'^^^^m^.
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSJDE
 
 p.
 
 THE 
 
 DRAMATIC WORKS 
 
 JOHN FORD 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION, 
 
 AND 
 
 NOTES CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, 
 
 MDCCCXXXI.
 
 mi 
 
 LONDON ; 
 C. ROWOHTH AND SO.NS, BLl.L.YAf 
 TBUPI.E EAR.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Intuoduction V 
 
 The Lover's Melancholy 1 
 
 The Bpoken Heart 103 
 
 Perkin Warbeck 223
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In preparing these volumes of Ford for the pub- 
 lic, the same excellent guide has been followed, to 
 whom the reader has been so largely indebted in 
 our previous labours upon Massinger ; and indeed 
 a more admirable commentator on the old English 
 dramatists than Mr. GifFord could not easily be 
 found. The extreme vigour and acuteness of his 
 intellects, his unwearied industry and research, 
 and the peculiarity of his personal fortunes, which 
 made him as well acquainted with the phraseology 
 and modes of thinking in common life, as he w^as 
 conversant with all the courtesies of higher sta- 
 tions, excellently fitted him for seizing and fixing 
 their several texts, and illustrating the usages and 
 customs to which they referred ; while the finer 
 faculties of his mind enabled him to appreciate the 
 higher beauties of their style and thoughts, and 
 to catch every shade of feeling, and discriminate 
 every variety of character, which could be found 
 embodied in those noble works of the older time. 
 That high religious feeling, which formed so 
 marked a trait in Mr. GifFord's character, and which 
 VOL. I. b
 
 VI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 seems indeed almost a necessary accompaniment 
 of genius in its highest sense, was here pecuharly 
 in place ; enahling him, as it did, to walk through 
 the occasional impurities and even profanities 
 of our earlier stage, unpolluted himself, and ever 
 watchful to keep contamination from others. This 
 is not the place to dilate on higher claims, which 
 Mr. Gilford possesses to the reverence of every 
 one, who bears and prides himself in the name of 
 Englishman. When it is recollected, however, 
 that these editions of the old dramatists were with 
 him merely a source of recreation from higher 
 duties and severer studies ; when it is considered 
 how many years and with what ability he presided 
 over a department of literature, requiring not only 
 very extensive scholarship, but a general acquaint- 
 ance with almost every art and occupation of life ; 
 when we call to mind the uncompromising zeal 
 and earnest devotion, with which, in times of pecu- 
 liar difficulty and danger, he upheld the old insti- 
 tutions as well as the old literature of his country, 
 we shall be excused for saying that, though men of 
 higher genius might be named in an age extraor- 
 dinarily prolific of such persons, few will be found 
 with higher claims on the respect and gratitude of 
 posterity than him of whose labours we are now 
 about to avail ourselves, in such manner, and to 
 such extent, as the peculiar nature of our under- 
 taking may best seem to require. 
 
 It is incidentally observed by Dr. Farmer in his 
 Essay on Shakspeare, " that play- writing in that 
 poet's days was scarcely thought a creditable em- 
 ploy ;" and it would seem as if the Dramatic Poets 
 themselves entertained some such idea as Farmer
 
 INTRODUCTION. Vll" 
 
 mentions; for, either from mortification or humil- 
 ity, they commonly abstain from dwelling, or even 
 entering, upon their personal history. Though 
 frequent in dedications, they are seldom explicit ; 
 and even their prefaces fail to convey any informa- 
 tion except of their wants, or their grievances from 
 evils which are rarely specified. 
 
 The stock of the Fords, however, is known to 
 have been highly respectable : they appear to have 
 settled at an early period in the north-west of 
 Devonshire, and to have possessed considerable 
 property in the contiguous parishes of Ashburton, 
 Ilsington, Sec. 
 
 From an extract of the Baptismal Register of 
 Ilsington, it appears that John (our author) was 
 baptized there on the 17th April, 1586; and as 
 he became a member of the Middle Temple, No- 
 vember 16, 1602, he could scarcely have spent 
 more than a term or two (if any) at either of the 
 Universities : there was, however, more than one 
 Grammar School in the immediate vicinity of his 
 birth-place, fully competent to convey all the clas- 
 sical learning which he ever possessed, and of 
 which, to say the truth, he was sufficiently osten- 
 tatious in his earliest work, though he became 
 more reserved when age and experience had ena- 
 bled him to compare his attainments with those of 
 his contemporaries. 
 
 It appears from Rymer's Foedera,* that the father 
 of our poet was in the commission of the peace. 
 Whether this honourable situation was procured 
 for him by the interest of his wife's father, the 
 famous Lord Chief Justice Popham, cannot be 
 * Tome xviii. p. 575. 
 
 h2
 
 Vm INTRODUCTION. 
 
 told; it may however be reasonably surmised, that 
 his connection with one of the first law officers of 
 the crown led to the course of studies subsequently 
 pursued by both branches of the family. Popham 
 was made Attorney-General in 1.381 ; and in 1592 
 he was advanced to the rank of Chief Justice of the 
 King's Bench, which he held for many years: so 
 that his patronage, which must have been consider- 
 able, (as he appears to have been in some favour 
 both with Elizabeth and her successor,) probably 
 afforded many facilities to his young relatives in the 
 progress of their studies, and opened advantages of 
 various kinds. 
 
 Our poet had been preceded in his legal studies 
 by his cousin John Ford, son of an elder brother 
 of his father's family, to whom he appears to have 
 looked up with much respect, and to have borne 
 an almost fraternal affection : this gentleman was 
 entered at Gray's Inn ; but Popham seems to have 
 taken his young relation more immediately under 
 his own care, and placed him at the Middle Tem- 
 ple, of which he had been appointed Treasurer in 
 I08I. 
 
 It is probable that Ford was not inattentive to 
 his studies; but we hear nothing of him till 1006, 
 (four years after his admission, ) when he published 
 " Fame's Memorial, or the *Earl of Devonshire 
 
 * As one of Ben Jonson's beautiful and magnificent 
 !Masques has in some degree connected the names of this ill- 
 fated pair with our dramatic history, a short account of them, 
 for which the reader is indebted to the former editor of Ford, 
 will not be misplaced. 
 
 Charles Blount, eighth Lord Mountjoy, was a man of great 
 eminence, and while a commoner (for he did not succeed 
 to the title till 1594) followed the profession of arms with
 
 INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 deceased." &c. an elegiac poem, in 4to. which he 
 dedicated to the Countess, his widow. Why he 
 
 honour, and held a command in the fleet which defeated the 
 Spanish Armada. His extraordinaiy merits did not escape the 
 quick eye of Elizabeth, who gave him various tokens of her 
 favour, and thus exposed him to the envy of Essex. In 1600, 
 the Queen constituted him Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, when 
 he repulsed the Spaniards with great bravery at Kinsale. In 
 truth, the whole of his conduct with regard to that agitated 
 country was meritorious in the highest degree, and as such 
 fully acknowledged by her, as well as by James, who, on his 
 accession, conferred on him the same important office, and 
 very shortly afterwards (July, 1603,) made him a Knight of 
 the Garter, and created him Earl of Devonshire. " Certainly," 
 says his secretary, Morrison, " he was beautiful in his person 
 as well as valiant, and learned as well as wise." And Camden 
 styles him " a person famous for conduct, and so eminent in 
 courage and learning, that, in these respects, he had no 
 superior, and but few equals." It is distressing to pursue his 
 history-. About two years after his prosperous career in Ire- 
 land, (Dec. 25, 1605,) he married Lady Rich, with whom, 
 probably, he had never ceased to converse ; and, by this one 
 step, which, according to our notions, and, probably, his own, 
 was calculated to repair, in some measure, the injury which 
 the lady's character had sustained, ruined both her and himself. 
 There is something in this which is not easily explained. 
 While the Earl maintained an adulterous commerce with the 
 lady, all went smoothly ; but the instant he married her, he 
 lost the protection of the Court, and the estimation of the pub- 
 lic. " The King," says Sanderson, " was so much displeased 
 thereat, as it broke the Earl's heart; for his Majesty told him 
 that he had purchased a fair woman with a black soul." 
 Hearts are not always broken in the way supposed ; but there 
 was more than enough to depress the lofty spirit of this great 
 Earl in the sudden blow given to his reputation. He died a 
 few months after his marriage, " soon and early," as Cham- 
 berlaine says, " for his years (forty -three), but late enough 
 for himself: and happy had he been if he had gone two or three 
 years since, before the world was weary of him, or that he had 
 left his scandal behind him."
 
 X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 came forward in so inauspicious a cause, cannot 
 now be known. He was a stranger to both par- 
 Penelope, Countess of Devonshire, was the daughter of 
 Walter, tirst Earl of Essex, and the beloved sister of Robert, 
 the unfortunate favourite of Elizabeth, and the victim of her 
 fears and jealousies. There was a family intimacy between 
 the Devereiixes and the Mountjoys, which seems to have faci- 
 litated the meetings of this beautiful young creature with Sir 
 Charles Blount, and led, as in the usual mode, to a mutual 
 attachment, and a promise of marriage. In those " blessed 
 days,"" marriages among the great were not quite so easily 
 managed as at present : the Queen regarded the state with a 
 strange mixture of envy and spleen : and the accursed Court 
 of Wards eternally troubled " the current of true love." Lady 
 Penelope was forced, with a heart full of affection for Blount - 
 joy, into the arms of Lord Rich, a man whom she appears to 
 have regai-ded with peculiar aversion. Thus far she was more 
 .sinned against than sinning ; but she seems to have thought 
 her private engagement of a more binding character than her 
 vow at the altar ; and the usual consequences followed. After 
 a few miserable years with Lord Rich, she deserted him partly 
 or wholly, and renewed her connection with her first lover, to 
 whom she bore several children. 
 
 There must have been something peculiar in this ladv'? 
 CcLse ; perhaps die violence put upon her early affections 
 wrought some pardon or pity for her ; for she lost no caste, even 
 under Elizabeth, and she was one of the first ladies selected by 
 her council to proceed to Holyrood House, and conduct the 
 wife of the new monarch to Whitehall. Her accomplishments 
 were of the highest kmd, and in every splendid and graceful 
 measure she appears among the foremost. To Ann >he made 
 herself very agreeable, from her first introduction : and the 
 Queen's partiality- to her is noted with an evident tincture of 
 displeasure bv the high-bom and high-spirited Lady Ann 
 Clifford, at this period a young woman. li seems uncertain, 
 whether Lady Rich was actually and legally divorced from her 
 husband, or whether the separation took place in consequence 
 of articles drawn up between themselves ; but though Mount- 
 joy returned from Ireland in 1603, he did not marn*- the 
 Countess till two years afterwards, so that she appears as Lady
 
 INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 ties ; yet he appears to bewail the death of the Earl, 
 as if it had been attended with some failure of pro- 
 fessional hope to himself. " Elegies" and " Me- 
 morials" were sufficiently common at that period, 
 and indeed long after it ; but the authors stedfastly 
 looked to the surviving heir, for pay or patronage, 
 in return for their miserable dole of consolation ; 
 and our youthful poet sets out with affirming (and 
 he deserves the fullest credit) that his Muse was 
 unfeed. Be this as it may, it argued no little 
 spirit in him to advocate an unpopular cause, and 
 step forward in the sanguine expectation of stem- 
 ming the current of general opinion : not to add, 
 that the praise which he lavishes on the Earl of 
 Essex could scarcely fail to be ill-received by the 
 Lord Chief Justice, who was one of those com- 
 missioned by the Queen to inquire into the pur- 
 port of the military assemblage at his house, was 
 detained there by the troops during the crazy at- 
 tempt of this ill-starred nobleman to raise an insur- 
 rection, and was finally a witness against him for 
 the forcible detention. 
 
 " Fame's Memorial" adds little or nothing to the 
 poet's personal history. It would seem, if we 
 might venture to understand him literally, (for he 
 takes especial pains to keep all but those fami- 
 liarly acquainted with him in complete ignorance 
 of his story,) that he had involved himself in 
 some unsuccessful affair of love, while at home, 
 with a young lady, whom he at one time calls 
 
 Rich in the ^Masque of Blackness, and in the splendid pro- 
 cession from the Tower to Whitehall, where she walks, " by- 
 especial commandement," immediately after the Countess of 
 Shrewsbury.
 
 XU INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the cruel Lyc'ia, and, at another, the cruel subtile 
 Lycia. He wishes that she were less wise; and 
 in truth she does exhibit no unfavourable symp- 
 tom of good sense in " confining her thoughts to 
 elder merits," instead of *' solacing" her youthful 
 admirer, wlio, at the period of first taking the 
 infection into his eye, could not have reached his 
 eighteenth year. Yet he owes something to this 
 pursuit. He had evidently wooed tlie lady (her- 
 self a muse) in verse, and symptoms of wounded 
 vanity occasionally appear at the inflexibility of 
 this second Lyde, to whose obstinate ears he sang 
 in vain : yet the attempt gave him some facility 
 in composition ; for though he evinces little of 
 either taste or judgment, his lines flow smoothly, 
 and it may be said of him, as it was of a greater 
 personage, 
 
 He caught at love, and fill'd his arms -with bays. 
 
 In consequence of the lady's blindness or ob- 
 duracy, Ford declares his intention of " travailing 
 till some comfort reach his wretched heart for- 
 lorn." This is merely a rhetorical flourish ; for 
 the travail which he contemplated, appears to be 
 the labour and pains employed, to divert the cur- 
 rent of his thoughts, on the " lamentation for this 
 great lord." 
 
 He found, however, better resources against ill- 
 requited love, than " perpetual lamentation" for 
 one who was not unwillingly forgotten by his con- 
 temporaries, in the pursuit of the law, to which he 
 prudently adhered ; a circumstance which he never 
 forgets, nor ever suffers his patrons to forget, as if
 
 INTRODUCTION. Xlll 
 
 he feared to pass with them more for a poet than a 
 man of business. 
 
 But he had yet another resource. He had ap- 
 parently contracted a strong and early passion for 
 the Stage, to which he devoted most of his lei- 
 sure hours ; and, without prematurely grasping at 
 a name, wrote, as the custom then was, in con- 
 junction with the regular supporters of the minor 
 theatres. That he published nothing, we are war- 
 ranted to conclude from the assertion in the dedi- 
 cation to the " Lover's Melancholy," (given to the 
 press in 1629,) that this was " the first" (dramatic) 
 *' piece of his that ever courted reader." But in 
 the twenty-three years which had elapsed since the 
 appearance of his Elegy, he had more than once 
 courted the favour of the spectator,^ and " stood 
 rubrick" with others in the title-page of several 
 plays which have come down to us, and in more, 
 perhaps, which remain to be discovered. 
 
 Of these joint-compositions two will be found 
 in our second volume of Ford, the " Sun's Darling," 
 and the " Witch of Edmonton." 
 
 The first of these, in the composition of which 
 Ford joined with Decker, is termed a " Moral 
 Masque." — For a moral masque, however, it sets 
 the main business of life sufficiently low : there is 
 nothing in it worthy of a wise and good man ; no- 
 thing, in short, beyond what one of the herd of 
 Epicurus might desire — sensual pleasures and gross 
 
 * AVe have the authority of Singleton for the fact, who, in 
 the lines prefixed to this very play, (the Lover's Melancholy,) 
 says, 
 
 " Nor seek I praise for thee, when thine own pen 
 Hath forced a praise long since from knowing men."
 
 XIV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 enjoyments. The plot may be briefly despatched. 
 " Raybright (the Sun's Darling) is roused from 
 a pleasant dream, and informed that his great pro- 
 genitor, the Sun, will descend from his sphere to 
 gratify his wildest longings for enjoyment; accord- 
 ingly, at his imperial command, he is entertained 
 by the Four Seasons in succession, all of whom 
 endeavour to recommend themselves to his affec- 
 tion, and to all of whom he vows eternal fidelity ; 
 but abruptly abandons each of them in turn, at the 
 instigation of Humour and her attendant. Folly." 
 
 The result may be anticipated. The youth re- 
 cognises his error, and determines to be very wise 
 and virtuous for the residue of his days ; when he 
 is told, in strains not unworthy of the subject, that 
 his days are already numbered, and that the in- 
 evitable hour is fast closing upon all his earthly 
 prospects. 
 
 Indifferent as is the execution of this piece, it 
 is still far superior to its conception. Passages 
 of considerable beauty, especially in the last two 
 acts, frequently occur ; but there is nothing to re- 
 deem the absurdity of the plot. Instead of taking 
 up an inexperienced, unsophisticated youth, and 
 opening the world to him for the first time, for the 
 instruction of others, the authors have inconsider- 
 ately brought forward a kind of modern Virbius ; 
 a character who had previously run through life, 
 and its various changes, and seen and enjoyed in- 
 finitely more than is tendered to him in his new 
 career. 
 
 The second piece, " the Witch of Edmonton," 
 was brought out about the same period as the 
 former, and printed in 1658, probably at the sug-
 
 INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 gesrion of Bird, whose name appears to a few intro- 
 ductory lines, which he calls a Prologue. 
 
 Edmonton had already given a " Devil"* to the 
 delighted stage, and it appears accordingly to have 
 been thought, that a " Witch" from the same 
 quarter would wear some attraction even in the 
 very name. And the authors were not disap- 
 pointed in their conjecture. The Sorceress of 
 our times (for they will not be called Witches 
 now) is a splendid character ; she moves like a 
 volcano, amidst smoke and fire, and throws 
 heaven and earth into commotion at every step : 
 but the witch of those days was a miserable crea- 
 ture, enfeebled by age, soured by poverty, and 
 maddened by inveterate persecution and abuse. 
 The scenic adjuncts which gave reality and life 
 to the pranks of this august personage were, briefly, 
 a few hereditary " properties" from the green-room 
 of old John Heywood's days, the whole of which 
 might inhabit lax in a single cloak-bag. No sweet 
 symphonies from viewless harps, no beautiful dis- 
 plays of hell broke-up, and holyday devils dancing 
 ad libitum through alternate scenes of terror and 
 delight, were at our poet's command, call for them 
 as he might: a black shaggy rug, in imitation of 
 
 * The " Merry Devil of Edmonton" must have been 
 acted at least as early as the year 1604. That it was a very 
 favourite performance (and not without reason, for there are 
 faint touches of a Shakspearian hand in some of the humour- 
 ous scenes), may be concluded from the following lines in Ben 
 Jonson's Prologue to "The Uevil is an Ass:" 
 " If you'll come 
 To see new plays, pray you afford us room ; 
 And show this but the same face you have done 
 Your dear delight, the Devil of Edmonton."
 
 XVI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a dog's-skin, into which a clever imp was thrust, 
 and tauglit to walk on all fours, with permission 
 to relieve himself occasionally hy "standing on his 
 hind-legs," and " a mask and visor for a spirit in 
 the shape of Katherine," were all the machinery 
 which the simplicity or poverty of the old theatre 
 allowed him; yet even these were not regarded 
 witliout considerable interest by those who knew 
 no superstitions but the legendary ones of long 
 ages, and " the Witch of Edmonton" appears ac- 
 cordingly to have been a very popular piece. It 
 deserved indeed to be so ; for whatever the ab- 
 surdities and incongruities, and however much we 
 may be disposed to smile at the " super human" 
 parts of the story, the fable, divested of these, 
 will be found to form a beautiful whole, and cannot 
 but be considered as one of the most tender and 
 affectincr of our domestic tragedies. 
 
 It has been observed (p. xii.) that the poet 
 entertained a high degree of love and respect for 
 his cousin John Ford, of Gray's-Inn ; and he took 
 the earliest opportunity of showing it, by prefixing 
 his name, with that of one or two others of " his 
 honoured friends of that Noble Society,"' to his 
 first acknowledged piece, the Lover's Melancholy. 
 There is an afi^ectation of modesty in the dedication, 
 which, when the writer's age is considered, (for 
 he was now in the full maturity of life,) might be 
 washed away ; and there is something of unsuspi- 
 cious pleasantry in following up the timely hint 
 *' that printing his works might soon grow out of 
 fashion with him," by sending all his subsequent 
 ones to the press! 
 The "Lover's Melancholy" was published in 1629.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XVil 
 
 It appeared on the stage in the winter of the pre- 
 ceding year ; and was probably written not long 
 before, since Burton's popular work, " the Anatomie 
 of Melancholy," on which the comic part (if so it 
 must be termed) of the story is founded, and to 
 which the title evidently refers, had not been 
 above a year or two before the public. 
 
 Mr. Campbell observes with great justice, that 
 the poetic portion of this play has much of the 
 grace and sweetness which distinguish the genius 
 of Ford. It has also somewhat more of sprightli- 
 ness in the language of the secondary characters, 
 than is commonly found in his plays ; and, could 
 we suppose that the idle buffoonery was intro- 
 duced at a later period, in compliance with the 
 taste of the age, which seems to have found a 
 strange and unnatural delight in the exhibition of 
 these humiliating aberrations of the human mind, 
 we might almost be tempted to surmise, that the 
 rest of the drama was of an earlier period than is 
 here set down for it. The catastrophe, indeed the 
 whole of the last act, is beautifully written, and 
 exhibits a degree of poetical talent and feeling 
 which few of the dramatic writers of that day sur- 
 passed. 
 
 Ford had somewhat pettishly observed in the 
 Epilogue to this piece, that if it failed to please 
 the audience he would not trouble them again ; 
 and in the same peevish mood he tells his cousin 
 of Gray's-Inn, in the dedication, that offering " a 
 play to the reader may soon grow out of fashion 
 with him." He certainly evinced no great degree 
 of earnestness to appear again before the public,
 
 XVlll IXTRODUCTION. 
 
 as the next play, " Annabella and Giovanni,'* was 
 not given to the press till nearly four years after 
 the former : when, as if to indemnify himself for 
 his constrained forbearance, he published three of 
 his dramas at short intervals. The present play 
 has neither prologne nor epilogue : but in the 
 dedication to the Earl of Peterborough, who had 
 openly manifested his satisfaction with the piece 
 on its first appearance, i when the actors exerted 
 themselves with such success as to call for a se- 
 parate acknowledgement.) Ford terms it •• the 
 tirst fruits of his leisure." And here again, we 
 have to lament that indistinctness which every 
 where obscures the personal history of the poet. 
 The first fruits of his leisure, the play before us 
 could scarcely be: as (to omit all mention of 
 those in which he joined with Decker ) one of his 
 draraas-f was performed at court nearly twenty 
 years before the date of the present, which bears 
 besides tokens of a mind habituated to deep and 
 solemn musings, and formed by long and severe 
 practice to a style of composition at once ardent 
 and impressive. 
 
 Of the poetry of this play in the more impas- 
 sioned passages it is not easy to speak too favour- 
 ably : it is in truth too seductive for the subject. 
 and flings a soft and soothing light over what, in 
 its natural state, would glare with salutary and re- 
 pulsive horror. 
 
 * This tide has been substituted for a much coarser one. 
 
 t It was entitled, ''An ill Beginning has a good End." 
 It has not been thought necessary- to trouble the reader with 
 the names of other dramas attributed to our poet by Chalmers 
 and Reed.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XIX 
 
 *' The Broken Heart" was given to the press in 
 the same year as the foregoing piece, (1633.) It 
 was brought out at the Black Friars ; but the date 
 of its appearance is not known. Ford seems to 
 have felt some alarm at the deep tragedy which he 
 was about to develope ; and he therefore takes an 
 early opportunity, in the Prologue, to inform the 
 audience that the story was a borrowed one, and 
 that " what may be thought a fiction, — 
 
 when time's youth 
 
 Wanted some riper years, was known a truth." 
 
 He could not be so ignorant of history as to sup- 
 pose that Sparta was ever the scene of a tragedy 
 like this ; and he probably means no more than that 
 it was extant in some French or Italian collection 
 of tales. But whatever may be the groundwork, 
 it must, after all, be admitted that the story derives 
 its main claim on our affections from the poetic 
 powers of the author himself. They are here 
 exerted with wonderful effect: the spell is early 
 laid, and we have scarcely stepped witliin the circle, 
 when we feel the charm too effectual to resist, and 
 abide under it, not without occasional misgivings, 
 till all is dissolved in the awful catastrophe. Ford 
 was not unconscious of its merits : he had, he says, 
 " wrought the piece with the best of his art;" and 
 it will not perhaps be denied that, with respect to 
 the diction, and the deep inherent feeling of the 
 more solemn and tragic scenes, many superior to 
 it could not be found ; in truth, it seems scarcely 
 possible to turn back and review the beautiful 
 passages which abound in the three plays which 
 have been already mentioned, without placing the
 
 XX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 author in a very honourable rank among the dra- 
 matic writers of his day. 
 
 The " Broken Heart" is dedicated, (not without 
 the poet's usual glance at his professional indus- 
 try,) in a style highly respectful, yet manly and in- 
 dependent, to the well-known Lord Craven;* a 
 nobleman worthy of all praise, and not ill chosen for 
 the patron of a wild, a melancholy, and romantic 
 tale. 
 
 The year 1G33 must have proved auspicious to 
 our author's fame, for it also gave to the public 
 " Love's Sacrifice," printed, like the former play, 
 for Hugh Beeston. It appears to have been some- 
 what of a favourite ; and was ushered into the 
 world with more than the usual accompaniments 
 of approbation. That it has many passages of 
 singular merit, many scenes favourable to the dis- 
 play of the writer's powers beautifully executed, it 
 is impossible to deny; but the plot is altogether 
 defective ; and the characters proceed from error to 
 error, and from crime to crime, till they exhaust 
 their own interest, and finally expire without care 
 or pity. Li the last exquisite drama, the lighter 
 characters, though ill calculated to please, may yet 
 be tolerated ; but in this, they are gratuitously 
 odious and repellent. 
 
 Something, perhaps, shovild be attributed to the 
 country from which the poet derived his plot, 
 (for there can be little doubt that it is taken from 
 
 * Some account of the active and chequered life of this 
 eminent person may be found in " Collins's Peerage." He is 
 now chiefly remembered for his romantic attachment to the 
 Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I., to whom it is 
 generally supposed he was privately married.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXI 
 
 an Italian novel,) and something indulged to the 
 ill-defined manners and language of the age, which, 
 though, strictly speaking, not licentious, were little 
 polished by the collision of good society, which 
 indeed could then be scarcely said to exist. Our 
 poet, however, entertained no misgivings of this 
 kind; he seems, on the contrary, to have been 
 pleased with the management of the story, (which, 
 as the title-page informs us, was generally v/ell 
 received,) and, as a proof of his satisfaction, dedi- 
 cates it to " his truest friend and worthiest cou- 
 sin," John Ford, of Gray's-Inn, in a short address 
 highly creditable to his amiable qualities, and 
 full of respectful gratitude and affection. The year 
 before this was written, the indefatigable Prynne 
 had published his ponderous " Histriomastix; " in 
 which he collected and reproduced, with increased 
 bitterness and rancour, all • his former invectives 
 against the stage : to this Ford adverts with be- 
 coming warmth. " The contempt, " he says, 
 *' thrown on studies of this kind by such as dote on 
 their own singularity, hath almost so outfaced in- 
 vention, and proscribed judgment, that it is more 
 safe, more wise, to be suspectedly silent, than 
 modestly confident of opinion herein." In this, he 
 is supported by Shirley, who has a complimentary 
 poem prefixed to " Love's Sacrifice ;" in which, after 
 reproaching Prynne with his voluminous ignorance 
 and impudence,* he calls upon him to read Ford's 
 
 * Not content with this attack on that restless " paper 
 worm," as Needham calls Prynne, Shirley took a further 
 opportunity of showing his hatred to this sore annoyance of 
 the stage by a mock dedication of his ingenious Comedy, en- 
 titled, "The Bird in a Cage."
 
 XXll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Tragedy, and tlien turn to his own interminable 
 farrago, wliich he had not only termed " The Actors' 
 Tragedie,"' as if in scorn of them, but divided into 
 Acts and Scenes. 
 
 The admirers of Ford had by tliis time, appa- 
 rently, supped full of horrors. Three tragedies of 
 the deepest kind in rapid succession were proba- 
 bly as many as the stage would then endure from 
 him; and in an hour not unpropitious to his reputa- 
 tion, he turned his thoughts to the historical drama 
 of his own coimtry. " Perkin Warbeck," wliich 
 appeared in 1634, and which was accompanied 
 with more than the usual proportion of commen- 
 datory verses, is dedicated to the Earl (better 
 known as the Duke) of Newcastle, in a strain, 
 which shows that the Poet was fully sensible of the 
 " worthiness," as well as the difficulty of the sub- 
 ject, which he had spared no pains to overcome. 
 It is observed in a critical notice of this drama, 
 which appeared in 181.^2, that " though the subject 
 of it is such as to preclude the author from the 
 high praise of original invention and fancy," a cir- 
 cumstance which he himself notices in the very 
 opening of his dedication, " the play is so admira- 
 bly conducted, so adorned with poetic sentiment 
 and expression, so full of fine discrimination of 
 character and affecting incidents, that we cannot 
 (continue the critics) help regarding that audi- 
 ence as greatly disgraced, which, having once wit- 
 nessed its representation, did not ensure its per- 
 petuity on the English stage. If any (historic) 
 play in the language can induce us to admit the 
 lawfulness of a comparison with Shakspeare it is
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXlll 
 
 this."* There is little to add to this commenda- 
 tion ; and much cannot with justice be taken 
 away from it. It may, however, be observed, 
 that the language of this piece is temperately but 
 uniformly raised ; it neither bursts into the enthu- 
 siasm of passion, nor degenerates into uninteresting 
 whining ; but supports the calm dignity of historic 
 action, and accords with the characters of the 
 " graced persons" who occupy the scene. 
 
 The uncommon felicity with which Ford has 
 sustained the part of Warbeck has been elsewhere 
 noticed ; he could scarcely believe the identity of 
 this youth with the young prince, yet he never per- 
 mits a doubt of it to escape him, and thus skilfullv 
 avoids the awkwardness of shaking the credit and 
 diminishing the interest of his chief character ; for 
 Perkin and not Henry is the hero of the play. More 
 will be found in the notes, on this subject ; but, it 
 may be added here, that the king was probably less 
 indebted to his armoury, than to his craft and his 
 coffers, for the suppression of these attempts, which 
 occasionally assumed a very threatening aspect : 
 even the ill-judged attack on the coast, feeble as it 
 undoubtedly was, created a considerable degree of 
 alarm ; and it appears from a letter to Sir John 
 Paston,!- " that a mightie aid of help, and succor" 
 was earnestly requested to secure the towns of 
 Sandwich and Yarmouth. 
 
 Notwithstanding the warm commendations of 
 his friends on this production, Ford did not renew 
 Ills acquaintance with the Historic Muse : nor, on 
 the other hand, did he return to the deep and im- 
 
 * Monthly Review, t Fenn's Letters, vol. v. p. 427. 
 
 c 2
 
 XXIV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 passioned tone of the preceding dramas. He 
 appears to have fostered the more cheerful feeling 
 which he had recently indulged, and to liave 
 adopted a species of serious comedy, which should 
 admit of characters and events well fitted for the 
 display of the particular bent of his genius. He 
 was not in haste, however, to court the public ; 
 for nothing is heard of him till IGSS, (with the 
 single exception of a warm eulogium to the " me- 
 mory of the Best of Poets Ben Jonson," who died 
 in the preceding year,) when he published the 
 " Fancies Chaste and Noble." The date of its first 
 appearance on the stage is not known ; but it pro- 
 bably did not long precede its being given to the 
 press. The play is dedicated to the well known 
 Earl (afterwards Marquis) of Antrim.* And here 
 again Ford asserts, that his "courtship of greatnes," 
 never aimed at any pecuniary advantage. Granted : 
 but he forgets that he had no need of it ; and there 
 is something in this implied triumph over his ne- 
 cessitous contemporaries, which, to say the best of 
 it, is to be praised neither for its generosity nor its 
 delicacy. 
 
 The poet takes to iiimself the merit of con- 
 structing this comedy with original materials : — 
 there is nothing in it, he says, but what he knows 
 to be his own, " without a learned theft." There 
 must surely have been a pretty general notion of 
 Ford's adopting the practice of the dramatic writers 
 of his day, and founding his plots on Spanish or 
 
 * For an account of this nobleman, whose pride and vanity 
 were as excessive as his understanding was weak and narrow, 
 the reader is referred to the second and third volumes of 
 Clarendon's History.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXV 
 
 rathxer Italian fables, to render these frequent ab- 
 jurations necessary. We have, indeed, a very 
 inadequate idea of the solicitude with which the 
 dramatic and romantic treasures of Spain and 
 Italy were sought for and circulated in this coun- 
 try. The literary intercourse was then far more 
 alive than (we had almost said,) it is at present, for 
 there were many readers, and many translators at 
 hand to furnish them with a succession of novelties ; 
 and, though it must be admitted, we fear, that the 
 exchange ran grievously against us — that we im- 
 ported much and sent out little — yet the bare labour 
 of working up v/hat we received had, as in other 
 cases, a salutary and quickening effect. Meanwhile, 
 it may without much hesitation be affirmed, that far 
 the greater number of our dramas are founded on 
 Italian novels : this would, perhaps, scarcely be a 
 matter of debate at this time, were it not for the 
 Fire of 1666, which destroyed, beyond hope of 
 recovery, no inconsiderable portion of the light 
 and fugitive literature of the preceding age. In 
 the wide and deep vaults under St. Paul's lay 
 thousands and ten thousands of pamphlets, novels, 
 romances, histories, plays, printed and in manu- 
 script ; all the amusement, and all the satire, 
 of Nash and Harvey, of Lodge and Peel, and 
 Green, and innumerable others, which even then 
 made up the principal part of the humble libraries 
 of the day. Here they had been placed for secu- 
 rity, and here, when the roof of the cathedral fell 
 in, and the burning beams broke through the floor, 
 they were involved in one general and dreadful 
 conflagration. 
 
 Without appearing to deem too lightly of this
 
 XXVI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 elrama, it may be observed, that in the plot the 
 poet has certainly failed ; the language of the 
 serious parts, however, is deserving of high praise, 
 and the more prominent characters are skilfully 
 discriminated, and powerfully sustained : but the 
 piece has no medium ; all that is not excellent is 
 intolerably bad. 
 
 The succeeding year (1639) gave to the public 
 the " Lady's Trial," which, it appears, had been 
 performed in May, 1638. It is dedicated, in the 
 spirit of true kindness, to Mr. and Mrs. Wyrley; 
 and the poet, though now near the close of his dra- 
 matic labours, has not yet conquered his fear of 
 misemploying his time, or rather of being suspected 
 of it, and assures his partial friends that the piece 
 which he has thus placed under their tuition " is 
 the issue of some less serious hours.'' There seems 
 but little occasion for this : his patrons must have 
 known enough of his personal concerns to render 
 such apologies unnecessary. At fifty-two — and 
 Ford had now reached that age — his professional 
 industry could surely be no subject of doubt; and 
 it requires some little portion of forbearance in 
 the general reader to tolerate this affected and oft- 
 repeated depreciation of the labour to which the 
 genius and inclination of the writer perpetually 
 tended, and overlook the wanton abasement of his 
 own claims to fame. 
 
 The " Lady's Trial," like the " Fancies," de- 
 clines in interest towards the conclusion, in con- 
 sequence of the poet's imperfect execution of his 
 own plan : that he meditated a more impressive 
 catastrophe for both is sufficiently apparent, but 
 event comes huddling on event, and all is preci-
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXVII 
 
 pitation, weakness and confusion. It is curious 
 that, in the winding up of each of these pieces, 
 the same expedient is employed ; and the honour 
 of Adurni in the former, hke that of Troylo in the 
 latter, ultimately vindicated by an unlooked-for 
 marriage. Feeble and imperfect, however, as the 
 plot of the " Lady's Trial" is, and trifling as some 
 of the characters will be found, it is not destitute 
 of passages which the lovers of our ancient drama 
 may contemplate with unreproved pleasure. 
 
 There is nothing in the Dedication, or in the 
 Prologue and Epilogue, to this play, that indicates 
 the slightest inclination of the poet to withdraw 
 from the stage : on the contrary, his mind seems 
 to have attained a cheerful tone and a sprightlier 
 language ; yet this was apparently the last of his 
 dramatic labours, and here he suddenly disappears 
 from view. 
 
 Much as has been said of the dramatic poets of 
 Elizabeth and James's days, full justice has never 
 yet been rendered to their independence on one 
 another : generally speaking, they stand insulated 
 and alone, and draw, each in his station, from their 
 own stores. Whether it be, that poetry in that 
 age 
 
 " Wanton 'd as in its prime, and play'd at will 
 Its virgin fancies" — 
 
 or that some other fruitful cause of originality 
 was in secret and powerful operation ; so it is, 
 that every writer had his peculiar style, and was 
 content with it. One little exception to this re- 
 mark may perhaps be found in Ford. He appears
 
 INTRODUCTIOX. 
 
 to liavc discovered that one of the nameless 
 charms of Shakspeare's diction consisted in the 
 skill with which he has occasionally vivified it, by 
 converting; his substantives into verbs ; and to 
 have aspired to imitate liim. He cannot, however, 
 be fairly complimented on his success. Ford's 
 grammatical experiments take from the simplicity 
 of his diction, while they afford no strength what- 
 ever to his descriptions. 
 
 With this slight exception, which, after all, 
 may be purely visionary, the style of Ford is 
 altogether original, and his own. Without the 
 majestic march which distinguishes the poetry of 
 Massinger, and with little or none of that light and 
 playful humour vrhicli characterises the dialogue 
 of Fletcher, or even of Shirley, he is yet elegant, 
 and easy, and harmonious ; and, though rarely 
 sublime, yet sufficiently elevated for the most 
 patlietic tones of that passion on whose romantic 
 energies he chiefly delighted to dwell. It has 
 (as has been observed) its inherent beauties and 
 defects : among the latter of which may be set 
 down a pedantic affectation of novelty, at one 
 time exhibited in the composition of uncouth 
 phrases, at another (and this is Ford's principal 
 failure) in perplexity of language ; frequently, too, 
 after perversely labouring with a remote idea till 
 he has confused his meaning, instead of throwing 
 it aside, he obtrudes it upon the reader involved 
 in inextricable obscurity. 
 
 Its excellencies, however, far outweigh its de- 
 fects ; but they are rather felt than understood. 
 Few things, indeed, will be found more difficult 
 to account for than the deep and lasting impres-
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXIX 
 
 sion made by the more tragic portions of Ford's 
 poetry. AVhence does it derive that resistless 
 power which all confess, of afflicting, it might 
 almost be said of harassing, the better feelings? 
 It is not from any peculiar beauty of language — 
 for in this he is equalled by his contemporaries, 
 and, by some of them, surpassed ; nor is it from 
 any classical or mythological allusions happily 
 recollected and skilfully applied, for of these he 
 seldom avails himself. It is not from any pic- 
 turesque views presented to the mind; for of 
 imaginative poetry he has little or nothing: he 
 cannot conjure up a succession of images, w^hether 
 grave or gay, to flit across the fancy, or play in 
 the eye ; yet it is hardly possible to peruse his 
 passionate scenes without the most painful interest, 
 the most heart-thrilling delight. This can only 
 arise — at least, nothing else seems adequate to 
 the excitement of such sensations — from the over- 
 whelming efficacy of intense thought devoted to 
 the embodying of conceptions adapted to the aw- 
 ful situations in which he has, imperceptibly and 
 with matchless felicity, placed his principal cha- 
 racters. 
 
 Mr. Campbell observes that Ford interests us 
 in no other passion than that of love; " in which 
 he displays a peculiar depth and delicacy of ro- 
 mantic feeling." Comparatively speaking, this may 
 be admitted ; but, in justice to the poet, it should 
 be added that he was not insensible to the power 
 offrkniflshij), and, in more than one of his dramas, 
 has delineated it with a master-hand. Had the 
 critic forgotten the noble Dalyell ? the generous 
 and devoted Malfato? — Nor can it justly be inferred
 
 XXX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 (even setting aside the romantic feelings here al- 
 luded to) that the female characters of his second- 
 rate pieces fail to interest us, and occasionally in a 
 high degree, in affections and passions very dis- 
 tinct from those of love. Mr. Campbell, however, 
 terms him " one of the ornaments of our ancient 
 poetry." 
 
 In the construction of Ford's plots, or rather 
 perhaps in the selection of his fables, it may suf- 
 fice to observe here, that there is usually much to 
 commend : like Kent, indeed, he possessed the 
 faculty of marring a plain tale in the telling ; 
 but this is only saying, in other words, that he 
 planned better than he executed. His besetting 
 error was an unfortunate persuasion, that he 
 was gifted with a certain degree of pleasantry 
 with which it behoved him occasionally to favour 
 the stage ; and to this we are indebted for the in- 
 trusion of those ill-timed underplots, and those 
 prurient snatches of language, which debase and 
 pollute several of his best dramas. It is not 
 pleasant to dwell on these defects ; though justice 
 requires that they should be noticed. Time has 
 lono; since avenged them : for it can scarcely be 
 doubted that somewhat of the obscurity into which 
 the poet has fallen should be laid to their charge. 
 
 But Ford is not all alone unhappy. In his day, 
 there was, in fact, no model to work after. The 
 elements of composition, as far as regards taste 
 and judgment, far from being established, were not 
 even arranged; and, with the exception of Sir 
 Philip Sidney's Essay, nothing; can be more jejune 
 and unsatisfactory than the few attempts at poetic 
 criticism then before the public. Add to this, that
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 che scale of ethic as well as of poetic fitness seems 
 to have had few gradations marked on it, and those 
 at remote and uncertain distances ; hence the wri- 
 ters suddenly drop from all that is pure in taste and 
 exquisite in feeling, to whining imbecility ; and from 
 high-toned sentiment and ennobling action, to all 
 that is mean and vicious, apparently unconscious 
 of the vast interval through which they have passed, 
 and the depth to which they have fallen. In other 
 respects, they all seem to have acquiesced in the 
 humble station in which prejudice had placed 
 them,* and instead of attempting to correct the 
 age, to have sought little more than to interest 
 and amuse with the materials so richly provided 
 for them by the extraordinary times on which they 
 were cast. One man, indeed, there was, one 
 eminent man, who sought from early life to enlist 
 the stage on the side of learning and virtue, and 
 called on the people to view the scene in its genuine 
 light,— 
 
 " Attired in the majesty of art, 
 Set high in spirit with the precious taste 
 Of sweet philosophy, and, which is most, 
 Crown 'd ^vith the rich traditions of a soul 
 That hates to have her dignity profaned 
 With any relish of an earthly thought! — " 
 
 — but Ben Jonson (for to him we allude,) found 
 few supporters, and no followers ; and the stage 
 went on as before ; attended, but not honoured — 
 popular, but not influential. 
 
 It is not a little mortifying to reflect, that 
 while dramatic poetry towered in its pride of i^lace^ 
 
 * Seep. 11.
 
 XXXll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and long sustained itself at an elevation which 
 it will never reach again, the writers themselves 
 possessed no sway whatever over the feelings of 
 the people ; while, at a subsequent period, when 
 the power of the stage for good and evil was 
 luiderstood, it was turned wholly to the purposes 
 of the latter ; and the greatest men of the age 
 formed themselves into factions, for trash that 
 would not now be heard, and names that cannot 
 be pronounced without scorn and shame, that 
 depravity of every kind might be transmitted — 
 from the court to the stage, — from the stage to the 
 people, and none escape the contagion. 
 
 It has been generally assumed that our poet 
 died almost immediately after the appearance of 
 the Lady's Trial, but for what cause, except that 
 he ceased to write, I have never, (says Mr. GifFord,) 
 been able to conjecture. Faint traditions in the 
 neighbourhood ojp his birthplace lead rather to the 
 supposition that, having from his legal pursuits 
 acquired a sufficient fortune, he retired to his 
 home, to pass the remainder of his days among 
 the youthful connections whom time had yet spared 
 him. 
 
 Nor were there wanting powerful motives for 
 the retirement of one of Ford's lonely and con- 
 templative mood, who watched the signs of the 
 times. Deep and solemn notes of preparation 
 for a tragedy far more terrible than aught the stage 
 could show were audible in the distance ; and 
 hollow mutterings, which could not be mistaken, 
 told that the tempest was gathering round the 
 metropolis with fearful acceleration. It is pos- 
 sible that he may have foreseen the approaching
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXXlll 
 
 Storm, and fled from the first efforts of its vio- 
 lence.* 
 
 Apparent dircB facies, inimicaque Trojae 
 
 Numina! 
 
 The Covenanters were already in arms, and ad- 
 vancing towards the borders : and, at home, the 
 stern and uncompromising enemies of all that was 
 graceful and delightful were rapidly ascending in 
 the scale of power. 
 
 Of what nature Ford's chief employment at the 
 Temple was, we have no means of ascertaining. 
 That he was not called to the bar may be fairly 
 surmised, as he never makes the slightest allusion 
 to his pleadings ; and his anxious disavowals to 
 his several patrons of permitting his dramatic la- 
 bours to encroach upon his proper business would 
 almost lead to a conclusion, that he acted as a kind 
 of auditor, or comptroller, for the landed property 
 of the nobility, and managed the pecuniary concerns 
 of their estates, for which his knowledge of the law 
 afforded facility on the one side, and security on 
 the other. 
 
 * It fell, indeed, soon after with fatal fury on the dramatic 
 writers. The theatres were closed in 1641 ; and the subse- 
 quent fortunes of many of their most eminent actors may be 
 learnt from a tract printed in 1699, and entitled " Historia 
 Histrionica." Most of them, it appears from the writer, went 
 into the king's army; and, " like good men and true, served 
 iheir old master, though in a different, yet mere honourable 
 
 capacity." "I have not heard of one of these players of 
 
 any note that sided with the other party, but cnly Swanston, 
 and he professed himself a Presbyterian, took up the trade of 
 a jeweller, and lived in Aldermanbury, within the territory of 
 Father Calamy ; the rest either lost or exposed their lives for 
 the kins."
 
 XXXIV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Of liis social liabits there, little can be told with 
 certainty. There is sufficient, however, to show 
 that he lived, if not familiarly, yet friendlily, with 
 the dramatic writers of his day, and neither pro- 
 voked nor felt personal enmities. He speaks, 
 indeed, of opposition : but this is merely the lan- 
 guage of the stage — opposition is experienced by 
 every dramatic writer worth criticism, and has 
 nothing in common with ordinary hostility. In 
 truth, with the exception of an allusion to the " vo- 
 luminous" and rancorous Prynne, nothing can be 
 more general than his complaints. Yet Ford 
 looked not much to the brighter side of life: he 
 could, like Jaques, " suck melancholy out of a song 
 as a weazle sucks eggs;" but he was unable, like 
 this wonderful creation of our great poet, to extract 
 mirth from it. When he touched a lighter string;, 
 the tones, though pleasingly modulated, were still 
 sedate ; and it must, we think, be admitted that his 
 poetry is rather that of a placid and serene than of 
 a happy mind : he was, in truth, an amiable ascetic 
 amidst a busy world. 
 
 No village anecdotes are told of him, as of his 
 countryman Herrick, nor do any memorials of his 
 private life remain. The troubles which followed, 
 and the confusion which frequently took place in 
 the parish registers in consequence of the intrusion 
 of ministers little interested in local topics, have 
 flung a veil of obscurity over much of the domestic 
 history of that turbulent and disastrous period. 
 In these troubles the retreat of the Fords is known 
 to have largely shared ; and it is more than pro- 
 bable that the family suffered under the Usurpa- 
 tion. The neighbourhood was distineuished for
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXXV 
 
 its loyalty ; and many of the fugitives who escaped 
 from the field after the overthrow of Lord Went- 
 worth, at Bovey-Tracy, by Cromwell, unfortunately 
 for the village, took refuge in Ilsington Church, 
 whither they were pursued and again driven to flight 
 by the victorious army. 
 
 There is no appearance of Ford's being married 
 at the period of his retirement from the Temple, 
 as none of his Dedications or Addresses make the 
 slightest allusion to any circumstance of a domestic 
 nature ; but there is — or rather was — an indistinct 
 tradition among his neighbours, that he married 
 and had children. A person of our poet's cha- 
 racter and fortune could not, indeed, have had far 
 to seek for a worthy partner, and with such a one 
 it is pleasing to hope that he spent the residue of 
 his blameless and honourable life.
 
 A LIST OF FbRD'S PLAYS. 
 
 1. The Lovkr's Melancholy, T. C. Acted at the Black- 
 
 friars and the Globe, 24th November, 1628. Printed 
 1629. 
 
 2. AxNABELLA AND GiovANNi, T. Printed 1633. Acted 
 
 at the Phoenix. 
 
 3. The Witch of Edmonton, T. By Rowley, Dekkar, 
 
 Ford, &c. Printed 1658. Probably acted soon after 
 1622. Acted at the Cockpit, and at Court. 
 
 4. The Sun's Darling, M. Acted in March, 1623-24, at 
 
 the Cockpit. Printed 1657. 
 
 5. The Broken Heart, T. Printed 1633. Acted at the 
 
 Blackfriars. 
 
 6. Love's Sacrifice, T. Printed 1633. Acted at the Phoenix. 
 
 7. Perkin Warbeck, H. T. Printed 1634. Acted at the 
 
 Phoenix. 
 
 8. The Fancies, Chaste and Noble, C. Printed 1638. 
 
 Acted at the Phoenix. 
 
 9. The Lady's Trial, T. C. Acted at the Cockpit in jMay, 
 
 1638. Printed 1639. 
 
 10. Beauty in a Trance, T. Entered on the Stationers' 
 books, September 9th, 1653, but not printed. Destroyed 
 by Mr. Warburton's servant. 
 
 11. The London Merchant, C. -x 
 
 12. The Royal Combat, C. /Entered on the Stationer's 
 TO A T 13 ^ books June iOth, 1660, but 
 
 13. An 111 Beginning has a >„„[ printed. Destroyed by 
 Good End, C. Played at i Mr. Warburton's servant, 
 the Cockpit, 1613. J 
 
 14. The Fairy Knight. Ford and Decker. 
 
 15. A LATE MuRTHER OF THE SoNNE UPON THE MoTHER. 
 
 Ford and Webster. 
 
 16. The Bristowe Merchant. Ford and Decker.
 
 THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY.
 
 The Lover's Melancholy.] This piece, the author 
 tells us, was " the first of his that ever courted reader.' 
 It was licensed hy Sir Henry Herbert, in 1628, and 
 brought out on the 24th of November in that year: in 
 1629, it was given to the press, accompanied (as the 
 manner was) by several recommendatory poems. " The 
 Lover's Melancholy" seems to have been favourably re- 
 ceived. A slight analysis of the plot will, without too 
 much forestalling that pleasure which the reader's own 
 conjectures and anticipations might furnish, enable him 
 more easily to encounter those difficulties which are not 
 unfrequently to be met with in Ford's dialogue, some of 
 tliem owing to the defective state of the MSS, but more 
 originating in the author's very peculiar style of com- 
 position. 
 
 Meleander, a noble statesman of Cyprus, was the father 
 of two daughters, Eroclea and Cleophila. A marriage be- 
 tween the former of these and his son, Palador, had been 
 projected by the reigning prince of C}'prus . the appear- 
 ance, however, of the beautiful Eroclea at court, awoke 
 loss friendly designs in the heart of the monarch; and it 
 was found necessaiy to steal away, and convey to a distant 
 country, the object of his violent passion. A deep melan- 
 choly seizes on Palador at the loss of his intended bride ; 
 while the still more unfortunate Meleander, accused of 
 treason and stripped of his honours, becomes bereft of rea- 
 son, and remains a prisoner to his castle, under the care of 
 his other daughter, the tender-hearted and faithful Cleo- 
 phila. The autlior of all this mischief shortly after dies ; 
 
 b2
 
 ( * ) 
 
 but, at the time the drama commences, no intelligence had 
 been heard of the lovely creatm-e, whom his unhallowed 
 desires had made a ftigitive and a wanderer. The play 
 opens with the return of Menaphon, a nephew of Mele- 
 ander and a son of Sophronos, his successor in office, from 
 his travels. These had been undertaken with a view of 
 " disburthening himself of the discontents" Avhich the 
 haughty conduct of his mistress, Thamasta, a cousin of the 
 prince, Palador, had occasioned him; and with that ill 
 success which too often attends such attempts to heal a 
 wounded mind. 
 
 " Such cure as sick men find in changing beds, 
 I found in change of airs ; the fancy flatter'd 
 JMy hopes with ease, as theirs do ; but the grief 
 Is still the same." 
 As a companion Menaphon brings back with him a youth, 
 named Parthenophill, whom he had accidentally encoun- 
 tered in the beautiftd vale of Tempe in Thessaly, and the 
 occasion of his meeting with whom forms one of the most 
 interesting tales to be found in the whole compass of the 
 drama. The melancholy seclusion in which Palador lived, 
 and his inattention to the cares of government, began at 
 length to excite serious discontents in Cj'prus. His tutor, 
 Aretus, and his minister, Soplu*onos, in vain endeavour to 
 awake him from his lethargy, and some mummeries, prac- 
 tised by the court-physician, Corax, for the same pui-pose, 
 are attended with little better success. His cure, however, 
 was nearer at hand than his courtiers imagined. The 
 voung stranger, Parthenophill, tvu'ns out in due course of 
 time to be the lost Eroclea, and the discoveiy has, as might 
 be expected, the double effect of restoring cheerfulness to
 
 ( 5 ) 
 Palador and reason to Meleander. Cleophila, released 
 from her pious attendance on her late distracted father, 
 bestows her hand on Amethus, her devoted lover; and 
 Thamasta, shamed out of her haughtiness by a misplaced 
 affection, into which the male attire of Eroclea had be- 
 trayed her, becomes the wife of Menaphon. The minor 
 characters will disclose themselves in the course of the 
 drama; but none of them wall be found to have much 
 claim on the reader's attention or affection, except Rhetias, 
 the faithfid servant of the heroine of the piece.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 
 
 Palador, Prince of Cyprus. 
 
 Ametiius, Cousin to the Prince. 
 
 Meleander, an old Lord. 
 
 SopHRONOs, Brother to Meleander. 
 
 Menaphon, Son of Sophronos. 
 
 Aretus, Tutor to the Prince. 
 
 CoRAX, a Physician. 
 
 Pelias, *) . 1- 1 .^ 
 
 r>, > Two loohsh Courtiers. 
 
 CUCULUS, 3 
 
 RHETiAs(a reduced Courtier), Servant to Eroclea. 
 
 Trollio, Servant to Meleander. 
 
 Grilla, a Page of Cuculus, in Woman's dress. 
 
 Thamasta, Sister of Amethus, and Cousin to the 
 
 Prince. 
 Eroclea, (as Parthenophill,) 1 Daughters of 
 Cleopiiila, j Meleander. 
 
 Kala, Waiting-Maid to Thamasta. 
 
 Officers, Attendants, ^'c. 
 The Scene — Famagosta in Cyprus.
 
 THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in the Palace. 
 Enter Menaphon and Pelias. 
 
 Men. Dangers ! how mean you dangers ? that 
 so courtly 
 You gratulate my safe return from dangers ? 
 
 Fel. From travels, noble sir. 
 
 Men. These are delights ; 
 If my experience hath not, truant-like, 
 Mispent the time, which I have strove to use 
 For bettering my mind with observation. 
 
 Pel. As I am modest, I protest 'tis strange ! 
 But is it possible ? 
 
 Men. What? 
 
 Pel. To bestride 
 The frothy foams of Neptune's surging waves, 
 When blustering Boreas tosseth up the deep. 
 And thumps a thunder-bounce ! 
 
 Men. Sweet sir, 'tis nothing : 
 Straight comes a dolphin, playing near your ship, 
 Heaving his crooked back up, and presents 
 A feather-bed to waft you to the sliore, 
 As easily as if you slept i' th' court. 
 
 Pel. Indeed ! is't true, I pray ?
 
 8 THE lover's melancholy. ACT I. 
 
 Men. I will not stretch 
 Your faith upon the tenters. — Prithee, Pelias, 
 Where didst thou learn this language ? 
 
 Pel. I this language ? 
 Alas, sir, we that study words and forms 
 Of compliment, must fashion all discourse 
 According to the nature of the subject. 
 But I am silent : — now appears a sun, 
 Whose shadow I adore. 
 
 Enter Amethus, Sophronos, and Attendants. 
 
 Men. My honour'd father ! 
 
 Soph. From mine eyes, son, son of my care, my 
 love, 
 The joys that hid thee welcome, do too much 
 Speak me a child. 
 
 Men. O princely sir, your hand. 
 
 Atnet. Perform your duties, where you owe them 
 first ; 
 I dare not be so sudden in the pleasures 
 'I'hy presence hath brought home. 
 
 Soph. Here thou still find'st 
 A friend as noble, Menaphon, as when 
 Thou left'st at thy departure. 
 
 Men. Yes, I know it, 
 I'o him I owe more service — 
 
 Amet. Pray give leave — 
 He shall attend your entertainments soon. 
 Next day, and next day ; — for an hour or two 
 I would engross him only. 
 
 Soph. Noble lord ! 
 
 Amet. You are both dismissed. 
 
 Pel. Your creature and your servant. 
 
 \_Exeunt all hut Amethus and Menaphon.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. y 
 
 Amet. Give me thy hand. I will not say, 
 Thoii'rt welcome ; 
 That is the common road of common friends. 
 I'm glad I have thee here — Oh ! I want words 
 To let thee know my heart. 
 
 Men. 'Tis pieced to mine. 
 
 Amet. Yes, 'tis ; as firmly as that holy thing 
 Call'd friendship can unite it. Menaphon, 
 My Menaphon ! now all the goodly blessings, 
 That can create a heaven on earth, dwell with thee ! 
 Twelve months we have been sundered ; but 
 
 henceforth 
 We never more will part, till that sad hour. 
 In which death leaves the one of us behind, 
 To see the other's funerals performed. 
 Let's now a while be free. — How have thy travels 
 Disburthen'd thee abroad of discontents ? 
 
 Men. Such cure as sick men find in changing 
 beds, 
 I found in change of airs ; the fancy flatter'd 
 My hopes with ease, as their's do ; but the grief 
 Is still the same. 
 
 Amet. Such is my case at home. 
 Cleophila, thy kinswoman, that maid 
 Of sweetness and humility, more pities 
 Her father's poor afflictions, than the tide 
 Of my complaints. 
 
 Men. Thamasta, my great mistress. 
 Your princely sister, hath, I hope, ere this 
 Confirm'd* affection on some worthy choice. 
 
 Amet. Not any, Menaphon. Her bosom yet 
 Is intermured with ice ; though by the truth 
 
 * Perhaps conferred. — Gifford.
 
 10 TPIE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. ACT 1. 
 
 Of love, no day hath ever pass'd, wherein 
 
 I have not mentioned thy deserts, thy constancy, 
 
 Thy — Come ! in troth, I dare not tell thee what, 
 
 Lest thou might'st think I fawn'd on [thee] — a sin 
 
 Friendship was never guilty of; for flattery 
 
 Is monstrous in a true friend. 
 
 Men. Does the coiu-t 
 Wear the old looks too ? 
 
 Amet. If thou mean'st the prince, 
 It does. He's the same melancholy man 
 He was at's father's death ; sometimes speaks sense, 
 But seldom mirth ; will smile, but seldom laugh ; 
 Will lend an ear to business, deal in none ; 
 Gaze upon revels, antick fopperies. 
 But is not mov'd ; will sparingly discourse. 
 Hear music ; but what most he takes delight in. 
 Are handsome pictures. One so young, and goodly. 
 So sweet in his own nature, any story 
 Hath seldom mention'd. 
 
 Men. Why should such as I am 
 Groan under the light burthens of small sorrows, 
 Whenas a prince, so potent, cannot shun 
 Motions of passion ? To be man, my lord, 
 Is to be but the exercise of cares 
 In several shapes ; as miseries do grow, 
 They alter as men's forms ; but how none know. 
 
 Amet. This little isle of Cyprus sure abounds 
 In greater wonders, both for change and fortune, 
 Tlian any you have seen abroad. 
 
 Men. Than any 
 I have observed abroad ! all countries else 
 To a free eye and mind yield something rare ; 
 And I, for my part, have brought home one jewel 
 Of admirable virtue.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 1 1 
 
 Amet. Jewel, Menaphon ? 
 
 Men. A jewel, my Amethiis, a fair youth ; 
 A youth, whom, if I were but superstitious, 
 I should repute an excellence more high. 
 Than mere creations are . to add delight, 
 I'll tell you how I found him. 
 
 Amet. Prithee do. 
 
 Men. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales 
 Which poets of an elder time have feign'd 
 To glorify their Tempe, bred in me 
 Desire of visiting that paradise. 
 To Thessaly I came ; and living private. 
 Without acquaintance of more sweet companions, 
 Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 
 I day by day frequented silent groves. 
 And solitary walks. One morning early 
 This accident encounter'd me : I heard 
 The sweetest and most ravishing contention. 
 That art [and] nature ever were at strife in.* 
 
 Amet. I cannot yet conceive what you infer 
 By art and nature. 
 
 Men. I shall soon resolve you. 
 A sound of music touch'd n"Kne ears, or rather 
 Indeed, entranced my soul : As I stole nearer, 
 Invited by the melody, I saw 
 This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, 
 Witli strains of strange variety and harmony. 
 Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge 
 To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds, 
 
 * Vide (Ford says) Fami. Stradam, lib. ii. Prolus. 6. 
 Acad. 2. Imitat. Claudian. This story, as Mr. Lambe ob- 
 serves, has been paraphrased by Crashaw, Ambrose Philips, 
 and others : none of those versions, however, can at all com- 
 pare for harmony and grace with this before us. — Gifford.
 
 12 THE lover's melancholy. ACT I. 
 
 That, as they flock'd about him, all stood silent, 
 Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too. 
 
 Amet. And so do I ; good ! on — 
 
 Men. A nightingale, 
 Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes 
 The challenge, and for every several strain 
 The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her 
 
 own ; 
 He could not run division with more art 
 Upon his quaking instrument, than she, 
 The nightingale, did with her various notes 
 Reply to : for a voice, and for a sound, 
 Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe 
 That such they were, than hope to hear again. 
 
 Amet. How did the rivals part ? 
 
 Men. You term them rightly ; 
 For they were rivals, and their mistress, har- 
 mony. — 
 Some time thus spent, the young man grew at 4ast 
 Into a pretty anger, that a bird 
 Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, 
 Should vie with him for mastery, whose study 
 Had busied many hours to perfect practice : 
 To end the controversy, in a rapture 
 Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, 
 So many voluntaries, and so quick. 
 That there was curiosity and cunning. 
 Concord in discord, lines of differing method 
 Meeting in one full centre of delight. 
 
 Amet. Now for the bird. 
 
 Men. The bird, ordain'd to be 
 Music's first martyr, strove to imitate 
 These several sounds : which, when her warbling 
 throat
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER's MELANCHOLY. 13 
 
 Fail'd in, for grief, down dropp'd she on his lute, 
 
 And brake her heart ! It was the quaintest sadness, 
 
 To see the conqueror upon her hearse 
 
 To weep a funeral elegy of tears ; 
 
 That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide 
 
 Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me 
 
 A fellow-mourner with him. 
 
 Amet. I believe thee. 
 
 Men. He look'd upon the trophies of his art, 
 Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd and 
 
 cried : 
 " Alas, poor creature ! I wiH soon revenge 
 This cruelty upon the author of it ; 
 Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, 
 Shall never more betray a harmless peace 
 To an untimely end :" and in that sorrow, 
 As he was pashing* it against a tree, 
 I suddenly stept in. 
 
 Amet. Thou hast discours'd 
 A truth of mirth and pity."!" 
 
 Men. I repriev'd 
 The intended execution with intreaties, 
 And interruption. — But, my princely friend, 
 It was not strange the music of his hand 
 Did overmatch birds, when his voice and beauty, 
 Youth, carriage and discretion must, from men 
 Indued with reason, ravish admiration : 
 From me, they did. 
 
 * i.e. dashing it. 
 
 t 77iOif hast discoimd 
 
 A truth of mirth and pity.] 
 
 This is evidently corrupt ; but I can suggest no remedy. 
 Pathetic, indeed, this most beautiful tale is, but it certainly 
 contains nothinor of merriment. — Giffoud.
 
 14 THE lover's melancholy. act I. 
 
 Amet. But is this miracle 
 Not to be seen ? 
 
 Men. I won him by degrees 
 To choose me his companion. Whence he is, 
 Or who, as I durst modestly inquire, 
 So gently he would woo not to make known ; 
 Only (for reasons to himself reserv'd) 
 He told me, that some remnant of his life 
 Was to be spent in travel : for his fortunes, 
 They were nor mean, nor riotous ; his friends 
 Not publish'd to the world, though not obscure : 
 His country Athens, and his name Parthenophill. 
 
 Amet. Came he with you to Cyprus ? 
 
 Me7i. Willingly. 
 The fame of our young melancholy prince, 
 Meleander's rare distractions, the obedience 
 Of young Cleophila, Thamasta's glory. 
 Your matchless friendship, and my desperate love 
 Prevail'd with him ; and I have lodg'd him privately 
 In Famagosta. 
 
 Amet. Now thou art doubly welcome : 
 [ will not lose the sight of such a rarity 
 For one part of my hopes. When do you intend 
 To visit my great-spirited sister ? 
 
 Men. May I 
 Without offence ? 
 
 Amet. Without offence ! — Parthenophill 
 Shall find a worthy entertainment too. 
 Thou art not still a coward ? 
 
 Men. She's too excellent, 
 And I too low in merit. 
 
