among the very finest he ever wrote; and there are many passages in which, while he preserves his own distinctive marks, he has gathered no small portion of the flame and inspiration of his immortal friend and assistant. In the following speeches there are images and phrases, which are either identically Fletcher's, or closely resemble his, and the whole cast both of versification and idiom is strictly his:-- [Sidenote: Act II. scene i. Fletcher's.] _Palamon._ Oh, cousin Ar|cite! Where is Thebes now? where is our noble coun|try? Where are our friends and kindreds? Never more Must we behold those comforts; never see The hardy youths strive in the games of hon|our, Hung with the painted favours of their la|dies, Like tall ships under sail; then start among | them, And as an east wind leave them all behind | us Like lazy clouds, while Palamon and Ar|cite, Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, Outstript the people's praises, won the gar|lands, [37:1]Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, nev|er Shall we two exercise, like twins of hon|our, Our arms again, and feel our fiery hors|es Like proud seas under us! our good swords now, (Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore,) Ravish'd our sides, like age must run to rust, And deck the temples of the gods that hate | us: These hands shall never draw them out like light|ning To blast whole armies more. [Sidenote: Picture fully wrought out.] [Sidenote: Romantic, pathetic sketch.] _Arcite._ ... The sweet embraces of a loving wife, Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand cu|pids, Shall never clasp our necks: no issue know | us; No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see, To glad our age, and like young eagles teach | them Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say, "Remember what your fathers were, and con|quer." --The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments, And in their songs curse ever-blinded For|tune, Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and Nature.--This is all our world: We shall know nothing here but one anoth|er,-- Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes; The vine shall grow, but we shall never see | it: Summer shall come, and with her all delights, But dead-cold winter must inhabit here | still! _Palamon._ 'Tis too true, Arcite! To our Theban hounds, That shook the aged forest with their ech|oes, No more now must we halloo; no more shake Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine Flies like a Parthian[37:2] quiver from our rag|es, Struck with our well-steel'd darts....