“Prospero Duke of Milan being entirely given up to his Study, reposes the Trust of the Government in his Brother Antonio, who having all the Sovereignty but the Name, is unsatisfy'd, till he obtains that by Treason. Wherefore having made a secret Compact with the King of

Naples, he lets him into Milan in the Night; and seizing his Brother and his Infant Daughter, sends them out to Sea in a tatter'd, unrigg'd Boat. Gonzalo, who by the Tyrant was commanded to put this in execution, out of his own Compassion furnishes him with some Provision, and some of his own Books. Being thus defenceless left to the Mercy of the Ocean, Providence drove him on a barren Island, where he found no body but a sort of Incubus, Son to a notorious Witch of Algiers. And here he liv'd twelve Years in Solitude, and in the Study and Exercise of the Art of Natural Magic. Till now the same King of Naples, his only Son, and Antonio, Prospero's treacherous Brother, and others, returning from marrying the Daughter of Naples to the King of Tunis, fall into his Spells; for Prospero raising a Storm, has them all cast away on this barren enchanted Island, tho none of them perish in the Wreck —Here the Play begins—These Princes being all cast ashore and dispers'd in the Island, the Pangs of their evil Deeds, and the suppos'd Loss of the King's Son torment the guilty King and some of his Train; while his Son indeed is by Prospero's Spirits brought to the Sight of Miranda, Prospero's Daughter, who before had seen none of Mankind but her Father. The young Pair fall mutually in love with each other. The King likewise and his Train having undergone great Pains, Agonies, and Terrors, are brought to Prospero's Cave by his Spirit Ariel; where having been upbraided by Prospero, who owns himself to them, they all are reconcil'd, Prospero's Daughter being to be married to Ferdinand the King's Son; so with the promise of a prosperous Voyage the Play ends.”

I can't find that this Plot was taken from any Novel, at least not from any that Mr. Langbain had seen, who was very conversant with Books of that nature. But it does not at all follow, that there was no such Story in any of the Books of his time, which might never reach our Age; nor is it of much Importance.

Tho the Fable of this Play may come short of Perfection in some Particulars, yet I must say this, that we have few on the English Stage that can compare with it for Excellence. For first it is the Imitation of one Action, i. e. The Restoration of Prospero to his Dutchy of Milan. The Action is of a just Extent, for it has a Beginning, Middle and End; the casting away of the King of Naples, Antonio, &c. on the enchanted Island, is plainly the Beginning, since to this there is nothing necessary to be before; it is the Sequel indeed of something else, but not the Effect. Thus their being cast on the Coast, produces all that happens to them, till the Discovery, which is the Middle: and when Prospero is reconcil'd by their Sufferings, and his Passions abated, the Middle, which is their Sufferings, produces the End in the Reconciliation of the Parties. Here is likewise in this Fable a Peripetie and Discovery. For the State, Condition and Fortune of the King is changed from the extremest Misery to Happiness by

the Discovery of Prospero, and Ferdinand. 'Tis true, the Discovery of Prospero is not so fine as that of Ulysses by the Nurse, but it is ev'ry whit as good as the Discovery that Ulysses makes of himself to the Shepherds. There is a perfect Unity in the Action, and in the Time; which tho a little confusedly express'd (which I attribute to the repeated Errors of the Editors, not to Shakespear) yet it is concluded by Alonzo, and the Sailors, to be but three Hours. Prospero in the first Act demands of his Spirit Ariel—What is the time of the Day—who answers Ariel, Past the mid Season. Prosp. At least two Glasses. The Time 'twixt six and now, must by us be spent most preciously.

The whole Time from the raising the Storm to the End of the Play is but six Hours; the Play plainly opens at the very End of the Storm, so that we cannot suppose it more than three Hours and a half; which is far more regular in that Particular, than any that I know of on the Stage. The Unity of Place is not quite so regular, and yet we have few Plays that excel it even in this Particular. But if the Scene of the Storm were out, and which has very little to do there, the Place would be brought into a much less compass, and the several Scenes may very well be allow'd to be reasonably suppos'd pretty contiguous. At least when two Gentlemen set themselves to alter a Poet of Shakespear's Genius, one wou'd expect, that they shou'd endeavour to correct his Errors, not to add more. It had been extremely easy for Sir William, and Mr. Dryden to have remedy'd this Particular, which they have not at all attempted; nay, they have added nothing but what makes their Composition not only much less perfect, but infinitely more extravagant, than this Poem which they pretend to alter; as I shall show when I come to the Characters. Shakespear has met with this fortune in many of his Plays, while Mr. Durfey and Mr. Cibber have only given us their wife Whimseys for what they blotted out of the Poet. The Pretenders to alter this Poet shou'd never meddle with him unless they cou'd mend his Fable and Conduct, since they can never give us the Manners, Sentiments, Passions, and Diction, finer and more perfect, than they find them in the Original.

As the Fable has all these Advantages, so is the Conduct of the Play very regular. Aristotle divides the Parts of Quantity of a Play into four Parts, which he calls the Prologue, the Episode, the Exode, and the Chorus. By the Prologue he does not mean what is now a-days spoke before the

Play, and has seldom any relation to the Play, and will therefore serve any other Play, as well as that to which it is spoken: but by the Prologue here is understood all our first Act; and it is to explain to the Audience not only what concerns the Subject of the Poem, but what is proper and necessary; and makes a true Part of it. Thus Prospero, to satisfy his Daughter of the Cause of his raising the Storm, very artfully lets the Audience know the material part of his History which past before that Hour; and that necessarily: for it was not only natural for Miranda to enquire into the Cause of so terrible a Storm, the Effects of which had extremely mov'd her Compassion; and the Work that was going to be done by Prospero seems to mark out that, as the only proper time that he cou'd ever have related his Fortunes to her, and inform her of her Condition, and that he had now got all his Enemies into his hands. 'Tis true, this Narration may seem a little too calm, and that it had been more Dramatic had it been told in a Passion; but if we consider the Story as Prospero tells it, it is not without a Pathos. And if this first Narration cou'd be brought under this Censure, yet the second is far from it, being very artfully thrown into a sort of Passion, or Anger against Ariel, and is therefore truly Dramatic; for in the Drama indeed there shou'd be very little that is not Action, and Passion. It was necessary likewise, that when the Poet was giving the Audience a Creature of his own formation, he shou'd let them know whence he sprung; his very Origin preparing us for a Character so much out of the way, and makes us expect that Language from him, which he utters. But there being still some things done which fell not into the knowledge of Prospero, and yet were necessary to be known to the Audience, the Poet in the first Scene of the second Act, makes the shipwreck'd Princes discover it very judiciously.

The next to the Prologue is the Episode, which was all that us'd formerly to go betwixt the four Chorus's, which with us is the second, third, and fourth Act; that is, it contains all the Subject of the Play, or rather the Intrigues and Plot, till the Unravelling. And the Exode, which was all that came after the last singing of the Chorus, contain'd the Perepitie, and Discovery or the unravelling of the Plot, which answered our fifth Act; and is the Unravelling, or Catastrophe of the Piece. This division of Aristotle is perfectly observ'd by Shakespear in the Conduct of this Play of the Tempest. For, as we have seen, the first Act discovers all that was necessary for the Audience to know of the Story, that happen'd before the Commencement of the Action of the Play, and that in an admirable and judicious manner: next, all the Intrigue of the Play, as the several Adventures and Torments of the King, the uniting the Hearts of Miranda and Ferdinand, and the Attempts of the Mob Characters, make up the second, third, and fourth Acts: the fifth is wholly employ'd in the Discovery and Perepitie, or in the Unravelling of the Plot, and restoring Tranquillity to all the Dramatic Persons. The Scene likewise is generally

unbroken; especially in the first, fourth and fifth, they are perfectly entire. The Manners are every way just, they are well-mark'd, and convenient and equal; there is no room here for the Likeness, the Story being a Fiction. Thus we find every one perfectly distinct from the other. Caliban, as born of a Witch, shews his original Malice, ill-Nature, Sordidness, and Villany. Antonio is always ambitious and treacherous, and even there promoting and persuading Sebastian to the committing the same unnatural Act against his Brother, that he had against Prospero, with this Aggravation, of adding Fratricide to Usurpation.

The Sentiments are every where the just Effect of the Manners, and the Diction generally just and elegant, as we shall see in those beautiful Thoughts I shall add to my Remarks on this Play. But I can't leave my general Consideration of this Play, till I have added a word about the most questionable Part of it, and that is the Magic, or Sorcery.

Those who make this a Fault in our Poet know little of the matter; for it is sufficient for him to go upon received Notions, no matter whether philosophicaly, or absolutely true, or not. Shakespear liv'd in an Age, not so remote from a Time in which the Notion of Spirits and Conjurers, and the strange and wonderful Power of Magic, were so common, that it was almost an Article of Faith among the Many, I mean not the very Mob, but Men of Figure and true Learning. Ariosto is full of this, and instead of one enchanted Isle, gives us many enchanted Castles. Nay, Lavater and several others have wrote seriously upon this Head; Mizaldus gives us many Receipts for magical Operations; and the Rosicrucians, and Cabalists profess a Conversation with Spirits of the Earth, the Air, Water, and elemental Fire. Doctor Beaumont has even in our Time wrote a Book in English upon this Head, and has declared to many his frequent Conversation with these Hobgoblins; nor is there to this day scarce a venerable Citizen, or Country Squire, but as firmly believes these Beings, as they do their own. And tho it is not our business here to enter into the Examination of this Point philosophically, common Opinion being sufficient to justify Shakespear, yet perhaps the nicest Philosopher would be puzzl'd to demonstrate the Falshood of this Notion: At least we are sure, that there are Spirits departed, since the Scripture it self assures us of it. The same wou'd hold against Virgil and Homer for their Cyclops, their Harpeys, their Circes, &c. if common Opinion could not clear them. Our Poet therefore is at least on as good a bottom in this, as those great Men of Antiquity, and has manag'd these Machines as well as either of them in this Play.

The Reader having seen all the Beauties of the Fable, Conduct and Manners of this Play, may perhaps think it would not be from the Purpose if I should take some notice of the Alteration made of it by Mr. Dryden and Sir William Davenant; and since it seems a sort of justice to Shakespear, I shall venture to show how far they have been from improving our Author.

Mr. Dryden in his Preface, after he has told us that the Play it self had been acted with Success, and that Fletcher and Sir John Suckling had made bold with our Poet in their Sea-Voyage, and the Goblins—adds— Sir William Davenant, as he was a Man of a quick and piercing imagination, soon found, that somewhat might be added to the Design of Shakespear, of which neither Fletcher nor Suckling had ever thought, (something I hope to add to his Excellence, or else it had better never have been added) and therefore to put the last Hand to it, he design'd the Counterpart to Shakespear's Plot, namely that of a Man who had never seen a Woman, that by this means these two Characters of Innocence and Love, might the more illustrate and commend each other.

He further tells us his Approbation of Sir William's Design; but with submission to so great a Man as Mr. Dryden must be allowed to be in his way, I think he had very little Reason for his Approbation. For let us consider but the Rules of true Judgment, and we shall find, that what these Gentlemen have done could be only advantageous to our Author, by improving the Fable and Conduct, the Manners, the Sentiments, the Diction, &c. But Mr. Dryden in what is quoted seems to place all the Benefit of the Alteration in the Counterpart of his Plot, i. e. A Man that had never seen a Woman, that by this means those two Characters of Innocence and Love, might the more illustrate and commend each other. That is, by spoiling the natural Innocence and Character of Miranda, to foist in some Scenes betwixt a Company of unequal and inconsistent Characters, which are sometimes mere Naturals indeed, and at other times Proficients in Philosophy.

But what did these Characters, or what do these Scenes towards the improving the Plot? It has every where broken the Scenes, and embarrass'd the Conduct, but scarce any where added the least Beauty to make amends, unless in Prospero's separating Ferdinand, and the Father, in his Rage, and his Threats of his Death; thus making the meeting of Father and Son the more distressful by so sudden a Calamity in their Joy. Every where else the Alterations are monstrous, especially in the Manners and Sentiments; to shew which, I shall give some Instances.

Dorinda says to her Father on his examining of her about seeing the Man—

No Sir, I am as well as ever I was in all my Life, but that I cannot eat nor drink for Thought of him, &c.

She saw him but the last Scene of the second Act, and this is the first Scene of the third Act; so what time she had to try whether she cou'd eat or not I cannot tell, unless it was her Afternoon's Nuncion (as the Children call it) for it was near four, as Ariel assured us. But all that Scene indeed between Prospero and Dorinda (a Creature of our Corrector's making,

not of Shakespear's, but more out of Nature, and more inconsistent than Caliban) has nothing at all Dramatic in it, nor any thing conducive to the Fable, Conduct or Plot. It discovers nothing of the least use; and only gives a very imperfect Sketch of the insensible Approaches of Love in Innocence and Ignorance, and may perhaps be worthy the Contemplation of the young Misses of the Nursery.

Enter eight fat Spirits with Cornucopias in their Hands. These fat Spirits I confess are very surprizing and merry, tho never thought of by Shakespear.

The Discourse in Echo betwixt Ferdinand and Ariel, if tolerable in Prose, is beyond measure ridiculous and trifling in singing: Ferdinand seems too full of Despair and Concern to have that petty Whim of Curiosity to come into his head; and therefore I presume no body will think that any Improvement of Shakespear's Play, unless it be in adding the Mode, which was afterwards in the Rehearsal.

But our Improvers have never been eminent for their Imitations of Nature in the Drama; Mr. Dryden had wandred too far in Romance, to relish Nature, or know how to copy her. Tho in his latter Plays Age had worn something of that away, and he has given us some Scenes worthy his Greatness in other Parts of Poetry, in which lay his Excellence. But to go on—

Soon after this Miranda seeing Ferdinand by an odd Caprice (which we never cou'd expect from her Character as drawn in Shakespear) she fancies him a Spirit. Tho she had before seen Hippolito, and had been told, that he was a Man, and assur'd by her Father, that she shou'd soon see another Man of riper Growth, than him she had seen. But this artless trifling Ignorance of Miranda spoils that Character Shakespear has given her, where she is innocent indeed, but not a Fool: whereas this might be call'd, as alter'd, The Comedy of Fools.

But now for Hippolito, bred to Books and Philosophy, under so wise at Master as Prospero.

This is indeed indulging Fancy with a vengeance, and throwing all Art; Nature, and Judgment aside as useless. Certainly the first Wishes of Innocence in Love must be the Company of the Object belov'd; and that

he might easily find and tell. But why shou'd he fancy (if it were not absurd to ask a Reason for any thing in such a Character) that the Woman cou'd tell him what he wish'd for, when he did not know himself?

What wou'd you do to make that Woman yours?

I'd quit the rest of the World, that I might be alone with her; she never shou'd be from me, &c.

This is Nature indeed, and this is the real Effect of a real Passion: this is what Tibullus, that tender Lover, said about 1700 years ago—

But then our young Lover, if he wou'd have maintain'd his Character of Innocence and Love, shou'd have kept to that Point, and not immediately after, contrary to the Nature of Love and Innocence, run mad for all the Women in the World, as if not bred in a Cave, but a Brothel. This has neither Sense nor Reason in it, but is perfectly monstrous. In the beginning of this Scene betwixt him and Ferdinand he discovers all the Symptoms of a real Passion, which makes his after Extravagance impossible in Nature, even for a Debochee, at least till Enjoyment was past.

Ferdinand's fighting him is a monstrous Incident, and an intolerable Breach of his Character, and contrary to the Manners; he not being only a tender Stripling, but as ignorant of a Sword as a very Woman: as is plain in the Scene before the Duel; for Hippolito has desir'd his Friendship, and told him, that next a Woman he found he cou'd love him.

This with his Ignorance and Innocence ought to have deterr'd a Man of any Honour, especially a Prince of no ill Character, from committing so barbarous and inhuman a Murder for a childish Impertinence.

But here we must have a nice touch at Jealousy. Miranda tells him,

But all this will not do, Ferdinand must be jealous without any reason, to make him the more resolute in so scandalous an Attempt, as the killing Hippolito; at least of wounding him so, that nothing but Moly, and the Influence of the Moon, forc'd down by his good Angel, cou'd recover him to Life again. 'Tis true, when Ferdinand proves such a Coxcomb to be jealous on what Miranda says of Hippolito, tho she had assur'd him of her Love, and, as far as appear'd to him, ventur'd her Father's displeasure

by coming to him, we may easily suspect he wou'd be guilty of any Folly, nay the Villany of fighting with Hippolito; nay it was a Mercy that he did not draw on Miranda too, for it had been full as heroic.

