Abbess.  Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck at sea? 
     Bury’d some dear friend?  Hath not else his eye
     Stray’d his affection in unlawful love? 
     A sin prevailing much in youthful men,
     Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. 
     Which of these sorrows is he subject to?

   Adriana.  To none of these, except it be the last: 
     Namely, some love, that drew him oft from home.

   Abbess.  You should for that have reprehended him.

   Adriana.  Why, so I did.

   Abbess.  But not rough enough.

   Adriana.  As roughly as my modesty would let me.

   Abbess.  Haply, in private.

   Adriana.  And in assemblies too.

   Abbess.  Aye, but not enough.

   Adriana.  It was the copy of our conference: 
     In bed, he slept not for my urging it;
     At board, he fed not for my urging it;
     Alone it was the subject of my theme;
     In company, I often glanc’d at it;
     Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.

   Abbess.  And therefore came it that the man was mad: 
     The venom’d clamours of a jealous woman
     Poison more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth. 
     It seems, his sleeps were hinder’d by thy railing: 
     And therefore comes it that his head is light. 
     Thou say’st his meat was sauc’d with thy upbraidings: 
     Unquiet meals make ill digestions,
     Therefore the raging fire of fever bred;
     And what’s a fever but a fit of madness? 
     Thou say’st his sports were hinder’d by thy brawls;
     Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue,
     But moody and dull melancholy,
     Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair;
     And, at her heels, a huge infectious troop
     Of pale distemperatures, and foes to life? 
     In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest
     To be disturb’d, would mad or man or beast;
     The consequence is then, thy jealous fits
     Have scar’d thy husband from the use of wits.

   Luciana.  She never reprehended him but mildly,
     When he demeaned himself rough, rude, and wildly.—­
     Why bear you these rebukes, and answer not?

   Adriana.  She did betray me to my own reproof.

Pinch the conjurer is also an excrescence not to be found in Plautus.  He is indeed a very formidable anachronism.

     They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac’d villain,
     A meer anatomy, a mountebank,
     A thread-bare juggler and a fortune-teller,
     A needy, hollow-ey’d, sharp-looking wretch,
     A living dead man.

This is exactly like some of the Puritanical portraits to be met with in Hogarth.

DOUBTFUL PLAYS OF SHAKESPEARE

We shall give for the satisfaction of the reader what the celebrated German critic, Schlegel, says on this subject, and then add a very few remarks of our own.