It is something worth living for, to write or even read such poetry as this is, or to know that it has been written, or that there have been subjects on which to write it!—This, of all Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays, comes the nearest in style and manner to Shakespear, not excepting the first act of the Two Noble Kinsmen, which has been sometimes attributed to him. The FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS by Fletcher alone, is ‘a perpetual feast of nectar’d sweets, where no crude surfeit reigns.’ The author has in it given a loose to his fancy, and his fancy was his most delightful and genial quality, where, to use his own words, ‘He takes most ease, and grows ambitious Thro’ his own wanton fire and pride delicious.’ The songs and lyrical descriptions throughout are luxuriant and delicate in a high degree. He came near to Spenser in a certain tender and voluptuous sense of natural beauty; he came near to Shakespear in the playful and fantastic expression of it. The whole composition is an exquisite union of dramatic and pastoral poetry; where the local descriptions receive a tincture from the sentiments and purposes of the speaker, and each character, cradled in the lap of nature, paints ‘her virgin fancies wild’ with romantic grace and classic elegance. The place and its employments are thus described by Chloe to Thenot: ——‘Here be woods as green As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet Face of the curled stream, with flow’rs as many As the young spring gives, and as choice as any; Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, Arbours o’ergrown with woodbine; caves, and dells; Chuse where thou wilt, while I sit by and sing, Or gather rushes, to make many a ring For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love, How the pale Phœbe, hunting in a grove, First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes She took eternal fire that never dies; How she conveyed him softly in a sleep, His temples bound with poppy, to the steep Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night, Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light, To kiss her sweetest.’ There are few things that can surpass in truth and beauty of allegorical description, the invocation of Amaryllis to the God of Shepherds, Pan, to save her from the violence of the Sullen Shepherd, for Syrinx’ sake: ——‘For her dear sake, That loves the rivers’ brinks, and still doth shake In cold remembrance of thy quick pursuit!’ Or again, the friendly Satyr promises Clorin—