(Curse to my joy !) gave both us life and birth;
Are we not, therefore, each to other bound
So much the more by nature by the links
Of blood, and reason? nay, if you will have it,
E'en of religion, to be ever one,

One soul, one flesh, one love, one heart, one all?
Friar. Have done, unhappy youth, for thou art lost.
Gio. No, father, in your eyes I see the change
Of pity, and compassion; from your age;
As from a sacred oracle, distils

The life of counsel: tell me, holy man,

What cure shall give me ease in these extremes ?
Friar. Repentance, son, and sorrow for this sin :
For thou hast moved a Majesty above,

With thy unranged (almost) blasphemy.
Gio. O do not speak of that, dear confessor.

Friar. Art thou, my son, that miracle of wit,

Who once, within these three months, wert esteemed

A wonder of thine age throughout Bononia?

How did the university applaud

Thy government, behaviour, learning, speech,
Sweetness, and all that could make up a man!
I was proud of my tutelage, and chose
Rather to leave my books than part with thee;
I did so, but the fruit of all my hopes
Are lost in thee, as thou art in thyself.

O Giovanni! hast thou left the schools

Of knowledge, to converse with lust, and death?
For death waits on thy lust. Look thro' the world,
And thou shalt see a thousand faces shine

More glorious than this idol thou adorest :
Leave her, and take thy choice, 'tis much less sin,
Tho' in such games as those, they lose, who win.

Gio. It were more ease to stop the ocean

From flows, and ebbs, than to dissuade my vows. Friar. Then I have done, and in thy wilful flames Already see thy ruin; Heav'n is just.

Yet hear my counsel.

Gio. As a voice of life!

Friar. Hie to thy father's house, there lock thee fast
Alone within thy chamber; then fall down

Gio.

Gio.

On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground:
Cry to thy heart, wash every word thou utter'st
In tears (and if 't be possible) of blood!

Beg Heaven to cleanse the leprosy of lust
That rots thy soul: acknowledge what thou art,
A wretch, a worm, a nothing: weep, sigh, pray,
Three times a-day, and three times every night :
For seven days space do this; then if thou find'st
No change in thy desires, return to me,
I'll think on remedy. Pray for thyself

At home, whilst I pray for thee here.-Away!
My blessing with thee! we have need to pray.
All this I'll do, to free me from the rod

Of vengeance; else I'll swear my fate's my god. [Exeunt.] "Tis pity she's a Whore.”—Act 1.

ACT V.-Scene V.

ANNABELLA and GIOVANNI.

What danger's half so great as thy revolt ?
Thou art a faithless sister, else thou know'st
Malice, or any treachery besides,

Would stoop to my bent brows; why, I hold fate
Clasped in my fist, and could command the course

Of time's eternal motion, hadst thou been

One thought more steady than an ebbing sea.

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

Ann. 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.

Ann. That's most certain.

Gio.

A dream, a dream! else in this other world
We should know one another.

That I shall see you there? You look on me ;
May we kiss one another, prate, or laugh,
Or do, as we do here?

Ann. I know not that;

But-brother, for the present, what d'ye 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?
Ann. Distraction, and a troubled conscience.

Gio.

Death, and a swift repining wrath :-yet lookWhat see you in mine eyes?

Ann. Methinks you weep.

Gio. I do indeed; these are the funeral tears

Shed on your grave; these furrow'd up my cheeks
When first I lov'd, 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!

Ann. Then I see your drift

Gio.

Ye blessed angels guard me!

So say I :

Kiss me.

If ever after-times should hear

I

Of our fast-knit affections, tho' perhaps
The laws of conscience and of civil use
May blame us justly, yet when they but know
Our loves, that love will wipe away that rigour,
Which would in other incests be abhorred.

Give me your hand: how sweetly life doth run
In these well-coloured veins ! how constantly
These palms do promise health! but I could chide
With nature for this cunning flattery-

Kiss me again-forgive me.

With my heart.

Farewell!

Ann.

Gio.

Ann.

Will you be gone ?

Gio.

1

Ann.

Gio.

Be dark, bright sun,

And make this mid-day night, that thy gilt rays
May not behold a deed will turn their splendor
More sooty than the poets feign their Styx !
One other kiss, my sister.

What means this?

To save thy fame, and kill thee in a kiss,

Thus die, and die by me, and by my hand. [Stabs her.]
Revenge is mine; honour doth love command.

Ann. O brother, by your hand!

Gio.

When thou art dead,

I'll give my reasons for it; to dispute

With thy (even in thy death) most lovely beauty,
Would make me stagger to perform this act
Which I most glory in.

Ann. Forgive him heaven: and me my sins-farewell,

Brother unkind, unkind-merey, great heaven! [Dies.]
"'Tis pity she's a Whore."-Act V. Scene V.

Our extracts have not been of the shortest; but the energy and pathos of the quotations will, we are sure, bear us out in the estimation of our readers. The last will remind the most superficial observer of the famous scene in Othello; the same desperate struggle between love and distraction; the same attempt to varnish over an inexpiable deed of blood by the sophistry of doing

"nought in hate, but all in honour;" but there stops the resemblance. The noble and ardent, but misguided Moor is nearly as superior a being to the impure and frantic Giovanni, as innocent Desdemona is to the guilty, though not altogether abandoned, character who forms the groundwork of Ford's drama. That any audience should have permitted such a story to have been represented, may well appear surprising; but it is to be remembered, that the system of personating female characters by boys, which in our author's days was the constant practice of the stage, was the principal inducement to men of uncontrollable imagination and commanding intellect to grasp at subjects beyond the pale of our natural feelings, and to luxuriate in the display of powers which their audience scarcely knew whether most to shudder at, or to admire. That any actress, however, should have taken up the part of Annabella, would of course be pronounced incredible; yet such is the influence of custom on the manners and peculiarities of nations, that not only has one of the greatest poets of modern times chosen a subject of a similar nature; but this very character of Mirra, performed by a female, is a high favourite at such Italian theatres, as, in spite of Austrian bayonets, and an enervating atmosphere, still prefer nourishing the heart by bursts of tragic grandeur, to cultivating the ear by the monotony of an opera recitative.

The Broken Heart has the advantage of being on a less painful subject. It is a tale of love, agony, and death original, we believe, as to the conduct, and singularly striking as to the winding up of the plot. Although Mr. Campbell probably went too far when he