SPECIMENS

OF

ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS.

THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. BY JOHN FORD.

Contention of a Bird and a Musician.

Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me
Desire of visiting that paradise.

To Thessaly I came, and living private,

Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,

I day by day frequented silent groves,
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encounter'd me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art or nature ever were at strife in.
A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather
Indeed entranc'd my soul: as I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw

This youth, this fair fac'd youth, upon his lute
With strains of strange variety and harmony
Proclaiming (as it seem'd) so bold a challenge
To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds,
That as they flocked about him, all stood silent
Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too.
A Nightingale,

Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes

The challenge; and, for every several strain

The well-shap'd 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 diff'ring method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.

The bird (ordained 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 Fletch er; and almost equals the strife which it celebrates.]

THE LADIES TRIA. BY JOHN FORD.

Auria, in the possession of Honors, 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,
Prais'd, courted, flatter'd !-

My triumphs

Are echoed under every roof, the air

Is streightned 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 depos'd
From all that royalty of blest content,
By a confed'racy '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,
Lodg'd 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 out-cast parings coarse and mouldy,
Not liv'd 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 favorite. 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.

What, are those eyes,

Bian. Resolve, and do; 'tis done.
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 sorrow 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 spak'st

Was music to my ear: was never poor

Poor wretched woman liv'd, that lov'd like me;
So truly, so unfeignedly.

Fer. Oh 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 lov'd me, and (without respect
Of dower) took me to his bed and bosom,
Advanc'd me to the titles I possess,

Not mov'd by counsel, or remov'd 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: