SPECIMENS or EIG-LISH DRAMATIC POETS, WHO LIVED ABOUT THE TIME OF SHAKSPEARE. WITH NOTES. BY CHARLES LAMB NEW EDITION, COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. NEW YORK: GEORGE P . PUTNAM, 155 BROADWAY 1851. • . « • I i i :: • • • < a\'1 & PREFACE More than a third part of the following specimens are from plays which are to be found only in the British Mu- seum and in some scarce private libraries. The rest are from Dodsley's and Hawkins's collections, and the works of Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger. 1 have chosen wherever I could to give entire scenes, and in some instances successive scenes, rather than to string- together single passages and detached beauties, which 1 have always found wearisome in the reading in selections of this nature. To every extract is prefixed an explanatory head, suffi- cient to make it intelligible with the help of some trifling omissions. Where a line or more was obscure, as having reference to something that had gone before, which would have asked more time to explain than its consequence in the scene seemed to deserve, I have had no hesitation in leaving the line or passage out. Sometimes where I have met with a superfluous character, which seemed to burthen without throwing any light upon the scene, I have ventured to dismiss it altogether. I have expunged, without cere- mony, all that which the writers bid better never have written, that forms the objection so often repeated to the promiscuous reading of Fletcher. Massinger, and some others. The kind of extracts which I have sought alter have been, not so much passages of wit and humor, though the old plays are rich in such, as scenes of passion, sometimes of r 3'J ri PRKi \( E. the deepest quality, interesting situations, serious descrip- tions, that which is more nearly allied to poetry than to wit, and to tragic rather than comic poetry. The plays which I have made choice of have been, with few excep- tions, those which treat of human life and manners, rather than masques, and Arcadian pastorals, with their train of abstractions, unimpassioned deities, passionate mortals, Cla- ius, and Medorus, and Amintas, and Amarillis. My leading design has been, to illustrate what may be called the moral sense of our ancestors. To show in what manner they felt, when they placed themselves by the power of imagina- tion in trying situations, in the conflicts of duty and passion. or the strife of contending duties ; what sort of loves and enmities theirs were ; how their griefs were tempered, and their full-swoln joys abated : how much of Shakspeare shines in the great men his contemporaries, and how far in his divine mind and manners he surpassed them and all mankind. Another object which I had in making these selections was, to bring together the most admired scenes in Fletcher ami Massimrer, in the estimation of the world the only dra- matic poets of that age who are entitled to be considered after Shakspeare, and to exhibit them in the same volume with the more impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Hcy- wood, Tourneur, Webster, Ford, and others. To show what we have slighted, while beyond all proportion we have cried up one or two favorite names. The specimens are not accompanied with anything in the shape of biographical notices.* I had nothing of con- sequence to add to the slight sketches in Dodsley and the Biographica Dramatica, and I was unwilling to swell the volume with mere transcription. The reader will not fail to observe from the frequent instances of two or more per * The few notes which are interspersed will be found to be chiefly critical. PREFACE. vii sons joining in the composition of the same play (the noble practice of those times), that of most of the writers con- tained in these selections it may be strictly said, that they were contemporaries. The whole period, from the middle of Elizabeth's reign to the close of the reign of Charles I., comprises a space of little more than half a century, within which time nearly all that we have of excellence in serious dramatic composition was produced, if we except the Sam- son Agonistes of Milton. TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. THOMAS SACKVILLE AND THOMAS NORTON. t, PAGE GORBODUC 1 THOMAS KYD. SPANISH TRAGEDY 6 - GEORGE PEELE. DAVID AND BETHSABE 12 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. lust's dominion 15 first part of tamburlaine 17 edward ii • 13 the rich jew of malta t 27 doctor faustus 30 ROBERT TAILOR. THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL 39 AUTHORS UNCERTAIN. NERO • 46 THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON • • • • 47 JOSEPH COOKE. green's tu quoque 52 THOMAS DECKER. OLD FORTUNATb'S 53 SATIRO-MASTIX 60 FIRST PART OF THE HONEST WHORE 64 SECOND PART OF THE HONEST WHORE ib. TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. THOMAS DECKER AND JOHN WEBSTER. PAQK WESTWARD HOE 66 ANTHONY BREWER. LINGUA 67 JOHN MARSTON". ANTONIO AND MELL1DA 68 ANTONIO'S REVENGE 70 THE MALCONTENT 75 THE WONDER OF WOMEN 76 WHAT YOU WILL 77 THE INSATIATE COUNTESS 79 GEORGE CHAPMAN. R1 CiESAR AND POMPEY » bussy d'ambois °3 byron's conspiracy °7 byron's tragedy y L THOMAS HEYWOOD. 'K CHALLENGE for beauty . ■ 94 THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT 99 A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDNESS lb. THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER 10G THOMAS HEYWOOD AND RICHARD BROOME. LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES 113 THOMAS MIDDLETON AND RICHARD ROWLEY. A FAIR QUARREL 117 WILLIAM ROWLEY. all's lost by lust 130 a new wonder 135 THOMAS MIDDLETON. ''women beware women 143 more dissemblers besides women 1 -1-8 no wit. help like a wom iks loi the witch 1^3 TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. n WILLIAM ROWLEY, THOMAS DECKER, JOHN FORD, ETC. PAOB THE WITCH OF EDMONTON" 164 CYRIL TOURNEUR. THE atheist's TRAGEDY 167 THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY 170 JOHN WEBSTER. the devil's law case 1S4 APPIT7S AND VIRGINIA 188 DUCHESS OF MALFY 191 THE WHITE DEVIL 205 SPECIMENS OF ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS GORBODl C A TRAGEDY. BY THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST, AFTERWARDS EARL OF DORSET; AND THOMAS NORTON. Whilst king Gorboduc in the presence of his councillors laments the death of his eldest s m, Ferrex, whom Porrex, the younger son, has slain ; Marcella, a court lady, enters and relates the miserable end of Porrex, stabbed by his mother in his bed. f-ioRBiniuc, Arostus, Eubulus, and others. Gorb. What cruel destiny, What froward fate hath sorted us this chance ? That even in those where we should comfort find, Where our delight now in our aged days Should rest and be, even there our only grief And deepest sorrows to abridge our life, Most pining lares and deadly thoughts do grave. Arosl. Yrur grace should now, in these grave years of yours, Have found ere this the price of mortal joys, How full of change, .how brittle our estate, How short they be, how lading here in earth, Of nothing sure, save only of the death, To who. a both man and all the world doth owe Their end al last : neither should nature's power In other sort against your heart prevail, part i. 2 ENft] isji DRAMATIC POETS. Than as the naked hand, whose stroke assays The armed breast where force doth light in vain. Gorb. Many can yield right grave and sage advice Of patient sprite to others wrapt in wo, And can in speech both rule and conquer kind,* Who, if by proof they might feel natu \ s force, Would show themselves men as they are indeed, Which now will needs be gods : but what doth mean The sorry cheer of her that here doth come ? Marcella enters. Marc. Oh where is ruth ? or where is pity now ? Whither is gentle heart and mercy fled ? Are they exil'd out of our stony breasts, Never to make return ? is all the world Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty? if not in women mercy may be found, If not (a)as) within the mother's breast To her own child, to her own flesh and blood ; if ruth be banisht thence, if pity there May have no place, if there no gentle heart Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then ? Gorb. Madam (alas) what means your wot'ul tale » Marc. O silly woman I, why to this hour Have kind and fortune thus deferr'd my breath, That I should live to see this doleful day ? Will ever wight believe that such hard heart : 'nuld rest within the cruel mother's br past With her own hand to slay her only son ? But out (alas) these eyes beheld the same, They saw the dreary sight, and are become Most ruthful records of the bloody fact. I'orrex, alas, is by his mother slain, And with her hand, a woful thine to tell. While slumb'ring on his careful bed he rests. Tis heart stabb'd in with knife is reft of life. * Nature ; natural affection. GORHODUC. Gorh. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours, And pierce this heart with speed. O hateful light, O loathsome life, O sweet and welcome death. Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech. Eub. Patient your grace, perhaps he liveth yet, With wound receiv'd but not of certain death. Gorh. O let us then repair unto the place, And see if that Porrex live, or thus be slain. [Exit. Marc. Alas he liveth not, it is too true, That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince, Son to a king, and in the flower of youth, Even with a twink* a senseless stock I saw. Arost. O damned deed ! Marc. But hear his ruthful end. The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wounds, Out of his wretched slumber hastily start, f Whose strength now failing, streight he overthrew, When in the fall his eyes ev'n now unclosed, Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help ; We then, alas, the ladies which that time Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed And hearing him oft call the wretched name Of mother, and to cry to her for aid, Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound, Pitying alas (for nought else could we do) His rueful end, ran to the woful bed, Despoiled streight his breast, and all we might Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand The sudden streams of blood, that flushed fast Out of the gaping wound : O what a look, O what a ruthful stedfast eye methought He fixt upon my face, which to my death Will never part from me, — wherewith abraid^ A deep-fetch'd sigh he gave, and therewithal] Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight ; And streight, pale death pressing within his face, * Twinkling of the eye. t Started. \ Awaked; raised up. ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. The flying ghost his mortal corps forsook. Arost. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact. Marc. O hard and cruel hap that thus assign M Unto so worthy wight so wretched end : But most hard cruel heart that could consent, To lend the hateful destinies that hand, By which, alas, so heinous crime was wrought ; — O queen of adamant, O marble breast, If not the favor of his comely face If not his princely chear and countenance, His valiant active arms, his manly breast, If not his fair and seemly personage ; His noble limbs, in such proportion cast As would have rapt a silly woman's thought ; If this might not have mov'd the bloodv heart, And that most cruel hand the wretched weapon Even to let fall, and kist him in the face, With tears, for ruth to reave such one by death ; Should nature yet consent to slay her son ? O mother, thou to murder thus thy child ! Even Jove with justice must with light'ning flames From heaven send down some strange revenue on thee. Ah noble prince, how oft have I beheld Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling steed, Shining in armor bright before the tilt, And with thy mistress' sleeve tied on thy helm, There charge thy staff, to please thy lady's eye, That bow'd the head piece of thy friendly foe ! How oft in arms on horse to bend the mace, How oft in arms on foot to break the sword, Which never now these eyes may see again. Arost. Madam, alas, in vain these plaints are shed. Rather with me depart, and help to assuage The thoughtful griefs, that in the aged king Must needs by nature grow, by death of this His only son, whom he did hold so dear. Marc. What wight is that which saw that I did see And could refrain to wail with plaint and tears? GORBODUC. Not I, alas, that heart is not in me ; But let us go, for I am griev'd anew, To call to mind the wretched lather's wo. [Exeunt. Chorus of aged men. When greedy lust in royal seat to reign Hath reft all care of gods and eke of men ; And cruel heart, wrath, treason, and disdain, Within th' ambitious breast are lodged, then Behold how mischief wide herself displays, And with the brother's hand the brother slays. When blood thus shed doth stain this heaven's face, Crying to Jove for vengeance of the deed, The mighty God even moveth from his place With wrath to wreak ; then sends he forth with speed The dreadful Furies, daughters of the night, With serpents girt, carrying the whip of ire, With hair of stinging snakes, and shining bright With flames and blood, and with a brand of fire : These, for revenge of wretched murder done, Doth cause the mother kill her only son. Blood asketh blood, and death must death requit ; Jove by his just and everlasting doom Justly hath ever so requited it. This times before record and times to come Shall find it true, and so doth present proof Present before our eyes for our behoof. O happy wight that suffers not the snare Of murderous mind to tangle him in blood : And happy he that can in time beware By others' harms, and turn it to his good : But wo to him that fearing not to offend, Doth serve his lust, and will not see the end. [The style of this old play is stiff and cumbersome, like the dresses of its times. There may be flesh and blood underneath, but we cannot get at it. Sir Philip Sydney has prais id it for its mor ility. One of its authors might easily f ■ ish that. Norton was an associate to Hopkins, Sternhold, and Robert Wisdom, in the Singing Psalms. I am willing to believe that Lord Buckhurst supplied the more vital parts. The chief beauty in the extract is of a secret nature. Marcella obscurely intimates that the murdered prince Porrex and she had been lovers.] ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. THE SPANISH TRAGEDY; OR IIIERONIMO IS MAD AGAIN. A TRAGEDY BY THOMAS KYD. Horatio, the son of Hieronimo, is murdered white he is sitting with his mistress Belimperia by night in an arbor in his father's garden. The murderers (Balthazar, his rival, and Lorenzo, the brother of Belimpe- ria) hang his body on a tree. Hieronimo is awakened by the cries of Belimperia, and coming out into hfe garden, discovers by the light of a torch, that the murdered man is his son. Upon this he goes distracted. Hieronimo mad. Hier. My son ! and what's a son ? A thing begot within a pair of minutes, there about : A lump bred up in darkness, and doth serve To balance those light creatures we call women ; And at the nine months' end creeps forth to light. What is there yet in a son, To make a father doat, rave, or run mad ? Being born, it pouts, cries, and breeds teeth. What is there yet in a son ? He must be fed, be taught to go, and speak. Ay, or yet ? why might not a man love a calf as well ? Or melt in passion o'er a frisking kid, as for a son ? Methinks a young bacon, Or a fine little smooth horse colt, Should move a man as much as doth a son ; For one of these, in very little time, Will grow to some good use • whereas a son The more he grows in stature and in years, The more unsquar'd, unlevell'd he appears ; Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad riots, Makes them look old before they meet with age ; This is a son ; and what a loss is this, considered truly ! Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those Insatiate humors : he lov'd his loving parents : He was my comfort, and his mother's joy, The very arm that did hold up our house — Our hopes were stored up in him, THK SPANISH TRACEDY. None but a damned murderer could hate him. He had not seen the back of nineteen years, When his strong arm unhors'd the proud prince Balthazar ; \nd his great mind, too full of honor, took \) mercy that valiant but ignoble Portuguese. Veil heaven is heaven still ! aid there is Nemesis, and furies, >.nd things call'd whips, and they sometimes do meet with murderers : They do not always 'scape, that's some comfort, Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals, Till violence leaps forth, like thunder W "rapt in a ball of fire, And so doth bring confusion to them all. [Exit. Jaques and Pedro, Servants. Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus At midnight sends us with our torches light, When man and bird and beast are all at rest, •Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder. Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind Is much distract since his Horatio died : And, now his aged years should sleep in rest, His heart in quiet, like a desperate man Grows lunatic and childish for his son : Sometimes as he doth at his table sit, He speaks as if Horatio stood by him. Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth,- Cries out Horatio, where is my Horatio ? So that with extreme grief, and cutting sorrow, There is not left in him one inch of man : See here he comes. Hierondio enters. Hier. I pry thro' every crevice of each wall, Look at each tree, and search thro' every brake, Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame earth, Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven ; Yet cannot I behold mv son Horatio. ENGLISH DKWIATIC POETS. How now, who's then tits, sprights ? Perl. We are your servants that attend you, sir Hier. What make you with your torcht s in the dark ? Perl. You bid us light them, and atti mi you here. Hier. No, no, you are deceiv'd, not I, you are deceiv'd : Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now ? Light me your torches at the mid of noon, When as the sun god rides in all his glory ; Light me your torches then. Peel. Then we burn day light. Hier. Let it be burnt ; night is a murd'rous slut, That would not have her treasons to be seen : And yonder pale fae'd Hecate there, the moon, Doth give consent to that is done in darkness. And all those stars that gaze upon her face, Are aglets* on her sleeve, pins on her train : And those that should be powerful and divine, Do sleep in darkness when they most should shine. Perl. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words, The heavens are gracious ; and your miseries And sorrow make you speak you know not what. Hier. Villain, thou lyest, and thou doest nought But tell me I am mad : thou lyest, I am not mad : I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques. I'll prove it to thee ; and were I mad, how could I ? W here was she the same night, when my Horatio was murder'd ? She should have shone : search thou the book : Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of grace, That I know, nay, 1 do know had the murd'rer seen him, His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth, Had he been fram'd of nought but blood and death ; Alack, when mischief doth it knows not what, What shall we say to mischief? Isabella, his wife, enters. Isa. Dear Hieronimo, come in a doors, O seek not means to increase thy sorrow. * Tags of points. TUT: SPANISH TRAGEDY. Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here; I do not cry. ask Pedro and Jaques : Not I indeed, we are very merry, very merry. Isa. How ? be merry here, be merry here ? Is not this the place, and this the very tree, Where my Horatio died, where he was murder'd 1 Hier. Was, do not say what : let her weep it out. This was the tree, I set it of a kernel ; And when our hot Spain could not let it grow, But that the infant and the human sap Began to wither, duly twice a morning Would I be sprinkling it with fountain water : At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore : Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son. It bore thy fruit and mine. O wicked, wicked plant. See who knocks there. [One knocks within at the door. Pcd. It is a painter, sir. Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort, For surely there's none lives but painted comfort. Let him come in, one knows not what may chance. God's will that I should set this tree ! but even so Masters ungrateful servants rear from nought, And then they hate them that did bring them up. The Painter enters. Pain. God bless you, sir. Hier. Wherefore ? why, thou scornful villain ? How, where, or by what means should I be blest ? Isa. What wouklst thou have, good fellow ? Pain. Justice, madam. Hi. Edw. Ah, Leister, weigh how hardly I can hrook To lose my crown and kingdom without cause ; To give ambitious Mortimer my right, That like a mountain overwhelms my bliss, In which extreme my mind here murther'd is. But what the heav'ns appoint, I must obey. Here, take my crown ; the life of Edward too ; Two Kings in England cannot reign at once — But stay awhile, let me be king till night, That I may gaze upon this glittering crown ; So shall my eyes receive their last content, My head the latest honor due to it, And jointly both yield up their wished right. Continue ever, thou celestial sun ; Let never silent night possess this clime ; Stand still, you watches of the element ; All times and seasons, rest you at a stay, That Edward may be still fair England's king. But dav's bright beam doth vanish fast away, And needs I must resign my wished crown ; Inhuman creatures ! nurs'd with tiger's milk • Why gape you for your sovereign's overthrow ? My diadem I mean, and guiltless life. See, monsters, see, I'll wear my crown again. What, fear you not the fury of your king ? But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly led, They pass not for thy frowns as late they did, But seek to make a new-elected king ; Which fills my mind with strange despairing thoughts, Which thoughts are martyred with endless torments, And in this torment comfort find I none ; But that I feel the crown upon my head ; And therefore let me wear it yet awhile. EDWARD THE SECOND. 25 Messenger. My lord, the parliament must have present news, And therefore say, will you resign or no ? Edw. I'll not resign ! but whilst I live be king. Traitors be gone, and join with Mortimer. Elect, conspire, install, do what you will ; Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries ! Bish. This answer we '11 return, and so farewell. Lei. Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair ; For if they go, the prince shall lose his right. Edw. Call thou them back, I have no power to speak. Lei. My lord, the king is willing to resign. Bish. If he be not, let him choose. Edio. O would I might ! but heav'n and earth conspire To make me miserable ! here, receive my crown ; Receive it ? no, these innocent hands of mine Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. He of you all that most desires my blood, And will be called the murtherer of a king, Take it. What, are you mov'd ? pity you me ? Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, And Isabel, whose eyes, being turn'd to steel, Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. Yet stay, for rather than I will look on them, Here, here ; now sweet God of heav'n, Make me despise this transitory pomp, And sit for ever inthroniz'd in heav'n ! Come death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, Or, if I live, let me forget mvself. Berkley Castle. The King is left alone with Lightborn, a murderer. Edw. Who's there ? what light is that ? wherefore com'st thou ? Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks. Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me. Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord ! Far is it from my heart to do you harm. The queen sent me to sec how you were used, For she relents at this your misery ; And what eyes < an refrain from shedding tears, 28 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. - To see a king in this most piteous state. Ed7i\ Weep'st thou already ? list a while to me And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's* is, Or as Matrevis',* hewn from the Caucasus, Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. This dungeon where they keep me is a sink Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. Light. O villains ! Ediv. And there, in mire and puddle haveH stood This ten days' space ; and lest that I should sleep, One plays continually upon a drum. They give me bread and water, being a king ; So that, for want of sleep and sustenance, My mind's distemper'd, and my body's numb'd, And whether I have limbs or no, I know not. would my blood drop out from every vein, As doth this water from my tattered robes. Tell Isabel the queen, I look'd not thus, When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, And there unhors'd the duke of Cleremont. Light. O speak no more, my lord ! this breaks my heart. Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile. Edw. These looks of thine can harbor nought but death ! 1 see my tragedy written in thy brows. Vet stay awhile, forbear thy bloody hand, And let me see the stroke before it comes, That even then when I shall lose my life, My mind may be more stedfast on my God. Light. What means your highness to mistrust me thus I Edio. What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus ? Light. These hands were never stained with innocent blood, Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. Edw. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. One jewel have I left, receive thou this. Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause, But every joint shakes as I give it thee. O if thou harbor'st murder in thy heart, • His keepers. THE RICH JEW OF MALTA. 27 Let the gift change thy mind, and save thy soul. Know that I am a king ; Oh, at that name I tcl a hell of grief. Where is my crown ? Gone, gone, and do I still remain alive ? Light. You're overwatch'd, my lord, lie down and rest. Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep ; Fa - not these ten days have these eyelids closed. Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear Ojen again. O wherefore sitt'st thou here ? Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord. Edw. No, no, for if thou mean'st to murder me, Tl.ou wilt return again ; and therefore stay. Light. He sleeps. Edw. O let me not die ; yet stay, O stay awhile. Light. How now, my lord ? Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, Ard tells me if I sleep I never wake ; This fear is that which makes me tremble thus. Ard therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? Light. To rid thee of thy life ; Matrevis, come. Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist : Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul. [This tragedy is in a very different style from " mighty Tainburlaine." Tne reluctant pangs of abdicating Royalty in Edward furnished hints which ShaJ sentiments are worthy of a real martyrdom, and an Appian sacrifice in earnest.] G4 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. THE HONEST WHORE. A COMEDY. BY THOMAS DECKER Hospital for Lunatics. There are of mad men, as there are of tame, All humor'd not alike. We have here some So apish and fantastic, play with a feather; And, though 'twould grieve a soul to see God's image So blemish'd and defac'd, yet do they act Such antick and such pretty lunacies, That, spite of sorrow, they will make you smile. Others again we have, like hungry lions, Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies. — Patience. Patience ! why, 'tis the soul of peace : Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven ; It makes men look like gods. — The best of men That e'er wore earth about him was a Sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit ; The first true gentleman that ever breath'd. THE SECOND PART OF THE HONEST WHORE. BY THOMAS DECKER. Bellafront, a reclaimed Harlot, recounts some of the miseries of hei profession. Like an ill husband, though I knew the same To be my undoing, follow'd I that game. Oh when the work of lust had earn'd my bread, To taste it how I trembled, lest each bit Ere it went down should choke me chewing it. My bed seemed like a cabin hung in hell, The bawd hell's porter, and the liquorish wine The pandar fetch'd was like an easy fine For which m< thought I leas'd away my soul, And oftentimes even in my quaffmg-bowl Thus said I to myself: I am a Whore, THE H©NEST WHORE. 6f< And have drunk down thus much confusion more. . when in the street A fair young modest damsel* I did meet, She seem'd to all a Dove, when I pass'd by, And I to all a Raven ; every eye That follow'd her, went with a bashful glance ; At me each bold and jeering countenance Darted forth scorn : to her as if she had been Some Tower unvanquished would they vail ; 'Gainst me swoln rumor hoisted every sail ; She crown'd with reverend praises pass'd by them, I though with face mask'd could not 'scape the Hem ; For, as if heaven had set strange marks on whores, Because they should be pointing stocks to man, Drest up in civilest shape a Courtezan ; Let her walk saint-like noteless and unknown, Yet she's betray 'd by some trick of her own. The happy Man. He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore, He that at noon day walks by a prison door, He that in the sun is neither beam nor moat, * This simple picture of Honor and Shame, contrasted without violence, and expressed without immodesty, is worth all the strong lines against the Harlot's Profession, with which both Parts of this play are offensively crowded. A Satirist is always to be suspected, who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective gust. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invec- tive, that a worn-out Sinner is sometimes found to make the best Declaimer against Sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions which in his unre rate state served to inflame his appetites, in his new province of a Moralist will serve him (a little turned) to expose the enormity of those appetites in other men. No one will doubt, who reads Marston's Satires, that the author in some part of his life must have been something more than a theo- rist in vice. Have we never heard an old preacher in the pulpit display such an insight into the mystery of ungodliness, as made us wonder with reason how a good man came by it ? When Cervantes with such profi- ciency of fondness dwells upon the Don's library, who sees not that hi been a great reader of books of Kuight-Errantrj ? perhapswas at some time of his life in danger of falling into those very extravagances which he ridi- cules so happily in his II PART I. 6 00 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. He that's not mad after a petticoat, He for whom poor men's curses dig no grave, He that is neither Lord's nor Lawyer's slave, He that makes This his sea and That his shore, He that in 's coflin is richer than he fore, He that counts Youth his sword and Age his staff, He whose right hand carves his own epitaph, He that upon his death-hed is a Swan, And dead, no Crow ; he is a Happy Man.* WESTWARD HOE. A COMEDY. BY THOMAS DECKER AND JOHN WEBSTER Pleasure, the general pursuit. Sweet Pleasure ! Delicious Pleasure ! earth's supremest good, The spring of blood, though it dry up our blood. Rob me of that (though to be drunk with pleasure, As rank excess even in best things is bad, Turjis man into a beast) yet, that being gone, A horse, and this (the goodliest shape) all one. We feed ; wear rich attires ; and strive to cleave The stars with marble towers ; fight battles ; spend Our blood, to buy us names ; and in iron hold Will we eat roots to imprison fugitive gold : But to do thus what sp 11 can us excite ? This ; the strong magic of our appetite : To feast which richly, life itself undoes. Who 'd not die thus ? Why even those that starve in voluntary wants, And, to advance the mind, keep the flesh poor, The world enjoying them, they not the world ; Would they do this, but that they are proud to suck A sweetness. from such sourness ? * The turn of this is the same with lago's definition of a Deserving Woman " She that was ever fair and never proud," &c. The matter is superior. LINGUA. 67 Music Let music Charm with her excellent voice an awful silence Through all this building, that her sphery soul May (on the wings of air) in thousand forms Invisibly fly, yet be enjoy'd. LINGUA; A COMEDY. BY ANTHONY BREWER. Languages. The ancient Hebrew, clad vith mysteries ; The learned Greek, rich in fit epithets, Blest in the lovely marriage of pure words ; The Chaldee wise, the Arabian physical, The Roman eloquent, and Tuscan grave, The braving Spanish, and the smooth-tongued French — Tragedy and Comedy. — fellows both, both twins, but so unlike As birth to death, wedding to funeral : For this that rears himself in buskins quaint, Is pleasant at the first, proud in the midst, Stately in all, and bitter death at end. That in the pumps doth frown at first acquaintance, Trouble the midst, but in the end concludes Closing up all with a sweet catastrophe. This grave and sad, distained with brinish tears : That light and quick, with wrinkled laughter painted : This deals with nobles, kings, and emperors, Full of great fears, great hopes, great enterprizes ; This other trades with men of mean condition, His projects small, small hopes, and dangers little : This gorgeous, broider'd with rich sentences : That fair, and purfled round with merriments. Both vice detect, and virtue beautify, By being death's mirror, and life's looking-glass. GS ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. THE HISTORY OF ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. THE FIRST PART. BY JOHN MARSTON. Jlndrugio, Duke of Genoa, banished his country, with the loss of a son, supposed drowned, is cast upon the territory of his mortal enemy the Duke of Venice with no attendants but Lucio, an old nobleman, and a Page. Andr. Is not yon gleam the shudd'ring Morn that flakes With silver tincture the east verge of heaven ? Luc. I think it is, so please your Excellence. Andr. Away, I have no Excellence to please. Prithee observe the custom of the world ; That only flatters greatness, states exalts. And please my Excellence ! O Lucio, Thou hast been ever held respected, dear, Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love : Good, flatter not. My thoughts are fixt in contemplation Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal That eats her children, should not have eyes and ears. p hilosophy maintains that Nature's wise, And forms no useless nor unperfect thing. Did* Nature make the earth, or the earth Nature ? For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man, Moulds me up honor, and, like a cunning Dutchman, Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath, % And gives a sot appearance of a soul. Go to, go to ; thou ly'st, Philosophy. Nature forms things unperfect, useless, vain. Why made she not the earth with eyes and ears ? That she might see desert and hear men's plaints ; That when a soul is splitted, sunk with grief, He might fall thus upon the breast of Earth, And in her ear halloo his misery, Exclaiming thus : O thou all bearing Earth, Which men do gape for till thou cramm'st their mouths And choak'st their throats with dust : open thy breast, And let me sink into thee : look who knocks ; Andrumo calls. Rut O she's deaf and blind. •&* ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. 69 A wretch but lean relief on earth can find. Luc. Sweet Lord, abandon passion ; and disarm. Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea We are roll'd up upon the Venice marsh, Let's clip all fortune, lest more low'ring fate — Andr. More low'ring fate ! O Lucio, choke that breath. Xow I defy chance. Fortune's brow hath frown'd, Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend : Her venom's spit. Alas ! what country rests, What son, what comfort, that she can deprive ? Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow ? Gapes not my native country for my blood ? Lies not my son tomb'd in the swelling main? And in more low'ring fate ? There's nothing left Unto Andrugio but Andrugio : And that Nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell can take : Fortune my fortunes not my mind shall shake. Luc. Speak like yourself: but give me leave, my Lord, To wish you safety. If you are but seen, Your arms display you ; therefore put them off, And take A ndr. Would'st have me go unarm'd among my foes ? Being besieg'd by Passion, entering lists To combat with Despair and mighty Grief: My soul beleaguer'd with the crushing strength Of sharp Impatience. Ha, Lucio; go unarm'd? Come, soul, resume the valor of thy birth ; Mvself myself will dare all opposites : I'll muster forces, an unvanquish'd power: Cornets of horse shall press th' ungrateful earth : This hollow-wombed mass shall inly groan And murmur to sustain the weight of arms : Ghastly Amazement, with upstarted hair, Shall hurry on before, and usher us. Whilst trumpets clamor with a sound of death. Luc. Peace, good my lord, your speech is all too light. Alas, survey your fortunes, look what's left 70 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Of all your forces and your utmost hopes ; A weak old man, a page, and your poor self. Andr. Andrugio lives ; and a Fair Cause of Arms, Why, that's an army all invincible. He who hath that, hath a battalion royal, Armor of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds, Main squares of pikes, millions of harquebush. O, a Fair Cause stands firm, and will abide ; Legions of Angels fight upon her side. [The situation of Andrugio and Lucio resembles that of Lear and Kent, ia that King's distresses. Andrugio, like Lear, manifests a kind of royal impatience, a turbulent greatness, an affected resignation. The Enemies which he enters lists to combat, " Despair and mighty Grief, and sharp Impatience," and the Forces (" Cornets of Horse," &c.) which he brings to vanquish them, are in the boldest style of Allegory. They are such a "race of mourners" as "the infection of sorrows loud" in the intellect might beget on " some pregnant cloud " in the imagination.] ANTONIO'S REVENGE. THE SECOND PART OF THE HISTORY OF ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. BY JOHN MARSTON. The Prologue.* The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps The fluent summer's vein ; and drizzling sleet Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numb'd earth, While snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leaves From the nak'd shudd'ring branch, and pillsf the skin From off" the soft and delicate aspects. now methinks a sullen tragic scene * This prologue for its passionate earnestness, and for the tragic note of preparation whi ;h it sounds, might have preceded one of those old tales of Thebes, or Pelops' line, which Milton has so highly commended, as free from the common error of the poets in his days, " of intermixing comic stuff with tragic sadness and gravity, brought in without discretion corruptly to gratify the people." It is as solemn a preparative as the " warning voice which he who saw th' Apocalypse, heard cry." t Peels. ANTONIO'S REVENGE. 71 Would suit the time with pleasing congruence. May we be happy in our weak devoir. And all part pleas'd in most wish'd content. But sweat of Hercules can ne'er beget So blest an issue. Therefore we proclaim, If any spirit breathes withit this round Uncapable of weighty passion (As from his birth being hugged in the arms, And nuzled 'twixt the breasts of Happiness*), Who winks and shuts his apprehension up From common sense of what men were, and are ; Who would not know what men must be : let such Hurry amain from our black visag'd shows ; We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast, Nail'd to the earth with grief; if any heart, Pierc'd through with anguish, pant within this ring ; If there be any blood, whose heat is choak'd And stifled with true sense of misery : If aught of these strains fill this consort up, They arrive most welcome. O that our power Could lacky or keep wing with our desires ; That with unused poize of stile and sense We might weigh massy in judicious scale ! Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes : When our scenes falter, or invention halts, Your favor will give crutches to our faults. Antonio, son to Andrugio Duke of Genoa, whom Piero the Venetian Prince and father-in-law to Antonio has cruelly murdered, hills Piero's little son, Julio, as a sacrifice to the ghost of Andrugio. — The scene, a church-yard : the time, midnight. Julio. Antonio. Jul. Brother Antonio, are you here i'faith ? Why do you frown ? Indeed my sister said, That I should call you brother, that she did, When you were married to her. Buss me : good truth, I love you better than my father, 'deed. • " Sleek favorifes of Fortune." Preface to Poems by S. T. Coleridge. 72 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Ant. Thy father? gracious, bounteous heaven, I do adore thy* justice. Vcnit in nostras /nanus Tandem r indicia, re nit et tota quidem. Jul. Truth, since my mother died, I loved you best. Something hath anger'd you : pray you, look merrily. Ant. I will laugh, and dimple my thin cheek With capering joy ; chuck, my heart doth leap To grasp thy bosom. Time, place, and blood, Uow fit you close together ! heaven's tones Strike not such music to immortal souls, As your accordance sweets my breast withal. Methinks I pace upon the front of Jove, And kick corruption with a scornful heel, Griping this flesh, disdain mortality. that I knew which joint, which side, which limb Were father all, and had no mother in it ; That I might rip it vein by vein, and carve revenge In bleeding traces : but since 'tis mix'd together, Have at adventure, pell-mell, no reverse. Come hither, boy ; this is Andrugio's hearse. Jul. O God, you'll hurt me. For my sister's sake, Pray you don't hurt me. And you kill me, 'deed I'll tell my father. Ant. Oh, for thy sister's sake I flag revenge. Andrugio's Ghost cries " Revenge.' Ant. Stay, stay, dear father, fright mine eyes no more. Revenge as swift as lightning, bursteth forth And clears his heart. Come, pretty tender child, It is not thee I hate, or thee I kill Thy father's blood that flows within thy veins, Is it I lothe ; is that, revenge must suck. 1 love thy soul : and were thy heart lapt up In any flesh but in Piero's blood, I would thus kiss it : but, being his, thus, thus, And thus I'll punch it. Abandon fears : Whilst thy wounds bleed, my brows shall gush out tears. Jul. So you will love me, do even what you will. [Dies. Ant. Now barks the wolf against the full-cheekt moon ; ANTONIO'S REVENGE. 73 Now lions' half clam'd entrails roar for food ; Now croaks the toad, and night-crows screech aloud, Fluttering 'bout casements of departing souls ! Now gape the graves, and through their yawns let loose Imprison 'd spirits to revisit earth : And now, swart Night, to swell thy hour out Behold I spurt warm blood in thy black eyes. {From under the earth a groan.) Howl not, thou putry mould ; groan not, ye graves ; Be dumb, all breath. Here stands Andrugio's son, Worthy his father. So ; I feel no breath ; His jaws are fall'n, his dislodged soul is fled. And now there's nothing but Piero left. He is all Piero, father all. This blood, This breast, this heart, Piero all : Whom thus I mangle Spright of Julio, Forget this was thy trunk. I live thy friend. Mavst thou be twined with the soft'st embrace Of clear eternity ;* but thy father's blood I thus make incense of to Vengeance. * ******* Day breaking. see, the dapple grey coursers of the morn Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs And chase it through the sky. One who died, slandered. Look on those lips, Those now lawn pillows, on whose tender softness Chaste modest Speech, stealing from out his breast, Had wont to rest itself, as loth to post From out so fair an Inn : look, look, they seem To stir, And breathe defiance to black obloquy. Wherein fools are happy. Even in that, note a fool's beatitude ; * " To lie immortal in the arms of Fire." Browne's Religio Medici. Of the punishment? in hel!. 74 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. He is not capable of passion ; Wanting the power of distinction, He bears an unturn'd sail with every wind : Blow east, blow west, he steers his course alike. I never saw a fool lean : the chub-faced fop Shines sleek with full cram'd fat of happiness : Whilst studious contemplation sucks the juice From wisard's* cheeks, who making curious search For nature's secrets, the First Innating Cause Laughs them to scorn, as man doth busy Apes When they will zany men. Maria {the Duchess of Genoa) describes the death of Mellida, her daugh ter-in-Iaw . Being laid upon her bed she grasp'd my hand, And kissing it, spake thus, Thou very poor, Why dost not weep ? the jewel of thy brow, The rich adornment that inchas'd thy breast, Is lost ; thy son, my love, is lost, is dead. And have 1 liv'd to see his virtues blurr'd With guiltless blots ? O world, thou art too subtil For honest natures to converse withal : Therefore I'll leave thee : farewell, mart of wo ; I fly to clip my love Antonio, — With that, her head sunk down upon her breast ; Her cheek chang'd earth, her senses slept in rest : Until my Fool,f that crept unto the bed, Screech'd out so loud that he brought back her soul, Call'd her again, that her bright eyes 'gan ope And stared upon him : he audacious fool Dared kiss her hand, wisht her soft rest, lov'd Bride ; She fumbled out, thanks, good : and so she died. * Wise men's. t Antonio, who is thought dead, but still lives in that disguise. THE MALCONTENT. 75 THE MALCONTENT. A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY JOHN MARSTON. The Malcontent describes himself. I cannot sleep, my eyes' ill neighboring lids Will hold no fellowship. O thou pale sober night, Thou that in sluggish fumes all sense dost steep ; Thou that giv'st all the world full leave to play, Unbend'st the feebled veins of sweaty labor: The gaily-slave, that all the toilsome day Tugs at the oar against the stubborn wave, Straining his rugged veins, snores fast ; The stooping scythe-man, that doth barb the field, Thou mak'st wink sure ; in night all creatures sleep, Only the Malcontent, that 'gainst his fate Repines and quarrels : alas lie's Goodman Tell-clock ; [lis sallow jaw-bones sink with wasting moan ; Whilst others' beds are down, his pillow's stone. Place for a Penitent. My cell 'tis, lady ; where, instead of masks, Music, tilts, tournies, and such court-like shows, The hollow murmur of the checkless winds Shall groan again, whilst the unquiet sea Shakes the whole rock with foamy battery. There Usherless* the air come in and out ; The rheumy vault will force your eyes to weep, Whilst you behold true desolation. A rocky barrenness shall pierce your eyes ; Where a'! at once one reaches, where he stands, With brows tl.e roof, both walls with both his hands. * i. e. without the ceremony of an Usher to give notice of its approach, as is usual in Courts. As fine as Shakspeare ■ " the bleak air thy boister- ous Chamberlain." 78 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. THE WONDER OF WOMEN : OR THE TRAGEDY OF SOPHONISBA. BY JOHN MARSTON. Description of the Witch Erictho. Here in this desart, the great Soul of Charms Dreadful Erictho lives ; whose dismal brow Contemns all roofs, or civil coverture. Forsaken graves and tombs (the ghosts forc'd out) She joys to inhabit. A loathsome yellow leanness spreads her face, A heavy hell-like paleness loads her cheeks, Unknown to a clear heaven. But if dark winds Or black thick clouds drive back the blinded stars, When her deep magic makes forc'd heaven quake, And thunder, spite of Jove : Erictho then From naked graves stalks out, heaves proud her head, With long unkemb'd hair loaden, and strives to snatch The night's quick sulphur ; then she bursts up tombs From half-rot sear-cloths ; and she scrapes dry gums For her black rites : but when she finds a corse But newly grav'd, whose entrails are not turn'd To slimy filth, with greedy havoc then She makes fierce spoil, and swells with wicked triumph To bury her lean knuckles in his eyes : Then doth she gnaw the pale and o'er-grown nails From his dry hand : but if she find some life Yet lurking close, she bites his gelid lips, And sticking her black tongue in his dry throat, She breathes dire murmurs, which enforce him bear Her baneful secrets to the spirits of horror. Her Cave. Hard by the reverent ruins Of a once glorious temple, rear'd to Jove, Whose very rubbish (like the pitied fall Of virtue much unfortunate) yet bears A deathless majesty, though now quite ras'd, Hurl'd down by wrath and lust of impious kings, WHAT YOU WILL. 77 So that, where holy Flamens wont to sing Sweet hymns to heaven, there the daw, and crow, The ill-voic'd raven, and still chattering pye, Send out ungrateful sounds and loathsome filth ; Where statues and Jove's acts were vively* limn'd, Boys with black coals draw the veil'd parts of nature And lecherous actions of imagined lust ; Where tombs and beauteous urns of well-dead men Stood in assured rest, the shepherd now Unloads his belly, corruption most abhorr'd Mingling itself with their renowned ashes : There once a charnel-house, now a vast cave, Over whose brow a pale and untrod grove Throws out her heavy shade, the mouth thick arms Of darksome ewe, sun-proof, for ever choak ; Within, rests barren darkness, fruitless drought Pines in eternal night ; the steam of hell Yields^not so lazy air : there, that's her Cell. WHAT YOU WILL : A COMEDY. BY JOHN MARSTON. Venetian Merchant. No knight, But one (that title off) was even a prince, A sultan Solyman : thrice was he made, In dangerous arms, Venice' Providetore. He was merchant, but so bounteous, Valiant, wise, learned, all so absolute, That nought was valued praiseful excellent, But in 't was he most praiseful excellent. O I shall ne'er forget how he went cloathed. He would maintain it a base ill-used fashion, To bind a merchant to the sullen habit Of precise black, chiefly in Venice state, Where merchants guilt the top.j" * Livelily. f " Her whose merchant Sons were Kings."— Collins 78 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. And therefore should you have him pass the bridge Up the Rialto like a Soldier ; In a black bever belt, ash color plain, A Florentine cloth-o'-silver jerkin, sleeves White satin cut on tinsel, then long stock ; French panes embroider'd, goldsmith's work : O God, Methinks I see him, how he would walk, With what a jolly presence he would pace Round the Rialto.* Scholar and his Dog. I was a scholar : seven useful springs Did I deflower in quotations Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man ; The more I learnt, the more I learn to doubt. Delight my spaniel slept, whilst I baus'd leaves, Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old print Of titled words : and still my spaniel slept. Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh, • Shrunk up my veins : and still my spaniel slept. And still I held converse with Zabarell, Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw Of Antick Donate : still my spaniel slept. Still on went I ; first, an sit anima ; Then, an it were mortal. O hold, hold ; at that They 're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain Pell-mell together ; still my spaniel slept. * To judge of the liberality of these notions of dress, we must advert to the days of Gresham, and the consternation which a Phenomenon habited like the Merchant here described would have excited among the flat round caps, and cloth stockings, upon Change, when those " original arguments or tokens of a Citizen's vocation were in fashion not more for thrift and use- fulness than for distinction and grace." The blank uniformity to which all professional distinctions in apparel have been long hastening, is one instance of the Decay of Symbols among us, which, whether it has contributed or not to make us a more intellectual, has certainly made us a less imaginative people. Shakspeare knew the force of signs : — " a malignant and turban'd Turk." " This meal-cap Miller," says the Author of God's Revenge against Murder, to express his indignation at an atrocious outrage committed by the miller Pierot upon the person of the fair Marieta. THE INSATIATE COUNTESS. 7y Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixt, Ex traduce, but whether 't had free will Or no, hot philosophers Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt, 1 stagger'd, knew not which was firmer part, But thought, quoted, read, observ'd and pryed, Stuftt noting-books : and still my spaniel slept. At length he wak'd, and yawned ; and by yon sky, For aught I know he knew as much as I. Preparations for Second Nuptials. Now is Albano's* marriage-bed new hung With fresh rich curtains, now are my valence up, Imbost with orient pearl, my grandsire's gift, Now are the lawn sheets fum'd with violets To fresh the pall'd lascivious appetite, Now work the cooks, the pastry sweats with slaves, The march-panes glitter, now, now the musicians Hover with nimble sticks o'er squeaking crowds,f Tickling the dried guts of a mewing cat : The tailors, starchers, semsters, butchers, poulterers, Mercers, all, all none think on me. THE INSATIATE COUNTESS : A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN MARSTON. Isabella {the Countess), after a long series of crimes of infidelity to her husband and of murder, is brought to suffer on a scaffold. Roberto, her husband, arrives to take a last leave of her. Roberto. Bear record all you blessed saints in heaven I come not to torment thee in thy death ; For of himself he 's terrible enough, But call to mind a Lady like yourself, And think how ill in such a beauteous soul, Upon the instant morrow of her nuptials, * Albano, the first husband speaks* ; supposed dead. j- Fiddles. 80 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS Apostacy and wild revolt would show. Withal, imagine that she had a lord Jealous, the air should ravish her chaste looks ; Doting, like the Creator in his models, Who views them every minute, and with care Mixt in his fear of their obedience to him. Suppose he sung through famous Italy, More common than the looser songs of Petrarch, To every several Zany's instrument : And he poor wretch, hoping some better fate Might call her back from her adulterate purpose, Lives in obscure and almost unknown life ; Till hearing that she is condemned to die, For he once lov'd her, lends his pined corpse Motion to bring him to her stage of honor, Where, drown'd in wo at her so dismal chance, He clasps her : thus he falls into a trance. Isabella. O my offended lord, lift up your eyes ; But yet avert them from my lothed sight. Had I with you enjoyed the lawful pleasure, To which belongs nor fear nor public shame, I might have lived in honor, died in fame. 9 • Your pardon on my faltering knees I beg ; Which shall confirm more peace unto my death, Than all the grave instructions of the Church. Roberto. Freely thou hast it. Farewell, my Isabella ; Let thy death ransome thy soul, O die a rare, example, The kiss thou gav'st me in the church, here take : As I leave thee, so thou the world forsake. [Exit. Executioner. Madam, tie up your hair. Isabella. O these golden nets, That have insnared so many wanton youths ! Not one but has been held a thread of life, And superstitiously depended on. What else ? Executioner. Madam, I must intreat you blind your eyes. Isabella. I have lived too long in darkness, my friend ; And yet mine eyes with their majestic light, C.ESAR AND POMPEY. SI Have got new Muses in a Poet's spright. They've been more gaz'd at than the God of day ; Their brightness never could be flattered ; Yet thou command'st a fixed cloud of lawn To eclipse eternally these minutes of light. I am prepared. — Woman's Inconstancy. Who would have thought it ? She that could no more Forsake my company, than can the day Forsake the glorious presence of the sun, When I was absent, then her galled eyes Would have shed April showers, and outwept The clouds in that same o'er-passionate mood When they drown'd all the world : yet now forsakes me. Women, your eyes shed glances like the sun ; Now shines your brightness, now your light is done, On the sweet'st flowers you shine, 'tis but by chance, And on the basest weed you'll waste a glance. CiESAR AND POMPEY. A TRAGEDY. BY GEORGE CHAPMAN. Sacrifice. Imperial Caesar, at your sacred charge I drew a milk white ox into the Temple, And turning there his face into the East (Fearfully shaking at the shining light) Down fell his horned forehead to his hoof> When I began to greet him with the stroke That should prepare him for the holy rites, With hideous roars he laid out such a throat As made the secret lurkings of the God To answer, Echo-like, in thrcat'ning sounds : I struck again at him, and then he slept ; His life-blood boiling out at every wound In streams as clear as any liquid ruby, the beast cut up, and laid on the altar, His limbs were all lickt up with instant flames; part 1. 7 82 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS Not like the elemental fire that burns In household uses, lamely struggling up, This way and that way winding as it rises, But right and upright reacht his proper sphere Where burns the fire eternal and sincere. Joy unexpected, best. Joys unexpected, and in desperate plight, Are still most sweet, and prove from whence they come ; When earth's still moon-like confidence in joy Is at her full : True Joy descending far From past her sphere, and from the highest heaven That moves and is not moved. Inward help the best help. 1 will stand no more On others' legs, nor build one joy without me. If ever I be worth a house again, I'll build all inward : not a light shall ope The common out- way ; no expense, no art, No ornament, no door, will I use there ; But raise all plain and rudely like a rampire, Against the false society of men, That still batters All reason piece-meal ; and, for earthly greatness All heavenly comforts rarifies the air. I'll therefore live in dark ; and all my light, Like ancient Temples, let in at my top. That where to turn one's back to all the world, And only look at heaven. When our diseas'd affections Harmful to human freedom, and storm-like Inferring darkness to th' infected mind, Oppress our comforts ; 'tis but letting in The light of reason, and a purer spirit Take in another way ; like rooms that fight With windows 'gainst the wind, yet let in lignt. BUSSY D'AMBOIS. 83 BUSSY D'AMBOIS. A TRAGEDY. BY GEORGE CHAPMAN. A Nuntius (or Messenger) in presence of King Henry the Third of France and his court tells the manner of a combat, to which he was witness, of three to three ; in which JJAmbois remained sole survivor ; begun upon an affront passed upon D'Ambois by some courtiers. Henry, Guise, Beaupre, Nuntius, &c. Nuntius. I saw fierce D'Ambois and his two brave friends Enter the field, and at their heels their foes, Which were the famous soldiers, Barrisor, L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, great in deeds of arms : All which arriv'd at the evenest piece of earth The field atForded, the three challengers Turn'd head, drew all their rapiers, and stood rank'd ; When face to face the three defendants met them, Alike prepar'd, and resolute alike. Like bonfires of contributory wood Every man's look show'd, fed with other's spirit ; As one had been a mirror to another, Like forms of life and death each took from other ; And so were life and death mix'd at their heights, That you could see no fear of death (for life) Nor love of life (for death) : but in their brows Pyrrho's opinion in great letters shone ; That " life and death in all respects are one." Henry. Past there no sorts of words at their encounter ! Nuntius. As Hector twixt the hosts of Greece and Troy, When Paris and the Spartan king should end The nine years' war, held up his brazen lance For signal that both hosts should cease from arms, And hear him speak : so Barrisor (advis'd) Advanced his naked rapier "twixt both sides, Ript up the quarrel, and compar'd six lives Then laid in balance with six idle words ; OfFer'd remission and contrition too: Or else that he and D'Ambois might conclude The others' danger. D'Ambois lik'd the last: But Barrisor's friends (being equally engag'd 84 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. In the main quarrel), never would expose His life alone to that they all deserv'd. And (for the other offer of remission) D'Ambois (that like a laurel put in fire Sparkled and spit) did much much more than scorn That his wrong should incense lim so like chaff To go so soon out, and, like lighted paper, Approve his spirit at once both fire and ashes ; So drew they lots, and in them fates appointed That Barrisor should fight with fiery D'Ambois ; Pyrrhot with Melynell ; with Brisac L'Anou : And then like flame and powder they commixt, So sprightly, that I wish'd they had been Spirits ; That the ne'er-shutting wounds, they needs must open, Might as they open'd shut, and never kill.* But D'Ambois' sword (that light'ned as it flew) Shot like a pointed comet at the face Of manly Barrisor ; and there it stuck : Thrice pluck'd he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts From him, that of himself was free as fire ; Who thrust still, as he pluck'd, yet (past belief) He with his subtil eye, hand, body, "scap'd ; At last the deadly bitten point tugg'd off, On fell his yet undaunted foe so fiercely That (only made more horrid with his wound) Great D'Ambois shrunk, and gave a little ground : But soon return'd, redoubled in his danger, And at the heart of Barrisor scal'd his anser. Then, as in Arden I have seen an oak Long shook with tempests, and his lofty top Bent to his root, which being at length made loose (Even groaning with his weight) he 'gan to nod This way and that, as loth his curled brows (Which he had oft wrapt in the sky with storms) Should stoop ; and yet, his radical fibres burst, * One can hardly believe but that these lines were written after Miltoc had described his ivarring angels. BUSSY D'AMBOIS. 85 Storm-like he fell, and hid me fear-cold earth : So fell stout Barrisor, that had stood the shocks Of ten set battles in your highness' war inst the sole soldier of the world Navarre. Juise. O piteous and horrid murder ! Beaupre. Such a life Rethinks had metal in it to survive An age of men. Henry. Such often soonest end. Thy felt report calls on ; we long to know On what events the others have arrived. Nuntius. Sorrow and fury, like two opposite fumes Met in the upper region of a cloud, At the report made by this worthy's fall, Brake from the earth, and with them rose Revenge, Ent'ring with fresh pow'rs his two noble friends : And under that odds fell surcharg'd Brisac, The friend of D'Ambois, before fierce L'Anou ; Which D'Ambois seeing : as I once did see, In my young travels through Armenia, An angry unicorn in his full career Charge with too swift a foot a Jeweller That watcht him for the treasure of his brow ; And, ere he could get shelter of a tree, Nail him with his rich antler to the earth ; So D'Ambois ran upon reveng'd L'Anou, Who eyeing th' eager point borne in his face, And giving back, fell back, and in his fall His foe's uncurb'd sword stopt in his heart : By which time all the life-strings of th' two other Were cut, and both fell (as their spirit flew) Upwards : and still hunt honor at the view. And now, of all the six, sole D'Ambois stood Untouch't, save only with the others' blood. Henry. All slain outright but he ? Nuntius. All slain outright but he : Who kneeling in the warm life of his friends (All freckled with the blood his rapier rain'd) 80 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. He kist their pale lips, and bade both farewell. False Greatness. As cedars beaten with continual storms, So great men flourish ; and do imitate Unskilful statuaries, who suppose, In forming a Colossus, if they make him Straddle enough, strut, and look big, and gape, Their work is goodly : so men merely great, In their affected gravity of voice, Sowerness of countenance, manners' cruelty, Authority, wealth, and all the spawn of fortune, Think they bear all the kingdom's worth before them ; Yet differ not from those Colossick statues, Which, with heroic forms without o'erspread, Within are nought but mortar, flint, and lead. Virtue. — Policy. as great seamen using all their wealth And skills in Neptune's deep invisible paths, In tall ships richly built and ribb'd with brass, To put a girdle round about the world ; When they have done it, coming near the haven, A re fain to give a warning piece, and call A poor staid fisherman that never past His country's sight, to waft and guide them in : So when we wander furthest through the waves Of glassy Glory, and the gulfs of State, Topt with all titles, spreading all our reaches, As if each private arm would sphere the earth. We must to Virtue for her guide resort, Or we shall shipwreck in our safest port. JVtck of Time There is a deep nick in Time's restless wheel For each man's good, when which nick comes, it strikes: As Rhetorick yet works not persuasion, But only is a mean to make it work : So no man riseth by his real merit, BYRON'S CONSPIRACY. s7 But when it tries clink in his Raiser's spirit. Difference of the English and French Courts. Henry. Guise. Montsurry. Guise. I like not their Court* fashion, it is too crest-fall'n In all observance, making demigods Of their great Nobles, and of their old Queenf An ever young and most immortal Goddess. Mont. No question she's the rarest Queen in Europe. Guise. But what's that to her immortality ? Henry. Assure you, cousin Guise ; so great a Courtier, So full of majesty and royal parts, No Queen in Christendom may vaunt herself. Her Court approves it. That's a Court indeed ; Not mix'd with clowneries us'd in common Houses : But, as Courts should be, th' abstracts of their kingdoms, In all the beauty, state, and worth they hold. So is hers amply, and by her inform'd, The world is not contracted in a Man, With more proportion and expression, Than in her Court her Kingdom. Our French Court Is a mere mirror of confusion to it. The King and Subject, Lord and every Slave, Dance a continual hay. Our rooms of state Kept like our stables : no place more observ'd Than a rude market-place ; and though our custom Keep his assur'd confusion from our eyes, 'Tis ne'er the less essentially unsightly. BYRON'S CONSPIRACY. BY GEO. CHAPMAN Byron described. he is a man Of matchless valor, and was ever happy In all encounters, which were still made good * The English. t Q- Elizabeth. 