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Cel. And can you be unwilling,

He being old and impotent?-his aim, too,
Levell❜d at you, for your good; not constrain'd,
But out of cure and counsel ?-Alas! consider;
Play but the woman with me, and consider,
As he himself does, and I now dare see it-
Truly consider, sir, what misery-

Fran. For virtue's sake, take heed!
Cel. What loss of youth,

What everlasting banishment from that
Our years do only covet to arrive at,
Equal affections, born and shot together!
What living name can dead age leave behind him?
What act of memory, but fruitless doting?

Fran. This cannot be.

Cel. To you, unless you apply it

With more and firmer faith, and so digest it:
I speak but of things possible, not done,
Nor like to be; a posset cures your sickness,
And yet I know you grieve this; and howsoever
The worthiness of friends may make you stagger
(Which is a fair thing in you,) yet, my patient,
My gentle patient, I would fain say more,
If you would understand.

Val. Oh! cruel woman!

Cel. Yet, sure your sickness is not so forgetful,
Nor you so willing to be lost!

Fran. Pray stay there;
Methinks you are not fair now; methinks more,
That modest virtue, men deliver'd of you,
Shows but like shadow to me, thin and fading!
Val. Excellent friend!

Fran. You have no share in goodness;
You are belied; you are not Cellide,
The modest, the immaculate!-Who are you?
For I will know-What devil, to do mischief
Unto my virtuous friend, hath shifted shapes
With that unblemish'd beauty?

Cel. Do not rave, sir,

Nor let the violence of thoughts distract you;
You shall enjoy me; I am yours; I pity,
By those fair eyes, I do.

Fran. Oh, double hearted!

Oh, woman! perfect woman! what distraction
Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a
devil!

What an inviting hell invented!—Tell me,
And if you yet remember what is goodness,
Tell me by that, and truth, can one so cherish'd,
So sainted in the soul of him, whose service
Is almost turn'd to superstition,
Whose every day endeavours and desires
Offer themselves like incense on your altar,
Whose heart holds no intelligence, but holy
And most religious with his love, whose life
(And let it ever be remember'd, lady !)
Is drawn out only for your ends-
Val. Oh! miracle!

His friendship durst confirm it,) without baseness,
Without the stain of honour ?-Shall not people
Say liberally hereafter, "There's the lady
That lost her father, friend, herself, her faith too,
To fawn upon a stranger," for aught you know
As faithless as yourself-in love, as fruitless!

Val. Take her, with all my heart!-Thou art
so honest,

That 'tis most necessary I be undone.
With all my soul possess her!

Cel. Till this minute

I scorn'd and hated you, and came to cozen you;
Utter'd those things might draw a wonder on me,
To make you mad.

Fran. Good heaven! what is this woman?

Cel. Nor did your danger, but in charity,
Move me a whit; nor you appear unto me
More than a common object; yet now, truly,
Truly, and nobly, I do love you dearly,

And from this hour you are the man I honour;
You are the man, the excellence, the honesty,
The only friend :-and I am glad your sickness
Fell so most happily at this time on you,
To make this truth the world's.

Fran. Whither d'you drive me?

Cel. Back to your honesty; make that good ever;
"Tis like a strong-built castle, seated high,
That draws on all ambitions; still repair it,
Still fortify it; there are thousand foes,
Besides the tyrant Beauty, will assail it:
Look to your sentinels, that watch it hourly;
Your eyes-let them not wander!

Fran. Is this serious,

Or does she play still with me?

Cel. Keep your ears,

The two main ports that may betray you, strongly
From light belief first, then from flattery,
Especially where woman beats the parley;
The body of your strength, your noble heart,
From ever yielding to dishonest ends,
Ridged round about with virtue, that no breaches,
No subtle mines, may meet you!

Fran. How like the sun

Labouring in his eclipse, dark and prodigious,
She show'd till now! When, having won his way,
How full of wonder he breaks out again,
And sheds his virtuous beams! Excellent angel!
(For no less can that heavenly mind proclaim thee.)
Honour of all thy sex! let it be lawful
(And like a pilgrim thus I kneel to beg it,
Not with profane lips now, nor burnt affections
But, reconciled to faith, with holy wishes,)
To kiss that virgin hand!

Cel. Take your desire, sir,

And in a nobler way, for I dare trust you;
No other fruit my love must ever yield you,

I fear, no more!-Yet, your most constant me-
mory

Fran. Whose all and every part of man, (pray (So much I'm wedded to that worthiness)

mark me!)

