‘And all my fears go with thee, What greatness or what private hidden power Is there in me to draw submission From this rude man and beast? Sure I am mortal: The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal, And she that bore me mortal: prick my hand, And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink, Makes me a-cold: my fear says, I am mortal. Yet I have heard, (my mother told it me, And now I do believe it), if I keep My virgin flow’r uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves, Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion Draw me to wander after idle fires; Or voices calling me in dead of night To make me follow, and so tole me on Thro’ mire and standing pools to find my ruin; Else, why should this rough thing, who never knew Manners, nor smooth humanity, whose heats Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen, Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there’s a pow’r In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites That break their confines: then, strong Chastity, Be thou my strongest guard, for here I’ll dwell, In opposition against fate and hell!’ Ben Jonson’s Sad Shepherd comes nearer it in style and spirit, but still with essential differences, like the two men, and without any appearance of obligation. Ben’s is more homely and grotesque, Fletcher’s is more visionary and fantastical. I hardly know which to prefer. If Fletcher has the advantage in general power and sentiment, Jonson is superior in _naiveté_ and truth of local colouring. The TWO NOBLE KINSMEN is another monument of Fletcher’s genius; and it is said also of Shakespear’s. The style of the first act has certainly more weight, more abruptness, and more involution, than the general style of Fletcher, with fewer softenings and fillings-up to sheathe the rough projecting points and piece the disjointed fragments together. For example, the compliment of Theseus to one of the Queens, that Hercules ‘Tumbled him down upon his Nemean hide, And swore his sinews thaw’d’ at sight of her beauty, is in a bolder and more masculine vein than Fletcher usually aimed at. Again, the supplicating address of the distressed Queen to Hippolita, ——‘Lend us a knee: But touch the ground for us no longer time Than a dove’s motion, when the head’s pluck’d off’— is certainly in the manner of Shakespear, with his subtlety and strength of illustration. But, on the other hand, in what immediately follows, relating to their husbands left dead in the field of battle,