s faire _Englands_ lord:
(7) warlicke sonnes I left, yett being gone
No one succeeded in my kingly throne, &c.

I will not inflict more of this stuff on the reader. Suffice it to say
that _Woodstock_ wakes in terror and calls aloud. _Lapoole_, the
governor of the city, who is close at hand with two murderers, enters
and comforts him. Here the playwright shows a touch of pathos:--

Good nyght, _Lapoole_, and pardon me, I prethee,
That my sadd feare made question of thy faith.
My state is fearefull and my mynd was troubled
Even at thy entrance with most fearefull vissions
Which made my passiones more extreame and hastye.
Out of my better judgment I repent itt
And will reward thy love: once more, good nyght.

Now follows the _Lady Mother_ (leaves 186-211), which I have proved to
be a play of Glapthorne's. No doubt it is the same piece as the _Noble
Trial_, entered on the Stationers' Registers, June 29, 1660, but not
printed.

Then we have a masque (leaves 212-223). On the first page are given the
_nomina actorum_, and underneath is written "August 5th, 1643." I was
surprised to find in this masque a long passage that occurs also in
Chapman's _Byron's Tragedie_ (ed. Pearson, ii. 262). Ben Jonson said (to
Drummond of Hawthornden) that only he and Chapman knew how to write a
masque. The remark has always puzzled me, and certainly I should never
have thought of Chapman's name in connexion with this masque. Here is an
extract, containing the passage from _Byron's Tragedie_:--

_Love_. For thy sake, Will, I feathered all my thoughts
And in a bird's shape flew in to her bosome,
The bosome of _Desert_, thy beautious Mistris,
As if I had been driven by the hauke
In that sweet sanctuary to save my liffe.
She smild on me, cald me her prety bird,
And for her sport she tyed my little legs
In her faire haire. Proud of my golden fetters
I chirped for Joy; she confident of my lameness,
Soon disintangled me & then she percht me
Upon her naked breast. There being ravishd
I sung with all my cheere and best of skill.
She answered note for note, relish for relish,
And ran division with such art and ease
That she exceeded me.

_Judgment_. There was rare musicke.

_Love_. In this swete strife, forgetting where I stood.
I trod so hard in straining of my voice
That with my claw I rent her tender skin;
Which as she felt