Dorinda is more sensible of Nature and Love than Hippolito; she can tell that he can truly love but one at a time, and naturally resents his professing, that he will have all the Women. But he is more learn'd in the World in this fourth Act, than in the former: I suppose he had receiv'd some Intelligence of the Incontinence of the Men of this World from one of the Devils of Sycorax, for he says—

Of whom could he hear this? of Prospero? impossible; his Business had all along been to fright him from the Conversation of Women, making them Enemies and noxious to Men, and his Safety; which is directly contrary to the letting him know, that other Men had convers'd with so many without hurt. In this Place indeed a Poeta loquitur had not been amiss. He had convers'd with no body but Ferdinand once, who, tho he told him that there were more Women in the World, yet was so far from letting him know that one had many, that he told him, that one Man was to have but one Woman.

But as knowing as Hippolito is in some things, and in some lucid Intervals, he knows not a word of Death; tho we must think he had read strange Books, and heard odd Instructions, that cou'd leave him so entirely ignorant of that point: but were this just, yet that very Ignorance makes Ferdinand still the more inexcusable; nay, Ferdinand himself at last, in the fourth Act, seems sensible of his Ignorance, for he says.

And indeed a Man wou'd think, that he might very easily avoid Force if he wou'd, at least till Hippolito had seiz'd his Mistress, which he had sufficient reason to imagine that Prospero wou'd never permit. But he that notwithstanding all that had past between them, cou'd not before this find out his Ignorance, may do any thing.

But Hippolito in one Line says, he does not know what Right is, and yet in the next tells us of Baseness, and Honour. His Lectures were very peculiar, that cou'd give him a notion of one and not of the other.

The Terms of the Combat or Duel are as ridiculous as all the rest —that is—to fight till Blood is drawn from one of the two, or his Sword taken from him. Ferdinand was resolv'd to be on the sure side of the hedge with him; but he is so dull of Apprehension, that he may well be a Rascal; for as Monsieur Rochfoucault says, A Fool has not Matter

enough to make an honest Man of. Tho Hippolito had told him, that they had no Swords growing in their World, yet Ferdinand did not find it out till he had wounded him, that he was unskilful in his Weapon.

Risum teneatis? was ever such Stuff wrote since the Time of Gammar Gurton's Needle? But it would be endless to observe all the Blunders of these added Scenes, they are all of apiece, and scarce guilty of a Thought, which we could justly attribute to Shakespear. I have given Instances enough I hope to show what I propos'd, that the Alteration has been no Benefit to the Original.

I shall only take notice of some fine things in this Play both as to Topicks and Descriptions, and moral Reflections, and then pass to the next.

Ariel's Description of his managing the Storm is worth remarking; and Ferdinand's Speech, when Prospero is leading him away at the end of the first Act, is pathetic, and justly expresses the Nature of a true Lover.

I must not omit the Description, that Francisco makes in the second Act, of Ferdinand's swimming ashore in the Storm.

The Reader may compare this with Otway's Description of Jaffier's Escape. His Reflections and moralizing on the frail and transitory State of Nature are wonderfully fine.

Prosp.
&lblank; These our Actors
(As I foretold you) were all Spirits, and
Are melted into Air, into thin Air;
And like the baseless Fabrick of their Vision,
The cloud-capt Towers, the gorgeous Palaces,
The solemn Temples, the great Globe it self,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial Pageant faded,
Leave not a Track behind. We are such Stuff
As Dreams are made on; and our little Life
Is rounded with a Sleep.

Tho this Play be plac'd after the Tempest, 'tis evident from the Writing, and the Faults, and even Absurdities, that it was writ long before it, for I can by no means think that Shakespear wrote worse and worse; for if his Fire may be suppos'd to abate in his Age, yet certainly his Judgment increas'd: but most of the Faults of this Play are Faults of Judgment, more than Fancy.

Valentine and Protheus are two intimate, bosom, nay, sworn Friends, Natives of Verona, and give the Name to the Play. Valentine is for travelling (tho indeed the Journey is not long) and Protheus is in love with a beautiful Lady nam'd Julia, of the same Town. Valentine being arrived at Milan, succeeds in his Amour with Silvia the Duke's Daughter; whose Lover Sir Thurio is favour'd by the Father as a Man of large Demesns, but he is silly, insolent, and cowardly. Valentine is not long gone from home, but Antonio, Sir Protheus's Father, will send him to travel too, especially to Milan, where his Friend had acquir'd so good a Reputation. He takes leave of his Mistress privately, and gives her his Oaths and Vows that he will love only her till Death. But coming to Milan, he falls in love with Silvia his Friend's Mistress; and to compass his own Ends, discovers the Amour betwixt her and Valentine to the Duke, tho trusted as a Friend by the Lovers. This causes the Banishment of Valentine, and the Misery of the Lady who lov'd him extremely. Protheus on the Credit of his having a Mistress in his own City, with whom he was mightily in love, gets the Management of Sir Thurio's Passion; and under that Pretence, makes it his Endeavours to promote his own, which Julia being come to Milan in Man's Clothes discovers, and is taken by him for a Page. Silvia being weary of Sir Thurio's Suit, and eager to be

with her Lover Valentine, engages Sir Eglamour to assist her in making her escape to Mantua, where she heard that he was, tho indeed he was taken by the Out-laws about three Leagues out of Milan, and made their Captain. These same Out-laws seize Silvia, who is rescu'd from the Force of one of them by Sir Protheus, got thither in pursuit of her; who pressing his Amour here in vain, attempts to ravish her, but is prevented by Valentine, who had o'er-heard all his Treachery: but on Protheus's Repentance all Animosities are forgot, and Sir Protheus returns to his old Mistress Julia here discover'd, and Silvia is by the Duke given to Valentine, Sir Thurio not daring to claim her; nay, out of fear of Valentine he gives her up in disdain.

Besides the Defect of the Plot, which is too visible to criticize upon, the Manners are no where agreeable, or convenient. Silvia and the rest not behaving themselves like Princes, Noblemen, or the Sons and Daughters of such. The Place where the Scene is, by the original Error of the Press, not yet corrected: for to be sure the Author cou'd not make the Blunder sometimes the Emperor's Court, sometimes Milan, and sometimes Padua, as is plain from running the Eye over it.

But how defective soever this Interlude may be in the Plot, Conduct, Manners and Sentiments, we yet shall see, that it is not destitute of Lines, that discover the Author to be Shakespear.

Love, or against Love, when slighted.
To be in love where Scorn is bought with Groans,
Coy Looks, with Heart-sore Sighs: One fading Moment's Mirth,
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious Nights.
If haply won, perhaps a hapless Gain;
If lost, why then a grievous Labour won!
However, but a Folly bought with Wit,
Or else a Wit by Folly vanquished.

On Love.
Oh! how this Spring of Love resembleth
Th' uncertain Glory of an April Day;
Which now shows all the Beauty of the Sun,
And by and by a Cloud takes all away. I must here let the Reader know, that because in going thro Shakespear, the same Topics will occur in several Places, I shall put my References to the Latin Poets on those Topics to the alphabetical Table of them, which will be at the end of this Volume.

A comical Description of Men in Love.

Speed—First, you have learned (like Sir Protheus) to wreath your Arms like a Malecontent: to relish a Love-Song like a Robin-red-breast: to walk alone like one that had the Pestilence: to sigh like a School-boy that had lost his ABC: to weep like a young Wench that had lost her Grandame: to fast like one that takes Diet: to watch like one that fears robbing: to speak puling like a Beggar at Hallow-Mass. You were wont when you laugh'd, to crow like a Cock; when you walk'd, to walk like one of the Lions: when you fasted, 'twas presently after dinner: when you look'd sadly, it was for want of Money. And now you are so metamorphosed with a Mistress, that when I look on you I can hardly think you my Master.

You must observe, that this is the Speech of a pert Page to his Lovesick Master, and that will atone for some of the Smiles, while the Humour is pleasant.

On Banishment for Love. Val.
And why not Death, rather than living Torment?
To die is to be banished from my self!
And Silvia is my self. Banished from her
Is self, from self! a deadly Banishment!
What Light is Light, if Silvia be not seen?
What Joy is Joy, if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think that she is by,
And feed upon the Shadow of Perfection?
Except I be by Silvia in the Night,
There is no Musick in the Nightingale.
Unless I look on Silvia in the Day,
There is no Day for me to look upon.
She is my Essence, and I leave to be,
If I be not by her fair Influence
Foster'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive.

This is extremely pathetic, as indeed all the following Scene is betwixt him and his false Friend Sir Protheus.

On Hope.
Hope is a Lover's Staff—walk hence with that,
And manage it against despairing Thoughts.

Sir Protheus's Advice to Sir Thurio in the managing his Addresses to Silvia, is pretty and sprightly. I can't omit the Words of Julia expressing her Condition when slighted by her Lover.

The fifth Act of this Play is much the best, but Valentine is too easily reconciled to a Man, whose Treachery and Villany deserv'd the Stab, especially when it is discovered at the very Time that he goes to ravish his Friend's betrothed.

I cannot pass this Play without a Word or two of Comedy in general, tho I shall be far from laying down all the Rules of that Poem, which tho not so excellent as Tragedy, yet is valuable enough to merit our Esteem above all others, except the Tragic. This Poem, tho the last and least encourag'd in the polite Times of Athens, yet was first and most advanc'd in Rome, and in England; for Politeness did not prevail very early in cither of those warlike Nations. As we have none of the Greek Comedies extant, but those of Aristophanes, who was Master of the old Comedy, except what we have in Terence, who is said to have translated two of Menander's into one of his; so we cannot make a fair Judgment who excell'd in this Poem, the Greek, the Latin, or the English; yet having those of Plautus and Terence, we may justly, with Mr. Dryden in his Essay, give the Victory to our own Nation over the Romans. We can indeed discover nothing of the Remains of Antiquity in this kind, comparable to Ben. Johnson, and to this Play of Shakespear's. This and our Advantage in Comedy over all the Moderns, is justly proved by Mr. Dryden in his Essay on Dramatic Poesy; but I confess I am surpriz'd at the Weakness of his Arguments in preferring our Tragedies and Tragi-comedies to those of the Greeks; in which Parallel, he has betray'd so great Ignorance both of the Greek Plays, and of the very Design and Art of Tragedy, that I wonder he corrected not those gross Mistakes before he dy'd; but suffer'd them to pass to Posterity with such Defects, of which he himself was so sensible, as to own that when he wrote them, he knew little of the Art.

Among these is his Assertion in the Beginning of the Discourse, p. 3. that Aristotle had given us no Definition of a Play, his Words are these —He had no sooner said thus, but all desir'd the Favour of him to give the Definition of a Play; and they were the more importunate with him, because neither Aristotle, nor Horace, nor any other, who writ on that Subject, had ever done it—A Play (goes on Mr. Dryden) ought to be a just and lively Image of human Nature, representing its Passions, and Humours, and the Change of Fortune, to which it is subject, for the Delight and Instruction of Human-kind.

First Aristotle has defin'd Tragedy and Comedy too, but did not, like Mr. Dryden, blend things to contrary in their Nature in one Definition, as Tragedy and Comedy. He might indeed well say, that it was a Description rather than a Definition; for what is applicable to all sorts of Dramatic Poetry, to the Epopee, and Satire, is no Definition at all. That of Aristotle is more close, and to the purpose; for what he has said will not agree in all its Parts with any thing but Tragedy; nor will his Definition of Comedy agree with the former. I think it so material to maintain the Distinction which Nature has made between these two Poems, that I shall set down the Definitions of both from Aristotle: First of Tragedy. Tragedy is an Imitation of an Action that is grave, and entire, and hath a just Length, of which the Style is agreeably relishing, but differently in all its Parts, and which, without the Assistance of Narration by the means of Terror and Compassion, perfectly refines in us all sorts of Passions, or whatever else is like them.

I have already said enough of this Definition, and shall only observe here, that the Action which Tragedy imitates must be grave; which shews the Defect of Mr. Dryden's Description, for the imitation of any Part of human Life, will not come up to that. But all that is not Great, Solemn, and Grave, is left to the Imitation of Comedy, which he thus defines— Comedy is an Imitation of the worst Men, I mean not in all sorts of Vices, but only in Ridicule. For Ridicule is properly a Defect, and Deformity without Pain, and which never contributes to the destruction of the Subject in which it is—This is Aristotle's Definition and Explanation of it. He has told the Subject of the Comic Imitation, which is only what is ridiculous; all other sorts of Wickedness, and Vice, can have no place here, because they raise Indignation, or Pity, which are Passions that ought by no means to reign in Comedy. Princes, Kings, and great Men ought therefore naturally to be excluded the Sock; because Ridicule ought always to be the Subject of this Poem, and those solemn Characters ought never to be made ridiculous.

In all these Particulars, Shakespear has come up to the Rules, and Definition of Aristotle; for he has in his Characters chosen the Defects and Deformities, which are without Pain, and which never contribute to the Destruction of the Subject, in which it is.

'Tis pity, that what Aristotle wrote of Comedy is lost, except this very Definition; but the Loss is the less, because we may very well draw sufficient Rules to walk by in Comedy from those which remain of Tragedy, observing this Difference, that as nothing ridiculous can come into Tragedy, so nothing grave or serious can come into Comedy justly, except it be so artfully join'd to the Ridiculous, that it seems natural and no Patch, as the Character of Mr. Fenton in the Play under our Consideration; his Character is the only serious one in the Play.

But as Tragedy has Parts of Quality, and Parts of Quantity, so has Comedy. The Parts of Quality, as in the other, are the Fable, the Manners, the Sentiments, and the Diction, without which no Comedy can be truly entitled to that Name. The Comic Poet must first invent his Plot, or Fable; and when he has fix'd that, he must take care that the Manners of the divers Persons be plainly express'd in his Characters; that is, that they be perfectly distinguish'd, as every one of these of the Merry Wives of Windsor are. The Sentiments are added, because without them there is no knowing the Thoughts, Designs, and Inclinations of the Dramatic Persons; and these being not to be express'd but by Discourse, the Diction is added. The Fable of Comedy, that is, the Comic Fiction or Imitation, must be entirely free from the Marvelous, and the Prodigious, which are frequent in Tragedy and the Epopee; for it has no manner of regard to Great, Illustrious, Grave, Mournful, Terrible, or in one word, Tragical Things, but only domestic and civil Incidents, and Persons. There is a natural Difference in Persons and Quality, or Manners; for that which is praise-worthy in one degree is not so in another; nay, it may be a Disgrace, for example in some Arts: for one of the Vulgar to play well on the Fiddle, or Heautbois, merits Praise, but the same Art in a King, is look'd on as trifling, if not despicable. A Woman ought to be a good Sower, Knitter or the like; at least these Qualities are commendable in a Woman, but ridiculous in a Man. Thus 'tis a Praise in a Servant, that he's no Thief, but it is no Praise to a Nobleman or a Man of any Figure and Quality. This is sufficient to show that different Manners are agreeable to different Degrees. To know perfectly therefore what Manners we ought to give to our several Dramatic Persons, we ought to study these following Precepts of Horace.

Utilium tardus Provisor; prodigus Æris;
Sublimis, cupidusq; & amata relinquere Pernix.
Conversis studiis Ætas, animusque virilis
Quærit Opes, & Amicitias; inservit honori.
Commisisse cavet, quod mox mutare laboret.
Multa Senem circumveniunt incommoda, vel quod
Quærit, & inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti;
Vel quod res omnes timidè, gelidéq; ministrat;
Dilator, spe longus, iners, avidusq; futuri,
Difficilis, querulus, Laudator temporis acti
Se puero; Censor, Castigatorq; Minorum.

And to the just observing the Characters, he just before gives this Advice.

And again,

That is, he who knows the Duties of every Order and Degree of Men, both in regard of themselves and others, is fit to meddle with the Drama.

The Excellence of the Sentiments is justly to express the Manners, and of the Diction to give us the Sentiments in a Language agreeable to the Subject; for if it be otherwise it is abominable. But the Style of Comedy ought not to be so sublime as Tragedy, nor so low as Farce; but still diversify'd according to the Character and Humour of the Person that speaks.

I should say something here of Humour, but that Mr. Congreve has already handled that Point so nicely, that I refer the Reader to his Letter to Mr. Dennis on that Subject; and I shall only add Mr. Dryden's Definition of it in his Essay on dramatic Poesy, which is this.

