Revenge them, and we second you.

Jacin. Father, dear father.

Jul. Daughter, dear daughter.

Jacin. Why do you kneel to me, Sir!

Jul. To ask thee pardon that I did beget thee. I brought thee to a shame, stains all the way 'Twixt earth and Acheron: not all the clouds

(The skies' large canopy) could they drown the seas With a perpetual inundation,

Can wash it ever out: leave me, I pray.

Alon. His fighting passion will be o'er anon,

And all will be at peace.

Ant. Best in my judgment

We wake him with the sight of his won honors.
Call up the army, and let them present

His prisoners to him: such a sight as that

Will brook no sorrow near it.

[Falls down.

Jul. 'Twas a good doctor that prescrib'd that physic.
I'll be your patient, Sir; show me my soldiers,
And my new honors won: I will truly weigh them
With my full griefs, they may perhaps o'ercome.
Alon. Why now there's hopes of his recovery.
Jul. Jacinta, welcome, thou art my child still:
No forced stain of lust can alienate

Our consanguinity.

Jacin. Dear father,

Recollect your noble spirits: conquer grief,
The manly way: you have brave foes subdued,
Then let no female passions thus o'erwhelm you.
Jul. Mistake me not, my child, I am not mad,
Nor must be idle; for it were more fit
(If I could purchase more) I had more wit,
To help in these designs: I am grown old:
Yet I have found more strength within this arm,
Than (without proof) I durst ha' boasted on.
Roderick, thou king of monsters, couldst thou do this,
And for thy lust confine me from the court?
There's reason in thy shame, thou shouldst not see me.

Ha! they come, Jacinta, they come, hark, hark ;

Now thou shalt see what cause I have given my king.

Vanquished Moors' address to the Sun.

Descend thy sphere, thou burning Deity.
Haste from our shame, go blushing to thy bed;
Thy sons* we are, thou everlasting Ball,

Yet never shamed these our impressive brows
Till now we that are stampt with thine own seal,
Which the whole ocean cannot wash away,
Shall those cold ague cheeks that Naturę moulds
Within her winter shop, those smooth white skins,
That with a palsy hand she paints the limbs,
Make us recoil?

Man's Heart.

I would fain know what kind thing a man's heart is.
were you never

At Barber Surgeons' Hall to see a dissection?
I will report it to you: 'tis a thing framed
With divers corners, and into every corner
A man may entertain a friend: (there came
The proverb, A man may love one well, and yet
Retain a friend in a corner.)—————

tush, 'tis not

The real heart; but the unseen faculties.

-Those I'll decipher unto you: (for surely

The most part are but ciphers.) The heart indeed
For the most part doth keep a better guest

Than himself in him; that is, the soul. Now the soul
Being a tree, there are divers branches spreading out of it,

As loving-affection, suffering-sorrows, and the like.
Then, Sir, these affections or sorrows being but branches,
Are sometimes lopt off, or of themselves wither;

And new shoot in their rooms: as for example;

Your friend dies, there appears sorrow, but it quickly

Withers; then is that branch gone. Again, you love a friend;

"Children of the Sun."-Zanga in the Revenge.

There affection springs forth; at last you distaste;
Then that branch withers again, and another buds
In his room.

A NEW WONDER: A WOMAN NEVER VEXT. A COMEDY. BY WILLIAM ROWLEY..

The Woman never Vext states her Case to a Divine.

WIDOW. DOCTOR.

Doc. You sent for me, gentlewoman?

Wid. Sir, I did, and to this end.

I have some scruples in my conscience;

Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer,
Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain.
Doc. This is my duty; pray speak your mind.
Wid. And as I speak, I must remember heaven
That gave those blessings which I must relate:
Sir, you now behold a wondrous woman;
You only wonder at the epithet;

I can approve it good: guess at mine age.

Doc. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty.

Wid. 'Twas not much amiss; yet nearest to the last. How think you then, is not this a Wonder,

That a Woman lives full seven-and-thirty years,

Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow,

Now widow'd, and mine own; yet all this while,
From the extremest verge
of my remembrance,
Even from my weaning hour unto this minute,
Did never taste what was calamity.

I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought
A hundred ways for his acquaintance: with me
Prosperity hath kept so close a watch,

That even those things that I have meant a cross,
Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange?
Doc. Unparallel'd; this gift is singular,

And to you alone belonging: you are the moon,

For there 's but one, all women else are stars,
For there are none of like condition.
Full oft and many have I heard complain
Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities;
But a second to yourself I never knew,
To groan under the superflux of blessings,
To have ever been alien unto sorrow.
No trip of fate? sure it is wonderful.

Wid. Aye, Sir, 'tis wonderful, but is it well?
For it is now my chief affliction.

I have heard you say that the Child of Heaven
Shall suffer many tribulations s;

Nay, kings and princes share them with their subjects:

Then I that know not any chastisement,

How may I know my part of childhood?

Doc. 'Tis a good doubt; but make it not extreme. 'Tis some affliction that you are afflicted For want of affliction: cherish that:

Yet wrest it not to misconstruction;

For all your blessings are free gifts from heaven,
Health, wealth, and peace; nor can they turn into
Curses, but by abuse. Pray, let me question you :'
You lost a husband, was it no grief to you?

Wid. It was, but very small: no sooner I
Had given it entertainment as a sorrow,
But straight it turn'd unto my treble joy :
A comfortable revelation prompts me then,
That husband (whom in life I held so dear)
Had chang'd a frailty to unchanging joys:
Methought I saw him stellified in heaven,
And singing hallelujahs 'mongst a quire
Of white sainted souls: then again it spake,
And said, it was a sin for me to grieve
At his best good, that I esteemed best:
And thus this slender shadow of a grief
Vanish'd again.

Doc. All this was happy, nor

Can

you wrest it from a heavenly blessing. Do not

Appoint the rod: leave still the stroke unto
The magistrate the time is not past, but
You may feel enough.-

Wid. One taste more I had, although but little,
Yet I would aggravate to make the most on 't:
'Twas thus the other day it was my hap,

:

In crossing of the Thames,

To drop that wedlock ring from off my finger,
That once conjoined me and my dear husband:
It sunk; I prized it dear; the dearer, 'cause it kept
Still in mine eye the memory of my loss:
Yet I grieved the loss; and did joy withal,
That I had found a grief. And this is all
The sorrow I can boast of.

Doc. This is but small.

Wid. Nay, sure, I am of this opinion,

That had I suffer'd a draught to be made for it,
The bottom would have sent it up again;

I am so wondrously fortunate.

Foster, a wealthy Merchant, has a profligate Brother, Stephen, whom Robert, Son to Foster, relieves out of Prison with some of his Father's money intrusted to him. For this, his Father turns him out of doors and disinherits him. Meantime, by a reverse of fortune, Stephen becomes rich; and Foster by losses in trade is thrown into the same Prison (Ludgate) from which his brother had been relieved. Stephen adopts his Nephew, on the condition that he shall not assist or go near his Father: but filial piety prevails, above the consideration either of his Uncle's displeasure, or of his Father's late unkindness; and he visits his father in Prison.

FOSTER. ROBERT.

Fos. O torment to my soul, what mak'st thou here?

Cannot the picture of my misery

Be drawn, and hung out to the eyes

of men,

But thou must come to scorn and laugh at it?

Rob. Dear Sir, I come to thrust my back under your load,

To make the burthen lighter.

Fos. Hence from my sight, dissembling villain, go: Thine uncle sends defiance to my wo,

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