Is circl'd with divinity, which, without reverence King. Are my attempts priz'd at so cheap a rate? Oro. This stirs my bloud:-were you a private man, Protect him, though allied to me by all Being this far urged, our swords long since should have King. I have unfetter'd all those legall bondes-draw; Oro. Then, since there's no evasion, Before I fall, or stand lesse fortunate More full of zeal than those pure orizons, Which martyr'd saints mix with their dying groans. King. And must such goodnesse die!-know, noble youth, I am so far from calling it desert In thee, that hath unsheath'd my sword, that, in But through a deluge of thy bloud. Oro. There needs not, then, this storm to break down King. Hold or else thou rob'st me of my -There is a cause, Commands me die in the attempt, or kill thee. That, ere I fall, my penitential tears May from that leprous crime expunge my soul. fixt resolves. King. Alas, brave youth! thy innocence needs not The laver of a tear; thy candid thoughts White as the robes of angels are, but mine As goodnesse from a deity; yet must Oro. With pardon, royall sir, I cannot think King. Dost thou affect her, yet dispraise a beauty That in its orb contracts divinity? This profanation, what had else been sin, [They fight, and the King falls. Act IV. Scene II. There is great dignity in the preceding scene; the following passage and soliloquy, also, possess considerable merit-there are some beautiful touches of natural emotion in the bitter agonies of self-reproach of Oroandes-in the gushing out of an anguished heart;-such appeals are never made in vainthey strike upon the golden chain which links us with our common nature, and awaken the deepest sympathies of the heart. Enter Oroandes and a Surgeon. "Oro. Not find the body, say'st? Sur. No, sir; yet, by the large effusion of his bloud, Some mountaineers have certainly conveyed His body thence to burial; those bloudy characters Oro. Then I am lost eternally-lost to all A saint in heaven, or friend on earth, but will, Scatter infection, through the world, forsake With none but the society of devils. Sur. Sir, I wish, I in ought else could serve you. accursed stars, that only lent Your influence to light me to damnation; Not all my penitential tears will ere [Exit Sur. Wash off the spots from my stain'd soul; this gangrene My heart is lodg'd within a bed of snakes, Such as old fancies arm'd the furies with. Conscience waits on me like the frighting shades Of tortur'd reason to a troubled fancy. * Enter Oroandes, alone, in the habit of a Forrester. Oro. Not yet not yet at quiet-no disguise Is dark enough to curtain o'er my guilt; Cannot preserve from trembling; he looks on Act V. And each petition for a ponyard feers. And call their crimes the cure of sickly states; The depth of horror can no further go. Are grown more killing than the basilisk's, And each vein fill'd with poison, since these hands, But do I want more desperation yet? Are there not fiends enough, now waiting on me, The center of my life? This fatall weapon slew my prince; -This was his bloud that stains it,— [Draws his sword. The bloud that warm'd those browes, a crown imbrac'd, Warm vapors spend the pretious breath of life, ---No, I will live-live, till divellop'd guilt Makes me a publick spectacle of hate-and then Adds to their ponderous weight a full-mouthed curse." Act V. A gentle and tender melancholy is diffused over the affecting reflections, in the soliloquies of Vanlore, a noble gentleman, but of low fortune, to whom his rival, a rich simpleton, is preferred by the father of Theocrine. "Van. How purblind is the world, that such a monster, In a few dirty acres swadled, must Souls that make worth their center, and to that The noble soldier sits, whilst, in his cell The scholar stews his catholique brains for food. That moth, which frets the sacred robe of wit, Act I. Scene I. The following lines, addressed by Oroandes to Eurione, are exquisitely beautiful: "The morning pearls, Dropt in the lillie's spotlesse bosome, are Oroandes says to Zannazarro, when in rebellion: "Nobility, like heaven's bright plannets, waits Upon the sun of majesty, whilst none But comets drop from their usurped spheres." ART. VII. The Felicitie of Man, or, his Summum Bonum. Written by S R. Barckley, K“ In celi summum permanet arce bonum. Boeth. de Cons. Philos. lib. 3. London: Printed by R. Y. and are sold by Rich. Roystone, at his Shop in Ivie Lane. 1631. Small 4to, pp. 717. Of this author, or his book, we have not been able to find any notice or account whatever. It is a quarto, of a pretty good thickness,-is rare, and purports to be an ethical treatise on human happiness, consisting of six books. In the first, the author offers to prove, and by example to shew, that felicity consists not in pleasure,-In the second, not in riches,-In the third, not in honour and glory,-In the fourth, not in moral virtue, or in the action of virtue, after the academicks and peripateticks, nor in philosophical contemplation,-In the |