88 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. With an unwearied sense of any toil ; Having continued fourteen days together Upon his horse ; his blood is not voluptuous, Nor much inclined to women ; his desires Are higher than his state ; and his deserts Not much short of the most he can desire, If they be weigh'd with what France feels by them He is past measure glorious : and that humor Is fit to feed his spirit, whom it possesseth With faith in any error ; chiefly where Men blow it up with praise of his perfections : The taste whereof in him so soothes his palate, And takes up all his appetite, that oft times He will refuse his meat, and company, To feast alone with their most strong conceit. Ambition also cheek by cheek doth march With that excess of glory, both sustain'd W'ith an unlimited fancy, that the king, Nor France itself, without him can subsist. Men's Glories eclipsed when they turn Traitors. As when the moon hath comforted the night, And set the world in silver of her light, The planets, asterisms, and whole State of Heaven, In beams of gold descending : all the winds Bound up in caves, charg'd not to drive abroad Their cloudy heads : an universal peace (Proclaim'd in silence) of the quiet earth Soon as her hot and dry fumes are let loose, Storms and clouds mixing suddenly put out The eyes of all those glories ; the creation Turn'd into Chaos; and we then desire, For all our joy of life, the death of sleep. So when the glories of our lives (men's loves, Clear consciences, our fames and loyalties), That did us worthy comfort, are eclips'd : Grief and disgrace invade us ; and for all Our night of life besides, our misery craves Dark earth would ope and hide us in our graves. BYRON'S CONSPIRACY. s'.t Opinion of the Scale of Good or Bad. there is no truth of any good To be discern'd on earth ; and by conversion, Nought therefore simply bad ; but as the stuff Prepar'd for Arras pictures, is no picture, Till it be form'd, and man hath cast the beams Of his imaginous fancy thorough it, In forming ancient Kings and Conquerors As he conceives they look'd and were attir'd, Though they were nothing so : so all things here Have all their price set down from men's Conceits ; W hich make all terms and actions good or bad, And are but pliant and well-color'd threads But into feigned images of Truth. Insinuating Manners. We must have these lures, when we hawk for friends : And wind about them like a subtle River, That, seeming only to run on his course, Doth search yet, as he runs, and still finds out The easiest parts of entry on the shore, Gliding so slyly by, as scarce it touch'd, Yet still eats something in it. The Stars not able to foreshow anything. I am a nobler substance than the stars : And shall the baser over rule the better ? Or are they better since they are the bigger ? I have a will, and faculties of choice, To do or not to do ; and reason why I do or not do this : the stars have none. Tliev know not why they shine, more than this Taper, Nor how they work, nor what. I'll cnange my course I'll piece-meal pull the frame of all my thoughts : And where are all your Caput Algols then ? Your planets all being underneath the earth At my nativity : what can they do ? Malignant in aspects ! in bloody houses ! yo ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. \ The Master Spirit. r Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea Loves to have his sails fill'd with a lusty wind, Even till his sail-yards tremhle, his masts crack, And his rapt ship run on her side so low, That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air. .There is no danger to a man, that knows What life and death is : there's not any law Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful That he should stoop to any other law : He goes before them, and commands them all, That to himself is a law rational. Vile Natures in High Places. foolish Statuaries, That under little Saints, suppose* great bases, Make less (to sense) the saints : and so, where fortune Advanceth vile minds to states great and noble, She much the more exposeth them to shame ; Not able to make good, and fill their bases With a conformed structure. Innocence the Harmony of the Faculties. Innocence, the sacred amulet 'Gainst all the poisons of infirmity, Of all misfortune, injury and death : That makes a man in tune still in himself; Free from the hell to be his own accuser ; Ever in quiet, endless joy enjoying, No strife nor no sedition in his powers ; No motion in his will against his reason ; No thought 'gainst thought ; nor (as 'twere in the confine!* Of whispering and repenting) both possess Only a wayward and tumultuous peace ; But, all parts in him friendly and secure, Fruitful of all best things in all worst seasons, He can with every wish be in their plenty : * Put under. BYRON S TRAGEDY. 9J When the infectious guilt of one foul crime Destroys the free content of all our time. BYRON'S TRAGEDY. BY GEO. CHAPMAN. King Henry the Fourth of France blesses the young Dauphin. My royal blessing, a«d the King of Heaven, Make thee an aged and a happy King Help, nurse, to put my sword into his hand. Hold, boy, by this ; and with it may thy arm Cut from thy tree of rule all traitrous branches, That strive to shadow and eclipse thy glories. Have thy old father's Angel for thy guide, Redoubled be his spirit in thy breast : Mho, when this State ran like a turbulent sea, In civil hates and bloody enmity, Their wraths and envies (like so many winds) Settled and burst : and like the Halcyon's birth Be thine, to bring a calm upon the shore : In which the eyes of war may ever sleep, As over-watch'd with former massacres, When guilty mad Noblesse fed on Noblesse, All the sweet plenty of the realm exhausted ; When the nak'd merchant was pursued for spoil : When the poor peasants frighted neediest thieves With their pale leanness, nothing left on them But meagre carcases, sustained with air, Wandering like ghosts affrighted from their graves ; When with the often and incessant sounds The very beasts knew the alarum-bell, And hearing it ran bellowing to their home ; From which unchristian broils and homicides Let the religious sword of Justice free Thee, and thy kingdoms govern'd after me ; O Heaven ! Or if the unsettled blood of France, With ease and wealth, renew her civil furies, 92 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Let all my powers be emptied in my Son ; To curb and end them all as I have done. Let him by virtue quite cut olF from Fortune Her feather'd shoulders, and her winged shoes, And thrust from her light feet her turning stone ; That she may ever tarry by his throne. ■ And of his worth let after ages say (He fighting for the land, and bringing home Just conquests, loaden with his enemies' spoifc), His father past all France in martial deeds.. But he his father twenty times exceeds. Wliat we have, we slight ; what we want, we think excellent. as a man, match'd with a lovely wife, When his most heavenly theory of her beauties Is dull'd and quite exhausted with his practice, He brings her forth to feasts, where he, alas, Falls to his viands with no thought like others, That think him blest in her ; and they, poor men, Court, and make faces, offer service, sweat With their desires' contention, break their brains For jests and tales, sit mute, and loose their looks, Far out of wit and out of countenance. So all men else do, what they have, transplant ; And place their wealth in thirst of what they want. Soliloquy of King Henry deliberating on the Death of a Traitor . O thou that governst the keen swords of Kings, Direct my arm in this important stroke, ; Or hold it, being advanc'd : the weight of blood. Even in the basest subject, doth exact Deep consultation in the highest King : For in one subject, death's unjust affrights, Passions, and pains, though he be ne'er so poor, Ask more remorse than the voluptuous spleens Of all Kings in the world deserve respect. He should be born grey-headed that will bear The weight of Empire. Judgment of the life, Free state and reputation of a Man BYRON'S TRAGEDY. 93 (Tf it be just and worthy) dwells so dark, That it denies access to sun and moon : The soul's eye, sharpen'd with that sacred light Of whom the sun itself is but a beam, Must only give that judgment. O how much Err those Kings then, that play with life and death ; And nothing put into their serious states But humor and their lusts ; for which alone Men long for kingdoms ; whose huge counterpoise In cares and dangers could a fool comprise, He would not be a King, but would be wise. [The Selections which I have made from this poet are sufficient to give an idea of that " full and heightened style" which Webster makes charac- teristic of Chapman. Of all the English Play-writers, Chapman perhaps approaches nearest to Shakspeare in the descriptive and didactic, in pas- sages which are less purel ydramatic. Dramatic imitation was not his talent. He could not go out of himself, as Shakspeare could shift at pleasure, to inform and animate other existences, but in himself he had an eye to per- ceive and a soul to embrace all forms. He would have made a great epic poet, if, indeed, he has not abundantly shown himself to be one ; for his Homer is not so properly a Translation as the Stories of Achilles and Ulysses re- written. The earnestness and passion which he has put into every part of these poems would be incredible to a reader of mere modern translations. His almost Greek zeal for the honor of his heroes is only paralleled by that fierce spirit of Hebrew bigotry, with which Milton, as if personating one of the Zealots of the old law, clothed himself when he sate down to paint the acts of Sampson against the imcircumcised. The great obstacle to Chap- man's Translations being read is their unconquerable quaintness. He pours out in the same breath the most just and natural and the most violent and forced expressions. He seems to grasp whatever words come first to hand during the impetus of inspiration, as if all other must be inadequate to the divine meaning. But passion (the all in all in Poetry) is everywhere pre- sent, raising the low, dignifying the mean, and putting sense into the absurd. He makes his readers glow, weep, tremble, take any affection which he pleases, be moved by words, or in spite of them, be disgusted and overcome their disgust. I have often thought that the vulgar misconception of Shak-' speare, as of a wild irregular genius " in whom great faults are compensat ed by great beauties," would be really true applied to Chapman. But there is no" scale by which to balance such disproportionate subjects as the faults and beauties of a great genius. To set off the former with any fairness against the latter, the pain which they give us should be in some propor- tion to the pleasure which we receive from the other. As these transport us to the highest heaven, those should steep us in agonies infernal.] 94 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. BY THOMAS -HEYWOOD. Petrocella a fair Spanish Ladyloves Montferrers an English Sea Cap- tain, who is Captive to Valladaura a noble Spaniard. — Valladaura loves the Lady ; and employs Montferrers to be the Messenger of his love to her. Petrocella. Montferrers. Pet. What art thou in thy country ? Mont. There, a man. Pet. What here ? Mont. No better than you see : a slave. Pet. Whose? Mont. His that hath redeem'd me. Pet. Valladaura '"s ? Mont. Yes, I proclaim 't ; I that was once mine own, Am now become his creature. Pet. I perceive, Your coming is to make me think you noble. Would you persuade me deem your friend a God ? For only such make men. Are you a Gentleman ? Mont. Not here ; for I am all dejectedness, Captive to fortune, and a slave to want ; I cannot call these clothes I wear mine own, I do not eat but at another's cost, This air 1 breathe is borrowed ; ne'er was man So poor and abject. I have not so much In all this universe as a thing to leave, Or a country I can freely boast is mine. My essence and my being is another's. What should I say ? I am not anything ; And I possess as little. Pet. Tell me that ? Come, come, I know you to be no such man. You are a soldier valiant and renown'd ; Your carriage tried by land, and prov'd at sea ; Of which I have heard such full expression, No contradiction can persuade you less ; And in this faith I am constant. A CHALLENGE EOR BEAUTY. 95 Mont. A meer worm, Trod on by every fate. Pet. Rais'd by your merit To be a common argument through Spain, And speech at Princes' tables, for your worth ; Your presence when you please to expose 't abroad Attracts all eyes, and draws them after you ; And those that understand you, call their friends, And pointing through the street, say, This is he, This is that brave and noble Englishman, Whom soldiers strive to make their precedent, And other men their wonder. Mont. This your scorn Makes me appear more abject to myself, Than all diseases I have tasted yet Had power to asperse upon me ; and yet, lady, I could say something, durst I. Pet. Speak 't at once. Mont. And yet Pet. Nay, but we'll admit no pause. Mont. I know not how my phrase may relish you, And loth I were to offend ; even in what's past I must confess I was too bold. Farewell ; I shall no more distaste you. Pet. Sir, you '.o not ; 1 do proclaim you do not. Stay, I charge you ; Or, as you say you have been fortune's scorn, So ever prove to woman. Mont. You charge deeply, And yet now I bethink me Pet. As you are a soldier, And Englishman, have hope to be redeem'd From this your scorned bondage you sustain, Have comfort in your mother and fair sister, Renown so blazed in the ears of Spain, Hope to rebreathe that air you tasted first, So tell me Ment. What? y(i ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Pet. Your apprehension catch'd, And almost was in sheaf Mont. Lady, I shall. Pet. And in a word. Mont. I will. Pet. Pronounce it then. Mont. 1 love you. Pet. Ha, ha, ha. Mont. Still it is my misery Thus to be mock'd in all things. Pet. Pretty, faith. Mont. I look'd thus to be laught at ; my estate And fortunes, I confess, deserve no less ; That made me so unwilling to denounce Mine own derisions : but alas ! I find No nation, sex, complexion, birth, degree, But jest at want, and mock at misery. Pet. Love me 1 Mont. I do, I do ; and maugre Fate, And spite of all sinister evil, shall. And now I charge you, by that filial zeal You owe your father, by the memory Of your dear mother, by the joys you hope In blessed marriage, by the fortunate issue Stored in your womb, by these and all things ek<3 That you can style with goodness ; instantly Without evasion, trick, or circumstance, Nay, least premeditation, answer me, Affect you me, or no ? Pet. How speak you that ? Mont. Without demur or pause. Pet. Give me but time To sleep upon 't. Mont. I pardon you no minute : not so much, As to apparel the least phrase you speak. Speak in the shortest sentence. Pet. You have vanquish'd me, At mine own weapon : noble sir, I love you ; A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. 97 * And what my heart durst never tell my tongue, Lest it should blab my thoughts, at last I speak, And iterate ; I love you. Mont. Oh, my happiness ! What wilt thou feel me still ? art thou not weary Of making me thy May-game, to possess me Of such a treasure's mighty magazine, Not suffer me to enjoy it ; tane with this hand, With that to give 't another ! Pet. You are sad, Sir ; Be so no more : if you have been dejected, It lies in me to mount you to that height You could not aim at greater. I am yours. These lips, that only witness it in air, Now with this truth confirm it. [Kisses him. Mont. I was born to 't ; And it shall out at once. Pet. Sir, you seem passionate ; As if my answer pleas'd not. Mont. Now my death ; For mine own tongue must kill me : noble Lady, You have endear'd me to you, but my vow Was, ne'er to match with any, of what state Or birth soever, till before the contract Some one thing I impose her. Pet. She to do it ? Mont. Or, if she fail me in my first demand, I to abjure her ever. Pet. I am she, That beg to be imploy'd so : name a danger, Whose very face would fright all womanhood, And manhood put in trance, nay, whose aspect Would ague such as should but hear it told ; But to the sad beholder, prove like those That gazed upon Medusa's snaky locks, And turn'd them into marble : these and more, Should you but speak 't, Id do. Mont. And swear to this ? PART I. 8 98 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. • Pet. I vow it by my honor, my best hopes, And all that I wish gracious : name it then, For I am in a longing in my soul, To show my love's expression. Mont. You shall then Pet. I'll do it, as I am a Virgin • Lie it within mortality, I'll do it. Mont. You shall Pet. I will : that which appears in you So terrible to speak, I'll joy to act ; And take pride in performance. Mont. Then you shall Pet. What soldier, what ? Mont. — love noble Valladaura ; And at his soonest appointment marry him. Pet. Then I am lost. Miracle of Beauty. I remember,* There lived a Spanish Princess of our name, An Isabella too, and not long since, Who from her palace windows stedfastly Gazing upon the Sun, her hair took fire. Some augurs held it as a prodigy : I rather think that she was Latona's brood, And that Apollo courted her bright hair ; Else, envying that her tresses put down his, He scorcht them off in envy ; nor dare I (From her deriv'd) expose me to his beams ; Lest, as he burns the Phoenix in her nest, Made of the sweetest aromatic wood, Either in love, or envy, he agree To use the like combustion upon me. * A proud Spanish Princess relates thin. THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT. 99 THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT. BY THOMAS HEYWOOD. JVoble Traitor. A Persian History I read of late, how the great Sophy once Flying a noble Falcon at the Heme, In comes by chance an Eagle sousing by : Which when the Hawk espies, leaves her first game, And boldly ventures on the King of Birds ; Long tugg'd they in the air, till at the length The Falcon (better breath'd) seiz'd on the Eagle, And struck it dead. The Barons prais'd the Bird, And for her courage she was peerless held. The Emperor, after some deliberate thoughts, Made her no less ; he caus'd a crown of gold To be new fram'd, and fitted to her head, In honor of her courage : then the Bird, With great applause, was to the market-place In triumph borne ; where, when her utmost worth Had been proclaimed, the common executioner First by the King's command took off her crown, And after with a sword struck off* her head, As one no better than a noble Traitor Unto the King of Birds. A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDNESS : A TRAGEDY. BY THOMAS HEYWOOD. Mr. Frankford discovers that his Wife has been unfaithful to him^ Mrs. Fra. O by what words, what title, or what name Shall I entreat your pardon ? Pardon ! oh ! I am as far from hoping such sweet grace, As Lucifer from heaven. To call you husband ! (O me most wretched !) I have lost that name, I am no more your wife. 100 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Fran. Spare thou thy tears, for I will weep for thee, And keep thy countenance, for I'll blush for thee. Now, I protest, I think, 'tis I am tainted, For I am most asham'd ; and 'tis more hard For me to look upon thy guilty face, Than on the sun's clear brow : what wouldst thou speak ? Mrs. Fra. I would I had no tongue, no ears, no eyes, No apprehension, no capacity. When do you spurn me like a dog ? when tread me Under feet ? when drag me by the hair ? Tho' I deserve a thousand thousand fold More than you can inflict : yet, once my husband, For womanhood, to which I am a shame, Though once an ornament ; even for his sake That hath redeem'd our souls, mark not my face, Nor hack me with your sword : but let me go Perfect and undeformed to my tomb. I am not worthy that I should prevail In the least suit ; no, not to speak to you, Nor look on you, nor to be in your presence : Yet as an abject this one suit I crave, This granted, I am ready for my grave. Fran. My God, with patience arm me ! rise, nay rise, And I'll debate with thee. Was it for want Thou plaid'st the strumpet. Wast thou not supply'd With every pleasure, fashion, and new toy ; Nay even beyond my calling ? Mrs. Fra. I was. Fran. Was it then disability in me ? Or in thine eyes seem'd he a properer man ? Mrs. Fra. O no. J?ran. Did not I lodge thee in my bosom ? Wear thee in my heart ? Mrs. Fra. You did. Fran. I did indeed, witness my tears I did. Go bring my infants hither. O Nan, O Nan ; If neither fear of shame, regard of honor, The blemish of my house, nor my dear love, A WOMAN KILL'D. WITH KINBNESS. 1.01 Could have withheld thee from so lewd a fact, Yet for these infants, these young harmless souls, On whose white brows thy shame is character'd, And grows in greatness as they wax in years ; Look but on them, and melt away in tears. Away with them : lest as her spotted body Hath stained their names with stripe of bastardy, So her adulterous breath may blast their spirits With her infectious thoughts. Away with them. Mrs. Fra. In this one life I die ten thousand deaths. Fran. Stand up, stand up, I will do nothing rashly. I will retire awhile into my study, And thou shalt hear thy sentence presently. [Exit. He returns with Cranwell his friend. She falls on her knees. Fran. My words are register'd in heaven already. With patience hear me. I'll not martyr thee, Nor mark thee for a strumpet ; but with usage Of more humility torment thy soul, And kill thee even with kindness. Cran. Mr. Frankford. Fran. Good Mr. Cranwell. — Woman, hear thy judgment; Go make thee ready in thy best attire ; Take with thee all thy gowns, all thy apparel : Leave nothing that did ever call thee mistress, Or by whose sight, being left here in the house, I may remember such a woman was. Choose thee a bed and hangings for thy chamber ; Take with thee everything which hath thy mark, And get thee to my manor seven miles off; Where live ; 'tis thine, I freely give it thee, My tenants by shall furnish thee with wains To carry all thy stuff within two hours ; No longer will I limit thee my sight. Choose which of all my servants thou lik'st best, And they are thine to attend thee. Mrs. Fra. A mild sentence. Fran. But as thou hop'st for heaven, as thou believ'st 102 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Thy name's recorded in the book of life, I charge thee never after this sad day To see me or to meet me ; or to send By word, or writing, gift, or otherwise, To move me, by thyself, or by thy friends ; Nor challenge any part in my two children. So farewell, Nan ; for we will henceforth be As we had never seen, ne'er more shall see. Mrs. Fra. How full my heart is, in mine eyes appears ; What wants in words, I will supply in tears. Fran. Come, take your coach, your stuff; all must along: Servants and all make ready, all be gone. It was thy hand cut two hearts out of one. Ceanwell, Feankfoed, and Nicholas, a Servant. Cran. Why do you search each room about your house, Now that you have dispatch'd your wife away ? Fran. O sir, to see that nothing may be left That ever was my wife's ; 1 lov'd her dearly, And when I do but think of her unkindness, My thoughts are all in hell ; to avoid which torment, I would not have a bodkin nor a cuff, A bracelet, necklace, or rebato wire, Nor anything that ever was call'd her's, Left me, by which I might remember her. Seek round about. IXic. Here's her lute flung in a corner. Fran. Her lute ? Oh God ! upon this instrument Her fingers have ran quick division, Swifter than that which now divides our hearts. These frets have made me pleasant, that have now Frets of my heart-strings made. O master Cranwell, Oft hath she made this melancholy wood (Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance) Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung, What pleasant strange airs have they jointly rung ! A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDNESS. 103 Post with it after her ; now nothing's left ; Of her and her's I am at once bereft. Nicholas overtakes Mrs. Frankford on her journey, and delivers the lute. Mrs. Fra. I know the lute ; oft have I sung to thee : We both are out of tune, both out of time. Nic. My master commends him unto ye ; There's all he can find that was ever yours. He prays you to forget him, and so he bids you farewell. Mrs. Fra. I thank him, he is kind, and ever was. All you that have true feeling of my grief, That know my loss, and have relenting hearts, Gird me about ; and help me with your tears To wash my spotted sins : my lute shall groan ; It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. If you return unto your master, say (Tho' not from me, for I am unworthy To blast his name so with a strumpet's tongue) That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead. • Nay you may say too ( for my vow is past) Last night you saw me eat and drink my last. This to your master you may say and swear : For it is writ in heaven, and decreed here. Go break this lute on my coach's wheel, As the last music that I e'er shall make ; Not as my husband's gift, but my farewell To all earth's joy ; and so your master tell. Nic. I'll do your commendations. Mrs. Fra. O no : I dare not so presume ; nor to my children : I am disclaim'd in both, alas, I am. O never teach them, when they come to speak, To name the name of mother ; chide their tongue If they by chance light on that hated word ; Tell them 'tis naught, for when that word they name (Poor pretty souls) they harp on their own shame. So, now unto my coach, then to my home, 104 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. So to my death-bed ; for from this sad hour, I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor taste Of any cates that may preserve my life : I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest. But when my tears have wash'd my black soul white, Sweet Saviour to thy hands I yield my sprite. Mrs. Frankford {dying). Sir Francis Acton (her brother). Sir Charles Mountford. Mr. Malby, and other of her hus- band's friends. Mai. How fare you, Mrs. Frankford ? Mrs. Fra. Sick, sick, O sick : give me some air. I pray Tell me, oh tell me, where is Mr. Frankford. Will he not deign to see me ere I die ? Mai. Yes, Mrs. Frankford : divers gentlemen, Your loving neighbors, with that just request Have mov'd and told him of your weak estate : Who, tho' with much ado to get belief, Examining of the general circumstance, Seeing your sorrow and your penitence, And hearing therewithal the great desire You have to see him ere you left the world, He gave to us his faith to follow us ; And sure he will be here immediately. Mrs. Fra. You have half reviv'd me with the pleasing news : Raise me a little higher in my bed. Blush I not, brother Acton ? blush I not, sir Charles ? Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek ? Is not my crime there ? tell me, gentlemen. Char. Alas ! good mistress, sickness hath not left you Blood in your face enough to make you blush. Mrs. Fra. Then sickness like a friend my fault would hide. Is my husband come ? my soul but tarries His arrival, then I am fit for heaven. Acton. I came to chide you, but my words of hate Are turn'd to pity and compassionate grief. I came to rate you, but my brawls, you see, A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDNESS. 1U5 Melt into tears, and I must weep by thee. Here's Mr. Frankford now. Mr. Frankford enters. Fran. Good-morrow, brother ; morrow, gentlemen : God, that hath laid this cross upon our heads, Might (had he pleas'd) have made our cause of meeting On a more fair and more contented ground : But he that made us, made us to his wo. Mrs. Fra. And is he come ? methinks that voice I know. Fran. How do you, woman ? Mrs. Fra. Well, Mr. Frankford, well ; but shall be better I hope within this hour. Will you vouchsafe (Out of your grace, and your humanity) To take a spotted strumpet by the hand ? Fran. This hand once held my heart in faster bonds Than now 'tis grip'd by me. God pardon them That made us first break hold. Mrs. Fra. Amen, amen. Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I'm now bound, I was so impudent to wish you here ; And once more beg your pardon. O ! good man, And father to my children, pardon me. Pardon, O pardon me : my fault so heinous is, That if you in this world forgive it not, Heaven will not clear it in the world to come. Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my knees That kneel I cannot : but on my heart's knees My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, O pardon me ! Fran. As freely from the low depth of my soul As my Redeemer hath for us given his death, I pardon thee ; I will shed tears for thee ; Pray with thee : And, in mere pity of thy weak estate, I'll wish to die with thee. All. So do we all. Fran. Even as I hope for pardon at that day, 106 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. When the great judge of heaven in scarlet sits, So he thou pardon'd. Tho' thy rash offence Divorc'd our bodies, thy repentant tears Unite our souls. Char. Then comfort, mistress Frankford ; You see your husband hath forgiven your fall ; Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting soul. Susan. How is it with you ? Acton. How d'ye feel yourself? Mrs. Fra. Not of this world. Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it. My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ; Both those lost names I do restore thee back, And with this kiss I wed thee once again : Tho' thou art wounded in thy honor'd name, And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest ; Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest. Mrs. Fra. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven art free Once more. Thy wife dies thus embracing thee. [Heywood is a sort of prose Shakspeare. His scenes are to the full as natural and affecting. But we miss the Poet, that which in Shakspeare always appears out and above the surface of the nature. Heywood's char- acters, his Country Gentlemen, &c, are exactly what we see (but of the best kind of what we see) in life. Shakspeare makes us believe, while we are among his lovely creations, that they are nothing but what we are familiar with, as in dreams new things seem old : but we awake, and sigh for the difference.] THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. BY THOMAS HEYWOOD. Young Geraldinc comes home from his Travels, and finds his Playfellow, that shottld have been his Wife, married to old Wincott. The old Gen- tleman receives him hospitably, as a Friend of his Father's: takes delight to hear him tell of his Travels, and treats him in all respects like a second Father ; his house being always open to him. Youn" Geraldine and the Wife agree not to wrong the old Gentleman. Wife. Geraldine. Ger. We now are left alone. Wife. Why, say we be ; who should be jealous of us ? THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. 107 This is not first of many hundred nights, That we two have been private, from the first Of our acquaintance ; when our tongues but dipt Our mother's tongue, and could not speak it plain, We knew each other : as in stature, so Increast our sweet society. Since your travel, And my late marriage, through my husband's love, Mid-night has been as mid-day, and my bed-chamber As free to you, as your own father's house, And you as welcome to it. Ger. I must confess, It is in you, your noble courtesy ; In him, a more than common confidence, And, in his age, can scarce find precedent. Wife. Most true : it is withal an argument, That both our virtues are so deep imprest In his good thoughts, he knows we cannot err. Ger. A villain were he, to deceive such trust, Or (were there one) a much worse character. Wife. And she no less, whom either beauty, youth, Time, place, or opportunity could tempt To injure such a husband. Ger. You deserve, Even for his sake, to be for ever young ; And he, for yours, to have his youth renew'd : So mutual is your true conjugal love. Yet had the fates so pleas'd — Wife. I know your meaning. It was once voic'd, that we two should have matcht , The world so thought and many tongues so spake ; But heaven hath now dispos'd us other ways : And being as it is (a thing in me Which I protest was never wisht nor sought) Now done, I not repent it. Ger. In those times Of all the treasures of my hopes and love You were th' Exchequer, they were stored in you ; And had not my unfortunate Travel crost them, 108 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. They had been here reserv'd still. Wife. Troth they had, I should have been your trusty Treasurer. Ger. However, let us love still, I entreat ; That, neighborhood and breeding will allow ; So much, the laws divine and humble both Twixt brother and a sister will approve : Heaven then forbid that they should limit us Wish well to one another. Wife. If they should not, We might proclaim they were not charitable, Which were a deadly sin but to conceive. Ger. Will you resolve me one thing ? Wife. As to one, That in my bosom hath a second place, Next my dear husband. Ger. That's the thing I crave, And only that ; to have a place next him. Wife. Presume on that already, but perhaps You mean to stretch it further. Ger. Only thus far : Your husband's old ; to whom my soul does wish A Nestor's age, so much he merits from me ; Yet if (as proof and nature daily teach, Men cannot always live, especially Such as are old and crazed) he be called hence, Fairly, in full maturity of time, And we two be reserv'd to after life ; Will you confer your widow-hood on me ? Wife. You ask the thing 1 was about to beg ; Your tongue hath spoke mine own thoughts. Ger. 'Tis enough, that word Alone instates me happy : now, so please you, We will divide ; you to your private chamber, I to find out my friend. Wife. You are now my brother ; But then, my second husband. '[They part. THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. 109 Young Geraldine absents himself from the house of Mr. Wincott longet than is usual to him The old Gentleman sends for him, to find out the reason. He pleads his Father's commands. Wincott. Geraldine. Ger. With due acknowledgment Of all your more than many courtesies : You have been my second father, and your wife My noble and chaste mistress ; all your servants At my command ; and this your bounteous table As free and common as my father's house : Neither 'gainst any or the least of these Can I commence this quarrel. Win. What might then be The cause of this constraint, in thus absenting Yourself from such as love you ? Ger. Out of many, I will propose some few : the care I have Of your (as yet unblemished) renown ; The untoucht honor of your virtuous wife ; And (which I value least, yet dearly too) My own fair reputation. Win. How can these In any way be question'd ? Ger. Oh, dear sir, Bad tongues have been too busy with us all ; Of which I never yet had time to think, But with sad thoughts and griefs unspeakable. It hath been whisper'd by some wicked ones, But loudly thunder'd in my father's ears, By some that have maligned our happiness (Heaven, if it can brook slander, pardon them), That this my customary coming hither, lath been to base and sordid purposes ; To wrong your bed, injure her chastity, And be mine own undoer : which, how false — Win. As heaven is true, I know it. — Ger. Now this calumnv 110 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Arriving first unlo my father's ears, His easy nature was induced to think That these things might perhaps he possible : I ansvver'd him, as I would do to heaven, And clear'd myself in his suspicious thoughts As truly, as the high all-knowing judge Shall of these stains acquit me ; which are merely Aspersions and untruths. The good old man Possessed with my sincerity, and yet careful Of your renown, her honor, and my fame, To stop the worst that scandal could inflict And to prevent false rumors, charges me The cause remov'd, to take away th' effect ; Which only could be, to forbear your house : And this upon his blessing. You hear all. Win. And I of all acquit you : this your absence, With which my love most cavill'd, orators In your behalf. Had such things pass'd betwixt you, Not threats nor chidings could have driv'n you hence ; It pleads in your behalf, and speaks in her's ; And arms me with a double confidence Both of your friendship and her loyalty. I am happy in you both, and only doubtful Which of you two doth most impart my love. You shall not hence to-night. Ger. Pray, pardon, sir. Win. You are in your lodging. Ger. But my father's charge'. Win. My conjuration shall dispense with that; You may be up as early as you please, But hence to-night you shall not. Ger. You are powerful. Traveller' s Stories. Sir, my husband Hath took much pleasure in your strange discourse About Jerusalem and the Holy Land ; How the new city differs from the old ; THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. ill What ruins of the Temple yet remain ; And whether Sion, and those hills about, With these adjacent towns and villages, Keep that proportioned distance as we read : And then in Rome, of that great Pyramis Rear'd in the front, on four lions mounted ; How many of those Idol temples stand, First dedicated to their heathen gods, Which ruin'd, which to better use repair'd ; Of their Pantheon, and their Capitol ; What structures are demolish'd, what remain. And what more pleasure to an old man's ear, That never drew save his own country's air, Than hear such things related ? Shipwreck by Drink. This Gentleman and I Passt but just now by your next neighbor's house, Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, An unthrift youth : his father now at sea. There this night Was a great feast. In the height of their carousing, all their brains Warm'd with the heat of wine, discourse was offer'd Of ships and storms at sea : when suddenly, Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives The room wherein they quaff ? d to be a Pinnace, Moving and floating, and the confus'd noise To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners ; That their unsteadfast footing did proceed From rocking of the vessel : this conceiv'd, Each one begins to apprehend the danger, And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one, Up to the main top, and discover. He Climb:; up the bed-post to the tester there, Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards ; And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives, To cast their lading over-board. At this 112 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. All fall to work, and hoist into the street, As to the sea, what next came to their hand, Stools, tables, tressels, trenchers, bed-steds, cups, Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles ; They take him for the boatswain : one lies struggling Upon the floor, as if he swam for life : A third takes the base-viol for the cock-boat, Sits in the belly on't, labors, and rows ; His oar, the stick with which the fiddler played : A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to scape (As did Arion) on the dolphin's back, Still fumbling on a- gittern. The rude multitude, Watching without, and gaping for the spoil Cast from the windows, went by th' ears about it ; The Constable is call'd to atone the broil ; Which done, and hearing such a noise within Of eminent ship-wreck, enters th' house, and finds them In this confusion : they adore his Staff, And think it Neptune's Trident ; and that he Comes with his Tritons (so they call'd his watch) To calm the tempest and appease the waves : \nd at this point we left them. [This piece of pleasant exaggeration (which, for its life and humor, might have been told or acted by Petruchio himself,) gave rise to the title of Cowley's Latin Play, Naufragium Joculare, and furnished the idea of the best scene in it. Heywood's Preface to this Play is interesting, as it shows the heroic indifference about posterity, which some of these great writers seem to have felt. There is a magnanimity in Authorship as in everything else. " If Reader thou hast of this play been an Auditor, there is less apology to be used by entreating thy patience. This Tragi-comedy (being one re- served amongst 220 in which I had either an entire hand, or at the least a main finger) coming accidentally to the press, and I having intelligence thereof, thought it not fit that it should pass as Alius populi, a Bastard with- out a father to acknowledge it : true it is that my plays are not exposed to the world in volumes, to bear the title of works (as others*) : one reason is, that many of them, by shifting and change of companies, have been neg- ligently lost. Others of them are still retained in the hands of some actors, who think it against their peculiar profit to have them come in print, * He seems to glance at Ben Jonson. THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES. 113 and a third that it never was any great ambition in ine to be in this kind voluminously read. All that I have further to say at this time is only this : censure I entreat as favorably as it is exposed to thy view freely. " Ever " Studious of thy Pleasure and Profit, " Th. Heywood." Of the 220 pieces which he here speaks of having been concerned in, only 25, as enumerated by Dodsley, have come down to us, for the reasons assigned in the preface. The rest have perished, exposed to the casualties of a theatre. Heywood's ambition seems to have been confined to the plea- sure of hearing the Players speak his lines while he lived. It does not appear that he ever contemplated the possibility of being read by after ages. What a slender pittance of fame was motive sufficient to the production of such Plays as the English Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, and the Woman Killed with Kindness ! Posterity is bound to take care that a Writer loses nothing by such a noble modesty.] > - T THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES : A COMEDY. BY THOMAS HEYWOOD AND RICHARD BROOME. Mr. Generous, by taking off a Bridle from a seeming Horse in his Sta- ble, discovers it to be his Wife, who has transformed herself by Magical Practices, and is a Witch. Mr. Generous. Wife. Robin, a groom. Gen. My blood is turned to ice, and all my vitals Have ceas'd their working. Dull stupidity Surpriseth me at once, and hath arrested That vigorous agitation, which till now Exprest a life within me. I. methinks, Am a meer marble statue, and no man. Unweave my age, O time, to my first thread ; Let me lose fifty years, in ignorance spent-. That, being made an infant once again, I may begin to know. What, or where am I, To be thus lost in wonder ? Wife. Sir. Gen. Amazement still pursues me, how am I chang'd, Or brought ere I can understand myself Into this new world ! part i. 9 114 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Rob. You will believe no witches? Gen. This makes me believe all, aye, anything ;_ And that myself am nothing. Prithee, Robin, Lay me to myself open ; what art thou, Or this new transform'd creature ? Rob. I am Robin ; And this your wife, my mistress. Gen. Tell me, the earth Shall leave its seat, and mount to kiss the moon ; Or that the moon, enamor'd of the earth, Shall leave her sphere, to stoop to us thus low. What, what's this in my hand, that at an instant Can from a four-legg'd creature make a thing So like a wife ? Rob. A bridle ; a juggling bridle, Sir. Gen. A bridle ! Hence, enchantment. A viper were more safe within my hand, Than this charm'd engine. — A witch ! my wife a witch ! The more I strive to unwind Myself from this meander, I the more Therein am intricated. Prithee, woman, Art thou a witch ? Wife. It cannot be denied, I am such a curst creature. Gen. Keep aloof: And do not come too near me. O my trust ; Have I, since first I understood myself, Been of my soul so chary, still to study What best was for its health, to renounce all The works of that black fiend with my best force ; And hath that se-rpent twined me so about, That I must lie so often and so long With a devil in my bosom ? Wife. Pardon, Sir. [She looks down.] Gen. Pardon ! can such a thing as that be hoped ? Lift up thine eyes, lost woman, to yon hills ; It must be thence expected : look not down THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES. 115 Unto that horrid dwelling, which thou hast sought At such dear rate to purchase. Prithee, tell me (For now I can believe) art thou a witch ? Wife. I am. Gen. With that word I am thunderstruck, And know not what to answer ; yet resolve me, Hast thou made any contract with that fiend, The enemy of mankind ? Wife. O I have. Gen. What ? and how far ? Wife. I have promis'd him my soul. Gen. Ten thousand times better thy body had Been promis'd to the stake ; aye, and mine too, To have suffer'd with thee in a hedge of flames, Than such a compact ever had been made. Oh Resolve me, how far doth that contract stretch ? Wife. What interest in this Soul myself could claim, I freely gave him ; but his part that made it I still reserve, not being mine to give. Gen. O cunning devil : foolish woman, know, Where he can claim but the least little part, He will usurp the whole. Thou'rt a lost woman. Wife. I hope not so. Gen. Why, hast thou any hope ? Wife. Yes, sir, I have. Gen. Make it appear to me. Wife. I hope I never bargain'd for that fire, Further than penitent tears have power to quench. Gen. I would see some of them. Wife. You behold them now (If you look on me with charitable eyes) Tinctur'd in blood, blood issuing from the heart. Sir, I am sorry ; when I look towards heaven, I beg a gracious pardon ; when on you, Methinks your native goodness should not be Less pitiful than they ; 'gainst both I have err'd ; From both I beg atonement. Gen. May I presume 't ? 116 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Wife. I kneel to both your mercies. Gen. Knowest thou what A witch is 1 Wife. Alas, none better ; Or after mature recollection can be More sad to think on't. Gen. Tell me, are those tears As full of true hearted penitence, As mine of sorrow to behold what state, What desperate state, thou'rt fain in ? Wife. Sir, they are. Gen. Rise ; and, as I do you, so heaven pardon me ; We all offend, but from such falling off Defend us ! Well, I do remember, wife, When I first took thee, 'twas for good and bad : O change thy bad to good, that I may keep thee (As then we past our faiths) 'till Death us sever. woman, thou hast need to weep thyself Into a fountain, such a penitent spring As may have power to quench invisible flames ; In which my eyes shall aid: too little, all.* Frank Hospitality. Gentlemen, welcome ; 'tis a word I use ; From me expect no further compliment ; Nor do I name it often at one meeting ; Once spoke, to those that understand me best, And know I always purpose as I speak, Hath ever yet sufficed : so let it you. Nor do I love that common phrase of guests, As, we make bold, or, we are troublesome, We take you unprovided, and the like ; 1 know you understanding Gentlemen, And knowing me, cannot persuade yourselves With me you shall be troublesome or bold. Nor shall you find * Compare this with a story in the Arabian Nights, where a man discor ers his wife to be a goul. A FAIR QUARREL. 117 Being set to meat, that I '11 excuse your fare, Or say, I am sorry it falls out so poor, And, had I known your coming, we 'd have had Such things and such ; nor blame my Cook, to say This dish or that hath not been sauc't with care : Words fitting best a common hostess' mouth, When there's perhaps some just cause of dislike ; But not the table of a Gentleman. A FAIR QUARREL: A COMEDY. BY THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. Captain .iger, in a dispute with a Colonel his friend, receives from the Colonel the appellation of Son of a Whore. A challenge is given and accepted : but the Captain, before he goes to the field, is willing to be confirmed of his mother's honor from her own lips. Lady Ager being question til by her Sun. to prevent a duel, falsely slanders herself of unchastity. The Captain, thinking that he has a bad cause, refuses to fight. But being reproached by the Colonel with cowardice, he esteems that he has now sufficient cause for a quarrel, in the vindi- cating of his honor from that aspersion ; and draws, and disarms his opponent. Lady. Captain, her Son. La. Where left you your dear friend the Colonel ? Cap. Oh the dear Colonel, I should meet him soon. La. Oh fail him not then, he 's a Gentleman The fame and reputation of your time Is much engag'd to. Cap. Yes, and you knew all, mother, La. I thought I 'd known so much of his fair goodness, More could not have been look'd for. Cap. O yes, yes, Madam : And this his last exceeded all the rest. La. For gratitude's sake let me know this I prithee. Cap. Then thus ; and 1 desire your censure freely, Whether it appear'd not a strange noble kindness in him. La. Trust me, I long to hear't. 118 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Cap. You know he's hasty ; That by the way. La. So are the best conditions : Your father was the like. Cap. I begin now To doubt me more : why am not I so too then 1 Blood follows blood through forty generations ; And I 've a slow-pac'd wrath : a shrewd dilemma. — [Aside. La. Well, as you were saying, Sir. Cap. Marry, thus, good Madam. There was in company a foul-mouth'd villain . Stay, stay fho should I liken him to that you have seen ? e comes so near one that I would not match him with, Faith, just o' the Colonel's pitch ; he's never the worse man ; Usurers have been compar'd to magistrates, Extortioners to lawyers, and the like, But they all prove ne'er the worse men for that. La. That's bad enough, they need not. Cap. This rude fellow, A shame to all humanity and manners, Breathes from the rottenness of his gall and malice, The foulest stain that ever man's fame blemish'd, Part of which fell upon your honor, madam, Which heighten'd my affliction. La. Mine, my honor, Sir ? Cap. The Colonel soon enrag'd (as he's all touchwood) Takes fire before me, makes the quarrel his, Appoints the field ; my wrath could not be heard, His was so high picht, so gloriously mounted. Now what's the friendly fear that fights within me, Should his brave noble fury undertake A cause that were unjust in our defence, And so to lose him everlastingly, In that dark depth where all bad quarrels sink Never to rise again, what pity 'twere, First to die here, and never to die there ? La. Why what's the quarrel, speak, Sir, that should rise A FAIR QUARREL. 119 Such fearful doubt, my honor bearing part on 't ? The words, whate'er they were Cap. Son of a whore. La. Thou liest : And were my love ten thousand times more to thee, Which is as much now as e'er mother's was, So thou shouldst feel my anger. Dost thou call That quarrel doubtful ? where are all my merits ? [Strikes him. Not one stand up to tell this man his error ? Thou might'st as well call the Sun's truth in question, As thy birth or my honor. Cap. Now blessings crown you for 't ; It is the joyfull'st blow that e'er flesh felt. La. Nay, stay, stay, Sir ; thou art not left so soon : This is no question to be slighted off, And at your pleasure closed up fair again. As though you'd never touch'd it, no ; honor doubted, Is honor deeply wounded ; and it rages More than a common smart, being of thy making. For thee to fear my truth it kills my comfort. Where should fame seek for her reward, when he That is her own by the great tye of blood Is farthest, off in bounty : O poor Goodness, That only pay'st thyself with thy own works ; For nothing else looks towards thee. Tell me, pray, W'hich of my loving cares dost thou requite With this vile thought ? which of my prayers or wishes ? Many thou ow'st me for. This seven year hast thou known me A widow, only married to my vow ; That's no small witness of my faith and love To him that in life was thy honor'd father : And live I now to know that good mistrusted ? Cap. No, it shall appear that my grief is chearful ! For never was a mother's reputation Noblier defended ; 'tis my joy and pride I have a firmness to bestow upon it. La. What 's that you said, Sir ? Cap. 'Twere too bold and soon yet 120 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. To crave forgiveness of you. I will earn it first. Dead or alive I know I shall enjoy it. La. What ; s all this, Sir ? Cap. My joy 's beyond expression : I do but think how wretched 1 had been, Were this another's quarrel and not mine. La. Why, is it your's 1 Cap. Mine ? think me not so miserable, Not to be mine : then were I worse than abject, More to be loath'd than vileness, or sin's dunghill : Nor did I fear your goodness, faithful Madam, But came with greedy joy to be confirm'd in 't, To give the nobler onset : then shines valor, And admiration from her fix'd sphere draws, When it comes burnish'd with a righteous cause ; Without which I'm ten fathoms under coward, That now am ten degrees above a man. Which is but one of virtue's easiest wonders. La. But pray stay : all this while I understand you The Colonel was the man. Cap. Yes, he's the man, The man of injury, reproach, and slander, Which I must turn into his soul again. La. The Colonel do 't ! that 's strange. Cap. The villain did it : That 's not so strange. Your blessing, and your leave — La. Come, come, you shall not go. Cap. Not go 1 were death Sent now to summon me to my eternity, I 'd put him off an hour : why, the whole world, Has not chains strong enough to bind me from it : The strongest is my Reverence for you, Which if you force upon me in this case, I must be forced to break it. La. Stay, I say. Cap. In anything command me but in this, Madam. La. 'Las, I shall lose him. You will hear me first ? Cap. At my return I will. A FAIR QUARREL 121 La. You '11 never hear me more then. Cap. How ! La. Come back, I say ! You may well think there 's cause, I call so often. Cap. Ha ! cause ? what cause ? La. So much, vou must not so. Cap. Must not, why ? La. I know a reason for 't; Which I could wish you 'd yield to, and not know : If not, it must come forth. Faith, do not know ; And yet obey my will. Cap. Why, I desire To know no other than the cause I have, Nor should you wish it. if you take your injury; For one more great I know the world includes not. La. Yes ; one that makes this nothing : — yet be ruled, And if you understand not, seek no farther. Cap. I must, for this is nothing. La. Then take all ; And if amongst it you receive that secret That will offend you, though you condemn me, Yet blame yourself a little, for perhaps I would have made my reputation sound Upon another's hazard with less pity ; But upon yours I dare not. Cap. How ? La. I dare not : 'Twas your own seeking, this. Cap. If you mean evilly, I cannot understand you, nor for all the riches This life has, would I. La. Would you never might ! Cap. Why, your goodness, that I joy to fight for. La. In that you neither right your joy nor me. Cap. What an ill orator has virtue got here ! Why, shall I dare to think it a thing possible, That you were ever false ? Tm. Oh, fearfully ; 122 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. As much as you come to. Cap. Oh silence cover me ; I 've felt a deadlier wound than man can give me. False ? La. I was betray'd to a most sinful hour By a corrupted soul I put in trust once, A kinswoman. Cap. Where is she ? let me pay her. La. Oh dead long since. Cap. Say then, she has all her wages. False ? do not say 't ; for honor's goodness do not ; You never could be so : he I call'd father Deserv'd you at your best ; when youth and merit Could boast at highest in you, you 'd no grace Or virtue that he match'd not ; no delight That you invented, but he sent it crown'd To your full wishing soul. La. That heaps my guiltiness. Cap. O were you so unhappy to be false Both to yourself and me, but to me chiefly ? What a day's hope is here lost, and with it The joys of a just cause ! Had you but thought On such a noble quarrel, you 'd ha' died Ere you 'd ha' yielded, for the sin's hate first. Next for the hate of this hour's cowardice. Curst be the heat that lost me such a cause, A work that I was made for. Quench, my spirit, And out with honor's flaming lights within thee : Be dark and dead to all respects of manhood ; I never shall have use of valor more. Put off your vow for shame : why should you hoard up Such justice for a barren widowhood ; That was so injurious to the faith of wedlock ? I should be dead : for all my life's work 's ended. 1 dare not fight a stroke now, nor engage [Exit Lady. The noble resolution of mv friends ; A FAIR QUARREL. 123 Enter two Friends of Captain Ager's. That were more vile. They 're here. Kill me, my shame. I am not for the fellowship of honor. 1. Friend. Captain, fie, come, Sir : we 've been seeking for you Very late to-day ; this was not wont to be, Your enemy 's in the field. Cap. Truth enters chearfully. 2. Friend. Good faith, Sir, you 've a royal quarrel on 't. Cap. Yes, in some other country, Spain or Italy, It would be held so. 1. Friend. How ! and is 't not here so ? Cap. 'Tis not so contumeliously receiv'd In these parts, and you mark it. 1. Friend. Not in these ? Why prithee what is more, or can be ? Cap. Yes : That ordinary Commotioner the lye Is father of most quarrels in this climate, And held here capital, and you go to that. 2. Friend. But, Sir, I hope you will not go to that, Or change your own for it ; son of a whore ! Why there 's the lye down to posterity ; The lye to birth, the lye to honesty. Why would you cozen yourself so and beguile So brave a cause, Manhood's best masterpiece ? Do you ever hope for one so brave again ? Cap. Consider then the man, the Colonel, Exactly worthy, absolutely noble, However spleen and rage abuses him : And 'tis not well nor manly to pursue A man's infirmity. 1. Friend. O miracle ! So hopeful valiant and complete a Captain Possest with a tame devil : come out, thou spoilest The most improv'd young soldier of seven kingdoms, Made Captain at nineteen ; which was deserv'd The year before, but hono: comes behind still : 124 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Come out, I say : this was not wont to be, That spirit ne'er stood in need of provocation, Nor shall it now. Away, Sir. Cap. Urge me not. 1. Friend. By Manhood's reverend honor but we must. Cap I will not fight a stroke. 1. Friend. O blasphemy To sacred valor. Cap. Lead me where you list. 1. Friend. Pardon this traiterous slumber, clog'd with evils : Give Captains rather wives than such tame devils. The Field. Enter Captain Ager with his two Friends. Cap. Well, your wills now. 1. Friend. Our wills? our loves, our duties To honor'd fortitude : what wills have we But our desires to nobleness and merit, Valor's advancement, and the sacred rectitude Due to a valorous cause ? Cap. Oh, that 's not mine. 2. Friend. War has his Court of Justice, that 's the field, Where all cases of Manhood are determined, And your case is no mean one. Cap. True, then 't were virtuous ; But mine is in extremes, foul and unjust. Well, now ye 've got me hither, ye are as far To seek in your desire as at first minute : For by the strength and honor of a vow I will not lift a finger in this quarrel. 1. Friend. How ! not in this ! be not so rash a sinner. Why, Sir, do you ever hope to fight again then ? Take heed on 't, you must never look for that. Why, the universal stock of the World's injury Will be too poor to find a quarrel for you. Give up your right and title to desert, Sir ; If you fail virtue here, she needs you not All your time after ; let her take this wrong, A FAIR QUARREL. 125 And never presume then to serve her more : Bid farewell to the integrity of Arms, And let that honorable name of soldier Fall from you like a shiver'd wreath of laurel, By thunder struck from a desertless forehead That wears another's right by usurpation. Good Captain, do not wilfully cast away At one hour all the fame your life has won. This is your native seat. Here you should seek Most to preserve it ; or if you will doat So much on life, poor life, which in respect Of life in honor is but death and darkness, That you will prove neglectful of yourself (Which is to me too fearful to imagine) Yet for that virtuous Lady's cause, your Mother, Her reputation, dear to nobleness, As grace to penitence ; whose fair memory E'en crowns fame in your issue ; for that blessedness, Give not this ill place, but in spite of hell And all her base fears be exactly valiant. Cap. Oh ! oh ! 2. Friend. Why, well said ; there's fair hope in that. Another such a one. Cap. Came they in thousands, 'Tis all against you. 1. Friend. Then poor friendless Merit, Heav'n be good to thee, thy Professor leaves thee. Enter Colonel and his two friends. He 's come ; do you but draw ; we '11 fight it for you. Cap. I know too much to grant that. 1. Friend. O dead manhood! Had ever such a cause so faint a servant ? Shame brand me if I do not suffer for him. Col. I 've heard, Sir, you 've been guilty of much boasting For your brave earliness at such a meeting, You 've lost the glory of that way this morning : I was the first to-day. 126 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Cap. So were you ever In my respect, Sir. 1. Friend. O most base prseludium ! Cap. I never thought on victory our mistress With greater reverence than I have your worth, Nor ever lov'd her better. Success in you has been my absolute joy, And when I 've wish'd content I 've wish'd your friendship. Col. I come not hither, Sir, for an encomium. I came provided For storms and tempests, and the foulest season That ever rage let forth, or blew in wildness From the incensed prison of man's blood. Cap. Tis otherwise with me : I come with mildness, Peace, constant amity, and calm forgiveness, The weather of a Christian and a friend. 1. Friend. Give me a valiant Turk, though not worth ten-pence. Cap. Yet, Sir, the world will judge the injury mine, Insufferably mine, mine beyond injury, Thousands have made a less wrong reach to hell, Aye and rejoic'd in his most endless vengeance (A miserable triumph though a just one) ; But when I call to memory our long friendship, Methinks it cannot be too great a wrong That then I should not pardon. Why should Man For a poor hasty syllable or two (And vented only in forgetful fury) Chain all the hopes and riches of his soul To the revenge of that ? die lost for ever ? For he that makes his last peace with his Maker In anger, anger is his peace eternally : He must expect the same return again, Whose venture is deceitful. Must he not, Sir 1 Col. I see what I must do, fairly put up again, For here '11 be nothing done, I perceive that. Cap. What shall be done in such a worthless business But to be sorry and to be forgiven ? You, Sir, to bring repentance; and I pardon. A FAIR QUARREL. 127 Col. I bring repentance, Sir ? Cap. If 't be too much To say, repentance ; call it what you please, Sir ; Choose your own word, I know you 're sorry for it, And that 's as good. Col. I sorry ? by fame's honor, I am wrong'd : Do you seek for peace and draw the quarrel larger ? Cap. Then 'tis I 'm sorry that I thought you so. 1. Friend. A Captain ! I could gnaw his title off. Cap. Nor is it any misbecoming .virtue, Sir, In the best manliness, to repent a wrong : Which made me bold with you. 1. Friend. I could cuff his head off. 2. Friend. Nay, pish. Col. So once again take thou thy peaceful rest then ; [ To his sword. But as I put thee up, I must proclaim This Captain here, both to his friends and mine, That only came to see fair valor righted, A base submissive Coward : so I leave him. Cap. Oh, heaven has pitied my excessive patience, And sent me a Cause : now I have a Cause : A Coward I was never. Come you back, Sir. Col How! Cap. You left a Coward here. Col. Yes, Sir, with you. Cap. 'Tis such base metal, Sir, 't will not be taken, It must home again with you. 2. Friend. Should this be true now 1 . Friend. Impossible ! Coward do more than Bastard ! Col. I prithee mock me not, take heed you do not, For if I draw once more I shall grow terrible, And rage will force me do what will grieve honor. Cap. Ha, ha, ha. Col. He smiles, dare it be he ? what think ye, Gentlemen ? Your judgments ; shall I not be cozen'd in him 1 This cannot be the man ; why he was bookish, Made an invective lately against righting, 128 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. A thing in truth that mov'd a little with me ; Put up a fouler contumely far Thau thousand Cowards came to, and grew thankful. Cap. Blessed remembrance in time of need ; I 'd lost my honor else. 2. Friend. Do you note his joy ? Cap. I never felt a more severe necessity : Then came thy excellent pity. Not yet ready ! Have you such confidence in my just manhood That you dare so long trust me, and yet tempt me Beyond the toleration of man's virtue ? Why, would you be more cruel than your injury ? Do you first take pride to wrong me, and then think me Not worth your fury ? do not use me so : I shall deceive you then : Sir, either draw, And that not slightingly, but with the care Of your best preservation, with that watchfulness As you 'd defend yourself from circular fire, Your sin's rage, or her Lord (this will require it) Or you '11 be too soon lost : for I 've an anger, Has gather'd mighty strength against you : mighty, Yet you shall find it honest to the last, Noble and fair. Col. I '11 venture it once again, And if 't be but as true as it is wondrous I shall have that I come for. Your leave, Gentlemen. [They fight. 1. Friend. If he should do 't indeed, and deceive us all now Stay, by this hand he offers ; fights i'faith ; Fights : by this light, he fights, Sir. 2. Friend. So methinks, Sir. 1. Friend. An absolute Punto, ha ? 2. Friend. 'Twas a Passado, Sir. 1. Friend. Why, let it pass, and 'twas: I 'm sure 'twas some- what. What 's that now ? 2. Friend. That 's a Punto. A FAIR QUARREL. 129 1. Friend. O go to then, I knew 'twas not far off: What a world's this ! Is Coward a more stirring meat than Bastard ? ho ! I honor thee : 'Tis right and fair, and he that breathes against it, He breathes against the justice of a man ; And man to cut him off, 'tis no injustice. Thanks, thanks, for this most unexpected nobleness. [The Colonel is disarmed. Cap. Truth never fails her servant, Sir, nor leaves him With the day's shame upon him. 1. Friend. Thou 'st redeemed Thy worth to the same height, 'twas first esteemed. [The insipid levelling morality to which the modern stage is tied down would not admit of such admirable passions as these scenes are filled with. A puritanical obtuseness of sentiment, a stupid infantile goodness, is creep- ing among us, instead of the vigorous passions, and virtues clad in flesh and blood, with which the old dramatists present us. These noble and liberal casuists could discern in the differences, the quarrels, the animosities of man, a beauty and truth of moral feeling, no less than in the iterately incul- cated duties of forgiveness and atonement. With us all is hypocritical meekness. A reconciliation scene (let the occasion be never so absurd or unnatural) is always sure of applause. Our audiences come to the theatre to be complimented on their goodness. They compare notes with the ami- able characters in the play, and find a wonderful similarity of disposition between them. We have a common stock of dramatic morality out of which a writer may be supplied without the trouble of copying it from ori- ginals within his own breast. To know the boundaries of honor, to be judi- ciously valiant, to have a temperance which shall beget a smoothness in the angry swellings of youth, to esteem life us nothing when the sacred reputa- tion of a parent is to be defended, yet to shake and tremble under a pious cowardice when that ark of an honest confidence is found to be frail and tottering, to feel the true blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which the imaginary strokes of a supposed false imputation had put so keen an edge upon but lately : to do, or to imagine this done in a feigned story, asks something more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater .lelicacy of percep- tion in questions of right and wrong, than goes to the writing of two or three hackneyed sentences about the laws of honor us opposed to the laws of the land, or a common-place against duelling. Yet such things would stand a writer now a days in far better stead than Captain Ager and his con- scientious honor ; and he would be considered as a far better teacher of morality than old Rowley or Middleton if they were living.] PART T. 10 130 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. ALL'S LOST BY LUST. A TRAGEDY. BY WILLIAM ROWLEY. Roderigo, King of Spain, takes the opportunity to violate the Daughter of Julianiis, while that old General is fighting his battles against the Moors. Jacinta seeks her Father in the Camp, at the moment of Victory. Julianus. Servant. Ser. Sir, here's a Woman (forced by some tide of sorrow) With tears intreats your pity, and to see you. Jul. If any Soldier has done violence to her, Beyond our military discipline, Death shall divide him from us : fetch her in. I have myself a Daughter, on whose face But thinking, I must needs be pitiful : And when I ha' told my conquest to my King, My poor girl then shall know, how for her sake I did one pious act : Servant returns with Jacinta veiled. Is this the creature ? Serv. Yes, my Lord, and a sad one. Jul. Leave us. A sad one ! The down-cast look calls up compassion in me, A corse going to the grave looks not more deadly. Why kneel'st thou ? art thou wrong'd by any Soldier ? Rise : for this honor is not due to me. Hast not a tongue to read thy sorro\ys out ? This book I understand not. Jacin. O my dear father! Jul. Thy father, who has wrong'd him ? Jacin. A great Commander. Jul. Under me ? Jacin. Above you. Jul. Above me ! who's above a general ? None but the general of all Spain's armies ; And that's the king, king Roderick : he's all goodness, He cannot wrong thy father. Jacin. What was Tarquin ? ALL'S LOST BY LUST. 131 Jul. A king, and yet a ravisher. Jacin. Such a sin Was in those days a monster ; now 'tis common. Jul. Prithee be plain. Jacin. Have not you, Sir, a daughter ? Jul. If I have not, I am the wretched'st man That this day lives ; for all the wealth I have Lives in that child. Jacin. O for your daughter's sake then hear my woes. Jul. Rise then, and speak 'em. Jacin. No, let me kneel still : Such a resemblance of a daughter's duty Will make you mindful of a father's love : For such my injuries must exact from you, As you would for your own. Jul. And so they do ; For whilst I see thee kneeling, I think of my Jacinta. Jacin. Say your Jacinta then, chaste as the rose Coming on sweetly in the springing bud, And ne'er felt heat, to spread the summer sweet ; But, to increase and multiply it more, Did to itself keep in its own perfume ; Say that some rapine hand had pluck'd the bloom,* Jacinta, like that flower, and ravish'd her, Defiling her white lawn of chastity With ugly blacks of lust : what would you do ? Jul. O 'tis too hard a question to resolve, Without a solemn council held within Of man's best understanding faculties : There must be love, and fatherhood, and grief, And rage, and many passions : and they must all Beget a thing calPd vengeance : but they must sit upon 't. Jacin. Say this were done by him that carried The fairest seeming face of friendship to yourself. Jul. We should fall out. Jacin. Would you in such a case respect degrees ? Jul. 1 know not that. * " Cropt this fair Rose," &c. — Otway. 