 Amet. Fll prepare 
 A noble welcome ; and, friend, ere we part, 
 Urtload to thee an overcharged heart. [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVER's MELANCHOLY. 15 
 
 SCENE II,— Another Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Rhetias, carelessly attired. 
 
 Rhe. I will not court the madness of the times ; 
 Not fawn upon the riots that embalm 
 Our wanton gentry, to preserve the dust 
 Of their affected vanities in coffins 
 Of memorable shame. When commonwealths 
 Totter and reel from that nobility, 
 And ancient virtue which renowns the great, 
 Who steer the helm of government, while mush- 
 rooms 
 Grow up, and make new laws to license folly ; 
 Why should not I, a May-game,* scorn the weight 
 Of my sunk fortunes ? snarl at the vicesf 
 Which rot the land, and,j; v/ithout fear or wit. 
 Be mine own antick ? 'Tis a sport to live 
 When life is irksome, if we will not hug 
 Prosperity in others, and contemn 
 Affliction in ourselves. This rule is certain : 
 " He that pursues his safety from the school 
 " Of state, must learn to be madman or fool." 
 Ambition, wealth, ease I renounce — the devil 
 That damns you here on earth. — Or I will be 
 Mine own mirth, or mine own tormentor. — So ! 
 
 Enter Pelias. 
 Here comes intelligence ; a buzz o' the court. 
 
 * Why should 7iot I, a May-game, ^c] i. e. an uncon- 
 sidered trifle, a jest, a piece of mirth. — GiirouD. 
 
 t Snarl at the vices.'] Snarl (as well as girl) is commonly 
 made a dissyllable by our poet. — GiFronn. 
 
 t i. e. boldly, desperately, without care of consequences.
 
 16 THE lover's melancholy. ACT I. 
 
 Pel. Rhetias, I sought thee out to tell thee news, 
 New, excellent new news. CilcuIus, sirrah, 
 That gull, tliat young old gull, is coming this way. 
 
 Rhe. And thou art his forerunner ! 
 
 Pel. Prithee, hear me. 
 Instead of a fine guarded* page we have got him 
 \ boy, trick'd up in neat and handsome fashion ; 
 Persuaded him, that 'tis indeed a wench. 
 And he has enter tain'd liim ; he does follow him, 
 Carries his sword and buckler, waits on's trencher, 
 Fills him his wine, tobacco ; whets his knife. 
 Lackeys his letters, does what service else 
 He would employ his man in. Being ask'd 
 Why he is so irregular in courtship. 
 His answer is, that since great ladies use 
 Gentlemen-ushers, to go bare before them, 
 He knows no reason, but he may reduce 
 The courtiers to have women wait on them ; 
 And he begins the fashion : he is laughed at 
 Most complimentally. — Thou It burst to see him. 
 
 Enter Cvcvlvs followed by Grilla, both fantasti- 
 cally dressed. 
 
 Look, look he comes ! observe him seriously. 
 
 Cue. Reach me my sword and buckler. 
 
 Gril. They are here, forsooth. 
 
 Cue. How now, minx, how now ! where is your 
 duty, your distance ? Let me have service me- 
 thodically tendered ; you are now one of us. 
 Your curtsy. [Grilla curtsies.^ Good ! remem- 
 
 * Instead of a fine guarded page.'] \. e. of a page with a 
 livery richly laced, or turned up. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVEr's MELANCHOLY. 17 
 
 ber that you are to practise courtship.* Was thy 
 father a piper, say'st thou ? 
 
 Gril. A sounder of some such instrument, for- 
 sooth. 
 
 Cue. Was he so ? — hold up thy head. Be thou 
 musical to me, and I will marry thee to a dancer ; 
 one that shall ride on his footcloth, and maintain 
 thee in thy muff and hood. 
 
 Gril. That will be fine indeed. 
 
 Cue. Thou art yet but simple. 
 
 Gril. Do you think so ? 
 
 Cue. I have a brain ; I have a head-piece : 
 o'my conscience, if I take pains with thee, I should 
 raise thy understanding, girl, to the height of a 
 nurse, or a court-midwife at least. 
 
 Gril. E'en do your pleasure with me, sir. 
 
 Pel. ( eoming forward) Noble, accomplished Cu- 
 culus ! 
 
 Rhe. Give me thy fist, innocent. 
 
 Cue. 'Would 'twere in thy belly ! there 'tis. 
 
 Pel. That's well ; he's an honest blade, though 
 he be blunt. 
 
 Cue. Who cares ! We can be as blunt as he, 
 for his life. 
 
 CoRAX passes over the Stage. 
 
 Pel. Corax, the prince's chief physician ! 
 What business speeds his haste ? — Are all things 
 well, sir ? 
 Cor. Yes, yes, yes. 
 Rhe. Phew ! you may wheel about, man ; we 
 
 * Courtship.'] The behaviour necessary to be observed at 
 court ; the manners of a courtier, — Steevens, 
 VOL. I. C
 
 1^ 
 
 IS THE lover's MELANCHOLY. ACTl. 
 
 know you are proud of your slovenry and prac- 
 tice ; 'tis your virtue. The prince's melancholy 
 fit, I presume, holds still. 
 
 Cor. So do thy knavery and desperate beggary. 
 
 Cue. Aha ! here's one will tickle the ban-dog. 
 
 Rhe. You must not go yet. 
 
 Cor. I'll stay in spite of thy teeth. There lies 
 my gravity.* \_Thron's off his g07vn.'\ Do what 
 thou dar'st; I stand thee. 
 
 Rhe. Thou art m thy religion an atheist, in thy 
 condition a cur, in thy diet an epicure, in thy 
 sleep a hog ; thou tak'st upon thee the habit of a 
 grave physician, but art indeed an impostorousf 
 empiric. 
 
 Cue. To't, to't I hold him to't ! hold him to't ! 
 to't, to't, to't. 
 
 Cor. The best worth in thee is the corruption 
 of thy mind : a tiling bred out oi^ the filth and 
 superfluity of ill humours. Thou art fortune's 
 idiot, virtue's bankrupt, manhood's scandal, and 
 thine own scourge. Thou would'st hang thyself, 
 so wretchedly miserable thou art, but that no man- 
 will trust thee with as much money as will buy a 
 lialter ; and all thy stock to be sold is not worth 
 half as much as may procure it. 
 
 Rhe. Ha, ha, ha I this is flattery, gross flattery. 
 
 Cor. I have employment for thee, and for ye 
 
 * There lies ??ji/ gravity, (thious off his gou-n.)] Thus Pros- 
 peio, when he throws off his mantle, exclaims, 
 " Lie there, my ai-t." 
 
 And Fuller tells us that the great Lord Burleigh, when lie 
 put off his gown at night, used to say, 
 
 " Lie there, Lord Treasurer.'' — Gifford. 
 t i. e. deceitful, cheating.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 19 
 
 all. Tut ! these are but good morrows between 
 us. I'll shape ye all for a device before the 
 prince ; we'll try how that can move him. 
 
 Rhe. He shall fret or laugh. 
 
 Cue. Must I make one ? 
 
 Cor. Yes, and your feminine page too. 
 
 Gril. Thanks, most egregiously. 
 
 Pel. I will not slack my part. 
 
 Cue. Wench, take my buckler. 
 
 Cor. Come all into my chamber ; the project is 
 cast ; the time only we must attend. 
 
 Rhe. The melody must agree well and yield 
 sport. 
 When such as these are, knaves and fools, consort. 
 
 \_Exeiint. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 An Apartment in the House o/'Thamasta. 
 Enter Amethus, Thamasta, and Kala. 
 
 Aniet, Does this show well ? 
 
 Tha. What would you have me do ? 
 
 Amet. Not like a lady of the trim, new crept 
 Into the glitt'ring pomp of ease and wantonness, 
 Embroideries, and all these antick fashions, 
 That shape a woman monstrous ; to transform 
 Your education, and a noble birth 
 Into contempt and laughter. Sister ! sister I 
 She who derives her blood from princes, ought 
 To glorify her greatness by humility. 
 
 Tha. Then you conclude me proud ? 
 
 Amet. Young Menaphon, 
 My worthy friend, has loved you long and truly : 
 To witness his obedience to your scorn, 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THE lover's melancholy. ACT I. 
 
 Twelve months, wronsf'cl gentleman, he undertook 
 A voluntary exile. AVherefore, sister, 
 In this time of his absence, have you not 
 Disposed of your affections on some monarch ? 
 Or sent ambassadors to some neighb'rincr kino; 
 With fawning protestations of your graces, 
 Your rare perfections, admirable beauty ? 
 This had been a new piece of modesty, 
 Would have deserv'd a chronicle I 
 
 Tha. You are bitter ; 
 \ And, brother, by your leave, not kindly wise.* 
 My freedom is my birth : I am not bound 
 To fancy your approvements, but my own. 
 Indeed, you are an humble youth I I hear of 
 Your visits, and your loving commendation 
 To your heart's saint, Cleophila, a virgin 
 Of rare excellence : V>'hat though she want 
 A portion to maintain a portly greatness I 
 Yet 'tis your gracious sweetness to descend 
 So low ; the meekness of your pity leads you I 
 She is your dear friend's sister I a good soul I 
 An innocent I — 
 
 Amet. Thamasta I 
 
 Tha. I have given 
 Your Menaphon a welcome home, as fits me ; 
 For his sake entertain'd Parthenophill, 
 The handsome stranger, more familiarly 
 Than, I may fear, becomes me: yet, for his part, 
 I not repent my courtesies : but you — 
 
 Amet. No more, no more I be affable to both ; 
 Time mav reclaim vour crueltv. 
 
 * Not kindly icise.'] i.e. your wisdom has not the natural 
 tenderness of a brother iu it. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE III. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 21 
 
 Tha. I pity 
 The youth; and, trust me, brother, love his sad- 
 ness : 
 He talks the prettiest stories ; he delivers 
 His tales so gracefully, that I could sit 
 And listen, nay, forget my meals and sleep, 
 To hear his neat discourses. Menaphon 
 Was well advis'd in choosing such a friend 
 For pleading his true love. 
 
 Amet. Now 1 commend thee ; 
 Thou'lt change at last, I hope. 
 
 Enter Menaphon and Parthenophill. 
 
 Tha. I fear I shall. [Aside. 
 
 Amet. Have you survey 'd the garden ? 
 
 Men. 'Tis a curious, 
 A pleasantly contriv'd delight. 
 
 Tha. Your eye, sir. 
 Hath in your travels often met contents 
 Of more variety ? 
 
 Par. Not any, lady. 
 
 Men. It were impossible, since your fair pre- 
 sence 
 Makes every place, where it vouchsafes to shine. 
 More lovely than all other helps of art 
 Can equal. 
 
 Tha. What you mean by "helps of art," 
 You know yourself best ; be they as they are ; 
 You need none, I am sure, to set me forth. 
 
 Men. 'Twould argue want of manners, more 
 than skill. 
 Not to praise praise itself. 
 
 Tha. For your reward.
 
 22 THE LOVER S MELAXCHOLY. ACT I. 
 
 Henceforth I'll call you servant.* 
 
 Amet. Excellent sister I 
 
 I\[en. 'Tis my first step to honour. May I fall 
 Lower than shame, when I neglect all service 
 That may confirm tliis favour I 
 
 Tha. Are you well, sir I 
 
 Par. Great princess, I am well. To see a league 
 Between an humble love, such as my friend's is, 
 And a commanding virtue, such as your's is, 
 Are sure restoratives. 
 
 Tha. You speak ingeniously. 
 Brother, be pleas'd to show the gallery 
 To this young stranger. Use the time a while, 
 And we will all together to the court : 
 I will present you, sir, unto the prince. 
 
 Par. You are all composed of fairness and true 
 bounty. 
 
 Amet. Come, come : we'll wait you, sister. This 
 beginning 
 Doth relish happy process. 
 
 Men. You have bless'd me. 
 
 \_E.xeunt Men. Amet. and Par. 
 
 Tha. Kala ! O, Kala ! 
 
 Kala. Lady. 
 
 Tlia. AVe are private ; 
 Thou art my closet. 
 
 Kala. Lock your secrets close then : 
 I am not to be forced. 
 
 Tha. Never till now 
 Could I be sensible of being a traitor 
 To honour and to shame. 
 
 * Henceforth I'll call you servant.'] i. e. acknowledge you as 
 a lover.
 
 SCENE III. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 23 
 
 Kala. You are in love. 
 
 Tha. I am grown base. — Parthenophill — 
 
 Kala. He's handsome, 
 Richly endow'd ; he hath a lovely face, 
 A winning tongue. 
 
 Tha. If ever I must fall, 
 In him my greatness sinks : Love is a tyrant. 
 Resisted. Whisper in his ear, how gladly 
 I would steal time to talk with him one hour ; 
 But do it honourably. Prithee, Kala, 
 Do not betray me. 
 
 Kala. Madam, I \\'\\\ make it 
 Mine own case ; he shall think I am in love with 
 him. 
 
 Tha. I hope thou art not, Kala. 
 
 Kala. 'Tis for your sake : 
 I'll tell him so ; but, 'faith, I am not, lady. 
 
 Tha. Pray, use me kindly ; let me not too soon 
 Be lost in my new follies. 'Tis a fate 
 That overrules our wisdoms ; whilst we strive 
 To live most free, w'e're caught in our own toils. 
 Diamonds cut diamonds ; they who will prove 
 To tln-ive in cunning, must cure love with love. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 24 THE lover's melancholy. act n. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — An Apartmoit in the Palace. 
 Enter Sophronos and Aretus. 
 
 Soph. Our commonwealth is sick : 'tis more 
 than time 
 That we should wake the head thereof, who sleeps 
 In the dull lethargy of lost security. 
 The commons murmur, and th^ nobles grieve ; 
 The court is now turn'd antick, and grows wild. 
 Whilst all the neighbouring nations stand at gaze, 
 And watch fit opportunity to wreak 
 Their just conceived fury on such injuries 
 As the late Prince, our living master's father, 
 Committed against laws of truth or honour. 
 Intelligence comes flying in on all sides ; 
 Whilst the unsteady multitude presume 
 How that you, Aretus, and I engross, 
 Out of particular ambition, 
 
 The affairs of government ; which I, for my part, 
 Groan under, and am weary off. 
 
 Are. Sophronos, 
 I am as zealous too of shaking off 
 My gay state-fetters, that I have bethought 
 Of speedy remedy; and to that end. 
 As I have told you, have concluded with 
 Corax, the prince's chief physician. — 
 
 Soph. You should have done this sooner, Aretus ; 
 You were his tutor, and could best discern 
 His dispositions, to inform them rightly.
 
 SCENE 1. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 2o 
 
 Are. Passions of violent nature, by degrees 
 Are easiliest reclaim'd. There's something hid 
 Of his distemper, which we'll now find out. 
 
 Enter Corax, Rhetias, Pelias, Cuculus, and 
 Grilla. 
 
 You come on just appointment. Welcome, gen- 
 tlemen ! 
 Have you won Rhetias, Corax? 
 
 Cor. Most sincerely. 
 
 Cue. Save ye, nobilities ! Do your lordships 
 take notice of my page ? 'Tis a fashion of the 
 newest edition, spick and span-new, without ex- 
 ample. Do your honour, housewife ! 
 
 Gril. There's a curtsy for you, and a curtsy for 
 you. 
 
 Soph. 'Tis excellent : we must all follow fashion, 
 And entertain she-waiters. 
 
 Are. 'Twill be courtly. 
 
 Cue. I think so ; I hope the chronicles will rear 
 me one day for a headpiece 
 
 Rhe. Of woodcock, without brains in it!* Bar- 
 bers shall wear thee on their citterns,-)- and huck- 
 sters set thee out in gingerbread. 
 
 * Of u'oy<fcocfc,&c.] A cant term for a simpleton. Gifford. 
 + Barbers shall wear thee on their citterns.] It appears from 
 
 innumerable passages in our old writers, that barbers' shops 
 were furnished with some musical instruments, (commonly a 
 cittern* or guitar, ) for the amusement of such customers as 
 chose to strum upon it while waiting for their turn to be 
 shaved. It should be recollected that the patience of the 
 customers, if the shop was at all popular, must, in those te- 
 
 • The cittern of Johnson's days differed little from the guitar, as to 
 form. It was strung with wire instead of catgut, like the guitar, and 
 seems to have been in great vogue.
 
 2G THE lover's melancholy. act II. 
 
 Cue. Devil take thee I I say nothing to thee 
 now; canst let me be quiet ? 
 
 Gril. You are too perstrepcrous, sauce-box. 
 
 Cue. Good girl ! if we begin to pufF once — 
 
 Pel. Prithee, hold thy tongue: the lords are in 
 the presence. 
 
 Bhe. Mum, butterfly ! 
 
 Pel. The prince I stand and keep silence. 
 
 Cue. O the prince I wench, thou shalt see the 
 prince now. I'^'oft Mus'ie. 
 
 Enter Palador, n'lth a Booh. 
 
 Soph. Are. Sir, gracious sir I 
 Pal. Why all this company I 
 Cor. A book ! is this the early exercise 
 I did prescribe ? instead of following health, 
 Which all men covet, you pursue disease. 
 Where's your great horse, your hounds, yoiu- set 
 
 at tennis, 
 Your balloon ball, the practice of your dancing. 
 Your casting of the sledge, or learning how 
 To toss a pike ? all changed into a sonnet ! 
 Pray, sir, grant me free liberty to leave 
 The court : it does infect me with the sloth 
 Of sleep and surfeit : in the university 
 I have employments, which to my profession 
 
 dious days of love-locks, and beards of the most fantastic cuts, 
 have been frequently put to very severe trials. Some kind of 
 amusement, therefore, -oras necessary to beguile the time, and, 
 as newspapers had not then descended to the lower classes, a 
 more innocent or effectual one than an instrument, in pretty 
 general use, could not readily be found. 
 
 The head of the cittern, like that of the harp, occasionally 
 teraiinated, I suppose, in some grotesque kind of ornament. 
 
 GiFFORD.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 27 
 
 Add profit and report ; here I am lost, 
 And, in your wilful dulness, held a man 
 Of neither art nor honesty. You may 
 Command my head : — pray, take it, do ! 'twere 
 
 better 
 For me to lose it, than to lose my wits. 
 And live in Bedlam ;* you will force me to't ; 
 I am almost mad already. 
 
 Pal. I believe it. 
 
 Soph. Letters are come from Crete, which do 
 require 
 A speedy restitution of such ships. 
 As by your father were long since detain'd ; 
 If not, defiance threaten'd. 
 
 Are. These near parts 
 Of Syria that adjoin, muster their friends ; 
 And l)y intelligence we learn for certain, 
 The Syrian will pretend an ancient interest 
 Of tribute intermitted. 
 
 Soph. Through your land 
 Your subjects mutter strangely, and imagine 
 More than they dare speak publicly. 
 
 Cor. And yet 
 They talk but oddly of you. 
 
 Cue. Hang 'em, mongrels ! 
 
 Pal. Of me ? my subjects talk of me ! 
 
 Cor. Yes, scurvily. 
 And think worse, prince. 
 
 Pal. I'll borrow patience 
 A little time to listen to these wrongs : 
 
 * And Ike in Bedlam.] As there were mad folks in Fa- 
 magosta, there were doubtless receptacles for them. Ford, 
 however, was thinkino- of Moorfields. — Gifford.
 
 28 THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. ACT II. 
 
 And from tli£ few of you, which are here present, 
 Conceive the general voice. 
 
 Cor. So ! now he's nettled. [Aside. 
 
 Pal. By all your loves I charge you, without 
 fear 
 Or flattery, to let me know your thoughts, 
 And how I am interpreted : speak boldly. 
 
 Sojih. For my part, sir, I will be plain, and brief. 
 I think you are of nature mild and easy. 
 Not willingly provok'd, but withall headstrong 
 In any passion that misleads your judgment: 
 I think you too indulgent to such motions 
 As spring out of your own affections ; 
 Too old to be reform'd, and yet too young 
 To take fit counsel from yourself, of what 
 Is most amiss. 
 
 Pal. So ! — Tutor, your conceit ? 
 
 Are. I think you doat (with pardon let me speak 
 it) 
 Too much upon your pleasures ; and these plea- 
 sures 
 Are so wrapt up in self-love, that you covet 
 No other change of fortune : would be still 
 \\ hat your birth makes you ; but are loth to toil 
 In such affairs of state as break your sleeps. 
 
 Cor. I think you would be by the world reputed 
 A man, in every point complete ; but are 
 In manners and effect indeed a child, 
 A boy, a very boy. 
 
 Pel. May it please your grace, 
 I think you do contain within yourself 
 The great elixir, soul and quintessence 
 Of all divine perfections ; are the glory 
 Of mankind, and the only strict example
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 29 
 
 For earthly monarchs to square out their lives by : 
 Time's miracle ! Fame's pride ! in knowledge, wit, 
 Sweetness, discourse, arms, arts, — 
 
 Pal. You are a courtier. 
 
 Cue. But not of the ancient fashion, an it like 
 your highness. 'Tis I ; I that am the credit of 
 the court, noble prince ; and if thou would'st, by 
 proclamation or patent, create me overseer of all 
 the tailors in thy dominions, then, then the golden 
 days should appear again ! bread should be 
 cheaper ; fools should have more wit ; knaves 
 more honesty, and beggars more money. 
 
 Gri. I think novv — 
 
 Cue. Peace, you squaJJ ! 
 
 Pal. You have not spoken yet. \_To Rhetias. 
 
 Cue. Hang him ! he'll nothing but rail. 
 
 Gri Most abominable ; — out upon him ! 
 
 Cor. Away, Cuculus ; follow the lords. 
 
 Cue. Close, page, close. 
 \_They all silently withdraiv, but Rhe. and Val. 
 
 Pal. You are somewhat long a'thinking. 
 
 Rhe. I do not think at all. 
 
 Pal. Am I not worthy of your thought ? 
 
 Rhe. My pity, you are ; — but not my reprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 Pal. Pity! 
 
 Rhe. Yes, for I pity such to whom I owe service, 
 who exchange their happiness for a misery. 
 
 Pal. Is it a misery to be a prince ? 
 
 Rhe. Princes who forget their sovereignty, and 
 yield to affected passion, are weary of command. — 
 You had a father, sir. 
 
 Pal. Your sovereign, whilst he lived: — but 
 what of him ?
 
 30 THE lover's melancholy. act ii. 
 
 Rhe. Nothing. 
 I only dared to name him, — that is all. 
 
 Pal. I charge thee, by the duty that thou owst 
 us. 
 Be plain in what thou mean'st to speak : there's 
 
 something 
 That we must know : be free ; our ears are open. 
 
 IRhe. O, sir, I had rather hold a wolf by the 
 ears than stroke a lion ; the greatest danger is the 
 last. 
 Pal. This is mere trifling. — Ha I are all stol'n 
 hence ? 
 We are alone — thou hast an honest look. — 
 Thou hast a tongue, I hope, that is not oil'd 
 With flattery: be open. Though 'tis true. 
 That in my younger days I oft have heard 
 Agenor's name, my father, more traduced. 
 Than I could then observe : yet I protest, 
 I never had a friend, a certain friend. 
 That would inform me thoroughly of such errors, 
 As oftentimes are incident to princes. 
 
 Rhe. All this may be. I have seen a man so 
 ciu'ious in feeling of the edge of a keen knife, that 
 \ he has cut his fingers. My flesh is not proof 
 against the metal I am to handle ; the one is ten- 
 derer than the other. 
 
 Pal. I see then I must court thee. Take the 
 word 
 Of a just prince : for any thing thou speakest 
 I have more than a pardon, thanks and love. 
 
 RJie. T will remember you of an old tale, that 
 something concerns you. Meleandcr, the great 
 but unfortunate statesman, was by your father 
 treated with for a match between vou and his
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELAXCHOLY. 31 
 
 eldest daughter, the lady Eroclea : you were both 
 near of an age, — I presume you remember a con- 
 tract, — and cannot forget her. 
 
 Pal. She was a lovely beauty — prithee forward ! 
 
 Rhe. To court was Eroclea brought ; was 
 courted by your father, not for prince Palador, as 
 it followed, but to be made a prey to some less 
 noble design. — With your favour, I have forgot 
 the rest. 
 
 Pal. Good, call it back again into thy memory ; 
 Else, losing the remainder, I am lost too. 
 
 Rhe. You charm me.* In brief, a rape by some 
 bad agents was attempted ; by the lord Meleander, 
 her father, rescued ; she conveyed away ; Melean- 
 der accused of treason, his land seized, he himself 
 distracted and confined to the castle, where he yet 
 lives. What had ensued, was doubtful ; but your 
 father shortly after died. 
 
 Pal. But what became of fair Eroclea? 
 
 Rhe. She never since was heard of. 
 
 Pal. No hope lives then 
 Of ever, ever seeing her again? 
 
 Rhe. Sir, I feared I should anger you. This 
 was, as I said, an old tale : — I have now a new one, 
 which may perhaps season the first with a more de- 
 lightful relish. 
 
 Pal. I am prepared to hear ; say what you 
 please. 
 
 Rhe. My lord Meleander falling, (on whose fa- 
 vour my fortunes relied,) I furnished myself for 
 travel, and bent my course to Athens ; where a 
 
 * Yoit charm me.} You overpower my reluctance to speak ; 
 and accordingly llhetias feels no further dilficulty in disclos- 
 ing himself. — Guford.
 
 S/i THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. ACT II. 
 
 pretty accident, after a while, came to my know- 
 ledge. 
 
 Pal. My ear is open to thee. 
 
 Rhe. A young lady, contracted to a noble gentle- 
 man, as the lady last mentioned and your highness 
 were, being hindered by their jarring parents, stole 
 from her home, and was conveyed like a ship-boy 
 in a merchant, from the country where she lived, 
 into Corinth first, and afterwards to Athens ; where 
 in much solitariness she lived, like a youth, almost 
 two years, courted by all her acquaintance, but 
 friend to none by familiarity. — 
 
 Pal. In habit of a man? 
 
 Rhe. A handsome young man — 'till within these 
 three months or less, (her sweet-heart's father 
 dying some year before, or more,) she had notice 
 of it, and with much joy returned home, and, as 
 report voiced it at Athens, enjoyed her happiness 
 she was long an exile for. Now, noble sir, if you 
 did love the lady Eroclea, why may not such safety 
 and fate direct her, as directed the other ? 'tis not 
 impossible. 
 
 Pal. If I did love her, Rhetias ! Yes I did. 
 Give me thy hand: as thou did'st serve Mele- 
 
 ander. 
 And art still true to these, henceforth serve me. 
 
 Rhe. My duty and my obedience are my surety ; 
 but I have been too bold. 
 
 Pal. Forget the sadder story of my father. 
 And only, Rhetias, learn to read me well ; 
 For I must ever thank thee : thou hast unlock'd 
 A tongue was vow'd to silence; for requital — 
 Open my bosom, Rhetias. 
 
 Rhe. What's your meaning?
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. S'S 
 
 Pal. To tie thee to an oath of secrecy — 
 Unloose the buttons, man! thou dost it faintly: 
 What find'st thou there ? 
 
 Rhe. A picture in a tablet. 
 
 Pal. Look well upon't. 
 
 Rhe. I do — yes — let me observe it — 
 'Tis her's, the lady's. 
 
 Pal. Whose? 
 
 Rhe. Eroclea's. 
 
 Pal. Her's that was once Eroclea. For her 
 sake 
 Have I advanced Sophronos to the helm 
 Of government ; for her sake, will restore 
 Meleander's honours to him ; will, for her sake, 
 Beg friendship from thee, Rhetias. O ! be faithful, 
 And let no politic lord work from thy bosom 
 My griefs : I know thou wert put on to sift me : 
 But be not too secure. 
 
 Rhe. I am your creature. 
 
 Pal. Continue still thy discontented fashion, 
 Humour the lords, as they would humour me ; 
 I'll not live in thy debt. — We are discovered. 
 
 Enter Amethus, Menaphon, Thamasta, Kala, 
 and Parthenophill. 
 
 Amet. Honour and health still wait upon the 
 prince! 
 Sir, I am bold with favour to present 
 Unto your highness Menaphon, my friend, 
 Return'd from travel. 
 
 Men. Humbly on my knees 
 I kiss your gracious hand. 
 
 Pal. It is our duty ' 
 To love the virtuous. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE lover's melancholy. act II. 
 
 Me/I. If my prayers or service 
 Hold any value, they are vow'd your's ever. 
 
 Rhe. I have a fist for thee too, stripling ; thou 
 art started up prettily since I saw thee. Hast 
 learned any wit abroad? Canst tell news and 
 swear lies with a grace like a true traveller? — 
 What new ouzle's* this ? 
 
 Tka. Your highness shall do right to your own 
 judgment, 
 In taking more than common notice of 
 This stranger, an Athenian, named Partheno- 
 
 phill; 
 One, who, if mine opinion do not soothe me 
 Too grossly, for the fashion of his mind 
 Deserves a dear respect. 
 
 Pal. Your commendations, 
 .Sweet cousin, speak him nobly. 
 
 Par. All the powers 
 That sentinel just thrones, double their guards 
 About your sacred excellence ! 
 
 Pal. What fortune 
 Led him to Cyprus ? 
 
 3fc}h My persuasions won him. 
 
 Amet. And if your highness please to hear the 
 entrance 
 Into their first acquaintance, you will say — 
 
 Tha. It v^-as the newest, sweetest, prettiest 
 accident, 
 That e'er delighted your attention: 
 I can discourse it, sir. 
 
 * What new ouzle's </ua?] Paithenophill, whom lie pretends 
 not to know. It may be briefly observed, that " ouzel is a 
 generic term, in which the species blackbird (one among many) 
 is contained." — Gifford.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 35 
 
 Pal. Some otlier time. 
 How is lie call'd ? 
 
 Tha. Parthenophill. 
 
 Pal. Parthenophill ? 
 We shall sort time to take more notice of him. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Men. His wonted melancholy still pursues him. 
 
 Aruet. I told you so. 
 
 Tha. You must not wonder at it. 
 
 Par. I do not, lady. 
 
 Amet. Shall we to the castle ? 
 
 Men. We will attend you both. 
 
 Rlie. X\\ three — I'll go too. Hark in thine ear, 
 gallant; I'll keep the old man in chat, whilst thou 
 gabbiest to the girl : my thumb's upon my lips ; 
 not a word. 
 
 Amet. I need not fear thee, Rhetias. — Sister, 
 soon 
 Expect us ; this day we will range the city. 
 
 Ilia. Well, soon I shall expect you. — -Kala ! * 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Kal. Trust me. 
 
 lihe. Troop on ! — Love, love, what a wonder 
 thou art ! 
 
 \_Exeunt all hut Parthenophill and Kala. 
 
 Kal. May I not be offensive, sir ? 
 
 Par. Your pleasure ? 
 Yet, pray, be brief. 
 
 Kal. Then, briefly; good, resolve me; 
 Have you a mistress or a wife ? 
 
 Par. I have neither. 
 
 * Kala!] This is a hint to her attendant to lake the present 
 opportunity of conveying her message " honourably" to Par- 
 thenophill.— GirFoao. 
 
 D 2
 
 :36 THE lover's melancholy. act ii. 
 
 Kal. Nor did you ever love in earnest any 
 Fair lady, whom you wish'd to make your own ? 
 
 Par. Not any truly. 
 
 Kal. What your friends or means are 
 I will not be inquisitive to know, 
 Nor do I care to hope for. B\it admit 
 A dowry were thrown down before your choice, 
 Of beauty, noble birth, sincere affection, 
 How gladly would you entertain it ? Young man, 
 I do not tempt you idly. 
 
 Par. I shall thank you. 
 When my unsettled thoughts can make me sen- 
 sible 
 Of what 'tis to be happy ; for the present 
 I am your debtor; and, fair gentlewoman, 
 Pray give me leave as yet to study ignorance, 
 For my weak brains conceive not what concerns 
 
 me. 
 Another time — (Going. J 
 
 Enter Thamasta. 
 
 Tha. Do I break off your parley, 
 That you are parting ? Sure my woman loves you : 
 Can she speak well, Parthenophill ? 
 
 Par. Yes, madam. 
 Discreetly chaste she can; she hath much won 
 On my belief, and in few words, but pithy, 
 Much mov'd my thankfulness. You are her lady, 
 Your goodness aims, I know, at her preferment ; 
 Tlierefore, I may be bold to make confession 
 Of truth: if ever I desire to thrive 
 In woman's favour, Kala is the first 
 Whom my ambition shall bend to.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVERS MELANCHOLY. 3/ 
 
 Tha. Indeed! 
 But say, a nobler love should interpose. 
 
 Par. Where real worth and constancy first settle 
 A hearty truth, there greatness cannot shake it; 
 Nor shall it mine : yet I am but an infant 
 In that construction, which must give clear light 
 To Kala's merit ; riper hours hereafter 
 Must learn me how to grow rich in deserts. 
 Madam, my duty waits on you. \_Exit. 
 
 Tha. Come hither ! — 
 " If ever henceforth I desire to thrive 
 In woman's favour, Kala is the first 
 Whom my ambition shall bend to." — 'Twas so ! 
 
 Kal. These very words he spake. 
 
 Tha. These very words 
 Curse thee, unfaithful creature, to thy grave. 
 Thou woo'd'st him for thyself? 
 
 Kal. You said I should. 
 
 Tha. My name was never mentioned ? 
 
 Kal. Madam, no: 
 We were not come to that. 
 
 Tha. Not come to that ! 
 Art thou a rival fit to cross my fate ? 
 Now poverty and a dishonest fame, 
 The waiting-woman's wages, be thy payment. 
 False, faithless, wanton beast! I'll spoil your 
 
 carriage;* 
 There's not a page, a groom, nay, not a citizen 
 That shall be cast [away] upon thee, Kala; 
 I'll keep thee in my service all thy lifetime, 
 Without hope of a husband or a suitor. 
 
 * ril spoil your carriage I] From the sequel of the speech 
 it appears not improbable that the poet's word was marriage. 
 
 — GiFFOHD.
 
 '38 THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. ACT II. 
 
 Kcil. I have not verily deserv'd this cruelty. 
 
 Tha. Parthenophill shall know, if he respect not 
 My birth, the danger of a fond* neglect. [iT.r/V. 
 
 Kcd. Are you so quick I Well, I may chance 
 to cross 
 Your peevishness. Now, though I never meant 
 The young man for myself, yet, if he love me, 
 I'll have him, or I'll run away with him; 
 And let her do her worst then ! \_Ex'it. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 An Apartment at the Castle. 
 Enter Cleophila and Trollio. 
 
 Cleo. Tread softly, Trollio, my father sleeps still. 
 
 Trol. Ay, forsooth ; but he sleeps like a hare, 
 with his eyes open, and that's no good sign. 
 
 Cleo. Sure thou art weary of this sullen living; 
 But I am not; for I take more content 
 In my obedience here, than all delights 
 Tlie time presents elsewhere. 
 
 Mel. Oh! 
 
 Cleo. Dost hear that groan ? 
 
 Trol. Hear it ? I shudder ; it was a strong blast, 
 young mistress, able to root up heart, liver, lungs, 
 and all. 
 
 Cleo. My much-wrong'd father ! let me view 
 his face. 
 
 [Draws the arras, Meleander discovered 
 in a chair, sleeping. 
 
 * Of a fond neglect.'\ i. e. the danger of slighling- the love 
 of a lady of my rank. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVEll's MELANCHOLY. 39 
 
 Trol. Lady mistress, shall I fetch a barber to 
 steal away his rough beard whilst he sleeps ? In 
 his naps he never looks in a glass — and 'tis high 
 time, o' my conscience, for him to be trimmed; 
 he has not been under the shaver's hand almost 
 these four years. 
 
 Cleo. Peace, fool ! 
 
 Trol. He begins to stir; he stirs. Bless us, 
 how his eyes roll ! A good year keep your lord- 
 ship in your right wits, I beseech ye ! [^Aside. 
 
 Mel. Cleophila ! 
 
 Cleo. Sir, I am here ; how do you, sir ? 
 
 Mel. The raven croak'd, and hollow shrieks of 
 owls 
 Sung dirges at her funeral; I laugh'd 
 The while, for 'twas no boot to weep. The girl 
 Was fresh and full of youth; but, oh! the cun- 
 ning 
 Of tyrants, that look big ! their very frowns 
 Doom poor souls guilty ere their cause be heard. — 
 Good ! what art thou ? and thou ? 
 
 Cleo. I am Cleophila, 
 Your woeful daughter. 
 
 Trol. I am Trollio, 
 Your honest implement. 
 
 Mel. I know you both. 'Las, why d'ye use me 
 thus ? 
 Thy sister, my Eroclea, was so gentle, 
 That turtles in their down do feed more gall, 
 'J'lian her spleen mix'd with: — yet, when winds 
 
 and storm 
 Drive dirt and dust on banks of spotless snow. 
 The purest whiteness is no such defence 
 Against the sullying foulness of that fury.
 
 40 THE lover's melancholy. act II. 
 
 So raved Agenor, that great man, mischief 
 Against the girl — 'twas a politic trick ! 
 We were too old in honour. — I am lean, 
 And fall'n away extremely ; most assuredly 
 I have not dined these three days. 
 
 Cleo. Will you now, sir ? 
 
 Trol. I beseech you heartily, sir. 
 
 ]\[el. Am I stark mad ? 
 
 Trol. No, no, you are but a little staring — 
 there's difference between staring and stark mad. 
 You are but whimsied yet ; crotcheted, conun- 
 drumed, or so. \_Aside. 
 
 Mel. Here's all my care ; and I do often sigh 
 For thee, Cleophila ; we are secluded 
 From all good people. But take heed ; Amethus 
 Was son to Doryla, Agenor's sister ; 
 There's some ill blood about him, if the surgeon 
 Have not been very skilful to let all out. 
 
 Cleo. I am, alas ! too griev'd to think of love ; 
 That must concern me least. 
 
 Mel. Sirrah, be wise ! be wise ! 
 
 Enter Amethus, Menaphon, Parthexophill, and 
 Rhetias. 
 
 Trol. Who, I ? I will be monstrous and wise 
 immediately. — Welcome, gentlemen ; the more the 
 merrier. I'll lay the cloth, and set the stools in a 
 readiness, for I see here is some hope of dinner 
 now. \_Ex'it. 
 
 Amet. My lord Meleander, Menaphon, your 
 kinsman, 
 Newly return'd from travel, comes to tender 
 His duty to you ; to you his love, fair mistress.
 
 SCENE II. THE lover's MELANCHOLY. 41 
 
 Men. I would I could as easily remove 
 Sadness from your remembrance, sir, as study 
 To do you faithful service. — My dear cousin, 
 All best of comforts bless your sweet obedience ! 
 
 Cleo. One chief of them, [my] worthy cousin, 
 lives 
 In you, and your well-doing. 
 
 Men. This young stranger 
 Will well deserve your knowledge. 
 
 Amet. For my friend's sake, 
 Lady, pray give him welcome. 
 
 Cleo. He has met it, 
 If sorrows can look kindly. 
 
 Par. You much honour me. 
 
 RJic. How he eyes the company ! sure my pas- 
 sion will betray my weakness. — O my master, my 
 noble master, do not forget me ; I am still the 
 humblest, and the most faithful in heart of those 
 that serve you. [Aside. 
 
 Met. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Rhe. There's wormwood in that laughter ; 'tis 
 the usher to a violent extremity. [Aside. 
 
 Mel. I am a weak old man. All these are come 
 To jeer my ripe calamities. 
 
 Men. Good uncle ! 
 
 Mel. But I'll outstare ye all : fools, desperate 
 fools ! 
 You are cheated, grossly cheated ; range, range on, 
 And roll about the world to gather moss, 
 The moss of honour, gay reports, gay clothes. 
 Gay wives, huge empty buildings, whose proud 
 
 roofs 
 Shall with their pinnacles even reach the stars ! 
 Ye work and work like blind moles, in the paths
 
 42 THE lover's melancholy, ACT II. 
 
 That are bored thro' the crannies of tlie earth, 
 To charge your hungry souls with such full sur- 
 feits, 
 As, being gorg'd once, make you lean witli plenty; 
 And when you have skimm'd the vomit of your 
 
 riots. 
 You are fat in no felicity but folly: 
 Then your last sleeps seize on you ; then the 
 
 troops 
 Of worms crawl round, and feast, good clieer, rich 
 
 fare. 
 Dainty, delicious I — Here's Cleophila ; 
 All the poor stock of my remaining thrift : 
 You, you, the prince's cousin, how d'ye like her ! 
 Amethus, how d'ye like her ? 
 
 Amet. My intents 
 Are just and honourable. 
 
 Jlen. Sir, believe him. 
 
 Mel. Take her I — We two must part: go to 
 him, do. 
 
 Par. This sight is full of horror. 
 
 Rhe. There is sense yet 
 In this distraction. 
 
 Mel. In this jewel I have given away 
 All what I can call mine. When I am dead, 
 Save charge ; let me be buried in a nook : 
 No guns, no pompous whining; these are fooleries. 
 If, whilst we live, we stalk about the streets 
 Jostled by carmen, foot-posts, and fine apes 
 In silken coats, unminded and scarce thought on ; 
 It is not comely to be haled* to the earth, 
 
 * Haled to the earth.'] i. e. drawn to the grave. The allu- 
 sion is to the pomp and parade of a funeral procession, and to 
 the rich heraldic trophies with which the hearse was covered. 
 — GiiroRD.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 43 
 
 Like high-fed jades upon a tilting-day, 
 
 In antick trappings. Scorn to useless tears! 
 
 Eroclea was not coffin'd so : she perish'd, 
 
 And no eye dropp'd save mine — and I am childish ; 
 
 I talk like one that doats ; laugh at me, Rhetias, 
 
 Or rail at me. — They will not give me meat, 
 
 They have starv'd me: but I'll henceforth be mine 
 
 own cook. 
 Good morrow I 'tis too early for ray cares 
 To revel ; I will break my heart a little, 
 And tell ye more hereafter. Pray be merry. \_Exit. 
 
 Rhe. I'll follow him. My lord Amethus, use 
 your time respectively ; few words to purpose 
 soonest prevail : study no long orations ; be plain 
 and short. I'll follow him. [Exit. 
 
 A met. Cleophila, although these blacker clouds 
 Of sadness thicken and make dark the sky 
 Of thy fair eyes, yet give me leave to follow 
 The stream of my affections ; they are pure, 
 Without all mixture of unnoble thoughts : 
 Can you be ever mine ? 
 
 Cleo. I am so low 
 In mine own fortunes, and my fatlier's woes, 
 That I want words to tell you, you deserve 
 A worthier choice. 
 
 Amet. But give me leave to hope. 
 
 Men. My friend is serious. 
 
 Cleo. Sir, this for answer. If I ever thrive 
 In any earthly happiness, the next 
 7'o my good father's wish'd recovery, 
 Must be my thankfulness to your great merit. 
 Which I dare promise : — for the present time, 
 Vou cannot urge more from me. 
 
 Mel. (within J Ho, Cleophila!
 
 41 
 
 THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Cleo. This gentleman is mov'd. 
 Amet. Your eyes, Parthenophill, 
 Are n;uilty of some passion. 
 Men. Friend, what ails thee ? 
 Par. All is not well within me, sir. 
 Mel. (ivith'm) Cleophila I 
 Amet. Sweet maid, forget me not; 
 
 must part. 
 CJeo. Still you shall have my prayer. 
 Amet. Still vou mv truth. 
 
 we now 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 45 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I— A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Cuculus and Grilla, the former in a black 
 Velvet Cap, and a white Feather, with a Paper in 
 his hand. 
 
 Cue. Do not I look freshly, and like a youth of 
 the trim? 
 
 Gril. As rare an old youth as ever walked cross- 
 gartered. 
 
 Cue. Here are my mistresses, mustered in white 
 and black. ^Reads.^ " Kala, the waiting-woman.'' 
 I will first begin at the foot : stand thou for Kala. 
 
 Gril. I stand for Kala. 
 
 Cue. I must look big, and care little or nothinjj 
 for her, because she is a creature that stands at 
 livery. Thus I talk wisely and to no purpose. 
 " Wench, as it is not fit that thou should'st be 
 either fair or honest, so, considering thy service, 
 thou art as thou art, and so are thy betters, let 
 them be what they can be. Thus, in despite and 
 defiance of all thy good parts, if I cannot endure 
 thy baseness, 'tis more out of thy courtesy than 
 my deserving; and so I expect thy answer." 
 
 Gril. I must confess — 
 
 Cue. Well said. 
 
 Gril. You are — 
 
 Cue. That's true too. 
 
 Gril. To speak you right, a very scurvy fellow.
 
 46 THE lover's melancholy. act III. 
 
 Cue. Away, away I — dost think so? 
 
 Gr'd. A very foul-niouth'd and misshapen cox- 
 comb. 
 
 Cue. This sliall serve well enough for the wait- 
 ing-woman. My next mistress is Cleophila, the 
 old madman's daughter. I must come to her in 
 whining tune : sigh, wipe mine eyes, fold my arms, 
 and blubber out my speech as thus : '' Even as 
 a kennel of hounds, sweet lady, cannot catch a 
 hare — 
 
 Enter Pelias and Corax. 
 
 Vel. In amorous contemplation, on my life ; 
 Courting his page, by Helicon I 
 
 Cue. 'Tis false. 
 
 Gr'il. A gross untruth: I'll justify it, sir, 
 At any time, place, weapon. 
 
 Cue. Marry, shall she. 
 
 Cor. No c^uarrels, goody Whiske I lay by your 
 trumperies, and fall to your practice : instructions 
 are ready for you all. Pelias is your leader, 
 follow him ; get credit now or never. Vanish, 
 doodles, vanish ! 
 
 Cue. For the device ? 
 
 Cor. The same : get ye gone, and make no 
 bawling. [Exeunt all but Corax, 
 
 To waste my time thus, drone-like, in the court, 
 And lose so many hours, as my studies 
 Have hoarded up, is to be like a man 
 That creeps both on his hands and knees to climb 
 A mountain's top : where, when he is ascended, 
 One careless slip down-tumbles him again 
 Into the bottom, whence he first began. 
 I need no prince's favour ; princes need
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVEr's MELANCHOLY. 47 
 
 My art : then, Corax, be no more a gull, 
 The best of 'em cannot fool thee ; nay, they shall 
 not. 
 
 Enter Sophronos and Aretus. 
 
 Soph. We find him timely now ; let's learn the 
 cause. 
 
 Are. 'Tis fit we should. — Sir, we approve you 
 learn'd. 
 And, since your skill can best discern the humours 
 That are predominant in bodies subject 
 To alteration, tell us, pray, what devil 
 This Melancholy is, which can transform 
 Men into monsters ? 
 
 Cor. You are yourself a scholar, 
 And quick of apprehension : Melancholy 
 Is not, as you conceive, indisposition 
 Of body, but the mind's disease. So Extasy, 
 Fantastic Dotage, Madness, Frenzy, Rupture 
 Of mere imagination, differ partly 
 From Melancholy ;* which is briefly this, 
 A mere commotion of the mind, o'ercharged 
 With fear and sorrow ; first begot i'th'brain, 
 The seat of reason, and from thence deriv'd 
 
 * " Vide," Ford says, " Democritus Junior." He alludes 
 to the Atiatomy of Melancltoly, by Robert Burton; from which 
 not only what is here said, but the descriptions and personifi- 
 cations of the various affections of the mind in the Interlude 
 (scene iii.) are imitated, or rather copied ; for the poet has 
 added little or nothing of his own, to what he found in that 
 popular volume. To say the truth, the stupendous and un- 
 distinguishing diligence of our " Democritus the Younger" 
 almost precluded the possibility of adding to any topic which 
 he had previously made the object of his researches. — Gu- 
 roRD.
 
 -18 THE lover's melancholy. act III. 
 
 As suddenly into the heart, the seat 
 Of our affection. 
 
 Are. There are sundry kinds 
 Of this disturbance ? 
 
 Cor. Infinite : it were 
 More easy to conjecture every hour 
 We have to live, than reckon up the kinds 
 Or causes of this anguish of the mind. 
 
 Soph. Thus you conclude, that, as the cause is 
 doubtful, 
 The cure must be impossible ; and then 
 Our prince, poor gentleman, is lost for ever. 
 As well unto himself, as to his subjects. 
 
 Cor. My lord, you are too quick ; thus much I 
 dare 
 Promise and do ; ere many minutes pass, ^ 
 I will discover whence his sadness is. 
 Or undergo the censure of my ignorance. 
 
 Are. You are a noble scholar. 
 
 Soph. For reward 
 You shall make your own demand. 
 
 Cor. May I be sure ? 
 
 Are. We both will pledge our truth. 
 
 Cor. 'Tis soon perform'd. 
 That I may be discharged from my attendance 
 At court, and never more be sent for after : 
 Or — if I be, may rats gnaw all my books. 
 If I get home once, and come here again ! 
 Though my neck stretch a halter for't, I care not. 
 
 Soph. Come, come, you shall not fear it. 
 
 Cor. I'll acquaint you 
 With what is to be done ; and you shall fasliion it. 
 
 [_Exeunt.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 49 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Thamasta's House. 
 Enter Kala and Pauthenophill. 
 
 Kala. My lady does expect you, thinks all 
 time 
 Too slow till you come to her : wherefore, young 
 
 man, 
 If you intend to love me, and me only, 
 Before we part, without more circumstance. 
 Let us betroth ourselves. 
 
 Par. I dare not wrong you ; — 
 You are too violent. 
 
 Kala, Wrong me no more 
 Than I wrong you ; be mine, and I am yours ; 
 I cannot stand on points. 
 
 Par. Then, to resolve 
 All further hopes, you never can be mine. 
 Must not, and, pardon though I say, you shall 
 not. 
 . Kala. Shall not ! Well, 
 You were best to prate unto my lady now, 
 What proffer I have made. 
 
 Par. Never, I vow. 
 
 Kala. Do, do! 'tis but a kind heart of my own. 
 And ill luck can undo me. — Be refused ! 
 O scurvy ! — Pray walk on, I'll overtake you. 
 Meantime I'll mar* her market. [Exit Par. 
 
 * ril mar her marliet.'] Her mistress's ; whom she accord- 
 ingly betrays to Menaphon. — Gifiord. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE lover's melancholy. act III. 
 
 Enter Menaphon. 
 
 Men. Parthenophill passed this way; prithee, 
 Kala, 
 Direct me to him. 
 
 Kala. Yes, I can direct you ; 
 But you, sir, must forbear. 
 
 Men. Forbear ? 
 
 Kala. I said so. 
 Your bounty has engaged my truth, receive 
 A secret, that will, as you are a man. 
 Startle your reason : 'tis but mere respect 
 Of what I owe to thankfulness. Dear sir, 
 The stranger, whom your courtesy received 
 For friend, is made your rival. 
 
 Men. Rival, Kala ? 
 Take heed : thou art too credulous. 
 
 Kala. My lady 
 Doats on him : I will place you in a room, 
 Where, though you cannot hear, yet you shall see 
 Such passages as will confirm the truth 
 Of my intelligence. 
 
 Men. 'Twill make me mad. 
 
 Kala. Yes, yes. 
 It makes me mad too, that a gentleman 
 So excellently sweet, so liberal, 
 So kind, so proper, should be so betray'd 
 By a young smooth-chinn'd straggler ; but, for 
 
 love's sake, 
 Bear all with manly courage. — Not a word ; 
 I am undone then. 
 
 Men. That were too much pity : 
 Honest, most honest Kala I 'tis thy care, 
 Thy serviceable care.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVERS MELANCHOLY. 61 
 
 Kala. You have ev'n spoken 
 All can be said or thought. 
 
 Men. I will reward thee : 
 But as for him, ungentle boy, I'll whip 
 His falsehood with a vengeance. — 
 
 Kala. O speak little. 
 Walk up these stairs ; and take this key, it opens 
 A chamber door, where, at that window yonder. 
 You may see all their courtship. 
 
 Men. I am silent. 
 
 Kala. As little noise as may be, I beseech you ; 
 There is a back stair to convey you forth 
 Unseen or unsuspected. — [^Ex'it Menaphon. 
 
 He that cheats 
 A waiting- woman of a free good turn 
 She longs for, must expect a shrewd revenge. 
 Sheep-spirited boy ! altho' he had not married 
 
 me, 
 He might have profFer'd kindness at the least : 
 But they are come : 
 On goes my set of faces most demurely. 
 
 Enter Thamasta and Parthenophill. 
 
 Tha. Forbear the room. 
 
 Kala. Yes, madam. 
 
 Tha. Whosoever 
 Requires access to me, deny him entrance 
 Till I call thee ; and wait without. [Exit Kala. 
 
 Tha. I expose 
 The honour of my birth, my fame, my youth. 
 To hazard of much hard construction. 
 In seeking an adventure of a parley 
 So private with a stranger : if your thoughts 
 Censure me not with mercy, you may soon 
 e2
 
 .52 THE lover's melancholy. act hi. 
 
 Conceive, I have laid by that modesty, 
 
 Which should preserve a virtuous name unstain'd. 
 
 Par. Lady — to shorten long excuses — time 
 And safe experience have so thoroughly arm'd 
 My apprehension, with a real taste 
 Of your most noble nature, that to question 
 The least part of your bounties, or that freedom, 
 Which Heav'n hath with a plenty made you rich 
 
 in, 
 Would argue me uncivil;* which is more. 
 Base-bred; and, which is most of all, unthankful. 
 
 TJia. The constant loadstone and the steel are 
 found 
 In several mines ; yet is there such a league 
 Between these minerals, as if one vein 
 Of earth had nourish'd both. The gentle myrtle 
 Is not engraft upon an olive's stock ; 
 Yet nature hath between them lock'd a secret 
 Of sympathy, that, being planted near, 
 They will, both in their branches and their roots, 
 Embrace each other : twines of ivy round 
 The well-grown oak ; the vine doth court the 
 
 elm ; 
 Yet these are different plants. Parthenophill, 
 Consider this aright ; then these slight creatures 
 Will fortify the reasons I should frame 
 For that unguarded (as thou think'st) affection, 
 Which is submitted to a stranger's pity. 
 True love may blush, when shame repents too 
 
 late ; 
 But in all actions, nature yields to fate. 
 
 * Would argue me uncivil] i. e. unacquainted with the 
 language and manners of good society. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVER's MELANCHOLY. 58 
 
 Par. Great lady, 'twere a dulness must exceed 
 The grossest and most sottish kind of ignorance, 
 Not to be sensible of your intents ; 
 I clearly understand them. Yet so much 
 The difference between that height and lowness. 
 Which doth distinguish our unequal fortunes, 
 Dissuades me from ambition ; that I am 
 Humbler in my desires, than love's own power 
 Can any way raise up. 
 
 Tha. I am a princess. 
 And know no law of slavery; to sue, 
 Yet be denied ! 
 
 Par. I am so much a subject 
 To every law of noble honesty, 
 That to transgress the vows of perfect friendship, 
 I hold a sacrilege as foul, and curs'd. 
 As if some holy temple had been robb'd, 
 And I the thief. 
 
 Tha. Thou art unwise, young man, 
 To enrage a lioness. 
 
 Par. It were unjust 
 To falsify a faith; and ever after. 
 Disrobed of that fair ornament, live naked, 
 A scorn to time and truth. 
 
 Tha. Remember well, 
 Who I am, and what thou art. 
 
 Par. That remembrance 
 Prompts me to worthy duty. O great lady. 
 If some few days have tempted your free heart 
 To cast away affection on a stranger ; 
 If that affection have so oversway'd 
 Your judgment, that it, in a manner, hath 
 Declined your sovereignty of birth and spirit ; 
 How can you turn your eyes off from that glass.
 
 04 THE lover's melancholy. ACT III. 
 
 Wherein you may new trim, and settle right 
 A memorable name ? 
 
 Tha. The youth is idle.* 
 
 Par. Days, months, and years are past, since 
 ]\Ienaphon 
 Hath loved and serv'd you truly : Menaphon, 
 A man of no large distance in his blood 
 From your's : in qualities desertful, graced 
 With youth, experience, every happy gift 
 That can by nature, or by education 
 Improve a gentleman : for him, great lady, 
 Let me prevail, that you will yet at last 
 L. nlock the bounty, which your love and care 
 Have wisely treasur'd up, to enrich his life. 
 
 Tha. Thou hast amovins; eloquence, Partheno- 
 phill 1— 
 Parthenophill, in vain we strive to cross 
 The destiny that guides us : my great heart 
 Is stoop"d so much beneath that wonted pride, 
 That first disguis'd it, that I now prefer 
 A miserable life with thee, before 
 All other earthly comforts. 
 
 Far. Menaphon, 
 By me, repeats the self-same words to you : 
 You are too cruel, if you can distrust 
 His truth, or my report. 
 
 Tha. Go where thou wilt, 
 I'll be an exile with thee ; I will learn 
 To bear all change of fortunes. 
 
 Par. For my friend, 
 I plead with grounds of reason. 
 
 Tha. For thy love, 
 
 * The youth h idle] i. e. talks from the purpose. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 55 
 
 Hard-hearted youth, I here renounce all thoughts 
 Of other hopes, of other entertainments, — 
 
 Par. Stay, as you honour virtue. 
 
 Tha. When the proffers 
 Of other greatness, — 
 
 Par. Lady ! 
 
 Tha. When entreats 
 Of friends, — 
 
 Par. I'll ease your grief. 
 
 Tha. Respect of kindred, — 
 
 Par. Pray, give me hearing. 
 
 Tha. Loss of fame, — 
 
 Par. I crave 
 But some few minutes. 
 
 Tha. Shall infringe my vows, 
 Let Heaven, — 
 
 Par. My love speaks t'ye : hear, then go on. 
 
 Tha. Thy love? why, 'tis a charm to stop a vow 
 In its most violent course. 
 
 Par. Cupid has broke 
 His arrows here; and, like a child unarm'd. 
 Comes to make sport between us with no weapon, 
 But feathers stolen from his mother's doves. 
 
 Tha. This is mere trifling. 
 
 Par. Lady, take a secret. 
 I am as you are ; — in a lower rank, 
 Else of the self-same sex, a maid, a virgin. 
 And now, to use your own words, " if your 
 
 thoughts 
 Censure me not with mercy, you may soon 
 Conceive, I have laid by that modesty, 
 Which should preserve a virtuous name un- 
 stain'd." 
 
 Tha. Are you not mankind then ? 
 
 Par. When you shall read
 
 56 THE lover's melancholy. act III. 
 
 The story of my sorrows, with the change 
 Of my misfortunes, in a letter printed 
 From my unforged rehition, I beheve 
 You will not think the shedding of one tear, 
 A prodigality that misbecomes 
 Your pity and my fortune. 
 
 Tha. Pray conceal 
 The errors of mv passions. 
 
 Par. Would I had 
 Much more of honour (as for life, I value't not) 
 To venture on vour secrecv ! 
 
 Tha. It will be 
 A hard task for my reason, to relinquish 
 The affection, which was once devoted thine; 
 I shall awhile repute thee still the youth 
 I loved so dearly. 
 
 Par. You shall find me ever, 
 Your ready faithful servant. 
 
 Tha. O. the powers 
 Who do direct our hearts, laugh at our folhes I 
 We must not part yet. 
 
 Par. Let not my unworthiness 
 Alter your good opinion. 
 
 Tha. I shall henceforth 
 Be jealous of thy company with any ; 
 My fears are strong and many.* 
 
 Re-enter Kala. 
 
 Kala. Did your ladyship 
 Call me ? 
 
 * This scene, at once dignified and pathetic, is happily- 
 conceived, delicately conducted, and beautifully ^^Titten. It 
 places Ford's powers of language and command of feeling in 
 a very eminent rank. — Gifjord.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVEr's MELANCHOLY. 57 
 
 Tha. For what? 
 Kala. Your servant Menaphon 
 Desires admittance. 
 
 Enter Menaphon. 
 
 Men. With your leave, great mistress, 
 I come, — So private ! is this well, Parthenophill ? 
 
 Par. Sir, noble sir ! 
 
 Men. You are unkind and treacherous; 
 This 'tis to trust a straggler ! 
 
 Tha. Prithee, servant — 
 
 Men. I dare not question you, you are my mis- 
 tress. 
 My prince's nearest kinswoman; but he — 
 
 Tha. Come, you are angry. 
 
 Men. Henceforth, I will bury 
 Unmanly passion in perpetual silence : 
 I'll court mine own distraction, doat on folly. 
 Creep to the mirth and madness of the age. 
 Rather than be so slav'd again to woman, 
 Which, in her best of constancy, is steadiest 
 In change and scorn. 
 
 Tha. How dare you talk to me thus ? 
 
 Men. Dare ? Were you not own sister to my 
 friend, 
 Sister to my Amethus, I would hurl you 
 As far off from mine eyes, as from my heart; 
 For I would never more look on you. Take 
 Your jewel t'ye ! — and, youth, keep under wing, 
 Or — boy ! — boy ! 
 
 Tha. If commands be of no force. 
 Let me entreat thee, Menaphon. 
 
 Men. 'Tis naught. 
 Fie, fie, Parthenophill! have I deserv'd 
 To be thus used ?
 
 58 THE lover's melancholy. act III. 
 
 Par. I do protest — 
 Me}i. You shall not ; 
 Henceforth I will be free, and hate my bondage. 
 
 Entei- Amethus. 
 
 Amet. Away, away to court ! The prince is 
 pleas'd 
 To see a Masque to-night ; we must attend him : 
 'Tis near upon the time. — How thrives your suit ? 
 Men. The judge, your sister, will decide it 
 
 shortly. 
 Tha. Parthenophill, I will not trust you from 
 me. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE HI.— A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter V XI. K-DO^, Sophroxos, Aretus, awe? Corax; 
 Servants with Torches. 
 
 Cor. Lights and attendance ! I will shew your 
 highness 
 A trifle of mine own brain. If you can, 
 Imagine you were now in the university. 
 You'll take it well enough ; a scholar's fancy, 
 A quab ; 'tis nothing else, a very quab.* 
 
 Pal. We will observe it. 
 
 Soph. Yes, and grace it too, sir, 
 For Corax else is humorous and testy. 
 
 Are. By any means ; men singular in art, 
 Have always some odd whimsey more than usual. 
 
 * A quab ; a very quab.'} An unfledged bird, a nestling: 
 metaphorican}', any thing in an imperfect, unfinished state. 
 
 GiFFORD.
 
 SCENE III. THE LOVEr's MELAXCHOLY. 59 
 
 Pal. The name of this conceit. 
 
 Cor. Sir, it is called 
 The Masque of Melancholy. 
 
 Are. We must look for 
 Nothing but sadness here, then. 
 
 Cor, Madness rather 
 In several changes.* Melancholy is 
 The root, as well of every apish frenzy, 
 Laughter and mirth, as dulness. Pray, my lord, 
 Hold, and observe the plot; (Gives Fal. a paper J 
 
 'tis there express'd 
 In kind, what shall be now express'd in action. — 
 
 Enter Amethus, Menaphon, Thamasta, and 
 Parthenophill. 
 
 No interruption; — take your places quickly; 
 Nay, nay, leave ceremony. Sound to th' entrance! 
 
 \_Flourish. 
 
 Enter Rhetias, his Face whited, black shag Hair^ 
 long Nails; with a piece of raw Meat. 
 
 Rhe. Bow, how ! wow, rvow I The moon's eclipsed; 
 ril to the church-yard and sup. Since I turnd wolf 
 I hark, and howl and dig up graves; I will never 
 have the sun shine again: 'tis midnight, deep dark 
 midnight, — get a prey, and fall to — / have catch'd 
 thee now. — Arre ! — 
 
 * Ford has here introduced one of those Interludes in which 
 the old stage so much delighted. The various characters of 
 these " apish frenzies," as he calls them, he has taken from 
 Burton's Melancholy ; the book to which he refers in a former 
 scene. He cannot be said to have improved what he has bor- 
 rowed, which, on the contrary, reads better in Burton's pages 
 than his own. — GiFfORD.
 
 60 THE lover's melancholy. act III. 
 
 Cor. This kind is called Lycanthropia, sir ; when 
 men conceive themselves wolves. 
 
 Pal. Here I find it. \_Looking at the paper. 
 
 Enter Pelias, ivith a Crorvn of Feathers, anticklij 
 rich. 
 
 Pel. / 7vill hang 'em all, and hum my wife. Was 
 I not an emperor ? my hand was hiss d, and ladies 
 lay down before me. In triumph did I ride with my 
 nobles about me, till the mad dog bit me; I fell, and 
 I fell, and I fell. It shall be treason by statute for 
 any man to name water, or wash his hands, through- 
 out all my dominions. 
 
 Pal. Hydrophobia term you this ? 
 
 Cor. And men possess'd so, shun all sight of 
 water ; 
 Sometimes, if mix'd with jealousy, it renders them 
 Incurable, and oftentimes brings death. 
 
 Enter a Philosopher in black Rags, with a Cop- 
 per Chain, an old Gown half off, and a Book. 
 
 Phi. Philosophers dwell in the moon. Speculation 
 and theory girdle the world about, like a ivall. Ig- 
 norance, like an atheist, must be damnd in the pit. 
 I am very, very poor, and j^overty is the physic for 
 the soul ; my opinions are pure and perfect. Envy 
 is a monster, and I defy the beast. 
 
 Cor. Dehrium this is call'd, which is mere 
 dotage, 
 Sprung from ambition first, and singularity, 
 Self-love, and blind opinion of true merit. 
 
 Pal. I not dislike the course.
 
