1

Which rent the branch: and then (if you can) tell What nymph it was which neere the lonely dell Your shepheard succour'd." Quoth the good old

man,

"The last time in her orbe pale Cynthia ran,
I to the prison went, and from him knew
(Upon my vow) what now is knowne to you.
And that the lady, which he found distrest,
Is Fida call'd; a maide not meanely blest
By Heaven's endowments, and-Alas! but sec,
Kind Philocel ingirt with miserie,

More strong than by his bonds, is drawing nigh
The place appointed for his tragedie:

You may walke thither and behold his fall;
While I come neere enough, yet not at all.
Nor shall it neede I to my sorrow knit
The griefe of knowing with beholding it.”

The goddesse went: but, ere she came, did
Herselfe from every eye within a cloud, [shrowde
Where she beheld the shepheard on his way,
Much like a bridegroome on his marriage-day;
Increasing not his miserie with feare.
Others for him, but he shed not a teare.
His knitting sinews did not tremble aught,
Nor to unusuall palpitation brought
Was or his heart or lyver, nor his eye,
Nor tongue, nor colour, show'd a dread to dye.
His resolution keeping with his spirit,
(Both worthy him that did them both inherit)
Held in subjection every thought of feare,
Scorning so base an executioner.

Some time he spent in speech; and then began "Submissely prayer to the name of Pan,

When sodainly this cry came from the plaines : "From guiltlesse blood be free, ye British swaines! Mine be those bonds, and mine the death appointed! Let me be head-long throwne, these limbes disjoynted!

Or if you needes must hurle him from that brim, Except I dye there dyes but part of him. *Doe then right justice, and performe your oath! Which cannot be without the death of both."

Wonder drew thitherward their drowned eyes,
And sorrow Philocel's. Where he espies
What he did onely feare, the beauteous maide,
His wofull Cœlia, whom (ere night arraid
Last time the world in sute of mournfull blacke,
More darke than use, as to bemone their wracke,)
He at his cottage left in sleepe's soft armes,
By powre of simples, and the force of charmes,
Which time had now dissolv'd, and made her know
For what intent her love had left her so.
She staide not to awake her mate in sleepe,
Nor to bemone her fate. She scorn'd to weepe,
Or have the passion that within her lyes
So distant from her heart as in her eyes.
But rending of her hayre, her throbbing brest
Beating with ruthlesse strokes, she onwards prest
As an inraged furious lionesse,

Through uncouth treadings of the wildernesse,
In hote pursute of her late missed broode.
The name of Philocel speakes every wood,
And she begins it still, and still her pace;
Her face deckt anger, anger deckt her face.
So ran distracted Hecuba along

The streets of Troy. So did the people throng
With helplesse hands and heavy hearts to see
Their wofull ruine in her progenie.

As harmlesse flockes of sheepe that neerely fed,
Upon the open plaines wide scattered,

Ran all afront, and gaz'd with earnest eye
(Not without teares) while thus she passed by.
Springs that long time before had held no drop,
Now swelled forth, and over-went the top,
Birds left to pay the Spring their wonted vowes,
And all forlorne sate drooping on the boughes.
Sheepe, springs, and birds, nay, trees,' unwonted
grones

Bewail'd her chance, and forc'd it from the stones.
Thus came she to the place (where aged men,
Maidens, and wives, and youth and children
That had but newly learnt their mother's name,
Had almost spent their teares before she came,)
And those her earnest and related words
Threw from her breast; and unto them affords
These as the meanes to further her pretence :
"Receive not on your soules, by innocence
Wrong'd, lasting staines; which from a sluce the

sea

May still wash o're but never wash away.
Turne all your wraths on me; for here behold
The hand that tore your sacred tree of gold;
These are the feete that led to that intent,
Mine was th' offence, be mine the punishment.
Long hath he liv'd among you, and he knew
The danger imminent that would ensue ;
His vertuous life speakes for him, heare it then!
And cast not hence the miracle of men!
What now he doth is through some discontent,
Mine was the fact, be mine the punishment!"