132 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Jacin. Say he were noble. Jul. Impossible : the act's ignoble. The Bee can breed No poison, though it suck the juice of hemlock. .In in. Say a king should do it ; were the act less done, By the greater power ? does majesty Extenuate a crime ? Jul. Augment it rather. Jacin. Say then that Roderick, your king and master, To quit the honors you are bringing home, Had ravish'd your Jacinta. Jul. Who has sent A Fury in this foul-fair shape to vex me ? I ha' seen that face methinks yet know it not : How darest thou speak this treason 'gainst my king ? Durst any man in the world bring me this lie, By this, he had been in hell : Roderick a Tarquin ! Jacin. Yes, and thy daughter (had she done her part) Should be the second Lucrece. View me well : I am Jacinta. Jul. Ha! Jacin. The king my ravisher. Jul. The king thy ravisher ! oh, unkingly sound. He dares not sure ; yet in thy sullied eyes I read a tragic story. Antonio, Alonzo, and other Officers, enter. Jul. O noble friends, Our wars are ended, are they not ? All. They are, Sir. Jul. But Spain has now begun a civil war, And to confound me only. See you my daughter ? She sounds the trumpet which dTaws forth my sword To be revenged. Alon. On whom ? speak loud your wrongs ; Digest your choler into temperance ; Give your considerate thoughts the upper hand In your hot passions, 'twill assuage the swelling Of your big heart : if you have injuries done you, ALL'S LOST BY LUST. 13o Revenge them, and we second you. •/■ Jacin. Father, dear father. \ \ Jul. Daughter, dear daughter. Jacin. Why do you kneel to me, Sir ! Jul To ask thee pardon that I did beget thee. I brought thee to a shame, stains all the way 'Twixt earth and Acheron : not all the clouds (The skies' large canopy) could they drown the seas With a perpetual inundation, Can wash it ever out : leave me, I pray. [Falk down. Alon. His fighting passion will be o'er anon, And all will be at peace. Ant. Best in my judgment We wake him with the sight of his won honors. Call up the army, and let them present His prisoners to him : such a sight as that Will brook no sorrow near it. Jul. 'Twas a good doctor that prescrib'd that physic. I'll be your patient. Sir ; show me my soldiers, And my new honors won : I will truly weigh them With my full griefs, they may perhaps o'ercome. Alon. Why now there's hopes of his recovery. Jul. Jacinta, welcome, thou art my child still : No forced stain of lust can alienate Our consanguinity. Jacin. Dear father, Recollect your noble spirits : conquer grief, The manly way : you have brave foes subdued, Then let no female passions thus o'erwhelm you. Jul. Mistake me not, my child, I am not mad, Nor must be idle ; for it were more fit (If I could purchase more) I had more wit, To help in these designs : I am gi-own old : Yet I have found more strength within this arm, Than (without proof) I durst ha' boasted on. Roderick, tliou king of monsters, couldst thou do this, And lor thy i st confine me from the court ? There's reason ii. thy shame, thou shouldst not see me. 134 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Ha ! they come, Jacinta, they come, hark, hark ; Now thou shalt see what cause I have given my king. Vanquished Moors'' address to the Sun. Descend thy sphere, thou burning Deity. Haste from our shame, go blushing to thy bed ; Thy sons* we are, thou everlasting Ball, Yet never shamed these our impressive brows Till now : we that are stampt with thine own seal, Which the whole ocean cannot wash away, Shall those cold ague cheeks that Nature moulds Within her winter shop, those smooth white skins, That with a palsy hand she paints the limbs, Make us recoil ? Marts Heart. I Mould fain know what kind thing a man's heart is. were you never At Barber Surgeons' Hall to see a dissection ? I will report it to you : 'tis a thing framed With divers corners, and into every corner A man may entertain a friend : (there came The proverb, A*man may love one well, and yet Retain a friend in a corner.) tush, 'tis not The real heart ; but the unseen faculties. Those I'll decipher unto you : (for surely The most part are but ciphers.) The heart indeed For the most part doth keep a better guest Than himself in him; that is, the soul. Now the soul Being a tree, there are divers branches spreading out of it. As loving-affection, suffering-sorrows, and the like. Then, Sir, these affections or sorrows being but branches, Are sometimes lopt off, or of themselves wither ; And new shoot in their rooms : as for example ; Your friend dies, there appears sorrow, but it quickly Withers ; then is that branch gone. Again, you love a friend ; * " Children of the Sun." — Zanga in the Revenge. A NEW WONDER, ETC. 135 There affection springs forth ; at last you distaste ; Then that branch withers again, and another buds In his room. A NEW WONDER : A WOMAN NEVER VEXT. A COMEDY BY WILLIAM ROWLEY. The Woman never Vext states her Case to a Divine. Widow. Doctor. Doc. You sent for me, gentlewoman ? Wid. Sir, I did, and to this end. I have some scruples in my conscience ; Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer, Nor reconcile ; I'd have you make them plain. Doc. This is my duty ; pray speak your mind. Wid. And as I speak, I must remember heaven That gave those blessings which I must relate : Sir, you now behold a wondrous woman ; You only wonder at the epithet ; I can approve it good : guess at mine age. Doc. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty. Wid. 'Twas not much amiss ; yet nearest to the last. How think you then, is not this a Wonder, That a Woman lives full seven-and-thirty years, Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow, Now widow 'd, and mine own ; yet all this while, From the extremest verge of my remembrance, Even from my weaning hour unto this minute, Did never taste what was calamity. I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought A hundred ways for his acquaintance : with me Prosperity hath kept so close a watch, That even those things that I have meant a cross, Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange ? Doc. Unparallel'd ; this gift is singular, And to you n\nr\r belonging : yoi. are the moon, .36 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. For there 's but one^ all women else are stars, For there are none of like condition. Full oft and many have I heard complain Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities; But a second to yourself I never knew, To groan under the superflux of blessings, To have ever been alien unto sorrow. No trip of fate ? sure it is wonderful. Wid. Aye, Sir, 'tis wonderful, but is it well ? For it is now my chief affliction. I have heard you say that the Child of Heaven Shall suffer many tribulations ; Nay, kings and princes share them with their subjects; Then I that know not any chastisement, How may I know my part of childhood ? Doc. 'Tis a good doubt ; but make it not extreme. 'Tis some affliction that you are afflicted For want of affliction : cherish that : Yet wrest it not to misconstruction ; For all your blessings are free gifts from heaven, Health, wealth, and peace ; nor can they turn into Curses, but by abuse. Pray, let me question you : You lost a husband, was it no grief to you ? Wid. It was, but very small : no sooner I Had given it entertainment as a sorrow, But straight it turn'd unto my treble joy : A comfortable revelation prompts me then, That husband (whom in life I held so dear) Had chang'd a frailty to unchanging joys : Methought I saw him stellified in heaven, And singing hallelujahs 'mongst a quire Of white sainted souls : then again it snake, And said, it was a sin for me to grieve At his best good, that I esteemed best : And thus this slender shadow of a grief Vanish'd again. Doc. All this was happy, nor Can you wrest it from a heavenly blessing. Do not A NEW WONDER, ETC. J 37 Appoint the rod : leave still the stroke unto The magistrate : the time is not past, but You may feel enough. — Wid. One taste more I had, although but little, Yet I would aggravate to make the most on 't : 'Twas thus : the other day it was my hap, In crossing of the Thames, To drop that wedlock ring from off my finger, That once conjoined me and my dear husband : It sunk ; I prized it dear ; the dearer, 'cause it kept Still in mine eye the memory of my.loss : Yet I grieved the loss ; and did joy withal, That I had found a grief. And this is all The sorrow I can boast of. Doc. This is but small. Wid. Nay, sure, I am of this opinion, That had I suffer'd a draught to be made for it, The bottom would have sent it up again ; I am so wondrously fortunate. Foster, a wealthy Merchant, has a profligate Brother, Stephen, whom Robert, Son to Foster, relieves out of Prison with some of his Father's money intrusted to him. For this, his Father turns him out of doors and disinherits him. Meantime, by a reverse of fortune, Stephen becomes rich ; and Foster by losses in trade is thrown into the same Prison (Ludgate) fro7ii which his brother had been relieved. Stephen adopts his Nephew, on the condition that he shall not assist or go near his Father: but filial piety prevails, above the consideration either of his Uncle's displeasure, or of his Father's late unkindness ; and he visits his father in Prison. Foster. Robert. Fos. O torment to my soul, what mak'st thou here ? Cannot the picture of my misery Be drawn, and hung out to the eyes of men, But thou must come to scorn and laugh at it ? Rob. Dear Sir, I come to thrust my back under your load, To make the burthen lighter. Fos. Hence from my sight, dissembling villain, go : Thine uncle sends defiance to my wo, 138 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. And thou must bring it : hence, thou Basilisk, That killst me with thine eyes. Nay, never kneel ; These scornful mocks more than my woes I feel. Rob. Alas, I mock ye not, but come in love And natural duty, Sir, to beg your blessing ; And for mine uncle Fos. Him and thee I curse. I'll starve ere I eat bread from his purse, Or from thy hand : out, villain ; tell that cur, Thy barking uncle, that I lie not here Upon my bed of riot, as he did, Cover'd with all the villainies which man Had ever woven ; tell him I lie not so ; It was the hand of heaven struck me thus low, And I do thank it. Get thee gone, I say, Or I shall curse thee, strike thee ; prithee away : Or if thou'lt laugh thy fill at my poor state, Then stay, and listen to the prison grate, And hear thy father, an old wretched man, That yesterday had thousands, beg and cry To get a penny : Oh, my misery. Rob. Dear Sir, for pity hear me. Fos. Upon my curse I charge, no nearer come; I'll be no father to so vile a son. Rob. O my abortive fate, Why for my good am I thus paid with hate ? From this sad place of Ludgate here I freed An uncle, and I lost a father for it ; Now is my father here, whom if I succor, I then must lose my uncle's love and favor. My father once being rich, and uncle poor, I him relieving was thrust forth of doors, Baffled, reviled, and disinherited. Now mine own father here must beg for bread, Mine uncle being rich ; and yet, if I Feed him, myself must beg. Oh misery ; How bitter is thy taste ; yet I will drink Thy strongest poison ; fret what mischief can, A NEW WONDER, ETC. 139 I'll feed my father; though like the Pelican. I peck mine own breast for him. His Father appears above at the Grate, a Box hanging down. Fos. Bread, bread, one penny to buy a loaf of bread, for the tender mercy. Rob. O me my shame ! I know that voice full well ; I'll help thy wants although thou curse me still. He stands where he is unseen by his Father. Fos. Bread, bread, some christian man send back Your charity to a number of poor prisoners. One penny for the tender mercy— [Robert puts in Money. The hand of heaven reward you, gentle Sir, Never may you want, never feel misery ; Let blessings in unnumber'd measure grow, And fall upon your head, where'er you go. Rob. O happy comfort : curses to the ground First struck me : now with blessings am I crown'd.* Fos. Bread, bread, for the tender mercy, one penny for a loaf of bread. Rob. I'll buy more blessings : take thou all my store ; I'll keep no coin and see my Father poor. Fos. Good angels guard you, Sir, my prayers shall be That heaven may bless you for this charity. Rob. If he knew me, sure he would not say so : Yet I have comfort, if by any means I o-et a blessing from my father's hands. How cheap are good prayers ! a poor penny buys That, by which man up in a minute flies And mounts to heaven. Enter Stephen. Oh me, mine uncle sees me. Step. Now, Sir, what makes you here So near the prison ? • A blessing stolen at least as fairly as Jacob's was. 140 ENGLISH DKAMATIC POETS. Rob. I was going, Sir, To buy meat for a poor bird I have, That sits so sadly in the cage of late, I think he'll die for sorrow. Step. So, Sir : Your pity will not quit your pains, I fear me. I shall find that bird (I think) to be that churlish wretch Your father, that now has taken Shelter here in Ludgate. Go to, Sir ; urge me not, You'd best ; I have giv'n you warning : fawn not on him, Nor come not near him if you'll have my love. Rob. 'Las, Sir ; that lamb Were most unnatural that should hate the dam. Step. Lamb me no lambs, Sir. Rob. Good uncle, 'las, you know, when you lay here, I succor'd you : so let me now help him. Step. Yes, as he did me ; To laugh and triumph at my misery. You freed me with his gold, but 'gainst his will : For him I might have rotted, and lain still. So shall he now. Rob. Alack the day ! Step. If him thou pity, 'tis thine own decay. Fos. Bread, bread, some charitable man remember the poor Prisoners, bread for the tender mercy, one penny. Rob. O listen, uncle, that's my poor father's voice. Step. There let him howl. Get you gone, and come not near him. Rob. Oh my soul, What tortures dost thou feel ! earth ne'er shall find A son so true, yet forc'd to be unkind. Robert disobeys his Uncle's Injunctions, and again visits his Father Foster. Wife. Robert. Fos. Ha ! what art thou ? Call for the keeper there, And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up. Wife. O 'tis your son. Fos. I know him not. A NEW WONDER, ETC. 141 I am no king, unless of scorn and wo, Why kneel'st thou then, why dost thou mock me so ? Rob. O my dear father, hither am I come, Not like a threatening storm to increase your wrack, For I would take all sorrows from your hack, To lay them all on my own. Fos. Rise, mischief, rise ; away, and get thee gone. Rob. O if I be thus hateful to your eye, I will depart, and wish I soon may die ; Yet let your blessing, Sir, but fall on me. Fos. My heart still hates thee. Wife. Sweet husband. Fos. Get you both gone ; That misery takes some rest that dwells alone. Away, thou villain. Rob. Heaven can tell ; Ake but your finger, I to make it well Would cut my hand off. Fos. Hang thee, hang thee. Wife. Husband. Fos. Destruction meet thee. Turn the key there, ho. Rob. Good Sir, I'm gone, I will not stay to grieve you. Oh, knew you, for your woes what pains I feel, You would not scorn me so. See, Sir, to cool, Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot To lay it down with reverence at your feet ; No comfort in the world to me is sweet, Whilst thus you live in moan. Fos. Stay. Rob. Good truth, Sir, I'll have none of it back, Could but one penny of it save my life. Wife. Yet stay, and hear him : Oh unnatural strife In a hard father's bosom. Fos. I see mine error now : Oh, can there grow A rose upon a bramble ? did there e'er flow Poison and health together in one tide ? I'm born a man : reason may step aside, 142 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. And lead a father's love out of the way : Forgive me. my good boy, I went astray ; Look, on my knees I beg it : no. for joy, Thou bring'st this golden rubbish ; which I spurn : But glad in this, the heavens mine eye-balls turn, And fix them right to look upon that face, Where love remains with pity, duty, grace. Oh my dear wronged boy. Rob. Gladness o'erwhelms My heart with joy : I cannot speak. Wife. Crosses of this foolish world Did never grieve my heart with torments more Than it is now grown light With joy and comfort of this happy sight. [The old play-writers are distinguished by an honest boldness of exhibi- tion, they show everything without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune be the thing to be personified, they fairly bring us to the prison-gate and the alms- basket. A poor man on our stage is always a gentleman, he maybe known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and by wearing black. Our delicacy, in fact, forbids the dramatizing of Distress at all. It is never shown in its essential properties ;* it appears but as the adjunct to some virtue, as some- * Guzman de Alfarache in that good old book, " The Spanish Rogue," has summed up a few of the properties of poverty — " that poverty, which is not the daughter of the spirit, is but the mother of shame and reproach ; it is a disreputation that drowns all the other good parts that are in man ; it is a disposition to all kind of evil ; it is man's most foe ; it is a leprosy full of anguish ; it is a way that leads unto hell ; it is a sea wherein our patience is overwhelmed, our honor is consumed, our lives are ended, and our souls are utterly lost and cast away for ever. The poor man is a kind of money that is not current ; the subject of every idle huswife's chat ; the offscum of the people ; the dust of the street, first trampled under foot and then thrown on the dunghill ; in conclusion, the poor man is the rich man's ass. He dineth with the last, fareth of the worst, and payeth dearest : his sixpence will not go so far as a rich man's threepence ; his opinion is ignorance ; his discre- tion, foolishness ; his suffrage, scorn ; his stock upon the common, abused by many and abhorred of all. If he come in company, he is not heard ; if any chance to meet him, they seek to shun him ; if he advise, though never so wisely, they grudge and murmur at him ; if he work miracles, they say he is a witch : if virtuous, that he goeth about to deceive: his venial sin is a blasphemy; his thought is made treason; his cause, be it WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 143 thing which is to be relieved, from the approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We turn away from the real [essences of things to hunt after their relative sha- dows, moral duties : whereas if the truth of things were fairly represented, the relative duties might be safely trusted to themselves, and moral philoso- phy lose the name of a science.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN; A TRAGEDY. BY THOMAS MIDDLETON. Lima, the Duke's creature, cajoles a poor Widow with the appearance of Hospitality and neighborly Attentions, that she may get her Daughter- in-Law (who is left in the Mother's care in the Son's absence) into her trains, to serve the Duke's pleasure. Livia. Widow. A Gentleman. Livia's Guest. Liv. Widow, come, come, I have a great quarrel to you, Faith I must chide you that you must be sent for ; You make yourself so strange, never come at us, And yet so near a neighbor, and so unkind ; Troth, you 're to blame ; you cannot be more welcome To any house in Florence, that I '11 tell you. Wid. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much, madam. Liv. How can you be so strange then 1 I sit here Sometimes whole days together without company, When business draws this gentleman from home, And should be happy in society Which I so well affect as that of yours. I know you 're alone too ; why should not we Like two kind neighbors then supply the wants never so just, it is not regarded ; and, to have his wrongs righted, he must appeal to that other life. All men crush him ; no man favoreth him ; there is no man that will relieve his wants ; no man that will comfort him in his miseries ; nor no man that will bear him company, when he is all alone, and oppressed with grief. None help him ; all hinder him ; none give him, all take from him ; he is debtor to none, and yet must make payment to all. O the unfortunate and poor condition of him that is poor, to whom even the very hours are sold, which the clock striketh, and pays custom for the sun- shine in August." 144 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Of one another, having tongue-discourse, Experience in the world, and such kind helps, To laugh down time and meet age merrily ? Wid. Age, madam ! you speak mirth : 'tis at my door, But a long journey from your Ladyship yet. Liv. My faith, I 'm nine and thirty, every stroke, wench ; And 'tis a general observation 'Mongst knights ; wives, or widows, we account ourselves Then old, when young men's eyes leave looking at us. Come, now I have thy company, I '11 not part with it Till after supper. Wid. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam. Liv. I swear you shall stay supper ; we have no strangers, woman, None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman And the young heir his ward ; you know your company. Wid. Some other time I will make bold with you, madam. Liv. Faith she shall not go. Do you think I'll be forsworn ? Wid. 'Tis a great while Till supper time ; I'll take my leave then now, madam, And come again in the evening, since your ladyship Will have it so. Liv. In the evening ! by my troth, wench, I'll keep you while I have you ; you've great business sure, To sit alone at home ; I wonder strangely What pleasure you take in 't. Were 't to me now, I should be ever at one neighbor's house Or other all day long ; having no charge, Or none to chide you, if you go, or stay, Who may live merrier, aye, or more at heart's ease ? Come, we'll to chess or draughts, there are a hundred tricks To drive out time till supper, never fear 't, wench. [A Chess-board is set. Wid. I'll but make one step home, and return straight, madam. Liv. Come, I'll not trust you, you make more excuses To your kind friends than ever I knew any. What business can you have, if you be sure WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 14& You've lock'd the doors ? and, that being all you have, I know you're careful on 't : one afternoon So much to spend here ! say I should entreat you now To lie a night or two, or a week, with me, Or leave your own house for a month together ; It were a kindness that long neighborhood And friendship might well hope to prevail in : Would you deny such a request ? i'faith Speak truly and freely. Wid. I were then uncivil, madam. Liv. Go to then, set your men : we'll have whole nights Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench. Wid. As good now tell her then, for she will know it ; I've always found her a most friendly lady. [Aside. Liv. Why, widow, where's your mind ? Wid. Troth, even at home, madam. To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable, Especially to young bloods. Liv. Another excuse. Wid. No, as I hope for health, madam, that's a truth ; Please vou to send and see. Liv. What gentlewoman ? pish. Wid. Wife to my son indeed. Liv. Now I beshrew you. Could you be so unkind to her and me, To come and not bring her ? faith, 'tis not friendly. Wid. I fear'd to be too bold. Liv. Too bold ! Oh what's become Of the true hearty love was wont to be 'Monjrst neighbors in old time ? Wid. And she's a stranger, madam. Liv. The more should be her welcome : when is courtesy In better practice, than when 'tis employ'd In entertaining strangers. I could chide ye in faith. Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman, alone too! Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go. Wid. Please you command one of your servants, madam. part i. 11 146 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Liv. Within there. — Attend the gentlewoman. * Brancha resists the Duke's attempt. Bran. Oh treachery to honor ! Duke. Prithee tremble not. I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting Under a loving hand that makes much on't. Why art so fearful ? Bran. Oh my extremity ! My Lord, what seek you 1 Duke. Love. Bran. 'Tis gone already : I have a husband. Duke. That's a single comfort : Take a friend to him. Bran. That's a double mischief; Or else there's no religion. Duke. Do not tremble At fears of thy own making. Bran. Nor, great lord, Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin, Because they fear not you ; me they must fright ; Then am I best in health : should thunder speak And none regard it, it had lost the name, And were as good I 3 still. I'm not like those That take their sou idest sleeps in greatest tempests ; Then wake I most, the weather fearfullest, And call for strength to virtue. Winding Sheet. to have a being, and to live 'mongst men, Is a fearful living and a poor one ; let a man truly think on 't. To have the toil and griefs of fourscore years * This is one of those scenes which has the air of being an immediate transcript from life. Livia the "good neighbor" is as real a creature as one of Chaucer's characters She is such another jolly Housewife as the Wife of Bath WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 147 Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots : Methinks it should strike earthquakes in adulterers, When even the very sheets they commit sin in May prove for aught they know all their last garments. Great Men's looks. Did not the duke look up ? methought he saw us. — That's every one's conceit that sees a duke, If he look steadfastly, he looks straight at them : When he perhaps, good careful gentleman, Never minds any, but the look he casts Is at his own intentions, and his object Only the public good. Weeping in Love. Why should those tears be fetch'd forth ! cannot love Be even as well expressed in a good look, But it must see her face still in a fountain ? It shows like a country maid dressing her head By a dish of water : come, 'tis an old custom To weep for love. Lover's Chidings. — prithee forgive me, I did but chide in jest : the best loves use it Sometimes ; it sets an edge upon affection. When we invite our best friends to a feast, ; Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before 'em ; There's something sharp and salt, both to whet appetite, And make 'em taste their wine well : so methinks, After a friendly sharp and savory chiding, A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape. Wedlock. O thou the ripe time of man's misery, wedlock ; When all his thoughts like over-laden trees Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in jealousies. O that's a fruit thai ripens hastily. 148 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. After 'tis knit to marriage ; it begins, As soon as the sun shines upon the bride, A little to show color. Marrying the Adulteress, the Husband dead. Is not sin sure enough to wretched man, But he must bind himself in chains to 't ? worse ! Must marriage, that immaculate robe of honor, That renders Virtue glorious, fair, and fruitful, To her great master, be now made the garment Of leprosy and foulness ? is this penitence, To sanctify hot lust ? what is it otherways Than worship done to devils ? is this the best Amends that sin can make after her riots ! As if a drunkard, to appease heaven's wrath, Should offer up his surfeit for a sacrifice : If that be comely, then lust's offerings are On wedlock's sacred altar. MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN: A COMEDY. BY THOMAS MIDDLETON. Death. — when the heart's above, the body walks here But like an idle servingman below, Gaping and waiting for his master's coming. He that lives fourscore years, is but like one That stays here for a friend : when death comes, then Away he goes, and is ne'er seen again. Loving a Woman. of all the frenzies That follow flesh and blood, The most ridiculous is to fawn on women ; There's no excuse for that : 'tis such a madness, There is no cure set down for 't ; no physician Ever spent hour about it, for they guess'd MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN. 149 'Twas all in vain, when they first lov'd, themselves, And never since durst practise : cry lieu mihi ; That's all the help they have for 't. I'd rather meet A witch far north than a fine fool in love ; The sight would less afflict me. But for modesty, I should fall foul in words upon fond man, That can forget his excellence and honor, His serious meditations, being the end Of his creation, to learn well to die ; A.nd live a prisoner to a woman's eye. Widow's Vow. Lord Cardinal. Increase of health and a redoubled courage To chastity's great soldier : what, so sad, Madam ? The memory of her seven years deceas'd Lord Springs yet into her eyes, as fresh and full As at the seventh hour after his departure. What a perpetual fountain is her virtue ! Too much to afflict yourself with ancient sorrow Is not so strictly for your strength required : Your vow is charge enough, believe me 'fis, Madam ; You need no weightier task. Dtich. Religious Sir, You heard the last words of my dying Lord. Lord Card. Which I shall ne'er forget. Duch. May I entreat Your goodness but to speak 'em over to me, As near as memory can befriend your utterance : That I may think awhile I stand in presence Of my departing Husband. Lord Card. What's your meaning In this, most virtuous Madam 1 Duch. 'Tis a courtesy I stand in need of, Sir, at this time especially ; Urge it no farther yet : as it proves to me, You shall hear from me ; only I desire it Effectually from you, Sir, that's my request. Lord Card. 1 wonder ; yet I'll spare to question farther ; 150 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. You shall have your desire. Duck. I thank you, Sir : A blessing come along with it. Lord Card, [repeats] " You see, my Lords, what all earth's glory is, " Rightly defined in me, uncertain breath : " A dream of threescore years to the long sleeper, •' To most not half the time. Beware ambition ; " Heaven is not reach'd with pride, but with submission. " And you Lord Cardinal labor to perfect " Good purposes begun, be what you seem, " Stedfast and uncorrupt, your actions noble, " Your goodness simple, without gain or art ; " And not in vesture holier than in heart. " But 'tis a pain more than the pangs of death " To think that we must part, fellows of life. — " Thou richness of my joys, kind and dear Princess, " Death had no sting, but for our separation ; " 'Twould come more calm than an evening's peace, " That brings on rest to labors : Thou art so precious, " I should depart in everlasting envy " Unto the man, that ever should enjoy thee. " Oh a new torment strikes his face into me, " When I but think on 't, I am rack'd and torn " (Pity me) in thy virtues." Buck. " My lov'd Lord, " Let your confirm'd opinion of my life, " My love, my faithful love, seal an assurance " Of quiet to your spirit, that no forgetfulness " Can cast a sleep 50 deadly on my senses, " To draw my affections to a second liking." Lord Card. " It has ever been the promise, and the spring " Of my great love to thee. For, once to marry " Is honorable in woman, and her ignorance " Stands for a virtue, coming new and fresh ; " But second marriage shows desires in flesh ; " Thence lust, and heat, and common custom grows : " But she's part virgin, who but one man knows. NO WIT HELP LIKE A WOMAN'S. 151 n I here expect a work of thy great faith : " At my last parting I can crave no more ; " And with thy vow, I rest myself for ever ; " My soul and it shall fly to heaven together : " Seal to my spirit that quiet satisfaction, " And I go hence in peace." Duch. " Then here I vow, never " Lord Card. Why, Madam Duch. I can go no further. Lord Card. What, have you forgot your vow ? Duch. I have, too certainly. Lord Card. Your vow ? that cannot be ; it follows now, Just where I left. Duch. My frailty gets before it ; Nothing prevails but ill. Lord Card. What ail you, Madam 1 Duch. Sir, Vm in love. NO WIT HELP A COMEDY. BY THOMAS MIDDLETON. LIKE A WOMAN'S. Virtuous Poverty. 'Life, had he not his answer ? what strange impudence Governs in man, when lust is lord of him ! Thinks he me mad ? 'cause I have no monies on earth, That I'll go forfeit my estate in heaven, And live eternal beggar ? he shall pardon me ; That's my soul's jointure ; I'll starve ere I sell that. Comfort. husband, Wake, wake, and let not patience keep thee poor, Rouse up thy spirit from this falling slumber : Make thy distress seem but a weeping dream, And this the opening morning of thy comforts. 15? KXCLISII DRAM \TIC POETS. Wipe the salt dew from off thy careful eyes, And drink a draught of gladness next thy heart To expel the infection of all poisonous sorrows. Good and III Fortune. O my blessing ! I feel a hand of mercy lift me up Out of a world of waters, and now sets me Upon a mountain, where the sun plays most, To cheer my heart even as it dries my limbs. What deeps I see beneath me ! in whose falls Many a nimble mortal toils, And scarce can feed himself: the streams of fortune, 'Gainst which he tugs in vain, still beat him down, And will not suffer him (past hand to mouth) To lift his arm to his posterities' blessing. I see a careful sweat run in a ring About his temples, but all will not do : For till some happy means relieve his state, There he must stick and bide the wrath of fate. Parting in Amity. Let our Parting Be full as charitable as our meeting was ; That the pale envious world, glad of the food Of others' miseries, civil dissensions, And nuptial strifes, may not feed fat with ours. Meeting with a Wife supposed Dead. my reviving joy ! thy quickening presence Makes the sad night of threescore and ten years Sit like a youthful spring upon my blood. 1 cannot make thy welcome rich enough With all the wealth of words. Mother's Forgiveness Moth. Why do your words start back ? are they afraid Of her that ever lov'd them ? Philiji. I have a suit to you, Madam. THE WITCH. 153 Moth. You fiave told me that already ; pray, what is 't ? If 't be so great, my present state refuse it, I shall be abler, then command and use it. Whatever 't be, let me have warning to provide for 't. PMlip. Provide forgiveness then, for that's the want -My conscience feels. O, my wild youth has led me Into unnatural wrongs against your freedom once. 1 spent the ransom which my father sent, To set my pleasures free ; while you lay captive. Moth. And is this all now 1 You use me like a stranger : pray, stand up. Philip. Rather fall flat : I shall deserve yet worse. Moth. Whate'er your faults are, esteem me still a friend ; Or else you wrong me more in asking pardon Than when you did the wrong you ask'd it for : And since you have prepar'd me to forgive you. Pray let me know for what ; the first fault's nothing. Philip. Here comes the wrong then that drives home the rest. I saw a face at Antwerp, that drew me From conscience and obedience ; in that fray I lost my heart, I must needs lose my way. There went the ransome, to redeem my mind ; Stead of the money, I brought over her ; And to cast mists before my father's eyes, Told him it was my sister (lost so long) And that yourself was dead. — You see the wrong. Moth. This is but youthful still — I forgive thee As freely a 3 thou didst it. For alas, This may be call'd good dealing, to some parts That love and youth plays daily among sons. THE WITCH ; A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY THOMAS MIDDLETON. Hecate, and the other Witches, at their Charms. Hec. Titty and Tiffin, Suckin And Pidgen, Liard and Robin! 154 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. White spirits, black spirits, grey spirits, red spirits, Devil-toad, devil-ram, devil-eat, and devil-dam, Why Hoppo and Stadlin, Helhvain and Puckle ! Stad. Here, sweating at the vessel. Hec. Boil it well. Hop. It gallops now. Hec. Are the flames blue enough, Or shall I use a little seeten* more ? Stad. The nips of Fairies upon maids' white hips Are not more perfect azure. Hec. Tend it carefully. Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish, That I may fall to work upon these serpents, And squeeze 'em ready for the second hour. Why, when ? Stad. Here's Stadlin and the dish. Hec. Here take this unbaptized brat : Boil it well — preserve the fat : You know 'tis precious to transfer Our 'nointed flesh into the air, In moonlight nights, o'er steeple tops, Mountains, and pine trees, that like pricks, or stops, Seem to our height : high towers, and roofs of princes, Like wrinkles in the earth : whole provinces Appear to our sight then even like A russet mole upon some lady's cheek. When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing, Dance, kiss, and coll, use everything : What young man can we wish to pleasure us, But we enjoy him in an Incubus ? Thou know'st it, Stadlin ? Stad. Usually that's done. Hec. Away, in. Go feed the vessel for the second hour, Stad. Where be the magical herbs ? Hec. They 're down his throat,| His mouth cramm'd full ; his ears and nostrils stuft. * Seething f The dead Child's. fllK WITCH. 155 I thrust in Eleaselinum, lately Aconitum, frondes populeas, and soot. You may see that, he looks so black i' th' mouth. Then Sium, Acharum, Vulgaro too, Dentaphillon, the blood of a flitter-mouse, Solanum soninificum et oleum. Stad. Then there's all, Hecate. Hec. Is the heart of wax Stuck full of magic needles 1 Stad. 'Tis done, Hecate. Hec. And is the farmer's picture, and his wife's, Laid down to the fire yet ? Stud. They are a roasting both too. Hec. Good ; Then their marrows are a melting subtilly, And three months' sickness sucks up life in 'em. They denied me often flour, barm, and milk, Goose-grease and tar, when 1 ne'er hurt their churnings, Their brew-locks nor their batches, nor forespoke Any of their breedings. Now I'll be meet with 'em. Seven of their young pigs I have bewitch'd already Of the last litter, nine ducklings, thirteen goslings and a hog Fell lame last Sunday, after even-song too. And mark how their sheep prosper ; or what soup Each milch-kine gives to th' pail : I'll send these snakes Shall milk 'em all before hand : the dew'd skirted dairy wench Shall stroke dry dugs for this, and go home cursing : I'll mar their sillabubs, and swarthy feastings Under cows' bellies, with the parish youths. Sebastian consults the Witch for a Charm to be revenged on his successful Rival. Hec. Urchins, elves, hags, satires, pans, fawns, silence. Kit with the candlestick ; tritons, centaurs, dwarfs, imps. The spoon, the mare, the man i' th' oak, the hellwain, the fire- drake, the puckle. A. ab. hur. hus. Seh. Heaven knows with what unwillingness and hate I enter this damn'd place : but such extremes ■50 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Of wrongs in love fight 'gainst religion's knowledge, That were I led by this disease to deaths As numberless as creatures that must die, I could not shun the way. — I know what 'tis To pity mad men now : they're wretched things That ever were created, if they be Of woman's making and her faithless vows. I fear they're now a kissing : what's a clock ? 'Tis now but supper time : but night will come, And all new-married couples make short suppers. Whate'er thou art, I have no spare time to fear thee ; My horrors are so strong and great already That thou seem'st nothing : Up and laze not ; Hadst thou my business, thou couldst ne'er sit so ; 'Twould firk thee into air a thousand mile, Beyond thy ointments : I would [ were read So much in thy black pow'r, as mine own griefs. I'm in great need of help : wilt give me any ? Hec. Thy boldness takes me bravely ; we are all sworn To sweat for such a spirit ; see ; I regard thee, I rise, and bid thee welcome. What's thy wish now ? Seb. Oh my heart swells with "t. I must take breath first. Hec. Is 't to confound some enemy on the seas ? It may be done to-night. Stadlin's within ; She raises all your sudden ruinous storms That shipwreck barks ; and tears up growing oaks ; Flies over houses, and takes Anno Domini Out of a rich man's chimney (a sweet place for 't, He would be hang'd ere he would set his own years there ; They must be chamber'd in a five pound picture, A green silk curtain drawn before the eyes on 't, His rotten diseas'd years) ! Or dost thou envy The fat prosperity of any neighbor ? I'll call forth Hoppo, and her incantation Can straight destroy the young of all his cattle : Blast vine-yards, orchards, meadows ; or in one night Transport his dung, hay, corn, by reeks, whole stacks, Into thine own ground. Till: WITCH. lo7 Seb. This would come most richly now To many a country grazier : But my envy Lies not so low as cattle, corn, or wines : 'Twill trouble your best pow'rs to give me ease. Hec. Is it to starve up generation ? To strike a barrenness in man or woman ? Seb. Hah! Hec. Hah ! Did you feel me there ? I knew your grief. Seb. Can there be such things done ? Hec. Are these the skins Of serpents ? these of snakes ? Seb. I see they are. Hec. So sure into what house these are convey'd Knit with these charms, and retentive knots, Neither the man begets, nor woman breeds, No, nor performs the least desire of wedlock, Being then a mutual duty ; I could give thee Chiroconita, Adincantida, Archimadon, Marmaritm, Calicia, Which I could sort to villainous barren ends ; But this leads the same way : More I could instance : As the same needles thrust into their pillows That sow and sock up dead men in their sheets : A privy grissel of a man that hangs After sun set : Good, excellent : yet all's there. Sir. Seb. You could not do a man that special kindness To part them utterly, now ? Could you do that 1 Hec. No : time must do 't : we cannot disjoin wedlock ; 'Tis of heaven's fastening : well may we raise jars, Jealousies, strifes, and heart-burning disagreements, Like a thick scurf o'er life, as did our master Upon that patient* miracle ; but the work itself Our power cannot disjoin. Seb. I depart happy In what I have then, being constrain 'd to this : And grant, you greater powers that dispose men * Job. I r »S ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. That I may never need this hag again. [Exit. Hcc. I know he loves me not, nor there's no hope on 't; Tis for the love of mischief I do this: And that we are sworn to the first oath we take. Hecate, Stadlin, Hoppo, with the other Witches, preparing for their midnight journey through the Air. Firestone, Hecate's Son. Hcc. The moon's a gallant : see how brisk she rides. Stad. Here's a rich evening, Hecate. Hcc. Ay, is 't not, wenches, To take a journey of five thousand mile ? Hop. Ours will be more to-night. Hec. Oh 'twill be precious. Heard you the owl yet ! Slacl. Briefly in the copse, \s we came through now. Hec. 'Tis high time for us then. id. There was a bat hung at my lips three times As we came through the woods, and drank her fill. Old Puckle saw her. Her. You are fortunate still : The very screech owl lights upon your shoulder, And wooes you like a pigeon. Are you furnish'd ? Have you your ointments ? Stad. All. Hcc. Prepare to flight then : I '11 overtake you swiftly. Stad. Hie thee, Hecate : We shall be up betimes. Hsc. I'll reach you quickly. [The other Witches mount. Fire. They are all going a birding to-night. They talk of fowls in the air, that fly by day ; I am sure, they '11 be a company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have not mortality offer'd,* I '11 be hanged; for they are able to putrify it, to infect a whole region. She spies me now. * Probably the true reading is after V. THE WITCH. 13S Hec. What, Firestone, our sweet son ? Fire. A little sweeter than some of you ; or a dunghill were too good for me. Hec. How much hast here 1 Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones ; besides six lizards, and three serpentine eggs. Hec. Dear and sweet boy : what herbs hast thou ? Fire. I have some Marmartin and Mandragon. Hec. Marmaritin and Mandragora thou wouldst say. Fire. Here 's Pannax too : I thank thee, my pan akes I am sure With kneeling down to cut 'em. Hec. And Selago, Hedge hysop too : how near he goes my cuttings ! Wore they all cropl by moon-light? Fire. Every blade of 'em, or I am a moon-calf, mother. Hec. Hie thee home with 'em. Look well to the house to-night ; I am for aloft. Fire. Aloft, quoth you 1 1 would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly. Hark, hark, mother ; they are above the Steeple already, flying over your head with a noise of musicians. Hec. They are indeed. Help me, help me ; I'm too late else. Song in the Air. Come away, come away ; Hecate, Hecate, come away. Hec. I come, I come, I come, I come, With all the speed I may, With all the speed I may. Where's Stadlin? [Above.] Here. Hec. Where's Puckle ? [Above.] Here : And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too : We lack but you ; we lack but you : Come away, make up the count. Hec. I will but 'noint, and then I mount. [A spirit like a Cat descends. 160 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. [^4iot'c] There's one come down to fetch his dues ; A kiss, a coll, a slip of blood : And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, I muse, Since the air's so sweet and good. Hec. Oh art thou come ? "What news, what news ? Spirit. All goes still to our delight : Either come, or else Refuse, refuse. Hec. Now I am furnish'd for the flight. Fire Hark, hark, the Cat sings a brave treble in her own lan» guage. Hec. [Going tip.] Now I go, now I fly, Malkin my sweet Spirit and I. Oh what a dainty pleasure 'tis To ride in the air When the moon shines fair, And sing, and dance, and toy, and kiss : Over woods, high rocks, and mountains, Over seas (our mistress' fountains), Over steep towers and turrets, We fly by night 'mongst troops of Spirits. No ring of bells to our ears sounds, No howls of wolves, no yelps of hounds ; No, not the noise of water's-breach, Or cannon's throat, our height can reach. [^4Sore.] No ring of bells, &c. Fire. Well, mother, I thank your kindness; you must be Gamboling in the air, and leave me to walk here like a fool and a mortal. * * * A Duchess consults the Witcli about inflicting a sudden Death Duchess. Hecate. Firestone. Hec. What death is 't you desire for Almachildes ? Duch. A sudden and a subtle. Hec. Then I 've fitted you. Here lie the gifts of both ; sudden and subtle : His picture made in wax, and gently molten THE WITCH. 1G1 By a blue fire, kindled with dead men's eyes, Will waste him by degrees. Duch. In wbat time prithee 1 Hec. Perhaps in a moon's progress. Duch. What, a month ? Out upon pictures, if they be so tedious : Give me things with some life. Hec. Then seek no farther. Duch. This must be done with speed, dispatch'd this night, If it be possible. Hec. I have it for you : Here 's that will do 't : stay but perfection's time, And that' s not five hours hence. Duch. Canst thou do this ? Hec. Can I? Duch. I mean, so closely 1 Hec. So closely do you mean too ? Duch. So artfully, so cunningly ? Hec. Worse and worse. Doubts and incredulities, They make me mad. Let scrupulous creatures know : Cum volui, ripis ipsis mirantibus, amnes In fontes rediere suos ; concussaque sisto, Stantia concutio cantu freta ; nubila pello, Nubilaque induco : vcntos abigoque, vocoque. Vipereas rumpo verbis et carmine fauces ; Et sylvas moveo, jubeoque tremiscere montes, Et mugiere solum, manesque exire sepulchris. Te quoque, Luna, traho. Can you doubt me then, daughter ; That can make mountains tremble, miles of woods walk : Whole earth's foundations bellow, and the spirits Of the entomb'd to burst out from their marbles ; Nay, draw yon Moon to my involv'd designs ? Fire. I know as well as can be when my mother 's mad, and our Great cat angry ; for one spits French then, and the other spits Latin. Duch. I did not doubt you, mother. vart i. 12 162 ENGLISH DR \M V.TIC POETS. Hec. No ! what, did you ' My power 's so firm, it is not *o be question'd. Duck. Forgive what a past ; and now I know th'*ofFensiveness That vexes art, I 11 shun the occasion ever. Hec. Leave all to me and my five sisters, daughter. It shall be convey "d in at h<>\\ let-time. Take you no can'. My spirits know their moments: Raven or screech-owl never fly by the door But they call in (I thank 'cm) and they lose not by 't. I give 'em barley soak'd in infant's blood : They shall have semina cum sanguine, Their gorge cramm'd full, if they come once to our house : We are no niffsard. Fire. They fare but too well when they come hither : they ate up as much the other night as would have made me a good conscionable pudding. Hec. Give me some lizard's brain, quickly, Firestone. Where 's grannam Stadlin, and all the rest of the sisters ? Fire. All at hand, forsooth. [ The other Witches appear. Hec. Give me Marmaritin ; some Bear-breech : when ? Fire. Here 's Bear-breech and lizard's brain, forsooth. Hec. Into the vessel ; And fetch three ounces of the red-hair'd girl I kill'd last midnight. Fire. Whereabout, sweet mother ? Hec. Hip ; hip, or flank. Where 's the Acopus 1 Fire. You shall have Acopus, forsooth. Hec. Stir, stir about ; whilst I begin the charm. A Charm Song about a Vessel. Hec. Black spirits and white, red spirits and grey ; Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. Titty, Tiffin, keep it stiff* in ; Fire-drake, Puekey. make it lucky; Liard, Robin, you must bob in. Round, around, around, about, about ; All 111 come running in, all Good keep out. THE WITCH. 163 First Witch. Here 's the blood of a bat. Hoc. Put in that, oh, put in that. Sec. Witch. Here 's libbard's bane. Hec. Put in again. First Witch. The juice of toad ; the oil of adder. Sec. Witch. Those will make the younker madder. Hec. Put in, there 's all, and rid the stench. Fire. Nay, here 's three ounces of the red-hair'd wench. AIL Round, around, around, &c. Hec. So, so, enough : into the vessel with it. There ; 't hath the true perfection : I am so light* At any mischief, there's no villainy But is a tune methinks. Fire. A tune ! 'tis to the tune of damnation then, I warrant you, i And that song hath a villainous burthen. Hec. Come my sweet sisters, let the air strike our tune ; Whilst we show reverence to yon peeping moon. [Tfie Witches dance, et Exeunt, [Though some resemblance may be traced between the Charms in Mac- beth, and the incantations in this Play, which is supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will not detract much from the originality of Shakspeare. His witches are distinguished from the Witches of Middleton by essential differences. These are creatures to whom man or woman plotting some dire mischief might resort for occasional consultation. Those originate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to men. From the moment that their eyes first meet with Macbeth's, he is spell bound. That meeting sways his destiny. He can never break the fascination. These Witches can hurt the body : those have power over the soul. — Hecate in Middleton has a Son, a low buffoon : the hags of Shakspeare have neither child of their own, nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are foul Anomalies, of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor whether they have beginning or ending. As they are without human passions, so they seem to be without human relations. They come with thunder and lightning, and vanish to airy music. This is all we know of them. — Except Hecate, they have no names ; which heightens their mysteriousness. Their names, and some of the properties, which Middleton lias given to his hags, excite smiles. The Weird Sisters are serious things. Their presence cannot co- exist with mirth. But, in a lesser degree, the Witches of Middleton are fine creations. Their power too is, in some measure, over the mind. They raise jars, jealousies, strifes, like a thick scurf o'er life.] * Light-hearted. 164 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. THE WITCH OF EDMONTON; A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY WILLIAM ROWLEY, THOMAS DECKER, JOHN FORD, &c. Mother Sawyer (before she turns Witch) alone. Saw. And why on me ? why should the envious world Throw all their scandalous malice upon me ? 'Cause I am poor, deform 'd, and ignorant, And like a bow buckled and bent together By some more strong in mischiefs than myself; Must I for that be made a common sink For all the filth and rubbish of men's tongues To fall and run into 1 Some call me Witch, And being ignorant, of myself, they go About to teach me how to be one : unnnjr That my bad tongue (by their bad usage made so) Forespeaks their cattle, doth bewitch their corn, Themselves, their servants, and their babes at nurse : This they enforce upon me ; and in part Make me to credit it.* Banks, a Farmer, enters. Banks. Out, out upon thee, Witch. Saw. Dost call me Witch 1 Banks. I do, Witch, I do : And worse I would, knew I a name more hateful. What makest thou upon my ground ? Saw. Gather a few rotten sticks to warm me. Banks. Down with them when I bid thee, quickly ; I' 11 make thy bones rattle in thy skin else. Saw. You won't ? churl, cut-throat, miser : there they be. Would they stuck cross thy throat, thy bowels, thy maw, thy midriff Banks. Say'st thou me so? Hag, out of my ground. Saw. Dost strike me, slave, curmudgeon 1 Now thy bones aches, thy joints cramps, And convulsions stretch and crack thy sinews. * This Soliloquy anticipates all that Addison has said in the conclusion of the 117th Spectator. THE WITCH OF EDMONTON. ltjj »— -- ■ ■ — ■■■ - ■ — Banks. Cursing, thou hag ? take that, and that. [Exit. Saw. Strike, do : and withered may that hand and arm Whose blows have lam'd mo, drop from the rotten trunk. Abuse me ! beat me ! call me hag and witch ! What is the name, where, and by what art learn'd ? What spells, or charms, or invocations, May the thing call'd Familiar be purchased ? ■ 1 am shunn'd And haled like a sickness: made a scorn To all degrees and sexes. I have heard old beldams Talk of Familiars in the shape of mice, Rats, ferrets, weasels, and I wot not what, That have appear'd : and suck'd, some say, their blood. But by what means they came acquainted with them, I'm now ignorant. Would some power good or bad Instruct me which way I might be reveng'd Upon this churl, I'd go out of myself, And give this fury leave to dwell within This ruined cottage, ready to fall with age : Abjure all goodness, be at hate with prayer, And study curses, imprecations, Blasphemous speeches, oaths, detested oaths, Or anything that's ill ; so I might work Revenge upon this miser, this black cur, That barks, and bites, and sucks the very blood Of me, and of my credit. 'Tis all one To be a witch as to be counted one. She gets a familial- which serves her in the likeness of a Black Dog Mother Sawyer. Familiar. Saic. I am dried up With cursing and with madness; and have yet No blood to moisten these sweet lips of thine. Stand on thine hind-legs up. Kiss me, my Tommy ; And rub away some wrinkles on my brow. By making my old ribs to shrug for joy Of thy fine tricks. What hast thou done ? Let's tickle. Hast thou struck the horse lame as I bid thee ? 106 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POKTS. Famil. Yes, and nipt the sucking-child. Saw. Ho, ho, my dainty, My little pearl. No lady loves her hound, Monkey, or parakeet, as I do thee. Famil. The maid has been churning butter nine hours, but it shall not come. Saw. Let 'em cat cheese and choak. Famil. I had rare sport Among the clowns in the morrice. Saw. I could dance Out of my skin to hear thee. But, my curl-pate, That jade, that foul-tongued Nan Rateliff, Who, for a little soap lick'd by my sow, Struck, and had almost lamed it : did not I charge thee To pinch that quean to the heart ? * * * * Her Familiar absents himself: site invokes him. Saw. Not see me in three days ? I'm lost without my Tomalin ; prithee come; Revenge to me is sweeter far than life ; Thou art my raven, on whose coal-black wings Revenge comes flying to me : Oh, my best love. I am on fire (even in the midst of ice) Raking my blood up, till my shrunk knees feel Thy curl'd head leaning on them. Come then, my darling, If in the air thou hover'st, fall upon me In some dark cloud ; and, as I oft have seen Dragons and serpents in the elements, Appear thou now so to me. Art thou i' the sea ! Muster up all the monsters from the deep, And be the ugliest of them : so that my bulch Show but his swarth cheek to me, let earth cleave, And break from hell, I care not ; could I run Like a swift powder-mine beneath the world, Up would I blow it, all to find out thee, Though I lay ruin'd in it. — Not yet come ? I must then fall to my old prayer : sanctibiceter nomen tuum. ATHEIST'S TRAGEDY i 7 He comes in White. Saw. Why dost thou thus appear to me in white, As if thou wert the ghost of my dear love 1 Famil. I am clogged, list not to tell thee, yet to torment thee, My whiteness puts thee in mind of thy winding sheet. Saw. Am I near death ? Famil. Be blasted with the news. Whiteness is day's footboy, a forerunner to light, which shows thy old rivel'd face : villainies are stript naked, the witch must be beaten out of her cockpit. Saw. Why to mine eyes art thou a flag of truce ? I am at peace with none ; 'tis the black color, Or none, which I tight under : I do not like Thy puritan-paleness. [Mother Sawyer differs from the hags of Middleton or Shakspeare. She is the plain traditional old woman Witch of our ancestors ; poor, deformed and ignorant; the terror of villages, herself amenable to a justice. That should be a hardy sheriff, with the power of a county at his heels, that would lay hands on the Weird Sisters They are of another jurisdiction. But upon the common and received opinion the author (or authors) have engrafted strong fancy. There is something frightfully earnest in her invo- cations to the Familiar.] THE ATHEIST'S TRAGEDY ; OR, THE HONEST MAN'S REVENGE. BY CYRIL TOURNEUR. If .imville (the Atheist) with the aid of his wicked instrument, Borachio, 7iiurders his Brother, Montferrers, for his Estate. After the deed is done, Borachio and fie talk together of the circumstances which attended the murder. D 'Am. Here's a sweet comedy, begins with O dolentis, and concludes with ha, ha, he. Bor. Ha, ha, he. D'Am. O my echo ! I could stand reverberating this sweet musical air of joy, till I had perished my sound lungs with violent laughter. Lovely night-iaven, thou hast seized a carcase ? 1G8 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Bor. Put him outon's pain. I lay so fitly underneath the bank from whence he fell, that ere his faltering tongue could utter double O, I knocked out his brains with this fair ruby; and had another stone just of this form and big- ness ready, that 1 had laid in the broken scull upon the ground for his pillow, against the which they thought he fell and perished. D'Am. Upon this ground I'll build my manor house, And this shall be chiefest corner stone. Bor. This crown'd the most judicious murder, that The brain of man was e'er deliver'd of. jy Am. Aye, mark the plot. Not any circumstance That stood within the reach of the design, Of persons, dispositions, matter, time, Or place, but by this brain of mine was made An instrumental help ; yet nothing from The induction to the accomplishment seem'd forced, Or done o' purpose, but by accident. [Here they reckon up the several circumstances. Bor. Then darkness did Protect the execution of the work Both from prevention and discovery. D 'Am. Here was a murder bravely carried through The eye of observation, unobserved. Bor. And those ftiat saw the passage of it, made The instruments ; yet knew not what they did. D 'Am. That power of rule, philosophers ascribe To him they call the Supreme of the Stars, Making their influences governors Of sublunary creatures, when theirselves Are senseless of their operations. [Thunder and lightning. What ! dost start at thunder 1 Credit my belief, 'tis a mere effect of nature, an exhalation hot and dry, involved within a watry vapor in the middle region of the air, whose coldness congealing that thick moisture to a cloud, the angry exhalation shut within a prison of con- trary quality, strives to be free ; and with the violent ATHEISTS TRAGEDY. 169 eruption through the grossness of that cloud, makes this noise we hear. Bor. 'Tis a fearful noise. IP Am. 'Tis a brave noise ; and, methinks, graces our accom- plished project, as a peal of ordnance does a triumph. It speaks encouragement. Now nature shows thee how it favor'd our performance : to forbear this noise when we set forth, because it should not terrify my brother's going home, which would have dashed our purpose : to forbear this lightning in our passage, lest it should ha' warned him of the pitfall. Then propitious nature winked at our proceeding ; now, it doth express how that forbearance favor'd our success. ***** Drowned Soldier. walking upon the fatal shore, Among the slaughter'd bodies of their men, Which the full-stomach'd sea had cast upon The sands, it was my unhappy chance to light Upon a face, whose favor when it lived My astonish'd mind inform'd me I had seen. He lay in his armor, as if that had been His coffin ; and the weeping sea (like one Whose milder temper doth lament the death Of him whom in his rage he slew) runs up The shore, embraces him, kisses his cheek ; Goes back again, and forces up the sands To bury him ; and every time it parts, Sheds tears upon him ; till at last (as if It could no longer endure to see the man Whom it had slain, yet loath to leave him) with A kind of unresolv'd unwilling pace, Winding her waves one in another (like A man that folds his arms, or wrings his hands For grief) ebb'd from the body, and descends ; As if it would sink down into the earth, Aud hide itself for shame of such a deed.* * This way of description, which seems unwilling ever to leave off 170 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Match Refused. I entertain the offer of this match, With purpose to confirm it presently. I have already mov'd it to my daughter ; Her soft excuses savor'd at the first Methought hut of a modest innocence Of blood, whose unmov'd stream was never drawn Into the current of affection. But when I Replied with more familiar arguments, Thinking to make her apprehension bold ; Her modest blush feU to a pale dislike, And she refus'd it with such confidence, As if she had been prompted by a love Inclining firmly to some other man ; And in that obstinacy she remains. Love and Courage. O do not wrong him. 'Tis a generous mind That led his disposition to the war ; For gentle love and noble courage are So near allied, that one begets another : Or love is sister, and courage is the brother. Could I affect him better than before, His soldier's heart would make me love him more. THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. BY CYRIL TOURNEUR. Vindici addresses the Scull of his dead Lady. Thou sallow picture of my poison'd love, My study's ornament, thou shell of death, Once the bright face of my betroth'd lady, When life and beauty naturally fill'd out These ragged imperfections: weaving parenthesis within parenthesis, was brought to its height by Sir Philip Sidney. He seems to have set the example to Shakspeare. Many beautiful instances may be found all over the Arcadia. These bountiful Wits always give fu'.l measure, pressed down and running over THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 171 When two heav'n-pointed diamonds were set In those unsightly rings then 'twas a face So far beyond the artificial shine Of any woman's bought complexion, That the uprightest man (if such there be That sin but seven times a day) broke custom, And made up eight with looking after her. O she was able to ha' made a usurer's son Melt all his patrimony in a kiss ; And what his father fifty years told. To have consum'd, and yet his suit been cold. Again. Here 's an eye, Able to tempt a great man — to serve God ; A pretty hanging lip, that has forgot now to dissemble. Methinks this mouth should make a swearer tremble ; A drunkard clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em, To sutler wet damnation to run thro' 'em, Here 's a check keeps her color let the wind go whistle : Spout rain, we fear thee not : be hot or cold, All 's one with us : and is not he absurd, Whose fortunes are upon their faces set, That fear no other God but wind and wet ? Does the silk- worm expend her yellow labors For thee ? for thee does she undo herself? Are lordships sold to maintain ladyships, For the poor benefit of a bewitching minute ? Why does yon fellow falsify highways, And put his life between the judge's lips, To refine such a thing ? keep his horse and men, To beat their valors for her ? Surely we 're all mad people, and they Whom we think are, are not. Does every proud and self-affecting dame Camphire her face for this ? and grieve her maker In sinful baths of milk, when many an infant starves, For her superfluous outside, for all this ? 17-2 i. 3H DR \:.l ITIC POETS. Who now bids twenty pound a night ? prepares Music, perfumes, and sweet meats ? all are hush'd. < Thou may'st lie chaste now ! it were fine, methinks, To have thee seen at revels, forgetful feasts, And unclean brothels : sure 'twould fright the sinner, And make him a good coward : put a reveller Out of his antick amble, And cloy an epicure with empty dishes, Here might a scornful and ambitious woman Look through and through herself. — See ladies, with false forms, You deceive men, but cannot deceive worms.* Vindici, having disguised himself, makes trial of his Sister Castiza's virtue ; and afterwards of his Mother's. Vindici. Castiza. Vin. Lady, the best of wishes to your sex, Fair skins and new gowns. [ Offers her a letter. Cast. Oh, they shall thank you, Sir. Whence this ? Vin. Oh, from a dear and worthy friend. Cast. From whom ? Vin. The duke's son. Cast. Receive that. [A Box o' the Ear to her Brother. I swore I would put anger in my hand. And pass the virgin limits of myself, To him that next appear'd in that base office, To be his sin's attorney. Bear to him That figure of my hate upon thy cheek, Whilst 'tis yet hot, and I'll reward thee for 't : Tell him my honor shall have a rich name, * The male and female Skeleton in Gondibert is the finest lecture of mortification which has been read from bones. This dismal gallery, lofty, long and wide, Was hung with Skeletons of every kind ; Human, and all that learned human pride Thinks made to obey man's high immortal mind. Yet. on that wall hangs He, too, who so thought: And she, dried by Him, who that He obey'd, THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 173 When several harlots shall share his with shame. Farewell ; commend me to him in my hate. [£a Vin. It is the sweetest box That e'er my nose came nigh ; The finest draw-work cuff that e'er was worn ; 1 '11 love this blow for ever, and this cheek Shall still henceforward take the wall of this. Oh, I 'm above my tongue : most constant sister, In this thou hast right honorable shown ; Many are call'd by their honor, that have none. Thou art approv'd for ever in my thoughts. It is not in the power of words to taint thee. And yet for the salvation of my oath, As my resolve in that point, I will lay Hard siege unto my mother, tho' I know, A siren's tongue could not bewitch her so. , Mass, fitly here she comes ! thanks, my disguise — The Mother enters. Madam, good afternoon. Moth. Y 'are welcome, Sir. Vin. The next of Italy commends him to you, Our mighty expectation, the duke's son. Moth. I think myself much honor'd, that he pleases To rank me in his thoughts. Vin. So may you, lady : One that is like to be our sudden duke ; The crown gapes for him every tide ; and then Commander o'er us all, do but think on him, How blest were they now that could pleasure him E'en with anything almost ! Moth. Ay, save their honor. Vin. Tut, one would let a little of that go too, And ne'er be seen in 't, ne'er be seen in 't, mark you, I 'd wink and let it go. Moth. Marry but I would not. Vin. Marry but I would, I hope, 1 know you would too. If you'd that blood now which you gave your daughter. 