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My gentle patient, I would fain say more,

If you would understand.

Val. Oh! cruel woman!

Cel. Yet, sure your sickness is not so forgetful, Nor you so willing to be lost?

Fran. Pray stay there:

Methinks you are not fair now; methinks more,
That modest virtue, men deliver'd of you,
Shews but like shadow to me, thin and fading!
Val. Excellent friend!

Fran. You have no share in goodness;
You are belied; you are not Cellide,

The modest, the immaculate !-Who are you?
For I will know-What devil, to do mischief
Unto my virtuous friend, hath shifted shapes
With that unblemish'd beauty?

Cel. Do not rave, sir,

Nor let the violence of thoughts distract you;
You shall enjoy me; I am yours; I pity,
By those fair eyes, I do.

Fran. Oh, double hearted!

Oh, woman! perfect woman! what distraction

Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a

devil!

What an inviting hell invented!-Tell me,

And, if you yet remember what is goodness,

Tell me by that, and truth, can one so cherish'd,
So sainted in the soul of him, whose service
Is almost turn'd to superstition,

Whose every day endeavours and desires

Offer themselves like incense on your altar,
Whose heart holds no intelligence, but holy
And most religious with his love, whose life
(And let it ever be remember'd, lady!)
Is drawn out only for your ends

Val. Oh! miracle!

Fran. Whose all and every part of man, (pray mark me!)

Like ready pages, wait upon your pleasures,
Whose breath is but your bubble-can you,

you,

dare

Must you, cast off this man, (tho' he were willing,
Tho', in a nobleness to cross my danger,
His friendship durst confirm it), without baseness,
Without the stain of honour?-Shall not people
Say liberally hereafter, "There's the lady

"That lost her father, friend, herself, her faith

too,

"To fawn upon a stranger," for aught you know, As faithless as yourself-in love, as fruitless?

Val. Take her, with all my heart!-Thou art so honest,

That 'tis most necessary I be undone.

With all my soul possess her!

Cel. Till this minute

I scorn'd and hated you, and came to cozen you; Utter'd those things might draw a wonder on me, To make you mad.

Fran. Good heaven! what is this woman?

Cel. Nor did your danger, but in charity,

Move me a whit; nor you appear unto me
More than a common object: yet now, truly,
Truly, and nobly, I do love you dearly,

And from this hour you are the man I honour;
You are the man, the excellence, the honesty,
The only friend :-and I am glad your sickness
Fell so most happily at this time on you,
To make this truth the world's.

Fran. Whither d'you drive me?

Cel. Back to your honesty; make that good

ever;

'Tis like a strong built castle, seated high,
That draws on all ambitions; still repair it,
Still fortify it; there are thousand foes,
Besides the tyrant Beauty, will assail it:
Look to your centinels, that watch it hourly,
Your eyes-let them not wander!

Fran. Is this serious,

Or does she play still with me?

Cel. Keep your ears,

The two main ports that may betray you, strongly From light belief first, then from flattery, Especially where woman beats the parley;

The body of your strength, your noble heart,

From ever yielding to dishonest ends,

Ridg'd round about with virtue, that no breaches, No subtle mines, may meet you!

Fran. How like the sun

Labouring in his eclipse, dark and prodigious,

She shew'd till now! When, having won his way, How full of wonder he breaks out again,

And sheds his virtuous beams! Excellent angel!
(For no less can that heav'nly mind proclaim thee,)
Honour of all thy sex! let it be lawful

(And like a pilgrim thus I kneel to beg it,
Not with profane lips now, nor burnt affections,
But, reconcil'd to faith, with holy wishes,)
To kiss that virgin hand!

Cel. Take your desire, sir,

And in a nobler way, for I dare trust you;
No other fruit my love must ever yield you,
I fear, no more!-Yet, your most constant memory
(So much I'm wedded to that worthiness)
Shall ever be my friend, companion, husband!
Farewell! and fairly govern your affections;

Stand, and deceive me not!-Oh, noble young

man!

I love thee with my soul, but dare not say it!
Once more, farewell, and prosper!-

SIR JOHN DAVIES.

BORN 1570.-DIED 1626.

SIR JOHN DAVIES wrote, at twenty-five years of age, a poem on the immortality of the soul; and at fifty-two, when he was a judge and a statesman, another on "the art of dancing." Well might the teacher of that noble accomplishment, in Moliere's comedy, exclaim, La philosophie est quelque chosemais la danse!

Sir John was the son of a practising lawyer at Tisbury, in Wiltshire. He was expelled from the Temple for beating Richard Martyn1, who was afterwards recorder of London; but his talents redeemed the disgrace. He was restored to the Temple, and elected to parliament, where, although he had flattered Queen Elizabeth in his poetry, he distinguished himself by supporting the privileges of the house, and by opposing royal monopolies. On the accession of King James he went to Scotland with Lord Hunsdon, and was received by the new sovereign with flattering cordiality, as author of the poem Nosce teipsum. In Ireland he was successively nominated

A respectable man, to whom Ben Jonson dedicated his Poctaster.

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