r LIBRARY UNI'v - KM I r OF CALI' (-RNIA SAN D'EGO J rL9^'\-^ THE PLAYS OF Beaumont and Fletcher [selected] WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY J. S. FLETCHER m m LONDON Walter Scott, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row AND NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE 1887 CONTENTS. Prefatory Notice ..... vU From The Woman-Hater — An Epicure's Search lor a Fish's Head , 3 From Philaster ; or, Love lies a-Bleedino— A Lady Makes Love .... 11 The DawTi of Love ..... 17 From The Maid's Tragedy— From the Wedding Masque of Amintor and Evadne 18 Evadne and Aspatia seek Death . 22 From A King and No King — The Philosophy of Blows .... 32 From The Scornful Lady— A Cruel Mistress ..... 42 Teasing the Chaplain .... 45 From The Custom of the Country — Donna Guiomar offers shelter to her Son's Murderer 47 From Wit without Money— Living by the Wits .... 52 From The Little French Lawyer— The Lawyer's Duel ..... 54 The Lawyer Challenges the Judge . ■ 64 From BoNDUCA— Caratach deprecates Boasting . . 69 Suetonius's Harangue .... 75 76 A Battle Scene . An Infant Hero ..... 80 Penius's Remorse ..... 84 The Boy Hengo's Death .... 93 From The Knight of Malta— ' Lust not Love . . . . . 97 Denial of Self 100 From The Coxcomb— The Drunkard Ricardo's Repentance 115 Eicardo Forgiven . . . , . .119 vi CONTENTS. From Thb False One— Unfortunate War . . . . .273 The Head of Pompey . . . .279 From Thk Lover's Prioress — Sonj,' o( Heavenly against Eartlily Love . . 285 Love's Oeiitleiiess ..... 2S5 The l.an.llor.l's Ghost . . . . 2^6 The Ghost keeps his Promise . . . 290 From The Noble Gentleman— Marine's Preterments .... 293 Marme's Degradation .... 297 From Love's Pilgrimage— Fine Feathers . . . . .301 The Laniilord's Conscience .... 305 Second Love Won ..... 308 From The Night-Walk:er ; or, The Little Thief— The Live Ghost 312 From The Bloody Brother— Kevellefs' Fancies . . . . . 316 RoUo Murders his Brother . . , .318 Rollo's Death . . ... 323 From The Qoeen of Corinth — Beliza's Welcome to her Lover . . . 331 Son',' of Consolation for Sm-vivors of the Dead , 334 April 334 From The Maid of the Mill . , , 335 From The Nice Valour; or, The Passionate ^LvDM w — Cliainoiit and the Poltroon . . . , 836 Love Song of the Passionate Madman . . 340 Song in Praise of Melancholy . . . 341. Miscellaneous PoexMs of Beaumont— On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey . . 343 The Mermaid Tavern .... 342 To my Friend Mr. John Fletcher . . .344 Lines by Fletcher ..... 346 PREFATORY NOTICE. " Crown'd with sacred bays And flatt'ring ivy, two recite their plays, Beaumont and Fletcher, swans, to whom all ears Listen while they, like sirens in their spheres, Sing their Evadne." Robert Herrick. I. OU may here," preface to the Beaumont and raised to says Shirley in his 1647 foHo edition of Fletcher, " find pas- sions raisea to that excellent pitchj and by such insinuating degrees, that you shall not choose but consent, and go along with them, finding yourself at last grown insensibly the very same person you read ; and then stand admiring the subtile tracks of your engagement. Fall on a scene of love, and you will never believe the writers viii PRE FA TOR V NO TICE. could have the least room left in their souls for another passion ; peruse a scene of manly rage, and you will swear they cannot be expressed by the same hands ; but both are so excellently wrought, you must confess none but the same hands could work them. Would thy melancholy have a cure? thou shalt laugh at Democritus himself, and but reading one piece of this comic variety, find thy exalted fancy in Elysium ; and, when thou art sick of this cure (for the excess of delight may too much dilate thy soul), thou shalt meet almost in every leaf a soft purling passion or spring of sorrow, so powerfully wrought high by the tears of innocence and wronged lovers, it shall persuade thy eyes to weep into the stream, and yet smile when they contribute to their own ruins." There is no uncertain ring in these words of eulogy. That we may take them as indicating the spirit of the seventeenth century critics towards Beaumont and Fletcher's joint work appears tolerably certain from the corroborative fact that the verses written in commendation of these dramatists' productions are exceedingly numerous and equally full of praise. The folio edition of 1647, in the preface to which they occur, was so warmly welcomed that a new impression was required by 1679, ^"^^ was then produced by John PREFATORY NOTICE. Martyn, Henry Herring^man, and Richard Mariot. It contained seventeen additional plays, several proloi^ues and epilogues, and the songs appertain- ing to each play, which had been omitted in the 1647 folio. And it is worthy of note that Martyn, Herringman, and Mariot in their address to the reader state their intention of producing a series of works by Elizabethan Dramatists, the 1679 ^^lio of Beaumont and Fletcher being the first volume, Ben Jonson's works the second, and Shakespeare's the third. It would seem, then, that in the seven- teenth century the dramatic works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher were held in high favour, and ranked with the productions of the greatest of English poets. That two impressions should be called for in thirty years (no inconsider- able thing in those days) is proof that their works were read ; that no less than twenty-five com- mendatory verses occur in the editions of that time is further proof that by the best men of the day they were not only read but appreciated and admired. Literary partnerships have always possessed much interest for every person who has derived pleasure and instruction from their results. They are not common in^he history of letters, and it is difficult to believe that they could always be as PREFATORY NOTICE. happy in their consequences as in the one which death recently dissolved between Mr, Walter Besant and the late Mr. James Rice. It must surely be a sine qua non that literary partners should possess an unanimity of thought and feeling, and of expression, which one can rarely expect to find in any two men. It is hard to understand how two individuals, however ex- cellently they may agree in matters of religion or politics, can be absolutely at one in matters dealing almost exclusively with the imagination. It would doubtless be most interesting to have the details of a literary partnership unfolded, and to learn which partner wrote the love scenes and which devoted his energies to thrilling incidents, and how the