Up then, renowned wizard, hermit sage,
That twice ten years didst in the desert won,
With sprites conversing in thy hermitage,
Since thou of mortals didst the commerce shun;
Well seen in these foul deeds that have foredone
Many a bold wit. Up, Marcus, tell again
That story to thy Thrax, who has thee won
To Christian faith; the guise and haunts explain
Of all air-trampling ghosts that in the world
[remain.

There be six sorts of sprites: Lelurion
Is the first kind, the next are named from air;
The first aloft, yet far beneath the moon,
The other in this lower region fare;
The third terrestrial, the fourth watery are;
The fifth be subterranean; the last

And worst, light-hating ghosts, more cruel far
Than bear or wolf with hunger hard oppress'd,
But doltish yet, and dull, like an unwieldy beast.

And truth he said, whatever he has told,
As even this present age may verify,
If any lists its stories to unfold,
Of Hugo, of hobgoblins, of incubi,
Abhorred dugs by devils sucken dry;
Of leaping lamps, and of fierce flying stones,
Of living wool and such like witchery;
Or proved by sight or self-confessions, [tions.
Which things much credence gain to past tradi-
Wherefore with boldness we will now relate
Some few in brief; as of th' Astorgan lad
Whose peevish mother, in fell ire and hate,
With execration bold, the devil bad
Take him alive. Which mood the boy n' ote bear,
But quits the room-walks out with spirit sad,
Into the court, where lo! by night appear
Two giants with grim looks, rough limbs, black
grisly hair.

*

*

The walking skeleton in Bolonia,
Laden with rattling chains, that show'd his grave
To the watchful student, who without dismay
Bid tell his wants and speak what he would have,
Thus cleared he the house by courage brave.
Nor may I pass the fair Cerdinian maid
Whose love a jolly swain did kindly crave,
And oft with mutual solace with her staid,
Yet he no jolly swain, but a deceitful shade.

*

*

*

*

*

In arctic climes an isle that Thulé hight,
Famous for snowy monts, whose hoary heads
Sure sign of cold; yet from their fiery feet
They strike out burning stones with thunders dread,
And all the land with smoke and ashes spread;
Here wand'ring ghosts themselves have often
shown,

As if it were the region of the dead,

And met departed, met with whom they've known, In seemly sort shake hands, and ancient friendship own.

A world of wonders hither might be thrown
Of sprites and spectres, as that frequent noise
Oft heard upon the plain of Marathon,
Of neighing horses and of martial boys;
The Greek the Persian nightly here destroys
In hot assault embroil'd in a long war;
Four hundred years did last those dreadful toys,
As doth by Attic records plain appear,
The seeds of hate by death so little slaked are.

at Ratisbon. At that place he had occasion to give a convivial party to some friends, of whom George was politely taking his leave at the door of his house, but having drunk freely, he had the misfortune to conclude the entertainment by falling down stairs and breaking his neck.

SEE, how fair Corinna lies,
Kindly calling with her eyes:
In the tender minute prove her;
Shepherd! why so dull a lover
Prithee, why so dull a lover?

In her blushes see your shame,—
Anger they with love proclaim;
You too coldly entertain her:
Lay your pipe a little by;
If no other charms you try,
You will never, never gain her.

While the happy minute is,
Court her, you may get a kiss,
May be, favours that are greater:
Leave your piping to her fly;
When the nymph for love is nigh,
Is it with a tune you treat her?

Dull Amintor! fie, O! fie:
Now your Shepherdess is nigh
Can you pass your time no better?

SONG.

FROM "LOVE IN A TUB."

WHEN Phillis watch'd her harmless sheep,
Not one poor lamb was made a prey;
Yet she had cause enough to weep,
Her silly heart did go astray,
Then flying to the neighbouring grove,
She left the tender flock to rove,
And to the winds did breathe her love.
She sought in vain

To ease her pain;

The heedless winds did fan her fire; Venting her grief

Gave no relief,

But rather did increase desire,
Then sitting with her arms across,

Her sorrows streaming from each eye; She fix'd her thoughts upon her loss, And in despair resolved to die.

