Puslapio vaizdai


A Man's Tears.

Let me wipe off this honourable dew,
That filverly doth progrefs on thy cheeks.
My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation:"
But this effufion of fuch manly drops,
This fhow'r, blown up by tempest of the soul,
Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz'd,
Than had I feen the vaulty top of heav'n,
Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart, heave away this storm,
Commend thefe waters to those baby-eyes,
That never faw the giant-world enrag'd;
Nor met with fortune, other than at feafts,
Full warm of blood, of mirth, of goffiping.

SCENE IV. Drums.

Strike up the drums, and let the tongue of war Plead for our int'reft. * * * *

* * *

* *


* *

Do but start

An eccho with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
That fhall reverb'rate all as loud as thine.
Sound but ancher, and another fhall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder.

SCENE IX. The approach of Death.

It is too late, the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain, (Which, fome fuppofe, the foul's frail dwelling-house,) Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretel the ending of mortality.


Madness, occafioned by Poifon,

(12) Ay, marry, now my foul hath elbow-room, It would not out at windows, nor at doors. There is fo hot a fummer in my bofom, That all my bowels crumble up to dust:

I am

(12) Ay, marry, &c.] In the Valentinian of Beaumont and Fletcher, the emperor is brought on the ftage, poifoned.There he calls out for

Drink, drink, drink, colder, colder

Than fnow on Seythian mountains: oh my heart-strings;


I'll have brought through my body:

And Volga, on whofe face the north wind freezes.

I am an hundred hells, an hundred piles
Already to my funeral are flaming,

Shall I not drink?

Like Nero,

But far more terrible and full of flaughter,
I'th'midst of all my fire, I'll fire the empire:
A thousand fans, a thoufand fans to cool me:
Invite the gentle winds, Eudoxia.

More drink,

A thousand April fhowers fall in my bofom;
How dare ye let me be tormented thus? &c.

See A&t 5. S. 2.

But in another play of theirs wife for a month, is a poifoning fcene, which better deferves to be compar'd with this of our author, and which Mr. Seward obferves, " every reader of taste will acknowledge fuperior to it." Alphonfo, long a prey to melancholy, is poifoned with a hot, burning potion, and in the midst of his tortures, raves thus.

Give me more air, more air, air: blow, blow, blow,
Open thou eastern gate, and blow upon me:
Diftil thy cold dews, O thou icy moon,

And rivers run through my afflicted fpirit.
I am all fire, fire, fire: the raging dog-star
Reigns in my blood: oh which way thall I turn me ?
Eina and all her flames, burn in my head;
Fling me into the ocean or I perish :
Dig, dig, dig, dig, until the fprings fly up;


I am a fcribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I fhrink up.


The cold, cold springs, that I may leap into them,
And bathe my scorch'd limbs in their purling pleasures.
Or fhoot me into the higher region,

Where treasures of delicious fnow are nourish'd,
And banquets of sweet hail.

Rug. Hold him fåst, friar,
Oh, how he burns!

Alph. What will ye facrifice me?

Upon the altar lay my willing body,

And pile your wood up, fling your holy incense:
And as I turn me, you shall fee all flame,
Confuming flame: ftand off me, or you're ashes.

Mart. To bed, good Sir.

Alph. My bed will burn about me:

Like Phaeton, in all confuming flashes

Am I inclos'd: let me fly, let me fly, give room;
'Twixt the cold bears, far from the raging lion,
Lies my safe way: O for a cake of ice now
To clap unto my heart to comfort me.
Decrepid winter, hang upon my shoulders,
And let me wear thy frozen ificles,
Like jewels round about my head to cool me. !
My eyes burn out and fink into their fockets,
And my infected brain, like brimstone boils:
I live in hell, and feveral furies vex me.
O, carry me where never fun e'er fhew'd yet
A face of comfort, where the earth is cryftal,
Never to be diffolved, where nought inhabits
But night and cold, and nipping frosts and winds,
That cut the ftubborn rocks and make them fhiver:
Set me there, friends-

The line

'Twixt the cold bears, far from the raging lion, was read, (before corrected by Mr. Seward.)

Betwixt the cold bear and the raging lion.

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Poifon'd, ill fare! dead, forfook, cast off;
And none of you will bid the winter come
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bofom: nor intreat the north
To make his bleak winds kifs my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold.

SCENE X. England, invincible, if unanimous

England never did, nor ever shall

Lye at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it firft did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms;
And we shall shock them.-Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true.

General Obfervations.

The tragedy of King John (lays Johnson) though not written with the utmoft power of Shakespear, is varied with a very pleafing interchange of incidents and characters. The Lady's grief is very affecting; and the character of the baftard contains that mixture of greatnefs and levity which this author delighted to exhibit.



Julius Cæfar.





HAT is it, that you would impart to me? If it be aught towards the general good, Set honour in one eye, and death i' th' other, And I will look on both indifferently:


(1) What, &c. "How agreeable to his ftoic character, does Shakespear make Brutus fpeak here? Cicero de fin. iii. 16. Qu'd enim illi AAIA OPON dicunt, id mihi ita occurrit, ut indifferens dicerem. One of the great divifion of things among the ftoics was into good, bad, indifferent: virtue, and whatever partook of virtue, was good: vice, bad: but what partook of neither virtue, nor vice, being not in our power, was indifferent: fuch as honour, wealth, death, &c. But of thefe indifferent things, fome might be esteemed more than others; as here Brutus fays, I love the name of honour, more than I fear death. See Cicero de fin. ii. 15, 16. The ftoics never deftroyed choice among indifferent things. -This being premised, let us fee Brutus's fpeech--"If it be aught (fays he) towards the general good, (S TO: OROD Jog Ty To) as I am a part of that whole, a citizen of that


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