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Consume this base herd! an the devil want Any cattle for his own teeth, these are for him.

He is interrupted by Sciarrha, who comes to demand reparation for the insult given to him by his hypocrisy. Lorenzo, with consummate art, repels the charge, confesses that he had repented of his former guilt, and on offered violence from Sciarrha, calls in his armed attendants. When Sciarrha expects the worst, Lorenzo, with seeming magnanimity, dismisses his friends, and offers Sciarrha his pardon. The hot-blooded and impetuous young man is won over by this consummate hypocrite, and henceforth vows to be his friend. The scene is throughout admirably managed-and, in the alterations of feeling in Sciarrha, and the insidious eloquence of Lorenzo, is displayed a clear and profound insight into human nature. This, too, is a scene that would be most effective in representation.

While Lorenzo and Sciarrha are to

gether, Petruchio, Pisano's servant, brings intelligence that his master is next day to be married to Oriana. Sciarrha, from whom his sister had concealed Pisano's faithlessness, is inflamed to madness.

Sci. Teach fools and children patience. May dogs eat up Sciarrha: let me live The prodigy of sorrow; die a death That may draw tears from Scythians, if Pi

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Am not I wretched too?

Ami. Alas, poor maid! We two keep sorrow alive then; but I pri

thee, When thou art married, love him, prithee love him,

Give him a kiss for me; but do not tell him, For he esteems thee well; and once a day From him, and I had rather break my heart. 'Twas my desire: perhaps 'twill fetch a sigh But one word more, and heaven be with you all.

Since you have led the way, I hope, my lord, That I am free to marry too?

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Give cause I should suspect him to forsake me; A constant lover, one whose lips, tho' cold, Distil chaste kisses: though our bridal bed Be not adorn'd with roses, 'twill be green; We shall have virgin laurel, cypress, yew, To make us garlands; tho' no pine do burn, Our nuptials shall have torches, and our chamber

Shall be cut out of marble, where we'll sleep, Free from all care for ever: Death, my lord, I hope, shall be my husband. Now, farewell; Although no kiss, accept my parting tear, And give me leave to wear my willow here. Sciarrha now comes up, and after a short parley, stabs Pisano. Lorenzo having dogged his steps with an armed retinue, takes him prisoner, and makes a shew of offering him protection. Sciarrha says,

Sci. You shall not lose the smallest beam of favour,

To buy a man so desperate. I never Thought death the monster that weak men have fancied,

As foil to make us more in love with life, The devil's picture may affright poor souls Into their bodies' paleness, but the substance To resolute man's a shadow; and cold sweat Dare not approach his forehead. I am armed To die, and give example of that fortitude Shall shame the law's severity: my sister May now give back Pisano his false vows, To line his coffin; one tear shed on me is Enough, the justice I have done shall make My memory belov'd.

Lorenzo now suggests to Sciarrha, that he may yet save his life by put ting Amidea once more in the power of the Duke. This proposal he fiercely spurns at.

Lor. I have done, And praise your heathen resolution Of death; go practise immortality, And tell us, when you can get leave to visit This world again, what fine things you enjoy In hell, for thither these rash passions drive

thee:

And ere thy body hath three days inhabited
A melancholy chamber in the earth,
Hung round about with skulls and dead
men's bones,

Ere Amidea hath told all her tears
Upon thy marble, or the epitaph
Bely thy soul, by saying it is fled
To heaven, this sister shall be ravished,
Maugre thy dust and heraldry.
Sci. Ha! ravish'd

When I am dead? Was't not so! oh my soul?

I feel it weep within me, and the tears
Soften my flesh: Lorenzo, I repent
My fury.

Lor. I advis'd you the best way
My wisdom could direct.

Sci. I thank you for❜t,

You have awak'd my reason, I am asham'd I was no sooner sensible; does the duke Affect my sister still, say you?

Lor. Most passionately.

Sci. She shall obey him then, upon my life;

That's it, my life. I know she loves me dearly.

I shall have much ado to win her to't,
But she shall come; I'll send her.