174 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. To her indeed 'tis, this wheel comes about ; That man that must be all tnis, perhaps ere morning (For his white father does but mould away) Has long desir'd your daughter. Moth. Desir'd ? Vin. Nay, but hear me, He desires now, that will command hereafter ; Therefore be wise, I speak as more a friend To you than him ; madam, I know you 're poor. And (lack the day !) there are too many poor ladies already ; Why should you wax the number ? 'tis despised. Live wealthy, rightly understand the world, And chide away that foolish country girl Keeps company with your daughter, Chastity. Moth. O fie, fie ! the riches of the world cannot hire a mother To such a most unnatural task. Vin. No, but a thousand angels can ; Men have no power, angels must work you to 't : The world descends into such base-born evils, That forty angels can make fourscore devils. There will be fools still I perceive — still fool ? Would I be poor, dejected, scorn'd of greatness, Swept from the palace, and see others' daughters Spring with the dew of the court, having mine own So much desir'd and lov'd — by the duke's son ? No, I would raise my state upon her breast, And call her eyes my tenants ; I would count My yearly maintenance upon her cheeks ; Take coach upon her lip ; and all her parts Should keep men after men ; and I would ride In pleasure upon pleasure. You took great pains for her, once when it was, Let her requite it now, tho' it be but some ; You brought her forth, she may well bring you home. Moth. O heavens ! this o'ercomes me ! Vin. Not I hope already ? [Aside. Moth. It is too strong for me ; men know that know us, We are so weak their words can overthrow us : THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 175 He touch'd me nearly, made my virtues bate, When his tongue struck upon my poor estate. [Aside. Vin. I even quake to proceed, my spirit turns edge. I fear me she 's unmother'd, yet I'll venture. [Aside. What think you now, lady ? speak, are you wiser ? What said advancement to you ? thus it said, The daughter's fall lifts up the mother's head : Did it not, Madam ? but I '11 swear it does In many places ; but this age fears no man, 'Tis no shame to be bad, because 'tis common. Moth. Aye, that 's the comfort on 't. Vin. The comfort on 't ! — I keep the best for last. Can these persuade you To forget heaven — and — [Offers her money. Moth. Ay, these are they — Vin. Oh! Moth. That enchant our sex ; These are the means that govern our affections, — That woman Will not be troubled with the mother long, That sees the comfortable shine of you : I blush to think what for your sakes I '11 do. Vin. O suffering heaven ! with thy invisible finger, E'en at this instant turn the precious side Of both mine eye-balls inward, not to see myself. [Aside. Moth. Look you, Sir. Vin. Hollo. Moth. Let us thank your pains. Vin. O vou are a kind Madam. Moth. I '11 see how I can move. Vin. Your words will sting. Moth. If she be still chaste, I '11 ne'er call her mine. Vin. Spoke truer than you meant it ! Moth. Daughter Castiza Cast, [within. ~\ Madam ! Vin. O she 's yonder, meet her. Troops of celestial soldiers guard her heart. 170 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Your dam nas devils enough to take her part. [Castiza returns. Cast. Madam, what makes yon evil-offic'd man In presence of you ? Moth. Why? Cast. He lately brought Immodest writing sent from the duke's son, To tempt me to dishonorable act. Moth. Dishonorable act ? — good honorable fool. That wouldst be honest, 'cause thou wouldst be so, Producing no one reason but thy will ; And it has a good report, prettily commended, But pray by whom ? poor people : ignorant people ; The better sort, I 'm sure, cannot abide it. And by what rule should we square out our lives But by our betters' actions ? oh, if thou knew'st What 'twere to lose it, thou wouldst never keep it ; But there 's a cold curse laid upon all maids, Whilst others clip the sun, they clasp the shades. Deny advancement ! treasure ! the duke's son ! Cast. I cry you mercy, lady, I mistook you ; Pray did you see my mother? which way went you ? Pray God I have not lost her. Vin. Prettily put by. [Aside. Moth. Are you as proud to me, as coy to him ? Do you not know me now ? Cast. Why, are you she ? The world 's so chang'd, one shape into another, It is a wise child now that knows her mother. Vin. Mos; right, i' faith. [Aside. Moth. I owe your cheek my hand For that presumption now, but I '11 forget it ; Come, you shall leave those childish 'haviors, And understand your time. Fortunes flow to you. What will you be a girl ? If all fear'd drowning that spy waves ashore, Gold would grow rich, and all the merchants poor. Cast. It is a pretty saying of a wicked one, but methinks now THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 177 It does not show so well out of your mouth ; Bettor in his. Vin. Faith, bad enough in both, Were I in earnest, as I '11 seem no less. [Aside. I wonder, lady, your own mother's words Cannot be taken, nor stand in full force. 'Tis honesty you urge ; what 's honesty ? 'Tis but heaven's beggar ; and what woman is so foolish to keep honesty, And be not able to keep herself? no, Times are grown wiser, and will keep less charge. A maid that has small portion now, intends To break up house, and live upon her friends. How blest are you ! you have happiness alone ; Others must fall to thousands, you to one ; Sufficient in himself to make your forehead Dazzle the world with jewels, and petitionary people Start at your presence. O think upon the pleasure of the palace ! Secured ease and state ! the stirring meats, Ready to move out of the dishes, that e'en now quicken when they're eaten ! Banqu, ts abroad by torch-light ! music ! sports ! Bare-headed vassals, that had ne'er the fortune To keep on their own hats, but let horns wear 'em ! Nine coaches waiting — hurry, hurry, hurry — Cast. Aye, to the devil — Vin. Aye, to the devil ! to the duke, by my faith. Moth. Aye, to the duke. Daughter, you'd scorn to think Of the devil, and you were there once. Vin. Who'd sit at home in a neglected room, Dealing her short-liv'd beauty to the pictures, That are as useless as old men, when those Poorer in face and fortune than herself Walk with a hundred acres on their backs, Fair meadows cut into green fore-parts ? — Fair trees, those comely foretops of the field, Are cut to maintain head-tires : — much untqld — part i. 13 178 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. All thrives but chastity, she lies cold. Nay, shall I come near to you 1 mark but this : Why are there so few honest women, but because 'tis the poorer profession 1 that's accounted best, that's best followed ; least in trade, least in fashion ; and that's not honesty, be- lieve it ; and do but note the low and dejected price of it : Lose but a pearl, we search and cannot brook it : But that once gone, who is so mad to look it ? Moth. Troth, he says true. Cast. False : I defy you both. I have endur'd you with an ear of fire ; Your tongues have struck hot irons on my face. Mother, come from that poisonous woman there. Moth. Where? Cast. Do you not see her ? she's too inward then. Slave, perish in thy office. You heavens please, Henceforth to make the mother a disease, Which first begins with me ; yet I've outgone you. [Exit. Vin. O angels, clap your wings upon the skies, And give this virgin crystal plaudities ! [Aside. Moth. Peevish, coy, foolish ! — but return this answer, My lord shall be most welcome, when his pleasure Conducts him this way ; I will sway mine own ; Women with women can work best alone. [Exil. Vin. Forgive me, heaven, to call my mother wicked ! lessen not my days upon the earth. 1 cannot honor her. The Brothers, V^idici and Hippolito, threaten their Mother with Death for consenting to the Dishonor of their Sister Vin. O t'.iou for whom no name is bad enough. Moth, /hat mean my sons ? what, will you murther me V Vin. vV"icked unnatural parent ! Hip. Friend of women ! Moth. Oh ! are sons turn'd monsters ! help ! Vin. In vain. Moth. Are ye so barbarous to set iron nipples Upon the breast that gave yon suck ? THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 179 Vin. That breast Is turn'd to quarled poison. Moth. Cut not your days for 't. Am not I your mother ? Vin. Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud, For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd. Moth. A bawd ! O name far loathsomer than hell ! Hip. It should be so, knew'st thou thy office well. Moth. I hate it. Vin. Ah, is it possible, you powers on high, That women should dissemble when they die ? Moth. Dissemble ! Vin. Did not the duke's son direct A fellow of the world's condition hither, That did corrupt all that was good in thee ? Made thee uncivilly forget thyself, And work our sister to his purpose ? Moth. Who, I ? That had been monstrous. I defy that man For any such intent. None lives so pure, But shall be soil'd with slander. Good son, believe it not. Vin. Oh, I'm in doubt Whether I am myself or no — Stay, let me look again upon this face. Who shall be saved when mothers have no grace ? [Resumes his Disguise. Hip. 'Twould make one half despair. Vin. I was the man. Defy me now, let's see, do 't modestly. Moth. O hell unto my soul ! Vin. In that disguise, I, sent from the duke's son, Tried you. and found you base metal, As any villain might have done. Moth. O no, No tongue hut yours could have bewitched me so. Vin. O nimble in damnation, quick in turn ! There is no devil could strike fire so soon. I am confutpH in a word. ISO ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Moth. Oh sons, Forgive me, to myself I'll prove more true ; You that should honor me, I kneel to you. Vin. A mother to give aim to her own daughter ! Hip. True, brother ; how far beyond nature 'tis, Though many mothers do it. Vin. Nay, and you draw tears once, go you to bed. Wet will make iron blush and change to red. Brother it rains, 'twill spoil your dagger, house it. Hip. *Tis done. Yin. I' faith 'tis a sweet shower, it does much good. The fruitful "rounds and meadows of her soul Have been long dry ; pour down, thou blessed dew. Rise, mother ; troth, this shower has made you higher. Moth. O you heavens ! Take this infectious spot out of my soul ; I'll rince it in seven waters of mine eyes. Make my tears salt enough to taste of grace. To weep is to our sex naturally given ; But to weep truly, that's a gift from heaven. Vin. Nay, I'll kiss you now. Kiss her, brother • Let's marry her to our souls, wherein's no lust, And honorably love her. Hip. Let it be. Vin. For honest women are so seld and rare '"Tis good to cherish those poor few that are. O you of easy wax ! do but imagine Now the disease has left you, how leprously That office would have cling'd unto your forehead . All mothers that had any graceful hue, Would have worn masks to hide their face at you. It would have grown to this, at your foul name Green-color'd maids would have turn'd red with shame. Hip. And then our sister, full of hire and baseness — Vin. There had been boiling lead again ! The duke's son's great concubine ! A drab of state, a cloth-o'-silver slut, To have her train borne up, and her soul trail in the dirt THE REVENGERS TRAGEDY. .181 Hip. To be great, miserable ; to be rich, eternally wretched. Vin. O common madness ! Ask but the thriving'st harlot in cold blood, She'd give the world to make her honor good. Perhaps you'll say, but only to the duke's son In private ; why, she first begins with one "Who afterwards to thousands proves a whore : Break ice in one place, it will crack in more. Moth. Most certainly applied. Hip. O brother, you forget our business. Vin. And well rcmember'd ; joy's a subtil elf; I think man's happiest when he forgets himself. Farewell, once dry, now holy-water'd mead ; Our hearts wear feathers that before wore lead. Moth. I'll give you this, that one I never knew Plead better for, and 'gainst the devil than you. Yin. You make me proud on 't. Hip. Commend us in all virtue to our sister. Yin. Ay, for the love of heaven, to that true maid. Moth. With my best words. Vin. Whv that was motherly said.* Castiza seems to consent to her Mother's wicked motion. Castiza. Mother. Cast. Now, mother, you have wrought with me so strongly, That, what for my advancement, as to calm The trouble of your tongue, I am content. Moth. Content, to what ? Cast. To do as you have wish'd me : To prostitute my breast to the duke's son, And put myself to common usury. * The reality and life of this Dialogue passes any scenicnl illusion I ever felt. I never read it but my ears tingle, and I feel a hot blush spread my cheeks, as if I were presently about to " proclaim " some such " malefac- tions" of myself, as the Brothers here rebuke in their unnatural parent; in words more keen and dagger-like than those which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such power has the passion of shame truly personated, not only to " strike guilty creatures unto the soul,'' but to " appal " even those that are *•' free." 1S2 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Molh. I hope you will not so. Cast. Hope you I will not? That's not the hope you look to be saved in. Molh. Truth, but it is. Cast. Do not deceive yourself. I am as you, e'en out of marble wrought. What would you now : are ye not pleas'd yet with me ? You shall not wish me to be more lascivious, Than I intend to be. Moth. Strike not me cold. Cast. How often have you charg'd me on your blessing To be a cursed woman ! when you knew Your blessing had no force to make me lewd, You laid your curse upon me ; that did more : The mother's curse is heavy ; where that fights, Sons set in storm and daughters lose their lights. Moth. Good child, dear maid, if there be any spark Of heavenly intellectual light within thee, let my breath revive it to a flame. Put not all out with woman's wilful follies. 1 am recover'd of that foul disease That haunts too many mothers ; kind, forgive me, Make me not sick in health ! if then My words prevail 'd, when they were wickedness, How much more now, when they are just and good ! Cast. I wonder what you mean ; are not you she, For whose infect persuasions, I could scarce Kneel out my prayers ; and had much ado, In three hours' reading, to untwist so much Of the black serpent, as you wound about me ! Moth. 'Tis unfruitful held, tedious, to repeat what's past. I'm now your present mother. Cast. Pish, now 'tis too late. Moth. Bethink again, thou know'st not what thou say'st. Cast. No ! deny advancement ! treasure ! the duke's son ! Moth. O see, I spoke those words, and now they poison me. What will the deed do then ? Advancement ! true : as high as shame can pitch ! THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 183 For treasure : who e'er knew a Harlot rich ? Or could build by the purchase of her sin An hospital to keep their bastards in ? The duke's son ! oh ; when women are young courtiers, They are sure to be olc beggars. To know the miseries most harlots taste, Thou'dst wish thyself unborn when thou'rt unchaste. Cast. O mother, let me twine about your neck, And kiss you till my soul melt on your lips ; I did but this to try you. Moth. O speak truth. Cast. Indeed I did not ; for no tongue hath force To alter me from honest : If maidens would, men's words could have no power ; A virgin's honor is a crystal tower, Which being weak is guarded with good spirits; Until she basely yie'.ds, no ill inherits. Moth. O happy child ! faith, and thy birth, hath saved me, 'Mongst thousand daughters, happiest of all others ; Buy thou a glass for maids, and I for mothers. Evil Report after Death. What is it to have A. flattering false insculption on a tomb, A.nd in men's hearts reproach ? the 'bowel'd corps May be sear'd in, but (with free tongue I speak) The faults of great men through their sear-clothes break. Bastards. Oh what a grief 'tis that a man should live But once in the world, and then to live a Bastard ? The curse of the womb, the thief of nature, Beo-ot against the sevi nth commandment, Half damn'd in the conception by the justice Of that unbribed everlasting law. Ton nice respects in Courtship. Ceremony has made many fools. It is as easv way unto n duchess 184 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. ) As to a hatted dame, if her love answer : But that by timorous honors, pale respec's, Idle degrees of fear, men make their ways Hard of themselves. THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE; OR, WHEN WOMEN GO TO LAW, THE DEVIL IS FULL OF BUSINESS. A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY JOHN WEBSTER. Contarino challenges JErcole to fight him for the possession of Jolenta, whom they both love. Con. Sir ; my love to you has proclaimed you one, Whose word was still led by a noble thought. And that thought follow'd by as fair a deed : Deceive not that opinion : we were students At Padua together, and have long To the world's eye shown like friends. Was it hearty on your part to me ? Ere. Unfained. Con. You are false To the good thought I held of you ; and now, Join the worst part of man to you, your malice, To uphold that falsehood. Sacred innocence Is fled your bosom. Signor, I must tell you ; To draw the picture of unkindness truly, Is to express two that have dearly loved, And fall'n at variance. 'Tis a wonder to me, Knowing my interest in the fair Jolenta, That you should love her. Ere. Compare her beauty and my youth together, And you will find the fair effects of love No miracle at all. Con. Yes, it will prove Prodigious to you : I must stay your voyage. Ere. Your warrant must be mighty. Con. 'Tis a seal THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE. 185 From heaven to do it, since you'd ravish from me What's there intitled mine ; and yet I vow, By the essential front of spotless virtue, I have compassion of both our youths : To approve which, I have not tane the way Like an Italian, to cut your throat By practice that had giv'n you now for dead And never frown 'd upon you. You must fijjht with me. Ere. 1 will, Sir. Con. And instantly. Ere. I will haste before you. Point whither. Con. Why, you speak nobly ; and, for this fair dealing, Were the rich jewel (which we vary for) A thing to be divided, by my life, I would be well content to give you half: But since 'tis vain to think we can be friends, Tis needful one of us be tane away From being the other's enemy. Ere. Yet, methinks, This looks not like a quarrel. Con. Not a quarrel ! Ere. You have not apparelled your fury well ; It goes too plain, like a scholar. Can. It is an ornament, Makes it more terrible ; and you shall find it A weighty injury, and attended on By discreet valor ; because I do not strike you, Or give you the lie (such foul preparatives Would show like the stale injury of wine) I reserve my rage to sit on my sword's piont ; Which a great quantity of your best blood Can't satisfy. Ere. You promise well to yourself. Shall "s have no seconds ? Con. None, for fear of prevention. Ere. The length of our weapons Con. We'll fit them by the way : ISr, ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. So whether our time calls us to live or die, Let us do both like noble gentlemen, And true Italians. Ere. For that, let me embrace you. Con. Methinks, being an Italian, I trust you To come somewhat too near me : But your jealousy gave that embrace, to try If I were arm'd ; did it not? Ere. No, believe me. I take your heart to be sufficient proof Without a privy coat : and, for my part, A taffaty is all the shirt of mail I am arm'd with. Con. You deal equally.* Sitting for a picture. Must you have my Picture ? You will enjoin me to a strange punishment. With what a compell'd face a woman sits While she is drawing ? I have noted divers Either to fain smiles, or suck in the lips, To have a little mouth ; ruffle the cheeks, To have the dimple seen ; and so disorder The face with affectation, at next sitting It has not been the same : I have known others Have lost the entire fashion of their face In half an hour's sitting — in hot weather — The painting on their face has been so mellow, They have left the poor man harder work by half To mend the copy he wrought by : But indeed, If ever I would have mine drawn to the life, I would have a painter steal it at such a time I were devoutly kneeling at my prayers ; There is then a heavenly beauty in 't, the soul Moves in the superficies. * I have selected this scene as the model of a well managed and gentle- manlike difference. THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE. 137 Honorable Employment. Oh, my lord, lie not idle : The chiefest action for a man of great spirit Is never to be out of action. We should think ; The soul was never put into the body, Which has so many rare and curious pieces Of mathematical motion, to stand still. Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds : In the trenches for the soldier ; in the wakeful study For the scholar ; in the furrows of the sea For men of our profession : of all which Arise and spring up honor. Selling of Land. I could wish That noblemen would ever live in the country, Rather than make their visits up to the city About such business. Noble houses Have no such goodly prospects any way As into their own land : the decay of that (Next to their begging church-land) is a ruin Worth all men's pity. Dirge in a Futural Pageant. All the flowers of the spring Meet to perfume our burying : These have but their growing prime, And man does flourish but his tine. Survey our progress from our birth ; We are set, we grow, we turn fc> earth. Courts adieu, and all delights, All bewitching appetites. Sweetest breath and clearest ere (Like perfumes) go out and die ; And consequently this is done, As shadows wait upon the sun. Vain the ambition of kings, Who seek by trophies and dead things 18S ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to citch the wind. APPIUS AND VIRGINIA: A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN WEBSTER. Appius, the Roman Decemvir, not being able to corrupt the Innocence of Virginia, Daughter to Virginius the Roman General, and newly mar- ried to Icilius, a young and noble Gentleman; to get possession of her person, suborns one Clodius f o claim her as the Daughter of a deceased bondwoman of his, on the testimony of certain forged writings, pre- tended to be the Deposition of that Woman, on her deathbed, confess- ing that the Child had been ipuriously passed upon Virginius for his own: the Cause is tried at Rcme before Appius. Appius. Virginia. Virginius, her Father. Icilius, her Hus- band. Senators of Rome. Nurse and other Witnesses. Virginius. My Lords, believe not this spruce orator.* Had I but fee'd him first, he vould have told As smooth a tale on our side. Appius. Give us leave. Virginius. He deals in formal glosses, cunning shows, And cares not greatly which way the case goes. Examine I beseech you this olo woman, Who is the truest witness of her birth. Appius. Soft you, is she youi only witness ? Virginius. She is, my Lord. Appius. Why, is it possible, Such a great Lady in her time of child birth Should have no other witness bui a nurse ? Virginius. For aught I know, the rest are dead, my Lord. Appius. Dead ? no, my Lord, belike they were of counsel With your deceased Lady, and sc shamed Twice to give color to so vile an Kit. Thou nurse, observe me, thy offence already Doth merit punishment above our censure ; Pull not more whips upon thee. * Counsel for Clodius. APPIUS AND VIRGIMA. 189 Nurse. I defy your whips, my Lord. Appius. Command her silence, Lictors Virginius. O injustice! you frown away my witness Is this law, is this uprightness 1 Appius. Have you view'd the writings? This is a trick to make our slaves our heirs Be} ond prevention. Virginius. Appius, wilt thou hear me ? You have slander 'd a sweet Lady that now sleeps In a most noble monument. Observe me; I would have tane her simple word to gage Before his soul or thine. Appius. That makes thee wretched. OKI man, I am sorrv for thee : that thv love By custom is grown natural, which by na.urr Should be an absolute lothing. Note the sparrow That having hatch'd a cuckow, when it sees Her brood a monster *o her proper kind, Forsakes it, and with more fear shuns the nest Than she had care i' the spring to have it drest. Here's witness, most sufficient witness. Think you, my Lord, our laws are writ in snow, And that your breath can melt them ? Virginius. No, my Lord, We have not such hot livers : mark you that ? Virginia. Remember yet the gods, Appius ; Who have no part in this. Thy violent lust Shall like the biting of th' invenom'd aspick, Steal thee to hell. So subtle are thy evils ; In life they'll seem good angels, in death devils. Appius. Observe you not this scandal 1 Icilius. Sir, 'tis none. I'll show thy letters full of violent lust Sent to this Lady. Appius. My Lords, these are but dilatory shifts. Sirrah, I know you to the very heart, And I '11 observe you. Icilius. Do, but do it with justice. 190 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Clear thyself first, O Ippius, ere thou judge Our imperfections rash y, for we wot The office of a justice is perverted quite When one thief hangs ano'.her. 1. Senator. You are too bold. Appius. Lictor, take charge of him. Icilius. 'Tis very good. Will no man view these papers,* what not one ? Jove, thou hast found s rival upon earth, His nod strikes all men dumb. My duty to you. The ass that carried Isis on his back, Thought that the superstitious people kneel'd To give his dulness humble reverence If thou thinkst so, proud ju^lge, I let thee see I bend Ljw to thy gown but not 1o thee. Virginius. There's one In hold already. Noble youth ; Fetters grace one, being worn for speaking truth. I'll lie with thee, I swear, though in a dungeon. The injuries you do us we shall pardon : But it is just, the wrongs which we forgive The gods are charg'd therewith to see revenged. Appius. Your madness wrongs you : by my soul, I love you. Virginius. Thy soul ! O thy opinion, old Pythagoras : Whither, O whither should thy black soul fly, Into what ravenous bird, or beast most vile ? Only into a weeping crocodile. Love me ! Thou lov'st me, Appius, as the earth loves rain, Only to swallow it. Appius. Know you the place you stand in ? Virginius. I'll speak freely. Good men, too much trusting their innocence, Do not betake them to that just defence Which gods and nature gave them ; but even wink In the black tempest, and so fondly sink. * The Forgery. DUCHESS OF MALI'Y. 19' Appius. Let us proceed to sentence. Virginias. Ere you speak, One parting farewell let me borrow of you To take of my Virginia. Appius. Pray, take your course. Virginius. Farewell, my sweet Virginia : never, never Shall I taste fruit of the most blessed hope I had in thee. Let me forget the thought Of thy most pretty infancy : when first, Returning from the wars, I took delight To rock thee in my target ; when my girl Would kiss her father in his burganet Of glittering steel hung 'bout his armed neck, And, viewing the bright metal, smile to see Another fair Virginia smile on thee ; When I first taught thee how to go, to speak ; And, when my wounds have smarted) I have sung, With an unskilful yet a willing voice, To bring my girl asleep. O my Virginia ; When we begun to be, begun our woes; Increasing still, as dying life still grows. Thus I surrender her into the court Of all the gods. [Kills her. And see, proud Appius, see ; Although not justly, I have made her free. And if thy lust with this act be not fed, Bury her in thy bowels now she's dead. THE TRAGEDY OF THE DUCHESS OF MALFY. BY JOHN WEBSTER. The Duchess of Malfy marries Antonio, her Steward. Duchess. Cariola, her Maid. Duchess. Is Antonio come ? Cariola. He attends you. Duch. Good dear soul, IDS ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Leave me: but place thyself behind the arras, Where thou rtiayst overhear us : wish me good speed, For I am going into a wilderness, Where I shall find nor path nor friendly clue To be my guide. [Cariola withdraws. Antonio enters. I sent for you, sit down. Take pen and ink and write. Are you ready ? Ant. Yes. Duch. What did I say ? Ant. That I should write somewhat. Duch. Oh, I remember. After these triumphs and this large expense It's fit, like thrifty husbands, we inquire W hat's laid up for to-morrow. Ant. So please your beauteous excellence. Duch. Beauteous indeed ! I thank you ; I look young For your sake. You have tane my cares upon you. Ant. I'll fetch your grace the particulars of your revenue and expense. Duch. Oh, you're an upright treasurer: but you mistook, For when I said I meant to make inquiry What's laid up for to-morrow, I did mean What's laid up yonder for me. Ant. Where ? Duch. In heaven. I'm making my will (as 'tis fit princes should) In perfect memory ; and I pray, sir, tell me, Were not one better make it smiling, thus, Than in deep groans and terrible ghastly looks, As if the gifts we parted with procur'd That violent distraction ? Ant. Oh, much better. Duch. If I had a husband now, this care were quit. But I intend to make you overseer ; What good deed shall we first remember, say ? Ant. Begin with that first good deed, began in the world DUCHESS OF MALFY. 103 After man's creation, the sacrament of marriage. I'd have you first provide for a good husband ; Give him all. Duck. All! Ant. Yes, your excellent self. Duch. In a winding sheet '? Ant. In a couple. Duch. St. Winifred, that were a strange will. Ant. 'Twere stranger if there were no will in you To marry again. Duch. What do you think of marriage ? Ant. I take it, as those that deny purgatory ; It locally contains or heaven or hell, There's no third place in 't. Duch. How do you affect it ? Ant. My banishment feeding my melancholy, Would often reason thus. Duch. Pray, let us hear it. Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have children, What takes that from him ? only the bare name Of being a father, or the weak delight . To see the little wanton ride a cock-horse Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter Like a taught starling. Duch. Fie, fie, what's all this ? One of your eyes is blood-shot ; use my Ring to 't. They say 'tis very sovran, 'twas my wedding ring, And I did vow never to part with it But to my second husband. Ant. You have parted with it now. Duch. Yes, to help your eye-sight. Ant. You have made me stark blind. Duch. How ? Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil. Is dancing in this circle. Duch. Remove him. Ant. How ? Duch. There needs small conjuration, when your finger PART I. 14 ll ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. May do it ; thus : is it tit ? [She puts the ring on his finger. Ant. What said you ? [He kneels. Duch. Sir! This goodly roof of yours is too low built ; I cannot stand upright in 't nor discourse, Without I raise it higher : raise yourself; Or, if you please my hand to help you : so. Ant. Ambition, Madam, is a great man's madness, That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms, But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt With the wild noise of prattling visitants, Which makes it lunatick beyond all cure. Conceive not I'm so stupid, but I aim Whereto your favors tend : but he's a fool That, being a cold, would thrust his hands in the fire To warm them. Duch. So, now the ground 's broke, You may discover what a wealthy mine I make you Lord of. Ant. O my unworthiness. Duch. You were ill to sell yourself. This darkning of your worth is not like that Which tradesmen use in the city ; their false lights Are to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you, If you will know where breathes a complete man (I speak it without flattery) turn your eyes, And progress through yourself. Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell, I should be honest : I have long serv'd virtue, And never tane wages of her. — Duch. Now she pays it. The misery of us that are born great ! We are fore'd to woo, because none dare woo us: And as a tyrant doubles with his words, And fearfully equivocates : so we Are forced to express our violent passions In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path DUCHESS OF MALFY. 105 Of simple virtue, which was never made To seem the thing it is not. Go, go, brag You have left me heartless ; mine is in your bosom ; I hope 'twill multiply love there ; you do tremble ; Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh, To fear more than to love me ; Sir, be confident. What is it distracts you ? This is flesh and blood, Sir, 'Tis not the figure cut in alabaster, Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, awake, man. I do here put oil" all vain ceremony, And only do appear to you a young widow : I use but half a blush in 't. Ant. Truth speak for me ; I will remain the constant sanctuary Of your good name. Duch. I thank you, gentle love ; And 'cause you shall not come to me in debt (Being now my Steward) here upon your lips I sign your quietus est : this you should have begg'd now. I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats thus, As fearful to devour them too soon. Ant. But, for your brothers — Duch. Do not think of them. All discord, without this circumference, Is only to be pitied, and not fear'd : Yet, should they know it, time will easily Scatter the tempest. Ant. These words should be mine, And all the parts you have spoke ; if some part of it Would not have savor'd flattery. [Cariola comes forward. Duch. Kneel. Ant. Hah ! Duch. Be not amaz'd ; this woman's of my council. I have heard lawyers say, a contract in a chamber Per verba prcesenti is absolute marriage ; Bless heaven this sacred Gordian, which let violence Never untwine. 196 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Ant. And may our sweet affections, like the spheres, Be still in motion. Duch. Quickening, and make The like soft music. Car. Whether the spirit of greatness, or of woman, Reign most in her, I know not ; but it shows A fearful madness : I owe her much of pity. The Duchess's marriage with Antonio In in a discovered, her brother Fer- dinand shuts her up in a Prisoti, and torments her with various trials of studied Cruelty. By his command Bosola, the instrument of his Devices, shows her the Bodies of her Husband and Children counter feited in Wax, as dead. Bos. He doth present you this sad spectacle, That now you know directly they are dead, Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve For that which cannot be recovered. Duch. There is not between heaven and earth one wish I stay for after this : it wastes me more Than were 't my picture fashion'd out of wax, Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried In some foul dunghill ; and yond's an excellent property For a tyrant, which I would account mercy. Bos. What's that ? Duch. If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk, And let me freeze to death. Bos. Come, you must live. Leave this vain sorrow. Things being at the worst begin to mend. The Bee, AVhen he hath shot his sting into your hand, May then play with your eye-lid. Duch. Good comfortable fellow, Persuade a wretch that's broke upon the wheel To have all his bones new set ; intreat him live To be executed again. Who must dispatch me ? I account this world a tedious theatre, For I do play a part in 't 'gainst my will. Bos. Come, be of comfort, I will save your life. DUCHESS OF MALFY. 197 Duch. Indeed 1 have not leisure to attend So small a business. I will go pray. — No : I '11 go curse. Bos. O lie. Duch. I could curse the stars : Bos. O fearful. Duch. And those three smiling seasons of the year Into a Russian winter : nay, the world To its first chaos. Plagues (that make lanes through largest families) Consume them.* Let them like tyrants Ne'er be remember'd but for the ill they've done. Let all the zealous prayers of mortified • Churchmen forget them. Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs, To punish them : go, howl them this ; and say, I long to bleed It is some mercy when men kill with speed. [Exit. Ferdinand enters. Ferd. Excellent, as I would wish : she's plagued in art. These presentations are but fram'd in wax, By the curious master in that quality Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them For true substantial bodies. Bos. Why do you do this ? Ferd. To bring her to despair. Bos. Faith, end here ; And go no further in your cruelty. Send her a penitential garment to put on Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her With beads and prayer books. Ferd. Damn her ; that body of her's, While that my blood ran pure in 't, was more worth Than that, which thou would 'st comfort, call'd a soul. I'll send her masques of common courtezans, Have her meat served up by bawds and ruffians, * Her Brothers. L99 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. And ('cause slio'll need be mad) I am resolv'd To remove forth the common hospital All the mad folk, and place them near her lodging 1 There let 'em practise together, sing, and dance, And act their gambols to the full o' the moon. She is kept waking with noises of Madmen ; and, at last, is strangled b$ common Executioners. Duchess. Cariola. Duch. What hideous noise was that ? Car. 'Tis the wild consort Of madmen, Lady : which your tyrant brother Hath placed about your lodging : this tyranny I think was nfver practis'd till this hour. Duch. Indeed I thank him ; nothing but noise and folly Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason And silence make me stark mad ; sit down, Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. Car. O 'twill increase your melancholy. Duch. Thou art deceived. To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. This is a prison ? Car. Yes : but thou shalt live To shake this durance off. Duch. Thou art a fool. The Robin-red-breast and the Nightingale Never live long in cages. Car. Pray, dry your eyes. What think you of, Madam ? Duch. Of nothing : When T muse thus, 1 sleep. Car. Like a madman, with your eyes open ? Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one anothe Jn the other world 1 Car. Yes, out of question. Duch. O that it were possible we might But hold some two days conference with the dead. From them 1 should learn somewhat I am sure DUCHESS OF MALFY. 199 I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle ; I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad : I am acquainted with sad misery, As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar; Necessity makes me sutler constantly, And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now ? Car. Like to your picture in the gallery ; A deal of life in show, but none in practice : Or rather, like some reverend monument Whose ruins are even pitied. Di/ch. Yery proper : And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight, To behold my tragedy : how now, What noise is that ? A Servant enters. Serv. I am come to tell you, Your brother hath intended you some sport. A great physician when the Pope was sick Of a deep melancholy, presented him With several sorts of madmen, which wild object (Being full of change and sport) forc'd him to laugh. And so th' imposthume broke : the selfsame cure The duke intends on you. Duch. Let them come in. Here follows a Dance of Madmen, with Music answerable thereto: af which Bosola (like an old Man) enters. Duch. Is he mad too ? Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. Duch. Ha : my tomb ? Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my deathbed : Gasping for breath : dost thou perceive me sick ? Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible. Duch. Thou art not mad sure : dost know me ? Bos. Yes. 200 KNCLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Dttch. Who am I ? Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed ; at best but a salvatory of green mummy. What's this flesh ? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in, more contemptible ; since ours is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage ? Such is the soul in the body : this world is like her little turf of grass ; and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small com- pass of our prison. Ditch. Am not I thy duchess ? Bos. Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milk-maid's. Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear : a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. Duch. I am Duchess of Malfy still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken : Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright ; But, look'd too near, have neither heat nor light. Buck. Thou art very plain. Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living. I am a tomb-maker. Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb ? Bos. Yes. Duch. Let me be a little merry. Of what stuff wilt thou make it ? Bos. Nay, resolve me first ; of what fashion ? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our death-bed ? Do we affect fashion in the grave ? Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven : but with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of the tooth-ache^ : they are not carved with their eyes fixed upon th( stars ; but, as their minds were wholly DUCHESS OF MALFY. 201 bent upon the world, the same way they seem to turn their faces. Buck. Let me know fully therefore the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk, fit for a charnel. Bos. Now I shall. [A Coffin, Cords, and a Bell, produced. Here is a present from your princely brothers ; And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. Duch. Let me see it, I have so much obedience in my blood, I wish it in their veins to do them good. Bos. This is your last presence chamber. Car. O my sweet lady. Duch. Peace, it affrights not me. Bos. I am the common bell-man, That usually is sent to condemn'd persons The night before they suffer. Duch. Even now thou saidst, Thou wast a tomb-maker. Bos. 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification : Listen. Dirge. Hark, now everything is still ; This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly d'on her shroud. Much you had of land and rent ; Your length in clay's now competent. A long war disturb'd your mind ; Here your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping ? Sin, their conception ; their birth, weeping: Th< ir life, a general mist of error, Their death, a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, D'on clean linen, bathe your feet ; 202 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless your neck. Dow full tide 'twoen night and day : End your groan, and come away. Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers : alas! What will you do with my lady ? Call for help. Duch. To whom ; to our next neighbors ? They are mad folks. Farewell, Cariola. I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrup for his cold ; and let the girl Say her pray'rs ere she sleep. — Now what you please ; Whal death ? Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. Duch. I forgive them. The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, Would do as much as thev do. Bos. Doth not death fright you ? Duch. Who would be afraid on 't, Knowing to meet such excellent company In th' other world. Bos. Yet methinks, The manner of your death should much afHict you ; This cord should terrify you. Duch. Not a whit. What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut "With diamonds ? or to be smothered With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ? I know, death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits ; and 'tis found They go on such strange geometrical hinges, You may open them both ways : any way: (for heav'n sake) So I were out of your whispering : tell my brothers, That I perceive, death (now I'm well awake) Best gift is, they can give or I can take. I would fain put off my last woman's fault ; I'd not be tedious to you. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength Must pull down heaven upon me. 3 OF MALFY 203 Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd As princes' palaces ; they that enter there Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep, Go tell my brothers ; when I am laid out, They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her kneeling. Ferdinand enters. Ferd. Is she dead ? Bos. She is what you would have her. Fix your eye here. Ferd. Constantly. Bos. Do you not weep ? Other sins only speak ; murder shrieks out. The element of water moistens the earth, But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens. Ferd. Cover her face : mine eyes dazzle : she died young. Bos. I think not so : her infelicity Seem'd to have years too many. Ferd. She and 1 were twins ; And should I die this instant, I had lived Her time to a minute.* * All the several parts of the dreadful apparatus with which the Duchess's death is usher'd in, are not more remote from the conceptions of ordinary vengeance, than the strange character of suffering which they seem to bring upon their victims, is beyond the imagination of ordinary poets. As they are not like inflictions of this life, so her language seems not of this world. She has lived among horrors till she is become " native and endowed unto that element " She speaks the dialect of despair, her tongue has a snatch of Tartarus and the souls in bale. — What are " Luke's iron crown," the brazen bull of Perillus, Procrustes' bed, to the waxen images which coun- terfeit death, to the wild mas ;ue of madmen, the tomb-maker, the bell- man, the living person's dirge, the mortification by degrees ! To move'a lt'ull\ . to touch a soul to the quick, to by upon fear as much as it can bear, to wean and wearj a life till it - to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to take its last forfeit : this only a Webster can do. Writers of an inferior genius may " upon horror's head horrors accumulate," but they cannot do this. They mistak- quantity for quality; they " terrify babes with painted devils," but they know not how a soul is capable of being moved ; their terrors want dignity, their affrightments are without • 204 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Single Life. fie upon this single life : forego it. \\Y read !i<>u Daphne, for her peevish flight, Became a fruitless bay-tree: Syrinx turn'd To the pale empty reed : Anaxarate Was frozen into marble ; whereas those Which married, or prov'd kind unto their friends, Were, by a gracious influence, trans-shap'd Into the olive, pomgranate, mulberry ; Became flowers, precious stones, or eminent stars. Fable. Upon a time, Reputation, Love, and Death, Would travel o'er the world : and 'twas concluded That they should part, and take three several ways. Death told them, they should find him in great battles, Or cities plagued with plagues : Love gives them counsel To inquire for him 'mongst unambitious shepherds, Where dowries were not talked of; and sometimes, 'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing left By their dead parents : stay, quoth Reputation ; Do not forsake me, for it is my nature, If once I part from any man I meet, 1 am never found again. Another. A Salmon, as she swam unto the sea, Met with a Dog-fish ; who encounters her With his rough language ; why art thou so bold To mix thyself with our high state of floods ? Being no eminent courtier, but one That for the calmest and fresh time of the year Dost live in shallow rivers, rank'st thyself With silly Smelts and Shrimps : — and darest thou Pass by our Dog-ship without reverence ? O (quoth the Salmon) sister, be at peace, Thank Jupiter we both have past the net. Our value never can be truly known, Till in the fisher's basket we be shown : THE WHITE DEVIL. 205 In the market then my price may be the higher ; Even when I am nearest to the cook and lire. So to great men the moral may be stretched : Men oft are valued high when they are most wretched. THE WHITE DEVIL: OR, VITTORIA COROMBOXA, A LADY OF VENICE. A TRAGEDY. BY JOHX WEBSTER.* The arraignment of Vittoria— Paulo Giordano Ursini, Duke of Brachi- ano,for (he love of Vittoria Corombona, a Venetian Lady, and at her suggestion*, causes her husband Camillo to be murdered. Suspicion falls upon Vittoria, who is tried at Rome, on a double charge of Mur- der and Incontinence, in the presence of Cardinal Monticelso, Cousin to the deceased Camillo ; Francisco de Medicis, Brother-in-Law to Brachiano ; the Embassadors of France, Spain, England, &fc. As the arraignment is b> ginning, the Duke confidently enters the Court. Mon. Forbear, my Lord, here is no place assign'd you : This business, by his holiness, is left To our examination. * The Author's Dedication to this Play is so modest, yet so conscious of self-merit withal, he speaks so frankly of the deservings of others, and by implication insinuates his own deserts so ingenuously, that I cannot forbear inserting it, as a specimen how a man may praise himself gracefully and commend others without suspicion of envy. " To the Reader. " In publishing this Tragedy, I do but challenge to myself that liberty which other men have taken before me ; not that I affect praise by it, for no* hcec novimus esse nihil; only since it was acted in so open and black a theatre, that it wanted (that which is the only grace and setting out of a tragedy) a full and understanding auditory; and that, since that time I have noted most of the people that come to that play-house resemble those igno- rant asses (who, visiting stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire for good books, but new books) I present it to the general view with this confidence, ..We rhnnens mcturs malignorum JVec seombris tunicas dabis molestas. If it be objected this is no true dramatic poem, I shall easily confess it, non potes in nugas ulcere plura meas, ipse ego quam dixi ; willingly, and not ignorantly, have I faulted. For should ^man present, to such an auditory, the most sententious tragedy that ever was written, observing all the critical 806 ENGLISH UkAMATIC POETS. Bra. May it thrive with you. Fra. A chair there for his lordship. [Lays a rich gown under him Bra. Forbear your kindness ; an unbidden guest Should travel as Dutch women go to church, Bear their stool with them. Mon. At your pleasure, Sir, Stand to the table, gentlewoman. — Now. Signior, Fall to your plea. Lawyer. Domine judex converte oculos in hanc pestem mulierum corrupt issimam. Vit. What 's he ? Fra. A lawyer, that pleads against you. Vit. Pray, my Lord, let him speak his usual tongue, I '11 make no answer else. Fra. Why, you understand Latin. laws, as height of style, and gravity of person, enrich it with the sententious chorus, and, as it were, enliven death, in the passionate and weighty Nun- tius: yel ; i iter all this divine rapture, O dura messorum ilia, the breath that comes from the uncapable multitude is able to poison it; and ere it be acted, let the author resolve to fix to every scene this of Horace : Hcec hodie porcis comedenda relinques. " To those who report I was a long time in finishing this Tragedy, I confess, I do not write with a goose-quill wing'd with two feathers : and if they will needs make it my fault, I must answer them with that of Euri- pides to Alcestides, a tragic writer: Alcestides objecting that Euripides had only, in three days, composed three verses, whereas himself had written three hundred: Thou tell'st truth (quoth he); but here's the difference, thine shall only be read for three days, whereas mine shall continue three ages. " Detraction is the sworn friend to ignorance: for mine own part, I have ever truly cherish'd my good opinion of other men's worthy labors, espe- cially of that full and heighten'd stile of Master Chapman, the labor'd and understanding works of Master Jonson, the no less worthy composures of the both worthily excellent Master Beaumont and Master Fletcher; and lastly (without wrong last to be named), the right happy and copious industry of Master Shakspeare, Master Decker, and Master Heywood, wish- ing what I write may be read by their light ; protesting, that in the strength of mine own judgment, I know them so worthy, that tho' I rest silent in my own work, yet to most of theirs, I dare (without flattery) to fix that ot Martial : nnn norunt htvr monumenta mori." THE WHITE DEVIL. 207 Vit. I do, Sir, but amongst this auditory Which come to hear my cause, the half or more May be ignorant in 't. Man. Go on, Sir. Vit. By your favor, I will not have my accusation clouded In a strange tongue : all this assembly Shall hear what you can charge me with. Fra. Signior, You need not stand on 't much ; pray, change your language. Mon. Oh, for God's sake ! gentlewoman, your credit Shall be more famous by it. Law. Well then have at you. Vit. I am the mark, Sir, I '11 give aim to you, And tell you how near you shoot. Law. Most lite rated judges, please your lordships So to connive your judgments to the view Of this debauch'd and diversivolent woman : Who such a concatenation Of mischief hath effected, that to extirp The memory of it, must be the consummation Of her and her projections. Vit. What 's all this ? Law. Hold your peace ! Exorbitant sins must have exulceration. Vit. Surely, my Lords, this lawyer hath swallowed Some apothecaries bills, or proclamations ; And now the hard and undigestible words Come up like stones we use give hawks for physic. Why, this is Welch to Latin. Law. My Lords, the woman Knows not her tropes, nor is perfect In the academick derivation Of grammatical elocution Fra. Sir, your pains Shall be well spared, and your deep eloquence Be worthily applauded among those Which understand you. 208 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Law. My good Lord. l'ra. Sir, Put up your papers in your fustian bag ; [Francisco speaks this as in scorn. Cry mercy, Sir, 'tis buckram, and accept My notion of your learn'd verbosity. Law. I most graduatically thank your lordship ; I shall have use for them elsewhere. Mon. (to Vittoria.) I shall be plainer with you, and paint out Your follies in more natural red and white, Than that upon your cheek. Vit. O you mistake, You raise a blood as noble in this cheek As ever was your mother's. Mon. I must spare you, till proof cry whore to that. Observe this creature here, my honor'd Lords, A woman of a most prodigious spirit. Vit. My honorable Lord, It doth not suit a reverend Cardinal To play the Lawyer thus. Mon. Oh your trade instructs your language. You see, my Lords, what goodly fruit she seems, Yet like those apples travellers report To grow where Sodom and Gomorrah stood, I will but touch her, and you straight shall see She '11 fall to soot and ashes. Vit. Your invenom'd apothecary should do 't. Mon. I am resolved, Were there a second paradise to lose, This devil would betray it. Vit. O poor charity, Thou art seldom found in scarlet. Mon. Who knows not how, when several night by night Her gates w< re choakt with coaches, and her rooms Outbrav'd the stars with several kinds of lights ; When she did counterfeit a Prince's court In music, banquets, and most riotous surfeits ; This whore forsooth was holy. THE WHITE DEVIL. 209 Vit. Ha ! whore ? what 's that ? Mon. Shall I expound whore to you? sure I shall. I 'II give their perfect character. They are first, Sweetmeats which rot the eater: In man's nostrils Poison 'd perfumes. They are cozening alchymy ; Shipwrecks in calmest weather. What are whores? Cold Russian winters, that appear so barren, As if that nature had forgot the spring. They are the true material fire of hell. Worse than those tributes i' th' low countries paid, Exactions upon meat, drink, garments, sleep ; Ay even on man's perdition, his sin. They are those brittle evidences of law, Which forfeit all a wretched man's estate For leaving out one syllable. What are whores ? They are those flattering bells have all one tune, At weddings and at funerals. Your rich whores Are only treasuries by extortion filPd, And empty'd by curs'd riot. They are worse, Worse than dead bodies, which are begg'd at th' gallows, A.nd wrought upon by surgeons, to teach man Wherein he is imperfect. What 's a whore ? She ; s like the guilt counterfeited coin, Which, whosoe'er first stamps it, brings in trouble All that receive it. Vit. This character 'scapes me. Mon. You, gentlewoman ? Take from all beasts and from all minerals Their deadly poison — Vit. Well, what then ? Mon. I '11 tell thee ; I '11 find in (bee an apothecary's shop, To sample them all. Fr. Emb. She hath lived ill. En. Emb. True, but the Cardinal 's too bitter, Mon. You know what whore is. Next the devil adult'ry, Enters the devil murder. part I. 15 21" ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Fra. Your unhappy husband Is dead. Vit. O he 's a happy husband, Now he owes Nature nothing. Fra. And by a vaulting engine. Mori. An active plot : 1 i" jumpt into his grave. Fra. What a prodigy was 't, That from sonic two yards high, a slender man Should break his neck ? Mon. Fth' rushes! Fra. And what 's more, Upon the instant lose all use of speech, All vital motion, like a man had lain Wound up three days. Now mark each circumstance. Mon. And look upon this creature was his wife. She comes not like a widow : she comes arm'd With scorn and impudence : is this a mourning-habit ? Vit. Had I foreknown his death as you suggest, 1 would have bespoke my mourning. Mon. O you are cunning ! Vit. You shame your wit and judgment, To call it so; what, is my just defence By him that is my judge call'd impudence ? Let me appeal then from this christian court To the uncivil Tartar. Mon. See, my lords, She scandals our proceedings. Vit. Humbly thus, Thus low. to the most worthy and respected Leiger embassadors, my modesty And woman-hood I tender ; but withall, So entangled in a cursed accusation, That my defence, of force, like Perseus, Must personate masculine virtue. To the point. Find me but guilty, sever head from body, We '11 part good friends : I scorn to hold my life At yours, or any man's intreaty, Sir. THE WHITE DEVIL. 211 En. Emb. She hath a brave spirit. Mon. Well, well, such counterfeit jewels Make true ones oft suspected. T7/. You are deceived ; For know, that all your strict combined heads, Which strike against this mine of diamonds, Shall prove but glassen hammers, they shall break. These are but feigned shadows of my evils. Terrify babes, my Lord, with painted devils ; I am past such needless palsy. For your names Of whore and murdress, they proceed from you, As if a man should spit against the wind The filth returns in 's face. Mon. Pray you, mistress, satisfy me one question : Who lodg'd beneath your roof that fatal night Your husband brake his neck ? Bra. That question Inforceth me break silence ; I was there. Mon. Your business ) Bra . Why, I came to comfort her, And take some course for settling her estate, Because I heard her husband was in debt To you, my Lord. Mon. He was. Bra. And 'twas strangely feard That you would cozen her. Mon. Who made you overseer ? Bra. Why, my charity, my charity, which should flow From every generous and noble spirit, To orphans and to widows. Mon. Your lust. Bra. Cowardly dogs bark loudest ! sirrah, priest, I'll talk with you hereafter. Do you hear ? The sword you frame of such an excellent temper, I'll sheath in your own bowels. There are a number of thy coat resemble Your common post-boy-. Mm. Ha ! il.lSil DR \M VTIC POETS. Bra. Your mere ;nary post-boys. ^ our letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise To till your mouths with gross and impudent lies. Servant. My Lord, your gown. Bra. Thou liest, 'twas my stool. Bestow 't uj>ou thy master, that will challenge The rest o' th' household stuff, for Brachiano ^ ;is ne'er so beggarly to take a stool Out of another's lodging : let him make Vallance for his bed on't, or demy foot-cloth For his most reverend moile. Monticelso, nemo me impune laces- sit. [Exit Brachiano. Mon. Your champion's gone. Vit. The wolf may prey the better. Fra. My Lord, there's great suspicion of the murder, But no sound proof who did it. For my part, I do not think she hath a soul so black To act a deed so bloody : if she have, As in cold countries husband-men plant vines, And with warm blood manure them, even so One summer she will bear unsavory fruit, And ere next spring wither both branch and root. The act of blood let pass, only descend To matter of incontinence. Vit. I discern poison Under your gilded pills. Mon. Now the Duke's gone I will produce a letter, Wherein twas plotted, he and you shall meet, At an apothecary's summer-house, Down by the river Tiber. View 't, my Lords j Where after wanton bathing and *he heat Of a lascivious banquet. — I pray read it. — I shame to speak the rest. Vit. Grant I was tempted ; Temptation proves not the act : Casta est quam nemo rogavit. You read his hot love to me, but you want My frosty answer. THE WHITE DEVIL. 213 Mon. Frost i' th' dog-days ! strange ! Vit. Condemn you me for that the Duke did love me ; So may you blame some fair and crystal river For that some melancholic distracted man Hath drown'd himself in 't. Mon. Truly drown'd, indeed. Vit. Sum up my faults, 1 pray, and you shall find, That beauty and gay clothes, a merry heart, And a good stomach to feast, are all, All the poor crimes that you can charge me with. In faith, my Lord, you might go pistol Hies, The sport would be more noble. Mon. Very good. Vit. But take you your course, it seems you've begg'd me first, And now would fain undo me. I have houses, Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes ; Would these would make you charitable. Mon. If the devil Did ever take good shape, behold his picture. Vit. You have one virtue left, You will not flatter me. Fra. Who brought this letter ? Vit. I am not compell'd to tell you. Mon. My Lord Duke sent to you a thousand ducats, The twelfth of August. Vit. 'Twas to keep your cousin* From prison, I paid use for 't. Mon. I rather think, 'Twas interest for his lust. Vit. Who says so but yourself? if you be my accuser, Pray cease to be my judge ; come from the bench, Give in your evidence against me, and let these Be moderators. My Lord Cardinal, Were your intelligencing ears as loving, As to my thoughts, had you an honest tongue, 1 would not care though you proclaim'd them all. Mon. Go to, go to. * Hei husband Camillo, who waa cousin to Monticelso. 214 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. After your goodly and vain-glorious banquet, I '11 give you a choak-pear. Vit. Of your own grafting ? Mmi. You were born in Venice, honorably descended From the Vittelli ; 'twas my cousin's fate, 111 may I name the hour, to marry you ; He bought you of your father. Vit. Ha! Mon. He spent there in six months Twelve thousand ducats, and (to my knowledge) Receiv'd in dowry with you not one julio. 'Twas a hard penny-worth, the ware being so light. I yet but draw the curtain, now to your picture : You came from thence a most notorious strumpet, And so you have continued. Vit. My Lord ! Mon. Nay hear me, You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano Alas ! I make but repetition, Of what is ordinary and Ryalto talk, And ballated, and would be plaid o' th' stage But that vice many times finds such loud friends, That preachers are charm'd silent. Your public fault, Join'd to th' condition of the present time, » Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity, Such a corrupted trial have you made Both of your life and beauty, and been styl'd No less an ominous fate, than blazing stars To Princes. Hear your sentence ; you are coniin'd Unto a house of converts. Vit. A house of converts! what's that? Mon. A house of penitent whores. Vit. Do the Noblemen in Rome Erect it for their wives, that I am sent To lodge there ? Fra. You must have patience. Vit. I must first have vengeance. o TUK UlillT. !JF.\ IL. 215 1 fain would know it' you have your salvation Bv patent; that you proceed thus. Man. Away with her, Take her hence. Vit. A rape ! a rape ! Mon. How ? Vit. Yes, you have ravish'd justice ; Forc'd her to do your pleasure. Mon. Fie, she 's mad ! Vit. Die with those pills in your most cursed maw, Should bring you health ! or while you set o' th' bench, Let your own spittle choak you ! Mon. She's turn'd fury. Vit. That the last day of judgment may so find you, And leave you the same Devil you were before ! Instruct me some good horse-leach to speak treason, For since you cannot take my life for deeds, Take it for words: O woman's poor revenge ! W Inch dwells but in the tongue. I will not weep. No ; I do scorn to call up one poor tear To fawn on your injustice ; bear me hence Unto this house of what's your mitigating title ? Mon. Of converts. Vit. It shall not be a house of converts ; My mind shall make it honester to me Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable Than thy soul, though thou art a Cardinal, Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spight, Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light.* * This White Devil of Italy sets off a bad cause so speciously, and pleads with such an innocence-resembling boldness, that we seem to see that matchless beauty of her face which inspires such gaj confidence into her ; and arc ready to expect, when she has done her pleadings, that her very judges, her accusers, the grave ambassadors who sit as spectators, and all the court, will rise and make proffer to defend her in spite of the utmost con- viction of her guilt : as the shepherds in Don Quixote make proffer tc follow the beautiful shepherdess Marcela " without reaping any proti out of her manifest resolution made there in their hearing." — So sweet and lovely does she make the shame, Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Does spot the beauty of her budding name ! 216 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Marcello and Flamineo, Sons to Cornelia, having quarrelled ; Flamineo s/ays his brother Marcello, tin ir mother being present. Cornelia. Marcello. Cor. I hear a whispering all about the court, ^ i'ii are to fight : who is your opposite ? What is the quarrel ? Mar. 'Tis an idle rumor. Cor. Will you dissemble? sure you do not well To fright me thus : you never look thus pale, But when you are most angry. I do charge you, Upon my blessing ; nay I'll call the Duke, And he shall school you. Mar. Publish not a fear, Which would convert to laughter : 'tis not so. Was not this crucifix my father's ? Cor. Yes. Mar. I have heard you say, giving my brother suck, He took the crucifix between his hands, And broke a limb off. Cor. Yes ; but 'tis mended. Flamineo enters. Fla. I have brought your weapon back. [Flamineo runs Makcello througn. Cor. Ha, oh my horror ! Mar. You have brought it home, indeed. Cor. Help, oh he's murder'd ! Fla. Do you turn your gall up ? I'll to the sanctuary, And send a surgeon to you. [Exit Flam. Hoetensius (an Officer) enters. Hor. How, o' th' ground ? Mar. O mother, now remember what I told Of breaking off the crucifix. Farewell. There are some sins, which heaven doth duly punish In a whole family. This it is to rise By all dishonest means. Let all men know, , IL. 217 That tree shall long time keep a steady foot, Whose branches spread no wider than the root. Cor. O my perpetual sorrow ! Hor. Virtuous Marcello ! He's dead. Pray leave him, lady : come, you shall. Cor. Alas ! he is not dead ; he's in a trance. Why, here's nobody shall get anything by his death. Let me call him again, for God's sake ! Hor. I would you were deceived. Cor. O you abuse me, you abuse me, you abuse me ! How many have gone away thus, for lack of 'tendance ! Rear up 's head, rear up 's head ; his bleeding inward will kill him. Hor. You see he is departed. Cor. Let me come to him ; give me him as he is ; if he be turn'd to earth, let me but give him one hearty kiss, and you shall put us both into one coffin. Fetch a looking- glass, see if his breath will not stain it ; or pull out some feathers from my pillow, and lay them to his lips : will you lose him for a little pains taking ? Hor. Your kindest office is to pray for him. Cor. Alas ! I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i' th' ground, and pray for me, if you'll let me come to him. The Duke enters with Flamineo, and Page. Bra. Was this your handy- work ? Fla. It was my misfortune. Cor. He lies, he lies; he did not kill him: these have kill'd him, that would not let him be better look'd to. Bra. Have comfort, my griev'd mother. Cor. O yon' screech-owl ! Hor. Forbear, good Madam. Cor. Let me go, let me go. [She runs to Flamineo with her knife draivn, and coming to him. lets il fall. The God of heaven forgive thee. Dost not wonder I pray for thee ? I'll tell thee what's the reason ; 818 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 1 have scarce breath to number twenty minutes; I'd not spend that in cursing. Fare thee well : Half of thyself lies there : and may'st thou live * To fill an hour-glass with his moulder'd ashes, To tell how thou should 'st spend the time to come In blest repentance. Bra. Mother, pray tell ine How came he by his death ? what was the quarrel ? Cor. Indeed, my younger boy presum'd too much Upon his manhood, gave him bitter words, Drew his sword first ; and so, I know not how, For I was out of my wits, he fell with 's head Just in my bosom. Page. This is not true, Madam. Cor. I pr'ythee peace. One arrow 's graz'd already : it were vain To lose this, for that will ne'er be found again. ****** Francisco describes to Flamineo the grief of Cornelia at the funeral of Marceelo. Your reverend Mother Is grown a very old woman in two hours. I found them winding of Marcello's corse : And there is such a solemn melody, 'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies : Such as old grandames, watching by the dead, Were wont to outwear the nights with ; that, believe me, I had no eyes to guide me forth the room, They were so o'ercharg'd with water. Funeral Dirge for Mar cello. [His mother sings it. Call for the Robin- red-breast and the Wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. THE WHITE DEVIL. 