To part with these sweet hopes?

Ordel. With all but heaven,

And yet die full of children; he that reads me
When I am ashes, is my son in wishes:

And those chaste dames that keep my memory,

Singing my yearly requiems, are my daughters.

Thier. Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledge, And what I must do, lady.

Ordel. You are the king, sir,

And what you do I'll suffer, and that blessing

That you desire, the gods shower on the kingdom.

Thier. Thus much before I strike then, for I must kill you, The gods have will'd it so, they've made the blessing

Must make France young again, and me a man.

Keep up your strength still nobly.

Ordel. Fear me not.

Thier. And meet death like a measure.

Ordel. I am stedfast.

Thier. Thou shalt be sainted, woman, and thy tomb

Cut out in crystal pure and good as thou art;

And on it shall be graven every age

Succeeding peers of France that rise by thy fall,
Till thou liest there like old and fruitful Nature.
Darest thou behold thy happiness?

Ordel. I dare, sir.

Thier. Ha!

[Pulls off her veil; he lets fall his sword.

Mar. O, sir, you must not do it.

Thier. No, I dare not.

There is an angel keeps that paradise,

A fiery angel friend: O virtue, virtue,

Ever and endless virtue.

Ordel. Strike, sir, strike.

And if in my poor death fair France may merit,
Give me a thousand blows, be killing me

A thousand days.

Thier. First let the earth be barren,

And man no more remember'd. Rise, Ordella,

The nearest to thy Maker, and the purest

That ever dull flesh show'd us,-Oh my heart-strings.*

Martel relates to Thierry the manner of Ordella's death.
Mar. The griev'd Ordella (for all other titles
But take away from that) having from me,
Prompted by your last parting groan, enquir'd
What drew it from you, and the cause soon learn'd :
For she whom barbarism could deny nothing,
With such prevailing earnestness desir'd it,
'Twas not in me, though it had been my death,
To hide it from her; she, I say, in whom,
All was, that Athens, Rome, or warlike Sparta,
Have register'd for good in their best women,
But nothing of their ill; knowing herself
Mark'd out (I know not by what power, but sure
A cruel one), to die, to give you children ;
Having first with a settled countenance
Look'd up to heaven, and then upon herself
(It being the next best object), and then smil❜d,
As if her joy in death to do you service,

Would break forth, in despite of the much sorrow

* I have always considered this to be the finest scene in Fletcher, and Ordella the most perfect idea of the female heroic character, next to Calantha in the Broken Heart of Ford, that has been embodied in fiction. She is a piece of sainted nature. Yet noble as the whole scene is, it must be confessed that the manner of it, compared with Shakspeare's finest scenes, is slow and languid. Its motion is circular, not progressive. Each line revolves on itself in a sort of separate orbit. They do not join into one another like a running hand. Every step that we go we are stopped to admire some single object, like walking in beautiful scenery with a guide. This slowness I shall elsewhere have occasion to remark as characteristic of Fletcher. Another striking difference perceivable between Fletcher and Shakspeare, is the fondness of the former for unnatural and violent situations, like that in the scene before us. He seems to have thought that nothing great could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief incidents in the Wife for a Month, in Cupid's Revenge, in the Double Marriage, and in many more of his Tragedies, show this. Shakspeare had nothing of this contortion in his mind, none of that craving after romantic incidents, and flights of strained and improbable virtue, which I think always betrays an imperfect moral sensibility.

She show'd she had to leave you; and then taking
Me by the hand, this hand which I must ever
Love better than I have done, since she touch'd it,
"Go," said she, "to my lord (and to go to him
"Is such a happiness I must not hope for),
"And tell him that he too much priz'd a trifle
"Made only worthy in his love, and her
"Thankful acceptance, for her sake to rob
"The orphan kingdom of such guardians, as
"Must of necessity descend from him ;
“ And therefore in some part of recompence
“Of his much love, and to show to the world
“That 'twas not her fault only, but her fate,
"That did deny to let her be the mother
"Of such most certain blessings: yet for proof,
"She did not envy her, that happy her,

"That is appointed to them; her quick end

"Should make way for her :" which no sooner spoke,

But in a moment this too ready engine

Made such a battery in the choicest castle

That ever Nature made to defend life,

That straight it shook and sunk.