 SCENE III. THE LOVER's MELANCHOLY. 61 
 
 Enter Grilla, in a rich Gown, great Fardlngale, 
 great Ruff, a Muff, Fan, and Coxcomb* on her 
 Head. 
 
 Gril. Yes forsooth, and no forsooth ; is not this 
 fine! I jway your blessing, gaffer. Here, here, 
 here — did he give me a shough,-\ and cut off's tail ! 
 Buss, buss, nuncle, and there's a piimfor daddy. 
 
 Cor. You find this noted there, phrenitis. 
 
 Pal. True. 
 
 Cor. Pride is the ground on't ; it reigns most in 
 women. 
 
 Ejiter Cuculus like a Bedlam, singing. 
 
 Cue. They that will learn to drink a health in hell, 
 Must learn on earth to take tobacco well, 
 To take tobacco well, to take tobacco well ; 
 For in hell they drink nor wine, nor ale, nor beer, 
 But fire, and smoke, and stench, as we do here. 
 
 Rhe. I'll swoop thee up. 
 
 Pel. Thou'st straight to execution. 
 
 Gril. Fool, fool, fool ! catch me an thou canst. 
 
 Phi. Expel him the house ; 'tis a dunce. 
 
 Cue. [^sings'] Hark, did you not hear a rumbling ! 
 
 The goblins are now a tumbling ! 
 
 ril tear 'em. Til sear 'em, 
 
 Fll roar 'em, Fll gore 'em ! 
 
 Now, 7io?v, now ! my brains are ajton- 
 bling. — 
 Bounce! the gun's off. 
 
 * Coxcomb..'] i.e. a fool's cap. — GiFFono. 
 
 t Bid he give me a sliough.] A shock-dog, a water-spaniel. 
 
 GiFFORD.
 
 62 THE lover's melancholy. act III. 
 
 Pal. You name tliis here, hypochondriacal ? 
 
 Cor. Which is a windy flatuous humour, stuffing 
 The head, and thence deriv'd to the animal parts. 
 To be too over-curious, loss of goods 
 Or friends, excess of fear, or sorrows cause it. 
 
 Pal. 'Tis very strange : but Heaven is full of 
 miracles. 
 
 The Dance. 
 
 [Exeunt the Masquers in couples. 
 We are thy debtor, Corax,* for the gift 
 Of this invention ; but the plot deceives us : 
 What means this empty space ? 
 
 [Pointing to the paper. 
 
 Cor. One kind of Melancholy 
 Is only left untouch'd ; 'twas not in art 
 To personate the shadow of that fancy ; 
 'Tis nam'd Love-Melancholy. As, for instance. 
 Admit this stranger here,- — young man, stand 
 forth — [To Parth. 
 
 Entangled by the beauty of this lady, 
 The great Thamasta, cherish'd in his heart 
 The weight of hopes and fears ; it were impossible 
 To limn his passions in such lively colours. 
 As his own proper sufferance could express. 
 
 Par. You are not modest, sir. 
 
 * We are thy debtor, Corax, S^c.^ This good prince is easily 
 pleased ; for, to speak truth, a masque more void of invention, 
 or merit of any kind, never shamed the stage. It is singular 
 that Ford did not recollect how absolutely he had anticipated 
 the boasted experiment of this trifler, and laid open the whole 
 secret of the prince's melancholy in the admirable scene with 
 Rhetias in the second act: but he was determined to have a 
 show, and, in evil hour, he had it. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE III. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 63 
 
 Tha. Am I your mirth ? 
 
 Cor. Love is the tyrant of the heart ; it darkens 
 Reason, confounds discretion ; deaf to counsel, 
 It runs a headlong course to desperate madness. 
 O were your highness but touch'd home, and tho- 
 roughly. 
 With this (what shall I call it ?) devil— 
 
 Pal. Hold! 
 Let no man henceforth name the word again. — 
 Wait you my pleasure, youth. — 'Tis late ; to 
 rest!— [_Exit. 
 
 Cor. My lords — 
 
 Soph. Enough ; thou art a perfect arts-man. 
 Cor. Panthers may hide their heads, not change 
 the skin ; 
 And love, pent ne'er so close, yet will be seen. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 64 THE lover's melancholy. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Thamasta'^ House. 
 Enter Amethus and Menaphon. 
 
 Amet. Doat on a stranger ? 
 
 Men. Court him ; plead, and sue to him. 
 
 Amet. Affectionately ? 
 
 Meji. Servilely ; and, pardon me, 
 If I say, basely. 
 
 Amet. Women, in their passions, 
 Like false fires, flash, to fright our trembling 
 
 senses, 
 Yet, in themselves, contain nor light nor heat. 
 My sister do this ! she, whose pride did scorn 
 All tlioughts that were not busied on a crown, 
 To fall so far beneath her fortunes now ! — 
 You are my friend. 
 
 Men. What I confirm, is truth. 
 
 Amet. Truth, Menaphon ? 
 
 Men. If I conceived you were 
 Jealous of my sincerity and plainness, 
 Then, sir 
 
 Amet. What then, sir ? 
 
 JMen. I would then resolve 
 You were as changeable in vows of friendship, 
 As is Thamasta in her choice of love : 
 That sin is double, running in a blood, 
 Which justifies another being worse. 
 
 Aynet. My Menaphon, excuse me ; 1 grow wild, 
 And would not, willingly, believe the truth
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 65 
 
 Of my dishoiioiu' : she shall know how much 
 I am a debtor to thy noble goodness, 
 By checking the contempt her poor desires 
 Have sunk her fame in. Prithee tell me, friend. 
 How did the youth receive her ? 
 
 Men. With a coldness 
 As modest and as hopeless, as the trust 
 I did repose in him could wish, or merit. 
 
 Enter Thamasta and Kala. 
 
 Amet. I will esteem him dearly. 
 
 Men. Sir, your sister. 
 
 Tha. Servant, I have employment for you. 
 
 Ainet. Harkye ! 
 The mask of your ambition is fallen oft'; 
 Your pride hath stoop'd to such an abject low- 
 
 ness. 
 That you have now discover'd to report 
 Your nakedness in virtue, honours, shame, 
 
 Tha. You are turn'd Satire. 
 
 Amet. All the flatteries 
 Of greatness have expos'd you to contempt. 
 
 Tha. This is mere railing. 
 
 Amet. You have sold your birth 
 For lust. 
 
 Tha. Lust? 
 
 Amet. Yes ; and, at a dear expense, 
 Purchased the only glories of a wanton. 
 
 Tha. A wanton! 
 
 Amet. Let repentance stop your mouth : 
 Learn to redeem your fault.* 
 
 * It is evident, from what follows, in a subsequent scene, 
 that this warmth of language is merely affected by Amethus, 
 for the purpose of intimidating his sister, and by dint of over- 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE lover's melancholy. act IV. 
 
 Kala. I hope your tongue 
 Has not betray'd my honesty. [_Aside to Men. 
 
 Men. Fear nothing. 
 
 Tha. If, Menaphon, I hitherto have strove 
 To keep a wary guard about my fame ; 
 If I have us'd a woman's skill to sift 
 The constancy of your protested love ; 
 You cannot, in the justice of your judgment, 
 Impute that to a coyness or neglect, 
 Which my discretion and your service aim'd 
 For noble purposes. 
 
 Men. Great mistress, no : 
 I rather quarrel with mine own ambition, 
 That durst to soar so high, as to feed hope 
 Of any least desert, tliat might entitle 
 My duty to a pension from your favours. 
 
 Amet. And therefore, lady, (pray observe him 
 well) 
 He henceforth covets plain equality : 
 Endeavouring to rank his fortunes low, 
 With some tit partner, whom, without presump- 
 tion, 
 Witliout offence or danger, he may cherish, 
 Yes, and command too, as a wife ; a wife : 
 A wife, my most great lady I 
 
 Kala. All will out. \^Aside. 
 
 Tha. Now I perceive the league of amitv, 
 Which you have long between you vow'd and kept. 
 Is sacred and inviolable : secrets 
 Of every nature are in common to you. 
 I have trespassed, and I have been faulty : 
 
 powering her supposed coquetn-, surprising her into an avowal 
 of her attachment to his friend. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVEr's MELANCHOLY. 67 
 
 Let not too rude a censure doom me guilty, 
 Or judge my error wilful without pardon. 
 
 Men. Gracious and virtuous mistress ! 
 
 Amet. 'Tis a trick ; 
 There is no trust in female cunning, friend. 
 Let her first purge her follies past, and clear 
 The wrong done to her honour, by some sure 
 Apparent testimony of her constancy ; 
 Or we will not believe these childish plots : 
 As you respect my friendship, lend no ear 
 To a reply. — Think on't ! 
 
 Men. Pray, love your fame. 
 
 \_Exeunt Men. and Amet. 
 
 Tha. Gone ! I am sure awak'd. Kala, I find 
 You have not been so trusty as the duty 
 You owed required. 
 
 Kala. Not I ? I do protest 
 I have been, madam. 
 
 Tha. Be — no matter what! 
 I am paid in mine own coin; something I must. 
 And speedily. — So! — seek out Cuculus, 
 Bid him attend me instantly. 
 
 Kala. That antick ! 
 The trim old youth shall wait you. 
 
 Tha. Wounds may be mortal, which are wounds 
 indeed ; 
 But no wound's deadly, till our honours bleed. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— A Room in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Rhetias and Cor ax. 
 
 Rhe. Thou art an excellent fellow. Diabolo ! 
 O these empirics, that will undertake all cures, 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE lover's melancholy. act IV. 
 
 yet know not the causes of any disease ! Dog- 
 leeches ! By the four elements I honour thee ; 
 could find in my heart to turn knave, and be thy 
 flatterer. 
 
 Cor. Sirrah, 'tis pity thou'dst not been a 
 scholar ; 
 Thou'rt honest, blunt, and rude enough, o' con- 
 science ! 
 But for thy lord now, — I have put him to't. 
 
 Rhe. He chafes hugely, fumes like a stew-pot; 
 is he not monstrously overgone in frenzy ? 
 
 Cor. Rhetias, 'tis not a madness, but his sor- 
 rows 
 (Close griping grief, and anguish of the soul) 
 That torture him ; he carries hell on earth 
 Within his bosom : 'twas a prince's tyranny 
 Caus'd his distraction ; and a prince's sweetness 
 Must qualify that tempest of his mind.* 
 
 Rhe. Corax, to praise thy art, were to assure 
 The misbelieving world, that the sun shines, 
 When 'tis i' th' full meridian of his beauty : 
 No cloud of black detraction can eclipse 
 The light of thy rare knowledge. Henceforth, 
 
 casting 
 All poor disguises off, that play in rudeness, 
 Call me your servant ; onl}-, for the present, 
 I wish a happy blessing to your labours. — 
 Heaven crown your undertakings ! and believe 
 me, 
 
 * 'Ucas a prince's tiirannu 
 
 Caused his distraction, ^'-c] Here again poor Corax has 
 just stumbled on what the prince had discovered long before : 
 never, surely, was reputation so cheaply obtained as by this 
 compound of fool and physician. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE 11. THE lover's MELANCHOLY. 69 
 
 Ere many hours can pass, at our next meeting, 
 The bonds my duty owes shall be full cancell'd. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Cor. Farewell ! — A shrewd-brain'd fellow ; 
 there is pith 
 In his untoward plainness. — Now, the news ? 
 
 Enter Trollio, with a Morion* on. 
 
 Trol. Worshipful master doctor, I have a great 
 deal of I cannot tell what, to say to you. My 
 lord thunders, every word that comes out of his 
 mouth roars like a cannon ; the house shook once ; 
 — my young lady dares not be seen. 
 
 Cor. We will roar with him, Trollio, if he roar. 
 
 Trol. He has got a great pole-axe in his hand, 
 and fences it up and down the house, as if he 
 were to make room for the pageants, j' I have 
 provided me a morion for fear of a clap on the 
 coxcomb. 
 
 Mel. (within) So ho, so ho! 
 
 Trol. There, there, there! look to your right 
 worshipful, look to yourself. 
 
 Enter Meleander with a Pole-axe. 
 
 Mel. Shew me the dog, whose triple-throated 
 noise 
 
 * Morion.'] A head-piece, a helmet. — Gifford. 
 
 + To make room J\yr the pageants.] An allusion to the 
 city-officers, who headed the shows on the Lord Mayor's day, 
 and opened the passage for the masquers. They must have 
 found occasion for all their fencing, if the fierce curiosity of 
 the citizens be considered, and the state of the public streets. 
 
 GiFFOIlD.
 
 70 THE lover's melancholy. act IV. 
 
 Hath rous'd a lion from his uncouth den, 
 To tear the cur in pieces. 
 
 Cor. [^Putting on a frightful Mask, and turning 
 to Mel.] Stay thy paws. 
 Courageous beast ; else, lo ! the Gorgon's skull. 
 That shall transform thee to that restless stone, 
 Which Sisyphus rolls up against the hill ; 
 Whence, tumbling down again, it, with its weight, 
 Shall crush thy bones, and puff thee into air. 
 
 Mel. Nay, if the fates 
 Have spun my thread, and my spent clue of life 
 Be not untwisted, let us part like friends : 
 Lay up my weapon, Trollio, and be gone. 
 
 Trol. Yes, sir, with all my heart. 
 
 \Exit, nitli the Pole>-axe. 
 
 Mel. This friend and 1 will walk, and gabble 
 wisely. 
 
 Cor. I allow the motion; on I ^Takes off his 
 Mask. 
 
 Mel. So politicians thrive. 
 That with their crabbed faces, and sly tricks. 
 Legerdemain, ducks, cringes, formal beards, 
 Crisp'd hairs, and punctual cheats, do wriggle in 
 Their heads first, like a fox, to rooms of state ; 
 Then the whole bodv follows. 
 
 Cor. Then they fill 
 Lordships ; steal women's hearts ; with them and 
 
 theirs 
 The world runs round ; vet these are square men 
 still.* 
 
 * The uorld turtis round ; yet these are square men still.] 
 The play of words between round and square is not of a very 
 exquisite kind, but it does well enough for Corax. By square 
 he means just, unimpeachable. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVEr's MELANCHOLY. 71 
 
 Mel. There are none poor, but such as engross 
 offices. 
 
 Cor. None wise, but unthrifts, bankrupts, beg- 
 gars, rascals. 
 
 Mel. The hangman is a rare physician. 
 
 Cor. That's not so good ; (Aside.) it shall be 
 granted. 
 
 Mel. All 
 The buzz of drugs, and minerals and simples, 
 Blood-lettings, vomits, purges, or what else 
 Is conjur'd up by men of art, to gull 
 Liege-people, and rear golden piles, are trash 
 To a strong well-wrought halter ; there the gout. 
 The stone, yes, and the melancholy devil. 
 Are cured in less time than a pair of minutes : 
 Build me a gallows in this very plot, 
 And I'll dispatch your business. 
 
 Cor. Fix the knot 
 Right under the left ear. 
 
 Mel. Sirrah, make ready. 
 
 Cor. Yet do not be so sudden ; grant me leave 
 To give a farewell to a creature long 
 Absented from me : 'tis a daughter, sir, 
 Snatch'd from me in her youth, a handsome girl ; 
 She comes to ask a blessing. 
 
 Mel. Pray, where is she? 
 I cannot see her yet. 
 
 Cor. She makes more haste 
 In her quick prayers than her trembling steps. 
 Which many griefs have weaken'd. 
 
 Mel. Cruel man ! 
 How canst thou rip a heart that's cleft already 
 With injuries of time? — Whilst I am frantic, 
 Whilst throngs of rude divisions huddle on,
 
 <2 THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. ACT IV. 
 
 And do disrank my brains from peace and sleep, 
 
 So long — I am insensible of cares. 
 
 As balls of wildfire may be safely toiicli'd, 
 
 Not violently sundered, and thrown up ; 
 
 So my distemper'd thoughts rest in their rage, 
 
 Not hurried in the air of repetition, 
 
 Or memory of my misfortunes past : 
 
 Then are my griefs struck home, when they're 
 
 reclaim'd 
 To their own pity of themselves. — Proceed ; 
 What of your daughter now ? 
 
 Cor. I cannot tell you, 
 'Tis now out of my head again ; my brains 
 Are crazy ; I have scarce slept one sound sleep 
 These twelve months. 
 
 Mel. Xas, poor man I canst thou imagine 
 To prosper in the task thou tak'st in hand. 
 By practising a cure upon my weakness. 
 And yet be no physician for thyself? 
 Go, go I turn over all thy books once more, 
 And learn to thrive in modesty ; for impudence 
 Does least become a scholar. Thou'rt a fool, 
 A kind of learned fool. 
 
 Cur. I do confess it. 
 
 Mel. If thou canst wake with me, forget to eat. 
 Renounce the thought of greatness, tread on fate, 
 Sigh out a lamentable tale of things. 
 Done long ago, and ill done ; and, when sighs 
 Are wearied, piece up what remains behind 
 V» ith weeping eyes, and hearts that bleed to 
 
 death ; 
 Thou shalt be a companion fit for me. 
 And we will sit together, like true friends, 
 And never be divided. With what ijreediness
 
 SCENE II. THE LOYER S MELANCHOLY. i3 
 
 Do I hug my afflictions ! there's no mirth 
 Which is not truly season'd with some madness : 
 As, for example — [_Exit, hastily. 
 
 Cor. What new crotchet next ? 
 There is so much sense in this wild distraction, 
 That I am almost out of my wits too, 
 To see and hear him : some few hours more 
 Spent here, would turn me apish, if not frantic. 
 
 Re-enter Meleander ivith Cleophila. 
 
 Mel. In all the volumes thou hast turn'd, thou 
 man 
 Of knowledge, hast thou met with any rarity, 
 Worthy thy contemplation, like to this ? 
 The model of the heavens, the earth, the waters, 
 The harmony and sweet consent of times, 
 Are not of such an excellence, in form 
 Of their creation, as the infinite wonder 
 That dwells within the compass of this face : 
 And yet, I tell thee, scholar, under this 
 Well-ordered sign, is lodg'd such an obedience 
 As will hereafter, in another age, 
 Strike all comparison into a silence. 
 She had a sister too ; — but as for her, 
 If I were given to talk, I could describe 
 A pretty piece of goodness — let that pass — 
 We must be wise sometimes. What would you 
 with her? 
 
 Cor. 1 with her ? nothing by your leave, sir. 
 
 Mel. (to Cleo. ) Good soul! be patient; 
 We are a pair of things, the world doth laugh at. 
 Yet be content, Cleophila ; those clouds, 
 Which bar the sun from shining on our miseries, 
 Will never be chased off till I am dead :
 
 74 THE lover's melancholy. act. IV. 
 
 And then some charitable soul will take thee 
 Into protection: I am hasting on ; 
 The time cannot be long. 
 
 Cleo. I do beseech you, 
 Sir, as you love your health, as you respect 
 My safety, let not passion overrule you. 
 
 Mel. It shall not ; I am friends with all the 
 world. 
 Get me some wine ; to witness that I will be 
 An absolute good fellow, I will drink with thee. 
 
 Cor. Have you prepared his cup ? 
 
 \_Aside to Cleo. 
 
 Cleo. It is in readiness. 
 
 Enter Cuculus and Grilla. 
 
 Cue. By your leave, gallants, I come to speak 
 with a young lady, as they say, the old Trojan's 
 daughter of the house. 
 
 Mel. Your business with my lady-daughter, 
 toss-pot ? 
 
 Gril. Toss-pot ? O base ! toss-pot ? 
 
 Cue. Peace ! dost not see in what case he is ? — 
 I would do my own commendations to her ; that's 
 all. 
 
 Mel. Do. Come, my Genius, we will quaff in 
 wine, 
 Till we grow wise. 
 
 Co7\ True nectar is divine. 
 
 [^Exeunt Mel. and Cor. 
 
 Cue. So ! I am glad he is gone. Page, walk 
 aside. — Sweet beauty, I am sent ambassador from 
 the mistress of my thoughts, to you, the mistress 
 of my desires. 
 
 Cleo. So, sir ! I pray be brief.
 
 SCENE II. THE LOVER's MELANCHOLY. 75 
 
 Cue. That you may know I am not, as they say, 
 an animal, which is, as they say, a kind of Cokes,* 
 which is, as the learned term it, an ass, a puppy, 
 a widgeon, a dolt, a noddy, a 
 
 Cleo. As you please. 
 
 Cue. Pardon me for that, it shall be as you 
 please indeed : forsooth, I love to be courtly and 
 in fashion. 
 
 Cleo. Well, to your embassy. What, and from 
 whom ? 
 
 Cue. There you come to me. O, to be in the 
 favour of great ladies, is as much to say, as to be 
 great in ladies' favours. 
 
 Cleo. Good time o'day to you ! I can stay no 
 longer. 
 
 Cue. By this light, but you must ; for now I 
 come to't. The most excellent, most wise, most 
 dainty, precious, loving, kind, sweet, intolerably 
 fair lady Thamasta commends to your little hands 
 this letter of importance. By your leave, let me 
 first kiss, and then deliver it in fashion, to your 
 own proper beauty. [^Delivers a Letter. 
 
 Cleo. To me, from her ? 'tis strange ! I dare 
 peruse it. [Reads. 
 
 Cue. Good. O, that I had not resolved to live 
 a single life ! Here's temptation, able to conjure 
 up a spirit with a witness. So, so ! she has read 
 it. 
 
 Cleo. Is't possible ? Heaven, thou art great and 
 bountiful. 
 Sir, I much thank your pains; and to the princess, 
 Let my love, duty, service be remember'd. 
 
 * The allusion is to a character in Ben Jonson's Bartholo- 
 mew Fair.
 
 / 6 THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. ACT IV. 
 
 Cue. I'hey shall, mad-dam. 
 Cleo. When we of hopes, or helps are quite 
 bereaven, 
 pur humble prayers have entrance into heaven. 
 ' Cue. That's my opinion clearly and without 
 doubt. [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Room hi the Palaec. 
 
 Enter Aretus and Sophronos. 
 
 Are. The prince is thoroughly mov'd. 
 
 Soph. I never saw him 
 So much distempered. 
 
 Are. AVhat should this young man be ? 
 Or whither can he be convey d ? 
 
 Soph. 'Tis to me 
 A mystery ; I understand it not. 
 
 Are. Nor I. 
 
 Enter Palador, Amethus, and Pelias. 
 
 Pal. You have consented all to work upon 
 The softness of my nature ; but take heed : 
 Though I can sleep in silence, and look on 
 The mockery you make of my dull patience, 
 Yet you shall know, the best of ye, that in me 
 There is a masculine, a stirring spirit, 
 Which [once] provok'd, shall, like a bearded comet, 
 Set ye at gaze, and threaten horror. 
 
 Pel. Good sir. 
 
 Pal. Good sir I 'tis not your active wit or lan- 
 guage. 
 Nor your grave politic wisdoms, lords, shall dare 
 To check-mate, and controul my just demands.
 
 SCENE III. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. , / 
 
 Enter Menaphon. 
 
 Where is the youth, your friend ? Is he found 
 yet? 
 
 Men. Not to be heard of. 
 
 Val. Fly then to the desert, 
 Where thou didst first encounter this fantastic, 
 This airy apparition ; come no more 
 In sight ! Get ye all from me ; he that stays, 
 Is not my friend. 
 
 Amet. 'Tis strange. 
 
 Are. Sor)h. We must obey. 
 
 [^Exeunt all but Palador. 
 
 Pal. Some angry power cheats, with rare delu- 
 sions, 
 My credulous sense; the very soul of reason 
 Is troubled in me : — the physician 
 Presented a strange masque, the view of it 
 Puzzled my understanding ; but the boy 
 
 Enter Rhetias. 
 
 Rhetias, thou art acquainted with my griefs, 
 Parthenophill is lost, and I would see him ; 
 For he is like to something I remember 
 A great while since, a long, long time ago. 
 
 Rhe. I have been diligent, sir, to pry into every 
 corner for discovery, but cannot meet with him. 
 There is some trick, I am confident. 
 
 Pal. There is ; there is some practice, sleight, 
 or plot. 
 
 RJie. I have apprehended a fair wencli, in an 
 odd private lodging in the city, as like the youtli 
 in face as can by possibility be discerned. 
 
 Pal How, Rhetias ?
 
 78 THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. ACT IV. 
 
 Rhe. If it be not Parthenophill in long coats, 
 'tis a spirit in his likeness ; answer I can get none 
 from her: you shall see her. 
 
 Pal. The young man in disguise, upon my life, 
 To steal out of the land. 
 Rhe. I'll send him to you. 
 
 Pal. Do, do, my Rhetias. \_Exit Rue.] As there 
 is by nature, 
 In every thing created, contrariety. 
 So likewise is there unity and league 
 Between them in their kind; but man, the abstract 
 Of all perfection, which the workmanship 
 Of heaven hath model'd, in himself contains 
 Passions of several qualities. — 
 
 [Enter behind^ Eroclea (Parthenophill ) 
 in female attire. 
 
 The music 
 Of man's fair composition best accords 
 When 'tis in consort, not in single strains : 
 My heart has been untuned these many months, 
 Wanting her presence, in whose equal love 
 True harmony consisted. Living here. 
 We are heaven's bounty all, but fortune's exercise. 
 Ero. Minutes are number'd by the fall of sands, 
 As by an hourglass ; the span of time 
 Doth waste us to our graves, and we look on it : 
 / An age of pleasures, revell'd out, comes home 
 1 At last, and ends in sorrow ; but the life, 
 i Weary of riot, numbers every sand, 
 \ Wailing in sighs, until the last drop down ; 
 \ So to conclude calamity in rest. 
 
 Pal. What echo yields a voice to my com- 
 
 plaint 
 
 Can I be nowhere private
 
 SCENE III. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 79 
 
 Ero. (comes forward and kneels) Let the sub- 
 stance 
 As suddenly be hurried from your eyes, 
 As the vain sound can pass [, sir, from] your ear, 
 If no impression of a troth vow'd your's, 
 Retain a constant memory. 
 
 Pal. Stand up ! 
 'Tis not the figure stamp'd upon thy cheeks, 
 The cozenage of thy beauty, grace, or tongue. 
 Can draw from me a secret, that hath been 
 The only jewel of my speechless thoughts. 
 
 Ero. I am so worn away with fears and sor- 
 rows. 
 So winter'd with the tempests of affliction, 
 That the bright sun of your life-quickening pre- 
 sence 
 Hath scarce one beam of force to warm again 
 That spring of cheerful comfort, which youth once 
 Apparell'd in fresh looks. 
 
 Pal. Cunning impostor ! 
 Untruth hath made thee subtle in thy trade. 
 If any neighbouring greatness hath seduced 
 A free-born resolution, to attempt 
 Some bolder act of treachery, by cutting 
 My weary days off, wherefore, cruel-mercy ! 
 Hast thou assumed a shape, that would make 
 
 treason 
 A piety, guilt pardonable, bloodshed 
 As holy as the sacrifice of peace? 
 
 Ero. The incense of my love-desires is flam'd 
 Upon an altar of more constant proof. 
 Sir, O sir ! turn me back into the world. 
 Command me to forget my name, my birth, 
 My father's sadness, and my death alive,
 
 80 THE lover's melancholy. act IV. 
 
 If all remembrance of my faith hath found 
 A bm-ial, without pity, in your scorn. 
 
 Pal. My scorn, disdainful boy, shall soon un- 
 weave 
 The web thy art hath twisted. Cast thy shape off; 
 Disrobe the mantle of a feigned sex, 
 And so I may be gentle ; as thou art, 
 There's witclicraft in thy language, in thy face, 
 In thy demeanours ; turn, turn from me, prithee I 
 For my belief is arm'd else. Yet, fair subtihy, 
 Before we part, (for part we must,) be true ; 
 Tell me thy country. 
 
 Ero. Cvprus. 
 
 Pal. Ha ! thy father ? 
 
 Ero. Meleander. 
 
 Pal. Hast a name ? 
 
 Ero. A name of misery ; 
 The unfortunate Eroclea. 
 
 Pal. There is danger 
 In this seducing counterfeit. Great Goodness ! 
 Hath honesty and virtue left the time ? 
 Are we become so impious, that, to tread 
 The path of impudence, is law and justice? 
 Thou vizard of a beauty ever sacred. 
 Give me tliy name. 
 
 Ero. Whilst I was lost to memory, 
 Parthenophill did shroud ray shame in change 
 Of sundry rare misfortunes ; but, since now 
 I am, before I die, return'd to claim 
 A convoy to my grave, I must not blush 
 To let Prince Palador, if I offend, 
 Know, when he dooms me, that he dooms Eroclea : 
 I am that woeful maid. 
 
 Pal. Join not too fast
 
 SCENE III. THE LOVERS MELANCHOLY. 81 
 
 Thy penance with the story of my sufferings : — 
 So dwelt simplicity wdth virgin truth ; 
 So martyrdom and holiness are twins, 
 As innocence and sweetness on thy tongue : — 
 But, let me by degrees collect my senses ; 
 I may abuse my trust. Tell me, what air 
 Hast thou perfum'd, since tyranny first ravish'd 
 The contract of our hearts ? 
 
 Ero. Dear sir, in Athens 
 Have I been buried. 
 
 Pal. Buried ? Right ; as I 
 In Cyprus. — Come, to trial ; if thou beest 
 Eroclea, in my bosom I can find thee. 
 
 Ero. As I Prince Palador in mine : this gift 
 
 \_Shows him a Tablet. 
 His bounty bless'd me with, the only physic 
 My solitary cares have hourly took. 
 To keep me from despair. 
 
 Pal. We are but fools 
 To trifle in disputes, or vainly struggle 
 With that eternal mercy which protects us. 
 Come home, home to my heart, thou banish'd 
 
 peace ! 
 My extasy of joys would speak in passion. 
 But that I would not lose that part of man, 
 Wliich is reserv'd to entertain content. 
 Eroclea, I am thine ; O, let me seize thee 
 As my inheritance. Hymen shall now 
 Set all his torches burning, to give light 
 Throughout this land, new-settled in thy welcome. 
 
 Ero. You are still gracious, sir. How I have 
 liv'd, 
 By what means been convey'd, by what preserv'd, 
 By what return'd, Rhetias, my trusty servant, 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. ACT IV. 
 
 Directed by the wisdom of my uncle, 
 The good Sophronos, can inform at large. 
 
 Pal. Enough. Instead of music, every night, 
 To make our sleeps delightful, thou shalt close 
 Our weary eyes with some part of thy story. 
 
 Ero. O, but my father ! 
 
 Pal. Fear not : to behold 
 Eroclea safe, will make him young again ; 
 It shall be our first task. Blush, sensual follies, 
 Which are not guarded with thoughts chastely 
 
 pure ! 
 There is no faith in lust, but baits of arts ; 
 'Tis virtuous love keeps clear contracted hearts. 
 
 [^Exeunt.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 83 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Room in the Castle. 
 Enter Corax and Cleophila. 
 
 Cor. 'Tis well, 'tis well ; the hour is at hand, 
 Which must conclude the business, that no art 
 Could all this while make ripe for wish'd content. 
 O lady ! in the turmoils of our lives, 
 Men are like politic states, or troubled seas, 
 Toss'd up and down with several storms and 
 
 tempests, 
 Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes ; 
 Till, labouring to the havens of our homes. 
 We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends. 
 
 Cleo. A happy end Heaven bless us with ! 
 
 Cor. 'Tis well said. 
 The old man sleeps still soundly. 
 
 Cleo. May soft dreams 
 Play in his fancy, that when he awakes, 
 With comfort, he may, by degrees, digest 
 The present blessings in a moderate joy ! 
 
 Cor. I drench'd his cup to purpose ; he ne'er 
 stirr'd 
 At barber or at tailor. He will laitgh 
 At his own metamorphosis, and wonder, — 
 We must be watchful. Does the couch stand 
 ready ?
 
 84 THE lover's melancholy. act v. 
 
 Enter Trollio. 
 
 Cleo. All, [all] as you commanded. What's 
 your haste for ? 
 
 Trol. A brace of women, usher'd by the young 
 old ape with his she-clog, are enter'd the castle. 
 Shall they come on I 
 
 Cor. By any means : the time is precious now ; 
 Lady, be quick and careful. Follow, Trollio ! 
 
 lExH. 
 
 Trol. I owe all reverence to your right worship- 
 fulness. \_Exit. 
 
 Cleo. So many fears, so many joys encounter 
 My doubtful expectations, that I waver 
 Between the resolution of my hopes 
 And my obedience : 'tis not, O my fate ! 
 The apprehension of a timely blessing 
 In pleasures, shakes my weakness ; but the danger 
 Of a mistaken duty, that confines 
 The limits of my reason. Let me live. 
 Virtue, to thee as chaste, as Truth to time ! 
 
 Enter Thamasta, speaking to some one without. 
 
 Tha. Attend me till I call. — My sweet Cleo- 
 phila ! 
 
 Cleo. Great princess — 
 
 Tha. I bring peace, to sue a pardon 
 For my neglect of all those noble virtues 
 Thy mind and duty are apparelled with : 
 I have deserv'd ill from thee, and must say, 
 Thou art too gentle, if thou canst forget it. 
 
 Cleo. Alas I you have not vvrong'd me ; for, in- 
 deed.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. S5 
 
 Acquaintance with my sorrows, and my fortune, 
 
 Were grown to such familiarity, 
 
 That 'twas an impudence, more than presumption, 
 
 To wish so great a lady as you are, 
 
 Should lose affection on my uncle's son : 
 
 But that your brother, equal in your blood, 
 
 Should stoop to such a lowness, as to love 
 
 A cast-away, a poor despised maid. 
 
 Only for me to hope was almost sin ; — 
 
 Yet, 'troth, I never tempted him. 
 
 Tha. Chide not 
 The grossness of my trespass, lovely sweetness. 
 In such an humble language ; I have smarted 
 Already in the wounds my pride hath made 
 Upon your sufferings : henceforth, 'tis in you 
 To work my happiness. 
 
 Cleo. Call any service 
 Of mine, a debt; for such it is. The letter, 
 You lately sent me, in the blest contents 
 It made me privy to, hath largely quitted 
 Every suspicion of your grace, or goodness. 
 
 T/ia. Let me embrace thee with a sister's love, 
 A sister's love, Cleophila ! for should 
 My brother henceforth study to forget 
 The vows that he hath made thee, I would ever 
 Solicit thy deserts.* 
 
 A met. Men. (ivHhin) We must have entrance. 
 
 Tha. Must! Who are they say must? you are 
 unmannerly. — 
 
 * Solicit thy deserts.] i. e. plead your merits to my brother ; 
 which accordingly she does in the next page, where Amethus 
 observes — " 'J'he ladies are turn'd lawyers." — Gifford.
 
 86 THE lover's melancholy. act v. 
 
 Enter Amethus and Menaphon. 
 
 Brother, is't you? and you too, sir? 
 
 Amet. Your ladysliip 
 Has had a time of scolding to your humour ; 
 Does the storm hold still ? 
 
 Cleo. Never fell a shower 
 More seasonably gentle on the barren 
 Parch'd thirsty earth, than showers of courtesy 
 Have from this princess been distill'd on me. 
 To make my growth in quiet of my mind 
 Secure and lasting. 
 
 Tha. You may both believe. 
 That I was not uncivil. 
 
 Amet. Pish ! I know 
 Her spirit and her envy. 
 
 Cleo. Now, in troth, sir, — 
 (Pray credit me, I do not use to swear) 
 The virtuous princess hath, in words and carriage, 
 Been kind, so over-kind, that I do blush, 
 I am not rich enough in thanks sufficient 
 For her unequall'd bounty. — My good cousin, 
 I have a suit to you. 
 
 Men. It shall be granted. 
 
 Cleo. That no time, no persuasion, no respects 
 Of jealousies, past, present, or hereafter 
 By possibility to be conceiv'd, 
 Draw you from that sincerity and pureness 
 Of love, which you have oftentimes protested 
 To this great worthy lady : she deserves 
 A duty more than what the ties of marriage 
 Can claim or warrant ; be for ever her's, 
 As she is yours, and Heaven increase your com- 
 forts !
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER's MELANCHOLY. 87 
 
 Amet. Cleophila hath play'd the churchman's 
 part ; 
 I'll not forbid the bans. 
 
 Men. Are you contented ? 
 
 Tha. I have one task in charge first, which 
 concerns me. 
 Brother, be not more cruel than this lady ; 
 She hath forgiv'n my follies, so may you. 
 Her youth, her beauty, innocence, discretion, 
 Without additions of estate or birth, 
 Are dower for a prince, indeed. You lov'd her ; 
 For sure you swore you did : else, if you did not, 
 Here fix your heart ; and thus resolve,* if now 
 You miss this heaven on earth, you cannot find 
 In any other choice ought but a hell. 
 
 Amet. The ladies are turn'd lawyers, and plead 
 handsomely 
 Their clients' cases : I am an easy judge, 
 And so shalt thou be, Menaphon. I give thee 
 My sister for a wife ; a good one, friend. 
 
 Men. Lady, will you confirm the gift ? 
 
 Tha. The errors 
 Of my mistaken judgment being lost 
 To your remembrance, I shall ever strive 
 In my obedience to deserve your pity. 
 
 Men. My love, my care, my all ! 
 
 Amet. What rests for me ? 
 I am still a bachelor : Sweet maid, resolve me, 
 INIay I yet call you mine ? 
 
 Cleo. My lord Amethus, 
 Blame not my plainness ; I am young and simple, 
 
 * And thus resolve.] i. e. and come to this certain con- 
 clusion, that — if now, &c. — Gifford.
 
 88 THE lover's melancholy. act v. 
 
 And have not any power to dispose 
 IMine own will, without warrant from my father :, 
 That pm-chas'd, I am your's. 
 Amet. It shall suffice me. 
 
 Enter Cuculus, Pelias, and Trollio, plucking 
 in Grilla. 
 
 Cue, Revenge ! I must have revenge ; I will 
 have revenge, bitter and abominable revenge ; I 
 will have revenge. This unfashionable mongrel, 
 this linsey-wolsey of mortality — by this hand, 
 mistress, this she-rogue is drunk, and clapper- 
 clawed me, without any reverence to my person, 
 or good garments. Why do you not speak, gen- 
 tlemen ? 
 
 Pel. Some certain blows have past, an't like 
 your highness. 
 
 Trol. Some few knocks of friendship ; some 
 love toys, some cuffs in kindness, or so. 
 
 Gril. I'll turn him away, he shall be my master 
 no longer. 
 
 Men. Is this your she-page, Cuculus? 'tis a 
 boy, sure. 
 
 Cue. A boy, an arrant boy in long coats. 
 
 Tha. Pelias, take hence the wag, and school 
 him for't. 
 For your part, servant, I'll entreat the prince 
 To grant you some fit place about his wardrobe. 
 
 Cue. Ever after a bloody nose do I dream of 
 good luck. I horribly thank your ladyship. 
 Whilst I'm in office, the old garb shall agen 
 Grow in request, and tailors shall be men. 
 Come, Trollio, help to wash my face, prithee.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVEr's MELANCHOLY. 89 
 
 Trol. Yes, and to scour it too. 
 
 \_Exeunt Cue. Trol. Pel. and Gril.* 
 
 Enter Rhetias and Corax. 
 
 Khe. The prince and princess are at hand ; give 
 over 
 Your amorous dialogues. Most honour'd lady, 
 Henceforth forbear your sadness ; are you ready 
 To practise your instructions ? 
 
 Cleo. I have studied 
 My part with care, and will perform it, Rhetias, 
 With all the skill I can. 
 
 Cor. I'll pass my word for her. 
 
 yJ Flourish. — E7iter Palador, Sophronos, Are- 
 Tus, and Eroclea. 
 
 Pal. Thus princes should be circled with a 
 guard 
 Of truly noble friends, and watchful subjects. 
 O Rhetias, thou art just; the youth thou told'st 
 
 me. 
 That liv'd at Athens, is return'd at last 
 To her own fortunes, and contracted love. 
 
 Rhe. My knowledge made me sure of my re- 
 port, sir. 
 Pal. Eroclea, clear thy fears ; when the sun 
 shines. 
 Clouds must not dare to muster in the sky, 
 
 * It is pleasant to witness the departure of this despicable 
 set of buffoons ; and Ford has shown more judgment than he 
 was probably aware of, (for he seems to take delight in his 
 wretched anticks,) in dismissing them at a period when they 
 would have broken in on the deep pathos and feeling of his 
 exquisite catastrophe. — Gifford.
 
 90 THE lover's melancholy. act v. 
 
 Nor shall they here. [Cleo. and Amet. kneeL~\ 
 
 Why do they kneel ? Stand up ; 
 The day, and place is privileged. 
 
 Soph. Your presence, 
 Great sir, makes every room a sanctuary. 
 
 Pal. Wherefore does this young virgin use such 
 circumstance 
 In duty to us ? Rise ! 
 
 Ero. 'Tis I must raise her. 
 Forgive me, sister, I have been too private, 
 In hiding from your knowledge any secret, 
 That should have been in common 'twixt our 
 
 souls ; 
 But I was rided by counsel. 
 
 Cleo. That I show 
 Myself a girl, sister, and bewray 
 Joy in too soft a passion 'fore all these, 
 I hope you cannot blame me. 
 
 \_JVeeps, and falls into the arms of Ero, 
 
 Pal. We must part 
 The sudden meeting of these two fair rivulets, 
 With th' island of our arms. [^Embraces Ero.] 
 
 Cleophila, 
 The custom of thy piety hath built, 
 Even to thy younger years, a monument 
 Of memorable fame ; some great reward 
 Must wait on thy desert. 
 
 Soph. The prince speaks t'you, niece. 
 
 Cor. Chat low, I pray; let us about our busi- 
 ness. 
 The good old man awakes. My lord, withdraw; 
 Rhetias, let's settle here the couch. 
 
 Pal. Away then ! \_Exeunt.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOTER's MELANCHOLY. 91 
 
 Soft Music. — Re-enter Cor ax and Rhetias, with 
 Meleander, asleep, on a Couch, his Hair and 
 Beard trimmed, Habit and Gown changed. — 
 While they are placing the Couch, a Boy sings, 
 without. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Fly hence, shadows, that do keep 
 Watchful sorrows, chann'd in sleep ! 
 Though the eyes be overtaken. 
 Yet the heart doth ever icaken 
 Thoughts, chain d up in busy snares 
 Of continual woes and cares: 
 Love and griefs are so exprest. 
 As they rather sigh than rest. 
 Fly hence, shadows, that do keep 
 Watchful sorrows, charmed in sleep. 
 
 Mel. (awakes) Where am I ? ha ! What sounds 
 are these ? 'Tis day, sure. 
 Oh, I have slept belike ; 'tis but the foolery 
 Of some beguilino; dream. So, so ! I will not 
 Trouble the play of my delighted fancy, 
 But dream my dream out. 
 
 Cor. Morrow to your lordship ! 
 You took a jolly nap, and slept it soundly. 
 
 Mel. Away, beast ! let me alone. 
 
 [The Music ceases. 
 
 Cor. O, by your leave, sir, 
 I must be bold to raise you; else your physic 
 Will turn to further sickness. 
 
 [He assists Mel. to sit up. 
 
 Mel. Physic, bear-leech. 
 
 Cor. Yes, physic ; you are mad. 
 
 Mel. Trolho! Cleophila!
 
 92 THE lover's melancholy. act v. 
 
 Rlie. Sir, I am here. 
 
 Mel. I know thee, Rhetias; prithee rid the 
 room 
 Of this tormenting noise. He tells me, sirrah, 
 I have took physic, Rhetias; physic, physic! 
 
 Rhe. Sir, true, you have ; and this most learned 
 scholar 
 Apply'd t'ye. Oh, you were in dangerous plight, 
 Before he took you [in] hand. 
 
 Mel. These things are drunk. 
 Directly drunk. Where did you get your liquor ? 
 
 Cor. I never saw a body in the wane 
 Of age, so overspread with several sorts 
 Of such diseases, as the strength of youth 
 Would groan under and sink. 
 
 Rhe. The more your glory 
 In the miraculous cure. 
 
 Cor. Bring me the cordial* 
 Prepared for him to take after his sleep, 
 'Twill do him good at heart. 
 
 Rhe. I hope it will, sir. \_ExH. 
 
 Mel. What dost [thou] think I am, that thou 
 should'st fiddle 
 So much upon my patience ? Fool, the weight 
 Of my disease sits on my heart so heavy. 
 That all the hands of art cannot remove 
 One grain, to ease my grief. If thou could'st 
 
 poison 
 My memory, or wrap my senses up 
 Into a dulness, hard and cold as flints; 
 
 * Bring me the cordial.] He alludes to the successive 
 appearance of the messengers from the prince, to whom the 
 hint was now to be given, and more particularly to the en- 
 trance of Eroclea and her sister, who are brought in by 
 Rhetias, — Gifford.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 93 
 
 If thou could'st make me walk, speak, eat and 
 
 laugh 
 Without a sense or knowledge of my faculties, 
 Why then, perhaps, at marts, thou might'st make 
 
 benefit 
 Of such an antic motion,* and get credit 
 From credulous gazers; but not profit me. 
 Study to gull the wise ; I am too simple 
 To be wrought on. 
 
 Cor. I'll burn my books, old man. 
 But I will do thee good, and quickly too. 
 
 Enter Aretus, with a Patent. 
 
 Are. Most honour'd lord Meleander ! our great 
 master, 
 Prince Palador of Cyprus, hath by me 
 Sent you this patent, in which is contain'd 
 Not only confirmation of the honours 
 You formerly enjoy'd, but the addition 
 Of the MarshalshijD of Cyprus; and ere long 
 He means to visit you. Excuse my haste ; 
 I must attend the prince. \_Exit. 
 
 Cor. There's one pill works. 
 
 Mel. Dost know that spirit ? 'tis a grave fami- 
 liar, 
 And talk'd I know not what. 
 
 Cor. He's like, methinks, 
 The prince's tutor, Aretus. 
 
 Mel. Yes, yes; 
 
 * Of such an antic motion,] i. e. of such a strange automaton, 
 or puppet. Exhibitions of this kind formed, in the poet's days, 
 one of the principal attractions of the people on all public oc- 
 casions. — GiFFORD.
 
 94 THE lover's melancholy. act v. 
 
 It may be I have seen such a formality; 
 No matter wliere, or when. 
 
 Enter Amethl's, nith a Staff. 
 
 Ame. The prince hath sent you, 
 My lord, this staff of office, and withal 
 Salutes you Grand Commander of the ports 
 Throughout his principalities. He shortly 
 Will visit you himself; I must attend him. [_Exit, 
 
 Cor. D"ve feel vour phvsic stirrins; yet ? 
 
 Mel. A 'devil 
 Is a rare juggler, and can cheat the eye, 
 But not corrupt the reason, in the throne 
 Of a pure soul. — 
 
 Enter Sophrokos, iv'ith a Tablet.^ 
 
 x\nother ! I will stand thee ; 
 Be what thou canst, I care not. 
 
 Soph. From the prince. 
 Dear brother, I present you this rich relic, 
 A jewel he hath long worn in his bosom : 
 Henceforth, he bad me say, he does beseech you 
 To call him son, for he will call you father ; 
 It is an honour, brother, that a subject 
 Cannot but entertain with thankful prayers. 
 Be moderate in your joys ; he will in person 
 Confirm mv errand, but commands mv service. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Cor. What hope now of your cure ? 
 
 Mel. Stay, stay! — What earthquakes 
 
 * With a tablet,] i. e. with a mbuutiire of Eroclea, which 
 Palador had worn so long in his bosom, and to which ht 
 alludes, p. 81. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 95 
 
 Roll in my flesh ! — Here's prince, and prince, and 
 
 prince; 
 Prince upon prince ! The dotage of my sorrows 
 Revels in magic of ambitious scorn : 
 Be they enchantments deadly as the grave, 
 I'll look upon them. Patent, staff, and relic ! 
 To the last first. ( Taking up the Miniature J Round 
 
 me, ye guarding ministers, 
 And ever keep me waking, till the cliffs 
 That overhang my sight, fall off, and leave 
 These hollow spaces to be cramm'd with dust ! 
 Cor. 'Tis time, I see, to fetch the cordial,* 
 
 Prithee, 
 Sit down ; I'll instantly be here again. [^Exit. 
 
 Mel. Good, give me leave ; I will sit down : 
 
 indeed. 
 Here's company enough for me to prate to. — 
 
 \_Looks at the Picture. 
 Eroclea ! — 'tis the same ; the cunning arts-man 
 Faulter'd not in a line. Could he have fashion'd 
 A little hollow space here, and blown breath 
 To have made it move and whisper, 't had been 
 
 excellent : — 
 But 'faith, 'tis well, 'tis very well as 'tis ; 
 Passing, most passing well. 
 
 Enter Cleophila. leading Eroclea, and follmved 
 hij Rhetias. 
 
 Cleo. The sovereign greatness. 
 Who, by commission from the powers of heaven, 
 
 * 'Tu time, I see, to fetch the cordial.'] i. e. the Prince ; with 
 whom he subsequently returns, and whom he terms the sure, 
 or crowning cordial. — Giiford.
 
 96 THE lover's melancholy. act v. 
 
 Sways both this land and us, our gracious prince, 
 By nie presents you, sir, with this large bounty, 
 A gift more precious to him tlian his birthright. 
 Here let your cares take end ; now set at liberty 
 Your long imprison'd heart, and welcome liome 
 The solace of your soul, too long kept from you. 
 
 Ero. (hneeling) Dear sir, you know me ? 
 
 Mel, Yes, thou art my daughter ; 
 My eldest blessing. Know thee ! why, Eroclea, 
 I never did forget thee in thy absence ; 
 Poor soul, how dost? 
 
 Ero. The best of my well-being 
 Consists in your's. 
 
 Mel. Stand up ; the gods, wlio liitherto 
 Have kept us both alive, preserve thee ever ! 
 Cleophila, I thank thee and the prince ; 
 \ I thank thee, too, Eroclea, that thou would'st, 
 i In pity of my age, take so much pains 
 ' To live, till I might once more look upon thee, 
 ' Before I broke my heart: O, 'twas a piece 
 Of piety and duty unexampled ! 
 
 Rhe. The good man relisheth his comforts 
 strangely; 
 The sight doth turn me child. \^Asidc. 
 
 Ero. I have not words 
 That can express my joys. 
 
 Cleo. Nor I. 
 
 Mel. Nor I ; 
 Yet let us gaze on one another freely, 
 And surfeit with our eyes ; let me be plain : 
 If I should speak as much as I should speak, 
 I should talk of a thousand things at once. 
 And all of thee ; of thee, my child, of thee ! 
 My tears, like ruffling winds lockd up in caves, 
 Do bustle for a vent ; — on th' other side,
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 97 
 
 To fly out into mirth were not so comely. 
 
 Come hither, let me kiss thee! [T'o Ero.] with 
 
 a pride, 
 Strength, courage, and fresh blood, which now 
 
 thy presence 
 Hath stored me with, I kneel before their altars, 
 Whose sovereignty kept guard about thy safety : 
 Ask, ask thy sister, prithee, she will tell thee 
 How I have been much mad. 
 
 Cleo. Much discontented. 
 Shunning all means that might procure him com- 
 fort. 
 
 Ero. Heaven has at last been gracious. 
 
 Mel. So say I ; 
 But wherefore drop thy words in such a sloth, 
 As if thou wert afraid to mingle truth 
 With thy misfortunes? Understand me tho- 
 roughly ; 
 I would not have thee to report at large. 
 From point to point, a journal of thy absence, 
 'Twill take up too much time ; I v/ould securely 
 Engross the little remnant of my life, 
 That thou might'st every day be telling somewhat, 
 Which m.ight convey me to my rest with comfort. 
 Let me bethink me ; how we parted first. 
 Puzzles my faint remembrance— but soft— 
 Cleophila, thou told'st me that the prince 
 Sent me this present. 
 
 Cleo. From his own fair hands 
 I did receive my sister. 
 
 Mel. To requite him. 
 We v/ill not dig his father's grave anew, 
 Althougli tlie mention of him much concerns 
 The business we inquire of: — as I said, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE lover's melancholy. act v. 
 
 We parted in a hurry at the court ; 
 I to this castle, after made my jail ; 
 But whither thou, dear heart ? 
 
 Rhe. Now they fall to't ; 
 I look'd for this. 
 
 Ero. I, by my uncle's care, 
 Sophronos, my good uncle, suddenly 
 Was like a sailor's boy convey'd a-shipboard, 
 That very night. 
 
 Mel. A policy quick and strange. 
 
 Ero. The ship was bound for Corinth, whither 
 first. 
 Attended only with your servant Rhetias, 
 And all fit necessaries, we arrived; 
 From thence, in habit of a youth, we journey'd 
 To Athens, where, till our return of late, 
 Have we liv'd safe. 
 
 Mel. Oh, what a thing is man, 
 To bandy factions of distemper'd passions. 
 Against the sacred Providence above him ! 
 Here, in the legend of thy two years' exile, 
 Rare pity and delight are sw-eetly mix'd. — 
 And still thou wert a boy ? 
 
 Ero. So I obey'd 
 My uncle's wise command. 
 
 Mel. 'Twas safely carried ; 
 I humbly thank thy fate. 
 
 Ero. If earthly treasures 
 Are pour'd in plenty down from heaven on mor- 
 tals, 
 They reign amongst those oracles that tlow 
 In schools of sacred knowledge, such is Athens : 
 Yet Athens was to me but a fair prison :
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 99 
 
 The thoughts of you, my sister, country, fortunes. 
 And something of the prince, barr'd all contents, 
 Which else might ravish sense ; for had not Rhe- 
 
 tias 
 Been always comfortable to me, certainly 
 Things had gone worse. 
 
 Mel. Speak low, Eroclea, 
 That " something of the prince" bears danger in it : 
 Yet thou hast travell'd, wench, for such endow- 
 ments. 
 As might create a prince a wife fit for him, 
 Had he the world to guide ; but touch not there. 
 How cam'st thou home ? 
 
 Rhe. Sir, with your noble favour, 
 Kissing your hand first, that point I can answer. 
 
 Mel. Honest, right honest Rhetias ! 
 
 Rhe. Your grave brother 
 Perceiv'd with w^hat a hopeless love his son, 
 Lord Menaphon, too eagerly pursued 
 Thamasta, cousin to our present prince ; 
 And, to remove the violence of affection, 
 Sent him to Athens, where, for twelve months' 
 
 space, 
 Your daughter, my young lady, and her cousin, 
 Enjoy'd each other's griefs : till by his father. 
 The lord Sophronos, we were all call'd home. 
 
 Mel. Enough, enough ! the world shall hence- 
 forth witness 
 My thankfulness to heaven, and those people 
 Who have been pitiful to me and mine. 
 Lend me a looking-glass. — How now ! how came I 
 So courtly, in fresh raiments ? 
 
 Rhe. Here's the glass, sir.
 
 100 THE lover's melancholy. ACT V. 
 
 Mel. I'm in the trim too. — O Cleophila, 
 This was the goodness of thy care, and cunning — 
 
 \^Loud Music. 
 Whence comes this noise ? 
 
 Rhe. The prince, my lord, in person. [They kneel. 
 
 Enter Palador, Sophronos, Aretus, Amethus, 
 Menaphon, Corax, Thamasta, and Kala. 
 
 Pal. You shall not kneel to us ; rise all, I charge 
 you. 
 Father, you wrong your age ; henceforth my arms 
 
 \_Emhracing Mel. 
 And heart shall be your guard : we have o'erheard 
 All passages of your united loves. 
 Be young again, Meleander, live to number 
 A happy generation, and die old 
 In comforts, as in years ! The offices 
 And honours, which I late on thee conferr'd, 
 Are not fantastic bounties, but thy merit ; 
 Enjoy them liberally. 
 
 Mel. My tears must thank you, 
 For my tongue cannot. 
 
 Cor. I have kept my promise, 
 And given you a sure cordial. 
 
 Mel. Oh, a rare one. 
 
 Pal. Good man ! we both have shar'd enough 
 of sadness. 
 Though thine has tasted deeper of the extreme : 
 Let us forget it henceforth. Where's the picture 
 I sent you ? Keep it ; 'tis a counterfeit ; 
 And, in exchange of that, I seize on this, 
 
 \_Tahes Ero. by the hand.
 
 SCENE I. THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. 101 
 
 The real substance : with this other hand 
 I give away, before her father's face, 
 His younger joy, Cleophila, to thee, 
 Cousin Amethus ; take her, and be to her 
 More than a father, a deserving husband. 
 Thus, robb'd of both thy children in a minute, 
 Thy cares are taken off. 
 
 Mel. My brains are dull'd ; 
 I am entranced and know not what you mean. 
 Great, gracious, sir, alas ! why do you mock me ? 
 I am a weak old man, so poor and feeble, 
 That my untoward joints can scarcely creep 
 Unto the grave, where I must seek my rest. 
 
 Pal. Eroclea was, you know, contracted mine ; 
 Cleophila my cousin's, by consent 
 Of both their hearts ; we both now claim our 
 
 own : 
 It only rests in you to give a blessing, 
 For confirmation. 
 
 Rhe. Sir, 'tis truth and justice. 
 
 Mel. The gods, that lent you to me, bless your 
 vows ! 
 Oh, children, children, pay your prayers to heaven. 
 For they have show'd much mercy. But So- 
 
 phronos, 
 Thou art my brother — I can say no more — 
 A good, good brother ! 
 
 Pal. Leave the rest to time. 
 Cousin Thamasta, I must give you too ; 
 She's thy wife, Menaphon. Rhetias, for thee, 
 And Corax, I have more than common thanks. 
 On to the temple ! there all solemn rites 
 Perform'd, a general feast shall be proclaim'd.
 
 102 THE LOVER S MELANCHOLY. ACT V. 
 
 The Lover's Melancholy hath found cure ;* 
 Sorrows are chang'd to bride-songs. So they 
 
 thrive, 
 Whom fate in spite of storms hath kept alive. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 * The concluding scene of this drama is wrought up with 
 singular art and beauty. If the " Very Woman" of Massin- 
 ger preceded the Lover's Melancholy (as I believe it did,) 
 Ford is indebted to it for no inconsiderable part of his plot. — 
 
 GlFFORD.
 
 THE BROKEN HEART.
 
 The Broken Heart.] There is no account to be 
 found of the first appearance of this Tragedy, or of its 
 success on the stage ; but it was given to the public in 
 1639. 
 
 The scene of the drama is laid in Sparta ; and to persons 
 acquainted ^vith the Greek language, the names of many 
 of the parties will at once afford some indication of the 
 character which they sustain in it: the mournful Pen- 
 thea, the passionate and fiery Orgilus, the friendly Pro- 
 philus, Calantha, the flower of beauty, and Tecnicus, a 
 master, not of manual, but of philosophic arts. In Sparta 
 a series of deadly feuds had subsisted between the two 
 powerful famihes of Thrasus and Crotolon, which the pru- 
 dence of the reigning monarch, Amyclas, had endea- 
 voured to allay, by promoting a mari'iage between Pen- 
 thea, the only daughter of Thrasus, and Orgilus, the son 
 of Crotolon. The death of Thrasus, and the ill-subdued 
 resentments of Penthea's brother, Ithocles, prevented the 
 fulfilment of this well-intended scheme ; and partly by 
 threats, partly by stratagem, Penthea is induced to trans- 
 fer her hand to Bassanes, a Spartan noble, richer and 
 more powerful than Orgilus. 
 
 Never did a more unfortimate union take place. The 
 quick passions of Bassanes presently light up into a very 
 phrenz}- of jealousy. He suspects his former rival ; he 
 suspects whoever accosts his wife : the very windows 
 which admit the light of heaven and a gazer's glance are 
 an object of suspicion to him : even the sweet charities of 
 nature become criminal in his eyes, and an interview
 
 ( 106 ) 
 
 between his wife and her own brother is supposed by 
 him to be for the most guilty of purposes. Those 
 unnatural surmises and situations, from which modem 
 refinement revolts, seem not to have been mipalatable to 
 our ancestors, any more than the sudden changes and re- 
 volutions in character wliich take place in oiu: old drama- 
 tists, and which no where exhibit themselves more strongly 
 than in the strangely inconsistent character of Bassanes. 
 His sudden transitions from the most frantic jealousy to 
 all the impotence of childish fondness, from wanton out- 
 rage to wliinmg and nauseous repentance, might per- 
 haps, as ^Ir. Gifford well obser^^es, be excused by his 
 situation ; but that he should be represented occasionally 
 as shrewd, sentimental, and even impassioned — as at one 
 period with a mind habitually weak and im sound, and, 
 at another, with a ^'igorous miderstanding, broken indeed 
 and disjointed, but manifesting, even in its fragments, 
 traits of original strength — makes it doubtfril, as the same 
 acute observer remarks, whether, when Ford sat down to 
 ^Tite, he had fidly embodied in his own mind, the person 
 he intended to produce. 
 
 On Peuthea's character all the powers of Ford's pathetic 
 pen are la\'ished. With a high sense of moral indigna- 
 tion at the condition to wliich she sees herself reduced — 
 her mind wedded to one, her body to another — a few 
 complaints could not but escape the wretched wife of 
 Bassanes; but these hectics of the moment past, Pen- 
 thea exhibits such a fixed and hopeless miserj-, such a 
 sense of loneliness and desolation, that the icy coldness of 
 her heart gradually commimicates itself to the reader; 
 and noblv and even amiablv as the character of Ithoclcs
 
 ( lor ) 
 
 subsequently displays itself, it is not at first without a 
 secret satisfaction that the reader sees the spirits of ven- 
 geance gathering around the original author of this for- 
 lorn ^\Teck of happiness and beauty. The wretchedness 
 which the thoughtless cruelty of Ithocles had brought 
 upon the hapless Penthea, was now in part to become his 
 own. In the flush of conquest and of victory, his heart 
 becomes accessible to the charms of the Spartan princess 
 Calantha, and the pangs of an almost hopeless passion, (for 
 the hand of Calantha was designed for a more exalted 
 rival,) gradually let him into a sense of those miseries which 
 he had inflicted on his \drtuous sister. The eflbrts of this 
 very sister, however, shed a temporary light on his mar- 
 riage prospects. In a scene of unexampled beauty, the 
 pathetic pleadings of Penthea win for her brother the 
 love of Calantha; and the consent of her father, and even 
 of his rival Nearchus, seem to establish the fortunes of 
 Ithocles on the firmest basis. 
 
 But this transient sunshine is only preparatory to a 
 more complete reverse. The opening scene of the drama 
 represents the first lover of Penthea as about to quit Sparta 
 for ever as a voluntary exile. His travels, however, ex- 
 tended no farther than the abode of the philosopher 
 Tecnicus, wliich adjoined the gardens of the royal palace, 
 and to which, conveniently enough for the plot of the 
 drama, none had access 
 
 " Except some near in court, or bosom student 
 From Tecnicus his Oratory." 
 
 In these retreats and in a scholar's disguise, Orgilus 
 has an opportunity of encountering his sister and his first
 
 ( 108 ) 
 
 love, Penthea; and an interview with the latter, bitterly 
 painful to his feelings, awakens schemes of vengeance m 
 his breast, which he leaves his present seclusion to prose- 
 cute. "With the deepest dissimulation he apparently re- 
 conciles himself to Ithocles ; he approves of a maniage 
 between his sister Eiiphranea, and Prophilus, the bosom 
 friend of Ithocles, and even imdertakes to provide a 
 " slight de^-ice," by way of entertainment, for their en- 
 suing nuptials. The dark and prophetic intimations of 
 the " book-man " Tecnicus prepare the reader for the 
 various catastrophes which are now impending. The first 
 blow falls on the wi-etched wife of Bassanes. Penthea's 
 reason sinks under the melancholy of her cniel situation ; 
 yet even in the ^n•eck of sense her feelings point to the 
 author of her miseries, and the raA-ings which precede 
 her dissolution, stimidate the mind of Orgilus, already 
 sufficiently excited for plans of vengeance. "WTiat a dis- 
 ordered mind was doing for Penthea, age and infirmity 
 were working for the good king Amyclas. Even in death, 
 however, the kind-hearted monarch is Avilling to see gaiety 
 about him, and the recent nuptials of Euphranea and 
 Prophilus afford a decent pretext for revelrj- and sport. 
 The third ^^ctim is the self-condemned, repentant Itho- 
 cles, He dies by the hand of Orgilus, and the deadly 
 vengeance of his murderer contrives that the fatal deed 
 shall take place by the side of the lifeless body of his 
 sister, 
 
 "VMiile the work of death is thus going on in other 
 apartments, the state-rooms of the palace are thrown 
 open, and there all is music, mirth, and revelry.
 
 ( 109 ) 
 
 They DANCE the first change; during which Armostes 
 enters. 
 
 Arm. {ichispers Calantha.) The king your father's 
 
 dead. 
 Cal. To the other change. 
 Ar7n. Is't possible? 
 
 Thei/ DANCE the second change. 
 
 Enter Bassanes. 
 
 Bass, (ichispers Cal.) Oh, madam! 
 Penthea, poor Penthea's starv'd. 
 
 Cal. Beshrew thee ! — 
 Lead to the next. 
 
 Bass. Amazement dulls my senses. 
 
 Thei/ dance the third change. 
 
 Enter Orgilus. 
 
 Org. {whispers Cal.) Brave Ithocles is murder'd, mur- 
 
 der'd cruelly. 
 Cal. How dull this music sounds! Strike up more 
 sprightly; 
 Our footings are not active like our heart, 
 Which treads the nimbler measure. 
 Org. I am thunderstruck! 
 
 The last change. 
 
 Cal. So ! let us breathe awhile ! 
 
