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love, in Alexander, “with such godlike ardour, that spectators could scarcely once doubt of his immediate descent from Jupiter.” Nor was this Performer's warmth of passion confined to his fictitious characters; he possessed it as a quality of his own, and was the man who beguiled poor Nell Gwyn from selling oranges at the playhouse door, and instructed her to become an actress. But soon she forsook the counterfeit King of Macedon for the real King of England,-and became mother of the • Duke of St. Albans. The dreadful calamity which befel Lee, soon after the writing of this tragedy, is well known; yet no particular cause has been assigned for the affliction with which he was visited . Having progressively fallen into a state of insanity, he was confined in Bedlam for four years. In his lucid intervals he had industry; and followed his wonted occupation of writing plays; and his description of a madman in

one of those productions, is surely, considering his

own situation at the time, the most curious and interesting passage he ever wrote.

Description of a Madman, by LEE.

“ To my charm'd ears no more of woman tell:

“ Name not a woman, and I shall be well.
“ i.ike a poor lunatic, that makes his moan,
* And for a while beguiles his lookers on.

“He reasons well—his eyes their wildness lose,

“He vows the keepers his wrong'd sense abuse.

“But if you hint the cause that hurt his brain,

“Then his teeth gnash, he foams, he shakes his chain,

“His eyeballs roll, and he is mad again.”

Lee was, happily, restored to society from his miserable confinement, though he did not long enjoy his liberty.

He died suddenly in the streets, at the age of thirty-four.

The severe indisposition to which he was subject, may possibly have had influence in guiding his pen to some of those flights of imagination, called by the sober critic—phrenzy. But thus the great Dryden speaks of those flights, and of those critics who censure them.

“Despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse,

“The too much vigour of your youthful muse.
“That humble style, which they their virtue make,
“Is in your power—you need but stoop and take.
“Your beauteous images must be allow'd
“By all, but some vile poets of the crowd:
“But how should any sign-post dauber know
“The worth of Titian, or of Angelo 2

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RIVAL QUEENS.

* ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE i.

Alexander's Camp before Babylon.

Enter HEPHESTION and Lysimachus, fighting; CLYTUs parting them.

Clyt. What! are ye madmen This a time for quarrel ? Put up, I say—or, by the gods that formed me, He, who refuses, makes a foe of Clytus. Lys. I have his sword. Clyt. But must not have his life. Lys. Must not, old Clytus ! Clyt. Hair-brained boy, you must not. Heph. Lend me thy sword, thou father of the war, Thou far-famed guard of Alexander's life: Curse on this weak, unexecuting arm' Lend it, old Clytus, to redeem my fame; Lysimachus is brave, and else will scorn me. Lys. There, take thy sword; and, since thou’rs bent on death, Know, 'tis thy glory, that thou diest by me. Clut. Stay thee, Lysimachus; Hephestion, hold

I bar you both. My body interposed,
Now let me see, which of you dares to strike.
By Jove, you have stirred the old man! That rash
arm,
That first advances, moves against the gods,
And our great king, whose deputy I stand.
Lys. Some properer time must terminate our quar-
rel.
Heph. And cure the bleeding wounds my honour
bcars.
Clyt. Some properer time ! 'tis false—no hour is
proper;
No time should see a brave man do amiss.-
Say, what's the noble cause of all this madness,
What vast ambition blows the dangerous fire?
Why, a vain, smiling, whining, cozening, woman!
By all my triumphs, in the heat of youth,
When towns were sack'd, and beauties prostrate lay,
When my blood boil'd, and nature worked me high,
Clytus ne'er bow'd his body to such shame;
I knew them, and despised their cobweb arts—
The whole sex is not worth a soldier's thought.
Lys. Our cause of quarrel may to thee seem light
But know, a less hath set the world in arms.
Clyt. Yes, Troy, they tell us, by a woman fell;
Curse on the sex, they are the bane of virtue !
Death ! I had rather this right arm were lost,
Than that the king should hear of your imprudence—
What, on a day thus set apart for triumph 1
Lys. We were, indeed, to blame.
Clyt. This memorable day !
When our hot master, whose impatient soul
Out-rides the sun, and sighs for other worlds
To spread his conquests, and diffuse his glory,
Now bids the trumpet for a while be silent,
And plays with monarchs whom he us’d to drive;
Shall we, by broils, awake him into rage,
And rouse the lion that has ceas'd to roar 2

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