As virtue forc'd, but covet it like vice;
So should you live the slander of each sex,
And be the child of error and of shame;
And, which is worse, even Marc-Antony
Would be call'd just, to turn a wanderer off,
And fame report you worthy his contempt;
Where,' if you make new choice, and settle here,
There is no further tumult in this flood;

Each current keeps his course, and all suspicions
Shall return honours. Came you forth a maid ?
Go home a wife. Alone? and in disguise ?
Go home a waited Leocadia.

Go home, and, by the virtue of that charm,
Transform all mischiefs, as you are transform'd;
Turn your offended father's wrath to wonder,
And all his loud grief to a silent welcome;
Unfold the riddles have made. What say you?
Now is the time; delay is but despair;

you

If you be chang'd, let a kiss tell me so! Leoc. I am; but how, I rather feel than know.

[Kisses her.

["This is one of the most pleasing, if not the most shining, scenes in Fletcher. All is sweet, natural, and unforced. It is a copy which we may suppose Massinger to have profited by the studying."-LAMB.]

THE NIGHT-WALKER; OR, THE LITTLE THIEF

THE LIVING PHANTOM.

Maria, the mistress of Heartlove, after having been subjected to equivocal appearances by the plot of a wild cousin, in the hope of forwarding her marriage with her lover, has been put into a coffin for dead during a swoon, aud thus becomes the means of saving them from killing one another.

SCENE-A Churchyard.

Enter HEARTLOVE

Heartl. The night, and all the evils the night covers,
The goblins, hags, and the black spawn of darkness,

1 Where.] Whereas.

Cannot fright me. No, Death, I dare thy cruelty!
For I am weary both of life and light too.
Keep my wits, Heaven! They say spirits appear
To melancholy minds, and the graves open:

I would fain see the fair Maria's shadow;
But speak unto her spirit, ere I died;

But ask upon my knees a mercy from her.
I was a villain; but her wretched kinsman,
That set his plot, shall with his heart-blood satisfy
Her injur'd life and honour.-What light 's this?
Enter WILDBRAIN, with a lanthorn.

Wildb. It is but melancholy walking thus;
The tavern-doors are barricadoed too,

Where I might drink till morn, in expectation;
I cannot meet the watch neither; nothing in
The likeness of a constable, whom I might,
In my distress, abuse, and so be carried,
For want of other lodging, to the Counter.
Heartl. 'Tis his voice. Fate, I thank thee!
Wildb. Ha! who's that? An' thou be'st a man, speak.
Frank Heartlove? then I bear my destinies!
Thou art the man of all the world I wish'd for:
My aunt has turn'd me out of doors; she has,
At this unchristian hour; and I do walk
Methinks like Guido Faux, with my dark lanthorn,
Stealing to set the town a-fire. I' th' country
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp,

Or Robin Good-fellow. And how dost, Frank? Heartl. The worse for you!

Wildb. Come, thou'rt a fool. Art going to thy lodging? I'll lie with thee to-night, and tell thee stories,

How many devils we ha' met withal;

Our house is haunted, Frank; whole legions

I saw fifty for my share.

Heartl. Didst not fright 'em?

Wildb. How! fright 'em? No, they frighted me sufficiently.

Heartl. Thou hadst wickedness enough to make them stare, And be afraid o' thee, malicious devil!

[Draws.

And draw thy sword; for, by Maria's soul,

I will not let thee 'scape, to do more mischief.
Wildb. Thou art mad! what dost mean?

Heartl. To kill thee; nothing else will ease my anger:
The injury is fresh I bleed withal;

Nor can that word express it; there's no peace in't;
Nor must it be forgiven, but in death.

Therefore call up thy valour, if thou hast any,
And summon up thy spirits to defend thee!
Thy heart must suffer for thy damned practices
Against thy noble cousin, and my innocence.
Wildb. Hold! hear a word! did I do anything

But for your good? That you might have her?
That in that desperate time I might redeem her,
Although with show of loss?

