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But to bestow a few

poor legacies,
All I have left in my dead father's right,
And I have done.—Captain, wear thou these spurs,
That yet ne'er made his horse run from a foe.-
Lieutenant, thou this scarf; and may it tie
Thy valour and thy honesty together,
For so it did in him.-Ensign, this cuirass,
Your general's necklace once.—You, gentle bearers,
Divide this purse of gold: this other strew
Among the poor. 'Tis all I have. — Romont,
Wear thou this medal of himself, that like
A hearty oak grew'st close to this tall pine,
E’en in the wildest wilderness of war,
Whereon foes broke their swords, and tired themselves :
Wounded and hacked ye were, but never felled.---
For me, my portion provide in heaven:
My root is earthed, and I, a desolate branch,
Left scattered in the highway of the world,
Trod under foot, that might have been a column
Mainly supporting our demolished house.
This* would I wear as my inheritance,-
And what hope can arise to me from it,
When I and it are here both prisoners ?
Only may this, if ever we be free,
Keep or redeem me from all infamy !

Failer. You must no farther. -
The prison limits you, and the creditors
Exact the strictness.

* His father's sword.

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Sir Thomas BORNEWELL expostulates with his Lady on her Extrava

gance and Love of Pleasure.

BORNEWELL; ARETINA, his Lady.
Are. I am angry with myself;
To be so miserably restrained in things,
Wherein it doth concern your love and honour
To see me satisfied.

Bor. In what, Aretina,
Dost thou accuse me? have I not obeyed
All thy desires, against mine own opinion;
Quitted the country, and removed the hope
Of our return, by sale of that fair lordship
We lived in: changed a calm and retired life
For this wild town, composed of noise and charge ?

Are. What charge, more than is necessary
For a lady of my birth and education ?

Bor. I am not ignorant how much nobility
Flows in your blood; your kinsmen great and powerful
In the state ; but with this lose not your memory
Of being my wife : I shall be studious,
Madam, to give the dignity of your birth
All the best ornaments which become my fortune ;
But would not flatter it, to ruin both,
And be the fable of the town, to teach
Other men wit by loss of mine, employed
To serve your vast expenses.

Are. Am I then
Brought in the balance ? so, sir.

Bor. Though you weigh
Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest :
And must take liberty to think, you have
Obeyed no modest counsel to effect,
Nay, study ways of pride and costly ceremony;
Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures,
Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman's;
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery
Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate
Antick and novel; vanities of tires,
Fourscore pound suppers for my lord your kinsman,
Banquets for t’other lady, aunt, and cousins ;
And perfumes, that exceed all; train of servants,
To stifle us at home, and show abroad
More motley than the French, or the Venetian,
About your coach, whose rude postilion
Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers
And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls,
And common cries pursue your ladyship
For hindering of their market.

Are. Have you done, sir?
Bor. I could accuse the gayety

of

your wardrobe, And prodigal embroideries, under which, Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not show their own complexions; your jewels, Able to burn out the spectators' eyes, And show like bonfires on you by the tapers : Something might here be spared, with safety of Your birth and honor, since the truest wealth Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. I could urge something more.

Are. Pray, do. I like

Your homily of thrift.

Bor. I could wish, madam, You would not game so much.

Are. A gamester, too!

Bor. But are not come to that repentance yet,
Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit ;
You look not through the subtilty of cards,
And mysteries of dice, nor can you save
Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls,
And keep your family by the precious income;
Nor do I wish you should: my poorest servant
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire
Purchased beneath my honour: you make play
Not a pastime but a tyranny, and vex
Yourself and my estate by’t.

Are. Good, proceed.

Bor. Another game you have, which consumes more Your fame than purse, your revels in the night, Your meetings, called the ball, to which appear, As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants And ladies, thither bound by a subpæna Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure : 'Tis but the Family of Love, translated Into more costly sin ; there was a play on't ; And had the poet not been bribed to a modest Expression of your antic gambols in't, Some darks had been discovered ; and the deeds too ; In time he may repent, and make some blush, To see the second part danced on the stage. My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me By any

act; but the virtuous know, 'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the Suspicions of our shame.

foul

Are. Have

you

concluded Your lecture ?

Bor. I have done ; and howsoever
My language may appear to you, it carries
No other than my fair and just intent
To

your delights, without curb to their modest And noble freedom.

Are. I'll not be so tedious
In my reply, but, without art or elegance,
Assure you I keep still my first opinion ;
And though you veil your avaricious meaning
With handsome names of modesty and thrift,
I find you would intrench and wound the liberty
I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged
By example; while my judgment thought 'em fit,
You ought not to oppose : but when the practice
And tract of

every

honourable lady Authorize me, I take it great injustice To have my pleasures circumscribed and taught me.

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MARC ANTONY, after the Battle of Actium, is visited by VENTIDIUS,

his General, while suffering under the mortification of his Defeat.

Marc AntonY, VENTIDIUS.
Ant. They tell me 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it
With double

of sadness,
'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath.

pomp

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