UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 7 />'// a/' / / 1 v/ ' // / y : ' /rat 16 THE PLAYS OF PHILIP MASSINGER, IN FOUR VOLUMES. WITH NOTES CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY, Br W. GIFFORD, Esq. HAfl) TAMES IWIOEAS VATI QUEM PU LPITA PASCUNT. ( THE SECOND EDITION. VOLUME THE FIRST. CONTAINING ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. INTRODUCTION, ESSAY, &c. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. THE DUKE OF MILAN. LONDON: printed for g. and w. nicol; f. c. and j. rivington; c a dell and davie**, longman and co.; lackington and co.; j. barker; white and Cochrane; r. h. evans; j. mukkay ; j. mawman; j. faulder ; and r. Baldwin; fljr IV. Buimer and Co. Clercland-Rov: , St. Jamet't. 1813. 29282 ) TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LONG, ONE OF THE LORDS OF HIS MAJESTY'S TREASURY, THIS EDITION OF THE WORKS OF PHILIP MASSINGER, IS INSCRIBED, AS A SINCERE TESTIMONY OF RESPECT FOR HIS PUBLIC CHARACTER, AND OF GRATITUDE FOR MANY ACTS OF FRIENDSHIP AND PERSONAL KINDNESS, BY HIS OBLIGED AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, THE EDITOR. May, 1805. Cr 3U" ADVERTISEMENT v. i TO THE SECOND EDITION. If I ;\m vain enough to believe that a certain species of good fortune has attended my transactions with Mas- singer, the reader must pardon my simple credulity. The first Edition of this Poet, I was enabled to enrich with a Drama, of which nothing but the mere existence was previously known ; and while the present Edition * was preparing for the press, the follow ing information was transmitted to me by my zealous friend, Mr. Gilchrist. " Since the publication of your Massinger, I have obtained, through ihe kindness of a friend, a literary relic of great curiosity; namely, the first edition of the Duke of Miiaine, (4to. 1623,) corrected throughout by the author. When Mr. Blore was collecting materials for a history of Derbyshire, he discovered, among the papers of the late Mr. Gell of Hopton, a copy of the Duke of Milan, the dedication of which he conceived to be in the hand-wriiing of the poet ; and, for the sake of Sir Francis Foljambe, a Derbyshire gentleman to whom it was addressed, he was desirous to have it engraved in facsimile for his work. Upon expressing this wish to his friend, the play was frankly given to him. Mr. vol. I. a ii ADVERTISEMENT. Blore subsequently discovered that what he had taken for the original dedication, was a short poem addressed to Sir Francis Foljambe. - Perhaps the relic lost some- thing of its value in Mr. Blore's estimation, when he perceived it was no longer dedicated to his coun- tryman : it was still, however, a curiosity of no ordinary sort. When Mr. Blore's favourite pursuit led him to investigate the antiquities of the county of Rutland, a common love of literature brought us acquainted Know- ing my fondness for Massinger, he mentioned the circum- stances which I have related : and shortly afterwards presented me with the Play, which i now transmit to you with pleasure for the advantage of your present Edition. I will anticipate your examination of it only by observing that you will feel some satisfaction in discovering that, in two or three instances, the MS. corrections of Mas- singer confirm your conjectures, and that another explains a passage, which, by the blunder of the printer, or the interpolation of the prompter, had hitherto baffled ingenuity." That such a treasure should have lain for nearly two centuries unnoticed and uninjured, must appear some- what extraordinary ; and naturally tends to encourage a hope that chance, or more industrious researches, may yet bring to light other valuable matter, of which the existence is unknown, and which may conduce not a little to the literary advantage and honour of the country. Scarcely six years passed between the death of Shak- speare, and the appearance of the Duke of Milan ; it cannot,* therefore, be deemed altogether visionary, to indulge a hope that something more of the immortal bard than is at present in our hands, may reward a careful inquisition into the unsunned libraries of some of our ancient families. The Duke of Milan (which accompanied Mr. Gil- ADVERTISEMENT. Hi christ's letler,) was presented by the poet, as a token of respect, to Sir F. Foljambe, the generous patron to whom he afterwards dedicated the M aid of Honour. Previously to putting the copy into his hands, Massinger had gone carefully over it with his pen, and corrected not only the errors of the press, but even the spelling where it did not agree with the system of orthography which he ap- pears to ha\e adopted. He also wrote the short address, of which a facsimile is given in the last volume, (p. 593,) as a specimen of his penmanship; it is clear and neat, and proves, beyond a doubt, that the MS. of the Parliament of Love, is from his own hand. I have, of course, adopted all his corrections, and their value has often drawn from me a wish that they had not been confined to a single play. # It remains for me to express my grateful sense of the kindness with which the Public have been pleased to accept the former Edition. I am gratiied to find that I was not greatly mistaken in my estimate of Massinger's merits, and in believing that he only required to be placed before them in a genuine text, to be very exten- sively read and admired. The present Edition has been revised, and the few errors which I have been enabled to detect, carefully removed. I speak merely of the notes : the text remains as it stood ; for such were the unwearied pains with which it was at first established, not only from a collation of all the editions, but of numerous copies of the same edition, that a subsequent examination has not furnished me with a single variation for notice. * Mr. M alone had convinced himself that the proper name of our poet was Messenger, because it is so speit in the title-page of the first edition of the Duke of Milan. In this copy, it is corrected as we now have it, and as it stands at the bottom of his littla address. a2 iv ADVERTISEMENT. Here I should gladly have closed this " Advertisement" had I not conceived it necessary to trespass a little longer on the reader's patience, in consequence of some remarks which appeared on the former Edition. Four years after the publication of these Plays, the Edinburgh Reviewers thought proper to make them the subject of an Article in their twenty-third Number. It seemed to be dictated by personal animosity, (altogether unprovoked on my part,) and had all the worst charac- teristics of a pretended review of my Translation of Juvenal, which appeared in some forgotten journal. Like that critique, the present also, not content with demolish- ing the work in hand, deems it a part of justice, to go back some fifteen or twenty years, and fall upon the Baviad, which is condemned as " austere, morose, and over-bearing," and which the writers strenuously affirm, on summing up their censure, " would probably have been thought too harsh, if the corrupt taste of the times had not justified its asperity.' Ed, Rev. No. 23, p. 99. It is almost too much to be summoned to account for what was published near twenty years ago; nor can I readily recal the precise ideas which floated in' my mind, when I wrote the quatrain quoted by them for the most unworthy purpose. Assuredly, however, I had no more intent to say that Mr. Kemble knew not what he bought, than Persius (for all my strictures were allusive to his examples) had to affirm that Pacuvius knew not what he wrote. Ignorant and affected imitators were, in both cases, the objects of the satire. That I ridiculed the purchase of old plays, is a mere conceit of the Edinburgh Reviewers, who have shewn a degree of muddy -headedness through the whole of their attack on me, which is truly pitiable. My line (verse they will not call it) is, " Buy, at vast sums, the trash of ancient days." ADVERTISEMENT. y Could any hut themselves suppose, that by trash I meant the works of Shakspeare and Jonson ! I set quite as high a value upon old plays a3 they deserve: the dif- ference between me and the critics is, (for I shall not affect a modesty which I do not feel in the present case,) that I know something of their merits, and that they are ignorant of them altogether. In the couplet which immediately follows their quota* tion, I have even specified the object of my satire, the " Soke ofgode advice," which happens not to be a play. I regret, indeed, that the wicked necessity of rhyming obliged me to sophisticate the title, which is, the " Boke of gode marten" a treasure which the critics might have had the pleasure of seeing sold, within the last three months, for more pounds than it was worth pence, and thus have consoled themselves with reflecting that my " asperity" against the high price of trash, had done no harm, and what is rather more to their purpose, no good. With respect to Mr. Kemble, who saw that the drift of my satire was to check the mad competition for every rag and scrap of black letter, I have reason to believe that he thought it well directed. He was far more interested in the matter than myself, and had suffered severely froi>: this indiscriminate passion. So much for the Baviad, which, I trust, it will not be necessary for me to defend a third time. The critics, however, have not yet done with it. u Mr. Gifford (they say) must, as we conceive, have repented him of this attack upon Mr. Kemble because it precluded him from ilie advantage of consulting his collection, a liberty which otherwise would have been willingly granted." p. 100. The never-dying rancour of the Edinburgh Reviewers is proverbial. I am still, however, at a loss to know on what pretence they venture to invest Mr. Kemble with their own feelings. If I have been unjust to this vi ADVERTISEMENT. gentleman, in taxing him (as they say) with unwise pro- fusion, the offence shrinks to nothing before the infamy of their imputation. Mr. Kemble, however, instead of brooding over his resentment for the space of twenty years, as the critics " conceive," no sooner heard that I was engaged on the present work, than with a kindness inherent in his nature, he desired a common friend to offer me, from himself, the free use of his magnificent library, and the loan of every copy of Massinger in his possession ! That I did not avail myself of this generous offer is true ; but I was not therefore the less obliged by it. The fact is, that I was already possessed not only of every edition of Mas- singer known to exist, but of several copies of each edition respectively. The dream of interminable malice, so congenial to their dispositions, still follows them. In the same page, they accuse me of " handling Lord Lansdown harshly ;" and they add, in the tender tone of an Inquisitor General, " We regret that this nobleman's three MS. plays were withheld (if so they were) from Mr. Gifford's examination; we regret that Mr. Kemble's library, (what, again !) was shut against him by his own impetuosity" p. 100. I have already stated, that I declined the use of Mr. Kemble's collection, which was voluntarily tendered to me, because t had no occasion for it; and I now add, (for the further satisfaction of the critics,) that if the three MS. plays in question, had been in my own library in- stead of Lord Lansdown's, I would not have turned over a single page of them. To what purpose should I ? Massinger has few difficulties, which my habitual course of reading did not enable me to explain. lam not without my suspicions, however, that the critics " conceive" the three plays, on which they dwell so much,tobeMassinger's. ADVERTISEMENT- rii It would be well for them, if all their mistakes were equally innocent ! But what do they mean ? Admit- ting, for a moment, that Mr. Kemble wasjustly offended, what injury had Lord Lansdown received from me, that he should ' withhold his treasures, if they were withheld i" No mention of him occurs in the Baviad, and, as he was not a dealer in black letter, he could scarcely take um- brage at the reflections in Ma-singer, especially as he was dead long before they appeared. But to the" harshness with which he is handled." Mr. Warburton, who was possessed of more than fifty old MS. plays, very wisely, (I must not say "foolishly," it seems,)put them in a place of common access, and forgot them : the cook-maid, finding them to be good for something, which her master never appears to have suspected, turned them to account, and torethemup to cover her pies. Now, allowing Mr. Warburton three pies a week, and he surely could not eat more, this economical process must have gone quietly on for the space of ten years, during which he never ap- pears to have made a single inquiry about the fate of his waste paper. He recollects it at last, however ; and upon visiting his kitchen, or perhaps his coal-hole, finds his fifty-two MSS. reduced to three : " these, (I add,) it is said, are now in the library of the Marquis of Lansdown, where they will probably remain in safety, till moths, or damps, or fires, mingle their forgotten dust with that of their late companions. n This is u the very head and front of my offending" against the Marquis : for, with respect to what follows, it is a general reflection, of which not one word applies to him, and forms a separate section in my " Introduction," (p. lii,) though the critics found it more expedient for their purpose, to join it to the preceding sentence. The critics are nearly as judicious in their defence of others as in their accusation of me. 1 had dismissed viii ADVERTISEMENT. Lord Lansdown from my thoughts; but since he is brought forward by them as offering me a rudeness, it may be as well to look at him once more. Isaac Reed, a man of no fortune and no pretensions, procures a curious MS. play, and prints it at his own expense. Lord Lansdown, (who could convey, more money into his pocket in one morning than Isaac possessed in the whole course ot his life,) a begger of dedications, a magnificent Maculonus, becomes possessed of three MS. plays, (saved from the wreck of fifty-two,) and is applauded for not laying out five pounds to place them beyond the reach of destruction, because he might not have found a sufficient number of purchasers to indemnify him for the daring speculation ! u Few," (the critics say) " would buy them," p> 109. But did Isaac Reed sell his copies of the Witch? This conversion of a nobleman into a bookseller, must be allowed to be a most brilliant idea, and every way worthy of the Edinburgh Reviewers. But we have not yet done with these MSS. " It is said," (I had occasion to observe, Introd. p. lii.) f that they are now," &c The critics catch at the words it is said, and broadly insinuate that I spoke thus doubtfully, because Lord Lanrdown, in resentment of I know not what injury, denied me the means of ascertaining the fact. Now mark the whole of what is brought forward respect- ing the list of plays in the hands of Warburton and Lord Lansdown, even to the very titles, is taken verbatim from the common editions of Shakspeare, and has per- haps .been copied, in various publications, fifty or a hun- dred times within the space of the last twenty years ! " It is said," refers to the account given by Steevens, M alone, Reed, and others ; and I only forbore to mention it, because it never occurred to me, that any one who might take up a book of this kind, could possibly be ignorant of the circumstance. To have done with Lord ADVERTISEMENT. ix Lansdown if he was inflamed against me, he kept, I presume, his magnanimous indignation in his own breast ; for I never heard of it before. Something, however, may be gleaned from the ravings of absurdity. Whatever need I may have to consult the library of an Edinburgh Reviewer, 1 will, as Shakspeare says, " rather dwell in my necessity," than afford his rancour the despicable triumph of a refusal. The reader who has formed his opinion of the nature of my " Introduction," from this hypocritical whining about " libraries shut" " access denied," &c. cannot fail to conclude that it is filled with complaints. But what is the fact ? That I speak of nothing but the un- bounded liberality which not only met but prevented my requests. My words are " the kindness of indi- viduals SUPPLIED ME WITH ALL THAT I WANTED." (p. c.) Indeed, I might have gone further: for I had more copies than I used, and refused more copies than I had. For what precise object these illiberal insinuations were hazarded in the face of my express declaration, kindred minds (if such there are) must determine. I am next accused of calling Mr. Warburton a fool ; whether the critics confound him with Dr. Warburton, I know not, nor is it of much consequence: the charge, however, is made out by implication. Locherhas placed in his Ship of Foles, the person who " bought books which he could not read, but which he," as my quotation goes on to say, " nevertheless, preserved with the utmost care and veneration* daily brushing the dust from them with a plume of feathers." Mr. Warburton, whom I would em- bark in his stead, collects a number of valuable MSS. (most of them unique,) and * lodges them," as he says himself, " in the hands of an ignorant servant," who having no charge, it seems, to the contrary, puts them to the best use which her faculties could suggest, and X ADVERTISEMENT. sehds them, one after another, to the oven. As all my acquaintance with this gentleman is derived from the notes on Shakspeare, I know not the precise extent of the injury done him by the projected exchange; but I can inform the critics, that in the Ship, which they sup- pose to be freighted solely with idiots, there were cha- racters to which, in spite of their wisdom, they might have looked with humility. Mr. Warburton, however, like Lord Lansdown, finds, in their tenderness, ample consolation for my u asperity." The MSS. they tell us, (p. 100), "were destroyed by the nigljict of his sebvant" Poor Malkin ! The critics cannot (they say) bestow the unqualified praise of accuracy upon the text, p. 101. I did not expect this. I will take upon me to assert, that a more perfect text of an old poet, never issued from the English press. It was revised, in the first instance, with a care of which there is scarcely an example, and a subsequent examina- tion enables me to speak with a degree of positiveness on the subject, which sets all fear of contradiction at defiance. This charge of inaccuracy, be it observed, comes from a set of men who never looked into Coxeter or M. Mason, and never saw, at least never compared, one line of the old copies with my edition. I say this, because the critique itself furnishes me with numerous proofs of the fact. All that they know of Massinger and his editors, they have learned from me. We come now to the grand assault, that from which, as Mr. Gilchrist assured me, (long before the article appeared) the final overthrow of my reputation was con- fidently anticipated. u It would be difficult," the critics say, " to bring together more errors than are contained in the following note: ADVERTISEMENT. xi * In those three memorable overthrows At Gratuon, Morat, Nancy, where his master, The warlike Charalois, lost men and life. These were indeed " memorable," since they were given by ill-armed, undisciplined rustics (invigorated indeed by the calm and fearless spirit of genuine liberty) t armies superior in number to themselves, and composed of regular troops from some of the most warlike nut ions of Europe. The overthrow of Granson took plcu-e, March 3d, 1476; that of Morat, June 22d, in the same year, and that of Nancy, Jan. 5th, 1477. In this Ch ales (or, as he is here oalied, from the Latin, Charalois,) Duke of Burgundy, fell." Vol. iii. p. 372. " How would Mr. Gifford " (they insultingly exclaim) '* have handled Coxeter or M. Mason, if they had written ' the battle of Agincourt, gained by Henry (or as he was called from the Greek aArxa>, Wales) king of England' ?" p. 101. I answer without hesitation, that meanly as I thought of Coxeter and M. Mason, I never conceived them capable of writing such execrable trash as the Edinburgh Reviewers, out of the abundance of their charity, have imposed upon them. If this abortive ribaldry be meant to insinuate, that it is a part of my character to make a parade of my no-learning, 1 can for- give their ignorance, and smile at their ineffectual malice. " Charolois," they proceed, " which he confounds with the Latin Carolus, was a county subject to the Duke of Burgundy ; and the title of Comte de Charolois was borne by Charles till the death of his father in 14t>7 when he succeeded to the dukedom." p. 101. Twenty yetrsago I read Phil, de Comities in LordGros- venoi's library. I have not looked into him since : yet I could not possibly forget that Charolois is not mentioned once or twice by the historian, but probably as many hun- dred times. Nor is this ail, 1 had extracted from Lodge's xii ADVERTISEMENT. Illustrations, (a work worthy of all praise, and long fami- liar to me,) the following passage, " Biron was to have had Burgundy, Franche Comtek and the county of Charolois," and given it to the printers with other matter. It was recalled, (fortunately the proof-sheet is yet in my hands,) partly from a dislike to long notes, and partly from thinking that to term the Duke of Burgnndy, Charolois, ten years after the title had merged in a superior one, was not much unlike designating the Restoration of Charles, by calling it the lauding of the Earl of Chester. All this is very foolish, it must be al- lowed ; but, in truth, I suspected Massinger of an error of judgment in this place, which I was desirous of passing slightly over, and did not observe, till long after the work was printed, that the poet had committed this imaginary impropriety, in order to account for the name of his hero. The Reviewers, however, could know nothing of what is here advanced : they have, therefore, full consent to be as merry at my expense, as they are wise : " Laugh, happy souls ! enjoy, while yet you may, Short pleasure, for long woes are to succeed." " The historical statement is not less inaccurate. Mr. Gifford had a general impression, that the Swiss were vigorous rustics, contending for their liberty, and, xvithout referring to the particulars of their contest," &c. p. 101. The arrogance of these men is intolerable. On what authority do they assume the license of meteing out the quantum of my information on this subject ? I have pro- bably read as much of the Swiss as the critics themselves, and, as I think, seen a great deal more of them. My state- ments were taken from their own historians; and 1 believe them : they are welcome to trust in Phil, de Comines. It is my delight to dwell on the inspiring story of their valour, their patriotism, and their glory; " it is the base and bitter disposition" of the Edinburgh Reviewers to sacrifice them ADVERTISEMENT. xiii all lo their hatred of whatever appears to obscure the renown of " regenerated France." And what a moment was chosen to insult over the reputation of the Swiss! While " not the subtle fox," (as Massinger calls Louis XI.) but the blood-thirsty tiger " of France," was growling over his prostrate and mangled prey. But this is as it should be this is characteristic of the men, who watch the moment of divine visitation to trample rudely on a just and merciful Sovereign their own sove- reign too, be it remembered " though he teas fetchedfrom Hanover" while they crouch, and tremble, and abjectly crawl in the mire to lick the gory feet of a frantic and ferocious usurper. But to my * blunders." I had said in three words, that the enemies of the Swiss outnumbered them. The critics repel this assertion with great indignation, and prove by many long and laborious extracts from Philip de Comines, that, though their enemies certainly ' outnum- bered them at the battle of Granson," yet I ought to have added, that " the Swiss were strongly posted /" This is excellent. It will henceforth be expedient, instead of a passing allusion in a note, to copy the minute details of every event. After my death, I trust that the hint will be taken, and Massinger, like Mr. Malone's promised Shakspeare, appear in five and twenty volumes quarto. At the battle of Granson, too, I am wrong. From a grave calculation by Phil, de Comines, it is apparent, " that the Swiss had 31,000 troops of all kinds, whereas, the Duke of Burgundy had but 23,000 regulars, besides artillery, and those who attended the baggage," who, for any thing that the Reviewers knew to the contrary, might amount to as many more. And all this formidable dis- play of accuracy, which contains its own refutation, it drawn up against an incidental remark of half a line! At the battle of Nancy, it is still worse. The Duke of xW ADVERTISEMENT. Burgundy was indeed defeated and killed, as I had stated in one word, but then it seems, " some persons who thought they knew, told Phil, de Comines, that the Duke of Burgundy had tut 4,000 men, and of those, not more than 1,00 were in a condition to fight;" while the Swiss had I cannot tell how many, nor Phil, de Comines either ! And thus, like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, u I am put down." We have dwelt," they say, " upon this note, because we are always (what alzvays!) anxious to maintain histo- rical truth, and because we cannot better exemplify the inaccuracy with which Mr. GifTbrd appears to write," p. 103. Their notion of maintaining historical truth, is not a little curious. They content themselves with referring to a particular authority, and because they do not find my statements agree with it, candidly conclude, that I either fabricated them, or picked them up at random ! As to their Oracle, I have nothing to say to him : he was, I believe, as honest a man, as a deserter of two or three masters can well be; and far honester than those who accuse me of ignorance and prejudice, because I presume to consult other authorities than their own. Be this as it may, I have made a most ungrateful return for the three ponder- ous pages which the critics have painfully drawn up for my edification, since 1 have left the note precisely as it tood : nay, such is the perversity of poor human nature, I am more confirmed in its accuracy, by what is urged against it. The three words/row the Latin, ought, however, to have been excepted. I never possessed as many books in my life, as would cover one of the Reviewers' tables : but I have always had access to noble libraries; and the strength of my memory for more than twenty years, rendered it almost superfluous to set down any very brief passage which engaged my particular attention. But, alas ! ADVERTISEMENT. xw Omnia fert etat, auimum quoque I now but regret is unavailing. In some writer, I found (the Reviewers will not believe me) the derivation which has so amused them, and laid it up in my mind for this very passage. When I came, long afterwards, to the work, the author had escaped me. I thought it had been Mezerai; but I searched him in vain, and had no heart to go beyond him. I do, however, in despite of the critics, re-iterate my assertion, that Carolus and Charolois, are the same word, and that the latter is an idiomatic enunci- ation of the former. That from the Latin might and should have been spared, as making no part of Massinger's thought, must be admitted; but that the words justified the wretched sneer of " Henry, called from the Greek aAi(rx, Wales" will admit of some question. u It seems that Mr. Gifford must have printed the first volumes, before he had even read through the author he was editing." He says, vol. iv. p. 172, " this expression" (candour) " reconciles me to a passage in the Parliament of Love, vol. ii. of which, though copied with my best care, I was extremely doubtful. It now appears, that Massinger uses candour in both places, as synonymous with honour," p. 103. The Reviewers are in the state of poor old Gobbo, " n 'g n gravel blind." I must again quote my own words. " Mr. BvfcOl proposed to me a new edition of Massinger. This poet was a favourite ; and I had frequently lamented that he had fallen into such hands: I saw, without the assistance of the old eopics, &c." Introd. xcix. Again: After mentioning my intire familiarity with the poet, in the moder.i editions, I add " my first care (on under- taking to re-edite him,) was to look round fbr the old copirs," ibul. It w.u thru that Mr. M alone sent me all his editions; that Mr. kemble voluntarily offered me the use of his library; that Mr. Gilchrist transmitted to xvi ADVERTISEMENT. me, the whole of his collection, from Stamford ; that Isaac Reed furnished me with his most valuable copies; that assistance poured in to me from every quarter yet, at this very time, the Reviewers are pleased to assert, that I had not even read Massinger ! r " Anxiously wishing," I add, u to render this Edition as perfect as possible, I wrote to Mr. Malone (with whom I had not the pleasure of being acquainted) to know where the manuscript of the Parliament of Love was to be found" (p. c.) Yet this is the PJay which they accuse me of printing before I had even read Massinger! Nor is this all. After recurring to my long acquaint- ance with the Poet, in Coxeter and M. Mason, (p. cii.j and detailing the number of old copies which had come to hand subsequently to my engagement with Mr. Evans, I observe that, " with these aids, I sat down to what ? to the business of collation" Yet I am charged with having printed the first and second volumes before I had even read the third and fourth ! If this be stupidity, it is por- tentous; if it be personal malice, all is as it should be, and I am satisfied. With respect to the word candour, my offence is con- fined to deeming it rather more modest to establish its use by referring to a printed passage of which no doubt was entertained, than to an ancient MS. copied entirely by myself. Such lynxes as the Edinburgh Reviewers, will be surprised to hear that it is not altogether impossible to doubt of the genuineness of a word in a faint and disco- loured hand of two centuries, especially when it is of rare occurrence. Indeed, a gentleman of the law, (James Hill, Esq.) to whom I shewed the passage, advised me to read, honour, which he conceived to be the author's word : against this, I had nothing to produce from Massinger, but the present passage, which, as I have stated, satisfied me, and finally convinced the critics that I must have ADVERTISEMENT. xvii printed one half of the work before I had even read the other. It detracts a little from their boasted perspicacity, that they should so inopportunely have overlooked a preceding passage. On pale-spirited, vol. iii. 509, (first edit.) I ob- serve, (after rescuing it from the corruption of the former editors,)" since this was written, I have found the word in the Parliament of Love." It follows, therefore, with the critics' leave, that 1 had not only* read the last two volumes of Massinger, but written notes on them, before the others were printed. In short, for this absurd burst of spleen has detained me too long, the Parliament of Love was necessarily the last of Massinger's plays which received a comment. The Reviewers, in pure milkiness of nature, next fall upon me for my treatment of Coxeter and M. Mason " upon the ruins of whose reputations (they say) it has been my constant aim to build my own:" p. 103. My ambition is then most humble furlis immanibus emptum e$t CEdipodee seditse loco I But even this vile passion, to which, it seems, I have sacrificed even my duty to Massinger, is not the only one which actuates me. " So strong," the critics add, " is Mr. Gifford's spirit of anger, that if either of these unfortunate editors had been within his reach, he would probably have called for a stuff to knock them down," p. 103. Certainly not. If I had called for a stuff (which the goodness of * la the beautiful summary which closes the fourth volume, Dr. Ireland observes, " the Lditor, having already resolved on the pub- lication, AND PREPARED TDK TEXT POR THE PRESS, requested of XUC a revision of these plays, and such observations," &c. p. 683. Yet, with this passage staring them in the f icr, they have the hardihood to assure their readers that 1 must have printed the first twa volumes before I had even read the last! VOL. I. b xviii ADVERTISEMENT. Providence has hitherto made unnecessary) it would be to support my steps. Such * knock- me-down doings" are fitter for the Edinburgh Reviewers. But this is from the purpose let us see the proofs of what they call my errors a la mode of Coxeter and M. Mason. In the Duke of Milan we find this note: Scarabs means beetles. M. Mason. Very true : and beetles means scarabs." * In the same play we find, Dian, a contrac- tion for Diana. M. Mason. And so it is!" p. 104. I had casually observed in the Introd. p. cv. that * the readers of our old plays were treated by modern editors as if they were ignorant of common things;" but I gave no instances of it, at the time. When the occasion presented itself, I remarked, and certainly, naso adunco, that a beetle was really a scarab I beg pardon, that a scarab was really a beetle ; and that Dian was, as Mr. M. Mason had cautiously observed, a contraction of Diana. If, as the Reviewers say, there are persons to whom either of these pieces of information can be useful, they have no just ground of complaint against me, for I laid it fairly before them.* "A third instance of error" (the reader has just seen the first and second instances) is to be found in the Virgin Martyr. The author's expression is the Roman angel's wings shall melt. This, says Mr. M. Mason, should cer- tainly be the Roman augct's wings. I defend the text, and quote several passages from our old poets, where angel is used, as here, for bird. Yet, because I object to the * The hint, however, has not been lost: and I sincerely felicitate the critics on the satisfaction with which they must have recently contemplated the " useful information" conveyed in the explana- tions of " sudden," M ever," " but,"&c.&c. dispersed through that matchless publication which baffled all their efforts to discover a fault, and afforded them another opportunity to sneer at the " errors" of the late edition of Massinger. ADVERTISEMENT. xix editor's certainly, in a case where he is positively wrong; and, in noticing a remark of Mr. Hole, that Mandeville supposed " the angels (messengers) of God to feed on dead carcases, add, surely, by angels he meant fowls of the air, I am in an " error," and my " harsh assurance," is insultingly opposed to M. Mason's " quiet certainly," p. 104. M Mr. G'ifford'a animosity against M. Mason has induced him to reject scornfully his suggestions, though not devoid of ingenuity. For example, in the Duke of Milan, u To ee those chuffs, that every day may spend, A soldier's entertainment lor a year, Yet make a third meal of a bunrh of raisins." So all the copies but M . Mason, whose sagacity nothing escapes, detected the blunder, and, for third, suggested, nay actually printed, thin. " This passage (quoth he) appears to be erroneous: the making a third meal on a bunch of raisins, if they had made two good meals before, would be no proof of penuriousness." Was ever alteration so capricious? was ever reasoning so absurd r where is it said that these chuffs had made two good meals before ? is not the whole drift of the speech to shew that they starved themselves in the midst of abundance? vol. i. 281. " it is so," exclaim the critics, " and on that very account, did M. Mason object to third, because, though not perhaps two good meals, it did imply that they had made two before, and that would not be much like starva- tion !" p. 104. When the critics shall be pleased to make the experi- ment, it will be time enough to take their word. Mean- while, they must permit me to express my utter astonish- ment at their " portentous" folly. When the note on this plain passage was written, I did most confidently be- lieve Mr. M. Mason to be the only person that ever could b9 XX ADVERTISEMENT. or would mistake its meaning, and lo ! we have here a bevy of critics from the North running headlong into the same error, and like Dindinaut's sheep, blindly following their baaing leader, to their own confusion. To observe that these chuffs made three meals on the same bunch of raisins, and that the poet's words can pos- sibly have no other sense, seems a deplorable waste of time. Even the Reviewers, it will be thought, might have seen this, from the quotation subjoined to my remarks; I have koown him surfeit Upon a bunch of raisins.''* The man who surfeited upon a bunch of raisins, might surely have made more than one meal on it. But to what wretched minutice, may not " the malice of a carper" (espe- cially of a stupid one) reduce a writer who is willing to suppose his readers endowed with a little common sense ! After all, I am only defending the genuine reading : this, however, the critics honestly assure the public, is not done by me from any regard for the purity of Massinger's text, but from mere animosity to Mr. M. Mason! p. 104. As some atonement to that gentleman, I will give their favourable judgment of his exertions. " M. Mason's alter- ation of third to thin is ingenious, and makes the senten ce clearer"! p. 105. But the reader is not yet acquainted with all my de- merits in this' unfortunate passage. In the first line of the quotation M. Mason altered " chuffs" to choughs, \.e, as he informed us, to " magpies." Magpies seem rather oddly placed here; but the critics pass rapidly over this, to pour their whole indignation on me for saying that a chuff was always used in a bad sense, and meant a coarse, unmannered clown, at once sordid and wealthy." On this they first give me the " lie direct," and then prove, by a quotation of great wisdom, that " chuff is spoken of a citizen!" And of what else have I been talk- ADVERTISEMENT. xxi ing all this while? My words are " these reproaches are such as have been cast by soldiers of fortune in all ages, on the sober and frugal citizen" Vol. I. 281. What can I say to such eternal blunderers! When I interpreted chuff a clown, I never expected to be understood as liter- ally describing one whose sole occupation was following the plough; neither did I, as the critics imagine, mistake the city of Milan for a grange. I meant by clown, as every one else does in common speech, a man of rude and vulgar manners : they send me, upon another occa- sion, to Johnson ; if they will not be offended at receiving the advice which they so politely give, I would intreal them to turn to the same author, they will find f Clown, a^coarse, ill bred man." " Clannish, rough, uncivil." To be reduced to this child's play, is a misery, which 1 flattered myself I had long since escaped. After affirming that my interpretation is wrong, and doubting whether chuff ever means a clown, they have the monstrous folly to add, " that the word has much more affinity with citizen," p. 105. Again, let me beseech them to " turn to Johnson," they will find (one meaning for all) * Chuff', a blunt clown." I have had the curiosity to examine, at least, a dozen dictionaries; the Reviewers may, if they please, examine as many more, and, if one of them be found to explain the word otherwise than 1 explained it, or give citizen as a synonym, I will consent to change places with the critics, and pass for the most bungling of the fraternity. " We find a proper interpretation of Mason's rejected with scorn as unintelligible : He'* a man Of strange and reserved parti. Strange here signifies distant. A/. Mason. I do not pre- tend to know the meaning of distant parts: Massinger, however, is clear enough," Vol. II. 8. xxii ADVERTISEMENT. " If Mr. Gifford had found leisure to open Johnson's Dictionary, (though so common a phrase ought perhaps to be familiar to him,) he would have seen, under the word strangeness, that explanation which he could not pretend to furnish," p. 105. It is not my fault if the critics either will not read, or cannot understand what is before them. I say, simply, that 1 do not pretend to know the meaning of a man of distant parts; and they, with their usual suavity of language, send me to consult Johnson for the meaning of strange- ness! I tell them that Massinger's expression is sufficiently clear, and means strangely reserved ; and they affirm that I pretend not to be able to give the sense of it ! My ob- jection was to the explanation of a simple term by one that was, at best, obscure. A man of distant parts, is more commonly spoken of one of a remote country, than one of a shy or reserved character. Yet of distant, Mr. M. Mason's word, they say not one syllable; while all their folly and all their fury are let loose upon an expression which no where occurs but in their own criticism. By this time the critics are ready to exclaim with one of Massinger's worthies, " Would we were hanged, rather than thus be told of our faults !" But they must hear more. , * Mr. GifTord's irritation against the editors, displays itself curiously in a note to the Renegado," &c. p. 105. By corrupting the text, Coxeter and M. Mason had turned a line of tolerably good metre into vile dactylics, (by the way, I never loved dactylics,) this I expressed by the significant word tum-tt-ti, vol. ii. 135. The critics do not, 1 believe, understand much of dactylics, and I am quite sure that my allusion has escaped them altogether. This, however, is of no moment but they burst into a tone of triumph on the occasion. " As Ennius has used taratantara for the sound of a trumpet, so Mr. ADVERTISEMENT. xxiii Gifford may perhaps be justified for expressing by tum- titi" but I will not afflict the reader with the dull ribaldry which follows " We were surprised" (they conclude) " at discovering that the gentlemen who have been re- buked, might retort the tumtiti upon Mr. GifFord with equal propriety. We will give an instance, p. 106. * Hoytt. I now repeat I ever Intended to be honest. Serj. Here he comes You had best tell so. Fort. Worshipful sir, You come in time,' &c. Mr. M. Mason reads, Here he comes; You had best {him) tell so. His false pointing made his barbarous interpolation ne- cessary. The old copy is evidently right." Vol. IV. 87. This is what I say ; now for the critics. " Mr. Mason made his interpolation solely for the purpose of supporting the metre, which was defective; and Mr. G ifford 's metrical sensibility must have quite deserted him, when he asserted that a dramatic verse hobbling with only nine syllables, was evidently right." p. 106.* I am not obliged, thank heaven ! to find comprehension for the Edinburgh Reviewers, and I will take upon me to say that no other persons ever mistook so egregiously the sense of a plain passage. In all that they have advanced there is not one word of truth or sense. It is difficult to know where to begin with such a farrago of absurdity ; but let us take the words in their order. " Mr. Mason made his interpolation to support the metre." He did no such thing: he made it to support the sense, which he had marred by his false pointing. Indifferent as his ear * Let not the reader forget that this was produced by the critics as " an instance of the tum-ti- 1 j." Can he discover any trace of it ? xxiv ADVERTISEMENT. was, he could not possibly imagine that the line was re- stored to verse by his addition : that was an idea exclu- sively reserved for the Edinburgh Reviewers; and never, certainly, since the days that King Midas sat in judgment on Apollo, did such a tribunal meet for the arbitrement of a musical question. This is the verse, " You had best (him) tell so. Worshipful sir." I seriously declare that I bad read it twenty times before I discovered it to be even measure, (rhythm is out of the question,) but on trying it by my fingers, it unexpectedly came out to be ten syllables, e. g. 1234 56 7 89 10 You had best him tell so. Wor ship ful sir! Is not here fine fooling! " Mr. Giffoid's metrical sensibility," (the sneer is admi- rably timed) " must have deserted him when he asserted that a verse hobbling with nine syllables, was evidently right." If the critics have wilfully or ignoranlly mistaken my words, to their own confusion be it. I disclaim their inter- pretation. Of metre or of verse I never thought, and never spoke. By placing a semicolon after "comes" (I say) Mr. M. Mason made his interpolation necessary; be- cause, otherwise, the hemistich would have had no sense. What word, what syllable of mine could lead them to dream that I spoke of the metre \> They might have learned from the prologue of Nic. Bottom, (of" metrical sensibility,") that the false pointing of a preceding line might destroy the meaning of that which immediately fol- lows, but could not, by any means, affect its metre, All this wisdom, however, is overlooked by the critics, while they are driving headlong after the harmony of their new Or- pheus. " There is undoubtedly/' they continue," an error in the passage," some readers may think this harsh ADVERTISEMENT. xxv " undoubtedly," quite as objectionable as Mr. Giffbrd's quiet " evidently/" especially as it is palpably wrong. r i here is no error whatever. The omission of the relative is characteristic of ounold writecs,and of Massinger among the iest: " but there if undoubtedly an error, for" I beseech the reader to attend,-" for Massinger is nevbr DEFECTIVE IN HIS METRE." In this very scene, nay page, there are several unme- trical lines. In fac,our old dramatists (with the exception of Jonson) gave themselves no trouble about their broken lines; if they ran with tolerable smoothness, the number of syllables was left to chance. In Massinger, who is " never defective in his metre," I have counted several hundred instances of deficiency ; and in Beaumont and Fletcher, and bhirlev, as many thousands. " We will produce," they continue, p. 10(5, " a passage in which Mr. Gifford has been guilty of an interpolation not less objectionable and more injurious to the sense, imagining that a foot was wanting to make the metre perfect. * Secret. Dead doing*, daughter. Shave. Doings ! sufferings, mother: [For poor] men have forgot what doing is ; And, such as have to pay for what they do, Are impotent, or eunuchs.' 1 A foot is lost in the original : I have substituted the words between brackets, in the hope of restoring the sense of the passage,' vol. iv p. 50. It is a little hard upon me, that my own words are never taken ; but the blundering no-meaning which tHe critics choose to put upon something that does not appear. I had no more idea of complcteing the metre Here, tlrttn above : for, though the line had not its rtquisita number of syllables, it was not unrhythmical; and that would have xxvi ADVERTISEMENT. been quite sufficient for me, had not the sense appeared defective. "And," in the third line, is a disjunctive ; and makes the whole passage, as it stood, either inconsequen- tial or contradictory. If all men have " forgot" a cir- cumstance, with what propriety can the rich alone be said to remember it ? It was a consideration of this kind, which induced me to suggest the words marked in the text ; u in the hope," as I expressly state, " of restoring the sense (not the metre) of the passage." It would be a pity, however, to deprive the reader of the exquisite harmony which the critics have struck out, by a new arrangement of the lines : " Dead do | ings, daugh | ter. Do | ings, suf j fer ings ! " Mother, | men have j forgot | what do | ing is." And this tuneless, tasteless drawling, which has not a trait of Massinger's manner, is palmed upon the reader as ? a rectification of the metre." Metre, however, it is: this I can venture to assure the reader, for I have counted the lines twice upon my fingers. But this is venial, it seems, in comparison of my sub- sequent enormities. " Notwithstanding Mr. Gifford's indignation (again !) at M. Mason, he has left many por- tentous lines, which might be easily reduced within proper dimensions by the process employed above" with such admirable effect ! " For instance : Goth. I would we were so rid of them. Oct. Why ? Goth. I fear, one hath . The art of memorj, and will remember. " One hath, should be the commencement of the second, which will bear the addition," p. 107. The line will then stand thus, One hath the art of memory, and will remember! Is this verse ? is it any thing like verse ? And these are ADVERTISEM EOT. xxvii the Arcadia pecuaria by whose taste and feeling, the metre of Massinger is to be finally brought to perfection! I have already observed, lhat this Poet was Utile soli- citous about the measure of his broken lines, provided they fell into any thing like rhythm ; and the whole of my enormity, therefore, consists in rather choosing to throw the superabundant syllables into the hemistich, where they do not injure the flow of the verse, than upon the perfect line, with the critics, where they convert it into downright prose. But they proceed, p. 107. "In the City Madam we encountered this formidable verse, * 1 once held you an upright honest man. I am honester now." If it be formidable, they have made it so ; and it is not a little amusing to see them start, like children, at the ghost which they have just dressed up. It did not, per- haps, suit their object altogether, to let the reader know that this *' verse " consists of the broken speeches of two characters, and that it stands thus in Massinger : " Lacy. I once held you an upright, honest man. Luke. 1 am honester now, By a hundred thousand pounds, 1 thank my stars for*t." Here, as before, my only object was to throw the super- numerary syllables, as the poet had taught me, into the broken line, where they did no injury to the metre of the rest. But to " the easy remedy." u / once held you,'* (they say,) " ought to have been at the conclusion of the foregoing line. Though burthen'd by the additions" (have the critics no bowels!) * it will still come within the rules of Massinger's comic metre, which is purposely superabun- dant in unaccented syllables, a liberty which he takes in imitation of the comic iambics, that admit anapaests and dactyls" Mercy on us! what have we here? Upton on the trochaic-dimeter-brachycatalectic! But dismissing xxviii ADVERTISEMENT. this deplorable affectation of profundity, let us see the reformed metre. " You are v6jry pe>emp|tory, praylyou stay ;II once held |you.' " We could adduce many instances," (they add,) " to shew that this verse is conformable to Massinger's rules of comic versification. One line of similar structure will be sufficient. *' And punish 1 ment 6 ] vertake him J when he least j expects | it." p. 107. The two unfortunate syllables " you " and " it," which are shut out of the pale, are meant, [ presume, for " beau- tiful specimens" of the pes proceleusmaticus. Seriously, I must either be as stupid as the critics, or have a most degrading opinion of the understanding of the reader, if I condescended to waste one word in proving, that neither of these notable * verses" possesses a single feature of poetry. With respect to the last line, (the former is not Massinger's,) which is spoken as the cha- racters are leaving the stage, it has neither modulation nor metre, and was never meant for verse. It is easy prose, and that is all. Yet of this, the critics say, after more pompous jargon about unaccented, syllables, &c. that its metre has been, perhaps, as studiously arranged as the most melodious lines of his jfiner passages !" p. 107. And it is by " these long-eared judges," (they know where to find the quotation,) who, when they have erected five perpendiculars upon any given number of syllables in a right line, contend that it is thereby converted into poetry, that I am accused of deforming the metre of Massinger ! The next observation is confined to a circumstance, in which I take little or no concern. I believed (as I still do believe,) that a line was lost at the press, because the passage was devoid of meaning; and therefore gave, at the foot of the page, what I imagined to be its import. ADVERTISEMENT. xxix For this, I must refer to the place, vol. i. 137. The Re- viewers, as they have a right to do, propose an emenda- tion of their own ; and those who can find either rhythm or sense in it, will naturally prefer it to what I have suggested. The line stands thus, " Repented to have brought forth, all compassion." All, they suppose to be a misprint for without, which (from the striking similarity of the two words) is very likely; and with respect to the extra-syllable, that, they say, " restores the metre according to the author's man- ner," p. 108. I suspect that there is still a misprint, and that, for the author's manner, we should read our manner. They now come to my application of the character of Dr. Rut to Dr. D n, p. 108. It is pertinent and it is just. When I find occasion to change my opinion it will be quite time enough to remove the offensive passage ; meanwhile, the Doctor's friends may console themselves for my " satire," in the cordial approbation of the Edin- burgh Reviewers. It would be ungrateful, however, in me to pass their censure unnoticed. And truly, when their natural disposition to " courtesy and gentleness," their proverbial candour and liberality, their freedom from all prejudice, their abhorrence of " all personalities," their rigid abstinence from all "harshness and invective," are considered, the most zealous of their friends will find it difficult to determine whether the modesty, or the consistency, of their reproof, be the fittest subject for admiration. As a set-off to my " satire" on Dr. D these H soft spriled gentlemen" hold it fit to turn their ribaldry against Dr. Ireland. His offence is an inexpiable one in the eyes of an Edinburgh Reviewer ; it is, as far as I can dis- cover, his piety, or, as the critics term it, his " preaching," p. 1 1 1 . I will not injure my friend so much as to oiler one xxx ADVERTISEMENT. word in his defence but I have yet something to say in my own. Of the two passages which they have quoted from Dr. Ireland, they are pleased to express their surprise that I should condescend to print the last. Their indig- nation (which is very hot) is levelled at a few passages printed in italics, such as ft glorious vision," " heavenly garden," " fruit of immortality," &c. which they term ridiculous in the wretched state of the stage at that time, without seeing that every syllable of it is taken from Massinger himself! u thus it appears that they wrote their observations on the last part of the play before they had even read the first." As to the contradictions which I am accused of admitting, they exist only in the con- fused head of the critics.* The stage was certainly without decorations; nor had it any moveable scenery; but in the description to which they object, there is nothing but a procession, a basket of flowers, and a wreath. Abundance of passages scattered among our old plays shew that the stage was not without a con- siderable portion of expensive dresses in those days/f- which were viewed with pleasure by our ancestors, who had seen no better; and this is all that was meant. The vision of Dorothea in the Virgin Martyr, is of the same nature as that of Queen Katherine in Henry VIII., and * Perhaps, the confusion lies in another part but it is really strange that my own words are never taken. I say " Scourging, racking, and beheading, are circumstances of no very agreeable kind, and with the poor aids of which the stage was then possessed, must be somewhat worse than ridiculous." Vol. i. p. 118. Yet the critics, without shame, or dread of detection, apply the quotation to the " glorious vision" of Dorothea! p. 111. + In Greene's Groats Worth of Wit, published many years before the Virgin Martyr, a player is introduced boasting, that " his shark in stage apparel would not be sold for two hundred pounds!" ADVERTISEMENT. xxxi was perhaps exhibited on the same stage, and with the same materials. Costly dresses were more common in Massinger's age than in our own; gorgeous robes were occasionally procured from the nobility ; and there was, at all times, abundance of cast finery to be cheaply pur- chased. The Reviewers are as ignorant of the customs of those days as of the language. " Perhaps," (continue the critics, p. 1 12,) " Mr. Gifford will be offended at the little ceremony with which we hare treated his favourite dramatist." Not in the least. Judgment is free to all, and the decision rests with the public. In the present case, indeed, if the anxious call for another Edition be permitted to stand for any thing, they have already determined the question in my favour. At any rate, Ma-singer has taken his place on our shelves ; he is noticed by those who overlooked him in the blunder- ing volumes of Coxeler and M. Mason, and cannot again be thrown entirely out of the estimate of our ancient literature. But though I have no desire to change the critics' opinion of Massinger, I must not lightly forego my own. I incidentally produced a passage from the Parliament of Love, where every pause, of which verse is susceptible, is introduced with such exquisite feeling, such rhythmical variety, that I spoke of it with the warmth which its unparalleled artifice appeared to demand. The Reviewers " are at a loss," they say, " to discover that pre-eminent Weanty which called forth such unqualified praise," p. 112. I believe it : the ears which relaxed, with delight, over such soothing melody, as " You are very peremptory, pray you, stay. 1 once held you." " And punishment overtake him when he least expects it" may well be pricked up in scorn at the verses which I commended, and which the reader will find, vol. ii. p. 24tJ. xxxii ADVERTISEMENT. But have not the critics, in their anxiety to depreciate Massinger, been somewhat inconsiderate? They say that t* Massinger has not a single passage which can call forth a tear, amidst all his butchery" p. 113. His butchery (if it must be so termed) is not more bloody than that of his con- temporaries. But has he really no pathos? Cumberland declares that a scene in the Fatal Dowry is one of the most pathetic in the English language: and many others might be pointed out, which cannot easily be read " dry- eyed :'* But where men have tears of sympathy only for axioms and postulates, obduracy to fantastic miseries is a matter of course. But their taste is not more alive than their natural feelings. When young Beaufort (not " Belgarde," the buffoon of the play,) first discovers the body of the injured, the innocent Theocrine, he bursts into tears, with this simple and touching adjuration to his friends: " All that have eyes to weep, Spare one tear with me: Theocrine's dead." He hears an incidental remark, that the thunder-bolt which killed her wicked father, had deformed his features, when he interrupts his sorrows, and exclaims, with trium- phant affection, " But here's one, retains Her native innocence, that never yet Called down heaven's anger !" And the piece concludes with a paternal and pious ap- plication of the catastrophe, (or what the Reviewers sneer- ingly call " a dry moral,") by old Beaufort. This " cursory dismission of the circumstance" is attributed to the incom- petency of Massinger to call forth a tear: and certain it is, that a modern writer would have yelled out many sylla- bles of dolour on the occasion. But this was not Mas- singer's mode; and it yet remains to be proved that the modern writer would be right. ADVERTISEMENT. xxxiit The critics now recur to the Parliament of Love, Here they seem to be in the situation of poor Elbow, and uou/il discover my offences if they could. I attribute this play to Ma9singer, but am " yery sparing, it seems, of the grounds of my opinion." One word is sufficient. The entry on the Stationers' book which gives the Parliament of Love to Rowley, is, as they ought to know, of no authority whatever; whereas the license of the Master of the Revels, which I produced, is an authentic document. Mr. Maloae, who believed (what has since been conrirmed) that the MS. which I copied was from the poet's own hand, shewed me the blank leaf where the license of Sir Henry Herbert once stood, and which had been cut off with equal folly and dishonesty by some one to whom it had been entrusted. And would it have proved derogatory to the critics' candour, if, when they blamed my forbearance, they had condescended to notice the apology for it, which lay immediately before them ? " I have been sparing of my observations, being desirous that the fragment should enjoy the reader's undivided attention." Vol. ii. 239. This brings me to their lust correction. u In page 254 of this drama we observe .an error of the MS. (or perhaps of the press) which has escaped Mr. Gifford's observation. " I'll nut out for a second," should have been, " I'll out for a second," a9 appears clearly by a reference to p. 270." (p. 1 19.) Bos lassus pes fir mitts ponit, we know; and these gen- tlemen tread cruelly heavy at the end of their journey. My observation, which is somewhat better than the critics expected to find it, has not failed me in this place ; nei- ther is there any error of the MS. there is nothing, in short, but a fresh proof (which was by no means wanted) of the utter incompetency of the Edinburgh Reviewers for the task to which they have unluckily set their handi. VOL. I. C xxxiv ADVERTISEMENT. " I'll not out" should have been " I'll out." Good ! You have studied Massinger to an excellent purpose, gentlemen, and admirably qualified, undoubtedly, you are, to read me lectures on the language of our old dramatists. I could produce fifty examples of this expression, (which the critics do not even now understand,) but I am weary, and must content myself with those in my immediate recollection. In the very volume where they reprove my oscitancy, the expression occurs, and, I believe, more than once ; H Nor am I so precise but I can drab too, I will not out, for my part." Renegado. Again, *' I could have drank my share, boy; Though I am old, I will not out." Loyal Subject. Again, " I have no great devotion to this matter, But for a prayer or two, I will not out." Knight of Malta. Again, " I would 'twere toothsome, too, boys ; But all agree, and Til not out." Bonduca. Sympson, who knew little of our old language, elegantly inserted stick before " out," for which he is praised by Mr. Weber, who knows nothing at all of it, and who tells us, " that it seems requisite to the sense !" the critics blunder therefore, in very admirable company. But I have done. It is the fashion, it seems, to part good friends. The Reviewers, after all the specimens which they have pro- duced of my stupidity, end with gravely declaring that " they respect my talents." Bien oblige^ Messieurs ! and I beg leave to subjoin, (for I would not willingly be out- done in politeness,) that I admire yours. It is material to add that the respect for my talents, was extended by these gentlemen even to the Index to this Article ; where the changes are rung, with great glee, on ADVERTISEM ENT. xxxv the * numerous errors of Mr. Giflbrd," ihe " frequent errors of Mr. Gifford," &c. Whether the reader, (who has had every one of them fairly laid before him,) will feel any obligation to this extrajudicial attack, I know not; but it was this striking proof of systematic hostility, which de- termined me, as occasion should offer, to rise against it. I have reason to think that the merriment of the critics has since been somewhat Sardonic, and lhat they would not be quite inconsolable if this last triumph had been spared. c INTRODUCTION. Ihilip Massinger, the Author of the following Plays, was born in the year 1584. Of his mother nothing is known; but his father was Arthur Massinger,* a gentleman attached to the family of Henry, second earl of Pem- broke : " Many years," says the Poet, to his descendant, Philip earl of Montgomery, " my father spent in the service of your honourable * house, and died a servant to it." The writers of Massinger's life have thought it necessary to observe in this place, that the * His father was Arthur Massinger,] li I cannot guess," Davies says, " from what information Oldys, in his manuscript notes, (to Langbaine,) gives the Christian name of Arthur to Massinger's father, nor why he should reproach Wood for calling him Philip ; since Massinger himself, in the Dedication of the Bondman, to the Earl of Montgomery, says expressly that his father Philip Massinger lived and died in the service of the honourable house of Pembroke." Life of Massinger , prefixed to the last edition. This preliminary observation augurs but ill for the accuracy of what follows. Oldys, who was a very careful writer, got his information from the first edition of the Bondman, IMS, which, it appears from this, Mr. Davics never saw. In the second edition, published many years after the first, (1638,) he is, indeed, called Philip ; but that is not the only error in the Dedication, which, as well as the Play itself, is most carelessly printed. xxxviii INTRODUCTION. word servant carries with it no sense of degra- dation. This requires no proof: at a period when the great lords and officers of the court numbered inferior nobles among their followers,' we may be confident, that neither the name, nor the situation, was looked upon as humiliating. Many considerations united to render this state of dependance respectable, and even honour* able. The secretaries, clerks, and assistants, of various departments, were not then, as now, nominated by the government ; but left to the choice of the person who held the employment ; and as no particular dwelling was officially set apart for their residence, they were entertained in the house of their principal. That communication too, between noblemen of power and trust, both of a public and private nature, which is now committed to the post, was, in those days, managed by confidential servants, who were dispatched from one to the other, and even to the sovereign f when to this we add the unbounded state and grandeur which the great men of Elizabeth's days assumed on a variety of occasions ; we may form some idea of the nature of those services discharged a An instance of this occurs -with respect to Massinger's father, who was thus employed to Elizabeth : " Mr. Massin- ger is newly come up from the Earl of Pembroke with letters to the queen, for his lordship's leave to be away this St. George's day." Sidney Letters, Vol. II. p. 933. The bearer of letters to Elizabeth on an occasion which she perhaps thought INTRODUCTION. xxxix by men of birth and fortune, and the manner in which such numbers of them were employed. Massinger was born, as all the writers of his life agree, at Salisbury;* and educated, probably, at Wilton, the seat of the earl of Pembroke. When he had reached his sixteenth year, he sustained an irreparable loss in the death of that worthy nobleman,' who, from attachment to the father, would, not improbably, have extended his pow- erful patronage to the young poet. He was succeeded in his titles and estates by his son- important, could, as Davies justly observes, be no mean per- son ; for no monarch ever exacted from the nobility in general, and the officers of state in particular, a more rigid and scru- pulous compliance with stated order, than this princess. * The following extract of a letter from a friend, will shew the result of my inquiries at Salisbury. " Agreeably to your request particular search has been made in all the parishes for the birth of Philip Massinger; but without effect. There is a vacuum in the Register of St Edmund from 1582 to 1597." Whether Massinger's birth was registered here it is impossible to say : but the interval certainly comprises the date of that event. * Death of that "worthy nobleman,'] This took place on the 19th of January, 1601. It is impossible to speak of him with, out mentioning, at the same time, that he was the husband of ir Philip Sidney's sister, the all. accomplished lady for whom Jonson wrote the celebrated epitaph : *' Underneath this marble horse " Lies the subject of all verse, " Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; *' Death, ere thou hast slain another, " Learn'd, and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a duit at thee." xl INTRODUCTION. William, the third earl of Pembroke; one of the brightest characters that adorned the court of Elizabeth and James. He was, says Wood, " not only a great favourer of learned and in- genious men, but was himself learned and en- dowed to admiration with a poetical geny, (Antony's notions of " poetical geny" are suffi- ciently humble) as by those amorous and poetical aires and poems of his composition doth evidently appear ; some of which had musical notes set to them by Hen. Lawes and Nich. Laneare." Ath. I. 546. Massinger's father continued in the service of this nobleman till his death. It is not pos- sible to ascertain the precise period at which this took place, but it was not later, perhaps, than 1606: in the interim he had bestowed, as Langbaine says, a liberal education on his son, and sent him to the University of Oxford, where he became a commoner of St. Alban's Hall,' (1602,) in the eighteenth year of his age. Wood's account varies from this in several par- ticulars. He says, he was entered at St. Alban's Hall in 1601, when he was in his seventeenth year, and supported there, not by his father, but the earl of Pembroke. Antony had many opportunities for ascertaining these facts, if he had desired to avail himself of them, and there- s A Thomas Massinger, of Magdalen College, has a copy of Terses on the death of queen Elizabeth, in 1602, among the Oxford Collection. INTRODUCTION. xli fore Davies inclines to his authority. The seeming difference, he adds, between the two periods respectively assigned for Massinger's ma- triculation, may be easily reconciled, for the year then began and ended according to that mode which took place before the alteration of the style. It is seldom safe to speak by guess, and Davies had no authority for his ingenious solu- tion; which, unfortunately, will not apply in the present case. The memorandum of Massinger's entrance now lies before me, and proves Wood to be incorrect: it is dated May 14, 1602. 