« 上一頁繼續 »
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,
King. I have unfetter'd all those legall bondes—draw;
Oro. Then, since there's no evasion, Witnesse, ye gods, my innocence is wrong'd.
• But, gratious sir,
Before I fall, or stand lesse fortunate
To see your overthrow, oh let me know
What fate, what cruell fate, hath robb'd me of
The treasures of your love: I never yet
Sullied my soul with any thought that might
Deserve your hate; heaven is my faithful witnesse
I harbour none of you, but such as are
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 This midnight storm of fancy, I can shed Some drops of pity too; pity, to change So true a subject for a treacherous guest. I come not rashly to attempt thy life, But long have strugl'd with my hot desire; Stood fiery trials of temptations, which Have sublimated reason, till it's grown Too volatile to be contain'd within My brain, that over-heated crucible. I am diseas'd, and know no way to health
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 fixt resolves.
There is a cause,
Commands me die in the attempt, or kill thee.
Oro. Dear sir, reveal it;
King. Alas, brave youth! thy innocence needs not
Oro. With pardon, royall sir, I cannot think
King. Dost thou affect her, yet dispraise a beauty
Will render meritorious guard thyself."
[They fight, and the King falls.
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 vain— they 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,
His body thence to burial; those bloudy characters
Oro. Then I am lost eternally—lost to all
Sur. Sir, I wish, I in ought else could serve you.
Oro. I thank thee, friend
What an unwieldy monster am I grown,
Oh! my accursed stars, that only lent
Your influence to light me to damnation;
Not all my penitential tears will ere
Wash off the spots from my stain'd soul; this gangrene
I§ cur'dby no lixivium, but of bloud.
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 ghosts, when gastly messengers of death. .
My thoughts are but the inforc't retreats
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
And each petition for a ponyard feers.
—Yet these aremore secure than I, they may
Pretend to merit in their wickednesse,
And call their crimes the cure of sickly states;
But I am left no refuge, lesse to know
The depth of horror can no further go.
[Draws his sword.
Jfp rB* rR* ^ff ^n>
—No, I will live—live, till divellop'd guilt
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,
The scholar stews his catholique brains for food.
The traveller, return'd and poor, may go
A second pilgrimage to fariner's doors, or end
His journey in a hospital; few being
So generous to relieve, where vertue doth
Necessitate to crave. Harsh poverty,
That moth, which frets the sacred robe of wit,
Thousands of noble spirits blunts, that else
Had spun rich threads of fancy from their brain:
But they are souls too much sublim'd to thrive."
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 plan nets, 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 Sr R. Barckley, K'
In cadi 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