Show fitly how the pre-existent soul
Enacts and enters bodies here below,
And then entire unhurt can leave this moul,
And thence her airy vehicle can draw,

In which by sense and motion they may know,
Better than we, what things transacted be
Upon the earth, and when they list may show
Themselves to friend or foe, their phantasie
Moulding their airy orb to gross consistency.

Wherefore the soul possess'd of matter meet,
If she hath power to operate thereon,
Can eath transform this vehicle to sight,
Dight with due colour figuration,

Can speak, can walk, and then dispear anon,
Spreading herself in the dispersed air,
Then, if she please, recall again what's gone:
Those th' uncouth mysteries of fancy are-
Than thunder far more strong, more quick than
lightning far.

Some heaving toward this strange activity
We may observe ev'n in this mortal state;
Here health and sickness of the phantasie
Often proceed, which working minds create,
And pox and pestilence do malleate,
Their thoughts still beating on those objects ill,
Which doth the master'd blood contaminate,
And with foul poisonous impressions fill,
And last, the precious life with deadly dolour kill.

All these declare the force of phantasie,
Though working here upon this stubborn clay;
But th' airy vehicle yields more easily,
Unto her beck more nimbly doth obey,
Which truth the joint confessions bewray
Of damned hags and masters of bold skill,
Whose hellish mysteries fully to display, [o'erspill.
The earth would groan, trees sigh, and horror all

But he that out of darkness giveth light,
He guide my steps in this so uncouth way;
And ill-done deeds by children of the night
Convert to good, while I shall hence assay
The noble soul's condition ope to lay,
And show her empire on her airy sphere,
By what of sprites and spectres stories say;
For sprites and spectres that by night appear
Be or all with the soul, or of a nature near.

Up then, renowned wizard, hermit sage,
That twice ten years didst in the desert won,
With sprites conversing in thy hermitage,
Since thou of mortals didst the commerce shun;
Well seen in these foul deeds that have foredone
Many a bold wit. Up, Marcus, tell again
That story to thy Thrax, who has thee won
To Christian faith; the guise and haunts explain
Of all air-trampling ghosts that in the world remain.

There be six sort of sprites: Lelurion

Is the first kind, the next are named from air;
The first aloft, yet far beneath the moon,
The other in this lower region fare ;
The third terrestrial, the fourth watery are ;
The fifth be subterranean; the last

And worst, light-hating ghosts, more cruel far
Than bear or wolf with hunger hard oppress'd,
But doltish yet, and dull, like an unwieldy beast.

Cameleon-like they thus their colour change,
And size contract, and then dilate again,
Like the soft earth-worm hurt by heedless chance,
Shrinks in herself to shun or ease her pain.
Nor do they only thus themselves constrain
Into less bulk, but if with courage bold,

And flaming brand, thou strike these shades in twain
Close quick as cloven air. So sang that wizard old.

And truth he said, whatever he has told,
As even this present age may verify,
If any lists its stories to unfold,
Of Hugo, of hobgoblins, of incubi,
Abhorred dugs by devils sucken dry;

Of leaping lamps, and of fierce flying stones,
Of living wool and such like witchery;
Or proved by sight or self-confessions,

Which things much credence gain to past traditions.

Wherefore with boldness we will now relate
Some few in brief; as of th' Astorgan lad
Whose peevish mother, in fell ire and hate,
With execration bold, the devil bad
Take him alive. Which mood the boy n'ote bear.
But quits the room-walks out with spirit sad,
Into the court, where lo! by night appear
i
Two giants with grim looks, rough limbs, black
grisly hair.

The walking skeleton in Bolonia,

Laden with rattling chains, that show'd his grave
To the watchful student, who without dismay
Bid tell his wants and speak what he would have,
Thus cleared he the house by courage brave.
Nor may I pass the fair Cerdinian maid
Whose love a jolly swain did kindly crave,
And oft with mutual solace with her staid.
Yet he no jolly swain, but a deceitful shade.

