Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN
 
 WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN.
 
 
 { f Y ff
 
 WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN, 
 
 NOW FIRST COLLECTED 
 
 JN EIGHTEEN VOLUMES. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 WITH NOTES, 
 
 HISTORICAL, CRITICAL, AND EXPLANATORY, 
 AND 
 
 A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 BY 
 
 SIK WALTEK SCOTT, BART. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 EDINBURGH : 
 
 PRINTED FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO. EDINBURGH 
 AND HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO. LONDON. 
 
 1821.
 
 'ax HOW 
 
 KHOI 
 
 a WL 
 
 
 Printed by James Ballantyne and Co. Edinburgh.
 
 Stack 
 
 Annex 
 
 ea. 
 
 3V// 
 
 s/r 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 VOLUME THIRD. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Sir Martin Mar-All, or the Feigned Innocence, a Co- 
 medy, 1 
 
 The Tempest, or the Enchanted Island, a Comedy, . 95 
 
 Preface, 99 
 
 An Evening's Love, or the Mock Astrologer, a Come- 
 dy, 207 
 
 Epistle Dedicatory to the Duke of Newcastle, 209 
 
 Preface, 218 
 
 Tyrannic Love, or the Royal Martyr, a Tragedy, . . 341 
 Epistle Dedicatory to the Duke of Monmouth 
 
 and Buccleuch, 346 
 
 Preface, .......... 349

 
 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 FEIGNED INNOCENCE. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 VOL. III.
 
 SIE MARTIN MAR-ALL. 
 
 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL is imitated from the French of Mo- 
 liere : nor, even with that qualification, is it entirely the work of 
 Dryden. William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, renowned for 
 his loyalty and gallantry during the Civil Wars, whether in com- 
 pliance with the general custom amongst the men of wit and ho- 
 nour at the court of Charles, or in order to place himself upon a 
 level with that voluminous authoress, his Duchess, thought fit to 
 compose several plays. Amongst other lucubrations, he transla- 
 ted Moliere's " L'Etourdi," and presented it to our author, by 
 whom it was adapted for the stage. From respect to his Grace, 
 it was published anonymously until 1697, when it appeared with 
 Dryden's name. The noble Duke being far more eminent as a sol- 
 dier and an equestrian, than as an author, it may be readily allow- 
 ed, that what is diverting in the piece has been inserted by our 
 author. Upon the stage, indeed, the repeated and incorrigible 
 blunders of Sir Martin must have appeared very diverting, since 
 the play ran for no less than thirty-three nights, and was four 
 times acted at court. Nokes, who acted this unfortunate cox- 
 comb with inimitable humour, is said to have contributed much 
 to this uncommon success. Moliere's play is followed with con- 
 siderable exactness, allowing for such variations as the change 
 of the scene from Paris to London appeared naturally to demand. 
 One remarkable difference occurs in the conclusion: Ccelieis, in 
 the original, at length united to her inconsiderate and blundering 
 admirer. Mrs Millisent, the corresponding character in Sir Mar- 
 tin Mar-all, rewards, with her hand and fortune, the ingenious 
 Warner, who has all along laboured to gain her for his master. 
 The alternative was a little embarrassing; but the decorum of the 
 French stage would not have permitted the union of a lady with 
 an intriguing domestic, nor would an English audience have been 
 less shocked with seeing her bestowed on a fool. Besides, Sir 
 Martin Mar-all is a more contemptible character than Lelie, who 
 is less conceited and foolish, than thoughtless and inconsequen- 
 tial. But although the character of a menial was not quite so lo w 
 in the 17th as in the 18th century, for pages, and the higher 
 class of attendants in a nobleman's family, were often men of
 
 4 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 
 
 some birth, yet there is much grossness in the conduct of the 
 lady, who, in pure admiration of wit, marries a man who never 
 thought of her. 
 
 " L'Amant Indiscret," of Quinault, another French play, has 
 also been consulted by Dryclen in furbishing forth the Duke of 
 Newcastle's labours. In that part of the play, which occasions 
 its second title of " The Feigned Innocence," the reader will 
 hardly find wit enough to counterbalance the want of delicacy. 
 
 Sir Martin Mar-all was performed by the Duke of York's ser- 
 vants, probably at the desire of the Duke of Newcastle, as Dry- 
 den was engaged to write for the other house. It seems to have 
 been acted in 1667, and vras published, but without the author's 
 name, in 1 668.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 FOOLS, which each man meets in his dish each day, 
 
 Are yet the great regalios of a play ; 
 
 In which to poets you but just appear, 
 
 To prize that highest, which cost them so dear : 
 
 Fops in the town more easily will pass ; 
 
 One story makes a statutable ass : 
 
 But such in plays must be much thicker sown, 
 
 Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one. 
 
 Observing poets all their works invade, 
 
 As men watch woodcocks gliding through a glade : 
 
 And when they have enough for comedy, 
 
 They stow their several bodies in a pye : 
 
 The poet's but the cook to fashion it, 
 
 For, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit. 
 
 To bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong ; 
 
 None welcome those who bring their cheer along.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Lord DARTMOUTH, in love with Mrs CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Mr MOODY, the Swash-buckler* 
 
 Sir MARTIN MAR- ALL, a fool. 
 
 WARNER, his man. 
 
 Sir JOHN SWALLOW, a Kentish knight 
 
 Lady DUPE, the old lady. 
 
 Mrs CHRISTIAN, her young niece. 
 
 Mrs MILLISENT, the Swash-buckler's daughter. 
 
 ROSE, her maid. 
 
 Mrs PREPARATION, woman to the old lady. 
 
 Other Servants, men and women, a Carrier, Bailiffs. 
 SCENE Covent Garden. 
 
 * Swash-buckler seems to have been a title for those, who retain- 
 ed the old blunt manners of Queen Elizabeth's time, when sword 
 and buckler were the common weapons. " Of old, when English- 
 men were fenced with bucklers, as with a rampier, nothing was 
 more common with them, than to fight about taking the right or 
 left hand on the wall, or upon any unpleasing countenance : clash- 
 ing of swords was then daily music in every street." MORYSON'S 
 Itinerary, Part III. Book iv. The buckler was disused in the 
 latter end of Queen Elizabeth's reign ; but those who affected the 
 old-fashioned, blunt, boisterous manners, common when that an- 
 cient weapon was used in brawls, were, like old Moody in the 
 play, still termed Smash-bucklers.
 
 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL, 
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 
 
 Enter WARNER solus. 
 
 Warn. Where the devil is this master of mine ? 
 he is ever out of the way, when he should do him- 
 self good ! This 'tis to serve a coxcomb, one that 
 has no more brains than just those I carry for him. 
 Well ! of all fops, commend me to him for the 
 greatest ; he's so opinioned of his own abilities, that 
 he is ever designing somewhat, and yet he sows 
 his stratagems so shallow, that every daw can peck 
 them up : From a plotting fool, the Lord deliver 
 me. Here he comes ; O ! it seems his cousin's with 
 him ; then it is not so bad as I imagined. 
 
 Enter Sir MARTIN MAR-ALL, and Lady DUPE. 
 
 L. Dupe. I think 'twas well contrived for your 
 access, to lodge her in the same house with you. 
 
 Sir Mart. 'Tis pretty well, I must confess. 
 
 Warn. Had he plotted it himself, it had been 
 admirable. \Aside. 
 
 L. Dupe. For when her father Moody writ to
 
 8 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT I. 
 
 me to take him lodgings, I so ordered it, the choice 
 seemed his, not mine. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have hit of a thing myself some- 
 times, when wiser heads have missed it ; but that 
 might be mere luck. 
 
 L. JDupe. Fortune does more than wisdom. 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, for that you shall excuse me ; I 
 will not value any man's fortune at a rush, except 
 he have wit and parts to bear him out. But when 
 do you expect them ? 
 
 L. Dupe. This tide will bring them from Graves- 
 end. You had best let your man go, as from me, 
 and wait them at the stairs in Durham-yard. 
 
 Sir Mart. Lord, cousin, what-a-do is here with 
 your counsel ! As though I could not have thought 
 of that myself. I could find in my heart not to 
 
 send him now stay a little 1 could soon 
 
 find out some other way. 
 
 Warn. A minute's stay may lose your business. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, go then ; but you must grant, 
 if he had staid, I could have found a better way 
 you grant it. 
 
 L. Dupe. For once I will not stand with you. 
 [Exit WARNER.] 'Tis a sweet gentlewoman, this 
 Mrs Millisent, if you can get her. 
 
 Sir Mart. Let me alone for plotting. 
 
 L. Dupe. But by your favour, sir, 'tis not so easy ; 
 her father has already promised her ; and the young 
 gentleman comes up with them : I partly know the 
 man but the old squire is humoursome ; he's stout, 
 and plain in speech, and in behaviour ; he loves 
 none of the fine town tricks of breeding, but stands 
 up for the old Elizabeth way in all things. This 
 we must work upon. 
 
 Sir Mart. Sure you think you have to deal with 
 a fool, cousin ?
 
 SCENE I. Sill MARTIN MAR-ALL. 
 
 Enter Mrs CHRISTIAN. 
 
 L. Dupe. O my dear niece, I have some business 
 with you. [Whispers. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, madam, I'll take one turn here 
 in the Piazzas ; a thousand things are hammering 
 in this head ; 'tis a fruitful noddle, though I say it. 
 
 [Exit Sir MART. 
 
 L. Dupe. Go thy ways for a most conceited fool ! 
 but to our business, cousin. You are young, but 
 I am old, and have had all the love- experience that 
 a discreet lady ought to have ; and, therefore, let 
 me instruct you about the love this rich lord makes 
 to you. 
 
 Chr. You know, madam, he's married, so that 
 we cannot work upon that ground of matrimony. 
 
 L. Dupe. But there are advantages enough for 
 you, if you will be wise, and follow my advice. 
 
 Chr. Madam, my friends left me to your care, 
 therefore I will wholly follow your counsel, with 
 secrecy and obedience. 
 
 L. Dupe. Sweetheart, it shall be the better for 
 you another day. Well then, this lord that pretends 
 to you is crafty and false, as most men are, espe- 
 cially in love ; therefore, we must be subtle to meet 
 with all his plots, and have countermines against 
 his works, to blow him up. 
 
 Chr. As how, madam ? 
 
 L. Dupe. Why, girl, he'll make fierce love to you, 
 but you must not suffer him to ruffle you, or steal 
 a kiss. But you must weep and sigh, and say you'll 
 tell me on't, and that you will not be used so, and 
 play the innocent, just like a child, and seem igno- 
 rant of all. 
 
 Chr. I warrant you I'll be very ignorant, madam. 
 
 L. Dupe. And be sure, when he has towsed you,
 
 10 SIR *IARTIN MAR- ALL. ACT I. 
 
 not to appear at supper that night, that you may 
 fright him. 
 
 Chr. No, madam. 
 
 L. Dupe. That he may think you have told me. 
 
 Chr. Ay, madam. 
 
 L. Dupe. And keep your chamber, and say your 
 head aches. 
 
 Chr. O most extremely, madam. 
 
 L. Dupe. And lock the door, and admit of no 
 night visits. At supper I'll ask \vhere's my cousin, 
 and, being told you are not well, I'll start from the 
 table to visit you, desiring his lordship not to in- 
 commode himself; for I will presently wait on him 
 again. 
 
 Chr. But how, when you are returned, madam ? 
 
 L. Dupe. Then, somewhat discomposed, I'll say, 
 I doubt the meazles or small-pox will seize on you, 
 and then the girl is spoiled ; saying, poor thing, her 
 portion is her beauty, and her virtue; and often 
 send to see how you do, by whispers in my servant's 
 ears, and have those whispers of your health return- 
 ed to mine : If his lordship, thereupon, asks how 
 you do, I will pretend it was some other thing. 
 
 Chr. Right, madam, for that will bring him fur- 
 ther in suspence. 
 
 L. Dupe. A hopeful girl ! then will I eat nothing 
 that night, feigning my grief for you ; but keep his 
 lordship company at meal, and seem to strive to put 
 my passion off, yet shew it still by small mistakes. 
 
 Chr. And broken sentences. 
 
 L. Dupe. A dainty girl ! and after supper visit 
 you again, with promise to return strait to his lord- 
 ship ; but after I am gone, send an excuse, that I 
 have given you a cordial, and mean to watch that 
 night in person with you. 
 
 Chr. His lordship then will find the prologue of 
 his trouble, doubting I have told you of his ruffling.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 11 
 
 L. Dupe. And more than that, fearing his fa- 
 ther should know of it, and his wife, who is a ter- 
 magant lady : But when he finds the coast is clear, 
 and his late ruffling known to none but you, he will 
 be drunk with joy. 
 
 Chr. Finding my simple innocence, which will 
 inflame him more. 
 
 L. Dupe. Then what the lion's skin has failed him 
 in, the fox's subtlety must next supply, and that is 
 just, sweet-heart, as I would have it ; for crafty 
 folks treaties are their advantage ; especially when 
 his passion must be satisfied at any rate, and you 
 keep shop to set the price of love : so now you see 
 the market is your own. 
 
 Chr. Truly, madam, this is very rational ; and by 
 the blessing of heaven upon my poor endeavours, I 
 do not doubt to play my part. 
 
 L. Dupe. My blessing and my prayers go along 
 with thee. 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN SWALLOW, Mrs MILLISENT, and 
 ROSE, her maid. 
 
 Chr. I believe, madam, here is the young heiress 
 you expect, and with her he who is to marry her. 
 
 L. Dupe. However I am Sir Martin's friend, I 
 must not seem his enemy. 
 
 Sir John. Madam, this fair young lady begs the 
 honour to be known to you. 
 
 Mill. My father made me hope it, madam. 
 
 L. Dupe. Sweet lady, I believe you have brought 
 all the freshness of the country up to town with 
 you. [ They salute. 
 
 Mill. I came up, madam, as we country-gentle- 
 women use, at an Easter-term, to the destruction 
 of tarts and cheese-cakes, to see a new play, buy a 
 new gown, take a turn in the park, and so down 
 again to sleep with my fore-fathers.
 
 12 SIR MARTIN MAR- ALL. ACT I. 
 
 Sir John. Rather, madam, you are come up to 
 the breaking of many a poor heart, that, like mine, 
 will languish for you. 
 
 Chr. I doubt, madam, you are indisposed with 
 your voyage ; will you please to see the lodgings 
 your father has provided for you ? 
 
 Mill. To wait upon you, madam. 
 
 L. Dupe. This is the door ; there is a gentleman 
 will wait you immediately in your lodging, if he 
 might presume on your commands. [In a whisper. 
 
 Mill. You mean Sir Martin Mar-all : I am glad 
 he has entrusted his passion with so discreet a per- 
 son. [In a whisperJ] Sir John, let me entreat you 
 to stay here, that my father may have intelligence 
 where to find us. 
 
 Sir John. I shall obey you, madam. 
 
 [Exeunt women. 
 
 Enter Sir MARTIN MAR-ALL. 
 
 Sir John. Sir Martin Mar-all ! most happily en- 
 countered ! how long have you been come to town ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Some three days since, or thereabouts : 
 But, I thank God, I am very weary on't already. 
 
 Sir John. Why, what's the matter, man ? 
 
 Sir Mart. My villainous old luck still follows me 
 in gaming ; I never throw the dice out of my hand, 
 but my gold goes after them : If I go to piquet, 
 though it be but with a novice in't, he will picque 
 and repicque, and capot me twenty times together : 
 and which most mads me, I lose all my sets when 
 I want but one of up. 
 
 Sir John. The pleasure of play is lost, when one 
 loses at that unreasonable rate. 
 
 Sir Mart. But I have sworn not to touch either 
 cards or dice this half year. 
 
 Sir John. The oaths of losing gamesters are not
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 13 
 
 minded; they forswear play as an angry servant 
 does his mistress, because he loves her but too well. 
 
 Sir Mart. But I am now taken up with thoughts 
 of another nature ; I am in love, sir. 
 
 Sir John. That's the worst game you could have 
 played at ; scarce one woman in an hundred will 
 play with you upon the square. You venture at 
 more uncertainty than at a lottery : For you set 
 your heart to a whole sex of blanks. But is your 
 mistress widow, wife, or maid ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I can assure you, sir, mine is a maid ; 
 the heiress of a wealthy family, fair to a miracle. 
 Sir John. Does she accept your service ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I am the only person in her favour. 
 
 Enter WARNER. 
 
 Sir John. Is she of town or country ? 
 
 Warn. How's this ? [Aside. 
 
 Sir Mart. She is of Kent, near Canterbury. 
 
 Warn. What does he mean ? This is his rival. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. Near Canterbury, say you ? I have a 
 small estate lies thereabouts, and more concernments 
 than one besides. 
 
 Sir Mart. I'll tell you then. Being at Canterbury, 
 it was my fortune once, in the Cathedral church 
 
 Warn. What do you mean, sir, to intrust this 
 man with your affairs thus ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Trust him ? why, he's a friend of mine. 
 
 Warn. No matter for that ; hark you, a word, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. Pr'ythee leave fooling. And as I was 
 
 saying 1 was in the church, when I first saw 
 
 this fair one. 
 
 Sir John. Her name, sir, I beseech you. 
 
 Warn. For heaven's sake, sir, have a care. 
 
 Sir Mart. Thou art such a coxcomb Her name's 
 Millisent. 4
 
 14 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT I. 
 
 Warn. Now, the pox take you, sir, what do you 
 mean ? 
 
 Sir John. Millisent, say you ? That's the name of 
 my mistress. 
 
 Sir Mart. Lord ! what luck is that now ! Well, 
 sir, it happened one of her gloves fell down ; I 
 stooped to take it up ; and, in the stooping, made 
 her a compliment. 
 
 Warn. The devil cannot hold him ; now will this 
 thick-skulled master of mine tell the whole story to 
 his rival ! 
 
 Sir Mart. You'll [say, 'twas strange, sir ; but at 
 the first glance we cast on one another, both our 
 hearts leaped within us, our souls met at our eyes, 
 and with a tickling kind of pain slid to each other's 
 breast, and in one moment settled as close and 
 warm, as if they long had been acquainted with 
 their lodging. I followed her somewhat at a dis- 
 tance, because her father was with her. 
 
 Warn. Yet hold, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. Saucy rascal, avoid my sight ; must 
 you tutor me ? So, sir, not to trouble you, I en- 
 quired out her father's house, without whose know- 
 ledge I did court the daughter, and both then, and 
 often since coming to Canterbury, I received many 
 proofs of her kindness to me. 
 
 Warn. You had best tell him too, that I am ac- 
 quainted with her maid, and manage your love un- 
 derhand with her. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well remembered, i' faith ; I thank thee 
 for that, I had forgot it, I protest ! My valet de 
 chambre, whom you see here with me, grows me 
 acquainted with her woman. 
 
 Warn. O the devil ! 
 
 Sir Mart. In fine, sir, this maid, being much in 
 her mistress's favour, so well solicited my cause, 
 that, in fine, I gained from fair Mistress Millisent
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 15 
 
 an assurance of her kindness, and an engagement 
 to marry none but me. 
 
 Warn. 'Tis very well ! you have made a fair dis- 
 covery ! 
 
 Sir John. A most pleasant relation, I assure you : 
 You are a happy man, sir ! but what occasion 
 brought you now to London ? 
 
 Sir Mart. That was in expectation to meet my 
 mistress here ; she writ me word from Canterbury, 
 she and her father shortly would be here. 
 
 Sir John. She and her father, said you, sir ? 
 
 Warn. Tell him, sir, for heaven's sake, tell him 
 all. 
 
 Sir Mart. So I will, sir, without your bidding. 
 Her father and she are come up already, that's the 
 truth on't, and are to lodge by my contrivance in 
 yon house, the master of which is a cunning rascal 
 
 as any in town him I have made my own, for 
 
 I lodge there. 
 
 Warn. You do ill, sir, to speak so scandalously 
 of my landlord. 
 
 Sir Mart. Peace, or I'll break your fool's head ; 
 so that, by his means, I shall have free egress and 
 regress when I please, sir, without her father's know- 
 ledge. 
 
 Warn. I am out of patience to hear this. 
 
 Sir John. Methinks you might do well, sir, to 
 speak openly to her father. 
 
 Sir Mart. Thank you for that, i'faith ; in speak- 
 ing to old Moody, I may soon spoil all. 
 
 Warn. So, now he has told her father's name, 'tis 
 past recovery. 
 
 Sir John. Is her father's name Moody, say you ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Is he of your acquaintance ? 
 
 Sir John. Yes, sir. I know him for a man who is 
 too wise for you to over-reach ; I am certain he 
 will never marry his daughter to you.
 
 16 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT I. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, there's the jest of it : He shall 
 never know it : 'Tis but your keeping of my coun- 
 sel ; I'll do as much for you, mun. 
 
 Sir John. No, sir, I'll give you better ; trouble 
 not yourself about this lady ; her affections are 
 
 otherwise engaged, to my knowledge hark in 
 
 your ear her father hates a gamester like a devil : 
 I'll keep your counsel for that too. 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, but this is not all, dear Sir John ? 
 
 Sir John. This is all, I assure you : Only I will 
 make bold to seek your mistress out another lod- 
 ging. [Exit Sir JOHN. 
 
 Warn. Your affairs are now put into an excellent 
 posture, thank your incomparable discretion ; this 
 was a stratagem my shallow wit could never have 
 reached, to make a confidant of my rival. 
 
 Sir Mart. I hope thou art not in earnest, man ! 
 Is he my rival ? 
 
 JF<mz.'Slife,he has not found it out all this while ! 
 Well, sir, for a quick apprehension let you alone. 
 
 Sir Mart. How the devil earnest thou to know 
 on't ? and why the devil didst thou not tell me on't ? 
 
 Warn. To the first of your devils I answer, her 
 maid, Rose, told me on't : To the second, I wish a 
 thousand devils take him that would not hear me. 
 
 Sir Mart. O unparalleled misfortune ! 
 
 Warn. O unparalleled ignorance ! why he left 
 her father at the water-side, while he led the daugh- 
 ter to her lodging, whither I directed him ; so that 
 if you had not laboured to the contrary, fortune 
 had placed you in the same house with your mis- 
 tress, without the least suspicion of your rival, or 
 of her father. But 'tis well you have satisfied your 
 talkative humour : I hope you have some new pro- 
 ject of your own to set all right again : For my part, 
 I confess all my designs for you are wholly ruined ; 
 the very foundations of them are blown up.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 17 
 
 Sir Mart Pr'ythee, insult not over the destiny of 
 a poor undone lover ; I am punished enough for my 
 indiscretion in my despair, and have nothing to 
 hope for now but death. 
 
 Warn. Death is a bug- word ; things are not 
 brought to that extremity ; I'll cast about to save 
 all yet. 
 
 Enter Lady DUPE. 
 
 L. Dupe. O, Sir Martin ! yonder has been such 
 a stir within ! Sir John, I fear, smokes your design, 
 and by all means would have the old man remove 
 his lodging ; pray God, your man has not played 
 false. 
 
 Warn. Like enough I have. I am coxcomb suf- 
 ficient to do it ; my master knows, that none but 
 such a great calf as I could have done it, such an 
 overgrown ass, a self-conceited idiot as I. 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, Warner ! 
 
 Warn. Pray, sir, let me alone. What is it to you 
 if I rail upon myself? Now, could I break my own 
 logger-head. 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, sweet Warner ! 
 
 Warn. What a good master have I, and I to ruin 
 him. O beast ! 
 
 L. Dupe. Not to discourage you wholly, Sir Mar- 
 tin, this storm is partly over. 
 
 Sir Mart. As how, dear cousin ? 
 
 L. Dupe. When I heard Sir John complain of 
 the landlord, I took the first hint of it, and joined 
 with him,' saying, if he were such an one, I would 
 have nothing to do with him. In short, I rattled 
 him so well, that Sir John was the first who did 
 desire they might be lodged with me, not knowing 
 that I was your kinswoman. 
 
 Sir Mart. Pox on't, now I think on't, I could 
 have found out this myself. 
 
 VOL. III. B
 
 18 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT II. 
 
 Warn. Are you there again, sir ? Now, as I have 
 a soul 
 
 Sir Mart. Mum, good Warner, I did but forget 
 myself a little ; I leave myself wholly to you. and 
 my cousin ; get but my mistress for me, and claim 
 whatever reward you can desire. 
 
 Warn. Hope of reward will diligence beget. 
 Find you the money, and I'll find the wit. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. SCENE L 
 
 '. - 
 
 Enter Lady DUPE, and Mrs CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Chr. It happened, madam, just as you said it 
 would. But was he so concerned for my feigned 
 sickness ? 
 
 L. Dupe. So much, that Moody and his daughter, 
 our new guests, take notice of the trouble ; but the 
 cause was kept too close for strangers to divine. 
 
 Chr. Heaven grant he be but deep enough in 
 love, and then 
 
 L. Dupe. And then thou shalt distil him into 
 gold, my girl. Yonder he comes, I'll not be seen ; 
 you know your lesson, child. [Exit. 
 
 Chr. I warrant you. 
 
 Enter Lord DARTMOUTH. 
 
 Lord. Pretty mistress Christian, how glad am I 
 to meet you thus alone ! 
 
 Chr. O the father ! what will become of me now ? 
 
 Lord. No harm, I warrant you ; but why are you 
 so afraid ? 
 
 Chr. A poor weak innocent creature as I am, 
 heaven of his mercy, how I quake and tremble ! I 
 have not yet clawed off your last ill usage, and
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 19 
 
 now I feel my old fit come again ; my ears tingle 
 already, and my back shuts and opens ; ay, just so 
 it began before. 
 
 Lord. Nay, my sweet mistress, be not so unjust 
 to suspect any new attempt. I am too penitent for 
 my last fault, so soon to sin again. I hope you did 
 not tell it to your aunt? 
 
 Chr. The more fool I, I did not. 
 
 Lord. You never shall repent your goodness to 
 me. But may I not presume there was some little 
 kindness in it, which moved you to conceal my 
 crime ? 
 
 Chr. Methought I would not have mine aunt 
 angry with you, for all this earthly good ; but yet 
 I'll never be alone with you again. 
 
 Lord. Pretty innocence ! let me sit nearer to you. 
 You do not understand what love I bear you. I 
 vow it is so pure, my soul's not sullied with one 
 spot of sin. Were you a sister, or a daughter to me, 
 with a more holy flame I could not burn. 
 
 Chr. Nay, now you speak high words ; I cannot 
 understand you. 
 
 Lord. The business of my life shall be but how 
 to make your fortune, and my care and study to 
 advance and see you settled in the world. 
 
 Chr. I humbly thank your lordship. 
 
 Lord. Thus I would sacrifice my life and fortunes, 
 and in return you cruelly destroy me ! 
 
 Chr. I never meant you any harm, not I. 
 
 Lord. Then what does this white enemy so near 
 me? [Touching her hand glovedJ] Sure, 'tis your 
 champion, and you arm it thus to bid defiance to 
 me. 
 
 Chr. Nay, fie, my lord ! In faith, you are to 
 blame. [Pulling her hand away. 
 
 Lord. But I am for fair wars ; an enemy must first 
 be searched for privy armour, ere we do engage. 
 
 [Pulls at her glove.
 
 20 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT II. 
 
 Chr. What does your lordship mean ? 
 
 Lord. I fear you bear some spells and charms 
 about you, and, madam, that's against the law of 
 arms. 
 
 Chr. My aunt charged me not to pull off my 
 glove, for fear of sun-burning my hand. 
 
 Lord. She did well to keep it from your eyes, but 
 I will thus preserve it. [Hugging her bare hand. 
 
 Chr. Why do you crush it so ? nay, now you 
 hurt me, nay if you squeeze it ne'er so hard 
 there's nothing to come out on't fie is this loving 
 one what makes you take your breath so short ? 
 
 Lord. The devil take me if I can answer her a 
 word ; all my senses are quite employed another way. 
 
 Chr. Ne'er stir, my lord, I must cry out. 
 
 Lord. Then I must stop your mouth this ruby 
 for a kiss that is but one ruby for another. 
 
 Chr. This is worse and worse. 
 
 Lady. [ Within.~] Why, niece, where are you, niece ? 
 
 Lord. Pox of her mouldy chops ! 
 
 Chr. Do you hear, my aunt calls ? I shall be 
 hanged for staying with you let me go, my lord. 
 
 [Gets from him. 
 
 Enter Lady DUPE. 
 
 L. Dupe. My lord ! heaven bless me, what makes 
 your lordship here ? 
 
 Lord. I was just wishing for you, madam ; your 
 niece and I have been so laughing at the blunt hu- 
 mour of your country-gentleman. I must go pass 
 an hour with him. [Exit Lord. 
 
 Chr. You made a little too much haste ; I was 
 just exchanging a kiss for a ruby. 
 
 L. Dupe. No harm done ; it will make him come 
 on the faster. Never full gorge an hawk you mean 
 to fly. The next will be a necklace of pearl, I war- 
 rant you. 
 
 Chr. But what must I do next ?
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. . 21 
 
 Li. Dupe, Tell him I grew suspicious, and ex- 
 amined you whether he made not love ; which you 
 denied. Then tell him how my maids and daugh- 
 ters watch you ; so that you tremble when you see 
 his lordship. 
 
 Chr. And that your daughters are so envious, 
 that they would raise a false report to ruin me. 
 
 L. Dupe. Therefore you desire his lordship, as he 
 loves you, of which you are confident, hencefor- 
 ward to forbear his visits to you. 
 
 Chr. But how, if he should take me at my word ? 
 
 L. Dupe. Why, if the worst come to the worst, 
 he leaves you an honest woman, and there's an end 
 on't. But fear not that ; hold out his messages, and 
 then he'll write, and that is it, my bird, which you 
 must drive it to. Then all his letters will be such 
 ecstasies, such vows and promises, which you must 
 answer short and simply, yet still ply out of them 
 your advantages. 
 
 Chr. But, madam, he's in the house, he will not 
 write. 
 
 L. Dupe. You fool he'll write from the next 
 chamber to you ; and, rather than fail, send his page 
 post with it, upon a hobby-horse. Then grant a 
 meeting, but tell me of it, and I'll prevent him by 
 my being there ; he'll curse me, but I care not. 
 When you are alone, he'll urge his lust, which an- 
 swer you with scorn and anger. 
 
 Chr. As thus an't please you, madam. What ! 
 Does he think I will be damn'd for him ? Defame 
 my family, ruin my name, to satisfy his pleasure ? 
 
 L. Dupe. Then he will be profane in his argu- 
 ments, urge nature's laws to you. 
 
 Chr. By'r lady, and those are shrewd arguments ; 
 but I'm resolved I'll stop my ears. 
 
 L. Dupe. Then when he sees no other thing will
 
 22 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT II. 
 
 move you, he'll sign a portion to you beforehand. 
 Take hold of that, and thenof what you will. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN, Mrs MILLISENT, and ROSE. 
 
 Sir John. Now, fair Mrs Millisent, you see your 
 chamber ; your father will be busy a few minutes, 
 and in the mean time permits me the happiness to 
 wait on you. 
 
 Mill. Methinks you might have chose us better 
 lodgings, this house is full ; the other, we saw first, 
 was more convenient. 
 
 Sir John. For you, perhaps, but not for me. You 
 might have met a lover there, but I a rival. 
 
 Mill. What rival? 
 
 Sir John. You know Sir Martin, I need not 
 name it to you. 
 
 Mill. I know more men besides him. 
 
 Sir John. But you love none besides him. Can 
 you deny your affection to him ? 
 
 Mill. You have vexed me so, I will not satisfy 
 you. 
 
 Sir John. Then I perceive I am not likely to be 
 so much obliged to you, as I was to him. 
 
 Mill. This is romance I'll not believe awordon't. 
 
 Sir John. That's as you please. However 'tis be- 
 lieved, his wit will not much credit your choice. 
 Madam, do justice to us both ; pay his ingratitude 
 and folly with your scorn ; my service with your 
 love. By this time your father stays for me. I 
 shall be discreet enough to keep this fault of yours 
 from him ; the lawyers wait for us to draw your 
 jointure ; and I would beg your pardon for my ab- 
 sence, but that my crime is punished in itself. {Exit. 
 
 Mill. Could I suspect this usage from a favoured 
 servant !
 
 SCENE II. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 23 
 
 Rose. First hear Sir Martin, ere you quite con- 
 demn him ; consider, 'tis a rival who accused him. 
 
 Mill Speak not a word in his behalf. Methought 
 too, Sir John called him fool. 
 
 Rose. Indeed he has a rare way of acting a fool, 
 and does it so naturally, it can scarce be distin- 
 guished. 
 
 Mill. Nay, he has wit enough, that's certain. 
 
 Rose. How blind love is ! 
 
 Enter WARNER. 
 
 Mill. How now, what's his business ? I wonder, 
 after such a crime, if his master has the face to send 
 him to me. 
 
 Rose. How durst you venture hither ? If either 
 Sir John or my old master see you ! 
 
 Warn. Pish ! they are both gone out. 
 
 Rose. They went but to the next street ; ten to 
 one but they return and catch you here. 
 
 Warn. Twenty to one I am gone before, and 
 save them a labour. 
 
 Mill What says that fellow to you ? What bu- 
 siness can he have here ? 
 
 Warn. Lord, that your ladyship should ask that 
 question, knowing whom I serve ! 
 
 Mill. I'll hear nothing from your master. 
 
 Warn. Never breathe, but this anger becomes 
 your ladyship most admirably ; but though you'll 
 hear nothing from him, I hope I may speak a word 
 or two to you from myself, madam. 
 
 Rose. 'Twas a sweet prank your master played us. 
 A lady's well helped up, that trusts her honour in 
 
 such a person's hands. To tell also, and to his 
 
 rival too. Excuse him if thou canst [Aside. 
 
 Warn. How the devil should I excuse him ? Thou 
 know'st he is the greatest fop in nature. 
 
 [Aside to ROSE.
 
 24 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT IL 
 
 Rose. But my lady does not know it ; if she did 
 
 Mill. I'll have no whispering. 
 
 Warn. Alas, madam, I have not the confidence 
 to speak out, unless you can take mercy on me. 
 
 Mill. For what? 
 
 Warn. For telling Sir John you loved my master, 
 madam. But sure I little thought he was his rival. 
 
 Rose. The witty rogue has taken it on himself. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Mill. Your master then is innocent ? 
 
 Warn. Why, could your ladyship suspect him 
 guilty ? Pray tell me, do you think him ungrateful, 
 or a fool ? 
 
 Mill. I think him neither. 
 
 Warn. Take it from me, you see not the depth 
 of him. But when he knows what thoughts you 
 harbour of him, as I am faithful, and must tell him, 
 I wish he does not take some pet, and leave you. 
 
 Mill. Thou art not mad, I hope, to tell him on't ; 
 if thou dost, I'll be sworn, I'll forswear it to him. 
 
 Warn. Upon condition then you'll pardon me, 
 I'll see what I can do to hold my tongue. 
 
 Mill. This evening, in St James's Park, I'll meet 
 him. \Knock within. 
 
 Warn. He shall not fail you, madam. 
 
 Rose. Somebody knocks Oh, madam, what shall 
 we do ! 'Tis Sir John, I hear his voice. 
 
 Warn. What will become of me ? 
 
 Mill. Step quickly behind that door. 
 
 [WARNER goes out. 
 
 To them Sir JOHN. 
 
 Mill. You've made a quick despatch, sir. 
 
 Sir John. We have done nothing, madam ; our 
 
 man of law was not within but I must look for 
 
 some writings. 
 
 Mill. Where are they laid ?
 
 SCENE II. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 25 
 
 Sir John. In the portmanteau in the drawing- 
 room. [/? going to the door. 
 
 Mill. Pray, stay a little, sir. 
 
 Warn. [ At the door.} He must pass just by me ; 
 and, if he sees me, I am but a dead man. 
 
 Sir John. Why are you thus concerned ? why do 
 you hold me ? 
 
 Mill. Only a word or two I have to tell you. 
 Tis of importance to you. - 
 
 Sir John. Give me leave 
 
 Mill. I must not, before I discover the plot to 
 you. 
 
 Sir John. What plot ? 
 
 Mill. Sir Martin's servant, like a rogue, comes 
 hither to tempt me from his master, to have met 
 him. 
 
 Warn. [At the doorJ] Now, would I had a good 
 bag of gunpowder at my breech, to ram me into 
 some hole ! 
 
 Mill. For my part, I was so startled at the mes- 
 sage, that I shall scarcely be myself these two days. 
 
 Sir John. Oh that I had the rascal ! I would teach 
 him to come upon such errands. 
 
 Warn. Oh for a gentle composition, now ! An 
 arm or leg I would give willingly. 
 
 Sir John. What answer did you make the villain? 
 
 Mill. I over-reached him clearly, by a promise of 
 an appointment of a place I named, where I never 
 meant to come : But would have had the pleasure, 
 first, to tell you how I served him. 
 
 Sir John. And then to chide your mean suspicion 
 of me ; indeed I wondered you should love a fool. 
 But where did you appoint to meet him ? 
 
 Mill. In Gray's-Inri walks. 
 
 Warn. By this light, she has put the change 
 upon him ! O sweet womankind, how I love thee 
 for that heavenly gift of lying !
 
 26 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT II. 
 
 Sir John. For this evening I will be his mistress ; 
 he shall meet another Penelope than he suspects. 
 
 Mill. But stay not long away. 
 
 Sir John. You overjoy me, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Warn. [Entering.'] Is he gone, madam ? 
 
 Mill. As far as Gray's-Inn walks : Now I have 
 time to walk the other way, and see thy master. 
 
 Warn. Rather let him come hither : I have laid 
 a plot, shall send his rival far enough from watching 
 him, ere long. 
 
 Mill. Art thou in earnest ? 
 
 Warn. 'Tis so designed, fate cannot hinder it. 
 Our landlord, where we lie, vexed that his lodgings 
 should be so left by Sir John, is resolved to be re- 
 venged, and I have found the way. You'll see the 
 effects on't presently. 
 
 Eose. O heavens ! the door opens again, and Sir 
 John is returned once more. 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN. 
 
 Sir John. Half my business was forgot ; you did 
 not tell me when you were to meet him. Ho ! 
 what makes this rascal here ? 
 
 Warn. 'Tis well you're come, sir, else I must have 
 left untold a message I have for you. 
 
 Sir John. Well, what's your business, sirrah? 
 
 Warn. We must be private first ; 'tis only for 
 your ear. 
 
 Rose. 1 shall admire his wit, if in this plunge he 
 can get off. 
 
 Warn. I came hither, sir, by my master's or- 
 der 
 
 Sir John. I'll reward you for it, sirrah, immedi 
 ately. 
 
 Warn. When you know all, I shall deserve it, 
 sir : I came to sound the virtue of your mistress ; 
 which I have done so cunningly, I have at last ob-
 
 SCENE II. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 27 
 
 tained the promise of a meeting. But my good 
 master, whom I must confess more generous than 
 wise, knowing you had a passion for her, is resol- 
 ved to quit. And, sir, that you may see how much 
 he loves you, sent me in private to advise you still 
 to have an eye upon her actions. 
 
 Sir John. Take this diamond for thy good news ; 
 and give thy master my acknowledgments. 
 
 Warn. Thus the world goes, my masters ! he, 
 that will cozen you, commonly gets your goodwill 
 into the bargain. [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. Madam, I am now satisfied of all sides ; 
 first of your truth, then of Sir Martin's friendship. 
 In short, I find you two cheated each other, both 
 to be true to me. 
 
 Mill. Warner is got off as I would wish, and the 
 knight over-reached. [Aside. 
 
 Enter to them the Landlord, disguised like a 
 carrier. 
 
 Rose. How now ! what would this carrier have ? 
 
 Warn. This is our landlord, whom I told you of; 
 but keep your countenance. [Aside to her. 
 
 Land. I was looking hereaway for one Sir John 
 Swallow ; they told me I might hear news of him 
 in this house. 
 
 Sir John. Friend, I am the man ; what have you 
 to say to me ? 
 
 Land. Nay, faith, sir, I am not so good a schol- 
 lard to say much, but I have a letter for you in 
 my pouch. There's plaguy news in it, I can tell 
 you that. 
 
 Sir John. From whom is your letter ? 
 
 Land. From your old uncle Anthony. 
 
 Sir John. Give me your letter quickly. 
 
 Land. Nay, soft and fair goes far. Hold you, 
 hold you. It is not in this pocket.
 
 28 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT II. 
 
 Sir John. Search in the other, then ; I stand on 
 thorns. 
 
 Land. I think I feel it now, this should be who. 
 
 Sir John. Pluck it out then. 
 
 Land. I'll pluck out my spectacles, and see first. 
 
 [Reads."] ToMrPaulGrimbard apprentice to 
 
 No, that's not for you, sir that's for the son of the 
 brother of the nephew of the cousin of my gossip 
 Dobson. 
 
 Sir John. Pry thee, despatch ; dost thou notknow 
 the contents on't ? 
 
 Land. Yes, as well as I do my pater noster. 
 
 Sir John. Well, what's the business on't ? 
 
 Land. Nay, no great business ; 'tis but only that 
 your worship's father's dead. 
 
 Sir John. My loss is beyond expression ! How 
 died he? 
 
 Land. He went to bed as well to see to as any 
 man in England, and when he awakened the next 
 morning 
 
 Sir John. What then ? 
 
 Land. He found himself stark dead. 
 
 Sir John. Well, I must of necessity take orders 
 for my father's funeral, and my estate : Heaven 
 knows with what regret I leave you, madam. 
 
 Mill. But are you in such haste, sir ? I see you 
 take all occasions to be from me. 
 
 Sir John. Dear madam, say not so. A few days 
 will, I hope, return me to you. 
 
 To them Sir MARTIN, 
 
 Noble Sir Martin, the welcomest man alive ! let me 
 embrace my friend. 
 
 Rose. How untowardly he returns the salute ! 
 Warner will be found out. [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. Well, friend ! you have obliged me to 
 you eternally.
 
 SCENE II. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 29 
 
 Sir Mart. How have I obliged you, sir ? I would 
 have you to know I scorn your words ; and I would 
 I were hanged, if it be not the farthest of my 
 thoughts. 
 
 Mill. O cunning youth ! he acts the fool most 
 naturally. Were we alone, how would we laugh 
 together ! [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. This is a double generosity, to do me 
 favours, and conceal 'em from me ; but honest 
 Warner here has told me all. 
 
 Sir Mart. What has the rascal told you ? 
 
 Sir John. Your plot to try my mistress for me 
 you understand me, concerning your appointment. 
 
 Warn. Sir, I desire to speak in private with you. 
 
 Sir Mart. This impertinent rascal ! when I am 
 most busy, I am ever troubled with him. 
 
 Warn. But it concerns you I should speak with 
 you, good sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. That's a good one, i'faith ; thou know- 
 est breeding well, that I should whisper with a 
 serving-man before company. 
 
 Warn. Remember, sir, last time it had been 
 better 
 
 Sir Mart. Peace, or I'll make you feel my double 
 fists ; if I don't fright him, the saucy rogue will call 
 me fool before the company. 
 
 Mill. That wasactedmostnaturally again. [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. [To him.'] But what needs this dis- 
 sembling, since you are resolved to quit my mis- 
 tress to me ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I quit my mistress ! that's a good 
 one, i'faith. 
 
 Mill. Tell him you have forsaken me. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Mart. I understand you, madam, you would 
 save a quarrel ; but, i'faith, I'm not so base : I'll see 
 him hanged first. 
 
 Warn. Madam, my master is convinced, in pru- 
 21
 
 30 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT II. 
 
 dence he should say so. But love o'ermasters him ; 
 when you are gone, perhaps he may. 
 
 Mill. I'll go, then. Gentlemen, your servant ; I 
 
 see my presence brings constraint to the company. 
 
 [JExetmt MILL, and ROSE. 
 
 Sir John. I'm glad she's gone ; now we may talk 
 more freely ; for if you have not quitted her, you 
 must. 
 
 Warn. Pray, sir, remember yourself. Did not 
 you send me of a message to Sir John, that for his 
 friendship you had left Mistress Millisent ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, what an impudent lying rogue 
 art thou ! 
 
 Sir John. How's this ! Has Warner cheated me ? 
 
 Warn. Do not suspect it in the least. You know, 
 sir, it was not generous, before a lady, to say he 
 quitted her. 
 
 Sir John. O ! was that it ? 
 
 Warn. That was all. Say, Yes, good Sir John 
 or I'll swinge you. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Mart. Yes, good Sir John. 
 
 Warn. That's well ; once in his life he has heard 
 good counsel. 
 
 Sir Mart. Heigh, heigh, what makes my land- 
 lord here ? He has put on a fool's coat, I think, to 
 make us laugh. 
 
 Warn. The devil's in him, he's at it again ; his 
 folly's like a sore in a surfeited horse ; cure it in one 
 place, and it breaks out in another. 
 
 Sir Mart. Honest landlord, i'faith, and what 
 makes you here ? 
 
 Sir John. Are you acquainted with this honest 
 man ? 
 
 Land. Take heed what you say, sir. 
 
 [To Sir MAUT. softly. 
 
 Sir Mart. Take heed what you say, sir ! Why ? 
 who should I be afraid of? of you, sir ? I say, sir, I
 
 SCENE IJ. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 31 
 
 know him, sir ; and I have reason to know him, sir ; 
 for I am sure I lodge in his house, sir Nay, never 
 think to terrify me, sir ; 'tis my landlord here in 
 Charles-street, sir. 
 
 Land. Now I expect to be paid for the news I 
 brought him. 
 
 Si John. Sirrah, did you not tell me that my fa- 
 ther 
 
 Land. Is in very good health, for aught I know, 
 sir ; I beseech you to trouble yourself no farther 
 concerning him. 
 
 Sir John. Who set you on to tell this lie ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Ay, who set you on, sirrah ? This was 
 a rogue that would cozen us both ; he thought I 
 did not know him. Down on your marrowbones, 
 and confess the truth. Have you no tongue, you 
 rascal ? 
 
 Sir John. Sure 'tis some silenced minister. He 
 grows so fat, he cannot speak. 
 
 Land. Why, sir, if you would know, 'twas for 
 your sake I did it. 
 
 Warn. For my master's sake ! why, you impu- 
 dent varlet, do you think to 'scape us with a lie ? 
 
 Sir John. How was it for his sake ? 
 
 Warn. 'Twas for his own, sir ; he heard you were 
 the occasion the lady lodged not at his house, and 
 so he invented this lie ; partly to revenge himself 
 of you, and partly, I believe, in hope to get her 
 once again when you were gone. 
 
 Sir John. Fetch me a cudgel, pr'ythee. 
 
 Land. O good sir ! if you beat me, I shall run 
 into oil immediately. 
 
 Warn. Hang him, rogue ; he's below your anger. 
 
 I'll maul him for you the rogue's so big, I think 
 
 will ask two days to beat him all over. [Beats him. 
 
 Land. O rogue ! O villain, Warner ! Bid him 
 hold, and I'll confess, sir.
 
 32 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT II. 
 
 Warn. Get you gone without replying. Must 
 such as you be prating ? [Beats him out. 
 
 Enter ROSE. 
 
 Rose. Sir, dinner waits you on the table. 
 
 Sir John. Friend, will you go along, and take 
 part of a bad repast ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Thank you ; but I am just risen from 
 table. 
 
 Warn. Now he might sit with his mistress, and 
 has not the wit to find it out. 
 
 Sir John. You shall be very welcome. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have no stomach, sir. 
 
 Warn. Get you in with a vengeance. You have 
 a better stomach than you think you have. 
 
 [Pushes him. 
 
 Sir Mart. This hungry Diego rogue would shame 
 me ; he thinks a gentleman can eat like a serving- 
 man. 
 
 Sir John. If you will not, adieu, dear sir; in any 
 thing command me. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Mart. Now we are alone : Han't I carried 
 matters bravely, sirrah ? 
 
 Warn. O yes, yes, you deserve sugar-plums ; first 
 for your quarrelling with Sir John ; then for disco- 
 vering your landlord ; and, lastly, for refusing to 
 dine with your mistress. All this is since the last 
 reckoning was wiped out. 
 
 Sir Mart. Then, why did my landlord disguise 
 himself, to make a fool of us ? 
 
 Warn. You have so little brains, that a penny- 
 worth of butter, melted under 'em, would set 'em 
 afloat. He put on that disguise, to rid you of your 
 rival. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why was not I worthy to keep your 
 counsel then ? 
 
 Warn. It had been much at one. You would but
 
 ACT III. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 33 
 
 have drunk the secret down, and pissed it out to 
 the next company. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, I find I am a miserable man : I 
 have lost my mistress, and may thank myself for 
 it. 
 
 Warn. You'll not confess you are a fool, I war- 
 rant. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, I am a fool, if that will satisfy 
 you : But what am I the nearer, for being one ? 
 
 Warn. O yes, much the nearer ; for now fortune's 
 bound to provide for you ; as hospitals are built for 
 lame people, because they cannot help themselves. 
 Well ; I have a project in my pate. 
 
 Sir Mart. Dear rogue, what is't ? 
 
 Warn. Excuse me for that : But while 'tis set a 
 working, you would do well to screw yourself into 
 her father's good opinion. 
 
 Sir Mart. If you will not tell me, my mind gives 
 me, I shall discover it again. 
 
 Warn. I'll lay it as far out of your reach as I can 
 possibly. 
 
 For secrets are edged tools, 
 
 And must be kept from children and from fools. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. SCENE L 
 
 Enter ROSE and WARNER meeting. 
 
 Rose. Your worship's most happily encountered. 
 Warn. Your ladyship's most fortunately met. 
 Rose. I was going to your lodging. 
 Warn. My business was to yours. 
 
 Rose. I have something to say to you that 
 
 Warn. I have that to tell you 
 
 Rose. Understand then 
 
 VOL. in. c
 
 34 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALT,. ACT in. 
 
 Warn. If you'll hear me 
 
 Rose. I believe that 
 
 Warn. I am of opinion, that 
 
 Rose. Pry'thee hold thy peace a little, till I have 
 done. 
 
 Warn. Cry you mercy, Mrs Rose ; I'll not dis- 
 pute your ancient privilege of talking. 
 
 Rose. My mistress, knowing Sir John was to be 
 abroad upon business this afternoon, has asked 
 leave to see a play : And Sir John has so great a 
 confidence of your master, that he will trust no 
 body with her, but him. 
 
 Warn. If my master gets her out, I warrant her, 
 he shall shew her a better play than any is at either 
 of the houses here they are : I'll run and prepare 
 him to wait upon her. \Exit. 
 
 Enter old MOODY, Mrs MILLISENT, and Lady 
 DUPE. 
 
 Mill. My hoods and scarfs there, quickly. 
 
 L. Dupe. Send to call a coach there. 
 
 Mood. But what kind of man is this Sir Martin, 
 with whom you are to go ? 
 
 L.Dupe. A plain down-right country-gentleman, 
 I assure you. 
 
 Mood. I like him much the better for it. For I 
 hate one of those you call a man of the town, one 
 of those empty fellows of mere out-side : They have 
 nothing of the true old English manliness. 
 
 Rose. I confess, sir, a woman's in a bad condi- 
 tion, that has nothing to trust to, but a peruke 
 above, and a well-trimmed shoe below. 
 
 To them Sir MARTIN. 
 
 Mill. This, sir, is Sir John's friend ; he is for your 
 humour, sir ; he is no man of the town, but bred 
 up in the old Elizabeth way of plainness.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 35 
 
 Sir Mart. Ay, madam, your ladyship may say 
 your pleasure of me. 
 
 To them WARNER. 
 
 Warn. How the devil got he here before me ! 
 'Tis very unlucky I could not see him first. 
 
 Sir Mart. But, as for painting, music, poetry, 
 and the like, I'll say this of myself 
 
 Warn. I'll say that for him, my master under- 
 stands none of them, I assure you, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. You impudent rascal, hold your tongue : 
 I musjt rid my hands of this fellow ; the rogue is 
 ever discrediting me before company. 
 
 Mood. Never trouble yourself about it, sir, for I 
 like a man that 
 
 Sir Mart. I know you do, sir, and therefore I 
 hope you'll think never the worse of me for his pra- 
 ting : For, though I do not boast of my own good 
 parts 
 
 Warn. He has none to boast of, upon my faith, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. Give him not the hearing, sir ; for, if 
 I may believe my friends, they have flattered me 
 with an opinion of more 
 
 Warn. Of more than their flattery can make 
 good, sir ; 'tis true he tells you, they have flattered 
 him ; but, in my conscience, he is the most down- 
 right simple-natured creature in the world. 
 
 Sir Mart. I shall consider you hereafter, sirrah ; 
 but I am sure in all companies I pass for a vir- 
 tuoso. 
 
 Mood. Virtuoso ! What's that too ? is not virtue 
 enough without O so ? 
 
 Sir Mart. You have reason, sir. 
 
 Mood. There he is again too ; the town phrase ; 
 a great compliment I wis ! you have reason, sir ; 
 that is, you are no beast, sir. 
 8
 
 36 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT III. 
 
 Warn. A word in private, sir. You mistake this 
 old man ; he loves neither painting, music, nor 
 poetry; yet recover yourself, if you have any brains. 
 
 [Aside to him. 
 
 Sir Mart. Say you so ? I'll bring all about again, 
 I warrant you. I beg your pardon a thousand 
 times, sir ; I vow to gad I am not master of any of 
 those perfections ; for, in fine, sir, I am wholly igno- 
 rant of painting, music, and poetry ; only some rude 
 escapes ; but, in fine, they are such, that, in fine, 
 sir 
 
 Warn. This is worse than all the rest. \Aside. 
 
 Mood. By coxbones, one word more of all this 
 gibberish, and old Madge shall fly about your ears : 
 What is this, in fine, he keeps such a coil with too ? 
 
 Mill. 'Tis a phrase a-la-mode, sir ; and is used in 
 conversation now, as a whiff" of tobacco was former- 
 ly in the midst of a discourse for a thinking while. 
 
 L. Dupe. In plain English, in fine is, in the end, 
 sir. 
 
 Mood. But, by coxbones, there is no end on't, 
 methinks : If thou wilt have a foolish word to lard 
 thy lean discourse with, take an English one when 
 thou speakest English ! as, so sir, and then sir, and 
 so forth ; 'tis a more manly kind of nonsense : And 
 a pox of in fine, for I'll hear no more on't. 
 
 Warn. He's gravelled, and I must help him out. 
 \_Aside.~] Madam, there's a coach at the door, to car- 
 ry you to the play. 
 
 Sir Mart. Which house do you mean to go to ? 
 
 Mill. The Duke's, I think. 
 
 Sir Mart. It is a damn'd play, and has nothing 
 in't. 
 
 Mill Then let us to the King's. 
 
 Sir Mart. That's e'en as bad. 
 
 Warn. This is past enduring. \_AsideJ] There was 
 an ill play set up, sir, on the posts ; but I can assure
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 37 
 
 you the bills are altered since you saw them, and 
 now there are two admirable comedies at both 
 houses. 
 
 Mood. But my daughter loves serious plays. 
 
 Warn. They are tragi-comedies, sir, for both. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have heard her say, she loves none 
 but tragedies. 
 
 Mood. Where have you heard her say so, sir ? 
 
 Warn. Sir, you forget yourself; you never saw 
 her in your life before. 
 
 Sir Mart. What, not at Canterbury, in the ca- 
 thedral church there? This is the impuden test ras- 
 cal 
 
 Warn. Mum, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. Ah Lord, what have I done ! As I hope 
 to be saved, sir, it was before I was aware ; for if 
 ever I set eyes on her before this day, I wish 
 
 Mood. This fellow is not so much fool, as he 
 makes one believe he is. 
 
 Mitt. I thought he would be discovered for a wit. 
 This 'tis to overact one's part ! [Aside. 
 
 Mood. Come away, daughter, I will not trust you 
 in his hands ; there's more in it than I imagined. 
 
 \_Exeunt MOODY, MILL. Lady DUPE, and ROSE. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why do you frown upon me so, when 
 you know your looks go to the heart of me ? What 
 have I done besides a li ttle lapsus lingua ? 
 
 Warn. Why, who says you have done any thing ? 
 You, a mere innocent ! 
 
 Sir Mart. As the child that's to be born, in my 
 intentions ; if I know how I have offended myself 
 any more than in one word 
 
 Warn. But don't follow me, however ; I have 
 nothing to say to you. 
 
 Sir Mart. I'll follow you to the world's end, till 
 you forgive me.
 
 38 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT III. 
 
 Warn. I am resolved to lead you a dance then. 
 
 [Exit running. 
 
 Sir Mart. The rogue has no mercy in him ; but 
 I must mollify him with money. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Lady DUPE. 
 
 L. Dupe. Truly, my little cousin's the aptest 
 scholar, and takes out love's lessons so exactly, that 
 I joy to see it. She has got already the bond of 
 two thousand pounds sealed for her portion, which 
 I keep for her ; a pretty good beginning. 'Tis true, 
 I believe he has enjoyed her, and so let him ; Mark 
 Antony wooed not at so dear a price. 
 
 Enter, to her, CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Chr. O madam, I fear I am breeding ! 
 
 L. Dupe. A taking wench ! but 'tis no matter : 
 have you told any body ? 
 
 Chr. I have been venturing upon your founda- 
 tions, a little to dissemble. 
 
 L. Dupe. That's a good child ; I hope it will 
 thrive with thee, as it has with me. Heaven has a 
 blessing in store upon our endeavours. 
 
 Chr. I feigned myself sick, and kept my bed ; 
 my lord, he came to visit me, and, in the end, I dis- 
 closed it to him, in the saddest passion ! 
 
 L. Dupe. This frightened him, I hope, into a stu- 
 dy how to cloak your disgrace, lest it should have 
 vent to his lady. 
 
 Chr. 'Tis true ; but all the while I subtly drove 
 it, that he should name you to me as the fittest in- 
 strument of the concealment ; but how to break it 
 to you, strangely does perplex him. He has been 
 seeking you all over the house ; therefore, I'll leave 
 your ladyship, for fear we .should be seen together. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 SCENE II. SIR MAHTIN MAR-ALL. 39 
 
 L. Dupe. Now I must play my part ; 
 Nature, in women, teaches more than art. 
 
 Enter Lord. 
 
 Lord. Madam, I have a secret to impart ; a sad 
 one too, and have no friend to trust, but only you. 
 
 L. Dupe. Your lady, or your children sick ? 
 
 Lord. Not that I know. 
 
 L. Dupe. You seem to be in health. 
 
 Lord. In body, not in mind. 
 
 L. Dupe. Some scruple of conscience, I warrant ; 
 my chaplain shall resolve you. 
 
 Lord. Madam, my soul's tormented. 
 
 L. Dupe. O take heed of despair, my lord ! 
 
 Lord. Madam, there is no medicine for this sick- 
 ness, but only you ; your friendship's my safe ha- 
 ven, else I am lost, and shipwrecked. 
 
 L. Dupe. Pray tell me what it is. 
 
 Lord. Could I express it by sad sighs and groans, 
 or drown it with myself in seas of tears, I should 
 be happy, would, and would not tell. 
 
 L. Dupe. Command whatever I can serve you 
 in ; I will be faithful still to all your ends, provided 
 they be just and virtuous. 
 
 Lord. That word has stopt me. 
 
 L. Dupe. Speak out, my lord, and boldly tell 
 what 'tis. 
 
 Lord. Then, in obedience to your commands, 
 your cousin is with child. 
 
 L. Dupe. Which cousin? 
 
 Lord. Your cousin Christian, here in the house. 
 
 L. Dupe. Alas ! then she has stolen a marriage, 
 and undone herself. Some young fellow, on my 
 conscience, that's a beggar ; youth will not be ad- 
 vised. Well, I'll never meddle more with girls ; one 
 is no more assured of them, than grooms of mules ;
 
 40 Sill MARTIN MAll-ALL. ACT III. 
 
 they'll strike when least one thinks on't. But pray, 
 your lordship, what is her choice then for a hus- 
 band ? 
 
 Lord. She is not married, that I know of, 
 
 madam. 
 
 L. Dupe. Not married ! 'tis imposssible ; the girl 
 does sure abuse you. I know her education has 
 been such, the flesh could not prevail ; therefore, 
 she does abuse you, it must be so. 
 
 Lord. Madam, not to abuse you longer, she is 
 with child, and I the unfortunate man, who did 
 this most unlucky act. 
 
 L. Dupe. You \ I'll never believe it. 
 
 Lord. Madam, 'tis too true ; believe it, and be 
 serious how to hide her shame ; I beg it here upon 
 my knees. 
 
 L. Dupe. Oh, oh, oh ! [She faints away. 
 
 Lord. Who's there ! Who's there ! Help, help, 
 help! 
 
 Enter two women, ROSE, and Mrs MILLISENT. 
 
 1 Worn. O merciful God, my lady's gone ! 
 
 2 Worn. Whither? 
 
 1 Worn. To heaven ; God knows, to heaven ! 
 Eose. Rub her, rub her ; fetch warm clothes ! 
 
 2 Worn. I say, run to the cabinet of quintessence ; 
 Gilbert's water ! Gilbert's water ! 
 
 1 Worn. Now all the good folks of heaven look 
 down upon her ! 
 
 Mill. Set her in the chair. 
 Rose. Open her mouth with a dagger or a key ; 
 pour, pour ! Where's the spoon ? 
 
 2 Worn. She stirs ! she revives ! merciful to us 
 all ! what a thing was this ? speak, lady, speak ! 
 
 L. Dupe. So, so, so ! 
 
 Mill. Alas ! my lord, how came this fit ? 
 
 Lord. With sorrow, madam.
 
 SCENE II. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 41 
 
 L. Dupe. Now I am better : Bess, you have not 
 seen me thus ? 
 
 1 Worn. Heaven forefend that I should live to 
 see you so again. 
 
 L. Dupe. Go, go, I'm pretty well ; withdraw in- 
 to the next room ; but be near, I pray, for fear of 
 the worst. \Tliey go out.'] My lord, sit down near 
 me, I pray ; I'll strive to speak a few words to you, 
 and then to bed ; nearer, my voice is faint. My 
 lord, heaven knows how I have ever loved you ; 
 and is this my reward ? Had you none to abuse but 
 me in that unfortunate fond girl, that you know 
 was dearer to me than my life ? This was not love 
 to her, but an inveterate malice to poor me. Oh, 
 oh ! [Faints again. 
 
 Lord. Help, help, help ! 
 
 All the women again. 
 
 1 Worn. This fit will carry her : Alas, it is a le- 
 chery ! 
 
 2 Worn. The balsam, the balsam ! 
 
 1 Worn. No, no, the chemistry oil of rosemary : 
 Hold her up, and give her air. 
 
 Mill. Feel whether she breathes, with your hand 
 before her mouth. 
 
 Hose. No, madam, 'tis key-cold. 
 
 1 Worn. Look up, dear madam, if you have any 
 hope of salvation ! 
 
 2 Worn. Hold up your finger, madam, if you have 
 any hope of fraternity. O the blessed saints, that 
 hear me not, take her mortality to them ! 
 
 L. Dupe. Enough, so, 'tis well withdraw, and 
 let me rest a while ; only my dear lord remain. 
 
 1 Worn. Pray your lordship keep her from sweb- 
 bing. [Exeunt women. 
 
 Lord. Here humbly, once again, I beg your par- 
 don and your help. 
 
 L. Dupe. Heaven forgive you, and I do : Stand
 
 42 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT III. 
 
 up, my lord, and sit close by me ; O this naughty 
 girl ! But did your lordship win her soon ? 
 
 Lord. No, madam, but with much difficulty. 
 
 L. Dupe. I'm glad on't ; it shewed the girl had 
 some religion in her ; all my precepts were not in 
 vain : But you men are strange tempters. Good 
 my lord, where was this wicked act, then, first com- 
 mitted ? 
 
 Lord. In an out-room, upon a trunk. 
 
 L. Dupe. Poor heart, what shifts love makes ! Oh, 
 she does love you dearly, though to her ruin ! And 
 then, what place, my lord ? 
 
 Lord. An old waste room, with a decayed bed in't. 
 
 L. Dupe. Out upon that dark room for deeds of 
 darkness ! and that rotten bed ! I wonder it did 
 hold your lordship's vigour : But you dealt gently 
 with the girl. Well, you shall see I love you : For 
 I will manage this business to both your advanta- 
 ges, by the assistance of heaven I will ; good my 
 lord, help, lead me out. [Exeunt; 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter WARNER and ROSE. 
 
 Rose. A mischief upon all fools ! do you think 
 your master has not done wisely ? First to mistake 
 our old man's humour ; then to dispraise the plays ; 
 and, lastly, to discover his acquaintance with my 
 mistress : My old master has taken such a jealousy 
 of him, that he will never admit him into his sight 
 again. 
 
 Warn. Thou makest thyself a greater fool than 
 he, by being angry at what he cannot help. I have 
 been angry with him too ; but these friends have 
 taken up the quarrel. [Shews gold.] Look you, 
 he has sent these mediators to mitigate your wrath : 
 Here are twenty of them have made a long voyage 
 from Guinea to kiss your hands : And when the
 
 SCENE III. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 43 
 
 match is made, there are an hundred more in readi- 
 ness to be your humble servants. 
 
 Rose. Rather than fall out with you, I'll take 
 them ; but I confess, it troubles me to see so loyal 
 a lover have the heart of an emperor, and yet scarce 
 the brains of a cobler. 
 
 Warn. Well, what device can we two beget be- 
 twixt us, to separate Sir John Swallow and thy mis- 
 tress ? 
 
 Rose. I cannot, on the sudden tell ; but I hate 
 him worse than foul weather without a coach. 
 
 Warn. Then I'll see if my project be luckier than 
 thine. Where are the papers concerning the join- 
 ture I have heard you speak of? 
 
 Rose. They lie within, in three great bags ; some 
 twenty reams of paper in each bundle, with six 
 lines in a sheet. But there is a little paper where 
 all the business lies. 
 
 Warn. Where is it ? Canst thou help me to it ? 
 
 Rose. By good chance he gave it to my custody, 
 before he set out for London. You came in good 
 time ; here it is, I was carrying it to him ; just now 
 he sent for it. 
 
 Warn. So, this I will secure in my pocket ; when 
 thou art asked for it, make two or three bad faces, 
 and say it was left behind. By this means, he must 
 of necessity leave the town, to see for it in Kent. 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN, ^MARTIN, 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis no matter, though the old man be 
 suspicious ; I knew the story all before-hand ; and 
 since then you have fully satisfied me of your true 
 friendship to me. Where are the writings ? 
 
 \_To ROSE. 
 
 Hose. Sir, I beg your pardon ; I thought I had 
 put them up amongst my lady's things, and it seems, 
 in my haste, I quite forgot them, and left them at 
 Canterbury.
 
 44 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT III. 
 
 Sir John. This is horribly unlucky ! where do you 
 think you left them ? 
 
 Rose. Upon the great box in my lady's chamber ; 
 they are safe enough, I'm sure. 
 
 Sir John. It must be so I must take post im- 
 mediately. Madam, for some few days I must be 
 absent ; and to confirm you, friend, how much I 
 trust you, I leave the dearest pledge I have on 
 earth, my mistress, to your care. 
 
 Mill. If you loved me, you would not take all 
 occasions to leave me thus. 
 
 Warn. \_Aside. ,] Do, go to Kent, and when you 
 come again, here they are ready for you. 
 
 I/Shews the paper. 
 
 Sir Mart. What's that you have in your hand 
 there, sirrah ? 
 
 Warn. Pox, what ill luck was this ! what shall I 
 say! 
 
 Sir Mart. Sometimes you have tongue enough ; 
 what, are you silent ? 
 
 Warn. 'Tis an account, sir, of what money you 
 have lost since you came to town. 
 
 Sir Mart. I am very glad on't : Now I'll make 
 
 you all see the severity of my fortune give me 
 
 the paper. 
 
 Warn. Heaven ! what does he mean to do ? It 
 is not fair writ out, sir. 
 
 Sir John. Besides, I am in haste ; another time, 
 sir 
 
 Sir Mart. Pray, oblige me, sir ; 'tis but one mi- 
 nute : All people love to be pitied in their misfor- 
 tunes, and so do I. Will you produce it, sirrah ? 
 
 Warn. Dear master ! 
 
 Sir Mart. Dear rascal ! am I master, or you, 
 you rogue ? 
 
 Warn. Hold yet, sir, and let me read it : You 
 cannot read my hand. 
 
 Sir Mart. This is ever his way, to be disparaging
 
 SCENE III. SIR MARTIN MAR- ALL. 45 
 
 me ; but I'll let you see, sirrah, that I can read your 
 hand better than you yourself can. 
 
 Warn. You'll repent it ; there's a trick in't, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. Is there so, sirrah ? but I'll bring you 
 
 out of all your tricks with a vengeance to you 
 
 [Reads.'] How now ! What's this ? A true particu- 
 lar of the estate of Sir John Swallow, knight, lying 
 and situate in, &c. 
 
 Sir John. This is the very paper I had lost : I'm 
 very glad on't; [Takes the paper .} it has saved me 
 a most unwelcome journey but I will not thank 
 you for the courtesy, which now I find you never 
 did intend me this is confederacy, I smoke it 
 now come, madam, let me wait on you to your 
 father. 
 
 Mill. Well, of a witty man this was the foolish- 
 est part that ever I beheld. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir JOHN, MILLISENT, and ROSE. 
 
 Sir Mart. I am a fool, I must confess it ; and I 
 am the most miserable one without thy help but 
 yet it was such a mistake as any man might have 
 made. 
 
 Warn. No doubt of it. 
 
 Sir Mart. Pr'ythee chide me ! this indifference 
 of thine wounds me to the heart. 
 
 Warn. I care not. 
 
 Sir Mart. Wilt thou not help me for this once ? 
 
 Warn. Sir, I kiss your hands, I have other busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Sir Mart. Dear Warner ! 
 
 Warn. I am inflexible. 
 
 Sir Mart. Then I am resolved I'll kill myself. 
 
 Warn. You are master of your own body. 
 
 Sir Mart. Will you let me damn my soul ? 
 
 Warn. At your pleasure, as the devil and you 
 can agree about it.
 
 46 SIR MAHTIN MAR-ALL. ACT IV. 
 
 Sir Mart. D'ye see, the point's ready ? Will you 
 do nothing to save my life ? 
 
 Warn. Not in the least. 
 
 Sir Mart. Farewell, hard-hearted Warner. 
 
 Warn. Adieu, soft-headed Sir Martin. 
 
 Sir Mart. Is it possible ? 
 
 Warn. Why don't you despatch, sir? why all 
 these preambles ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I'll see thee hanged first : I know thou 
 wouldst have me killed, to get my clothes. 
 
 Warn. I knew it was but a copy of your coun- 
 tenance ; people in this age are not so apt to kill 
 themselves. 
 
 Sir Mart. Here are yet ten pieces in my pocket ; 
 take 'em, and let's be friends. 
 
 Warn. You know the easiness of my nature, and 
 that makes you work upon it so. Well, sir, for 
 this once I cast an eye of pity on you ; but I must 
 have ten more in hand, before I can stir a foot. 
 
 Sir Mart. As I am a true gamester, I have lost 
 all but these ; but if thoul't lend me them, I'll give 
 'em thee again. 
 
 Warn. I'll rather trust you till to-morrow ; 
 Once more look up, I bid you hope the best. 
 Why should your folly make your love miscarry, 
 Since men first play the fools, and then they marry ? 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 
 
 Enter Sir MARTIN MAR- ALL and WARNER. 
 
 Sir Mart. But are they to be married this day in 
 private, say you ? 
 
 Warn. 'Tis so concluded, sir, I dare assure you. 
 Sir Mart. But why so soon, and in private ?
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 47 
 
 Warn. So soon, to prevent the designs upon her ; 
 and in private, to save the effusion of Christian 
 money. 
 
 Sir Mart. It strikes to my heart already ; in fine, 
 I am a dead man. Warner 
 
 Warn. Well, go your ways, I'll try what may be 
 done. Look if he will stir now ! Your rival and 
 the old man will see us together ; we are just below 
 the window. 
 
 Sir Mart. Thou canst not do it. 
 
 Warn. On the peril of my twenty pieces be it. 
 
 Sir Mart. But I have found a way to help thee 
 out ; trust to my wit but once. 
 
 Warn. Name your wit, or think you have the 
 least grain of wit, but once more, and I'll lay it 
 down for ever. 
 
 Sir Mart. You are a saucy, masterly companion ; 
 and so I leave you. [Exit. 
 
 Warn. Help, help, good people ! Murder, mur- 
 der! 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN and MOODY. 
 
 Sir John and Mood. How now, what's the mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Warn. I am abused, I am beaten, I am lamed 
 for ever. 
 
 Mood. Who has used thee so ? 
 
 Warn. The rogue, my master. 
 
 Sir John. What was the offence ? 
 
 Warn. A trifle, just nothing. 
 
 Sir John. That's very strange. 
 
 Warn. It was for telling him he lost too much at 
 play : I meant him nothing but well, heaven knows ; 
 and he, in a cursed damned humour, would needs 
 revenge his losses upon me ; and kicked me, took 
 away my money, and turned me off; but if I take 
 it at his hands, ,
 
 48 SIR MAllTIN MAR- ALL. ACT IV. 
 
 Mood. By cox-nowns, it was an ill-natured part ; 
 nay, I thought no better would come on't, when 1 
 heard him at his vow to gads, and in fines. 
 
 Warn. But, if 1 live, I'll cry quittance with him : 
 he had engaged me to get Mrs Millisent, your 
 daughter, for him ; but if I do not all I can to 
 make her hate him ! a great booby, an overgrown 
 oaf, a conceited Bartlemew 
 
 Sir John. Pr'ythee, leave off thy choler, and hear 
 me a little : I have had a great mind to thee a long 
 time ; if thoti thinkest my service better than his, 
 from this minute I entertain thee. 
 
 Warn. With all my heart, sir ; and so much the 
 rather, that I might spite him with it. This was 
 the most propitious fate 
 
 Mood. Propitious ! and fate ! what a damned 
 scander-bag rogue art thou,' to talk at this rate ? 
 Hark you, sirrah, one word more of this gibberish, 
 and I'll set you packing from your new service : 
 I'll have neither propitious nor fate come within my 
 doors. 
 
 Sir John. Nay, pray, father 
 
 Warn. Good old sir, be pacified ; I was pouring 
 out a little of the dregs that I had left in me of my 
 former service, and now they are gone, my sto- 
 mach's clear of them. 
 
 Sir John. This fellow is come in a happy hour ; 
 for now, sir, you and I may go to prepare the li- 
 cence, and, in the mean time, he may have an eye 
 upon your daughter. 
 
 Warn. If you please I'll wait upon her till she's 
 ready, and then bring her to what church she shall 
 appoint. 
 
 Mood. But, friend, you'll find she'll hang an arse, 
 and be very loth to come along with you, and 
 therefore I had best stay behind and bring her my- 
 self.
 
 SCENE i. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 49 
 
 Warn. I warrant you I have a trick for that, sir : 
 She knows nothing of my being turned away ; so 
 I'll come to her as from Sir Martin, and, under pre- 
 tence of carrying her to him, conduct her to you. 
 
 Sir John. My better angel 
 
 Mood. By the mass, 'twas well thought on ; well, 
 son, go you before, I'll speak but one word for a 
 dish or two at dinner, and follow you to the licence 
 office. Sirrah, stay you here, till my return. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir JOHN and MOODY. 
 
 Warn. Was there ever such a lucky rogue as I ? 
 I had always a good opinion of my wit, but could 
 never think I had so much as now I find. I have 
 now gained an opportunity to carry away Mrs 
 Millisent, for my master to get his mistress by 
 means of his rival, to receive all his happiness, 
 where he could expect nothing but misery : After 
 this exploit, I will have Lilly draw me in the habit 
 of a hero, with a laurel on my temples, and an in- 
 scription below it ; This is Warner , the flower of 
 serving men. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Mess. Pray do me the favour to help me to the 
 speech of Mr Moody. 
 
 Warn. What's your business ? 
 
 Mess. I have a letter to deliver to him. 
 
 Warn. Here he comes, you may deliver it your- 
 self to him. 
 
 Enter MOODY. 
 
 Mess. Sir, a gentleman met me at the corner of 
 the next street, and bid me give this into your own 
 hands. 
 
 Mood. Stay, friend, till I have read it. 
 
 Mess. He told me, sir, it required no answer. 
 
 \Exit Mess. 
 
 VOL. III. D
 
 50 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT iv. 
 
 Mood, reads. Sir, permit me, though a stranger, 
 to give you counsel ; some young gallants have had 
 intelligence, that this day you intend privately to mar- 
 ry your daughter, the rich heiress ; and, in fine, above 
 twenty of them have dispersed themselves to watch her 
 going out : Therefore, put it off, if you will avoid mis- 
 chief, and he advised by, 
 
 Your unknown servant. 
 
 Mood. By the mackings, I thought there was no 
 good in't, when I saw in fine there ; there are some 
 Papishes, I'll warrant, that lie in wait for my 
 daughter ; or else they are no Englishmen, but some 
 of your French Ou.tal.ian rogues ; I owe him thanks, 
 however, this unknown friend of mine, that told me 
 on't. Warner, no wedding to-day, Warner. 
 
 Warn. Why, what's the matter, sir ? 
 
 Mood. I say no more, but some wiser than some ; 
 I'll keep my daughter at home this afternoon, and 
 a fig for all these Outalians. [Exit MOODY. 
 
 Warn. So, here's another trick of fortune, as un- 
 expected for bad, as the other was for good. No- 
 thing vexes me, but that I had made my game 
 cock-sure, and then to be back-gammoned. It must 
 needs be the devil that writ this letter ; he owed my 
 master a spite, and has paid him to the purpose : 
 And here he comes as merry too ! he little thinks 
 what misfortune has befallen him ; and, for my part, 
 I am ashamed to tell him. 
 
 Enter Sir MARTIN, laughing. 
 
 Sir Mart. Warner, such a jest, Warner ! 
 
 [Laughs again. 
 
 Warn. What a murrain is the matter, sir? Where 
 lies this jest that tickles you ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Let me laugh out my laugh, and I'll 
 tell thee. [Laughs again.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 51 
 
 Warn. I wish you may have cause for all this 
 mirth. 
 
 Sir Mart. Hereafter, Warner, be it known unto 
 thee, I will endure no more to be thy May-game : 
 Thou shalt no more dare to tell me, 1 spoil thy pro- 
 jects, and discover thy designs ; for I have played 
 such a prize, without thy help, of my own mother- 
 wit, ('tis true I am hasty sometimes, and so do 
 harm ; but when I have a mind to shew myself, 
 there's no man in England, though I say't, comes 
 near me as to point of imagination) I'll make thee 
 acknowledge I have laid a plot that has a soul in't. 
 
 Warn. Pray, sir, keep me no longer in ignorance 
 of this rare invention. 
 
 Sir Mart. Know then, Warner, that when I left 
 thee, I was possessed with a terrible fear that my 
 mistress should be married t Well, thought I to my- 
 self, -and mustering up all the forces of my wit, I 
 did produce such a stratagem ! 
 
 Warn. But what was it ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I feigned a letter as from an unknown 
 friend to Moody, wherein I gave him to understand, 
 that if his daughter went out this afternoon, she 
 would infallibly be snapped by some young fellows 
 that lay in wait for her. 
 
 Warn. Very good. 
 
 Sir Mart. That which follows is yet better ; for 
 he I sent assures me, that in that very nick of time 
 my letter came, her father was just sending her 
 abroad with a very foolish rascally fellow, that was 
 with him. 
 
 Warn. And did you perform all this, a'God's 
 name ? Could you do this wonderful miracle with- 
 out giving your soul to the devil for his help ? 
 
 Sir Mart. 1 tell thee, man, I did it ; and it was 
 done by the help of no devil, but this familiar of 
 my own brain ; how long would it have been ere
 
 52 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT IV. 
 
 thou could'st have thought of such a project ? Mar- 
 tin said to his man, Who's the fool now ? 
 
 Warn. Who's the fool ! why, who uses to be the 
 fool ? he that ever was since I knew him, and ever 
 will be so. 
 
 Sir Mart. What a pox ! I think thou art grown 
 envious ; not one word in my commendation ? 
 
 Warn. Faith, sir, my skill is too little to praise 
 you as you deserve ; but if you would have it ac- 
 cording to my poor ability, you are one that had a 
 knock in your cradle, a conceited lack-wit, a de- 
 signing ass, a hair-brained fop, a confounded busy- 
 brain, with an eternal windmill in it ; this, in short, 
 sir, is the contents of your panegyric. 
 
 Sir Mart. But what the devil have I done, to set 
 you thus against me ? 
 
 Warn. Only this, sir : I was the foolish rascally 
 fellow that was with Moody, and your worship was 
 he to whom I was to bring his daughter. 
 
 Sir Mart. But how could I know this ? I am no 
 witch. 
 
 Warn. No, I'll be sworn for you, you are no con- 
 juror. Will you go, sir ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Will you hear my justification ? 
 
 Warn. Shall I see the back of you ? speak not a 
 word in your defence. [Shoves him. 
 
 Sir Mart. This is the strangest luck now 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Warn. I'm resolved this devil of his shall never 
 weary me ; I will overcome him, I will invent some- 
 thing that shall stand good in spite of his folly. 
 Let me see 
 
 Enter Lord. 
 
 Lord. Here he is I must venture on him, for 
 the tyranny of this old lady is insupportable ; since 
 I have made her my confidante, there passes not an
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 53 
 
 hour, but she passes a pull at my purse-strings ; I 
 shall be ruined if I do not quit myself of her sud- 
 denly ; I find, now, by sad experience, that a mis- 
 tress is much more chargeable than a wife, and af- 
 ter a little time too, grows full as dull and insigni- 
 ficant. Mr Warner ! have you a mind to do your- 
 self a courtesy, and me another ? 
 
 Warn. I think, my lord, the question need not 
 be much disputed ; for I have always had a great 
 service for your lordship, and some little kindness 
 for myself. 
 
 Lord. What if you should propose Mistress Chris- 
 tian as a wife to yoftr master ? You know he's never 
 like to compass t'other. 
 
 Warn. I cannot tell that, my lord. 
 
 Lord. Five hundred pounds are yours at the day 
 of marriage. 
 
 Warn. Five hundred pounds ! 'tis true, the temp- 
 tation is very sweet and powerful ; the devil, I con- 
 fess, has done his part, and many a good murder 
 and treason have been committed at a cheaper rate ; 
 but yet 
 
 Lord. What yet ? 
 
 Warn. To confess the truth, I am resolved to be- 
 stow my master upon that other lady (as difficult as 
 your lordship thinks it), for the honour of my wit is 
 engaged in it. Will it not be the same to your lord- 
 ship, were she married to any other ? 
 
 Lord. The very same. 
 
 Warn. Come, my lord, not to dissemble with you 
 any longer, I know where it is that your shoe wrings 
 you ; I have observed something in the house, be- 
 twixt some parties that shall be nameless. And 
 know, that you have been taking up linen at a much 
 dearer rate, than you might have had it in any dra- 
 per's in town. %
 
 54 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT IV. 
 
 Lord. I see I have not danced in a net before 
 you. 
 
 Warn. As for that old lady, whom hell confound, 
 she is the greatest jilt in nature ; cheat is her study ; 
 all her joy to cozen ; she loves nothing but herself; 
 and draws all lines to that corrupted centre. 
 
 Lord. I have found her out, though late. First, 
 I'll undertake I ne'er enjoyed her niece under the 
 rate of five hundred pounds a-time ; never was wo- 
 man's flesh held up so high : Every night I find out 
 for a new maidenhead, and she has sold it me as 
 often as ever Mother Temple, Bennet, or Gifford, 
 have put off boiled capons for quails and par- 
 tridges. 
 
 Warn. This is nothing to what bills you'll have 
 when she's brought to bed, after her hard bargain, 
 as they call it ; then crammed capons, pea-hens, 
 chickens in the grease, pottages, and fricasees, wine 
 from Shatling, and La- fronds, with New River, clear- 
 er by sixpence the pound than ever God Almighty 
 made it ; then midwife dry nurse wet nurse 
 and all the rest of their accomplices, with cradle, 
 baby-clouts, and bearing-clothes possets, caudles, 
 broths, jellies, and gravies ; and behind all these, 
 glisters, suppositers, and a barbarous apothecary's 
 bill, more inhuman than a tailors. 
 
 Lorrf. I sweat to think on't. 
 
 Warn. Well, my lord, cheer up ! I have found 
 a way to rid you of it all ; within a short time you 
 shall know more. Yonder appears a young lady, 
 whom I must needs speak with ; please you go in, 
 and prepare the old lady and your mistress. 
 
 Lord. Good luck, and five hundred pounds at- 
 tend tliee. [Exit. 
 
 Enter MILLISENT and ROSE above. 
 Mill. I am resolved I'll never marry him.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 55 
 
 Rose. So far you are right, madam. 
 
 Mill. But how to hinder it, I cannot possibly 
 tell ; for my father presses me to it, and will take 
 no denial. Would I knew some way ! 
 
 Warn. Madam, I'll teach you the very nearest, 
 for I have just now found it out, 
 
 Rose. Are you there, Mr Littleplot? 
 
 Warn. Studying to deserve thee, Rose, by my 
 diligence for thy lady ; I stand here, methinks, just 
 like a wooden Mercury, to point her out the way 
 to matrimony. 
 
 Rose, Or, serving-man like, ready to carry up the 
 hot meat for your master, and then to fall upon the 
 cold yourself. 
 
 Warn. I know not what you call the cold, but I 
 believe I shall find warm work on't : In the first 
 place, then, I must acquaint you, that I have seem- 
 ingly put off my master, and entered myself into 
 Sir John's service. 
 
 Mill. Most excellent ! 
 
 Warn. And thereupon, but base 
 
 Enter MOODY. 
 
 Mill. Something he would tell us ; but see what 
 luck's here ! 
 
 Mood. How now, sirrah ? Are you so great there 
 already ? 
 
 Mill. I find my father's jealous of him still. 
 
 Warn. Sir, I was only teaching my young lady 
 a new song, and if you please you shall hear it. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 Make ready, fair lady* to-night, 
 And stand at the door below ; 
 
 For I wiU be there, 
 
 To receive you with care, 
 And to your true loi-e you shall go.
 
 56 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT IV. 
 
 Mood. Ods bobs, this is very pretty. 
 Mill. Ay, so is the lady's answer too, if I could 
 but hit on't. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 And when the stars twinkle so bright. 
 Then down to the door will I creejj ; 
 
 To my love will I fly, 
 
 E'er the jealous can spy, 
 And leave my old daddy asleep. 
 
 Mood. Bodikins, I like not that so well, to cozen 
 her old father ; it may be my own case another 
 time. 
 
 Rose. Oh, madam ! yonder's your persecutor re- 
 turned. 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN. 
 
 Mill. I'll into my chamber, to avoid the sight of 
 him as long as I can. Lord ! that my old doating 
 father should throw me away upon such an ignora- 
 mus, and deny me to such a wit as Sir Martin. 
 
 [Exeunt MILL, and ROSE from above. 
 
 Mood. O, son ! here has been the most villainous 
 tragedy against you. 
 
 Sir John. What tragedy ? Has there been any 
 blood shed since I went ? 
 
 Mood. No blood shed ; but, as I told you, a most 
 damnable tragedy. 
 
 Warn. A tragedy ! I'll be hanged if he does not 
 mean a stratagem. 
 
 Mood. Jack sauce ! if I say it is a tragedy, it 
 shall be a tragedy, in spite of you ; teach your 
 grandam how to piss. What! I hope I am old 
 enough to spout English with you, sir ? 
 
 Sir John. But what was the reason you came not 
 after me ? 
 
 12
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 57 
 
 Mood. 'Twas well I did not ; I'll promise you, 
 there were those would have made bold with Mis- 
 tress Bride ; and if she had stirred out of doors, 
 there were whipsters abroad, i'faith, padders of 
 maidenheads, that would have trussed her up, and 
 picked the lock of her affections, ere a man could 
 have said, what's this ? But, by good luck, I had 
 warning of it by a friend's letter. 
 
 Sir John. The remedy for all such dangers is 
 easy ; you may send for a parson, and have the bu- 
 siness despatched at home. 
 
 Mood. A match, i'faith ; do you provide a domine, 
 and I'll go tell her our resolutions, and hearten her 
 lip against the day of battle. [Exit. 
 
 Sir John. Now I think on't, this letter must 
 needs come from Sir Martin ; a plot of his, upon 
 my life, to hinder our marriage. 
 
 Warn. I see, sir, you'll still mistake him for a 
 wit ; but I'm much deceived, if that letter came 
 not from another hand. 
 
 Sir John. From whom, I pr'ythee ? 
 
 Warn. Nay, for that you shall excuse me, sir ; I 
 do not love to make a breach between persons, that 
 are to be so near related. 
 
 Sir John. Thou seemest to imply, that my mis- 
 tress was in the plot. 
 
 Warn. Can you make a doubt on't ? Do you not 
 know she ever loved him, and can you hope she 
 has so soon forsaken him ? You may make yourself 
 miserable, if you please, by such a marriage. 
 
 Sir John. When she is once mine, her virtue will 
 secure me. 
 
 Warn. Her virtue ! 
 
 Sir John. What, do you make a mock on't ? 
 
 Warn. Not I ; I assure you, sir, I think it no 
 such jesting matter. 
 
 Sir John. Why, is she not honest ?
 
 58 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT IV. 
 
 Warn. Yes, in my conscience is she ; for Sir 
 Martin's tongue's no slander. 
 
 Sir John. But does he say to the contrary ? 
 
 Warn. If one would believe him, which, for 
 my part, I do not, he has in a manner confessed 
 it to me. 
 
 Sir John. Hell and damnation ! 
 
 Warn. Courage, sir, never vex yourself; I'll war- 
 rant you 'tis all a lie. 
 
 Sir John. But, how shall I be sure 'tis so ? 
 
 Warn. When you are married, you'll soon make 
 trial, whether she be a maid or no. 
 
 Sir John. I do not love to make that experiment 
 at my own cost. 
 
 Warn. Then you must never marry. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, but they have so many tricks to 
 cheat a man, which are entailed from mother to 
 daughter through all generations ; there's no keep- 
 ing a lock for that door, for which every one has a 
 key. 
 
 Warn. As, for example, their drawing up their 
 breaths, with oh ! you hurt me, can you be so 
 cruel ? then, the next day, she steals a visit to her 
 lover, that did you the courtesy before-hand, and 
 in private tells him how she cozened you ; twenty 
 to one but she takes out another lesson with him, 
 to practise the next night. 
 
 Sir John. All this while, miserable I must be their 
 Mayrgame ! 
 
 Warn. 'Tis well, if you escape so ; for com- 
 monly he strikes in with you, and becomes your 
 friend. 
 
 Sir John. Deliver me from such a friend, that 
 stays behind with my wife, when I gird on my 
 sword to go abroad ! 
 
 Warn. Ay, there's your man, sir ; besides, he will 
 be sure to watch your haunts, and tell her of them,
 
 SCENE I. Sill MARTIN MAR-ALL. 59 
 
 that, if occasion be, she may have wherewithal to 
 recriminate ; at least she will seem to be jealous of 
 you ; and who would suspect a jealous wife ? 
 
 Sir John. All manner of ways I am most miser- 
 able. 
 
 Warn. But, if she be not a maid when you marry 
 her, she may make a good wife afterwards ; 'tis but 
 imagining you have taken such a man's widow. 
 
 Sir John. If that were all ; but the man will come 
 and claim her again. 
 
 Warn. Examples have been frequent of those 
 that have been wanton, and yet afterwards take 
 up. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, the same thing they took up be- 
 fore. 
 
 Warn. The truth is, an honest simple girl, that's 
 ignorant of all things, maketh the best matrimony. 
 There is such pleasure in instructing her ; the best 
 is, there's not one dunce in all the sex ; such a one 
 with a good fortune 
 
 Sir John. Ay, but where is she, Warner ? 
 
 Warn. Near enough, but that you are too far 
 engaged. 
 
 Sir John. Engaged to one, that hath given me 
 the earnest of cuckoldom beforehand ! 
 
 Warn. What think you, then, of Airs Christian 
 here in the house ? There's five thousand pounds, 
 and a better penny. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, but is she fool enough ? 
 
 Warn. She's none of the wise virgins, I can as- 
 sure you. 
 
 Sir John. Dear Warner, step into the next room, 
 and inveigle her out this way, that I may speak to 
 her. 
 
 Warn. Remember, above all things, you keep 
 this wooing secret ; if it takes the least wind, old 
 Moody will be sure to hinder it.
 
 60 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT IV. 
 
 Sir John. Dost thou think I shall get her aunt's 
 consent ? 
 
 Warn. Leave that to me. [Exit WARN. 
 
 Sir John. How happy a man shall I be, if I can 
 but compass this ! and what a precipice^have I avoid- 
 ed ! then the revenge, too, is so sweet, to steal a 
 wife under her father's nose, and leave 'em in the 
 lurch, who have abused me ; well, such a servant 
 as this Warner is a jewel. 
 
 Enter WARNER and Mrs CHRISTIAN to him. 
 
 Warn. There she is, sir ; now I'll go to prepare 
 her aunt, [Exit. 
 
 Sir John. Sweet mistress, I am come to wait 
 upon you. 
 
 Chr. Truly you are too good to wait on me. 
 
 Sir John. And in the condition of a suitor. 
 
 Chr. As how, forsooth ? 
 
 Sir John. To be so happy as to marry you. 
 
 Chr. O Lord, I would not marry for any thing ! 
 
 Sir John. Why ? 'tis the honest end of woman- 
 kind. 
 
 Chr. Twenty years hence, forsooth. I would not 
 lie in bed with a man for a world, their beards will 
 so prickle one. 
 
 Sir John. Pah ! What an innocent girl it is, and 
 a very child ! I like a coltthat never yet was back- 
 ed ; for so I shall make her what I list, and mould 
 her as I will. Lord ! her innocence makes me laugh 
 my cheeks all wet. [Aside.] Sweet lady 
 
 Chr. I'm but a gentlewoman, forsooth. 
 
 Sir John. Well then, sweet mistress, if I get your 
 friends' consent, shall I have yours ? 
 
 Chr. My old lady may do what she will, for- 
 sooth ; but by my truly, I hope she will have more 
 care of me, than "to marry me yet. Lord bless me, 
 what should I do with a husband ?
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 61 
 
 Sir John. Well, sweetheart, then instead of woo- 
 ing yon, I must woo my old lady. 
 
 Chr. Indeed, gentleman, my old lady is married 
 already. Cry you mercy, forsooth, I think you are 
 a knight. 
 
 Sir John. Happy in that title, only to make you 
 a lady. 
 
 Chr. Believe, me, Mr Knight, I would not be a 
 lady ; it makes folks proud, and so humorous, and 
 so ill huswifes, forsooth. 
 
 Sir John. Pah ! she's a baby, the simplest thing 
 that ever yet I knew. T]ie happiest man I shall be 
 in the world ; for should I have my wish, it should 
 be to keep school, and teach the bigger girls, and 
 here, in one, my wish it is absolved. 
 
 Enter Lady DUPE. 
 
 L. Dupe. By your leave, sir. I hope this noble 
 knight will make you happy, and you make him 
 
 Chr. What should I make him ? [Sigh ing. 
 
 L. Dupe. Many, you shall make him happy in 
 a good wife. 
 
 Chr. I will not marry, madam. 
 
 L. Dupe. You fool ! 
 
 Sir John. Pray, madam, let me speak with you ; 
 on my soul, 'tis the prettiest innocentest thing in 
 the world. 
 
 L. Dupe. Indeed, sir, she knows little besides 
 her work, and her prayers ; but I'll talk with the 
 fool. 
 
 Sir John. Deal gently with her, dear madam. 
 
 L. Dupe. Come, Christian, will you not marry 
 this noble knight ? 
 
 Chr. Ye ye yes \_Sdbbingly. 
 
 L. Dupe. Sir, it shall be to-night. 
 
 Sir John. This innocence is a dowry beyond all 
 price. [Exeunt old Lady and Mrs CHRISTIAN.
 
 62 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT IV. 
 
 Enter Sir MARTIN to Sir JOHN, musing. 
 
 Sir Mart. You are very melancholy, methinks, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir John. You are mistaken, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. You may dissemble as you please, but 
 Mrs Millisent lies at the bottom of your heart. 
 
 Sir John. My heart, I assure you, has no room 
 for so poor a trifle. 
 
 Sir Mart. Sure you think to wheedle me; would 
 you have me imagine you do not love her ? 
 
 Sir John. Love her ! why should you think me 
 such a sot ? love a prostitute, an infamous person ! 
 
 Sir Mart. Fair and soft, good Sir John. 
 
 Sir John. You see, I am no very obstinate rival, 
 I leave the field free to you. Go on, sir, and pur- 
 sue your good fortune, and be as happy as such a 
 common creature can make thee. 
 
 Sir Mart. This is Hebrew-Greek to me ; but I 
 must tell you, sir, I will not suffer my divinity to 
 be prophaned by such a tongue as yours. 
 
 Sir John. Believe it ; whate'er I say, I can quote 
 my author for. 
 
 Sir Mart. Then, sir, whoever told it you, lied in 
 his throat, d'ye see, and deeper than that, d'ye see, 
 in his stomach, and his guts, d'ye see. Tell me she's 
 a common person ! he's a son of a whore that said 
 it, and I'll make him eat his words, though he spoke 
 'em in a privy house. 
 
 Sir John. What if Warner told me so ? I hope 
 you'll grant him to be a competent judge in such 
 a business. 
 
 Sir Mart. Did that precious rascal say it ? Now 
 I think on't, I'll not believe you. In fine, sir, I'll 
 hold you an even wager he denies it. 
 
 Sir John. I'll lay you ten to one, he justifies it to 
 your face.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 63 
 
 Sir Mart. I'll make him give up the ghost un- 
 der my fist, if he does not deny it. 
 
 Sir John. I'll cut off his ears upon the spot, if he 
 does not stand to't. 
 
 Enter WARNER. 
 
 Sir Mart. Here he comes, in pudding-time, to 
 resolve the question. Come hither, you lying var- 
 let, hold up your hand at the bar of justice, and an- 
 swer me to what I shall demand. 
 
 Warn. What-a-goodjer is the matter, sir? 
 
 Sir Mart. Thou spawn of the old serpent, fruit- 
 ful in nothing but in lies ! 
 
 Warn. A very fair beginning this. 
 
 Sir Mart. Didst thou dare to cast thy venom up- 
 on such a saint as Mrs Millisent, to traduce her vir- 
 tue, and say it was adulterate ? 
 
 Warn. Not guilty, my lord. 
 
 Sir Mart. I told you so. 
 
 Sir John. How, Mr Rascal ! have you forgot 
 what you said but now concerning Sir Martin and 
 Mrs Millisent ? I'll stop the lie down your throat, 
 if you dare deny it. 
 
 Sir Mart. Say you so ! are you there again, i'faith ? 
 
 Warn. Pray, pacify yourself, sir ; 'twas a plot of 
 my own devising. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Mart. Leave offyourwinking and your pink- 
 ing, with a hose-pox t'ye. I'll understand none of 
 it ; tell me in plain English the truth of the busi- 
 ness ; for an you were my own brother, you should 
 pay for it. Belie my mistress ! what a pox, d'ye think 
 I have no sense of honour ? 
 
 Warn. What the devil's the matter w'ye ? Either 
 be at quiet, or I'll resolve to take my heels, and be- 
 gone. 
 
 Sir Mart. Stop thief, there ! what, did you think 
 to 'scape the hand of justice ? [Lays hold on him.
 
 64 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT IV. 
 
 The best on't is, sirrah, your heels are not altoge- 
 ther so nimble as your tongue. [Beats him. 
 
 Warn. Help ! Murder ! Murder ! 
 
 Sir Mart. Confess, you rogue, then. 
 
 Warn. Hold your hands ! I think the devil's in 
 you. I tell you 'tis a device of mine. 
 
 Sir Mart. And have you nobody to devise it on 
 but my mistress, the very map of innocence ? 
 
 Sir John. Moderate your anger, good Sir Martin. 
 
 Sir Mart. By your patience, sir, I'll chastise him 
 abundantly. 
 
 Sir John. That's a little too much, sir, by your 
 favour, to beat him in my presence. 
 
 Sir Mart. That's a good one, 'faith ; your presence 
 shall hinder me from beating my own servant ? 
 
 Warn. O traitor to all sense and reason ! he's go- 
 ing to discover that too. 
 
 Sir Mart. An I had a mind to beat him to 
 mummy, he's my own, I hope. 
 
 Sir John. At present, I must tell you, he's mine, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. Hey day ! here's fine juggling ! 
 
 Warn. Stop yet, sir, you are just upon the brink 
 of a precipice. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Mart. What is't thou mean'st now? OLord ! 
 my mind misgives me, I have done some fault ; but 
 would I were hanged if I can find it out. [Aside. 
 
 Warn. There's no making him understand me. 
 
 Sir Mart. Pox on't, come what will, I'll not be 
 faced down with p, lie ; 1 say, he is my man. 
 
 Sir John. Pray remember yourself better ; did 
 not you turn him away for some fault lately, and 
 laid a livery of black and blue on his back, before 
 he went ? 
 
 Sir Mart. The devil of any fault, or any black 
 and blue, that I remember. Either the rascal put 
 some trick upon you, or you would upon me.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 65 
 
 Sir John. O ho, then it seems the cudgelling and 
 turning away were pure invention ; I am glad I 
 understand it. 
 
 Sir Mart. In fine, it's all so damn'd a lie 
 
 Warn. Alas ! he has forgot it, sir ; good wits, 
 you know, have bad memories. 
 
 Sir John. No, no, sir, that shall not serve your 
 turn ; you may return when you please to your old 
 master ; I give you a fair discharge, and a glad man 
 I am to be so rid of you. Were you thereabouts, 
 i'faith ? What a snake I had entertained in my 
 bosom ! Fare you well, sir, and lay your next plot 
 better between you, I advise you. [Exit Sir JOHN. 
 
 Warn. Lord, sir, how you stand, as you were 
 nipped i'the head ! Have you done any new piece of 
 folly, that makes you look so like an ass ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Here's three pieces of gold yet, if I 
 had the heart to offer it thee. 
 
 [Holds the gold afar off, trembling. 
 
 Warn. Noble sir, what have I done to deserve so 
 great a liberality ? I confess, if you had beaten me 
 for my own fault, if you had utterly destroyed all 
 my projects, then it might have been expected, that 
 ten or twenty pieces should have been offered by 
 way of recompence or satisfaction. 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, an you be so full of your flouts, 
 your friend and servant ! Who the devil could tell 
 the meaning of your signs and tokens, an you go to 
 that ? 
 
 Warn. You are no ass then ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, sir, to do you service, d'ye see, 
 I am an ass in a fair way ; will that satisfy you ? 
 
 Warn. For this once produce those three pieces ; 
 I am contented to receive that inconsiderable tri- 
 bute ; or make 'em six, and I'll take the fault upon 
 myself. 
 
 VOL. III. E
 
 66 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 Sir Mart. Are we friends then ? If we are, let 
 me advise you 
 
 Warn. Yet advising ! 
 
 Sir Mart. For no harm, good Warner : But pray 
 next time make me of your council, let me enter 
 into the business, instruct me in every point, and 
 then if I discover all, I am resolved to give over 
 affairs, and retire from the world. 
 
 Warn. Agreed, it shall be so ; but let us now 
 take breath a while, then on again. 
 
 For though we had the worst, those heats are 
 past; 
 
 We'll whip and spur, and fetch him up at last. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 
 
 Enter Lord, Lady DUPE, Mistress CHRISTIAN, 
 HOSE, and WARNER. 
 
 Lord. Your promise is admirably made good to 
 me, that Sir John Swallow should be this night 
 married to Mrs Christian ; instead of that, he is 
 more deeply engaged than ever with old Moody. 
 
 Warn. I cannot help those ebbs and flows of for- 
 tune. 
 
 L. Dupe. I am sure my niece suffers most in't ; 
 he's come off to her with a cold compliment of a 
 mistake in his mistress's virtue, which he has now 
 found out, by your master's folly, to be a plot of 
 yours to separate them. 
 
 Chr. To be forsaken, when a woman has given 
 her consent ! 
 
 Lord. 'Tis the same scorn, as to have a town ren- 
 dered up, and afterwards slighted.
 
 SCENE I. Sill MARTIN MAR-ALL. 67 
 
 Rose. You are a sweet youth, sir, to use my lady 
 so, when she depended on you ; is this the faith of 
 a valet de chambre ? I would be ashamed to be such 
 a dishonour to my profession ; it will reflect upon 
 us in time ; we shall be ruined by your good exam- 
 pie. 
 
 Warn. As how, my dear lady embassadress ? 
 
 Rose. Why, they say the women govern their 
 ladies, and you govern us : So if you play fast and 
 loose, not a gallant will bribe us for our good wills ; 
 the gentle guinea will now go to the ordinary, 
 which used as duly to steal into our hands at the 
 stair-foot, as into Mr Doctor's at parting. 
 
 Lord. Night's come, and I expect your promise. 
 
 L. Dupe. Fail with me if you think good, sir. 
 
 Chr. 1 give no more time. 
 
 Rose. And if my mistress go to bed a maid to- 
 night 
 
 Warn. Heyday! you are dealing with me, as 
 they do with the bankrupts, call in all your debts 
 together ; there's no possibility of payment at this 
 rate, but I'll coin for you all as fast as I can, I as- 
 sure you. 
 
 Li. Dupe. But you must not think to pay us with 
 false money, as you have done hitherto. 
 
 Rose. Leave off your mountebank tricks with us, 
 and fall to your business in good earnest. 
 
 Warn. Faith, and I will, Rose ; for, to confess the 
 truth, I am a kind of mountebank ; I have but one 
 cure for all your diseases, that is, that my master 
 may marry Mrs Milliscnt, for then Sir John Swal- 
 low will of himself return to Mrs Christian. 
 
 Lord. He says true, and therefore we must all be 
 helping to that design. 
 
 Warn. I'll put you upon something, give me but 
 a thinking time. In the first place, get a warrant
 
 68 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 and bailiffs to arrest Sir John Swallow upon a pro- 
 mise of marriage to Mrs Christian. 
 
 Lord. Very good. 
 
 L. Dupe. We'JJ'all swear it. 
 
 Warn. I never doubted your ladyship in the 
 least, madam for the rest we will consider here- 
 after. 
 
 Lord. Leave this to us. 
 
 [Exeunt Lord, Lady DUPE, and CHR. 
 
 Warn. Rose, where's thy lady ? 
 
 Mill, [above .] What have you to say to her ? 
 
 Warn. Only to tell you, madam, I am going for- 
 ward in the great work of projection. 
 
 Mill. I know not whether you will deserve my 
 thanks when the work's done. 
 
 Warn. Madam, I hope you are not become indif- 
 ferent to my master ? 
 
 Mill. If he should prove a fool, after all your cry- 
 ing up his wit, I shall be a miserable woman. 
 
 Warn. A fool ! that were a good jest, i'faith : but 
 how comes your ladyship to suspect it ? 
 
 Rose. I have heard, madam, your greatest wits 
 have ever a touch of madness and extravagance in 
 them, so perhaps has he. 
 
 Warn. There's nothing more distant than wit 
 and folly ; yet, like east and west, they may meet 
 in a point, and produce actions that are but a hair's 
 breadth from one another. 
 
 Rose. I'll undertake he has wit enough to make 
 one laugh at him a whole day together: He's a 
 most comical person. 
 
 Mill. For all this, I will not swear he is no fool ; 
 he has still discovered all your plots. 
 
 Warn. O, madam, that's the common fate of 
 your Machiavelians ; they draw their designs so 
 subtle, that their very fineness breaks them.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 60 
 
 Mitt. However, I'm resolved to be on the sure 
 side ; I will have certain proof of his wit, before I 
 marry him. 
 
 Warn. Madam, I'll give you one. He wears his 
 clothes like a great sloven, and that's a sure sign of 
 wit ; he neglects his outward parts. Besides, he 
 speaks French, sings, dances, plays upon the lute. 
 
 Mill. Does he do all this, say you ? 
 
 Warn. Most divinely, madam. 
 
 Mill. I ask no more ; then let him give me a se- 
 renade immediately ; but let him stand in view, 
 I'll not be cheated. 
 
 Warn. He shall do't, madam: But how, the 
 devil knows ; for he sings like a screech-owl, and 
 never touched the lute. [Aside. 
 
 Mill. You'll see't performed ? 
 
 Warn. Now I think on't, madam, this will but 
 retard our enterprize. 
 
 Mill. Either let him do't, or see me no more. 
 
 Warn. Well, it shall be done, madam. But 
 where's your father ? will not he overhear it ? 
 
 Mill. As good hap is, he's below stairs, talking 
 with a seaman, that has brought him news from the 
 Kast Indies. 
 
 Warn. What concernment can he have there ? 
 
 Mill. He had a bastard son there, whom he loved 
 extremely: but not having any news from him 
 these many years, concluded him dead ; this son he 
 expects within these three days. 
 
 Warn. When did he see him last ? 
 
 Mill. Not since he was seven years old. 
 
 Warn. A sudden thought comes into my head, to 
 make him appear before his time ; let my master 
 pass for him, and by that means he may come 
 into the house unsuspected by your father, or his 
 rival.
 
 70 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 Mill. According as he performs his serenade, I'll 
 
 talk with you make haste 1 must retire a 
 
 little. [Exit MILL, from above. 
 
 Rose. I'll instruct him most rarely, he shall never 
 be found out ; but, in the mean time, what wilt 
 thou do for a serenade ? 
 
 Warn. Faith, I am a little non-plus'd on the sud- 
 den ; but a warm consolation from thy lips, Rose, 
 would set my wits a working again. 
 
 Rose. Adieu, Warner. [Exit. 
 
 Warn. Inhuman Rose, adieu ! Blockhead War- 
 ner, into what a premunire hast thou brought thy- 
 self ! this 'tis to be so forward to promise for an- 
 other; but to be godfather to a fool, to promise 
 and vow he should do any thing like a Christian 
 
 Enter Sir MARTIN MAR- ALL. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, how now, bully ? in a brown 
 study ? For my good, I warrant it : there's five shil- 
 lings for thee. What ! we must encourage good 
 wits sometimes. 
 
 Warn. Hang your white pelf ! Sure, sir, by your 
 largess, you mistake me for Martin Parker, the bal- 
 lad-maker; your covetousness has offended my 
 muse, and quite dulled her. 
 
 Sir Mart. How angry the poor devil is ! In fine, 
 thou art as choleric as a cook by a fireside. 
 
 Warn. I am overheated, like a gun, with conti- 
 nual discharging my wit, 'Slife, sir, I have rarified 
 my brain for you, 'till they are evaporated ; but 
 come, sir, do something for yourself like a man : I 
 have engaged you shall give to your mistress a se- 
 renade in your proper person : I'll borrow a lute for 
 you. 
 
 Sir Mart. I'll warrant thee I'll do't, man. 
 
 Warn. You never learned : I do not think you 
 know one stop.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 71 
 
 Sir Mart. 'Tis no matter for that, sir ; I'll play 
 us fast as I can, and never stop at all. 
 
 Warn. Go to, you are an invincible fool, I see. 
 Get up into your window, and set two candles by 
 you ; take my landlord's lute in your hand, and 
 fumble on it, and make grimaces with your mouth, 
 as if you sung. In the meantime, I'll play in the 
 next room in the dark, and consequently your mis- 
 tress, who will come to her balcony over against 
 you, will think it to be you ; and at the end of 
 every tune, I'll ring the bell that hangs between 
 your chamber and mine, that you may know when 
 to have done. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, this is fair play, now, to tell a 
 man beforehand what he must do ; gramercy, i'faith, 
 boy, now if I fail thee 
 
 Warn. About your business, then, your mistress 
 and her maid appear already ; I'll give you the sign 
 with the bell when I am prepared, for my lute is at 
 hand in the barber's shop. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Mrs MILLISENT, and ROSE, with a candle by 
 them, above. 
 
 Rose. We shall have rare music. 
 
 Mill. I wish it prove so ; for I suspect the knight 
 can neither play nor sing. 
 
 Hose. But if he does, you are bound to pay the 
 music, madam. 
 
 Mill. I'll not believe it, except both my ears and 
 eyes are witnesses. 
 
 Rose. But 'tis night, madam, and you cannot see 
 him ; yet he may play admirably in the dark. 
 
 Mitt. Where's my father ? 
 
 Rose. You need not fear him, he's still employed 
 with that same seaman ; and I have sent Mrs Chris- 
 tian to watch their discourse, that, betwixt her and
 
 72 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 me, Warner may have wherewithal to instruct his 
 master. 
 
 Mill, But yet there's fear my father will find out 
 the plot. 
 
 Rose. Not in the least ; for my old lady has pro- 
 vided two rare disguises for the master and the 
 man- 
 
 Mitt. Peace, I hear them beginning to tune the 
 lute. 
 
 Rose. And see, madam, where your true knight, 
 Sir Martin, is placed yonder like Apollo, with his 
 lute in his hand, and his rays about his head. [Sir 
 MARTIN appears at the adverse window ; a tune is 
 played; when it is done, WARNER rings, and Sir 
 MARTIN holds.'] Did he not play most excellently, 
 madam ? 
 
 Mill. He played well, and yet methinks he held 
 his lute but untowardly. 
 
 Rose. Dear madam, peace ; now for the song. 
 
 THE SONG.* 
 
 Blind love, to this hour, 
 Had never, like me, a slave under his power : 
 Ttien blest be the dart 
 That he threw at my heart ; 
 
 For nothing can prove 
 A joy so great, as to be wounded with love. 
 
 My days, and my nights, 
 
 ArefiWd to the purpose with sorrows and frights : 
 From my heart still I sigh, 
 And my eyes are ne'er dry ; 
 So that, Cupid be praised, 
 I am to the top of lovers happiness raised. 
 
 * This song is translated from Voiture.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 73 
 
 My soul's all on fire, 
 
 So that I have the pleasure to doat and desire : 
 Such a pretty soft pain, 
 That it tickles each vein ; 
 
 'Tis the dream of a smart, 
 Wlikli makesme breathe short, when it beatsatmyheart. 
 
 Sometimes, in a pet, 
 
 IVTien I am despised, I my freedom would get: 
 But strait a sweet smile 
 Does my anger beguile, 
 
 And my heart does recal ; 
 Then the more I do struggle, the lower I fall. 
 
 Heaven does not impart 
 
 Such a grace, as to love, urfto every one's heart ; 
 For many may wish 
 To be wounded, and miss : 
 Then blest be love's fire, 
 And more blest her eyes, that first taught me desire. 
 
 The song being done, WARNER rings again ; but Sir 
 MARTIN continues fumbling, and gazing on his 
 Mistress. 
 
 Mill. A pretty-humoured song. But stay, me- 
 thinks he plays and sings still, and yet we cannot 
 hear him. Play louder, Sir Martin, that we may 
 have the fruits on't. 
 
 Warn. [Peeping.] Death ! this abominable fool 
 will spoil all again. Damn him, he stands making 
 his grimaces yonder ; and he looks so earnestly upon 
 his mistress, that he hears me not. [Rings again. 
 
 Mill. Ah, ah ! have I found you out, sir ? Now, 
 as I live and breathe, this is pleasant! Rose, his 
 man played and sung for him, and he, it seems, did 
 not know when he should give over. 
 
 [MiLL. and ROSE laugh.
 
 74 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 Warn. They have found him out, and laugh yon- 
 der, as if they would split their sides. Why, Mr 
 Fool, Oaf, Coxcomb, will you hear none of your 
 names ? 
 
 Mitt. Sir Martin, Sir Martin, take your man's 
 counsel, and keep time with your music. 
 
 Sir Mart. [Peeping.'] Ha ! What do you say, 
 madam ? How does your ladyship like my music ? 
 
 Mill. O most heavenly ! just like the harmony of 
 the spheres, that is to be admired, and never heard. 
 
 Warn. You have ruined all, by your not leaving 
 off in time. 
 
 Sir Mart. What the devil would you have a man 
 do, when my hand is in ! Well, o' my conscience, I 
 think there is a fate upon me. [Noise within. 
 
 Mill. Look, Rose, what's the matter. 
 
 Rose. 'Tis Sir John Swallow, pursued by the bai- 
 liffs, madam, according to our plot ; it seems they 
 have dogged him thus late to his lodging. 
 
 Mill. That's well ; for though I begin not to love 
 this fool, yet I am glad I shall be rid of him. 
 
 [Exeunt MILL, and ROSE. 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN, pursued b?j three Bailiffs over the 
 
 Sir Mart. Now I'll redeem all again ; my mis- 
 tress shall see my valour, I'm resolved on't. Vil- 
 lains, rogues, poltroons ! What ? three upon one ? 
 In fine, I'll be with you immediately. [Exit. 
 
 Warn. Why, sir, are you stark mad ? have you 
 no grain of sense left ? He's gone ! now is he as ear- 
 nest in the quarrel as Cokes among the puppets ; 
 'tis to no purpose whatever I do for him. 
 
 [Exit WARNEE.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 75 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN and Sir MARTIN (having driven 
 away the Bailiffs;} Sir MARTIN flourishes his 
 sword. 
 
 Sir Mart. Victoria ! Victoria ! What heart, Sir 
 John ? you have received no harm, I hope ? 
 
 Sir John. Not the least ; I thank you, sir, for 
 your timely assistance, which I will requite with 
 any thing, but the resigning of my mistress. Dear 
 Sir Martin, a goodnight. 
 
 Sir Mart. Pray, let me wait upon you in, Sir 
 John. 
 
 Sir John. I can find my way to Mrs Milliscnt 
 without you, sir, I thank you. 
 
 Sir Mart. But pray, what were you to be ar- 
 rested for ? 
 
 Sir John. I know no more than you ; some little 
 debts perhaps I left unpaid by my negligence : Once 
 more, good night, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Mart. He's an ungrateful fellow ; and so, in 
 fine, I shall tell him when I see him next Mon- 
 sieur 
 
 Enter WARNER. 
 
 Warner, a propos ! I hope you'll applaud me now. 
 I have defeated the enemy, and that in sight of my 
 mistress, boy ! I have charmed her, i'faith, with my 
 valour. 
 
 Warn. Ay, just as much as you did e'en now 
 with your music. Go, you are so beastly a fool, that 
 a chiding is thrown away upon you. 
 
 Sir Mart. Fool in your face, sir ; call a man of 
 honour fool, when I have just atchieved such an 
 enterprize Gad, now my blood's up, I am a dan- 
 gerous person, I can tell you that, Warner. 
 
 Warn. Poor animal, I pity thee ! 
 
 Sir Mart. I grant I am no musician, but you 
 
 3
 
 76 SIB MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 must allow me for a swordsman : I have beat them 
 bravely ; and, in fine, I am come off unhurt, save 
 only a little scratch in the head. 
 
 Warn. That's impossible ; thou hast a skull so 
 thick, no sword can pierce it ; but much good may 
 it do you, sir, with the fruits of your valour : You 
 rescued your rival, when he was to be arrested, on 
 purpose to take him off from your mistress. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, this is ever the fate of ingenious 
 men ! Nothing thrives they take in hand. 
 
 Enter ROSE. 
 
 Rose. Sir Martin, you have done your business 
 with my lady, she'll never look upon you more ; 
 she says, she's so well satisfied of your wit and 
 courage, that she will not put you to any further 
 trial. 
 
 Sir Mart. Warner, is there no hopes, Warner ? 
 
 Warn. None that I know. 
 
 Sir Mart. Let's have but one civil plot more be- 
 fore we part. 
 
 Warn. "Tis to no purpose. 
 
 Rose. Yet, if he had some golden friends, that 
 would engage for him the next time 
 
 Sir Mart. Here's a Jacobus and a Carolus will 
 enter into bonds for me. 
 
 Rose. I'll take their royal words for once. 
 
 [She fetches two disguises. 
 
 Warn. The meaning of this, dear Rose ? 
 
 Rose. 'Tis in pursuance of thy own invention, 
 Warner ; a child which thy wit hath begot upon 
 me : But let us lose no time. Help ! help ! dress 
 thy master, that he may be Anthony, old Moody's 
 bastard, and thou his man, come from the East 
 Indies. 
 
 Sir Mart. Hey-tarock it now we shall have 
 Rose's device too ; 1 long to be at it, pray let's hear 
 more on it.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 77 
 
 Rose. Old Moody, you must know, in his younger 
 years, when he was a Cambridge-scholar, made bold 
 with a townsman's daughter there, by whom he 
 had a bastard, whose name was Anthony, whom 
 you, Sir Martin, are to represent. 
 
 Sir Mart. I warrant you ; let me alone for Tony : 
 But pray go on, Rose. 
 
 Rose. This child, in his father's time, he durst not 
 own, but bred him privately in the Isle of Ely, till 
 he was seven years old, and from thence sent him 
 with one Bonaventure, a merchant, for the East 
 Indies. 
 
 Warn. But will not this over-burden your me- 
 mory, sir ? 
 
 Sir Mart. There's no answering thee any thing ; 
 thou thinkest I am good for nothing. 
 
 Rose. Bonaventure died at Surat within two years, 
 and this Anthony has lived up and down in the Mo- 
 gul's country, unheard of by his father till this 
 night, and is expected within these three days : 
 Now if you can pass for him, you may have admit- 
 tance into the house, and make an end of all the 
 business before the other Anthony arrives. 
 
 Warn. But hold, Rose, there's one considerable 
 point omitted ; what was his mother's name ? 
 
 Rose. That indeed I had forgot ; her name was 
 Dorothy, daughter to one Draw- water, a vintner at 
 the Rose. 
 
 Warn. Come, sir, are you perfect in your lesson ? 
 Anthony Moody, born in Cambridge, bred in the 
 Isle of Ely, sent into the Mogul's country at seven 
 years old, with one Bonaventure, a merchant, who 
 died within two years ; your mother's name Doro- 
 thy Draw-water, the vintner's daughter at the Rose. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have it all ad unguem what ! do'st 
 
 think I'm a sot ? But stay a little, how have I 
 
 lived all this while in that same country ?
 
 78 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 Warn. What country ? Pox, he has forgot al- 
 ready ! 
 
 Rose. The Mogul's country. 
 
 Sir Mart. Ay, ay, the Mogul's country. What 
 the devil, any man may mistake a little ; but now 
 I have it perfect : But what have I been doing all 
 this while in the Mogul's country ? He's a heathen 
 rogue, I am afraid I shall never hit upon his name. 
 
 Warn. Why, you have been passing your time 
 there no matter how. 
 
 Rose. Well, if this passes upon the old man, I'll 
 bring your business about again with my mistress, 
 never fear it ; stay you here at the door, I'll go tell 
 the old man of your arrival. 
 
 Warn. Well, sir, now play your part exactly, and 
 I'll forgive all your former errors. 
 
 Sir Mart. Hang them, they were only slips of 
 youth. How peremptory and domineering this 
 rogue is, now he sees I have need of his service ! 
 Would I were out of his power again, I would 
 make him lie at my feet like any spaniel. 
 
 Enter MOODY, Sir JOHN, Lord, Lady DUPE, 
 MILLISENT, CHRISTIAN, and ROSE. 
 
 Mood. Is he here already, say'st thou ? Which is 
 he? 
 
 Rose. That sun-burnt gentleman. 
 
 Mood. My dear boy, Anthony, do I see thee again 
 before I die ? Welcome, welcome. 
 
 Sir Mart. My dear father, 1 know it is you by 
 instinct ; for, methinks, I am as like you, as if I 
 were spit out of your mouth. 
 
 Rose. Keep it up, I beseech your lordship. 
 
 [Aside to the Lord. 
 
 Lord. He's wondrous like indeed. 
 
 L. Dupe. The very image of him. 
 
 Mood. Anthony, you must salute all this com-
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. 79 
 
 pany : This is my Lord Dartmouth, this my Lady 
 Dupe, this her niece Mrs Christian. 
 
 [He salutes them. 
 
 Sir Mart. And that's my sister ; methinks I have 
 a good resemblance of her too : Honest sister, I 
 must needs kiss you, sister. 
 
 Warn. This fool will discover himself; I foresee 
 it already by his carriage to her. 
 
 Mood. And now, Anthony, pray tell us a little 
 of your travels. 
 
 Sir Mart. Time enough for that, forsooth, father ; 
 but I have such a natural affection for my sister, 
 that, methinks, I could live and die with her. Give 
 me thy hand, sweet sister. 
 
 Sir John. She's beholden to you, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. What if she be, sir ? what's that to you, 
 sir? 
 
 Sir John. I hope, sir, I have not offended you ? 
 
 Sir Mart. It may be you have, and it may be 
 you have not, sir ; you see I have no mind to satis- 
 fy you, sir : What a devil ! a man cannot talk a lit- 
 tle to his own flesh and blood, but you must be in- 
 terposing, with a murrain to you. 
 
 Mood. Enough of this, good Anthony ; this gen- 
 tleman is to marry your sister. 
 
 Sir Mart. He marry my sister ! Ods foot, sir, 
 there are some bastards, that shall be nameless, that 
 are as well worthy to marry her, as any man ; and 
 have as good blood in their veins. 
 
 Sir John. I do not question it in the least, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. 'Tis not your best course, sir ; you 
 marry my sister ! what have you seen of the world, 
 sir ? I have seen your hurricanes, and your calen- 
 tures, and your ecliptics, and your tropic lines, sir, 
 an you go to that, sir. 
 
 Warn. You must excuse my master ; the sea's 
 a little working in his brain, sir.
 
 80 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 Sir Mart. And your Prester Johns of the East 
 Indies, and your great Turk of Rome and Persia. 
 
 Mood. Lord, what a thing it is to be learned, and 
 a traveller ! Bodikin, it makes me weep for joy. 
 But, Anthony, you must not bear yourself too much 
 upon your learning, child. 
 
 Mill. Pray, brother, be civil to this gentleman 
 for my sake. 
 
 Sir Mart. For your sake, sister Millisent, much 
 may be done, and here I kiss your hand on it. 
 
 Warn. Yet again, stupidity ? 
 
 Mill. Nay, pray, brother, hands off ; now you are 
 too rude. 
 
 Sir Mart. Dear sister, as I am a true East India 
 gentleman 
 
 Mood. But pray, son Anthony, let us talk of other 
 matters ; and tell me truly, had you not quite for- 
 got me? And yet I made woundy much of you, 
 when you were young. 
 
 Sir Mart. I remember you as well as if I saw you 
 but yesterday : A fine grey-headed grey -beard- 
 ed old gentleman, as ever I saw in all my life. 
 
 Warn, aside. ,] Grey-bearded old gentleman ! when 
 he was a scholar at Cambridge ! 
 
 Mood. But do you remember where you were 
 bred up ? 
 
 Sir Mart. O yes, sir, most perfectly, in the isle 
 stay let me see, oh now I have it in the Isle 
 of Stilly. 
 
 Mood. In the Isle of Ely, sure you mean ? 
 Warn. Without doubt, he did, sir; but thisdamn'd 
 Isle of Stilly runs in his head, ever since his sea voy- 
 age. 
 
 Mood. And your mother's name was come, pray 
 let me examine you for that, I'm sure, you cannot 
 forget. 
 
 Sir Mart. Warner ! what was it, Warner ? 
 
 [Aside.
 
 SCENE I. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. , 81 
 
 Warn. Poor Mrs Dorothy Draw-water, if she 
 were now alive, what a joyful day would this be to 
 her! 
 
 Mood. Who the devil bid you speak, sirrah ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Her name, sir, was Mrs Dorothy Draw- 
 water. 
 
 Sir John. I'll be hanged if this be not some cheat. 
 
 Mill. He makes so many stumbles, he must needs 
 fall at last. 
 
 Mood. But you remember, I hope, where you 
 were born ? 
 
 Warn. Well, they may talk what they will of 
 Oxford for an university, but Cambridge for my 
 money. 
 
 Mood. Hold your tongue, you scanderbag rogue 
 you ; this is the second time you have been talking 
 when you should not. 
 
 Sir Mart. I was born at Cambridge ; I remember 
 it as perfectly as if it were but yesterday. 
 
 Warn. How I sweat for him ! he's remembering 
 ever since he was born. 
 
 Mood. And who did you go over with to the 
 East Indies ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Warner ! [Aside. 
 
 Warn. 'Tvvas a happy thing, sir, you lighted 
 upon so honest a merchant as Mr Bonaventure, to 
 take care of him. 
 
 Mood. Saucy rascal ! This is past all sufferance. 
 
 Rose. We are undone, Warner, if this discourse 
 go on any further. 
 
 Lord. Pray, sir, take pity on the poor gentleman ; 
 he has more need of a good supper, than to be ask- 
 ed so many questions, 
 
 Sir John. These are rogues, sir, I plainly perceive 
 it ; pray let me ask him one question Which way 
 did you come home, sir ? 
 
 Sir Mart. We came home by land, sir. 
 
 VOL. III. P
 
 82 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 Warn. That is, from India to Persia, from Per- 
 sia to Turkey, from Turkey to Germany, from 
 Germany to France. 
 
 Sir John. And from thence, over the narrow seas 
 on horseback. 
 
 Mood. 'Tis so, I discern it now ; but some shall 
 smoke for it. Stay a little, Anthony, I'll be with 
 you presently. [Exit MOOD, 
 
 Warn. That wicked old man is gone for no good, 
 I'm afraid ; would I were fairly quit of him. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Mill. [Aside.~\ Tell me no more of Sir Martin, 
 Rose ; he wants natural sense, to talk after this rate ; 
 but for this Warner, I am strangely taken with him ; 
 how handsomely he brought him off ! 
 
 Enter MOODY, iv ith two cudgels. 
 
 Mood. Among half a score tough cudgels I had 
 in my chamber, I have made choice of these two, 
 as best able to hold out. 
 
 Mill. Alas ! poor Warner must be beaten now, 
 for all his wit ; would I could bear it for him ! 
 
 Warn. But to what end is all this preparation, 
 sir? 
 
 Mood. In the first place, for your worship, and 
 in the next, for this East- India apostle, that will 
 needs be my son Anthony. 
 
 Warn. Why, d'ye think he is not ? 
 
 Mood. No, thou wicked accomplice in his de- 
 signs, I know he is not. 
 
 Warn. Who, I his accomplice ? I beseech you, 
 sir, what is it to me, if he should prove a counter- 
 feit ? I assure you he has cozened me in the first 
 place. 
 
 Sir John. That's likely, i'faith, cozen his own 
 servant ! 
 
 Warn. As I hope for mercy, sir, I am an utter
 
 SCENE II. SIR MARTIN MAR- ALL. 83 
 
 stranger to him ; he took me up but yesterday, and 
 told me the story, word for word, as he told it you. 
 
 Sir Mart. What will become of us two now ? I 
 trust to the rogue's wit to bring me off. 
 
 Mood. If thou wouldst have me believe thee, 
 take one of these two cudgels, and help me to lay 
 it on soundly. 
 
 Warn. With all my heart. 
 
 Mood. Out, you cheat, you hypocrite, you im- 
 postor ! Do you come hither to cozen an honest 
 man ? [Beate him. 
 
 Sir Mart. Hold, hold, sir ! 
 
 Warn. Do you come hither, with a lie, to get a 
 father, Mr Anthony of East-India ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Hold, you inhuman butcher ! 
 
 Warn. I'll teach you to counterfeit again, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart'. The rogue will murder me. 
 
 [Exit Sir MARTIN, pursued by WARNER. 
 
 Mood. A fair riddance of 'em both. Let's in and 
 laugh at 'em. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter again Sir MARTIN and WARNER. 
 
 Sir Mart. Was there ever such an affront put 
 upon a man, to be beaten by his servant ? 
 
 Warn. After my hearty salutations upon your 
 backside, sir, may a man have leave to ask you, 
 what news from the Mogul's country ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I wonder where thou hadst the im- 
 pudence to move such a question to me, knowing 
 how thou hast used me. 
 
 Warn. Now, sir, you may see what comes of 
 your indiscretion and stupidity. I always give you 
 warning of it ; but, for this time, I am content to 
 pass it without more words, partly, because I have
 
 84 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 already corrected you, though not so much as you 
 deserve. 
 
 Sir Mart. Do'st thou think to carry it off at this 
 rate, after such an injury ? 
 
 Warn. You may thank yourself for't ; nay, 'twas 
 very well I found out that way, otherwise I had 
 been suspected as your accomplice. 
 
 Sir Mart. But you laid it on with such a ven- 
 geance, as if you were beating of a stock-fish. 
 
 Warn. To confess the truth on't, you had anger- 
 ed me, and I was willing to evaporate my clioler ; 
 if you will pass it by so, I may chance to help you 
 to your mistress. No more words of this business, 
 I advise you, but go home and grease your back. 
 
 Sir Mart. In fine, I must suffer it at his hands ; 
 for if my shoulders had not paid for this fault, my 
 purse must have sweat blood for't. The rogue has 
 got such a hank upon me 
 
 Warn. So, so ! here's another of our vessels come 
 in, after the storm that parted us. 
 
 Enter ROSE. 
 
 What comfort, Rose ? no harbour near ? 
 
 Rose. My lady, as you may well imagine, is most 
 extremely incensed against Sir Martin ; but she 
 applauds your ingenuity to the skies. I'll say no 
 more, but thereby hangs a tale. 
 
 Sir Mart. I am considering with myself about a 
 plot, to bring all about again. 
 
 Rose. Yet again plotting ! if you have such a 
 mind to't, I know no way so proper for you, as to 
 turn poet to Pugenello. 
 
 Warn. Hark ! is not that music in your house? 
 
 [ Music plays. 
 
 Rose. Yes, Sir John has given my mistress the 
 fiddles, and our old man is as jocund yonder, and
 
 SCENE II. SIR MAHTIN MAR-ALL. 85 
 
 does so hug himself, to think how he has been re- 
 venged upon you ! 
 
 Warn. Why, he does not know 'twas me, I 
 hope ? 
 
 Rose. 'Tis all one for that. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have such a plot ! I care not, I will 
 speak, an I were to be hanged for't. Shall I speak, 
 dear Warner ? let me now ; it does so wamble 
 within me, just like a clyster, i'faith la, and I can 
 keep it no longer, for my heart. 
 
 Warn. Well, I am indulgent to you ; out with 
 it boldly, in the name bf nonsense. 
 
 Sir Mart. We two will put on vizards, and with 
 the help of my landlord, who shall be of the party, 
 go a mumming there, and by some device of dan- 
 cing, get my mistress away, unsuspected by them 
 all. 
 
 Rose. What if this should hit now, when all 
 your projects have failed, Warner ? 
 
 Warn. Would I were hanged, if it be not some- 
 what probable. Nay, now I consider better on't 
 exceedingly probable ; it must take, 'tis not in na- 
 ture to be avoided. 
 
 Sir Mart. O, must it so, sir ! and who may you 
 thank for't ? 
 
 Warn. Now am I so mad he should be the au- 
 thor of this device ! How the devil, sir, came you 
 to stumble on't ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Why should not my brains be as 
 fruitful as yours, or any man's ? 
 
 Warn. This is so good, it shall not be your plot, 
 sir ; either disown it, or I will proceed no further. 
 
 Sir Mart. I would not lose the credit of my 
 plot, to gain my mistress. The plot's a good one, 
 and I'll justify it upon any ground in England ; an 
 you will not work upon't, it shall be done without 
 you.
 
 86 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 Rose. I think the knight has reason. 
 
 Warn. Well, I'll order it, however, to the best 
 advantage. Hark you, Rose. [ Whispers, 
 
 Sir Mart. If it miscarry by your ordering, take 
 notice, 'tis your fault ; 'tis well invented, I'll take 
 my oath on't. 
 
 Rose. I must into them, for fear I should be sus- 
 pected ; but I'll acquaint my lord, my old lady, 
 and all the rest, who ought to know it, with your 
 design. 
 
 Warn. We'll be with you in a twinkling. You 
 and I, Rose, are to follow our leaders, and be paired 
 to-night. 
 
 Rose. To have, and to hold, are dreadful words, 
 Warner ; but, for your sake, I'll venture on 'em. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter Lord, Lady DUPE, and CHRISTIAN. 
 
 L. Dupe. Nay, good my lord, be patient. 
 
 Lord. Does he think to give fiddles and treat- 
 ments in a house, where he has wronged a lady ? 
 I'll never suffer it. 
 
 L. Dupe. But upon what ground will you raise 
 your quarrel ? 
 
 Lord. A very just one, as I am her kinsman. 
 
 L. Dupe. He does not know yet why he was to 
 be arrested ; try that way again. 
 
 Lord. I'll hear of nothing but revenge. 
 
 Enter ROSE. 
 
 Rose. Yes, pray hear me one word, my lord ; Sir 
 Martin himself has made a plot. 
 
 Chr. That's like to be a good one ! 
 
 Rose. A fool's plot may be as lucky as a fool's 
 handsel ; 'tis a very likely one, and requires no-
 
 SCENE III. SIR MAliTIN MAR-ALL. 87 
 
 thing for your part, but to get a parson in the next 
 room ; we'll find work for him. 
 
 L. Dupe That shall be done immediately ; Chris- 
 tian, make haste, and send for Mr Ball, the noncon- 
 formist ; tell him, here are two or three angels to 
 be earned. 
 
 Chr. And two or three possets to be eaten. May 
 I not put in that, madam ? 
 
 L. Dupe. Surely you may. [Exit CHR. 
 
 Rose. Then for the rest 'tis only this Oh ! 
 they are here ! pray take it in a whisper. My lady 
 knows of it already. 
 
 Enter MOODY, Sir JOHN, and Mrs MILLISENT. 
 
 Mill. Strike up again, fiddle, I'll have a French 
 dance. 
 
 Sir John. Let's have the brawls. 
 
 Mood. No, good Sir John, no quarrelling among 
 friends. 
 
 L. Dupe. Your company is like to be increased, 
 sir ; some neighbours, that heard your fiddles, are 
 come a mumming to you. 
 
 Mood. Let them come in, and we'll be jovy ; an 
 I had but my hobby-horse at home 
 
 Sir John. What, are they men, or women ? 
 
 L. Dupe. I believe some 'prentices broke loose. 
 
 Mill. Rose, go, and fetch me down two Indian 
 gowns and vizard masks- you and I will dis- 
 guise too, and be as good a mummery to them, as 
 they to us. [Exit ROSE. 
 
 Mood. That will be most rare. 
 
 Enter Sir MARTIN MAR-ALL, WARNER, Land- 
 lord, disguised like a Tony. 
 
 Mood. O here they come ! Gentlemen maskers, 
 you are welcome [WARNER signs to the music for 
 a dance.~\ He signs for a dance, I believe ; you are
 
 88 SIR MAllTIN MAll-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 welcome. Mr Music, strike up ; I'll make one, as 
 old as I am. 
 
 Sir John. And I'll not be out. \Dance. 
 
 Lord. Gentlemen maskers, you have had your 
 frolic, the next turn is mine. -Bring two flute- 
 glasses and some stools, ho ! we'll have the ladies' 
 healths. 
 
 Sir John. But why stools, my lord ? 
 
 Lord. That you shall see ; the humour is, that 
 two men at a time are hoisted up ; when they are 
 above, they name their ladies, and the rest of the 
 company dance about them while they drink. This 
 they call the frolic of the altitudes. 
 
 Mood. Some Highlander's invention, I'll warrant 
 it. 
 
 Lord. Gentlemen-maskers, you shall begin. 
 
 [ They hoist Sir MART, and WARN. 
 
 Sir John. They point to Mrs Millisent and Mrs 
 Christian. A Loifs touche ! touche ! 
 
 [ While they drink, the company dances and 
 sings. TJiey are taken down. 
 
 Mood. A rare topping health this. Come, Sir 
 John, now you and I will be in our altitudes. 
 
 Sir John. What new device is this, trow ? 
 
 Mood. I know not what to make on't. 
 
 [ When they are up, the company dances about 
 them. They dance off. Tony dances ajigg. 
 
 Sir John. Pray, Mr Fool, where's the rest of your 
 company ? I would fain see 'em again. [Jo Tony. 
 
 Land, Come down, and tell them so, Cudden. 
 
 Sir John. I'll be hang'd if there be not some plot 
 in it, and this fool is set here to spin out the time. 
 
 Mood. Likeenough ! undone ! undone! my daugh- 
 ter's gone ! let me down, sirrah. 
 
 Land. Yes, Cudden. 
 
 Sir John. My mistress is gone, let me down 
 first.
 
 SCENE III. SIR MARTIN MAR- ALL. 89 
 
 Land. This is the quickest way, Cudden. 
 
 [He offers to pull down the stools. 
 
 Sir John. Hold ! hold ! or thou wilt break my 
 neck. 
 
 Land. An you will not come down, you may 
 stay there, Cudden. {Exit Landlord, dancing. 
 
 Mood. O scanderbag villains ! 
 
 Sir John. Is there no getting down ? 
 
 Mood. All this was long of you, Sir Jack. 
 
 Sir John. 'Twas long of yourself, to invite them 
 hither. 
 
 Mood. O you young coxcomb, to be drawn in 
 thus! 
 
 Sir John. You old Scot you, to be caught so sil- 
 lily ! 
 
 Mood. Come but an inch nearer, and I'll so claw 
 thee. 
 
 Sir John. I hope I shall reach to thee. 
 
 Mood. An 'twere not for thy wooden breast- work 
 there 
 
 Sir John. I hope to push thee down from Baby- 
 lon. 
 
 Enter Lord, Lady DUPE, Sir MARTIN, WARNER, 
 ROSE, MILLISENT veiled, and Landlord. 
 
 Lord. How, gentlemen ! what, quarrelling among 
 yourselves ! 
 
 Mood. Coxnowns ! help me down, and let me 
 have fair play ; he shall never marry my daughter. 
 
 Sir Mart. [Leading ROSE.] No, I'll be sworn 
 that he shall not ; therefore never repine, sir, for 
 marriages, you know, are made in heaven ; in fine, 
 sir, we are joined together in spite of fortune. 
 
 Rose. [Pulling off her maskJ] That we are, in- 
 deed, Sir Martin, and these are witnesses ; there- 
 fore, in fine, never repine, sir, for marriages, you 
 know, are made in heaven.
 
 90 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT v. 
 
 Omn. Rose ' 
 
 Warn. What, is Rose split in two ? Sure I have 
 got one Rose ! 
 
 Mill. Ay, the best Rose you ever got in all your 
 life. [Pulls off her mask. 
 
 Warn. This amazeth me so much, I know not 
 what to say, or think. 
 
 Mood. My daughter married to Warner ! 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, I thought it impossible that any 
 man in England should have over-reached me : 
 Sure, Warner, there is some mistake in this. Pr'y- 
 thee, Billy, let's go to the parson to make all right 
 again, that every man have his own, before the 
 matter go too far. 
 
 Warn. Well, sir ! for my part, I will have no- 
 thing farther to do with these women, for, I find, 
 they will be too hard for us ; but e'en sit down by 
 the loss, and content myself with my hard fortune. 
 But, madam, do you ever think I will forgive you 
 this, to cheat me into an estate of two thousand 
 pounds a-year ? 
 
 Sir Mart. An I were as thee, I would not be so 
 served, Warner. 
 
 Mill. I have served him but right, for the cheat 
 he put upon me, when he persuaded me you were a 
 wit Now, there's a trick for your trick, sir. 
 
 Warn. Nay, I confess you have outwitted me. 
 
 Sir John. Let me down, and I'll forgive all freely. 
 
 [ They let him down. 
 
 Mood. What am I kept here for ? 
 
 Warn. I might in policy keep you there, till 
 your daughter and I had been in private, for a lit- 
 tle consummation. But for once, sir, I'll trust your 
 good nature. [ Takes him down too. 
 
 Mood. An thou wert a gentleman, it would not 
 grieve me.
 
 SCENE III. Sill MARTIN MAR-ALL. 91 
 
 Mill. That I was assured of before I married him, 
 by my lord here. 
 
 Lord. I cannot refuse to own him for my kins- 
 man, though his father's sufferings in the late times 
 have ruined his fortunes. 
 
 Mood. But yet he has been a serving man. 
 
 Warn. You are mistaken, sir, I have been a mas- 
 ter ; and, besides, there is an estate of eight hun- 
 dred pounds a-year, only it is mortgaged for six 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 Mood. Well, we'll bring it off; and, for my part, 
 I am glad my daughter has missed in fine there. 
 
 Sir John. I will not be the only man that must 
 sleep without a bed- fellow to-night, if this lady will 
 once again receive me. 
 
 L. Dupe. She's yours, sir. 
 
 Lord. And the same parson, that did the former 
 execution, is still in the next chamber ; what with 
 caudles, wine, and quidding, which he has taken in 
 abundance, I think he will be able to wheedle two 
 more of you into matrimony. 
 
 Mill. Poor Sir Martin looks melancholy ! I am 
 half afraid he is in love. 
 
 Warn. Not with the lady that took him for a wit, 
 I hope. 
 
 Rose. At least, Sir Martin can do more than you, 
 Mr Warner ; for he can make me a lady, which you 
 cannot my mistress. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have lest nothing but my man, and, 
 in fine, I shall get another. 
 
 Mill. You'll do very well, Sir Martin, for you'll 
 never be your own man, I assure you. 
 
 Warn. For my part, I had loved you before, if I 
 had followed my inclination. 
 
 Mill. But now I am afraid you begin of the la- 
 test, except your love can grow up, like a mush- 
 room, at a night's warning. 
 6
 
 92 SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL. ACT V. 
 
 Warn. For that matter, never trouble yourself; 
 I can love as fast as any man, when 1 am nigh pos- 
 session ; my love falls heavy, and never moves quick 
 till it comes near the centre ; he's an ill falconer, 
 that will unhood before the quarry be in sight. 
 Love's an high-mettled hawk that beats the air, 
 But soon grows weary when the game's not near. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes.
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 As country vicars, when the sermon's done, 
 
 Run headlong to the benediction ; 
 
 V/ell knowing, though the better sort may stay, 
 
 The vulgar rout will run unblest away : 
 
 So we, when once our play is done, make haste 
 
 With a short epilogue to close your taste. 
 
 In thus withdrawing, we seem mannerly ; 
 
 But, when the curtain's down, we peep, and see 
 
 A jury of the wits, who still stay late, 
 
 And in their club decree the poor play's fate ; 
 
 Their verdict back is to the boxes brought, 
 
 Thence all the town pronounces it their thought. 
 
 Thus, gallants, we, like Lilly, can foresee ; 
 
 But if you ask us what our doom will be, 
 
 We by to-morrow will our fortune cast, 
 
 As he tells all things when the year is past.
 
 THE 
 
 TEMPEST; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 ENCHANTED ISLAND. 
 
 A COMEDY.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 IN this alteration of the " Tempest," Dryden acknowledges his 
 obligation to Sir William Davenant, whom he extols for his quick 
 and piercing imagination. Sir William was the son of an inn- 
 keeper in Oxford, whose house was frequented by our immortal 
 Shakespeare ; and hence an ill-founded tradition ascribed to him 
 a paternal interest in young Davenant. But this slander on Shake- 
 speare's moral character has been fully refuted in the Prolego- 
 mena to Johnson and Steevens' edition of his plays. Davenant was 
 appointed poet-laureat upon the death of Ben Jonson. During 
 the Civil Wars, he distinguished himself on the royal side, was 
 lieutenant-general of ordnance to the Earl of Newcastle, and was 
 knighted by Charles at the siege of Gloucester. He was afterwards 
 much trusted by Henrietta, the Queen-dowager; and was finally 
 made prisoner by an English man of war, in attempting to convey 
 a colony of loyalists to Virginia. After a long captivity in the 
 Tower, he was liberated through the intercession of the lord-keep- 
 er, Whitelocke; the wisest and most temperate of the counsellors 
 of the ruling power. Through his countenance, Sir William was 
 protected, or connived at, in bringing forward certain interludes 
 and operas, even during the rigid sway of fanaticism. After the 
 Restoration, he became manager of a company of players, called 
 the Duke of York's servants, in distinction to the King's company, 
 which was directed by Killigrew. He introduced upon the stage 
 much pomp in dress, scenery, and decoration, as if to indemnify 
 the theatrical muses for the poor shifts to which they had been 
 reduced during the usurpation. Sir William Davenant died in 
 1668, at the age of 63. 
 
 " Gondibert," his greatest performance, incurred, when first 
 published, more ridicule, and in latter times more neglect, than 
 its merits deserve. An epic poem, in elegiac stanzas, must always 
 be tedious, because no structure of verse is more unfavourable to 
 narration than that which almost peremptorily requires each sen- 
 tence to be restricted, or protracted, to four lines. But the live- 
 liness of Davenant's imagination, which Dryden has pointed out 
 as his most striking attribute, has illuminated even the dull and 
 dreary path which he has chosen ; and perhaps few poems afford 
 more instances of vigorous conceptions, and even felicity of ex- 
 pression, than the neglected " Gondibert."* 
 
 * An excellent critical essay upon the beauties and defects of Davenant's epic, 
 nay be found in Aikiu'i Miscellanies. Those who are insensible to the merit* of 
 VOL. III. G
 
 98 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 The alteration of the Tempest was Davenant's last work ; and it 
 seems to have been undertaken, chiefly, with a view to give room 
 for scenical decoration. Few readers will think the play much 
 improved by the introduction of the sea-language, which Dave- 
 nant had acquired during the adventurous period of his life. Ne- 
 vertheless, the ludicrous contest betwixt the sailors, for the duke- 
 dom and viceroyship of a barren island, gave much amusement at 
 the time, and some of the expressions were long after proverbial.* 
 Much cannot be said for Davenant's ingenuity, in contrasting the 
 character of a woman, who had never seen a man, with that of a 
 man, who had never seen a woman, or in inventing a sister mon- 
 ster for Caliban. The majestic simplicity of Shakespeare's plan 
 is injured by thus doubling his characters ; and his wild landscape 
 is converted into a formal parterre, where "each alley has its bro- 
 ther." In sketching characters drawn from fancy, and not from 
 observation, the palm of genius must rest with the first inventor ; 
 others are but copyists, and a copy shews no where to such disad- 
 vantage as when placed by the original. Besides, although we are 
 delighted with the feminine simplicity of Miranda, it becomes un- 
 manly childishness in Hippolito ; and the premature coquetry of 
 Dorinda is disgusting, when contrasted with the maidenly purity 
 that chastens the simplicity of Shakespeare's heroine. The latter 
 seems to display, as it were by instinct, the innate dignity of her 
 sex ; the former, to shew, even in solitude, the germ of those vices, 
 by which, in a voluptuous age, the female character becomes de- 
 graded. The wild and savage character of Caliban is also sunk 
 into low and vulgar buffoonery. 
 
 Dryden has not informed us of the share he had in this altera- 
 tion. It was probably little more than the care of adapting it to 
 the stage. The prologue is one of the most masterly tributes ever 
 paid at the shrine of Shakespeare. 
 
 From the epilogue, the Tempest appears to have been acted in 
 J.667. Although Dryden was under engagements to the King's 
 Company, this play was performed by the Duke's Servants, pro- 
 bably because written in conjunction with Davenant, their mar- 
 nager. It was not published until 1670. 
 
 the poem, may admire the courage of the author, who wrote some part of it whep 
 he conceived himself within a week of being hanged. A tradition prevails, that 
 his life was saved by Milton, whose life, in return, he saved at the Restoration. 
 Were the story true, how vast was the requital ! 
 * As, u Peace and the But," &c.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE writing of prefaces to plays was probably 
 invented by some very ambitious poet, who never 
 thought he had done enough. Perhaps by some ape 
 of the French eloquence, which uses to make a bu- 
 siness of a letter of gallantry, an examen of a farce ; 
 and, in short, a great pomp and ostentation of 
 words on every trifle. This is certainly the talent 
 of that nation, and ought not to be invaded by any 
 other. They do that out of gaiety, which would 
 be an imposition upon us.* 
 
 in 
 
 of writings, and flourishes of the per 
 
 they adorn the borders of their plays, and which 
 
 are indeed no more than good landscapes to a very 
 
 indifferent picture. I must proceed no farther in 
 
 this argument, lest I run myself beyond my excuse 
 
 for writing this. Give me leave, therefore, to tell 
 
 * A task imposed upon us.
 
 100 PREFACE. 
 
 you, reader, that I do not set a value on any thing 
 I have written in this play, but out of gratitude to 
 the memory of Sir William Davenant, who did me 
 the honour to join me with him in the alteration 
 of it. 
 
 It was originally Shakespeare's ; a poet for whom 
 he had particularly a high veneration, and whom 
 he first taught me to admire. The play itself had 
 formerly been acted with success in the Black 
 Friars : And our excellent Fletcher had so great a 
 value for it, that he thought fit to make use of the 
 same design, not much varied, a second time. Those, 
 who have seen his " Sea- Voyage," may easily dis- 
 cern that it was a copy of Shakespeare's " Tem- 
 pest." The storm, the desert island, and the woman 
 who had never seen a man, are all sufficient testi- 
 monies of it. But Fletcher was not the only poet 
 who made use of Shakespeare's plot. Sir John Suck- 
 ling, a professed admirer of our author, has follow- 
 ed his footsteps in his " Goblins ;" his Regmetta 
 being an open imitation of Shakespeare's Miranda, 
 and his spirits, though counterfeit, yet are copied 
 from Ariel. But Sir William Davenant, as he was 
 a man of a quick and piercing imagination, soon 
 found that somewhat might be added to the design 
 of Shakespeare, of which neither Fletcher nor Suck- 
 ling had ever thought. And, therefore, to put the 
 last hand to it, he designed the counter-part to 
 Shakespeare's plot, namely, that of a man who had 
 never seen a woman ; that by this means those 
 two characters of innocence and love might the 
 more illustrate and commend each other. This ex- 
 cellent contrivance he was pleased to communicate 
 to me, and to desire my assistance in it. I confess, 
 that from the very first moment it so pleased me, 
 that I never writ any thing with more delight. I
 
 PREFACE. 101 
 
 must likewise do him that justice to acknowledge, 
 that my writing received daily his amendments ; 
 and that is the reason why it is not so faulty, as the 
 rest which I have done, without the help or cor- 
 rection of so judicious a friend. The comical parts 
 of the sailors were also of his invention, and for the 
 most part, his writing, as you will easily discover 
 by the style. In the time I writ with him, I had 
 the opportunity to observe somewhat more nearly 
 of him, than I had formerly done, when I had only 
 a bare acquaintance with him. I found him then 
 of so quick a fancy, that nothing was proposed to 
 him, on which he could not suddenly produce a 
 thought, extremely pleasant and surprising ; and 
 those first thoughts of his, contrary to the old La- 
 tin proverb, were not always the least happy. And 
 as his fancy was quick, so likewise were the pro- 
 ducts of it remote and new. He borrowed not of 
 any other ; and his imaginations were such as could 
 not easily enter into any other man. His correc- 
 tions were sober and judicious; and he corrected 
 his own writings much more severely than those 
 of another man, bestowing twice the time and la- 
 bour in polishing, which he used in invention. It 
 had perhaps been easy enough for me to have ar- 
 rogated more to myself than was my due, in the 
 writing of this play, and to have passed by his name 
 with silence in the publication of it, with the same 
 ingratitude which others have used to him, whose 
 writings he hath not only corrected, as he hath done 
 this, but has had a greater inspection over them, 
 and sometimes added whole scenes together, which 
 may as easily be distinguished from the rest, as true 
 gold from counterfeit, by the weight. But, besides 
 the unworthiness of the action, which deterred me 
 from it, (there being nothing so base as to rob the
 
 102 PREFACE. 
 
 dead of his reputation,) I am satisfied I could never 
 have received so much honour, in being thought 
 the author of any poem, how excellent soever, as I 
 shall from the joining my imperfections with the 
 merit and name of Shakespeare and Sir William 
 Davenant. 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 December 1, 1669.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 As when a tree's cut down, the secret root 
 Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot ; 
 So, from old Shakespeare's honour'd dust, this day 
 Springs up and buds a new-reviving play, 
 Shakespeare, who (taught by none) did first impart 
 To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art. 
 He, monarch-like, gave those, his subjects, law ; 
 And is that nature which they paint and draw. 
 Fletcher reach' d that which on his heights did grow, 
 While Jonson crept, and gather'd all below. 
 This did his love, and this his mirth, digest : 
 One imitates him most, the other best. 
 If they have since outwrit all other men, 
 'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakespeare's pen. 
 The storm which vanish'd on the neighbouring shore, 
 Was taught by Shakespeare's Tempest first to roar. 
 That innocence and beauty, which did smile 
 In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle. 
 But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be ; 
 Within that circle none durst walk but he. 
 I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now 
 That liberty to vulgar wits allow, 
 Which works by magic supernatural things : 
 
 But Shakespeare's power is sacred as a king's. 
 
 Those legends from old priesthood were received, 
 
 And he then writ, as people then believed. 
 
 But if for Shakespeare we your grace implore, 
 
 We for our theatre shall want it more : 
 
 Who, by our dearth of youths, are forced to employ 
 
 One of our women to present a boy ; 
 
 And that's a transformation, you will say, 
 
 Exceeding all the magic in the play. 
 
 Let none expect, in the last act, to find 
 
 Her sex transform'd from man to womankind. 
 
 VVhate'er she was before the play began, 
 
 All you shall see of her is perfect man. 
 
 Or, if your fancy will be farther led 
 
 To find her woman it must be a-bed.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 ALONZO, Duke of Savoy, and Usurper of the Duke- 
 
 dom of Mantua. 
 FERDINAND, his Son. 
 PROSPERO, right Duke of Milan. 
 ANTONIO, his Brother, Usurper of the Dukedom. 
 GONZALO, a Nobleman of Savoy. 
 HIPPOLITO, one that never saw woman, right Heir 
 
 of the Dukedom of Mantua. 
 STEPHANO, Master of the Ship. 
 MUSTACHO, his Mate* 
 TRINCALO, Boatswain. 
 VENTOSO, a Mariner. 
 Several Mariners. 
 A Cabin-Boy. 
 
 MIRANDA, ^ Daughters to PROSPERO, that never 
 DORINDA, j saw man. 
 
 ARIEL, an airy Spirit, Attendant on PROSPERO. 
 Several Spirits, Guards to PROSPERO. 
 
 , K. Sitter, 
 
 , } * M tm f the Isk '
 
 THE 
 
 TEMPEST 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE 1. The front of the stage is opened, and 
 the land of twenty-four violins, with the harpsicals 
 and theorbos which accompany the voices,are placed 
 between the pit and the stage. While the overture 
 is playing, the curtain rises, and discovers a new 
 frontispiece, joined to the great pilasters, on each 
 side of the stage. This frontispiece is a noble arch, 
 supported by large wreathed columns of the Corin- 
 thian order ; the wreathings of the columns are 
 beautified with roses wound round them, and se- 
 veral Cupids flying about them. On the cornice, 
 just over the capitals, sits on either side a figure, 
 with a trumpet in one hand, and a palm in the 
 other, representing Fame. A little farther, on the 
 same cornice, on each side of a compass-pediment, 
 lie a lion and a unicorn, the supporters of the royal 
 arms of England. In the middle of the arch are 
 several angels, holding the king's arms, as if they 
 were placing them in the midst of that compass-pedi- 
 ment. Behind this is the scene, which represents a 
 thick cloudy shy, a very rocky coast, and a tempes- 
 tuous sea in perpetual agitation. This tempest (sup- 
 posed to be raised by magic) has many dreadful ob- 
 jects in it, as several spirits in horrid shapes flying
 
 106 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 down amongst the sailors, then rising and crossing 
 in the air. And when the ship is sinking, the whole 
 house is darkened, and a shower of Jire falls upon 
 them. This is accompanied with lightning, and 
 several claps of thunder, to the end of the storm. 
 
 Enter MUST AC HO and VENT o so. 
 
 Vent. What a sea comes in ! 
 Must. A foaming sea ; we shall have foul wea- 
 ther. 
 
 Enter TRINCALO. 
 
 Trine. The scud comes against the wind, 'twill 
 blow hard. 
 
 Enter STEPHANO. 
 
 Steph, Boatswain ! 
 Trine. Here, master, what say you ? 
 Steph. Ill weather ; let's off to sea. 
 Must. Let's have sea-room enough, and then let 
 it blow the devil's head off. 
 Steph. Boy ! Boy ! 
 
 Enter Cabin Boy. 
 
 Hoy. Yaw, yaw, here, master. 
 
 Steph. Give the pilot a dram of the bottle. 
 
 [Exeunt STEPHANO and hoy. 
 
 Enter Mariners, and pass over the stage. 
 Trine. Bring the cable to the capstorm. 
 
 Enter ALONSO, ANTONIO, and GONZALO. 
 
 Alon. Good boatswain, have a care ; where's the 
 master ? Play the men. 
 
 Trine. Pray keep below. 
 
 Anto. Where's the master, boatswain ? 
 
 Trine. Do you not hear him ? You hinder us. 
 Keep your cabins, you help the storm.
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 10? 
 
 Gonz. Nay, good friend, be patient. 
 
 Trine. Ay, when the sea is. Hence ! what care 
 these roarers for the name of duke ? To cabin ; 
 silence ; trouble us not. 
 
 Gonz. Good friend, remember whom thou hast 
 aboard. 
 
 Trine. None that I love more than myself. You 
 are a counsellor ; if you can advise these elements to 
 silence, use your wisdom ; if you cannot, make your- 
 self ready in the cabin for the ill hour. Cheerly, 
 good hearts ! Out of our ways, sirs. 
 
 {Exeunt TRINCALO, and mariners. 
 
 Gonz. I have great comfort from this fellow ; 
 methinks his complexion is perfect gallows ; stand 
 fast, good fate, to his hanging ; make the rope of 
 his destiny our cable, for our own does little advan- 
 tage us ; if he be not born to be hanged, we shall 
 be drowned. [Exit. 
 
 Enter TUINCALO and STEPHANO. 
 
 Trine. Up aloft, lads. Come, reef both topsails. 
 
 Step/i. Make haste, let's weigh, let's weigh, and 
 
 off to sea. {Exit STEPH. 
 
 Enter two Mariners, and pass over the stage. 
 Trine. Hands down ! Man your main cap-storm. 
 
 Enter MUSTACHO and VENTOSO at the other door. 
 
 Must. Up aloft ! and man your seere cap-storm. 
 Vent. My lads, my hearts of gold, get in your 
 cap- storm-bar. Hoa up, hoa up ! 
 
 {Exeunt MUSTACHO and VENTOSO. 
 
 Enter STEPHANO. 
 
 Steph. Hold on well ! hold on well ! Nip well 
 there ; quarter-master, get's more nippers. 
 
 {Exit STEPII.
 
 108 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Enter two Mariners, and pass over again. 
 
 Trine. Turn out, turn out all hands to cap-storm. 
 
 You dogs, is this a time to sleep ? Lubbord. Heave 
 
 together, lads. [TRINCALO whistles. 
 
 [Exeunt MUSTACHO and VENTOSO. 
 
 Must. [Within.'] Our vial's broke. 
 
 Vent. [Within.'] 'Tis but our vial-block has given 
 way. Come, heave, lads ! we are fixed again. Heave 
 together, bullies. 
 
 Enter STEPHANO. 
 
 Stepli. Cut down the hammocks ! cut down the 
 hammocks ! come, my lads. Come, bullies, cheer 
 up ! heave lustily. The anchor's apeak. 
 
 Trine. Is the anchor apeak ? 
 
 Stepli. Is a-weigh ! is a-weigh ! 
 
 Trine. Up aloft, my lads, upon the fore-castle ; 
 cut the anchor, cut him. 
 
 All within. Haul catt, haul catt, haul catt, haul. 
 Haul catt, haul. Below. 
 
 Steph. Aft, aft, and loose the mizen ! 
 
 Trine. Get the mizen-tack aboard. Haul aft 
 mizen- sheet. 
 
 Enter MUSTACHO. 
 
 Must. Loose the main-top sail ! 
 
 Steph. Let him alone, there's too much wind. 
 
 Trine. Loose fore-sail ! haul aft both sheets ! trim 
 her right before the wind. Aft ! aft ! lads, and hale 
 up the mizen here. 
 
 Must. A mackrel-gale, master. 
 
 Steph. [ Within."] Port hard, port ! the wind veers 
 forward, bring the tack aboard-port is. Starboard, 
 starboard, a little steady ; now steady, keep her 
 thus, no nearer you cannot come, 'till the sails are 
 loose.
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 109 
 
 Enter VENTOSO. 
 
 Vent. Some hands down. The guns are loose. 
 
 {Exit MUST. 
 Trine. Try the pump, try the pump. 
 
 [Exit VENT. 
 
 Enter MUSTACHO at the other door. 
 
 Must. O master ! six foot water in hold. 
 
 Steph. Clap the helm hard a- weather ! flat, flat, 
 flat- in the fore-sheet there. 
 
 Trine. Over-haul your fore-bowling, ft .'.<* 
 
 Steph. Brace in the larboard. [Exit. 
 
 Trin. A curse upon this howling ! [A great cry 
 within.] They are louder than the weather. 
 
 Enter ANTONIO and GONZALO. 
 
 Yet again, what do you here ? Shall we give over, 
 and drown ? Have you a mind to sink ? 
 
 Gonz. A pox on your throat, you bawling, blas- 
 phemous, uncharitable dog. 
 
 Trine. Work you then, and be poxed. 
 
 Anto. Hang, cur, hang, you whoreson insolent 
 noise-maker ! We are less afraid to be drowned than 
 you are. 
 
 Trine. Ease the fore-brace a little. [Exit. 
 
 Gonz. I'll warrant him for drowning, though the 
 ship were no stronger than a nut-shell, and as leaky 
 as an unstaunched wench. 
 
 Enter ALONZO and FERDINAND. 
 
 Ferd. For myself I care not, but your loss brings 
 a thousand deaths to me. 
 
 Alon. O name not me, I am grown old, my son ; 
 I now am tedious to the world, and that, 
 By use, is so to me. But, Ferdinand, 
 I grieve my subjects' loss in thee. Alas ! 
 12
 
 110 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 I suffer justly for my crimes, but why 
 
 Thou should'st O heaven ! \_A cry within. 
 
 Hark ! farewell, my son, a long farewell ! 
 
 Enter TRINCALO, MUSTACHO, and VENTOSO. 
 
 Trine. What, must our mouths be cold then ? 
 
 Vent. All's lost. To prayers, to prayers. 
 
 Gonz. The duke and prince are gone within to 
 prayers. .Let's assist them. 
 
 Must. Nay, we may e'en pray too, our 
 Case is now alike. 
 
 Ant. Mercy upon us ! we split, we split ! 
 
 Gonz. Let's all sink with the duke, and the young 
 prince. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter STEPHANO and TRINCALO. 
 
 Trine. The ship is sinking. [A new cry within. 
 
 Steph. Run her ashore ! 
 
 Trine. Luff ! luff ! or we are all lost ! there's a 
 rock upon the starboard-bow. 
 
