I that have now been chamber'd here alone,
Barr'd of my guardian, or of any else,
Am not for nothing at an instant freed
To fresh access. Be not deceived, my brother;
This banquet is a harbinger of death

To you and me; resolve yourself it is,
And be prepared to welcome it.

Gio. Well then,

The schoolmen teach that all this globe of earth
Shall be consumed to ashes in a minute.

Anna. So I have read too.

Gio. But 'twere somewhat strange

To see the waters burn.

Could I believe

This might be true, I could believe as well
There might be hell or heaven.

Anna. That's most certain.- -But,

Good brother, for the present, how do you mean To free yourself from danger? some way think How to escape. I'm sure the guests are come. Gio. Look up, look here; what see you in my face? Anna. Distraction and a troubled conscience. Gio. Death and a swift repining wrath

What see you in mine eyes?

Anna. Methinks you weep.

Gio. I do indeed; these are the funeral tears

yet look,

Shed on your grave: these furrow'd up my cheeks,
When first I loved and knew not how to woo.

Fair Annabella, should I here repeat

The story of my life, we might lose time.

Be record all the spirits of the air,

And all things else that are, that day and night,

Early and late, the tribute which my heart

Hath paid to Annabella's sacred love,

Hath been these tears which are her mourners now.

Never till now did nature do her best,

To show a matchless beauty to the world,
Which in an instant, ere it scarce was seen,
The jealous destinies required again.
Pray, Annabella, pray; since we must part,
Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne
Of innocence and sanctity in heaven.
Pray, pray, my sister.

Anna. Then I see your drift.

Ye blessed angels, guard me!

Gio. Give me your hand. How sweetly life doth run
In these well-colour'd veins! how constantly

This pulse doth promise health! But I could chide
With nature for this cunning flattery!

Gio. Farewell.

Anna. Will you be gone?
Gio. Be dark, bright sun,

And make this mid-day night, that thy gilt rays
May not behold a deed, will turn their splendour
More sooty than the poets feign their Styx.
Anna. What means this?

Gio. To save thy fame.

Thus die, and die by me, and by my hand; Revenge is mine, honour doth love command. Anna. Forgive him, Heaven, and me my sins.

Brother, unkind, unkind

[Stabs her.

Farewell.
[Dies.

[Sir Thomas Browne, in the last chapter of his Enquiries into Vulgar and Common Errors, rebukes such authors as have chosen to relate prodigious and nameless sins. The chapter is entitled, Of some Relations whose Truth we fear. His reasoning is solemn and fine." Lastly, as there are many relations whereto we cannot assent, and make some doubt thereof, so there are divers others whose verities we fear, and heartily wish there were no truth therein. Many other accounts like these we meet sometimes in history, scandalous unto Christianity, and even unto humanity; whose not only verities but relations honest minds do deprecate. For of sins heteroclital, and such as want either name or precedent, there is oft-times a sin even in their histories. We desire no records of such enormities; sins should be accounted new, that so they may be esteemed monstrous. They omit of monstrosity, as they fall from their rarity; for men count it venial to err with their forefathers, and foolishly conceive they divide a sin in its society. The pens of men may sufficiently expatiate without these singularities of villainy; for, as they increase the hatred of vice in some, so do they enlarge the theory of wickedness in all. And this is one thing that may make latter ages worse than were the former : for the vicious examples of ages past poison the curiosity of these present, affording a hint of sin unto seduceable spirits, and soliciting those unto the imitation of them, whose heads were never so perversely principled as to invent them. In things of this nature silence commendeth history; 'tis the veniable part of things lost, wherein there must never rise a Pancirollus1 nor remain any register but that of hell."]

1 Who wrote De Antiquis Deperditis, or of the Lost Inventions of Antiquity.

THE BROKEN HEART: A TRAGEDY, BY JOHN FORD. ITHOCLES loves CALANTHA, Princess of Sparta; and would have his sister PENTHEA plead for him with the princess. She objects to him her own wretched condition, made miserable by a match, into which he forced her with BASSANES, when she was precontracted by her dead father's will, and by inclination, to ORGILUS; but at last she consents.

ITHOCLES. PENTHEA.