In arctic climes an isle that Thule hight,
Famous for snowy monts, whose hoary heads
Sure sign of cold; yet from their fiery feet
They strike out burning stones with thunders dread,
And all the land with smoke and ashes spread;
Here wand'ring ghosts themselves have often shown,
As if it were the region of the dead,

And met departed, met with whom they've known,
In seemly sort shake hands, and ancient friendship

own.

while Lee was reading to Major Mohun, at a rehearsal, Mohun, in the warmth of his admiration, threw down his part, and said, 'Unless I were able to play it as well as you read it, to what purpose should I undertake it?' And yet," continues the laureate, "this very author, whose elocution raised such admiration in so capital an actor, when he attempted to be an actor himself, soon quitted the stage in an honest despair of ever making any profitable figure there." Failing in this object, he became a writer for the stage, and his first tragedy of "Nero," which came out in 1675, was favourably received. In the nine

subsequent years of his life he produced as many plays of his own, and assisted Dryden in two; at the end of which period an hereditary taint of madness, aggravated by habits of dissipation, obliged him to be consigned for four years to the receptacle at Bethlem. He recovered the use of his faculties so far as to compose two pieces, the Princess of Cleves, and the Massacre of Paris; but with all the profits of his invention his circumstances were so reduced that a weekly stipend of ten shillings was his principal support towards the close of his life, and to the last he was not free from occasional derangement.

The characters in the following scenes are Varanes, a Persian prince, who comes to visit the Emperor Theodosius; Aranthes, his confidant; Leontine, the prince's tutor; and Athenais, daughter of that philosopher, with whom Varanes is in love. Her father Leontine, jealous for his daughter's honour, brings his royal pupil to an explanation respecting his designs towards Athenais; and Varanes, in a moment of rash pride, at the instigation of Aranthes, spurns at the idea of marrying the philosopher's daughter and sharing with her the throne of Cyrus. Athenais however is seen by the Emperor Theodosius, who himself offers her his hand. The repentance of Varanes for her loss, and the despair of Athenais, form the catastrophe of the tragedy.

Leon. So, Athenais; now our compliment To the young Persian prince is at an end; What then remains, but that we take our leave, And bid him everlastingly farewell?

Athen. My lord!

Leon. I say, that decency requires

We should be gone, nor can you stay with honour.
Athen. Most true, my lord.

Leon. The court is now at peace,
The emperor's sisters are retired for ever,
And he himself composed; what hinders then,
But that we bid adieu to prince Varanes ?

Athen. Ah, sir, why will you break my heart?
Leon. I would not;

Thou art the only comfort of my age;
Like an old tree I stand among the storms,
Thou art the only limb that I have left me,
My dear green branch; and how I prize thee, child,
Heaven only knows! Why dost thou kneel and
weep?

Athen. Because you are so good, and will, I hope, Forgive my fault, who first occasioned it. [prince. Leon. I charged thee to receive and hear the Athen. You did, and, oh, my lord! I heard too Too much, I fear, for my eternal quiet. [much! Leon. Rise, Athenais! Credit him who bears More years than thou: Varanes has deceived thee. Athen. How do we differ then! You judge the prince

Impiousand base; while I take Heaven to witness,
I think him the most virtuous of men :
Therefore, take heed, my lord, how you accuse
Before you make the trial.-Alas, Varanes, [him,

If thou art false, there's no such thing on earth
As solid goodness or substantial honour.-
A thousand times, my lord, he has sworn to give me!
(And I believe his oaths) his crown and empire,
That day I make him master of my heart.

Leon. That day he'll make thee mistress of his

power,

Which carries a foul name among the vulgar.
No, Athenais ! let me see thee dead,

Borne a pale corpse, and gently laid in earth,
So I may say she's chaste, and died a virgin,
Rather than view thee with these wounded eyes
Seated upon the throne of Isdigerdes,
The blast of common tongues, the nobles' scorn,
Thy father's curse; that is,

Athen. O horrid supposition! how I detest it,
Be witness, Heaven, that sees my secret thoughts!
Have I for this, my lord, been taught by you
The nicest justice, and severest virtue,
To fear no death, to know the end of life,
And, with long search, discern the highest good!
No, Athenais! when the day beholds thee
So scandalously raised, pride cast thee down,
The scorn of honour, and the people's prey!
No, cruel Leontine, not to redeem
That aged head from the descending axe,
Not, though I saw thy trembling body rack'd,
Thy wrinkles about thee fill'd with blood,
Would I for empire to the man I love,
Be made the object of unlawful pleasure.
Leon. O greatly said! and by the blood which