 Steph. She strikes, she strikes ! All shift for them- 
 selves. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. In the midst of the shower of fire, the 
 scene changes. The cloudy sky, rocks, and sea 
 vanish ; and when the lights return, discover that 
 beautiful part of the island, which was the habita- 
 tion O/'PROSPERO. 'Tis composed of three walks 
 of cypress-trees ; each side-walk leads to a cave, in 
 one of which PfiOSPERO keeps his daughter, in the 
 other HIPPOLITO. The middle-walk is of great 
 depth, and leads to an open part of the island. 
 
 Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA. 
 
 Prosp. Miranda, where's your sister ? 
 Mir. I left her looking from the pointed rock, 
 At the walk's end, on the huge beat of waters.
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. Ill 
 
 Prosp. It is a dreadful object. 
 
 Mir. If by your art, 
 
 My dearest father, you have put them in 
 This roar, allay them quickly. 
 
 Prosp. I have so order'd, 
 That not one creature in the ship is lost. 
 I have done nothing but in care of thee, 
 My daughter, and thy pretty sister. 
 You both are ignorant of what you are, 
 Not knowing whence I am, nor that I'm more 
 Than Prospero, master of a narrow cell, 
 And thy unhappy father. 
 
 Mir. I ne'er endeavour'd 
 To know more than you were pleased to tell me. 
 
 Prosp. I should inform thee farther. 
 
 Mir. You often, sir, began to tell me what I am, 
 But then you stopt. 
 
 Prosp. The hour's now come ; 
 Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember 
 A time, before we came into this cell ? 
 I do not think thou canst, for then thou wert not 
 Full three years old. 
 
 Mir. Certainly I can, sir. 
 
 Prosp. Tell me the image then of any thing, 
 Which thou dost keep in thy remembrance still. 
 
 Mir. Sir, had I not four or five women once, 
 that tended me ? 
 
 Prosp. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. What 
 
 seest thou else, 
 
 In the dark back- ward, and abyss of time ? 
 If thou rememberest aught, ere thou cam'st here, 
 Then how thou cam'st thou may'st remember too. 
 
 Mir. Sir, that I do not. 
 
 Prosp. Fifteen years since, Miranda, 
 Thy father was the duke of Milan, and 
 A prince of power. 
 
 Mir. Sir, are not you my father ?
 
 112 THE TEMPEST. ACT I, 
 
 Prosp. Thy mother was all virtue, and she said 
 Thou wast my daughter, and thy sister too. 
 
 Mir. O heavens ! what foul play had we, that 
 We hither came ? or was't a blessing that we did ? 
 
 Prosp. Both, both, my girl. 
 
 Mir. But, sir, I pray, proceed. 
 
 Prosp. My brother, and thy uncle, called An- 
 tonio, 
 
 To whom I trusted then the manage of my state, 
 While I was wrapp'd with secret studies, that 
 
 false uncle, 
 
 Having attain'd the craft of granting suits, 
 And of denying them ; whom to advance, 
 Or lop, for over-topping, soon was grown 
 The ivy, which did hide my princely trunk, 
 And suck'd my verdure out. Thou attend'st not. 
 
 Mir. O good sir, I do. 
 
 Prosp. I thus neglecting worldly ends, and bent 
 To closeness, and the bettering of my mind, 
 Waked in my false brother an evil nature. He did 
 
 believe 
 He was indeed the duke, because he then 
 
 Did execute the outward face of sovereignty 
 
 Do'st thou still mark me ? 
 
 Mir. Your story would cure deafness. 
 
 Prosp. This false duke 
 
 Needs would be absolute in Milan, and confederate 
 With Savoy's duke, to give him tribute, and 
 To do him homage. 
 
 Mir. False man ! 
 
 Prosp. This duke of Savoy, being an enemy 
 To me inveterate, strait grants my brother's suit ; 
 And on a night, mated to his design, 
 Antonio oped the gates of Milan, and 
 In the dead of darkness hurried me thence, 
 With thy young sister, and th crying self.
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 113 
 
 Mir. But wherefore did they not that hour de- 
 stroy us ? 
 
 Prosp. They durst not, girl, in Milan, for the 
 
 love 
 
 My people bore me ; in short, they hurried us 
 Away to Savoy, and thence aboard a bark at Nissa's 
 
 port, 
 
 Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepared 
 A rotten carcase of a boat, not rigg'd, 
 No tackle, sail, nor mast ; the very rats 
 Instinctively had quit it. 
 
 Mir. Alack ! what trouble 
 Was I then to you ? 
 
 Prosp. Thou and thy sister were 
 Two cherubims which did preserve me : You both 
 Did smile, infused with fortitude from heaven. 
 
 Mir. How came we ashore ? 
 
 Prosp. By providence divine. 
 Some food we had, and some fresh water, which 
 A nobleman of Savoy, call'd Gonzalo, 
 Appointed master of that black design, 
 Gave us ; with rich garments, and all necessaries, 
 Which since have steaded much : And of his gen- 
 tleness 
 
 (Knowing I loved my books) he furnish'd me, 
 From mine own library, with volumes, which 
 I prize above my dukedom. 
 
 Mir. Would I might see that man ! 
 
 Prosp. Here in this island we arrived, and here 
 Have I your tutor been. But by my skill 
 I find, that my mid-heaven doth depend 
 On a most happy star, whose influence 
 If I now court not, but omit, my fortunes 
 Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions ; 
 Thou art inclined to sleep : 'Tis a good dulness, 
 And give it way ; I know thou can'st not chuse. 
 
 \Shefalls asleep. 
 
 VOL. in. H
 
 114 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Come away, my spirit : I am ready now ; approach, 
 My Ariel, come. 
 
 Enter ARIEL. 
 
 Ariel. All hail, great master, grave 
 Sir, hail ! I come to answer thy best pleasure, 
 Be it to fly, to swim, to shoot into the fire, 
 To ride into the curled clouds ; to thy strong bid- 
 ding 
 Task Ariel, and all his qualities. 
 
 Prosp. Hast thou, spirit, perform'd to point 
 The tempest, that 1 bade thee ? 
 
 Ariel. To every article. 
 I boarded the duke's ship ; now on the beak, 
 Now in the waste, the deck, in every cabin, 
 I flamed amazement ; and sometimes I seem'd 
 To burn in many places ; on the top-mast, 
 The yards and bow-sprit, I did flame distinctly ; 
 Nay, once I rain'd a shower of fire upon them. 
 
 Prosp. My brave spirit ! 
 Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil 
 Did not infect his reason ? 
 
 Ariel. Not a soul, 
 
 But felt a fever of the mind, and play'd 
 Some tricks of desperation ; all, 
 But mariners, plunged in the foaming brine, 
 And quit the vessel. The duke's son, Ferdinand, 
 With hair upstaring, (more like reeds than hair) 
 Was the first man that leap'd ; cried, Hell is empty ! 
 And all the devils are here ! 
 
 Prosp. Why, that's my spirit ! 
 But, was not this nigh shore ? 
 
 Ariel. Close by, my master. 
 
 Prosp. But, Ariel, are they safe ? 
 
 Ariel. Not a hair perish'd. 
 In troops I have dispersed them round this isle : 
 The duke's son I have landed by himself,
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPES?. 115 
 
 - 
 
 Whom I have left warming the air with sighs, 
 In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, 
 His arms enfolded in this sad knot. 
 
 Prosp. Say how thou hast disposed the manners 
 Of the duke's ship, and all the rest o'the fleet ? 
 
 Ariel. Safely in harbour 
 
 Is the duke's ship ; in the deep nook, where once 
 Thou called'st me up, at midnight, to fetch dew 
 From the still vex'd Bermoothes, there she's hid ; 
 The mariners all under hatches stow'd ; 
 Whom, with a charm, join'd to their suffer'd la- 
 bour, 
 
 I have left asleep : And for the rest o'the fleet, 
 Which I dispersed, they all have met again, 
 And are upon the Mediterranean float, 
 Bound sadly home for Italy ; 
 Supposing that they saw the duke's ship wreck'd, 
 And his great person perish. 
 
 Prosp. Ariel, thy charge 
 
 Exactly is perform'd : But there's more work ; 
 What is the time o'the day ? 
 
 Ariel. Past the mid season. 
 
 Prosp. At least two glasses. 
 The time 'tween six and now must by us both 
 Be spent most preciously. 
 
 Ariel. Is there more toil ? 
 
 Since thou dost give me pains, let me remember 
 Thee what thou hast promised, which is not yet 
 Perform'd me. 
 
 Prosp. How now, moody ! 
 What is't thou canst demand ? 
 
 Ariel. My liberty. 
 
 Prosp. Before the time be out ? no more ! 
 
 Ariel. I pr'ythee, 
 
 Remember I have done thee faithful service ; 
 Told thee no lies ; made thee no mistakings ; 
 Served without or grudge, or grumblings ;
 
 116 THE^ TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Thou didst promise to bate me a full year. 
 
 Prosp. Dost thou forget 
 From what a torment I did free thee ? 
 
 Ariel. No. 
 
 Prosp. Thou dost ; and think'st it much to tread 
 
 the ooze 
 
 Of the salt deep ; 
 
 To run against the sharp wind of the north ; 
 To do my business in the veins of the earth, 
 When it is baked with frost. 
 
 Ariel. I do not, sir. 
 
 Prosp. Thou liest, malignant thing ! Hast thou 
 
 forgot 
 
 The foul witch Sycorax, who, with age and envy, 
 Was grown into a hoop ? Hast thou forgot her ? 
 
 Ariel. No, sir. 
 
 Prosp. Thou hast ! Where was she born ? Speak, 
 tell me. 
 
 Ariel. Sir, in Argier. 
 
 Prosp. Oh, was she so ! I must, 
 Once every month, recount what thou hast been, 
 Which thou forgett'st. This damn'd witch Syco- 
 rax, 
 
 For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries 
 Too terrible to enter human hearing, 
 From Argier, thou know'st, was banished : 
 But, for one thing she did, 
 They would not take her life. Is not this true ? 
 
 Ariel. Ay, sir. 
 
 Prosp. This blue-ey'd hag was hither brought, 
 
 with child, 
 
 And here was left by the sailors : Thou, my slave, 
 As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant ; 
 And, cause thou wast a spirit too delicate 
 To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, 
 Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, 
 By help of her more potent ministers,
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 117 
 
 (In her immitigable rage) into a cloven pine ; 
 Within whose rift imprison'd, thou didst painfully 
 Remain a dozen years, within which space she died, 
 And left thee there ; where thou didst vent thy 
 
 groans, 
 
 As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this isle 
 (Save for two brats, which she did litter here, 
 The brutish Caliban, and his twin-sister, 
 Two freckled hag-born whelps) not honour'd with 
 A human shape. 
 
 Ariel. Yes ; Caliban her son, and Sycorax his 
 sister. 
 
 Prosp. Dull thing ! I say so. He, 
 That Caliban, and she, that Sycorax, 
 Whom I now keep in service. Thou best know'st 
 What torment I did find thee in ; thy groans 
 Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts 
 Of ever-angry bears ; it was a torment 
 To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax 
 Could ne'er again undo : It was my art, 
 When I arrived and heard thee, that made the pine 
 To gape, and let thee out. 
 
 Ariel. I thank thee, master. 
 
 Prosp. If thou more murmurest, I will rend an 
 
 oak, 
 
 And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till thou 
 Hast howl'd away twelve winters more. 
 
 Ariel. Pardon, master ; 
 I will be correspondent to command, 
 And be a gentle spirit. 
 
 Prosp. Do so ; and after two days I'll discharge 
 thee. 
 
 Ariel. Thanks, my great master. But I have yet 
 one request. 
 
 Prosp. What's that, my spirit ? 
 
 Ariel. I know that this day's business is import- 
 ant,
 
 118 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Requiring too much toil for one alone. 
 
 I have a gentle spirit for my love, 
 
 Who twice seven years has waited for my freedom : 
 
 Let it appeal*, it will assist me much, 
 
 And we with mutual joy shall entertain 
 
 Each other. This, I beseech you, grant me. 
 
 Prosp. You shall have your desire. 
 
 Ariel. That's my noble master. Milcha ! 
 
 [MILCHA ./?!* down to his assistance. 
 
 Mile. 1 am here, my love. 
 
 Ariel. Thou art free ! Welcome, my dear ! 
 What shall we do ? Say, say, what shall we do ? 
 
 Prosp. Be subject to no sight but mine ; invisible 
 To every eye-ball else. Hence, with diligence ; 
 Anon thou shalt know more. 
 
 [ They both fly up, and cross in the air. 
 Thou hast slept well, my child. [ To Mm. 
 
 Mir. The sadness of your story put neaviness 
 on me. 
 
 Prosp. Shake it off. Come on, I'll now call Ca- 
 liban, my slave, who never yields us a kind answer. 
 
 Mir. 'Tis a creature, sir, I do not love to look on. 
 
 Prosp. But, as it is, we cannot miss him : He does 
 make our fire, fetch in our wood, and serve in of- 
 fices that profit us. What ho, slave ! Caliban ! thou 
 earth, thou, speak ! 
 
 Calib. [Within,] There's wood enough within. 
 
 Prosp. Thou poisonous slave ! got by the devil 
 
 himself 
 Upon thy wicked dam, come forth ! 
 
 Enter CALIBAN. 
 
 Calib. As wicked dew, as e'er my mother brushed 
 with raven's feather from unwholesome fens, drop 
 on you both ! A south-west wind blow on you, and 
 blister you all o'er !
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 119 
 
 Prosp. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have 
 cramps, side-stitches, that shall pen thy breath up. 
 Urchins shall prick thee till thou bleed'st, Thou 
 shalt be pinched as thick as honey-combs, each 
 pinch more stinging than the bees which made 
 them. 
 
 Calib. I must eat my dinner. This island's mine, 
 by Sycorax my mother, which thou took'st from 
 me. When thou earnest first, thou stroak'dst me, 
 and madest much of me ; would'st give me water 
 with berries in't, and teach me how to name the 
 bigger light, and how the less, that burn by day 
 and night ; and then I loved thee, and shewed thec 
 all the qualities of the isle, the fresh springs, brine- 
 pits, barren places, and fertile. Cursed be I, that 
 I did so ! All the charms of Sycorax, toads, beetles, 
 bats, light on thee ! for I am all the subjects that 
 thou hast. I first was mine own lord ; and here 
 thou stayest me in this hard rock, while thou dost 
 keep from me the rest o'the island. 
 
 Prosp. Thou most lying slave, whom stripes may 
 move, not kindness ! 1 have used thee, filth as thou 
 art ! with human care ; and lodged thee in mine 
 own cell, till thou didst seek to violate the honour 
 of my children. 
 
 Calib. Oh, ho ! oh, ho ! would it had been done ! 
 Thou didst prevent me, I had peopled else this isle 
 with Calibans. 
 
 Prosj). Abhorred slave ! who ne'er wouldst any 
 print of goodness take, being capable of all ill ! I 
 pitied thee, took pains to make thee speak, taught 
 thee each hour one thing or other. When thou didst 
 not, savage ! know thy own meaning, but would'st 
 gabble like a thing most brutish, I endowed thy 
 purposes with words, which made them known. 
 But thy wild race (though thou didst learn) had 
 that in't, which good natures could not abide to be
 
 120 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 with ; therefore wast thou deservedly pent up into 
 this rock. 
 
 Calib. You taught me language ; and my profit 
 by it is, that I know to curse. The red botch rid 
 you for learning me your language ! 
 
 Prosp. Hag-seed, hence ! 
 Fetch us in fuel, and be quick 
 To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice ! 
 If thou neglectest, or dost unwillingly 
 What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps ; 
 Fill all thy bones with aches ; make thee roar, 
 That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 
 
 Calib. No, pr'y thee ! 
 I must obey. His art is of such power, 
 It would controul my dam's god, Setebos, 
 And make a vassal of him. 
 
 Prosp. So, slave, hence ! 
 
 [Exeunt PROSP. and CALIB. severally. 
 
 Enter DORINDA. 
 
 Dor. Oh, sister ! what have I beheld ! 
 
 Mir. What is it moves you so ? 
 
 Dor. From yonder rock, 
 As I my eyes cast down upon the seas, 
 The whistling winds blew rudely on my face, 
 And the waves roar'd ; at first, I thought the war 
 Had been between themselves, but straight I spied 
 A huge great creature. 
 
 Mir. O, you mean the ship ? 
 
 Dor. Is't not a creature, then ? It seem'd alive. 
 
 Mir. But what of it? 
 
 Dor. This floating ram did bear his horns above, 
 All tied with ribbands, ruffling in the wind : 
 Sometimes he nodded down his head a-while, 
 And then the waves did heave him to the moon, 
 He clambering to the top of all the billows ; 
 And then again he curtsied down so low
 
 SCENE IT. THE TEMPEST. 121 
 
 I could not see him. Till at last, all side-long, 
 With a great crack, his belly burst in pieces. 
 
 Mir. There all had perish'd, 
 Had not my father's magic art relieved them. 
 But, sister, I have stranger news to tell you. 
 In this great creature there were other creatures ; 
 And shortly we may chance to see that thing, 
 Which you have heard my father call a man. 
 
 Dor. But, what is that ? For yet he never told 
 me. 
 
 Mir. I know no more than you. But I have 
 
 heard 
 My father say, we women were made for him. 
 
 Dor. What, that he should eat us, sister ? 
 
 Mir. No sure ; you see my father is a man, and 
 
 yet 
 He does us good. I would he were not old ! 
 
 Dor. Methinks, indeed, it would be finer, if 
 We two had two young fathers. 
 
 Mir. No, sister, no. If they were young, my 
 
 father 
 Said, we must call them brothers. 
 
 Dor. But, pray, how does it come, that we two 
 
 are 
 Not brothers then, and have not beards like him ? 
 
 Mir. Now I confess you pose me. 
 
 Dor. How did he come to be our father too ? 
 
 Mir. I think he found us when we both were 
 
 little, 
 And grew within the ground. 
 
 Dor. Why could he not find more of us ? Pray, 
 
 sister, 
 
 Let you and I look up and down one day, 
 To find some little ones for us to play with. 
 
 Mir. Agreed ; but now we must go in. This is 
 The hour wherein my father's charm will work, 
 Which seizes all who are in open air.
 
 122 THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 The effect of this great art I long to see, 
 Which will perform as much as magic can. 
 
 Dor. And I, methinks, more long to see a man. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 
 
 The scene changes to the wilder part of the Island. 
 It is composed of divers sorts of trees and barren 
 places, with a prospect of the sea at a great dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Enter STEPHANO, MUSTACHO, and VENTOSO. 
 
 Vent. The runlet of brandy was a loving runlet, 
 and floated after us out of pure pity. 
 
 Must. This kind bottle, like an old acquaintance, 
 swam after it. And this scollop-shell is all our plate 
 now. 
 
 Vent. 'Tis well we have found something since 
 
 we landed. 
 
 I pr'ythee fill a sup, and let it go round. 
 Where hast thou laid the runlet ? 
 
 Must. In the hollow of an old tree. 
 
 Vent. Fill apace ; we cannot live long in this bar- 
 ren island, and we may take a sup before death, as 
 well as others drink at our funerals. 
 
 Must. This is prize brandy ; we steal custom, 
 and it costs nothing. Let's have two rounds more. 
 
 Vent. Master, what have you saved ? 
 
 Steph. Just nothing but myself. 
 
 Vent. This works comfortably on a cold stomach. 
 
 Steph. Fill us another round. 
 
 Vent. Look ! Mustacho weeps. Hang losses, as 
 long as we have brandy left ! Pr'ythee leave weep- 
 ing.
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 12.'J 
 
 Steph. He sheds his brandy out of his eyes. He 
 shall drink no more. 
 
 Must. This will be a doleful day with old Bess. 
 She gave me a gilt nutmeg at parting ; that's lost 
 too. But, as you say, hang losses ! Pr'ythee fill 
 again. 
 
 Vent. Beshrew thy heart, for putting me in mind 
 of thy wife ; I had not thought of mine else. Na- 
 ture will shew itself, I must melt. I pr'ythee fill 
 again. My wife's a good old jade, and has but one 
 eye left ; but she will weep out that too, when she 
 hears that I am dead. 
 
 Steph. 'Would you were both hanged, for putting 
 me in thought of mine ! 
 
 Vent. But come, master, sorrow is dry. There's 
 for you again. 
 
 Steph. A mariner had e'en as good be a fish as a 
 man, but for the comfort we get ashore. O ! for 
 an old dry wench, now I am wet. 
 
 Must. Poor heart, that would soon make you dry 
 again. But all is barren in this isle. Here we may 
 lie at hull, till the wind blow nor' and by south, ere 
 we can cry, a sail ! a sail ! a sight of a white apron. 
 And, therefore, here's another sup to comfort us. 
 
 Vent. This isle's our own, that's our comfort ; 
 for the duke, the prince, and all their train, are 
 perished. 
 
 Must. Our ship is sunk, and we can never get 
 home again. We must e'en turn savages, and the 
 next that catches his fellow may eat him. 
 
 Vent. No, no, let us have a government ; for if 
 we live well and orderly, heaven will drive ship- 
 wrecks ashore to make us all rich. Therefore let us 
 carry good consciences, and not eat one another. 
 
 Steph. Whoever eats any of my subjects, I'll break 
 out his teeth with my sceptre ; for I was master at
 
 124 THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 sea, and will be duke on land. You, Mustacho, 
 have been my mate, and shall be my viceroy. 
 
 Vent. When you are duke, you may chuse your 
 viceroy ; but I am a free subject in a new planta- 
 tion, and will have no duke without my voice. And 
 so fill me the other sup. 
 
 Steph. [Whispering.] Ventoso, dost thou hear, I 
 will advance thee ; pr'ythee, give me thy voice. 
 
 Vent. I'll have no whisperings to corrupt the elec- 
 tion ; and, to shew that I have no private ends, I 
 declare aloud, that I will be viceroy, or I'll keep my 
 voice for myself. 
 
 Must. Stephano, hear me ! I will speak for the 
 people, because there are few, or rather none, in the 
 isle, to speak for themselves. Know, then, that to 
 prevent the farther shedding of Christian blood, we 
 are all content Ventoso shall be viceroy, upon con- 
 dition I may be viceroy over him. Speak, good 
 people, are you well agreed ? what, no man answer ? 
 Well, you may take their silence for consent. 
 
 Vent. You speak for the people, Mustacho ! I'll 
 speak for them, and declare generally with one voice, 
 one and all, that there shall be no viceroy but the 
 duke, unless I be he. 
 
 Must. You declare for the people, who never saw 
 
 your face ? Cold iron shall decide it ! \JBoih draw. 
 
 Steph. Hold, loving subjects ! We will have no 
 
 civil war during our reign. I do hereby appoint 
 
 you both to be my viceroys over the whole island. 
 
 Both. Agreed, agreed ! 
 
 Enter TRINCALO, with a great bottle, half drunk. 
 
 Vent. How ! Trincalo, our brave boatswain ! 
 Must. He reels. Can he be drunk with sea- water? 
 Trin. [Sings.] / shall no more to sea, to $ea, 
 Here I shall die ashore.
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 125 
 
 This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's fune- 
 ral ; but here's my comfort. [Drinks. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 The master, the swabber, the gunner, and /, 
 
 The surgeon, and his mate, 
 Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, 
 
 But none of us cared for Kate. 
 For she had a tongue with a twang, 
 Would cry to a sailor, Go hang ! 
 She loved not the savour of tar, nor of pitch, 
 Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch. 
 
 This is a scurvy tune too ; but here's my comfort 
 again. [Drinks. 
 
 Stepk. Wg have got another subject now. Wel- 
 come, welcome, into our dominions ! 
 
 Trine. What subject, or what dominions? Here's 
 old sack, boys ; the king of good fellows can be no 
 subject. I will be old Simon the king. 
 
 Must. Ha, old boy ! how didst thou 'scape ? 
 
 Trine. Upon a butt of sack, boys, which the sailors 
 threw overboard. But are you alive, hoa! for I will 
 tipple with no ghosts, till I'm dead. Thy hand, 
 Mustacho, and thine, Ventoso ; the storm has done 
 its worst. Stephano alive too ! give thy boatswain 
 thy hand, master. 
 
 Vent. You must kiss it then ; for I must tell you, 
 we have chosen him duke, in a full assembly. 
 
 Trine. A duke ! where ? What's he duke of? 
 
 Must. Of this island, man. Oh, Trincalo, we are 
 all made. The island's empty ; all's our own, boy ; 
 and we will speak to his grace for thee, that thou 
 mayest be as great as we are. 
 
 Trine. You great ! what the devil are you ? 
 
 Vent. We two are viceroys over all the island ;
 
 126 THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 and, when we are weary of governing, thou shalt 
 succeed us. 
 
 Trine. Do you hear, Ventoso ? I will succeed 
 you in both places, before you enter into them. 
 
 Steph. Trincalo, sleep, and be sober ; and make 
 no more uproars in my country. 
 
 Trine. Why, what are you, sir ; what are you ? 
 
 Steph. What I am, I am by free election ; and 
 you, Trincalo, are not yourself; but we pardon your 
 first fault, because it is the first day of our reign. 
 
 Trine. Umph,were matters carried so swimming- 
 ly against me, whilst I was swimming, and saving 
 myself for the good of the people of this island ! 
 
 Must. Art thou mad, Trincalo ? Wilt thou dis- 
 turb a settled government, where thou art a mere 
 stranger to the laws of the country ? 
 
 Trine. I'll have no laws. 
 
 Vent. Then civil war begins. 
 
 [VENT, and MUST. draw. 
 
 Steph. Hold, hold ! I'll have no bloodshed ; my 
 subjects are but few. Let him make a rebellion by 
 himself; and a rebel, I, Duke Stephano, declare 
 him. Viceroys, come away. 
 
 Trine. And Duke Trincalo declares, that he will 
 make open war wherever he meets thee, or thy 
 viceroys. [Exeunt STEPH. MUST, and VENT. 
 
 Enter CALIBAN, with wood upon his back. 
 
 Trine. Ha ! who have we here ? 
 
 Calib. All the infections, that the sun sucks up 
 from fogs, fens, flats, on Prospero fall, and make 
 him by inch-meal a disease ! His spirits hear me, 
 and yet I needs must curse ; but they'll not pinch, 
 fright me with urchin shows, pitch me i'the mire, 
 nor lead me in the dark out of my way, unless he 
 bid them. But for every trifle he sets them on me. 
 Sometimes, like baboons, thev mow and chatter at
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 127 
 
 me, and often bite me ; like hedge-hogs, then, they 
 mount their prickles at me, tumbling before me in 
 my barefoot way. Sometimes I am all wound about 
 with adders, who, with their cloven tongues, hiss 
 me to madness. Ha ! yonder stands one of his spi- 
 rits, sent to torment me. 
 
 Trine. What have we here, a man, or a fish? This 
 is some monster of the isle. Were I in England, 
 as once I was, and had him painted, not a holiday- 
 fool there but would give me sixpence for the sight 
 of him. Well, if I could make him tame, he were 
 a present for an emperor. Come hither, pretty 
 monster ; I'll do thee no harm. Come hither ! 
 
 Calib. Torment me not ; I'll bring the wood home 
 faster. 
 
 Trine. He talks none of the wisest ; but I'll give 
 him a dram o'the bottle, that will clear his under- 
 standing. Come on your ways, master monster, 
 open your mouth. How now, you perverse moon- 
 calf I What, I think you cannot tell who is your 
 friend ? Open your chops, I say. 
 
 [Pours wine down his throat. 
 
 Calib. This is a brave god, and bears celestial 
 liquor. I'll kneel to him. 
 
 Trine. He is a very hopeful monster. Monster, 
 what say'st thou, art thou content to turn civil and 
 sober, as I am ? for then thou shalt be my subject. 
 
 Calib. I'll swear upon that bottle to be true ; for 
 the liquor is not earthly. Did'st thou not drop from 
 heaven ? 
 
 Trine. Only out of the moon ; I was the man in 
 her, when time was. By this light, a very shallow 
 monster. 
 
 Calib. I'll shew thee every fertile inch in the isle, 
 and kiss thy foot. I pr'ythee be my god, and let me 
 drink. [Drinks again. 
 
 Trine. Well drawn, monster, in good faith !
 
 128 THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 Calib. I'll shew thee the best springs ; I'll pluck 
 thee berries ; I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood 
 enough. A curse upon the tyrant whom I serve ! 
 I'll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee. 
 
 Trine. The poor monster is loving in his drink. 
 
 Calib. I pr'ythee let me bring thee where crabs 
 grow ; and I, with my long nails, will dig thee pig- 
 nuts, shew thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how 
 to snare the marmozet. I'll bring thee to clustered 
 filberts. Wilt thou go with me ? 
 
 Trine. This monster comes of a good-natured 
 race. Is there no more of thy kin in this island ? 
 
 Calib. Divine, here is but one besides myself; my 
 lovely sister, beautiful and bright as the full moon ! 
 
 Trine. Where is she ? 
 
 Calib. I left her clambering up a hollow oak, and 
 plucking thence the drooping honey-combs. Say, 
 my king, shall I call her to thee ? 
 
 Trine. She shall swear upon the bottle too. If 
 she proves handsome, she is mine. Here, monster, 
 drink again for thy good news ; thou shalt speak a 
 good word for me. [Gives him the bottle. 
 
 Calib. Farewell, old master, farewell, farewell ! 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 JVb more dams Til make for fish ; 
 Nor fetch in firing, at requiring ; 
 Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish : 
 
 Ban, ban, Ca-caliban, 
 
 Has a new master, get a new man. 
 
 Hey-day ! freedom, freedom ! 
 
 Trine. Here's two subjects got already, the mon- 
 ster, and his sister. Well, Duke Stephano, I say, and 
 say again, wars will ensue, and so I drinks. [Drinks.] 
 From this worshipful monster, and mistress monster, 
 his sister, I'll lay claim to this island by alliance. 
 Monster, I say, thy sister shall be my spouse ; come
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 129 
 
 away, brother monster ; I'll lead thee to my butt, 
 and drink her health. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. Cypress trees and a Cave. 
 
 Enter PROSPERO alone. 
 
 Prosp. 'Tis not yet fit to let my daughters know, 
 I keep the infant Duke of Mantua 
 So near them in this isle ; 
 
 Whose father, dying, bequeath'd him to my care ; 
 Till my false brother (when he design'd to usurp 
 My dukedom from me) exposed him to that fate, 
 He meant for me. 
 By calculation of his birth, I saw 
 Death threat'ning him, if, till some time were past, 
 He should behold the face of any woman. 
 And now the danger's nigh. Hippolito ! 
 
 Enter HIPPOLITO. 
 
 Hip. Sir, I attend your pleasure. 
 
 Prosp. How I have loved thee, from thy infancy, 
 Heaven knows, and thou thyself canst bear me wit- 
 ness ; 
 Therefore accuse not me of thy restraint. 
 
 Hip. Since I knew life, you've kept me in a rock ; 
 And you, this day, have hurried me from thence, 
 Only to change my prison, not to free me. 
 I murmur not, but I may wonder at it. 
 
 Prosp. O, gentle youth ! fate waits for thee 
 
 abroad ; 
 
 A black star threatens thee ; and death, unseen, 
 Stands ready to devour thee. 
 
 Hip. You taught me 
 Not to fear him in any of his shapes. 
 Let me meet death rather than be a prisoner. 
 
 Prosp. 'Tis pity he should seize thy tender youth. 
 
 VOL. III. I
 
 130 THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 Hip. Sir, I have often heard you say, no crea- 
 ture 
 
 Lived in this isle, but those which man was lord of. 
 Why, then, should I fear ? 
 
 Prosp. But here are creatures which I named not 
 
 to thee, 
 
 Who share man's sovereignty by nature's laws, 
 And oft depose him from it. 
 
 Hip. What are those creatures, sir ? 
 
 Prosp. Those dangerous enemies of men, called 
 women. 
 
 Hip. Women ! I never heard of them before. 
 What are women like ? 
 
 Prosp. Imagine something between young men 
 
 and angels ; 
 
 Fatally beauteous, and have killing eyes ; 
 Their voices charm beyond the nightingale's ; 
 They are all enchantment. Those, who once behold 
 
 them, 
 Are made their slaves for ever. 
 
 Hip. Then I will wink, and fight with them. 
 
 Prosp. 'Tis but in vain ; 
 They'll haunt you in your very sleep. 
 
 Hip. Then I'll revenge it on them when I wake. 
 
 Prosp. You are without all possibility of revenge ; 
 They are so beautiful, that you can ne'er attempt, 
 Nor wish, to hurt them. 
 
 Hip. Are they so beautiful ? 
 
 Prosp. Calm sleep is not so soft ; nor winter suns, 
 Nor summer shades, so pleasant. 
 *> Hip. Can they be fairer than the plumes of swans? 
 Or more delightful than the peacock's feathers ? 
 Or than the gloss upon the necks of doves ? 
 Or have more various beauty than the rainbow ? 
 These I have seen, and, without danger, wonder'd 
 at
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 131 
 
 Prosp. All these are far below them. Nature 
 
 made 
 
 Nothing but woman dangerous and fair. 
 Therefore if you should chance to see them, 
 Avoid them straight, I charge you. 
 
 Hip. Well, since you say they are so dangerous, 
 I'll so far shun them, as I may with safety 
 Of the unblemish'd honour, which you taught me. 
 But let them not provoke me, for I'm sure 
 I shall not then forbear them. 
 
 Prosp. Go in, and read the book I gave you last. 
 To-morrow I may bring you better news. 
 
 Hip. I shall obey you, sir. \_Exit HIP. 
 
 Prosp. So, so ; I hope this lesson has secured 
 
 him, 
 
 For I have been constrain'd to change his lodging 
 From yonder rock, where first I bred him up, 
 And here have brought him home to my own cell, 
 Because the shipwreck happen'd near his mansion. 
 I hope he will not stir beyond his limits, 
 For hitherto he hath been all obedience. 
 The planets seem to smile on my designs, 
 And yet there is one sullen cloud behind. 
 I would it were dispersed ! 
 
 Enter MIRANDA and DORINDA. 
 
 How, my daughters ! 
 
 I thought I had instructed them enough. 
 
 Children ! retire ; why do you walk this way ? 
 
 Mir. It is within our bounds, sir. 
 
 Prosp. But both take heed, that path is very 
 dangerous ; remember what I told you. 
 
 Dor. Is the man that way, sir ? 
 
 Prosp. All that you can imagine ill is there. 
 The curled lion, and the rugged bear, 
 Are not so dreadful as that man. 
 
 Mir. Oh me, why stay we here then ?
 
 132 THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 Dor. I'll keep far enough from his den, I warrant 
 him. 
 
 Mir. But you have told me, sir, you are a man ; 
 And yet you are not dreadful. 
 
 Prosp. Ay, child ; but I 
 
 Am a tame man ; old men are tame by nature, 
 But all the danger lies in a wild young man. 
 
 Dor. Do they run wild about the woods ? 
 
 Prosp. No, they are wild within doors, in cham- 
 bers, and in closets. 
 
 Dor. But, father, I would stroak them, and make 
 them gentle ; then sure they would not hurt me. 
 
 Prosp. You must not trust them, child. No wo- 
 man can come near them, but she feels a pain, full 
 nine months. Well, I must in ; for new affairs re- 
 quire my presence. Be you, Miranda, your sister's 
 guardian. {Exit PIIOSP. 
 
 Dor. Come, sister, shall we walk the other way ? 
 The man will catch us else. We have but two legs, 
 And he, perhaps, has four. 
 
 Mir. Well, sister, though he have ; yet look about 
 you. 
 
 Dor. Come back ! that way is towards his den. 
 
 Mir. Let me alone ; I'll venture first, for sure 
 
 he can 
 Devour but one of us at once. 
 
 Dor. How dare you venture ? 
 
 Mir. We'll find him sitting like a hare in's form, 
 And he shall not see us. 
 
 Dor. Ay, but you know my father charged us 
 both. 
 
 Mir. But who shall tell him on't ? we'll keep 
 each other's counsel. 
 
 Dor. I dare not, for the world. 
 
 Mir. But how shall we hereafter shun him, if we 
 do not know him first ? 
 
 Dor. Nay, I confess I would fain see him too.
 
 SCENE III. THE TEMPEST. 133 
 
 I find it in my nature, because my father has for- 
 bidden me. 
 
 Mir. Ay, there's it, sister ; if he had said nothing, 
 I had been quiet. Go softly, and if you see him 
 first, be quick, and beckon me away. 
 
 Dor. Well, if he does catch me, I'll humble my- 
 self to him, and ask him pardon, as I do my father, 
 when I have done a fault. 
 
 Mir. And if I can but escape with life, I had 
 rather be in pain nine months, as my father threat- 
 ened, than lose my longing.' [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter HIPPOLITO. 
 
 Hip. Prospero has often said, that nature makes 
 Nothing in vain. Why then are women made ? 
 Are they to suck the poison of the earth, 
 As gaudy colour'd serpents are ? I'll ask 
 That question, when next I see him here. 
 
 Enter MIRANDA and DORINDA, peeping. 
 
 Dor. O sister, there it is ! it walks about 
 Like one of us. 
 
 Mir. Ay, just so, and has legs as we have too. 
 
 Hip. It strangely puzzles me. Yet 'tis most 
 
 likely, 
 Women are somewhat between men and spirits. 
 
 Dor. Hark ! it talks ; sure this is not it my 
 
 father meant, 
 
 For this is just like one of us. Methinks, 
 I am not half so much afraid on't as 
 I was ; see, now it turns this way. 
 
 Mir. Heaven ! what a goodly thing it is ! 
 
 Dor. I'll go nearer it. 
 
 Mir. O no, 'tis dangerous, sister ! I'll go to it.
 
 134 THE-TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 I would not for the world that you should venture. 
 My father charged me to secure you from it. 
 
 Dor. I warrant you this is a tame man ; dear 
 
 sister, 
 He'll not hurt me, I see it by his looks. 
 
 Mir. Indeed he will ! but go back, and he shall 
 eat me first. Fie, are you not ashamed to be so 
 inquisitive ? 
 
 Dor. You chide me for it, and would give him 
 yourself. 
 
 Mir. Come back, or I will tell my father 
 Observe how he begins to stare already ! 
 I'll meet the danger first, and then call you. 
 
 Dor. Nay, sister, you shall never vanquish me 
 in kindness. I'll venture you no more than you 
 will me. 
 
 Prosp. [ Within.'] Miranda, child, where are you ? 
 
 Mir. Do you not hear my father call ? Go in. 
 
 Dor. 'Twas you he named, not me ; I will but 
 say my prayers, and follow you immediately. 
 
 Mir. Well, sister, you'll repent it. [Exit MIR. 
 
 Dor. Though I die for it, I must have the other 
 peep. 
 
 Hip. What thing is that ? [Seeing her.'} Sure 'tis 
 
 some infant of 
 
 The sun, dress'd in his father's gayest beams, 
 And comes to play with birds. My sight is dazzled, 
 And yet I find I'm loth to shut my eyes. 
 I must go nearer it : but stay a while ; 
 May it not be that beauteous murderer, woman, 
 Which I was charged to shun ? Speak, what art 
 
 thou, 
 Thou shining vision ! 
 
 Dor. Alas, I know not ; but I'm told I am 
 A woman ; do not hurt me, pray, fair thing. 
 
 Hip. I'd sooner tear my eyes out, than consent
 
 SCENE III. THE TEMPEST. 135 
 
 To do you any harm ; though I was told, 
 A woman was my enemy. 
 
 Dor. I never knew 
 
 What 'twas to be an enemy, nor can I e'er 
 Prove so to that, which looks like you. For though 
 I've been charged by him (whom yet I ne'er diso- 
 
 bey'd,) 
 
 To shun your presence, yet I'd rather die 
 Than lose it ; therefore I hope you will not have 
 
 the heart 
 
 To hurt me. Though I fear you are a man, 
 The dangerous thing of which I have been warn'd. 
 Pray, tell me what you are? 
 
 Hip. 1 must confess, I was inform'd I am a man ; 
 But if I fright you, I shall wish I were some other 
 
 creature. 
 I was bid to fear you too. 
 
 Dor. Ah me ! Heaven grant we be not poison to 
 Each other ! Alas, can we not meet, but we must 
 
 die? 
 Hip. I hope not so ! for, when two poisonous 
 
 creatures, 
 
 Both of the same kind, meet, yet neither dies. 
 I've seen two serpents harmless to each other, 
 Though they have twined into a mutual knot : 
 If we have any venom in us, sure, we cannot be 
 More poisonous, when we meet, than serpents are. 
 You have a hand like mine may I not gently touch 
 
 it? [Takes her hand. 
 
 Dor. I've touched my father's and my sister's 
 
 hands, 
 
 And felt no pain ; but now, alas ! there's something, 
 When I touch yours, which makes me sigh. Just so 
 I've seen two turtles mourning when they met. 
 Yet mine's a pleasing grief ; and so, methought,
 
 136 THE TEMPEST. ACT 11. 
 
 Was theirs : For still they mourn'd, and still they 
 
 seem'd 
 To murmur too, and yet they often met. 
 
 Hip. Oh heavens ! I have the same sense too ; 
 
 your hand, 
 
 Methinks, goes through me ; I feel it at my heart, 
 And find it pleases, though it pains me. 
 Prosp. [Within.] Dorinda ! 
 Dor. My father calls again ; ah, I must leave 
 
 you. 
 
 Hip. Alas, I'm subject to the same command. 
 Dor. This is my first offence against my father, 
 Which he, by severing us, too cruelly does punish. 
 Hip. And this, is my first trespass too. But he 
 Hath more offended truth, than we have him : 
 He said our meeting would destructive be, 
 But I no death, but in our parting, see. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE IV. A Wild Island. 
 
 Enter ALONZO, ANTONIO, and GONZALO. 
 
 Gonz. 'Beseech your grace, be merry : You have 
 
 cause, 
 
 So have we all, of joy, for our strange escape ; 
 Then wisely, good sir, weigh our sorrow with 
 Our comfort. 
 
 Alon. Pr'ythee peace ; you cram these words 
 Into my ears, against my stomach ; how 
 Can I rejoice, when my dear son, perhaps 
 This very moment, is made a meal to some strange 
 fish? 
 
 Anto. Sir, he may live ; 
 I saw him beat the billows under him, 
 And ride upon their backs ; I do not doubt 
 He came alive to land.
 
 SCENE IV. THE TEMPEST. 137 
 
 Alon. No, no, he's gone ; 
 And you and I, Antonio, were those 
 Who caused his death. 
 
 Anto. How could we help it ? 
 
 Alon. Then, then we should have help'd it, 
 When thou betray'dst thy brother Prospero, 
 And Mantua's infant sovereign, to my power : 
 And when I, too ambitious, took by force 
 Another's right : Then lost we Ferdinand ; 
 Then forfeited our navy to this tempest. 
 
 Anto. Indeed we first broke truce with Heaven ; 
 You to the waves an infant prince exposed, 
 And on the waves have lost an only son. 
 I did usurp my brother's fertile lands, 
 And now am cast upon this desert isle. 
 
 Gonz. These, sirs, 'tis true, were crimes of a 
 
 black dye ; 
 
 But both of you have made amends to Heaven, 
 By your late voyage into Portugal ; 
 Where, in defence of Christianity, 
 Your valour has repulsed the Moors of Spain. 
 
 Alon. O name it not, Gonzalo ; 
 No act but penitence can expiate guilt ! 
 Must we teach Heaven what price to set on mur- 
 der? 
 
 What rate on lawless power and wild ambition ? 
 Or dare we traffic with the powers above, 
 And sell by weight a good deed for a bad ? 
 
 [A flourish of music. 
 
 Gonz. Music ! and in the air ! sure we are ship- 
 
 wreck'd 
 On the dominions of some merry devil ! 
 
 Anto. This isle's enchanted ground ; for I have 
 
 heard 
 
 Swift voices flying by my ear, and groans 
 Of lamenting ghosts. 
 
 Alon. I pull'd a tree, and blood pursued my hand.
 
 138 THE-TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 Heaven deliver me from this dire place, 
 And all the after-actions of my life 
 Shall mark my penitence and my bounty. 
 
 [Music again louder. 
 Hark, the sounds approach us ! 
 
 [The stage opens in several places. 
 Anto. Lo ! the earth opens to devour us quick. 
 These dreadful horrors, and the guilty sense 
 Of my foul treason, have unmann'd me quite. 
 
 Alon. We on the brink of swift destruction stand; 
 No means of our escape is left. 
 
 [Another flourish of voices under the stage. 
 Anto. Ah ! what amazing sounds are these we 
 
 hear ! 
 
 Gonz. What horrid masque will the dire fiends 
 present ? 
 
 SUNG UNDER THE STAGE. 
 
 1 Dev. Where does the black fiend Ambition reside, 
 With the mischievous devil of Pride ? 
 
 % Dev. In the lowest and darkest caverns of hell, 
 Both Pride and Ambition do dwell. 
 
 1 Dev. Who are the chief leaders of the damned host ? 
 
 3 Dev. Proud monarchs, who tyrannize most. 
 
 1 Dev. Damn' d princes there 
 
 The worst of torments bear ; 
 
 3 Dev. Who on earth all others in pleasures excel, 
 Must feel the worst torments of hell. 
 
 [ They rise singing this chorus. 
 
 Anto. O heavens ! what horrid vision's this ? 
 How they upbraid us with our crimes ! 
 
 Alon. What fearful vengeance is in store for us ! 
 
 1 Dev, Tyrants, by whom their subjects bleed, 
 Should in pains all others exceed ;
 
 SCENE IV. THE TEMPEST. 139 
 
 1 Dev. And barbarous monarchs, who their neigh- 
 bours invade, 
 
 And their crowns unjustly get ; 
 And such who their brothers to death have 
 
 betray'd, 
 
 In hell upon burning thrones shall be set. 
 3 Dev. ( Inhell, in hellwith flames they shall reign, 
 Chor. \ And for ever, for ever shall siiffer the pain. 
 
 Anto. O ! my soul for ever, for ever shall suffer 
 the pain ! 
 
 Alon. Has Heaven, in all its infinite stock of 
 
 mercy, 
 
 No overflowings for us? poor, miserable, guilty 
 men ! 
 
 Gon%. Nothing but horrors do encompass us ! 
 For ever, for ever must we suffer ! 
 
 Alon. For ever we shall perish ! O dismal words, 
 For ever ! 
 
 1 Dev. Who are the pillars of the tyrants court ? 
 
 2 Dev. Rapine andMurder hiscrown must support ! 
 
 3 Dev. His cruelty does tread 
 
 On orphans' tender breasts, andbrothers dead ! 
 2 Dev. Can Heaven permit such crimes should be 
 Attended with felicity ? 
 
 1 Dev. JVo ; tyrants their sceptres uneasily bear, 
 
 In the midst of their guards they their con- 
 
 sciencesjear. 
 f Care their minds when they wake unquiet 
 
 2 Dev. 1 will keep ; 
 
 Chor. J And we with dire visions disturb all their 
 sleep. 
 
 Anto. Oh horrid sight ! how they stare upon us ! 
 The fiend will hurry us to the dark mansion. 
 Sweet Heaven, have mercy on us !
 
 140 THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 1 Dev. Say, say, shall we bear these bold mortals 
 
 from hence f 
 
 2 Dev. No, no, let us shew their degrees of offence. 
 
 3 Dev. Lets muster their crimes upon every side, 
 
 And first let's discover their pride. 
 
 Enter PRIDE. 
 
 Pride. Lo here is Pride, who first led them astray, 
 And did to ambition their minds then betray. 
 
 Enter FRAUD. 
 
 Fraud. And Fraud does next appear, 
 Their wandering steps who led ; 
 When they from virtue fied, 
 They in my crooked paths their course did steer. 
 
 Enter RAPINE. 
 
 Rapine. From fraud to force they soon arrive, 
 Where Rapine did their actions drive. 
 
 Enter MURDER. 
 
 Murder. There long they could not stay ; 
 Down the steep hill they run ; 
 And to perfect the mischief which they had 
 
 To murder they bent all their way. 
 Chorus Around, around we pace, 
 
 of all. About this cursed place ; 
 
 While thus we compass in 
 These mortals and their sin. 
 
 [Devils vanish. 
 
 Anto. Heaven has heard me, they are vanish'd ! 
 
 Alon. But they have left me all unmann'd ; 
 I feel my sinews slacken with the fright ; 
 And a cold sweat trills down o'er all my limbs, 
 As if I were dissolving into water.
 
 SCENE IV. THE TEMPEST. 141 
 
 Oh Prospero, my crimes against thee sit heavy on 
 
 my heart ! 
 Anto. And mine against him and young Hip- 
 
 polito. 
 
 Gonz. Heaven have mercy on the penitent ! 
 Anto. Lead from this cursed ground ; 
 The seas in all their rage are not so dreadful. 
 This is the region of despair and death. 
 
 Alon. Beware all fruit, but what the birds have 
 
 peck'd. 
 
 The shadows of the trees are poisonous too ; 
 A secret venom slides from every branch. 
 My conscience does distract me ! O my son ! 
 Why do I speak of eating or repose, 
 Before I know thy fortune ? 
 
 [As they are going out, a Devil rises just before 
 
 them, at which they start, and are frighted. 
 Alon. O heavens ! yet more apparitions ! 
 
 DEVIL SINGS. 
 
 Arise, arise ! ye subterranean winds, 
 
 More to disturb their guilty minds : 
 
 And all ye filthy damps and vapours rise, 
 
 Which use to infect the earth, and trouble all the 
 
 skies; 
 
 Rise you, from whom devouring plagues have birth: 
 You, that in the vast and hollow womb of earth 
 Engender earthquakes, make whole countries shake, 
 And stately cities into deserts turn ; 
 And you, who feed the flames by which earth's en- 
 trails burn. 
 
 Ye raging winds, whose rapid force can make 
 All but thefix'd and solid centre shake, 
 Come drive these wretches to that part of the isle, 
 Where nature never yet did smile : 
 Cause fogs and storms, whirlwinds, and earthquakes 
 there :
 
 142 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 There let them howl and languish in despair ! 
 
 Rise, and obey the powerful Prince of the Air. 
 [Two Winds rise, ten more enter and dance. 
 At the end of the dance, three Winds sink, 
 the rest drive ALONZO, ANTONIO, and 
 GONZALO off. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. A Wild Island, 
 
 Enter FERDINAND, ARIEL, and MILCHA invisible. 
 
 Ariel. Come unto these yellow sands. 
 And then take hands, 
 Curtsied when you have, and kiss'd; 
 And wild waves whist. 
 Foot itfeatly here and there, 
 And sweet sprites the burthen bear. 
 Hark! hark! 
 
 Bow waugh, the watch-dogs bark. 
 Sow waugh. Hark ! hark ! I hear 
 The strain of strutting Chanticleer, 
 Cry, Cock a doodle do. 
 
 Ferd. Where should this music be ? in the air, 
 
 or earth ? 
 
 It sounds no more, and sure it waits upon 
 Some God in the island. Sitting on a bank, 
 Weeping against the duke my father's wreck, 
 This music hover'd on the waters, 
 Allaying both their fury, and my passion, 
 With charming airs. Thence I have follow'd it, 
 (Or it has drawn me rather) but 'tis gone. 
 No, it begins again.
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 143 
 
 MlLCHA SINGS. 
 
 Full fathom Jive thy father lies, 
 
 Of his bones is coral made : 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 
 
 Nothing of him, that does fade, 
 But does suffer a sea change, 
 Into something rich and strange : 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell; 
 Hark ! now I hear them, ding dong bell. 
 
 Ferd. This mournful ditty mentions my drown'd 
 
 father. 
 
 This is no mortal business, nor a sound 
 Which the earth owns. I hear it now before me ; 
 However, I will on, and follow it. 
 
 [Exit Fvnv. following ARIEL. 
 
 SCENE II. The Cypress Trees and Cave. 
 
 Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA. 
 
 Prosp. Excuse it not, Miranda, for to you 
 (The elder, and, I thought, the more discreet,) 
 I gave the conduct of your sister's actions. 
 
 Mir. Sir, when you call'd me thence, I did not 
 
 fail 
 To mind her of her duty to depart. 
 
 Prosp. How can I think you did remember hers, 
 When you forgot your own ? did you not see 
 The man, whom I commanded you to shun ? 
 
 Mir. I must confess I saw him at a distance, 
 
 Prosp. Did not his eyes infect and poison you ? 
 What alteration found you in yourself? 
 
 Mir. I only wonder'd at a sight so new. 
 
 Prosp. But have you no desire once more to see 
 
 him ? 
 Come, tell me truly what you think of him.
 
 144 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 Mir. As of the gayest thing I ever saw, 
 So fine, that it appear'd more fit to be 
 Beloved than fear'd, and seem'd so near my kind, 
 That I did think I might have call'd it sister. 
 
 Prosp. You do not love it ? 
 
 Mir. How is it likely that I should, 
 Except the thing had first loved me ? 
 
 Prosp. Cherish those thoughts. You have a ge- 
 nerous soul ; 
 
 And since I see your mind not apt to take 
 The light impressions of a sudden love, 
 I will unfold a secret to your knowledge. 
 That creature, which you saw, is of a kind, 
 Which nature made a prop and guide to yours. 
 
 Mir. Why did you then propose him as an ob- 
 ject 
 
 Of terror to my mind ? You never used 
 To teach me any thing but god-like truths, 
 And what you said, I did believe as sacred. 
 
 Prosp. I fear'd the pleasing form of this young- 
 man 
 
 Might unawares possess yoiir tender breast, 
 Which for a nobler guest I had design'd ; 
 For shortly, my Miranda, you shall see 
 Another of this kind, the full-blown flower, 
 Of which this youth was but the opening bud. 
 Go in, and send your sister to me, 
 
 Mir. Heaven still preserve you, sir. [Exit MIR. 
 
 Pros. And make thee fortunate. 
 
 Enter DORINDA. 
 
 Oh, come hither ; you have seen a man to-day, 
 Against my strict command. 
 
 Dor. Who, I ? Indeed I saw him but a little, sir. 
 
 Prosp. Come, come, be clear. Your sister told 
 me all. 
 
 Dor. Did she ?
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 145 
 
 Truly she would have seen him more than I, 
 But that I would not let her. 
 
 Prosp. Why so ? 
 
 Dor. Because, methought, he would have hurt 
 
 me less 
 
 Than he would her. 
 
 But if I knew you'd not be angry with me, 
 I could tell you, sir, that he was much to blame. 
 
 Prosp. Ha ! was he to blame ? 
 Tell me, with that sincerity I taught you, 
 How you became so bold to see the man ? 
 
 Dor. I hope you will forgive me, sir, because 
 I did not see him much, till he saw me. 
 Sir, he would needs come in my way, and stared, 
 And stared upon my face, and so I thought 
 I would be revenged of him, and, therefore, 
 I gazed on him as long ; but if I e'er 
 Come near a man again ! 
 
 Prosp. I told you he 
 Was dangerous ; but you would not be wam'd. 
 
 Dor. Pray be not angry, sir, if I tell you, 
 You are mistaken in him ; for he did 
 Me no great hurt. 
 
 Prosp. But he may do you more harm hereafter. 
 
 Dor. No, sir, I'm as well as e'er I was in all my 
 
 life, 
 
 But that I cannot eat nor drink for thought of him. 
 That dangerous man runs ever in my mind. 
 
 Prosp. The way to cure you is, no more to see 
 him. 
 
 Dor. Nay, pray, sir, say not so. I promised him 
 To see him once again ; and you know, sir, 
 You charged me I should never break my promise, 
 
 Prosp. Would you see him, who did you so much 
 mischief? 
 
 Dor. I warrant you 
 I did him as much harm as he did me ; 
 
 VOL. III. K
 
 146 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 For when I left him, sir, he sigh'd so, as it grieved 
 My heart to hear him. 
 
 Prosp. Those sighs were poisonous, they infect- 
 ed you ; 
 You say they grieved you to the heart. 
 
 Dor. Tis true ; but yet his looks and words were 
 gentle. 
 
 Prosp. These are the day-dreams of a maid in 
 
 love ; 
 But still I fear the worst. 
 
 Dor. O fear not him, sir. 
 
 Prosp. You speak of him with too much passion ; 
 
 tell me, 
 
 (And, on your duty, tell me true, Dorinda,) 
 What pass'd betwixt you and that horrid creature ? 
 
 Dor. How, horrid, sir ? if any else but you 
 Should call it so, indeed I should be angry. 
 
 Prosp. Go to ! You are a foolish girl ; but an- 
 swer 
 To what I ask ; what thought you when you saw it ? 
 
 Dor. At first it stared upon me, and seem'd wild, 
 And then I trembled ; yet it look'd so lovely, 
 That when I would have fled away, my feet 
 Seem'd fasten'd to the ground, when it drew near, 
 And with amazement ask'd to touch my hand ; 
 Which, as a ransom for my life, I gave. 
 But when he had it, w r ith a furious gripe 
 He put it to his mouth so eagerly, 
 I was afraid he would have swallow'd it. 
 
 Prosp. Well, what was his behaviour afterwards ? 
 
 Dor. He on a sudden grew so tame and gentle, 
 That he became more kind to me than you are ; 
 Then, sir, I grew I know not how, and, touching 
 His hand again, my heart did beat so strong, 
 As I lack'd breath to answer what he ask'd. 
 
 Prosp. You've been too fond, and I should chide 
 you for it.
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 147 
 
 Dor. Then send me to that creature to be pu- 
 nish'd. 
 
 Prosp. Poor child ! Thy passion, like a lazy ague, 
 Has seized thy blood ; instead of striving, thou hu- 
 
 mour'st 
 
 And feed'st thy languishing disease : Thou fight'st 
 The battles of thy enemy, and 'tis one part of what 
 I threaten'd thee, not to perceive thy danger. 
 
 Dor. Danger, sir ? 
 
 If he would hurt me, yet he knows not how : 
 He hath no claws, nor teeth, nor horns to hurt me, 
 But looks about him like a callow-bird, 
 Just straggling from the nest. Pray trust me, sir, 
 To go to him again. 
 
 Prosp. Since you will venture, 
 I charge you bear yourself reservedly to him ; 
 Let him not dare to touch your naked hand, 
 But keep at distance from him. 
 
 Dor. This is hard ! 
 
 Prosp. It is the way to make him love you more ; 
 He will despise you, if you grow too kind. 
 
 Dor. I'll struggle with my heart to follow this ; 
 But if I lose him by it, will you promise 
 To bring him back again ? 
 
 Prosp. Fear not, Dorinda ; 
 But use him ill, and he'll be yours for ever. 
 
 Dor. I hope you have not cozen'd me again. 
 
 [Exit DOR. 
 
 Prosp. Now my designs are gathering to a head ; 
 My spirits are obedient to my charms. 
 What, Ariel ! My servant Ariel, where art thou? 
 
 Enter ARIEL. 
 
 Ariel. What would my potent master ? Here I 
 
 am. 
 Prosp. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last 
 
 service
 
 148 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 Did worthily perform, and I must use you 
 In such another work. How goes the day ? 
 
 Ariel. On the fourth, my lord ; and on the sixth 
 You said our work should cease. 
 
 Prosp. And so it shall ; 
 And thou shalt have the open air at freedom. 
 
 Ariel. Thanks, my great lord. 
 
 Prosp. But tell me first, my spirit, 
 How fares the duke, my brother, and their follow- 
 ers? 
 
 Ariel. Confined together, as you gave me order, 
 In the lime-grove, which weather-fends your cell ; 
 Within that circuit up and down they wander, 
 But cannot stir one step beyond their compass. 
 
 Prosp. How do they bear their sorrows ? 
 
 Ariel. The two dukes appear like men distracted, 
 
 their 
 
 Attendants,brim-fullofsorrow,mourningoverthem; 
 But chiefly he, you term'd the good Gonzalo : 
 His tears run down his beard, like winter-drops 
 From eaves of reeds ; your vision did so work them, 
 That, if you now beheld them, your affections 
 Would become tender. 
 
 Prosp. Dost thou think so, spirit ? 
 
 Ariel. Mine would, sir, were I human. 
 
 Prosp. And mine shall : 
 Hast thou, who art but air, a touch, a feeling 
 Of their afflictions, and shall not I (a man 
 Like them, one, who as sharply relish passions 
 As they) be kindlier moved than thou art ? 
 Though they have pierced me to the quick with in- 
 juries, 
 
 Yet with my nobler reason, 'gainst my fury, 
 I will take part ; the rarer action is 
 In virtue, than in vengeance. Go, my Ariel, 
 Refresh with needful food their famish'd bodies, 
 With shows and chearful music comfort them.
 
 SCENE III. THE TEMPEST. 149 
 
 Ariel Presently, master? 
 
 Prosp. With a twinkle, Ariel. But stay, my spirit ; 
 What is become of my slave, Caliban, 
 And Sycorax, his sister ? 
 
 Ariel. Potent sir, 
 
 They have cast off your service, and revolted 
 To the wreck'd mariners, who have already 
 Parcell'd your island into governments. 
 
 Prosp. No matter, I have now no need of them. 
 But, spirit, now I stay thee on the wing ; 
 Haste to perform what I have given in charge ; 
 But see they keep within the bounds I set them. 
 
 Ariel. I'll keep them in with walls of adamant, 
 Invisible as air to mortal eyes, 
 But yet unpassable. 
 
 Prosp. Make haste then. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE III. mid Island. 
 
 Enter ALONZO, ANTONIO, and GONZALO. 
 
 Gonx. I am weary, and can go no further, sir. 
 
 Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, who am 
 myself seized with a weariness, to the dulling of 
 my spirits : [ They sit. 
 
 Even here I will put off' my hope, and keep it 
 No longer for my flatterers : He is drown'd, 
 Whom thus we stray to find. I'm faint with hun- 
 ger, 
 
 And must despair of food. [Music wit/tout. 
 
 What ! harmony again ? My good friends, hark ! 
 
 Anto. I fear some other horrid apparition. 
 Give us kind keepers, heaven, I beseech thee ! 
 
 Gonz. 'Tis chearful music this, unlike the first. 
 
 ARIEL and MILCHA invisible, sing. 
 
 Dry those eyes which are overflowing. 
 All your storms are overblowing :
 
 150 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 While you in this isle are biding, 
 You shall feast without providing : 
 Every dainty you can think of, 
 Every wine which you would drink of, 
 Shall be yours ; all want shall shun you, 
 Ceres' blessing so is on you. 
 
 Alon. This voice speaks comfort to us. 
 
 Anto. Would 'twere come ! 
 There is no music in a song to me, 
 My stomach being empty. 
 
 Gonz. O for a heavenly vision of boil'd, " 
 Baked, and roasted ! 
 
 \JDance of fantastic Spirits ; after the dance, a table 
 furnished with meat and fruit is brought in by two 
 Spirits. 
 
 Anto. My lord, the duke, see yonder ! 
 A table, as I live, set out and furnish'd 
 With all varieties of meats and fruits. 
 
 Alon. 'Tis so indeed ; but who dares taste this 
 
 feast, 
 Which fiends provide, to poison us ? 
 
 Gon%. Why that dare I ; if the black gentleman 
 Be so ill natured, he may do his pleasure. 
 
 Anto. 'Tis certain we must either eat or famish : 
 I will encounter it, and feed. 
 
 Alon. If both resolve, I will adventure too. 
 
 Gonz. The devil may fright me, yet he shall not 
 starve me. 
 
 [ Two Spirits descend, and fly away with the table. 
 
 Alon. Heaven ! behold, it is as you suspected : 
 'Tis vanish'd. 
 Shall we be always haunted with these fiends ? 
 
 Anto. Here we shall wander till we famish. 
 
 Gonz. Certainly one of you was so wicked as to
 
 SCENE III. THE TEMPEST. 151 
 
 say grace ; this comes on it, when men will be god- 
 ly out of season. 
 Anto. Tender's another table, let's try that. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter TRINCALO and CALIBAN. 
 
 Trine. Brother monster, welcome to my private 
 palace. But where's thy sister ? Is she so brave a 
 lass? 
 
 Calib. In all this isle there are but two more the 
 daughters of the tyrant Prospero ; and she is big- 
 ger than them both. O, here she comes ! now thou 
 may est judge thyself, my lord. 
 
 Enter SYCOIIAX. 
 
 Trine. She's monstrous fair indeed. Is this to 
 be my spouse ? Well, she's heir of all this isle (for 
 I will geld monster.) The Trincalos, like other 
 wise men, have anciently used to marry for estate, 
 more than for beauty. 
 
 Syc. I pr'ythee let me have the gay thing about 
 thy neck, and that which dangles at thy wrist. 
 
 [SYCORAX/xwwfe to his whistle and his bottle. 
 
 Trine. My dear blubber-lips ! this observe, my 
 chuck is a badge of my sea-office ; my fair fuss, 
 thou dost not know it. 
 
 Syc. No, my dread lord. 
 
 Trine. It shall be a whistle for our first babe, and 
 when the next shipwreck puts me again to swim- 
 ming, I'll dive to get a coral to it. 
 
 Syc. I'll be thy pretty child, and wear it first. 
 
 Trine. I pr'ythee, sweet baby, do not play the 
 wanton, and cry for my goods ere I'm dead. When 
 thou art my widow, thou shalt have the devil and 
 all. 
 
 Syc. May I not have the other fine thing ?
 
 152 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 Trine. This is a sucking-bottle for young Trin- 
 calo. 
 
 Calib. Shall she not taste of that immortal li- 
 quor? 
 
 Trine. Umph ! that's another question : For if she 
 be thus flippant in her water, what will she be in 
 her wine ? 
 
 Enter ARIEL (invisible) and changes the Bottle 
 which stands upon the ground. 
 
 Ariel. There's water for your wine. [Exit AIIIEL. 
 
 Trine. Well ! since it must be so. 
 
 [Gives her the bottle. 
 
 How do you like it now, my queen that must be ? 
 
 [She drinks. 
 
 Syc. Is this your heav'nly liquor ? I'll bring you 
 to a river of the same. 
 
 Trine. Wilt thou so, Madam Monster ? What a 
 mighty prince shall I be then ! I would not change 
 my dukedom to be Great Turk Trincalo. 
 
 Syc. This is the drink of frogs. 
 
 Trine. Nay, if the frogs of this island drink such, 
 they are the merriest frogs in Christendom. 
 
 Calib. She does not know the virtue of this li- 
 quor : 
 I pr'ythee, let me drink for her. [CALIBAN drinks. 
 
 Trine. Well said, subject-monster ! 
 
 Calib. My lord, this is mere water. 
 
 Trine. 'Tis thou hast changed the wine then, and 
 drunk it up, like a debauched fish as thou art. Let 
 me see't, I'll taste it myself. Element ! mere ele- 
 ment, as I live ! It was a cold gulp, such as this, 
 which killed my famous predecessor, old Simon the 
 king.* 
 
 * This personage, who has bequeathed his name to a well- 
 known tune, is believed to have been Simon Wadloe, or Wadlow, 
 master of the Devil Tavern, when frequented by Ben Jonson.
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 153 
 
 Calib. How does thy honour ? pr'ythee, be not 
 angry, and I will lick thy shoe. 
 
 Trine. I could find in my heart to tuni thee out 
 of my dominions, for a liquorish monster. 
 
 Calib. O, my lord, I have found it out ; this must 
 be done by one of Prospero's spirits. 
 
 Trine. There's nothing but malice in these devils; 
 I would it had been holy- water for their sakes ! 
 
 Syc. 'Tis no matter, I will cleave to thee. 
 
 Trine. Lovingly said, in troth : Now cannot I 
 hold out against her. This wife-like virtue of her's 
 has overcome me. 
 
 Syc. Shall I have thee in my arms ? 
 
 Trine. Thou shalt have Duke Trincalo in thy 
 arms : But, pr'ythee, be not too boisterous with me 
 at first ; do not discourage a young beginner. [ They 
 embraced] Stand to your arms, my spouse, and sub- 
 ject-monster, 
 
 Enter STEPHANO, MUSTACHO, and VENTOSO. 
 
 the enemy is come to surprise us in our quarters. 
 You shall know, rebels, that I am married to a witch, 
 and we have a thousand spirits of our party. 
 
 Steph. Hold ! I ask a truce ; I and my viceroys 
 {finding no food, and but a small remainder of bran- 
 dy,) are come to treat a peace betwixt us, which may 
 be for the good of both armies ; therefore, Trincalo, 
 disband. 
 
 Trine. Plain Trincalo ! methinks I might have 
 been a duke in your mouth ; I'll not accept of your 
 embassy without my title. 
 
 Steph. A title shall break no squares betwixt us : 
 Viceroys, give him his style of duke, and treat with 
 him, whilst I walk by in state. 
 
 [VENTOSO and MUSTACHO bow, whilst TRIN- 
 CALO puts on his cap. 
 
 Must. Our lord and master, Duke Stephano, has
 
 154 THE TEMPEST. ACT III, 
 
 sent us, in the first place, to demand of you, upon 
 what ground you make war against him ; having 
 no right to govern here, as being elected only by 
 your own voice. 
 
 Trine. To this I answer, That, having in the face 
 of the world espoused the lawful inheretrix of this 
 island, Queen Blouze the First, and having homage 
 done me by this hectoring spark her brother ; from 
 these two I claim a lawful title to this island. 
 
 Must. Who, that monster ? He a Hector ? 
 
 Calib. Lo, how he mocks me ! wilt thou let him r 
 my lord ? 
 
 Trine. Viceroys ! keep good tongues in your 
 heads, I advise you, and proceed to your business. 
 
 Must. First and foremost, as to your claim, that 
 you have answered. 
 
 Vent. But, second and foremost, we demand of 
 you, that if we make a peace, the butt also may be 
 comprehended in the treaty. 
 
 Trine. I cannot treat with my honour, without 
 your submission. 
 
 Steph. I understand, being present, from my am- 
 bassadors, what your resolution is, and ask an hour's 
 time of deliberation, and so I take our leave ; but 
 first I desire to be entertained at your butt, as be- 
 comes a prince and his ambassadors. 
 
 Trine. That I refuse, till acts of hostility be 
 ceased. These rogues are rather spies than ambas- 
 sadors. I must take heed of my butt. They come 
 to pry into the secrets of my dukedom. 
 
 Vent. Trincalo, you are a barbarous prince, and 
 so farewell. [Exeunt STEPH. MUST, and VENT. 
 
 Trine. Subject-monster ! stand you sentry before 
 my cellar ; my queen and I will enter, and feast 
 ourselves within. [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE IV. THE TEMPEST. 155 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Enter FERDINAND, and ARIEL and MILCHA 
 invisible. 
 
 Ferd. How far will this invisible musician 
 Conduct my steps ? he hovers still about me ; 
 Whether for good or ill, I cannot tell, 
 Nor care I much ; for I have been so long 
 A slave to chance, that I'm as weary of 
 Her flatteries as her frowns ; but here I am 
 
 Ariel. Here I am. 
 
 Ferd. Ha ! art thou so ? the spirit's turn'd an 
 
 echo. 
 
 This might seem pleasant, could the burden of 
 My griefs accord with any thing but sighs ; 
 And my last words, like those of dying men, 
 Need no reply. Fain I would go to shades, 
 Where few would wish to follow me. 
 
 Ariel. Follow me. 
 
 Ferd. This evil spirit grows importunate, 
 But I'll not take his counsel. 
 
 Ariel. Take his counsel. 
 
 Ferd. It may be the devil's counsel, I'll never 
 take it. 
 
 Ariel. Take it. 
 
 Ferd. I will discourse no more with thee, 
 Nor follow one step further. 
 
 Ariel. One step further. 
 
 Ferd. This must have more importance than an 
 
 echo ; 
 
 Some spirit tempts me to a precipice. 
 I'll try if it will answer when I sing 
 My sorrows, to the murmur of this brook.
 
 156 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 HE SINGS. 
 
 Go thy way. 
 
 Ariel. Go thy way. 
 
 Ferd. Why should 'st thou stay ? 
 
 Ariel. Why should'st thou stay ? 
 
 Ferd. Where the windswhistle,and where the streams 
 
 creep, 
 
 Under yon willow-tree fain would I sleep. 
 Then let me alone, 
 For 'tis time to be gone. 
 Ariel. For 'tis time to be gone. 
 
 Ferd. WJiat cares or pleasures can be in this isle f 
 Within this desert place, 
 There lives no human race ; 
 Fate cannot frown here, nor kind fortune smile. 
 Ariel. Kind fortune smiles, and she 
 Has yet in store for thee 
 Some strange felicity. 
 Follow me, follow me, 
 And thou shalt see. 
 
 Ferd. I'll take thy word for once ; 
 Lead on, musician. [Exeunt and return. 
 
 SCENE V.The Cypress-trees and Caves. 
 
 Scene changes, and discovers PROSPERO and MI- 
 RANDA. 
 
 Prosp. Advance the fringed curtains of thine 
 
 eyes, 
 And say what thou seest yonder. 
 
 Mir. Is it a spirit ? 
 
 Lord, how it looks about ! Sir, I confess 
 It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit.
 
 SCENE V. THE TEMPEST. 157 
 
 Prosp. No, girl, it eats, and sleeps, and has such 
 
 senses 
 
 As we have. This young gallant, whom thou see'st, 
 Was in the wreck ; were he not somewhat stain'd 
 With grief, (beauty's worst canker) thou might'st 
 
 call him 
 
 A goodly person ; he has lost his company, 
 And strays about to find them. 
 
 Mir. I might call him 
 A thing divine, for nothing natural 
 I ever saw so noble. 
 
 Prosp. It goes on, 
 
 As my soul prompts it : Spirit, fine spirit, 
 I'll free thee within two days for this. [Aside. 
 
 Ferd. She's sure the mistress on whom these airs 
 
 attend. 
 
 Fair excellence ! if, as your form declares, 
 You are divine, be pleased to instruct me how 
 You will be worshipp'd ; so bright a beauty 
 Cannot sure belong to human kind. 
 
 Mir. I am, like you, a mortal, if such you are. 
 
 Ferd. My language, too ! O heavens ! I am the 
 
 best 
 
 Of them who speak this speech, when I'm in my 
 Own country. 
 
 Prosp. How, the best ? what wert thou, if 
 The Duke of Savoy heard thee? 
 
 Ferd. As 1 am now ; 
 
 Who wonders to hear thee speak of Savoy ; 
 He does hear me, and that he does, I weep. 
 Myself am Savoy, whose fatal eyes (ne'er since at 
 
 ebb) beheld 
 The duke, my father, wreck'd. 
 
 Mir. Alack ! for pity ! 
 
 Prosp. At the first sight they have changed eyes. 
 Dear Ariel, I'll set thee free for this. [Aside. 
 Young sir, a word.
 
 158 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 With hazard of yourself you do me wrong. 
 
 Mir. Why speaks my father so ungently ? This is 
 The third man that I ever saw, the first 
 Whom e'er I sigh'd for ; sweet heaven, move my 
 
 father 
 To be inclined my way ! 
 
 Ferd. O ! if a virgin, 
 
 And your affections not gone forth, I'll make you 
 Mistress of Savoy. 
 
 Prosp. Soft, sir, one word more. 
 They're in each other's power ; but this swift bu- 
 siness 
 
 I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 
 Make the prize light. One word more. Thou 
 
 usurp'st 
 
 The name not due to thee, hast put thyself 
 Upon this island as a spy, to get 
 The government from me, the lord of it. 
 
 Ferd. No, as I'm a man. 
 
 Mir. There's nothing ill can dwell in such a 
 
 temple : 
 
 If the evil spirit hath so fair a house, 
 Good things will strive to dwell with it. 
 
 Prosp. No more. Speak not for him, he is a 
 
 traitor. 
 
 Come ! thou art my prisoner, and shalt be in bonds. 
 Sea-water shalt thou drink, thy food shall be 
 The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots and husks, 
 Wherein the acorn cradled ; follow. 
 
 Ferd. No, I will resist such entertainment, 
 Till my enemy has more power. 
 
 [He draws, and is charmed from moving. 
 
 Mir. O dear father ! make not too rash a trial 
 Of him ; for he is gentle, and not fearful. 
 
 Prosp. My child my tutor ? Put thy sword up, 
 Traitor, who mak'st a shew, but dar'st not strike : 
 Thy conscience is possess'd with guilt.
 
 SCENE V. THE TEMPEST. 159 
 
 Come from thy ward, 
 
 For I can here disarm thee with this wand, 
 
 'And make thy weapon drop. 
 
 Mir. 'Beseech you, father ! 
 
 Prosp. Hence : Hang not on my garment. 
 
 Mir. Sir, have pity ! 
 I'll be his surety. 
 
 Prosp. Silence ! one word more 
 Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What ! 
 An advocate for an impostor ? sure 
 Thou think'st there are no more such shapes as his ; 
 To the most of men this is a Caliban, 
 And they to him are angels. 
 
 Mir. My affections are then most humble ; 
 I have no ambition to see a goodlier man. 
 
 Prosp. Come on, obey. 
 Thy nerves are in their infancy again, 
 And have no vigour in them. 
 
 Ferd. So they are. 
 
 My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up : 
 My father's loss, the weakness which I feel, 
 The wreck of all my friends, and this man's threats. 
 To whom I am subdued, would seem light to me, 
 Might I but once a day thorough my prison 
 Behold this maid. All corners else o' the earth 
 Let liberty make use of : I have space 
 Enough in such a prison. 
 
 Prosp. It works. Come on ! 
 Thou hast done well, fine Ariel. Follow me ! 
 Hark what thou shalt do for me. [ Whispers ARIEL. 
 
 Mir. Be of comfort ! 
 My father's of a better nature, sir, 
 Than he appears by speech. This is unwonted, 
 Which now came from him. 
 
 Prosp. Thou shalt be free as mountain winds : 
 
 But then 
 Exactly do all points of my command.
 
 160 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 Ariel. To a syllable. [Exit ARIEL. 
 
 Prosp. to Mir. Go in that way, speak not a word 
 
 for him. 
 I'll separate you. [Exit MIRANDA. 
 
 Ferd. As soon thou may'st divide the waters, 
 
 when 
 
 Thou strikest 'em, which pursue thy bootless blow, 
 And meet when it is past. 
 
 Prosp. Go practise your philosophy within, 
 And if you are the same you speak yourself, 
 Bear your afflictions like a prince. That door 
 Shews you your lodging. 
 
 Ferd. 'Tis in vain to strive, I must obey. 
 
 [Exit FERD. 
 
 Prosp. This goes as I would wish it. 
 Now for my second care, Hippolito. 
 I shall not need to chide him for his fault, 
 His passion is become his punishment. 
 Come forth, Hippolito. 
 
 Enter HIPPOLITO. 
 
 Hip. 'Tis Prospero's voice. 
 
 Prosp. Hippolito, I know you now expect 
 I should severely chide you. You have seen 
 A woman, in contempt of my commands. 
 
 Hip. But, sir, you see I am come off unharm'd ; 
 I told you, that you need not doubt my courage. 
 
 Prosp. You think you have received no hurt ? 
 
 Hip. No, none, sir. 
 
 Try me again ; whene'er you please I'm ready. 
 I think I cannot fear an army of them. 
 
 Prosp. How much in vain it is to bridle nature ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 Well, what was the success of your encounter ? 
 
 Hip. Sir, we had none, we yielded both at first ; 
 For I took her to mercy, and she me.
 
 SCENE V. THE TEMPEST. 161 
 
 Prosp. But are you not much changed from what 
 
 you were ? 
 Hip. Methinks, 1 wish, and wish ! for what I 
 
 know not, 
 
 But still I wish : Yet if I had that woman, 
 She, I believe, could tell me what I wish for. 
 Prosp. What would you do to make that woman 
 
 yours ? 
 Hip. I'd quit the rest o'the world, that I might 
 
 live 
 
 Alone with her ; she never should be from me : 
 We two would sit and look till our eyes ached. 
 Prosp. You'd soon be weary of her. 
 Hip. O, sir, never. 
 Prosp. But you'll grow old and wrinkled, as you 
 
 see 
 
 Me now, and then you will not care for her. 
 Hip. You may do what you please ; but, sir, we 
 
 two 
 
 Can never possibly grow old. 
 Prosp. You must, Hippolito. 
 Hip. Whether we will or no, sir ! who shall make 
 
 us? 
 
 Prosp. Nature, which made me so. 
 Hip. But you have told me, that her works are 
 
 various. 
 She made you old, but she has made us young. 
 
 Prosp. Time will convince you. 
 Meanwhile, be sure you tread in honour's paths, 
 That you may merit her. And that you may not 
 Want fit occasions to employ your virtue, 
 In this next cave there is a stranger lodged, 
 One of your kind, young, of a noble presence, 
 And, as he says himself of princely birth : 
 He is my prisoner, and in deep affliction. 
 Visit, and comfort him ; it will become you. 
 
 VOL. III. I,
 
 162 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 Hip. It is my duty, sir. [Exit HIP. 
 
 Prosp. True, he has seen a woman, yet he lives ! 
 Perhaps I took the moment of his birth 
 Amiss. Perhaps my art itself is false. 
 On what strange grounds we build our hopes and 
 
 fears ! 
 
 Man's life is all a mist ! and, in the dark, 
 Our fortunes meet us. 
 If fate be not, then what can we foresee ? 
 Or how can we avoid it, if it be ? 
 If by free will in our own paths we move, 
 How are we bounded by decrees above? 
 Whether we drive, or whether we are driven, 
 If ill, 'tis ours ; if good, the act of Heaven. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE VI. A Cave. 
 
 Enter HIPPOLITO and FERDINAND. 
 
 Ferd. Your pity, noble youth, doth much oblige 
 
 me. 
 Indeed, 'twas sad to lose a father so. 
 
 Hip. Ay, and an only father, too ; for sure 
 You said, you had but one. 
 
 Ferd. But one father ! He's wondrous simple. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Hip. Are such misfortunes frequent in your 
 
 world, 
 Where many men live ? 
 
 Ferd. Such are we born to.-- 
 But, gentle youth, as you have questioned me, 
 So give me leave to ask you, what you are ? 
 
 Hip. Do not you know ? 
 
 Ferd. How should I ? 
 
 Hip. I well hoped 
 I was a man, but by your ignorance 
 Of what I am, I fear it is not so.
 
 SCENE VI. THE TEMPEST. 163 
 
 Well, Prospero ! this is now the second time 
 You have deceived me. 
 
 Ferd. Sir, there is no doubt 
 You are a man. But I would know, of whence ? 
 
 Hip. Why, of this world ; I never was in yours. 
 
 Ferd. Have you a father ? 
 
 Hip. I was told I had one, 
 And that he was a man ; yet I have been 
 So much deceived, I dare not tell't you for 
 A truth. But I have still been kept a prisoner, 
 For fear of women. 
 
 Ferd. They, indeed, are dangerous ; 
 For, since I came, I have beheld one here, 
 Whose beauty pierced my heart. 
 
 Hip. How did she pierce? You seem not hurt. 
 
 Ferd. Alas ! the wound was made by her bright 
 
 eyes, 
 
 And festers by her absence. 
 But, to speak plainer to you, sir, I love her. 
 
 Hip. Now, I suspect that love's the very thing, 
 That I feel too I Pray tell me truly, sir. 
 Are you not grown unquiet since you saw her ? 
 
 Ferd. I take no rest. 
 
 Hip. Just, just my disease. 
 Do you not wish, you do not know for what ? 
 
 Ferd. O, no ! I know too well for what I wish. 
 
 Hip. There, I confess, I differ from you, sir : 
 But you desire she may be always with you? 
 
 Ferd. I can have no felicity without her. 
 
 Hip. Just my condition. Alas, gentle sir ! 
 I'll pity you, and you shall pity me. 
 