 The death of Amyclas had left Calantha queen of 
 Sparta, and her first act of sovereignty is to decree the
 
 ( 110 ) 
 
 death of the murderer Orgihis. One mercy is extended 
 to liim in return for the honourable mention which, even 
 in the midst of vengeance, he liad made of his victim. 
 He is allowed a choice of death, and he prefers that of 
 being his own executioner, and bleeding himself to death. 
 If Orgilus had allowed the chance of a coward's name 
 to come between him and his mode of vengeance in the 
 murder of Ithocles, it must be owned that himself "shakes 
 hands with time" in a spirit of the noblest constancy and 
 resolution. 
 
 One character yet remained to be disposed of; and to 
 the development of that character, and the funeral rites 
 of Ithocles, the concluding scene of this pathetic drama is 
 devoted. " No audience of the present day," as Mr. 
 Gifford justly observes, " would support a sight so dread- 
 fully fantastic, as the continuance of the revels amidst 
 such awful intelligence as reaches Calantha in quick suc- 
 cession. Those of the poet's age, however, had firmer 
 nerves — and they needed them: the caterers for their 
 amusements were mighty in their profession, and cared 
 little how highly the passions of the spectators were 
 wound up by the tremendous exhibitions to which they 
 accustomed them, as they had ever some powerful stroke 
 of nature or of art at command to compose or justify 
 them ;" — and such a stroke presently falls from this rare 
 union of masculine vigour and female tenderness. 
 
 Oh, my lords, 
 I but deceiv'd your eyes with antick gesture, 
 When one news straight came huddling on another. 
 Of death ! and death ! and death ! still I danced forward ;
 
 ( 111 ) 
 
 But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. 
 
 Be such mere women, who, with shrieks and outcries, 
 
 Can vow a present end to all their sorrows, 
 
 Yet live to [court] new pleasures, and outlive them : 
 
 They are the silent griefs which cut the heartstrings; 
 
 Let me die smiling, 
 
 A solemn dirge, " which she had fitted for her end," 
 follows this pathetic explanation, and, while it is singing, 
 the spirit of its composer had passed away. 
 
 Bass. Her " heart is broke," indeed. 
 Oh, royal maid, 'would thou hadst mist this part! 
 Yet 'twas a brave one. I must weep to see 
 Her smile in death.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Our scene is Sparta, He whose best of art 
 
 Hath draAvn this piece, calls it the Broken Heart. 
 
 The title lends no expectation here 
 
 Of apish laughter, or of some lame jeer 
 
 At place or persons; no pretended clause 
 
 Of jests fit for a brothel, courts applause 
 
 From vulgar admiration : such low songs. 
 
 Tuned to unchaste ears, suit not modest tongues. 
 
 The virgin-sisters then deserv'd fresh bays, 
 
 When innocence and sweetness crown'd their lays,; 
 
 Then vices gasp'd for breath, whose whole commerce 
 
 Was whipp'd to exile by unblushing verse. 
 
 This law we keep in our presentment now. 
 
 Not to take freedom more than we allow ; 
 
 What may be here thought fiction, when time's youtli 
 
 Wanted some riper years, was knoAvn a truth : 
 
 In v.-hich, if you have clothed the subject right. 
 
 You may partake a pity with delight. 
 
 This Prologue is in the author's best manner, and whether 
 considered in a moial or poetical light, entitled to considerable 
 praise. — Gifford.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 
 
 Amyclas, King of Laconia. 
 
 Ithocles, a Favourite. 
 
 Orgilus, Son to Crotolon*. 
 
 Bassanes, a jealous Nobleman. 
 
 Armostes, a Counsellor of State. 
 
 Crotolon, another Counsellor. 
 
 Prophilus, Friend to Ithocles. 
 
 Nearchus, Prince of Argos. 
 
 Tecnicus, a Philosopher. 
 
 Hemophil, ? _, 
 
 ^ { Courtiers. 
 
 Groneas, 3 
 
 Amelus, Friend to Nearchus. 
 
 Phulas, Servant to Bassaxes. 
 
 Calantha, the King's Daughter. 
 
 Penthea, Sister to Ithocles. 
 
 Euphranea, a Maid of Honour. 
 
 Christalla, 7 ,, ., ^TT 
 
 T^ C Maids of Honour. 
 
 Fhilema, j 
 
 Grausis, Overseer of Penthea. 
 Courtiers, Officers, Attendants, ^-c. 
 The Scene — Sparta.
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Crotolon'^ House. 
 Enter Crotolon and Orgilus. 
 
 Crot. Dally not further ; I will know the 
 reason 
 That speeds thee to this journey. 
 
 Org. "Reason?" good sir, 
 1 can yield many. 
 
 Crot. Give me one, a good one ; 
 Such I expect, and ere we part must have : 
 " Athens !" pray, why to Athens ? you intend not 
 To kick against the world, turn cynic, stoic, 
 Or read the logic lecture, or become 
 An Areopagite, and judge in cases 
 Touching the commonwealth ; for as I take it, 
 The budding of your chin cannot prognosticate 
 So grave an honour. 
 
 Org. All this I acknowledge. 
 
 Crot. You do ! then, son, if books and love of 
 knowledge 
 Inflame you to this travel, here in Sparta 
 You may as freely study. 
 
 Org. 'Tis not that, sir. 
 I 2
 
 116 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT I. 
 
 Crot. Not that, sir ! As a father, I command 
 thee 
 To acquaint me with the truth. 
 
 Org. Thus, I obey you. 
 After so many quarrels, as dissension, 
 Fury, and rage had broach'd in blood, and some- 
 times, 
 ^Vith death to such confederates, as sided 
 "With now dead Thrasus and yourself, my lord : 
 Oar present king, Amyclas, reconciled 
 Your eager swords, and seal'd a gentle peace : 
 Friends you profess'd yourselves ; which to con- 
 firm, 
 A resolution for a lasting league 
 Betwixt your families, was entertained, 
 By joining, in a Hymenean bond, 
 ]\Ie and the fair Penthea, only daughter 
 To Thrasus. 
 
 Crot. What of this ? 
 
 Org. Much, much, dear sir. 
 A freedom of converse, an interchange 
 Of holy and chaste love, so fix"d our souls 
 In a firm growth of union, that no time 
 Can eat into the pledge : — we had enjoy'd 
 The sweets our vows expected, had not cruelty 
 Prevented all those triumphs we prepared for, 
 By Thrasus his untimely death. 
 
 Crot. Most certain. 
 
 Org. From this time sprouted up that poisonous 
 stalk 
 Of aconite, whose ripened fruit hath ravish'd 
 All health, all comfort of a happy life : 
 For Ithocles, her brother, proud of youth, 
 And prouder in his power, nourish'd closely
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 117 
 
 The memory of former discontents, 
 
 To glory in revenge. By cunning partly, 
 
 Partly by threats, he woos at once and forces 
 
 His virtuous sister to admit a marriage 
 
 With Bassanes, a nobleman, in honour 
 
 And riches, I confess, beyond my fortunes — 
 
 Crot. All this is no sound reason to importune 
 My leave for thy departure. 
 
 Org. Now it follows. 
 Beauteous Penthea, wedded to this torture 
 By an insulting brother, being secretly 
 Compell'd to yield her virgin freedom up 
 To him, who never can usurp her heart. 
 Before contracted mine, is now so yoked 
 To a most barbarous thraldom, misery. 
 Affliction, that he savours not humanity. 
 Whose sorrow melts not into more than pity, 
 In hearing but her name. 
 
 Crot. As how, pray ? 
 
 Org. Bassanes, 
 The man that calls her wife, considers truly 
 What heaven of perfections he is lord of. 
 By thinking fair Penthea his ; this thought 
 Begets a kind of monster-love, which love 
 Is nurse unto a fear so strong, and servile. 
 As brands all dotage with a jealousy. 
 All eyes who gaze upon that shrine of beauty. 
 He doth resolve,* do homage to the miracle ; 
 Some one, he is assur'd, may now or then 
 (If opportunity but sort) prevail: 
 So much, out of a self-unworthiness, 
 
 * He doth resolve.] i. e. he doth satisfy, convince, himself. — 
 
 GiFFORD.
 
 118 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT I. 
 
 His fears transport him ! — not that he finds cause 
 In her obedience, but his own distrust. 
 
 Crot. You spin out your discourse. 
 
 Org. My griefs are violent — 
 For knowing how the maid was heretofore 
 Courted by me, his jealousies grow wild 
 That I should steal again into her favours, 
 And undermine her virtues ; which the gods 
 Know, I nor dare, nor dream of: hence, from 
 
 hence, 
 I undertake a voluntary exile : 
 First, by ray absence to take off the cares 
 Of jealous Bassanes ; but chiefly, sir, 
 To free Penthea from a hell on earth : 
 Lastly, to lose the memory of something, 
 Her presence makes to live in me afresh. 
 
 Crot. Enough, my Orgilus, enough. To Athens, 
 I give a full consent : — alas, good lady ! — 
 "We shall hear from thee often ? 
 
 Org. Often. 
 
 Crot. See, 
 Thy sister comes to give a farewell. 
 
 Enter Evphranea. 
 
 Euph. Brother I 
 
 Org. Euphranea, tlius upon thy cheeks I print 
 A, brother's kiss ; more careful of thine honour. 
 Thy health, and thy well-doing, than my life. 
 Before we part, in presence of oui' father. 
 I must prefer a suit t' you. 
 
 Euph. You may style it, 
 My brother, a command. 
 
 Org. That you will promise
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 119 
 
 Never to pass to any man, however 
 
 Worthy, your faith, till, with our father's leave, 
 
 I give a free consent. 
 
 Crof. An easy motion ! 
 I'll promise for her, Orgilus. 
 
 Org. Your pardon ; 
 Euphranea's oath must yield me satisfaction. 
 
 Eupk. By Vesta's sacred fires, I swear. 
 
 Crot. And I, 
 By great Apollo's beams, join in the vow ; 
 Not, without thy allowance, to bestow her 
 On any living. 
 
 Org. Dear Euphranea, 
 Mistake me not ; far, far 'tis from my thought, 
 As far from any wish of mine, to hinder 
 Preferment to an honourable bed, , , 
 
 Or fitting fortune ; thou art young and hand- l> 
 
 some; 
 And 'twere injustice, — more, a tyranny. 
 Not to advance thy merit : trust me, sister, 
 It shall be my first care to see thee match'd 
 As may become thy choice, and our contents. 
 I have your oath. 
 
 Euph. You have ; but mean you, brother, 
 To leave us, as you say ? 
 
 Crot. Aye, aye, Euphranea. 
 He has just grounds to direct him ; I will prove 
 A father and a brother to thee. 
 
 Euph. Heaven 
 Does look into the secrets of all hearts : 
 Gods ! you liave mercy with you, else 
 
 Crot. Doubt nothing. 
 Thy brother will return in safety to us.
 
 120 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT I. 
 
 Org. Souls sunk in sorrows never are without 
 them ; 
 ■They change fresh airs, but bear their griefs about 
 them. 
 
 \_Exeii/it. 
 
 SCENE 11.—^ Room in the Palace. 
 
 Flourish. Enter Amyclas, Armostes, Prophilus, 
 Courtiers and Attendants. 
 
 Ainyc. The Spartan gods are gracious ; our 
 humility 
 Shall bend before their altars, and perfume 
 Their temples with abundant sacrifice. 
 See, lords, Amyclas, your old king, is entering 
 Into his youth again ! 1 shall shake off 
 This silver badge of age, and change this snow 
 For hairs as gay as are Apollo's locks ; 
 Our heart leaps in new vigour. 
 
 Arm. May old time 
 Run back to double your long life, great sir ! 
 
 Amyc. It will, it must, Armostes ; thy bold ne- 
 phew. 
 Death-braving Ithocles, brings to our spates 
 Triumphs and peace upon his conquering sword. 
 Laconia is a monarchy at length ; 
 Hath in this latter w ar trod under foot 
 Messene's pride; Messene bows her neck 
 To Lacedemon's royalty. O, 'twas 
 A glorious victory, and doth deserve 
 More than a chronicle ; a temple, lords, 
 A temple to the name of Ithocles. 
 Where didst thou leave him, Prophilus ?
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 121 
 
 Pro. At Pephon, 
 Most gracious sovereign : twenty of the noblest 
 Of the Messenians there attend your pleasure, 
 For such conditions as you shall propose, 
 In settling peace, and liberty of life. 
 
 Amyc. When comes your friend the general? 
 
 Pro. He promised 
 To follow with all speed convenient. 
 
 Enter Crotolon, Calantha, Euphranea, Chris- 
 TALLA, and Philema with a garland. 
 
 Amijc. Our daughter ! Dear Calantha, the happy 
 news. 
 The conquest of Messene, hath already 
 Enrich'd thy knowledge. 
 
 Cal. With the circumstance 
 And manner of the fight, related faithfully 
 By Prophilus himself — but, pray, sir, tell me. 
 How doth the youthful general demean 
 His actions in these fortunes ? 
 
 Pro. Excellent princess, 
 Your own fair eyes may soon report a truth 
 Unto your judgment, with what moderation. 
 Calmness of nature, measure, bounds, and limits 
 Of thankfulness and joy, he doth digest 
 Such amplitude of his success, as would. 
 In others, moulded of a spirit less clear. 
 Advance them to comparison with heaven : 
 But Ithocles — 
 
 Cal. Your friend — 
 
 Pro. He is so, madam, 
 In which the period of my fate consists — 
 He in this firmament of honour, stands 
 Like a star fix'd, not mov'd with any thunder
 
 122 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT T. 
 
 Of popular applause, or sudden lightning 
 Of self opinion ; he hath serv'd his country, 
 'And thinks 'twas but his duty. 
 
 Crot. You describe 
 A miracle of man. 
 
 Amyc. Such, Crotolon, [Flourish. 
 
 On forfeit of a king's word, thou wilt find him. 
 Hark, warning of his coming! all attend him. 
 
 Enter Ithocles, ushered in by the Lords, and fol- 
 lowed by Hemophtl, and Groneas. 
 
 Amyc. Return into these arms, thy home, thy 
 sanctuary, 
 Delight of Sparta, treasure of my bosom, 
 Mine own, own Ithocles ! 
 
 Ith. Your humblest subject. 
 
 Arm. Proud of the blood I claim an interest in. 
 As brother to thy mother, I embrace thee. 
 Right noble nephew. 
 
 Ith. Sir, your love's too partial. 
 
 Crot. Our country speaks by me, who by thy 
 valour, 
 Wisdom, and service, shares in this great action ; 
 Returning thee, in part of thy due merits, 
 A general welcome. 
 
 Ith. You exceed in bounty. 
 
 Cal. Christalla, Philema, the chaplet. (Takes 
 the chaplet from them. J Ithocles, 
 Upon the wings of fame, the singular 
 And chosen fortune of an high attempt, 
 Is borne so past the view of common sight. 
 That I myself, with mine own hands, have wrought
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 123 
 
 To crown thy temples, this Provincial* garland ; 
 Accept, wear, and enjoy it as our gift 
 Deserv'd, not purchased. 
 
 Ith. You are a royal maid. 
 
 Amyc. She is, in all, our daughter, 
 
 Ith. Let me blush, 
 Acknowledging how poorly I have serv'd, 
 What nothings L have done, compared with the 
 
 honours 
 Heap'd on the issue of a willing mind ; 
 In that lay mine ability, that only : 
 For who is he so sluggish from his birth, 
 So little worthy of a name or country, 
 That owes not out of gratitude for life 
 A debt of service, in what kind soever. 
 Safety, or counsel of the commonwealth 
 Requires, for payment? 
 
 Cal. He speaks truth. 
 
 Ith. Whom heaven 
 Is pleased to style victorious, there, to such. 
 Applause runs madding, like the drunken priests 
 In Bacchus' sacrifices, without reason. 
 Voicing the leader-on a demi-god; 
 Whenas, indeed, each common soldier's blood 
 Drops down as current coin in that hard purchase, 
 As his, whose much more delicate condition 
 Hath suck'd the milk of ease : judgment com- 
 mands, 
 But resolution executes. I use not, 
 
 * This Provincial garland.'] i. e. the wreath (of laurel) which 
 she had prepared ; and which the ancients conferred on those 
 who, like Ithocles, had added a Province to the empire. These 
 honoraiy chaplets or crowns were, as every school-boy knows, 
 composed of plants, leaves, or flowers, according to the nature
 
 \2i THE BROKEN HEART. ACT I. 
 
 Before this royal presence, these fit slights,* 
 
 As in contempt of such as can direct ; 
 
 My speech hath other end ; not to attribute 
 
 All praise to one man's fortune, which is strength- 
 
 en'd 
 By many hands : — for instance, here is Prophilus, 
 A gentleman (I cannot flatter truth) 
 Of much desert ; and, though in other rank. 
 Both Hemophil and Groneas were not missing 
 To wish their country's peace ; for, in a word. 
 All there did strive their best, and 'twas our duty. 
 
 Amyc. Courtiers turn soldiers I — We vouchsafe 
 our hand; (Hem. and Gron. kiss his hand.) 
 Observe your great example. 
 
 Hem. With all diligence. 
 
 Gron. Obsequiously and hourly. 
 
 Amyc. Some repose 
 After these toils is needful. We must think on 
 Conditions for the conquer'd ; they expect them. 
 On! — Come, my Ithocles. 
 
 Euph. Sir, with your favour, 
 I need not a supporter. 
 
 Pro. Fate instructs me. 
 \_Exit Amyc attended; Ith. Cal. <^'C. — As Chris. 
 
 and Phil, are foUojving Cal. they are detained 
 
 by Hem. and Gron. 
 
 Chris. With me ? 
 
 of the service rendered. Thus we have the Provincial, the 
 civic, the mural, the obsidional, and various other garlands, all 
 woven of different materials, and all appropriate to their re- 
 spective wearers, " des-eiv'd, not purchased."' — GirroRD. 
 
 * These Jit slights.] i. e. these trifling services, to which I 
 have adapted the slight or humble language which becomes 
 them. It is the modesty of Ithocles which speaks. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 125 
 
 Phil. Indeed I dare not stay. 
 
 Hetn. Sweet lady, 
 Soldiers are blunt, — your lip. \_Kisses her. 
 
 Chris. Fye, this is rudeness ; 
 You went not hence such creatures. 
 
 Gron. Spirit of valour 
 Is of a mounting nature. 
 
 Phil. It appears so. — 
 Pray [now], in earnest, how many men apiece 
 Have you two been the death of? 
 
 Gron. 'Faith, not many ; 
 We were composed of mercy. 
 
 Heffi. For our daring. 
 You heard the general's approbation 
 Before the king. 
 
 Chris. You " ivish'd your country's peace;" 
 That show'd your charity : where are your spoils, 
 Such as the soldier fights for ? 
 
 Phil. They are coming. 
 
 Chris. By the next carrier, are they not ? 
 
 Gron. Sweet Philema, 
 When I was in the thickest of mine enemies, 
 Slashing off one man's head, another's nose. 
 Another's arms and legs, — 
 
 Phil. And all together. 
 
 Gron. Then I would with a sigh remember 
 thee, 
 And cry, " dear Philema, 'tis for thy sake 
 I do these deeds of wonder!" — dost not love me, 
 With all thy heart now ? 
 
 Phil. Now, as heretofore. 
 I have not put my love to use ; the principal 
 Will hardly yield an interest.
 
 126 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT I- 
 
 Gron. By Mars, 
 I'll marry thee ! 
 
 Phil. By Vulcan, you're foresworn, 
 Except my mind do alter strangely. 
 
 Gron. One word. 
 
 Chris. You lie beyond all modesty ; — forbear 
 me. 
 
 Hem. I'll make thee mistress of a city, 'tis 
 Mine own by conquest. 
 
 Chris. By petition ; — sue for't 
 In forma j^fiupcris. — " City?" kennel. — Gallants! 
 Off with your feathers, put on aprons, gallants ; 
 Learn to reel, thrum, or trim a lady's dog, 
 And be good quiet souls of peace, hobgoblins ! 
 
 Hem. Christalla! 
 
 Chris. Practise to drill hogs, in hope 
 To share in the acorns. — Soldiers! corncutters. 
 But not so valiant ; they oft times draw blood, 
 Which you durst never do. When you have prac- 
 
 tis'd 
 More wit, or more civility, we'll rank you 
 r th list of men ; till then, brave things at arms. 
 Dare not to speak to us, — most potent Groneas ! 
 
 Phil. And Hemophil the hardy — at your ser- 
 vices. \_Exeunt Chris, and Phil. 
 
 Gron. They scorn us as they did before v. e went. 
 
 Hem. Hang them, let us scorn them ; and be 
 revenged. 
 
 Gron. Shall we ? 
 
 VHem. We will ; and when we slight them thus, 
 nstead of following them, they'll follow us ; 
 It is a woman's nature. [^Exeunt.
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 127 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Gardens of the Palace. — A Grove. 
 
 Enter Tecnicus, and Orgilus, disguised, like one 
 of his Scholars. 
 
 Tec. Tempt not the stars, young man, thou 
 canst not play 
 With the severity of fate ; this change 
 Of habit and disguise in outward view- 
 Hides not the secrets of thy soul within thee 
 From their quick-piercing eyes, which dive at all 
 
 times 
 Down to thy thoughts : in thy aspect I note 
 A consequence of danger. 
 
 Org. Give me leave, 
 Grave Tecnicus, without foredooming destiny. 
 Under thy roof to ease my silent griefs. 
 By applying to my hidden wounds the balm 
 Of thy oraculous lectures : if my fortune 
 Run such a crooked by-way as to wrest 
 My steps to ruin, yet thy learned precepts 
 Shall call me back and set my footings straight. 
 I will not court the world. 
 
 Tec. Ah, Orgilus, 
 Neglects in young men of delights and life 
 Run often to extremities ; they care not 
 For harms to others, who contemn their own. 
 
 Org. But I, most learned artist, am not so 
 much 
 At odds with nature, that I grudge the thrift 
 Of any true deserver ; nor cloth malice 
 Of present hopes, so check them with despair, 
 As that I yield to thought of more affliction
 
 128 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT I. 
 
 Than what is incident to fraihy : wherefore 
 Impute not this retired course of living 
 Some Httle time, to any other cause 
 Than what I justly render ; the information 
 Of an unsettled mind ; as the effect 
 Must clearly witness. 
 
 Tec. Spirit of truth inspire thee ! 
 On these conditions I conceal thy change, 
 And willingly admit thee for an auditor. — 
 I'll to my study. \^Exit. 
 
 Org. I to contemplations, 
 In these delightfid walks. — Thus metamorphosed, 
 I may without suspicion hearken after 
 Penthea's usage, and Euphranea's faith. 
 Love, thou art full of mystery ! the deities 
 Themselves are not secure,* in searching out 
 The secrets of those flames, which, hidden, waste 
 A breast, made tributary to the laws 
 Of beauty ; physic yet hath never found 
 A remedy to cure a lover's wound. — 
 Ha ! who are those that cross yon private walk 
 Into the shadowing grove, in amorous foldings ? 
 
 Prophilus afid Euphraxea pass by, mm in arm, 
 and whispering. 
 
 My sister ; O, my sister I 'tis Euphranea 
 
 With Prophilus : supported too I I would 
 
 It were an apparition I Prophilus 
 
 Is Ithocles his friend : it strangely puzzles me. — 
 
 * the deities 
 
 Themselves are 7wt secure.] i. e. sure, certain : they cannot 
 depend on the results of their own omniscience in these in- 
 quiries. GlFFORD.
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 129 
 
 Re-enter Prophilus a?id Euphranea. 
 Again ! help me my book ; this scholar's habit 
 Must stand my privilege ; my mind is busy, 
 Mine eyes and ears are open. 
 
 [IValks aside, pretending to read. 
 
 Pro. Do not waste 
 The span of this stolen time, lent by the gods 
 For precious use, in niceness. Bright Euphranea, 
 Should I repeat old vows, or study new, 
 For purchase of belief to my desires, — 
 
 Org. Desires ! 
 
 Pro. My service, my integrity, — 
 
 Org. That's better. 
 
 Pro. I should but repeat a lesson 
 Oft conn'd without a prompter, but thine eyes : 
 My love is honourable. — 
 
 Org. So was mine 
 To my Penthea ; chastely honourable. 
 
 Pro. Nor wants there more addition to my wish 
 Of happiness, than having thee a wife ; 
 Already sure of Ithocles, a friend 
 Firm and unalterable. 
 
 Org. But a brother 
 More cruel than the grave. 
 
 Eiipli. What can you look for 
 In answer to your noble protestations, 
 From an unskilful maid, but language suited 
 To a divided mind ? 
 
 Org. Hold out, Euphranea ! 
 Elijah. Know, Prophilus, I never undervalued, 
 From the first time you mention'd worthy love, 
 Your merit, means, or person : it had been 
 A fault of judgment in me, and a dulness 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 180 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT I. 
 
 In my affections, not to weigh and thank 
 My better stars, that offer'd me the grace 
 Of so much bhssfulness : for, to speak truth, 
 The law of my desires kept equal pace 
 With your's ; nor have I left that resolution : 
 But only, in a word, whatever choice 
 Lives nearest in my heart, must first procure 
 Consent, both from my father and my brother, 
 Ere he can own me his. 
 
 Org. She is foresworn else. 
 
 Pro. Leave me that task. 
 
 Eiiph. My brother, ere he parted 
 To Athens, had my oath. 
 
 Org. Yes, yes, he had sure. 
 
 Pro. I doubt not, with the means the court sup- 
 plies, 
 But to prevail at pleasure. 
 
 Org. Very likely ! 
 
 Pro. Meantime, best, dearest, I may build my 
 hopes 
 On the foundation of thy constant sufferance, 
 In any opposition. 
 
 Euph. Death shall sooner 
 Divorce life, and the joys I have in living, 
 Than my chaste vows from truth. 
 
 Pro. On thy fan* hand 
 I seal the like. 
 
 Org. There is no faith in woman. 
 Passion, O be contain'd! — my very heart-strings 
 Are on the tenters. 
 
 Euph. We are overheard. 
 Cupid protect us ! 'twas a stirring, sure, 
 Of some one near. 
 
 Pro. Your fears are needless, lady ;
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 131 
 
 None have access into these private pleasures, 
 Except some near in court, or bosom student 
 From Tecnicus his Oratory ; granted 
 By special favour lately from the king 
 Unto the grave philosopher. 
 
 Eiiph. Methinks 
 I hear one talking to himself — I see him. 
 
 Pro. 'Tis a poor scholar ; as I told you, lady. 
 
 Org. I am discover'd. — Say it ; is it possible, 
 [Half aloud to himself, as if studifing. 
 With a smooth tongue, a leering countenance. 
 Flattery, or force of reason — I come to you, sir — 
 To turn or to appease the raging sea ? 
 Answer to that. — Your art ! what art ? to catch 
 And hold fast in a net the sun's small atoms ? 
 No, no ; they'll out, they'll out ; you may as 
 
 easily 
 Outrun a cloud driven by a northern blast, 
 As — fiddle-faddle so ! peace, or speak sense. 
 
 Euph. Call you this thing a scholar ? 'las, he's 
 lunatic. 
 
 Pro. Observe him, sweet; 'tis but his recreation. 
 
 Org. But will you hear a little? You are so 
 tetchy. 
 You keep no rule in argument ; philosophy 
 Works not upon impossibilities, 
 But natural conclusions. — Mew ! — absurd! 
 The metaphysics are but speculations 
 Of the celestial bodies, or such accidents 
 As not mixt perfectly, in the air engenderd, 
 Appear to us unnatural; that's all. 
 Prove it; — yet, with a reverence to your gravity, 
 I'll baulk illiterate sauciness, submitting 
 My sole opinion to the touch of writers. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT I. 
 
 Pro. Now let us fall in with him. 
 
 [They come forward. 
 
 Org. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 These apish boys, when they but taste the gram- 
 mates,* 
 And principles of theory, imagine 
 They can oppose their teachers. Confidence 
 Leads many into errors. 
 
 Piv. By your leave, sir. 
 
 Eiiph. Are you a scholar, friend ? 
 
 Org. I am, gay creature. 
 With pardon of your deities, a mushroom 
 On whom the dew of heaven drops now and tlion ; 
 The sun shines on me too, I thank his beams I 
 Sometimes I feel their warmth ; and eat and sleep. 
 
 Pro. Does Tecnicus read to thee ? 
 
 Org. Yes, forsooth, 
 He is my master surely ; yonder door 
 Opens upon his study. 
 
 Pro. Happy creatures ! 
 Such people toil not, sweet, in heats of state. 
 Nor sink in thaws of greatness : their affections 
 Keep order with the limits of their modesty ; 
 Their love is love of virtue. — What's thy name ;' 
 
 Org. Aplotes, sumptuous master, a poor wretch. 
 
 Euph. Dost thou want any thing ? 
 
 OrS' Books, Venus, books. 
 
 * When they but taste the giammates.] Orgilus affects the 
 pedant-language of the schools. To taite is to touch lightly, 
 to merely enter on : granunates seems to be a contemptuous 
 diminutive for grammar, as grammatist is for grammarian. 
 
 iNIew! — absurd! which occurs just above, is a term of the 
 schools, and is used when false conclusions are illogically de- 
 duced from the opponent's premises. — Gifford.
 
 •SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 13S 
 
 Pro. Lady, a new conceit comes in my thought, 
 And most available for both our comforts. 
 Eupli, My lord, — 
 Pro. While I endeavour to deserve 
 Your father's blessing to our loves, this scholar 
 May daily at some certain hours attend, 
 What notice I can write of my success. 
 Here, in this grove, and give it to your hands ; 
 The like from you to me : so can we never, 
 Barr'd of our mutual speech, want sure intelli- 
 gence ; 
 And thus our hearts may talk when our tongues 
 cannot. 
 Euph. Occasion is most favourable ; use it. 
 Pro. Aplotes, wilt thou wait us twice a-day, 
 At nine i' the morning, and at four at night. 
 Here, in this bower, to convey such letters 
 As each shall send to other ? Do it willingly, 
 Safely, and secretly, and I will furnish 
 Thy study, or what else thou canst desire. 
 
 Org. Jove, make me thankful, thankful, I be- 
 seech thee, 
 Propitious Jove ! I will prove sure and trusty : 
 You will not fail me books ? 
 
 Pro. Nor ought besides. 
 Thy heart can wish. This lady's name's Euphra- 
 
 nea. 
 Mine Prophilus. 
 
 Org. I have a pretty memory ; 
 It must prove my best friend. — I will not miss 
 One minute of the hours appointed. 
 
 Pro. Write 
 The books thou would'st have bought thee, in a 
 
 note. 
 Or take thyself some money.
 
 1.'34 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT I. 
 
 Org. No, no money : 
 Money to scholars is a spirit invisible, 
 We dare not finger it ; or books, or nothing. 
 Pro. Books of what sort thou wilt : do not 
 forget 
 Our names. 
 
 Org. I warrant ye, I warrant ye. 
 Pro. Smile, Hymen, on the growth of our de- 
 sires ; 
 We'll feed thy torches with eternal fires ! 
 
 [Exeunt Pro. and Euph. 
 Org. Put out thy torches. Hymen, or their light 
 Shall meet a darkness of eternal night I 
 Inspire me, Mercury, with swift deceits. 
 Ingenious Fate has leapt into mine arms. 
 Beyond the compass of my brains. — Mortality 
 Creeps on the dung of earth, and cannot reach 
 The riddles which are purposed by the gods. 
 Great arts best write themselves in their own 
 
 stories ; 
 Thev die too baselv, who outlive their glories. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 135 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Bassanes' House. 
 Enter Bassanes and Phulas. 
 
 Bass. I'll have that window next the street 
 damm'd up ; 
 It gives too full a prospect to temptation, 
 And courts a gazer's glances : there's a lust 
 Committed by the eye, that sweats and travails. 
 Plots, wakes, contrives, till the deformed bear- 
 whelp 
 Adultery — that light shall be damm'd up : 
 D'ye hear, sir? 
 
 Pint. I do hear, my lord; a mason 
 Shall be provided suddenly. 
 
 Bass. Some rogue. 
 Some rogue of your confederacy, (factor 
 For slaves and strumpets !) to convey close packets 
 From this spruce springal, and the t'other young- 
 ster ; 
 That gaudy earwig, or my lord your patron, 
 Whose pensioner you are. — I'll tear thy throat 
 
 out, 
 Son of a cat, ill-looking hounds-head, rip up 
 Thy ulcerous maw, if I but scent a paper, 
 A scroll, but half as big as what can cover 
 A wart upon thy nose, a spot, a pimple,
 
 136 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT II. 
 
 Directed to my lady ; it may prove 
 A mystical preparative to lewdness. 
 
 Phu. Care shall be had. — I will turn every 
 thread 
 About me to an eye. — Here's a sweet life! [Aside. 
 
 Bass. The city housewives, cunning in the traffic 
 Of chamber merchandize, set all at price 
 By wholesale ! yet they wipe their mouths and 
 
 simper, 
 Kiss and cry " sweetheart," and all's well again! 
 
 Phu. 'Tis a villainous world ; 
 One cannot hold his own in't. 
 
 Bass. Dames at court. 
 Who flaunt in riots, run another bias : 
 Their pleasure heaves the patient ass that suffers 
 Up on the stilts of office, titles, incomes ; 
 Promotion justifies the shame, and sues for't. 
 Poor honour ! thou art stabb'd, and bleed'st to 
 
 death 
 By such unlawful hire. The country mistress 
 Is yet more wary, and in blushes hides 
 Whatever trespass draws her troth to guilt ; 
 But all are false : on this truth I am bold, 
 No w^oman but can fall, and doth, or would. — 
 Now, for the newest news about the city ; 
 What blab the voices, sirrah ? 
 
 Phu. O, my lord. 
 The rarest, quaintest, strangest, tickling new^s, 
 That ever 
 
 Bass. Hey-day ! up and ride me, rascal! 
 What is't ? 
 
 Phu. Forsooth, they say, the king has mew'd* 
 
 * the king has mew'd 
 
 All his gray beard.] To mew, or rather nn/e, is in fal- 
 coner's language to moult, to shed the feathers. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 137 
 
 All his gray beard, instead of which is budded 
 Another of a pure carnation colour, 
 Speckled with green and russet. 
 
 Bass. Ignorant block ! 
 
 Phil. Yes truly ; and 'tis talk'd about the streets. 
 That since lord Ithocles came home, the lions* 
 Never left roaring, at which noise the bears 
 Have danced their very hearts out. 
 
 Bass. Dance out thine too. 
 
 Phil. Besides, lord Orgilus is fled to iYthens 
 Upon a fiery dragon, and 'tis thought 
 He never can return. 
 
 Bass. Grant it, Apollo ! 
 
 Phu. Moreover, please your lordship, 'tis re- 
 ported 
 For certain, that whoever is found jealous 
 Without apparent proof that's wife is wanton. 
 Shall be divorced :— but this is but she-news, 
 T had it from a midwife. I have more yet. 
 
 Bass. Antick, no more ! ideots and stupid fools 
 Grate my calamities. Why to be fair, 
 Should yield presumption of a faulty soul — 
 Look to the doors. 
 
 Phu. The horn of plenty crest him ! 
 
 [^Aside, and exit. 
 
 Bass. Swarms of confusion huddle in my 
 thoughts 
 In rare distemper. — Beauty ! oh, it is 
 An unmatch'd blessing, or a horrid curse. 
 She comes, she comes ! so shoots the morning 
 forth, 
 
 * the lions 
 
 Never left roaring, at which noise the bears 
 Have danced, &c.] The poet was thinking of a spot 
 much nearer home than Sparta. — Gifford.
 
 138 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT II. 
 
 Spangled with pearls* of transparent dew. — 
 The way to poverty is to be rich ; 
 As I in her am wealthy : but for her, 
 In all contents, a bankrupt. 
 
 Enter Penthea and Grausis. 
 
 Lov'd Penthea! 
 
 How fares my heart's best joy ? 
 
 Grav. In sooth not well, 
 She is so over-sad. 
 
 Bass. Leave chattering, magpie. — 
 Thy brother is return'd, sweet, safe, and honour'd 
 With a triumphant victory ; thou shalt visit him ; 
 V>'e will to court, where, if it be thy pleasure, 
 Thou shalt appear in such a ravishing lustre 
 Of jewels above value, that the dames 
 Who brave it there, in rage to be outshined, 
 Shall hide them in their closets, and unseen 
 Fret in their tears : whilst every wond'ring eye 
 Shall crave none other brightness but thy presence. 
 Choose thine own recreations : be a queen 
 Of what delights thou fanciest best, what company. 
 What place, what times ; do any thing, do all things 
 Youth can command, so thou wilt chase these 
 
 clouds 
 From the pure firmament of thy fair looks. 
 
 Grau. Now, 'tis well said, my lord. What, 
 lady ! laugh. 
 Be merry ; time is precious. 
 
 Bass. Furies whip thee ! [Aside. 
 
 * Spangled with pearls.'\ This word, like g-j'r/, and siiarl was 
 commonly mads a dissyllable by our poet.
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 139 
 
 Pen. Alas, my lord ! this language to your 
 handmaid 
 Sounds as would music to the deaf; I need 
 No braveries, nor cost of art, to draw 
 The whiteness of my name into offence : 
 Let such, if any such there are, who covet 
 A curiosity of admiration, 
 By laying out their plenty to full view, 
 Appear in gaudy outsides ; my attires 
 Shall suit the inward fashion of my mind; 
 From which, if your opinion, nobly placed, 
 Change not the livery your words bestow, 
 My fortunes with my hopes are at the highest. 
 
 Bass. This house, methinks, stands somewhat 
 too much inward, 
 It is too melancholy ; we'll remove 
 Nearer the court : or what thinks my Penthea 
 Of the delightful island we command ? 
 Rule me as thou canst wish. 
 
 Pe?i. I am no mistress : 
 Whither you please, I must attend ; all ways 
 Are alike pleasant to me. 
 
 Grau. "Island!" prison; 
 A prison is as gaysome : we'll no islands ; 
 Marry, out upon 'em ! whom shall we see there ? 
 Sea-gulls, and porpoises, and water-rats. 
 And crabs, and mews, and dog-fish ; goodly gear 
 For a young lady's dealings, — or an old one's ! 
 On no terms, islands ; I'll be stew'd first. 
 
 Bass, (aside to Grau.) Grausis, 
 You are a juggling jade. — This sadness, sweetest, 
 Becomes not youthful blood ; — I'll have you 
 pounded — [To Gr.vu. 
 
 For my sake put on a more cheerful mirth ;
 
 1 to THE BROKEN HEART. , ACT II. 
 
 Thou'lt mar tliy cheeks, and make me old in griefs. 
 Damnable bitcli-fox I \_To Grau. 
 
 Grau. I am thick of hearing, 
 Still, when the wind blows southerly. — What think 
 
 you, 
 If your fresh lady breed young bones, my lord ! 
 Would not a chopping boy do you good at heart ! 
 But, as you said — 
 
 Bass. I'll spit thee on a stake. 
 Or chop thee into collops ! \_Aside to Grau. 
 
 Grau. Pray, speak louder. 
 Sure, sure the wind blows south still. 
 
 Pen. Thou prat'st madly. 
 
 Bass. 'Tis verv hot : I sweat extremely. — Now ? 
 
 Enter Phulas. 
 
 Phil. A herd of lords, sir. 
 
 Bass. Ha! 
 
 Phu. A flock of ladies. 
 
 Bass. Where ? 
 
 Phi/. Shoals of horses. 
 
 Bass. Peasant, how ? 
 
 P/iif. Caroches 
 In drifts — th" one enter, th' other stand without, 
 
 sir : 
 And now I vanish. \_Eiit. 
 
 Enter Prophilus, Hemophil, Groxeas, 
 Christalla and Philema. 
 
 Pro. Noble Bassanes ! 
 
 Bass. Most welcome, Prophilus ; ladies, gentle- 
 men,
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 141 
 
 To all, my heart is open ; you all honour me, — 
 (A tympany swells in my head already) [^Asidt. 
 Honour me bountifully. — How they flutter, 
 Wagtails and jays together ! [^Aside. 
 
 Pi'o. From your brother, 
 By virtue of your love to him, I require 
 Your instant presence, fairest. 
 
 Pen. He is well, sir ? 
 
 Pro. The gods preserve him ever ! Yet, dear 
 beauty, 
 I find some alteration in him lately, 
 Since his return to Sparta. — My good lord, 
 I pray, use no delay. 
 
 Bass. We had not needed 
 An invitation, if his sister's health 
 Had not fallen into question. — Haste, Pentliea, 
 Slack not a minute ; lead the way, good Prophilus, 
 I'll follow step by step. 
 
 Pro. Your arm, fair madam. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Bass, and Grau. 
 
 Bass. One word with your old hag-ship ; thou 
 hadst better 
 Rail'd at the saints thou worshipp'st than have 
 
 thwarted 
 My will ; I'll use thee cursedly. 
 
 Grau. You doat. 
 You are beside yourself. A politician 
 In jealousy ? no, you're too gross, too vulgar. 
 Pish, teach not me my trade ; I know my cue : 
 My crossing you sinks me into her trust, 
 By which I shall know all ; my trade's a sure one. 
 
 Bass. Forgive me, Grausis, 'twas consideration 
 I relish'd not : but have a care now.
 
 142 THE BROKEN' HEART. ACT II. 
 
 Grau. Fear not, 
 I am no new-come-to't. 
 
 Bass. Thy life's upon it, 
 And so is mine. My agonies are infinite. [_Exeunf^ 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 T/ie Pa/ace. Ithocles' Apartment. 
 
 Enter Ithocles. 
 
 Ith. Ambition! 'tis of viper's breed ; it gnaws 
 A passage through the womb that gave it motion. 
 Ambition, like a seeled* dove, mounts upward, 
 Higher and higher still, to perch on clouds. 
 But tumbles headlong down with heavier ruin. 
 So squibs and crackers fly into the air, 
 Then, only breaking with a noise, they vanish 
 In stench and smoke. Morality, applied 
 To timely practice, keeps the soul in tune. 
 At whose sweet music all our actions dance : 
 j^ 1 But tliis is formpd] of books and school-tradition; 
 It physics not the sickness of a mind 
 Broken with griefs : strong fevers are not eased 
 With counsel, but with best receipts, and means ; 
 Means, speedy means, and certain ; that's the cure. 
 
 * Ambition, like a seeled dove, mounts upward, 
 Higher and higher still, (Sj'c] 
 
 To seel, is to blind, by sewing^ up the eye-lids. It is told 
 ill the Gentleman's Recreation, that this wanton piece of 
 cmelty is sometimes resorted to for sport. The poor dove, in 
 the agonies of pain, soars, like the lark, as soon as dismissed 
 from the hand, almost perpendicularly, and continues mount- 
 ing till strength and life are totally exhausted, when she drops 
 at the feet of her inhuman persecutors. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 143 
 
 Enter Armostes and Crotolon. 
 
 Ann. You stick, lord Crotolon, upon a point 
 Too nice and too unnecessary ; Prophilus 
 Is every way desertful. I am confident 
 Your wisdom is too ripe to need instruction 
 From your son's tutelage. 
 
 Crot. Yet not so ripe, 
 My lord Armostes, that it dares to dote 
 Upon the painted bait of smooth persuasion. 
 Which tempts me to a breach of faith. 
 
 Ith. Not yet 
 Resolv'd, my lord? Why, if your son's consent 
 Be so available, we'll write to Athens 
 For his repair to Sparta : the king's hand 
 Will join with our desires ; he has been mov'd to't. 
 
 Ann. Yes, and the king himself importuned 
 Crotolon 
 For a dispatch. 
 
 Crot. Kings may command ; their wills 
 Are law^s not to be question'd 
 
 Ith. By this marriage 
 You knit an union so devout, so hearty. 
 Between your loves to me, and mine to yours. 
 As if mine own blood had an interest in it ; 
 For Prophilus is mine, and I am his, 
 
 Crot. My lord, my lord ! 
 
 Ith. What, good sir ? speak your thought. 
 
 Crot. Had this sincerity been real once. 
 My Orgilus had not been now unwived, 
 Nor your lost sister buried in a bride-bed : 
 Your uncle here, Armostes, knows this truth ; 
 For had your father Thrasus liv'd, — but peace 
 Dwell in his grave ! I have done.
 
 Ii4 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT II. 
 
 Arm. You are bold and bitter. 
 
 1th. He presses home the injury; it smarts. — 
 
 [Aside. 
 No reprehensions, uncle : T deserve them. 
 Yet, gentle sir, consider what the heat 
 Of an unsteady youth, a giddy brain, 
 Green indiscretion, flattery of greatness, 
 Rawness of judgment, wilfulness in folly, 
 Thoughts vagrant as the wind, and as uncertain, 
 Might lead a boy in years to : — 'twas a fault, 
 A capital fault : for then I could not dive 
 Into the secrets of commanding love ; 
 Since when experience, by th' extremes in others, 
 Hath forced me to collect — and, trust me, Cro- 
 
 tolon. 
 I will redeem those wrongs with any service 
 Your satisfaction can require for current. 
 
 Ami. The acknowledgment is satisfaction : 
 What would you more ? 
 
 Crot. I am conquer'd : if Euphranea 
 Herself admit the motion, let it be so ; 
 I doubt not my son's liking. 
 
 Ith. Use my fortunes. 
 Life, power, sword and heart, all are your own. 
 
 Arm. The princess, with yoiu' sister. 
 
 Enter Bassanes, Prophilus, Calaxtha, Pen- 
 THEA, Euphraxea, Christalla, Philema, (Uld 
 Grausis. 
 
 CaJ. I present you 
 A stranger here in court, my lord : for did not 
 Desire of seeing you draw her abroad, 
 We had not been made happy in her company.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 145 
 
 Ith. You are a gracious princess. — Sister, wed- 
 lock 
 Holds too severe a passion in your nature. 
 Which can engross all duty to your husband, 
 Without attendance on so dear a mistress. 
 'Tis not my brother's pleasure, I presume, 
 
 [To Bass. 
 T' immure her in a chamber. 
 
 Bass. 'Tis her will ; 
 •She governs her own hours. Noble Ithocles, 
 We thank the gods for your success and welfare : 
 Our lady has of late been indisposed. 
 Else we had waited on you with the first. 
 
 Ith. How does Penthea now ? 
 
 Pen. You best know, brother, 
 From whom my health and comforts are derived. 
 
 Bass. [_aside] I like the answer well ; 'tis sad 
 and modest. 
 There may be tricks yet, tricks. — Have an eye, 
 Grausis ! 
 
 Cal. Now, Crotolon, the suit we join'd in must 
 not 
 Fall by too long demur. 
 
 Crot. 'Tis granted, princess. 
 For my part. 
 
 Arm. With condition, that his son 
 Favour the contract. 
 
 Cal. Such delay is easy. 
 The joys of marriage make thee, Prophilus, 
 A proud deserver of Euphranea's love, 
 And her of thy desert ! 
 
 Pro. Most sweetly gracious ! 
 
 Ptass. Tlie joys of marriage are tlie heaven on 
 earth, 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT II. 
 
 Life's paradise, great princess, the soul's quiet, 
 
 Sinews of concord, earthly immortality, 
 
 Eternity of pleasures; — no restoratives 
 
 Like to a constant woman ! — (but where is she ? 
 
 'Twoukl puzzle all the gods, but to create 
 
 Such a new monster) (aside) — I can speak by 
 
 proof, 
 For I rest in Elysium ; 'tis my happiness. 
 
 Crof. Euphranea, how are you resolv'd, speak 
 freely, 
 In your affections to this gentleman ? 
 
 Euph. Nor more, nor less than as his love as- 
 sures me : 
 "Which (if your liking with my brother's warrants) 
 I cannot but approve in all points worthy. 
 
 Crot. So, so ! I know your answer. [^Fo Pro. 
 Ith. 'T had been pity, 
 To sunder hearts so equally consented. 
 
 Enter Hemophil. 
 
 Hem. The king, lord Ithocles, commands your 
 presence ; 
 And, fairest princess, your's. 
 Cal. We will attend him. 
 
 Enter Groneas. 
 
 Gron. Where are the lords ? all must unto the 
 king 
 Without delav ; the prince of Argos — 
 CaL Well, "sir? 
 Gron. Is coming to the court, sweet lady.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 147 
 
 Cal. How! 
 The prince of Argos ? 
 
 Gron. 'Twas my fortune, madam, 
 T' enjoy the honour of these happy tidings. 
 
 Ith. Penthea! 
 
 Pen. Brother. 
 
 Ith. Let me an hour hence 
 Meet you alone, within the palace grove, 
 I have some secret with you. — Prithee, friend, 
 Conduct her tliither, and have special care 
 The walks be clear'd of any to disturb us. 
 
 Pro. I shall. 
 
 Bass. How's that ? 
 
 Ith. Alone, pray be alone. — 
 I am your creature, princess. — On, my lords. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Bass. 
 
 Bass. Alone ! alone ! what means that word 
 alone ? 
 Why might not I be there ? — hum ! — he's her bro- 
 ther : 
 Brothers and sisters are but flesh and blood. 
 And this same court-ease is a strong temptation 
 To a rebellion in the veins ; besides. 
 His fine friend Prophilus — 
 
 Re-enter Groneas. 
 
 Gron. My lord, you're called for. 
 
 Bass. Most heartily I thank you ; where's my 
 
 wife, pray ? 
 Gron. Retired amongst the ladies. 
 Bass. Still I thank you : 
 There's an old waiter with her, saw you her too ? 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT II. 
 
 Gron. She sits i' th' presence-lobby fast asleep, 
 
 sir. 
 Bass. Asleep I asleep, sir I 
 Gron. Is your lordship troubled ? 
 You will not to the king ? 
 Bass. Your humblest vassal. 
 Gron. Your servant, my good lord. 
 Bass. I wait your footsteps. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Gardens of the Palace. A Grove, 
 Enter Prophilus and Pexthea. 
 
 Pro. In this walk, lady, will your brother find 
 you ; 
 And, with your favour, give me leave a little 
 To work a preparation : in his fashion 
 I have observ'd of late some kind of slackness 
 To such alacrity as nature [once] 
 And custom took delight in; sadness grows 
 Upon his recreations, which he hoards 
 In such a willing silence, that to question 
 The grounds will argue [little] skill in friendship, 
 And less good manners. 
 
 Pen. Sir, I am not inquisitive 
 Of secrecies, without an invitation. 
 
 Pro. With pardon, lady, not a syllable 
 Of mine implies so rude a sense ; the drift — 
 
 F.nter Orgilus, as before. 
 
 Do thy best [To Org. 
 
 To make this lady merry for an hour.
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 149 
 
 Org. Your will shall be a law, sir. \_Exit Pro. 
 
 Pen. Prithee, leave me, 
 I have some private thoughts I would account 
 
 with ; 
 Use thou thine own. 
 
 Org. Speak on, fair nymph, our souls 
 Can dance as well to music of the spheres. 
 As any's who have feasted with the gods. 
 
 Peii. Your school-terms are too troublesome. 
 
 Org. What heaven 
 Refines mortality from dross of earth, 
 But such as uncompounded beauty hallows 
 With glorified perfection ! 
 
 Pe?K Set thy wits 
 In a less wild proportion. 
 
 Org. Time can never 
 On the white table of unguilty faith 
 Write counterfeit dishonour; turn those eyes 
 (The arrows of pure love) upon that fire. 
 Which once rose to a flame, perfum'd with vows. 
 As sweetly scented as the incense smoking 
 On Vesta's altars, ********** 
 ***** the holiest odours, virgins' tears, 
 ****** sprinkled, like dews, to feed them 
 And to increase their fervour.* 
 
 Pen. Be not frantic. 
 
 Org. All pleasures are but mere imagination. 
 Feeding the hungry appetite with steam. 
 And sight of banquet, whilst the body pines, 
 
 * as the iticense smoking 
 
 On Vesta's altars ********, &c.] 
 It is greatly to be regretted that this apparently fine passage 
 should have been so irreparably mutilated at the press. — Gif- 
 
 FORD.
 
 150 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT II. 
 
 Not relishing the real taste of food : 
 Such is the leanness of a heart, divided 
 From intercourse of troth-contracted loves ; 
 No horror should deface that precious figure 
 Seal'd with the lively stamp of equal souls. 
 
 Pen. Away ! some fury hath bewitch'd thy 
 tongue : 
 The breath of ignorance that flies from thence, 
 Ripens a knowledge in me of afflictions, 
 Above all sufferance. — Thing of talk, begone, 
 Begone, without reply ' 
 
 Org. Be just, Penthea, 
 In thy commands ; when thou send'st forth a doom 
 Of banishment, know first on whom it lights. 
 Thus I take off the shroud, in which my cares 
 Are folded up from view of common eyes. 
 
 \Throv:s off his scholar s dress. 
 What is thy sentence next ? 
 
 Pen. Rash man ! thou lay'st 
 A blemish on mine honour, with the hazard 
 Of thy too desperate life ; yet I profess, 
 By all the laws of ceremonious wedlock, 
 I have not given admittance to one thought 
 Of female change, since cruelty enforced 
 Divorce betwixt my body and my heart. 
 Why would you fall from goodness thus ? 
 
 Org. O, rather 
 Examine me, how I could live to say 
 I have been much, much wrong'd. 'Tis for thy 
 
 sake 
 I put on this imposture ; dear Penthea, 
 If thy soft bosom be not turn'd to marble, 
 Thou'lt pity our calamities ; my interest 
 Confirms me, thou art mine still.
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 151 
 
 Pen. Lend your hand ; 
 With both of mine I clasp it thus, thus kiss it, 
 Thus kneel before ye. [Pen. kneels. 
 
 Org. You instruct my duty. [Org. kneels. 
 
 Pen. We may stand up. (They rise.) Have you 
 ought else to urge 
 Of new demand ? as for the old, forget it ; 
 'Tis buried in an everlasting silence. 
 And shall be, shall be ever: what more would 
 you ? 
 
 Org. I would possess my wife ; the equity 
 Of very reason bids me. 
 
 Pen. Is that all ? 
 
 Org. W'hy, 'tis the all of me, myself. 
 
 Pen. Remove 
 Your steps some distance from me ; at this space 
 A few words I dare change; but first put on 
 Your borrow'd shape.* 
 
 Org. You are obey'd ; 'tis done. 
 
 [//e resumes his disguise. 
 
 Pen. How, Orgilus, by promise, I was thine, 
 The heavens do witness ; they can witness too 
 A rape done on my truth : how I do love thee 
 Yet, Orgilus, and yet, must best appear 
 In tendering thy freedom; for I find 
 The constant preservation of thy merit, 
 By thy not daring to attempt my fame 
 With injury of any loose conceit, 
 Which might give deeper wounds to discontents. 
 
 * but first imt on 
 
 Your borrow'd shape.] This, as I have elsewhere ob- 
 served, is the green-room term for a dress of disguise. In the 
 opening of the next Act, Orgilus, who had resumed his usual 
 habit, is said to appear in his own shape. — GiFroRD,
 
 152 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT II. 
 
 Continue this fair race; then, though I cannot 
 Add to thy comfort, yet I shall more often 
 Kemember from what fortune I am fallen, 
 And pity mine own ruin. — ^Live, live happy, 
 Happy in thy next choice, that tliou may'st people 
 This barren age with virtues in thy issue ! 
 And, oh, when thou art married, think on me 
 With mercy, not contempt ; I hope thy wife. 
 Hearing my story, will not scorn my fall. — 
 Now let us part. 
 
 Org. Part ! yet advise thee better : 
 Penthea is the wife to Orgilus, 
 And ever shall be. 
 
 Pen. Never shall, nor will. 
 
 Org. How ! 
 
 Pen. Hear me; in a word I'll tell thee why. 
 The virgin-dowry which my birth bestow'd. 
 Is ravish'd by another ; my true love 
 Abhors to think, that Orgilus deserv'd 
 No better favours than a second bed. 
 
 Org. I must not take this reason. 
 
 Pen. To confirm it; 
 Should I outlive my bondage, let me meet 
 Another worse than this, and less desired. 
 If, of all men alive, thou should'st but touch 
 My lip, or hand again ! 
 
 Org. Penthea, now 
 I tell you, you grow wanton in my sufferance ; 
 Come, sweet, thou art mine. 
 
 Pen. Uncivil sir, forbear. 
 Or I can turn affection into vengeance ; 
 Your reputation, if you value any, 
 Lies bleeding at my feet. Unworthy man, 
 If ever henceforth thou appear in language,
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 153 
 
 Message, or letter, to betray my frailty, 
 
 I'll call thy former protestations lust, 
 
 And curse my stars for forfeit of my judgment. 
 
 Go thou, fit only for disguise, and walks, 
 
 To hide thy shame ; this once I spare thy life. 
 
 I laugh at mine own confidence ; my sorrows 
 
 By thee are made inferior to my fortunes : 
 
 If ever thou didst harbour worthy love. 
 
 Dare not to answer. My good Genius guide me, 
 
 That I may never see thee more ! — Go from me ! 
 
 Org. I'll tear my veil of politic French off. 
 And stand up like a man resolv'd to do : — 
 Action, not words, shall shew me. — Oh Penthea ! 
 
 Pen. He sigh'd my name sure, as he parted 
 from me ; 
 I fear I was too rough. Alas, poor gentleman ! 
 He look'd not like the ruins of his youth. 
 But like the ruins of those ruins. Honour, 
 How much we fight with weakness to preserve 
 thee ! [JValks aside. 
 
 Enter Bassanes and Grausis. 
 
 Bass. Fie on thee, rotten maggot ! 
 Sleep ! sleep at court ! and now ! Aches, con- 
 vulsions, 
 Imposthumes, rheums, gouts, palsies, clog thy 
 
 bones 
 A dozen years more yet ! 
 
 Grau. Now you are in humours. 
 Bass. She's by herself, there's hope of that ; 
 she's sad too ;
 
 1-54 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT II. 
 
 She's in strong contemplation : yes, and fix"d : 
 The signs are wholesome. 
 
 Grau. Very wholesome, truly. 
 
 Bass. Hold your chops, nightmare I — Lady, 
 come ; your brother 
 Is carried to his closet : you must thither. 
 
 Pen. Not well, my lord ? 
 
 Bass. A sudden fit, "twill off; 
 Some surfeit or disorder. — How dost, dearest ? 
 
 Pen. Your news is none o"th' best. 
 
 Enter Prophilus. 
 
 Pro. The chief of men, 
 The excellentest Ithocles, desires 
 Your presence, madam. 
 
 Bass. We are hasting to him. 
 
 Pen. In vain we labour in this course of life 
 To piece our journey out at length, or crave 
 Respite of breath : our home is in the grave. 
 
 Bass. Perfect philosophy I 
 
 Pen. Then let us care 
 To live so, that our reckonings may fall even, 
 ^^ hen we're to make account. 
 
 Pro. He cannot fear 
 Who builds on noble grounds : sickness or pain 
 Is the deserver's exercise ; and such 
 Your virtuous brother to the world is known. 
 Speak comfort to him, lady, be all gentle ; 
 Stars fall but in the grossness of our sight, 
 A good man dying, th' earth doth lose a light. . 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 155 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Studi/ of TEcmcvs. 
 Enter Tecnicus, and Orgilus in his usual Dress. 
 
 Tec. Be well advised ; let not a resolution 
 Of giddy rashness choke the breath of reason. 
 
 Org. It shall not, most sage master. 
 
 Tec. I am jealous ;* 
 For if the borrow'd shape so late put on 
 Inferr'd a consequence, we must conclude 
 Some violent design of sudden nature 
 Hath shook that shadow off, to fly upon 
 A new-hatch 'd execution. Orgilus, 
 Take heed thou hast not, under our integrity, 
 Shrowded unlawful plots ; our mortal eyes 
 Pierce not the secrets of your heart, the gods 
 Are only privy to them. 
 
 Org. Learned Tecnicus, 
 Such doubts are causeless; and, to clear the truth 
 From misconceit, — the present state commands 
 
 me. 
 The prince of Argos comes himself in person 
 In quest of great Calantha for his bride, 
 Our kingdom's heir ; besides, mine only sister, 
 Euphranea, is disposed to Prophilus : 
 Lastly, the king is sending letters for me 
 
 * I urn jealous.] i. e. I am fearful, suspickms, of it. — Gif- 
 
 rORD.
 
 1j6 the broken heart. act III. 
 
 To Athens, for my quick repair to court : 
 Please to accept these reasons. 
 
 Tec. Just ones, Orgihis, 
 Not to be contradicted : yet, beware 
 Of an unsure foundation : no fair colours 
 Can fortify a building faintly jointed. 
 I have observed a growth in thy aspect 
 Of dangerous extent, sudden, and — look to"t — 
 I might add, certain — 
 
 Org. My aspect I could art 
 Run through mine inmost thoughts, it should not 
 
 sift 
 An inclination there, more than what suited 
 ^^ ith justice of mine honour. 
 
 Tec. I believe it. 
 But know then, Orgilus, what honour is : 
 Honour consists not in a bare opinion 
 By doing any act that feeds content, 
 Brave in appearance, 'cause we think it brave ; 
 Such honour comes by accident, not nature, 
 Proceeding from the vices of our passion, 
 ^^ hich makes our reason drunk : but real honour 
 Is the reward of virtue, and acquired 
 By justice, or by valour which, for bases, 
 Hath justice to uphold it. He then fails 
 In honour, who, for lucre or revenge, 
 Commits thefts, murther, treasons, and adulteries, 
 A\ ith such like, by intrenching on just laws, 
 Whose sovereignty is best preserv'd by Justice. 
 Thus, as you see how honour must be grounded 
 On knowledge, not opinion, (for opinion 
 Rehes on probability and accident. 
 But knowledge on necessity and truth,) 
 I leave thee to the fit consideration
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 157 
 
 Of what becomes the grace of real honour, 
 Wishing success to all thy virtuous meanings. 
 
 Org. The gods increase thy wisdom, reverend 
 oracle, 
 And in thy precepts make me ever thrifty ! [_Exit. 
 
 Tec. I thank thy wish. — Much mystery of fate 
 Lies hid in that man's fortunes ; curiosity 
 May lead his actions into rare attempts : — 
 But let the gods be moderators still ; 
 No human power can prevent their will. 
 
 Etiter Armostes, zvith a Casket. 
 
 From wdience come you ? 
 
 Arm. From king Amyclas, — pardon 
 My interruption of your studies. — Here, 
 In this seal'd box, he sends a treasure [to you]. 
 Dear to him as his crown ; he prays your gravity, 
 You would examine, ponder, sift, and bolt 
 The pith and circumstance of every tittle 
 The scroll within contains. 
 
 Tec. What is't, Armostes ? 
 
 Arm. It is the health of Sparta, the king's life, 
 Sinews and safety of the commonwealth ; 
 The sum of what the Oracle delivered, 
 When last he visited the prophetic temple 
 At Delphos : what his reasons are, for which, 
 After so long a silence, he requires 
 Your counsel now, grave man, his majesty 
 Will soon himself acquaint you w^ith. 
 
 Tec. Apollo \_He fakes the casket. 
 
 Inspire my intellect! — The prince of Argos 
 Is entertain'd ? 
 
 Ann. He is ; and has demanded
 
 158 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 Our princess for his wife ; which I conceive 
 One special cause the king importunes you 
 For resolution of the Oracle. 
 
 Tec. My duty to the king, good peace to Sparta. 
 And fair day to Armostes ! 
 
 Arm. Like to Tecnicus. [^Eieunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Ithocles' House. 
 
 Soft Music. — A Song within, during which Prophi- 
 Lus, Bassanes, Penthea, and Grausis j^ass over 
 the Stage. Bassanes and Grausis re-enter softly, 
 and listen in different places. 
 
 Canyon paint a thought? or number 
 Every fancy i)i a slumber ? 
 Can you count soft minutes roving 
 From a dial's point by moving? 
 Can you grasjj a sigh ? or, lastly, 
 Rob a virgin's honour chastly ? 
 No, oh no! yet you may 
 
 Sooner do both that and this. 
 This and that, and never miss. 
 Than by any praise display 
 
 Beauty's beauty ; such a glory. 
 As beyond all fate, all story. 
 All arms, all arts. 
 All loves, all hearts, 
 Greater than those, or they, 
 Do, shall, and must, obey. 
 
 Bass. All silent, calm, secure. — 
 Grausis, dost [thou] hear nothing ?
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 159 
 
 Grail. Not a mouse, 
 Or whisper of the wind. 
 
 Bass. Soldiers 
 Should not affect, methinks, strains so effeminate ; 
 Sounds of such delicacy are but favvnings 
 Upon the sloth of luxury. 
 
 Grau. What do you mean, my lord ? — speak 
 low; that gabbling 
 Of your's will but undo us. 
 
 Pro. {ivithin) He wakes. 
 
 Bass. What's that ? 
 
 Ith. (nnthhi) Who's there? 
 Sister ? — All quit the room else. 
 
 Bass. 'Tis consented ! 
 
 Enter Prophilus. 
 
 Pro. Lord Bassanes, your brother would be 
 private, 
 We must forbear; his sleep hath newly left him. 
 Please you, withdraw ! 
 
 Bass. By any means ; 'tis fit. 
 
 Pro. Pray, gentlewoman, walk too. 
 
 Grau. Yes, I will, sir. \_E3ceunt. 
 
 The Scene opens: Ithocles is discovered m a Chair, 
 and Penthea beside him. 
 
 Ith. Sit nearer, sister,, to me ; nearer yet : 
 We had one father, in one womb took life, 
 Were brought up twins together, yet have liv'd 
 At distance, like two strangers ; I could wish 
 That the first pillow whereon I was cradled, 
 Had prov'd to me a grave. 
 