219 Call unto his funeral dole The Ant, the Field-mouse, and the Mole, To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm ; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again.* Folded Thoughts. Come, come, my Lord, unite your folded thoughts, And let them dangle loose as a bride's hair. Your sister 's poison'd. Dying Princes. To see what solitariness is about dying Princes ! As heretofore they have unpeopled towns, divorced friends, and made great houses unhospitable ! so now, O justice ! where are their flatterers now ? flatterers are but the shadows of princes' bodies, the least thick cloud makes them invisible. Natural Death. O thou soft natural death ! that art joint twin To sweetest slumber ! — no rough-bearded Comet Stares on thy mild departure ; ihe dull Owl Beats not against thy casement ; the hoarse Wolf Scents not thy carrion. Pity winds thy corse, Whilst horror waits on princes' Vow of Murder rebuked Miserable creature, If thou persist in this 'tis damnable. Dost thou imagine thou canst slide on blood, And not be tainted with a shameful fall ? Or like the black and melancholic yew-tree, Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves And yet to prosper ! * I never saw anything like this Dir«e, exc -;>t the Ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned lather in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery ; so this is of the earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of fee' ■ ing, which seems to resolve itself into the elements which it contemplates. 220 ENGLISH DRAMATJC POETS. Dying Man. See see how firmly he doth fix his eyes Upon the crucifix. Oh hold it constant. It settles his wild spirits : and so his eyes Melt into tears. Despair. O the cursed Devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice candied o'er ; despair, with gall and stibium, Yet we carouse it ofF. END OP PART I. TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. JOHN FORD. PAGE THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY 1 THE ladies' TRIAL 3 love's sacrifice 4 perkin warbeck 'tis pity she's a whore 10 the broken heart 1' SAMUEL DANIEL. Hymen's triumph 29 FULKE GREVILLE. alah am 34 mustapha 45 BEN. JONSON. THE CASE IS ALTERED 58 POETASTER "0 SEJANTJS. ,u 19. SAD SHEPHERD ' a 7t CATILINE no NEW INN 84 ALCHEMIST 91 VOLPON E FRANCIS BEAUMONT. THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 1UU vi PREFACE. FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. PAGK THE maid's TRAGEDY , 103 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES A BLEEDING 110 CUPID's REVENGE 120 JOHN FLETCHER. the faithful shepherdess 125 the false one 128 love's pilgrimage 142 BONDUC A 146 THE BLOODY BROTHER ; OR, ROLLO 149 THIERRY AND THEODORET ] 52 WIT WITHOUT MONEY . : 158 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN 161 PHILIP MASSINGER. THE CITY MADAM 172 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS 176 THE PICTURE 179 THE PARLIAMENT OF LOVE 182 A VERY WOMAN; OR, THE PRINCE OF TARENT 1S5 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT 187 PHILIP MASSINGER AND THOMAS DECKER. THE VIRGIN MARTYR 189 PHILIP MASSINGER AND NATHANIEL FIELD. THE FATAL DOWRY 191 PHILIP MASSINGER, THOMAS MIDDLETON, AND "WILLIAM ROWLEY. THE OLD LAW 194 GEORGE CHAPMAN AND JAMES SHIRLEY. PHILIP CHABOT, ADMIRAL OF FRANCE 201 JAMES SHIRLEY. the maid's revenge 207 THE POLITICIAN 217 THE BROTHERS 220 THE LADY OF PLEASURE 227 SPECIMENS OF ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS, THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. BY JOHN FORD. Contention of a Bird and a Musician. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Which poets of an elder time have feign'd To glorify their Tempe, bred in me Desire of visiting that paradise. To Thessaly I came, and living private, Without acquaintance of more sweet companions Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, I day by day frequented silent groves, And solitary walks. One morning early This accident encounter'd me : I heard The sweetest and most ravishing contention That art or nature ever were at strife in. A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather Indeed entranc'd my soul : as I stole nearer, Invited by the melody, I saw This youth, this fair fac'd youth, upon his lute With strains of strange variety and harmony Proclaiming (as it seem'd) so bold a challenge To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds, That as they flocked about him. all stood silent WoncTrino; at what they heard. I wonder'd too. A Nightingale, PART II. 2 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Nature's best skill 'd musician, undertakes The challenge ; and, for every several strain The well-shap'd youth could touch, she sung her down ; He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument, than she The nightingale did with her various notes Reply to. Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Into a pretty anger ; that a bird, Whom art had never taught clifls, moods, or notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Had busied many hours to perfect practice : To end the controversy, in a rapture, Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, So many voluntaries, and so quick, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of diff'ring method Meeting in one full centre of delight. The bird (ordained to be Music' 's first martyr) strove to imitate These several sounds : which when her warbling throat Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness, To see the conqueror upon her hearse To weep a funeral elegy of tears. He looks upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, and cried, " Alas, poor creature, I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it. Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end ;" and in that sorrow, As he was pashing it against a tree, 1 suddenly stept in. [This Story, which is originally to be met with in Strada's Prolusions, has been paraphrased in rhyme by Crashaw, Ambrose Phillips, and others. but none of those versions can at all compare for harmony and grace with this blank verse of Ford's ; Tt is as fine as anything in Beaumont and Fletch er ; and almost equals the strife which it celebrates.] THE LADIES TRIAL. THE LADIES TRIAL. BY JOHN FORD. Auria, in the possession of Honors, Preferment, Fame, can find no peace in his mind while he thinks his Wife unchaste. Auria. Aurelio. Anna. Count of Savona, Genoa's Admiral, Lord Governor of Corsica, enroll'd A Worthy of my country, sought and sued to, Prais'd, courted, flatter'd ! — My triumphs Are echoed under every roof, the air Is streightned with the sound, there is not room Enough to brace them in ; but not a thought Doth pierce into the grief that cabins here : Here through a creek, a little inlet, crawls A flake no bigger than a sister's thread, Which sets the region of my heart a fire. [ had a kingdom once, but am depos'd From all that royalty of blest content, By a confed'racy 'twixt love and frailty. Aurelio. Glories in public view but add to misery, Which travails in unrest at home. Auria. At home ! That home, Aurelio speaks of, I have lost : And which is worse, when I have roll'd about, Toil'd like a pilgrim, round this globe of earth, Wearied with care, and over-worn with age, Lodg'd in the grave, I am not yet at home. There rots but half of me : the other part Sleeps, heaven knows where. Would she and I, my wife I mean, but what, alas, talk I of wife ? The woman, would we had together fed On any out-cast parings coarse and mouldy, Not liv'd divided thus ! ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. LOVE'S SACRIFICE; A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FORD. Biancha, Wife to Caraffa, Duke of Pavia, loves and is loved by Fer- nando the Duke's favorite. She long resists his importunate suit', at length she enters the room where he is sleeping and awakens him, to hear her confession of her love for him. Biancha. Ferdinand, sleeping. Bian. Resolve, and do ; 'tis done. What, are those eyes, Which lately were so over-drown 'd in tears, So easy to take rest ? O happy man, How sweetly sleep hath seal'd up sorrows here ! But I will call him : what, my Lord, my Lord, My Lord Fernando Fer. Who calls? Bian. My Lord : Sleeping, or waking ? Fer. Ha, who is 't ? Bian. 'Tis I : Have you forgot my voice ? or is your ear But useful to your eye 1 Fer. Madam the Duchess ! Bian. She, 'tis she ; sit up : Sit up and wonder, whiles my sorrow swell : The nights are short and I have much to say. Fer. Is 't possible 'tis you ? Bian. 'Tis possible : Why do you think I come ? Fer. Why ? to crown joys, And make me master of my best desires. Bian. 'Tis true, you guess aright ; sit up and listen. With shame and passion now I must confess, Since first mine eyes beheld you, in my heart You have been only king. If there can be A violence in love, then I have felt That tyranny ; be record to my soul The justice which I for this folly fear. Fernando, in short words, howe'er my tongue Did often chide thy love, each word thou spak'st LOVE'S SACRIFICE. Was music to my ear : was never poor Poor wretched woman liv'd, that lov'd like me ; So truly, so unfeignedly. Fer. Oh Madam Bian. To witness that I speak is truth, look here ; Thus singly I adventure to thy bed, And do confess my weakness : if thou tempt'st My bosom to thy pleasures, I will yield. Fer, Perpetual happiness ! Bian. Now hear me out : When first CarafFa, Pavy's Duke, my Lord, Saw me, he lov'd me, and (without respect Of dower) took me to his bed and bosom, Advanc'd me to the titles I possess, Not mov'd by counsel, or remov'd by greatness: Which to requite, betwixt my soul and heaven I vow'd a vow to live a constant wife. I have done so : nor was there in the world A man created, could have broke that truth, For all the glories of the earth, but thou, But thou, Fernando. Do I love thee now ? Fer. Beyond imagination. Bian. True, I do, Beyond imagination : if no pledge Of love can instance what T speak is true, But loss of my best joys, here, here, Fernando, Be satisfied and ruin me. Fer What do you mean ? Bian. To give my body up to thy embraces ; A pleasure that I never wish'd to thrive in Before this fatal minute : mark me now ; If thou dost spoil me of this robe of shame. By my best comforts here, I vow again, To thee, to heaven, to the world, to time, Ere vet the morning shall new christen day, I Ml kill myself. Fer. How, Madam, how ? Bian. I will : ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Do what thou wilt, 'tis in thy choice ; what say ye ? Fer. Pish, do you come to try me ? tell me first, < Will you but grant a kiss ? Bian. Yes, take it ; that, Or what thy heart can wish : I am all thine. Fer. Oh me come, come, how many women, pray, Were ever heard or read of, granted love, And did as you protest you will ? Bian. Fernando! [Kneels. Jest not at my calamity : I kneel : By these dishcvel'd hairs, these wretched tears, By all that 's good, if what I speak, my heart Vows not eternally ; then think, my Lord, Was never man sued to me I denied, Think me a common and most cunning whore, And let my sins be written on my grave, My name rest in reproof. Do as you list. Fer. I must believe ye ; yet I hope anon, When you are parted from me, you will say I was a good cold easy-spirited man, Nay, laugh at my simplicity : say, will ye ? Bian. No ; by the faith I owe my bridal vows : But ever hold thee much much dearer far Than all my joys on earth ; by this chaste kiss. Fe% You have prevailed : and heaven forbid that I Should by a wanton appetite profane This sacred temple. 'Tis enough for me, You'll please to call me servant. Bian. Nay, be thine : Command my power, my bosom, and I'll write This love within the tables of my heart. Fer. Enough : I'll master passion, and triumph In being conquer'd, adding to it this, J a you my love as it begun shall end. Bian. The latter I new vow but day comes on : What now we leave unfinished of content, Each hour shall perfect up. Sweet, let us part. Fer. Best Life, good rest. PERK IN WARHECK. THE CHRONICLE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. BY JOHN FORD. Perkin Warbeck and his Followers are by Lord Dawbney presented to Sing Henry us Prisoners. Dawh. Life to the King, and safety fix his throne. I here present you, royal Sir, a shadow Of majesty, but in effect a substance Of pity ; a young man, in nothing grown To ripeness, but th' ambition of your mercy : Perkin ; the christian world's strange wonder ! King H. Dawbney, We observe no wonder ; I behold ('tis true) An ornament of nature, fine, and polisht, A handsome youth indeed, but not admire him. How came he to thy hands ? Datcb. From sanctuary At Bewley, near Southampton ; registrecf, With these few followers, for persons privileged. King H. I must not thank you, Sir ; you were to blame To infringe the liberty of houses sacred : Dare we be irreligious ? Dawb. Gracious Lord, They voluntarily resign'd themselves, Without compulsion. King H. So 1 'twas very well ; 'Twas very well. Turn now thine eyes, Young man, upon thyself and thy past actions. What revels in combustion through our kingdom A frenzy of aspiring youth hath danced : Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt To break thy neck. Warb. But not my heart : my heart Will mount, till every drop of blood be frozen By death's perpetual winter. If the sun Of majesty be darkned, let the sun Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse Lasting, and universal. Sir; remember, KMJLISI1 UKAMATIC POETS. There was a shooting in of light, when Richmond (Not aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly, For comfort to the Duke of Bretagne's Court. Richard, who sway'd the sceptre, was reputed A tyrant then ; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd To some few wand'ring remnants, promising day, When lirst thej ventur'don a frightful shore, \i Milford Haven. Dawb. Whither speeds his boldness ? Check his rude tongue, great Sir. King H. O let him range : The player ; s on the stage still ; 'tis his part : He does but act. What follow'd ? Warb. Bosworth field : V\'h< .■]■■• at an instant, to the world's amazement, A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard Appear'd at once. The tale is soon applied : Fate which crown'd these attempts, when least assured, Might have befriended others, like resolved. King H. A pretty gallant ! thus your Aunt of Burgundy, Your Duchess Aunt, inform'd her nephew • so The lesson prompted, and well conn'd, was moulded Into familiar dialogue, oft rehears'd, Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now received for truth. Warb. Truth in her pure simplicity wants art To put a feigned blush on ; scorn wears only Such fashion, as commends to gazers' eyes Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath The sphere of majesty : in such a court Wisdom and gravity are proper robes, By which the sovereign is best distinguish 'd From zanies to his greatness. King H. Sirrah, shift Your antick pageantry, and now appear In your own nature ; or you '11 taste the danger Of fooling out of season. Warb. I expect No less than what severity calls justice, PERKIN WARBECK. And politicians safety ; let such beg, As feed on alms : but if there can be mercy In a protested enemy, then may it Descend to these poor creatures,* whose engagements To the bettering of their fortunes, have incurr'd A loss of all : to them if any charity Flow from some noble orator, in death I owe the fee of thankfulness. King H. So brave ? "What a bold knave is this ! We trifle time with follies. Urswick, command the Dukeling, and these fellows, To Digb.y, the Lieutenant of the Tower : With safety let them be convey'd to London. li is our pleasure, no uncivil outrage, Taunts, or abuse, be suffer'd to their persons : They shall meet fairer law than they deserve. Time may restore their wits, whom vain ambition Hath many years distracted. Warb. Noble thoughts Meet freedom in captivity. The Tower : Our childhood's dreadful nursery ! King H. Was ever so much impudence in forgery ? The custom sure of being styl'd a King, Hath fast'ned in his thoughts that he is such. Wnrbcck is led to his Death. Oxford. Look ye, behold your followers, appointed To wait on ye in death. Warb. Why, Peers of England, We '11 lead 'em on courageously. I read A triumph over tyranny upon Their several foreheads. Faint not in the moment Of victory ! our ends, and Warwick's head, Innocent Warwick's head (for we are prologue But to his tragedy), conclude the wonder Of Henry's fears : and then the glorious race ' His Followers 10 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Of fourteen kings Plantagenets, determines In this last issue male. Heaven be obey'd. Impoverish time of its amazement, friends : And we will prove as trusty in our payments, As prodigal to nature in our debts. Death ! pish, 'tis but a sound ; a name of air ; A minute's storm ; or not so much ; to tumble From bed to bed, be massacred alive By some physicians for a month or two, In hope of freedom from a fever's torments, Might stagger manhood ; here, the pain is past Ere sensibly 'tis felt. Be men of spirit ; Spurn coward passion : so illustrious mention Shall blaze our names, and style us Kings o'er Death. 'TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE: A TRAGEDY, BY JOHN FORD. Giovanni, a Young Gentleman of Parma, entertains an illicit love for his Sister. He asks counsel of Bonaventura, a Friar * Friar. Giovanni. Friar. Dispute no more in this, for know, young man, These are no school-points ; nice philosophy May tolerate unlikely arguments, But heaven admits no jests ! wits that presumed On wit too much, by striving how to prove There was no God, with foolish grounds of art, Discover'd first the nearest way to hell ; And fill'd the world with devilish atheism. Such questions, youth, are fond ; far better 'tis To bless the sun, than reason why it shines ; Yet he thou talk's! of is above the sun. No more ; I may not hear it. Gio. Gentle father, * The good Friar in this Play is evidently a Copy of Friar Lav,»^nce in Romeo and Juliet. He is the same kind Physician to the Souls of his young Charges ; but he has more desperate Patients to deal with. 'TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE. 21 To you have I unclasp'd my burthen'd soul, Emptied the store-house of my thoughts and heart, Made myself poor of secrets; have notlefl Another word untold, which hath not spoke All what I ever durst, or think, or know; And yet is here the comfort I shall have ? Must I not do what all men else may, love ? Friar. Yes, you may love, fair son. Gio. .Must I not praise That beauty which, if framed anew, the Gods Would make a God of, if they had it there ; Ami kneel to it, as I do kneel to them ? Friar. Why, foolish madman ! Gio. Shall a peevish sound, A customary form, from man to man, Of brother and of sister, be a bar 'Twixt my perpetual happiness and me ? Friar. Have done, unhappy youth, for thou art lost. Gio. No, father : in your eyes I see the change Of pity and compassion : from your age, As from a sacred oracle, distils The life of counsel. Tell me, holy man, What euro shall give me ease in these extremes? Friar. Repentance, son, and sorrow for this sin : For thou hast moved a majesty above With thy unguarded almost blasphemy. Gio. O do not speak of that, dear confessor. Friar. Art thou, my son, that miracle of wit, Who once within these three months wert esteem'd A wonder of thine age throughout Bononia ? How did the university applaud Thy government, behavior, learning, speech, Sweetness, and all that could make up a man ! I was proud of my tutelage, and chose Rather to leave my books than part with thee. I did so ; but the fruits of all my hopes Are lost in thee, as thou art in thy O Giovanni, hast thou left the schools ENGLISH I" POETS. Of knowledge, to converse with lust and death ? For death waits on tiiy lust. Look through the world, And thou shalt sec a thousand faces shine More glorious than this idol thou adorest. Leave her and take thy choice ; 'tis much less sin : Though in such games as those they lose that win. Gio. It were more ease to stop the ocean From flows and ebhs, than to dissuade my vows. Friar. Then I have done, and in thy wilful flames Already see thy ruin ! heaven is just. Yet hear my counsel ! Gio. As a voice of life. Friar. Hie to thy father's house, there lock thee fast Alone within thy chamber, then fall down On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground ; Cry to thy heart, wash every word thou utter'st In tears, and (if 't be possible) of blood : Beg heaven to cleanse the leprosy of lust That rots thy soul ; acknowledge what thou art, A wretch, a worm, a nothing : weep, sigh, pray Three times a day, and three times every night ; For seven days' space do. this, then, if thou find'st No change in thy desires, return to me ; I "11 think on remedy. Pray for thyself At home, whilst I pray for thee here ; away. My blessing with thee we have need to pray. Giovanni discloses his Passion to his Sister Annabel la. — They compare their unhappy Loves. Anna. Do you mock me, or flatter me ? [He has been praising her beauty. Gio. If you would see a beauty more exact Than art can counterfeit, or nature frame, Look in your glass and there behold your own. Anna. O you are a trim youth. Gio. Here. [Offers his dagger to her. Anna. What to do ? Gio. And here 's my In-east. Strike home, Rip up my bosom ; tin re thou shalt behold PITY \ WHORE. H A heart, in which is writ the truth I speak. Why stand you ? Anna. Are you in earnest ? Gio. Yes, most earnest. You cannot love. Anna. Whom 1 Gio. Me. My tortur'd soul Hath felt affliction in the heat of death. Annabella, I am quite undone. The love of thee, my sister, and the view Of thy immortal beauty, have untuned All harmony both of my rest and life. Why do you not strike ? Anna. Forbid it, my just fears. If this be true 'twere fitter I were dead. Gio. True, Annabella ! 'tis no time to jest ; 1 have too long suppress'd my hidden flames, That almost have consum'd me : I have spent Many a silent night in sighs and groans, Ran over all my thoughts, despis'd my fate, Reason'd against the reasons of my love, Done all that smooth-cheek'd virtue could advise. But found all bootless : 'tis my destiny That you must either love, or I must die. Anna. Comes this in sadness from you ? Gio. Let some mischief Befall me soon, if I dissemble aught. Anna. You are my brother, Giovanni. Gio. You My sister, Annabella, I know this : And could afford you instance why to love So much the more for this. — He gives some sophistical Reasons and resumes Must I now live or die ? Anna. Live : thou hast won The field, and never fought. What thou hast urg'd, .My captive heart had long ago resolv'd. 14 [.I'll DR \M.\TIC POETS. I blush to tell thee (but 1 tell thee now) For every sigh thai thou hasl spent for me, I have sigh'd ten : for ev< ry t ar *\\>'t\ twenty: And nol so much for thai I lov'd, as that I durst not say 1 lov'd. nor scarcely think it. Gio. Let nol this music be a dream, ye gods, For pity's sake I beg Ann <. '• >n m\ kne< s, [She kneels. Brother. ev( n by our mother's dust, I charge you, Do not betray me to your mirth or hate ; Love me, or kill me, brother. Gio. On my knee . [He kneels. Sister, even by my mother's dust, I charge you, Do not betray me to your mirth or hate; Love me, or kill me, sister. Anne. You mean good sooth, then ? Gio. In good truth I do ; And so do you. I hope: say, I'm in earnest. Anna. I'll swear it ; and I. Gio. And I. I would not change this minute for Elysium. Annabcl/a proven pregnant by her Brother. Sorano, her Husband, to whom she is newly married, discovers that she is pregnant, but cannot make her confess by whom. At length by means of Vasques, his ser- vant, he comes to the truth of it. He feigns forgiveness and reconcile men' with his Wife: and makes a sumptuous Feast to which are in- vited A nnabella's old Father, with Giovanni, and all the chief Citizens in Parma; meaning to entrap Giovanni by that bait to his death.- Annabella suspects his drift. Giovanni. Annabella. Gio. What, chang'd so soon ? does the fit come on you, to prove treacherous To your past vows and oaths ? Anna. Why should you jest At my calamity, without all sense Of the approaching dangers you are in ? Gio. What danger's half so great as thy revolt ? 'TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE. 15 Thou art a faithless sister, else thou know'st, Malice or any treachery beside Would stoop to my bent brows : why, I hold fate Clasp'd in my fist, and could command the course Of time's eternal motion, had'st thou been One thought more steady than an ebbing sea. Anna. Brother, dear brother, know what I have been; And know that now there's but a dining time 'Twixt us and our confusion : let's not waste These precious hours in vain and useless speech. Alas, these gay attires were not put on But to some end ; this sudden solemn feast Was not ordain'd to riot and expense ; 1 that have now been chamber'd here alone, Barr'd of my guardian, or of any else, Am not for nothing at an instant freed To fresh access. Be not deceiv'd, my brother ; This banquet is a harbinger of death To you and me ; resolve yourself it is, And be prepar'd to welcome it. Gio. Well then, The schoolmen teach that all this globe of earth Shall be consumed to ashes in a minute. Anna. So I have read too. Gio. But 'twere somewhat strange To see the waters burn. Could I believe This might be true, I could believe as well There might be hell or heaven. Anna. That's most certain. But Good brother, for the present, how do you mean To free yourself from danger ? some way think How to escape. I'm sure the guests are come. Gio. Look up, look here : what see you in my face ? Anna. Distraction and a troubled conscience. Gio. Death and a swift repining wrath yet look, What see you in mine eyes ? Anna. Methinks you weep. Gio. I do indeed : these are the funeral tears 16 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Shed on your grave : these furrow'd up my cheeks, When first I lov'd and knew not how to woo. Fair Annabella, should I here repeat The story of my life, we might lose time. Be record all the spirits of the air, And all things else that are, that day and night, Early and late, the tribute which my heart Hath paid to Annabella's sacred love, Hath been these tears which are her mourners now. Never till now did Nature do her best, To show a matchless beauty to the world, Which in an instant, ere it scarce was seen, The jealous destinies requir'd again. Pray, Annabella, pray ; since we must part, Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne Of innocence and sanctity in heaven. Pray, pray, my sister. Anna. Then I see your drift. Ye blessed angels, guard me ! Gio. Give me your hand. How sweetly life doth run In these well-color'd veins ! how constantly This pulse doth promise health ! But I could chide With Nature for this cunning flattery ! Forgive me. Anna. With my heart. Gio. Farewell. Anna. Will you be gone ? Gio. Be dark, bright sun, And make this mid-day night, that thy gilt rays May not behold a deed, will turn their splendor More sooty than the poets feign their Styx. Anna. What means this 1 \ Stabs her. Gio. To save thy fame. Thus die, and die by me, and by my hand ; Revenge is mine, honor doth love command. Anna. Forgive him, heaven, and me my sins. Farewell. Brother unkind, unkind • [Dies. THE BROKEN HEART. 17 [Sir Thomas Browne, in the last Chapter of his Enquiries into \ and Common Errors, rebukes such Authors as have chosen to relate pro- digious and nameless Sins. The Chapter is entitled, Of some Relations whose Truth we fear. His reasoning is solemn and fine. — " Lastly, as there are many Relations whereto we cannot assent, and make some doubt thereof, so there are divers others whose verities we fear, and heartily wish there were no truth therein. Many other accounts like these we meet sometimes in History, scandalous unto Christianity, and even unto humanity; whose not only verities but relations honest minds do deprecate. For of sins heteroclital, and such as want either name or precedent, there is oft-times a sin even in their histories. We desire no records of such enormities; sins should be accounted new, that so they may be esteemed monstrous. They omit of monstrosity, as they fall from their rarity ; for men count it venial to err with their forefathers, and foolishly conceive they divide a sin in its society. The pens of men may sufficiently expatiate without these singularities of villainy : for, as they increase the hatred of vice in some, so do they enlarge the theory of wickedness in all. And this is one thing that may make latter ages worse than were the former : for the vicious example of ages past, poison the curiosity of these present, afl'ord- ing a hint of sin unto seduceable spirits, and* soliciting those unto the imitation of them, whose heads were never so perversely principled as to invent them. In things of this nature silence commendeth History; 'tis the \eniable part of things lost, wherein there must never rise a Pancirol- lus* nor remain any register but that of Hell."] THE BROKEN HEART. A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FORD. Ithocles loves Calantha, Princess of Sparta ; and would have his sister Penthea plead for him with the Princess. She objects to him her own wretched condition, made miserable by a Match, into which he forced her with Bassanes, ichen she teas precontracted by her dead Father's Will, and by inclination, to Orgilus ; but at last she consents. Ithocles. Penthea. Ith. Sit nearer, sister, to me, nearer yet ; We had one father, in one womb took life, Were brought up twins together, yet have liv'd At distance like two strangers. I could wish, That the first pillow whereon I was cradled Had proved to me a grave. Who wrote De Antiquis Deperditis, or the Lost Inventions of Antiquity. PART II. 3 18 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS Pen. You had been happy : Then had you never known that sin of life Which blots all following glories with a vengeance ; For forfeiting the last will of the dead, From whom you had your being. Ith. Sad Penthea, Thou canst not be too cruel ; my rash spleen Hath with a violent hand pluck'd from thy bosom A lover-blest heart, to grind it into dust ; For which mine's now a breaking. Pen. Not yet, heaven, I do beseech thee : first let some wild fires Scorch, not consume it ; may the heat be cherish 'd With desires infinite but hopes impossible. Ith. Wrong'd soul, thy prayers are heard. Pen. Here, lo. I breathe, A miserable creature, led to ruin By an unnatural brother. Ith. I consume In languishing affections for that trespass, Yet cannot die. Pen. The handmaid to the wages, The untroubled* of country toil, drinks streams, With leaping kids, and with the bleating lambs, And so allays her thirst secure ; while I Quench my hot sighs with fleetings of my tears. Ith. The laborer doth eat his coarsest bread, Earn'd with his sweat, and lies him down to sleep ; While every bit I touch turns in digestion To gall, as bitter as Penthea's curse. Put me to any penance for my tyranny, And I will call thee merciful. Pen. Pray kill me ; Rid me from living with a jealous husband ; Then we will join in friendship, be again Brother and sister * A word seems defective here. THE BROXE J HEART. Ith. After my victories abroad, at home [ meet despair ; ingratitude of nature Hath made my actions monstrous : Thou shalt stand A deity, my sister, and be worsbipp'd For thy resolved martyrdom ; wrong'd maids And married wives shall to thy hallow'd shrine Offer their orisons, and sacrifice Pure turtles crown'd with mirtle, if thy pity Unto a yielding brother's pressure lend One finger but to case it. Pen. O no more. Ith. Death waits to waft me to the Stygian banks, And free me from this cbaos of my bondage ; And till thou wilt forgive, I must endure. Pen. Who is the saint you serve ? Ith. Friendship, or nearness Of birth, to any but my sister, durst not Have mov'd that question : as a secret, sister, I dare not murmur to myself. Pen. Let me, By your new protestations I conjure ye, Partake her name. Ith. Her name 'tis 'tis — I dare not — Pen. All your respects are forg'd. Ith. They are not — Peace. — Calantha is the princess, the king's daughter, Sole heir of Sparta. Me most miserable Do I now love thee ? For my injuries, Revenge thyself with bravery, and gossip My treasons to the king's ears. Do ; Calantha Knows it not yet, nor Prophilus my nearest. Pen. Suppose you were contracted to her, would it not Split even your very soul to see her father Snatch her out of your arms against her will, And force her on the Prince of Argos ? Ith. Trouble not The fountains of mine eyes with thine own story : I sweat in blood for 't. 20 DR \. MA TIC POETS. Pen. We are reconciled. Alas, Sir, being children, but two branches Of one stock, 'tis not fit we should divide. Have comfort, you may find it. Ith. Yes, in thee, Only in thee, Penthea mine. Pen. If sorrows Have not too much dull'd my infected brain, I'll cheer invention for an active strain. Penthea recommends her Brother as a dying bequest to the Princess. Calantha. Penthea. Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted The opportunity you sought, and might At all times have commanded. Pen. 'Tis a benefit Which I shall owe your goodness even in death lor. My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes Remaining to run down ; the sands are spent ; For by an inward messenger I feel The summons of departure short and certain. Cal. You feed too much your melancholy. Pen. Glories Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams And shadows soon decaying : on the stage Of my mortality my youth hath acted Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length ; By varied pleasures sweetened in the mixture, But tragical in issue. Cal. Contemn not your condition, for the proof Of bare opinion only : to what end Reach all these moral texts ? Pen. To place before ye A perfect mirror, wherein you may see How weary I am of a lingering life, Who count the best a misery. Cal. Indeed THE BROKEN HEART. 21 You have no little cause ; yet none so great, As to distrust a remedy. Pen. That remedy Must be a winding sheet, a fold of lead, And some untrod on corner in the earth. Not to detain your expectation, Princess ; I have an humble suit. Cal. Speak, and enjoy it. Pen. Vouchsafe then to be my Executrix ; And take that trouble on ye, to dispose Such legacies as I bequeath impartially : I have not much to give, the pains are easy ; Heaven will reward your piety and thank it, AY hen I am dead ; for sure I must not live ; I hope I cannot. Cal. Now beshrew thy sadness ; Thou turnst me too much woman. Pen. Her fair eyes Melt into passion : then I have assurance Encouraging my boldness. In this paper My will was character'd ; which you, with pardon, Shall now know from mine own mouth. Cal. Talk on, prithee ; It is a pretty earnest. Pen. I have left me But three poor jewels to bequeath. The first is My youth ; for though I am much old in griefs, In years I am a child. Cal. To whom that ? Pen. To virgin wives ; such as abuse not wedlock By freedom of desires, but covet chiefly The pledges of chaste beds, for ties of love Rather than ranging of their blood : and next, To married maids : such as prefer the number Of honorable issue in their virtiK Before the flattery of delights by marriage ; May those be ever young. Cal. A second jewel 22 ENGLISH DR A.MATiC POETS. You mean to part with ! Pen. 'Tis my fame ; 1 trust, By scandal yet untouch'd : this I bequeath To Memory and Time's old daughter, Truth. If ever my unhappy name find mention, When I am fall'n to dust, may it deserve Beseeming charity without dishonor. Cal. How handsomely thou play'st with harmless sport Of mere imagination ! Speak the last. I strangely like thy will. Pen. This jewel, Madam, Is dearly precious to me ; you must use The best of your discretion, to employ This gift as I intend it. Cal. Do not doubt me. Pen. 'Tis long ago, since first I lost my heart ; Long I have liv'd without it : but in stead Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir, By service bound, and by affection vow'd, I do bequeath in holiest rites of love Mine only brother Ithocles. Cal. What saidst thou ? Pen. Impute not, heav'n-blest lady, to ambition, A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers Of a devoted suppliant can endow it : Look on him, Princess, with an eye of pity ; How like the ghost of what he late appear'd He moves before you. Cal. Shall I answer here, Or lend my ear too grossly ? Pen. First his heart Shall fall in cinders, scorch'd by your disdain, Ere he will dare, poor man, to ope an eye On these divine looks, but with low-bent thoughts Accusing such presumption : as for words, He dares not utter any but of service ; Yet this lost creature loves you. Be a Princess In sweetness as in blood ; give him his doom, THE BROKEN HEART. 2-3 Or raise him up to comfort. CjlI. What new change Appears in my behavior, that thou darest Tempt my displeasure ? Pen. I must leave the world, To revel in Elysium ; and 'tis just To wish my brother some advantage here. Yet by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant Of this pursuit. But, if you please to kill him, Lend him one angry look, or one harsh word, And you shall soon conclude how strong a power Your absolute authority holds over His life and end. Cal. You have forgot, Penthea, How still I have a father. Pen. But remember I am sister : though to me this brother Hath been, you know, unkind, O most unkind. Cal. Christalla, Philema, where are ye ? — Lady, Your check lies in my silence.* While Calantha (Princess of Sparta) is celebrating the Nuptials of Pro- philus and Euphranea at Court with Music and Dancing, one enters to inform her that the King her Father is dead ; a second brings the JVews that Penthea (Sister to Ithocles) is starved; and a third comes to tell that Ithocles himself (to whom the Princess is contracted) is cruelly murdered. Calantha. Pkophiltts. Euphranea. Nearchus. Crotolon. Christalla. Philema, and others. Cal. We miss our servant Ithocles, and Orgilus ; On whom attend they ? Crot. My son, gracious princess, Whisper'd some new device, to which these revels Should be but usher : wherein, I conceive, Lord Ithocles and he himself are actors. * It is necessary to the understanding of the Scene which follows, to know that the Princess is won by these solicitations of Penthea, and by the real deserts of Ithocles, to requite his love, and that they are contracted with the consent of the Kinir her Father. 24 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Cal. A fair excuse for absence : as for Bassanes, Delights to him are troublesome ; Armostes Is with the King. Crot. He is. Cal. On to the dance : (To Nearchus.) Dear cousin, hand you the bride; the bride- groom must be Intrusted to my courtship : be not jealous, Euphranea ; I shall scarcely prove a temptress. Fall to our dance. They dance the first Change, during which Armostes enters. Arm. The King your Father 's dead. Cal. To the other change. Arm. Is it possible ? They dance again : Bassanes enters. Bass. O Madam. Penthea, poor Penthea 's starv'd. Cal. Be shrew thee. Lead to the next. Bass. Amazement dulls my senses. They dance again : Orgilus enters. Org. Brave Ithocles is murder'd, murder'd cruelly. Cal. How -dull this music sounds! Strike up more sprightly: Our footings are not active like our heart, Which treads the nimbler measure. Org. I am thunder-struck. They dance the last Change. The Music ceases. Cal. So let us breathe awhile : hath not this motion Rais'd fresher color on your cheeks 1 [To Nearchus. Near. Sweet Princess, A perfect purity of blood enamels The beauty of your white. Cal. We all look cheerfully ; A nd, cousin, 'tis methinks a rare presumption HIE BROKEN HEART. 25 In any, who prefers our lawful pleasures Before their own sour censure, to interrupt The custom of this ceremony bluntly. Near. None dares, Lady. Cal. Yes, yes ; some hollow voice deliver'd to me How that the King was dead. Arm. The King is dead : That fatal news was mine ; for in mine arms He breath'd his last, and with his crown bequeath'd you Your Mother's wedding-ring, which here I tender. Crot. Most strange. Cal. Peace crown his ashes: we are Queen then. Near. Long live Calantha, Sparta's sovereign Queen. All. Long live the Queen. Cal. What whisper'd Bassanes 1 Bass. That my Penthea,* miserable soul, Was starv'd to death. Cal. She 's happy ; she hath finish'd A long and painful progress. — A third murmur Pierc'd mine unwilling ears. Org. That Ithocles Was murdcr'd. Cal. By whose hand ? Org. By mine : this weapon Was instrument to my revenge. The reasonsf Are just and known. Quit him of these, and then Never liv'd gentleman of greater merit, Hope, or abiliment to steer a kingdom. Cal. We begin our reign With a first act of justice ; thy confession, Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence ; But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence Shall be excus'd : give Crotolon,^ a blessing To thy lost son : Euphranea,§ take a farewell : * Wife to Bassanes. t Penthea (sister to Rhodes) was betrothed at first to Orgilus, but com- pelled by her brother t'> marry Bassanes: by which forced match she be- coming miserable, refused to take food, and died. % His Father § His Sister. 28 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. And both 1 (7b Orgilus.) Bloody relater of thy stains in blood F<>r that thou hast reported him (whose fortunes And life by thee arc both at once snatch'd from him) With honorable mention, make thy choice Of \\ hat death likes thee best; there's all our bounty. But to excuse delays, let me, dear cousin, Intreat you and these lords see execution. Instant, before ye part. Near. Your will commands us. Org. One suit, just Queen ; my last. Vouchsafe your clemency, That by no common hand I be divided From this my humble frailty. Cal. To their wisdoms, Who are to be spectators of thine end, I make the reference. Those that are dead, Are dead ; had they not now died, of necessity They must have paid the debt they owed to nature One time or other. Use dispatch, my lords. — We '11 suddenly prepare our Coronation. [Exit. Arm. 'Tis strange these tragedies should never touch on Her female pity. Bass. She has a masculine spirit. The Coronation of the Princess takes place after the execution of Orgilus. — She enters the Temple* dressed in White, having a Crown on her Head. She kneels at the Altar. The dead body of Ithocles {whom she should have married) is borne on a hearse, in rich Robes, having a Crown on his Head : and placed by the side of the Altar, where she kneels. Her devotions ended, she rises. — Calantha. Nearchtjs. Prophilus. Crotolon. Bassanes. Arbiostes. Euphanea. Amelus. Christalla. Philema, and others. Cal. Our orisons are heard, the gods are merciful. Now tell me, you, whose loyalties pay tribute To us your lawful sovereign, how unskilful Your duties, or obedience is, to render THE BROKEN HEART. 27 Subjection to the sceptre of a virgin ; Who have been ever fortunate in princes Of masculine and stirring composition. A woman has enough to govern wisely Her own demeanors, passions, and divisions. A nation warlike, and inured to practice Of policy and labor, cannot brook A ti in inate authority : we therefore Command your counsel, how you may advise us In choosing of a husband, whose abilities Can better guide this kingdom. Near. Royal Lady Your law is in your will. Arm. We have seen tokens Of constancy too lately to mistrust it Crol. Yet if your Highness settle on a choice By your own judgment both allow'd and liked of, Sparta may grow in power and proceed To an increasing height. Cal. Cousin of Argos. Near. Madam. Cal. Were I presently To choose you for my Lord, I '11 open freely What articles I would propose to treat on, Before our marriage. Near. Name them, virtuous Lady. Cal. I would presume you would retain the royalty Of Sparta in her own bounds : then in Argos Armostes might be viceroy; in Messene Might Crotolon bear sway : and Bessanes Be Sparta's marshall : The multitudes of high employments could not But set a peace to private griefs. These gentlemen, Groneas and Lemophil, with worthy pensions, Should wait upon your person in your chamber. I would bestow Christalla on Amelus ; She '11 prove a constant wife : and Philema Should into Vesta's Tempi p. 28 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Bass. This is a testament ; It sounds not like conditions >>u n marriage. Near. All this should be perform'd. Cal. Lastly for Prophilus, He should be (cousin) solemnly invested In all those honors, titles, and preferments, Which his dear friend and my neglected husband Too short a time enjoy'd. Proph. I am unworthy To live in your remembrance. Enph. Excellent Lady. Near. Madam, what means that word, neglected husband ? Cal. Forgive me : Now I turn to thee, thou shadow [To the dead body o/Tthocles Of my contracted Lord : bear witness all, I put my mother's wedding-ring upon His finger ; 'twas my father's last bequest : Thus I new marry him, whose wife I am ; Death shall not separate us. O my lords, I but deceiv'd your eyes with antick gesture, When one news straight came huddling on another, Of death, and death, and death, still I dane'd forward ; But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. Be such mere women, who with shrieks and outcries Can vow a present end to all their sorrows : Yet live to vow new pleasures, and out-live them. They are the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings : Let me die smiling. Near. 'Tis a truth too ominous. Cal. One kiss on these cold lips ; my last. Crack, crack. Argos now 's Sparta's King. [Dies. [I do not know where to find in any Play a catastrophe so grand, so solemn, and so surprising as this. This is indeed, according to Milton, to " describe high passions and high actions." The fortitude of the Spartan Boy who let a beast gnaw out his bowels till he died without expressing a groan, is a faint bodily ima°;e of this dilaceration of the spirit, and exente- ration of the inmost mind, which Calantha with a holy violence against her nature keeps closely covered, till the last duties of a Wife and a Queen are fulfilled. of martyrdom ?re but of chains and the stake; a little bodily suffering; tfcese torments HYMEN'S TRrUMPH. 29 On (he purest spirits prey As on entrails, joints, and limbs, With answerable pains, but more intense. What a noble thing is the soul in its strengths and its weaknesses ! who would be less weak than Calantha ? who can be so strong ? the expression of this transcendant scene almost bears me in imagination to Calvary and the Cross ; and I seem to perceive«some analogy between the scenical suffer- ings which I am here contemplating, and the real agonies of that final com- pletion to which I dare no more than hint a reference. Ford was of the first order of Poets. He sought for sublimity not by par- cels in metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full residence in the heart of man ; in the actions and sufferings of the greatest minds. There is a grandeur of the soul above mountains, seas, and the elements. Even in the poor perverted reason of Giovanni and Annabella (in the play which precedes this) we discern traces of that fiery particle, which in the irregular starting from out of the road of beaten action, discovers something of a right line even in obliquity, and shows hints of an improvable greatness in the lowest descents and degradations of our nature.] HYMEN'S TRIUMPH : A PASTORAL TRAGI-COMEDY. BY SAMUEL DANIEL. Love in Infancy. Ah, I remember well (and how can I But evermore remember well) when first Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt : when as we sat and sigh'd And look'd upon each other, and concciv'd Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail ; And yet were well, and yet we were not well And what was our disease we could not tell. Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look : And thus In that first garden of our simplen We spent our childhood : But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge : ah, how then Would she with graver looks, with sweet stern brow, Check my presumption ami my forwardness ; Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show What she would have me, yet not have me know. JO ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Love after Death. Palicmon. Fie, Thirsis, with what fond remembrances Dost thou these idle passions entertain ! For shame leave off to waste your youth in vain, And feed on shadows : make your choice anew ; You other nymphs shall find, no doubt will be As lovely, and as fair, and sweet as she. Thirsis. As fair and sweet as she ! Palaemon, peace : Ah, what can pictures be unto the life 1 What sweetness can be found in images ? Which all nymphs else besides her seem to me. She only was a real creature, she, Whose memory must take up all of me. Should I another love, then must I have Another heart, for this is full of her, And evermore shall be : here is she drawn At length, and whole : and more, this table is A story, and is all of her; and all Wrought in the liveliest colors of my blood ; And can there be a room for others here ? Should I disfigure such a piece, and blot The perfect'st workmanship that love e'er wrought ? Palaemon, no, ah no, it cost too dear ; It must remain entire whilst life remains, The monument of her and of my pains. The Story of Isulia. There was sometimes a nymph, Isulia named, and an Arcadian born, Whose mother dying left her very young Unto her father's charge, who carefully Did breed her up until she came to years Of womanhood, and then provides a match Both rich and young, and fit enough for her. But she, who to another shepherd had, Call'd Sirthis, vow'd her love, as unto one Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, Could .'. t I y all her father's means be wrought HYMEN'S TRIUMPH. 31 To leave her choice, and to forget her vow. This nymph one day, surcharg'd with love and grief, Which commonly (the more the pity) dwell As inmates both together, walking forth With other maids to fish upon the shore ; Estrays apart, and leaves her company, To entertain herself with her own thoughts : And wanders on so far, and out of sight, As she at length was suddenly surpris'd By pirates, who lay lurking underneath Those hollow rocks, expecting there some prize. And notwithstanding all her piteous cries, Intreaties, tears, and prayers, those fierce men Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force Into their ship, which in a little creek Hard by at anchor lay, And presently hoisted sail and so away. When she was thus inshipp'd and wofully Had cast her eyes about to view that hell Of horror, whereinto she was so suddenly emplung'd, She spies a woman sitting with a child Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife. To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies ; " O woman, if that name of a woman may " Move you to pity, pity a poor maid : " The most distressed soul that ever breath 'd ; " And save me from the hands of those fierce men. " Let me not be defil'd and made unclean, " Dear woman, now, and I will be to you " The faithfulPst slave that ever mistress serv'd ; " Never poor soul shall be more dutiful, " To do whatever you command, than I. " No toil will I refuse ; so that I may " Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd, " Which is all I will ever seek. For know " It is not fear of death lays me thus low, " But of that stain will make my death to blush." All this would nothing move the woman's heart. ENGLISH DR \M \T1C POETS. Whom \ ( t she would not leave, hut still besought ; " O woman, by that Infant at your breast, '• And by the pains it cost you in the birth, " Save me, as ever you desire to have •• 5 our babe to joy and prosper in the world : " Which will the better prosper sure, if you " Shall mercy show, which is with mercy paid !" Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too The infant's feet ; and, " Oh, sweet babe" (said she), " Could'st thou but to thy mother speak for me, " And crave her to have pity on my case, " Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so much :< Although I cannot; child, ha, could'st thou speak." Tliu infant, whether by her touching it, Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep, Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks Upon the mother, then on her again, And then it cries, and then on either looks; Which she perceiving ; "Blessed child" (said she), " Although thou canst not speak, yet dost thou cry " Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child, " Dear mother, it 's for me it cries, " It 's all the speech it hath. Accept those cries, " Save me at his request from being defiPd : " Let pity move thee, that thus moves the child.'" The woman, tho' by birth and custom rude, Vi i having veins of nature, could not be But pierceable, did feel at length the point Of pity enter so, as out gush'd tears (Not usual to stern eyes), and she besought Her husband to bestow on her "that prize, With safeguard of her body at her will. The captain seeing his wife, the child the nymph, All crying to him in this piteous sort, Felt his rough nature shaken too, and grants His wife's request, and seals his grant with tears ; And so they wept all four for company : And some beholders stood not with dry eyes ; ran mph. >3 Such passion wrought the passion of their prize. Never was there pardon, that did take Condemned from the hlock more joyful than This grant to her. For all her misery Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receiv'd, r!y being thus saved from impurity : And from the woman's feet she would not part. r trust her hand to be without some hold Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd Within the ship, which in few days arrives xandria, whence these pirates were ; this woful maid for two years space Did and truly serve this captain's wife (Who would not lose the benefit of her Attendance, for her profit otherwise), But daring not in such a place as that To trust herself in woman's habit, crav'd I she might be apparel'd like a boy ; so she was, and as a boy she served. At two years end her mistress sends her forth I nto the port for some commodities, Which whilst she sought for, going up and down, neard some merchantmen of Corinth talk, Who spake that langu;> Arcadians did, And were next neighbors of one continent, To them, all wrapt with passion, down she kneels, Tells them she was a poor ed boy, Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took, And mad-' a slave in Egypt , and besought Them, as they fathers were of children, or Did hold their native country dear, they would Take pity on her, and relieve her youth From that - itude wherein she liv'd : which she hop'd that she had friends alive Woi ' i thank them one day, and reward them too ; [fnot, vet that she knew the heav'ns would do. The merchants moved with pity of her case, Being ready to depart, took her with them. PART II. 4 34 ENGLISH DRAM \TIC POETS. And landed her upon her country coast : Where when she found rate falls, Kisses the ground, > ui to the gods, Thanks th< m w ho had bi en her deliverers, And on she trudg( s through the desart vvooi Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep, Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough hogs, Sustained only by the force of love ; Until she came unto the native plains, Unto the fields where first she drew her breath. There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air, Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all : And, " Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am," said she, " Here, notwithstanding all my miseries, " I am the same I was to thee ; a pure, " A chaste, and spotless maid." ALAHAM : A TRAGEDY. BY FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. A\ 'ah am, second son to the King of Ormus, deposes his father ; whose eyes, and the eyes of his elder brother Zophi (acting vpon a maxim of Oriental Policy), he causes to be put out They, blind, and fearing for their lives, wander about. In this extremity they are separately met by the King's daughter Calica, who conducts them to a place of refvge ; hiding her father amid the vaults of a temple, and guiding her brother to take sanctuary at the altar. King. Cjelica. King. Ccelica ; thou only child, whom I repent Not yet to have begot, thy work is vain : Thou run'st against my destiny's intent. Fear not my fall ; the steep is fairest plain ; And error safest guide unto his end, Who nothing but mischance can have to friend. We parents are but nature's nursery ; When our succession springs, then ripe to fall. Privation unto age is natural. Age there is also in a prince's state, \I.\I1\M. 35 Which is contempt, grown of misgovernmgnt ; Where love of change begetteth princes 5 hate : For hopes must wither, or grow violent, If fortune bind desires to one estate Then mark ! Blind, as a man : scorn'd, as a king , A father's kindness loath'd, and desolate : Life without joy, or light : what can it bring, But inward horror unto outward hate 1 O safety ! thou art then a hateful thing, When children's death assures the father's state. No, safe I am not, though my son were slain, My frailty would beget such sons again. Besides, if fatal be the heavens' will, Repining adds more force to destiny ; Whose iron wheels stay not on fleshly wit, But headlong run down steep necessity. And as in danger, we do catch at it That comes to help ; and unadvisedly Oft do our friends to our misfortune knit : So with the harm of those who would us good Is destiny impossibly withstood. Cselica, then cease ; importune me no more : My son, my age, the state where things are now, Require my death. Who would consent to live Where love cannot revenge, nor truth forgive ? CceJica. Though fear see nothing but extremity, Yet danger is no deep sea, but a ford, Where they that yield can only drowned be. In wrongs, and wounds, Sir, you are too remiss. To thrones a passive nature fatal is. King. Occasion to my son hath turn'd her face ; My inward wants all outward strengths betray ; And so make that impossible I may. Calk a. Yet live : Live for the slate. King. Whose ruins glasses are, Wherein see errors of myself I must, And hold my life of danger, shame, and care. 36 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Calica. When fear propounds, with loss men ever choose. King. Nothing is left me but myself to lose. Calica. And is it nothing then to lose the state ? Kmg. Where chance is ripe, there counsel comes too late. Cielica, by all thou ow'st the gods and me, 1 do conjure thee, leave me to my chance. What's past was error's way; the truth it is, W herein I wretch can only go amiss. If nature saw no cause of sudden ends, She, that but one way made to draw our breath, Would not have left so many doors to death. Calica. Yet, Sir, if weakness be not such a sand As neither wrong nor counsel can manure ; Choose and resolve what death you will endure. King. This sword, thy hands, may offer up my breath And plague my life's remissness in my death. Calica. Unto that duty if these hands be born, I must think God, and truth, were names of scorn. Again, this justice were if life were loved, Now merely grace ; since death doth but forgive A life to you, which is a death to live. Pain must displease that satisfies offence. King. Chance hath left death no more to spoil but sense. Ccelica. Then sword, do justice' office thorough me : I offer more than that he hates to thee. [Offers to kill herself. King. Ah ! stay thy hand. My state no equal hath, And much more matchless my strange vices be : One kind of death becomes not thee and me. Kings' plagues by chance or destiny should fall ; Headlong he perish must that ruins all. Calica. No cliff or rock is so precipitate, But down it eyes can lead the blind away ; Without me live, or with me die you may. King. Cselica, and wilt thou Alaham exceed ? His cruelty is death, you torments use ; He takes my crown, you take myself from me ; A prince of this fall'n empire let me be. ALAHAM. 37 Ccelica. Then be a king, no tyrant of thyself: Be : and be what you will : what nature lent Is still in hers, and not our government. King. If disobedience, and obedience both, Still do me hurt ; in what strange state am I ! But hold thy course : it well becomes my blood, To do their parents mischief with their good. Ccelica. Yet, Sir, hark to the poor oppressed tears The just men's moan, that suffer by your fall ; A prince's charge is to protect them all. And shall it nothing be that I am yours ? The world without, my heart within, doth know, [ never had unkind, unreverent powers. If thus you yield to Alaham's treachery, He ruins you : 'tis you, Sir, ruin i King. Cselica, call up the dead ; awake the blind ; Turn back the time ; bid winds tell whence they come : As vainl) strength speaks to a broken mind. Fly from me, Cselica, hate all I do : Misfortunes have in blood successions too. Ccelica. Will you do that which Alaham cannot ? He hath no good ; you have no ill, but he : This mar-right yielding 's honor's tyranny. King. Have I not clone amiss ? am I not ill, That ruin'd have aging's authority ? And not one king alone : since princes all Feel part of those scoi'ns. whereby one doth fall. Treason against me cannot treason be : All laws have lost authority in me. Ccelica. The laws of power chain'd to men's humors be. The good have conscit n< - ; the ill (like instruments) Are, in the hands of wise authority, Moved, divided, used, or laid down; Still, with desire, kept subject to a crown. Stir up all states, all spirits : hope and fear, Wrong and revenge, are current everywhere. King. Put down my son : for that must be the way : A father's shame ; a prince's tyranny : ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS The sceptre ever shall misjudged be. Cctlica. Let them fear rumor that do work amiss; Blood, torments, death, horrors of cruelty, Have time, and place. Look through these skins of fear, Which still persuade the better side to bear. And since thy son thus trait'rously conspires, Let him not prey on all thy race, and thee : Keep ill example from posterity. King. Danger is come, and must I now unarm, And let in hope to weaken resolution ? Passion ! be thou my legacy and will ; To thee I give my life, crown, reputation ; My pomps to cloud ; and (as forlorn with men) My strength to women ; hoping this alone, Though fear'd, sought, and a king, to live unknown. Cselica, all these to thee ; do thou bestow This living darkness, wherein I do go. Codica. My soul now joys. Doing breathes horror out Absence must be our first step. Let us fly : A pause in rage makes Alaham to doubt ; Which doubt may stir in people hope, and fear, With love, or hate, to seek you everywhere. For princes' lives are fortune's misery : As dainty sparks, which till men dead do know, To kindle for himself each man doth blow. But hark ! what's this ? Malice doth never sleep : I hear the spies of power drawing near. Sir, follow me : Misfortune's worst is come ; Her strength is changed : and change yields better doom. Choice now is past. Hard by there is a pile, Built under color of a sacrifice ; If God do grant, it is a place to save ; If God denies, it is a ready grave. Zophi appears. Calica. What see I here ? more spectacles of woe ! And are my kindred only made to be Agents and patients in iniquity ? ALAHAM. 39 Ah forlorn wretch ! ruin's example right ! Lost to thyself, not to thy enemy, AVIio.se hand even while thou fliest thou fall'st into ; And with thy fall thy father dost undo. Save one I may : Nature would save them both ; But Chance hath many wheels, Rage many eyes. What, shall 1 then abandon Innocents?* Not help a helpless brother thrown on me ? Is nature narrow to adversity ? No, no. Our God left duty for a law ; Pity, at large ; love, in authority ; Despair, in bonds ; fear, of itself in awe : That rage of time, and power's strange liberty, Oppressing good men, might resistance find : Nor can I to a brother be less kind. Dost thou, that canst not see, hope to escape 1 Disgrace can have no friend ; contempt no guide ; Right is thy guilt ; thy judge iniquity ; Which desolation casts on them that see. Zophi. Make calm thy rage : pity a ghost distrest : My right, my liberty, I freely give : Give him. that never harm'd thee, leave to live. Calica. Nay, God, the world, thy parents it deny ; A brother's jealous heart ; usurped might Grows friends with all the world, except thy right. Zophi. Secure thyself. Exile me from this coast : My fault, suspicion is ; my judge, is fear ; Occasion, with myself, away I bear. Ccelica. Fly unto God : for in humanity Hope there is none. Reach me thy fearful hand : I am thy sister ; neither fiend, nor spy Of tyrant's rage ; but one that feels despair Of thy estate, which thou dost only fear. Kneel down ; embrace this holy mystery ; .V refuge to the worst for rape and blood, And yet, I fear, not hallow'd for the good. * Zophi is represented as a prince of weak understanding. 40 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Zophi. Help, God ! defend thine altar ! since thy might, In earth, leaves innocents no other right. Ccelica. Eternal God ! that see'st thyself in us, If vows be more than sacrifice of lust, Rais'd from the smokes of hope and fear in us, Protect this Innocent, calm Alaham's rage ; By miracles faith goes from age to age. Affection trembles ; reason is opprest ; Nature, methinks, doth her own entrails tear ; In resolution ominous is fear. Jilaham causes Search to be made after his Father and Brother. Zophi is discovered, and Ccelica ; who, being questioned by Jilaham where she has hid her Father, dissembles as though she thought that the King was dead ; but being threatened with the rack, her Exclamations call her Father from his hiding-place ; who, together u-ith her, and her Brother Zophi, aresentenced by Alaham to the Flames Alahai\i. Attendants. Alaham. Sirs, seek the city, examine, torture, rack ; Sanctuaries none let there be ; make darkness known ; Pull down the roofs, dig, burn, put all to wrack ; And let the guiltless for the guilty groan. Change, shame, misfortune, in their 'scaping lie, And in their finding our prosperity. He sees Ccelica. Good fortune welcome ! We have lost our care, And found our loss : Ceelica distract I see. The king is near : She is her father's eyes. He sees Zophi. Behold ! the forlorn wretch, half of my fear, Takes sanctuary at holy altar's feet : Lead him apart, examine, force, and try ; These bind the subject not the monarchy. Cselica ! awake : that God of whom you crave Is deaf, and only gives men what they have. Ccelica. Ah cruel wretch ! guilty of parent's blood ! Might I, poor innocent, my father free, ALAHAM. 