And she (I sigh and spoke of) were things innocent, That know not what, nor why, yet do effect Did so to one another; what she liked, Was then of me approved; what not condemned, Till she had such another, and commit it That the true love 'tween maid and maid may be More than in sex dividual. Palamon and Arcite repining at their hard condition, in being made captives for life in Athens, derive consolation from the enjoyment of each other's company in prison. Pal. How do you, noble cousin? Arc. How do you, sir? Pal. Why strong enough to laugh at misery, And bear the chance of war yet; we are prisoners I fear for ever, cousin. Arc. I believe it, And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come. Pal. Oh cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country? The hardy youths strive for the games of honor, Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst them, Arc. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us; here we are, Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand cupids, Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds, That shook the aged forest with their echoes, Even from the bottom of these miseries, I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish Pal. Certainly 'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes The gall of hazard, so they grow together, Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place Pal. How, gentle cousin? Arc. Let's think this prison holy sanctuary, The poison of pure spirits, might (like women) Can be, but our imaginations May make it ours? And here being thus together, We are an endless mine to one another; We are one another's wife, ever begetting New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance: We are, in one another, families; Is our inheritance; no hard oppressor This place Dare take this from us; here with a little patience We shall live long, and loving; no surfeits seek us; Where you your Crave our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin, (I thank you, Cousin Arcite) almost wanton It is to live abroad, and everywhere! 'Tis like a beast methinks! I find the court here, I'm sure a more content; and all those pleasures, That woo the wills of men to vanity, I see through now; and am sufficient To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow, [This scene bears indubitable marks of Fletcher: the two which precede it give strong countenance to the tradition that Shakspeare had a hand in this play. The same judgment may be formed of the death of Arcite, and some other passages, not here given. They have a luxuriance in them which strongly resembles Shakspeare's manner in those parts of his plays WL re, the progress of the interest being subordinate, the poet was at leisure for description. I might fetch instances from Troilus and Timon. That Fletcher should have copied Shakspeare's manner through so many entire scenes (which is the theory of Mr. Steevens) is not very probable, that he could have done it with such facility is to me not certain. His ideas move slow; his versification, though sweet, is tedious, it stops every moment; he lays line upon line, making up one after the other, adding image to image so deliberately that we see where they join: Shakspeare mingles everything, he runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and metaphors: before one idea has burst its shell, another is hatched and clamorous for disclosure. If Fletcher wrote some scenes in imitation, why did he stop? or shall we say that Shakspeare wrote the other scenes in imitation of Fletcher? that he gave Shakspeare a curb and a bridle, and that Shakspeare gave him a pair of spurs: as Blackmore and Lucan are brought in exchanging gifts in the Battle of the Books?] THE CITY MADAM: A COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER. Luke, from a state of indigence and dependence, is suddenly raised into immense affluence by a deed of gift of the estates of his brother, Sir John Frugal, a merchant, retired from the world. He enters, from taking a survey of his new riches. Luke. 'Twas no fantastic object but a truth, That without a charm Didst make my entrance easy to possess [To the Key. What wise men wish and toil for. Hermes' Moly; Imagin'd only by the alchymist; Compar'd with thee, are shadows, thou the substance And guardian of felicity. No marvel, My brother made thy place of rest his bosom, |