all together make up the Character of a compleat Jilt: Her not being puniſhed is indeed an unpardonable Fault, and brings the greateſt Imputation imaginable upon Shakeſpear's Judgment, who could introduce ſo vicious a Perſon in a Tragedy, and leave her without the due Reward of her Crimes.

The Character of Creſſida is much more conſiſtent in Shakeſpear than Chaucer; the latter repreſents her wiſe, humble, and modeſt, nicely ſenſible of Fame, fond of her Country, not eaſily ſuſceptible of Love, hard to be won, and rather betrayed than yielding to the Deſires of her Lover.

With all theſe amiable Qualities to engage our Eſteem and thoſe alleviating Circumſtances that attended her Fall with Troilus, we cannot, without Surprize, ſee her ſo ſoon changing her Love, violating her Vows, and baſely proſtituting her Honour to Diomede. The inequality of Manners here is very obſervable; but Shakeſpear in drawing her Character has avoided falling into the ſame Fault by copying Chaucer too cloſely, and Creſſida, throughout the Play, is always equal and conſiſtent with herſelf.

That the old Story Book, called The three Deſtructions of Troy, furniſhed Shakeſpear with the other Part of the Plot, is plain from ſeveral of the Incidents being exactly copied from thence: Thus he makes Achilles to be in Love with Polyxena the Daughter of Priam, and this Paſſion to be the Cauſe of his refuſing to fight againſt the Trojans; and Hector to be cowardly killed by Achilles, as he was intent on ſpoiling a Greek of his Golden Armour, which he had eagerly ſought after in the Battle.

This Circumſtance, however, Shakeſpear has altered greatly for the worſe: The Story ſays, that Hector having ſlain Patroclus and performed many wonderful Acts of Valour, ſatisfied with the Slaughters of the Day, was going to quit the Field, when happening to ſee a Greek with a compleat Suit of Golden Armour on, his Avarice was awakened and he reſolved not to quit the Battle till he had gained this rich Prize; accordingly he aſſaulted the Greek, took him Priſoner, and to lead him more eaſily out of the Throng, caſt his Shield behind him.

Achilles, whom the Death of Patroclus had brought into the Field, burning with a Deſire of Revenge on Hector, haſtened to ſeize him at this Diſadvantage, and gave him a Blow with his Spear which killed him.

Shakeſpear makes Hector, in the ſame Manner, eager to win this Suit of Armour; but after he has ſlain the Greek who owned it, he diſarms himſelf in the Field of Battle, and Achilles and his Myrmidons coming up, they all ſurround him, fall upon him and kill him.

Thus has Shakeſpear made Achilles a greater Coward than the old Story Writer; for in the latter he only takes Advantage of his Enemy's Shield being thrown behind him to give him a Wound; but Shakeſpear makes him employ all his Myrmidons to kill one Man, and he diſarmed and calling for Mercy.

The Abſurdity of Hector's unarming himſelf in the Field of Battle, with all his Foes about him, in order to facilitate this wonderful Enterprize, is too groſs to need any Remark.

Hector's challenging any of the Grecian Princes to ſingle Combat, in Honour of their Ladies Beauty, is a Circumſtance borrowed from the Story Book, but ſurely very injudiciouſly. The following Meſſage from the Defender of Troy, a City almoſt ruined by a War of nine Years Continuance, can hardly be read without a Smile.

We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy A Prince call'd Hector (Priam is his Father) Who in this dull and long-continued Truce Is ruſty grown; he bade me take a Trumpet, And to this Purpoſe ſpeak: Kings, Princes, Lords, If there be one amongſt the faireſt of Greece, That holds his Honour higher than his Eaſe, That ſeeks his Praiſe more than he fears his Peril, That knows his Valour and knows not his Fear, That loves his Miſtreſs more than in Confeſſion, (With truant Vows to her own Lips, he loves) And dare avow her Beauty and her Worth, In other Arms than hers: To him this Challenge. Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks Shall make it good (or do his beſt to do it) He hath a Lady, wiſer, fairer, truer, Than ever Greek did compaſs in his Arms, And will to-morrow with his Trumpet call, Midway between your Tents and Walls of Troy, To rouze a Grecian that is true in Love. If any come, Hector will honour him: If none, he'll ſay in Troy, when he retires The Grecian Dames are Sun-burnt, and not worth The Splinter of a Lance,—even ſo much.

Aeneas begins with telling the Grecian Princes that, in Troy, they have a Prince called Hector, and that Priam is his Father, as if the Name and Quality of this redoubted Hero, the Bulwark of the Trojans and the Terror of the Grecians, could be unknown to them.

Shakeſpear, in this Paſſage, contradicts himſelf as well as Common-ſenſe; for we find afterwards, that they acknowledged the Valour of Hector to be ſo great that none but Achilles was thought an equal Match for him, and Ajax was urged to accept the Challenge, in order to raiſe the Jealouſy of the diſcontented Achilles.

Aeneas alſo tells them, that their Champion is grown ruſty during the dull and long continued Truce; yet, in the foregoing Scene, the Trojan Heroes are repreſented returning from the Battle, and, after that, we find no mention of a Truce, or any Interval allowed to make it be ſuppoſed there had been one: How then comes it that Aeneas here ſpeaks of a Truce? But theſe Blunders are very frequent in Shakeſpear.

The Poet likewiſe, following the old Story Writer, makes Hector and Ajax Couſin-Germans; but in the Play, Ajax, as it would ſeem, knows nothing of the Matter till he is told of it, firſt by Aeneas, and afterwards by Hector; and then, when the Combat is ended, the two Heroes Embrace, and 'tis nothing but Couſin and Couſin, at every Word.

The Story tells us, that Achilles had a longing Deſire to ſee Hector unarmed; Shakeſpear makes uſe of this Thought, Achilles ſays, in the Play, to his Friend, — — I have a Woman's Longing, An Appetite that I am ſick withal, To ſee great Hector in the Weeds of Peace. The Converſation of theſe two Heroes, when they meet, which conſiſts of mutual Threatnings, doubtleſs gave Shakeſpear the Hint for that characteriſtic Diſcourſe they hold together in the Play.

Tho' Shakeſpear conſulted this Book for Part of his Plot, yet, in drawing the Characters of his Grecian Princes, I cannot help thinking he had Homer in his Eye; and probably ſaw ſome old Tranſlation of that Poet, for there was one in his Time.

Achilles, indeed, is a Character of his own Invention, ridiculous and inconſtant to the laſt Degree, Brave, and a Coward; a Fool, yet a deep and accurate Reaſoner: But, in the others, he ſeems to have endeavoured at an Imitation of Homer.

Thus he makes Diomede bold and enterprizing; Ulyſſes wiſe and artful; Neſtor narrative, and ever ready to expatiate on his paſt Exploits; Therſites cowardly, ſatyrical, witty, and malicious: In the Interview between the Greek and Trojan Princes, he makes them all ſpeak with great Propriety, and ſuitable to their reſpective Characters. Hector, indeed, by mentioning Helen, ludicrouſly to the injured Menelaas, who had given him a free and ſoldier-like Greeting, diſcovers, in that Inſtance, neither the Manners of a Prince or Warrior; but this is only a Slip; for his Diſcourſe, both before and after it, is quite agreeable to his Character.

The Silence of Troilus in this Scene is beautifully imagined. The Poet makes this paſſionate Prince attend Hector to the Grecian Tents, whither he is invited only with a Deſign of ſeeing his beloved Creſſida; but his Reſentment towards the Enemies of his Country being heightened by the Conſideration of their having deprived him of his Miſtreſs, he is incapable of mixing in the Converſation, or even of returning the Civilities of the Grecian Princes; he ſtands at a Diſtance, penſive, ſilent, wholly abſorb'd in melancholly Reflections. The Grief of this young Lover is finely marked by Agamemnon, in that ſhort Queſtion to Ulyſſes, pointing him out.

What Trojan is that ſame that looks ſo heavy?

However ridiculous, inconſiſtent, and contrary to general Opinion, Shakeſpear has drawn the Character of Achilles in this Play; yet, in the following Lines he muſt have had Homer in his View. The Grecian Army is almoſt routed by the Trojans, the Commanders in the utmoſt Conſternation, when Ulyſſes enters, and thus reaſſures them: Oh Courage, Courage, Princes! great Achilles Is arming, weeping, curſing, vowing Vengeance! Patroclus' Wounds have rous'd his drouſy Blood.

Here Achilles is made of ſo much Importance to the Grecians, that, vanquiſhed as they were, and flying from the Field, they no ſooner heard that Achilles is arming, and coming to join them, than their Courage is reanimated; they renew the Fight, and Victory declares for them. Only Homer could have furniſhed Shakeſpear with this Thought, nor with an Idea of Achilles's Grief for the Death of Patroclus, which in two Lines he has ſo pathetically deſcribed. The old Story which, in many Places he has faithfully copied, is abſolutely ſilent here.

The Speech of Calchas to the Grecian Princes, demanding their Trojan Priſoner Antenor to be exchanged for his Daughter, Creſſida, is almoſt literally taken from Chaucer.

The Character of Pandarus, alſo, is borrowed from him, but much heightened by Shakeſpear: Part of the Converſation between Pandarus and his Niece is copied exactly from Chaucer.

PLAN OF King Richard the Second.

THE Action of this Play begins with Bolingbroke's appealing the Duke of Norfolk on an Accuſation of High Treaſon: The King, after having in vain attempted to reconcile them, permits them, according to the Cuſtom of that Time, to decide the Conteſt with their Swords.

On the Day appointed, the King and his Nobles being ſeated in the Liſts, the two Champions appear in Armour, and the King, ſuddenly throwing down his Warder, forbids the Combat, and pronounces a Sentence of Baniſhment on both; but with this Difference, that Bolingbroke ſhould remain in Exile during ten Years, four of which he afterwards remits, at the Interceſſion of his Father John of Gaunt; but the Duke of Norfolk he commands, on Pain of Death, never to return.

John of Gaunt dying ſoon after, the King ſeizes his Plate, Money and Lands, to furniſh Neceſſaries for the Iriſh War, in which he was then engaged; and, ſetting ſail for Ireland, leaves his Kingdom in great Confuſion. The King's injurious Treatment of the baniſhed Bolingbroke, by thus depriving him of his legal Poſſeſſions, draws great Numbers to that Nobleman's Party, who being aſſiſted likewiſe by a foreign Force, lands in England, and there declaring, that his only Motives for returning to his native Country in Arms, were to get his undeſerved Baniſhment repealed; to require the Reſtitution of thoſe Goods of which he had been unjuſtly deprived, and to claim the Dukedom of Lancaſter, deſcended to him by the Death of his Father; he is joined by all the diſaffected Nobility.

The Duke of York his Uncle, and Guardian of the Realm in the King's Abſence, having no Forces to oppoſe him, and conſcious of the Wrongs he had ſuffered, remains neuter.

The King returns, and falling into the Hands of Bolingbroke, is carried to London, prevailed upon to reſign his Crown, and afterwards confined in Pomfret Caſtle.

The Duke of Aumarle, Son to the Duke of York, the Abbot of Weſtminſter, the Biſhop of Carliſle, and ſome other Lords, join in a Conſpiracy to murder the new King at Oxford. The Duke of York diſcovers it, by means of a Paper he had ſnatched from his Son; and, haſtening to the King, reveals the Plot, and demands Juſtice on his Son; but Aumarle had been before him and ſecured his Pardon.

Bolingbroke, alarmed at this Conſpiracy, drops ſome Words, which expreſs a Wiſh that ſome one would diſpatch King Richard; this being obſerved by Exton, he goes to Pomfret Caſtle, kills the unhappy King, and brings his Body to Bolingbroke; which puts an End to the Play.

Tho' this Play is called, The Life and Death of Richard the Second, yet the Action of it takes in but little more than the two laſt Years of his Reign.

Shakeſpear ſeems to have conſulted Holingſhed chiefly for the Facts on which it is built, and has followed him pretty cloſely. The Speech of the Biſhop of Carliſle, in the fourth Act, is apparently copied from Holingſhed.

Shakeſpear introduces the Duke of York, as bringing from King Richard a Reſignation o • his Crown to Bolingbroke, who declaring that he will aſcend the Regal Throne, Carliſle replies,

CARLISLE. Marry, Heaven forbid! Worſt in this Royal Preſence may I ſpeak, Yet beſt beſeeming me to ſpeak the Truth▪ Would God that any in this noble Preſence Were enough noble to be upright Judge Of noble Richard; then true Nobleneſs would Learn him Forbearance from ſo foul a Wrong. What Subject can give Sentence on his King? And who ſits here that is not Richard's Subject? Thieves are not judg'd but they are by to hear, Altho' apparent Guilt be ſeen in them; And ſhall the Figure of God's Majeſty, His Captain, Steward, Deputy elect, Anointed, crown'd, and planted many Years, Be judg'd by ſubject and inferior Breath, And he himſelf not preſent? Oh forbid it! That in a Chriſtian Climate, Souls refin'd, Should ſhew ſo heinous, black, obſcene a Deed. I ſpeak to Subjects, and a Subject ſpeaks, Stirr'd up by Heav'n, thus boldly for his King; My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call King, Is a foul Traitor to proud Hereford's King. And if you crown him, let me propheſy, The Blood of Engliſh ſhall manure the Ground, And future Ages groan for this foul Act. Peace ſhall go ſleep with Turks and Infidels, And in this Seat of Peace, tumultuous Wars Shall Kin with Kin and Kind with Kind confound. Diſorder, Horror, Fear, and Mutiny Shall here inhabit, and this Land be call'd The Field of Golgotha, and dead Men's Sculls. Oh! if you rear this Houſe againſt this Houſe, It will the wofulleſt Diviſion prove That ever fell upon this curſed Earth. Prevent, reſiſt it, let it not be ſo, Left Children's Children cry againſt you, Woe.

Thus it ſtands in Holingſhed, Page 512. "On Wedneſday following Requeſt was made by the Commons, That ſith King Richard had reſigned, and was lawfully depoſed from his Royal Dignity, he might have Judgment decreed againſt him, ſo as the Realm were not troubled by him; and that the Cauſes of his depoſing might be publiſhed through the Realm for ſatisfying the People: Which Demand was granted.

Whereupon the Biſhop of Carliſle, a Man both learned, wiſe, and ſtout of Stomach, boldly ſhewed forth his Opinion concerning that Demand, affirming that there was none amongſt them worthy or meet to give Judgment upon ſo worthy a Prince as King Richard was; whom they had taken for their Sovereign and Liege Lord, for the Space of two and twenty Years and more; and I aſſure you, ſaid he, there is not ſo rank a Traitor, nor ſo errant a Thief, nor yet ſo cruel a Murderer apprehended or detained in Priſon for his Offence, but he ſhall be brought before the Juſtice, to hear his Judgment; and wil ye proceed to the Judgment of an anointed King, heari • g neither his Anſwer nor Excuſe? I ſay that the Duke of Lancaſter, whom ye call King, hath more treſpaſſed to King Richard and his Realm, than King Richard hath done either to him or us; for it is manifeſt and well known, that the Duke was baniſhed the Realm by King Richard and his Council, and by the Judgment of his own Father, for the Space of ten Years, for what Cauſe ye know; and yet, without Licence of King Richard, he is returned again into the Realm; and, what is worſe, hath taken upon him the Name, Title, and Preheminence of King; and therefore, I ſay, that you have done manifeſt Wrong to proceed in any Thing againſt King Richard without calling him openly to his Anſwer and Defence."

"As ſoon as the Biſhop had ended this Tale, he was attached by the Earl Marſhal and committed to Ward in the Abbey of Saint Albans."

It has been obſerved, that Shakeſpear, in his Hiſtorical Plays, was a cloſe Copier of the Hiſtories from whence he took them; yet, in Richard the Second, there are ſome Deviations and ſome Omiſſions that throw different Lights on the Characters of his Perſons, and tend greatly to miſlead our Judgments in the Opinions we Form of them.

The Murder of the Duke, of Glouceſter, Uncle to the King, is one of the Crimes that Bolingbroke charges on the Duke of Norfolk; the King, in many Paſſages of the Play, is ſaid to have commanded it: The old Duke of Lancaſter upbraids him with having ſhed the Blood of the great Edward, and Richard's Silence to that Accuſation is not only a tacit Confeſſion of the Guilt, but a Proof that he had nothing to offer in Vindication of it.

In the Hiſtory it is not abſolutely clear that King Richard had any part in the Death of his Uncle; but 'tis certain that the Duke of Glouceſter was engaged in ſeveral Conſpiracies againſt him, and that the King having diſcovered a dangerous One, in which not only his Crown and Dignity but his Life was aimed at, he found himſelf under a Neceſſity of ſeizing his diſloyal Uncle; which he did by a well contrived Stratagem at his own Caſtle, and ſent him to Calais; where he confeſſed all his Treaſons, and was aſſaſſinated, as ſome Report, by Richard's Order.

Shakeſpear's Silence, upon this Head, is very unfavourable to the Character of Richard, on whom, by that Means, he draws the Imputation of a Murderer and Paracide; and yet, in his Misfortunes, he propoſes him as an Object of Compaſſion, and makes Uſe of all his pathetic Powers to melt the Souls of the Audience in his Favour.

The Hiſtorians ſay that Bolingbroke, when in Baniſhment, was invited by the chief Nobility in England to return and force the Crown from Richard, whom they judged unworthy to Reign.

Shakeſpear takes no Notice of this Circumſtance, but makes Bolingbroke, on his Arrival, declare that he only came to demand a Reſtitution of the Honours and Eſtates he had been unjuſtly deprived of; and the Lords join him upon this Suppoſition.

In the Hiſtory we are told, that King Richard, finding himſelf abandoned by many of his Friends, his Welſh Army, on whom he had the greateſt Confidence, diſperſed, and Bolingbroke abſolute Maſter of his People's Hearts, retired to Conway Caſtle, which he determined to hold as long as it was poſſible; thither the Earl of Northumberland came from Bolingbroke with Offers of Submiſſion, on his Part, provided the King would pardon what was paſt, repeal his Baniſhment, and reſtore him to all his Rights and Dignities.

King Richard, being perſuaded to accept of theſe Conditions, and to go to Rutland to confer with Bolingbroke, falls into an Ambuſh prepared for him, and is led Priſoner to London.

Shakeſpear drops the Circumſtance of the Ambuſh laid for the King, and repreſents Bolingbroke confering in a ſubmiſſive Manner with him at Flint Caſtle; and the King, upon his Couſin's ſolemn Aſſurance of attempting nothing againſt his Crown and Dignity, willingly accompanies him to London, where, at a meeting of the Parliament, he is depoſed and the Crown offered to Bolingbroke.

This Play affords ſeveral other Inſtances in which Shakeſpear's Inattention to the Hiſtory is plainly proved; and is therefore the leſs pardonable, as the Subject of it is not one entire Action, wrought up with a Variety of beautiful Incidents, which at once delight and inſtruct the Mind; but a Dramatick Narration of Hiſtorical Facts, and a ſucceſſive Series of Actions and Events which are only intereſting as they are true, and only pleaſing as they are gracefully told.

The Manner of Bolingbroke's appealing the Duke of Norfolk, the Order of the intended Combat, the very Words of the Appellant and Defendant, the Behaviour and Speech of the King on that Occaſion, are exactly copied from Holingſhed, as is likewiſe the Appeals of the Lords in the firſt Scene of the fourth Act.

The Duke of York's Conduct, throughout the Play, is the ſame as the Hiſtory repreſents it; only Shakeſpear has aggravated his Zeal to the new-made King, by introducing him eager and ſolicitous to procure the Death of his Son Aumarle, for having engaged in a Conſpiracy againſt him.

The Impropriety of making a Father preſs ſo ardently the Execution of a beloved Son, becauſe that Son had joined with a Party that had reſolved to dethrone an Uſurper, and reſtore the lawful King, is too glaring to need any Animadverſion: But, becauſe there is ſomething truly ludicrous in this very tragical Paſſage, I ſhall tranſcribe it.

Aumarle finding his Father determined to diſcloſe his Treaſon to the new King, haſtens to Court, and, procuring a private Audience; gets a Promiſe of Pardon from the King: While he is cloſetted with him, the Duke of York arrives, and loudly demands Admittance.

YORK. Open the Door, ſecure, fool-hardy King, Shall I, for Love, ſpeak Treaſon to thy Face? Open the Door, or I will break it open. Enter YORK. BOLINGBROKE. What is the Matter, Uncle? ſpeak, take Breath: Tell us how near is Danger, That we may arm us to encounter it? YORK. Peruſe this Writing here, and thou ſhalt know The Treaſon that my Haſte forbids me ſhow. AUMARLE. Remember, as thou read'ſt, thy Promiſe paſt: I do repent me, read not my Name there, My Heart is not Confed'rate with my Hand. YORK. Villain, it was, ere thy Hand ſet it down, I tore it from the Traytor's Boſom, King, Fear, and not Love, begets his Penitence! Forget to pity him, leſt thy Pity prove A Serpent that will ſting thee to the Heart. BOLINGBROKE. O heinous, ſtrong, and bold Conſpiracy! O loyal Father of a treach'rous Son; Thou clear, immaculate, and ſilver Fountain, From whence this Stream, thro' muddy Paſſages, Hath had his Current, and defil'd himſelf; Thy Overflow of Good converts the Bad, And thine abundant Goodneſs ſhall excuſe This deadly Blot in thy digreſſing Son. YORK. So ſhall, my Virtue be his Vice's Bawd, And he ſhall ſpend mine Honour with his Shame As thriftleſs Sons their ſcraping Fathers' Gold. Mine Honour lives, when his Diſhonour dies, Or my ſham'd Life in his Diſhonour lies: Thou kill'ſt me in his Life; giving him Breath, The Traytor lives, the true Man's put to Death. DUTCHESS within. DUTCHESS.

What, ho, my Liege! for Heaven's ſake let me in.

BOLINGBROKE.

What ſhrill-voic'd Suppliant makes this eager Cry?

DUTCHESS. A Woman, and thine Aunt, great King! 'tis I. Speak with me, pity me, open the Door; A Beggar begs that never begg'd before. BOLINGBROKE. Our Scene is alter'd from a ſerious Thing, And now chang'd to the Beggar and the King. My dang'rous Couſin, let thy Mother in, I know ſhe's come to pray for your foul Sin. YORK. If thou do pardon, whoſoever pray, More Sins for his Forgiveneſs proſper may; This feſter'd Joint cut off, the reſt is ſound; This, let alone, will all the reſt confound. Enter DUTCHESS. DUTCHESS. O King, believe not this hard-hearted Man, Love loving not itſelf, none other can. YORK. Thou frantick Woman, what doſt thou do here? Shall thy old Dugs once more a Traytor rear? DUTCHESS.

Sweet York be patient, hear me gentle Liege.

Kneels. BOLINGBROKE.

Riſe up, good Aunt.

DUTCHESS. Not yet I thee beſeech; For ever will I kneel upon my Knees, And never ſee Day that the happy ſees, 'Till thou give Joy; untill thou bid me Joy, By pard'ning Rutland, my tranſgreſſing Boy. AUMARLE.

Unto my Mother's Prayers I bend my Knee.

Kneels. YORK. Againſt them both, my true Joints bended be. Kneels. Ill may'ſt thou thrive, if thou grant any Grace. DUTCHESS. Pleads he in earneſt, Look upon his Face! His Eyes do drop no Tears, his Prayer's in Jeſt, His Words come from his Mouth, ours from our Breaſt. He prays but faintly, and would be deny'd; We pray with Heart and Soul, and all beſide. His weary Joints would gladly riſe, I know; Our Knees ſhall kneel, till to the Ground they grow: His Pray'rs are full of falſe Hypocriſy; Ours of true Zeal, and deep Integrity: Our Pray'rs do out-pray his; then let them crave That Mercy which true Prayers ought to have, BOLINGBROKE.

Good Aunt ſtand up.

DUTCHESS. Nay, do not ſay, ſtand up; But pardon firſt, ſay afterwards ſtand up; And if I were thy Nurſe, thy Tongue to teach, Pardon ſhould be the firſt Word of thy Speech. I never long'd to hear a Word till now: Say, Pardon, King; l • t Pity teach thee how. BOLINGBROKE.

Good Aunt, ſtand up.

DUTCHESS. I do not ſue to ſtand, Pardon is all the Suit I have in Hand. BOLINGBROKE.

I pardon him, as Heav'n ſhall pardon me.

DUTCHESS. O happy Vantage of a kneeling Knee; Yet I am ſick for Fear; ſpeak it again: Twice ſaying Pardon, doth not pardon twain, But makes one Pardon ſtrong. The Word is ſhort, but not ſo ſhort as ſweet; No Word like Pardon for Kings Mouth ſo meet. YORK.

Speak it in French, ſay, King, Pardonnez moy.

That little Fiction which Shakeſpear has introduced into this Play, is imagined with his uſual Careleſneſs and Inattention to Probability. The Queen who, more than any other Perſon, is intereſted in every thing that relates to the King her Huſband, is, nevertheleſs, the laſt that hears of the Seizure of her Lord.

In the ſecond Act, ſhe is informed of Bolingbroke's Invaſion, and the Diſſaffection of almoſt all the Nobility; and in the fourth, this ſorrowful Queen is introduced in her Garden with two Ladies, who preſs her to dance.

The Gardener and two Workmen entering, ſhe retires behind the Trees, in Hopes of learning ſome News of the State from them; nor is ſhe deceived: From them ſhe firſt hears of the Impriſonment and intended Depoſition of the King her Huſband.

One might be ſurpriſed, perhaps, to hear from a Gardener's Mouth, a beautiful Syſtem of Politics, couched in a cloſe and well-conceived Allegory, drawn from ſuch Images as his Profeſſion furniſhed him with, if the poor Fellow who works under his Directions did not allegorize as well as his Maſter, and leſſen the Wonder.

SERVANT. Why ſhould we, in the Compaſs of a Pale, Keep Law, and Form, and due Proportion, Shewing, as in a Model, our firm State? When our Sea-walled Garden (the whole Land) Is full of Weeds, her faireſt Flowers choak'd up, Her Fruit-trees all unprun'd, her Hedges ruin'd, Her Knots diſorder'd, and her wholeſome Herbs Swarming with Caterpillars?

The Manner of King Richard's Death is differently related by the Hiſtorians. Shakeſpear follows Thomas Walſingham's Account of that barbarous Parricide, as quoted by Holingſhed; how cloſely he has copied the Circumſtances, and even ſome of the Speeches, may be ſeen by comparing the Paſſages as they ſtand in the Hiſtorian and Poet.

"One Writer, ſays Holingſhed, Page 517, which ſeemeth to have great Knowledge of King Richard's Doings, ſaith, That King Henry, ſitting one Day at his Table, are ſighing, ſaid, Have I no faithful Friend which will deliver me of him whoſe Life will be my Death, and whoſe Death will be the Preſervation of my Life.

This Saying was much noted of them which were preſent, and eſpecially of one called Sir Pierce of Exton. This Knight incontinently departed from the Court, with eight ſtrong Perſons in his Company, and came to Pomfret, commanding the Eſquire that was accuſtomed to ſerve and take the Aſſay before King Richard, to do ſo no more, ſaying, Let him eat now, for he ſhall not long eat.

King Richard ſat down to Dinner, and was ſerved without Curteſy or Aſſay; whereupon much marvelling at the ſudden Change, he demanded of the Eſquire why he did not his Duty? Sir, ſaid he, I am otherwiſe commanded by Sir Pierce of Exton, which is newly come from King Henry.

When King Richard heard that Word, he took the Carving Knife in his Hand, and ſtruck the Eſquire on the Head, ſaying, The Devil take Henry of Lancaſter and thee together, and with that Word Sir Pierce entered the Chamber well armed, with eight tall Men likewiſe armed, every one of them having a Bill in his Hand. King Richard perceiving this, put the Table from him, and ſtepping to the foremoſt Man, wrung the Bill out of his Hands, and ſo valiantly defended himſelf that he ſlew four of thoſe that thus came to aſſail him. Sir Pierce, being half diſmayed herewith, leaped into the Chair where King Richard was wont to ſit, while the other four Perſons fought with him, and chaſed him about the Chamber; and, in Concluſion, as King Richard traverſed his Ground from one Side of the Chamber to another, and coming by the Chair where Sir Pierce ſtood, he was felled with a Stroke of a Poll-ax, which Sir Pierce gave him upon the Head; and therewith rid him out of Life, without giving him Reſpite once to call to God for Mercy of his paſt Offences.

It is ſaid that Sir Pierce of Exton, after he had thus ſlain him, wept right bitterly, as one ſtricken with the Prick of a guilty Conſcience for murdering him whom he had ſo long time obeyed as King."

Enter EXTON and a Servant, EXTON Didſt thou not mark the King what Words he ſpake? "Have I no Friend will rid me of this living Fear." Was it not ſo? SERVANT.

Theſe were his very Words.

EXTON. "Have I no Friend?"—quoth he; he ſpake it twice And urg'd it twice together; did he not? SERVANT.

He did.

EXTON. And ſpeaking it, he wiſtly look'd on me, As who ſhall ſay—I would thou wert the Man, That would divorce this Terror from my Heart; Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come; lets go: I am the King's Friend, and we'll rid his Foe. Scene changed to the Priſon at Pomfret. Enter to the KING the KEEPER with a Diſh. KEEPER.

Fellow, give place; here is no longer Stay.

To the Groom. K. RICHARD.

If thou love me, 'tis Time thou wert away.

GROOM.

