The challenge; and, for every several strain The nightingale did with her various notes Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, Had busied many hours to perfect practice: Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method 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 dropt 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. He looks upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, and cried, "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, I suddenly stept in. [This story, which is originally to be met with in Strada's Prolusions, has been paraphrased in rhyme by Crashaw, Ambrose Phillips, and others: but none of those versions can at all compare for harmony and grace with this blank verse of Ford's: it is as fine as anything in Beaumont and Fletcher; and almost equals the strife which it celebrates.] THE LADIES' TRIAL, BY JOHN FORD. AURIA, in the possession of honours, preferment, fame, can find no peace in his mind while he thinks his Wife unchaste. AURIA. AURELIO. Auria. Count of Savona, Genoa's admiral, A worthy of my country, sought and sued to, My triumphs Are echoed under every roof, the air Is streighten'd with the sound, there is not room Auria. At home! That home, Aurelio speaks of, I have lost : On any outcast parings coarse and mouldy, Not lived divided thus! LOVE'S SACRIFICE: A TRAGEDY, BY JOHN FORD. BIANCHA, Wife to CARAFFA, Duke of Pavia, loves and is loved by FERNANDO the Duke's favourite. She long resists his importunate suit; at length, she enters the room where he is sleeping, and awakens him, to hear her confession of her love for him. BIANCHA. FERDINAND, sleeping. Bian. Resolve, and do; 'tis done. What, are those eyes, So easy to take rest? O happy man, Fer. Who calls? Bian. My lord: Sleeping, or waking? Fer. Ha, who is 't? Bian. 'Tis I: Have you forgot my voice? or is your ear Fer. Madam the duchess! Bian. She, 'tis she; sit up: Sit up and wonder, whiles my sorrows swell: The nights are short, and I have much to say. Fer. Is 't possible 'tis you? Bian. 'Tis possible: Why do you think I come ? Fer. Why? to crown joys, And make me master of my best desires. Bian. 'Tis true, you guess aright; sit up and listen. With shame and passion now I must confess, Since first mine eyes beheld you, in my heart You have been only king. If there can be A violence in love, then I have felt Fernando, in short words, howe'er my tongue Did often chide thy love, each word thou spakest Poor wretched woman lived, that loved like me; Fer. O, madam Bian. To witness that I speak is truth, look here; And do confess my weakness: if thou tempt'st Bian. Now hear me out: When first Caraffa, Pavy's duke, my lord, Advanced me to the titles I possess, Not moved by counsel, or removed by greatness: I have done so: nor was there in the world Bian. True, I do, Beyond imagination: if no pledge Of love can instance what I speak is true, Fer. What do you mean? Bian. To give my body up to thy embraces; Fer. How, madam, how! Bian. I will: Do what thou wilt, 'tis in thy choice; what say ye? Fer. Pish, do you come to try me? tell me first, Will you but grant a kiss ? Bian. Yes, take it; that, Or what thy heart can wish: I am all thine. Fer. O me- -come, come, how many women, pray, Were ever heard or read of, granted love, And did as you protest you will ? Bian. Fernando! Jest not at my calamity: I kneel: By these dishevel'd hairs, these wretched tears, [Kneels. Fer. I must believe ye; yet I hope anon, This sacred temple. "Tis enough for me, Bian. Nay, be thine : Command my power, my bosom, and I'll write Fer. Enough: I'll master passion, and triumph In you my love as it begun shall end. Bian. The latter I new vow— -but day comes on: What now we leave unfinish'd of content, Fer. Best life, good rest. Sweet, let us part. THE CHRONICLE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. BY JOHN FORD. PERFIN WARBECK and his Followers are by LORD DAWBNEY presented to KING HENRY as Prisoners. Daub. Life to the king, and safety fix his throne! Of pity; a young man, in nothing grown We observe no wonder; I behold ('tis true) A handsome youth indeed, but not admire him. Dawb. From sanctuary At Bewley, near Southampton; register'd, With these few followers, for persons privileged. King H. I must not thank you, sir; you were to blame |