Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds,
That, as they flock'd about him, all stood silent,
Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too.
Amet. And so do I; good, on!

• Men.

A nightingale, Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes

The challenge, and for ev'ry several strain

The well shap'd youth could touch, she sung her down;
He could not run division with more art
Upon his quaking instrument than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to. For a voice, and for a sound,
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe

That such they were, than hope to hear again.
Amet. How did the rivals part?

• Men..
You term them rightly,
For they were rivals, and their mistress harmony.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird

Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice:
To end the controversy, in a rapture

Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of diff'ring method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.

Amet. Now for the bird,

• Men.

The bird, ordain'd to be

Music's first martyr, strove to imitate

These several sounds: which, when her warbling throat
Fail'd in, for'grief, down dropp'd she on his lute,"

And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness,

To see the conqueror upon her hearse;

To weep a funeral elegy of tears;

That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide

Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me
A fellow-mourner with him.

"Amet."

I believe thee.

Men. He look'd upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wip'd his eyes, then sigh'd and cry'd: "Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge

This cruelty upon the author of it

Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,

Shall never more betray a harmless peace··

To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow,
As he was pashing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in

Of the remaining plays, much less deserves to be said than of either of those which we have already mentioned. That of The Fancies is insipid in character, and absurd in plot. The Lady's Trial is very deficient in interest, though the reader is at times inclined to expect much more from it than it is the author's intention to afford him. The taste of the present age can never endure the barbarous and unnatural plot of The Witch of Edmonton; and therefore the merits of some affecting and beautifully written scenes will be for ever lost to the generality of readers. The Sun's Darling is a masque, and, like most allegorical compositions, is intolerably fatiguing and heavy. It contains, however, some very fine poetical passages, as the ensuing animated descriptions of the beauties of the Spring may testify:

Spring. Welcome the mother of the year, the Spring:
That mother, on whose back Age ne'er can sit,
For Age still waits upon her; that Spring, the nurse
Whose milk the Summer sucks, and is made wanton;
Physician to the sick, strength to the sound;

By whom all things above and under-ground
Are quicken'd with new heat.'-

Oh, my dear love the Spring, I am cheated of thee!

Thou had'st a body, the four elements

Dwelt never in a fairer; a mind, princely;

Thy language, like thy singers, musical.

How cool wert thou in anger; in thy diet,

How temperate and yet sumptuous! Thou would'st not waste
The weight of a sad violet in excess:

Yet still thy board had dishes numberless.

Dumb beasts even loved thee; once a young lark
Sat on thy hand, and gazing on thine eyes,

Mounted and sung, thinking them moving skies.'

We have already extended our observations to a greater length than was, perhaps, strictly prudent, considering that the subject of them is not an original work. Nevertheless, we cannot refuse ourselves the satisfaction of making one extract from the concluding scene of Perkin Warbeck; a play of which we must indulge the hope of some day witnessing the representation on the boards of Covent Garden Theatre: believing, as we do, that even the Hippomania of the last season has not wholly incapacitated the public from relishing the efforts of buman performers, and that it is still in the power of managers and proprietors to preserve the taste of the town from corruption, if they will only determine to attempt it.

We shall preface the scene which we are now to present to our readers with observing merely that Warbeck has been

already

already undergoing all the studied insults of the tyrant's vengeance, with an inflexible spirit, when his wife (in spite of the entreaties of her attendants) forces her way into his pre

sence:

"Enter KATHERINE, JANE, DALYELL, and Oxford.
Dear lady!

"Jane. " Oxf.

Without respect of shame ?

"Kath.

Whither will you?

Forbear me, sir,
And trouble not the current of my duty!-
Oh my lov'd lord! can any scorn be yours
In which I have no interest? Some kind hand
Lend me assistance, that I may partake

Th' infliction of this penance. My life's dearest,
Forgive me: I have staid too long from tend'ring
Attendance on reproach; yet bid me welcome.

"War. Great miracle of constancy! my miseries
Were never bankrupt of their confidence

In worst of afflictions, till, this now, I feel them.
Report, and thy deserts, thou best of creatures,
. Might to eternity have stood a pattern

For every virtuous wife, without this conquest.
Thou hast outdone belief; yet may their ruin
In after marriages, be never pitied,

To whom thy story shall appear a fable.

Why would's thou prove so much unkind to greatness,
To glorify thy vows by such a servitude?

I cannot weep; but trust me, dear, my heart

Is liberal of passion. Harry Richmond?

A woman's faith hath robb'd thy fame of triumph.
"Oxf. Sirrah, leave off your juggling, and tie up
The devil that ranges in your tongue.

"Urs.

