my

For I have not a stock in all the world
Of so much dust, as would contrive one narrow
Cabin to shroud a worm; my dying father
Hath given away my birthright to Francisco;
I'm disinherited, thrown out of all,
But the small earth I borrow, thus to walk on ;)
And having nothing left, I come to kiss thee,
And take my everlasting leave of thee too.
Farewell! this will persuade thee to consent
Το eternal absence.

Fel. I must beseech you stay a little, sir,
And clear my faith. Hath your displeased father
Depriv'd you then of all, and made Francisco
The lord of your inheritance, without hope
To be repair'd in fortune ?

Fer. 'Tis sad truth.
Fel. This is a happiness I did not look for.
Fer. A happiness!
Fel. Yes, sir, a happiness.
Fer. Can Felisarda take delight to hear
What hath undone her servant ?

Fel. Heaven avert it.
But 'tis not worth my grief to be assured
That this will bring me nearer now to him
Whom I most honour of the world; and 'tis
My pride, if you exceed me not in fortune,
That I can boast my heart, as high, and rich,
With noble flame, and every way your equal ;
And if you be as poor as I, Fernando,
I can deserve you now, and love you more
Than when your expectation carried all
The pride and blossoms of the spring upon

it.
Fer. Those shadows will not feed more than your fancies:
Two poverties will keep but a thin table;
And while we dream of this high nourishment,
We do but starve more gloriously,

Fel. 'Tis ease
And wealth first taught us art to surfeit by:
Nature is wise, not costly, and will spread
A table for us in the wilderness;
And the kind earth keep us alive and healthful,
With what her bosom doth invite us to;
The brooks, not there suspected, as the wine
That sometimes princes quaff, are all transparent,
And with their pretty murmurs call to taste them,
In every tree a chorister to sing
Health to our loves; our lives shall there be free
As the first knowledge was from sin, and all
Our dreams as innocent.

Fel.

Fel. Oh, Felisarda?
If thou didst own less yirtue I might prove
Unkind, and marry thee: but being so rich
In goodness, it becomes me not to bring
One that is

poor

in every worth, to waste
So excellent a dower: be free, and meet
One that hath wealth to cherish it I shall
Undo thee quite; but pray for me, as I,
That thou mayst change for a more happy bridegroom;
I dare as soon be guilty of my

death,
As make thee miserable by expecting me.
Farewell! and do not wrong my soul, to think
That

any storm could separate us two,
But that I have no fortune now to serve thee.

Fel. This will be no exception, sir, I hope,
When we are both dead, yet our bodies may
Be cold, and strangers in the winding sheet,

We shall be married when our spirits meet.'— vol. i. pp. 246–252. Scenes like this are interspersed throughout the whole of the intermediate compositions which form nearly two-thirds of Shirley's dramas. They bear considerable resemblance to some of Calderon's plays, those which are not in his more serious vein, but more elevated and poetical than those Capo y Espada comedies, from which the later English comic writers borrowed so largely. There is the same disregard of probability, (this, however, the animation and activity of the scene scarcely allow us time to detect, or inclination to criticize)—the same love of disguises, princesses in the garb of pages, princes who turn out to be changelings, and humbler characters who turn out to be princes, everybody in love, and everybody in love with the wrong personuntil, by some unexpected dénouement, they all fall into harmonious and well-assorted couples—and a general marriage winds up the whole piece. Like the great Spanish dramatist, Shirley delights in throwing his leading characters into the most embarrassing situations—their constancy is exposed to the rudest trials; sometimes he has caught the high chivalrous tone of self-devotion, the sort of voluntary martyrdom of love which will surrender its object, either at the call of some more commanding duty, or for the greater glory and happiness of its mistress. We would direct particular attention to "The Grateful Servant.'

There is still another class of drama in which Shirley is extremely successful, though here, likewise, the skill of the author is rather shown in the general conduct of his piece, than in the striking execution of single parts. It is a poetic comedy of English and domestic manners, mingled with serious, sometimes with