Humour is the ridiculous Extravagance of Conversation, wherein one Man differs from others. Whether this be expressive enough, I leave to the Reader. But in my mind, Humour is what the Antients and Aristotle meant by the Ridiculous, and according to Aristotle it consists in those Vices and Follies of Mind, as well as Conversation, which carry with

them a ridiculous Appearance. The Passions and Vices of Mankind have two different Faces, one serious and the other ridiculous; the one supplies Tragedy, the other Comedy. The manner how this is done may perhaps be better taught by Example than Precept: I wou'd therefore advise a Comic Writer to study Randolph's Muses Looking-Glass thorowly; for there, I am apt to believe, he will find the Source of all Humours that are in Nature; from which Originals he may be able to make such agreeable Compounds as may divert the People justly, to an equal Profit of his Purse, and Reputation. At least so much I am very sure of, that no Man can show me any Humour on the Stage that is worth taking notice of, but I will show it in the Muses Looking-Glass; which proves that he has gone to the Source of Things for the Draughts he has made, since those who never read him, have fallen into the Humours he has drawn. He was one of the Sons of the famous Ben. Johnson, and of Cambrige.

As for the Parts of Comedy which relate to the Quantity, they are the same with those of Tragedy. That is the Protasis or Prologue, which gives an Insight into the Characters and Design or State of the Action of the Play, and this is generally the first Act; the Episode is all that is contain'd in the second, third or fourth Acts, that is the Intrigue, and Struggles, and Obstacles of the Plot: and the Exode or Catastrophe is the Unravelling or Discovery, where all things settle in Peace and Tranquillity, with Probability, and to the Satisfaction of the Audience.

Having thus premis'd a general View of Comedy, I shall come more close to this under our present Consideration, and first to the Argument—

The Argument of The Merry Wives of Windsor.

There are two Walks in this Play, but much better join'd, connected and incorporated, than in any Play that I remember, either in Latin, or English. The chief Plot or Walk is that of exposing the Character of Sir John Falstaff for his ridiculous Amours, or attempt on two Women at once, when by Years and other Defects he cou'd be agreeable to neither, as Mrs. Page and the rest tell him on the Discovery in the fifth Act— Why Sir John do you think, tho we cou'd have thrust Virtue out of our Hearts by Head and Shoulders, and have given our selves without Scruple to Hell, that ever the Devil cou'd have made you our Delight? Ford. What a Hodge-Pudding? Mrs. Page. A puft Man? Page. Old and cold; wither'd and of intolerable Entrails? Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Satan? Page. As poor as Job? Ford. And as wicked as his Wife?

Sir John sends two Letters of the same Contents to both the Women, that he lov'd them; but they being intimate Friends, and both past their Prime, communicate their Letters to each other, consult on his Punishment; and employ to that end Mrs. Quickly, who in Mrs. Ford's Name makes the Appointment of Rendevouz. Ford the Husband, being of a

jealous Temper, has his Suspicion so heighten'd by the Information of two of Sir John's Sharpers, who had refus'd to carry the Letters, and were for that refusal cashier'd, that he resolves to go to Sir John, and under the Name of Mr. Broom, try what Discovery he cou'd make of the truth of the Information. He finds the false unwieldy Knight just full of his Success, and gives him Wine and Money to pursue Mrs. Ford, so as to make her Frailties known to him, that so he might beat her out of her Retrenchments of pretended Modesty, and Virtue to his Wishes. Falstaff, blinded with this Pretence, and the Money, tells him of the Appointment, and assures him of Success in his Amours with Ford's Wife. Ford being gone, the Knight moves to the Damsel; who having by Concert Mrs. Page with her, makes her retire into another Room till her proper Cue of appearing. Mrs. Ford having already ordered her Servants to get the Buck-basket ready, and on notice, to carry and empty it into a Ditch in Datchet Mead, admits the Knight; who having past his first Complement, and made his aukward Professions, News is brought, that Mrs. Page is coming in, which makes the Knight retire. Mrs. Page tells her, that her Husband and half the Town, were coming to search for some Gallant of her's in the House. The Knight is terribly alarm'd, and, as Mrs. Page had propos'd, gets into the Buck-basket; and as he is carrying away, the Husband comes in, but after a little stop suffers it to be carry'd away. Thus Sir John is thrown into the Ditch after he had been stew'd up in dirty Linnen all the way; and the Husband exposes his ridiculous Jealousy to no purpose, being not able to find any body in the House. The Knight is appeas'd by Mrs. Quickly, and agrees on another Meeting the next Morning by eight or nine; is again trapan'd by the Husband, to whom, as Mr. Broom, he had told all his past Adventure, and his new Assignation. So being disguis'd on the Husband's approach, like the old Witch of Brentford, he is sufficiently beaten by the Husband, and yet gets off, leaving Ford as much confounded, and expos'd to the Company for his causeless Jealousy as before, being yet not able to find any body with his Wife. Upon this Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford agree to let their Husbands into the Secret, and by their Consent to proceed to a third Punishment. This Discovery cures Ford of his Jealousy, and 'tis by all agreed that the Knight shou'd, as he ought, be expos'd. He is prevail'd on by Mrs. Quickly at last to meet at Mid-night in Windsor Park, dress'd up as the Vulgar suppos'd Herne the Hunter to appear, &c. Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page meet him first; and just as he is rejoicing on his good Luck, and dividing himself and Favours betwixt them, Sir Hugh with his Fairies start out of the Saw-pit, where they were hid for that purpose, and pinch and burn him with their Lights; from whom endeavouring to run away, they all come in, and the Discovery is made, and the Knight expos'd to publick Shame as he ought to be. Here the under-Plot or second Walk is join'd in the Conclusion; for Mrs. Ann Page, Mr. Page's handsom Daughter, is in love with Mr. Fenton, a well-bred

Gentleman, and of Quality superior to Page, tho he had been a little wild, and a Companion of the Prince, by which he had something run his Estate aground, and for that reason rejected by Page and his Wife. The Father is for Slender, a very silly Country-Gentleman, of three hundred pound a year; the Mother was for Dr. Caius, an impertinent old French Physician, because he was rich, and had Friends at Court. So that the Wife taking this opportunity of the nocturnal Mask to abuse Sir John Falstaff, orders the Doctor to take her Daughter who shou'd be dress'd in white, and so go off with her, and marry her immediately before the Father cou'd hinder it. The Father had order'd Slender to take his Daughter dress'd in Green, and lead her away to Eton, and there marry her without her Mother's knowledge; but the young Lady loving Fenton, deceives both ather and Mother, to obey both whom she had promis'd, goes and is marry'd to her Beloved: which Discovery coming on that of Sir John's, concludes the Play.

All the other Persons of the Drama are plainly join'd to and depending on those two Walks, and their incorporating them into the Plot seems very well contriv'd. The Quarrel betwixt Sir John and Justice Shallow occasions Sir Hugh's Proposal of a Mediation, and the Match betwixt Mr. Slender and Mrs. Ann Page. This brings Mr. Page and Sir John out of Mr. Page's House, where the Motion is made, and approv'd, and all invited in to dinner, where all the principal Characters of both Walks are brought acquainted with each other. The comical Duel is likewise to effect the Plot; for Sir Hugh sends to the Doctor's House-keeper to assist his Friend Slender in his Amour, she being intimately acquainted with Mother and Daughter. This Messenger is intercepted by the Doctor; on which he sends the Priest a Challenge; which produces the comical Scene of both their Passions, and Preparations for Fighting. In short, the least Incident of the Play, except Mrs. Page's and her Son's Confabulation with Sir Hugh his Master, cannot well be left out, without leaving a Gap in the Plot, and Connection of the Play.

I confess, that the Unities of Time, Place, and Action, are not exactly observ'd according to the Rule and Practice of the Antients; yet as they are now manag'd among us, they may well pass. The Time is not above two Days and a half at most; the Place Windsor, and the adjacent Fields and Places. The Action is visibly double, but so it is in all the Comedies of Terence.

The first Act shows all the principal Characters, except the two Fords; prepares all the Business of the Play, and enters a little into the Action, in the two Letters sent by Sir John, and the Match propos'd by Sir Hugh, and the Doctor's Challenge to the Welsh Levite. So that 'tis an exact Protasis or Prologue. The Episode begins with the second Act, and carries all on to the fifth; where the Exode is in the Discovery and Punishment of the old Letcher, and the disappointment of a forc'd Match in Fenton's marrying

Mrs. Ann Page. Mrs. Ford's Resentment of Sir John's Letter, puts her and Mrs. Page on the Revenge of the Affront, and that Revenge furnishes the Intrigue, or Episodical Turns of the Play.

The Information of Pistol and Nim prepares, and rouses Ford's Jealousy, admirably and with a great deal of Art and Nature. Nor can any thing be more ridiculous, and entertaining, than the Scenes betwixt Ford under the name of Broom, and Sir John.

Upon the whole I think it is pretty plain, that nothing can be more agreeable to Aristotle's definition of Comedy; for he says 'tis an Imitation of the worst Sort, and that in Ridicule; it having thus all the Parts both of Quality, and Quantity.

But to make the Parts of Quality more plain, it wou'd be necessary to speak of the Humours; yet that wou'd be too tedious, as well as unnecessary, being so many and yet so various, and so plainly distinguish'd from each other, that there is no need to point out Particulars. I shall only give you what Mr. Dryden says of the Character of Falstaff in his Essay on Dramatic Poetry.—Falstaff is the best of Comic Characters—there are (says he) many Men resembling him—old, fat, merry, cowardly, drunken, amorous, vain, and lying: and the Duke of Buckingham confirms it in this Verse,

Ford's is an excellent Character of a politic, cautious, jealous Coxcomb; and all his Endeavours at the cautious and cunning Management of the Discovery of his Doubts and Fears, involve him the more, and make him the more ridiculous; for the Conferences he has with Sir John confirm him in his Suspicions, and his Disappointments expose his Folly.

The Fairys in the fifth Act make a handsome Complement to the Queen, in her Palace of Windsor, who had oblig'd him to write a Play of Sir John Falstaff in love, and which I am very well assured he perform'd in a Fortnight; a prodigious Thing, when all is so well contriv'd, and carry'd on without the least Confusion.

Vincentio Duke of Vienna, pretending to go a private Journey, leaves a severe Lord of his Court call'd Angelo his Deputy, to govern in his Absence, that he might not have the Odium of reviving some Sanguinary Laws, which had for some time lain dormant, and for other Reasons. Æscalus is left with him as a Counsellor, and next under Angelo in Authority.

The Duke being gone, Angelo begins to revive those Laws, and Claudio, a young Gentleman, is taken up to make the first Example of one of them; which made it Death for any Man to lie with a Woman out of Marriage. Claudio got Juliet with Child, whom he lov'd and design'd to marry. Angelo being inexorable, Isabella Claudio's Sister, just going to be profess'd a Nun, goes to beg her Brother's Life; and wins the Heart of Angelo so far, that he tempts her to redeem her Brother's Life by yielding to his Embraces, vowing that no other Terms shou'd save him; which she telling her Brother, the Duke (who goes not to travel as he pretended, but is disguis'd in a Fryar's Habit, and observes all things unknown) overhears it, and persuades her to pretend to yield to him, and appoint such a time in the Night, that Mariana his contracted Wife, whom he had rejected on the loss of her Fortune, might go in her Place. This being done, Angelo sends orders to have Claudio's Head brought to him by four in the Morning. The Duke manages it so with the Provost, that the Head of one dying that Night in the Prison, and who was not unlike Claudio, shou'd be carry'd to him; and then ordering Mariana, and Isabella to complain to the Duke on his Return, which wou'd be that Morning, he sends the Deputies word of his Return, and orders them to meet him at the City Gates, there to give up his Authority. The Ladies make their Complaints, and after some Difficulties the Duke discovers his Knowledge of the whole Matter, commands Angelo to marry Mariana immediately, and then to be beheaded as Claudio was; but upon the Intercession of the new Wife and Isabella, and the discovery that Claudio was preserv'd alive, Angelo is pardon'd, and has no other Punishment than a Wife, and the publick Disgrace.

There are some little under-Characters in this Play, which are produced naturally enough by the Severity of the new Law, as that of the Bawd and the Pimp, as well as of Lucio; which Character is admirably maintain'd, as Shakespear does every where his Comic Characters, whatever he does in his Tragic.

The Unities of Action and Place are pretty well observed in this Play, especially as they are in the modern Acceptation. The Design of the Play carries an excellent Moral, and a just Satire against our present Reformers; who wou'd alter their Course of Nature, and bring us to a Perfection, Mankind never knew since the World was half peopled. But while they are so very severe against the Frailties of Men, they never think of their Villanies, Oppression, Extortion, Cheating, Hypocrisy and the like, which are the Vices of Devils, not of Men: nay, which is extremely merry, many of the foresaid Character are zealous Reformers; which proves thus much at least, that the Kingdom of Hell cannot stand long when it is so divided in it self. But to return to this Play.

The Scene betwixt Isabella and Angelo in the second Act is very fine; and the not bringing the yielding of Isabella to Angelo on the Stage, is

artfully manag'd; for it wou'd have been a difficult matter to have contriv'd it so, that it shou'd not have given a slur to her Modesty in regard to the Audience, tho they knew it dissembled.

Allowing for some Peccadillos, the last Act is wonderful, and moving to such a degree, that he must have very little Sense of Things and Nature, who finds himself calm in the reading it.

The main Story or Fable of the Play is truly Tragical, for it is adapted to move Terror and Compassion; and the Action is one. Its having a fortunate Catastrophe is nothing to the purpose, for that is in many of the Greek Tragedies; tho Aristotle indeed makes the unfortunate Ending the most beautiful, and perfect. Leaving therefore a farther Examen of the Fable, Conduct, &c. to the Reader, and the Rules which I have laid down, I shall proceed to the fine moral Reflections and Topics of it. But it contains so many Beauties of this kind, that to transcribe them all I should leave very little untouch'd; I shall therefore content my self to give a Sample of them.

Mercy. Isa.
&lblank; Well, believe this,
No Ceremony, that to great Ones longs,
Not the King's Court, nor the deputed Sword,
The Marshal's Trunchion, or the Judge's Robe,
Become them with one half so good a Grace
As Mercy does. &lblank;

Great Mens Abuse of Power. Isa.
&lblank; Cou'd great Men thunder,
As Jove himself does, Jove wou'd ne'er be quiet:
For every pelting petty Officer
Wou'd use his Heav'n for Thunder;
Nothing but Thunder. Merciful Heav'n!
Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous Bolts
Split'st the unwedgable, and gnarled Oak,
Than the soft Myrtle. Oh! but Man! proud Man!
Drest in a little brief Authority;
Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd,
(His glassy Essence;) like an angry Ape,
Plays such fantastick Tricks before high Heav'n,
As makes the Angels weep &lblank;

The Privilege of Authority. Isa.
Great Men may jest with Saints, 'tis Wit in them;
But in the less, foul Profanation &lblank;
&lblank; That in the Captain's but a Choleric Word,
Which in the Soldiers is flat Blasphemy. Ang.
Why do you put these Sayings upon me? Isa.
Because Authority, tho it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of Medicine in it self,
That skins the Vice o'th' Top &lblank;

Angelo's last Speech in the second Scene of the second Act, is very beautiful in the Agitations of Angelo's Soul on his falling in love with Isabella, and the Simile very fine, which only I shall transcribe.

The rest of the Speech is well worth noting, nor is Angelo's Speech in the fourth Scene of the same Act less agreeable, or the following Simile in it less beautiful—

On Place and Form.
&lblank; Oh! Place! Oh! Form!
How often dost thou with thy Case, thy Habit,
Wrench Awe from Fools? and tye the wiser Souls
To this false seeming?

I cannot omit the charming Simile in the same Scene.
So play the foolish Throngs with one that swoons;
All came to help him, and so stop the Air
By which he shou'd revive; and even so
The general Subject to a well-wish'd King,

Quit their own Part, and in obsequious Fondness
Croud to his Presence, where their untaught Love
Must needs appear Offence.