41 My murther yet were less impiety. But on ; devour : fear only to be good : Let us not scape : thy glory then doth rise, "VY hen thou at once thy house dost sacrifice. Alaham. Tell me where thy father is. Ccelica. O bloody scorn. Must he be kilTd again that gave thee breath ? Is duty nothing else in thee but death ? Alaham. Leave off this mask ; deceit is never wise ; Though he be blind, a king hath many eyes. Ccelica. O twofold scorn ! God be reveng'd for me. Yet since my father is destroy'd by thee, Add still more scorn, it sorrow multiplies. Alaham. Passions are learn'd, not bom within the heart, That method keep : Order is quiet's art. Tell where he is : for look what love conceals, Pain out of nature's labyrinths reveals. Ccelica. This is reward which thou dost threaten me If terror thou wilt threaten, promise j ■ ■ Alaham. Smart cools these boiling styles of vanity. Ccelica. And if my father I no more shall see, Help me unto the place where he remains : To hell below, or to the sky above, The wav is easy where the guide is love. Alaham. Confess ; where is he hid ? Ccelica. Rack not my woe. Thy glorious pride of this unglorious deed Doth mischief ripe, and therefore falling, show. Alaham. Bodies have place, and blindness must be led Graves be the thrones of king's when they be dead. Ccelica. He was (unhappy) cause that thou art now ; Thou art, ah wicked ! cause that he is not, And fear'st thou parricide can be forgot 1 Bear witness, though Almighty God on high, And you black powers inhabiting below. That for his liff myself would yield to die. Alaham. Well, Sirs, go seek the dark and secret caves, The holy temples, sanctified dells, 49 . NGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. All parts wherein a living corpse may dwell. Ccdica. Seek him amongst the dead, you placed him there Yet lose no pains, good souls, go not to hell ; And, hut to heaven, you may go everywhere. Guilty, with you, of his blood let me be, If any more I of my father know, Than that he is where you would have him go. Alaham. Tear up the vaults. Behold her agonies ! Sorrow subtracts, and multiplies, the spirits ; Care, and desire, do under anguish cease ; Doubt curious is, affecting piety ; Woe loves itself; fear from itself would fly. Do not these trembling motions witness bear, That all these protestations be of fear ? Ccdica. If aught be quick in me, move it with scorn ; Nothing can come amiss to thoughts forlorn. Alaham. Confess in time. Revenge is merciless. Calica. Reward and pain, fear and desire too. Are vain in things impossible to do. Alaham. Tell yet where thou thy father last did see. Ca>lica. Even where he by his loss of eyes hath won That he no more shall see his monstrous son. First in perpetual night thou mad'st him go ; His flesh the grave ; his life the stage, where sense Plays all the tragedies of pain and woe. And wouldst thou trait'rously thyself exceed, By seeking thus to make his ghost to bleed ? Alaham. Bear her away : devise ; add to the rack Torments, that both call death and turn it back. Calico. The flattering glass of power is others' pain. Perfect thy work ; that heaven and hell may know, To worse I cannot, going from thee, go. Eternal life, that ever liv'st above ! If sense there be with thee of hate, or love ; Revenge my king and father's overthrow. O father ! if that name reach up so high, And be more than a proper word of art, To teach respects in our humanity ; \:,l. 43 Accept these pains, whereof you feel no smart. The King comes forth. Kins- What sound is this of Caelica's distress 1 Alaham, wrong not a silly sister's faith. 'Tis plague enough that she is innocent ; My child, thy sister j horn (by thee and me) With shame and sin to have affinity. Break me ; I am the prison of thy thought : Crowns dear enough with father's blood are bought. Alaham. Now feel thou shalt, thou ghost unnatural, Those wounds which thou to my heart did'st give, When, in despite of God, this state and me, Thou did'st from death mine elder brother free. The smart of king's oppression doth not die : Time rusteth malice ; rust wounds cruelly. King. Flatter thy wickedness ; adorn thy rage ; To wear a crown, tear up thy father's age. Kill not thy sister : it is lack of wit To do an ill that brings no good with it. Alaham. Go, lead them hence. Prepare the funeral. Hasten the sacrifice and pomp of woe. Where she did hide him, thither let them go. A JYuntius (or Messenger) relates to Alaham the manner of his Father's, Brother's, and Sister's deaths; and the popular discontents which followed. Alaham by the sudden working of Remorse is dis- tracted, and imagines that he sees their Ghosts. Alaham. Nuntius. Nuntius. The first which burnt, as Cain* his next of kin. In blood your brother, and your prince in state, Drew wonder from men's hearts, brought horror in. This innocent, this soul too meek for sin, Yet made for others to do harm withal, With his self-pity tears drew tears from us ; * The execution, to make it plausible to the people, is colored with the pretext, that the being burnt is a voluntary sacrifice of themselves by the victims at the funeral of Cain a bashaw and relative. 44 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. His blood compassion had : his wrong stirr'd hate : Deceit is odious in a king's estate. Rcpiningly he goes unto his end : Strange visions rise; strange furies haunt the flame ; People cry out, Echo repeats, his nan These words he spake, even breathing out his breath " Unhappy weakness ! never innocent ! " If in a crown, yet but an instrument. " People ! observe ; this fact may make you see, " Excess hath ruin'd what itself did build : " But ah ! the more opprest the more you yield."' The next was He whose age had reverence, His gesture something more than privateness ; Guided by One, whose stately grace did move Compassion, even in hearts that could not love. As soon as these approached near the dame, The wind, the steam, or furies, rais'd their veils ; And in their looks this image did appear : Each unto other, life to neither, dear. These words he spake. " Behold one that hath lost " Himself within ; and so the world without ; " A king, that brings authority in doubt : " This is the fruit of power's misgovernment. " People ! my fall is just ; yet strange your fate. " That, under worst, will hope for better state." Grief roars aloud. Your sister yet remain'd ; Helping in death to him in whom she died ; Then going to her own, as if she gain'd, These mild words spake with looks to heaven bent. " O God ! 'Tis thou that suff'rest here, not we : " Wrong doth but like itself in working thus : " At thy will, Lord ! revenge thyself, not us." The fire straight upward bears the souls in breath : Visions of horror circle in the flame With shapes and figures like to that of Death, But lighter- tongued and nimbler wing'd than Fame : Some to the church ; some to the people fly : A voice cries out ; " revenge and liberty. MUSTAPHA. 46 " Princes, take heed ; your glory is your care ; " And power's foundations, strengths, not vices, are." Alalia m. What change is this, that now I feel within I Is it disease that works this fall of spirits . ; Or works this fall of spirits my diseas Things seem not as they did ; horror appears. What Sin embodied, what strange sight is this ? Doth sense bring back but what within me is ? Or do I see those shapes which haunt the flame '. What summons up remorse? Shall conscience rate Kings' deeds, to make them less than their estate ? Ah silly ghost! is 't you that swarm about ' Would'st thou, that art not now, a father be? These body laws do with the life go out, What thoughts be these that do my i atrails tear ? You wand'ring spirits frame in me your hell ; I feel my brother and my sister there. MUSTAPHA : A TRAGEDY. BY FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. JRossa, Wife to Solyman, the Turkish Emperor, persuades her Husband, that Mustapha, his Son by a formt r Marriage, and Heir to his Crown, seeks his life : that she may moke way, by ihe death of Mustapha, for the advancement of her own children, Zanger and Camena. Comma, the virtuous Daughter of Rossa, defends the Innocence of Mustapha, in a Conference which she holds with the Emperor. Camena. Solyman. Cam. They that from youth do suck at fortune's breast And nurse their empty hearts with seeking higher, Like dr ipsy-fed, their thirst doth never r< For still, by getting, the\ Till thoughts, like wood, while they maintain the flame Of high desires, grow ashes in the same. But virtue ! those that c?n behold thy beauties, 46 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Those that suck, from their youth, thy milk of goodness, Their minds grow strong against the storms of fortune, And stand, like rocks in winter-gusts, unshaken ; Not with the blindness of desire mistaken. virtue therefore ! whose thrall I think fortune, Thou who despisest not the sex of women, Help me out of these riddles of my fortune, Wherein (methinks) you with yourself do pose me ; Let fates go on : sweet virtue ! do not lose me. My mother and my husband have conspired, For brother's good, the ruin of my brother : My father by my mother is inspired, For one child to seek ruin of another. 1 that to help by nature am required. While I do help, must needs still hurt a brother. While I see who conspire, I seem conspired Against a husband, father and a mother. Truth bids me run. by truth I am retired ; Shame leads me both the one way, and the other. In what a labyrinth is honor cast, Drawn divers ways with sex, with time, with state, In all which, error's course is infinite. By hope, by fear, by spite, by love, and hate ; And but one only way unto the right, A thorny way, where pain must be the guide, Danger the light, offence of power the praise : Such are the golden hopes of iron days. Yet virtue, I am thine, for thy sake grieved (Since basest thoughts, for their ill-plac'd desires, In shame, in danger, death, and torment, glory) That I cannot with more pains write thy story. Chance, therefore, if thou scornest those that scorn thes • Fame, if thou hatest those that force thy trumpet To sound aloud, and yet despise thy sounding ; Laws, if you love not those that be examples Of nature's laws, whence you are fall'n corrupted ; Conspire that I, against you all conspired. Joined with tyrant virtue, as you call her, MUSTAPHA. 47 That T, by your revenges may be named, For virtue, to be ruin'd, and defamed. My mother oft and diversly I warned, What fortunes were upon such courses builded : That fortune still must be with ill maintained, Which at the first with any ill is gained. I Rosten* warn'd, that man's self-loving thought Still creepeth to the rude-embracing might Of princes' grace : a lease of glories let, Which shining burns ; breeds serenes when tis set. And, by this creature of my mother's making, This messenger, I Mustapha have warn'd, That innocence is not enough to save, Where good and greatness, fear and envy have. Till now. in reverence I have forborn To ask, or to presume to guess, or know My father's thoughts ; whereof he might think scorn : For dreadful is that power that all may do ; Yet they, that all men fear, are fearful too. Lo where he sits ! Virtue, work thou in me, That what thou seekest may accomplish'd be. Solym. Ah death ! is not thyself sufficient anguish, But thou must borrow fear, that threatning glass, Which, while it goodness hides, and mischief shows, Doth lighten wit to honor's overthrows 1 But hush ! methinks away Camena steals ; Murther, belike, in me itself reveals. Camena ! whither now ? why haste you from me ? Is it so strange a thing to be a father ? Or is it I that am so strange a father I Cam. My lord, methought, nay, sure I saw you busy : Your child presumes, uncall'd, that comes unto you. Solym. Who may presume with fathers, but their own, Whom nature's law hath ever in protection, And gilds in good belief of dear aifection ? Cam. Nay, reverence, Sir, so children's worth doth hide, * Her Husband. 48 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. As of the fathers it is least espy'd. Solym. I think 'tis true who know their children least, Have greatest reason to esteem them best. Cam. H"u so, my lord? since love in knowledge lives, Which unto strangers therefore no man gives. Solym. The life we gave them soon they do forget, While they think our lives do their fortunes let. Cam. The tenderness of life it is so great, As any sign of death we hate too much ; And unto parents sons, perchance, are such. Yet nature meant her strongest unity Twixt sons and fathers : making parents cause Unto the sons, of their humanity ; And children pledge of their eternity. Fathers should love this image in their sons. Solym. But streams back to their springs do never run. Cam. Pardon, my lord, doubt is succession's foe : Let not her mists poor children overthrow. Though streams from springs do seem to run away, Tis nature leads them to their mother sea. Solym. Doth nature teach them, in ambition's strife, To seek his death, by whom they have their life ? Cam. Things easy, to desire impossible do seem : "Why should fear make impossible seem easy 1 Solym. Monsters yet be, and being are believed. Cam. Incredible hath some inordinate progression: Blood, doctrine, age, corrupting liberty. Do all concur, where men such monsters be. Pardon me, Sir, if duty do seem angry : Affection must breathe out afflicted breath, "Where imputation hath such easy faith. Solym. Mustapha is he that hath defil'd his nest ; The wrong the greater for I loved him best. He hath devised that all at once should die. Rosten, and Rossa, Zanger, thou and I. Cam. Fall none but angels suddenly to hell ? Are kind and order grown precipitate ? Did ever anv other man but he MUSTAPHA. 49 In instant lose the use of doing well ? Sir, these be mists of greatness. Look again : For kings that, in their fearful icy state, Behold their children as their winding-sheet, Do easily doubt ; and what they doubt, they hate. Solym. Camena ! thy sweet youth, that knows no ill, Cannot believe thine elders, when they say, That good belief is great estates' decay. Let it suffice, that I, and Rossa too, Are privy what your brother means to do. Cam. Sir, pardon me, and nobly, as a father, What I shall say, and say of holy mother; Know I shall say it, but to right a brother. My mother is your wife : duty in her Is love : she loves : which not well govern'd, bears The evil angel of misgiving fears ; Whose many eyes, whilst but itself they see, Still makes the worst of possibility : Out of this fear she Mustapha accuseth : Unto this fear, perchance, she joins the love Which doth in mothers for their children move. Perchance, when fear hath show'd her yours must fall, In love she sees that hers must rise withall. Sir, fear a frailty is, and may have grace, And over-care of you cannot be blamed ; Care of our own in nature hath a place ; Passions are oft mistaken and misnamed ; Things simply good grow evil with misplacing. Though laws cut off, and do not care to fashion, Humanity of error hath compassion. Yet God forbid, that either fear, or care, Should ruin those that true and faultless are. Solym. Is it no fault, or fault I may forgi\. . For son to seek the father should not live 1 Cam. Is it a fault, or fault for you to know, IVIy mother doubts a thing that is not so ? These ugly works of monstrous parricide, Mark from what hearts they rise, and where they bide . PART II. 5 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Violent, despair'd, where honor broken is; r lord, time death ; where hope is misery ; Doubt having stopt all honest ways to bliss ; And custom shut the windows up of shame, That craft may take upon her wisdom's name. Compare now Mustapha with this despair : Sweet youth, sure hopes, honor, a father's love, No infamy to move, or banish fear, Honor to stay, hazard to hasten fate : Can horrors work in such a child's estate ? Besides, the gods, whom kings should imitate, Have placed you high to rule, not overthrow ; For us, not for yourselves, is your estate : Mercy must hand in hand with power go. Your sceptre should not strike with arms of fear, Which fathoms all men's imbecility, And mischief doth, lest it should mischief bear. As reason deals within with frailty, Which kills not passions that rebellious are, But adds, subtracts, keeps down ambitious spirits. So must power form, not ruin instruments : For flesh and blood, the means 'twixt heav'n and hell, Unto extremes extremely racked be ; Which kings in art of government should see : Else they, which circle in themselves with death, Poison the air wherein they draw their breath. Pardon, my lord, pity becomes my sex : Grace with delay grows weak, and fury wise. Remember Theseus' wish, and Neptune's haste, Kill'd innocence, and left succession waste. Solym. If what were best for them that do offend, Laws did inquire, the answer must be grace. If mercy be so large, where 's justice' place ? Cam. Where love despairs, and where God's promise ends. For mercy is the highest reach of wit, A safety unto them that save with it : Born out of God, and unto human eyes, Like God, not seen, till fleshly j assion dies. MLST\PHA. -M Soly?n. God may forgive, whose being, and whose harms Are far removed from reach of fleshly arms : But if God equals or successors had, Even God of safe revenges would be glad. Cam. While he is yet alive, he may be slain ; But from the dead no flesh comes back asjain. SoJym. While he remains alive, I live in fear. Cam. Though he were dead, that doubt still living were. Solym. None hath the power to end what he begun. Cam. The same occasion follows every son. Solym. Their greatness, or their worth, is not so much. Cam. And shall the best be slain for being such ? : um. Thy mother, or thy brother,. are amiss; I am betray'd, and one of them it is. Cam. My mother if she errs, errs virtuously ; And let her err. ere Mustapha should die. Solym. Kings for their safety must not blame mistrust. Cam. Nor for surmises sacrifice the just. Solym. Well, dear Camena, keep this secretly : I will be well advised before he die. Heli a Priest acquaints Mustapha with the intentions of his Father towards him, and counsels him to seek his safety in the Destruction of Rossa and her Faction. .Mustapha refuses to save his Life at the Expense of the Public Peace : and being sent for by his Father, obeys the .Man'' I estruci Priest. Thy father purposeth thy death. Must. What have I to my father done amiss? Priest. That wicked Rossa thy step-mother is. Must. Wherein have I of Rossa ill-deserved ? Priest. In 'hat the empire is for thee reserved. Must. Is it a fault to be my father's son ) Ah foul ambition ! which like water floods channel-bound dos ibors over-run, And growest nothing when thy rage is done. .Must Rossa's heirs out of my ashes rise ? Yet, Zanger, I acquit thee of my blood ; For I believe, thy heart hath no impression To ruin Mustapha for his succession. 52 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. But tell what colors they against me use, Ami how my father's love they first did wound ? Priest. Of treason towards him they thee accuse:" Thy fame and greatness gives their malice ground. Must. Good world, where it is danger to be good ! \> t grudge I not power of myself to power : This baseness only in mankind I blame, That indignation should give laws to fame. Show me the truth. To what rules am I bound ? Priest. No man commanded is by God to die, As long as he may persecution fly. Must. To fly, hath scorn, it argues guiltiness, Inherits fear, weakly abandons friends, Gives tyrants fame, takes honor from distress Death do thy worst ! thy greatest pains have end. Priest. Mischief is like the cockatrice's eyes, Sees first, and kills ; or is seen first, and dies. Fly to thy strength, which makes misfortune vain. Rossa intends thy ruin. What is she ? Seek in her bowels for thy father lost : Who can redeem a king with viler cost ? Must. O false and wicked colors of desire ! Eternal bondage unto him that seeks To be possest of all things that he likes ! Shall I, a son and subject, seem to dare, For any selfness, to set realms on fire ; Which golden titles to rebellions are ? Heli, even you have told me, wealth was given The wicked, to corrupt themselves and others ; Greatness and health to make flesh proud and cruel, Where in the good, sickness mows down desire, Death glorifies, misfortune humbles. Since therefore life is but the throne of woe, Which sickness, pain, desire, and fear inherit, Ever most worth to men of weakest spirit ; Shall we, to languish in this brittle jail, Seek, by ill deeds, to shun ill destiny ; And so, for toys, lose immortality ? MUSTAPH \. "S3 Priest. Fatal necessity is never known Until it strike : and till that blow be come, Who falls is by false visions overthrown. Must. Blasphemous love ! safe conduct of the ill ! What power hath given man's wickedness such skill ? Priest. Ah servile man ! how arc your thoughts bewitch'd With hopes and fears, the price of your subjection, That neither sense nor time can make you see, The art of power will leave you nothing free ! Must. Is it in us to rule a Sultan's will ? Priest. We made them first for good, and not for ill. Must. Our Gods they are, their God remains above. To think against anointed power is death. Priest. To worship tyrants is no work of faith. Must. 'Tis rage of follv that contends with fate. Priest. Yet hazard something to preserve the state. Must. Sedition wounds what should preserved be. Priest. To wound power's humors, keeps their honors free. Must. Admit this true : what sacrifice prevails ? Priest. Force the petition is that never fails. Must. Where then is nature's place for innocence? Priest. Prosperity, that never makes offence. Must. Hath destiny no wheels but mere occasion ? Priest. Could east upon the west else make invasion ? Must. Confusion follows where obedience leaves. Priest. The tyrant only that event deceives. Must. And are the ways of truth and honor such ? Priest. Weakness doth ever think it owes too much. Must. Hath fame her glorious colors out of fear ? Priest. What is the world to him that is not there ? Must. Tempt me no more. Good-will is then a pain, When her words beat the heart and cannot enter. I constant in my counsel do remain, And more lives for my own life will not venture. My fellows, rest : our Alcoran doth bind. That I alone should first my father find. 54 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. A Messenger enters. Messenger. Sire, by our lord's commandment, here I wait, To guide you to his presence, \\ here, like a king and father, he intends To honor and acquaint you with his ends. Must. Heli, farewell, all fates are from above Chain'd unto humors that must rise or fall. Think what we will : men do but what they shall. JLchmat describes the manner of Mustapha's Execution to Zanger Achmat. Zanger. Achm. When Solyman, by cunning spite Of Rossa's witchcrafts, from his heart had banish'd Justice of kings, and lovingness of fathers, To wage and lodge such camps of heady passions, As that sect's cunning practices could gather ; Envy took hold of worth : doubt did misconstrue ; Renown was made a lie, and yet a terror : Nothing could calm his rage, or move compassion : Mustapha must die. To which end fetch'd he was, Laden with hopes and promises of favor. So vile a thing is craft in every heart, As it makes power itself descend to art. While Mustapha, that neither hoped nor feared, Seeing the storms of rage and danger coming, Yet came ; and came accompanied with power. But neither power, which warranted his safety, Nor safety, that makes violence a justice, Could hold him from obedience to this throne : A gulph, which hath devoured many a one. Zang. Alas ! could neither truth appease his fury, Nor his unlook'd humility of coming, Nor any secret-witnessing remorses ? Can nature from herself make such divorces ? Tell on, that all the world may rue and wonder. Achm. There is a place environed with trees, Upon whose shadow'd centre there is pitch'd MUSTAPHA. 55 A large embroider'd sumptuous pavilion ; The stately throne of tyranny and murder ', Where mighty men are slain, before they know That they to other than to honor go. Mustapha no sooner to tin port did come But hither he is sent for and conducted By six slave eunuchs, either taught to color Mischief with reverence, or forced, by nature, To reverence true virtue in misfortune. While Mustapha, whose heart was now resolved, Not fearing death, which he might have prevented ; Nor craving life, which he might well have gotten, If he would other duties have forgotten ; Yet glad to speak his last thoughts to his father, Desired the eunuchs to entreat it for him. They did ; wept they, and kneeled to his father. But bloody rage that glories to be cruel, And jealousy that fears she is not fearful, Made Solyman refuse to hear, or pity. He bids them haste their charge : and bloody-eyed Behold his son. while he obeying died. Zang. How did that doing heart endure to suffer ? Tell on. Quicken my powers, hardened and dull to good, Which, yet unmoved, hear tell of brother's blood. Achm. While these six eunuchs to this charge appointed (Whose hearts had never used their hands to pity, Whose hands, now only, trembled to do murder) With reverence and fear stood still amazed; Loth to cut off such worth, afraid to save it : Mustapha, with thoughts resolved and united, Bids them fulfil their charge and look no further. Their hearts afraid to let their hands be doing, The cord, that hateful instrument of murder, . lifting up let fall, and falling lift it : Each sought to help, and helping hinder'd other. Till Mustapha, in haste to be an angel, With heavenly smiles, and quiet words, foreshows 56 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. rhe joy and peace of those souls where he goes. His last words were ; "O father now forgive me ; " Forgive them too that wroughl my overthrow : '■ L( ; in\ grave never minister offences. r since nn father coveteth my death, ■• Behold with joy 1 offer him my breath." The eunuchs roar: Solyman his rage is glutted : His thoughts divine of vengeance for this murder : Rumor ilies up and down : the people murmur : Sorrow gives laws before men know the truth: Fear prophecieth aloud, and threatens ruth. Hasten describes to Jlchmat the popular Fury u-hich followed upon the Exec ution of -Mwtaph a. R.OSTEN*. ACHMAT. Ros. When Musiapha was by the eunuchs strangled, Forthwith his camp grew doubtful of his absence : The guard of Solyman himself did murmur : People began to search their prince's counsels: Fury gave laws : the laws of duty vanisht. Kind fear of him the}' lov'd self-fear had banisht. Tlio headlong spirits were the heads that guided : He that most disobeyed, was most obeyed. Fury so suddenly became united, As while her forces nourished confusion, Confusion seem'd with discipline delighted. Towards Solyman they run : and as the waters, That meet with banks of snow, makes snow groAV water: So, even those guards, that stood to interrupt them, < live easy passage, and pass on amongst them. Solyman, who saw this storm of mischief coming, Thinks absence his best argument unto them : Retires himself, and sends me to demand, Whal they demanded, or what meant their coming? I speak : they cry'd for Mustapha and Achmat. Some bid away : sonic kill : some save ; some hearken. Those that cried save, were those that sought to kill me. Who cried hark, were those that first brake silence : MUSTAPHA. r>7 They held that bade me go. Humility was guilty ; Words were reproach; silence in me was scornful ; They answer'd ere they ask'd ; assured, and doubted. I fled ; their fury follow 'd to destroy me : Fury made haste; haste multiplied their fury ; Each would do all ; none would give place to other. The hindmost strake ; and while the foremost lifted Their arms to strike, each weapon hinder'd other : Their running let their strokes, strokes let their running. Desire, mortal enemy to desire, Made them that sought my life, gi\ unto me. [These two Tragedies of Lord Brooke might with more propriety have heen termed political treatises, than plays. Their author has strangely con- d tn make passion, character and interest, of the highest order subser- vient to the expression i f state dogmas and mysteries. He is nine parts Machiavel and Tacitus, for one part So] >r Seneca. In this writer's estimate of the faculties of his own mind, the understanding must have held a most tyrannical tinence. Whether we look into his plays, or his most passionate love-poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid with intellect. The finest movements of the human heart, the utmost grandeur of which the soul is capable, are essentially comprised in the actions and speeches of Cselica and Camena. Shakspeare, who seems to have had a peculiar delight in contemplating womanly perfection, whom for his many sweet images of female excellence all women are in an especial manner bound to love, has not raised the ideal of the female character higher than Lord Brooke in these two women lias done. But it requires a study equiva- lent to the learning of a new language to understand their meaning when they speak. It is indeed hard to hit: Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day Or seven though one should musing sit. It is as if a being of pure intellect should take upon him to express the emotions of our sensitive natures. There would be all knowledge, but sympathetic expression would be wanting.] r>S ENGLISH DRAW \TIC POETS. THK CASE I AL1 . BE*V. JONSON. i Humor to b ■■ >.d. .. Phcenixella, Sister : their Mother hemg lately dead Aur. Room for a case of matrons, color'd black : How motherly my mother's du shall not go so, Antiphila; In this place work a quicksand, And over it a shallow smiling wal And his ship ploughing it, and then a fVar. Do that fear to the life, wench. t. 'Twill wrong the story. Asp. 'Twill make the story, wrong'd by wanton poets, Live long and be believ'd ; but where's the lady ? Ant. There, Madam. Asp. Fie, you have miss'd it here, Antiphila, You are much mistaken, wench ; These colors are not dull and pale enough, To show a soul so full of misery As this sad lady's was ; do it by me, Do it again by me the lost Aspatia, And you shall find all true but the wild island. 1 stand upon the sea-beach now, and think Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the wind, Wild as that desart, and let all about me Tell that I am forsaken, do my fa.c: (If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow) Thus, thus, Antiphila, strive to make me look Like Sorrow's monument ; and the trees about me, Let them be dry and leaveless ; let the rocks Groan with continual surges, and behind me Make all a desolation ; look, look, wenches, A miserable life of this poor picture. Olym. Dear madam ! Asp. I have done, sit down, and let us Upon that point fix all our eyes, that point there ; Make a dull silence, till you feel a sudden sadness Give us new souls.* * One characteristic of the excellent old poets is their being able to be- stow grace upon subjects which naturally do not seem susceptible of any. I will mention two instances: Zelmane, in the Arcadia of Sidney; and Helena, in the All 's Well that Ends Well of Shakspeare. What can be more unpromising at first si^ht than the idea of a young man disguising MAID'S TRAGEDY. 107 Evadne implores forgivoiess of Amintor for marrying him while she was the King's Mistress. Evad. O my lord. Amin. How now ! Evad. My much abused lord ! [Kneels. Amin. This cannot be. Evad. I do not kneel to live, I dare not hope it ; The wrongs I did are greater ; look upon me, Though I appear with all my faults. Amin. Stand up. This is no new way to beget more sorrow : Heaven knows I have too many ; do not mock me ; Though I am tame and bred up with my wrongs, Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap Like a hand-wolf into my natural wilderness, And do an outrage : pray thee do not mock me. Evad. My whole life is so leprous, it infects himself in woman's attire, and passing himself off for a woman among en? and that too for a long space of time? yet Sir Philip has preserved such a matchless decorum, that neither does Pyrocles' manhood sutler any stain for the effeminacy of Zelmane, nor is the respect due to the princesses at all diminished when the deception comes to be known. In the sweetly constituted mind of Sir Philip Sidney, it seems as if no ugly thought nor unhandsome meditation could find a harbor. He turned all that he touched into images of honor and virtue. Helena, in Shakspeare, is a young woman seeking a man in marriage. The ordinary laws of court- ship are reversed; the habitual feelings are violated. Yet with such exquisite address this dangerous subject is handled, that Helena's forward- ness loses her no honor ; delicacy dispenses with her laws in her favor, and Nature in her single case seems content to suffer a sweet violation. Aspatia, in this tragedy, is a character equally difficult with Helena of being managed with grace. She, too, is a slighted woman, refused by the man who had once engaged to marry her. Yet it is artfully contrived that while we pity her, we respect her, and she descends without degradation, So much true poetry and passion can do to confer dignity upon subjects which do not seem capable of it. But Aspatia must not be compared at all points with Helena ; she does not so absolutely predominate over her situation but she suffers some diminution, some abatement of the full lustre of tin' female character ; which Helena never does : her character has many es of sweetness, >ome ofdelicacy, but it has weakness which, if we do not despise, we are sorry for After all, Beaumont and Fletcher were but an inferior sort of Shaksneares and Sidnevs. MATIC POETS. Ul my repentance: 1 would buy your pardon Though at the high< st i a with my life. That slight contrition, that 's no sacrifice For what I have committed. A min. Sure I dazzle : There cannot be a faith in that foul woman, That knows no god more mighty than her mischiefs. Thou dost still worse, still number on thy faults, To press my poor heart thus. Can I believe There's any seed of virtue in that woman Left to shoot up, that dares go on in sin Known, and so known as thine is ? O Evadne ! Would there were any safety in thy sex, That I might put a thousand sorrows off, And credit thy repentance : but I must not ; Thou hast brought me to the dull calamity, To that strange misbelief of all the world, And all things that are in it, that I fear I shall fall like a tree, and find my grave, Only rememb'ring that I grieve. Evad. My lord, Give me your griefs : you are an innocent, A soul as white as heaven ; let not my sins Perish your noble youth : 1 do not fall here To shadow by dissembling with my tears, As all say women can, or to make less "What my hot will hath done, which heaven and you Knows to be tougher than the hand of time Can cut from man's remembrance ; no I do not ; I do appear the same, the same Evadne, Drest in the shames I liv'd in, the same monster. But these are names of honor, to what I am ; I do present myself the foulest creature, Most poisonous, dangerous, and despis'd of men, Lerna e'er bred, or Nilus ; I am hell, Till you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me, The beams of your forgiveness : I am soul-sick, And wither with the fear of one condemn'd. MAID'S TRAGEDY. 109 Till I have got your pardon. Amin. Rise, Evadne. Those heavenly powers that put this good into thee, Grant a continuance of it : I forgive thee ; Make thyself worthy of it, and take heed, Take heed, Evadne, this be serious ; Mock not the powers above, that can and dare Give thee a great example of their justice To all ensuing eyes, if thou play'st With thy repentance, the best sacrifice. Evad. I have done nothing good to win belief, My life hath been so faithless ; all the creatures Made for heaven's honors have their ends, and good ones, All but the cozening Crocodiles, false women ; They reign here like those plagues, those killing sores, Men pray against ; and when they die, like tales 111 told, and unbeliev'd, they pass away And go to dust forgotten : but, my lord, Those short days I shall number to my rest (As many must not see me) shall, though too late, Though in my evening, yet perceive a will, Since I can do no good because a woman, Reach constantly at something that is near it ; I will redeem one minute of my age, Or like another Niobe I '11 weep Till I am water. Amin. I am now dissolved : My frozen soul melts : may each sin thou hast, Find a new mercy : rise, I am at peace : Had'st thou been thus, thus excellently good, Before that devil king lempted thy frailty, Sure thou had'st made a star : give me thy hand ; From this time I will know thee, and as far As honor gives me leave, be thy Amintor : When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly, And pray the gods to give thee happy days : My charity shall go along with thee, Though my embraces must be far from thee. HO ENGLISH UK \ M VT1C POETS. Men's Natures nunc hard and subtle than ■Vomen's. How stubbornly this fellow answer'd me! There is a vile dishonest trick in man, More than in women : all the men [ meet Appear thus to me, are harsh and rude, And have a subtilty in everythil Which love could never Know ; but we fond women Harbor the easiest and smoothest thoughts, And think all shall go so ; it is unjust That men and women should be matcht together. „-. PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES A BLEEDING : A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. Philaster tells the Princess Arethusa how he first found the boy Betlario I have a boy sent by the gods, Not yet seen in the court ; hunting the buck, found him sitting by a fountain side, Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst, And paid the nymph again as much in tears ; A garland lay him by, made by himself, Of many several flowers, bred in the bay, Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness Delighted me : but ever when he turn'd His tender eyes upon them, he would weep, As if he meant to make them grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story ; Fie told me that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, Which gave him roots ; and of the crystal springs, Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light. Then took he up his garland and did show, What every flower, as country people hold, Did signify ; and how all order'd thus, Exprest his grief: and to my thoughts did read PHIL ASTER. Ill The prettiest lecture of his country art That, could be wish'd, so that, methought, I could Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him, Who was as glad to follow ; and have got The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy, That ever master kept : him will I send To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. Phil aster prefers Bellario to the Service of the Princess Jlrethusa. Phi. And thou shalt find her honorable, boy, Full of regard unto thy tender youth, For thine own modesty ; and for my sake, Apter to give, than thou wilt be to ask, aye, or deserve. Be?/. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing, And only yet am something by being yours ; You trusted me unknown ; and that which you are apt To construe a simple innocence in me, Perhaps might have been craft, the cunning of a boy Harden'd in lies and theft; yet ventur'd you To part my miseries and me : for which, I never can expect to serve a lady That bears more honor in her breast than you. Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee ; thou art young, And bear 'st a childish overflowing love To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet. But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions, Thou wilt remember best those careful friends That placed thee in the noblest way of life : She is a princess I prefer thee to. Bell. In that small time that I have seen the world, I never knew a man hasty to part With a servant he thought trusty ; I remember, My father would prefer the boys he kept To greater men than he, but did it not Till they were grown too saucy for himself. Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all In thy behavior. Bell. Sir, if I have made 112 ENCI.ISII DRAMATIC POETS. A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth ; I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn. Age and experience will adorn my mind With larger knowledge : and if I have done \ wilful fault, think me not past all hope For once ; what master holds so strict a hand Over his boy, that he will part with him Without one warnrhg ? Let me be corrected To break my stubbornness if it be so, Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend. Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay, That (trust me) I could weep to part with thee. Alas, I do not turn thee off; thou knowest It is my business that doth call thee hence, And when thou art with her thou dwell'st with me : Think so, and 'tis so ; and when time is full, That thou hast well discharg'd this heavy trust, Laid on so weak a one, I will again With joy receive thee ; as I live, I will ; Nay weep not, gentle boy ; 'tis more than time Thou didst attend the princess. Bell. I am gone ; But since 1 am to part with you, my lord, And none knows whether I shall live to do More service for you, take this little prayer ; Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs. May sick men. if they have your wish, be well ; And heav n hate those you curse, though I be one. Bellario describes to the Princess Arethttsa the manner of his master Philaster's love for her. Are. Sir, you are sad to change your service, is "t not so ? Bell. Madam, I have not chang'd : I wait on you, To do him service. Are. Thou disclaim'st in me ; Tell me thy name. Bell. Bellario. Are. Thou canst sing and play ? PHIL ASTER. 113 Bell. If grief will give me lea\e. madam, I can. Are. Alas ! what kind of grief can thy years know ? Had'st thou a curst master when thou went'st to school ? Thou art not capable of any other grief; Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be, When no breath troubles them : believe me, boy, Care seeks out wrinkled brows, and hollow eyes, And builds himself caves to abide in them. Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me ? Bell. Love, madam ? I know not what it is. Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love ? Thou art deceiv'd, boy. Does he speak of me As if he wish'd me well ? Bell I fit be love, To forget all respect of his own friends. In thinking of your face ; if it be love, To sit cross-arm'd and sigh away the day, Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud And hastily, as men i' the streets do fire ; If it be love to weep himself away, When he but hears of any lady dead, Or kill'd, because it might have been your chance ; If when he goes to rest (which will not be) 'Twixt every prayer he says to name you once, As others drop a bead, be to be in love ; Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. Are. O you 're a cunning boy, and taught to lie For your lord's credit ; but thou know*st a lie That bears this sound, is welcomer to me Than any truth that says he loves me not. Philaster is jealous o/"Bellario with the Princess. Bell. Health to you, my lord ; The princess doth commend her love, her life, And this unto you. Phi. O Bellario, Now I perceive she loves me, she does show it In loving thee, my boy, she has made thee brave. part it. 9 114 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Bell. My lord, she has attired me past my wish, Past my desert, more lii for her attendant. Though far unfit for me who do attend. Phi. Thou art grown courtly, boy. O let all women That love black deeds learn to dissemble here. Here by this paper she does write to me As if her heart were mines of adamant To all the world besides, but unto me A maiden snow that melted with my looks. Tell me, my boy, how doth ths princess use thee ? For I shall guess her love to me by that. Bell. Scarce like her servant, but as if I were Something allied to her; or had preserv'd Her life three times by my fidelity ; As mothers fond do use their only sons ; As I 'd use one that 's left unto my trust, For whom my life should pay if he met harm, So she does use me. Phi. Why, this is wond'rous well : But what kind language does she feed thee with ? Bell. Why, she does tell me, she will trust my youth With all her loving secrets, and does call me Her pretty servant, bids me weep no more For leaving you ; she '11 see my services Regarded : and such words of that soft strain, That I am nearer weeping when she ends Than ere she spake. Phi. This is much better still. Bell. Are you ill, my lord ? Phi. Ill ? " No, Bellario. Bell. Methinks your words Fall not from off your tongue so evenly, Nor is there in your looks that quietness, That I was wont to see. Phi. Thou art deceiv'd, boy. — And she strokes thy head ? Bell. Yes. Phi. And she does clap thy cheeks ? Bell. She does, my lord. PHIL ASTER. 1J5 Phi. And she does kiss thee, boy, ha ? Bell. How, my lord ? Phi. She kisses thee ? Bell. Not so, my lord. Phi. Come, come, I know she does. Bell. No, by my life. Aye, now I see why my disturbed thoughts Were so perplext when first I went to her ; My heart held augury. You are abus'd, Sonic villain has abus'd you ; I do see Whereto you tend ; fall rocks upon his head, That put this to you ; 'tis some subtle train To bring that noble frame of yours to nought. Phi. Thou think'st I will be angry with thee. Come, Thou shalt know all my drift. I hate her more Than 1 love happiness, and plac'd thee there To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds. Hast thou discover'd 1 is she fal'n to lust, As I would wish her ? Speak some comfort to me. Bell. My lord, you did mistake the boy you sent ; Had she a sin that way, hid from the world, I would not aid Her base desires ; but what I came to know As servant to her, I would not reveal, To make my life last ages. Phi. O my heart ! This is a salve worse than the main disease. Tell me thy thoughts ; for I will know the least That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart To know it ; I will see thy thoughts as plain As I do know thy face. Bell. Why, so you do. She is (for aught I know) by all the gods, As chaste as ice ; but were she foul as hell, And I did know it, thus ; the breath of kings, The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass, Should draw it from me. Phi. Then it is no time 116 ENGLISH DRAM V HC P0E1 S. To dally with thee ; I will take thy life, For I do hate thee; I could curse thee mow. Bell. If you do hate, you could not curse me vyorse ; The gods have not a punishment in stoic Greater for me than is your hate. Phi. Fie, fie, So young and so dissembling ! fear'st thou not death ? Can boys contemn that ? Bell. O, what a boy is he Can be content to live to be a man, That sees the best of men thus passionate, Thus without reason ? Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die. Bell. Yes, I do know, my lord. 'Tis less than to be born ; a lasting sleep, A quiet resting from all jealousy ; A thing we all pursue ; I know besides It is but giving over of a game That must be lost. Phi. But there are pains, false boy, For perjur d souls ; think but on thes<' ; and then Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all. Bell. May they fall all upon me whilst I live, If I be perjured, or ever thought Of that you charge me with ; if I be false, Send me to suffer in those punishments You speak of; kill me. Phi. O, what should I do ? Why, who can but believe him ? He does swear So earnestly, that if it were not true, The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario, Thy protestations are so deep, and thou Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them, That though 1 know them false, as were my hopes, I cannot urge thee further ; but thou wert To blame to injure me, for I must love Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon Thy tender youth : a love from me to thee * PHILASTER. 117 Is firm whate'er thou dost : it troubles me That I have call'd the blood out of thy cheeks, That did so well become thee : but, good boy, Let me not see thee more ; something is done That will distract me, that will make me mad, If I behold thee ; if thou tcnder'st me, Let me not see thee. Bell. I will fly as far As there is morning, ere I give distaste To that most honor'd mind. But through these tears, Shed at nn hopeless parting, I can see A world of treason practis'd upon you, And hex-, and me. Farewell for ever more ; If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead, And after find me loyal, let there be A tear shed from you in my memory, And I shall rest at peace. Bellario, discovered to be a Woman, confesses the motive for her disguise to have been Love for Prince Philaster. My father would oft speak Your worth and virtue, and as I did grow More and more apprehensive, I did thirst To see the man so prais'd, but yet all this Was but a maiden longing, to be lost As soon as found, till sitting in my window, Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god I thought (but it was you) enter our gates ; My blood flew out, and back again as fast As I had puft it forth, and suck'd it in Like breath ; then was I call'd away in haste To entertain you. Never was a man Heav'd from a sheep-cot to a sceptre, rais'd So high in thoughts as I ; you left a kiss Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep From you for ever ; I did hear you talk Far above singing ; after you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd US ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. What stirr'd it so. Alas ! I found it love, Yet far from lust, for could I have but liv'd In presence of you, I had had my end. For this I did delude my noble father With a feign'd pilgrimage, and drest myself In habit of a boy, and, for I knew My birth no match for you, I was past hope Of having you. And understanding well, That when I made discovery of my sex, I could not stay with you, I made a vow By all the most religious things a maid Could call together, never to be known, Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes, For other than I seem'd ; that I might ever Abide with you : then sate I by the fount Where first you took me up.* * The character of Bellario must have been extremely popular in its day. For many years after the date of Philaster's first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be found without one of these women pages in it, following in the train of some pre-engaged lover, calling on the gods to bless her happy rival (his mistress) whom no doubt she secretly curses in her heart, giving rise to many pretty equivoques by the way on the confusion of sex, and either made happy at last by some surprising turn of fate, or dismissed with the joint pity of the lovers and the audience. Our ances- tors seem to have been wonderfully delighted with these transformations of sex. Women's parts were then acted by young men. What an odd double confusion it must have made, to see a boy play a woman playing a man : one cannot disentangle the perplexity without some violence to the imagination. Donne has a copy of verses addrest to his mistress, dissuading her from a resolution, which she seems to have taken up from some of these scenical representations, of following him abroad as a page. It is so earnest, so weighty, so rich in poetry, in sense, in wit, and pathos, that I have thought fit to insert it, as a solemn close in future to all such sickly fancies as he there deprecates. The story of his romantic and unfortunate marriage with the daughter of Sir George Moore, the Lady here supposed to be addrest. may be read in Walton's Lives. ELEGY. By our first strange and fatal interview, By all desires which thereof did ensue, By our long striving hopes, by that remorse Which my words' masculine persuasive force PHIL ASTER. 119 Natural Antipathies. Nature that loves not to be questioned Why she did this, or that, but has her ends, Begot in thee, and by the memory Of hurts, which spies and rivals threatened me, I calmly beg. But by thy father's wrath, By all pains which want and divorcement hath, I conjure thee ; and all the oaths, which I And thou have sworn to seal joint constancy, T here unswear, and overswear them thus: Thou shalt not love by means so dangerous. Temper, O fair love, love's impetuous rage ; Be my true mistress, not my feigned page. I'll go, and, by thy kind leave, leave behind Thee, only worthy to nurse in my mind Thirst to come back ; 0, if thou die before, My soul from other lands to thee shall soar. Thy (else almighty) beauty cannot move Rage from the seas, nor thy love teach them love, Nor tame wild Boreas' harshness ; thou hast read How roughly he in pieces shivered The fair Orithea, whom he swore he lov'd. Fall ill or good, 'tis madness to have prov'd Dangers unurged ; feed on this flattery, That absent lovers one in th' other be. Dissemble nothing, not a boy, nor change Thy body's habit, nor mind : be not strange To thyself only. All will spy in thy face A blushing womanly discovering grace. Richly r cloath'd apes are call'd apes, and as soon Eclips'd as bright we call the moon the moon. Men of France, changeable camelions, Spittles of diseases, shops of fashions, Lives' fuellers, and the rightest company Of players which upon the world's stage be, Will too too quickly know thee : and alas, Th' indifferent Italian, as we pass His warm land, well content to think thee page, Will hunt thee with such lust, and hideous rage, As Lot's fair guests were vext. But none of these, Nor spungy Aydroptique Dutch shall thee displease, If thou stay here. stay here ; for, for thee England is only a worthy gallery, To walk in expectation, till from thence Our greatest king call thee to his presence. 120 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. And knows she does well, never gave the world Two things so opposite, so contrary, As he and I am : if a bowl of blood Drawn from this arm of mine would poison thee A draught of his would cure thee. Interest in Virtue. Why, my lord, are you so moved at this ? When any falls from virtue, I am distract, 1 have an interest in 't. CUPID'S REVENGE : A TRAGEDY. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. Lencippus, the King's Son, takes to mistress Bacha, a Widow ; but bei?ig questioned by his Father, to preserve her honor, swears that she is chaste. The old King admires her, and on the credit of that Oath, while his Son is absent, marries her. Leucippus,when he discovers the dreadful consequences of the deceit which he had used to his Father, counsels his friend Ismenus never to speak a falsehood in any case. Leu. My sin, Ismenus, has wrought all this ill : And I beseech thee to be warn'd by me, And do not lie, if any man should ask thee But how thou dost, or what o'clock His now, Be sure thou do not lie, make no excuse For him that is most near thee ; never let The most officious falsehood 'scape thy tongue ; For they above (that are entirely truth) When I am gone, dream me some happiness ; Nor let thy looks our long hid love confess ; Nor praise, nor dispraise me, nor bless, nor curse, Openly love's force ; nor in bed fright thy nurse With midnights' startings, crying out, oh, oh, Nurse, my love is slain, I saw him go O'er the white Alps alone ; I saw him, I, Assail'd, fight, taken, stabb'd, bleed, fall, and die Augur me better chance, except dread Jove Think it enough for me to have had thv love. CUPID'S REVENGE. 121 Will make that seed which thou hast sown of lies, Yield miseries a thousand fold Upon thine head, as they have done on mine. Leucippus and his wicked Mother-in-law, Eacha, are left alone together for thr first time after her marriage with the King, his Father. Bach. He stands As if he grew there, with his eyes on earth. Sir. you and I when we were last together Kept not this distance, as we were afraid I >f blasting by ourselves. Leu. Madam, 'tis true, Heaven pardon it. Bach. Amen, sir : you may think That 1 have done you wrong in this strange marriage. Leu. 'Tis past now. Bach. But it was no fault of mine : The world had call'd me mad, had I refus'd The king : nor laid 1 any train to catch him, It was your own oaths did it. Leu. 'Tis a truth, That takes my sleep away ; but would to heaven, If it had so been pleas'd, you had refus'd him, Though I had gratified that courtesy With having you myself: but since 'tis thus, I do beseech you that you will be honest From henceforth ; and not abuse his credulous age, Which you may easily do. As for myself, W hat I can say, you know alas too well, Is tied within me ; here it will sit like lead, But shall offend no other, it will pluck me Back from my entrance into any mirth, As if a servant came and whisper'd with me Of some friend's death : but I will bear myself To you, with all the due obedience A son owes to a mother ; more than this Is not in me, but I must leave the rest To the just gods, who in their blessed time, 122 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. When they have given me punishment enough For my rash sin, will mercifully find As unexpected means to ease my grief As they did now to bring it. Bach. Grown so godly ? This must not be, and I will be to you No other than a natural mother ought ; And for my honesty, so you will swear Never to urge me, I shall keep it safe From any other. Leu. Bless me, I should urge you ! Bach. Nay, but swear then, that I may be at peace, For I do feel a weakness in myself That can deny you nothing ; if you tempt me I shall embrace sin as it were a friend, And run to meet it. Leu. If you knew how far It were from me, you would not urge an oath. But for your satisfaction, when I tempt you Bach. Swear not. I cannot move him. This sad talk Of things past help, does not become us well. Shall I send one for my musicians, and we'll dance * Leu. Dance, madam ? Bach. Yes, a lavolta. Leu. I cannot dance, madam. Bach. Then let's be merry. Leu. I am as my fortunes bid me. Do not you see me sour 1 Bach. Yes. And why think you I smile ? Leu. I am so far from any joy myself, I cannot fancy a cause of mirth. Bach. I'll tell you. We are alone. Leu. Alone ! Bach. Yes. Leu. 'Tis true : what then ? Bach. What then? You make my smiling now break into laughter : CUPID'S REVENGE. 123 What think you is to be done then ? Leu. We should pray to heaven for mercy. Bach. Pray ! that were a way indeed To pass the time. Leu. I dare not think I understand you. Bach. I must teach you then. Come kiss me. Leu. Kiss you ? Bach. Yes, be not asham'd : lou did it not yourself, I will forgive you. Leu. Keep, you displeased gods, the due respect I ought to bear unto this wicked woman, As she is now my mother : haste within me, Lest I add sins to sins, till no repentance Will cure me. Bach. Leave these melancholy moods, That I may swear thee welcome on thy lips A thousand times. Leu. Pray leave this wicked talk ; You do not know to what my father's wrong May urge me. Bach. I'm careless, and do weigh The world, my life, and all my after hopes, Nothing without thy love : mistake me not, Thy love, as I have had it, free and open As wedlock is within itself, what say you ? Leu. Nothing. Bach. Pity me, behold a duchess Kneels for thy mercy. What answer will you give 1 Leu. They that can answer must be less amaz'd Than I am now : you see my tears deliver My meaning to you. Bach. Shall I be contemn d ? Thou art a beast, worse than a savage beast, To let a lady kneel. Leu. 'Tis your will, heaven : but let me bear me Like myself, however she does. Bach. How fond was I To beg thy love ! I'll force thee to my will. 194 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Dosl thou not know that I can make the king Doal as my list? yield quickly, or, by heaven, I'll have thee kepi in prison for my purpose. Leu. All you have nam'd, but making of me sin With you, you may command, but never that: what you will, I'll hear you as becomes me : If you speak, I will not follow your counsel, Neither will I tell the world to your disgrace, But give you the just honor That is due from me to my father's wife. Bach. Lord, how full of wise formality you're grown Of late : but you were telling me, You could have wish'd that I had married you ; If you will swear so yet, I'll make away The king. Leu. You are a strumpet. Bach. Nay I care not For all your railings : they will batter w r alls And take in towns as soon as trouble me : Tell him ; I care not ; I shall undo you only. Which is no matter. Leu. I appeal to you, Still, and for ever, that are and cannot be other. — Madam, I see 'tis in your power To work your will on him : and I desire you To lay what trains you will for my wish'd death. But suffer him to find his quiet grave In peace ; alas he never did you wrong ; And farther I beseech you pardon me For the ill word I gave you, for however You may deserve, it became not me To call you so, but passion urges tw; 1 know not whither ; my heart break now, and ease me ever. THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 125 THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. BY JOHN FLETCHER. Clorin, a Shepherdess, watching by the Grave of her Lover, is found by a Satyr. dor. Hail holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace The truest man that ever fed his flocks By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly. Thus I salute thy grave, thus do I pay .My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes, To thy still loved ashes ; thus I free Myself from all ensuing heats and fires Of love: all sports, delights, and jolly games, That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I ofF. Now no more shall these smooth brows be begin With youthful coronals, and lead the dance. No more the company of fresh lair maids \iiii v anton shepherds be to me delightful : Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes Under some shady dell, when the cool wind Plays on the leaves : all be far away, Sine, thou ail far away, by whose dear side How often have I sate crown'd with fresh flowers For summer's queen, whilst every shephei'd's boy Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook, And hanging script of finest cordevan. But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee, And all are dead but thy dear memory : That shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring, Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing. And here will I in honor of thy love, Dwell by thy ^rave, forgetting all those joys That former times made precious to mine eyes, Only rememb'ring what my youth did gain In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs, That will I practise, and as freely give All my endeavors, as I gain'd them free. Of all green wounds I know the remedies In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes, 126 KNGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Or charm'd with powerful words of wicked art; Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat Grown wild, or lunatic ; their eyes, or ears, Thick'ned with misty film of dulling rheum : These I can cure, such secret virtue lies In herbs applied by a virgin's hand. My meat shall be what these wild woods afford. Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit Pull'd from the fair head of the straight-grown pine. On these I '11 feed with free content and rest, When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest. A Satyr enters. Satyr. Through yon same bending plain That flings his arms down to the main, And through these thick woods have I run. Whose bottom never kist the sun. Since the lusty spring began All to please my master Pan, Have I trotted without rest To get him fruit ; for at a feast He entertains this coming night His paramour the Syrinx bright : But behold a fairer sight ! By that heavenly form of thine, Brightest fair, thou art divine, Sprung from great immortal race Of the gods, for in thy face Shines more awful majesty, Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold, And live : therefore on this mold Lowly do I bend my knee In worship of thy deity. Deign it, goddess, from my hand To receive whate'er this land From her fertile womb doth send THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 12? Of her choice fruits : and but lend Relief to that the Satyr tells, Fairer by the famous wells To this present day ne'er grew, Never better, nor more true. Here be grapes whose lusty blood Is the learned poet's good, Swe< ter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown Than the squirrels teeth that crack them : Deign, O fairest fair, to take them : For these, black-eyed Driope Bath oftentimes commanded me With my clasped knee to climb. See how well the lusty time Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Here be berries for a queen, Some be red, some be green, These are of that luscious meat The great god Pan himself doth eat: All these, and what the woods can yield, The hanging mountain, or the field, I freely offer, and ere long Will bring vou more, more sweet and strong ; Till when, humbly leave I take, Lest the great Pan do awake That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Under a broad beeches shade. I must go, I must run, Swifter than the fiery sun. {Exit, Clor. And all my fears go with thee What greatness, or what private hidden power, Is there in me to draw submission From this rude man and beast? sure I am mortal ; The daughter of a shepherd ; he was mortal, And she that bore me mortal ; prick my hand And it will bleed : a fever shakes me, and 198 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. The self-same wind thai makes the young lambs shrink, Makes me a-cold : my fear says 1 am mortal: N . 1 1 1 have heard (my mother told it me) Ami now 1 do believe it, if I keep My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair; No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves, Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion Draw me to wander after idle fires, Or voices calling me in dead of night To make mo follow, and so tole me on Through mire, and standing pools, to find my ruin. ' I 1 why should this rough thing, who never knew Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats rougher than himself, and more misshapen, Thus mildly kneel to me ? — Sure there's a power In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast AH rude uncivil bloods, all appetites That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity. hou my strongest guard ; for here I ; 11 dwell In opposition against fate and hell. Perigot and Amoret aj>point to meet at the Virtuous Well. Peri. Stay, gentle Amoret, thou fair-brow'd maid. Thy shepherd prays thee stay, that holds thee dear. Equal with his soul's good. Amo. Speak, I give Thee freedom, shepherd, and thy tongue be still The same it ever was, as free from ill, As he whose conversation never knew The court or city, be thou ever true. Pen. When I fall off from my affection, Or mingle my clean thoughts with ill desires, First let our great God cease to keep my flocks, That being left alone without a guard. The wolf, or winter's rage, or summer's great heat, And want of water, rots, or what to us Of ill is vet unknown, full speedily. THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 129 And in theiv general ruin, let me feel. Amo. I pray thee, gentle shepherd, wish not so: I do believe then, -'tis as hard for me To think thee false, and harder than for thee To hold me foul. Peri. O you are fairer far Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star That guides the wand'ring sea-men through the deep, Straighter than straightest pine upon the steep Head of an aged mountain, and more white Than the new milk, we strip before day-light From the full-freighted bao;s of our fair flocks. Your hair more beauteous than those hanging locks Of young Apollo. Amo. Shepherd, be not lost, Y' are sail'd too far already from the coast Of our discourse. Peri. Did vou not tell me once I should not love alone, I should not lose Those many passions, vows, and holy oaths, I' ve sent to heaven ? did you not give your hand, Even that fair hand, in hostage ? Do not then Give back again those sweets to other men, You yourself vow'd were mine. A?no. Shepherd, so far as maiden's modesty May give assurance, I am once more thine. Once more I give my hand ; be ever free From that great foe to faith, foul jealousy. Peri. I take it as my best good ; and desire, For stronger confirmation of our love, To meet this happy night in that fair grove, Where all true shepherds have rewarded been For their long service. Say, sweet, shall it hold ? Amo. Dear friend, you must not blame me if I make A doubt of what the silent nighl may do- Maids must be fearful. Peri. O do not wrong my honest simple truth, Myself and my affi ctions are as pure I'ART I!. 10 !::.) I-'.N<;USU IM; \MATIC POETS. As those chaste flames thai burn before the shrine Of the great Dian : only my intent To draw you thither, was to plight our troths, With interchange of mutual chaste embraces, \ii.l cerei lious tying ofourselv* s. For to that holy wood is consecrate A Virtuous Well, about whose flowery banks The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds By the pale moon-shine, dipping oftentimes Their stolen children, so to make them free From dying flesh, and dull mortality. By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn And given away his freedom, many a troth Been plight, which neither envy or old time Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given In hope of coming happiness : by this Fresh fountain many a blushing maid Hath crown'd the head of her long loved shepherd With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung Lays of his love and dear captivity. There grow all herbs fit to cool looser flames Our sensual parts provoke ; chiding our bloods, And quenching by their power those hidden sparks That else would break out, and provoke our sense To open fires — so virtuous is that place. Then, gentle shepherdess, believe and grant ; In troth it fits not with that face to scant Your faithful shepherd of those chaste desires He ever aim'd at. Amo. Thou hast prevail'd ; farewell ; this coming night Shall crown thy chaste hopes with long wish'd delight. — Thenot, admiring the constancy of Clorin to her dead Lover, rejects the suit of Cloe. Cloe. Shepherd, I pray thee stay, where hast thou been, Or whither go'st thou ? Here be woods as green As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet, As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet Face of the curled streams, with flowers as many THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 131 As the young spring gives, and as choice as any. Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, Arbors o'ergrown with woodbines, caves and dells, Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing, Or gather rushes to make many a ring For thy long ringers : tell thee tales of love, I tow the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes She took eternal tire that never dies ; How she convey'd him softly in a sleep, His temples bound with poppy, to the steep Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night, Gilding the mountains with her brother's light, To kiss her sweetest. The. Far from me are these Hot flashes, bred from wanton heat and ease. I have forgot what love and loving meant ; Rhimes, songs, and merry rounds, that oft are sent To the soft ears of maids, are strange to me ; Only I live to admire a chastity, That neither pleasing age, smooth tongue, or gold, Could ever break upon, so pure a mold Is that her mind was cast in ; 'tis to her I only am reserv'd ; she is my form I stir By, breathe and move, 'tis she and only she Can make me happy, or give me misery. Cloe. Good shepherd, may a stranger crave to know To whom this dear observance you do owe ? T/e*. You may, and by her virtue learn to square And level out your life ; for to be fair And nothing virtuous, only fits the eye Of gaudy youth and swelling vanity. Then know, she 's call'd the Virgin of the Grove, She that hath long since buried her chaste love, And now lives by his grave, for whose dear soul She hath vow'd herself into the holy roll Of strict virginity ; 'tis her 1 so admire, Not anv looser blood, or new desire. 132 <;lish dramatic poets. Tin nut loves Cloriii yet fears to gain his suit. Clor. Shepherd, how cam'st thou hither to this place ? No way is trodden ; all the verdant grass The spring shot up, stands yet unbruised here Of any foot, only the dappled deer Far from the feared sound of crooked horn Dwells in this fastness. Tlir. Chaster than the morn, I have not wand'red, or by strong illusion Into this virtuous place have made intrusion : But hither am I come (believe me, fair), To seek you out, of whose great good the air Is full, and strongly labors, whilst the sound Breaks against heaven, and drives into a stound The amazed shepherd, that such virtue can Be resident in lesser than a man. Clor. If any art I have, or hidden skill, May cure thee of disease, or fester'd ill, Whose grief or greenness to another's eye May seem unpossible of remedy. I dare yet undertake it. The. 'Tis no pain I suffer through* disease, no beating vein Conveys infection dangerous to the heart, No part imposthumed, to be cured by art, This body holds, and yet a feller grief Than ever skilful hand did give relief D ■ • lis on my soul, and may be heal'd by you, Fair beauteous virgin. Clor. Then, shepherd, let me sue To know thy grief; that man yet never knew The way to health, that durst not show his sore. The. Then, fairest, know I love you. Clor. Swain, no more. Thou hast abused the strictness of this place, And offer'd sacrilegious foul disgrace To the sweet rest of these interred bones ; For fear of whose ascending, flv at once, THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 133 Thou and thy idle passions, that the sight Of death and speeds vengeance may not fright Thy very soul with horror. The. Let me not (Thou all perfection) merit such a blot For my true zealous faith. Clor. Darest thou abide To see this holy earth at once divide And give her body up ? for sure it will, If thou pursu'st with wanton flames to fill This hallow *d place ; therefore repent and go, Whilst I with praise appease his ghost below ; That else would tell thee, what it were to be A rival in that virtuous love that he Embraces yet. The. 'Tis not the white or red Inhabits in your check, that thus can wed My mind to adoration ; nor your eye, Though it be full and fair, your forehead high, And smooth as Pelops' shoulder : not the smile, Lies watching in those dimples to beguile The easy soul ; your hands and fingers long With veins enamel'd richly ; nor your tongue, Though it spoke sweeter than Arion's harp ; Your hair, wove into many a curious warp, Able in endless error to enfold The wand 'ring soul ; nor the true perfect mold Of all your body, which as pure doth show In maiden whiteness as the Alpsian snow : All these, were but your constancy away, Would please me less than a black stormy day The wretched seaman toiling though the deep. But whilst this honor'd strictness you dare keep, Though all the plagues that e'er begotten were In the gnat womb of air, were settled here, In opposition, I would, like the tree, Shake off those drops of weakness, and be free, Even in the arm of danger. 134 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Clor. Wouldst thou have M< raise again (fond man) from silent grave, Those sparks that long ago were huried here With my dead friend's cold ashes ? The. Dearest dear, I dare not ask it, nor you must not grant. Stand strongly to your vow, and do not faint. Remember how he lov'd ye ; and be still The same, opinion speaks ye ; let not will, And that great god of women, appetite, Set up your blood again ; do not invite Desire and Fancy from their long exile, To set them once more in a pleasing smile, Be like a rock made firmly up 'gainst all The power of angry heaven, or the strong fall Of Neptune's battery; if ye yield, I die To all affection : 'tis that loyalty, Ye tie unto this grave, I so admire ; And yet there's something else I would desire If you would hear me, but withal deny. O Pan, what an uncertain destiny Hangs over all my hopes ! I will retire, For if I longer stay, this double fire Will lick my life up. Clor. The gods give quick release And happy cure unto thy hard disease. The God of the River rises with Jlmoiet in his arms, whom the sullen Shepherd has flung wounded into his spring. River God. What powerful charms my streams do bring Back again unto their spring, With such force, that I their god, Three times striking with my rod, Could not keep them in their ranks ? My fisiies shoot into the banks, There's not one that stays and feeds, All have hid them in the weeds. Here's a mortal almost dead THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 135 Fal'n into my river head, Hallow'd so with many a spell, That till now none ever fell. 'Tis a female young and clear, Cast in by some ravisher. See upon her breast a wound, On which there is no plaister bound. Yet she's warm, her pulses beat, 'Tis a sisn of life and heat. If thou be'st a virgin pure, I can give a present cure. Take a drop into thy wound From my watry locks, more round Than orient pearl, and far more pure Than unchaste flesh may endure. See she pants, and from her flesh The warm blood gusheth out afresh. She is an unpolluted maid ; I must have this bleeding staid. From my banks I pluck this flower With holy hand, whose virtuous power Is at once to heal and draw. The blood returns. I never saw A fairer mortal. Now doth break Her deadly slumber. Virgin, speak. A/no. Who hath restored my sense, given me new breath. And brought me back out of the arms of death ? River God. I have heal'd thy wounds. Amo. Ah me ! River God. Fear not him that succor'd thee. I am this fountain's god ; below My waters to a river grow, And "twixt two banks with osiers set, That only prosper in the wet, Through the meadows do they glide, Wheeling still on every side, Somi times winding round about, To find the evenesl channel o.ui ; 136 EIS ! DRAMATIC POETS. And if thou wilt go with me, Leaving mortal company, In the cool streams shalt thou lie, Free from harm as well as I. I will give thee fur thy food, No fish that useth in the mud, But trout and pike that love to swim Where the gravel from the brim Through the pure streams may be seen. Orient pearl fit for a queen, Will I give thy love to win, And a shell to keep them in. Not a fish in all my brook That shall disobey thy look, But when thou wilt, come sliding by, And from thy white hand take a fly. And to make thee understand, How I can my waves command, They shall bubble whilst I sing Sweeter than the silver spring. [Sin^s. Bo not fear to put thy feet Naked in the rivers sweet : Think not leach, or newt, or toad, Will bite thy foot, lohen thou hast trod ; Nor let the water rising high, As thou wadest in, make thee cry And sob, but ever live with me, And not a wave shall trouble thee. Amo. Immortal power, that rulest this holy flood ; I know myself unworthy to be woo'd By thee, a god : for ere this, but for thee, I should have shown my weak mortality. Besides, by holy oath betwixt us twain, I am betroth'd unto a shepherd swain, Whose comely face, I know, the gods above May make me leave to see, but not to love. River God. May he prove to thee as true. — THE FA] i'iii'lh SHEPHERDESS. i37 Fairest virgin, now adieu, I must make my waters fly, Lest they leave their channels dry, And heasts that come unto the spring Miss their morning's watering : "Which I would not, for of late All the neighbor people sate On my banks, and from the fold Two white lambs of three weeks old Ofler'd to my deity : For which this year they shall be free From raging floods, that as they pass Leave their gravel in the grass ; Nor shall their meads be overflown, When their grass is newly mown. A/no. For thy kindness to me shown, Never from thy banks be blown Any tree, with windy force, Cross thy streams to stop thy course : May no beast that comes to drink, With his horns cast down thy brink ; May none that for thy fish do look, Cut thy banks to damm thy brook : Bare- foot may no neighbor wade In thy cool streams, wife nor maid, When the spawn on stones do lie, To wash their hemp, and spoil the fry. River God. Thanks, virgin, I must down again, Thy wound will put thee to no pain : Wonder not so soon 'tis gone ; A holy hand was laid upon. [If all the parts of this Play had been in unison with these innocent scenes, and sweet lyric intermixtures, it had been a Poem fit to vie with Comus or the Arcadia, to have been put into the hands of boya and virgins, to have made matter for young dreams, like the loves of Ilermia and Lysander. But a spot is on the face of this moon. — Nothing shurt of in- fatuation could have driven Fletcher upon mixing up with this blessedness such an ugly deformity as Cloe : the wanton shepherdess ! Coarse words do 13S ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. uut wound the cars; but a character of lewdness affronts the mind. Female lewdness at once shocks nature and morality. If Cloe was meant to set off Clorin by contrast, Fletcher should have known that such weeds by juxta-position do not set off but kill sweet flowers.] THE FALSE ONE: A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. Ptolomy, King of Egypt, presents to Ccesar the head of Potnpey. Caesar rebukes the Egyptians for their treachery and ingratitude. Cesar, Anthony, Dollabela, Sceva, Romans; Ptolomy, Photinus, Achillas, Egyptians. Pho. Hail, conqueror and head of all the world, Now this head's oft*. Cces. Ha! Pho. Do not shun nie, Ceesar. From kingly Ptolomy I bring this present, The crown and sweat of thy Pharsalian labor ; The goal and mark of high ambitious honor. Before, thy victory had no name, Csesar ; Thy travail and thy loss of blood no recompence ; Thou dream'dst of being worthy and of war ; And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers ; Here they take life, here they inherit honor, Grow fix'd and shoot up everlasting triumphs, Take it and look upon thy humble servant, With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolomy. That offers with this head, most mighty Caesar, What thou would'st once have given for 't, all Egypt. Ach. Nor do not question it, most royal conqueror, Nor disesteem the benefit that meets thee, Because 'tis easily got, it comes the safer. Yet, let me tell thee, most imperious Csesar, Though he oppos'd no strength of swords to win this, Nor labor'd through no showers of darts and lances, Yet here he found a fort that fae'd him strongly, An inward war : He was his grandsire's guest, THE FALSK ONE. 139 Friend to his father, and when he was i xpell'd And beaten from t his kingdom by strong hand, And had none left him to restore his honor, No hope to find a friend in such a misery ; Then in stept Pompey, took his feeble fortune, Strengthen 'd and cherish'd it, and set it right again. This was a love to Csesar ! See. Give me hate, gods. Pho. This Csesar may account a little wicked ; Rut yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, Had fall'n upon him, what it had been then ; If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that way He was thy son-in-law, there to be tainted Had been most terrible : let the worst be render'd, We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent. Cces. O Sceva, Sceva, see that head ; see, captains, The head of godlike Pompey. See. He was basely ruin'd, But let the gods be griev'd that suffer'd it, And be you Csesar. Cos. Oh thou conqueror, Thou glory of the world once, now the pity, Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus 1 What poor fate follow'd thee, and pluck'd thee on To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ; The life and li^ht of Rome to a blind stranger, That honorable war ne'er taught a nobleness, Nor worthy circumstance show'd what a man was ; That never heard thy name sung but in banquets And loose lascivious pleasures ; to a boy, That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, No study of thy life to know thy goodness : And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend, Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee : In soft relenting tears ? Hear me, great Pompey, If thv great spirit can hear, I must task thee : Thou *st most unnobly robb'd me of my victory, My love and mercy. 140 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Ant. O how brave these tears show ! How excellent is sorrow in an enemy ! Do/. Glory appears not greater than this goodness. Cats. Egyptians, dare you think your high pyramids, Built to outdure the sun as you suppose, Where your unworthy kings lie rak'd in ashes, Arc monuments fit for him ? No, brood of Nilus, Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven, No pyramids set off his memories But the eternal substance of his greatness: To which 1 leave him. Take the head away, And with the body give it noble burial. Your earth shall now be bless'd to hold a Roman, Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance — You look now, king, And you that have been agents in this glory, For our especial favor ? Ptol. We desire it. Cces. And doubtless you expect rewards ? — I forgive you all : that's recompence. You are young and ignorant : that pleads your pardon ; And fear, it may be, more than hate provok'd ye. Your ministers I must think wanted judgment. And so they err'd ; I am bountiful to think this, Believe me, most bountiful ; be you most thankful, That bounty share amongst ye : if I knew What to send you for a present, king of Egypt, I mean, a head of equal reputation, And that you lov'd, though it were your brightest sister's,* (But her you hate) I would not be behind ye. Ptol. Hear me, great Csesar. Cess. I have heard too much : And study not with smooth shows to invade My noble mind as you have done my conquest. Ye are poor and open : I must tell ye roundly, That man that could not recompence the benefits, * Cleopatra THE FALSE ONE. 141 The great and bounteous services of Pompey, Can never doat upon the name of Caesar. Though I Had hated Pompey, and allovv'd his ruin, Hasty to please in blood are seldom trusty : And but I stand environ 'd with my victories, My fortune never failing to befriend me, My noble strengths and friends about my person, I durst not try ye, nor expect a courtesy Above the pious love you show'd to Pompey. You 've found me merciful in arguing with you ; Swords, hangmen, fires, destructions of all natures, Demolishments of kingdoms, and whole ruins, Are wont to be my orators. Turn to tears, You wretched and poor seeds of sun-burnt Egypt : And now you 've found the nature of a conqueror. That you cannot decline with all your flatteries, That where the day gives light will be himself still, Know how to meet his worth with human courtesi Go, and embalm the bones of that great soldier ; Howl round about his pile, fling on your spices, Make a Sabsean bed, and place this Phoenix Where the hot sun may emulate his virtues, And draw another Pompey from his ashes Divinely great, and fix him 'mongst the worthies. Ptol. We will do all. Cos. You 've robb'd him of those tears His kindred and his friends kept sacred for him, The virgins of their funeral lamentations ; And that kind earth that thought to cover him, His country's earth, will cry out 'gainst your cruelty. And weep unto the ocean for revenge, Till Nilus raise his seven heads and devour ye, My grief has stopt the rest: when Pompey lived, He used you nobly ; now he is dead, use him so. 112 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE: A COMEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. Leocadia leaves her Father's house, disguised in man's apparel, to travel in search of Mark-antonio, to whom she is contracted, but has been deserted by him. When at length she meets with him, she finds, that by a precontract he is the Husband of Theodosia. In this extremity, Philippo, Brother to Theodosia, offers Leocadia marriage. Philippo. Leocadia. Phi. Will you not hear me ? Leo. I have heard so much, Will keep me deaf for ever. No, Mark-antonio, After thy sentence I may hear no more, Thou hast pronounc'd me dead. Phi. Appeal to reason : She will reprieve you from the power of grief, Which rules but in her absence ; hear me say A sovereign message from her, which in duty, And love to your own safety, you ought hear. Why do you strive so ? whither would you fly ? You cannot wrest yourself away from care, You may from counsel ; you may shift your place, But not your person ; and another clime Makes you no other. Leo. Oh! Phi. For passion's sake (Which I do serve, honor, and love in you), If you will sigh, sigh here ; if you would vary A sigh to tears, or out-cry, do it here. No shade, no desart, darkness, nor the grave, Shall be more equal to your thoughts than I. Only but hear me speak. Leo. What would you say ? Phi. That which shall raise your heart, or pull down mine, Quiet your passion, or provoke mine own : We must have both one balsam, or one wound. For know, lov'd fair, I have read you through, And with a wond'ring pity look'd on you. LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE. 143 I have observ'd the method of your blood, And waited on it even with sympathy Of a like red and paleness in mine own. I knew which blush was anger's, which was love's, Which was the eye of sorrow, which of truth, And could distinguish honor from disdain In every change : and you are worth my study. I saw your voluntary misery Sustain'd in travel ; a disguised maid, Wearied with seeking, and with finding lost, Neglected where you hoped most, or put by , 1 saw it, and have laid it to my heart, And though it were my sister which was righted, Yet being by your wrong, I put off nature, Could not be glad, where I most bound to triumph : My care for you so drown'd respect of her. Nor did I only apprehend your bonds, But studied your release : and for that day Have I made up a ransom, brought you a health, Preservative 'gainst chance or injury, Please you apply it to the grief; myself. Leo. Ah ! Phi. Nay, do not think me less than such a cure ; Antonio was not, and 'tis possible Philippo may succeed. My blood and house Are as deep rooted, and as fairly spread, As Mark-antonio's ; and in that, all seek, Fortune hath giv'n him no precedency ; As for our thanks to Nature, I may burn Incense as much as he ; I ever durst Walk with Antonio by the self-same light At any feast, or triumph, and ne'er cared Which side my lady or her woman took In their survey ; I durst have told my tale too, Though his discourse new ended. Leo. My repulse Phi. Let not that torture you which makes me happy, Nor think that conscience, fair, which is no shame ; M4 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 'Twas no repulse, it was your dowry rather : For then inethought a thousand graces met To make you lovely, and ten thousand stories Of constant virtue, which you then out-reach'd, In one example did proclaim you rich: Nor do I think you wretched or disgraced After this suffering, and do therefore take Advantage of your need ; hut rather know, You are the charge and business of those powers, Who, like best tutors, do inflict hard tasks Upon great natures, and of noblest hopes ; Read trivial lessons and half-lines to slugs: They that live long, and never feel mischance, Spend more than half their age in ignorance. Leo. 'Tis well you think so. Phi. You shall think so too, You shall, sweet Leocadia, and do so. Leo. Good sir, no more ; you have too fair a shape To play so foul a part in, as the Tempter. Say that I could make peace with fortune ; who, Who should absolve me of my vow yet : ha ? My contract made ? Phi. Your contract ? Leo. Yes, my contract. Am I not his ? his wife ? Phi. Sweet, nothing less. Leo. I have no name then. Phi. Truly then you have not. How can you be his wife, who was before Another's husband ? Leo. Oh ! though he dispense With his faith given, I cannot with mine. Phi. You do mistake, clear soul ; his precontract Doth annul yours, and you have giv'n no faith That ties you, in religion, or humanity : You rather sin against that greater precept, To covet what's another's ; sweet, you do, Believe me. who dare not urge dishonest things. LOVE'S SACRIFICE, 145 Remove that scruple, therefore, and but: take Your dangers now into your judgment's scale, And weigh them with your safeties. Think but whither Now you can go ; what you can do to live : How near you have barr'd all ports to your own succor, Except this one that I here open, love, "Should you be left alone, you were a prey To the wild lust of any, who would look Upon this shape like a temptation, And think you want the man you personate ; Would not regard this shift, which love put on, As virtue forc'd, but covet it like vice : ~ScT should you live the slander of each sex, And be the child of error and of shame ; And which is worse, even Mark-antonio Would be call'd just, to turn a wanderer off, And fame report you worthy his contempt : Where, if you make new choice, and settle here, There is no further tumult in this flood, Each current keeps his course, and all suspicions Shall return honors. Came ye forth a maid ? Go home a wife. Alone, and in disguise 1 Go home a waited Leocadia. Go home, and by the virtue of that charm, Transform all mischiefs as you are transform'd, Turn your offended father's wrath to wonder, And all his loud grief to a silent welcome ; Unfold the riddles you have made. — What say you ? Now is the time ; delay is but despair ; If you be chang'd, let a kiss tell me so. Leo. I am ; but how, I rather feel than know. [This is one of the most pleasing if not the most shining scenes in Fletcher. All is sweet, natural, and unforced. It is a copy in which we may suppose Massinger to have profited by the studying.] PART II. 11 116 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. BONDUCA : A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. Bonduca, the British Quern, taking occasion from a Defeat of the Ro- mans to impeach their Valor, is rebuked by Cdratach. Bonduca, Caratach, Hengo, Nennius, Soldiers. Bon. The hardy Romans ! O ye gods of Britain, The rust of arms, the blushing shame of soldiers! Are these the men that conquer by inheritance ? The fortune-makers ? these the Julians, That with the sun measure the end of Nature, Making the world but one Rome and one Caesar ? Shame, how they flee ! Caesar's soft soul dwells in them ; Their mothers got them sleeping, pleasure nurst them, Their bodies sweat with sweet oils, love's allurements, Not lusty arms. Dare they send these to seek us, These Roman girls ? Is Britain grown so wanton ? Twice we have beat them, Nennius, scattered them, And though their big-boned Germans, on whose pikes The honors of their actions sit in triumph, Made themes for songs to shame them : and a woman, A woman beat them, Nennius ; a weak woman, A woman beat these Romans. Car. So it seems. A man would shame to talk so. Bon. Who 's that ? Car. I. Bon. Cousin, do you grieve at my fortunes ? Car. No, Bonduca, If I grieve, 'tis at the bearing of your fortunes ; You put too much wind to your sail : discretion And hardy valor are the twins of honor, And nurs'd together, make a conqueror ; Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth, That Rome has fled before us twice, and routed. A truth we ought to crown the gods for, lady, And not our tongues. A truth, is none of ours, Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing : For then it leaves to be a virtue, lady, BONDUCA. 147 And we that have been victors, beat ourselves, When we insult upon our honor's subject. Bon. My valiant cousin, is it foul to say What liberty and honor bid us do, And what the gods allow us ? Car. No, Bonduca, So what we say exceed not what we do. Ye call the Romans fearful, fleeing Romans, And Roman girls, the lees of tainted pleasures : Does this become a doer 1 are they such ? Bon. They are no more. Car. Where is your conquest then ? Why are your altars crown'd with wreaths of flowers, The beast with gilt horns waiting for the fire 1 The holy Druids composing songs Of everlasting life to Victory ? Why are these triumphs, lady ? for a may-game ? For hunting a poor herd of wretched Romans ? Is it no more ? shut up your temples, Britons, And let the husbandman redeem his heifers ; Put out our holy fires ; no timbrel ring ; Let 's home and sleep ; for such great overthrows A candle burns too bright a sacrifice ; A glow-worm's tail too full of flame. O Nennius, Thou hast a noble uncle knew a Roman, And how to speak to him, how to give him weight In both his fortunes. Bon. By the gods, I think Ye doat upon these Romans, Caratach. Car. Witness these wounds, I do ; they were fairly given, I love an enemy, I was born a soldier ; And he that in the head of 's troop defies me, Bending my manly body with his sword, I make a mistress. Yellow- tressed Hymen \ 'er tied a longing virgin with more joy, Than I am married to that man that wounds me : And are not all these Romans. Ten struck battles I snek'd these honor'd scars from, and all Roman, '•18 ENGLfSH DRAMATIC POETS. Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches, When many a frozen storm sung through my cuirass, And made it doubtful whether that or I Were the more stubborn metal, have I wrought through, And all to try these Romans. Ten times a night 1 have swum the rivers, when the stars of Rome Shot at me as I floated, and the billows Tumbled their watry ruins on my shoulders, Charging my batter'd sides with troops of agues, And still to try these Romans ; whom I found (And if I lie, my wounds be henceforth backward, And be you witness, gods, and all my dangers) As ready, and as full of that I brought (Which was not fear nor flight) as valiant, As vigilant, as wise, to do and suffer, Ever advanc'd as forward as the Britons ; Their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours. Aye, and as subtle, Lady. 'Tis dishonor, And follow 'd will be impudence, Bonduca, And grow to no belief, to taint these Romans. Have I not seen the Britons — Bon. What? Car. Disheart'ned, Run, run, Bonduca, not the quick rack swifter; The virgin from the hated ravisher Not half so fearful ; — not a flight drawn home, A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish, E'er made that haste that they have. By heavens, I have seen these Britons that you magnify, Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring, Basely for mercy, roaring ; the light shadows, That in a thought scur o'er the fields of corn, Halted on crutches to them. Bon. O ye powers, What scandals do I suffer ! Car. Yes, Bonduca, I have seen thee run too, and thee, Nennius ; Yea run apace, both : then when Penvus, Till-: BLOODY BROTHER. 149 The Roman girl, cut through your armed carts, And drove them headlong on ye down the hill : Then when he hunted ye like Britain-foxes, .More by the scent than sight : then did I see These valiant and approved men of Britain, Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy, And hoot their fears to one another nightly. t. And what did you then, Caratach ? Car. I fled too, But not so fast : your jewel had been lost then, Young Hengo there ; he trasht me, Nennius : For when your fears out-run him, then stept I, And in the head of all the Roman's fury Took him, and, with my tough belt to my back, 1 buckled him ; behind him, my sure shield ; And then I follow \1. If I say I fought Five times in bringing off this bud of Britain, I lie not, Nennius. Neither had ye heard Me speak this, or ever seen the child more, But that the son of Virtue, Penyus, Seeing me steer through all these storms of danger, My helm still in my hand (my sword), my prow Turn'd to my foe (my face), he cried out nobly, :: Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely ; " Thy manly sword has ransom'd thee : grow strong, " And let me meet thee once again in arms : " Then if thou stand'st, thou art mine." I took his offer, And here I am to honor him. THE BLOODY BROTHER ; OR, ROLLO : A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. Rullo, Duke of J\ r ormandy, a bloody tyrant, puts to death his tutor Bald- win, for too freely reproving him for his crimes ; but afterwards falls in love with Edith, daughter to the man he has slain. She makes a shoip of returning his love, and invites him to a banquet ; her design 150 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. biingto train him there, that she may kill him: but overcome by his flatteries and real or dissembled remorse, she faints in her resolution. Rollo. Edith. Rol. What bright star, taking beauty's form upon her, In all the happy lustre of heaven's glory, Has dropt down from the sky to comfort me ? Wonder of Nature, let it not profane thee My rude hand touch thy beauty, nor this kiss, The gentle sacrifice of love and service, Be offer'd to the honor of thy sweetness. Edi. My gracious lord, no deity dwells here, Nor nothing of that virtue but obedience ; The servant to your will affects no flattery. Rol. Can it be flattery to swear those eyes Are Love's eternal lamps he fires all hearts with : That tongue the smart string to his bow ? those sighs The deadly shafts he sends into our souls ? Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty. Edi. Your grace is full of game. Rol. By heaven, my Edith, Thy mother fed on roses when she bred thee. The sweetness of the Arabian wind still blowing Upon the treasures of perfumes and spices, In all their pride and pleasures, call thee mistress. Edi. Wil 't please you sit, sir ? Rol. So you please sit by me. Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee, The excellency that appears upon thee Ties up my tongue : pray speak to me. Edi. Of what, sir ? Rol. Of anything, anything is excellent. Will you take my directions ? speak of love then ; Speak of thy fair self, Edith : and while thou speak'st, Let me thus languishing give up myself, wench. Edi. H'as a strange cunning tongue. Why do you sigh, sir \ How masterly he turns himself to catch me ! Rol. The way to paradise, my gentle maid. Till: BLOODY BROTH! 151 Is hard and crooked : scarce repentance rinding, With all her holy helps, the door to enter. Give me thy hand, what dost thou feel ? Edi. Your tears, sir ; You weep extremely ; strengthen me now, justice. Why are these sorrows, sir ? Rol. Thou'lt never love me, If I should tell thee ; yet there's no way left Ever to purchase this blest paradise, But swimming thither in these tears. Edi. I stasrser. Rol. Are they not drops of blood ? Edi. No. Rol. They're for blood then, For guiltless blood ; and they must drop, my Edith, They must thus drop, till I have drown'd my mischiefs. Edi. If this be true, I have no strength to touch him. Rol. I prithee look upon me, turn not from me ; Alas I do confess I'm made of mischiefs, Begot with all man's miseries upon me : But see my sorrows, maid, and do not thou, Whose only sweetest sacrifice is softness, Whose true condition, tenderness of nature Edi. My anger melts, oh, I shall lose my justice. Rol. Do not thou learn to kill with cruelty, As I have done, to murder with thine eyes, (Those blessed eyes) as I have done with malice. When thou hast wounded me to death with scorn, (As I deserve it, lady) for my true love, When thou hast loaden me with earth for ever, Take heed my sorrows, and the stings I surfer, Take heed my nightly dreams of death and horror Pursue thee not : no time shall tell thy griefs then, Nor shall an hour of joy add to thy beauties, Look not upon me as I kill'd thy father, As I was smear'd in blood, do not thou hate me ; But thus in whiteness of my wash'd repentance, ENGLISH i)K\.M ATIC POETS. In my heart's tears ami truth of love to Edith, Jo )n_\ fair life hereafter. Edi. Hi- will fool me. liol. Oh, with thine angel eyes behold and bless me ' On heaven we call for mercy and obtain it, To justice for our right on earth and have it, Of thee I beg for love, save me, and give it. Edi. Now, heaven, thy help, or I am gone for ever ! His tongue has turn'd me into melting pity. THIERRY AND THEODORET : A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. Thierry, King of Prance, being childless, is foretold by an Astrologer, that he shall have children if he sacrifice the first Woman that he shall meet at sun-rise coming out of the Temple of Diana. He waits before the Temple, and the first Woman he sees proves to be his own Wife Ordella. Thierry. Martel, a Nobleman. Mart. Your grace is early stirring. Thicr. How can he sleep Whose happiness is laid up in an hour He knows comes stealing towards him ? Oh Martel ! ls't possible the longing bride, whose wishes Out-run her fears, can on that day she is married Consume in slumbers ; or his arms rust in ease That hears the charge, and sees the honor'd purchase Ready to guild his valor ? Mine is more, A power above these passions : this day France, France, that in want of issue withers with us, And like an aged river, runs his head Into forgotten ways, again I ransom, And his fair course turn right. Marl, flappy woman, that dies to do these things. THIERRY ! x D THEODORET. 153 Thier. The Gods have heard me now . and those that scorn'd me, .Mothers of many children and blest fathers That see their issue like the stars unnumber'd, Their comfort more than them, shall in my praise; Now teach their infants songs; and tell their ages From such a son of mine, or such a queen, That chaste Ordella brings me. Mart. The day wears, And those that have been offering early prayers, A iv now retiring homeward. Thicr. Stand and mark then. Mart. Is it the first must suffer ? Thier. The first woman. Mart. What hand shall do it, sir ? Thier. This hand. Martel : For who less dare presume to give the gods An incense of this offering I Mart. Would I were she, such a way to die, and such a blessing, Can never crown my parting. Here conies a woman. Ordella comes- out of the Temple veiled. Thier. Stand and behold her then. Mart. I think a fair one. Thier. Move not whilst I prepare her : may her peace, Like his whose innocence the gods are pleas'd with, And offering at their altars, gives his soul Far purer than those fires, pull heaven upon her ; You holy powers, no human spot dwell in her ; No love of anything, but you and goodness, Tie her to earth ; fear be a stranger to her, And all weak blood's affections, but thy hope, Let her bequeath to women : hear me, heaven, ( rive her a spirit masculine and noble, Fit for yourseh sk, and me to offer. O let her in « I my blow, doat on her death ; \mi as a wanton vine bows to the primer. 154 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. That by his cutting off more may increase, So li i her fall to raise me fruit. Hail woman! The happiest and the besl (if the dull will Do not abuse thy fortune) France e'er found yet. Ordel. She's more than dull, sir, less and worse than woman, That may inherit such an infinite As you propound, a greatness so near goodness, And brings a will to rob her. Thier. Tell me this then, Was there e'er woman yet, or may be found, That for fair fame, unspotted memory, For virtue's sake, and only for its self sake, Has, or dare make a story ? Ordel. Many dead, sir, living I think as many. Thier. Say the kingdom May from a woman's will receive a blessing, The king and kingdom, not a private safety ; A general blessing, lady. Ordel. A general curse light on her heart denies it. Thier. Full of honor ; And such examples as the former ages Were but dim shadows of and empty figures, Ordel. You strangely stir me, sir, and were my weakness In any other flesh but modest woman's, \ou should not ask more questions ; may I do it ? Thier. You may, and which is more, you must. Ordel. I joy in't, Above a moderate gladness ; sir, you promise It shall be honest. Thier. As ever time discover'd. Ordel. Let it be what it may then, what it dare, I have a mind will hazard it. TJiier. But hark ye, What may that woman merit, makes this blessing? Ordel. Only her duty, sir. Thier. 'Tis terrible. Ordel. 'Tis so much the more noble. Thier. 'Tis full of fearful shadows. THIERRY AND THEODORET. 155 Ordel. So is sleep, sir, Or anything that's merely ours and mortal ; We were begotten gods else : but those fears, Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts, Fly, like the shapes of clouds we form, to nothing. Thicr. Suppose it death. Ordel. I do. Thier. And endless parting With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason : For in the silent grave, no conversation,* No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel, nothing's heard, Nor nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust and an endless darkness : and dare you, woman. Desire this place ? Ordel. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest ; Children begin it to us, strong men seek it, And kings from height of all their painted glories Fall like spent exhalations to this centre : And those are fools that fear it, or imagine, A few unhandsome pleasures, or life's profits, Can recompense this place ; and mad that stay it, Till age blow out their lights, or rotten humors Bring them dispersed to the earth. Thier. Then you can suffer ? Ordel. As willingly as say it. Thier. Mattel, a wonder ! Here is a woman that dares die. Yet tell me, Are you a wife ? Ordel. I am, sir ? Thier. And have children 1 She sighs and weeps. Ordel. O none, sir. Thicr. Dare you venture, For a poor barren praise you ne'er shall hear, * There is no work, no device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest. Ecclesiastes. 156 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. To part with these sweet hopes? Ordel. With all but heaven, And yet die full of children ; he that reads me When I am ashes, is my son in wishes: And those chaste dames that keep my memory, ging my yearly requiems, are my daughters. Thier. Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledge, And what I must do, lady. Ordcl. You arc the king, sir, And what you do I'll suffer, and that blessing That you desire, the gods shower on the kingdom. Thier. Thus much before I strike then, for I must kill you, The gods have will'd it so, they've made the blessing .Must make France young again, and me a man. Keep up your strength still nobly. Ordel. Fear me not. Thier. And meet death like a measure. Ordel. I am stedfast. Thier. Thou shalt be sainted, woman, and thy tomb Cut out in crystal pure and good as thou art ; And on it shall be graven every age Succeeding peers of France that rise by thy fall, Till thou liest there like old and fruitful Nature. Barest thou behold thy happiness ? Ordel. I dare, sir. [Pulls off her veil; he lets fall his sword. Thier. Ha ! Mar. O, sir, you must not do it. Thier. No, I dare not. There is an angel keeps that paradise, A fiery angel friend : O virtue, virtue, Ever and endless virtue. Ordel. Strike, sir, strike. And if in my poor death fair France may merit, Give me a thousand blows, be killing me A thousand days. Thier. First let the earth be barren, And man no more remember'd, Rise. Ordella, THIERRY AND THEODORET. 157 The nearest to thy Maker, and the pun ^t That ever dull flesh show'd us, — Oh my heart-strings.* Mattel relates to Thierry the manner of Or delta's death. Mar. The griev'd Ordclla (for all other titles But take away from that) having from me, Prompted by your last parting groan, enquir'd What drew it from you, and the cause soon learn'd : For she whom barbarism could deny nothing, With such prevailing earnestness desir'd it, ; T\vas not in me, though it had been my death, To hide it from her ; she, I say, in whom, All was, that Athens. Rome, or warlike Sparta, Have register'd for good in their best women, But nothing of their ill ; knowing herself Mark'd out (I know not by what power, but sure A cruel one), to die, to give you children ; [laving first with a settled countenance Look'd up to heaven, and then upon herself (It being the next best object), and then smil'd, \> if her joy in death to do you service, Would break forth, in despite of the much sorrow * I have always considered this to be the finest scene in Fletcher, and Ordella the most perfect idea of the female heroic character, next to Ca- lantha in the Broken Heart of Ford, that has been embodied in fiction. She is a piece of sainted nature. Yet noble as the whole scene is, it must be confessed that the manner of it, compared with Shakspeare's finest scenes, is slow and languid. Its motion is circular, not progressive. Each line Ives on itself in a sort of separate orbit. They do not join into one another like a running hand. Every step that we go we are stopped to admire some single object, like walking in beautiful scenery with a guide. This slowness I shall elsewhere have occasion to remark as characteristic of Fletcher. Another striking difference perceivable between Fletcher and Shakspeare, is the fondness of the former for unnatural and violent situa- tions, like that in the scene before us. He seems to have thought that nothing great could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief incidents in the Wife for a Month, in Cupid's Revenge, in the Double Marriage, and in many more of his Tragedies, show this. Shakspeare had nothing of this contortion in his mind, none of that craving after romantic incidents, and flights of strained and improbable virtue, which I think always betrays an imperfect moral sensibility. 159 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. She show'd she had to leave you ; and then taking Me by the hand, this hand which I must ever Love better than I have done, since she touch'd it, . " Go," said she, " to my lord (and to go to him " Is such a happiness I must not hope for), " And tell him that lie too much priz'd a trifle " Made only worthy in his love, and her " Thankful acceptance, for her sake to rob " The orphan kingdom of such guardians, as " Must of necessity descend from him ; " And therefore in some part of recompence " Of his much love, and to show to the world (i That 'twas not her fault only, but her fate, " That did deny to let her be the mother " Of such most certain blessings : yet for proof, " She did not envy her, that happy her, " That is appointed to them ; her quick end " Should make way for her :" which no sooner spoke, But in a moment this too ready engine Made such a battery in the choicest castle That ever Nature made to defend life, That straight it shook and sunk. WIT WITHOUT MONEY : A COMEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. The humor of a Gallant who will not be persuaded to keep his Lands, but chooses to live by his Wits rather. Valentine's Uncle. Merchant, tcho has his Mortgage. Mer. When saw you Valentine ? Unc. Not since the horse race. He's taken up with those that woo the widow. Mer. How can he live by snatches from such people ? He bore a worthy mind. Unc. Alas, he's sunk, His means are gone, he wants ; and, whioh i worse, Takes a delight in doing so. WIT WITHOUT MONEY 159 Mer. That's strange. Unc. Runs lunatic if you but talk of states ; He can't be brought (now he has spent his own) To think there is inheritance, or means, But all a common riches ; all men bound To be his bailiffs. Mer. This is something dangerous. Unc. No gentleman, that has estate, to use it In keeping house or followers : for those ways He cries against for eating sins, dull surfeits, Cramming of serving-men, mustering of beggars, Maintaining hospitals for kites and curs, Grounding their fat faiths upon old country proverbs, " God bless the founders :" these he would have ventur'd Into more manly uses, wit and carriage ; And never thinks of state or means, the ground-works : Holding it monstrous, men should feed their bodies, And starve their understandings. Valentine joins them. Val. Now to your business, uncle. Unc. To your state then. Val. 'Tis gone, and I am glad on 't, name 't no more, 'Tis that I pray against, and heaven has heard me ; I tell you, sir, I am more fearful of it (I mean, of thinking of more lands or livings), Than sickly men are o' travelling o' Sundays, For being quell'd with carriers ; out upon 't ; Caveat emptor j let the fool out-sweat it, That thinks he has got a catch on 't. Unc. This is madness, To he a wilful beggar. Val. I am mad then, And so I mean to be ; will that content you ? How bravely now I live ! how jocund ! How near the first inheritance ! without fears ' How free from title troubles ! Unc. And from means too ' i E CJLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Val. Means W liv, all good men's my m ans ; my wit 's my plough ; The town "s my stock, tavern 's my standing-house (And all the world know, there 's no want) : all gentlemen That love society, love me ; all purses That wit and pleasure opens, are my tenants; Every man's clothes lit me ; the next fair lodging Is but my next remove; and when I please To be more eminent, and take the air, \ piece is levied, and a coach prepar'd, And I go I care not whithi r : what need state here 1 Unc. But say these means were honest, will they last, sir? Val. Far longer than your jerkin, and wear fairer. Your mind 's enclos'd, nothing lies open nobly ; Your very thoughts are hinds, that work on nothing But daily sweat and trouble : were my way So full of dirt as this ('tis true) I 'd shift it. Are my acquaintance Graziers ? But, sir, know ; No man that 1 'm allied to in my living, But makes it equal whether his own use Or my necessity pull first; nor is this fore'd, But the meer quality and poisure of goodness. And do you think I venture nothing equal ? Unc. You pose me, cousin. Val. What's my knowledge, uncle ? Is 't not worth money ? what's my understanding ? Travel ? reading ? wit ? all these digested ? my daily Making men, some to speak, that too much phlegm Had froz'n up ; some, that spoke too much, to hold Their peace, and put their tongues to pensions ; some To wear their cloaths, and some to keep 'em : these Are nothing, uncle ? besides these ways, to teach The way of nature, a manly love, communitv To all that are deservers, not examining How much or what's done for them ; it is wicked. Are not these ways as honest, as persecuting . e Marv'd inheritance with mustv corn, The very rats were fain to run awav from ? itii; TWO NOBLE KINSMEN 161 Or selling rotten wood by the pound, like spices, Which gentlemen do after burn by the ounces? Do not I know your way of feeding beasts With grains, and windy stuff, to blow up butchers ? \ our racking pastures, that have eaten up As many singing shepherds, and their issues, A- Andaluzia breeds? These are authentic. I tell you, sir, I would not change way with you ; Unless it were to sell your state that hour, And (if 'twere possible) to spend it then too ; For all your beans in Rumnillo : now you know me. [The wit of Fletcher is excellent, like his serious scenes: but there is thing strained and far-fetched in both. He is too mistrustfnl of Na- ture ; lie always goes a little on one side of her. Shakspeare chose her without a reserve : and had riches, power, understanding, and long life, with her, for a dowry.] THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER.' Three Queens, whose Lords were slain and their bodies denied burial by Creon, the cruel King of Thebes, seek redress from Theseus, Duke of Athens, on the day of his marriage with Hippolita, Queen of the Ama- zons. The first Queen falls down at the feet of Theseus ; the second at the feet of Hippolita, his bride ; and the third implores the mediation of Emilia, his Sister. 1st Qu. to Thes. For. pity's sake, and true gentility, Hear and respect me. 2d Qu. to Hip. For your mother's sake. And as you wish your womb may thrive with fair ones, 1 1 ear and respect me. Zrd Qu. to Emil. Now for the love of him whom Jove hath mark'd The honor of your bed, and for the sake 1 >f clear virginity, be advocate * Fletcher is said to have been assisted in this Play by Shakspeare TART II. i ' 162 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS For us and our distresses : this good deed Shall raze you out of the book of trespasses All you are set down there. Thes. Sad lady, rise. Hip. Stand up. Emil. No knees to me. What woman I may stead, that is distrest, Does bind me to her. Thes. What's your request ? Deliver you for al. 1st Qu. We are three queens, whose sovereigns fell before The wrath of cruel Creon ; who endure The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites, And peck of crows, in the foul field of Thebes. He will not suffer us to burn their bones, To urn their ashes, nor to take th' offence Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye Of holy Phoebus, but infects the winds With stench of our slain lords. Oh pity, duke, Thou purger of the earth, draw thy fear'd sword That does good turns to th' world ; give us the bones Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them ; And, of thy boundless goodness, take some note That for our crowned heads we have no roof, Save this which is the lion's and the bear's, And vault to everything. Thes. Pray you kneel not, I was transported with your speech, and suffer'd Your knees to wrong themselves: I have heard the fortunes Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting, As wakes my vengeance and revenge for them. King Capaneus was your lord : the day That he should marry you, at such a season As now it is with me, I met your groom ; By Mars's altar, you were that time fair, Not Juno's mantle fairer than your tresses, Nor in more bounty spread her. Your wheaten wreath Was not then thrash'd nor blasted : Fortune at you Dimpled her cheek with smiles : Hercules, our kinsman, THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 163 (Then weaker than your eyes) laid by his club; He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide, And swore his sinews thaw'd. Oh, grief, and time, Fearful consumers, you will all devour. 1st Qu. Oh I hope some god, Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood, Whereto he '11 infuse power, and press you forth Our undertaker. Thes. Oh, no knees, none, widow ; Unto the hel meted Bellona use them, And pray for me your soldier. Troubled I am. 2d Qu. Honor'd Hippolita, Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain The scythe-tusk'd boar ; that with thy arm, as strong As it is white, wast near to make the male To thy sex captive, but that this thy lord, Born to uphold creation in that honor First Nature styled it in, shrunk thee into The bound thou wast o'erflowing, at once subduing Thy force and thy affection : Soldieress, That equally canst poise sternness v/ith pity, Who now I know hast much more power on him Than ever he had on thee, who ow'st his strength And his love too ; who is a servant for The tenor of the speech : Dear glass of ladies, Bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scorch. Under the shadow of his sword may cool us : Require him he advance it o'er our heads ; Speak 't in a woman's key, like such a woman As any of us three : weep ere you fail ; lend us a knee, But touch the ground for us no longer time Than a dove's motion when the head 's pluckt off: Tell him if he i' th' blood-siz'd field lay swoln. Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon, What you would do. Hip. Poor lady, say no more ; I had as lieve trace t hi— 'mod action with you, }64 ENGLISH DRAM \ TIC POETS. As that whereto I 'm going, and never yet Went I so willing 'way. My lord is taken Heart-deep with your distress ; let him consider ; . I '11 speak anon. 3rd Qu. to Emil. O my petition was Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied Melts into drops, so sorrow wanting form Is prest with deeper matter. Emil. Pray stand up, Your grief is written in your cheek. 3rd Qu. Oh wo, You cannot read it there ; there through my tears, Like wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream, You may behold them. Lady, lady, alack ! He that will all the treasures know o' th' earth. Must know the centre too ; he that will fish For my least minnow, let him lead his line To catch one at my heart. O pardon me ; Extremity that sharpens sundry wits Makes me a fool. Emil. Pray you say nothing, pray you ; Who cannot feel, nor see the rain, being in 't, Knows neither wet, nor dry : if that you were The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you T' instruct me 'gainst a capital grief indeed, Such heart-pierc'd demonstration ; but alas Being a natural sister of our sex, Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me, That it shall make a counter-reflect 'gainst My brother's heart, and warm it to some pity, Though it were made of stone : pray have good comfort. Thes. Forward to th' temple, leave not out a jot O' th' sacred ceremony. 1st. Qu. Oh this celebration Will longer last, and be more costly than Your suppliants' war. Remember that your fame Knolls in the ear o' th ; world : what you do quickly, Is not done rashly ; your first thought is more THK TWO NOBLE KIXSMKX. J65 Than others' lahor'd meditance ; your premeditating More than their actions ; but oh Jove, your actions, Soon as they move, as Asprays do the fish, Subdue before they touch. Think, dear duke, think, What beds our slain kings have. '2nd. Qu. What griefs our beds, That our dear lords have none. 3rd. Qu. None fit for the dead ; Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance, Weary of this world's light, have to themselves Been death's most horrid agents, human grace Afibrds them dust and shadow. 1st. Qu. But our lords Lie blistering 'fore the visitatins: sun, And were good kings when living. Thes. It is true, and I will give you comfort, To give your dead lords graves : The which to do must make some work with Creon. 1st. Qu. And that work presents itself to th' doing : Now 'twill take form, the heats are gone to-morrow, Then bootless toil must recorapence itself With its own sweat ; now he 's secure, Not dreams we stand before your puissance, Rincing our holy begging in our eyes To make petition clear. 2nd. Qu. Now you may take him Drunk with his victory. 3rd. Qu. And his army full. Of bread and sloth. Thes. Artesis, that best knowest How to draw out, fit to this enterprize, The prim'st for this proceeding, and the number To carry such a business forth ; and levy Our worthiest instruments, whilst we dispatch This grand act of our life, this daring deed Of fate in wedlock. 1st. Qu. Dowagers, take hands ; Let us be widows to our woes, delay ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Commends us to a famishing hope. All. Farewell. 2nd. Qu. We come unseasonably. But when could grief Cull forth, as unpang'd judgment can, fit'st time For best solicitation ? Thes. Why good ladies, This is a service, whereto I am going, Greater than any was ; it more imports me Than all the actions that I have foregone, Or futurely can cope. 1st. Qu. The more proclaiming Our suit shall be neglected, when her arms, Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall By warranting moon-light corslet thee. Oh when Her twining cherries shall their sweetness fall Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think Of rotten kings, or blubber'd queens ? what care For what thou feel'st not? what thou feel'st being able To make Mars spurn his drum. Oh if thou couch But one night with her, every hour in '"t will Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and Thou shalt remember nothing more, than what That banquet bids thee to. Hip. Though much unliking You should be so transported, as much sorry I should be such a suitor, yet I think Did I not by th' abstaining of my joy Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfei That craves a present med'eine, I should pluck All ladies' scandal on me. Therefore, sir, As I shall here make trial of my prayers, Either presuming them to have some force, Or sentencing for aye their vigor dumb, Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang Your shield afore your heart, about that neck Which is my fee, and which I freely lend To do those poor queens service. All Qu's. to Emit Oh help now, THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 167 Our cause cries for your knee. hnil. If you grant not sister her petition in that force, V. ith that celerity and nature which She makes it in, from henceforth I '11 not dare To ask you anything, nor he so hardy Ever to take a husband. Thcs. Pray stand up. I am entreating of mvself to do That which you kneel to have me; Perithous, Lead on the hride ; get you and pray the gods For success and return ; omit not anything In the pretended celebration; queens, Follow your soldier (as before) ; hence you, And at the banks of Anly meet us with The forces you can raise, where we shall find The moiety of a number, for a business More bigger look 't. Since that our theme is haste, I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip ; Sweet, keep it as my token. Set you forward, For I will see you gone. Hippolita and Emilia discoursing of the friendship between Perithous and Theseus, Emilia relates a parallel instance of the love between herself and Flavia being girls. Emit. I was acquainted Once with a time, when I enjoy'd a play-fellow ; You were at wars, when she the grave enrich'd, Who made too proud the bed, took leave o' th' moon (Which then look'd pale at parting) when our count Was each eleven. Hip. 'Twas Flavia Emil. Yes. You talk of Perithous and Theseus' love ; Theirs has more ground, is more maturely season'd, More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs The one of th' other may be said to water Their intertangled roots of love ; but I 163 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. And she (I sigh and spoke of) were things innocent, Loved for we did, and like the elements, That know not what, nor w hv. yet do effect Rare issues by their operance, our souls Did so to one another ; what she liked, Was then of me approved ; what not condemned, No more arraignment ; the flower that I would pluck, And put between my breasts (Oh then but beginning To swell about the bosom) she would long Till she had such another, and commit it To the like innocent cradle, where phoenix-like They died in perfume : on my head no toy But was her pattern ; her affections pretty, Though happily hers careless were, I followed For my most serious decking ; had mine ear Stolen some new air, or at adventure humm'd on From musical coinage, why it was a note Whereon her spirits would sojourn (rather dwell on) And sing it in her slumbers ; this rehearsal ( Which every innocent wots well) comes in Like old Importment's bastard, has this end : That the true love 'tween maid and maid may be More than in sex dividual. Palamon and Arcite repining at their hard condition, in being made cap- tives for life in Athens, derive consolation from the enjoyment of each otliers company in prison. Pal. How do you, noble cousin ? Arc. How do you, sir ? Pal. Why strong enough to laugh at misery, And bear the chance of war yet ; we are prisoners I fear for ever, cousin. Arc. I believe it, And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come. Pal. Oh cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now ? where is our noble country ? Where are our friends and kindreds ? never more Must we behold those comforts, never see THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 169 The hardy youths strive for the games of honor, Hung with the painted favors of their ladies Like tall ships under sail ; then start amongst them, And as an east wind leave them all behind us Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, Out-stript the people's praises, won the garlands Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh never Shall we two exercise, like twins of honor, Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses Like proud seas under us, our good swords now (Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore) Ravish'd our sides, like age, must run to rust, And deck the temples of those gods that hate us ; These hands shall never draw them out like lightning To blast whole armies more. Arc. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us ; here we are, And here the graces of our youths must wither Like a too timely spring ; here age must find us, And (which is heaviest) Palamon, unmarried ; The sweet embraces of a loving wife Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand cupids, Shall never clasp our necks, no issue know us, No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see, To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say, " Remember what your fathers were, and conquer." The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments, And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune, Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and nature. This is all our world : We shall know nothing here, but one another ; Hear nothing, but the clock that tells our woes. The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it : Summer shall come, and with her all delights, But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still. Pal 'Tis too true. Arcite, To our Theban hounds, rGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. That shook the aged forest with their echoes, No more now must we halloo, no more shake Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, Struck with our well-steel'd darts. All valiant uses (The food and nourishment of noble minds) In us two here shall perish : we shall die ( 'Which is the curse of honor) lastly Children of grief and ignorance. Arc. Yet cousin, Even from the bottom of these miseries, From all that fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, If the gods please to hold here ; a brave patience, And the enjoying of our griefs together. Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish If I think this our prison. Pal. Certainly 'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Were twin'd together ; 'tis most true, two souls Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer The gall of hazard, so they grow together, W T ill never sink ; they must not ; say they could, A willing man dies sleeping, and all 's done. Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place That all men hate so much 1 Pal. How, gentle cousin ? Arc. Let 's think this prison holy sanctuary, To keep us from corruption of worse men ; We are young, and yet desire the ways of honor, That liberty and common conversation, The poison of pure spirits, might (like women) Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing Can be, but our imaginations May make it ours ? And here being thus together, We are an endless mine to one another ; We are one another's wife, ever begetting New births of love ; we are father, friends, acquaintance THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 171 We are, in one another, families ; I am your heir, and you are mine. This place Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor Dare take this from us ; here with a little patience We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek us ; The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas .Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, A wife might part us lawfully, or business ; Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men Crave our acquaintance ; I might sicken, cousin, Where you should never know it, and so perish Without your noble hand to close mine eyes, Or prayers to the gods : a thousand chances, Were we from hence, would sever us. Pal. You have made me (I thank you, Cousin Arcite) almost wanton With my captivity : what a misery It is to live abroad, and everywhere ! 'Tis like a beast methinks ! I find the court here, I : m sure a more content ; and all those pleasures, That woo the wills of men to vanity, I see through now ; and am sufficient To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow, That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him. What, had we been old in the Court of Creon, Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance The virtues of the great ones ? Cousin Arcite, Had not the loving gods found this place for us, We had died, as they do, ill old men, unwept, And had their epitaphs, the people's curses. [This scene bears indubitable marks of Fletcher : the two which precede it ive strong countenance to the tradition that Shakspeare had a hand in this play. The same judgment may be formed of the death of Arcite, and other passages, not here given. They have a luxuriance in them which strongly resembles Shakspeare's manner in those parts of his playa where, the progress of the interest being subordinate, the poet was at lei- sure for description. I might letch instances from Troilus and Timon. Tlr.it Fletcher should have copied Shakspeare's manner through so many entire *.:«■' es (which is the theory of Mr. Steevens) is not very probable. 172 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. that he could have done it with such facility is to me not certain. His ideas move slow ; his versification, though sweet, is tedious, it stops every moment; he lays line upon Line, making up one after the. other, adding image to image so deliberately that we see where they join: Shakspeare mingles everything, he runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and meta- phors : before one idea has burst its shell, another is hatched and clamorous I'.ir disclosure. If Fletcher wrote some scenes in imitation, why did he std|) ? or shall we say that Shakspeare wrote the other scenes in imitation of Fletcher ? that he gave Shakspeare a curb and a bridle, and that Shak- speare gave him a pair of spurs: as Blackmore and Lucan are brought in exchanging gifts in the Battle of the Books ?] THE CITY MADAM: A COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER. Luke, from a state of indigence and dependence, is suddenly raised into immense affluence by a deed of gift of the estates of his brother, Sir John Frugal, a merchant, retired from the world. He enters, from taking a survey of his new riches. Lute. 'Twas no fantastic object but a truth, A real truth, no dream. I did not slumber ; And could wake ever 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 give credit to my senses. Thou dumb magician, [To the Key. That without a charm Didst make my entrance easy to possess What wise men wish and toil for. Hermes' Moly ; Sybilla's golden bough ; the great elixir Imagin'd only by the alchymist ; Compar'd with thee, are shadows, thou the substance And guardian of felicity. No marvel, My brother made thy place of rest his bosom, Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress To be hugg'd ever. In by-corners of This sacred room, silver, in bags h ap'rl up CITY MADAM. H.