I have no part in any good man's love,
In all earth's pleasures portion have I none,

I fade and wither in my own esteem,

This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.
I was not always thus.

Margaret.-Thou noble nature,

Which, lion-like, didst awe the inferior creature,
Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,

(Weeps.)

My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honour'd John!
Upon her knees (regard her poor request)

Your favourite, once-beloved Margaret, kneels.

John.-What wouldst thou, lady, ever-honour'd Margaret? Margaret. That John would think more nobly of himself, More worthily of high Heaven;

And not for one misfortune, child of chance,
No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish
The less offence with image of the greater,
Thereby to work the soul's humility,

(Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,)
Oh, not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy,
Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come-
John yet has many happy days to live;
To live and make atonement.

John.-Excellent lady,

Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes
Not the world's scorn nor falling off of friends
Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?
Margaret.-(rising) Go whither, John?
John.-Go in with me,

And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?

Margaret.-That I will, John.

SCENE-An inner Apartment.

[Exeunt

John is discovered kneeling.-Margaret standing over him.

John-(rises) I cannot bear

To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, ("Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)

In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

Margaret.-John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so

Oh, sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,

And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold
Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,
(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
And I must chide these pestilent humours from you.

John.-They are gone.

Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!
I can smile too, and I almost begin
To understand what kind of creature Hope is.
Margaret.-Now this is better, this mirth becomes you,
John.

John.-Yet tell me if I over-act my mirth;
(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error ;)
That were a sad indecency, you know.
Margaret.-Nay, never fear.

I will be mistress of your humours,

And you shall frown or smile by the book.
And herein I shall be most peremptory,

Cry," this shows well, but that inclines to levity;"
"This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,"
"But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

John.-How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!
Margaret.-To give you in your stead a better self!
Such as you were when these eyes first beheld
You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,
Sir Rowland, my father's gift,

And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.

I was a young thing then, being newly come
Home from my convent education, where

Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:
Returning home true Protestant, you call'd me
Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful
Did John salute his love, being newly seen.
Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,
And praised it in a youth.

John-Now Margaret weeps herself.

Margaret.-Hark the bells, John.

(A noise of bells heard.)

John.-Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.
Margaret. I know it.

John.-Saint Mary Ottery, my native village,

In the sweet shire of Devon.

Those are the bells.

Margaret.-Wilt go to church, John ?

John. I have been there already.

Margaret.-How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?

John.-I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep; And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is)

From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise,

And the first object I discern'd

Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.
Margaret.-Well, John.

John. Then I remember'd 'twas the Sabbath-day.
Immediately a wish arose in my mind

To go to church and pray with Christian people.
And then I check'd myself, and said to myself,
"Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past;
(Not having been at church in all that time;)
And is it fit, that now for the first time

Thou shouldst offend the eyes of Christian people
With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?
Thou wouldst but discompose their pious thoughts,
And do thyself no good: for how couldst thou pray,
With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?"
And then I at my own presumption smiled;
And then I wept that I should smile at all,
Having such cause of grief! I wept outright;
Tears like a river flooded all my face,

And I began to pray, and found I could pray;
And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church.
"Doubtless," said I," one might find comfort in it."

So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection,
Or was about to act unlawful business

At that dead time of dawn,

I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open;
(Whether by negligence I knew not,

Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed,
For all things felt like mystery.)
Margaret.-Yes.

John. So entering in, not without fear,
I pass'd into the family pew,

And covering up my eyes for shame
And deep perception of unworthiness,
Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
Where I so oft had kneel'd,

A docile infant, by Sir Walter's side;
And, thinking so, I wept a second flood
More poignant than the first;

But afterward was greatly comforted.

It seem'd the guilt of blood was passing from me
Even in the act and agony of tears,

And all my sins forgiven.

THE WITCH:

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH

CENTURY.

CHARACTERS.

OLD SERVANT in the Family of Sir Francis Fairford. STRANGER.

Servant.-ONE summer night, Sir Francis, as it chanced,

Was pacing to and fro in the avenue

That westward fronts our house,

Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted

Three hundred years ago

By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.
Being o'ertask'd in thought, he heeded not

The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate,
And begged an alms.

Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate
With angry chiding; but I can never think
(Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it)
That he could use a woman, an old woman,
With such discourtesy: but he refused her-
And better had he met a lion in his path
Than that old woman that night;

For she was one who practised the black arts,

And served the devil, being since burned for witchcraft.

She looked at him as one that meant to blast him:

And with a frightful noise,

("Twas partly like a woman's voice,

And partly like the hissing of a snake,)
She nothing said but this:

(Sir Francis told the words.)

“A mischief, mischief, mischief,

And a nine-times-killing curse,