Ith. Sit nearer, sister, to me, nearer yet;

We had one father, in one womb took life,
Were brought up twins together, yet have lived
At distance like two strangers. I could wish,
That the first pillow whereon I was cradled
Had proved to me a grave.

Pen. You had been happy:

Then had you never known that sin of life
Which blots all following glories with a vengeance;
For forfeiting the last will of the dead,

From whom you had your being.

Ith. Sad Penthea,

Thou canst not be too cruel: my rash spleen

Hath with a violent hand pluck'd from thy bosom
A lover-blest heart, to grind it into dust;
For which mine 's now a-breaking.

Pen. Not yet, Heaven,

I do beseech thee: first let some wild fires
Scorch, not consume it; may the heat be cherish'd
With desires infinite but hopes impossible.

Ith. Wrong'd soul, thy prayers are heard.

Pen. Here, lo, I breathe,

A miserable creature, led to ruin

By an unnatural brother.

Ith. I consume.

In languishing affections for that trespass,
Yet cannot die.

Pen. The handmaid to the wages,

The untroubled' of country toil, drinks streams,
With leaping kids, and with the bleating lambs,
And so allays her thirst secure; while I

Quench my hot sighs with fleetings of my tears.
Ith. The labourer doth eat his coarsest bread,
Earn'd with his sweat, and lies him down to sleep;

1 A word seems defective here.

While every bit I touch turns in digestion
To gall, as bitter as Penthea's curse.
Put me to any penance for my tyranny,
And I will call thee merciful.

Pen. Pray kill me;

Rid me from living with a jealous husband;
Then we will join in friendship, be again
Brother and sister-

Ith. After my victories abroad, at home

I meet despair; ingratitude of nature

Hath made my actions monstrous. Thou shalt stand
A deity, my sister, and be worship'd

For thy resolved martyrdom; wrong'd maids
And married wives shall to thy hallow'd shrine
Offer their orisons, and sacrifice

Pure turtles crown'd with myrtle, if thy pity
Unto a yielding brother's pressure lend
One finger but to ease it.

Pen. O, no more.

Ith. Death waits to waft me to the Stygian banks,
And free me from this chaos of my bondage;
And till thou wilt forgive, I must endure.

Pen. Who is the saint you serve?

Ith. Friendship, or nearness

Of birth, to any but my sister, durst not
Have moved that question: as a secret, sister,
I dare not murmur to myself.

Pen. Let me,

By your new protestations I conjure ye,
Partake her name.

Ith. Her name

-'tis -'tis-I dare not

Pen. All your respects are forged.

Ith. They are not-Peace.

Calantha is the princess, the king's daughter,

Sole heir of Sparta.

Me most miserable!

Do I now love thee? For my injuries,

Revenge thyself with bravery, and gossip

My treasons to the king's ears. Do; Calantha
Knows it not yet, nor Prophilus my nearest.

Pen. Suppose you were contracted to her, would it not
Split ev'n your very soul to see her father

Snatch her out of your arms against her will,
And force her on the prince of Argos?

Ith. Trouble not

The fountains of mine eyes with thine own story.
I sweat in blood for 't.

Pen. We are reconciled.

Alas! sir, being children, but two branches
Of one stock, 'tis not fit we should divide.
Have comfort; you may find it.

Ith. Yes, in thee,

Only in thee, Penthea mine.

Pen. If sorrows

Have not too much dull'd my infected brain,
I'll cheer invention for an active strain.

PENTHEA recommends her brother as a dying bequest to the Princess.
CALANTHA. PENTHEA.

Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted
The opportunity you sought, and might
At all times have commanded.

Pen. 'Tis a benefit

Which I shall owe your goodness ev'n in death for.
My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes
Remaining to run down; the sands are spent:
For by an inward messenger I feel

The summons of departure short and certain.
Cal. You feel too much your melancholy.
Pen. Glories

Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams,
And shadows soon decaying: on the stage
Of my mortality my youth hath acted
Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length;
By varied pleasures sweeten'd in the mixture,
But tragical in issue.

Cal. Contemn not your condition, for the proof
Of bare opinion only: to what end
Reach all these moral texts ?

Pen. To place before ye

A perfect mirror, wherein you may see
How weary I am of a lingering life,
Who count the best a misery.

Cal. Indeed