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

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.

John Dryden.

ALL FOR LOVE.

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 pomp of sadness.

"Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath.

Why was I raised the meteor of the world,

Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled,

Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downward
To be trod out by Cæsar?

Vent. [Aside.] On my soul

'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

Ant. Count thy gains,

Now, Antony: wouldst thou be born for this?
Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth
Has starved thy wanting age.

Vent. [Aside.] How sorrow shakes him!
So now the tempest tears him by th' roots,
And on the ground extends the noble ruin.

Ant. [Having thrown himself down.] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor !

The place thou pressest on thy mother earth

Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee;

Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,

When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn,

Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia

(For Cleopatra will not live to see it),
Octavia then will have thee all her own,

And bear thee in her widowed hand to Cæsar.
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,

To see his rival of the universe

Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't.
Give me some music; look that it be sad;

I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell,

And burst myself with sighing.

'Tis somewhat to my humour. Stay, I fancy

I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;
Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;

Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene;

Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak,
I lean my head upon the mossy bark,
And look just of a piece, as I grew from it:
My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe,
Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook
Runs at my foot-

Vent. Methinks I fancy

Myself there too.

Ant. The herd come jumping by me,

And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on,
And take me for their fellow-citizen.

More of this image-more; it lulls my thoughts.
Vent. I must disturb him. I can hold no longer.

[Stands before himAnt. [Starting up.] Art thou Ventidius ?

Vent. Are you Antony?

I'm liker what I was, than you to him

I left you last.

Ant. I'm angry.

Vent. So am I.

Ant. I would be private. Leave me.

Vent. Sir, I love you,

And therefore will not leave you.

Ant. Will not leave me

Where have you learned that answer?

Who am I?

Vent. My emperor; the man I love next Heaven.

If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin:

You're all that's good and godlike.

Ant. All that's wretched.

You will not leave me, then?

Vent. "Twas too presuming