Lor, Perform this.

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And be for ever happy. When these have Only for form but waited on you home, This disengages them.

Sci. My humblest service

To the duke I pray, and tell him, Amidea This night shall be at his dispose, by this. Lor. I'm confident; farewell!-Attend Sciarrha.

The last act opens with a very fine scene between Sciarrha and Amidea, that would not have disgraced Shakspeare himself; and which, indeed, at once reminds us of that between Claudio and Isabella in Measure for Measure. Amidea, plunged in profound sorrow for the death of the faithless Pisano, and shuddering at the prospect of her brother's execution, wishes she might be accepted as a sacrifice to avert his punishment.

Ami. Nothing can be too precious
To save a brother, such a loving brother
As you
have been.

And sweeps up all: what thinkst thou of
Sci. Death's a devouring gamester,

an eye?

Couldst thou spare one, and think the blemish recompens'd,

To see me safe with t'other? Or a hand? This white hand, [Amidea,] that hath so often,

With admiration, trembled on the lute,
Till we have pray'd thee leave the strings

awhile,

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Sci. I know the kingdoms of the world contain not

Riches enough to tempt thee to a fall
That will so much undo thee; but I am
Thy brother, dying brother; if thou lov'st
Him, therefore, that for thee hath done so
much;

Died his pale hands in blood, to revenge thee,
And in that murder wounded his own soul
Almost to death, consent to lose thy innocence;
I know it makes thee grieve, but I shall live
To love thee better for it: we'll repent
Together for our sins, and pray and weep
Till heaven hath pardon'd all.

Ami. Oh, never, never.

Sci. Do but repeat thy words, to save my life,

And that will teach compassion, my life; Our shame, the stain of all our family, Which will succeed in my ignoble death, Thou washest off.

Ami. But stain myself for ever. Sci. Where? In thy face, who shall behold one blemish,

Or one spot more in thy whole frame? thy beauty

Will be the very same, thy speech, thy person Wear no deformity.

Ami. Oh, do not speak So like a rebel to all modesty, To all religion; if these arguments Spring from your jealousy that I am fallen, After a proof you did so late applaud

Sci. I had not kill'd Pisano then; that I

am now

More spotted than the marble: then my head Did owe no forfeiture to law,

It does ache now; then I but tried thy virtue, Now my condition calls for mercy to thee, Though to thyself thou appear cruel for't: Come, we may live both, if you please.

Ami. I must never breath at such a rate.
Who has

Made you afraid to die? I pity you,
And wish myself in any noble cause
Your leader. When our souls shall leave
this dwelling,

The glory of one fair and virtuous action Is above all the scutcheons on our tomb, Or silkin banners over us.

Sci. So valiant!

I will not interpose another syllable To entreat your pity; say your prayers, and then

Thou'rt ripe to be translated from the earth,
To make a cherubin.

Ami. What means my brother?
Sci. To kill you.

Ami. Do not fright me, good Sciarrha. Sci. And I allow three minutes for de votion.

Ami. Will you murder me?

Sci. Do you tremble?

Ami. Not at the terror of your sword, But at the horror will affright thy soul, For this black deed. I see Pisano's blood Is texted in thy forehead, and thy hands Retain too many crimson spots already; Make not thyself, by inurthering of thy sister, All a red letter.

Sci. You shall be the martyr.

Ami. Yet stay; is there no remedy but

death,

And from your hand? then keep your word, and let me

Use one short prayer.

[Kneels. [Aside.

Sci. I shall relent.
Ami. Forgive me, Heaven, and witness
I have still

My virgin thoughts; 'tis not to save my life,
But his eternal one.-

Sciarrha, give me leave to veil my face.

[Rises.

I dare not look upon you, and pronounce
I am too much a sister; live; hereafter,
I know, you will condemn my frailty for it.
I will obey the duke.

Sci. Darest thou consent ? [Stabs her.

When Florio breaks open the door and enters, Amidea, like Desdemona, strives to avert the suspicion of guilt from the murderer.

