A man within 't in ambush to entrap me.
I did but lift my hand up, and he presently
Catch'd at it.

Col.

'Twas the shadow, sir, of yourself;

Trust me, a mere reflection.

Deil. (mustering up all his forces). I will trust thee.
Apho. What glass is that?

Col. (aside to APHOBUS) A trick to fright the idiot
Out of his wits; a glass so full of dread,
Rend'ring to the eye such horrid spectacles
As would amaze even you, sir. I do think
Your optic nerves would shrink in the beholding.
This if your eye endure, I will confess you

The prince of eagles.

Apho. Look to it, eyes: if ye refuse this right,

My nails shall damn you to eternal night.

Col. (aside to himself) Seeing no hope of gain, I pack them hence. 'Tis gold gives flattery all her eloquence.

1 Who knows but they come leering after us,
To steal away the substance?

A very poetical apprehension, and very poetically expressed. The word leering has a fine comic mystery in it; which is always an aggravation of horror, upon the principle of extremes meeting;malice in benevolence.

The mere epitomes of the gunpowder treason!
Faux in a lesser volume!

The wording of this extravagance is just as if Charles Lamb had written it. But indeed, in the

pregnancy as well as colouring of his style, he was one of our old wits come back again.

The caricatures of Fear, after all, are no caricatures. It is the only passion that cannot be overdrawn. Multitudes of people in civilized countries have been known to do things as ridiculous as this; have believed in the end of the world because a madman announced it, and gone out of town to avoid an earthquake next Wednesday!

4 “I will not die.”—Here again there is no caricature. These ridiculous words have too often become terrible to the hearers, in the mouth of poor angry mortality. What Deilus also says afterwards of his killing himself to avoid death, has not only the authority of Ovid—

Mortisque timorem

Morte fugit

And from the fear of Death

Flies into death's own arms;

but is founded in the depths of the secret of

terror.

PRETENDED FAIRIES ROBBING AN ORCHARD.

DORYLAS has induced JoCASTUS, a foolish country gentleman, to believe him to be OBERON, Prince of the Fairies; and, in company with some other young rogues, takes advantage of his credulity to rob his orchard.

Enter DORYLAS, with a bevy of Fairies.

Dor. (to his companions) How like you my Grace?

countenance

Royal and full of majesty? Walk I not

Like the young Prince of Pygmies? Ha, my knaves!
We'll fill our pockets. Look, look yonder, elves :
Would not yon apples tempt a better conscience
Than any we have to rob an orchard?

Ha!

Fairies, like nymphs with child, must have the things
They long for. You sing here a fairy catch

In that strange tongue I taught you, while myself

Do climb the trees.

(He climbs.) Thus princely Oberon

Ascends his throne of state.

Is not my

CHORUS OF FAIRIES.

Nos beata Fauni proles,1
Quibus non est magna moles,
Quamvis Lunam incolamus,

Hortos sæpe frequentamus.

[We, the Fairies, blithe and antic,

Of dimensions not gigantic,

Though the moonshine mostly keep us,

Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Furto cuncta magis bella,
Furto dulcior puella,
Furto omnia decora,

Furto poma dulciora.

Cum mortales lecto jacent,

Nobis poma nocte placent ;
Illa tamen sunt ingrata,

Nisi furto sint parata.

Enter JOCASTUS and his servant BROMIUS.

Joc. What divine noise, fraught with immortal harmony, Salutes mine ears?

Brom.

Why, this immortal harmony

Rather salutes your orchard. These young rascals, (Aside).

These peascod shellers, do so cheat my master,

We cannot have an apple in the orchard,

But straight some fairy longs for 't. (To his master.) Well, if I Might have my will, a whip again should jerk 'em

Into their old mortality.

Joc.

Dar'st thou, screech-owl,

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen be your apples.

When to bed the world are bobbing,
Then's the time for orchard robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling.
Were it not for stealing, stealing.]

With thy rude croaking interrupt their music,
Whose melody has made the spheres to lay
Their heavenly lutes aside, only to listen

To their more charming notes?

Brom.

Say what you will,

I say a cudgel now were excellent music.

CHORUS OF FAIRIES.

Oberon, descende citus,
Ne cogaris hinc invitus.
Canes audio latrantes,
Et mortales vigilantes.

Joc. Prince Oberon! I heard his Grace's name. Brom. O ho! I spy his Grace. Most noble Prince, Come down, or I'll so pelt your Grace with stones, That I believe your Grace was ne'er so pelted,

Since 't was a Grace.

Dor.

Bold mortal, hold thy hand.

Brom. Immortal thief, come down, or I will fetch you.2 Methinks it should impair your Grace's honour

To steal poor mortals' apples. Now, have at you.
Dor. Jocastus, we are Oberon; and we thought

That one so near to us as you in favour,

Would not have suffer'd this profane rude groom
Thus to impair our royalty.

[Oberon, descend, we pray thee,
Lest a swift stick over-lay thee.
Dogs are on the watch, and barking,

Eyes of mortals anti-larking.]