speakers to the end, than to see a vast empty stage, and the actors come in, one by one, as if they were dropt down with a feather into the eye of the spectators?

Mit. Nay, you are better traded with these things than I, and therefore I'll subscribe to your judgment; marry, you shall give me leave to make objections.

Cor. O, what else? It is the special intent of the author you should do so; for thereby others, that are present, may as well be satisfied, who haply would object the same you would do.

Mit. So, sir: but when appears Macilente again? Cor. Marry, he stays but till our silence give him leave: here he comes, and with him signior Deliro, a merchant at whose house he is come to sojourn: make your own observation now, only transfer your thoughts to the city, with the scene: where, suppose they speak.

SCENE II.

The City. A Room in Deliro's House.

Enter DELIRO, MACILENTE, and Fino with flowers and perfumes.

Deli. I'll tell you by and by, sir.Welcome, good Macilente, to my house,

Yet I see not what is gained by this fulness of the scene. The characters are not blended into one whole; they disperse into little groups, and carry on their business, distinct from one another, advancing alternately to the front of the stage, and retiring to make room for others. The acquiescence of Mitis

To sojourn even for ever;' if my best
In cates, and every sort of good entreaty,
May move you stay with me.

[He censeth: the boy strews flowers. Maci. I thank you, sir.

And yet the muffled Fates, had it pleased them, Might have supplied me from their own full store,

Without this word I thank you to a fool.
I see no reason why that dog call'd Chance,
Should fawn upon this fellow, more than me:
I am a man, and I have limbs, flesh, blood,
Bones, sinews, and a soul, as well as he:
My parts are every way as good as his;
If I said better, why, I did not lie.
Nath'less, his wealth, but nodding on my wants,
Must make me bow, and cry, I thank you, sir.
[Aside.
Deli. Dispatch! take heed your mistress see

you not.

Fido. I warrant you, sir, I'll steal by her softly. [Exit. Deli. Nay, gentle friend, be merry; raise your looks

Out of your bosom: I protest, by heaven,
You are the man most welcome in the world.
Maci. I thank you, sir.-I know my cue, I

think.

[Aside.

in the reasoning of his friend Cordatus is no great proof of its accuracy or justice, for Mitis is a man of straw, and liable to be overthrown with the slightest effort.

1

1 To sojourn even for ever;] This is the reading of the quarto, and evidently right; the folio, which Whalley followed, has "To sojourn at my house for ever." My house was repeated, by the compositor, from the preceding line.

Re-enter FIDO, with more perfumes and flowers.

Fido. Where will you have them burn, sir?
Deli. Here, good Fido.

What, she did not see thee?
Fido. No, sir.

Deli. That is well.

Strew, strew, good Fido, the freshest flowers; so! Maci. What means this, signior Deliro? all this censing?

Deli. Cast in more frankincense, yet more ; well said.

O, Macilente, I have such a wife!
So passing fair! so passing-fair-unkind!
But of such worth, and right to be unkind,
Since no man can be worthy of her kindness-
Maci. What, can there not?

Deli. No, that is sure as death,
No man alive. I do not say, is not,
But cannot possibly be worth her kindness.
Nay, it is certain, let me do her right.

How, said I? do her right! as though I could,
As though this dull, gross, tongue of mine could

utter

The rare, the true, the pure, the infinite rights,
That sit, as high as I can look, within her!
Maci. This is such dotage as was never heard.
Deli. Well, this must needs be granted.
Maci. Granted, quoth you?

Deli. Nay, Macilente, do not so discredit
The goodness of your judgment to deny it,
For I do speak the very least of her;

And I would crave, and beg no more of heaven,
For all my fortunes here, but to be able
To utter first in fit terms, what she is,
And then the true joys I conceive in her.

Maci. Is't possible she should deserve so well, As you pretend?

Deli. Ay, and she knows so well

Her own deserts, that, when I strive t'enjoy them, She weighs the things I do, with what she merits; And, seeing my worth out-weigh'd so in her graces,

She is so solemn, so precise, so froward,

That no observance I can do to her

Can make her kind to me: if she find fault,
I mend that fault; and then she says, I faulted,
That I did mend it. Now, good friend, advise me,
How I may temper this strange spleen in her.

Maci. You are too amorous, too obsequious,
And make her too assured she may command you.
When women doubt most of their husband's loves,
They are most loving. Husbands must take heed
They give no gluts of kindness to their wives,
But use them like their horses; whom they feed
Not with a mangerful of meat together,
But half a peck at once; and keep them so
Still with an appetite to that they give them.
He that desires to have a loving wife,
Must bridle all the shew of that desire:
Be kind, not amorous; nor bewraying kindness,
As if love wrought it, but considerate duty.
Offer no love rites, but let wives still seek them,
For when they come unsought, they seldom like

them.

Deli. Believe me, Macilente, this is gospel. O, that a man were his own man so much, To rule himself thus. I will strive, i' faith, To be more strange and careless; yet I hope I have now taken such a perfect course, To make her kind to me, and live contented, That I shall find my kindness well return'd, And have no need to fight with my affections.

She late hath found much fault with every room Within my house; one was too big, she said, Another was not furnish'd to her mind,

And so through all; all which, now, I have alter'd. Then here, she hath a place, on my back-side, Wherein she loves to walk; and that, she said, Had some ill smells about it: now, this walk Have I, before she knows it, thus perfumed With herbs, and flowers; and laid in divers places, As 'twere on altars, consecrate to her,

Perfumed gloves, and delicate chains of amber, To keep the air in awe of her sweet nostrils: This have I done, and this I think will please her. Behold, she comes.

Enter FALLACE.

Fal. Here's a sweet stink indeed!

What, shall I ever be thus crost and plagued,
And sick of husband? O, my head doth ache,
As it would cleave asunder, with these savours!
All my rooms alter'd, and but one poor walk
That I delighted in, and that is made

So fulsome with perfumes, that I am fear'd,
My brain doth sweat so, I have caught the plague!
Deli. Why, gentle wife, is now thy walk too

sweet?

Thou said'st of late, it had sour airs about it, And found'st much fault that I did not correct it. Fal. Why, an I did find fault, sir?

Deli. Nay, dear wife,

I know thou hast said thou hast loved perfumes, No woman better.

Fal. Ay, long since, perhaps ;

But now that sense is alter'd you would have me, Like to a puddle, or a standing pool,