6 How he came to mistake in a matter where it required so little pains to be accurate, is diffi- cult to say. Langbaine and Wood nearly agree in the time which Massinger spent at Oxford, but seem to differ as to the objects of his pursuit. The for- mer observes, that during his residence there he applied himself closely to his studies; while the latter writes, that he t{ gave his mind more to poetry and romances for about four years or more, than to logic and philosophy, which he ought to have done, as he was patronized to that end." What ideas this " tasteless but useful drudge" had of logic and philosophy it may be vain to enquire; but, with respect to the first, Massinger's reasoning will not be found deficient 6 In it he is styled the son of a gentleman ; " Philip Mas- singer., Sariibunensis, gcnd.) if, at a somewhat later period, we fix it at thirty, (10.) we shall not probably be far from the truth. The usual dedication fee, which yet remains to be added, was forty shillings : where any con- INTRODUCTION. lxv nexion subsisted between the parties, it was doubtless increased. We may be pretty confident, therefore, that Massinger seldom, if ever, received for his most strenuous and fortunate exertions, more than fifty pounds a year; this indeed, if regularly enjoyed, would, at that period, be sufficient, with decent economy, to have preserved him from absolute want: but nothing is better known than the precarious nature of dramatic writing. Some of his pieces might fail of suc- cess, (indeed, we are assured that they actually did so,) others might experience a " thin third day ;" and a variety of circumstances, not dif- ficult to enumerate, contribute to diminish the petty sum which I have ventured to state as the maximum of the poet's revenue. Nor could the benefit which he derived from the press be very extensive, as of the seventeen dramas which make up his printed works, (ex- clusive of the Parliament of Love, which now appears for the first time,) only twelve were published during his life; and of these, two (the Virgin- Martyr and the Fatal Dowry) were not wholly his own. In 1630, he printed the Picture, which had appeared on the stage the preceding year. This play was warmly supported by many of the " noble Society of the Inner Temple," to whom it is addressed. These gentlemen were so sen- sible of the extraordinary merits of this admir- vol. 1. Ixvi INTRODUCTION. able performance, that they gave the Author leave to particularize their names at the heaji of the dedication, an honour which he declined, because, as he modestly observes, and evidently with an allusion to some of his contemporaries, he " had rather enjoy the real proofs of their friendship, than, mountebank-like, boast their numbers in a catalogue." In 1631, Massinger appears to have been un- usually industrious, for he brought forward three pieces in little more than as many months. Two of these, Believe as you List, and the Unfor- tunate Piety, are lost, the third is the Emperor of the East, which was published in the follow- ing year, and inscribed to lord Mohun, who was so much pleased with the perusal of the Author's printed works, that he commissioned his nephew, sir Aston Cockayne,* to express his high opinion of them, and to present the 6 This is the only place in which Massinger makes any mention of sir Aston, who was not less delighted with the Em- peror of the East than his uncle, and who, in a copy of verses which he prefixed to it, calls Massinger his worthy friend. It is to the praise f sir Aston Cockayne that he not only main- tained his esteem and admiration of Massinger during the poet's life, but preserved an affectionate regard for his memory, of which his writings furnish many proofs. He was, as I have supposed Massinger to be, a Catholic, and suffered much for his religion. I will not take upon myself to say that this com- munity of faith strengthened their mutual attachment, though I do not think it altogether improbable. INTRODUCTION. lxvii writer " with a token of his love and intended favour." The Fatal Dowry was printed in 1632. I once supposed this to be the play which is mentioned above by the name of the Unfortunate Piety, as it does not appear under its present title in the Office-book of sir Henry Herbert ; but I now believe it to have been written previously to 162 -). His coadjutor in this play was Nathaniel Field, of whom I can give the reader but little account. His name stands at the head of the principal comedians who performed Cynthia's Revels, and he is joined with Heminge, Condell, Burbadge, and others, in the preface to the folio edition of Shakspeare. He was also the author of two comedies, A Woman is aWtather- cock, 1612, and Amends for Ladies, 1618. Mr. Reed, however, conjectures the writer of these plays, the assistant of Massinger in the Fatal Dowry, to be a distinct person from the actor above mentioned, and H a Nath. Field, M. A. fellow of New. Coll. who wrote some Latin verses printed in Oxon. Academic Farentalia, 1625, and who, being of the same University with Massinger, might there join with him in the composition of the play ascribed to them."' It is seldom safe to differ from Mr. Reed on subjects of this nature, yet I still incline to think that Field the actor was the person meant. There is no authority for supposing that i Old Plays, Vol. XII. p. 350. e 2 Ixviii INTRODUCTION. Massinger wrote plays at College; and if there were, it is not likely that the Fatal Dowry should be one of them. But Mr. Reed's chief reason for his assertion is, that no contemporary author speaks of Field as a writer : this argument, in the refutation of which I can claim no merit, is now completely disproved by the discovery of the letter to Mr. Henslowe. Mr. Malone too thinks that the person who wrote the two co- medies here mentioned, and assisted Massinger, could not be Field the actor, since the first of them was printed in 1612, at which time he must have been a youth, having performed as one of the children of the revels in Jonson's Silent Woman, 1609. 8 I know not to what age these children were confined, but Barkstead, who was one of them, and who, from his situa- tion in the list, was probably younger than Field, published, in 1611, a poem called Hiren (Irene) the Fair Greek, consisting of 114 stan- zas, which is yet earlier than the date of Wo- man's a Weathercock. 8 It had probably escaped Mr. Malone's observation, that Field appears as the principal performer in Cynthia's Revels, acted in 1599 or 1600. He could not then have well been less than twelve years old, and at the time mentioned by Mr. Ma- lone, as too early tor the production of his first play, must have been turned of one-and-twenty. Mr. Malone informed me, not long before his death, that he was satisfied from what is here atiuuced, that the author and the actor were the same person. INTRODUCTION. lxix Mr. Malone conjectures that the affecting let- ter (p. xlix.) was written between 16*1 2 and 1615 : if we take the latest period, Field will then be not far from his twenty-eighth year, a period sufficiently advanced for the production of any work of fancy. I have sometimes felt a pang at imagining that the play on which they were then engaged, and for which they solicit a tri- fling advance in such moving terms, was the Fatal Dozcry, one of the noblest compositions that ever graced the English stage ! Even though it should not be so, it is yet impossible to be unaffected when we consider that those who actually did produce it, were in danger of perishing in gaol for want of a loan of five pounds ! In the following year Massinger brought forward the City Madam. As this play was undoubtedly disposed of to the performers, it remained in manuscript till the distress brought on the stage by the persecution of the Puritans, induced them to commit it to the press. The person to whom we are indebted for its appear- ance, was Andrew Pennycuicke, an actor of some note. In the dedication to the countess of Oxford, 1 he observes, with a spirited reference to the restrictions then laid on the drama, " In 1 Cuuntctt of Oxford) &c] Ann, first wife of Aubrey de Vere, twentieth and last earl of Oxford. She was a distant relation of th Pembroke family. lxx INTRODUCTION. that age when wit and learning were not conquered by injury and violence, this poem was the object of love and commendations :" he then adds, " the encouragement I had to prefer this dedi- cation to your powerful protection proceeds from the universal fame of the deceased author," who (although he composed many) wrote none amiss, and this may justly be ranked among his best." Pennycuicke might have gone further; but this little address is sufficient to shew in what estimation the poet was held by his " fel- lows." He had then been dead nineteen years. About this time too ( 1632) Massinger printed the Maid of Honour, with a dedication to sir Francis Foljambe 3 and sir Thomas Bland, which a The deceased author,] The City Madam-was printed in 1659. This sufficiently proves the absurdity of the account given by Langbaine, Jacob, Whincop, and Cibber, who concur in placing Massinger's death in 1669, and who, certainly, never perused his works with any attention : nor is that ofChetwood more rational, who asserts that he died 1659, since his epitaph is printed among the poems of sir Aston Cockayne, which were published in 1658, and written much earlier. Itis, there- fore, worse than a waste of time to repeat from book to book such palpable errours. (1805.) It is necessary to place the date here, lest I should be supposed to reflect on Mr. Stephen Jones, who had not, at that time, been guilty of this tale and tiresome blunder. 3 Sir Francis Foljambe, &c] I suspect that sir Francis was also a Catholick. From the brief account of this ancient family which is given in Lodge's Illustrations, they appear to have snffered severely on account of their religion, to which they were zealously attached. INTRODUCTION. lxxi cannot be read without sorrow. He observes, that these gentlemen, who appear to have been engaged in an amicable suit at law, had conti- nued, for many years, the patrons of him and his despised studies, and he calls upon the world to take notice, as from himself, that he liad not to that time subsisted, but that he was supported by their frequent courtesies and favours. It is not improbable, however, that he was now labouring under the pressure of more than usual want; as the failure of two of his plays had damped his spirits, and materially checked the prosecution of his dramatic studies. No account of tlie unsuccessful pieces is come down to us : their names do not occur in the Office- book of sir H. Herbert ; nor should we have known the circumstance, had not the Author, with a modesty which shames some of his con- temporaries, and a deference to the judgment of the public, which becomes all who write for it, recorded the fact in the prologue to the Guardian. To this, probably, we owe the publi- cation of A New Way to pay Old Debts, which was now first printed with a sensible and manly address to the earl of Caernarvon, who had married lady Sophia Herbert, the sister of his patron, Philip earl of Pembroke and Montgo- mery. " I was born," he says, u a devoted ser- vant to the thrice noble family of your incom- parable lady, and am most ambitious, but with a becoming distance, to be known to your lxxii INTRODUCTION. lordship." All Massinger's patrons appear to be persons of worth and eminence. Philip had not at this time tarnished the name of Pembroke by disloyalty and ingratitude, and the earl of Caernarvon was a man of unimpeachable honour and integrity. He followed the declining for- tunes of his royal master, and fell at Newbury, where he commanded the cavalry, after defeat- ing that part of the parliamentary army to which he was opposed. In his last moments, says Fuller, as he lay on the field, a nobleman of the royal party desired to know if he had any request to make to the king, to whom he was deservedly dear, comforting him with the assurance that it would be readily granted. His reply was such as became a brave and consci- entious soldier : I will not die with a suit in my mouth, but to the King of kings ! Flattered by the success of the Guardian, which was licensed on the 31st of October 1633, Massinger exerted himself with unusual energy, and produced three plays before the expiration of the following year. One of them, the de- lightful comedy of A Very Woman, is come down to us ; of the others, nothing is known but the names, which are registered by the Master of the Revels. In 1635, it does not ap- pear that he brought any thing forward ; but in l6'S6 he wrote the Bashful Lover, and printed the Great Duke of Florence, which had now been many years on the stage, with a dedication INTRODUCTION. lxxiii to sir Robert Wiseman of Thorrells Hall, in Essex. In this, which is merely expressive of his gratitude for a long continuation of kind- ness, he acknowledges, " and with a zealous thankfulness, that, for many years, he had but faintly subsisted, if he had not often tasted of his bounty." In this precarious state of depen- dance passed the life of a man who is charged with no want of industry, suspected of no ex- travagance, and whose works were, at this very period, the boast and delight of the stage ! The Bashful Lover is the latest play of Mas- singer's writing which we possess, but there were three others posterior to it, of which the last, the Anchoress of Pausilippo, was acted Jan. 26, 1640, about six weeks before his death. Previously to this, he sent to the press one of his early plays, the Unnatural Combat, which he inscribed to Anthony Sentleger, (whose father, sir Wareham, had been his particular admirer,) being, as he says, ambitious to publish his many favours to the world. It is pleasant to find the Author, at the close of his blameless life, avow- ing, as he here does, with an amiable modesty, that the noble and eminent persons to whom his former works were dedicated, did not think themselves disparaged by being " celebrated as the patrons of his humble studies, in the first file of which," he continues, " I am confident you shall have no cause to blush, to find your name written." Ixxiv INTRODUCTION. Massinger died on the l?*th of March, 1640. He went to bed in good health, says Langbaine, and was found dead in the morning in his own house on the Bankside. He was buried in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, and the comedians paid the last sad duty to his name, by attending him to the grave. It does not appear, from the strictest search,* that a stone, or inscription of any kind, marked the place where his dust was deposited : even the memorial of his mortality is given witli a pathetic brevity, which accords but too well with the obscure and humble passages of his life: " March 20, 1639-40, buried Philip Mas- singer, a stranger !" No flowers were flung into his grave, no elegies " soothed his hover- ing spirit," and of all the admirers of his talents and his worth, none but sir Aston Cockayne dedicated a line to his memory. It would be an abuse of language, to honour any composi- tion of sir Aston with the name of poetry ; but the steadiness of his regard for Massinger may be justly praised. In that collection of doggrei rhymes, which I have already mentioned, (p. xlvii.) there is " an epitaph on Mr. John Fletcher, and Mr. Philip Massinger, who lie both buried in one grave in St. Mary Overy's church, in Southwark : Ci In the same grave was Fletcher buried, here " Lies the stage poet, Philip Massinger; * Every stone, and every fragment of a stone, have been examined. INTRODUCTION. ixxv u Plays they did write together, were great friends, " And now one grave includes them in their ends. M To whom on rarth nothing could part, beneath tl Here in their fame they lie, in spight of death." It is surely somewhat singular that of a man of such eminence nothing should be known. What I have presumed to give, is merely the history of the successive appearance of his works ; and I am aware of no source from whence any additional information cau be de- rived: no anecdotes are recorded of him by his contemporaries; few casual mentions of his name occur in the writings of the time; and he had not the good fortuue which attended many of less eminence, to attract attention at the revival of dramatic literature from the deathlike torpor of the Interregnum. 3 But though we are ignorant of every circumstance respecting Mas- singer, but that he lived, wrote, and died, 4 we may yet form to ourselves some idea of his per- sonal character from the incidental hints scat- tered through his works. In what light he was regarded may be collected from the recom- mendatory poems prefixed to his several plays, 3 One exception we shall hereafter mention. Eren in this the Port's ill fate pursued him, and he was flung back, into obscurity, that his spoils might be worn without detection. 4 It ib seriously to be lamented that sir Aston Cockayne, instead of wasting his leisure in measuring out dull prose which cannot be read, had nut employed a part of it in furnish- ing some notices of the dramatic poets, with whom he was so well acquainted, and whom he professes so much to admire. lxxvi INTRODUCTION. in which the language of his panegyrists, though warm, expresses an attachment apparently de- rived not so much from his talents as his virtues : he is, as Davies has observed, their beloved, much- esteemed, dear, worthy, deserving, honoured, long- known, and long-loved friend, &c. &c. All the writers of his life unite in representing him as a man of singular modesty, gentleness, candour, and affability ; nor does it appear that he ever made, or found an enemy. He speaks indeed of opponents on the stage ; but the contention of rival candidates for popular favour must not be confounded with personal hostility. With all this, however, he appears to have maintained a constant struggle with adversity ; since not only the stage, from which, perhaps, his natural reserve prevented him from deriving the usual advantages, but even the bounty of his particu- lar friends, on which he chiefly relied, left him in a state of absolute dependance. Other writers for the stage, not superior to him in abilities, had their periods of good fortune, their bright as well as their stormy hours ; but Mas- singer seems to have enjoyed no gleam of sun- shine ; his life was all one wintry day, and " shadows, clouds, and darkness," rested upon it. Davies finds a servility in his dedications which I have not been able to discover : they are principally characterised by gratitude and humility, without a single trait of that gross INTRODUCT ION. Ixxvii and servile adulation which distinguishes and disgraces the addresses of some of his contem- poraries. That he did not conceal his misery, his editors appear inclined to reckon among his faults; he hore it, however, without impatience, and we only hear of it when it is relieved. Poverty made him no flatterer, and, what is still more rare, no maligner of the great: nor is one symptom of envy manifested in any part of his compositions. His principles of patriotism appear irrepre- hensible: the extravagant and slavish doctrines which are found in the dramas of his great con- temporaries make no part of his creed, in which the warmest loyalty is skilfully combined with just and rational ideas of political freedom. Nor is this the only instance in which the rectitude of his mind is apparent; the writers of his day abound in recommendations of suicide ; he is uniform in the reprehension of it, with a single exception, to which, perhaps, he was led by the peculiar turn of his studies. 5 Guilt of every kind is usually left to the punishment of divine justice: even the wretched Malefort excuses himself to his son on his supernatural appear- ance, because the latter was not marked out by * See the Duke of Milan, Vol. I. p. 254. The frequent violation of female chastity, which took place on the irruption of the barbarians into Italy, gave rise to many curious disqui. itions among the fathers of the church, respecting the degree f guilt incurred in prerenting it by self-murder. Masiinger had these, probably, in his thoughts. Ixxviii INTRODUCTION. heaven for his mother's avenger; and the young', the brave, the pious Charalois accounts his death fallen upon him by the will of heaven, because " he made himself a judge in his own cause." But the great, the glorious distinction of Massinger, is the uniform respect with which he treats religion and its ministers, in an age when it was found necessary to add regulation to regulation, to stop the growth of impiety on the stage. No priests are introduced by him, " to set on some quantity of barren spectators" to laugh at their licentious follies ; the sacred name is not lightly invoked, nor daringly sported with; nor is Scripture profaned by buffoon allu- sions lavishly put in the mouths of fools and women. To this brief and desultory delineation of his mind, it may be expected that something should here be added of his talents for dramatic com- position; but this is happily rendered unneces- sary. The kindness of Dr. Ferriar has allowed me to annex to this Introduction the elegant and ingenious Essay on Massinger, first printed in the third volume of the Manchester Transac' tions; and I shall presently have to notice, in a more particular manner, the value of the assist- ance which has been expressly given to me for this work. These, if I do not deceive myself, leave little or nothing to be desired on the peculiar qualities, the excellencies and defects, of this much neglected and much injured writer. INTRODUCTION. lxxix Mr. M. Mason has remarked the general har- mony of his numbers, in which, indeed, Mas- singer stands unrivalled. He seems, however, inclined to make a partial exception in favour of Shakspeare ; but I cannot admit of its pro- priety. The claims of this great poet on the admiration of mankind are innumerable, but rhythmical modulation is not one of them : nor do I think it either wise or just to hold him forth as supereminent in every quality which constitutes genius: Beaumont is as sublime, Fletcher as pathetic, and Jonson as nervous : nor let it be accounted poor or niggard praise, to allow him only an equality with these extra- ordinary men in their peculiar excellencies, while he is admitted to possess many others, to which they make no approaches. Indeed, if I were asked for the discriminating quality of Shakspeare's mind, that by which he is raised above all competition, above all prospect of rivalry, I should say it was wit. To wit Mas- singer has no pretensions, though he is not without a considerable portion of humour; in which, however, he is surpassed by Fletcher, whose style bears some affinity to his own : there is, indeed, a morbid softness in the poetry of the latter, which is not visible in the flowing and vigorous metre of Massinger, but the ge- neral manner is not unlike.' * There is yet a peculiarity w hit h it may be proper to notice, lxxx INTRODUCTION. With Massinger terminated the triumph of dramatic poetry ; indeed, the stage itself sur- vived him but a short time. The nation was convulsed to its centre by contending factions, and a set of austere and gloomy fanatics, enemies to every elegant amusement, and every social relaxation, rose upon the ruins of the state. Exasperated by the ridicule with which they had long been covered by the stage, they per- secuted the actors with unrelenting severity, and consigned them, together with the writers, to hopeless obscurity and wretchedness. Taylor died in the extreme of poverty, Shirley opened a little school, and Lowin, the boast of the stage, kept an alehouse at Brentford : Balneolum Gabiis,furnos conducere Rornce Tentarunt ! Others, and those the far greater number, joined the royal standard, and exerted themselves with as it contributes in a slight degree, to the fluency of Massinger's style ; it is, the resolution of his words (and principally of those derived from the Latin through the medium of the French) into their component syllables. Virtuous, partial, nation, &c. &c. he usually makes dactyls, (if it be not pedantie to apply terms of measure to a language acquainted only with accent,) passing over the last two syllables with a gentle but distinct enunciation. This practice, indeed, is occasionally adopted by all the writers of his time, but in Massinger it is frequent and habitual. This singularity may slightly embarrass the reader at first, but a little acquaintance will shew its ad- vantages, and render it not only easy but delightful. INTRODUCTION. lxxxi more gallantry than good fortune, in the service of their old and indulgent master.* We have not yet, perhaps, fully estimated, and certainly not yet fully recovered, what was lost in that unfortunate struggle. The arts were rapidly advancing to perfection under the fos- tering wing of a monarch who united in himself taste to feel, spirit to undertake, and munifi- cence to reward. Architecture, painting, and poetry, were by turns the objects of his paternal care. Shakspeare was his " closet companion,"" Jonson his poet, and in conjunction with Inigo Jones, his favoured architect, produced those * It is grateful to notice the noble contrast which the En- glish stage of that day offers to that of Revolutionary France. One wretched actor, only, deserted his Sovereign, and fought on the side of the Parliament, while of the vast multitude fostered by the nobility and the royal family of France, not an individual adhered to their cause. All rushed madly forward to plunder and assassinate their benefactors ; and, with few exceptions, were recognized as the most bloody and remorseless miscreants of that horrible period. * Hit u closet companion,*'] Milton mentions, as a fact uni- versally known, the fondness of the unfortunate Charles for the plays of Shakspeare : and it appears from those curious particulars collected from sir Henry Herbert by Mr. Malone, that his attachment to the drama, and his anxiety for its per- fection, began with his reign. The plot of the Gamester, one of the best of Shirley's pieces, was given to him by the king ; and there is an anecdote recorded by the Master of the Revels, which shews that he was not inattentive to the success of Massingcr. " At Greenwich this 4 of June (1638) Mr. W. Murray VOL. I. f lxxxii INTRODUCTION. magnificent entertainments which, though mo-* dern refinement may affect to despise them, modern splendour never reached even in thought. 9 gave mee power from the king to allow of the King and the Subject, and tould mee that he would warrant it : ** Monies ! We'll raise supplies what way we please u And force you to subscribe to blanks, in which li We'll mulct you as wee shall think fit. The Caesars Whether it be really the " vera effigies" of the Poet, I cannot pretend to say: it was produced sufficiently near his time to be accurate, and it has not the air of a fancy portrait. There is, I believe, no other. 4 Prebendary and sub-dean of Westminster, and ticar of Croydon, in Surrey. * The date on the plate is 1623. This mistake of the engraver, which was not discovered till it was printed off, the reader will hare the goodness to correct with the pen. * . . ESSAY ON THE DRAMATIC WRITINGS . OF MASSINGER. By JOHN FERRIAR, M.D. Manchester, October 25, 1786. - - - - Res antiques laudis tt artis Ingrcdior, sanctos ausus recludercfontcs. Virg. It might be urged, as a proof of our possessing a superfluity of good plays in our language, that one of our best dramatic writers is very gener- ally disregarded. But whatever conclusion may be drawn from this fact, it will not be easy to free the public from the suspicion of caprice, while it continues to idolize Shakspeare, and to neglect an author not often much inferior, and sometimes nearly equal, to that wonderful poet. Massinger's fate has, indeed,been hard, far beyond the common topics of the infelicity of genius. He was not merely denied the fortune for which he laboured, and the fame which he merited; cxii ESSAY ON THE a still more cruel circumstance has attended his productions : literary pilferers have built their reputation on his obscurity, and the popularity of their stolen beauties has diverted the public attention from the excellent original. An attempt was made in favour of this in- jured Poet, in 1761, by a new edition of his works, attended with a critical dissertation on the old English dramatists, in which, though composed with spirit and elegance, there is little to be found respecting Massinger. Another edition appeared in 1773, but the Poet remained unexamined. Perhaps Massinger is still unfor- tunate in his vindicator. The same irregularity of plot, and disregard of rules, appear in Massinger's productions, as in those of his cotemporaries. On this subject, Shakspeare has been so well defended, that it is unnecessary to add any arguments in vindication of our Poet. There is every, reaspn to suppose that Massinger did not neglect the' ancient rules from ignorance, for he appears to be one of our most learned writers, (notwithstanding the insipid sneer of Antony Wood; 1 ) and Cart- wright, who was confessedly a man of great erudition, is not more attentive to the unities, than any other poet of that age. But our Au- thor, like Shakspeare, wrote for bread : it ap- pears, from different parts of his works, 2 that 1 Athence Oxon. Vol, I. a See particularly the dedication of the Maid of 'Honour , and Great Duke of Florence, WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxiii much of his life had passed in slavish dependance, and penury is not apt to encourage a desire of fame. One observation, however, may be risked, on our irregular and regular plays ; that the for- mer are more pleasing to the taste, and the latter to the understanding; readers must de- termine, then, whether it is better to feel, or to approve. Massinger's dramatic art is too great to allow a faint sense of propriety to dwell on the mind, in perusing his pieces; he inflames or soothes, excites the strongest terror, or the softest pity, with all the energy and power of a true poet. But if we must admit, that an irregular plot subjects a writer to peculiar disadvantages, the force of Massinger's genius will appear more evidently, from this very concession. The interest of his pieces is, for the most part, strong and well defined j^the story, though worked up to a studied intricacy, is, in general, resolved with as much ease .ind probability as its nature will permit; attention is never disgusted by antici- pation, nor tortured with unnecessary delay. These characters are applicable to most of Mas- singer's own productions; but in those which he wrote jointly with other dramatists, the in- terest is often weakened, by incidents which that age permitted, but which the present would not endure. Thus, in the lienegado, 3 the honour 1 This play was written by Massinger alone. VOL. I. h cxiv ESSAY ON THE of Paulina is preserved from the brutality of her Turkish master, by the influence of a relic, which she wears on her breast : in the Virgin- Martyr, the heroine is attended, through all her sufferings, by an angel disguised as her page ; her persecutor is urged on to destroy her by an attendant fiend, also in disguise. Here our anxiety for the distressed, and our hatred of the wicked, are completely stifled, and we are more easily affected by some burlesque passages which follow, in the same legendary strain. In the last quoted play, the attendant angel picks the pockets of two debauchees, and Theophilus overcomes the devil by means of a cross com- posed of flowers, which Dorothea had sent him from Farad ise. The story pf the Bondman \s more intricate than that of the Duke of Milan, yet the former is a more interesting play; for in the latter the motives of Francisco's conduct, which occasions the distress of the piece, are only disclosed in narration, at the beginning of the fifth act: we therefore consider him, till that moment, as a man absurdly and unnaturally vicious: but in the Bondman, we have frequent glimpses of a concealed splen- dour in the character of Pisander, which keep our attention fixed, and exalt our expectation of the catastrophe. A more striking comparison might be instituted between the Fatal Dowry of our Author, and RoweV copy of it in his Fair Penitent; but this is very fully and judiciously WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxv clone, by the author of the Observer* who has proved sufficiently, that the interest of the Fair Penitent is much weakened, by throwing into narration what Massinger had forcibly repre- sented on the stage. Yet Howe's play is ren- dered much more regular by alteration. Far- quhar's Inconstant, which is taken from our Author's Guardian, and Fletcher's Wild-goose Chace, is considerably less elegant and less in- teresting, by the plagiary's indiscretion; the lively, facetious Durazzo of Massinger is trans- formed into a nauseous buffoon, in the cha- racter of old Mirabel. The art and judgment with which our Poet conducts his incidents are every where admira- ble. In the Duke of Milan, our pity for Marcelia would inspire a detestation of all the other cha- racters, if she did not facilitate her ruin by the indulgence of an excessive pride. In the Bond- man, Cleora would be despicable when she changes her lover, if Leosthenes had not ren- dered himself unworthy of her, by a mean jea- lousy. The violence of Almira's passion in the Very Woman, prepares us for its decay. Many detached scenes in these pieces possess uncom- mon beauties of incident and situation. Of this kind, are the interview between Charles V. and Sforza,* which, though notoriously contrary to true history, and very de6cient in the repre- No. lxxxviii. lxxxix. xa * Duke of Milan, Act II. Il2 cxvi ESSAY ON THE sentation of the emperor, arrests our attention, and awakens our feelings in the strongest man- ner; the conference of Mathias and Baptista, when Sophia's virtue becomes suspected;' the pleadings in the Fatal Dowry, respecting the funeral rites of Charalois ; the interview be- tween don John, disguised as a slave, and his mistress, to whom he relates his story ; r but, above all, the meeting of Pisander and Cleora, 8 after he has excited the revolt of the slaves, in order to get her within his power. These scenes are eminently distinguished by their novelty, correctness, and interest ; the most minute critic will find little wanting, and the lover of truth and nature can suffer nothing to be taken away. It is no reproach of our Author, that the foundation of several, perhaps all, of his plots may be traced in different historians, or novel- lists; for in supplying himself from these sources, he followed the practice of the age. Shak- speare, Jonson, and the rest, are not more ori- , ginal, in this respect, than our Poet ; if Cart- wright may be exempted, he is the only excep- tion to this remark. As the minds of an audi- ence, unacquainted with the models of antiquity, could only be affected by immediate applica- tion to their passions, our old writers crowded as many incidents, and of as perplexing a nature as possible, into their works, to support anxiety 6 Picture. 7 A Very Woman. * Bondman. WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxvii and expectation to their utmost height. In our reformed tragic school, our pleasure arises from the contemplation of the writer's art ; and instead of eagerly watching for the unfolding of the plot, (the imagination being left at liberty by the simplicity of the action,) we consider whether it be properly conducted. Another reason, however, may be assigned for the intri- cacy of those plots, namely, the prevailing taste for the manners and writings of Italy. During the whole of the sixteenth, and part of the seventeenth century, Italy was the seat of elegance and arts, which the other European nations had begun to admire, but not to imitate. From causes which it would be foreign to the present purpose to enumerate, the Italian writers abounded in complicated and interesting stories, which were eagerly seized by a people not well qualified for invention;' but the richness, va- riety, and distinctness of character which our writers added to those tales, conferred beauties on them which charm us at this hour, however disguised by the alterations of manners and language. Exact discrimination and consistency of cha- racter appear in all Massinger's productions: sometimes, indeed, the interest of the play suf- 9 Cartwright and CongrcfC, who resemble each other strongly in some remarkable circumstances, are almost our only dramatists who hare any claim to originality in their plots. cxviii ESSAY ON THE fers by his scrupulous attention to them. Thus, in the Fatal Dowry, Charalois's fortitude and determined sense of honour are carried to a most unfeeling and barbarous degree : and Francisco's villainy, in the Duke of Milan, is cold and considerate beyond nature. But here we must again plead the sad necessity under which our Poet laboured, of pleasing his audience at any rate. It was the prevailing opinion, that the characters ought to approach towards each other as little as possible. This was termed art, and in consequence of this, as Dr. Hurd ob- serves, 1 some writers of that time have founded their characters on abstract ideas, instead of copying from real life. Those delicate and beautiful shades of manners, which we admire in Shakspeare, were reckoned inaccuracies by his contemporaries. Thus Cartwright says, in his verses to Fletcher, speaking of Shakspeare, whom he undervalues, " nature was all his art" General manners must always influence the stage; unhappily, the manners of Massinger's age were pedantic. Yet it must be allowed that our Author's characters are less abstract than those of Jonson or Cartwright, and that, with more dignity, they are equally natural with those of Fletcher. His conceptions are, for the most part, just and noble. We have a fine instance of this in the character of Dioclesian, who, very differently from the ranting tyrants 1 Essay on the Provinces of the Drama. WRITINGS OF MASSLNGER. cxix by whom the stage has been so long possessed, is generous to his vanquished enemies, and per- secutes from policy as much as from zeal. He attracts our respect, immediately on his ap- pearance, by the following sentiments : In all growing empires, Eren cruelty is useful ; some must suffer, And be set up examples to strike terror In others, though far oil': but, when a state Is raised to her perfection, and her bases Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy, And do't with safety : Virgin Martyr, Act. I. sc. L Sforza is an elevated character, cast in a diffe- rent mould ; brave, frank, and generous, he is hurried, by the unrestrained force of his pas- sions, into fatal excesses in love and friendship. He appears with great dignity before the em- peror, on whose mercy he is thrown, by the defeat of his allies, the French, at the battle of Pavia. After recounting his obligations to Francis, he proceeds : ... If that, then, to be grateful For courtesies received, or not to leave A frind in his necessities, be a crime Amongst you Spaniards, ... ... Sforza brings his tn-ad To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slave, Pinion'd and tetter'd, in a squalid weed, Falling belore thy feet, kneeling and howling, For a forettall'd remission : that were poor, cxx ESSAY ON THE And would but shame thy victory ; for conquest Over base foes, is a captivity, And not a triumph. I ne'er fear'd to die, More than I wish'd to live. When I had reach'd My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes, This crown upon my head, and to my side This sword was girt ; and witness truth, that, now 'Tis in another's power when I shall part With them and life together, I'm the same : My veins then did not swell with pride ; nor now Shrink they for fear v The Duke of Milan, Act III. sc. ii. Iii the scene where Sforza enjoins Francisco to dispatch Marcelia, in case of the emperor's pro- ceeding to extremities against him, the Poet has given him a strong expression of horror at his own purpose. After disposing Francisco to obey his commands without reserve, by reca- pitulating the favours conferred on him, Sforza proceeds to impress him with the blackest view of the intended deed : - - - But you must swear it; And put into the oath all joys or torments That fright the wicked, or confirm the good; Not to conceal it only, that is nothing, But, whensoe'er my will shall speak, Strike now, To fall upon't like thunder. Thou must do, then, .What no malevolent star will dare to look on, It is so wicked : for which men will curse thee For being the instrument ; and the blest angels Forsake me at my need, for being the author : For 'tis a deed of night, of night, Francisco ! WRITINGS OF MASS1NGER. cxxi In which the memory of all good actions We can pretend to, shall be buried quick : Or, if we be remember'd, it shall be To fright posterity by our example, That have outgone all precedents of villains That were before us ; The Duke of Milan, Act I. sc. ult. If we compare this scene, and especially the passage quoted, with the celebrated scene be- tween king John and Hubert, we shall perceive this remarkable difference, that Sforza, while he proposes to his brother-in-law and favourite, the eventual murder of his wife, whom he ido- lizes, is consistent and determined ; his mind is filled with the horror of the deed, but borne to the execution of it by the impulse of an extra- vagant and fantastic delicacy : John, who is actuated solely by the desire of removing his rival in the crown, not only fears to communi- cate his purpose to Hubert, though he perceives him to be A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame ; but after he has sounded him, and found him ready to execute whatever he can propose, he only hints at the deed. Sforza enlarges on the cruelty and atrocity of his design ; John is afraid to utter hi*, in the view of the sun : nay, the sanguinary Richard hesitates in proposing the murder of his nephews to Buckingham. In this instance then, as well as that of Charalois, cxxii ESSAY ON THE our Poet may seem to deviate from nature, for ambition is a stronger passion than love, yet Sforza decides with more promptness and con- fidence than either of Shakspeare's characters. We must consider, however, that timidity and irresolution are characteristics of John, and that Richard's hesitation appears to be assumed, only in order to transfer the guilt and odium of the action to Buckingham. It was hinted before, that the character of Pisander in the Bondman, is more interesting than that of Sforza. His virtues, so unsuitable to the character of a slave, the boldness of his designs, and the steadiness of his courage, ex- cite attention and anxiety in the most powerful manner. He is perfectly consistent, and though lightly shaded with chivalry is not deficient in nature or passion. Leosthenes is also the child of nature, whom perhaps we trace in some later jealous characters. Cleora is finely drawn, but to the present age, perhaps, appears rather too masculine:, the exhibition of characters which should wear an unalterable charm, in their finest and almost insensible touches, was peculiar to the prophetic genius of Shakspeare. 2 Massinger has given a strong proof of his genius, by in- troducing in a different play, a similar character^ * If Massinger formed the singular character of sir Giles Over-reach from his own imagination, what should we think of his sagacity, who have seen this poetical phantom realised in our days ? Its apparent extravagance required this support. WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxiii in a like situation to that of Pisander, yet with sufficient discrimination of manners and inci- dent: I mean don John, in the Very Woman, who, like Pisander, gains his mistress's heart, under the disguise of a slave. Don John is a model of magnanimity, superior to Cato, because he is free from pedantry and ostentation. I believe he may be regarded as an original cha- racter. It was easy to interest our feelings for all the characters already described, but no writer, before Massinger, had attempted to make a player the hero of tragedy. This, how- ever, he has executed, with surprising address, in the Roman Actor. It must be confessed that Paris, the actor, owes much of his dignity to incidents : at the opening of the play, he de- fends his profession successfully before the senate; this artful introduction raises him in our ideas, above the level of his situation, for the Poet has " graced him with all the power of words;" the empress's passion for him places him in a still more distinguished light, and he meets his death from the hand of the emperor himself, in a mock-play. It is, perhaps, from a sense of the difficulty of exalting Paris's character, and of the dexterity requisite to fix the attention of the audience on it, that Mas- singer says, in the dedication of this play, that " he ever held it the most perfect birth of his Minerva." I know not whether it is owin> to design, or to want of art, that Romont, in the cxxiv ESSAY ON THE Fatal Dowry, interests us as much as Charalois, the hero. If Charalois surrenders his liberty to procure funeral rites for his father, Romont previously provokes the court to imprison him, by speaking with too much animation in the cause of his friend. Romont, though insulted by Charalois, who discredits his report of Beau- melle's infidelity, flies to him with art the eager- ness of attachment, when Charalois is involved in difficulties by the murder of Novall and his wife, and revenges his death, when he is assas- sinated by Pontalicr. Rovve, who neglected the finest parts of this tragedy in his plagiarism, (the Fair Penitent,) has not failed to copy the fault I have pointed out. His Horatio is a much finer character than his Altamont, yet he is but a puppet when compared with Massinger's Romont. Camiola (the Maid of' Honour) is a most delightful character; her fidelity, genero- sity, dignity of manners, and elevation of &enti~ ments, are finely displayed, and nobly sustained throughout. It is pity that the Poet thought himself obliged to debase all the other charac- ters in the piece in order to exalt her. There is an admirable portrait of Old Malefort, in that extravagant composition, the Unnatural Combat. The Poet seems to equal the art of the writer whom he here imitates : . - _ I have known him From his first youth, but never yet observed, In all the passages of his life and fortunes, WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxv Virtues so mix*d with vices: valiant the world speaks him, Bat with that, bloody ; liberal in his gifts too, But to maintain his prodigal expense, A fierce extortioner ; an impotent lover Of women for a flash, but, his fires quench'd, Hating as deadly : Act. III. sc. ii. Almira and Cardenes, in the Very Woman, are copied from nature, and therefore never obsolete. They appear like many favourite characters in our present comedy, amiable in their tempers, and warm in their attachments, but capricious, and impatient of control. Massinger, with unusual charity, has introduced a physician in a respectable point of view, in this play. We are agreeably interested in Durazzo, 5 who has all the good nature of Terence's Micio, with more spirit. His picture of country sports may be viewed with delight even by those who might not relish the reality : ... rise before the sun, Then make a breakfast of the morning dew, Served up by nature on some grassy hill ; You'll find it nectar, In the City Madam, we are presented with the character of a finished hypocrite, but so artfully drawn, that he appears to be rather governed by external circumstances, to which he adapts himself, than to act, like Moliere's Tartuffe, from a formal system of wickedness. His humi- lity and benevolence, while he appears as a * The Guardian. cxxvi ESSAY ON THE ruined man, and as his brother's servant, are evidently produced by the pressure of his mis- fortunes, and he discovers a tameness, amidst the insults of his relations, that indicates an inherent baseness of disposition. 4 When he is informed that his brother has retired from the world, and has left him his immense fortune, he seems at first to apprehend a deception : - . O my good lord ! This heap of wealth which you possess me of, Which to a worldly man had been a blessing, And to the messenger might with justice challenge A kind of adoration, is to me A curse I cannot thank you for ; and much less Rejoice in that tranquillity of mind My brother's vows must purchase. I have made A dear exchange with him : he now enjoys My peace and poverty, the trouble of His wealth confer r'd on me, and that a burthen Too heavy for my weak shoulders. Act. III. sc. ii. On receiving the will, he begins to promise unbounded lenity to his servants, and makes professions and promises to the ladies who used him so cruelly in his adversity, which appear at last to be ironical, though they take them to be sincere. He does not display himself till he has visited his wealth, the sight of which dazzles and astonishes him so far as to throw him off his guard, and to render him insolent. Massinger displays a knowledge of man not very usual 4 See particularly his soliloquy, Act III. sc. ii. WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxvii with dramatic writers, while he represents the same person as prodigal of a small fortune in his youth, servile and hypocritical in his distresses, arbitrary and rapacious in the possession of wealth suddenly acquired : for those seeming changes of character depend on the same dis- position variously influenced; I mean, on a base and feeble mind, incapable of resisting the power of external circumstances. In order, however, to prepare us for the extravagances of this character, after he is enriched, the Poet delineates his excessive transports on viewing his wealth, in a speech which cannot be injured by a comparison with any soliloquy in our lan- guage : 'Twas no fantastic object, but a truth, A real truth ; nor dream : I did not slumber, And could wake erer with a brooding eye To gaze upon't! it did endure the touch, I saw and felt it! Yet what I beheld And handled oft, did so transcend belief, (My wonder and astonishment pass'd o'er,) I faintly could gire credit to my senses. Thou dumb. magician, [Taking out a key.] that without a charm Did'st make my entrance easy, to possess What wise men wish, and toil for! Hermes' moly, Sibylla's golden bough, the great elixir, 'Imagined only by the alchymist, Compared with thee are shadows, thou the substance, And guardian of felicity ! No marvel, My brother made tby place of rest his bosom, Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress cxxviii ESSAY ON THE To be hugg'd ever ! In by-comers of This sacred room, silver in bags, heap'd up Like billets saw'd and ready for the fire, Unworthy to hold fellowship with bright gold That flow'd about the room, conceal'd itself. There needs no artificial light ; the splendor Makes a perpetual day there, night and darkness By that still-burning lamp for ever banish'd ! But when, guided by that, my eyes had made Discovery of the caskets, and they open'd, Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth A pyramid of flames^ and in the roof Fix'd it a glorious star, and made the place Heaven's abstract, or epitome! rubies, sapphires, And ropes of oriental pearl ; these seen, I could not But look on gold with contempt/ And yet I found What weak credulity could have no faith in, A treasure far exceeding these : here lay A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment, The wax continuing hard, the acres melting; Here a sure deed of gift for a market-town, If not redeem'd this day, which is not in The unthrift's power : there being scarce one shirt In Wales, or England, where my monies are not Lent out at usury, the certain hook To draw in more. I am sublimed ! gross earth. Supports me not ; I walk on air ! Who's there ? 5 In these quotations, the present edition has been hitherto followed. Dr. Ferriar, it appears, made use of Mr. M. Mason's, to whose vitiated readings it is necessary to recur on the pre- sent occasion, as the Doctor founds on them his exception to the general excellence of Massingers versification. The reader who wishes to know how these lines were really given by the Poet, must turn to Vol. IV. p. 67, whre he will find them to be as flowing and harmonious as any part of the speech. Editor. WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxix Enter Lord Lacy, -with Sir John Frugal, Sir Maurice Lact, and Plenty, disguised as Indians, Thieves! raise the street ! thieves! Act III. sc. iii. It was a great effort by which such a train of violent emotions and beautiful images was drawn, with the strictest propriety, from the indulgence of a passion to which other poets can only give interest in its anxieties and dis- appointments. Every sentiment in this fine soliloquy is touched with the hand of a master; the speaker, overcome by the splendour of his acquisitions, can scarcely persuade himself that the event is real; "it is no fantasy, but a truth; a real truth, no dream ; he does not slumber;'* the natural language of one who strives to con- vince himself that he is fortunate beyond all probable expectation ; for u he could wake ever to gaze upon his treasure :" again he re- verts to his assurances; " it did endure the touch; he saw and felt it." These broken ex- clamations and anxious repetitions, are the pure voice of nature. Recovering from his astonish- ment, his mind dilates with the value of his possessions, aud the Poet finely directs the whole gratitude of this mean- character to the key of his stores. In the description which follows, there is a striking climax in sordid luxury; that passage where Each sparkiing diamond from itself shot forth A pyramid of flames, and in the roof Fix'd it a glorious star, and made the place Ueftrea'l abstract, or epitome! VOL. I. i cxxx ESSAY ON THE though founded on a false idea in natural his- tory, long since exploded, is amply excused by the singular and beautiful image which it pre- sents. The contemplation of his enormous wealth, still amplified by his fancy, transports him at length to a degree of frenzy ; and now seeing strangers approach, he cannot conceive them to come upon any design but that of rob- bing him, and with the appeasing of his ridicu- lous alarm this storm of passion subsides, which stands unrivalled in its kind, in dramatic his- tory. The soliloquy possesses a very uncommon beauty, that of forcible description united with passion and character. I should scarcely hesi- tate to prefer the description of sir John FrugaFs counting-house to Spenser's house of riches. It is very remarkable, that in this passage, the versification is so exact, (two lines only excepted 6 ) and the diction so pure and elegant, that, although much more than a century has elapsed since it was written, it would be per- haps impossible to alter the measure or language without injury, and certainly very difficult to produce an equal length of blank verse, from any modern poet, which should bear a com- parison with Massinger's, even in the mechani- cal part of its construction. This observation may be extended to all our Poet's productions: majesty, elegance, and sweetness of diction predominate in them. It is needless to quote any single passage for proof of this, because 6 But see the preceding note, p. cxxviii. WRITINGS OF MASSING ER. cxxxi none of those which I am going to introduce will afford any exception to the remark. Inde- pendent of character, the writings of this great Poet abound with noble passages. It is only in the productions of true poetical genius that we meet with successful allusions to sublime natural objects ; the attempts of an inferior writer, in this kind, are either borrowed or disgusting. If Massinger were to be tried by this rule alone, we must rank him very high; a few instances will prove this. Theophilus, speaking of Dio- clesian's arrival, says, - - - - The marches of great princes, Like to the motions of prodigious meteors, Are step by step observed ; Virgin Martyr, Act I. sc. \. The introductory circumstances of a threaten- ing piece of intelligence, are . . - - but creeping billows, Not got to shore yet: lb. Act II. sc. ii. In the same play, we meet with this charming image, applied to a modest young nobleman : The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him, Shine there but as in water, and gild him Not with one spot of pride: lb. sc. iii. No other figure could so happily illustrate the peace and purity of an ingenuous mind, uncor- ruptcd by favour. Massinger seems fond of this thought; we meet with a similar one in the Guardian: I have seen those eyes with pleasant glances play Upon Adorio's, like Phoebe's shine, Gilding a crystal river ; Act IV. sc. \. i 2 cxxxii ESSAY ON THE There are two parallel passages in Shakspeare, to whom we are probably indebted for this, as well as for many other fine images of our Poet. The first is in the Winter's Tale- He says he lo?es my daughter ; I think so too: for never gaz'd the moon Upon the water, as he'll stand, and read, As 'twere, my daughter's eyes. Act IV. sc. iv. The second is ludicrous : King. Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine (Those clouds remov'd) upon our wat'ry eyne. Ros. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter; Thou now request'st but moon-shine in the water. Love's Labour's Lost, Act V. sc. ii. The following images are applied, I think, in a new manner : . - - - as the sun, Thou did'st rise gloriously, kept'st a constant course In all thy journey ; and now, in the evening, When thou should'st pass with honour to thy rest, Wilt thou fall like a meteor ? Virgin Martyr, Act V. sc. ii. O summer-friendship, Whose flattering leaves, that shadow'd us in our Prosperity, with the least gust drop off In the autumn of adversity. Maid of Honour, Act III. sc. i. In the last quoted play, Camiola says, in per- plexity, What a sea Of melting ice I walk on ! Act III. sc. iv. A very noble figure, in the following passage seems borrowed from Shakspeare : WRITINGS OF MASSINGER.cxxxiii What a bridge Of glass I walk upon, orer a rirer Of certain ruin, mine own weighty /ears Cracking -what should support me ! The Bondman, Act IV. sc. iii. I'll read you matter deep and dangerous ; As full of peril, and adrent'rous spirit, As to o'er-walk a current, roaring loud, On the unstcadfast footing of a spear. Henry IV. Part I. Act I. sc. iii. It cannot be denied that Massinger has im- proved on his original : he cannot be said to borrow, so properly as to imitate. This remark may be applied to many other passages : thus Harpax's menace, I'll take thee - and hang thee In a contorted chain of isicles In the frigid zone: Virgin Martyr, Act V. sc. i. is derived from the same source with, that pas- sage in Measure for Measure, where it is said to be a punishment in a future state, to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice. Again, in the Old Law, we meet with a passage similar to a much celebrated one of Shakspeare's, but copied with no common hand: In my youth I was a soldier, no coward in my age; I nefer turn'd my back upon my foe ; I have felt nature's winters, sicknesses, Yet ever kept a lively sap in me To greet the cheerful spring of health again. Act I. sc. i. cxxxiv ESSAY ON THE Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty : For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood ; Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo The means of weakness and debility ; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly. 7 As You Like It, Act II. sc. iii. Our Poet's writings are stored with fine sen- timents, and the same observation which has been made on Shakspeare's, holds true of our Author, that his sentiments are so artfully in- troduced, that they appear to come uncalled, and to force themselves on the mind of the speaker. 8 In the legendary play of the Virgin- Martyr, Angelo delivers a beautiful sentiment, perfectly in the spirit of the piece : - Look on the poor With gentle eyes, for in such habits, often, Angels desire an alms. When Francisco, in the Duke of Milan, succeeds in his designs against the life of Marcelia, he remarks with exultation, that When he's a suitor, that brings cunning arm'd With power, to be his advocates, the denial 7 In an expression of Archidamus, in the Bondman, we dis. cover, perhaps, the origin of an image in Paradise Lost : - O'er our heads, with sail-stretch'd wings, Destruction hovers. The Bondman, Act I. sc. iiu Milton says of Satan, - His sail-broad vanns He spreads for flight. * Mrs. Montagu's Essay on Shakspeare. WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxxv Is a disease as killing as the plague, And chastity a clue that leads to death. Act IV. sc. ii. Pisander, in the Bondman, moralizes the in- solence of the slaves to their late tyrants, after the revolt, in a manner that tends strongly to interest us in his character: Here they, that never see themselves, but in The glass of servile flattery, might behold The weak foundation upon which they build Their trust in human frailty. Happy are those, That knowing, in their births, they arc subject to Uncertain change, are still prepared, and arm'd For either fortune : a rare principle, And with much labour, learn'd in wisdom's school ! For, as these bondmen, by their actions, shew That their prosperity, like too large a sail For their small bark of judgment, sinks them with A fore. right gale of liberty, ere they reach The port they long to touch at: so these wretches, Swollen with the false opinion of their worth, And proud of blessings left them, not acquired; That did believe they could with giant arms Fathom the earth, and were above their fates, Those borrow'd helps, that did support them, vanish'd, Fall of themselves, and by unmanly suffering, Betray their proper weakness. Act III. sc. Hi - His complaint of the hardships of slavery must not be entirely passed over : - The noble horse, That, in hisjiery youth, from his wide nostrils Neigh'd courage to his ridir, and brake through Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord Safe to triumphant victory ; old or wounded Was set at liberty, and freed from service. cxxxvi ESSAY ON THE The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew Marble, hew'd for the temples of the gods, The great work ended, wore dismissed, and fed At the public cost ; nay, faithful dogs have found Their sepulchres ; but man, to man more cruel, Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave. lb. Act IV. sc. ii. The sense of degradation in a lofty mind, hur- ried into vice by a furious and irresistible pas- sion, is expressed very happily in the Renegado, by Donusa: - What poor means Must I make use of now ! and flatter such, To whom, till I betray'd my liberty, One gracious look of mine would have erected An altar to my service ! Act II. sc. i. Again, O that I should blush To speak what I so much desire to do ! When Mathias, in the Picture, is informed by the magical skill of his friend, that his wife's honour is in danger, his first exclamations have at least as much sentiment as passion : - - It is more Impossible in nature for gross bodies, Descending of themselves, to hang in the air ; Or with my single arm to underprop A falling tower ; nay, in its violent course To stop the lightning, than to stay a woman Hurried by two furies, lust and falsehood, In her full career to wickedness ! I am thrown From a steep rock headlong into a gulph WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxxvii Of misery, and find myself past hope, In the same moment that I apprehend That I am falling. Act IV. sc. i. But if Massinger does not alwavs exhibit the liveliest and most natural expressions of pas- sion ; if, like most other poets, he sometimes substitutes declamation for those expressions ; in description at least he puts forth all his strength, and never disappoints us of an asto- nishing exertion. We may be content to rest his character, in the description of passion, on the following single instance. In the Very Woman, Almira's lover, Cardenes, is danger- ously wounded in a quarrel, by don John An- tonio, who pays his addresses to her. Take, now, a description of Almira's frenzy on this event, which the prodigal author has put into the mouth of a chambermaid : If she slumber'd, straight, As if some dreadful rision had appear'd, She started up, her hair unbound, and, with Distracted looks staring about the chamber, She asks aloud, Where is Martina f where Jfave you conceal' d him f sometimes names Antonio, Trembling in exery joint, her brows contracted, Her fair jace as 'twere changed into a curse, her hands held up thus; and, as if her words Were too big to find passage through her mouth, She groans, then throws herself upon her bed, Beating her breast. Act II. sc. iii. To praise or to elucidate this passage, would be equally superfluous; I am acquainted with cxxxviii ESSAY ON THE nothing superior to it, in descriptive poetry, and it would be hardy to bring any single in- stance in competition with it. Our Poet is not less happy in his descriptions of inanimate nature, and his descriptions bear the peculiar stamp of true genius in their beautiful concise- ness. What an exquisite picture does he present in the compass of less than two lines ! yon hanging cliff, that glasses His rugged forehead in the neighbouring lake, < Renegado, Act II. sc. t. Thus also Dorothea's description of Paradise : There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth : No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat, 'Famine, nor age, have any being there. The Virgin Martyr, Act IV. sc. iii. After all the encomiums on a rural life, and after all the soothing sentiments and beautiful images lavished on it, by poets who never lived in the country, Massinger has furnished one of the most charming unborrowed descriptions that can be produced on the subject : Happy the golden mean ! had I been born In a poor sordid cottage, not nurs'd up With expectation to command a court, I might, like such of your condition, sweetest, Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not, As I am now, against my choice, compcll'd Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised So high upon the pinnacles of state, That I must either keep my height with danger, Or fall with certain ruin - . - -. we might walk WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxxix In solitary groves, or in choice gardtns ; From the variety of curious flowers Contemplate nature's workmanship, and wonders ; And then, lor change, near to the murmur of Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing, And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue, In my imagination conceire With what melodious harmony a quire Of angels sing above their Maker's praises. And then with chaste discourse, as we return'd, * Imp feathers to the broken wings of time: - walk into The silent groves, and hear the amorous birds Warbling their wanton notes ; here, a sure shade Of barren sycamores, which the all. seeing sun Could not pierce through ; near that, an arbour hung With spreading eglantine ; there, a bubbling spring Watering a bank of hyacinths and lilies ; The Great Duke of Florence, Act I. sc. i. and Act IV. sc. ii. Let us oppose to these peaceful and inglorious images, the picture of a triumph by the same masterly hand : when she views you, Like a triumphant conqueror, carried through The streets of Syracusa, the glad people Pressing to meet you, and the senators Contending who shall heap most honours on you ; The oxen, crown'd with garlands, led before you, Appointed for the sacrifice ; and the altars Smoaking with thankful incense to the gods: The soldiers chanting loud hymns to your praise, The windows fill'd with matrons and with virgins, Throwing upon your head, as you pass by, The choicest flowers, and silently invoking cxl ESSAY ON THE The queen of love, with their particular vows, To be thought worthy of you. The Bondman, Act III. sc. it. Every thing here is animated, yet every action is appropriated : a painter might work after this sketch, without requiring an additional circumstance. The speech of young Charalois, in the funeral processfon, if too metaphorical for his character and situation, is at least highly poetical : How like a silent stream shaded with night, And gliding softly with our windy sighs, Moves the whole frame of this solemnity ! Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove Of death, thus hollowly break forth. The Fatal Dowry y Act II. sc. i. It may afford some consolation to inferior genius, to remark that even Massinger some- times employs pedantic and overstrained allu- sions. He was fond of displaying the little military knowledge he possessed, which he in- troduces in the following passage, in a most extraordinary manner : one beautiful image in it must excuse the rest : - were Margaret only fair, The cannon of her more than earthly form, Though mounted high, commanding all beneath it, And ramm'd with bullets of her sparkling eyes, Of all the bulwarks that defend your senses Could batter none, but that which guards your sight. But when you feel her touch, and breath WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxli Like a soft western wind, when it glides o'er Arabia, creating gums and spices ; And in the van, the nectar of her lips, Which you must taste, bring the battalia on, Well arm'd, and strongly lined with her discourse, Hippolytus himself would leare Diana, To follow such a Venus. A New Way to pay Old Debts, Act III. sc. i. What pity, that he should ever write so extra- vagantly, who could produce this tender and delicate image, in another piece: What's that? oh, nothing but the whispering wind Breathes through yon churlish hawthorn, that grew rude, N As if it chid the gentle breath that kiss'd it. The Old Law, Act IV. sc. ii. I wish it could be added to Massinger's just praises, that he had preserved his scenes from the impure dialogue which disgusts us in most of our old writers. But we may observe, in defence of his failure, that several causes ope- rated at that time to produce such a dialogue, and that an author who subsisted by writing was absolutely subjected to the influence of those causes. The manners of the age permitted great freedoms in language ; the theatre was not frequented by the best company; the male part of the audience was by much the more numerous ; and, what perhaps had a greater effect than any of these, the women's parts were performed by boys. So powerful was the effect of those circumstances, that Cartwright is the clxii ESSAY ON THE only dramatist of that age whose works are tolerably free from indecency. Massinger's error, perhaps, appears more strongly, because his indelicacy has not always the apology of wit ; for, either from a natural deficiency in that quality, or from the peculiar model on which he had formed himself, his comic characters are less witty than those of his cotemporaries, and when he attempts wit, he frequently dege- nerates into buffoonery. But he has shewed, in a remarkable manner, the justness of his taste, in declining the practice of quibbling ; and as wit and a quibble were supposed, in that age, to be inseparable, we are perhaps to seek, in his aversion to the prevailing folly, the true cause of his sparing employment of wit. Our Poet excels more in the description than in the expression of passion ; this may be as- cribed, in some measure, to his nice attention to the fable : while his scenes are managed with consummate skill, the lighter shades of character and sentiment are lost in the tendency of each part to the catastrophe. The prevailing beauties of his productions are dignity and elegance; their predominant fault is want of passion. The melody, force, and variety of his versi- fication are every where remarkable : admitting the force of all the objections which are made to the employment of blank verse in comedy, Massingerpossesses charms sufficient to dissipate WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxliii them all. It is indeed equally different from that which modern authors are pleased to style blank verse, and from the flippant prose so loudly celebrated in the comedies of the day. The neglect of our old comedies seems to arise from other causes, than from the employment of blank verse in their dialogue ; for, in general, its construction is so natural, that in the mouth of a good actor it runs into elegant prose. The frequent delineations of perishable manners, in our old comedy, have occasioned this neglect, and we may foresee the fate of our present fashionable pieces, in that which has attended Jonson's, Fletcher's, and Massinger's : they are either entirely overlooked, or so mutilated, to fit them for representation, as neither to retain the dignity of the old comedy, nor to acquire the graces of the new. The changes of manners have necessarily produced very remarkable effects on theatrical performances. In proportion as our best writers are further removed from the present times, they exhibit bolder and more diversified characters, because the prevailing manners admitted a fuller display of sentiments, in the common inter- course of life. Our own times, in which the intention of polite education is to produce a general, uniform manner, afford little diversity of character for the stage. Our dramatists, therefore, mark the distinctions of their cha- racters, by incidents more than by sentiments, cxliv ESSAY ON THE and abound more in striking situations than interesting dialogue. In the old comedy, the catastrophe is occasioned, in general, by a change in the mind of some principal character, artfully prepared, and cautiously conducted ; in the modern, the unfolding of the plot is effected by the overturning of a screen, the opening of a door, or by some other equally dignified machine. When we compare Massinger with the other dramatic writers of his age, we cannot long hesitate where to place him. More natural in his characters, and more poetical in his diction, than Jonson or Cartwright, more elevated and nervous than Fletcher, the only writers who can be supposed to contest his pre-eminence, Massinger ranks immediately under Shakspeare himself. It must be confessed, that in comedy Mas- singer falls considerably beneath Shakspeare ; his wit is less brilliant, and his ridicule less deli- cate and various ; but he affords a specimen of elegant comedy,' of which there is no archetype in his great predecessor. By the rules of a very judicious critic, 1 the characters in this piece appear to be of too elevated a rank for comedy ; yet though the plot is somewhat embarrassed by this circumstance, the diversity, spirit, and consistency of the characters render it a most 9 The Great Duke of Florence. 