On Life. Duke.
&lblank; Reason thus with Life:
If I do loose thee, I do loose a thing,
That none but Fools wou'd keep. A Breath thou art,
Servile to all the Skiey Influences;
That do'st this Habitation where thou keep'st
Hourly afflict. Merely thou art Death's Fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy Flight to shun,
And yet run'st towards him still. Thou art not noble;
For all th' Accommodations, that thou bear'st,
Are nurs'd by Baseness. Thou art by no means valiant;
For thou do'st fear the soft and tender Fork
Of a poor Worm. Thy best of Rest is Sleep,
And that thou oft provok'st; yet grosly fear'st
Thy Death, which is no more. Thou art not thy self;
For thou exist's on many a thousand Grains,
That issue out of Dust. Happy thou art not:
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not certain;
For thy Complexion shifts to strange Effects,
After the Moon. If thou'rt rich, thou'rt poor;
For like an Ass, whose Back with Ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy Riches but a Journey,
And Death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;
For thy own Bowels, which do call thee Sire,
The mere Effusion of thy proper Loins,
Do curse the Gout, Serpigo, and the Rheum,
For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor Youth nor Age,
But as it were an after-Dinner's Sleep,
Dreaming on both. For all thy blessed Youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the Alms
Of Palsied-Eld; and when thou'rt old and rich,
Thou hast neither Heat, Affection, Limb, nor Beauty,
To make thy Riches pleasant. What yet is this,
That bears the Name of Life? Yet in this Life
Lie hid more thousand Deaths. Yet Death we fear,
That makes these Odds all Even.

It were to be wish'd, that the Pulpit cou'd declaim in this pathetic Manner; then we might perhaps have fewer Hypocrites, than Usurers.

Death. Claud.
Death is a fearful thing. Isa.
And shamed Life as hateful. Claud.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where,
To lie in cold Obstruction, and to rot!
This sensible, warm Motion to become
A kneaded Clod; and the delighted Spirit
To bathe in fiery Floods, or to reside
In thrilling Regions of thick-ribbed Ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless Winds;
And blown with restless Violence round about
The pendant World! Or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless, and uncertain Thought
Imagine, howling! 'Tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly Life,
That Age, Ache, Penury, and Imprisonment
Can lay on Nature, is a Paradise
To what we fear of Death.

No shunning Slander.
No Might, nor Greatness in Mortality
Can Censure 'scape. Back-wounding Calumny
The whitest Virtue strikes. What thing so strong
Can tie the Gall up in the slanderous Tongue?

Place and Greatness.
Oh! Place and Greatness! Millions of false Eyes
Are stuck upon thee: Volumes of Report
Run with these false, and most contrarious Quests,
Upon thy Doings, Thousand Escapes of Wit
Make thee the Father of an idle Dream,
And rack thee in their Fancies—

The Plot of this Play is taken from Cynthio Giraldi, December 8. November 5. You may also look into Lipsii Monita, p. 125. Histoires admirables de Nostre Temps, p. 216.

I come now to the historical Plays of Shakespear; which, with Submission to the Writer of his Life, cannot be placed under Tragedy, because they contain no Tragic Imitation. They are Draughts of the Lives of Princes brought into Dialogue; and in regard of their mixture of serious and comical Characters, may be compared to the Greek Pieces, that were wrote before Æschylus and Sophocles had reformed the Stage of Athens; or the rambling unartful Pieces first represented in Rome, after the calling in of the Etrurian Players, nay, after the Time of Livius Andronicus. In their Extent they may be compar'd to the Theseids, the Heracleids, written by some Greek Poets, and reflected on by Aristotle in his Art of Poetry, for imagining that the Unity of the Hero, made the Unity of the Action.

These Instances from this polite Nation will be a very good Plea for this Error of Shakespear, who liv'd when the Stage was not regarded by the State as it was in Athens. For had a Reformation then begun, he wou'd doubtless have done as Monsieur Corneilla did upon the studying the Art of the Stage; by which, the Plays which he wrote afterwards, excell'd those he wrote without any Knowledge of that Art.

I shall only add here, that since these Plays are Histories, there can be no manner of Fable or Design in them. I shall not therefore give the Plot, but refer the Reader to those Historians, where he may find the Stories at large, and by them judge how near Shakespear has kept to the Character History has given us of them. He begins with King John, whose History you will find not only in the common English Chronicles, but also in Mr. Daniel, in Mr. Tyrel, and Mr. Echard; especially in Mr. Tyrel in all its Extent and Particularities. But it must be remark'd, that he begins not the History with the Birth of King John, or the Manner of his obtaining the Crown; but with the Breach betwixt him and France, on the behalf of Arthur the Son of Geoffry Plantagenet, the true Heir.

I had some Thoughts of placing an Abstract of the Reigns of the Kings before each of his history Plays; but considering farther, I found that to make it of any use, they wou'd take up much more room than I cou'd by any means allow; and the Princes being all English, I find it might seem a little superfluous; since that is what every Gentleman that is capable of reading this Poet, is very well acquainted with.

As for the Characters of this History, I think there are none of any Figure but the Bastard and Constance; they indeed engage your Attention when ever they enter. There is Boldness, Courage, Self-Assurance, Haughtiness, and Fidelity, in whatever he says, or does. But here is the Misfortune of all the Characters of Plays of this Nature, that they are directed to no end, and therefore are of little use; for the Manners cannot be necessary, and by consequence must lose more than half their Beauty. The Violence, Grief, Rage, and Motherly Love and Despair of Constance, produce not one Incident, and are of no manner of use; whereas if there had been a just Design, a tragic Imitation of some one grave Action of just Extent, both these Characters being form'd by the Poet, must have had their Manners directed to that certain End, and the Production of these Incidents, which must beget that End.

There are too many good Lines in this Play for me to take notice or point to them all.

On new Titles.
For new made Honour doth forget Mens Names, &c.

The Description which Chastillion makes of the English Army, that comes with King John, is very good, and a handsome Compliment of a Patriot to his Country. You will find it beginning thus—His Marches are expedient to this Town, &c.—But I must not omit King John's first Speech to the French King, since it was so lately and so happily apply'd to the present Lewis, on the breaking off the Treaty of the Hague.

Shakespear has drawn Richard's Character according to the best Accounts of History; that is, insolent, proud, and thoughtless in Prosperity, and full of the Notion, that he cou'd not any way forfeit his Crown being the Lord's Anointed; the common Flattery by which Kings are perverted into Tyrants. But then he is poor, low, dejected, despairing on the appearance of Danger; in Distress always dissembling Compliance in all things, but never sincere in Performance when the Danger is over. There are, indeed, several things that look something whimsical and extravagant,

which yet are agreeable to what History has said of his Actions and Temper, in which our Poet has ever observ'd the Likeness.

The Topicks are not many in this Piece, but there are several Speeches, which are worth remarking, as that part of Bullinbrook's Speech which addresses to his Father, and Mowbray's on his Banishment.

The Impotence of mortal Power. Gaunt.
But not a Minute (King) that thou can'st give:
Shorten my Days thou can'st with sudden Sorrow,
And pluck Nights from me, but not lend a Morrow.
Thou can'st help Time to furrow me with Age,
But stop no Wrinkle in this Pilgrimage.
Thy Word is current with him for my Death,
But dead, thy Kingdom cannot buy my Breath.

His Speech in the same Page is pathetic:

Richard's Account of Bullinbrook's cajoling the Mob:

Gaunt's Speeches to York and the King, before he dies, are very moral and good. And from York's Speech, we find that Italy was then, or at least in the Poet's Time, as much in vogue with our English Gallants as France has been since for Fashions, &c. And indeed Harry Stephens, a French-Man, who liv'd much about Shakespear's Time, by this Complaint, That the more a French-Man was Romaniz'd, or Italianiz'd, the sooner he should be promoted by the Great Men, as having bestow'd his Time well, and as being a Man fit for Employment. Gaunt's Praise of England is noble, and worthy so great a Genius and so great a Poet. He thought the Name of a Trueborn Englishman was so far from contempt, like some of our modern Scriblers, that he makes Bullinbrook comfort himself in his Banishment with the Thought of being so. York's Speeches to the King on his seizing Gaunt's Estate, are dramatic enough.

On Hope.
I will despair, and be at Enmity
With couzening Hope, he is a Flatterer, &c.

Richard's Speeches, Act 3. Scene 2. have in them some few Lines very good; and in many of his Speeches you will find something of Passion that is not amiss. What the Gardener says is not only very poetical, but shows that Shakespear was well acquainted with that Art, and perfect in the Terms. But the finest thing in this Play is the Description that the Duke of York makes of Bullinbrook's and Richard's Entry into London:

Tho the Humour of Falstaff be what is most valuable in both these Parts, yet that is far more excellent in the first, for Sir John is not near so diverting in the second Part. Hotspur is the next in Goodness, but what wou'd have shewed much more had it been in a regular Tragedy, where the Manners had not only been necessary, but productive of Incidents noble and charming. Glendour is fine for Comedy. As for the Speeches, Reflections, &c. I shall point out the best. Hotspur's Description of the finical Courtier is very good; and most of the passionate Speeches of Hotspur, except that ridiculous Rant of leaping up to the Moon, and diving to the bottom of the Sea, &c. which is absolute Madness. Falstaff's Speeches, when he personates the King, are very pleasant. Worster to Hotspur contains some very judicious Reflections; and so there

are some very politic in the Speech of King Henry to his Sons, and in all the Scene betwixt them. Sir R. Vernon's Speech is very pretty. Falstaff's Account of his Men is very pleasant. What I have to add on this first Part is only as to the Character of Falstaff, in which I think my self oblig'd to justify him in his Choice. Speaking of this Character, the Author of his Life tells us, That he once call'd him Sir John Oldcastle, but was oblig'd to alter that Name, some of the Family being then alive—But I don't know (says our Author) whether the Author may not have been somewhat to blame in his second Choice; since it is certain, that Sir John Falstaff, who was a Knight of the Garter, and a Lieutenant-General, was a Name of distinguish'd Merit in the Wars of France, in Henry V. and Henry VIth's Times. But to shew that Shakespear is not in the least to blame in this Particular, we must consider, that tho History makes this Sir John Falstaff a Man of Figure in the Army, and Knight of the Garter; yet that it is so far from making him a Man of Merit there, that his Cowardice lost the Battle, and betray'd the brave Talbot, as Shakespear himself gives account to the King in Act 5. Scene 1. Part 1. of Henry VI. And such a Cowardice ought to stigmatize any Character to all Posterity, to deter Men from the like. So that in this poetic Justice, I think Shakespear so far from Blame, that he merits Applause.

The second Part begins with a Speech of Rumour, describing his own Nature from Experience and Fact. Virgil in the fourth Book of his Æneis, and Ovid in his Metamorphosis, have describ'd the same under the Name of Fame. The Reader therefore may compare the two Latin Bards with our English. The Rage of Northumberland on the Death of Hotspur in some of the last Lines, is very well.

On Glory built on the Multitude.
An Habitation giddy and unsure
Has he, that buildeth on the vulgar Hart.
Oh! thou fond Many.

On the restless Cares of Kings, and Sleep.
How many thousands of my poorest Subjects
Are at this Hour asleep? Oh! Sleep! Oh gentle Sleep!
Nature's soft Nurse! how have I frighted thee?

Westmorland's Speech to the Arch-bishop of York, and the Rebels on Rebellion, is very good. Falstaff's Defence of drinking is pleasant. King Henry's Advice to Clarence is worth observing.

On Fortune.
Will Fortune never come with both Hands full?
But write her fair Words still in foulest Letters, &c.

On a Crown.
Oh! polish'd Perturbation! golden Care!
Thou keep'st the Ports of Slumber open wide, &c.

On Gold.
For this the foolish over-careful Fathers
Have broke their Sleeps with Thought.

The Scene betwixt King Henry and his Son the Prince, to the end of fourth Act, is worth reading; as is the Chief Justice's Speech, in the second Scene of the fifth Act.

For these two Plays consult the same English Histories, which are already quoted.

The Prologue to this Play is as remarkable as any thing in Shakespear, and is a Proof that he was extremely sensible of the Absurdity, which then possess'd the Stage, in bringing in whole Kingdoms, and Lives, and various Actions, in one Piece; for he apologizes for it, and desires the Audience to persuade their Imaginations to help him out, and promises a Chorus to help their Imagination.

He here, and in the foregoing Lines, expresses how preposterous it seem'd to him and unnatural, to huddle so many Actions, so many Places, and so many Years into one Play, one Stage, and two Hours. So that it is not to be doubted but that he wou'd have given us far more noble Plays, if he had had the good Fortune to have seen but any one regular Performance of this Nature. The Beauty of Order wou'd have struck him immediately,

and at once have made him more correct, and more excellent: and I do not at all doubt but that he wou'd have been the Sophocles of England, as he is now but little more than the Thespis, or at most the Æschylus. Tho Tragedy in Greece was founded on Religion, and came early under the Care of the Magistrate; yet by what I can discover, the Stage was as rude as ours, till Æschylus gave it Majesty. But in England it had no such advantageous Foundation, nor any such nourishing Influence; yet Shakespear by his own Genius brought it so far, as to leave it some Beauties, which have never since been equall'd.

The Character of Henry V. given by the Bishop of Canterbury, is very noble. His Discourse of the Salique Law, is a Proof, that Shakespear was well acquainted with the History of modern Times, and that very Controversy; which was an Argument of his Application to reading, and will not let me think, that having some Foundation of Latin, he shou'd totally neglect that.

Obedience and Order.
Therefore doth Heaven divide
The State of Man in divers Functions, &c.

The fine Description of the State of the Bees is worth a careful Observation in this same Speech. The King's Answer to the French Ambassadors, on the Dauphine's Present, is not only fine, but shews that Shakespear understood Tennis very well, and was perfect in the Terms of the Art. The Chorus is forc'd to come in to fill up the Gap of Time, and help the Imagination of the Audience with a Narration of what is not represented. In this Chorus are a few Lines of good Moral to the English, and therefore I transcribe them.

King Henry Vth's Speech to Scroop, &c. from this Line, is very fine.

The latter end of the Constable of France's Speech, and part of the French King's, is worth perusing, as giving a noble Character of two English Kings; and Exeter's Answer to the French in the next Page, shews the Spirit of an English Nobleman. The Chorus is necessitated to

come in again, to tell all that must be suppos'd to connect the Representation before to that which follows. King Henry's Encouragement of his Men contains a great many fine Lines. Another Chorus begins the third Act, to help out the Lameness of the Representation; and I wonder when Shakespear was sensible of the Absurdity of the bringing a Battle on the Stage, he shou'd in some measure do it notwithstanding.

A King but a Man.

&lblank; I think the King is but a Man, as I am. The Violet smells to him as it does to me, &c.—Tho the Discourses of the King to Williams, &c. are very good, and full of Reason and Morality, yet contain they nothing Dramatic, and are indeed fitter for a Philosopher, than a King.

On a King and Greatness.
Upon the King, &c.
Oh! hard Condition, twin-born with Greatness
Subject to the Breath of every Fool.

Of Ceremony.
And what art thou, thou Idol Ceremony? &c.

See Grandpree's Description of the low Condition of the English Army.

What I have already said of Shakespear's being sensible of the Defect of these historical Representations, is confirm'd plainly in the Chorus of the fifth Act.

He shows how sensible he is of this in the short Chorus that ends this Play, saying,

Thus far with rough, and all-unable Pen,
Our bending Author hath pursued the Story,
In little Room confining mighty Men;
Mangling by Starts the full Course of their Glory.

And indeed all that can be done in these Cases, is only a Collection of so many Themes of different Subjects: As in Burgundy's Speech, the Description of Peace, and its Advantages.

The Character of Fluellen is extremely comical, and yet so very happily touch'd, that at the same time when he makes us laugh, he makes us value his Character. The Scene of Love betwixt Henry V. and Catherine, is extravagantly silly and unnatural; for why he shou'd not allow her to speak in English, as well as all the other French I cannot imagine, since it adds no Beauty, but gives a patch'd and pye-bald Dialogue of no Beauty or Force.

The Scene betwixt Talbot and the Countess of Auvergue contains something pretty enough. In the Bishop of Winchester he has perfectly drawn a haughty proud Church-Man, that prefers his own Ambition to all things divine and human; and in the King, a weak tho pious Prince. And indeed all the Parts shew the Confusion of a Government under such a Prince. The Speech of the Pucelle to the Duke of Burgundy, is very fine and artful. Talbot's Persuasion of his Son to leave the Field, and secure in himself the Hopes of the Family, and his Refusal to leave his Father, is very pathetic. The Scene between Suffolk and Queen Margaret is full of natural Passion, and contains many fine Lines. The Praise of England, in the Lord Say's Speech to Jack Cade, is good.

On War.
&lblank; Oh! War! thou Son of Hell,
Whom angry Heavens do make their Minister, &c.

The frequent and calm Debates in Council, in many of these historical Pieces, have nothing dramatic in them, as in the first Part of Henry VI.

Troy having been long besieg'd, Achilles is by Polyxena kept from the Field, for he was in love with her. Antenor is taken Prisoner, and in exchange for him, Cressida Daughter to Chalchas, is given to Diomede by the Trojans. Troilus, who is in love with her, and first possess'd of her by the Care of Pandarus her Uncle, parts with her not without the utmost Reluctance, they having vow'd Constancy to each other. Hector being to fight Ajax during the Truce, Troilus goes with him; and after the Fight gets Ulysses to go privately with him to the Tent of Chalchas, where he discovers her Falshood to him, and Love to Diomede. The Truce ending, the Battle is renew'd; and Patroclus being kill'd, Achilles comes out and kills Hector: and Troilus and Diomede both fighting after in vain, the Play ends with the Death of Hector by Achilles, and his Myrmidons.

This Play is alter'd by Mr. Dryden, and tho clear'd of some Errors, is far from a Play, even according to the Rules laid down by Mr. Dryden before this very Play, as he indeed confesses; but to alter a Play and leave the fundamental Errors of Plot and Manners, is a very whimsical Undertaking. Shakespear is to be excus'd in his falsifying the Character of Achilles, making him and Ajax perfect Idiots, tho sometimes Achilles talks like a nice Reasoner, as with Ulysses; so making the Manners unequal as well as unlike: I say, Shakespear is excusable in this, because he follow'd Lollius, or rather Chaucer's Translation of him. But Mr. Dryden, who had Homer to guide him right in this particular, is unpardonable. Thus Achilles is made to absent himself from the Field for the sake of Polyxena: Whereas the receiv'd Story is, that it was upon the Quarrel betwixt Agamemnon and him for taking away Briseis. But I know not on what account both the Poets seem fonder of the Barbarians than the Greeks, of arbitrary Power than Liberty, Ignorance than Learning. I know not but the Reason which gave Virgil the Trojan for his Hero, is that which has made our Bards so indulgent to the same side, viz. a Notion that the Trojans were the Source of our two Nations, tho with much less Reason and Probability on our side, than on that of the Romans.

I wonder Mr. Dryden continued the Error of Shakespear in making Cressida a Harlot. Her Character is too scandalous to draw our Pity, and therefore he shou'd have made her virtuous, and not of blasted Honour: Yet it must be acknowledg'd, that Mr. Dryden has corrected the Diction, and added a considerable Beauty in that Scene, betwixt Hector and Troilus, upon the Surrender of Cressida, with whom he seems to part in the original with too small Reluctance. Mr. Dryden himself tells us, that he took the Hint of that Scene from that in Euripides between Agamemnon and Menelaus, which I shall give the Reader in my Remarks on Julius Cæsar, that he may compare it with that of Shakespear, and this of Mr. Dryden, from whom I must a little dissent in the Occasion; for the Ground of the Quarrel in the Greek, is stronger than either Mr. Dryden's, or Shakespear's. For the Glory and Honour of Greece depends on that of Euripides, but I can't find the Liberty of Rome much interested in that of Brutus and Cassius. But more of this when I come to that Play.

I am something of Mr. Dryden's mind, that this was one of his earliest Plays, both for the Manners and Diction, which are both more faulty than usually in any of his later Tragedies. There are, notwithstanding what I have said, a great many fine Lines in this Piece worth the remarking, as the very first Lines.

The several Pauses, &c. in the following Lines.

That Women are best when they are courted and not won.—The Fate of Grumblers, or Contemners of the supreme Rule or Governour.— Two short but passionate Speeches of Troilus: the first begins, O! Pandarus, I stalk about her Door, &c. The second,—Even such a Passion doth embrace my Bosom, &c.

Pride cures Pride.
&lblank; Pride has no other Glass
To show it self but Pride. For supple Knees
Feed Arrogance, and are the proud Man's Fees.

Fallen Greatness.
'Tis certain, Greatness once fall'n out with Fortune,
Must fall out with Men too.

Great Actions forgot unless continued.
Time has, my Lord, a Wallet at his Back,
Wherein he puts Alms for Oblivion.

The Discovery of her Departure to her by Troilus is as finely express'd,

The Cautions he gives her against the Grecian Youth, are not amiss.

The Grecian Youths are full of subtle Qualities.—Ulysses gives a very good Description of a lascivious Woman.

And his Character of Troilus is not less lively and beautiful.

Caius Martius going to the Wars against the Volscians, takes Corioli, and beats Tullus Auffidius, and has the Glory of the War attributed to him by the Consul. On this he is to sue for the Consulship, which he disdains a great while; but at last submitting, he does it aukwardly, and almost bursting with Disdain and Pride. This makes him lose the Consulship; and on the Tribunes of the People having Words with him, he rails so at the Commons and the Tribunes, that he is accus'd as a Traitor, and at last banish'd. He goes over to the Volscians, and heads their Forces against Rome not yet prepar'd to receive him: Cominius first, and Menenius next, go to intreat him, but he proves inexorable, till his Mother, Wife, Son, Valeria, &c. prevail, and he makes Peace betwixt the Romans and Volscians. Auffidius on his return to Antium accuses him of Treason, and with the Conspirators stabs, and kills him.

The Character of Martius is truly dramatic, for his Manners are not only equal, but necessary to his Misfortunes. His Pride and Rashness are

what History gives him; but his Modesty and Aversion to Praise I cannot find in Plutarch, who makes him very well satisfy'd with the Praise given by Cominius. And indeed it seems something opposite to his Pride, which both in the Play and History was so signal in him. Our Poet seems fond to lay the Blame on the People, and every where is representing the Inconstancy of the People: but this is contrary to Truth; for the People have never discover'd that Changeableness, which Princes have done. And Plutarch, in the Life of Pyrrhus, seems sensible of this, when he says— Thus Kings have no Reason to condemn the People for changing for their Interest, who in that do but imitate them, as the great Teachers of Unfaithfulness and Treachery, holding him the bravest, who makes the least Account of being an honest Man. And any one that will look over the Roman History, will find such Inconstancy, and such a perpetual Changeableness in the Emperors, as cannot be parallel'd in the People of any Time, or Country. What the Greeks or Romans have ever done against any of their fortunate or great Generals, is easily vindicated from a guilty Inconstancy, and Ingratitude. For the Fault has always been in the great Men, who swelling in the Pride of their Success, have thought in deference to that, that they might and ought to do whatever they pleas'd; and so often attempted the Ruin of that Liberty themselves, for the Preservation of which their warlike Actions were only valuable. And so it was their changing their Manners, and not the People, that produc'd their Misfortunes; they lov'd them for defending their Country and Liberties, but by the same Principle must hate them when they sought by their Ambition, and Pride to subvert them, and this by a Constancy, not Variableness of Principle, or Temper.

This is plain in the very Story of this Play; for their Anger was just against Coriolanus, who thought so well of his own Actions, as to believe that even the Rights, Customs, and Privileges of his Country were his due for his Valour and Success. His turning a Traytor to his Country on his Disgrace, is a proof of his Principle. Camillus on the contrary, banish'd on far less Occasion or Ground, brought his Country in Distress, Relief against the Gauls; so far was he from joining them.

This Contempt of the People often proceeds from an over-value of our selves, and that not for our superior Knowledge, Virtue, Wisdom, &c. but for the good Fortune of our Birth, which is a Trifle no farther valuable in truth, than as it is join'd to Courage, Wisdom or Honour; yet that, when blindly valu'd by the Possessor, sets aside all Thoughts and Endeavours to obtain those nobler Advantages.

Our English Poets indeed, to flatter arbitrary Power, have too often imitated Shakespear in this particular, and preposterously brought the Mob on the Stage, contrary to the Majesty of Tragedy, and the Truth of the Fact. Shakespear has here represented, as in Julius Cæsar, the Commons of Rome, as if they were the Rabble of an Irish Village, as senseless,

ignorant, silly and cowardly; not remembring that the Citizens of Rome were the Soldiers of the Commonwealth, by whom they conquer'd the World; and who, in Julius Cæsar's Time, were at least as polite as our Citizens of London: and yet if he had but consulted them, he wou'd have found it a difficult matter to have pick'd out such ignorant unlick'd Cubs, to have fill'd up his Rout.

It is no hard matter to prove that the People were never in the wrong but once, and then they were biass'd by the Priests to chuse Barabbas, and cry out Crucify.

I have not room here to examine this Point with that Clearness that I might, nor is it so much to our present Purpose; and yet I presume the Digression is not so foreign to the Matter, as to deserve a judicious Censure.

The Character of Martius is generally preserv'd, and that Love of their Country, which is almost peculiar to Rome and Greece, shown in the principal Persons. The Scene of the Mother, Wife, and Valeria, is moving and noble. There are a great many fine Lines in this Play, tho the Expression or Diction is sometimes obscure, and puffy. That of the Citizens is very just on all proud Men.

The Fable that Menenius tells the People, tho in History, is very well brought in here, and express'd.

Honour ill founded upon the People.

He that depends upon your Favours, swims with Fins of Lead. You may look in the beginning of this Speech in the foregoing Page. The noble Spirit of Volumnia is well express'd in her Speech, and in all that Scene, where the Character is admirably distinguish'd from Virgilia and Valeria. The Speech of Coriolanus to the Soldiers is good; beginning,

The Discourse betwixt the two Officers in the Capitol is worth reading, on the head of Popularity.

Against Custom.
Custom calls me to it.

In the Scene betwixt the Tribunes and Martius, the haughty Pride, and insolent and virulent Temper of Coriolanus, is justly painted.

Menenius is drawn an old humorous Senator, and indeed he talks like one in defence of the Pride and Outrage of his Friend; and the next page, when he asks what he has done against Rome, &c. when it is plain he was against the Rights of the Commons, as essential to the Government as the Nobles, perhaps more if that State be thorowly consider'd. Volumnia's Speech to her Son is not amiss. And that of Coriolanus is well express'd.

The Thoughts are not only pretty, but very natural to his Pride on this Occasion.

On the Turns of the World.
Oh World! thy slippery Turns! Friends now fast sworn,
Whose double Bosoms seem to wear one Heart, &c.

For the Life and Character of this Man, you may read Plutarch's Lives, Dion. Halicarn.

On the Death of some Emperor, his Sons Saturninus and Bassianus stand Candidates for the Empire. But Titus Andronicus returning from the Wars against the Goths in Triumph, brings Tamora Queen of the Goths, Chiron, Demetrius, and Alarbus her Sons, &c. He gives the Empire to Saturninus the eldest, and Lavinia for his Wife, as well as all his Prisoners for a Gift; Bassianus seizes Lavinia as his Spouse, and bears her off. Titus kills his Son Mutius for stopping him in the pursuit of her. The Emperor falling in love with Tamora, marries her, and Bassianus Lavinia, But Chiron and Demetrius being both in love with her, quarrel who shall have her; till Aaron a Negro Favourite of the Empress reconciles them, advises them to murder her Husband in the Chase, and ravish her by turns, cutting off her Hands and Tongue; to which the Mother agrees, resolv'd to ruin the whole Family, in revenge of her Son Alarbus's Death by the Andronici, at their Brother's Tomb. They execute their Design, and having thrown the Body of Bassianus into

a Pit, Aaron trains two of Titus's Sons to the Place, where they falling in, the Emperor is brought to find them; and so the Murder, by a Letter, &c. being put on them, they are order'd to be try'd, are condemn'd, and put to death for the Murder. Lavinia in the mean while is found in that Condition by her Uncle Marcus, carry'd home, and by the help of Ovid's Metamorphosis, and an Arrow writing in the Sand, discovers her Husband's Murderers, and her Ravishers. Aaron before the Death of the Brothers comes to Titus, and gets his Hand to redeem his Sons Life, and has their Heads brought to him soon after. Lucius, the only surviving Son, is banish'd for endeavouring to rescue his Brothers; he goes to the Goths, and brings them against Rome to revenge the Wrongs of his House, having taken the Moor in his march with the black Bastard he had by the Empress to save whose Life he discovers all the Villanies done by them. On the News of the Approach of the Goths with Lucius at their head, Tamora undertakes to wheedle old Titus to pacify his Son, &c. so disguising her self like Revenge, and her two Sons like Murder and Rape, she goes to him; he knows them, and complies so far, that he will send for Lucius, provided she and the Emperor meet him at his House; and he stops Chiron and Demetrius, kills them and bakes them in a Pye, of which the Mother eats: then Titus kills his Daughter Lavinia, upon the Emperor's saying. that Virginius did well in doing so; then he stabs the Empress, and the Emperor him, and Lucius the Emperor: and having declar'd all the Matter to the People, he is chosen Emperor, the Moor condemn'd to be bury'd alive, and so the bloody butchering Play concludes.

As this Play is not founded in any one particular on the Roman History, tho palm'd upon Rome, so the whole is so very shocking, that if there be any Beauties in the Diction, I cou'd not find them, or at least they are very faint and very few. I can easily believe what has been said, that this is none of Shakespear's Play, that he only introduc'd it and gave it some few Touches. Such Devils incarnate are not fit for the Drama: the Moor describes himself a degree more abandon'd than the Devil himself; and Tamora, when Lavinia is seiz'd, and Bassianus kill'd, shows her self not much better. This is so contrary to Nature and Art, that all the Crimes are monstrously beyond the very Name of scandalous. Well might Rapin throw the Infamy of Barbarity upon us, as a People divided from the rest of the World, and wanting that Politeness and Civility, because we lov'd Blood in our Recreations. But I think this only the Fault of the Poets, who have been too ignorant or too cowardly to venture on a Reformation of an Abuse, which prevail'd thro the Mistake of the first Attempts this way, supposing that Tragedy must be something very barbarous and cruel; and this false Notion has ever since fill'd the Scene with inhuman Villanies that ought to be seen no where but at Tyburn, nay worse than ever suffer'd in this Climate, which brings forth Men too brave to be guilty of such Inhumanities, and cannot therefore be pleas'd with them

in the Representation; at least wou'd be much better pleas'd with the contrary Practice, according to the Antients.

The Montagues and Capulets, two eminent Families of Verona, being at mortal Odds, Romeo, the Son and Heir of Montague, falls in love with Juliet the Heiress of the Capulets at a Mask, and she with him. They agree, and are marry'd privately at Fryer Laurence's Cell. After which, Tibalt, a hot fiery Capulet, meets Romeo in the Street, and wou'd needs quarrel with him; but Romeo, in regard of his having just marry'd his Cousin, took all so patiently, that Mercutio the Prince of Verona's Relation cou'd not bear Tybalt's Insolence, so fighting him is kill'd; and Romeo on this, Tybalt returning, fights and kills him, and makes his escape to the Fryer's Cell. The Prince hearing the Case from Benvolio, condemns Romeo to Banishment on pain of Death; when having past the Night with his Wife, by the help of a Ladder of Cords, he goes to Mantua, the Fryer having agreed to send him News perpetually of his Wife. But Count Paris having been in love with Juliet, presses her Father to marry her out of hand, and obtains his Suit. She to prevent it takes a Potion, that shou'd make her seem dead, and she was bury'd in the Monument of the Family. Romeo hearing of her Death, buys Poison, and comes by Night to Verona, and going to her Monument to take it and die there with her, finds Count Paris, who forces him to fight, and is kill'd by him: but then Romeo enters the Monument, takes his Poison, and dies; the Fryer comes, and Juliet awakes, finds Romeo dead, and so stabs her self and dies. The Prince and both the Fathers being come, the Fryer and Romeo's Man, and Paris's Page, make a full Discovery of the whole; so the two Fathers are reconcil'd, and resolve to set up Statues to them both.

Tho this Play has no less than five or six Murders, yet they are nothing a-kin to those of the foregoing Piece; these for the most part are the effect of Heat and Passion, and by way of Duels, which Custom has given a sort of Reputation to, as being upon the Square. If therefore they are faulty, they yet are of that Nature that we pity, because every Gentleman is liable to fall into that by the Necessity of Custom. Tho this Fable is far from Dramatic Perfection, yet it undeniably raises Compassion in the later Scenes.

There are in it many Beauties of the Manners, Sentiments, and Diction. The Character of Mercutio is pleasant and uniform; that of Tybalt always equal, as indeed they all are: the Nurse is a true Comic Character,

tho some of our Chit-chat Poets wou'd look on it as Farce, or low Comedy. In Benvolio's Account of Romeo to his Father and Mother, are many fine, musical, and sounding Lines.

Love.
Love, is a Smoak made of the Fume of Sighs;
Being purg'd, a Fire sparkling in Lovers Eyes;
Being vext, a Sea nourish'd with loving Tears;
What is it else? A Madness most discreet,
A choaking Gall, and a preserving Sweet.