What my Tongue does not, that my Heart ſhall ſay. Exit.

KEEPER.

My Lord, wilt pleaſe you to fall to,

K. RICHARD.

Taſte of it firſt, as thou wert wont to do.

KEEPER. My Lord, I dare not, for Sir Pearce of Exton, Who late came from the King, commands the contrary. K. RICHARD. The Devil take Henry of Lancaſter, and thee, Patience is State, and I am weary of it. Beats the Keeper. KEEPER.

Help, help, help.

Enter EXTON and Servants. K. RICHARD. How now? what means Death in this rude Aſſault? Wretch, thine own Hand yields thy Death's Inſtrument; Snatching a Sword. Go thou, and fill another Room in Hell. Kills another. Exton ſtrikes him down. That Hand ſhall burn in never-quenching Fire, That ſtaggers thus my Perſon! Thy Pierce Hand Hath with the Kings Blood, ſtain'd the Kings own Land! Mount, mount my Soul, thy Seat is up on high; Whilſt my groſs Fleſh ſinks downward, here to die!Dies. EXTON. As full of Valour, as of Royal Blood; Both have I ſpilt: Oh would the Deed were good! For now the Devil, that told me, I did well, Says, that this Deed is chronicled in Hell. This dead King to the living King I'll bear; Take hence the reſt, and give them Burial here.

The Hiſtory goes on to relate, that King Richard's Body was carried through the City to St. Paul's Cathedral with the Face uncovered and lay in that Manner three Days, expoſed to the View of the People.

Shakeſpear makes Exton bring the Corps in a Coffin to the Court, preſent it to the King, in the Preſence of ſeveral of his Nobility, and tell him that his Commands had been obeyed.

This abſurdity is followed by the King's confeſſing that he had given ſuch Orders, but that he now repented of them, and after driving the Murderer from his Preſence, he weeps over the dead King, and pacifies his Conſcience with a Vow to make a Voyage to the Holy Land to expiate his Guilt.

PLAN Of the FIRST PART of Henry the Fourth.

IN this Play Shakeſpear takes up the Hiſtory exactly where he left it in Richard the Second. Bolingbroke, now King Henry the Fourth, is prevented from making a Voyage to the Holy Land, which he had vowed, by a Conſpiracy formed againſt him by ſome of thoſe Lords, whoſe Aſſiſtance had enabled him to uſurp the Throne.

The brave Piercy ſurnamed Hotſpur, having refuſed to ſurrender his Scotch Priſoners taken in the Battle of Holmedon, to the King, who alſo in return denies to ranſom his Brother in Law, Mortimer, from the Welſh Rebel Owen Glendower, a Quarrel enſues; Piercy and the other diſcontented Noblemen join with the Scots and Glendower; they raiſe an Army and march to meet the King at Shrewſbury.

The King ſends to treat with the Rebels; Piercy, being diſpoſed to liſten to an Accommodation, Commiſſions his Uncle, the Earl of Worceſter, to propoſe Terms to the King.

Worceſter, out of an Opinion that Henry could never be thoroughly reconciled to them, and would take an other Opportunity to be revenged, treacherouſly conceals the King's favourable Offers, and tells Piercy that he is reſolved to fight.

Then follows the Battle, in which, the brave Piercy is ſlain by the wild Prince of Wales: The King's Party is victorious; the treacherous Worceſter being made Priſoner, is condemned to die, and the King, dividing his Forces, ſends one Part, under the Command of his ſecond Son, to meet the Earl of Northumberland at York; and himſelf and the Prince of Wales march againſt the Rebel Glendower and the Earl of March.

The Tranſactions contained in this Hiſtorical Drama, are comprized in the Space of ten Months. The Action of it commences with the News of Hotſpur's having defeated the Scots, under Archibald Earl of Douglas, at Holmedon; which Battle was fought on Holy-rood-Day, the 14th of September 1402: and is cloſed with the Defeat and Death of Hotſpur at Shrewſbury; which Engagement happened the 21ſt of July, 1403.

Shakeſpear has copied Holingſhed very cloſely, as well in the Hiſtorical Facts as the Characters of his Perſons; Piercy's and Glendower's, are indeed greatly heightened, but both with wonderful Propriety and Beauty. The Epiſodical Part of the Drama, which is made up of the extravagant Sallies of the Prince of Wales, and the inimitable Humour of Falſtaff, is entirely of his own Invention. The Character of Prince Henry, tho' drawn after the Hiſtorians, is conſiderably improved by Shakeſpear; and through the Veil of his Vices and Irregularities, we ſee a Dawn of Greatneſs and Virtue, that promiſes the future Splendor of his Life and Reign.

The Poet has indeed deviated from Hiſtory, in making this young Prince kill the gallant Piercy at the Battle of Shrewſbury. According to them it is uncertain by whom he fell; however this Circumſtance is beautifully imagined by Shakeſpear in order to exalt the Character of Prince Henry, which had before been obſcured by the Glory of that Heroe.

The King, in recounting the great Exploits of Hotſpur, thus oppoſes his Character to that of his Son.

K. HENRY. Yea, there thou mak'ſt me ſad, and mak'ſt me ſin In envy, that my Lord Northumberland Should be the Father of ſo bleſt a Son: A Son, who is the Theme of Honour's Tongue: Amongſt a Grove, the very ſtraighteſt Plant; Who is ſweet Fortune's Minion, and her Pride: Whilſt I, by looking on the Praiſe of him, See riot and diſhonour ſtain the Brow Of my young Harry. O could it be proved That ſome Night tripping Fairy had exchang'd In Cradle-Cloaths, our Children where they lay, And call'd mine Piercy, his Plantagenet! Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.

But the Poet, even by making this Contraſt, has ſtill the Glory of his Favourite in View; the Conqueror of Piercy muſt needs be greater than Piercy himſelf. Prince Henry, therefore, muſt be acknowledged to be the Heroe of this Play; for the Lawrels of his Rival are all tranſfered to him, with the additional Wreath of having conquered that Rival.

THE LIFE OF King Henry the Fifth.

THE Tranſactions compriſed in this Hiſtorical Play, commence about the latter End of the firſt, and terminate in the eighth Year of this King's Reign, when he married the Princeſs Catharine of France, and put an End to the Differences betwixt England and that Crown.

The Siege and taking of Harfleur, the Battle of Agincourt, the Peace concluded between King Henry and the French King, with the Marriage of the former to the Princeſs of France, are the principal Actions of this Play, and are taken from Holingſhed's Chronicle, after whom the Characters are likewiſe drawn, with very little Variation.

The Archbiſhop's Speech to King Henry, in the firſt Act, in which he explains his Title to the Crown of France, is cloſely copied from this Hiſtorian, Page 545.

"Herein did he much enveie againſt the ſurmiſed and falſe fained Law Salike, which the Frenchmen allege ever againſt the Kings of England in barre of their juſt Title to the Crown of France. The verie Words of that ſuppoſed Law are theſe, In terram Salicam Mulieres ne ſuccedant. That is to ſay, Into the Salike Land let not Women ſucceed. Which the French Gloſſers expound to be the Realme of France, and that this Law was made by King Pharamond; whereas yet their own Authors affirme, that the Land Salike is in Germany between the Rivers Elbe and Sala, and that when Charles the Great had overcome the Saxons, he placed there certain Frenchmen, which having in diſdain the diſhoneſt Manners of the German Women, made a Law that the Females ſhould not ſucceed to any Inheritance within that Land, which at this Day is called Meiſen: So that if this be true, this Law was not made for the Realme of France, nor the Frenchmen poſſeſſed the Land Salike, till four hundred and one and twenty Years after the Death of Pharamond, the ſuppoſed Author of this Salike Law; for this Pharamond deceaſed in the Year 426, and Charles the Great ſubdued the Saxons and placed the Frenchmen in thoſe Parts, beyond the River of Sala, in the Year 805.

Moreover, it appeareth by their own Writers, that King Pepen which depoſed Childerike, claimed the Crown of France, as Heir general, for that he was deſcended of Blithila Daughter of King Clothair the firſt: Hugh Capet alſo, who uſurped the Crown upon Charles. Duke of Loraine, the ſole Heir-male of the Line and Stocke of Charles the Great, to make his Title ſeem true, and appear good, though indeed it was ſtarke naught; conceived himſelf as Heir to the Ladie Lingard, Daughter to King Charlemain, Sonne to Lewis the Emperor, that was Sonne to Charles the Great: King Lewis alſo the tenth, otherwiſe alſo called Saint Lewis being verie Heir to the Uſurper Hugh Capet, could never be ſatisfied in his Conſcience how he might juſtly keep and poſſeſſe the Crowne of France, till he was perſuaded and fully inſtructed that Queene Iſabell his Grandmother was lineally deſcended of the Ladie Ormengard Daughter and Heir to the above named Charles Duke of Loraine; by the which Marriage, the Blood and Line of Charles the Great was again united and reſtored to the Crowne and Scepter of France: So that more clear than the Sun, it openly appeareth, that the Title of King Pepen, the Claim of Hugh Capet, the Poſſeſſion of Lewis; yea, and the French Kings to this Day, are derived and conveyed from the Heirs-female, though they would, under the Colour of ſuch a feigned Law, barre the Kings and Princes of this Realme of England of their right and lawful Inheritance.

The Archbiſhop further alleged, out of the Book of Numbers, this Saying: When a Man dieth without a Son, let the Inheritance deſcend to his Daughter. At length having ſaid ſufficiently for the Proof of the King's juſt and lawful Title to the Crown of France, he exhorted him to advance forth his Banner to fight for his Right, to conquer his Inheritance, to ſpare neither Blood, Sword, nor Fire, ſith his War was juſt, his Cauſe good, and his Claim true; and to the Intent his loving Chaplains, and obedient Subjects of the Spiritualtie might ſhew themſelves willing and deſirous to aid his Majeſty for the Recovery of his ancient Right and true Inheritance, the Archbiſhop declared that, in their Spiritual Convocation, they had granted to his Highneſs ſuch a Summe of Money, as never, by no ſpiritual Perſons, was to any Prince before thoſe Days, given or advanced." Holingſhed.

CANTERBURY. Then hear me, gracious Sovereign, and you Peers That owe your Lives, your Faith and Services To this imperial Throne: There is no Bar To make againſt your Highneſs' Claim to France, But this which they produce from Pharamond; In Terra Salicam Mulieres ne ſuccedant; No Woman ſhall ſucceed in Salike Land: Which Salike Land the French unjuſtly gloze, To be the Realm of France, and Pharamond, The Founder of this Law and female Bar: Yet their own Authors faithfully affirm, That the Land Salike lies in Germany, Between the Floods of Sala and of Elve: Where Charles the Great, having ſubdued the Saxons, There left behind and ſettled certain French: Who holding in Diſdain the German Women, For ſome diſhoneſt Manners of their Life, Eſtabliſh'd then this Law, to wit, no Female Should be Inheretrix in Salick Land; Which Salick, as I ſaid, 'twixt Elve and Sala, Is at this Day in Germany called Meiſens: Thus doth it well appear, the Salick Law Was not deviſed for the Realm of France; Nor did the French poſſeſs the Salick Land, Untill four hundred one and twenty Years After Defunction of King Pharamond, (Idly ſuppos'd the Founder of this Law) Who died within the Year of our Redemption Four hundred twenty-ſix; and Charles the Great Subdu'd the Saxons, and did ſeat the French Beyond the River Sala, in the Year Eight hundred five: Beſides, their Writers ſay, King Pepen, which depoſed Childerick, Did, as Heir-general (being deſcended Of Blithild, which was Daughter to King Clothair) Make Claim and Title to the Crown of France. Hugh Capet alſo, who uſurp'd the Crown Of Charles the Duke of Lorain, ſole Heir-male Of the true Line and Stock of Charles the Great, To fine his Title with ſome Shews of Truth (Though, in pure Truth, it was corrupt and naught) Convey'd himſelf, as Heir to th'Lady Lingar Daughter to Charlemain, who was the Son To Lewis the Emperor, which was the Son Of Charles the Great. Alſo, King Lewis the Ninth, Who was ſole Heir to the Uſurper Capet, Could not keep Quiet in his Conſcience, Wearing the Crown of France, till ſatisfy'd That fair Queen Iſabel, his Grandmother, Was lineal of the Lady Ermengere, Daughter to Charles, the foreſaid Duke of Lorrain; By the which Match the Line of Charles the Great Was re-united to the Crown of France. So that, as clear as is the Summer's Sun, King Pepin's Title, and Hugh Capet's Claim, King Lewis, his Satisfaction, all appear To hold in Right and Title of the Female: So do the Kings of France until this Day. Howbeit, they would hold up this Salick Law, To bar your Highneſs, claiming from the Female, And rather chooſe to hide them in a Net, Than amply to unbare their crooked Titles, Uſurp'd from you and your Progenitors.

In Shakeſpear, when the Conſpiracy of Scroop, Cambridge, and Grey, is diſcovered to the King, after expoſtulating with them on their Treachery, he gives them up to puniſhment and diſmiſſes them from his Preſence in the very Words of Holingſhed: Touching our Perſon ſeek we no Revenge; But we our Kingdom's ſafety muſt ſo tender, Whoſe ruin you three ſought, that to her Laws We do deliver you. Go therefore hence, Poor miſerable Wretches to your Death; The Taſte whereof God of his Mercy give You Patience to endure, and true Repentance Of all your dear Offences! bear them hence.

"Revenge herein touching my Perſon, tho' I ſeek not; yet for the Safeguard of my dear Friends, and for due Preſervation of all Sorts, I am by Office to cauſe Example to be ſhewed: Get ye hence, therefore, you poor miſerable Wretches, to the receiving of your juſt Reward, wherein God's Majeſty give you Grace of his Mercy, and Repentance of your heinous Offences." Holingſhed.

In the Play, King Henry, after the taking of Harfleur, marches his Army, which was greatly reduced by Sickneſs and Fatigue, towards Calais, and is met by a Meſſenger from the French King; who, in his Maſter's Name, defies him to a Battle: Shakeſpear, in the latter Part of the Kings Anſwer, again copies the Words of Holingſhed, Go, bid thy Maſter well adviſe himſelf: If we may paſs we will; if we be hinder'd, We ſhall your tawny Ground with your red Blood Diſcolour, and ſo Mountjoy fare you well. The Sum of all our Anſwer is but this: We wou'd not ſeek a Battle as we are, Yet, as we are, we ſay, we will not ſhun it.

"I will not ſeek your Maſter, at this Time, but, if he or his ſeek me, I will meet with them, God willing: If any of your Nation attempt once to ſtop me in my Journey towards Calais, at their Jeopardy be it; and yet wiſh I not any of you ſo unadviſed as to be the Occaſion that I dye your tawny Ground with your red Blood." Holingſhed.

Shakeſpear. throughout this Play, has copied many of the Sentiments and even Words of Holingſhed, ſometimes almoſt literally, as in the above quoted Paſſages; at others he has juſt taken Hints which the Force of his own Imagination improves into the moſt ſtriking Beauties, the following Paſſage of Holingſhed furniſhed him with ſome of the nobleſt Thoughts that ever animated the Mind of a Heroe.

The Hiſtorian ſays, Page 553, that a little Time before the Battle of Agincourt was fought, King Henry overheard a Soldier ſay to his Fellow: I would to God there were with us now ſo many good Soldiers as are at this Hour within England. To which the King replied: I would not wiſh a Man more here than I have; we are, indeed, in Compariſon to the Enemies, but a few; but if God, of his Clemency, do favour us and our juſt Cauſe (as I truſt he will) we ſhall Speed well enough: But let no Man aſcribe Victory to our own Strength and Might, but only to God's Aſſiſtance, to whom, I have no doubt we ſhall worthily have Cauſe to give thanks therefore; and if ſo be that, for our Offences Sakes, we ſhall be delivered into the Hands of our Enemies, the leſs Number we be the leſs Damage ſhall the Realm of England ſuſtain. Holingſhed.

This Paſſage is thus improved by Shakeſpear: The Earl of Weſtmourland having been to take a View of the Enemies Forces, as they were drawn up in Order of Battle, alarmed at the Superiority of their Numbers, cries out as the King meets him, Oh! that we now had here, But one ten thouſand of thoſe Men in England, That do no Work to Day!

K. HENRY. What's he that wiſhes ſo? My Couſin Weſtmourland? No, my fair Couſin! If we are marked to dye, we are enow To do our Country loſs; and if to live, The fewer Men, the greater ſhare of Honour. God's Will, I pray thee wiſh not one Man more. By Jove I am not covetous of Gold; Nor care I, who doth feed upon my Coſt; It yerns me not, if Men my Garments wear; Such outward Things dwell not in my Deſire: But, if it be a Sin to covet Honour, I am the moſt offending Soul alive. No, faith, my Lord, wiſh not a Man from England: God's Peace, I would not loſe ſo great an Honour As one Man more, methinks would ſhare from me, For the beſt Hopes I have. Don't wiſh one more: Rather proclaim it (Weſtmourland) through my Hoſt, That he, which hath no Stomach to this Fight, Let him depart; his Paſſport ſhall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his Purſe: We would not die in that Man's Company, That fears his Fellowſhip to die with us.

In the firſt Act of this Play the Dauphin of France ſends an inſulting Meſſage to King Henry accompanied with a Preſent of Tennis Balls as a Reproach for the wild Sallies of his Youth.

There is no Foundation either in Hall or Holingſhed for this Circumſtance, Shakeſpear indeed took the out-lines of the Dauphin's Character from theſe Hiſtorians who repreſent him to be a light, arrogant, and vain-glorious Prince; but he has painted at full Length what they only drew in Miniture; and by adding, with great Propriety ſome of the Characteriſtic Follies of his Nation, given us a lively and humerous Picture of a Coxcomb Prince.

The abſurdity of making the Princeſs Catharine the only Perſon in the French Court, who does not underſtand Engliſh, has been already taken Notice of: And it muſt be confeſſed that the great Henry makes but a miſerable Figure as a Lover; no Language can be coarſer than that in which he addreſſes the Princeſs, the firſt Time he ſees her, Do you like me Kate, &c. Yet the Dialogue is not without wit, livlineſs, and humour; but ſo utterly void of Propriety that we loſe all Idea of the Dignity of the Perſons who manage it, and, are readier to imagine we hear a common Soldier making love to an aukward Country Girl, than a King of England courting a Princeſs of France.

Shakeſpear, it is probable, took the Hint of the Dauphin's Preſent of Tennis Balls from the following old Ballad.

A Council grave our King did hold, With many a Lord and Knight; That they might truly underſtand, That France did hold his Right. Unto the King of France therefore Ambaſſadors were ſent, That he might fully underſtand His Mind and his Intent: Deſiring him in friendly wiſe, His lawful Right to yield; Or elſe he vow'd, by Dint of Sword To win the ſame in Field. The King of France with all his Lords, Which heard his Meſſage plain, Unto our brave Ambaſſadors Did anſwer in Diſdain: And feigned our King was yet too young, And of too tender Age; Therefore we weigh not of his War, Nor fear we his Courage. His Knowledge is in Feats of Arms As yet but very ſmall; His tender Joints much fitter were To toſs a Tennis Ball. A Tun of Tennis Balls therefore, In Pride and great Diſdain, He ſent unto our Noble King, To recompence his Pain. Which Anſwer when our King did hear, He waxed wroth in Heart; And ſaid, he would ſuch Balls provide, Should make all France to ſmart. An Army then our King did raiſe, Which was both good and ſtrong; And from Southampton is our King With all his Navy gone. In France he landed ſafe and ſound, With all his warlike Train; And to the Town of Harfleur ſtrait He marched up a-main. But when he had beſieged the ſame, Againſt their fenced Walls, To batter down their ſtately Towers, He ſent his Engliſh Balls. This done, our noble Engliſh King March'd up and down the Land; And not a Frenchman for his Life Durſt once his Force withſtand. Until he came to Agincourt; Where as it was his Chance To find the King in Readineſs With all his Power of France. A mighty Hoſt he had prepar'd Of armed Soldiers then; Which were no leſs by juſt Account, Than Forty Thouſand Men. Which Sight did much amaze our King; For he and all his Hoſt Not paſſing Fifteen Thouſand had, Accounted at the moſt. The King of France which well did know The Number of our Men, In vaunting Pride unto our Prince Did ſend a Herald then. To underſtand what he would give For Ranſom of his Life, When he in Field ſhould taken be Amidſt their bloody Strife. And then our King with chearful Heart, This Anſwer ſoon bid make; And ſaid, Before this comes to paſs, Some of their Hearts ſhall quake. And to their proud preſumptuous Prince, Declare this Thing, quoth he, Mine own Heart's Blood ſhall pay the Price; None elſe he gets of me. With that beſpoke the Duke of York; O Noble King, quoth he, The Leading of this Battle brave Vouchſafe to give to me. God a Mercy, Couſin York, quoth he, I grant thee thy Requeſt; Then march thou on courageouſly, And I will lead the reſt. Then came the bragging Frenchmen down With greater Force and Might; With whom our Noble King began A hard and cruel Fight. The Archers they diſcharged their Shafts, As thick as Hail from Sky; That many a Frenchman in the Field That happy Day did die. Ten Thouſand Men that Day were ſlain Of Enemies in the Field; And as many Priſoners That Day were forced to yield. Thus had our King a happy Day, And Victory over France; And brought them quickly under Foot, That late in Pride did prance. The Lord preſerve our Noble King, And grant to him likewiſe The upper Hand and Victory Of all his Enemies.

THE FIRST PART OF King Henry the Sixth.

THE hiſtorical Tranſactions contained in this Play, take in the Compaſs of about thirty Years; they are all extracted from Holingſhed's Chronicle: But Shakeſpear, in this, as well as in the two following Parts of this King's Reign, has not been very exact to the Date and Diſpoſition of the Facts, ſhuffling them backwards and forwards, out of the Order of Time in which they happened, as it beſt ſuited his Purpoſe. The Characters are almoſt all faithfully copied from the Hiſtorian; but the Poet has exaggerated the Affection of Queen Margaret for the Duke of Suffolk, repreſenting that Princeſs as engaged in a criminal Amour with the Duke, for which there is no Foundation in Hiſtory.

The Loves of the Queen and Duke of Suffolk, which make the Subject of ſeveral Scenes in the Play, not being mentioned either by Hall or Holingſhed, 'tis probable that Shakeſpear ſaw ſome little Novel of the Lives of theſe two great Perſons, from whence he copied ſuch Incidents as he thought proper for the Embelliſhment of his Play; but, by introducing the Queen in the ſecond Part, weeping and lamenting over the Head of her murdered Lover, which lyes on her Boſom, in the Preſence of the King her Huſband, and ſeveral Noblemen, he has either very injudiciouſly copied, or very coarſly invented. For the abſurdity of ſuch a Behaviour muſt give diſguſt to the meaneſt and leaſt intelligent Reader or Spectator.

But if Shakeſpear has been miſled by Romance, or oral Tradition, to give ſuch improper Manners to a Queen, and in a Hiſtorical Play, contradict the known Facts on which it is founded, he has, on the other Hand, worked up the ſimple Relation of the Deaths of a Father and Son, in the Hiſtory, into one of the moſt beautiful and affecting Epiſodes imaginable.

Holingſhed after a circumſtantial Detail of all the great Actions of the warlike Talbot, Earl of Shrewſbury, proceeds to give an Account of his Death and that of his Son's as they were endeavouring to raiſe the Siege of Chaſtillon in France.

"The Frenchmen ſays he, Page 640, that lay at the Siege, perceiving, by thoſe good Runners away, that the Earle approached, left the Siege, and retired in good Order into the Place which they had trenched, ditched and fortified with Ordnance. The Earle advertiſed how the Siege was removed, haſted forward towards his Enemies, doubting moſt leſt they would have been quite fled and gone before his comming, but they fearing the Diſpleaſure of the French King, who was not far off, if they ſhould have fled, abode the Earles comming, and ſo received him; who though he firſt with manfull Courage, and ſore ſeighting, wan the entrie of their Camp; yet at length they compaſſed him about, and ſhooting him through the Thigh with an Hand-Gun, ſlue his Horſe, and finallie killed him lying on the Ground whom they never durſt look in the Face, while he ſtood on his Feet."

"It was ſaid, that after he perceived that there was no Remedy but preſent loſs of the Battel, he councelled his Son Lord Liſle, to ſave himſelf by Flight, ſith the ſame could not redound to any great Reproach in him, this being the firſt Journey in which he had been preſent; many Words he uſed to perſuade him to have ſaved his Life, but Nature ſo wrought in the Son, that neither deſire of Life, nor fear of Death, could either Cauſe him to ſhrinke, or convey himſelf out of the Danger, and, ſo there manfully ended his Life with his ſaid Father."

On this Incident the following Scenes are founded, in which the Poet has given us the fineſt Pictures imaginable, of true Heroiſm, paternal Tenderneſs, and filial Love.

SCENE, a Field of Battle near Bourdeaux. Enter TALBOT and his Son. TALBOT. O young John Talbot, I did ſend for thee, To tutor thee in Stratagems of War, That Talbot's Name might be in thee reviv'd, When ſapleſs Age, and weak unable Limbs Should bring thy Fathe • to his drooping Chair. But O malignant and ill-boding Stars! Now art thou come unto a Feaſt of Death, A terrible and unavoided Danger: Therefore, dear Boy, mount on my ſwifteſt Horſe, And I'll direct thee how thou ſhall eſcape By ſudden Flight. Come, dally not, be gone. JOHN. Is my Name Talbot? Am I your Son? And ſhall I fly? O if you love my Mother, Diſhonour not her honourable Name, To make a Baſtard, and a Slave of me. The World will ſay, he is not Talbot's Blood That baſely fled, when Noble Talbot ſtood. TALBOT.

Fly to revenge my Death. if I be ſlain.

JOHN.

He that flies ſo, will ne'er return again.

TALBOT.

If we both ſtay we both are ſure to die.

JOHN. Then let me ſtay, and Father do you fly: Your Loſs is great, ſo your Regard ſhould be; My worth unknown, no Loſs is known in me. Upon my Death, the French can little boaſt; In yours they will, in you all Hopes are loſt. Flight cannot ſtain the Honour you have won: But mine it will, that no exploit have done. You fled for Vantage every one will ſwear; But if I bow, they'll ſay it was for fear. There is no Hope that ever I will ſtay, If the firſt Hour I ſhrink and run away: Here, on my Knees, I beg mortality, Rather than Life preſerved with infamy. TALBOT.

Shall all thy Mother's Hope lye in one Tomb?

JOHN.

Ay rather than I'll ſhame my Mother's Womb,

TALBOT.

Upon my Bleſſing I command thee go.

JOHN.

To fight I will, but not to flie the Foe.

TALBOT.

Part of thy Father may be ſaved in thee,

JOHN.

No Part of him, but will be ſhame in me.

TALBOT.

Thou never hadſt Renown, nor can'ſt not loſe it?

JOHN.

Yes, your renowned Name, ſhall Flight abuſe it?

TALBOT.

Thy Father's Charge ſhall clear thee from that Stain.

JOHN. You cannot witneſs for me, being ſlain. If Death be ſo apparent, then both fly. TALBOT. And leave my Followers here to fight and die! My Age was never tainted with ſuch Shame. JOHN. And ſhall my Youth be guilty of ſuch Blame? No more can I be ſever'd from your Side, Than can yourſelf yourſelf in twain divide: Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; For live I will not, if my Father die. TALBOT. Then here I take my Leave, fair Son, Born to eclipſe thy Life this Afternoon. Come, ſide by ſide, together live and die, And Soul with Soul from France to Heaven fly. Exeunt. Alarm: Excurſions, wherein Talbot's Son is hemm'd about, and Talbot reſcues him. TALBOT. St. George and Victory! fight, Soldiers fight: The Regent hath with Talbot broke his Word, And left us to the Rage of France's Sword. Where is John Talbot? Pauſe and take thy Breath, I gave thee Life, and reſcued thee from Death. JOHN. O twice my Father, twice am I thy Son: The Life thou gave'ſt me firſt, waſt loſt and done; Till with thy warlike Sword, deſpight of Fate, To my determin'd Time thou gav'ſt new Date. TALBOT. When from the Dauphin's Creſt thy Sword ſtruck Fire, It warm'd thy Father's Heart with proud Deſire, Of bold fac'd Victory. Then leaden Age Quicken'd with youthful Spleen and warlike Rage, Beat down Alanſon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the Pride of Gallia reſcu'd thee. The ireful Baſtard, Orleans, that drew Blood From thee, my Boy, and had the Maidenhood, Of thy firſt Fight, I ſoon encountred; And, interchanging blows, I quickly ſhed Some of his Baſtard Blood, and in his Diſgrace Beſpoke him thus: Contaminated, baſe, And miſbegotten Blood, I ſpill of thine, Mean and right poor, for that pure Blood of mine, Which thou didſt force from Talbot my brave Boy— Here, purpoſing the Baſtard to deſtroy, Came in ſtrong Reſcue. Speak thy Father's Care, Art thou not weary; John? how doſt thou fare. Wilt thou yet leave the Battle, Boy, and fly, Now thou art ſeal'd the Son of Chivalry? Fly to revenge my Death when I am dead, The Help of one ſtands me in little Stead. Oh too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all our Lives in one ſmall Boat! If I die not to-day with Frenchmen's Rage, To-morrow I ſhall die with mickle Age; By me they nothing gain; and if I ſtay, 'Tis but the ſhortening of my Life one Day. In thee thy Mother dies our Houſhold's Name My Death's Revenge, thy Youth and England's Fame: All theſe and more, we hazard by thy Stay: All theſe are ſaved if thou wilt fly away. JOHN. The Sword of Orleans hath not made me ſmart, Theſe Words of yours draw Life-blood from my Heart. Out on that Vantage bought with ſuch a ſhame, To ſave a paltry Life, and ſlay bright Fame! Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The coward Horſe that bears me fall and die! And like me to the Peaſant Boys of France, To be Shame, Scorn, and Subject of Miſchance. Surely by all the Glory you have won, An if I fly I am not Talbot's Son: Then talk no more of Flight, it is no Boot; If Son to Talbot, die at Talbot's Foot. Alarm, Excurſions, Enter old Talbot led. TALBOT. Where is my other Life? mine own is gone; O where is young Talbot? where is valiant John? Triumphant Death, ſmear'd with captivity, Young Talbot's Valour makes me ſmile at thee. When he perceived me ſhrink, and on my Knee, His bloody Sword he brandiſh'd over me: And, like a hungry Lion, did commence Rough Deeds of rage, and ſtern Impatience: But when my angry Guardant ſtood alone Tendring my ruin, and aſſailed of none, Dizzy-ey'd Fury, and great rage of Heart, Suddenly made him from my ſide to ſtart Into the cluſtering Battle of the French: And in that Sea of Blood, my Boy did drench His over mounting Spirit, and there dy'd My Icarus, my Bloſſom! in his Pride. Enter John Talbot, borne. SERVANT.

O my dear Lord, lo! where your Son is borne.

TALBOT. Thou antic Death, which laugh'ſt us here to ſcorn, Anon, from thy inſulting Tyranny Coupled in Bonds of Perpetuity, Two Talbots winged through the lither Sky In thy deſpight ſhall 'ſcape Mortality. O thou, whoſe Wounds become hard favour'd Death! Speak to thy Father ere thou yield thy Breath. Brave Death by ſpeaking, whether he will or no, Imagine him a Frenchman and thy Foe. Poor Boy! he ſmiles methinks, as who ſhould ſay. "Had Death been French, then Death had "died to-day." Come, come, and lay him in his Father's Arms, My Spirit can no longer bear theſe harms. Soldiers adieu! I have what I would have Now my old Arms are young John Talbot's Grave. Dies.

THE SECOND PART OF King Henry the Sixth.

THE Contention between the two Houſes of York and Lancaſter furniſhes the Incidents which compoſe this Play. The Action begins with King Henry's Marriage, which was in the twenty third Year of his Reign, and cloſes with the firſt Battle fought at St. Albans and won by the York Faction, in the thirty third Year of his Reign; ſo that it takes in the Hiſtory and Tranſactions of ten Years.

Shakeſpear has copied Holingſhed pretty cloſely throughout this whole Play, except in his Relation of the Duke of Suffolk's Death. The Chronicle tells us, that King Henry, to ſatisfy the Nobility and People, who hated this Favourite, condemned him to Baniſhment during the Space of five Years. In his Paſſage to France he was taken by a Ship of War belonging to the Duke of Exeter, Conſtable of the Tower; the Captain of which Ship carried him into Dover Road, and there ſtruck off his Head on the Side of a Cock-boat.

In Shakeſpear, he is taken by Engliſh Pyrates on the Coaſt of Kent, who, notwithſtanding the large Ranſom he offers them, reſolve to murder him: One of them, in the Courſe of his Converſation with the Duke, tells him, that his Name is Walter Whitmore; and obſerving him ſtart, aſks him, if he is frighted at Death, to which Suffolk replied.

Thy Name affrights me, in whoſe Sound is Death, A cunning Man did calculate my Birth, And told me that by Walter I ſhould die.

This Circumſtance is not to be found, either in Hall or Holingſhed; and as it has greatly the Air of Fiction, Shakeſpear probably borrowed it from the ſame Tale that furniſhed him with the Loves of Suffolk and the Queen, on which ſeveral paſſionate Scenes in this Play, as well as the former, are Built.

THE THIRD PART OF King Henry the Sixth.

THE Scene of this Play opens juſt after the Battle of St. Albans, wherein the York Faction was Victorious, and cloſes with the Murder of King Henry the ſixth and the Birth of Prince Edward, afterwards King Edward the fifth; ſo that this Hiſtory takes in the ſpace of ſixteen Years. The Facts are all extracted from Holingſhed, and moſt of the Incidents very cloſely copied. The ſtruggle between the two Houſes of York and Lancaſter for the Crown being the Subject purſued in this Drama, every Scene almoſt preſents us with a new Battle, a flying Army, or the Carnage of a bloody Field; where the inhuman Conquerors unſated with the Slaughters of the Fight, ſacrifice their defenceleſs Enemies to the Fury of their Revenge, and exult over them, when dying, with a Cruelty truly diabolical.

Shakeſpear has given the ſame inconſiſtent and improper Manners to all the chief Perſons in this Play; the brave old Duke of York, the gallant Edward his Son, afterwards King, the heroic Warwick, whom the Poet ſo often ſtyles the Maker and Subduer of Kings, are all Murderers; at once the Heroes and the Villains of the Scene, equally exciting our Praiſe and Deteſtation. The Poet, in order to diſplay this predominant Paſſion, Cruelty, in Characters where it is leſt expected to be found, the Heroe and the Prince, has not ſcrupled to violate ſometimes the Truth of Hiſtory.

The Chronicles ſay, that the Duke of York, who pretended to the Crown, was killed in the Battle of Wakefield, and being found dead in the Field by the Lord Clifford, he cut off his Head and preſented it to the Queen of Henry the ſixth, who was in Perſon at this Battle. Shakeſpear makes him to be taken Priſoner by the Earls of Northumberland and Clifford, who bring him to the Queen and aſk what ſhe would have done to him: To which ſhe replies,

QUEEN. Brave Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland Come, make him ſtand upon this Mole-hill here, That raught at Mountains with out-ſtreched Arms, Yet parted but the Shadow with his Hand: What, was it you, that would be England's King? Was't you, that revell'd in our Parliament, And made a Preachment of your high Deſcent? Where are your Meſs of Sons to back you now, The wanton Edward and the luſty George? And wher's that valiant crook-back'd Prodigy? Dicky your Boy, that with his grumbling Voice Was wont to cheer his Dad in Mutinies? Or, with the reſt, where is your darling Rutland? Look, York, I ſtain'd this Napkin with the Blood That valiant Clifford, with his Rapier's Point, Made iſſue from the Boſom of the Boy: And if thine Eyes can water for his Death I give thee this to dry thy Cheeks withal. Alas poor York! but that I hate thee deadly I ſhould lament thy miſerable State. I prythee grieve to make me merry York. What, hath thy fiery Heart ſo parcht thine Entrails That not a Tear can fall for Rutland's Death? Why art thou patient Man? thou ſhouldſt, be mad, And I to make thee mad, do mock thee thus: Stamp, rave and fret, that I may ſing and dance. Thou would'ſt be fee'd, I ſee, to make me Sport; York cannot ſpeak unleſs he wear a Crown. A Crown for York—And, Lords, bow low to him; Hold you his Hands, while I do ſet it on. putting a Paper Crown on his Head. Ay, marry Sir, now looks he like a King: Ay, this is he, that took King Henry's Chair; And this is he, was his adopted Heir. But how is it that great Plantaganet Is crown'd ſo ſoon, and broke his ſolemn Oath As I bethink me, you ſhould not be King Till our King Henry had ſhook Hands with Death. And will you pale your Head in Henry's Glory And rob his Temples of the Diadem, Now in his Life, againſt your holy Oath? Oh, 'tis a Fault too too unpardonable. Off with the Crown, and with the Crown his Head; And whilſt we breathe, take Time to do him dead,

With this more than fiendlike Cruelty, has Shakeſpear repreſented a Queen, whoſe Motives for taking Arms were far from being unjuſt; the recovery of her Huſband's Liberty and Crown, and the reſtoring her Son to the Rights and Privileges of his Birth. And for the Sake of this ſhocking Abſurdity in the Manners of a Female Character, in ſo high a Rank, he contradicts a known Fact in Hiſtory, and makes one of the greateſt Captains of the Age die by the cowardly Stabs of a Woman, and a Ruffian, who, according to the Chronicles fell in the Field of Battle, covered with Wounds and Glory.

In the next Act, Clifford is ſhewn in the pangs of Death; with the great Warwick, King Edward and his Brothers exulting over him and embittering his laſt Moments with the moſt unmanly Railings.

EDWARD. Bring forth that fatal Screech-owl to our Houſe That nothing ſung but Death to us and ours: Now Death ſhall ſtop his diſmal threatening Sound And his ill-boading Tongue, no more ſhall ſpeak. WARWICK. I think, his underſtanding is bereft; Speak Clifford, doſt thou know who ſpeaks to thee? Dark cloudy Death o'er-ſhades his beams of Life And he nor ſees, nor hears us what we ſay. RICHARD. O would he did! and ſo, perhaps, he doth. 'Tis but his Policy to counterfeit; Becauſe he would avoid ſuch bitter Taunts As in the Time of Death he gave our Father. CLARENCE.

If ſo thou think'ſt, vex him with eager Words.

RICHARD.

Clifford, aſk Mercy, and obtain no Grace.

EDWARD.

Clifford, repent in bootleſs Penitence.

WARWICK.

Clifford, deviſe Excuſes for thy Faults.

CLARENCE.

While we deviſe fell tortures for thy Faults.

RICHARD.

Thou did'ſt love York, and I am Son to York.

EDWARD.

Thou pitied'ſt Rutland, I will pity thee.

CLARENCE

Where's Captain Margaret to fence you now.

WARWICK.

They mock thee Clifford, ſwear as thou waſt wont.

RICHARD. What not an Oath, nay then the World goes hard, When Clifford cannot ſpare his Friends an Oath. I know by that he's dead; and by my Soul If this right Hand would buy but two Hour's Life, That I in all diſpight might rail at him, This Hand ſhould chop it off, and with the iſſuing Blood Stifle the Villain, whoſe unſtanched thirſt, York and young Rutland could not ſatisfy.

For many of the Murders which the Followers of each Party commit oh thoſe of the other in this Play, Shakeſpear had no Foundation in the Hiſtory; but that of the young Earl of Rutland by Clifford, is copied with all its Circumſtances from Holingſhed. The Character of King Henry the Sixth, whoſe unfortunate Reign makes the Subject of theſe three Plays, is drawn by Shakeſpear exactly conformable to that given him by the Hiſtorians. As to the Manner of his Death, ſeveral different Opinions prevailed; but the Poet, by making the Duke of Glouceſter murder him in the Tower, has followed that which was moſt probable and moſt generally believed

THE LIFE and DEATH OF King Richard the Third.

THIS Tragedy, tho' it is called the Life and Death of Richard the third, takes in, at moſt, but the laſt eight Years of his Time. The Scene opens with the Impriſonment of George Duke of Clarence in the Tower, which happened in the beginning of the Year 1477, and cloſes with the Death of Richard at Boſworth Field; which Battle was fought on the 22d of Auguſt, in the Year 1485.

The hiſtorical Facts are all taken from Holingſhed, and the Characters all cloſely copied from that Author; that of Richard the third has been cenſured as monſtrous, the Picture of a Fiend and not a Man; and too exquiſitely wicked to be repreſented on the Stage. 'Tis certain however, that Shakeſpear has not aggravated the Vices and Cruelty of this Prince; he paints him ſuch as Hiſtory has tranſmitted him to us; and if his Character ſhocks us more in the Scene than the Story, 'tis becauſe the Colours of the Poet are more lively, his Expreſſion ſtronger, and the Lights he ſhews him in more diverſified; but the Subject in both is the ſame. The qualities of his Mind and Perſon are thus ſummed up by Holingſhed.

"As he was ſmall and little of Stature, ſo was he of Body greatly deformed, the one Shoulder higher than the other, his Face was ſmall, but his Countenance cruel, and ſuch that the firſt Aſpect a Man would judge it to ſmell and favour of Malice, Fraud and Deceit; when he ſtood muſing, he would bite and chaw his nether Lip; as who ſaid, that his fierce Nature always chafed, ſtirred and was ever unquiet: beſide, that the Dagger which he wore, he would (when he ſtudied) with his Hand pluck up and down in the Sheath to the midſt, never drawing it fullie out. He was of a ready, pregnant and quick Wit, wielie to feire, and apt to diſſemble: He had a proud Mind, and an arrogant Stomach, the which accompanied him even to his Death, rather chooſing to ſuffer the ſame by dint of Sword, than, being forſaken and left helpleſs of his unfaithful Companions, to preſerve by cowardlie Flight, ſuch a frail and uncertain Life, which by Malice, Sickneſs, or condigne Puniſhment, was like ſhortly to come to confuſion."

This Character is the very ſame with that drawn of him by Shakeſpear; but the latter is made more ſtriking by the wonderful Propriety of the Manners and Sentiments he every where, throughout the Play, attributes to him. If Shakeſpear is in any Inſtance to be blamed for keeping too cloſe to the Hiſtorian, it is for dignifying the laſt Moments of this bloody Tyrant with ſuch ſhining Proofs of Fortitude and Valour, as, notwithſtanding the Deteſtation we conceived at his cruelties, muſt force from us an involuntary Applauſe. The Hiſtory tells us he fought bravely in that Battle which decided his Fate, and, overpowered as he was by Numbers, diſdained to ſave his Life by Flight.

Shakeſpear improves this into the following noble Deſcription, which has indeed this improper Effect, that our hatred of the Tyrant is wholly loſt in our Admiration of the Heroe.

Alarm. Excurſions. Enter Cateſby. CATESBY. Reſcue, my Lord of Norfolk, reſcue, reſcue: The King enacts more wonders than a Man, Daring an Oppoſite to every Danger! His Horſe is ſlain and all on Foot he fights Seeking for Richmond in the Throat of Death. Alarm. Enter King Richard. K. RICHARD.

A Horſe! a Horſe! my Kingdom for a Horſe!

CATBSBY.

Withdraw, my Lord, I'll help you to a Horſe.

K. RICHARD. Slave, I have ſet my Life upon a Caſt, And I will ſtand the Hazard of the Dye.

There are ſeveral of Shakeſpears hiſtorical Plays which take in a greater Compaſs of Time than this, but none in which the abſurdity of crowding the Events of many Years into a Repreſentation of three Hours, is made ſo glaring. This, no doubt, is occaſioned by the very unartful Diſpoſition of the Incidents which, though made up of diſtant Events, follow one another without the leaſt Preparation, without the Intervention of an Act, or Change of Scene, to give the Spectator's Imagination room to cheat itſelf agreeably, by ſupplying that Diſtance of Time neceſſary for the giving any Probability to the Story. To be convinced of this one need only conſider the Conduct of the firſt Part of the fourth Act, where Richard, for the firſt Time, enters as King, his Nephew Prince Edward, and the Duke of York being ſtill alive: He declares his Apprehenſions of them to the Duke of Buckingham, by whoſe Aſſiſtance he had uſurped the Crown, and preſſes him to give Conſent to their Murder.

The Duke demands a Minute's Leiſure to conſider of his Propoſal, and goes out; Richard immediately aſks his Page, if he can recommend any Perſon to him that will undertake a Murder for Reward; the Page names Tyrrel, and goes to fetch him; King Richard then addreſſing himſelf to one of his Confidents, ſays: Come hither, Cateſby, rumour it abroad, That Anne my Wife is ſick, and like to die. I will take Order for her keeping cloſe. Inquire me out ſome mean-born Gentleman, Whom I will marry ſtrait to Clarence' Daughter, (The Boy is fooliſh, and I fear him not) Look how thou dream'ſt.—I ſay again, give out That Anne my Wife is ſick, and like to die. About it, for it ſtands me much upon To ſtop all Hopes, whoſe Growth may damage me: I muſt be married to my Brother's Daughter, Or elſe my Kingdom ſtands on brittle Glaſs; Murder her Brothers, and then marry her, Uncertain Way of Gain! But I am in So far in Blood, that Sin will pluck on Sin. Tear-falling Pity dwells not in this Eye!

This Soliloquy is interrupted by Tyrrel, whom Richard diſpatches to the Tower, with Orders to kill the young Princes impriſoned there. Buckingham then re-enters, and is beginning to acquaint Richard with his Reſolution concerning the Princes, but is ſtopped by the Tyrant, who changes the Diſcourſe; Buckingham thereupon demands the Earldom of Hereford, which the King had promiſed him; the King makes evaſive Anſwers, till being hard preſſed by the Duke, he retires, and Buckingham declaring he will fly to Brecknock, goes off.

Tyrrel then enters, and informs the Audience that the two Princes are murdered by Dighton and Forreſt, whom he had ſuborned to commit this cruel Action; the King coming in, he tells him his Commands had been performed; Richard diſmiſſes him, with a Promiſe of Preferment, and then proceeds to give the Audience an Account of what he had done during his Abſence of two Minutes.

King RICHARD. The Son of Clarence have I pent up cloſe; His Daughter meanly have I match'd in Marriage; And Anne my Wife hath bid this World good Night.

Two or three Speeches backwards we find him diſpatching Cateſby to ſpread a Report, That his Queen Anne, was Sick and like to die. And alſo to enquire for ſome mean Born Gentleman to whom he might marry Clarence's Daughter; and ſcarce two Minutes are elapſed till we are informed all this is done: Buckingham this Moment tells us, that he will fly to Brecknock to ſave his Head, and ſcarce has he quitted the Scene when Cateſby comes in and tells us that, Buckingham, back'd with the hardy Welſhmen, Is in the Field, and ſtill his Power increaſeth, Abſurdities like theſe are ſuch a groſs Abuſe of the Underſtanding, that all the Beauties we find ſcattered throughout this Play, can hardly attone for them.

THE LIFE OF King Henry the Eighth.

THIS Play, tho' called, The Life of King Henry the eighth, takes in only the Tranſactions of twelve Years of his Reign. The Action of it begins with the arreſting the Duke of Buckingham for high Treaſon; which happened in the thirteenth Year of this King's Reign, and cloſes with the Birth of the Princeſs Elizabeth, afterwards Queen of England, which was on the twenty-fifth.

The hiſtorical Facts upon which this Play is founded, are all extracted from Holingſhed; the Characters generally drawn cloſely after this Hiſtorian, and many of the Speeches copied almoſt literally from him.

The Accuſation, Tryal, and Death of the Duke of Buckingham, makes a very affecting Incident in this Play.

Shakeſpear has been exactly juſt to hiſtorical Truth, in making Cardinal Wolſey the ſole Contriver of this Nobleman's Fall; whoſe Character as it is thus ſummed up by King Henry, is perfectly agreeable to that given him by Holingſhed.

KING The Gentleman is learn'd, a moſt rare Speaker, So Nature none more bound, his Training ſuch, That he may furniſh and inſtruct great Teachers, And never ſeek for Aid out of himſelf.

The Accuſations the Duke's Surveyor brings againſt him, in the firſt Act, before the King and Council, are an Abridgment of all the Articles upon which his Indictment of high Treaſon was founded, as they are ſet down at length by Holingſhed: King Henry in the Play, after hearing theſe Articles, conſigns him over to the Law, in much the ſame Words with the Hiſtorian, Call, him to preſent Tryal, if he may Find Mercy in the Law, 'tis his, if none, Let him not ſeek't of us,

The King, hearing the Accuſation enforced to the uttermoſt by the Cardinal, made this Anſwer: "If the Duke have deſerved to be puniſhed, let him have according to his Deſerts." The Account Shakeſpear gives of his Behaviour at his Tryal, agrees exactly with that of Holingſhed, from whom he copies it cloſely.

FIRST GENT. The great Duke Came to the Bar; where, to his Accuſations He pleaded ſtill not guilty; and alledg'd Many ſharp Reaſons to defeat the Law. The King's Attorney, on the contrary Urg'd on Examinations, Proofs, Confeſſions Of divers Witneſſes, which the Duke deſir'd To have brought viva voce to his Face; At which appear'd againſt him his Surveyor, Sir Gilbert Pack his Chancellor, and John Court Confeſſor to him, with that Devil-monk Hopkins, that made this miſchief. SECOND GENT. That was he, That fed him with his Prophecies. FIRST GENT. The ſame. All theſe accuſed him ſtrongly, which he fain Would have flung from him; but indeed, he could not: And ſo his Peers upon this Evidence Have found him guilty of high Treaſon. Much He ſpoke; and learnedly for Life, but all Was either pitied in him, or forgotten. SECOND GENT.

After all this, how did he clear himſelf.

FIRST GENT. When he was brought again to the Bar, to hear His Knell rung out, his Judgment, he was ſtirr'd With ſuch an Agony, he ſweat extreamly! And ſomething ſpoke in Choler, ill and haſty: But he fell to himſelf again, and ſweetly In all the reſt ſhew'd a moſt noble Patience.

Holingſhed, Page 865."When the Lords had taken their Place, the Duke was brought to the Bar, and upon his Arraignment, pleaded not guilty, and put himſelf upon his Peers. Then was his Inditement read, which the Duke denied to be true, arid (as he was an eloquent Man) alledged Reaſons to falſify the Inditement, pleading the Matter for his own Juſtification very pithily and earneſtly. The King's Attorney againſt the Duke's Reaſons alledged the Examinations, Confeſſions, and Proofs of Witneſſes.

The Duke deſired that the Witneſſes might be brought forth. And then came before him Charles Knevet, Perk, de la Court, and Hopkins the Monk of the Priory of the Charterhouſe beſide Bath, which, like a falſe Hypocrite, had induced the Duke to the Treaſon with his falſe • orged Propheſies. Divers Preſumptions and Accuſations were laid unto him, by Charles Knevet, which he would fain have covered. The Depoſitions were read, and the Deponents delivered as Priſoners to the Officers of the Tower. Then ſpake the Duke of Norfolk and ſaid, my Lord, the King our Sovereign Lord hath commanded that you ſhall have his Law miniſtred with Favour and Right to you, wherefore if you have any other Thing to ſay for yourſelf, you ſhall be heard. Then he was ordered to withdraw him, and ſo was led into Paradice, a Houſe ſo named. The Lords went to Councel a great While and after took their Places.

Then ſaid the Duke of Norfolk to the Duke of Suffolk, what ſay you of Sir Edward Duke of Buckingham touching the high Treaſon: The Duke of Suffolk anſwered, He is guilty, and ſo ſaid the Marquis and all the other Earls and Lords. Thus was this Prince Duke of Buckingham found guilty of high Treaſon, by a Duke and a Marquis, ſeven Earls and twelve Barrons. The Duke was brought to the Barr ſore chafing, and ſweat marvelouſly, and after he had made his Reverence, he pauſed a While. The Duke of Norfolk as Judge ſaid, Sir Edward you have heard how you be indited of high Treaſon, you pleaded thereto not guilty, putting yourſelf to the Peers of the Realm, who have found you guilty. Then the Duke of Norfolk weept and ſaid. you ſhall be led to the King's Priſon, and there laid on a Hurdle and ſo drawn to the Place of Execution, and there hanged, cut down alive, your Members cut off and caſt into the Fire, your Bowels burnt before you, your Head ſmitten off, and your Body quartered and devided at the King's Will, and God have mercy on your Soul.

The Duke of Buckingham, ſaid, my Lord of Norfolk you have ſaid as a Traitor ſhould be ſaid unto, but I was never anie: But my Lords I nothing malign for that you have done to me, but the eternal God forgive you my Death, and I do, I ſhall never ſue to the King for Life, howbeit he is a gracious Prince, and more Grace may come from him than I deſire, I deſire you my Lords and all my Fellows to pray for me. Then was the Edge of the Ax turned towards him, and he led into a Barge, Sir Thomas Lovel deſired him to ſit upon the Cuſhins and Carpet ordained for him: He ſaid nay; for when I went to Weſtminſter I was Duke of Buckingham, now I am but Edward Bohune the moſt caitife of the World. Thus they landed at the Temple, where Sir Nicholas Hawſe and Sir William Sands received him and led him through the City, who deſired the People to pray for him, of whom ſome weept and lamented, and ſaid this is the End of evil Life: God forgive him he was a proud Prince, it is Pity he behaved him ſo againſt the King and Liege Lord, whom God preſerve. Thus about four of the Clock he was brought as a caſt Man to the Tower.

The Friday the 17th May eleven of the Clock, this Duke of Buckingham, Earl of Hereford, Stafford and Northampton, with a great Power was delivered to John Reim and John Skevington Sheriffes, who led him to the Scaffold on Tower-hill, where he ſaid he had offended the King's Grace and deſired all Noblemen to beware by him, and all Men to pray for him, and that he truſted to die the King's true Man.

The Subſtance of what the Duke here ſays at his Execution, Shakeſpear has interwoven into the following Speeches; which, from the pathetic Eloquence they contain, and peculiar Propriety with which they are adopted to the Character and Circumſtances of the Speeches, derive an inexpreſſible Grace and Beauty.

Enter Buckingham from his Arraignment (Tipſtaves before him, the Axe with the Edge towards him, Halberts on each ſide) accompanied by Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir William Sands, and common People. BUCKINGHAM. All good People, You that thus far have come to pity me, Hear what I ſay, and then go home and loſe me: I have this Day received a Traitor's Judgment, And by that Name muſt die, yet Heav'n bear Witneſs, And if I have a Conſcience, let it ſink me Even as the Axe falls, if I be not faithful. To the Law I bear no Malice for my Death; 'T has done, upon the Premiſes but Juſtice: But thoſe that ſought it, I could wiſh more Chriſtians; Be what they will, I heartily forgive them; Yet let 'em look, they glory not in miſchief; Nor build their evils the Graves of great Men, For then my guiltleſs Blood muſt cry againſt' em For further Life in this World I ne'er hope Nor will I ſue, altho' the King have Mercies More than I dare make Faults. You few that lov'd me, And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham His noble Friends and Fellows, whom to leave Is only bitter to him, only dying; Go with me, like good Angels to my End: And as the long Divorce of Steel falls on me, Make of your Prayers one ſweet Sacrifice. And lift my Soul to Heaven. Lead on, o'God's Name. LOVELL. I do beſeech your Grace for Charity, If ever any Malice in your Heart Were hid againſt me. now forgive me frankly, BUCKINGHAM. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you, As I would be forgiven: I forgive all, There cannot be theſe numberleſs Offences 'Gainſt me, I can't take peace, with: No black Envy Shall make my Grave—Commend me to his Grace; And if he ſpeak of Buckingham; pray tell him, You met him half in Heaven: My Vows and Prayr's Yet are the King's, and, till my Soul forſake me Shall cry for Bleſſings on him. May he live Longer than I have Time to tell his Years, Ever beloved and loving, may his Rule be, And when old Time ſhall lead him to his End Goodneſs and he fill up one Monument. LOVELL. To th' Water ſide I muſt conduct your Grace, Then give my Charge to Sir Nicholas Vaux Who undertakes you to your End. VAUX. Prepare there, The Duke is coming: See the Barge be ready And fit it with ſuch Furniture as ſuits The greatneſs of his Perſon, BUCKINGHAM. Nay, Sir Nicholas Let it alone; my State now will but mock me. When I came hither, I was Lord high Conſtable And Duke of Backingham, now poor Edward Bohone. Yet I am richer than my baſe Accuſers, That never knew what Truth meant: I now ſeal it; And with that Blood will make them one Day groan for't. My noble Father, Henry of Buckingham, Who firſt rais'd head againſt uſurping Richard, Flying for Succour to his Servant Baniſter, Being diſtreſs'd, was by that Wretch betray'd, And without Tryal fell: God's Peace be with him! Henry the Sev'nth ſucceeding, truly pitying My Father's Loſs, like a moſt royal Prince Reſtor'd to me my Honours; and from Ruins, Made my Name once more noble. Now his Son, Henry the Eighth, Life, Honour, Name, and all That made me happy, at one Stroke has taken For ever from the World. I had my Tryal, And muſt needs ſay, a noble one; which makes me A little happier than my wretched Father: Yet thus far we are one in Fortune, both Fell by our Servants, by thoſe Men we lov'd: A moſt unnatural and faithleſs Service! Heav'n has an End in all: Yet, you that hear me, This from a dying Man receive as certain: Where you are lib'ral of your Loves and Counſels, Be ſure, you be not looſe; thoſe you make Friends, And give your Hearts to, when they once perceive The leaſt Rub in your Fortunes, fall away Like Water from ye, never found again But where they mean to ſink ye. All good People Pray for me! I muſt leave ye, the laſt Hour Of my long weary Life is come upon me; Farewell! and when you would ſay ſomething ſad, Speak how I fell—I've done, and God forgive me.

The Divorce of Queen Catharine from King Henry the Eighth, makes one of the principal Incidents of this Play. Shakeſpear has here ſo cloſely copied Holingſhed as well in the Facts as the Speeches of the chief Perſons concerned in this Affair, that it will be neceſſary to tranſcribe the Paſſages both from the Hiſtorian and Poet, if we would judge of their Similarity.

Holingſhed, Page 906. "Ye have heard how the People talked a little before the Cardinal's going over into France the laſt Year, that the King was told by Dr. Longland, Biſhop of Lincoln, and others, that his Marriage with Queen Kathrine could not be good nor lawful. The Truth is, that whether this Doubt was firſt moved by the Cardinal, or by the ſaid Longland, being the King's Confeſſor, the King was not only brought in Doubts, whether it was a lawful Marriage or no; but alſo determined to have the Caſe examined, cleered, and adjudged, by Learning, Law, and ſufficient Authority. The Cardinal verily was put in moſt Blame for this Scruple now caſt into the King's Conſcience, for the Hate he bore to the Emperor, becauſe he would not grant to him the Archbiſhoprick of Toledo, for the which he was a Suiter; and therefore, he did not only procure the King of England to join in Friendſhip with the French King, but alſo ſought a Divorce betwixt the King and Queen, that the King might have in Marriage the Dutcheſs of Alanſon, Siſter to the French King; and (as ſome have thought) he travelled in that Matter with the French King at Amiens: But the Dutcheſs would not give Ear thereunto.

