No howls of wolves, no yelps of hounds; No, not the noise of water's breach, Or cannon's throat our height can reach. [Voice above.] No ring of bells, &c. Fire. Well, mother, I thank your kindness: you must be gambolling i' th' air, and leave me to walk here, like a fool and a mortal. MIDDLETON. THE CHRISTIAN LADY AND THE ANGEL. An ANGEL, in the guise of a Page, attends on DOROTHEA. Dor. My book and taper. Ang. Here, most holy mistress. Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. Were every servant in the world like thee, So full of goodness, angels would come down To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo, Ang. No, my dear lady; I could weary stars, Therefore, my most lov'd mistress, do not bid Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence; For then you break his heart. Dor. Be nigh me still then. Little did I hope In golden letters down I'll set that day To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, Dor. I have offer'd Know who my mother was; but by yon palace, Dor. O blessed day! [Exeunt. We all long to be there, but lose the way. DOROTHEA is executed; and the ANGEL visits THEOPHILUS, the Judge that condemned her. Theoph. (alone) This Christian slut was well, A pretty one; but let such horror follow The next I feed with torments, that when Rome May feel an earthquake. How now? (Music.) Are you amazed, sır ? So great a Roman spirit, and doth it tremble? I had a mistress, late sent hence by you Upon a bloody errand; you entreated, That, when she came into that blessed garden She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you Theoph. Cannot I see this garden? And the most bright cheek'd child I ever view'd ; Compar'd with these are weeds: is it not February, A thousand blessings danc'd upon his eyes; A smooth-fac'd glorious thing, that brought this basket. Theoph. Away! but be in reach, if my voice calls you. Duke. What comfort do you find in being so calm? Candido. That which green wounds receive from sovereign balm. Patience, my lord! why, 't is the soul of peace; Of all the virtues 't is nearest kin to heaven; It is the greatest enemy to law That can be, for it doth embrace all wrongs, And so chains up lawyers and women's tongues : 'Tis the perpetual prisoner's liberty, His walks and orchards: 't is the bond-slave's freedom, And makes him seem proud of his iron chain, As though he wore it more for state than pain: THE SAME. I had a doubt whether to put this exquisite passage into the present volume, or to reserve it for one of Contemplative poetry; but the imagination, which few will not think predominant in it, together with a great admiration of the sentiments, of the thoughtful, good-natured alternation of jest and earnest, and of the sweetness of the versification, increased by a certain wild mixture of rhyme and blank verse, determined me to indulge the impulse. Perhaps Decker, who had experienced the worst troubles of poverty, not excepting loss of liberty, |