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 : Lock'd 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. Why this is dreadful now as sudden death 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? 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. Bian. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind ; 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, Be it the best that ever heart affected; Nay, were't yourself, whose love had power you know As look on one thing still: what's the eye's treasure, And know I speak not ill; 'tis full as virtuous 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? Moth. (Aside.) I am glad he's here yet To see her tricks himself; I had lied monstrously 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, It's grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen; There's many 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 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. 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? 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, |