whole thing was pieced together and made perfect. That we have abundant instances of the happy and perfect results of literary partnerships may be seen from examination of the delightful novels of Besant and Rice, and the equally delight- ful works of MM. Erckmann -Chatrian. But there is no better instance of the successful result of the simultaneous working of two separate minds on one common subject than the collection of fifty- two plays given to the world by Beaumont and Fletcher. There is little known of the lives of these PRE FA TOR V NO TICE. xi dramatists. They were intimate with the other poets and wits of that day, and it seems strange that we should possess no better fund of informa- tion respecting them. In common with Ben Jonson they were frequenters of the celebrated Mermaid Tavern, and Jonson's knowledge of Beaumont acquired there led the " rare Ben " to tell Drummond that Beaumont thought too much of himself. Much more of any value than this we do not know. The lives of the literary men of that age were not watched with the eagerness which this nineteenth century displays as regards the careers of its favourite writers of eminence. But it will be well to present the reader with a concise biographical note of each poet. II. 1. Francis Beaumont was bom at the Abbey of Grace-Dieu, in Leicestershire, about the year 1584. His father, of whom he was the youngest son, was a Judge of the Common Pleas. The poet's grand- father had become the possessor of Grace-Dieu at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries. In a "Booke of Epigrammes and Epitaphes," by PRE FA TOR V NOTICE. Thomas Bancroft (London, 1639), I find the following passage — "Grace-Dieu tli at under Charn-wood* stand'st alone, As a grand relic of religion, I I reverence thine old but fruitful worth, J That lately brought such noble Beaumonts forth, "WHiose brave heroic muses might aspire To watch the anthems of the heavenly quire : The mountains crown'd •wi.th rocky fortresses, And shelt'ring woods secure thy happiness, That highly favoured art (though lowly placed) Of heaven, and with free nature's bounty graced : \ Herein grow happier, and that bliss of thine, I Nor pride o'ertop, nor envy undermine." I The Beaumont race seems to have had a strong i poetic element in its composition. Besides Fran- cis Beaumont, the best known of the name, there are four other Beaumonts who achieved a certain • measure of fame in verse-making. These were the \ dramatist's elder brother, Sir John Beaumont, who \ wrote the poem of Bosworth Field, and whom \ Drayton ranked with Francis in point of merit ; 5 John, a son of this Sir John ; Francis, cousin of * Chamwood Forest in Leicestershire. At Colenton, near Loughborough, in the immediate neighbourhood of the Forest, the Beaumont family still lives. And near Charn- wood the de>cen(lants of the poet Herrick still have their iseat. This part of middle England would seem to be rich in p(>etic association and memory. PREFA TOR Y NO TICE. xiii our Francis, who was in his day master of the Charterhouse ; and Dr. Joseph Beaumont Lady Mary Wortley Montague, too, was a relation of the Beaumonts, her maiden name of Pierrepoint being that of the poet's mother. Francis Beaumont was intended for the family calling. After studying a while at Oxford, where, Dyce tells us, he was entered a gentle- man commoner of Broadgate Hall (now Pembroke College) on the 4th February 1596-7,. he studied law at the Inner (Middle ?) Temple for a brief while. But the law had little attraction for him, and at an early (judging by the fact he was Ben Jonson's respected critic in his teens, I might say very early), age he began to compose dramatic and poetical pieces. When he was about sixteen (it is difficult to speak with absolute certainty of these dates) he turned Ovid's Sabnacis and Her7naphro- ditics into English rhyme and published it. Dryden says that at this time Jonson submitted to Beaumont "a//" the plots of his dramas; but seeing that Every Man in His Huinout was pro- duced in 1596, when Beaumont was but a mere schoolboy, I do not well see how this could be. At any rate, Jonson in the following lines shows that he was indebted to Beaumont for the services which the budding poet rendered him : — PRE FA TOR V NO TICK. TO MR FRANCIS BEAUMONT. "How I do love thee, Beaumont, and thy Muse, That unto me dost such religion use ! How do I fear myself, that am not worth The least indulirent thought thy pen drops forth. At once thou mak'st me happy, and mimak'st, And givmg largely to me, more thou tak'st : "What fate is mine that so itself bereaves ? Wliat art is thine, that so thy friend deceives ? When even there, where most thou praisest me, For writing better I must envy thee ! " Beaumont married Ursula, daughter of Henry Isley, of Sundridge, in Kent, by whom he left two daughters, one of whom is said to have been living in 1700. He died, Jonson says, at the age of twenty-nine, others of over thirty, but at anyrate comparatively young, and was buried in West- minster Abbey, near the entrance to St. Benedict's Chapel. Like Beaumont, his collaborateur, John Fletcher, came of the aristocracy. His father. Dr. Fletcher, was Bishop of London, and was once suspended from his episcopal duties by Queen Elizabeth for having presumed to marry a second time. John Fletcher was born at his father's then PRE FA TOR V NOTICE. parsonage-house of Rye, in Sussex, in December 1579. The Fletcher family, like that of the Beaumonts, has produced a rich vein of poetic imagination. The Bishop's younger brother, Dr Giles Fletcher, is said by Wood to have been " an excellent poet," and his two sons (hence cousins of the better known John) are celebrated justly in the record of English singers. They were Giles and Phineas— the first the author of Chrisfs Victory and Triumph, which Milton praised ; the second wrote The Purple Island. On 15th October 1591, a youth from London, of the name of John Fletcher, was entered at Bene't College, Cambridge. That this would seem to be the poet appears from the fact that the Bishop had been Fellow and President of Bene't College. At that time the influence of the author of the Faery Queene was strong in Cambridge, and more than one passage in Fletcher's works show us that he felt its power. When Fletcher began to write we do not know. But he appears to have written in 1596 for Henslowe, a theatrical manager. And as there is good evidence that the Bishop of London died in poor circumstances, leaving his family to shift pretty much for themselves, I think it likely that John Fletcher, like a good many other poets, began to write for bread. In his lines " Upon PREFATORY NOTICE. an Honest Man's Fortune," which will close this volume of selections, he tells us that " Nor want, the curse of man, shall make me groan." In the books at St. Saviour's, Southwark, there is the record of a marriage between " John Fletcher " and " Jone Herring " as having taken place in the year 1612. But there is nothing to prove that this was our John Fletcher, who, however, did I've all his life in the parish of St. Saviour's, Southwark, and was buried in St. Saviour's Church on the 29th August 1625, when he was forty-nine. The manner or reason of his demise was somewhat ludicrous. " In this Church (St. Saviour's) " says Aubrey, " was interred, without any memorial, that eminent Dramatic Poet, Mr. /o/in F/t'c/ier, son to Bishop Fletcher oi London^ who died of the plague the 19th of August 1625.