Like ready pages, wait upon your pleasures,
Whose breath is but your bubble-can you, dare

you,

Must you, cast off this man (though he were willing,
Though, in a nobleness to cross my danger,

Shall ever be my friend, companion, husband!
Farewell! and fairly govern your affections;
Stand, and deceive me not!-Oh, noble young
man!

I love thee with my soul, but dare not say it!
Once more, farewell, and prosper!—

FROM "A KING AND NO KING."

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

ARBACES, King of Iberia, reveals to PANTHEA, his sister, the criminality of his love for her.

An Apartment in the Palace.

Enter ARBACES at one door, and GOBRIAS with PANTHEA at another.

Gob. Sir, here's the princess.
Arb. Leave us, then, alone;
For the main cause of her imprisonment
Must not be heard by any but herself.—

[Exit GOBRIAS.

You're welcome, sister; and I would to heaven
I could so bid you by another name.—
If you above love not such sins as these,
Circle my heart with thoughts as cold as snow,
To quench these rising flames that harbour here.
Pan. Sir, does it please you I shall speak?
Arb. Please me?

Ay, more than all the art of music can,
Thy speech doth please me: for it ever sounds
As thou brought'st joyful unexpected news:
And yet it is not fit thou shouldst be heard;
I pray thee, think so.

Pan. Be it so: I will.

Am I the first that ever had a wrong
So far from being fit to have redress,
That 'twas unfit to hear it? I will back
To prison, rather than disquiet you,
And wait till it be fit.

Arb. No, do not go;

For I will hear thee with a serious thought:
I have collected all that's man about me
Together strongly, and I am resolved
To hear thee largely but I do beseech thee,
Do not come nearer me; for there is
Something in that, that will undo us both.
Pan. Alas, sir, am I venom?
Arb. Yes, to me;

Though, of thyself, I think thee to be in
As equal a degree of heat or cold,
As Nature can make: yet, as unsound men
Convert the sweetest and the nourishing'st meats
Into diseases, so shall I, distemper'd,

Do thee: I pray thee, draw no nearer to me.

Pan. Sir, this is that I would: I am of late Shut from the world, and why it should be thus Is all I wish to know.

Arb. Why, credit me,

Panthea, credit me, that am thy brother,
Thy loving brother, that there is a cause
Sufficient, yet unfit for thee to know,
That might undo thee everlastingly,
Only to hear. Wilt thou but credit this?
By heaven, 'tis true: believe it, if thou canst.
Pan. Children and fools are very credulous,
And I am both, I think, for I believe.
If you dissemble, be it on your head!
I'll back unto my prison. Yet methinks,

I might be kept in some place where you are;
For in myself, I find, I know not what
To call it, but it is a great desire
To see you often.

Arb. Fy, you come in a step; what do you Dear sister, do not so! Alas, Panthea, [mean? Where I am would you be? why, that's the cause You are imprison'd, that you may not be Where I am.

Pan. Then I must endure it, sir. Heaven keep you!

[Panthea:

Arb. Nay, you shall hear the cause in short, And when thou hear'st it, thou wilt blush for me, And hang thy head down like a violet Full of the morning's dew. There is a way To gain thy freedom; but 'tis such a one As puts thee in worse bondage, and I know Thou wouldst encounter fire, and make a proof Whether the gods have care of innocence, Rather than follow it: Know, that I have lost, The only difference betwixt man and beast, My reason.

Pan. Heaven forbid!

Arb. Nay, it is gone;

And I am left as far without a bound
As the wild ocean that obeys the winds;
Each sudden passion throws me where it lists,
And overwhelms all that oppose my will.
I have beheld thee with a lustful eye:
My heart is set on wickedness, to act
Such sins with thee, as I have been afraid
To think of. If thou dar'st consent to this,
Which, I beseech thee, do not, thou may'st gain
Thy liberty, and yield me a content;

If not, thy dwelling must be dark and close,
Where I may never see thee: for Heaven knows,
That laid this punishment upon my pride,
Thy sight at some time will enforce my madness
To make a start e'en to thy ravishing.
Now spit upon me, and call all reproaches
Thou canst devise together, and at once
Hurl 'em against me; for I am a sickness
As killing as the plague, ready to seize thee.