*» 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 robes of orient 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. 1 [ere 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 shire In Wales or England, where my monies are not Lent out at usury, the certain hook To draw in more. The extravagance of the City Madams aping court fashions repre- hended. Luke, having come into the possession of his brother Sir John FrugaPs estates. Lady, wife to Sir John Frugal, and tivo daughters, in homely attire. Luke, Save you, sister ; I now dare style you so. You were before Too glorious to be look'd on : now you appear Like a city matron, and my pretty nieces Such things As thev were born and bred there. Why should you ape The fashions of court ladies, whose high titles And pedigrees of long descent give warrant 174 K.MJLISH DRAMATIC POETS. For their superfluous bravery ? 'twas monstrous Till now you ne'er look'd lovely. Lady. Is this spoken In scorn ? Luke. Fie, no; with judgment, I make good My promise, and now show you like yourselves, In your own natural shapes. Lady. We acknowledge We have deserv'd ill from you,* yet despair not, Though we 're at your disposure, you '11 maintain us Like your brother's wife and daughters. Luke. 'Tis my purpose. Lady. And not make us ridiculous. Luke. Admir'd rather As fair examples for our proud city dames And their proud brood to imitate. Hear Gently, and in gentle phrase I '11 reprehend Your late disguis'd deformity. Your father was An honest country farmer, Goodman Humble, By his neighbors ne'er call'd master. Did your pride Descend from him ? but let that pass. Your fortune, Or rather your husband's industry, advane'd you To the rank of merchant's wife. He made a knight, And your sweet mistress-ship ladyfy'd, you wore Satin on solemn days, a chain of gold, A velvet hood, rich borders, and sometimes A dainty miniver cap, a silver pin Headed with a pearl worth three-pence ; and thus far You were privileg'd, and no man envied it : It being for the city's honor that There should be distinction between The wife of a patrician and a plebeian. But when the height And dignity of London's blessings grew * In his dependent state they had treated him very cruelly. They are now dependent on him CITY MADAM. 175 Contemptible, and the name lad}' mayoress Became a by-word, and you scorn'd the means By which you were rais'd (my brother's fond indulgence Giving the reins to 't) and no object pleas'd you But the glitt'ring pomp and bravery of the court ; What a strange, nay monstrous metamorphosis follow'd ! No English workmen then could please your fancy ; The French and Tuscan dress, your whole discourse ; This bawd to prodigality entertain'd, To buz into your ears, what shape this countess Appear'd in, the last mask ; and how it drew The young lord's eyes upon her : and this usher Succeeded in the eldest 'prentice's place, To walk before you. Then, as I said (The reverend hood cast off), your borrow'd hair, Powder'd and curl'd, was by your dresser's art Form'd like a coronet, hang'd with diamonds, And the richest orient pearl : your carkanets, That did adorn your neck, of equal value ; Your Hungerland bands, and Spanish Quellio ruffs : Great lords and ladies feasted, to survey Embroider'd petticoats ; and sickness feign'd, That your nightrails of forty pounds a-piece Might be seen with envy of the visitants : Rich pantables in ostentation shown, And roses worth a family. You were serv'd In plate ; Stirr'd not a foot without a coach ; and going To church, not for devotion, but to show Your pomp, you were tickled when the beggars cried Heaven save your honor. Tliis idolatry Paid to a painted room. And, when you lay In childbed, at the christening of this minx, 1 well remember it, as you had been An absolute princess (since they have no more) Three several chambers hung : the first with arras, And that for waiters ; the second, crimson satin, For the meaner sort of guests : th^ third of scarlet 176 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Of the rich Tynan dye: a canopy To cover the brat's cradle ; you in state, Like Pompey's Julia. Lady. No more, I pray you. Luke. Of this be sure you shall not. I '11 cut off Whatever is exorbitant in you, ( )r in your daughters ; and reduce you to lour natural forms and habits: not in revenge Of your base usage of me ; but to fright ( >thers by your example. [This bitter satire against the city women for aping the fashions of the court ladies, must have been peculiarly gratifying to the females of th« Herbert family and the rest of Massinger's noble patrons and patronesses. A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS : A COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER. Overreach (a cruel extortioner) treats about marrying hix daughter with Lord Lovell. Lovell. Overreach. Over. To my wish we are private. I come not to make offer with my daughter A certain portion ; that were poor and trivial : In one word I pronounce all that is mine, In lands or leases, ready coin or goods, With her, my lord, comes to you ; nor shall you have One motive to induce you to believe I live too long, since every year I'll add Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too. Lov. You are a right kind father. Over. You shall have reason To think me such. How do you like this seat ? It is well-wooded and well-water'd, the acres Fertile and rich : would it not serve for change, To entertain your friends in a summer's progress? What thinks mv noble lord ? NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 177 Lov. 'Tis a wholesome air, And well built, and she,* that is mistress of it, Worthy the large revenues. Over. She the mistress ? It may be so for a time : but let my lord Say only that he but like it, and would have it; I say, ere long 'tis his. Lov. Impossible. Over. You do conclude too fast; not knowing me, Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone The lady Allworth's lands : but point out any man's In all the shire, and say they lie convenient And useful for your lordship ; and once more I say aloud, they are yours. Lov. I dare not own What's by unjust and cruel means extorted : My fame and credit are more dear to me, Than so to expose 'em to be censur'd by The public voice. Over You run, my lord, no hazard : Your reputation shall stand as fair In all good men's opinions as now : Nor can my actions, though condemn'd for ill, Cast any foul aspersion upon yours. For though I do contemn report myself, As a mere sound ; I still will be so tender Of what concerns you in all points of honor, That the immaculate whiteness of your fame, Nor your unquestioned integrity, Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot That may take from your innocence and candor. As my ambition is to have my daughter Right honorable; which my lord can make her: And might I live to dance upon my knee A young lord Lovell, born by her unto you, I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes. * The Lady Allworth. !!. 13 -8 KNdLISil UKAMATJC POETS As for possessions and annual rents, Equivalent to maintain you in the port Your noble birth and presenl state require, I do remove that burden from your shoulders, And take it on mine own : for though I ruin The country to supply your riotous waste, The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you. Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations And curses of whole families, made wretched By your sinister practices ? Over. Yes, as rocks are When foamy billows split themselves against Their flinty ribs ; or as the moon is mov'd When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness. I am of a solid temper, and, like these, Steer on a constant course : with mine own sword, If call'd into the field, I can make that right, Which fearful enemies murmur'd at as wrong. Now, for those other piddling complaints, Breath'd cut in bitterness ; as, when they call me Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder On my poor neighbor's right, or grand encloser Of what was common to my private use ; Nay, when my ears are pierc'd with widows' cries, And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold : I only think what 'tis to have my daughter Right honorable ; and 'tis a powerful charm, Makes me insensible of remorse or pity, Or the least sting of conscience. Lov. I admire The toughness of your nature. Over. 'Tis for you, My lord and for my daughter, I am marble. THE PICTURE. 179 THE PICTURE: A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER. Matthias, a knight of Bohemia, going to the tears ; in parting with his tvife, shows her substantial reasons why he should go. Matthias. Sophia. Mat. Since we must part, Sophia, to pass further Is not alone impertinent, but dangerous. We are not distant from the Turkish camp Above five leagues ; and who knows but some party Of his Timariots, that scour the country, May fall upon us ? Be now, as thy name Truly interpreted* hath ever spoke thee, Wise and discreet ; and to thy understanding Marry thy constant patience. Soph. You put me, sir, To the utmost trial of it. Mat. Nay, no melting : Since the necessity, that now separates us, We have long since disputed ; and the reasons, Forcing me to it, too oft wash'd in tears. I grant that you in birth were far above me, And great men my superiors rivals for you ; But mutual consent of heart, as hands Join'd by true love, hath made us one and equal : Nor is it in me mere desire of fame, Or to be cried up by the public voice For a brave soldier, that puts on my armor ; Such airy tumors take not me : you know How narrow our demeans are ; and what's more, Having as yet no charge of children on us, We hardly can subsist. Soph. In you alone, sir, I have all abundance. Mat. For my mind's content, In your own language I could answer you. * Sophia ; wisdom 180 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. You have been an obedient wife, a right one ; And to my power, though short of your desert, I have been ever an indulgent husband. W e have long enjoy'd the sweets of love, and though Not to satiety or loathing, yet We must not live such dotards on our pleasures, As still to hug them to the certain loss Of profit and preferment. Competent means Maintains a quiet bed, want breeds dissension Even in good women. Soph. Have you found in me, sir, Any distaste or sign of discontent, For want of what's superfluous ? Mat. No, Sophia ; Nor shalt thou ever have cause to repent Thy constant course in goodness, if heaven bless My honest undertakings. 'Tis for thee, That I turn soldier, and put forth, dearest, Upon this sea of action as a factor, To trade for rich materials to adorn Thy noble parts, and show 'em in full lustre. 1 blush that other ladies, less in beauty And outward form, but, in the harmony Of the soul's ravishing music, the same age Not to be named with thee, should so outshine thee In jewels and variety of wardrobes ; While you, to whose sweet innocence both Indies Compar'd are of no value, wanting these, Pass unregarded. Soph. If I am so rich, Or in your opinion so, why should you borrow Additions for me ? Mat. Why ? I should be censur'd Of ignorance, possessing such a jewel, Above all prices, if I forbear to give it The best of ornaments. Therefore, Sophia, In a few words know my pleasure, and obey me ; As vou have ever done. To your discretion THE PICTURE. 181 I leav,e the government of my family, And our poor fortunes, and from these command Obedience to you as to myself: To th' utmost of what's mine, live plentifully : And, ere the remnant of our store be spent, With my good sword I hope I shall reap for you A harvest in such full abundance, as Shall make a merry winter. Soph. Since you are not To be diverted, sir, from what you purpose, All arguments' to stay you here are useless. Go when you please, sir. Eyes, I charge you, waste not One drop of sorrow ; look you hoard all up, Till in my widow 'd bed I call upon you : But then be sure you fail not. You blest angels, Guardians of human life, I at this instant Forbear t' invoke you at our parting ; 'twere To personate devotion. My soul Shall go along with you ; and when you are Circled with death and horror, seek and find you ; And then I will not leave a saint unsued to For your protection. To tell you what I will do in your absence, would show poorly ; Mv actions shall speak me. '"Twere to doubt you, To beg I may hear from you where you are ; You cannot live obscure : nor shall one post, Bv night or day, pass unexamin'd by me. If I dwell long upon your lips, consider After this feast the griping fast that follows ; And it will be excusable; pray, turn from me: All that I can is spoken. [The good sense, rational fondness, and chastised feeling, of this dialogue, make it more valuable than many of those scenes in which this writer has attempted a deeper passion and more tr^jical interest. Massinger had not the higher requisites of his art in anything like the degree in which they were possessed by Ford, Webster, Tourneur, Heywood, and others. He never shakes or disturbs the mind with grief. He is read with composure and placid delight. He wrote with that equability of all the passions, I'.XCUSll DK.U1ATIC POETS. which made his English style the purest and most free from violent metaphors and harsh constructions, of any of the dramatists who were his contempora- ries.] THE PARLIAMENT OF LOVE: A COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER. Cleremond takes an oath to perform his mistress Leonora's pleasure. She enjoins him to kill his best friend. He invites Montrose to the field, under pretence of wanting him for a second: then shows, that he must fight with him. Cler. This is the place. Mont. An even piece of ground, Without advantage ; but be jocund, friend : The honor to have enter'd first the field, However we come off, is ours. Cler. I need not, So well I am acquainted with your valor, To dare, in a good cause, as much as man, Lend you encouragement ; and should I add, Your power to do, which Fortune, howe'er blind, Hath ever seconded, I cannot doubt But victory still sits upon your sword, And must not now forsake you. Mont. You shall see me Come boldly up ; nor will I shame your cause, By parting with an inch of ground not bought With blood on my part. Cler. 'Tis not to be question'd : That which I would entreat (and pray you grant it), Is, that you would forget your usual softness, Your foe being at your mercy ; it hath been A custom in you, which I dare not praise, Having disarm'd your enemy of his sword, To tempt your fate, by yielding it again ; Then run a second hazard. Mont. When we encounter THE PICTURE. 183 A noble foe, we cannot be too noble. Cler. That I confess ; but he that 's now to oppose you, I know for an arch villain ; one that hath lost All feeling of humanity, one that hates Goodness in others, 'cause he 's ill himself; A most ungrateful wretch (the name 's too gentle, All attributes of wickedness cannot reach him), Of whom to have deserved, beyond example, Or precedent of friendship, is a wrong Which only death can satisfy. Mont. You describe A monster to me. Cler. True, Montrose, he is so. Africk, though fertile of strange prodigies, Never produced his equal ; be wise, therefore, And if he fall into your hands, dispatch him : Pity to him is cruelty. The sad father, That sees his son stung by a snake to death. May, with more justice, stay his vengeful hand And let the worm escape, than you vouchsafe him A minute to repent : for 'tis a slave So sold to hell and mischief, that a traitor To his most lawful prince, a church-rebber, A parricide, who, when his garners are Cramm'd with the purest grain, surfers his parents, Being old, and weak, to starve for want of bread, Compared to him are innocent. Mont. I ne'er heard Of such a cursed nature; if long-lived, He would infect mankind : rest you assured, He finds from me small courtesy, Cler. And expect As little from him ; blood is that he thirsts for, Not honorable wounds. Mont. I would I had him Within my sword's length ! Cler. Have thy wish : Thou hast ! [Cleremond draws his sword. L8-1 ENGL1 5H DR \.\I \TIC POETS. Nay draw thy sword and suddenly ; I am That monster, temple-robber, parricide, Ingrateful wretch, friend-hater, or what else Makes up the perfect figure of the devil, Should he appear like man. Banish amazement, And call thy ablest spirits up to guard thee From him that ! s turn'd a fury. I am made Her minister, whose cruelty hut named Would with more horror strike the pale-cheek'd stars, Than all those dreadful words which conjurors use To fright their dainn'd familiars. Look not on me As I am Cleremond ; I have parted with The essence that was his, and entertain'd The soul of some fierce tigress, or a wolf's New-hang'd for human slaughter, and 'tis fit: I could not else be an apt instrument To bloody Leonora. Mont. To my knowledge I never wrong'd her. Cler. Yes, in being a friend To me, she hated my best friend, her malice Would look no lower : — and for being such, By her commands, Montrose, I am to kill thee Oh, that thou hadst, like others, been all words, And no performance ! or that thou hadst made Some little stop in thy career of kindness ! Why wouldst thou, to confirm the name of friend. Snatch at this fatal office of a second, Which others fled from ? 'Tis in vain to mourn now, When there 's no help! and therefore, good Montrose, Rouse thy most manly parts, and think thou stand'st now, A champion for more than king or country ; Since in thy fall, goodness itself must suffer. Remember too, the baseness of the wrong Offer'd to friendship ; let it edge thy sword, And kill compassion in thee ; and forget not I will take all advantages : and so, Without reply, have at thee. [They fight, Cleremond falU. A VERY WOMAN. 185 Mont. See, how weak An ill cause is ! you are already fallen : What can you look for now ? Cler. Fool, use thy fortune : And so he counsels thee, that, if we had Changed places, instantly would have cut thy throat, Or digg'd thy heart out. Mont. In requital of That savage purpose, I must pity you : Witness these tears, not tears of joy for conquest ; But of true sorrow for your misery. Live, O live, Cleremond, and, like a man, Make use of reason, as an exorcist To cast this devil out, that does abuse you ; This fiend of false affection. A VERY WOMAN; OR, THE PRINCE OF TARENT : A TRAGI- COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER. Don John Antonio, Prince of Tarent, in the disguise of a slave, recounts to the Lady Mmira, she not knowing him in that disguise, the story of his own passion for her, and of the unworthy treatment which he found from her. John. Not far from where my father lives, a lady, A neighbor by, blest with as great a beauty As Nature durst bestow without undoing, Dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then, And bless'd the house a thousand times she dwelt in. This beautv, in the blossom of my youth, When my first fire knew no adulterate incense, Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness, In all the bravery my friends could show me, In all the faith my innocence could give me, In the best language my true tongue could tell me, And all the broken sighs my sick heart lent me, I sued, and serv'd. Long did I love this lady, Long was my travail, long my trade, to win her : ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. With all tiic duly of my soul I scrv'd her. Aim. How feelingly he speaks ! And she loved you too ? It must lir so. John. I would it had, dear lady. This story had heen needless ; and this place, 1 think, unknown to me. Aim. Were your bloods equal ? John. Yes ; and, I thought, our hearts too. Aim. Then she must love. John. She did ; but never me : she could not love me ; She would not love ; she hated ; more, she scorn'd me : And in so poor and base a way abused me, For all my services, for all my bounties, So bold neglects flung on me Aim. An ill woman ! Belike you found some rival in your love then ? John. How perfectly she points me to my story ! [Aside. Madam, I did ; and one whose pride and anger, 111 manners, and worse mem, she doated on ; Doatcd, to my undoing and my ruin. And, but for honor to your sacred beauty, And reverence to the noble sex, though she fall (As she must fall, that durst be so unnoble), I should say something unbeseeming me. What out of love, and worthy love, I gave her (Shame to her most unworthy mind), to fools, To girls, and fiddlers, to her boys she flung, And in disdain of me. Last, to blot me From all rememb'rance, what I have been to her, And how, how honestly, how nobly serv'd her, 'Twas thought she set her gallant to dispatch me. '"Tis true, he quarrell'd, without place, or reason ; We fought, I kill'd him ; heaven's strong hand was with rne ; i'or which I lost my country, friends, acquaintance, And put myself to sea, where a pirate took me, And sold me here. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 187 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT : A TRAGEDY. BY PHILIP MAS- SINGER. Malefort senior, Admiral of Marseilles, poisons his first wife to make way jor a second. This coming to the knowledge of his son, Malefort junior, he challenges his father to fight him. This unnatural combat is performed before the Governor and the Court of Marseilles. The spectators retiring to some distance, the father and son p>arley before the fight commences. Malefort senior. Malefort junior. Mai. sen. Now we are alone, sir ; And thou hast liberty to unload the burden Which tbou groan'st under. Speak thy griefs. Mai. jun. I shall, sir ; But in a perplext 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 confess'd 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 chang'd the humble shape Of my obedience to rebellious rage And insolent pride I and with shut eyes constrain'd me To run my bark of honor on a shelf, I must not see, nor, if I saw it, shun it ? In my wrongs nature sutlers, and looks backward ; And mankind trembles to set me pursue What beasts would fly from. For when I advance This sword, as I must do, against your head, ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Piety will weep, and filial duty mourn, To see their altars, which you built up in me, In a moment raz'd and ruin'd. That you could (From my griev'd 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 ! Mai. sen. Have I so far lost A fathers 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 as 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 yields 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 triumphant robes, Set off with glorious honor : thou being bound To see witli my eyes, and to hold that reason That takes or birth or fashion from my will. Mai. jun. This sword divides that slavish knot. Mai. sen. It cannot, It cannot, wretch ; and 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 Men were men only when they durst look down With scorn on death and danger, and contemn'd All opposition, till plum'd victory Had made her constant stand upon their helmets ? Under my shield thou hast fought as securely As the young eaglet, covered with the wings Of her fierce dam, learns how and where to prey. All that is manly in thee, I call mine ; VIRGIN MARTYR. 189 But what is weak and womanish, thine own. And what I gave (since thou art proud, ungrateful, 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 swoln with poison ; who surviving A little longer, with infectious breath, Would render all things near him, like itself, Contagious. Mai. jun. Thou incensed power, Awhile forbear thy thunder : let me have No aid in my revenge, if from the grave Mv mother Mai. sen. Thou shalt never name her more {They fight, and the son is slain.) Mai. sen. 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 discovcr'd, or the cause That call'd this duel on; I being above All perturbations ; nor is it in The power of fate again to make me wretched. THE VIRGIN MARTYR: A TRAGEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER AND THOMAS DECKER. Angelo, an angel, attends Dorothea, as a page. Angelo. Dorothea. The time, midnight. Dor. My book and taper. Ang. Here, most holy mistress. Dor. Thy voice sends forth such nusic, that I never Was ravished with a more celestial sound. Were every servant in the world like thee, So full of goodness, angels would come down 1 anthes, to save his old father, Leonides, from the operation of the law, gives out that he is dead, celebrating a pretended funeral, to make it believed. Duke. Courtiers. Cleanthes, as following his father's body to the grave. Duke. Cleanthes? Court. 'Tis, my lord, and in the place Of a chief mourner too, but strangely habited. Duke. Yet suitable to his behavior, mark it ; He comes all the way smiling, do you observe it ? I never saw a corse so joyfully follow'd. 196 ENGLISH DRAM \TIC POETS. Light colors and light cheeks — who should this be ? 'Tis a thing worth resolving, — Cleanthes Cle. O my lord ! Duke. He laugh'd outright now. Was ever such a contrariety seen In natural courses yet, nay, profess'd openly ? Cle. 'Tis, of a heavy time, the joyfull'st day That ever son was born to. Duke. How can that be ? Cle. I joy — to make it plain — my father's dead. Duke. Dead? Court. Old Leonides? Cle. In his last month dead. He beguil'd cruel law the sweetliest That ever age was blest to. It grieves me that a tear should fall upon 't, Being a thing so joyful, but his memory Will work it out, I see ; when his poor heart Broke, I did not so much, but leap'd for joy So mountingly, I touch'd the stars, methought. I would not hear of blacks, I was so light, But chose a color orient, like my mind : For blacks are often such dissembling mourners, There is no credit giv'n to 't, it has lost All reputation by false sons and widows. Now I would have men know what I resemble, A truth, indeed ; 'tis joy clad like a joy, Which is more honest than a cunning grief That's only fae'd with sables for a show, But gawdy-hearted. When I saw death come So ready to deceive you, sir, forgive me, I could not choose but be entirely merry ; And yet too, see now, of a sudden, Naming but death, I show myself a mortal, That's never constant to one passion long ; I wonder whence that tear came, when I smil'd In the production on "t : Sorrow's a thief, That can, when joy looks on. steal forth a grief. OLD LAW. 197 But, gracious leave, my lord ; when I've perform'd My last poor duty to my father's bones, I shall return your servant. Duke. Well, perform it, The law is satisfied : they can but die. Cleanthes conceals Leonides in a secret apartment within a wood, where himself, and his wife Hippolita, keep watch for the safety of the old man. This coming to the Duke's knowledge, he repairs to the wood and makes discovery of the place where they have hid Leonides. The Wood. — Cleanthes listening, as fearing every sound. Cle. What's that ? Oh, nothing but the whisp'ring wind Breathes thro' yon churlish hawthorn, that grew rude As if it chid the gentle breath that kiss'd it. 1 cannot be too circumspect, too careful, For in these woods lies hid all my life's treasure, Which is too much ever to fear to lose, Though it be never lost; and if our watchfulness Ought to be wise and serious 'gainst a thief That comes to steal our goods, things all without us, That prove vexation often more than comfort, How mighty ought our providence to be To prevent those, if any such there were, That come to rob our bosom of our joys, That only make poor man delight to live ! Pshaw, I "m too fearful — fie, fie, who can hurt me ? But 'tis a general cowardice, that shakes The nerves of confidence ; he that hides treasure, Imagines every one thinks of that place, When 'tis a thing least minded ; nay, let him change The place continually, where'er it keeps, There will the fear keep still. Yonder 's the storehouse Of all my comfort now — and, see, it sends forth Hippolita enters. A dear one to me. Precious chief of women ! How does the good old soul ? has he fed well ? Hip. Beshrew me, sir. ho mado the heartiest meal to-day, l-.fS ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS Much good may t do his health. Cle. A blessing on thee, Botli for thy news and wish. Hip. His stomach, sir, Is better'd wond'rously, since his concealment. Cle. Ileav'n has a blessed work in 't. Come, we 're safe here. I prithee, call him forth, the air is much wholesomer. Hip. Father. Leonides comes forth. Leon. How sweetly sounds the voice of a good woman ! It is so seldom heard, that, when it speaks, It ravishes all senses. Lists of honor ! 1 've a joy weeps to see you, 'tis so full, So fairly fruitful. Cle. I hope to see you often, and return Loaden with blessing, still to pour on some. I find them all in my contented peace, And lose not one in thousands, they 're dispers'd So gloriously, I know not which are brightest ; I find them, as angels are found, by legions. A horn is heard. Ha!— Leon. What was 't disturb'd my joy ? Cle. Did you not hear, As afar off ? Hip. What, my excellent consort ? Cle. Nor you Hip. I heard a Cle. Hark acain- Leon. Bless my joy, What ails it on a sudden ? Cle. Now since lately Leon. 'Tis nothing but a symptom of thy care, man. Cle. Alas, you do not hear well. Leon. What was 't, daughter ? Hip. I heard a sound twice. Cle, Hark ! louder and nearer. OLD I \\V. 199 In, for the precious good of virtue, quick, sir. Louder and nearer yet; at hand, at ham! ; A hunting here ! 'tis strange ! I never knew Game follow'd in these woods before. [Leonides goes in. Hip. Now let them come, and spare not. Enter Duke, Courtiers, Attendants, as if hunting. Cle. Ha ! 'tis is 't not the Duke ? look sparingly. Hip. 'Tis he, but what of that ? alas ! take heed, sir ; Your care will overthrow us. Cle. Come, it shall not. Let ; s set a pleasant face upon our fears, Though our hearts shake with horror. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Duke. Hark! Cle. Prithee, proceed ; I 'm taken with these light things infinitely, Since the old man's decease. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! Duke. Why, how should I believe this ? Look, he 's merry, \ i if he had no such charge. One with that care Could never be so still ; he holds his temper, And 'tis the same still ; with no difference, He brought his father's corpse to the grave with, lie laugh'd thus then, you know. Court. Aye, he may laugh, my lord ; That shows but how he glories in his cunning ; And. perhaps, done more to advance his wit, Than to express affection to his father, That only he has over-reach'd the law. Duke. If a contempt can be so neatly carried, It gives me cause of wonder. Cleanthes Cle. My lov'd lord— Duke. Not raov'd a whit ! Constant to lightning still ! 'tis strange to meet you Upon a ground so unfrequented, sir : This docs not fit your passion ; you are for mirth, Or I mistake you much. Cle. But finding it JOO ENGLISH l»l! \M.\TIC POETS. Grow to a noted imperfection in me (For anything too much is vicious), I come to these disconsolate walks of purpose Only to dull and take away the edge on 't. I ever had a greater zeal to sadness, A natural propension, I confess, my lord, Before that chearful accident fell out, — If I may call a father's funeral chearful, Without wrong done to duty or my love. Duke. It seems then you take pleasure in these walks, sir ? Cle. Contemplative content I do, my lord : They bring into my mind oft meditations So sweetly precious, that in the parting I find a shower of grace upon my cheeks, They take their leave so feelingly. Duke. So, sir Cle. Which is a kind of grave delight, my lord. Duke. And I 've small cause, Cleanthes. to afford you The least delight that has a name. C/e. My lord Dakc. In your excess of joy you have express'd Your rancor and contempt against my law : Your smiles deserve fining ; you have profess'd ! lerision openly ev'n to my face, Which might be death, a little more incensed. You do not come for any freedom here, But for a project of your own ; But all that's known to be contentful to thee, Shall in the use prove deadly. Your life 's mine. If ever thy presumption do but lead thee Into these walks again aye, or that woman I '11 have them watch 'd a purpose. 1st Court. Now, now, his color ebbs and flows. 2d Court. Mark hers too. Hip. Oh ! who shall bring food to the poor old man now ? Speak somewhat, good sir. or we are lost for ever. [Apart to Cleanthes. Cle. Oh ! you did wondrous ill to call me a^ain. CH U'.OT. 201 There are not words to help us. If I entreat, 'Tis found ; that will betray us worse than silence. Prithee, let heaven alone, and let's say nothing. [Apart to Hippolita. 1st Court. You have struck them dumb, my lord. 2d Court. Look how guilt looks ! Cle. He is safe still, is he not ? \ Hip. Oh ! you do ill to doubt it. \ Apart. Cle. Thou art all goodness. ) 2d Court. Now does your grace believe ? Duke. 'Tis too apparent. Search, make a speedy search ; for the imposture Cannot be far off, bv the fear it sends. Cle. Ha! 2d Court. He has the lapwing's cunning, I 'm afraid, my lord, That cries most when she is farthest from the nest. Cle. Oh ! we are betrayed. [There is an exquisiteness of moral sensibility, making one to gush out tears of delight, and a poetical strangeness in all the improbable circum- es of this wild play, which are unlike anything in the dramas which Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of a subtler edge. Middleton and Rowley, who assisted in this play, had both of them finer geniuses than their associate.] THE TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT, ADMIRAL OF FRANCE. BY GEORGE CHAPMAN, AND JAMES SHIRLEY. The Admiral is accused of treason, a criminal process is instituted against Mm. ami liis faithful servant Mlegre is put on the rack to make him discover : his innocence is at length established by the confession of his enemies ; but the disgrace of having been suspected for a traitor In/ his royal Master, sinks so dt ep into him, that he falls into a mortal sickness. Admiral. Allegiil. supported between two. Adm. Welcome my injured servant : what a misery Have they made on thee! Al. Though some change appear Upon my body, whose severe affliction Hath brought it thus to be sustain'd by others. 202 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. My heart is still the same in faith to you, Not broken with their rage. Adm. Alas poor man. Were all my joys essential, and so mighty, As the affected world believes I taste, This object were enough t' unsweeten all. Though, in thy absence, I had suffering, And felt within me a strong sympathy, While for my sake their cruelty did vex And fright thy nerves with horror of thy sense, Yet in this spectacle I apprehend More grief, than all my imagination Could let before into me. Didst not curse me Upon the torture ? Al. Good my lord, let not That thought of what 1 suffer'd dwell upon Your memory ; they could not punish more Than what my duty did oblige to bear For you and justice : but there's something in Your looks presents more fear, than all the malice Of my tormentors could affect my soul with. That paleness, and the other forms you wear, Would well become a guilty admiral, one Lost to his hopes and honor, not the man Upon whose life the fury of injustice, Arm'd with fierce lightning and the power of thunder, Can make no breach. .[ was not rack'd till now. There's more death in that falling eye, than all Rasre ever vet brought forth. What accident, sir, can blast, Can be so black and fatal, to distract The calm, the triumph, that should sit upon Your noble brow : misfortune could have no Time to conspire with fate, since you were rescued By the great arm of Providence ; nor can Those garlands, that now grow about your forehead, With all the poison of the world be blasted. Adm. Allegre, thou dost bear thy wounds upon thee In wide and spacious characters, but in CHABOT. 203 The volume of my sadness thou dost want An eye to read. An open force hath torn Thy manly sinews, which some time may cure. The engine is not seen that wounds thy master; Past all the remedy of art, or time, The (latteries of court, of fame, or honors. Thus in the summer a tall flourishing tree, Transplanted by strong hand, with all her leaves And blooming pride upon her, makes a show Of spring, tempting the eye with wanton blossoms ; But not the sun with all her amorous smiles, The dews of morning, or the tears of night, Can root her fibres in the earth again ; Or make her bosom kind, to growth and bearing : But the tree withers ; and those very beams, That once were natural warmth to her soft verdure, Dry up her sap, and shoot a fever through The bark and rind, till she becomes a burden To that which gave her life : so Chabot, Chabot Al. Wander in apprehension ! I must Suspect your health indeed. Adm. No, no, thou shalt not Be troubled : I but stirr'd thee with a moral, That's empty ; contains nothing. I am well : See, I can walk ; poor man, thou hast not strength yet. The father of the Admiral makes known the condition his son is in to the king. Father. King. King. Say, how is my admiral ? The truth upon thy life. Fath. To secure his, I would you had. King. Ha ! who durst oppose him ? Fath. One that hath power enough, hath practis'd on him, And made his great heart stoop. King. I will revenge it With crushing, crushing that rebellious power To nothing. Name him. 204 ENGLISH DRAM \TIC POETS. luilh. He \\as ln's friend. King. What mischief hath engender'd New storms ? Fa/fc. 'Tis the old tempest. King. Did not we Appease all horrors that look'd wild upon him? Fath. You drest his Mounds, 1 must confess, but made No cure ; they bleed afresh : pardon me, sir ; Although your conscience have closed too soon, He is in danger, and doth want new surgery : Though he be right in fame, and your opinion, He thinks you were unkind. King. Alas, poor Chabot : Doth that afflict him ? Fath. So much, though he strive With most resolv'd and adamantine nerves, As ever human fire in flesh and blood Forg'd for example, to bear all ; so killing The arrows that you shot were (still, your pardon) No centaur's blood could rankle so. King. If this Be all, I'll cure him. Kings retain More balsam in their soul, than hurt in anger. Fath. Far short, sir ; with one breath they uncreate : And kings, with only words, more wounds can make Than all their kingdom made in balm can heal. 'Tis dangerous to play too wild a descant On numerous virtue ; though it become princes To assure their adventures made in everything. Goodness, confin'd within poor flesh and blood, Hath but a queazy and still sickly state ; A musical hand should only play on her, Fluent as air, yet every touch command. King. No more : Commend us to the admiral, and say The king will visit him, and bring health. Fath. I will not doubt that blessing, and shall move Nimblv with this command. CHABOT 205 The King visits the Admiral. King. Admiral. His wife, and father. King. No ceremonial knees : Give me thy heart, my dear, my honest Chabot ; And yet in vain I challenge that ; 'tis here Already in my own, and shall be cherish 'd With care of my best life : no violence Shall ravish it from my possession ; Not those distempers that infirm my blood And spirits, shall betray it to a fear ; When time and nature join to dispossess My body of a cold and languishing breath ; No stroke in all my arteries, but silence In every faculty ; yet dissect me then, And in my heart the world shall read thee living ; And. by the virtue of thy name writ there, That part of me shall never putrify, When I am lost in all my other dust. Adm. You too much honor your poor servant, sir ; My heart despairs so rich a monument, But when it dies — King. I wo' not hear a sound Of anything that trenched upon death. He speaks the funeral of my crown, that prophesies So unkind a fate : we'll live and die together. And by that duty, which hath taught you hitherto All loyal and just services, I charge thee, Preserve thy heart for me, and thy reward, Which now shall crown thy merits. Adm. I have found A glorious harvest in your favor, sir; And by this overflow of royal grace, All my deserts are shadows and fly from me : I have not in the wealth of my desires Enough to pay you now King. Express it in some joy then. Adm. I will strive 206 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. To show that pious gratitude to you, but King. But what ? Adm. My frame hath lately, sir, been ta'en a pieces, And but now put together ; the least force Of mirth will shake and unjoint all my reason. Your patience, royal sir. King. I '11 have no patience, If thou forget the courage of a man. Adm. My strength would flatter me. King. Physicians, Now I begin to fear his apprehension. Why how is Chabot's spirit fall'n ? Adm. Who would not wish to live to serve your goodness ? Stand from me. You betray me with your fears. The plummets may fall off that hang upon My heart, they were but thoughts at first ; or if They weigh me down to death, let not my eyes Close with another object than the king. King. In a prince What a swift executioner is a frown, Especially of great and noble souls ! How is it with my Philip ? Adm. I must beg One other boon. King. Upon condition My Chabot will collect his scatter'd spirits. And be himself again, he shall divide My kingdom with me. Adm. I observe A fierce and killing wrath engender'd in you ; For my sake, as you wish me strength to serve you, Forgive your chancellor ;* let not the story Of Philip Chabot, read hereafter, draw A tear from any family ; I beseech Your royal mercy on his life, and free Remission of all seizure upon his state. * Chabot's accuser MAID'S REVENGE. 207 I have no comfort else. King. Endeavor Rut thy own health ; and pronounce general pardon To all through France. Adm. Sir, I must kneel to thank you ; It is not seal'd else. Your blest hand : live happy, May all your trust have no less faith than Chabot. Oh! {Dies. Wife. His heart is broken. Father. And kneeling, sir ; As his ambition were in death to show The truth of his obedience. THE MAID'S REVENGE; A TRAGEDY. BY JAMES SHIRLEY.* Sebastiano invites Antonio to Jlvero Castle. Sebastiano. Antonio. Seb. The noble courtesies I have receiv'd At Lisbon, worthy friend, so much engage me, Tbat I must die indebted to your worth, Unless you mean to accept what I have studied, Although but partly, to discharge the sum Due to your honor'd love. Ant. How now, Sebastiano, will you forfeit The name of friend, then ? I did hope our love Had out-grown compliment. Seb. I spake my thoughts ; My tongue and heart are relatives; I think I have deserv'd no base opinion from you ; 1 wish not only to perpetuate Our friendship, but t' exchange that common name Of friend for — * Shirley claims a place amongst the worthies of this period, not so much for any transcendent genius in himself, as that he was the lust of a great race, nil of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common. A new language and quite a new turn cf trajic and comic interest came in with the Restoratii it 208 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Ant. What ? take heed, do not profane : Wouldst thou be more than friend ? it is a name Virtue can only answer to : couldst thou I nite into one all goodness whatsoe'er Mortality can boast of, thou shalt find The circle narrow-bounded to contain This swelling treasure ; every good admits Degrees, but this being so good, it cannot : For he 's no friend is not superlative. Indulgent parents, brethren, kindred, tied By the natural flow of blood, alliances, And what you can imagine, is too light To weigh with name of friend : they execute At best but what a nature prompts them to ; Aie often less than friends, when they remain Our kinsmen still : but friend is never lost. Seb. Nay then, Antonio, you mistake ; I mean not To leave off friend, which, with another title, Would not be lost. Come, then, I '11 tell you, sir ; 1 would be friend and brother : thus our friendship Shall, like a diamond set in gold, not lose His sparkling, but show fairer : I have a pair Of sisters, which I would commend, but that I might seem partial, their birth and fortunes Deserving noble love ; if thou be'st free From other fair engagement, I would be proud To sneak them worthy : come, shalt go and see them. I would not beg them suitors ; fame hath spread Through Portugal their persons, and drawn to Avero Many affectionate gallants. Ant. Catalina and Berinthia. Seb. The same. Ant. Report speaks loud their beauties, and no less Virtue in either. Well, I see you strive To leave no merit where you mean to honor. I cannot otherwise escape the censure Of one ungrateful, but by waiting on you Home to Avero. MAID'S REVENGE. 2t<3 Seb. You shall honor me, And glad my noble father, to whom you are No stranger ; your own worth before hath been Sufficient preparation. Ant. Ha! 1 have not so much choice, Sebastiano : But if one sister of Antonio's May have a commendation to your thoughts (I will not spend much art in praising her, Her virtue speak itself) I shall be happy ; And be confirm 'd your brother, though I miss Acceptance at Avero. Seb. Still you out-do me. I could never wish My service better placed. At opportunity I '11 visit you at Elvas ; i' the mean time Let's haste to Avero, where with you I '11 bring My double welcome, and not fail to second Any design. Ant. You shall teach me a lesson Against we meet at Elvas castle, sir. Sebastiano's father welcomes Antonio to Avero Castle. Villarezo. Catalina. Berinthia. Sebastiano. Antonio. Vil. Old Gaspar's house is honor'd by such guests. Now, by the tomb of my progenitors, I envied that your fame should visit me So oft without your person. Sebastiano Hath been long happy in your noble friendship, Ami cannot but improve himself in virtues, That lives so near yoar love. — You shall dishonor me, Unless you think yourself as welcome here As at your Elvas castle. Villarezo Was once as you are, sprightly ; and though I say it, Maintain'd my father's reputation, And honor of our house, with actions Worthy our name and family : but now Time hath let fall cold snow upon my hairs, Plough'd on my brows the furrows of his anger, PART II. L5 211' ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Distljrnish'd me of active blood, and wrapt me Half in my sear-cloth, yet I have a mind That bids me honor virtue, where I see it Bud forth and spring so hopefully. Ant. You speak all nobleness, and encourage me To spend the greenness of my rising years So to th' advantage, that at last I may Be old like you. Vil. Daughters, speak his welcome. — Antonio loves and is beloved by Berinthia, the younger sister. Catalina the elder is jealous, and plots to take off her sister by poison. Antonio rescues Berinthia from the vindictive jealousy of her sister, and carries her off to Elvas Castle ; where his sister Castabella and his cousin J'i/landras welcome her. Antonio. Berinthia. Castabella. Villandras. Sforz-s a domestic. Ant. The welcom'st guest that ever Elvas had. Sister — Villandras you 're not sensible What treasure you possess. I have no loves I would not here divide. Cast. Indeed, madam, You are as welcome here as e'er my mother was. foil. And you are here as safe, As if you had an army for your guard. Nor think my noble cousin meaneth you Any dishonor here. Ant. Dishonor ! 'tis a language I never understood yet. Throw off your fears, Berinthia. you 're in the power of him, That dares not think the least dishonor to you. — Come, be not sad. Cast. Put on fresh blood ; you are not chearful, how do you ? Ber. I know not how, nor what to answer you ; Your loves I cannot be ungrateful to ; You 're my best friends 1 think, but yet I know not With what consent you brought my body hither, Ant. Can you be ignorant what plot was laid To take vour fair life from vou? MAID'S REVENGE. 211 Ber. If all be not a dream, I do remember Your servant Diego told me wonders, and I owe you for my preservation, but — Cast. It is your happiness you have escaped The malice of your sister. Vill. And it is worth A noble gratitude to have been quit By such an honorer as Antonio is Of fair Berinthia. Ber. Oh, but my father ; under whose displeasure I ever sink. Ant. You are secure — Ber. As the poor deer that being pursued, for safety Gets up a rock that overhangs the sea, Where all that she can see is her destruction ; Before, the waves ; behind, her enemies, Promise her certain ruin. Ant. Feign not yourself so hapless, my Berinthia. Raise your dejected thoughts, be merry, come, Think I am your Antonio. Cast. 'Tis not wisdom To let our passed fortunes trouble us ; Since, Mere they bad, the memory is sweet That we have past them. Look before you, lady ; The future most concerneth. Diego, a domestic, enters, and announces that Sebastiano is at the gate. Aid. Your brother, lady, and my honor'd friend. Why do the gates not spread themselves to open At his arrival ? Sforza, 'tis Berinthia's brother ; Sebastiano, th' example of all worth And friendship, is come after his sweet sister. Ber. Alas, I fear. Ant. Be not such a coward, lady, he cannot come Without all goodness waiting on him. Sforza, Sforza, I say, what precious time we loso ' Sebastiano-:-! almost lose mvself 212 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. In joy to meet him. Break the iron bars, And give him entrance, — Sebastiano's come Ber. Sent by my father to Ant. What ? to see thee. He shall see thee here, Respected like thyself, Berinthia, Attended with Antonio, begirt With armies of thy servants. Sebastiano enters, with Count de Monte Nigro, his friend. Ant. Oh, my friend. Seb. 'Tis yet in question, sir, and will not be So easily prov'd. Ant. What face have you put on ? am I awake, Or do I dream Sebastiano frowns ? Seb. Antonio (for here I throw off all The ties of love), 1 come to fetch a sister Dishonorably taken from her father ; Or with my sword to force thee render her : Now if thou be'st a soldier, redeliver, Or keep her with the danger of thy person. Ant. Promise me the hearing, And shalt have any satisfaction, Becomes my fame. — Wer't in your power, would you not account it A precious victory, in your sister's cause, To dye your sword with any blood of him, Sav'd both her life and honor ? Seb. Why, would you have me think My sister owes to you such preservation ? Ant. Oh Sebastiano! Thou dost not think what devil lies at home Within a sister's bosom. Catalina (I know not with wha + worst of envy) laid Force to this goodly building, and through poison Had robb'd the earth of more than all the world, Her virtue. — Valasco was the man appointed by That goodly sister to steal Berinthia. MAID'S REVENGE. 213 And lord himself of this possession, Just at that time ; but hear, and tremble at it, She by a cunning poison should have breath'd Her soul into his arms within two hours, And so Valasco should have borne the shame Of theft and murder. Seb. You amaze me, sir. Ami. 'Tis true, by honor's self : hear it confirm'd; And when you will, 1 am ready. Seb. I cannot but believe it. Oh Berinthia. I 'm wounded ere I fight. Ant. Holds your resolve yet constant ? if you have Better opinion of your sword, than truth, I am bound to answer : but I would I had Such an advantage 'gainst another man, As the justice of my cause : all valor rights But with a sail against it. Seb. But will you back with me then .' Ber. Excuse me, brother : I shall fall too soon Upon my sister's malice, whose foul guilt Will make me expect more certain ruin. Ant. Now Sebastiano Puts on his judgment, and assumes his nobleness Whilst he loves equity. Seb. And shall I carry shame To Villarczo's house, neglect of father. Whose precepts bind me to return with Tier, Or leave my life at Elvas ? I must on. I have heard you to no purpose. Shall Berinthia Back to A vein ' Ant. Sir. she must not yet ; 'Tis dangerous. Seb. Choose thee a second then : this count and I Mean to leave honor here. ViU. Honor me, sir. Ant. 'Tis done. Sebastiano shall report Antonio just : and, noble Sforza, swear Upon my sword (Oh. do not hinder me) 214 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. If victory crown Sebastiano's arm, I charge thee by thy honesty restore This lady to him ; on whose lip I seal My unstain'd faith. Antonio falls in a duel by the sword of Sebastiano. Sehastiano is dis- consolate for having killed his friend. In his penitence, he is visited by Antonio's sister, Castabella, disguised as a page. Castabella. Sebastiano. Cast. He that hath sent you, sir, this gift, did love you ; You '11 say yourself he did. Seb. Ha, name him prithee. Cast. The friend I came from was Antonio. Seb. Who hath sent thee To tempt Sebastiano's soul to act on thee Another death, for thus affrighting me ? Cast. Indeed I do not mock, nor come to affright you ; Heaven knows my heart. I know Antonio's dead. But 'twas a gift he in his life design'd To you, and I have brought it. Seb. Thou dost not promise cozenage : what gift is 't ? Cast. It is myself, sir ; whilst Antonio iiv'd, I was his boy ; but never did boy lose So kind a master ; in his life he promis'd He would bestow me (so much was his love To my poor merit) on his, dearest friend, And named you, sir, if heaven should point out To over-live him, for he knew you would Love me the better for his sake : indeed I will be very honest to you, and Refuse no service to procure your love And good opinion to me. Seb. Can it be Thou wert his boy ? Oh, thou shouldst hate me then. Thou art false, I dare not trust thee ; unto him Thou show'st thee now unfaithful, to accept Of me : I kill'd thy master. 'Twas a friend He could commit thee to ; I only was, MAID'S REVENGE! 215 Of all the stock of men, his enemy, His cruel'st enemy. Cast. Indeed 1 am sure it was ; he spoke all truth ; And, had he liv'd to have made his will, I know He had bequeathed me as a legacy, To be your boy ; alas, I am willing, sir, To obey him in it : had he laid on me Command, to have mingled with his sacred dust My unprofitable blood, it should have been A. most glad sacrifice, and ; t had been honor To have done him such a duty : sir, I know You did not kill him with a heart of malice, But in contention with your very soul To part with him. Seb. All is as true As oracle by heaven ; dost thou believe so ? Cast. Indeed I do. Seb. Yet be not rash ; 'Tis no advantage to belong to me ; I have no power nor greatness in the court To raise thee to a fortune worthy of So much observance, as I shall expect When thou art mine. Cast. All the ambition of my thoughts shall be To do my duty, sir. Seb. Besides, I shall afflict thy tenderness With solitude and passion : for I am Onlv in love with sorrow, never merry, Wear out the day in telling of sad tales, Delight in sighs and tears ; sometimes I walk To a wood or river, purposely to challenge The boldest echo to send back my groans In th' height I break them. Come, I shall undo thee. Cast. Sir, I shall be most happy to bear part In any of your sorrows ; I ne'er had So hard a heart but I could shed a tear To bear my master company. Seb. I will not leave thee, if thou It dwell with me. 2ir> ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. For wealth of Indies : be my loved boy, Come in with me ; thus I'll begin to do Some recompence for dead Antonio. Berintliia kills her >'■■■< ther Sebastiano tleeping. Castabella. Sebastiano. Cast. Sir, if the opportunity I use To comfort you be held a fault, and that 1 need not distance of a servant, lay it Upon my love ; indeed, if it be an error, It springs out of my duty. Seb. Prithee, boy, be patient. The more I strive to throw off the remembrance Of dead Antonio, love still rubs the wounds To make them bleed afresh. Cast. Alas, they are past ; Bind up your own for honor's sake, and show Love to yourself; pray do not lose your reason. To make your grief so fruitless. I have procur'd Some music, sir, to quiet those sad thoughts That make such war within you. Seb. Alas, good boy. it will but add more weight Of dullness on me ! I am stung with worse Than the tarantula, to be cured with music ; It has tlv exactest unity, but it cannot Accord my thoughts. Cast. Sir, this your couch Seems to invite some small repose : Oh, I beseech you taste it. I will beg A little leave to sing. [ShesiTigs. Berinthia enters softly. Cast. Sweet sleep charm his sad senses : And yentle thoughts let fall Your flowing numbers here : and round about Hover celestial angels with your wings That none offend his quiet. Sleep begins To cast his nets o'er me too ; I'll obey, THE POLITICIAN. 217 And dream on him that dreams not what I am. [She lies down by him. Bcr. Nature doth wrestle with me, but revenge Doth arm my love against it ; justice is Above all tie of blood. Sebastiano, Thou art the first shall tell Antonio's ghost, How much I lov'd him. [She stabs him upon his couch. Seb. (waking.) Oh, stay thy hand, Berinthia ! no : Thou 'st done 't. I wish thee heaven's forgiveness. I cannot Tarry to hear thy reasons ; at many doors My life runs out, and yet Berinthia Doth in her name give me more wounds than these. Antonio, Oh, Antonio : we shall now Be friends again. [Dies. THE POLITICIAN: A TRAGEDY. BY JAMES SHIRLEY. Marpisa widow of Count Altomarus is advanced to be Queen to the King of Norway, by the practices of her paramour Gothams. She has by her first husband a young son Haraldus ; to secure whose succession to the crown by the aid of Gothams (in prejudice of the king's son, the lawful heir) she tells Gothams that the child is his. He believes her, and tells Haraldus ; who taking to heart his mother's dishonor, and his own stain of bastardy, falls into a mortal sickness. Queen. Haraldus. Queen. How is it with my child ? Har. I know you love me : Yet I must tell you truth, I cannot live. And let this comfort you, death will not come I'nwelcome to your son. I do not die Against my will ; and having mv desires. You have less cause to mourn. Queen. What is 't hath made The thought of life unpleasant ? which does court Thy dwelling here, with all delightf f iiat nature 218 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. And art can study for thcc, rich in all things Thy wish can be ambitious of, yet all These treasures nothing to thy mother's love, "Which to enjoy thee would defer a while Her thought of going to heaven. Har. O take heed, mother. Heaven has a specious ear, and power to punish Your too much love with my eternal absence. I beg your prayers and blessing. Queen. Thou art dejected. Have but a will, and live. Har. 'Tis in vain, mother. Queen. Sink with a fever into earth ! Look up, thou shalt not die. Har. I have a wound within, You do not see, more killing than all fevers. Queen. A wound ? where 1 who has murther'd thee ? Har. Gotharus Queen. Ha ! furies persecute him. Har. O pray for him : It is my duty, though he gave me death. He is my father. Queen. How, thy father ? Har. He told me so, and with that breath destroy'd me. I felt it strike upon my spirits, mother ; Would I had ne'er been born ! Queen. Believe him not. Har. Oh do not add another sin to what Is done already ; death is charitable, To quit me from the scorn of all the world. Queen. By all my hopes, Gotharus has abused thee. Thou art the lawful burthen of my womb ; Thy father Altomarus. Har. Ha! Queen. Before whose spirit (long since taken up To meet with saints and troops angelical) I dare again repeat, thou art his son. Har. Ten thousand blessings now reward my mother ! THE POLITICIAN. 219 Speak it again, and I may live : a stream Of pious joy runs through ny? ; to my soul You've struck a harmony, next that in heaven. Can you without a blush call me your child, And son of Altomarus ? all that's holy Dwell in your blood for ever : speak it once, But once again. Quern. Were it my latest breath ; Thou'rt his and mine. Har. Enough, my tears do flow To give you thanks for 't ; I would you could resolve me But one truth more: why did my lord Gotharus Call me the issue of his blood 1 Queen. Alas, He thinks thou art. Har. What are those words ? I am Undone again. Queen. Ha ! Har. "Tis too late To call 'em back. He thinks I am his son. Queen. I have confess'd too much, and tremble with The imagination. Forgive me, child. And heaven, if there be mercy to a crime So black, as I must now, to quit thy fears, Say I've been guilty of: we have been sinful, And I was not unwilling to oblige His active brain for thy advancement, by Abusing his belief thou wert his own. But thou hast no such stain ; thy birth is innocent, Or may I perish ever : 'tis a strange Confession to a child, but it may drop A balsam to thy wound. Live, my Haraldus, If not. for this, to see my penitence, And with what tears I'll wash away my sin Har. I am no bastard then Queen. Thou art not. Har. But I am not found, while vou are lost. No time 220 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. Can restore you. My spirits faint Queen. Will nothing comfort thee I Hur. Give me your blessing ; and, within my heart, I'll pray you may have many. My soul flies 'Bove this vain world : good mother, close mine eyes. Queen. Never died so much sweetness in his years.* THE BROTHERS : A COMEDY. BY JAMES SHIRLEY. Don Ramires leaves his son Fernando with a heavy curse, and a threat of disinheriting, if he do net renounce Felisarda, the poor niece of Don Carlos, whom he courts, when by his father's command he should ad- dresa Jacinta, the daughter and rich heiress of Carlos, his younger brother Francisco's Mistress. Fernando. Francisco. Fer. Why does not all the stock of thunder fall ? Or the fierce winds, from their close caves let loose, Now shake me into atoms ? Fran. Fie, noble brother, what can so deject Your masculine thoughts ? is this done like Fernando, Whose resolute soul so late was arm'd to fight With all the miseries of man, and triumph With patience of a martyr 1 I observed My father late come from you. Fer. Yes, Francisco : He hath left his curse upon me. Fran. How ? Fer. His curse : dost comprehend what that word carries, Shot from a father's angry breath ? unless I tear poor Felisarda from my heart, He hath pronoune'd me heir to all his curses. Does this fright thee, Francisco ? Thou hast cause To dance in soul for this : 'tis only I Must lose, and mourn ; thou shalt have all ; I am * Mamillus in the Winter's Tale in this manner droops and dies from a conceit of his mother's dishonor. tup: brothers. 221 Degraded from my birth, while he affects Thy forward youth, and only calls thee son, Son of his active spirit, and applauds Thy progress with Jacinta, in whose smiles Thou may'st see all thy wishes waiting for thee ; Whilst, poor Fernando for her sake must stand An excommunicate from every blessing, A thing that dare not give myself a name, But flung into the world's necessities, Until in time, with wonder of my wants, I turn a ragged statue, on whose forehead Each clown may carve his motto. Don Ramires is seized with a mortal sickness, but forbids Fernando to approach his chamber till he shall send for him, on pain of his dying cu>- Fernando. Fer. This turn is fatal, and affrights me ; but Heaven has more charity than to let him die With such a hard heart ; 'twere a sin, next his Want of compassion, to suspect he can Take his eternal flight, and leave Fernando This desperate legacy ; he will change the curse Into some little prayer, I hope ; and then Enter Servant and Physician. Ser. Make haste, I beseech you, doctor. Phy. Noble Fernando. Fer. As you would have men think your art is meant Not to abuse mankind, employ it all To cure my poor sick father. Phy. Fear it not, sir. [Exeunt Physician and Servant Fer. But there is more than your thin skill requir'd, To state a health ; your recipes, perplext With tough names, are but mockeries and noise, Without some dew from heaven, to mix and make 'em Thrive in the application : what now ? 222 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. To be so miserably restrained in things, W herein it doth concern your love and honor To see me satisfied. Bor. In what, Aretina, I tost thou accuse me ? have I not obey'd All thy desires, against mine own opinion ; Quitted the country, and remov'd the hope Of our return, by sale of that fair lordship We liv'd in : chang'd a calm and retire life For this wild town, compos'd of noise and charge ? Are. What charge, more than is necessary For a lady of my birth and education ? Bor. I am not ignorant how much nobility Flows in your blood, your kinsmen great and powerful In the state ; but with this lose not your memory Of being my wife : I shall be studious, .Madam, to give the dignity of your birth All the best ornaments which become my fortune ; But would not flatter it, to ruin both, And be the fable of the town, to teach Other men wit by loss of mine, employ'd To serve your vast expences. Are. Am I then Brought in the balance I so, sir. Bor. Though you weigh Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest : And must take liberty to think, you have Obey'd no modest counsel to effect, Nay, study ways of pride and costly ceremony ; Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures, Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman's ; Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery Brought home on engines ; the superfluous plate Antick and novel ; vanities of tires, Four score pound suppers for my lord your kinsman. Banquets for t' other lady, aunt, and cousins ; And perfumes, that exceed all ; train of servants, To stifle us at home, and show abroad LADY OF PLEASURE. 229 More rnotly than the French, or the Venetian, About your coach, whose rude postilion Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers And tradesmen curse your choaking up their stalls, And common cries pursue your ladyship For hindering of their market. Are. Have you done, sir ] Bor. I could accuse the gaity of your wardrobe, And prodigal embroideries, under which, Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not show their own complexions ; your jewels, Able to burn out the spectators' eyes, And show like bonfires on you by the tapers: Something might here be spared, with safety of Your birth and honor, since the truest wealth Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. I could urge something more. Are. Pray, do. I like Your homily of thrift. Bor. I could wish, madam, You would not game so much. Are. A gamester, too ! Bor. But are not come to that repentance yet, Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit ; You look not through the subtilty of cards, And mysteries of dice, nor can you save Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls, A iid keep your family by the precious income ; Nor do I wish you should : my poorest servant Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire Purchas'd beneath my honor : you make plav Not a pastime but a tyranny, and vex Yourself and my estate by 't. Are. Good, proceed. Bor. Another game you have, which consumes more Your fame than purse, your revels in the right, Your meetings, call'd the ball, to which appear, As to the c mrt of pleasure, all your gallants 230 .l.ISH DRAMATIC POETS. And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure: "Tis but the Family of Love, translated I hi i more costly sin ; there was a play on 't ; And had the poet not been brib'd to a modest Expression of your antic gambols in 't, Some darks had been discover'd ; and the deeds too ; In time he may repent, and make some blush, To see the second part dane'd on the stage. My thoughts acquit you for dishonoring me By any foul act ; but the virtuous know, 'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the Suspicions of our shame. Are. Have you concluded Your lecture ? Bor. I have done ; and howsoever My language may appear to you, it carries No other than my fair and just intent To your delights, without curb to their modest And noble freedom. Are. I '11 not be so tedious In my reply, but, without art or elegance, Assure you I keep still my first opinion ; And though you veil your avaricious meaning With handsome names of modesty and thrift, I find you would intrench and wound the liberty I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged By example ; while my judgment thought 'em fit, You ought not to oppose : but when the practice And tract of every honorable lady Authorize me, I take it great injustice To have my pleasures circumscrib'd and taught me. [This dialogue is in the very spirit of the recriminating scenes between Lord and Lady Townley in the Provoked Husband. It is difficult to believe, but it must have beer Vanbrugh/s prototype.] END OF PART II. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. kv RENEWALS ONLY— TEL. NO. 642-3405 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. . ow. OCT RECEIVED 2 MAR 1 ^ b * "10 PHI LOAN DEPT RECTI | p DEC tf«t 29QC7 ■? 0( LD 21- _ 13 ft ) -7 PM 9 7 arf6UEz LD . 195? 9 — ra^ PECD cir: depje e s b a oyj ig LD LD 21A-40m-2,'69 (J6057sl0)476 — A-32 General Library University of California Berkeley D "96)3 6 Yd (bUI • * UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY • • • » * T