How would he hang his flender gilded wings,
And buz-lamenting doings in the air?

Poor harmless fly,

That with his pretty buzzing melody,
Came here to make us merry;

And thou haft kill'd him.

REVENGE.

Lo, by thy fide where rape, and murder, ftands
Now give some furance that thou art revenge,
Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot wheels;
And then I'll come and be thy waggoner,
And whirl along with thee about the globe;
Provide two proper palfries black as jet,
To hale thy vengeful waggon fwift away,
And find out murders in their guilty caves.
And when thy car is loaden with their heads,
I will difmount, and by thy waggon wheel
Trot like a fervile foot-man all day long;
Even from Hyperion's rifing in the east,
Until his very downfal in the sea.

together fo expreffive, feems to me the true one; it is frequently ufed for an action, a thing done: Mr. Theobald propofes,

Lamenting dolings,

Though he was confcious of the fimilarity between the word and the epithet; notwithstanding which the Cxford editor gives us, Laments and Dolings.

Troilus

Troilus and Creffida.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

(1)

Love, in a brave young Soldier.

ALL here my varlet: I'll un-arm again. was without the of

Troy,

That find fuch cruel battle here within?
Each Trojan, that is mafter of his heart,
Let him to field: Troilus alas! hath none.

(1) Call, &c.] Mr. Theobald and Mr. Upton both perceiv'd our author's allufion here to an ode of Anacreon, (or, as the latter fays, to a thought printed among thofe poems, which are afcribed to Anacreon.") Ben Johnson, as well as our author, alludes to it in the following paffage:

Volpone. O I am wounded!

Mef. Where, Sir?

Vol. Not without.

Thofe blows were nothing; I could bear them ever
But angry Cupid, bolting from her eyes,

Hath fhot himself into me, like a flame;

Where now he flings about his burning heat,
As in a furnace, fome ambitious fire

Whofe vent is ftopt. The fight is all within me

Volpone A&t 2. S. 3.

ΜΑΧΗΣ ΕΣΩ Μ' ΕΧΟΥΣΗΣ ;

M

Deinde

The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant. But I am weaker than a woman's tear, Tamer than fleep, fonder than ignorance ; Lefs valiant than the virgin in the night, And skill-lefs as unpractis'd infancy.

O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus

When I do tell thee, there my hopes lye drown'd,
Reply not, in how many fathoms deep,
They lye indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad
In Creffid's love. Thou anfwer'ft, fhe is fair;
Pour'ft in the open ulcer of my heart,

Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gate, her voice;
Handleft in thy difcourfe- -O that (2) her hand!
In whofe comparison, all whites are ink,

Deinde feipfum projecit in modum teli: mediufque cordis mei penetravit & me folvit. Fruftra itaque habeo fcutum: quid enim muniamur extra, bello intus me exercente. Mr Upton, speaking of the feveral translations of the last line but one, adds "Now I will fet Shakespear's translation against them them all: Why fhould I war without. Ti yag Barwμel ε&w - For this is the meaning of the phrafe, quid hoftem petam, vel quid hoftem ferire aggrediar extra; cum hoftis intus eft? &c. See Remarks on three plays of Ben Johnson, p. 28.

(2) Her hand, &c.] In the Midfummer night's Dream, speaking of a white hand, he fays;

That pure congealed white high Taurus' fnow,
Fann'd with the eaftern wind, turns to a crow
When thou hold'ft up thy hand.

A 3. f. 6.

I don't know what to make of the words and spirit of fenfe, nor do any of the critics fatisfy me: the Oxford editor reads

Neither of which appear to me as from the hand of Shakespear whether by the Spirit of fenfe, he means the fenfe of touching, I cannot tell; that feems the moft probable," to the feifure of her hand the down of the cignet is harsh, and its spirit of fenfe [the foft and delicate fenfe, its touch gives us] hard as the the plowman's palm.” Writing

Writing their own reproach: to whofe soft seizure
The cignet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of plowman. This thou tell'ft me;
(As true thou tell'ft me) when I say I love her:
But faying thus, instead of oil and balm,

Thou lay'ft in every gash that love hath given me,
The knife that made it.

SCENE V. Success, not equal to our Hopes.
The ample propofition that hope makes,
In all defigns begun on earth below,

Fails in the promis'd largenefs: checks and difafters
Grow in the veins of action, highest rear'd;
As knots, by the conflux of meeting fap,
Infect the found pine, and divert his grain.
Tortive and errant from his course of growth.

On Degree.

Take but degree away; untune that string,
And hark what discord follows; each thing meets
In meer oppugnancy. The bounded waters
Would lift their bosoms higher than the fhores,
And make a fop of all this folid globe:
Strength would be lord of imbecillity,

And the rude fon would ftrike his father dead:
Force would be right; or rather, right and wrong
(Between whofe endless jar Juftice (3) refides)

(3) Refides] The thought here is beautiful and fublime: Right and wrong are fuppofed as enemies, who are perpetually at war, between whom Justice hath her place of refidence, and fits as an umpire; for 'tis the endless jar of right and wrong, that only gives occafion for the interpofition of juftice. Mr. Warbu. ton hath, in this place, been too fevere on poor Theobald, the critic, (as he calls him) for dropping a flight remark, which, were it not defenfible, fhould rather be excus'd than cenfur'd; and introduc'd an alteration of his own, which an ill-natur'd remarker might poffibly find pleafure in retorting upon him, But, as the only bufinefs of a com

mentator

Would lose their names, and so would Juftice too.

Then every thing includes itself in power;
Power into will, will into appetite;

And appetite (an universal wolf,

So doubly feconded with will and power)
Muft make perforce an univerfal prey,
And laft, eat up itself.

Conduct in War fuperior to Action.
The still and mental parts,

That do contrive how many hands shall strike,
When fitness call them on, and know by measure
Of their obfervant toil the enemies weight;
Why, this hath not a finger's dignity;

They call this bed-work mapp'ry, closet war:
So that the ram that batters down the wall,
For the great fwing and rudeness of his poize,
They place before his hand that made the engine;
Or those, that with the fineness of their fouls
By reafon guide his execution.

SCENE VI. Respect.

I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as morning, when the coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus.

ACT II.

SCENE III.

DOUBT

The wound of peace is furety,

Surety fecure; but modest doubt is call'd

The

mentator is to do justice to his author, it feems to me, highly improper to stuff one's obfervations with the gall of private animofities.