What certaine death could never make him doe,
(With Cœlia's losse) her presence forc'd him to.
She that could cleere his greatest clouds of woes,
Some part of woman made him now disclose,
And show'd him all in teares and for a while
Out of his heart unable to exile

:

His troubling thoughts in words to be conceiv'd;
But weighing what the world should be bereav'd,
He of his sighes and throbs some license wanne,
And to the sad spectators thus beganne :
"Hasten! O haste! the houre's already gone,
Doe not deferre the execution!

Nor make my patience suffer aught of wrong!
'Tis nought to dye, but to be dying long!
Some fit of frenzy hath possest the maid,
She could not doe it, though she had assaid.
No bough growes in her reach; nor hath the tree
A spray so weake to yeeld to such as she.
To winne her love I broke it, but unknowne
And undesir'd of her; then let her owne
No touch of prejudice without consent,
Mine was the fact, be mine the punishment!"
O! who did ever such contention see,
Where death stood for the prize of victory?
Where love and strife were firme and truely knowne,
And where the victor must be overthrowne?
Where both pursude, and both held equall strife,
That life should further death, death further life.
Amazement strucke the multitude.
And now

They knew not which way to performe their vow.
If onely one should be depriv'd of breath,
They were not certaine of th' offender's death;
If both of them should die for that offence,
They certainely should murder innocence;
If none did suffer for it, then there ran
Upon there heads the wrath and curse of Pan.
This much perplex'd and made them to deferre
The deadly hand of th' executioner,

Till they had sent an officer to know

The judges' wils: (and those with fates doe goe)

Who backe return'd, and thus with teares began:
"The substitutes on Earth of mighty Pan,
Have thus decreed; (although the one be free)
To cleare themselves from all impuritie,
If, who the offender is, no meanes procure,
Th' offence is certaine, be their death as sure.
This is their doome, (which may all plagues prevent)
To have the guilty kill the innocent."

Looke as two little lads, (their parents' treasure)
Under a tutor strictly kept from pleasure,
While they their new-given lesson closely scan,
Heare of a message by their fathers' man,
That one of them, but which he hath forgot,
Must come along and walke to some faire plot;
Both have a hope: their carefull tutor, loth
To hinder eyther, or to license both;

Sends backe the messenger, that he may know
His master's pleasure which of them must goe:
While both his schollers stand alike in feare
Both of their freedome and abiding there,
The servant comes and says, that for that day
Their father wils to have them both away:
Such was the feare these loving soules were in,
That time the messenger had absent bin.
But farre more was their joy 'twixt one another
In hearing neyther should out-live the other.

Now both intwinde, because no conquest wonne,
Yet eyther ruinde: Philocel begun
To arme his love for death: a roabe unfit,
Till Hymen's saffron'd weede had usher'd it:
"My fayrest Colia! come; let thou and I,
That long have learn'd to love, now learne to die;
It is a lesson hard, if we discerne it,

Yet none is borne so soone as bound to learne it.
Unpartiall Fate layes ope the booke to us,
And let us con it, still imbracing thus ;
We may it perfect have, and goe before
Those that have longer time to read it o're ;
And we had need begin, and not delay,
For 'tis our turne to read it first to-day.
Helpe when I misse and when thou art in doubt
Ile be thy prompter, and will helpe thee out.
But see how much I erre: vaine metaphor
And elocution destinies abhorre.