SONG.

TELL me no more I am deceived
While Sylvia seems so kind,

And takes such care to be believed,
The cheat I fear to find.

To flatter me should falsehood lie Conceal'd in her soft youth,

A thousand times I'd rather die Than see th' unhapy truth.

My love all malice shall outbrave, Let fops in libels rail;

If she th' appearances will save, No scandal can prevail.

She makes me think I have her heart.
How much for that is due;
Though she but act the tender part,
The joy she gives is true.

MANY of the Bedlam witticisms of this unfortunate man have been recorded by those who can derive mirth from the most humiliating shape of human calamity. His rant and turgidity as a writer are proverbial; but those who have witnessed justice done to the acting of his Theodosius must have felt that he had some powers in the pathetic. He was the son of a clergyman in Hertfordshire. He was bred at Westminster, under Dr. Busby, and became a scholar on the foundation at Trinity College, Cambridge. From thence he came to London, and attempted the profession of an actor. The part which he performed was Duncan, in Sir William Davenant's alteration of Macbeth. He was completely unsuccessful. "Yet Lee," says Cibber, "was so pathetic a reader of his own scenes, that I have been informed by an actor who was present, that while Lee was reading to Major Mohun, at a rehearsal, Mohun, in the warmth of his admiration, threw down his part, and said, Unless I were able to play it as well as you read it, to

what purpose should I undertake it?' And yet," continues the laureate, this very author, whose elocution raised such admiration in so capital an actor, when he attempted to be an actor himself, soon quitted the stage in an honest despair of ever making any profitable figure there." Failing in this object, he became a writer for the stage, and his first tragedy of "Nero," which came out in 1675, was favourably received. In the nine subsequent years of his life he produced as many plays of his own, and assisted Dryden in two; at the end of which period an hereditary taint of madness, aggravated by habits of dissipation, obliged him to be consigned for four years to the receptacle at Bethlem. He recovered the use of his faculties so far as to compose two pieces, the Princess of Cleves, and the Massacre of Paris; but with all the profits of his invention his circumstances were so reduced that a weekly stipend of ten shillings was his principal support toward the close of his life, and to the last he was not free from occasional derangement.

FROM "THEODOSIUS; OR, THE FORCE OF LOVE.” The characters in the following scenes are Varanes, a Persian prince, who comes to visit the Emperor Theodosius; Aranthes, his confidant; Leontine, the prince's tutor; and Athenais, daughter of that philosopher, with whom Varanes is in love. Her father, Leontine, jealous for his daughter's honour, brings his royal pupil to an explanation respecting his designs toward Athenais; and Varanes, in a moment of rash pride, at the instigation of Aranthes, spurns at the idea of marrying the philosopher's daughter and sharing with her the throne of Cyrus. Athenais, however, is seen by the Emperor Theodosius, who himself offers her his hand. The repentance of Varanes for her loss, and the despair of Athenais, form the catastrophe of the tragedy.

Leon. So, Athenais; now our compliment To the young Persian prince is at an end; What then remains, but that we take our leave, And bid him everlastingly farewell?

Athen. My lord!

Leon. I say, that decency requires

We should be gone, nor can you stay with honour. Athen. Most true, my lord,

Leon. The court is now at peace, The emperor's sisters are retired for ever, And he himself composed; what hinders then, But that we bid adieu to prince Varanes?

Athen. Ah, sir, why will you break my heart? Leon. I would not;

Thou art the only comfort of my age;

[The period of Lee's decease has not been hitherto ascertained. That he was buried in St. Clement's Danes was a clue to the period, and searching the Burial Register there the other day, for some assistance, we found the fol lowing entry:

"6 April, 1692, Nathaniel Lee a man bur."]

Athen. O horrid supposition! how I detest it,
Be witness, Heaven, that sees my secret thoughts!
Have I for this, my lord, been taught by you
The nicest justice, and severest virtue,
To fear no death, to know the end of life,
And, with long search, discern the highest good?
No, Athenais! when the day beholds thee
So scandalously raised, pride cast thee down,
The scorn of honour, and the people's prey?
No, cruel Leontine, not to redeem

That aged head from the descending axe,
Not, though I saw thy trembling body rack'd,
Thy wrinkles about thee fill'd with blood,
Would I for empire to the man I love,
Be made the object of unlawful pleasure.