 Pen. You had been happy : 
 Then had you never known that sin of life
 
 160 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 Which blots all following glories with a ven- 
 geance, 
 For forfeiting the last will of the dead, 
 From whom you had your being. 
 
 Ith. Sad Penthea, 
 Thou canst not be too cruel ; my rash spleen 
 Hath with a violent hand pluck'd from thy bosom 
 A love-blest heart, to grind it into dust; 
 For which mine's now a-breaking. 
 
 Pen. Not yet, heaven, 
 I do beseech thee ! first, let some wild fires 
 Scorch, not consume it! may the heat be cherish'd 
 With desires infinite, but hopes impossible ! 
 
 Ith. Wrong'd soul, thy prayers are heard. 
 
 Pen. Here, lo, I breathe, 
 A miserable creature, led to ruin 
 By an unnatural brother! 
 
 Ith. I consume 
 In languishing affections for that trespass ; 
 Yet cannot die. 
 
 Pen. The handmaid to the wages 
 Of country toil, drinks the untroubled streams 
 With leaping kids, and with the bleating lambs, 
 And so allays her thirst secure ; w'hilst I 
 Quench my hot sighs with fleetings of my tears. 
 
 Ith. The labourer doth eat his coarsest bread, 
 Earn'd w^ith his sweat, and lays him down to 
 
 sleep; 
 While every bit I touch turns in digestion 
 To gall, as bitter as Penthea's curse. 
 Put me to any penance for my tyranny ; 
 And I will call thee merciful. 
 
 Pen. Pray kill me. 
 Rid me from living with a jealous husband;
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 161 
 
 Then we will join in friendship, be again 
 Brother and sister. — Kill me, pray; nay, will 
 you? 
 
 Ith. How does thy lord esteem thee ? 
 
 Pen. Such an one 
 As only you have made me : a faith-breaker, 
 A spotted harlot ; — nay, nay, I am one — 
 In act, not in desires, the gods must witness. 
 
 Ith. Thou dost bely thy friend. 
 
 Pew. I do not, Ithocles ; 
 For she that's wife to Orgilus, and lives 
 In known adultery with Bassanes, 
 Is, at the best, a whore. Wilt kill me now ? 
 The ashes of our parents will assume 
 Some dreadful figin-e, and appear to charge 
 Thy bloody guilt, that hast betray'd their name 
 To infamy, in this reproachful match. 
 
 Ith. After my victories abroad, at home 
 I meet despair; ingratitude of nature 
 Hath made my actions monstrous ; thou shalt 
 
 stand 
 A deity, my sister, and be worshipped 
 For thy resolved martyrdom ; wrong'd maids 
 And married wives shall to thy hallow'd shrine 
 Offer their orisons, and sacrifice 
 Pure turtles, crown'd with myrtle ; if thy pity 
 Unto a yielding brother's pressure, lend 
 One finger but to ease it. 
 
 Pen. Oh, no more ! 
 
 Ith. Death waits to waft me to the Stygian 
 banks. 
 And free me from this chaos of my bondage ; 
 And till thou wilt forgive, I must endure. 
 
 Pen. Who is the saint you serve ? 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 Ith. Friendship, or [nearness] 
 Of birth to any but my sister, durst not 
 Have mov'd this question ; 'tis a secret, sister, 
 I dare not murmur to myself. 
 
 Pen. Let me, 
 By your new protestations I conjure you. 
 Partake her name. 
 
 Ith. Her name ? — 'tis, — 'tis — I dare not. 
 
 Pen. All your respects are forged. 
 
 Ith. They are not. — Peace ! 
 Calantha is — the princess — the king's daughter — 
 Sole heir of Sparta. — Me, most miserable ! 
 Do I now love thee ? for my injuries 
 Revenge thyself with bravery, and gossip 
 My treasons to the king's ears, do ; — Calantha 
 Knows it not yet, nor Prophilus, my nearest. 
 
 Pen. Suppose you were contracted to her, 
 would it not 
 Split even your very soul to see her father 
 Snatch her out of your arms against her will, 
 And force her on the prince of Argos ? 
 
 Ith. Trouble not 
 The fountains of mine eyes with thine own story ; 
 I sweat in blood for't. 
 
 Pen. We are reconciled. 
 Alas, sir, being children, but two branches 
 Of one stock, 'tis not fit we should divide ; 
 Have comfort, you may find it. 
 
 Ith. Yes, in thee ; 
 Only in thee, Penthea mine. 
 
 Pen. If sorrows 
 Have not too much dull'd my infected brain, 
 I'll cheer invention, for an active strain. 
 
 Ith. Mad man ! — Why have I wrong'd a maid 
 so excellent ?
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 163 
 
 Bassanes rushes in toith a Poniard, followed by Pro- 
 PHiLus, Groneas, Hemophil, and Grausis. 
 
 Bass. I can forbear no longer ; more, I will not : 
 Keep off your hands, or fall upon my point — 
 Patience is tired, — for, like a slow-paced ass, 
 You ride my easy nature, and proclaim 
 My sloth to vengeance a reproach, and properly. 
 
 Ith. The meaning of this rudeness ? 
 
 Pro. He's distracted. 
 
 Pen. Oh, my griev'd lord ! 
 
 Grau. Sweet lady, come not near him. 
 
 Bass. My birth is noble : though the popular 
 blast 
 Of vanity, as giddy as thy youth, 
 Hath rear'd thy name up to bestride a cloud. 
 Or* progress in the chariot of the sun ; 
 I am no clod of trade, to lackey pride, 
 Nor, like your slave of expectation, wait 
 The w-anton hinges of your doors, or whistle 
 For mystical conveyance to your sports. 
 
 Gron. Fine humours ! they become him. 
 
 Hem. How he stares. 
 Struts, puffs, and sv/eats ! most admirable lunacy ! 
 
 Ith. But that I may conceive the spirit of wine 
 Has took possession of your soberer custom, 
 rd say you were unmannerly. 
 
 * This passage is not without curiosity, as tending to prove 
 that some of the words, now supposed to be Americanisms, 
 were in use among our ancestors, and crossed the Atlantic 
 with them. It is not generally known, that Ford's county 
 (Devonshire) supplied a very considerable number of the 
 earlier settlers in the colonies. — Gifford. 
 
 m2
 
 164 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 Pen. Dear brother ! 
 
 Bass. Unmannerly ! — mew, killing ! — smooth 
 formality 
 Is usher to the rankness of the blood, 
 But impudence bears up the train. 
 
 Ith. His jealousy hath robb'd him of his wits ; 
 He talks he knows not what. 
 
 Bass. Yes and he knows 
 To whom he talks ; I will hallo't : though I 
 Blush more to name the filth than thou to act it. 
 
 Ith. Monster ! [Draxus his sword. 
 
 Pro. Sir, by our friendship — 
 
 Pen. By our bloods ! 
 Will you quite both undo us, brother ? 
 
 Grail. Out on him ! 
 These are his megrims, firks, and melancholies. 
 
 Poi. With favour, let me speak. — My lord, what 
 slackness 
 In my obedience hath deserv'd this rage ? 
 Except humility and silent duty 
 Have drawn on your unquiet, my simplicity 
 Ne'er studied your vexation. 
 
 Bass. Light of beauty. 
 Deal not ungently with a desperate wound ! 
 No breach of reason dares make war with her 
 Whose looks are sovereignty, whose breath is 
 
 balm : 
 Oh, that I could preserve thee in fruition 
 As in devotion ! 
 
 Pen. Sir, may every evil, 
 Lock'd in Pandora's box, show'r, in your pre- 
 sence. 
 On my unhappy head, if, since you made me
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 165 
 
 A partner in your bed, I have been faulty, 
 
 In one unseemly thought, against your honour. 
 
 Ith. Purge not his griefs, Penthea. 
 
 Bass. Yes, say on. 
 Excellent creature ! — Good, be not a hinderance 
 To peace, and praise of virtue, [to Ith.] — Oh, my 
 
 senses 
 Are charm'd with sounds celestial. — On, dear, on : 
 I never gave you one ill word ; say, did I ? 
 Indeed I did not. 
 
 Pen. Nor, by Juno's forehead, 
 Was I e'er guilty of a wanton error. 
 
 Bass. A goddess ! let me kneel. 
 
 Grau. Alas, kind animal ! 
 
 Ith. No ; but for penance. 
 
 Bass. Noble sir, what is it ? 
 With gladness I embrace it ; yet, pray let not 
 My rashness teach you to be too unmerciful. 
 
 Ith. When you shall show good proof, that 
 manly wisdom. 
 Not oversway'd by passion or opinion, 
 Knows how to lead [your] judgment, then this 
 
 lady. 
 Your wife, my sister, shall return in safety 
 Home, to be guided by you ; but, till first 
 I can, out of clear evidence, approve it. 
 She shall be my care. 
 
 Bass. Rip my bosom up, 
 I'll stand the execution with a constancy ; 
 This torture is insufferable. 
 
 Ith. Well, sir, 
 I dare not trust her to your fury. 
 
 Bass. But 
 Penthea says not so.
 
 166 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 Pen, She needs no tongue 
 To plead excuse, who never purposed wrong. 
 
 [Exit with Ith. and Pro. 
 Hem. Virgin of reverence and antiquity, 
 Stay you behind. 
 
 [To Grau. who is following Pen. 
 Gron. The court wants not your dihgence. 
 
 [Exeutit Hem. and Gron. 
 Grau. What will you do, my lord ? my lady's 
 gone : 
 I am denied to follow. 
 Bass. I may see her, 
 Or speak to her once more ? 
 
 Grau. Be of good cheer, she's your own flesh 
 
 and bone. 
 Bass. Diseases desperate must find cures alike ; 
 She swore she has been true. 
 Grau. True, on my modesty. 
 Bass. Let him want truth who credits not her 
 vows ! 
 Much wrong I did her, but her brother infinite; 
 Rumour will voice me the contempt of manhood, 
 Should I run on thus ; some way I must try 
 To outdo art, and jealousy decry. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— A Room in the Palace. 
 Flourish. Enter Amyclas, Nearchus leading Ca- 
 
 LANTHA, ArMOSTES, CrOTOLON, EuPHRANEA, 
 
 Christalla, Philema, and Amelus. 
 
 Amyc. Cousin of Argos, what the heavens have 
 pleas'd. 
 In their unchanging counsels, to conclude
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART 167 
 
 For both our kingdoms' weal, we must submit to : 
 
 Nor can we be unthankful to their bounties, 
 
 Who, when we were ev'n creeping to our graves, 
 
 Sent us a daughter, in whose birth our hope 
 
 Continues of succession. As you are 
 
 In title next, being grandchild to our aunt, 
 
 So we in heart desire you may sit nearest 
 
 Calantha's love ; since we have ever vow'd 
 
 Not to inforce affection by our will. 
 
 But by her own choice to confirm it gladly. 
 
 Near. You speak the nature of a right just fa- 
 ther. 
 I come not hither roughly to demand 
 My cousin's thraldom, but to free mine own: 
 Report of great Calantha's beauty, virtue. 
 Sweetness and singular perfections, courted 
 All ears to credit what I find was publish'd 
 By constant truth : from which, if any service 
 Of my desert can purchase fair construction, 
 This lady must command it. 
 
 Cal. Princely sir. 
 So well you know how to profess observance. 
 That you instruct your hearers to become 
 Practitioners in duty; of which number 
 I'll study to be chief. 
 
 Near. Chief, glorious virgin. 
 In my devotion, as in all men's wonder. 
 
 Amyc. Excellent cousin, we deny no liberty ; 
 Use thine own opportunities. — Armostes, 
 We must consult with the philosophers ; 
 The business is of weight. 
 
 Arm. Sir, at your pleasure. 
 
 Amyc. You told me, Crotolon, your son's re- 
 turn'd
 
 168 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 From Athens ; wherefore comes he not to court, 
 As we commanded ? 
 
 Crot. He shall soon attend 
 Your royal will, great sir. 
 
 Amyc. The marriage 
 Between young Prophilus and Euphranea, 
 Tastes of too much delay. 
 
 Crot. My lord — 
 
 Amyc. Some pleasures 
 At celebration of it, would give life 
 To the entertainment of the prince our kinsman ; 
 Our court wears gravity more than we relish. 
 
 Ann Yet the heavens smile on all your high 
 attempts, 
 Without a cloud. 
 
 Crot. So may the gods protect us ! 
 
 Cal. A prince, a subject ? 
 
 A^ear. Yes, to beauty's sceptre ; 
 As all hearts kneel, so mine. 
 
 Cal. Y'ou are too courtly. 
 
 Enter Ithocles, Orgilus, and Prophilus. 
 
 Itli. Your safe return to Sparta is most wel- 
 come : 
 I joy to meet you here, and, as occasion 
 Shall grant us privacy, will yield you reasons 
 Why I should covet to deserve the title 
 Of your respected friend; for, without compliment, 
 Believe it, Orgilus, 'tis my ambition. 
 
 Org. Your lordship may command me. your 
 
 poor servant. 
 Ith. So amorously close ! — so soon ! — my heart! 
 
 \_As'de. 
 Pro. What sudden change is next ? 
 Ith. Life to the King !
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 169 
 
 To whom I here present this noble gentleman, 
 New come from Athens ; royal sir, vouchsafe 
 Your gracious hand in favour of his merit. 
 
 [The King gives Org. his hand to kiss. 
 
 Crot. My son preferr'd by Ithocles ! [Aside. 
 
 Amyc. Our bounties 
 Shall open to thee, Orgilus; for instance, 
 (Hark, in thine ear) — if, out of those inventions. 
 Which flow in Athens, thou hast there engross'd* 
 Some rarity of wit, to grace the nuptials 
 Of thy fair sister, and renown our court 
 In th' eyes of this young prince, we shall be debtor 
 To thy conceit : think on't. 
 
 Org. Your highness honours me. 
 
 Near. My tongue and heart are twins. 
 
 Cal. A noble birth. 
 Becoming such a father. — Worthy Orgilus, 
 You are a guest most wish'd for. 
 
 Org. May my duty 
 Still rise in your opinion, sacred princess! 
 
 Ith. Euphranea's brother, sir; a gentleman 
 Well worthy of your knowledge. 
 
 Near. We embrace him, 
 Proud of so dear acquaintance. 
 
 Aimjc. All prepare 
 For revels and disport; the joys of Hymen, 
 Like Phoebus in his lustre, put to flight 
 All mists of dulness ; crown the hours with glad- 
 ness : 
 No sounds but music, no discourse but mirth ! 
 
 * if thou hast there engross'd 
 
 Some rarity of 2cit,&;c.'\ i. e. if thou hast possessed thyself 
 of, mastered, so as to bring away : — the king seems inclined 
 rather to tax the memory of Orgilus than his imagination. — 
 
 GiFrORD.
 
 170 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 Cal. Thine arm, I prithee, Ithocles. — Nay, good 
 My lord, keep on your way, I am provided. 
 Near. I dare not disobey. 
 Ith. Most heavenly lady ! \_Exeunt omnes. 
 
 SCENE IV. — A Room in the House of Crotolos. 
 Enter Crotolox and Orgilus. 
 
 Crot. The king hath spoke his mind. 
 
 Org. His will he hath ; 
 But were it lawful to hold plea against 
 The power of greatness, not the reason, haply 
 Such undershrubs as subjects, sometimes might 
 Borrow of nature, justice, to inform 
 That licence sovereignty holds, without check. 
 Over a meek obedience. 
 
 Crot. How resolve you 
 Touching your sister's marriage ? Prophilus 
 Is a deserving and a hopeful youth. 
 
 Org. I envy not his merit, but applaud it ; 
 Could wish him thrift in all his best desires, 
 x\nd, with a wilHngness, inleague our blood 
 With his, for purchase of full growth in friendship. 
 He never touch'd on any wrong that maliced 
 The honour of our house, nor stirr'd our peace ; 
 Yet, with your favour, let me not forget 
 Under whose wing he gathers warmth and comfort, 
 Whose creature he is bound, made, and must live 
 so. 
 
 Crot. Son, son, I find in thee a harsh condition,* 
 No courtesy can win it; 'tis too rancorous. 
 
 • i. e. temper, disposition. The deep dissimulation, the 
 deadly resentment of Orgilus, are powerfully marked in this 
 scene. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE IV. THE BROKEN HEART. 171 
 
 Org. Good sir, be not severe in your construc- 
 tion ; 
 I am no stranger to such easy calms 
 As sit in tender bosoms : lordly Ithocles 
 Hath graced my entertainment in abundance ; 
 Too humbly hath descended from that height 
 Of arrogance and spleen which wrought the rape 
 On griev'd Penthea's purity ; his scorn 
 Of my untoward fortunes is reclaim'd 
 Unto a courtship, almost to a fa waning : — 
 I'll kiss his foot, since you will have it so. 
 
 Crot. Since I w^ill have it so! friend, I will have 
 it so. 
 Without our ruin by your politic plots. 
 Or wolf of hatred snarling in your breast. 
 You have a spirit, sir, have you ? a familiar 
 That posts i' th' air for your intelligence ? 
 Some such hobgoblin hurried you from Athens, 
 For yet you come unsent for. 
 
 Org. If unwelcome, 
 I might have found a grave there. 
 
 Crot. Sure your business 
 Was soon dispatch'd, or your mind alter'd quickly. 
 
 Org. 'Twas care, sir, of my health cut short 
 my journey; 
 For there, a general infection 
 Threatens a desolation. 
 
 Croi. And I fear 
 Thou hast brought back a worse infection with 
 
 thee. 
 Infection of thy mind : which, as thou say'st, 
 Threatens the desolation of our family. 
 
 Org. Forbid it, our dear Genius ! I will rather 
 Be made a sacrifice on Thrasus' monument,
 
 172 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 Or kneel to Ithocles his son in dust, 
 
 Than woo a father's curse : my sister's marriage 
 
 With Prophikis is from my heart confirm'd; 
 
 ■May I live hated, may I die despised. 
 
 If I omit to further it in all 
 
 That can concern me ! 
 
 Crof. I have been too rough. 
 My duty to my king made me so earnest ; 
 Excuse it, Orgilus. 
 
 Org. Dear sir! 
 
 Enter Prophilus, Euphranea, Ithocles, Gro- 
 NEAS, and Hemophil. 
 
 Crot. Here comes 
 Euphranea, with Prophilus and Ithocles. 
 
 Org. Most honour'd! — ever famous! 
 
 Ith. Your true friend; 
 On earth not any truer. — With smooth eyes 
 Look on this worthy couple; your consent 
 Can only make them one. 
 
 Org. They have it. — Sister, 
 Thou pawn'd'st to me an oath, of which engage- 
 ment 
 I never will release thee, if thou aim'st 
 At any other choice than this. 
 
 Euph. Dear brother. 
 At him, or none. 
 
 Crot. To which my blessing's added. 
 
 Org. Which, till a greater ceremony perfect, — 
 Euphranea, lend thy hand; — here, take her, Pro- 
 philus, 
 Live long a happy man and wdfe ; and further, 
 That these in presence may conclude an omen, 
 Thus for a bridal song I close my wishes :
 
 SCENE IV. THE BROKEN HEART. 173 
 
 Comforts lasting, loves increasing, 
 Like soft hours never ceasing ; 
 Plenty s j^fleasure, peace complying, 
 Without jars, or tongues envping ; 
 Hearts by holy union jvedded. 
 More than their s by custom bedded; 
 Fruitfid issues ; life so graced, 
 Not by age to be defaced ; 
 Budding, as the year ensuth. 
 Every spring another youth : 
 All what thought can add beside. 
 Crown this Bridegroom and this Bride ! 
 
 Pro. You have seal'd joy close to my soul. — 
 Euphranea, 
 Now I may call thee mine. 
 
 Ith. I but exchange 
 One good friend for another. 
 
 Org. If these gallants 
 Will please to grace a poor invention 
 By joining with me in some slight device, 
 I'll venture on a strain my younger days 
 Have studied for delight. 
 
 Hem. With thankful willingness 
 I offer my attendance. 
 
 Gron. No endeavour 
 Of mine shall fail to show itself. 
 
 Ith. We will 
 All join to wait on thy directions, Orgilus. 
 
 Org. Oh, my good lord, your favours flow to- 
 wards 
 A too unworthy worm ; — but, as you please, 
 I am what you will shape me. 
 
 Ith. A fast friend.
 
 174 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 Crot. I thank thee, son, for this acknowledg- 
 ment, 
 It is a sight of gladness. 
 
 Org. But my duty. [^Exeunt omnes. 
 
 SCENE V. — Calaxtha's Apartment in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Calantha, Penthea, Christalla, and 
 Philema. 
 
 Cal. Whoe'er would speak with us, deny his 
 entrance ; 
 Be careful of our charge. 
 
 Chris. We shall, madam. 
 
 Cal. Except the king himself, give none admit- 
 tance ; 
 Not any. 
 
 Phil. Madam, it shall be our care. 
 
 [^Exeunt Chris, and Phil. 
 
 Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have, granted. 
 The opportLtnity you sought, and might 
 At all times have commanded. 
 
 Pen. Tis a benefit 
 y>'hich 1 shall owe vour goodness even in death 
 
 for: ' ■ . 
 My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes 
 Remaining to run down ; the sands are spent : 
 For by an inward messenger I feel 
 The summons of departure short and certain. 
 
 Cal. You feed too much your melancholy. 
 
 Pen. Glories 
 Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams, 
 And shadows soon decaying : on the stage
 
 SCENE V. THE BROKEN HEART. 175 
 
 ! Of my mortality, my youth hath acted 
 Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length 
 By varred pleasures, sweeten'd in the mixture, 
 But tragical in issue : beauty, pomp, 
 With every sensuality our giddiness 
 Doth frame an idol, are unconstant friends, 
 When any troubled passion makes assault 
 On the unguarded castle of the mind. 
 
 Cal. Contemn not your condition, for the proof 
 Of bare opinion only : to what end 
 Reach all these moral texts ? 
 
 Pen. To place before you 
 A perfect mirror, wherein you may see 
 How weary I am of a lingering life, 
 Who count the best a misery. 
 
 Cal. Indeed 
 You have no little cause ; yet none so great 
 As to distrust a remedy. 
 [ Pen. That remedy 
 I Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead. 
 And some untrod-on corner in the earth. — 
 Not to detain your expectation, princess, 
 I have an humble suit. 
 
 CaL Speak ;* I enjoy it. 
 
 Pen. Vouchsafe, then, to be my executrix, 
 And take that trouble on you, to dispose 
 Such legacies as I bequeath, impartially ; 
 I have not much to give, the pains are easy ; 
 Heav'n will rev> ard your piety, and thank it 
 Vvlien I am dead ; for sure I must not live ; 
 I hope I cannot. 
 
 Cal. Now, beshrew thy sadness. 
 Thou turn'st me too much woman. \_Weeps. 
 
 * i. e. Proceed : I take pleasure in it.
 
 176 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 Pen. Her fair eyes 
 Melt into passion. [^Aside] — Then I have assu- 
 rance 
 Encouraging my boldness. In this paper 
 My will was character 'd ; which you, with pardon, 
 Shall now know from mine own mouth. 
 
 Cal. Talk on, prithee ; 
 It is a pretty earnest. 
 
 Pen. I have left me 
 But three poor jewels to bequeath. The first is 
 My Youth ; for though I am much old in griefs, 
 In years I am a child. 
 
 Cat. To whom that ? 
 
 Pen. To virgin-wives, such as abuse not wed- 
 lock 
 By freedom of desires ; but covet chiefly 
 The pledges of chaste beds for ties of love, ^ 
 Rather than ranging of their blood : and next 
 To married maids, such as prefer the number 
 Of honourable issue in their virtues 
 Before the flattery of delights by marriage ; 
 May those be ever young ! 
 
 Cal. A second jewel 
 You mean to part with ? 
 
 Pen. 'Tis my Fame ; I trust, 
 By scandal yet untouch'd : this I bequeath 
 To Memory, and Time's old daughter. Truth. 
 If ever my unhappy name find mention, 
 When I am fall'n to dust, may it deserve 
 Beseeming charity without dishonour ! 
 
 Cal. How handsomely thou play'st with harm- 
 less sport 
 Of mere imagination ! speak the last ; 
 I strangely like thy Will.
 
 SCENE V. THE BROKEN HEART. 177 
 
 Pen. This jewel, madam, 
 Is dearly precious to me ; you must use 
 The best of your discretion to employ 
 This gift as I intend it. 
 
 Cal. Do not doubt me. 
 
 Pen. 'Tis long agone since first I lost my heart: 
 Long have I liv'd without it, else for certain 
 I should have given that too ; but instead 
 Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir. 
 By service bound, and by affection vow'd, 
 I do bequeath, in holiest rites of love, 
 Mine only brother, Ithocles. 
 
 Cal. What said'st thou ? 
 
 Pen. Impute not, heaven-blest lady, to ambition 
 A faith as humbly perfect, as the prayers 
 Of a devoted suppliant can endow it : 
 Look on him, princess, with an eye of pity ; 
 How like the ghost of what he late appear 'd, 
 He moves before you. 
 
 Cal. Shall I answer here, 
 Or lend my ear too grossly ? 
 
 Pen. First his heart 
 Shall fall in cinders, scorch'd by your disdain. 
 Ere he will dare, poor man, to ope an eye 
 On these divine looks, but with low-bent thoughts 
 Accusing such presumption ; as for words, 
 He dares not utter any but of service : 
 Yet this lost creature loves you. — Be a princess 
 In sweetness as in blood ; give him his doom, 
 Or raise him up to comfort. 
 
 Cal. What new change 
 Appears in my behaviour, that thou dar'st 
 Tempt my displeasure ? 
 
 Pen. I must leave the world 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT III. 
 
 To revel [in] Elysium, and 'tis just 
 To wish my brother some advantage here ; 
 Yet by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant 
 Of this pursuit : but if you please to kill him, 
 Lend him one angry look, or one harsh word, 
 And you shall soon conclude how strong a power 
 Your absolute authority holds over 
 His life and end. 
 
 Cal. You have forgot, Penthea, 
 How still I have a father. 
 
 Pen. But remember 
 I am a sister, though to me this brother 
 Hath been, you know, unkind ; oh, most unkind ! 
 
 Cal. Christalla, Philema, where are you ? — 
 Lady, 
 Your check lies in my silence. 
 
 Enter Christalla and Philema. 
 
 Both. Madam, here. 
 
 Cal. I think you sleep, you drones : wait on 
 Penthea 
 Unto her lodging. — Ithocles ! wrong'd lady ! 
 
 [^As'idc. 
 Pen. My reckonings are made even ; death or 
 fate 
 Can now nor strike too soon, nor force too late. 
 
 \_Exeunt.
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 179 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Palace. Ithocles' Apartment. 
 Enter Ithocles and Armostes. 
 
 Ith. Forbear your inquisition ; curiosity 
 Is of too subtle and too searching nature : 
 In fears of love too quick ; too slow of credit. — 
 I am not what you doubt me. 
 
 Arm. Nephew, be then 
 As I would wish ; — all is not right. — Good Heaven 
 Confirm your resolutions for dependence 
 On worthy ends, which may advance your quiet ! 
 
 Ith. I did the noble Orgilus much injury, 
 But grieved Penthea more ; I now repent it, 
 Now, uncle, now; this Now is now too late. 
 So provident is folly in sad issue. 
 That afterwit, like bankrupts' debts, stands tallied. 
 Without all possibilities of payment. 
 Sure he's an honest, very honest gentleman ; 
 A man of single meaning.* 
 
 Arm. I believe it : 
 Yet, nephew, 'tis the tongue informs our ears ; 
 Our eyes can never pierce into the thoughts. 
 For they are lodged too inward : — but I question 
 No truth in Orgilus. — The princess, sir. 
 
 * A man of single meaning.'] i. e. plain, open, sincere, un- 
 reserved. It appears, notwithstanding the disavowal of Ar- 
 mostes, that he did not altogether adopt the fatal error of his 
 nephew. — Gifford. 
 
 n2
 
 180 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 Ith. The princess ? ha ! 
 
 Arm. With her the prince of Argos. 
 
 Enter Nearchus, leading Calantha ; Amelus, 
 Christalla, Philema. 
 
 Near. Great fair one, grace my hopes with any 
 instance 
 Of livery,* from the allowance of your favour ; 
 This little spark — 
 
 [Attempts to take a ring from her Jinger. 
 Cal. A toy ! 
 
 Near. Love feasts on toys, 
 For Cupid is a child ; — vouchsafe this bounty : 
 It cannot be denied. 
 
 Cal. You shall not value, 
 Sweet cousin, at a price, what I count cheap ; 
 So cheap, that let him take it, who dares stoop 
 
 for't, 
 And give it, at next meeting, to a mistress : 
 She'll thank him for't perhaps. 
 
 [Casts the ring before Ithocles, ivho takes it up. 
 Ame. The ring, sir, is 
 The princess's ; I could have took it up. 
 
 Itk. Learn manners, prithee. — To the blessed 
 owner. 
 
 Upon my knees 
 
 [Kneels and offers it to Calantha. 
 
 * Grrace my hopes with any instance 
 
 Of livery.] i. e. fevour me with some badge, some ornament 
 from your person, to show that you have condescended to enrol 
 me among your servants. This was the language of courtship ; 
 and was derived from the practice of distinguishing the fol- 
 lowers and retainers of great families, by the badge or crest of 
 the house. — Giffohd.
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 181 
 
 Near. You are saucy. 
 
 Cal. This is pretty ! 
 I am, belike, " a mistress" — wondrous pretty ! 
 Let the man keep his fortvme, since he found it ; 
 He's worthy on't. On, cousin ! 
 
 [^Exeunt Near. Cal. Chris, and Phil. 
 
 Ith. {to Ame.) Follow, spaniel ; 
 I'll force you to a fawning else. 
 
 Ame. You dare not. [Exit. 
 
 Arm. My lord, you were too forward. 
 
 Ith. Look ye, uncle. 
 Some such there are, whose liberal contents 
 Swarm without care in every sort of plenty ; 
 Who, after full repasts, can lay them down 
 To sleep ; and they sleep, uncle : in which silence 
 Their very dreams present 'em choice of pleasures, 
 Pleasures (observe me, uncle) of rare object: 
 Here heaps of gold, there increments of honours, 
 Now change of garments, then the votes of people; 
 Anon varieties of beauties, courting, 
 In flatteries of the night, exchange of dalliance ; 
 Yet these are still but dreams. Give me felicity 
 Of which my senses waking are partakers, 
 A real, visible, material happiness ; 
 And then, too, when I stagger in expectance 
 Of the least comfort that can cherish life. — 
 I saw it, sir, I saw it ; for it came 
 From her own hand. 
 
 Ann. The princess threw it to you. 
 
 Ith. True ; and she said well I remember 
 
 what 
 
 Her cousin prince would beg it. 
 
 Arm. Yes, and parted 
 In anger at your taking on't.
 
 182 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 Ith. Penthea, 
 Oil, thou hast pleaded with a powerful language ! 
 I want a fee to gracify thy merit ; 
 But I will do — ^- 
 
 Arm. What is't you say ? 
 
 Ith. " In anger ? " 
 In anger let him part ; for could his breath, 
 Like whirlwinds, toss such servile slaves, as lick 
 The dust his footsteps print, into a vapour, 
 It durst not stir a hair of mine : it should not ; 
 rd rend it up by th" roots first. To be any thing 
 Calantha smiles on, is to be a blessing 
 More sacred than a petty prince of x\rgos 
 Can wish to equal, or in worth or title. 
 
 Arm. Contain yourself, my lord ; Ixion, aiming 
 To embrace Juno, bosom'd but a cloud. 
 And begat Centaurs ; 'tis an useful moral : 
 x\mbition, hatch'd in clouds of mere opinion, 
 Proves but in birth a prodigy. 
 
 Ith. I thank you : 
 Yet, with your license, I should seem uncharitable 
 To gentler fate, if relishing the dainties 
 Of a soul's settled peace, I were so feeble 
 Not to digest it. 
 
 Arm. He deserves small trust, 
 NVho is not privy-counsellor to himself. 
 
 Re-enter Nearchus, Orgilus, and Amelus. 
 
 Near. Brave me ? 
 
 Org. Your excellence mistakes his temper, 
 For Ithocles, in fashion of his mind. 
 Is beautiful, soft, gentle, the clear mirror 
 Of absolute perfection I
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 183 
 
 Ame. Was't your modesty* 
 Term'd any of the prince's servants " spaniel ?" 
 Your nurse sure taught you other language. 
 
 Ith. Language ! 
 
 Near. A gallant man at arms is here ; a doctor 
 In feats of chivalry ; blunt and rough-spoken, 
 Vouchsafing not the fustian of civility, 
 Which [less] rash spirits style good manners, 
 
 Ith. Manners ? 
 
 Org. No more, illustrious sir, 'tis matchless 
 Ithocles. 
 
 Near. You might have understood who I am. 
 
 Ith. Yes, 
 I did, — else — but the presence calm'd the affront — 
 You are cousin to the princess. 
 
 Near. To the king too ; 
 A certain instrument that lent supportance 
 To your Colossic greatness — to that king too, 
 You might have added. 
 
 Ith. There is more divinity 
 In beauty than in majesty. 
 
 Arm. O fye, fye ! 
 
 Near. This odd youth's pride turns heretic in 
 loyalty. 
 Sirrah ! low mushrooms never rival cedars. 
 
 [Exeimt Nearchus and Amelus. 
 
 Ith. Come back, — what pitiful dull thing am I 
 So to be tamely scolded at ! come back. 
 Let him come back, and echo once again 
 That scornful sound of mushroom ! painted colts 
 
 * Your modesty.] An appellative, like " your sovereignty' 
 in Hamlet. — Giffokd.
 
 184 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 (Like heralds' coats, gilt o'er with crowns and 
 
 sceptres,) 
 May bait a muzzled lion.* 
 
 Arm. Cousin, cousin. 
 Thy tongue is not thy friend. 
 
 Org. In point of honour. 
 Discretion knows no bounds. Amelus told me 
 'Twas all about a little ring. 
 
 Ith. A ring 
 
 The princess threw away, and I took up 
 
 Admit she threw't to me, what arm of brass 
 Can snatch it hence? No ; could he grind the hoop 
 To powder, he might sooner reach my heart. 
 Than steal and wear one dust on't. Orgilus, 
 I am extremely wrong'd. 
 
 Org. A lady's favour 
 Is not to be so slighted. 
 
 Ith. Slighted! 
 
 Arm. Quiet 
 These vain unruly passions, which will render you 
 Into a madness. 
 
 Org. Griefs will have their vent.-j- 
 
 * Painted cohs, Sec] Our old writers used colt (probably 
 from the boisterous gambols of this animal) for a compound 
 of rudeness and folly. The meaning of the text is sufficiently 
 obvious ; but it would seem that there is also an allusion to 
 some allegorical representation of this kind in " the painted 
 
 cloth." GiFFORD. 
 
 t The extraordinary success with which the revengeful 
 spirit of Orgilus -is maintained through every scene, is highly 
 creditable to the poet's skill. There is not a word spoken by 
 him which does not denote a deep and dangerous malignity, 
 couched in the most sarcastic and rancorous language ; and 
 which nothing but the deep repentance and heartfelt sincerity 
 of Ithocles could possibly prevent him from feeling and detect- 
 ing. — GiFFORD.
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 185 
 
 Enter Tecnicus, ir'ith a scroll. 
 
 Arm. Welcome ; thou com'st in season, reverend 
 man, 
 To pour the balsam of a suppling patience 
 Into the festering wound of ill-spent fury. 
 
 Org. AYhat makes he here ? \_Aside. 
 
 Tec. The hurts are yet but mortal, 
 Which shortly will prove deadly.* To the king, 
 Armostes, see in safety thou deliver 
 This seal'd-up counsel ; bid him with a constancy 
 Peruse the secrets of the God. — O Sparta, 
 
 Lacedemon ! double named, but one 
 
 In fate ! — when kingdoms reel, (mark v»'ell my 
 ^ saw) 
 
 I Their heads must needs be giddy : tell the king. 
 
 That henceforth he no more must inquire after 
 
 My aged head ; Apollo wills it so : 
 
 1 am for Delphos. 
 
 Arm. Not without some conference 
 With our great master ? 
 
 Tec. Never more to see him ; 
 A greater prince commands me. — Ithocles, 
 
 When Youth is ripe, and Age from time doth imrt, 
 
 The lifeless Trunk shall wed the Broken Heart, 
 
 Ith. What's this, if understood ? 
 
 Tec. List, Orgilus ; 
 Remember what I told thee long before. 
 These tears shall be my witness. 
 
 Arm. 'Las, good man ! 
 
 * Ford appears to have adopted the vulgar phraseology of 
 his native place, using mortal in the sense of very great, ex- 
 treme, &:c. — GiFFORD. Compare the concluding distich in 
 Act IV. Scene I. of " The Lover's Melancholy."
 
 186 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 Tec. (Aside to Org.) Let craft with courtesy a 
 while confer, 
 Revenge proves its own executioner. 
 
 Org. Dark sentences are for Apollo's priests ; 
 I am not Oedipus. 
 
 Tec. My hour is come ; 
 Cheer up the king ; farewell to all. — O Sparta, 
 
 Lace demon ! [Exit. 
 Arm. If prophetic fire 
 
 Have warra'd this old man's bosom, we might 
 
 construe 
 His words to fatal sense. 
 
 Ith. Leave to the powers 
 Above us, the effects of their decrees ; 
 My burthen lies within me : servile fears 
 Prevent no great effects. — Divine Calantha ! 
 Arm. The gods be still propitious. 
 
 [Exeunt Ithocles cind Armostes. 
 Org. Something oddly 
 The book-man prated, yet he talk'd it weeping ; 
 Let craft with courtesy a ivhile confer, 
 Revenge proves its own executioner. 
 Con it again ; — for what ? It shall not puzzle me ; 
 'Tis dotage of a withered brain. — Penthea 
 Forbade me not her presence ; I may see her. 
 And gaze my fill. Why see her then I may. 
 When, if I faint to speak — I must be silent. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in Bassaxes' House. 
 Enter Bassanes, Grausis, and Phulas. 
 
 Bass. Pray, use your recreations, all the service 
 
 1 will expect is quietness amongst ye ;
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 187 
 
 Take liberty at home, abroad, at all times, 
 And in your charities appease the gods 
 Whom I, with my distractions, have offended. 
 
 Grau. Fair blessings on thy heart ! 
 
 Phil. Here's a rare change ! 
 
 Bass. Betake you to your several occasions ; 
 And, wherein I have heretofore been faulty, 
 Let your constructions mildly pass it over ; 
 Henceforth I'll study reformation, — more, 
 I have not for employment. 
 
 Grau. O, sweet man ! 
 Thou art the very Honeycomb of Honesty. 
 
 Phu. The Garland of Good-will.*— Old lady, 
 hold up 
 Thy reverend snout, and trot behind me softly. 
 As it becomes a mule of ancient carriage. 
 
 [Exeunt Grausis and Phulas. 
 
 Bass. Beasts, only capable of sense, enjoy 
 The benefit of food and ease with thankfulness : 
 Such silly creatures, with a grudging, kick not 
 Against the portion nature hath bestow'd ; 
 But men, endow'd with reason, and the use 
 Of reason, to distinguish from the chaff 
 Of abject scarcity, the quintessence. 
 Soul, and elixir of the earth's abundance, 
 The treasures of the sea, the air, nay heaven, 
 Repining at these glories of creation, 
 Are verier beasts than beasts ; and of those beasts 
 The worst am I. I, who was made a monarch 
 
 * The Honeycomb of Honesty, like the " Garhind of Good- 
 will," was probably one of the popular miscellanies of the 
 day. The quaint and alliterative titles to these collections of 
 ballads, stories, jests, &c. gave every allusion to them an air 
 of pleasantry; and perhaps excited a smile on the stage. — 
 
 GiFFORD.
 
 188 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 Of what a heart could wish for, a chaste wife, 
 
 Endeavoured, what in me lay, to pull down 
 
 That temple built for adoration only, 
 
 And level't in the dust of causeless scandal : — 
 
 But, to redeem a sacrilege so impious, 
 
 Humility shall pour before the deities 
 
 I have incens'd, a largess of more patience 
 
 Than their displeased altars can require. 
 
 No tempests of commotion shall disquiet 
 
 The calms of my composure. 
 
 Enter Orgilus. 
 
 Org. I have found thee. 
 Thou patron of more horrors than the bulk 
 Of manhood, hoop'd about with ribs of iron, 
 Can cram within thy breast : Penthea, Bassanes, 
 Curs'd by thy jealousies, more by thy dotage, 
 Is left a prey to frenzy. 
 
 Bass, Exercise 
 Your trials for addition to my penance ; 
 I am resolv'd. 
 
 Org. Play not with misery 
 Past cure ; some angry minister of fate hath 
 Deposed the empress of her soul, her reason. 
 From its most proper throne ; but — what's the 
 
 miracle 
 More new, I, I have seen it, and yet live ! 
 
 Bass. You may delude my senses, not my judg- 
 ment ; 
 'Tis anchor'd into a firm resolution ; 
 Dalliance of mirth or wit can ne'er unfix it: 
 Practise yet further. 
 
 Org. May thy death of love to her -
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 189 
 
 Damn all thy comforts to a lasting fast 
 From every joy of life ! thou barren rock, 
 By thee we have been split in ken of harbour. 
 
 Enter Penthea, with her hair loose, Itiiocles, 
 Philema, and Christalla. 
 
 Ith. Sister, look up, your Ithocles, your bro- 
 ther 
 Speaks to you ; why d'you weep ? dear, turn not 
 
 from me. — 
 Here is a killing sight ; lo, Bassanes, 
 A lamentable object ! 
 
 Org. Man, dost see it ? 
 Sports are more gamesome ; am I yet in merri- 
 ment? 
 Why dost not laugh ? 
 
 Bass. Divine and best of ladies. 
 Please to forget my outrage ; mercy ever 
 Cannot but lodge under a roof so excellent : 
 I have cast off that cruelty of frenzy 
 Which once appeared imposture, and then juggled 
 To cheat my sleeps of rest. 
 
 Org. Was I in earnest ? 
 
 Pen. Sure, if we were all sirens, we should sing 
 pitifully, 
 And 'twere a comely music, when in parts 
 One sung another's knell ; the turtle sighs 
 When he hath lost his mate ; and yet some say 
 He must be dead first : 'tis a fine deceit 
 To pass away in a dream! indeed, I've slept 
 With mine eyes open a great while. No falsehood 
 Equals a broken faith ; there's not a hair 
 Sticks on my head but, like a leaden plummet.
 
 190 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 It sinks me to the grave : I must creep thither ; 
 The journey is not long. 
 
 Ith. But thou, Penthea, 
 Hast many years, I hope, to number yet, 
 Ere thou canst travel that way. 
 
 Bass. Let the sun first 
 Be wrapp'd up in an everlasting darkness, 
 Before the light of nature, chiefly form'd 
 For the whole world's delight, feel an eclipse 
 So universal ! 
 
 Org. Wisdom, look ye, begins 
 To rave I — art thou mad too, antiquity ? 
 
 Pen. Since I was first a wife, I might have been 
 Mother to many pretty prattling babes ; 
 f They would have smiled when I smiled ; and, for 
 i certain, 
 
 I should have cried when they cried : — truly, bro- 
 ther, 
 My father would have pick'd me out a husband, 
 And then my little ones had been no bastards : 
 But 'tis too late for me to marry now. 
 
 Bass. Fall on me, if there be a burning .F^tna, 
 And bury me in flames I sweats, hot as sulphur, 
 Boil through my pores :— afl[liction hath in store 
 Xo torture like to this. 
 
 Org. Behold a patience I 
 Lay by thy whining gray dissimulation,* 
 
 * Lay by thy uhinwg gray dissimulation.'] This beautiful 
 expression is happily adopted by 3Iilton, the great plunderer 
 of the poetical hive of our old dramatists. 
 
 " He ended here, and Satan, bowing low 
 
 His gray dhsimulation,-' ixc. Par. B/g. 
 
 It would appear from the next speech, that the unsuspicious 
 Ithocles supposed Orgilus to address Bassanes, in this rant.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 191 
 
 Do something worth a chronicle ; show justice 
 Upon the author of this mischief; dig out 
 The jealousies that hatch'd this thraldom first 
 With thine own poniard : every antick rapture 
 Can roar as thine does. 
 
 Ith. Orgilus, forbear. 
 
 Bass. Disturb him not ; it is a talking motion 
 Provided for my torment. What a fool am I 
 To wanton passion ! ere I'll speak a word, 
 I will look on and burst. 
 
 Pen. I loved you once. [To Org. 
 
 Org. Thou didst, wrong'd creature : in despite 
 of malice, 
 For it I'll love thee ever. 
 
 Pen. Spare your hand ; 
 Believe me, I'll not hurt it. 
 
 Org. My heart too.* 
 
 Pen. Complain not though I wring it hard : I'll 
 kiss it ; 
 Oh, 'tis a fine soft palm ! — hark, in thine ear ; 
 Like whom do I look, prithee ? — nay, no whisper- 
 ing. 
 Goodness ! we had been happy ; too much hap- 
 piness 
 Will make folk proud, they say — but that is he — 
 
 [Pointing to Ithocles. 
 And yet he paid for't home ; alas ! his heart 
 Is crept into the cabinet of the princess ; 
 We shall have points and bride-laces. Remember, 
 
 in order to incite him to wreak vengeance on himself for his 
 cruelly to Penthea ; but the covert object of it is evidently 
 Ithocles. — GiFionn. 
 
 * Org. My heart too.'] Here is some mistake of the press, 
 which I cannot pretend to rectify. — Gifford.
 
 192 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 When we last gather'd roses in the garden, 
 I found my wits ; but truly you lost yours. 
 That's he, and still 'tis he. [Again pointing to Ith. 
 
 Ith. Poor soul, how idly 
 Her fancies guide her tongue ! 
 
 Bass. Keep in, vexation, 
 And break not into clamour. [Aside. 
 
 Org. She has tutor'd me ;* 
 Some powerful inspiration checks my laziness : 
 Now let me kiss your hand, griev'd beauty. 
 
 Pen. Kiss it. — 
 Alack, alack, his lips be wonderous cold ; 
 Dear soul, he has lost his colour : have you seen 
 A straying heart ? all crannies ! every drop 
 Of blood is turned to an amethyst. 
 Which married bachelors hang in their ears. 
 
 Org. Peace usher her into Elysium ! 
 If this be madness, madness is an oracle. [Exit. 
 
 Ith. Christalla, Philema, when slept my sister. 
 Her ravings are so wild ? 
 
 Chris. Sir, not these ten days. 
 
 Phil. We watch by her continually ; besides. 
 We can not any way pray her to eat. 
 
 Bass. Oh, — misery of miseries! 
 
 Pen. Take comfort. 
 You may live well, and die a good old man : 
 By yea and nay, an oath not to be broken, 
 If you had joined our hands once in the temple, 
 ('Twas since my father died, for had he lived 
 
 * She has tutor'd me.] i. e. by repeatedly pointing out 
 Ithocles to his resentment. What plan of vengeance Orgilus 
 had previously meditated, we know not ; but the deep and 
 irresistible pathos of this most afflicting scene evidently gives 
 a deadlv turn to his wrath. — ^GirroRD.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 193 
 
 He would have done't,) I must have called you 
 
 father. — 
 Oh, my wreck'd honour ! ruin'd by those tyrants, 
 A cruel brother, and a desperate dotage. 
 There is no peace left for a ravish'd wife 
 Widow'd by lawless marriage ; to all memory, 
 Penthea's, poor Penthea's name is strumpeted : 
 But since her blood was season'd, by the forfeit 
 Of noble shame, with mixtures of pollution, 
 Her blood — 'tis just — be henceforth never height- 
 
 en'd 
 With taste' of sustenance ! starve ; let that ful- 
 ness 
 Whose pleurisy hath fever'd faith and modesty — 
 Forgive me ; Oh ! I faint. 
 
 [Falls into the arms of her attendants. 
 Arm. Be not so wilful. 
 Sweet niece, to work thine own destruction. 
 
 Ith. Nature 
 , Will call her daughter, monster! — what! not eat? 
 Refuse the only ordinary means 
 i^W^hich are ordain'd for life ? be not, my sister, 
 f A murtheress to thyself. — Hear'st thou this, Bas- 
 sanes ? 
 Bass. Foh ! I am busy; for I have not thoughts 
 Enough to think : all shall be well anon. 
 'Tis tumbling in my head ; there is a mastery 
 In art, to fatten and keep smooth the outside ; 
 Yes, and to comfort up the vital spirits 
 Without the help of food, fumes or perfumes, — 
 Perfumes or fumes. Let her alone ; I'll search out 
 The trick on't. [Aside. 
 
 Pen. Lead me gently ; heavens reward ye. 
 
 VOL. I. ' O
 
 194 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 Griefs are sure friends ; they leave, without con- 
 
 troul, 
 Nor cure nor comforts for a leprous soul. 
 
 [_Exit, supported hy Chris, and Phil. 
 Bass. I grant ye ; and will put in practice in- 
 stantly 
 What you shall still admire : 'tis wonderful, 
 "Tis super-singular, not to be match'd ; 
 Yet, when I've done't, I've done't : — ye shall all 
 thank me. \_Exit, 
 
 Arm. The sight is full of terror. 
 Ith. On my soul 
 Lies such an infinite clog of massy dulness, 
 As that I have not sense enough to feel it. — 
 See, uncle, the angry thing returns again, 
 Shall' s welcome him with thunder ? we are haunted, 
 And must use exorcism to conjure down 
 This spirit of malevolence. 
 
 Enter Nearchus and Amelus. 
 
 Arm. Mildly, nephew. 
 
 Near. I come not, sir, to chide your late dis- 
 order ; 
 Admitting that th' inurement to a roughness 
 In soldiers of your years and fortunes, chiefly, 
 So lately prosperous, hath not yet shook off 
 The custom of the war, in hours of leisure ; 
 Nor shall you need excuse, since you're to render 
 Account to that fair excellence, the princess, 
 Who in her private gallery expects it 
 From your own mouth alone : I am a messenger 
 But to her pleasure.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 195 
 
 Ith. Excellent Nearchus, 
 Be prince still of my services, and conquer, 
 Without the combat of dispute ; I honour you. 
 
 Near. The king is on a sudden indisposed, 
 Physicians are call'd for ; 'twere fit, Armostes, 
 You should be near him. 
 
 Arm. Sir, I kiss your hands. 
 
 l^Exeunt Ithocles and Armostes. 
 
 Near. Amelus, I perceive Calantha's bosom 
 Is vvarm'd with other fires than such as can 
 Take strength from any fuel of the love 
 I might address to her ; young Ithocles, 
 Or ever I mistake, is lord ascendant 
 Of her devotions ; one, to speak him truly, 
 In every disposition nobly fashion'd. 
 
 Ame. But can your highness brook to be so ri- 
 vall'd. 
 Considering th' inequality of the persons ? 
 
 Near. I can, Amelus ; for affections, injured 
 By tyranny, or rigour of compulsion, 
 Like tempest-threaten'd trees unfirmly rooted. 
 Ne'er spring to timely growth : observe, for in- 
 stance. 
 Life-spent Penthea, and unhappy Orgilus. 
 
 Ame. How does your grace determine ? 
 
 Near. To be jealous 
 In public, of what privately I'll further ; 
 And, though they shall not know, yet they shall 
 find it. \_Exeunt. 
 
 2
 
 196 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 SCENE III. — An Apartment hi the Palace. 
 
 Enter the King, led by Hemophil and Groneas, 
 followed by Armostes, with a Box, Crotolon, 
 and Prophilus. The King is placed in a Chair, 
 
 Amyc. Our daughter is not near ? 
 
 Arm. She is retired, sir. 
 Into her gallery. 
 
 Amyc. Where's the prince our cousin ? 
 
 Pro. New walk'd into the grove, my lord. 
 
 Amyc. All leave us 
 Except Armostes, and you, Crotolon ; 
 We would be private. 
 
 Pro. Health unto your majesty. 
 
 \_Exeunt Pro. Hem. amd Gron. 
 
 Amyc. What I Tecnicus is gone ? 
 
 Arm. He is, to Delphos ; 
 And to your royal hands presents this box. 
 
 Amyc. Unseal it, good Armostes ; therein lie 
 The secrets of the oracle ; out with it ; 
 
 [Arm. tahes out the scroll. 
 Apollo live our patron ! Read, Armostes. 
 
 Arm. The plot in which the Vine tahes root 
 Begins to dry from head to foot ; 
 The stock, soon withering, want of sap 
 Doth cause to quail the budding grape : 
 But, from the neighbouring Elm, a den- 
 Shall drop, and feed the plot anew. 
 
 Amyc. That is the oracle ; what exposition 
 !Makes the philosopher ?
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 197 
 
 Arm. This brief one, only. 
 
 The plot is Sparta, the dried Vine the king ; 
 The quailing grape his daughter ; hut the thing 
 Of most importance, not to he reveaVd, 
 Is a near prince, the Elm : the rest conceal' d. 
 
 Tecnicus. 
 
 Amyc. Enough ; although the opening of this 
 
 riddle 
 Be but itself a riddle, yet we construe 
 How near our labouring age draws to a rest ; 
 But must Calantha quail too ? that young grape 
 Untimely budded ! I could mourn for her ; 
 Her tenderness hath yet deserv'd no rigour 
 So to be crost by fate. 
 
 Arm. You misapply, sir, 
 With favour let me speak it, what Apollo 
 Hath clouded in hid sense ; I here conjecture 
 Her marriage with some neighbouring prince, the 
 
 dew 
 Of which befriending Elm shall ever strengthen 
 Your subjects with a sovereignty of power. 
 
 Crot. Besides, most gracious lord, the pith of 
 
 oracles 
 Is to be then digested, when the events 
 Expound their truth, not brought as soon to light 
 As utter'd ; Truth is child of Time ; and herein 
 I find no scruple, rather cause of comfort, 
 With unity of kingdoms. 
 
 Amyc. May it prove so. 
 For weal of this dear nation ! — Where is Itho- 
 
 cles ? — 
 Armostes, Crotolon, when this wither'd Vine 
 Of my frail carcase, on the funeral pile.
 
 198 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 Is fired into its ashes, let that young man 
 Be hedged about still with your cares and loves ; 
 Much owe I to his worth, much to his service. — 
 Let such as wait come in now. 
 Arm. All attend here ! 
 
 Enter Ithocles, Calantha, Prophilus, Orgilus, 
 EuPHRANEA, Hemophil, and Groneas. 
 
 Cal. Dear sir ! king ! father ! 
 
 Ith. Oh, my royal master ! 
 
 Anujc. Cleave not my heart, sweet twins of my 
 life's solace, 
 With your fore-judging fears ; there is no physic 
 So cunningly restorative to cherish 
 The fall of age, or call back youth and vigour, 
 As your consents in duty ; I will shake off 
 This languishing disease of time, to quicken 
 Fresh pleasures in these drooping hours of sad- 
 ness ; 
 Is fair Euphranea married yet to Prophilus ? 
 
 Crot. This morning, gracious lord. 
 
 Org. This very morning ; 
 Which, with your highness' leave, you may ob- 
 serve too. 
 Our sister looks, methinks, mirthful and sprightly. 
 As if her chaster fancy could already — 
 Nay, prithee blush not ; 'tis but honest change 
 Of fashion in the garment — 
 
 Euph. You are pleasant. 
 
 Amyc. We thank thee, Orgilus, this mirth be- 
 comes thee.
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 199 
 
 But wherefore sits the court in such a silence? 
 A wedding without revels is not seemly. 
 
 Cal. Your late indisposition, sir, forbade it. 
 
 Amyc. Be it thy charge, Calantha, to set for- 
 ward 
 The bridal sports, to which I will be present ; 
 If not, at least consenting : — mine own Ithocles, 
 I have done little for thee yet. 
 
 Ith. You have built me 
 To the full height I stand in. 
 
 Cal. Now or never! — [Aside. 
 
 May I propose a suit ? 
 
 Amyc. Demand, and have it. 
 
 Cal. Pray, sir, give me this young man, and no 
 further 
 Account him yours, than he deserves in all things 
 To be thought worthy mine ; I will esteem him 
 According to his merit. 
 
 Amyc. Still thou'rt my daughter. 
 Still grow'st upon my heart. Give me thine hand ; 
 
 [To Ith. 
 Calantha, take thine own ; in noble actions 
 Thou'lt find him firm and absolute. I would not 
 Have parted with thee, Ithocles, to any 
 But to a mistress, who is all what I am. 
 
 Ith. A change, great king, most wish'd for, 
 'cause the same. 
 
 Cal. Thou art mine. — Have I now kept my 
 word ? 
 
 Ith. Divinely. 
 
 Org. Rich fortunes guard, the favour of a prin- 
 cess 
 Rock thee, brave man, in ever crowned plenty ! — 
 You are minion of the time : be thankful for it.
 
 .■200 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 Ho ! here's a swing in destiny — apparent I 
 The youth is up on tiptoe, yet may stumble. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Amifc. On to your recreations. — Now convey 
 me 
 Unto my bed-chamber ; none on his forehead 
 Wear a distempered look. 
 
 All. The gods preserve you ! 
 
 Cal. Sweet, be not from my sight. 
 
 Ith. My whole felicity ! 
 
 [Amyclas is carried out. — Exeunt all but 
 Ithocles, detained by Orgilus. 
 
 Org. Shall I be bold, my lord ? 
 
 Ith. Thou canst not, Orgilus. 
 Call me thine own ; for Prophilus must henceforth 
 Be all thy sister's ; friendship, though it cease not 
 In marriage, yet is oft at less command 
 Than when a single freedom can dispose it. 
 
 Org. Most right, my most good lord, my most 
 great lord. 
 My gracious princely lord, I might add royal. 
 
 Ith. Royal ! A subject royal ? 
 
 Org. Why not, pray sir ? 
 The sovereignty of kingdoms, in their nonage, 
 Stoop'd to desert, not birth; there's as much merit 
 In clearness of affection, as in puddle 
 Of generation ; you have conquer'd love 
 Even in the loveliest : if I greatly err not, 
 The son of Venus hath bequeath'd his quiver 
 To Ithocles to manage, by whose arrows 
 Calantha's breast is open'd. 
 
 Ith. Can it be possible ? 
 
 Org. I was myself a piece of suitor once. 
 And forward in preferment too ; so forward,
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 201 
 
 That, speaking truth, I may without offence, sir, 
 Presume to whisper, that my hopes, and (hark 
 
 ye!) 
 My certainty of marriage stood assured 
 With as firm footing (by your leave), as any's, 
 Now, at this very instant — but 
 
 Ith. 'Tis granted: 
 And for a league of privacy between us, 
 Read o'er my bosom and partake a secret ; 
 The princess is contracted mine. 
 
 Org. Still, why not ? 
 I now applaud her wisdom : when your kingdom 
 Stands seated in your will, secure and settled, 
 I dare pronounce you will be a just monarch ; 
 Greece must admire and tremble. 
 
 Ith. Then the sweetness 
 Of so imparadised a comfort, Orgilus ! 
 It is to banquet with the gods. 
 
 Org. The glory 
 Of numerous children, potency of nobles. 
 Bent knees, hearts pav'd to tread on ! 
 
 Ith. With a friendship 
 So dear, so fast as thine. 
 
 OrS' I am unfitting 
 For office ; but for service 
 
 Ith. We'll distinguish 
 Our fortunes merely in the title ; partners 
 In all respects else but the bed. 
 
 Org. The bed ? 
 Forefend it, Jove's own jealousy ! — till lastly 
 We slip down in the common earth together. 
 And there our beds are equal ; save some monu- 
 ment
 
 202 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 To show this was the king, and this the subject — 
 
 \_Soft sad Music. 
 List, what sad sounds are these ? extremely sad 
 ones. 
 Ilh. Sure from Penthea's lodgings. 
 Org. Hark ! a voice too. 
 
 A Song within. 
 
 Oh, no more, no more, too late 
 
 Sighs are spent ; the burning tapers 
 Of a life as chaste as fate, 
 Pure as are unwritten j^apers, 
 Are burnt out : no heat, no light, 
 Now remains ; 'tis ever night. 
 Love is dead ; let lover's eyes, 
 Lock'd in endless dreams, 
 TK extremes of all extremes. 
 Ope no more, for now Love dies. 
 Now Love dies, — implying 
 Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying. 
 
 Ith. Oh my misgiving heart ! 
 
 Org. A horrid stillness 
 Succeeds this deathful air ; let's know the reason : 
 Tread softly ; there is mystery in mourning. 
 
 \_Exeunt.
 
 SCENE IV. THE BROKEN HEART. 203 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Apartment of Penthea in the same. 
 
 Penthea discovered in a Chair, veiled ; Christalla 
 and Philema at her feet, mourning. Enter two 
 Servaiits, with tivo other Chairs, one with an En- 
 gine.* 
 
 Enter Ithocles and Orgilus. 
 
 1. Serv. (Aside to Org.) 'Tis done; that on her 
 
 right hand. 
 Org. Good! begone. [^Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Ith. Soft peace enrich this room ! 
 Org. How fares the lady? 
 Phil Dead. 
 Chris. Dead! 
 Phil. Starv'd. 
 Chris. Starv'd! 
 
 * Enter two servants with tioo cliairs, one loith an engine.] 
 This engine, as it is here called, in correspondence with the 
 homely properties of our old theatres, was neither more nor 
 less than a common elbow-chair, which, by means of a couple 
 of leathern hinges and a yard or two of packthread, was made 
 to cross its arms over the breast of the person seated in it. 
 
 In the Devil's Charter, which appeared on the stage nearly 
 thirty years before the Broken Heart, will be found the following 
 stage-direction. 
 
 " Enter Lucretia, with a chair in her hand, which she sets 
 on the stage." 
 The lady then delivers herself as follows : 
 
 Lxic. I have devised such a curious snare 
 As jealous Vulcan never yet devised. 
 To grasp his armes, unable to resist 
 Death's instrument inclosed in these hands. 
 Accordingly Gismond sits down, is " grasped," like Ithocles, 
 and stabbed without resistance by his wife ; who retires, as 
 she entered, " with the chair in her hand." — Giffokd.
 
 204 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 Ith. Me miserable! 
 
 Org. Tell us 
 How parted she from life ? 
 
 Phil. She call'd for music, 
 And begg'd some gentle voice to tune a farewell 
 To life and griefs ; Christalla touch'd the lute, 
 I wept the funeral song. 
 
 Chris. Which scarce w^as ended, 
 But her last breath seal'd up these hollow sounds : 
 " Oh cruel Ithocles, and injured Orgilus!" 
 So down she drew her veil, so died. 
 
 Ith. So died! 
 
 Org. Up ! you are messengers of death, go from 
 us ; [Chris, and Phil. rise. 
 
 Here's woe enough to court without a prompter. 
 Away ; and, — hark ye I — till you see us next, 
 No syllable that she is dead. — Away, 
 Keep a smooth brow. — [Exeunt Chris, and Phil. 
 My lord. — 
 
 Ith. Mine only sister! 
 Another is not left me. 
 
 Org. Take that chair, 
 I'll seat me here in this : between us sits 
 The object of our sorrows ; some few tears 
 We'll part among us : I perhaps can mix 
 One lamentable story to prepare them. — 
 There, there ! sit there, my lord. 
 
 Ith. Yes, as you please. 
 
 \_Sits down, the chair closes upon him. 
 What means this treachery ? 
 
 Org. Caught! you are caught. 
 Young master ! 'tis thy throne of coronation. 
 Thou fool of greatness ! See, I take this veil off; 
 Survey a beauty wither'd by the flames 
 Of an insulting Phaeton, her brother.
 
 SCENE IV. THE BROKEN HEART. 205 
 
 Ith. Thou mean'st to kill me basely? 
 
 Org. I foreknew 
 The last act of her life, and train'd thee hither, 
 To sacrifice a tyrant to a turtle. 
 You dreamt of kingdoms, did you ! how to bosom 
 The delicacies of a youngling princess ! 
 How with this nod to grace that subtle courtier, 
 How with that frown to make this noble tremble. 
 And so forth ; whilst Penthea's groans and tortures, 
 Her agonies, her miseries, afflictions. 
 Ne'er touch'd upon your thought! as for my in- 
 juries, 
 Alas ! they were beneath your royal pity ; 
 But yet they lived, thou proud man, to confound 
 
 thee. 
 Behold thy fate ; this steel ! [Draws a dagger. 
 
 Ith. Strike home ! A courage 
 As keen as thy revenge shall give it welcome ; 
 But prithee faint not ; if the wound close up, 
 Tent* it with double force, and search it deeply. 
 Thou look'st that I should whine, and beg compas- 
 sion. 
 As loath to leave the vainness of my glories ; 
 A statelier resolution arms my confidence, 
 To cozen thee of honour ; neitherj" could I, 
 With equal trial of unequal fortune, 
 By hazard of a duel ; 'twere a bravery 
 Too mighty for a slave intending murder. 
 
 * To tent : to search as a wound ; from tent, a roll of lint 
 employed in examining or purifying a deep wound. — Nares's 
 Glossary. 
 
 t So Mr. Gifford's copy ; but the meaning of the passage, 
 like a few others in Ford, is more easy lo be guessed at, than 
 distinctly understood.
 
 206 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT IV. 
 
 On to the execution, and inherit 
 A conflict with thy horrors. 
 