But howſoever it came about, that the King was thus troubled in Conſcience concerning his Marriage, this followed, that, like a wiſe and ſage Prince, to have the Doubt clearly removed, he called together the beſt learned of the Realm, which were of ſeveral Opinions. Wherefore, he thought to know the Truth by indifferent Judges, leſt, peradventure the Spaniards, and other alſo in favour of the Queen, would ſay, that his own Subjects were not indifferent Judges in this Behalf; and therefore, he wrote his Cauſe to Rome, and likewiſe ſent to all the Univerſities in Italy and France, and to the great Clerks of all Chriſtendome, to know their Opinions, and deſired the Court of Rome to ſend into his Realm a Legate, which ſhould be indifferent and of great and profound Judgment, to hear the Cauſe debated. At whoſe Requeſt the whole Conſiſtory of the College of Rome ſent thither Laurence Campeius a Prieſt Cardinal, a Man of great Wit and Experience, which was ſent hither before, in the tenth Year of this King, and with him was joined in Commiſſion the Cardinal of York and Legate of England.

This Cardinal came to London in October, and did intimate both to the King and Queen the Cauſe of his coming, which being known, great Talk was had thereof. The Archbiſhop of Canterbury ſent for the famous Doctors of both the Univerſities, to Lambeth; and there were every Day Diſputations and Communings of this Matter. And becauſe the King meant nothing but uprightly therein, and knew that the Queen was ſomething wedded to her own Opinion, and wiſhed that ſhe ſhould do nothing without Counſel, he bad her chooſe the beſt Clerks of his Realme to be of her Councel, and licenced them to do the beſt on her Part that they could, according to the Truth. Then ſhe elected William Warham, Archbiſhop of Canterbury, and Nicholas Weſt, Biſhop of Elie, Doctors of the Laws; and John Fiſher, Biſhop of Rocheſter, and Henry Standiſh, Biſhop of St. Aſaph, Doctors of Divinity; and many other Doctors and well-learned Men, which, for Surety, like Men of great Learning, defended her Cauſe as far as Learning might maintain and hold it up.

About this time was received into Favour Stephen Gardiner, whoſe Service he uſed in Matters of great Secrecy and Weight, admitting him in the room of Dr. Pace, the which being continually abroad in Ambaſſages, and the ſame oftentimes not much neceſſary, by the Cardinal's Appointment, at length he took ſuch Grief therewith that he fell out of his right Wits.

The Place where the Cardinals ſhould ſit to hear the Cauſe of Matrimony betwixt the King and Queen, was at the Black Friars in London; where, in the great Hall was Preparation made of Seats, Tables, and other Furniture, according to ſuch a ſolemn Seſſion and royal Appearance. The Court was platted in Tables and Benches in manner of a Conſiſtory, one Seat raiſed higher for the Judges to ſit in; then, as it were in the midſt of the ſaid Judges, aloft above them three Degrees high, was a Cloth of State hanged, with a Chair royal under the ſame, wherein ſat the King; and beſide him, ſome Diſtance from him, ſat the Queen; and under the Judges Feet ſat the Scribes and other Officers; the chief Scribe was Dr. Stevens, and the Caller of the Court was one Cooke of Wincheſter.

Then, before the King and Judges, within the Court, ſat the Archbiſhop of Canterbury, Warham, and all the other Biſhops. Then ſtood at both Ends within, the Councellors learned in the ſpiritual Laws, as well the King's as the Queen's. The Doctors of Law for the King had their convenient Rooms: Thus was the Court furniſhed. The Judges commanded Silence whilſt their Commiſſion was read, both to the Court and to the People aſſembled; that done the Scribes commanded the Crier to call the King by the Name of, King Henry of England, come into the Court, &c. with that the King anſwered and ſaid, Here: Then called he the Queen, by the Name of, Kathrine Queen of England, come into the Court, &c. who made no Anſwer, but roſe out of her Chair.

And becauſe ſhe could not come directly to the King for the Diſtance ſevered between them, ſhe went about by the Court, and came to the King, kneeling down at his Feet; to whom ſhe ſaid in effect as followeth: Sir, I deſire you to do me Juſtice and Right, and take ſome Pity on me, for I am a poor Woman, and Stranger born out of your Dominions, having here no indifferent Counccl, and leſs Aſſurance of Friendſhip. Alas, Sir, what have I offended you, or what Occaſion of Diſpleaſure have I ſhewed you, intending thus to put me from you after this Sort. I take God to my Judge, I have been to you a true and humble Wife, ever conformable to your Will, and Pleaſure, that never contraried or gainſaid any thing thereof; and being always contented with all things wherein you had any Delight, whether little or much, without Grudge or Diſpleaſure; I loved, for your ſake, all them whom you loved, whether they were my Friends or Enemies. I have been your Wife theſe twenty Years and more, and you have had by me diverſe Children; if there be any juſt Cauſe that you can allege againſt me, either of Diſhoneſty, or Matter lawful to put me from you, I am content to depart, to my Shame and Rebuke; and if there be none, then I pray you to let me have Juſtice at your Hand. The King your Father was, in his time, of excellent Wit; and the King of Spain, Ferdinand my Father, was reckoned one of the wiſeſt Princes that raigned in Spain many Years before; it is not to be doubted, but that they had gathered as wiſe Councellors unto them of every Realme, as to their Wiſdom they thought meet, who deemed the Marriage between you and me good and lawful: Wherefore, I humbly deſire you to ſpare me, untill I may know what Councell my Friends in Spain will advertiſe me to take; and if you will not, then your Pleaſure be fulfilled. With that ſhe roſe up, making a low Curteſie to the King, and departed from thence.

The King being advertiſed that ſhe was ready to go out of the Houſe, commanded the Crier to call her again, who called her by theſe Words: Cathrine Queen of England come into the Court; with that (quoth Mr. Griffith) Madam you be called again. On on, quoth ſhe, it maketh no Matter I will not tarry, go on your wayes, and thus ſhe departed without any farther Anſwer at that Time, or any other, and never would appear after in any Court. The King, perceiving ſhe was departed, ſaid theſe Words in Effect: For as much, quoth he, as the Queen is gone, I will, in her Abſence declare to you all, that ſhe hath been to me as true, as obedient, and as conformable a Wife, as I could Wiſh or Deſire. She hath all the virtuous Qualities that ought to be in a Woman of her Dignity, or in any other of a baſer Eſtate; ſhe is alſo ſurely a noble Woman born, her Conditions will well declare the ſame.

With that, quoth Wolſey the Cardinal, Sir I moſt humbly require your Highneſs, to declare, before all this Audience whether I have been the chief and firſt Mover of this Matter unto your Majeſty or no, for I am greatly ſuſpected herein. My Lord Cardinal, quoth the King, I can well excuſe you in this Matter; Marrie, quoth he, you have rather been againſt me, in the tempting hereof than a Setter forward or Mover of the ſame. The ſpecial Cauſe that moved me unto this Matter, was a certain Scrupuloſity that pricked my Conſcience, upon ceriain Words ſpoken at a Time, when it was by the Biſhop of Baion the French Ambaſſador, who had been hither ſent upon the debating of a Marriage between our Daughter the Lady Mary and the Duke of Orleance, ſecond Son to the King of France. Upon the Reſolution and Determination whereof, he deſired Reſpite to advertiſe the King his Maſter thereof, whether our Daughter Mary, ſhould legitimate in Reſpect of this my Marriage with this Woman, being ſometime my Brother's Wife; which Words, once conceived within the ſecret Bottom of my Conſcience, ingendered ſuch a ſcrupulous Doubt, that my Conſcience was incontinently accombred, vexed, diſquieted; whereby I thought myſelf to be greatly in Danger of God's Indignation, which appeared to be (as to me ſeemed) the rather for that he fent us no iſſue Male, and all ſuch Iſſues Male as my ſaid Wife had by me, died incontinent after they came into the World, ſo I doubted the great Diſpleaſure of God in that behalf. Thus my Conſcience being toſſed in the Waves of a ſcrupulous Mind, and partly Deſpair to have any other Iſſue than I had already by this Lady now my Wife, it behoved me further to conſider the State of this Realm, and the Danger it ſtood in for lack of a Prince to ſucceed me: I thought it good, in Releaſe of the weighty Burthen of my weak Conſcience, and alſo the quiet Eſtate of this worthy Realm, to attempt the Law therein, whether I may lawfully take another Wife, by whom God may ſend me more Iſſue, in caſe this my firſt Copulation was not good, without any carnal Concupiſcence, and not for any Diſpleaſure or miſliking of the Queen's Perſon and Age, with whom I would be as well contented to continue, if our Marriage may ſtand with the Laws of God, as with any alive. In this Point confiſteth all this Doubt, that we go about now to trie, by the Learning, Wiſdom and Judgment of you our Prelates and Paſtors of all this our Realm and Dominions, now here aſſembled for that Purpoſe, to whoſe Conſcience and Learning I have committed the Charge and Judgment, according to the which I will (God willing) be right well content to ſubmit myſelf, and, for my Part obey the ſame. Wherein after that I perceived my Conſcience ſo doubtfull, I moved it in Confeſſion to you my Lord of Lincoln then Ghoſtly Father, and for ſo much as then you yourſelf were in ſome Doubt, you moved me to aſk the Councel of all theſe my Lords; whereupon I moved you my Lord of Canterbury firſt, to have your Licence, in as much as you were Metropolitan, to put this Matter in Queſtion, and ſo I did of all you my Lords, to which you granted under your Seals, here to be ſhewed. That is truth quoth the Archbiſhop of Canterbury. After that the King roſe up; and the Court was adjourned untill another Day.

Here is to be noted, that the Queen in Preſence of the whole Court, moſt greveouſly accuſed the Cardinal of Untruth, Deceit, Wickedneſs and Malice, which had ſowne Diſcention betwixt her and the King her Huſband; and therefore openly proteſted, that ſhe did utterly abhore, refuſe and forſake ſuch a Judge, as was not only a moſt malicious Enemy to her, but alſo a manifeſt Adverſarie to all Right and Juſtice, and therewith did ſhe appeal unto the Pope, committing her whole Cauſe to be judged by him. But notwithſtanding this Appeal, the Legates ſat weekly, and every Day were Argument on both Parts, and Proofes alleged for the underſtanding of the Caſe, and ſtill they ſtayed if they could by any Means to procure the Queen to call back her Appeal; which ſhe utterly refuſed to do. The King would gladly have had an end in this Matter; but when the Legates drave Time, and determined upon no certain Point, he conceived a ſuſpicion, that this was done of Purpoſe, that their doings might draw to none Effect or Concluſion."

SCENE, Black Fryars, &c. WOLSEY. Whilſt our Commiſſion from Rome is read Let Silence be commanded. KING. What's the need? It hath already been read, And all Sides th'Authority allow'd; You may then ſpare that Time. WOLSEY.

Be't ſo, proceed.

SCRIBE.

Say, Henry King of England come into the Court.

CRYER.

Henry King of England, &c.

KING.

Here.

SCRIBE. Say, Cathrine Queen of England Come into the Court. CRYER.

Cathrine Queen of England, &c.

The Queen wakes no Anſwer, riſes out of her Chair, goes about the Court, comes to the King, kneels at his Feet, then ſpeaks. QUEEN. Sir, I deſire you do me Right and Juſtice; And to beſtow your Pity on me, for I am a poor Woman, and a Stranger, Born out of your Dominions, having here No Judge indiff'rent, and no more Aſſurance Of equal Friendſhip and Proceeding. Alas, Sir, In what have I offended you? What Cauſe Hath my Behaviour given to your Diſpleaſure, That you ſhould thus proceed to put me off, And take your good Grace from me? Heav'n witneſs I've been to you a true and humble Wiſe, At all times to you conformable: Ever in fear to kindle your Diſlike, Yea ſubject to your Count'nance; glad or ſorry As I ſaw it inclin'd: When was the Hour I ever contradicted your Deſire, Or made it not mine too? Which of your Friends Have I not ſtrove to love, although I knew He were mine Enemy? What Friend of mine That had to him deriv'd your Anger, did I Continue in my Liking? Nay, gave Notice He was from thence diſcharg'd. Sir, call to mind, That I have been your Wife, in this Obedience, Upward of twenty Years; and have been bleſt With many Children by you. If in the Courſe And Proceſs of this Time you can report And prove it too, againſt mine Honour aught, My Bond of Wedlock, or my Love and Duty, Againſt your ſacred Perſon; in God's Name Turn me away, and let the foul'ſt Contempt Steek Door upon me, and ſo give me up To the ſharpeſt kind of Juſtice. Pleaſe you, Sir, The King your Father, was reputed for A Prince moſt prudent, of an excellent And unmatch'd Wit and Judgment. Ferdinand My Father, King of Spain, was reckon'd one The wiſeſt Prince that there had reign'd, by many A Year before. It is not to be queſtion'd, That they had gather'd a wiſe Council to them Of ev'ry Realm, that did debate this Buſineſs, Who deem'd our Marriage lawful. Wherefore humbly Sir, I beſeech you ſpare me, till I may Be by my Friends in Spain advis'd, whoſe Counſel I will implore. If not, i'th' Name of God, Your Pleaſure be fulfill'd. WOLSEY. You have here, Lady, (And of your Choice) theſe rev'rend Fathers, Men Of ſingular Integrity and Learning: Yea, the elect o' th' Land, who are aſſembled To plead your Cauſe; it ſhall be therefore bootleſs That longer you defer the Court, as well For your own Quiet, as to rectify What is unſettled in the King. CAMPEIUS. His Grace Hath ſpoken well and juſtly; therefore, Madam, It's fit this Royal Seſſion do proceed; And that, without Delay, their Arguments Be now produced, and heard. QUEEN. Lord Cardinal, To you I ſpeak. WOLSEY.

Your Pleaſure, Madam?

QUEEN. Sir, I am about to weep; but thinking that We are a Queen, or long have dream'd ſo; certain The Daughter of a King; my Drops of Tears I'll turn to Sparks of Fire. WOLSEY.

Be patient yet.—

QUEEN. I will, when you are humble: Nay, before; Or God will puniſh me. I do believe, Induc'd by potent Circumſtances, that You are mine Enemy and make my Challenge; You ſhall not be my Judge. For it is you Have blown this Coal betwixt my Lord and me; Which God's due quench! therefore, I ſay again, I utterly abhor, yea from my Soul Refuſe you for my Judge; whom yet once more I hold my moſt malicious Foe, and think not At all a Friend to truth. WOLSEY. I do profeſs, You ſpeak not like yourſelf; who ever yet Have ſtood to charity, and diſplay'd the Effects Of Diſpoſition gentle, and of Wiſdom O'er topping Woman's Power. Madam you wrong me, I have no Spleen againſt you, nor Injuſtice For you, or any; how far I've proceeded, Or how far further ſhall, is warranted By a Commiſſion from the Conſiſtory. Yea, the whole Conſiſt'ry of Rome. You charge me That I have blown this Coal; I do deny it. The King is preſent: if't be known to him That I gainſay my Deed, how may he wound And worthily, my Falſhood? Yea, as much As you have done my Truth. But if he know That I am free of your Report, he knows I am not of your Wrong. Therefore in him It lyes to cure me, and the Cure is to Remove theſe Thoughts from you. The which before His Highneſs ſhall ſpeak in, I do beſeech You, gracious Madam, to unthink your ſpeaking And to ſay no more. QUEEN. My Lord, my Lord, I am a ſimple Woman, much too weak T' oppoſe your cunning. You are meek and humble mouth'd, You ſign your Place, and Calling, in full ſeeming With meekneſs and humility; but your Heart Is cramm'd with arrogancy, ſpleen and pride. You have by Fortune, and his Highneſs' Favour Gone ſlightly o'er low Steps; and now are mounted Where Power's are your Retainers, and your Words Domeſticks to you, ſerve your Will, as't pleaſe Your ſelf pronounce their Office. I muſt tell you You tender more your Perſon's Honour, than Your high Profeſſion Spiritual: That again I do refuſe you for my Judge: And here, Before you all appeal unto the Pope, To bring my whole Cauſe 'fore his Holineſs, And to be judg'd by him. She curtiſies to the King and offers to depart. CAMPEIUS. The Queen is obſtinate, Stubborn to Juſtice, apt t'accuſe it, and Diſdainful to be try'd by't; 'tis not well. She's going away. KING.

Call her again.

CRIER.

Cathrine, Queen of England, come into the Court.

USHER.

Madam, you are call'd back.

QUEEN. What, need you note it, pray you keep your Way, When you are call'd return. Now the Lord help, They vex me paſt my Patience— Pray you paſs on I will not tarry; no, nor ever more Upon this Buſineſs my Appearance make In any of their Courts. Exeunt Queen and her Attendants. KING. Go thy ways, Kate; That Man i'th'World who ſhall report he has A better Wife, let him in nought be truſted For ſpeaking falſe in that. Thou art alone (If thy rare Qualities, ſweet Gentleneſs, Thy Meekneſs, Saint-like, Wife-like Government, Obeying in commanding, and thy Parts Sovereign, and pious elſe, could ſpeak thee out) The Queen of earthly Queens, ſhe's nobly born, And like her true Nobility, ſhe has Carried herſelf towards me. WOLSEY. Moſt gracious Sir, In humbleſt Manner I require your Highneſs, That it ſhall pleaſe you to declare, in hearing Of all theſe Ears (for where I'm robb'd and bound There muſt I be unloos'd; altho' not there At once, and fully ſatisfied) if I Did broach this Buſineſs to your Highneſs, or Laid any Scruple in your Way, which might Induce you to the Queſtion on't: or ever Have to you, but with Thanks to God for ſuch A Royal Lady, ſpeak one the leaſt Word That might be Prejudice of her preſent State, Or Touch of her good Perſon? KING. My Lord Cardinal I do excuſe you; yea, upon mine Honour I free you from't: You are not to be taught That you have many Enemies, that know not Why they are ſo; but like the Village Curs Bark when their Fellows do. By ſome of theſe The Queen is put in Anger, y'are excus'd: But will you be more juſtified? You ever Have wiſh'd the ſleeping of this Buſineſs, never Deſir'd it to be ſtirr'd; but oft have hindred The Paſſages made tow'rds it:—On my Honour I ſpeak my good Lord Cardinal to this Point; And thus far clear him. Now what mov'd me to't I will be bold with Time and your Attention: Then mark th'Inducement. Thus it came; give heed to't. My Conſcience firſt receiv'd a Tenderneſs, Scruple, and Prick, on certain Speeches utter'd By the Biſhop of Bayon, then French Ambaſſador, Who had been hither ſent on the debating A Marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleans and Our Daughter Mary: I' th' Progreſs of this Buſineſs, Ere a determinate Reſolution, he (I mean the Biſhop) did require a Reſpite; Wherein he might the King his Lord advertiſe Whether our Daughter were legitimate Reſpecting this our Marriage with the Dowager Some time our Brother's Wife. This Reſpite ſhook The Bottom of my Conſcience, enter'd me, Yea, with a ſplitting Power; and made to tremble The Region of my Breaſt; which forc'd ſuch way, That many maz'd Conſiderings did throng And preſs'd in with this Caution. Firſt, me-thought I ſtood not in the Smile of Heav'n, which had Commanded Nature, that my Lady's Womb (If it conceiv'd a Male Child by me) ſhould Do no more Offices of Life to't, than The Grave does to the Dead; for her Male Iſſue Or died where they were made, or ſhortly after This World had air'd them. Hence I took a Thought This was a Judgment on me, that my Kingdom (Well worthy the beſt Heir o'th'World) ſhould not Be gladded in't by me. Then follows, that I weigh'd the Danger which my Realms ſtood in By this my Iſſue's Fail; and that gave to me Many a groaning Throe: Thus hulling in The wild Sea of my Conſcience, I did ſteer Towards this Remedy, whereupon we are Now preſent here together, that's to ſay, I mean to rectify my Conſcience (which I then did feel full ſick, and yet not well;) By all the rev'rend Fathers of the Land And Doctors learn'd. Firſt, I began in private With you, my Lord of Lincoln; you remember, How under my Oppreſſion I did reek. When I firſt mov'd you. LINCOLN.

Very well, my Liege.

KING. I have ſpoke long; be pleas'd yourſelf to ſay How far you ſatisfied me. LINCOLN. Pleaſe your Highneſs, The Queſtion did at firſt ſo ſtagger me, Bearing a Stake of mighty Moment in't, And Conſequence of Dread, that I committed The daring'ſt Counſel, which I had, to doubt, And did intreat your Highneſs to this Courſe Which you are running here. KING. I then mov'd you My Lord of Canterbury, and got your Leave To make this preſent Summons: Unſollicited I left no rev'rend Perſon in this Court, But, by particular Conſent, proceeded Under your Hands and Seals. Therefore go on; For no Diſlike i' th' World againſt the Perſon Of our good Queen, but the ſharp thorny Points Of my alledged Reaſons drive this forward. Prove but our Marriage lawful, by my Life And kingly Dignity, we are contented To wear our mortal State to come, with her (Cath'rine our Queen) before the primeſt Creature That's paragon'd i'th'World. CAMPEIUS. So pleaſe your Highneſs, The Queen being abſent, 'tis a needful Fitneſs That we adjourn this Court to further Day; Mean while muſt be an earneſt Motion Made to the Queen, to call back her Appeal She intends to his Holineſs. KING. I may perceive Theſe Cardinals trifle with me, I abhor This dilatory Sloth, and Tricks of Rome. My learn'd and well-beloved Servant Cranmer, Pr'ythee return, with thy Approach I know My Comfort comes along. Break up the Court I ſay, ſet on. Exeunt.

The Viſit which the Popes Legate, Cardinal Campeius, and Cardinal Wolſey make to the Queen, her Reception of them, and the Diſcourſe that paſt amongſt them, is not leſs cloſely copied.

Page 908. "The next Court Day, the Cardinals ſat again, at which Time the Councel on both ſides, were there ready to anſwer. The King's Councel alledged the Matrimony not to be lawful at the Beginning, becauſe of the carnal Copulation had between Prince Arthur and the Queen. This Matter was very vehemently touched on that Side; and, to prove it, they alledged many Reaſons and Similitudes of Truth; and being anſwered negatively again on the other Side, it ſeemed that all their former Allegations were doubtful to be tried, and that no Man knew the Truth, and thus this Court paſſed from Seſſions to Seſſions, and Day to Day, till at certain of their Seſſions the King ſent the two Cardinals to the Queen (who was then in Bridwell) to perſuade with her by their Wiſdoms, and to adviſe her to ſurrender the whole Matter into the King's Hands, by her own Conſent and Will, which ſhould be much better to her Honour, than to ſtand to the Tryal of Law, and thereby to be condemned, which ſhould ſeem much to her Diſhonour.

The Cardinal being in the Queen's Chamber of Preſence, the Gentleman Uſher advertiſed the Queen that the Cardinals were come to ſpeak with her, with that ſhe roſe up, and with a Skeine of white Thread about her Neck, came into her Chamber of Preſence, where the Cardinals were attending. At whoſe coming, quoth ſhe, what is your Pleaſure with me? If it pleaſe your Grace, quoth Cardinal Wolſey, to go into your Privy Chamber we will ſhew the Cauſe of our coming. My Lord, quoth ſhe, if ye have any Thing to ſay, ſpeak it openly before all theſe Folk, for I fear nothing you can ſay againſt me, but that I would have all the World ſhould hear and ſee it, and therefore ſpeak your Mind. Then began the Cardinal to ſpeak to her in Latine. Nay, good my Lord, quoth ſhe, ſpeak to me in Engliſh.

Forſooth (quoth the Cardinal) good Madam, if it pleaſe you, we come both to know your Mind, how you are diſpoſed to do in this Matter between the King and you, and alſo to declare ſecretely our Opinions and Councels unto you, which we do only for very Zeal and Obedience we bear unto your Grace. My Lord, quoth ſhe, I thank you for your good Will, but to make you Anſwer in your Requeſt I cannot ſo ſuddenly; for I was ſet among my Maids at Work, thinking full little of any ſuch Matter, wherein there needeth a longer Deliberation, and a better Head than mine to make Anſwer, for I need Councell in this Call which touches me ſo near, and for any Councell or Friendſhip that I can find in England, they are not for my Profit, what think you my Lords, will any Engliſhman Councell me, or be Friend to me againſt the King's Pleaſure, that is his Subject? Nay forſooth, and as for Councell, in whom I will put my truſt, they be not here, they be in Spain, in my own Country. And my Lords, I am a poor Woman lacking Wit, to anſwer to any ſuch Noble Perſons of Wiſdom as you be, in ſo weighty a Matter, therefore I pray you be good to me poor Woman, deſtitute of Friends, here in a foreign Region, and your Councell alſo I will be glad to hear. And therewith ſhe took the Cardinal by the Hand, and led him into her privy Chamber with the other Cardinal, where they tarried a Seaſon talking with the Queen, which Communication ended, they departed to the King, making to him Relation of her Talk. Thus this Caſe went forward from Court to Court, till it came to Judgment, ſo that every one expected that Judgment would be given the next Day. At which Day the King came thither, and ſet him. down in a Chair, within a Door in the End of the Gallery (which opened directly againſt the Judgment Seat, to hear the Judgment given, at which Time all their Proceedings were read in Latine.

That done the King's Councell at the Bar called for Judgment (with that quoth Cardinal Campeius) I will not give Judgment till I have made Relation to the Pope of all our Proceedings, whoſe Councell and Commandment in this Caſe I will obſerve. The Caſe is very doubtful, and alſo the Party Defendant will make no Anſwer here but doth rather Appeal from us, ſuppoſing that we be not indifferent, wherefore I will adjourn this Court for this Time, according to the Order of the Court of Rome. And with that the Court was diſſolved and no more done. This potracting of the Concluſion of the Matter, King Henry took very diſpleaſantly. Then Cardinal Campeius took his Leave of the King and Nobility and returned to Rome."

ACT III.

SCENE, the Queen's Apartment. The Queen and her Women as at Work. Enter a Gentleman. QUEEN.

How now?

GENT. An't pleaſe your Grace, the two great Cardinals Wait in the Preſence. QUEEN.

Would they ſpeak with me?

GENT.

They will'd me ſay ſo, Madam.

QUEEN. Pray their Graces To come near; what can be their Buſineſs With me, a poor weak Woman fall'n from Favour? I do not like their coming. Now I think on't, They ſhould be good Men, their Affairs as righteous, But all Hoods make not Monks. Enter the Cardinals, Wolſey and Campeius, WOLSEY.

Peace to your Highneſs.

QUEEN. Your Graces find me here Part of a Houſewife, (I would be all) againſt the worſt may happen. What are your Pleaſures with me rev'rend Lords. WOLSEY. May'ſt pleaſe you, noble Madam, to withdraw Into your private Chamber; we ſhall give you The full Cauſe of our coming. QUEEN. Speak it here, There's nothing I have done yet, o'my Conſcience Deſerves a Corner; would all other Women Could ſpeak this with as free a Soul as I do: My Lords I care not (ſo much I am happy Above a Number) if my Actions Were try'd by ev'ry Tongue, ev'ry Eye ſaw 'em Envy and baſe Opinion ſet againſt 'em; I know my Life ſo even. If your Buſineſs Do ſeek me out; and that way I am wiſe in, Out with it boldly, truth loves open dealing. WOLSEY.

Tanta eſt erga te mentis integritas, Regina Sereniſſima.

QUEEN. O my good Lord, no Latin; I am not ſuch a Truant, ſince my coming As not to know the Language I have liv'd in, A ſtrange Tongue makes my Cauſe more ſtrange, ſuſpicious: Pray ſpeak in Engliſh, here are ſome will thank you If you ſpeak truth, for their poor Miſtreſs' ſake: Believe me, ſhe has had much wrong, Lord Cardinal, The willing'ſt Sin I ever yet committed May be abſolv'd in Engliſh. WOLSEY. Noble Lady, I'm ſorry my Integrity ſhould breed (And ſervice to his Majeſty and you) So deep Suſpicion, where all Faith was meant. We come not by the way of Accuſation To taint that Honour, every good Tongue bleſſes; Nor to betray you any way to Sorrow; You have too much, good Lady: But to know How you ſtand minded in the weighty Difference Between the King and you, and to deliver Like free and honeſt Men, our juſt Opinions And comforts to your Cauſe. CAMPEIUS. Moſt honour'd Madam, My Lord of York out of his noble Nature Zeal and Obedience he ſtill bore your Grace, Forgetting, like a good Man, your late Cenſure Both of his Truth and him (which was too far) Offers, as I do, in a Sign of Peace His Service and his Counſel. QUEEN. To betray me. My Lords, I thank you both for your Good-wills. Ye ſpeak like honeſt Men; pray God ye prove ſo, But how to make you ſuddenly an Anſwer In ſuch a Point of Weight, ſo near mine Honour, (More near my Life, I fear) with my weak Wit And to ſuch Men of Gravity and Learning, In Truth, I know not. I was ſet at work Among my Maids; full little, God knows, looking Either for ſuch Men, or ſuch Buſineſs, For her Sake that I have been (for I feel The laſt Fit of my Greatneſs) good your Graces, Let me have Time and Council for my Cauſe; Alas! I am a Woman, friendleſs, hopeleſs. WOLSEY. Madam, you wrong the King's Love with thoſe Fears: Your Hopes and Friends are infinite. QUEEN. In England, But little for my Profit, can you think, Lords That any Engliſhman dare give me Counſel? Or be a known Friend 'gainſt his Highneſs' Pleaſure (Though he be grown ſo deſp'rate to be honeſt) And live a Subject? Nay, forſooth, my Friends, They that muſt weigh out my Afflictions, They that my Truſt muſt grow to, live not here; They are, as all my Comforts are, far hence In my own Country, Lords. CAMPEIUS. I would your Grace Would leave your Griefs, and take my Counſel. QUEEN.