Leon. O greatly said! and by the blood which warms me,

Which runs as rich as any Athens holds,
It would improve the virtue of the world,
If every day a thousand votaries,

And thousand virgins came from far to hear thee. Athen. Look down, ye powers, take notice we obey

The rigid principles ye have infused!

Yet oh, my noble father, to convince you,
Since you will have it so, propose a marriage;
Though with the thought I'm cover'd o'er with
blushes.

Not that I doubt the prince,-that were to doubt
The heavens themselves; I know he is all truth:
But modesty,

The virgin's troublesome and constant guest,
That, that alone forbids.

Leon. I wish to heaven

There prove no greater bar to my belief.
Behold the prince; I will retire a while,
And, when occasion calls, come to thy aid.
[Exit LEON.

Enter VARANES and ARANTHES. Vara. To fix her on the throne, to me, seems little;

Were I a god, yet would I raise her higher,
This is the nature of thy prince: But, oh!
As to the world, thy judgment soars above me,
And I am dared with this gigantic honour.
Glory forbids her prospect to a crown,

Nor must she gaze that way; my haughty soul,
That day when she ascends the throne of Cyrus,
Will leave my body pale, and to the stars
Retire in blushes, lost, quite lost for ever,

Aran. What do you purpose, then?
Vara. I know not what:

But, see, she comes, the glory of my arms,

Enter ATHENAIS.

The only business of my instant thought,
My soul's best joy, and all my true repose!—
I swear I cannot bear these strange desires,
These strong impulses, which will shortly leave me
Dead at thy feet.

Athen. What have you found, my lord,
In me so harsh or cruel, that you fear
To speak your griefs?

For I have heard you swear as much before. [again! Vara. Hast thou? O why then did I swear But that my love knew nothing worthier of thee, And could no better way express my passion. Athen. O rise, my lord!

Vara. I will do every thing

Which Athenais bids: if there be more
In nature to convince thee of my love,
Whisper it, oh some god, into my ear!
And on her breasts thus to her listening soul
I'll breathe the inspiration! Wilt thou not speak?
What, but one sigh, no more! Can that suffice
For all my vast expense of prodigal love?
Oh, Athenais! what shall I say or do,
To gain the thing I wish?

Athen. What's that, my lord?

[hold thee.

Vara. Thus to approach thee still! thus to beYet there is more

Athen. My lord, I dare not hear you.

Vara. Why dost thou frown at what thou dost not know?

"Tis an imagination which ne'er pierced thee; Yet, as 'tis ravishing, 'tis full of honour.

Athen. I must not doubt you, sir: But oh I

tremble

To think if Isdigerdes should behold you,
Should hear you thus protesting to a maid
Of no degree, but virtue, in the world-

Vara. No more of this, no more; for I disdain
All pomp when thou art by; far be the noise
Of king and courts from us, whose gentle souls
Our kinder stars have steer'd another way!
Free as the forest-birds, we'll pair together,
Without remembering who our fathers were;
Fly to the arbours, grots, and flow'ry meads,
And in soft murmurs interchange our souls;
Together drink the crystal of the stream,
Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields,
And when the golden evening calls us home,
Wing to our downy nest, and sleep till morn.
Athen. Ah, prince; no more!
Forbear, forbear to charm me,
Since I am doomed to leave you, sir, for ever.
Vara. Hold, Athenais-

Athen. I know your royal temper,

And that high honour reigns within your breast, Which would disdain to waste so many hours With one of humble blood compared to you, Unless strong passion sway'd your thoughts to love her;

Therefore receive, O prince, and take it kindly, For none on earth but you could win it from me, Receive the gift of my eternal love!

"Tis all I can bestow, nor is it little; For sure a heart so coldly chaste as mine, No charms but yours, my lord, could e'er have [comfort,

warm'd. Vara. Well have you made amends, by this last