 Ferd. I love so much, that, if I have her not, 
 I find I cannot live. 
 
 Hip. How ! do you love her, 
 And would you have her too ? That must not be ; 
 For none but I must have her.
 
 164 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 Ferd. But perhaps we do not love the same : 
 All beauties are not pleasing alike to all. 
 
 Hip. Why, are there more fair women, sir, 
 Besides that one I love ? 
 
 Ferd. That's a strange question. There are many 
 
 more, 
 Besides that beauty which you love. 
 
 Hip. I will have all 
 Of that kind, if there be a hundred of them. 
 
 Ferd. But, noble youth, you know not what you 
 say. 
 
 Hip. Sir, they are things I love, I cannot be 
 Without them ! O, howl rejoice ! More women ! 
 
 Ferd. Sir, if you love, you must be tied to one. 
 
 Hip. Tied ! How tied to her? 
 
 Ferd. To love none but her. 
 
 Hip. But, sir, I find it is against my nature. 
 I must love where I like ; and, I believe, I may like 
 
 all,- 
 
 All that are fair. Come, bring me to this woman, 
 For I must have her. 
 
 Ferd. His simplicity 
 Is such, that I can scarce be angry with him. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Perhaps, sweet youth, when you behold her, you 
 Will find you do not love her. 
 
 Hip. I find already 
 I love, because she is another woman. 
 
 Ferd. You cannot love two women both at 
 once. 
 
 Hip. Sure 'tis my duty to love all who do 
 Hesemble her, whom I've already seen. 
 I'll have as many as I can, that are 
 So good, and angel-like, as she I love ; 
 And will have yours. 
 
 Ferd. Pretty youth, you cannot.
 
 SCENE VI. THE TEMPEST. 165 
 
 Hip. I can do any thing for that I love. 
 
 Ferd. I may, perhaps, by force, restrain you from 
 it. 
 
 Hip. Why, do so, if you can. But either promise 
 
 me 
 To love no woman, or you must try your force. 
 
 Ferd. I cannot help it, I must love. 
 
 Hip. Well, you may love ; 
 
 For Prospero taught me friendship too. You shall 
 Love me, and other men, if you can find them ; 
 But all the angel women shall be mine, 
 
 Ferd. I must break off this conference, or he 
 Will urge me else beyond what I can bear. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Sweet youth, some other time we will speak 
 Farther concerning both our loves ; at present 
 I am indisposed with weariness and grief, 
 And would, if you're so pleased, retire a while. 
 
 Hip. Some other time be it ; but, sir, remember, 
 That I both seek and much entreat your friend- 
 ship ; 
 For, next to women, I find I can love you. 
 
 Ferd. I thank you, sir, I will consider of it. 
 
 {Exit FERD. 
 
 Hip. This stranger does insult, and comes into 
 My world, to take those heavenly beauties from me, 
 Which, I believe, I am inspired to love. 
 And yet he said, he did desire but one : 
 He would be poor in love, but I'll be rich. 
 I now perceive that Prospero was cunning ; 
 For when he frighten'd me from woman-kind, 
 Those precious things he for himself design'd. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 166 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 
 
 Cypress trees and a Care. 
 
 Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA. 
 
 Prosp. Your suit has pity in't, and has prevail'd. 
 AVithin this cave he lies, and you may see him. 
 But yet take heed ; let prudence be your guide : 
 You must not stay, your visit must be short. 
 
 [She is going. 
 
 One thing I had forgot ; insinuate into his mind 
 A kindness to that youth, whom first you saw ; 
 I would have friendship grow betwixt them. 
 
 Mir. You shall be obey'd in all things. 
 
 Prosp. Be earnest to unite their very souls. 
 
 Mir. I shall endeavour it. 
 
 Prosp. This may secure 
 Hippolito from that dark danger, which 
 My art forebodes ; for friendship does provide 
 A double strength to oppose the assaults of fortune. 
 
 [Exit PROSP. 
 
 Enter FERDINAND. 
 
 Ferd. To be a prisoner where I dearly love, 
 Is but a double tie, a link of fortune 
 Join'd to the chain of love ; but not to see her, 
 And yet to be so near her, there's the hardship ! 
 I feel myself as on a rack, stretch'd out 
 And nigh the ground, on which I might have ease, 
 Yet cannot reach it. 
 
 Mir. Sir ! my lord ! where are you ? 
 
 Ferd. Is it your voice, my love ? or do I dream ? 
 
 Mir. Speak softly, it is I. 
 
 Ferd. O heavenly creature !
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 167 
 
 Ten times more gentle than your father's cruel ! 
 How, on a sudden, all my griefs are vanish'd ! 
 
 Mir. How do you bear your prison ? 
 
 Ferd. Tis my palace* 
 
 While you are here, and love and silence wait 
 Upon our wishes ; do but think we chuse it, 
 And 'tis what we would chuse. 
 
 Mir. I'm sure what I would. 
 But how can I be certain that you love me ? 
 Look to't ; for I will die when you are false. 
 I've heard my father tell of maids, who died, 
 And haunted their false lovers with their ghosts. 
 
 Ferd. Your ghost must take another form to fright 
 
 me, 
 
 This shape will be too pleasing. Do I love you ? 
 O, heaven ! O, earth ! bear witness to this sound ! 
 If I prove false > 
 
 Mir. O, hold ! you shall not swear, 
 For heaven will hate you if you prove forsworn. 
 
 Ferd. Did I not love, I could no more endure 
 This undeserved captivity, than I 
 Could wish to gain my freedom, with the loss 
 Of you. 
 
 Mir. I am a fool, to weep at what 
 I'm glad of. But I have a suit to you, 
 And that, sir, shall 
 Be now the only trial of your love. 
 
 Ferd. You've said enough, never to be denied, 
 Were it my life ; for you have far o'er-bid 
 The price of all that human life is worth. 
 
 Mir. Sir, 'tis to love one for my sake, who, for 
 His own, deserves all the respect which you 
 Can ever pay him. 
 
 Ferd. You mean your father. Do not think his 
 
 usa.ge 
 
 Can make me hate him ; when he gave you being, 
 He then did that, which cancell'd all these wrongs.
 
 168 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Mir. I meant not him ; for that was a request, 
 Which, if you love, I should not need to urge. 
 
 Ferd. Is there another whom I ought to love, 
 And love him for your sake ? 
 
 Mir. Yes, such a one, 
 
 Who, for his sweetness and his goodly shape, 
 (If I, who am unskilPd in forms, may judge) 
 I think can scarce be equall'd. 'Tis a youth ; 
 A stranger, too, as you are. 
 
 Ferd. Of such a graceful feature ! and must I, 
 For your sake, love him ? 
 
 Mir. Yes, sir. Do you scruple 
 To grant the first request I ever made ? 
 He's wholly unacquainted with the world, 
 And wants your conversation. You should have 
 Compassion on so mere a stranger. 
 
 Ferd. Those need compassion whom you discom- 
 mend, 
 Not whom you praise. 
 
 Mir. Come, you must love him for my sake. 
 You shall ! 
 
 Ferd. Must I for yours, and cannot for my own ? 
 Either you do not love, or think that I don't. 
 But, when you bid me love him, I must hate him. 
 
 Mir. Have I so far offended you already, 
 That he offends you only for my sake ? 
 Yet sure you would not hate him, if you saw 
 Him as I've done, so full of youth and beauty. 
 
 Ferd. O, poison to my hopes ! 
 When he did visit me, and I did mention 
 This beauteous creature to him, he then did tell 
 Me, he would have her. [Aside. 
 
 Mir. Alas ! what mean you ? 
 
 Ferd. It is too plain. Like most of her frail sex, 
 She's false, but has not learn'd the art to hide it. 
 Nature has done her part, she loves variety. 
 Why did I think that any woman could
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 169 
 
 Be innocent, because she's young ? No, no ! 
 Their nurses teach them change, when, with two 
 
 nipples, 
 They do divide their liking. [Aside. 
 
 Mir. I fear I have offended you, and yet 
 I meant no harm. But, if you please to hear me, 
 
 [A noise within. 
 
 Hark, sir ! now I am sure my father comes, 
 ' I know his steps. Dear love ! retire a while ; 
 I fear I've staid too long. 
 
 Ferd. Too long indeed, and yet not long enough. 
 Oh, jealousy ! Oh, love ! how you distract me ! 
 
 [Exit FERD. 
 Mir. He appears displeased with that young 
 
 man, I know 
 Not why. But, till I find from whence his hate 
 
 proceeds, 
 
 I must conceal it from my father's knowledge ; 
 For he will think that guiltless I have caused it, 
 And suffer me no more to see my love, 
 
 Enter PROSPERO. 
 
 Prosp. Now I have been indulgent to your wish ; 
 You have seen the prisoner ? 
 
 Mir. Yes. 
 
 Prosp. And he spoke to you ? 
 
 Mir. He spoke ; but he received short answers 
 from me. 
 
 Prosp. How like you his converse ? 
 
 Mir. At second sight, 
 A man does not appear so rare a creature. 
 
 Prosp. I find she loves him much, because she 
 
 hides it. 
 
 Love teaches cunning even to innocence. [Aside. 
 Well, go in. 
 
 Mir. Forgive me, truth ! for thus disguising thee. 
 If I can make him think, I do not love
 
 170 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 The stranger much, he'll let me see him oftener. 
 
 [Exit. Mm. 
 
 Prosp. Stay, stay ! 1 had forgot to ask her, 
 
 What she has said of young Hippolito. 
 
 Oh, here he comes ! and, with him, my Dorinda. 
 
 I'll not be seen ; let their loves grow in secret. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter HIPPOHTO and DORINDA. 
 
 Hip. But why are you so sad ? 
 
 Dor. But why are you so joyful ? 
 
 Hip. I have within me 
 All, all the various music of the woods. 
 Since last I saw you, I have heard brave news ! 
 I will tell you, and make you joyful for me. 
 
 Dor. Sir, when I saw you first, I, through my 
 
 eyes, 
 
 Drew something in, I know not what it is ; 
 But still it entertains me with such thoughts, 
 As make me doubtful whether joy becomes me. 
 
 Hip. Pray believe me, 
 As I'm a man, I'll tell you blessed news.. 
 I've heard, there are more women in the world, 
 As fair as you are too. 
 
 Dor. Is this your news ? You see it moves not 
 me. 
 
 Hip. And I will have them all. 
 
 Dor. What will become of me then ? 
 
 Hip. I'll have you too. 
 But are not you acquainted with these women ? 
 
 Dor. I never saw but one. 
 
 Hip. Is there but one here ? 
 This is a base poor world, I'll go to the other ; 
 I've heard men have abundance of them there. 
 But, pray, where's that one woman ?
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 171 
 
 Dor. Who, my sister ? 
 
 Hip. Is she your sister ? I'm glad of that. You 
 
 shall 
 Help me to her, and I will love you for it. 
 
 [Offers to take her hand. 
 
 Dor. Away ! I will not have you touch my hand. 
 My father's counsel, which enjoin'd reservedness, 
 Was not in vain, I see. [Aside. 
 
 Hip. What makes you shun me ? 
 Dor. You need not care, you'll have my sister's 
 
 hand. 
 Hip. Why, must not he, who touches hers, touch 
 
 yours ? 
 
 Dor. You mean to love her too ? 
 Hip. Do not you love her ? 
 Then why should I not do so ? 
 
 Do?\ She's my sister ; 
 
 And, therefore, I must love her. But you cannot 
 Love both of us. 
 
 Hip. I warrant you I can. 
 Oh, that you had more sisters \ 
 
 Dor. You may love her, 
 But then I'll not love you. 
 Hip. O, but you must ; 
 One is enough for you, but not for me. 
 
 Dor. My sister told me, she had seen another ; 
 A man like you, and she liked only him. 
 Therefore, if one must be enough for her, 
 He is that one, and then you cannot have her. 
 Hip. If she like him, she may like both of us. 
 Dor. But how if I should change, and like that 
 
 man ; 
 
 Would you be willing to permit that change ? 
 Hip. No, for you liked me first. 
 Dor. So you did me. 
 
 Hip. But I would never have you see that man ; 
 I cannot bear it.
 
 172 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Dor. I'll see neither of you. 
 
 Hip. Yes, me you may, for we are now acquaint- 
 ed. 
 
 But he's the man, of whom your father wani'd you ; 
 O, he's a terrible, huge, monstrous creature ! 
 I'm but a woman to him. 
 
 Dor. I will see him, 
 Except you'll promise not to see my sister. 
 
 Hip. Yes, for your sake, I needs must see your 
 sister. 
 
 Dor. But she's a terrible, huge creature too ! 
 If I were not her sister, she would eat me ; 
 Therefore take heed, 
 
 Hip. I heard that she was fair, 
 And like you. 
 
 Dor. No, indeed, she's like my father, 
 With a great beard ; 'twould fright you to look on 
 
 her : 
 
 Therefore that man and she may go together, 
 They are fit for nobody but one another. 
 
 Hip. [Looking in.~\ Yonder he comes with gla- 
 ring eyes ; fly ! fly ! 
 Before he sees you. 
 
 Dor. Must we part so soon ? 
 
 Hip. You're a lost woman if you see him. 
 
 Dor. I would not willingly be lost, for fear 
 You should not find me. I'll avoid him. 
 
 {Exit DOR. 
 
 Hip. She fain would have deceived me, but I 
 
 know 
 
 Her sister must be fair, for she's a woman ; 
 All of a kind, that I have seen, are like 
 To one another. All the creatures of 
 The rivers and the woods are so.
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 173 
 
 Enter FERDINAND. 
 
 Ferd. O, well encounter'd ! you are the happy 
 
 man ! 
 You've got the hearts of both the beauteous women. 
 
 Hip. How, sir ! pray, are you sure on't ? 
 
 Ferd. One of them charged me to love you for 
 her sake. 
 
 Hip. Then I must have her. 
 
 Ferd. No, not till I am dead. 
 
 Hip. How dead ? what's that ? But whatsoe'er 
 
 it be, 
 I long to have her. 
 
 Ferd. Time and my grief may make me die. 
 
 Hip. But, for a friend, you should make haste ; 
 
 I ne'er 
 Ask'd any thing of you before. 
 
 Ferd. I see your ignorance, 
 And, therefore, will instruct you in my meaning. 
 The woman, whom I love, saw you, and loved you ; 
 Now, sir, if you love her, you'll cause my death. 
 
 Hip. Be sure I'll do it then. 
 
 Ferd. But I am your friend ; 
 And I request you that you would not love her. 
 
 Hip. When friends request unreasonable things, 
 Sure they're to be denied. You say she's fair ; 
 And I must love all who are fair ; for, to tell you 
 A secret, sir, which I have lately found 
 Within myself, they're all made for me. 
 
 Ferd. That's but a fond conceit. You're made 
 
 for one, 
 And one for you. 
 
 Hip. You cannot tell me, sir ; 
 I know I'm made for twenty hundred women, 
 (I mean, if there so many be i'the world,) 
 So that, if I once see her, I shall love her. 
 
 Ferd. Then do not see her. 
 9
 
 174< THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Hip. Yes, sir, I must see her : 
 For I would fain have my heart beat again, 
 Just as it did when I first saw her sister. 
 
 Ferd. I find I must not let you see her then. 
 . Hip. How will you hinder me ? 
 
 Ferd. By force of arms. 
 
 Hip. By force of arms ! 
 My arms, perhaps, may be as strong as yours. 
 
 Ferd. He's still so ignorant, that I pity him, 
 And fain would avoid force. [Aside.'] Pray, do not 
 
 see her, 
 She was mine first ; you have no right to her. 
 
 Hip. I have not yet consider'd what is right ; 
 But, sir, I know my inclinations are 
 To love all women ; and I have been taught, 
 That to dissemble what I think, is base. 
 In honour, then, of truth, I must declare, 
 That I do love, and I will see your woman. 
 
 Ferd. Would you be willing I should see and 
 
 love 
 
 Your woman, and endeavour to seduce her 
 From that affection, which she vow'd to you ? 
 
 Hip. I would not you should do it, but if she 
 Should love you best, I cannot hinder her. 
 But, sir, for fear she should, I will provide 
 Against the worst, and try to get your woman. 
 
 Ferd. But I pretend no claim at all to yours ; 
 Besides, you are more beautiful than I, 
 And fitter to allure unpractised hearts. 
 Therefore, I once more beg you will not see her. 
 
 Hip. I'm glad you let me know I have such 
 
 beauty ; 
 
 If that will get me women, they shall have it 
 As far as ere 'twill go. I'll never want them. 
 
 Ferd. Then, since you have refused this act of 
 
 . friendship, 
 Provide yourself a sword, for we must fight.
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 175 
 
 Hip. A sword ! what's that ? 
 
 Ferd. Why, such a thing as this. 
 
 Hip. What should I do with it ? 
 
 Ferd. You must stand thus, 
 And push against me, while I push at you, 
 'Till one of us fall dead. 
 
 Hip. This is brave sport. 
 But we have no swords growing in our world. 
 
 Ferd. Whall shall we do then to decide our quar- 
 rel? 
 
 Hip. We'll take the sword by turns, and fight 
 with it 
 
 Ferd. Strange ignorance ! [Aside.~\ You must 
 
 defend your life, 
 
 And so must I. But since you have no sword; 
 Take this. [Gives him his swordj] For in a corner 
 
 of my cave 
 
 I found a rusty one ; perhaps 'twas his, 
 Who keeps me pris'ner here : That I will fit. 
 When next we meet, prepare yourself to fight. 
 
 Hip. Make haste then, this shall ne'er be yours 
 
 again. 
 
 I mean to fight with all the men I meet, 
 And, when they're dead, their women shall be mine. 
 
 Ferd. I see you are unskilful. I desire not 
 To take your life, but, if you please, we'll fight 
 On these conditions ; he, who first draws blood, 
 Or who can take the other's weapon from him, 
 Shall be acknowledged as the conqueror, 
 And both the women shall be his. 
 
 Hip. Agreed. 
 And every day I'll fight for two more with you. 
 
 Ferd. But win these first 
 
 Hip. I'll warrant you I'll push you. 
 
 [Exeunt severally.
 
 176 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE III. The wild Island. 
 
 Enter TRINCALO, CALIBAN, and SYCORAX. 
 
 Cali. My lord, I see 'em coming yonder. 
 
 Trine. Whom? 
 
 Calib. The starved prince, and his two thirsty 
 subjects, that would have our liquor. 
 
 Trine. If thou wert a monster of parts, I would 
 make thee my master of ceremonies, to conduct 
 'em in. The devil take all dunces ! thou hast lost 
 a brave employment, by not being a linguist, and 
 for want of behaviour. 
 
 Syc. My lord, shall I go meet 'em ? I'll be kind 
 to all of 'em, just as I am to thee. 
 
 Trine. No, that's against the fundamental laws 
 of my dukedom. You are in a high place, spouse, 
 and must give good example. Here they come ; 
 we'll put on the gravity of statesmen, and be very 
 dull, that we may be held wise. 
 
 Enter STEPHANO, VENTOSO, and MUSTACHO. 
 
 Vent. Duke Trincalo, we have considered. 
 
 Trine. Peace or war ? 
 
 Must. Peace, and the butt. 
 
 Steph. I come now as a private person, and pro- 
 mise to live peaceably under your government. 
 
 Trine. You shall enjoy the benefits of peace ; and 
 the first fruits of it, amongst all civil nations, is to 
 be drunk for joy. Caliban, skink about. 
 
 Steph. I long to have a rouse to her grace's 
 health, and to the haunse in kelder, or rather had- 
 dock in kelder, for I guess it will be half fish. 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Trine. Subject Stephano, here's to thee > and let 
 old quarrels be drown'd in this draught. [Drinfo.
 
 SCENE III. THE TEMPEST. 177 
 
 Steph. Great magistrate, here's thy sister's health 
 to thee. [Drinks to CALIB. 
 
 Syc. He shall not drink of that immortal liquor ; 
 my lord, let him drink water. 
 
 Trine. O sweetheart, you must not shame your- 
 self to-day. Gentlemen subjects, pray bear with 
 her good huswifery. She wants a little breeding, 
 but she's hearty. 
 
 Must. Ventoso, here's to thee. Is it not better 
 to pierce the butt, than to quarrel and pierce one 
 another's bellies ? 
 
 Vent. Let it come, boy. 
 
 Trine. Now would I lay greatness aside, and 
 shake my heels, if I had but music. 
 
 Calib. O my lord ! my mother left us in her will 
 a hundred spirits to attend us, devils of all sorts, 
 some great roaring devils, and some little singing 
 spirits. 
 
 Syc. Shall we call ? And thou shalt hear them in 
 the air. 
 
 Trine. I accept the motion : Let us have our 
 mother-in-law's legacy immediately. 
 
 CALIBAN SINGS. 
 
 We want music, we want mirth. 
 Up, dam, and cleave the earth : 
 We have no lords that wrong us, 
 Send thy merry spirits among its. 
 
 Trine. What a merry tyrant am I, to have my 
 music, and pay nothing for't ! 
 
 A table rises, and four Spirits with wine and meat 
 enter, placing it, as they dance, on the table : The 
 dance ended, the bottles vanish, and the table sinks 
 again. 
 
 VOL. III. M
 
 178 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Pent. The bottle's drunk. 
 
 Must. Then the bottle's a weak shallow fellow, 
 if it be drunk first. 
 
 Trine. Stephano, give me thy hand : thou hast 
 been a rebel, but here's to thee: [Drinks J\ Pr'ythee, 
 why should we quarrel ? Shall I swear two oaths ? 
 By bottle, and by butt, I love thee : In witness 
 whereof I drink soundly. 
 
 Stepk. Your grace shall find there's no love lost, 
 for I will pledge you soundly. 
 
 Trine. Thou hast been a false rebel, but that's all 
 one ; pledge my grace faithfully. Caliban, go to 
 the butt, and tell me how it sounds. [Exit CALI- 
 BAN.] Peer Stephano, dost thou love me ? 
 
 Steph. I love your grace, and all your princely 
 family. 
 
 Trine. 'Tis no matter, if thou lovest me ; hang 
 my family : Thou art my friend, pr'ythee tell me 
 what thou think'st of my princess ? 
 
 Steph. I look on her as on a very noble princess. 
 
 Trine. Noble ! indeed she had a witch to her 
 mother ; and the witches are of great families in 
 Lapland : but the devil was her father ; and I have 
 heard of the Monsieur De Villes in France : but 
 look on her beauty, is she a fit wife for Duke 
 Trincalo ? Mark her behaviour too, she's tippling 
 yonder with the serving-men. 
 
 Steph. An't please your grace, she's somewhat 
 homely, but that's no blemish in a princess. She is 
 virtuous. 
 
 Trine. Umph ! virtuous ! I am loath to disparage 
 her ; but thou art my friend, canst thou be close ? 
 
 Steph. As a stopt bottle, an't please your grace. 
 
 Enter CALIBAN again with a bottle. 
 
 Trine. Why then I'll tell thee, I found her an 
 hour ago under an elder-tree, upon a sweet bed of
 
 SCENE III. THE TEMPEST. 179 
 
 nettles, singing Tory Rory, and Rantum Scantum, 
 with her own natural brother. 
 
 Steph. O Jew ! make love in her own tribe ? 
 
 Trine. But 'tis no matter ; to tell thee true, I 
 married her to be a great man, and so forth. But 
 make no words on't, for I care not who knows it, 
 and so here's to thee again. Give me the bottle, 
 Caliban. Did you knock the butt ? How does it 
 sound ? 
 
 Calib. It sounds as though it had a noise within. 
 
 Trine. I fear the butt begins to rattle in the 
 throat, and is departing : give me the bottle. 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 Must. A short life and a merry, I say. 
 
 {STEPH. whispers SYCORAX. 
 
 Syc. But did he tell you so ? 
 
 Steph. He said you were as ugly as your mother, 
 and that he married you only to get possession of 
 the island. 
 
 Sijc. My mother's devils fetch him for't ! 
 
 Steph. And your father's too. Hem ! skink about 
 his grace's health again. O if you will but cast an 
 eye of pity upon me 
 
 Syc. I will cast two eyes of pity on thee ; I love 
 thee more than haws or blackberries. I have a 
 hoard of wildings in the moss, my brother knows 
 not of 'em ; but I'll bring thee where they are. 
 
 Steph. Trincalo was but my man, when time was. 
 
 Syc. Wert thou his god, and didst thou give him 
 liquor ? 
 
 Steph. I gave him brandy, and drunk sack my- 
 self. Wilt thou leave him, and thou shalt be my 
 princess ? 
 
 Syc. If thou canst make me glad with this li- 
 quor. 
 
 Steph. I'll warrant thee we'll ride into the coun- 
 try where it grows.
 
 180 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Syc. How wilt thou carry me thither ? 
 Steph. Upon a hackney-devil of thy mother's. 
 
 Trine. What's that you will do ? Ha ! I hope you 
 have not betrayed me ? How does my pigsnye ? 
 
 [To SYCOHAX. 
 
 Syc. Begone ! thou shalt not be my lord ; thou 
 say'st I'm ugly. 
 
 Trine. Did you tell her so ? Ha ! he's a rogue ; 
 do not believe him, chuck. 
 
 Steph. The foul words were yours. I will not 
 eat 'em for you. 
 
 Trine. I see, if once a rebel, then ever a rebel. 
 Did I receive thee into grace for this ? I will cor- 
 rect thee with my royal hand. [Strikes STEPH. 
 
 Syc. Dost thou hurt my love ? [Flies at TRINC. 
 
 Trine. Where are our guards ? Treason ! Treason ! 
 [VENT. MUST. CALIB. run betwixt. 
 
 Vent. Who took up arms first, the prince or the 
 people ? 
 
 Trine. This false traitor has corrupted the wife 
 of my bosom. [ Whispers MUSTACHO hastily.] Mus- 
 tacho, strike on my side, and thou shalt be my 
 viceroy. 
 
 Must. I am against rebels. Ventoso, obey your 
 viceroy. 
 
 Vent. You a viceroy ? 
 
 [They two fight off from the rest. 
 
 Steph. Ha ! Hector monster ! do you stand neu- 
 ter? 
 
 Calib. Thou would'st drink my liquor, I will not 
 help thee. 
 
 Syc. 'Twas his doing that I had such a husband, 
 but I'll claw him. 
 
 [Svc. and CALIB. Jight, SYC. beating him off 
 the stage.
 
 SCENE IV. THE TEMPEST. 181 
 
 Trine. The whole nation is up in arms, and shall 
 I stand idle ? 
 
 [TuiNC. beats O^STEPH. to the door. Exit 
 
 STEPH. 
 
 I'll not pursue too far, for fear the enemy will rally 
 again, and surprise my butt in the citadel. Well, 
 I must be rid of my Lady Trincalo, she will be in 
 the fashion else; first, cuckold her husband, and 
 then sue for a separation, to get alimony. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. The Cypress-trees and Cave. 
 
 Enter FERDINAND and HIPPOLITO with their 
 swords drawn. 
 
 Ferd. Come, sir, our cave affords no choice of 
 
 place, 
 But the ground's firm and even : Are you ready ? 
 
 Hip. As ready as yourself, sir. 
 
 Ferd. You remember 
 
 On what conditions we must fight ? Who first 
 Receives a wound is to submit. 
 
 Hip. Come, come, 
 This loses time ; now for the women, sir. 
 
 [They fight a little, FERDINAND hurts him. 
 
 Ferd. Sir, you are wounded. 
 
 Hip. No. " 
 
 Ferd. Believe your blood. 
 
 Hip. I feel no hurt, no matter for my blood. 
 
 Ferd. Remember our conditions. 
 
 Hip. I will not leave, till my sword hits you too. 
 [Hip. presses on, FERD. retires and wards. 
 
 Ferd. I'm loth to kill you ; you are unskilful, sir. 
 
 Hip. You beat aside my sword, but let it come 
 As near as yours, and you shall see my skill. 
 
 Ferd. You faint for loss of blood, I see you stag. 
 
 ger; 
 Pray, sir, retire.
 
 182 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Hip. No ! I will ne'er go back. 
 Methinks the cave turns round, I cannot find 
 
 Ferd. Your eyes begin to dazzle. 
 
 Hip. Why do you swim so, and dance about me ? 
 Stand but still till I have made one thrust, j 
 
 [Hip. thrusts and falls. 
 
 Ferd. O help, help, help ! 
 Unhappy man ! what have I done ? 
 
 Hip. I'm going to a cold sleep, but when I wake, 
 I'll fight again. Pray stay for me. [Swoons. 
 
 Ferd. He's gone ! 
 He's gone! O stay, sweet, lovely youth ! Help 1 help ! 
 
 Enter PROSPERO. 
 
 Prosp. What dismal noise is that ? 
 
 Ferd. O see, sir, see, 
 What mischief my unhappy hand has wrought ! 
 
 Prosp. Alas ! how much in vain doth feeble art 
 Endeavour to resist the will of heaven ? [Rubs HIP. 
 He's gone for ever ; O thou cruel son 
 Of an inhuman father ! all my designs 
 Are ruin'd and unravell'd by this blow. 
 No pleasure now is left me but revenge. 
 
 Ferd. Sir, if you knew my innocence 
 
 Prosp. Peace, peace ! 
 Can thy excuses give me back his life ? 
 What, Ariel ? sluggish spirit, where art thou ? 
 
 Enter ARIEL. 
 
 Ariel. Here, at thy beck, my lord. 
 
 Prosp. Ay, now thou comest, 
 When fate is past, and not to be recall'd. 
 Look there, and glut the malice of thy nature ; 
 For, as thou art thyself, thou canst not but 
 Be glad to see young virtue nipt i' the blossom. 
 
 Ariel. My lord, the Being high above can wit- 
 ness,
 
 SCENE IV. THE TEMPEST. 183 
 
 I am not glad ; we airy spirits are not of 
 
 A temper so malicious as the earthy, 
 
 But of a nature more approaching good ; 
 
 For which we meet in swarms, and often combat 
 
 Betwixt the confines of the air and earth. 
 
 Prosp, Why didst thou not prevent, at least 
 
 foretel, 
 This fatal action, then ? 
 
 Ariel. Pardon, great sir ! 
 I meant to do it, but I was forbidden 
 By the ill genius of Hippolito, 
 AVho came and threaten'd me, if I disclosed it, 
 To bind me in the bottom of the sea, 
 Far from the lightsome regions of the air, 
 (My native fields) above a hundred years. 
 
 Prosp. I'll chain thee in the north for thy ne- 
 glect, 
 
 Within the burning bowels of mount Hecla ; 
 I'll singe thy airy wings with sulph'rous flames, 
 And choke thy tender nostrils with blue smoke ; 
 At ev'ry hickup of the belching mountain, 
 Thou shalt be lifted up to taste fresh air, 
 And then fall down again. 
 
 Ariel. Pardon, dread lord ! 
 
 Prosp. No more of pardon than just heaven in- 
 tends thee, 
 Shalt thou e'er find from me : Hence ! fly with 
 
 speed, 
 
 Unbind the charms which hold this murderer's fa- 
 ther, 
 
 And bring him, with my brother, straight before 
 me. 
 
 Ariel. Mercy, my potent lord ! and I'll out-fly 
 Thy thought. [Exit ARIEL. 
 
 Ferd. O heavens ! what words are these I heard, 
 Yet cannot see who spoke 'em ? Sure the woman 
 Whom I loved was like this, some airy vision. 
 2
 
 184 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Prosp. No, murderer ! she's, like thee, of mortal 
 
 mould, 
 
 But much too pure to mix with thy black crimes ; 
 Yet she has faults, and must be punish'd for them. 
 Miranda and Dorinda ! where are ye ? 
 The will of heaven's accomplish'd : I have now 
 No more to fear, and nothing left to hope ; 
 Now you may enter. 
 
 Enter MIRANDA and DORINDA. 
 
 Mir. My love ! is it permitted me to see 
 You once again ? 
 
 Prosp. You come to look your last ; 
 I will for ever take him from your eyes. 
 But, on my blessing, speak not, nor approach him. 
 
 Dor. Pray, father, is not this my sister's man ? 
 He has a noble form ; but yet he's not 
 So excellent as my Hippolito. 
 
 Prosp. Alas, poor girl ! thou hast no man : Look 
 
 yonder ; 
 There's all of him that's left. 
 
 Dor. Why, was there ever any more of him ? 
 He lies asleep, sir ; shall I waken him ? 
 
 [She kneels by HIPPOLITO, and jogs him. 
 
 Ferd. Alas ! he's never to be waked again. 
 
 Dor. My love, my love ! wilt thou not speak to 
 
 me? 
 
 I fear you have displeased him, sir, and now 
 He will not answer me ; he's dumb and cold too ; 
 But I'll run straight, and make a fire to warm him. 
 [Exit DORINDA, running. 
 
 Enter ALONZO, GONZALO, ANTONIO ; and ARIEL 
 
 invisible. 
 
 Alon. Never were beasts so hunted into toils, 
 As we have been pursued by dreadful shapes.
 
 SCENE IV. THE TEMPEST. 185 
 
 But is not that my son ? O Ferdinand ! 
 If thou art not a ghost, let me embrace thee. 
 
 Ferd. My father ! O sinister happiness ! 
 Is it decreed I should recover you 
 Alive, just in that fatal hour, when this 
 Brave youth is lost in death, and by my hand ? 
 
 Ant. Heaven ! what new wonder's this ? 
 
 Gonz. This isle is full of nothing else. 
 
 Prosp. You stare upon me, as you ne'er had- seen 
 
 me ; 
 
 Have fifteen years so lost me to your knowledge, 
 That you retain no memory of Prospero ? 
 
 Gonz. The good old Duke of Milan ! 
 
 Prosp. I wonder less, 
 
 That thou, Antonio, know'st me not, because 
 Thou didst long since forget I was thy brother, 
 Else I had ne'er been here. 
 
 Ant. Shame choaks my words. 
 
 Alon%. And wonder mine. 
 
 Prosp. For you, usurping prince, [ To ALONZ. 
 Know, by my art you were shipwreck'd on this 
 
 isle, 
 
 Where, after I a while had punish'd you, 
 My vengeance would have ended ; I design'd 
 To match that son of yours with this my daughter. 
 
 Alonz. Pursue it still, I am most willing to it. 
 
 Prosp. So am not I. No marriages can prosper, 
 Which are with murderers made ; look on that corpse. 
 This, whilst he lived, was young Hippolito ; 
 That infant Duke of Mantua, sir, whom you 
 Exposed with me ; and here I bred him up, 
 
 Till that blood-thirsty man, that Ferdinand 
 
 But why do I exclaim on him, when justice 
 Calls to unsheath her sword against his guilt ? 
 
 Alonz. What do you mean ? 
 
 Prosp. To execute heaven's laws. 
 Here I am placed by heaven, here I am prince, 
 Though you have dispossess'd me of my Milan.
 
 186 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Blood calls for blood ; your Ferdinand shall die, 
 And I, in bitterness, have sent for you, 
 To have the sudden joy of seeing him alive, 
 And then the greater grief to see him die. 
 
 Alonz. And think'st thou I, or these, will tamely 
 
 stand, 
 To view the execution ? [Lays hand upon his sword. 
 
 Ferd. Hold, dear father ! 
 I cannot suffer you to attempt against 
 His life, who gave her being whom I love. 
 
 Prosp. Nay, then appear my guards I thought 
 
 no more 
 To use their aid ; (I'm cursed because I used it.) 
 
 [He stamps, and many Spirits appear. 
 But they are now the ministers of heaven, 
 Whilst I revenge this murder. 
 
 Alonz. Have I for this 
 
 Found thee, my son, so soon again to lose thee ? 
 Antonio, Gonzalo, speak for pity. 
 
 Ferd. Adieu, my fairest mistress. [To Mm. 
 
 Mir. Now I can hold no longer ; I must speak, 
 Though I am loth to disobey you, sir : 
 Be not so cruel to the man I love, 
 Or be so kind to let me suffer with him. 
 
 Ferd. Recall that prayer, or I shall wish to live, 
 Though death be all the 'mends that I can make. 
 
 Prosp. This night I will allow you, Ferdinand, 
 To fit you for your death ; that cave's your prison. 
 
 Alonz. Ah, Prospero ! hear me speak. You are 
 
 a father : 
 Look on my age, and look upon his youth. 
 
 Prosp. No more ! all you can say is urged in vain, 
 I have no room for pity left within me. 
 Do you refuse ? Help, Ariel, with your fellows, 
 To drive them in ; Alonzo and his son 
 Bestow in yonder cave, and here Gonzalo 
 Shall with Antonio lodge. 
 
 [Spirits drive them m, as they are appointed.
 
 SCENE IV. THE TEMPEST. 187 
 
 Enter DORINDA. 
 
 Dor. Sir, I have made a fire ; shall he be warm'd? 
 
 Prosp. He's dead, and vital warmth will ne'er 
 return. 
 
 Dor. Dead, sir ! what's that ? 
 
 Prosp. His soul has left his body. 
 
 Dor. When will it come again ? 
 
 Prosp. O never, never ! 
 He must be laid in earth, and there consume. 
 
 Dor. He shall not lie in earth ; you do not know 
 How well he loves me : Indeed he'll come again. 
 He told me he would go a little while, 
 But promised me he would not tarry long. 
 
 Prosp. He's murder'd by the man who loved your 
 
 sister. 
 
 Now both of you may see what 'tis to break 
 A father's precept ; you would needs see man, 
 And by that sight are made for ever wretched ; 
 Hippolito is dead, and Ferdinand 
 Must die for murdering him. 
 
 Mir. Have you no pity ? 
 
 Prosp. Your disobedience has so much incensed 
 
 me, 
 
 That I this night can leave no blessing with you. 
 Help to convey the body to my couch, 
 Then leave me to mourn over it alone. 
 
 {They bear off the body of HIP. 
 
 Enter MIRANDA and DORINDA again. ARIEL 
 behind them. 
 
 Ariel. I've been so chid for my neglect by Pros- 
 
 pero, 
 That I must now watch all, and be unseen. 
 
 Mir. Sister, I say again, 'twas long of you, 
 That all this mischief happen 'd. 
 
 Dor. Blame not me
 
 188 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 For your own fault ; your curiosity 
 Brought me to see the man. 
 
 Mir. You safely might 
 
 Have seen him, and retired, but you would needs 
 Go near him, and converse ; you may remember 
 My father call'd me thence, and I call'd you. 
 
 Dor. That was your envy, sister, not your love ; 
 You call'd me thence, because you could not be 
 Alone with him yourself; but I am sure 
 My man had never gone to heaven so soon, 
 But that yours made him go. [Crying. 
 
 Mir. Sister, I could not wish that either of them 
 Should go to heaven without us ; but it was 
 His fortune, and you must be satisfied. 
 
 Dor. I'll not be satisfied : My father says 
 He'll make your man as cold as mine is now ; 
 And when he is made cold, my father will 
 Not let you strive to make him warm again. 
 
 Mir. In spite of you, mine never shall be cold. 
 
 Dor. I'm sure 'twas he that made me miserable, 
 And I will be revenged. Perhaps you think 
 'Tis nothing to love a man. 
 
 Mir. Yes, but there is 
 Some difference betwixt my Ferdinand, 
 And your Hippolito. 
 
 Dor. Ay, there's your judgment : 
 Your's is the oldest man I ever saw, 
 Except it were my father. 
 
 Mir. Sister, no more ; 
 It is not comely in a daughter, when 
 She says her father's old. 
 
 Dor. But why do I 
 
 Stay here,whilst my cold love perhaps may want me? 
 I'll pray my father to make yours cold too. 
 
 Mir. Sister, I'll never sleep with you again. 
 
 Dor. I'll never more meet in a bed with you, 
 But lodge on the bare ground, and watch my love.
 
 ACT V. THE TEMPEST. 189 
 
 Mir. And at the entrance of that cave I'll lie, 
 And echo to each blast of wind a sigh. 
 
 [Exeunt severally, looking discontentedly on 
 one another. 
 
 Ariel. Harsh discord reigns throughout this fatal 
 
 isle, 
 
 At which good angels mourn, ill spirits smile. 
 Old Prospero, by his daughters robb'd of rest, 
 Has in displeasure left them both unblest. 
 Unkindly they abjure each other's bed, 
 To save the living, and revenge the dead. 
 Alonzo, and his son, are prisoners made, 
 And good Gonzalo does their crimes upbraid. 
 Antonio and Gonzalo disagree, 
 And would, though in one cave, at distance be. 
 The seamen all that cursed wine have spent, 
 Which still renew'd their thirst of government ; 
 And wanting subjects for the food of power, 
 Each would, to rule alone, the rest devour. 
 The monsters, Sycorax, and Caliban, 
 More monstrous grow by passions learn'd from 
 
 man. 
 
 Even I, not framed of warring elements, 
 Partake and suffer in these discontents. 
 Why should a mortal, by enchantments, hold 
 In chains a spirit of etherial mould ? 
 Accursed magic we ourselves have taught, 
 And our own power has our subjections wrought ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 
 
 Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA. 
 
 Prosp. You beg in vain ; I cannot pardon him ; 
 He has offended Heaven.
 
 190 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 Mir. Then let Heaven punish him. 
 
 Prosp. It will, by me. 
 
 Mir. Grant him, at least, some respite for my 
 sake. 
 
 Prosp. I, by deferring justice, should incense 
 The deity against myself and you. 
 
 Mir. Yet I have heard you say, the Powers abov.e 
 Are slow in punishing ; and should not you 
 Resemble them ? 
 
 Prosp. The argument is weak. 
 But I want time to let you see your errors ; 
 Retire, and, if you love him, pray for him. 
 
 [He's going. 
 
 Mir. And can you be his judge and executioner? 
 
 Prosp. I cannot force Gonzalo or my brother, 
 Much less the father to destroy the son ; 
 It must be then the monster Caliban, 
 And he's not here ; but Ariel strait shall fetch him. 
 
 Enter ARIEL. 
 
 Ariel. My potent lord, before thou call'st I 
 
 come, 
 To serve thy will. 
 
 Prosp. Then, spirit, fetch me here my savage 
 slave. 
 
 Ariel. My lord, it does not need. 
 
 Prosp. Art thou then prone to mischief, wilt 
 
 thou be 
 Thyself the executioner ? 
 
 Ariel. Think better of thy airy minister, 
 Who, for thy sake, unbidden, this night has flown 
 O'er almost all the habitable world. 
 
 Prosp. But to what purpose was all thy diligence? 
 
 Ariel. When I was chidden by my mighty lord, 
 For my neglect of young Hippolito, 
 I went to view his body, and soon found 
 His soul was but retired, not sallied out :
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 191 
 
 Then I collected 
 
 The best of simples underneath the moon, 
 The best of balms, and to the wound applied 
 The healing juice of vulnerary herbs. 
 His only danger was his loss of blood, 
 But now he's waked, my lord, and just this hour 
 He must be dress'd again, as I have done it. 
 Anoint the sword which pierced him with this wea- 
 pon-salve, and wrap it close from air, till I have 
 time to visit him again. 
 
 Prosp. Thou art my faithful servant ; 
 It shall be done. Be it your task, Miranda, 
 Because your sister is not present here ; 
 While I go visit your dear Ferdinand, 
 From whom I will awhile conceal the news, 
 That it may be more welcome. 
 
 Mir. I obey you. 
 
 And with a double duty, sir. For now, 
 You twice have given me life. 
 
 Prosp. My Ariel, follow me. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 HIPPOLITO discovered on a couch, DQRINDA by him. 
 
 Dor. How do you find yourself? 
 
 Hip. I'm somewhat cold ; 
 Can you not draw me nearer to the sun ? 
 I am too weak to walk. 
 
 Dor. My love, I'll try. 
 
 [She draws the chair nearer to the audience. 
 I thought you never would have walk'd again ; 
 They told me you were gone to heaven ; 
 Have you been there ? 
 
 Hip. I know not where I was. 
 
 Dor. I will not leave you till you promise me, 
 You will not die again. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, I will not. 
 
 Dor. You must not go to heaven, unless we gp
 
 192 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 Together ; for I have heard my father say, 
 That we must strive to be each other's guide, 
 The way to it will else be difficult, 
 Especially to those who are so young ; 
 But I much wonder what it is to die. 
 
 Hip. Sure 'tis to dream, a kind of breathless sleep, 
 when once the soul's gone out. 
 
 Dor. What is the soul ? 
 
 Hip. A small blue thing, that runs about with- 
 in us. 
 
 Dor. Then I have seen it in a frosty morning, 
 Run smoaking from my mouth. 
 
 Hi]}. But, dear Dorinda, 
 What is become of him who fought with me ? 
 
 Dor. O ! I can tell you joyful news of him ; 
 My father means to make him die to-day, 
 For what he did to you. 
 
 Hip. That must not be, 
 My dear Dorinda ; go, and beg your father, 
 He may not die ; it was my fault he hurt me, 
 I urged him to it first. 
 
 Dor. But if he live, he'll never leave killing you. 
 
 Hip. O no ! I just remember when I fell asleep, 
 I heard him calling me a great way off, 
 And crying over me as you would do ; 
 Besides, we have no cause of quarrel now. 
 
 Dor. Pray, how began your difference first ? 
 
 Hip. I fought with him, for all the women in 
 the world. 
 
 Dor. That hurt you had, was justly sent from 
 
 heaven, 
 For wishing to have any more but me. 
 
 Hip. Indeed I think it was, but I repent it ; 
 The fault was only in my blood, for now 
 'Tis gone, I find I do not love so many. 
 
 Dor. In confidence of this, I'll beg my father 
 That he may live ; I'm glad the naughty blood, 
 That made you love so many, is gone out.
 
 5CEWE II. THE TEftPESf. 193 
 
 Hip. My clear, go quickly, lest you come too 
 late. [Exit Don. 
 
 Enter MIRANDA at the other door, with Hipro- 
 LITO'S sword wrapt up. 
 
 Hip. Who's this, who looks so fair and beautiful, 
 As nothing but Dorinda can surpass her ? 
 
 ! I believe it is that angel woman, 
 Whom she calk sister. 
 
 Mir. Sir, I am sent hither 
 
 To dress your wound ; how do you find your 
 strength ? 
 
 Hip. Fair creature, I am faint with loss of blood, 
 
 Mir. I am sorry for it. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, and so am I ; 
 For if I had that blood, I then should find 
 A great delight in loving you. 
 
 Mir. But, sir, 
 
 1 am another's, and your love is given 
 Already to my sister. 
 
 Hip. Yet I find, 
 That, if you please, I can love still a little. 
 
 Mir. I cannot be inconstant, nor should you. 
 
 Hip. O my wound pains me. 
 
 Mir. I am come to ease you. 
 
 [She unwraps iJie sword. 
 
 Hip. Alas ! I feel the cold air come to me ; 
 My wound shoots worse than ever. 
 
 [She wipes, and anoints the sword. 
 
 Mir. Does it still grieve you ? 
 
 Hip, Now methinks, there's something 
 Laid just upon it. 
 
 Mir. Do you find no ease ? 
 
 Hip. Yes, yes, upon the sudden, all the pain 
 Is leaving me. Sweet heaven, how I am eased ! 
 
 VOL. in. N
 
 194 THE TEMPEST. ACT v. 
 
 Enter FERDINAND and DORINDA to them. 
 
 Ferd. [ To DorJ] Madam, I must confess my life 
 
 is yours, 
 I owe it to your generosity. 
 
 Dor. I am overjoy'd my father lets you live, 
 And proud of my good fortune, that he gave 
 Your life to me. 
 
 Mir. How ? gave his life to her ! 
 Hip. Alas ! I think she said so, and he said, 
 He owed it to her generosity. 
 Ferd. But is not that your sister with Hippolito ? 
 Dor. So kind already ? 
 
 Ferd. I came to welcome life, and I have met 
 The cruellest of deaths. 
 
 Hip. My dear Dorinda with another man ? 
 Dor. Sister, what business have you here ? 
 Mir. You see I dress Hippolito. 
 Dor. You're very charitable to a stranger. 
 Mir. You are not much behind in charity, 
 To beg a pardon for a man, whom you 
 Scarce ever saw before. 
 
 Dor. Henceforward let your surgery alone, 
 For I had rather he should die, than you 
 Should cure his wound. 
 
 Mir. And I wish Ferdinand had died, before 
 He owed his life to your entreaty. 
 Ferd. to Hip. Sir, I am glad you are so well 
 
 recover'd. 
 
 You keep your humour still to have all women ? 
 Hip. Not all, sir ; you except one of the number, 
 Your new love there, Dorinda. 
 
 Mir. Ah, Ferdinand ! can you become inconstant ? 
 If T must lose you, I had rather death 
 Should take you from me, than you take yourself. 
 Ferd. And if I might have chose, I would have 
 wish'd
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 195 
 
 That death from Prospero, and not this from you. 
 
 Dor. Ay, now I find why I was sent away, 
 That you might have my sister's company. 
 
 Hip. Dorinda, kill me not with your unkindness; 
 This is too much, first to be false yourself, 
 And then accuse me too. 
 
 Ferd. We all accuse 
 
 Each other, and each one denies their guilt : 
 I should be glad it were a mutual error ; 
 And, therefore, first to clear myself from fault, 
 Madam, I beg your pardon, while I say, 
 I only love your sister. [To DOR. 
 
 Mir. O, blest word ! 
 I'm sure I love no man but Ferdinand. 
 
 Dor. Nor I, Heaven knows, but my Hippolito. 
 
 Hip. I never knew I loved so much, before 
 I feared Dorinda's constancy ; but now 
 I am convinced, that I loved none but her ; 
 Because none else can recompense her loss. 
 
 Ferd. 'Twas happy, then, we had this little trial ; 
 But how we all so much mistook, I know not. 
 
 Mir. I have only this to say in my defence ; 
 My father sent me hither, to attend 
 The wounded stranger. 
 
 Dor. And Hippolito 
 Sent me to beg the life of Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. From such small errors, left at first un- 
 heeded, 
 
 Have often sprung sad accidents in love. 
 But see, our fathers and our friends are come 
 To mix their joys with ours. 
 
 Enter PROSPERO, ALONZO, ANTONIO, and 
 GONZALO. 
 
 Alon. to Prosp. Let it no more be thought of; 
 Your purpose, though it was severe, was just. 
 In losing Ferdinand, I should have mourn'd,
 
 196 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 But could not have complain'd. 
 
 Prosp. Sir, I am glad 
 Kind Heaven decreed it otherwise. 
 
 Dor. O wonder ! 
 
 How many goodly creatures are there here ! 
 How beauteous mankind is ! 
 
 Hip. O, brave new world, 
 That has such people in't ! 
 
 Alon. to Ferd. Now all the blessings 
 Of a glad father compass thee about, 
 And make thee happy in thy beauteous choice. 
 
 Gon%. I've inward wept, or should have spoken 
 
 ere this. 
 
 Look down, sweet Heaven ! and on this couple drop 
 A blessed crown ; for it is you chalk'd out 
 The way, which brought us hither. 
 
 Anto. Though penitence, 
 Forced by necessity, can scarce seem real, 
 Yet, dearest brother, I have hope my blood 
 May .plead for pardon with you. I resign 
 Dominion, which, 'tis true, I could not keep, 
 But Heaven knows too, I would not. 
 
 Prosp. All past crimes 
 I bury in the joy of this bless'd day. 
 
 Alon. And, that I may not be behind injustice, 
 To this young prince I render back his dukedom, 
 And as the Duke of Mantua, thus salute him. 
 
 Hip. What is it that you render back ? methinks 
 You give me nothing. 
 
 Prosp. You are to be lord 
 Of a great people, and o'er towns and cities. 
 
 Hip. And shall these people be all men and wo- 
 men? 
 
 Gonz. Yes, and shall call you lord. 
 
 Hip. Why, then, I'll live no longer in a prison, 
 But have a whole cave to myself hereafter. 
 
 Prosp. And, thajty our happiness may be complete,
 
 SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 197 
 
 I give you my Dorinda fqr your wife : 
 She shall be yours for ever, when the priest 
 Has made you one. 
 
 Hip. How can he make us one ? Shall I grow 
 to her ? 
 
 Prosp. By saying holy words, you shall be join'd 
 In marriage to each other. 
 
 Dor. I warrant you, those holy words are charms : 
 My father means to conjure us together. 
 
 Prosp. My Ariel told me, when last night you 
 quarrell'd, [To his daughters. 
 
 You said you would for ever part your beds. 
 But what you threaten'd in your anger, heaven 
 Has turn'd to prophecy ; 
 For you, Miranda, must with Ferdinand, 
 And you, Dorinda, with Hippolito, 
 Lie in one bed hereafter. 
 
 Alon. And heaven make 
 Those beds still fruitful in producing children, 
 To bless their parents' youth, and grandsires' age. 
 
 Mir. to Dor. If children come by lying in a bed, 
 I wonder you and I had none between us. 
 
 Dor. Sister, it was our fault ; we meant, like fools, 
 To look 'em in the fields, and they, it seems, 
 Are only found in beds. 
 
 Hip. I am o'er-joy'd, 
 That I shall have Dorinda in a bed ; 
 We'll lie all night and day together there, 
 And never rise again. 
 
 Ferd. [Aside to him.~\ Hippolito ! You yet 
 Are ignorant of your great happiness ; 
 But there is something, which, for your own and fair 
 Dorinda's sake, I must instruct you in. 
 
 Hip. Pray teach me quickly, 
 How men and women, in your world, make love ; 
 I shall soon learn, I warrant you.
 
 198 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 Enter ARIEL, driving in STEPHANO, TRINCALO, 
 MUSTACHO, VENTOSO, CALIBAN, and SYCORAX. 
 
 Prosp. Why, that's my dainty Ariel; I shall miss 
 
 thee, 
 But yet thou shalt have freedom. 
 
 Gonz. O look, sir, look ! The master and the 
 
 sailors 
 
 The boatswain too my prophecy is out, 
 That if a gallows were on land, that man 
 Could ne'er be drown'd. 
 
 Alon. No w, blasphemy ; what, not one oath ashore! 
 Hast thou no mouth by land ? Why starest thou so? 
 
 [To TRINCALO. 
 
 Trine. What ! more dukes yet ? I must resign 
 
 my dukedom ; 
 But 'tis no matter, I was almost starved in't. 
 
 Must. Here's nothing but wild sallads, without 
 oil or vinegar. 
 
 Steph. The duke and prince alive ! Would I had 
 
 now 
 
 Our gallant ship again, and were her master. 
 I'd willingly give all my island for her. 
 
 Tent. And I my viceroy ship. 
 
 Trine. I shall need no hangman ; for I shall even 
 hang myself, now my friend Butt has shed his last 
 drop of life. Poor Butt is quite departed. 
 
 Anto. They talk like madmen. 
 
 Prosp. No matter, time will bring 'em to them- 
 selves, 
 
 And now their wine is gone, they will not quarrel. 
 Your ship is safe and tight, and bravely rigg'd, 
 As when you first set sail. 
 
 Alon. This news is wonderful. 
 
 Ariel. Was it well done, my lord ? 
 
 Prosp. Rarely, my diligence.
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 199 
 
 Gonz. But pray, sir, what are those mis-shapen 
 creatures ? 
 
 Prosp. Their mother was a witch ; and one so 
 
 strong, 
 
 She would controul the moon, make flows and ebbs, 
 And deal in her command without her power. 
 - Syc. O Setebos ! these be brave spirits indeed. 
 
 Prosp. Go, sirrah, to my cell, and, as you hope 
 For pardon, trim it up. [jTo CAL. 
 
 Calib. Most carefully. I will be wise hereafter. 
 What a dull fool was I, to take those drunkards 
 For gods, when such as these were in the world ! 
 
 Prosp. Sir, I invite your highness and your train 
 To my poor cave this night ; a part of which 
 I will employ, in telling you my story. 
 
 Alon. No doubt it must be strangely taking, sir. 
 
 Prosp. When the morn dawns, I'll bring you to 
 
 your ship, 
 
 And promise you calm seas, and happy gales. 
 My Ariel, that's thy charge. Then to the elements 
 Be free, and fare thee well ! 
 
 Ariel. I'll do it, master. 
 
 Prosp. Now, to make amends 
 For the rough treatment you have found to-day, 
 I'll entertain you with my magic art ; 
 I'll, by my power, transform this place, and call 
 Up those, that shall make good my promise to you. 
 
 SCENE II. Changes to the Rocks, with the arch 
 of Rocks, and calm Sea. Music playing on the 
 Rocks. 
 
 Prosp. Neptune, and your fair Amphitrite, rise ; 
 Oceanus, with your Tethys too, appear ; 
 All ye sea-gods, and goddesses, appear ! 
 Come, all ye Tritons ; all ye Nereids, come, 
 And teach your saucy element to obey. 
 6
 
 200 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 For you have princes now to entertain, 
 
 And unsoil'd beauties, with fresh youthful lovers. 
 
 NEPTUNE, AMPHITRITE, OCEANUS, and TETHYS, 
 appear in a Chariot, drawn with Sea-horses ; on 
 each side of the Chariot, Sea-Gods, and Goddesses, 
 Tritons, and Nereids. 
 
 O v* \ 
 
 Alon. This is prodigious ! 
 
 Anto. Ah ! what amazing objects do we see ! 
 
 Gonz. This art doth much exceed all human skill. 
 
 , : 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Amph. My lord, great Neptune, for my sake, 
 Of these bright beauties pity take ; 
 
 And to the rest allow H. 
 
 Your mercy too. 
 
 Let this enraged element he still, 
 . s o Let JEolus obey my will : 
 
 Let him his boisterous prisoners safely Ifeep 
 
 In their darje caverns , and no more 
 Let them disturb the bosom of the deep, 
 Till these arrive upon their wistidfoi 
 
 shore. 
 Nept tSo much my Amphitrite's love I prise, 
 
 That no commands of her's I can despise 
 
 Tethys no furrows now shall wear, 
 Oceanus no wrinkles on his broiv, 
 yX\ KO Let your serenest looks appear ! 
 
 Be calm and gentle now. 
 -^ . cBe calm, ye great parents of the floods and 
 
 d < the springs, 
 
 Am h f IVtete ea ^ 1 Nereid mid Triton plays, re- 
 vels, and sings. 
 
 Ocean,. Confine the roaring winds, and we 
 Will soon obey you chearfully.
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 201 
 
 Chorus 1 Tic up the winds, and we'll obey ; 
 qfTrit. > Upon the floods ivrfll sing and play, 
 Ner. ) And celebrate a Halcyon day. 
 
 [Here the Dancers mingle with the 
 
 Singers, and perform a dance. 
 Nept. Great nephew, jEolus, make no noise, 
 Muzzle your roaring boys. 
 
 [AEOLUS appears. 
 Amph. Let 'em not bluster to disturb our ears, 
 
 Or strike these noble passengers withfears. 
 Nept. Afford 'em only such an easy gale, 
 As pleasantly may swell each sail. 
 Amph . While fell sea-monsters cause intestine jnrs, 
 This empire you invade by foreign wars. 
 Nept. Hut you shall now be still, 
 
 And shall obey my Amphiirite's will. 
 ./Eolus ) You I'll obey, tv/io at one stroke can 'make, 
 descends } With your dread trident, the whole earth 
 
 to quake. 
 
 Come down, my blusterers, swell no more, 
 Your stormy rage give o'er. 
 
 [Winds from the four corners appear. 
 Let all black tempests cease, 
 
 And let the troubled ocean rest : 
 Let all the sea enjoy as calm a peace, 
 As where thehalcyon buildslierquietnest. 
 To your prisons below, 
 Down, clown you must go : 
 You in the earth's entrails your revels may 
 
 keep; 
 
 Sut no more till I call shall you trouble 
 
 the deep. [Winds fly doivn. 
 
 Now they are gone, all stormy wars shall 
 
 cease ; 
 
 TJien let your trumpeters proclaim a peace. 
 Amph. Tritons, my sons, your trumpets sound, 
 
 And let the noise from neighbouring sJiorcs 
 rebound.
 
 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 'Sound a calm. 
 \Sound a calm. 
 Chorus. < Sound a calm, 
 a calm. 
 Sound a calm. 
 [Here the Tritons, at every repeat of Sound a 
 calm, changing their figure and postures, 
 seem to sound their wreathed trumpets made 
 of shells. 
 
 A symphony of music, like trumpets, to which 
 four Tritons dance. 
 
 Nept. See, see, the heavens smile ; all your troubles 
 
 are past, 
 Your joys, by black clouds, shall no more be 
 
 tfercast. 
 Amph. On this barren isle ye shall lose all your 
 
 fears, 
 Leave behind all your sorrows, and banish 
 
 your cares. 
 And your loves and your lives shall in 
 
 Both ^ sa f ely en 3y ; 
 
 No influence of stars shall your quiet de- 
 
 Chorus ( And your loves, SKC. 
 of all. | No influence, $c. 
 
 [Here the Dancers mingle with the Singers. 
 Ocean. We'll safely convey you to your own happy 
 
 shore, 
 And your's and your country's soft peace 
 
 will restore. 
 Tethys. To treat you, blest lovers, as you sail on 
 
 the deep, 
 The Tritons and Sea-nymphs their revels 
 
 shall keep. 
 
 ^ On the swift dolphin^ backs tJiey shall sing 
 Both * and* flail play ; 
 
 1 They shall guard you by night, atid delight 
 * you by day.
 
 SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 203 
 
 Chorus ( On the swift, $c. 
 of all. | And shall guard, <%e. 
 
 [Here the Dancers mingle with the Singers. 
 [A dance of twelve Tritons. 
 
 Mir. What charming things are these ? 
 
 Dor. What heavenly power is this ? 
 
 Prosp. Now, my Ariel, be visible, 
 And let the rest of your aerial train 
 Appear, and entertain them with a song, 
 And then farewell, my long-loved Ariel. 
 
 SCENE III. Changes to the Rising Sun, and a 
 number of Aerial Spirits in the Air ; ARIEL 
 flying from the Sun, advances towards the Pit. 
 
 Alon. Heaven ! What are these we see ? 
 
 Prosp. They are spirits, with which the air abounds 
 In swarms, but that they are not subject 
 To poor feeble mortal eyes. 
 
 Anto. O wondrous skill ! 
 
 Gon%. O power divine ! 
 
 ARIEL, and the rest, sing the following Song. 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there suck I; 
 
 In a cowslip's bed I lie ; 
 
 There I couch when owls do cry. 
 
 On the swallow's wings I fly, 
 
 After summer merrily. 
 Merrily, merrily shall I live now, 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
 
 Song ended, ARIEL speaks, hovering in the air. 
 
 Ariel. My noble master ! 
 May theirs and your blest joys never impair ! 
 And for the freedom I enjoy in air,
 
 204 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 I will be still your Ariel, and wait 
 On airy accidents that work for fate. 
 Whatever shall your happiness concern, 
 From your still faithful Ariel you shall learn. 
 
 Prosp. Thou hast been always diligent and kind. 
 Farewell, my long-loved Ariel ! thou shalt find 
 I will preserve thee ever in my mind. 
 Henceforth this isle to the afflicted be . 
 A place of refuge, as it was to me : 
 The promises of blooming spring live here, 
 And all the blessings of the ripening year. 
 On my retreat let Heaven and Nature smile, 
 And ever flourish the Enchanted Isle. [Exeunt. 
 

 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 GALLANTS, by all good signs it does appear, 
 That sixty-seven's a very damning year, 
 For knaves abroad, and for ill poets here. 
 
 Among the muses there's a general rot, 
 
 The rhyming monsieur, and the Spanish plot ; 
 
 Defy or court, all's one, they go to pot. 
 
 The ghosts of poets walk within this place, 
 And haunt us actors wheresoe'er we pass, 
 In visions bloodier than King Richard's was. 
 
 For this poor wretch, he has not much to say, 
 But quietly brings in his part o'th' play, 
 And begs the favour to be damn'd to-day. 
 
 He sends me only like a sheriff's man here, 
 To let you know the malefactor's near, 
 And that he means to die, en cavalier. 
 
 For, if you should be gracious to his pen. 
 The example will prove ill to other men, 
 And you'll be troubled with them all again.
 
 EVENING'S LOVE; 
 
 OE, THE 
 
 MOCK ASTKOLOGER. 
 
 A 
 
 COMEDY.
 
 .
 
 TO HIS GRACE, 
 
 WILLIAM, 
 
 DUKE OF NEWCASTLE,* 
 
 ONE OF ms MAJESTY'S 
 
 MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL, AND OF THE 
 BltiST XOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &C. 
 
 MAY IT PLEASE YOUR GRACE, 
 
 A MONGST those few persons of wit and honour, 
 whose favourable opinion I have desired, your own 
 virtue, and my great obligations to your grace, have 
 justly given you the precedence. For what could 
 be more glorious to me, than to have acquired some 
 part of your esteem, who are admired and honoured 
 
 William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, distinguished him- 
 self in the Civil Wars of Charles I. He might have possessed him- 
 self of Hull, had the king more early resolved on an open rupture 
 with the parliament. When the war broke out, he levied an ar- 
 my of 8000 men, secured the northern counties for the king, and 
 raised the siege of York. The invasion of the Scots prevented 
 his farther success ; but he defeated the parliamentary forces in 
 several actions, and shewed all the talents of A great soldier. Af- 
 ter the loss of the battle of Marston Moor, which Prince Rupert 
 hazarded in opposition to his advice, he left England in disgust, 
 and did not return till the Restoration. He was much respected 
 when abroad, and acquired the favour of many princes, and, 
 VOL. III. O
 
 210 THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 
 
 by all good men ; who have been, for so many years 
 together, the pattern and standard of honour to the 
 nation ; and whose whole life has been so great an 
 example of heroic virtue, that we might wonder 
 how it happened into an age so corrupt as ours, if 
 it had not likewise been a part of the former. As 
 you came into the world with all the advantages of 
 a noble birth and education, so you have rendered 
 
 amongst others, of Don John of Austria. His skill in the eques- 
 trian art was, perhaps, as great a recommendation, as his noble 
 birth and unstained loyalty. During the wars, he had been raised 
 from the rank of earl to that of marquis ; and after the Resto- 
 ration he was created Duke of Newcastle. He wrote several plays, 
 of which we know only the names ; " The Country Captain," 
 " Variety," " The Humourous Lovers," and " The Triumphant 
 Widow." He also translated Moliere's " L'Etourdi," which our 
 author converted into " Sir Martin Mar-all." But his most no- 
 ted work is a splendid folio on horsemanship, with engravings ; 
 in which, after his grace has been represented in every possible 
 attitude and dress, he is at length depicted mounted on Pegasus, 
 and in the act of ascending from a circle of Houyhnhnms, kneel- 
 ing around him in the act of adoration. 
 
 His once celebrated Duchess was Margaret, daughter of Sir 
 Charles Lucas. She was his grace's second wife, and married to 
 him during his exile. A most voluminous author ; she wrote 
 nineteen plays, besides philosophical essays, letters, and orations. 
 For the former she has condescended to leave the following apo- 
 logy : 
 
 The Latin phrases I could never tell, 
 But Jonson could, which made him write so well. 
 Greek, Latin poets I could never read, 
 Nor their historians, but our English Speed. 
 I could not steal their wit, nor plots out-take. 
 All my plays' plots my own poor brain did make. 
 From Plutarch's story I ne'er took a plot, 
 Nor from romances, nor from Don Quixote. 
 
 Her grace's assiduity was equal to her originality. She kept a 
 bevy of maidens of honour, who were obliged, at all hours of the 
 night, to attend the summons of her bell, with a light, and mate- 
 rials "to register her grace's conceptions," which, we beg the read- 
 er to understand, were all of a literary or philosophical nature.
 
 THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 211 
 
 both yet more conspicuous by your virtue. For- 
 tune, indeed, has perpetually crowned your under- 
 takings with success, but she has only waited on 
 your valour, not conducted it. She has ministered 
 to your glory like a slave, and has been led in tri- 
 umph by it ; or, at most, while honour led you by 
 the hand to greatness, fortune only followed to keep 
 you from sliding back in the ascent. That, which 
 Plutarch accounted her favour to Cymon and Lu- 
 cullus, was but her justice to your grace ; and, ne- 
 ver to have been overcome where you led in person, 
 as it was more than Hannibal could boast, so it was 
 all that Providence could do for that party, whic a 
 it had resolved to ruin. Thus, my lord, the last 
 smiles of victory were on your arms ; and, every- 
 where else declaring for the rebels, she seemed to 
 suspend herself, and to doubt, before she took her 
 flight, whether she were able wholly to abandon 
 that cause, for which you fought.* 
 
 The good duchess's conceptions are now forgotten ; but it should 
 not be forgotten, that her kind solicitude soothed and supported 
 her husband through a weary exile of eighteen years, when their 
 fortunes were reduced to the lowest ebb. In gratitude, he ap- 
 pears to have encouraged her pursuits, and admired the produc- 
 tions of her muse. In the " Sessions of Poets," he is introduced 
 as founding upon her literary pretensions, rather than his own : 
 
 Newcastle and's horse for entrance next strives, 
 
 Well-stuft''d was his cloak-bag, and so was his breeches, 
 And 
 
 Pull'd out his wife's poems, plays, essays, and speeches. 
 Whoop ! quoth Apollo, what a devil have we here ? 
 
 Put up thy wife's trumpery, good noble marquis, 
 And home again, home again, take thy career, 
 
 To provide her fresh straw, and a chamber that dark is. 
 
 Such were the noble personages whom Dryden deemed worthy 
 of the tine strains of eulogy conveyed in this dedication. 
 
 * This compliment is overstrained. But though Charles gain- 
 ed many advantages after the Earl of Newcastle had left Eng- 
 land, the north was irrecoverably lost to his cause.
 
 212 fin: EPISTT,E DEDICATORY. 
 
 But the greatest trials of your courage and con- 
 stancy were yet to come. Many had ventured their 
 fortunes, and exposed their lives to the utmost 
 dangers for their king and country, who ended 
 their loyalty with the war ; and submitting to the 
 iniquity of the times, chose rather to redeem their 
 former plenty, by acknowledging an usurper, than 
 to suffer with an unprofitable fidelity (as those 
 meaner spirits called it) for their lawful sovereign. 
 But, as I dare not accuse so many of our nobility, 
 who were content to accept their patrimonies from 
 the clemency of the conqueror, and to retain only 
 a secret veneration for their prince, amidst the open 
 worship which they were forced to pay to the usur- 
 per, who had dethroned him ; so, I hope, I may 
 have leave to extol that virtue which acted more 
 generously ; and which was not satisfied with an 
 inward devotion to monarchy, but produced itself 
 to view, and asserted the cause by open martyrdom. 
 Of these rare patterns of loyalty, your grace was 
 chief. Those examples you could not find, you 
 made. Some few Cato's there were with you, whose 
 invincible resolution could not be conquered by 
 that usurping Caesar. Your virtue opposed itself 
 to his fortune, and overcame it> by not submitting 
 to it. The last and most difficult enterprize he had 
 to effect, when he had conquered three nations, was 
 to subdue your spirit ; and he died weary of that 
 war, and unable to finish it. 
 
 In the mean time, you lived more happily in your 
 exile, than the other on his throne. Your loyalty 
 made you friends and servants amongst foreigners ; 
 and you lived plentifully without a fortune ; for 
 you lived on your own desert and reputation. The 
 glorious name of the valiant and faithful Newcastle, 
 was a patrimony which could never be exhausted.
 
 THE EI'ISTLE DEDICATORY. 21 3 
 
 Thus, my lord, the morning of your life was clear 
 and calm ; and, though it was afterwards overcast, 
 yet, in that general storm, you were never without 
 a shelter. And now you are happily arrived to the 
 evening of a day, as serene as the dawn of it was 
 glorious ; but such an evening as, I hope, and al- 
 most prophecy, is far from night : Tis the evening 
 of a summer's sun, which keeps the day-light long 
 within the skies. The health of your body is main/? 
 tained by the vigour of your mind : Neither does 
 the one shrink from the fatigue of exercise, nor the 
 other bend under the pains of study. Methinks, I 
 behold in you another Cains Marius, who, in the 
 extremity of his age, exercised himself almost every 
 morningin the Campus Martius,amongstthe youth- 
 ful nobility of Home. And afterwards in your re- 
 tirements, when you do honour to poetry, by em- 
 ploying part of your leisure in it, I regard you as 
 another Silius Italicus, who, having passed over his 
 consulship with applause, dismissed himself from 
 business, and from the gown, and employed hi$ 
 age, amongst the shades, in the reading and imita- 
 tion of Virgil. * 
 
 In which, lest any thing should be wanting to 
 your happiness, you have, by a rare effect of for- 
 tine, found, in the person of your excellent lady, 
 not only a lover, but a partner of your studies ; a 
 lady whom our age may justly equal with the 
 Sappho of the Greeks, or the Sulpitia of the Ro- 
 mans ; >vfto, by being taken into your bosom, 
 seems to be inspired with your genius ; and, by 
 writing the history of your life,* in so masculine a 
 
 * The duchess wrote her husband's Life, which was translated 
 into Latin. It is certainly the best of her grace's performances.
 
 214 THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 
 
 style, has already placed you in the number of the 
 heroes. She has anticipated that great portion of 
 fame, which envy often hinders a living virtue from 
 possessing ; which would, indeed, have been given 
 to your ashes, but with a later payment ; and of 
 which you could have no present use, except it 
 were by a secret presage of that which was to come, 
 when you were no longer in a possibility of know- 
 ing it. So that if that were a praise, or satisfac- 
 tion to the greatest of emperors, which the most 
 judicious of poets gives him 
 
 Prcesenti tibi matures largimur honores, &o. 
 
 that the adoration, which was not allowed to Her- 
 cules and llomulus till after death, was given to 
 Augustus living, then certainly it cannot be de- 
 nied, but that your grace has received a double sa r 
 tisfaction : the one, to see yourself consecrated to 
 immortality while you are yet alive ; the other, to 
 have your praises celebrated by so dear, so just, and 
 so pious an historian. 
 
 It is the consideration of this that stops my pen ; 
 though I am loth to leave so fair a subject, which 
 gives me as much field as poetry could wish, and 
 yet no more than truth can justify. But to attempt 
 any thing of a panegyric, were to enterprize on 
 your lady's right ; and to seem to affect those praises 
 which none but the Duchess of Newcastle can de- 
 serve, when she writes the actions of her lord. I 
 shall, therefore, leave that wider space, and con- 
 tract myself to those narrow bounds, which best 
 become my fortune and employment. 
 
 I am obliged, my lord, to return you not only 
 my own acknowledgments, but to thank you in the 
 names of former poets ; the manes of Jonson and
 
 THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 215 
 
 D'Avenant* seem to require it from me, that those 
 favours, which you placed on them, and which they 
 wanted opportunity to own in public, yet might not 
 be lost to the knowledge of posterity, with a for- 
 getfulness unbecoming of the Muses, who are the 
 daughters of Memory. And give me leave, my 
 lord, to avow so much of vanity, as to say, I am 
 proud to be their remembrancer : For, by relating 
 how gracious you have been to them, and are to 
 me, I, in some measure, join my name with theirs : 
 And the continued descent of your favours to me 
 is the best title which I can plead for my succes- 
 sion. I only wish that I had as great reason to 
 be satisfied with myself, in the return of our com- 
 mon acknowledgments, as your grace may justly 
 take in the conferring them : For I cannot but be 
 very sensible, that the present of an ill comedy, 
 which I here make you, is a very unsuitable way 
 of giving thanks for them, who, themselves, have 
 written so many better. This pretends to nothing 
 more, than to be a foil to those scenes, which are 
 composed by the most noble poet of our age and 
 nation ; and to be set as a water-mark of the low- 
 est ebb, to which the wit of my predecessor has 
 sunk, and run down in me. But, though all of 
 them have surpassed me in the scene, there is one 
 part of glory, in which I will not yield to any of 
 them : I mean, my lord, that honour and venera- 
 tion which they had for you in their lives ; and 
 which I preserve after them, more holily than the 
 
 * Jonson and D'Avenant were both protected by the Duke of 
 Newcastle. Jonson has addressed several verses to him, and com- 
 posed a Masque for the splendid entertainment which he gave to 
 Charles I., at his house at Wellbeck, when the king was on his 
 first northern journey.
 
 216 THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 
 
 vestal fires were maintained from age to age ; but 
 with a greater degree of heat, and of devotion, than 
 theirs, as being with more respect and passion, than 
 they ever were, 
 
 Your GRACE'S 
 
 ppfcrf 
 Most obliged, most humble, 
 
 and most obedient Servant, 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN.
 
 AN EVENING'S LOVE. 
 
 OUR author acknowledges, that this play of " The Mock As- 
 trologer" is founded on " Lf feint Astrologue," by the younger 
 Corneille, which he, in his turn, had imitated from " El Astro- 
 logo Jingidio" of Calderon. But Dryden has also laid Moliere un- 
 der contribution. Most part of the quarrelling scene betwixt 
 Wildblood and Jacintha, in the fourth act, is literally copied 
 from that betwixt Lucile, JLraste, Marinette, and Gros Rene, in 
 " Le Depit Amaurenx" The absurd loquacity of Don Alonzo, 
 and his friend's mode of silencing him, by ringing a bell in his 
 ears, is imitated from the scene betwixt Albert and Metaphraste, 
 in the same play ; and, it must be allowed, it is an expedient 
 which might be more decently resorted to against an inundation 
 of nonsense from a pedantic schoolmaster, as in Moliere, than to 
 stop the mouth of a noble old Spaniard, the uncle of Don Lopez' 
 mistress. The play itself is more lively than most of Dryden's 
 comedies. Wildblood and Jacintha are far more pleasant than 
 their prototypes, Celadon and Florimel ; and the Spanish bustle 
 of the plot is well calculated to keep up the attention. The cha- 
 racter of Aurelia was perhaps suggested by the " Precieuses Rit 
 dicules" of Moliere, but cannot, with any justice, be said to 
 be copied from them. The Preface contains some excellent re- 
 marks on the old comedy. There is also an elaborate defence, 
 the first our poet deigned to make, against the charge of plagia- 
 rism. On this point he quotes the words of Charles II., who had 
 only desired, that they, who accused Dryden of theft, would 
 steal him such plays as Dryden's : And he vindicates the right 
 of an author to take his plot where he could best find it, in his- 
 tory or romance, providing that the conduct and disposition of 
 the action, with the dialogue, character, and poetical ornaments, 
 were original. Our author's use of the terms and technical 
 phrases of judicial astrology intimate his acquaintance with that 
 pretended science, in which he is known to have placed somo 
 confidence. 
 
 The " Mock Astrologer" appears to have been acted and pub- 
 lished in 1668.
 
 THE 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I HAD thought, reader, in this preface, to have writ- 
 ten somewhat concerning the difference betwixt 
 the plays of our age, and those of our predecessors, 
 on the English stage : To have shewn in what parts 
 of dramatic poesy we were excelled by Ben Jon- 
 son, I mean, humour, and contrivance of comedy ; 
 and in what we may justly claim precedence of 
 Shakespeare and Fletcher, namely, in heroic plays : 
 But this design I have waived on second considera- 
 tions ; at least, deferred it till I publish The Con- 
 quest of Granada, where the discourse will be more 
 proper. I had also prepared to treat of the im- 
 provement of our language since Fletcher's and 
 Jonson's days, and consequently of our refining the 
 courtship, raillery, and conversation of plays : But 
 as I am willing to decline that envy which I should 
 draw on myself from some old opiniatre judges of 
 the stage, so likewise I am prest in time so much 
 that I have not leisure, at present, to go through 
 with it. Neither, indeed, do I value a reputation 
 gained from comedy, so far as to concern myself 
 .about it, any more than I needs must in my own
 
 PREFACE. 219 
 
 defence : For I think it, in its own nature, inferior 
 to all sorts of dramatic writing. Low comedy es- 
 pecially requires, on the writer's part, much of con- 
 versation with the vulgar, and much of ill nature 
 in the observation of their follies. But let all men 
 please themselves according to their several tastes. 
 That which is not pleasant to me, may be to others 
 who judge better : And, to prevent an accusation 
 from my enemies, I am sometimes ready to ima- 
 gine, that my disgust of low comedy proceeds not 
 so much from my judgment as from my temper; 
 which is the reason why I so seldom write it ; and 
 that when I succeed in it, (I mean so far as to please 
 the audience) yet I am nothing satisfied with what 
 I have done ; but am often vexed to hear the peo- 
 
 Fle laugh, and clap, as they perpetually do. where 
 intended them no jest ; while they let pass the 
 better things, without taking notice of them. Yet 
 even this confirms me in my opinion of slighting 
 popular applause, and s of contemning that approba- 
 tion which those very people give, equally with 
 me, to the zany of a mountebank ; or to the ap- 
 pearance of an antic on the theatre, without wit 
 on the poet's part, or any occasion of laughter from 
 the actor, besides the ridiculousness of his habit and 
 his grimaces. 
 
 But I have descended, before I was aware, from 
 comedy to farce; which consists principally of gri- 
 maces. That I admire not any comedy equally 
 with tragedy, is, perhaps, from the sullenness of 
 my humour; but that I detest those farces, which 
 are now the most frequent entertainments of the 
 stage, I am sure I have reason on my side. Co- 
 medy consists, though of low persons, yet of natural 
 actions and characters ; I mean such humours, ad- 
 ventures, and designs, as are to be found and met 
 with in the world. Farce, on the other side, con-
 
 220 PREFACE. 
 
 sists of forced humours, and unnatural events. Co- 
 medy presents us with the imperfections of human 
 nature : Farce entertains us with what is monstrous 
 and chimerical. The one causes laughter in those 
 who can judge of men and manners, by the lively 
 representation of their folly or corruption : The 
 other produces the same effect in those who can 
 judge of neither, and that only by its extravagances. 
 The first works on the judgment and fancy ; the 
 latter on the fancy only : There is more of satisfac- 
 tion in the former kind of laughter, and in the lat- 
 ter more of scorn. But, how it happens, that an 
 impossible adventure should cause our mirth, I can- 
 not so easily imagine. Something there may be in 
 the odduess of it, because on the stage it is the com- 
 mon effect of things unexpected, to surprise us into 
 a delight ; and that is to be ascribed to the strange 
 appetite, as I may call it, of the fancy ; which, like 
 that of a longing woman, often runs out into the 
 most extravagant desires ; and is better satisfied 
 sometimes with loam, or with the rinds of trees, 
 than with the wholesome nourishments of life. In 
 short, there is the same difference betwixt farce and 
 comedy, as betwixt an empiric and a true phy- 
 sician. Both of them may attain their ends ; but 
 what the one performs by hazard, the other does 
 by skill. And as the artist is often unsuccessful, 
 while the mountebank succeeds ; so farces more 
 commonly take the people than comedies. For, to 
 write unnatural things, is the most probable way of 
 pleasing them, who understand not nature. And a 
 true poet often misses of applause, because he can- 
 not debase himself to write so ill as to please his 
 audience. 
 