To point to particular Lines wou'd be endless; for there often comes a fine sounding Verse well express'd, in the midst of others of little or no Beauty. Mercutio's Harangue on Dreams is extremely pleasant and whimsical, and the latter end very good Satire.

Of Dreams.
&lblank; True, I talk of Dreams,
Which are the Children of an idle Brain,
Begot of nothing, but vain Phantasy,
Which is as thin a Substance, as the Air,
And more inconstant than the Wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen Bosom of the North.

What Romeo says on his first seeing Juliet is very pretty.

Whether Passion be so pregnant of Similies as Romeo and Juliet every where give us, I dare not determine; since to say that all they speak is not natural, wou'd be to provoke too many who admire it as the Soul of Love.

Mercutio's conjuring for Romeo is pleasant, tho it ends a little too smutty for an Audience. It begins, Romeo, Humour, Passion, Madman, Lover, &c. The Scene betwixt Romeo and Juliet, when he is in the Garden, and she at her Window, tho it contains many things that will not join with Probability, and tho perhaps Shakespear like Cowley was a little corrupted by reading Petrarch, that modern Debaucher of Poetry into Conceits and Conundrums; yet the Fancy is every where so fine, and Nature so agreeably painted, that we are pleas'd with the very Fucus, and persuade our selves that it is pure, unsophisticated Nature. And on the

Earth and its Products the Fryer speaks well. And what he says to Romeo on early Rising is pretty enough. The Soliloquy of Juliet contains several good Lines; as

Against violent Delights.
These violent Delights have violent Ends,
And in their Triumph die like Fire and Powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume.

There are likewise a great many fine Lines in Juliet's Soliloquy; but her Thought of cutting him out into little Stars is ridiculous. The Parting of Romeo and Juliet is very pretty. The Fryer's Comfort to the Father and Lover in their clamorous Sorrow for the suppos'd Death of Juliet, is not amiss.

Romeo's Description of the poor Apothecary, and his Shop, is excellent, and copy'd by Otway. This Story is taken out of Bandello's Novels.

Timon, a Nobleman of Athens of a vast Estate and Riches, by his Bounty brings himself to want, tries his Friends, who forsake him in his Distress, and deny him the Money he desires to borrow of them. This makes him so wild, that he leaves Athens, and retires to a Wood, where he turns Man-hater; but digging accidentally for Roots, finds a hidden Treasure, of which he gives Alcibiades, and his Whores great Store: This brings several to him to make their Court, in hopes of his shining again; but he despising all, gives only Money to his faithful Steward, who came to do him service in his Distress. The Senators come to make him Offers and Places to appease Alcibiades, but he refuses all, with Curses on Mankind: And dying, leaves his Epitaph in these Words—

This Play is plainly taken from Lucian's Timon, and I wonder that Shakespear rather chose to give Roman Names to his Persons, as Lucius, Lucullus, &c. than Gnathonides, Philiades, Demeas a flattering Orator, from whence our Author seems to have taken his Poet; Thrasycles, a Philosopher, but not of Apemantus's kind, but a Lover of Money, or rather a Hypocrite; Blapsius, Laches, Gniphon. Apemantus is indeed Shakespear's own, and much better for the end he introduces him than Thrasycles cou'd have been, tho the latter is better in Lucian. Shakespear has thrown the Infamy on the Poet, which Lucian threw on the Orator; not considering, that Poets made another sort of Figure in Athens, where the Scene lies, than they do in England; the State thinking them so useful to the Public, that on the Death of Eupolis in a Sea-Fight, all Poets were for the future forbid to go to the War. Yet a Poet methinks shou'd have more regard to his Art and himself, than to bring in a Character of one mean or ridiculous. But Mr. Shadwell, who has pretended to alter this Play, has made him a very Scoundrel; and the Players always take care in Dress and Action to make him more so.

But this is not the only thing in which Mr. Shadwell has made this Poem worse in the Copy or Amendments, than it is in the Original. He has created two Ladies of his own, with a very odd Design. Melissa he makes a Woman of Quality and Honour, but has given her Qualities more abandon'd than a Prostitute; and Evandra is a Whore profess'd, but to her he has given Gratitude, Love, and Fidelity, even to the forsaking of the World to bear the Hardships of Timon's Miseries, to persuade the Town that a Whore is a more eligible and excellent Creature than a Woman of Honour. Such Doctrines as these have rais'd so many Enemies to the Stage with too much Reason and Justice. For in them indeed the Stage has lost all its Beauty and Greatness; nay, and all its Art and Genius, it being so easy a matter to please at the Expence of Religion and Morality, but so hard to do it on the solid Grounds of Art, which are subservient to Virtue, and I may say an Assistant of Religion, in purging and reforming the Manners.

It is plain that the Plot is not regular as to Time or Place, but the Action may be look'd on as pretty uniform, unless we wou'd make the Banishment and Return of Alcibiades an under-Plot, which yet seems to be born of the main Design.

The Play is full of moral Reflections and useful Satire. The Characters are well mark'd and observ'd, and the Diction generally speaking expressive.

On Ceremony or Complement.
&lblank; Ceremony was but devis'd at first
To set a Gloss on faint Deeds, hollow Welcomes, &c.

The Glory of this Life.
Like Madness is the Glory of this Life, &c.

The Trying and Refusal of the Friends is very touching, and too natural and obvious to need a Comment; a Hint of this is in the latter end of Lucian's Dialogue of Timon.

Against Duelling.
Your Words have took such Pains, as if they labour'd
To bring Manslaughter into Form, and set Quarrelling
Upon the Head of Valour.

Nor is Alcibiades's Answer much amiss.

The false Supper Timon invites his false Friends to, is all Shakespear's Contrivance. Timon's Curses on Athens in the beginning of the fourth Act, are worthy his Rage and Passion.

The parting of the Servants is something touching. Timon's Speech, tho disguis'd too much in affected Words, contains good satirical Reflections.

On Gold.
&lblank; Thus much of this will make
Black, White; Foul, Fair; Wrong, Right;
Base, Noble; Old, Young; Cowards, Valiant, &c.

The Scene betwixt him, Alcibiades, Timandra, &c. is full of wholesome Satire against Whoring. And the Speech of Timon, after they are gone out, is very moral. The Scene betwixt Timon and Apamantus contains many fine Reflections and Lines, the whole being very, Dramatic.

Gold.
What a God's Gold, that he is worshipp'd
In a baser Temple, than where Swine feed?
'Tis thou, that rigg'st the Bark, and plow'st the Foam,
Settlest admired Reverence in a Slave, &c.

In short, the Scenes betwixt him and his Steward, and the Senators and him, are worth reading. The Epitaph seems to be taken from this,

Caius Julius Cæsar having now vanquish'd all his Enemies, and fix'd himself in the perpetual Dictatorship, the Party of Liberty conspir'd to dispatch him; Caius Cassius, Metellus Cimber, Casca, and Brutus, agree to stab him in the Senate-House. He is deterr'd by Dreams, Prodigies, and his Wife Calpurnia's Prayers, from going to the Senate that Day, being the Ides of March; but Decimus Brutus, and the other Conspirators coming to him, persuade him from his Superstition: so he goes, and by the way receives a Paper with a List of the Conspirators, but will not look at it. In the Senate-House Metellus Cimber kneels to beg the Repeal of his Brother's Banishment, which when Cæsar denies, they all come in the same manner, till Casca gives the first Stab; and when Brutus wounds him, he falls with et tu Brute? Anthony being drawn aside by Trebonius, flies away on the Noise of Cæsar's Death; but coming to them by Permission, agrees with the Murderers, and obtains leave to bury and praise Cæsar in the Market-Place, or Forum, according to Custom. Brutus having first given the People an Account of what the Conspirators had done, and justify'd it with Reasons, Anthony makes such an Oration that he sets the People in a Mutiny, who burn the Conspirators Houses, &c. Brutus and Cassius, and the rest of them, fly out of Rome. At the Camp at Sardis, Cassius meets Brutus, and there happens a Quarrel betwixt them about Brutus's not pardoning Lucius Pella, and on Cassius's not sending Money to pay the Army. This being over, and they Friends, and separated, the Ghost of Cæsar appears to Brutus, and says he'll meet him again at Philippi. Whither when the Armies are gone, Octavius, and Mark Anthony follow, fight, and beat them: Cassius kills himself on a Mistake, and Brutus on his being close pursu'd.

This Play, or History, is call'd Julius Cæsar, tho it ought rather to be call'd Marcus Brutus; Cæsar is the shortest and most inconsiderable Part in it, and he is kill'd in the beginning of the third Act. But Brutus is plainly the shining, and darling Character of the Poet; and is to the end of the Play the most considerable Person. If it had been properly call'd Julius Cæsar, it ought to have ended at his Death; and then it had been

much more regular, natural, and beautiful. But then the Moral must naturally have been the Punishment or ill Success of Tyranny.

I know that a Nobleman of great Judgment in the Drama, is, and has been for some time, altering this Play. In which I believe Shakespear will have a better Fate, than in most of those which have been alter'd: For generally they who have undertaken this Province, have been careful to leave all the Faults, and to rob him of many of the Beauties; but this has been because few, who have attempted it, knew more of the Art of the Stage than our Author, and wanted his Genius to relish those things, which were really good. But the principal Character, Cæsar, that is left so little touch'd by Shakespear will merit his Regard; and the Regulation of the Design without doubt will be the Object of his Care and Study: and then there cannot be so much of this remaining, as to rob the Alterer of the Honour of the whole; for the two best things in the Play are after the Death of Cæsar, where the Action ends, viz. the Orations of Brutus, and Anthony, and the Quarrel betwixt Brutus and Cassius. These Orations are indeed the beginning of a new Action, the Deaths of Brutus, and Cassius, and have nothing (in a Dramatic Sense) to do with the Death of Cæsar, which is the first Action. But this is a Part of the Drama, which our Shakespear is not to be accountable for. We shall therefore proceed to those Beauties of which he is undoubtedly Master. The Manners first; and here I think he is generally wonderful, for there is the Likeness in all, and a perfect Convenience, and Equality.

What Mark Anthony says to the imaginary People of Shakespear's Rome, is so artful, so finely taken from the very Nature of the thing, that I question whether what the real Mark Anthony spoke cou'd be more moving, or better calculated to that Effect. Plutarch says nothing of it; but we find that Appian has given us some Fragments of Anthony's Oration on this Occasion, which, in Honour of our Shakespear, I'll transcribe: for tho he seems to follow this Author chiefly in his Play, yet he has not borrow'd the Oration either of Brutus or Anthony, tho one he found there entire, and the other so supply'd that he might easily gather the Connection.

Anthony's Oration in Appian.

It is not just, Gentlemen, that I alone should undertake the Funeral Praises of this great Man; it were fitter his Country did declare them. I will therefore with the Voice of the Republick, and not my own, only make Recital of those Honours, which, whilst he was living, the People of Rome conferr'd upon him for his Virtues.

“Having said this, he began with a sad and sorrowful Countenance the Recital of Cæsar's glorious Titles, pronouncing every thing distinctly, and stopping more particularly at those by which they had made him

more than Man; as Sacred, Inviolable, Father of his Country, Benefactor, Prince, and many others which till then had never been given to any Man. At every Word turning towards the Body, and animating his Speech by his Gesture; and when he pronounc'd any one of those Titles, he added some intermingled Terms of Grief and Indignation; as when he recited the Decree of the Senate, calling him Father of his Country”—See there, said he, the Testimony of your Acknowledgements—And in pronouncing these Words—Holy, Sacred, Inviolable, and the Refuge of the miserable, he added—never any one, that fled to him for Refuge, perish'd; yet he himself is murder'd, tho made Holy and Sacred by our Decrees, without having exacted these Titles from us, or ever desir'd them. And surely we are in a shameful Slavery indeed, if we give those Titles to unworthy Persons, who never ask them of us. But Oh! faithful Citizens, you purge your selves well from this Reproach by the Honours you now pay his Memory. After this reciting the Act of the Oath, by which they were all oblig'd to guard the Person of Cæsar, and to employ all their Forces so, that if any attempted his Person, whoever expos'd not his Life in his Defence shou'd be execrable, he rais'd his Voice, and extending his Hands towards the Capitol, cry'd out —Oh Jupiter! Protector of my Country, behold me ready to revenge, as I have sworn; and since it is a thing resolv'd by the Judgment of all good Men, I beseech thee with all the other Gods to be favourable to me. A Tumult hereupon arising among the Senators, who believ'd these Words to be manifestly address'd to them; Anthony to appease them turn'd the Discourse, and said,—But Gentlemen, this Accident must rather be attributed to some God, than to Men; and we ought rather to provide against the present Necessities, than speak of things past, since we are threatned with extreme Miseries for the future, and are upon the Point of falling again into our antient Seditions, and the seeing all the Nobility of the City perish. Let us then conduct this sacred Person among the Gods, solemnly in mournful Elegies singing his Praises.—After having said these Words, he tuck'd up his Robe, as if he had been possess'd with some Spirit; and girding it about him, that he might have his Hands more at liberty, he went and plac'd himself near the Bed where the Corps lay, upon an eminent Place; and opening the Curtain, and looking in, he began to sing his Praises, as of a Celestial Divinity. And the better to make him be believ'd to be of that Race, he lifted his Hands up to Heaven; reciting even to the Loss of Breath, his Wars, his Combats, his Victories, the Nations he had subdu'd, the Spoils he had brought away, speaking of every thing as a Miracle; and crying out many times—Thou alone art he, who hast return'd victorious from so many Fights; thou alone art he, who hast reveng'd thy Country of the Injuries done her for three hundred Years together, and constrain'd People till then unconquerable, viz. the Gauls, who alone took and burnt the City, to ask Pardon on their Knees.

Having said these things and many more, as of a divine Person, he lower'd his Voice, and in a mournful Tone with Tears in his Eyes, lamented the unworthy Death of his Friend, wishing that he cou'd redeem his Life with his own; and at length abandoning himself to Grief, he was so far transported as to discover the Body of Cæsar, and to show at the Top of his Pike his Robe pierc'd with the Stabs he had receiv'd, and all stain'd with his Blood, &c.

I have given all this from Appian, that the Reader may see, as it were, the whole Procedure of Anthony on this occasion; and from this make a Judgment on his Oration, and what Shakespear has made him speak: Which, if not so adapted to the Roman People, certainly was very agreeable to them, as represented by him in his Play.

The other thing in this Play, is the famous Quarrel betwixt Brutus and Cassius, in the second Scene of the fourth Act. This has always receiv'd a just Applause, and has by Mr. Dryden, in his Preface to Troilus and Cressida, been preferr'd to a no less famous Scene of a Quarrel betwixt Agamemnon and Menelaus, in the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides. His Words are these—The Occasion which Shakespear, Euripides, and Fletcher, have all taken, is the same, grounded upon Friendship; and the Quarrel of two virtuous Men rais'd by natural Degrees to the Extremity of Passion, is conducted in all three to the Declination of the same Passion, and concludes with the warm renewing of their Friendships. But the particular Ground-work which Shakespear has taken, is incomparably the best; because he has not only chosen two of the greatest Heroes of their Age, but has likewise interested the Liberty of Rome and their own Honours, who were the Redeemers of it, in the Debate.

I hope it will be no Injury to our Countryman, to do Justice to an old Greek Poet of the first Magnitude. To that end I must needs say, that the Advantage Mr. Dryden gives to the Briton, is equally due to Euripides; for certainly Agamemnon and Menelaus, in the poetic World at least, and in the System of Heroes in the Time Euripides wrote, were as great as Brutus and Cassius, one of whom perhaps cannot carry away the Prize of the greatest Hero of his Age without some Dispute. Next, in the Quarrel of Euripides, not the Disappointment of some Pay of Legions, or the Denial of quitting a Man guilty of Bribery, which both were past, but the Fate, the Glory, and the Honour, if not the Safety of all Greece, depended on the Ground of their Difference.

But whether this of Shakespear be either so well prepar'd, have those fine Turns in it, or come as naturally to its Declination as this of Euripides, I leave to the Judgment of the Reader. But I must desire that some Grains of Allowance may be made for the Badness of a Translation; which, however good, must fall much short of the Beauties of the Original.

To shew the Preparation of this Quarrel, I shall give the Argument of the first Act; for Mr. Barnes, in his Edition of Euripides, has divided his Plays into Acts.

Agamemnon now repenting that he had agreed to the sacrificing of his Daughter, in the night-time consults with an old faithful Servant of his, how to prevent her Arrival in the Camp, where she was hourly expected with her Mother Clytemnestra. To this Servant therefore he entrusts a Letter to be deliver'd to his Wife, in which he desires her not to bring Iphigenia to Aulis. In this Act Agamemnon declares the first Seeds of the Trojan Expedition, and gives an Insight into the present Fable.

