But the eternal substance of his greatness,
To which I leave him. Take the head away,
And, with the body, give it noble burial:

Your earth shall now be bless'd, to hold a Roman,
Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance.

FEMININE MANNERS.

Cæsar. Pray you, undo this riddle,
And tell me how I have vex'd you.

Cleopatra. Let me think first,

Whether I may put on a patience,

That will with honour suffer me.

Know, I hate you:

Let that begin the story: now, I'll tell you.

Cæsar. But do it milder. In a noble lady,

Softness of spirit, and a sober nature,

That moves like summer winds, cools, and blows sweet-
Shows, blessed, like herself.

[ness.

THE LOVER'S PROGRESS.

SONG OF HEAVENLY AGAINST EARTHLY LOVA.

Adieu, fond love! farewell, you wanton Powers!
I am free again;

Thou dull disease of blood and idle hours,
Bewitching pain,

Fly to the fools that sigh away their time!
My nobler love, to Heaven climb,

And there behold beauty still young,

That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy;
Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung,

And honour'd by eternity and joy!

There lives my love, thither my hopes aspire;
Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher.

LOVE'S GENTLENESS.

Love is a gentle spirit ;

The wind that blows the April flowers not softer;

She's drawn with doves to show her peacefulness;
Lions and bloody pards are Mars's servants.
Would you serve Love? do it with humbleness,
Without a noise, with still prayers, and soft murmurs ;
Upon her altars offer your obedience,

And not your brawls; she's won with tears, not terrors:
The fire you kindle to her deity

Is only grateful when it's blown with sighs,

And holy incense flung with white-hand innocence.

A MATTER-OF-FACT GHOST.

Dorilaus and Cleander, sitting up at night drinking, are visited by the Landlord's Ghost.

SCENE-A Country Inn.

Enter DORILAUS, CLEANDER, Chamberlain; a table, tapers, and chairs.

Cie. We have supp'd well, friend. Let our beds be ready; We must be stirring early.

Cham. They are made, sir.

Dor. I cannot sleep yet. Where's the jovial host
You told me of? 'T has been my custom ever
To parley with mine host.

Cle. He's a good fellow,

Ard such a one I know you love to laugh with.-
Go call your master up.

Cham. He.cannot come, sir.

Dor. Is he a-bed?

Cham. No, certainly.

Cle. Why then he shall come, by your leave, my friend;

I'll fetch him up myself.

Cham. Indeed you'll fail, sir.

Dor. Is he i' th' house?

Cham. No, but he's hard by, sir;

He is fast in's grave; he has been dead these three weeks. Dor. Then o' my conscience he will come but lamely, And discourse worse.

Cle. Farewell, mine honest host then,

Mine honest merry host!-Will you to bed yet? Dor. No, not this hour; I pr'ythee, sit and chat by me. Cle. Give us a quart of wine then; we'll be merry.

Dor. Had not mine host a wife?

Cle. A good old woman.

Dor. Another coffin! that is not so handsome;
Your hostesses in inns should be blithe things;
Pretty and young, to draw in passengers.

Enter Chamberlain with Wine.

Well done. Here's to Lisander!

Cle. My full love meets it.-Make fire in our lodgings,
We'll trouble thee no farther.-

To your son! (Drinks again.)

[Exit Chamberlain.

Dor. Put in Clarange too; off with't. I thank you.

This wine drinks merrier still. Oh, for mine host now!
Were he alive again, and well disposed,

I would so claw his pate!

Cle. You're a hard drinker.

Dor. I love to make mine host drunk; he will lie then
The rarest, and the roundest, of his friends,

His quarrels, and his guests.
'Tis at the door, I think.

Cle. The doors are shut fast.

[A lute is struck within What's that? a lute?

Dor. 'Tis morning; sure the fiddlers are got up
To fright men's sleeps.

Cle. I've heard mine host that's dead

Touch a lute rarely, and as rarely sing too,
A brave still mean.1

Dor. I would give a brace of French crowns
To see him rise and fiddle.

Cle. Hark; a song!

A SONG [within.]

'Tis late and cold; stir up the fire;
Sit close, and draw the table nigher;
Be merry, and drink wine that's old,
A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold!

1 Mean.] A middle voice; a tenor.

Call for the best the house may ring;
Sack, white, and claret let them bring;
And drink apace, while breath you have;
You'll find but cold drink in the grave:
Welcome, welcome, shall fly round,

And I shall smile, though under ground.

Cle. Now, as I live, it is his voice!
Dor. He sings well;,

The devil has a pleasant pipe.

Cle. The fellow lied, sure.

Enter the Host's Ghost.

He is not dead; he's here. How pale he looks!

Dor. Is this he?

Cle. Yes.

Host. You are welcome, noble gentlemen!

My brave old guest, most welcome!

Cle. Lying knaves,

To tell us you were dead. Come, sit down by us.
We thank you for your song.

Host. 'Would 't had been better!

Dor. Speak, are you dead?

Host. Yes, indeed am I, gentlemen ;

I have been dead these three weeks.

Dor. Then here's to you,

To comfort your cold body!

Cle. What do you mean?

Stand further off.

Dor. I will stand nearer to him.

Shall he come out on's coffin to bear us company,
And we not bid him welcome ?-Come, mine host,
Mine honest host, here's to you!

Host. Spirits, sir, drink not.

Cle. Why do you appear?

Host. To wait upon ye, gentlemen;

('T has been my duty living, now my farewell)
I fear ye are not used accordingly.

Dor. I could wish you warmer company, mine host,
Howe'er we are used.

Host. Next, to entreat a courtesy ;

And then I go to peace.

Cle. Is't in our power

Host. Yes, and 'tis this; to see my body buried
In holy ground, for now I lie unhallow'd,

By the clerk's fault; let my new grave be made
Amongst good fellows, that have died before me,
And merry hosts of my kind.

Cle. It shall be done.

Dor. And forty stoops of wine drank at thy funeral.
Cle. Do you know our travel?

Host. Yes, to seek your friends,

That in afflictions wander now.

Cle. Alas!

Host. Seek 'em no farther, but be confident

They shall return in peace.

Dor. There's comfort yet.

Cle. Pray one word more.

Is't in your power, mine host,

(Answer me softly) some hours before my death,
To give me warning?

Host. I cannot tell you truly;

But if I can, so much alive I lov'd you,

I will appear again.

Dor. Adieu, sir.

Adieu!

Cle. I am troubled. These strange apparitions are

For the most part fatal.

Dor. This, if told, will not

[Exit.

Find credit. The light breaks apace; let's lie down,
And take some little rest, an hour or two,

Then do mine host's desire, and so return.
I do believe him.

Cle. So do I.

To rest, sir!

THE GHOST KEEPS HIS PROMISE,

SCENE-A Room in Cleander's House.

Enter CLEANDER, with a Book.

Cle. Nothing more certain than to die; but when
Is most uncertain. If so, every hour

[Exeunt.