Thus witches

Possess'd, even their deaths deluded, say,

They have been wolves and dogs, and sail'd in egg-shells
Over the sea, and rode on fiery dragons;

Pass'd in the air more than a thousand miles,

All in a night: the enemy of mankind

Is powerful but false; and falsehood confident.

66

Oxf. Remember, lady, who you are.
That impudent impostor!

"Kath.

You abuse us :

Come from

For when the holy churchman join'd our hands,
Our vows were real then; the ceremony

Was not in apparition, but in act.

Be what these people term thee, I am certain
Thou art my husband; no divorce in heaven
Has been sued out between us; 'tis injustice
For any earthly power to divide us.
Or we will live, or let us die together.
There is a cruel mercy.

"War.

« War.

'Spite of tyranny

We reign in our affections, blessed woman!
Read in my destiny the wrack of honour;
Point out, in my contempt of death, to memory,
Some miserable happiness: since, herein,

Even when I fell, I stood enthron'd a monarch
Of one chaste wife's troth, pure, and uncorrupted.
Fair angel of perfection, immortality
Shall raise thy name up to an adoration;
Court every rich opinion of true merit,
And saint it in the kalendar of virtue;
When I am turn'd into the self-same dust
Of which I was first form'd.

"Oxf.
The lord ambassador,
Huntley, your father, madam, should he look on
Your strange subjection, in a gaze so public,

Would blush on your behalf, and wish his country
Unleft, for entertainment to such sorrow.

"Kath. Why art thou angry, Oxford? I must be More peremptory in my duty.-Sir,

Impute it not unto immodesty,

That I presume to press you to a legacy,

Before we part for ever!

My heart, the rich remains of all my fortunes.
"Kath. Confirm it with a kiss, pray!
Oh with that

:

"War.
I wish to breathe my last upon thy lips,
Those equal twins of comeliness, I seal
The testament of honourable vows:
Whoever be that man that shall unkiss

This sacred print next, may he prove more thrifty
In this world's just applause, not more desertful."

"Kath. By this sweet pledge of both our souls, I swear

To die a faithful widow to thy bed:

Not to be forced or won: oh, never, never!

"Enter SURREY, DAWBENLEY, HUNTLEY, and CRAWFORD. "Daw. Free the condemned person; quickly free him! What, has he yet confess'd?

Ors.

But still he will be king.

"Sur.

[WARBECK is taken out of the ttocks

Prepare your journey

--

To a new kingdom then. Unhappy madam,
Wilfully foolish! See, my lord ambassador,

Your lady daughter will not leave the counterfeit

In this disgrace of fate.

"Hunt. 13778

I never 'pointed

Thy marriage, girl; but yet, being married,

Enjoy thy duty to a husband freely:

Thy griefs are mine; I glory in thy constancy

And must not say I wish that I had miss'd
Some partage in these trials of a patience.
"Kath. You will forgive me, noble sir.
"Hunt.
Yes, yes:
In every duty of a wife and daughter,

I dare not disavow thee.-To your husband,
(For such you are, sir) I impart a farewell
Of manly pity; what your life has past through,
The dangers of your end will make apparent;
And I can add, for comfort to your sufferance,
No cordial, but the wonder of your frailty,
Which keeps so firm a station. We are parted.
"War. We wear a crown of peace. Renew thy age
Most honourable Huntley. Worthy Crawford,
We may embrace. I never thought thee injury.
"Craw. Nor was I ever guilty of neglect

Which might procure such thought. I take my leave, sir.
"War. To you, lord Dalyell,-what? accept a sigh,
'Tis hearty and in earnest.

"Dal.

I want utterance,

My silence is my

farewell.

"Kath.

Oh-oh!

Dear lady,

Be pleased that I may wait you to your lodgings.

[Exeunt DALYELL and JANE, leading out Lady KATHE.

RINE.

Enter Sheriff and Officers with SKETON, ASTLEY, HERON, and JOHN A-WATER, with balters about their necks.

"Oxf. Look ye, behold your followers, appointed

To wait on you in death!

"War.

Why, peers of England,

We'll lead them on courageously. I read

A triumph over tyranny upon

Their several foreheads. Faint not in the moment
Of victory! Our ends, and Warwick's head,
Innocent Warwick's head, (for we are prologue
But to his tragedy) conclude the wonder
Of Henry's fears; and then the glorious race
Of fourteen kings Plantagenets, determines
In this last issue male; Heaven be obeyed!
Impoverish time of its amazement, friends,
And we will prove as trusty in our payments,
As prodigal to nature in our debts.

Death? pish! 'tis but a sound; a name of air ;
A minute's storm, or not so much; to tumble
From bed to bed, be massacred alive
By some physicians, for a month or two,
In hope of freedom from a fever's torments,
Might stagger manhood; here, the pain is past
REV. APRIL, 1812.

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