I do not remember without considerable effort the plot or persons of most of his plays—Perkin Warbeck, The Lover’s Melancholy, Love’s Sacrifice, and the rest. There is little character, except of the most evanescent or extravagant kind (to which last class we may refer that of the sister of Calantha in the Broken Heart)—little imagery or fancy, and no action. It is but fair however to give a scene or two, in illustration of these remarks (or in confutation of them, if they are wrong) and I shall take the concluding one of the Broken Heart, which is held up as the author’s master-piece. ‘SCENE—_A Room in the Palace._ _Loud Music._—_Enter_ Euphranea, _led by_ Groneas _and_ Hemophil: Prophilus, _led by_ Christalla _and_ Philema: Nearchus _supporting_ Calantha, Crotolon, _and_ Amelus.—(_Music ceases_). _Cal._ We miss our servants, Ithocles and Orgilus; on whom attend they? _Crot._ My son, gracious princess, Whisper’d some new device, to which these revels Should be but usher: wherein I conceive Lord Ithocles and he himself are actors. _Cal._ A fair excuse for absence. As for Bassanes, Delights to him are troublesome. Armostes Is with the king? _Crot._ He is. _Cal._ On to the dance! Dear cousin, hand you the bride: the bridegroom must be Entrusted to my courtship. Be not jealous, Euphranea; I shall scarcely prove a temptress. Fall to our dance! (_They dance the first change, during which enter_ Armostes). _Arm._ (_in a whisper to_ Calantha). The king your father’s dead. _Cal._ To the other change. _Arm._ Is’t possible? _Another Dance._—_Enter_ Bassanes. _Bass._ (_in a whisper to_ Calantha). Oh! Madam, Panthea, poor Panthea’s starv’d. _Cal._ Beshrew thee! Lead to the next! _Bass._ Amazement dulls my senses. _Another Dance._—_Enter_ Orgilus. _Org._ Brave Ithocles is murder’d, murder’d cruelly. (_Aside to_ Calantha). _Cal._ How dull this music sounds! Strike up more sprightly: Our footings are not active like our heart,[26] Which treads the nimbler measure. _Org._ I am thunderstruck. _The last Change._—_Music ceases._ _Cal._ So; Let us breathe awhile. Hath not this motion Rais’d fresher colours on our cheek? _Near._ Sweet princess, A perfect purity of blood enamels The beauty of your white. _Cal._ We all look cheerfully: And, cousin, ’tis methinks a rare presumption In any who prefers our lawful pleasures Before their own sour censure, to interrupt The custom of this ceremony bluntly. _Near._ None dares, lady. _Cal._ Yes, yes; some hollow voice deliver’d to me How that the king was dead. _Arm._ The king is dead,’ &c. &c.