 After all, it is to be acknowledged, that most of 
 those comedies, which have been lately written,
 
 PREFACE. 221 
 
 have been allied too much to farce: And this must 
 of necessity fall out, till we forbear the translation of 
 French plays : For their poets, wanting judgment 
 to make or to maintain true characters, strive to 
 cover their defects with ridiculous figures and gri- 
 maces. While I say this, I accuse myself as well 
 as others: And this very play would rise up in 
 judgment against me, if I would defend all things 
 I have written to be natural : But I confess I have 
 given too much to the people in it, and am ashamed 
 for them as well as for myself, that I have pleased 
 them at so cheap a rate. Not that there is any 
 thing here which I would not defend to an ill-na- 
 tured judge ; (for I despise their censures* who I 
 am sure would write worse on the same subject :) 
 but, because I love to deal clearly and plainly, and 
 to speak of my own faults with more criticism, than 
 I would of another poet's. Yet I think it no va- 
 nity to say, that this comedy has as much of enter- 
 tainment in it, as many others Which have been 
 lately written : And, if I find my Own errors in it, 
 1 am able, at the" same time, to arraign all my con- 
 temporaries for greater. As I pretend not that I 
 can write humour, so none of them can reasonably 
 pretend to have Written it as they ought. Jon- 
 son was tile only ttlan, of all ages and nations, who 
 has performed it well ; and that but in three or four 
 of his comedies : The rest are biit a cranibe bit coctu ; 
 the same humours a little varied and written worse. 
 Neither was it more allowable ih him, than it is in 
 our present poets, to represent the follies of parti- 
 cular persons ; of which many have accused him. 
 Parcere personlt, dkere de vitiis, is the rule of 
 plays. And Horace tells you, that the old comedy 
 amongst the Cirecians was silenced for the too great 
 liberties of the poets :
 
 222 PREFACE. 
 
 In vitium libertas excidit et vim 
 
 Dignam lege regi : Lex est accepta, chorusque 
 Turpiter obticuii, sublato jure nocendL 
 
 Of which he gives you the reason in another place ; 
 where^ having given the precept, 
 
 Neve immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta, 
 
 He immediately subjoins, 
 
 Offenduntur enim quibus est equus, et pater, el res. 
 
 But Ben Jonson is to be admired for many excel- 
 lencies ; and can be taxed with fewer failings than 
 any English poet. I know I have been accused as 
 an enemy of his writings ; but without any other 
 reason, than that I do not admire him blindly, and 
 without looking into his imperfections. For why 
 should he only be exempted from those frailties, 
 from which Homer and Virgil are not free ? Or why 
 should there be any ipsedixit in our poetry, any more 
 than there is in our philosophy ? I admire and ap- 
 plaud him where I ought. Those, who do more, do 
 but value themselves in their admiration of him ; 
 and, by telling you they extol Ben Jonson's way, 
 would insinuate to you that they can practise it. 
 For my part, I declare that I want judgment to 
 imitate him ; and should think it a great impu- 
 dence in myself to attempt it. To make men appear 
 pleasantly ridiculous on the stage, was, as I have 
 said, his talent ; and in this he needed not the 
 acumen of wit, but that of judgment. For the 
 characters and representations of folly are only the 
 effects of observation ; and observation is an effect 
 of judgment. Some ingenious men, for whom I 
 have a particular esteem, have thought I have much 
 injured Ben Jonson, when I have not allowed his
 
 PREFACE. 223 
 
 wit to be extraordinary. But they confound the no- 
 tion of what is witty with what is pleasant. That 
 Ben Jonson's plays were pleasant, he must want 
 reason who denies. But that pleasantness was not 
 properly wit, or the sharpness of conceit ; but the 
 natural imitation of folly ; which I confess to be 
 excellent in its kind, but not to be of that kind 
 which they pretend. Yet if we will believe Quin- 
 tilian, in his chapter de Movendo Risu, he gives his 
 opinion of both in these following words : Stulta 
 reprehendere facillimum est ; nam per se sunt ridi- 
 cula, et a derisu non procul abest risus : Sed rem ur- 
 banamfacit aliqua ex nobis adject io. 
 
 And some, perhaps, would be apt to say of Jon- 
 son, as it was said of Demosthenes, non displicu- 
 isse illi jocos, sed non contigisse. I will not deny, 
 but that I approve most the mixt way of comedy ; 
 that which is neither all wit, nor all humour, but 
 the result of both. Neither so little of humour as 
 Fletcher shews, nor so little of love and wit as Jon- 
 son ; neither all cheat, with which the best plays of 
 the one are filled, nor all adventure, which is the 
 common practice of the other. I would have the 
 characters well chosen, and kept distant from inter- 
 fering with each other ; which is more than Flet- 
 cher or Shakespeare did. But I would have more 
 of the urbana, vennsta, salsa, faceta, and the rest 
 which Quintilian reckons up as the ornaments of 
 wit ; and these are extremely wanting in Ben Jon- 
 son. As for repartee, in particular; as it is the 
 very soul of conversation, so it is the greatest grace 
 of comedy, where it is proper to the characters. 
 There may be much of acuteness in a thing well 
 said ; but there is more in a quick reply. Sunt enim 
 longb venustiora omnia in respondendo qudm in pro- 
 vocando. Of one thing I am sure, that no man ever 
 will decry wit, but he who despairs of it himself;
 
 224 PREFACE. 
 
 and who has no other quarrel to it, but that which 
 the fox had to the grapes. Yet, as Mr Cowley (who 
 had a greater portion of it than any man I know) 
 tells us in his Character of Wit, rather than all 
 wit, let there be none. I think there is no folly 
 so great in any poet of our age, as the superfluity 
 and waste of wit was in some of our predecessors ; 
 particularly, we may say of Fletcher and of Shake- 
 speare, what was said of Ovid, In omni ejus ingenio, 
 jhcilius quod rejici, quclm quod adjlci potest, inve- 
 nies : The contrary of which was true in Virgil, 
 and our incomparable Jonson. 
 
 Some enemies of repartee have observed to us, 
 that there is a great latitude in their characters, 
 which are made to speak it ; and that it is easier to 
 write wit than humour ; because, in the characters 
 of humour, the poet is confined to make the person 
 speak what is only proper to it ; whereas, all kind 
 of wit is proper in the character of a witty person. 
 But, by their favour, there are as different charac- 
 ters in wit as in folly. Neither is all kind of wit 
 proper in the mouth of every ingenious person. A 
 witty coward, and a witty brave, must speak dif- 
 ferently. Falstaff and the Liar speak not like 
 Don John in the " Chances," and Valentine in " Wit 
 without Money." And Jonson's Truewit in the 
 " Silent Woman," is a character different from all 
 of them. Yet it appears, that this one character 
 of wit Was more difficult to the author, than all his 
 images of humour in the play; for those he could 
 describe and manage from his observations of men ; 
 this he has taken, at least a part of it, from books. 
 Witness the speeches in the first act, translated 
 verbatim out of Ovid, " De Arte Amandi :" To 
 omit what afterwards he borrowed from the sixth 
 satire of Juvenal against women. 
 
 However, if I should grant, that there were a
 
 PREFACE. 225 
 
 greater latitude in characters of wit, than in those 
 of humour ; yet that latitude would be of small ad- 
 vantage to such poets, who have too narrow an ima- 
 gination to write it. And to entertain an audience 
 perpetually with humour, is to carry them from the 
 conversation of gentlemen, and treat them with the 
 follies and extravagancies of Bedlam. 
 
 I find I have launched out farther than I intend- 
 ed in the beginning of this preface ; and that, in 
 the heat of writing, I have touched at something, 
 which I thought to have avoided. It is time now 
 to draw homeward ; and to think rather of Defend- 
 ing myself, than assaulting others. I have already 
 acknowledged, that this play is far from perfect ; 
 but I do not think myself obliged to discover the 
 imperfections of it to my adversaries, any more than 
 a guilty person is bound to accuse himself before 
 his judges. It is charged upon me that I make de- 
 bauched persons (such as, they say, my Astrologer 
 and Gamester are) my protagonists, or the chief 
 persons of the drama ; and that I make them hap- 
 py in the conclusion of my play ; against the law 
 of comedy, which is to reward virtue, and punish 
 vice. I answer, first, that I know no such law to 
 have been constantly observed in comedy, either by 
 the ancient or modern poets. Charea is made hap- 
 py in " The Eunuch," after having deflowered a vir- 
 gin ; and Terence generally does the same through 
 all his plays, where you perpetually see, not only 
 debauched young men enjoy their mistresses, but 
 even the courtezans themselves rewarded and ho- 
 noured in the catastrophe. The same may be ob- 
 served in Plautus almost everywhere. Ben Jonson 
 himself, after whom I may be proud to err, has 
 given me more than once the example of it. That 
 in " The Alchemist" is notorious, where Face, after 
 having contrived and carried on the great cozenage 
 VOL. in. P
 
 226 PREFACE. 
 
 of the play, and continued in it without repentance 
 to the last, is not only forgiven by his master, but 
 enriched, by his consent, with the spoils of those 
 whom he had cheated. And, which is more, his 
 master himself, a grave man, and a widower, is in- 
 troduced taking his man's counsel, debauching the 
 widow first, in hope to marry her afterward. In 
 "The Silent Woman," Dauphine (who, with the other 
 two gentlemen, is of the same character with my 
 Celadon in " The Maiden Queen," and with Wild- 
 blood in this) professes himself in love with all the 
 collegiate ladies ; and they likewise are all of the 
 same character with each other, excepting only 
 Madam Otter, who has something singular. Yet 
 this naughty Dauphine is crowned in the end with 
 the possession of his uncle's estate, and with the 
 hopes of enjoying all his mistresses ; and his friend, 
 Mr Trueivit, (the best character of a gentleman 
 which Ben Jonson ever made) is not ashamed to 
 pimp for him. As for Beaumont and Fletcher, I 
 need not allege examples out of them ; for that 
 were to quote almost all their comedies. But now 
 it will be objected, that I patronize vice by the au- 
 thority of former poets, and extenuate my own 
 faults by recrimination. I answer, that as I defend 
 myself by their example, so that example I defend 
 by reason, and by the end of all dramatic poesy. 
 In the first place, therefore, give me leave to shew 
 you their mistake, who have accused me. They 
 have not distinguished, as they ought, betwixt the 
 rules of tragedy and comedy. In tragedy, where 
 the actions and persons are great, and the crimes 
 horrid, the laws of justice are more strictly obser- 
 ved ; and examples of punishment to be made, to 
 deter mankind from the pursuit of vice. Faults of 
 this kind have been rare amongst the ancient poets ; 
 for they have punished in GEdiput, arid in his pos-
 
 PREFACE. 227 
 
 terity, the sin which he knew not he had commit- 
 ted. Medea is the only example I remember at 
 present, who escapes from punishment after mur- 
 der. Thus tragedy fulfils one great part of its in- 
 stitution : which is, by example, to instruct. But 
 in comedy it is not so ; for the chief end of it is 
 divertisement and delight : and that so much, that 
 it is disputed, I think, by Heinsius, before Horace's 
 " Art of Poetry," whether instruction be any part 
 of its employment. At least I am sure it can be 
 but its secondary end : for the business of the poet 
 is to make you laugh : when he writes humour, he 
 makes folly ridiculous ; when wit, he moves you, 
 if not always to laughter, yet to a pleasure that is 
 more noble. And if he works a cure on folly, and 
 the small imperfections in mankind, by exposing 
 them to public view, that cure is not performed by 
 an immediate operation : For it works first on the 
 ill-nature of the audience ; they are moved to laugh 
 by the representation of deformity ; and the shame 
 of that laughter teaches us to amend what is ridi- 
 culous in our manners. This being then establish- 
 ed, that the first end of comedy is delight, and in- 
 struction only the second ; it may reasonably be in- 
 ferred, that comedy is not so much obliged to the 
 punishment of faults which it represents, as tragedy. 
 For the persons in comedy are of a lower quality, 
 the action is little, and the faults and vices are but 
 the sallies of youth, and the frailties of human na- 
 ture, and not premeditated crimes : such to which 
 all men are obnoxious ; not such as are attempted 
 only by few, and those abandoned to all sense of 
 virtue : such as move pity and commiseration ; 
 not detestation and horror ; such, in short, as may 
 be forgiven ; not such as must of necessity be pu- 
 nished. But, lest any man should think that I 
 write this to make libertinism amiable, or that I
 
 228 . PREFACE. 
 
 cared not to debase the end and institution of co- 
 medy, so I might thereby maintain my own errors, 
 and those of better poets, I must further declare, 
 both for them and for myself, that we make not 
 vicious persons happy, but only as Heaven makes 
 sinners so ; that is, by reclaiming them first from 
 vice. For so it is to be supposed they are, when 
 they resolve to marry ; for then, enjoying what they 
 desire in one, they cease to pursue the love of many. 
 So Chcerea is made happy by Terence, in marrying 
 her whom he had deflowered : and so are Wildblood 
 and the Astrologer in this play. 
 
 There is another crime with which I am charged, 
 at which I am yet much less concerned, because it 
 does not relate to my manners, as the former did, 
 but only to my reputation as a poet : a name of 
 which I assure the reader I am nothing proud ; and 
 therefore cannot be very solicitous to defend it. I 
 am taxed with stealing all my plays, and that by 
 some, who should be the last men from whom I 
 would steal any part of them. There is one an- 
 swer which I will not make ; but it has been made 
 for me, by him to whose grace and patronage I owe 
 all things, 
 
 Et spes et ratio studiorum in Caesar e tantum 
 
 and without whose command they should no long- 
 er be troubled with any thing of mine ; that he 
 only desired, that they, who accused me of theft, 
 would always steal him plays like mine. But though 
 I have no reason to be proud of this defence, yet I 
 should waive it, because I have a worse opinion of 
 my own comedies than any of my enemies can have. 
 It is true, that wherever I have liked any story in 
 a romance, novel, or foreign play, I have made no 
 difficulty, nor ever shall, to take the foundation of
 
 PREFACE. 229 
 
 it, to build it up, and to make it proper for the 
 English stage. And I will be so vain to say, it has 
 lost nothing in my hands : But it always cost me 
 so much trouble to heighten it for our theatre, 
 {which is incomparably more curious in all the or- 
 naments of dramatic poesy than the French or 
 Spanish,) that when I had finished my play, it was 
 like the hulk of the Sir Francis Drake, so strangely 
 altered, that there scarcely remained any plank of 
 the timber which first built it. To witness this, 
 I need go no farther than this play ; it was first 
 Spanish, and called " El Astrologo Fingido ;" then 
 made French by the younger Corneille; and is now 
 translated into English, and in print, under the 
 name of " The Feigned Astrologer." What I have 
 performed in this will best appear by comparing it 
 with those : You will see that I have rejected some 
 adventures which I judged were not divertising ; 
 that I have heightened those which I have chosen ; 
 and that I have added others, which were neither 
 in the French nor Spanish. And, besides, you will 
 easily discover, that the walk of the Astrologer is 
 the least considerable in my play : For the design 
 of it turns more on the parts of WiMblood and Ja- 
 cintft, who are the chief persons in it. I have far- 
 ther to add, that I seldom use the wit and language 
 of any romance or play, which I undertake to alter ; 
 because my own invention (as bad as it is) can fur- 
 nish me with nothing so dull as what is there. 
 Those who have called Virgil, Terence, and Tasso, 
 plagiaries, (though they much injured them) had 
 yet a better colour for their accusation ; for Virgil 
 has evidently translated Theocritus, Hesiod, and 
 Homer, in many places ; besides what he has taken 
 from Ennius in his own language. Terence was 
 not only known to translate Menander, (which he 
 avows also in his prologues) but was said also to be
 
 230 PREFACE. 
 
 helped in those translations by Scipio the African, 
 and Latins. And Tasso, the most excellent of mo- 
 dern poets, and whom I reverence next to Virgil, 
 has taken both from Homer many admirable things, 
 which were left untouched by Virgil, and from Vir- 
 gil himself, where Homer could not furnish him. 
 Yet the bodies of Virgil's and Tasso's poems were 
 their own ; and so are all the ornaments of lan- 
 guage and elocution in them. The same (if there 
 were any thing commendable in this play) I could 
 say for it. But I will come nearer to our own 
 countrymen. Most of Shakespeare's plays, I mean 
 the stories of them, are to be found in " The He- 
 catomithi," or " Hundred Novels" of Cinthio. I 
 have myself read in his Italian, that of " Romeo 
 and Juliet," " The Moor of Venice," and many 
 others of them. Beaumont and Fletcher had most 
 of theirs from Spanish novels : Witness '' The 
 Chances," " The Spanish Curate," Rule a Wife 
 and have a Wife," " The Little French Lawyer," 
 and so many others of them as compose the great- 
 est part of their volume in folio. Ben Jonson, in- 
 deed, has designed his plots himself; but no man 
 has borrowed so much from the ancients as he has 
 done ; and he did well in it, for he has thereby 
 beautified our language. 
 
 But these little critics do not well consider what 
 is the work of a poet, and what the graces of a 
 poem ; the story is the least part of either ; I mean 
 the foundation of it, before it is modelled by the 
 art of him who writes it; who forms it with more 
 care, by exposing only the beautiful parts of it to 
 view, than a skilful lapidary sets a jewel. On this 
 foundation of the story, the characters are raised ; 
 and, since no story can afford characters enough 
 for the variety of the English stage, it follows, that 
 it is to be altered and enlarged with new persons,
 
 TUEFACE. . 231 
 
 accidents, and designs, which will almost make it 
 new. When this is done, the forming it into acts 
 and scenes, disposing of actions and passions into 
 their proper places, and beautifying both with de- 
 scriptions, similitudes, and propriety of language, 
 is the principal employment of the poet ; as being 
 the largest field of fancy, which is the principal 
 quality required in him ; for so much the word 
 7roj*iTn\ implies. Judgment, indeed, is necessary in 
 him ; but it is fancy that gives the life-touches, and 
 the secret graces to it ; especially in serious plays, 
 which depend not much on observation. For, to 
 write humour in comedy, (which is the theft of 
 poets from mankind) little of fancy is required ; the 
 poet observes only what is ridiculous and pleasant 
 folly, and by judging exactly what is so, he pleases 
 in the representation of it. 
 
 But, in general, the employment of a poet is like 
 that of a curious gunsmith, or watchmaker. The 
 iron or silver is not his own ; but they are the least 
 part of that which gives the value ; the price lies 
 wholly in the workmanship. And he who works 
 dully on a story, without moving laughter in a co- 
 medy, or raising concernment in a serious play, is 
 no more to be accounted a good poet, than a gun- 
 smith of the Minories is to be compared with the 
 best workman of the town. 
 
 But I have said more of this than I intended ; 
 and more, perhaps, than I needed to have done. I 
 shall but laugh at them hereafter, who accuse me 
 with so little reason ; and withal contemn their 
 dulness, who, if they could ruin that little reputa- 
 tion I have got, and which I value not, yet would 
 want both wit and learning to establish their own ; 
 or to be remembered in after ages for any thing, 
 but only that, which makes them ridiculous in this.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 WHEN first our poet set himself to write, 
 
 Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night, 
 
 He laid about him, and did so bestir him, 
 
 His muse could never lie in quiet for him : 
 
 But now his honey-moon is gone and past, 
 
 Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last ; 
 
 And he is bound, as civil husbands do, 
 
 To strain himself, in complaisance to you ; 
 
 To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss, 
 
 Like the faint smacking of an after-kiss, 
 
 But you, like wives ill pleased, supply his want ; 
 
 Each writing monsieur is a fresh gallant : 
 
 And though, perhaps, 'twas done as well before, 
 
 Yet still there's something in a new amour. 
 
 Your several poets work with several tools, 
 
 One gets you wits, another gets you fools : 
 
 This pleases you with some by-stroke of wit, 
 
 This finds some cranny that was never hit. 
 
 But should these janty lovers daily come 
 
 To do your work, like your good man at home, 
 
 Their fine small-timber'd wits would soon decay ; 
 
 These are gallants but for a holiday. 
 
 Others you had, who oftner have appear'd, 
 
 Whom, for mere impotence you have cashier'd : 
 
 Such as at first came on with pomp and glory, 
 
 But, overstraining, soon fell flat before ye. 
 
 Their useless weight, with patience long was born, 
 
 But at the last you threw them off with scorn. 
 
 As for the poet of this present night, "1 
 
 Though now he claims in you a husband's right, 
 
 He will not hinder you of fresh delight. J 
 
 He, like a seaman, seldom will appear ; 
 
 And means to trouble home but thrice a-year : 
 
 That only time from your gallants he'll borrow ; 
 
 Be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow.
 
 DKAMATIS PEKSONJE. 
 
 Tw y UH English gentlemen. 
 MASK ALL, their servant. 
 
 Don ALONZO DERiBERA,tfra old Spanish gentleman. 
 Don LOPEZ DE GAMBOA, a young noble Spaniard. 
 Don MELCHOR DE GUZMAN, a gentleman of a great 
 family ; but of a decayed fortune. 
 
 Donna THEODOSIA, ) ^ 7 , ^ A 
 
 Donna JACINTHA, | Da S ht *> ALONZ - 
 Donna AURELIA, their cousin. 
 BEATRIX, woman and confidante to the two sisters. 
 CAMILLA, woman to AURELIA. 
 
 Servants to Don LOPEZ and Don ALONZO. 
 SCENE Madrid, in the year 1665. 
 The Time, the last Evening of the Carnival.
 
 AN 
 
 EVENING'S LOVE; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 MOCK ASTEOLOGEB. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 
 
 Don LOPEZ, and a Servant walking over the stage. 
 Enter another Servant, and/ollows him. 
 
 Serv. Don Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Any new business ? 
 
 Serv. My master had forgot this letter, 
 Which he conjures you, as you are his friend, 
 To give Aurelia from him. 
 
 Lop. Tell Don Melchor, 
 'Tis a hard task which he enjoins me. 
 He knows I love her, and much more than he ; 
 For I love her alone, but he divides 
 His passion betwixt two. Did he consider 
 How great a pain 'tis to dissemble love, 
 He would never practise it. 
 
 Serv. He knows his fault, but cannot mend it.
 
 236 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT i. 
 
 Lop. To make the poor Aurelia believe 
 He's gone for Flanders, whilst he lies conceal'd, 
 And every night makes visits to her cousin 
 When will he leave this strange extravagance ? 
 
 Serv. When he can love one more, or t'other less, 
 
 Lop. Before I loved myself, I promised him 
 To serve him in his love ; and I'll perform it, 
 Howe'er repugnant to my own concernments. 
 
 Serv. You are a noble cavalier. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter BELLAMY, WILDBLOOD, and MASKALL. 
 
 2 Serv. Sir, your guests, of the English ambassa- 
 dor's retinue. 
 
 Lop. Cavaliers, will you please to command my 
 coach to take the air this evening ? 
 
 Bel. We have not yet resolved how to dispose of 
 ourselves ; but, however, we are highly acknow- 
 ledging to you for your civility. 
 
 Lop. You cannot more oblige me, than by laying 
 your commands on me, 
 
 Wild. We kiss your hand. 
 
 [Exeunt LOPEZ and Servant. 
 
 Bel. Give the Don his due, he entertained us 
 nobly this carnival. 
 
 Wild. Give the devil the Don, for any thing I 
 liked in his entertainment. 
 
 Bel. I hope we had variety enough. 
 
 Wild. Ay, it looked like variety, till we came to 
 taste it; there were twenty several dishes to the eye, 
 but in the palate, nothing but spices. I had a mind 
 to eat of a pheasant, and as soon as I got it into my 
 mouth, I found I was chewing a limb of cinnamon ; 
 then I went to cut a piece of kid, and no sooner it 
 had touched my lips, but it turned to red pepper. 
 At last I began to think myself another kind of 
 Midas, that every thing I touched should be turn- 
 ed to spice. 
 
 Bel. And, for my part, 1 imagined his Catholic
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 237 
 
 majesty had invited us to eat his Indies. But pr'y- 
 thee, let's leave the discourse of it, and contrive to- 
 gether how we may spend the evening ; for in this 
 hot country, 'tis as in the creation, the evening and 
 the morning make the day. 
 
 Wild. I have a little serious business. 
 
 Bel. Put it off till a fitter season : For the truth 
 is, business is then only tolerable, when the world 
 and the flesh have no baits to set before us for the 
 day. 
 
 W r dd. But mine, perhaps, is public business. 
 
 Bel. Why. is any business more public than drink- 
 ing and wenching ? Look on those grave plodding 
 fellows, that pass by us as though they were medi- 
 tating the reconquest of Flanders : Fly them to a 
 mark, and I'll undertake three parts of four are 
 going to their courtezans. I tell thee, Jack, the 
 whisking of a silk gown, and the rush of a tabby 
 petticoat, are as comfortable sounds to one of these 
 rich citizens, as the chink of their pieces of eight. 
 
 Wild. This being granted to be the common de- 
 sign of human kind, it is more than probable it is 
 yours ; therefore I'll leave you to the prosecution 
 of it. 
 
 Bel. Nay, good Jack, mine is but a mistress in 
 embryo ; the possession of her is at least some days 
 off; and, till that time, thy company will be plea- 
 sant, and may be profitable to carry on the work. 
 I would use thee like an under kind of chemist, to 
 blow coals ; it will be time enough for me to be 
 alone, when I come to projection. 
 
 Wild. You must excuse me, Frank ; I have made 
 an appointment at the gaming-house. 
 
 Bel. What to do there, I pr'y thee ? To mis-spend 
 that money, which kind fortune intended for a mis- 
 tress ? Or to learn new oaths and curses to carry in- 
 to England ? That is not it I heard you were to
 
 238 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT i. 
 
 marry when you left home : Perhaps that may be 
 still running in your head, and keep you virtuous. 
 
 Wild. Marriage, quotha ! what, dost thou think 
 I have been bred in the deserts of Africa, or among 
 the savages of America ? Nay, if I had, I must needs 
 have known better things than so ; the light of na- 
 ture would not have let me go so far astray. 
 
 Bell. Well, what think you of the Prado this 
 evening ? 
 
 Wild. Pox upon't, tis worse than our contempla- 
 tive Hyde-Park. 
 
 Bel. Oh, but we must submit to the custom of 
 the country for courtship : Whatever the means are, 
 we are sure the end is still the same in all places. 
 But who are these ? 
 
 Enter Don ALONZO T>E.TLiEviiA,withhisttvo Daugh- 
 ters THEODOSIA and JACINTHA, and BEATRIX, 
 their Woman, passing 1 by. 
 
 Theo. Do you see those strangers, sister, that eye 
 us so earnestly ? 
 
 Jac. Yes, and I guess them to be feathers of the 
 English ambassador's train ; for I think I saw them 
 at the grand audience and have the strongest 
 temptation in the world to talk to them : A mis- 
 chief on this modesty ! 
 
 Beat. A mischief of this father of yours, that 
 haunts you so. 
 
 Jac. 'Tis very true, Beatrix ; for though I am the 
 younger sister, I should have the grace to lay mo- 
 desty first aside : However, sister, let us pull up our 
 veils, and give them an essay of our faces. 
 
 [ They pull up their veils, and jndl them down again. 
 
 Wild. Ah, Bellamy ! undone, undone ! Dost thou 
 see those beauties ? 
 
 Bel Pr'ythee, Wildblood, hold thy tongue, and
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 239 
 
 do not spoil my contemplation. I am undoing my- 
 self as fast as ever I can, too. 
 
 Wild. I must go to them. 
 
 Bel. Hold, madman ! Dost thou not see their fa- 
 ther ? Hast thou a mind to have our throats cut ? 
 
 Wild. By a Hector of fourscore? Hang our throats. 
 What ! a lover, and cautious ? 
 
 [Is going towards them. 
 
 Alon. Come away, daughters ; we shall be late 
 else. 
 
 Bel. Look you, they are on the wing already. 
 
 Wild. Pr'ythee, dear Frank, let's follow them. I 
 long to know who they are. 
 
 Mask. Let me alone, I'll dog them for you. 
 
 Bel. I am glad on't ; for my shoes so pinch me, 
 I can scarce go a step farther. 
 
 Wild. Cross the way there lives a shoemaker. 
 Away quickly, that we may not spoil our design. 
 [Exeunt BEL. and WILD. 
 
 Alon. [offers to go off.~] Now, friend ! what's your 
 business to follow us ? 
 
 Mash. Noble Don, 'tis only to recommend my 
 service to you. A certain violent passion I have 
 had for your worship, since the first moment that 
 I saw you. 
 
 Alon. I never saw thee before, to my remem- 
 brance. 
 
 Mask. No matter, sir ; true love never stands 
 upon ceremony. 
 
 Alon. Pr'ythee be gone, my saucy companion, or 
 I'll clap an alguazil upon thy heels. I tell thee I 
 have no need of thy service. 
 
 Mask. Having no servant of your own, I cannot, 
 in good manners, leave you destitute. 
 
 Alon. I'll beat thee, if thou followest me. 
 
 Mask. I am your spaniel, sir ; the more you bent 
 me, the better I'll wait on you. 
 12
 
 240 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT i. 
 
 Alon. Let me entreat thee to be gone ; the boys 
 will hoot at me to see me followed thus against my 
 will. 
 
 Mask. Shall you and I concern ourselves for 
 what the boys do, sir ? Pray, do you hear the news 
 at court ? 
 
 Alon. Pr'ythee, what's the news to thee or me ? 
 
 Mask. Will you be at the nexijeugo de cannas ? 
 
 Alon. If I think good. 
 
 Mask. Pray go on, sir ; we can discourse as we 
 walk together. And whither were you now a-going, 
 
 sir 
 
 Alon. To the devil, I think. 
 Mask. O, not this year or two, sir, by your age. 
 Jac. My father was never so matched for talking 
 in all his life before ; he who loves to hear nothing 
 but himself. Pr'ythee, Beatrix, stay behind, and see 
 what this impudent Englishman would have. 
 
 Seat. Sir, if you'll let my master go, I'll be his 
 pawn. 
 
 Mask. Well, sir, I kiss your hand, in hope to wait 
 on you another time. 
 
 Alon. Let us mend our pace, to get clear of him. 
 Theo. If you do not, he'll be with you again, like 
 Atalanta in the fable, and make you drop another 
 of your golden apples. 
 
 [Exeunt ALON. THEO. and JACINTHA. 
 [MASKALL whispers BEATRIX the while. 
 Seat. How much good language is here thrown 
 away, to make me betray my ladies ! 
 
 Mask. If you will discover nothing of them, let 
 me discourse with you a little. 
 Heat. As little as you please. 
 Mask. They are rich, 1 suppose ? 
 Seat. Now you are talking of them again. But 
 they are as rich, as they are fair.
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 241 
 
 Mask. Then they have the Indies : Well, but 
 their names, my sweet mistress. 
 
 Beat. Sweet servant, their names are 
 
 Mask. Their names are out with it boldly 
 
 Beat. A secret not to be disclosed. 
 
 Mask. A secret, say you ? Nay, then, I conjure 
 you, as you are a woman, tell it me. 
 
 Seat. Not a syllable. 
 
 Mask. Why, then, as you are a waiting-woman ; 
 as you are the sieve of all your lady's secrets, tell it 
 me. 
 
 Seat. You lose your labour ; nothing will strain 
 through me. 
 
 Mask. Are you so well stopped in the bottom ? 
 
 Seat. It was enjoined me strictly as a secret. 
 
 Mask. Was it enjoined thee strictly, and canst 
 thou hold it ? Nay, then, thou art invincible : But, 
 by that face, that more than ugly face, which I sus- 
 pect to be under thy veil, disclose it to me. 
 
 Beat. By that face of thine, which is a natural 
 visor, 1 will not tell thee. 
 
 Mask. By thy 
 
 Beat. No more swearing, I beseech you. 
 
 Mask. That woman's worth little, that is not 
 worth an oath : Well, get thee gone ; now I think 
 on't, thou shalt not tell me. 
 
 Beat. Shall I not ? Who shall hinder me ? They 
 are Don Alonzo de Ribera's daughters. 
 
 Mask. Out, out : I'll stop my ears. 
 
 Beat. They live hard by, in the Calle maior. 
 
 Mask. O, infernal tongue 
 
 Beat. And are going to the next chapel with 
 their father. 
 
 Mask. Wilt thou never have done tormenting 
 me ? In my conscience, anon thou wilt blab out 
 their names too. 
 
 VOL, III. Q
 
 242 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT i. 
 
 Beat. Their names are Theodosia and Jacintha. 
 
 Mask. And where's your great secret now ? 
 
 Seat. Now, I think, I am revenged on you, for 
 running down my poor old master. 
 
 Mask. Thou art not fully revenged, till thou hast 
 told me thy own name too. 
 
 Beat. 'Tis Beatrix, at your service, sir ; pray re- 
 member I wait on them. 
 
 Mask. Now I have enough, I must be going. 
 
 Beat. I perceive you are just like other men ; 
 when you have got your ends, you care not how 
 soon you are going. Farewell : you'll be constant 
 tome? 
 
 Mask. If thy face, when I see it, do not give me 
 occasion to be otherwise. 
 
 Beat. You shall take a sample, that you may praise 
 it, when you see it next. [She pulls up^lier veil. 
 
 Enter WILDBLOOD and BELLAMY. 
 
 Wild. Look, there's your dog with a duck in's 
 mouth. Oh, she's got loose and dived again. 
 
 [Exit BEATRIX. 
 
 Beat. Well, Maskall, what news of the ladies of 
 the lake ? 
 
 Mask. I have learned enough to embark you in 
 an adventure. They are daughters to one Don Alon- 
 zo de Ribera, in the Calle maior, their names Theo- 
 dosia and Jacintha, and they are going to their de- 
 votions in the next chapel. 
 
 Wild. Away then, let us lose no time. I thank 
 heaven, I never found myself better inclined to god- 
 liness, than at this present. [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE ii. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 243 
 
 SCENE II. A Chapel. 
 
 lwterALONZO,THEODOSlA,JACINTHA,BEATRIX, 
 
 other Ladies, and Cavaliers, at their devotions. 
 
 Alon. By that time you have told your beads, III 
 be again with you. [Exit. 
 
 Jac. Do you think the Englishmen will come 
 after us ? 
 
 Seat. Do you think they can stay from you ? 
 
 Jac. For my part, I feel a certain qualm upon 
 my heart, which makes me believe I am breeding 
 love to one of them. 
 
 Theo. How, love, Jacintha ! in so short a time ? 
 Cupid's arrow was well feathered, to reach you so 
 suddenly. 
 
 Jac. Faith, as good at first as at last, sister ; 'tis 
 a thing that must be done, and therefore 'tis best 
 dispatching it out o'the way. 
 
 Theo. But you do not mean to tell him so, whom 
 you love ? 
 
 "Jac. Why should I keep myself and servant in 
 pain, for that which may be cured at a day's warn- 
 ing? 
 
 Seat. My lady tells you true, madam ; long te- 
 dious courtship may be proper for cold countries, 
 where their frosts are long a thawing ; but, heaven 
 be praised, we live in a warm climate. 
 
 Theo. The truth is, in other countries they have 
 opportunities of courtship, which we have not ; 
 they are not mewed up with double locks and 
 grated windows ; but may receive addresses at their 
 leisure. 
 
 Jac. But our love here is like our grass ; if it be 
 not mowed quickly, 'tis burnt up.
 
 244 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT i. 
 
 Enter BELLAMY, WILDBLOOD, and MASKALL : 
 They look about them. 
 
 Theo. Yonder are your gallants ; send you com- 
 fort of them : I am for my devotions. 
 
 Jac. Now, for my heart can I think of no other 
 prayer, but only that they may not mistake us. 
 Why, sister, sister, will you pray ? What injury have 
 I ever done you, that you should pray in my com- 
 pany ? If your servant Don Melchor were here, we 
 should have you mind heaven as little as the best 
 of us. 
 
 Beat. They are at a loss, madam ; shall I put up 
 my veil, that they may take aim ? 
 
 Jac. No, let them take their fortune in the dark : 
 We shall see what archers these English are. 
 Bel. Which are they, think'st thou ? 
 Wild. There's no knowing them, they are all 
 children of darkness. 
 
 Bel. I'll be sworn they have one sign of godli- 
 ness among them, there's no distinction of persons 
 here. 
 
 Wild. Pox o'this blind-man's-buff; they may be 
 ashamed to provoke a man thus, by their keeping 
 themselves so close. 
 
 Bel. You are for the youngest, you say ; 'tis the 
 eldest has smitten me. And here I fix ; if I am 
 right, happy man be his dole. [By THEODOSIA. 
 Wild. I'll take my fortune here. [By JACINTH A.] 
 Madam, I hope a stranger may take the liberty, 
 without offence, to offer his devotions by you ? 
 
 Jac. That, sir, would interrupt mine, without 
 being any advantage to your own. 
 
 Wild. My advantage, madam, is very evident ; 
 for the kind saint, to whom you pray, may, by the 
 neighbourhood, mistake my devotions for yours.
 
 SCENE ii. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 245 
 
 Jac. O, sir ! our saints can better distinguish be- 
 tween the prayers of a Catholic and a Lutheran. 
 
 Wild. I beseech you, madam, trouble not yourself 
 for my religion ; for, though I am a heretic to the 
 men of your country, to your ladies I am a very 
 zealous Catholic ; and for fornication and adultery, 
 I assure you I hold with both churches. 
 
 Theo. to Bel. Sir, if you will not be more devout, 
 be at least more civil ; you see you are observed. 
 
 Bel. And pray, madam, what do you think the 
 lookers on imagine I am employed about ? 
 
 Theo. I will not trouble myself to guess. 
 
 Bel. Why, by all circumstances, they must con- 
 clude, that I am making love to you ; and, me- 
 thinks, it were scarce civil to give the opinion of so 
 much good company the lie. 
 
 Theo. If this were true, you would have little 
 reason to thank them for their divination. 
 
 Bel. Meaning, I should not be loved again ? 
 
 Theo. You have interpreted my riddle, and may 
 take it for your pains. 
 
 Enter ALONZO, and goes apart to his devotion. 
 
 Beat. Madam, your father is returned. 
 
 Bel. She has nettled me ; would, I could be re- 
 venged on her ! 
 
 Wild. Do you see their father ? Let us make as 
 though we talked to one another, that we may not 
 be suspected. 
 
 Beat. You have lost your Englishmen. 
 
 Jac. No, no, 'tis but design, 1 warrant you : You 
 shall see these island cocks wheel about immediate- 
 ly. [ The English gather up close to them. 
 
 Beat. Perhaps they thought they were observed. 
 
 Wild, to Bel. Talk not of our country ladies : I 
 declare myself for the Spanish beauties.
 
 246 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT i. 
 
 Bel. Pr'ythee, tell me what thou canst find to 
 doat on in these Castilians ? 
 
 Wild. Their wit and beauty. 
 
 Theo. Now for our champion, St Jago, for Spain. 
 
 Bel. Faith, I can speak no such miracles of either. 
 For their beauty, 'tis much as the Moors left it ; not 
 altogether so deep a black as the true Ethiopian ; 
 a kind of beauty that is too civil to the lookers-on 
 -to do them any mischief. 
 
 Jac. This was your frowardness, that provoked 
 him, sister. 
 
 Theo. But they shall not carry it off so. 
 
 Bel. As for their wit, you may judge it by their 
 breeding, which is commonly in a nunnery ; where 
 the want of mankind, while they are there, makes 
 them value the blessing ever after. 
 
 Theo. Pr'ythee, dear Jacintha, tell me, what kind 
 of creatures were those we saw yesterday at the au- 
 dience ? Those, I mean, that looked so like French- 
 men in their habits, but only became their apishness 
 so much worse. 
 
 Jac. Englishmen, I think, they called them. 
 
 Theo. Cry you mercy ; they were of your wild 
 English, indeed ; that is, a kind of northern beast, 
 that is taught its feats of activity in Monsieurland ; 
 and, for doing them too lubberly, is laughed at all 
 the world over. 
 
 Bel. Wildblood, I perceive the women under- 
 stand little of discourse ; their gallants do not use 
 them to it : They get upon their jennets, and prance 
 before their ladies' windows ; there the palfrey cur- 
 vets and bounds, and, in short, entertains them for 
 his master. 
 
 Wild. And this horseplay they call making love. 
 
 Beat. Your father, madam 
 
 Alon. Daughters ! what cavaliers are those which 
 were talking by you ?
 
 SCENE ii. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 247 
 
 Jf/c. Englishmen, I believe, sir, at their devo- 
 tions. Cavalier, would you would try to pray a lit- 
 tle better than you have rallied. [Aside to WILD. 
 
 Wild. Hang me if I put all my devotions out of 
 order for you : I remember I prayed but on Tues- 
 day last, and my time comes not till Tuesday next. 
 
 Maslf. You had as good pray, sir : she will not 
 stir till you have : Say any thing. 
 
 Wild. Fair lady, though I am not worthy of the 
 least of your favours, yet give me the happiness this 
 evening to see you at your father's door, that I may 
 acquaint you with part of my sufferings. 
 
 [Aside to SAC. 
 
 Alon. Come, daughters, have you done ? 
 
 Jac. Immediately, sir. Cavalier, I will not fail 
 to be there at the time appointed, if it be but to 
 teach you more wit, henceforward, than to engage 
 your heart so lightly. [Aside to WILD. 
 
 Wild. I have engaged my heart with so much zeal 
 and true devotion to your divine beauty, that 
 
 Alon. What means this cavalier ? 
 
 Jac. Some zealous ejaculation. 
 
 Alon. May the saint hear him ! 
 
 Jac. I'll answer for her. 
 
 [Exeunt Father and Daughters. 
 
 Wild. Now, Bellamy, what success ? 
 
 Bel. I prayed to a more marble saint than that 
 was in the shrine ; but you, it seems, have been suc- 
 cessful. * 
 
 Wild, And so shalt thou ; let me alone for both. 
 
 Bel. If you'll undertake it, I'll make bold to in- 
 dulge my love, and within these two hours be a 
 desperate inamorato. I feel I am coming apace to 
 it. 
 
 Wild. Faith, I can love at any time with a wish, 
 at my rate : 1 give my heart according to the old 
 law of pawns, to be returned me before sunset.
 
 248 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT n. 
 
 Bel. I love only that I may keep my heart warm ; 
 for a man's a pool, if love stir him not ; and to bring 
 it to that pass, I first resolve whom to love, arid 
 presently after imagine I am in love : for a strong 
 imagination is required in a lover as much as in a 
 witch. 
 
 Wild. And is this all your receipt ? 
 
 Bel. These are my principal ingredients ; as for 
 piques, jealousies, duels, daggers, and halters, I let 
 them alone to the vulgar. 
 
 Wild Pr'ythee, let's round the street a little ; till 
 Maskall watches for their woman. 
 
 Bel. That's well thought on : He shall about it 
 immediately. 
 
 We will attempt the mistress by the maid : 
 Women by women still are best betray'd. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 
 
 Enter WILDBLOOD, BELLAMY, and MASKALL. 
 
 Wild: Did you speak with her woman ? 
 
 Mask. Yes, but she was in haste, and bid me 
 wait her hereabouts when she returned. 
 
 Bel. Then you have discovered nothing more ? 
 
 Mask. Only, in general, that Donna Theodosia 
 is engaged elsewhere ; so that all your courtship will 
 be to no purpose But for your mistress, sir, [To 
 WILD.] she is waded out of her depth in love to 
 you already. 
 
 Wild. That's very hard, when I am scarce knee- 
 deep with her. 'Tis true, I have given her hold of 
 my heart ; but, if she take not heed, it will slip 
 through her fingers. 
 
 Bel. You are prince of the soil, sir, and may take 
 your pleasure when you please ; but I am the eve
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 
 
 to your holiday, and must fast for being joined to 
 you. 
 
 Wild. Were I as thou art, I would content my- 
 self with having but one fair flight at her, without 
 wearying myself on the wing for a retrieve ; for, 
 when all is done, the quarry is but a woman. 
 
 Bel. Thank you, sir, you would fly them both 
 yourself; and while I turn tail, we should have you 
 come, jingling with your bells in the neck of my 
 partridge. Do you remember who encouraged me 
 to love, and promised me his assistance ? 
 
 Wild. Ay, while there was hope, Frank ! while 
 there was hope ! but there's no contending with 
 one's destiny. 
 
 Bel. Nay, it may be I care as little for her as 
 another man ; but, while she flies before me, I must 
 follow. I can love a woman first with ease ; but if 
 she begins to fly before me, I grow opiniatre as the 
 devil. 
 
 Wild. What a secret have you found out ? Why, 
 'tis the nature of all mankind. We love to get our 
 mistresses, and purr over them, as cats do over 
 mice, and let them go a little way ; and all the 
 pleasure is, to pat them back again. But yours, I 
 take it, Frank, is gone too far. Pr'ythee, how long 
 dost thou intend to love at this rate ? 
 
 Bel. Till the evil constellation be past over me. 
 Yet, I believe, it would hasten my recovery, if I 
 knew whom she loved. 
 
 Mask. You shall not be long without that satis- 
 faction. 
 
 Wild. 'St, the door opens ; and two women are 
 coming out. 
 
 Bel. By their stature, they should be thy gra- 
 cious mistress and Beatrix. 
 
 Wild. Methinks you should know your cue then, 
 and withdraw.
 
 250 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT n. 
 
 Bel. Well, I'll leave you to your fortune ; but, 
 if you come to close fighting, I shall make bold to 
 run in, and part you. 
 
 [BELLAMY and MASKALL, withdrawing. 
 
 Wild. Yonder she comes, with full sails i'faith ! 
 I'll hail her amain, for England. 
 
 Enter JACINTHA and BEATRIX, at the other end of 
 the stage. 
 
 Beat. You do love him then ? 
 
 Jac. Yes, most vehemently ! 
 
 Beat. But set some bounds to your affection. 
 
 Jac. None but fools confine their pleasure. What 
 usurer ever thought his coffers held too much ? No, 
 I'll give myself the swing, and love without re- 
 serve. If I keep a passion, I'll not starve it in my 
 service. 
 
 Beat. But are you sure he will deserve this kind- 
 ness ? 
 
 Jac. I never trouble myself so long beforehand. 
 Jealousies and disquiets are the dregs of an amour ; 
 but I'll leave mine before I have drawn it off so 
 low. When it once grows troubled, I'll give vent 
 to a fresh draught. 
 
 Beat. Yet it is but prudence to try him first ; 
 no pilot ventures on an unknown coast without 
 sounding. 
 
 Jac. Well, to satisfy thee, I am content ; partly, 
 too, because I find a kind of pleasure in laying baits 
 for him. 
 
 Beat. The two great virtues of a lover are con- 
 stancy and liberality ; if he possess those two, you 
 may be happy in him. 
 
 Jac. Nay, if he be not lord and master of both 
 
 those qualities, I disown him But who goes 
 
 there ?
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 251 
 
 Beat. He, I warrant you, madam ; for his servant 
 told me he was waiting hereabout. 
 
 Jac. Watch the door ; give me notice, if any 
 come. 
 
 Seat. I'll secure you, madam. \Exit BEAT. 
 
 Jac. to Wild. What, have you laid an ambush 
 for me ? 
 
 Wild. Only to make a reprisal of my heart. 
 
 Jac. 'Tis so wild, that the lady, who has it in her 
 keeping, would be glad she were well rid on't, it 
 does so flutter about the cage. 'Tis a mere Baja- 
 zet ; and if it be not let out the sooner, will beat 
 out its brains against the grates. 
 
 Wild. I am afraid the lady has not fed it, and 
 'tis wild for hunger. 
 
 Jac. Or, perhaps, it wants company ; shall she 
 put another to it ? 
 
 }Vild. Ay ; but then it were best to trust them 
 out of the cage together ; let them hop about at 
 liberty. 
 
 Jac. But, if they should lose one another in the 
 wide world ! , 
 
 Wild. They'll meet at night, I warrant them. 
 
 Jac. But is not your heart of the nature of those 
 birds, that breed in one country, and go to winter 
 in another ? 
 
 Wild. Suppose it does so ; yet, I take my mate 
 along with me. And now, to leave our parables, 
 and speak in the language of the vulgar, what think 
 you of a voyage to merry England ? 
 
 Jac. Just as ^Esop's frog did, of leaping into a 
 deep well in a drought. If he ventured the leap, 
 there might be water ; but, if there were no water, 
 how should he get out again ? 
 
 Wild. Faith, we live in a good honest country, 
 where we are content with our old vices ; partly
 
 252 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT n. 
 
 because we want wit to invent more new. A co- 
 lony of Spaniards, or spiritual Italians, planted 
 among us, would make us much more racy. 'Tis 
 true, our variety is not much ; but, to speak nobly 
 of our way of living, 'tis like that of the sun, which 
 rises, and looks upon the same thing he saw yester- 
 day, and goes to bed again. 
 
 Jac. But I hear your women live most blessedly ; 
 there is no such thing as jealousy among the hus- 
 bands ; if any man has horns, he bears them as lof- 
 tily as a stag, and as inoffensively. 
 
 Wild. All this, I hope, gives you no ill character 
 of the country ? 
 
 Jac. But what need we go into another climate ? 
 as our love was born here, so let it live and die 
 here, and be honestly buried in its native country. 
 
 Wild. Faith, agreed with all my heart. For I 
 am none of those unreasonable lovers, that propose 
 to themselves the loving to eternity. The truth is, 
 a month is commonly my stint ; but, in that month, 
 I love so dreadfully, that it is after a twelve-month's 
 rate of common love. 
 
 Jac. Or, would not a fortnight serve our turn ? 
 for, in troth, a month looks somewhat dismally ; 
 'tis a whole Egyptian year. If a moon changes in 
 my love, I shall think my Cupid grown dull, or fall- 
 en into an apoplexy. 
 
 Wild. Well, I pray heaven we both get off as 
 clear as we imagine ; for my part, I like your hu- 
 mour so damnably well, that I fear I am in for a 
 week longer than I proposed. I am half afraid your 
 Spanish planet and my English one have been ac- 
 quainted, and have found out some by-room or 
 other in the twelve houses : I wish they have been 
 honourable. 
 
 Jac. The best way for both were to take up in 
 time ; yet I am afraid our forces are engaged so
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 253 
 
 far, that we must make a battle on't. What think 
 you of disobliging one another from this day for- 
 ward ; and shewing all our ill humours at the first, 
 which lovers use to keep as a reserve, till they are 
 married ? 
 
 Wild. Or let us encourage one another to a 
 breach, by the dangers of possession. I have a song 
 to that purpose. 
 
 Jac. Pray let me hear it. I hope it will go to 
 the tune of our Passa-cattes. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 You charm 'd me not with thy fair face ; 
 
 Though it was all divine : 
 To be another's is the grace, 
 
 That makes me wish you mine. 
 The gods and fortune take their part, 
 
 Who, like young monarchs, fight, 
 And boldly dare invade that heart, 
 
 Which is another's right. 
 First, mad with hope, we undertake 
 
 To pull up every bar ; 
 But, once possessed, we faintly make 
 
 A dull defensive war. 
 Now, every friend is turn'd a foe, 
 
 In hope to get our store ; 
 And passion makes us cowards grow, 
 
 Which made us brave before. 
 
 Jac. Believe it, cavalier, you are a dangerous per- 
 son. Do you hold forth your gifts, in hopes to 
 make me love you less ? 
 
 Wild. They would signify little, if we were once 
 married. Those gaieties are all nipt and frost-bit- 
 ten in the marriage-bed, i'faith. 
 
 Jac. I am sorry to hear 'tis so cold a place. But
 
 254 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT n. 
 
 'tis all one to us, who do not mean to trouble it. 
 The truth is, your humour pleases me exceeding- 
 ly ; how long it will do so, I know not ; but so long 
 as it does, I am resolved to give myself the content 
 of seeing you. For, if I should once constrain my- 
 self, I might fall in love in good earnest. But I 
 have stayed too long with you, and would be loath 
 to surfeit you at first. 
 
 Wild. Surfeit me, madam ? why, you have but 
 tantalized me all this while ! 
 
 Jac. What would you have ? 
 
 Wild. A hand, or a lip, or any thing that you 
 can spare ; when you have conjured up a spirit, he 
 must have some employment, or he'll tear you a- 
 pieces. 
 
 Jac. Well, here's my picture, to help your con- 
 templation in my absence. 
 
 Wild. You have already the original of mine. 
 But some revenge you must allow me. A locket 
 of diamonds, or some such trifle, the next time I 
 kiss your hand. 
 
 Jac. Fie, fie ! you do not think me mercenary ? 
 Yet, now I think on't, I'll put you into our Spanish 
 mode of love. Our ladies here use to be the bank- 
 ers of their servants, and to have their gold in keep- 
 ing. 
 
 Wild. This is the least trial you could have made 
 of me. I have some three hundred pistoles by me ; 
 those I'll send by my servant. 
 
 Jac. Confess freely, you mistrust me. But if 
 you find the least qualm about your golcU pray 
 keep it for a cordial. 
 
 Wild. The cordial must be applied to the heart, 
 and mine is with you, madam. Well ; I say no 
 more ; but these are dangerous beginnings for hold- 
 ing on. I find my month will have more than one- 
 and-thirty days in't.
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 255 
 
 Enter BEATRIX, running. 
 
 Beat. Madam, your father calls in haste for you* 
 and is looking for you about the house. 
 
 Jac. Adieu, servant ; be a good manager of your 
 stock of love, that it may hold out your month ; I 
 am afraid you'll waste so much of it before to-mor- 
 row night, that you'll shine but with a quarter 
 moon upon me. 
 
 Wild. It shall be a crescent. 
 
 [Exeunt WILD, and JAC. severally. 
 [BEATRIX is going, and MASK ALL runs and 
 stops her. 
 
 Mask. Pay your ransom ; you are my prisoner. 
 
 Seat. What ! do you fight after the French 
 fashion ; take towns before you declare war ? 
 
 Mask. I shall be glad to imitate them so far, to 
 be in the middle of the country before you could 
 resist me. 
 
 Beat. Well, what composition, monsieur ? 
 
 Mask. Deliver up your lady's secret; what makes 
 her so cruel to my master ? 
 
 Beat. Which of my ladies, and which of your 
 masters ? For, I suppose, we are factors for both of 
 them. 
 
 Mask. Your eldest lady, Theodosia. 
 
 Beat. How dare you press your mistress to an 
 inconvenience ? 
 
 Mask. My mistress ? I understand not that lan- 
 guage ; the fortune of the valet ever follows that 
 of the master ; and his is desperate. If his fate were 
 altered for the better, I should not care if I ventu- 
 red upon you for the worse. 
 
 Beat. I have told you already, Donna Theodosia 
 loves another. 
 
 Mask. Has he no name ?
 
 256 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT n. 
 
 Beat. Let it suffice, he is born noble, though 
 without a fortune. His poverty makes him conceal 
 his love from her father ; but she sees him every 
 night in private ; and, to blind the world, about a 
 fortnight ago he took a solemn leave of her, as if 
 he were going into Flanders. In the mean time, 
 he lodges at the house of Don Lopez de Gamboa ; 
 and is himself called Don Melchor de Guzman. 
 
 Mask. Don Melchor de Guzman ! O heavens ! 
 
 Seat. What amazes you ? 
 
 Theo. [ Witkin.~\ Why, Beatrix, where are you ? 
 
 Seat. You hear I am called. Adieu ; and be sure 
 you keep my counsel. 
 
 Mask. Come, sir, you see the coast is clear. 
 
 [Exit BEAT. 
 
 Enter BELLAMY. 
 
 Bel. Clear, dost thou say ? No, 'tis full of rocks 
 and quicksands. Yet nothing vexes me so much, 
 as that she is in love with such a poor rogue. 
 
 Mask. But that she should lodge privately in 
 the same house with us ! 'twas oddly contrived of 
 fortune. 
 
 Bel. Hang him, rogue ! methinks I see him, 
 perching, like an owl, by day, and not daring to 
 flutter out till moon-light. The rascal invents 
 love, and brews his compliments all day, and broach- 
 es them at night ; just as some of our dry wits do 
 their stories, before they come into company. A Veil, 
 if I could be revenged on either of them ! 
 
 Mask. Here she comes again, with Beatrix ; but, 
 good sir, moderate your passion. 
 
 Enter THEODOSIA and BEATRIX. 
 Bel. Nay, madam ; you are known ; and must 
 not pass till I have spoken with you. 
 
 [BEL. lifts up TIIEODOSIA'S veil.
 
 SCENE I. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 25? 
 
 Theo. This rudeness to a person of my quality 
 may cost you dear. Pray, when did I give you en- 
 couragement for so much familiarity ? 
 
 Bel. When you scorned me in the chapel. 
 
 Theo. The truth is, I denied you as heartily as 
 I could, that I might not be twice troubled with 
 you. 
 
 Bel. Yet you have not this aversion for all the 
 world : However, I was in hope, though the day 
 frowned, the night might prove as propitious to me 
 as it is to others. 
 
 Theo. I have now a quarrel both to the sun and 
 moon, because I have seen you both by their lights, 
 
 Bel. Spare the moon, I beseech you, madam ; 
 she is a very trusty planet to you. 
 
 Beat. O, Maskall, you have ruined me ! 
 
 Mask. Dear sir, hold yet ! 
 
 Bel. Away ! 
 
 TJieo. Pray, sir, expound your meaning ; for, I 
 confess, I am in the dark. 
 
 Bel. Methinks you should discover it by moon- 
 light. Or, if you would have me speak clearer to 
 you, give me leave to wait on you at a midnight 
 assignation ; and, that it may not be discovered, 
 I'll feign a voyage beyond sea, as if I were going a 
 captaining to Flanders. 
 
 Mask. A pox on his memory ! he has not forgot 
 one syllable ! 
 
 Theo. Ah, Beatrix ! you have betrayed and sold 
 me ! 
 
 Beat. You have betrayed and sold yourself, ma- 
 dam, by your own rashness to confess it ; heaven 
 knows I have served you but too faithfully. 
 
 Theo. Peace, impudence ! and see my face no 
 more ! 
 
 VOL. in. u
 
 258 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT 11. 
 
 Mask. Do you know what work you have made, 
 sir? 
 
 Bel. Let her see what she has got by slighting 
 me. 
 
 ' Mask. You had best let Beatrix be turned away 
 for me to keep : If you do, I know whose purse 
 shall pay for't. 
 
 Bel. That's a curse I never thought on : Cast 
 about quickly, and save all yet. Range, quest, and 
 spring a lie immediately ! 
 
 Theo. to Beat. Never importune me farther ; you 
 shall go ; there's no removing me. 
 
 Beat. Well ; this is ever the reward of inno- 
 cence [Going. 
 
 Mask. Stay, guiltless virgin, stay ; thou shalt 
 not go ! 
 
 Theo. Why, who should hinder it ? 
 
 Mask. That will I, in the name of truth, if this 
 hard-bound lie would but come from me. [Aside. 
 Madam, I must tell you it lies in my power to, ap- 
 pease this tempest with one word. 
 
 Beat. Would it were come once ! 
 
 Mask. Nay, sir, 'tis all one to me, if you turn 
 me away upon't ; I can hold no longer. 
 
 Theo. What does the fellow mean ? 
 
 Mask. For all your noddings, and your mathe- 
 matical grimaces in short, madam, my master has 
 been conversing with the planets ; and from them 
 has had the knowledge of your affairs. 
 
 Bel. This rogue amazes me ! 
 
 Mask. I care not, sir, I am for truth ; that will 
 shame you, and all your devils : In short, madam, 
 this master of mine, that stands before you, without 
 a word to say for himself, so like an oaf, as I might 
 say, with reverence to him 
 
 Bel. The rascal makes me mad !
 
 SCENE I. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 259 
 
 Mask. Is the greatest astrologer in Christendom. 
 
 Theo. Your master an astrologer ? 
 
 Mask. A most profound one. 
 
 Bel. Why, you dog, you do not consider what an 
 improbable lie this is ; which, you know, I can ne- 
 ver make good ! Disgorge it, you cormorant ! or 
 
 I'll pinch your throat out. 
 
 [ Takes him by the throat. 
 
 Mask. 'Tis all in vain, sir ! you afe, and shall be 
 an astrologer, whatever I suffer ; you know all 
 things ; see into all things ; foretel all things \ and 
 if you pinch more truth out of me, I will confess 
 you are a conjurer. 
 
 Bel. How, sirrah ! a conjurer ? 
 
 Mask. I mean, sir, the devil is in your fingers : 
 Own it you had best, sir, and do not provoke me 
 farther. [Wliile he is speaking, BELLAMY stops his 
 mouth by fits.] What ! did I not see you an hour 
 ago turning over a great folio, with strange figures 
 in it, and then muttering to yourself, like any poet ; 
 and then naming Theodosia, and then starting up 
 in the sky, and then poring upon the ground ; so 
 that, betwixt God and the devil, madam, he came 
 to know your love. 
 
 Bel. Madam, if ever I knew the least term in 
 astrology, I am the arrantest son of a whore breath- 
 ing. 
 
 Beat. O, sir, for that matter, you shall excuse my 
 lady. Nay, hide your talents if you can, sir. 
 
 Theo. The more you pretend ignorance, the more 
 we are resolved to believe you skilful. 
 
 Bel. You'll hold your tongue yet. [ To MASK. 
 
 Mask. You shall never make me hold my tongue, 
 except you conjure me to silence : What ! did you 
 not call me to look into a crystal, and there shew- 
 ed me a fair garden, and a Spaniard stalking in his
 
 260 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT n. 
 
 narrow breeches, and walking underneath a win- 
 dow ? I should know him again amongst a thou- 
 sand. 
 
 Seat. Don Melchor, in my conscience, madam. 
 
 Bel. This rogue will invent more stories of me, 
 than e'er were fathered upon Lilly ! 
 
 Mask. Will you confess then ? do you think I'll 
 stain my honour to swallow a lie for you ? 
 
 Bel. Well, a pox on you, I am an astrologer. 
 
 Beat. O, are you so, sir ? 
 
 Theo. I hope then, learned sir, as you have been 
 curious in enquiring into my secrets, you will be 
 so much a cavalier as to conceal them. 
 
 Bel. You need not doubt me, madam ; I am more 
 in your power than you can be in mine : Besides, 
 if I were once known in town, the next thing, for 
 aught I know, would be to bring me before the fa- 
 thers of the inquisition. 
 
 Beat. Well, madam, what do you think of me 
 now ? I have betrayed you ! I have sold you ! how 
 can you ever make me amends for this imputation ? 
 
 I did not think you could have used me so 
 
 [Cries, and claps her hands at her. 
 
 Theo. Nay, pr'ythee, Beatrix, do not cry ; I'll 
 leave off my new gown to-morrow, and thou shall 
 have it. 
 
 Beat. No, I'll cry eternally ! you have taken away 
 my good name from me ; and you can never make 
 
 me recompence except you give me your new 
 
 gorget too. 
 
 Theo. No more words ; thou shalt have it, girl. 
 
 Beat. O, madam, your father has surprised us ! 
 
 Enter Don ALONZO, and frowns. 
 Bel. Then, I'll begone, to avoid suspicion. 
 Theo. By your favour, sir, you shall stay a little ;
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 261 
 
 the happiness of so rare an acquaintance ought to 
 be cherished on my side by a longer conversation. 
 
 Alon. Theodosia, what business have you with 
 this cavalier ? 
 
 TJieo. That, sir, which will make you as ambi- 
 tious of being known to him as I have been. Un- 
 der the habit of a gallant, he conceals the greatest 
 astrologer this day living. 
 
 Alon. You amaze me, daughter ! 
 
 T/ieo. For my own part, I have been consulting 
 with him about some particulars of my fortunes 
 past and future ; both which he has resolved me 
 with that admirable knowledge 
 
 Bel. Yes, faith, sir, I was foretelling her of a dis- 
 aster that severely threatened her. And one thing 
 I foresee already by my stars, that I must bear up 
 boldly, or I am lost. [Aside. 
 
 Mojk. to Bel. Never fear him, sir ; he's an ig- 
 norant fellow, and credulous, I warrant him. 
 
 Alon. Daughter, be not too confident in your be- 
 lief; there's nothing more uncertain than the old 
 prophecies of these Nostradamusses ; but of what 
 nature was the question which you asked him ? 
 
 Thco. What should be my fortune in marriage. 
 
 Alon. And, pray, what did you answer, sir ? 
 
 Bel. I answered her the truth, that she is in 
 danger of marrying a gentleman without a fortune. 
 
 Theo. And this, sir, has put me in such a fright 
 
 Alon. Never trouble yourself about it, daughter ; 
 follow my advice, and I warrant you a rich hus- 
 band. 
 
 Bel. But the stars say she shall not follow your 
 advice : If it happens otherwise, I'll burn my folio 
 volumes, and my manuscripts too, I assure you 
 that, sir. 
 
 Alon. Be not too confident, young man ; I know 
 somewhat in astrology myself; for, in my young-
 
 262 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT n. 
 
 er years, I studied it ; and, though I say it, made 
 some small proficiency in it. 
 
 Bel. Marry, heaven forbid ! 
 
 Alon. And I could only find it was no way de- 
 monstrative, but altogether fallacious. 
 
 Mask. On what a rock have we split ourselves ! 
 
 Bel. Now my ignorance will certainly come out ! 
 
 Beat. Sir, remember you are old and crazy, sir ; 
 
 and if the evening air should take you beseech 
 
 you, sir, retire. 
 
 Alon. Knowledge is to be preferred before health ; 
 I must needs discuss a point with this learned ca- 
 valier, concerning a difficult question in that art, 
 which almost gravels me. 
 
 Mask. How I sweat for him, Beatrix, and my- 
 self too, who have brought him into this prcemu- 
 nire ! 
 
 Beat. You must be impudent ; for our old man 
 will stick like a burr to you, now he's in a dis- 
 pute. 
 
 Alon. What judgment may a man reasonably 
 form from the trine aspect of the two infortunes in 
 angular houses ? 
 
 Bel. That's a matter of nothing, sir ; I'll turn my 
 man loose to you for such a question. 
 
 [Puts MASKALL forward. 
 
 Alon. Come on, sir. I am the quasrent. 
 
 Mask. Meaning me, sir! I vow to God, and 
 your worship knows it, I never made that science 
 my study in the least, sir. 
 
 Bel. The gleanings of mine are enough for that. 
 Why, you impudent rogue you, hold forth your 
 gifts, or I'll What a devil, must I be pestered 
 with every trivial question, when there's not a mas- 
 ter in town of any science, but has his usher for 
 these mean offices ?
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 263 
 
 Theo. Try him in some deeper question, sir ; you 
 see he will not put himself forth for this. 
 
 Alon. Then I'll be more abstruse with him : 
 What think you, sir, of the taking of Hyleg ? or of 
 the best way of rectification for a nativity ? Have 
 you been conversant in the Centiloquium of Tris- 
 megistus ? What think you of Mars in the tenth, 
 when 'tis his own house, or of Jupiter configurated 
 with malevolent planets ? 
 
 Bel. I thought what your skill was ! to answer 
 your question in two words, Mars rules over the 
 martial, and Jupiter over the jovial ; and so of the 
 rest, sir. 
 
 Alon. This every school-boy could have told me. 
 
 Bel. Why then you must not ask such school- 
 boy's questions. But your carcase, sirrah, shall pay 
 for this. [Aside to MASKALL. 
 
 Alon. You seem not to understand the terms, sir. 
 
 Bel. By your favour, sir, I know there are five 
 of them ; do not I know your Michaelmas, your 
 Hillary, your Easter, your Trinity, and your Long 
 Vocation term, sir ? 
 
 Alon. I do not understand a word of this jargon. 
 
 Bel. It may be not, sir ; I believe the terms are 
 not the same in Spain they are in England. 
 
 Mask. Did one ever hear so impudent an igno- 
 rance ? 
 
 Alon. The terms of art are the same every where. 
 
 Bel. Tell me that ! you are an old man, and they 
 are altered since you studied them. 
 
 Alon. That may be, I must confess ; however, if 
 you please to discourse something of the art to me, 
 you shall find me an apt scholar. 
 
 Enter a Servant to ALONZO. 
 
 Ser. Sir [WJiisyers. 
 
 Alon. Sir, I am sorry a business of importance
 
 264 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT n. 
 
 calls me hence ; but I'll wait on you some other 
 time, to discourse more at large of astrology. 
 
 JBel. Is your business very pressing ? 
 
 <4lon. It is, I assure you, sir. 
 
 Bel. I am very sorry, for I should have instruct- 
 ed you in such rare secrets ! I have no fault, but 
 that I am too communicative. 
 
 Alon. I'll dispatch my business, and return im- 
 mediately ; come away, daughter. 
 
 [Exeunt ALON. THEO. BEAT, and Serv. 
 
 Bel. A devil on his learning ! he had brought me 
 to my last legs ; I was fighting as low as ever was 
 'Squire Widdrington. 
 
 Mash. Who would have suspected it from that 
 wicked elder ? 
 
 Bel. Suspected it ? why 'twas palpable from his 
 very physiognomy ; he looks like Haly, and the 
 spirit Fircue in the fortune-book. 
 
 Enter WILDBLOOD. 
 
 Wild. How now, Bellamy ! in wrath ! pr'ythee, 
 what's the matter ? 
 
 Bel. The story is too long to tell you ; but this 
 rogue here has made me pass for an arrant fortune- 
 teller. 
 
 Mask. If I had not, I am sure he must have pass- 
 ed for an arrant madman ; he had discovered, in a 
 rage, all that Beatrix had confessed to me concern- 
 ing her mistress's love ; and I had no other way 
 to bring him off, but to say he knew it by the pla- 
 nets. 
 
 Wild. And art thou such an oaf to be vexed at 
 this ? as the adventure may be managed, it may 
 make the most pleasant one in all the carnival. 
 
 Bel. Death ! I shall have all Madrid about me 
 in these two days. 
 
 Wild. Nay, all Spain, i'faith, as fast as I can di-
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 265 
 
 vulge thee : Not a ship shall pass out from any 
 port, but shall ask thee for a wind ; thou shalt have 
 all the trade of Lapland within a month. 
 
 JBel. And do you think it reasonable for me to 
 stand defendant to all the impertinent questions, 
 that the town can ask me ? 
 
 Wild. Thou shalt do't, boy : Pox on thee, thou 
 dost not know thine own happiness ; thou wilt 
 have the ladies come to thee ; and if thou dost not 
 fit them with fortunes, thou art bewitched. 
 
 Mask. Sir, 'tis the easiest thing in nature ; you 
 need but speak doubtfully, or keep yourself in ge- 
 neral terms, and, for the most part, tell good rather 
 than bad fortune. 
 
 Wild. And if at any time thou venturest at par- 
 ticulars, have an evasion ready like Lilly ; as thus, 
 It will infallibly happen, if our sins hinder not. I 
 would undertake, with one of his almanacks, to 
 give very good content to all Christendom, and 
 what good luck fell not out in one kingdom, should 
 in another. 
 
 Mask. The pleasure on't will be to see how all 
 his customers will contribute to their own decei- 
 ving ; and verily believe he told them that, which 
 they told him. 
 
 JBel. Umph ! now I begin to taste it ; I am like 
 the drunken tinker in the play, a great prince, and 
 never knew it. 
 
 Wild. A great prince ! a great Turk ; we shall 
 have thee, within these two days, do grace to the 
 ladies, by throwing out a handkerchief; life, I could 
 feast upon thy fragments. 
 
 Bel. If the women come, you shall be sure to 
 help me to undergo the burden ; for, though you 
 make me an astronomer, I am no Atlas, to bear all 
 upon my back. But who are these ?
 
 266 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT n. 
 
 Enter Musicians, with disguises ; and some in their 
 hands. 
 
 Wild. You know the men, if their masking ha- 
 bits were off; they are the music of our ambassa- 
 dor's retinue. My project is to give our mistress a 
 serenade, this being the last evening of the carni- 
 val ; and, to prevent discovery, here are disguises 
 for us too. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis very well ; come, Maskall, help on with 
 them, while they tune their instruments. 
 
 Wild. Strike up, gentlemen ; we'll entertain them 
 with a song a PAngloise ; pray, be ready with your 
 eht>rus. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 After the pangs of a desperate lover. 
 When day and night I have sigtid all in vain ; 
 
 Ah, what a pleasure it is to discover 
 In her eyes pity, who causes my pain ! 
 
 When, with unkindness, our love at a stand is, 
 And both have punish d ourselves with the pain ; 
 
 Ah, what a pleasure the touch of her hand is ! 
 Ah, what a pleasure to press it again ! 
 
 When the denial comes fainter and fainter, 
 And her eyes give what her tongue does deny ; 
 
 Ah, what a trembling I feel, when I venture ! 
 Ah, what a trembling does usher my joy ! 
 
 When, with a sigh, she accords me the blessing, 
 And her eyes twinkle 'twixt pleasure and pain ; 
 
 Ah, what a joy 'tis, beyond all expressing ! 
 Ah, what a joy to hear shall ice again !
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 267 
 
 THEODOSIAWC?JACINTHA above. JACINTH Athrows 
 down her handkerchief, with a favour tied to it. 
 
 Jac. Ill musicians must be rewarded : There, ca- 
 valier, 'tis to buy your silence. 
 
 [Exeunt women from above. 
 Wild. By this light, which at present is scarce an 
 oath, an handkerchief, and a favour ! 
 
 [Music and guitars tuning on the other side of 
 
 the Stage. 
 
 Bel. Hark,Wildblood ! doyou hear? There's more 
 melody. On my life, some Spaniards have taken up 
 this post for the same design. 
 
 Wild. I'll be with their catguts immediately. 
 Bel. Pr'ythee, be patient ; we shall lose the sport 
 else. 
 
 Don LOPEZ and Don MELCHOII disguised, with 
 Servants and Musicians on the other side. 
 
 Wild. 'Tis some rival of yours or mine, Bellamy ; 
 for he addresses to this window. 
 Bel. Damn him, let's fall on then. 
 [ The two Spaniards and the English fight : The 
 Spaniards are beaten off the Stage; the Musi- 
 cians on both sides, and Servants, fall confu- 
 sedly one over the other. They all get off", only 
 MASKALL remains upon the ground. 
 Mask. [Ri-sing.'] So all's past, and I am safe : A 
 pox on these fighting masters of mine, to bring me 
 into this danger, with their valours and magnani- 
 mities. When I go a-serenading again with them, 
 I'll give them leave to make fiddle-strings of my 
 sniall-guts. 
 
 To him Don LOPEZ. 
 
 Lop. \Vho goes there ? 
 
 Mash. 'Tis Don Lopez, by his voice.
 
 268 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT 11. 
 
 Lop. The same ; and, by yours, you should be- 
 long to my two English guests. Did you hear no 
 tumult hereabouts ? 
 
 Mask. I heard a clashing of swords, and men a 
 fighting. 
 
 Lop. I had my share in't ; but how came you 
 here? 
 
 Mask. I came hither by my master's order, to see 
 if you were in any danger. 
 
 Lop. But how could he imagine I was in any ? 
 
 Mask. 'Tis all one for that, sir; he knew it, by 
 
 Heaven, what was I a going to say ! I had like to 
 have discovered all ! 
 
 Lop. I find there is some secret in't, and you dare 
 not trust me. 
 
 Mask. If you will swear on your honour to be 
 very secret, I will tell you. 
 
 Lop. As I am a cavalier, and by my beard, I will. 
 
 Mask. Then, in few words, he knew it by astro- 
 logy, or magic. 
 
 Lop. You amaze me ! Is he conversant in the oc- 
 cult sciences ? 
 
 Mask. Most profoundly. 
 
 Lop. I always thought him an extraordinary per- 
 son ; but I could never imagine his head lay that 
 way. 
 
 Mask. He shewed me yesterday, in a glass, a 
 lady's maid at London, whom I well knew ; and 
 with whom I used to converse on a pallet in a 
 drawing-room, while he was paying his devotions 
 to her lady in the bed-chamber. 
 
 Lop. Lord, what a treasure for a state were here ! 
 and how much might we save by this man, in fo- 
 reign intelligence ! 
 
 Mask. And just now he shewed me, how you 
 were assaulted in the dark by foreigners, 
 
 Lop. Could you guess what countrymen ?
 
 ACT in. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 
 
 Mask. I imagined them to be Italians. 
 
 Lop. Not unlikely ; for they played most furi- 
 ously at our backsides. 
 
 Mask. I will return to my master with the good 
 news of your safety ; but once again be secret; or 
 disclose it to none but friends. So, there's one 
 woodcock more in the springe. [Exit. 
 
 Lop. Yes, I will be very secret ; for I will tell it 
 only to one person ; but she is a woman. I will to 
 Aurelia, and acquaint her with the skill of this rare 
 artist. She is curious, as all women are ; and, 'tis 
 probable, will desire to look into the glass to see 
 Don Melchor, whom she believes absent ; so that 
 by this means, without breaking my oath to him, 
 he will be discovered to be in town. Then his in- 
 trigue with Theodosia will come to light too, for 
 which Aurelia will, I hope, discard him, and receive 
 me. I will about it instantly : 
 
 Success, in love, on diligence depends ; 
 
 No lazy lover e'er attain'd his ends. [Exit. 
 
 ACT III. SCENE I. 
 
 Enter BELLAMY and MASKALL. 
 
 Bel. Then, they were certainly Don Lopez and 
 Don Melchor, with whom we fought. 
 
 Mask. Yes, sir. 
 
 Bel. And when you met Lopez, he swallowed 
 all you told him ? 
 
 Mask. As greedily, as if it had been a new saint's 
 miracle. 
 
 Bel. I see 'twill spread. 
 
 Mask. And the fame of it will be of use to you 
 in your next amour ; for the women, you know, run 
 mad after fortune-tellers and preachers. 
 5
 
 270 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in. 
 
 Bel. But for all my bragging, this amour is not 
 yet worn off. I find constancy, and once a night, 
 come naturally upon a man towards thirty ; only 
 we set a face on't, and call ourselves inconstant for 
 our reputation. 
 
 Mask. But whatsay the stars, sir ? 
 
 Bel. They move faster than you imagine ; for I 
 have got me an argol, and an English almanack, by 
 help of which, in one half hour, I have learned to 
 cant with an indifferent good grace. Conjunction, 
 opposition, trine, square, and sextile, are now no 
 longer bugbears to me, I thank my stars for't. 
 
 Enter WILDBLOOD. 
 
 Monsieur Wildblood, in good time ! What, you 
 have been taking pains, too, to divulge my talent? 
 
 Wild. So successfully, that shortly there will be 
 no talk in town, but of you only. Another miracle 
 or two, and a sharp sword, and you stand fair for a 
 new prophet. 
 
 Bel. But where did you begin to blow the trum- 
 pet? 
 
 Wild. In the gaming-house, where I found most 
 of the town-wits ; the prose-wits playing, and the 
 verse-wits rooking. 
 
 Bel. All sorts of gamesters are so superstitious, 
 that I need not doubt of my reception there. 
 
 Wild. From thence 1 went to the latter end of a 
 comedy, and there whispered it to the next man I 
 knew, who had a woman by him. 
 
 Mask. Nay, then, it went like a train of powder, 
 if once they had it by the end. 
 
 Wild. Like a squib upon a line, i'faith ; it ran 
 through one row, and came back upon me in the 
 next. At my going out I met a knot of Spaniards, 
 who were formally listening to one, who was rela- 
 ting it ; but he told the story so ridiculously, with
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 271 
 
 his marginal notes upon it, that I was forced to con- 
 tradict him. 
 
 Bel. 'Tvvas discreetly done. 
 
 Wild. Ay, for you, but not for me: What, says he, 
 must such Boracho's as you take upon you to vilify 
 a man of science ? I tell you, he's of my intimate 
 acquaintance, and I have known him long for a 
 prodigious person. When I saw my Don so fierce, 
 I thought it not wisdom to quarrel for so slight a 
 matter as your reputation, and so withdrew. 
 
 Bel. A pox of your success ! now shall I have my 
 chamber besieged to-morrow morning : There will 
 be no stirring out for me ; but I must be fain to 
 take up their questions in a cleft-cane, or a begging- 
 box, as they do charity in prisons. 
 
 Wild. Faith, I cannot help what your learning 
 has brought you to. Go in and study. I foresee 
 you will have but few holidays. A In the mean time, 
 I'll not fail to give the world an account of your en- 
 dowments. Farewell ! I'll to the gaming-house. 
 
 [Exit WILD. 
 
 Mask. O, sir, here is the rarest adventure, and, 
 which is more, come home to you ! 
 
 Bel What is it? 
 
 Mask. A fair lady, and her woman, wait in the 
 outer room to speak with you. 
 
 Bel. But how know you she Is fair ? 
 
 Mask. Her woman plucked up her veil when she 
 spoke to me ; so that having seen her this evening, 
 I know her mistress to be Donna Aurelia, cousin to 
 your mistress Theodosia, and who lodges in the 
 same house with her. She wants a star or two, I 
 warrant you. 
 
 Bel. My whole constellation is at her service. 
 But what is she for a woman ? 
 
 Ma#k. Fair enough, as Beatrix has told me ; but 
 sufficiently impertinent. She is one of those ladies,
 
 272 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT m. 
 
 who make ten visits in an afternoon ; and entertain 
 her they see, with speaking ill of the last, from 
 whom they parted. In few words, she is one of the 
 greatest coquettes in Madrid ; and to shew she is 
 one, she cannot speak ten words without some af- 
 fected phrase that is in fashion. 
 
 Bel. For my part, I can suffer any impertinence 
 from a woman, provided she be handsome. My 
 business is with her beauty, not with her morals ; 
 let her confessor look to them. 
 
 Mask. I wonder what she has to say to you ? 
 
 Bel. I know not ; but 1 sweat for fear I should 
 be gravelled. 
 
 Mask. Venture out of your depth, and plunge 
 boldly, sir : I warrant you will swim. 
 
 Bel. Do not leave me, I charge you ; but when I 
 look mournfully upon you, help me out. 
 
 Enter AURELIA and CAMILLA. 
 
 Mask. Here they are already. 
 
 [AuB. plucks up her veil. 
 
 Aur. How am I dressed to-night, Camilla ? is no- 
 thing disordered in my head ? 
 
 Cam. Not the least hair, madam. 
 
 Awr. No ! let me see. Give me the counsellor 
 of the graces. 
 
 Cam. The counsellor of the graces, madam ! 
 
 Aur. My glass, I mean. What, will you never 
 be so spiritual as to understand refined language ? 
 
 Cam. Madam ! 
 
 Aur. Madam me no madam, but learn to re- 
 trench your words ; and say ma'am ; as, yes ma'am, 
 and no ma'am, as other ladies' women do. Ma- 
 dam ! 'tis a year in pronouncing. 
 
 Cam. Pardon me, madam. 
 
 Aur Yet again, ignorance ! Pardon, madam ! fie, 
 fie, what a superfluity is there, and how much sweet-
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 273 
 
 er the cadence is parn me, ma'am ! and for your 
 ladyship, your la'ship. Out upon't, what a furious 
 indigence of ribands is here upon my head ! This 
 dress is a libel to my beauty ; a mere lampoon. 
 Would any one, that had the least revenue of com- 
 mon sense, have done this ? 
 
 Cam. Ma'am, the cavalier approaches your la'ship. 
 
 Bel. to Mask. Maskall, pump the woman ; and 
 see if you can discover any thing to save my cre- 
 dit. 
 
 Aur. Out upon it ! now I should speak, I want 
 assurance. 
 
 Bel. Madam, I was told you meant to honour 
 me with your commands. 
 
 Aur. I believe, sir, you wonder at my confidence 
 in this visit ; but I may be excused for waiving a 
 little modesty, to know the only person of the age. 
 
 Bel. I wish my skill were more, to serve you, 
 madam. 
 
 Aur. Sir, you are an unfit judge of your own 
 merits. For my own part, I confess, I have a fu- 
 rious inclination for the occult sciences ; but at pre- 
 sent, 'tis my misfortune [Sighs. 
 
 Bel. But why that sigh, madam ? 
 
 Aur. You might spare me the shame of telling 
 you ; since I am sure you can divine my thoughts. 
 I will, therefore, tell you nothing. 
 
 Bel. What the devil will become of me now ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Aur. You may give me an essay of your science, 
 by declaring to me the secret of my thoughts. 
 
 Bel. If I know your thoughts, madam, 'tis in 
 vain for you to disguise them to me. Therefore, 
 as you tender your own satisfaction, lay them open 
 without bashfulness. 
 
 Aur. I beseech you let us pass over that chapter ; 
 for I am shame-faced to the last point. Since, 
 
 VOL. in. s
 
 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in. 
 
 therefore, I cannot put off my modesty, succour it, 
 and tell me what I think. 
 
