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the use of the general reader. You will find, I suspect, that they have deservedly fallen into obscurity on account of their impure language and gross allusions. It may be said of them all as it was said of Marston by one of his contemporaries,– He cared not for modest close-couched terms, but dealt in plain naked words, stripped from their shirts.'”

" And yet,” replied the nymph, “ a judicious selection from their works would be a valuable addition to the library of the boudoir. Many passages of Marston himself are of the very highest order of poetry. Look at his explanation of what it is to be

a king.”

“ Why, man, I never was a prince till now.
'Tis not the bared pate, the bended knees,
Gilt tipstaffs, Tyrian purple, chairs of state,
Troops of pied butterflies, that flutter still
In greatness' summer, that confirm a prince :
'Tis not the unsavoury breath of multitudes,
Shouting and clapping with confused din,
That makes a prince. No, Lucio, he's a king,
A true right king, that dares do aught, save wrong ;
Fears nothing mortal, but to be unjust :
Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs
Of spungy sycophants : who stands unmoved,
Despite the justling of opinion :
Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng
That strive to press his quiet out of him :
Who sits upon Jove's footstool, as I do,
Adoring, not affecting, majesty :
Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown
Of clear content: this, Lucio, is a king,
And of this empire, every man's possess’d,
That's worth his soul.”

" The description of Antonio's visit to the vaults in which the body of his father lies, affords also a specimen of very splendid poetry.”

I purify the air with odorous fume. Graves, vaults, and tombs, groan not to bear my weight. Cold flesh, bleak trunks, wrapt in your half-rot shrouds, I press you softly with a tender foot. Most honour'd sepulchre, vouchsafe a wretch Leave to weep o'er thee. Tomb, I'll not be long Ere I creep in thee, and with bloodless lips Kiss my cold father's cheek. I pr’ythee, grave, Provide soft mould to wrap my carcass in. Thou royal spirit of Andrugio, where'er thou hoverest, (Airy intellect) I heave up tapers to thee (view thy son), On celebration of due obsequies. Once every night I'll dew thy funeral hearse With my religious tears. O blessed father of a cursed son! Thou diedst most happy, since thou livedst not To see thy son most wretched, and thy wife Pursued by him that seeks my guiltless blood. O, in what orb thy mighty spirit soars, Stoop and beat down this rising fog of shame, That strives to blur thy blood, and girt defame About my innocent and spotless brows.”

“ And the death of Mellida is full of tenderness and beauty. The fool alluded to is Antonio in dis

guise.”

“ Being laid upon her bed, she grasp'd my hand,
And kissing it, spake thus : Thou very poor,
Why dost not weep? The jewel of thy brow,
The rich adornment that enchased thy breast,
Is lost; thy son, my love, is lost, is dead.

And do I live to say Antonio's dead ?
And have I lived to see his virtues blurr'd
With guiltless blots ? O world, thou art too subtle
For honest natures to converse withal :
Therefore I'll leave thee; farewell, mart of woe,
I fly to clip my love, Antonio.
With that her head sunk down upon her breast;
Her cheek changed earth, her senses slept in rest ;
Until my fool, that crept unto the bed,
Screech'd out so loud, that he brought back her soul,
Callid her again, that her bright eyes 'gan ope,
And stared upon him: he, audacious fool,
Dared kiss her hand, wish’d her soft rest, loved bride ;
She fumbled out thanks good, and so she died.”

“ And, my dear Benedict, could even you yourself say any thing finer than the lewd Marston has done of conjugal love ?"

“ If love be holy, if that mystery
Of co-united hearts be sacrament;
If the unbounded goodness have infused
A sacred ardour of a mutual love
Into our species; if those amorous joys,
Those sweets of life, those comforts even in death,
Spring from a cause above our reason's reach;
If that clear flame deduce its heat from Heaven,
'Tis, like its cause, eternal ; always one,
As is th' instiller of divinest love,
Unchanged by time, immortal, maugre death.
But, oh, 'tis grown a figment; love a jest ;
A comic posey; the soul of man is rotten
Even to the core, no sound affection.
Our love is hollow, vaulted, stands on props
Of circumstance, profit, or ambitious hopes.”

.“ And,” continued the nymph, “ I doubt very much if any equal number of lines of Lord Byron would furnish finer extracts, in what may be termed his lordship's own peculiar style, than the “ DUKE OF BYRON” of old Chapman. The story consists of two parts, or distinct plays, THE CONSPIRACY and THE TRAGEDY. The first part opens with the arrival of the Duke of Savoy at the court of Henry IV. of France openly, but with the secret design of corrupting and drawing over Byron, the marshal of France; and he thus addresses his own minister;"

Sav. I would not, for half Savoy, but have bound France to some favour, by my personal presence More than yourself, my Lord Ambassador, Could have obtain’d; for all ambassadors, You know, have chiefly these instructions : To note the state and chief sway of the court To which they are employ'd; to penetrate The heart and marrow of the king's designs, And to observe the countenance and spirits Of such as are impatient of the rest, And wring beneath some private discontent: But past all these, there are a number more Of these state-criticisms, that our personal view May profitably make, which cannot fall Within the powers of our instruction To make you comprehend. I will do more With my mere shadow than you with your persons. All you can say against my coming here, Is that which, I confess, may, for the time, Breed strange affections in my brother Spain ; But when I shall have time to make my cannons The long-tongued heralds of my hidden drifts, Our reconcilement will be made with triumphs.”

“ Lafin is also another object for Savoy to gain; and the task is facilitated by Henry's rejection of Lafin's suit, as described in the following spirited scene.—The king enters with Lafin :"—

Hen. I will not have my train
Made a retreat for bankrupts, nor my court
A hive for drones : proud beggars and true thieves,
That, with a forced truth they swear to me,
Rob my poor subjects, shall give up their arts,
And henceforth learn to live by their deserts.
Though I am grown, by right of birth and arms,
Into a greater kingdom, I will spread
With no more shade than may admit that kingdom
Her proper, natural, and wonted fruits :
Navarre shall be Navarre, and France still France :
If one may be the better for the other
By mutual right, so neither shall be worse.
Thou art in law, in quarrels, and in debt,
Which thou would'st quit with count'nance. Borrowing
With thee is purchase, and thou seek'st by me,
(In my supportance) now our old wars cease,
To wage worse battles with the arms of peace.
Laf. Peace must not make men cowards, nor keep

calm
Her pursie regiment with men's smother'd breaths.
I must confess my fortunes are declined,
But neither my deservings nor my mind.
I seek but to sustain the right I found
When I was rich, in keeping what is left,
And making good my honour as at best,
Though it be hard : man's right to every thing
Wanes with his wealth ; wealth is his surest king.
Yet justice should be still indifferent.
The overplus of kings, in all their might,
Is but to piece out the defects of right:

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