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His body thence to burial; those bloudy characters
Are arguments of no lesse ill than death. ,

Oro. Then I am lost eternally-lost to all
That bears a shew of goodnesse; heaven and earth
Will both strive to forget they ever knew
A soul deform’d with wickednesse like mine,
-My feverish sins dry up the dews of mercy
In their descent, and blast all' vertue that
Approaches neer me; I shall never find
A saint in heaven, or friend on earth, but will,
As a dire prodigy, created to.
Scatter infection through the world, forsake
My hated company, as fit to mix
With none but the society of devils.
Sur. Sir, I wish, I in ought else could serve you.

'[Exit Sur.
Oro. I thank thee, friend
What an unwieldy monster am I grown,
Since, by this act, swel'd to a regicide-
- Oh! my accursed stars, that only lent
Your influence to light me to damnation;
Not all my penitential tears will ere
Wash off the spots from my stain'd soul; this gangrene
Iş cur'd by no lixivium, but of bloud.
My heart is lodg’d within a bed of snakes,
Such as old fancies arm'd the furies with.
Conscience waits on me like the frighting shades
Of ghosts, when gastly messengers of death. ,
My thoughts are but the inforc't retreats
Of tortur'd reason to a troubled fancy.

Act V.
* * * * *
Enter Oroandes, alone, in the habit of a Forrester.

Oro. Not yet-not yet at quiet-no disguise
Is dark enough to curtain o'er my guilt ;
Pale as the ghastly looks of men condemn'd,
It sits upon my conscience. I see there is
No place affords that soul a safe retreat,
That is pursued by a sharp-scented sin.
The prosperous murtherer, that hath cloth'd his guilt
In royall ermins, all those furs of state
Cannot preserve from trembling; he looks on
Dejected wretches as assassinates,

And each petition for a ponyard feers.
-Yet these are more secure than I, they may
Pretend to merit in their wickednesse,
And call their crimes the cure of sickly states;
But I am left no refuge, lesse to know

The depth of horror can no further go.
-Alas! poor virtue, all thy white-wing'd zeal
Is wrought into a bed of sables, since,
Leaving thy heavenly dictates, I betrayed
Myself unto these sooty guards of hell,
Whose black inhabitants already call
Me one of their society ;-my eyes
Are grown more killing than the basilisk's,
And each vein fill'd with poison, since these hands,
These cursed hands, were stained with royall bloud.
-Hah ! all this is true
But do I want more desperation yet?
Are there not fiends enough, now waiting on me,
To guide my trembling hand untill it reach
The center of my life?

[Draws his sword.
This fatall weapon slew my prince ;
-This was his bloud that stains it,-
The bloud that warm'd those browes, a crown imbrac'd,
-Let forth by me ť embalm the earth, and in
Warm vapors spend the pretious breath of life,
Which, mounting upwards, sent perfumes to heaven;

* * * * *
--No, I will live-live, till divellop'd guilt
Makes me a publick spectacle of hate—and then
Fall with my sins about me, when each tongue
Adds to their ponderous weight a full-mouthed curse."

Act V.

A gentle and tender melancholy is diffused over the affecting reflections, in the soliloquies of Vanlore, a noble gentleman, but of low fortune, to whom his rival, a rich simpleton, is preferred by the father of Theocrine.

“ Van. How purblind is the world, that such a monster, In a few dirty acres swadled, must

Above the noblest virtues that adorn
Souls that make worth their center, and to that
Draw all the lines of action! Worn with age,
The noble soldier sits, whilst, in his cell

The scholar stews his catholique brains for food.
The traveller, return'd and poor, may go
A second pilgrimage to farmer's doors, or end
His journey in a hospital ; few being
So generous to relieve, where vertue doth
Necessitate to crave. Harsh poverty,
That moth, which frets the sacred robe of wit,
Thousands of noble spirits blunts, that else
Had spun rich threads of fancy from their brain : -
But they are souls too much sublim'd to thrive.”.

Act I, Scene I. * * * * *

The following lines, addressed by Oroandes to Eurione, are exquisitely beautiful:

“ The morning pearls,
Dropt in the lillie's spotlesse bosome, are
Lesse chastly cool, ere the meridian sun
Hath kist them into heat.”

Oroandes says to Zannazarro, when in rebellion:

“Nobility, like heaven's bright plannets, waits
Upon the sun of majesty, whilst none
But comets drop from their usurped spheres.”

ART. VII. The Felicitie of Man, or, his Summum Bonun. Writ

ten by Si R. Barckley, KTM
In cæli summum permanet arce bonum.

Boeth. de Cons. Philos. lib. 3. London : Printed by R. Y. and are sold by Rich. Roystone, at

his Shop in Ivie Lane. 1631. Small 4to, pp. 717.

