Night is described by two great poets, but one describes a night of quiet, the other of perturbation. In the night of Dryden, all the disturbers of the world are laid asleep; in that of Shakespeare, nothing but sorcery, lust, and murder, is awake. He that reads Dryden, finds himself lull'd with serenity, and disposed to solitude and contemplation. He that peruses Shakspeare looks round alarmed, and starts to find himself alone. One is the night of a lover, the other, of a murderer. II.i.52 (438,8) --wither'd Murther, --thus with hia stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, tow'rds his design moves like a ghost.--] This was the reading of this passage [ravishing sides] in all the editions before that of Mr. Pope, who for _sides_, inserted in the text _strides_, which Mr. Theobald has tacitly copied from him, though a more proper alteration might perhaps have been made. A _ravishing stride_ is an action of violence, impetuosity, and tumult, like that of a savage rushing at his prey; whereas the poet is here attempting to exhibit an image of secrecy and caution, of anxious circumspection and guilty timidity, the _stealthy pace_ of a _ravisher_ creeping into the chamber of a virgin, and of an assassin approaching the bed of him whom he proposes to murder, without awaking him; these he describes as _moving like ghosts_, whose progression is so different from _strides_, that it has been in all ages represented te be, as Milton expresses it, _Smooth sliding without step_. This hemiatic will afford the true reading of this place, which is, I think, to be corrected thus: --_and wither'd Murder_. --_thus with his_ stealthy _pace_. _With Tarquin ravishing_, slides _tow'rds his design_, _Moves like a ghost_.-- _Tarquin_ is in this place the general name of a ravisher, and the sense is, Now is the time in which every one is a-sleep, but those who are employed in wickedness; the witch who is sacrificing to Hecate, and the ravisher, and the murderer, who, like me, are stealing upon their prey. When the reading is thus adjusted, he wishes with great propriety, in the following lines, that the _earth_ may not _hear his steps_. II.i.59 (439,3) And take the present horrour from the time,/Which now suits with it] Of this passage an alteration was once proposed by me, of which I have now a less favourable opinion, yet will insert it, as it may perhaps give some hint to other critics: _And take the present horrour from the time, Which now suits with it_.-- I believe every one that has attentively read this dreadful soliloquy is disappointed at the conclusion, which, if not wholly unintelligible, is, at least, obscure, nor can be explained into any sense worthy of the authour. I shall therefore propose a slight alteration: --_Thou sound and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about, And talk--the present horrour of the time! That now suits with it_.--