Their studies strangle; poison makes away,
The wretched hangman only ends the play.
Val. Art thou prepared?

Soph. Yes,

Val. Bid thy wife farewell!

Soph. No; I will take no leave !-My Dorigen, Yonder above, 'bout Ariadne's crown,

My spirit shall hover for thee; pr'ythee haste!
Dor. Stay, Sophocles! with this tie up my sight;
Let not soft Nature so transformed be
(And lose her gentler-sex'd humanity)

their fellow-creatures kneel to them, as great men frequently do, is worse than murdering them; it renders them servile and slavish, debases them below the dignity of their nature, murders therefore their fame, and fetters and strangles their studies, i. e. the free exertions of their rational faculties. Whereas poison makes away or destroys a man without injuring his fame, or diminishing the dignity of his soul; and the wretched despicable hangman only puts an end to the part we act upon the stage of this world. This sen timent is continued and improved in Sophocles's next speech upon death.—Seward.

Probably we should point,

which great ones do Their studies strangle.

The sense is, "You will dishonour me less by killing me, than bidding me kneel to Martius. Great men exert themselves to murder the fame of the living; which is greater cruelty than poison or hanging, which but concludes our misery." The expres sion, however, in any sense, is certainly obscure.-Ed. 1778. I should read,

'Tis to murder

The fame of living men, when great ones do
Their studies strangle, &c.

and the meaning may possibly be this: That when great men, by their power, force others to depart from the principles they have formed, from their studies, they destroy their fame. The passage, however, whatever the meaning of it may be, is very obscurely expressed; of the present reading I can make no sense.-Mason.

The reader is here left in possession of all the comments which have been offered on this passage; and as Mason's seems to be the

To make me see my lord bleed !-So! 'tis well;
Never one object underneath the sun
Will I behold before my Sophocles.

Farewell! Now teach the Romans how to die.
Mar. Dost know what 'tis to die?

Soph. Thou dost not, Martius,

And therefore not what 'tis to live. To die
Is to begin to live: It is to end

An old stale weary work, and to commence
A newer and a better: 'Tis to leave
Deceitful knaves, for the society

Of gods and goodness: Thou thyself must part
At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, triumphs,
And prove thy fortitude, what then 'twill do.
Val. But art not grieved nor vexed to leave life

thus?

Soph. Why should I grieve or vex for being sent To them I ever loved best?-Now I'll kneel; But with my back toward thee. 'Tis the last duty This trunk can do the gods.

Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius,

Or Martius' heart will leap out at his mouth!
This is a man; a woman! Kiss thy lord,
And live with all the freedom you were wont.
Oh, Love! thou doubly hast afflicted me,
With virtue and with beauty. Treacherous heart,
My hand shall cast thee quick into my urn,
Ere thou transgress this knot of piety.
Val. What ails my brother?
Soph. Martius, oh, Martius!

Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.
Dor. Oh, star of Rome, what gratitude can speak

most judicious, his variation has been adopted. I cannot, however, think any explanation satisfactory, and am very much inclined to suspect the loss of a line, an accident which has frequently occurred in modern as well as ancient presses.

Fit words to follow such a deed as this?
Mar. Doth Juno talk, or Dorigen?
Val. You are observed.

Mar. This admirable duke, Valerius, [Apart.
With his disdain of fortune, and of death,
Captived himself, hath captivated me;
And though my arm hath ta'en his body here,
His soul hath subjugated Martius' soul;
By Romulus, he is all soul, I think!

He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot be gyv'd:
Then we have vanquish'd nothing; he is free,
And Martius walks now in captivity.

Soph. How fares the noble Roman?
Mar. Why?

Dor. Your blood

Is sunk down to your heart, and your bright eyes Have lost their splendour.

Mar. Baser fires go out

When the sun shines on 'em.-I am not well;
An apoplectic fit I use to have,"

After my heats in war carelessly cool'd.

Soph. Martius shall rest in Athens with his friends,

Till this distemper leave him. Oh, great Roman!
See Sophocles do that for thee he could not
Do for himself, weep. Martius, by the gods,
It grieves me that so brave a soul should suffer

An apoplectic fit.] Whether there is any lesser degree of the apoplexy that does not deprive a man of his senses, I am not physician enough to know; but to make a man accustomed to apoplectic fits seems improper, since the third stroke is generally held fatal. I rather believe the poets wrote epileptic, a distemper that Shakspeare from history gives to two very great soldiers, Julius Cæsar and Henry IV.-Seward.

Probably our authors were even less acquainted with physical terms than Seward.

Under the body's weak infirmity,

Sweet lady, take him to thy loving charge,
And let thy care be tender.

Dor. Kingly sir,

I am your nurse and servant.
Mar. Oh, dear lady,

My mistress, nay, my deity! Guide me, Heaven!
Ten wreaths triumphant Martius will give,
To change a Martius for a Sophocles:

Can it not be done, Valerius, with this boot?7
Inseparable affection, ever thus

Colleague with Athens Rome!

Dor. Beat warlike tunes,

Whilst Dorigen thus honours Martius' brow
With one victorious wreath more!
Soph. And Sophocles

Thus girds his sword of conquest to his thigh,
Which ne'er be drawn, but cut out victory!
Lords. For ever be it thus !

[Exeunt all but CORNELIUS and NICODEMUS. Corn. Corporal Nicodemus, a word with you. Nic. My worthy sutler Cornelius, it befits not Nicodemus the Roman officer to parley with a fellow of thy rank; the affairs of the empire are to be occupied.

Corn. Let the affairs of the empire lie awhile unoccupied! Sweet Nicodemus, I do require the money at thy hands, which thou dost owe me; and if fair means cannot attain, force of arms shall accomplish. [Draws.

Nic. Put up, and live.

Corn. I have put up too much already, thou corporal of concupiscence; for I suspect thou hast

"With this boot.] i. e. With this advantage in exchange.-Ed. 1778.

dishonoured my flock-bed, and with thy foolish eloquence, and that bewitching face of thine, drawn my wife, the young harlotry baggage, to prostitute herself unto thee. Draw, therefore; for thou shalt find thyself a mortal corporal!

Nie. Stay thy dead-doing hand, and hear; I will rather descend from my honour, and argue these contumelies with thee, than clutch thee (poor fly) in these eaglet claws of mine; or draw my sword of fate on a peasant, a besognio,' a cocoloch,' as thou art. Thou shalt first understand this foolish eloquence, and intolerable beauty of mine (both which, I protest, are merely natural) are the gifts of the gods, with which I have neither sent bawdy sonnet, nor amorous glance, or (as the vulgar call it) sheep's eye to thy betrothed Florence.

Corn. Thou liest !

Nic. Oh, gods of Rome, was Nicodemus born To bear these braveries from a poor provant?

8 Than clutch thee (poor fly) in these eaglet of mine.] I cannot account for this omission in the old folios: Claws is the silent conjectural reading of Seward, and certainly makes sense; but I suspect the original word was one which the licenser of the stage would not suffer to stand.

9 Besognio.] A very usual word of contempt in old authors, borrowed from the Spanish; meaning a recruit, a raw soldier. So in Massinger's Maid of Honour':

So

"There was not

coy a beauty in the town, but would

For half a mouldy biscuit sell herself

To a poor bisognion, and without shrieking."

A cocoloch.] Cotgrave explains coqueluche, "a hood; also, the coqueluchoe, a new disease which troubled the French about the years 1510 and 1557; and us but a while ago." Cotgrave's Dict. 1611, fol. Hence probably the word in the text became proverbial for a poor diseased wretch.