Heartl. Out, ugly villain!

Fling on her the most hated name [could blast her]
To the world's eye, and face it out in courtesy ?

Bring him to see't, and make me drunk to attempt it?
Enter MARIA, in her shroud.

Maria. I hear some voices this way.

Heartl. No more! if you can pray,

Do it as you fight.

Maria. What new frights oppose me ?

I have heard that tongue.

Wildb. 'Tis my fortune;

You could not take me in a better time, sir:

I have nothing to lose, but the love I lent thee.

My life my sword protect!

[Draws. They fight.

Maria. I know 'em both; but, to prevent their ruins,

Must not discover-Stay, men most desperate!
The mischief you are forward to commit

Will keep me from my grave, and tie my spirit
To endless troubles else..

Wildb. Ha! 'tis her ghost!

Heartl. Maria!

Maria. Hear me, both! each wound

you make

Runs through my soul, and is a new death to me;

Each threatening danger will affright my rest.
Look on me, Heartlove; and, my kinsman, view me;
Was I not late, in my unhappy marriage,
Sufficient miserable, full of all misfortunes,
But you must add, with your most impious angers,
Unto my sleeping dust this insolence ?
Would you teach Time to speak eternally
Of my disgraces? make records to keep them,
Keep them in brass? Fight then, and kill my honour.
Fight deadly, both; and let your bloody swords
Through my reviv'd and reeking infamy,

That never shall be purg'd, find your own ruins.
Heartlove, I lov'd thee once, and hop'd again
In a more blessed love to meet thy spirit:
If thou kill'st him, thou art a murderer;
And murder never shall inherit Heaven.

My time is come; my conceal'd grave expects me:
Farewell, and follow not; your feet are bloody,
And will pollute my peace.

Heartl. Stay, blessed soul.

Wildb. Would she had

Come sooner, and sav'd some blood!

Heartl. Dost bleed?

Wildb. Yes, certainly; I can both see and feel it.
Heartl. Now I well hope it is not dangerous.

Give me thy hand. As far as honour guides me,
I'll know thee again.

Wildb. I thank thee heartily.

[Exit.

THE BLOODY BROTHER; OR, ROLLO, DUKE OF

NORMANDY.

MAD FANCIES OF FEASTERS.

SCENE-A Servant's Hall.

Enter the Master Cook, Butler, Pantler, Yeoman of the Cellar with a jack of beer1 and a dish.

Cook. A hot day, a hot day, vengeance hot day, boys!
Give me some drink; this fire's a plaguy fretter!

[Drinks out of the dish.

Body of me, I am dry still! give me the jack, boy;
This wooden skiff holds nothing.

Pant. And, 'faith, master,

[Drinks out of the jack.

What brave new meats? for here will be old eating. Cook. Old and young, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it;

Let 'em have ten tire of teeth a-piece, I care not. But. But what new rare munition ?

Cook. Pho! a thousand:

I'll make you pigs speak French at table, and a fat swan
Come sailing out of England with a challenge;
I'll make you a dish of calves' feet dance the canaries,1
And a consort of cramm'd capons fiddle to 'em:
A calf's head speak an oracle, and a dozen of larks
Rise from the dish, and sing all supper time.
'Tis nothing, boys. I have framed a fortification

14 jack of beer.] A jack was (and is, for it is extant still in old institutions) a tall vessel for holding liquor, made of stiffened leather, lined with rosin, and shaped like a boot; whence a great stiffened boot is called a jack-boot.

Drinks out of the dish.] The term dish was not always confined, as it is now, to something shallow, or at best something unused for holding drink. The phrase, dish of tea, still lingers perhaps in some old domestic places.

3 With a challenge.] An allusion, perhaps, to some circumstance of the day.

The canaries.J "A dance," says Richardson, common to the Canary Isles, and thence introduced into this country." Query, from a passage which he refers to in Shakspeare, whether the name of the dance