from the manly, independent character of Leantio in the first instance, and the manner in which he dwells, in a sort of doting abstraction, on his own comforts, in being possessed of a beautiful and faithful wife. As he approaches his own house, and already treads on the brink of perdition, he exclaims with an exuberance of satisfaction not to be restrained

"How near am I to a happiness

That earth exceeds not! Not another like it :
The treasures of the deep are not so precious,
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man

Lock'd
up in woman's love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house:
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet-bed's not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banquetting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch side.
When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet,
Sparkling in beauty and destruction too,
Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight
Her beautified body to a goodly temple
That's built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting;
And so by little and little I shrink back again,
And quench desire with a cool meditation;
And I'm as well, methinks. Now for a welcome
Able to draw men's envies upon man :
A kiss now that will hang upon my lip,
As sweet as morning dew upon a rose,

G

And full as long; after a five days fast

She'll be so greedy now and cling about me:

I take care how I shall be rid of her;

And here 't begins."

This dream is dissipated by the entrance of Bianca and his Mother.

"Bian. Oh, sir, you're welcome home.
Moth. Oh, is he come? I am glad on't.
Lean. (Aside.) Is that all?

Why this is dreadful now as sudden death
To some rich man, that flatters all his sins
With promise of repentance when he's old,
And dies in the midway before he comes to't.
Sure you're not well, Biancha! How dost, prithee?
Bian. I have been better than I am at this time.
Lean. Alas, I thought so.

Bian. Nay, I have been worse too,

Than now you see me, sir.

Lean. I'm glad thou mendst yet,

I feel my heart mend too. How came it to thee?
Has any thing dislik'd thee in my absence?

Bian. No, certain, I have had the best content

That Florence can afford.

Lean. Thou makest the best on't:

Speak, mother, what's the cause? you must needs know.
Moth. Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself;
Unless it be the same gave Lucifer a tumbling cast; that's
pride.

Bian. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind ;
I'd have some pleasant lodging i' th' high street, sir;
Or if 'twere near the court, sir, that were much better;
"Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman

To stand in a bay-window, and see gallants.

Lean. Now I have another temper, a mere stranger

To that of yours, it seems; I should delight

To see none but yourself.

Bian. I praise not that;

Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish:

I would not have a husband of that proneness,
To kiss me before company, for a world :
Beside, 'tis tedious to see one thing still, sir,

Be it the best that ever heart affected;

Nay, were't yourself, whose love had power you know
To bring me from my friends, I would not stand thus,
And gaze upon you always; troth, I could not, sir;
As good be blind, and have no use of sight,

As look on one thing still: what's the eye's treasure,
But change of objects? You are learned, sir,

And know I speak not ill; 'tis full as virtuous
For woman's eye to look on several men,

As for her heart, sir, to be fixed on one.

Lean. Now thou com'st home to me; a kiss for that word.

Bian. No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass;

'Tis but a toy, we'll not so much as mind it;

Let's talk of other business, and forget it.

1

What news now of the pirates? any stirring?
Prithee discourse a little.

Moth. (Aside.) I am glad he's here yet

To see her tricks himself; I had lied monstrously
If I had told 'em first.

Lean. Speak, what's the humour, sweet,

You make your lips so strange? This was not wont.

Bian. Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife,
Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship,
And be still billing? 'tis the idlest fonduess
That ever was invented; and 'tis pity

It's grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen;

There's many
And a French court'sy made to't: Alas, sir,
Think of the world, how we shall live, grow serious;
We have been married a whole fortnight now.

a disease kiss'd in a year by❜t,

Lean. How? a whole fortnight! why, is that so long?

Bian. 'Tis time to leave off dalliance; 'tis a doctrine Of

your own teaching, if you be remember'd,

And I was bound to obey it.

Moth. (Aside.) Here's one fits him;

This was well catch'd i' faith, son, like a fellow
That rids another country of a plague,

And brings it home with him to his own house.

Who knocks?

[A Messenger from the Duke knocks within.

Lean. Who's there now? Withdraw you, Biancha; Thou art a gem no stranger's eye must see,

Howe'er thou'rt pleas'd now to look dull on me.

[Exit Biancha."

The Witch of Middleton is his most remarkable performance; both on its own account, and from the use that Shakespear has made of some of the characters and speeches in his Macbeth. Though the employment which Middleton has given to Hecate and the rest, in thwarting the purposes and perplexing the business of familiar and domestic life, is not so grand or appalling as the more stupendous agency which Shakespear has assigned them, yet it is not easy to deny the merit of the first invention to Middleton, who has embodied the existing superstitions of the time, respecting that anomalous class of beings, with a high spirit of poetry, of the most grotesque and

The other parts

fanciful kind. The songs and incantations made use of are very nearly the same. of this play are not so good; and the solution of the principal difficulty, by Antonio's falling down a trap-door, most lame and impotent. As a specimen of the similarity of the preternatural machinery, I shall here give one entire scene.

"The Witches' Hábitation.

Enter Heccat, Stadlin, Hoppo, and other Witches.

Hec. The moon's a gallant: see how brisk she rides.
Stad. Here's a rich evening, Heccat.

Hec. Aye, is't not, wenches,

To take a journey of five thousand miles?

Hop. Our's will be more to-night.

Hec. Oh, 'twill be precious. Heard you the owl yet?
Stad. Briefly, in the copse,

As we came thro' now.

Hec. 'Tis high time for us then.

Stad. There was a bat hung at my lips three times

As we came thro' the woods, and drank þer fill :

Old Puckle saw her.

Hec. You are fortunate still,

The very scritch-owl lights upon your shoulder,