The second Act begins with Menelaus intercepting the Messenger, and striving to get the Letter from him.

Agam.
Yes, did the deadly Basilisk it self
Ride on thy fiery Balls, I thus durst view thee &lblank;
The Son of Atreus will by none be brow-beat. Mene.
See'st thou these Letters full of base Contents? Agam.
Yes, I do see them, and in them thy Crime,
Which I—but give 'em to me strait.— Mene.
Not till the Grecian Chiefs have heard them read. Agam.
And have you then—but sure you durst not do't,
Thou durst not break thy Sovereign's Letters open. Mene.
Yes, yes, I know 'twill vex thy haughty Soul,
To have thy secret Treasons thus expos'd. Agam.
O! all ye Gods! what Insolence is this! Mene.
From Argos you expect your Daughter here? Agam.
And what have you to do, with saucy Eye
To over-look my Actions? Men.
My Will, Sir, is my Right—I'm not thy Slave. Agam.
'Tis well, Sir, wondrous well, that I, Supreme
Of Lords and Kings, must be depriv'd the Right
To govern my own Family as I please! Mene.
You are not fit t' enjoy that common Right,
Your Mind's unsettled, veering as the Wind.
For, with thy self at War, it now determines
One thing, the following Moment whirls about,
And then designs another; nor fix'd in that,
Succeeding Minutes vary your Resolves. Agam.
Oh! Spite, spite, spite! a spiteful Tongue is odious! Mene.
But an inconstant and a various Mind
Is still unjust, and still to Friends unknown.
Your self I will lay open to your self;
But let not Pride and Anger make you deaf,
Averse to Truth—I shall not praise you much.
Look back, look back, recall, recall the Time,
When your Ambition zealously pursu'd
Supreme Command o'er all the Grecian Chiefs,
To lead our vengeful Arms to treacherous Troy.
An humble Seeming you indeed put on,
As if you'd shun what most your Heart desir'd.
How lowly then! how fawning then on All!
With flattering Hand you courted every one;
Your Gates set wide to the inglorious Vulgar;
Familiar with the meanest; hearing All,
And seeking those, who sought not Agamemnon.
Yes, with obsequious Bows you brib'd the Mob,
To give that Empire, you so ill can bear.

No sooner had you gain'd your Wish, Command,
But all your supple Manners were thrown by.
You to your Friends no more confess'd the Friend,
Hard of Access, and rarely seen abroad;
All mean and low! A Man of Honour shou'd
Then be most fixt, and zealous for his Friends,
When by his Fortune he can most assist them.
As soon as I perceiv'd this shameful Error,
I like a Friend and Brother told you of it.
Again in Aulis here &lblank;
Since the great Gods deny'd to swell our Sails
With prosperous Gales, your haughty Spirit fell;
You were dismay'd, dejected, and forlorn:
The Grecians cry aloud to be dismiss'd,
And not to languish in this Port in vain.
How wretched hadst thou been, and how inglorious,
How full of Anguish, Agonies of Death;
Had you then ceas'd to lead these strong Battalions,
To fill the Trojan Fields with warlike Greeks?
In this Distress you then cou'd think of me,
Ask my Advice, how to avoid this Shame.
But then, when Calchas from the Victims found,
Your Daughter offer'd at Diana's Altar,
Wou'd give the Greeks a safe and speedy Voyage;
Thy well pleas'd Eyes confess'd the sudden Joy,
That spread it self thro all thy inward Pow'rs;
Thy ready Tongue declar'd thy willing Mind,
That she shou'd know the Goddess' sacred Knife,
Free, unconstrain'd, and not by any Force.
Pretend not, that your high Commands you sent,
That she to Aulis shou'd with speed repair;
Deceiv'd by thee, with the false promis'd Joy
Of being the long-wish'd Bride of great Achilles:
But here by a strange Whirle and Change of Will,
You other Letters send to countermand her.
You will not be the Murderer of your Daughter!
How many thus with an unsteady Hand
Do steer the dangerous Helm of Government?
Fond to engage in some great bold Design,
Yet swift to quit it when they are engag'd:
Aw'd by the People some, and some more justly
Compell'd to guard from Foes their own Dominions.
But I the unhappy Fate of Greece deplore,
All arm'd, and ready to assault the Foe,

And with full Glory quash the proud Barbarian,
Are left their Sport, and Scorn &lblank;
For the Repose of the great Agamemnon!
Oh! ne'er advance a Man for Wealth, or Power:
Wisdom alone deserves supreme Command,
And a wise Man is naturally a King. Chor.
All Brothers Quarrels are unhappy Things. Agam.
With Truth I shall reproach you in few Words,
For Insolence like this deserves not many;
A Brother's Name shall teach my injur'd Tongue
A Modesty, it seems, to you unknown.
Tho Modesty does seldom touch the base;
For when bright Honour has the Breast forsook,
Seldom confederate Modesty prevails.
Then, tell me, Sir, the Cause of all this Rage,
Whence all this Anger? whence this Indignation?
Who is't that injures or affronts you here?
What is't you want? pray what is your Desire?
Your virtuous Wife? your happy nuptial State?
At my Expence must I restore your Wishes,
Which when possest, your own ill Conduct lost you?
What! to regain your beauteous, faithless Wife,
Wou'd you thus tread on Honesty, and Reason?
The Pleasures of ill Men are evil all!
Oh! vain! oh! doating Madness! oh! blind Folly!
The Gods, indulgent to thy Happiness,
Have rid thee of a false, injurious Wife;
And thou, fond Fool, now burn'st with strange Desire,
To force the distant Plague home to thy Bosom!
The Suitors to this Helena with you
Each, by fallacious Hope of her betray'd,
To Tynd'rus swore, that with united Arms
They wou'd defend the happy Man she chose.
Apply to these, with these pursue the War;
But conscious of the Weakness of that Oath,
Compell'd by Fraud or Folly you despair:
If I forsake your foul detested Cause,
Will not be strong enough to lead them on.
But Menelaus, this assure thy self,
My guiltless Child for you I shall not murder.
Shou'd I comply, wild Horror and Remorse
Wou'd haunt my daily Thoughts, and nightly Slumbers.
What I have said, is, Sir, so plain and easy,
You need no Comment to explain my Meaning.

But if you still to Justice will be blind,
I shall however, Sir, protect my own. Chor.
This differs from the former, yet it teaches,
That of our Children we shou'd take just Care. Mene.
O! Gods! how very wretched am I grown!
I have no Friends! Agam.
Yes, yes, you shall have Friends,
If you will not destroy 'em. Mene.
Oh! in what,
In what do you confess the Friend and Brother,
Of the same Father born? Agam.
I shall be wise,
Not mad with you. Mene.
Friends Griefs are common. Agam.
Then call me Friend, when you design no Harm. Mene.
This Obstinacy's vain, for sure thou know'st
In this thou must contend with Greece, not me. Agam.
Greece too, like thee, by some ill Fury's haunted. Mene.
Oh! proud, and vain of Empire! thou betray'st
To that, thy Brother. But I shall apply
To other Arts, and other Friends for Justice. [Going. Enter Messenger. Mess.
O! Agamemnon, King of all the Greeks,
I bring you pleasing News: Now in the Camp
Your Daughter Iphigenia is arriv'd,
And Clytemnestra your beloved Queen,
With young Orestes.—This Royal Troop,
After so long an Absence, must be welcome.
With Speed I came before to bring the News.
The Army throngs to see the glorious Sight.
Some talk of Nuptials for the Royal Virgin;
Some, that she comes to be in sacred Rites
Of great Diana here initiated.
But you, O! Agamemnon! crown your Brows,
And, Menelaus, share the Nuptial Joys.
Let Musick, and the Dancers celebrate
This happy Day. Agam.
Thy Zeal and Joy I do commend, be gone,
I of the rest will take peculiar Care.
Ah me! Oh!—Oh! wretched Agamemnon!
What shall I say? Oh! where shall I begin?
Into what Noose of Fate am I now fall'n!

'Tis the malicious Cunning of my Fortune
Thus to prevent my just Paternal Care!
Oh! happy State of mean and low Degree!
There Grief at liberty may vent her Moans,
And give their mournful Thoughts a plaintive Tongue.
But Greatness is confin'd to hateful Form!
The People us, not we the People govern.
Proud Majesty denies my Woes Relief,
Shame stops the flowing Torrent of my Grief;
But not to weep is yet a greater Shame!
Thus a chain'd Slave I prove to a great Name.
I must curb Nature, and deny its Course;
And tho I'm fall'n into the greatest Woe,
That any mortal Wretch can ever know;
Yet in my Breast the Anguish must contain,
And only I my self must know my Pain.
But Oh! my Wife! what shall I say to her?
How shall I meet her? with what Looks behold her?
Her coming has redoubled all my Woe!
She comes unsent for, no invited Guest.
Yet who can blame the tender Mother's Care,
To do the dearest Office to her Child?
But now the foul perfidious Cause she'll find
Of her most inauspicious Journey.
For how shall I restrain the bursting Tears,
When I receive the tender hapless Virgin!
Ha! now methinks I see her suppliant kneel
With lifted Hands, and upcast streaming Eyes,
And trembling Lips thus pitifully pleading;
Oh! Father, will you kill me? will your Hand,
A Father's Hand give me to such Nuptials?
And then the little Infant, young Orestes,
In broken Sounds, and yet intelligible,
Accuse me of his dearest Sister's Murder!
Alas! Alas! how have the cursed Nuptials
Of the Barbarian, Paris, thus destroy'd me!
For he has brought these cursed Evils on me. Mene.
Give me your Hand, give me your dear Hand. Agam.
Here take it, for it is your Victory. Mene.
By Pelops our Grandsire, and our Father Atreus,
I swear, my Brother, what I'm going to say,
Are the sincerest Dictates of my Mind.
I cou'd not see the Tears fall from thy Eyes,
Thy awful Eyes, but Pity split my Soul,

And the big Drops run tumbling down my Face.
My Rage ebb'd out apace, and now I see,
I ought not to be happy by thy Misery.
Now, by the Gods, you shall not touch your Daughter,
Thy Iphigenia is, for me, immortal.
Why shou'd thine die, and mine remain alive?
Helen is not so dear to this fond Breast.
To make me trample Nature under foot,
And purchase her Embraces by thy Blood.
The heat of Youth, and my untam'd Desire,
Made me speak madly when I urg'd the Deed.
Oh! 'tis a dreadful thing to slay one's Child,
To dip our Hands in our own Off-spring's Blood!
'Tis monstrous! 'tis unnatural.—
No, let the Army be dismiss'd with Speed,
And march away from Aulis to their Homes;
But, cease thy Tears, by Heav'n I cannot bear them:
I never will urge more the fatal Theme.
By all the Gods, she shall not die for me;
For what has she to do with Helena?
By Jove, I love my Royal Brother so,
I wou'd not be the Cause of his Unrest,
To be the happy Monarch of the World:
And my Heart akes, that e'er I shock'd thee so.
We may repent, with Honour, our Misdeeds. Chorus.
Generously hast thou said, O Menelaus!
And worthy Tantalus the Son of Jove. Agam.
O! Menelaus! I do feel thy Kindness,
That thou hast thus deceiv'd my Expectation,
In Words that truly do confess the Brother. Mene.
Passion may sometimes warp a generous Mind,
But such a cruel Kindred I abhor. Agam.
But Oh! my Brother, such hard Fate surrounds me,
I cannot 'scape this bloody Sacrifice;
For Iphigenia must a Victim fall. Mene.
Who can compel you to destroy your Daughter? Agam.
The whole Grecian Army. Mene.
Send her back to Argos. Agam.
That cannot be; I cannot so deceive them. Mene.
You ought not by the Vulgar thus be aw'd. Agam.
Calchas, alas! the Oracle will reveal. Mene.
Suppose him dead. The Dead can tell no Tales. Agam.
Oh! but that Son of Sysiphus knows all. Mene.
In what can Ulysses injure Agamemnon?

Agam.
His artful Tongue commands the Soldiers Hearts. Mene.
He's fond indeed of popular Applause. Agam.
Oh! think him therefore, by the Troops surrounded,
The secret Oracle by Calchas told,
Divulging to the listening Warriours Ears;
My Piety stiling impious Sacrilege,
Refusing to the Grecian Glory
The Victim that Diana has requir'd.
The Army won by these his smooth Pretences,
Both you and I shall fall by their dire Rage;
Yet by our Death not save my Daughter's Life.
Suppose we fled to Argos from the Camp:
My Flight with Sword, and Fire, they wou'd pursue.
And lay my Country waste. It wonnot be!
I must be wretched and my Child must die!
Thus Woe and Misery surround me!
Into these Streights the Gods reduce me!
But Oh! my Brother! this alone canst thou!
Let not my Wife the fatal Business know,
Before my Child I've offered up to Pluto;
That with the fewest Tears I may be unhappy.

Tho I have taken some Latitude in the Translation, and made bold to leave out sometimes a Word or two, and sometimes a Line or two, which related more to Custom than the Passion; yet I have been far from making Euripides amends for what he loses in the Translation. As it is, I leave it to be by the Reader compared with that of Mr. Dryden in Troilus and Cressida, and that of Shakespear in this Play.

This indeed is a juster way of the Trial of our Poets excelling the Antients, than what Mr. Hales of Eaton, my Lord Falkland, &c. took in the Comparison of Topics; for if he here prevail, he will indeed get a Victory in a real Province of Poetry. I am surpriz'd that so judicious a Poet as Racine, shou'd omit this admirable Scene in his Iphigenia in Aulis, at the same time that he made a quarrelling Scene betwixt Agamemnon and Achilles. I have said so much on the two most beautiful Parts of this Play, that I shall leave the rest to the Reader; this being a Play so often acted, that they are obvious to every body.

Of Lowliness or Humility.
&lblank; But 'tis a common Proof,
That Lowliness is young Ambition's Ladder,
Whereto the Climber upward turns his Face.

On Conspiracy.
&lblank; O! Conspiracy!
Sham'st thou to shew thy dangerous Brow by Night?
When Evils are most free.

There is one thing in this Play, which I remark for those judicious Gentlemen, who by a swelling gouty Style have set up for fine Language in the Drama. The Style of this Play is, generally speaking, plain, easy, and natural.

Duncan, King of Scotland, has two Sons, Malcolm, and Donalbain. His General against the Rebels and Norwegians (who then invaded that Country) is Mackbeth, a Kinsman of the Crown; and with him is join'd in Commission Banquo; who returning victorious, on an open Heath meet with three Witches, who salute Mackbeth three times, the last Salutation being King that shall be. Their other Salutations proving true, he and his Wife resolve to make the third so. In the Night therefore they murder Duncan, and lay it on his Chamberlains. Malcolm and Donalbain fly away; on which they are accus'd of having employ'd them to kill their Father; so the Election falls on Mackbeth, who being now King, has Banquo murder'd for fear of his Race; for the wayward Sisters told him, that he should get a Race of Kings: but his Son Fleance makes his escape. Murders and Tyrannies growing every day, Mackduff flies to the English Court, and with much adoe convinces Malcolm of his Fidelity, and with him comes into Scotland with English Forces, having first heard, that the Tyrant had surpriz'd his Castle, and kill'd his Wife and Children. Mackbeth having consulted the Witches, is told, that he shall not be kill'd by any Man born of Woman; nor till Birnam Wood came to his Castle of Dunsinane. But his Wife, haunted with Remorse for the Murders she had been Partner in, dies; and he finding the Deceit of the Witches Assurance of Birnam Wood, by the English Army's taking every Man a Branch of a Tree in his Hand, ventures out to fight, and is at last kill'd by Mackduff, who was ript out of his Mother's Womb.

To say much in praise of this Play I cannot; for the Plot is a sort of History, and the Character of Mackbeth and his Lady are too monstrous for the Stage. But it has obtained, and is in too much esteem with the Million, for any Man yet to say much against it.

The Topics and Lines of this Play are less in Number and Beauty than most of his. A celebrated Speech is that of Mackbeth, after he has committed the Murder.

I need not say any thing here about the Witches, since what I have said of them and Spirits in the Tempest, is sufficient: He has drawn those Chimera's wonderfully, and made them Forms and Ceremonies according to their black Mysteries.

Life.
Life's but a walking Shadow, a poor Player,
That struts and frets his Hour on the Stage,
And then is heard no more: It is a Tale
Told by an Idiot, full of Sound and Fury,
Signifying nothing.

