for

ceits. But Shakespear, when he defcends to a play of words, is not always in the wrong; it is done fometimes to denote a peculiar character, as in the following paffage:

K. Philip. What fay'st thou, boy? look in the lady's face.

Lewis. I do, my Lord, and in her eye I find

A wonder, or a wond'rous miracle;

The fhadow of myfelf form'd in her eye;
Which being but the fhadow of your son,
Becomes a fun, and makes your fon a shadow.
I do proteft, I never lov'd myfelf

Till now infixed I beheld myfelf

Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye.

Faulconbridge. Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her
eye!

Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!
And quarter'd in her heart he doth espy
Himfelf Love's traitor: this is pity now,

That hang'd, and drawn, and quarter'd, there fhould

be,

In fuch a love fo vile a lout as he.

King John, act 2. fc. 5.

A jingle of words is the loweft fpecies of that low wit; which is fcarce fufferable in any cafe, and leaft of all in an heroic poem: and yet Milton, in fome inftances, has defcended to that puerility:

And brought into the world a world of wo.

begirt th' Almighty throne

Befeeching

Befeeching or besieging

Which tempted our attempt

At one flight bound high overleap'd all bound.
With a fhout

Loud as from numbers without number.

One should think it unneceffary to enter a caveat against an expression that has no meaning, or no distinct meaning; and yet fomewhat of that kind may be found even among good wriSuch make a fixth class.:

ters.

Sebaftian. I beg no pity for this mould'ring clay For if you give it burial, there it takes

Poffeffion of your earth:

If burnt and scatter'd in the air; the winds
That strow my dust, diffuse my royalty,

And spread me o'er your clime; for where one atom
Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns.
Dryden, Don Sebaftian King of Portugal, að. 1.

Cleopatra. Now, what news, my Charmion?
Will he be kind? and will he not forsake me?
Am I to live or die? nay, do I live?

Or am I dead? for when he gave his anfwer,
Fate took the word, and then I liv'd or dy'd.

Dryden, All for Love, alt 24

If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire,

If her chill heart I cannot move;
Why, I'll enjoy the very love,

And make a mistress of my own defire.

Cowly, poem infcribed, The Request.

His

His whole poem, infcribed, My picture, is a jargon of the fame kind.

'Tis he, they cry, by whom

Not men, but war itself is overcome.

Indian Queen.

Such empty expreffions are finely ridiculed in the Rehearsal:

Was't not unjust to ravish hence her breath,

And in life's stead to leave us nought but death.