 Bel. Madam, madam, that bashfulness must be 
 laid aside : Not but that I know your business per- 
 fectly ; and will, if you please, unfold it to you all 
 immediately. 
 
 Aur. Favour me so far, I beseech you, sir ; for I 
 furiously desire it. 
 
 Bel. But then I must call up before you a most 
 dreadful spirit, with head upon head, and horns up- 
 on horns. Therefore, consider how you can endure 
 it. 
 
 Aur. This is furiously furious ; but rather than 
 fail of my expectances, I'll try my assurance. 
 
 Bel. Well then, I find you will force me to this 
 unlawful, and abominable act of conjuration. Re- 
 member the sin is yours too. 
 
 Aur. I espouse the crime also. 
 
 Bel. I see, when a woman has a mind to't, she'll 
 never boggle at a sin. Pox on her, what shall I 
 do ? [Aside.] Well, I'll tell you your thoughts, 
 madam ; but after that expect no farther service 
 from me ; for 'tis your confidence must make my 
 
 art successful. Well, you are obstinate, then ; 
 
 I must tell you your thoughts ? 
 
 Aur. Hold, hold, sir ; I am content to pass over 
 that chapter, rather than be deprived of your assist- 
 ance. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis very well ; what need these circum- 
 stances between us two ? Confess freely ; is not love 
 your business ? 
 
 Aur. You have touched me to the quick, sir. 
 
 Bel. Look you there ! you see I knew it ; nay, 
 I'll tell you more, 'tis a man you love. 
 
 Aur. O prodigious science ! I confess I love a 
 man most furiously, to the last point, sir.
 
 SCENE I. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 275 
 
 Bel. Now proceed, lady, your way is open ; I am 
 resolved I'll not tell you a word farther. 
 
 Aur. Well then, since I must acquaint you with 
 what you know much better than myself, I will tell 
 you. I loved a cavalier, who was noble, young, and 
 handsome ; this gentleman is since gone for Flan- 
 ders ; now, whether he has preserved his passion in- 
 violate, or not, is that which causes my inquietude. 
 
 Bel. Trouble not yourself, madam ; he's as con- 
 stant as a romance hero. 
 
 Aur. Sir, your good news has ravished me most 
 furiously ; but that I may have a confirmation of it, 
 I beg only,'that you would lay your commands upon 
 his genius, or idea, to appear to me this night, that 
 I may have my sentence from his mouth. This, sir, 
 I know, is a slight effect of your science, and yet 
 will infinitely oblige me. 
 
 Bel. What the devil does she call a slight effect ! 
 [Aside.] Why, lady, do you consider what you 
 say ? you desire me to shew you a man, whom 
 yourself confess to be in Flanders. 
 
 Aur. To view him in a glass is nothing ; I would 
 speak with him in person, I mean his idea, sir. 
 
 Bel. Ay, but, madam, there is a vast sea betwixt 
 us and Flanders ; and water is an enemy to conju- 
 ration. A witch's horse, you know, when he en- 
 ters into water, returns into a bottle of hay again. 
 
 Aur. But, sir, I am not so ill a geographer, or, 
 to speak more properly, a chorographer, as not to 
 know there is a passage by land from hence to 
 Flanders. 
 
 Bel. That's true, madam ; but magic works in a 
 direct line. Why should you think the devil such 
 an ass to go about ? 'Gad, he'll not stir a step out 
 of his road for you, or any man. 
 
 Aur. Yes, for a lady, sir ; I hope he's a person
 
 276 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in. 
 
 that wants not that civility for a lady ; especially a 
 spirit that has the honour to belong to you, sir. 
 
 Bel. For that matter, he's your servant, madam ; 
 but his education has been in the fire, and he's na- 
 turally an enemy to water, I assure you. 
 
 Aur. I beg his pardon, for forgetting his antipa- 
 thy ; but it imports not much, sir ; for I have lately 
 received a letter from my servant, that he is yet in 
 Spain, and stays for a wind in St Sebastian's. 
 
 Bel. Now I am lost, past all redemption. Mask- 
 all, must you be smickering after wenches, while I 
 am in calamity ? [Aside. 
 
 Mask. It must be he, I'll venture on't. [AsideJ] 
 Alas, sir, I was complaining to myself of the condi- 
 tion of poor Don Melchor, who, you know, is wind- 
 bound at St Sebastian's. 
 
 Bel. Why, you impudent villain, must you offer 
 to name him publicly, when I have taken so much 
 care to conceal him all this while ? 
 
 Aur. Mitigate your displeasure, I beseech you ; 
 and, without making farther testimony of it, gra- 
 tify my expectances. 
 
 Bel. Well, madam, since the sea hinders not, you 
 shall have your desire. Look upon me with a fixed 
 
 eye so or a little more amorously, if you 
 
 please good. Now favour me with your hand. 
 
 Aur. Is it absolutely necessary you should press 
 my hand thus ? 
 
 Bel. Furiously necessary, I assure you, madam ; 
 for now 1 take possession of it in the name of the 
 idea of Don Melchor. Now, madam, I am farther 
 to desire of you, to write a note to his genius, 
 wherein you desire him to appear, and this we men 
 of art call a compact with the ideas. 
 
 Aur. I tremble furiously. 
 
 Bel. Give me your hand, I'll guide it. [ They write.
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 277 
 
 Mask, to Cam. Now, lady mine, what think you 
 of my master ? 
 
 Cam. I think, I would not serve him for the 
 world : Nay, if he can know our thoughts by look- 
 ing on us, we women are hypocrites to little pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Mask. He can do that and more ; for, by casting 
 his eyes but once upon them, he knows whether 
 they are maids, better than a whole jury of mid- 
 wives. 
 
 Cam. Now heaven defend me from him ! 
 
 Mask. He has a certain small familiar, which he 
 carries still about him, that never fails to make dis- 
 covery. 
 
 Cam. See, they have done writing ; not a word 
 more, for fear he knows my voice. 
 
 Bel. One thing I had forgot, madam ; you must 
 subscribe your name to it. 
 
 A ur. There 'tis. Farewell, cavalier, keep your 
 promise, for I expect it furiously. 
 
 Cam. If he sees me, I am undone. 
 
 [Hiding her face. 
 
 Bel. Camilla! 
 
 Cam. starts and shrieks. Ah, he has found me ; 
 I am ruined ! 
 
 Bel. You hide your face in vain ; for I see into 
 your heart. 
 
 Cam. Then, sweet sir, have pity on my frailty ; 
 for if my lady has the least inkling of what we did 
 last night, the poor .coachman will be turned away. 
 
 [Exit after her Lady. 
 
 Mask. Well, sir, how like you your new profes- 
 sion ? 
 
 Bel. Would I were well quit on't ; I sweat all 
 over. 
 
 Mask. But what faint-hearted devils yours are, 
 that will not go by water ! Are they all Lancashire
 
 278 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in. 
 
 devils, of the brood of Tybert and Grimalkin, that 
 they dare not wet their feet ? 
 
 Bel. Mine are honest land devils, good plain 
 foot-posts, that beat upon the hoof for me : But to 
 save their labour, here take this, and in some dis- 
 guise deliver it to Don Melchor. 
 
 Mask. I'll serve it upon him within this hour, 
 when he sallies out to his assignation with Theo- 
 dosia : 'Tis but counterfeiting my voice a little ; for 
 he cannot know me in the dark. But let me see, 
 what are the words ? 
 
 Reads.] Don Melchor, if the magic of love have 
 any power upon your spirit, I conjure you to appear 
 this night before me : You may guess the greatness 
 of my passion, since it has forced me to have recourse 
 to art; but no shape which resembles you can fright 
 
 AURELIA. 
 
 Bel. Well, I am glad there's one point gained ; 
 for, by this means, he will be hindered to-night 
 from entertaining Theodosia. Pox on him, is he 
 here again ? 
 
 Enter Don ALONZO. 
 
 Alon. Cavalier Inglis, I have been seeking you : 
 I have a present in my pocket for you ; read it by 
 your art, and take it. 
 
 Bel. That I could do easily : But, to shew you I 
 am generous, I'll none of your present ; do you 
 think I am mercenary ? 
 
 Alon. I know you will say now 'tis some astro- 
 logical question ; and so 'tis perhaps. 
 
 Bel Ay, 'tis the devil of a question, without 
 dispute. 
 
 Alon. No, 'tis within dispute : 'Tis a certain dif-
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 279 
 
 ficulty in the art ; a problem, which you and I will 
 discuss, with the arguments on both sides. 
 
 Bel. At this time I am not problematically given ; 
 1 have a humour of complaisance upon me, and will 
 contradict no man. 
 
 Alon. We'll but discuss a little. 
 
 Bel. By your favour, I'll not discuss ; for I see 
 by the stars, that, if I dispute to-day, I am infallibly 
 threatened to be thought ignorant all my life after. 
 
 Alon. Well then, we'll but cast an eye together 
 upon my eldest daughter's nativity. 
 
 Bel. Nativity ! 
 
 Alon. I know what you would say now, that 
 there wants the table of direction for the five hyle- 
 giacalls ; the ascendant, medium caeli, sun, moon, 
 and stars : But we'll take it as it is. 
 
 Bel. Never tell me that, sir 
 
 Alon. I know what you would say again, sir 
 
 Bel. 'Tis well you do, for I'll be sworn I do 
 not. [Aside. 
 
 Alon. You would say, sir 
 
 Bel. I say, sir, there is no doing without the sun 
 and moon, and all that, sir ; and so you may make 
 use of your paper for your occasions. Come to a 
 man of art without the sun and moon, and all that, 
 sir [ Tears it. 
 
 Alon. 'Tis no matter ; this shall break no squares 
 betwixt us. [Gathers up the torn papers.'] I know 
 what you would say now, that men of parts are 
 always choleric ; I know it by myself, sir. 
 
 [He goes to match the papers. 
 
 Enter Don LOPEZ. 
 
 Lop. Don Alonzo in my house ! This is a most 
 happy opportunity to put my other design in exe- 
 cution ; for, if I can persuade him to bestow his 
 daughter on Don Melchor, I shall serve my friend,
 
 280 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in, 
 
 though against his will ; and, when Aurelia sees 
 she cannot be his, perhaps she will accept my love. 
 
 Alon. I warrant you, sir, 'tis all pieced right, 
 both top, sides, and bottom ; for, look you, sir, here 
 was Aldeboran, and there Cor Scorpii 
 
 Lop. Don Alonzo, I am happy to see you under 
 my roof; and shall take it 
 
 Alon. I know what you would say, sir ; that 
 though I am your neighbour, this is the first time 
 I have been here. [To BELLAMY.] But, come, 
 sir, by Don Lopez's permission, let us return to 
 our nativity. 
 
 Bel. Would thou wert there, in thy mother's 
 belly again ! [Aside. 
 
 Lop. But, sennor [ To ALONZO. 
 
 Alon. It needs not, sennor; I'll suppose your 
 compliment ; you would sayj that your house, and 
 all things in it, are at my service. But let us pro- 
 ceed, without this interruption. 
 
 Bel. By no means, sir ; this cavalier is come on 
 purpose to perform the civilities of his house to 
 you. 
 
 Alon. But, good sir 
 
 Bel. I know what you would say, sir. 
 
 [Exeunt BELLAMY and MASKALL. 
 
 Lop. No matter, let him go, sir. I have long de- 
 sired this opportunity, to move a suit to you in the 
 behalf of a friend of mine, if you please to allow 
 me the hearing of it. 
 
 Alon. With all my heart, sir. 
 
 Lop. He is a person of worth and virtue, and is 
 infinitely ambitious of the honour 
 
 Alon. Of being known to me ; I understand 
 you, sir. 
 
 Lop. If you will please to favour me with your 
 patience, which I beg of you a second time. 
 
 Alon. I am dumb, sir.
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 281 
 
 Lop. This cavalier, of whom I was speaking, is 
 in love 
 
 Alon. Satisfy yourself, sir, I'll not interrupt you. 
 
 Lop. Sir, I am satisfied of your promise. 
 
 Alon. If I speak one syllable more, the devil 
 take me ! Speak when you please. 
 
 Lop. I am going, sir. 
 
 Alon. You need not speak twice to me to be si- 
 lent : Though I take it somewhat ill of you to be 
 tutored. 
 
 Lop. This eternal old man will make me mad. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Alon. Why, when do you begin, sir ? How long 
 must a man wait for you ? Pray make an end of 
 what you have to say quickly, that I may speak in 
 my turn too. 
 
 Lop. This cavalier is in love 
 
 Alon. You told me that before, sir ; do you speak 
 oracles, that you require this strict attention ? Ei- 
 ther let me share the talk with you, or I am gone. 
 
 Lop. Why, sir, I am almost mad to tell you, and 
 you will not suffer me. 
 
 Alon. Will you never have done, sir ? I must 
 tell you, sir, you have tattled long enough ; and 'tis 
 now good manners to hear me speak. Here's a tor- 
 rent of words indeed ; a very impetus dicendi ; will 
 you never have done ? 
 
 Lop. I will be heard in spite of you. 
 
 [This next speech of LOPEZ, and the next of 
 ALONZO'S, with both their replies, are to be 
 spoken at one time, both raising- their voices 
 by little and little, till they bawl, and come up 
 close to shoulder one another. 
 
 Lop. There's one Don Melchor de Guzman, a 
 friend and acquaintance of mine, that is desperately 
 in love with your eldest daughter Donna Theodo- 
 sia.
 
 282 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in. 
 
 Alon. [At the same time.'] Tis the sentence of a 
 philosopher, Loquere ut te vicleam ; speak, that I 
 may know thee ; now, if you take away the power 
 
 of speaking from me 
 
 [JSoth pause a little ; then speak together again. 
 
 Lop. I'll try the language of the law ; sure the 
 devil cannot out-talk that gibberish. For this Don 
 Melchor, of Madrid aforesaid, as premised, I re- 
 quest, move, and supplicate, that you would give, 
 bestow, marry, and give in marriage, this your 
 daughter aforesaid, to the cavalier aforesaid. Not 
 yet, thou devil of a man ! thou shalt be silent. 
 
 [Exit LOPEZ running. 
 
 Alon. [At the same time with LOPEZ'S last speech, 
 and after LOPEZ is run out.~] Oh, how I hate, abo- 
 minate, detest, and abhor, these perpetual talkers, 
 disputants, controverters, and duellers of thetongue! 
 But, on the other side, if it be not permitted to pru- 
 dent men to speak their minds, appositely, and to 
 the purpose, and in few words ; if, I say, the pru- 
 dent must be tongue-tied, then let great nature be 
 destroyed ; let the order of all things be turned top- 
 sy-turvy ; let the goose devour the fox ; let the in- 
 fants preach to their great-grandsires ; let the ten- 
 der lamb pursue the wolf, and the sick prescribe to 
 the physician ; let fishes live upon dry land, and 
 the beasts of the earth inhabit in the water ; let 
 the fearful hare 
 
 Enter LOPEZ with a bell, and rings it in his ears. 
 
 Alon. Help, help, murder, murder, murder ! 
 
 [Exit ALONZO, running. 
 Lop. There was no way but this to be rid of him. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Serv. Sir, there are some women without in mas-
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 283 
 
 querade, and, I believe, persons of quality, who are 
 come to play here. 
 
 Lop. Bring them in with all respect. 
 
 Enter again the Servant, after him JACINTH A, BEA- 
 TRIX, and other Ladies andGentlemen: allmasked. 
 
 Lop. Cavaliers, and ladies, you are welcome : I 
 wish I had more company to entertain you : Oh, 
 here comes one sooner than I expected. 
 
 Enter WILDBLOOD and MASKALL. 
 
 Wild. I have swept your gaming house, i'faith ; 
 Ecce signum. [Shews gold. 
 
 Lop. Well, here's more to be had of these ladies, 
 if it be your fortune. 
 
 Wild. The first stakes I would play for, should 
 be their veils and visor masks. 
 
 Jac. to Seat. Do you think he will not know us ? 
 
 Seat. If you keep your design of passing for an 
 African. 
 
 Jac. Well, now I shall make an absolute trial of 
 him ; for, being thus incognita, I shall discover if 
 he make love to any of you. As for the gallantry 
 of his serenade, we will not be indebted to him, for 
 we will make him another with our guitars. 
 
 Seat. I'll whisper your intention to the servant, 
 who shall deliver it to Don Lopez. 
 
 [BEAT, whispers to the Serv. 
 
 Serv. to Lopez. Sir, the ladies have commanded 
 me to tell you, that they are willing, before they 
 play, to present you with a dance ; and to give you 
 an essay of their guitars. 
 
 Lop- They much honour me. 
 
 A DANCE. 
 
 After the dance, the Cavaliers fake the Ladies, and 
 court them. WILDBLOOD takes JACINTHA.
 
 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in. 
 
 Wild. While you have been singing, lady, I have 
 been praying : I mean, that your face and wit may 
 not prove equal to your dancing ; for, if they be, 
 there's a heart gone astray, to my knowledge. 
 
 Jac. If you pray against me before you have seen 
 me, you'll curse me when you have looked on me. 
 
 Wild. I believe I shall have cause to do so, if 
 your beauty be as killing as I imagine it. 
 
 Jac. Tis true, I have been flattered in my own 
 country, with an opinion of a little handsomeness ; 
 but how it will pass in Spain is a question. 
 
 Wild. Why, madam, are you not of Spain ? 
 
 Jac. No, sir, of Morocco : I only came hither to 
 see some of my relations, who are settled here, and 
 turned Christians, since the expulsion of my coun- 
 trymen, the Moors. 
 
 Wild. Are you then a Mahometan ? 
 
 Jac. A Mussulman, at your service. 
 
 Wild. A Mussulwoman, say you ? I protest, by 
 your voice, I should have taken you for a Christian 
 lady of my acquaintance. 
 
 Jac. It seems you are in love then : If so, I have 
 done with you. I dare not invade the dominions 
 of another lady ; especially in a country where my 
 ancestors have been so unfortunate. 
 
 Wild. Some little liking I might have, but that 
 was only a morning-dew ; 'tis drawn up by the sun- 
 shine of your beauty. I find your African Cupid is 
 a much surer archer than ours of Europe. Yet 
 would I could see you ; one look would secure your 
 victory. 
 
 Jac. I'll reserve my face to gratify your imagina- 
 tion with it ; make what head you please, and set it 
 on my shoulders. 
 
 Wild. Well, madam, an eye, a nose, or a lip shall 
 break no squares : The face is but a span's breadth
 
 SCENE i. AX EVENING'S LOVE. 285 
 
 of beauty ; and where there is so much besides, I'll 
 never stand with you for that. 
 
 Jac. But, in earnest, do you love me? 
 Wild. Ay, by Alia, do I, most extremely. You 
 have wit in abundance you dance to a miracle 
 you sing like an angel and, I believe, you look 
 like a cherubim. 
 
 Jac. And can you be constant to me ? 
 
 Wild. By Mahomet, can I. 
 
 Jac. You swear like a Turk, sir ; but take heed, 
 for our prophet is a severe punisher of promise- 
 breakers. 
 
 Wild. Your prophet's a cavalier. I honour your 
 prophet and his law, for providing so well for us 
 lovers in the other world, black eyes, and fresh maid- 
 enheads every day. Go thy way, little Mahomet ; 
 i'faith, thou shalt have my good word. But, by his 
 favour, lady, give me leave to tell you, that we of 
 the uncircumcised, in a civil way, as lovers, have 
 somewhat the advantage of your mussulman. 
 
 Jac. The company are rejoined, and set to play ; 
 we must go to them. Adieu ; and when you have 
 a thought to throw away, bestow it on your servant 
 Fatima. [She goes to the company. 
 
 Wild. This lady Fatima pleases me most infi- 
 nitely. Now am I got among the Hamets, the Ze- 
 grys, and the Bencerrages. Hey, what work will 
 the Wildbloods make among the Cids and the Bens 
 of the Arabians ! 
 
 Beat, to Jac. False, or true, madam ? 
 
 Jac. False as hell ; but, by heaven, I'll fit him 
 for't ! Have you the high-running dice about you ? 
 
 Beat. I got them on purpose, madam. 
 
 Jac. You shall see m,e win all their money ; and 
 when I have done, I'll return in my own person, 
 and ask him for the money which he promised 
 me.
 
 286 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in. 
 
 Beat. 'Twill put him upon a strait to be sur- 
 prised. But let us to the table ; the company stays 
 for us. [ The company sit. 
 
 Wild. What is the ladies' game, sir ? 
 
 Lop. Most commonly they use raffle ; that is, to 
 throw with three dice, till duplets, and a chance be 
 thrown ; and the highest duplet wins, except you 
 throw in and in, which is called raffle ; and that 
 wins all. 
 
 Wild. I understand it. Come, lady, 'tis no mat- 
 ter what I lose ; the greatest stake, my heart, is 
 gone already. [To JACINTHA. 
 
 [ They play ; and the rest by couples. 
 
 Wild. So, I have a good chance, two quarters and 
 a sice. 
 
 Jac. Two sixes and a trey wins it. 
 
 [Sweeps the money. 
 
 Wild. No matter ; I'll try my fortune once again. 
 What have I here, two sixes and a quarter ? An 
 hundred pistoles on that throw. 
 
 Jac. I take you, sir. Beatrix, the high running 
 dice. [Aside. 
 
 Beat. Here, madam. 
 
 Jac. Three fives. I have won you, sir. 
 
 Wild. Ay, the pox take me for't, you have won 
 me. It would never have vext me to have lost my 
 money to a Christian ; but to a pagan, an infidel 
 
 Mask. Pray, sir, leave off while you have some 
 money. 
 
 Wild. Pox of this lady Fatima ! Raffle thrice to- 
 gether ! I am out of patience. 
 
 Mask. [ To him.~\ Sir, I beseech you, if you will 
 lose, to lose en cavalier. 
 
 Wild. Tol de ra, tol de ra pox and curse tol 
 de ra. What the devil did I mean, to play with this 
 brunette of Afric ? [The Ladies rise.~\ Will you 
 be gone already, ladies ?
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 287 
 
 Lop. You have won our money ; but, however, 
 we are acknowledging to you for the honour of 
 your company. 
 
 [ JAC. makes a sign of farewell to WILD. 
 
 Wild. Farewell, lady Fatima. 
 
 [Exeunt all but WILD, and MASK. 
 
 Mask. All the company took notice of your con- 
 cernment. 
 
 Wild. 'Tis no matter ; I do not love to fret in- 
 wardly, as your silent losers do, and, in the mean 
 time, be ready to choak for want of vent. 
 
 Mask. Pray consider your condition a little ; a 
 younger brother, in a foreign country, living at 
 a high rate, your money lost, and without hope of 
 a supply. Now curse, if you think good. 
 
 Wild. No, now I will laugh at myself most un- 
 mercifully ; for my condition is so ridiculous, that 
 'tis past cursing. The pleasantest part of the ad- 
 venture is, that I have promised three hundred pis- 
 toles to Jacintha. But there is no remedy, they 
 are now fair Fatima's. 
 
 Mask. Fatima! 
 
 Wild. Ay, ay, a certain African lady of my ac- 
 quaintance, whom you know not. 
 
 Mask. But who is here, sir ? 
 
 Enter JACINTHA awe? BEATRIX, in their own shapes. 
 
 Wild. Madam, what happy star has conducted 
 you hither to night ! A thousand devils of this 
 fortune. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. I was told you had ladies here, and fiddles ; 
 so I came partly for the divertisement, and partly 
 out of jealousy. 
 
 Wild. Jealousy ! Why sure you do not think me 
 a pagan, an infidel ? But the company's broke up, 
 you see. Am I to wait upon you home, or will 
 6
 
 288 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in. 
 
 you be so kind to take a hard lodging with me to- 
 night ? 
 
 Jac. You shall have the honour to lead me to my 
 father's. 
 
 Wild. No more words then ; let's away, to pre- 
 vent discovery. 
 
 Seat. For my part, I think he has a mind to be 
 rid of you. 
 
 Wild. No ! But if your lady should want sleep, 
 'twould spoil the lustre of her eyes to-morrow. 
 There were a conquest lost. 
 
 Jac. I am a peaceable princess, and content with 
 my own ; I mean your heart and purse ; for the 
 truth is, I have lost my money to-night in masque- 
 rade, and am come to claim your promise of supply- 
 ing me. 
 
 Wild. You make me happy by commanding me. 
 To-morrow morning my servant shall wait upon 
 you with three hundred pistoles. 
 
 Jac. But I left my company, with promise to re- 
 turn to play. 
 
 Wild. Play on tick, and lose the Indies, I'll dis- 
 charge it all to-morrow. 
 
 Jac. To-night, if you'll oblige me. 
 
 Wild. Maskall, go and bring me three hundred 
 pistoles immediately. 
 
 Mask. Are you mad, sir ? 
 
 Wild. Do you expostulate, you rascal ? How he 
 stares ! I'll be hanged if he have not lost my gold 
 at play. If you have, confess ; you had best, and 
 perhaps I'll pardon you ; but if you do not confess, 
 I'll have no mercy. Did you lose it ? 
 
 Mask. Sir, 'tis not for me to dispute with you. 
 
 Wild. Why, then, let me tell you, you did lose it. 
 
 Jac. Ay, as sure as e'er he had it, I dare swear 
 for him. But commend me to you for a kind mas-
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 289 
 
 ter, that can let your servant play off three hundred 
 pistoles, without the least sign of anger to him. 
 
 Seat. 'Tis a sign he has a greater bank in store, 
 to comfort him. 
 
 Wild. Well, madam, I must confess I have more 
 than I will speak of at this time ; but till you have 
 given me satisfaction 
 
 Jac. Satisfaction ! why, are you offended, sir ? 
 
 Wild. Heaven ! that you should not perceive it 
 in me. I tell you, I am mortally offended with 
 you. 
 
 Jac. Sure, 'tis impossible. 
 
 Wild. You have done nothing,! warrant, to make 
 a man jealous. Going out a gaming in masquerade, 
 at unseasonable hours, and losing your money at 
 play ; that loss, above all, provokes me. 
 
 Beat. I believe you ; because she comes to you 
 for more. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. Is this the quarrel ? I'll clear it immediately. 
 
 Wild. 'Tis impossible you should clear it. I'll 
 stop my ears, if you but offer it. There's no satis- 
 faction in the point. 
 
 Jac. You'll hear me ? 
 
 Wild. To do this in the beginning of an amour, 
 and to a jealous servant as I am ! had I all the wealth 
 of Peru, I would not let go one maravedis to you. 
 
 Jac. To this I answer 
 
 Wild. Answer nothing, for it will but inflame the 
 quarrel betwixt us. I must come to myself by little 
 and little ; and when I am ready for satisfaction, I 
 will take it. But at present it is not for my honour 
 to be friends. 
 
 Seat. Pray, let us neighbour princes interpose a 
 little. 
 
 Wild. When I have conquered, you may inter- 
 pose ; but at present the mediation of all Christen- 
 dom would be fruitless. 
 
 VOL. III. T
 
 290 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT in. 
 
 Jac. Though Christendom can do nothing with 
 you, yet I hope an African may prevail. Let me 
 beg you, for the sake of the Lady Fatima. 
 
 Wild. I begin to suspect, that Lady Fatima is no 
 better than she should be. If she be turned Chris- 
 tian again, I am undone. i^ % ,< 
 
 Jac. By Alia, I am afraid on't too : By Maho- 
 met, I am. 
 
 Wild. Well, well, madam, any man may be over- 
 taken with an oath ; but I never meant to perform 
 it with her. You know, no oaths are to be kept 
 with infidels. But 
 
 Jac. No ; the love you made was certainly a de- 
 sign of charity you had to reconcile the two reli- 
 gions. There's scarce such another man in Europe, 
 to be sent apostle to convert the Moor ladies. 
 
 Wild. Faith, I would rather widen their breaches, 
 than make them up. 
 
 Jac. I see there ? s no hope of a reconcilement with 
 you ; and therefore I give it over as desperate. 
 
 Wild. You have gained your point, you have my 
 money ; and I was only angry, because I did not 
 know 'twas you who had it. 
 
 Jac. This will not serve your turn, sir ; what I 
 have got, I have conquered from you. 
 
 Wild. Indeed you use me like one that's con- 
 quered ; for you have plundered me of all I had. 
 
 Jac. I only disarmed you, for fear you should re- 
 bel again ; for if you had the sinews of war, I am 
 sure you would be flying out. 
 
 Wild. Dare but to stay without a new servant, 
 till I am flush again ; and I will love you, and treat 
 you, and present you at that unreasonable rate, that 
 I will make you an example to all unbelieving mis- 
 tresses. 
 
 Jac. Well, I will try you once more ; but you 
 must make haste then, that we may be within our 
 
 3
 
 ACT iw. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 291 
 
 time ; methinks our love is drawn out so subtle al- 
 ready, that 'tis near breaking. 
 
 Wild. I will have more care of it on my part, 
 than the kindred of an old pope have to preserve 
 him. 
 
 Jac. Adieu ; for this time I wipe off your score, 
 till you are caught tripping in some new amour. 
 
 [Exeunt Women. 
 
 Mask. You have used me very kindly, sir ; I 
 thank you. 
 
 Wild. You deserved it for not having a lie ready 
 for my occasions, A good servant should be no 
 more without it, than a soldier without his arms. 
 But, pr'ythee, advise me what's to be done to get 
 Jacintha. 
 
 Mask. You have lost her, or will lose her by your 
 submitting. If we men could but learn to value 
 ourselves, we should soon take down our mistresses 
 from all their altitudes, and make them dance after 
 .our pipes, longer perhaps than we had a mind to't, 
 But I must make haste, or I shall lose Don Mel- 
 chor. 
 
 Wild. Call Bellamy, we'll both be present at thy 
 enterprize. Then I'U once more to the gaming- 
 house with my small stock, for my last refuge. If 
 I win, I have wherewithal to mollify Jacintha. 
 
 If I throw out, I'll bear it off with huffing, 
 
 And snatch the money like a bully-ruffing. 
 
 \Exeiint. 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 
 
 Enter BELLAMY, WILDBLOOD, MASKALL, in a 
 Visor. 
 
 Bel. Here comes one, and in all probability it 
 must be Don Melchor, going to Theodpsia.
 
 292 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 Mask. Stand close, and you shall see me serve 
 the writ upon him. 
 
 Enter Don MELCHOR. 
 
 Wild. Now, Maskall. 
 
 Mask. I stayed here, sir, by express order from 
 the lady Aurelia, to deliver you this note ; and to 
 desire you, from her, to meet her immediately in 
 the garden. 
 
 Mel. Do you hear, friend ! 
 
 Mask. Not a syllable more, sir ; I have perform- 
 ed my orders. [MASK, retires to his Masters. 
 
 Mel. He's gone, and 'tis in vain for me to look 
 after him. What envious devil has discovered to 
 Aurelia that I am in town ? It must be Don Lopez, 
 who, to advance his own pretensions to her, has en- 
 deavoured to ruin mine. 
 
 Wild. It works rarely. 
 
 Mel. But I am resolved to see Aurelia ; if it be 
 but to defeat him. [Exit MEL. 
 
 Wild. Let's make haste after him ; I long to see 
 the end of this adventure. 
 
 Mask. Sir, I think I see some women coming 
 yonder. 
 
 Bel. Well, I'll leave you to your adventures, 
 while I prosecute my own. 
 
 Wild. I warrant you have made an assignation 
 to instruct some lady in the mathematics. 
 
 Bel. I'll not tell you my design ; because, if it 
 does not succeed, you shall not laugh at me. 
 
 Enter BEATRIX, and JACINTHA, in the habit of a 
 Mulatto. 
 
 Wild. Let us withdraw a little, and see if they 
 will come this way. 
 
 Beat. We are right, madam ; 'tis certainly your
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 293 
 
 Englishman, and his servant with him. But, why 
 this second trial, when you engaged to break with 
 him, if he failed in the first ? 
 
 Jac. "Tis true, he has been a little inconstant, 
 choleric, or so. 
 
 Beat. And it seems you are not contented with 
 those vices, but are searching him for more ? This 
 is the folly of a bleeding gamester, who will obsti- 
 nately pursue a losing hand. 
 
 Jac. On t'other side, you would have me throw 
 up my cards, before the game be lost. Let me make 
 this one more trial, when he has money, whether he 
 will give it me ; and then, if he fails 
 
 Beat. You'll forgive him again. 
 
 Jac. He's already in purgatory ; but the next of- 
 fence shall put him in the pit, past all redemption ; 
 pr'ythee sing, to draw him nearer. Sure he cannot 
 know me in this disguise. 
 
 Beat. Make haste, then ; for I have more irons 
 in the fire. When I have done with you, I have 
 another assignation of my Lady Theodosia's to Don 
 Melchor. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Calm was the even, and clear was the sky, 
 
 And the new-budding flowers did spring, 
 When all alone went Amyntas and I, 
 
 To hear the sweet nightingale sing : 
 I sate, and he laid him down by me, 
 
 But scarcely his breath he could draw ; 
 For wJien, with a fear, he began to draw near, 
 
 He was dastid with, A ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 He blustid to himself, and lay stillfor a while, 
 And his modesty curbed his desire ; 
 
 But strait I convinced all his fear with a smile, 
 Which added new flames to his flre.
 
 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 Sylvia, said he, you are cruel, 
 To keep your poor lover in awe ! 
 
 Then once more heprest with his hand to my breast, 
 But was dastid with, A ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 1 knew 'twas his passion that caused all his fear, 
 And therefore I pitied his case ; 
 
 I whisper d him softly, There's nobody near, 
 And laid my cheek close to his face : 
 
 But as he grew bolder and bolder, 
 A shepherd came by us and saw ; 
 
 And just as our bliss we began with a kiss, 
 He laugh' d out with, A ha, ha, ha, ha / 
 
 Wild. If you dare be the Sylvia, lady, I have 
 brought you a more confident Amyntas, than that 
 bashful gentleman in your song. 
 
 [Goes to lay hold of her. 
 
 Jac. Hold, hold, sir ; I am only an ambassadress 
 sent you from a lady. I hope you will not violate 
 the laws of nations. 
 
 Wild. I was only searching for your letters of 
 credence ; but methinks, with that beauty, you look 
 more like a herald that comes to denounce war to 
 all mankind. 
 
 Jac. One of the ladies in the masque to-night 
 has taken a liking to you ; and sent you by me this 
 purse of gold, in recompence of that she saw you 
 lose. 
 
 Wild. And she expects in return of it, that I 
 should wait on her ; I'll do't, where lives she ? I 
 am desperately in love with her. 
 
 Jac. Why, can you love her unknown ? 
 
 Wild. I have a bank of love, to supply every 
 one's occasions ; some for her, some for another, 
 and some for you ; charge what you will upon me,
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 295 
 
 I pay all at sight, and without questioning who 
 brought the bill. 
 
 Jac. Hey-day! youdispatch your mistresses as fast 
 as if you meant to o'er-run all woman-kind : Sure 
 you aim at the universal- monarchy, 
 
 Wild. Now I think on't, I have a foolish fancy 
 to send the lady a taste of my love by thee. 
 
 Jac. Tis impossible your love should be so hum- 
 ble, to descend to a mulatto ? 
 
 Wild. One would think so, but I cannot help it. 
 Gad, I think the reason is, because there's some- 
 thing more of sin in thy colour than in ours. I 
 know not what's the matter, but a turkey-cock is 
 not more provoked at red, than I bristle at the sight 
 of black. Come, be kinder to me. Young, and 
 slip an opportunity ? 'Tis an evening lost out of 
 your life. 
 
 Jac. These fine things you have said over a 
 thousand times ; your cold compliment's the cold 
 pye of love, which you serve up to every guest 
 whom you invite. 
 
 Wild. Come ; because thou art very moving, 
 here's part of the gold, which thou brought'st to 
 corrupt me for thy lady : Truth is, I had promised 
 a sum to a Spanish lady ; but thy eyes have allured 
 it from me. 
 
 Jac. You'll repent it to-morrow. 
 
 Wild. Let to-morrow starve, or provide for him- 
 self, as to-night has done : To-morrow is a cheat in 
 love, and I will not trust it. 
 
 Jac. Ay, but heaven that sees all things 
 
 Wild. Heaven, that sees all things, will say no- 
 thing : That is all eyes, and no tongue ; Et la lune, 
 et les estoiles, you know the song. 
 
 Jac. A poor slave, as I am 
 
 Wild. It has been always my humour to love 
 downward. I love to stoop to my prey, and to
 
 296 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 have it in my power to souse at, when I please. 
 When a man comes to a great lady, he is fain to 
 approach her with fear and reverence ; methinks 
 there's something of godliness in it. 
 
 Jac. Yet I cannot believe, but the meanness of 
 my habit must needs scandalize you. 
 
 Wild. I tell thee, my friend, and so forth, that 
 I exceedingly honour coarse linen ; 'tis as proper 
 sometimes in an under garment, as a coarse towel 
 is to rub and scrub me. 
 
 Jac. Now I am altogether of the other side ; 1 
 can love no where but above me : Methinks the 
 rattling of a coach and six sounds more eloquently 
 than the best harangue a wit could make me. 
 
 Wild. Do you make no more esteem of a wit 
 then? 
 
 Jac. His commendations serve only to make 
 others have a mind to me ; he does but say grace 
 to me like a chaplain, and, like him, is the last that 
 shall fall on. He ought to get no more by it, than 
 a poor silk-weaver does by the riband which he 
 works, to make a gallant fine. 
 
 Wild. Then what is a gentleman ito hope from 
 you? 
 
 Jac. To be admitted to pass my time with, while 
 a better comes : To be the lowest step in my stair- 
 case, for a knight to mount upon him, and a lord 
 upon him, and a marquis upon him, and a duke 
 upon him, till I get as high as I can climb. 
 
 Wild. For aught I see, the great ladies have the 
 appetites, which you slaves should have ; and you 
 slaves the pride, which ought to be in ladies. For, 
 I observe, that all women of your condition are like 
 women of the play-house, still picking at each 
 other, who shall go the best dressed, and the richest 
 habits ; till you work up one another by your high 
 flying, as the heron and jerfalcon do. If you can-
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 297 
 
 not out-shine your fellow with one lover, you fetch 
 her up with another : And, in short, all you get by 
 it is only to put finery out of countenance ; and to 
 make the ladies of quality go plain, because they 
 will avoid the scandal of your bravery. 
 
 Beat [Running in.'] Madam, come away ; I hear 
 company in the garden. 
 Wild. You are not going ? 
 Jac. Yes, to cry out a rape, if you follow me. 
 Wild. However, I am glad you have left your 
 treasure behind you : Farewell, fairy ! 
 
 Jac. Farewell, changeling ! Come, Beatrix. 
 
 [Exeunt women. 
 
 Mask. Do you know how you came by this 
 money, sir ? You think, I warrant, that it came by 
 fortune. 
 
 Wild. No, sirrah, I know it came by my own in- 
 dustry. Did not I come out diligently to meet 
 this gold, in the very way it was to come ? What 
 could fate do less for me ? They are such thought- 
 less, and undesigning rogues as you, that make a 
 drudge of poor Providence, and set it a shifting for 
 you. Give me a brave fellow like myself, that, if 
 you throw him down into the world, lights every 
 where upon his legs, and helps himself without be- 
 ing beholden to fate, that is the hospital of fools. 
 
 Mask. But, after all your jollity, what think you 
 
 if it was Jacintha that gave it you in this disguise ? 
 
 I am sure I heard her call Beatrix as she went away. 
 
 Wild. Umh ! thou awaken'st a most villainous 
 
 apprehension in me ! methought, indeed, I knew 
 
 the voice : but the face was such an evidence against 
 
 it ! if it were so, she is lost for ever. 
 
 Mask. And so is Beatrix. 
 
 Wild. Now could I cut my throat for madness. 
 
 Mask. Now could 1 break my neck for despair, 
 
 if I could find a precipice absolutely to my liking.
 
 298 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 Wild-. Tis in vain to consider on't. There's but 
 one way ; go you, Maskall, and find her out, and in- 
 vent some excuse for me, and be sure to beg leave 
 I may come and wait upon her with the gold, be- 
 fore she sleeps. 
 
 Mask. In the mean time you'll be thinking at 
 your lodging. 
 
 Wild, But make haste then to relieve me ; for I 
 think over all my thoughts in half an hour. 
 
 Wild. [Solus.'] Hang it ! now I think on't, I shall 
 be but melancholic at my lodging ; I'll go pass my 
 hour at the gaming-house, and make use of this 
 money while I have tools, to win more to it. Stay, 
 let me see, I have the box and throw. My Don 
 he sets me ten pistoles ; I nick him : Ten more, I 
 sweep them too. Now, in all reason, he is nettled, 
 and sets me twenty : I win them too. Now he 
 kindles, and butters me with forty. They are all 
 my own : In fine, he is vehement, and bleeds on to 
 fourscore or an hundred ; and I, not willing to 
 tempt fortune, come away a moderate winner of 
 two hundred pistoles. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Scene opens and discovers AURELIA and CA- 
 MILLA : Behind them a table and lights set on it. 
 The Scene is a Garden with an arbour in it. 
 
 The garden-door opens ! How now, Aurelia and 
 Camilla in expectation of Don Melchor at the gar- 
 den door ! I'll away, lest I prevent the design, and 
 within this half hour come sailing back with full 
 pockets, as wantonly as a laden galleon from the 
 Indies. [Exit. 
 
 Aur. But dost thou think the Englishman can 
 keep his promise ? For, I confess, I furiously desire 
 to see the idea of Don Melchor.
 
 SCENE ii. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 299 
 
 Cam. But, madam, if you should see him, it will 
 not be he, but the devil in his likeness ; and then 
 why should you desire it ? 
 
 Aur. In effect 'tis a very dark enigma ; and one 
 must be very spiritual to understand it. But be 
 what it will, body or phantom. I am resolved to 
 meet it. 
 
 Cam. Can you do it without fear ? 
 
 Aur. No ! I must avow it, I am furiously fear- 
 ful ; but yet I am resolved to sacrifice all things to 
 my love. Therefore, let us pass over that chapter. 
 [ Don MELCHOII, without. 
 
 Cam. Do you hear, madam, there's one treading 
 already ; how if it be he ? 
 
 Aur. If it be he ! that is to say his spectre, that 
 is to say his phantom, that is to say his idea, that 
 is to say, he, and not he. 
 
 Cam. [Crying outJ] Ah, madam, 'tis he himself; 
 but he's as big again as he used to be, with eyes 
 like saucers. I'll save myself. 
 
 [Runs under the table. 
 
 Enter Don MELCHOR. They both shriek. 
 
 Aur. Oh heaven ! humanity is not able to sup- 
 port it. [Running. 
 
 Mel. Dear Aurelia, what mean you ? 
 
 Aur. The tempter has imitated his voice too ; 
 avoid, avoid, spectre. 
 
 Cam. If he should find me under the table now ! 
 
 Mel. Is it thus, my dear, that you treat your ser- 
 vant ? 
 
 Aur. I am not thy dear ; I renounce thee, spirit 
 of darkness ! 
 
 Mel. This spirit of darkness is come to see an 
 angel of light by her command ; and to assure her 
 of his constancy, that he will be her's eternally.
 
 300 AN EVENING'S LOVE, ACT IV. 
 
 Aur. Away, infernal ! 'tis not thee ; 'tis the true 
 Don Melchor that I would see. 
 
 Mel. Hell and furies ! 
 
 Aur. Heaven and angels ! Ah 
 
 [Runs out, shrieking. 
 
 Mel This is a riddle past my finding out, to send 
 for me, and then to shun me ; but here's one shall 
 resolve it for me : Camilla, what dost thou there ? 
 
 Cam. Help, help ! I shall be carried away bodily. 
 [She rises up, overthrows the table and lights., 
 and runs out. The scene shuts. 
 
 Mel. [Alone.'] Why, Aurelia, Camilla ! They 
 are both run out of hearing ! this amazes me ; what 
 can the meaning of it be ? Sure she has heard of my 
 unfaithfulness, and was resolved to punish me by 
 this contrivance ! to put an affront upon me by this 
 abrupt departure, as I did on her by my seeming 
 absence. 
 
 Enter THEODOSIA and BEATRIX. 
 
 Theo. Don Melchor ! is it you, my love, that have 
 frighted Aurelia so terribly ? 
 
 Mel. Alas, madam ! I know not ; but, coming 
 hither by your appointment, and thinking myself 
 secure in the night without disguise, perhaps it 
 might work upon her fancy, because she thought 
 me absent. 
 
 Theo. Since 'tis so unluckily fallen out, that she 
 knows you are at Madrid, it can no longer be kept 
 a secret ; therefore, you must now pretend openly 
 to me, and run the risk of a denial from my father. 
 
 Mel. O, madam, there's no question but he'll re- 
 fuse me : For, alas ! what is it he can see in me 
 worthy of that honour ? Or, if he should be so par- 
 tial to me, as some in the world are, to think me
 
 SCENE ii. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 301 
 
 valiant, learned, and not altogether a fool, yet my 
 want of fortune would weigh down all. 
 
 Theo. When he has refused you his consent, I 
 may with justice dispose of myself ; and that, while 
 you are constant, shall never be to any but your- 
 self: In witness of which, accept this diamond, as 
 a pledge of my heart's firmness to you. 
 
 Seat. Madam, your father is coming this way. 
 
 Theo. 'Tis no matter ; do not stir : since he must 
 know you are returned, let him now see you. 
 
 Enter Don ALONZO. 
 
 Alon. Daughter, what make you here at this 
 unseasonable hour ? 
 
 Theo. Sir 
 
 Alon. I know what you would say, that you 
 heard a noise, and ran hither to see what it might 
 be Bless us ! who is this with you ? 
 
 Mel. 'Tis your servant, Don Melchor ; just re- 
 turned from St Sebastians. 
 
 Alon. But, sir, I thought you had been upon the 
 sea for Flanders. 
 
 MeL I had so designed it. 
 
 Alon. But, why came you back from St Sebas- 
 tians ? 
 
 Mel. As for that, sir, 'tis not material. 
 
 Theo. An unexpected law-suit has called him 
 back from St Sebastians. 
 
 Alon. And how fares my son-in-law, that lives 
 there ? 
 
 Mel. In Catholic health, sir. 
 
 Alon. Have you brought no letters from him ? 
 
 Mel. I had, sir, but I was set upon by the way, 
 by picarons : and, in spite of my resistance, robbed, 
 and my portmanteau taken from me. 
 
 Theo. And this was that which he was now de- 
 siring me to excuse to you.
 
 302 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 Alon. If my credit, friends, or counsel, can do 
 you any service in your suit, I hope you will com- 
 mand them freely. 
 
 Mel. When I have despatched some private busi- 
 ness, I shall not fail to trouble you ; till then, hum- 
 bly kisses your hands the most obliged of your ser- 
 vants. [Exit MELCHOR. 
 
 Alon. Daughter, now this cavalier is gone, what 
 occasion brought you out so late ? I know what 
 you would say, that it is melancholy ; a tincture 
 of the hypochondria you mean. But, what cause 
 have you for this melancholy ? Give me your hand, 
 and answer me without ambages, or ambiguities. 
 
 Theo. He will find out I have given away my 
 
 ring 1 must prevent him Sir, I am ashamed 
 
 to confess it to you ; but, in hope of your indul- 
 gence, I have lost the table diamond you gave me. 
 
 Alon. You would say, The fear of my displeasure 
 has caused the perturbation in you ; well, do not 
 disquiet yourself too much ; you say 'tis gone ; I 
 say so too. Tis stolen ; and that by some thief, I 
 take it. But, I will go and consult the astrologer 
 immediately. [He is going. 
 
 Theo. What have I done ? To avoid one incon- 
 venience, I have run into another. This devil of an 
 astrologer will discover that Don Melchor has it. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Alon. When did you lose this diamond? The 
 minute and second I should know ; but the hour 
 will serve for the degree ascending. 
 
 Theo. Sir, the precise time I know not ; but it 
 was betwixt six and seven in the evening, as near 
 as I can guess. 
 
 Alon. 'Tis enough ; by all the stars, I'll have it 
 for you : Therefore, go in, and suppose it on your 
 finger.
 
 SCENE ii. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 303 
 
 Beat. I'll watch you at a distance, sir, that my 
 
 Englishman may have wherewithal to answer you. 
 
 [Aside. Exeunt THEO. BEAT. 
 
 Alon. This melancholy, wherewith my daughter 
 laboureth, is a I know what I would say, is a 
 certain species of the hysterical disease ; or a cer- 
 tain motion, caused by a certain appetite, which, at 
 a certain time, heaveth in her, like a certain motion 
 of an earthquake 
 
 Enter BELLAMY. 
 
 Bel. This is the place, and very near the time 
 that Theodosia appoints her meeting with Don 
 Melchor. He is^this night otherwise disposed of 
 with Aurelia : 'Tis but trying my fortune, to tell her 
 of his infidelity, and my love. If she yields, she 
 makes me happy ; if not, I shall be sure Don Mel- 
 chor has not planted the arms of Spain in the fort 
 before me. However, I'll push my fortune, as sure 
 as I am an Englishman. 
 
 Alon. Sennor Inglis, I know your voice, though 
 I cannot perfectly discern you. 
 
 Bel. How the devil came he to cross me ? 
 
 Alon. I was just coming to have asked another 
 favour of you. 
 
 Bel. Without ceremony, command me, sir. 
 
 Alon. My daughter Theodosia has lost a fair dia- 
 mond from her finger, the time betwixt six and 
 seven this evening ; now, I desire you, sir, to erect 
 a scheme for it, and if it be lost, or stolen, to re- 
 store it to me. This is all, sir. 
 
 Bel. There is no end of this old fellow ; thus will 
 he bait me from day to day, till my ignorance be 
 found out. [Aside. 
 
 Alon. Now is he casting a figure by the art of 
 memory, and making a judgment of it to himself. 
 This astrology is a very mysterious speculation. 
 
 [Aside.
 
 304 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis a madness for me to hope I can deceive 
 him longer. Since then he must know I am no 
 astrologer, I'll discover it myself to him, and blush 
 once for all. [Aside. 
 
 Alon. Well, sir, and what do the stars hold 
 forth ? What says nimble Master Mercury to the 
 matter ? 
 
 Bel. Sir, not to keep you longer in ignorance, I 
 must ingenuously declare to you, that I am not the 
 man for whom you take me. Some smattering in 
 astrology I have, which my friends, by their indis- 
 cretion, have blown abroad, beyond my intentions. 
 But you are not a person to be imposed on like the 
 vulgar : Therefore, to satisfy you in one word, my 
 skill goes not far enough to give you knowledge of 
 what you desire from me. 
 
 Alon. You have said enough, sir, to persuade me 
 of your science ; if fame had not published it, yet 
 this very humility of yours were enough to confirm 
 me in the belief of it. 
 
 Bel. Death, you make me mad, sir ! Will you 
 have me swear ? As I am a gentleman, a man of the 
 town, one who wears good clothes, eats, drinks, and 
 wenches abundantly, I am a damned ignorant and 
 senseless fellow. 
 
 - Enter BEATRIX. 
 
 Alon. How now, gentlewoman? What, are you 
 going to relief by moonshine ? 
 
 Beat. I was going on a very charitable office, to 
 help a friend that was gravelled in a very doubtful 
 business. 
 
 Bel. Some good news, fortune, I beseech thee. 
 
 Beat. But now I have found this learned gentle- 
 man, I shall make bold to propound a question to 
 him from a lady. 
 
 Alon. I will have my own question first resolved.
 
 SCENE ii. AK EVENING'S LOVE. 305 
 
 Set. O, sir, 'tis from a lady. 
 
 Beat. If you please, sir, I'll tell it in your ear 
 My lady has given Don Melchor the ring; in 
 whose company her father found her just now at 
 the garden-door. [/ a u-hisper. 
 
 Bel. [Aloud, .] Come to me to-morrow, and you 
 shall receive an answer. 
 
 Beat. Your servant, sir. [Exit BEATRIX. 
 
 Alon. Sir, I shall take it very unkindly if you sa- 
 tisfy any other, and leave me'in this perplexity. 
 
 Bel. Sir, if my knowledge were according 
 
 Alon. No more of that, sir, I beseech you. 
 
 Bel. Perhaps I may know something by my art 
 concerning it ; but, for your quiet,! wish you would 
 not press me. 
 
 Alon. Do you think I am not master of my pas- 
 sions ? 
 
 Bel. Since you will needs know what I would 
 willingly have concealed, the person, who has your 
 diamond, is he whom you saw last in your daugh- 
 ter's company. 
 
 Alon. You would say 'tis Don Melchor de Guz- 
 man. Who the devil would have suspected him of 
 such an action ? But he is of a decayed family, and 
 poverty, it seems, has enforced him to it. Now I 
 think on't better, he has e'en stolen it for a fee, to 
 bribe his lawyer ; to requite a lie with a theft. I'll 
 seek him out, and tell him part of my mind before 
 I sleep. \Ejclt ALOX. 
 
 Bel. So, once more I am at liberty. But this 
 
 astrology is so troublesome a science Would I 
 
 were well rid on't ! 
 
 Enter Don LOPEZ, and a Servant. 
 
 Lop. Astrology, does he say ? O, cavalier, is it 
 you ? not finding you at home, I came on purpose 
 VOL. in. u
 
 306 AN EVENING'S LQVE. ACT iv. 
 
 to seek you out. I have a small request to the stars 
 by your mediation. 
 
 Bel. Sir, for pity let them shine in quiet a little ; 
 for what for ladies, and their servants, and younger 
 brothers, they scarce get a holiday in a twelve- 
 month. 
 
 Lop. Pray, pardon me, if I am a little curious of 
 my destiny, since all my happiness depends on your 
 answer. 
 
 Bel. Well, sir, what is it you expect ? 
 
 Lop. To know whether my love to a lady will 
 be successful. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis Aureliahe means. [Aside.~\ Sir, in one 
 word I answer you, that your mistress loves an- 
 other ; one who is your friend. But comfort your- 
 self; the dragon's tail is between him and home, he 
 never shall enjoy her. 
 
 Lop. But what hope for me ? 
 
 Bel. The stars have partly assured me, you shall 
 be happy, if you acquaint her with your passion, 
 and with the double dealing of your friend, who is 
 false to her. 
 
 Lop. You speak like an oracle. But, I have en- 
 gaged my promise to that friend, to serve him in 
 his passion to my mistress. 
 
 Bel. We English seldom make such scruples ; 
 women are not comprised in our laws of friendship. 
 They are ferae natures ; our common game, like hare 
 and partridge. Every man has equal right to them, 
 as he has to the sun and elements. 
 
 Lop. Must I then betray my friend ? 
 
 Bel. In that case my friend is a Turk to me, if he 
 will be so barbarous as to retain two women to his 
 private use. I will be factious for all distressed dam- 
 sels ; who would much rather have their cause tried 
 by a full jury, than a single judge,
 
 SCENE ii. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 307. 
 
 Lop. Well, sir, I will take your counsel ; and if 
 I err, the fault be on love and you. \JExit LOP. 
 
 Bel. Were it not for love, I would run out of 
 the town, that's the short on't ; for I have engaged 
 myself in so many promises, for the sun and moon, 
 and those lijttle minced-meats of them, that I must 
 hide before my day of payment .comes. In the 
 meantime I forget Theodosia ; but now 1 defy the 
 devil to hinder me. 
 
 A lie is going out, he meets AURELIA , and almost 
 jostles her down. With her CAMILLA enters. 
 
 Aur. What rudeness is this ? 
 
 Bel. Madam Aurelia, is it you ? 
 
 Aur. Monsieur Bellamy ! 
 
 Bel. The same, madam. 
 
 Aur. My uncle told me he left you here. And, 
 indeed, I came hither to complain of you. For you 
 have treated me so inhumanly, that I have some 
 reason to resent it. 
 
 Bel. What occasion can I have given you for a 
 complaint ? 
 
 Aur. Don Melchor, as I am informed by my un- 
 cle, is effectively at Madrid. So that it was not his 
 idea, but himself in person, whom I saw. And 
 since you knew this, why did you conceal it from 
 me? 
 
 gel. When I spoke with you, I knew it not. But 
 I discovered it in the erecting of my figure. Yet 
 if, instead of his idea, I constrained himself to come, 
 in spite of his resolution to remain concealed, I 
 think I have shewn a greater effect of my art than 
 what I promised. 
 
 Aur. I render myself to so convincing an argu- 
 ment : But by over-hearing a discourse just now 
 betwixt my cousin Theodosia and her maid, I find
 
 808 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 that he has concealed himself upon her account, 
 which has given me jealousy to the last point ; for, 
 to avow an incontestible truth, my cousin is fu- 
 riously handsome. 
 
 Set. Madam, madam, trust not your ears too far ; 
 she talked on purpose, that you might hear her. 
 But, I assure you, the true cause of Don Melchor's 
 concealment was not love of her, but jealousy of 
 you. He staid in private to observe your actions. 
 Build upon't, madam, he is inviolably yours. 
 
 Aur. Then will he sacrifice my cousin to me ? 
 
 Bel. Tis furiously true, madam. 
 
 Aur. O most agreeable assurance ! 
 
 Cam. Albricias, madam, for my good news ! Don 
 Melchor is coming this way ; I know him by his 
 voice ; but he is in company with another person. 
 
 Aur. It will not be convenient to give him any 
 umbrage, by seeing me with another person ; there- 
 fore, I will go before ; do you stay here, and con- 
 duct him to my apartment. Good-night, sir. 
 
 [Exit, 
 
 Bel. I have promised Don Lopez, he shall possess 
 her ; arid I have promised her, she shall possess Don 
 Melchor. 'Tis a little difficult, I confess, as to the 
 matrimonial part of it. But, if Don Melchor will be 
 civil to her, and she be civil to Don Lopez, my 
 credit is safe without the benefit of my clergy. But 
 all this is nothing to Theodosia. [Exit BEL. 
 
 Enter Don ALONZO and Don MELCHOR. 
 
 Cam. Don Melchor, a word in private. 
 
 Mel. Your pleasure, lady. Sir, I will wait on 
 you immediately. 
 
 Cam. I am sent to you from a fair lady, who 
 bears you no ill will. You may guess whom I 
 mean.
 
 SCENE ir. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 309 
 
 Mel. Not by my own merits, but by knowing 
 whom you serve. But, I confess, I wonder at her 
 late strange usage, when she fled from me. 
 
 Cam. That was only a mistake ; but I have now, 
 by her command, been in a thousand places in quest 
 of you. 
 
 Mel. You overjoy me. 
 
 Cam. And where, amongst the rest, do you think 
 I have been looking you ? 
 
 MeL Pray, refresh my memory. 
 
 Cam. In that same street, by the same shop 
 you know where, by a good token. 
 
 Mel. By what token ? 
 
 Cam. Just by that shop, where, out of your no- 
 bleness, you promised me a new silk gown. 
 
 Mel. O, now I understand you. 
 
 Cam. Not that I press you to a performance 
 
 Mel. Take this, and please yourself in the choice 
 of it. [Gives her money. 
 
 Cam. Nay, dear sir, now you make me blush ; in 
 faith I am ashamed 1 swear, 'tis only be- 
 cause I would keep something for your sake ; but 
 my lady expects you immediately in her apart- 
 ment. 
 
 Mel. I'll wait on her if I can possibly. [Exit 
 CAM.] But, if I can prevail with Don Alonzo for 
 his daughter, then will I again consider, which of 
 the ladies best deserves me. [Aside.] Sir, I beg 
 your pardon for this rudeness in leaving you. 
 
 [To ALON. 
 
 Alon. I cannot possibly resolve with myself to 
 tell him openly he is a thief; but I'll gild the pill 
 for him to swallow. [Aside. 
 
 Mel. I believe he has discovered our amour : 
 How he surveys me for a son-in-law ! [Aside. 
 
 Alon. Sir, I am sorry for your sake, that true no-
 
 310 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 bility is not always accompanied with riches to sup- 
 port it in its lustre. 
 
 Mel. You have a just exception against the ca^ 
 priciousness of destiny ; yet, if I were owner of any 
 noble qualities, (which I am not) I should not much 
 esteem the goods of fortune. 
 
 Alon. But pray conceive me, sir ; your father did 
 not leave you flourishing in wealth. 
 
 Mel. Only a very fair seat in Andalusia, with all 
 the pleasures imaginable about it : That alone, were 
 my poor deserts according which, I confess, they 
 are not, were enough to make a woman happy in 
 it. 
 
 Alon. But give me leave to come to the point, I 
 beseech you, sir. I have lost a jewel, which I va- 
 lue infinitely, and I hear it is in your possession : 
 But I accuse your wants, not you, for it. 
 
 Mel. Your daughter is indeed a jewel ; but she 
 were not lost, were she in possession of a man of 
 parts. 
 
 Alon. A precious diamond, sir 
 
 Mel. But a man of honour, sir 
 
 Alon. I know what you would say, sir, that a 
 man of honour is not capable of an unworthy ac- 
 tion ; and, therefore, I do not accuse you of the 
 theft : I suppose the jewel was only put into your 
 hands. 
 
 Mel. By honourable ways, 1 assure you, sir. 
 
 Alon. Sir, sir, will you restore my jewel ? 
 
 Mel. Will you please, sir, to give me leave to be 
 the unworthy possessor of her ? I know how to use 
 her with that respect 
 
 Alon. I know what you would say, sir ; but if it 
 belong to our family ? otherwise, I assure you, it 
 were at your service. 
 
 Mel. As it belongs to your family, I covet it ; 
 not that I plead my own deserts, sir.
 
 SCENE ii. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 311 
 
 Alon. Sir, I know your deserts ; but, I protest, I 
 cannot part with it : For, I must tell you, this dia- 
 mond ring was originally my great-grandfather's. 
 
 Mel. A diamond ring, sir, do you mean ? 
 
 Alon. By your patience, sir ; when I have done, 
 you may speak your pleasure. I only lent it to my 
 daughter ; but, how she lost it, and how it came 
 upon your finger, I am yet in tenebris. 
 
 Mel. Sir 
 
 Alon. I know it, sir ; but spare yourself the trou- 
 ble, I'll speak for you ; you would say you had it 
 from some other hand ; I believe it, sir. 
 
 Mel. But, sir 
 
 Alon. I warrant you, sir. I'll bring you off with- 
 out your speaking ; from another hand you had 
 it ; and now, sir, as you say, sir, and as I am say- 
 ing for you, sir, you are loth to part with it. 
 
 Mel. Good sir, let me 
 
 Alon. I understand you already, sir, that you 
 have taken a fancy to it, and would buy it ; but, 
 to that I answer, as I did before, that it is a relick 
 of my family. Now, sir, if you can urge aught far- 
 ther, you have liberty to speak without interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 Mel. This diamond you speak of, I confess 
 
 Alon. But what need you confess, sir, before you 
 are accused ? 
 
 Mel. You promised you would hear me in my 
 turn, sir, but 
 
 Alon. But, as you were saying, it is needless, 
 because I have already spoken for you. 
 
 Mel. The truth is, sir, I was too presumptuous 
 to take this pledge from Theodosia without your 
 knowledge ; but you will pardon the invincible ne- 
 cessity, when I tell you 
 
 Alon. You need not tell me ; I know your neces-
 
 312 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 sity was the reason of it, and that place and oppor- 
 tunity have caused your error. 
 
 Mel. This is the goodest old man I ever knew! he 
 prevents me in mymotionfor hisdaughter. [AsideJ] 
 Since, sir, you know the cause of my errors, and 
 are pleased to lay part of the blame upon youth and 
 opportunity, I beseech you, favour me so far to ac- 
 cept me, as fair Theodosia already has 
 
 Alon. I conceive you, sir, that I would accept 
 of your excuse : Why, restore the diamond, and 
 'tis done. 
 
 Mel. More joyfully than I received it: And, 
 with it, I beg the honour to be received by you as 
 your son-in-law. 
 
 Alon. My son-in-law ! this is the most pleasant 
 proposition I ever heard. 
 
 Mel. I am proud you think it so j but, I protest, 
 I think not I deserve this honour. 
 
 Alon. Nor I, I assure you, sir ; marry my daugh- 
 ter ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Mel. But, sir 
 
 Alon. I know what you would say, sir that 
 there is too much hazard in the profession of a thief, 
 and therefore you would marry my daughter to be- 
 come rich, without venturing your neck for't. I 
 beseech you, sir, steal on, be apprehended, and, if 
 you please, be hanged, it shall make no breach be- 
 twixt us. For my part, I'll keep your counsel, and 
 so, good-night, sir. [Exit ALON. 
 
 Mel. Is the devil in this old man, first to give 
 me occasion to confess my love, and, when he 
 knew it, to promise he would keep my counsel ? 
 But who are these ? I'll not be seen ; but to my 
 old appointment with Theodosia, and desire her to 
 unriddle it. [Exit MEL.
 
 SCENE in. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 313 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter MASKALL, JACINTHA, and BEATRIX. 
 
 Mask. But, madam, do you take me for a man 
 of honour? 
 
 Jac. No. 
 
 Mask. Why there's it ! if you had, I would have 
 sworn that my master has neither done nor intend- 
 ed you any injury. I suppose you'll grant he knew 
 you in your disguise ? 
 
 Beat. Nay, to know her, and use her so, is an 
 aggravation of his crime, 
 
 Mask. Unconscionable Beatrix ! would you two 
 have all the carnival to yourselves ? He knew you, 
 madam, and was resolved to countermine you in all 
 your plots. But when he saw you so much piqued, 
 he was too good-natured to let you sleep in wrath, 
 and sent me to you to disabuse you ; for, if the 
 business had gone on till to-morrow, when Lent 
 begins, you would have grown so peevish (as all 
 good Catholics are with fasting) that the quarrel 
 would never have been ended. 
 
 Jac. Well ; this mollifies a little. I am content 
 he shall see me. 
 
 Mask. But that you may be sure he knew you, he 
 will bring the certificate of the purse along with him. 
 
 Jac. I shall be glad to find him innocent. 
 
 Enter WILDBLOOD, at the other end of the stage. 
 
 Wild. No mortal man ever threw out so often. 
 It could not be me, it must be the devil that did it. 
 He took all the chances, and changed them after I 
 had thrown them. But, I'll be even with him ; for, 
 I'll never throw one of his dice more. 
 
 Mask. Madam, 'tis certainly my master ; and he 
 is so zealous to make his peace, that he could not 
 stay till I called him to you. Sir.
 
 314 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 Wild. Sirrah, I'll teach you more manners than 
 to leave me another time. You rogue, you have 
 lost me two hundred pistoles, you and the devil 
 your accomplice ; you, by leaving me to myself, 
 and he, by tempting me to play it off. 
 
 Mask. Is the wind in that door ? Here's like to 
 be fine doings. 
 
 Wild. O mischief! am I fallen into her ambush ? 
 I must face it out with another quarrel. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. Your man has been treating your accom- 
 modation ; 'tis half made already. 
 
 Wild. Ay, on your part it may be. 
 
 Jac. He says you knew me. 
 
 Wild. Yes ; I do know you so well, that my poor 
 heart aches for't. I was going to bed without fell- 
 ing you my mind ; but, upon consideration, I am 
 come 
 
 Jac. To bring the money with you. 
 
 Wild* To declare my grievances, which are great 
 and many. 
 
 Mask. Well, for impudence, let thee alone. 
 
 Wild. As, in the first place 
 
 Jac. I'll hear no grievances ; where's the money ? 
 
 Seat. Ay, keep to that, madam. 
 
 Wild. Do you think me a person to be so used ? 
 
 Jac. We will not quarrel ; where's the money ? 
 
 Wild. By your favour we will quarrel. 
 
 Seat. Money, money ! 
 
 Wild. 1 am angry, and can hear nothing. 
 
 Beat. Money, money, money, money ! 
 
 Wild. Do you think it a reasonable thing to put 
 on two disguises in a night, to tempt a man ? (Help 
 me, Maskall, for I want arguments abominably.) I 
 thank Heaven I was never so barbarously used in 
 all my life. 
 
 Jac. He begins to anger me in good earnest.
 
 SCENE in. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 315 
 
 Mask. A thing so much against the rules of mo- 
 desty ! So indecent a thing ! 
 
 Wild. Ay, so indecent a thing. Nay, now I do 
 not wonder at myself for being angry. And then 
 to wonder I should love her in those disguises ! To 
 quarrel at the natural desires of human kind, as-> 
 saulted by powerful temptations ; I am enraged at 
 that. 
 
 Jac. Heyday ! you had best quarrel too for my 
 bringing you the money. 
 
 Wild: I have a grudging to you for't. (Maskall, 
 the money, Maskall ! now help, or we are gone.) 
 
 Mask. Would she offer to bring money to you ? 
 first, to affront your poverty 
 
 Wild. Ay, to affront my poverty. But that's no 
 great matter ; and then 
 
 Mask. And then to bring you money, sir. (I 
 stick fast, sir.) 
 
 Wild. (Forward, you dog, and invent, or I'll cut 
 your throat.) And then, as I was saying, to bring 
 me money 
 
 Mask. Which is the greatest and most sweet of 
 all temptations ; and to think you could resist it. 
 Being also aggravated by her handsomeness, who 
 brought it. 
 
 Wild. Resist it ? No ; I would she would under- 
 stand it ; I know better what belongs to flesh and 
 blood than so. 
 
 Beat, to Jac. This is plain confederacy. I smoke 
 it ; he came on purpose to quarrel with you ; break 
 first with him, and prevent it. 
 
 Jac. If it be come to that once, the devil take 
 the hindmost ! I'll not be last in love, for that will 
 be a dishonour to my sex. 
 
 Wild. And then 
 
 Jac. Hold, sir, there needs no more ; you shall 
 fall out, and I'll gratify you with a new occasion.
 
 316 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 I only tried you, in hope you would be false ; and, 
 rather than fail of my design, brought gold to bribe 
 you to't. 
 
 Beat. As people, when they have an ill bargain, 
 are content to lose by it, that they may get it off 
 their hands. 
 
 Mask, Beatrix, while our principals are engaged, 
 I hold it not for our honour to stand idle. 
 
 Beat. With all my heart. Please you let us draw 
 off to some other ground. 
 
 Mask. I dare meet you on any spot, but one. 
 
 Wild. I think we shall do well to put it to an is- 
 sue. This is the last time you shall ever be troubled 
 with my addresses. 
 
 Jac. The favour had been greater to have spared 
 this too. 
 
 Mask. Beatrix, let us dispatch ; or they'll break 
 off before us. 
 
 Seat. Break as fast as thou wilt ; I am as brittle 
 as thou art, for thy heart. 
 
 Wild. Because I will absolutely break off with 
 you, I will keep nothing that belongs to you; there- 
 fore, take back your picture, and your handkerchief. 
 
 Jac. I have nothing of yours to keep ; therefore 
 take back your liberal promises. Take them in ima- 
 gination. 
 
 Wild. Not to be behindhand with you in your 
 frumps, I give you back your purse of gold. Take 
 you that in imagination. 
 
 Jac. To conclude with you, take back your oaths 
 and protestations ; they are never the worse for the 
 wearing, I assure you. Therefore take them, spick 
 and span new, for the use of your next mistress. 
 
 Maxk. Beatrix, follow your leader ; here^s the 
 sixpenny whittle you gave me, with the mutton 
 haft. 1 can spare it, for knives are of little use in 
 Spain.
 
 SCENE in. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 317 
 
 Beat. There^s your scissars with the stinking 
 brass-chain to them : 'Tis well there was no love 
 betwixt us ; for they had been too dull to cut it. 
 
 Mask. There's the dandriff-comb you lent me. 
 
 Beat. There's 3^0111- ferret-ribbanding for garters. 
 
 Mask. I would never have come so near as to 
 have taken them from you. 
 
 Beat. For your letter, I have it not about me ; 
 but upon reputation I'll burn it. 
 
 Mask. And for yours, I have already put it to a 
 fitting employment. Courage, sir ; how goes the 
 battle on your wing ? 
 
 Wild, Just drawing off on both sides. Adieu, 
 Spain. 
 
 Jac. Farewell, old England. 
 
 Beat. Come away in triumph ; the day's your 
 own, madam. 
 
 Mask. I'll bear you off upon my shoulders, sir ; 
 we have broke their hearts. 
 
 Wild. Let her go first then ; I'll stay, and keep 
 the honour of the field. 
 
 Jac. I'll not retreat, if you stay till midnight. 
 
 Wild. Are you sure then we have done loving ? 
 
 Jac. Yes, very sure ; I think so. 
 
 Wild-, 'Tis well you are so ; for otherwise I feel 
 my stomach a little maukish. I should have doubt- 
 ed another fit of love were coming up. 
 
 Jac. No, no ; your inconstancy secures you 
 enough for that. 
 
 Wild. That's it which makes me fear my own re- 
 turning : Nothing vexes me, but that you should 
 part with me so slightly, as though I were not 
 worth your keeping. Well, 'tis a sign you never 
 loved me. 
 
 Jac. 'Tis the least of your care whether I did or 
 did not : It may be it had been more for the quiet
 
 318 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT iv. 
 
 of myself, if I- but 'tis no matter, I'll not give 
 
 you that satisfaction. 
 
 Wild. But what's the reason you will not give 
 it me ? 
 
 Jac. For the reason that we are quite broke off. 
 
 Wild. Why, are we quite, quite broke off ? 
 
 Jac. Why, are we not ? 
 
 Wild-. Well, since 'tis past, 'tis past ; but a pox 
 of all foolish quarrelling, for my part. 
 
 Jac. And a mischief of all foolish disguisements, 
 for my part. 
 
 Wild: But if it were to do again with another 
 mistress, I would even plainly confess I had lost 
 my money. 
 
 Jac. And if I had to deal with another servant, 
 I would learn more wit than to tempt him in dis- 
 guises ; for that's to throw a Venice-glass to the 
 ground, to try if it would not break. 
 
 Wild. If it were not to please you, I see no ne- 
 cessity of pur parting. 
 
 Jac. I protest, I do it only out of complaisance 
 to you. 
 
 Wild. But if I should play the fool, and ask your 
 pardon, you would refuse it ? 
 
 Jac. No, never submit ; for I should spoil you 
 again with pardoning you. 
 
 Mask. Do you hear this, Beatrix ! They are just 
 upon the point of accommodation ; we must make 
 haste, or they'll make a peace by themselves, and 
 exclude us from the treaty, 
 
 Beat. Declare yourself the aggressor then, and 
 I'll take you into mercy. 
 
 Wild. The worst that you can say of me is, that 
 I have loved you thrice over. 
 
 Jac. The prime articles between Spain and Eng- 
 }and are sealed ; for the rest, concerning a more
 
 ACT v ? AN EVENING'S LOVE. 319 
 
 strict alliance, if you please, we'll dispute them in 
 the garden. 
 
 Wild. But, in the first place, let us agree on the 
 article of navigation, I beseech you. 
 
 Beat. These leagues, offensive arid defensive, will 
 be too strict for us, Maskall : A treaty of commerce 
 will serve our turn. 
 
 Mask. With all my heart ; and when our loves 
 
 are veering, 
 
 We'll make no words, but fall to privateering. 
 [Exeunt, ike Men leading the W<M 
 
 omen. 
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 
 
 - 
 
 Enter LOPEZ, AURELIA, and CAMILLA. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis true, if he had continued constant to 
 you, I should have thought myself obliged in ho- 
 nour to be his friend ; but I could no longer suffer 
 Jiim to abuse a person of your worth and beauty, 
 with a feigned affection. 
 
 Aur. But is it possible Don Melchor should be 
 false to love ? I'll be sworn I did not imagine such 
 a treachery could have been in nature ; especially 
 to a lady who had so obliged him. 
 
 Lop. 'Twas this, madam, which gave me the con- 
 fidence to wait upon you at an hour, which would 
 be otherwise unseasonable. 
 
 Aur. You are the most obliging person in the 
 world. 
 
 Lop. But to clear it to you that he is false, he is, 
 at this very minute, at an assignation with your 
 cousin in the garden ; J am sure he was endea- 
 vouring it not an hour ago. 
 
 Aur. I swear this evening's air begins to incom~ 
 mode me extremely with a cold ; but yet, in hope
 
 320 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT v. 
 
 of detecting this perjured man, I am content to stay 
 abroad. 
 
 Lop. But withal, you must permit me to tell you, 
 madam, that it is but just I should have some share 
 in a heart, which I endeavour to redeem : In the 
 law of arms, you know that they, who pay the ran- 
 som, have right to dispose of the prisoner. 
 
 Aur. The prize is so very inconsiderable, that 'tis 
 not worth the claiming. 
 
 Lop. If I thought the boon were small, I would 
 not importune my princess with the asking it : But 
 since my life depends upon the grant 
 
 Cam. Ma'am, I must needs tell your la'ship, that 
 Don Lopez has deserved you, for he has acted all 
 along like a cavalier, and more for your interest 
 than his own. Besides, ma'am, Don Melchor is as 
 poor as he is false : For my part, I shall never en- 
 dure to call him master. 
 
 Aur. Don Lopez, go along with me. I can pro- 
 mise nothing, but I swear I will do my best to dis- 
 engage my heart from this furious tender, which I 
 have for him. 
 
 Cam. If I had been a man, I could never have 
 forsaken you : Ah those languishing casts, ma'am ; 
 and that pouting lip of your la'ship, like a cherry- 
 bough, weighed down with the weight of fruit ! 
 
 Aur. And that sigh too, I think, is not altogether 
 disagreeable ; but something charmante and mig- 
 nonne. 
 
 Cam. Well, Don Lopez, you'll be but too happy. 
 
 Lop. If I were once possessor 
 
 Enter BELLAMY and THEODOSIA. 
 Theo. O, we are surprised. 
 Bel. Fear nothing, madam ; I think, I know 
 them. Don Lopez ? 
 
 Ijop. Our famous astrologer, how come you here? 
 Bel. 1 am infinitely happy to have met you with
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 321 
 
 Donna Aurelia, that you may do me the favour to 
 satisfy this lady of a truth, which I can scarce per- 
 suade her to believe. 
 
 Lop. I am glad our concernments are so equal ; 
 for I have the like favour to ask from Donna Theo- 
 dosia. 
 
 Theo. Don Lopez is too noble to be refused any 
 thing within my power ; and I am ready to do him 
 any service, after I have asked my cousin, if ever 
 Don Melchor pretended to her ? 
 
 Aur. 'Tis the very question which I was furious- 
 ly resolved to have asked of you. 
 
 Theo. I must confess he has made some profes- 
 sions to me. And withal, I will acknowledge my 
 own weakness so far as to tell you, I have given 
 way he should often visit me, when the world be- 
 lieved him absent. 
 
 Aur. O, cavalier Astrologer, how have you be- 
 trayed me ! Did you not assure me, that Don Mel- 
 chor's tender and inclination was for me only ? 
 
 Bel. I had it from his star, madam, I do assure 
 you ; and if that twinkled false, I cannot help it. 
 The truth is, there's no trusting the planet of an 
 inconstant man ; he was moving to you when I 
 looked on it, and if since it has changed the course, 
 I am not to be blamed for it. 
 
 Lop. Now, madam, the truth is evident. And 
 for this cavalier, he might easily be deceived in 
 Melchor ; for I dare affirm it to you both, he never 
 knew to which of you he was most inclined : For 
 he visited one, and writ letters to the other. 
 
 Bel. to Theo. Then, madam, I must claim your 
 promise, (since I have discovered to you that Don 
 Melchor is unworthy of yourfavours) thatyou would 
 make me happy, who, amongst my many imperfecv 
 tions, can never be guilty of such a falsehood. 
 
 Theo. If I have been deceived in Melchor, whom 
 
 VOL. III f X
 
 322 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 I have known so long, you cannot reasonably ex- 
 pect, 1 should trust you at a day's acquaintance. 
 
 BeL For that, madam, you may know as much 
 of me in a day, as you can in all your life. All my 
 humours circulate like my blood, at farthest within 
 twenty- four hours. I am plain and true, like all 
 my countrymen ; you see to the bottom of me as 
 easily, as you do to the gravel of a clear stream in 
 autumn. 
 
 Lop. You plead so well, sir, that I desire you 
 would speak for me too. My cause is the same with 
 yours, only it has not so good an advocate. 
 
 Aur. Since I cannot make myself happy, I will 
 have the glory to felicitate another ; and, therefore, 
 I declare, I will reward the fidelity of Don Lopez. 
 
 Theo. All that I can say at present is, that I will 
 never be Don Melchor's : The rest, time and your 
 service must make out. 
 
 Bel. I have all I can expect, to be admitted as 
 eldest servant ; as preferment falls, I hope you will 
 remember my seniority, 
 
 Cam. Ma'am, Don Melchor. 
 
 Aur. Cavaliers, retire a little ; we shall see to 
 which of us he will make his court. 
 
 [ The men withdraw. 
 
 Enter DON MELCHOR. 
 
 Don Melchor, I thought you had been a-bed before 
 this time. 
 
 Mel. Fair Aurelia, this is a blessing beyond ex- 
 pectation, to see you again so soon. 
 
 Aur. What important business brought you hi- 
 ther? 
 
 Mel. Only to make my peace with you before I 
 slept. You know you are the saint to 'whom I pay 
 my devotions.
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 323 
 
 Aur. And yet it was beyond your expectances 
 to meet me ? This is furiously incongruous. 
 
 Theo. [Advancing."] Don Melchor, whither were 
 you bound so late ? 
 
 Mel. What shall I say ? I am so confounded, 
 that I know not to which of tbem I should excuse 
 myself. [Aside. 
 
 Theo. Pray answer me truly to one question : 
 Did you ever make any addresses to my cousin ? 
 
 Mel. Fie, fie, madam, there's a question indeed. 
 
 Aur. How, monster of ingratitude ! can you deny 
 the declaration of your passion to me ? 
 
 Mel. I say nothing, madam. 
 
 Theo. Which of us is it, for whom you are con- 
 cerned ? 
 
 Mel. For that, madam, you must excuse me ; I 
 have more discretion than to boast a lady's favour. 
 
 Aur. Did you counterfeit an address to me ? 
 
 Mel. Still I say nothing, madam ; but I will sa- 
 tisfy either of you in private ; for these matters are 
 too tender for public discourse. 
 
 Enter LOPEZ and BELLAMY hastily, with their 
 swords drawn. 
 
 Bellamy and Lopez ! This is strange ! 
 
 Lop. Ladies, we would not have disturbed you, 
 but as we were walking to the garden door, it open- 
 ed suddenly against us, and we confusedly saw, by 
 moon-light, some persons entering, but who they 
 were we know not. 
 
 Bel. You had best retire into the garden-house, 
 and leave us to take our fortunes, without prejudice 
 to your reputations. 
 
 Enter WILDBLOOD, MASKALL, JACINTHA, and 
 
 BEATRIX. 
 
 Wild. \To Jacintha entering.'] Do not fear, ma- 
 dam, I think I heard my friend's voice.
 
 324 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT v. 
 
 Bel Marry hang you, is it you that have given 
 us this hot alarm ? 
 
 Wild. There's more in it than you imagine ; the 
 whole house is up : For seeing you two, and not 
 knowing you, after I had entered the garden-door, 
 I made too much haste to get out again, and have 
 left the key broken in it. With the noise, one of 
 the servants came running in, whom I forced back ; 
 and, doubtless, he is gone for company, for you 
 may see lights running through every chamber. 
 
 Theo. Jac. What will become of us ? 
 
 Bel. We must have recourse to our former reso- 
 lution. Let the ladies retire into the garden-house. 
 And, now I think on it, you gentlemen shall go in 
 with them, and leave me and Maskall to bear the 
 brunt of it. 
 
 Mask. Me, sir ! I beseech you let me go in with 
 the ladies too. Dear Beatrix, speak a good word for 
 me ! I protest 'tis more out of love to thy company 
 than for any fear I have. 
 
 Bel. You dog, I have need of your wit and coun- 
 sel. We have no time to deliberate. Will you stay, 
 sir? [To MASKALL. 
 
 Mask. No, sir, 'tis not for my safety. 
 
 Bel. Will you in, sir ? [ To MELCHOR. 
 
 Mel. No, sir, 'tis not for my honour, to be assist- 
 ing to you : I'll to Don Alonzo, and help to re- 
 venge the injury you are doing him. 
 
 Bel. Then we are lost, I can do nothing. 
 
 Wild. Nay, an you talk of honour, by your leave, 
 sir. I hate your Spanish honour, ever since it spoil- 
 ed our English plays, with faces about and t'other 
 side. 
 
 [Falls upon him and throws him down. 
 
 Mel. What do you mean, you will not murder 
 me ? Must valour be oppressed by multitudes ?
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 325 
 
 IVlld. Come yarely, my mates, every man to his 
 share of the burden. Come, yarely, hay ! 
 
 [ The four Men take Mm each by a limb, and 
 
 carry him out, he crying Murder. 
 Theo. If this Englishman save us now, I shall ad- 
 mire his wit. 
 
 Beat. Good wits never think themselves admired 
 till they are well rewarded : You must pay him in 
 specie, madam ; give him love for his wit. 
 
 Enter the Men again. 
 
 Bel. Ladies, fear nothing, but enter into the gar- 
 den-house with these cavaliers. 
 
 Mask. O that I were a cavalier too ! 
 
 [Is going with them. 
 
 Bel. Come you back, sirrah. [Stops him.'] Think 
 yourselves as safe as in a sanctuary ; only keep quiet, 
 whatever happens. 
 
 Jac. Come away then, they are upon us. 
 
 [Exeunt all but BEL. and MASK. 
 
 Mask. Hark, I hear the foe coming : Methinks 
 they threaten too, sir ; pray let me go in, for a 
 guard to the ladies and poor Beatrix. I can fight 
 much better, when there is a wall betwixt me and 
 danger. 
 
 Bel. Peace, I have occasion for your wit to help 
 me to lie. 
 
 Mask. Sir, upon the faith of a sinner, you have 
 had my last lie already ; I have not one more to do 
 me credit, as I hope to be saved, sir. 
 
 Bel. Victoire, Victoire ! knock under, you rogue, 
 and confess me conqueror, and you shall see I'll 
 bring all ofK 
 
 Enter Don ALONZO, and six Servants ; with lights, 
 and swords drawn. 
 
 Alon. Search about there.
 
 :><>() AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT v. 
 
 Bel. Fear nothing ; do but vouch what I shall 
 say. 
 
 Mask. For a passive lie I can yet do something. 
 
 Alon. Stand ! who goes there ? 
 
 It el. Friends. 
 
 Alon. Friends ! Who are you ? 
 
 Bel. Noble Don Alonzo, such as are watching 
 for your good. 
 
 Alon. Is it you, Senor Inglis ? Why all this 
 noise and tumult ? Where are my daughters and 
 my niece ? But, in the first place, though last named, 
 how came you hither, sir ? 
 
 Bel. I came hither by astrology, sir. 
 
 Mask. My master's in ; heavens send him good 
 shipping with his lie, and all kind devils stand his 
 friends ! 
 
 Alon. How ! by astrology, sir ? Meaning, you 
 came hither by art magic. 
 
 Bel. I say by pure astrology, sir ; I foresaw by 
 my art, a little after I had left you, that your niece 
 and daughters would this night run a risk of being 
 carried away from this very garden. 
 
 Alon. O the wonders of this speculation ! 
 
 Bel. Thereupon I called immediately for my 
 sword, and carne in all haste to advertise you ; but 
 I see there's no resisting destiny ; for just as I was 
 entering the garden-door, I met the women with 
 their gallants all under sail, and outward bound. 
 
 Mask. Thereupon what does me he, but draws, 
 by my advice 
 
 Bel. How now, Mr Rascal ? Are you itching to 
 be in ? [Aside. 
 
 Mask. Pray, sir, let me go snip with you in this 
 lie, and be not too covetous of honour. You know 
 I never stood with you ; now my courage is come 
 to me, I cannot resist the temptation. [Aside. 
 
 Bel. Content ; tell on.
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 327 
 
 Mask. So, in short, sir, we drew, first I, and then 
 my master ; but, being overpowered, they have es- 
 caped us, so that I think you may go to bed, and 
 trouble yourself no further, for gone they are. 
 
 Bel. You tell a lie ! you have curtailed my inven- 
 tion. You are not tit to invent a lie for a bawd, 
 when she would wheedle a young squire. [Aside. 
 
 Alon. Call up the officers of justice, I'll have the 
 town searched immediately. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis in vain, sir ; I know, by my art, you'll 
 never recover them. Besides, 'tis an affront to my 
 friends, the stars, who have otherwise disposed of 
 them. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, the key is broken in the garden-door, 
 and the door locked, so that of necessity they must 
 be in the garden yet. 
 
 Alon. Disperse yourselves, some into the wilder- 
 ness, some into the alleys, and some into the par- 
 terre You, Diego, go try to get out the key, and 
 run to the corrigidor for his assistance. In the 
 mean time, I'll search the garden-house myself. 
 
 [Exeunt all the Servants but one. 
 
 Mask. I'll be unbetted again, if you please, sir,' 
 and leave you all the honour of it. 
 
 [To BELLAMY aside. 
 
 Alon. Come, cavalier, let us in together. 
 
 Bel. [Holding him.'] Hold, sir, for the love of hea- 
 ven ! you are not mad ? 
 
 Alon. We must leave no place unsearched. A 
 light there ! 
 
 Bel. Hold, I say ; do you know what you are 
 undertaking ; and have you armed yourself with 
 resolution for such an adventure ? 
 
 Alon. What adventure ? 
 
 Bel. A word in private The place you would go
 
 328 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 into is full of enchantments ; there are at this time, 
 for aught I know, a legion of spirits in it. 
 
 Alon. You confound me with wonder, sir ! 
 
 Bel. I have been making there my magical opera- 
 tions, to know the event of your daughters' flight ; 
 and, to perform it rightly, have been forced to call 
 up spirits of several orders. And there they are hum- 
 ming like a swarm of bees, some stalking about up- 
 on the ground, some flying, and some sticking up- 
 on the walls like rear-mice. 
 
 Mask. The devil's in him, he's got off again ! 
 
 Alon. Now, sir, I shall try the truth of your 
 friendship to me. To confess the secret of my 
 soul to you, I have all my life been curious to see 
 a devil ; and to that purpose have conned Agrippa 
 through and through, and made experiment of all 
 his rules, Pari die et incremento Lunce, and yet 
 could never compass the sight of one of these dee- 
 moniums : If you will ever oblige me, let it be on 
 this occasion. 
 
 Mask. There's another storm arising. 
 
 Bel. You shall pardon me, sir ; I'll not expose 
 you to that peril for the world, without due prepa- 
 rations of ceremony. 
 
 Alon. For that, sir, I always carry a talisman 
 about me, that will secure me. And therefore I 
 will venture in, a God's name, and defy them all 
 at once. [Going in. 
 
 Mask. How the pox will he get off from this ? 
 
 Bel. Well, sir, since you are so resolved, send off 
 your servant, that there may be no noise made on't, 
 and we'll take our venture. 
 
 Alon. Pedro, leave your light, and help the fel- 
 lows to search the garden. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Mask. What does my incomprehensible master 
 mean?
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 329 
 
 Bel. Now, I must tell you, sir, you will see that, 
 which will very much astonish you, if my art fail 
 me not. [Goes to the door.~] You spirits and intelli- 
 gences, that are within there, stand close, and silent, 
 at your peril, and fear nothing, but appear in your 
 own shapes, boldly. Maskall, open the door. 
 
 [MASK ALL goes to one side of the scene, which 
 draws, and discovers THEO. JAC. AUR. 
 BEAT. CAM. LOP. WILD, standing all 
 without motion in a rank. 
 Now, sir, what think you ? 
 
 Alon. They are here, they are here. We need 
 search no farther. Ah, you ungracious baggages ! 
 
 [Going toward them. 
 
 Bel. Stay, or you'll be torn in pieces. These are 
 the very shapes I conjured up, and truly represent 
 to you in what company your niece and daughters 
 are, this very moment. 
 
 Alon. Why, are they not they? I durst have 
 sworn that some of them had been my own flesh 
 and blood. Look; one of them is just like that 
 rogue, your comrade. 
 
 [WiLD. shakes his head, and frowns at him. 
 
 Bel. Do you see how you have provoked that 
 English devil ? Take heed of him ; if he gets you 
 once into his clutches [WiLD. embracing JAC. 
 
 Alon. He seems to have got possession of the 
 spirit of my Jacintha, by his hugging her. 
 
 Bel. Nay, I imagined as much. Do but look 
 upon his physiognomy you have read Baptista 
 Porta ? Has he not the leer of a very lewd, de- 
 bauched spirit ? 
 
 Alon. He has indeed. Then there's my niece Au- 
 relia, with the spirit of Don Lopez ; but that's well 
 enough ; and my daughter Theodosia all alone ; 
 pray how comes that about ? 
 3
 
 330 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT v. 
 
 Bel. She's provided for with a familiar too : One 
 that is in this very room with you, and by your 
 elbow ; but I'll shew you him some other time. 
 
 Alan. And that baggage Beatrix, how I would 
 swinge her, if I had her here : I'll lay my life she 
 was in the plot for the flight of her mistresses. 
 
 [BEAT, daps her hands at him. 
 
 Eel. Sir, you do ill to provoke her ; for, being the 
 spirit of a woman, she is naturally mischievous : 
 You see she can scarce hold her hands from you 
 already. 
 
 Mask. Let me alone to revenge your quarrel 
 upon Beatrix : If e'er she come to light, I'll take a 
 course with her, I warrant you, sir. 
 
 JBel. Now come away, sir, you have seen enough ; 
 the spirits are in pain whilst we are here : We keep 
 them too long condensed in bodies ; if we. were 
 
 tone, they would rarify into air immediately. 
 laskall, shut the door. 
 
 [MASK, goes to the scene, and it closes. 
 Alon. Monstrum hominis ! O prodigy of science ! 
 
 Enter two Servants with Don MELCHOR. 
 
 Bel. Now help me with a lie, Maskall, or we are 
 lost. 
 
 Mask. Sir, I could never lie with man or woman 
 in a fright. 
 
 Serv. Sir, we found this gentleman bound and 
 gagged, and he desired us to bring him to you with 
 all haste imaginable. 
 
 Mel. O, sir, sir ! your two daughters and your 
 niece 
 
 Bel. They are gone ; he knows it : But are you 
 mad, sir, to set this pernicious wretch at liberty ? 
 
 Mel. I endeavoured all that I was able 
 
 Mask. Now, sir, I have it for you. [Aside to his 
 master.'] He was endeavouring, indeed, to have
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 331 
 
 got away with them ; for your daughter Theodosia 
 was his prize. But we prevented him, and left him 
 in the condition in which you see him. 
 
 Alon. I thought somewhat was the matter, that 
 Theodosia had not a spirit by her, as her sister had. 
 
 Bel. This was he I meant to shew you. 
 
 Mel. Do you believe him, sir ? - 
 
 Bel. No, no, believe him, sir : You know his 
 truth, ever since he stole your daughter's diamond. 
 
 Mel. I swear to you, by my honour 
 
 Alon. Nay, a thief I knew him ; and yet, after 
 that, he had the impudence to ask me for my 
 daughter. 
 
 Bel. Was he so impudent ? The case is plain, sir ; 
 put him quickly into custody. 
 
 Mel. Hear me but one word, sir, and I'll discover 
 all to you. 
 
 Bel. Hear him not, sir ; for my art assures me, 
 if he speaks one syllable more, he will cause great 
 mischief. 
 
 Alon. Will he so ? I'll stop my ears ; away with 
 him. 
 
 Mel. Your daughters are yet in the garden, hid- 
 den by this fellow and his accomplices. 
 
 Alon. [At the same time, drowning him] I'll stop 
 my ears, I'll stop my ears. 
 
 Bel. Mask. [At the same time also.] A thief, a 
 thief! away with him. 
 
 [Servants carry MELCHOR off, struggling. 
 
 Alon. He thought to have borne us down with 
 his confidence. 
 
 Enter another Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, with much ado we have got out the 
 key, and opened the door. 
 
 Alon. Then, as I told you, run quickly to the 
 corrigidor, and desire him to come hither in person
 
 332 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT v. 
 
 to examine a malefactor. [WILDBLOOD sneezes 
 within.'} Hark ! what noise is that within ? I think 
 one sneezes. 
 
 Bel. One of the devils, I warrant you, has got a 
 cold, with being so long out of the fire. 
 
 Alon. Bless his devilship, as I may say. 
 
 [ WILDBLOOD sneezes again. 
 
 Serv. [ To Don ALONZO.] This is a man's voice ; 
 do not suffer yourself to be deceived so grossly, sir. 
 
 Mask. A man's voice ! that's a good one indeed, 
 that you should live to these years, and yet be so 
 silly as not to .know a man from a devil. 
 
 Alon. There's more in't than 1 imagined : Hold 
 up your torch, and go in first, Pedro, and I'll fol- 
 low you. 
 
 Mask. No, let me have the honour to be your 
 usher. [ Takes the torch and goes in. 
 
 Mask. [Within.'] Help, help, help ! 
 
 Alon. What's the matter ? 
 
 Bel. Stir not upon your life, sir. 
 
 Enter MASKALL again., without the torch. 
 
 Mask. I was no sooner entered, but a huge giant 
 seized my torch, and felled me along, with the very 
 whiff of his breath, as he passed by me. 
 
 Alon. Bless us ! 
 
 Bel. [At the door to them within.'] Pass out now, 
 while you have time, in the dark : The officers of 
 justice will be here immediately ; the garden-door 
 is open for you. 
 
 Alon. What are you muttering there, sir ? 
 
 Bel. Only dismissing these spirits of darkness, that 
 they may trouble you no further. Go out, I say. 
 
 [ They all come out upon the stage, groping their 
 way. WILDBLOOD,/^/,? into ALONZO'S hands. 
 
 Alon. I have caught somebody : Are these your 
 spirits ? Another light quickly, Pedro.
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 333 
 
 Mask. [Slipping between ALON. and WILD.] 'Tis 
 Maskall you have caught, sir ; do you mean to 
 strangle me, that you press me so hard between 
 your arms ? 
 
 Alon. [Letting WiLD.g-o.] Is it thee, Maskall ? I 
 durst have sworn it had been another. 
 
 Bel. Make haste now, before the candle comes. 
 [AuRELiA^/^s into ALONZO'S arms. 
 
 Alon. Now I have another. 
 
 Aur. Tis Maskall you have caught, sir. 
 
 Alon. No, I thank you, niece, this artifice is too 
 gross. I know your voice a little better. What ho, 
 bring lights there ! 
 
 Bel. Her impertinence has ruined all. 
 
 Enter Servants with lights, and swords drawn. 
 
 Serv. Sir, the corrigidor is coming, according to 
 your desire. In the mean time, we have secured 
 the garden doors. 
 
 Alon. I'm glad on't. I'll make some of them se- 
 vere examples. 
 
 Wild. Nay, then, as we have lived merrily, so let 
 us die together. But we'll shew the Don some sport 
 first. 
 
 Theo. What will become of us ! 
 
 Jac. We'll die for company. Nothing vexes me, 
 but that I am not a man, to have one thrust at that 
 malicious old father of mine before I go. 
 
 Lop. Let us break our way through the corrigi- 
 dor's band. 
 
 Jac. A match, i'faith. We'll venture our bodies 
 with you. You shall put the baggage in the mid- 
 dle. 
 
 Wild. He that pierces thee, I say no more, but I 
 shall be somewhat angry with him. [To ALON.] 
 In the mean time, 1 arrest you, sir, in the behalf of
 
 334 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT v. 
 
 this good company. As the corrigidor uses us, so 
 we'll use you. 
 
 Alon. You do not mean to murder me ! 
 Bel. You murder yourself, if you force us to it. 
 Wild. Give me a razor there, that I may scrape 
 his weezon, that the bristles may not hinder me, 
 when I come to cut it. 
 
 Bel., What need you bring matters to that extre- 
 mity ? You have your ransom in your hand. Here 
 are three men, and there are three women ; you 
 understand me. 
 
 Jac. If not, here's a sword, and there's a throat ; 
 you understand me. 
 
 Alon. This is very hard ! 
 
 Theo. The propositions are good, and marriage is 
 as honourable as it used to be. 
 
 Beat. You had best let your daughters live brand- 
 ed with the name of strumpets ; for whatever befals 
 the men, that will be sure to be their share. 
 
 Alon. I can put them into a nunnery. 
 
 All the Women. A nunnery ! 
 
 Jac. I would have thee to know, thou graceless 
 old man, that I defy a nunnery. Name a nunnery 
 once more, and I disown thee for my father. 
 
 Lop. You know the custom of the country, in 
 this case, sir. 'Tis either death or marriage, The 
 business will certainly be public ; and if they die, 
 they have sworn you shall bear them company. 
 
 Alon. Since it must be so, run, Pedro, and stop 
 the corrigidor. Tell him it was only a carnival mer- 
 riment, which I mistook for a rape and robbery. 
 
 Jac. Why now you are a dutiful father again, 
 and I receive you into grace. 
 
 Bel. Among the rest of your mistakes, sir, I must 
 desire you to let my astrology pass for one. My 
 mathematics, and art magic, were only a carni-
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 335 
 
 val device; and now that's ending, I have more 
 mind to deal with the flesh, than with the devil. 
 
 Alon. No astrologer ! 'tis impossible ! 
 
 Mask. I have known him, sir, these seven years, 
 and dare take my oath he has been always an utter 
 stranger to the stars ; and indeed to any thing that 
 belongs to heaven. 
 
 Lop. Then I have been cozened among the rest. 
 
 Theo. And I ; but I forgive him. 
 
 Beat. I hope you will forgive me, madam, who 
 have been the cause on't ; but what he wants in 
 astrology, he shall make up to you some other way, 
 I'll pass my word for him. 
 
 Alon. I hope you are both gentlemen ? 
 
 Bel. As good as the Cid himself, sir. 
 
 Alon. And for your religion, right Romans 
 
 Wild. As ever was Mark Anthony. 
 
 Alon. For your fortunes and courages 
 
 Mask. They are both desperate, sir ; especially 
 their fortunes. 
 
 Theo. [ To BEL.] You should not have had my 
 consent so soon, but only to revenge myself upon 
 the falseness of Don Melchor. 
 
 Aur. I must avow, that gratitude for Don Lopez 
 is as prevalent with me, as revenge against Don 
 Melchor. 
 
 Alon. Lent, you know, begins to-morrow ; when 
 that's over, marriage will be proper. 
 
 Jac. If I stay till after Lent, I shall be to marry 
 when I have no love left. I'll not bate you an ace 
 of to-night, father ; I mean to bury this man ere 
 Lent be done, and get me another before Easter. 
 
 Alon. Well, make a night on't then. 
 
 [Giving his daughters. 
 
 Wild. Jacintha Wildblood, welcome to me. Since 
 our stars have doomed it so, we cannot help it ; but 
 'twas a mere trick of fate, to catch us thus at un-
 
 336 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT v. 
 
 awares ; to draw us in, with a what do you lack, as 
 we passed by. Had we once separated to-night, we 
 should have had more wit, than ever to have met 
 again to-morrow. 
 
 Jac. 'Tis true, we shot each other flying. We 
 were both upon the wing, I find ; and, had we pass- 
 ed this critical minute, I should have gone for the 
 Indies, and you for Greenland, ere we had met in 
 a bed upon consideration. 
 
 Mask. You have quarrelled twice to-night with- 
 out bloodshed ; beware the third time. 
 
 Jac. Apropos ! 1 have been retrieving an old 
 song, of a lover that was ever quarrelling with his 
 mistress. I think it will fit our amour so well, that, 
 if you please, I'll give it you for an epithalamium ; 
 and you shall sing it. [Gives him a paper. 
 
 Wild. I never sung in all my life ; nor ever durst 
 try, when I was alone, for fear of braying. 
 
 Jac. Just me, up and down ; but for a frolic, let's 
 sing together ; for I am sure, if we cannot sing now, 
 we shall never have cause when we are married. 
 
 Wild. Begin then, give me my key, and I'll set 
 my voice to't. 
 
 Jac. Fa la, fa la, fa la. 
 
 Wild. Fala, fala, fala. Is this your best, upon the 
 faith of a virgin ? 
 
 Jac. Ay, by the muses, I am at my pitch. 
 
 Wild. Then do your worst ; and let the company 
 be judge who sings worst. 
 
 Jac. Upon condition the best singer shall wear 
 the breeches. Prepare to strip, sir ; I shall put you 
 into your drawers presently. 
 
 Wild. I shall be revenged, with putting you in- 
 to your smock anon ; St George for me. 
 
 Jac. St James for me. Come start, sir.
 
 SCENE r. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 337 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Damon. Celimena, of my heart 
 
 None shall e'er bereave you : 
 If, with your good leave, I may 
 Quarrel ivith you once a day, 
 I will never leave you. 
 
 Celimena. Passiotfs but an empty name, 
 
 Where respect is wanting : 
 
 Damon, you mistake your aim ; 
 
 Hung your heart, and burn yourjlamc, 
 
 If you must be ranting. 
 
 . 
 "Damon. Love a$ dull and muddy /,v, 
 
 As decaying liquor : 
 
 ^Liiger sets it on the lees, 
 
 And refines it by degrees, 
 
 Till it works the quicker. 
 
 Celimena, Love by quarrels to beget 
 Wisely you endeavour ; 
 With a grave physician's wit, 
 Who, to cure an ague fit, 
 Put me in a fever, 
 
 Damon. Anger rouses love to fight. 
 And his only bait is, 
 'Tis the spur to dull delight, 
 And is but an eager bite, 
 When desire at height in. 
 
 Celimena. If such drops of heal can fall 
 In our wooing weather ; 
 If such drops of heat can fall, 
 
 We shall have the decil and all 
 
 When ice come together. 
 
 VOL. III. Y
 
 338 AN EVENING'S LOVE. ACT v. 
 
 Wild. Your judgment, gentlemen ; a man, or a 
 maid? 
 
 Bel. An you make no better harmony after you 
 are married, than you have before, you are the mi- 
 serablest couple in Christendom. 
 
 Wild. 'Tis no great matter ; if I had had a good 
 voice, she would have spoiled it before to-morrow. 
 
 Bel. WhenMaskall has married Beatrix, you may 
 learn of her. 
 
 Mask. You shall put her life into a lease, then. 
 
 Wild. Upon condition, that when I drop intoyour 
 house from hunting, I may set my slippers at your 
 door, as a Turk does at a Jew's, that you may not 
 enter. 
 
 TJieo. And while you refresh yourself within, he 
 shall wind the horn without. 
 
 Mask. I'll throw up my lease first. 
 
 Bel. Why, thou wouldst not be so impudent, to 
 marry Beatrix for thyself only ? 
 
 Beat. For all his ranting and tearing now, I'll 
 pass my word, he shall degenerate into as tame and 
 peaceable a husband, as a civil woman would wish 
 to have. 
 
 Enter Don MELCHOII, with a Servant. 
 
 Mel. Sir 
 
 Alon. I know what you would say, but your dis- 
 covery comes too late now. 
 
 Mel. Why, the ladies are found. 
 
 Aur. But their inclinations are lost, I can assure 
 you. 
 
 Jac. Look you, sir, there goes the game. Your 
 Plate fleet is divided ; half for Spain, and half for 
 England. 
 
 Theo. You are justly punish'd for loving two.
 
 SCENE i. AN EVENING'S LOVE. 339 
 
 Mel. Yet I have the comfort of a cast lover : I 
 will think well of myself, and despise my mistresses. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 DANCE. 
 
 Set. Enough, enough ; let's end the carnival 
 abed. 
 
 IVild. And for these gentlernen,whene'er they try, 
 May they all speed as soon, and well as I. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 MY part being small, I have had time to-day, 
 
 To mark your various censures of our play. 
 
 First, looking for a judgment or a wit, 
 
 Like Jews, I saw them scatter'd through the pit ; 
 
 And where a knot of smilers lent an ear 
 
 To one that talk'd, I knew the foe was there. 
 
 The club of jests went round ; he, who had none, 
 
 Borrow'd o'the next, and told it for his own. 
 
 Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir, 
 
 In whispering that he stole the Astrologer ; 
 
 And said, betwixt a French and English plot, 
 
 He eased his half-tired muse, on pace and trot. 
 
 Up starts a Monsieur, new come o'er, and warm 
 
 In the French stoop, and the pull-back o'the arm ; 
 
 Morbleu, dit il, and cocks, I am a rogue, 
 
 But he has quite spoil'd the feign'd Astrologue. 
 
 'Pox, says another, here's so great a stir 
 
 With a son of a whore farce that's regular, 
 
 A rule, where nothing must decorum shock ! 
 
 Damme, 'tis as dull, as dining by the clock. 
 
 An evening ! Why the devil should we be vext, 
 
 Whether he gets the wench this night or next ? 
 
 When I heard this, I to the poet went, 
 
 Told him the house was full of discontent, 
 
 And ask'd him what excuse he could invent. 
 
 He neither swore or storm d, as poets do, 
 
 But, most unlike an author, vow'd 'twas true ; 
 
 Yet said, he used the French like enemies, 
 
 And did not steal their plots, but made them prize. 
 
 But should he all the pains and charges count 
 
 Of taking them, the bill so high would mount, 
 
 That, like prize-goods, which through the office come 
 
 He could have had them much more cheap at home. 
 
 He still must write ; and, banquier-like, each day 
 
 Accept new bills, and he must break, or pay. 
 
 When through his hands such sums must yearly run, 
 
 You cannot think the stock is all his own. 
 
 His haste his other errors might excuse, 
 
 But there's no mercy for a guilty muse ; 
 
 For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall, 
 
 And please you to a height, or not at all.
 
 TYRANNIC LOVE; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 KOYAL MARTYR. 
 
 A 
 
 TRAGEDY.
 
 TYKANNIC LOVE. 
 
 THE " Royal Martyr" is one of Dryden's most characteristic 
 productions. The character of Maximin, in particular, is drawn 
 on his boldest plan, and only equalled by that of Almanzor, in 
 the " Conquest of Granada." Indeed, although, in action, the 
 latter exhibits a larger proportion of that extravagant achieve- 
 ment peculiar to the heroic drama, it may be questioned, whether 
 the language of Maximin does not abound more with the flights 
 of fancy, which hover betwixt the confines of the grand and the 
 bombastic, and which our author himself has aptly termed theDa- 
 lilahs of the theatre. Certainly in some of those rants which oc- 
 casionally burst from the emperor, our poet appears shorn of his 
 locks ; as for example. 
 
 Look to it, Gods ; for you the aggressors are : 
 Keep you your rain and sunshine in your skies, 
 And I'll keep back my flame and sacrifice ; 
 Your trade of heaven will soon be at a stand, 
 And all your goods lie dead upon your hand. 
 
 Indeed, Dryden himself acknowledged, in the Dedicatk 
 " Spanish Friar," that some verses of Maximin and A 
 
 the Dedication to the 
 Almanzor 
 
 cry vengeance upon him for their extravagance, and heartily 
 wishes them in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. But he 
 pleads in apology, that he knew they were bad enough to please, 
 even when he wrote them, although he is now resolved no longer 
 to seek credit from the approbation of fools. Johnson has doubt- 
 ed, with apparent reason, whether this confession be sufficiently 
 ample ; and whether the poet did not really give his love to those 
 enticing seducers of his imagination, although he contemned them 
 in his more sober judgment. In the Prologue, he has boldly 
 stated and justified his determination to rush forward, and ha- 
 zard the disgrace of a fall, rather than the loss of the race. Cer- 
 tainly a genius, which dared so greatly as that of Dryden, cannot 
 always be expected to check its flight upon the verge of proprie- 
 ty ; and we are often hurried along with it into the extravagant 
 and bombastic, when we can seldom discover the error till a second
 
 344 TYRANNIC LOVE. 
 
 reading of the passage. Take, for example, the often quoted 
 account of the death of Charinus: 
 
 M'ith a fierce haste he led our troops the way ; 
 While fiery showers of sulphur on him rain'd ; 
 Nor left he, till the battlements be gain'd : 
 There with a forest of their darts he strove, 
 And stood, like Capaneus defying Jove. 
 With his broad sword the boldest beating down, 
 While fate grew pale, lest he should win the town, 
 And turn'd the iron leaves of its dark book, 
 To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook. 
 Till sought by many deaths, he sunk, though late, 
 And by his fall asserted doubtful fate. 
 
 Although this passage, upon examination, will be found to con- 
 tain much tumid bombast, yet, like others in the same tone, it 
 conveys, at first, a dark impression of grandeur and sublimity, 
 which only vanishes on a critical examination. Such passages, 
 pronounced with due emphasis on the stage, will always meet with 
 popular applause. They are like the fanciful shapes into which a 
 mist is often wreathed ; it requires a near approach, and an at- 
 tentive consideration, to discover their emptiness and vanity. On 
 the other hand, we meet with many passages in Maximin, where 
 the impression of sublimity becomes more deep, in proportion to 
 the attention we bestow on them. Such is the speech of St Ca- 
 tharine to her mother : 
 
 Could we live always, life were worth our cost ; 
 But now we keep with care what must be lost. 
 Here we stand shivering on the bank, and cry. 
 When we should plunge into eternity. 
 One moment ends our pain ; 
 And yet the shock of death we dare not stand, 
 By thought scarce measured, and too swift for sand. 
 'Tis but because the living death ne'er knew. 
 They fear to prove it, as a thing that's new. 
 I^et me the experiment before you try, 
 I'll shew you first how easy 'tis to die. 
 
 In the same scene occurs an instance of a different kind of 
 beauty, less commonly found in Dryden. The tender description 
 given by Felicia of her attachment to her child in infancy, is ex- 
 quisitely beautiful. 
 
 The introduction of magic, and of the astral spirits, who have 
 
 little to do with the catastrophe, was perhaps contrived for the 
 
 sake of music and scenery. The supernatural has, however, been 
 
 fashionable at all periods; and we learn, from a passage in thede- 
 
 12
 
 TYRANNIC LOVE. 345 
 
 dication to " Prince Arthur," that the Duchess of Monmouth, 
 whom Dryden calls his first and best patroness, was pleased with 
 the parts of airy and earthy spirits, and with that fairy kind of 
 writing, which depends upon the force of imagination. It is pro- 
 bable, therefore, that, in a play inscribed to her husband, that 
 style of composition was judiciously intermingled, to which our 
 poet knew the Duchess was partial. There is much fine descrip- 
 tion in the first account of the wizard ; but the lyrical dialogue 
 of the spirits is rather puerile, and is ridiculed, with great seve- 
 rity, in the (t Rehearsal." 
 
 Mr Malone has fixed the first acting of this play to the end of 
 1668, or beginning of 1669. It was printed in 1670, and a re- 
 vised edition came forth in 1672.
 
 TO THE 
 MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE, 
 
 JAMES, 
 
 DUKE OF MONMOUTH AND BUCCLEUGH, 
 
 ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S 
 
 MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY-COUNCIL ; AND KNIGHT OF 
 THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &C.* 
 
 SIR, 
 
 THE favourable reception which your excellent 
 lady afforded to one of my former plays,t has en- 
 couraged me to double my presumption, in address- 
 ing this to your grace's patronage. So dangerous 
 a thing it is to admit a poet into your family, that 
 you can never afterwards be free from the chiming 
 of ill verses, perpetually sounding in your ears, and 
 
 * For some account of the Duke of Monmouth, we refer our 
 readers to the poem of Absalom and Achitophel, in which Dry- 
 den has described that unfortunate young nobleman under the 
 character of Absalom. 
 
 t See the Dedication to the Indian Emperor."
 
 THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 34? 
 
 more troublesome than the neighbourhood of stee- 
 ples. I have been favourable to myself in this ex- 
 pression ; a zealous fanatic would have gone far- 
 ther, and have called me the serpent, who first 
 presented the fruit of my poetry to the wife, and 
 so gained the opportunity to seduce the husband. 
 Yet, I am ready to avow a crime so advantageous 
 to me ; but the world, which will condemn my 
 boldness, I am sure will justify and applaud my 
 choice. All men will join with me in the adoration 
 which I pay you ; they would wish only I had 
 brought you a more noble sacrifice. Instead of an 
 heroic play, you might justly expect an heroic 
 poem, filled with the past glories of your ancestors, 
 and the future certainties of your own. Heaven 
 has already taken care to form you for an hero. 
 You have all the advantages of mind and body, and 
 an illustrious birth, conspiring to render you an ex- 
 traordinary person. The Achilles and the Rinaldo 
 are present in you, even above their originals ; 
 you only want a Homer, or a Tasso, to make you 
 equal to them. Youth, beauty, and courage, (all 
 which you possess in the height of their perfection) 
 are the most desirable gifts of heaven : and heaven 
 is never prodigal of such treasures, but to some 
 uncommon purpose. So goodly a fabric was never 
 framed by an Almighty architect for a vulgar 
 guest. He shewed the value which he set upon 
 your mind, when he took care to have it so nobly, 
 and so beautifully lodged. To a graceful fashion 
 and deportment of body, you have joined a winning 
 conversation, and an easy greatness, derived to you 
 from the best, and best-beloved of princes. And 
 with a great power of obliging, the world has ob- 
 served in you a desire to oblige, even beyond your 
 power. This, and all that I can say on so excel-
 
 348 THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 
 
 lent and large a subject, is only history, in which 
 fiction has no part ; I can employ nothing of poetry 
 in it, any more than I do in that humble protesta- 
 tion which I make, to continue ever 
 
 Your Grace's most obedient 
 
 And most devoted servant, 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I WAS moved to write this play by many reasons : 
 .Amongst others, the commands of some persons of 
 honour, for whom I have a most particular respect, 
 were daily sounding in my ears, that it would be 
 of good example to undertake a poem of this na- 
 ture. Neither were my own inclinations wanting 
 to second their desires. I considered that pleasure 
 was not the only end of poesy ; and that even the 
 instructions of morality were not so wholly the 
 business of a poet, as that the precepts and exam- 
 ples of piety were to be omitted. For, to leave 
 that employment altogether to the clergy, were to 
 forget that religion was first taught in verse, which 
 the laziness, or dulness, of succeeding priesthood, 
 turned afterwards into prose ; and it were also to 
 grant (which I never shall) that representations of 
 this kind may not as well be conducing to holiness, 
 as to good manners. Yet far be it from me to com- 
 pare the use of dramatic poesy with that of divi- 
 nity : I only maintain, against the enemies of the 
 stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, 
 and equally removed from the extremes of super- 
 stition and profaneness, may be of excellent use to 
 second the precepts of our religion. By the har-
 
 350 PREFACE. 
 
 mony of words we elevate the mind to a sense of 
 devotion, as our solemn music, which is inarticulate 
 poesy, does in churches ; and by the lively images 
 of piety, adorned by action, through the senses al- 
 lure the soul ; which, while it is charmed in a silent 
 joy of what it sees and hears, is struck, at the same 
 time, with a secret veneration of things celestial : 
 and is wound up insensibly into the practice of that 
 which it admires. Xow if, instead of this, we some- 
 times see on our theatres the examples of vice re- 
 warded, or, at least, unpunished ; yet it ought not 
 to be an argument against the art, any more than 
 the extravagances and impieties of the pulpit, in the 
 late times of rebellion, can be against the office and 
 dignity of the clergy. 
 
 But many times it happens, that poets are wrong, 
 fully accused ; as it is my own case in this very 
 play ; where I am charged by some ignorant or 
 malicious persons, with no less crimes than profane- 
 ness and irreligion. 
 
 The part of Majcimin, against which these holy 
 critics so much declaim, was designed by me to set 
 off the character of St Catharine. And "those, who 
 have read the Roman history, may easily remember, 
 that Maximin was not only a bloody tyrant, vastus 
 corpora, animo ferus, as Herodian describes him ; 
 but also a persecutor of the church, against which 
 he raised the Sixth Persecution. So that whatsoever 
 he speaks or acts in this tragedy, is no more than a 
 record of his life and manners ; a picture, as near as 
 I could take it, from the original. If, with much 
 pains, and some success, I have drawn a defonned 
 piece, there is as much of art, and as near an imita- 
 tion of nature, in a lazar, as in a Venus. Maximin 
 was an heathen, and what he speaks against reli- 
 gion, is in contempt of that which he professed. 
 He defies the gods of Rome, which is no more than
 
 PREFACE. 351 
 
 St Catharine might with decency have done. If it 
 be urged, that a person of such principles, who 
 scoffs at any religion, ought not to be presented 
 on the stage ; why then are the lives and sayings 
 of so many wicked and profane persons, recorded 
 in the Holy Scriptures ? I know it will be answered, 
 That a due use may be made of them ; that they 
 are remembered with a brand of infamy fixed upon 
 them ; and set as sea-marks for those who behold 
 them to avoid. And what other use have I made 
 of Alaximin ? have I proposed him as a pattern to 
 be imitated, whom, even for his impiety to his false 
 gods, I have so severely punished ? Nay, as if I 
 had foreseen this objection, I purposely removed the 
 scene of the play, which ought to have been at 
 Alexandria in Egypt, where St Catharine suffered, 
 and laid it under the walls of Aquileia in Italy, 
 where Maximin was slain ; that the punishment of 
 his crime might immediately succeed its execution. 
 
 This, reader, is what I owed to my just defence, 
 and the due reverence of that religion which I pro- 
 fess, to which all men, who desire to be esteemed 
 good, or honest, are obliged. I have neither leisure 
 nor occasion to write more largely on this subject, 
 because I am already justified by the sentence of 
 the best and most discerning prince in the world, 
 by the suffrage of all unbiassed judges, and above all, 
 by the witness of my own conscience, which ab- 
 hors the thought of such a crime ; to which I ask 
 leave to add my outward conversation, which shall 
 never be justly taxed with the note of atheism or 
 profaneness. 
 
 In what else concerns the play, I shall be brief. 
 For the faults of the writing and contrivance, I 
 leave them to the mercy of the reader. For I am 
 as little apt to defend my own errors, as to find 
 those of other poets. Only, I observe, that the
 
 352 PREFACE. 
 
 great censors of wit and poetry, either produce no- 
 thing of their own, or what is more ridiculous than 
 any thing they reprehend. Much of ill nature, and 
 a very little judgment, go far in finding the mis- 
 takes of writers. 
 
 I pretend not that any thing of mine can be cor- 
 rect. This poem, especially, which was contrived, 
 and written in seven weeks, though afterwards hin- 
 dered by many accidents from a speedy representa- 
 tion, which would have been its just excuse. 
 
 Yet the scenes are every where unbroken, and 
 the unities of place and time more exactly kept, 
 than perhaps is requisite in a tragedy ; or, at least, 
 than I have since preserved them in the " Conquest 
 of Granada." 
 
 I have not everywhere observed the equality of 
 numbers, in my verse ; partly by reason of my 
 haste ; but more especially, because I would not 
 have my sense a slave to syllables. 
 
 It is easy to discover, that I have been very 
 bold in my alteration of the story, which of itself 
 was too barren for a play ; and that I have taken 
 from the church two martyrs, in the persons of 
 Porphyrius, and the empress, who suffered for the 
 Christian faith, under the tyranny of Maximin. 
 
 I have seen a French play, called the " Martyr- 
 dom of St Catharine." But those, who have read 
 it, will soon clear me from stealing out of so dull 
 an author. I have only borrowed a mistake from 
 him, of one Maximin for another ; for finding him 
 in the French poet, called the son of a Thraciari 
 herdsman, and an Alane woman, I too easily belie- 
 ved him to have been the same Maximin mention- 
 ed in Herodian. Till afterwards, consulting Euse- 
 bius and Metaphrastes, I found the Frenchman had 
 betrayed me into an error, when it was too late to 
 alter it, by mistaking that first Maximin for a se-
 
 PREFACE. 353 
 
 cond, the contemporary of Constantine the Great, 
 and one of the usurpers of the eastern empire. 
 
 But neither was the other name of my play more 
 fortunate ; for, as some, who had heard of a trage- 
 dy of St Catharine, imagined I had taken my plot 
 from thence ; so others, who had heard of another 
 play, called " L' Amour Tyrannique," with the same 
 ignorance, accused me to have borrowed my design 
 from it, because I have accidentally given my play 
 the same title; not having to this day seen it, 
 and knowing only by report that such a comedy is 
 extant in French, under the name of " Monsieur 
 Scudery." 
 
 As for what I have said of astral or aerial spirits, 
 it is no invention of mine, but taken from those 
 who have written on that subject. Whether there 
 are such beings or not, it concerns not me ; it is 
 sufficient for my purpose, that many have believed 
 the affirmative ; and that these heroic representa- 
 tions, which are of the same nature with the epic, 
 are not limited, but with the extremest bounds of 
 what is credible. 
 
 For the little critics, who pleased themselves with 
 thinking they have found a flaw in that line of the 
 prologue, 
 
 And he, who servilely creeps after sense, 
 Is safe, &c.* 
 
 as if I patronized my own nonsense, I may reason- 
 ably suppose they have never read Horace. Serpit 
 humi tutus, &c. are his words : He, who creeps after 
 plain, dull, common sense, is safe from committing 
 absurdities ; but can never reach any height, or ex- 
 cellence of wit ; and sure I could not mean, that 
 
 * See the prologue to this play. 
 VOL. III. Z
 
 354 PREFACE. 
 
 any excellence were to be found in nonsense. With 
 the same ignorance, or malice, they would accuse 
 me for using empty arms, when I write of a ghost 
 or shadow ; which has only the appearance of a 
 body or limbs, and is empty, or void, of flesh and 
 blood ; and vacuis amplectitur ulnis, was an expres- 
 sion of Ovid's on the same subject. Some fool be- 
 fore them had charged me in " The Indian Empe- 
 ror" with nonsense in these words, 
 
 
 
 And follow fate, which does too fast pursue ; 
 
 which was borrowed from Virgil, in the eleventh of 
 his jEneids, 
 
 Eludit gyro interior, sequiturque sequentem.* 
 
 I quote not these to prove, that I never writ non- 
 sense ; but only to shew, that they are so unfortu- 
 nate as not to have found it. 
 
 VALE, 
 
 ( * We may be allowed to suspect that this resemblance vras 
 discovered ex post facto.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SELF-LOVE, which, never rightly understood, 
 
 Makes poets still conclude their plays are good, 
 
 And malice, in all critics, reigns so high, 
 
 That for small errors, they whole plays decry ; 
 
 So that to see this fondness, and that spite, 
 
 You'd think that none but madmen judge or write. 
 
 Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit 
 
 T' impose upon you what he writes for wit ; 
 
 So hopes, that, leaving you your censure free, 
 
 You equal judges of the whole should be: 
 
 They judge but half, who only faults will see. 
 
 Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare, 
 
 They spoil their business with an over-care ; 
 
 And he, who servilely creeps after sense, 
 
 Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence. 
 
 Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring, 
 
 Allow'd his fancy the full scope and swing. 
 
 But when a tyrant for his theme he had, 
 
 He loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mad : 
 
 And though he stumbles in a full career, 
 
 Yet rashness is a better fault than fear. 
 
 He saw his way ; but in so swift a pace, 
 
 To chuse the ground might be to lose the race. 
 
 They then, who of each trip the advantage take, 
 
 Find but those faults, which they want wit to make.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MAXIMIN, Tyrant of Rome. 
 
 PORPHYRIUS, Captain of the Praetorian Bands. 
 
 CHARINUS, the Emperor's son. 
 
 PLACIDIUS, a great officer. 
 
 NIGRINUS, a Tribune and conjurer. 
 AMARIEL, guardian-angel to St CATHARINE. 
 APPOLLONIUS, a Heathen philosopher. 
 
 BERENICE, wife to MAXIMIN. 
 VALERIA, daughter to MAXIMIN. 
 St CATHARINE, Princess of Alexandria. 
 FELICIA, her mother. 
 
 SCENE T/ie Camp ofMaximin, under the walls 
 of Aquileia.
 
 TYRANNIC LOVE; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 ROYAL MARTYR. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. A Camp, or Pavilion Royal. 
 
 Enter MAXIMIN, CHARINUS, PLACIDIUS, ALBI- 
 NUS, VALERIUS, APOLLONIUS, and Guards. 
 
 Max. Thus far my arms have with success been 
 
 crown'd, 
 
 And found no stop, or vanquish'd what they found. 
 The German lakes my legions have o'erpast, 
 With all the bars which art or nature cast i 
 My foes, in watery fastnesses inclosed, 
 I fought alone, to their whole war exposed ; 
 Did first the depth of trembling marshes sound, 
 And fix'd my eagles in unfaithful ground ; 
 By force submitted to the Roman sway 
 Fierce nations, and unknowing to obey ; 
 And now, for my reward, ungrateful Rome, 
 For which I fought abroad, rebels at home. 
 
 Alb. Yet 'tis their fear which does this war main- 
 tain ; 
 They cannot brook a martial monarch's reign.
 
 358 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT I. 
 
 Your valour would their sloth too much accuse ; 
 
 And therefore, like themselves they princes chnse. 
 Plac. Two tame gown'd princes, who at ease de- 
 bate, 
 
 In lazy chairs, the business of the state ; 
 
 Who reign but while the people they can please, 
 
 And only know the little arts of peace. 
 
 Char. In fields they dare not fight, where honour 
 calls ; 
 
 But breathe a faint defiance from their walls. 
 
 The very noise of war their souls does wound ; 
 
 They quake, but hearing their own trumpets sound. 
 Vol. An easy summons but for form they wait, 
 
 And to your fame will open wide the gate. 
 
 Plac. I wish our fame that swift success may find ; 
 
 But conquests, sir, are easily design'd. 
 
 However soft within themselves they are, 
 
 To you they will be valiant by despair : 
 
 For, having once been guilty, well they know, 
 
 To a revengeful prince they still are so. 
 
 Alb. 'Tis true, that, since the senate's succours 
 came, 
 
 They grow more bold. 
 
 Max. That senate's but a name : 
 
 Or they are pageant princes which they make ; 
 
 That power they give away, they would partake. 
 
 Two equal powers two different ways will draw, 
 
 While each may check, and give the other law. 
 
 True, they secure propriety and peace ; 
 
 But are not fit an empire to increase. 
 
 When they should aid their prince, the slaves dis- 
 pute ; 
 
 And fear success should make him absolute. 
 
 They let foes conquer, to secure the state, 
 
 And lend a sword, whose edge themselves rebate. 
 Char. When to increase the gods you late are 
 gone,
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 359 
 
 I'll swiftly chuse to die, or reign alone : 
 
 But these half kings our courage cannot fright ; 
 
 The thrifty state will bargain ere they fight : 
 
 Give just so much for every victory, 
 
 And rather lose a fight than overbuy. 
 
 Max. Since all delays are dangerous in war, 
 Your men, Albinus, for assault prepare ; 
 Crispinus and Meniphilis, I hear, 
 Two consulars, these Aquileians cheer ; 
 By whom they may, if we protract the time, 
 Be taught the courage to defend their crime. 
 
 Plac. Put off the assault but only for this day : 
 No loss can come by such a small delay. 
 
 Char. We are not sure to-morrow will be ours : 
 Wars have, like love, their favourable hours. 
 Let us use all ; for, if we lose one day, 
 That white one in the crowd may slip away. 
 
 Max. Fate's dark recesses we can never find ; 
 But fortune, at some hours, to all is kind : 
 The lucky have whole days, which still they chuse ; 
 The unlucky have but hours, and those they lose. 
 
 Plac. I have consulted one, who reads heaven's 
 
 doom, 
 
 And sees, as present, things which are to come. 
 Tis that Nigrinus, made by your command 
 A tribune in the new Pannonian band. 
 Him have I seen (on Ister's banks he stood, 
 Where last we winter'd,) bind the headlong flood- 
 In sudden ice ; and, where most swift it flows, 
 In crystal nets the wond'ring fishes close ; 
 Then, with a moment's thaw, the streams enlarge, 
 And from the mesh the twinkling guests discharge. 
 In a deep vale, or near some ruin'd wall, 
 He would the ghosts of slaughter'd soldiers call ; 
 Who slow to wounded bodies did repair, 
 And, loth to enter, shiver'd in the air ; 
 14
 
 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT I. 
 
 These his dread wand did to short life compel, 
 And forced the fates of battles to foretel. 
 
 Max. 'Tis wonderous strange ! But, good Placi- 
 
 dius, say, 
 What prophecies Nigrinus of this day ? 
 
 Plac. In a lone tent, all hung with black, I saw, 
 Where in a square he did a circle draw ; 
 Four angles, made by that circumference, 
 Bore holy words inscribed, of mystic sense. 
 When first a hollow wind began to blow, 
 The sky grew black, and bellied down more low ; 
 Around the fields did nimble lightning play, 
 Which ofFer'd us by fits, and snatch'd the day. 
 'Midst this was heard the shrill and tender cry 
 Of well-pleased ghosts, which in the storm did fly ; 
 Danced to and fro, and skimm'd along the ground, 
 Till to the magic circle they were bound. 
 They coursing it, while we were fenced within, 
 We saw this dreadful scene of fate begin. 
 
 Char. Speak without fear ; what did the vision 
 shew? 
 
 Plac. A curtain, drawn, presented to our view 
 A town besieged ; and on the neighbouring plain 
 Lay heaps of visionary soldiers slain, r v : , 
 A rising mist obscured the gloomy head 
 Of one, who, in imperial robes, lay dead. 
 Near this, in fetters, stood a virgin crown'd, 
 Whom many Cupids strove in vain to wound. 
 A voice, To-morrow, still To-morrow rung ; 
 Another, /o, lo Pcean sung. 
 
 Char. Visions and oracles still doubtful are, 
 And ne'er expounded till the event of war. 
 The gods' foreknowledge on our swords will wait. 
 If we fight well, they must foreshow good fate.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 361 
 
 To them a Centurion. 
 
 Cent. A rising dust, which troubles all the air, 
 And this way travels, shews some army near. 
 Char. I hear the sound of trumpets from afar. 
 
 [Exit ALBINUS. 
 Max. It seems the voice of triumph, not of war. 
 
 To them ALBIXUS again. 
 
 Alb. Health and success our emperor attends. 
 The forces, marching on the plain, are friends. 
 Porphyrius, whom you Egypt's praetor made, 
 Is come from Alexandria to your aid. 
 
 Max. It well becomes the conduct and the care 
 Of one so famed and fortunate in war. 
 You must resign, Placidius, your command ; 
 To him I promised the praetorian band. 
 Your duty in your swift compliance show ; 
 I will provide some other charge for you. 
 
 Plac. May Caesar's pleasure ever be obey'd, 
 With that submission, which by me is paid. 
 Now all the curses envy ever knew, 
 Or could invent, Porphyrius pursue ! [Aside. 
 
 Alb. Placidius does too tamely bear his loss ; 
 
 [To CH AKIN us. 
 
 This new pretender will all power engross. 
 All things must now by his direction move, 
 And you, sir, must resign your father's love. 
 
 Char. Yes ; every name to his repute must bow ; 
 There grow no bays for any other brow. 
 He blasts my early honour in the bud, 
 Like some tall tree, the monster of the wood ; 
 Overshadowing all which under him would grow, 
 He sheds his venom on the plants below. 
 
 Alb. You must some noble action undertake, 
 Equal with his your own renown to make.
 
 362 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT I. 
 
 Char. I am not for a slothful envy born ; 
 I'll do't this day, in the dire vision's scorn. 
 He comes. We two like the twin stars appear; 
 Never to shine together in one sphere. 
 
 [Exeunt CHAR, and ALBINUS. 
 
 Enter PORPHYRIUS attended. 
 
 Max. Porphyrius, welcome; welcome as the light 
 To cheerful birds, or as to lovers night ; 
 Welcome as what thou bring'st me, victory ! 
 
 Por. That waits, sir, on your arms, and not on me. 
 You left a conquest more than half achieved, 
 And for whose easiness I almost grieved. 
 Yours only the Egyptian laurels are ; 
 I bring you but the relics of your war. 
 The Christian princess, to receive your doom, 
 Is from her conquer'd Alexandria come ; 
 Her mother, in another vessel sent, 
 A storm surprised, nor know I the event. 
 Both from your bounty must receive their state, 
 Or must on your triumphant chariot wait. 
 
 Max. From me they can expect no grace, whose 
 
 minds 
 An execrable superstition blinds. 
 
 Apol. The gods, who raised you to the world's 
 
 command, 
 Require these victims from your grateful hand. 
 
 Por. To minds resolved, the threats of death are 
 
 vain ; 
 
 They run to fires, and there enjoy their pain ; 
 Not Mucius made more haste his hand to expose 
 To greedy flames, than their whole bodies those. 
 
 Max. How to their own destruction they are 
 
 blind ! 
 Zeal is the pious madness of the mind. 
 
 Por. They all our famed philosophers defy, 
 And would our faith by force of reason try.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 368 
 
 Apol. I beg it, sir, by all the powers divine, 
 That in their right this combat may be mine. 
 
 Max. It shall ; and fifty doctors of our laws 
 Be added to you, to maintain the cause. 
 
 Enter BERENICE, the Empress; VALERIA, daugh- 
 ter to the Emperor, and EROTION. 
 
 Plac. The empress and your daughter, sir, are 
 
 here. 
 
 For. Whatdangersin those charming eyesappear! 
 [Looking on the Empress. 
 How my old wounds are open'd at this view, 
 And in my murderer's presence bleed anew ! 
 Max. I did expect your coming, to partake 
 
 [To the Ladies. 
 
 The general gladness which my triumphs make. 
 You did Porphyrius as a courtier know ; 
 But as a conqueror behold him now. 
 
 Ber. You know (I read it in your blushing face), 
 
 To merit, better than receive a grace. 
 
 And I know better, silently to own, 
 
 Than with vain words to pay your service done. 
 
 For. Princes, like gods, reward ere we deserve ; 
 [Kneeling to kiss her hand. 
 And pay us, in permitting us to serve. 
 O might I still grow here, and never move ! [Lower. 
 
 Ber. How dangerous are these ecstacies of love ! 
 He shews his passion to a thousand eyes ; 
 He cannot stir, nor can I bid him rise. 
 That word my heart refuses to my tongue ! [Aside. 
 
 Max. Madam, you let theGeneral kneel too long. 
 
 For. Too long ! as if eternity were so. [Aside. 
 
 Ber. Rise, good Porphyrius since it must be so. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 For. Like hermits from a vision I retire, [Rising. 
 With eyes too weak to see what I admire. [Aside.
 
 3(j TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT J. 
 
 Vol. The empress knows your worth ; but, sir, 
 there be 
 
 [ To PORPHYRIUS, who kisses her hand. 
 Those who can value it as high as she. 
 And 'tis but just (since in my father's cause 
 You fought) your valour should have my applause. 
 
 Plac. O jealousy, how art thou eagle-eyed ! 
 She loves ; and would her love in praises hide. 
 How am I bound this rival to pursue, 
 Who ravishes my love and fortune too ! [Aside. 
 [A dead march within, and trumpets. 
 Max. Somewhat of mournful, sure, my ears does 
 
 wound ; 
 
 Like the hoarse murmurs of a trumpet's sound, 
 And drums unbraced, with soldiers' broken cries. 
 
 Enter ALBINUS. 
 
 Albinus, whence proceeds this dismal noise ? 
 Alb. Too soon you'll know \vhat I want words 
 
 to tell. 
 
 Max. How fares my son ? Is my Charinus well ? 
 Not answer me ! Oh my prophetic fear ! 
 
 Alb. How can I speak, or how, sir, can you 
 
 hear ? 
 
 Imagine that which you would most deplore, 
 And that, which I would speak, is it, or more. 
 
 Max. Thy mournful message in thy looks I read. 
 Is he (oh that I live to ask it !) dead ? 
 
 Alb. Sir 
 
 Max. Stay ; if thou speak'st that word, thou 
 
 speak'st thy last. 
 
 Some God now, if he dares, relate what's past. 
 Say but he's dead, that God shall mortal be. 
 Alb. Then, what I dare not speak, look back and 
 see. [CHARINUS borne in dead by soldiers. 
 Max. See nothing, eyes, henceforth, but death 
 and woe ;
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 365 
 
 You've done me the worst office you can do. 
 You've shewn me destiny's preposterous crime ; 
 An unripe fate, disclosed ere nature's time. 
 
 Plac. Assuage, great prince, your passion, lest 
 
 you shew 
 There's somewhat in your soul which fate can bow. 
 
 For. Fortune should by your greatness be con- 
 
 troul'd : 
 Arm your great mind, and let her take no hold. 
 
 Max. To tame philosophers teach constancy ; 
 There is no farther use of it in me. 
 Gods ! but why name I you ! 
 All that was worth a prayer to you is gone ; 
 I ask not back my virtue, but my son. 
 
 Alb. His too great thirst of fame his ruin brought; 
 Though, sir, beyond all human force he fought. 
 
 Plac. This Avas my vision of this fatal day ! 
 
 Alb. With a fierce haste he led our troops the 
 
 way, 
 
 While fiery showers of sulphur on him rain'd ; 
 Nor left he, till the battlements he gain'd : 
 There with a forest of their darts he strove, 
 And stood, like Capaneus defying Jove ; 
 With his broad sword the boldest beating down, 
 While fate grew pale, lest he should win the town ; 
 And turn'd the iron leaves of its dark book 
 To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook ; 
 Till, sought by many deaths, he sunk, though late, 
 And by his fall asserted doubtful fate. 
 
 Vol. Oh, my dear brother ! whom heaven let us 
 
 see, 
 And would not longer suffer him to be ! 
 
 Max. And didst thou not a death with honour 
 chuse, [7 T 0Ai.r>. 
 
 But impudently liv'st to bring this news ? 
 After his loss how did'st thou dare to breathe ? 
 But. thy base ghost shall follow him in death.
 
 366 TYKANNIC LOVE. ACT I. 
 
 A decimation I will strictly make 
 
 Of all, who my Charinus did forsake ; 
 
 And of each legion, each centurion 
 
 Shall die : Placidius, see my pleasure done. 
 
 For. Sir, you will lose by this severity, 
 Your soldiers' hearts. 
 
 Max. Why, they take pay to die. 
 
 For. Then spare Albums only. 
 
 Max. I consent 
 
 To leave his life to be his punishment. 
 Discharged from trust, branded with infamy, 
 Let him live on, till he ask leave to die. 
 
 Her. Let me petition for him. 
 
 Max. I have said ; 
 
 And will not be entreated, but obey'd. 
 But, empress, whence does your compassion grow ? 
 
 Her. You need not ask it, since my birth you 
 
 know. 
 
 The race of Antonines was named the Good : 
 I draw my pity from my royal blood. 
 
 Max. Still must I be upbraided with your line ? 
 I know you speak it in contempt of mine. 
 But your late brother did not prize me less, 
 Because I could not boast of images ; 
 And the Gods own me more, when they decreed, 
 A Thracian shepherd should your line succeed. 
 
 Ber. The Gods ! O do not name the powers di- 
 vine, 
 
 They never mingled their decrees with thine. 
 My brother gave me to thee for a wife, 
 And for my dowry thou didst take his life. 
 
 Max. The Gods by many victories have shewn, 
 That they my merits and his death did own. 
 
 Ber. Yes, they have own'd it ; witness this just 
 
 day, 
 
 When they begin thy mischiefs to repay. 
 See the reward of all thy wicked care
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 367 
 
 Before tbee ; thy succession ended there. 
 Yet, but in part my brother's ghost is pleased ; 
 llestless till all the groaning world be eased. 
 For me, no other happiness I own, 
 Than to have borne no issue to thy throne. 
 
 Max. Provoke my rage no farther, lest I be 
 Revenged at once upon the gods and thee. 
 
 Por. What horrid tortures seize my labouring 
 
 mind, 
 
 O, only excellent of all thy kind, 
 To hear thee threatened, while I idle stand ! 
 Heaven ! was I born to fear a tyrant's hand ? [Aside. 
 
 Max. to Ber. Hence from my sight ! thy blood, 
 If thou dost stay 
 
 Ber. Tyrant ! too well to that thou know'st the 
 way. [Going. 
 
 Por. Let baser souls from falling fortunes fly : 
 I'll pay my duty to her, though I die. 
 
 [Exit, leading her. 
 
 Max. What made Porphyrius so officious be ? 
 The action looked as done in scorn of me. 
 
 Vol. It did, indeed, some little freedom show ; 
 But somewhat to his services you owe. 
 
 Max. Yet if I thought it his presumption were 
 
 Plac. Perhaps he did not your displeasure hear. 
 
 Max. My anger was too loud, not to be heard, 
 
 Plac. I'm loth to think he did it not regard. 
 
 Max. How, not regard ! 
 
 Vol. Piacidius, you foment* 
 On too light grounds, my father's discontent. ^ 
 But when an action does two faces wear, 
 'Tis justice to believe what is most fair. 
 I think, that, knowing what respect there rests 
 For her late brother in the soldiers' breasts, 
 He went to serve the emperor ; and design'd 
 Only to calm the tempest in her mind, 
 Lest some sedition in the camp should rise.
 
 368 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT II. 
 
 Max. I ever thought him loyal as he's wise. 
 Since therefore all the Gods their spite have shown 
 To rob my age of a successive throne ; 
 And you who now remain, 
 The only issue of my former bed, 
 In empire cannot, by your sex, succeed ; 
 To bind Porphyrius firmly to the state, 
 I will this day my Cassar him create ; 
 And, daughter, I will give him you for wife. 
 
 Vol. O day, the best and happiest of my life ! 
 
 Plac. O day, the most accurst I ever knew ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Max. See to my son perform'd each funeral 
 
 due. 
 
 Then to the toils of war we will return, 
 And make our enemies our losses mourn. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE II.TJie Royal Camp. 
 Enter BERENICE and PORPHYRIUS. 
 
 Ber. Porphyrius, you too far did tempt your fate, 
 In owning her the emperor does hate. 
 'Tis true, your duty to me it became ; 
 But, praising that, I must your conduct blame. 
 
 For. Not to have own'd my zeal at such a time, 
 Were to sin higher than your tyrant's crime. 
 
 Ber. 'Twas too much, my disgrace to accompany; 
 A silent wish had been enough for me. 
 
 Por. Wishes are aids faint servants may supply, 
 Who ask heaven for you what themselves deny. 
 Could I do less than my respect to pay, 
 Where I before had given my heart away ? 
 
 Ber. You fail in that respect you seem to bear, 
 When you speak words unfit for me to hear.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 369 
 
 Por. Yet you did once accept those vows I paid. 
 
 Her. Those vows were then to Berenice made ; 
 But cannot now be heard without a sin, 
 When offer'd to the wife of Maximin. 
 
 Por. Has, then, the change of fortune changed 
 
 your will ? 
 
 Ah ! why are you not Berenice still ? 
 To Maximin you once declared your hate ; 
 Your marriage was a sacrifice to th' state : 
 Your brother made it to secure his throne, 
 Which this man made a step to mount it on. 
 
 Ber. Whatever Maximin has been, or is, 
 I am to bear, since heaven has made me his ; 
 For wives, who must themselves of power divest, 
 When they love blindly, for their peace love best. 
 
 Por. If mutual love be vow'd when faith you 
 
 plight, 
 Then he, who forfeits first, has lost his right. 
 
 Ber. Husbands a forfeiture of love may make ; 
 But what avails the forfeit none can take ? 
 As, in a general wreck, 
 The pirate sinks with his ill-gotten gains, 
 And nothing to another's use remains, 
 So, by his loss, no gain to you can fall : 
 The sea and vast destruction swallows all. 
 
 Por. Yet he, who from the shore the wreck 
 
 descries, 
 May lawfully enrich him with the prize. 
 
 Ber. Who sees the wreck, can yet no title plead, 
 Till he be sure the owner first is dead. 
 
 Por. If that be all the claim I want to love, 
 This pirate of your heart I'll soon remove, 
 And, at one stroke, the world and you set free. 
 
 Ber. Leave to the care of heaven that world and 
 me. 
 
 Por. Heaven as its instrument my courage sends. 
 VOL. in. 2 A
 
 370 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT II, 
 
 Ber. Heaven ne'er sent those who fight for pri- 
 vate ends. 
 
 We both are bound by trust, and must be true ; 
 I to his bed, and to his empire you. 
 For he who to the bad betrays his trust, 
 Though he does good, becomes himself unjust. 
 
 Par. When Brutus did from Caesar Rome redeem, 
 The act was good. 
 
 Ber. But was not good in him. 
 You see the Gods adjudged it parricide, 
 By dooming the event on Caesar's side. 
 'Tis virtue not to be obliged at all ; 
 Or not conspire our benefactor's fall. 
 
 Por. You doom me then to suffer all this ill, 
 And yet 1 doom myself to love you still. 
 
 Ber. Dare not Porphyrius suffer then with me, 
 Since what for him, I for myself decree ? 
 
 Por. How can I bear those griefs you disapprove ? 
 
 Ber. To ease them, I'll permit you still to love. 
 
 Por. That will but haste my death, if you think 
 
 fit 
 
 Not to reward, but barely to permit. 
 Love without hope does like a torture wound, 
 Which makes me reach in pain, to touch the ground. 
 
 Ber. If hope, then, to your life so needful be, 
 Hope still. 
 
 Por. Blest news ! 
 
 Ber. But hope in heaven, not me. 
 
 Por. Love is too noble such deceits to use : 
 Referring me to heaven, your gift I lose. 
 So princes cheaply may our wants supply, 
 When they give that, their treasurers deny. 
 
 Ber. Love blinds my virtue : If I longer stay 
 It will grow dark, and I shall lose my way. 
 
 Por. One kiss from this fair hand can be no sin ; 
 I ask not that you gave to Maximin.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 371 
 
 In full reward of all the pains I've past, 
 Give me but one. 
 
 Ber. Then let it be your last 
 
 Por. 'Tis gone ! 
 
 Like soldiers prodigal of their arrears, 
 One minute spends the pay of many years. 
 Let but one more be added to the sum, 
 And pay at once for all my pains to come. 
 
 Ber. Unthrifts will starve, if we before-hand 
 give : [Putting back her hand. 
 
 I'll see you shall have just enough to live. 
 
 Enter EROTION. 
 
 Ero. Madam, the emperor is drawing near ; 
 And comes, they say, to seek Porphyrius here. 
 
 Ber. Alas ! 
 
 Por. I will not ask what he intends : 
 My life, or death, alone on you depends. 
 
 Ber. I must withdraw ; but must not let him 
 know [Aside. 
 
 How hard the precepts of my virtue grow ! 
 But whate'er fortune is for me design'd, 
 Sweet heaven, be still to brave Porphyrius kind ! 
 
 [Exit with EROTION. 
 
 Por. She's gone unkindly, and refused to cast 
 One glance to feed me for so long a fast. 
 
 Enter MAXIM IN, PLACIDIUS, and Guards. 
 
 Max. Porphyrius, since the Gods have ravish'd 
 
 one, 
 
 I come in you to seek another son. 
 Succeed him then in my imperial state ; 
 Succeed in all, but his untimely fate. 
 If I adopt you with no better grace, 
 Pardon a father's tears upon my face, 
 And give them to Charinus' memory : 
 May they not prove as ominous to thee !
 
 372 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT II. 
 
 For. With what misfortunes heaven torments me 
 
 still ! 
 
 Why must I be obliged to one so ill ? [Aside. 
 Max. Those offers which I made you, sir, were 
 
 such, 
 
 No private man should need to balance much. 
 Por. Who durst his thoughts to such ambition 
 lift ? [Kneeling. 
 
 The greatness of it made me doubt the gift. 
 The distance was so vast, that to my view 
 It made the object seem at first untrue ; 
 And now 'tis near, the sudden excellence 
 Strikes through, and flashes on my tender sense. 
 Max. Yet heaven and earth, which so remote 
 appear, [Raising him. 
 
 Are by the air, which flows betwixt them, near ; 
 And 'twixt us two my daughter be the chain, 
 One end with me, and one with you remain. 
 Por. You press me down with such a glorious 
 fate, [Kneeling again. 
 
 I cannot rise against the mighty weight. 
 Permit I may retire some little space, 
 And gather strength to bear so great a grace. 
 
 [Exit lowing. 
 
 Plac. How love and fortune lavishly contend, 
 Which should Porphyrius' wishes most befriend ! 
 The mid-stream's his ; I, creeping by the side, 
 Am shouldered off by his impetuous tide. [Aside. 
 
 Enter VALERIUS hastily. 
 
 Vol. I hope my business may my haste excuse ; 
 For, sir, I bring you most surprising news. 
 The Christian princess in her tent confers 
 With fifty of our learn'd philosophers ; 
 Whom with such eloquence she does persuade^ 
 That they are captives to her reasons made.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 373 
 
 I left them yielding up their vanquish'd cause, 
 And all the soldiers shouting her applause ; 
 Even Apollonius does but faintly speak, 
 Whose voice the murmurs of the assistants break. 
 
 Max. Conduct this captive Christian to my tent ; 
 She shall be brought to speedy punishment. 
 I must in time some remedy provide, [l&czWAL. 
 Lest this contagious error spread too wide. 
 
 Plac. To infected zeal you must no mercy shew ; 
 For, from religion all rebellions grow. 
 
 Max. The silly crowd, by factious teachers brought 
 To think that faith untrue, their youth was taught, 
 Run on in new opinions, blindly bold, 
 Neglect, contemn, and then assault the old. 
 The infectious madness seizes every part, 
 And from the head distils upon the heart. 
 And first they think their prince's faith not true, 
 And then proceed to offer him a new ; 
 Which if refused, all duty from them cast, 
 To their new faith they make new kings at last. 
 
 Plac. Those illsbymal-contentsareoften wrought. 
 That by their prince their duty may be bought. 
 They head those holy factions which they hate. 
 To sell their duty at a dearer rate. 
 But, sir, the tribune is already here. 
 With your fair captive. 
 
 Max. Bid them both appear 
 
 Enter St CATHARINE, VALERIUS, APOLLOMUS, 
 and Guards. 
 
 See where she comes, with that high air and mien, 
 Which marks, in bonds, the greatness of a queen. 
 What pity 'tis ! but I no charms must see 
 
 In her, who to our gods is enemy. 
 
 Fair foe of heaven, whence comes this haughty 
 pride, [To her.
 
 374 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT II. 
 
 Or, is it phrenzy does your mind misguide 
 To scorn our worship, and new gods to find ? 
 
 S. Cath. Nor pride, nor phrenzy, but a settled 
 
 mind, 
 Enlighten'd from above, my way does mark. 
 
 Max. Though heaven be clear, the way to it is 
 dark. 
 
 S. Cath. But where our reason with our faith 
 
 does go, 
 
 We're both above enlighten'd, and below. 
 But reason with your fond religion fights, 
 For many gods are many infinites : 
 This to the first philosophers was known, 
 Who, under various names, adored but one ; 
 Though your vain poets, after, did mistake, 
 Who every attribute a god did make ; 
 And so obscene their ceremonies be, 
 As good men loath, and Cato blush'd to see. 
 
 Max. War is my province ! Priest, why stand 
 
 you mute ? 
 You gain by heaven, and, therefore, should dispute. 
 
 Apol. In all religions, as in ours, there are 
 Some solid truths, and some things popular. 
 The popular in pleasing fables lie ; 
 The truths, in precepts of morality. 
 And these to human life are of that use, 
 That no religion can such rules produce. 
 
 S. Cath. Then let the whole dispute concluded be 
 Betwixt these rules, and Christianity. 
 
 Apol. And what more noble can your doctrine 
 
 preach, 
 
 Than virtue, which philosophy does teach ? 
 To keep the passions in severest awe, 
 To live to reason, nature's greatest lav/ ; 
 To follow virtue, as its own reward ; 
 And good and ill, as things without regard.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 375 
 
 S. Cath. Yet few could follow those strict rules 
 
 they gave : 
 
 For human life will human frailties have ; 
 And love of virtue is but barren praise, 
 Airy as fame ; nor strong enough to raise 
 The actions of the soul above the sense. 
 Virtue grows cold without a recompence. 
 We virtuous acts as duty do regard ; 
 Yet are permitted to expect reward. 
 
 Apol. By how much more your faith reward as- 
 sures, 
 So much more frank our virtue is than yours. 
 
 S. Cath. Blind men ! you seek e'en those rewards 
 
 you blame : 
 
 But ours are solid ; yours an empty name. 
 Either to open praise your acts you guide, 
 Or else reward yourselves with secret pride. 
 
 Apol. Yet still our moral virtues you obey ; 
 Ours are the precepts, though applied your way. 
 
 S. Cath. 'Tis true, your virtues are the same we 
 
 teach ; 
 
 But in our practice they much higher reach. 
 You but forbid to take another's due, 
 But we forbid even to desire it too. 
 Revenge of injuries you virtue call ; 
 But we forgiveness of our wrongs extol : 
 Immodest deeds you hinder to be wrought, 
 But we prescribe the least immodest thought. 
 So much your virtues are in ours refined, 
 That yours but reach the action, ours the mind. 
 
 Max. Answer, in short, to what you heard her 
 speak. [Tb APOL, 
 
 Apol. Where truth prevails, all arguments are 
 
 weak. 
 
 To that convincing power I must give place ; 
 And with that truth that faith I will embrace.
 
 376 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT II. 
 
 Max. O traitor to our gods but more to me ! 
 Dar'st thou of any faith but of thy prince's be ? 
 But sure thou rav'st ; thy foolish error find : 
 Cast up the poison that infects thy mind, 
 And shun the torments thou art sure to feel. 
 
 Apol. Nor fire, nor torture, nor revenging steel 
 Can on my soul the least impression make. 
 How gladly, truth, I suffer for thy sake ! 
 Once I was ignorant of what was so ; 
 But never can abandon truth I know. 
 My martyrdom I to thy crown prefer ; 
 Truth is a cause for a philosopher. 
 
 S. Cath. Lose not that courage which heaven 
 does inspire ; [To APOL. 
 
 But fearless go to be baptised in fire. 
 Think 'tis a triumph, not a danger near ; 
 Give him your blood ; but give him not a tear. 
 Go, and prepare my seat ; and hovering be 
 Near that bright space, which is reserved for me. 
 
 Max. Hence with the traitor ; bear him to his 
 fate. 
 
 Apol. Tyrant, I fear thy pity, not thy hate : 
 A life eternal I by death obtain. 
 
 Max. Go, carry him where he that life may gain. 
 [Exeunt APOL. VAL. and Guards. 
 
 Plac. From this enchantress all these ills are come. 
 You are not safe till you pronounce her doom. 
 Each hour she lives a legion sweeps away ; 
 She'll make your army martyrs in a day. 
 
 Max. 'Tisjust. This Christian sorceress shall die. 
 Would I had never proved her sorcery ! 
 Not that her charming tongue this change has bred ; 
 I fear 'tis something that her eyes have said. 
 I love ; and am ashamed it should be seen. [Aside. 
 
 Plac. Sir, shall she die ? 
 
 Max. Consider, she's a queen.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 377 
 
 Plac. Those claims in Cleopatra ended were. 
 
 Max. How many Cleopatras live in her ! [Aside. 
 
 Plac. When you condemn'd her, sir, she was a 
 queen. 
 
 Max. No, slave ! she only was a captive then. 
 
 S. Cath. My joyful sentence you defer too long. 
 
 Max. I never knew that life was such a wrong. 
 But if you needs will die, it shall be so. 
 Yet think it does from your perverseness flow. 
 Men say, indeed, that I in blood delight ; 
 But you shall find haste, take her from my sight ! 
 For Maximin I have too much confest ; 
 And, for a lover, not enough exprest. 
 Absent, I may her martyrdom decree ; 
 But one look more will make that martyr me. 
 
 [Exit St. CATHARINE, guarded. 
 
 Plac. What is it, sir, that shakes your mighty 
 mind ? 
 
 Max. Somewhat lam ashamed that thou shouldst 
 find. 
 
 Plac. If it be love, which does your soul pos- 
 sess 
 
 Max. Are you my rival, that so soon you guess ? 
 
 Plac. Far, mighty prince, be such a crime from 
 me ; [Kneeling. 
 
 Which, with the pride, includes impiety. 
 Could you forgive it, yet the gods above 
 Would never pardon me a Christian love. 
 
 Max. Thou liest. There's not a God inhabits 
 
 there, 
 
 But for this Christian would all heaven forswear. 
 Even Jove would try more shapes her love to win, 1 
 And in new birds, and unknown beasts, would sin. >- 
 At least, if Jove could love like Maximin. j 
 
 Plac. A captive, sir, who would a martyr die ? 
 
 Max. She courts not death, but shuns captivity.
 
 378 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT III. 
 
 Great gifts, and greater promises I'll make : 
 And what religion is't, but they can shake ? 
 She shall live high ; Devotion in distress 
 Is born, but vanishes in happiness. [Exit MAX. 
 Plac. [Solus.] His son forgot, his empress unap- 
 
 peased 
 
 How soon the tyrant with new love is seized ! 
 Love various minds does variously inspire : 
 He stirs, in gentle natures, gentle fire, 
 Like that of incense on the altars laid ; 
 But raging flames tempestuous souls invade ; 
 A fire, which every windy passion blows ; 
 With pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows. 
 But I accursed, who servilely must move, 
 And sooth his passion, for his daughter's love ! 
 Small hope, 'tis true, attends my mighty care ; 
 But of all passions love does last despair. [Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 SCENE I. The Royal Pavilion. 
 
 Enter MAXIMIN, PLACIDIUS, Guards, and 
 
 Attendants. 
 
 Max. This love, that never could my youth en- 
 gage, 
 
 Peeps out his coward head to dare my age. 
 Where hast thou been thus long,thou sleeping form, 
 That wak'st, like drowsy seamen, in a storm ? 
 A sullen hour thou chusest for thy birth. 
 My love shoots up in tempests, as the earth 
 Is stirr'd and loosen'd in a blust'ring wind, 
 Whose blasts to waiting flowers her womb unbind. 
 
 Plac. Forgive me, if I say your passions are 
 So rough, as if in love you would make war.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 379 
 
 But love is soft 
 
 And with soft beauty tenderly complies ; 
 In lips it laughs, and languishes in eyes. 
 
 Max. There, let it laugh ; or, like an infant, 
 
 weep : 
 
 I cannot such a supple passion keep. 
 Mine, stiff with age, and stubborn as my arms, 
 Walks upright; stoops not to, but meets hercharms. 
 
 Plac. Yet fierceness suits not with her gentle 
 
 kind ; 
 They brave assaults, but may be undermined. 
 
 Max. Till I in those mean arts am better read, 
 Court thou, and fawn, and flatter in my stead. 
 
 Enter St CATHARINE. 
 
 She comes ; and now, methinks, I could obey ; 
 Her form glides through me, and my heart gives 
 
 way : 
 
 This iron heart, which no impression took 
 From wars, melts down, and runs, if she but look. 
 
 [Exit MAXIMIN. 
 
 Plac. Madam, I from the emperor am come, 
 To applaud your virtue, and reverse your doom. 
 He thinks, whatever your religion be, 
 This palm is owing to your constancy. 
 
 S. Cat/i. My constancy from him seeks no re- 
 nown ; 
 Heaven, that proposed the course, will give the 
 
 crown. 
 Plac. But monarchs are the gods' vicegerents 
 
 here; 
 
 Heaven gives rewards ; but what it gives they bear : 
 From heaven to you the Egyptian crown is sent, 
 Yet 'tis a prince who does the gift present. 
 
 S. Cath. The deity I serve, had he thought fit, 
 Could have preserved my crown unconquer'd yet :
 
 380 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT HI. 
 
 But when his secret Providence design'd 
 To level that, he levell'd too my mind ; 
 Which, by contracting its desires, is taught 
 The humble quiet of possessing nought. 
 
 Plac. To stoics leave a happiness so mean : 
 Your virtue does deserve a nobler scene. 
 You are not for obscurity design'd, 
 But, like the sun, must cheer all human kind. 
 
 S. Catli. No happiness can be, where is no rest : 
 Th' unknown, untalk'd of man is only blest. 
 He, as in some safe cliff, his cell does keep, 
 From whence he views the labours of the deep. 
 The gold-fraught vessel, which mad tempests beat, 
 He sees now vainly make to his retreat ; 
 And when, from far, the tenth wave does appear, 
 Shrinks up in silent joy, that he's not there. 
 
 Plac. You have a pilot who your ship secures ; 
 The monarch both of earth and seas is yours ; 
 He, who so freely gives a crown away, 
 Yet asks no tribute but what you may pay. 
 One smile on him a greater wealth bestows, 
 Than Egypt yields, when Nilus overflows. 
 
 S. Cath. I cannot wholly innocent appear, 
 Since I have lived such words as these to hear. 
 O heaven, which does of chastity take care 
 
 Plac. Why do you lose an unregarded prayer ? 
 If happiness, as you believe, be rest, 
 That quiet sure is by the gods possest. 
 'Tis greatness to neglect, or not to know, 
 The little business of the world below. 
 
 S. Cath. This doctrine well befitted him, who 
 
 thought 
 
 A casual world was from wild atoms wrought. 
 But such an order in each chance we see, 
 (Chain'd to its cause, as that to its decree,) 
 That none can think a workmanship so rare 
 Was built, or kept, without a workman's care.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 381 
 
 To them MAXIMIN, Attendants, and Guards. 
 
 Max. Madam, you from Placidius may have 
 
 heard 
 
 Some news, which will your happiness regard ; 
 For what a greater happiness can be, 
 Than to be courted and be loved by me ? 
 The Egyptian crown I to your hands remit ; 
 And, with it, take his heart, who offers it. 
 
 [She turns aside. 
 Do you my person and my gift contemn ? 
 
 S. Cath. My hopes pursue a brighter diadem. 
 
 Max. Can any brighter than the Roman be ? 
 I find my proffer'd love has cheapen'd me. 
 Since you neglect to answer my desires, 
 Know, princess, you shall burn in other fires. 
 
 Why should you urge me to so black a deed ? 
 
 Think all my anger did from love proceed. 
 
 S. Cath. Nor threats nor promises my mind can 
 
 move; 
 Your furious anger, nor your impious love. 
 
 Max. The love of you can never impious be ; 
 
 You are so pure 
 
 That in the act 'twould change the impiety. 
 Heaven would unmake it sin ! 
 
 S. Cath. I take myself from that detested sight. 
 To my respect thou hast no longer right. 
 Such power in bonds true piety can have, 
 That I command, and thou art but a slave. 
 
 {Exit St. CATH. 
 
 Max. To what a height of arrogance she swells ! 
 Pride, or ill-nature, stui with virtue dwells. 
 Her death shall set me free this very hour ; 
 
 But is her death within a lover's power ? 
 
 Wild with my rage, more wild with my desire, 
 Like meeting tides but mine are tides of fire.
 
 382 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT III. 
 
 What petty promise-was't that caused this frown ? 
 
 Plac. You heard : No less than the Egyptian 
 crown. 
 
 Max. Throw Egypt's by, and offer, in the stead, 
 
 Offer the crown on Berenice's head. 
 
 I am resolved to double till I win ; 
 About it straight, and send Porphyrius in. 
 
 [Exit PLAC. 
 
 We look like eagles towering in the sky ; 
 While her high flight still raises mine more high. 
 
 To him PORPHYRIUS. 
 
 Por. I come, sir, to expect your great commands. 
 