* When I searched the Register of this Parish in 1670 for his Obit^ for the use of Anthony d Wood, the Parish Clerk told me that he was his (Fletcher's) taylor, and that Mr. Fletcher, staying for a suit of cloaths before he retired into the country, Death stopped his journey and baid him lie here." * The printed parish register says he was buried on the 29th. Was not ten days a long time to defer the I'lmeral— and in Augnst ; and at plague time, too ? A PREFA TOR V NOTICE. vc Sir Acton Cockayne, who lived at the same time, says, in some curious verse-chronicles, that Massinger was buried with Fletcher. " In the same grave was Fletcher buried, liere Lies the stage-poet, Philip Massinger ; Plays they did write together, were great friends, And now one grave includes them in their ends. Two whom on earth nothing could part, beneath, Here in their fame they lie, in spite of death." When did Beaumont and Fletcher first make com- mon cause together ? That question is hard to answer, but it must have been when Beaumont was very young. Aubrey tells us that their intimacy was such that they lived in the same house, on the Bankside (Surrey side of the Thames) near the Globe Theatre, and that they had all things in common, even sharing the same clothes between them. We know as little of this particular as of the rest of their lives. But it requires little imagination to picture the two dramatists as brothers in mind and heart and purpose. in. Leaving the biographical history of Beaumont and Fletcher aside, let us turn to some considera- tion of the fifty-two plays which we have in their names. The first question of interest in regard to PREFATORY NOTICE. these plays is — what share did each have in writing them, and which may be looked upon as separate productions ? It cannot, of course, be said that all the fifty-two plays were written jointly by Fletcher and Beaumont, because Fletcher lived and wrote (and wrote hard) for some time after Beaumont's death, and it would appear, did the major portion of the work during his brother-poet's life. What did Fletcher, and what then did Beaumont write of these fifty-two dramas ? There is no doubt that Fletcher wrote most of the plays which are attributed to Beaumont and himself. Humphrey Moseley, the publisher of the 1647 folio, says : " It was once in my thoughts to have printed Master Fletcher's works by them- selves, because, single and alone, he would make a just volume ; but since never parted while they lived, I conceive it not equitable to separate their ashes." But Moseley does not tell us which were Fletcher's separate plays. Sir Aston Cockayne, from whom we have already had some information, thus remonstrates with jNIoseley for the occasion; — "Id the large book of plays you late did print In Beaumout and in Fletcher's name, why in 't Did you not justice, give to each his due ? For Beaumont of these many, writ but few : PREFA TOR Y NOTICE, xix And Massinger in other few ; the main Being sweet issues of sweet Fletcher^ s train ; But how came I, you ask, so much to know ? — Fletcher's chief bosom-friend informed me so." The " chief bosom-friend " was no doubt Beaumont himself — very good authority. And it would appear from what Sir Aston Cockayne here says, that Massinger had his finger in the pie. To tell the truth, it would appear from Mr. Dyce's account, that the fifty-two plays attributed to Beaumont and Fletcher were the work of several people, and that even the great Shakespeare himself had a hand in them. The following tables will make the thing clear to the reader ; — Plays written by Beaumont and Fletcher. The Woman Hater. Philaster ; or, Love Lies a-Bleeding. The Maid's Tragedy. A King and no King. The Scornful Lady. The Custom of the Country. Wit without Money. The Little French Lawyer. Bonduca. The Knight of Malta. The Coxcomb. Wit at Several Weapons. PRE FA TOR Y NO TICE. The Knight of the Buming Pestle. Cupid's Revenge. Thierry and Theodoret. The Honest Man's Fortune. Valentinian. The Double Marriage. Four Plays ; or, Moral Representations in One. The Faithful Friends. By Beaumont alone. The Masque of the Inner Temple and Gray's Inn. By Fletcher alone. The Elder Brother, The Spanish Curate. The Beggar's Bush. The Humorous Lieutenant. The Faithful Shepherdess. The Mad Lover. The Loyal Subject. Rule a Wife and Have a Wife. The Chances. The Wiid-Goose Chase. A Wife for a Month. The Pilgrim. The Captain. The Prophetess. Love's Cure ; or, the Martial Maid. Women Pleased. The Sea- Voyage. The Fair Maid of the Inn, PRE FA TOR Y NO TICE. xxi Love's Pilgrimage. The Night Walker. The Queen of Corinth. The Maid in the Mill. The Nice V^alour. The Island Princess. By Fletcher and Shakespeare. The Two Noble Kinsmen. By Fletcher and Massinger. (?) The False One. By Fletcher and Shirley. (?) The Lover's Progress. The Noble Gentleman. By Fletcher and Rowley. (?) The Bloody Brother. One sees at a glance from this table that Fletcher is responsible for the greater portion of the plays given to us in his and Beaumont's name. How comes it then, it may be asked, that Beaumont should stand first in respect to the authorship ? Darley asks this question, and answers it by a conjecture which possibly had some foundation in fact. He says there is reason to believe that Beaumont, being a very precocious genius, had published works and made acquaintance among PRE FA TOR V NO TICE. the literary men of the day before Fletcher made any mark. IV. The most marked characteristic of Beaumont and Fletcher's work is, unfortunately for their lasting fame, a terrible grossness of thought and expression. More indecency and impurity is not to be