Ami. I drew the weapon to it: Heaven knows my brother lov'd me: now, I hope,

The duke will not pursue me with new flames. Sciarrha, tell the rest: love one another The time you live together; I'll pray for you In heaven: farewell! kiss me when I am dead,

You else will stay my journey.

Sci. Didst not hear

[Dies.

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Cannot thy tears and mine preserve her,
Florio ?

If we want brine, a thousand virgins shall
Weep every day upon her, and themselves,
In winter, leaning round upon her monument,
Being moist creatures, stiffen with the cold,
And freeze into so many white supporters.
But we lose time.-I charge thee, by thy love
To this pale relic, be instructed by me,
Not to thy danger; some revenge must be,
And I am lost already; if thou fall,
Who shall survive, to give us funeral?

[Exeunt. Lorenzo is now maddened at the failure of all his plots, and resolves at last to murder the Duke with his own hand. Afraid lest the youth and beauty of his benefactor might palsy his arm, he has for some time kept in his chamber a picture of his victim, that, looking on it with fell thoughts, he might harden his heart for the murder.

Here first the duke was painted to the life,
But with this pencil to the death: I love
My brain for the invention, and thus
Confirm'd, dare trust my resolution.
I did suspect his youth and beauty might
Win some compassion when I came to kill
him;

Or the remembrance that he is my kinsman, Might thrill my blood; or something in his title

Might give my hand repulse, and startle

nature:

But thus I have arm'd myself against all pity, That when I come to strike, my poniard may Through all his charms as confidently wound him,

As thus I stab his picture, and stare on it. [Stabs the picture. Methinks the duke should feel me now: is not His soul acquainted? can he less than tremble, When I lift up my arm to wound his coun terfeit ?

Witches can persecute the lives of whom They hate, when they torment their senseless figures,

And stick the waxen model full of pins.
Can any stroke of mine carry less spell
To wound his heart, sent with as great a
malice ?

He smiles, he smiles upon me! I will dig
Thy wanton eyes out, and supply the dark
And hollow cells with two pitch-burning
tapers;

Then place thee porter in some charnel-house, To light the coffins in.

Florio, Sciarrha's brother, comes upon him in the fantastic horrors of his solitude, and tells him that Amidea is at last willing to receive the embraces of the Duke, and will come privately to his chamber.

The last scene opens with melancholy music, and discovers the body of Amidea laid out for interment. VOL. IV.

1 Gentlewoman. This is a sad employment. 2 Gent. The last we e'er shall do my lady. Florio, looking on the corpse, says, Let me look upon

My sister now; still she retains her beauty, Death has been kind to leave her all this sweetness.

Thus in a morning have I oft saluted
My sister in her chamber, sate upon
Her bed, and talk'd of many harmless pas-

sages:

But now 'tis night, and a long night with her, I ne'er shall see these curtains drawn again, Until we meet in heaven.-The duke already!

The Duke now enters the chamber

in all the impatience of passion.

Duke. All perfect; till this minute, I could never

Boast I was happy: all this world has not A blessing to exchange: this world! 'tis heaven;

And thus I take possession of my saint: [Goes up to the bed.

Asleep already? 'twere great pity to Disturb her dream, yet if her soul be not Tired with the body's weight, it must convey Into her slumbers I wait here, and thus Seal my devotion. [Kisses.]-What winter dwells

Upon this lip! 'twas no warm kiss; I'll try Again-[Kisses.]—the snow is not so cold;

I have

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Murder! where is Lorenzo ?

Lorenzo rushes in with Petruchio (a wicked creature of his), and, amidst prayers for mercy, murders the Duke, who dies exclaiming,

I am coming, Amidea, I am coming.-
For thee, inhuman murderer, expect
My blood shall fly to heaven, and there in-
flam'd,

Hang a prodigious meteor all thy life,
And when by some as bloody hand as thine
Thy soul is ebbing forth, it shall descend
In flaming drops upon thee: oh, I faint!-
Thou flattering world farewell! let princes
gather

My dust into a glass, and learn to spend
Their hour of state, that's all they have;

for when

That's out, Time never turns the glass agen. [Dies. Lor. So !

