Exclusive of the horrible nature of the subject, the colours are laid on too thick to produce the desired effect.  The monstrous caricatures, which are exhibited as just paintings of the Dutch character, unrelieved even by the grandeur of wickedness, and degraded into actual brutality, must have produced disgust, instead of an animated hatred and detestation.  For the horrible spectacle of tortures and mangled limbs exhibited on the stage, the author might plead the custom of his age.  A stage direction in Ravenscroft’s alteration of “Titus Andronicus,” bears, “A curtain drawn, discovers the heads and hands of Demetrius and Chiron hanging up against the wall; their bodies in chairs, in bloody linen.”  And in an interlude, called the “Cruelty of the Spaniards in Peru,” written by D’Avenant, “a doleful pavin is played to prepare the change of the scene, which represents a dark prison at a great distance; and farther to the view are discerned racks and other engines of torment, with which the Spaniards are tormenting the natives and English mariners, who may be supposed to be lately landed there to discover the coast.  Two Spaniards are likewise discovered sitting in their cloaks, and appearing more solemn in ruffs, with rapiers and daggers by their sides; the one turning a spit, while the other is basting an Indian prince, who is roasted at an artificial fire[1].”  The rape of Isabinda is stated by Langbaine to have been borrowed from a novel in the Decamerone of Cinthio Giraldi.

This play is beneath criticism; and I can hardly hesitate to term it the worst production Dryden ever wrote.  It was acted and printed in 1673.

Footnote: 
1.  This extraordinary kitchen scene did not escape the ridicule of the
   wits of that merry age.

O greater cruelty yet,
Like a pig upon a spit;
Here lies one there, another boiled to jelly;
Just as the people stare
At an ox in the fair,
Roasted whole, with a pudding in’s belly.

A little further in,
Hung a third by his chin,
And a fourth cut all in quarters. 
O that Fox had now been living,
They had been sure of heaven,
Or, at the least, been some of his martyrs.

To

The right honourable

The

LordClifford

Of

Chudleigh[1].

MY LORD,

After so many favours, and those so great, conferred on me by your lordship these many years,—­which I may call more properly one continued act of your generosity and goodness,—­I know not whether I should appear either more ungrateful in my silence, or more extravagantly vain in my endeavours to acknowledge them:  For, since all acknowledgements bear a face of payment, it may be thought, that I have flattered myself into an opinion of being able to return some part of my obligements to you;—­the just despair of which attempt, and the due veneration I