 Org. By Apollo, 
 Thou talk'st a goodly language ! for requital 
 I will report thee to thy mistress richly ; 
 And take this peace along : some few short minutes 
 Determin'd, my resolves shall quickly follow 
 Thy wrathful ghost; then, if we tug for mastery, 
 Penthea's sacred eyes shall lend new courage. 
 Give me thy hand — be healthful in thy parting 
 From lost mortality ! thus, thus I free it. \_Stuhs him. 
 
 Ith. Yet, yet, I scorn to shrink. 
 
 Org. Keep up thy spirit : 
 I will be gentle even in blood; to linger 
 Pain, which I strive to cure, were to be cruel. 
 
 [^Stahs him again. 
 
 Ith. Nimble in vengeance, I forgive thee ! Follow 
 Safety, with best success ; oh, may it prosper ! — 
 Penthea, by thy side thy brother bleeds ; 
 The earnest of his wrongs to thy forced faith. 
 Thoughts of ambition, or delicious banquet 
 With beauty, youth, and love, together perish 
 In my last l3reath, which on the sacred altar 
 Of a long look'd for peace — now — moves — to hea- 
 ven. [Dies. 
 
 Org. Farewell, fair spring of manhood ! hence- 
 forth welcome 
 Best expectation of a noble suflferance. 
 ril lock the bodies safe, till what must follow 
 Shall be approved. — Sweet twins, shine stars for 
 
 ever ! 
 In vain they build their hopes, whose life is shame, 
 No monument lasts but a happy name. 
 
 [Lochs the door, and exit.
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 207 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Bassanes' House. 
 Enter Bassanes. 
 
 Bass. Athens — to Athens I have sent, the nursery 
 Of Greece for learnmg, and the fount of know- 
 ledge ; 
 For here, in Sparta, there's not left amongst us 
 One wise man to direct; we are all turn'd madcaps. 
 'Tis said Apollo is the god of herbs, 
 Then certainly he knows the virtue of them : 
 To Delphos I have sent too ; if there can be 
 A help for nature, we are sure yet. 
 
 Enter Orgilus. 
 
 Org. Honour 
 Attend thy counsels ever. 
 
 Bass. I beseech thee, 
 With all my heart, let me go from thee quietly ; 
 I will not ought to do with thee, of all men. 
 The doubles of a hare, — or, in a morning. 
 Salutes from a splay-footed witch, — to drop 
 Three drops of blood at th' nose just, and no 
 
 more, — 
 Croaking of ravens, or the screech of owls. 
 Are not so boding mischief, as thy crossing 
 My private meditations : shun me, prithee ; 
 And if I cannot love thee heartily, 
 I'll love thee as well as I can.
 
 208 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT V. 
 
 Org. Noble Bassanes, 
 Mistake me not. 
 
 Bass. Phew ! then we sliall be troubled. 
 Thou wert ordain'd my plague — heaven make me 
 
 thankful, 
 And give me patience too, heaven, I beseech thee ! 
 
 Org. Accept a league of amity: for henceforth, 
 I vow, by my best genius, in a syllable, 
 Never to speak vexation ; I will study 
 Service and friendship, with a zealous sorrow 
 For my past incivility toward^ you. 
 
 Bass. Hey-day, good words, good words ! I 
 must believe 'em. 
 And be a coxcomb for my labour. 
 
 Org. Use not 
 So hard a language ; your misdoubt is causeless : 
 For instance, if you promise to put on 
 A constancy of patience, such a patience 
 As chronicle or history ne'er mention'd, 
 As follows not example, but shall stand 
 A wonder, and a theme for imitation. 
 The first, the index pointing to a second,* 
 I will acquaint you with an unmatch'd secret, 
 Whose knowledge to your griefs shall set a period. 
 
 Bass. Thou canst not, Orgilus; 'tis in the power 
 Of the gods only ; yet, for satisfaction, 
 Because I note an earnest in thine utterance. 
 Unforced, and naturally free, be resolute, f 
 
 * Orgilus alludes to the index-hand 0^$^), so common in 
 the margin of our old books, and which served to direct the 
 reader's attention to such passages as the author wished to 
 recommend to particular notice. — Girroiro. 
 
 t i.e. be persuaded, assured, &c.
 
 SCENE I. THE BROKEN HEART. 209 
 
 The virgin-bays shall not withstand the lightning 
 With a more careless danger, than my constancy 
 The full of thy relation ; could it move 
 Distraction in a senseless marble statue, 
 It should find me a rock : I do expect now 
 Some truth of unheard moment. 
 
 Org. To your patience 
 You must add privacy, as strong in silence 
 As mysteries lock'd up in Jove's own bosom. 
 
 Bass. A scull hid in the earth a treble age, 
 Shall sooner prate. 
 
 Org. Lastly, to such direction 
 As the severity of a glorious action 
 Deserves to lead your wisdom and your judgment. 
 You ought to yield obedience. 
 
 Bass. With assurance 
 Of will and thankfulness. 
 
 Org. With manly courage 
 Please then to follow me. 
 
 Bass. Where'er, I fear not. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A State Room in the Palace. 
 
 A Flourish. — Enter Euphranea, led by Groneas 
 a7id Hemophil ; Prophilus, led by Christalla 
 and Philema ; Nearchus supporting Calantha ; 
 Crotolon a7id Amelus. 
 
 Cal. We miss our servant Ithocles, and Orgilus ; 
 On whom attend they ? 
 
 Crot. My son, gracious princess, 
 Whisper'd some new device, to which these revels
 
 210 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT V. 
 
 Should be but usher ; wherein I conceive 
 Lord Ithocles and he himself are actors. 
 
 Cal. A fair excuse for absence : as for Bassanes, 
 Delights to him are troublesome ; Armostes 
 Is with the king ? 
 
 Grot. He is. 
 
 Cal. On to the dance ! 
 Cousin, hand you the bride ; the bridegroom must be 
 Entrusted to my courtship. Be not jealous, 
 Euphranea; I shall scarcely prove a temptress. — 
 Fall to our dance. 
 
 The Revels. 
 
 Music. — Nearchus dances with Euphranea, 
 Prophilus ivith Calantha, Christalla jvith 
 Hemophil, Philema with Groneas. 
 
 They DANCE the first change; during rvhich Ar- 
 mostes enters. 
 
 Arm. (jvhispers Cal.) The king your father's 
 
 dead. 
 Cal. To the other change. 
 Arm, Is't possible? 
 
 They dance the second change. 
 Enter Bassanes. 
 
 Bass, (whispers Cal.) Oh madam! 
 Penthea, poor Penthea's starv'd. 
 
 Cal. Beshrew thee ! — 
 Lead to the next. 
 
 Bass. Amazement dulls my senses.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. ^11 
 
 They dance the third change. 
 Enter Orgilus. 
 
 Org. (ivhisi^ers Cal.) Brave Ithocles is mur- 
 
 der'd, murder'cl cruelly. 
 Cal. How dull this music sounds! Strike up 
 more sprightly ; 
 Our footings are not active like our heart, 
 Which treads the nimbler measure. 
 Org. I am thunderstruck ! 
 
 SCENE II.— The last change. 
 
 Cal. So! let us breathe a while. — (music ceases.) 
 — Hath not this motion 
 Rais'd fresher colours on our cheeks? 
 
 Near. Sweet princess, 
 A perfect purity of blood enamels 
 The beauty of your white. 
 
 Cal. We all look cheerfully : 
 And, cousin, 'tis methinks a rare presumption 
 In any who prefer our lawful pleasures 
 Before their own sour censure, to interrupt 
 The custom of this ceremony bluntly. 
 
 Near. None dares, lady. 
 
 Cal. Yes, yes ; some hollow voice deliver'd to me 
 How that the king was dead. 
 
 Arm. The king is dead: 
 That fatal news was mine ; for in mine arms 
 He breath'd his last, and with his crown bequeath'd 
 
 you 
 Your mother's wedding ring ; which here I tender. 
 
 Crot. Most strange! 
 
 p 2
 
 212 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT V. 
 
 Cal. Peace crown his ashes ! We are queen then. 
 
 Near, Long live Calantha! Sparta's sovereign 
 queen ! 
 
 All. Long live the queen ! 
 
 Cal. What whisper'd Bassanes ? 
 
 Bass. That my Penthea, miserable soul, 
 Was starv'd to death. 
 
 Cal. She's happy ; she hath finish'd 
 A long and painful progress. — A third murmur 
 Pierced mine unwilling ears. 
 
 Org. That Ithocles 
 Was murther'd ; — rather butcher'd, had not bravery 
 Of an undaunted spirit, conquering terror, 
 Proclaim'd his last act triumph over ruin. 
 
 Arm. How ! murther'd I 
 
 Cal. By whose hand ? 
 
 Org. By mine ; this weapon 
 Was instrument to my revenge ; the reasons 
 Are just, and known: quit him of these, and then 
 Never lived gentleman of greater merit, 
 Hope or abiliment to steer a kingdom. 
 
 Crot. Fye, Orgilus! 
 
 Euph. Fye, brother! 
 
 Cal. You have done it? 
 
 Bass. How it was done, let him report, the forfeit 
 Of whose allegiance to our laws doth covet 
 Rigour of justice; but, that done it is, 
 Mine eyes have been an evidence of credit 
 Too sure to be convinced.* Armostes, rend not 
 Thine arteries with hearing the bare circumstances 
 
 * Mine eyes have been an evidence of credit 
 
 Too sure to be convince.!.] Convince is used here in the 
 primitive sense oi conquered, overthrown. In modern terms, 
 " my evidence is too true to be confuted." — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 213 
 
 Of these calamities : thou hast lost a nephew, 
 
 A niece, and I a wife : continue man still ; 
 
 Make me the pattern of digesting evils. 
 
 Who can outlive my mighty ones, not shrinking 
 
 At such a pressure as would sink a soul 
 
 Into what's most of death, the worst of horrors. 
 
 But I have sealed a covenant w^ith sadness, ' 
 
 And enter'd into bonds without condition, 
 
 To stand these tempests calmly ; mark me, nobles, < 
 
 I do not shed a tear, not for Penthea! 
 
 Excellent misery! 
 
 Cal. We begin our reign 
 With a first act of justice: thy confession, 
 Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence ; 
 But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence 
 Shall be excus'd. Give, Crotolon, a blessing 
 To thy lost son; Euphranea, take a farewell. 
 And both be gone. 
 
 Crot. {to Org.) Confirm thee, noble sorrow. 
 In worthy resolution ! 
 
 Euph. Could my tears speak, 
 ]\Iy griefs were slight. 
 
 Org. All goodness dwell amongst ye ! 
 Enjoy my sister, Prophilus ; my vengeance 
 Aim'd never at thy prejudice. 
 
 Cal. Now withdraw. 
 
 [Exeunt Crot. Pro. and Euph. 
 Bloody relater of thy stains in blood, 
 For that thou hast reported him, whose fortunes 
 And life by thee are both at once snatch'd from 
 
 him, 
 With honourable mention, make thy choice 
 Of what death likes thee best; there's all our 
 bounty.
 
 214 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT V. 
 
 But to excuse delays, let me, dear cousin, 
 Intreat you and these lords see execution, 
 Instant, before you part. 
 
 Near. Your will commands us. 
 
 Org. One suit, just queen, my last : vouchsafe 
 your clemency, 
 That by no common hand I be divided 
 From this my humble frailty. 
 
 Cat. To their wisdoms 
 Who are to be spectators of thine end, 
 I make the reference : those that are dead, 
 Are dead; had they not now died, of necessity 
 They must have paid the debt they owed to nature, 
 One time or other. — Use dispatch, my lords ; 
 We'll suddenly prepare our Coronation. 
 
 [Exeunt Cal. Phil, and Chris. 
 
 Arm. 'Tis strange, these tragedies should never 
 touch on 
 Her female pity. 
 
 Bass. She has a masculine spirit : 
 And wherefore should I pule, and, like a girl, 
 Put finger in the eye ? let's be all toughness. 
 Without distinction betwixt sex and sex. 
 
 Near. Now, Orgilus, thy choice? 
 
 Org. To bleed to death. 
 
 Arm. The executioner? 
 
 Org. Myself, no surgeon ; 
 I am well skill'd in letting blood. Bind fast 
 This arm, that so the pipes may from their conduits 
 Convey a full stream ; liere's a skilful instrument : 
 
 \_Shews his dagger. 
 Only I am a beggar to some charity 
 To speed me in this execution,
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 215 
 
 By lending th' other prick to th' other arm, 
 When this is bubbhng life out. 
 
 Bass. I am for you, 
 It most concerns my art, my care, my credit ; 
 Quick fillet both his arms. 
 
 Org. Gramercy, friendship! 
 Such courtesies are real, which flow cheerfully 
 Without an expectation of requital. 
 Reach me a staff in this hand. — (They give him a 
 
 staff.*) — If a proneness. 
 Or custom in my nature, from my cradle, 
 Had been inclined to fierce and eager bloodshed, 
 A coward guilt, hid in a coward quaking. 
 Would have betray'd me to ignoble flight, 
 And vagabond pursuit of dreadful safety ; 
 But look upon my steadiness, and scorn not 
 The sickness of my fortune ; which, since Bassanes 
 Was husband to Penthea, had lain bed-rid. 
 We trifle time in words :— thus I shew cvmning 
 In opening of a vein too full, too lively. 
 
 \_Pierces the vein with his dagger. 
 
 Arm. Desperate courage ! 
 
 Near. Honourable infamy ! 
 
 Hem. I tremble at the sight. 
 
 Gron. 'Would I were loose ! 
 
 Bass. It sparkles like a lusty wine new broach'd ; 
 The vessel must be sovmd from which it issues. 
 Grasp hard this other stick — I'll be as nimble — 
 But prithee, look not pale — Have at ye ! — stretch 
 
 out 
 Thine arm with vigour, and unshak[en] virtue. 
 
 \_0pe7is the vein. 
 
 * This was for tlie purpose of being grasped during the 
 bleeding ; a practice familiar to every village doctor in th*- 
 kinsrdom. — Gifford.
 
 21G THE BROKEN HEART. ACT V- 
 
 Good ! oh, I envy not a rival, fitted 
 
 To conquer in extremities : this pastime 
 
 Appears majestical ; some high-tuned poem, 
 
 Hereafter, shall deliver to posterity 
 
 The writer's glory, and his subject's triumph. 
 
 How is't, man? — droop not yet. 
 
 Org. I feel no palsies. 
 On a pair-royal do I wait in death ; 
 My sovereign as his liegeman ; on my mistress, 
 As a devoted servant ; and on Ithocles, 
 As if no brave, yet no unworthy enemy : 
 Nor did I use an engine to entrap 
 His life, out of a slavish fear to combat 
 Youth, strength or cunning;* but for that I durst 
 
 not 
 Engage the goodness of a cause on fortune, 
 By which his name might have outfaced my ven- 
 geance. 
 Oh, Tecnicus, inspired with Phoebus' fire ! 
 I call to mind thy augury, 'twas perfect ; 
 Revejige proves its own executioner. 
 When feeble man is bending to his mother, 
 The dust he was first framed on, thus he totters — 
 
 Bass. Life's fountain is dried up. 
 
 Org. So falls the standard 
 Of my prerogative in being a creature ! 
 A mist hangs o'er mine eyes, the sun's bright 
 
 splendour 
 Is clouded in an everlasting shadow; 
 Welcome, thou ice, that sit'st about my heart. 
 No heat can ever thaw thee. \_Dies. 
 
 Near. Speech, hath left him. 
 
 * Youth, strength, or cunning.] i. e. practical skill in the 
 use of arms. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. THE BROKEN HEART. 217 
 
 Bass. He hath shook hands with time ; his fu- 
 neral urn 
 Shall be my charge : remove the bloodless body. 
 The Coronation must require attendance ; 
 That past, my few days can be but one mourning. 
 
 [^Exeimt. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Temple. 
 
 An Altar ^ covered ivith jvhite ; two lights of lirgin 
 jvax upon it. — Recorders, during which enter At- 
 tendants, hearing Ithocles on a Hearse, in a rich 
 robe, with a Crown on his head ; and j)lace him 
 on the one side of the Altar. After which, enter 
 Calantha in white, cronmed, attended by Eu- 
 PHRANEA, Philema, and Christalla, also in 
 white; Nearchus, Armostes, Crotolon, Pro- 
 PHiLus, Amelus, Bassanes, Hemophil, and 
 Groneas. 
 
 Calantha kneels before the Altar, the Ladies hieel- 
 ing behind her, the rest stand off. The Recorders 
 cease during her devotions. Soft Music. Calan- 
 tha and the rest rise, doing obeisance to the Altar. 
 
 Cal. Our orisons are heard ; the gods are mer- 
 ciful. 
 Now tell me, you, whose loyalties pay tribute 
 To us your lawful sovereign, how unskilful 
 Your duties, or obedience is, to render 
 Subjection to the sceptre of a virgin. 
 Who have been ever fortunate in princes 
 Of masculine and stirring composition? 
 A woman has enough to govern wisely 
 Her own demeanours, passions, and divisions.
 
 ^18 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT V. 
 
 x\ nation warlike, and enured to practice 
 
 Of policy and labour, cannot brook 
 
 A feminate authority ; we therefore 
 
 Command your counsel, how you may advise us 
 
 In choosing of a husband, whose abilities 
 
 Can better guide this kingdom. 
 
 Near. Royal lady, 
 Your law is in your will. 
 
 Arm. We have seen tokens 
 Of constancy too lately, to mistrust it. 
 
 Crot. Yet, if your highness settle on a choice, 
 By your own judgment both allow'd and liked of, 
 Sparta may grow in power, and proceed 
 To an increasing height. 
 
 Cat. Hold you the same mind? 
 
 Bass. Alas, great mistress ! reason is so clouded 
 With the thick darkness of my infinite woes. 
 That I forecast nor dangers, hopes, or safety. 
 Give me some corner of the world to wear out 
 The remnant of the minutes I must number. 
 Where I may hear no sounds, but sad complaints 
 Of virgins, who have lost contracted partners ; 
 Of husbands howling that their wives were ravish'd 
 By some untimely fate ; of friends divided 
 By churlish opposition ; or of fathers 
 Weeping upon their children's slaughter'd car- 
 casses ; 
 Or daughters, groaning o'er their fathers' hearses, 
 And I can dwell there, and with these keep consort 
 As musical as their's. What can you look for 
 From an old, foolish, peevish, doting man, 
 But craziness of age? 
 
 Cal. Cousin of Argos. 
 
 Near. Madam.
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 219 
 
 Cal. Were I presently 
 To choose you for my lord, I'll open freely 
 What articles I would propose to treat on, 
 Before our marriage. 
 
 Near. Name them, virtuous lady. 
 
 Cal. I would presume you would retain the 
 royalty 
 Of Sparta in her own bounds ; then in Argos 
 Armostes might be viceroy; in Messene 
 Might Crotolon bear sway ; and Bassanes — 
 
 Bass. I, queen ? alas I what I ? 
 
 Cal. Be Sparta's marshal ; 
 The multitudes of high employments could not 
 But set a peace to private griefs. These gentlemen, 
 Groneas and Flemophil, with worthy pensions, 
 Should wait upon your person, in your chamber ; 
 I would bestow Christalla on Amelus, 
 She'll prove a constant wife ; and Philema 
 Should into Vesta's temple. 
 
 Bass. This is a testament ! 
 It sounds not like conditions on a marriage. 
 
 Near. All this should be perform'd. 
 
 Cal. Lastly, for Prophilus; 
 He sliould be, cousin, solemnly invested 
 In all those honours, titles, and preferments 
 Which his dear friend, and my neglected husband, 
 Too short a time enjoyed. 
 
 Pro. I am unworthy 
 To live in your remembrance. 
 
 Euph. Excellent lady ! 
 
 Near. Madam, what means tliat word, " neg- 
 lected husband?" 
 
 Cal, Forgive me: — now I turn to thee, thou 
 shadow
 
 '220 THE BROKEX HEART. ACT V. 
 
 Of my contracted lord ! Bear witness all, 
 I put my mother's wedding-ring upon 
 His finger ; 'twas my father's last bequest. 
 
 [Places a ring on the finger o/Ithocles. 
 Thus I new-marry him, whose wife I am ; 
 Death shall not separate us. Oh, my lords, 
 I but deceiv'd your eyes with antick gesture, 
 When one news straight came huddling on another, 
 Of death ! and death ! and death I still I danced 
 
 forward ! 
 But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. 
 Be such mere women, who, with shrieks and out- 
 cries, 
 Can vow a present end to all their sorrows, 
 Yet live to [court] new pleasures, and outlive 
 
 them : 
 They are the silent griefs which cut the heart- 
 strings ; 
 Let me die smiling. 
 
 Near. 'Tis a truth too ominous. 
 CaL One kiss on these cold lips, my last! — 
 (kisses Ith.) — crack, crack — 
 Argos now 's Sparta's king. Command the voices 
 Which wait at th' altar, now to sing the song 
 I fitted for my end. 
 N^ear. Sirs, the song! 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Cho. Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights and 
 
 ease, 
 
 Can hut please 
 [The'] outn'ard senses, when the mind 
 Is [or] untroubled, or hij pieace refined.
 
 SCENE III. THE BROKEN HEART. 221 
 
 First voice. Crowns may flourish and decay, 
 Beauties shine, hut fade away. 
 
 Second. Youth may revel, yet it must 
 Lie down in a bed of dust. 
 
 Third. Earthly honours flow and waste, 
 
 Time alone doth change and last. 
 
 Cho. Sorrows mingled with contents, 2^repare 
 
 Rest for care ; 
 Love only reigns in death; though art 
 Can find no comfort for a Broken 
 Heart. 
 
 Arm. Look to the queen ! 
 
 Bass. Her " heart is broke" indeed. 
 Oh, royal maid, 'would thou hadst mist this part ! 
 Yet 'twas a brave one. I must weep to see 
 Her smile in death. 
 
 Arm. Wise Tecnicus ! thus said he : 
 IVlien youth is ripe, and age from time doth part, 
 The lifeless Trunk shall wed the Broken Heart. 
 'Tis here fulfill'd. 
 
 Near. I am your king. 
 
 All. Long live 
 Nearchus, king of Sparta ! 
 
 Near. Her last will 
 Shall never be digress'd from ; wait in order 
 Upon these faithful lovers, as becomes us. — 
 The counsels of the gods are never known, 
 Till men can call the effects of them their own.* 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 * "I do not know," says Mr. Lamb, who brings to the 
 perusal of our old dramatists a sensibility almost painfully 
 exquisite, " where to find, in any play, a catastrophe so grand, 
 so solemn, and so surprising as this. This is indeed, according
 
 222 THE BROKEN HEART. ACT V. 
 
 to Milton, to ' describe high passions and high actions.' The 
 fortitude of the Spartan Boy, who let a beast gnaw out his 
 bowels till he died, without expressing a groan, is a faint bodily 
 image of this dilaceration of the spirit, and exenteration of 
 the inmost mind, which Calantha, with a holy violence against 
 her nature, keeps closely covered till the last duties of a wife 
 
 and a queen are fulfilled But Ford was of the first order of 
 
 poets. He sought for sublimity, not by parcels in metaphors 
 or visible images, but directly where she has full residence in 
 the heart of man, in the actions and sufferings of the greatest 
 minds." — Lamb's Specimens of Dramatic Poets. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Where noble judgments and clear eyes are fix'd 
 To grace endeavour, there sits truth, not mix'd 
 With ignorance ; those censures may command 
 Belief, which talk not, till they understand. 
 Let some say, T/iis wasjlat ; some, Here the scene 
 Fell from its height ; another, That the mean 
 Was ill observed, in such a growing passion^ 
 As it transcended either state or fashion. 
 Some few may cry, ' Twas pretty well, or so, 
 
 But and there shrug in silence : yet we know 
 
 Our writer's aim was, in the whole, addrest 
 Well to deserve of all, but please the best ; 
 Which granted, by th' allowance of this strain, 
 The Broken Heart may be pieced up again
 
 PERKIN WARBECK.
 
 Perkin Warbeck.] The youth of Margaret of Bur- 
 gundy had heen uufruitfiil ; but her age — to borrow the 
 quaint language which Ford has thought fit to adopt from 
 Sir W. Warham — gave birth '* to two tall striplings, able, 
 soon after their coming into the world, to give battle to 
 mighty kings." It need hardly be observed, that of these 
 monstrous births, the one was the notorious Lambert 
 Simnel, and the other the hero of the following drama. 
 
 The reader of Perkin Warbeck must not expect much 
 of that delight which is derived from the artful intricacies 
 and skilfid development of a well-conducted fable ; the 
 play itself is styled by its author a " Chronicle History;"* 
 
 * " Some have supposed," says Mr. Malone, "that Shak- 
 speare was the first dramatic poet who introduced dramas 
 formed on the Chronicles, but this is an undoubted error. 
 Every one of the subjects on which he constructed his his- 
 torical plays, appears to have been brought upon the scene 
 before his time." It is clear, indeed, from the curious vo- 
 lume of Gosson, that the Chronicles had been ransacked for 
 plays before 1580, while Shakspeare, perhaps, as Aubrey 
 says, was "killing calves in fine style;" and for very ob- 
 vious reasons, this species of dramatic entertainment seems to 
 have been held in no small request by our ancestors. " Plays," 
 says Heywood, in his Apology for Actors, (printed in 1612,) 
 " have taught the unlearned the knowledge of many famous 
 histories, instructed such as cannot read, in the discovery of 
 our Eiiglish Chronicles : and what man have you now of that 
 weake capacity that being possest of their true use, cannot 
 
 VOL. I. a
 
 ( 226 ) 
 
 it follows accordingly the march of events, and stretches 
 over a considerable period of time ; and it must be con- 
 fessed that the tone of the dialogue does not always aiford 
 a sufficient relief for the languor with which the plot 
 " drags its dull length along." It is to the delineation 
 of character, therefore, that the reader of Perkin Warbeck 
 must look for his principal soiu-ce of gratification, and 
 that gratification, his feelings will soon tell him, is rather 
 to be supplied from Scotland than England, in wliich two 
 counti-ies the scene is alternately laid. A stronger oppo- 
 sition might perhaps have been given to the characters of 
 the Scotch and English monarchs : but stiU the wary, po- 
 litic, and far-sighted Henry is not a little in contrast \\-ith 
 the chivabous and romantic James; and the incidents 
 which distinguish the coiui:s of the two monarchs are in 
 fair keeping with the complexion of those who sway them. 
 In the one we have solemn counsels of state — detected 
 conspiracies and defections — secret embassies, wisely con- 
 ceived and dexterously managed — preparations for war, 
 vigorously adopted and steadily pursued : in the other are 
 exliibited snatches of com-t-delights and bridal gaieties ; 
 
 discourse of any notable thing recorded even from William the 
 Conqueror until this day V Hence, in the introduction to an 
 old tragedy, called " A Vv'arning for Fair Women," we find 
 Tragedy, Comedy, and History personified, and each claiming 
 superiority and possession of the stage. Tragedy threatens to 
 scourge and kick her two competitors from off the stage, and 
 indeed actually applies the whip to them ; but Historj- re- 
 mains, nevertheless, undaunted ; 
 
 " And, Tragedie, although to-day thou raigne, 
 To-morrow here I'll domineere agraine.'"
 
 ( 227 ) 
 
 a princely sympathy with unfortunate greatness; that 
 brilhant personal courage, which to many minds forms an 
 excuse for every other defect, and which was here wanted 
 not only to cover weak and vacillating councils, and enter- 
 prises hastily assumed and as hastily dropped, but to atone 
 for errors which do not lie so immediately upon the sur- 
 face. Mr. GifFord has characterized the Henry of our 
 author as cold, calculating, stern, shrewd, and avaricioiis. 
 These are harsh epithets, for which some qualification might 
 siu-ely have been found in the burst of feehng and emotion 
 which breaks from him when the name of Stanley is found 
 in the band of conspirators against his royal power and 
 person — in his princely munificence to the wife of his van- 
 quished rival — in his sympathy with the fallen fortunes of 
 Dalyell — in the indignation which breaks from him at the 
 bare supposition that his interests have been served at the 
 expense of rehgious propriety, and even in the liberal 
 treatment which Warbeck and his followers receive, when 
 the chances of war first throw them into his hands. That 
 these redeeming traits in Henry's character should have 
 escaped Mr. G.'s acute observation is not less remarkable 
 than that he should overlook the flaw in James's gene- 
 rosity, of which the outward credit is allowed to rest with 
 himself, but of which the real cost is paid by one of the 
 noblest and most loyal of his subjects, the poor broken- 
 liearted Earl of Huntley. 
 
 But it is not on the characters of either James or Henry 
 that the reader's attention will soon learn to rest. Hvmt- 
 ley, Dalyell, the Lady Katherine Gordon, and Jane 
 Douglas, are four such creations as we might almost 
 
 Q 2
 
 ( 228 ) 
 
 imagine the modem magician of the north to have sha- 
 dowed forth, but which under his hands would have ex- 
 panded into a breadth and depth of effect, which it is 
 no derogation to say that the genius of Fori powerful 
 and might}- as it is, was incapable of giving. The very 
 first speech of Huntley — his fluctuation between a sense 
 of real and artificial greatness, emd the honest heart 
 which finally throws the casting weight into the right 
 scale, wins for him a regard which his strong parental 
 feelings, his blunt bluff language, and that strong sense 
 of right which, even in scenes most trjing to a father's 
 heart, is sure to gain a final victory over his feehngs 
 and prejudices, maintain undiminished, or rather con- 
 tinue to increase, till the very close of the drama. The 
 personal charms of his daughter, the Lady Katherine 
 Gordon, have been consecrated even in the page of his- 
 tory : "the name of the\Miite Rose." as Bacon prettily 
 observes, '• which had been given to her husband's false 
 title, having been continued to her true beauty."' But 
 outward beauty was the least recommendation of Hunt- 
 ley's daughter. With such filial feelings as the Lady 
 Katherine possessed^ the honied accents of Warbeck's 
 tongue, and the princely fascinations of his language 
 may be supposed to have gained a readier conquest than 
 strict consistency admitted : but if she sinks at all in her 
 character as a davighter, it is only to rise in her character 
 as a wife ; a more perfect specimen of conjugal tenderness 
 and constancy than the Lady Katherine exhibits will not 
 easily be found, and that Ford should have disfigured this 
 fine picture by a debasing trait for which there was no oc-
 
 ( 229 ) 
 
 casion, and which he must have known to he at variance 
 with iiistovical facts,* is one of those pieces of gratuitous 
 folly for which the mind 4s at a loss to account. His 
 judgment did not thus betray him in delineating her 
 wedded lord. The character of Warbeck is maintained 
 with admirable consistency throughout. He vitters on all 
 occasions the language of a prince and a Plantagenet. '' No 
 colloquies, no side-speeches," as Mr. G. justly observer, 
 " are allowed to compromise his pubUc assertions." When 
 the Scottish king grows "frosty and wayward," when the 
 treacherous Prion's tongue is leaning to the weak part of 
 his story — in the utmost ^vreck of his fortimes and his hopes 
 — in imprisonment, and at the axe's edge, his identity 
 ^vith the Duke of York is never suffered to betray itself in 
 a single thought or expression. 
 
 "If? U I IV ill appear? 
 Appear a prince ? Death throttle such deceits 
 Even in their birth of utterance ! — Ciused cozenage 
 Of tmst! — You make me mad. 'Twere best, it seems, 
 That I should tiu*n impostor to myself, 
 Be mine o^^^l counterfeit, belie the tnith 
 Of my dear mother's womb, the sacred bed 
 Of a prince murther'd, and a living baffled." 
 
 Mr. Giflbrd's testimony to the humbler characters in 
 this drama, though sufficiently encomiastic, is much too 
 valuable to be omitted. " In most of Ford's tragedies 
 the trivial and comic personages are poorly drawn : if 
 
 * See notes in pp. 325, 341.
 
 ( 230 ) 
 
 they attempt to be witty, they usually fall into low buf- 
 foonery ; and if they aim at a scene of mirth, are sm-e 
 to create sadness or disgust. The low characters of this 
 play do neither. They are unifonnly sustained : their 
 language, though technical, is not repidsive, and the 
 style of that ivise piece of foi^mality, the Mayor of Cork, 
 who does not venture on one positive expression from 
 first to last, is not only supported Anth undeviating skill, 
 but rendered really amusing."
 
 TO 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 WILLIAM CAVENDISH, 
 
 EARL OF NEWCASTLE, VLSCOUNT MANSFIELD, LORD 
 BOLSOVER AND OGLE.* 
 
 MY LORD, 
 
 Out of the darkness of a former age, (enlightened 
 by a late both learned and an honourable pen,)f 
 I have endeavoured to personate a great attempt, 
 
 * " William Cavendish, (nephew to the first Earl of De- 
 vonshire) Lord Ogle," Collins says, "jure materno, was born 
 in the jear 1592, and was early in favour with James I., by 
 whom he was made a knight of the Bath, in 1610, and created 
 a peer by the title of Viscount Mansfield, in 1623. He con- 
 tinued in favour with Charles I., who created him Earl of 
 Newcastle-upon-Tyne, in 1628, and Marquis six years after- 
 wards. In 1638 the king assigned him the oSice of governor 
 to the Prince of Wales." For more than half a century the 
 house of this distinguished nobleman was open to every man 
 of genius and learning. He was more particularly the friend 
 and munificent patron of Ben Jonson, whose connexion with 
 the family appears to have been of long and close continu- 
 ance, and whose assistance was called for by them on all oc- 
 casions of mirth or melancholy, whether in the supply of mo- 
 numental inscriptions, or in furnishing interludes for those 
 splendid entertainments which his patron was accustomed to 
 give, and which appear to have been the astonishment of the 
 times. " God be thanked," says the Earl of Clarendon em- 
 
 t learned and honourable pen,] that of the great Lord 
 
 Bacon. He alludes to his " History of King Henry VII." — 
 
 GiFFORD.
 
 232 DEDICATION. 
 
 and in it, a greater danger. In other labours you 
 may read actions of antiquity discoursed ; in this 
 abridgment, find the actors themselves discoursing ; 
 in some kind practised as well ivhat to speak, as 
 
 phatically, when mentioning that which the Eail gave to 
 Charles I. on his journey into Scotland, " God be thanked, 
 that though this stupendous entertainment might too much 
 whet the appetite of others to excess, no man ever after in 
 those days imitated it." For an account of the public ser- 
 vices of the Earl of Newcastle, for proofs of his devotion and 
 unshaken fidelity to his royal and unfortunate master, the 
 reader is referred to the pages of the same excellent historian. 
 A long and elaborate character of the Earl will be found in 
 the second volume, from which we extract such passages as 
 serve to show his attachment to literature and the fine arts. 
 
 " He was a very fine gentleman, active, and full of courage, 
 and most accomplished in those qualities of horsemanship, 
 dancing, and fencing, which accompany a good breeding, in 
 which his delight was. Besides that, he was amorous in 
 poetry and music, to which he indulged the greatest part of 
 his time ; and nothing could have tempted him out of those 
 paths of pleasure, which he enjoyed in a full and ample for- 
 tune, but honour, and ambition to serve the king when he 
 saw him in distress, and abandoned by most of those who were 
 in the highest degree obliged to him and by him." 
 
 " In all actions of the field he was still present, and never 
 absent in any battle ; in all which he gave instances of an in- 
 vincible courage and fearlessness in danger, in which the ex- 
 posing himself notoriously did sometimes change the fortune 
 of the day, when his troops began to give ground. Such 
 articles of action were no sooner over, than he retired to his 
 delightful company, music, or his softer pleasures, to all 
 which he was so indulgent, and to his ease, that he would 
 not be interrupted upon what occasion soever, insomuch as he 
 sometimes denied admission to the chiefest officers of the army, 
 even to General King himself, for two days together, from 
 whence many inconveniences fell out." — History of the Rebel- 
 lion, vol. ii b. 8.
 
 DEDICATION. 233 
 
 speaking why to do. Your lordship is a most com- 
 petent judge, in expressions of such credit ; com- 
 missioned by your known abihty in examining, 
 and enabled by your knowledge in determining, 
 the monuments of Time.* Eminent titles may, 
 indeed, inform who their owners are, not often 
 what. To your's the addition of that information 
 in both, cannot in any application be observed 
 flattery ; the authority being established by truth. 
 I can only acknowledge the errors in writing, mine 
 own ; the worthiness of the subject written being 
 a perfection in the story, and of it. The custom of 
 your lordship's entertainments (even to strangers) 
 is rather an example than a fashion : in which 
 consideration I dare not profess a curiosity : but 
 am only studious that your lordship will please, 
 amongst such as best honour your goodness, to 
 admit into your noble construction, 
 
 John Ford. 
 
 * The monuments of Time.] i. e. such as are destined to live 
 to future ages ; a compliment somewhat too high even for this 
 great and good man, whose judgment in matters of mere liter- 
 ature never possessed that commanding influence which the 
 grateful poet seems inclined to endow him with. — Gifford.
 
 DEAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Henry VII. 
 
 Lord Dam^beny. 
 
 Sir William Stanley, Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 Earl of Oxford. 
 
 Earl of Surrey. 
 
 Fox, Bishop of Durham. 
 
 Urswick, Chaplain to the King. 
 
 Sir Robert Clifford. 
 
 Lambert Simnel. 
 
 Hialas, a Spanish Agent. 
 
 James IV. King of Scotland. 
 Earl of Huntley. 
 Earl of Crawford. 
 Lord Dalyell. 
 Marchmont, a Herald. 
 
 Perkin Warbeck. 
 
 Stephen Frion, his Secretary. 
 
 John A-Water, Mayor of Cork. 
 
 Heron, a Mercer. 
 
 Sketon, a Tailor. 
 
 AsTLEY, a Scrivener.
 
 '336 DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 
 
 Lady Katherixe Gordon. 
 
 Countess of Crawford. 
 
 Jane Douglas, Lady Katherine's Attendant. 
 
 Sheriff, Constables, Officers, Guards, Serving-7nen, 
 Masquers, and Soldiers. 
 
 Scene — Partly in England, partly in Scotland.
 
 PERKIN WARBECK. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — JVestminster. 
 
 The Royal Presence- Chamber. 
 
 Enter King Henry, supported to the Throne by the 
 Bishop of Durham and Sir William Stanley, 
 Earl of Oxford, Earl of Surrey, and Lord 
 Dawbeney. — A Guard. 
 
 K. Hen. Still to be haunted, still to be pursued, 
 
 Still to be frighted with false apparitions 
 
 Of pageant majesty, and new-coin'd greatness. 
 
 As if we were a mockery king in state, 
 
 Only ordain'd to lavish sweat and blood. 
 
 In scorn and laughter, to the ghosts of York, 
 
 Is all below our merits ; yet, my lords, 
 
 My friends and counsellors, yet we sit fast 
 
 In our own royal birth-right : the rent face 
 
 And bleeding wounds of England's slaughter'd 
 
 people. 
 Have been by us, as by the best physician, 
 At last both thoroughly cured, and set in safety ; 
 And yet, for all this glorious work of peace, 
 Ourself is scarce secure.
 
 '23S PERKIN WAREECK. ACT I. 
 
 Dur. The rage of malice 
 Conjures fresh spirits with the spells of York. 
 For ninety years ten English kings and princes, 
 Threescore great dukes and earls, a thousand lords 
 And valiant knights, two hundred fifty thousand 
 Of English suhjects have, in civil wars, 
 Been sacrificed to an uncivil thirst 
 Of discord and ambition: this hot vengeance 
 Of the just Powers above, to utter ruin 
 And desolation, had reign'd on, but that 
 Mercy did gently sheath the sword of justice, 
 In lending to this blood-shrunk commonwealth 
 A new soul, new birth, in your sacred person. 
 
 Da?v. Edward the Fourth, after a doubtful for- 
 tune, 
 Yielded to nature, leaving to his sons, 
 Edward and Richard, the inheritance 
 Of a most bloody purchase : these young princes, 
 Richard the tyrant, their unnatural uncle, 
 Forced to a violent grave; so just is Heaven I 
 Him hath your majesty, by your own arm 
 Divinely strengthen'd, pull'd from his Boar's sty,* 
 And struck the black usurper to a carcase. 
 Nor doth the house of York decay in honours, 
 Though Lancaster doth repossess his right; 
 For Edward's daughter is king Henry's queen : 
 A blessed union, and a lasting blessing 
 For this poor panting island, if some shreds, 
 
 * pull'd from his Boar's sty.] This contemptuous 
 
 allusion to the armorial bearings of Richard III. is very com- 
 mon in our old writers. Shakespeare has it frequently in his 
 tragedy of this Usurper. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 239 
 
 Some useless remnant of the house of York 
 Grudge not at this content. 
 
 Oxf. Margaret of Burgundy 
 Blows fresh coals of division. 
 
 Siir. Painted fires, 
 Without or heat to scorch or light to cherish. 
 
 Daw. York's headless trunk, her father ; Ed- 
 ward's fate, 
 Her brother, king ; the smothering of her nephews 
 By tyrant Gloster, brother to her nature. 
 Nor Gloster's own confusion, (all decrees 
 Sacred in heaven) can move this woman-monster, 
 But that she still, from the unbottom'd mine 
 Of devilish policies, doth vent the ore 
 Of troubles and sedition. 
 
 Oxf. In her age — 
 Great sir, observe the wonder — she grows fruitful, 
 Who, in her strength of youth, was always barren: 
 Nor are her births as other mothers' are, 
 At nine or ten months' end ; she has been with 
 
 child 
 Eight, or seven years at least ; whose twins being- 
 born, 
 (A prodigy in nature,) even the youngest 
 Is fifteen years of age at his first entrance, 
 As soon as known i' th' world tall striplings, 
 
 strong 
 And able to give battle unto kings ; 
 Idols of Yorkish malice. 
 
 \_Daw.~\ And but idols ; 
 A steely hammer crushes them to pieces. 
 
 K. Hen. Lambert, the eldest, lords, is in our 
 service, 
 Preferr'd by an officious care of duty
 
 240 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT I. 
 
 From the scullery to a falconer; strange ex- 
 ample ! 
 Which shews the difference between noble na- 
 tures 
 And the base-born : but for the upstart duke, 
 The new-revived York, Edward's second son, 
 Murder'd long since i' th' Tower ; he lives again, 
 And vows to be your king. 
 
 Stan. The throne is fill'd, sir. 
 
 K. Hen. True, Stanley ; and the lawful heir sits 
 on it : 
 A guard of angels, and the holy prayers 
 Of loyal subjects are a sure defence 
 Against all force and counsel of intrusion. — 
 But now, my lords, put case, some of our nobles, 
 Our Great Ones, should give countenance and 
 
 courage 
 To trim duke Perk in ; you will all confess 
 Our bounties have unthriftily been scatter'd 
 Amongst unthankful men. 
 
 Daw. Unthankful beasts, 
 Dogs, villains, traitors! 
 
 K. Hen. Dawbeney, let the guilty 
 Keep silence ; I accuse none, though I know 
 Foreign attempts against a state and kingdom 
 Are seldom without some great friends at home. 
 
 Stan. Sir, if no other abler reasons else 
 Of duty or allegiance could divert 
 A headstrong resolution, yet the dangers 
 So lately past by men of blood and fortunes 
 In Lambert Simnel's party,* must command 
 
 * Simners party,] Simnel's party (for he himself was a mere 
 puppet in the hands of the Earl of Lincoln) was utterly de- 
 feated in the battle of Newark.
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 241 
 
 More than a fear, a terror to conspiracy. 
 
 The high-born Lincohi, son to De la Pole, 
 
 The earl of Kildare,([the] lord Geraldine,) 
 
 Francis lord Lovell, and the German baron, 
 
 Bold Martin Swart,* with Broughton and the rest, 
 
 (Most spectacles of ruin, some of mercy) 
 
 Are precedents sufficient to forewarn 
 
 The present times, or any that live in them, 
 
 What folly, nay, what madness 'twere to lift 
 
 A finger up in all defence but your's, 
 
 Which can be but impostorous in a title. 
 
 K. Hen. Stanley, we know thou lov'st us, and 
 thy heart 
 Is figured on thy tongue; nor think we less 
 Of any's here. — How closely we have hunted 
 This cub (since he unlodg'd) from hole to hole, 
 Your knowledge is our chronicle ; first Ireland, 
 The common stage of novelty, presented 
 This gewgaw to oppose us ; there the Geraldines 
 And Butlers once again stood in support 
 Of this colossic statue: Charles of France 
 Thence call'd him into his protection. 
 Dissembled him the lawful heir of England ; 
 Yet this was all but French dissimulation. 
 
 * " Bold Martin Swart," one of the most celebrated of 
 those soldiers of fortune who, in that age, traversed Europe 
 with a band of mercenaries, ready to fight for the first person 
 that would pay them, fell in this action, after "performing 
 bravely," as the noble historian says, " with his Germans." 
 Lambert was taken prisoner. Henry saved his life, for which 
 Bacon produces many good reasons, and advanced him first 
 to the dignity of a turn-spit in his own kitchen, and subse- 
 quently to that of an under-falconer. — Gifford. 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT I. 
 
 Aiming at peace ^vith us ; which, being granted 
 
 On lionourable terms on our part, suddenly 
 
 This smoke of straw was pack'd from France 
 
 again, 
 T' infect some grosser air : and now we learn 
 (Maugre the malice of the bastard Nevill, 
 Sir* Taylor, and a hundred English rebels) 
 They're all retired to Flanders, to the dam 
 That nursed this eager whelp, ^Margaret of Bur- 
 gundy. 
 But we will hunt him there too I we will hunt him. 
 Hunt him to death, even in the beldam's closet, 
 Though the archduke were his buckler I 
 
 S'j.r. She has styled him, 
 " The fair white rose of England." 
 
 Dcnv. Jolly gentleman ! 
 More iit to be a swabber to the Flemish, 
 After a drunken surfeit. 
 
 Enter Ursvn'ick. 
 
 Urs. Gracious sovereign, 
 Please you peruse this paper. \_The ki/ig reads. 
 
 Dur. The king's countenance 
 Gathers a sprightly blood. 
 
 Dcnv. Good news; believe it. 
 
 A'. Hen. Urswick, thineear.-j- — Thou hast lodged 
 him ? 
 
 * Sh- Taylor is a very unusual method of designating a 
 kniglit-; but perhaps the king does it in scora. — Gifford. 
 
 t Urswick, thine ea?-.] Christopher Urswick was at this time 
 almoner to the king. He had been chaplain to the Countess of 
 Richir^ond, who afterwards married Thomas Lord Stanley, the 
 elder brother of Sir W. Stanley, the person here implicated ;
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 243 
 
 Ufs. Strongly safe, sir. 
 
 K. Hen. Enough, — is Barley come too ? 
 
 6^5-. No, my lord. 
 
 K. Hen. No matter — phew ! he's but a running 
 weed. 
 At pleasure to be pluck'd up by the roots ; 
 But more of this anon. — I have bethought me. 
 My lords, for reasons v/hich you shall partake, 
 It is our pleasure to remove our court 
 From Westminster to the Tower:* Vve will lodge 
 
 and was trusted by this nobleman with the correspondence be- 
 tween him and Richmond (Henry VII.), and therefore, per- 
 haps, much in his confidence and esteem. His eager impor- 
 tunity to betray the brother of his former patron argues but 
 little for his character ; but in those days much consistency is 
 rarely to be found. Weaver, who gives his epitaph, (by which 
 it appears that he possessed and resigned several high stations 
 in the church,) concludes thus — " Here let him rest, as an ex- 
 ample for all unjust prelates to admire, and for few or none to 
 imitate." — The news which Urswick now communicated was 
 evidently that of his having privately brought the double traitor, 
 Clifford, the confidential agent of Warbeck's party, to Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Sir Robert Clifford and ^Master William Barley, Lord Bacon 
 says, " were the only two who adventured their fortunes openly 
 — sent, indeed, from the party of the conspirators here to un- 
 derstand the truth of what passed in Flanders, and not without 
 some help of money from hence, to be provisionally delivered, 
 if Ihey were satisfied that there was truth in these pretences." 
 
 Clifford, it appears, was soon won to give up his employers. 
 Master Barley, for whom Henry next inquires, did not betray 
 his cause quite so speedily, nor trust quite so readily to the 
 king's clemency as Clifford : in the end, however, he also re- 
 turned to England, and was pardoned. — Gifford. 
 
 * Lord Bacon well accounts for this sudden resolution of 
 the king. " The place of the Tower was chosen to that end, 
 that if Clifford should accuse any of the great ones, they might.
 
 244 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT I. 
 
 This very night there ; give, lord chamberlain, 
 A present order for it. 
 
 Stan. The Tower! — \_Aside.'\ — I shall, sir. 
 K. Hen, Come, my true, best, fast friends, these 
 clouds will vanish, 
 The sun will shine at full ; the heavens are clear- 
 ing. \_Flourish. — Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Edinhurgh. — An Apartment in Lord 
 Huntley's House. 
 
 Enter Huntley and Dalyell.* 
 
 Hunt. You trifle time, sir. 
 
 Dal. Oh, my noble lord, 
 You construe my griefs to so hard a sense, 
 That where the text is argument of pity. 
 Matter of earnest love, your gloss corrupts it 
 With too much ill-placed mirth. 
 
 Hunt. " Much mirth," lord Dalyell ! 
 Not so, I vow. Observe me, sprightly gallant. 
 I know thou art a noble lad, a handsome, 
 Descended from an honourable ancestry, 
 
 without suspicion, or noise, or sending abroad of warrants, be 
 presently attached : the court and prison being within the 
 cincture of one wall." — Gifford. 
 
 * There were two persons of this name, William and Ro- 
 bert Dalyell, grandsons of Sir John Dalyell (or Daliell as 
 Ford writes) either of whom, from the date, might be meant 
 for the character here introduced. Of the former nothing is 
 recorded. The latter, Douglas says, " was killed at Dum- 
 fries, in a skirmish between Maxwell and Crichton, July. 
 1508.'' — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 245 
 
 Forward and active, dost resolve to wrestle, 
 
 And ruffle in the world by noble actions. 
 
 For a brave mention to posterity : 
 
 I scorn not thy affection to my daughter, 
 
 Not I, by St. Andrew ; but this bugbear, honour. 
 
 So hourly chats and tattles in mine ear, 
 
 The piece of royalty* that is stitch'd up 
 
 In my Kate's blood, that 'tis as dangerous 
 
 For thee, young lord, to perch so near an eaglet, 
 
 As foolish for my gravity to admit it : 
 
 I have spoke all at once. 
 
 Dal. Sir, with this truth, 
 You mix such wormwood, that you leave no hope 
 For my disorder'd palate e'er to relish 
 A wholesome taste again : alas ! I know, sir, 
 What an unequal distance lies between 
 Great Huntley's daughter's birth and Dalyell's for- 
 tunes ; 
 She's the king's kinswoman, placed near the crown, 
 A princess of the blood, and I a subject. 
 
 Hunt. Right ; but a noble subject ; put in that 
 too. 
 
 Dal. I could add more; and in the rightest line, 
 Derive my pedigree from Adam Mure, 
 A Scottish knight ; whose daughter was the mo- 
 ther 
 To him who first begot the race of Jameses, 
 That sway the sceptre to this very day. 
 But kindreds are not ours, when once the date 
 
 * George, the eldest son of Alexander Seton, and second 
 Earl of Huntley, (the person here meant,) married Anabella, 
 daughter of James I. : hence " the piece of royalty that was 
 stitched up in his Kate's blood."
 
 246 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT I. 
 
 Of many years have snallow'd up the memory 
 Of their originals ; so pasture- fields, 
 Neighbouring too near the ocean, are supp'd up 
 And known no more : for stood I in my first 
 And native greatness, if my princely mistress 
 Vouclisafed me not her servant, 'twere as good 
 I were reduced to clownery, to nothing. 
 As to a throne of wonder. 
 
 Hunt. Now, by Saint Andrew, 
 A spark of metal ! he has a brave fire in him. 
 I would he had my daughter, so I knew 't not. 
 But 't must not be so, must not. — [Aside?j^ — Well, 
 
 young lord, 
 This will not do yet ; if the girl be headstrong, 
 And will not hearken to good counsel, steal her, 
 And run away with her ; dance* galliards, do, 
 And frisk about the world to learn the languages : 
 'Twill be a thriving trade ; you may set up by't. 
 Dal. With pardon, noble Gordon, this disdain 
 Suits not your daughter's virtue, or my constancy. 
 Hunt. You're angry — would he would beat me, 
 
 I deserve it. \jis'ide. 
 
 Dalyell, thy hand, we are friends : follow thy 
 
 courtship, 
 Take thine own time and speak ; if thou prevail'st 
 With passion, more than I can with my counsel. 
 She's thine ; nay, she is thine : 'tis a fair match. 
 Free and allow'd. I'll only use my tongue, 
 Without a father's power ; use thou thine : 
 Self do, self have — no more words ; win and wear 
 
 her. 
 
 * A lively, leaping, nimble Fiench dance ; from gaiiiard, 
 gay. — Nares'.-> Glossary.
 
 SCENE ir. PERKIN "SVARBECK. 247 
 
 Dal. You bless me ; I am now too poor in 
 thanks 
 To pay the debt I owe you. 
 
 Hunt. Nay, thou'rt poor enough. — 
 I love his spirit infinitely. — Look ye, 
 She comes : to her now, to her, to her ! 
 
 Enter Katherine and Jane. 
 
 Kath. The king commands your presence, sir. 
 
 Hunt. The gallant — 
 This, this, this lord, this servant, Kate, of yours, 
 Desires to be your master. 
 
 Kath. I acknowledge him 
 A worthy friend of mine. 
 
 Dal. Your humblest creature. 
 
 Hunt. So, so ; the game's a-foot, I'm in cold 
 hunting, 
 The hare and hounds are parties. [_Aside. 
 
 Dal. Princely lady. 
 How most unworthy I am to employ 
 My services, in honour of your virtues, 
 How hopeless my desires are to enjoy 
 Your fair opinion, and much more your love ; 
 Are only matters of despair, unless 
 Your goodness gives large warrants to my bold- 
 ness, 
 My feeble-wing'd ambition. 
 
 Hunt. This is scurvy. \_Aside. 
 
 Kath. My lord, I interrupt you not. 
 
 Hunt. Indeed ! 
 Now on my life she'll court him. — \_Aside.'] — Nay, 
 nay, on, sir. 
 
 Dal. Oft have I tuned the lesson of my sorrows
 
 248 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT I. 
 
 To sweeten discord, and enrich your pity, 
 But all in vain : here had my comforts sunk 
 And never ris'n again, to tell a story 
 Of the despairing lover, had not now, 
 Even now, the earl your father 
 
 Hunt. He means me sure. [^As'idc. 
 
 Dal. After some fit disputes of your condition, 
 Your highness and my lowness, given a licence 
 Which did not more embolden, than encourage 
 My faulting tongue. 
 
 Hunt. How, how ? how's that ? embolden ? 
 Encourage ? I encourage ye I d'ye hear, sir ? 
 A subtle trick, a quaint one. — Will you hear. 
 
 man ? 
 What did I say to you? come, come, to th' point. 
 
 Kath. It shall not need, my lord. 
 
 Hunt. Then hear me, Kate! — 
 Keep you on that hand of her: I on this. — 
 Thou stand'st between a father and a suitor, 
 Both striving for an interest in thy heart : 
 He courts thee for affection, I for duty; 
 He as a servant pleads ; but by the privilege 
 Of nature, though I might command, mv care 
 Shall only counsel what it shall not force. 
 Thou canst but make one choice: the ties of mar- 
 riage 
 Are tenures, not at will, but during life. 
 Consider whose thou art, and who : a princess, 
 A princess of the royal blood of Scotland, 
 In the full spring of youth, and fresh in beauty. 
 The king that sits upon the throne is young. 
 And yet unmarried, forward in attempts 
 On any least occasion, to endanger 
 His person ; wherefore. Kate, as I am confident
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WAEBECK. 249 
 
 Thou dar'st not wrong thy birth and education 
 By yielding to a common servile rage 
 Of female wantonness, so I am confident 
 Thou wilt proportion all thy thoughts to side* 
 Thy equals, if not equal thy superiors. 
 My lord of Dalyell, young in years, is old 
 In honours, but nor eminent in titles 
 [N]or in estate, that may support or add to 
 The expectation of thy fortunes. Settle 
 Thy will and reason by a strength of judgment, 
 For, in a word, 1 give thee freedom ; take it. 
 If equal fates have not ordain'd to pitch 
 Thy hopes above my height, let not thy passion 
 Lead thee to sink mine honour in oblivion : 
 Thou art thine own; I have done.-j' 
 
 Dal. Oh! you are all oracle, 
 The living stock and root of truth and wisdom. 
 
 Kath. My worthiest lord and father, the indul- 
 gence 
 Of your sweet composition, thus commands 
 The lowest of obedience ; you have granted 
 A liberty so large, that I want skill 
 To choose without direction of example : 
 From which I daily learn, by how much more 
 You take off from the roughness of a father, 
 By so much more I am engaged to tender 
 The duty of a daughter. For respects 
 
 * i. e. to equal, to stand in equal place with. 
 
 t I have done.} And done well too ! What authority the 
 poet had for the histrionic character of this nobleman, I know 
 not ; but if the princely family of the Gordons ever numbered 
 such a person as this among their ancestors, let them be justly 
 proud of him ; for neither on the stage, nor in the great drama 
 of life, will there be easily found a character to put in compe- 
 tition with him.— Gifford,
 
 250 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT I. 
 
 Of biitli, degrees of title, and advancement, 
 I nor admire nor slight them; all my studies 
 Shall ever aim at this perfection only, 
 To live and die so, that you may not blush 
 In any course of mine to own me yours. 
 
 Hunt. Kate, Kate, thou grow'st upon my heart, 
 like peace, 
 Creating every other hour a jubilee. 
 
 Kath. To you, my lord of Dalyell, I address 
 Some few remaining words : the general fame 
 That speaks your merit, even in vulgar tongues. 
 Proclaims it clear; but in the best, a precedent. 
 
 Hunt. Good wench, good girl, i' faith! 
 
 Kath. For my part, trust me, 
 I value mine own worth at higher rate, 
 'Cause you are pleas'd to prize it : if the stream 
 Of your protested service (as you term it) 
 Run in a constancy, more than a compliment, 
 It shall be my delight, that worthy love 
 Leads you to worthy actions; and these guide you 
 Richly to wed an honourable name : 
 So every virtuous praise, in after-ages. 
 Shall be your heir, and I, in your brave mention, 
 Be chronicled the mother of that issue. 
 That glorious issue. 
 
 Hunt. Oh, that I were young again! 
 She'd make me court proud danger, and suck spirit 
 From reputation. 
 
 Kath. To the present motion, 
 Here's all that I dare answer: when a ripeness 
 Of more experience, and some use of time. 
 Resolves to treat the freedom of my youth 
 Upon exchange of troths, I shall desire 
 No surer credit of a match with virtue
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 251 
 
 Than such as lives in you; mean time, my hopes 
 
 are 
 Preserv'd secure, in having you a friend. 
 
 Dal. You are a blessed lady, and instruct 
 Ambition not to soar a farther flight, 
 Than in the perfum'd air of your soft voice. — 
 My noble lord of Huntley, you have lent 
 A full extent of bounty to this parley; 
 And for it shall command your humlilest servant. 
 
 Hunt. Enough: we are still friends, and will 
 continue 
 A hearty love. — Oh, Kate! thou art mine own. — 
 No more; — my lord of Crawford. 
 
 Enter Crawford.* 
 
 Craw, From the king 
 I come, my lord of Huntley, who in council 
 Requires your present aid. 
 
 Hunt. Some weighty business? 
 
 Craw. A secretary from a duke of York, 
 The second son to the late English Edward, 
 Conceal'd, I know^ not where, these fourteen years, 
 Craves audience from our master ; and 'tis said 
 The duke himself is following to the court. 
 
 Hunt. Duke upon duke ! 'tis well, 'tis well ; 
 here's bustling 
 For majesty ; — my lord, I will along with you. 
 
 * Enter Crawford.] This is probably (for I speak with 
 great hesitation on the subject) John, second son of David, 
 fourth Earl of Crawford. If I am right in this conjecture, he 
 stood in some kind of relationship to Huntley, his elder bro- 
 ther Alexander (dead at this period) having married Lady 
 Jane Gordon, the earl's second daughter. — Gifiord.
 
 252 PERKIN WARBECK. 
 
 L 
 
 Craw. My service, noble lady. 
 Kath. Please you walk, sir? 
 Dal. " Times have their changes ; sorrow makes 
 men wise ; 
 The sun itself must set as well as rise ;" 
 Then, why not I ? Fair madam, I wait on you. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE TIL 
 
 London. — An Apartment in the Tower. 
 
 Enter the Bishop of Durham, Sir Robert Clif- 
 ford, and Urswick. — Lights. 
 
 Dur. You find, Sir Robert Clifford, how se- 
 curely 
 King Henry, our great master, doth commit 
 His person to your loyalty ; you taste 
 His bounty and his mercy even in this ; 
 That at a time of night so late, a place 
 So private as his closet, he is pleas'd 
 To admit you to his favour : do not falter 
 In your discovery ; but as you covet 
 A liberal grace, and pardon for your follies. 
 So labour to deserve it, by laying open 
 All plots, all persons, that contrive against it. 
 
 Urs. Remember not the witchcraft, or the magic, 
 The charms and incantations, which the sorceress 
 Of Burgundy hath cast upon your reason : 
 Sir Robert, be your own friend now, discharge 
 Your conscience freely ; all of such as love you, 
 Stand sureties for your honesty and truth.
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 253 
 
 Take heed you do not dally with the king, 
 He is wise as he is gentle. 
 
 Clif. I am miserable, 
 If Henry be not merciful. 
 
 Urs. The king comes. 
 
 Eiiter King Henry. 
 
 K. Hen. Clifford ! 
 
 Clif. (Kneels.) Let my weak knees rot on the 
 earth. 
 If I appear as lep'rous in my treacheries, 
 Before your royal eyes, as to my own 
 I seem a monster, by my breach of truth. 
 
 K. Hen. Clifford, stand up ; for instance of thy 
 safety, 
 I offer thee my hand. 
 
 Clif. A sovereign balm 
 For my bruis'd soul, I kiss it with a greediness. 
 
 [Kisses the Kings hand, and rises. 
 Sir, you are a just master, but I 
 
 K. Hen. Tell me. 
 Is every circumstance thou hast set down 
 With thine own hand, within this paper, true ( 
 Is it a sure intelligence of all 
 The progress of our enemies' intents. 
 Without corruption ? 
 
 Clif. True, as I wish heaven ; 
 Or my infected honour white again. 
 
 K. Hen. We know all, Clifford, fully, since this 
 meteor, 
 This airy apparition first discradled 
 From Tournay into Portugal ; and thence 
 Advanced his fiery blaze for adoration
 
 254> PERKIN WARBECK. ACT I. 
 
 To th' superstitious Irish ; since the beard 
 Of this wild comet, conjured into France, 
 Sparkled in antick flames in Charles his court ; 
 But shrunk again from thence, and, hid in dark- 
 ness, 
 Stole into Flanders, [there embark'd his followers, 
 And made for England,] flourishing the rags* 
 Of painted power on the shore of Kent, 
 ^Vhence he Avas beaten back with shame and 
 
 scorn, 
 Contempt, and slaughter of some naked outlaws : 
 But tell me, what new course now shapes duke 
 Perkin ? 
 Clif. For Ireland, mighty Henry ; so instructed 
 By Stephen Frion,']- sometimes secretary 
 In the French tongue unto your sacred excellence, 
 But Perkin's tutor now. 
 
 A'. Hen. A subtle villain 
 That Frion, Prion, — you, my lord of Durham, 
 Knew well the man. 
 
 Dar. French, both in heart and actions. 
 
 * Stole into Flanders, Jiourishing the rags, (Sfc] In this ex- 
 pedition Perkin did not land, and those of his followers whom 
 he sent on shore at Sandwich, were defeated by the Kentish 
 men. The prisoners, to the amount of 150 (mostly foreigners), 
 were executed — " Hanged,'' as Lord Bacon says, " upon the 
 sea-coast of Kent, Sussex, and Norfolk, for sea-marks, or 
 light-houses, to warn Perkin's people to avoid the coast." — 
 
 GlFFORD. 
 
 t Stephen Frion.] Frion had been seduced from Henry's ser- 
 vice by the Duchess of Burgundy ; and was a very active agent 
 in the great drama which she was now preparing to bring for- 
 ward. " He followed Perkin's fortunes for a long while," 
 Bacon says, " and was indeed his principal counsellor and 
 instrument in all his proceedings.'" — GirrORD.
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 255 
 
 K. Hen. Some Irish heads work in this mine of 
 treason ; 
 Speak them. 
 
 Clif. Not any of the best : your fortune 
 Hath dull'd their spleens. Never had counterfeit 
 Such a confused rabble of lost bankrupts 
 For counsellors : first Heron, a broken mercer, 
 Then John a-Water, sometimes mayor of Cork, 
 Sketon a taylor, and a scrivener 
 Caird Astley: and whate'er these list to treat of, 
 Perkin must barken to ; but Frion, cunning 
 Above these dull capacities, still prompts him 
 To fly to Scotland, to young James the Fourth ; 
 And sue for aid to him : this is the latest 
 Of all their resolutions. 
 
 K. Hen. Still more Frion ! 
 Pestilent adder, he v/ill hiss out poison, 
 As dangerous as infectious — we must match 'em. 
 Clifford, thou hast spoke home, we give thee life : 
 But, Clifford, there are people of our own 
 Remain behind untold ; who are they, Clifford ? 
 Name those, and we are friends, and will to rest ; 
 'Tis thy last task. 
 
 Clif. Oh, sir, here I must break 
 A most unlawful oath to keep a just one. 
 
 K. Hen. Well, well, be brief, be brief. 
 
 Ci'f. The first in rank 
 Shall be John Ratcliffe, Lord Fitzwater, then 
 Sir Simon Mountford, and Sir Thomas Thwaites, 
 Witli William Dawbeney, Chessoner, Astwood, 
 Worslev, the dean of Paul's, two other friars. 
 And Robert Ratcliffe.* 
 
 * All these were seized, tried, and condemned for high- 
 treason : most of them perished upon the scaffold. W'orsley 
 and the two dominicans were spared. — GirroRc.
 
 ^56 PERKIN "WARBECK. ACT I. 
 
 K. Hen. Churchmen are turn'd devils. 
 These are the principal ? 
 
 Clif. One more remains 
 Unnam'd, whom I could willingly forget. 
 
 K. Hen. Ha, Clifford ! one more ? 
 
 Clif. Great sir, do not hear him ; 
 For when Sir William Stanley, your lord cliam- 
 
 berlain, 
 Shall come into the list, as he is chief, 
 I shall lose credit with you ; yet this lord, 
 Last named, is first against you. 
 
 K. Hen. Urswick, the light I 
 View well my face, sirs, is there blood left in it ' 
 
 Dur. You alter strangely, sir. 
 
 A'. Hen. Alter, lord bishop ! 
 Why, Clifford stabb'd me, or I dream'd he stabb'd 
 
 me. 
 Sirrah, it is a custom with the guilty 
 To think they set their own stains off, by laying 
 Aspersions on some nobler than themselves : 
 Lies wait on treasons, as 1 find it here. 
 Thy life again is forfeit : I recal 
 My word of mercy, for I know thou dar'st 
 Repeat the name no more. 
 
 Clif. I dare, and once more. 
 Upon my knowledge, name Sir William Stanley. 
 Both in his counsel and his purse, the chief 
 Assistant to the feigned duke of York. 
 
 Dur. Most strange I 
 
 Urs. Most wicked I 
 
 A". Hen. Yet again, once more. 
 
 Clif. Sir William Stanley is your secret enemy. 
 And, if time fit, will openly profess it. 
 
 K. Hen. Sir William Stanley I Who ? Sir Wil- 
 liam Stanley I
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 257 
 
 My chamberlain, my counsellor, the love. 
 The pleasure of my court, my bosom friend. 
 The charge, and the controulment of my per- 
 son ; 
 The keys and secrets of my treasury ; 
 The all of all I am ! I am unhappy. 
 Misery of confidence, — let me turn traitor 
 To my own person, yield my sceptre up 
 To Edward's sister, and her bastard duke ! 
 Du7\ You lose your constant temper. 
 K. Hen. Sir William Stanley ! 
 O do not blame me ; he, 'twas only he 
 Who, having rescued me in Bosworth field 
 From Richard's bloody sword, snatch'd from his 
 
 head 
 The kingly crow^n, and placed it first on mine.* 
 He never fail'd me ; what have I deserv'd 
 To lose this good man's heart, or he his own ? 
 Urs. The night doth waste, this passion ill be- 
 comes you; 
 Provide against your danger. 
 
 K. Hen. Let it be so. 
 Urswick, command straight Stanley to his cham- 
 ber. 
 'Tis w^ell we are i' th' Tower ; set a guard on 
 him. 
 
 * Shakspeare thus notices the circumstance : — 
 
 " E?2fer Stanley bearing the croicn. 
 "Stanley. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit 
 thee ! 
 Lo here, this long usurped royalty 
 From the dead temples of this bloody wretch 
 Have I pluck'd off, to grace thy brows withal ; 
 Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it." — Richard III. 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT I. 
 
 Clifford, to bed ; you must lodge here to-night ; 
 We'll talk with you to-morrow. My sad soul 
 Divines strange troubles. 
 
 Daw. (within. ) Ho ! the king, the king I 
 I must have entrance. 
 
 A'. Hen. Dawbeny's voice ; admit him. 
 What new combustions huddle next, to keep 
 Our eyes from rest ? — the news ? 
 
 Enter Dawbeney. 
 
 Daw. Ten thousand Cornish, 
 Grudging to pay your subsidies, have gather'd 
 A head ; led by a blacksmith and a lawyer. 
 They make for London, and to them is join'd 
 Lord Audley : as they march, their number daily 
 Increases ; they are — 
 
 K. Hen. Rascals ! — talk no more ; 
 Such are not worthy of my thoughts to-night. 
 To bed — and if I cannot sleep, — I'll wake. — 
 When counsels fail, and there's in man no trust, 
 Even then, an arm from heaven fights for the just.
 
 ACT II. PERKIN WARBECK. 259 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Edinburgh. — The Presence- Chamber in the Palace. 
 
 Enter above, the Countess q/ Crawford, Lady Ka- 
 THERiNE, Jane, and other ladies. 
 
 Countess. Come, ladies, here's a solemn prepa- 
 ration 
 For entertainment of this English prince ; 
 The king intends grace more than ordinary ; 
 'Twere pity now, if he should prove a counterfeit. 
 Kath. Bless the young man, our nation would 
 be laugh'd at 
 For honest souls through Christendom ! m.y father 
 Hath a weak stomach to the business, madam. 
 But that the king must not be cross'd. 
 
 Countess. He brings 
 A goodly troop, they say, of gallants with him ; 
 But very modest people, for they strive not 
 To fame their names too much ; their godfathers 
 May be beholding to them, but their fathers 
 Scarce owe them thanks: they are disguised 
 princes,* 
 
 • they are disguised princes, Sscl The Countess 
 
 is pleased to be facetious. It appears, liowever, from better 
 authorities than those before us, that Perkin was very re- 
 spectably, not to say honourably, attended, on this occasion. 
 
 — GiFFORD. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT II. 
 
 Brought up it seems to honest trades ; no matter, 
 They will break forth in season. 
 
 Jane. Or break out ; 
 For most of them are broken by report. — \_Music. 
 The king I 
 
 Kath. Let us observe them and be silent. 
 
 A Flourish. — Enter King James, Huntley, Craw- 
 ford, Dalyell, and other Xoblemen. 
 
 K. Ja. The right of kings, my lords, extends 
 not only 
 To the safe conservation of their own, 
 But also to the aid of such allies. 
 As change of time and state hath oftentimes 
 Hurld down from careful crowns, to undergo 
 An exercise of sufterance in both fortunes ; 
 So English Richard, surnam'd Coeur-de-Lion, 
 So Robert Bruce, our royal ancestor, 
 Forced by the trial of the wrongs they felt, 
 Both sought, and found, supplies from foreign 
 
 kings. 
 To repossess their own ; then grudge not, lords, 
 A much distressed prince : king Charles of France, 
 And Maximilian of Bohemia, both 
 Have ratified his credit by their letters ; 
 Shall we then be distrustful ? No ; compassion 
 Is one rich jewel that shines in oiu- crown. 
 And we will have it shine there. 
 Hunt. Do your will, sir. 
 
 A'. Ja. The yoimg duke is at hand; Dalyell, 
 from us 
 First sreet him, and conduct him on; then Craw- 
 ford
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK, 261 
 
 Shall meet him next, and Huntley, last of all, 
 Present him to our arms. — {Exit Dal.) — Sound 
 
 sprightly music, 
 Whilst majesty encounters majesty. [Flourish. 
 
 Re-enter Dalyell, rvith Perkin Warbeck, fol- 
 lowed at a distance by Frion_, Heron, Sketon, 
 AsTLEY, and John a-Water. Crawford ad- 
 vances, and salutes Perkin at the door, and after- 
 wards Huntley, who presents him to the King ; 
 they embrace ; the Noblemen slightly salute his 
 followers. 
 
 War. Most high, most mighty king !* that now 
 there stands 
 Before your eyes, in presence of your peers, 
 A subject of the rarest kind of pity 
 That hath in any age touch'd noble hearts, 
 The vulgar story of a prince's ruin. 
 Hath made it too apparent : Europe knows, 
 And all the western world, what persecution 
 Hath raged in malice against us, sole heir 
 To the great throne of th' old Plantagenets. 
 How, from our nursery, we have been hurried 
 Unto the sanctuary, from the sanctuary 
 Forced to the prison, from the prison haled 
 By cruel hands, to the tormentor's fury, 
 
 * War. Most high, most mighty king! &;c.'\ This speech is 
 skilfully abridj^ed from the historian. When it could be done 
 with proper effect, the words are taken with no greater change 
 than was necessary for the metrical arrangement ; in other 
 places the poet is content with clothing the sentiments in his 
 own language ; but always with the original in view. — Gif- 
 
 FORD.
 
 ;262 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT 11. 
 
 Is register'd already in the volume 
 
 Of all men's tongues ; whose true relation draws 
 
 Compassion, melted into weeping eyes, 
 
 And bleeding souls : but our misfortunes since 
 
 Have rang'd a larger progress thro' strange lands, 
 
 Protected in our innocence by Heaven. 
 
 Edward the Fifth, our brother, in his tragedy, 
 
 Quench'd their hot thirst of blood, whose hire to 
 
 inurther 
 Paid them their wages of despair and horror ; 
 The softness of my childhood smiled upon 
 The roughness of their task, and robb'd them far- 
 ther 
 Of hearts to dare, or hands to execute. 
 Great king, they spared my life, the butchers 
 
 spared it! 
 Return'd the tyrant, my unnatural uncle, 
 A truth of my dispatch ; I was convey'd 
 With secrecy and speed to Tournay ; foster'd 
 By obscure means, taught to unlearn myself: 
 But as I grew in years, I grew in sense 
 Of fear and of disdain ; fear of the tyrant 
 Whose power swayd the throne then : when dis- 
 dain 
 Of living so unknown, in such a servile 
 And abject lowness, prompted me to thoughts 
 Of recollecting who I was, I shook off 
 My bondage, and made haste to let my aunt 
 Of Burgundy acknowledge me her kinsman ; 
 Heir to the crown of England, snatch'd by Henry 
 From Richard's head ; a thing scarce known i'th' 
 world. 
 K. J a. My lord, it stands not with your coun- 
 sel now
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 263 
 
 To fly upon invectives ; if you can 
 Make this apparent what you have discours'd, 
 In every circumstance, we will not study 
 An answer, but are ready in your cause. 
 
 War. You are a wise and just king, by the 
 
 powers 
 x\bove reserv'd, beyond all other aids, 
 To plant me in mine own inheritance : 
 To marry these tw o kingdoms in a love 
 Never to be divorced wiiile time is time. 
 As for the manner, first of my escape. 
 Of my conveyance next, of my life since, 
 The means, and persons who were instruments, 
 Great sir, 'tis fit I over-pass in silence ; 
 Reserving the relation to the secrecy 
 Of your own princely ear, since it concerns 
 Some great ones living yet, and others dead. 
 Whose issue might be question'd. For your 
 
 bounty, 
 Royal magnificence to him that seeks it, 
 We vow hereafter to demean ourself. 
 As if we were your own and natural brother ; 
 Omitting no occasion in our person. 
 To express a gratitude beyond example. 
 
 K. Ja. He must be more than subject who can 
 
 utter 
 The language of a king, and such is thine. 
 Take this for answer ; be whate'er thou art, 
 Thou never shalt repent that thou hast put 
 Thy cause and person into my protection. 
 Cousin of York, thus once more we embrace thee ; 
 Welcome to James of Scotland ! for thy safety. 
 Know, such as love thee not shall never wrong 
 
 thee.
 
 264 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT II. 
 
 Come, we will taste a while our court-delights, 
 Dream hence afflictions past, and then proceed 
 To high attempts of honour. On, lead on ! 
 Both thou and thine are ours, and we will guard 
 
 you. 
 Lead on — \_Ea:eunt all but the ladies. 
 
 Countess. I have not seen a gentleman 
 Of a more brave aspect, or goodlier carriage ; 
 His fortunes move not him — Madam, you are 
 
 passionate.* 
 Kath. Beshrew me, but his words have touch 'd 
 
 me home, 
 As if his cause concern'd me ; I should pity him. 
 If he should prove another than he seems. 
 
 Enter Crawford. 
 
 Crajv. Ladies, the king commands your pre- 
 sence instantly, 
 For entertainment of the duke. 
 
 Kath. " The duke" 
 Must then be entertain'd, the king obey'd ; 
 It is our duty. 
 
 Countess. We will all wait on him. [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — London. — The Toner. 
 
 A Flourish. — Enter King Henry, Oxford, Dur- 
 ham, Surrey. 
 
 A'. Hen. Have ye condemn'd my chamberlain ? 
 
 * Madam, youare pa.ss\onaie.} i. e. distressed, deeply affected: 
 the Countess had observed Katherine weeping. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 265 
 
 Dur. His treasons 
 Condemn'd him, sir ; which were as clear and 
 
 manifest, 
 As foul and dangerous : besides, the guilt 
 Of his conspiracy prest him so nearly, 
 That it drew from him free confession. 
 Without an importunity. 
 
 K. Hen. Oh, lord bishop. 
 This argued shame and sorrow for his folly, 
 And must not stand in evidence against 
 Our mercy, and the softness of our nature ; 
 The rigour and extremity of law 
 Is sometimes too, too bitter ; but we carry 
 A Chancery of pity in our bosom. 
 I hope we may reprieve him from the sentence 
 Of death ; I hope we may. 
 
 Dur. You may, you may ; 
 And so persuade your subjects that the title 
 Of York is better, nay, more just and lawful. 
 Than yours of Lancaster ! so Stanley holds : 
 Which if it be not treason in the highest. 
 Then we are traitors all, perjured, and false, 
 ^Vho have took oath to Henry, and the justice 
 Of Henry's title ; Oxford, Surrey, Dawbeney, 
 With all your other peers of state and church. 
 Forsworn, and Stanley true alone to Heaven, 
 And England's lawful heir ! 
 
 Oxf. By Vere's old honours, 
 I'll cut his throat dares speak it. 
 
 Sur. 'Tis a quarrel 
 To engao-e a soul in. 
 
 K. Hen. What a coil is here 
 To keep my gratitude sincere and perfect !
 
 ^(^Q PERKIN WARBECK. ACT II. 
 
 Stanley was once my friend,* and came in time 
 
 To save my life ; yet, to say truth, my lords. 
 
 The man staid long enough t' endanger it : — 
 
 But I could see no more into his heart, 
 
 Than what his outward actions did present ; 
 
 And for them have rewarded him so fully, 
 
 As that there wanted nothing in our gift 
 
 To gratify his merit, as I thought. 
 
 Unless I should divide my crown with him, 
 
 And give him half; though now I well perceive 
 
 'Tvvould scarce have serv'd his turn, without the 
 
 whole. 
 But I am charitable, lords ; let justice 
 Proceed in execution, whilst I mourn 
 The loss of one whom I esteem'd a friend. 
 
 Dur. Sir, he is coming this way. 
 
 K. Hen. If he speak to me, 
 I could deny him nothing ; to prevent it, 
 I must withdraw. Pray, lords, commend my fa- 
 vours 
 To his last peace, which, with him, I will pray for : 
 That done, it doth concern us to consult 
 Of other following troubles. [_Ex}t. 
 
 * Staiiley ivas once my friend, ^c.'] INIuch of this is from the 
 noble histoiiain. The king certainly holds a very different 
 language from that which we had in a former page ; Ijut it is 
 characteristic of his close, cold, and selfish nature. " As a 
 little leaven (Bacon says) of new distaste doth commonly 
 sour the whole lump of former merit, the king's wit began 
 now to suggest unto his passion, that Stanley at Bosworth- 
 field, though he came in time to save his life, yet he staid long 
 enough to endanger it.'' After all, the writer hints, as broadly 
 as he dared, that Stanley's main guilt lay in his vast accumu- 
 lations, which Henry viewed with too greedy an eye. — Gif-
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 267 
 
 Oxf. I am glad 
 He's gone ; upon my life he would have pardon'd 
 The traitor, had he seen him. 
 
 Sur. 'Tis a king 
 Composed of gentleness. 
 
 Dur. Rare and unheard of: 
 But every man is nearest to himself, 
 And that the king observes ; 'tis fit he should. 
 
 Enter Stanley, Executioner, Confessor, Urswick 
 and Dawbeney. 
 
 Stan. May I not speak with Clifford, ere I shake 
 This piece of frailty off? 
 
 Daw. You shall ; he's sent for. 
 
 Stan. I must not see the king 1 
 
 Dur. From him, sir William, 
 These lords and I am sent ; he bade us say 
 That he commends his mercy to your thoughts ; 
 Wishing the laws of England could remit 
 The forfeit of your life, as willingly 
 As he would, in the sweetness of his nature, 
 Forget your trespass : but howe'er your body 
 Fall into dust, he vows, the king himself 
 Doth vow, to keep a requiem for your soul, 
 As for a friend, close treasured in his bosom. 
 
 Oxf. Without remembrance of your errors past, 
 I come to take my leave, and wish you heaven. 
 
 Sur. And I ; good angels guard you ! 
 
 Stan. Oh, the king, 
 Next to my soul, shall be the nearest subject 
 Of my last prayers. My grave lord of Durham, 
 My lords of Oxford, Surrey, Dawbeney, all, 
 Accept from a poor dying man a farewell.
 
 268 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT II. 
 
 I was, as you are, once, great, and stood hopeful 
 Of many flourisliing years ; but fate and time 
 Have wlieel'd about, to turn me into nothing. 
 
 Filter Clifford. 
 
 Daiv. Sir Robert Clifford comes, the man, sir 
 V>'illiam, 
 You so desire to speak with. 
 Ditr. Mark their meeting. 
 
 Clif. Sir William Stanley, I am glad your con- 
 science 
 Before your end, hath emptied every burden 
 \\ hich charg'd it, as that you can clearly witness, 
 How far I have proceeded in a duty 
 That both concern'd my truth, and the state's 
 safety. 
 Stan. Mercy, how dear is life to such as hug it ! 
 Come hither — by this token think on me! 
 
 [Makes a cross on ChiiFouD'sface with 
 his jinger. 
 Clif. This token ? What ! am I abus'd ? 
 Stan. You are not. 
 I wet upon your cheeks a holy sign. 
 The cross, the Christian's badge, the traitor's in- 
 famy ; 
 Wear, Clifford, to thy grave this painted emblem : 
 Water shall never wash it oft", all eyes 
 That gaze upon thy face, shall read there written, 
 A state-informer's character ; more ugly, 
 Stamp'd on a noble name, than on a base. 
 The heavens forgive thee ! — pray, my lords, no 
 
 change 
 Of words ; this man and I have used too many.
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 269 
 
 Clif. Shall I be disgraced 
 Without reply? 
 
 Dur. Give losers leave to talk ; 
 His loss is irrecoverable. 
 
 Stan. Once more, 
 To all a long farewell! The best of greatness 
 Preserve the king ! my next suit is, my lords, 
 To be remember'd to my noble brother, 
 Derby, my much griev'd brother:* Oh, persuade 
 
 him. 
 That I shall stand no blemish to his house, 
 In chronicles writ in another age. 
 My heart doth bleed for him, and for his sighs : 
 Tell him, he must not think the style of Derby, 
 Nor being husband to king Henry's mother, 
 The league with peers, the smiles of fortune, can 
 Secure his peace above the state of man. 
 I take my leave to travel to my dust; 
 Subjects deserve their deaths whose kings are just. 
 Come, confessor! On with thy axe, friend, on. 
 
 [He is led off to execution. 
 
 Clif. Was I call'd hither by a traitor's breath 
 To be upbraided ! Lords, the king shall know it. 
 
 Re-enter King Henry with a white staff. 
 
 K. Hen. The king doth know it, sir; the king 
 hath heard 
 What he or you could say. We have given credit 
 To every point of Clifford's information, 
 
 * See p. 243. Lord Stanley had been raised to the dignity 
 of an Earl in October, 1485, a few weeks after the battle of 
 Bosworth. — G If FORD.
 
 270 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT 11, 
 
 The only evidence 'gainst Stanley's head: 
 He dies for it: are you pleased? 
 
 CUf. 1 pleased, my lord ? 
 
 A'. Hen. No echos: for your service, we dismiss 
 Your more attendance on the court; take ease, 
 And live at home; but, as you love your life, 
 Stir not from London without leave from us. 
 We'll think on your reward ; away ! 
 
 Clif. I go, sir. " [Exit. 
 
 K. Hen. Die all our griefs with Stanley! Take 
 this staff 
 Of office, Dawbeney;* henceforth be our cham- 
 berlain. 
 
 Dmv. I am your humblest servant. 
 
 K. Hen. We are folio w"d 
 By enemies at home, that will not cease 
 To seek their own confusion; 'tis most true, 
 The Cornish under Audley are march'd on 
 As far as Winchester; — but let them come, 
 Our forces are in readiness, well catch them 
 In their own toils. 
 
 Daw. Your army, being muster'd, 
 Consists in all, of horse and foot, at least 
 In number, six-and-twenty thousand ; men 
 Daring and able, resolute to fight, 
 And loyal in their truths. 
 
 A'. Hen. We know it, Dawbeney: 
 For them we order thus ; Oxford in chief, 
 
 * Dawbeney.'] " This person (Charles Lord D'Aubigny) 
 was a person," Bacon says, " of great sufficiency and valour, 
 the more because he was gentle and modest." Yet he always 
 appears on the side of violent counsels; and more forward 
 with his flattery than any of the courtiers in the king's con- 
 fidence. — GiFFORD.
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 271 
 
 Assisted by bold Essex and the earl 
 
 Of Suffolk, shall lead on the first batallia; 
 
 Be that your charge. 
 
 Oxf. I humbly thank your majesty. 
 
 K, Hen. The next division we assign to Daw- 
 beney: 
 These must be men of action, for on those 
 The fortune of our fortunes must rely. 
 The last and main, ourself commands in person ; 
 As ready to restore the fight at all times, 
 As to consummate an assured victory. 
 
 Daw. The king is still oraculous. 
 
 K. Hen. But, Surrey, 
 We have employment of more toil for thee : 
 For our intelligence comes swiftly to us. 
 That James of Scotland late hath entertain'd 
 Perkin the counterfeit, with more than common 
 Grace and respect; nay, courts him with rare fa- 
 vours. 
 The Scot is young and forward, we must look for 
 A sudden storm to England from the north; 
 Which to withstand, Durham shall post to Norham, 
 To fortify the castle, and secure 
 The frontiers against an invasion there. 
 Surrey shall follow soon, with such an army 
 As may relieve the bishop, and encounter. 
 On all occasions, the death-daring Scots. 
 You know your charges all; 'tis now a time 
 To execute, not talk ; Heaven is our guard still. 
 War must breed peace, such is the fate of kings. 
 
 '[Exeunt.
 
 272 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT II. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Edinburgh. — An Apartment in the Palace. 
 Enter Crawford and Dalyell. 
 
 Craw. 'Tis more than strange: my reason can- 
 not answer 
 Such argument of fine imposture, couch'd 
 In witchcraft of persuasion, that it fashions 
 ImpossibiHties, as if appearance 
 Could cozen truth itself; this dukeling mushroom 
 Hath doubtless charm'd the king. 
 
 Dal. He courts the ladies, 
 As if his strength of language chain'd attention 
 By power of prerogative. 
 
 Craw. It madded 
 My very soul to hear our master's motion: 
 What surety both of amity and honour 
 Must of necessity ensue upon 
 A match betwixt some noble of our nation, 
 And this brave prince, forsooth I 
 
 Dal. 'Twill prove too fatal; 
 Wise Huntley fears the threat'ning. Bless the lady 
 From such a ruin! 
 
 Craw. How the counsel privy 
 Of this young Phaeton do screw their faces 
 Into a gravity, their trades, good people, 
 Were never guilty of! the meanest of them 
 Dreams of at least an office in the state. 
 
 Dal. Sure not the hangman's, 'tis bespoke al- 
 ready 
 For service to their rogueships, — silence!
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 273 
 
 Enter King James aiid Huntley. 
 
 K. Ja. Do not 
 
 Argue against our will; we have descended 
 Somewhat (as we may term it) too familiarly 
 From justice of our birthright, to examine 
 The force of your allegiance, — sir, we have ; — 
 But find it short of duty! 
 
 Hunt. Break my heart, 
 Do, do, king! Have my services, my loyalty, 
 (Heaven knows untainted ever) drawn upon me 
 Contempt now in mine age, when I but wanted 
 A minute of a peace not to be troubled. 
 My last, my long one? Let me be a dotard, 
 A bedlam, a poor sot, or what you please 
 To have me, so you will not stain your blood, 
 Your own blood, royal sir, though mixt with 
 
 mine, 
 By marriage of this girl* to a straggler ! — 
 Take, take my head, sir ; whilst my tongue can 
 
 wag, 
 It cannot name him other. 
 
 K. Ja. Kings are counterfeits 
 In your repute, grave oracle, not presently 
 Set on their thrones, with sceptres in their fists ! 
 But use your own detraction; 'tis our pleasure 
 To give our cousin York for wife our kinswoman. 
 The lady Katherine: Instinct of sovereignty 
 Designs the honour, though her peevish iatlier 
 Usurps our resolution. 
 
 * By marriage of this girl.] This word, it has been already 
 observed, is generally used as a dissyllable by our poet. 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT II. 
 
 Hunt. Oh, 'tis well, 
 Exceeding well! . . . none here 
 Dare speak one word of comfort? 
 
 Dal. Cruel misery! 
 
 Crajv. The lady, gracious prince, may be hath 
 settled 
 Affection on some former choice. 
 
 Dal. Enforcement 
 Would prove but tyranny. 
 
 Hunt. I thank thee heartily. 
 Let any yeoman of our nation challenge 
 An interest in the f^irl, then the kinir 
 May add a jointure of ascent in titles, 
 Worthy a free consent ; now he pulls down 
 What old desert hath builded. 
 
 K. Ja. Cease persuasions. 
 I violate no pawns of faiths, intrude not 
 On private loves ; that I have play'd the orator 
 For kingly York to virtuous Kate, her grant 
 Can justify, referring her contents 
 To our provision: the Welsh Harry, henceforth, 
 Shall therefore know, and tremble to acknowledge, 
 That not the painted idol of his policy 
 Shall fright the lawful owner from a kingdom. — 
 We are resolv'd. 
 
 Hunt. Some of thy subjects' hearts, 
 King James, will bleed for this! 
 
 A. Ja. Then shall their bloods 
 Be nobly spent : no more disputes ; he is not 
 Our friend who contradicts us. 
 
 Hunt. Farewell, daughter ! 
 My care by one is lessen'd, thank the king for't! 
 I and my griefs will dance now. —
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 275 
 
 Enter Warbeck, complimenting 7vith Lady Kathe- 
 RiNE ; Countess of Crawford, Jane Douglas, 
 Frion, John a-Water, Astley, Heron, and 
 Sketon. 
 
 Look, lords, look; 
 
 Here's hand in hand already ! 
 
 K. Ja. Peace, old frenzy! 
 Plantagenet undoubted! 
 
 Hunt. (Aside.) Ho, brave! — Youth; 
 But no Phmtagenet, by'r lady, yet, 
 By red rose or by white. 
 
 JFar. An union this way. 
 Settles possession in a monarchy 
 Establish'd rightly, as is my inheritance : 
 Acknowledge me but sovereign of this kingdom. 
 Your heart, fair princess, — and the hand of pro- 
 vidence 
 Shall crown you queen of me, and my best fortunes. 
 
 Kath. Where my obedience is, my lord, a duty. 
 Love owes true service. 
 
 JVar. Shall I? — 
 
 K. Ja. Cousin, yes. 
 Enjoy her; from my hand accept your bride; 
 
 [He joins their hands. 
 And may they live at enmity with comfort, 
 Who grieve at such an equal pledge of troths ! 
 You are the prince's wife now. 
 
 Kath. By your gift, sir. 
 
 War. Thus, I take seizure of mine own. 
 
 Kath. I miss yet 
 A father's blessing. Let me find it; — humbly 
 Upon ray knees I seek it. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT II. 
 
 Hunt. I am Huntley, 
 Old Alexander Gordon,* a plain subject. 
 Nor more nor less ; and, lady, if you wisli for 
 A blessing, you must bend your knees to heaven; 
 For heaven did give me you. Alas, alas ! 
 What would you have me say ? may all the hap- 
 piness 
 My prayers ever sued to fall upon you, 
 Preserve you in your virtues I — Prithee, Dalyell, 
 Come with me ; for I feel thy griefs as full 
 As mine : let's steal away and cry together. 
 
 Dal. ]\Iy hopes are in their ruins. 
 
 lE.ceunt Hunt, and Dal. 
 
 A". Ja. Good, kind Pluntley 
 Is overjoy'd : a fit solemnity 
 Shall perfect these delights ; Crawford, attend 
 Our order for the preparation. 
 
 \_Exeunt all but Friox, Her. Sket. 
 J. a-Wat. and Ast. 
 
 Fri. Now, worthy gentlemen, have I not follow'd 
 My undertakings with success? Here's entrance 
 Into a certainty above a hope. 
 
 He)'. Hopes are but hopes; I was ever confi- 
 dent, when I traded but in remnants, that my stars 
 had reserv'd me to the title of a Viscount at least : 
 honour is honour, though cut out of any stuffs. -f 
 
 * Hunt. / am Huntley, 
 
 Old Alexander Gordon.'] This appears to be a mistake. 
 The father of Katherine, as is said above, was George Gordon. 
 His father, indeed, was named Aleiander, and so was his son 
 and successor; but the latter did not obtain the title till many 
 years after this period. — Gifford. 
 
 t Her. Honour is hcnour, thcugh cut out of any stuffs.'] Ford 
 has made the speakers express themselves characteristically.
 
 SCENE III. PERKIX WARBECK. '^11 
 
 Sket. My brother Heron hath right wisely deli- 
 ver'd his opinion; for he that threads his needle 
 with the sharp eyes of industry, shall in time 
 go thoroiigh-stitch with the new suit of prefer- 
 ment. 
 
 Ast. Spoken to the purpose, my fine witted 
 brother Sketon; for as no indenture but has its 
 counterpane ; no noverint but his condition or de- 
 feisance : so no right but may have claim, no claim 
 but may have possession, any act of parliament to 
 the contrary notwithstanding. 
 
 Fri. You are all read in mysteries of state, 
 And quick of apprehension, deep in judgment, 
 Active in resolution; and 'tis pity 
 Such counsel should lie buried in obscurity. 
 But why, in such a time and cause of triumph, 
 Stands the judicious mayor of Cork so silent? 
 Believe it, sir, as English Richard prospers, 
 You must not miss employment of high nature. 
 
 /. a-Wat. If men may be credited in their mor- 
 tality, which I dare not peremptorily aver but 
 they may, or not be; presumptions by this mar- 
 riage are then, in sooth, of fruitful expectation. 
 Or else I must not justify other men's belief, more 
 than other should rely on mine. 
 
 Fri. Pith of experience ; those that have borne 
 office. 
 Weigh every word before it can drop from them. 
 But, noble counsellors, since now the present 
 
 Heron, or Ilerne, as Lord Bacon calls him, was a mercer ; 
 Sketon, or rather Skelton, was a taylor, and Astley a scrivener : 
 they were all men of broken fortunes, a circumstance to which 
 the poet frequently alludes. — Gifford.
 
 278 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT II. 
 
 Requires, in point of honour, (pray mistake not,) 
 Some service to our lord; 'tis fit the Scots 
 Should not engross all glory to themselves. 
 At this so grand and eminent solemnity. 
 
 Sket. The Scots ? the motion is defied : I had 
 rather, for my part, without trial of my country, 
 suffer persecution under the pressing-iron of re- 
 proach : or let my skin be punch'd full of oylet- 
 holes with the bodkin of derision. 
 
 Ast. I will sooner lose both my ears on the pil- 
 lory of forgery. 
 
 Her. Let me first live a bankrupt, and die, in 
 the hole, of hunger, without compounding for six- 
 pence in the pound. 
 
 /. a-JVcit. If men fail not in their expectations, 
 there may be spirits also that digest no rude 
 affronts, master secretary Frion, or I am cozen'd ; 
 ivhich is possible, I grant. 
 
 Fri. Resolv'd like men of knowledge ! at this 
 feast, then. 
 In honour of the bride, the Scots, I know, 
 Will in some shew, some masque, or some device, 
 Prefer their duties : now, it were uncomely, 
 That we be found less forward for our prince. 
 Than they are for their lady : and by how much 
 We outshine them in persons of account. 
 By so much more will our endeavours ineet with 
 A livelier applause. Great emperors 
 Have, for their recreations, undertook 
 Such kind of pastimes ; as for the conceit. 
 Refer it to my study ; the performance 
 You all shall share a thanks in : 'twill be grateful. 
 
 Her. The motion is allow'd ; I have stole to a 
 dancing-school when I was a prentice.
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 279 
 
 Ast. There have been Irish-hubbubs,* when I 
 have made one too. 
 
 Shet. For fashioning of shapes, and cutting a 
 cross-caper, turn me off to my trade again. 
 
 /. a-Wat. Surely, there is, if I be not deceived, 
 a kind of gravity in merriment ; as there is, or per- 
 haps ought to be, respect of persons in the quahty 
 of carriage, which is, as it is construed, either so, 
 or so. 
 
 Fn. Still you come home to me; upon occa- 
 sion, 
 I find you relish courtship with discretion ; 
 And such are fit for statesmen of your merits. 
 Pray ye wait the prince, and in his ear acquaint him 
 With this design ; I'll follow and direct you. 
 Oh the toil [^Exeunt all hut Friox. 
 
 Of humouring this abject scum of mankind! 
 Muddy-brain'd peasants ! princes feel a misery 
 Beyond impartial sufferance, whose extremes 
 Must yield to such abettors : — yetf our tide 
 Runs smoothly without adverse winds ; run on ; 
 Flow to a full sea ! time alone debates 
 Quarrels forewritten in the book of fates. 
 
 [^Exit. 
 
 * Irhh-hubbnbs.1 Tumultuous merry-meetings at wakes and 
 fairs. The speakers, it should be observed, are all from Ire- 
 land. Astley, as has been said, was a petty-fogger ; his pre- 
 sence at these hubbubs therefore is natural enough. — Gifford. 
 
 f i. e. as yet, hitherto, thus far, &c. so p. 286, yet (i. e. thus 
 far) we are safe.
 
 280 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT III. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— Westminster— The Palace. 
 
 Enter King Henry, with his Gorget on, his Sword, 
 Plume of Feathers, and leading-staff ( truncheon J, 
 followed hij Urswick. 
 
 K. Hen. How runs the time of day ? 
 
 Urs. Past ten, my lord. 
 
 K. Hen. A bloody hour will it prove to some, 
 Whose disobedience, like the sons o' tli' earth. 
 Throws a defiance 'gainst the face of heaven. 
 Oxford, with Essex, and stout De la Poole, 
 Have quieted the Londoners, I hope. 
 And set them safe from fear. 
 
 Urs. They are all silent. 
 
 K. Hen. From their own battlements, they may 
 behold 
 Saint George's fields o'erspread with armed men ; 
 Amongst whom our own royal standard threatens 
 Confusion to opposers : we must learn 
 To practice war again in time of peace, 
 Or lay our crown before our subjects' feet ; 
 Ha, Urswick, must we not ? 
 
 Urs. The powers, who seated 
 King Henry on his lawful throne, will ever 
 Rise up in his defence. 
 
 K. Hen. Rage shall not fright 
 The bosom of our confidence; in Kent 
 Our Cornish rebels, cozen'd of their hopes,
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 281 
 
 Met brave resistance by that country's earl, 
 George Abergeny, Cobhara, Poynings, Guilford, 
 And other loyal hearts ; now, if Blackheath 
 Must be reserv'd the fatal tomb to swallow 
 Such stifF-neck'd abjects, as with weary marches 
 Have traveird from their homes, their wives, and 
 
 children. 
 To pay, instead of subsidies, their lives, 
 We may continue sovereign ! Yet, Urswick, 
 We'll not abate one penny, what in parliament 
 Hath freely been contributed ; we must not ; 
 Money gives soul to action. Our competitor. 
 The Flemish counterfeit, with James of Scotland, 
 Will prove what courage need and want can nou- 
 rish, 
 Without the food of fit supplies : — but, Urswick, 
 I have a charm in secret, that shall loose 
 The witchcraft, wherewith young King James is 
 
 bound, 
 And free it at my pleasure without bloodshed. 
 Urs. Your majesty's a wise king, sent from 
 heaven. 
 Protector of the just. 
 
 K. Hen. Let dinner cheerfully 
 Be serv'd in ; this day of the week is ours, 
 Our day of providence ; for Saturday 
 Yet never fail'd, in all my undertakings. 
 To yield me rest at night.* \_^A Flourish,'] What 
 
 means this warning ? 
 Good fate, speak peace to Henry ! 
 
 * ■ — • for Saturday 
 
 Yet never fail'd me, ^:c.] The king's predilection for Satur- 
 day is noticed by Lord Bacon. Henry had taken great pains 
 to induce the insurgents to believe that he intended to put off
 
 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT III. 
 
 Enter Dawbeney, Oxford, and Attendants. 
 
 Daw. Live the king, 
 Triumphant in the ruin of his enemies ! 
 
 Ojcf. The head of strong rebellion is cut off, 
 The body hevv'd in pieces. 
 
 K. Hen. Dawbeney, Oxford, 
 Minions to noblest fortunes, how yet stands 
 The comfort of your wishes ? 
 
 Daw. Briefly thus : 
 The Cornish under Audley, disappointed 
 Of flatter'd expectation, from the Kentish 
 (Your majesty's right trusty liegemen) flew, 
 Feather'd by rage, and hearten'd by presumption. 
 To take the field even at your palace-gates, 
 And face you in your chamber-royal : arrogance 
 Improv'd their ignorance ; for they supposing. 
 Misled by rumour, that the day of battle 
 Shovdd fall on Monday, rather brav'd your forces, 
 Than doubted any onset ; yet this morning, 
 When in the dawning, I, by your direction. 
 Strove to get Deptford-Strand-bridge, there I 
 
 found 
 Such a resistance, as might show what strength 
 Could make : here arrows hail'd in showers upon 
 
 us, 
 A full yard long at least ; but we prevail'd. 
 My lord of Oxford with his fellow peers, 
 Environing tlie hill, fell fiercely on them 
 On the one side, I on the other, till, great sir, 
 
 the action till the succeeding Monday : they fell into the snare, 
 and were accordingly unprepared for the attack, which took 
 place on Saturday, the 22d of June. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 283 
 
 (Pardon the oversight,) eager of doing 
 Some memorable act, I was engaged 
 Ahnost a prisoner, but was freed as soon 
 As sensible of danger : now the fight 
 Began in heat, which, quenched in the blood of 
 Two thousand rebels, and as many more 
 Reserv'd to try your mercy, have return'd 
 A victory with safety. 
 
 K. Hen. Have we lost 
 An equal number with them ? 
 
 Oxf. In the total 
 Scarcely four hundred. Audley, Flammock, Jo- 
 seph, 
 The ringleaders of this commotion,* 
 Railed in ropes, f fit ornaments for traitors, 
 Wait your determinations. 
 
 A". Hen. We must pay 
 Our thanks where they are only due : Oh, lords ! 
 Here is no victory, nor shall our people 
 
 * Audley, Flammock, Joseph, 
 
 The ringleaders, (Sj'c] Lord Audley had been for some time 
 in communication with the leaders of the Cornish men, but did 
 not join them till they reached Wells, in Somersetshire. " He 
 was," the historian says, " of an ancient family, but unquiet 
 and popular, and aspiring to ruin. He was immediately, and 
 with great cries of joy, accepted as their general ; they being 
 proud to be led by a nobleman." Thomas Flammock, a com- 
 mon name in Cornwall, was a lawyer, who by various artifices 
 had obtained great sway among them ; and Michael Joseph, 
 a blacksmith or farrier, of Bodmin, " a notable talking fellow, 
 and no less desirous to be talked of." 
 
 It should be added, that Ford is indebted to Lord Bacon for 
 most of the incidents in Daubeney's narrative. — Gifford. 
 
 t Railed in ropes.'] " They were brought to London, all 
 railed in ropes, like a team of horses in a cart." — Bacon.
 
 284 TERKIN WARBECK. ACT III. 
 
 Conceive that we can triumph in their falls. 
 Alas, poor souls ! let such as are escaped 
 Steal to the country back without pursuit : 
 There's not a drop of blood spilt, but hath drawn 
 As much of mine ; their swords could have 
 
 wrought wonders 
 On their king's part, who faintly were unsheath'd 
 Against their prince, but wounded their own 
 
 breasts. 
 Lords, we are debtors to your care ; our payment 
 Shall be both sure, and fitting your deserts. 
 
 Daiv. Sir, will you please to see those rebels, 
 heads 
 Of this wild monster multitude ? 
 
 K. Hen. Dear friend, 
 My faithful Dawbeney, no ; on them our justice 
 Must frown in terror, I will not vouchsafe 
 An eye of pity to them : let false Audley 
 Be drawn upon an hurdle from the Newgate 
 To Tower-hill in his own coat of arms* 
 Painted on paper, with the arms revers'd. 
 Defaced, and torn ; there let him lose his head. 
 The lawyer and the blacksmith shall be hang'd, 
 Quarter'd, their quarters into Cornwall sent, 
 Examples to the rest, whom we are pleas'd 
 To pardon, and dismiss from further quest. 
 My lord of Oxford, see it done. 
 
 0.xf. I shall, sir. 
 
 K. Hen. Urswick. 
 
 Urs. My lord ? 
 
 * " The lord Audley was led from Xewgate to Tower-hill, 
 in a -paper coat, painted with his oun arms, the arms reversed, 
 the coat torn, and there beheaded." — B.^cox.
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 285 
 
 K. Hen. To Dinham, our high-treasurer, 
 Say, we command commissions be new granted, 
 For the collection of our subsidies 
 Through all the west, and that [right] speedily. 
 Lords, we acknowledge our engagements due 
 For your most constant services. 
 
 Dcnv. Your soldiers 
 Have manfully and faithfully acquitted 
 Their several duties. 
 
 A. Hen. For it, we will throw 
 A largess free amongst them, which shall hearten 
 And cherish up their loyalties. More yet 
 Remains of like employment ; not a man 
 Can be dismiss'd, till enemies abroad, 
 More dangerous than these at home, have felt 
 The puissance of our arms. Oh, happy kings, 
 Whose thrones are raised in their subjects' hearts ! 
 
 [^Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE \l.—Ed'inhurgh.~The Palace. 
 
 Enter Huxtley and Dalyell. 
 
 Hunt. Now, sir, a modest word with you, sad 
 gentleman; 
 Is not this fine, I trow, to see the gambols. 
 To hear the jigs, observe the frisks, be enchanted 
 With the rare discord of bells, pipes, and tabours, 
 Hodge-podge of Scotch and Irish twingle-twan- 
 
 gles, 
 Like to so many choristers of Bedlam 
 Trowling a catch ! The feasts, the manly sto- 
 machs.
 
 286 TERKIX -WARBECK. ACT III. 
 
 The liealths in usquebaugh, and bonny-clabber,* 
 The ale in dishes never fetch'd from China, 
 The hundred thousand knacks not to be spoken of, 
 And all this for king Oberon, and queen Mab, 
 Should put a soul into you. Look ye, good man, 
 How youthful I am grown I but by your leave, 
 This new cpieen-bride must henceforth be no more 
 My daughter ; no, by'r lady, 'tis unfit ! 
 And yet you see how I do bear this change ; 
 Methinks courageously : then shake off care 
 In such a time of jollity. 
 
 Dal. Alas, sir, 
 How can you cast a mist upon your griefs .'' 
 Which howsoe'er you shadow, but present 
 To [any] judging eye, the perfect substance 
 Of which mine are but counterfeits. 
 
 Hunt. Fob, Dalyell ! 
 Thou interrupt'st the part I bear in music 
 To this rare bridal feast ; let us be merry, 
 "Whilst flattering calms secure us against storms : 
 Tempests, when they begin to roar, put out 
 The light of peace, and cloud the sun's bright eye 
 In darkness of despair ; yetf we are safe. 
 
 Dal. I wish you could as easily forget 
 The justice of your sorrows, as my hopes 
 Can yield to destiny. 
 
 Hunt. Pish I then I see 
 Thou dost not know the flexible condition 
 Of my [tough] nature I I can laugh, laucrh heartily, 
 
 * The healths in bonny-clabber.] A common name, in oui 
 old writers, for curds and whey, or sour butter-milk. It ap- 
 pears to have been a favourite drink both with the Scotch and 
 
 Irish. GiFFORD. 
 
 t i. e. as yet, hitherto.
 
 SCENE II. PERKIX WARBECK. 287 
 
 When the gout cramps my joints ; let but the 
 
 stone 
 Stop in my bladder, I am straight a-singing ; 
 The quartan fever shrinking every limb, 
 Sets me a-capering straight ; do [but] betray me. 
 And bind me a friend ever : what I I trust 
 The losing of a daughter, though I doated 
 On every hair that grew to trim her head. 
 Admits not any pain like one of these. — 
 Come, thou'rt deceiv'd in me ; give me a blow, 
 A sound blow on the face, I'll thank tliee for't ; 
 I love my wrongs : still thou'rt deceiv'd in me. 
 
 Dal. Deceiv'd ! oh, noble Huntley, my few 
 years 
 Have learnt experience of too ripe an age, 
 To forfeit fit credulity ; forgive 
 My rudeness, I am bold. 
 
 Hunt. Forgive me first 
 A madness of ambition ; by example 
 Teach me humility, for patience scorns 
 Lectures, which schoolmen use to read to boys 
 Incapable of injuries : though old, 
 I could grow toush in furv, and disclaim 
 Allegiance to my king, could fall at odds 
 With all my fellow-peers, that durst not stand 
 Defendants 'gainst the rape done on mine honour : 
 But kings are earthly gods, there is no meddling 
 With their anointed bodies ; for their actions. 
 They only are accountable to heaven. 
 Yet in the puzzle of my troubled brain, 
 One antidote's reserv'd against the poison 
 Of my distractions ; 'tis in thee to apply it. 
 
 Dal. Name it ; oh, name it quickly, sir !
 
 288 PERKIX WARBECK. ACT III. 
 
 Hunt. A pardon 
 For my most foolish slighting thy deserts ; 
 I have cuH'd out this time to beg it : prithee, 
 Be gentle ; had I been so, thou hadst own'd 
 A happy bride, but now a cast-away, 
 And never child of mine more. 
 
 Dal. Say not so, sir : 
 It is not fault in her. 
 
 Hunt. The world would prate 
 How she v.as handsome ; young I know she was, 
 Tender, and sweet in her obedience. 
 But, lost now ; what a bankrupt am I made 
 Of a full stock of blessings ! — must I hope 
 A mercy from thy heart ? 
 
 Dal. A love, a service, 
 A friendship to posterity. 
 
 Hunt. Good angels 
 Reward thy charity ! I have no more 
 But prayers left me now. 
 
 Dal. I'll lend you mirth, sir, 
 If you will be in consort. 
 
 Hunt. 'Thank you truly : 
 I must, 5^es, yes, I must ; — here's yet some ease, 
 A partner in affliction : look not angry. 
 
 Dal. Good, noble sir ! \_Music. 
 
 Hunt. Oh, hark ! we may be quiet. 
 The king, and all the others come ; a meeting 
 Of gaudy sights : this day's the last of revels ; 
 To-morrow sounds of war ; then new exchange ; 
 Fiddles must turn to swords. — Unhappy mar-
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 289 
 
 A Flourish. — Enter King James, Warbeck lead- 
 ing Katherine, Crawford and his Countess ; 
 Jane Douglas, ajid other Ladies. Huntley 
 a7id Dalyell fall among them. 
 
 K. Ja. Cousin of York, you and your princely 
 bride 
 Have liberally enjoy 'd such soft delights, 
 As a new-married couple could forethink ; 
 Nor has our bounty shorten'd expectation : 
 But after all those pleasures of repose. 
 Or amorous safety, we must rouse the ease 
 Of dalliance, with achievements of more glory 
 Than sloth and sleep can furnish : yet, for farewell. 
 Gladly we entertain a truce with time, 
 To grace the joint endeavours of our servants. 
 
 War. My royal cousin, in your princely favour, 
 The extent of bounty hath been so unlimited, 
 As only an acknowledgment in words 
 Would breed suspicion in our state and quality. 
 When we shall, in the fulness of our fate, 
 Sit on our own throne ; then our arms, laid open 
 To gratitude, in sacred memory 
 Of these large benefits, shall twine them close. 
 Even to our thoughts and heart, without distinc- 
 tion. 
 Then James and Richard, being in effect 
 One person, shall unite and rule one people, 
 Divisible in titles only. 
 
 K. Ja. Seat you. 
 Are the presenters ready ? 
 
 Craw. All are entering. 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 TERKIN WARBECK. ACT III, 
 
 Enter at one door four Scotch Aiiticks, ^accordingly 
 habited; at another, Warbeck'^ followers, dis- 
 guised as four JJild Irish in -ftroivsers, long- 
 haired, and accordinghj habited. — Music, — A 
 Dance by the Masquers. 
 
 K. Ja. To all a general thanks ! 
 
 War. In the next room 
 Take your own shapesj again ; you shall receive 
 Particular acknowledgment. \_Exeunt the masquers. 
 
 K. J a. Enough 
 Of merriments. Crawford, how far's our army 
 Upon the march ? 
 
 Crarv. At Hedon-hall, great king ; 
 Twelve thousand, w^ell prepared. 
 
 K. Ja. Crawford, to-night 
 Post thither. We, in person, with the prince, 
 By four o'clock to-morrow after dinner, 
 Will be wi' you ; speed away ! 
 
 Craw. I fly, my lord. [Exit. 
 
 K. Ja. Our business grows to head now; 
 where's your secretary, 
 'I'hat he attends you not to serve? 
 
 War. With Marchmont, 
 Your herald. 
 
 K. Ja. Good: the proclamation's ready ; 
 By that it will appear how the English stand 
 
 * i. e. characteristically. 
 
 t The trowses, or trasses, of the " wild Irish," were drawers 
 closely fitted to tlie shape ; and which, together with the long 
 shaggy hair of these people, are often made the subject of 
 mirth by our old dramatists. — Gifford. 
 
 t Take your own shapes.] i. e. resume your ordinary dress. 
 — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 291 
 
 Affected to your title. Huntley, comfort 
 Your daughter in her husband's absence ; fight 
 With prayers at home for us, who, for your ho- 
 nours, 
 Must toil in figlit abroad. 
 
 Hunt. Prayers are the weapons 
 Which men, so near their graves as I, do use; 
 I've little else to do. 
 
 K. Ja. To rest, young beauties! 
 We must be early stirring ; quickly part : 
 K kingdom's rescue craves both speed and art. 
 Cousins, good night. \^A flourish. 
 
 War. Rest to our cousin king. 
 
 Kath. Your blessing, sir. 
 
 Hunt. Fair blessings on your highness! sure 
 you need them. 
 [Exeunt all hut War. Kath. and Jane. 
 
 War. Jane, set the lights down, and from us 
 return 
 To those in the next room, this little purse; 
 Say, we'll deserve their loves. 
 
 Jane. It shall be done, sir. [Exit. 
 
 War. Now, dearest, ere sweet sleep shall seal 
 those eyes. 
 Love's precious tapers, give me leave to use 
 A parting ceremony ; for to-morrow 
 It would be sacrilege to intrude upon 
 The temple of thy peace : swift as the morning. 
 Must I break from the down of thy embraces, 
 To put on steel, and trace the paths which lead 
 I'hrough various hazards to a careful throne. 
 
 Kath. My lord, I'd fain go with you; there's 
 small fortune 
 In staying here behind. 
 
 u 2
 
 292 PERKIX WARBECK. ACT III. 
 
 IVar. The churlish brow 
 Of war. fair dearest, is a sight of horror 
 For ladies' entertainment : if thou hear'st 
 A truth of my sad endintr by the hand 
 Of some unnatural subject, thou withall 
 Shalt hear, how I died w orthy of my right, 
 By falHng like a king; and in the close, 
 "Which my last breath shall sound, thy name, thou 
 
 fairest, 
 Shall sing a requiem to my soul, unwilling 
 Only of greater glory, 'cause divided 
 From such a heaven on earth, as life with thee. 
 But these are chimes for funerals; my business 
 Attends on fortune of a sprightlier triumph; 
 For love and majesty are reconciled, 
 And vow to crown thee Empress of the West. 
 
 Kath. You have a noble language, sir; your 
 right 
 In me is without question, and however 
 Events of time may shorten my deserts 
 In others" pity, yet it shall not stagger 
 Or constancy, or duty in a wife. 
 You must be king of me; and my poor heart 
 Is all I can call mine. 
 
 JJ'ar. But we will live, 
 Live, beauteous virtue, by the lively test 
 Of our own blood, to let the counterfeit 
 Be known the world's contempt. 
 
 Kath. Pray do not use 
 That word, it carries fate in"t : the first suit 
 I ever made, I trust your love will grant. 
 
 War. Without denial, dearest. 
 
 Kath. That hereafter. 
 If vou return with safetv, no adventure
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 293 
 
 May sever us in tasting any fortune : 
 I ne'er can stay behind again. 
 
 IVar. You are lady 
 Of your desires, and shall command your will ; 
 Yet 'tis too hard a promise. 
 
 Kath. What our destinies 
 Have ruled out in their books, we must not search. 
 But kneel to. 
 
 War. Then to fear when hope is fruitless, 
 Were to be desperately miserable; 
 Which poverty our greatness dares not dream of, 
 And much more scorns to stoop to : some few 
 
 minutes 
 Remain yet, let's be thrifty in our hopes. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Palace at Westminster. 
 
 Enter King Henry, Hialas, and Urswick. 
 
 K. Hen. Your name is Pedro Hialas,* a Span- 
 iard ? 
 Hial. Sir, a Castilian born. 
 
 * Your name is Pedro Hialas, ^x.] " Amidst these troubles 
 came into England from Spain, Peter Hialas, some call him 
 Elias, surely he was the fore-runner of the good hap that we 
 enjoy at this day : for his embassy set the truce between 
 England and Scotland ; the truce drew on the peace, the 
 peace the marriage, the union of the kingdoms ; a man of 
 great wisdom, and, as those times went, not unlearned." — 
 Bacon.
 
 294 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT III. 
 
 K. Hen. King Ferdinand, 
 With wise queen Isabel bis royal consort, 
 Write you a man of worthy trust and candour. 
 Princes are dear to heaven, who meet with sub- 
 jects 
 Sincere in their employments ; such I find 
 Your commendation, sir. Let me deliver 
 How joyful I repute the amity, 
 With your most fortunate master, who almost 
 Comes near a miracle in his success 
 Against the Moors, who had devoured his country. 
 Entire now to his sceptre. We, for our part, 
 A^ ill imitate his providence, in hope 
 Of partage in the use on't : we repute 
 The privacy of his advisement to us 
 By you, intended an ambassador 
 To Scotland, for a peace between our kingdoms, 
 A policy of love, which well becomes 
 His wisdom and our care. 
 
 H'lal. Your majesty 
 Doth understand him rightly. 
 
 A". Hen. Else 
 Your knowledge can instruct me ; wherein, sir, 
 To fall on ceremony, would seem useless, 
 Which shall not need ; for I will be as studious 
 Of your concealment in our conference, 
 As any council shall advise. 
 
 Hial. Then, sir. 
 My chief request is, that on notice given 
 At my dispatch in Scotland, you will send 
 Some learned man of power and experience 
 To join entreaty with me. 
 
 A". Hen. I shall do it.
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 295 
 
 Being that way well provided by a servant. 
 Which may attend you ever. 
 
 Hied. If king James, 
 By any indirection, should perceive 
 My coming near your court, I doubt the issue 
 Of my employment. 
 
 K. Hen. Be not your own herald : 
 I learn sometimes without a teacher. 
 
 Hied. Good days 
 Guard all your princely thoughts ! 
 
 K. Hen. Urswick, no further 
 Than the next open gallery attend him — 
 A hearty love go with you ! 
 
 Hial. Your vow'd beadsman.* 
 
 [Exeunt Urs. and Hial. 
 
 K. Hen. King Ferdinand is not so much a fox, 
 But that a cunning huntsman may in time 
 Fall on the scent ; in honourable actions 
 Safe imitation best deserves a praise. 
 
 Re-enter Urswick. 
 
 What, the Castillian's past away ? 
 
 Urs. He is, 
 And undiscover'd ; the two hundred marks 
 Your majesty convey'd, he gently purs'd 
 With a right modest gravity. 
 
 K. Hen. What was't 
 
 * Your vow'd beadsman.] One bound to pray for you ; 
 from bede, the old English word for prayer: at this lime, how- 
 ever, the expression was sufficiently familiar, and meant liule 
 more than the common language of civility — your vowed or 
 devoted servant. — Gifford.
 
 ^96 PERKIX WARBECK. ACT III. 
 
 He mutter'd in the earnest of his wisdom ? 
 He spoke not to be heard ; "twas about 
 
 Ui\s. Warbeck ; 
 " How if king Henry were but sure of subjects. 
 Such a wild runnagate might soon be caged, 
 No great ado withstanding." 
 
 A''. Hen. Nay, nay: something 
 About my son prince Arthur's match. 
 
 Urs. Right, right, sir : 
 He humm"d it out, how that king Ferdinand 
 Swore, that the marriage 'twixt the hidy Kathe- 
 
 rine. 
 His daughter, and the prince of Wales your son, 
 Should never be consummated, as long 
 As any earl of Warwick lived in England, 
 Except by new creation. 
 
 K. Hen. I remember, 
 'Twas so indeed : the king his master swore it i 
 
 Urs. Directly, as he said. 
 
 A'. Hen. An earl of IVarwich ! 
 Provide a messenger for letters instantly 
 To bishop Fox. Our news from Scotland creeps : 
 It comes too slow ; we must have airy spirits. 
 Our time requires dispatch. — The earl of War- 
 wick I 
 Let him be son to Clarence,* younger brother 
 To Edward ! Edward's daughter is, I think, 
 Mother to our prince Arthur. — \_Aslde.'] — Get a 
 messenger. \_Exeunt. 
 
 * Let him he sen to Clarence, <!S"c.] These are ominous 
 musings of the king, who eagerly caught at the words of Fer- 
 dinand, as given above, and sought " to export the odium of 
 this innocent prince's execution out of the land, and lay it 
 upon his new ally." — Gifford.
 
 SCENE IV, PERKIN WARBECK. 297 
 
 SCENE lY.— Before the Castle of Norham. 
 
 Enter King James, Warbeck, Crawford, Dal- 
 YELL, Heron, Astley, John a-Water, Ske- 
 TON, and Soldiers. 
 
 K. Ja. We trifle time against these castle-walls, 
 The English prelate will not yield : once more 
 Give him a summons ! \_A imrley is sounded. 
 
 Enter on the walls the Bishop of Durham, art?ied, 
 a truncheon in his hand, with Soldiers. 
 
 War. See the jolly clerk 
 Appears, trimm'd like a ruffian. 
 
 K. Ja. Bishop, yet 
 Set ope the ports, and to your lawful sovereign, 
 Richard of York, surrender up this castle, 
 And he will take thee to his grace ; else Tweed 
 Shall overflow his banks with English blood, 
 And wash the sand that cements those hard stones, 
 From their foundation. 
 
 Dur. Warlike king of Scotland, 
 Vouchsafe a few words from a man enforced 
 To lay his book aside, and clap on arms. 
 Unsuitable to my age, or my profession. 
 Courageous prince, consider on what grounds. 
 You rend the face of peace, and break a league 
 With a confederate king that courts your amity ; 
 For Vv'hom too ? for a vagabond, a straggler. 
 Not noted in the world by birth or name, 
 An obscure peasant, by the rage of hell 
 Loos'd from his chains, to set great kings at 
 
 strife. 
 What nobleman, what common man of note.
 
 298 TERKIX WARBECK. " ACT III. 
 
 What ordinary subject hath come in, 
 Since first you footed on our territories, 
 To only feign a welcome ? children laugh at 
 Your proclamations, and th.e wiser pity 
 So great a potentate's abuse, by one 
 Who juggles merely with the fawns and youth 
 Of an instructed compliment: such spoils, 
 Such slaughters as the rapine of your soldiers 
 Already have committed, is enough 
 To sliew your zeal in a conceited justice. 
 Yet, great king, wake not yet my master's ven- 
 geance ; 
 But shake that viper off whicli gnaws your en- 
 trails ! 
 I, and my fellow-subjects are resolv'd, 
 If you persist, to stand your utmost fury. 
 Till our last blood drop from us. 
 
 War. O sir, lend 
 No ear to this traducer of my honour I — 
 What shall I call thee, thou grey-bearded scandal, 
 That kick'st against the sovereignty to which 
 Thou owest allegiance ! — Treason is bold-faced, 
 And eloquent in mischief; sacred king. 
 Be deaf to his known malice. 
 
 Diir. Rather yield 
 Unto those holy motions which inspire 
 The sacred heart of an anointed body ! 
 It is the surest policy in princes, 
 To ffovern well their own, than seek encroach- 
 
 ment 
 Upon another's right. 
 
 Craw. The king is serious, 
 Deep in his meditation[s]. 
 
 Dal. Lift them up 
 To heaven, his better genius I
 
 SCENE IV. PERKIN WARBECK. 299 
 
 War. Can you study, 
 While such a devil raves ? Oh, sir. 
 
 K. Ja. Well, — bishop. 
 You'll not be drawn to mercy ? 
 
 Dm\ Construe me 
 In like case by a subject of your own : 
 My resolution's fix'd ; king Jjimes, be counsell'd, 
 A greater fate v/aits on thee. 
 
 \_Exeunt Durham and Soldiers from the walls. 
 
 K. Ja. Forage through 
 The country ; spare no prey of life or goods. 
 
 TFar. Oh, sir, then give me leave to yield to 
 nature : 
 I am most miserable ; had I been 
 Born what this clergyman would, by defame. 
 Baffle belief with, I had never sought 
 The truth of mine inheritance with rapes 
 Of women, or of infants murdcr'd ; virgins 
 Deflower'd ; old men butcher'd ; dwellings fired ; 
 My land depopulated, and my people 
 Afflicted with a kingdom's devastation : 
 Shew more remorse, great king, or I shall never 
 Endure to see such havock with dry eyes ; 
 Spare, spare, my dear, dear England ! 
 
 K. Ja. You fool your piety, 
 Ridiculously careful of an interest 
 Another man possesseth. Where's your faction^ 
 Shrewdly the bishop guess'd of your adherents, 
 When not a petty burgess of some town. 
 No, not a villager hath yet appear'd. 
 In your assistance : t/iat* should make you whine, 
 And not your country's sufferance as you term it. 
 
 * It appears from Bacon, that this was said " half in sport" 
 by James.
 
 300 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT III. 
 
 Dcd. The king is angry. 
 
 Craw. And the passionate duke, 
 Effeminately dolent.* 
 
 War. The experience 
 In former trials, sir, both of mine own 
 Or other princes, cast out of their thrones, 
 Hath so acquainted me, how misery 
 Is destitute of friends, or of relief, 
 That I can easily submit to taste 
 Lowest reproof, without contempt or words. 
 
 Enter Friox. 
 
 A". Ja. An humble-minded man ! — Now, what 
 intelligence 
 Speaks master secretary Frion. 
 
 Fr'i. Henry 
 Of England hath in open field o'er thrown 
 The armies who opposed him, in the right 
 Of this young prince. 
 
 K. Ja. His subsidies you mean — 
 More, if you have it ? 
 
 Fr'i. Howard earl of Surrey, 
 Back'd by twelve earls and barons of the north, 
 An hundred knights and gentlemen of name, 
 And twenty thousand soldiers, is at hand 
 To raise your siege. Brooke, with a goodly navy. 
 Is admiral at sea ; and Dawbeney follows 
 With an unbroken army for a second. 
 
 * And the passionate duhe, 
 
 Ffeminutelij dolent.'] " It is said that Perkin, acting the part 
 of a prince handsomely, when he saw the Scotch fall to waste 
 his countrj', came to the king in a passionate (plaintive, tearful) 
 manner, making great lamentation," 6cc. — Bacon.
 
 SCENE IV. PERKIN WARBECK. 301 
 
 JVar. 'Tis false ! they come to side with us. 
 
 K. Ja. Retreat ; 
 We shall not find them stones and walls to cope 
 
 with. 
 Yet, duke of York, for such thou say'st thou art, 
 I'll try thy fortune to the height ; to Surrey, 
 By Marchmont, I will send a brave defiance 
 For single combat. Once a king will venture 
 His person to an earl,* with condition 
 Of spilling lesser blood. Surrey is bold, 
 And James resolv'd. 
 
 War. Oh, rather, gracious sir. 
 Create me to this glory ; since my cause 
 Doth interest this fair quarrel ; valued least, 
 I am his equal. 
 
 K. Ja. I will be the man. 
 March softly off; where victory can reap 
 A harvest crown'd with triumph, toil is cheap. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 * His person to an earl.] Heie earl is used as a dissyllable. 
 It is necessaiy to notice this, as Ford occasionally varies in 
 the measure of this and similar words, in the course of the 
 same speech. For an example, see Marchmont the herald's 
 speech, p. 303, where earl occurs both as a monosyllable and 
 a dissyllable.
 
 S02 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT IV 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — The English Camp near Ayton, on the 
 Borders. 
 