Pan. Far be it from me to revile the king!
But it is true, that I shall rather choose
To search out death, that else would search out me,
And in a grave sleep with my innocence,
Than welcome such a sin. It is my fate;
To these cross accidents I was ordain'd,
And must have patience; and, but that my eyes
Have more of woman in 'em than my heart,
I would not weep. Peace enter you again!

Arb. Farewell; and, good Panthea, pray for me (Thy prayers are pure) that I may find a death, However soon, before my passions grow, That they forget what I desire is sin; For thither they are tending: if that happen, Then I shall force thee, though thou wert a virgin By vow to Heaven, and shall pull a heap Of strange, yet uninvented, sin upon me.

Pan. Sir, I will pray for you! yet you shall know
It is a sullen fate that governs us:
For I could wish, as heartily as you,

I were no sister to you; I should then
Embrace your lawful love, sooner than health.
Arb. Couldst thou affect me then?
Pan. So perfectly.

That, as it is, I ne'er shall sway my heart
To like another.

Arb. Then I curse my birth! Must this be added to my miseries, That thou art willing too? Is there no stop To our full happiness, but these mere sounds, Brother and sister?

Pan. There is nothing else:

But these, alas! will separate us more
Than twenty worlds betwixt us.

Arb. I have lived

To conquer men, and now am overthrown
Only by words, brother and sister. Where
Have those words dwelling? I will find 'em out,
And utterly destroy 'em; but they are

Not to be grasp'd: let them be men or beasts,
And I will cut 'em from the earth; or towns,
And I will raze 'em, and then blow 'em up:
Let 'em be seas, and I will drink 'em off,
And yet have unquench'd fire left in my breast:
Let 'em be any thing but merely voice.

Pan. But 'tis not in the power of any force, Or policy, to conquer them.

Arb. Panthea,

What shall we do? Shall we stand firmly here, And gaze our eyes out?

Pan. 'Would I could do so!

But I shall weep out mine.

Arb. Accursed man,

Thou bought'st thy reason at too dear a rate; For thou hast all thy actions bounded in With curious rules, when every beast is free: What is there that acknowledges a kindred, But wretched man? Who ever saw the bull Fearfully leave the heifer that he liked, Because they had one dam?

Pan. Sir, I disturb you

And myself too; 'twere better I were gone. Arb. I will not be so foolish as I was;

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Stay, we will love just as becomes our births, No otherwise brothers and sisters may Walk hand and hand together; so shall we. Come nearer: Is there any hurt in this? Pan. I hope not.

Arb. 'Faith, there is none at all:
And tell me truly now, is there not one
You love above me?

Pan. No, by Heaven.
Arb. Why, yet

You sent unto Tigranes, sister.
Pan. True,

But for another: for the truth
Arb. No more,

I'll credit thee; I know thou canst not lie.
Thou art all truth.

Pan. But is there nothing else, That we may do, but only walk? Methinks, Brothers and sisters lawfully may kiss.

Arb. And so they may, Panthea; so will we; And kiss again too; we were too scrupulous And foolish, but we will be so no more.

Pan. If you have any mercy, let me go To prison, to my death, to any thing:

I feel a sin growing upon my blood,

Worse than all these, hotter, I fear, than yours. Arb. That is impossible: what should we do? Pan. Fly, sir, for Heaven's sake.

Arb. So we must; away!

Sin grows upon us more by this delay. [Exeunt several ways.

SIR JOHN DAVIES.

[Born, 1570. Died, 1626.]

SIR JOHN DAVIES wrote, at twenty-five years of age, a poem on the immortality of the soul; and at fifty-two, when he was a judge and a statesman, another on "the art of dancing."* Well might the teacher of that noble accomplishment, in Molière's comedy exclaim, La philosophie est quelque chose mais la danse!

Sir John was the son of a practising lawyer at Tisbury, in Wiltshire. He was expelled from the Temple for beating Richard Martin,† who was afterwards recorder of London; but his talents redeemed the disgrace. He was restored to the Temple, and elected to parliament, where, although he had flattered Queen Elizabeth in his poetry, he distinguished himself by supporting the privileges of the house, and by opposing royal monopolies. On the accession of King James he went to Scotland with Lord Hunsdon, and was received by the new sovereign with flattering cordiality, as author of the poem Nosce Teipsum. In Ireland

[This is not the case; the "Poeme of Dauncing" appeared in 1596, in his twenty-sixth year, and, curious enough. with a dedicatory sonnet "To his very Friend, Ma. Rich. Martin." A copy, supposed unique, is in the Bridgewater Library. The poem was the work of fifteen days. See COLLIER's Bibliographical Catalogue, p. 92. The poet wrote his name DAUYS.-C.]