[teares,

Could death be staide with words, or wonne with
Or mov'd with beauty or with unripe yeeres;
Sure thou couldst do't: this rose, this sun-like eye,
Should not so soone be quell'd, so quickly dye.
But we must dye, my love; not thou alone,
Nor onely I, but both; and yet but one.
Nor let us grieve; for we are marryed thus,
And have by death what life denyed us.
It is a comfort from him more than due;
'Death severs many, but he couples few.'
Life is a flood that keepes us from our blisse,
The ferriman to waft us thither, is

Death, and none else; the sooner we get o're,
Should we not thanke the ferriman the more?
Others intreat him for a passage hence,
And groane beneath their griefes and impotence,
Yet (mercilesse) he lets those longer stay,
And sooner takes the happy man away.
Some little happinesse have thou and I,
Since we shall dye before we wish to dye.
Should we here longer live, and have our dayes
As full in number as the most of these,
And in them meet all pleasures may betide,
We gladly might have liv'd, and patient dyde:
When now our fewer yeeres made long by cares,
(That without age can snow downe silver haires)

Make all affirme (which doe our griefes discry)
We patiently did live, and gladly dye.
The difference (my love) that doth appeare
Betwixt our fates and theirs that see us here,
Is onely this: the high all-knowing Powre
Conceals from them, but tels us our last howre.
For which to Heaven we farre farre more are bound,
Since in the howre of death we may be found
(By its prescience) ready for the hand
That shall conduct us to the Holy-land.
When those, from whom that houre conceal'd is,
Even in their height of sinne be tane away.
Besides, to us Justice a friend is knowne,
Which neyther lets us dye nor live alone.
That we are forc'd to it cannot be held;

[may

Who feares not Death, denyes to be compell'd.'

"O that thou wert no actor in this play,

My sweetest Colia! or divorc'd away
From me in this! O Nature! I confesse
I cannot looke upon her heavinesse
Without betraying that infirmitie

Which at my birth thy hand bestow'd on me.
Would I had dyde when I receiv'd my birth!
Or knowne the grave before I knew the Earth!
Heavens! I but one life did receive from you,
And must so short a loane be paid with two?
Cannot I dye but like that brutish stem
Which have their best-belov'd to die with them?
O let her live! some blest powre heare my cry!
Let Cœlia live, and I contented dye."

[throes! "My Philocel," (quoth she) "neglect these Ask not for me, nor adde not to my woes! Can there be any life when thou art gone? Nay, can there be but desolation?

Art thou so cruell as to wish my stay,
To waite a passage at an unknowne day?
Or have me dwell within this vale of woe,
Excluded from those joyes which thou shalt know?
Envy not me that blisse! I will assay it,
My love deserves it, and thou canst not stay it.
Justice! then take thy doome; for we entend,
Except both live, no life; one life, one end."

Thus with imbraces, and exhorting other,
With teare-dew'd kisses that had powre to smother,
Their soft and ruddy lips close joyn'd with eyther,
That in their deaths their soules might meet to-
With prayers as hopefull as sincerely good, [gether,
Expecting death, they on the cliffe's edge stood;
And lastly were (by one oft forcing breath)
Throwne from the rocke into the armes of Death.
Faire Thetis, whose command the waves obey,
Loathing the losse of so much worth as they,
Was gone before their fall; and by her powre
The billows (mercilesse, us'd to devoure,
And not to save) she made to swell up high,
Even at the instant when the tragedy

[them,

Of those kinde soules should end: so to receive And keepe what crueltie would fain bereave them. Her hest was soone perform'd: and now they lay Imbracing on the surface of the sea,

Voyd of all sence; a spectacle so sad,

That Thetis, nor no nymph which there she had,
Touch'd with their woes, could for a while refraine,
But from their heavenly eyes did sadly raine
Such showres of teares, (so powrefull, since divine.)
That ever since the sea doth taste of bryne,
With teares, thus, to make good her first intent
She both the lovers to her chariot hent:
Recalling life that had not cleerely tane
Full leave of his or her more curious phane,

And with her praise, sung by these thankfull payre,
Steer'd on her coursers (swift as fleeting ayre)
Towards her pallace built beneath the seas:
Proud of her journey, but more proud of these.

By that time Night had newly spred her robe
Over our halfe-part of this massie globe,
She wonne that famous isle which Jove did please
To honour with the holy Druydes.