found in the plays of Wycherly and Etheridge, or of Congreve, than one meets with in the fifty- two dramas of these authors. That there are many things to be taken into account in considering this matter, no one who knows anything of the first years of the seventeenth century will deny. Society is always quick to catch its tone and take its cue from the court of the day ; and the court of James I. was more licentious that that of his grandson, Charles, fifty years later. Its licentiousness was different to the licentiousness of Charles the Second's court, because the poetic grace which was made to conceal the younger Charles Stuart's and his courtiers' excesses was lacking in the days of his grandfather. The manners of the early seventeenth century were terribly realistic, and no one took special exception to them. The wits and litterateurs of the age indeed seemed to take de- light in chronicling them. Their influence is found PRE FA TOR Y NO TICE. xxiii in Shakespeare himself, but his great genius revolted against it, and threw over the impurities which did creep into his works a concealing gloss. This influence, too, had its effect on Jonson and Marlowe and Massinger, but in no instance is it so marked or so deplorable as in Beaumont and Fletcher. " There is an incurable vulgar side of human nature," says Schlegel,* "which the poet should never approach but with a certain bashfulness, when he cannot avoid allowing it to be perceived ; but instead of this, Beaumont and Fletcher throw no veil whatever over nature. They express everything bluntly in words ; they make the spectator the unwilling confidant of all that more noble minds endeavour to hide even from them- selves. The indecencies in which these poets allowed themselves to indulge exceed all conception. The licentiousness of the language is the least evil ; many scenes, nay, whole plots, are so con- trived, that the very idea of those, not to mention the sight, is a gross insult to;aiodesty. Aristophanes is a bold interpreter of sensuality : but like the Grecian statuary in the figures of satyrs, etc, he banishes them into the animal region to which they wholly belong ; and judging him according * Lectures or Dramatic Art and Literature. PRE FA TOR Y NO TICK. to the morality of his times, he is much less offensive. But Beaumont and Fletcher exhibit the impure and nauseous colouring of vice to our view in quite a different sphere ; their compositions resemble the sheet full of pure and impure animals in the vision of the Apostle. This was the univer- sal inclination of the dramatic poets under James and Charles the First. They seem as if they purposely wished to justify the puritans, who affirmed that the theatres were so many schools of seduction, and chapels of the Devil." " Too true," says Leigh Hunt, "is the charge of Schlegel against them. With rare and beautiful exceptions they degrade love by confining it to the animal passion ; they degrade the animal passion itself by associating it with the foulest impertinences ; they combine by anticipation Rochester and Swift — make chastity and unchastity almost equally offensive by indecently and extravagantly contrasting them ; nay, put into the mouths of their chastest persons a language evincing the grossest knowledge of vice, sometimes purposely assuming its character, and pretending, in zeal for its defeat, to be intoxicated with its enjoyment 1 " These are heavy and startling charges to bring against writers whose works othenvise are justly entitled to a high place in English literature. PREFA TOR V NOTICE. xxv "The many offences against decency which our poets have committed," says Dyce, " can only be extenuated on the plea that they sacrificed their own taste and feelings to the fashion of the times.* There can be little doubt that the most unblushing licentiousness, both in conversation and practice, prevailed among the courtiers of James the First : we know, too, that ' to be like the court was a playe's praise ; ' and for the sake of such praise Beaumont and Fletcher did not scruple to deform their dramas with ribaldry, — little imagining how deeply, in consequence of that base alloy, their reputation would eventually suffer * at the coming of the better day.' In this respect they sinned more grievously than any of their contemporary playwrights. ..." V. If, as Dyce observes, Beaumont and Fletcher sinned more grievously than any of their contem- porary playwrights, they have paid the penalty of their fault. We never see their plays on our stages, and their works are, as a rule, unknown to English readers. And it may be asked how, considering * But is not the mission of a poet (and, indeed, of any author) to raise the tone of Ma own day, rather than to pander to prevailing tastes ? xxv\ PRE FA TOR V NO TICE, their grossness and impurity of expression and lan- guage, can they be made the subjects of a volume intended for wide and popular use ? Fortunately, it is possible to make a good answer to so pertinent a question. The works of Beaumont and Fletcher, purged of their defacing impurity, are full of beautiful thought, of noble imagination, and of much true poetry. And there are few authors from which separate passages can so easily be extracted. In the selections which follow this prefatory note there is no single word discoverable which savours of impurity, or hints at anything questionable. It is a splendid collection of writings, which, at the time of their first production, were esteemed more highly than the work of Shakespeare himself, and which now may be regarded as coming very near to the performances of the King of Poets. It is no light task to wade through fifty-two plays, for the purpose of extracting the sweets and leav- ing the bitters ; but it is one which amply repays the worker, and its result should be valuable to popular readers, who in this volume will find a charming addition to their knowledge of our mediaeval dramatists. The lyrical passages of Beaumont and Fletcher are to me their greatest charm, and the songs scattered through these pages are equal, I think, to anything which Shake- PRE FA TOR Y NO TICE. xxvii speare gave us in the way of lyrics. What, indeed, their whole work would have been, had it been purged of its unfortunate looseness of expression, one can hardly tell ; but judging from the following selected pieces, is it too much to affirm that it would have proved of an almost equal order of merit with the writings of their great contemporary' ? J. S. FLETCHER. Jan, 1887, THE PLAYS OF EEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. | From THE WOMAN-HATER. AN EPICURE'S SEARCH FOR A FISH'S HEAD. La2;aeillo and Boy. Laz. Go, run, search, pry in every nook and angle of the kitchens, larders, and pasteries ; know what meat's boiled, baked, roast, stewed, fried, or soused, at this dinner, to be served directly or indirectly, to every several table in the court ; begone ! Boy. I run ; but not so fast as your mouth will do upon the stroke of eleven. \_Exit. Laz. What an excellent thing did God bestow upon man when he did give him a good stomach ! "What unbounded graces there are poured upon them that have the continual command of the very best of these blessings ! 