The Works of Henry Fielding Part 20

[Footnote 1: This speech has been terribly mauled by the poet.]

[Footnote 2: ----My life is worn to rags, Not worth a prince's wearing.--_Love Triumphant_.

[Footnote 3: Must I beg the pity of my slave?

Must a king beg? But love's a greater king, A tyrant, nay, a devil, that possesses me.

He tunes the organ of my voice and speaks, Unknown to me, within me.--_Sebastian_.

[Footnote 4: When thou wert form'd, heaven did a man begin; But a brute soul by chance was shuffled in.--_Aurengzebe_.

[Footnote 5: I am a mult.i.tude Of walking griefs.--_New Sophonisba_.

[Footnote 6: I will take thy scorpion blood, And lay it to my grief till I have ease.--_Anna Bullen_.

_Glum_. What do I hear?

_King_. What do I see?

_Glum_. Oh!

_King_. Ah!

[1]_Glum_. Ah! wretched queen!

_King_. Oh! wretched king!

[2]_Glum_. Ah!

_King_. Oh!

[Footnote 1: Our author, who everywhere shews his great penetration into human nature, here outdoes himself: where a less judicious poet would have raised a long scene of whining love, he, who understood the pa.s.sions better, and that so violent an affection as this must be too big for utterance, chuses rather to send his characters off in this sullen and doleful manner, in which admirable conduct he is imitated by the author of the justly celebrated Eurydice. Dr Young seems to point at this violence of pa.s.sion:

--Pa.s.sion choaks Their words, and they're the statues of despair.

And Seneca tells us, "Curse leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent." The story of the Egyptian king in Herodotus is too well known to need to be inserted; I refer the more curious reader to the excellent Montaigne, who hath written an essay on this subject.]

[Footnote 2: To part is death.

Tis death to part.

Ah!

Oh --_Don Carlos_.

SCENE IX.--TOM THUMB, HUNCAMUNCA, Parson.

_Par_. Happy's the wooing that's not long a doing; For, if I guess right, Tom Thumb this night Shall give a being to a new Tom Thumb.

_Thumb_. It shall be my endeavour so to do.

_Hunc_. Oh! fie upon you, sir, you make me blush.

_Thumb_. It is the virgin's sign, and suits you well: [1] I know not where, nor how, nor what I am; [2] I am so transported, I have lost myself.

[Footnote 1: Nor know I whether What am I, who, or where. --_Busiris_.

I was I know not what, and am I know not how.

--_Gloriana_.

[Footnote 2: To understand sufficiently the beauty of this pa.s.sage, it will be necessary that we comprehend every man to contain two selfs. I shall not attempt to prove this from philosophy, which the poets make so plainly evident.

One runs away from the other:

----Let me demand your majesty, Why fly you from yourself? --_Duke of Guise_.

In a second, one self is a guardian to the other:

Leave me the care of me. --_Conquest of Granada_.

Again:

Myself am to myself less near. --_Ibid_.

In the same, the first self is proud of the second:

I myself am proud of me. --_State of Innocence_.

In a third, distrustful of him:

Fain I would tell, but whisper it in my ear, That none besides might hear, nay, not myself.

--_Earl of Ess.e.x_.

In a fourth, honours him:

I honour Rome, And honour too myself. --_Sophonisba_.

In a fifth, at variance with him:

Leave me not thus at variance with myself. --_Busiris_.

Again, in a sixth:

I find myself divided from myself. --_Medea_.

She seemed the sad effigies of herself. --_Banks_.

a.s.sist me, Zulema, if thou would'st be The friend thou seem'st, a.s.sist me against me.

--_Albion Queens_.