Page:The Age of Shakespeare - Swinburne (1908).djvu/297

 Why does yon fellow falsify highways And put his life between the judge's lips, To refine such a thing, keeps horse and men To beat their valors for her? Surely we're all mad people, and they Whom we think are, are not: we mistake those: 'Tis we are mad in sense, they but in clothes. Hippolito. 'Faith, and in clothes too we, give us our due. Vindice. Does every proud and self-affecting dame Camphire her face for this? and grieve her Maker In sinful baths of milk—when many an infant starves, For her superfluous outside,—all for this?

What follows is no whit less noble: but as much may be said of the whole part—and indeed of the whole play. Violent and extravagant as the mere action or circumstance may be or may appear, there is a trenchant straightforwardness of appeal in the simple and spontaneous magnificence of the language, a depth of insuppressible sincerity in the fervent and restless vibration of the thought, by which the hand and the brain and the heart of the workman are equally recognisable. But the crowning example of Cyril Tourneur's