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George Chapman.

BYRON'S CONSPIRACY.

Men's Glories eclipsed when they turn Traitors.

As when the Moon hath comforted the Night, And set the world in silver of her light,

The planets, asterisms, and whole State of Heaven,
In beams of gold descending: all the winds
Bound up in caves, charged not to drive abroad
Their cloudy heads: an universal peace
(Proclaimed in silence) of the quiet Earth-
Soon as her hot and dry fumes are let loose,
Storms and clouds mixing suddenly put out
The eyes of all those glories; the creation
Turned into chaos; and we then desire,
For all our joy of life, the death of sleep.
So when the glories of our lives (men's loves,
Clear consciences, our fames and loyalties),
That did us worthy comfort, are eclipsed,
Grief and disgrace invade us; and for all
Our night of life besides, our misery craves
Dark Earth would ope and hide us in our graves.

Master-Spirit.

Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea
Loves to have his sails filled with a lusty wind,
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack,
And his rapt ship run on her side so low,
That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air.
There is no danger to a man, that knows
What life and death is: there's not any law

Exceeds his knowledge; neither is it lawful
That he should stoop to any other law :
He goes before them, and commands them all,
That to himself is a law rational.

Innocence the Harmony of the Faculties.

Innocence, the sacred amulet

'Gainst all the poisons of infirmity,
Of all misfortune, injury, and death;
That makes a man in tune still in himself;
Free from the hell to be his own accuser;
Ever in quiet, endless joy enjoying,
No strife nor no sedition in his powers;

No motion in his will against his reason;

No thought 'gainst thought; nor (as 'twere in the confines
Of whispering and repenting) both possess
Only a wayward and tumultuous peace;
But, all parts in him friendly and secure,
Fruitful of all best things in all worst seasons,
He can with every wish be in their plenty.

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I read of late, how the great Sophy once

Flying a noble falcon at the herne,
In comes by chance an eagle sousing by:

Which, when the hawk espies, leaves her first game,
And boldly ventures on the king of birds.

Long tugged they in the air, till at the length
The falcon (better breath'd) seized on the eagle,
And struck it dead. The barons praised the bird,
And for her courage she was peerless held.
The emperor, after some deliberate thoughts,
Made her no less; he caused a crown of gold
To be new framed, and fitted to her head,
In honour of her courage: then the bird,
With great applause, was to the market-place
In triumph borne; where, when her utmost worth
Had been proclaimed, the common executioner
First by the king's command took off her crown,
And after with a sword struck off her head,
As one no better than a noble traitor
Unto the king of birds.

Thomas Middleton.

THE WITCH: A TRAGI-COMEDY.

HECATE, and the other Witches, at their charms.

Hec. Titty and Tiffin, Suckin

And Pidgen, Liard and Robin!

White spirits, black spirits, gray spirits, red spirits,
Devil-toad, devil-ram, devil-cat, and devil dam,
Why, Hoppo and Stadlin, Hellwain and Puckle!
Stad. Here, sweating at the vessel.

Hec. Boil it well.

Hop. It gallops now!

Hec. Are the flames blue enough,

Or shall I use a little seeten* more?

Stad. The nips of fairies upon maids' white hips Are not more perfect azure.

Hec. Tend it carefully.

Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish,

That I may fall to work upon these serpents,
And squeeze 'em ready for the second hour.
Why! when?

Stad. Here's Stadlin, and the dish.

Hec. Here, take this unbaptized brat!

Boil it well-preserve the fat:

You know 'tis precious to transfer

Our 'nointed flesh into the air,

In moonlight nights, o'er steeple-tops,

Mountains, and pine-trees, that like pricks, or stops, Seem to our height: high towers, and roofs of princes, Like wrinkles in the earth: whole provinces

Appear to our sight then even like

A russet mole upon some lady's cheek.

When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing,

Dance, kiss, and coll, use every thing:

What young man can we wish to pleasure us,

But we enjoy him in an incubus ?

Thou know'st it, Stadlin?

Stad. Usually that's done.

Hec. Away! in!

Go feed the vessel for the second hour.

* Seething.

Stad. Where be the magical herbs?

Hec. They're down his throat,*

His mouth crammed full; his ears and nostrils stuffed.

I thrust in eleaselinum, lately

Aconitum, frondes populeas, and soot.

You may see that, he looks so black i' th' mouth.
Then sium, acharum, vulgaro too,

Dentaphillon, the blood of a flitter-mouse,

Solanum somnificum et oleum.

Stad. Then there's all, Hecate.

Hec. Is the heart of wax

Stuck full of magic needles?

Stad. 'Tis done, Hecate.

Hec. And is the farmer's picture, and his wife's, Laid down to the fire yet?

Stad. They are a-roasting both, too.

Hec. Good!

Then their marrows are a-melting subtilly,

And three months' sickness sucks up life in 'em.
They denied me often flour, barm, and milk,
Goose-grease and tar, when I ne'er hurt their churnings,
Their brew-locks nor their batches, nor forespoke
Any of their breedings. Now I'll be meet with 'em.
Seven of their young pigs I have bewitched already
Of the last litter, nine ducklings, thirteen goslings, and a hog,
Fell lame last Sunday, after even-song too.

And mark how their sheep prosper; or what soup
Each milch-kine gives to th' pail: I'll send these snakes
Shall milk 'em all beforehand; the dewed skirted dairy-wench
Shall stroke dry dugs for this, and go home cursing!

*The dead child's.

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