Lay him beside his mistress; hide their faces. The duke dismiss'd the train came with him? Pet. He did, my lord.

Lor. Run to Sciarrha, pray him come and speak with me; Secure his passage to this chamber: haste! [Exit Pet.

K

He's dead; I'll trust him now, and his ghost too;

Fools start at shadows, I'm in love with night And her complexion.

Sciarrha and Florio now join Lorenzo, and he proposes that they shall give out that the Duke ravished and murdered Amidea, for which he was slain by her brother; and that then he and Sciarrha shall assume joint sway over Florence. Sciarrha for a while dallies with these ambitious projects, and then, laying aside his assumed acquiescence, dares the villain Lorenzo to single combat, as having been the cause of all his ruin. They fight and fall dead by mutual wounds.

We have few farther observations to make on this tragedy. Our readers will have seen, in the first place, from the extracts, that the language is singularly spirited, poetical, and also dramatic. The interest is well kept alive; for all the incidents follow each other, if not very naturally, at least with a wild tumult and precipitation which agitates us with frequent alteration of feeling. There is nothing dull, heavy, or lingering in the whole action. Neither are there any intricacies in the plot to disentangle,-so that we are never called on for the exercise of ingenuity, instead of the indulgence of passion. These are

great merits in an acting play; and indeed with them a play can, if well acted, scarcely fail of success.

But, besides these excellencies, we are inclined to think, that Lorenzo and Sciarrha are characters that would tell in representation. The intellectual energy of the former gives him something of dignity, and saves him, at all times, from utter degradation, Ambition carries with it nobility; and the baseness of the means employed to attain its object, is partially hidden by the strength of mind which invests them. Lorenzo is certainly, though not an interesting, almost a commanding traitor; and we feel ourselves in some measure under the mastery of that talent, which, though ultimately defeated, kept him so long on the very brink of success. It cannot be said that we have an interest in him; but we unquestionably desire to follow him in his career, if it be only to witness its anticipated termination. The cool, calculating, intrepid villany of the "Traitor," is finely contrasted with the fiery and im

petuous, but easily deceived and unsteady, Sciarrha,-a man of mixed vices and virtues, such as we find in nature, and drawn by the poet to the very life.

In Pisano and Cosmo we find little to interest, and, as we observed before, there is something rather fantastic and unnatural in their story; yet the mind not unwillingly turns to them as inferior instruments employed to hasten the catastrophe; and some of the scenes in which they are engaged are full of beauty and tender

ness.

Of Oriana we see little,-but that little is sufficiently touching; and we feel enough of interest in her to make us pleased that, at the end of the drama, she finds happiness with Cosmo.

Amidea takes a faster hold on our affections. The heroic and yet gentle spirit which she exhibits in her forlorn desertion, invests her with the highest dignity of her sex. There is a calm stateliness in her sorrow, and a strength of love in her virgin widowhood, that her lover's perfidy cannot impair. There are few things in dramatic poetry much more beautiful than the scene of her death; and though we know not how "the laying out," and the exhibition of the sheeted corpse, might affect spectators in a theatre, every reader in the closet must feel it chill his heart's blood, while, at the same time, there is a relief from painful sorrow in the exquisite beauty of the poetry. H. M.

VERSES,

ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HON. LADY ANNE SCOTT OF BUCCLEUCH.

[WE have as yet, by accidental circumstances, been prevented from laying before our readers any account of the Prose Tales In the

lately published by MR HOGG.
mean time, we have great pleasure in ex-
tracting the following very beautiful Poetical
Dedication to a Young Lady of the Noble
Family whose enlightened patronage has
been so liberally extended to the ETTRICK
SHEPHERD.]

To HER, whose bounty oft hath shed
Joy round the peasant's lowly bed,
When trouble press'd and friends were few,
And God and Angels only knew-
To HER, who loves the board to cheer,
And hearth of simple Cottager;
Who loves the tale of rural hind,
And wayward visions of his mind,

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