1 See the Essay on the Provinces of the Drama. WRITINGS OF MASSING ER. cxlv teresting play. In tragedy, Massin^er i3 rather eloquent than pathetic; yet he is often as ma- jestic, and generally more elegant than his master ; he is as powerful a ruler of the under- standing, as Shakspeare is of the passions : with the disadvantage of succeeding: that matchless poet, there is still much original beauty in his works; and the most extensive acquaintance with poetry will hardly diminish the pleasure of a reader and admirer of Massinger. YOL. I. [ cxlvii ] COMMENDATORY VERSES ON MASSINGER. Upon this Work [The Duke of Milan] of his be- loved Friend the Author. 1am snapt already, and may go my way ; The poet-critic's come; I hear him say This youth's mistook, the author's work's a play. He could not miss it, he will straight appear At such a bait ; 'twas laid on purpose there, To take the vermin, and I have him here. Sirrah ! you will be nibbling; a small bit, A syllable, when you're in the hungry fit, Will serve to stay the stomach of your wit. Fool, knave, what worse, for worse cannot de- prave thee ; And were the devil now instantly to have thee, Thou canst not instance such a work to save thee, 'Mongst all the ballets which thou dost compose, And what thou stylest thy Poems, ill as those, And void of rhyme and reason, thy worse prose : Yet like a rude jack-sauce in poesy, With thoughts unblest, and hand unmannerly, Ravishing branches from Apollo's tree ; k 2 exlviii COMMENDATORY VERSES Thou mak'st a garland, for thy touch unfit, And boldly deck'st thy pig- brain 'd sconce with As if it were the supreme head of wit : The blameless Muses blush ; who not allow That reverend order to each vulgar brow, Whose sinful touch profanes the holy bough. Hence, shallow prophet, and admire the strain Of thine own pen, or thy poor cope-mate's vein ; This piece too curious is for thy coarse brain. Here wit, more fortunate, is join'd with art, And that most sacred freuzy bears a part, Infused by nature in the Poet's heart. Here may the puny wits themselves direct, Here may the wisest find what to affect, And kings may learn their proper dialect. On then, dear friend, thy pen, thy name, shall spread, And shouldst thou write, while thou shalt not be read, The Muse must labour, when thy hand is dead. W. B.* 1 W. B.] Tis the opinion of Mr. Reed, that the initials W. B. stand for William Brown, the author of Britannia's Pastoruls. I see no reason to think otherwise, except that Ben Jonson, whom W. B. seems to attack all through this Poem, had greatly cele- brated Brown's Pastorals ; but indeed Jonson was so capricious in his temper, that we must not suppose him to be very constant in his friendships. Davies. This is a pretty early specimen of the judgment which Davies brought to the elucidation of his work. Not a line, not a syl- lable of this little poem can, by any violence, be tortured into a reflection on Jonson, whom he supposes to be u attacked all through it!" Iri 1622, when it was written, that great poet was at the height of bis reputation. Would a " young" writer ON MASSINGER. cxlix The Author's Friend to the Reader, on the Bondman. The printer's baste calls on; I must nor drive My tune past six, though I begin at five. One hour I have entire, and 'tis enough ; Here are no gipsy jigs, no drumming stuff, Dances, or other trumpery to delight, Or take, by common way, the common sight. The author of this |>oern, as he dares To stand the austerest censure, so he cares As little what it is; his own best way Is, to be judge, and author of his play: It is bis knowledge makes him thus secure ; Nor does he write to please, but to endure. And, reader, if you have disbursed a shilling, To see this worthy story, and are willing To have a large increase, if ruled by me, You may a merchant and a poet be. 'Tis granted for your twelve-pence you did sit, And see, and hear, and understand not yet. presume to term such a man " fool, knarc," 8cc. ? would he but the enquiry is too absurd for further pursuit. I know not the motives which induced Mr. Reed to attribute these stanzas to W. Brown ; they may, 1 think, with some pro. bability, be referred to W. Basse, a minor poet, whose tribute of praise is placed at the head of the commendatory verses on Shakspeare j or to W. Barksted, author of Algrrha the Mother of Adonis, a poem, 1607. Barkstid was an actor, as appears from a list of " the principal comedians" who represented Ji'ii>i'n's Si/, nt H'oman ; and tin reforc not less likely than the author of Britannia' 'a l*at,torals to say, that, ** in the way of poetry, now-a-days, " Of all that are call'd works the best are plays." There is not much to be said for these introductory poems, which mutt be view id rather as prools of friendship than of talents. In the former editions they are given with a degree of ignorance and inattention truly 6caudalous. cl COMMENDATORY VERSES The author, in a Christian pity, takes Care of your good, and prints it for your sakes ; That such as will but venture sixpence more, May know what they but saw and heard before : 'Twill not be money lost, if you can read, (There's all the doubt now,) but your gains exceed, If you can understand, and you are made Free of the freest and the noblest trade ; And in the way of poetry, now-a-days, Of all that are call'd works, the best are plays. W. B. To my honoured Friend, Master Philip Mas- singer, upon his Renegado. Dabblers in poetry, that only can Court this weak lady, or that gentleman, With some loose wit in rhyme; Others that fright the time Into belief, with mighty words that tear A passage through the ear; Or nicer men, That through a perspective will see a play, And use it the wrong way, (Not worth thy pen,) Though all their pride exalt them, cannot be Competent judges of thy lines or thee. I must confess I have no public name To rescue judgment, no poetic flame To dress thy Muse with praise, And Phoebus his own bays; Yet I commend this poem," and dare tell The world I liked it well; ON MASSINGER. cli And if there be A tribe who in their wisdoms dare accuse This offspring of thy Muse, Let them agree Conspire one comedy, and they will say, Tis easier to commend, than make a play. James Shirley.* To his worthy Friend, Master Philip Massinger, on his Play calVd the Renegado. The bosom of a friend cannot breathe forth A flattering phrase to speak the noble worth Of him that hath lodged in his honest breast So large a title : I, among the rest * James Shirley.] A well-known dramatic writer. His works, which are ycry voluminous, hare never been collected in an uniform edition, though highly deserving of it. He assisted Fletcher in many of his plays ; and some, say his biographers, thought him equal to that great poet. He died in 1606. Shirley was of Catharine Hall, and in a MS. poem, which I have seen in Mr. Waldron's hands, is the following pretty allu- sion to it, in the taste of the times: " James, you and I have spent some precious years " At Catharine Hall, as by the Book appears: " Since which we, sometimes, are too apt to feci u Poetic whirlings, caught from Catharine's Wheel." Shirley's plays, as Dr. Farmer says, in a letter now lying before me, are " cursedly printed." In hundreds of places, as I hare found, to my regret, it is scarcely possible, to discover what the author really wrote. I notice this, lest the Booksellers, at a time when ignorance and inexperience arc prowling in every shop for jobs, should be tempted, by the cheapness of the offer, to trust them to unworthy hands. * A well known tavern, the name of which frequently occun in our old dra- clii COMMENDATORY VERSES That honour thee, do only seem to praise, Wanting the flowers of art to deck that bays Merit has crown'd thy temples with. Know, friend, Though there are some who merely do commend To live i' the world's opinion, such as can Censure with judgment, no such piece of man Makes up my spirit; where desert does live, There will I plant my wonder, and there give My best endeavours to build up his story That truly merits. I did ever glory To behold virtue rich ; though cruel Fate In scornful malice does beat low their state That best deserve ; when others, that but know Only to scribble, and no more, oft grow Great in their favours, that would seem to be Patrons of wit, and modest poesy : Yet, with your abler friends, let me say this, Many may strive to equal you, but miss Of your fair scope; this work of yours men may* Throw in the face of envy, and then say To those, that are in great men's thoughts more blest, Imitate this, and call that work your best. Yet wise men, in this, and too often, err, When they their love before the work prefer. If I should say more, some may blame me for't, Seeing your merits speak you, not report. Daniel Lakyn. this work of yours, &c] The Rencgado was always accounted an excellent play by the poet's contemporaries. The following curious notice of it is taken from Shepherd's Times displayed, &c, After mentioning some who shall ever live en earth, in spite of envy, the writer adds, and, Fletcher, so shall you, " With him that the sweet Renegado penn'd, " And him that Crcssy sung and Poictiers too. ON MASSING ER. cliii To his dear Friend the Author ', on the Roman Actor. I am no great admirer of the plays, Poets, or actors, that are now-adays ; Yet, in this work of thine, methinks, I see Sufficient reason for idolatry. Each line thou hast taught Caesar is as high As he could speak, when groveling flattery, And his own pride (forgetting heaven's rod) By his edicts styled himself great Lord and God. By thee, again the laurel crowns his head, And, thus revived, who can affirm him dead? Such power lies in this lofty strain as can Give swords and legions to Domitian : And when thy Paris pleads in the defence Of actors, every grace and excellence Of argument for that subject, are by thee Contracted in a sweet epitome. Nor do thy women the tired hearers vex With language no way proper to their sex. Just like a cunning painter thou let'st fall Copies more fair than the original. I'll add but this : from all the modern plays The stage hath lately born, this wins the bays ; And if it come to trial, boldly look To carry it clear, thy witness being thy book. T. J. T. J.] Coteter gives these initials to sir Thomas Jay, or Jcay, to whom the play is dedicated ; (sec p. Ixiii.) but without authority, and, indeed, without adverting to his real sentiments on the subject ; see p. clix. The writer before us, who was 4t no reat admirer" of the plays of his days, when Jonson, Shirley y ord, Sec. were in full vigour, would not, I suspect, be altogether enraptured if he could witness those of ours! cliv COMMENDATORY VERSES In Phi lip pi Massingeri, Poetce, elegant iss. Ac tore m Romanum, typis excusum. Afxarixov. Ecce Philippine celebrata Tragosdia Musae, Quam Roseus Britonum Roscius* egit, adest. Semper fronde ambo vireant Parnasside, semper Liber ab invidias dentibus esto, liber. Crebra papyrivori spernas incendia pseti, Thus, vaenum expositi tegmina suta libri : Nee metuas raucos, Momorum sibila, rhoncos, Tarn bardus nebulo si tamen ullus erit. Nam toties festis, actum, placuisse theatris Quod liquet, hoc, cusum, crede, placebit, opus. Tho. Goff.* To his deserving Friend, Mr. Philip Massinger, upon his Tragedy, the Roman Actor. Paris, the best of actors in his age, Acts yet, and speaks upon our Roman stage Such lines by thee, as do not derogate From Rome's proud heights, and her then learned state. Nor great Domitian's favour; nor the embraces Of a fair empress, nor those often graces 5 Roscius.'] This was Joseph Taylor, whose name occurs in a subsequent page. 6 Tho. Goff.] Goff was a man of considerable learning, and highly celebrated for his oratorical powers, which he turned to the best of purposes, in the service of the church. He also wrote several tragedies; but these do no honour to his memory, being full of the most ridiculous bombast; and one comedy, which is not without merit. ON MASSING ER. clr Which from th' applauding theatres were paid To his brave action, nor his ashes laid In the Flaminian way, where people strow'd His grave with flowers, and Martial's wit bcstow'd A lasting epitaph ; not all these same Do add so much renown to Paris' name As this, that thou present'st his history So well to us : for which, in thanks, would he, (If that his soul, as thought Pythagoras, Could into any of our actors pass,) Life to these lines by action gladly give, Whos pen so well has made his story live. Tho. May/ Upon Mr, Massinger his Roman Actor. To write is grown so common in our time, That every one who can but frame a rhyme, However monstrous, gives himself that praise, Which only he should claim, that may wear bays By their applause, whose judgments apprehend The weight and truth of what they dare com- mend. In this besotted age, friend, 'tis thy glory That here thou hast outdone the Roman story. Domitian's pride, his wife's lust, unabated In death, with Paris, merely were related, 7 Tho. May.] May translated Lucan into English terse, and was a candidate for the office of Poet Laureat with sir Willam Davcnant. He wrote several plays; his Latin Supplement to Lucan is much admired by the learned. Da vies. This, " admired," supplement May dedicated to the " best and greatest of kings, his most sacred Majesty Charles I." Hut his most " sacred majesty" or his minister, having refused him the laurel, he threw himself into the arms of the rebels, and per. secuted his sovereign with implacable malignity. ctoi COMMENDATORY VERSES Without a soul, until thy abler pen Spoke them, and made them speak, nay act again In such a height, that here to know their deeds, He may become an actor that but reads. John Ford. Upon Mr. Massinger's Roman Actor. Long'st thou to see proud Caesar set in state, His morning greatness, or his evening fate, With admiration here behold him fall, And yet outlive his tragic funeral : For 'tis a question whether Caesar's glory Rose to its height before, or in this story; Or whether Paris, in Domitian's favour, Were more exalted, than in this thy labour. Each line speaks him an emperor, every phrase Crowns thy deserving temples with the bays; So that reciprocally both agree, Thou liv'st in him, and he survives in thee. Robert Harvey. To his long'knoxvn and loved Friend, Mr. Philip Massing er, upon his Roman Actor. If that my lines, being placed before thy book, Could make it sell, or alter but a look Of some sour censurer, who's apt to say, No one in these times can produce a play Worthy his reading, since of late, 'tis true, The old accepted are more than the new : Or, could I on some spot o'the court work so, To make him speak no more than he doth know; ON MASSINGER. clvii Not borrowing from his flatt'ring ftatter'd friend What to dispraise, or wherefore to commend: Then, gentle friend, I should not blush to be Rauk'd 'mongst those worthy ones which here I see Ushering this work ; but why I write to thee Is. to profess our love's autiquity, Which to this tragedy must give my test, Thou hast made many good, but this thy best. Joseph Taylor.* To Mr. Philtp Massinger, my much-esteem' d Friend, on his Great Duke of Florence. Enjoy thy laurel ! 'tis a noble choice, Not by the suffrages of voice Procured, but by a conquest so achieved, As that thou hast at full relieved Almost neglected poetry, whose bays, Sullied by childish thirst of praise, Wither'd'into a dullness of despair, Had not thy later labour (heir Unto a former industry) made known This work, which thou mayst call thine own, So rich in worth, that th' ignorant may grudge To find true virtue is become their judge. George Donne. * Joseph Tatlor, who, in 1611, was at the head of the lady Elizabeth's players, is said to ha?e been the original performer of Hamlet and lago. When he represented Paris in Massinger't Tragedy, he was one of the king's players. In 1630, he was appointed yeoman of (he Revels, under sir Henry Herbert, and, in 1047, was one of the actors who joined in dedicating Beau, mont and Fletcher's plays to the earl of Pembroke. Taylor died at Richmond, in 1654, at a very advanced age, and in tht xtremc of poverty. Gilchrist. clviii COMMENDATORY VERSES To the deserving Memory of this worthy Work, [the Great Duke of Florence,] and the Author, Mr. Philip Massinger. Action gives many poems right to live ; This piece gave life to action ; and will give, For state and language, in each change of age, To time delight, and honour to the stage. Should late prescription fail which fames that seat, This pen might style the Duke of Florence Great. Let many write, let much be printed, read, And censur'd; toys, no sooner hatch'd than dead : Here, without blush to truth of commendation,' Is proved, how art hath outgone imitation. John Ford. To my worthy Friend the Author, upon his Tragi- comedy the Maid of Honour. Was not thy Emperor enough before For thee to give, that thou dost give us more? I would be just, but cannot: that I know I did not slander, this I fear I do. But pardon me, if I offend ; thy fire Let equal poets praise, while I admire. If any say that I enough have writ, They are thy foes, and envy at thy wit. Believe not them, nor me ; they know thy lines Deserve applause, but speak against their minds. I, out of justice, would commend thy play, But (friend, forgive me) 'tis above my way. ON MASSINGER. clix One word, and I have done, (and from my heart Would I could speak the whole truth, not the part, Because 'tis thine,) it henceforth will be said, Not the Maid of Honour, but the Honour'd Maid. Aston Cockaine.* To his worthy Friend, Mr. Philip Massinger, upon his Tragi-Comedy styled the Picture. Methinks I hear some busy critic say, Who's this that singly ushers in this play? Tis boldness, I confess, and yet perchance It may be construed love, not arrogance. I do not here upon this leaf intrude, By praising one to wrong a multitude. Nor do I think, that all are tied to be (Forced by my vote) in the same creed with me, Each man hath liberty to judge; free will, At his own pleasure, to speak good or ill. But yet your Muse already's known so well Her worth will hardly find an infidel Here she hath drawn a Picture, which shall lie Safe for all future times to practise by ; Whate'er shall follow are but copies, some Preceding works were types of this to come. 'Tis your own lively image, and sets forth, When we are dust, the beauty of your worth. He that shall duly read, and not advance Aught that is here, betrays his ignorance: Yet whosoe'er beyond desert commends, Errs more by much than he that reprehends; For praise misplaced, and honour set upon A worthless subject, is detraction. 9 Aston Cockai* e.] See the Introduction passim. clx COMMENDATORY VERSES I cannot sin so here, unless I went About to stvle you only excellent. Apollo's gifts are not confined alone To your dispose, he hath more heirs than one, And such as do derive from his blest hand A large inheritance in the poets' land, As well as you ; nor are you, I assure Myself, so envious, but you can endure To hear their praise, whose worth long since was known, And justly too preferr'd before your own. I know you'd take it for an injury, (And 'tis a well-becoming modesty,) To be parallel'd with Beaumont, or to hear Your name by some too partial friend writ near Unequall'd Jonson ; being men whose fire, At distance, and with reverence, you admire. Do so, and you shall find your gain will be Much more, by yielding them priority, Than, with a certainty of loss, to hold A foolish competition : 'tis too bold A task, and to be shunn'd : nor shall my praise, With too much weight, ruin what it would raise. Thomas Jay. To my worthy Friend, Mr. Philip Massinger, upon his Tragi-Comedy called the Emperor of the East. Suffer, my friend, these lines to have the grace, That they may be a mole on Venus' face. There is no fault about thy book but this, And it will shew how fair thy Emperor is, Thou more than poet ! our Mercury, that art Apollo's messenger, and dost impart ON MASSING ER. clxi His best expressions to our ears, live long To purify the slighted English tongue, That both the nymphs of Tagus and of Po May not henceforth despise our language so. Nor could they do it, if they e'er had seen The matchless features of the Fairy Queen ; Read Jonson, Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher) or Thy neat-limn'd pieces, skilful Massinger. Thou known, all the Castilians must confess Vego de Carpio thy foil, and bless His language can translate thee, and the fine Italian wits yield to this work of thine. Were old Pythagoras alive again, In thee he might find reason to maintain His paradox, that souls by transmigration In divers bodies make their habitation : And more, than all poetic souls yet known, Are met in thee, contracted into one. This is a truth, not an applause: I am One that at furthest distance views thy flame, Yet may pronounce, that, were Apollo dead, In thee his poesy might all be readl Forbear thy modesty : thy Emperor's vein Shall live admired, when poets shall complain It is a pattern of too high a reach, And what great Phoebus might the Muses teach. Let it live, therefore, and 1 dare be bold To say, it with the world shall not grow old. Aston Cockaine. vol. I. clxii COMMENDATORY VERSES A Friend to the Author, and Well-wisher to the Reader, on the Emperor of the East. Who with a liberal hand freely bestows His bounty on all comers, and yet knows No ebb, nor formal limits, but proceeds, Continuing his hospitable deeds, With daily welcome shall advance his name Beyond the art of flattery; with such fame, May yours, dear friend, compare. Your Muse hath been Most bountiful, and I have often seen The willing seats receive such as have fed, And risen thankful ; yet were some misled By nicety, when this fair banquet came, (So I allude) their stomachs were to blame, Because that excellent, sharp, and poignant sauce, Was wanting, they arose without due grace, Lo ! thus a second time he doth invite you : Be your own carvers, and it may delight you. John Clavell. 1 1 John Clavell, u in ihe autumn of his years," published A recantation of an ille-ledde Life, &c. dated from " his lonely, sad and unfrequented chamber in the King's Bench, Oct. 1627," where he had been committed for a high-way robbery, for which offence he was tried and condemned. He was afterwards par- doned through the interest of the Queen, moved by the earnest solicitations of his wife : of whose attachment during his im- prisonment, Clavell speaks, in a prefatory poem, with the tenderest expressions of gratitude and affection. He was living in 1634, (two years after the appearance of his commendatory verses,) reformed and respected. Gilchrist. ON MASSINGER. clxiii To my true Friend and Kinsman, Philip Mas- singer, on his Emperor of the East. I take not upon trust, nor am I led By an implicit faith : what I have read With an impartial censure I dare crown With a deserved applause, howe'er cried down By such whose malice will not let them he Equal to any piece limn'd forth by thee. Contemn their poor detraction, and still write Poems like this, that can endure the light, And search of abler judgments. This will raise Thy name ; the others* scandal is thy praise. This, oft perused by grave wits, shall live long, Not die as soon as past the actor's tongue, The fate of slighter toys; and I must say, Tis not enough to make a passing play In a true poet: works that should endure Must have a genius in them strong as pure, And such is thine, friend : nor shall time devour The well-form'd features of thy Emperor. William Singleton. To the ingenious Author, Master Philip Mas- singeu, on his Comedy called A New Way to Pay Old Debts. *Tis a rare charity, and thou couldst not So proper to the time have found a plot: ^ et whilst you teach to pay, you lend ; the age We wretches live in, that to come the stage, The thronged audience that was thither brought, Invited by your fame, and to be taught 1 <2 clxiv COMMENDATORY VERSES This lesson ; all are grown indebted more, And when they look for freedom, ran in score. It was a cruel courtesy to call In hope of liberty, and then, inthrall. The nobles are your bondmen, gentry, and All besides those that did not understand. They were no men of credit, bankrupts born, Fit to be trusted with no stock but scorn. You have more wisely credited to such, That though they cannot pay, can value much. I am your debtor too, but, to my shame, Repay you nothing back but your own fame. Henry Moody. 3 Miles. To his Friend the Author, on A New Way to Pay Old Debts. You may remember how you chid me, when I rank'd you equal with those glorious men, Beaumont and Fletcher : if you love not praise, You must forbear the publishing of plays. The crafty mazes of the cunning plot, The polish'd phrase, the sweet expressions, got Neither by theft nor violence ; the conceit Fresh and unsullied ; all is of weight, Able to make the captive reader know I did but justice when I placed you so. 3 Henry Moody.] Sir Henry Moody plays on the title of the piece. He has not much of the poet in him, bat appears to be a friendly, good-natured man. A short poem of his, is pre- fixed to the folio edition of Beaumont and Fletcher. He was one of the gentlemen who had honorary degrees conferred on them by Charles I. on his return to Oxford from the battle of Edgehill. ON MASSINGER. clxv A shamefaced blushing would become the brow Of some weak virgin writer; we allow To you a kind of pride, and there where most Should blush at commendations, you should boast. If any think I flatter, let him look Off from my idle trifles on thy book. Thomas Jay. Miles. [ clxvii ] A LIST Off MASSING ER'S PLAYS. Those marked thus * are in the present Edition. 1. The Forced Lady, T. This was one of the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. + 2. The Noble Choice, C. "J Entered on thcStationcrs' 3. The Wandering Lovers, C. 1?? Q h '* ?i ^T^' i Sept. 9, 1653; but not 4. Philenzo and Hippolita, T. C. 3 printed. These were among the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's seryant. 5. Antonio and Vallia,J C. } Entered on the Stationers' 6. The Tyrant, T. > t^M? i S^^ ? 1 ^ J i June 29, 1660, but not 7. Fast and Welcome, C. ) printed. These, too, were among the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's seryant. f After this, 1 had entered, in the former edition, the Secretary, of which the title appears in the catalogue which furnished the materials for Poole's Parnassus. Mr. Gilchrist, who seems destined to serve the cause of Massinger, by his for- tunate discoveries, has enabled me to correct my statement. The person men- tioned by Poole is John Massinger, and the work to which he refers is a transla- tion of Familiar Letters, by Mons. La Serre, historiographer of France. From a ludrico-pompous introduction to this little manual, which Mr; Gilchrist disco- vered among some old rubbish in a village library, John might be taken for a schoolmaster, though he signs himself J. M. Gent, instead of Philomath. The full title of his work is, the Secretary in Fashion, or a compendious and refined way of expression in all manner of Letters. It is dated 1040, the year of the Poet's death. X In that most curious MS. Register discovered at Dulwich College, and subjoined by Mr. Malonc to his Historical Account of the English Stare, is the following entry " R. 3o of June, 1405, at antony and vallea ol. xxs. od. ' It this be the play entered by Moseley, Massmger's claims can only arise from his hav- ing revised and altered it ; for he must have been a mere child when it was first produced. See the Introduction, p. lvi. clxviii LIST OF MASSINGER'S PLAYS. 8. The Woman's Plot, C. Acted at court 1621. Destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. 9. *The Old Law, C. 10. *The VirginvMartyr, T. Acted by the servants of his Majesty 'a revels. Quarto, 1622; Quarto, 1631 ; Quarto, 1661. 11. *The Unnatural Combat, T. Acted at the Globe. Quarto, 1639. 12. *The Duke of Milan, T. Acted at Black-Friars. Quarto, 1623; Quarto, 1638. 13. *The Bondman, T. C. Acted Dec. 3, 1623, at the Cockpit, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1624; Quarto, 1638. 14. *The Renegado, T. C. Acted April 17, 1624, at the Cockpit, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1630. 15. *The Parliament of Love, C. Acted Nov. 3, 1624, at the Cockpit, Drury Lane. 16. The Spanish Viceroy, C. Acted in 1624. Entered on the Stationers' books Sept. 9, 1653, by H. Moseley, but not printed. This was one of the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. 17. *The Roman Actor, T. Acted October 11, 1626, by the King's company. Quarto, 1629. 18. The Judge. Acted June 6, 1627, by the King's company. This play is lost. 19. *The Great Duke of Florence. Acted July 5, 1627, at the Phoenix, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1636. 20. The Honour of Women. Acted May 6, 1628. This play is lost. 21. *TheMaid of Honour, T.C.+ Acted at the Phcenix, Drury Lane. Date of its first appearance uncertain. Quarto, 16J2. 22. *Thc Picture, T. C. Acted June 8, 1629, at the Globe. Quarto, 1630. 23. Minerva's Sacrifice, T. Acted Nov. 3, 1629, by the King's company. Entered on the Stationers' books Sept. 9, 1653, but not printed. This was one of the plays de- stroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. + Mr. Malone thinks this to be the play immediately preceding it, with a new title. This is, however, extremely doubtful. LIST OF MASSINGER'S PLAYS, clxix 24. *The Emperor of the East, T. C. Acted March 11, 1631, at Black-Friars. Quarto, 1632. 25. Believe as you List, C. Acted May 7, 1631. Entered on the Stationers' books Sept. 9, 165*3, and again June 29, 1660, but not printed. This also was one of the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. 26. The Unfortunate Piety, T. Acted June 13, 1631, by the King's company. This play is lost. 27. *Thc Fatal Dowry, T. Acted by the King's company. Quarto, 1632. 28. *A New Way to pay Old Debts, C. Acted at the Phoenix, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1633. 29. *The City Madam, C. Acted May 25, 1632, by the King's company. Quarto, 1659. 30. *The Guardian, C. Acted October 31, 1633, by the King's company. Octavo, 1655. 31. The Tragedy of Cleander. Acted May 7, 1634, by the King's company. This play is lost.+ 32. 9 A Very Woman, T. C. Acted June 6, 1634, by the King's company. Octavo, 1655. 33. The Orator. Acted June 10, 1635, by the King's com- pany. This play is lost. 34. *The Bashful Lover, T. C. Acted May 9, 1636, by the King's company. Octavo, 1655. 35. The King and the Subject. % Acted June 5, 1638, by the King's company. This play is lost. 36. Alexius, or the Chaste Lover. Acted Sept. 25, 1639, by the King's company. This play is lost. 37. The Fair Anchoress of Pausilippo. Acted Jan. 26, 1640, by the King's company. This play is lost. f- This play must tiave been possessed of more than common merit, since it drew the Queen (Henrietta-Maria) to Black-Friars. A remarkable event at that time, when our sovereigns were not accustomed to visit the public theatres. She honoured it with her presence on the 13th of May, six days after its first ap- pearance. I hope that it was the Poet's benefit-day. The circumstance is re- corded by the Master of the Revels. I The title of this play, sir H. Herbert tells us, was changed. Mr. Malone conjectures it was named the Tyrant, one of Warburton's unfortunate col- lection. [ clxxi ] GLOSSARIAL INDEX. A. Abram men, iii. 522. absurd, iii. 280. abuse, iii. 65. acts of parliament, iv. 469. actuate, ii. 396. aerie, i. 276. - - - iii. 25. affects, ii. 30. Alba Regalis, iii. 125. iii. 188. altar, ii. 274. a many, i. 35. amorous, ii. 465. Amsterdam, ii. 1,27. Anaxarete, ii. 381. angel (bird), i. 36. ape, ii. 61. apostata, i. 93. - i. in. ------ i. 140. i. 145. apple, iii. 324. Argiers, i. 139. arrearages, iii. 160. as (as it), iii. 593. astrology, iv. 38. at all, iv. 78. atheism, iii. 66. atonement, i. 315. Aventine, ii. $33. B. bake-house, ii. 304. bandog, i. 44. banquet, i. 167. - iv. 29. banqueting-house, ii. 13. Baptista Porta, iii. 122. bar, ii. 267. barathrum, iii. 551. barley-break, i. 103. bases, iii. 145. basket, iii. 449. iii. 511. ----- iv. 12. battalia, iii. 144. battle of Sabla, iv. 366. beadsmen, iv. 26. : iv -57-. bearing dishes, iii. 594. Beaumelle, iii. 392. becco, iii. 233* bees, iv. 91. beetles, i. 281. beg estates, iii. 256. beglerbeg, ii. 182. Bellona, iii. 152. bells ring backward, i. 238. bend the body, i. 277. - iv. 411. beneath the salt, iv. 7. beso las manos, ii. 488. betake, i. 140. iv. 89. bind with, iv. 140. bird-bolts, iv. 172. birthright, ii. 40. Biscan, iv. 321. clxxii GLOSSARIAL INDEX. bisognion, iii. 70. blacks, iii. 380. blasphemous, ii. 476. bloods, iii. 436. blue gown, iv. 84. u- - - iv. 113. boman, iv. 85. box-keeper, iv. 4. . . ~ iv. 14. braches, i. 210. "i- 493- -iv. 53. brave, ii. 210. ^._.-iv. 331. braveries, ii. 12. 11,258. bravery, i. 208. iii. 148. iv. 486. Breda, iii. 503. Brennus, iii. 459. broadside (to shew), ii. 232. brother in arms, iii. 39. buck, i. 88. bug, iii. 556. bullion, iii. 389. buoy'd, iii. 513. burial denied, iii. 368. burse, iv. 50. bury money, iv. 539. but, ii. 133. iii. 329. Butler, dr. iv. 496. C. calver'd salmon, iii. 54. ._.-_-. --iv. 206. camel, iii. 394. cancelier, iv. 142. candour, ii. .294. iv. 172. canters, iii. 497. Caranza, i. 159. ------ iv. 178. carcanet, iv. 95. carcantt, iv. 243, caroch, ii. 135. "i-95- carouse, i. 239. carpet knights, iii. 47. caster, iv. 82. casting, iii. 220. cast suit, iii. 206. cater, iv. 34. catstick, iii. 32. cautelous, ii. 46. cavallery, iii. 43. censure, ii. 107. ." 5I7- ceruse, iv. 80. chamber, ii. 231. chapel fall, ii 116. .cnapines, ii. 135. Charles the robber, iv. 163. charms on rubies, ii. 463. cheese-trenchers, iv. 489. chiaus, ii. 182. chine evil, iii. 204. choice and richest, ii. 148. chreokopia, iv. 465. chuffs, i. 281. church- book, iv. 468. circular, iii. 288. civil, ii. 218. iv. 18. clap-dish, ii. 257. clemm'd, ii. 366. -dose breeches, iii. 426. clubs, ii. 142. iv. 16. coats, iv. 509. Colbrand, iii. 426. colon, i. 132. - -- - iii. 146. come aloft, ii. 61. comfort, iv. 370. coming in, i. 283. commence, i. 308. ....... iii. 279. commodities, ii. 51. come off, i. 210. commoner, i. 73. comparison, iii. 159. GLOSSARIAL INDEX. clxxiii comrogues, iv. 72. conceited, ii. 47. conclusions, i. 308. condition, iv. 492. conduit, ii. 304. conquering Romans, ii. 62. consort, iii. 140. - iii. 427. constable, to steal a, iii. 9. constant in, i. 7. constantly, ii. 515. i^ cooks' shops, iii. 530. Corinth, ii. 13. corsives, ii, 406. ----- iii. 340. counsel, i. 283. " 39 6 - counterfeit gold thread, ii. 52. >-5'7 courtesy, ii. 467. courtship, i. 304. 2 97- " 446. 50S- .--.iv. 244. courtsies, iii. 586. cow eyes, i. 196. - iii. 279. crack, i. 129. crincomcs, iv. 209. crone, i. 130. crosses, ii. 161. >. crowd, iv. 569. crowns o'the sun, i. 133. *74- cry absurd ! iii. 280. cry aim, ii. 27. - ii. 131. Cupid and Death, i. 91. cullions, iv. 167, cunning, 'v. 160. curiosity, iv. 9. Curious Impertinent, iii. 418. cuiiuusness, i. 190. - ii. 242. cypress, iv. 407. * D. dag, iii. 429. dalliance, i. 81. danger, iii. 374. - - - - iv. 108. dead pays, i. 207. death, the, i. 252. decimo sexto, iii. 32. deck, iv. 177. decline, iii. 13. deduct, iv. 506. deep ascent, iv. 403. deer of ten, iii. 309. defeature, ii. 73. defended, iv. 206. defensible, iv. 136. degrees, ii. 376. Delphos, iii. 459. demeans, iii. 118. denying burial, iii. 368. depart, ii. 136. dependencies, iii. 9. - " -----..? '37- deserved me, 111. 575. Diana, i. 317. discourse and reason, i. 148. ------ ..-..Ji. 10 8. - - : - - .: iv - 57- disclose, 111. 25. dispartations, ii. 165. dissolve, i. 321. - - - - ii. 382. distaste, i. 188. ii. 133. distempered, i. 238. divert, ii. 445. doctor, go out, i. 308. doctrine, iii. 1 1. ----- iii. 293. drad, i. 22. drawer-on, iv. 157. dresser, cook's drum, i. 166. ; iv. 177. drum, iv. 24. drum-wine, iv. 51. Dunkirk, i. 294. Dutch hangman, iv. no. clxxiv GLOSSARIAL INDEX. E. elenchs, iii. 280. elysium, i. 94. empiric, iii. 317. enghle, iv. 70. entradas, iv. 222. equal, i. 133. equal mart, iv. 393. estridge train, i. 206. estridge, iii. 43, extend, iii. 590. iv. 109. eyasses, iii. 220. F. faith, i. 61. fame, iv. 335. far-fetch'd, iv. 167. fault, ii. 98. iv. 520. fautors, ii. no. fellow, iii. 169. festival exceedings, iii. 216. fetch in, ii. 390. fewterer, iii. 32. ----- iii. 219. Fielding, iv. 87. fineness, ii. 190. Fiorinda, ii. 43 z. flies, i. 35. for, i. 10 1. forks, ii. 486. forms, i. 178. fore right, ii. 232. forth, iii. 335. frequent, ii. 333. ii. 343. frippery, iv. 11. fur, iv. 13. iv. 12. galley foist, iii. 389. galliard, iv. 524. garded, ii. 332. garden-house, ii 13. gauntlets to feed in, i. 182. Gay, iii. 381. gazer, iii. ^3. gemonies, ii. 336. Geneva print, i. 238. gimcrack, i. 320. Giovanni, ii, 432. glad to, i. 34. glorious, i 142. i. 198. *" " -.:. iL 445- go by, 111. 91. God be wi' you, iv. 49. gods to friend, ii. 337. gold and store, iii. 158. iv. 82. golden arrow, ii. 382. - - iv. 138. go less, iv. 66. - - - - iv. 419. golls, iv. 73. go near, ii. 159. good, iv. 69. good fellows, iv. 222. - iv. 229. good lord, iii. Z42. good man, iii. 373. good mistress, ii. 342. goody wisdom, iii. 386. Gorgon, iv. 369. governor's place, i. 24. Granson, iii. 372. Great Britain, i. 100. green apron, ii. 128. Gresset, iv. 365. grim sir, i. 176. grub up forests, iv. 165. guard, jii. 131. H. gabel, iii. 265. hairy comet, i. 1 39. , gallant of the last edition, iv. 14. hand, ii. 194.. GLOSSARIAL INDEX. clxxv hawking, iii. 220. heats, ii. 30. hecatombaion, iv. 508. Hecuba, ii. 386. hell, iv. 7. Herbert, sir H., ii. 312. high forehead, i. 129. hole, iv. 7. horned moons, ii. 161. horse-trick, iv. 521. hose, ii. 486. humanity, iii. 378. hunt's up, i. 273. hurricano, i. 226. I. Jane of apes, ii. 64. jewel, iv. 217. : - -iv. 314. imp, 11. 230. - - - ii. 421. - - - ii. 440. impotence, ii. 408. - - - - - iv. 260. impotent, i. 173. Indians, iv. 101. induction, iii. 441. ingles, iv. 72. interess, i. 241. Iphis, ii. 381. K. \^k& me ka thee, iv 34. katexochen, iv. 171. keeper of the door, ii. 296. knock on the dresser, i. 166. L. Lachrymse, iii. 10. - iii. 232. lackeying, i. 9. lady Compton, iv 43. lady of the lake, iii. 522. lamia, i. 84. lanceprczado, iii. 52. lapwing's cunning, iv. 546. vfest edition, iv. 15. lavender, iii. 588, lavolta, ii. 496. iv. 55. leaden dart, i. 19. leaguer, iii. 121. - - - iii. 408. leege, iii. 310. Lent, ii. 213. 1 'envoy, iv. 421. - - - iv. 442. leper, ii. 257. lets, i. 25. - - - i. 220. lightly, ii. 6y. lime-hound, iv. 559. line, i. 37. little, i. 265. - - - iii. 156. little legs, iv. 284. lively grave, iii. 379. living Funeral, ii. 85. looking-glasses at the girdle, iv. 8. lost, ii. 227. loth to depart, iv. 538. lottery, ii. 31c. lovers perjuries, ii. 470. Ludgate, iv. 23. Luke, iv. 101. lye abroad, ii. 126. M. M. for master, iv. 86. master iv. 59. magic picture, iii. 125. magnificent, iii. 273. Mahomet, ii. 125. Malefbrt, i. 135. Mammon, ii. 364. manchets, iii. 447. mandrakes, i. 127. mankind, iv. 53. marginal fingers, iii. 419. clxxvi GLOSSARIAL INDEX. marmoset, iv. 51. Mars, iii. 152. Marseilles, i. I3i> 193. 245- . ... masters of dependencies, 111. 9. Mephostophilus, iii. 229. mermaid, iv. 536. micher, iv. 182. Minerva, ii. 416. miniver cap, iv. 94. mirror of knighthood, iv. 145. mistress, i. 193. ----- ii. 146. mistress' colours, ii. 106. moppes, ii. 61. Morat, iii. 372. more, iii. 155. most an end, iv. 282. music, iii. 432. music- master, iii. 432. N. v Nancy, iii. 372. neat-house, iv. 51. never- falling iii. 258. Nell of Greece, iv. 534. niggle, iii. 345. nightingale, ii. 444. night-rail, iv. 66. nimming, iv. 217. no cunning quean, ii. 10. north passage, iv. 48. Novall, iii. 423. number his years, ii. 352. O. October, ii. 34. often and return, iv. 541. oil of angels, i. 292. oil of talc, iv. 79. Olympus, iii. 566. once, ii. 365. only, ii. 208. - iv. 66. Ovid, i. 191. Ovid, iv. 418. outcry, iv. 25. owe, ii. 39. owes, i. 18. ii. 154. P. packing, ii 485. padder, iii. 522. pale-spirited, iii. 521 Pandarus, iv. 172. paned hose, ii. 486. iv. 485. pantofle, sworn to, i. 175. parallel, i. 314. ----- iii.. 24. parle, iv. 368. parted, i. 40. ii. 502. parts, iii. yj. pash, i. 38. passionate, ii. 439. passionately, iv. 513. passions, iv. 466. --iv. 575. pastry fortifications, 111. 503. Patch, iii. 553. -iii. 591. Pavia, battle of, i. 242. peat, iii. 36. peevish i. 71. peevishness, iii. 580. perfected, i. 189. persever, i. 7. ----- iii. 105. personate, ii. 504. ----- iii. j 20. Pescara, i. 255. petty, iii. 65. physicians, iv. 266. piety, iv. 389. pig-sconce, iv. 55. pine-tree, i. 268. pip, iii. 386. place, iv. 141. iv. 448. GLOSSARIAL INDEX. clxxvii play my prize, iii. 576. plumed victory, i. 154. plurisy, i. 197. Plymouth cloak, iii. 494. iv. 82. Pontalier, iii. 414. poor John, ii. 126. ------- iii. 167. porter's lodge, i. 294. -- -- iii. 500. ports, i. 8. - - - - ii. 224. possessed, ii. 472. power of things, ii. 336. practice, ii. 308. ------ii. 525. practic, iii. 279. precisian, iii. 493. prest, iv. 64. pretty, iii. 65. prevent, iii. 581. iv - 474- prevented, ii. 147. prodigious, i. 125. progress, iv. 130. provant sword, iii. 10. providence, iii. 542. pull down the side, i. 150. - --ii 501. puppet, i. 268. purer, i. 260. purge, iii. 167. put on, i. 305. " 358. 549- iv. 105. quality, ii. 344. ----- iii. 146. 432- quellio ruffs, iv. 95. quirpo, iii. 390. quited, iv. 502. VOL. I. R. rag, iii. 408. ragged, ii. 309. -^Ram Alley, iii. 530. remarkable, i. 157. relic, ii. 132. remember, ii. 86. ....... ii. 263. iv. 175. re-refine, iii. 260. resolved, i. 277. - iii. 230. rest on it, ii. 21. riches of catholic king, iv. 417. ride, iv. 54. rivo, ii. 167. roarer, ii. 145. Roman, iv. 82. roses, iv. 11, iv. 95. rouse, i. 2^9. ii. 49. royal merchant, ii. 156. rubies, ii. 463. S. Sabla, battle of, iv. 371. sacer, iii. 325. sacratus, iii. 325. sacred badge, ii. 209. sacrifice, iii. 382. sail-strctch'd, i. 141. .... - ii. 12. sainted, iii. 213. St. Dennis, ii. 255. St. Martin's, iv. 80. sanzacke, ii. 182. salt, above the, i. 170. scarabs, i. 281. scarlet, iv. 21. scenery, iv. 21. scholar, iii. 122. scirophorion, iv. 508. scotomy, iv. 526. sedan-chairs, ii. 7. m clxxviii GLOSSARIAL INDEX. sea-rats, iv. 329. Sedgley curse, iv. 41. seek to, i. 223. , -;---i". 135- seisactheia, iv. 465. servant, i. 1 85. i- J 93- iv. I48. shadows, i. 165. shall be, is, iv. 154. shape, ii. 113. - - - - ii. 279. 11. 374. ii. 381. - - - - iii. 301. she-Dunkirk, i. 295. sheriff's basket, iv. 12. shew water, iii. 5. shining shoes, iv. 166. siege, iv. 140. sir Giles Mompesson, iii 517. skills not, i. 239. " 3 21 - ii. 33*- sleep on either ear, iv. 155. small legs, iv. 284. softer neck, i. 192. so, ho, birds, iii. 220. solve, i. 321. sort, i. 71. sovereign, iv. 569. sought to, i. 222. sparred, i. 79. Spartan boy, iv. 192. sphered, i. 79. spit, i. 107. spital, iv. 53. spittle, iii. 202. - - - - iii. 409. iv. 53. spot, i. 244. spring, i. 184. squire o' dames, ii. 295. .......... iii. 253. squire o' Troy, iv. 172. stale the jest, i. 204. startup, iii. 221. state, ii. 16. ----ii. 523. states, ii. 511. statute against witches, iii. 590V statute lace, ii. 303. staunch, ii. 14. steal a constable, iii. 9. steal courtesy from heaven, ii. 467. Sterne, iii. 388. stiletto, iii. 190. still an end, iv. 282, stones, iii. 220. stool, to bring with one, i. 181. iii- 54- story, ii. 496. strange, ii. 8. strongly, iii. 311. street fired, ii. 116. strengths, ii. 199. -...._ ii. 228. - iii 307. striker, i. 209. suit, iv. 56. supplant, ii. 197. sweating sickness, i. 210. sworn servant, ii. 365. Swiss, iii. 370. synonyma, iii. 253. iii- 447* T. table, iv, 489. tailors, iii. 447. taint, ii. 296. take in, iii. 592. take me with you, ii. 495. iii. 68. ..... --iv. 323. take up, ii. 447. ..... iii. 228. tall ships, i. 112. tall trenchermen, i. 166. tamin, iii. 543. tattered, i. 66. Termagant, ii. 125. GLOSSARIAL INDEX. clxxix theatre, ii. 331. Theocrine, i. 145. thick-skinned, i. 317. thing of things, ii. 50. third meal, i. 281. thought for, iii. 591. Thrace, iii. 152. Timariots, iii. 117. time, ii. 361. Timoleon, ii. 17. Timophanes, ii. 18. to to, iv. 300. token, iii. 496. iv. 88. toothful, i. 106. toothpicks, ii. 486. tosses, iii. 160. touch, iv. 420. train, i. 206. tramontanes, ii. 458. trillibubs, iv. 523. trimmed, ii. 252. tripe, iii. 54. try conclusions, i. 308. tune, ii. 361. turn Turk, ii. 222. iii- 33- twines, iv. 136. U. unbidden guests, i. 181. uncivil, iii. 42*. unequal, iii. 337. untappice, iv. 298. uses, iii. 11. - - - iii. 293. V. vail, iii. 71. ... iii. 261. varlets, iii. 446. Venice glasses, ii. 144. Virbius, ii. 380. voley, iii. 186. votes, iv. 212. W. waistcoateer, iv. 52. walk after supper, i. 168. walk the round, iii. 141. iv. 184. Walstein, iv. 430. ward, iii. 131. wards, iv. 129. wardship, iv. 128. watchmen, iv. 471. water, to shew, iii. 5. way of youth, ii. 339. iv. 309. weakness, the last, iv. 335. wear the caster, iv. 82. wear scarlet, iv. 21. well, iii. 396. wheel, iii. 155. where, (whereas) ii. 248. - - ...... jii. 360. ........... Hi. 496. -;-:. iv -344- while, 11. 414. - .-- iv. 476. whiting-mop, iv. 207. whole field wide, iii. 31. -..--..... iv. 64. why, when ! ii. 405. witches, iii. 590. witness, iii. 286. wishes, as well as, iv. 305. wolf, iv. 369. work of grace, ii. 190. worm, ii. 290. wreak, ii. 131. Y. yaws, iv. 297. yellow, i. 310. yeoman fewterer, iii. 32. ............ iii. 219. youthful heats, ii. 30. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. VOL. I. B The VrRGiv-MARTYR.] Of this Tragedy, which appears to hare been very popular, there are tour editions in quarto, 1G'2'2, 1631, 16M, and 1661 ; the last of which is infinitely the worst. It is not possible to ascertain wh^n it w ts first produced ; but it was certainly amongst the Author's earliest efforts. In the composition of it he was assisted by Decker, a poet of no mean reputation, and the writer of several plays much esteemed by his contemporaries. In the first edition of this Tragedy it is said to have been " divers times publicly acted with great applause by the ser- vants of his Majesty's Revels." The plot of it, as Coxeter observes, is founded on the tenth and last general persecution of the Christians, which broke out in the nineteenth year of Dioclesian's reign, with a fury hardly to be expressed ; the Christians being every where, without distinction of sex, age, or condition, dragged to execution, and subjected to the most exquisite torments that rage, cruelty, and hatred could suggest. 2 DRAMATIS PERSONS. Dioclesian, \ Emperors fRome. Maximums, / r J King 0/Pontus. King ofEpire. King o/Macedon. Sapritius, Governor of Csesarea. Theophilus, a zealous persecutor of the Christians. Sempronius, captain of Sapritius' guards. Antoninus, son to Sapritius. M zcr xxius, friend to Antoninus. Hai pax, an evil spirit, following Theophilus in the shape of a secretary. Angelo, a good spirit, serving Dorothea in the habit of a page. Hircius a whoremaster,\ . /.^ ., c , . 7 ' > servants of Dorothea, bpungms, a drunkard, J J Julianus, ") . rrr i n -, q ^servants of lheophilus. Priest of Jupiter, British Slave. Artemia, daughter to Dioclesian. Christeta (daughters to Theophilus. Dorothea, the Virgin- Martyr. Offioers and Executioners. SCENE, Csesarea. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR ACT I. SCENE I. The Governor's Palace. Enter Theophilus and Harpax. Theoph. Come to Caesarea to-night ! Harp. Most true, sir. Theoph. The emperor in person ! Harp. Do I live? Theoph. 'Tis wondrous strange ! The marches of great princes, Like to the motions of prodigious meteors, Are step by step observ'd ; and loud-tongued Fame The harbinger to prepare their entertainment : And, were it possible so great an army, Though cover'd with the night, could be so near, The governor cannot be so unfriended Among the many that attend his person, But, by some secret means, he should have notice Of Caesar's purpose ;* in this, then, excuse me, If I appear incredulous. 1 Of&esar's purpose; in this then excuse mc t ~\ Before Mr. M. Masons edition, it stood : he should have notice Of Casar's purpose in this, meaning, perhaps, in this hasty and unexpected visit : I hare not, however, altered hit pointing. 6 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Harp. At your pleasure. Theoph. Yet, when I call to mind you never fail'd me In things more difficult, hut have diseover'd Deeds that were done thousand leagues distant from me, When neither woods, nor caves, nor secret vaults, No, nor the Power they serve, could keep these Christians Or from my reach or punishment, hut thy magic Still laid them open ; I begin again To be as confident as heretofore, It is not possible thy powerful art Should meet a check, or fail. Enter the Priest of Jupiter, bearing an Image, and followed by Calista and Christeta. Harp. Look on the Vestals, The holy pledges that the gods have given you, Your chaste, fair daughters. Were't not to up- braid A service to a master not unthankful, I could say these, in spite of your prevention, Seduced by an imagined faith, not reason, (Which is the strength of nature,) quite forsaking The Gentile gods, had yielded up themselves To this new-found religion. This I cross'd, Diseover'd their intents, taught you to use, With gentle words and mild persuasions, The power and the authority of a father, Set off with cruel threats ; and so reclaim'd them : And, whereas they with tormentshould have died, (Hell's furies to me, had they undergone it !) [Aside, They are now votaries in great Jupiter's temple, THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 7 And, by his priest instructed, grown familiar With all the mysteries, nay, the most abstruse ones, Belonging to his deity. Theoph. 'Twas a benefit, For which I ever owe you. Hail, Jove's flamen ! Have these my daughters reconciled themselves, Abandoning for ever the Christian way, To your opinion ? Priest. And are constant in* it. They teach their teachers with their depth of judgment, And are with arguments able to convert The enemies to our gods, and answer all _ They can object against us. Theoph. My dear daughters ! Cal. We dare dispute against this new-sprung sect, In private or in public. Harp. My best lady, Persver' in it. Chris. And what we maintain, We will seal with our bloods. Harp. Brave resolution ! I e'en grow fat to see my labours prosper. Theoph. I young again. To your devotions. Harp. Do My prayers be present with you. [Exeunt Priest, Cal. and Chris, * Priest. And are constant in it.] So the first two editions. The last, which is very incorrectly printed, reads to it, and is followed by the modern editors. 3 Perseer in it.] So this word was anciently written and pronounced : thus the king, in Hamlet: but to perse ver In obstinate cvndolrmcnt. Coxeter adopts the unmetrical reading of the third quarto, persnere in it, and is followed by Mr. M. Mason, who, however, varus the reader to lay the accent on the penultimate. 8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Theoph. O my Harpax ! Thou engine of my wishes, thou that steel'st My bloody resolutions, thou that arm'st My eyes 'gainst womanish tears and soft com- passion, Instructing me, without a sigh, to look on Babes torn by violence from their mothers' breasts To feed the fire, and with them make one flame ; Old men, as beasts, in beasts' skins torn by dogs; Virgins and matrons tire the executioners; Yet I, unsatisfied, think their torments easy Harp. And in that, just, not cruel. Tkeopk. Were all sceptres That grace the hands of kings, made into one, And offer'd me, all crowns laid at my feet, I would contemn them all, thus spit at them ; So I to all posterities might be call'd The strongest champion of the Pagan gods, And rooter out of Christians. Harp. Oh, mine own, Mine own dear lord ! to further this great work, I ever live thy slave. Enter Sapritius m. So then, if any coxcomb has a galloping i All li-ts thrown behind me,] i. e. All impediments. So in the Mayor of Quinborough: t% I f *>pt, and be snrc I'll soon remove the let " That stands between thee and thy glory.'' 4 Very few of our old English plays are free from these dia- logues of low wit and butiooner) : 'twas the vice of the age; 26 THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. desire to ride, here's a gelding, if he can but sit him. Spun. I kick, for all that, like a horse ; look else. Hir. But that is a kickish jade, fellow Spungius. Have not I as much cau>e to com- plain as thou hast ? When I was a pa-jan, there was an infidel punk of mine, would have let me come upon trust for my curvetting : a pax on your Christian cockatrices ! they cry, like poul- terers' wives: No money, no coney. Spun. Bacchus, the god of brew'd wine and sugar, grand patron of rob-pots, upsy-freesy nor is Massinger less free from it than his cotemporaries. To defend them is impossible, nor shall [ attempt it. They are of this use, that they mark the taste, display the manners, and shew us what was the chief delight aud entertainment of our forefathers. Coxeter. It should, however, be observed, in justice to our old plays, that few, or rather none of them, are contaminated with such detestable ribaldry as the present. To " low wit,'' or indeed to wit of any kind, it has not the slightest pretension ; being, in fact, nothing more than a loathsome sooterkin engendered of filth and dulness. Hircius and Spungius were evidently brought forward by the writer -as personifications of Lust and Drunk- enness ; this indeed forms no excuse for the vile language in which they indulge, though it may serve in some degree to ac- count for it. That Massinger himself is not free from dialogues of low wit and buffoonery, (though certainly, notwithstanding Coxeter's assertion, he is much more so than his contemporaries,) may readily be granted; but the person who, after perusing this execrable trash, can imagine it to bear any resemblance to his style and manner, must have read him to very little purpose. It was assuredly written by Decker, as was the rest of this act, in which there is much to approve : with respect to this scene, and every other in which the present speakers are introduced, I recommend them to the reader's supreme scorn and contempt; if he pass thera entirely over, he will lose little of the story, and nothing of his respect for the writer. I have carefully corrected the text in innumerable places, but given it no farther consideration. I repeat my entreaty that the reader would re- ject it altogether. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 27 tipplers, and super-naculum takers ; this Bacchus, who is head warden of Vintners'-hall, ale-conner, mayor of all victualling-houses, the sole liquid benefactor to bawdy-houses ; lanceprezade to red noses, and invincible adelantado over the armado of pimpled, deep-scarleted, rubified, and carhuncled faces Hir. What of all this ? Spuji. This boon Bacchanalian skinker, did I make legs to. Hir. Scurvy ones, when thou wert drunk. Spun. There is no danger of losing a man's ears by making these indentures; he that will not now and then be Calabingo, is worse than a Calamoothe. When I was a pagan, and kneeled to this Bacchus, I durst out-drink a lord ; but your Christian lords out-howl me. I was in hope to lead a sober life, when I was converted ; but, now amongst the Christians, I can no sooner stagger out of one alehouse, but I reel into another: they have whole streets of nothing but drinking-rooms, and drabbing-chambers, jumbled together. Hir. Bawdy Priapus, the first schoolmaster that taught butchers how to stick pricks in flesh, and make it swell, thou know'st, was the only ningle that I cared for under the moon; but, since I left him to follow a scurvy lady, what with her praying and our fasting, if now I come to a wench, and offer to use her any thing hardly, (teliingher, being a Christian, she must endure, ) she presently handles me as if I Were a clove, and cleaves me with disdain, as if I were a calf's head. Spun. I see no remedy, fellow Hircius, but that thou and I must be half pagans, and half Christians; for wc know very fools that are Christians fi8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Hir. Right : the quarters of Christians are good for nothing but to feed crows. Spun. True : Christian brokers, thou know'st, are made up of the quarters of Christians ; par- boil one of these rogues, and he is not meat for a dog: no, no, I am resolved to have an infidel's heart, though in shew I carry a Christian's face. Hir. Thy last shall serve my foot : so will I. Spun. Our whimpering lady and mistress sent me with two great baskets full of beef, mutton, veal, and goose, fellow Hircius Hir. And woodcock, fellow Spungius. Spun. Upon the poor lean ass-fellow, on which I ride, to all the almswomen : what think'st thou I have done with all this good cheer ? Hir. Eat it ; or be choked else. Spun. Would my ass, basket and all, were in thy maw, if I did ! No, as I am a demi-pagan, I sold the victuals, and coined the money into pottle pots of wine. Hir. Therein thou shewed'st thyself a perfect demi-christian too, to let the poor beg, starve, and hang, or die of the pip. Our puling, snotty- nose lady sent me out likewise with a purse of money, to relieve and release prisoners: Did I so, think you ? Spun. Would thy ribs were turned into grates of iron then. Hir. As I am a total pagan, I swore they should be hanged first : for, sirrah Spungius, I lay at my old ward of lechery, and cried, a pox on your two-penny wards ! and so I took scurvy common flesh for the money. Spun. And wisely done; for our lady, sending it to prisoners, had bestowed it out upon lousy knaves : and thou, to save that labour, cast'st it away upon rotten whores. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 29 Hir. All my fear is of that pink-an-eye jack- an-apes boy, her page. S/>u/i. As I am a pagan from my cod-piece downward, that white-faced monkey frights me too. I stole but a dirty pudding, last day, out of an ahnsbisket, to give my dog when he was hungry, and the peaking chitty-face page hit me in t he teeth with it. Il/r. With the dirty pudding ! so he did me once with a cow-turd, which in knavery I would have crumb'd into ones porridge, who was half a pagan too. The smug dandiprat smells us out, whatsoever we are doing. Spun. Does lie ? let him take heed I prove not his back-friend : I'll make him curse his smelling what I do. Hir. Tis my lady spoils the boy; for he is ever at her tail, and she is never well but in his company. Enter Anoelo with a book, and a taper lighted; seeing him, they counterfeit devotion. Ang. O ! now your hearts make ladders of your eyes, In shew to climb to heaven, when your devotion Walks upon crutches. Where did you waste your time, When the religious man was on his knees, Speaking the heavenly language? Spun. Why, fellow Angelo, we were speaking in pedlar's French, I hope. Hir. We have not been idle, take it upon my word. Ang. Have you the baskets emptied, which your lady Sent, from her charitable hands, to women That dwell upon her pity ? 30 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Spun. Emptied them ! yes ; I'd he loth to have my belly so empty : yet, I am sure, I munched not one bit of them neither. Ang. And went your money to the prisoners? Hir. Went! no; I carried it, and with these fingers paid it away. Ang. What way ? the devil's way, the way of sin, The way of hot damnation, way of lust ? And you, to wash away the poor man's bread, In bowls of drunkenness ? Spun. Drunkenness ! yes, yes, I use to be drunk ; our next neighbour's man, called Chris- topher, hath often seen me drunk, hath he not? Hir. Or me given so to the flesh : my cheeks speak my doings. Ang. Avaunt, ye thieves, and hollow hypocrites ! Your hearts to me lie open like black books, And there I read your doings. Spun. And what do you read in my heart ? Hir. Or in mine ? come, amiable Angelo, beat the flint of your brains. Spun. And let's see what sparks of wit fly out to kindle your cerebrum. Ang. Your names even brand you ; you are Spungius call'd, And like a spunge, you suck up lickerish wines, Till your soul reels to hell. Spung. To hell ! can any drunkard's legs carry him so far ? Ang. For blood of grapes you sold the widows' food. And, starving them, 'tis murder; what's this but hell ? Hircius your name, and goatish is your nature ; You snatch the meat out of the prisoner's mouth, To fatten harlots : is not this hell too ? No angel, but the devil, waits on you. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 31 Spun Shall I cut his throat? Hir. No; better hum him, for I think he is a witch : hut sooth, sooth him. Spun. Fellow Angelo, true it is, that falling into the company of wicked he-christians, for my part Hir. And she ones, for mine, we have them swim in shoals hard by Spun. We must confess, I took too much out of the pot ; and he of t'other hollow commodity. Her. Yes, indeed, we laid Jill on both of us; we cozen'd the poor; but 'tis a common thing : many a one, that counts himself a better Chris- tian than we two, has done it, by this light ! Spun. But pray, sweet Angelo, play not the tell-tale to my lady ; and, if you take us creep- ing into any of these mouse-holes of sin any more, let cats flay off our skins. Hir. And put nothing but the poison'd tails of rats into those skins. Aug. Will you dishonour her sweet charity, Who saved you from the tree of death and shame ? Hir. Would I were hang'd, rather than thus be told of my faults ! Spun. She took us, 'tis true, from the gallows ; yet I hope she will not bar yeomen sprats to have their swing. Ang. She comes, beware, and mend. Hir, Let's break his neck, and bid him mend. Enter Dorothea. Dor. Have you my messages, sent to the poor, Delivered with good hands, not robbing them Of any jot was theirs ? Spun. Rob them, lady ! I hope neither my fel- low nor I am thieves. 32 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Hir. Delivered with good hands, madam ! else let me never lick my fingers more when I eat butter'd fish. Dor. Who cheat the poor, and from them pluck their alms, Pilfer from heaven; and there are thunderbolts, From thence to beat them ever. Do not lie; Were you both faithful, true distributers ? Spun. Lie, madam ! what grief is it to see you turn swaggerer, and give your poor-minded ras- cally servants the lie ! Dor. I'm glad you do not; if those wretched people, Tell you they pine for want of any thing, Whisper but to mine ear, and you shall furnish them. Hir. Whisper! nay, lady, for my part I'll cry whoop. Ang. Play no more, villains, with so good a lady; For, if you do Spun. Are we Christians ? Hir. The foul fiend snap all pagans for me ! Ang. Away, and, once more, mend. Spun. 'Takes us for botchers. Hir. A patch, a patch ! 5 [Exeunt Spun, and Hir. Dor. My book and taper. 6 Ang. Here, most holy mistress. Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. 5 A patch, a patch !] i. c. A fool, a fool ! 6 Dor. My book and taper.] What follows, to the end of the scene, is exquisitely beautiful. What pity that a man so capa- ble of interesting our best pussions (for I am persuaded that this also was written by Decker), should prostitute his genius and his judgment to the production of what could only disgrace himself, and disgust his reader. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 33 Were every servant in the world like thee, So full of goodness, angels would come down To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo, And like th;t name thou art; get thee to rest, Thy youth with too much watching is opprest. Aug. No, my dear lady, I could weary stars, And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes, By my late watching, but to wait on you. When at your prayers you kneel before the altar, Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven, So blest I hold me in your company : Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ; For then you break his heart. Dor. Be nigh me still, then: In golden letters down I'll set that day, Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, This little, pretty body ; when I, coming Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy, My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms, Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand ! And, when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom, Methought, was fill'd with no hot wanton fire, But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, On wings of cherubins, than it did before. Aug Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye So likes so poor a servant. Dor. I have offer'd Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. I would leave kingdoms, were 1 queen of some, To dwell with thy good father; for, the son Bewitching me so deeply with his presence, He that begot him must do't ten times more. VOL. I. D 34 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. I pray thee, my sweet boy, shew me thy parents ; Be not ashamed. Ang. I am not: I did never Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace, Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure you, And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand, My father is in heaven : and, pretty mistress, If your illustrious hourglass spend his sand, No worse than yet it does ; upon my life, You and I both shall meet my father there, And he shall bid you welcome. Dor. A blessed day ! We all long to be there, but lose the way. \Exeunt. SCENE II. A Street, near Dorothea's House. Enter Macrinus, met by Theophilus and Harpax. Theoph. The Sun, god of the day, guide thee, Macrinus ! Mac. And thee, Theophilus ! Theoph. Glad'st thou in such scorn ? T I call my wish back. Mac. I'm in haste. Theoph. One word, Take the least hand of time up : stay. 7 Theoph. Glad'st thou in such scorn ?] Theophilus, who is represented as a furious zealot for paganism, is mortified at the indifference with which Macrinus returns the happiness he had wished him by his god. Mr. M. Mason reads, Gaddest thou in such scorn ? He may be right ; for Macrinus is evidently anxious to pass on : the reading of the text, however, is that of all the old copies. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 35 Mac. Be brief. Theoph. As thought: I prithee tell me, good Macrinus, How health and our fair princess lay together This night, for you can tell; courtiers have flies,* That buzz all news unto them. Mac. She slept but ill. Theoph, Double thy courtesy ; how does An- toninus ? Mac. Ill, well, straight, crooked, I know not how. Theoph. Once more ; Thy head is full of windmills : when doth the princess Fill a bed full of beauty, and bestow it On Antoninus, on the wedding-night? Mac. I know not. Theoph. No ! thou art the manuscript, Where Antoninus writes down all his secrets : Honest Macrinus, tell me. Mac. Fare you well, sir. [E.iit. Harp. Honesty is some fiend, and frights him hence ; A many courtiers love it not. ' Theoph. What piece Of this state-wheel, which winds up Antoninus, Is broke, it runs so jarringly ? the man Is from himself divided : O thou, the eye, By which I wonders see, tell me, my Harpax, What gad-fly tickles this Macrinus so, That, flinging up the tail, he breaks thus from me. 8 courtiers have flio,l This word is used by Ben Jonson, a close and deroted imitator of the ancients, for a domestic parasite, a familiar, Sec. and fromhim, probabl), Decker adopted it in the present sense. * A many court iirs lore it not. ,] This is the reading of the first quarto. The editors follow that of the last two: And many, &cc. which is not so good. 36 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Harp. Oh, sir, his brain-pan is a berl of snakes, Whose stings shoot through his eye-balls, whose poisonous spawn Ingenders such a fry of speckled villainies, That, unless charms more strong than adamant Be used, the Roman angel's* wings shall melt, And Caesar's diadem be from his head 1 the Roman angel's] As angels were no part of the pagan theology, this should certainly be augel from the Ita- lian augelfoi which means a bird. M. Mason. It were to be wished that critics would sometimes apply to themselves the. advice which Gonerill gives to poor old Lear: u I pray you, father, being weak, seem so ;'' we should not then find so many of these certainties. The bar- barous word angel, of which Mr. M. Mason speaks so confu dently, is foreign to our language ; whereas angel, in the sense of bird, occurs frequently. Jonson beautifully calls the night- ingale, " the dear good angel of the spring ;" and if this should be thought, as it probably is, a Grecism ; yet we have the same term in another passage, which will admit of no dispute : ' '* Not an angel of the air, *' Bird melodious, or bird fair, &c." Two Noble Kinsmen. In Mandeville, the barbarous Herodotus of a barbarous age, there is an account of a people (probably the remains of the old Guebres) who exposed the dead bodies of their parents to the fowles of the air. They reserved, however, the sculls, of which, says he, the son, " letethe makeacuppe, and thereof drynkethe he with gret devocioun, in remembraunee of the holy man that the aungeles of God han eten." " By this expression," says Mr. Hole, " Mandeville possibly meant to insinuate that they were considered as sacred messen- gers." Not so: aungeles of God, was probably synonymous in Mandeville's vocabulary, to fowles of' the air. With Greek phraseology he was, perhaps, but little acquainted ; but he knew his own language well. To return to the text; it can scarcely be necessary to add, that by the " Roman angel," is meant the eagle, the well-known military ensign. The reader cannot but have already observed how ill the style of Decker assimilates with that of Massinger: in the former actj Harpax had spoken sufficiently plaiu, and told Theophilus of strange and important events, without these harsh and violent starts and metaphors. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 37 Spurn 'd by base feet ; the laurel which he wears, Returning victor, be enforced to kiss That which it hates, the fire. And can this ram, This Antoninus-Engine, being made ready To so much mischief, keep a steady motion ? His eyes and feet, you see, give strange assaults. Thcoph. I'm turn'd a marble statue at thy lan- guage, Which printed is in such crabb'd characters, It puzzles all my reading : what, in the name Of Pluto, now is hatching ? Harp. This Macrinus, " The line is, upon which love-errands run 'Twixt Antoninus and that yhost of women, The bloodless Dorothea; who in prayer And meditation, mockiug all your gods, Drinks up her ruby colour: yet Antoninus Plays the Emlymion to this pale-faced Moon, Courts, seeks to catch her eyes Theoph. And what of this? Harp. These are but creeping billows, Not got to shore yet: but if Dorothea Fall on his bosom, and be fired with love, (Your coldest women do so), had you ink Brew ? d from the infernal Styx, not all that black- ness Can make a thing so foul, as the dishonours, * Harp. This Macrinus The line is &c] The old copies read time. Before I saw Mr. M. Mason's emendation, I had Altered it to twine. Dm, V>vr- ercr, appears to be t lie genuine reading, and 1 have th placed it in the text. The allusion is to tin- rude tiru-woika of our ancestors. So, in the Faun*, by Mirston : 14 I'a^c. I here be sqnitM, sir, running upon lnns y like sopie of our gawd) jralUuts." &c. And in the llunttt Whort by Decker, the authr ui ihe pas- a^e belore us: kk Ttoth, mist test, > tell you true } tuo lire- works then ran from me upon /i it b one, a- I think it is, probably arose from the exprCMtou being taken down by the ear. 42 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Anton. Good sweetness, you now have it, and shall go : Be but so merciful, before your wounding me With such a mortal weapon as Farewell, To let me murmur to your virgin ear, What I was loth to lay on any tongue But this mine own. Dor. If one immodest accent Fly out, I hate you everlastingly. Anton. My true love dares not do it. Mac. Hermes inspire thee ! Enter above, Artemia, Saprittus, Theophilus, Spungius, andHmcivs. Spun. So, now, do you see ? Our work is done ; the fish you angle for is nibbling at the hook, and therefore untruss the cod-piece-point of our reward, no matter if the breeches of conscience fall about our heels. Theoph. The gold you earn is here ; dam up your mouths, And no words of it. Hir. No ; nor no words from you of too much damning neither. I know women sell themselves daily, and are hacknied out for silver : why may not we, then, betray a scurvy mistress for gold ? Spun. She saved us from the gallows, and, only to keep one proverb from breaking his neck, we'll hang her. Theoph. 