Next on our List (leaves 224-244) is the Two Noble Ladyes, or the Converted Conjurer.  This “Tragicomicall Historie often tymes acted with approbation at the Red Bull in St. John’s Streete by the company of the Revells,” is a coarse noisy play.  The comic part consists of the most absurd buffoonery, and the rest is very stilted.  But there is one scene—­and one only—­which shows genuine poetic power.  It is where Cyprian, the sorcerer, having by his magical arts saved Justina, a Christian maiden, tries to gain her love:—­

        Enter Cyprian and Justina.

Cyprian.  Doe not disdayne, faire peece of Natures pride, To heare him plead for love that sav’d thy life.  It was my pow’rfull arte produc’d those monsters To drowne those monstrous executioners That should have wrought your wracke.

    Justina.  Sir, I am sorry
    Hell had a hand in my delivery: 
    That action cannot merrit my affection.

    Cyprian.  I not alleadge it for desert of grace
    But argument of mercie:  pitty him
    That in distresse so lately pitty’d you.

    Justina.  I am the troth-plight wife of Clitophon,
    The Prince of Babylon; hee has my hart,
    And theres no share for others.

Cyprian.  That high state Is now at a low ebbe:  destruction Hangs like a threatning Commet ore the walls Of Babilon.  Then fix thy love on him That can more then the greatest prince on earth.  Love mee, and princes shall thy pages bee; Monarchs shall lay their crownes and royalties As presents at thy feet; the Indian mynes Shall be thy ioyntures; all the worldes rich marchants Shall bring their pearles and pretious stones to thee, Sweet gums and spices of Arabia, Fine Median linnen and Barbarian silkes; The earth shall beare no fruit of raritie But thou shalt taste it.  Weele transforme ourselves In quaintest shapes to vary our delights.  And in a chariot wrought out of a cloud, Studded with starres, drawne through the subtle aire By birds of paradise, wee’ll ride together To fruitfull Thessalie, where in fair Tempe (The only pleasant place of all the earth) Wee’ll sport us under a pavilion Of Tyrian scarlet.

Justina.  Should these rarities (Faithlesse as are your wondrous promises) Lead me into the hazard of my soule And losse of such ay-lasting happinesse As all earths glories are but shaddows to?

Cyprian.  Thincke you this rare pile of perfection.  Wherein Love reads a lecture of delight, Ows not it’s use to Nature?  There is love In every thing that lives:  the very sunne Does burne in love while we partake his heate; The clyming ivy with