Hamlet, Son of the former King of Denmark, is put aside the Election by his Uncle Claudius, who marry'd his Mother soon after his Father's Death; which was succeeded by the walking of the Ghost of the deceas'd King. Hamlet being inform'd of it, goes to the Watch, sees and speaks to the Ghost, who tells him, that his Uncle, who now possesses his Throne and Wife, murder'd him as he lay asleep in his Garden, by pouring Poison into his Ear. So desiring Revenge, the Ghost vanishes; Hamlet obliges all who had seen it to keep the Secret, and by no means discover that they had beheld any such Sight. Hamlet assumes a sort of Madness, and the Queen loving him very well, is sollicitous to know the Cause, which Polonius the Lord Chamberlain persuades to be the Love of his Daughter, on her rejecting his Letters and Address according to her Brother's and Father's Orders. Hamlet, willing to discover whether the Ghost had told him true, orders some Players, who came then to Elsinor, to act such a Part, as the Ghost had inform'd him the King had been guilty of, desiring Horatio his Friend to observe him all the Action; but when the poisoning of his Brother in the Garden came to be acted, the King, unable to see more, rises up, and breaks off the Play. This confirms Hamlet in his Resolution of revenging his Father's Death. But the

King, highly affected with this, retires, while his Mother is order'd to check him for his Conduct; but Polonius advises the King to let him hide himself, to over-hear what passes betwixt them, for fear the Mother's Indulgence shou'd not discover all. As Hamlet is going to his Mother, he finds the King at Prayers, and therefore will not kill him, because he took his Father in his Sins. He is so rough with his Mother, that she crys out for help, and Polonius alarm'd does the same; but Hamlet taking him for the King, kills him behind the Arras, then charges the Queen home with her fault of marrying her Husband's Brother, &c. owns that he is not mad: The Ghost of his Father comes into the Room, which heightens her Agony: They part, the Queen promising not to reveal ought to the King. The King is resolv'd to send Hamlet to England, with Rosencross and Guildenstern, with private Orders for him to be put to death there; but Hamlet aboard getting their Commissions from them, found the fatal Order and keeps it, supplying the Place with a fresh Order to put the Ambassadors to death: So he comes back, and in the Church finds a Grave digging for Ophelia, who running mad on her Father's Death, was drown'd; and Laertes coming back from France, was but just hinder'd from revenging his Father's Death on the King, but is assur'd, that he would help in his Revenge by engaging Hamlet to try his Skill with him at Foils, whilst Hamlet shou'd have a Blunt, and Laertes a Sharp, which he poison'd. But in the Scuffle the Queen drinks to Hamlet, but drinks the Poison prepar'd by the King for Hamlet, who being now wounded, got the Sharp from Laertes and wounds him; the Queen crys out that she is poison'd, and so Hamlet kills the King; Laertes confesses the Contrivance and dies, as Hamlet does immediately after.

Tho I look upon this as the Master-piece of Shakespear according to our way of writing, yet there are abundance of Errors in the Conduct and Design, which will not suffer us in Justice to prefer it to the Electra of Sophocles with the Author of his Life; who seems to mistake the Matter wide, when he puts this on the same Foot with the Electra. Hamlet's Mother has no hand in the Death of her Husband, as far as we can discover in this Poem; but her fault was in yielding to the incestuous Amour with her Husband's Brother; that at least is all that the Ghost charges her with. Besides, Shakespear was Master of this Story, but Sophocles was not. Orestes farther, was commanded by the Oracle to kill his Mother, and therefore all moral Duties yielding to the immediate Command of the Gods, his Action, according to that System of Religion under which Sophocles wrote, had nothing in it of Barbarity, but was entirely pious; as Agamemnon's sacrificing his own Daughter Iphigenia, by Diana's Order.

This Play indeed is capable of being made more perfect than the Electra; but then a great deal of it must be thrown away, and some of the darling Trifles of the Million, as all the comical Part entirely, and many other

things which relate not to the main Action, which seems here to be pretty entire, tho not so artfully conducted as it might be. But I wander from my point; I propos'd not to show the Errors, especially when this Play contains so many Beauties. Hamlet every where almost gives us Speeches that are full of the Nature of his Passion. The Advice of Laertes to his Sister is very moral and just, and full of prudential Caution; and that of Polonius to his Son, and that of the same to his Daughter. Ay Springes to catch Woodcocks, &c. If the young Ladies wou'd study these Pages, they wou'd guard their Virtues and Honours better than many of them do. All the Scene betwixt Hamlet and the Ghost, is admirable, as the Ghost's Description of his Residence in the other World.

Virtue and Lust.
&lblank; But Virtue, as it never will be mov'd,
Tho Lewdness court it in the Shape of Heav'n;
So Lust, tho to a radiant Angel link'd,
Will sate it self in a Cœlestial Bed, and prey on Garbage.

Ophelia's Description of Hamlet's mad Address to her.

Ambition.

Which Dreams indeed are Ambition: for the very Substance of the Ambitious, is merely the Shadow of a Dream.

On Man.

What a piece of Worth is Man? how noble in Reason? how infinite in Faculty, in Form, and Moving; how express and admirable? In Action how like an Angel? In Apprehension how like a God! The Beauty of the World!

In Hamlet's Speech to the Players, Shakespear gives us his whole Knowledge of the Drama; and for that Reason, this favourable Judgment of a Play, that did not please the Million, is what shou'd teach some of our successful Poets not to value themselves merely on Success, since the Million often fail; tho as Horace says, they sometimes hit right.

Hamlet.

I heard thee speak me a Speech once, but it was never acted; or if it was, not above once: for the Play, I remember, pleas'd not the Million; it was Caviare to the General: But it was (as I received it, and others, whose Judgment in such Matters, cry'd to the Top of mine) an excellent Play—well digested in the Scenes, set down with as much Modesty as Cunning.

On Players and Plays. Ham.

Let them be well us'd, for they are the Abstracts and brief Chronicles of the Time.

The Power and Force of Tragedy, in this and other Particulars, has been confirmed by undoubted History. Alexander, Tyrant of Phærea, a City of Thessaly, seeing the Hecuba of Euripides acted, found himself so affected, that he went out before the End of the first Act, saying, That he was asham'd to be seen to weep at that Misfortune of Hecuba and Polyxena, when he daily embrued his Hands in the Blood of his own Citizens. He was afraid (says the admirable Dacier) that his Heart shou'd be truly mollified; that the Spirit of Tyranny wou'd now leave the Possession of his Breast, and that he should come a private Person out of that Theatre, into which he enter'd Master. The Actor, who so sensibly touch'd him, with difficulty escap'd with his Life, but was secur'd by some Remains of that Pity, which was the Cause of his Crime.

I cannot here omit what Benefit the City of Athens it self receiv'd from some Verses of the Electra of Euripides, in its great Distress; for when it was debated, that the City of Athens shou'd be destroy'd, and the Country laid waste, a milder Course was taken by the Commanders, from one of them repeating these Verses out of the Electra of Euripides;

This shook them (says Plutarch in the Life of Lysander) and gave an Occasion to reflect how barbarous it wou'd appear to lay that City in Ruin, which had been renown'd for the Birth and Education of so many famous Men.

Hamlet's Soliloquy.

Death, or to die.
&lblank; To be or not to be; that is the Question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the Mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outragious Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of Troubles,
And by opposing, end them.

Calumny.
Be thou as chaste as Ice, as pure as Snow,
Thou shalt not escape Calumny.

Hamlet's Advice and Directions to Players is very good, containing very good Precepts of a just Pronunciation, which being as useful for those who judge, as those who act, I shall take more notice of them.

Speak the Speech I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you trippingly on the Tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our Players doe, I had as lieve the Town-Cryer had spoke my Lines. Nor do not saw the Air too much with your Hand thus, but use all gently; for in the very Torrent, Tempest, and (as I may say) the Whirl-wind of Passion, you must acquire and beget a Temperance, that may give it Smoothness. Oh! it offends me to the Soul, to see a roboustous Periwig-pated Fellow tear a Passion to Tatters, to very Ragges, to split the Ears of the Groundlings; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb Shows, and Noise, &c. And a little further:

—Be not too tame neither: but let your own Discretion be your Tutor. Sute the Action to the Word, the Word to the Action; with this special Observance, That you o'ertop not the Modesty of Nature; for any thing so overdone, is from the Purpose of Playing; whose end both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold as 'twere a Mirror up to Nature; to show Virtue her own Feature, Scorn her own Image, and the very Age and Body of the Time, his Form and Pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, tho it make the Unskilful laugh, cannot but make the Judicious grieve; the Censure of the which one must, in your Allowance, o'ersway a whole Theatre of others. Oh! there be Players, that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to speak it profanely) that neither having the Accent of Christians, nor the Gate of Christian, Pagan, or Norman, have so strutted and bellow'd, that I have thought some of Nature's Journey-Men had made Men, and not made them well, they imitated Humanity so abominably.—And let

those that play the Clowns, speak no more than is set down for them; for there be of them, that will of themselves laugh, to set on some Quantity of barren Spectators to laugh too, tho in the mean time some necessary Question of the Play be then to be consider'd. That's villainous, and shows a most pitiful Ambition in the Fool that uses it.

These Precepts of Shakespear are as valuable as any thing in him; for indeed, thorowly study'd and understood, they teach the whole Art of the Stage, which relates to the Representation, or the Actors; who still are too commonly guilty of these very Follies, which Shakespear observ'd in the Players of his Time.

I shall say no more in Explanation of this here, designing a particular Discourse on the Art of Pronunciation and Acting; for it is not sufficient for a Player to speak well, he must give what he says its true Action, he must look his Part, he must be the Man he represents, according to the very Lineaments of the Passion, or Humour, which he represents, or else he is no Actor. They are call'd Actors, not Speakers; and a Mistake in the accenting a Word, or even in a vicious Tone of Utterance, may be forgiven; but an ill Action is an Error in the Fundamentals. There is a Lady on the Stage, who may perhaps be sometimes out in her Speaking, but always so charms in her Action, that she will not suffer a Lover of the Art not to sink the smaller Error in the greater Beauty. Our Actors are very liable to neglect the Decorum of the Representation, and when they have form'd themselves to the Figure of a passionate Man as long as they speak, while the opposite speaks, are as calm as if unconcern'd in the Matter; whereas in Nature, no Man in Anger, Love, or Grief, but minds what the other says, and is as much concern'd in it as if he spoke himself. In this Particular, no body can excel Mrs. Barry, whom I have frequently observ'd change her Colour, and discover a Concern that equall'd Nature; this is no Flattery to her, but barely Justice.

But not to dwell on this Subject, or anticipate what I have to say in a longer Discussion of this Point, let us return to the fine things of this Play of Hamlet. His Speech to Horatio has many good Lines. The Queen's Protest in the Play that's introduc'd, and the King's Discourse with her, is worth reading for the Lines and the Reflections. The Scene betwixt his Mother and Hamlet, is generally very well; tho perhaps it is capable of Improvement. That part of the Scene where the Ghost comes in, is very strong; as indeed Shakespear is in the former Scene, which, as I have been assur'd, he wrote in a Charnel-House in the midst of the Night.

On Man.
  What is Man &lblank;
If his chief Good and Market of his Time, &c.

The Discourse betwixt Hamlet and the Grave-Maker is full of moral Reflections, and worthy minding, tho that Discourse it self has nothing to do where it is, nor is of any use to the Design, and may be as well left out; and what ever can be left out has no Business in a Play; but this being low Comedy has still less to do here. The Character Hamlet gives of Osrick is very satirical, and wou'd be good any where else.

LEAR, King of Britain, has three Daughters, Gonerill, Regan, and Cordelia. Gonerill is marry'd to the Duke of Albany, Regan to the Duke of Cornwal, and the King of France and Duke of Burgundy are Pretenders to Cordelia. The King being old, divides his Kingdom betwixt his three Daughters, reserving only an hundred Knights for himself, and the Name of King. But the two Elder, by their mighty Professions of Love and Duty beyond measure win the Father's Heart, now alienated from Cordelia, because she daub'd not her Affections over with empty Professions; so that old Lear in a Passion gives away her Share to her other Sisters, and with his Curse leaves her to France, who takes her for his Wife, tho rejected by Burgundy. The two Daughters, Regan and Gonerill, soon fall from their Duty, and grow weary of the King, are uncivil to his Followers, wou'd abridge them, nay take them quite away; when in a stormy Night he is turn'd out of the Earl of Gloucester's House, with Orders to him not to relieve him. The Earl of Gloucester shook with Horror of these unnatural Proceedings, acquaints his Bastard Son of his Intentions to assist the King, and that the French were come over to his Aid; but he betrays him, and so his Eyes are put out, and he turn'd out of Doors, being inform'd that his Bastard Son had done it all, by whom deceiv'd he had believ'd his own Son Edgar had contriv'd his Death; and who, for fear of the Proclamation against him, wander'd like Tom a Bedlam. He meets with the King, and with his Father afterwards, on whose Head there being a Price set, Gonerill's Steward meeting him, offers to kill him, but is prevented by Edgar's killing of him, about whom he finds Gonerill's Letters to the Bastard, being Love with him, and also a Design against the Duke of Albany her Husband; to whom he carries it, before the Battle betwixt the Britains, and the French under Cordelia's Command, whom she brought to the King's Assistance against her unnatural Sisters; but being beaten, and the King and she taken Prisoners, the Bastard orders them to be kill'd in Prison. And Edgar having fought and kill'd the Bastard, Regan being poison'd by her Sister Gonerill, and she being upbraided by her Husband with the Guilt, but more affected with the

loss of Edmund, kills herself: he owns his Warrant out against the King and Cordelia; they send to save them but come too late, Cordelia being hang'd, but the King kill'd the Rogue that hang'd her, but breaks his Heart and dies: so the Play ends.

The King and Cordelia ought by no means to have dy'd, and therefore Mr. Tate has very justly alter'd that Particular; which must disgust the Reader and Audience, to have Virtue and Piety meet so unjust a Reward. So that this Plot, tho of so celebrated a Play, has none of the Ends of Tragedy, moving neither Fear nor Pity. We rejoice at the Death of the Bastard and the two Sisters, as of Monsters in Nature, under whom the very Earth must groan. And we see, with Horror and Indignation, the Death of the King, Cordelia, and Kent; tho of the three, the King only cou'd move pity, if that were not lost in the Indignation and Horror the Death of the other two produces: for he is a truly Tragic Character, not supremely virtuous nor scandalously vicious; he is made up of Choler and Obstinacy, Frailties pardonable enough in old Men, and yet what drew on him all the Misfortunes of his Life.

The Bastard's Speech of the weakness of laying our Fate and Follies on the Stars, is worth reading—This is the excellent Foppery of the World, that when we are sick in Fortune, &c.

Lear's Passion on the Ingratitude of his Daughter Gonerill, is very well; and his Curses on her very well, and naturally chose. Lear's Speech to Regan is very well:

And his Passion in this whole Scene, agreeable to the Manners.

The Needs of Life few.
O reason not the Need! our basest Beggars
Are in the poorest things superfluous.
Allow not Nature more than Nature needs;
Man's Life is cheap as Beasts, &c.

Kent's Description of the tempestuous Night, is very good.

There is nothing more beautiful than Lear's first Starts of Madness, when Edgar comes out in the Habit of a Madman—Didst thou give all to thy Daughters; and art thou come to this? And again,—Have

his Daughters brought him to this pass? Con'dst thou save nothing? Wou'dst thou give 'em all?

Edgar's Account of a Serving-man, is very pretty; as all that he says in the Play, is according to the Character, which his Affairs oblige him to assume.

On Man.
Man is no more than this, consider him well!
Thou ow'st the Worm no Silk, the Beast no Hide,
The Sheep no Wool, the Cat no Perfume. How!
Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing it self.
Unaccommodated Man is no more.
But such a bare, poor, forked Animal
As thou art &lblank;

Edgar's Description of the Precipice of Dover-Cliff, is very good.

Against the gross and idolatrous Flattery of Princes, see Lear's Madness: “They flatter'd me like a Dog, and told me that I had white Hairs in my Beard, e'er the black ones were there, to say Ay and No to every thing I said—Ay and No too was no good Divinity. When the Rain came to wet me once, and the Wind to make me chatter, when the Thunder wou'd not peace at my bidding, there I found 'em, there I smelt them out—Go to, they are not Men of their Words; they told me I was every thing; 'tis a Lye, I am not Ague-proof.

For this Story read Milton's and Tyrrel's History of England, and Leland, with Geoffry of Monmouth, &c.