'Tis an excellent thing to be a prince ; he is served with such admiiable variety of fare, such innumerable choice of delicates ; his tables are full fraught with most nourishing food, and his cupboards heavy laden with rich wines ; his court is still fill'd with most pleasing varieties : in the summer his palace is full of green-geese, and in the winter it swarmeth woodcocks. Oh, thou goddess of Plenty 1 THE WOMAN-HATER. Fill me this day with some rare delicates, And I will every year most constantly, As this day, celebrate a sumptuous feast (If thou wilt send me victuals) in thine honour ! And to it shall be bidden, for thy sake, Even all the valiant stomachs in the court ; All short-cloaked knights, and all cross-gartered gentlemen, All pump and pantofle, foot-cloth riders ; ^Yith all the swarming generation [doublets : Of long stocks, short paiu'd hose, and huge stufTd All these shall eat, and, which is more than yet Hath e'er been seen, they shall be satisfied ! — I wonder my ambassador returns not. Enter Boy. Boy. Here I am, master. Laz. And welcome ! Brief, boy, brief ! Discourse the service of each several table Compendiously. Boy. Here is a bill of all, sir. Laz. Give it me ! \Ileads on the outside. "A bill of all the several services this day appointed for every table in the court." Aye, this is it on which my hopes rely ; Within this paper all my joys are closed ! Boy, open it, and read with reverence. Boy. [Bea/Is.] "For the captain of the guard's table three chines of beef and two joles of sturgeon." Laz. A portly service ; But gross, gross. Proceed to the duke's own table, Dear boy, to the duke's own table ! Boy, "For the duke's own table, the head of an umbrana." THE WOMAN-HATER. Laz, Is it possible ? Can heaven be so propitious to the duke ? Boy. Yes, I'll assure you, sir, 'tis possible ; Heaven is so proiiitious to him. Laz. Why then, he is the richest prince alive ! He were the wealthiest monarch in all Europe, Had he no other territories, dominions, Provinces, seats, nor palaces, but only That umbrana's head. Boy. 'Tis very fresh and sweet, sir ; the fish was taken but this niglit, and the head, as a rare novelty, appointed by special commandment for the duke's own table, this dinner. Laz. If poor unworthy I may come to eat Of this most sacred dish, I here do vow (If that blind huswife Fortune will bestov/ But means on me) to keep a sumptuous house. {Scene changes to an apartment in the liouse of Count Yalore, one of the nobles of Milan. '\ Valore. Now am I idle ; I would I had been a scholar, that I might have studied now ! the punishment ot" meaner men is, they have too much to do ; our only misery is, that without company we know not what to do. I must take some of the common courses of our nobility, which is thus : if I can find no company that likes me, pluck off my hat-band, throw an old cloak over my face, and, as if I would not be known, walk hastily through the streets till I be discovered ; then "There goes Count Such-a-one," says one; "There goes Count Such-a-one," says another; "Look how fast he goes," says a third ; " There's some great matters in hand questionless," says a fourth ; when all my business is to have them say so. This hath been used. THE WOMAN-HATER. Or, if I can find any company, I'll after dinner to the stage to see a play ; where, when I first enter, you shall have a murmur in the house ; every one that does not know, cries, "What nobleman is that?" all the gallants on the stage rise, vail to me, kiss their hand, otfer me their places : then I pick out some one, whom I please to grace among the rest, take his seat, use it, throw my cloak over my face, and laugh at hira : the poor gentleman imagines himself most highly graced ; thinks all the auditors esteem him one of my bosom friends, and in right special regard with me. But here comes a gentleman, that I hope will make me better sport than either street or stage fooleries. {Retires to one side of the stanc. Enter Lazaeillo arid Boy. This man loves to eat good meat, always provided he do not pay for it himself. He goes by the name of the Hungry Courtier. Llarry, because I think that name will not sufficiently distinguish him (for no doubt he hath more fellows there), his name is Lazarillo ; he is none of these ^ame ord'nary eaters, that will devour three breal; fasts and as many dinners, without any prejudice to their bevers, drinkings, or suppers ; but he hath a more courtly kind of hunger, and doth hunt more aff^r novelty than plenty. I'll over-hear him. Laz. Oh, thou most itching kindly appetite, "Which every creature in his stomach feels, Oh, leave, leave yet at last thus to torment me ! Three several salads have I sacrificed, Bedew'd with precious oH and vineiiar, Already to appease thy greedy wrath. — Boy! Boy. Sir? Laz, Will the Count speak with me ? THE IVOMA A -HA TE R. Boy, One of his gentlemen is gone to inform him of your coming, sir. Laz. Tiiere is no way left for me to compass this fish- head, but by being presently made known to the duke. Boy. That will be hard, sir. Laz. When I have tasted of this sacred dish, Then shall my bones rest in my father's tomb In peace ; then shall I die most willingly, And as a dish be served to satisfy Death's hunger ; and I will be buried thus : My bier shall be a charger borne by four ; The cofiQn where I lie, a powd'ring tub Bestrew'd with lettuce and cool salad-herbs ; ]\Iy winding-sheet, of tansies ; the black guard Shall be my solemn mourners ; and, instead Of ceremonies, wholesome burial prayers ; A printed dirge in rhyme shall bury me ; Instead of tears let them pour capon-sauce Upon my hearse, and salt instead of dust ; Manchets for stones ; for other glorious shields Give me a voider ; and above my hearse. For a hack'd sword, my naked knife stuck up ! [Yaloke comes forward. Boy. Master, the count's here. Laz. Where ? — My lord, I do beseech you [Kneeling. Val. You are very welcome, sir ; I pray you stand up ; you shall dine with me. Laz. I do beseech your lordship, by the love I still have borne to your honourable house Val. Sir, what need all this ? you shall dine with me. I pray rise. Laz. Perhaps your lordship takes me for one of these same fellows, that do, as it were, respect victuals, Val. Oh, sir, by no means. THE WOMAN-HATER. Laz. Your lordshiphas often promised, thatwhensoever I should affect greatness, your own hand should help to raise me. Val. And so much still assure yourself of. Laz. And though I must confess I have ever shunn'd popularity, by the example of others, yet I do now feel myself a little ambitious. Your lordship is great, and, though young, yet a privy-councillor. Val. I pray you, sir, leap into the matter ; what would you have me do for you ? [to the duke. Laz. I would entreat your lordship to make me known Val. When, sir ? Laz. Suddenly, my lord : I would have you present me unto him this morning. Val. It shall be done. But for what virtues would 3^ou have him take notice of you ? Laz. 'Faith, you may entreat him to take notice of me for anything ; for being an excellent farrier, for playing well at span-counter, or sticking knives in walls : for being impudent, or for nothing ; why may I not be a favourite on the sudden ? I see nothing against it. Val. Not so, sir ; I know you have not the face to be a favourite on the sudden. >' Laz. Why then, you shall present me as a gentleman • well qualified, or one extraordinary seen in divers strange : mysteries. i Val. In what, sir? as how ? I Laz. Marry as thus : you shall bring me in, and after * a little other talk, taking me by the hand, you shall utter these words to the duke : " May it please your grace, to take note of a gentleman, well read, deeply learned, and thoroughly grounded in the hidden know- ledge of all salads and pot-herbs whatsoever." Val. 'Twill be rare 1 THE WOMAN-HATER. Scene changes to the 'presence of the DuTce, who is about to leave. Valore. Let me entreat your Grace to stay a little, To know a gentleman to whom yourself Is much beholding. He hath made the sport For your whole court these eight years, on my knowledge. Duke. His name ? Val. Lazarillo. Duke. I heard of him this morning ; Which is he ? Val. {aside) Lazarillo, pluck up thy spirits I Thy fortunes are now rising ; the duke calls for thee. Laz. How must 1 spt^ak to him ? Val. 'Twas well thought of. You must not talk to him As you do to an ordinary man, Honest plain sense, but you must wind about him. For example, — if he should ask you what o'clock it is. You must not say, " If it please your grace, 'tis nine ;" But thus, • ' Thrice three o'clock, so please my sovereign ;" Or thus, ** Look how many Muses there doth dwell Upon the sweet banks of the learned well. And just so many strokes the clock hath struck ;" And so forth. And you must now and then Enter into a description. Laz. I hope I shall do it. Val. Come I May it please your grace to take note of a gentleman, well seen, deeply read, and thoroughly grounded in the hidden knowledge of all salads and pot- herbs whatsoever. Duke. I shall desire to know him more inwardly. Laz. I kiss the ox-hide of your grace's foot. Val. {aside to him. ) Very well ! — Will your grace question him a little ? Duke. How old are you ? lo THE WOMAN-HATER. I Laz. Full eight-and-twenty several almanacks I Have been compilM, all for several years, I Since first I drew this breath ; four prenticeships Have I most truly served in this world ; And eight-and-twenty times hath Phoebus' car Run out its yearly course, since Duke. I understand you, sir. Liicio. How like an ignorant poet be talks ! DuTce. You are eight-and-twenty years old. What time of the day do you hold it to be ? Laz. About the time that mortals whet their knive? ^ On thresholds, on their slioe-soles, and on stairs. ; Now bread is grating, and the testy cook Hath much to do now : now the tables all Duke. 'Tis almost dinner-time ? Laz, Your grace doth apprehend me very riglitly. SOXG OF A SAD HEART. Come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving Lock me in delight awhile ; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies ; that from thence, I may feel an influence, All my powers of care bereaving ! Let me know some little joy ! We that sufter long annoy, Are contented with a thought, Through an idle fancy wrought : 0, let my joys have some abiding ! PHILASTER. II Fp^om PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES A-BLEEDIXG. A LADY MAKES LOVE. Arethfsa and one, of her Ladies. Aretliusa. Comes he not ? Lady. Madam ? Are. Will Philaster come ? Lady. Dear madam, you were wont to credit me At first. Are. But didst thou tell me so ? I am forgetful, and my woman's strength Is so o'ercharged with dangers like to grow About my marriage, that these under things Dare not abide in such a troubled sea. How look'd he, when he told thee he would come ? Lady. Why, well. Ar'^. And not a little fearful ? Lady. Fear, madam ! sure, he knows not what it is. Are. You all are of his faction ; the whole court Is bold in praise of him : wliilst I May live neglected, aud do noble things, As fools in strife throw gold into the sea, Drown'd in the doing. But I know he fears. Lady. Methought his looks hid more of love than fear. Are. Of love ? to wiiom ? to you ? — Did you deliver those plain words I sent, With such a winning gesture and quick look, That you have caught him ? Lady. Madam, I mean to you. Are. Of love to me ? alas ! thy ignorance 12 PHILASTER. Lets thee not see the crosses of our births. Nature, that loves not to be questioned "Why she did this or that, but has her euds. And knows she does well, never gave the world Two things so opposite, so contrary, As he and I am. If a bowl of blood, Drawn from this arm of mine, would poison thee, A draught of his would cure thee. Of love to me ? Lady. Madam, I thinlc I hear him. Are. Bring him in, Ye gods, that would not have your dooms withstood, "Wiiose holy wisdoms at this time it is To make the passions of a feeble maid The way unto your justice, I obey. Enter Philaster. Lady. Here is my lord Philaster. Are. Oh ! 'tis welL Withdraw yourself. Phi. Madam, your messenger Made me believe you wish'd to speak with me. Are. 