The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold, The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed; Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay, _Dola._ No more: I would not hear it, _Ant._ O, you must! She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, And cast a look so languishingly sweet, As if secure of all beholders hearts, Neglecting she could take them: Boys, like Cupids, Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds That played about her face! But if she smiled, A darting glory secured to blaze abroad: That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object: To soft flutes The silver oars kept time; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more; For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath To give their welcome voice. Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? Was not thy fury quite disarmed with murder? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes, And whisper in my ear, Oh, tell her not That I accused her of my brother's death? In judging betwixt these celebrated passages, we feel almost afraid to avow a preference of Dryden, founded partly upon the easy flow of the verse, which seems to soften with the subject, but chiefly upon the beauty of the language and imagery, which is flowery without diffusiveness, and rapturous without hyperbole. I fear Shakespeare cannot be exculpated from the latter fault; yet I am sensible, it is by sifting his beauties from his conceits that his imitator has been enabled to excel him. It is impossible to bestow too much praise on the beautiful passages which occur so frequently in "All for Love." Having already given several examples of happy expression of melancholy and tender feelings, I content myself with extracting the sublime and terrific description of an omen presaging the downfall of Egypt. _Serap._ Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone isle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, Shook all the dome: The doors around me clapt; The iron wicket, that defends the vault, Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid, Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: The boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried,--"Egypt is no more!" My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so, unfinished, left the horrid scene.