op'd, to take him by the hand;
Then cut the finger off to gain the ring,
And plung'd him back to perish in the waves;
Crying, go dive for more.--I've heard him boast
Of this adventure.

In the 5th act, when Herod is agitated with the rage of jealousy, his
brother Pheroras thus addresses him,

Sir, let her crime
Erase the faithful characters which love
Imprinted on your heart,

HEROD. Alas! the pain
We feel, whene'er we dispossess the soul
Of that tormenting tyrant, far exceeds
The rigour of his rule.

PHERORAS. With reason quell
That haughty passion; treat it as your slave:
Resume the monarch.

The observation, which Herod makes upon this, is very affecting. The
poet has drawn him so tortured with his passion, that he seems almost
sufficiently punished, for the barbarity of cutting off the father and
brother of Mariamne,

HEROD. Where's the monarch now?
The vulgar call us gods, and fondly think
That kings are cast in more than mortal molds;
Alas! they little know that when the mind
Is cloy'd with pomp, our taste is pall'd to joy;
But grows more sensible of grief or pain.
The stupid peasant with as quick a sense
Enjoys the fragrance of a rose, as I;
And his rough hand is proof against the thorn,
Which rankling in my tender skin, would seem
A viper's tooth. Oh blissful poverty!
Nature, too partial! to thy lot assigns
Health, freedom, innocence, and downy peace,
Her real goods; and only mocks the great
With empty pageantries! Had I been born
A cottager, my homely bowl had flow'd
Secure from pois'nous drugs; but not my wife!
Let me, good heav'n! forget that guilty name,
Or madness will ensue.

Some critics have blamed Mariamne, for yielding her affections to
Herod, who had embrued his hands in her father and brother's blood; in
this perhaps she cannot be easily defended, but the poet had a right
to represent this as he literally found it in history; and being the
circumstance upon which all the others depended. Tho' this play is
one of the most beautiful in our language, yet it is in many places
exposed to just criticism; but as it has more beauties than faults, it
would be a kind of violence to candour to shew the blemishes.

The life of Fenton, like other poets who have never been engaged in
public business, being barren of incidents, we have dwelt the longer
on his works, a tribute which his genius naturally demanded from us.