'Tis true, Philaster ; but the words are such I have to say, and do so ill beseem The mouth of woman, that I wish them said, And yet am loth to speak them. Have you known, That I have aught detracted from your worth ? Have I in person wrong'd you ? Or have set My baser instruments to throw disgrace Upon your virtues ? Phi. Never, madam, you. Art. Why, then, should you, in such a public place, Injure a princess, and a scandal lay Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great ; Calling a great part of my dowry in question ? Phi. Madam, this truth which I shall speak, will be L PHILASTER. 13 Foolisli : but, for your fair and virtuous self, I could afford myself to have no right To anything you wiih'd. Are. Philaster, know, I must enjoy these kingdoms. Phi. Madam ! Both ? Are. Both, or I die. By fate, I die, Philaster, If I not calmly may enjoy tliem both. Phi. I would do much to save that noble life ; Yet would be loth to have posterity Find in our stories, that Philaster gave His right unto a sceptre and a crown, To save a lady's longing. Are. Nay then, hear ! I must and will have them, and more Phi. What more ? Are. Or lose that little life the gods prepared To trouble this poor piece of earth withal. Phi. Madam, what more 1 Are. Turn, then, away thy face. Phi. No. Are. Do. Phi. I cannot endure it. Turn away my face ? I never yet saw enemy that look'd So dreadfully, but that I thought myself As great a basilisk as he ; or spake So horrible, but that I thought my tongue Bore thunder underneath, as much as his ; Nor beast that I could turn from. Shall I then Begin to fear sweet sounds ? a lady's voice, Whom I do love ? Say, you would have my life ; Why, I will give it you ; for 'tis of me A thing so loath'd, and unto you that ask Of so poor use, that I shall make no price : If you entreat, I will unmov'dly hear. 14 PHILASTER. Are. Yet, for my sake, a little beud tliy looks. Phi. I do. Are. Then know, I must have them, and thee. Phi. And me ? Are. Thy love ; without which all the land Discover'd yet, will serve me for no use, But to be buried in. Phi. Is't possible 1 Are. With it, it were too little to bestow On thee. Now though thy breath do strike me dead, (Which, know, it may) I have unript my breast. Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts, To lay a train for this contemned life, Which you may have for asking. To suspect Were base, where I deserve no ill. Love you, By all my hopes, I do above my life : But how this passion should proceed from you So violently, would amaze a man That would be jealous. Are. Another soul, into my body shot, Could not have filled me with more strength and spirit, Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time, In seeking how I came-thus. 'Tis the gods, The gods, that make me so ; and, sure, our love Will be the nobler, and the better blest. In that the secret justice of the gods Is mingled with it. How shall we devise To hold intelligence, that our true loves, On any new occasion, may agree What path is best to tread ? Phi. I have a boy, Sent by the gods I hope, to this intent, Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck, I found him sitting by a fountain's side, Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, PHILASTER. IS And paid the nymph again as much in tears. A garland lay him by, made by himself, Of many several flowers, bred in the bay, Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness Delighted me: but ever when he turn'd His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep, As if he meant to make 'era grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story. He told me, that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, Which gave him roots ; and of the crystal springs, "Which did not stop their courses ; and the sun, Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light Then took he up his garland, and did shew What every flower, as country people hold, Did signify ; and how all, ordered thus, Express'd his grief: and, to my thoughts, did read The prettiest lecture of his country art That could be wish'd : so that, methought, I could Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him, Who was as glad to follow ; and have got The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy, That ever master kept. Him will I send To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. Are. 'Tis well. No more. Bellario's 'parting with Philaster. TM. And thou shalt find her honourable, boy ; Full of regard unto thy tender youth, For thiue own modesty ; and for my sake, Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask ; Ayo, or deserve. Bel, Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing And only yet am something, by being yours. You trusted me unknown ; and that which you were apt I To construe a simple innocence in me, f Perhaps might have been craft ; the cunning of a boy | Hardened in lies and theft : yet ventured you j To part my miseries and me ; for which, I never can expect to serve a lady That bears more honour in her breast than you. Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee. Thou art j'oang, And bear'st a childish overflowing love, To them that clap thy cheeks, and speak thee fair : But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions, Thou wilt remember best those careful friends, That placed thee in the noblest way of life. She is a princess I prefer thee to. Bel. In that small time that I have seen the world, I never knew a man liasty to part With a servant he thought trusty. I remember, ]\[y father would prefer the boys he kept To greater men than he ; but did it not Till they were grown too saucy for himself. Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all In thy behaviour. Bel. Sir, if I have made A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth : I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn ; Age and experience will adorn my mind "With larger knowledge : and if I have done A wilful fault, think me not past all hope, For once. What master holds so strict a hand Over his boy, that he will part with him Without one warning ? Let me be corrected, To break my stubbornness, if it be so, Rather than turn me off" ; and T shall mend. PHILASTER. 