he was successively nominated solicitor and attorney-general, was knighted, and chosen speaker of the Irish House of Commons, in opposition to the Catholic interest. Two works which he published as the fruits of his observation in that kingdom, have attached considerable importance to his name in the legal and political history of Ireland. On his return to England he sat in parliament for Newcastle-under-Lyne, and had assurances of being appointed chief justice of England, when his death was suddenly occasioned by apoplexy. He married, while in Ireland, Eleanor, a daughter of Lord Audley, by whom he had a daughter, who was married to Ferdinand Lord Hastings, afterwards Earl of Huntingdon. Sir John's widow turned out an enthusiast and a prophetess. A volume of her ravings was published in 1649, for which the revolutionary government sent her to the Tower, and to Bethlehem Hospital.

† A respectable man, to whom Ben Jonson dedicated his Poetaster.

The works are "A Discovery of the Causes why Ire land was never subdued till the beginning of his Majesty's Reign," and "Reports of Cases adjudged in the King's Courts in Ireland."

THE VANITY OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. FROM "NOSCE THIPSUM," OR A POEM ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

WHY did my parents send me to the schools,
That I with knowledge might enrich my mind?
Since the desire to know first made men fools,
And did corrupt the root of all mankind...

What is this knowledge but the sky-stol'n fire,
For which the thief still chain'd in ice doth sit?
And which the poor rude satyr did admire,
And needs would kiss, but burnt his lips with it...

In fine, what is it but the fiery coach

Which the youth† sought, and sought his death withal,

Or the boy's wings which, when he did approach
The sun's hot beams, did melt and let him fall?
And yet, alas! when all our lamps are burn'd,
Our bodies wasted and our spirits spent ;
When we have all the learned volumes turn'd,
Which yield men's wits both strength and orna-
ment,

What can we know, or what can we discern,
When error chokes the windows of the mind?
The divers forms of things how can we learn,
That have been ever from our birth-day blind?
When reason's lamp, that, like the sun in sky,
Throughout man's little world her beams did spread,
Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie
Under the ashes, half extinct and dead.

How can we hope, that through the eye and ear
This dying sparkle, in this cloudy space,
Can recollect these beams of knowledge clear,
Which were infused in the first minds by grace?
So might the heir whose father hath in play
Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent,
By painful earning of one groat a day
Hope to restore the patrimony spent.

The wits that dived most deep and soar'd most high, Seeking man's powers, have found his weakness such;

Skill comes so slow, and time so fast doth fly,
We learn so little and forget so much.

For this the wisest of all moral men
Said, "he knew nought but that he did not know."
And the great mocking master mock'd not then,
When he said "Truth was buried deep below."..
As spiders, touch'd, seek their web's inmost part;
As bees, in storms, back to their hives return;
As blood in danger gathers to the heart;
As men seek towns when foes the country burn:
If aught can teach us aught, affliction's looks
(Making us pry into ourselves so near)
Teach us to know ourselves beyond all books,
Or all the learned schools that ever were. . . . .
She within lists my ranging mind hath brought,
That now beyond myself I will not go :
Myself am centre of my circling thought:
Only myself I study, learn, and know.

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I know my body's of so frail a kind,
As force without, fevers within can kill;
I know the heavenly nature of my mind,
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will.

I know my soul hath power to know all things,
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all;

I know I'm one of nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a pain, and but a span;
I know my sense is mock'd in every thing:
And, to conclude, I know myself a man,
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing..
We seek to know the moving of each sphere,
And the strange cause of th' ebbs and floods of Nile;
But of that clock within our breasts we bear,
The subtle motions we forget the while.
For this few know themselves; for merchants broke
View their estate with discontent and pain;
And seas are troubled, when they do revoke
Their flowing waves into themselves again.
And while the face of outward things we find
Pleasing and fair, agreeable and sweet,
These things transport and carry out the mind,
That with herself the mind can never meet.
Yet if affliction once her wars begin,
And threat the feebler sense with sword and fire,
The mind contracts herself and shrinketh in,
And to herself she gladly doth retire.

REASONS FOR THE SOUL'S IMMORTALITY.
AGAIN, how can she but immortal be,
When, with the motions of both will and wit,
She still aspireth to eternity,

And never rests till she attain to it? ....