'Tis well done ; go, go, you're my fine white boys. Spun. If your red boys, 'tis well known more ill-favoured faces than ours are painted. Sap. Those fellows trouble us. Theoph. Away, away ! THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 45 Mr. I to my sweet placket. Spun. And I to my full pot. [Exeunt Hir. and Spun. Anton. Come, let me tune you : glaze not thus your eyes With self-love of a vow'd virginity, Make every man your glass; you sec our sex Do never murder propagation ; We all desire your sweet society, But if you bar me from it, you do kill me, And of my blood are guilty. Art an. O base villain ! Sap. Bridie your rage, sweet princess. Anton. Could not my fortunes, Rear (1 higher far than yours, be worthy of you, Methiuks my dear affection makes you mine. Dor. Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines or' gold, He that I love is richer; and for worth, You are to him lower than any slave, Is to a monarch. Sap. So insolent, base Christian ! Dor. Can I, with weaiing out my knees before him, Get you but be his servant, you shall boast You're equal to a king. Sap. Confusion on thee, For playing thus the lying sorceress ! Anton. Your mocks are great ones ; none beneath the sun Will I be servant to. On my knees I beg it, Pity me, wondrous maid. Sap. I curse thy baseness. Theoph. Listen to more. Dor. O kneel not, sir, to inc. Anton. This knee is emblem of an humbled heart : 44 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. That heart which tortured is with your disdain, Justly for scorning others, even this heart, To which for pity such a princess sues, As in her hand offers me all the world, Great Caesar's daughter. Art em. Slave, thou iiest. Anton Yet this Is adamant to her, that melts to you In drops of blood. Theoph. A very dog ! Anton. Perhaps 'Tis my religion makes you knit the brow; Yet be you mine, and ever be your own : I ne'er will screw your conscience from that Power, On which you Christians lean. Sap. I can no longer Fret out my life with weeping at thee, villain. Sirrah ! [Aloud. Would, whenIgotthee,thehigh Thunderer's hand Had struck thee in the womb ! Mac. We are betray'd. Artem. Is that the idol, traitor, which thou kneel'st to, Trampling upon my beauty ? Theoph. Sirrah, bandog !* Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter * Theoph. Sirrah, bandog ! Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter'] A bandog, as the name imports, was a dog so fierce, as to require to be chained up. Bandogs are frequently mentioned by our old writers (indeed the word occurs three times in this play) and always with a reference to their savage nature. If the term was appropriated to a species, it probably meant a large dog, of the mastiff kind, which, though no longer met with here, is still common in many parts of Germany : it was familiar to Snyders, and is found in most of his hunting-pieces. In this country the bandog was kept to bait bears: with the THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 45 For her? our Mars for her? our Sol for her? A whore ! a hell-hound ! In this globe of brains, Where a whole world of furies for such tortures Have fought, as in a chaos, which should exceed, These nails shall grubbing lie from skull to skull, To find one horrider than all, for you, You three ! Artem. Threaten not, but strike : quick ven- geance flies Into my bosom;' caitiff! here all love dies. [Exeunt above. Anton. O ! I am thunderstruck ! We are both o'erwhelm'd Mac. With one high-raging billow. Dor. You a soldier, And sink beneath the violence of a woman ! Anton. A woman ! a wrong'd princess. From such a star Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for, But tragical events? my life is now The subject of her tyranuy. Dor. That fear is base, Of death, when that death doth but life displace decline of that <( noble sport,'' perhaps, tbe animal fell into disuse, as he was too ferocious for any domestic purpose. Mr. Gilchrist has furnished me with a curious passage from Laueham, which renders any further details on the subject unnecessary. "On the syxth day of her Majestycs camming, a great sort of bandogs whear thear tyed in the utter coourt, and thyrtcen bears in the inner. Whoosoevcr made the panne! 1 thear wear cnoow for a queast, and one for a challenge and need wear. A wight of great wisdoom and gravitie secm;d their foreman to be, had it cum to a jury: but it '. in this passage, and suggested the amendment. . . rtull igaj i jus! A single, glance at cither of the first ..!,; uavo saved all this labour: build it is the b i!..l r . .. /, 1661, which (Jo.vcter followed j m Uta 01... i -, it standa as in the te.it. 48 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Build to herself a kingdom in her death, Going 3 laughing from us: no; her hitterest torment Shall be, to feel her constancy beaten down ; The bravery of her resolution lie Batter'd, by argument, into such pieces, That she again shull, on her belly, creep To kiss the pavements of our paynim gods. Artcm. How to be done ? 1 heoph. I'll send my daughters to her, And they shall turn her rocky faith to wax ; Else spit at me, let me be made your slave, And meet no Roman's but a villain's grave. Artem. Thy prisoner let her be, then; and, Sapritius, Your son and that, 4 be yours : death shall be sent To him that suffers them, by voice or letters, To greet each other. Rifle her estate ; Christians to beggary brought, grow desperate. Dor. Still on the bread of poverty let me feed. Ang. O ! my admired mistress, quench not out The holy fires within you, though temptations Shower down upon you : Clasp thine armour on, Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars, Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch stars. [Exeunt all but Angelo. Enter Hircius and Spungius. Hir. How now, Angelo ; how is it, how is it ? What thread spins that whore Fortune upon her wheel now ? Spun. Com 1 esta t corn esta, poor knave ? 3 Going laughing from us :] So the old copies, which is far more correct than the modern reading Go, laughing from us. + Your son and that,] Macrinus, whom before she had called a bawd. M. Mason. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 49 Hir. Comment portez-vouz, comment portez-vouz, mon petit garcon ? Spun. My pretty wee comrade, my half-inch of man's flesh, how run the dice of this cheating world, ha? Ang. Too well on your sides; you are hid in gold, O'er head and ears. Hir. We thank our fates, the sign of the gingle-boys hangs at the doors of our pockets. Spun. Who would think that we, coming forth of the a , as it were, or fag-end of the world, should yet see the golden age, when so little silver is stirring? Hir. Nay, who can say any citizen is an ass, for loading his own hack with money till his soul cracks again, only to leave his son like a gilded coxcomb behind him ? Will not any fool take me for a wise man now, seeing me draw out of the pit of my treasury this little god with his belly full of gold ? Spun. And this, full of the same meat, out of my ambry ? Aug. That gold will melt to poison. Spun. Poison ! would it would ! whole pints for healths should down my throa^. Hir. Gold, poison ! there is never a she- thrasher in Cassarea, that lives on the flail of money, will call it so. Ang. Like slaves you sold your souls for golden dross, Bewraying her to death, who stept between You and the gallows. Spun. It was an easy matter to save us, she being so well back'd. Hir. The gallowi and we fell out: so she did but part us. vol. i. E 50 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Ang. The misery of that mistress is mine own ; She beggar'd, I left wretched. Hir. I can but let my nose drop in sorrow, with wet eyes for her. Spun. The petticoat of her* estate is unlaced, I confess. Hir. Yes, and the smock of her charity is now all to pieces. ^wg.Forloveyoubeartoher, for some good turns Done you by me, give me one piece of silver. Hir. How ! a piece^of silver! if thou wert an angel of gold, I would not put thee into white money, unless I weighed thee ; and I weigh thee not a rush. Spun. . A piece of silver ! I never had but two calves in my life, and those my mother left me ; I will rather part from the fat of them, than from a mustard-token's worth of argent. Hir. And so, sweet nit, we crawl from thee. Spun. Adieu, demi-dandiprat, adieu ! Ang. Stay, one word yet; you now are full of gold. Hir. I would be sorry my dog were so full of the pox. Spun. Or any sow of mine of the meazles either. Ang. Go, go ! you're beggars both ; you are not worth That leather on your feet. Hir. Away, away, boy ! Spun. Page, you do nothing but set patches on the soles of your jests. Ang. I am glad I tried your love, which, see! I want not, So long as this is full. Both. And so long as this, so long as this. Hir, Spungius, you are a pickpocket. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 51 Spun. Hircius, thouhast nimm'd: Solong as ! not so much money is left as will buy a louse. Hir. Thou art a thief, and thou liest in that gut through which thy wine runs, if thou deniest it. Spun. Thou liest deeper than the bottom of mine enraged pocket, if thou affrontest it. Ang. No blows, no bitter language ; all your gold gone ! Spun. Can the devil creep into one's breeches ? Hir. Yes, if his horns once get into the cod- piece. Ang. Come, sigh not; I so little am in love With that whose loss kills you, that, see! 'tis yours, All yours : divide the heap in equal share, So you will go along with me to prison, And in our mistress' sorrows bear a part: Say, will you ? Both. Will we ! Spun. If she were going to hanging, no gallows should part us. Hir. Let us both be turn'd into a rope of onions, if we do not. Ang. Follow me, then; repair your bad deeds past ; Happy are men, when their best days are last ! Spun. True, master Angelo ; pray, sir, lead the way. [E.vit Angelo. Hir. Let him lead that way, but follow thou me this way. Spun. I live in a gaol ! Hir. Away, and shift for ourselves : She'll do well enough there; for prisoners are more hungry after mutton, than catchpoles after pri- soners. Spun. Let her starve then, if a whole gaol will not fill her belly. [Exeunt. E 2* 52 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. ACT III. SCENE I. A Room in Dorothea's House. ifotfer Sapritius, Theophilus, Priest, Calista, and Christeta. Sap. Sick to the death, I fear. 5 Theoph. I meet your sorrow, With my true feeling of it. Sap. She's a witch, A sorceress, Theophilus ; my son Is charm'd by her enchanting eyes ; and, like An image made of wax, her beams of beauty Melt him to nothing : all my hopes in him, And all his gotten honours, find their grave In his strange dotage on her. Would, when first He saw and loved her, that the earth had open'd, And swallow'd both alive ! Theoph. There's hope left yet. Sap. Not any : though the princess were ap- peased, All title in her love surrender'd up ; Yet this coy Christian is so transported With her religion, that unless my son (But let him perish first !) drink the same potion. And be of her belief, she'll not vouchsafe To be his lawful wife. Priest. But, once removed s Sap. Sick to the death, I fear.] It is delightful, after the vile ribaldry and harshness of the preceding act, to fall in again with the clear and harmonious periods of Massinger. From hence to the conclusion of the second scene, where Decker takes up the story, every page is crowded with beauties of no common kind. THE VIRGIN MARTYR. 53 From her opinion, as I rest assured The reasons of these holy maids will win her, You'll find her tractable to any thing, For your content or his. Theoph If she refuse it, The Stygian damps, breeding infectious airs, The mandrake's shrieks, the basilisk's killing eye, The dreadful lightning that does crush the bones, And never singe the skin, shall not appear Less fatal to her, than my zeal made hot With love unto my gods. I have deferr'd it, In hopes to draw back this apostata, Which will be greater honour than her death, Unto her father's faith; and, to that end, Have brought my daughters hither. Cat. And we doubt not To do what you desire. Sap. Let her be sent for. Prosper in your good work ; and were I not To attend the princess, I would see and hear How you succeed. Theoph. I am commanded too, I'll bear you company. Sap. Give them your ring, To lead her as in triumph, if they win her, Before her highness. [Exit, Theoph. Spare no promises, Persuasions, or threats, I do conjure you : If you prevail, 'tis the most glorious work You ever undertook. Enter Dorothea and Angelo. Priest. She comes. Theoph. We leave you ; Be constant, and be careful. [Exeunt Theoph, and Priest. 54 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Cal. We are sorry To meet you under guard. Dor. But I more grieved You are at liberty. So well I love you, That I could wish, for such a cause as mine, You were my fellow-prisoners : Prithee, Angelo, Reach us some chairs. Please you sit Cal. We thank you : Our visit is for love, love to your safety. Christ. Our conference must be private, pray you, therefore, Command your boy to leave us. Dor. You may trust him With any* secret that concerns my life, Falsehood and he are strangers : had you, ladies, Been bless'd with such a servant, you had never Forsook that way, your journey even half ended, That leads to joys eternal. In the place Of loose lascivious mirth, he would have stirr'd you To holy meditations ; and so far He is from flattery, that he would have told you, Your pride being at the height, how miserable And wretched things you were, that, for an hour Of pleasure here, have made a desperate sale Of all your right in happiness hereafter. He must not leave me ; without him I fall : In this life he's my servant, in the other A wish'd companion. Ang. 'Tis not in the devil, Nor all his wicked arts, to shake such goodness. Dor. But you were speaking, lady. Cal. As a friend And lover of your safety, and I pray you So to receive it; and, if you remember How near in love our parents were, that we, Even from the cradle, were brought up together, THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 55 Our amity increasing with our years, We cannot stand suspected. Dor. To the purpose. Cal. We come, then, as good angels, Dorothea, To make you happy ; and the means so easy, That, he not you an enemy to yourself, Already you enjoy it. Christ. Look on us, Ruin'd as you are, once, and hrought unto it, By vour persuasion. "Cal. But what followed, lady? Leaving those hlessings which our gods gave freely, And shower'd upon us with a prodigal hand, As to he noble horn, youth, beauty, wealth, And the free use of these without control, Check, curb, or stop, such is our law's indulgence! All happiness forsook us ; bonds and fetters, For amorous twines; the rack and hangman's whips, In place of choice delights ; our parents' curses Instead of blessings; scorn, neglect, contempt, Fell thick upon us. Christ. This consider'd wisely, We made a fair retreat ; and reconciled To our forsaken gods, we live again In all prosperity. Cal. By our example, Bequeathing misery to such as love it, Learn to be happy. The Christian yoke's too heavy For such a dainty neck ; it was framed rather To be the shrine of Venus, or a pillar, More precious than crystal, to support Our Cupid's image: our religion, lady, Is but a varied pleasure; yours a toil Slaves would shrink under. 56 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Dor. Have you not cloven feet? are you not devils? Dare any say so much, or dare I hear it Without a virtuous and religious anger ? Now to. put on a virgin modesty, Or maiden silence, when His power is question'd That is omnipotent, were a greater crime, Than in a bad cause to be impudent. Your gods! your temples! brothel-houses rather, Or wicked actions of the worst of men, Pursued and practised. Your religious rites! Oh ! call them rather juggling mysteries, The baits and nets of hell : your souls the prey For which the devil angles ; your false pleasures A steep descent, by which you headlong fall Into eternal torments. Cal. Do not tempt Our powerful gods. Dor. Which of your powerful gods ? Your gold, your silver, brass, or wooden ones, That can nor do me hurt, nor protect your 6 Most pitied women ! will you sacrifice To such, or call them gods or goddesses, Your parents would disdain to be the same, Or you yourselves ? O blinded ignorance ! Tell me, Calista, by the truth, I charge you, Or any thing you hold more dear, would you, To have him deified to posterity, Desire your father an adulterer, A ravisher, almost a parricide, A vile incestuous wretch? Cal. That, piety And duty answer for me. 6 That can nor do me hurt, nor protect you ?) More spirited, and more in the author's manner^ than the reading of the last quarto, which the modern editors follow : That cannot do me hurt, nor protect you ? THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 57 Dor. Or you, Christeta, To be hereafter registered a goddess, Give your chaste body up to the embraces Of goatish lust ? have it writ on your forehead, " This is the common whore, the prostitute, The mistress in the art of wantonness, Knows every trick, and labyrinth of desires That are immodest?" Christ. You judge better of me, Or my affection is ill placed on you; Shall I turn strumpet? Dor. No, I think you would not. Yet Venus, whom you worship, was a whore; Flora, the foundress of the public stews, And has, for that, her sacrifice ; your great god, Your Jupiter, a loose adulterer, Incestuous with his sister: read but those That have canonized them, you'll find them worse Than, in chaste language, I can speak them to you. Are they immortal then, that did partake Of human weakness, and had ample share In men's most base affections ; subject to Unchaste loves, anger, bondage, wounds, as men are ? Here, Jupiter, to serve his lust, turn'd bull, The shape, indeed, in which he stole Europa; Neptune, for gain, builds up the walls of Troy, As a day-labourer ; Apollo keeps Admetus' sheep for bread ; the Lemnian smith Sweats at the forge for hire ; Prometheus here, With his still-growing liver, feeds the vulture ; Saturn bound fast in hell with adamant chains; And thousands more, on whom abused error Bestows a deity. Will you then, dear sisters, For I would have you such, pay your devotions To things of less power than yourselves? 58 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Cal. We worship Their good deeds in their images. Dor.- By whom fashion'd ? By sinful men. I'll tell you a short tale, 8 Nor can you but confess it is a true one : A king of Egypt, being to erect The image of Osiris, whom they honour, Took from the matrons' necks the richest jewels, And purest gold, as the materials, To finish up his work ; which perfected, With all solemnity he set it up, To be adored, and served himself his idol ; Desiring it to give him victory Against his enemies : but, being overthrown, Enraged against his god, (these are fine gods, Subject to human fury !) he took down The senseless thing, and melting it again, He made a bason, in which eunuchs wash'd His concubine's feet ; and for this sordid use, Some months it served : his mistress proving false, As most indeed do so, and grace concluded Between him and the priests, of the same bason He made his god again ! Think, think, of this, And then consider, if all worldly honours, Or pleasures that do leave sharp stings behind them, 8 I'll tell you a short tale, &c ] I once thought that I had read this short tale in Arnobius, from whom, and from Augustin, much of the preceding speech is taken ; but, upon looking him over again, I can scarcely find a trace of it. Herodotus has, indeed, a story of a king of Egypt (Amasis), which bears a distant resemblance to it ; but the application is altogether different : there is a bason of gold in which he and his guests were accustomed to spit, wash their feet, &c. which is formed into a god; but whether this furnished the poet with any hints, I cannot undertake to say. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 59 Have power to win such as have reasonable souls, To put their trust in dross. Cal. Oh, that I had been born Without a father ! Christ. Piety to him Hath ruin'd us for ever. Dor. Think not so ; You may repair all yet: the attribute That speaks his Godhead most, is merciful : Revenge is proper to the fiends you worship, Yetcannotstrikewithouthis leave. You weep, Oh, 'tis a heavenly shower! celestial balm To cure your wounded conscience ! let it fall, Fall thick upoii it; and, when that is spent, I'll help it with another of my tears : And may your true repentance prove the child Of my true sorrow, never mother had A birth so happy ! Cal. We are caught ourselves, That came to take you; and, assured of conquest, We are your captives. Dor. And in that you triumph : Your victory had been eternal loss, And this your loss immortal gain. Fix here, And you shall feel yourselves inwardly arm*d Gainst tortures, death, and hell: but, take heed, sisters, That, or through weakness, threats, or mild per- suasions, Though of a father, you fall not into A second and a worse apostacy. Cal. Never, oh never ! steel'd by your ex- ample, We dare the worst of tyranny. Christ. Here's our warrant, You shall along and witness it. Dor. 13e coniirm'd then; 60 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. And rest assured, the more you suffer here, The more your glory, you to heaven more dear. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Governor's Palace. Enter Artemta, Sapritius, Theophilus, and Harpax. Artem. Sapritius, though your son deserve no pity, We grieve his sickness: his contempt of us, We cast hehind us, and look back upon His service done to Caesar, that weighs down Our just displeasure. If his malady Have growth from his restraint, or that you think His liberty can cure him, let him have it: Say, we forgive him freely. Sap. Your grace binds us, Ever your humblest vassals. Artem. Use all means For his recovery ; though yet I love him, I will not force affection. If the Christian, Whose beauty hath out-rivall'd me, be won To be of our belief, let him enjoy her ; That all may know, when the cause wills, I can Command my own desires. Theoph. Be happy then, My lord Sapritius ; I am confident, Such eloquence and sweet persuasion dwell Upon my daughters' tongues, that they will work her To any thing they please. Sap. I wish they may ! THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 61 Yet 'tis no easy task to undertake, To alter a perverse and obstinate woman. [A shout within : loud music. Artem. What means this shout? Sap. 'Tis seconded with music, Triumphant music. Ha ! Enter Sempronius. Semp. My lord, your daughters, The pillars of our faith,' having converted, For so report gives out, the Christian lady, The image of great Jupiter born before them, Sue for access. Theoph. My soul divined as much. Blest be the time when first they saw this light ! Their mother, when she bore them to support My feeble age, filled not my longing heart With so much joy, as they m this good work Have thrown upon me. Enter Priest with the Image of Jupiter, incense and censers ; followed by Calista and Chris- teta, leading Dorothea. Welcome, oh, thrice welcome, Daughters, both of my body and my mind ! Let me embrace in you my bliss, my comfort; And, Dorothea, now more welcome too, Than if you never had fallen off! I am ravish 'd With the excess of joy : speak, happy daughters, The blest event. 9 The pillars of our faith, &c] Here, as in many other places, the language of Christianity and paganism is confounded ; faith was always the distinctive term for the former, in opposition to heathenism. 69. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Cal. We never gain'd so much By any undertaking. Theoph. O my dear girl, Our gods reward thee ! Dor. Nor was ever time, On my part, better spent. Christ. We are all now Of one opinion. Theoph. My best Christeta ! Madam, if ever you did grace to worth, Vouchsafe your princely hands. Artem. Most willingly Do you refuse it ? Cal. Let us first deserve it. Theoph. My own child still ! here set our god ; prepare The incense quickly : Come, fair Dorothea, I will myself support you ; now kneel down, And pay your vows to Jupiter. Dor. I shall do it Better by their example. Theoph. They shall guide you, They are familiar with the sacrifice. Forward, my twins of comfort, and, to teach her, Make a joint offering. Christ. Thus- [they both spit at the image, Cal. And thus [throw it down, and spurn it. Harp. Profane, And impious ! stand you now like a statue ? Are you the champion of the gods ? where is Your holy zeal, your anger? Theoph. I am blasted ; And, as my feet were rooted here, I find I have no motion ; I would I had no sight too ! Or if my eyes can serve to any use, 1 1 Or if my eyes can serve to any use,] The modem editors read : Or if my eyes can serve to any other use. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 63 Give me, thou injured Power ! a sea of tears, To expiate this madness in my daughters; For, heing themselves, they would have trem- bled at So blasphemous a deed in any other: For my sake, hold awhile thy dreadful thunder, And give me patience to demand a reason For this accursed act. Dor. Twas bravely done. Theoph. Peace, damn'd enchantress, peace ! I should look on you With eyes made red with fury, and my hand, That shakes with rage, should much outstrip my tongue, And seal my vengeance on your hearts ;-but nature, To you that have fallen once, bids me again To be a father. Oh ! how durst you tempt The anger of great Jove ? Dor. Alack, poor Jove ! He is no swaggerer; how smug he stands ! He'll take a kick, or any thing. Sap. Stop her mouth. Dor. Itisthepatient'stgodlingl'donotfearhim; He would not hurt the thief that stole away Two of his golden locks; indeed he could not: And still 'tis the same quiet thing. Theoph. Blasphemer ! Ingenious cruelty shall punish this: Thou art past hope: but for you yet, 3 dear daughters, Other, which destroys at once the metre and the sense, is an absurd interpolation of the quartos 1631 and 1661. * Dor. It is the patient'st godling ;] I have inserted this word at the recommendation of Mr. M. Mason. The old copies con- cur in reading anticnCst, which ma) yet be the proper word. 1 but fur you yet,] Yet, which completes the verse, is now restored from the urst edition. 64 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Again bewitch'd, the dew of mild forgiveness May gently fall, provided you deserve it, With true contrition : be yourselves again ; Sue to the offended deity. Christ. Not to be The mistress of the earth. Cal. I will not offer A grain of incense to it, much less kneel, Nor look on it but with contempt and scorn, To have a thousand years conferr'd upon me Of worldly blessings. We profess ourselves To be, like Dorothea, Christians ; And owe her for that happiness. Theoph. My ears Receive, in hearing this, all deadly charms, Powerful to make man wretched, Artem. Are these they You bragg'd could convert others ! Sap. That want strength To stand, themselves ! Harp. Your honour is engaged, The credit of your cause depends upon it; Something you must do suddenly. Theoph. And I will. Harp. They merit death ; but, falling by your hand, 'Twill be recorded for a just revenge, And holy fury in you. Theoph. Do not blow The furnace of a wrath thrice hot already ; iEtna is in my breast, wildfire burns here, Which only blood must quench. Incensed Power! Which from my infancy I have adored, Look down with favourable beams upon The sacrifice, though not allow'd thy priest, Which I will offer to thee ; and be pleased, My fiery zeal inciting me to act, THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 65 To call that justice others may style murder. Come, you accurs'd, thus by the hair I drag you Before this holy altar; thus look on you, Less pitiful than tigers to their prey : And thus, with mine own hand, I take that life Which I gave to you. [Kills them. Dor. O most cruel butcher ! Theoph. My anger ends not here : hell's dread- ful porter, Receive into thy ever-open gates, Their damned souls, ancl let the Furies' whips On them atone he wasted ; and, when death Closes these eyes, 'twill he Elysium to me To hear their shrieks and bowlings. Make me, Pluto, Thy instrument to furnish thee with souls Of that accursed sect; nor let me fall, Till my fell vengeance hath consumed them all. [Exit, "with Harpar. Artem. Tis a brave zeal. 4 Enter Angelo, smiling. Dor. Oh, call him back again, Call back your hangman ! here's one prisoner left To be the subject of his knife. Artem. Not so ; We are not so near reconciled unto thee; Thou shalt not perish such an easy way. Artem. 'Tis a brave zeal.] The first two quartos hate a tage direction here, which Coxeter and M. Mason follow : Enter Artcmia laughing. But Artemia continues on the stage: the error was seen and rcmoTed by the quarto 1651. It is worth observing with what care Harpax and Angelo are kept apart, till the catastrophe. VOL. I. F 66 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Be she your charge, Sapritius, now ; and suffer None to come near her, till we have found out Some torments worthy of her. Ang. Courage, mistress ; These martyrs but prepare your glorious fate ; You shall exceed them, and not imitate. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Room in Dorothea's House. Enter Spungius and Hircius, ragged, at opposite doors. Hir. Spungius ! Spun. My fine rogue, how is it ? how goes this tattered world ?* Hir. Hast any money ? Spun. Money ! no. The tavern ivy clings about my money, and kills it. Hast thou any money ? Hir. No. My money is a mad bull ; and finding any gap opened, away it runs. Spun. I see then a tavern and a bawdyhouse. have faces much alike; the one hath red grates next the door, the other hath peeping-holes within doors : the tavern hath evermore a bush, the bawdyhouse sometimes neither hedge nor bush. From a tavern a man comes reeling ; 5 how goes this tattered world?] These odious wretches'- but they are not worth a thought. Mr. Malone observes that tattered is spelt with an o in the old editions of Shakspeare : this is the first opportunity I have had for men- tioning, that Massinger conforms to the same practice. The modern editors sometimes adopt one mode of spelling it, and sometimes another, as if the words were different. It is best to be uniform. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 67 from a bawdyhouse, not able to stand. In the tavern you are cozen'd with paltry wine ; in a bawdyhouse, by a painted whore : money may hare wine, and a whore will have money ; but to neither can you cry, Drawer, you rogue ! or, Keep door, rotten bawd ! without a silver whistle: We are justly plagued, therefore, for running from our mistress. Hir. Thou didst; I did not : Yet I had run too, but that one gave me turpentine pills, and that staid my running. Spun. Well ! the thread of my life is drawn through the needle of necessity, whose eye, looking upon my lousy breeches, cries out it cannot mend them ; which so pricks the linings of my body, (and those are, heart, lights, lungs, guts, and midriff,) that I beg on my knees, to have Atropos, the tailor to the Destinies, to take her sheers, and cut my thread in two ; or to heat the iron goose of mortality, and so press me to death. Hir. Sure thy father was some botcher, and thy hungry tongue bit off these shreds of com- plaints, to patch up the elbows of thy nitty eloquence. Spun. And what was thy father ? Hir. A low-minded cobler, a cobler whose zeal set many a woman upright; the remem- brance of whose awl (I now having nothing) thrusts such scurvy stitches into my soul, that the heel of my happiness is gone awry. Spun. Pity that e'er thou trod'st thy shoe awry. Hir, Long I cannot last ; for all sowterly wax of comfort melting away, and misery taking the length of my foot, it boots not me to sue lor life, when all my hopes are seam-rent, and go wet-shod. Spun. This shows thou art a cobler's son, by F * 2 68 THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. going through stitch : O Hircius, would thou aud I were so happy to be coblers ! Hir. So would I ; for both of us being weary of our lives, should then be sure of shoemakers' ends. Spun. I see the beginning of my end, for I am almost starved. Hir. So am not I ; but I am more than famished. Spun. All the members in my body are in a rebellion one against another. Hir. So are mine; and nothing but a cook, being a constable, can appease them, presenting to my nose, instead of his painted staff, a spit full of roast meat. Spun. But in this rebellion, what uproars do they make ! my belly cries to my mouth, Why dost not gape and feed me ? Hir. And my mouth sets out a throat to my hand, Why dost not thou lift up meat, and cram my chops with it? Spun. Then my hand hath a fling at mine eyes, because they look not out, and shark for victuals. Hir. Which mine eyes seeing, full of tears, cry aloud, and curse my feet, for not ambling up and down to feed colon ; sithence if good meat be in any place, 'tis known my feet can smell. Spun. But then my feet, like lazy rogues, lie still, and had rather do nothing, than run to and fro to purchase any thing. Hir. Why, among so many millions of people, should thou and I only be miserable tatterdemal- lions, ragamuffins, and lousy desperates ? Spun. Thou art a mere I-am-an-o, I-am-an-as: consider the whole world, and 'tis as we are. Hir. Lousy, beggarly ! thou whoreson assa foetid a ? THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 69 Spun. Worse ; all tottering, all out of frame, thou fooliamini ! Hir. As how, arsenic ? come, make the world smart. Spun. Old honour goes on crutches, beggary rides caroched ; honest men make feasts, knaves sit at tables, cowards are lapp'd in velvet, soldiers (as we) in rags ; beauty turns whore, whore, bawd, and both die of the pox : why then, when all the world stumbles, should thou and 1 walk upright ? Hir. Stop, look! who's yonder? Enter Angelo. Spun. Fellow Angelo ! how does my little man? well ? Ang. Yes; And would youdid so too! Where are your clothes? Hir. Clothes ! You see every woman almost eo in her loose gown, and why should not we nave our clothes loose? Spun. Would they were loose ! Aug. Why, where are they ? Spun. Where many a velvet cloak, I warrant, at this hour, keeps them company ; they are pawned to a broker. Ang. Why pawn'd ? where's all the gold I left with you? Hir. The gold ! we put that into a scrivener's hands, and he hath cozen'd us. Spun. And therefore, I prithee, Angelo, if thou hast another purse, let it be confiscate, and brought to devastation. Ang. Are you made all of lies r I know which way Your guilt-wing'd pieces flew. I will no more 70 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Be mock'd by you : be sorry for your riots, Tame your wild flesh by labour; eat the bread Got with hard hands ; let sorrow be your whip, To draw drops of repentance from your heart : When I read this amendment in your eyes, You shall not want; till then, my pity dies. Spun. Is it not a shame, that this scurvy puerilis should give us lessons? Hir. I have dwelt, thou know'st, a long time in the suburbs of conscience, and they are ever bawdy; but now my heart shall take a house within the walls of honesty. Enter Harp ax behind. Spun. O you drawers of wine, draw me no more to the bar of beggary ; the sound of Score a pottle of sack, is worse than the noise of a scold- ing oysterwench, or two cats incorporating. Harp. This must not be I do not like when conscience Thaws ; keep her frozen still, [comes forward.'] How now, my masters ! Dejected? drooping? drown'd in tears? clothes torn ? Lean, and ill colour'd? sighing? where's the whirlwind Which raises all these mischiefs ? I have seen you Drawn better on't. O ! but a spirit told me You both would come to this, when in you thrust' Yourselves into the service of that lady, 6 when in you thrust] Jra, which completes the verse, was omitted by Mr. M. Mason, from an opinion, perhaps, that it was superfluous to the sense. But this was the language of the times : for the rest, this whole act is most carelessly printed by the last editors. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 71 Who shortly now must die. Where's now her praying ? What good got you by wearing out your feet, To run on scurvy errands to the poor, And to bear money to a sort' of rogues, And lousy prisoners ? Hir. Pox on them ! I never prospered since I did it Spun. Had I been a pagan still, I should not have spit white for want of drink ; but come to any vintner now, and bid him trust me, because I turned Christian, and he cries, Poll ! Harp. You're rightly served ; before that peevish 8 lady Had to do with you, women, wine, and money Flow'd in abundance with you, did it not ? 1 And to bear money to a sort of rogues, &c] Or, as we now, say to a set, or parcel of rogues. The word occurs so fre- quently in this sense, in our old writers, that it seems almost unnecessary to give any examples of it : '' Here are a sort of poor petitioners, u That are importunate." Spanish Tragedy. Again : " And, like a sort of true born scavengers, " Scour me this famous realm of enemies." Knight of the Burning Pestle. before that peevish lady Had to do with you,] Peevish is foolish ; thus, in the Merry U'ixts of Windsor y Mrs. Quickly says of her fellow-servant, " His worst fault is, that he is given to prayer; he is something pet\uh that way." Mr. Malone thinks this to be ouc of tlamc Quit klv's blunders, and that she means to say precise: but he is mistaken. In Hycke Scorner, the word is used in the very sense here given: " For an I sholde do after your scolo " To learn to pater to make me pcxysse." Again, in dud's Revenge against Adultery; " Albemare kept a man-fool of some forty years old in his house, who indeed was so naturally peevish^ as not Milan, hardly Italy, could match him for simplicity.'' 72 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Hir. Oh, those days ! those days ! Harp. Beat not your breasts, tear not your hair in madness ; Those days shall come again, be ruled by me ; And better, mark me, better. Spun. I have seen you, sir, as I take it, an attendant on the lord Theophilus. Harp. Yes, yes ; in shew his servant : but hark, hither ! Take heed no body listens. Spun. Not a mouse stirs. Harp. I am a prince disguised. Hir, Disguised! how? drunk? Harp. Yes, my fine boy ! I'll drink too, and be drunk ; I am a prince, and any man by me, Let him but keep my rules, shall soon grow rich, Exceeding rich, most infinitely rich : He that shall serve me, is not starved from pleasures As other poor knaves are ; no, take their fill. Spun. But that, sir, we're so ragged Harp. You'll say, you'd serve me ? Hir. Before any master under the zodiac. Harp. For clothes no matter; I've a mind to both. And one thing I like in you ; now that you see The bonfire of your lady's state burnt out, You give it over, do you not ? Hir. Let her be hang'd ! Spun. And pox'd ! Harp. Why, now you're mine ; Come, let my bosom touch you. Spun. We have bugs, sir. Harp. There's money, fetch your clothes home; there's for you. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 75 Hir. Avoid, vermin ! give over our mistress ! a man cannot prosper worse, it' he serve the devil. Harp. How ! the devil ? I'll tell you what now of the devil, He's no such horrid creature ; cloven-footed, Black, saucer-eyed, his nostrils breathing fire, As these lying Christians make him. Both. No! Harp. He's more loving To man, than man to man is.* Hir. Is he so? Would we two might come acquainted with him ! Harp. You shall : he's a wondrous goon fellow, loves a cup of wine, a whore, any thing ; if you have money, it's ten to one but I'll bring him to some tavern to you or other. Spun. I'll bespeak the best room in the house for him. Harp. Some people he cannot endure. Hir. We'll give him no such cause. Harp. He hates a civil lawyer, as a soldier does peace. Spun. How a commoner? 1 Harp. Loves him from the teeth outward. Spun. Pray, my lord and prince, let me en- counter you with one foolish question : does the devil eat any mace in his broth? Harp. Exceeding much, when his burning 9 Harp, lies morr loving To man, than man to man w.] Though this horrid prostitu- tion of that line sentiment in Jurenal, Carior est illis ho'no quam &ibi, may not be altogether out of character for the speaker ; it were to be wished that it had not been employed. To sy the truth, the whole of this scene, more especially what yet re- mains of if, is as profligate as it is stupid. 1 Spun. Hon a commoner?] That is, a common lawyer. M. Mason. 74 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. fever takes him ; and then he has the knuckles of a bailiff boiled to his breakfast. Hir. Then, my lord, he loves a catchpole, does he not? Harp. As a bearward doth a dog. A catch- pole ! he hath sworn, if ever he dies, to make a serjeant his heir, and a yeoman his overseer. Spun. How if he come to any great man's gate, will the porter let him come in, sir? Harp. Oh ! he loves porters of great men's gates, because they are ever so near the wicket. Hir. Do not they whom he makes much on, for all his stroaking their cheeks, lead hellish lives under him ? Harp. No, no, no, no; he will be damn'd be- fore he hurts any man : do but you (when you are throughly acquainted with him) ask for any thing, see if it does not come. Spun. Any thing! Harp. Call for a delicate rare whore, she is brought you. Hir. Oh ! my elbow itches. Will the devil keep the door ? Harp. Be drunk as a beggar, he helps you home. Spun. O my fine devil! some watchman, I warrant ; I wonder who is his constable. Harp. Will "you swear, roar, swagger? he claps you Hir. How? on the chaps? Harp. No, on the shoulder; and cries, O, my brave boys! Will any of you kill a man? Spun. Yes, yes ; I, I. Harp. What is his word ? Hang ! hang ! 'tis nothing. Or stab a woman ? Hir. Yes, yes ; I, I. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 75 Harp. Here is the worst word he gives you : A pox on't, go on ! Hir. O inveigling rascal! I am ravish'd. Harp. Go, get your clothes ; turn up your glass of youth, And let the sands run merrily : nor do I care From what a lavish hand your money flies, So vou give none away to beggars Hir, Hang them ! Harp. And to the scrubbing poor. Hir. I'll see them hang'd first. Harp. One service you must do me. Both. Any thing. Harp. Your mistress, Dorothea, ere she suffers, Is to be put to tortures : have you hearts To tear her into shrieks, to fetch her soul Up in the pangs of death, yet not to die ? Hir. Suppose this she, and that I had no hands, here's my teeth. Spun. Suppose this she, and that I had no teeth, here's my nails. Hir. But will not you be there, sir? Harp. No, not for hills of diamonds ; the grand master, Who schools her in the Christian discipline, Abhors my company : should I be there, You'd think all hell broke loose, we should so quarrel. Ply you this business ; he, her flesh who spares, Is lost, and in my love never more shares. [Exit. Span. Here's a master, you rogue! Hir. Sure he cannot choose but have a horrible number of servants. [Exeunt. 76 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR, ACT IV. SCENE I. The Governor's Palace. Antoninus on a couch, asleep, with Doctors about him; Sapritius and Macrinus. Sap. O you, that are half gods, lengthen that life Their deities lend us ; turn o'er all the volumes Of your mysterious iEsculapian science, T' increase the number of this young man's days: And, for each minute of his time prolong'd, Your fee shall be a piece of Roman gold With Caesar's stamp, such as he sends his captains When in the wars they earn well : do but save him, And, as he's half myself, be you all mine. 1 Doct. What art can do, we promise ; physic's hand As apt is to destroy as to preserve, If heaven make not the med'cine : all this while, Our skill hath combat held with his disease ; But 'tis so arm'd, and a deep melancholy, To be such in part with death,' we are in fear The grave must mock our labours. Mac. I have been His keeper in this sickness, with such eyes As I have seen my mother watch o'er me ; And, from that observation, sure I find It is a midwife must deliver him. a To be such in part with death,] Mr. M, Mason reads, after Coxeter, To such in part with death, and explains it to mean " To such a degree." I doubt whether he understood his own expla- nation or not. The genuine reading, which I have restoredj takes away all difficulty from the passage. . THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 77 Sap. Is he with child ? a midwife !' Mac. Yes, with child ; And will, I fear, lose life, if by a woman He is not brought to bed. Stand by his pillow Some little while, and, in his broken slumbers, Him shall you hear cry out on Dorothea; And, when his arms fly open to catch her, Closing together, he falls fast asleep, Pleased with embracings of her airy form. Physicians but torment him, his disease Laughs at their gibberish language ; let him hear The voice of Dorothea, nay, but the name, He starts up with high colour in his face : She, or none, cures him ; and how that can be, The princess' strict command barring that hap- piness, To me impossible seems. Sap. To me it shall not ; I'll be no subject to the greatest Caesar Was ever crown'd with laurel, rather than cease To be a father. [Exit. Mac. Silence, sir, he wakes. ^M/o/j.Thoukiirstme, Dorothea; oh, Dorothea! Mac. She's here : enjoy her. Anton. Where ? Why do you mock me? Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet, Yet I'm an old man, a fond doating fool Upon a woman. I, to buy her beauty, (In truth I am bewitch'd,) offer my life, And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers : Yet, for our equal sufferings, none holds out A hand of pity. 1 Doct. Let him have some music. Anton. Hell on your fid ling ! [Starting from his couch* 1 Sap. Is he uith child f a midwife!] The modern editor* read, A mulvtje ! is he uith child* Had tbey no cars! 78 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 1 Doct. Take again your bed, sir ; Sleep is a sovereign physic. Anton. Take an ass's head, sir : Confusion on your fooleries, your charms ! Thou stinking clyster-pipe, where's the god of rest, Thy pills and base apothecary drugs Threaten'd to bring untoine? Out, you impostors ! Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks! your skill Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill. Mac. Oh, be yourself, dear friend. Anton. Myself, Macrinus ! How can I be myself, when I am mangled Into a thousand pieces ? here moves my head, But where's my heart ? wherever that lies dead. He-enter Sapritius, dragging in Dorothea by the hair, An gelo following. Sap. Follow me, thou damn'd sorceress ! Call up thy spirits, And, if they can, now let them from my hand Untwine these witching hairs. Anton. I am that spirit : Or, if I be not, were you not my father, One made of iron should hew that hand in pieces, That so defaces this sweet monument Of my love's beauty. Sap. Art thou sick ? Anton. To death. Sap. Wouldst thou recover ? Anton. Would I live in bliss ! Sap. And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that m an That brings thee health ? Anton. It is not in the world. Sap. It's here. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 79 Anton. To treasure, 4 by enchantment locked In caves as deep as hell, am I as near. Sap. Break that enchanted cave : enter, and rifle The spoils thy lust hunts after; I descend To a base office, and become thy pander, In bringing thee this proud thing : make her thy whore, Thy health lies here ; if she deny to give it, Force it: imagine thou assault'st a town's Weak wall ; to't, 'tis thine own, butbeatthisdown. Come, and, unseen, be witness to this battery, How the coy strumpet yields.* 1 Doct. Shall the boy stay, sir? Sap. No matter for the boy : pages are used To these odd bawdy shufflings ; and, indeed, arc Those little young snakes in a Fury's head, Will sting worse than the great ones. Let the pimp stay. [Exeunt Sap. Mac. and Doct. Dor. O, guard me, angels ! What tragedy must begin now ? Anton. When a tiger Leaps into a timorous herd, with ravenous jaws, Being hunger-starv'd, what tragedy then begins? Dor. Death ; I am happy so ; you, hitherto, Have still had goodness sphered within your eyes, Let not that orb be broken. 6 Ang. Fear not, mistress; * Ant. To treasure, &c] This is (he emendation of Mr. M. Mason. It appears a happy substitution for the old reading, which was, O treasure, &C. * Come, and, unseen, be witness to this battery. How the coif strumpit yields,] These two lines are addressed to Macrinus and the donors. M. Mason. * you, hitherto, Hare still had goodness spar'd within your eyes, 1a -t not that orb be broken.] The word orb in this last line proves that wc should read sphered instead of spar'd ; the latter, 80 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. If he dare offer violence, we two Are strong enough for such a sickly man. Dor. Whatisyour horrid purpose, sir? your eye Bears danger in it. Anton. I must- Dor. What? Sap. [within.] Speak it out. Anton. Climb that sweet virgin tree. Sap. [within.] Plague o' your trees ! Anton. And pluck that fruit which none, I think, e'er tasted. Sap. [within.] A soldier, and stand fumbling so ! Dor. Oh, kill me, [kneels. And heaven will take it as a sacrifice; But, if you play the ravisher, there is A hell to swallow you. Sap. [within.] Ler her swallow thee ! Anton. Rise: for the Roman empire, Dorothea, Iwould not wound thinehonour. Pleasures forced, Are unripe apples; sour, not worth the plucking: Yet, let me tell you, 'tis my father's will, That I should seize upon you, as my prey ; Which I abhor, as much as the blackest sin The villainy of man did ever act. [Sapritius breaks in with Macrinus. Dor. Die happy for this language ! Sap. Die a slave, A blockish idiot ! Mac. Dear sir, vex him not. Sap. Yes, and vex thee too ; both, I think, are < geldings : indeed, made the passage nonsense, which is now very poetical. M. Mason. Mr. M. Mason is somewhat rash in his assertion : sparred, is, shut up, inclosed, it is not therefore nonsense. I have, how- ever adopted his emendation, which, if not just, is at least ingenious. THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. 81 Cold, phlegmatic bastard, thou'rt no brat of mine ; One spark of me, when I had heat like thine, By this had made a bonfire: a tempting whore, For whom thou'rt mad, thrust e'en into thine arms, And stand'st thou puling ! Had a tailor seen her At this advantage, he, with his cross capers, Had ruffled her by this : but thou shalt curse Thy dalliance, 7 and here, before her eyes, Tear thy own flesh in pieces, when a slave In hot lust bathes himself, and gluts those plea- sures Thy niceness durst not touch. Call out a slave; You, captain of our guard, fetch a slave hither. Anton. What will you do, dear sir? Sap. Teach her a trade, which many a one would learn In less than half an hour, to play the whore. Enter Soldiers with a Slave. Mac. A slave is come ; what now ? Sap. Thou hast bones and flesh Enough to ply thy labour : from what country Wert thou ta'en prisoner, here to be our slave ? Slave. From Britain. Sap. In the west ocean ? Slave. Yes. Sap. An island ? Slave. Yes. Sap. I'm fitted : of all nations Our Roman swords e'er conquer'd, none comes near but thou shalt curse Thy dalliance,] i. p. thy hesitation, thy delay : " (Jood lord ! you nse this dalliance to excuse " Your breach of promise." Cumedu of Errors. VOL. I. G # 82 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. The Briton for true whoring. Sirrah fellow, What wouldst thou do to gain thy liberty ? Slave. Do ! liberty ! fight naked with a lion, Venture to pluck a standard from the heart Of an arm'd legion. Liberty ! I'd thus Bestride a rampire, and defiance spit I' the face of death, then, when the battering-ram Was fetching his career backward, to pash Me with his horns in pieces. To shake my chains off, And that I could not do't but by thy death, Stoodst thou on this dry shore, I on a rock Ten pyramids high, down would I leap to kill thee, Or die myself: what is for man to do, I'll venture on, to be no more a slave. Sap. Thou shalt, then, be no slave, for I will set thee Upon a piece of work is fit for man; Brave for a Briton : drag that thing aside, And ravish her. Slave. And ravish her ! is this your manly service ? A devil scorns to do it; 'tis for a beast^ A villain, not a man : I am, as yet, But half a slave ; but, when that work is past, A damned whole one, a black ugly slave, The slave of ail base slaves: do't thyself, Roman, Tis drudgery fit for thee. Sap. He's bewitch'd too : Bind him, and with a bastinado give him, Upon his naked belly, two hundred blows. Slave. Thou art more slave than I. [He is carried in. Dor. That Power supernal, on whom waits my soul, Is captain o'er my chastity. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 83 Anton. Good sir, give o'er: The more you wrong her, yourself's vex'd the more. Sap. Plagues light on her and thee ! thus down I throw Thy harlot, thus by the hair nail her to earth. Call in ten slaves, let every one discover What lust desires, and surfeit here his fill. Call in ten slaves. Enter Stares. Mac* They are come, sir, at your call. Sap. Oh, oh ! [Falls down. Enter Theophilus. Theoph. Where is the governor ? Anton. There's my wretched father. Theoph. My lord Sapritius he's not dead ! my lord ! That witch there Anton. 'Tis no Roman gods can strike These fearful terrors. O, thou happy maid, Forgive this wicked purpose of my father. Dor. I do. Theoph. Gone, gone ; he's pepper'd. It is thou Hast done this act infernal. Dor. Heaven pardon you ! And if my wrongs from thence pull vengeance down, (I can no miracles work,) yet, from my soul, Pray to those Powers I serve, he may recover. Theoph. He stirs help, raise him up, my lord ! Mac. Tly art come, Sec] The old copies give this speech to Anjjelo: it is, however, so palpable an error, that the emen- dation which I have introduced requires no apology. *G 2 84 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Sap. Where am I? Theoph. One cheek is blasted. Sap. Blasted ! where's the lamia 9 That tears my entrails? I'm bewitch'd ; seize on her. Dor. I'm here ; do what you please. Theoph. Spurn her to the bar. Dor. Come, boy, being there, more near to heaven we are. Sap. Kick harder ; go out, witch ! {Exeunt. Anton. O bloody hangmen ! Thine own gods give thee breath ! Each of thy tortures is my several death. [Exit. SCENE II. A Public Square. Enter Harpax, Hircius, and Spun gius. Harp. Do you like my service now ? say, am not I A master worth attendance ? Spun. Attendance! I had rather lick clean the soles of your dirty boots, than wear the richest suit of any infected lord, whose rotten life hangs between the two poles. Hir. A lord's suit ! 1 would not give up the cloak of your service, to meet the splayfoot estate of any left-eyed knight above the anti- podes; because they are unlucky to meet. Harp. This day I'll try your loves to me ; 'tis only But well to use the agility of your arms. 9 Where's the lamia, S, c] The sorceress, the hag : the word is pure Latin THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 85 Spun. Or legs, I am lusty at them. Hir. Or any other member that has no legs. Spun. Thou'lt run into some hole. Hir. If I meet one that's more than my match, and that I cannot staml in their hands, I must and will creep on my knees. Harp. Near me, my little team of villains; hear me ; I cannot teach you fencing with these cudgels, Yet you must use them ; lay them on but soundly ; That's all. Hir. Nay, if we come to mauling once, pah ! Spun. But what walnut-tree is it we must beat? Harp Your mistress. Hir. How ! my mistress ? I begin to have a Christian's heart made of sweet butter, I melt ; I cannot strike a woman. Spun. Nor I, unless she scratch ; bum my mistress ! Harp. You're coxcombs, silly animals. Hir. What's that? Harp. Drones, asses, blinded moles, that dare not thrust Your arms out to catch fortune : say, you fall off, \c must be done. You are converted rascals, And, that once spread abroad, why every slave Mill kick you, call you motley Christians, And half-faced Christians. Spun. The guts of my conscience begin to be of whitleather. Hir, 1 doubt me, I shall have no sweet butter in me. Harp. Deny this, and each pagan whom you meet, Shall forked fingers thrust into your eyes Hir. If we be cuckolds. 86 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Harp. Do this, and every god the Gentiles bow to, Shall add a fathom to your line of years. Spun. A hundred fathom, I desire no more. Hir. I desire but one inch longer. Harp. The senators will, as you pass along, Clap you upon your shoulders with this hand, And with this give you gold : when you are dead, Happy that man shall be, can get a nail, The paring, nay, the dirt under the nail, Of any of you both, to say, this dirt Belonged to Spungius or Hircius. Spun. They shall not want dirt under my nails, I will keep them long of purpose, for now my fingers itch to be at her. Hir. The first thing I do, I'll take her over the lips. Spun. And I the hips, we may strike any where ? Harp. Yes, any where. Hir. Then I know where I'll hit her. Harp. Prosper, and be mine own ; stand by, I must not To see this done, great business calls me hence: He's made can make her curse his violence. [Exit. Spun. Fear it not, sir ; her ribs shall be basted. Hir. I'll come upon her with rounce, robble- hobble, and thwickthwack-thirlery bouncing. Enter Dorothea, led prisoner; Sapritius, Theophilus, Axgelo, and a Hangman, zvho sets up a Pillar ; Sapritius and Theophilus sit ; Amgelo stands by Dorothea. A Guard attending. Sap. According to our Roman customs, bind That Christian to a pillar. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 87 Theoph. Infernal Furies, Could they into my hand thrust all their whips To tear thy flesh, thy soul, 'tis not a torture Fit to the vengeance I should heap on thee, For wrongs done me ; me ! for flagitious facts, By thee done to our gods : yet, so it stand To great Cassarea's governor's high pleasure, Bow but thy knee to Jupiter, and offer Any slight sacrifice ; or do but swear By Caesar's fortune, and be free. Sap. Thou shalt. Dor. Not for all Csesar's fortune, were it chain'd To more worlds than are kingdoms in the world, And all those worlds drawn after him. I defy Your hangmen ; you now shew me whither to fly. Sap. Are her tormentors ready ? Ang. Shrink not, dear mistress. Spun, and Hir. My lord, we are ready for the business. Dor. You two! whom I likefoster'd children fed, And lengthen'd out your starved life with bread. You be my hangmen ! whom, when up the ladder Death haled you to be strangled, I fetch'd down, Clothed you, and warm'd you, you two my tormentors ! Both. Yes, we. Dor. Divine Powers pardon you !' Sap. Strike. [ They strike at her : Angela kneeling holds her fast. Theoph. Beat out her brain*. Dor. Receive me, you bright angels' Sap. Faster, slaves. * Dor. Divine Powers pardon you !] I know not whether by inadvertence or design ; hut M. Mason, in opposition to all the editions, reads, Divine Puucrs pardon me ! 88 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Spun. Faster ! I am out of breath, I am sure ; if I were to beat a buck, 2 I can strike no harder. Hir. O mine arms ! I cannot lift them to my head. Dor. Joy above joys ! are my tormentors weary In torturing me, and, in my sufferings, I fainting in no limb ! tyrants, strike home, And feast your fury full. Theoph. These dogs are curs, [Comes from his seat. Which snarl, yet bite not. See, my lord, her face Has more bewitching beauty than before : Proud whore, it smiles ! 3 cannot an eye start out, With these ? Hir. No, sir, nor the bridge of her nose fall; 'tis full of iron work. Sap. Let's view the cudgels, are they not counterfeit ? Ang. There fix thine eye still ; thy glorious crown must come Not from soft pleasure, but by martyrdom. There fix thine eye still ; when wenextdo meet, Not thorns, but roses, shall bear up thy feet : There fix thine eye still. [Exit. Dor. Ever, ever, ever ! * If I were to beat a buck, 7 can strike no harder. .] To buck, Johnson says, " is to wash clothes." This is but a lame expla- nation of the term : to buck is to wash clothes by laying them on a smooth plank or stone, and beating them with a pole flat- tened at the sides. J Proud tvhore, it smiles /] So the old copies ; the modern editors read, she smiles. In every page, and almost in every speech, I have had to remove these imaginary improvements of the author's phraseology. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 89 Enter Harpax, sneaking. Theoph. We're mock'd ; these bats have power to fell clown giants, Yet her skin is not scarr'd. Sap. What rogues are these ? Theoph. Cannot these force a shriek ? [Beats Spunghis. Spun. Oh ! a woman has one of my ribs, and now five more are broken. Theoph. Cannot this make her roar? [Beats Hircius; he roars. Sap. Who hired these slaves ? what are they ? Spun. We serve that noble gentleman, 4 there ; he enticed us to this dry beating: oh! for one half pot. Harp. My servants ! two base rogues, and sometime servants To her, and for that cause forbear to hurt her. Sap. Unbind her; hang up these. Theoph. Iiang the two hounds on the next tree. Hir. Hang us! master Harpax, what a devil, shall we be thus used ? Harp. What bandogs but you two would worry a woman ? Your mistress ? I but clapt you, you flew on. Say I should get your lives, each rascal beggar Mould, when he met you, cry out, Hell-hounds! traitors ! Spit at you, fling dirt at you ; and no woman Ever endure your sight: 'tis your best course 4 Spun. Wc serve that noble gentleman, Sc] This is the lec- tion of the first quarto. The modern editors follow the others, which incorrectly read, We $crvd y &c go THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Now, had you secret knives, to stab yourselves; But, since you have not, go and be hang'd. Hir. I thank you. Harp. 'Tis your best course. Theoph. Why stay they trifling here? To the gallows drag them by the heels ; away ! Spun. By the heels ! no, sir, we have legs to do us that service. Hir. Ay, ay, if no woman can endure my sight, away with me. Harp. Dispatch them. Spun. The devil dispatch thee ! [Exeunt Guard with Spungius and Hircius. Sap. Death this day rides in triumph, Theo- philus. See this witch made away too. Theoph. My soul thirsts for it ; Come, I myself the hangman's part could play. Dor. O haste me to my coronation day ! [Exeunt, SCENE III. 5 The Place of Execution. A scaffold, block, 8$c. Enter Antoninus, supported by Macrinus, and Servants. Anton. Is this the place, where virtue is to suffer, And heavenly beauty, leaving this base earth, To make a glad return from whence it came ? Is it, Macrinus ? Mac. By this preparation, 5 From hence, to the conclusion of the act, I recognise the hand of Massingcr. There may be (and probably arc) finer pas- sages in our dramatic poets, but 1 am not acquainted with them. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 91 You well may rest assured that Dorothea This hour is to die here. Anton. Then with her dies The abstract of all sweetness that's in woman ! Set me down, friend, that, ere the iron hand Of death close up mine eyes, they may at once Take my last leave both of this light and her : For, she being gone, the glorious sun himself To me's Cimmerian darkness. Mac. Strange affection ! 6 Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with Death, And kills, instead of giving life. Anton. Nay, weep not ; Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm, On me they're cast away. It is decreed That I must die with her; our clue of life Was spun together. Mac. Yet, sir, 'tis my wonder, Mac. Strange affection f Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with Death, And kills, instead of gh'ing life.] This is a beautiful allusion to a little poem among the Elegies ofSccundus. Cupid and Death unite in the destruction of a lorer, and in endeavouring to recover their weapons from the body of the victim, commit a mutual mistake, each plucking out the " shafts 1 ' of the other. The consequences of this arc prettily described : Missa percgrinis sparguntur vulnera nervis, Et manus ignoto stevit utrinque malo. Irrita Mors amis valuli molimina damnat, I'lorut Amor teneras tarn valuisse manus ; Fcedabant juvenes prima* in j'lilnre mains Oscula i the people present, but Dorothea. In the inventory of the Lord Admiral's 96 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Theoph. What's the matter ? Sap. This is prodigious, and confirms her witch- craft. Theoph. Harpax, my Harpax, speak ! Harp I dare not stay : Should I but hear her once more, I were lost. Some whirlwind snatch me from this cursed place, To which compared, (and with what now I suffer,) Hell's torments are sweet slumbers ! [Exit. Sap. Follow him. Theoph. He is distracted, and I must not lose him. Thy charms upon my servant, cursed witch, Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die, Till my return. [Exeunt Sap. andTheoph. Anton. She minds him not : what object Is her eye fix'd on ? Mac. I see nothing. Anton. Mark her. Dor. Thou glorious minister of the Power I serve ! (For thou art more than mortal,) is't for me, Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave Thy heavenly habitation, and vouchsafest, Though glorified, to take my servant's habit ? For, put off thy divinity, so look'd My lovely Angelo. Ang. Know, I am the same; And still the servant to your piety. Your zealous prayers, and pious deeds first won me (But 'twas by His command to whom you sent them) properties, given by Mr. Malone, is, " a roobe for to goe in- visibell." Itwas probably of a light gauzy texture, and afforded a sufficient hint to our ancestors, not to sec the person invested with it ; or rather, to understand that some of the characters on the stage were not to see him. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 97 To guide your steps. I tried your charity, When in a beggar's shape you took me up, And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed, As you believed, my famish'd mouth. Learn all, By your example, to look on the poor With gentle eyes ! for in such habits, often, Angels desire an alms. 2 I never left you, Nor will I now ; for I am sent to carry Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal, Your martyrdom once suffer'd ; and before it, Ask any thing from me, and rest assured, You shall obtain it. Dor. I am largely paid For all my torments. .Since I find such grace, Grant that the love of this young man to me, In which he languisheth to death, may be Changed to the love of heaven. Aug. I will perform it; And in that instant when the sword sets free Your happy soul, his shall have liberty. Is there aught else ? Dor. For proof that I forgive My persecutor, who in scorn desired To taste of that most sacred fruit I go to ; After my death, assent from me, be pleased To give him of it. Aug. Willingly, dear mistress. Mac. I am amazed. Anton. I feel a holy fire, That yields a comfortable heat within me ; I am quite alter'd from the thing I was. See ! 1 can stand, and go alone ; thus kneel Learn all, Itt/ your crumple, Src.\ u IV not forgetful to entertain stran- gers ; for thereby" some hate entertained angels unawares." Heb.c. xiii. t. '2. Here is also a beautilul allusion to llip parting speech of the *' sociable archangel, 1 ' to Tobit and his sou. VOL. I, 11 # o8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. To heavenly Dorothea, touch her hand With a religious kiss. [Kneels. Re-enter Saprittus and Theophilus. Sap. He is well now, But will not be drawn back. Theoph. It matters not, We can discharge this work without his help. But see your son. Sap. Villain! Anton. Sir, I beseeeh you, Being so near our ends, divorce us not. Theoph. I'll quickly make a separation of them : Hast thou aught else to say ? Dor. Nothing, but to blame Thy tardiness in sending me to rest ; My peace is made with heaven, to which my soul Begins to take her flight : strike, O ! strike quickly ; And, though you are unmoved to see my death, Hereafter, when my story shall be read, As they were present now, the hearers shall Say this of Dorothea, with wet eyes, " She lived a virgin, and a virgin dies." [Her head is struck off. Anton. O, take my soul along, to wait on thine ! Mac. Your son sinks too. [Antoninus falls. Sap. Already dead ! Theoph. Die all That are, or favour this accursed 4 sect : I triumph in their ends, and will raise up 4 That are, or favour this accursed sect : j So the old copies : the modern editors, to adapt the text to their own ideas of ac- curacy, read : That are of, or favour, &c. but there is no need of alteration ; this mode of expression recurs perpetually : add too, that the interpolation destroys the metre. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 99 A hill of their dead carcasses, to o'erlook The Pyrenean hills, but I'll root out These superstitious fools, and leave the world No name of Christian. [Loud ?ndsic : Exit Angelo, having first laid his hand upon the mouths of Anton, and Dor. Sap. Ha! heavenly music! Mac. 'Tis in the air. Theoph. Illusions of the devil, Wrought by some witch of her religion, That fain would make her death a miracle ; It frights not me. Because he is your son, Let him have burial ; but let her body Be cast forth with contempt in some highway, And be to vultures and to dogs a prey. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. Th eo p h i l u s discovered sitting in his Study : books about him. Theoph. Is't holiday, O Caesar, that thy servant, Thy provost, to see execution done On these base Christians in Cassarea, Should now want work ? Sleep these idolaters, That none are stirring? As a curious painter, When he has made some honourable piece, Stands off, and with a searching eye examines Each colour, how 'tis sweeten'd ; and then hugs Himself for his rare workmanship so here, Will I my drolleries, and bloody landscapes, Long past wrapt up, unfold, to make me merry With shadows, now I want the substances. 100 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. My muster book of hell-hounds. Were the Christians, Whose names stand here, alive and arm'd, not Rome Could move upon her hinges. What I've done, Or shall hereafter, is not out of hate To poor tormented wretches ; 5 no, I'm carried With violence of zeal, and streams of service I owe our Roman gods. Great Britain, what ?' [reads, A thousand wives, with brats sucking their breasts, Had hot irons pinch them off, and thrown to swine ; And thentheir fleshy back-parts, hew' d with hatchets, Were minced, and baked in pies, to feed starved Christians. Ha! ha! Again, again, East Angles, oh, East Angles: Bandogs, kept three days hungry, worried A thousand British rascals, stied tip flat Of purpose, stripped naked, and disarmed. I could outstare a year of suns and moons, To sit at these sweet bull-baitings, so I Could thereby but one Christian win to fall In adoration to my Jupiter. Twelve hundred Eyes bored with augres out Oh ! eleven thousand Torn by wild beasts : two hundred ramnCd in the earth 5 is not out of hate To poor tormented wretches, &c] This is said to distinguish his character from that of Sapritius, whose zeal is influenced b ' motives of interest, and by many other considerations, which appear to weigh nothing with Theophilus. 6 Great Britain, what?] Great Britain, is a curious ana. chronism ; but this our old dramatic writers were little solicit- ous to avoid. The reader wants not my assistance to discover that this rugged narrative is by Decker: the horrible enumera- tion of facts, is taken from the histories of those times. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 101 To the armpits, and full platters round about them, But far enough for reaching: 7 Eat, dogs, ha! ha ! ha ! [He rises. Tush, all these tortures are but fillipings, Fleabitings ; I, before the Destinies Enter Angelo with a basket filled zvith fruit and flowers. My bottom did wind up, would flesh myself Once more upon some one remarkable Above all these. This Christian slut was well, A pretty one ; but let such horror follow The next I feed with torments, that when Rome Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound May feel an earthquake. How now ? [Music. Ang. Are you amazed, sir ? So great a Roman spirit and doth it tremble! Theoph. How cam'st thou in? to whom thy business ? 