And as the westerne side she stript along,
Heard (and so staid to heare) this heavy song:

"O HEAVEN! what may I hope for in this cave?
A grave.
But who to me this last of helpes shall retch?
A wretch.
Shall none be by pittying so sad a wight?
Yes: Night.

Small comfort can befall in heavy plight
To me, poore maide, in whose distresses be
Nor hope, nor helpe, nor one to pittie me,
But a cold grave, a wretch, and darksome night.
"To digge that grave what fatall thing appeares?
Thy teares.
What bell shall ring me to that bed of ease?
Rough seas.
And who for mourners hath my fate assign'd?
Each winde.

Can any be debarr'd from such I finde?
When to my last rites gods no other send
To make my grave, for knell, or mourning friend,
Than mine owne teares, rough seas, and gusts of
winde.

The end of this gave life unto a grone,
As if her life and it had beene but one;
Yet she, as carelesse of reserving eyther,
If possible would leave them both together.
It was the faire Marina, almost spent
With griefe and feare of future famishment.
For (haplesse chance) but the last rosie morne
The willing redbrest, flying through a thorne,
Against a prickle gor'd his tender side,
And in an instant, so, poore creature dyde.
Thetis, much mov'd with those sad notes she
heard,

Her freeing thence to Triton soone referr'd ;
Who found the cave as soone as set on shore,
And by his strength removing from the dore
A weighty stone, brought forth the fearefull mayde,
Which kindly led where his faire mistresse staid;
Was entertain'd as well became her sort,
And with the rest steer'd on to Thetis' court.
For whose release from imminent decay,
My Muse a while will here keepe holy-day.

Few poets have acted a busier part in life, and gone through greater varieties of fortune, than Davenant. He was born, in the February of 1605-6, at Oxford, where his father kept an inn. The father was a man of melancholy temperament, the mother handsome and lively; and, as Shakespeare used to put up at the house on his journeys between Stratford and London, Davenant is said to have affected the reputation of being Shakespeare's son. If he really did this, there was a levity, or rather a want of feeling, in the boast, for which social pleasantry, and the spirits which are induced by wine, afford but little excuse.

He was entered at Lincoln College; then became page to the Duchess of Richmond; and was afterwards taken into the family of Sir Fulk Greville Lord Brooke, the friend of Sir Philip Sydney, and one of the profoundest thinkers that ever clothed his thoughts in verse. Davenant was still young when his patron was murdered. He then began to write for the stage; and on Ben Jonson's death was made Poet Laureate, to the disappointment of a very able competitor, Thomas May, a man so honourably known by his translation of Lucan, and his supplement to that poet, that it were to be wished he were remembered for nothing else. At this time it appears that Davenant's opinions were loose, and his life dissolute. When the troubles came on, he was engaged in that scheme concerning the army, in which Goring first displayed the thorough profligacy of his character. Davenant was one of the persons arrested, and it is not known how he obtained his liberty. He went to France, and came back with stores for Newcastle's army, and was made by that generous and truly noble person lieutenant-general of his ordnance. He behaved becomingly as a soldier; and at the siege of Gloucester was knighted by the king. Upon the fatal turn of the king's affairs after that siege, he again took shelter in France, and there became ostensibly a convert to the Romish belief. The real state of his mind, which is plainly indicated in his writings, was an uneasy scepticism from which he was not delivered by prostrating his understanding to the pretended infallibility of a corrupt and superstitious church. This change obtained for him the favour of the ill-fated and ill-advised Henrietta Maria; and when Charles had thrown himself into the hands of the Scots, that Queen sent Sir William over for the purpose of persuading her husband to yield to the parliament in all that they required concerning the church establishment: Davenant offered some arguments of his own in support of advice which could have proceeded from none but an enemy to the church of England; but Charles, who never discovered any weakness upon that subject, being one on which his

heart and his understanding were in accord, rebuked him as he deserved, and forbade him ever again to appear in his presence.

