They, that would flatter my bad face, would swear
There was such strange resemblance, that we two
Could not be known asunder, dress'd alike.
Dion. By heaven, and so there is.

Bel. For her fair sake,

Who now doth spend the spring-time of her life
In holy pilgrimage, move to the king,
That I may 'scape this torture.

Dion. But thou speak'st

As like Euphrasia, as thou dost look.

How came it to thy knowledge that she lives
In pilgrimage?

Bel. I know it not, my lord;

But I have heard it; and do scarce believe it. Dion. Oh, my shame! Is it possible? Draw near, That I may gaze upon thee. Art thou she,

Or else her murderer? Where wert thou born? Bel. In Siracusa.

Dion. What's thy name?

Bel. Euphrasia.

Dion. Oh, 'tis just, 'tis she.

Now I do know thee. Oh, that thou hadst died,
And I had never seen thee nor my shame!

How shall I own thee? shall this tongue of mine
E'er call thee daughter more?

Bel. 'Would I had died indeed; I wish it too:
And so I must have done by vow, ere publish'd
What I have told, but that there was no means
To hide it longer. Yet I joy in this,

The princess is all clear.

King. What have you done?

Dion. All is discover'd.

Phi. Why then hold you me ?

[He offers to stab himself.

All is discover'd! Pray you, let me go.

King. Stay him.

Are. What is discover'd?

Dion. Why, my shame!

It is a woman.

Let her speak the rest.

Phi. How? that again.
Dion. It is a woman.

Phi. Bless'd be you powers that favour innocence!
King. Lay hold upon that lady.

[MEGRA is seized.

Phi. It is a woman, sir! Hark, gentlemen!
It is a woman! Arethusa, take

My soul into thy breast, that would be gone
With joy.
It is a woman! Thou art fair,

And virtuous still to ages, in despite
Of malice.

King. Speak you, where lies his shame ?

Bel. I am his daughter.

Phi. The gods are just.

Dion. I dare accuse none; but, before you two,

The virtue of our age,

For mercy.1

I bend my knee

Phi. Take it freely; for, I know,

Though what thou didst were indiscreetly done,
'Twas meant well.

Are. And for me,

I have a power to pardon sins, as oft

As any man has

power to wrong me. Bel. Noble and worthy!

Phi. But, Bellario,

(For I must call thee still so) tell me why
Thou didst conceal thy sex? It was a fault;
A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds
Of truth outweigh'd it. All these jealousies
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discover'd
What now we know.

Bel. My father oft would speak

Your worth and virtue; and, as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so prais'd; but yet all this
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost
As soon as found; till sitting in my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,
I thought, (but it was you) enter our gates.
My blood flew out, and back again as fast,

1 For mercy.] Dion, out of a wrong notion of doing Philaster a service, had borne false witness to the charge against the Princess.

As I had puff'd it forth and suck'd it in,
Like breath. Then was I call'd away in haste
To entertain you. Never was a man,

Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, rais'd
So high in thoughts as I. You left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever. I did hear you talk,
Far above singing! After you were gone,
I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd
What stirr'd it so. Alas! I found it love;
Yet far from lust; for could I but have liv'd
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress'd myself
In habit of a boy; and, for I knew

My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you and understanding well,
That when I made discovery of my sex,
I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known,

Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,
For other than I seem'd, that I might ever
Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount,
Where first you took me up.

King. Search out a match

Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt,
And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself

Wilt well deserve him.

Bel. Never, sir, will I

Marry; it is a thing within my vow.

Phi. I grieve such virtues should be laid in earth
Without an heir. Hear me, my royal father:
Wrong not the freedom of our souls so much,
To think to take revenge of that base woman;
Her malice cannot hurt us. Set her free

As she was born, saving from shame and sin.
King. Set her at liberty; but leave the court;

This is no place for such! You, Pharamond,
Shall have free passage, and a conduct home

Worthy so great a prince.-When you come there,
Remember, 'twas your faults that lost you her,
And not my purposed will.

Pha. I do confess,

Renowned sir.

King. Last, join your hands in one. Enjoy, Philaster,
This kingdom, which is yours, and after me
Whatever I call mine. My blessing on you!
All happy hours be at your marriage-joys,
That you may grow yourselves over all lands,
And live to see your plenteous branches spring
Wherever there is sun! Let princes learn
By this, to rule the passions of their blood,
For what Heaven wills can never be withstood.1

1 "Th' occasion should as naturally fall,
As when Bellario confesses all."

[Exeunt omnes.

SHEFFIELD'S Essay on Poetry.

"The character of Bellario must have been extremely popular in its day. For many years after the date of Philaster's first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be found ['A remark,' says Mr. Dyce, 'thrown out somewhat at random'] without one of these women pages in it, following in the train of some pre-engaged lover, calling on the gods to bless her happy rival (his mistress) whom no doubt she secretly curses in her heart, giving rise to many pretty equivoques by the way on the confusion of sex, and either made happy at last by some surprising turn of fate, or dismissed with the joint pity of the lovers and the audience. Our ancestors seem to have been wonderfully delighted with these transformations of sex. Women's parts were then acted by young What an odd double confusion it must have made, to see a boy play a woman playing a man! one cannot disentangle the perplexity without some violence to the imagination.”—LAMB.

men.

"Bellario is suggested by Viola [in Shakspeare's Twelfth Night]. There is more picturesqueness, more dramatic importance, not, perhaps, more beauty and sweetness of affection, but a more elegant developement of it, in Fletcher; on the other hand, there is still more of that improbability which attends a successful concealment of sex by mere disguise of clothes, though no artifice has been more common on the stage."-HALLAM.

THE MAID'S TRAGEDY.'

LOVE FORLORN.

Amintor, a nobleman of the court of Rhodes, forsakes Aspatia by the King's command, to marry Evadne. The grief of the forsaken one described.

This lady

Walks discontented, with her watery eyes

Bent on the earth. The unfrequented woods
Are her delight; and when she sees a bank
Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell
Her servants what a pretty place it were
To bury lovers in; and make her maids
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse.
She carries with her an infectious grief,
That strikes all her beholders; she will sing
The mournful'st things that ever ear hath heard,
And sigh, and sing again; and when the rest
Of our young ladies, in their wanton blood,
Tell mirthful tales in course, that fill the room
With laughter, she will, with so sad a look,
Bring forth a story of the silent death
Of some forsaken virgin, which her grief
Will put in such a phrase, that, ere she end,
She'll send them weeping, one by one, away.

PASSAGES FROM A MASQUE PERFORMED ON THE WEDDING
NIGHT OF AMINTOR AND EVADNE.

NIGHT, rising in mists, addresses Cynthia (the Moon).
Our reign is come, for in the raging sea
The sun is drown'd, and with him fell the Day.
Bright Cynthia, hear my voice. I am the Night,
For whom thou bear'st about thy borrow'd light.
Appear! no longer thy pale visage shroud,

But strike thy silver horns quite through a cloud.

1A king persuades a nobleman of his court to forsake one lady and marry another, the latter having been seduced by the king himself, and being secretly his mistress. The bad woman, stimulated by her brother to regret and revenge, murders the king in his bed; the forsaken one, disguised as a page, contrives to be killed by her deserter; and the deserter kills himself from

remorse.

E