That lead to graves; and in the silent vault Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it, Striving to enter your forbidden corpse! And often, often, vainly breathe your ghost Into your lifeless lips; Then, like a lone benighted traveller Shut out from lodging, shall your groans be answer'd By whistling winds, whose every blast will shake Your tender form to atoms." We afterwards find him railing against fools,-He is the most spirited person of the drama. "Cre. Every where. Fine empty things, like him, The court swarms with them. Fine fighting things; in camps they are so common, A glut of 'em in Thebes. And fortune still takes care they should be seen; She places 'em aloft, o' th' topmost spoke Of all her wheel; fools are the daily work Act III. Scene I. There is something peculiarly solemn in the mysterious chaunt, in which the soothsayers celebrate their superstitious rites. "Tir. Chuse the darkest part o' th' grove; Such as ghosts at noon-day love. Dig a trench, and dig it nigh Where the bones of Laius lie, Altars rais'd of turf or stone, All Pr. 'Tis done. Tir. Is the sacrifice made fit, All Pr. 'Tis done. Tir. Pour in blood, and blood like wine, To mother earth and Proserpine; Mingle milk into the stream; Feast the ghosts that love the steam; Snatch a brand from funeral pile; Toss it in to make 'em boil; And turn your faces from the sun; All Pr. All is done. "The Rival Ladies" is a tragi-comedy of a very confused and intricate nature, but is adorned with gems of poetry, which are scattered as thick through this as the generality of his plays. Angelina, in the disguise of male attire, asks herself, "Where had I courage for this bold disguise, Which more my nature than my sex belies? Darkness which virtue hates, and maids most fear: Dogs cease to bark; the waves more faintly roar, And roll themselves asleep upon the shore: No noise but what my foot-steps make, and they They double too, and every step I take Sounds thick methinks, and more than one could make. I wish'd for company, and now I fear. Who are you, gentle people, that go there?" Act I. Sc. II. The answer of Amideo to Hippolito and Gonsalvo, who is also disguised in male attire, and taken for a boy, is a beautiful specimen of simple eloquence. 66 Hip. Poor child, who would'st be wise above thy years, Why dost thou talk, like a philosopher, Of conquering love, who art not yet grown up The sweetness of thy mother's milk is yet Within thy veins, not sour'd and turn'd by love. Gons. Thou hast not field enough in thy young breast, To entertain such storms to struggle in. Amid. Young as I am, I know the pow'r of love; And all that's in it, but the happiness. Trust a boy's word, Sir, if you please, and take My innocence for wisdom; leave this lady; To all the sex; bestow it on some other; The further selections which we intend making from this, we will string together-as pearls on a necklace: "Perfection is discovered in a moment; He that ne'er saw the sun before, yet knows him." To a lady fearing rudeness: "Your very fears and griefs create an awe, ; "Is this an hour for valiant men to fight? Act I. Sc. I. "What right have parents over children, more "His sweetness for those frowns no subject finds : Seas are the field of combat for the winds: "Like the day-dreams of melancholy men, I think and think on things impossible, Ibid. Act. II. Act III. Ibid. Again: "While I am compass'd round With mirth, my soul lies hid in shades of grief, She peeps, "Thou com'st, all cloy'd and tir'd with his embraces, To proffer thy pall'd love to me: his kisses His arms made round thy body, yet remains." Rodorick dying, says, "So, now I am at rest: Ibid. Act IV. Sc. III. I feel death rising higher still, and higher, "As from some steep and dreadful precipice, Ibid. Act V. Sc. III. It has been with the greatest possible reluctance, that we have abstained from adorning our pages with some of the scenes of "The All for Love," and "Don Sebastian." For this some excuse might have been found, in the fact that Dryden's peculiar dramatic merits might have been best illustrated by the quotation of passages from these two plays; but the length of the extracts, which we found ourselves compelled to make, have prevented our discussing this point in the manner we could have wished; and thus rendered these authorities, which we should have produced, less necessary. These two, however, as well as "The Spanish Friar" are plays to which we can refer our readers as wholes; and though very far from being without great blemishes and deficiences, they will amply repay them for a repeated perusal. The "Spanish Friar" has been chiefly praised for the happy union of two plots. For our parts, we profess ourselves sceptical as to the merits of this union; and if it had possessed no other claim to our notice, than the ingenuity with which the adventures of a camp profligate are connected with the intrigues of the court, we could have seen no reason why it should not sleep in the same oblivion in which "Love Triumphant" has been entombed. The structure of the plot is intrinsically the same; perhaps the connection more complete in the one case, than in the other; or in other words, the discordant and unharmonizing actions, are more closely compacted, and the juncture more artfully concealed, though in fact, there is the same inartificial combination in both. There is no Gordian knot to untie here, as is the case in the " Merchant of Venice;" the folds of which are so complicated that, to disentangle any part, you must mangle the whole. It may be worth our while, once for all, to disclose the secret of this artifice, and characterize the method by which the poet has endeavoured to delude us into an idea that the very different scenes which he places before our eyes, belong to one and the same picture. The hero of the tragic plot is generally the cousin the fewer degrees removed the more felicitous the combination of the hero of the comic plot, who is either an officer in the army commanded by the first, or a courtier in the palace where his relative is a lord of the bedchamber. The comic character occasionally appears at court; the tragic is sometimes seen in the street; and with this slight intercourse, each pursues his several way, through the first three or four acts. The one is little nice in distinctions, and associates pretty promiscuously with ladies both of high and low degree, with much risque to his constitution, while the other intrigues with queens and princesses, and cabals with lords and courtiers, to the eminent hazard of his head. At length, the plot thickens, and we reach in good time the grand point of connexion. The tragic hero has occasion for some two or three hundred partizans, to put down his most uncompromising opponents, and who so proper to head them as his cousin, the debauchee? The latter accordingly musters his regiment, if he has one; or if not, no matter-his drunken boon companions will do just as well-who sally forth with "hose ungartered," and make nothing of beating a set of sober-gaited citizens, or guards of the palace. Thus the tragic hero now gains all his ends, and it may be, in the height of victory, throws himself at the feet of his insulted sovereign. The heroism of his generous submission does his business effectually, and seals his pardon; while his companion in arms is left in peace, to enjoy his mistress, or quarrel with his wife, (if she does not turn out to be his sis |