 Max. My happiness lies only in thy hands ; 
 And, since I have adopted thee my son, 
 I'll keep no secret from thy breast unknown. 
 Led by the interest of my rising fate, 
 I did espouse this empress, whom I hate ; 
 And, therefore, with less shame I may declare, 
 That I the fetters of thy captive wear. 
 
 Por. Sir, you amaze me with so strange a love. 
 
 Max. Pity, my son, those flames you disapprove. 
 The cause of love can never be assign'd ; 
 'Tis in no face, but in the lover's mind. 
 
 Por. Yet there are beauties which attract all 
 
 hearts, 
 
 And all mankind lies open to their darts ; 
 Whose sovereignty, without dispute, we grant ; 
 Such graces, sure your empress does not want. 
 
 Max. Beauty has bounds 
 
 And can no more to every heart be so, 
 Than any coin through every land can go. 
 Some secret grace, which is but so to me, 
 Though not so great, may yet more powerful be. 
 All guard themselves when stronger foes invade ; 
 Yet, by the weak, surprises may be made. 
 But you, my son, are not to judge, but aid.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 383 
 
 Por. What is it, sir, you can require of me ? 
 
 Max. I would from Berenice's bonds be free ; 
 This yoke of marriage from us both remove, 
 Where two are bound to draw, though neither love. 
 
 Por. Neither the gods nor men will give con- 
 sent 
 To put in practice your unjust intent. 
 
 Max. Both must consent to that which I decree. 
 
 Por. The soldiers love her brother's memory ; 
 And for her sake some mutiny will stir. 
 
 Max. Our parting, therefore, shall be sought by 
 
 her. 
 
 Go, bid her sue for a divorce, or die ; 
 I'll cut the knot, if she will not untie. 
 Haste to prepare her, and thyself return ; 
 Thy Hymen's torch this day with mine shall burn. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Por. Rather my funeral-torch ; for, though I 
 
 know 
 
 Valeria's fair, and that she loves me too, 
 'Gainst her my soul is arm'd on every part. 
 Yet there are secret rivets to my heart, 
 Where Berenice's charms have found the way ; 
 Subtle as lightnings, but more fierce than they. 
 How shall I this avoid, or gain that love ! 
 So near the rock, I to the port must move. 
 
 To him VALERIA attended. 
 
 Vol. Porphyritis, now my joy I may express, 
 Nor longer hide the love I must possess. 
 Should I have staid till marriage made us one, 
 You might have thought it was by duty done ; 
 But of my heart I now a present make ; 
 And give it you, ere it be yours to take. 
 Accept it as when early fruit I send ; 
 And let the rareness the small gift commend.
 
 384 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT III. 
 
 Por. Great monarchs, like your father, often give 
 What is above a subject to receive. 
 But faithful officers should countermand 
 And stop the gift, that passes through their hand ; 
 And to their prince that mass of wealth restore, 
 Which, lavish'd thus, would make whole nations 
 poor. 
 
 Vol. But to this gift a double right you have : 
 My father gives but what before 1 gave. 
 
 Por. In vain you such unequal presents make, 
 Which I still want capacity to take. 
 Such fatal bounty once the Gauls did show ; 
 They threw their rings, but threw their targets too. 
 Bounty, so placed, does more like ruin look ; 
 You pour the ocean on a narrow brook. 
 
 Vol. Yet, if your love before prepares a boat, 
 The stream, so pour'd, drowns not, but makes it 
 float. 
 
 Por. But when the vessel is on quicksands cast, 
 The flowing tide does more the sinking haste. 
 
 Vol. And on what quicksands can your heart be 
 
 thrown ? 
 Can you a love besides Valeria's own ? 
 
 Por. If he who at his feet your heart would lay, 
 Be met with first, and robb'd upon the way, 
 You may indeed the robber's strength accuse, 
 But pardon him who did the present lose. 
 
 Vol. Who is this thief, that does my right pos- 
 sess? 
 
 Name her, and then we of her strength may guess. 
 From whence does yonr unwonted silence come ? 
 
 Por. She bound and gagg'd me, and has left me 
 dumb. 
 
 Vol. But of my wrongs I will aloud complain. 
 False man, thou would'st excuse thyself in vain ; 
 For thee I did a maiden's blush forsake ; 
 And own'd a love thou hast refused to take.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 385 
 
 For. Refused it ! like a miser midst his store, 
 Who grasps and grasps, till he can hold no more ; 
 And when his strength is wanting to his mind, 
 Looks back, and sighs on what he left behind. 
 
 Vol. No, I resume that heart thou didst possess ; 
 My father shall my injuries redress : 
 With me thou losest his imperial crown, 
 And speedy death attends upon his frown. 
 
 Par. You may revenge your wrongs a nobler 
 
 way; 
 Command my death, and I will soon obey. 
 
 Vol. No, live ! for on thy life my cure depends : 
 In debtors' deaths all obligation ends. 
 'Twill be some ease ungrateful thee to call ; 
 And, bankrupt-like, say, trusting him, lost all. 
 
 Por. Upbraided thus, what generous man would 
 
 live! 
 
 But fortune will revenge what you forgive. 
 When I refuse, (as in few hours I must) 
 This offer'd grace, your father will be just. 
 
 Vol. Be just ! say rather he will cruel prove, 
 To kill that only person I can love. 
 
 Yet so it is !< 
 
 Your interest in the army is so high, 
 
 That he must make you his, or you must die. 
 
 It is resolved ! whoe'er my rival be, 
 
 [Aside, after a pause. 
 
 I'll shew that I deserve him more than she ; 
 And if, at last, he does ungrateful prove, 
 My constancy itself rewards my love. [Exit. 
 
 Por. She's gone, and, gazing round about, I see 
 Nothing but death, or glorious misery ; 
 Here empire stands, if I could love displace ; 
 There, hopeless love, with more imperial grace ; 
 Thus, as a sinking hero, compass'd round, 
 Beckons his bravest foe for his last wound, 
 
 VOL. in. 2 B
 
 386 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT III. 
 
 And him into his part of fame does call, 
 I'll turn my face to love, and there I'll fall. 
 
 To him BERENICE, and EROTION. 
 
 Her. I come, Porphyrius, to congratulate 
 This happy change of your exalted fate : 
 You to the empire are, I hear, design'd ; 
 And fair Valeria must the alliance bind. 
 
 Por. Would heaven had my succession so decreed, 
 That I in all might Maximin succeed ! 
 He offers me the imperial crown, 'tis true. 
 I would succeed him, but it is in you. 
 
 Ber. In me ! I never did accept your love : 
 But you, I see, would handsomely remove ; 
 And I can give you leave without a frown : 
 I always thought you merited a crown. 
 
 Por. I never sought that crown but on your 
 
 brow ; 
 
 But you with such indifference would allow 
 My change, that you have kill'd me with that 
 
 breath ; 
 I feel your scorn cold as the hand of death. 
 
 Ber. You'll come to life in your Valeria's arms. 
 'Tis true, I cannot boast of equal charms ; 
 Or, if I could, I never did admit 
 Your love to me, but only suffer'd it. 
 I am a wife, and can make no return ; 
 And 'twere but vain in hopeless fires to burn. 
 
 Por. Unkind ! can you, whom only I adore, 
 Set open to your slave the prison-door ? 
 You use my heart just as you would afford 
 A fatal freedom to some harmless bird, 
 Whom, breeding, you ne'er taught to seek its food ; 
 And now let fly to perish in the wood. 
 
 Ber. Then, if you will love on, and disobey, 
 And lose an empire for my sake, you may.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 387 
 
 Will a kind look from me pay all this score, 
 For you well know you must expect no more ? 
 
 For. All I deserve it will, not all I wish : 
 But I will brave the tyrant's rage for this. 
 If I refuse, my death must needs ensue ; 
 But you shall see that I dare die for you. 
 
 Her. Would you, for me, 
 A beauty, and an empire too deny ? 
 I love you now so well that you shall die. 
 Die mine ! 'tis all I can, with honour, give : 
 Nor should you die, if after, I would live. 
 But when your marriage and your death I view, 
 That makes you false, but this will keep you true. 
 
 Por. Unbind thy brows, and look abroad to see, 
 O mighty Love, thy mightiest victory ! 
 
 Ber. And yet is there no other way to try ? 
 
 Tis hard to say I love, and let you die. 
 
 Por. Yes, there remains some help which you 
 
 might give, 
 If you, as I would die for love, would live. 
 
 Ber. If death for love be sweet, sure life is more : 
 Teach me the means your safety to restore. 
 
 Por. Your tyrant the Egyptian princess loves ; 
 And to that height his swelling passion moves, 
 That, fearing in your death the soldiers' force, 
 He from your bed does study a divorce. 
 
 Ber. The Egyptian princess I disputing heard, 
 And as a miracle her mind regard. 
 But yet I wish that this divorce be true. 
 
 [Gives her hand. 
 
 Por. 'Tis, madam, but it must be sought by you. 
 By this he will all mutinies prevent ; 
 And this as well secures your own content. 
 
 Ber. I hate this tyrant, and his bed I loath ; 
 But, once submitting, I am tied to both : 
 Tied to that honour, which all women owe, 
 Though not their husband's person, yet their vow.
 
 388 TY'UANNIC LOVE. ACT III. 
 
 Something so sacred in that bond there is, 
 That none should think there could be aught amiss. 
 And if there be, we should in silence hide 
 Those faults, which blame our choice, when they 
 are spied. 
 
 Por. But, since to all the world his crimes are 
 
 known, 
 
 And by himself the civil war's begun, 
 Would you the advantage of the fight delay, 
 If, striking first, you were to win the day ? 
 
 Her. I would, like Jews upon their sabbath, fall ; 
 And, rather than strike first, not strike at all. 
 
 Por. Against yourself you sadly prophecy. 
 You either this divorce must seek, or die. 
 
 Her. Then death from all my griefs shall set me 
 free. 
 
 Por. And would you rather chuse your death, 
 than me ? 
 
 Ber. My earthly part, 
 
 Which is my tyrant's right, death will remove ; 
 I'll come all soul and spirit to your love. 
 With silent steps I'll follow you all day, 
 Or else before you, in the sun-beams, play. 
 I'll lead you thence to melancholy groves, 
 And there repeat the scenes of our past loves. 
 At night, I will within your curtains peep ; 
 With empty arms embrace you while you sleep. 
 In gentle dreams I often will be by, 
 And sweep along before your closing eye. 
 All dangers from your bed I will remove ; 
 But guard it most from any future love. 
 And when, at last, in pity, you will die, 
 I'll watch your birth of immortality : 
 Then, turtle-like, I'll to my mate repair, 
 And teach you your first flight in open air. 
 
 [Exit BERENICE and EUATION.
 
 ACT IV. TYRANNIC LOVE. 389 
 
 For. She has but done what honour did require ; 
 Nor can I blame that love, which I admire. 
 But then her death ! 
 
 I'll stand betwixt, it first shall pierce my heart ; 
 We will be stuck together on his dart. 
 But yet the danger not so high does grow ; 
 I'll charge death first, perhaps repulse him too. 
 But if, o'erpower'd, I must be overcome, 
 Forced back, I'll fight each inch into my tomb. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE L An Indian cave. 
 
 Enter PLACIDIUS and NJGRINUS. NIGRINUS, with 
 two drawn swords, held upwards in his hands. 
 
 Plac. All other means have fail'd to move her 
 
 heart ; 
 Our last resource is, therefore, to your art. 
 
 Nig. Of wars, and bloodshed, and of dire events, 
 Of fates, and fighting kings, their instruments, 
 I could with greater certainty foretell ; 
 Love only does in doubts and darkness dwell. 
 For, like a wind, it in no quarter stays ; 
 But points and veers each hour a thousand ways. 
 On women love depends, and they on will ; 
 Chance turns their orb, while destiny sits still. 
 
 Plac. Leave nothing unattempted in your power. 
 Remember you oblige an emperor. 
 
 Nig. An earthy fiend by compact me obeys ; 
 But him to light intents I must not raise. 
 Some astral forms I must invoke by prayer, 
 Framed all of purest atoms of the air ; 
 Not in their natures simply good or ill ; 
 But most subservient to bad spirits' will.
 
 390 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 Nakar of these does lead the mighty band, 
 
 For eighty legions move at his command. 
 
 Gentle to all, but, far above the rest, 
 
 Mild Nakar loves his soft Damilcar best. 
 
 In airy chariots they together ride, 
 
 And sip the dew as through the clouds they glide. 
 
 These are the spirits, which in love have power. 
 
 Plac. Haste, and invoke them in a happy hour. 
 
 Nig. And so it proves : For, counting seven 
 
 from noon, 
 
 'Tis Venus' hour, and in the waxing moon, 
 With chalk I first describe a circle here, 
 Where these ethereal spirits must appear. 
 Come in, come in ; for here they will be strait : 
 Around, around, the place I fumigate : 
 My fumigation is to Vejms just: 
 The souls of roses, and red coral's dust ; 
 A lump of Sperma Ceti ; and to these 
 The stalks and chips of Lignum Aloes ; 
 And, last, to make my fumigation good, 
 'Tis mixt with sparrows' brains, and pigeons' blood, 
 [NiGRiNUS takes up the swords. 
 They come, they come, they come ! I hear them 
 now. 
 
 Plac. A death-like damp sits cold upon my brow, 
 And misty vapours swim before my sight. 
 
 Nig. They come not in a shape to cause your 
 fright. 
 
 NAKAR and DAMILCAR descend in clouds, 
 and sing. 
 
 Nakar. Hark, my Damilcar, we are caWd below ! 
 
 Dam. Let us go, let us go ! 
 Go to relieve the care 
 Of longing lovers in despair ! 
 
 Nakar. Merry, merry, merry, we sail from the 
 
 east, 
 Half tippled at a rain-low feast.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 391 
 
 Dam. In the bright moon-shine, while winds whis- 
 tle loud, 
 
 Tiny, tivy, tivy, we mount and we fly, 
 All racking along in a downy white cloud: 
 And lest our leap from the sky should prove too far, 
 We slide on the back of a new-falling star. 
 
 Nakar. And drop from above 
 In a jelly of love! 
 
 Dam. But now the sun's down, and the elements 
 
 red, 
 
 The spirits of fire against us make head! 
 Nakar. They muster, fhey muster, like gnate in 
 
 the air : 
 
 Alas ! I must leave thee, my fair ; 
 And to my light horse-men repair. 
 
 Dam. O stay, for you need not to fear them to- 
 
 night; 
 
 The wind is for us, and blows full in their sight : 
 And oi'er the wide ocean we fight ! 
 Like leaves in the autumn our foes wittfall down ; 
 And hiss in the water. 
 
 Both. And hiss in the water, and drown ! 
 Nakar. But their men lie securely intrench 'd in a 
 
 cloud, 
 And a trumpeter-hornet to battle sounds loud. 
 
 Dam. Now mortals that spy 
 How we tilt in the sky, 
 With wonder will gaze ; 
 
 And fear such events as will ne'er come to pass. 
 Nakar. Stay you to perform what the men will 
 
 have done. 
 
 Dam. Then call me again when the battle is won. 
 Both. So ready and quick is a spirit of air 
 To pity the lover, and succour the fair, 
 That, silent and swift, the little soft God 
 Is here with a wish, and is gone with a nod. 
 [The clouds part, NAKAR flies up, and DAMILCAR 
 down.
 
 392 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 %. I charge thee, spirit, stay ; and by the 
 power \To DAMILCAR. 
 
 Of Nakar's love, and of this holy wand, 
 On the north quarter of my circle stand, 
 (Seven foot around for my defence I take.) 
 To all my questions faithful answers make ! 
 So mayest thou live thy thousand years in peace, 
 And see thy airy progeny increase. 
 So mayest thou still continue young and fair, 
 Fed by the blast of pure ethereal air, 
 And, thy full term expired, without all pain, 
 Dissolve into thy astral source again. 
 
 Dam. Name not my hated rival Gemory, 
 And I'll speak true whate'er thy questions be. 
 
 Nig. Thy rival's hated name I will refrain. 
 Speak, shall the emperor his love obtain ? 
 
 Dam. Few hours shall pass before your emperor 
 
 shall be 
 Possess'd of that he loves, or from that love be free. 
 
 Plac. Shall I enjoy that beauty I adore ? 
 
 Dam. She, suppliant-like, ere long, thy succour 
 
 shall implore. 
 And thou with her thou lovest in happiness may'st 
 
 live, 
 If she not dies before, who all thy joys can give. 
 
 Nig. Say, what does the Egyptian princess now ? 
 
 Dam. A gentle slumber sits upon her brow. 
 
 Nig. Go, stand before her in a golden dream. 
 Set all the pleasures of the world to show, 
 And in vain joys let her loose spirit flow. 
 
 Dam. Twice fifty tents remove her from your 
 
 sight, 
 
 But I'll cut through them all with rays of light ; 
 And covering other objects to your eyes, 
 Shew where entranced in silent sleep she lies.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 393 
 
 DAMILCAB stamps, and the led arises with St 
 CATHARINE in it. 
 
 DAMILCAR singing. 
 
 You pleasing dreams of love and sweet delight, 
 
 Appear before this slumbering virgin's sight. 
 
 Soft visions set her free 
 
 From mournful piety. 
 
 Let her sad thoughts from heaven retire ; 
 
 And let the melancholy love 
 
 Of those remoter joys above 
 
 Give place to your more sprightly fire. 
 
 Let purling streams be in her fancy seen ; 
 
 And flowery meads, and vales of chearful green. 
 
 And in the midst of deathless groves 
 
 Soft sighing wishes lie, 
 
 And smiling hopes fast by, 
 
 And just beyond them ever-laughing loves. 
 
 A SCENE of a Paradise is discovered. 
 
 Plac. Some pleasing objects do her mind em- 
 ploy; 
 For on her face I read a wandering joy. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Dam. Ah how sweet it is to love ! 
 
 Ah how gay is young desire ! 
 And what pleasing pains we prove, 
 When we first approach love's fire ! 
 
 Pains of love be sweeter far 
 
 Than all other pleasures are. 
 
 Sighs, which are from lovers blown, 
 Do but gently heave the heart.
 
 39* TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 Even the tears they shed alone, 
 Cure, Kite trickling balm, their smart. 
 
 Lovers when they lose their breath., 
 
 Bleed away in easy death. 
 
 Love cmd time with reverence use t 
 Treat them like a parting friend, 
 Nor the golden gifts refuse, 
 Which in youth sincere they send. 
 For each year their price is more, 
 Ami they less simple than before. 
 
 Love, like spring-tides f ull and high, 
 
 Swells in every youthful vein ; 
 
 But each tide does less supply, 
 
 Till they quite shrink in again. 
 If a flow in age appear, 
 ' Tis but rain, and runs not clear. 
 
 At the end of the Song a Dance of Spirits. After 
 which AMARIEL, the Guardian- Angel of St CA- 
 THAIUNE, descends to soft music, with a flaming 
 sword. The spirits crawl off the stage amaxedly, 
 and DAMILCAR runs to a corner of it. 
 
 Amar. From the bright empire of eternal day, 
 Where waiting minds for heaven's commission stay, 
 Amariel flies. A darted mandate came 
 From that Great Will which moves this mighty 
 
 frame ; 
 
 Bid me to thee, my royal charge, repair, 
 To guard thee from the daemons of the air ; 
 My flaming sword above them to display, 
 (All keen, and ground upon the edge of day ;) 
 The flat to sweep the visions from thy mind, 
 The edge to cut them through that stay behind. 
 Vain spirits, you, that, shunning heaven's high noon, 
 Swarm here beneath the concave of the moon,
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 395 
 
 What folly, or what rage, your duty blinds, 
 To violate the sleep of holy minds? 
 Hence, to the task assign'd you here below ! 
 Upon the ocean make loud tempests blow ; 
 Into the wombs of hollow clouds repair, 
 And crush out thunder from the bladder'd air ; 
 From pointed sun-beams take the mists they drew, 
 And scatter them again in pearly dew ; 
 And of the bigger drops they drain below, 
 Some mould in hail, and others stamp in snow. 
 
 JJam. Mercy, bright spirit ! I already feel 
 The piercing edge of thy immortal steel. 
 Thou, prince of day, from elements art free ; 
 And I all body when compared to thee. 
 Thou tread'st the abyss of light, 
 And where it streams with open eyes canst go. 
 We wander in the fields of air below, 
 Changelings and fools of heaven ; and thence shut 
 
 out, 
 
 Wildly we roam in discontent about. 
 Gross, heavy-fed, next man in ignorance and sin, 
 And spotted all without, and dusky all within. 
 Without thy sword I perish by thy sight ; 
 I reel and stagger, and am drunk with light. 
 
 Amar. If e'er again thou on this place art found, 
 Full fifty years I'll chain thee under ground ; 
 The damps of earth shallHbe thy daily food, 
 All swoln and bloated like a dungeon toad. 
 And when thou shalt be freed, yet thou shalt lie 
 Gasping upon the ground, too i'aint to fly, 
 And lag below thy fellows in the sky. 
 
 Dam. O pardon, pardon this accursed deed, 
 And I no more on magic fumes will feed, 
 Which drew me hither by their powerful streams. 
 
 Amar. Go expiate thy guilt in holy dreams. 
 
 [Exit DAM.
 
 39G TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 But tliou, sweet saint, henceforth disturb'd no more 
 
 [To S. CATH. 
 
 With dreams not thine, thy thoughts to heaven re- 
 store. [ The Angel ascends, and the scene shuts. 
 Nig. Some holy being does invade this place, 
 And from their duty does my spirits chase. 
 I dare no longer near it make abode. 
 No charms prevail against the Christians' God. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Plac. How doubtfully these spectres fate foretell ! 
 In double sense, and twilight truth they dwell. 
 Like fawning courtiers for success they wait, 
 And then come smiling, and declare for fate. 
 
 Enter MAXIMIN and PORPHYRIUS, attended by 
 VALERIUS and Guards. 
 
 But see, the tyrant and my rival come : 
 I, like the fiends, will flatter in his doom. 
 None but a fool distasteful truth will tell ; 
 So it be new and please, 'tis full as well. 
 
 [PLAC. whispers with the Emperor, who seems 
 pleased. 
 
 Max. You charm me with your news, which I'll 
 
 reward ; 
 By hopes we are for coming joys prepared. 
 
 Possess her love, or from that love be free ; 
 
 Heaven speaks me fair. If she as kind can prove, 
 I shall possess, but never quit my love. 
 Go, tell me when she wakes. [Exit PLAC. 
 
 [PORPHYRIUS seems to beg something of him. 
 
 Porphyrius, no ; 
 
 She has refused, and I will keep my vow. 
 
 Por. For your own sake your cruel vow defer ; 
 The time's unsafe, your enemies are near, 
 And to displease your men when they should fight 
 
 Max. My looks alone my enemies will fright ; 
 And o'er my men I'll set my careful spies,
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 397 
 
 To watch rebellion in their very eyes. 
 No more, I cannot bear the least reply. 
 
 For. Yet, tyrant, thou shalt perish ere she die. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Enter VALERIA. 
 
 Valeria here ! how fortune treats me still 
 With various harms, magnificently ill ! 
 Max. Valeria, I was sending to your tent, 
 
 But my commands your presence does prevent, 
 This is the hour, wherein the priest shall join 
 Your holy loves, and make Porphyrius mine. 
 
 Vol. Now hold, my heart ! and Venus I implore, 
 Be judge if she he loves deserve him more. [Aside. 
 
 Por. Past hope ! and all in vain I would preserve 
 My life, not for myself, but her I serve. [Aside. 
 
 Vol. I come, great sir, your justice to demand. 
 
 [ To the emperor. 
 
 Max. You cannot doubt it from a father's hand. 
 
 Por. Sir, I confess, before her suit be known ; 
 And by myself condemn'd, my crime I own. 
 I have refused. 
 
 Vol. Peace, peace, while I confess 
 I have refused thee for unworthiness. 
 
 Por. I am amazed. 
 
 Max. What riddles do you use ? 
 Dare either of you my commands refuse? 
 
 Vol. Yes, I dare own, howe'er 'twas wisely done 
 To adopt so mean a person for your son, 
 So low you should not for your daughter chuse ; 
 And therefore, sir, this marriage I refuse. 
 
 Max. You liked the choice when first I thought 
 it fit. 
 
 Vol. I had not then enough consider'd it. 
 
 Max. And you have now consider'd it too much. 
 Secrets of empire are not safe to touch.
 
 398 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 For. Let not your mighty anger rise too high ; 
 Tis not Valeria merits it, but I. 
 My own unworthiness so well I knew, 
 That from her love I consciously withdrew. 
 
 Val, Thus rather than endure the little shame 
 To be refused, you blast a virgin's name. 
 You to refuse, and I to be denied i 
 Learn more discretion, or be taught less pride. 
 
 Por. O heaven, in what a labyrinth am I led ! 
 I could get out, but she detains the thread. 
 Now must I wander on, till I can see, 
 Whether her pity or revenge it be. [Aside. 
 
 Max. With what child's anger do you think you 
 
 play? 
 I'll punish both, if either disobey. 
 
 Val. Since all the fault was mine, I am content, 
 Porphyrius should not share the punishment. 
 
 Por. Blind that I was till now, that could not 
 
 see 
 
 'Twas all the effect of generosity ! 
 She loves me, even to suffer for my sake ; 
 And on herself would my refusal take. [Aside. 
 
 Max. Children to serve their parents' int'restlive; 
 Take heed what doom against yourself you give. 
 
 [To VAL. 
 
 Por. Since she must suffer, if I do not speak, 
 'Tis time the laws of decency to break. 
 She told me, sir, that she your choice approved, 
 And, (though I blush to own it) said she loved ; 
 Loved me desertless, who, with shame, confest 
 Another flame had seized upon my breast ; 
 AVhich, when, too late, the generous princess knew, 
 And fear'd your justice would rny crime pursue, 
 Upon herself she makes the tempest fall, 
 And my refusal her contempt would call. 
 
 Val. He raves, sir, and, to cover my disdain, 
 Unhandsomely would his denial feign ; 
 12
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 399 
 
 And, all means failing him, at last would try 
 To usurp the credit of a scorn, and die. 
 But, let him live. His punishment shall be 
 The grief his pride will bring for losing me. 
 
 Max. You both obnoxious to my justice are ; 
 And, daughter, you have not deserved my care. 
 'Tis my command you strictly guarded be, 
 Till your fantastic quarrel you agree. 
 
 p or . Sir 
 
 Max. I'll not hear you speak, her crime is plain ; 
 She owns her pride, which you perhaps may feign. 
 She shall be prisoner till she bend her mind 
 To that, which is for both of you design'd. 
 
 Vol. You'll find it hard my free-born will to 
 bound. 
 
 Max. I'll find that power o'er wills, which Heaven 
 
 ne'er found. 
 
 Free-will's a cheat in any one but me ; 
 In all but kings, 'tis willing slavery ; 
 An unseen fate which forces the desire ; 
 The will of puppets danced upon a wire. 
 A monarch is 
 
 The spirit of the world in every mind ; 
 He may match wolves to lambs, and make it kind. 
 Mine is the business of your little fates ; 
 And though you war, like petty wrangling states, 
 You're in my hand ; and, when I bid you cease, 
 You shall be crushed together into peace. 
 
 Vol. Thus by the world my courage will be prized ; 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Seeming to scorn, who am, alas, despised. 
 Dying for love's, fulfilling honour's laws ; 
 A secret martyr, while I own no cause. {Exit VAL. 
 
 Max. Porphyrius,stay ; there's something I would 
 
 hear. 
 You said you loved, and you must tell me where.
 
 400 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 Por. All heaven is to my sole destruction bent. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Max. You would, it seems, have leisure to in- 
 vent. 
 
 Por. Her name in pity, sir, I must forbear, 
 Lest my offences you revenge on her. 
 
 Max. My promise for her life I do engage. 
 
 Por. Will that, sir, be remember'd in your rage? 
 
 Max. Speak, or your silence more my rage will 
 
 move ; 
 'Twill argue that you rival me in love. 
 
 Por. Can you believe that my ambitious flame 
 Should mount so high as Berenice's name ? 
 
 Max. Your guilt dares not approach what it 
 
 would hide ; 
 
 But draws me off, and (lapwing-like) flies wide. 
 'Tis not my wife, but mistress, you adore. 
 Though that affront, yet this offends me more. 
 Who courts my wife, 
 Does to my honour more injurious prove, 
 But he, who courts my mistress, wrongs my love. 
 
 Por. The Egyptian princess ne'er could move my 
 heart. 
 
 Max. You could not perish by a nobler dart. 
 
 Por. Sir, I presume not beauties to compare ; 
 But in my eyes my princess is as fair. 
 
 Max. Your princess ! then it seems, though you 
 
 deny 
 Her name you love, you own her quality. 
 
 Por. Though not by birth or title so, yet she, 
 Who rules my heart, a princess is to me. 
 
 Max. No, no ; 
 
 'Tis plain that word you unawares did use, 
 And told a truth which now you would excuse. 
 Besides my wife and mistress, here are none, 
 Who can the title of a princess own. 
 
 Por. There is one more,
 
 SCENE II. TYRANNIC LOVE. 401 
 
 Your daughter, sir : Let that your doubt remove. 
 Max. But she is not that princess whom you love. 
 For. I named not love, though it might doubt- 
 ful seem : 
 She's fair, and is that princess I esteem. 
 
 Max. Go, and to passion your esteem improve, 
 While I command her to receive your love. 
 
 {Exit FOR. 
 
 Enter St CATHARINE. 
 
 S. Cath. I come not now, as captive to your power, 
 To beg ; but, as high heaven's ambassador, 
 The laws of my religion to fulfil : 
 Heaven sends me to return you good for ill. 
 Your empress to your love I would restore, 
 And to your mind the peace it had before. 
 
 Max. While in another's name you peace declare, 
 Princess, you in your own proclaim a war. 
 Your too great power does your design oppose ; 
 You make those breaches which you strive to close. 
 
 S. Cath. That little beauty, which too much you 
 
 prize, 
 
 Seeks not to move your heart, or draw your eyes : 
 Your love to Berenice is due alone ; 
 Love, like that Power which I adore, is one. 
 When fixed to one, it safe at anchor rides, 
 And dares the fury of the winds and tides ; 
 But losing once that hold, to the wide ocean borne, 
 It drives away at will, to every wave a scorn. 
 
 Max. If to new persons I my love apply, 
 The stars and nature are in fault, not I : 
 My loves are like my old Praetorian bands, 
 Whose arbitrary power their prince commands : 
 I can no more make passion come or go, 
 Than you can bid your Nilus ebb or flow. 
 'Tis lawless, and will love, and where it list ; 
 And that's no sin, which no man can resist : 
 VOL. in. 2 c
 
 402 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 Those who impute it to me as a crime, 
 Would make a god of me before my time. 
 
 S. Cath. A god indeed, after the Roman stile, 
 An eagle mounting from a kindled pile : 
 But you may make yourself a god below ; 
 For kings, who rule their own desires, are so. 
 You roam about, and never are at rest, 
 By new desires, that is, new torments, still possest ; 
 Qualmish and loathing all you had before, 
 Yet with a sickly appetite to more : 
 As in a feverish dream you still drink on, 
 And wonder why your thirst is never gone ; 
 Love, like a ghostly vision, haunts your mind, 
 'Tis still before you what you left behind. 
 
 Max. How can I help those faults which nature 
 
 made ? 
 
 My appetite is sickly and decay'd, 
 And you forbid me change, the sick man's ease ! 
 Who cannot cure, must humour his disease. 
 
 S. Cat/i. Your mind should first the remedy begin ; 
 You seek without the cure that is within. 
 The vain experiments you make each day, 
 To find content, still finding it decay, 
 Without attempting more, should let you see, 
 That you have sought it where it ne'er could be. 
 But when you place your joys on things above, 
 You fix the wandering planet of your love : 
 Thence you may see 
 
 Poor human kind, all dazed in open day, 
 Err after bliss, and blindly miss their way : 
 The greatest happiness a prince can know, 
 Is to love heaven above, do good below. 
 
 To them BERENICE and Attendants. 
 
 Her. That happiness may Berenice find, 
 Leaving these empty joys of earth behind :
 
 SCENE H. TYRANNIC l.OVi:. 403 
 
 And this frail being, where so short a while 
 
 The unfortunate lament, and prosperous smile. 
 
 Yet a few days, and those which now appear 
 
 In youth and beauty like the blooming year, 
 
 In life's swift scene shall change ; and cares shall 
 come, 
 
 And heavy age, and death's relentless doom. 
 /S". Cat/i. Yet man, by pleasures, seeks that fate 
 which he would shun ; 
 
 And, suck'd in by the stream, does to the whirlpool 
 
 run. 
 
 Max. How, madam, are you to new ways in- 
 clined ? 
 
 I fear the Christian sect perverts your mind. 
 
 [To BER. 
 JBer. Yes, tyrant, know, that I their faith embrace, 
 
 And own it in the midst of my disgrace ; 
 
 That faith, which, abject as it seems to thee, 
 
 Is nobler than thy purple pageantry ; 
 
 A faith, which still with nature is at strife, 
 
 And looks beyond it to a future life ; 
 
 A faith, which vicious souls abhor and fear, 
 
 Because it shews eternity too near : 
 
 And therefore every one, 
 
 With seeming scorn of it the rest deceives ; 
 
 All joining not to own what each believes. 
 
 S. Cat/i. O, happy queen ! whom power leads not 
 astray, 
 
 Nor youth's more powerful blandishments betray. 
 JBer. Your arguments my reason first inclined, 
 
 And then your bright example fix'd my mind. 
 Max. With what a holy empress am I blest ! 
 
 What scorn of earth dwells in her heavenly breast ! 
 
 My crown's too mean ; but He, whom you adore, 
 
 Has one more bright, of martyrdom, in store. 
 
 She dies, and I am from the envy freed : [Aside. 
 
 She has, I thank her, her own death decreed.
 
 404 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 No soldier now will in her rescue stir ; 
 
 Her death is but in complaisance to her. 
 
 I'll haste to gratify her holy will ; 
 
 Heaven grant her zeal may but continue still ! . 
 
 Tribune, a guard to seize the empress strait ; 
 
 [To VAL. 
 Secure her person prisoner to the state. 
 
 [Exit MAX. 
 Val. [Going to her.~\ Madam, believe 'tis with 
 
 regret I come, 
 To execute my angry prince's doom. 
 
 Enter PORPHYUIUS. 
 
 Por. What is it I behold ! Tribune, from whence 
 Proceeds this more than barbarous insolence ? 
 
 Val. Sir, I perform the emperor's commands. 
 
 Por. Villain, hold off thy sacrilegious hands, 
 Or, by the gods retire without reply ; 
 And, if he asks who bid thee, say 'twas I. 
 
 [VAL. retires to a distance. 
 
 Ber. Too generously your safety you expose, 
 To save one moment her, whom you must lose. 
 
 Por. 'Twixt you and death ten thousand lives 
 
 there stand ! 
 
 Have courage, madam ; the Praetorian band 
 Will all oppose your tyrant's cruelty. 
 
 S. Cath. And I have heaven implored she may 
 
 not die : 
 
 As some to witness truth heaven's call obey, 
 So some on earth must, to confirm it, stay. 
 
 Por. What faith, what witness, is it that you name? 
 
 Her. Knowing what she believes, my faith's the 
 same. 
 
 Por. How am I cross'd, what way soe'er I go ! 
 To the unlucky every thing is so. 
 Now, Fortune, thou hast shewn thy utmost spite ; 
 The soldiers will not for a Christian fight :
 
 SCENE II. TYRANNIC LOVE. 405 
 
 And, madam, all that I can promise now, 
 Is but to die, before death reaches you. 
 
 Ber. Now death draws near, a strange perplexity 
 Creeps coldly on me, like a fear to die : 
 Courage uncertain dangers may abate ; 
 But who can bear the approach of certain fate ? 
 
 S. Cath. The wisest and the best some fear may 
 
 show, 
 And wish to stay, though they resolve to go. 
 
 Ber. As some faint pilgrim, standing on the shore, 
 First views the torrent he would venture o'er ; 
 And then his inn upon the farther ground, 
 Loth to wade through, and lother to go round ; 
 Then dipping in his staff, does trial make 
 How deep it is, and, sighing, pulls it back ; 
 Sometimes resolved to fetch his leap, and then 
 Runs to the bank, but there stops short again ; 
 So I at once 
 
 Both heavenly faith and human fear obey, 
 And feel before me in an unknown way. 
 For this blest voyage I with joy prepare, 
 Yet am ashamed to be a stranger there. 
 
 S. Cath. You are not yet enough prepared to die; 
 Earth hangs too heavy for your soul to fly. 
 
 For. One way (and heaven, I hope, inspires my 
 
 mind) 
 
 I for your safety in this strait can find ; 
 But this fair queen must further my intent. 
 
 S. Cath. Name any way your reason can invent. 
 
 Por. to Ber. Though your religion (which I can- 
 not blame, 
 
 Because my secret soul avows the same) 
 Has made your life a forfeit to the laws, 
 The tyrant's new-born passion is the cause. 
 Were this bright princess once removed away, 
 Wanting the food, the flame would soon decay ;
 
 406 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 And I'll prepare a faithful guard this night 
 To attend her person, and secure her flight. 
 
 Ber. to S. Cath. By this way I shall both from 
 
 death be freed, 
 And you unforced to any wicked deed. 
 
 S. Cath. Madam, my thoughts are with them- 
 selves at strife, 
 
 And heaven can witness how I prize your life ; 
 But 'tis a doubtful conflict I must try, 
 Betwixt my pity and my piety : 
 Staying, your precious life I must expose ; 
 Going, my crown of martyrdom I lose. 
 
 Por. Your equal choice when heaven does thus 
 
 divide, 
 You should, like heaven, still lean on mercy's side. 
 
 > Cath. The will of heaven, judged by a private 
 
 breast, 
 
 Is often what's our private interest ; 
 And therefore those, who would that will obey, 
 Without their interest must their duty weigh. 
 As for myself, I do not life despise, 
 But as the greatest gift of nature prize. 
 My sex is weak, my fears of death are strong. 
 And whate'er is, its being would prolong. 
 Were there no sting in death, for me to die, 
 Would not be conquest, but stupidity. 
 But if vain honour can confirm the soul, 
 And sense of shame the fear of death controul ; 
 How much more then should faith uphold the mind, 
 Which, shewing death, shews future life behind ? 
 
 Ber. Of death's contempt heroic proofs you give ; 
 But, madam, let my weaker virtue live. 
 Your faith may bid you your own life resign ; 
 But not when yours must be involved with mine. 
 Since then you do not think me fit to die, 
 Ah, how can you that life I beg deny !
 
 SCENE II. TYRANNIC LOVE. 40? 
 
 S. Cath. Heaven does in this my greatest trial 
 
 make, 
 
 When I, for it, the care of you forsake ; 
 But I am placed, as on a theatre, 
 Where all my acts to all mankind appear, 
 To imitate my constancy or fear : 
 Then, madam, judge what course I should pursue, 
 When I must either heaven forsake, or you. 
 
 Par. Were saving Berenice's life a sin, 
 Heaven had shut up your flight from Maximin. 
 
 S. Cath. Thus with short plummets heaven's 
 
 deep will we sound, 
 
 That vast abyss where human wit is drown'd ! 
 In our small skiff we must not launch too far ; 
 We here but coasters, not discoverers, are. 
 Faith's necessary rules are plain and few ; 
 We many, and those needless, rules pursue : 
 Faith from our hearts into our heads we drive, 
 And make religion all contemplative. 
 You on heaven's will may witty glosses feign ; 
 But that which I must practise here is plain : 
 If the All-great decree her life to spare, 
 He will the means, without my crime, prepare. 
 
 [Exit St. CATH. 
 
 Por. Yet there is one way left ! it is decreed, 
 To save your life, that Maximin shall bleed ; 
 'Midst all his guards I will his death pursue, 
 Or fall a sacrifice to love and you. 
 
 Ber. So great a fear of death I have not shown, 
 That I would shed his blood to save my own ; 
 My fear is but from human frailty brought, 
 And never mingled with a wicked thought. 
 
 Por. 'Tis not a crime, since one of you must die, 
 Or is excused by the necessity. 
 
 Ber. I cannot to a husband's death consent, 
 But, by revealing, will your crime prevent. 
 The horror of this deed
 
 408 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 Against the fear of death has arm'd my mind, 
 
 And now less guilt in him than you I find. 
 
 If I a tyrant did detest before, 
 
 I hate a rebel, and a traitor more. 
 
 Ungrateful man ! 
 
 Remember whose successor thou art made, 
 
 And then thy benefactor's life invade. 
 
 Guards, to your charge I give your prisoner back, 
 
 And will from none but heaven my safety take. 
 
 [Exit with VALERIUS and Guards. 
 Por. [Solus."} 'Tis true, what she has often urged 
 
 before, 
 
 He's both my father, and my emperor ! 
 O honour, how can'st thou invent a way 
 To save my queen, and not my trust betray ! 
 Unhappy I, that e'er he trusted me ! 
 As well his guardian-angel may his murderer be. 
 
 And yet let honour, faith, and virtue fly, 
 
 But let not love in Berenice die. 
 
 She lives ! 
 
 That's put beyond dispute, as firm as fate ; 
 Honour and faith let argument debate. 
 
 Enter MAXIMIN and VALERIUS talking, and 
 Guards. 
 
 Max. 'Tis said, but I am loth to think it true, 
 
 [Jo FOR. 
 
 That my late orders were contemn'd by you ; 
 That Berenice from her guards you freed. 
 Por. I did it, and I glory in the deed. 
 Max. How, glory my commands to disobey ! 
 Por. When those commands would your renown 
 
 betray. 
 Max. Who should be judge of that renown you 
 
 name, 
 But I? 
 Por. Yes, I, and all who love your fame.
 
 SCENE II*. TYRANNIC LOVE. 409 
 
 Max. Porphyrius, your replies are insolent. 
 
 For. Sir, they are just, and for your service 
 
 meant. 
 
 If for religion you our lives will take, 
 You do not the offenders find, but make. 
 All faiths are to their own believers just ; 
 For none believe, because they will, but must. 
 Faith is a force from which there's no defence ; 
 Because the reason it does first convince : 
 And reason conscience into fetters brings ; 
 And conscience is without the power of kings. 
 
 Max. Then conscience is a greater prince than I, 
 At whose each erring call a king may die ! 
 Who conscience leaves to its own free command, 
 Puts the worst weapon in a rebel's hand. 
 
 Por. Its empire, therefore, sir, should bounded 
 
 be, 
 
 And, but in acts of its religion, free : 
 Those who ask civil power and conscience too, 
 Their monarch to his own destruction woo. 
 With needful arms let him secure his peace ; 
 Then, that wild beast he safely may release. 
 
 Max. I can forgive these liberties you take, 
 While but my counsellor yourself you make : 
 But you first act your sense, and then advise ; 
 That is, at my expence you will be wise. 
 My wife I for religion do not kill ; 
 But she shall die because it is my will. 
 
 Por. Sir, I acknowledge I too much have done, 
 And therefore merit not to be your son : 
 I render back the honours which you gave ; 
 My liberty's the only gift I crave. 
 
 Max. You take too much but, ere you lay it 
 
 down, 
 
 Consider what you part with in a crown : 
 Monarchs of cares in policy complain, 
 Because they would be pitied, while they reign ;
 
 410 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT IV. 
 
 For still the greater troubles they confess, 
 They know their pleasures will be envied less. 
 
 Por. Those joys I neither envy nor admire ; 
 But beg I from the troubles may retire. 
 
 Max. What soul is this which empire cannot 
 
 stir ! 
 
 Supine and tame as a philosopher ! 
 Know then, thou wert adopted to a throne, 
 Not for thy sake so much as for my own. 
 My thoughts were once about thy death at strife ; 
 And thy succession's thy reprieve for life. 
 
 Por. My life and death are still within your 
 
 power ; 
 
 But your succession I renounce this hour. 
 Upon a bloody throne I will not sit, 
 Nor share the guilt of crimes which you commit. 
 
 Max. If you are not my Caesar, you must die. 
 
 Por. I take it as the nobler destiny. 
 
 Max. I pity thee, and would thy faults forgive ; 
 But, thus presuming on, thou canst not live. 
 
 Por. Sir, with your throne your pity I restore ; 
 I am your foe, nor will I use it more. 
 Now all my debts of gratitude are paid, 
 I cannot trusted be, nor you betray'd. [/,? going. 
 
 Max. Stay, stay ! in threatening me to be rny 
 
 foe, 
 
 You give me warning to conclude you so. 
 Thou to succeed a monarch in his seat ! 
 
 Enter PLACIDIUS. 
 
 No, fool, thou art too honest to be great ! 
 Placidius, on your life this prisoner keep : 
 Our enmity shall end before I sleep. 
 
 Plac. I still am ready, sir, whene'er you please, 
 
 [To FOR. 
 To do you such small services as these.
 
 ACT V. TYRANNIC LOVE. 411 
 
 Max. The sight, with which my eyes shall first 
 
 be fed, 
 Must be my empress' and this traitor's head. 
 
 For. Where'er thou stand'st, I'll level at that 
 
 place 
 
 My gushing blood, and spout it at thy face. 
 Thus, not by marriage, we our blood will join ; 
 Nay more, my arms shall throw my head at thine. 
 
 [ Exit guarded. 
 
 Max. There, go, Adoption ! I have now decreed, 
 That Maximin shall Maximin succeed : 
 Old as I am, in pleasures I will try 
 To waste an empire yet before I die : 
 Since life is fugitive, and will not stay, 
 I'll make it fly more pleasantly away. [Exit 
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 
 
 Enter VALERIA and PLACIDIUS. 
 
 Vol. If, as you say, you silently have been 
 So long my lover, let my power be seen. 
 One hour's discourse before Porphyrius die, 
 Is all I ask, and you too may be by. 
 
 Plac. I must not break 
 The order, which the emperor did sign. 
 
 Vol. Has then his hand more power with you 
 than mine ? 
 
 Plac. This hand, if given, would far more power- 
 ful be 
 
 Than all the monarchs of the world to me : 
 But 'tis a bait which would my heart betray ; 
 And, when I'm fast, will soon be snatch'd away. 
 
 Vol. O say not so ; for I shall ever be 
 Obliged to him, who once obliges me.
 
 412 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 Plac. Madam, I'll wink, and favour the deceit ; 
 But know, fair cozener, that I know the cheat : 
 Though to these eyes I nothing can refuse, 
 I'll not the merit of my ruin lose. 
 It is enough I see the hook, and bite ; 
 But first I'll pay my death with my delight. 
 
 [Kisses her hand, and exit. 
 
 Vol. What can I hope from this sad interview ? 
 And yet my brave design I will pursue. 
 By many signs I have my rival found ; 
 But fortune him, as deep as me, does wound. 
 For, if he loves the empress, his sad fate 
 More moves my pity, than his scorn my Jiate. 
 
 To her PLACIDIUS, with PORPHYRIUS. 
 
 Plac. I am, perhaps, the first, 
 Who, forced by fate, and in his own despite, 
 Brought a loved rival to his mistress' sight. 
 
 Vol. But, in revenge, let this your comfort be, 
 That you have brought a man who loves not me. 
 However, lay your causeless envy by ; 
 He is a rival, who must quickly die. 
 
 Por. And yet I could, with less concernment, 
 
 bear 
 
 That death of which you speak, than see you here. 
 So much of guilt in my refusal lies, 
 That, debtor- like, I dare not meet your eyes. 
 
 Vol. I do not blame you, if you love elsewhere ; 
 And would to heaven I could your sufferings bear, 
 Or once again could some new way invent, 
 To take upon myself your punishment ! 
 I sent for you, to let you know, that still, 
 Though now I want the power, I have the will. 
 
 Plac. Can all this ocean of your kindness be 
 Pour'd upon him, and not one drop on me ?
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE* 413 
 
 Vol. 'Tis pour'd ; but falls from this ungrateful 
 
 man, 
 
 Like drops of water from a rising swan. 
 Upon his breast no sign of wet remains ; 
 He bears his love more proudly than his chains. 
 
 Por. This thankless man his death will soon re- 
 move, 
 And quickly end so undeserved a love. 
 
 Vol. Unthankful as you are, I know not why, 
 But still I love too well, to see you die. 
 Placidius, can you love, and see my grief, 
 And for my sake not offer some relief? 
 
 Plac. Not all the gods his ruin shall prevent ; 
 Your kindness does but urge his punishment. 
 Besides, what can I for his safety do ? 
 He has declared himself your father's foe. 
 
 Vol. Give out he has escaped, and set him free ; 
 And, if you please, lay all the fault on me. 
 
 Por. O, do not on those terms my freedom name ! 
 Freed by your danger, I should die with shame. 
 
 Plac. I must not farther by your prayers be won : 
 All I could do, I have already done. [To her. 
 
 Vol. To bring Porphyrius only to my sight, 
 Was not to shew your pity, but your spite. 
 Would you but half oblige her you adore? 
 You should not have done this, or should do more. 
 
 Plac. Alas ! what hope can there be left for me, 
 When I must sink into the mine I see ? 
 My heart will fall before you, if I stay ; 
 Each word you speak saps part of it away. 
 
 Yet all my fortune on his death is set ; 
 
 And he may love her, though he loves not yet. 
 He must and yet she says he must not die. 
 O, if I could but wink, I could deny !
 
 414 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 To them ALBINUS. 
 
 Alb. The emperor expects your prisoner strait ; 
 And with impatience for his death does wait. 
 
 Plac. Kay, then it is too late my love to weigh ; 
 Your pardon, madam, if I must obey. 
 
 [Exit ALBINUS, 
 
 Por. I am prepared ; he shall not long attend. 
 
 F<7/.^Then here my prayers and my submissions 
 
 end. 
 
 Placidius, know, that hour in which he dies, 
 My death (so well I love) shall wait on his. 
 
 Plac. O, madam, do not fright me with your 
 death ! 
 
 Vol. My life depends alone upon his breath, 
 But, if I live in him, you do not know 
 How far my gratitude to you may go. 
 I do not promise but it so may prove, 
 That gratitude, in time, may turn to love, 
 Try me 
 
 Plac. Now I consider it, I will : 
 
 [Musing a little, 
 
 'Tis in your power to save him, or to kill. 
 I'll run the hazard to preserve his life, 
 If, after that, you vow to be my wife. 
 
 Vol. Nay, good Placidius, now you are too hard. 
 Would you do nothing but for mere reward ? 
 Like usurers to men in want you prove, 
 When you would take extortion for my love. 
 
 Plac. You have concluded, then, that he must 
 die ? [Going with PORPHYIIIUS, 
 
 VaL O stay ! if no price else his life can buy, 
 My love a ransom for his life I give : 
 Let my Porphyrius for another live. 
 
 [Holding her handkerchief before her face, 
 
 Por. You too much value the small merchandise ; 
 My life's o'er-rated, when your love's the price.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 415 
 
 Enter ALBINUS. 
 
 Alb. I long have listen'd to your generous strife, 
 As much concern'd for brave Porphyrius' life. 
 For mine I to his favour owed this day ; 
 Which with my future service I will pay. 
 
 Plac. Lest any your intended flight prevent, 
 I'll lead you first the back-way to my tent ; 
 Thence, in disguise, you may the city gain, 
 While some excuse for your escape I feign. 
 
 Vol. Farewell ! I must not see you when you 
 part ; [ Turning her face away. 
 
 For that last look would break my tender heart. 
 
 Yet let it break 1 must have one look more. 
 
 [Looking on him. 
 
 Nay, now I'm less contented than before ; 
 For that last look draws on another too ; 
 Which sure I need not, to remember you. 
 
 For ever yet I must one glance repeat ; 
 
 But quick and short as starving people eat. 
 So much humanity dwell in your breast, 
 Sometimes to think on her who loves you best ! 
 
 [Going he takes her hand and kisses it. 
 
 Por. My wandering steps wherever fortune bear, 
 Your memory I in my breast will wear ; 
 Which, as a precious amulet, I still 
 Will carry, my defence and guard from ill. 
 Though to my former vows I must be true, 
 I'll ever keep one love entire for you ; 
 That love, which brothers with chaste sisters make : 
 And by this holy kiss, which now I take 
 
 From your fair hand 
 
 This common sun, which absent both shall see, 
 Shall ne'er behold a breach of faith in me.
 
 416 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 Vol. Go, go ! my death will your short vows re- 
 store ; 
 You've said enough, and I can hear no more. 
 
 [Exeunt VAL. oneway, and f on. and ALB. 
 
 another. 
 
 Plac. Love and good nature, how do you betray ! 
 Misleading those who see and know their way ! 
 I, whom deep arts of state could ne'er beguile, 
 Have sold myself to ruin for a smile. 
 Nay, I am driven so low, that I must take 
 That smile, as alms, given for my rival's sake. 
 
 Enter MAXIM IN, talking with VALERIUS. 
 
 Max. And why was I not told of this before ? 
 
 Vol. Sir, she this evening landed on the shore ; 
 For with her daughter being prisoner made, 
 She in another vessel was convey'd. 
 
 Max. Bring hither the Egyptian princess strait. 
 
 [JbPLAC. 
 
 And you, Valerius, on her mother wait. 
 
 [Exit VAL. 
 
 Plac. The mother of the Egyptian princess here ! 
 
 Max. Porphyrius' death I will a while defer, 
 And this new opportunity improve, 
 To make my last effort upon her love. 
 
 [Exit PLAC. 
 
 Those, who have youth, may long endure to court ; 
 But he must swiftly catch, whose race is short. 
 I in my autumn do my siege begin ; 
 And must make haste, ere winter comes, to win. 
 This hour no longer shall my pains endure 
 Her love shall ease me, or her death shall cure. 
 
 Enter at one door FELICIA and VALERIUS, at the 
 other St CATHARINE and PLACIDIUS. 
 
 S. Cath. O, my dear mother !
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 417 
 
 Pel. With what joy I see 
 My dearest daughter from the tempest free ! 
 
 S. Cat/i. Dearer than all the joys vain empire 
 
 yields, 
 
 Or than to youthful monarchs conquer'd fields ! 
 Before you came, my soul, 
 All fill'd with heaven, did earthly joys disdain : 
 But you pull back some part of me again. 
 
 Plac. You see, sir, she can own a joy below. 
 
 Max. It much imports me that this truth I 
 know. 
 
 Fel. How dreadful death does on the waves ap- 
 pear, 
 
 Where seas we only see, and tempests hear ! 
 Such frightful images did then pursue 
 My trembling soul, that scarce I thought of you. 
 
 Plac. All circumstances to your wish combine : 
 Her fear of death advances your design. [ To MAX. 
 
 Fel. But to that only power we serve I pray'd, 
 Till He, who bid it rise, the tempest laid. 
 
 Max. You are a Christian then ! [To FELICIA. 
 For death this very hour you must prepare. 
 I have decreed no Christian's life to spare. 
 
 Fel. For death ! I hope you but my courage try : 
 Whatever I believe, I dare not die. 
 Heaven does not, sure, that seal of faith require ; 
 Or, if it did, would firmer thoughts inspire. 
 A woman's witness can no credit give 
 To truths divine, and therefore I would live. 
 
 Max. I cannot give the life which you demand : 
 But that and mine are in your daughter's hand. 
 Ask her, if she will yet her love deny, 
 And bid a monarch, and her mother, die. 
 
 Fel. Now, mighty prince, you cancel all my fear : 
 My life is safe, when it depends on her. 
 
 VOL. III. 2 D
 
 418 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 How caa you let me languish thus in pain ? 
 
 [To St. CATH. 
 
 Make haste to cure those doubts which yet remain. 
 Speak quickly, speak, and ease me of my fear. 
 
 S. Cath. Alas, I doubt it is not you I hear ! 
 Some wicked fiend assumes your voice and face, 
 To make frail nature triumph over grace. 
 It cannot be, 
 
 That she, who taught my childhood piety, 
 Should bid my riper age my faith deny ; 
 That she, who bid my hopes this crown pursue, 
 Should snatch it from me when 'tis just in view. 
 
 Fel. Peace, peace! too much my age's shame you 
 
 show: 
 
 How easy 'tis to teach ! how hard to do ! 
 My labouring thoughts are with themselves at 
 
 strife ; 
 I dare not die, nor bid you save my life. 
 
 Max. You must do one, and that without delay ; 
 Too long already for your death I stay. 
 I cannot with your small concerns dispense ; 
 For deaths of more importance call me hence. 
 Prepare to execute your office strait. 
 
 [To his Guards. 
 
 Fel. O stay, and let them but one minute wait ! 
 Such quick commands for death you would not 
 
 give, 
 If you but knew how sweet it were to live. 
 
 Max. Then bid her love. 
 
 Fel. Is duty grown so weak, 
 
 [To St. CATH. 
 That love's a harder word than death to speak ? 
 
 S. Cath. Oh! 
 
 Fel. Mistake me not ; I never can approve 
 A thing so wicked as the tyrant's love.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 419 
 
 I ask you would but some false promise give, 
 Only to gain me so much time to live. 
 
 [Privately to St. CATHARINE. 
 
 S. Cat/i. That promise is a step to greater sin : 
 The hold, once lost, we seldom take again. 
 Each bound to heaven we fainter essays make, 
 Still losing somewhat, till we quite go back. 
 
 Max. Away ! I grant no longer a reprieve. 
 
 Fel. O, do but beg my life, and I may live. 
 
 \To St. CATH. 
 
 Have you not so much pity in your breast ? 
 He stays to have you make it your request. 
 
 S. Caih. To beg your life, 
 Is not to ask a grace of Maximin : 
 It is a silent bargain for a sin. 
 Could we live always, life were worth our cost ; 
 But now we keep with care what must be lost. 
 Here we stand shivering on the bank, and cry, 
 When we should plunge into eternity. 
 One moment ends our pain ; 
 And yet the shock of death we dare not stand, 
 By thought scarce measured, and too swift for sand : 
 'Tis but because the living death ne'er knew, 
 They fear to prove it as a thing that's new. 
 Let me the experiment before you try, 
 I'll shew you first how easy 'tis to die. 
 
 Max. Draw then that curtain, and let death ap- 
 pear, 
 And let both see how easy 'twill be there. 
 
 The SCENE opens, and shews the Wheel. 
 
 Fel. Alas, what torments I already feel ! 
 Max. Go, bind her hand and foot beneath that 
 wheel.
 
 420 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 Four of you turn the dreadful engine round ; 
 Four others hold her fasten'd to the ground ; 
 That, by degrees, her tender breasts may feel, 
 First, the rough razings of the pointed steel ; 
 Her paps then let the bearded tenters stake, 
 And on each hook a gory gobbet take ; 
 Till the upper flesh, by piece-meal torn away, 
 Her beating heart shall to the sun display. 
 
 Fel. My dearest daughter, at your feet I fall ; 
 
 [Kneeling. 
 
 Hear, oh yet hear your wretched mother's call ! 
 Think, at your birth, ah think what pains I bore, 
 And can your eyes behold me suffer more ? 
 You were the child, which from your infancy 
 I still loved best, and then you best loved me. 
 About my neck your little arms you spread, 
 Nor could you sleep without me in the bed ; 
 But sought my bosom when you went to rest, 
 And all night long would lie across my breast. 
 Nor without cause did you that fondness show. 
 You may remember when our Nile did flow, 
 While on the bank you innocently stood, 
 And with a wand made circles in the flood, 
 That rose, and just was hurrying you to death, 
 When I, from far, all pale and out of breath, 
 Ran and rushed in 
 
 And from the waves my floating pledge did bear, 
 So much my love was stronger than my fear. 
 But you 
 
 Max. Woman, for these long tales your life's too 
 
 short. 
 Go, bind her quickly, and begin the sport. 
 
 Fel. No, in her arms my sanctuary's placed ; 
 Thus I will cling for ever to her waist. 
 
 [Running to her daughter.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 421 
 
 Max. What, must my will by women be con- 
 
 troul'd ? 
 Haste, draw your weapons, and cut off her hold ! 
 
 S. Cath. Thus my last duty to you let me pay : 
 
 [Kissing her mother. 
 Yet, tyrant, I to thee will never pray. 
 Though hers to save I my own life would give, 
 Yet by my sin my mother shall not live. 
 To thy foul lust I never can consent ; 
 Why dost thou then defer my punishment ? 
 I scorn those gods thou vainly dost adore ; 
 Contemn thy empire, but thy bed abhor. 
 If thou would'st yet a bloodier tyrant be, 
 I will instruct thy rage ; begin with me. 
 
 Max. I thank thee that thou dost my anger 
 
 move; 
 
 It is a tempest that will wreck my love. 
 I'll pull thee hence, close hidden as thou art, 
 
 [Claps his hand to his breast. 
 And stand with my drawn sword before my heart. 
 
 Yes, you shall be obey'd, though I am loth ; 
 
 Go, and while I can bid you, bind them both ; 
 Go, bind them ere my fit of love return ; 
 Fire shall quench fire, and anger love shall burn. 
 Thus I prevent those follies I should do ; 
 And 'tis the nobler fever of the two. 
 
 Pel. Torn piece by piece ! alas, what horrid pains ! 
 
 S. Cath. Heaven is all mercy, who that death or- 
 dains ; 
 
 And that, which Heaven thinks best, is surely so : 
 But bare, and naked, shame to undergo, 
 'Tis somewhat more than death ! 
 Exposed to lawless eyes I dare not be ; 
 My modesty is sacred, Heaven, to thee ! 
 Let not my body be the tyrant's spoil ; 
 Nor hands nor eyes thy purity defile. 
 
 [AMERIEL descends swiftly with a flaming sword,
 
 422 TYllANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 and strikes at the Wheel, which breaks in pieces ; 
 then he ascends again. 
 
 Max. Is this the effect of all your boasted skill ? 
 These brittle toys to execute my will ? 
 A puppet-shew of death I only find, 
 Where I a strong and sinewy pain design'd. 
 By what weak infant was this engine wrought ? 
 
 Val. From Bilbilis the tern per'd steel was brought; 
 Metal more tough the anvil ne'er did beat, 
 Nor, from the forge, did hissing waters heat. 
 
 Plac. I saw a youth descend all heavenly fair, 
 Who in his hand a flaming sword did bear, 
 And, whirlwind-like, -around him drove the air. 
 At his raised arm the rigid iron shook, 
 And, bending backwards, fled before the stroke. 
 Max. What ! miracles, the tricks of heaven to 
 
 me? 
 
 I'll try if she be wholly iron- free. 
 If not by sword, then she shall die by fire ; 
 And one by one her miracles I'll tire. 
 If proof against all kind of death she be, 
 My love's immortal, and she's fit for me. 
 
 S. Cath. No, heaven has shewn its power, and 
 
 now thinks fit 
 
 Thee to thy former fury to remit. 
 Had providence my longer life decreed, 
 Thou from thy passion hadst not yet been freed. 
 But Heaven, which suffer'd that, my faith to prove, 
 Now to itself does vindicate my love. 
 A power controuls thee, which thou dost not see ; 
 And that's a miracle it works in thee. 
 
 Max. The truth of this new miracle we'll try ; 
 To prove it, you must take the pains to die. 
 Bring me their heads. 
 
 Pel. That mercy, tyrant, thou deny'st to me, 
 At thy last breath may Heaven refuse to thee !
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 423 
 
 My fears are going, and I death can view. 
 I see, I see him there thy steps pursue, 
 And, with a lifted arm, and silent pace, 
 Stalk after thee, just aiming in his chace. 
 
 S. Cath. No more, dear mother ; ill in death it 
 
 shows 
 
 Your peace of mind by rage to discompose : 
 No streak of blood (the relics of the earth) 
 Shall stain my soul in her immortal birth ; 
 But she shall mount all pure, a white and virgin 
 
 mind, 
 And full of all that peace, which there she goes to 
 
 find. 
 
 [Exeunt St CATHARINE and FELICIA, with 
 
 VALERIUS, and Guards. The scene shuts. 
 
 Max. She's gone, and pull'd my heart-strings as 
 
 she went. 
 
 Were penitence no shame, I could repent. 
 Yet, 'tis of bad example she should live ; 
 For I might get the ill habit, to forgive. 
 Thou soft seducer of my heart, away ! 
 Who ling'ring would'st about its confines stay, 
 To watch when some rebellion would begin, 
 And ready at each sigh to enter in. 
 In vain ; for thou 
 
 Dost on the outside of the body play, 
 And, when drawn nearest, shall be whirl'd away. 
 
 What ails me, that I cannot lose thy thought ! 
 
 Command the empress hither to be brought ; 
 
 [To PL AC. 
 
 I in her death shall some diversion find, 
 And rid my thoughts at once of woman-kind. 
 Plac. 'Tis well he thinks not of Porphyrius yet. 
 
 [Aside, Exit. 
 
 Max. How hard it is this beauty to forget ! 
 My stormy rage has only shook my will : 
 She crept down lower, but she sticks there still.
 
 424 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 Fool that I am, to struggle thus with love ! 
 Why should I that, which pleases me, remove ? 
 True, she should die, were she concern'd alone ; 
 But I love, not for her sake, but my own. 
 Our Gods are Gods, 'cause they have power and 
 
 will ; 
 
 Who can do all things, can do nothing ill. 
 Ill is rebellion 'gainst some higher power : 
 The world may sin, but not its emperor. 
 My empress then shall die, my princess live ; 
 If this be sin, I do myself forgive. 
 
 To him, VALERIUS. 
 
 Val. Your will's obey'd ; for, mighty emperor, 
 The princess and her mother are no more. 
 
 Max. She is not dead ! 
 
 Val. Great sir, your will was so. 
 
 Max. That was my will of half an hour ago. 
 But now 'tis altered ; I have changed her fate, 
 She shall not die. 
 
 Val. Your pity comes too late. 
 Betwixt her guards she seem'd by bride-men led, 
 Her cheeks with cheerful blushes were o'erspread ; 
 When, smiling, to the axe she bow'd her head, 
 Just at the stroke, 
 
 jEtherial music did her breath prepare, 
 Like joyful sounds of spousals in the air ; 
 A radiant light did her crown'd temples gild, 
 And all the place with fragrant scents was fill'd ; 
 The balmy mist came thickening to the ground, 
 And sacred silence cover'd all around. 
 But when (its work perform'd) the cloud with- 
 drew, 
 
 And day restored us to each other's view, 
 I sought her head, to bring it on my spear ; 
 In vain I sought it, for it was not there ;
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 425 
 
 No part remain'd ; but, from afar, our sight 
 Discover'd in the air long tracts of light ; 
 Of charming notes we heard the last rebounds, 
 And music dying in remoter sounds. 
 
 Max. And dost thou think 
 This lame account fit for a love-sick king ? 
 Go, from the other world a better bring. 
 
 {Kills him, then sets his foot on him, and 
 
 speaks on. 
 
 When in my breast two mighty passions strove, 
 Thou had'st err'd better in obeying love. 
 'Tis true, that way thy death had follow'd too, 
 But I had then been less displeased than now. 
 Now I must live unquiet for thy sake ; 
 And this poor recompence is all I take. 
 
 [Spurns the body. 
 
 Here the Scene opens, and discovers BERENICE on 
 
 ' a scaffold, the Guards by her, and amongst them 
 
 PORPHYRIUS and ALBINUS, like Moors, as all 
 
 the Guards are. PLACIDIUS enters, and whispers 
 
 the Emperor whilst PORPHYRIUS speaks. 
 
 Por. From Berenice I cannot go away, 
 But, like a ghost, must near my treasure stay. 
 
 Alb. Night and this shape secure us from their 
 eyes. 
 
 Por. Have courage then for our bold enterprize. 
 Duty and faith no tie on me can have, 
 Since I renounced those honours which he gave. 
 
 Max. The time is come we did so long attend, 
 
 [To BER. 
 
 Which must these discords of our marriage end. 
 Yet Berenice, remember you have been 
 An empress, and the wife of Maximin. 
 
 Her. I will remember I have been your wife ; 
 And therefore, dying, beg from heaven your life :
 
 426 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 Be all the discords of our bed forgot* 
 Which, virtue witness, I did never spot. 
 What errors I have made, though while I live 
 You cannot pardon, to the dead forgive. 
 
 Max. How much she is to piety inclined ! 
 Behead her, while she's in so good a mind. 
 
 Por. Stand firm, Albinus ; now the time is come 
 To free the empress. 
 
 Alb. And deliver Rome. 
 
 Por. Within I feel my hot blood swell my heart, 
 And generous trembling in each outward part. 
 'Tis done, tyrant, this is thy latest hour. 
 
 [PoRPHYRius and ALBINUS draw, and are 
 making at the Emperor. 
 
 Ber. Look to yourself, my lord the emperor ! 
 Treason, help, help, my lord ! 
 
 [MAXIMIN turns and defends himself, the Guards 
 set on PORPHYRIUS and ALBINUS. 
 
 Max. Disarm them, but their lives I charge you 
 spare. \_j4fter they are disarmed. 
 
 Unmask them, and discover who they are. 
 
 Good Gods, is it Porphyrius whom I see ! 
 
 Plac. I wonder how he gain'd his liberty. 
 
 Max. Traitor! 
 
 Por. Know, tyrant, I can hear that name, 
 Rather than son, and bear it with less shame. 
 Traitor's a name, which, were my arm yet free, 
 The Roman senate would bestow on thee. 
 Ah, madam, you have ruin'd my design, [To BER. 
 And lost your life ; for I regard not mine. 
 Too ill a mistress, and too good a wife. 
 
 JSer. It was my duty to preserve his life. 
 
 Max. Now I perceive [To POR. 
 
 In what close walk your mind so long did move : 
 You scorn'd my throne, aspiring to her love. 
 
 Ber. In death I'll own a love to him so pure, 
 As will the test of heaven itself endure ;
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 427 
 
 A love so chaste, as conscience could not chide ; 
 But cherish it,*and keep it by its side. 
 A love, which never knew a hot desire, 
 But flamed as harmless as a lambent fire ; 
 A love, which pure from soul to soul might pass, 
 As light transmitted through a crystal glass ; 
 Which gave Porphyrius all without a sin, 
 Yet kept entire the right of Maximin. 
 
 Max. The best return that I to both can make, 
 Shall be to suffer for each other's sake. 
 
 Par. Barbarian, do not dare her blood to shed, 
 Who from my vengeance saved thy cursed head ; 
 A flight, no honour ever reach'd before, 
 And which succeeding ages will adore. 
 
 Ber. Porphyrius, I must die ! 
 That common debt to nature paid must be ; 
 But I have left a debt unpaid to thee. 
 To Maximin 
 
 I have perform'd the duty of a wife ; 
 But, saving his, I cast away thy life. 
 Ah, what ill stars upon our loves did shine, 
 That I am more thy murd'rer, than he mine ! 
 
 Max. Make haste. 
 
 Por. So hasty none in execution are, 
 But they allow the dying time for prayer. 
 Farewell, sweet saint ! my prayer shall be to you : 
 My love has been unhappy, but 'twas true. 
 Remember me ! Alas, what have I said ? 
 You must die too ! 
 But yet remember me when you are dead. 
 
 Ber. If I die first, I will 
 
 Stop short of heaven, and wait you in a cloud ; 
 For fear we lose each other in the crowd. 
 
 Por. Love is the only coin in heaven will go : 
 Then take all with you, and leave none below. 
 
 Ber. 'Tis want of knowledge, not of love, I fear ; 
 Lest we mistake when bodies are not there.
 
 428 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 O, as a mark, that I could wear a scroll, 
 With this inscription, Berenice's soul. 
 Por. That needs not, sure ; for none will be so 
 
 bright, 
 So pure, or with so small allays of light. 
 
 Max. From my full eyes fond tears begin to 
 
 start ; 
 
 Despatch, they practise treason on my heart. 
 Por. Adieu ! This farewell sigh I as my last 
 
 bequeath ; 
 Catch it, 'tis love expiring in a breath. 
 
 ~Ber. This sigh of mine shall meet it half the way, 
 As pledges given that each for other stay. 
 
 Enter VALERIA and CYDON. 
 
 Vol. What dismal scene of death is here prepared ! 
 
 Max. Now strike. 
 
 Vol. They shall not strike till I am heard. 
 
 Max. From whence does this new impudence 
 
 proceed, 
 That you dare alter that which I decreed ? 
 
 Val. Ah, sir, to what strange courses do you fly, 
 To make yourself abhorr'd for cruelty ! 
 The empire groans under your bloody reign, 
 And its vast body bleeds in every vein. 
 Gasping and pale, and fearing more, it lies ; 
 And now you stab it in the very eyes : 
 Your CaBsar and the partner of your bed ! 
 Ah, who can wish to live when they are dead ? 
 If ever gentle pity touch'd your breast 
 I cannot speak my tears shall speak the rest. 
 
 [ Weeping and sobbing. 
 
 Por. She adds new grief to what I felt before, 
 And fate has now no room to put in more. 
 
 Max. Away,thou shame and slander of my blood ! 
 
 [To VALERIA. 
 Who taught thee to be pitiful or good ?
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 429 
 
 Vol. What hope have I, 
 The name of virtue should prevail with him, 
 Who thinks even it, for which I plead, a crime ? 
 Yet nature, sure, some argument may be ; 
 If them you cannot pity, pity me. 
 
 Max. I will, and all the world shall judge it so : 
 I will the excess of pity to you shew. 
 You ask to save 
 
 A dangerous rebel, and disloyal wife ; 
 And I in mercy will not take your b'fe. 
 
 Vol. You more than kill me by this cruelty, 
 And in their persons bid your daughter die. 
 I honour Berenice's virtue much ; 
 But for Porphyrius my love is such, 
 I cannot, will not live, when he is gone. 
 
 Max. I'll do that cure for you, which on myself 
 
 is done. 
 
 You must, like tne, your lover's life remove ; 
 Cut off your hope, and you destroy your love. 
 If it were hard, I would not bid you try 
 The medicine ; but 'tis but to let him die. 
 Yet since you are so soft, (which you call good,) 
 And are not yet confirm'd enough in blood, 
 To see his death ; 
 
 Your frailty shall be favour'd with this grace, 
 That they shall suffer in another place. 
 If, after they are dead, their memory 
 By any chance into your mind be brought, 
 Laugh, and divert it with some other thought. 
 Away with them. 
 
 [Exeunt BERENICE, PORPHYRIUS, and ALBI- 
 NUS, carried off by Guards. 
 
 Vol. Since prayers nor tears can bend his cruel 
 mind, [Looking after POB. 
 
 Farewell, the best and bravest of mankind ! 
 How I have loved, heaven knows ; but there's a fate, 
 Which hinders me from being fortunate.
 
 430 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 My father's crimes hang heavy on my head, 
 And like a gloomy cloud about me spread. 
 I would in vain be pious ; that's a grace, 
 Which heaven permits not to a tyrant's race. 
 
 Max. Hence to her tent the foolish girl convey. 
 
 Vol. Let me be just before I go away. 
 Placidius, I have vow'd to be your wife ; 
 Take then my hand, 'tis yours while I have life. 
 One moment here I must another's be ; 
 But this, Porphyrius, gives me back to thee. 
 
 [Stabs herself twice, and then PLACIDIUS wrests 
 the dagger from her. 
 
 Plac. Help, help the princess, help ! 
 
 Max. What rage has urged this act, which thou 
 hast done ? 
 
 Val. Thou, tyrant, and thy crimes, have pull'd 
 
 it on. 
 
 Thou, who canst death with such a pleasure see, 
 Now take thy fill, and glut thy sight in me. 
 But I'll the occasion of my death forget ; 
 Save him I love, and be my father yet : 
 I can no more Porphyrius, my dear 
 
 Cyd. Alas, she raves, and thinks Porphyrius here. 
 
 Vol. Have I not yet deserved thee, now I die ? 
 Is Berenice still more fair than I ? 
 Porphyrius, do not swim before my sight ; 
 Stand still, and let me, let me aim aright ! 
 Stand still, but while thy poor Valeria dies, 
 And sighs her soul into her lover's eyes. [Dies. 
 
 Plac. She's gone from earth, and with her went 
 
 away 
 
 All of the tyrant that deserved to stay : 
 I've lost in her all joys that life can give ; 
 And only to revenge her death would live. [Aside. 
 
 Cyd. The gods have claim'd her, and we must 
 resign.
 
 SCENE I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 431 
 
 Max. What had the Gods to do with me or 
 
 mine ? 
 
 Did I molest your heaven ? 
 Why should you then make Maximin your foe, 
 Who paid you tribute, which he need not do ? 
 Your altars I with smoke of gums did crown, 
 For which you lean'd your hungry nostrils down, 
 All daily gaping for my incense there, 
 More than your sun could draw you in a year. 
 And you for this these plagues on me have sent ! 
 But by the Gods, (by Maximin, I meant,) 
 Henceforth I, and my world, 
 Hostility with you, and yours, declare. 
 Look to it, Gods ; for you the aggressors are. 
 Keep you your rain and sun-shine in your skies, 
 And I'll keep back my flame and sacrifice. 
 Your trade of heaven shall soon be at a stand, 
 And all your goods lie dead upon your hand. 
 Plac. Thus, tyrant, since the Gods the aggressors 
 are, [Stabbing him. 
 
 Thus by this stroke they have begun the war. 
 
 [MAXIMIN struggles with him, and gets the 
 
 dagger from him. 
 
 Max. Thus I return the strokes which they have 
 given ; [Stabling PLACIDIUS. 
 
 Thus, traitor, thus, and thus I would to heaven ! 
 [PLACIDIUS^//*, and the Emperor staggers af- 
 ter him, and sits down upon him ; the Guards 
 come to help the Emperor. 
 Max. Stand off', and let me, ere my strength be 
 
 gone, 
 Take my last pleasure of revenge, alone. 
 
 Enter a Centurion. 
 
 Cent. Arm, arm, the camp is in a mutiny : 
 For Rome and liberty, the soldiers cry.
 
 432 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 Porphyrius moved their pity, as he went 
 
 To rescue Berenice from punishment ; 
 
 And now he heads their new attempted crime. 
 
 Max. Now I am down, the Gods have watch'd 
 
 their time. 
 You think 
 
 To save your credit, feeble deities ; 
 But I will give myself the strength to rise. 
 
 [He strives to get up, and, being up, staggers. 
 
 It wonnot be 
 
 My body has not power my mind to bear. 
 I must return again and conquer here. 
 
 [Sits down upon the body. 
 My coward body does my will controul ; 
 Farewell, thou base deserter of my soul ! 
 I'll shake this carcase off, and be obey'd ; 
 Reign an imperial ghost without its aid. 
 Go, soldiers, take my ensigns with you ; fight, 
 And vanquish rebels in your sovereign's right : 
 
 Before I die 
 
 Bring me Porphyrius and my empress dead : 
 I would brave heaven, in my each hand a head. 
 
 Plac. Do not regard a dying tyrant's breath, 
 He can but look revenge on you in death. 
 
 [To the Soldiers. 
 
 Max. Vanquish'd, and dar'st thou yet a rebel 
 
 be? 
 Thus, I can more than look revenge on thee. 
 
 [Stabs him again. 
 
 Plac. Oh, I am gone ! [Dies. 
 
 Max. And after thee I go, 
 
 Revenging still, and following even to the other 
 world my blow ; [Stabs him again. 
 
 And shoving back this earth on which I sit, 
 I'll mount, and scatter all the Gods I hit. [Dies.
 
 SCENE. I. TYRANNIC LOVE. 433 
 
 PORPHYRIUS looks on the Bodies entering, and 
 speaks. 
 
 Por. Tis done before, (this mighty work of fate !) 
 And I am glad your swords are come too late. 
 He was my prince, and though a bloody one, 
 I should have conquer'd, and have mercy shown. 
 Sheath all your swords, and cease your enmity ; 
 They are not foes, but Romans, whom you see. 
 
 Ber. He was my tyrant, but my husband too ; 
 And therefore duty will some tears allow. 
 
 Por. Placidius here ! 
 
 And fair Valeria, new deprived of breath ! 
 Who can unriddle this dumb-show of death ? 
 
 Cyd. When, sir, her father did your life deny, 
 She kill'd herself, that she with you might die. 
 Placidius made the emperor's death his crime ; 
 Who, dying, did revenge his death on him. 
 [PORPHYRIUS kneels and takes VALERIA'S hand. 
 
 Por. For thy dear sake, I vow, each week I live, 
 One day to fasting and just grief I'll give; 
 And what hard fate did to thy life deny, 
 My gratitude shall pay thy memory. 
 
 Cent. Meantime to you belongs theimperial power : 
 We, with one voice, salute you emperor. 
 
 Sold. Long life, Porphyrius, Emperor of the Ro- 
 mans ! 
 
 Por. Too much, my countrymen, your love you 
 
 show, 
 
 That you have thought me worthy to be so ; 
 But, to requite that love, I must take care, 
 Not to engage you in a civil war. 
 Two emperors at Rome the senate chose, 
 And whom they chuse, no Roman should oppose. 
 In peace or war, let monarchs hope or fear ; 
 All my ambition shall be bounded here. 
 
 [Kissing BERENICE'S hand. 
 
 VOL. m. 2 E
 
 434 TYRANNIC LOVE. ACT V. 
 
 Ber. I have too lately been a prince's wife, 
 And fear the unlucky omen of the life. 
 Like a rich vessel, beat by storms to shore, 
 'Twere madness should I venture out once more. 
 Of glorious trouble I will take no part, 
 And in no empire reign, but of your heart. 
 
 Por. Let to the winds your golden eagles fly ; 
 
 [To the Soldiers. 
 
 Your trumpets sound a bloodless victory : 
 Our arms no more let Aquileia fear, 
 But to her gates our peaceful ensigns bear ; 
 While I mix cypress with my myrtle wreath, 
 Joy for your life, and mourn Valeria's death. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 MRS ELLEN,* WHEN SHE WAS TO BE CARRIED OFF 
 DEAD BY THE BEARERS. 
 
 TO THE BEARER. 
 
 HOLD ; are you mad ? You damn'd confounded dog ! 
 I am to rise, and speak the epilogue. 
 
 TO THE AUDIENCE. 
 
 I come, kind gentlemen, strange news to tell ye ; 
 
 I am the ghost of poor departed Nelly. 
 
 Sweet ladies, be not frighted ; I'll be civil, 
 
 I'm what I was, a little harmless devil. 
 
 For, after death, we spirits have just such natures, 
 
 We had, for all the world, when human creatures ; 
 
 And, therefore, I, that was an actress here, 
 
 Play all my tricks in hell, a goblin there. 
 
 Gallants, look to't, you say there are no sprites ; 
 
 But I'll come dance about your beds at nights. 
 
 And faith you'll be in a sweet kind of taking. 
 
 When I surprise you between sleep and waking. 
 
 To tell you true, I walk, because I die 
 
 Out of my calling, in a tragedy. 
 
 O poet, damn'd dull poet, who could prove 
 
 So senseless, to make Nelly die for love ! 
 
 Nay, what's yet worse, to kill me in the prime 
 
 Of Easter-term, in tart and cheese-cake time ! 
 
 I'll fit the fop ; for I'll not one word say, 
 
 To excuse his godly out-of-fashion play ; 
 
 A play, which, if you dare but twice sit out, 
 
 You'll all be slander'd, and be thought devout. 
 
 But, farewell, gentlemen, make haste to me, 
 
 I'm sure e'er long to have your company. 
 
 As for my epitaph when I am gone, 
 
 I'll trust no poet, but will write my own : 
 
 Here Nelly lies, who, though she lived a slattern, 
 
 Yet died a princess, acting in St Catharine. 
 
 " The celebrated Mrs Nell Gwyn. 
 END OF THE THIRD VOLUME. 
 
 EDINBURGH : 
 Printed by James Ballantync & Co.