How Sir?

CAMPEIUS. Put your main Cauſe into the King's Protection; He's loving and moſt gracious. 'Twill be much Both for your Honour better, and your Cauſe; For if the Tryal of the Law o'ertake you, You'll part away diſgrac'd. WOLSEY.

He tells you rightly.

QUEEN. Ye tell me what ye wiſh for both, my Ruin: Is this your Chriſtian Counſel? Out upon ye, Heav'n is above all yet; there ſits a Judge, That no King can corrupt. CAMPEIUS.

Your Rage miſtakes us.

QUEEN. The more ſhame for ye, holy Men I thought ye Upon my Soul, two rev'rend Cardinal Vertues; But Cardinal Sins, and hollow-Hearts, I fear ye: Mend 'em for Shame, my Lords, is this your Comfort? The Cordial that you bring a wretched Lady? A Woman loſt among ye, laugh'd at, ſcorn'd? I will not wiſh you half my Miſeries I have more Charity. But ſay I warn'd ye; Take heed, take heed, for Heaven's Sake, leſt at once The Burthen of my Sorrows fall upon ye. WOLSEY. Madam this is a meer Diſtraction, You turn the Good we offer into Envy. QUEEN. Ye turn me into nothing. Woe upon ye And all ſuch falſe Profeſſors; would you have me (If you have any Juſtice, any Pity, If ye be any thing but Church Mens Habits) Put my ſick Cauſe into his Hands that hates me? Alas! h'as baniſh'd me his Bed already; His love, too long ago, I'm old my Lords; And all the Fellowſhip I hold now with him Is only my Obedience. What can happen To me, above this wretchedneſs? all your Studies Make me a curſe, like this. CAMPEIUS.

Your Fears are worſe.—

QUEEN. Have I liv'd thus long (let me ſpeak myſelf Since virtue finds no Friends) a Wife, a true one? A Woman [I dare ſay without vain Glory] Never yet branded with Suſpicion; Have I with all my full Affections Still met the King, lov'd him, next Heav'n obey'd him; Been, out of Fondneſs, ſuperſtitious to him, Almoſt forgot my Prayers to content him; And am I thus rewarded? 'tis not well, Lords. Bring me a conſtant Woman to her Huſband, One, that ne'er dream'd a Joy beyond his Pleaſure; And to that Woman, when ſhe has done moſt, Yet will I add an Honour, a great Patience. WOLSEY.

Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.

QUEEN. My Lord, I dare not make myſelf ſo guilty, To give up willingly that noble Title Your Maſter wed me to, nothing but Death Shall e'er divorſe my Dignities. WOLSEY.

Pray hear me.

QUEEN. Would I had never trod this Engliſh Earth, Or felt the Flatteries that grow upon it; Ye've Angels' Faces, but Heav'n knows your Hearts. What ſhall become of me now! wretched Lady! I am the moſt unhappy Woman living. Alas! poor Wenches, where are now your Fortunes?To her Women. Ship-wreck'd upon a Kingdom, where no Pity. No Friends, no Hope, no Kindred weep for me, Almoſt no Grave allow'd me! Like the Lilly, That once was Miſtreſs of the Field and flouriſh'd, I'll hang my Head and periſh. WOLSEY. If your Grace Could not be brought to know our Ends are honeſt, You'd feel more comfort, why ſhould we, good Lady, Upon what Cauſe wrong you▪ alas! our Places The Way of our Profeſſion is againſt it: We are to ear ſuch Sorrows, not to ſow 'em, For Goodneſs' ſake, conſider what you do, How you may hurt yourſelf, nay, utterly Grow from the King's Acquaintance, by this Carriage. The Hearts of Princes kiſs Obedience, So much they love; but to ſtubborn Spirits, They ſwell and grow as terrible as Storms. I know you have a gentle, noble Temper, A Soul as even as a Calm; pray think us Thoſe we profeſs, Peace make us, Friends and Servants. CAMPEIUS. Madam, you'll find it ſo; you wrong your Virtues With theſe weak Women's Fears. A noble Spirit As yours was put into you, ever caſts Such Doubts, as falſe Coin, from it; the King loves you, Beware you loſe it not; for us, if you pleaſe To truſt us in your Buſineſs, we are ready To uſe our utmoſt Studies in your Service. QUEEN. Do what you will, my Lords, and pray forgive me If I have us'd myſelf unmannerly. You know, I am a Woman lacking Wit To make a ſeemly Anſwer to ſuch Perſons. Pray do my Service to his Majeſty. He has my Heart yet; and ſhall have my Prayers While I ſhall have my Life. Come, rev'rend Fathers, Beſtow your Counſels on me. She now begs That little Thought, when ſhe ſet Footing here She ſhould have bought her Dignities ſo dear.

Shakeſpear makes the King firſt ſee Anna Bullen at a Banquet given by Cardinal Wolſey. There ſeems to be ſome little Abſurdity in this Incident; for Anna Bullen being, as the Lord Chamberlain afterwards tells the King, one of the Queen's Attendants, it can hardly be ſuppoſed that he never ſaw her before. This Banquet is at large deſcribed by Holingſhed. Shakeſpear follows him cloſely in ſeveral of the Circumſtances, as well as the Diſcourſe that paſſed between the King and ſome of the Perſons preſent.

"On a time, ſays Holingſhed, Page 921, the King came ſuddenly thither in a Maſk, with a Dozen Maſkers, all in Garments like Shepherds, made of fine Cloth of Gold, and Crimſon Sattin paned, and Caps of the ſame, with Vizards of good Phyſnomie, their Hair and Beards either of fine Gold-wire, Silk, or Black Silk, having ſixteen Torch-bearers, beſides their Drums, and other Perſons with their Vizards, all cloathed in Sattin of the ſame Colour, and before his entering into the Hall, he came by Water to the Water-gate without Noiſe, where were laid diverſe Chambers and Guns charged with Shot, and at his Landing they were ſhot off, which made ſuch a Rumble in the Air that it was like Thunder, it made all the Noblemen, Ladies, and Gentlemen to muſe what it ſhould mean, coming ſo ſuddenly, they ſitting quiet at a ſolemn Banquet after this Sort. Firſt, you ſhall underſtand that the Tables were ſet in the Chamber of Preſence, juſt covered, and the Lord Cardinal ſitting under a Cloth of State, there having all his Service alone, and was there ſet a Lady with a Nobleman, or a Gentleman and a Gentlewoman throughout all the Tables in the Chamber on the one Side, which were made and joined as it were but one Table, all which order and deviſe was done by the Lord Sanders, then Lord Chamberlain to the King, and by Sir Henry Guildford, Comptroller of the King's Houſe. Then immediately after the Great Chamberlain, and the ſaid Comptroller, ſent to look what it ſhould mean (as though they knew nothing of the Matter) who looking out of the Windows into the Thames, returned again and ſhewed him, that it ſeemed they were Noblemen and Strangers that arrived at his Bridge, coming as Ambaſſadors from ſome foreign Prince, With that, quoth the Cardinal, I deſire you becauſe you can ſpeak French, to take the Pains to go into the Hall, there to receive them according to their Eſtates, and to conduct them into this Chamber, where they ſhall ſee us, and all theſe noble Perſonages, being merry at our Banquet deſiring them to ſit down with us, and to take part of our Fare. Then went down incontinently into the Hall, where they were received with twenty new Torches, and conveyed them up into the Chamber with ſuch a noiſe of Drums and Flutes, as ſeldom had been heard the like. At their entring into the Chamber two and two together, they went directly towards the Cardinal, where he ſat, and ſaluted him reverently. To whom the Lord Chamberlain for them ſaid; Sir, for as much as they be Strangers, and can not ſpeak Engliſh, they have deſired me to declare unto you, that having underſtanding of this triumphant Banquet, where was aſſembled ſuch a Number of excellent Dames, they could do no leſs under ſupport of your Grace, but to repair hither, to view as well their incomparable Beauty, as for to accompany them at Mum-chance, and then to Dance with them; and, Sir, they require of your Grace, Licence to accompliſh the ſaid Cauſe of their coming. To whom the Cardinal ſaid, he was very well content they ſhould do ſo. Then went the Maſkers, and firſt ſaluted all the Dames, and returned to the moſt worthy, and there opened their great Cup of Gold filled with Crowns and other Pieces of Gold, to whom they ſet certain Pieces of Gold to caſt at. Thus peruſing all the Ladies and Gentlewomen, to ſome they loſt, and of ſome they won; and marking after this Manner all the Ladies, they returned to the Cardinal with great Reverence, powring down all the Gold ſo left in their Cup, which was about two Hundred Crowns. At all quoth the Cardinal, and ſo caſt the Dice and wone them, whereat was made a great Noiſe and Joy. Then, quoth the Cardinal to the Lord Chamberlain. I pray you, that you would ſhew them, that me ſeemeth there ſhould be a Nobleman amongſt them, who is more meet to occupy this Seat and Place than I am, to whom I would moſt gladly ſurrender the ſame according to my Duty, if I knew him.

Then ſpake the Lord Chamberlain to them in French, and they rounding him in the Ear, the Chamberlain ſaid unto my Lord Cardinal, Sir quoth he, they confeſs, that among them there is ſuch a noble Perſonage, whom if your Grace can point him out from the reſt, he is content to diſcloſe himſelf, and accept your Place. With that the Cardinal taking good Adviſement among them, at the laſt quoth he, me ſeemeth the Gentleman with the black Beard, ſhould be he, and with that roſe out of his Chair, and offered the ſame to the Gentleman in the black Beard with his Cap in his Hand. The Perſon to whom he offered the Chair was Sir Edward Nevill, a comely Knight, that much more reſembled the King's Perſon in that Maſk than any other. The King perceiving the Cardinal ſo deceived, could not forbear laughing, but pulling down his Viſar and Mr. Nevill's alſo, and daſhed out ſuch a pleaſant Countenance and Cheere, that all the noble Eſtates there aſſembled perceiving the King to be there among them, rejoiced very much."

SCENE York Houſe. Hautboys. A ſmall Table under a State for the Cardinal, a long Table for the Gueſts. Then enter Anne Bullen, and divers other Ladies and Gentlewomen, as Gueſts, at one Door; at another Door enter Sir Henry Guildford. GUILDFORD, Ladies, a general Welcome for his Grace Salutes ye all: This Night he dedicates To fair Content and you: None here, he hopes, In all this noble Bevy, has brought with her One Care abroad; he would have all as merry As, firſt good Company, good Wine, could welcome, Can make good People. Enter Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands and Lovell. O my Lord, y'are tardy; The very Thoughts of this fair Company, Clap'd Wings to me. CHAMBERLAIN.

You're young, Sir Harry Guildford.

SANDS. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the Cardinal But half my lay-Thoughts in him, ſome of theſe Should find a running Banquet, ere they reſted: I think, would better pleaſe 'em: by my Life, They are a ſweet Society of fair Ones. LOVELL. O, that your Lordſhip were but now Confeſſor To one or two of theſe. SANDS. I would, I were; They ſhould find eaſy Penance, LOVELL.

'Faith, how eaſy?

SANDS.

As eaſy as a down Bed would afford it.

CHAMBERLAIN. Sweet Ladies, will it pleaſe you ſit? Sir Harry Place you that ſide, I'll take the Charge of this: His Grace is ent'ring; nay, you muſt not freeze; Two Women, plac'd together, make cold Weather. My Lord Sands, you are one will keep 'em waking, Pray, ſit between theſe Ladies. SANDS. By my faith, And thank your Lordſhip. By your leave, ſweet Ladies, If I chance to talk a little Wild, forgive me: I had it from my Father. ANNE.

Was he mad, Sir?

SANDS. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in Love too. But he would bite none; juſt as I do now He'd Kiſs you twenty with a Breath. CHAMBERLAIN. Well ſaid, my Lord: So now y'are fairly ſeated: Gentlemen, The Penance lyes on you, if theſe fair Ladies Paſs away frowning. SANDS. For my little Cure Let me alone, Hautboys, Enter Cardinal Wolſey and takes his State. WOLSEY. Y'are welcome, my fair Gueſts: that noble Lady Or Gentleman that is not freely merry Is not my Friend. This, to confirm my welcome: And to you all good Health. Drinks. SANDS. Your Grace is noble; Let me have ſuch a Bowl may hold my thanks And ſave me ſo much talking. WOLSEY. My Lord Sands, I am beholden to you, cheer your Neighbour; Ladies, you are not merry; Gentlemen, Whoſe Fault is this? SANDS. The red Wine firſt muſt riſe In their fair Cheeks, my Lord, then we ſhall have 'em Talk us to ſilence. ANNE. You're a merry Gameſter, My Lord Sands. SANDS. Yes, and if I make my Play: Here's to your Ladyſhip, and pledge it, Madam: For 'tis to ſuch a Thing.— ANNE.

You cannot ſhew me.

SANDS.

I told your Grace that they would talk anon.

Drums and Trumpets, Chambers diſcharg'd. WOLSEY.

What's that?

CHAMBERLAIN.

Look out there ſome of ye,

WOLSEY. What warlike Voice, And to what end is this? nay, Ladies, fear not; By all the Laws of War y'are privileged. Enter a Servant. CHAMBERLAIN.

How now, what is't?

SERVANT. A noble Troop of Strangers, For ſo they ſeem, have left their Barge and landed; And hither make, as great Ambaſſadors From foreign Princes. WOLSEY. Good Lord Chamberlain, Go, give 'em welcome, you can ſpeak the French Tongue. And, pray receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em Into our Preſence, where this Heav'n of Beauty Shall ſhine at full upon them, ſome attend. All riſe, and Tables removed. You've now a broken Banquet, but we'll mend it. A good Digeſtion to you all, and once more I ſhowre a Welcome on ye, welcome all. Enter King and others, as Maſkers, habited like Shepherds uſher'd by the Lord Chamberlain. They paſs directly before the Lord Cardinal, and gracefully Salute him. A noble Company! what are their Pleaſures? CHAMBERLAIN. Becauſe they ſpeak no Engliſh, thus they pray'd To tell your Grace, that having heard by Fame Of this ſo noble and ſo fair Aſſembly, This Night to meet here, they could do no leſs Out of the great Reſpect they bear to beauty, But leave their Flocks, and under your fair Conduct Crave leave to view theſe Ladies, and intreat An Hour of Revels with 'em. WOLSEY. Say, Lord Chamberlain, They've done my poor Houſe Grace: for which I pay 'em A thouſand Thanks, and pray 'em, take their Pleaſures. Chuſe Ladies, King and Anne Bullen. KING. The faireſt Hand I ever touch'd! O Beauty Till now I never knew thee. Muſick. Dance. WOLSEY.

My Lord.—

CHAMBERLAIN.

Your Grace.

WOLSEY. Pray tell 'em thus much from me. There ſhould be one amongſt 'em by his Perſon More worthy this Place than myſelf, to whom If I but knew him, with my Love and Duty I would ſurrender it. Whiſper, CHAMBERLAIN.

I will, my Lord.

WOLSEY.

What ſay they?

CHAMBERLAIN. Such a one, they all confeſs, There is, indeed; which they would have your Grace Find out, and he will take it. WOLSEY. Let me ſee then: By all your good leaves, Gentlemen, here I'll make My Royal Choice, KING. You've found him, Cardinal: You held a fair Aſſembly: You do well, Lord. You are a Church Man, or I'll tell you Cardinal, I ſhould now judge unhappily. WOLSEY. I'm glad, Your Grace is grown ſo pleaſant. KING. My Lord Chamberlain. Pr'ythee come hither, what fair Lady's that? CHAMBERLAIN. An't pleaſe your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullen's Daughter, (The Viſcount Rochford) one of her Highneſs' Women. KING. By Heaven, ſhe's a Dainty one: Sweet Heart I were unmannerly to take you out, And not to Kiſs you. A Health, Gentlemen, Let it go round. WOLSEY. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the Banquet ready I'th' Privy Chamber. LOVELL.

Yes my Lord.

WOLSEY. Your Grace, I fear, with Dancing is a little heated. KING.

I fear too much.

WOLSEY. There's freſher Air, my Lord, In the next Chamber. KING. Lead in your Ladies every one: Sweet Partner, I muſt not yet forſake you; let's be merry. Good my Lord Cardinal, I have half a dozen Healths To drink to theſe fair Ladies, and a Meaſure To lead them once again, and then let's dream Who's beſt in Favour, let the Muſic knock it.

This Play, as the learned Mr. Upton obſerves in his critical Obſervations on Shakeſpear, might be properly called the Fall of Cardinal Wolſey, if the Action had cloſed with the Marriage of the King to Anna Bullen.

This haughty Churchman is indeed ſhewn in the Heighth of his Power and Favour with the King, from whence he falls by a Concurrence of unhappy Circumſtances, which bring on his total Diſgrace, and at laſt his Death: But even in this Caſe, the Action could not be conſidered as one and entire, while Queen Catharine's Sufferings make ſo large a Part of it, and which, from the Dignity of her Character, and the great and ſudden Reverſe of her Fortune, cannot, with any Propriety, form only a ſubordinate Incident in a Play, whoſe Subject is the Fall of a much leſs conſiderable Perſon than herſelf.

Queen Catharine has a higher Claim to give a Title to the Tragedy than Wolſey, ſince her Quality and Misfortunes are both ſuperior to his. She, like him, is ſhewn in the Sunſhine of her Fortune, a Queen, and happy in the Affections of her Sovereign and Huſbund, as may be concluded from King Henry's Speech to her at her Entrance into the Council-Chamber.

KING. Ariſe and take your Place by us, half your Suit Never name to us; you have half our Power; The other Moity, ere you aſk is given; Repeat your Will, and take it.

After this, we ſee her deſpiſed, neglected, baniſhed from his Bed, the Name and Character of Wife taken from her, divorced, unqueen'd, and ſhutting up all her Sorrows in Death. The Fate of this Queen, or that of Cardinal Wolſey, each ſingly afforded a Subject for Tragedy. Shakeſpear, by blending them in the ſame Piece, has deſtroyed the Unity of his Fable, divided our Attention between them; and, by adding many other inconnected Incidents, all foreign to his Deſign, has given us an irregular hiſtorical Drama, inſtead of a finiſhed Tragedy.

In all that related to Cardinal Wolſey he has exactly followed hiſtorical Truth; and his Character, as drawn by the Queen and Griffith, with all its Lights and Shades, is, as the Reader may perceive, cloſely copied from that Hiſtorian.

Queen Catharine, in the Play, being told by Griffith, her Gentleman Uſher, that the Cardinal is dead, replies, So may he reſt, his Faults lie gently on him! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to ſpeak him, And yet with Charity; he was a Man Of an unbounded Stomach, ever ranking Himſelf with Princes: One that by Suggeſtion Ty'd all the Kingdom; Simony was fair Play: His own Opinion was his Law. I'th'Preſence He would ſay Untruths, and be ever double Both in his Words and Meaning. He was never, But where he meant to ruin, pitiful. His Promiſes were, as he then was, mighty; But his Performance, as he now is, nothing. Of his own Body he was ill, and gave The Clergy ill Example

"This Cardinal was of a great Stomach, for he counted himſelf equal with Princes; and by crafty Suggeſtion got into his Hands innumerable Treaſure; he forced little on Simony, and was not pitiful • ; and ſtood affectionate in his own Opinion. In open Preſence he would lie and ſay Untruths, and was double both in Speech and Meaning; he would promiſe much and perform little; he was vicious of his Body, and gave the Clergy evil Example."

GRIFFITH. Noble Madam, Men's evil Manners live in Braſs, their Virtues We write in Water. May it pleaſe your Highneſs To hear me ſpeak his Good now? CATHARINE. Yes, good Griffith, I were malicious elſe. GRIFFITH. This Cardinal, Though from an humble Stock, undoubtedly Was faſhion'd to much Honour, from his Cradle; He was a Scholar, and a ripe and good One; Exceeding wife, fair ſpoken, and perſuading; Lofty and ſour to them that lov'd him not; But to thoſe Men, that ſought him, ſweet as Summer. And though he were unſatisfy'd in getting, (Which was a ſin) yet in beſtowing, Madam, He was moſt princely: Ever witneſs for him Thoſe Twins of Learning that he rais'd in you, Ipſwich and Oxford, one of which fell with him, Unwilling to out-live the Good he did it; The other, though unfiniſh'd, yet ſo famous, So excellent in Art, and ſtill ſo riſing, That Chriſtendom ſhall ever ſpeak his Virtue, His Overthrow heap'd Happineſs upon him; For then, and not till then, he felt himſelf, And found the Bleſſedneſs of being little: And to add greater Honours to his Age, Than Man could give him, he dy'd, fearing God.

"This Cardinal, was a Man undoubtedly born to honour; I think ſome Princes Baſtard, no Butcher's Son; exceeding wiſe, fair ſpoken, high minded, full of Revenge, vitious of his Body, lofty to his Enemies, were they never ſo big; to thoſe that accepted and ſought his Friendſhip, wonderful courteous; a ripe Schoolman, thrall to affections, brought to Bed with flattery, inſatiable to get, and more princely in beſtowing; as appeareth by his two Colleges of Ipſwich and Oxford, the one overthrown with his Fall; the other unfiniſhed; and, yet, as it lieth, for a Houſe of Students, conſidering all the Appurtances, incomparable through Chriſtendome, whereof Henry the Eighth is now called Founder, becauſe he let it ſtand. He held and enjoyed at once the Biſhopricks of York, Durham, and Wincheſter, the Dignity of Lord Cardinal, Legate and Chancelor, the Abbey of St. Albans, divers Priories, ſundry fat Benifices in commendam; a great Preferrer of his Servants, an Advancer of Learning, ſtout in every Quarrel, never happy till this his Overthrow, wherein he ſhewed ſuch Moderation and ended ſo perfectly, that the Hour of his Death did him more Honour than all the Pomp of his Life."

Tho' the Character of King Henry is drawn after this Hiſtorian, yet Shakeſpear has placed it in the moſt advantagious Light; In this Play he repreſents him as greatly diſpleaſed with the Grievances of his Subjects and ordering them to be relieved, tender and obliging to his Queen, grateful to the Cardinal, and in the Caſe of Cranmer, capable of diſtinguiſhing and rewarding true Merit. If, in the latter Part of the Play, he endeavours to caſt the disagreeable Parts of this Prince's Character as much into Shade as poſſible, it is not to be wondered at. Shakeſpear wrote in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth, a Princeſs who inherited more of the Ambition of her Father Henry, than of the Tenderneſs and Delicacy of her Mother Anne Bullen: And however ſenſible ſhe might be of the Injuries her Mother endur'd, would not have ſuffered her Father's Character to have been drawn in the worſt Colours, either by an Hiſtorian or a Poet. Shakeſpear has exerted an equal degree of Complaiſance towards Queen Elizabeth by the amiable Lights he ſhews her Mother in, in this Play,

Anne Bullen is repreſented as affected with the moſt tender Concern for the Sufferings of her Miſtreſs, Queen Catharine; receiving the Honour the King confers on her, by making her Marchioneſs of Pembroke, with a graceful Humility; and more anxious to conceal her Advancement from the Queen, leſt it ſhould aggravate her Sorrows, than ſolicitous to penetrate into the Meaning of ſo extraordinary a Favour, or of indulging herſelf in the flattering Proſpect of future Royalty.

THE TALE of Geneura: From the Italian of Lodovico Arioſto, in the Fifth Book of his Orlando Furioſo.

THE noble Rilando ſailing to England, whither he was ſent on an Embaſſy by the Emperor Charlemaine, a violent Storm aroſe, which continuing two Days and Nights, drove him, at laſt, on the Coaſt of Scotland: His Fleet arriving ſafe, he ordered his Retinue to meet him at Berwick, himſelf, without any Attendants, ſtruck into the famous Foreſt of Caledonia, not without a Hope of meeting with ſome Adventure worthy his Courage and Virtue.

While he was pleaſing himſelf with this Expectation, ſometimes riding, and ſometimes walking a ſlow Pace leading his Horſe, Night drew on, and he now began to think it neceſſary to go in queſt of a Lodging. Perceiving an Abbey at ſome Diſtance, he remounted his Horſe and rode up to it. The Abbot and his Monks, ſeeing a Stranger of a noble Appearance at their Gate, came out, and with great Civility invited him to paſs the Night there.

Rinaldo gratefully accepted their Offer; and being conducted to a Chamber, and an elegant Repaſt ſerved to the Table, as ſoon as he had ſatisfied the Cravings of an Appetite made eager by Travel and long Faſting, he enquired of the good Fathers what noble Exploits in Arms had been lately performed in their Neighbourhood, and whether a Warrior might hope to find any Occaſions there of ſignalizing his Valour?

'Tis certain, replied the Abbot, that many great and wonderful Adventures have been atchieved in this Foreſt, but as the Place, ſo are the Actions, obſcure, and buried in Oblivion: Hovever, if Honour be your Purſuit, the preſent time affords you a fit Opportunity to acquire it; the Danger, indeed, is great, but if you ſucceed eternal Fame will be your Reward. The young and beautiful Geneura, the Daughter of our King, is accuſed by a Knight named Lurcanio, of having violated her Chaſtity; and it being provided by our Scottiſh Laws, that all Damſels, of what Rank ſoever, who are publickly charged with Incontinence, ſhall ſuffer the Puniſhment of Fire, unleſs a Champion be found who will undertake their Defence, and fight with the Accuſer.

Geneura, in Conſequence of this Law, has been adjudged to die, and only a Month's Space allowed her to procure a Defender of her Life and Honour. The King, anxious for his Daughter's Safety, but more for her Reputation, has cauſed it to be proclaimed throughout his Dominions, that by whatever Perſon (provided his Birth he not abſolutely baſe) his Daughter ſhall be delivered from the Danger that threatens her, to him ſhall the Princeſs be given in Marriage, with a Portion ſuitable to her high Rank and Quality.

This Enterprize, noble Stranger, is worthy your Youth, your Courage, and Generoſity: The Law of Arms requires all true Knights to undertake the Defence of injured and oppreſſed Ladies; and, ſurely, a fairer than Geneura is not to be found from one Extremity of the Globe to the other; nor, if common Opinion may be relied on, a chaſter.

And is it poſſible, ſaid Rinaldo after a little Pauſe, that this fair Princeſs is condemned to die for having generouſly rewarded the Paſſion of a faithful Lover? Curſed be the Makers of ſo hard a Law; more curſed they that are influenced by it. For me it matters not whether Geneura be juſtly or unjuſtly accuſed; what has been imputed to her as a Crime, were I her Judge, ſhe ſhould be applauded for, had ſhe taken care to have avoided Diſcovery; and, as it is, I am reſolved to defy her Accuſer to Combat, and, I truſt, ſhall be able to deliver her from the unjuſt and cruel Puniſhment ſhe has been doomed to.

The Abbot and Monks, overjoyed that they had procured a Champion for their Princeſs, laviſhed a thouſand Praiſes on Rinaldo for his generous Deſign; and he, full of Impatience to begin the glorious Enterprize, being furniſhed by his Hoſts with a Guide, ſet out early the next Morning for the Scottiſh Court, leaving the good Fathers charmed with his Courage and Gallantry, and offering up repeated Prayers to Heaven for his Succeſs.

As they were purſuing their Journey through Bye-roads, for the greater Expedition, a Cry, as of ſome Perſon in Diſtreſs, rouzed all their Attention. Inſtantly Rinaldo clapped Spurs to his Horſe, and bending his Courſe towards the Place from whence the Noiſe proceeded, he came to a deep Valley, ſurrounded with Trees, through the Branches of which he perceived a young Maid ſtruggling to free herſelf from the Hands of two Ruffians, who were attempting to murder her. Tranſported with Rage at this Sight, the generous Rinaldo flew to the Relief of the diſtreſſed Damſel; his Appearance ſo terrified the intended Murderers, that they left their Prey, and fled with the utmoſt Precipitation.

Mean time the Maid recovered from her Fright, thanked her Deliverer with a Tranſport of Joy and Gratitude, and was beginning to acquaint him with the Story of her Misfortunes, when he, who had not alighted, being eager to purſue his Journey, commanded his Guide to take her up behind him; and as they travelled, having at leiſure obſerved her Countenance and Behaviour, he was ſo much ſtruck with the Beauty of the one, and the ſoft and gentle Modeſty of the other, that his Curioſity was awakened, and he became ſolicitous to know by what means ſhe had been brought into ſo cruel a Situation.

His Requeſt being inforced with kind Aſſurances of future Protection, the Damſel, with a low Voice, and Eyes caſt down in a graceful Confuſion, began in this manner:

Since you, my generous Deliverer, have commanded me to relate my Misfortunes, prepare to hear a Tale more full of Horror, an Act of greater Villainy and Baſeneſs than Athens, Thebes, or Argos ever knew. Ah! 'tis no Wonder that our barren Clime is curſt with a long Winter's ceaſeleſs Rage, Phoebus diſdains to ſhine upon a Land where ſuch inhuman Crimes are perpetrated; Deeds black as Darkneſs, and fit to be covered with everlaſting Night; unhappy as I am, I bore but too great a Share in thoſe I am going to relate.

From my earlieſt Youth I was brought up in the Palace with the Daughter of our King, honoured with a near Attendance on her Perſon, and happy in the Poſſeſſion of her Affection and Eſteem. Long might I have enjoyed this delightful Situation; but Love (ah! that ever ſo ſweet a Paſſion ſhould prove the Source of ſo much Miſery) Love interrupted my Tranquillity, ſubjected my whole Soul, and gave me up to Guilt, to Shame, and unavailing Penitence.

The Duke of Alban was the Subject of my Virgin Wiſhes, my Youth and Perſon pleaſed him; ſkilled as he was in every deluding Art by which the falſe and the deſigning Part of his Sex betray the unexperienced of ours, is it any Wonder that I was deceived? Fond of believing what I wiſhed, and judging of his Paſſion by my own, I yielded to his Deſires, and vainly hoped this Sacrifice of my Honour would ſecure to me for ever, the Poſſeſſion of his Heart.

Our guilty Commerce laſted ſome Months, during which time I always received his Viſits in a Summer Apartment belonging to the Princeſs my Miſtreſs, into which, as it was now the moſt rigid Seaſon of the Year, ſhe never entered; and being alſo in a Part of the Palace little frequented, and the Windows oppoſite to ſome ruined Houſes, my Lover could come thither unobſerved, and by the Help of a ſilken Cord which I let down to him, eaſily aſcend the Chamber.

All Senſe of Virtue being now ſubdued, and my whole Soul ſunk in a dear lethargick Dream of Pleaſure, I never once ſuſpected, that as my Paſſion increaſed, that of my Lover was decreaſing: Ah! my too violent Love favoured his Deceit, or ſoon I might have perceived that he feigned much, and loved but little.

At length, notwithſtanding my Prepoſſeſſion, his Coldneſs became viſible; I ſigh'd, I wept, I reproach'd, alas! how unavailing are all Endeavours to revive a decaying Paſſion, ſatiated by Poſſeſſion, and conſtant only to Inconſtancy.

Polyneſſo, ſo was my faithleſs Lover named, languiſhed in ſecret for the bright Geneura, my royal Miſtreſs, I know not if this Paſſion commenced before my Ruin was compleated, or whether her more powerful Charms was the Cauſe of his Infidelity; but certain it is, that relying on the fervent Love I bore him, he made no Scruple to confeſs his Flame, even to me, urging me by all the Arguments his wicked Mind could ſuggeſt, to move the Heart of Geneura in his Favour.

Ah! my Lord judge, if this cruel Man was dear to me, ever ſolicitous to procure his Happineſs, and ſoothed by his Aſſurances that Ambition was the prevailing Motive of his Addreſs to the Princeſs, in which, if he ſucceeded, he vowed to keep me ſtill his, and that I ſhould Share with her his Perſon and his Heart, I conſented to all he propoſed; and following his Inſtructions, took all Opportunities of praiſing him to my Miſtreſs.

The Duke of Alban was the conſtant Subject of my Diſcourſe; I extolled his Valour his Generoſity, his illuſtrious Birth, the manly Graces of his Perſon, the mingled Sweetneſs and Dignity of his Manners; the charming Theme tranſported me out of myſelf; with eager Pleaſure I ran over all his Virtues, dwelt with Delight on every imputed Charm; ſcarce could my Tongue keep Pace with the overflowings of my loveſick Fancy, fond of the dear Indulgence of talking in a perſonated Character of him I loved.

But when, in Compliance with his Injunctions, I ventured to inſinuate his Paſſion for her, then only did I ſpeak with Coldneſs and Reſtraint; ſlowly the unwilling Words found way, checked by my riſing Sighs, and prefaced by my Bluſhes. My Emotions could not have been hid from an intereſted Obſervation; but the Princeſs was not only wholly indifferent to Polyneſſo, but indulged a ſecret Paſſion for the all-accompliſhed Ariodant.

This young Knight, an Italian by Birth, came with his Brother to the Court of Scotland, either in purſuit of Glory, or to tranſact ſome ſecret Buſineſs with the King. To the Graces of his Form, than which Nature never made one more lovely, is added a Mind fraught with whatever is moſt great and excellent in Mankind; his Valour never yet found an equal in our Land; his is the Prize at every Tournement, his the foremoſt Honours of the Field: in Peace the Ornament of our Court, in War the Defender of our Country.

The King, to whom he had indeared himſelf by a thouſand Services, loaded him with Riches and Honours, and gave him the firſt Employments in the Kingdom; the Hill of Sicily burns not with fiercer Fires, nor glows Veſuvius with more ardent Flames, than thoſe which the bright Eyes of our Princeſs kindled in the Heart of Ariodant.

I ſoon diſcovered that Geneura approved, encouraged and returned his Paſſion; and being, as you may eaſily imagine, not greatly concerned at this Obſtacle to the Deſires of my faithleſs Duke, I acquainted him with all I knew, and from the apparent Impoſſibility of his ever ſucceeding in his Attempt, drew Arguments to induce him to give it over.

Polyneſſo, naturally haughty and vindictive, could not bear with Patience, the Thoughts of being rejected for a Stranger. Every way, as he conceived, his Inferior; Diſdain, Shame, Rage, by turns, engroſſed his Soul, and baniſhed thence every ſofter Paſſion; his Love for Geneura was now converted to the moſt obſtinate Hatred, and he reſolved to accompliſh her ruin by the blackeſt Treaſon that ever was conceived in the Heart of Man.

His Scheme of Revenge concerted, in which I, alas! tho' ignorantly, was to act the chiefeſt Part, he one Day accoſted me with an Air more tender and affectionate than uſual.

My dear Dalinda, ſaid he, generous and kind as you have been to me, well may you think yourſelf injured by my Inconſtancy, but as Trees, you know, when cropt by the Pruner's Hand, ſhoot out into freſh luxuriant Branches, ſo on the Root of my Paſſion for Geneura, young Buds of Fondneſs riſe and all the ripening Fruit is yours.

Nor do I languiſh ſo much for the Poſſeſſion of Geneura's Beauties, as I Diſdain to be thus rejected and contemned; and, leſt this Grief ſhould prey too forcibly on my Heart, do thou, my Fair, indulge my ſick Fancy with a kind Deceit, and in the Dreſs of that too haughty Charmer, receive me to thy Arms.

When the Princeſs is retired to Bed, put on her Robes, adorn thee with her richeſt Jewels, with her Girdle bind thy ſwelling Boſom, let her Coronet glitter on thy beauteous Brow, and beneath it let thy Hair deſcend in graceful Curls like hers; then, in her borrowed Form, attend my coming at the well-known Window; thus ſhall my Pride be gratified, and my capricious Fancy pleaſed.

Without reflecting on the inſidious Purport of this Requeſt, I promiſed to comply with it; and, for many ſucceſſive Nights, received him in the Habit he preſcribed. Having thus wrought me to his Wiſh, his wicked Arts were next played off on Ariodant.

Before the Duke had any Knowledge of his Paſſion for the Princeſs, he had lived in ſtrict Friendſhip with this young Knight, and thence took Occaſion to reproach him with the Breach of it, by preſuming to addreſs the Princeſs.

In you, ſaid he, I little expected a Rival as well on Account of your Attachment to me, as the Improbability of your ſucceeding in your Attempt; for you are not now to be told of the mutual Paſſion that has long joined Geneura's Heart and mine, nor that I intend ſoon to aſk the King's Conſent to eſpouſe her; why then do you fondly thruſt yourſelf between me and my almoſt certain Happineſs? how differently ſhould I act were I in your Place?

Why this to me, my Lord? replied Ariodant haſtily, 'tis you who have betrayed our Friendſhip, you have commenced my Rival, not I yours; I claim a prior Right in fair Geneura, as haveing loved her firſt, and have been happy enough to inſpire her with an equal Flame; this you might have perceived, had you not been blinded by Obſtinacy; ſince then the Laws of Friendſhip demand one of us to yield, be yours the Taſk as having leſs Right to perſiſt, and leſs Hope of ſucceeding than myſelf. In Riches indeed you are my Superior; but the King's Favour is equally ſhared betwixt us, and in the Heart of Geneura the Advantage is wholly mine.

What Errors does not Love Occaſion? replied the Duke; each thinks himſelf the happy Object of her Wiſhes, and yet 'tis certain that only one is loved: Thus then let us decide the Conteſt; he who can give the moſt certain Proofs of her Affection ſhall be left by the other in the free and undiſturbed Poſſeſſion of it; but, firſt, let us bind ourſelves by the moſt ſolemn Oaths not to diſcloſe each others Secret.

To this Ariodant, with trembling Impatience agreed, and the artful Duke went on in this Manner:

'Tis now almoſt five Months ſince the beautious Geneura, rewarded my ardent Love with the Poſſeſſion of her Perſon; oft has the conſcious Queen of Night lent me her ſhades to guide me to my Charmer and ſeen me happy in her Arms.

'Tis falſe, by Heaven, interrupted Ariodant, tranſported with Rage; not that cold Queen, whoſe Name thou haſt profaned, is chaſter than my Geneura: Traitor, with my good Sword I'll prove thou lyeſt, take Notice I defy thee to mortal Combat, and will with thy deareſt Blood, waſh away the Slanders thou haſt thrown upon my Princeſs.

Moderate your Rage, ſaid the calm Villain, I mean to give you Proofs, convincing Proofs, of what I have ſaid, your own Eyes ſhall be Witneſſes of the Favours I enjoy.

The unhappy Ariodant, pale, trembling, and loſt in ſpeechleſs Grief and Horror at thoſe fatal Words, ſtood for ſome Moments fixed in racking Thought, like the ſad Statue of Deſpair; then raiſing his Eyes, overflowing with Tears, to Heaven, and paſſionately ſtriking his groaning Breaſt, and can it be, he cried, that my Geneura, that Princeſs whom I loved, whom I adored, with ſuch pure Reverence as mortals pay to Deities, ſhould become the Prey of looſe Deſires, and give her faithful Ariodant to Death? Oh! 'tis impoſſible, though a God ſpoke it, I ſhould ſay t'were falſe.

Incredulous Man, ſaid Polyneſſo, have I not offered to give thee Proofs that cannot be denied? thy Eyes ſhall ſee the Favours ſhe beſtows on me.

I take you at your Word, reſumed Ariodant impatiently, give me to behold her Guilt and I am ſatisfyed.

To morrow Night, ſaid the Duke, I have an Appointment with her; I will conduct you to a Place from whence, unperceived, you yourſelf ſhall behold me aſcend her Chamber Window, and judge by the Reception ſhe gives me, if I am happy in her Favour.

To this the almoſt diſtracted Ariodant conſented; and, at the appointed Time, followed the Duke to thoſe ruined Houſes I mentioned before, and there ſtood concealed from View: Being doubtful of Polyneſſo's Intentions he had ordered his Brother Lurcanio to arm and go with him, directing him to ſtay at a convenient Diſtance ſo as to be within call if any Treachery was offered him, but not in Sight of Geneura's Window: for he would have no Witneſs of her Guilt but himſelf.

The Duke, having placed Ariodant moſt conveniently for his Purpoſe, advanced and gave the uſual Sign; unhappy as I am I heard, and eagerly obeyed the welcome Summons, adorned in Geneura's richeſt Robes, and covered with the Veil that Princeſſes only wear, I appeared at the Window and threw the Silken Ladder over to my Lover.

Lurcanio either fearing for his Brother's Safety, or deſirous of prying into his Secrets, quitted his appointed Station and unperceived by him, walked ſoftly forward till he came within ten Paces of Ariodant, and now my faithleſs Duke was ſeen by both the Brothers (though known only to Ariodant) to aſcend the Ladder and gain the Chamber Window, at which I met him with a tender Embrace, wandering over his Lips and Eyes with eager Kiſſes.

This Sight ſo enflamed the Soul of Ariodant with Rage and Grief, that drawing out his Sword, and fixing the Pummel of it in the Ground, he was going to ruſh with all his Force upon the Point, had he not been prevented by Lurcanio, who perceiving his raſh Deſign ſprang to him in an Inſtant, and having thrown aſide the fatal Inſtrument of Death, received his ſinking Brother in his Arms.

Ah miſerable Brother! ſaid Lurcanio, by what wild Fury art thou poſſeſt to fall thus meanly for a Woman? Now curſed, forever curſed be all the Kind, may they all periſh, in one wide Ruin, blown as they are, like Clouds, with every blaſt of Wind; and this fair Miſchief that has betrayed thee, let us deviſe ſome glorious Vengeance for her: Let not thy noble Life be ſacrificed to her Falſhood; her's is the Crime, be her's the Puniſhment; proclaim her Guilt aloud, accuſe her to the King, my Eyes as well as thine have ſeen her Infamy, and, with my Sword I'll make good thy Aſſertion.

Ariodant, whoſe Soul was torn with various and conflicting Paſſions, ſmiled gloomily at the Mention of Revenge; a while he ſeemed to bury every Thought of Grief and of Deſpair in that one Hope of ſacrificing the guilty Lover to his Wrongs: But alas! the cureleſs Wound remained behind; Geneura, baſe as ſhe appeared, he loved with ſuch unceaſing Fondneſs, that wholly unable to endure her Loſs, and dreading no Hell like that within his Boſom, once more he reſolved to die.

To Lurcanio, however he diſſembled his Deſign, and went Home with him at his Requeſt; but early the next Morning he departed, leaving no Traces behind him from whence it might be gathered to what Place he was gone.

Lurcanio, dreading the fatal Effects of his Deſpair, was pierced to his inmoſt Soul at the News of his Flight; the King and the whole Court took Part in his Affliction; no Methods were left untried to diſcover where he was; Meſſengers were ſent in ſearch of him to the utmoſt Extremities of the Kingdom: But all returned without any Succeſs.

At length a Peaſant came to Court, and at his Requeſt was introduced to the Princeſs, who informed her, that as he was travelling to the City he met Ariodant; that this unhappy Knight obliged him to follow him and be Witneſs of an Act he was going to perform; that obeying his Orders they journeyed on together till they came to a ſteep Rock, that hung pendant over the Sea, fronting the Iriſh Iſland.

Ariodant, ſaid the Peaſant, aſcending this Rock commanded me to obſerve well what he did, to give you an Account of it, and tell you his laſt Words; which were, that he had ſeen too much: Then ſpringing furiouſly from the top of the Rock, he precipitated himſelf into the Sea. Terrified at the dreadful Sight, I haſtily turned back, and travelled hither to bring you the fatal News.

Geneura, overwhelmed with Grief and Amazement for the Death of her Lover, and the ſtrange Meſſage he had ſent her, abandoned herſelf to the moſt violent Exceſſes of Deſpair; ſhe beat her beautious Boſom, tore her Hair, and in the wildneſs of her Woe, a thouſand Times invoked the dear loved Name of Ariodant; repeated the myſterious Words he uttered, and as often called on Death to end her.

The News of his Death, with the ſad Manner of it, ſpread Grief and Conſternation through the whole City; even the remoteſt Parts of Scotland felt and lamented the loſs of their valiant Defender; the King and the whole Court bewailed his loſs with the ſincereſt Sorrow: but Lurcanio, ſuperior in Grief, as more nearly intereſted in the dear deceaſed, mourned his unhappy Brother with all the tenderneſs of fraternal Love, and all the warmth of Friendſhip.

Revolving in his Mind the fatal Adventure of the Window, which had been the Cauſe of his Brother's Diſtraction; the Deſire and Hope of Revenge afforded ſome Relief to the poignancy of his Woe, and obſtinately bent to ſacrifice the Princeſs to the Manes of his Ariodant, he preſented himſelf before the King and Council, and accuſed her of Incontinence, relating all that Ariodant and he had ſeen, and the fatal Effects it had upon him; he then reminded the King of the Scottiſh Laws againſt unchaſtity, and loudly demanded Juſtice on the Princeſs.

Horror and Amazement ſeized the Soul of the unhappy Father; Geneura tho' dearer to him than Life, tho' innocent in his Opinion, he has not Power to ſcreen from the Danger that threatens her; the Laws indeed permit the accuſed to have a Champion to fight in her Defence; by whom, if the Proſecuter (who is obliged to maintain by Force of Arms the Truth of his Aſſertion) is worſted, ſhe is declared guiltleſs of the Crimes laid to her Charge.

To this only Remedy the King has Recourſe, and cauſes it to be proclaimed throughout his Dominions, that if any Knight of noble Birth will undertake the Defence of his Daughter, and by Force of Arms ſhall vanquiſh her Accuſer, on him he will beſtow the Princeſs, with a Dower ſuitable to her Quality.

Notwithſtanding this Proclamation no Knight has yet offered himſelf for the Enterprize, deterred therefrom by the known Valour of Lurcanio; the King, no leſs anxious for Geneura's Reputation than her Life, cauſed all her Maids to be brought to a Tryal, who with one Voice declared they never were privy to any Intrigue of their royal Miſtreſs.

Alarmed at theſe Proceedings, and dreading the Conſequence of a further Scrutiny, I urged the Duke to take ſome Meaſures for our common Security, he, with diſſembled Kindneſs, praiſed my Secrecy and Affection, and ſent two Men to conduct me to a Caſtle of his at a great Diſtance from the Court.

Wholly relying on his Faith, I put myſelf under the Protection of thoſe two Villains, whom the Duke, deſirous of removing for ever the only Perſon who could diſcover his Guilt, ordered when they came to a convenient Place to murder me; happily for me Chance conducted you that Way; you delivered me from my impending Fate, and while it ſhall pleaſe Heaven to preſerve my unhappy Life, it ſhall be ſpent in grateful Acknowledgments to my Protector.

This Account of Geneura's Innocence was extreamly welcome to Rinaldo; for tho' confiding in his own Courage he was not without Hopes of delivering her, guilty as ſhe appeared; yet the certainty that he was going to fight in a juſt Cauſe, animated him with double Fires, and gave him almoſt a Confirmation of Victory.

Now clapping Spurs to his Horſe he rode on with ſuch eager Haſte, that the noble Town of St. Andrews ſoon appeared in View. There the Combat was to be performed, the Guards had already ſurrounded the Liſts, the Challengers Trumpet had ſounded, and the unhappy King, pale, trembling, and full of eager Anxiety, liſtened with a beating Heart, and fear-checked Wiſhes for an accepting Anſwer.

Mean time Rinaldo, having left the frighted Dalinda at an Inn, with repeated Aſſurances of gaining her Pardon, in caſe he vanquiſhed the Princeſs's Accuſer, advanced towards the City-gate: Here he was met by a young Page, who informed him that an unknown Knight, clad all in ſable Armour, was arrived; that he had demanded the Combat with Lurcanio, and declared he would die, or free the Princeſs from her ignominious Sentence.

Rinaldo, impatient to unfold the Myſtery, thundered at the City-gates, which being opened, he rode eagerly to the Liſts; there beholding the Combatants engaged, he forced his Way through the Preſs, and crying aloud that they ſhould ceaſe the Fight, demanded an inſtant Audience of the King.

The Marſhals of the Field thereupon parted the two Champions, and Rinaldo was immediately conducted to the King; to whom he related the whole Story of Polyneſſo's Treachery, as he had received it from Dalinda; adding that he would prove the Truth of it by Force of Arms, and begged he might be allowed to defy the Traitor Duke to ſingle Combat.

The noble Form of Rinaldo, but chiefly the pleaſing Purport of his Speech, gained him abſolute Credit with the King. Scarce could the raptur'd Parent reſtrain the wild Exultings of his Joy at this Confirmation of his Geneura's Innocence; dearer than Life or Empire was ſhe loved by him, and freely would he have ſacrificed both to ſave her Honour: He heſitated therefore not a Moment in permitting the requeſted Combat, but ordered Duke Polyneſſo to be called.

He, by his Office of High Conſtable, haveing the ordering of the Combat, was riding proudly about the Field, exulting in his ſucceſsful Treaſon, and anticipating, in his own Mind, the Ruin of the fair and injured Geneura, ignorant though he was of the Deſign of this Summons, yet coward Guilt ſuggeſting the worſt he had to fear, with a diſordered Air, and Eyes expreſſive of the various Apprehenſions that ſtruck his conſcious Soul, he met the reproachful Look of his King, and the fierce Glances of Rinaldo.

That noble Warrior repeating in a few Words the Treaſons he had been guilty of, challenged him to the Field: Polyneſſo denied the Accuſation, but accepting the proferred Combat, becauſe he could not avoid it, retired to arm himſelf, while Rinaldo, fraught with the pious Prayers and Bleſſings of the King, entered the Liſts, and ordered his Trumpet to ſound.

At the third Blaſt the Duke appeared, pale Terror and Diſmay were pictured in his Face, his fainting Heart throbbed with the conſcious Pangs of Guilt, and Horrors of impending Fate; confuſed, diſtracted, not knowing what he did, he darted forwards at the Signal given to begin the Fight; but his weak Lance, ill-guided by his trembling hand, fell harmleſs to the Ground.

Not ſo the great Rinaldo; he, with calm Courage, and Brave, yet unaſſuming Confidence, meditated the Wound, and riſing all collected to the Blow, threw his famed Lance with ſuch unerring Skill and Force, that it pierced quite through the Armour of Polyneſſo and hid its fatal Point within his Side.

The Traitor fell, Rinaldo eagerly diſmounted and approaching him unlaced his Helmet. With faint low Voice he called for Mercy, and thinking to deſerve it, confeſſed unaſked the Wrong he had been guilty of to Geneura; then as if Life had been only lent him till he had cleared her Innocence, ſcarce had he uttered another Prayer for Mercy, but Death ſuppreſt the coward Supplication, and he lay a breathleſs Coarſe at the Feet of Rinaldo.

The People tranſported with Joy that their Princeſs was not only delivered from Death, but reſtored to her former ſanctity of Character, made the Air reſound with their Acclamations.

Rinaldo being conducted to the King, untied the Beaver of his Helmet, and was immediately known to be that famous Knight of Italy, whoſe noble Exploits were noiſed over all the habitable World.

The King embraced him in a rapture of Joy and Gratitude; the Nobles crouded round the Deliverer of their Princeſs, loaded him with Bleſſings, and ſtrove to exceed each other in Praiſes of his invincible Valour.

Theſe Congratulations over, all Eyes were turned upon the unknown Knight in black Armour, who had ſo generouſly undertaken the Defence of Geneura againſt her Accuſer Lurcanio; penſive he ſtood during the Fight between Polyneſſo and Rinaldo, his Eyes fixed upon the Combatants, with eager Attention he had liſtened to the dying Words of the treacherous Duke, and while the Multitude in loud ſhouts expreſſed their Joy, and the King and Court were paying Honours to the glorious Victor, he ſtood apart from the Throng, abſorbed in Thought, and wholly inſenſible of the Tumult around him.

The King cauſed him to be conducted to his Preſence, and acknowledging himſelf greatly obliged to his generous Intention, preſſed him to let him know in what manner he could repay the Obligation.

The Knight made no Anſwer, but bowing low, and throwing off his Helmet, the King and Court, with the utmoſt Aſtoniſhment, beheld the lovely Face of Ariodant; Wonder and Joy kept them all ſilent for a while; at length the King, recovering from his Surprize, claſp'd the young Warrior to his Breaſt with a tender Embrace:

Is it poſſible, ſaid he, in a Tone of Voice expreſſive of the ſtrongeſt Tranſport, that I behold again my Ariodant, the gallant Defender of my Dominions, and the brave Champion for my Daughter's Honour? him whom I lamented as dead, whom my whole Kingdom mourned for, tell me by what ſtrange yet happy Chance I now behold thee living, whoſe Death was ſo confidently affirmed, and ſo univerſally believed.

Ariodant knowing the King was acquainted with the whole Story of his Love, replied without Reſerve:

The Peaſant, my Lord, whom I detained to be a Witneſs of the ſad Effects of my Deſpair, and to bring the News of it to the Princeſs, informed her truly that I caſt myſelf from the Rock into the Sea, but that natural Repugnance we have all to Death, when near, however we may deſpiſe its Terrors at a Diſtance, impelled me, involuntarily, to uſe Meaſures to preſerve a Life which a Moment before I had been ſo deſirous of loſing.

As ſoon as I roſe again upon the Surface of the Waves, I applied myſelf to ſwimming, at which I was very expert, and ſoon reached the neighbouring Shore, faint, weary, and almoſt breathleſs I threw myſelf down amidſt the Ruſhes, and was found in this Condition by an ancient Hermit, whoſe Cell was at a ſmall Diſtance.

Thither he conducted me, and in a few Days his charitable Cares reſtored me to my Strength; but alas! my Mind was tortur'd ſtill with various Paſſions; Love, Hate, Deſpair, and eager Thirſt of Vengeance, by Turns poſſeſſed me; in vain I ſought to baniſh the Idea of Geneura from my Soul, it ſtill returned with double Force; nor could her Infidelity, of which, miſtaken Wretch that I was, I thought I had ſuch convincing Proofs, weaken the Power of her reſiſtleſs Charms.

Thus languiſhing, with a cureleſs Wound, I heard the News of her Accuſation by my Brother, and the Danger to which her Life and Honour were expoſed: At that Moment, forgetting the Injuries I had ſuffered, inſenſible to all the Tyes of Conſanguinity and Friendſhip, and only ſolicitous for her Safety, I determined to fight with my Brother in her Defence, pleaſing myſelf with the Thought, that if I did not free her, I ſhould at leſt have the Satisfaction of dying in her Cauſe, and thereby proving how much Superior to Polyneſſo was my Love, who though favoured as he was by her he wanted Courage to defend her.

Having provided myſelf with Armour that might effectually conceal me, I came hither full of Fury againſt my Brother, whom I could not but conſider as my worſt Enemy, ſince he was the Accuſer of the ſtill adored Geneura,

The Arrival of the brave Rinaldo happily prevented the Continuance of a Combat, which muſt have ended in the Death of one Brother, and eternal Remorſe to the other.

With Joy I behold the Princeſs delivered from the ignominious Death with which ſhe was threatened; but oh! with far more Rapture do I congratulate your Majeſty on this Diſcovery of her Innocence: Happy Rinaldo, to be at once the Defender of her Life, and Reſtorer of her Honour: As for me I ſought only to preſerve her from Death; and if that was denied me, to have the Satisfaction, at leaſt, of dying in her Defence, by the Hand of a Friend and Brother.

The King who loved him before for his Virtues, was ſo charmed with this generous Proof of his Paſſion for his Daughter, that he eaſily yielded to the Solicitations of Rinaldo and the Noblemen of his Court, to beſtow the Princeſs on ſo faithful a Lover; and endowing her with the Dutchy of Albania, which, on Polyneſſo's Deceaſe, reverted to the Crown, he gave her Hand to Ariodant in the Preſence of the whole Court, and the Nuptials were ſoon after celebrated with the utmoſt Magnificence.

Rinaldo having obtained Dalinda's Pardon, who retired into a Monaſtery, took leave of the King and happy Lovers, and purſued his Voyage to England.

PLAN OF Much ado about nothing.

DON Pedro, Prince of Arragon, returning from a ſucceſsful Battle, and attended by his Baſtard Brother Don John, and two young Noblemen, ſtop at Meſſina in Sicily, the Governor of which Place is his Friend: Here they are invited to ſtay a Month. Claudio one of the young Noblemen falls in Love with Hero Daughter to the Governor, and acquainting the Prince, whoſe favourite he is, with his Paſſion, Don Pedro promiſes his Aſſiſtance; and aſſuming the Name and Character of Claudio, in a Maſquerade given that Night by the Governor, courts Hero, and obtains her Father's Conſent to the Match.

Don John hating Claudio, on Account of the Friendſhip ſubſiſting between his Brother and him, and being likewiſe of a Diſpoſition prone to every kind of Miſchief, engages eagerly in a Scheme propoſed by his wicked Confident Borachio, to break off the intended Marriage.

Borachio tells him that a Year ſince, when they were laſt at Meſſina, he had gained the Favour of Margaret one of Hero's waiting Women; that it would be therefore eaſy for him to perſuade Margaret to perſonate her Miſtreſs Hero, and talk to him from her Chamber Window. Do you, ſays he to Don John, tell the Prince and Claudio that the Daughter of Leonato is a baſe Wanton, that ſhe is engaged in a criminal Intrigue with one of your Servants, and to prove that this Accuſation is not meer Calumny, bring them to a convenient Place where they may hear all our Converſation, which ſhall be wholly calculated to ruin the Reputation of Hero; the Plot thus laid, Don John departs, to learn as he ſays, the Day of Marriage.

In the mean Time the Governor, Don Pedro, Claudio and Hero, form an innocent Stratagem to make Benedict and Beatrice Leonato's Niece in Love with each other, which ſucceeds. Don John tells his Brother and Claudio that Hero is a Strumpet, which they not immediately crediting, he offers to conduct them to a Place where they ſhall be Witneſſes of an Aſſignation between her and his Servant Borachio; Claudio hereupon declares that if he finds her diſhonoured, he will diſgrace her the next Day in Church by refuſing to marry her, and publicly aſſigning the Cauſe of his Refuſal.

The next Mo • ning they meet at Church; the Prieſt is going to begin the Ceremony when Claudio, who had been effectually impoſed upon by Margnret's perſonating her Miſtreſs, taxes Hero with incontinence, and refuſes to give his Hand to (as he calls) her "an approved Wanton." The Prince adds that himſelf, his Brother and Count Claudio, had heard her the laſt Night hold ſhameful Converſe with a looſe Ruffian, from her Chamber Window.

The unhappy Father, overwhelmed with Grief and Shame, reproaches his Daughter with her Guilt; ſhe faints; the Prince, Claudio, and the Baſtard Don John, go out; the Friar having obſerved Hero's Looks and Behaviour with great Attention, declares it to be his Opinion that ſhe is Innocent, adviſes Leonato to give it out that ſhe is dead, and patiently expect the Iſſue.

Don Pedro and Claudio afterwards paſſing through the Street meet Borachio and Conrade in the Cuſtody of ſome Conſtables; Don Pedro aſks for what Cauſe his Brother's Servants were thus guarded? Borachio confeſſes the Treaſons he had practiced againſt Hero for the Sake of a Bribe given him by Don John, which having told in Confidence to his Friend had been overheard by the Watch, and occaſioned their being taken into Cuſtody.

Claudio now paſſionately laments the Death of the injured Hero; Leonato to whom the whole Plot had been related by the Sexton, enters and reproaches Claudio with his eaſy Credulity. Claudio profeſſes his Sorrow for what is paſt, and offers to ſatisfy him for the Part he had in the Death of his Daughter, by ſuffering any Penance he ſhall impoſe upon him.

Leonato then deſires him to viſit his Daughter's Tomb, hang an Epitaph of his own compoſing upon it, ſing it to her Bones that Night, and the next Morning marry his Brother Antonio's Daughter, who, Herö being dead, was Heireſs to the Poſſeſſions of them both.

Claudio readily agrees to all, and after performing the Ceremony of ſinging his own Verſes at the Tomb of Hero, repairs to Leonato's Houſe; there Hero is preſented to him in a Maſque as the Daughter of Antonio; and being aſked if he perſiſted in his Reſolution of marrying, to which he anſwers in the Affirmative, ſhe unmaſques and diſcovers herſelf to be Hero.

Benedick then humourouſly claiming Beatrice, both Marriages are agreed upon, and Don John who had fled upon News that his Treachery had been diſcovered, is taken and brought back to Meſſina to receive his Puniſhment.

This Fable, abſurd and ridiculous as it is, was drawn from the foregoing Story of Geneura, in Arioſto's Orlando Furioſo, a Fiction, which as it is managed by the Epic Poet, is neither improbable nor unnatural; but by Shakeſpear mangled and defaced, full of Inconſiſtencies, Contradictions, and Blunders. The defaming a Lady, by means of her Servant perſonating her at her Chamber-window, is the Subject purſued by both.

Shakeſpear, by changing the Perſons, altering ſome of the Circumſtances, and inventing others, has made the whole an improbable Contrivance, borrowed juſt enough to ſhew his Poverty of Invention, and added enough to prove his want of Judgment.

The Scheme for ruining the Lady in the Original, is formed and executed by a rejected Lover, who ſees a Rival, his inferior in Rank and Fortune, preferred before him, and loſes at once the Object of his Wiſhes, and the Proſpect of increaſed Honours, by that Preference. Ambition, and the Deſire of Revenge, are Paſſions ſtrong enough in a Mind not very virtuous, to produce Acts of Baſeneſs and Villainy. Polyneſſo, urged by thoſe powerful Incentives, contrives to blacken Geneura's Fame, which produces a Separation between her and her Lover, and prevents a Stranger from marrying this Princeſs, and conſequently enjoying thoſe Honours, he ſo ardently deſired himſelf.

Don John, in the Play, is a Villain merely through the Love of Villainy, and having entertained a capricious Diſlike to Claudio, cloſes eagerly with his Confident's horrid Scheme for breaking off his Marriage with Hero.

To prevent the multiplying ſuch outrageouſly wicked, and therefore unnatural Characters, Don John himſelf might have been the Propoſer of that black Contrivance againſt the innocent Hero, and Borachio, for the ſake of the thouſand Ducats that was afterwards given him by Don John, be induced to execute it: But here we have two Villains equally bad, both governed by the ſame deteſtable Principles, acting upon the ſame Motives, and ſuch a perfect Parity in their Manners, that they are only diſtinguiſhed from each other by their Names.

When Borachio tells Don John to go to his Brother, and maintain confidently that Hero is a looſe Wanton, Don John aſks what Proof he ſhall make of that? "Proof enough, ſays the other, to miſuſe the Prince, vex Claudio, undo Hero, and kill Leonato, look you for any other Iſſue?"

Claudio only is the Object of Don John's Hatred, yet the chief Force of rhe intended Injury is to fall on Hero and Leonato her Father, towards whom he has no Malice; and he is made to engage in this wicked Enterprize, to procure the Ruin and Death of two Perſons he hates not, to give a little Vexation to one he does. Theſe Abſurdities have their Riſe from the injudicious Change of the Characters. The Contrivance to ſlander Hero is not leſs ridiculous; and this alſo is occaſioned by the Poet's having deviated from the Original to introduce his own wild Conceits.

Borachio tells Don John, that he is highly favoured by Margaret, Hero's waiting Woman; that he will perſuade her to dreſs in her Lady's Cloaths, aſſume her Name, and talk to him out of her Chamber-window, all which Don Pedro and Claudio being Witneſſes of, would effectually convince them that Hero was diſhonoured.

But Borachio does not acquaint Don John, and through him the Audience, what Colour he will give to this ſtrange Requeſt, in order to induce Margaret to grant it: Margaret is all along repreſented as faithful to her Miſtreſs; it was not likely ſhe would engage in a Plot that ſeemed to have a Tendency to ruin Hero's Reputation, unleſs ſhe had been impoſed on by ſome very plauſible Pretences, what thoſe Pretences were we are left to gueſs, which is indeed ſo difficult to do, that we muſt reaſonably ſuppoſe the Poet himſelf was as much at a Loſs here as his Readers, and equally incapable of ſolving the difficulty he had raiſed.

That Borachio ſhould be the ſuſpected Gallant of Hero, is a Circumſtance alſo highly improbable. Borachio, a mean Dependant on a Man whoſe Vices had made him the Object of univerſal Hatred and Contempt, a Stranger almoſt in Meſſina, and, as well on Account of the Meanneſs of his Situation, as the Profligacy of his Manners, excluded from any Acquaintanee with a Lady of Hero's Quality.

Yet how eaſily does Don Pedro the Friend, and Claudio the Lover of the Lady, ſwallow this groſs Scandal, that muſt even derive Improbability from the Perſon who utters it; for he is neither an honeſt Man nor a Friend of Claudio, who is thus ſolicitous to prevent his diſhonouring himſelf by marrying a bad Woman, but a Wretch noted for his Propenſity to all Kinds of Miſchief and Villainy, an inveterate Hater of Claudio, and but a little while before at open Enmity with Don Pedro his Brother.

Surely theſe Circumſtances were ſufficient to make the Prince and Claudio doubt the Truth of this Story, which the Character of the Teller conſidered, as well as the Improbability of the Facts, ſeemed much more likely to be contrived to produce Miſchief than prevent it.

The Proof Don John offers them in ſupport of his Aſſertion, could have no Weight with Minds leſs ſtupidly credulous than theirs; they are to be ſhewn Hero talking to her Gallant Borachio out of her Chamber window, very unlikely that Hero ſhould be ſo imprudent, as the Night before her intended Marriage, to have an Aſſignation with a Gallant in ſo publick a Place; but their own Eyes and Ears are to be Witneſſes of this Conference; ſtrong Evidence indeed if it be realy Hero that they ſee and hear; but if it be only Margaret dreſt in her Ladies Cloaths, with ſuch powerful Reaſons as they had before to believe the whole a Fiction, how could this groſs Fallacy impoſe upon them.

We are not told that Margaret was ſo very like her Lady, that in the ſame Cloaths they could not be diſtinguiſhed from each other; their Eyes are to be deceived by her Dreſs, but how if her Face happens, as certainly was the Caſe, not to be exactly like Hero's, it cannot be pretended that it was ſo dark that they could not diſtinguiſh her Features. The ſame Degree of Light that ſhewed her Cloaths to be Hero's would diſcover the Face to be Margaret's.

Let it be granted, however, that their Sight was deceived (though, all Things conſidered, it is not poſſible to conceive how) yet as they heard plainly all the Diſcourſe that paſſed between the Counterfeit Hero and her Lover, why did not the Voice of Margaret diſcover the Cheat? Strange Abſurdity! Let us ſee how the Original has provided againſt all theſe Objections.

The Duke of Alban, who is ſecretly in love with the Princeſs Geneura, having ſeduced a young Maid that attended on her Perſon, prevailed upon her, by extravagant Promiſes, that were contrived to pleaſe at once her Ambition, and weaken the Force of her Jealouſy, to aſſiſt him in his Deſign of gaining her royal Miſtreſs for his Wife, diſcovering, by her Means, that the Princeſs had not only a Diſlike to him, but had beſtowed her Heart upon Ariodant: Rage and Deſpair ſuggeſt to him a Scheme for interrupting the Happineſs of the two Lovers, and gratifying his Revenge, which was now his predominant Paſſion, he tells Dalinda, that if ſhe wiſhes to ſee him cured of his hopeleſs Love for the Princeſs, ſhe muſt aſſume as much of her Appearance as the wearing her Apparel and rich Ornaments could give her, and thus diſguiſed, receive him to her Arms.

Dalinda willing to revive her Lover's decaying Paſſion by an Artifice that flattered her own Vanity, fondly agrees to his Propoſal, and for many ſucceſſive Nights, meets him at the uſual Place of Aſſignation; which, was in the Princeſſes Summer Apartment dreſt in her Cloaths.

Polyneſſo having ſucceeded thus far, reproaches Ariodant with his breach of Friendſhip in addreſſing Geneura, of whoſe Affections he was in abſolute Poſſeſſion; Ariodant inſiſts that himſelf is the favoured Lover, the Duke to convince him of the contrary, conducts him to a Place from whence he could ſee him aſcend the Princeſſes Chamber.

Dalinda in Shape and Statue not much differing from her Miſtreſs, her Face ſhaded by the royal Veil, that Geneura, and only Geneura was accuſtomed to wear, ſtanding as uſual at the Chamber Window, lets down the ſilken Cord to her Lover, and receives him with a tender Embrace, Ariodant maddening at this Sight, believes his Miſtreſs falſe; and Polyneſſo's Treachery produces all the Effects he could have wiſhed.

Here the Contrivance is plauſible enough, the Characters are properly diſtinguiſhed, each acts upon Motives probable and natural, and the Incidents that follow are the neceſſary Reſult of thoſe Actions. Why Shakeſpear rejected theſe Circumſtances for others, wholly inconſiſtent and ridiculous, is not eaſy to gueſs; we ſhall find him altering the ſucceeding Part of the Plot with the ſame utter diſregard to probability and contempt of Decorum.

Margaret having done her Part towards defaming her Miſtreſs, without knowing any Thing of the Matter, though her Diſcourſe with Borachio was calculated to raiſe the moſt injurious Suſpicions; aſſiſts her next Morning to dreſs for her Wedding, attends her to the Church, hears the deſigned Bridegroom refuſe her Hand, proclaim her a Wanton, and urge her laſt Night's looſe Diſcourſe with Borachio from her Chamber Window as a Proof: Yet all the while ſhe appears wholly inſenſible of what had happened, neither concerned for her Miſtreſs, whom ſhe had ruined without Deſign, nor anxious for her own Safety, that ſeemed to depend upon a candid Confeſſion; for it was not likely her Treachery could be long concealed. Thus ſupernaturally (if what is out of Nature may be called above it) is the Plot brought to perfection, nor is the unravelling of it leſs happily imagined.

Borachio having received his promiſed Ducats from Don John, the Moment after his Conference with Margaret was ended, meets an Acquaintance of his, named Conrade, in the Street, to whom he is impatient to communicate his good Luck.

'Tis true the Secret is of Importance, and if known, endangers his Life; the Place alſo is very improper for ſuch a Converſation, being the Street, and near Leonato's Houſe, where the Scene of his Treachery had been acted; add to this that the Rain obliges them to ſtand cloſe up to the Door, which expoſes them to the Inconvenience of having even their Whiſpers overheard, if any one was near it: Yet ſuch is Borachio's extream eagerneſs to tell his wicked Exploit, that he never thinks of carrying his Friend to his own Lodgings, where he may boaſt in Safety, but in a rainy Night ſtands in the Street, cloſe to the Door of the Man whoſe Daughter he had injured, and there at his leiſure relates the whole treacherous Contrivance.

However, all this happens exactly right, becauſe the Watch who is poſted about Leonato's Houſe, hear every Syllable, that is ſpoken, and underſtanding that one of theſe Villains had defamed the Lady Hero, and made her intended Bridegroom reſolve to diſgrace her the nex • Morning in Church, by publicly refuſing to marry her on account of her being diſhonoured, they ſieze the two Wretches with an Intent to bring them before Leonato, not that ſame Night to prevent the Lady's Diſgrace, but the next Morning, when all was over, to diſcover her Innocence.

Two or three abſolute Ideots, are here very artfully introduced for Conſtable and Watchmen, for had they the leſt Ray of Reaſon to direct them, they muſt have conceived that it was abſolutely neceſſary to acquaint Leonato immediately with the Treaſon, that had been practiſed againſt his Daughter, in order to prevent the ignominious Treatment ſhe was to ſuffer in Conſequence of it the next Morning.

This Method of protracting the Diſcovery, is not indeed very ingenious, but the Poet's Occaſions are anſwered by it, and that is ſufficient. Claudio's deſigned Vengeance ſuffered no Interruption, the Lady is ſhamefully refuſed, hence ariſe two or three new Contrivances, ſhe is believed to be dead, Claudio engages to marry another in a Maſque, and when he has given his Hand to this unknown Lady, is ſurprized with the Sight of his living Hero; whoſe Death after he had been convinced of her Innocence he had paſſionately lamented. Theſe Incidents, were they ever ſo natural, cannot affect the Readers either with Pity or Surprize, ſince they are let into the Secret beforehand: and can anticipate the Cataſtrophe.

Shakeſpear has deviated from the Original, as much in the drawing his Characters, as the Diſpoſition of his Plan. Nothing can be more different than the Sentiments and Behaviour of Ariodant and Claudio, in Circumſtances nearly alike. Both are repreſentedas paſſionate Lovers, happy in the Poſſeſſion of their Miſtreſſes Affections, yet prevailed upon to think them falſe through the Treachery of a Villain; but Ariodant yields only to the ſtrongeſt Conviction, Claudio to the groſſeſt Artifice.

Ariodant's Grief, Rage and Jealouſy, terminate in a fixed Deſpair; which prompts him to lay violent Hands on his own Life. Claudio is actuated by a Deſire of Revenge, and that of the meaneſt Sort, for he ſuffers the ſuppoſed Gallant to eſcape, and only meditates the Ruin of the Lady.

Ariodant fights with his own Brother, to preſerve the Life of her who had injured him: Claudio without any neceſſity, expoſes his Miſtreſs publickly in Church, brings Ruin and Contempt on her, and everlaſting Shame and Affliction on her poor Father, to whom he had been obliged, for an hoſpitable Reception, and an intended Benefit.

Claudio is mean, ſelfiſh, ungenerous and cruel: Qualities, that are ſeldom found in the Heroe and Lover, and he is repreſented as both.

Ariodant is always conſiſtent with his Character, too brave, to be actuated by a mean Deſire of Revenge, too much in love, to be guided by Reaſon; hence ariſes the ſeveral Extravagancies he is guilty of, but in all, the Manners of the Soldier and Lover are inviolably preſerved.

There is a great Deal of true Wit and Humour in the Comic Scenes of this Play; the Characters of Benedict and Beatrice are properly marked, and beautifully diſtinguiſhed.

THE HISTORY OF LEIR, King of the BRITAINS, From Holingſhed's Chronicle.

"LEIR the Son of Baldub, was admitted Ruler over the Britains, in the Year of the World 3105. At what Time Joas reigned as yet in Juda. This Leir was a Prince of noble Demeanor, governing his Land and Subjects in great Wealth. He made the Town of Cairleir now called Leiceſter, which ſtandeth upon the River of Dore. It is writ that he had by his Wife three Daughters, without other Iſſue, whoſe Names were, Gonorilla, Regan and Cordilla, which Daughters he greatly loved, but eſpecially the youngeſt, Cordilla, far above the two Elder.

When this Leir was come to great Years, and began to wear unweildy through Age, he thought to underſtand the Affections of his Daughters towards him, and prefer her whom he beſt loved, to the Succeſſion of the Kingdom: Therefore, he firſt aſked Gonorilla the eldeſt, how well ſhe loved him: the which calling her Gods to record, proteſted that ſhe loved him more than her own Life, which by Right and Reaſon ſhould be moſt dear unto her, with which Anſwer the Father being well pleaſed, turned to the ſecond and demanded of her, how well ſhe loved him? which anſwered (confirming her Sayings with great Oaths) that ſhe loved him more than Tongue can expreſs, and far above all other Creatures in the World.

Then called he his youngeſt Daughter Cordilla before him, and aſked of her what accompt ſhe made of him: Unto whom ſhe made this Anſwer as followeth: Knowing the great Love, and fatherly Zeal you have always borne towards me (for the which, that I may not anſwer you otherwiſe than I think, and as my Conſcience leadeth me) I proteſt to you, that I have always loved you, and ſhall continually while I live, love you as my natural Father, and if you would more underſtand of the Love that I bear you, aſſertayn yourſelf, that ſo much as you have, ſo much you are worth, and ſo much I love you, and no more.

The Father being nothing content with this Anſwer, married the two eldeſt Daughters, the one unto the Duke of Cornwall named Henninus, and the other unto the Duke of Albania called Maglanus, and betwixt them after his Death, he willed and ordained his Land ſhould be divided, and the one half thereof ſhould be immediately aſſigned unto them in Hand; but for the third Daughter Cordilla, he reſerved nothing.

Yet it fortuned that one of the Princes of Gallia (which now is called France) whoſe Name was Aganippus, hearing of the Beauty, Womanhood and good Conditions of the ſayd Cordilla, deſired to have her in Marriage, and ſent over to her Father, requiring that he might have her to Wife, to whom Anſwer was made that he might have his Daughter; but for any Dowry he could have none, for all was promiſed and aſſured to her other Siſters already.

Aganippus, notwithſtanding this Anſwer of Denyall to receive any Thing by way of Dower with Cordilla, took her to Wife, only moved thereto (I ſay) for reſpect of her Perſon and amiable Virtues. This Aganippus was one of the twelve Kings that ruled Gallia in thoſe Days, as in the Britiſh Hiſtory it is recorded. But to proceed, after that Leir was fallen into Age, the two Dukes, that had married his two eldeſt Daughters, thinking it long ere the Government of the Land did come to their Hands, aroſe againſt him in Armour, and reſt from him the Governance of the Land, upon Conditions to be continued for tearme of Life: By the which he was put to his Portion, that is, to live after a Rate aſſigned to him for the Maintenance of his Eſtate, which in proceſs of Time was diminiſhed as well by Maglianus, as by Henninius.

But the greateſt Grief that Leir took, was to ſee the Unkindneſs of his Daughters, who ſeemed to think that all was too much which their Father had. The ſame being never ſo little, in ſo much that going from the one to the other, he was brought to that Miſery, that they would allow him only one Servant to wait upon him. In the End ſuch was the unkindneſs, or as I may ſay, the unnaturalneſs which he found in his two Daughters, notwithſtanding their fair and pleaſant Words uttered in Time paſt, that being conſtrained of Neceſſity, he fled the Land and ſailed into Gallia, there to ſeek ſome Comfort of his youngeſt Daughter Cordeilla, whom before he hated.

The Lady Cordeilla hearing he was arrived in poor Eſtate, ſhe firſt ſent to him privately a Sum of Money to apparel himſelf withall, and to retain a certain Number of Servants, that might attend upon him in honorable Wiſe, as apperteyned to the Eſtate which he had borne. And then ſo accompanyed, ſhe appointed him to come to the Court, which he did, and was ſo joyfully, honorably and lovingly received, both by his Son in Law Aganippus, and alſo by his Daughter Cordeilla, that his Heart was greatly comforted: For he was no leſs honoured, than if he had been King of the whole Country himſelf. Alſo after that, he had informed his Son in Law, and his Daughter, in what ſort he had been uſed by his other Daughters. Aganippus cauſed a mighty Army to be put in readineſs, and likewiſe a great Navy of Ships to be rigged to paſs over into Britain, with Leir his Father in Law, to ſee him again reſtored to his Kingdom.

It was accorded that Cordeilla ſhould alſo go' with him to take Poſſeſſion of the Land, the which he promiſed to leave unto her, as his rightful Inheritour after his Deceaſe, notwithſtanding any former Grants made unto her Siſters, or unto their Huſbands, in any Manner of wiſe, hereupon when this Army and Navy of Ships were ready, Leir and his Daughter Cordeilla with her Huſband took the Sea, and arriving in Britain, fought with their Enemies, and diſcomfitted them in Battle, in the which Maglanus and Henninus were ſlain, and then was Leir reſtored to his Kingdom, which he ruled after this by the Space of two Years, and then died, forty Years after he firſt began to reign: His Body was buried at Leiceſter, in a Vault under the Channel of the River Dore, beneath the Town."

FABLE Of the TRAGEDY of King LEAR.

LEAR King of Britain, being old and weary of the Toils of Government, determines to reſign his Crown, and divide his Dominions amongſt his three Daughters, two of whom were married to the Dukes of Cornwall and Albany, and the third addreſſed to by the King of France and Duke of Burgundy.

The Princeſſeſs being commanded by their Father, to declare with what Degree of Affection each loves him, that he may know which of them is intitled to the greateſt Share of his Bounty: Gonerill the eldeſt, begins with aſſuring him that ſhe loves him beyond every Thing that is moſt dear and precious in the World: Regan the ſecond Daughter, profeſſes herſelf an Enemy to all other Joys, but that of loving and being beloved by him: To each of theſe Ladies the old King aſſigns one third of his Kingdom.

Then addreſſing himſelf in a particularly tender Manner to Cordelia, his youngeſt Daughter, he aſks her what ſhe has to ſay, to draw a Dowry more opulent than her Siſters. Cordelia tells him, Nothing; the King ſurpriſed bids her ſpeak again, ſhe with a modeſt plainneſs replies: That ſhe loves him as a dutiful Child ought to love an indulgent Father, neither more nor leſs.

The King enraged at this Speech, bids her avoid his Preſence, declares that he will baniſh her for ever from his Heart, and divides that Portion of his Kingdom, which he had deſign'd for her, between her two Siſters. Then giving his Crown to Cornwall and Albany, he requires of them in return, only Maintenance for himſelf and an hundred Knights.

The Earl of Kent, for oppoſing this frantick Reſignation, and offering to Plead in favour of Cordelia, is baniſhed for ever by the old King. The King of France marries Cordelia without a Portion, and takes her away with him.

Goneril and Regan ſoon grow weary of their old Father, and agree to treat him with Contempt. He is firſt affronted by Goneril's Attendants, and ſhe treating his Complaints of their rude Behaviour with Lightneſs, and objecting to the number of his Followers, which ſhe wants to have reduced to Fifty, the King leaves her in a Rage, and repairs to the Court of his Daughter Regan, who having received an Account of what had paſs'd from her Siſter, comes to the Earl of Gloſter's Caſtle in order to avoid him.

Lear in his way ſtopping at Gloſter's Caſtle, meets his two Daughters there; they both join to treat him with the utmoſt Cruelty, and abſolutely refuſe to give him Entertainment in either of their Palaces, unleſs he diſbands all his Knights, and ſubmits to be attended by their Servants.

The old King, in an agony of Grief and Rage at this barbarous and unnatural Treatment from his two Daughters, to whom he had given all, ruſhes out of the Caſtle, declaring he will not ſtay under the ſame Roof with them. They, who deſire nothing ſo much as his Abſence, command the Earl of Gloſter to ſhut his Gates, and ſuffer him to go whither he pleaſes. The Earl repreſents to them, that the King muſt inevitably Periſh in the Storm, which then raged with the utmoſt Violence, there being no Houſe nor Shed within ſeveral Miles to Shelter him, and humbly intreats that he may be allowed to follow his old Maſter, and invite him in. The wicked Princeſſes peremptorily forbid him to afford their Father any Relief, and threaten'd him with Death if he Diſobeys.

Notwithſtanding this, the Earl ſecretly ſeeks for the King, whoſe Griefs had now turned his Brain, and conveys him to a Farm-houſe, Afterwards being informed that there was a Plot laid to take away his Life, he enjoins his Attendants to carry him to Dover, and furniſhes them with Neceſſaries for that Purpoſe.

Edmund, the Baſtard Son of Gloſter, having by his wicked Arts prevailed upon his Father to Diſinherit his lawful Son Edgar, and to reſolve his Death, now betrays his Father himſelf, and Diſcovers, to the two enraged Princeſſes, what he had done for the old King.

Gloſter is ſeiz'd, bound, and his Eyes trod out by the Duke of Cornwal; and in this miſerable Condition thruſt out of his own Caſtle, and contemptuouſly bid to ſmell his way to Dover.

The injured Edgar, who had aſſum'd the Appearance of a mad Man, to elude an undeſerved Puniſhment from his Father, meets him in this miſerable Condition, and ſtill keeping himſelf unknown, offers to be his Guide, and lead him to whatever Place he has a mind to go. Gloſter overwhelmed with Deſpair, deſires to be conducted to a Hill near Dover, from whence he means to caſt himſelf into the Sea.

Edgar ſtill counterfeiting the mad Man, leads his Father to Dover, and thinking to cure his Deſpair by ſeeming to give way to it, yet preventing its Effects, tells him, that they have gain'd the Summit of the Hill. Gloſter bids him lead him to the Verge of it; then taking leave of the ſuppoſed mad Man, ſprings Forwards with an Intention to precipitate himſelf to the Bottom, but falls flat on the level Plain.

Edgar approaches him, and changing his Voice, expreſſes the extreameſt Amazement at his having fallen from ſuch an enormous Height without being bruis'd to Peices. Gloſter ſuppoſing himſelf miraculouſly preſerved, declares that he will no more attempt to put an End to his miſerable Life, but wait patiently for his Diſſolution.

Edgar confirms him in thoſe Thoughts, and offers to conduct hlm to ſome Retreat. As they are going, the Princeſs Regan's Steward, who had been ſent with Letters from her and her Siſter to the Baſtard Edmund, meets them, and ſeeing Gloſter, on whoſe Head a Price had been ſet, offers to murder him.

Edgar defends his Father, and kills the Steward, and ſearching his Pockets, finds a Letter from the Princeſs Goneril to his Brother, in which ſhe deſires him to Aſſaſſinate her Huſband the Duke of Albany, and promiſes to Reward him for that Action with her Hand.

Edgar reſerves this Letter for a Proof of his Brother's wickedneſs; and having placed his Father in Safety, joins the French Army, that with their Queen Cordelia at their Head, had come into England to revenge the Injuries offered to Lear, and to reſtore him to his Crown.

The Duke of Albany, though he deteſted the cruel Uſage that Lear had received, raiſes an Army to oppoſe Cordelia.

The Princeſs Regan. whoſe Huſband had been killed by one of his Servants, as he was ſtamping on Gloſter's Eyes, gives the Command of her Forces to the Baſtard Edmund, with whom ſhe, as well as her Siſter, is in love; and joins her Brother-in-law.

Before the Armies engage, Edgar, diſguiſed, gives the Duke of Albany his Wife's Letter which he had taken from the Steward; bids him read it; and if Victory declares on his Side, a Champion will appear at the firſt Sound of the Trumpet to prove the Truth of what is contained therein.

After this the Battle is fought; the Engliſh are victorious; Lear and Cordelia are taken Priſoners; and Edmund gives ſecret Orders to the Officer who guards them to put them to death.

The Duke of Albany having read the Letter, by which he diſcovered his Wife's Adultery, and Edmund's Crimes, arreſts him for high Treaſon, and declares, if at the Sound of the Trumpet, no Champion appears to prove it by Force of Arms, himſelf will undertake the Combat, and maintain the Charge.

The Trumpet ſounds, Edgar appears in Arms, and after ſumming up his Brother's Crimes, challenges him to the Combat; they fight; Edmund is mortally wounded; Edgar then diſcovers himſelf, relates the Hardſhips he had ſuffered; the Condition in which he found his miſerable Father; what he had done for him, and how upon his diſcovering himſelf to him, the ſtrong Surpriſe, Grief, and mingled Rapture, ſiezed with ſuch Force upon his Heart (already almoſt broken with his Miſeries) that he expired in the Arms of the baniſhed Earl of Kent, who, in the Diſguiſe of a menial Servant, had contrnually followed the diſtreſſed King.

Edmund, ſtruck with Remorſe at this melancholy Tale, confeſſes all his Crimes; aſks Pardon of his Brother, and willing to do ſome Good before he dies, owns the ſecret Orders he had given to put Lear and Cordelia to death, and urges them to ſend and prevent the Execution of them.

The Meſſenger arrives too late; Cordelia had been juſt ſtrangled by a Soldier, whom the old King had afterwards killed; Lear brings Cordelia in dead in his Arms, and while he is lamenting over her, dies.

The good Earl of Kent expires immediately after with Grief. Goneril and Regan, poiſoned by each other through Jealouſy, die in Torments; and Edmund alſo dies by the Wound he had received from his Brother, who is by the Duke of Albany reſtored to his Eſtates and Honours.

This Fable, although drawn from the foregoing Hiſtory of King Lear, is ſo altered by Shakeſpear, in ſeveral Circumſtances, as to render it much more improbable than the Original: There we are ſufficiently diſguſted with the Folly of a Man, who gives away one Half of his Kingdom to two of his Daughters, becauſe they flatter him with Profeſſions of the moſt extravagant Love; and deprives his youngeſt Child of her Portion for no other Crime but confining her Expreſſions of Tenderneſs within the Bounds of plain and ſimple Truth.

But Shakeſpear has carried this Extravagance much farther; he ſhews us a King reſigning his Kingdom, his Crown and Dignity to his two Daughters; reſerving nothing to himſelf, not even a decent Maintenance; but ſubmitting to a mean Dependance on the Bounty of his Children; whom, by promiſing Rewards proportionable to the Degree of Flattery they laviſh on him, he has ſtimulated to outvie each other in artful Flouriſhes on their Duty and Affection toward him.

Tell me, Daughters, (Since now we will diveſt us, both of Rule, Int'reſt of Territory, Cares of State) Which of you, ſhall we ſay, doth love us moſt? That we our largeſt Bounty may extend Where Nature doth with Merit challenge. Goneril, Our eldeſt born, ſpeak firſt.

What Wonder, when thus bribed Goneril ſhould anſwer, I love you, Sir, Dearer than Eye-ſight, Space and Liberty.

Lear does not run mad till the third Act; yet his Behaviour towards Cordelia in this firſt Scene has all the Appearance of a Judgment totally depraved: he aſks Cordelia what ſhe has to ſay to draw a Dowry more opulent than her Siſters.

Thus he ſuggeſted to her a Motive for exceeding them in Expreſſions of Love: the noble Diſintereſtedneſs of her Anſwer afforded the ſtrongeſt Conviction of her Sincerity, and that ſhe poſſeſſed the higheſt Degree of filial Affection for him, who hazarded the Loſs of all her Fortune to confine herſelf to ſimple Truth in her Profeſſions of it: yet, for this, Lear baniſhes her his Sight, conſigns her over to Want, and loads her with the deepeſt Imprecations. What leſs than Phrenzy can inſpire a Rage ſo groundleſs, and a Conduct ſo abſurd! Lear, while in his Senſes, acts like a mad Man, and from his firſt Appearance to his laſt ſeems to be wholly deprived of his Reaſon.

In the Hiſtory Lear Diſinherits Cordelia, but we read of no other kind of Severity exerted towards her. The King of France, as well in the Hiſtory as the Play, charm'd with the Virtue and Beauty of the injured Cordelia, marries her without a Portion.

Shakeſpear does not introduce this Prince till after the abſurd Trial Lear made of his Daughters Affection is over. The Lover who is made to Marry the diſinherited Cordelia on account of her Virtue, is very injudiciouſly contrived to be Abſent when ſhe gave ſo glorious a Teſtimony of it, and is touch'd by a cold Juſtification of her Fame, and that from herſelf, when he might have been charm'd with a ſhining Inſtance of her Greatneſs of Soul, and inviolable Regard to Truth.

So unartfully has the Poet managed this Incident, that Cordelia's noble Diſintereſtedneſs is apparent to all but him who was to be the moſt influenced by it. In the Eyes of her Lover ſhe is debaſed, not exalted; reduced to the abject Neceſſity of defending her own Character, and ſeeking rather to free herſelf from the Suſpicion of Guilt, than modeſtly enjoying the conſcious Senſe of ſuperior Virtue.

Lear's Invective againſt her to the King of France is conceived in the moſt ſhocking Terms.

I would not from your Love make ſuch a ſtray, To Match you where I Hate; therefore beſeech you, T'avert your Liking a more worthy Way, Than on a Wretch, whom Nature is aſham'd Almoſt t'acknowledge her's.

Well might the King of France be ſtartled at ſuch Expreſſions as theſe from a Parent of his Child; had he been preſent to have heard the Offence ſhe gave him to occaſion them, how muſt her exalted Merit have been endeared to him by the extream Injuſtice ſhe ſuffered; but as it is, a bare Acquittal of any monſterous Crime, is all the Satisfaction ſhe can procure for herſelf; and all the Foundation her Lover has for the Eulogium he afterwards makes on her.

CORDELIA. I yet beſeech your Majeſty, (If, for I want that glib and oily Art, To ſpeak and purpoſe not; ſince what I well intend, I'll do't before I Speak) that you make known It is no vicious Blot, Murther, or Foulneſs, No unchaſt Action, or diſhonour'd Step, That hath depriv'd me of your Grace and Favour. But ev'n for want of that, for which I'm richer, A ſtill ſoliciting Eye, and ſuch a Tongue, That I am glad I've not; though not to have it Hath loſt me in your Liking. LEAR. Better thou Hadſt not been Born, than not to have pleaſed me better.

From this Speech of Cordelia's, and Lear's Anſwer, France collects Matter for extenuating a ſuppoſed Error in his Miſtreſs, not for Admiration of her Worth.

FRANCE. Is it but this? a Tardineſs in Nature, Which often leaves the Hiſtory unſpoke, That it intends to do.

Yet a Moment after, without knowing any more of the Matter, he laviſhes the warmeſt Praiſes on her Virtues, and offers to make her (loaded as ſhe is with her Father's Curſes, and deprived of the Dower he expected with her) Queen of France. This Conduct would be juſt and natural, had he been a Witneſs of her noble Behaviour; but doubtful as it muſt have appeared to him in ſuch perplexing Circumſtances, 'tis extravagant and abſurd.

Shakeſpear has deviated widely from Hiſtory in the Cataſtrophe of his Play; the Chronicle tells us, that King Lear having been diſpoſſeſſed by his rebellious Sons in Law of that Half of the Kingdom which he had reſerved for himſelf, and forced, by repeated Indignities from his Daughters, to take Refuge in France, was received with great Tenderneſs by Cordelia, who prevailed upon her Huſband to attempt his Reſtoration; accordingly an Army of Frenchmen paſs'd over into Britain, by which, the Dukes of Cornwal and Albany being defeated, King Lear was reſtored to his Crown, died in Peace two Years after, and left his Kingdom to Cordelia. In Shakeſpear the Forces of the two wicked Siſters are victorious, Lear and the pious Cordelia are taken Priſoners, ſhe is hanged in Priſon, and the old King dies with Grief. Had Shakeſpear followed the Hiſtorian, he would not have violated the Rules of poetical Juſtice; he repreſents Vice puniſhed, and Virtue rewarded; in the Play one Fate overwhelms alike the Innocent and the Guilty, and the Facts in the Hiſtory are wholly changed to produce Events, neither probable, neceſſary, nor juſt.

Several Incidents in this Play, are borrowed from the Hiſtory of the old Prince of Paphlagonia, in Sidney's Arcadia, which I ſhall here Tranſcribe.

"IT was in the Kingdom of Galacia, the Seaſon being (as in the Depth of Winter) very cold, and as then ſodainly Grown to ſo extream and foul a Storm, that never any Winter, I think, brought forth a fowler Child; ſo that the Princes were even compelled by the Hail, that the Pride of the Wind blew in their Faces, to ſeek ſome ſhrowding Place, which a certain hollow Rock offering unto them, they made it their Shield againſt the Tempeſt's Fury: And ſo ſtaying there till the Violence thereof was paſſed, they heard the Speech of a Couple, who not perceiving them, being hid within the rude Canupie, held a ſtrange and pitiful Diſputation, which made them Step out, yet in ſuch Sort, as they might ſee unſeen.

There they perceived an aged Man, and a young, ſcarcely come to the Age of a Man; both poorly arrayed, extreamly Weather-beaten; the old Man blind, the young Man leading him; and yet through all theſe Miſeries, in both there ſeemed to appear a Kind of Nobleneſs, not ſuitable to that Affliction: But the firſt Words they heard were theſe of the old Man.

Well Leonatus, ſaid he, ſince I cannot perſuade thee to lead me to that which ſhould end my Grief, and thy Trouble, let me now intreat thee to leave me: Fear not, my Miſery cannot be greater than it is, and nothing doth become me but Miſery. Fear not the Danger of my blind Steps, I cannot Fall worſe than I am, and do not, I pray thee, do not obſtinately continue to infect thee with my Wretchedneſs, but fly, fly from this Region, only worthy of me.

Dear Father, anſwered he, do not take away from me the only Remnant of my Happineſs, while I have Power to do you Service, I am not wholly miſerable.

Ah my Son, ſaid he, and with that he groaned, as if Sorrow ſtrove to break his Heart, how evil fits it me to have ſuch a Son, and how much doth thy Kindneſs upbraid my Wickedneſs.

Theſe doleful Speaches, and ſome others to like Purpoſe (well ſhewing they had not been born to the Fortune they were in) moved the Princes to go out unto them, and aſk the younger, who they were?

Sirs, anſwered he with a good Grace, and made the more agreeable by a certain noble Kind of Piteouſneſs, I ſee well you are Strangers, that know not our Miſery, ſo well here known, that no Man dare know but that we muſt be miſerable; indeed our State is ſuch, as though nothing is ſo needful unto us as Pity, yet nothing is more dangerous unto us, than to make ourſelves ſo known as may ſtir Pity; but your Preſence promiſeth, that Cruelty ſhall not over-run Hate, and if it did, in Truth our State is ſunk below the Degree of Fear. This old Man whom I lead, was lately rightful Prince of this Country of Paphlagonia; by the hard-hearted Ungratefulneſs of a Son of his, deprived not only of his Kingdom, whereof no foreign Forces were even able to ſpoile him, but of his Sight, the Riches which Nature grants to the pooreſt Creatures; whereby, and by other his unnatural Dealings, he hath been driven to ſuch Grief, as even now he would have had me to have led him to the Top of this Rock, thence to caſt himſelf headlong to Death, and ſo would have made me, who received my Life of him, to be the Worker of his Deſtruction. But noble Gentlemen, ſaid he, if either of you have a Father, and feel what dutiful Affection is ingrafted in a Son's Heart, let me entreat you to convey this afflicted Prince to ſome Place of Reſt and Security; amongſt your worthy Acts it ſhall be none of the leaſt, that a King of of ſuch Might and Fame, and ſo unjuſtly oppreſſed, is in any Sort by you relieved.

But before they could make him Anſwer, his Father began to Speak: Ah my Son, ſaid he, how evil an Hiſtorian are you, that leave out the chief Knot of all the Diſcourſe? My Wickedneſs, my Wickedneſs; and if thou doeſt it to ſpare my Eares, the only Senſe now left me proper for Knowledge, aſſure yourſelf thou doeſt miſtake me: And I take Witneſs of that Sun which you ſee, with that he caſt up his blind Eyes, as if he would Hunt for Light, and wiſh myſelf in worſe Caſe than I do wiſh myſelf, which is as Evill as may be, if I Speak untruly, that nothing is ſo welcome to my Thoughts, as the publiſhing of my Shame. Therefore know you Gentlemen (to whom from my Heart I wiſh that it may not prove ſome ominous Foretoken of Misfortune to have met with ſuch a Miſer as I am) that whatſoever my Son (o God that Truth binds me to Reproach him with the Name of my Son) hath ſaid is true. But beſides thoſe Truthes, this alſo is true, that having had in lawful Marriage, of a Mother fit to bear Royal Children, this Son (ſuch a one as partly you ſee, and better ſhall know by my ſhort Declaration) and ſo enjoyed the Expectations in the World of him till he was grown to juſtilfy their Expectations, ſo as I needed envy no Father for the chief Comfort of Mortality, to leave another ones-ſelf after me. I was carried by a Baſtard Son of mine, if at leaſt I be bound to believe the Words of that baſe Woman my Concubine, his Mother, firſt to miſlike, then to hate, laſtly to deſtroy, or to do my beſt to deſtroy this Son, I think, you think undeſerving Deſtruction; what Ways he uſed to bring me to it, if I ſhould tell you, I ſhould tediouſly trouble you with as much poiſonous Hypocriſy, deſperate Fraud, ſmooth Malice, hidden Ambition, and ſmiling Envy, as in any living Perſon could be harbour'd: But I liſt it not, no Remembrance of Naughtineſs delights me but mine own, and methinks the accuſing his Traps, might in ſome Manner excuſe my Fault, which certainly I loth to do. But the Concluſion is, that I gave Orders to ſome Servants of mine, whom I thought as apt for ſuch Charities as myſelf, to lead him out into a Forreſt, and there to kill him: But thoſe Thieves, better natured to my Son than myſelf, ſpared his Life, letting him go to learn to live poorly, which he did, giving himſelf to be a private Soldier in a Country here by; but as he was ready to be greatly advanced for ſome noble Pieces of Service which he did, he heard News of me, who (Drunk in my Affection to that unlawful and unnatural Son of mine) ſuffered myſelf to be governed by him, that all Favours and Puniſhments paſſed by him, all Offices and Places of Importance diſtributed to his Favourites; ſo that ere I was aware, I had left myſelf nothing but the Name of King, which he ſhortly weary of too, with many Indignities (if any Thing may be called an Indignity which was laid upon me) threw me out of my Seat, and put out my Eyes; and then proud in his Tyranny let me go, neither impriſoning, nor killing me, but rather delighting to make me feel my Miſery; Miſery indeed, if ever there were any, full of Wretchedneſs, full of Diſgrace, and fulleſt of Guiltineſs. And as he came to the Crown by ſo unjuſt Means, as unjuſtly he kept it, by Force of Stranger Soldiers in Cittadels, the Neſts of Tyranny, and Murderers of Liberty; diſarming all his own Countrymen, that no Man durſt ſhew himſelf a well willer of mine, to ſay the Truth, I think few of them being ſo, conſidering my cruel Folly to my good Son, and fooliſh Kindneſs to my unkind Baſtard; but if there were any who felt a Pity for ſo great a Fall, and had yet any Sparks of unſtaine Duty left in them towards me; yet durſt they not ſhew it, ſcarcely with giving me Alms at their Doors, which yet was the only Suſtenance of my diſtreſſed Life, nobody daring to ſhew ſo much Charity as to lend me a Hand to guide my dark Steps; till this Son of mine, God knows, worthy of a more virtuous, and more fortunate Father, forgetting my abominable Wrongs, not recking Danger, and neglecting the preſent good Way he was in of doing himſelf good, came hither to do this kind Office you ſee him perform towards me, to my unſpeakable Grief; not only becauſe his Kindneſs is a Glaſs even to my blind Eyes of my Naughtineſs; but that above all Griefs, it grieves me he ſhould deſperately adventure the loſs of his well deſerving Life for mine, that yet owe more to Fortune for my Deſerts, as if he would carry Mudde in a Cheſt of Chryſtal; for well I know, he that now reigneth, how much ſoever (and with good Reaſon) he deſpiſeth me, of all Men deſpiſed; yet he will not let ſlip any Advantage to make away him whoſe juſt Title, enobled by Courage and Goodneſs, may one Day ſhake the Seat of a never ſecure Tyranny; and for this Cauſe I craved of him to lead me to the Top of this Rock, indeed, I muſt confeſs, with meaning to free him from ſo Serpentine a Companion as I am; but he finding what I purpoſed, only therein, ſince he was born, ſhewed himſelf diſobedient to me: And now, Gentlemen, you have the true Story, which, I pray you, publiſh to the World, that my miſchievious Proceedings may be the Glory of his filial Piety, the only Reward now left for ſo great a Merit; and if it may be, let me obtain that of you which my Son denies me, for never was there more Pity in ſaving any than in ending me; both becauſe therein my Agony ſhall end, and ſo you ſhall preſerve this excellent young Man, who elſe wilfully follows his own Ruin.

The Matter, in itſelf lamentable, lamentably expreſſed by the old Prince, which needed not take to himſelf the Geſtures of Pity, ſince his Face could not put off the Marks thereof, greatly moved the two Princes to Compaſſion, which could not ſtay in ſuch Hearts as theirs without ſeeking Remedy: But, by and by, the Occaſion was preſented; for Plexirtus (ſo was the Baſtard called) came thither with forty Horſe, only of purpoſe to murder this Brother, of whoſe coming he had ſoon Advertiſement; and thought no Eyes of ſufficient Credit in ſuch a Matter but his own, and therefore come himſelf to be Actor and Spectator: and, as ſoon as he came, not regarding the weak (as he thought) Guard of but two Men, commanded ſome of his Followers to ſet their Hands to his in the killing of Leonatus; but the young Prince (though not otherwiſe armed but with a Sword) how falſely ſoever he was dealt with by others, would not betray himſelf; but bravely drawing it our, made the Death of the firſt that aſſailed him, warn his Followers to come more warily after him. But then Pyrocles and Muſidorus were quickly become Parties (ſo juſt a Defence deſerving as much as old Friendſhip) and ſo did behave them among that Company (more injurious than valiant) that many of them loſt their Lives for their wicked Maſter.

Yet, perhaps, had the Number of them at laſt prevailed, if the King of Pontus (lately by them made ſo) had not come unlooked for to their Succour; who (having had a Dream, which had fixed his Imagination vehemently upon ſome great Danger, preſently to follow thoſe two Princes whom he moſt dearly loved was come in all Haſte, following, as well as he could, their Track, with an Hundred Horſes, in that Country, which he thought (conſidering who then reigned) a fit Place enough to make the Stage of any Tragedy.

But then the Match had been ſo ill made for Plexertus, that his ill-led Life, and worſe-gotten Honour, ſhould have tumbled together to Deſtruction, had there not come in Tydeus and Telenor, with forty or fifty in their Suit, to the Defence of Plexirtus. Theſe two were Brothers, of the nobleſt Houſe of that Country, brought up from their Infancy with Plexirtus; Men of ſuch Proweſs as not to know Fear in themſelves, and yet to teach it in others that ſhould deal with them: for they had often made their Lives triumph over moſt terrible Dangers; never diſmayed, and ever fortunate; and, truly, no more ſettled in Valour than diſpoſed to Goodneſs and Juſtice; if either they had lighted on a better Friend, or could have learned to make Friendſhip a Child, and not a Father of Virtue: But bringing up (rather the Choice) having firſt knit their Minds unto him (indeed crafty enough, either to hide his Faults or never to ſhew them, but when they might pay home) they willingly held out the Courſe, rather to ſatisfy him than all the World; and rather to be good Friends than good Men; ſo as though they did not like the Evil he did, yet they liked him that did the Evil; and though not Counſellors of the Offence, yet Protectors of the Offender.

Now they having heard of this ſudden going out with ſo ſmall a Company in a Country full of evil-wiſhing Minds toward him (though they knew not the Cauſe) followed him, till they found him in ſuch Caſe as they were to venture their Lives, or elſe he to loſe his, which they did with ſuch Force of Mind and Body, that, truly, I may juſtly ſay, Pyrocles and Muſidorus had never till then found any that could make them ſo well repeat their hardeſt Leſſon in the Feats of Arms: And, briefly, ſo they did, that if they overcame not, were they not overcome; but carried away that ungrateful Maſter of theirs to a Place of Security: howſoever, the Princes laboured to the contrary.

But this Matter being thus far begun, it became not the Conſtancy of the Princes ſo to leave it, but in all Haſte making Forces both in Pontus and Phrygia, they had in few Days left him but only that one ſtrong Place where he was; for Fear having been the only Knot that had faſtened his People unto him, that once untied by a greater Force, they all ſcattered from him like ſo many Birds whoſe Cage had been broken.

In which Seaſon the blind King, having, in the chief City of his Realm, ſet the Crown upon his Son Leonatus's Head, with many Tears, both of Joy and Sorrow, ſetting forth to the whole People his own Fault and his Son's Virtue, after he had kiſſed him, and forced his Son to accept Honour of him, as of his new become Subject, even in a Moment died; as it ſhould ſeem, his Heart, broken with Unkindneſs and Affliction, ſtretched ſo far beyond his Limits with this Exceſs of Comfort, as it was no longer able to keep ſafe his vital Spirits.

But the new King, having no leſs lovingly performed all Duties to him dead, than alive, purſued on the Siege of his unnatural Brother, as much for the Revenge of his Father, as for the eſtabliſhing his own Quiet."

The under plot of Gloſter and his two Sons, in the Tragedy of King Lear, is borrowed from this foregoing ſhort Hiſtory of Leonatus; ſeveral of the Circumſtances cloſely copied; and the Characters of the Brothers nearly the ſame.

The Adventure of the Rock is heightened by Shakeſpear; perhaps with too little Attention to Probability. Gloſter, though deprived of Sight, might eaſily be ſenſible of the Difference between walking on a level Plain, and aſcending a ſleep and craggy Rock; nor could he poſſibly ſuppoſe, when he fell gently on that Plain, that he had precipitated himſelf from an immenſe Height to the Margin of the Sea.

Shakeſpear, in the pathetic Deſcription he makes Edgar give of his Father's Death, had certainly the following Paſſage of the Arcadia in his Eye. "The blind King having in the chief City of his Realm ſet the Crown upon his Son Leonatus's Head, with many Tears, both of Joy and Sorrow, ſetting forth to the People his own Fault, and his Son's Virtue; after he had kiſſed him, and forced his Son to accept Honour of him, as of his new become Subject, even in a Moment died, as it ſhould ſeem, his Heart broken with Unkindneſs and Affliction, ſtretched ſo far beyond his Limits with this Exceſs of Comfort, as it was able no longer to keep ſafe his vital Spirits." Sidney.

EDGAR. I met my Father with his bleeding Rings, Their precious Gems new loſt; became his Guide; Led him, begg'd for him, ſav'd him from Deſpair; Never (O Fault!) reveal'd myſelf unto him, Until ſome half Hour paſt, when I was arm'd. Not ſure, though hoping, of this good Succeſs, I aſked his Bleſſing, and from firſt to laſt Told him my Pilgrimage: but his flaw'd Heart, Alack, too weak the Conflict to ſupport, 'Twixt two Extremes of Paſſion, Joy and Grief, Burſt ſmilingly.

The Chronicle of Holingſhed, and Sidney's Arcadia are not the only Reſources Shakeſpear had for his Tragedy of Lear, if we may believe the Editor of a Collection of old Ballads, publiſhed in the Year 1726: in his Introduction to an old Ballad called, A Lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his three Daughters, he has theſe Words.

"I cannot be certain directly as to the Time when this Ballad was written; but that it was ſome Years before the Play of Shakeſpear appears from ſeveral Circumſtances, which to mention would ſwell my Introduction too far beyond its uſual Length."

It is to be wiſhed that this Writer, ſince he was reſolved not to exceed a certain Length in his Introduction, had omitted ſome Part of it, in order to introduce thoſe Circumſtances that were of infinitely more Conſequence than any thing elſe he has ſaid on the Subject of that old Ballad: if it was really written before Shakeſpear's Play, that great Poet did not diſdain to conſult it, but has copied it more cloſely than either the Chronicle or Sidney. From thence (for 'tis mentioned no where elſe) he took the Hint of Lear's Madneſs, and the extravagant and wanton Cruelty his Daughters exerciſed on him; the Death of King Lear is alſo exactly copied.

Spencer ſeems to have furniſhed Shakeſpear with the Hint of Cordelia's Manner of Death: In the tenth Canto of the ſecond Book of his Fairy Queen, he relates the Story of King Lear and his three Daughters; Cordelia, he tells us, after having reſtored her Father to his Crown, and ſucceeded to it after his Death, was by her Siſter's Children dethroned, and confined a long Time in Priſon, ſo that, overcome by Deſpair, ſhe hanged herſelf. In Shakeſpear Cordelia does not hang herſelf, but is hanged by a Soldier; a very improper Cataſtrophe for a Perſon of ſuch exemplary Virtue.

The following is the old Ballad I have mentioned, which bears ſo exact an Analogy to the Argument of Shakeſpear's King Lear, that his having copied it cannot be doubted, if indeed it be true, that it was written before that Tragedy.

KIng Leir once ruled in this Land, With Princely Power and Peace. And had all Things with Heart's Content, That might his Joys increaſe: Amongſt thoſe Things that Nature gave, Three Daughters fair had he, So Princely ſeeming beautiful, As fairer could not be. So on a Time it pleas'd the King A Queſtion thus to move, Which of his Daughters to his Grace Could ſhew the deareſt Love: For to my Age you bring Content; Quoth he, then let me hear Which of you Three in plighted Troth, The kindeſt will appear. To whom the Eldeſt thus began, Dear Father mind, quoth ſhe, Before your Face, to do you good, My Blood ſhall render'd be: And for your Sake my bleeding Heart Shall here be cut in twain, E're that I ſee your rev'rend Age The ſmalleſt Grief ſuſtain. And ſo will I, the Second ſaid, Dear Father, for your Sake, The worſt of all Extremities I'll gently undertake: And ſerve your Highneſs Night and Day, With Diligence and Love; That ſweet Content and Quietneſs Diſcomforts may remove. In doing ſo, you glad my Soul, The aged King reply'd; But what ſay'ſt thou, my youngeſt Girl, How is thy Love ally'd? My Love [quoth young Cordelia then] Which to your Grace I owe, Shall be the Duty of a Child, And that is all I'll ſhow. And wilt thou ſhew no more, quoth he, Than doth thy Duty bind? I well perceive thy Love is ſmall, When as no more I find: Henceforth I baniſh thee my Court; Thou art no Child of mine: Nor any Part of this my Realm, By favour ſhall be thine. Thy eldeſt Siſters Loves are more, Than well I can demand; To whom I equally beſtow My Kingdom and my Land: My pompous State and all my Goods, That lovingly I may With thoſe thy Siſters be maintain'd, Until my dying Day. Thus flatt'ring Speeches won Renown, By theſe two Siſters here: The third had cauſeleſs Baniſhment, Yet was his Love more dear: For poor Cordelia patiently Went wand'ring up and down, Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle Maid, Through many an Engliſh Town: Until at laſt in famous France She gentler Fortunes found; Though poor and bare, yet ſhe was deem'd The faireſt on the Ground: Where when the King her Virtues heard, And this fair Lady ſeen, With full Conſent of all his Court, He made his Wife and Queen. Her Father, old King Lear this while With his two Daughters ſtaid, Forgetful of their promis'd Loves, Full ſoon the ſame deny'd; And living in Queen Regan's Court, The eldeſt of the twain, She took from him his chiefeſt Means, And moſt of all his Train. For whereas twenty Men were wont To wait with bended Knee: She gave Allowance but to Ten, And after ſcarce to Three: Nay, one ſhe thought too much for him, So took ſhe all away, In hope that in her Court, good King, He would no longer ſtay. Am I rewarded thus, quoth he, In giving all I have Unto my Children, and to beg For what I lately gave? I'll go unto my Gonoril; My Second Child, I know, Will be more kind and pitiful, And will relieve my Woe. Full faſt he hies then to her Court; Where when ſhe hears his Moan, Return'd him Anſwer, That ſhe griev'd, That all his Means were gone: But no way could relieve his Wants; Yet if that he would ſtay Within her Kitchen, he ſhould have What Scullions gave away. When he had heard with bitter Tears, He made his Anſwer then; In what I did let me be made Example to all Men. I will return again, quoth he, Unto my Regan's Court; She will not uſe me thus, I hope, But in a kinder Sort. Where when he came ſhe gave Command To drive him thence away: When he was well within her Court, (She ſaid) he would not ſtay. Then back again to Gonorill, The woful King did hie, That in her Kitchen he might have, What Scullion Boys ſet by. But there of that he was deny'd, Which ſhe had promis'd late: For once refuſing, he ſhould not Come after to her Gate. Thus 'twixt his Daughters, for Relief, He wander'd up and down; Being glad to feed on Beggars Food, That lately wore a Crown. And calling to remembrance then His youngeſt Daughter's Words, That ſaid the Duty of a Child Was all that Love affords: But doubting to repair to her, Whom he had baniſh'd ſo, Grew frantick mad; for in his Mind He bore the Wounds of Woe: Which made him rend his milk-white Locks, And Treſſes from his Head, And all with Blood beſtain his Cheeks, With Age and Honour ſpread: To Hills and Woods, and watry Founts, He made his hourly Moan, Till Hills and Woods, and ſenſleſs Things, Did ſeem ſo ſigh and groan. Ev'n thus poſſeſs'd with Diſcontents, He paſſed o're to France, In hope from fair Cordelia there, To find ſome gentler Chance. Moſt virtuous Dame! which when ſhe heard Of this her Father's Grief, As Duty bound, ſhe quickly ſent Him Comfort and Relief: And by a Train of Noble Peers, In brave and gallant Sort, She gave in Charge he ſhould be brought To Aganippus' Court; Whoſe Royal King, whoſe Noble Mind, So freely gave Conſent, To muſter up his Knights at Arms, To Fame and Courage bent: And ſo to England came with Speed, To repoſſeſs King Lear, And drive his Daughters from their Thrones, By his Cordelia dear: Where ſhe, true-hearted Noble Queen, Was in the Battel ſlain; Yet he, good King, in his old Days, Poſſeſs'd his Crown again. But when he heard Cordelia's Death, Who dy'd indeed for Love Of her dear Father, in whoſe Cauſe She did this Battel move; He ſwooning, fell upon her Breaſt, From whence he never parted; But on her Boſom left his Life, That was ſo truly hearted. The Lords and Nobles when they ſaw The Ends of theſe Events, The other Siſters unto Death They doomed by Conſents: And being dead, their Crowns they left Unto the next of Kin: Thus have you ſeen the Fall of Pride, And diſobedient Sin. FINIS.