Carries the final purpose of his God,
That is, to work him grace in Israel,
Endeavour to achieve with all his strength
The state that most may satisfy his joy,
Keeping his statutes and his covenants sure?
His thunder is entangled in my hair,

And with my beauty is his lightning quench'd :
I am the man he made to glory in,
When by the errors of my father's sin
He lost the path that led into the land
Wherewith our chosen ancestors were bless'd.

A LOOKING GLASS FOR ENGLAND AND LONDON, A TRAGI-COMEDY:

BY THOMAS LODGE AND ROBERT GREENE, 1594. ALVIDA, Paramour to RASNI, the great KING of ASSYRIA, courts a petty King of Cilicia.

Alv. Ladies, go sit you down amidst this bower,
And let the eunuchs play you all asleep :
Put garlands made of roses on your heads,
And play the wantons, whilst I talk awhile.
Ladies. Thou beautiful of all the world, we will.

Alv. King of Cilicia, kind and courteous,
Like to thyself because a lovely king,

[Exeunt.

Come, lay thee down upon thy mistress' knee, And I will sing and talk of love to thee. Cil. Most gracious paragon of excellence, It fits not such an abject prince as I, To talk with Rasni's paramour and love. Alv. To talk, sweet friend! who would not talk with thee?

O, be not coy! art thou not only fair?

Come, twine thine arms about this snow-white neck,

A love-nest for the great Assyrian king: Blushing I tell thee, fair Cilician prince, None but thyself can merit such a grace. Cil. Madam, I hope you mean not for to mock me. Alv. No, king, fair king, my meaning is to yoke thee, Hear me but sing of love, then by my sighs, My tears, my glancing look, my changed cheer, Thou shalt perceive how I do hold thee dear. Cil. Sing, madam, if you please, but love in jest. Alv. Nay, I will love, and sigh at every rest.

Beauty, alas, where wast thou born,
Thus to hold thyself in scorn?
Whenas Beauty kiss'd to woo thee,
Thou by Beauty dost undo me:
Heigho, despise me not!

I and thou, in sooth, are one,
Fairer thou, I fairer none :

Wanton thou, and wilt thou, wanton,
Yield a cruel heart to plant on?
Do me right, and do me reason;
Cruelty is cursed treason:

[She sings.

Heigho, I love! heigh-ho, I love!
Heigho! and yet he eyes me not.

Cil. Madam, your song is passing passionate.
Alv. And wilt thou not, then, pity my estate?
Cil. Ask love of them who pity may impart.
Alv. I ask of thee, sweet; thou hast stole my heart.
Cil. Your love is fixed on a greater king.

Alv. Tut, women's love-it is a fickle thing.
I love my Rasni for my dignity,

I love Cilician king for his sweet eye;
I love my Rasni since he rules the world,
But more I love this kingly little world.

How sweet he looks !—O, were I Cinthia's fere,
And thou, Endymion, I should hold thee dear :

Thus should mine arms be spread about thy neck,
Thus would I kiss my love at every beck;
Thus would I sigh to see thee sweetly sleep,
And if thou wak'dst not soon, thus would I weep;
And thus, and thus, and thus, thus much I love
thee.

THE SPANISH

TRAGEDY: OR HIER

ONIMO IS MAD AGAIN.

A TRAGEDY BY THOMAS KYD.

HORATIO the son of HIERONIMO is murdered while he is sitting with his mistress BELIMPERIA by night in an arbour in his father's garden. The murderers (BALTHAZAR his rival, and LORENZO the brother of BELIMPERIA) hang his body on a tree. HIERONIMO is awakened by the cries of BELIMPERIA, and coming out into his garden, discovers by the light of a torch that the murdered man is his son. Upon this he goes distracted.

HIERONIMO mad.

Hier. My son and what 's a son? A thing begot
Within a pair of minutes, there about;

A lump bred up in darkness, and doth serve
To balance these light creatures we call women ;
And, at nine months' end, creeps forth to light.
What is there yet in a son,

To make a father dote, rave, or run mad?
Being born, it pouts, cries, and breeds teeth.
What is there yet in a son? He must be fed,
Be taught to go, and speak. Ay, or yet
Why might not a man love a calf as well?
Or melt in passion o'er a frisking kid,
As for a son? Methinks a young bacon,
Or a fine little smooth horse colt,

Should move a man as much as doth a son :
For one of these, in very little time,

Will grow to some good use; whereas a son,
The more he grows in stature and in years,
The more unsquar'd, unbevell'd he appears,
Reckons his parents among the rank of fools,
Strikes care upon their heads with his mad riots;
Makes them look old, before they meet with age.
This is a son! And what a loss were this,
Consider'd truly? O, but my Horatio

Grew out of reach of these insatiate humours :
He loved his loving parents;

He was my comfort, and his mother's joy,
The very arm that did hold up our house :
Our hopes were stored up in him,

None but a damned murderer could hate him.
He had not seen the back of nineteen year,
When his strong arm unhors'd

The proud prince Balthazar, and his great mind,
Too full of honour, took him to his mercy
That valiant but ignoble Portingal!

Well, heaven is heaven still!

And there is Nemesis, and Furies,

And things call'd whips,

And they sometimes do meet with murderers: They do not always 'scape, that 's some comfort.

Ay, ay, ay; and then time steals on,

And steals, and steals, till violence leaps forth,
Like thunder wrapped in a ball of fire,
And so doth bring confusion to them all.

Enter JAQUES and PEDRO, servants.
Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus
At midnight sends us with our torches light,
When man, and bird, and beast, are all at rest,
Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder.
Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind
Is much distraught, since his Horatio died,
And now his aged years should sleep in rest,