 Enter Surrey, Durham, Soldiers with Drums 
 and Colours. 
 
 Sirr. Are all our braving enemies shrunk back, 
 Hid in the fogs of their distemper'd chmate, 
 Not daring to behold our colours wave 
 In spite of this infected air? Can they 
 Look on the strength of Cundrestine defaced ? 
 The glory of Heydon-hall devasted ? that 
 Of Edington cast down ? the pile of Fuldon 
 O'erthrown, and this, the strongest of their forts, 
 Old Ayton-Castle,* yielded and demolished, 
 And yet not peep abroad ? The Scots are bold, 
 Hardy in battle ; but it seems the cause 
 They undertake, considered, appears 
 Unjointed in the frame on't. 
 
 Dur. Noble Surrey, 
 
 * and this, the strongest of their J'orts, 
 
 Old Aijion-Castle — ] The castle of Aton, Bacon says, 
 was then esteemed one of the strongest places between Berwick 
 and Edinburgh. With the capture of this place, the struggle 
 terminated ; little to the honour, and less to the advantage of 
 either side. The noble historian says nothing of the main 
 business of this scene, which, must, I believe, be placed en- 
 tirely to the account of the poet ; though it is, in some mea- 
 sure, justified by the chivalrous and romantic character of 
 James IV.— Gifford.
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 303 
 
 Our royal master's wisdom is at all times 
 His fortune's harbinger ; for when he draws 
 His sword to threaten war, his providence 
 Settles on peace, the crowning of an empire. 
 
 \_A trumpet without. 
 Sur. Rank all in order : 'tis a herald's sound ; 
 Some message from king James. Keep a fix'd 
 station. 
 
 Erder Marchmont and another, in Heralds' coats. 
 
 March. From Scotland's awful majesty we come 
 Unto the English general. 
 
 Sur. To me ? 
 Say on. 
 
 March. Thus, then ; the waste and prodigal 
 Effusion of so much guiltless blood, 
 As in two potent armies, of necessity, 
 Must glut the earth's dry womb, his sweet com- 
 passion 
 Hath studied to prevent ; for which to thee. 
 Great earl of Surrey, in a single fight. 
 He offers his own royal person ; fairly 
 Proposing these conditions only, that 
 If victory conclude our master's right, 
 The earl shall deliver for his ransom 
 The town of Berwick to him, with the Fishgarths; 
 If Surrey shall prevail, the king will pay 
 A thousand pounds down present for his freedom, 
 And silence further arms : so speaks king James. 
 
 Sur. So speaks king James ! so like a king he 
 speaks. 
 Heralds, the English general returns 
 A sensible devotion from his heart.
 
 304 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT IV. 
 
 His very soul, to this iinfellow'd grace : 
 
 For let the king know, gentle heralds, truly, 
 
 How his descent from his great throne, to honour 
 
 A stranger subject with so high a title 
 
 As his compeer in arms, hath conquer'd more 
 
 Than any sword could do ; for which (my loyalty 
 
 Respected) I will serve his virtues ever 
 
 In all humility ; but Berwick, say. 
 
 Is none of mine to part with. In affairs 
 
 Of princes, subjects cannot traffic rights 
 
 Inherent to the crown. My life is mine. 
 
 That I dare freely hazard ; and (with pardon 
 
 To some unbribed vain-glory) if his majesty 
 
 Shall taste a change of fate, his liberty 
 
 Shall meet no articles. If I fall, falling 
 
 So bravely, I refer me to his pleasure 
 
 Without condition ; and for this dear favour. 
 
 Say, if not countermanded, I will cease 
 
 Hostility, unless provoked. 
 
 March. This answer 
 We shall repeat impartially. 
 
 Dur. With favour. 
 Pray have a little patience. — [^Apart to Surrey.] 
 
 Sir, you find 
 By these gay flourishes, how wearied travail 
 Inclines to wdling rest ; here's but a prologue. 
 However confidently utter'd, meant 
 For some ensuing acts of peace : consider 
 The time of year, unseasonableness of weather. 
 Charge, barrenness of profit ; and occasion 
 Presents itself for honourable treaty. 
 Which we may make good use of; I will back, 
 As sent from you, in point of noble gratitude 
 Unto king James, with these his lieralds ; you
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 305 
 
 Shall shortly hear from me, my lord, for order 
 Of breathing or proceeding ; and king Henrj'', 
 Doubt not, will thank the service. 
 
 Sur. To your wisdom. 
 Lord bishop, I refer it, 
 
 Dur. Be it so then. 
 
 Sur. Heralds, accept this chain, and these few 
 crowns. 
 
 March. Our duty, noble general. 
 
 Dur, In part 
 Of retribution for such princely love. 
 My lord the general is pleased to shew 
 The king your master his sincerest zeal, 
 By further treaty, by no common man ; 
 I will myself return with you. 
 
 Sur. You oblige 
 My faithfullest affections to you, lord bishop ! 
 
 March. All happiness attend your lordship! 
 
 Sur. Come, friends. 
 And fellow-soldiers ; we, I doubt, shall meet 
 No enemies but woods and hills, to fight with ; 
 Then 'twere as good to feed and sleep at home : 
 We may be free from danger, not secure. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— The Scottish Camp. 
 Enter Warbeck and Frion. 
 
 War. Frion, oh Frion, all my hopes of glory 
 Are at a stand ! the Scottish king grows dull. 
 Frosty, and wayward, since this Spanish agent 
 Hath mix'd discourses with him ; they are private, 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT IV. 
 
 I am not call'd to council now : — confusion 
 On all his crafty shrugs ! I feel the fabric 
 Of my designs is tottering. 
 
 Fr'i. Henry's policies 
 Stir with too many engines. 
 
 War. Let his mines, 
 Shaped in the bowels of the earth, blow up 
 Works rais'd for my defence, yet can they never 
 Toss into air the freedom of my birth. 
 Or disavow my blood Plantagenet's ! 
 I am my father's son still. But, oh Prion, 
 Wiien I bring into count witli my disasters, 
 My wife's compartnership, my Kate's, my life's. 
 Then, then mv frailtv feels an earthquake. Mis- 
 chief 
 Damn Henry's plots I I will be England's king. 
 Or let my aunt of Burgundy report 
 My fall in the attempt descrv'd our ancestors ! 
 
 Fii. You grow too wild in passion; if you will 
 Appear a prince indeed, confine your will 
 To moderation. 
 
 War. What a saucy rudeness 
 Prompts this distrust ? If? If I iv'dl appear f 
 Appear a prince ? death throttle such deceits 
 Even in their birth of utterance ! cursed cozenage 
 Of trust! You make me mad; 'twere best, it 
 
 seems, 
 That I should turn impostor to myself, 
 Be mine own counterfeit, belie the truth 
 Of my dear mother's womb, the sacred bed 
 Of a prince murther'd, and a living baffled ! 
 
 Fr'i. Nay, if you have no ears to hear, I have 
 No breath to spend in vain. 
 
 War. Sir, sir, take heed !
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 307 
 
 Gold, and the promise of promotion, rarely 
 Fail in temptation. 
 
 Fri. Why to me this ? 
 
 War. Nothing. 
 Speak what you will ; we are not sunk so low 
 But your advice may piece again the heart 
 Which many cares have broken : you were w^ont 
 In all extremities to talk of comfort; 
 Have you none left now ? I'll not interrupt you. 
 Good, bear with my distractions ! If king James 
 Deny us dwelling here, next, whither must I ? 
 I prithee, be not angry. 
 
 Fri. Sir, I told you 
 Of letters come from Ireland ; how the Cornish 
 Stomach their last defeat, and humbly sue 
 That with such forces, as you could partake, 
 You would in person land in Cornwall, where 
 Thousands will entertain your title gladly. 
 
 War. Let me embrace thee, hug thee ! thou'st 
 reviv'd 
 My comforts ; if my cousin king will fail, 
 Our cause will never — 
 
 Enter John a-Water, Heron, xVstley, Sketon. 
 
 Welcome, my tried friends. 
 You keep your brains awake in our defence. 
 Frion, advise with them of these affairs, 
 In which be wondrous secret ; I will listen 
 What else concerns us here : be quick and wary. 
 
 [isIr/7. 
 
 Ast. Ah, sweet young prince ! Secretary, my 
 
 fellow-counsellors and I have consulted, and jump 
 
 all in one opinion directly, and if these Scotch 
 
 X 2
 
 308 TERKIN V.'ARBECK. ACT lY. 
 
 garboils* do not fadge to our minds, we will pell- 
 mell rmi amongst the Cornish choughs presently, 
 and in a trice. 
 
 Shet. 'Tis but going to sea and leaping ashore, 
 cut ten or twelve thousand unnecessary throats, 
 fire seven or eight towns, take half a dozen cities, 
 get into the market place, crown him Richard the 
 Fourth, and the business is finished. 
 
 /. a-lVat. I grant you, quoth I, so far forth, as 
 men may do, no more than men may do ; for it is 
 good to consider, when consideration may be to 
 the purpose, otherwise — still you shall pardon 
 me — '• little said is soon amended." 
 
 Fri. Then you conclude the Cornish action 
 surest ? 
 
 Her. We do so ; and doubt not but to thrive 
 abundantly. Ho, my masters, had we known of 
 the commotion when we set sail out of Ireland, 
 the land had been ours ere this time. 
 
 Sket. Pish, pish ! 'tis but forbearing being an 
 earl or a duke a month or two longer. I say, and 
 say it again, if the work go not on apace, let me 
 never see new fashion more. I warrant you, I 
 warrant you; we will have it so, and so it shall be. 
 
 Ast. This is but a cold phlegmatic country; not 
 stirring enough for men of spirit. Give me the 
 heart of England for my money ! 
 
 Shet. A man may batten there in a week only, 
 with hot loaves and butter,-]- and a lusty cup of 
 
 * i. e. if these Scotch tumults, commotions, do not suit, Jit to 
 our 7ninds, &;c. 
 
 t With hot loaves and butter.'] Our ancestors must have 
 found something peculiarly amusing in a tailor's breakfast, to 
 justify the comic writers in these eternal references to it. — 
 GirroRD.
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 309 
 
 muscadine and sugar at breakfast, though he 
 make never a meal all the month after. 
 
 J. a- Wat. Surely, when I bore office, I found 
 by experience, that to be much troublesome, was 
 to be much wise and busy : I have observed, how 
 filching and bragging has been the best service in 
 these last wars ; and therefore conclude peremp- 
 torily on the design in England. If things and 
 things may fall out, as who can tell what or how-^ 
 but the end will shew it. 
 
 Fri. Resolved like men of judgment! Here to 
 linger 
 More time, is but to lose it ; cheer the prince, 
 And haste him on to this ; on this depends, 
 Fame in success, or glory in our ends. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Another Part of the same. 
 Enter King James, Durham, and Hialas. 
 
 H'lal. France, Spain, and Germany combine a 
 league 
 Of amity with England; nothing wants 
 For settling peace through Christendom, but love 
 Between the British monarchs, James and Henry, 
 
 Diir. The English merchants, sir, have been re- 
 ceived 
 With general procession into Antwerp ; 
 The emperor confirms the combination. 
 
 Hhil. The King of Spain resolves a marriage 
 For Katherine, his daughter, with prince Arthur.
 
 SIO PERKIN WARBECK. ACT IV 
 
 Dur. France courts this holy contract. 
 
 Hml. What can hinder 
 A quietness in England ? — 
 
 Dur. But your suftrage 
 To such a silly creature, mighty sir. 
 As is but in effect an apparition, 
 A shadow, a mere trifle ? 
 
 H'lal. To this union 
 The good of both the church and commonwealth 
 Invite you. 
 
 Dur. To this unity, a mystery 
 Of providence points out a greater blessing 
 For both these nations, than our human reason 
 Can search into. King Henry hath a daughter. 
 The princess Margaret : I need not urge. 
 What honour, what felicity can follow 
 On such affinity "twixt two Christian kings, 
 Inleagued by ties of blood : but sure I am, 
 If you, sir, ratify the peace proposed. 
 I dare both motion and effect this marriage 
 For weal of both the kingdoms. 
 
 K. Ja. Dar'st thou, lord bishop ? 
 
 Dur. Put it to trial, royal James, by sending 
 Some noble personage to the Enghsh court 
 By way of embassy. 
 
 Hial. Part of the business 
 Shall suit my mediation. 
 
 K. Ja. Well ; what Heaven 
 Hath pointed out to be, must be : you two 
 Are ministers. I hope, of blessed fate. 
 But herein only I will stand acquitted. 
 No blood of innocents shall buy my peace. 
 For Warbeck, as you nick him. came to me. 
 Commended by the states of Christendom,
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 311 
 
 A prince, tho' in distress ; his fair demeanour, 
 Lovely behaviour, un appalled spirit, 
 Spoke him not base in blood, however clouded. 
 The brute beasts have their rocks and caves to 
 
 fly to. 
 And men the altars of the church ; to us 
 He came for refuge : " Kings come near in nature 
 Unto the gods, in being touch'd with pity." 
 Yet, noble friends, his mixture with our blood, 
 Even with our own, shall no way interrupt 
 A general peace ; only I will dismiss him 
 From my protection, throughout my dominions, 
 In safety ; but not ever to return. 
 
 Hial. You are a just king. 
 
 Dur. Wise, and herein happy. 
 
 K. Ja. Nor will we dally in affairs of weight : 
 Huntley, lord bishop, shall with you to England 
 Ambassador from us ; we will throv/ down 
 Our weapons ; peace on all sides ! now, repair 
 Unto our council; we will soon be with you. 
 
 Hial. Delay shall question no dispatch ; Hea- 
 ven crown it ! 
 
 \_Ejceunt Durham and Hialas. 
 
 K. Ja. A league with Ferdinand ! a marriage 
 With English Margaret ! a free release 
 From restitution for the late affronts ! 
 Cessation from hostility, and all 
 For Warbeck, not deliver'd, but dismissed ! 
 We could not wish it better. — Dalyell ! 
 
 Enter Dalyell. 
 
 Dal. Here, sir. 
 
 K. Ja, Are Huntley and his daughter sent for?
 
 312 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT IV. 
 
 Dal. Sent for, 
 And come, my lord. 
 
 K, Ja. Say to the English prince. 
 We want his company. 
 
 Dal. He is at hand, sir. 
 
 £'y?i'<?rWARBECK, Katherine, Jane, Friox, Heron, 
 Sketon, John a-Water, Astley. 
 
 K. Ja. Cousin, our bounty, favours, gentleness, 
 Our benefits, the hazard of our person. 
 Our people's lives, our land, hath evidenced 
 How much we have engag'd on your behalf: 
 How trivial, and how dangerous our hopes 
 Appear, how fruitless our attempts in war, 
 How windy, rather smoky, your assurance 
 Of party, shews, we might in vain repeat : 
 But now, obedience to the mother church, 
 A father's care upon his country's weal, 
 The dignity of state directs our wisdom, 
 To seal an oath of peace through Christendom ; 
 To which we are sworn already : it is you 
 ]Must only seek new fortunes in the world. 
 And find an harbour elsewhere. As I promis'd 
 On your arrival, you have met no usage 
 Deserves repentance in your being here ; 
 But yet I must live master of mine own : 
 However, what is necessary for you 
 At your departure, I am well content 
 You be accommodated with ; provided 
 Delay prove not my enemy. 
 
 War. It shall not. 
 Most glorious prince. The fame of my designs 
 Soars higher, than report of ease and sloth
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 313 
 
 Can aim at ; I acknowledge all your favours 
 Boundless and singular ; am only wretched 
 In words as well as means, to thank the grace 
 That flow'd so liberally. Two empires firmly 
 You are lord of, Scotland and duke Richard's 
 
 heart : 
 My claim to mine inheritance shall sooner 
 Fail, than my life to serve you, best of kings ; 
 And, witness Edward's blood in me ! I am 
 More loatli to part with such a great example 
 Of virtue, than all other mere respects. 
 But, sir, my last suit is, you will not force 
 From me, what you have given, this chaste lady. 
 Resolved on all extremes. 
 
 Kath. I am your wife, 
 No human power can or shall divorce 
 My faith from duty. 
 
 War. Such another treasure 
 The earth is bankrupt of. 
 
 A". Ja. I gave her, cousin, 
 And must avow the gift ; will add withal 
 A furniture becoming her high birth, 
 And unsuspected constancy ; provide 
 For your attendance : we will part good friends. 
 
 [Exit with Dalyell. 
 
 War. The Tudor hath been cunning in his plots ; 
 His Fox of Durham would not fail at last. 
 But what ? our cause and courage are our own : 
 Be men, my friends, and let our cousin king 
 See how we follow fate as willingly 
 As malice follows us. You are all resolved 
 For the west parts of England ? 
 
 All. Cornwall, Cornwall ! 
 
 Fri. The inhabitants expect you daily.
 
 514 FERKIK WARBECK. ACT IV. 
 
 Ji'ar. Cheerfully 
 Draw all our ships out of the harbour, friends ; 
 Our time of stay doth seem too long, we must 
 Prevent intelligence ; about it suddenly. 
 
 ^//. A prince, a prince, a prince ! 
 
 \_EA'eunt Heron, Sketon, Astley, 
 and John a-Water. 
 
 JVnr. Dearest, admit not into thy pure thoughts 
 The least of scruples, which may charge their soft- 
 ness 
 With burden of distrust. Should I prove wanting 
 To noble courage now , here were the trial : 
 But I am perfect, sweet, I fear no change, 
 More than thy being partner in my sufferance. 
 
 Kath, My fortunes, sir, have arm'd me to en- 
 counter 
 What chance soe'er they meet with. Jane, 'tis fit 
 Thou stay behind, for whither wilt thou wander ? 
 
 Jane. Never till deatii will I forsake my mis- 
 tress, 
 Nor then in wishing to die with you gladly. 
 
 Kath. Alas, good soul ! 
 
 Fri. Sir, to your aunt of Burgundy 
 1 will relate your present undertakings ; 
 From her expect on all occasions, welcome. 
 You cannot find me idle in your services. 
 
 JVar. Go, Frion, go ! wise men know how to 
 sooth 
 Adversity, not serve it : thou hast waited 
 Too long on expectation ; never yet 
 Was any nation read of, so besotted 
 In reason, as to adore the setting sun. 
 Fly to the archduke's court ; say to the duchess, 
 Her nephew, with fair Katherine, his wife,
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 315 
 
 Are on their expectation to begin 
 
 The raising of an empire. If they fail, 
 
 Yet the report will never : farewell, Prion ! 
 
 [^Exit Prion. 
 This man, Kate, has been true, though now of late, 
 I fear, too much familiar with the Pox.* 
 
 Re-enter Dalyell with Huntley. 
 
 Hunt. I come to take my leave ; you need not 
 doubt 
 My interest in this some-time child of mine ; 
 She's all yours now, good sir. — Oh, poor lost 
 
 creature I 
 Heaven guard thee with much patience ; if thou 
 
 canst 
 Forget thy title to old Huntley's family. 
 As much of peace will settle in thy mind 
 As thou canst wish to taste, but in thy grave, 
 x^.ccept my tears yet, prithee; they are tokens 
 Of charity, as true as of affection. 
 
 Kath. This is the cruell'st farewell ! 
 
 Hunt. Love, young gentleman. 
 This model of my griefs ; she calls you husband : 
 Then be not jealous of a parting kiss. 
 It is a father's, not a lover's offering ; 
 
 * The Fox.] i. e. the Bishop of Durham, lord privy-seal ; 
 whom Bacon calls " a wise man, and one that could see 
 through the present to the future." He stood deservedly high 
 in Henry's confidence and favour. With respect to Frion, 
 Warbecic was right. The defection of James showed the 
 secretary but too cleaily that the fortunes of his master were 
 on the ebb ; he therefore withdrew from him previously to the 
 Cornish expedition, and returned no more.— Giffohd.
 
 316 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT IV. 
 
 Take it, my last. [_K'(Sses her.'] I am too much a 
 child. 
 
 Exchange of passion is to little use, 
 
 So I should grow too foolish : goodness guide 
 thee ! \_Exit. 
 
 Kath. Most miserable daughter ! Have you 
 aught 
 
 To add, sir, to our sorrows ? 
 Dal. I resolve, 
 
 Fair lady, with your leave, to wait on all 
 
 Your fortunes in my person, if your lord 
 
 Vouchsafe me entertainment. 
 
 ?f?/r. We will be bosom friends, most noble 
 Dalyell ; 
 
 For I accept this tender of your love 
 
 Beyond ability of thanks to speak it. — 
 
 Clear thy drown'd eyes, my fairest ; time and in- 
 dustry 
 
 Will shew us better days, or end the worst. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE lY.— The Palace at Westminster. 
 
 Enter Oxford and Dawbeney. 
 
 Oxf. No news from Scotland yet, my lord ? 
 
 Daw. Not any 
 But what king Henry knows himself; I thought 
 Our armies should have march'd that way ; his 
 
 mind, 
 It seems, is alter'd. 
 
 Oxf. Victory attends 
 His standard everywhere. 
 
 Daw, Wise princes, Oxford,
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 317 
 
 Fight not alone with forces. Providence 
 Directs and tutors strength ; else elephants, 
 And barbed horses, might as well prevail, 
 As the most subtile stratagems of war. 
 
 Oxf. The Scottish king show'd more than com- 
 mon bravery, 
 In proffer of a combat hand to hand 
 With Surrey. 
 
 Dan\ And but show'd it : northern bloods 
 Are gallant being fired ; but the cold climate, 
 Without good store of fuel, quickly freezeth 
 The glowing flames. 
 
 Oxf. Surrey, upon my life, 
 Would not have shrunk a hair's breadth. 
 
 Daw. May he forfeit 
 The honour of an English name, and nature. 
 Who would not have embraced it with a greedi- 
 ness. 
 As violent as hunger runs to food ! 
 'Twas an addition, any worthy spirit 
 Would covet, next to immortality. 
 Above all joys of life ; we all miss'd shares 
 In that great opportunity. 
 
 Enter King Henry, hi close Conversation with 
 Urswick. 
 
 Oxf. The king ! 
 See he comes smiling. 
 
 Daw. Oh, the game runs smooth 
 On his side then, believe it ; cards well shuffled, 
 And dealt with cunning, bring some gamesti 
 
 thrift ; 
 But others must rise losers.
 
 318 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT IV. 
 
 K. Hen. The train takes ? 
 
 Urs. Most prosperously. 
 
 K. Hen. I knew it coukl not miss. 
 He *fondly angles who will hurl his bait 
 Into the water, 'cause the fish at first 
 Plays round about the line, and dares not bite. — 
 Lords, we may rei-gn your king vet : Dawbenev. 
 
 Oxford, 
 Urswick, must Perkin wear the crown ? 
 
 Daw. A slave ! 
 
 Oji-f. A vagabond ! 
 
 Urs. A glow-worm ! 
 
 K. Hen. Now, if Prion, 
 His practised politician, wear a brain 
 Of proof, king Perkin will in progress ride 
 Through all his large dominions; let us meet him, 
 And tender homage : ha, sirs ! liegemen ought 
 To pay their fealty. 
 
 Daw. Would the rascal were, 
 With all his rabble, within twenty miles 
 Of London ! 
 
 K. Hen. Farther off is near enough 
 To lodge him in his home : Fll wager odds, 
 Surrey and all his men are either idle. 
 Or hasting back; they have not work, I doubt, 
 To keep them busy. 
 
 Dan\ Tis a strange conceit, sir. 
 
 K. Hen. Such voluntary favours as our people 
 In duty aid us with, we never scatter'd 
 On cobweb parasites, or lavish'd out 
 In riot, or a needless hospitality : 
 No undeserving favourite doth boast 
 His issues from our treasury; our charge 
 
 * i. e. he is a foolish angler who, &c.
 
 SCENE IV. PERKIN WARBECK. 311) 
 
 Flows through all Europe, proving us but steward 
 Of every contribution, which provides 
 Against the creeping canker of disturbance. 
 Is it not rare then, in this toil of state 
 Wherein we are embark'd, with breach of sleep, 
 Cares, and the noise of trouble, that our mercy 
 Returns nor thanks, nor comfort ? Still the West 
 Murmur and threaten innovation, 
 Whisper our government tyrannical, 
 Deny us v/hat is ours, nay, spurn their lives, 
 Of which they are but owners by our gift ; 
 It must not be. 
 
 Oxf, It must not, should not. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 K. Hen. So then — 
 To whom ? 
 
 Aless. This packet to your sacred majesty. 
 
 K. Hen. Sirrah, attend without. [^Exit Mess. 
 
 Oxf. News from tlie North, upon my life. 
 
 Daw. Wise Henry 
 Divines aforehand of events ; with him 
 Attempts and execution are one act. 
 
 K. Hen. Urswick, thine ear ; Frion is caught ! 
 the man 
 Of cunning is out-reach'd ; we must be safe : 
 Should reverend Morton, our archbishop, move 
 To a translation higher yet,*^ I tell thee. 
 My Durham owns a brain deserves that See. 
 He's nimble in his industry, and mounting — 
 Thou hear'st me ? 
 
 * to a trawilatton higher yet.] i. e. to heaven. Moretoii 
 
 was at this time Archbishop of Canterbury. He died about
 
 320 TERKIX WARBECK. ACT IV. 
 
 Urs. And conceive your highness fitly. 
 
 K. Hen. Dawbeney and Oxford, since our army 
 stands 
 Entire, it were a weakness to admit 
 The rust of laziness to eat amongst them : 
 Set forward toward Salisbury : the plains 
 Are most commodious for their exercise, 
 Ourseif will take a muster of them there; 
 And, or disband them with reward, or else 
 Dispose as best concerns us. 
 
 Dcnv. Salisbury I 
 Sir, all is peace at Salisbury. 
 
 A'. Hen. Dear friend — 
 The charge must be our own ; we would a little 
 Partake the pleasure with our subjects' ease : 
 Shall I entreat your loves ? 
 
 Oxf. Command our lives. 
 
 A". Hen. You are men know how to do, not to 
 forethink. 
 IMy bishop is a jewel tried, and perfect : 
 A jewel, lords. The post who brought these 
 letters, 
 
 three years after this period, at the great age of ninety.! The 
 king seems to have changed his opinion \%ith respect to Fox, 
 who was removed on the archbishop's death, not to Canter- 
 bury, but to Winchester, in which see he died. IMoreton and 
 Fox were fast friends ; they rank high among our prelates, and 
 were, in fact, both very eminent men. — Gifford. 
 
 + It was by a cliaplain of this reverend prelate that one of the most 
 ancient, if not the oldest, of our printed Moralities was compiled. It 
 bears the following title : — " Nature. — A goodly interlude of Nature, 
 compyled by Maister Henry Medwall, Cliapleyn to the Right Reverend 
 Father in God Johan Morton, sometyme Cardynall and Archebyshop 
 of Canterbury.'" The Interlude appears to have been played before 
 Moreton himself.
 
 SCENE V. PERKIN WARBECK. 321 
 
 Must speed another to the mayor of Exeter ; 
 Urswick, dismiss him not. 
 
 Urs. He waits your pleasure. 
 
 K. Hen. Perkin a king? a king! 
 
 Urs. My gracious lord. 
 
 K. Hen. Thoughts, busied in the sphere of 
 royalty, 
 Fix not on creeping worms, without their stings 
 Mere excrements of earth. The use of time 
 Is thriving safety, and a wise prevention 
 Of ills expected : we are resolv'd for Salisbury. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 The Coast of Cornwall . 
 
 A general shout mthin. — Enter Warbeck, Dal- 
 YELL, Katherine, and Jane. 
 
 IVar. After so many storms as wind and seas 
 Have threaten'd to our weather-beaten ships, 
 At last, sweet fairest, we are safe arrived 
 On our dear mother earth, ungrateful only 
 To heaven and us, in yielding sustenance 
 To sly usurpers of our throne and right. 
 These general acclamations are an omen 
 Of happy process to their welcome lord : 
 They flock in troops, and from all parts, with wings 
 Of duty fly, to lay their hearts before us. 
 Unequall'd pattern of a matchless wife. 
 How fares my dearest yet ? 
 
 Kath. Confirm'd in health ; 
 By which I may the better undergo 
 The roughest face of change ; but I shall learn 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT IV. 
 
 Patience to hope, since silence courts affliction, 
 For comforts, to this truly no])le gentleman, 
 (Rare unexampled pattern of a friend!) 
 And my beloved Jane, the -vvilling follower 
 Of all misfortunes. 
 
 Dcd. Lady, I return 
 But barren crops of early protestations, 
 Frost-bitten in the spring of fruitless hopes. 
 
 Jane, I wait but as the shadow to the body, 
 For, madam, without you let me be nothing. 
 
 War. None talk of sadness, we are on the way 
 Which leads to victory; keep cowards thoughts 
 With desperate sullenness ! The lion faints not 
 Lock'd in a grate, but, loose, disdains all force 
 Which bars his prey, (and we are lion-hearted,) 
 Or else no king of beasts. — [^Another general sJiov.t 
 
 within.'] — Hark, how they shout ; 
 Triumphant in our cause ! bold confidence 
 Marches on bravely, cannot quake at danger. 
 
 Enter Sketon. 
 
 Shet. Save king Richard the Fourth ! save thee 
 King of hearts ! The Cornish blades are men of 
 mettle ; have proclaimed through Bodnam, and 
 the whole country, my sweet prince monarch of 
 England : four thousand tali yeomen, with bow 
 and sword, already vow to live and die at the foot 
 of King Richard. 
 
 Enter Astley. 
 
 Ast. The mayor, our fellow-counsellor, is ser- 
 vant for an emperor. Exeter is appointed for the
 
 SCENE V. PERKIX WARBECK. 323 
 
 rendezvous, and nothing wants to victory but cou- 
 rage and resolution. 
 
 JVar. To Exeter ! to Exeter, march on : 
 Commend us to our people ; we in person 
 Will lend them double spirits ; tell them so. 
 
 Sker. and Ast. King Richard, king Richard ! 
 
 [Exeunt Sket. and Ast. 
 
 War. A thousand blessings guard our lawful 
 arms ! 
 A thousand liorrors pierce our enemies' souls ! 
 Pale fear unedge their weapons' sharpest points, 
 And when they draw their arrows to the head, 
 Numbness shall strike their sinews ! such advan- 
 
 _tage 
 Hath majesty in its pursuit of justice. 
 That on the proppers up of Truth's old throne, 
 It both enlightens counsel, and gives heart 
 To execution ; whilst the throats of traitors 
 Lie bare before our mercy. O divinity 
 Of royal birth! how it strikes dumb the tongues 
 Whose prodigality of breath is bribed 
 By trains to greatness! Princes are but men, 
 Distinguish'd in the fineness of their frailty; 
 Yet not so gross in beauty of the mind ; 
 For there's a fire more sacred, purifies 
 The dross of mixture. Herein stand the odds. 
 Subjects are men on earth, kings men and gods. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 324 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT V. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — St. Michaels Mount, Conuval/.'' 
 
 Enter Katherine and Jane, in Riding-suits, nith 
 one Servant. 
 
 Kath. It is decreed; and we must yield to fate, 
 AVhose angry justice, though it threaten ruin, 
 Contempt, and poverty, is all but trial 
 Of a weak woman's constancy in suflering. 
 Here in a stranger's, and an enemy's land, 
 Forsaken and unfurnish'd of all hopes. 
 But such as wait on misery, I range 
 To meet affliction wheresoe'er I tread. 
 My train, and pomp of servants, is reduced 
 To one kind gentlewoman, and this groom. 
 Sweet Jane, now whither must we ? 
 
 Jane. To your ships. 
 Dear lady, and tiu-n home. 
 
 Kath. Home I I have none. 
 Fly thou to Scotland : thou hast friends will weep 
 For joy to bid thee welcome ; but, oh Jane, 
 My Jane I my friends are desperate of comfort, 
 As I must be of them : the common charity, 
 
 * St. Michael's Mount.] It appears that when Perkin marched 
 on his ill-fated expedition, Lady Katherine was left at this 
 place, from which she was now preparing to withdraw, on some 
 rumours of her husband's want of success. — Gifford.
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WAREECK. 325 
 
 Good people's alms, and prayers of die gentle, 
 Is the revenue must support my state. 
 As for my native country, since it once 
 Saw me a princess in the height of greatness 
 My birth allow'd me ; here I make a vow, 
 Scotland shall never see me, being fallen. 
 Or lessen'd in my fortunes. Never, Jane, 
 Never to Scotland more will I return. 
 Alas, why dost thou weep ? and that poor creature 
 Wipe his wet cheeks too ! let me feel alone 
 Extremities, who know to give them harbour ; 
 Nor thou nor he has cause : you may live safely. 
 
 Jaue. There is no safety whilst your dangers, 
 madam. 
 Are every way apparent. 
 
 Serv. Pardon, lady ; 
 I cannot chuse but show my honest heart ; 
 You were ever my good lady. 
 
 Kath. Oh, dear souls. 
 Your shares in grief are too too much. 
 
 Enter Dalyell. 
 
 Dal. I bring, 
 Fair princess, news of further sadness yet. 
 Than your sweet youth hath been acquainted with. 
 
 Kath. Not more, my lord, than I can welcome ; 
 speak it, 
 The worst, the worst I look for. 
 
 Dal. All the Cornish 
 At Exeter were by the citizens 
 Repulsed, encounter'd by the earl of Devonshire, 
 And other worthy gentlemen of the country. 
 Your husband march'd to Taunton, and was there
 
 32b PERKIX WARBECK. ACT V. 
 
 AfFrontecl by king Henry's chamberlain ;* 
 Tlie king himself in person, with his army 
 AdvanciniT nearer, to renew the fioht 
 On all occasions : but the night before 
 The battles were to join, your husband privately, 
 Accompanied with some few horse, departed 
 From out the camp, and posted none knows whi- 
 ther. 
 
 Kath. Fled without battle given? 
 
 Dal. Fled, but follow'd 
 By Dawbeney; all hisf parties left to taste 
 King Henry's mercy, for to that they yielded; 
 Victorious without bloodshed. 
 
 Kath. Oh, my sorrows I 
 If both our lives had proved the sacrifice 
 To Henry's tyranny, we had fall'n like princes, 
 And robb'd him of the glory of his pride. 
 
 Dal. Impute it not to faintness or to weakness 
 Of noble courage, lady, but [to] foresight ; 
 For by some secret friend he had intelligence 
 Of being bought and sold by his base followers. 
 Worse yet remains untold. 
 
 * Affronted bii King Henry's chainberluin.'] i. e. met directli/ 
 in front by Dawbeney. It is sufficiently clear from the exult- 
 ing language of this wily monarch in the scene with Urswick, 
 p. 315, that he had made himself sure of the overthrow of War- 
 beck, whom he had, by this time, environed with his agents ; 
 hence the disgraceful flight of the usurper, the recourse to the 
 sanctuary of Bewley, and subsequent surrender. Bacon 
 shrewdly observes, on this occasion, that the king was grown 
 to be such a partner with Fortune, as no body could tell what 
 actions the one, and what the other owned. It was generally 
 believed, he adds, that Perkin " was betrayed, and that the 
 king led him, at the time of his flight, in a line ;" a fact to which 
 be does not seem disposed to give credit. — Gifford. 
 
 t i. e. pai'tizaiis.
 
 SCENE I. PERKIN WARBECK. 327 
 
 Kath. No, no, it cannot. 
 
 Dal. I fear you are betray'd: the Earl of Ox- 
 ford 
 Runs hot in your pursuit.* 
 
 Kath, Fie shall not need ; 
 We'll run as hot in resolution, gladly, 
 To make the earl our jailor. 
 
 Jane. Madam, madam, 
 They come, they come! 
 
 Enter Oxford, with Ms followers. 
 
 Dal. Keep back, or he who dares 
 Rudely to violate the law of honour, 
 Runs on my sword. 
 
 * the Earl of Oxford 
 
 Runs hot in your pursuit.] " There were also sent (Lord 
 Bacon says) with all speed some horse to St. Michael's Mount, 
 in Cornwall, where the Lady Catharine Gordon was left by her 
 husband, whom in all fortunes she intirely loved, adding the 
 virtues of a wife to the virtues of her sex." 
 
 The reader, in whose breast the extraordinary merits of this 
 high-born lady can scarcely fail to have created some degree of 
 interest, will not be displeased, perhaps, with the brief recital 
 of her subsequent fortunes, as given by Sir l\. Gordon, whom 
 Douglas calls the Historian of the Family. After quoting the 
 preceding passage from Bacon, Sir Robert adds — " shoe wes 
 brought from St. JMichael's Mount in Cornuall, and delyvered 
 to King Ilenrie the Seaventh, who intertayned her honorablie, 
 and for her better mantenance, according to her birth and ver- 
 tue, did assigne vnto her good lands and rents for all the dayes 
 of her lyft'. After the death of her husband Richard, shoe 
 mareid Sir Mathie Cradock, (a man of great power at that tyme 
 in Clamorganshyre, in Wales,) of the which mariage is de- 
 scended this William, Earle of Pembroke, by his grandmother, 
 and had some lands by inheritance from the Cradockes. Lady 
 Katheren Gordon died in Wales, and was buried in a chappell 
 at one of the Earle of Pembrok his dwelling-places in that 
 cuntrey. The Englesh histories doc much commend her for 
 her beauty, comliness, and chastetie." — GinouD.
 
 328 TERKIN WARBECK. ACT V. 
 
 Kath. Most noble sir, forbear ! 
 What reason draws you hither, gentlemen? 
 Wliom seek ye ? 
 
 Oxf. All stand off. With favour, lady. 
 From Henry, England's king, I would present. 
 Unto the beauteous princess, Katherine Gordon, 
 The tender of a gracious entertainment. 
 
 Kath. We are that princess, whom your master 
 king 
 Pursues with reaching arms, to draw into 
 His power: let him use his tyranny. 
 We shall not be his subjects. 
 
 Oxf. ]My commission 
 Extends no further, excellentest lady. 
 Than to a service ; 'tis king Henry's pleasure, 
 That you, and all that have relation to you, 
 Be guarded as becomes your birth and greatness : 
 For, rest assured, sweet princess, that not aught 
 Of what you do call yours, shall find disturbance, 
 Or any welcome, other than what suits 
 Your high condition. 
 
 Kath. By what title, sir. 
 May I acknowledge you? 
 
 Ovf. Your servant, lady. 
 Descended from the line of Oxford's earls, 
 Inherits what his ancestors before him 
 Were owners of. 
 
 Kath. Your king is herein royal, 
 That by a peer so ancient in desert, 
 As well as blood, commands us to his presence. 
 
 Oxf. Invites you, princess, not commands. 
 
 Kath. Pray use 
 Your own phrase as you list ; to your protection. 
 Both I and mine submit.
 
 SCENE II. PERKIX WARBECK. 329 
 
 Oxf. There's in your number 
 A nobleman, whom fame hath bravely spoken. 
 To him the king my master bade me say 
 How willingly he courts his friendship ; far 
 From an enforcement, more than what in terms 
 Of courtesy, so great a prince may hope for. 
 
 Dal. My name is Daly ell. 
 
 Oxf. 'Tis a name hath won 
 Both thanks and wonder, from report, my lord ; 
 The court of England emulates your merit, 
 And covets to embrace you. 
 
 Dal. I must wait on 
 The princess in her fortunes. 
 
 Oxf. Will you please, 
 Great lady, to set forward? 
 
 Kath. Being driven 
 By fate, it were in vain to strive with heaven. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE ll.—SaVishury. 
 
 Enter King Henry, Surrey, Urswick, a7id a 
 Guard of Soldiers. 
 
 K. Hen. The counterfeit king Perkin is es- 
 caped : — 
 Escape ! so let him : he is hedged too fast 
 Within the circuit of our English pale, 
 To steal out of our ports, or leap the walls 
 Which guard our land ; the seas are rough, and 
 
 wider 
 Than his weak arms can tug with. Surrey, hence- 
 forth 
 Your king may reign in quiet ; turmoils past, 
 Like some unquiet dream, have rather busied
 
 S'jO PERKIN WARBLCK. ACT V. 
 
 Our fancy, than aftVighted rest of state. — 
 But, Surrey,* why, in artichng a peace 
 \Vith James of Scotkmd, was not restitution 
 Of losses, which our subjects did sustain 
 By the Scotch inroads, question'd ? 
 
 Sur. Both demanded 
 And urged, my lord; to which the king replied. 
 In modest merriment, but smiling earnest, 
 How that our master, Henry, was much abler 
 To bear the detriments, than he repay them. 
 
 K. Hen. The young man, I believe, spake honest 
 truth : 
 He studies to be wise betimes. Has, Urswick, 
 Sir Rice ap Thomas, and lord Brook, our steward, 
 Return'd the Western gentlemen full thanks, 
 From us, for their tried loyalties ? 
 
 Urs. They have ; 
 Which, as if life and health had reign'd amongst 
 
 them, 
 With open hearts tliey joyfidly received. 
 
 K. Hen. Young Buckingham is a fair-natured 
 prince, 
 Lovely in hopes, and worthy of his father; 
 Attended by an hundred knights and squires 
 Of special nan:ie, he tender'd humble service, 
 
 * But, Surrey, why, cV-] Henry seems to have taken an 
 odd time to question Surrey on this point. Perhaps the poet 
 here, as in a foixner scene, intended to characterise the eager 
 cupidit)' of the king, always alive to his pecuniary interests. 
 The passage stands thus in Bacon. " The bishop (Fox) de- 
 manded restitution of the spoils taken by the Scotish, as damages 
 for the same. But the Scotish commissioners answered, that 
 that was but as water spilt upon the ground, which could not 
 be gotten up again ; and that the king's people icere better able 
 to bear the loss, than their 7naster to repair it." — Gifford.
 
 SCENE II. PEFvKIN v/ARBECK. 331 
 
 Which we must ne'er forget; and Devonshire's 
 
 wounds, 
 Though shght, shall find sound cure in our respect. 
 
 Enter Dawbeney, with a Guards leading in War- 
 beck, Heron, John a-Water, Astley, and 
 Sketon, chained. 
 
 Dan'. Life to the king, and safety fix his throne! 
 I here present you, royal sir, a shadow 
 Of majesty, but, in effect, a substance 
 Of pity, a young man, in nothing grown 
 To ripeness, but the ambition of your mercy: 
 Perkin, the Christian world's strange wonder. 
 
 K. Hen. Dawbeney, 
 We observe no wonder; I behold, 'tis true. 
 An ornament of nature, fine and polish'd, 
 A handsome youth indeed, but not admire him. 
 How came he to thy hands? 
 
 Dan\ From sanctuary 
 At Bewley, near Southampton ; register'd 
 With these few followers, for persons privileged. 
 
 K. Hen. I must not thank you, sir! you were 
 to blame 
 To infringe the liberty of houses sacred : 
 Dare we be irreligious ? 
 
 Darv. Gracious lord, 
 They voluntarily resign'd themselves, 
 Without compulsion. 
 
 K. Hen. So? 'twas very well; 
 'Twas very, very well ! — turn now thine eyes, 
 Young man, upon thyself, and thy past actions. 
 What revels in combustion through our kingdom, 
 A frenzy of aspiring youth hath danced. 
 Till, wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt 
 To break thy neck!
 
 332 PERKIN \VARBECK. ACT V. 
 
 JFar. But not my heart ; my heart 
 Will mount, till every drop of blood be frozen 
 By death's perpetual winter : if the sun 
 Of majesty be darken'd, let the sun 
 Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse 
 Lasting and universal ! Sir, remember 
 There was a shooting in of light, when Richmond, 
 Not aiming at a crown, retired, and gladly, 
 For comfort to the duke of Bretaine's court. 
 Richard, who sway'd the sceptre, was reputed 
 A tyrant then ; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd 
 To some few wand'ring remnants, promising day 
 When first they ventur'd on a frightful shore, 
 At Milford Haven— 
 
 Daw. Whither speeds his boldness ? 
 Check his rude tongue, great sir. 
 
 A'. Hen. O, let him range : 
 The player's on the stage still, 'tis his part ; 
 He does but act. What follow'd ? 
 
 JVar. Bosworth Field! 
 Wliere, at an instant, to the world's amazement, 
 A morn to Richmond, and a night to Richard, 
 Appear'd at once: the tale is soon applied; 
 Fate which crown'd these attempts when least 
 
 assured, 
 ]\Iight have befriended others, like resolv'd. 
 
 A". Hc/i. A pretty gallant! thus, your aunt of 
 Burgundy, 
 Your dutchess aunt inform'd her nephew ; so 
 The lesson prompted, and well conn'd, was moulded 
 Into familiar dialogue, oft rehearsed. 
 Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now received for truth. 
 
 JVar. Truth, in her pure simplicity, wants art 
 To put a feigned blush on : scorn wears only
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 33S 
 
 Such fashion as commends to gazer's eyes 
 Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath 
 The sphere of majesty: in such a court 
 Wisdom and gravity are proper robes, 
 By which the sovereign is best distinguish'd 
 From zanies to his greatness. 
 
 K. Hen. Sirrah, shift 
 Your antick pageantry, and now appear 
 In your own nature, or you'll taste the danger 
 Of fooling out of season. 
 
 TVar. I expect 
 No less than what severity calls justice, 
 And politicians safety ; let such beg 
 As feed on alms : but, if there can be mercy 
 In a protested enemy, then may it 
 Descend to these poor creatures, whose engage- 
 ments. 
 To th' bettering of their fortunes, have incurr'd 
 A loss of all; to them, if any charity 
 Flow from some noble orator, in death, 
 I owe the fee of thankfulness. 
 
 K. Hen. So brave! 
 What a bold knave is this ! Which of these rebels 
 Has been the mayor of Cork? 
 
 Daw. This wise formality: 
 Kneel to the king, ye rascals ! [ They kneel. 
 
 K. Hen. Canst thou hope 
 A pardon, where thy guilt is so apparent? 
 
 J. a- Wat. Under your good favours, as men are 
 men, they may err ; for I confess, respectively, in 
 taking great parts, the one side prevailing, the 
 other side must go down : herein the point is clear, 
 if the proverb hold, that hanging goes by destiny, 
 that it is to little purpose to say, this thing, or
 
 334 PERKIX WARBECK. ACT V. 
 
 that, shall be thus, or thus : for, as the fates will 
 have it, so it must be; and who can help it? 
 
 Dcnv. O blockhead! thou a privy-counsellor? 
 Bef? life, and cry aloud, " Heaven save kingr 
 Henry ! 
 
 /. a-lVat. Every man knows what is best, as it 
 happens; for my own part, I believe it is true, if 
 I be not deceived, that kings must be kings, and 
 subjects subjects: but which is which, you shall 
 pardon me for that; — whether we speak or hold 
 our peace, all are mortal, no man knows his end. 
 
 K. Hen. We trifle timiC with follies. 
 
 All. Mercy, mercy! 
 
 K. Hen. Urswick, commend the dukeling and 
 these fellows \_Theif rise. 
 
 To Digby, the lieutenant of the Tower : 
 With safety let them be convey'd to London. 
 It is our pleasure no uncivil outrage. 
 Taunts, or abuse be suffered to their persons; 
 They shall meet fairer law than they deserve. 
 Time may restore their wits, whom vain ambition 
 Hath many years distracted. 
 
 War. Noble thoughts 
 Meet freedom in captivity : the Tower I 
 Our childhood's dreadful nursery. 
 
 K. Hen. No more! 
 
 Urs. Come, come, you shall have leisure to be- 
 think you. 
 
 [iia-^V Urs. n-'ith Perkin- and Jus followers, 
 guarded. 
 
 K. Hen. Was ever so much impudence in for- 
 gery ? 
 The custom sure of being styled a king, 
 Hath fasten'd in his thought that he is such;
 
 SCENE II. PERKIN WARBECK. 335 
 
 But we shall teach the lad another language: 
 'Tis good we have him fast. 
 
 Dear. The hangman's physic 
 Will purge this saucy humour. 
 
 K. Hen. Very likely : 
 Yet we could temper mercy with extremity, 
 Being not too far provoked. 
 
 Enter Oxford, Katiierine in her richest Attire, 
 Dalyell, Jane, and Attendants. 
 
 O.rf. Great sir, be pleased, 
 With your accustom'd grace, to entertain 
 The princess Katherine Gordon. 
 
 K. Hen. Oxford, herein • 
 
 We must beshrew thy knowledge of our nature. 
 A lady of her birth and virtues could not 
 Have found us so unfurnish'd of good manners, 
 As not, on notice given, to have met her 
 Half way in point of love. Excuse, fair cousin. 
 The oversight! oh fie! you may not kneel; 
 'Tis most unfitting: first, vouchsafe this welcome, 
 A welcome to your own ; for you shall find us 
 But guardian to your fortune and your honours. 
 
 Kath. My fortunes and mine honours are weak 
 champions, 
 As both are now befriended, sir ; however. 
 Both bow before your clemency. 
 
 K. Hen. Our arms 
 Shall circle them from malice — a sweet lady! 
 Beauty incomparable! — here lives majesty 
 At league with love. 
 
 Kath. Oh, sir, I have a husband. 
 
 K. Hen. We'll prove your father, husband, friend, 
 and servant.
 
 336 rETxKIN WARBECK. ACT V. 
 
 Prove what you wish to grant us. Lords, be careful 
 A patent presently be drawn, for issuing 
 A thousand pounds from our exchequer yearly, 
 During our cousin's life ; our queen shall be 
 Your chief companion, our own court your home, 
 Our subjects all your servants. 
 
 Kath. But my husband? 
 
 K. Hen. By all descriptions, you are noble Dal- 
 
 yeii, 
 
 Whose generous truth hath famed a rare obser- 
 vance. 
 We thank you ; 'tis a goodness gives addition 
 To every title boasted from your ancestry, 
 In all most worthy. 
 
 Dal. Worthier than your praises, 
 Right princely sir, I need not glory in. 
 
 K. Hen. Embrace him, lords. Whoever calls 
 you mistress, 
 Is lifted in our charge : — a goodlier beauty 
 Mine eyes yet ne'er encounter'd. 
 
 Katli. Cruel misery 
 Of fate! what rests to hope for? 
 
 K. Hen. Forward, lords. 
 To London. Fair, ere long, I shall present you 
 With a glad object, peace, and Huntley's* blessing. 
 
 [_Ej:ei!nt. 
 
 * Here, at all events, it might have been thought that this 
 drama would have concluded : but such was not the nature of a 
 Chronicle-history ; and after all, Ford's expanse of subject is but 
 trivial compared with that of some of his predecessors. In the 
 dedication of " Promos and Cassandra" (1578) its author 
 (Whetstone), obsei-ving on the offences which some of his con- 
 temporaries committed against probability, says, " In this quality 
 the Englishman is most vaine, indiscreete, and out of order ;
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 337 
 
 SCENE III. 
 London. — The Tower-hill. 
 
 Enter Constable and Officers, Warbeck, Urswick, 
 
 and Lambert Simnel as a Falconer, followed hij 
 
 the rabble. 
 
 Const. Make room there! keep off, I require 
 you; and none come within twelve foot of his 
 majesty's new stocks, upon pain of displeasure. 
 Bring forward the malefactors. — Friend, you must 
 to this geer, no remedy. — Open the hole, and in 
 with the legs, just in the middle hole; there, that 
 hole. Keep off, or I'll commit you all ! shall not 
 a man in authority be obeyed ? So, so, there ; 
 'tis as it should be : — [Warbeck is jmt in the stochs.'] 
 put on the padlock, and give me the key. Off, I 
 say, keep off. 
 
 Urs. Yet, Warbeck, clear thy conscience : thou 
 hast tasted 
 King Henry's mercy liberally ; the law 
 Has forfeited thy life ; an equal jury 
 Have doom'd thee to the gallows. Twice most 
 
 wickedly, 
 Most desperately hast thou escaped the Tower ; 
 Inveigling to thy party, with thy witchcraft, 
 Young Edward, earl of Warwick, son to Clarence; 
 Whose head must pay the price of that attempt ; 
 Poor gentleman! — unhappy in his fate, — 
 And ruin'd by thy cunning! so a mongrel 
 
 he first grounds his work on impossibilities, then in three 
 howers ronnes he throwe the worlde, marryes, gets children, 
 makes children men, men to conquer kingdoms, murder mon- 
 sters, 6lC.&c. 
 
 VOL. I. Z
 
 338 PEFxKIN WAREECK. ACT V. 
 
 May pluck the true stag down. Yet, yet, confess 
 Thy parentage ; for yet the king has mercy. 
 
 tSimn. You would be Dick the Fourth, very 
 likely! 
 Your pedigree is publish'd ;* you are known 
 For Osbeck's son of Tournay, a loose runagate, 
 A land-loper; your father was a Jew, 
 Turn'd Christian merely to repair his miseries: 
 Where's now your kingship? 
 
 JVar. Baited to my death ! 
 Intolerable cruelty ! I laugh at 
 The duke of Richmond's practice on my fortunes; 
 Possession of a crown ne'er wanted heralds. 
 
 Simn. You will not know who I am ? 
 
 Urs. Lambert Simnel, 
 Your predecessor in a dangerous uproar: 
 But, on submission, not alone received 
 To grace, but by the king vouchsafed his service. 
 
 Shun. I would be earl of Warwick, toil'd and 
 ruffled 
 Against my master, leap'd to catch the moon, 
 Vaunted my name Plantagenet, as you do; 
 
 * Your pedigree is publisVd, ^T.] " Thus it was. There 
 was a townsman of Tournay, whose name was John Osbeck, 
 a conveit Jew, married to Catherine de Faro, whose business 
 drew him to Hve, for a time, with his wife at London, in King 
 Edward the lA'th's days. During which time he had a son by 
 her ; and being known in court, the king did him the honour 
 to stand god-father to his child, and named him Peter. But 
 afterwards proving a dainty and effeminate youth, he was com- 
 monly called by the diminutive of his name, Peterlun or Per- 
 kin." — Bacon. The term land-loper, applied to him by Sim- 
 nel, is also from the historian. " He (Perkin) had been from 
 his childhood such a wanderer, or, as the king called him, 
 such a land- toper, as it was extreme hard to hunt out his nest."
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 339 
 
 An earl forsooth ! whenas in truth I was, 
 
 As you are, a mere rascal : yet his majesty, 
 
 A prince composed of sweetness, — Heaven protect 
 
 him ! — 
 Forgave me all my villanies, reprieved 
 The sentence of a shameful end, admitted 
 My surety of obedience to his service. 
 And I am now his falconer ; live plenteously. 
 Eat from the king's purse, and enjoy the sweetness 
 Of liberty and favour ; sleep securely : 
 And is not this, now, better than to buffet 
 The hanorman's clutches ? or to brave the cordac^e 
 Of a tough halter, which will break your neck ? 
 So, then, the gallant totters ! — prithee, Perkin, 
 Let my example lead thee ; be no longer 
 A counterfeit ; confess and hope for pardon. 
 
 JVar. For pardon? holdray heart-strings, whilst 
 
 contempt 
 Of injuries, in scorn, may bid defiance 
 To this base man's foul language ! Thou poo^: 
 
 vermin. 
 How dar"st thou creep so near me ? thou an earl ! 
 Why, thou enjoy'st as much of happiness 
 As all the swinjx of sh'crlit ambition flew at. 
 A dunghill was thy cradle. So a puddle, 
 By virtue of the sunbeams, breathes a vapour 
 To infect the purer air, which drops again 
 Into tlie muddy womb that first exaled it. 
 Bread, and a slavish ease, with, some assurance 
 From the base beadle's whip, crown'd all thy 
 
 liopes : 
 But, sirrah, ran there in thy veins one drop 
 Of such a royal blood as flows in mine, 
 Thou would'st not change condition, to be second 
 
 z 2
 
 S40 PERKIN WARBECK. ACT V. 
 
 In England's state, without the crown itself! 
 Coarse creatures are incapable of excellence : 
 But let the world, as all to whom I am 
 This day a spectacle, to time deliver, 
 And, by tradition, fix posterity, 
 Without another chronicle than truth, 
 How constantly my resolution sufFer'd 
 A martyrdom of majesty! 
 
 Sinm. He's past 
 Recovery ; a Bedlam cannot cure him. 
 
 Urs. Away, inform the king of his behaviour. 
 
 Simti. Perkin, beware the rope! the hangman's 
 coming. \_Exit, 
 
 Urs. If yet thou hast no pity of thy body, 
 Pity thy soul ! 
 
 Enter Katherine, Jane, Dalyell, and Ox- 
 ford. 
 
 Jane. Dear lady ! 
 
 Oj/. Whither will you, 
 Without respect of shame ? 
 
 Katli. Forbear me, sir, 
 And trouble not the current of my duty! — 
 Oh my lov'd lord ! can any scorn be yours 
 In which I have no interest? some kind hand 
 Lend me assistance, that I may partake 
 Th' infliction of this penance. My life's dearest. 
 Forgive me ; I have staid too long from tend'ring 
 Attendance on reproach, yet bid me welcome. 
 
 JJ^ar. Great miracle of constancy ! my miseries 
 Were never bankrupt of their confidence 
 In worst afflictions, till this — now, I feel them. 
 Report, and thy deserts, thou best of creatures, 
 Might to eternity have stood a pattern
 
 SCENE III. TERKIN WARBECK. 341 
 
 For every virtuous wife, without this conquest. 
 
 Thou hast outdone behef ; yet may their ruin 
 
 In after marriages be never pitied, 
 
 To whom thy story shall appear a fable ! 
 
 Why would'st thou prove so much unkind to 
 
 greatness, 
 To glorify thy vows by such a servitude? 
 I cannot weep ; but trust me, dear, my heart 
 Is liberal of passion : Harry Richmond, 
 A woman's faith hath robb'd thy fame of tri- 
 umph ! 
 
 Oxf. Sirrah, leave off your juggling, and tie up 
 The devil that ranges in your tongue. 
 
 Urs. Thus witches, 
 Possess'd, even [to] their deaths deluded, say, 
 They have been wolves and dogs, and sail'd in 
 
 ecrg-shells 
 Over the sea, and rid on fiery dragons ; 
 Pass'd in the air more than a thousand miles, 
 All in a night: — the enemy of mankind 
 Is powerful, but false; and falsehood's confident. 
 
 Oxf. Remember, lady, who you are ; come 
 from 
 That impudent impostor. 
 
 Kath. You abuse us: 
 For when the holy churchman join'd our hands. 
 Our vows were real then; the ceremony 
 Was not in apparition, but in act. 
 Be what these people term thee, I am certain 
 Thou art my husband, no divorce in heaven 
 Has been sued out between us ; 'tis injustice 
 For any earthly power to divide us. 
 Or we will live, or let us die together. 
 There is a cruel mercy.
 
 342 PERKIX V.'ARBECK. ACT V 
 
 War. Spite of tyranny 
 "We reign in our affections, blessed woman ! 
 Read in my destiny the wreck of honour ; 
 Point out, in my contempt of death, to memory, 
 Some miserable happiness ; since, herein, 
 Even when I fell, I stood enthroned a monarch 
 Of one chaste wife's troth, pure and uncorrupted. 
 Fair angel of perfection, immortality 
 Shall raise thy name up to an adoration, 
 Court every rich opinion of true merit, 
 And saint it in the calendar of virtue, 
 When I am turn'd into the self-same dust 
 Of which I was first form'd, 
 
 Od'f. The lord ambassador, 
 Huntley, your father, madam, should he look on 
 Your strange subjection, in a gaze so public, 
 Would blush on your behalf, and wish his country 
 Unleft, for entertainment to such sorrow. 
 
 Kath. Why art thou angry, Oxford ? I must be 
 More peremptory in ray duty. — Sir, 
 Impute it not unto immodesty. 
 That I presume to press you to a legacy, 
 Before we part for ever. 
 
 War. Let it be then 
 My heart, the rich remains of all my fortunes. 
 
 Kath. Confirm it with a kiss, pray. 
 
 War. Oh ! with that 
 I wish to breathe my last ; upon thy lips, 
 Those equal twins of comeliness, I seal 
 Tiie testament of honourable vows : [Kisses her. 
 Whoever be that man that shall unkiss 
 This sacred print next, may he prove more thrifty 
 In this world's just applause, not more desertful !
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 34<3 
 
 Kath. By this sweet pledge of both our souls, 1 
 swear 
 To die a faithful widow to thy bed ; 
 Not to be forced or w^on : oh, never, never !* 
 
 Enter Surrey, Dawbeney, Huntley, and 
 Craavford. 
 
 Daw. Free the condemned person ; quickly free 
 him ! 
 What has he yet confess'd ? 
 
 [Warbeck is taken out of the stocks. 
 
 Urs. Nothing to purpose ; 
 But still he will be king. 
 
 Sur. Prepare your journey 
 To a new kingdom then, — unhappy madman, 
 Wilfully foolish! — See, my lord ambassador, 
 Your lady daughter will not leave the counterfeit 
 In this disgrace of fate. 
 
 Hunt. I never 'pointed 
 Thy marriage, girl; but yet, being married, 
 Enjoy thy duty to a husband freely; 
 Thy griefs are mine. I glory in thy constancy; 
 And must not say, I wish that I had miss'd 
 Some partage in these trials of a patience. 
 
 Kath. You will forgive me, noble sir. 
 
 * The better genius of Ford, which had so admirably served 
 hira hitherto, appears to have left his side at this moment ; he 
 would not else have permitted Katherine to injure herself by 
 a speech for which there was not the slightest occasion ; and 
 which is so much at variance with the known fact, that War- 
 beck's widow ilid marry again. She should have had nothing 
 in common with the Player Queen, no, not even an oath. — 
 
 GlI lORD.
 
 344 TERKIX WA.RBECK. ACT V. 
 
 Hunt. Yes, yes; 
 In every duty of a wife and daughter, 
 I dare not disavow thee. — To your husband, 
 (For such you are, sir,) I impart a farewell 
 Of manly pity ; what your life has past through. 
 The dangers of your end will make apparent ; 
 And I can add, for comfort to your sufferance, 
 No cordial, but the vronder of your frailty. 
 Which keeps so firm a station. — We are parted. 
 
 War. We are. A crov»n of peace renew thy age, 
 Most honourable Huntley! worthy Crawford! 
 We may embrace; I never thought thee injury. 
 
 Craw. Nor was I ever guilty of neglect 
 Which might procure such thought; I take my 
 leave, sir. 
 
 JVar. To you, lord Dalyell, — what? accept a 
 sigh, 
 'Tis hearty and in earnest. 
 
 Dal. I want utterance ; 
 My silence is my farewell. 
 
 Katk. Oh!— ih. 
 
 Jajie. Sweet madam, 
 What do you mean? — my lord, your hand. 
 
 [To Dal. 
 
 Dal. Dear lady. 
 Be pleased that I may wait you to your lodgings. 
 \_Ej:eunt Dalyell and Jane, supporting 
 Katherine. 
 
 Enter Sheriff and Officers with Sketon, Astley, 
 Heron, and John a-Water, with Halters about 
 their neclcs. 
 Oxf. Look ye, behold your followers, appointed 
 
 To wait on you in death.
 
 SCENE III. PERKIN WARBECK. 345 
 
 JVar. Why, peers of England, 
 We'll lead them on courageously ; I read 
 A triumph over tyranny upon 
 Their several foreheads. Faint not in the moment 
 Of victory! our ends, and Warwick's head, 
 Innocent Warwick's head, (for we are prologue 
 But to his tragedy) conclude the wonder 
 Of Henry's fears;* and then the glorious race 
 Of fourteen kings, Piantagenets, determinesf 
 In this last issue male; Heaven be obey'd ! 
 Impoverish time of its amazement, friends, 
 And we will prove as trusty in our payments, 
 As prodigal to nature in our debts. 
 Death ? pish ! 'tis but a sound ; a name of air ; 
 A minute's storm, or not so much ; to tumble 
 From bed to bed, be massacred alive 
 By some physicians, for a month or two, 
 In hope of freedom from a fever's torments. 
 Might stagger manhood ; here the pain is past 
 Ere sensibly 'tis felt. Be men of spirit ! 
 Spurn coward passion I so illustrious mention 
 Shall blaze our names, and style us Kings o'er 
 death. 
 \_Exeiint Sheriff and Officers with the Prisoners. 
 
 Daw. Away — impostor beyond precedent ! 
 No chronicle records his fellow. 
 
 * Our ends, and Warwick's head — conclude the wonder 
 Of Henry's fearsi This poor prince, as Lord Bacon calls 
 him, was undoubtedly sacrificed to the barbarous policy of the 
 king. lie was brought to trial almost immediately after War- 
 beck's death, condemned, and executed for conspiring with the 
 former to raise sedition ! He made no defence, and probably 
 quitted, without much regret, a life that had never known one 
 happy day. — Giffoud. 
 
 t i. e. ends, is finished. 
 
 VOL. I. A A
 
 346 PERKIX V.ARBECK. ACT V, 
 
 Hunt. I have 
 Not thoughts left : 'tis sufficient in such cases 
 Just laws ought to proceed. 
 
 Enter King Henry, Durham, and Hialas. 
 
 K. Hen. We are resolv'd. 
 Your business, noble lords, shall find success, 
 Such as your king importunes. 
 
 Hunt. You are gracious. 
 
 K. Hen. Perkin, we are inform'd, is arm'd to 
 die ; 
 In that we'll honour him. Our lords shall follow 
 To see the execution; and from hence 
 We gather this fit use;* — that public states, 
 As our particular bodies, taste most good 
 In health, when purged of corrupted blood. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 * We gather this fit use.'] The poet seems to apply this word 
 in the Puritanical sense (then sufficiently familiar) of doctri- 
 nal or practical deduction. — Gitford. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
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