Having returned to Paris, he there composed two books of Gondibert in the Louvre, where he was living with the queen's unworthy favourite Lord Jermyn. Henrietta next despatched him for Virginia, in charge of a colony of artificers. Before they had cleared the French coast they were captured by a parliamentary ship, and Davenant was sent close prisoner to Cowes Castle, where he quietly pursued his poem, and carried it to the middle of the third division, thus completing half his design: he then broke it off under the expectation of being hanged in the ensuing week. "It is high time to strike sail," said he, in the postscript which he addressed to the reader, "and cast anchor (though I have run but half my course), when at the helm I am threatened with death, who, though he can visit us but once, seems troublesome; and even in the innocent may beget such a gravity as diverts the music of verse. And I beseech thee (if thou art so civil as to be pleased with what is written) not to take it ill that I run not on till my last gasp. For though I intended in this poem to strip Nature naked, and clothe her again in the perfect shape of Virtue. yet even in so worthy a design I shall ask leave to desist, when I am interrupted by so great an experiment as dying."

His life indeed was in imminent danger; but through the interference of two aldermen of York. ! to whom he had rendered some services, when they were prisoners, and through Milton's influence and Whitelocke's he was saved, and after two years imprisonment in the Tower obtained his liberty. Through Whitelocke's favour also he was allowed to open a kind of theatre at Rutland House, though the Puritans had prohibited all dramatic representations. Under pretext of presenting an opera, he evaded the prohibition, and ventured at length to represent plays of his own writing. By this means he supported himself till the Restoration; and then it is believed that Milton was spared at his intercession, in return for his own preservation.

From this time Davenant took an active part in dramatic affairs, being the first person who introduced scenic decorations on our stage: they had formerly been employed in court masques, but had been considered too expensive for the public theatres. His plays, which are numerous, form the link be tween the old English drama, and that more artificial but baser species which prevailed while Dryden gave the law in taste. His last work was his worst; it was an alteration of the Tempest, executed in conjunction with Dryden; and marvellous indeed it is that two men of such great and indo

Old Aribert's great race, and greater mind, Is sung, with the renown of Rhodalind. Prince Oswald is compar'd to Gondibert, And justly each distinguish'd by desert:

Prais'd was this king for war, the law's broad shield, And for acknowledg'd laws, the art of peace; Happy in all which Heav'n to kings does yield, But a successor when his cares shall cease.

For no male pledge, to give a lasting name,
Sprung from his bed, yet Heaven to him allow'd
One of the gentler sex, whose story Fame
Has made my song, to make the Lombards proud.

Recorded Rhodalind! whose high renown
Who miss in books, not luckily have read;
Or, vex'd by living beauties of their own,
Have shunn'd the wise records of lovers dead.

Where she to all with heav'nly order mov'd; Made rigid vertue so benign appear,

That 'twas without religion's help belov'd.

Her looks like empire shew'd, great above pride, Since pride ill counterfeits excessive height; But Nature publish'd what she fain would hide, Who for her deeds, not beauty, lov'd the light.

To make her lowly minde's appearance less,
She us'd some outward greatness in disguise;
Esteem'd as pride the cloyst'ral lowliness,
And thought them proud who even the proud
despise.

Her father (in the winter of his age)

Was, like that stormy season, froward grown : Whom so her youthful presence did asswage, That he her sweetness tasted as his own.

The pow'r that with his stooping age declin'd,
In her transplanted, by remove increas'd,
Which doubly back in homage she resign'd;
Till pow'r's decay, the throne's worst sickness,
ceas'd.

Oppressors, big with pride, when she appear'd, Blushed, and believ'd their greatness counterfeit ; The lowly thought they them in vain had fear'd; Found vertue harmless, and nought else so great.

Her minde (scarce to her feeble sex a kinn)

Did, as her birth, her right to empire show; Seem'd careless outward when imploy'd within; Her speech, like lovers watch'd, was kind and low.