DRAMATIC LITERATURE. 635 



And only yielding or receiving pleasure 



As the approval of my lord inclines, 



What am I but the slave your highness makes me ? 



Henry. I'll tell ye, queen of ours, and though queen, 

 Like any other, still our subject and the laws' ; 

 Thou hast the nicest air of seeming to be all 

 We would have those be who deserve our love ; 

 But giv'st us with that selfsame glossy seeming 

 The assurance that 'tis mask'd dost heed us ha ! 

 Equivocation shining still pursues ye 

 Even as to pleasure us ye mourn in yellow. 



Anne. 'Tis an old usage style by precedent. 

 The colour withering nature wears o'er field 

 And forest sear, was sure no unapt sign 

 To paint the death of man. But grant it faint 

 Shall a difficulty in our humours quench 

 The honest love that join'd us first together 

 When 'twas Midsummer morn, that streaks the East, 

 And straight unlocks the treasuries of light 

 Within the hour excursive o'er the spheres 

 With all that dignifies or can enrich ? 

 Full frank and free as that my lord was once 

 What think ye, sir, has he not alter'd much ? 

 Ye speak not. I put one honest question more. 

 Was it or merit or desire of me, 

 Or but your grace's fancy that preferr'd me ? 



Henry. An if it where, what then ? 



Anne. Oh, sir, not much. 



But I have at times been vex'd with changing thoughts 

 Which hope now idle deem'd, now fear made sure, 

 Lest the foundation upon which I rose 

 Had no fix'd site or strength ; and your grace 

 Hath here the manliness to own your love, 

 So lightly won, as lightly shall be lost. 



Henry. Now is this subtlety to trick an angel ! 

 Shall he who plucks a fruit for sweet and proves 

 It sour, be damn'd for the deceit on him ! 

 Tut, tut, you trouble us. Pray Heaven to make ye 

 Humble, and take this for consolation 

 We have sworn no more to get our boys with you. 



Anne. Forgive him, Heaven ! that speech has half unsexed me. 



[^Exeunt. 



A soliloquy put into the mouth of Wyatt is very fine, and being 

 poetical, in all respects appropriate. "It will be, perhaps, the best 

 evidence we can give of our author's poetical powers : 



Secret and shadowy comes certain death, 

 Arm'd in its fleshless hand with temper' d spear 

 Of monstrous length, and lightning tipp'd at point. 

 His aim is trembling, but a touch destroys ! 

 Up starts the slavering fool appall'd, 

 His nostril fierce distended ; in the damp 

 Of vacancy his lewd mouth hideous yawns; 

 There's one convulsive gasp shakes all his frame., 

 And he's stretch'd lifeless at the tyrant's feet! 

 The wise one lies a moment, as if fainting, 