WIT WITHOUT MONEY: A COMEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER.

The humor of a Gallant who will not be persuaded to keep his Lands, but chooses to live by his Wits rather.

VALENTINE'S Uncle. MERCHANT, who has his Mortgage.

Mer. When saw you Valentine?

Unc. Not since the horse race.

He's taken up with those that woo the widow.

Mer. How can he live by snatches from such people?

He bore a worthy mind.

Unc. Alas, he's sunk,

His means are gone, he wants; and, which is worse,
Takes a delight in doing so,

Mer. That's strange.

Unc. Runs lunatic if you but talk of states;
He can't be brought (now he has spent his own)
To think there is inheritance, or means,

But all a common riches; all men bound
To be his bailiffs.

Mer. This is something dangerous.

Unc. No gentleman, that has estate, to use it
In keeping house or followers: for those ways
He cries against for eating sins, dull surfeits,
Cramming of serving-men, mustering of beggars,
Maintaining hospitals for kites and curs,

Grounding their fat faiths upon old country proverbs,

"God bless the founders:" these he would have ventur'd

Into more manly uses, wit and carriage ;

And never thinks of state or means, the ground-works : Holding it monstrous, men should feed their bodies,

And starve their understandings.

VALENTINE joins them.

Val. Now to your business, uncle.

Unc. To your state then.

Val. 'Tis gone, and I am glad on 't, name 't no more, 'Tis that I pray against, and heaven has heard me; I tell you, sir, I am more fearful of it

(I mean, of thinking of more lands or livings),
Than sickly men are o' travelling o' Sundays,
For being quell'd with carriers; out upon 't;
Caveat emptor; let the fool out-sweat it,
That thinks he has got a catch on 't.

Unc. This is madness,

To be a wilful beggar.

Val. I am mad then,

And so I mean to be; will that content you ?
How bravely now I live! how jocund!

How near the first inheritance! without fears'

How free from title troubles!

Unc. And from means too!

Val. Means

Why, all good men's my means; my wit's my plough;
The town's my stock, tavern 's my standing-house
(And all the world know, there's no want): all gentlemen.
That love society, love me; all purses

That wit and pleasure opens, are my tenants;

Every man's clothes fit me; the next fair lodging

Is but my next remove; and when I please
To be more eminent, and take the air,

A piece is levied, and a coach prepar'd,

And I go I care not whither; what need state here?

Unc. But say these means were honest, will they last, sir?

Val. Far longer than your jerkin, and wear fairer.

Your mind's enclos'd, nothing lies open nobly;

Your very thoughts are hinds, that work on nothing
But daily sweat and trouble: were my way
So full of dirt as this ('tis true) I'd shift it.
Are my acquaintance Graziers? But, sir, know;
No man that I'm allied to in my living,
But makes it equal whether his own use
Or my necessity pull first; nor is this forc'd,
But the meer quality and poisure of goodness.
And do you think I venture nothing equal?
Unc. You pose me, cousin.

Val. What's my knowledge, uncle ?

Is 't not worth money? what's my understanding?
Travel? reading? wit? all these digested? my daily
Making men, some to speak, that too much phlegm
Had froz'n up; some, that spoke too much, to hold
Their peace, and put their tongues to pensions; some
To wear their cloaths, and some to keep 'em: these
Are nothing, uncle? besides these ways, to teach
The way of nature, a manly love, community
To all that are deservers, not examining

How much or what's done for them; it is wicked.
Are not these ways as honest, as persecuting
The starv'd inheritance with musty corn,
The very rats were fain to run away from?