"_Now let not Nature's hand
Keep the wild flood confined; let Order die,
And let the world no longer be a stage,
To feed contention in a lingering act;
But let one spirit of the firstborn Cain
Reign in all bosoms, that each heart being set
On bloody courses, the wide scene may end,
And darkness be the burier of the dead_."
Reading but this one scene has convinced me, that he who describes the
concern of great men, must have a soul as noble, and as susceptible of
high thoughts, as they whom he represents: I shall therefore lay by my
drama for some time, and turn my thoughts to cares and griefs, somewhat
below that of heroes, but no less moving. A misfortune proper for me to
take notice of, has too lately happened: the disconsolate Maria[459] has
three days kept her chamber for the loss of the beauteous Fidelia, her
lap-dog. Lesbia herself[460] did not shed more tears for her sparrow.
What makes her the more concerned, is, that we know not whether Fidelia
was killed or stolen; but she was seen in the parlour window when the
train-bands went by, and never since.
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