All moving things to other things do move
Of the same kind, which shows their nature such;
So earth falls down, and fire doth mount above,
Till both their proper elements do touch.

And as the moisture which the thirsty earth
Sucks from the sea to fill her empty veins,
From out her womb at last doth take a birth,
And runs a lymph along the grassy plains.
Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land
From whose soft side she first did issue make;
She tastes all places, turns to every hand,
Her flowery banks unwilling to forsake.

Yet nature so her streams doth lead and carry,
As that her course doth make no final stay,
Till she herself unto the sea doth marry,
Within whose wat'ry bosom first she lay.
E'en so the soul, which, in this earthly mould,
The spirit of God doth secretly infuse,
Because at first she doth the earth behold,
And only this material world she views.

At first her mother earth she holdeth dear,
And doth embrace the world and worldly things;
She flies close by the ground, and hovers here,
And mounts not up with her celestial wings:

Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught
That with her heavenly nature doth agree;
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought,
She cannot in this world contented be.

For who did ever yet, in honour, wealth,
Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find?
Who ever ceased to wish, when he had health,
Or, having wisdom, was not vex'd in mind?

Then, as a bee which among weeds doth fall, Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh and gay,

She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all,
But, pleased with none, doth rise and soar away.
So, when the soul finds here no true content,
And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take,
She doth return from whence she first was sent,
And flies to him that first her wings did make. . . .
Doubtless, all souls have a surviving thought,
Therefore of death we think with quiet mind;
But if we think of being turned to nought,
A trembling horror in our souls we find.

IN WHAT MANNER THE SOUL IS UNITED TO
THE BODY.

BUT how shall we this union well express?
Nought ties the soul, her subtlety is such,
She moves the body which she doth possess,
Yet no part toucheth but by virtue's touch.
Then dwells she not therein as in a tent,
Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit,
Nor as the spider in his web is pent,
Nor as the wax retains the print in it.

Nor as a vessel water doth contain,
Nor as one liquor in another shed,
Nor as the heat doth in the fire remain,
Nor as the voice throughout the air is spread;
But as the fair and cheerful morning light
Doth here and there her silver beams impart,
And in an instant doth herself unite
To the transparent air, in all and every part...

So doth the piercing soul the body fill,
Being all in all, and all in part diffused;
Indivisible, incòrruptible still,

Not forced, encounter'd, troubled, nor confused.

And as the sun above the light doth bring,
Though we behold it in the air below,

So from the Eternal light the soul doth spring,
Though in the body she her powers do show.

THAT THE SOUL IS MORE THAN THE TEMPERA-
TURE OF THE HUMOURS OF THE BODY.

If she doth, then, the subtle sense excel,
How gross are they that drown her in the blood,
Or in the body's humours temper'd well?
As if in them such high perfection stood.

As if most skill in that musician were,
Which had the best, and best tuned, instrument;
As if the pencil neat, and colours clear,
Had power to make the painter excellent.
Why doth not beauty, then, refine the wit,
And good complexion rectify the will?
Why doth not health bring wisdom still with it?
Why doth not sickness make men brutish still?
Who can in memory, or wit, or will,
Or air, or fire, or earth, or water, find;
What alchymist can draw, with all his skill,
The quintessences of these from out the mind?
If th' elements, which have nor life nor sense,
Can breed in us so great a power as this,
Why give they not themselves like excellence,
Or other things wherein their mixture is?

If she were but the body's quality,

Then we should be with it sick, maim'd, and blind;
But we perceive, where these privations be,
An healthy, perfect, and sharp-sighted mind....

THAT THE SOUL IS MORE THAN A PERFECTION
OR REFLEXION OF THE SENSE.
ARE they not senseless, then, that think the soul
Nought but a fine perfection of the sense,
Or of the forms which fancy doth enrol,
A quick resulting and a consequence?
What is it, then, that doth the sense accuse
Both of false judgments and fond appetites?
What makes us do what sense doth most refuse,
Which oft in torment of the sense delights?...
Could any powers of sense the Roman move,
To burn his own right hand with courage stout?
Could sense make Marius sit unbound, and prove
The cruel lancing of the knotty gout?....
Sense outsides knows-the soul through all things

sees;

Sense, circumstance; she doth the substance view:
Sense sees the bark, but she the life of trees;
Sense hears the sounds, but she the concord true...

Then is the soul a nature which contains
The power of sense within a greater power,
Which doth employ and use the sense's pains,
But sits and rules within her private bower.

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