pathetic pathetic scenes. To this class belong the Lady of Pleasure, Hyde Park, the whimsical play of Love in a Maze, the Constant Maid, the Gamester, the Example, and one or two others. Shirley's comic, like his tragic powers, are rather fertile and various than rich and original; he is easy and playful rather than broad and vigorous. . Of course, even his more serious and tragic plays are relieved, according to the invariable practice of his school, by the humours of the clown or the buffoon. In some of the romantic tragic-comedies, as in the Sisters, a play which we cannot but think might succeed on the modern stage, the main interest is altogether comic; and even in this last class, the comedy of Manners, occur many of those passages of gentle and quiet sweetness, which are characteristic of Shirley. As a satirical painter of manners, as a playful castigator of the fashions, the follies, the humours of the day, he is to Jonson what, in his serious efforts, he is to Fletcher. In all such pictures the very excellence, in some degree, endangers the lasting popularity; the more accurately the resemblance of the poet's own times is drawn, the more alien it is to the habits and feelings of modern days; in precise proportion that such pieces are valuable to the antiquarian, they are obsolete and unintelligible to the common reader. Much, therefore, of the zest and raciness of the following scene must, of course, be lost; it is from the Lady of Pleasure, a play which, but for one wanton and unnecessary blemish, might be quoted almost throughout as a very curious and lively description of fashionable manners in the days of Charles I. Aretina, the wife of Sir Thomas Bornwell, is the Lady Townley, or the Lady Teazle, of an older date :

• Steward. Be patient, Madam; you may have your pleasure.

Lady Bornwell. 'Tis that I came to town for. I would not
Endure again the country conversation,
To be the lady of six shires !
So near the primitive making, they retain
A sense of nothing but the earth ; their brains,
And barren heads standing as much in want
Of ploughing as their ground. To hear a fellow
Make himself merry and his horse, with whistling
Sellinger's Round! To observe with what solemnity
They keep their wakes, and throw for pewter candlesticks !
How they become the morris, with whose bells
They ring all in to Whitsun-ales ; and sweat,
Through twenty scarfs and napkins, till the hobby-horse
Tire, and the Maid Marian, dissolvd to a jelly,
Be kept for spoon meat !
Stew. These, with your pardon, are no argument

То

The men,

To make the country life appear so hateful;
At least to your particular, who enjoy'd
A blessing in that calm, would you be pleas'd
To think so, and the pleasure of a kingdom;
While your own will commanded what should move
Delights, your husband's love and power join'd
To give your life more harmony. You liv'd there
Secure, and innocent, beloved of all;
Prais'd for your hospitality, and pray'd for:
You might be envied ; but malice knew
Not where you dwelt. I would not prophesy,
But leave to your own apprehension,
What may succeed your change.

Lady B. You do imagine,
No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted
London past all defence. Your master should
Do well to send you back into the country,
With title of superintendent-bailiff.
Stew. How, Madam!

Enter Sir THOMAS BORNWELL.
Born How now? What's the matter?
Stew. Nothing, Sir.
Born. Angry, sweetheart?

Lady B. I am angry with myself,
To be so miserably restrain'd in things,
Wherein it doth concern your love and honour
To see me satisfied.

Born. In what, Aretina,
Dost thou accuse me? Have I not obey'd
All thy desires ? against mine own opinion
Quitted the country, and removed the hope
Of our return, by sale of that fair lordship
We lived in ? changed a calm and retired life
For this wild town, compos'd of noise and charge ?

Lady B. What charge, more than is necessary for
A lady of my birth and education ?

Born. Your charge of gaudy furniture, and pictures
Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman;
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery,
Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate,
Antique and novel ; vanities of tires ;
Four-score pound suppers for my lord your kinsman,
Banquets for t' other lady aunt, and cousins,
And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants,
To stifle us at home, and shew abroad
More motley than the French or the Venetian,
About your coach, whose rude postillion
Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers
And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls ;

And

And common cries pursue your ladyship,
For hindering of their market.

Lady B. Have you done, sir ?

Born. I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe, And prodigal embroideries, under which Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not shew their own complexions; your jewels, Able to burn out the spectators' eyes, And shew like bonfires on you by the tapers : I could urge something more.

Lady B. Pray do, I like Your homily of thrift.

Born. I could wish, madam, You would not game so much.

Lady B. A gamester too!

Born. But are not come to that acquaintance yet,
Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit.
You look not through the subtilty of cards,
And mysteries of dice ; nor can you save
Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls,
And keep your family by the precious income;
Nor do I wish you should : my poorest servant
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire,
Purchas'd beneath my honour. You make play
Not a pastime but a tyranny, and vex
Yourself and my estate by it.

Lady B. Good! proceed.

Born. Another game you have, which consumes more Your fame than purse ; your revels in the night, Your meetings callid THE BALL, to which repair, As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants, And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena Of Venus, and small Cupid's high displeasure; 'Tis but the Family of Love translated Into more costly sin !