7 Rut far enough for reaching :] For occurs perpetually in these plays, in the sense of prevention, yet the modern editors have altered it to front: indeed, the word is thus used by every writer of Massingcr's age ; thus Fletcher : " Walk off, sirrah, " And stir my horse/or taking cold." Love's Pilgrimage. Again : " he'll not tell me, " For breaking of my heart." Maid in the Mill. Now I am on the subject, let me observe, that a similar altera- tion has been unnecessarily made in Pericles. The old reading is, " And with dead checks advise thee to desist " For going on death's net, which none resist.'' u This is corrupt," says the editor, ' J think it should befrom going," and so he has printed it ; place a comma after desist, and all will be ri*;ht : ii for going," i. e. for fear of going, &c. 102 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Aug, To you : I had a mistress, late sent hence by you Upon a bloody errand ; you entreated, That, when she came into that .blessed garden Whither she knew she went, and where, now happy, She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you Some of that garden fruit and flowers ; which here, To have her promise saved, are brought by me. Theoph. Cannot I see this garden? Ang. Yes, if the master Will give you entrance. \He vanishes. Theoph. 'Tisa tempting fruit, And the most bright-cheek 'd child I ever view'd ; Sweet smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are these ? In Dioclesian's gardens, the most beauteous, Compared with these, are weeds : is it not February, The second day she died ? frost, ice, and snow, Hang on the beard of winter : where's the sun That gilds this summer? pretty, sweet boy, say, In what country shall a man find this garden? My delicate boy, gone! vanish'd! within there, Julianus ! Geta ! Enter Julianus and Geta. Both. My lord. Theoph. Are my gates shut ? Geta. And guarded. Theoph. Saw you not A boy? Jul. Where? Theoph. Here he enter'd ; a young lad ; A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes : THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 105 A smoothfaced, glorious thing, that brought this basket.* Get a. No, sir! Theoph. Away but be in reach, if my voice calls you. [Exeunt Jul. andGeta. No ! vanish'd, and not seen ! Be thou a spirit, Sent from that witch to mock me, I am sure This is essential, and, howe'er it grows, Will taste it. [Eats of the fruit. Harp, [within.] Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph. So good ! I'll have some more, sure. Harp. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! great liquorish fool 1 Theoph. What art thou ? Harp. A fisherman. Theoph. What dost thou catch ? Harp. Souls, souls; a fish call'd souls. Theoph. Geta ! Re-enter Geta. Geta. My lord. Harp, [within.] Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph. What insolent slave is this, dares laugh at me ? Or what is't the dog grins at so ? Geta. I neither know, my lord, at what, nor whom ; for there is none without, but my fellow Julianus, and he is making a garland for Jupiter. Theoph. Jupiter! all within me is not well; And yet not sick. * Theoph. Here he enter' d ; Sec] It may giro the reader some idea of the metrical skill with which Massingcr has been hitherto treated, to print these lines as they stand in Co.\tcr and M. Mason : Theoph. Here he entered, a yung lad ; a thousand Blessings dane'd upon his eyes ; a smooth J ac'd glorious Thing, that brought this basket. 104 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Harp [within.~\ Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph. What's thy name, slave? Harp. \at one end of the room.] Go look. Geta. 'Tis Harpax' voice. Theoph. Harpax ! go, drag the caitiff to my foot, That I may stamp upon him. Harp, [at the other end.~\ Fool, thou liest ! Geta. He's yonder, now, my lord. Theoph. Watch thou that end, Whilst I make good this. Harp, [in the middle.'] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph He is at barley-break, and the last couple Are now in hell. 9 Search for him. [Exit Geta.] All this ground, methinks, is bloody, And paved with thousands of those Christians' eyes Whom I have tortured ; and they stare upon me. What was this apparition ? sure it had A shape angelical. Mine eyes, though dazzled, 9 Theoph. He is at barley-break, and the last couple Are now in hell.] i. e. in the middle ; alluding to the situation of Harpax. This wretched copy of a wretched original, the hie et ubique of the Ghost in Hamlet, is much too puerile for the occasion, and the character : decipit exemplar vitiis imitabile. With respect to the amusement of barley-break, allusions to it occur repeatedly in our old writers ; and their commentators have piled one parallel passage upon another, without advancing a single step towards explaining what this celebrated pastime really was. It was played by six people, (three of each sex,) who were coupled by lot. A piece of ground was then chosen, and divided into three compartments, of which the middle one was called hell. It was the object of the couple condemned to this division, to catch the others, who advanced from the two extremities ; in which case a change of situation took place, and hell was filled by the couple who were excluded by preoc- cupation, from the other places : in this " catching.'' however, there was some difficulty, as, by the regulations of the game, the middle couple were not to separate before they had succeeded, while the others might break hands whenever they found them- THE VIRGIN MARTYR. 105 And daunted at first sight, tell me, it wore A pair of glorious wings ; yes, they were wings ; And hence he flew : -'tis vanish'd ! Jupiter, For all my sacrifices done to him, Never once gave me smile. How can stone smile ? Or wooden image laugh? [music."] Ha! I re- member, Such music gave a welcome to mine ear, When the fair youth came to me : 'tis in the air, Or from some better place ;* a Power divine, selves hard pressed. When all had- been taken in turn, the last couple was said to be in hell, and the game ended. In tenui labor ! Mr. M. Mason has given the following description of (his pastime with allegorical personages, from sir John Suckling : " Love, Reason, Hate, did once bespeak " Three mates to play at barley-break ; " Lore Folly took ; and Reason Fancy ; " And Hate consorts with Pride ; so dance they : " Love coupled last, and so it fell " That Lore and Folly were in hell. " They break ; and Lore would Reason meet, " But Hate was nimbler on her feet ; " Fancy looks for Pride, and thither u Hies, and they two hug together: ** Yet this new coupling still doth tell That Lore and Folly were in hell. " The rest do break again, and Pride " Hath now got Reason on her side ; " Hate and Fancy meet, and stand " Untouch'd by Lore in Folly's hand ; " Folly was dull, but Love ran well, " So Love and Folly were in hell." 1 Or from some better place ;] In Coxeter's edition, place was dropt at the press, I suppose : and M. Mason, who seems to have hail no conception of any older or other copy, blindly followed him ; though the line has neither measure nor sense without the word, inserted from the old quartos : but indeed the whole of this scene, as it stands in the two former editions, especially the last, is full of the most shameful blunders. 106 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Through my dark ignorance, on my soul does shine, And makes me see a conscience all stain'd o'er, Nay, drown'd and damn'd for ever in Christian gore. Harp, [within.] Ha, ha, ha! Theoph. Again! What dainty relish on my tongue This fruit hath left ! some angel hath me fed ; If so toothfull, 2 I will be banqueted. [Eats again. Enter Harpax in ajearful shape, Jire flashing out of the Study. Harp. Hold ! Theoph. Not for Cassar. Harp. But for me thou shalt. Theoph. Thou art no twin to him that last was here. Ye Powers, whom my soul bids me reverence, guard me ! What art thou ? Harp. I am thy master. Theoph. Mine ! Harp. And thou my everlasting slave : that Harpax, Who hand in hand hath led thee to thy hell, Am I. Theoph. Avaunt ! Harp. I will not; cast thou down That basket with the things in't, and fetch up What thou hast swallow'd, and then take a drink, Which I shall give thee, and I'm gone. a If so toothfull, &c] So the old copies; the modern edition* have toothsome : it may perhaps be a better word, but should not have been silently foisted upon the author. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 107 Theoph. My fruit ! Does this offend thee ? see ! [Eats again. Harp. Spit it to the earth, 3 And tread upon it, or I'll peicemeal tear thee. Theoph. Art thou with this affrighted ? see, here's more. [Pulls out a handful of flowers. Harp. Fling them away, I'll take thee else, and hang thee In a contorted chain of isicles, In the frigid zone : down with them ! Theoph. At the bottom One thing I found not yet. See ! [Holds up a cross of flowers. Harp. Oh ! I am tortured. Theoph. Can this do't ? hence, thou fiend infernal, hence ! Harp. Clasp Jupiter's image, and away with that. Theoph. At thee I'll fling that Jupiter; for, me thinks, I serve a better master : he now checks me For murdering my two daughters, put on 4 by thee. By thy damn'd rhetoric did I hunt the life Of Dorothea, the holy virgin-martyr. She is not angry with the axe, nor me, But sends these presents to me ; and I'll travel O'er worlds to find her, and from her white hand Beg a forgiveness. 1 Harp. Spit it to the earth,] The first and second quartos reads/*/, which was now beginning to grow obsolete; in the succeeding one it is spit. 4 put on by thee ] i. encouraged, instigated. So in Shakspeare : " Macbelh u Is ripe lor shaking, and the Powers aboTC " Put on their instrument*." 108 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Harp. No ; I'll bind thee here. Theoph. I serve a strength above thine ; this small weapon, 5 Methinks, is armour hard enough. Harp. Keep from me. [Sinks a little. Theoph. Art posting to thy centre ? down, hell- hound ! down ! Me thou hast lost. That arm, which hurls thee hence, [Harpax disappears. Save me, and set me up, the strong defence, In the fair Christian's quarrel! Enter Angelo. Ang. Fix thy foot there, Nor be thou shaken with a Caesar's voice, Though thousand deaths were in it ; and I then Will bring thee to a river, that shall wash Thy bloody hands clean and more white than snow ; And to that garden where these blest things grow, And to that martyr'd virgin, who hath sent That heavenly token to thee : spread this brave wing, And serve, than Caesar, a far greater king. [Exit. Theoph. It is, it is, some angel. Vanish'd again ! Oh, come back, ravishingboy ! bright messenger! Thou hast, by these mine eyes fix'd on thy beauty, Illumined all my soul. Now look I back On my black tyrannies, which, as they did Outdare the bloodiest, thou, blest .spirit, that lead'st me, s . this small weapon,] Meaning, I believe, th 44 cross of flowers," which he had just found. The language and ideas of this play are purely catholic. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 109 Teach me what I must to do, and, to do well, That my last act the best may parallel. 6 [Exit. SCENE II. Dioclesian's Palace. Enter Dioclesian, Maximinus, the Kings of Epire, Pontus assistants to the governor. Lanour, ) Montreville, a pretended friend to Malefort senior. Belgarde, a poor captain. Three Sea Captains, of the navy of MaXefoxt junior A Steward. An Usher. A Page. Theocrine, daughter to Malefort senior. Tzvo IV ait ing -women. Two Courtezans. A Bawd. Servants and Soldiers. SCENE, Marseilles. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. ACT I. SCENE I. A Hall in the Court of Justice. JS/z/er Montreville, Theocrine, Usher, Page, and Waiting- women. Montr. Now to be modest, madam, when you are A suitor for your father, would appear Coarser than boldness; you awhile must part with Soft silence, and the blushings of a virgin : Though I must grant, did not this cause com- mand it, They are rich jewels you have ever worn To all men's admiration. In this age, If, by our own forced importunity, Or others purchased intercession, or Corrupting bribes, we can make our approaches To justice, guarded from us by stern power, We bless the means and industry. Ush. Here's music In this bag shall wake her, though she had drunk opium, Or eaten mandrakes. 1 Let commanders talk Of cannons to make breaches, give but fire ' Or eaten mandrakes.] Dr. Hill observes, that "the mandrake has a soporific quality, and that it was used by the ancients when they wanted a narrotic of a most powerful kind." To this there are perpetual allusions in our old writers. 128 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. To this petard, it shall blow open, madam, The iron doors of ajudge, and makeyou entrance ; When they (let them do what they can) with all Their mines, their culverins, and basiliscos, Shall cool their feet without ; this being the picklock That never fails. Montr. 'Tis true, gold can do much, But beauty more. Were I the governor, Though the admiral, your father, stood convicted Of what he's only doubted, half a dozen Of sweet close kisses from these cherry lips, With some short active conference in private, Should sign his general pardon. Theoc. These light words, sir, Do ill become the weight of my sad fortune ; And I much wonder, you, that do profess Yourself to be my father's bosom friend, Can raise mirth from his misery. Montr. You mistake me ; I share in his calamity, and only Deliver my thoughts freely, what I should do For such a rare petitioner : and if You'll follow the directions I prescribe, With my best judgment I'll mark out the way For his enlargement. Theoc. With all real joy I shall put what you counsel into act, Provided it be honest. Montr. Honesty In a fair she client (trust to my experience) Seldom or never prospers; the world's wicked. We are men, not saints, sweet lady; you must practise The manners of the time, if you intend To have favour from it : do not deceive yourself, By building too much on the false foundations THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 129 Of chastity and virtue. Bid your waiters Stand further off, and I'll come nearer to you. 1. Worn. Some wicked counsel, on my life. 2. Worn. Ne'er doubt it,* If it proceed from him. Page. I wonder that My lord so much affects him. Ush. Thou'rt a child,' And dost not understand on what strong basis This friendship's raised between this Montreville And our lord, monsieur Malefort; butl'll teach thee: From thy years they have been joint purchasers In fire and water works, and truck'd together. Page. In fire and water works ! ZTsh. Commodities, boy, Which you may know hereafter. Page. And deal in them, When the trade lias given you over, as appears by The increase of your high forehead. 4 Ush. Here's a crack ! I think they suck this knowledge in their milk. Page. I had an ignorant nurse else. I have tied, sir, My lady's garter, and can guess Ush. Peace, infant; 1 2 Worn. Ne'er doubt it, J fit proceed from Aim.] The character of Montrerille is opened with ereat beauty and propriety. The freedom of his language, and the adicc he gitcs Theocrine, fully prepare us for any act of treachery or cruelty be may hereafter perpetrate. 4 as appears by The increase of your hit;h forehead.] Alluding, perhaps, to the premature baldness occasioned by dealing in the commodities just mentioned ; or, it may be, to the fallim* off of his hair from age : so the women to Anacreon, tAo & avj fAtrum>. * Ush. Here's a crark!) A crack is an arch, sprightly boy. Thus, in the D.vit's an Ami *' If we could get a witty boy, now, Engine, " That wer an excellent crack, 1 could instruct him " To the true height. ' The word occur* again in the Bashful Lover, and, indeed, in most of our old pla)s. 130 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Tales out of school ! take heed, you will be breech'd else. 1 Worn. My lady's colour changes. 2 Worn. She falls off too. Theoc. You are a naughty man, indeed you are ; And I will sooner perish with my father, Than at this price redeem him. Montr, Take your own way, Your modest, legal way : 'tis not your veil, Nor mourning habit, nor these creatures taught To howl, and cry, when you begin to whimper; Nor following my lord's coach in the dirt, Nor that which you rely upon, a bribe, Will do it, when there's somethinghe likes better, These courses in an old crone of threescore,' That had seven years together tired the court With tedious petitions, and clamours, For the recovery of a straggling 7 husband, To pay, forsooth, the duties of one to her ; But for a lady of your tempting beauties, Your youth, and ravishing features, to hope only In such a suit as this is, to gain favour, Without exchange of courtesy,-you conceive me- 6 These courses in an old crone of threescore,"] This expression, which, as Johnson says, means on old toothless ewe, is con- temptuously used for an old woman, by all the writers of Massinger's time. Thus Shakspeare : " take up the bastard; u Take't up, I say ; give't to thy crone?'' Winter's Tale. And Jcnson translates, Sed mala toilet anum vitiato melle cievta, " let him alone " With temper'd poison to remove the crone.'' Poetaster. 7 For the recovery of a straggling husband,] The old copy reads strangling. This evident misprint is quoted by Steevens, as an instance of the irregular use of the active participle : strangling he says,-^i. e. one that was to be strangled ! And so language is confounded. Can any thing be plainer, from the context, than that Montreville means a husband who had abandoned his wife, and was to be brought back to her ? But Steevens never read the passage, and, probably, picked up the line, as in a hundred other instances, from a chance quotation. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 131 Enter Beau tort junior, and Belgarde. Were madness at the height. Here's brave young Beaufort, The meteor of Marseilles,* one that holds The governor his father's will and power In more awe than his own! Come, come, ad- vance, Present your bag, cramm'd with crowns of the sun; 9 Do you think he cares for money ? he loves plea- sure. Burn your petition, burn it ; he doats on you, Upon my knowledge : to his cabinet, do, And he will point you out a certain course, Be the cause right or wrong, to have your father Released with much facility. [Exit. Theoc. Do you hear ? Take a pander with you. Bcauf.jun. I tell thee there is neither Employment yet, nor money. Btlg. I have commanded, And spent my own means in my country's service, In hope to raise a fortune. Beauf.jun, Many have hoped so ; But hopes prove seldom certainties with soldiers. Bclg. If no preferment, let me but receive My pay that is behind, to set me up A tavern, or a vaulting-house; while men love The meteor of Marseilles,] It may be proper to obserre here, once for ail, that Marseilles, or, as Massinger spells it, MarscJIis, is commonly used by him as a trisyllabic, which, in fact, it is. crorcnt of the sun ;] Escus de soleil, the best kind of crowns, says Cotgrarr, that arc now made ; they hare a kind of little star (sun) on one side. This coin is frequently men- tioned by our old writers. K2 # 132 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Or drunkenness, or lechery, they'll ne'er fail me : Shall I have that? Beauf.jun. As our prizes are brought in; Till then you must be patient. Belg. In the mean time, How shall I do for clothes ? Beauf.jun. As most captains do: Philosopher-like, carry all you have about you.* Belg. But how shall I do, to satisfy colon,* monsieur? There lies the doubt. Beau/' jun. That's easily decided; My father's table's free for any man That hath born arms. Belg. And there's good store of meat ? Beauf.jun. Never fear that. Belg. I'll seek no other ordinary then, But be his daily guest without invilement; And if my stomach hold, I'll feed so heartily, As he shall pay me suddenly, to be quit of me. Beauf.jun. 'Tis she. Belg. And further Beauf.jun. Away, you are troublesome; Designs of more weight Belg. Ha ! fair Theocrine. Nay, if a velvet petticoat move in the front. Buff jerkins must to the rear ; I know my manners: This is, indeed, great business, mine a gewgaw. 1 Philosopher -like, carry all you have about you.] Alluding to the well-known saying of Simonides. Omnia mca mecum porto. 1 to satisfy colon, monsieur?] i. e. the cravings of hunger : the colon is the largest of the human intestines : it fre- quently occurs in the same sense as here, in our old poets. So in the Wits : " Abstain from flesh whilst colon keeps more noise " Than mariners at plays, or apple-wires, " That wrangle for a sieve." THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 133 I may dance attendance, this must be dispatch'd, And suddenly, or all will go to wreck; Charge her home in the flank, my lord : nay, I am gone, sir. [Exit, Beauf.jun. [raising Theoc. from her knees] Nay, pray you, madam, rise, or I'll kneel with you. Page. I would bring you on your knees, were I a woman. BeauJ. jun. What is it can deserve so poor a name, As a suit to me? This more than mortal form Was fashion'd to command, and not entreat : Your will but known is served. Theoc. Great sir, my father, My brave, deserving father; but that sorrow Forbids the use of speech Beauf.jun. I understand you, Without the aids of those interpreters That fall from your fair eyes : I know you labour The liberty of your father; at the least, An equal 3 hearing to acquit himself: And, 'tis not to endear my service to you, Though I must add, and pray you with patience hear it, 'Tis hard to be effected, in respect The state's incensed against him: all presuming, The world of outrages his impious son, Turn'd worse than pirate in his cruelties, Express'd to this poor country, could not be With such ease put in execution, if Your father, of late our great admiral, Held not or correspondence, or connived At his proceedings. J An equal /tearing] A just, impartial bearing ; so equal is constantly used by Massingcr and his contemporaries : thus Fletcher : " What could this thief have done, had his cause been equal! " He made my heartstrings tremble." Knight of Malta. 134 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Theoc. And must he then suffer, His cause unheard ? Beauf . jun. As yet it is resolved so, In their determination. But suppose (For I would nourish hope, not kill it, in you) I should divert the torrent of their purpose, And render them, that are implacable, Impartial judges, and not sway'd with spleen ; Will you, I dare not say in recompense, For that includes a debt you cannot owe me, But in your liberal bounty, in my suit To you, be gracious ? Theoc. You entreat of me, sir, What I should offer to you, with confession That you much undervalue your own worth, Should you receive me, since there come with you Not lustful fires, but fair and lawful flames. But I must be excused, 'tis now no time For me to think of Hymeneal joys. Can he (and pray you, sir, consider it) That gave me life, and faculties to love, Be, as he's now, ready to be devour'd By ravenous wolves, and at that instant, I But entertain a thought of those delights, In which, perhaps, my ardour meets with yours! Duty and piety forbid it, sir. Beauf. jun. But this effected, andyour father free, What is your answer? Theoc. Every minute to me Will be a tedious age, till our embraces Are warrantable to the world. Beauf. jun. I urge no more ; Confirm it with a kiss. Theoc. [Kissing him.~\ I doubly seal it. Ush. This would do better abed, the business ended: - They are the loving'st couple ! THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 135 Enter Beaufort senior, Montaigne, Chamont, and L ah our. Beauf.jun. Here comes my father, With the Council of War: deliver your peti- tion, And leave the rest to me. [Theoc. offers a paper. Beauf. sen. I am sorry, lady, Your father's guilt compels your innocence To ask what I in justice must deny. Beauf.jun. For my sake, sir, pray you receive and read it. Beauf. sen. Thou foolish boy! lean deny thee nothing. [Takes the paper from Theoc. Beauf.jun. Thus far we are happy, madam : quit the place ; You shall hear how we succeed. Theoc. Goodness reward you ! [Exeunt Thcocrine, Usher, Page, and Women. Mont. It is apparent; and we stay too long To censure Malefort 5 as he deserves. [They take their seats. Cham. There is no colour of reason that makes for him : Had he discharged the trust committed to him, With that experience and fidelity He practised heretofore, it could not be Our navy should be block'd up, and, in our sight, Our goods made prize, our sailors sold for slaves, By his prodigious issue.* * To censure Malefort &c] Malefort is here, and generally throughout the play, properly used as a trisyllable. * By his prodigious iwuc] i. e. unnatural, horrible, portentous 136 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Lan. I much grieve, After so many brave and high achievements, He should in one ill forfeit all the good He ever did his country. Bcauf. sen. Well, 'tis granted.' Beauf.jun. I humbly thank you, sir. Beauf sen. He shall have hearing, His irons too struck off; bring him before us, But seek no further favour. Beauf.jun. Sir, I dare not. [Exit. Beauf. sen. Monsieur Chamont, Montaigne, Lanour, assistants, By a commission from the most Christian king, In punishing or freeing Malefort, Our late great admiral : though I know you need not Instructions from me, how to dispose of Yourselves in this man's trial, that exacts Your clearest judgments, give me leave, with favour, To offer my opinion. We are to hear him, A little looking back on his fair actions, Loyal, and true demeanour ; not as now By the general voice already he's condemn'd. But if we find, as most believe, he hath held Intelligence with his accursed son, of evil : in this sense it is often applied to comets, and other extraordinary appearances in the sky : u Behold yon comet shews his head again ! " Twice hath he thus at cross turns thrown on us u Prodigious looks." The Honest Whore. Again : " This woman's threats, her eyes e'en red with fury, " Which, like prodigious meteors, foretold " Assured destruction, are still before me." The Captain. 6 Beauf. sen. Well, His granted."] It appears, from the subse- quent speeches, that young Beaufort had been soliciting his father to allow Malefort to plead without his chains. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 137 Fallen off from all allegiance, and turn'd (But for what cause we know not) the most bloody And fatal enemy this country ever Repented to have brought forth ; all compassion' # ** OP what he was, or may be, if now pardon'd ; We sit engaged to censure him with all Extremity and rigour. Cham. Your lordship shews us A path which we will tread in. Lan. He that leaves To follow, as you lead, will lose himself. Mont. I'll not be singular. Re-enter Beaufort junior, with Montreville, Malefort senior, Belgarde, and Officers. Beauf. sen. He comes, but with A strange distracted look. all compassion Of what <&c] The quarto read*, all compassion Of' what he was, or may be, if' now pirdon'd ; Upon which Mr. M. Mason observes, " This sentence as it stands is not sense ; if the words all compassion are right, we must necessarily suppose that being laid aside, or words o\' a similar import, have been omitted in the printing : but the most natural manner of amending the passage, is by reading no com. passion, the word having being understood." I can neither reconcile mytvHtonocompasnonofwAatke nnybe, nor to all. He might, if acquitted, be a successful commander, a>> h 'fore, and to such a circumstance Beaufort evid nt'y aUndes. I believe that a line is lost, and with due hesitation would propose to supply the chasm somewhat in this waj: all compassion Of his years pass'd uxrr, a'.l consideration 0/ what he was, or may be, tj now pardon d; We sit, ,Vc. 133 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Malef, sen. Live I once more' To see these hands and arms free ! these, that often, In the most dreadful horror of a fight, Have been as seamarks to teach such as were Seconds in my attempts, to steer between The rocks of too much daring, and pale fear, To reach the port of victory ! when my sword, Advanced thus, to my enemies appear'd A hairy comet, threatening death and ruin' To such as durst behold it ! These the legs, That, when our ships were grappled, carried me With such swift motion from deck to deck, As they that saw it, with amazement cried, He does not run, but flies! Mont. He still retains The greatness of his spirit. Malef. sen. Now crampt with irons, Hunger, and cold, they hardly do support me But I forget myself. O, my good lords, 1 Malf. sen. Lite I once more, &c] There is something very striking in the indignant burst of savage ostentation with which this old warrior introduces himself on the scene. 9 A hairy cornet^ &c] So in Fuimus Troes: " comets shook their flaming hair ; il Thus all our wars were acted first on high, " And we taught what to look for.'' From this, and the passage in the text, Milton, who appears, by various marks of imitation, to have been a careful reader of Massinger, probably formed the magnificent and awful picture which follows : " On the other side, " Incensed with indignation, Satan stood " Unterrified, and like a comet burn'd, l * That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge " In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair " Shakes pestilence and war." THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 139 That sit there as my judges, to determine 1 The life and death of Malefort, where are now Tho^e shouts, those cheerful looks, those loud applauses, With which, when I return'd loaden with spoil, You eutertain'd your admiral? all's forgotten: And I stand here to give account of that Of which I am as free and innocent As he that never saw the eyes of him, 1 For whom I stand suspected. Beattf. sen. Monsieur Malefort, Let not your passion so far transport you, As to believe from any private malice, Or envy to your person, you are questional : Nor do the suppositions want weight, That do invite us to a strong assurance, Your son Malef. sen. My shame ! Bcauf. sen. Pray you, hear with patience, never Without assistance or sure aids from you, Could, with the pirates of Argiers' and Tunis, Even those that you had almost twice defeated, Acquire such credit, as with them to be Made absolute commander; (pray you observe me;) If there had not some contractpass'd between you, That, when occasion serv'd, you would join with them, To the ruin of Marseilles ? 1 That sit there as vnyjudges^ to determine^] A/y, which com- pletes the metre, is now tirst inserted from the old copy. 1 The eyes of him~\ So the old copy : the modern editors read eye. 3 Could with the pirates of Argiers] Argiers is the old read- ing, and is that of every author of Massingcru time. The editors invariably modernize it into Algiers. 140 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Mont, More, what urged Your son to turn apostata? 4 Cham. Had he from The state, or governor, the least neglect, Which envy could interpret for a wrong ? Lan. Or, if you slept not in your charge, how could So many ships as do infest our coast, And have in our own harbour shut our navy, Come in unfought with? Beauf.jun, They put him hardly to it. Malef. sen. My lords, with as much brevity as I can, I'll answer each particular objection With which you charge me. The main ground, on which You raise the building of your accusation, Hath reference to my son: should I now curse him, Or wish, in the agony of my troubled soul, Lightning had found him in his mother's womb, You'll say 'tis from the purpose ; and I, therefore, ' Betake him to the devil, and so leave him ! Did never loyal father but myself Beget a treacherous issue ? was't in me, With as much ease to fashion up his mind, As, in his generation, to form The organs to his body ? Must it follow, Because that he is impious, I am false ? I would not boast my actions, yet 'tis lawful To upbraid my benefits to unthankful men. Who sunk the Turkish gallies in the streights, But Malefort? Who rescued the French mer- chants, + Your son to turn apostata?] The modern editors, as before, read apostate ! 5 and I therefore Betake him to the devil &c] i. c. consign, make him over. See the City Madam. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 141 When they were boarded, and stow'd under hatches By the pirates of Argiers, when every, minute They did expect to be chain'd to the oar, But your now doubted admiral? then you fill'd The air with shouts of joy, and did proclaim, When hope had left them, and giim-look'd despair Hover'd witli sail-stretch'd wings over their heads, * To me, as to the Neptune of the sea, They owed the restitution of their goods, Their lives, their liberties. O, can it then Be probable, my lords, that he that never Became the master of a pirate's ship, But at the mainyard hung the captain up, And caused the rest to be thrown over-board; Should, after all these proofs of deadly hate, So oft express'd against them, entertain A thought of quarter with them; but much less (To the perpetual ruin of my glories) To join with them to lift a wicked arm Against my mother-country, this Marseilles, Which, with my prodigal expense of blood, I have so oft protected ! Beauf. .sen. What you have done Is granted and applauded ; but yet know 6 Hover'd with sail-stretch'd wings over (heir heads,] So Jonson : " o'er our heads " Black ravenous ruin, with her sail.stretch'd -wings, " Ready to sink, us down, and corer us.'' Even/ Man out of his Humour And Fletcher : * Fix here and rest awhile your sail-stretch'd wings, " That hare outstript the winds." The I'rophetes*. Milton, too, lias the same bold expression : the original to u hit !i they arc all indebted, is, perhaps^ a sublime passage in the Fairy (iuien, 15. I. c. \\. St. 10. 142 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. This glorious relation 7 of your actions Must not so blind our judgments, as to suffer This most unnatural crime you stand accused of, To pass unquestion'd. Cham. No; you must produce Reasons of more validity and weight, To plead in your defence, or we shall hardly Conclude you innocent. Mont. The large volume of Your former worthy deeds, with your experience, Both what and when to do, but makes against you. Lan. For had your care and courage been the same As heretofore, the dangers we are plunged in Had been with ease prevented. Malef. sen. What have I Omitted, in the power of flesh and blood, Even in the birth to strangle the designs of This hell-bred wolf, my son ? alas ! my lords, I am no god, nor like him could foresee His cruel thoughts, and cursed purposes : Nor would the sun at my command forbear To make his progress to the other world, Affording to us one continued light. Nor could my breath disperse those foggy mists, Cover'd with which, and darkness of the night, Their navy undiscern'd, without resistance, Beset our harbour : make not that my fault, Which you injustice must ascribe to fortune. But if that nor my former acts, nor what I have deliver'd. can prevail with you, To make good my integrity and truth ; Rip up this bosom, and pluck out the heart That hath been ever loyal. [A trumpet within. 7 This glorious relation"] Our old writers frequently use thig word in the sense of gloriosus, vain, boastful, ostentatious. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 143 Beauf. sen. How ! a trumpet ? Enquire the cause. [Exit Montreville. Malef. seti. Thou searcher of men's hearts, And sure defender of the innocent, (My other crying sins awhile not look'd on) If I in this am guilty, strike me dead, Or by some unexpected means confirm, I am accused unjustly ! [Aside. Re-enter Montreville with a Sea Captain. Beauf. sen. Speak, the motives That bring thee hither? Capt. From our admiral thus : He does salute you fairly, and desires It may be understood no public hate Hath brought him to Marseilles ; nor seeks he The ruin of his country, but aims only To wreak a private wrong : and if from you He may have leave' and liberty to decide it In single combat, he'll give up good pledges, If he fall in the trial of his right, We shall weigh anchor, and no more molest This town with hostile arms. Beauf. sen. Speak to the man, If in this presence he appear to you, To whom you bring this challenge. Capt. Tis to you. Beauf. sen. II is father! Montr. Can it be? Beauf. jun. Strange and prodigious! Malef sen. Thou seest I stand unmoved : were thy voice thunder, Itshouldnotshakeme; say, what would the viper? * and iff rum you He may hare leave kc.) This passage is Tory incorrectly pointed in the former editions. 144 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Capt. The reverence a father's name may challenge, And duty of a son no more remember'd, He does defy thee to the death. Malef. sen. Go on. Capt. And with his sword will prove it on thy head, Thou art a murderer, an atheist ; And that all attributes of men turn'd furies, Cannot express thee : this he will make good, If thou dar'st give him meeting. Malef. sen. Dare I live ! Dare I, when mountains of my sins o'erwhelm me, At my last gasp ask for mercy ! How I bless Thy coming, captain; never man to me Arrived so opportunely ; and thy message, However it may seem to threaten death, Does yield to me a second life in curing My wounded honour. Stand I yet suspected As a confederate with this enemy, Whom of all men, against all ties of nature, He marks out for destruction ! you are just, Immortal Powers, and in this merciful ; And it takes from my sorrow, and my shame For being the father to so bad a son, In that you are pleased to offer up the monster To my correction. Blush and repent, As you are bound, my honourable lords, Your ill opinions of me. Not great Brutus, The father of the Roman liberty, With more assured constancy beheld His traitor sons, for labouring to call home The banish'd Tarquins, scourged with rods to death, Than I will shew, when I take back the life This prodigy of mankind received from me. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 145 Beauf. sen. We are sorry, monsieur Malefort, for our error, And are much taken with your resolution ; But the disparity of years and strength, Between you and your son, duly consider'd, We would not so expose you. Malef. sen. Then you kill me, Under pretence to save me. O my lords, As you love honour, and a wrong'd man's fame, Deny me not this fair and noble means To make me right again to all the world. Should any other but myself be chosen To punish this apostata with death, * You rob a wretched father of a justice That to all after times will be recorded. I wish his strength were centuple, his skill equal To my experience, that in his fall He may not shame my victory ! I feel The powers and spirits of twenty strong men in me. Were he with wild fire circled, I undaunted Would make way to him. As you do affect, sir, My daughter Theocrine ;' as you are * To punish this apostata with death.] Both the editors read, To punish this apostate son with death ! Here is the mischief of altering an authors language. When the metre does not suit our newfangled terms, we arc obliged to insert words of our own, to complete it. Apostata stood in the Terse Tery well; but Coxetcr and M. Mason having determined to write apostate, found themselves compelled to tack son tolt, and thus enfeebled the original expression. My daughter I heocrins ; J Theocrine is used us a quadrisyl- lable. It should he observed that as the story and the names are French, Massinger adopts the French mode of enouncing them. The reader must bear this in mind. VOL. I. L # 146 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. My true and ancient friend ; as thou art valiant;* And as all love a soldier, second me [They all sue to the governor. In this my just petition. In your looks I see a grant, my lord. Beauf. sen. You shall o'erbear me ; And since you are so confident in your cause, Prepare you for the combat. Malef. sen. With more joy Than yet I ever tasted : by the next sun, The disobedient rebel shall hear from me, And so return in safety. [To the Captain.] My good lords, To all my service. I will die, or purchase Rest to Marseilles ; nor can I make doubt, But his impiety is a potent charm, To edge my sword, and add strength to my arm. [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. An open Space without the City. Enter three Sea Captains. 2. Capt. He did accept the challenge, then ? 1. Capt. Nay more, Was overjoy'd in't; and, as it had been A fair invitement to a solemn feast, And not a combat to conclude with death, He cheerfully embraced it. 1 as thou art valiant;] This is said to the captain who brought the challenge : the other persons adjured are young Beaufort, and Montreville. It appears, from the pointing of the former editions, that the passage was not understood. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 147 3. Capt. Are the articles Sign'd to on' both parts? 1. Cap. At the father's suit, With much unwillingness the governor Consented to them. 2. Capt. You are inward with Our admiral; could you yet never learn What the nature of the quarrel is, that renders The son more than incensed, implacable, Against the father? 1. Capt. Never; yet I have, As far as manners would give warrant to it, With my best curiousness of care observed him. I have sat with him in his cabin a day together," Yet not a syllable exchanged between us. Sigh he did often, as if inward grief And melancholy at that instant would Choke up his vital spirits, and now and then A tear or two, as in derision of The toughness of his rugged temper, would Fall on his hollow cheeks, which but once felt, A sudden flash of fury did dry up ; And laying then his hand upon his sword, He would murmur, but yet so as I oft heard him, We shall meet, cruel father, yes, we shall; When I'll exact, for every womanish drop Of" sorrow from these eyes, a strict accompt Of much more from thy heart. 2. Capt. 'Tis wondrous strange. 3. Capt. And past my apprehension. 1. Capt. Yet what makes The miracle greater, when from the maintop A sail's descried, all thoughts that do concern Himself laid by, no lion, pinch'd with hunger, * / hoic sat xiith him in /lis cabin &c] This beautiful passage, expressing concealed resentment, deserves to be remarked by every reader of taste and judgment. Coxeteh. L2 148 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Rouses himself more fiercely from his den, Than he comes on the deck ; and there how wisely He gives directions, and how stout he is In his executions, we, to admiration, Have been eyewitnesses : yet he never minds The booty when 'tis made ours; but as if The danger, in the purchase of the prey, Delighted him much more than the reward, His will made known, he does retire himself To his private contemplation, no joy Express'd by him for victory. Enter MALEFORTjww/or. 2. Capt. Here he comes, But with more cheerful looks than ever yet I saw him wear. Malef. jun. It was long since resolved on, Nor must I stagger now [in't. 3 ] May the cause, That forces me to this unnatural act Be buried in everlasting silence, And I find rest in death, or my revenge ! To either I stand equal. Pray you, gentlemen, Be charitable in your censures of me, And do not entertain a false belief That I am mad, for undertaking that Which must be, when effected, still repented. It adds to my calamity, that I have Discourse 4 and reason, and but too well know 3 Nor ?nust I stagger now [in't]..] In the old copy, a syllable has dropt out, which renders the line quite unmetrical. 1 have no great confidence in the genuineness of what is inserted be- tween brackets : It is harmless, however, and serves, as Fal- staff says, to fill a pit as well as a better. 4 It adds to my calamity, that I have Discourse and reason.] It is very difficult to determine the precise meaning which our ancestors gave to discourse ; or to THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 149 I can nor live, nor end a wretched life, But both ways I am impious. Do not, therefore, Ascribe the perturbation of my soul To a servile fear of death : I oft have view'd All kinds of his inevitable darts, Nor are they terrible. Were I condemn'd to leap From the cloud-cover'd brows of a steep rock, Into the deep; or, Curtius like, to fill up, For my country's safety, and an after-name, A bottomless abyss, or charge through fire, It could not so much shake me, as th' encounter Of this day's single enemy. distinguish the line which separated it from reason. Perhaps, it indicated a more rapid deduction of consequences from premises, than was supposed to be effected by reason : but I speak with hesitation. The acute Glanville says, " The act of the mind which connects propositions, and deduccth conclusions from them, the schools call discourse, and we shall not miscall it, if we name it reason.'' Whatever be the sense, it frequently ap- pears in our old writers, by whom it is usually coupled with reason or judgment, which last should seem to be the more proper word. Thus in the City Madam : " Such as want 11 Discourse and judgment, and through weakness fall, " May merit men's compassion." Again in the Coxcomb : " Why should a man that has discourse and reason, " And knows how near lie loses all in these things, " Covet to have his wishes satisfied ?" The reader remembers the exclamation of Hamlet, " Oh heaven ! a beast that wants discourse of' reason,'' &c. " This," says Warburton, who contrived to blunder with more ingenuity than usually falls to tin lot of a commentator, " is finely expressed, and with a philosophical exactness. Beasts want not reason,"' i^this is a new discovery,) ' but the discourse of reason ; i. e. the regular inferring one thing from another b) tiic assistance of universal!.'' Discourse oj reason is so poor and perplexed a phrase, that, without regard for the *' philosophical exactne.-s' ot Shakspearc, 1 should dismiss it at once, for what I believe to be his genuine language: " O heaven ! a beast that want* discourse and reason," &c. 150 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 1. Capt. If you please, sir, You may shun it, or defer it. MalcJ'.jun. Not for the world : Yet two things I entreat you ; the first is, You'll not enquire the difference between Myself and him, which as a father once I honpur'd, now my deadliest enemy ; The last is, if I fall, to bear my body Far from this place, and where you please in- ter it. I should say more, but by his sudden coming I am cut off. Enter Beaufort junior and Montreville, lead- ing in Malefort senior ; Belgarde following, with others. Beauf.jun. Let me, sir, have the honour To be your second. Montr. With your pardon, sir, I must put in for that, since out tried friendship Hath lasted from our infancy. Belg. I have served * Under your command, and you have seen me fight, And handsomely, though I say it ; and if now, 5 At this downright game, I may but hold your cards, I'll not pull down the side. 5 and if now, At this downright game, I may but hold your cards, I'll not pull down the side.] i. e. I'll not injure your cause : the same expression occurs in the Grand Duke of Florence: ie Coz, Pray you pause a little. " If I hold your cards, I shallow// down the side ; " I am not good at the game." The allusion is to a party at cards : to set up a side, was to become partners in a game ; to pull or pluck down a side, (for both THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 151 Malef. sen. I rest much bound To your so noble offers, and I hope Shall find your pardon, though I now refuse them; For which I'll yield strong reasons, but as briefly As the time will give me leave. For me to borrow (That am supposed the weaker) any aid From the assistance of my second's sword, Might write me down in the black list of those That have nor fire nor spirit of their own ; But dare, and do, as they derive their courage From his example, on whose'help and valour They wholly do depend. Let this suffice, In my excuse, for that. Now, if you please, On both parts, to retire to yonder mount, Where you, as in a Roman theatre, May see the bloody difference determined, Your favours meet my wishes. Malef'. jun. 'Tis approved of By me ; and I command you [To his Captains.] lead the way, And leave me to my fortune. Beauf.jun. I would gladly Be a spectator (since I am denied To be an actor) of each blow and thrust, And punctually observe them. Malef. jun. You shall have All you desire ; for in a word or two I must make bold to entertain the time, If he give suffrage to it. Malef. sen. Yes, I will ; I'll hear thee, and then kill thee : nay, farewell. those (crins arc found in our old plays) was to occasion its loss by ignorance or treachery. Thus, in the Parson's Wedding: " Picas. A traitor ! bind him, he has ptiWd down a side" And in the Maid's Tragedy: " Evad. Aspatia, take her part. " Dcla. I will refuse it, " She will pliu/. dozen a side, she does not use it." 152 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Malef.jnn. Embrace with love on both sides, and with us Leave deadly hate and fury. Alaltf. sen. From this place You ne'er shall see both living. Belg. What's past help, is Beyond prevention. {They embrace on both sides, and take leave severally of the father and son. Malef. sen. Now we are alone, sir; And thou hast liberty to unload the burthen Which thou groan'st under. Speak thy griefs. Malef.jan. I shall, sir; But in a perplex'd form and method, which You only can interpret : Would you had not A guilty knowledge in your bosom, of The language which you force me to deliver, So I were nothing ! As you are my father, I bend my knee, and, uncompell'd, profess My life, and all that's mine, to be your gift; And that in a son's duty I stand bound To lay this head beneath your feet, and run All desperate hazards for your ease and safety : But this confest on my part, I rise up, And not as with a father, (all respect, Love, fear, and reverence cast off,) but as A wicked man, I thus expostulate with you. Why have you done that which I dare not speak, And in the action changed the humble shape Of my obedience, to rebellious rage, And insolent pride ? and with shut eyes con- straint me To run my bark of honour on a shelf I must not see, nor, if I saw it, shun it ? In my wrongs nature suffers, and looks backward. And mankind trembles to see me pursue What beasts would fly from. For when I advance THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 153 This sword, as I must do, against your head, Piety will weep, and filial duty mourn, To see their altars which you built up in me, In a moment razed and ruin'd. That you could (From my grieved soul I wish it) but produce, To qualify, not excuse, your deed of horror, One seeming reason, that I might fix here, And move no further ! Male/', sen. Have I so far lost A father's power, that I must give account Of my actions to my son ? or must I plead As a fearful prisoner at the bar, while he That owes his being to me sits a judge To censure that, which only by myself Ought to be question'd? mountains sooner fall Beneath their valleys, and the lofty pine Pay homage to the bramble, or what else is Preposterous in nature, ere my tongue In one short syllable yield satisfaction To any doubt of thine ; nay, though it were A certainty disdaining argument! Since, though my deeds wore hell's black livery, To thee they should appear triumphal robes, Set off with glorious honour, thou being bound To see with my eyes, and to hold that reason, That takes or birth or fashion from my will. Alalef. jun. This sword divides that slavish knot. JSlulej'. sen. It cannot: It cannot, wretch ; and if thou but remember From whom thou hadst this spirit, thou dar'st not hope it. Who train'd thee up in arms but I? Who taught thee 6 That you could, 6fC.~\ O that, &c This omission of the sign of the optative iuterjection is common to all our old dra- matists. 154 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Men were men only when they durst look down With scorn on death and danger, and contemn'd All opposition, till plumed Victory' Had made her constant stand upon their helmets? Under my shield thou hast fought as securely As the young eaglet, cover'd with the wings Qf her fierce dam, learns how and where to prey. All that is manly in thee, I call mine ; But what is weak and womanish, thine own. And what I gave, since thou art proud, ungrate- ful, Presuming to contend with him, to whom Submission is due, I will take from thee. Look, therefore, for extremities, and expect not I will correct thee as a son, but kill thee As a serpent swollen with poison ; who surviving A little longer, with infectious breath, Would render all things near him, like itself, Contagious. Nay, now my anger's up, Ten thousand virgins kneeling at my feet, And with one general cry howling for mercy, Shall not redeem thee. Malef. jun. Thou incensed Power, Awhile forbear thy thunder ! let me have No aid in my revenge, if from the grave My mother - Malef. sen. Thou shalt never name her more. \Theyfght. 7 till plumed Victory Had made her constant stand upo?i their helmets ?~\ This noble image seems to have been copied by Milton, who describing Satan, says, " His stature reach'd the sky, and on his crest " Sat Horror plumed ;" And, in another place : " at his right hand Victory " Sat eagle-wing' d," The whole speech of Malefort here noticed is truly sublime, and above all commendation. Coxeter. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 155 Be AVORTJunior,Mo$TiiEv i lle,Belgakde, and the three Sea Captains, appear on the Mount. Beauf. jun. They are at it. 2. Capt. That thrust was put strongly home. Montr. But with more strength avoided. Bclg. Well come in ; He has drawn hlood of him yet: well done, old cock. J. Capt. That was a strange miss. BeauJ'.jun. That a certain hit. [Young Malefort is slain. Bclg. He's fallen, the day is ours ! 2. Capt. The admiral's slain. Montr. The father is victorious ! Be I a;. Let us haste To gratulatc his conquest. I. Capt. We to mourn The fortune of the son. Beauf. jun. With utmost speed Acquaint the governor with the good success, That lie may entertain, to his full merit, The father of his country's peace and safety. [They retire. Malcf. sen. Were a new life hid in each mangled limb, I would search, and find it : and howe'er to some I may seem cruel thus to tyrannize Upon this senseless flesh, I glory in it. That I have power to be unnatural, Is my security ; die all my fears, And waking jealousies, which have so long Been my tormentors ! there's now no suspicion: A fact, which I alone am conscious of, Can never be discovered, or the cause That call'd this duel on, I being above 156 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. All perturbations; nor is it in The power of fate, again to make me wretched. Re-enter Beau tort junior, Montreville, Bel- garde, and the three Sea Captains. Beauf.jun. All honour to the conqueror! who dares tax My friend of treachery now ? Belg. I am very glad, sir, You have sped so well: but I must tell you thus much, To put you in mind that a low ebb must follow Your high-swoll'n tide of happiness, you have purchased This honour at a high price. Male/. Tis, Belgarde, Above all estimation, and a little To be exalted with it cannot savour Of arrogance. That to this arm and sword Marseilles owes the freedom of her fears, Or that my loyalty, not long since eclipsed, Shines now more bright than ever, are not tilings To be lamented : though, indeed, they may Appear too dearly bought, my falling glories Being made up again, and cemented With a son's blood. 'Tis true, he was my son, While he was worthy; but when he shook oft' His duty to me, (which my fond indulgence, Upon submission, might perhaps have pardon'd,) And grew his country's enemy, 1 look'd on him As a stranger to my family, and a traitor Justly proscribed, and he to be rewarded That could bring in his head. 1 know in this That I. am censured rugged, and austere, That will vouchsafe not one sad sigh or tear Upon his slaughter'd body : but I rest THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 157 Well satisfied in myself, being assured that Extraordinary virtues, when they soar Too high a pitch for common sights to judge of, Losing their proper splendor, are condemn'd For most remarkable vices.* Beauf.jun. 'Tis too true, sir, In the opinion of the multitude; But for myself, that would be held your friend, And hope to know you by a nearer name, They are as they deserve, received. Malef. My daughter Shall thank you for the favour. Beauf.jun. I can wish No happiness beyond it. 1. Capt. Shall we have leave To bear the corpse of our dead admiral, As he enjoin'd us, from this coast? Mate/'. Provided The articles agreed on be observed, And you depart hence with it, making oath Never hereafter, but as friends, to touch Upon this shore. 1. Capt. We'll faithfully perform it. Male/'. Then as you please dispose of it: 'tis an object That I could wish removed. His sins die witl him ! So far he has my charity. 1. Capt. He shall have A soldier's funeral. [The Captains bear the body off] with sad music . Malef. Farewell ! For most remarkable vices.] liemarkablc)k&<\ in Massinger's time a more dignified sound, and a more appropriate meaning, than it bears at present. With him it constantly stands for surprising, highly striking, or observable iu an uncommon degree ; ol this it will be well to take notice. 158 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Beauf.jun. These rites Paid to the dead, the conqueror that survives Must reap the harvest of his bloody labour. Sound all loud instruments of joy and triumph, And with all circumstance and ceremony, Wait on the patron of our liberty, Which he at all parts merits. Male/'. I am honour'd Beyond my hopes. Beauf. jun. 'Tis short of your deserts. Lead on : oh, sir, you must ; you are too modest. [Exeunt with loud music. SCENE II. A Room in Malefort's House. Enter Theocrine, Page, and Waiting-women. Theoc. Talk not of comfort ; I am both ways wretched, And so distracted with my doubts and fears, I know not where to fix my hopes. My loss Is certain in a father, or a brother, Or both ; such is the cruelty of my fate, And not to be avoided. 1. Worn. You must bear it With patience, madam. 2. Worn. And what's not in you To be prevented, should not cause a sorrow Which cannot help it. Page. Fear not my brave lord, Your noble father ; righting is to him Familiar as eating. He can teach Our modern duellists how to cleave a button, THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 159 And in a new way, never yet found out By old Caranza.' 1. lVom. May lie be victorious, And punish disobedience in his son! Whose death, in reason, shou Id at no part move you He being but half your brother, and the neames: Which that, might challenge from you, forfeits By his impious purpose to kill him, from whom He received life. [A shout within. l 2 JVom. A general shout 1. Worn. Of joy. Page. Lookup, dear lady; sad newsnever came Usher'd with loud applause. Theoc. I stand prepared To endure the shock of it. Enter Usher. Ush. I am out of breath With running to deliver first Theoc. What ? Ush. We are all made. My lord has won the day; your brother's slain; The pirates gone : and by the governor, And states, and all the men of war, he is Brought home in triumph : nay, no musing, pay nic For my good news hereafter. Theoc. Heaven is just ! Ush. Give thanks at leisure; make all haste to meet him. I could wish I were a horse, that I might bear you To him upon my back. Page. Thou art an ass, And this is a sweet burthen. Ush. Peace, you crack -rope ! [Exeunt. 9 By old Caranza.] See the Guardian, Vol. IV. 160 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. SCENE III. A Street. ' Loud music. Enter Montreville, Belgarde, Beaufort senior, Beaufort junior; Male- fort, followed by Montaigne, Chamont, and Lanour. Beauf. sen. All honours we can give you, and rewards, Though all that's rich or precious in Marseilles Were laid down at your feet, can hold no weight With your deservings : let me glory in Your action, as if it were mine own ; And have the honour, with the arms of love, To embrace the great performer of a deed Transcending all this country e'er could boast of. Mont. Imagine, noble sir, in what we may Express our thankfulness, and rest assured It shall be freely granted. Cham. He's an enemy. To goodness and to virtue* that dares think There's any thing within our power to give,* Which you injustice may not boldly challenge. Lan. And as your own ; for we will ever be At your devotion. Malef. Much honour'd sir, And you, my noble lords, I can say only, The greatness of your favours overwhelms me, 1 There s any thing within our power to give,'] The old copy incorrectly reads, There's any other thing &c. and in the next speech, overwhelm for overwhelms the last is so common a mode of expression, that I should not have corrected it, if sinks had not immediately followed. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 161 And like too large a sail, for the small bark Of my poor merits, sinks me. That I stand Upright in your opinions, is an honour Exceeding my deserts, I having done Nothing but what in duty I stood bound to: And to expect a recompense were base, Good deeds being ever in themselves rewarded. Yet since your liberal bounties tell me that I may, with your allowance, be a suitor, To you, my lord, I am an humble one, And must ask that, which known, I fear you will Censure me over bold. Beauf. sen. It must be something Of a strange nature, if it find from me Denial or delay. Male/. Thus then, my lord, Since you encourage me : You are happy in A worthy son, and all the comfort that Fortune has left me, is one daughter ; now, If it may not appear too much presumption, To seek to match my lowness with your height, I should desire (and if I may obtain it, I write nil ultra to my largest hopes) She may in your opinion be thought worthy To be received into your family, And married to your son : their years are equal, And their desires, I think, too ; she is not Ignoble, nor my state contemptible, And if you think me worthy your alliance, 'Tis all I do aspire to. Beauf jun. You demand That which with all the service of my life I should have labour'd to obtain from you. O sir, why are you slow to meet so fair And noble an otter r can France shew a virgin That may be parallel'd with her? is she not vol. i. * M 162 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. The phoenix of the time, the fairest star In the bright sphere of women ? Beauf. sen. Be not rapt so : Though I dislike not what is motion'd, yet In what so near concerns me, it is fit I should proceed with judgment. Enter Usher, Theocrine, Page, and Waiting- women. Beauf. jun. Here she comes : Look on her with impartial eyes, and then Let envy, if it can, name one graced feature In which she is defective. Malef. Welcome, girl ! My joy, my comfort, my delight, my all, Why dost thou come to greet my victory In such a sable habit? This shew'd well When thy father was a prisoner, and suspected ; But now his faith and loyalty are admired, Rather than doubted, in your outward garments You are to express the joy you feel within : Nor should you with more curiousness and care Pace to the temple to be made a bride, Than now, when all men's eyes are fixt upon you, You should appear to entertain the honour From me descending to you, and in which You have an equal share. Theoc. Heaven has my thanks, With all humility paid for your fair fortune, And so far duty binds me ; yet a little To mourn a brother's loss, however wicked, The tenderness familiar to our sex May, if you please, excuse. Malef. Thou art deceived. He, living, Was a blemish to thy beauties, But in his death gives ornament and lustre THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 163 To thy perfections, but that they are So exquisitely rare, that they admit not The least addition. Ha ! here's yet a print Of a sad tear on thy cheek ; how it takes from Our present happiness ! with a father's lips, A loving father's lips, I'll kiss it off, The cause no more remember'd. Theoc. You forget, sir, The presence we are in. Malef. Tis well consider'd ; And yet, who is the owner of a treasure Above all value, but, without offence, May glory in the glad possession of it? Nor let it in your excellence beget wonder, Or any here, that looking on the daughter, I feast myself in the imagination Of those sweet pleasures, and allow'd delights, I tasted from the mother, who still lives In this her perfect model; for she had Such smooth and high-arch'd brows, such spark- ling eyes, Whose every glance stored Cupid's emptied quiver, Such ruby lips, and such a lovely bloom," Disdaining all adulterate aids of art, Kept a perpetual spring upon her face, As Death himself lamented, being forced To blast it with his paleness : and if now, Her brightness dintm'd with sorrow, take and please you, Think, think, young lord, when she appears herself, 1 And such a /otr/y bloom,] For this reading wp are indebted to Mr. M. Mason. All the former editions read brown ; which the concluding lines of this beautilul speech incoutettiblj prort to be a misprint. M2 164 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. This veil removed, in her own natural pureness, How far she will transport you. Beaufjun. Did she need it, The praise which you (and well deserved) give to her, Must of necessity raise new desires In one indebted more to years ; to me Your words are but as oil pour'd on a fire, That flames already at the height. Malef. No more ; I do believe you, and let me from you Find so much credit; when I make her yours, I do possess you of a gift, which I With much unwillingness part from. My good lords, Forbear your further trouble ; give me leave, For on the sudden I am indisposed, To retire to my own house, and rest : to morrow, As you command me, I will be your guest, And having deck'd my daughter like herself, You shall have further conference. Beauf. sen. You are master Of your own will ; but fail not, I'll expect you. Malef. Nay, I will be excused ; I must part with you. [To young Beaufort and the rest. My dearest Theocrine, give me thy hand, I will support thee. Theoc. You gripe it too hard, sir. Malef Indeed I do, but have no further end in it But love and tenderness, such as I may challenge, And you must grant. Thou art a sweet one ; yes, And to be cherish'd. Theoc, May I still deserve it ! [Exeunt several ways. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. \65 ACT III. SCENE I. A Banqueting- room in Beaufort's Home. Enter Beau fort senior, and Steward. Beauf. sen. Have you been careful ? Stew. With my best endeavours. Let them bring stomachs, there's no want of meat, sir. Portly and curious viands are prepared, To please all kinds of appetites. Beauf. sen. Tis well I love a table furnish'd with full plenty, And store of friends to eat it : but with this caution, I would not have my house a common inn, For some men that come rather to devour me, Than to present their service. At this time, too, It being a serious and solemn meeting, I must not have my board pester'd with shadows,' That, under other men's protection, break in Without invitement. Sttxo. W ith your favour, then, You must double your guard, my lord, for on my knowledge, There are some so sharp set, not to be kept out By a file of musketeers : and 'tis less danger, 3 / must not have my board pettcr'd with shadows,] It was con- sidered, Plutarch sa)s, as a mark of politeness, to let an invited guest know (hat he was at liberty to bring a friend or two with him ; a permission that was, however, sometimes abused. These friends the Romans called ihadous, (umbra-,) a term which Maasmger has very happily explained. 166 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. I'll undertake, to stand at push of pik *, With an enemy in a breach, that undermined too, And the cannon playing on it, than to stop One harpy, your perpetual guest, from entrance, When the dresser, the cook's drum, thunders, Come on, The service will be lost else ! 4 Beauf. sen. What is he? Stew. As tall a trencherman, 5 that is most certain, As e'er demolish'd pye-fortification As soon as batter'd ; and if the rim of his belly Were not made up of a much tougher stuff Than his buff jerkin, there were no defence Against the charge of his guts: you needs must know him, He's eminent for his eating. Beauf. sen. O, Belgarde! 4 When the dresser, the cook's drum, thunders, Come on, The service will be lost else .'] It was formerly customary for the cook, when dinner was ready, to knock on the dresser with his knife, by way of summoning the servants to carry it into the hall; to this there are many allusions. In the Merry Beggars, Old-rents says, " Hark ! they knock to the dresser." Servants were not then allowed, as at present, to frequent the kitchen, lest they should interfere with the momentous con- cerns of the cook. Mr. Reed says that this practice " was continued in the family of Lord Fairfax'' (and doubtless in that of many others) " after the civil wars: in that nobleman's orders for the servants of his household, is the following : Then must he warn to the dresser, Gentlemen and yeomen, to the dresser.'' Old Plays, xii. 430. 5 Stew. As tall a trencherman, &c.] Tall, in the language of our old writers, meant stout, or rather bold and fearless ; but they abused the word (of which they seem fond) in a great variety of senses. A tall man of his hands was a great fighter ; a tall man of' his tongue, a licentious speaker ; and a tall man of his trencher, or, as above, a tall trencherman, a hearty feeder. In- stances of these phrases occur so frequently, that it would be a waste of time to dwell upon them. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 167 Stew. The same; one of the admiral's cast captains, Who swear, 6 there being no war, nor hope of any, The only driiling is to eat devoutly, And to be ever drinking that's allow'd of, But they know not where to get it, there's the spite on't. Beauf. sen. The more their misery ; yet, if you can, For this day put him off. 7 Stezv. It is beyond The invention of man. Beauf. sen. No : say this only, \JVhispers to him. And as from me; you apprehend me? Stew. Yes, sir. Beauf. sen. Hut it must be done gravely. Stew. Never doubt me, sir. Beauf. sen. We'll dine in the great room, but let the music And banquet 8 be prepared here. [Exit, Stew. This will make him Lose his dinner at the least, and that will vex him. As for the sweetmeats, when they are trod under foot, Let him take his share with the pages and the lackies, Or scramble in the rushes. Enter Belgarde. Belg. 'Tis near twelve; 6 Who swear, &c. ] So the old copy: the modern editors read wears, than which nothing ran be more injudicious. 7 Beauf. sen. The more their misery ; yet, if you tan, For this (I v put him u(f."\ This has been hitherto gifen as an imperfect speech ; why, it is difficult to imagine. 8 but let the music And banquet Or prepared here.] That is, the dessert. See the City Madam. Vol. IV. 168 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. I keep a watch within me never misses. Save thee, master steward ! Stew. You are most, welcome, sir. Belg. Has thy lord slept well to-night? I come to enquire. I had a foolish dream, that, against my will, Carried me from my lodging, to learn only How he's disposed. Stew. He's in most perfect health, sir. Belg. Let me butseehimfeedheartily at dinner, And I'll believe so too; for from that ever I make a certain judgment. Stew. It holds surely In your own constitution. Belg. And in all men's, 'Tis the best symptom ; let us lose no time, Delay is dangerous. Stew. Troth, sir, if I might, Without offence, deliver what my lord has Committed to my trust, I shall receive it As a special favour. Belg. We'll see it, and discourse, As the proverb says, for health sake, after dinner, Or rather after supper; willingly then I'll walk a mile to hear thee. 9 Stew. Nay, good sir, I will be brief and pithy. Belg. Prithee be so. Stew. He bid me say, of alibis guests, that he Stands most affected to you, for the freedom And plainness of your manners. He ne'er ob- served you To twirl a dish about, you did not like of, All being pleasing to you; or to take 9 Or rather after supper ; willingly then Pll walk a mile to hear thee.] Alluding to the good old pro- verb, which inculcates temperance at this meal, by recom- mending a walk after it. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 169 A say of venison, 1 or stale fowl, by your nose, Which is a solecism at another's table ; But by strong eating of them, did confirm They never were delicious to your palate, But when they were mortified, as the Hugonot says, And so your part grows greater ; nor do you Find fault with the sauce, keen hunger being the best, Which ever, to your much praise, you bring with you; Nor will you with impertinent relations, Which is a master-piece when meat's before you, Forget your teeth, to use your nimble tongue, But do the feat you come for. Belg. Be advised, And end your jeering; for, if you proceed, You'll feel, as I can eat I can be angry ; And beating may ensue. Stew. I'll take your counsel, And roundly come to the point : my lord much wonders, That you, that arc a courtier as a soldier, I A say cfvcni$on t ~\ i.e. a taste, a proof, a sample. It has been notified to me that the word should be printed with a mark of elision, as if it were corrupted from assay: but the truth is, that the corruption, if there be any, is in the latter word. The expression is so common that 1 should not hare noticed it, but as it tends to my own justification : u but pray do not " Take the first say of her yourself." Chapman. " So eood a say invites (he eye " A little downward to 'spy.'' Sir P. Sidney. II Wolsey makes dukes and erics to serve him of wine, with a say taken." Holiu^\. 14 I could rite mor-", but these shall su.Ticc for a say." Old Translation of the Audria. 170 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. In all things else, and every day can vary Your actions and discourse, continue constant To this one suit. Belg. To one ! 'tis well I have one, Unpawn'd, in these days ; every cast commander Is not blest with the fortune, I assure you. But why this question ? does this offend him ? Stezv. Not much; but he believes it is the reason Your ne'er presume to sit above the salt; 2 And therefore, this day, our great admiral, With other states, being invited guests, He does entreat you to appear among them, In some fresh habit. Belg. This staff shall not serve To beat the dog off ; these are soldier's garments, And so by consequence grow contemptible. Stew. It has stung him. [Aside. a You ne'er presume to sit above the salt;] This refers to the manner in which our ancestors were usually seated at their meals. The tables being long, the salt was commonly placed about the middle, and served as a kind of boundary to the diffe- rent quality of the guests invited. Those of distinction were ranked above ; the space below was assigned to the dependents, inferior relations of the master of the house, &c. It argues little for the delicacy of our ancestors, that they should admit of such distinctions at their board; but, in truth, they seem to have placed their guests below the salt, for no better purpose than that of mortifying them. Nixon, in his Strange Footpost, (F. 3.) gives a very admirable account of the miseries " of a poor scholar," (Hall's well known satire, " A gentle squire," &c. is a versification of it,) from which I have taken the following characteristic traits : " Now as for his fare, it is lightly at the cheapest table, but he must sit under the salt, that is an axiome in such places: then having drawne his knife leisurably, un- folded his napkin mannerly, after twice or thrice wyping his beard, if he have it, he may reach the bread on his knife's point, and fall to his porrige, and between every sponefull take as much deliberation, as a capon craming, lest he be out of his por- rige before they have buried part of their first course in their bellies." THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 171 Belg. I would I were acquainted with the players, In charity they might furnish me: hut there is No faith in brokers; and for believing tailors, They are only to be read of, but not seen ; And sure they are confined to their own hells, And there they live invisible. Well, I must not Be fubb'd off thus: pray you, report my service To the lord governor; I will obey him : And though my wardrobe's poor, rather than lose His company at this feast, I will put on The richest suit I have, and fill the chair That makes me worthy of. 3 [E.vit. Stew. We are shut of him, He will be seen no more here : how my fellows Will bless mc forhisabsence! hehad starved them, Had he staid a little longer. Would he could, For his own sake, shift a shirt! and that's the utmost Of his ambition : adieu, good captain. [Edit. SCENE II. The same. Enter Beaufort senior, and BEAVFOi\Tju?iior. Beauf. sen. Tis a strange fondness. Beauf. jun. Tis beyond example. His resolution to part with his estate, To make her dower the weightier, is nothing; and Jill the chair That iHakn mc vorthy w/.J I his too has beon hitherto printed as an imperfect sentence ; hut, surely without necessity. The meaning is, " I will fill the chair of which that (i. e. the richest suit 1 have) makes uio v 01 thy." 172 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. But to observe how curious he is In his own person, to add ornament ' To his daughter's ravishing features, is the wonder. I sent a page of mine in the way of courtship This morning to her, to present my service, From whom I understand all. There he found him Solicitous in what shape she should appear; This gown was rich, but the fashion stale ; the other Was quaint, and neat, but the stuff not rich enough : Then does he curse the tailor, and in rage Falls on her shoemaker, for wanting art To express in every circumstance the form Of her most delicate foot ; then sits in council With much deliberation, to find out What tire would best adorn her ; and one chosen, Varying in his opinion, he tears off, And stamps it under foot; then tries a second, A third, and fourth, and satisfied at length, With much ado, in that, he grows again Perplex'd and troubled where to place her jewels, To be most mark'd, and whether she should wear This diamond on her forehead, or between Her milkwhite paps, disputing on it both ways. Then taking in his hand a rope of pearl, (The best of France,) he seriously considers, Whether he should dispose it on her arm, Or on her neck ; with twenty other trifles, Too tedious to deliver. Beauf. sen. I have known him From his first youth, but never yet observed, In all the passages of his life and fortunes, Virtues so mix'd with vices: valiant the world speaks him, But with that, bloody ; liberal in his gifts too, THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 173 But to maintain his prodigal expense, A fierce extortioner; an impotent lover Of women for a flash, 4 but, his fires quench'd, Hating as deadly : the truth is, I am not Ambitious of this match ; nor will I cross you In your affections. Beauf . jun. I have ever found you (And 'tis my happiness) a loving father, [Loud music. And careful of my good : by the loud music, As you gave order, for his entertainment, He's come into the house. Two long hours since, The colonels, commissioners, and captains, To pay him all the rites his worth can challenge, Went to wait on him hither. Enter Malefort, Montaigne, Chamont, La- nour, Montreville, Theocrine, Usher, Page, and Waiting-women. Beauf. sen. You are most welcome, And what I speak to you, does from my heart Disperse itself to all. Malef You meet, my lord, Your trouble. Beauf. sen. Rather, sir, increase of honour, When you are pleased to grace my house. Beau), jun. The favour Is doubled on my part, most worthy sir, Since your fair daughter, my incomparable mistress, Deigns us her presence. Malef. View her well, brave Beaufort, an impotent lover Of women for a flash, &c] Wild, fierce, uncontrollable in hit passions ; this is a Latinism, impotent amoris, and is a Tory strong expression. 174 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. But yet at distance ; you hereafter may Make your approaches nearer, when the priest Hath made it lawful : and were not she mine, I durst aloud proclaim it, Hymen never Put on his saffron-colour'd robe, to change A barren virgin name, with more good omens Than at her nuptials. Look on her again, Then tell me if she now appear the same, That she was yesterday. Beauf. sen. Being herself, She cannot but be excellent; these rich And curious dressings, which in others might Cover deformities, from her take lustre, Nor can add to her. Malef. You conceive her right, And in your admiration of her sweetness, You only can deserve her. Blush not, girl, Thou art above his praise, or mine ; nor can Obsequious Flattery, though she should use Her thousand oil'd tongues to advance thy worth, Give aught, (for that's impossible,) but take from Thy more than human graces ; and even then, "When she hath spent herself with her best strength, The wrong she has done thee shall be so ap- parent, That, losing her own servile shape and name, She will be thought Detraction : but I Forget myself; and something whispers to me, I have said too much. Mont. I know not what to think on't, But there's some mystery in it, which 1 fear Will be too soon discover'd. Malef. I much wrong Your patience, noble sir, by too much hugging My proper issue, and, like the foolish crow, Believe my black brood swans. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 175 Beauf. sen. There needs not, sir, The least excuse for this; nay, I must have Your arm, you being the master of the feast, And this the mistress. Theoc. I am any thing That you shall please to make me. Beauf. jun. Nay, 'tis yours, Without more compliment. Mont.* Your will's a law, sir. [Loud music. Exeunt Beaufort senior, Malc- jort, Theocrine, Beaufort junior, Montaigne, Chamont, Lanour, Montreville. Ush. Would I had been born a lord ! 1. lVom. Or I a lady! Page. It may be you were both begot in court, Though bred up in the city ; for your mothers, As I have heard, loved the lobby ; and there, nightly, Are seen strange apparitions : and who knows But that some noble faun, heated with wine, And cloy'd with partridge, had a kind of longing To trade in sprats? this needs no exposition : But can you yield a reason for your wishes? Ush. Why, had I been born a lord, I had been no servant. 1. lVom. And whereas now necessity makes us waiters, We had been attended on. 9. Worn. And might have slept then As long as we pleased, and fed when we had stomachs, And worn new clothes, nor lived as now, in hope Of a enst gown, or petticoat. Page. You are fools, And ignorant of your happiness. Ere T was * Mont.] So the old ropy : it must, howerer, be a niistak* for T/icoc. or rather, perhaps, for Malt/. 176 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Sworn to the pantofle, 6 1 have heard my tutor Prove it by logic, that a servant's life Was better than his master's ; and by that I learn'd from him, if that my memory fail not, I'll make it good. Ush. Proceed, my little wit In decimo sexto. Page. Thus then : From the king To the beggar, by gradation, all are servants ; And you must grant, the slavery is less To study to please one, than many. Ush. True. Page. Well then; and first to you, sir: you complain You serve one lord,but your lord serves a thousand, Besides his passions, that are his worst masters ; You must humour him, and he is bound to sooth Every grim sir above him: 7 if he frown, For the least neglect you fear to lose your place ; But if, and with all slavish observation, From the minion's self, to the groom of his close- stool, He hourly seeks not favour, he is sure To be eased of his office, though perhaps he bought it. Ere I was Sworn to the pantofle,] i. e taken from attending in the por- ter's lodge, (which seems to hare been the first degree of servi- tude,) to wait on Theocrine. 7 he is bound to sooth Every grim sir above him :] Grim sir, Mr. Dodsley injudici- ously altered to trim sir ; for this he is honoured with the ap- probation of Coxeter ; though nothing can be more certain than that the old reading is right. Skelton calls Wolsey a grim sire, and Fletcher has a similar expression in the Elder Brother : " Cowsy. It is a faith 11 That we will die in ; since from the blackguard " To the s;rim sir, in office, there are few " Hold other tenets." THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 177 Nay, more; that high disposer of all such That are subordinate to him, serves and fears The fury of the many -headed monster, The giddy multitude : and as a horse Is still ahorse, for all his golden trappings, So your men of purchased titles, at their best, are But serving-men in rich liveries. Ush. Most rare infant ! Where learnd'st thou this morality ? Page. Why, thou dull pate, As I told thee, of my tutor. 2. Worn. Now for us, boy. Page. I am cut off: the governor. Enter Beaufort senior and Beaufort junior; Servants setting forth a banquet. Beauf. sen. Quick, quick, sirs. See all things perfect. Sera. Let the blame be ours else. Beauf. sen. And, as I said, when we are at the banquet, And high in our cups, for 'tis no feast without it, Especially among soldiers ; Theocrine Being retired, as that's no place for her, Take you occasion to rise from the table, And lose no opportunity. Becuf.jun. 'Tis my purpose ; And if I can win her to give her heart, I have a holy man in readiness To join our hands ; for the admiral, her father, Repents him of his grant to me, and seems So tar transported with a strange opinion Of lu j r fair features, that, should we defer it, I think, ere long, he will believe, and .strongly, The dauphin is not worthy of her : I Am much amazed with't. vol. i. N* 178 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Beauf. sen. Nay, dispatch there, fellows. [Exeunt Beaufort senior and Beaufort junior. Serv. We are ready, when you please. Sweet forms,* your pardon ! It has been such a busy time, I could not Tender that ceremonious respect Which you deserve ; but now, the great work ended, I will attend the less, and with all care Observe and serve you. Page. This is a penn'd speech, And serves as a perpetual preface to A dinner made of fragments. Ush. We wait on you. [Exeunt. SCENE III. The same. A Banquet set forth. Loud music. Enter Beaufort senior, Malefort, Montaigne, Chamont, Lanour, Beaufort, junior, Montreville, and Servants. Beauf. sen. You are not merry, sir. Malef. Yes, my good lord, You have given us ample means to drown all cares : And yet I nourish strange thoughts, which I would Most willingly destroy, [Aside. Beauf. sen. Pray you, take your place. 8 Sweet forms, &c] This is a paltry play on words. The forms meant by the servant, are the benches on which the guests were to sit. The trite pedantry of the speech is well exposed by the Page. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 179 Beauf jun. And drink a health ; and let it be, if yon please, To the worthiest of women. Now observe him. Malef. Give me the bowl; since you do me the honour, 1 will begin it. Cham. May we know her name, sir? Malef. You shall; I will not choose a foreign queen's, Nor yet our own, for that would relish of Tame flattery; nor do their height of title, Or absolute power, confirm their worth and goodness, These being heaven's gifts, and frequently con- fer r'd On such as are beneath them ; nor will I Name the king's mistress, howsoever she In his esteem may carry it : but if I, As wine gives liberty, may use my freedom, Not sway'd this way or that, with confidence, (And I will make it good on any equal,) If it must be to her whose outward form Is better'd by the beauty of her mind, She lives not that with justice can pretend An interest to this so sacred health, But my fair daughter. He that only doubts it, I do pronounce a villain : this to her, then. [Drinks. Mont. What may we think of this ? Jkaiif. sen. It matters not. Lan. For my part, I will sooth him, rather than Draw on a quarrel.' Draw on a quarrel ] This has hitherto boon printed, Draw on a quarrel, Chamont ; and the next p'icl> ^ivrn to Montreville. It is not very probahir that the I a (.tor should re- ply to an obsfTration addressed to Chamont, with whom he does not appear to be familiar : and besides, the excess of metre seems 180 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Cham. It is the safest course ; And one I mean to follow. Beauf. jun. It has gone round, sir. [Exit. Makf. Now you have done her right ; if there be any Worthy to second this, propose it boldly, I am your pledge. Beauf. sen. Let's pause here, if you please, And entertain the time with something else. Music there ! in some lofty strain ; the song too That I gave order for; the new one, call'd The Soldier's Delight. [Music and a song. Enter Belgarde in armour, a case of carbines by his side. Belg. Who stops me now ? Or who dares only say that I appear not In the most rich and glorious habit that Renders a man complete ? What court so set off With state and ceremonious pomp, but, thus Accoutred, 1 may enter? Or what feast, Though all the elements at once were ransack'd To store it with variety transcending The curiousness and cost on Trajan's birthday ; (Where princes only, and confederate kings, Did sit as guests, served and attended on By the senators of Rome,) at which 1 a soldier, to prove that the name has slipt from the margin of the succeed- ing line into the text of this. 1 at which a soldier, &c] The old copy reads, sat with a soldier. The emendation, which is a very happy one, was made by Mr. M. Mason. The corruption is easily accounted for : the printer mistook the second parenthesis for an/, and hav- ing given fat for at, was obliged to alter the next word, to make sense of the line. This will be understood at once by a reference THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 181 In this his natural and proper shape, Might not, and boldly, fill a seat, and by His presence make the great solemnity More honour'd and remarkable? Btauf. sen. Tis acknowledged ; And this a grace done to me unexpected. Mont. But why in armour? Male/. What's the mystery ? Pray you, reveal that. 'Belg. Soldiers out of action, That very rare ***** * * * * * but, like unbidden guests, Bring their stools with them, for their own de- fence, to the quarto, where the first parenthesis only appears, which was therefore omitted by the succeeding editors. I know not where Massinger found this anecdote of Trajan ; he was, indeed, a magnificent, and, in some cases, an ostentatious prince ; but neither his pride, nor his prudence, I believe, would have al- lowed the " senators of Rome'' to degrade themselves by wait- ing on the allies of the republic. * Bclg. Suidins out of action, That very rare ******* ****** tf j ifa unbidden guests, Bring their stools with them, &c] So I have ventured to print this passage, being persuaded that a line is lost. The breaks cannot be filled up, but the sense might be, Soldiers out of action, that very rarely find scats reserved for them, i. e. are invited, but like, Sec. How the modern editors understood this passage, I know not, but they all give it thus : Belg. Soldiers out of action, That very rare, but like unbidden guests Bring &c. The singular custom of uninvited or unexpected guests bring, ing seats with them, is frequently noticed by the writers of Mas- singer's time. Thus Rowley : '* Widow. What copesmatc's this trow ?" (pt>aking of Young, who had just taken a place at tabic,) " Who let him in ? Jarris. By this light, a fellow of an excellent breeding ! he came unbidden, and brought his stool with him." Match at Midnight. And it appears, from a subsequent scene, that this was really the case, for Jarvis says, " What thiuk you 182 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. At court should feed in gauntlets ; 3 they may have Their fingers cut else: there your carpet knights, That never charged beyond a mistress' lips, Are still most keen, and valiant. But to you, of the gentleman (Young) that brought a stool with him out of the hall, and sat down at dinner with you in the parlour ?' It is probable that the practice originated in necessity. Our ancient houses were not much encumbered with furniture, and the little which they had, was moved from place to place as occasion required ; an unexpected guest, therefore, was obliged to provide for his own accommodation. A singular instance of this occurs in the story of Ursini, duke of Brachiano. The circumstance, which is matter of fact, is thus told in Webster's White Devil: Fron. A chair there for his lordship! Brack. [ laying a rich gown under him'} Forbear, Forbear your kindness ; an unbidden guest Should travel as Dutch women go to church, Bear their stool with them. It is likewise noticed by Howell, in a passage almost too solemn for this occasion. Of the Holy Sacrament, and the Soul, he says : " She need not bring her stool, As some unbidden fool ; The master of this heavenly feast Invites and woos her for his guest." Lib. iii. lett. 4. 3 -for their own defence. At court should feed in gauntlets ; they may have Their fingers cut else :] Here is the bon-mot for which Quin was so much celebrated ; that " at city feasts it was neither safe nor prudent to help one's self without a basket-hilted knife." Massinger got it, I suppose, from Barclay's second Eclogue, which has great merit for the time in which it was written : " If the dishe be plcasaunt eyther fleshe or fishe, " Ten handes at once swarme in the dishe " To put there thy handes is peril without fayle, " Without a gauntlet, or els a glove of maylt ; "Among all those knives, thou one of both must hare, ** Or els it is harde thy fingers to save/' Where Barclay found it, I cannot tell ; but there is something of the kind in Diogenes Laertius. " There is nothing new under the sun !" THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 183 Whom it does most concern, my lord, I will Address my speech, and, with a soldier's freedom, In my reproof, return the bitter scoff You threw upon my poverty : you contemn'd My coarser outside, and from that concluded (As by your groom you made me understand) I was unworthy to sit at your table, Among these tissues and embroideries. Unless I changed my habit : I have done it, And shew myself in that which I have worn In the heat and fervour of a bloody fight ; And then it was in fashion, not as now, Ridiculous and despised. This hath past through A wood of pikes, and every oneaim'd at it, Yet scorn'd to take impression from their fury : With this, as still you see it, fresh and new, I've charged through fire that would have singed your sables, Black fox, and ermines, and changed the proud colour Of scarlet, though of the right Tyrian die. But now, as if the trappings made the man, Such only are admired that come adorn'd With what's no part of them. This is mine own, My richest suit, a suit I must not part from, But not regarded now : and yet remember, 'Tis we that bring you in the means of feasts, Banquets, and revels, which, when you possess, With barbarous ingratitude you deny us To be made sharers in the harvest, which Our sweat and industry reap'd, and sow'd for you. The silks you wear, we with our blood spin for you ; This massy plate, that with the ponderous weight Does make your cupboards crack, we (unaf- frighted With tempests, or the long and tedious way, 184 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Or dreadful monsters of the deep, that wait With open jaws still ready to devour us,) Fetch from the other world. Let it not then, In after ages, to your shame he spoken, That you, with no relenting eyes, look on Our wants that feed your plenty : or consume, In prodigal and wanton gifts on drones, The kingdom's treasure, yet detain from us The debt that with the hazard of our lives, We have made you stand engaged for ; or force us, Against all civil government, in armour To require that, which with all willingness Should be tender'd ere demanded. Beauf. sen. I commend This wholesome sharpness in you, and prefer it Before obsequious tameness ; it shews lovely : Nor shall the rain of your good counsel fall Upon the barren sands, but spring up fruit, 4 Such as you long have wish'd for. And the rest Of your profession, like you, discontented For want of means, shall, in their present,pay ment, Be bound to praise your boldness : and hereafter 1 will take order you shall have no cause, For want of change, to put your armour on, But in the face of an enemy ; not as now, Among your friends. To that which is due to you, To furnish you like yourself, of mine own bounty I'll add five hundred crowns. Cham. I, to my power, Will follow the example. Mont. Take this, captain, 'Tis all my present store ; but when you please, Command me further. + but spring up fruit^] i. e. cause it to spring np. This sense of the word is familiar to Massinger and his contem- poraries. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 185 Lan. I could wish it more. Belg. This is the luckiest jest ever came from me. I et a soldier use no other scribe to draw The form of his petition. This will speed When your thrice-humble supplications, With prayers for increase of health and honours To their grave lordships, shall, as soon as read, Be pocketed up, the cause no more remember'd: When this dumb rhetoric [Aside.] Well, I have a life, Which I, in thankfulness for your great favours, My noble lords, when you please to command it, Must never think mine own. Broker, be happy, These golden birds fly to thee. [Exit. Bcauf. sen. You are dull, sir, And seem not lo be taken with the passage You saw presented. MaleJ. Passage ! I observed none, My thoughts were elsewhere busied. Ha! she is In danger to be lost, to be lost for ever, If speedily I come not to her rescue, For so my genius tells me. Montr. What chimeras Work on your fantasy ? Male/'. Fantasies! they are truths. Where is my Theocrine? you have plotted To rob me of my daughter ; bring me to her, Or I'll call down the saints to witness for me, You are inhospitable. lieauj. sen. You amaze me. Your (laughter's safe, and now exchanging courtship With my son, her servant. 5 Why do you hear this * Your daughter's safe, and now exchanging courlihip l\ ith my sun, her servant.] Servant was at this time the in- 186 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. With such distracted looks, since to that end You brought her hither? Malef. Tis confess'd I did ; But now, pray you, pardon me ; and, if you please, Ere she delivers up her virgin fort, I would observe what is the art he uses In planting his artillery against it : She is my only care, nor must she yield, But upon noble terms. Beauf. sen. 'Tis so determined. Malef. Yet I am jealous. Mont. Overmuch, I fear. What passions are these ? [Aside. Beauf. sen. Come, I will bring you Where you, with these, if they so please, may see The love-scene acted. Montr. There is something more Than fatherly love in this. \Aside. Mont. We wait upon you. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Another Room in Beaufort's House. Enter Beaufort junior, and Theocrine. Beauf . jun. Since then you, meet my flames with equal ardour, As you profess, it is your bounty, mistress, Nor must I call it debt; yet 'tis your glory, variable terra for a suitor, who, in return, called the object of his addresses, mistress. Thus Shirley, (one example for all,) " Bon. What's the gentleman she has married? " Serv. A man of pretty fortune, that has been " Her servant many years. u Bon. How do you mean, *' Wantonly, or does he serve for wages? " Serv. Neither : I mean her suitor." Hyde Park. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 187 That your excess supplies my want, and makes me Strong in my weakness, which could never be, But in your good opinion. Theoc. You teach me, sir, What I should say; since from your sun of favour, I, like dim Phoebe, in herself obscure, Borrow that light I have. Beauf.jun. Which you return With large increase, since that you will o'ercome, And I dare not contend, were you but pleased To make what's yet divided one. Theoc. I have Already in my wishes; modesty Forbids me to speak more. Beauf.jun. But what assurance, But still without offence, may I demand, That may secure me that your heart and tongue Join to make harmony ? Theoc. Choose any, Suiting your love, distinguished from lust, To ask, and mine to grant. Enter at a distance Beaufokt senior, Malefort, MONTREVILLE, Olid the rest. Beauf. sen. Yonder they are. Alalef. At distance too ! 'tis yet well. Beauf.jun. I may take then This hand, and with a thousand burning kisses, Swear 'tis the anchor to my hopes ? Theoc. You may, sir. Alalef. Somewhat too much. Beauf.jun. And this done, view myself In these true mirrors ? Theoc. Ever true to you, sir : And may they lose the ability of sight, When they seek other object! 183 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Malef. 'This is more Than I can give consent to. Beauf.jun. And a kiss Thus printed on your lips, will not distaste you r* Malef. Her lips ! Montr. Why, where should he kiss? are you distracted ? Beauf . jun. Then, when this holy man hath made it lawful [Brings in a Priest. Malef. A priest so ready too ! I must hreak in. Beauf.jun. And what's spoke here is register'd above; I must engross those favours to myself Which are not to be named. Theoc. All I can give, But what they are I know not. Beauf.jun. I'll instruct you. Malef. O how my blood boils ! Montr. Pray you, contain yourself; Methinks his courtship's modest/ Beauf jun. Then being mine, And wholly mine, the river of your love To kinsmen and allies, nay, to your father, (Howe'er out of his tenderness he admires you,) Must in the ocean of your affection To me, be swallow'd up, and want a name, Compared with what you owe me. Theoc. Tis most fit, sir. 6 Beauf. jun. And a kiss Thus printed on your lips, will not distaste you f] i. e. displease you: the word perpetually recurs in this sense. "I Methinks his courtship's modest."] For his the modern editors have this. The change is unnecessary. The next speech, as Mr. Gilchrist observes, bears a distant resemblance to the first sonnet of Daniel to Delia : " Unto the boundlesse ocean of thy beautie " Runnes this poor river, charg'd with streames of zeale, " Returning thee the tribute of my dutie, " Which here my love, ray truth, my plaints reveale." THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 189 The stronger bond that binds me to you, must Dissolve the weaker. Male/. I am ruin'd, if I come not fairly off. Beau/', sen. There's nothing wanting But your consent. male/'. Some strange invention aid me ! This ! yes, it must be so. [4side Montr Why do you stagger, When what you secm'dsomuch to wish, is offer'd, Both parties being agreed too? Beauf. sen. I'll not court A grant from you, nor do I wrong your daughter, Though I say my son deserves her. Male/'. Tis far from My humble thoughts to undervalue him I cannot prize too high : for howsoever From my own fond indulgence I have sung Her praises with too prodigal a tongue, That tenderness laid by, I stand confirm'd, All that I fancied excellent in her, Balanced with what is really his own, Holds weight in no proportion. Montr. New turnings ! Beauf. sen. Whither tends this? Malef. Had you observed, my lord, With what a sweet gradation he woo'd, As I did punctually, you cannot blame her, Though sne did listen with a greedy ear To his fair modest offers : but so great A good as then flow'd to her, should have been With more deliberation entertain'd, And not with such haste swallow \\ ; she shall first Consider seriously what the blessing is, And in what ample manner to give thanks for't, And then receive it. And though I shall think Short minutes years, till it be perfected,* * till it dc perfected,] The old orthography \\a 190 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. I will defer that which I most desire ; And so must she, till longing expectation, That heightens pleasure, makes her truly know Her happiness, and with what outstretch'd arms She must embrace it. Beauf jun. This is curiousness Beyond example. 1 Malef. Let it then begin From me : in what's mine own I'll use my will, And yield no further reason. I lay claim to The liberty of a subject. [Rushes forward and seizes Theoc] Fall not off, But be obedient, or by the hair I'll drag thee home. Censure me as you please, I'll take my own way. O, the inward fires That, wanting vent, consume me ! [Exit with Theocrine. Montr. Tis most certain He's mad, or worse. Beauf. sen. How worse ? Montr. Nay, there I leave you ; My thoughts are free. Beauf. jun. This I foresaw. Beauf. sen. Take comfort, He shall walk in clouds, but I'll discover him : And he shall find and feel, if he excuse not, And with strong reasons, this gross injury, I can make use of my authority. [Exeunt. perfitted, a mode of spelling much better adapted to poetry, and which I am sorry we have suffered to grow obsolete. 1 Beauf. jun. This is curiousness Beyond example.] i. e. a refined and over scrupulous considera- tion of the subject. So the word is frequently used by our old writers. * Beauf. sen. How worse ?] This short speech is not appro- priated in the old copy. Dodsley gives it to the present speaker, and is evidently right. M. Mason follows Coxeter, who gives it to no one ! THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 191 ACT IV. SCENE I. A Room in Malefort's House, Enter Male fort. What flames are these my wild desires fan in me ? The torch that feeds them was not lighted at Thy altars, Cupid : vindicate thyself, And do not own it ; and confirm it rather, That this infernal hrand, that turns me cinders, Was by the snake-hair'd sisters thrown into My guilty bosom. O that I was ever Accurs'd in having issue ! my son's blood, (That like the poison'd shirt of Hercules Grows to each part about me,) which my hate Forced from him with much willingness, may admit Some weak defence; but my most impious love To my fair daughter Theocrine, none; Since my affection (rather wicked lust) That does pursue her, is a greater crime Than any detestation, with which I should afflict her innocence. With what cunning I have betray 'd myself, 1 and did not feel The scorching heat that now with fury rages ! Why was I tender of her? cover'd with That fond disguise, this mischief stole upon me. I thought it no offence to kiss her often, With what cunning I have bet ray' d myself, <$-c] 1 ha?e cursorily said in a subse- quent scene, that Male fort bad bfcn studying Ovid : but the speech before as is so dote a translation of the description of 192 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Or twine mine arms about her softer neck, 5 And by false shadows of a father's kindness I long deceived myself: but now the effect Is too apparent. How I strove to be In her opinion held the worthiest man In courtship, form, and feature! envying him That was preferr'd before me ; and yet then the fatal passion of Byblis, that the reader, perhaps, may not dislike the opportunity of comparing a few lines : Ilia quidem primb nallos intelligit ignes ; Nee peccare putat, quod scepius oscula jungat : Quod suafraterno circumdet brachia collo : Mendacique diu pietatis fallitur umbrd. Paullatim declinat amor ; visuraque fratrem Culta venit ; nimiumque cupit formosa videri: Et, si qua est illic formosior, invidet Mi. Sed nondum manifesta sibi est ; nullumque sub Mo Ignefacit votum; verumtamen cestuat intus. Jam dominum adpellat ; jam nomina sanguinis odit : Byblida jam mavult, quam se vocet Me sororem. Spes tamen obsccenas ammo demittere non est Ausa suo vigilans, placidd resoluta quiete Scepe videt, quodamat, visa est quoque jungere fratri Corpus ; et erubuit, quamvis sopita jacebat. Metam. Lib. ix. 456. * Or twine mine arms about her softer neck,] i. e. her soft neck : our old poets frequently adopt, and indeed with singular good taste, the comparative for the positive. Thus, in a very pretty passage in the Combat of Love and Friendship, by R. Mead : "When I shall sit circled within your armes, " How shall I cast a blemish on your honour, ** And appear onely like some falser stone, a Placed in a ring of gold, which grows a jewel " But from the seat which holds it!" And indeed Massinger himself furnishes numerous instances of this practice ; one occurs just below : " which your gentler temper, *' On my submission, I hope, will pardon." Another we have already had, in the Virgin-Martyr : '* Judge not my readier will by the event." THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 193 My wishes to myself were not discover'd. But still my fires increased, and with delight I would call her mistress,' willingly forgetting The name of daughter, choosing rather she Should style me servant, than, with reverence, father : Yet, waking, I ne'er cherish'd obscene hopes, 6 But in my troubled slumbers often thought She was too near to me, and then sleeping blush'd At my imagination ; which pass'd, (My eyes being open not condemning it,) I was ravish'd with the pleasure of the dream. Yet, spite of these temptations, I have reason That pleads against them, and commands me to Extinguish these abominable fires: And I will do it ; I will send her back To him that loves her lawfully. Within there ! Enter Theocrine. Theoc. Sir, did you call? Makf. I look no sooner on her, But all my boasted power of reason leaves me, And passion again usurps her empire. Does none else wait me? Theoc. I am wretched, sir, Should any owe more duty. Makf. This is* worse Than disobedience; leave me. ' / would call her mistress, &c] Sec p. 135. 6 Yat, waking. J ne'er ihcrish'd obscene fiopcs,] The old copy reads, Yet working, if this be the genuine word, it must mean " notwithstanding my wanton abuse of the terms mentioned above, I never cherished," &c. ; this is certainly not defectiteili sense; but the rest of the sentence rails so loudly for xjaking, (in allusion to the vigilant of the quotation above) that I hare not scrupled to insert it in the text; the corruption, at the press, was sufficiently easy. VOL. I. O * 194 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Theoc. On my knees, sir, As I have ever squared my will by yours, And liked and loath'd with your eyes, I beseech you To teach me what the nature of my fault is, That hath incens'd you ; sure 'tis one of weak- ness And not of malice, which your gentler temper, On my submission, I hope, will pardon : Which granted by your piety, if that I, Out of the least neglect of mine hereafter, Make you remember it, may I sink ever Under your dread command, sir. Malef. O my stars ! Who can but doat on this humility, That sweetens Lovely in her tears ! The fetters That seem'd to lessen in their weight but now, 7 By this grow heavier on me. [Aside. Theoc. Dear sir 7 O my stars ! Who can but doat on this humility, That sweetens Lovely in her tears ! The fetters. That seem'd to lessen in their "weight but now. By this grow heavier on me.] So I venture to point the passage : it is abrupt, and denotes the distracted state of the speaker's mind. It stands thus in Mr. M. Mason : Malef. my slars ! who can but doat on this humility That sweetens (lovely in her tears) the fetters That seem'd to lessen in their weight ; but now By this grow heavier on me. Coxeter follows the old copies, which only differ from this, in placing a note of interrogation after tears. Both are evidently wrong, because unintelligible. The reader must not be surprised at the portentous verse which begins the quotation from Mr. M. Mason. Neither he, nor Coxeter, nor Dodsley, seems to have had the smallest solici- tude (I will not say knowledge) respecting the metre of their author : and Massinger, the most harmonious of poets, appears, in their desultory pages, as untuneable as Marston or Donne. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 195 Malef. Peace ! I must not hear thee. Theoc. Nor look on me ? Malef. No, Thy looks and words are charms. Theoc. May they have power then To calm the tempest of your wrath ! Alas, sir, Did I but know in what I give offence, In my repentance I would shew my sorrow For what is past, and, in my care hereafter, Kill the occasion, or cease to be : Since life, without your favour, is to me A load I would cast off. Malef. O that my heart Were rent in sunder, that I might expire, The cause in my death buried !* yet I know not With such prevailing oratory 'tis b egg' d from me, That to deny thee would convince me to . Have suck'cl the milk of tigers ; rise, ami I, 'But in a perplex'd and mysterious method, Will make relation. That which all the world Admires and cries up in thee for perfections, Are to unhappy me foul blemishes, And mulcts in nature. If thou hadst been born' * The cause in my death buried ! yet I know not ] Meaning, I apprehend, that his incestuous passion was perhaps suspected. As this passage has been hitherto pointed, it was not to be un- derstood. 8 But in a perplex'd and mysterious method,] Wc have already had this expression from the son : ' ; But in a perplex'd form and method," &c. p. 152. And nothing can more strongly express the character of this most vicious father, whose crimes were too horrible tor his sun to express, and whose wishes arc too flagitious for his daughter to hear. 9 If thou hadsf been born, &c] Thus in King: John : " [f thou, that bid'st me be content, wcrt grim, O 2 * 196 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Deform'd and crooked in the features of Thy body, as the manners of thy mind ; Moor-lipp'd, flat-nosed, dim-eyed, and beetle- brow'd, With a dwarf's stature to a giant's waist; Sour-breath'd, with claws for fingers on thy hands, Splay-footed, gouty-legg'd, and over all A loathsome leprosy had spread itself, And made thee shunn'd of.human fellowships; I had been blest. Theoc. Why, would you wish a monster (For such a one, or worse, you have described) To call you father? Malef. Rather than as now, (Though I had drown'd thee for it in the sea,) Appearing, as thou dost, a new Pandora, With Juno's fair cow-eyes, 1 Minerva's brow, Aurora's blushing cheeks, Hebe's fresh youth, Venus' soft paps, with Thetis' silver feet. Theoc. Sir, you have liked and loved them, and oft forced, With your hyperboles of praise pour'd on them, My modesty to a defensive red, u Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb, " Full of unpleasing blots, and sightless stains, a Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, " Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offending marks, '* I would not care, I then would be content; u For then I should not love thee;" Coxeter. * With Juno's fair cow-eyes, &c] These lines are an imme- diate translation from a pretty Greek epigram : Ty? /*? Ilafwi;, ret is QetiSoj, &C. Dodd. These cow-eyes, however, make but a sorry kind of an appear- ance in English poetry ; but so it ever will be when the figura- tive terms of one language are literally applied to another. Sea the Emperor of the East, Vol. III. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 197 Strew'd o'er that paleness, which you then were pleased To style the purest white. Malef. And in that cup I drank the poison I now feel dispersed Through every vein and artery. Wherefore art thou So cruel to me? This thy outward shape Brought a fierce war against me, not to be By flesh and blood resisted : but to leave me No'hope of freedom, from the magazine Of thy mind's forces, treacherously thou drew'st up Auxiliary helps to strengthen that Which was already in itself too potent. Thy beauty gave the first charge, but thy duty, Seconded with thy care and watchful studies To please, and serve my will, in all that might Raise up content in me, like thunder brake through All opposition ; and, my ranks of reason Disbanded, my victorious passions fell To bloody execution, and compell'd me With willing hands to tie on my own chains, And, with a kind of flattering joy, to glory In my captivity. Tkeoc. I, in this you speak, sir, Am ignorance itself. Male/'. And so continue ; For knowledgeof thearmsthou bear'st against me, Would make thee curse thyself, butyield no aids For thee to help me: and 'twere cruelty In mc to wound that spotless innocence, Howe'er it make me guilty. In a word, Thy plurisy* of goodness is thy ill; *Thy plurisy of goodness is thy ill ;] i. c. thy superabundance of goodness : the thought is from Shakspcare : '* For goodness, growing to a plurisy , " Dies in his own too much." 298 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Thy virtues vices, and thy humble lowness Far worse than stubborn sullenness and pride ; Thy looks, that ravish all beholders else, As killing as the basilisk's, thy tears, Express'd in sorrow for the much I suffer, A glorious insultation, 3 and no sign Of pity in thee ; and to hear thee speak In thy defence, though but in silent action, Would make the hurt, already deeply fester'd, Incurable : and therefore, as thou wouldst not By thy presence raise fresh furies to torment me, I do conjure thee by a father's power, (And 'tis my curse I dare not think it lawful To sue unto thee in a nearer name,) Without reply to leave me. Theoc. My obedience Never learn'd yet to question your commands, But willingly to serve them ; yet I must, Since that your will forbids the knowledge of My fault, lament my fortune. [Exit, Male/. O that I Have reason to discern the better way, And yet pursue the worse ! 4 When I look on her, I burn with heat, and in her absence freeze With the cold blasts of jealousy, that another Should e'er taste those delights that are denied me ; And which of these afflictions brings less torture, I hardly can distinguish : Is there then No mean? no j, so my understanding tells me, 3 A glorious insultation ,J See p. 142. * Malef. that I Have reason to discern the better way } And yet pursue the worse /] This had been said before by Medea : video meliora, proboque, Deteriora sequor. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 199 And that by my cross fates it is determined That I am both ways wretched. Enter Usher and Montreville. Ush. Yonder he walks, sir, In much vexation : he hath sent my lady, His daughter, weeping in ; hut what the cause is, Rests yet in supposition. Montr I guess at it, But must be further satisfied ; I will sift him In private, therefore quit the room. Ush. I am gone, sir. [Exit. Male/. Ha! who disturbs me? Montreville! your pardon. Montr. Would you could grant one to your- self ! I speak it With the assurance of a friend, and yet, Before it be too late, make reparation Of the gross wrong your indiscretion offer'd To the governor and his son ; nay, to yourself; For there begins my sorrow. Male/. Would I had No greater cause to mourn, than their displeasure! For I dare justify Montr. We must not do 5 All that we dare. We're private, friend. I ob- served Your alterations with a stricter eye, Perhaps, than others; and, to lose no time In repetition, your strange demeanour To your sweet daughter. Male/'. Would you could find out Some other theme to treat of! * We must not do &c] This and the two next speeches arc jumbled entirely out of metre by the modern editors. It seems odd that they should not know whether they were printing proso or ?crsc. 200 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Montr. None but this ; And this I'll dwell on ; how ridiculous, And subject to construction Malef. No more ! Montr. You made yourself, amazes me, and if The frequent trials interchanged between us Of love and friendship, be to their desert Esteem'd by you, as they feold weight with me, No inward trouble should be of a shape So horrid to yourself, but that to me You stand bound to discover it, and unlock Your secret'st thoughts ; though the most inno- cent were Loud crying sins. Malef. And so, perhaps, they are : And therefore be not curious to learn that Which, known, must make you hate me. Montr. Think not so. I am vours in right and wrong; nor shall you "find A verbal friendship in me, but an active ; And here I vow, I shall no sooner know What the disease is, but, if you give leave, I will apply a remedy. Is it madness? 6 I am familiarly acquainted with A deep- read man, that can with charms and herbs Restore you to your reason : or, suppose You are bewitch'd, he with more potent spells 6 I am familial >ly acquainted "with a deep-read man, That can with charms and herbs] So the lines stand in all the editions: upon which Mr. M Mason remarks, for the first and only time, that the metre requires a different division. This is well thought of! In his edition, the Unnatural Combat stands towards the end of the third volume, and, to speak moderately, I have already corrected his versification in a hundred places within the compass of as many pages : nay, of the little which has passed since the entrance of Montreville, nearly a moiety has undergone a new arrangement. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 201 And magical rites shall cure you. Is't heaven's anger? With penitence and sacrifice appease it. Beyond this, there is nothing that I can Imagine dreadful : in your fame and fortunes You are secure ; your impious son removed too, That render'd you suspected to the state ; And your fair daughter Malef. Oh ! press me no further. Montr. Are you wrung there ! Why, what of her ? hath she Made shipwreck of her honour, or conspired Against your life ? or seal'd a contract with The devil of hell, for the recovery of Her young Inamorato ? Malef. None of these ; And yet, what must increase the wonder in you, Being innocent in herself, she hath wounded me ; But where, enquire not. Yet, I know not how I am persuaded, from my confidence Of your vow'd love to me, to trust you with My clearest secret ; pray you chide me for it, But with a kind of pity, not insulting On my calamity. Montr. Forward. Malef. This same daughter Montr. What is her fault ? Malef. She is too fair to me. Montr. Ha ! how is this ? Malef. And I have look'd upon her More than a father should, and languish to Enjoy her as a husband. Montr. Heaven forbid it ! Malef. And this is all the comfort you can give me ! Where are your promised aids, your charms, your herbs, 202 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Your deep-read scholar's spells and magic rites? Can all these disenchant me? No, I must be My own physician, and upon myself Practise a desperate cure, Montr. Do not contemn me : Enjoin me what you please, with any hazard I'll undertake it. What means have you practised To quench this hellish fire ? Male/. All I could think on, But to no purpose ; and yet sometimes absence Does yield a kind of intermission to The fury of the fit. Montr. See her no more, then. Malef. 'Tis my last refuge ; and 'twas my intent, And still 'tis, to desire your help. Montr. Command it. Malef. Thus then : you have a fort, of which you are The absolute lord, whither, I pray you, bear her: And that the sight of her may not again Nourish those flames, which I feel something lessen'd, By all the ties of friendship I conjure you, And by a solemn oath you must confirm it, That though my now calm'd passions should rage higher Than ever heretofore, and so compel me Once more to wish to see her ; though I use Persuasions mix'd with threatnings, (nay, add to it, That I, this failing, should with hands held up thus, Kneel at your feet, and bathe them with my tears,} Prayers or curses, vows or imprecations, Only to look upon her, though at distance, You still must be obdurate* Montr. If it be THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 03 Your pleasure, sir, that I shall be unmoved, I will endeavour. Malef. You must swear to be Inexorable, as you would prevent The greatest mischief to your friend, that fate Could throw upon him. Montr. Well, I will obey you. But how the governor will be answer'd yet, And 'tis material, is not consider'd. Malef. Leave that to me. I'll presently give order How you shall surprise her; be not frighted with Her exclamations. Montr. Be you constant to Your resolution, I will not fail In what concerns my part. Malef. Be ever bless'd for't ! [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Street. Enter Beaufort junior, Chamont, and Lanoub. Cham. Not to be spoke with, say you ? BeauJ'.jun. No. Lan. Nor you Admitted to have conference with her? Beauf. jun. Neither. His doors are fast lock'd up, and solitude Dwells round about them, no access allow'd To friend or enemy ; but Cham. Nay, be not moved, sir; 204 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Let his passion work, and, likeahot-rein'd horse,* 'Twill quickly tire itself. Beauf. jun. Or in his death, Which, for her sake, till now I have forborn, I will revenge the injury he hath done to My true and lawful love. Lan. How does your father, The governor, relish it? Beauf . jun. Troth, he never had Affection to the match ; yet in his pity To me, he's gone in person to his house, Nor will he he denied ; and if he find not Strong and fair reasons, Malefort will hear from him In a kind he does not look for. Cham. In the mean time, Pray you put on cheerful looks. Enter Montaigne. Beauf. jun. Mine suit my fortune. Lan. O, here's Montaign. Mont. I never could have met you More opportunely. I'll not stale the jest By my relation; 9 but if you will look on and, like a hot-rein' d horse^ 'Twill quickly tire itself. ,] This is from Shakspeare, li Anger is like il A fullhot horse, who being allow'd his way, irks stuff 'd with straw, ** Number a hundred forty nine dead pays, " And thank heaven for your arithmetic ? " Cannot yon clothe your, ragged infantry *< With cabbage locates? devour the reckonings, " And grow fat in the ribs, but you must hinder " Poor ancients from eating warm beef?" The Siege, Act III. 208 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Let courtiers 2 trip like courtiers, and your lords Of dirt and dunghills mete their woods and acres, In velvets, satins, tissues ; but keep you Constant to cloth and shamois. Mont. Have you heard Of such a penitent homily? Belg. I am studying now Where I shall hide myself till the rumour of My wealth and bravery vanish : 3 let me see, There is a kind of vaulting-house not far off, Where I used to spend my afternoons, among Suburb she-gamesters ; and yet, now I think on't, I have crack'd a ring or two there, which they made Others to solder : No Enter a Bawd, and two Courtezans with two Children. 1. Court. O ! have we spied you ! Bawd. Upon him without ceremony ! now's the time, While he's in the paying vein. Q. Court. Save^vou, brave captain ! Beauf.jun. 'Slight, how he stares ! they are worse than she-wolves to him. * Let courtiers, &c] The reader will smile at the accurate notions of metre possessed by the former editors : this and the four following lines stand thus in Coxeter, and M. Mason : Let courtiers trip like courtiers, And your lords of dirt and dunghills mete Their woods and acres, in velvets, satins, tissues ; But keep you constant to cloth and shamois. Mont. Have you heard of such a penitent homily ? 3 My wealth and bravery Danish.] Bravery is used by all the writers of Massinger's time, for ostentatious finery of apparel. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 209 Belg. Shame me not in the streets; I was coming to you. 1 Court. O, sir, you may in public pay for the fiddling You had in private. 2 Court. We hear you are full of crowns, sir. 1 Court. And therefore, knowing you are open- handed, Before all be destroy 'd, I'll put you in mind, sir, Of your young heir here. 2 Court. Here's a second, sir, That looks for a child's portion. Band. There are reckonings For muscadine and eggs too, must be thought on. 1 Court. We have not been hasty, sir. Baxcd. But staid your leisure : But now you are ripe, and loaden with fruit 2 Court. Tis fit you should be pull'd ; here's a boy, sir, Pray you, kiss him ; 'tis your own, sir. 1 Court. Nay, buss this first, It hath just your eyes; and such a promising nose, That, if the sign deceive me not, in time Twill prove a notable striker, 4 like his father. Belg. And yet you laid it to another. 1 Court. True, While you were poor ; and it was policy ; But she that has variety of fathers, And makes not choice of him that can maintain it, Ne'er studied Aristotle. 5 Lan. A smart quean ! 'Twill prove a notable striker,] A striker is a wenchcr : the word occurs again in the Parliament of Love. s Ne'er studied Aristotle.] This has been hitherto printed, Ne'er studied Aristotle's problems : a prosaic redundancy, of which erery reader of Malinger will readily acquit him. VOL. I. P * 210 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Belg. Why, braches, will you worry me? 6 2 Court. No, but ease you Of your golden burthen ; the heavy carriage may Bring you to a sweating sickness.* Belg. Very likely ; I foam all o'er already. 1 Court. Will you come oif, sir? 7 Belg. Would I had ne'er come on ! Hear me \ with patience, Or I will anger you. Go to, you know me ; And do not vex me further : by my sins, And your diseases, which are certain truths, Whate'er you think, I am not master, at This instant, of a livre. 6 Belg. Why, braches, will you worry me?] A brache is a female hound. It is strange to see what quantities of paper have been wasted in confounding the sense of this plain word. The pages of Shakspeare, and Jonson, and Fletcher, are incumbered with endless quotations, which generally leave the reader as ignorant as they found him. One, however, which has escaped the commentators, at least the material part of it, is worth all that they have advanced on the word : TheGentlemans Recreation, p.28. " There are in England and Scotland two kinds of hunting dogs, and no where else in the world ; the first kind is called a rache y and this is a foot scenting creature both of wildc-beasts, birds, and fishes also which lie hid among the rocks . Thefemale hereof in England is called a brache: a brache is a mannerlt name for all hound-bitches:" and, when we add, /or all others, it will surely be allowed that enough has been said on the subject. * Bring you to a sweating sickness.] This alludes to a species of pTague, (sudor anglicus,) peculiar, the physicians say, to this country, where it made dreadful ravages in the 16th century. It is frequently mentioned by our old writers. 7 1 Court. Will you come off, sir ?] i. e. Will you pay, sir ? so the word is used by all our old dramatic writers : " if he " In the old justice's suit, whom he robb'd lately, u Will come o^" roundly, we'll set him free too.'' The Widow. Again, in the Wedding, by Shirley : " What was the price you took for Gratiana ? " Did Marwood come off roundly with his wages?" THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 211 2 Court. What, and in Such a glorious suit ! Bclg. The liker, wretched things, To have no money. Bawd. You may pawn your clothes, sir. 1 Court. Will you see your issue starve ? 2 Court. Or the mothers beg? Belg. Why, you unconscionable strumpets, would you have me, Transform my hat to double clouts and biggins? My corselet to a cradle? or my belt To swaddlebands ? or turn my cloak to blaukets? Or to sell my sword and spurs, for soap and candles ? Have you no mercy ? what a chargeable devil We carry in our breeches ! Beauf. jun. Now 'tis time To fetch him off. [They comejorward. Enter Beaufort senior, Mont. Your father does it for us. Bawd. The governor ! Bcauf. sen. What are these ? 1 Court. An it like your lordship, Very poor spinsters. Bawd. I am his nurse and laundress. Belg. You have nurs'd and launder'd me, hell take you for it ! Vanish ! Cham. Do, do, and talk with him hereafter. 1 Court. Tis our best course. 2 Court. We'll find a time to fit him. [Exeunt Bawd and Courtezans. Beauf. sen. Why in this heat, Belgarde? Belg You are the cause oft. Beauf. sen. Who, I ? Belg. Yes, your pied livery and your gold 212 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Draw these vexations on me ; pray you strip me, And let me be as I was : I will not lose The pleasures and the freedom which I had In my certain poverty, for all the wealth Fair Prance is proud of. Beauf. sen. We at better leisure Will learn the cause of this. Beauf. jun. What answer, sir, From the admiral ? Beauf. sen. None ; his daughter is removed To the fort of Montreville, and he himself In person fled, but where, is not discover'd : I could tell you wonders, but the time denies me Fit liberty. In a word, let it suffice The power of our great master is contemn'd, The sacred laws of God and man profaned ; And if I sit down with this injur}', I am unworthy of my place, and thou Of my acknowledgment : draw up all the troops ; As I go, I will instruct you to what purpose. Such as have power to punish, and yet spare, From fear or from connivance, others ill, Though not in act, assist them in their will. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I, A Street near Malefort's House. Enter Montreville and Servants, with Theo- crine, Page, and Waiting- women. Montr. Bind them, and gag their mouths sure ; I alone Will be your convoy. 1 Worn. Madam I THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 213 2 Worn. Dearest lady ! Page. Let me fight for my mistress. Serv. 'Tis in vain, Little cockerel of the kind. Montr. Away with them. And do as I command you. [Exeunt Servants with Page and JVaiting-xuomcn. Theoc. Montreville, You are my father's friend ; nay more, a soldier, And if a right one,, as I hope to find you, Though in a lawful war you had surprised A city, that bow'd humbly to your pleasure, In honour you stand bound to guard a virgin From violence ; but in a free estate, Of which you are a limb, to do a wrong Which noble enemies never consent to, Is such an insolence Montr. How her heart beats !" Much like a partridge in a sparhawk's foot, That with a panting silence does lament The fate she cannot fly from ! Sweet, take com- fort, You are safe, and nothing is intended to you, But love and service. Theoc. They came never clothed In force and outrage. Upon what assurance (Remembering only that my father lives, Who will not tamely suffer the disgrace,) Have you presumed to hurry me from his house, And, as I were not worth the waiting on, To snatch me from the duty and attendance Of my poor servants ? Montr. Let not that afflict you, You shall not want observance ; I will be 8 Montr. How her heart beats! &c] This is a very pretty simile, and, though not altogether new, is made striking by the elegance with which it is expressed. 214 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Your page, your woman, parasite, or fool, Or any other property, provided You answer my affection. Theoc. In what kind ? Montr. As you had done young Beaufort's. Theoc. How ! Montr. So, lady ; Or, if the name of wife appear a yoke Too heavy for your tender neck, so I Enjoy you as a private friend or mistress, 'Twill be sufficient. Theoc. Blessed angels guard me ! What frontless impudence is this ? what devil Hath, to thy certain ruin, tempted thee To orfer me this motion? by my hopes Of after joys, submission nor repentance Shall expiate this foul intent. Montr. Intent! 5 Tis more, I'll make it act. Theoc. Ribald, thou darest not : And if (and with a fever to thy soul) nThou but consider that I have a father, And such a father, as, when this arrives at His knowledge, as it shall, the terror of His vengeance, which as sure as fate must follow, Will make thee curse the hour in which lust taught thee To nourish these bad hopes ; and 'tis my wonder Thou darest forget how tender he is of me, And that each shadow of wrong done to me, Will raise in him a tempest not to be But with thy heart-blood calm'd : this, when I see him Montr. As thou shalt never, Theoc. Wilt thou murder me? Montr. No, no, 'tis otherwise determined, fool. The master which in passion kills his slave THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 215 That may be useful to him, does himself The injury: know, thou most wretched creature, That father thou presumest upon, that father, That, when I sought thee in a noble way, Denied thee to me, fancying in his hope A higher match, from his excess of dotage, Hath in his bowels kindled such a flame Of impious and most unnatural lust, That now he fears his furious desires May force him to do that, he shakes to think on. Theoc. O me, most wretched ! Montr. Never hope again To blast him with those eyes : their gulden beams Are unto him arrows of death and hell, But unto me divine artillery. And therefore, since what I so long in vain Pursued, is oflfer'd to me, and by him Given up to my possession; do not flatter Thyself with an imaginary hope, But that I'll take occasion by the forelock, And make use of my fortune. As we walk, I'll tell thee more. Theoc. I will not stir. Montr. I'll force thee. Theoc. Help, help ! Montr. In vain. Theoc. In me my brother's blood Is punishd at the height. Montr. The coach there! Theoc. Dear sir Montr. Tears, curses, prayers, are alike to me ; I can, and must enjoy my present pleasure, And shall take time to mourn for it at leisure. [He beam her off. 216 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. SCENE II. A Space before the Fort. Enter Malefort. I have play'd the fool, the gross fool, to believe The bosom of a friend will hold a secret, Mine own could not contain ; and my industry In taking liberty from my innocent daughter, Out of false hopes of freedom to myself, Is, in the little help it yields me, punish'd. She's absent, but I have her figure here ; And every grace and rarity about her, Are by the pencil of my memory, In living colours painted on my heart. My fires too, a short interim closed up, Break out with greater fury. Why was I, Since 'twas my fate, and not to be declined, In this so tender-conscienced? Say I had Enjoy'd what I desired, what had it been But incest ? and there's something here that tells me I stand accomptable for greater sins I never check'd at, 8 Neither had the crime Wanted a precedent : I have read in story, 1 9 ' and there's something here that tells me I stand accomptable for greater sins I never check'd at.] These dark allusions to a dreadful fact, are introduced with admirable judgment, as they awaken, with, out gratifying, the curiosity of the reader, and continue the interest of the story. 1 1 have read in story, &c] He had been study- ing Ovid, and particularly the dreadful story of Myrrha. This wretched attempt of Malefort (a Christian, at least in name, we may suppose) to palliate, or defend his meditated crime, by the THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 217 Those first great heroes, that, for their brave deeds, Were in the world's first infancy styled gods, Freely enjoy'd what I denied myself. Old Saturn, in the golden age, embraced His sister Ops, and, in the same degree, The Thunderer Juno, Neptune Thetis, and, By their example, after the first deluge, Deucalion Pyrrha. Universal nature, As every day 'tis evident, allows it To creatures of all kinds : the gallant horse Covers the mare to which he was the sire; The bird with fertile seed gives new increase To her that hatch'd him : why should envious man then Brand that close act, which adds proximity To what's most near him, with the abhorred title Of incest? or our later laws forbid, What by the first was granted? Let old men, That are not capable of these delights, And solemn superstitious fools, prescribe Rules to themselves ; 1 will not curb my freedom, But constantly go on, with this assurance, I but walk in a path which greater men Have trod before me. Ha ! this is the fort: Open the gate ! Within, there ! Enter two Soldiers. 1 Sold. With your pardon We must forbid your entrance. examples of fabulous deities, men in a state of nature, and beasts, is a just and striking picture of the eagerness with which a mind resolved on guilt, ministers to its own deception. This, in the Scripture phraseology, is called, " burdening the heart;" and seems to be the last stage of human depravation. 218 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Malef. Do you know me ? 2 Sold. Perfectly, my lord. Malef. I am [your] captain's friend. 1 Sold. It may be so ; but till we know his pleasure, You must excuse us. 2 Sold. We'll acquaint him with Your waiting here. Malef. Waiting, slave ! he was ever By me commanded. 1 Sold. As we are by him. Malef. So punctual ! pray you then, in my name entreat His presence. 2 Sold. That we shall do. [Exeunt Sold. Malef. I must use Some strange persuasions to work him to Deliver her, and to forget the vows, And horrid oaths I, in my madness, made him Take to the contrary : and may I get her Once more in my possession, I will bear her Into some close cave or desert, where we'll end Our lusts and lives together. Enter Montreville and Soldiers, upon the Walls. Montr. Fail not, on The forfeit of your lives, to execute What I comnand. [Exeunt Soldiers. Malef. Montreville ! how is't friend ? Montr. I am glad to see you wear such cheerful looks ; The world's well alter'd. Malef. Yes, I thank my stars : But methinks thou art troubled. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 219 Montr. Some light cross, But of no moment. Malef. So I hope : beware Of sad and impious thoughts ; you know how far They wrought on me. Montr. No such come near me, sir. I have, like you, no daughter, and much wish You never had been curs'd with one. Malef. Who, I ? Thou art deceived, I am most happy in her. Montr. I am glad to hear it. Malef. My incestuous fires To'ards her are quite burnt out ; I love her now As a father, and no further. Montr. Fix there then Your constant peace, and do not try a second Temptation from her. Malef. Yes, friend, though she were By millions of degrees more excellent In her perfections ; nay, though she could borrow A form angelical to take my frailty, It would not do : and therefore, Montreville, My chief delight next her, I come to tell thee, The governor and I are reconciled, And I confirm'd, and with all possible speed, To make large satisfaction to young Beaufort, And her, whom I have so much wrong'd; and for Thy trouble in her custody, of which I'll now discharge thee, there is nothing in My nerves or fortunes, but shall ever be At thy devotion. Montr. You promise fairly, Nor doubt I the performance; yet I would not Hereafter be reported to have been The principal occasion of your falling Into a relapse : or but suppose, out of 220 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. The easiness of my nature, and assurance You are firm and can hold out, I could consent ; You needs must know there are so many lets* That make against it, that it is my wonder You offer me the motion ; having bound me, With oaths and imprecations, on no terms, Reasons, or arguments, you could propose, I ever should admit you to her sight, Much less restore her to you. Malef. Are we soldiers, And stand on oaths ! Montr. It is beyond my knowledge In what we are more worthy, than in keeping Our words, much more our vows. Malef. Heaven pardon all ! How many thousands, in our heat of wine, Quarrels, and play, and in our younger days, In private I may say, between ourselves, In points of love, have we to answer for, Should we be scrupulous that way ? Montr. You say well : And very aptly call to memory Two oaths, against all ties and rites of friendship, Broken by you to me. Malef. No more of that. Montr. Yes, 'tis material, and to the purpose : The first (and think upon't) was, when I broughtyou As a visitant to my mistress then, (the mother Of this same daughter,) whom, with dreadful words, Too hideous to remember, you swore deeply For my sake never to attempt; yet then, Then, when you had a sweet wife of your own, I know not with what arts, philtres, and charms * You needs must know there are so many lets] i. e. impedi- ments, obstacles, &c. See the Virgin- Martyr ', p. 25. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 221 (Unless in wealth 9 and fame you were above me) You won her from me; and, her grant obtain'd, A marriage with the second waited on The burial of the first, that to the world Brought your dead son: this I sat tamely down by, Wanting, indeed, occasion and power To be at the height revenged. Male/. Yet this you seem'd Freely to pardon. Montr. As perhaps I did. Your daughter Theocrine growing ripe, (Her mother too deceased,) and fit for marriage, I was a suitor for her, had your word, Upon your honour, and our friendship made Authentical, and ratified with an oath, She should be mine: but vows with you being like To your religion, a nose of wax To be turn'd every way, that very day The governor's son but making his approaches Of courtship to her, the wind of your ambition For her advancement, scatter'd the thin sand In which you wrote your full consent to me, And drew you to his party. What hath pass'd since, You bear a register in your own bosom, That can at large inform you. Male/'. Montreville, I do confess all that you charge me with To be strong truth, and that I bring a cause Most miserably guilty, and acknowledge That though your goodness made me mine own judge, I should not shew the least compassion Or mercy to myself. (), let not yet My foulness taint your pureness, or my falsehood Divert the torrent of your loyal faith ! * (Unless in wealth &c] i. c. Unless it uere that in wealth, &c. 222 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. My ills, if not return'd by you, will add Lustre to your much good ; and to o'ercome With noble sufferance, will express your strength, And triumph o'er my weakness. If you please too, My black deeds being only known to you, And, in surrendering up my daughter, buried, You not alone make me your slave, (for I At no part do deserve the name of friend,) But in your own breast raise a monument Of pity to a wretch, on whom with justice You may express all cruelty. Montr. You much move me. Malef. O that I could but hope it! To revenge An injury, is proper to the wishes Of feeble women, that want strength to act it:* But to liave power to punish, and yet pardon, Peculiar to princes. See ! these knees, [Kneels. That have been ever stiff to bend to heaven, To you are supple. Is there aught beyond this That may speak my submission ? or can pride (Though I well know it is a stranger to you) Desire a feast of more humility, To kill her growing appetite ? Montr. I required not To be sought to this poor way ; 4 yet 'tis so far A kind of satisfaction, that I will Dispense a little with those serious oaths To revenge An injury is proper to the wishes Of feeble women, that want strength to act it /] Quippe minuti Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas Ultio. Continub sic collige, qubd vindicta Nemo magis gaudet, quam fcemina. Juv. Sat. xiii. 192. 4 Montr. I required not To be sought to this poor way ;] So the old copy : the modern editors, ignorant of the language of the time, arbitrarily exchange THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 223 You made me take : your daughter shall come to you, I will not say, as you deliver'd her, But, as she is, you may dispose of her As you shall think most requisite. [Exit, A/ale f. His last words Are riddles to me. Here the lion's force Would have proved useless, and, against my nature, Compell'd me from the crocodile to borrow Her counterfeit tears : there's now no turning backward. May I but quench these fires that rage within me, And fall what can fall, I am arm'd to bear it ! Enter Soldiers below, thrusting forth Theocrine ; her garments loose, her hair dishevelled. 2 Sold. You must be packing. Thcoc. Hath he robb'd me of Mine honour, and denies me now a room To hide my shame ! c 2 Sold. My lord the admiral Attends your ladyship. 1 Sold. Close the port, and leave them. [Exeunt Soldiers. to for in, and thus pervert the sense. To seek to, is to suppli- cate, entreat, have earnest recourse to, &c. which is the mean- ing of the text. There was a book much read by our ancestors, from which as being the pure well-head of English prose, they derived a number of phrases that have sorely puzzled their descendants. This book, which is fortunately still in existence, is the Bible : and 1 venture to affirm, without fear of contradiction, that those old fashioned people who have studied it well, are as com- petent judges of the meaning of our ancient writers, as most of the devourera of black literature, from Theobald to Steevens. The expression in the. text frequently occurs in it : *' And Asa was diseased in his feet yet in his disease he >ought not to the Lord, but to the physicians." 2 Chron. xvi. 12. 224 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Malef. Ha ! who is this ? how alter'd ! how deform 'd I It cannot be : and yet this creature has A kind of a resemblance to my daughter, My Theocrine ! but as different From that she was, as bodies dead are, in Their best perfections, from what they were When they had life and motion. Theoc. Tis most true, sir ; I am dead indeed to all but misery. come not near me, sir, I am infectious : To look on me at distance, is as dangerous As, from a pinnacle's cloud- kissing spire, With giddy eyes to view the deep descent; But to acknowledge me, a certain ruin. O, sir ! Malef. Speak, Theocrine, force me not To further question ; my fears already Have choked my vital spirits. Theoc. Pray you turn away Your face and hear me, and with my last breath Give me leave to accuse you : What offence, From my first infancy, did I commit, That for a punishment you should give up My virgin chastity to the treacherous guard Of goatish Montreville ? Malef. What hath he done ? Theoc. Abused me, sir, by violence ; and this told, 1 cannot live to speak more : may the cause In you find pardon, but the speeding curse Of a ravish'd maid fall heavy, heavy on him ! Beaufort, my lawful love, farewell for ever. [Dies. Malef. Take not thy flight so soon, immacu- late spirit ! 'Tis fled already. How the innocent, As in a gentle slumber, pass away ! THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 225 But to cut off the knotty thread of life In guilty men, must force stern Atropos To use her sharp knife often. I would help The edge of her's with the sharp point of mine, But that I dare not die, till I have rent This dog's heart piecemeal. O, that I had wings To scale these walls, or that my hands were cannons, To bore their flinty sides, that I might bring The villain in the reach of my good sword ! The Turkish empire offer'd for his ransom, Should not redeem his life. O that my voice Were loud as thunder, and with horrid sounds Might force a dreadful passage to his ears, And through them reach his soul ! Libidinous monster ! Foul ravisher ! as thou durst do a deed Which forced the sun to hide his glorious face Behind a sable mask of clouds, appear, And as a man defend it; or, like me, Shew some compunction for it. Enter Montreville on the JValls, above. Montr. Ha, ha, ha ! Male/. Is this an object to raise mirth ? Montr. Yes, yes. Malef. My daughter's dead. Montr. Thou hadst best follow her; Or, if* thou art the thing thou art reported, Thou shouldst have led the way. Do tear thy hair, Like a village nurse, and mourn, while I laugh at thee. Be but a just examiner of thyself, And in an equal balance poise the nothing, Or little mischief I have done, compared vol. i. * Q 226 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. With the pond'rous weight of thine : and how canst thou n, Accuse or argue with me? mine was a rape, And she being in a kind contracted to me, The fact may challenge some qualification: But thy intent made nature's self run backward, And done, had caused an earthquake. Enter Soldiers above. 1 . Sold. Captain ! Montr. Ha! 2. Sold. Our outworks are surprised, the centinel slain, The corps de guard defeated too. Montr. By whom ? 1. Sold. The sudden storm and darkness of the night Forbids the knowledge ; make up speedily, Or all is lost. [Exeunt. Montr. In the devil's name, whence comes this ? [Exit. [A storm ; with thunder and lightning. Malef. Do, do rage on ! rend open, JEolus, Thy brazen prison, and let loose at once Thy stormy issue ! Blustering Boreas, Aided with all the gales the pilot numbers Upon his compass, cannot raise a tempest Through the vast region of the air, like that I feel within me: for I am possess'd With whirlwinds, and each guilty thought to me is A dreadful hurricano. 5 Though this centre * A dreadful hurricane] So the old copy, and rightly: the modern editors prefer hurricane, a simple improvement, which merely destroys the metre ! How they contrived to read the line, thus printed, I cannot conceive. With respect to hurricane, I doubt whether it was much in use in Massinger's timej he THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 227 Labour to bring forth earthquakes, and hell open Her wide-stretch'd jaws, and let out all her furies, They cannot add an atom to the mountain Of fears and terrors that each minute threaten To fall on my accursed head. Enter the Ghost of young Malefort, naked from the waist, full oj wounds, leading in the Shadow of a Lady, her face leprous. Ila ! is't fancy ? Or hath hell heard me, and makes proof if I Dare stand the trial ? Yes, 1 do ; and now I view these apparitions, I feel I once did know the substances. For what come you? Are your aerial forms deprived of language, And so denied to tell me, that by signs [The Ghosts use various gestures. You bid me ask here of myself r' Tis so : And there is something here makes answer for you. You come to lance my sear'd-up conscience; yes, And to instruct me, that those thunderbolts, That hurl'd me headlong from the height of glory, Wealth, honours, worldly happiness, were forged Upon the anvil of my impious wrongs, And cruelty to you ! I do confess it; And that my lust compelling me to make way For a second wife, I poison'd thee ; and that and his contemporaries almost invariably write hurricann, just as they received it from the Portuguese narrators of voyages, flee. * You bid me ask here of myselj ff\ ^nx-m*;, pointing to bit breast. 228 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. The cause (which to the world is undiscover'd) That forced thee to shake off thy filial duty To me, thy father, had its spring; and source From thy impatience, to know thy mother, That with all duty and obedience served me, (For now with horror I acknowledge it,) Removed unjustly : yet, thou being my son, "Wert not a competent judge mark'd out by heaven For her revenger, which thy falling by My weaker hand confirm'd. [Answered still by signs.] 'Tis granted by thee. Can any penance expiate my guilt, Or can repentance save me ? [The Ghosts disappear. They are vanish'd ! What's left to do then? I'll accuse my fate, That did not fashion me for nobler uses : For if those stars, cross to me in my birth, Had not denied their prosperous influence to it, With peace of conscience, like to innocent men, I might have ceased to be, and not as now, To curse my cause of being [He is kilVd with a flash of lightning. Enter Belgarde, with Soldiers. Belg. Here's a night To season my silks ! Buff-jerkin, now I miss thee: Thou hast endured many foul nights, but never One like to this. How fine my feather looks now ! Just like a capon's tail stol'n out of the pen, And hid in the sink ; and yet 't had been dishonour To have charged without it. Wilt thou never cease ? 7 Wilt thou never cease?] This short apostrophe is addressed to the storm. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. *g Is the petard, as I gave directions, fasten'd On the portcullis? 1. Sold. It hath heen attempted By divers, but in vain. Belg. These are your gallants, That at a feast take the first place, poor I Hardly allow'd to follow; marry, in These foolish businesses they are content That I shall have precedence: I much thank Their manners, or their fear. Second me, soldiers; They have had no time to undermine, or if They have, it is but blowing up, and fetching A caper or two in the air ; and I will do it, Rather than blow my nails here. 2. Sold. O brave captain ! [Exeunt. An Alarum ; noise and cries "within. After a flourish, entcrBEAV fort senior, Beau fort junior, Mon- taigne, Chamont, Lanour, Belgarde, and Soldiers, with Montrevi lle, prisoner. Montr. Racks cannot force more from me than I have Already told you : I expect no favour ; I have cast up my accompt. Beauf. sen. Take you tne charge Of the fort, Belgarde ; your dangers have de- served it. Belg. I thank your excellence : this will keep me safe yet From being pull'd by the sleeve, and bid remember The thing I wot of. Beauf. jun. All that have eyes to weep, Spare one tear with me. Theocrine's dead. Mont. Her father too lies breathless here, I think Struck dead with thunder. 230 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Cham. Tis apparent : how His carcass smells ! Lan. His face is alter'd to Another colour. Beauf.jwi. But here's one retains Her native innocence, that never yet Call'd down heaven's anger. Beaaf. sen. 'Tis in vain to mourn For what's past help. We will refer, bad man, Your sentence to the king. May we make use of This great example, and learn from it, that There cannot be a want of power above, To punish murder, and unlawful love ! {Exeunt* * This Play opens with considerable interest and vigour ; but the principal action is quickly exhausted by its own briskness. The Unnatural Combat ends early in the second act, and leaves the reader at a loss what further to expect. The remaining part, at least fron the beginning of the fourth act, might be called the Unnatural Attachment. Yet the two subjects are not without connexion ; and this is afforded chiefly by the projected mar- riage of young Beaufort and Theocrine, which Malefort urges as the consequence of his victory. The piece is therefore to be considered not so much in its plot, as in its characters; and theie are drawn with great force, and admirable discrimination. The pity felt at first for old Malefort, is soon changed into horror and detestation ; while the dread inspired by the son is somewhat relieved by the suspicion that he avenges the cause of a murdered mother. Their parley is as terrible as their combat; and they encounter with a fury of passion and a deadliness of hatred approaching to savage na- ture. Claudian will almost describe them : Tortus oper,fulvusquc leo coiere super bis Viribus ; hie setd sxvior, illejubd. On the other hand, Montreville artfully conceals his enmity till he can be '* at the height revenged." Deprived of Theocrine by Malefort's treachery, he yet appears his " bo^om friend,'' oilers to be his second in the combat, on account of their tried affec- tion " from his infancy," anil seems even to recommend the marriage of Theocrine with his rival. To Theocrine herself, who can less comprehend his designs, he shews some glimpses of THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 231 pleen from the beginning. He takes a malignant pleasure in wounding her delicacy with light and vicious talking; and when at length he has possession of her person, and is preparing the dishonour which ends in her death, he talks tO her of his vil- lainous purpose with a coolness which shews him determined on his revenge, and secure of its accomplishment. Theocrine herself is admirable throughout the piece. She hat a true virgin modesty, and, perhaps, one of the best marks of modesty, a true virgin frankness. We admire her fearless purity of thought, her filial reverence, and her unconsciousness of the iniquity that approaches her ; and we are tilled with the most tender concern for the indignities to which she is exposed, and the fate which she suffers. Among the lighter characters, Montaigne, Chamont, and Lanour are well drawn. They are some of those insignificant people who endeavour to support themselves in society by a ready subjection to the will of others. When Malefort is on his trial, they arc glad to be his accusers ; and it is allowed that they " push him hard." After his victory, they are most eager to prof.ss themselves his friends and admirers. When he is in his moody humour, they sooth him, that being the "safest course ;"* and when Beaufort at length takes up the neglected Belgarde, they arc the first to lavish their money upon him. This consistency in their insipid characters would of itself determine to whom these words belong, if the editor had not given them to Chamont on other accounts. Sec p. 179. THE DUKE OF MILAN. The Duke of Milan.] Of this tragedy there are two editions in quarto ; the first, which is very correct, and now very rare, bears date 1623 ; the other, of little value, 1638. It does not appear in the Office-book of the licenser; from which, we may be pretty certain that it was among the author's earliest performances. The plot, as the editor of the Companion to the Play House informs us, is founded on Guicciardini,Lib. viii. This is not the case, and the writer, who probably never looked into Guicciardini, must have picked up his mistaken reference at second hand. If Massinger was at all indebted to this historian, it was to his xvth and xixth books; but it is more likely that he derived his plot (as was then the practice) from some popular collection of interesting events. However this may be, he has strangely perverted the few historical facts on which he touches, and brought together events considerably distant in time. When the French king invaded Italy in 1525, Sforza was on the side of the Emperor in fact, the French began by an incursion into the Milanese, and the siege of the capital, which they continued, at intervals, till their route before Pavia. In the following year, indeed, the duke of Milan entered into a league with Francis, who had now regained his liberty, against the Emperor, and was driven out of his dutchy, which he did not recover till 1530, when he presented himself before Charles, at Bologna, but not in the way described by Massinger, for he abjectly surrendered all his rights to the Emperor, who re-instated him in them, on his agreeing to certain stipula- tions. The duke is named Ludovico in the list of dramatis personas ; and it is observable that Massinger has entered with great accuracy into the vigorous and active character of that prince : he, however, had long been dead, and Francis Sforza, the real agent in this play, was little capable of the spirited part allotted to him. The Italian writers term him a weak and irresolute prince, the sport of fortune, and the victim of indecision. Injustice to Massinger, it should be observed that he appears aware of the distinction here noticed, and probably also of the fabulous nature of his materials, for, in the list of dramatis persona?, Ludovico Sforza is called a supposed duke of Milan. The remaining part of the plot is from Josephus's History of the Jews, lib. xv. ch. 4; an interesting story, which has been told in many languages, and more than once in our own. The last piece on the subject was, I believe, the Mariamne of Fenton, which, though infinitely inferior to the Duke of Milan., was, as I have heard, very well received. That Fenton had read Massinger before he wrote his tragedy, is certain from internal evidence: there are not, however, many marks of simila- rity on the whole, the former is as cold, uninteresting, and improbable, as the latter is ardent, natural, and affecting. Massinger has but two deaths, while, in Fenton, six out of eleven personages perish, with nearly as much rapidity, and as little necessity, as the heroes of Tom Thumb or Chronon- hotonthologos. The Duke of Milan is said, in the title-page, to have " been often acted by his Majesty's Servants at the Black Friars." Either through ignorance or disingenuity, Coxeter and M. Mason represent it as frequently per- formed in 1623, giving, as in every other instance, the time of publication for that of its appearance on the stage. TO The Right Honourable, and much esteemed for her high birth, but more admired for her virtue, THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE, WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, BARON OF SHELFORD. MADAM, IF I were not most assured that works of this nature have found both patronage and protection amongst the greatest princesses* of Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons most eminent in our kingdom, I should not presume to offer these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar of your favour. Let the example of others, more knowing, and more experienced in this kindness {if my boldness offend) plead my pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left me (my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to the world {if it hold the least good opinion of me) that I am ever your ladyship's creature. Vouchsafe, therefore, with the never-failing clemency of your noble disposition, not to con- temn the tender of his duty, who, while he is, will ever be An humble Servant to your Ladyship, and yours. PHILIP MASSING ER. * Princesses) So the quarto 1C23. That of 1638 exhibits princes, which Coxeter, and consequently M.Mason, follows. DRAMATIS PERSONS. Ludovico Sforza, supposed duke of Milan. Francisco, his especial favourite. St ha ! fiords of his council. Graccho, a creature of Mariana. Julio, ) r^- - > courtiers. (jriovanni, S Charles, the emperor. Pescara, an imperialist, but a friend to Sforza. Hernando, l Medina, ? captains to the emperor. Alphonso, J Three Gentlemen. Fiddlers. An Officer. Two Doctors. Two Couriers. Marcelia, the duichess, wife to Sforza. Isabella, mother to Sforza. Mariana, wife to Francisco, and sister to Sforza. Eugenia, sister to Francisco. A Gentlewoman. Guards, Servants, Attendants. SCENE, for the first and second acts, in Milan ; during part of' the third, in the Imperial Camp near Pavia ; the rest of the play, in Milan, and its neighbourhood. THE DUKE OF MILAN ACT I. SCENE I. Milan. An outer Room in the Castle? Enter Gbaccho, Julio, and Giovanni,* with Flaggons. Grac. Take every man his flaggon : give the oath To all you meet; lam this day the state-drunkard, I am sure against my will ; and if you find A man at ten that's sober, he's a traitor, And, in my name, arrest him. 1 Milan. An outer Room in the CastleJ] The old copies hare no distinction of scenery ; indeed, they could hare none with their miserable platform and raised gallery, but what was furnished by a board with Milan or IUivdis painted upon it. I hare Ten. tared to supply it, in conformity to the modern mode of printing Shakspeare, and to consult the ease of the general reader. I know not what pricked forward Coxeter, but he thought proper (for the first tim-) to be precise in this Play, and specify the place of action. 1 can neither compliment him upon his judg- ment, nor Mr. M. Mason upon his good sense in following him: the description hen- is, " Scene, a public Palace in Pisa," Pisa! a place which is not once mentioned, nor even hinted at, in the whole play. * Jt'Mo, and Giovanni,] These arc not found among the old dramatis persona*, nor are they of much importance. In a sub- sequent scene, where they make their appearance as 1st and 2nd Gentlemen, I hare taken the liberty to name them again. Joviu y which stood in this scene, appears to be a mispi int for Julio. 238 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Jul. Very good, sir : But, say he be a sexton? Grac. If the bells Ring out of tune, 1 as if the street were burning, And he cry, 'Tis rare music ! bid him sleep : 'Tis a sign he has ta'en his liquor ; and if you meet An officer preaching of sobriety, Unless he read it in Geneva print, 4 Lay him by the heels. Jul. But think you 'tis a fault To be found sober ? Grac. It is capital treason ; Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay Forty crowns to the poor : but give a pension To all the magistrates you find singing catches, Or their wives dancing; for the courtiers reeling, And the duke himself, I dare not say distemper'd,' But kind, and in his tottering chair carousing, They do the country service. If you meet One that eats bread, a child of ignorance, 3 Grac. If the bells Ring out of tune, &c] i. e. backward : the usual signal of alarm, on the breaking out of fires. -So in the Captain: u certainly, my body " Is all a wildfire, for my head rings backward.' 1 Again : in the City Match : " Then, sir, in time e{ You may be remember'd at the quenching of " Fired houses, when the bells ring backward, by " Your name upon the buckets." + Unless he read it in Geneva print,] Alluding to the spirituous liquor so called. M. Mason. 5 1 dare not say distemper'd,] i. e. intoxicated : so the word is frequently used by our old writers. Thus Shirley : " Clear. My lord, he's gone. " Lod. How ? " Clear. Distemper'd. " Lod. Not with wine ?" The Grateful Servant. it occurs also in Hamlet. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 239 And bred up in the darkness of no drinking, Against his will you may initiate him In the true posture ; though he die in the taking His drench, it skills not :' what's a private man, For the public honour ! We've nought else to think on. And so, dear friends, copartners in my travails, Drink hard; and let the health run through the city, Until it reel again, and with me cry, Long live the dutchess ! Enter Tiberio and Stephano. Jul. Here are two lords ; what think you ? Shall we give the oath to them? Grac. Fie ! no : I know them, You need not swear them ; your lord, by his patent, Stands bound to take his rouse/ Long live the dutchess! [Exeunt Grac. Jul. andGio. Stcph. The cause of this ? but yesterday the court Wore the sad livery of distrust and fear; No smile, not in a buffoon to be seen, Or common jester : the Great Duke himself Had sorrow in his face ! which, waited on By his mother, sister, and his fairest dutchess, Dispersed a silent mourning through all Milan; 6 - though he die in the taking His drench^ it skills nut: &c] It matters or signifies not. So in the Gamester : " Xcpk. I desire no man's privilege : it skills not whether " I be kin to any man living." 7 your lord by his patent. Stands bound to take his ronse.j This word has never been properly < xplained. It occurs in Hamlet, where it i> said by Stecvens, as well as Johnson, to mean a quantity of liquor rather too large : the latter derivesit from ruuh, hall drunk, Germ, while be bringscaroutr,oTi ir<7<,tir i-g' atifturt ^^m^ir, Oo-ffo. ffn, k. t. a. l\ t v j 45 q 254 THE DUKE OF MILAN. As I thus long have had an ample share In your prosperity. 'Tis not in the power Of fate to alter me : for while I am, In spite of it, I'm yours. Sfor. But should that will To be so - - - forced, 6 Marcelia ; and I live To see those eyes I prize above my own, Dart favours, though compell'd, upon another; Or those sweet lips, yielding immortal nectar, Be gently touch'd by any but myself; Think, think, Marcelia, what a cursed thing I were, beyond expression ! Marc. Do not feed Those jealous thoughts; the only blessing that Heaven hath bestow'd on us, more than on beasts, Is, that 'tis in our pleasure when to die. Besides, were I now in another's power, There are so many ways to let out life, T would not live, for one short minute, his ; I was born only yours, and I will die so. Sfor. Angels reward the goodness of this woman ! Enter Francisco. All I can pay is nothing. Why, uncall'd for ? Fran. It is of weight, sir, that makes me thus press Upon your privacies. Your constant friend, The marquis of Pescara, tired with haste, Hath business that concerns your life and for- tunes, And with speed, to impart. * To be so - - -forced, Marcelia;^ In the former edition I ventured, even at the risk of a little harshness, to insert be in the break. Something is evidently wrong, though the metre is complete: but as it escaped the notice of the author,I have merely pointed out the defect. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 255 Sfor. Wait on him hither. [Exit Francesco. And, dearest, to thy closet. Let thy prayers Assist my councils. Marc. To spare imprecations Against myself, without you I am nothing. [Exit. Sfor. The marquis of Pescara! a great sol- dier; 7 And, though he serv'd upon the adverse party, Ever my constant friend. Re-enter Feancisco with Pescara. Fran. Yonder he walks, Full of sad thoughts. Pesc. Blame him not, good Francisco, He hath much cause to grieve ; would I might end so, And not add this, to fear ! Sfor. My dear Pescara; A miracle in these times ! a friend, and happy, Cleaves to a falling fortune ! Pesc. If it were As well in my weak power, in act, to raise it, As 'tis to bear a part of sorrow with you, You then should have just cause to say, Pescara Look'd not upon your state, but on your virtues, When he made suit to be writ in the list Of those you favoured. But my haste forbids All compliment; thus, then, sir, to the purpose: The cause that, unattended, brought me hither, Was not to tell you of your loss, or danger; 7 Sfor. The marquit of Pescara ! a great soldier ;] The dnko does not exaggerate the merits of Pescara : he was, indeed, a great soldier, a fortunate commander, an able ncgociator, in a word, one of the chief ornaments of a period which abounded in extraordinary characters. 256 THE DUKE OF MILAN. For fame hath many wings to bring ill tidings, And I presume you've heard it ; but to give you Such friendly counsel, as, perhaps, may make Your sad disaster less. Sfor. You are all goodness ; And I give up myself to be disposed of, As in your wisdom you think fit. Pesc. Thus, then, sir : To hope you can hold out against the emperor, Were flatter}'- in yourself, 8 to your undoing : Therefore, the safest course that you can take, Is, to give up yourself to his discretion, Before you be compell'd ; for, rest assured, A voluntary yielding may find grace, And will admit defence, at least, excuse : But, shoirld you linger doubtful, till his powers Have seized your person and estates perforce, You must expect extremes. Sfor. I understand you ; And I will put your counsel into act, And speedily. I only will take order For some domestical affairs, that do Concern me nearly, and with the next sun Ride with you : in the mean time, my best friend, Pray take your rest. Pesc. Indeed, I have travelfd hard ; And will embrace your counsel. [Edit. Sfor. With all care, Attend my noble friend. Stay you, Francisco* You see how things stand with me ? Fran. To my grief: And if the loss of my poor life could be 8 Were flattery in yourself,] So, both the quartos j the modern editors read, Were flattering yourself. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 257 A sacrifice to restore them as they were, I willingly would lay it clown. Sfor. I think so; For I have ever found you true and thankful, Which makes me love the building I have raised In your advancement ; and repent no grace I have conferral upon you. And, believe me, Though now I should repeat my favours to you, The titles I have given you, and the means Suitable to your honours; that I thought you Worthy my sister and my family, And in my dukedom made you next myself; It is not to upbraid you ; but to tell you I find you are worthy of them, in your love And service to me. Fran. Sir, I am your creature; And any shape, that you would have me wear, I gladly will put on. Sjor. Thus, then, Francisco: I now am to deliver to your trust A weighty secret ; of so strange a nature, And 'twill, I know, appear so monstrous to you, That you will tremble in the execution, As much as I am tortured to command it: For 'tis a deed so horrid, that, but to hear it, Would strike into a rufiian flesh'd in murders, Or an obdurate hangman, soft compassion; And yet, Francisco, of all men the dearest, And from me most deserving, such my state And strange condition is, that thou alone Must know the fatal service, and perform it. Fran: These preparations, sir, to work a stranger, Or to one unacquainted with your bounties, Might appear useful; but to me they are Needless impcrtinencies : for I dare do Whate'cr you dare command. vol. i. * S 258 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Sfor. But you must swear it ; And put into the oath all joys or torments That fright the wicked, or confirm the good ; Not to conceal it only, that is nothing, But, whensoe'er my will shall speak, Strike now ! To fall upon't like thunder. Fran. Minister The oath in any way or form you please, I stand resolved to take it. Sfor. Thou must do, then, What no malevolent star will dare to look on, It is so wicked : for which men will curse thee For being the instrument ; and the blest angels Forsake me at my need, for being the author : For 'tis a deed of night, of night, Francisco ! In which the memory of all good actions We can pretend to, shall be buried quick : Or, if we be remember'd, it shall be To fright posterity by our example, That have outgone all precedents of villains That were before us ; and such as succeed, Though taught in hell's black school, shall ne'er come near us. Art thou not shaken yet? Fran. I grant you move me : But to a man confirm 'd Sfor. I'll try your temper : What think you of my wife ? Fran. As a thing sacred ; To whose fair name and memory I pay gladly These signs of duty. Sfor. Is she not the abstract Of all that's rare, or to be wish'd in woman? Fran. It were a kind of blasphemy to dispute it: But to the purpose, sir. Sfor. Add too, her goodness, THE DUKE OF MILAN. 259 Her tenderness of me, her care to please me, Her unsuspected chastity, ne'er equall'd ; Her innocence, her honour: O, I am lost In the ocean of her virtues and her graces, When I think of them ! Fran. Now I find the end Of all your conjurations; there's some service To be done for this sweet lady. If she have enemies, That she would have removed Sfor. Alas ! Francisco, Her greatest enemy is her greatest lover; Yet, in that hatred, her idolater. One smile of her's would make a savage tame; One accent of that tongue would calm the seas, Though all the winds at once strove there for empire. Yet I, for whom she thinks all this too little, Should I miscarry in this present journey, From whence it is all number to a cipher, I ne'er return with honour, by thy hand Must have hermurder'd. Fran. Murder'd ! She that loves so, Aud so deserves to be beloved again ! And I, who sometimes you were pleased to favour, Pick'd out the instrument! Sfor. Do not fly off: What is decreed can never be recall'd ; 'Tis more than love to her, that marks her out A wish'd companion to me in both fortunes : And strong assurance of thy zealous faith, That gives up to thy trust a secret, that Racks should not have forced from me. O, Francisco ! There is no heaven without her ; nor a hell, Where she resides. I ask from her but justice, And what I would have paid to her, had sickness, * S2 260 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Or any other accident, divorced Her purer soul from her unspotted body." The slavish Indian princes, when they die, Are cheerfully attended to the fire, By the wife and slave that, living, they loved best, To do them service in another world : Nor will I be less honour'd, that love more. And therefore trifle not, but, in thy looks, Express a ready purpose to perforin What I command ; or, by Marcelia's soul, This is thy latest minute. Fran. 'Tis not fear Of death, but love to you, makes me embrace it; But for mine own security, when 'tis done, What warrant have I ? If you please to sign one, I shall, though with unwillingness and horror, Perform your dreadful charge. Sfor. I will, Francisco : But still remember, that a prince's secrets Are balm conceal'd ; but poison, if discover'd. I may comeback; then this is but a trial To purchase thee, if it were possible, A nearer place in my affection : but I know thee honest. Fran. 'Tis a character I will not part with. Sfor. I may live to reward it.' [Exeunt, * Her purer soul from her unspotted body.] The former edition read his, with the old copies. In the lax use of pronouns which prevailed among our old writers, it appeared to stand for its, and to refer to soul. It is now printed, as corrected by Massingcr. I make no apology for having refused to admit the conjecture of Coxeter and Monck Mason. With respect to purer, it is used in perfect concurrence with the practice of the poet's contemporaries, for pure, the comparative for the positive. See the Unnatural Combat, p. 192. 9 The observations in the Essay prefixed to this Volume, THE DUKE OF MILAN. 261 ACT II. SCENE I. The same. An open Space before the Castle. Enter Tjberio and Stephano. Steph. How! left the court? Tib. Without guard or retinue Fitting a prince. Steph. No enemy near, to force him To leave his own strengths, yet deliver up Himself, as 'twere, in bonds, to the discretion Of him that hates him ! 'tis beyond example. You never heard the motives that induced him To this strange course ? Tib. No, those are cabinet councils, And not to be communicated, but To such as are his own, and sure. Alas ! We fill up empty places, and in public Are taught to give our suffrages to that Which was before determined; and are safe so. Signior Francisco (upon whom alone His absolute power is, with all strength, conferr'd, During his absence) can with ease resolve you : To me they are riddles. Steph. Well, he shall not be preclude the necessity of any farther remarks on this admirable scene : as it seems however, to have engrossed the critics' atten- tion, (to the manifest neglect of the rest,) let me suggest, in jus- tice to Massingcr, that it is equalled, if not surpassed, by some of the succeeding ones, and, among the rest, by that which concludes the second act. 262 THE DUKE OF MILAN. My (Edipus ; I'll rather dwell in darkness. But, my good lord Tiberio, this Francisco Is, on the sudden, strangely raised. Tib. O sir, He took the thriving course : he had a sister,* A fair one too, with whom, as it is rumour'd, The duke was too familiar; but she, cast off, (What promises soever past between them,) Upon the sight of this,* forsook the court, And since was never seen. To smother this, As honours never fail to purchase silence, Francisco first was graced, and, step by step, Is raised up to this height. Steph. But how is His absence born ? Tib. Sadly, it seems, by the dutchess ; For since he left the court, For the most part she hath kept her private chamber, No visitants admitted. In the church, She hath been seen to pay her pure devotions, Season'd with tears ; and sure her sorrow's true, Or deeply counterfeited ; pomp, and state, And bravery cast off : and she, that lately Rivall'd Poppasa in her varied shapes, Or the Egyptian queen, now, widow-like, In sable colours, as her husband's dangers * He had a sister, &c] There is great art in this introduction of the sister. In the management of these prepa- ratory hints, Massinger surpasses all his contemporaries. In Beaumont and Fletcher, " the end sometimes forgets the be- ginning;" and even Shakspeare is not entirely free from inat- tentions of a similar nature. I will not here praise the general felicity of our author's plots : but whatever they were, he seems to have minutely arranged all the component parts before aline of the dialogue was written. * Upon the sight of' this, &c] i. e. of the present dutchess. M. Mason. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 263 Strangled in her the use of any pleasure, Mourns for his absence. Steph. It becomes her virtue, And does confirm what was reported of her. Tib. You take it right : but, on the other side, The darling of his mother, Mariana, As there were an antipathy between Her and the dutchess' passions ; and as She'd no dependence on her brother's fortune, She ne'er appear'd so full of mirth. Steph. 'Tis strange. Enter Graccho with Fiddlers. But see ! her favourite, and accompanied, To your report. Grac. You shall scrape, and I will sing A scurvy ditty to a scurvy tune, Repine who dares. 1 Fid. But if we should offend, The dutchess having silenced us ; and these lords, Stand by to hear us. Grac. They iii name are lords, But I am one in power : and, for the dutchess, But yesterday we were merry for her pleasure, We now '11 be for my lady's. Tib. Signior Graccho. Grac. A poor man, sir, aservant to the princess; But you, great lords 3 and counsellors of state, Whom I stand bound to reverence. Tib. Come ; we know You are a man in grace. Grac. Fie ! no : I grant, I bear my fortunes patiently ; serve the princess, And have access at all times to her closet, 3 But you, great lords Sec] So the old copies. Mr. M. Mason chooses to deviate from them, and read But you arc great lords &c. Never was alteration more unnecessary. 264 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Such is my impudence! when your grave lordships Are masters of the modesty to attend Three hours, nay sometimes four ; and then bid wait Upon her the next morning. Steph. He derides us. Tib. Pray you, what news is stirring? you know all. Grac. Who, I ? alas ! I've no intelligence At home nor abroad ; I only sometimes guess The change of the times : I should ask of your lordships, Who are to keep their honours, who to lose them ; Who the dutchess smiled on last, or on whom frown'd, You only can resolve me ; we poor waiters Deal, as you see, in mirth, and foolish fiddles : It is our element ; and could you tell me What point of state 'tis that I am commanded To muster up this music, on mine honesty, You should much befriend me. Steph. Sirrah, you grow saucy. Tib. And would be laid by the heels. Grac. Not by your lordships, Without a special warrant ; look to your own stakes ; Werel committed, here come those would bail me : Perhaps, we might change places too. Enter Isabella, a^Mariaxa; Graccho whispers the latter. Tib. The princess ! We must be patient. Steph. There is no contending. Tib. See, the informing rogue ! Steph. That we should stoop To such a mushroom ! Mart. Thou dost mistake ; they durst not THE DUKE OF MILAN. Z65 Use the least word of scorn, although provoked, To any Tiling of mine. Go, get you home, And to your servants, friends, and flatterers, number How many descents you're noble : look to your wives too ; The smooth-chinn'd courtiers are abroad. Tib. No way to be a freeman ! f Exeunt Tiberio and Stephano. Grac. Your Excellence hath the best gift to dispatch These arras pictures of nobility, I ever read of. Mart. I can speak sometimes. Grac. And cover so your bitter pills with sweetness Of princely language to forbid reply, They are greedily swallow'd. hah. But the purpose, daughter, That brings us hither? Is it to bestow A visit on this woman, that, because She only would be thought truly to grieve The absence and the dangers of my son, Proclaims a general sadness? Mari. If to vex her May be interpreted to do her honour, She shall have many of them. I'll make use Of my short reign : my lord now governs all ; And she shall know that her idolater, My brother, being not by now to protect her, I am her equal. Grac. Of a little thing, It is so full of gall ! 4 A devil of this size, Grac. Of a little thing, // is so full of gall f] Nothing more strongly marks the poTcrty of the stage in those times, than the frequent allusions which we find to the size of the actors, and which may be considered as a 266 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Should they run for a wager to be spiteful, Gets not a horse-head of her. [Aside. Mari. On her birthday, We were forced to be merry, and now she's musty, We must be sad, on pain of her displeasure: We will, we will ! this is her private chamber, Where, like an hypocrite, not a true turtle, She seems to mourn her absent mate ; her servants Attending her like mutes : but I'll speak to her, And in a high key too. Play any thing That's light and loud enough but to torment her, And we will have rare sport. [Music and a song? Marcelia appears at a Window above, in black. Isab. She frowns as if Her looks could fright us. Mari. May it please your greatness, We heard that your late physic hath not work'd; And that breeds melancholy,as your doctor tells us: To purge which, we, that are born your highness' vassals. And are to play the fool to do you service, Present you with a fit of mirth. What think you Of a new antic? kind of apology to the audience. It is not possible to ascertain who played the part of Mariana, but it was not improbably, Theophilus Bourne, who acted Paulina in the Renegado, where an expressiou of the same nature occurs. Domitilla, in the Roman Actor, is also little ; she was played by John Hunnieman. I do not condemn these indirect apologies ; indeed, there appears to be something of good sense in them, and of proper deference to the understandings of the audience. At present, we run intrepidly into every species of absurdity: men and women un- wieldy at once from age and fatness, take upon them the parts of active boys and girls; and it is not only in a pantomime that we are accustomed to see children of six feet high in leading strings ! 5 A song.] This, like many others, does not appear ; it was probably supplied at pleasure, by the actors. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 267 Isab, 'T would shew rare in ladies. Mari. Being intended for so sweet a creature, Were she but pleased to grace it. J sab. Fie ! sne will, Be it ne'er so mean ; she's made of courtesy. Mari. The mistress of all hearts. One smile, I pray you, On your poor servants, or a fiddler's fee ; Coming from those fair hands, though but a ducat, We will enshrine it as a holy relic. Isab. Tis wormwood, and it works. Marc. If I lay by My fears and griefs, in which you should be sharers, If doting age could let you but remember, You have a son ; or frontless impudence, You are a sister ; and, in making answer To what was most unfit for you to speak, Or me to hear, borrow of my just anger Isab. A set speech, on my life. Mari. Penn'd by her chaplain. Marc. Yes, it' can speak, without instruction speak, And tell your want of manners, that you are rude, And saucily rude, too. Grac. Now the game begins. Marc. You durst not, else, on any hire or hope, Remembering what I am, and whose I am, Put on the desperate boldness, to disturb The least of my retirements. Mari. Note her, now. Marc. For both shall understand, though the one presume Upon the privilege due to a mother, * Marc. Yes, it can speak,] So the old copies ; the modern editions, Fe#, I can speak ! 2o8 THE DUKE OF MILAN. The duke stands now on his own legs, and needs No nurse to lead him. Isab. How, a nurse ! Marc. A dry one, And useless too : but I am merciful, And dotage signs your pardon. Isab. I defy thee ; Thee, and thy pardons, proud one ! Marc. For you, puppet Mari. What of me, pine-tree? 7 Marc. Little you are, I grant, And have as little worth, but much less wit; You durst not else, the duke being wholly mine, His power and honour mine, and the allegiance, You owe him, as a subject, due to me Mart. To you ? Marc. To me : and therefore, as a vassal, From this hour learn to serve me, or you'll feel I must make use of my authority, And, as a princess, punish it. Isab. A princess ! Mari. I had rather be a slave unto a Moor, Than know thee for my equal. Isab. Scornful thing ! Proud of a white face. Mari. Let her but remember' The issue in her leg. 7 Marc For you, puppet-- Mari. What of me, pine-tree?] " Now I perceive that she hath made compare " Between our statures" Puppet and may-pole, and many other terms of equal elegance, are bandied about in the quarrel between Hermia and Helena, in Midsummer-Night's Dream, which is here too closely imitated. I forbear to quote the passages, which are familiar to every reader of Shakspeare. 8 Mari. Let her but remember, &c] For this Massinger is in- debted to less respectable authority^ to the treacherous loquacity THE DUKE OF MILAN. Q69 Isab. The charge she puts The state to, for perfumes. Mari. And howsoe'er She seems when she's made up, as she's herself, She stinks above the ground. O that I could reach you ! The little one you scorn so, with her nails Would tear your painted face, and scratch those eyes out. Do but come down. Marc. Were there no other way, But leaping on thy neck, to break mine own, Rather than be outbraved thus. [She retires. Grac. Forty ducats Upon the little hen; she's of the kind, And will not leave the pit. [Aside. Mari. That it were lawful To meet her with a poniard and a pistol ! But these weak hands shall shew my spleen Re-enter Marcelia below. Marc. Where are you, You modicum, you dwarf! Mari. Here, giantess, here. of the dutrhess's waiting-woman, in her midnight conference with Don Quixote. These traits, however disgusting, are not without their value ; they strongly mark the prevailing features of the times, which were universally coarse and indelicate: they exhibit also a circumstance worthy of particular notice, namely, that those vigorous powers of genius, which carry men far beyond the literary state of their age, do not enable them to outgo that of its manners. This must serve as an apology for our author; indeed, it is the only one which can be offered for many who stand higher in the ranks of fame than Massinger, and m ho have still more need of it. 270 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Enter Francisco, Tiberio, Stephano, and Guards. Fran. A tumult in the court ! Mari. Let her come on. Fran. What wind hath raised this tempest ? Sever them, I command you. What's the cause? Speak, Mariana. Mari. I am out of breath ; But we shall meet, we shall. And do you hear, sir ! Or right me on this monster, (she's three feet Too high for a woman,) or ne'er look to have A quiet hour with me. Isab. If my son were here, And would endure this, may a mother's curse Pursue and overtake him ! Fran. O forbear : In me he's present, both in power and will ;. And, madam, I much grieve that, in his absence, There should arise the least distaste to move you; It being his principal, nay, only charge, To have you, in his absence, served and honour'd, As when himself perform'd the willing office. Mari. This is fine, i'faith. Grac. I would I were well off ! Fran. And therefore, I beseech } t ou, madam, frown not, Till most unwittingly he hath deserved it, On your poor servant ; to your excellence I ever was and will be such ; and lay The duke's authority, trusted to me, With willingness at your feet. Mari. O base ! Isab, We are like To have an equal judge ! THE DUKE OF MILAN. 271 Fran. But, should I find That you are touch'd in any point of honour, Or that the least neglect is fall'n upon you, I then stand up a prince. 1 Fid. Without reward, Pray you dismiss us. Grac. Would I were five leagues hence ! Fran. I will be partial To none, not to myself; Be you but pleased to shew me my offence, Or if you hold me in your good opinion, Name those that have offended you. Isab. I am one, And I will justify it. Mari. Thou art a base fellow, To take her part. Fran. Remember, she's the dutchess. Marc. But used with more contempt, than if I were A peasant's daughter ; baited, and hooted at, Like to a common strumpet; with loud noises Forced from my prayers; and my private chamber, Which with all willingness, I would make my prison During the absence of my lord, denied me : But if he e'er return Fran. Were you an actor In this lewd comedy? Mari. Ay, marry was I ; And will be one again. Isab. I'll join with her, Though you repine at it. Fran. Think not, then, I speak, For I stand bound to honour, and to serve you ; But that the duke, that lives in this great lady, For the contempt of him in her, commands you To be close prisoners. *72 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Isab. Mari. Prisoners ! Fran. Bear them hence; This is your charge, my lord Tiberio, And, Stephano, this is yours. Marc. I am not cruel, But pleased they may have liberty. Isab. Pleased, with a mischief! Mari. I'll ratherlive inany loathsome dungeon. Than in a paradise at her entreaty : And, for you, upstart Steph. There is no contending. Tib. What shall become of these? Fran. See them well whipp'd, As you will answer it. Tib. Now, signior Graccho, What think you 9 of your greatness ? Grac. I preach patience, And must endure my fortune. 1 Fid. I was never yet At such a hunt's-up, 1 nor was so rewarded. [Exeunt all but Francisco and Marcelia. Fran. Let them first know themselves, and how you are To be served and honour'd ; which, when they confess, 9 Tib. Now, signior Graccho, What think you of your greatness?] So the first quarto. Cox- cter and Mr. M. Mason follow the second, which reads, What's become of your greatness ? 1 1 Fid. I was never yet At such a hunt's-up,] The hunfs-up was a lesson on the horn, played under the windows of sportsmen, to call them up in the morning. It was, probably, sufficiently obstreperous, for it is frequently applied by our old writers, as in this place, to any noise or clamour of an awakening or alarming nature. The tune, or rather, perhaps, the words to it, was composed by one Gray, in the time of Henry VIH. who, as Puttenham tells us, in his Art of English Poesy, was much pleased with it. Of its popularity there can be no doubt, for it was one of the songs THE DUKE OF MILAN. 273 You may again receive them to your favour : And then it will shew nobly. Marc. With my thanks The duke shall pay you his, if he return To bless us with his presence. Fran. There is nothing That can be added to your fair acceptance ; That is the prize, indeed ; all else are blanks, And of no value. As, in virtuous actions, The undertaker finds a full reward, Although conferr'd upon unthankful men; So, any service done to so much sweetness, However dangerous, and subject to An ill construction, in your favour finds A wish'd, and glorious end. Marc. From you, I take this As loyal duty ; but, in any other, It would appear gross flattery. Fran. Flattery, madam ! You are so rare and excellent in all things, And railed so high upon a rock of goodness, As that vice cannot reach you f who but looks on travestied by the Scotch Reformers into u ane gude and godly ballate,'' for the edification of the elect. The first stanza of the original is come down to us: " The hunte is up, the hunte is up, u And nowc it is almost daye ; " And he that's in bed with another man's wife, " It is time to get awaye." The tune, I suppose, is lost ; but we hare a hunt's-up of our own, which is still played under the windows of the sluggish sports- man, and consists of a chorus of men, dogs, and horns, not a little alarming. * As that vice cannot reach you ;] i. c. flattery : Coxeter deserts the old copies here, and reads, I know not for what reason, That ticc can never reach you : His Achates follows him, as usual. VOL. I. * T 274 THE DUKE OF MILAN. This temple, built by nature to perfection, But must bow to it ; and out of that zeal, Not only learn to adore it, but to love it ? Marc. Whither will this fellow ? [Aside. Fran. Pardon, therefore, madam, If an excess in me of humble duty, Teach me to hope, and though it be not in The power of man to merit such a blessing, My piety, for it is more than love, May find reward. Marc. You have it in my thanks ; And, on my hand, 1 am pleased that you shall take A full possession of it : but, take heed That you fix here, and feed no hope beyond it ; If you do, it will prove fatal. Fran. Be it death, And death with torments tyrants ne'er found out, Yet I must say, I love you. Marc. As a subject; And 'twill become you. Fran. Farewell, circumstance ! And since you are not pleased to understand me, But by a plain and usual form of speech ; All superstitious reverence laid by, I love you as a man, and, as a man, I would enjoy you. Why do you start, and fly me? I am no monster, and you but a woman, A woman made to yield, and by example Told it is lawful : favours of this nature, Are, in our age, no miracles in the greatest; And, therefore, lady Marc. Keep off! O you Powers ! Libidinous beast ! and, add to that, unthankful ! A crime, which creatures wanting reason, fly from. Are all the princely bounties, favours, honours, Which, with some prejudice to his own wisdom, Thy lord and raiser hath conferr'd u po n thee, THE DUKE OF MILAN. 275 In three daysabsence buried ? Hath he made thee, A thing obscure, almost without a name, The envy of great fortunes ? Have I graced thee, Beyond thy rank, and entertain'd thee, as A friend, and not a servant? and is this, This impudent attempt to taint mine honour, The fair return of both our ventured favours ! Fran. Hear my excuse. Marc. The devil may plead mercy, And with as much assurance, as thou yield one. Burns lust so hot in thee ? or is thy pride Grown up to such a height, that, but a princess, No woman can content thee ; and, add to it, His wife and princess, to whom thou art tied In all the bonds of duty ? Read my life, And find one act of mine so loosely carried, That could invite a most self-loving fool, Set off with all that fortune could throw on him, To the least hope to find way to my favour; And, what's the worst mine enemies could wish me, I'll be thy strumpet. Fran. 'Tis acknowledged, madam, That your whole course of life hath been a pattern For chaste and virtuous women. In your beauty, Which I first saw, and loved, as a fair crystal, I read your heavenly mind, clear and untainted ; And while the duke did prize you to your value, Could it have been in man to pay that duty, I well might envy him, but durst not hope To stop you in your full career of goodness : But now I find that he's fall'n from his fortune, And, howsoever he would appear doting, Grown cold in his affection ; I presume, From his most barbarous neglect of you, To offer my true service. Nor stand I bound, To look back on the courtesies of him, That, of all living men, is most unthankful. Marc. Unheard-of impudence ! T * o 276 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Fran. You'll say I am modest, When I have told the story. Can he tax me, That have received some worldly trifles from him, For being ungrateful ; when he, that first tasted, And hath so long enjoy'd, your sweet embraces, In which all blessings that our frail condition Is capable of, are wholly comprehended, As cloy'd with happiness, contemns the giver Of his felicity ; and, as he reach'd not The masterpiece of mischief which heaims at, Unless he pay those favours he stands bound to, With fell and deadly hate !-You think he loves you With unexampled fervour; nay, dotes on you, As there were something in you more than woman : When, on my knowledge, he long since hath wish'd You were among the dead ; and I, you scorn so, Perhaps, am your preserver. Marc. Bless me, good angels, Or I am blasted ! Lies so false and wicked, And fashion'd to so damnable a purpose, Cannot be spoken by a human tongue. My husband hate me ! give thyself the lie, False and aceurs'd ! Thy soul, if thou hast any, Can witness, never lady stood so bound To the unfeign'd affection of her lord, As I do to my Sforza. If thou wouldst work Upon my weak credulity, tell me, rather, That the earth moves; the sun and stars stand still; The ocean keeps nor floods nor ebbs ; or that There's peace between the lion and the lamb ; Or that the ravenous eagle and the dove Keep in one aerie, 3 and bring up their young ; Or any thing that is averse to nature : 3 Or that the ravenous eagle and the dove Keep in one aerie,] i. e. in one nest. Mr. M. Mason degrades Massinger and himself, by reading, Keep in one aviary ! Such rashness, and incompetence, it is to be hoped, do not often meet in one person. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 277 And I will sooner credit it, than that My lord can think of me, but as a jewel, He loves more than himself, and all the world. Fran. O innocence abused! simplicity cozen'd ! It were a sin, for which we have no name, To keep you longer in this wilful error. Read his affection here; [Gives her a paper.'] and then observe How dear he holds you ! 'Tis his character, Which cunning yet could never counterfeit. Marc. 'Tis his hand, I'm resolved 4 of it. I'll try What the inscription is. Fran. Pray you, do so. Marc, [reads.] You know my pleasure, and the hour of Marcelia"s death, whichfail not to execute, as you will answer the contrary, not with your head alone, hut with the ruin of your ihole family. And this, written with mine own hand, and signed with my privy signet, shall be your sufficient warrant Lodovico Sforza. I do obey it ! every word's a poniard, And reaches to my heart. [Swoons. Fran. What have I done? Maflam ! for heaven's sake, madam ! O my fate ! I'll bend her body :' this is yet some pleasure : * 'Tis his hand, I'm resolved of it.] I am convinced of it: so the word is frequently used by Massinger's contemporaries. Thus Fletcher, in the Faithful Shepherdess : " But be they far from me with their fond terror ! " I am resolved my Chloe yet is true." And Webster, in the White Devil: " I am resolved, " Were there a second paradise to lose, ** This devil would betray it.'* 5 I'll bend her body:'] to try if there be any life in it. Thus, in the Maid's Tragedy : ' I've heard, if there be any life, but bow " The body thus, and it will show itself." 1278 THE DUKE OF MILAN. I'll kiss her into a new life. Dear lady ! Shestirs. For the duke's sake, for Sforza's sake Marc. Sforza's ! stand off; though dead, I will be his, And even my ashes shall abhor the touch Of any other. O unkind, and cruel ! Learn, women, learn to trust in one another; There is no faith in man : Sforza is false, False to Marcelia ! Fran. But I am true, And live to make you happy. All the pomp, State, and observance you had, being his, Compared to what you shall enjoy, when mine, Shall be no more remember'd. Lose his memory, And look with cheerful beams on your new creature ; And know, what he hath plotted for your good, Fate cannot alter. If the emperor Take not his life, at his return he dies, And by my hand ; my wife, that is his heir, Shall quickly follow : then we reign alone ! For with this arm I'll swim through seas of blood, Or make a bridge, arch'd with the bones of men, But I will grasp my aims in you, my dearest, Dearest, and best of women ! 6 Marc. Thou art a villain ! All attributes of arch-villains made into one, Cannot express thee. I prefer the hate 6 But I will grasp my aims in you, my dearest, Dearest, and best of -women !] It would scarcely be credited, if we had not the proof before us, that for his bold and ani- mated expression, which is that of both the quartos, Mr. M. Mason should presume to print, But I will grasp you in my arms, in the tame rant of modern comedy. Coxeter's reading is simple nonsense, which is better than specious sophistication, as it excites suspicion. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 279 Of Sforza, though it mark me for the grave, Before thy base affection. I am yet Pure and unspotted in my true love to him ; Nor shall it be corrupted, though he's tainted : Nor will I part with innocence, because He is found guilty. For thyself, thou art A tiling that, equal with the devil himself, I do detest and scorn. Fran. Thou, then, art nothing : Thy life is in my power, disdainful woman ! Think on't, and tremble. Marc. No, though thou wert now To play thy hangman's part. Thou well may'st be My executioner, and art only fit For such employment; but ne'er hope to have The least grace from me. I will never see thee, But as the shame of men : so, with my curses Of horror to thy conscience in this life, And pains in hell hereafter, I spit at thee; And, making haste to make my peace with heaven, Expect thee as my hangman. [Edit. Fran. 1 am lost In the discovery of this fatal secret. Curs'd hope, that tlatter'd me, that wrongs could make her A stranger to her goodness ! all my plots Turn hack upon myself; but I am in, And must go on : and, since I have put off From the shore of innocence, guilt be now my pi lot! Revenge first wrought me ; ' murder's his twin- brother: One deadly sin, then, help to cure another! [Exit. 7 Rcrcngejirst wrought we, &c] The reader should not suffer these hints, of which he will find several in the succeeding pa^es, to escape him : they are. not thrown out at random by Matsingcr, but intended to prepare the mind for the dreadful retaliation which follows. 230 THE DUKE OF MILAN. ACT III. SCENE I. The Imperial Camp, before Pavia. Enter Medina, Hernando, and Alphonso. Med. The spoil, the spoil ! 'tis that the soldier fights for. Our victory, as yet, affords us nothing But wounds and empty honour. We have pass'd The hazard of a dreadful day, and forced A passage with our swords through all the dan- gers That, page-like, wait on the success of war; And now expect reward. Hern. Hell put it in The enemy's mind to be desperate, and hold out! Yieldings and compositions will undo us ; And what is that way given, for the most part, Comes to the emperor's coffers, to defray The charge of the great action, as 'tis rumour'd : When, usually, some thing in grace, that ne'er heard The cannon's roaring tongue, but at a triumph, Puts in, and for his intercession shares All that we fought for ; the poor soldier left To starve, or fill up hospitals. Alph. But, when We enter towns by force, and carve ourselves, Pleasure with pillage, and the richest wines Open our shrunk-up veins, and pour into them New blood and fervour Med. I long to be at it ; THE DUKE OF MILAN. 281 To see these chuffs,* that every day may spend A soldier's entertainment for a year, Yet make a third meal of a bunch of raisins :* These sponges, that suck up a kingdom's fat, Battening like scarabs* in the. dung of peace, To be squeezed out by the rough hand of war ; And all that their whole lives have heap'd together, By cozenage, perjury, or sordid thrift, With one gripe to be ravish'd. * To see these chuffs,] So it stood in every edition before Mr. M. Mason's, when it was altered to chouglis, and said, in a note, to mean magpies ! What magpies could have to do here, it would, perhaps, puzzle the editor, had he thought at all on the subject, to discover. The truth is, that chuff is the genuine word : it is always used in a bad sense, and means a coarse un- mannered clown, at once sordid and wealthy. 9 Yet make a third meal of a bunch of raisins :] So all the old copies, and so, indeed, Coxeter ; but Mr. M. Mason, whose sagacity nothing escapes, detected the poet's blunder, and for third suggested, nay, actually printed, thin. " This passage,'' quoth he, " appears to be erroneous : the making a third meal of raisins, if they made two good meals before, would be no proof of penuriousness. I therefore read thin?' Seriously, was ever alteration so capricious, was erer reason- ing so absurd ? Where is it said that these chuffs " had made two good meals before?" Is not the whole tendency of the speech to shew that they starred themselves in the midst of abundance? and are not the reproaches such, as hare been cast, in all ages, by men of Medina's stamp, on the sober and frugal citizen, who lived within his income ? " Surely,'' says l'lotwell, in the City Match, 11 Surely, myself, " Cipher his factor, and an ancient cat, " Did keep strict diet, had our Spanish fare, " Four olives among three ! My uncle would " Look fat with fasting; I have known him surfeit " Upon a bunch of raisins, swoon at sight " Of a whole joint, and rise an epicure " From half an orange." ' Battening like scarabs] Scarabs means beetles. M. Mason. Very true ; and beetles means scarabs ! 1282 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Hern. I would be tousing Their fair madonas, that in little dogs, Monkeys, and paraquittos, consume thousands ; Yet, for the advancement of a noble action, Repine to part with a poor piece of eight : War's plagues upon them ! I have seen them stop Their scornful noses first, then seem to swoon, At sight of a buff jerkin, if it were not Perfumed, and hid with gold : yet these nice wantons, Spurr'd on by lust, cover'd in some disguise, To meet some rough court-stallion, and be leap'd, Durst enter into any common brothel, Though all varieties of stink contend there ; Yet praise the entertainment. Med. I may live To see the tatter'd'st rascals of my troop Drag them out of their closets, with a vengeance ! When neither threatening, flattering, kneeling, howling, Can ransome one poor jewel, or redeem Themselves, from their blunt wooing. Hern. My main hope is, To begin the sport at Milan : there's enough, And of all kinds of pleasure we can wish for, To satisfy the most covetous. Alph. Every day, We look for a remove. Med. For Lodowick Sforza, The duke of Milan, I, on mine own knowledge, Can say thus much : he is too much a soldier, Too confident of his own worth, too rich too, And understands too well the emperor hates him, To hope for composition. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 283 Alph. On my life, We need not fear his coming in. 1 Hern. On mine, I do not wish it : I had rather that, To shew his valour, he'd put us to the trouble To fetch him in by the ears. Med. The emperor ! Flourish. Enter Charles, Pescara, and Attendants. Charl. You make me wonder: nay, it is no counsel, 3 You may partake it, gentlemen : who'd have thought, That he, that scorn'd our proffer'd amity When he was sued to, should, ere he be summon'd, (Whether persuaded to it by base fear, Or flatter a by false hope, which, 'tis uncertain,) First kneel for mercy ? Med When your majesty Shall please to instruct us who it is, we may Admire it with you. Charl. Who, but the duke of Milan, The right hand of the French ! of all that stand In our displeasure, whom necessity Compels to seek our favour, I would have sworn Sforza had been the last. Hern. And should be writ so, In tiie list of those you pardon. Would his city Alph. On my life We need not fear his coining in.] His surrender of himself. Hernando, in the next speech, plays upon the word. nay, it is no counsel,] i. c. no secret: so in Cupid's Rcienge : I would worry her, u As neter rur was worried, I would, neighbour, " Till a\y teeth met 1 know where ? but that is counsel.'* 284 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Had rather held us out a siege, like Troy, Than, by a feign'd submission, he should cheat you Of a just revenge ; or us, of those fair glories We have sweat blood to purchase 1 Med. With your honour You cannot hear him.^ Alph. The sack alone of Milan Will pay the army. Char I. I am not so weak, To be wrought on, as you fear ; nor ignorant That money is the sinew of the war : And on what terms soever he seek peace, 'Tis in our power to grant it, or deny it : Yet, for our glory, and to shew him that We've brought him on his knees, it is resolved To hear him as a suppliant. Bring him in ; But let him see the effects of our just anger, In the guard that you make for him. {Exit Pescara. Hern. I am now Familiar with the issue ; all plagues on it ! He will appear in some dejected habit, His countenance suitable, and for his order, A rope about his neck : then kneel, and tell Old stories, what a worthy thing it is To have power, and not to use it ; then add to that A tale of kingTigranes, and great Pompey, Wh said, forsooth, and wisely ! 'twas more honour To make a king, than kill one : which, applied To the emperor, and himself, a pardon's granted To him an enemy ; and we, his servants, Condemn'd to beggary. [Aside to Med. Mled. Yonder he comes; But not as you expected. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 285 Re-enter Pescara with Sforza, strongly guarded. Alph. He looks as if He would outface his dangers. Hern. I am cozen'd: A suitor, in the devil's name ! Med. Hear him speak. Sfor. I come not, emperor, to invade thy mercy, By fawning on thy fortune ; nor bring with me Excuses, or denials. I profess, And with a good man's confidence, even this instant That I am in thy power, I was thine enemy ; Thy deadly and vow'd enemy : one that wish'd Confusion to thy person and estates ; And with my utmost powers, and deepest coun- sels, Had they been truly follow'd, further'd it. Nor will I now, although my neck were under The hangman's axe, with one poor syllable Confess, but that I honour'd the French king, More than thyself, and all men. Med. By saint Jaques, This is no flattery. Hern. There is fire and spirit in't; But not long-lived, I hope. Sfor. Now give me leave, My hate against thyself, and love to him Freely acknowledged, to give up the reasons That made me so affected : In my wants I ever found him faithful ; had supplies Of men and monies from him; and my hopes, Quite sunk, were, by his grace, buoy'd up again : He was, indeed, to me, as my good angel 286 THE DUKE OF MILAN. To guard me from all dangers. I dare speak, Nay, must and will, his praise now, in as high And loud a key, as when he was thy equal. The benefits he sow'd in me, met not Unthankful ground, but yielded him his own With fair increase, and I still glory in it. And, though my fortunes, poor, compared to his, And Milan, weigh'd with France, appear as nothing, Are in thy fury burnt, let it be mention'd, They served but as small tapers to attend The solemn flame at this great funeral : 4 And with them I will gladly waste myself, Rather than undergo the imputation Of being base, or unthankful. Alph. Nobly spoken ! Hern. I do begin, I know not why, to hate him Less than I did. Sfor. If that, then, to be grateful For courtesies received, or not to leave A friend in his necessities, be a crime Amongst you Spaniards, which other nations That, like you, aim'd at empire, loved, and cherish'd Where'er they found it, Sforza brings his head To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slave, Pinion'd and fetter'd, in a squalid weed, Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling, For a forestail'd remission : that were poor, And would but shame thy victory ; for conquest Over base foes, is a captivity, And not a triumph. I ne'er fear'd to die, at this great funeral :] Mr. M. Mason, whether by design or not, I will not say, reads, his great funeral: meaning, perhaps, the French king's; but the old reading is better in e?ery respect. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 287 More than I wish'd to live. When I had reach'd My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes, This crown upon my head, and to my side This sword was girt ; and witness truth, that, now Tis in another's power, when 1 shall part With them and life together, I'm the same : My veins then did not swell with pride ; nor now Shrink they for fear. Kuow, sir, that Sforza stands Prepared for either fortune. Hern As I live, I do begin strangely to love this fellow; And could part with three quarters of my share in The promised spoil, to save him. Sjor. But, if example Of my fidelity to the French, whose honours, Titles, and glories, are now mix'd with yours, As brooks, devour'd by rivers, lose their names, Has power to invite you to make him a friend, That hath given evident proof, he knows to love, And to be thankful : this my crown, now yours, You may restore me, and in me instruct These brave commanders, should your fortune change, Which now I wish not, what they may expect From noble enemies, for being faithful. The charges of the war I will defray, And, what you may, not without hazard, force, Bring freely to you : I'll prevent the cries Of murder'd infants, and of ravish'd maids, Which, in a city sack'd, call on heaven's justice, And stop the course of glorious victories : And, when I know the captains and the soldiers, That have in the late battle done best service, And are to be rewarded, I myself, According to their quality and merits, 288 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Will see them largely recompensed. I have said, And now expect my sentence. Alph. By this light, 'Tis a brave gentleman. Med. How like a block The emperor sits ! Hern. He hath deliver'd reasons,* Especially in his purpose to enrich Such as fought bravely, (I myself am one, I care not who knows it,) as I wonder that He can be so stupid. Now he begins to stir : Mercy, an't be thy will ! Charl. Thou hast so far Outgone my expectation, noble Sforza, For such I hold thee ; and true-constancy, Raised on a brave foundation, bears such palm And privilege with it, that where we behold it, Though in an enemy, it does command us To love and honour it. By my future hopes, I am glad, for thy sake, that, in seeking favour, Thou didst not borrow of vice her indirect, Crooked, and abject means ; and for mine own, That, since my purposes must now be changed, Touching thy life and fortunes, the world can- not Tax me of levity in my settled counsels ; I being neither wrought by tempting bribes, 5 He hath deliver'd reasons,] Hernando evidently means to say that Sforza has spoken rationally, especially in expressing his purpose of enriching those who fought bravely : the word reasons in the plural will not express that sense. M. Mason. He therefore alters it to reason I To attempt to prove that the old copies are right, would be superfluous : but I cannot reflect, without some indignation, on the scandalous manner in which Mr. M. Mason has given this speech. He first deprives it of metre and sense, and then builds up new readings on his owa blunders. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 289 Nor servile flattery ; but forced into it By a fair war of virtue. Hern. This sounds well. Chart. All former passages of hate be buried : For thus with open arms 1 meet thy love, And as a friend embrace it ; and so far I am from robbing thee of the least honour, That with my hands, to make it sit the faster, I set thy crown once more upon thy head ; And do not only style thee* Duke of Milan, But vow to keep thee so. Yet, not to take From others to give only to myself,' I will not hinder your magnificence To my commanders, neither will I urge it; But in that, as in all things else, I leave you To be your own disposer. [Flourish. Exit with Attendants. Sfor. May I live To seal my loyalty, though with loss of life, In some brave service worthy Caesar's favour, And I shall die most happy ! Gentlemen, Receive me to your loves; and if henceforth There can arise a difference between us, It shall be in a noble emulation Who hath the fairest sword, or dare go farthest, To fight for Charles the emperor. Hern. We embrace you, As one well read in all the points of honour: And there we are your scholars. Sfor. True ; but such As far outstrip the master. We'll contend 6 Kr/, not to take From others, to give only to myself,] This is the reading of all the old copies, and nothing can be clearer than that it is per- fectly proper. The modern editors, howerer, choose to weaken both the sense and the sentiment, by a conceit of their own : they print, - --to give only to thyself! VOL. I. U # 2 9 THE DUKE OF MILAN. In love hereafter; in the mean time, pray you, Let me discharge my debt, and, as an earnest Of what's to come, divide this cabinet : In the small body of it there are jewels Will yield a hundred thousand pistolets, Which honour me to receive. Med. You bind us to you. Sfor. And when great Charles commands me to his presence, If you will please to excuse ray abrupt departure, Designs that most concern me, next this mercy, Calling me home, I shall hereafter meet you, And gratify the favour. Hern. In this, and all things, We are your servants. Sfor. A name I ever owe you. [Exeunt Medina t Hernando, and Alphomo. Pesc. So, sir; this tempest is well overblown, And all things fall out to our wishes : but, In my opinion, this quick return, Before you've made a party in the court Among the great ones, (for these needy captains Have little power in peace,) may beget danger, At least suspicion. Sfor. Where true honour lives, Doubt hath no being : I desire no pawn Beyond an emperor's word, for my assurance. Besides, Pescara, to thyself, of all men, I will confess my weakness : -though my state And crown's restored me, though I am in grace, And that a little stay might be a step To greater honours, I must hence. Alas ! I live not here ; my wife, my wife, Pescara/ Being absent, I am dead. Prithee, excuse, 7 my wife, my wife, Pescara,] Mr. M. Mason feebly and tinmetrically reads, my wife, Pescara. There is great beauty in the repetition ; it is, besides, perfectly in character THE DUKE OF MILAN. 291 And do not chide, for friendship's sake, my fondness, But ride along with me ; I'll give you reasons, And strong ones, to plead tor me. Pesc. Use your own pleasure; I'll bear you company. Sfor. Farewell, grief! I am stored with Two blessings most desired in human life, A constant friend, an unsuspected wife. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Milan. A room in the Castle* Enter an Officer with Graccho. Offic. What I did, I had warrant for ; you have tasted My office gently, and for those soft strokes, Flea-bitings to the jerks I could have lent you, There does belong a feeling. Grac. Must I pay For being tormented, and dishonour'd ? Offic. Fie ! no, Your honour's not impair'd in't. What's the letting out Of a little corrupt blood,* and the next way too ? There is no surgeon like me, to take off A courtier's itch that's rampant at great ladies, Or turns knave for preferment, or grows proud Milan. A lioom in the Castle.] Here too Coxcter prints, " Scene changes to Pisa f" and here too he is followed by the " most accurate of editors," Mr. M. Mason. 9 Of a little corrupt blood, ] So the old copies: the modern editors read, Of a little corrupted blood f This reduces the line to very good prose, which is indeed its only merit. U2 292 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Of his rich cloaks and suits, though got by brokage, And so forgets his betters: Grac. Very good, sir : But am I the first man of quality That e'er came under your fingers r Offic. Not by a thousand ; And they have said I have a lucky hand too : Both men and women of all sorts have bow'd Under this sceptre. I have had a fellow That could endite, forsooth, and make fine metres To tinkle in the ears of ignorant madams, That, for defaming of great men, was sent me Threadbare and lousy, and in three days after, Discharged by another that set him on, I have seen him Cap a pie* gallant, and his stripes wash'd of With oil of angels. 1 Grac. 'Twas a sovereign cure. Offic. There was a sectary* too, that would not be Conformable to the orders of the church, Nor yield to any argument of reason, But still rail at authority, brought to me, When I had worm'd his tongue, and truss'd his haunches, Grew a fine pulpitman, and was beneficed : JJad he not cause to thank me ? 1 With oil of angels.] It may be just necessary to observe, that this is a pleasant allusion to the gold coin of that name. * There was a sectary too, &c] In the former editions, secre- tary. We owe this change, which improves at once the metre and the sense, to Massinger's pen. The emendation was sug- gested to me during the first passage of this play through the press ; but an over scrupulous adherence to the old copies induced me to decline receiving it. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 293 Grac. There was physic Was to the purpose. Offic, Now, for women, sir, For your more consolation, I could tell you Twenty fine stories, but I'll end in one, And 'tis the last that's memorable. Grac. Prithee, do ; For I grow weary of thee. Offic. There was lately 3 A fine she-waiter in the court, that doted Extremely of a gentleman, that had His main dependence on a signior's favour T will not name, but could not compass him On any terms. This wanton, at dead midn'ght, Was found at the exercise behind the arras, With the 'foresaid signior: he got clear oft*, But she was seized on, and, to save his honour, Endured the lash ; and, though I made her often Curvet and caper, she would never tell Who play'd at pushpin with her. Grac. But what folio w'd ? Prithee be brief: Offic. Why this, sir: She delivered. Had store of crowns assign'd her by her patron, Who forced the gentleman, to save her credit, To marry her, and say he was the party Found in Lob's pound: soshe, that, before, gladly 1 Ollic. There xvas lately &c] I have little doubt but that this lirely story was founded in fact, and mil understood by the poet's contemporaries. The courtiers were not slow in indem- nifying themselves for the morose and gloomy hours which they had passed during the last two or three years of Elizabeth ; and the coarse and ineh-cant manners of James, which bordered closely on licentiousness, afforded them ample opportunities. It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader, that whereter our old dramatists laid the scene of their plays, the habits and manners of them arc, generally speaking, as truly Knglish, as the language. 294 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Would have been his whore, reigns o'er him as his wife ; Nor dares he grumble at it. Speak but truth, then, Is not my office lucky ? Grac. Go, there's for thee ; But what will be my fortune? Offic. If you thrive not After that soft correction, come again. Grac. I thank you, knave. Offic. And then, knave, I will fit you. [Exit. Grac. Whipt like a rogue ! no lighter punish- ment serve To balance with a little mirth ! 'Tis well ; My credit sunk for ever, I am now Fit company only for pages and for footboys, That have perused the porter's lodge. 4 Enter Julio and Giovanni.* Giox). See, Julio, Yonder the proud slave is. How he looks now, After his castigation ! Jul. As he came From a close fight* at sea under the hatches, 4 Fit company for pages and for footboys, That have perused the porter's lodge.] i. e. that have been whipt there. The porter's lodge, in our author's days, when the great claimed, and, indeed, frequently exercised, the right of chastising their servants, was the usual place of punishment. Thus Shirley, in the Grateful Servant ; " My friend, what make you here ? Begone, begone, I say ; there is a porter's lodge else, where you may have due chastisement." 5 Enter Julio and Giovanni.] This has been hitherto print- ed, Enter two Gentlemen^ though one of them is immediately named. Not to multiply characters unnecessarily, I have sup- posed them to be the same that appear with Graccho, in the first scene of the first act. 6 Jul. As he came From a close fight &c] Our old poets made very free with THE DUKE OF MILAN. 295 With a she-Dunkirk, that was shot before Between wind and water; and he hath sprung a leak too, Or I am cozen'd. Giov. Let's be merry with him. Grac. How they stare at me ! am I turn'd to an owl ? The wonder, gentlemen? Jul. I read, this morning, Strange stories of the passive fortitude Of men in former ages, which I thought Impossible, and not to be believed : But now I look on you, my wonder ceases. Grac. The reason, sir? Jul. Why, sir, you have been whipt, Whipt, signior Graccho ; and the whip, I take it, Is to a gentleman, the greatest trial That may be ofWiis patience. Grac. Sir, I'll call you To a strict account for this. Giov. I'll not deal with you, Unless I have a beadle for my second : And then I'll answer you. Jul. Farewell, poor Graccho. [Exeunt Julio and Giovanni. Grac. Better and better still. If ever wrongs Could teach a wretch to rind the way to vengeance, one another's property : it must be confessed, however, that their literary rapine did not originate in poverty, for they gave as liberally as they took. This speech has been " conveyed" by Fletcher or his editor, into his excellent comedy of the Elder Brother: '* ' They look ruefully, *' As they had newly come from a TauUinc; house, " And had been quite shot through between wind and water " By a she-Dunkirk, and had sprung a leak, sir.'* The meaning is sufficiently obvious. 296 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Enter Francisco and a Servant. Hell now inspire me! How, the lord protector! My judge; I thank him! Whither thus in private? I will not see him. [Stands aside. Fran. If I am sought for, Say I am indisposed, and will not hear Or suits, or suitors. Serv. But, sir, if the princess Enquire, what shall I answer? Fran/ Say, I am rid 7 Abroad to take the air; but by no means Let her know I'm in court. Serv. So I shall tell her. [Exit. Fran. Within there, ladies! Enter a Gentlewoman. Gentlew. My good lord, your pleasure? Fran. Prithee, let me beg thy favour for access To the dutchess. Gentlew. In good sooth, my lord, I dare not; She's ver} 7 private. Fran. Come, there's gold to buy thee A new gown, and a rich one. Gentlew. I once swore 6 If e'er I lost my maidenhead, it should be 7 Fran. Say, I am rid Abroad &c] So the old copies : the modern editors, with equal accuracy and elegance, Say I'm rode Abroad, &c. 8 I once swore] Both the quartos have a marginal hemistich here: they read, This tiill tempt me ; an addition of the promp- ter, or an unnecessary interpolation of the copyist, which spoils the metre. Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason have advanced it into the text. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 297 With a great lord, as you are ; and, I know not how, I feel a yielding inclination in me, If you have appetite. Fran. Pox on thy maidenhead ! Where is thy lady ? Gentlew. If you venture on her, She's walking in the gallery ; perhaps, You will find her less tractable. Fran. Bring me to her. Gentlew. I tear you'll have cold entertainment, when You are at your journey's end ; and 'twere discretion To take a snatch by the way. Fran. Prithee, leave fooling: My page waits in the lobby; give him sweetmeats; He is train'd up for his master's ease, And he will cool thee. [Exeunt Fran, and Gentlew, Grac. A brave discovery beyond my hope, A plot even offer'd to my hand to work on ! If I am dull now, may 1 live and die The scorn ofworms and slaves! Let meconsider. My lady and her mother first committed, In the favour of the dutchess ; and I whipt I That, with an iron pen, is writ in brass . On my tough heart, now grown a harder metal. And all his bribed approaches to the dutchess To be conceal'd ! good, good. This to my lady Deliver'd, as I'll order it, runs her mad. But this may prove but courtship ! * let it be, I care not, so it feed her jealousy. [Exit. Rut tint may prove but courtship! &c] This is, merelj paying his court to her as dutchess. M. Mason. 2S>8 THE DUKE OF MILAN. SCENE III. Another Room in the same. Enter Marcelia and Fran Cisco. Marc. Believe thy tears or oaths ! can it be hoped, After a practice so abhorr'd and horrid, Repentance e'er can find thee? Fran. Dearest lady, Great in your fortune, greater in your goodness, Make a superlative of excellence, In being greatest in your saving mercy. I do confess, humbly confess my fault, To be beyond all pity ; my attempt, So barbarously rude, that it would turn A saint-like patience into savage fury. But you, that are all innocence and virtue, No spleen or anger in you of a woman, But when a holy zeal to piety fires you, May, if you please, impute the fault to love, Or call it beastly lust, for 'tis no better ; A sin, a monstrous sin ! yet with it many That did prove good men after, have been tempted; And, though I'm crooked now, 'tis in your power To make me straight again. Marc. Is't possible This, can be cunning ! [Aside. Fran. But, if no submission, Nor prayers can appease you, that you may know 'Tis not the fear of death that makes me sue thus, THE DUKE OF MILAN. 299 But a loath'd destestation of my madness, Which makes me wish to live to hare your pardon ; I will not wait the sentence of the duke, Since his return is doubtful, but I myself Will do a fearful justice on myself, No witness by but you, there being no more, When I offended. Yet, before I do it, For I perceive in you no signs of mercy, I will disclose a secret, which, dying with me, May prove your ruin. Marc. Speak it; it will take from The burthen of thy conscience. Fran. Thus, then, madam : The warrant by my lord sign'd for your death, Was but conditional ; but you must swear By your unspotted truth, not to reveal it, Or I end here abruptly. Marc. By my hopes Of joys hereafter. On. Fran. Nor was it hate That forced him to it, but excess of love And, if I ne'er return? (so said great Sforza,) No living ?nan deserving to enjoy My best Mar eel ia, u ith the first news That I am dead, (for no man after me Must e'er enjoy her,) fail not to kill her But till certain proof Assure thee I am lost, (these were his words,) Observe and honour her, as ij the soul 9 And if I ne'er return, &c] I hare regulated this speech, which was exceedingly harsh and confused in all the printed copies, according to Massinger's manuscript corrections. The re- petitions must be attributed to the embarrassed state of Francisco's mind. In the seventh line, the poet has altered " seal of woman's goodness," (the reading of all the copies,) to tout. No sagacity 500 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Of woman's goodness only dwelt in hers. This trust I have abused, and basely wrong'd ; And, if the excelling pity of your mind Cannot forgive it, as I dare not hope it, Rather than look on my offended lord, I stand resolved to punish it. [Draws his sword. Marc, Hold ! 'tis forgiven, And by me freely pardon'd. In thy fair life Hereafter, study to deserve this bounty, Which thy true penitence, such I believe it, Against my resolution hath forced from me. But that my lord, my Sforza, should esteem My life fit only as a page, to wait on The various course of his uncertain fortunes ; Or cherish in himself that sensual hope, In death to know me as a wife, afflicts me; Nor does his envy less deserve mine anger, Which though, such is my love, I would not nourish, Will slack the ardour that I had to see him Return in safety. Fran. But if your entertainment Should give the least ground to his jealousy, To raise up an opinion I am false, You then destroy your mercy. Therefore, madam, (Though I shall ever look on you as on My life's preserver, and the miracle Of human pity,) would you but vouchsafe, In company, to do me those fair graces, And favours, which your innocence and honour May safely warrant, it would to the duke, in another could have furnished this most happy emendation, which now appears so necessary, and so obvious. I have been tempted to smile in the course of this revision at the surpris- ing gravity with which wc sometimes labour to explain the un- intelligible blunders of a careless compositor. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 301 I being to your best self alone known guilty, Make me appear most innocent. Marc. Have your wishes ; And something I may do to try his temper, At least, to make him know a constant wife Is not so slaved to her husband's doting humours, But that she may deserve to live a widow, Her fate appointing it. Fran. It is enough ; Nay, all I could desire, and will make way To my revenge, which shall disperse itself On htm, on her, and all. [Aside and exit. Shout and flourish. Marc. What shout is that ? Enter Tiberio and Stephano. Tib. All happiness to the dutchess, that may flow From the duke's new and wish'd return ! Marc. He's welcome. Steph. How coldly she receives it! Tib. Observe the encounter. Flourish. Enter Sfohza, Pescara, Isabella, Mariana, Graccuo, and Attendants. Man. What you have told me, Graccho, is believed, And I'll find time to stir in't. Grac. As you see cause ; I will not do ill offices. Sfor. I have stood Silent thus long, Marcelia, expecting When, with more than a greedy haste, thou wouldst Have flown into my arms, and on my lips Have printed a deep welcome. My desires 302 THE DUKE OF MILAN. To glass myself in these fair eyes, have born me With more than human speed : nor durst I stay In any temple, or to any saint To pay my vows and thanks for my return, Till I had seen thee. Marc. Sir, I am most happy To look upon you safe, and would express My love and duty in a modest fashion, Such as might suit with the behaviour Of one that knows herself a wife, and how To temper her desires, not like a wanton Fired with hot appetite; nor can it wrong me To love discreetly. Sfor. How ! why, can there be A mean in your affections to Sforza? Or any act, though ne'er so loose, that may Invite or heighten appetite, appear Immodest or uncomely? Do not move me; My passions to you are in extremes, And know no bounds : come ; kiss me. Marc. I obey you. Sfor. By all the joys of love, she does salute me As if I were her grandfather ! What witch, With cursed spells, hath quench'd the amorous heat That lived upon these lips ? Tell me, Marcelia, And truly tell me, is't a fault of mine That hath begot this coldness ? or neglect Of others, in my absence ? Marc. Neither, sir : I stand indebted to your substitute, Noble and good Francisco, for his care And fair observance of me : there was nothing With which you, being present, could supply me, That I dare say I wanted. Sfor. How ! Marc. The pleasures. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 303 That sacred Hymen warrants us, excepted, Of which, in troth, you are too great a doter; And there is more of beast in it than man. Let us love temperately; things violent last not, An^J too much dotage rather argues folly Than true affection. Grac. Observe but this, And how she praised my lord's care and observ- ance; And then judge, madam, if my intelligence Have any ground of truth. Mart. No more; I mark it. Steph. How the duke stands ! Tib. As he were rooted there, And had no motion. Pcsc. My lord, from whence Grows this amazement ? Sfor. It is more, dear my friend; For I am doubtful whether I've a being, But certain that my life's a burden to me. Take me back, good Pescara, shew me to Cassar In all his rage and fury ; I disclaim His mercy : to live now, which is his gift, Is worse than death, and with all studied tor- ments. Marcelia is unkind, nay, worse, grown cold In her affection ; my excess of fervour, Which yet was never equall'd, grown distasteful. But have thy wishes, woman ; thou shalt know That I can be myself, and thus shake off The fetters of fond dotage. From my sight, Without reply ; for I am apt to do Something I may repent. [Exit Marc] Oh ! who would place His happiness in most accursed woman, In whom obsequiousness engenders pride; 304 THE DUKE OF MILAN And harshness deadly hatred ! From this hour I'll labour to forget there are such creatures ; True friends be now my mistresses. Clear your brows, s And, though my heart-strings crack for't, I will be To all a free example of delight. % We will have sports of all kinds, and propound Rewards to such as can produce us new ; Unsatisfied, though we surfeit in their store : And never think of curs'd Marcel ia more. [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE L The same. A Room in the Castle. Enter Francisco and Graccho. Fran. And is it possible thou shouldst forget A wrong of such a nature, and then study My safety and content ? Grac. Sir, but allow me Only to have read the elements of courtship,* Not the abstruse and hidden arts to thrive there ; 1 And harshness deadly hatred!] This necessary word is sup- plied by the hand of Massinger. It had either dropt out at the press, or proved illegible. The old copies read, And harshness deadly ; on which the following note was made in the first edi- tion. I preserve it merely to shew that I was not inattentive to the verbal errors of the original, though I could not remove them : u These inversions are not common in Massinger ; nor was this probably intended by him : the metre, too, is defective by a foot, so that some word has been lost at the press." * the elements of courtship,] i. e. of court-policy. M. Mason. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 305 And you may please to grant me so much know- ledge, That injuries from one in grace, like you, Are noble favours. Is it not grown common," In every sect, for those that want, to suffer Fr#n such as have to give? Your captain cast, If poor, though not thought daring, but ap- proved so, To raise a coward into name, that's rich, Suffers disgraces publicly; but receives Rewards for them in private. Fran. Well observed. Put on; 4 we'll be familiar, and discourse A little of this argument. That day, In which it was first rumour'd, then confirm'd, Great Sforza thought me worthy of his favour, I found myself to be another thing; Not what I was before. I passed then For a pretty fellow, and of pretty parts too, And was perhaps received so ; but, once raised, The liberal courtier made me master of Those virtues which I ne'er knew in myself: . If I pretended to a jest, 'twas made one By their interpretation ; if I offer'd To reason of philosophy, though absurdly, They had helps to save me, and without a blush Would swear that I, by nature, had more know- ledge, Than others could acquire by any labour : Nay, all I did, indeed, which in another Was not remarkable, in me shew'd rarely. Grac. But then they tasted of your bounty. Fran, True : * ' /* it not grown common Ac] Graccho is an apt scholar: these notable observations arc dcrircd from the les- sons of the Officer, in the last act. Put on;] Be covered; a frequent expression in these playi. VOL. I. * X 306 THE DUKE OF MILAN. They gave me those good parts I was not born to, And, by my intercession, they got that Which, had I cross'd them, they durst not have hoped for. Grac. All this is oracle : and shall I, then, For a foolish whipping, leave to honour him, That holds the wheel of fortune? no; that savours Too much of the ancient freedom. Since great men Receive disgraces and give thanks, poor knaves Must have nor spleen, nor anger. Though I love My limbs as well as any man, if you had now A humour to kick me lame into an office, Where I might sit in state and undo others, Stood I not bound to kiss the foot that did it? Though it seem strange, there have been such things seen In the memory of man. Fran. But to the purpose, And then, that service done, make thine own fortunes. My wife, thou say'st, is jealous I am too Familiar with the dutchess. Grac. And incensed For her commitment in her brother's absence ; And by her mother's anger is spurr'd on To make discovery of it. This her purpose Was trusted to my charge, whch I declined As much as in me lay; but, finding her Determinately bent to undertake it, Though breaking my faith to her may destroy My credit with your lordship, I yet thought, Though at my peril, I stood bound to reveal it. Fran. I thank thy care, and will deserve this secret. In making thee acquainted with a greater, And of more moment. Come into my bosom, THE DUKE OF MILAN. 307 And take it from me : Canst thou think, dull Graccho, My power and honours were conferr'd upon me, And, add to them, this form, to have my pleasures Confined and limited ? I delight in change, And sweet variety ; that's my heaven on earth, For which I love life only. I confess, My wife pleased me a day, the dutchess, two, (And yet I must not say I have enjoy'd her,) But now I care for neither: therefore, Graccho, So far I am from stopping Mariana In making her complaint, that I desire thee To urge her to it. Grac. That may prove your ruin : The duke already heing, as 'tis reported, Doubtful she hath play'd false. Fran. There thou art cozen'd ; His dotage, like an ague, keeps his course, And now 'tis strongly on him. But I lose time, And therefore know, whether thou wilt or no, Thou art to be my instrument ; and, in spite Of the old saw, that says, It is not safe On any terms to trust a man that's wrong'd, I dure thee to be false. Grac, This is a language, My lord, I understand not. Fran. You thought, sirrah, To put a trick on me for the relation Of what I knew before, and, having won Some weighty secret from me, in revenge To play the traitor. Know, thou wretched thing, By my command thou wert whipt ; and every day I'll have thee freshly tortured, if thou miss In the least charge that I impose upon thee. Though what I speak, for the most part, is true : Nay, grant thou hadst a thousand witnesses To be deposed they heard it, 'tis in me, X2 508 THE DUKE OF MILAN. JWith one wordy-suekis .. Sfprzals ^gniidence Of my fidelity not to be shaken, Therefore look to't ; bring my wife hotly on To accuse me to the duke I have an end in't, Or think what 'tis makes man most miserable, And that shall fall upon thee. Thou wert a fool To hope, by being acquainted with my courses, To curb and awe me ; or that I should live Thy slave, as thou didst saucily divine : For prying in my counsels, still live mine. [Exit. Grac. I am caught on both sides. This 'tis for a puisne In policy's Protean school, to try conclusions With one that hath commenced, and gone out doctor.* If I discover what but now he bragg'd of, I shall not be believed : if I fall off From him, his threats and actions go together, And there's no hope of safety. Till I get A plummet that may sound his deepest counsels, I must obey and serve him : Want of sk ill Now makes me play the rogue agaiast-my will. [EmU to try conclusions With one that hath commenced, and gone out doctor^ To try conclusions, a very common expression, is, to try experiments : " God help them," says Gabriel Hervey, in his third letter, " that have neither hability to helpe, nor wit to pitie them- selves, but will needs try conclusions between their heads and the next wall." Commenced, and gone out, which occur in the next line, are University terms, and to be met with in most of our old dramas : " How many that have done ill, and proceed, '.' Women that take degrees in wantonness, " Commence, and rise in rudiments of lust," &c. The Queen of Corinth. THE DUKE OF MILAN. S09 SCENE II. Another Room in the Same. Enter Marcelia, Tiberio, Stephano, and Gentlewoman. Marc. Command me from his sight, and with such scorn , As he would rate his slave ! Tib. 'Twas in his fury. Steph. And he repents it, madam. Marc. Was I born To observe his humours ? or, because he dotes, Must I run mad ? Tib. If that your Excellence Would please but to receive a feeling know- ledge Of what he suffers, and how deep the least Unkindness wounds from you, you would excuse His hasty language. Steph. He hath paid the forfeit Of his offence, I'm sure, with such a sorrow, As, if it had been greater, would deserve A full remission. Marc. Why, perhaps, he hath it ; And I stand more afflicted for his absence, Than he can be for mine : so, pray you, tell him. But, till 1 have digested some sad thoughts, And reconciled passions that are at war Within myself, I purpose to be private: And have you care, unless it be Francisco, That no man be admitted. [Exit Gentlewoman, Tib, How ! Francisco ? 310 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Steph. He, that at every stage keeps livery mistresses ; The stallion of the state ! Tib. They are things above us, And so no way concern us. Steph. If I were The duke, (I freely must confess my weakness,) Enter Francisco. I should wear yellow breeches. 6 Here he comes. Tib. Nay, spare your labour, lady, we know our duty, 7 And quit the room. Steph. Is this her privacy ! Though with the hazard of a check, perhaps, This may go to the duke. [Exeunt Tiberio and Stephano. Marc. Your face is full Of fears and doubts : the reason? Fran. O, best madam, They are not counterfeit. I, your poor convert, That only wish to live in sad repentance, To mourn my desperate attempt of you, That have no ends nor aims, but that your good- ness Might be a witness of my penitence, 6 I should wear yellow breeches.^ i. e. Be jealous ; yellow, with our old poets, being the livery of jealousy ; probably, be* cause it was- that of Hymen. This expression needs no example. 7 Nay, spare your labour, lady, we know our duty, And quit the room.'] Duty was inserted by Coxeter, on the supposition of this, or a Avord of similar import, having been dropt at the press. Both the quartos have, we know our exit, with this difference, that the last (1638) exhibits exit, in italic characters. Massinger has made no alteration here, so that exit is perhaps the genuine reading. I have, however, left the text undisturbed. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 311 Which seen, would teach you how to love your mercy, Am robb'd of that last hope. The duke, the duke, I more than fear, hath found that I am guilty. Marc. By my unspotted honour, not from me; Nor have I with him changed one syllable, Since his return, but what you heard. Fran. Yet malice Is eagle eyed, and would see that which is not; And jealousy's too apt to build upou Unsure foundations. Marc. Jealousy ! Fran. [Aside.] It takes. L- -" Marc. Who dares but only think I can be tainted ? But for him, though almost on certain proof, To give it hearing, not belief, deserves My hate for ever. Fran. Whether grounded on Your noble, yet chaste favours shewn unto me ; Or her imprisonment, for her contempt To you, by my command, my frantic wife Hath put it in his head. Ala re. Have I then lived So long, now to be doubted ? Are my favours The themes of her discourse? or what I do, That never trod in a suspected path, Subject to base construction ? Be undaunted ; For now, as of a creature that is mine, I rise up your protectress : all the grace I hitherto have done you, was bestow'd With a shut hand ; it shall be now more free, Open, and liberal. But let it not, Though counterfeited to the life, teach you To nourish saucy hopes. Fran. May I be blasted, Wheu I prove such a monster ! 312 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Marc. I will stand then Between you and all danger. He shall know, Suspicion overturns what confidence builds ; And he that dares but doubt when there's no ground," Is neither to himself nor others sound. [Exit. Fran. So, let it work ! Her goodness, that denied My service, branded with the name of lust, Shall now destroy itself; and she shall find, When he's a suitor, that brings cunning arm'd With power, to be his advocates, the denial Is a disease as killing as the plague, And chastity a clue that leads to death. Hold but thy nature, duke, and be but rash And violent enough, and then at leisure Repent; I care not. And let my plots produce this long'd-for birth, In my revenge I have my heaven on earth. [Exit. SCENE III. Another Room in the same. Enter Sforza, Pescara, and three Gentlemen. Pesc. You promised to be merry. 1 Gent. There are pleasures, And of all kinds, to entertain the time. 2 Gent. Your excellence vouchsafing to make choice Of that which best affects you. SJorr Hold your prating. Learn manners too ; you are rude. 3 Gent. I have my answer, Before I ask the question. [Aside. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 3IS Pesc. I mut borrow The privilege of a friend, and will; or else I am like these, a servant, or, what's worse, A parasite to the sorrow Sforza worships In spite of reason. Sfor. Pray you, use your freedom ; Ana so far, it you please, allow me mine, To hear you only ; not to be compell'd To take your moral potions. I am a man, And, though philosophy, your mistress, rage for't, Now I have cause to grieve, I must be sad; And I dare shew it. Pesc, Would it were bestow'd Upon a worthier subject ! Sfor. Take heed, friend. You rub a sore, whose pain will make me mad; Aud I shall then forget myself and you. Lance it no further. Pesc. Have you stood the shock Of thousand enemies, and outfaced the anger Of a great emperor, thatvow'd your ruin, Though by a desperate, a glorious way, That had no precedent ? are you return'd with honour, Loved by your subjects ? does your fortune court you, Or rather say, your courage does command it ? Have you given proof, to this hour of your life, Prosperity, that searches the best temper, Could never puff you up, nor adverse fate Deject your valour? Shall, I say, these virtues, So many and so various trials of Your constant mind, be buried in the frown (To please you, I will say so) of a fair woman ? Yet I have seen her equals. Sfor. Good Pescara, This language iu another were profane ; 314 THE DUKE OF MILAN. In you it is unmannerly. Her equal ! I tell you as a friend, and tell you plainly, (To all men else my sword should make reply,) Her goodness does disdain comparison, And, but herself, admits no parallel. 8 But you will say she's cross ; 'tis fit she should be, When I am foolish ; for she's wise, Pescara, And knows how far she may dispose her bounties, Her honour safe; or, if she were averse, 'Twas a prevention of a greater sin Ready to fall upon me ; for she's not ignorant, But truly understands how much I love her, And that her rare parts do deserve all honour. Her excellence increasing with her years too, I might have fallen into idolatry, And, from the admiration of her worth, 8 Her goodness docs disdain comparison, And, but herself, admits no parallel.] The reader who has any acquaintance with the literary squabbles of the last century, cannot but recollect how Theobald was annoyed by the jests levelled at him for this line in the Double Faleshood : u None but himself can be his parallel.'' He justified it, indeed, at some length; but "it is not for gravity," as Sir Toby well observes, " to play at cherry-pit with Satan." His waggish antagonists drove him out of his patience, and he, who had every thing but wit on his side, is at this moment labouring under the consequences of his imagined defeat. With respect to the phrase in question, it is sufficiently common : and I could produce, if it were necessary, twenty instances of it from Massinger's contemporaries alone: nor is it peculiar to this country, but exists in every language with which I am acquainted. Even while I am writing this note, the following pretty example lies before me, in the address of a grateful Hindoo to Sir William Jones: " To you there arc many like me ; yet to me there is none like you, but yourself ; there are numerous groves of night flowers ; yet the night flower sees nothing like the moon, but the moon. A hundred chiefs rule the world, but thou art an ocean, and they are mere wells; many luminaries are awake in the sky, but which of them can be compared to the sun ?" See Memoirs of' his Life, by Lord Teignmouth* THE DUKE OF MILAN. 315 Been taught to think there is no Power above her; And yet I do believe, had angels sexes, The most would be such women, and assume No other shape, when they were to appear In their full glory. Pesc. Well, sir, I'll not cross you, Nor labour to diminish your esteem, Hereafter, of her. Since your happiness, As you will have it, has alone dependence Upon her favour, from my soul I wish you A fair atonement.' SJor. Time, and my submission, Enter Tiberio and Stephano. May work her to it. O! you are well return'd ; Say, am I blest ? hath she vouchsafed to hear you? Is there hope left that she may be appeased ? Let her propound, and gladly I'll subscribe To her cond it ions. Tib. She, sir, yet is froward, And desires respite, and some privacy. Stcph. She was harsh at first ; but, ere we parted, scem'd not Implacable. Sfor. There's comfort yet : I'll ply her Each hour with new ambassadors of more honours, Titles, and eminence : my second self, Francisco, shall solicit her. Stcph. That a wise man, ' A fair atonement.] i. c. as Mr. M. Mason observes, a re- conciliation. To atone has often this sense in our old writers: o Shakspcare : " H and Aufidius can no more itone, 11 Than riolcntcst contrarieties. " Coriolanut, 316 THE DUKE OF MILAN. And what is more, a prince that may command, Should sue thus poorly, and treat with his wife, As she were a victorious enemy, At whose proud feet, himself, his state, and country, Basely begg'd mercy ! Sfor. What is that you mutter ? I'll have thy thoughts. Steph. You shall. You are too fond, And feed a pride that's swollen too big already, And surfeits with observance. Sfor. O my patience ! My vassal speak thus ? Steph. Let my head answer it, If I offend. She, that you think a saint, I fear, may play the devil. Pesc. Well said, old fellow. [Aside. Steph. And he that hath so long engross'd your favours, Though to be named with reverence, lord Fran- cisco, Who, as you purpose, shall solicit for you, I think's too near her. [Sforza lays his hand on his sword* Pesc. Hold, sir ! this is madness. Steph. It may be they confer of joining lord- ships ;* I'm sure he's private with her. Sfor. Let me go, I scorn to touch him; he deserves my pity, And not my anger. Dotard ! and to be one Is thy protection, else thou durst not think That love to my Marcelia hath left room 1 It may be they confer of joining lordships ;] This material improvement we owe to Massinger's revision. It formerly stood of winning lordships. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 317 In my full heart for any jealous thought : That idle passion dwell with thick-skinn'd tradesmen,* The undeserving lord, or the unable ! Lock up thy own wife, fool, that must take physic From her young doctor, physic upon her back," Because thou hast the palsy in that part That makes her active. I could smile to think What wretched things they are that dare be jealous : Were I match'd to another Messaline, While I found merit in myself to please her, I should believe her chaste, and would not seek To find out my own torment ; but, alas ! Enjoying one that, but to me, 's a Dian, 4 I am too secure. Tib. This is a confidence Beyond example. Enter Graccho, Isabella, and Mariana. Grac. There he is now speak. Or be for ever silent. SJ'or. If you come * That idle passion dwell with //u'cA-skinn'd tradesmen,] Thick' skinn'd is the reading of both the quartos ; the modern editors wantonly, and, I may add, ignorantly, displaced it for thick* skull'd. It is not to a want of understanding, but to a bluntness of feeling, that the speaker alludes. * From her young doctor, physic, &c] The old copies had a break here, to shew that the word was illegible at the press: Coieter and M. Mason filled up the space with and. I chose rather to continue the break, in which the possessors of the first edition may now, if they please, insert the genuine word, which is taken from Massinger's corrected copy. that, but to me, *s a Dian,] A contrac- tion oiDiana. M. Maso.n. And so it it! 318 THE DUKE OF MILAN. To bring me comfort, say that you have made My peace with my Marcelia. Isab. I had rather Wait on you to your funeral. Sfor. You are my mother ; Or, by her life, you were dead else. Mari. Would you were, To your dishonour ! and, since dotage makes you Wilfully blind, borrow of me my eyes, Or some part of my spirit. Are you all flesh? A lump of patience only ?' no fire in you ? But do your pleasure : here your mother was Committed by your servant, (for I scorn To call him husband,) and myself, your sister, If that you dare remember such a name, Mew'd up, to make the way open and free For the adultress, I am unwilling To say, a part of Sforza. Sfor. Take her head off ! She hath blasphemed, and by our law must die. Isab. Blasphemed ! for calling of a whore, a whore ? Sfor. O hell, what do I suffer ! Mari. Or is it treason For me, that am a subject, to endeavour To save the honour of the duke, and that He should not be a wittol on record? For by posterity 'twill be believed, As certainly as now it can be proved, Francisco, the great minion, that sways all, To meet the chaste embraces of the dutchess, Hath leap'd into her bed. Sfor. Some proof, vile creature ! Or thou hast spoke thy last. 5 A lump of patience only ?] In all the copies, a limb of pati- ence only. Corrected by Massinger. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 319 Mart. The public fame, Their hourly private meetings ; and, e'en now, When, under a pretence of grief or anger, You are denied the joys due to a husband, And made a strangtr to her, at all times The door stands open to him. To a Dutchman, This were enough, but to a right Italian, A hundred thousand witnesses. Isab. Would you have us To be her bawds ? Sfor. O the malice And envy of base women, that, with horror, Knowing their own defects and inward guilt, Dare lie, and swear, and damn, for what's most false, To cast aspersions upon one untainted ! Ye are in your natures devils, and your ends, Knowing your reputation sunk for ever, And not to be recover'd, to have all Wear your black livery. Wretches ! you have raised A monumental trophy to her pureness, In t His your studied purpose to deprave her : And all the shot made by your foul detraction, Falling upon her sure-arm 'd innocence, Returns upon yourselves; and, if my love Could suiter an addition, I'm so far From giving credit to you, this would teach me More to admire and serve her. You are not worthy To fall as sacrifices to appease her; And therefore live till your own envy burst you. lsab. All is in vain ; he is not to be moved. Marl. She has bewitch'd him. Pcsc. 'Tis so past belief, To me it shews a fable. 320 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Enter Francisco, speaking to a Servant within, Fran. On thy life, Provide my horses, and without the port With care attend me. Ser^v. [within.'] I shall, my lord. Grac. He's come. What gimcrack have we next? 6 Fran. Great sir. Sfor. Francisco, Though all the joys in woman are fled from me, In thee I do embrace the full delight That I can hope from man. Fran. I would impart, Please you to lend your ear, a weighty secret, I am in labour to deliver to you. Sfor. All leave the room. [Exeunt Isab. Mari, and Graccho.] Excuse me, good Pescara, Ere long I will wait on you. Peso. You speak, sir, The language I should use. [Exit, Sfor. Be within call, Perhaps we may have use of you. Tib. We shall, sir. [Exeunt Tib, and Steph, Sfor. Say on, my comfort. Fran. Comfort ! no, your torment, 6 What gimcrack have we next ?~] It may be that Coxeter has hit upon the right word ; but the first syllable is omitted in the old copies ; probably it was of an offensive tendency. Besides the terror of the law which hung over the poet's head about this time, the Master of the Revels kept a scrutinising eye upon every passage of an indecent (indecent for the times) or profane tendency. It is Massinger's peculiar praise, that he is altoge- ther free from the latter. 1805. My suspicion was wrong. Massinger has completed the word as it stands in Coxeter ; I have continued the note, however, injustice to his memory. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 321 For so my fate appoints me. I could curse The hour that gave me being. Sfor. What new monsters Of misery stand ready to devour me ? Let them at once dispatch me. Fran. Draw your sword then, And, as you M'ish your own peace, quickly kill me ; Consider not, but do it. Sfor. Art thou mad ? Fran. Or, if to take my life be too much mercy, As death, indeed, concludes all human sorrows, Cut off my nose and ears ; pull out an eye, The other only left to lend me light To see my own deformities. Why was I born Without some mulct imposed on me by nature? Would from my youth a loathsome leprosy Had run upon this face, or that my breath Had been infectious, and so made me shunn'd Of all societies ! Curs'd be he that taught me Discourse or manners, or lent any grace That makes the owner pleasing in the eye Of wanton women ! since those parts, which others Value as blessings, are to me afflictions, Such my condition is. Sjor. I am on the rack : Dissolve this doubtful riddle/ Fran. That I alone, 7 Dissolve this doubtful riddle.] Our old writers used dissolve and soke indiscriminately ; or, if they made any difference, it was in favour of the former : " he is pointed at u For the fine courtier, the woman's man, " That tells my lady stories, dissolve riddles." y The Queen of Corinth. vol. r. * Y 322 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Of all mankind, that stand most bound to love you, And study your content, should be appointed, Not by my will, but forced by cruel fate, To be your greatest enemy '.not to hold you In this amazement longer, in a word, Your dutchess loves me. Sfor. Loves thee ! Fran. Is mad for me, Pursues me hourly. Sfor. Oh! Fran. And from hence grew Her late neglect of you. Sfor. O women ! women ! Fran. I labour'd to divert her by persuasion, Then urged your much love to her, and the danger; Denied her, and with scorn. Sfor. Twas like thyself. Fran. But when I saw her smile, then heard her say, Your love and extreme dotage, as a cloak, Should cover our embraces, and your power Fright others from suspicion; and all favours That should preserve her in her innocence, By lust inverted to be used as bawds ; I could not but in duty (though I know That the relation kills in you all hope Of peace hereafter, and in me 'twill shew Both base and poor to rise up her accuser) Freely discover it. Sfor. Eternal plagues Pursue and overtake her ! for her sake, To all posterity may-he prove a cuckold, And, like to me, a thing so miserable As words may not express him, that gives trust To all- deceiving women ! Or, since it is The will of heaven, to preserve mankind, THE DUKE OF MILAN. 32.3 That we must know and couple with these serpents, No wise man ever, taught by my example, Hereafter use his wife with more respect Than he would do his horse that does him service ; Base woman being in her creation made A slave to man. But, like a village nurse, Stand I now cursing and considering, when The tamest fool would do! Within there T Stephano, Tibcrio, and the rest ! 1 will be sudden, And she shall know and feel, love in extremes Abused, knows no degree in hate.' Enter Tibeuio aw/ Stephano. Tib. My lord. S/or. Go to the chamber of that wicked woman Steph. What wicked woman, sir? S/or. The devil, my wife. Force a rude entry, and, if she refuse To follow you, drag her hither by the hair, And know no pity ; any gentle usage To her will call on cruelty from me, To such as shew it. Stand you staring! Go, And put my will in act. Steph. There's no disputing. Tib. But 'tis a tempest, on the sudden raised, Who durst have dream'd of? [Exeunt Tiber'io and StepRano. Sfor. Nay, since she dares damnation, I'll be a fury to her. Fran. Yet, great sir, no degree in hate.] For no degree in hate, the modern editors ?ery incorrectly read, no degree of hate. Y2* 324 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Exceed not in your fury ; she's yet guilty Only in her intent. Sfor. Intent, Francisco ! It does include all fact ; and I might sooner Be won to pardon treason to my crown, Or one that kill'd my father. Fran. You are wise, And know what's best to do : yet, if you please, To prove her temper to the height, say only That I am dead, and then observe how far She'll be transported. I'll remove a little, But be within your call. Now to the upshot ! Howe'er, I'll shift for one. [Aside and exit. Re-enter Tiberio, Stephano, and Guard with Marcelia. . > Marc. Where is this monster, This walking tree of jealousy, this dreamer, This horned beast that would be ? Oh ! are you here, sir? Is it by your commandment or allowance, I am thus basely used ? Which of my virtues, My labours, services, aud cares to please you, For, to a man suspicious and unthankful, Without a blush I may be mine own trumpet, Invites this barbarous course ? dare you look on me Without a seal of shame? Sfor. Impudence, How ugly thou appear'st now ! Thy intent To be a whore, leaves thee not blood enough To make an honest blush : what had the act done? Marc. Return'd thee the dishonour thou de- serv'st; Though willingly I had given up myself To every common letcher. THE DUKE OF MILAN. S25 Sfor. Your chief minion, Your chosen favourite, your woo'd Francisco, Has dearly paid for't ; for, wretch ! know, he's dead, And by my hand. Marc. The bloodier villain thou ! But 'tis not to be wonder'd at, thy love Does knownootherobject: thou hast kill'd then, A man I do profess I loved ; a man For whom a thousand queens might well be rivals. But he, I speak it to thy teeth, that dares be A jealous fool, dares be a murderer, And knows no end in mischief. Sfor. I begin now In this my justice. [Stabs her. Marc. Oh ! I have fool'd myself Into my grave, and only grieve for that Which, when you know you've slain an innocent, You needs must suffer. SJ'or. An innocent ! Let one Call in Francisco ; for he lives, vile creature, [Exit Stephano. To justify thy falsehood, and how often, With whorish flatteries, thou hast tempted him ; I being only fit to live a stale, A bawd and property to your wantonness. Re-enter Stephano. Steph. Signior Francisco, sir, but even now Took horse without the ports. Marc. We are both abused, And both by him undone. Stay, death, a little, Till I have clear'd me to my lord, and then* I willingly obey thee. O my Sforza ! 9 Till I have clear'd me to my lord, and then] This is the read- 326 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Francisco was not tempted, but the tempter ; And, as he thought to win me, shew'd the warrant That you sign'd for my death. Sfor. Then I believe thee; Believe thee innocent too. Marc. But, being contemn'd, Upon his knees with tears he did beseech me, Not to reveal it ; I, soft-hearted fool, Judging his penitence true, was won unto it: Indeed, the unkindness to be sentenced by you, Before that I was guilty in a thought, Made me put on a seeming anger towards you, And now behold the issue ! As I do, May heaven forgive you ! [Dies. Tib. Her sweet soul has left Her beauteous prison. Steph, Look to the duke ; he stands As if he wanted motion. Tib. Grief hath stopp'd The organ of his speech. Steph. Take up this body, And call for his physicians. Sfor. O my heart-strings ! [Exeunt. ing of the. first quarto : the second, which is that -followed by the modern editors, gives the line in this unmetrical manner : Till I have clear d myself unto my lord, and then ! Ford has imitated this fine scene, to which a parallel will not easily be found, in the Lady's Trial : but with as little success as judgment. It is singular that Ford's editor should take no notice of his frequent plagiarisms from Massinger ; unless (which I incline to think,) he never read more of Massinger than the notes appended to him. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 327 ACT V. SCENE I. The Milanese. A Room in Eugenia's House. Enter Francisco, and Eugenia in male attire. Fran. Why, couldst thou think, Eugenia, that rewards, Graces, or favours, though strew'd thick upon me, Could ever bribe me to forget mine honour ? Or that I tamely would sit down, before I had dried these eyes still wet with showers of tears, By the fire of my r evenge ? look up, my dearest ! For that proud fair, that, thief-like, stepp'd between Thy promised hopes, and robb'd thee of a fortune Almost in thy possession, hath found, With horrid proof, his love, she thought her glory, And an assurance of all happiness, But hastened her sad ruin. Eug. Do not flatter A grief that is beneath it ; for, however The credulous duke to me proved false and cruel, It is impossible he could be wrought To look on her, but with the eyes of dotage, And so to serve her. Fran. Such, indeed, I grant, The stream of his affection was, and ran A constant course, till I, with cunning malice And yet I wrong my act, for it was justice, Made it turn backward ; and hate, in extremes, 328 THE DUKE OF MILAN. (Love banish'd from his heart,) to fill the room: In a word, know the fair Marcelia's dead.* Eug. Dead ! Fran. And by Sforza's hand. Does it not move you ? How coldly you receive it ! I expected The mere relation of so great a blessing, Born proudly on the wings of sweet revenge, Would have call'd on a sacrifice of thanks, And joy not to be bounded or conceal'd. You entertain it with a look, as if You wish'd it were undone. Eug. Indeed I do : For, if my sorrows could receive addition, Her sad fate would increase, not lessen them. She never injured me, but entertain'd A fortune humbly offer'd to her hand, Which a wise lady gladly would have kneel'd for. Unless you would impute it as a crime, She was more fair than I, and had discretion Not to deliver up her virgin fort, Though strait besieged with flatteries, vows, and tears, Until the church had made it safe and lawful. And had I been the mistress of her judgment And constant temper, skilful in the knowledge Of man's malicious falsehood, I had never, Upon his hell-deep oaths to marry me, Given up my fair name, and my maiden honour, To his foul lust; nor Jived now, being branded In the forehead for his whore, the scorn and shame Of all good women. Fran. Have you then no gall, Anger, or spleen, familiar to your sex ? * Inn word, know the fair Marcelia's dead."] Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason omit the article, which utterly destroys the rhythm of the line. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 329 Or is it possible, that you could see Another to possess what was your due, And not grow pale with envy ? Eug. Yes, of him That did deceive me. There's no passion, that A maid so injured ever could partake of, But I have dearly suffer'd. These three years, In my desire and labour of revenge, Trusted to you, I have endured the throes Of teeming women; and will hazard all Fate can inflict on me, but I will reach Thy heart, false Sfoiza! You have trifled with me, And not proceeded with that fiery zeal I look'd for from a brother of your spirit. Sorrow forsake me, and all signs of grief Farewell for ever ! Vengeance, arm'd with fury, Possess me wholly now ! Fran. The reason, sister, Of this strange metamorphosis ? Eug. Ask thy fears : Thy base, unmanly fears, thy poor delays, Thy dull forgetfulness equal with death ; My wrong, else, and the scandal which can never Be Mash a off from our house, but in his blood, Would have stirrd up a coward to a deed In which, though he had fallen, the brave intent Had crown'd itself with a fair monument Of noble resolution. In this shape I hope to get access ; and, then, with shame, Hearing my sudden execution, judge What honour thou hast lost, in being transcended By a weak woman. From, Still mine own, and dearer! And yet in this you but pour oil on fire, And offer your assistance where it needs not, And, that you may perceive I lay not fallow, 330 THE DUKE OF MILAN. But had your wrongs stamp'd deeply on my heart By the iron pen of vengeance, I attempted, By whoring her, to cuckold him : that failing, I did begin his tragedy in her death, To which it served as prologue, and will make A memorable story of your fortunes In my assured revenge : Only, best sister, Let us not lose ourselves in the performance, By your rash undertaking ; we will be As sudden as you could wish. Eug. Upon those terms I yield myself and cause to be disposed of As you think fit. Enter a Servant. Fran. Thy purpose ? Serv. There's one Graccho, That follow'd you, it seems, upon the track, Since you left Milan, that's importunate To have access, and will not be denied : His haste, he says, concerns you. Fran. Bring him to me. [Exit Servant. Though he hath laid an ambush for my life. Or apprehension, yet I will prevent him, And work mine own ends out. Enter Graccho. Grac. Now for my whipping ! And if I now outstrip him not, and catch him, And by a new and strange way too, hereafter I'll swear there are worms in my brains. [Aside. Fran, Now, my good Graccho ! We meet as 'twere by miracle. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 331 Grac. Love, and duty, And vigilance in me for my lord's safety, First taught me to imagine you were here, And then to follow you. All's come forth, my lord, That you could wish conceal'd. The dutchess' wound, In the duke's rage put home, yet gave her leave To acquaint him with your practices, which your flight Did easily coufillil. Fran. This I expected ; But sure you come provided of good counsel, To help in my extremes. Grac. I would not hurt you. Fran. How! hurt me? such another word's thy death ; Why, dar'st thou think it can fall in thy will, To outlive what I determine? Grac. How he awes me! [Aside, Fran. 13e brief; what brought thee hither? Grac. Care to inform you You are a condemn'd man, pursued and sought for, And your head rated at ten thousand ducats To him that brings it. Fran. Very good. Grac. All passages Arc intercepted, and choice troops of horse Scour o'er the neighbour plains; your picture sent To every state confederate with Milan : That, though I grieve to speak it, in my judgment, So thick your daugers meet, and run upon you, It is impossible you should escape Their curious search. 33S THE DUKE OF MILAN. Eug. Why, let us then turn Romans, And, falling by our own hands, mock their threats, And dreadful preparations. Fran. 'T would show nobly ; But that the honour of our full revenge Were lost in the rash action. No, Eugenia, Graccho is wise, my friend too, not my servant, And I dare trust him with my latest secret. We would, and thou must help us to perform it, First kill the duke then, fall what can upon us ! For injuries are writ in brass, kind Graccho, And not to be forgotten. Grac. He instructs me What I should do. [Aside. Fran. What's that ? Grac. I labour with A strong desire to assist you with my service; And now I am deliver'd oft. Fran. I told you. Speak, my oraculous Graccho. Grac. I have heard, sir, Of men in debt that, lay'd for by their creditors, In all such places where it could be thought They would take shelter, chose, for sanctuary, Their lodgings underneath their creditors' noses, Or near that prison to which they were design'd, If apprehended ; confident that there They never should be sought for. Eug. 'Tis a strange one I Fran. But what infer you from it ? Grac, This, my lord ; That, since all ways of your escape are stopp'd, In Milan only, or, what's more, in the court, Whither it is presumed you dare not come, Conceal'd in some disguise, you may live safe* Fran* And not to be discover'd ? THE DUKE OF MILAN. 333 Grac. But by myself. Fran. By thee ! Alas ! I know thee honest, Graccho, And I will put thy counsel into act, And suddenly. Yet, not to be ungrateful For all thy loving travail to preserve me, What bloody end soe'er my stars appoint, Thou shalt be safe, good Graccho. Who's within t, there ? Grac. In the devil's name, what means he !* Enter Servants. Fran. Take my friend Into your custody, and bind him fast : I would not part with him. Grac. My good lord. Fran. Dispatch : Tis for your good, to keep you honest, Graccho : I would not have ten thousand ducats tempt you, Being of a soft and wax-like disposition, To play the traitor ; nor a foolisn itch To be revenged for your late excellent whipping, Give you the opportunity to offer My head for satisfaction. Why, thou fool ! I can look through and through thee ? thy intents Appear to me as written in thy forehead, In plain and easy characters: and but that I scorn a slave's base blood should rust that sword That from a prince expects a scarlet dye, Thou now wert dead ; but live, only to pray * Grac. In the dtxiVt name, vkat meant he /] The second quarto omits the adjuration and tamely reads,- ithat mean* he f The licenser, in many cases, seems to have acted capriciously: here, as well as in sercral other places, he has strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel. The expression has already occurred in the Unnatural Combat. 334 THE DUKE OF MILAN. For good success to crown my undertakings ; And then, at my return, perhaps, I'll free thee, To make me further sport. Away with him ! I will not hear a syllable. [Exeunt Servants with Graccho. We must trust Ourselves, Eugenia ; and though we make use of The counsel of our servants, that oil spent, Like snuffs that do offend, we tread them out. But now to our last scene, which we'll so carry, That few shall understand how 'twas begun, Till all, with half an eye, may see 'tis done. [Exeunt, SCENE II. Milan. A Room in the Castle, Enter Pescara, Tiberio, and Stephano. Pesc. The like was never read of. Steph. In my judgment, To all that shall but hear it, 'twill appear A most impossible fable. Tib. For Francisco, My wonder is the less, because there are Too many precedents of unthankful men Raised up to greatness, which have after studied The ruin of their makers. Steph, But that melancholy, Though ending in distraction, should work So far upon a man, as to compel him To court a thing that has nor sense nor being, Is unto me a miracle. Pesc. 'Troth, I'll tell you, And briefly as I can, by what degrees THE DUKE OF MILAN. 335 He fell into this madness. When, by the care Of his physicians, he was brought to life, As he had only pass'd a fearful dream, And had not acted what I grieve to think on, He call'd for fair Marcelia, and being told That she was dead, he broke forth in extremes, (I would not say blasphemed,) and cried that heaven, For all the offences that mankind could do, Would never be so cruel as to rob it Of so much sweetness, and of so much goodness ; That not alone was sacred in herself, But did preserve all others innocent, That had but converse with her. Then it came Into his fancy that she was accused Byhismotherandhissister; thricehecurs'd them, And thrice his desperate hand was on his sword T'have kill'd them both; but he restrain'd, and they Shunning his fury, spite of all prevention He would have turnd his rage upon himself; When wisely his physicians, looking on The Dutchess' wound, to stay his ready hand, Cried out, it was not mortal. r JV>. Twas well thought on. Pesc. He easily believing what he wish'd, More than a perpetuity of pleasure In any object else; flatter'd by hope, Forgetting his own greatness, he fell prostrate At the doctors' feet, implored theiraid, and swore, Provided they recovcr'd her, he would live A private man, and they should share his duke- dom. They scem'd to promise fair, and every hour Vary their judgments, as they find his fit To suffer intermission or extremes : For his behaviour since 336 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Sfor. [within] As you have pity, Support her gently. Pesc. Now, be your own witnesses ; I am prevented. Enter Sforza, Isabella, Mariana, Doctors and Servants with the body of Maucelia. Sfor. Carefully, I beseech you, The gentlest touch torments her; and then think What I shall suffer. O you earthly 3 gods, You second natures, that from your great master, Who join'd the limbs of torn Hippolitus, And drew upon himself the Thunderer's envy, Are taught those hidden secrets that restore To life death-wounded men ! you have a patient, On whom to express the excellence of art, Will bind even heaven your debtor, though it pleases To make your hands the organs of a work The saints will smile to look on, and good angels Clap their celestial wings to give it plaudits. How pale and wan she looks ! O pardon me, That I presume (dyed o'er with bloody guilt, Which makes me, I confess, far, far unworthy) To touch this snow-white hand. How cold it is ! This once was Cupid's fire-brand, and still 'Tis so to me. How slow her pulses beat too ! Yet in this temper, she is all perfection, And mistress of a heat so full of sweetness, The blood of virgins, in their pride of youth, Are balls of snow or ice compared unto her. Mart. Is not this strange ? Isab. Oh ! cross him not, dear daughter; > ycu earthly gods,] Corrected by Massinger from earthy, the former reading. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 337 Our conscience tells us we have been abused, Wrought to accuse the innocent, and with him Are guilty of a fact Enter a Servant, and whispers Pescara. Mari. Tis now past help. Pesc. With me? What is he? Sere. He has a strange aspect; A Jew by birth, and a physician By his profession, as he says, who, hearing Of the duke's frenzy, on the forfeit of His life will undertake to render him Perfect in every part : provided that Your lordship's favour gain him free access, And your power with the duke a safe protection, Til) the great work be ended. Pesc. Bring me to him ; As I find cause, I'll do. [E.veunt Pesc. and.Serv. Sjor. How sound she sleeps ! Heaven keep her from a lethargy ! How long (But answer me with comfort, I beseech you) Does your sure judgment tell you that these lids, That cover richer jewels than themselves, Like envious night, will bar these glorious suns From shining on me? 1 Doct. We have given her, sir, A sleepy potion, that will hold her long, That she may be less sensible of the torment The searching of her wound will put her to. 2 Doct. She now feels little ; but, if we should wake her, To hear her speak would fright both us and you, And therefore dare not hasten it. Sfor. I am patient. You see I do not rage, but wait your pleasure. vol, i. * Z 338 THE DUKE OF MILAN. What do you think she dreams of now ? for sure, Although her body's organs are bound fast, Her fancy cannot slumber. 1 Doct. That, sir, looks on Your sorrow for your late rash act, with pity Of what you suffer for it, and prepares To meet the free confession of your guilt With a glad pardon. Sfor. She was ever kind ; And her displeasure, though call'd on, short-lived Upon the least submission. O you Powers, That can convey our thoughts to one another Without the aid of eyes or ears, assist me ! Let her behold me in a pleasing dream [Kneels. Thus, on my knees before her; (yet that duty In me is not sufficient;) let her see me Compel my mother, from whom I took life, And this my sister, partner of my being, To bow thus low unto her; let her hear us In my acknowledgment freely confess That we in a degree as high are guilty As she is innocent. Bite your tongues, vile creatures, And let your inward horror fright your souls, For having belied that pureness, to come near which, All women that posterity can bring forth Must be, though striving to be good, poor rivals. And for that dog Francisco, that seduced me, In wounding her, to rase a temple built To chastity and sweetness, let her know I'll follow him to hell, but I will find him, And there live a fourth Fury to torment him. Then, for this, cursed hand and arm that guided The wicked steel, I'll have them, joint by joint, With burning irons sear'd off, which I will eat, THE DUKE OF MILAN. 339 I being a vulture fit to taste such carrion ; Lastly 1 Doct. You are too loud, sir ; you disturb Her sweet repose. Sfor. I am hush'd. Yet give us leave, Thus prostrate at her feet, our eyes bent down- wards, Unworthy, and ashamed, to look upon her, To expect her gracious sentence. 2 Doct. He's past hope. 1 Doct. The body too will putrify, and then We can no longer cover the imposture. Tib. Which, in his 4 death, will quickly be dis- cover'd. I can but weep his fortune. Stcph. Yet be careful You lose no minute to preserve him ; time May lessen his distraction. Re-enter Pescara, with Francisco, as a Jew doct or, and Eugenia disguised as before. Fran. I am no god, sir, To give a new life to her; yet I'll hazard My head, I'll work the senseless trunk t'appear To him as it had got a second being, Or that the soul that's fled from't, were call'd back To govern it again. I will preserve it In the first sweetness, and by a strange vapour, Which I'll infuse into her mouth, create A seeming breath ; I'll make her veins run high too, As if they had true motion. 4 Tib. Which in his death will