Of this author, or his book, we have not been able to find any notice or account whatever. It is a quarto, of a pretty good thickness,-is rare, and purports to be an ethical treatise on human happiness, consisting of six books. In the first, the author offers to prove, and by example to shew, that felicity consists not in pleasure,- In the second, not in riches,—In the third, not in honour and glory - In the fourth, not in moral virtue, or in the action of virtue, after the academicks and peripateticks, nor in philosophical contemplation,- In the fifth, he declares his own opinion of the happiness of this life, —and in the sixth, he shews, wherein consists the true felicity and SUMMUM BONUM of man, and the way to attain it. To establish these several propositions by examples, Sir Richard Barckley has wandered over all the fields of ancient and modern history, and culled every story,—every anecdote,-every narrative, and almost every maxim, that could by any means be made applicable to his purpose, and some that could not ;-he has visited every spring that would yield a flower or an extraordinary weed on its green margin, and has ransacked every sequestered nook and secret place, to collect materials : for this * one special purpose” he has, he says, “ walked into the muses' garden, and perusing divers sorts of things, applied by the authors to divers uses, has gathered together some of those, which he thought most fit to serve his purpose ; and although they were good as they lay scattered, yet being gathered together and applied to some special use, they are made more pro

thenble than as they la garner filled w, told in the areas

It is in fact a garner filled with the most amusing and best histories, and little narrations, told in the author's own words, and occasionally enlarged, but in perfect keeping and consistency.-Many of them are related from memory, and thereby have attained something of the freedom and spirit of originals. We have often thought, that a collection of all the old stories of antiquity, as they are scattered about Herodotus, Diogenes Laertius, Ælian, and other writers of that description, if re-told in the spirit of modern times, and with a genuine feeling of their truth and beauty, might make a very pleasing little volume.* The book before us has not the elastic vivacity, nor the pensive sweetness, which should both be main features in such a work. There is, indeed, a heaviness and clumsiness about the unknown knight's production, which would prevent its ever being a prime favourite with us; yet we cannot help frequently admiring the lumbering sort of dexterity with which he brings his artillery of tales and anecdotes to bear upon the true “Šummum Bonum.” Though we are inclined to attach very little importance to Sir Richard as an ethical writer, we lament the scarcity of this most amusing storehouse of fact and fiction. Sir Richard is not a man troubled with scépticism

* Since writing the above, we have seen some numbers of a small weekly publication, entitled “ The Indicator," by Leigh Hunt, the author of Rimini; which in a great measure comes up to the idea here expressed, and which, if continued with the same luxuriance of fancy and the same hearty feeling for the humane and the beautiful, will form, when finished, an exquisite addition to our periodical library.

that which has been handed down, he opens his heart to and straight transfers to his book-devils, angels, saints, popes, kings, and sages, chase each other through the book-he is no respecter of authorities in books, having as much regard, or rather a preference for the marvellous, when the moral is equally


The following legend is retailed with some power of forci

“Pope Sylvester the Second, called before Gilbert, a Frenchman borne, came by the popedom, as Platina, Nauclerus, Benno, the Cardinall, and others report, by the help of the divell. In his youth he became a monke: but forsaking the monastery, he followed the divell, to whom he had wholly given himselfe, and went to Hispalis, a citie in Spaine, for learning's sake: where his hap was to insinuate himself into the favour of a Saracen philosopher, skilfule in magicke. In this man's house he saw a booke of necromancy, which he was desirous to steale away. But the booke being very warily and safely kept by the Saracen's daughter, with whom he had familiar acquaintance, at last he wan her favour, that he might secretly take it away, and reade it over. Which when he had gotten into his possession, with promise to deliver it againe, he determined to depart thence, fearing neverthelesse what danger he might fall into, by his theft. After he had escaped this danger, being overcome with ambition, and a divellish desire to rule, he obtained first by corruption, the archbishopricke of Reymes, and afterward that of Ravenna, and at last the popedom, as is sayd before, by the helpe of the divell; upon condition that after his death, he should be wholly his, by whose subtilty he had attained to that high dignitie. And although in his popedome he dissembled his necromancy, yet he kept in a secret place a brasen head, of whom he received answere of such things as he was disposed to demand of the divell. At length when this Gilbert, desirous to reigne long, asked the divell how long he should live pope, the wicked spirit answered him cunningly after his maner, that if he came not to Jerusalem, he should live long. And as it happened him to say masse, after he had reigned foure yeares and somewhat more, in a church called the holy crosse at Jerusalem, he fel suddenly into an extreame fever, and knew by the rumbling and noyse of the divell, (who looked for performance of his promise) that his time was come to dye: but he falling into an earnest repentance, and openly confessing his impietie and familiarity with the divell to the people, bewailed his grievous offence committed against God, and exhorted all men to beware of ambition, and the subtiltie of the divell, and to lead an honest and godly life. When he perceived that death approached, he desired that his hands and tongue might be cut off, because with them he had blasphemed God, and sacrificed to the divell, and then that his mangled carkase, as it had deserved, might be layd in a cart, and the horses driven forth without any guide, and where they did of their owne accord stay, that there his body might be buried. All which things being done, the horses stayed when they came against a church

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