Here's a fair sight; and were ye oftner seen
Thus gather'd here, 'twould please our king and

queen.

Upon my conscience, ye are welcome all

To Lisbon, and the court of Portugal;
Where your fair eyes shall feed on no worse sights
Than preparations made for kings' delights.
We wish to men content, the manliest treasure ;
And to the women, their own wish'd-for pleasure!

[Flourish.

Enter EMANUEL and ISABELLA, and take their Seat on the Throne; Lords, and Attendants.

Eman. Fair fountain of my life, from whose pure streams

The propagation of two kingdoms flows,
Never contention rise in either's breast,
But contestation whose love shall be best!
Isab. Majestic ocean, that with plenty feeds
Me, thy poor tributary rivulet;

Sun of my beauty, that with radiant beams
Dost gild and dance upon these humble streams;
Cursed be my birth-hour, and my ending day,
When back your love-floods I forget to pay!
Or if this breast of mine, your crystal brook,
Ever take other form in, other look
But yours, or e'er produce unto your grace
A strange reflection, or another's face,
But be your love-book clasp'd, open'd to none
But you, nor hold a story, but your own;

huisher or usher should prologuise? I believe bad a corruption, and that we should read but, which renders the whole easy and intelligible.-Seward.

The present text is from the first edition. Bare seems used in the sense of but, or mere. It is also sense, in the acceptation of

uncovered, in this place.-Ed. 1778.

A water fix'd, that ebbs nor floods pursue,
Frozen to all, only dissolved to you!

Eman. Oh, who shall tell the sweetness of our
love

To future times, and not be thought to lie?
I look through this hour like a perspective,
And far off see millions of prosperous seeds,
That our reciprocal affection breeds.

Thus my white rib, close in my breast with me,
Which nought shall tear hence, but mortality!
Lords. Be kingdoms blest in you, you blest in

them!

[Flourish. Fri. Whist! signor! My strong imagination shews me Love, methinks, bathing in milk and wine in her cheeks. Oh, how she clips him, like a plant of ivy!

Rin. Ay; could not you be content to be an owl in such an ivy-bush, or one of the oaks of the city, to be so clipt?

Fri. Equivocal don, though I like the clipping well, I could not be content either to be your owl, or your ox of the city.-The play begins. [Flourish.

Enter a Poet with a Garland.

Poet Prologue. Low at your sacred feet our poor muse lays

ment.

Her, and her thunder-fearless verdant bays.
Four several Triumphs to your princely eyes,
Of Honour, Love, Death, and Time, do rise

My white rib.] White was a very general epithet of endearSo in The Return from Parnassus, Amoretto's page says, "When he returns, I'll tell twenty admirable lies of his hawk: and then I shall be his little rogue, his whi te villain, for a whole week after."

From our approaching subject; which we move Tow'rds you with fear, since that a sweeter love, A brighter honour, purer chastity,

March in your breasts this day triumphantly,
Than our weak scenes can shew: Then how dare we
Present, like apes and zanies, things that be
Exemplified in you, but that we know
We ne'er craved grace which you did not bestow?

THE

TRIUMPH OF HONOUR.

SCENE I.

Before the Walls of Athens.

Enter in Triumph with Drums, Trumpets, Colours,
MARTIUS, VALERIUS, SOPHOCLES bound, NICO-
DEMUS, CORNELIUS, Captains, and Soldiers.

Mar. What means proud Sophocles?
Soph. To go even with Martius,

And not to follow him like his officer:

I never waited yet on any man.

Mar. Why, poor Athenian duke, thou martyr slave;

My blows have conquer'd thee.
Soph. Thy slave, proud Martius ?
Cato thy countryman (whose constancy,
Of all the Romans, I did honour most)
Ripp'd himself twice to avoid slavery,
Making himself his own anatomy.

But look thee, Martius; not a vein runs here
From head to foot, but Sophocles would unseam,

and,

Like a spring-garden," shoot his scornful blood
Into their eyes, durst come to tread on him.
As for thy blows, they did not conquer me:
Seven battles have I met thee face to face,
And given thee blow for blow, and wound for
wound,

And, till thou taught'st me, knew not to retire:

7 Not a vein runs here

From head to foot, but Sophocles would unseam, and

Like a spring-garden, shoot his scornful blood

Into their eyes, durst come to tread on him.] The last editors, not comprehending the meaning of this passage, propose to amend it, by reading spring-gun, instead of spring-garden; but they entirely mistake the allusion. It was the fashion formerly in improvements where there was a command of water, to convey it in pipes in such a manner, that, when you trod on a particular spot, the water played upon you, and wet you severely: These were called spring-gardens, And I remember to have seen one at Chatsworth, about five-and-twenty years ago, which has probably given place by this time to more modern and elegant decorations; such practical jokes being no longer in fashion. Spring-garden, which formerly made part of St James's Park, was probably a garden of this kind. It is to this that Sophocles alludes. Springguns would be a strange anachronism, and destroy both metre and sense. Paul Hentzner, who visited England in 1598, in his description of Nonsuch, the villa of Henry VIII., says, "There is, besides, another pyramid of marble full of concealed pipes, which spout upon all who come within their reach."-Mason.

Such fopperies are still to be seen in continental gardens.

Thou taught'st me.] The context seems to require FATE taught me, or words to that effect.-Ed. 1778. This is a most needless

Thy sword was then as bold, thy arm as strong; Thy blows then, Martius, cannot conquer me. Val. What is it then?

Soph. Fortune.

Val. Why, yet in that

Thou art the worse man, and must follow him. Soph. Young sir, you err: If Fortune could be call'd

Or his, or yours, or mine, in good or evil,
For any certain space, thou hadst spoke truth;
But she but jests with man, and in mischance
Abhors all constancy, flouting him still

With some small touch of good, or seeming good,
Midst of his mischief; which vicissitude
Makes him strait doff his armour, and his fence
He had prepared before, to break her strokes.
So from the very zenith of her wheel,
When she has dandled some choice favourite,
Given him his boons in women, honour, wealth,
And all the various delicacies of earth,
That the fool scorns the gods in his excess,
She whirls, and leaves him at th' Antipodes.
Mar. Art sure we have taken him? is this So-
phocles?

His fetter'd arms say, no; his free soul, ay.

alteration. Sophocles says simply, "I never knew how to retire till I learnt it by thy example."

9 His fettered arms say, no; his free soul, ay.] Mason says we should transpose the affirmative and the negative in this line, because the question asked by Martius is, Whether he is a captive or not? But the text is capable of receiving the following very poeti-" cal explanation, furnished by a friend, which proves the propriety of it at once: "Is this Sophocles? the illustrious Sophocles? this! the enslaved being before me !-Regarding his fetters only, I should say-No. This captive cannot be the hero. But when I regard his "free soul," I hear it proclaim, Ay! Spite of his chains and captivity, he, whose great soul looks down upon chains and captivity, is indeed Sophocles, is indeed the hero whom outward events cannot alter or affect."