The challenge; and, for every several strain
The well-shaped 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.

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 differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.

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,
As he was pashing it against a tree,

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,
Lord governor of Corsica, enroll'd

A worthy of my country, sought and sued to,
Praised, courted, flatter'd!-

My triumphs

Are echoed under every roof, the air

Is streighten'd with the sound, there is not room
Enough to brace them in; but not a thought
Doth pierce into the grief that cabins here:
Here through a creek, a little inlet, crawls
A flake no bigger than a sister's thread,
Which sets the region of my heart a-fire.
I had a kingdom once, but am deposed
From all that royalty of blest content,
By a confederacy 'twixt love and frailty.
Aurelio. Glories in public view but add to misery,
Which travails in unrest at home.

Auria. At home!

That home, Aurelio speaks of, I have lost :
And which is worse, when I have roll'd about,
Toil'd like a pilgrim, round this globe of earth,
Wearied with care, and over-worn with age,
Lodged in the grave, I am not yet at home.
There rots but half of me: the other part
Sleeps, Heaven knows where. Would she and I, my wife
I mean; but what, alas! talk I of wife?
The woman, would we had together fed

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,
Which lately were so over-drown'd in tears,

So easy

to take rest? O happy man,
How sweetly sleep hath seal'd up sorrows here!
But I will call him: what, my lord, my lord,
My lord Fernando

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
But useful to your eye?

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
That tyranny: be record to my soul
The justice which I for this folly fear.

Fernando, in short words, howe'er my tongue

Did often chide thy love, each word thou spakest
Was music to my ear: was never poor

Poor wretched woman lived, that loved like me;
So truly, so unfeignedly.

Fer. O,

madam

Bian. To witness that I speak is truth, look here;
Thus singly I adventure to thy bed,

And do confess my weakness: if thou tempt'st
My bosom to thy pleasures, I will yield.
Fer. Perpetual happiness!

Bian. Now hear me out:

When first Caraffa, Pavy's duke, my lord,
Saw me, he loved me, and (without respect
Of dower) took me to his bed and bosom,

Advanced me to the titles I possess,

Not moved by counsel, or removed by greatness:
Which to requite, betwixt my soul and heaven
I vow'd a vow to live a constant wife.

I have done so: nor was there in the world
A man created, could have broke that truth,
For all the glories of the earth, but thou,
But thou, Fernando. Do I love thee now?
Fer. Beyond imagination.

Bian. True, I do,

Beyond imagination: if no pledge

Of love can instance what I speak is true,
But loss of my best joys, here, here, Fernando,
Be satisfied and ruin me.

Fer. What do you mean?

Bian. To give my body up to thy embraces;
A pleasure that I never wish'd to thrive in
Before this fatal minute: mark me now;
If thou dost spoil me of this robe of shame,
By my best comforts here, I vow again,
To thee, to heaven, to the world, to time,
Ere yet the morning shall new christen day,
I'll kill myself.

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,
By all that's good, if what I speak, my heart
Vows not eternally; then think, my lord,
Was never man sued to me I denied,
Think me a common and most cunning whore,
And let my sins be written on my grave,
My rame rest in reproof. Do as you list.

[Kneels.

Fer. I must believe ye; yet I hope anon,
When you are parted from me, you will say
I was a good, cold, easy-spirited man,
Nay, laugh at my simplicity: say, will ye?
Bian. No; by the faith I owe my bridal VOWS:
But ever hold thee much much dearer far
Than all my joys on earth; by this chaste kiss.
Fer. You have prevail'd: and Heaven forbid that I
Should by a wanton appetite profane

This sacred temple. "Tis enough for me,
You'll please to call me servant.

Bian. Nay, be thine :

Command my power, my bosom, and I'll write
This love within the tables of my heart.

Fer. Enough: I'll master passion, and triumph
In being conquer'd, adding to it this,

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,
Each hour shall perfect up.

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!
I here present you, royal sir, a shadow
Of majesty, but in effect a substance

Of pity; a young man, in nothing grown
To ripeness, but the ambition of your mercy:
Perkin; the christian world's strange wonder!
King H. Dawbney,

We observe no wonder; I behold ('tis true)
An ornament of nature, fine, and polish'd,

A handsome youth indeed, but not admire him.
How came he to thy hands?

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