17 Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay, That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee. Alas ! I do not turn thee off; thou know'st It is my business that doth call thee hence ; And, when thou art with her, thou dwell'st with me ; Think so, and 'tis so. And when time is full, That thou hast well discharcred this heavy trust, Laid on so weak a one, I will again With joy receive thee : as I live, I will. Nay, weep not, gentle boy 1 'Tis more than time Thou did'st attend the princess. Bel. I am gone. But since I am to part with you, my lord. And none knows whether I shall live to do l^lore service for you, take this little prayer : — Heav'n bless your loves, your fights, all your designs : May sick men, if they have your wish, be well. The Dawn of Love. My father oft would speak Your worth and virtue ; and, as I did grow More and more apprehensive, I did thirst To see the man so prais'd ; but yet all this Was but a maiden longing, to be lost As soon as found ; till sitting in ray window, Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, I thoui^ht (but it was you), enter our gates. My blood flew out, and back again as fast, As I had puff'd it forth and suck'd it in. Like breath. Then was I call'd away in haste To entertain you. Never was a man, Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, rais'd So high in thoughts as L You left a kiss Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep 202 1 8 THE MAIDS TRAGEDY. From you for ever. I did hear yon talk, Far above singing ! After you were gone, T grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd What stirr'd it so. Alas ! I found it love. From THE MAID'S TRAGEDY. FROM THE WEDDING MASQUE OF AMINTOR AXD EYADNE. Night, rising in mists, addresses Cynthia {the Moon). Our reign is come, for in the raging sea The sun is drown'd, and with him fell the Day. Bright Cynthia, hear my voice. I am the Night, For whom thou bear'st about thy borrow'd light, Appear ! no longer thy pale visage shroud, But strike thy silver horns quite through a cloud. Cy-stb.1 A forbids any toinds to appear hut gentle ones. We must have none here But vernal blasts and gentle winds appear, Such as blow flowers, and through the glad boughs sing Many soft welcomes to the lusty spring. An invocation to Night, before music. Dark Night, Strike a full silence : do a thorough right To this great chorus ; that our music may Touch high as heaven, and make th& east break day At midnight. THE MAIUS TRAGEDY. 19 A Penitent Wife. EvADNE implores forgiveness of Amintor, /or marrying him while she was the King's mistress. Evad. Oh, where have I been all this time ? how 'friended, That I should lose myself thus desperately, And none for pity shew me how I wandei'd ! There is not in the compass of the light A more unhappy creature. — Oh, my lord 1 Enter Amintor. A min. How now ? Evad. {kneeling) ^ly mnch-abused lord ! Amin. This cannot be ! Evad. I do not kneel to live ; I dare not hope it ; The wrongs I did are greater. Look upon me, Though I appear with all my faults. Amin. Stand up. This is a new way to beget more sorrow. Heaven knows I have too many ! Do not mock me : Though I am tame, and bred up with my wrongs, Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap, Like a hand-wolf, into my natural wildness, And do an outrage. Pr'ythee, do not mock me. Evad. My whole life is so leprous, it infects All my repentance. I would buy your pardon, Though at the highest set ; even with my life, That slight contrition, that's no sacrifice For what I have committed. Amin. Sure I dazzle : There cannot be a faith in that foul woman, That knows no god more mighty than her mischiefs. Thou dost still worse, still number on thy faults. To press my poor heart thus. Can I believe 20 THE M AID'S TRAGEDY. There's any seed of virtue in that ^voman Left to shoot up, that dares go on in sin, Known, and so known as thine is ? Oh, Evadna ! 'Would there were any safety in thy sex, That I might put a thousand sorrows off, And credit thy repentance 1 But I must not : Thou hast brought me to that dull calamity, To that strange misbelief of all the world, And all things that are in it, that I fear I shall fall like a tree, and find my grave, Only remembering that I grieve. Evad. j\Iy lord, Give me your griefs. You are an innocent, A soul as white as heaven ; let not my sins Perish your noble youth. I do not fall here To shadow, by dissembling with xwy tears, (As, all say, women can), or to make less. What my hot will hath done, which Heaven and you Know to be tougher than the hand of time Can cut from man's remembiance. No, I do not. I do appear the same, the same Evadue, Drest in the shames I lived in : the same monster ! But these are names of honour, to what I am : I do present myself the foulest creature, Most poisonous, dangerous, and desiiis'd of men, Lerna e'er bred, or Nilus ! I am bell. Till you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me. The beams of your forgiveness. I am soul-sick, And wither with the fear of one condemn'd, Till I have got your pardon. Arain. Rise, Evadue. Those heavenly i>owers that put this good into thee, Grant a contiijuance of it ! I forgive thee ! Make thyself worthy of it ; and take heed, Take heed, Evadue, this be serious. THE MAWS TRAGEDY. Mock not tlie powers above, that can and dare Give thee a great example of their justice To all ensuing ages, if thou playest With thy repentance, the best sacrifice. Evad. I have done nothing good to win belief, My life hath been so faithless. All the creatures, Made for heaven's honours, have their ends, and good | ones, I All but the cozening crocodiles, false women ! I They reign here like those plagues, those killing sores, Men pray against ; and when they die, like tales 111 told and unbelieved, they pass away, And go to dust forgotten ! But, my lord. Those short days J. shall number to my rest (As many must not see me) shall, though too late, Though in my evening, yet perceive I will {Since I can do no good, because a woman) Reach constantly at something that is near it : I will redeem one minute of my age. Or, like another Niobe, I'll weep Till I am water. Amin. I am now dissolved : My frozen soul melts. May each sin thou hast Find a new mercy ! Rise ; I am at peace. Hadst thou been thus, thus excellently good. Before that devil king tempted thy frailty, Sure thou hadst ma'ie a star ! Give me thy hand. From this time I will know thee ; and, as far As honour gives me leave, be thy Amintor : When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly, And pray the gods to give thee happy days : My charity shall go along with tliee, Though my embraces must be far from thee. 22 THE MAID'S TRAGEDY. EVADNE A?fD ASPATIA SeEK DeATH. Scene — Arttechamber to Evadne's apartments in the Palace. Enter Aspatia, in man's apparel, and with artijlcial scars on her face. Asp. This is my fatal hour. Heaven may forgive My rash attempt, that causelessly hath laid Griefs on me that will never let me rest. Enter Servant. God save you, sir ! Ser. And you, sir I "What's your business ? Asp. With you, sir, now ; to do me the fair office To help me to your lord. Ser. W^'hat, would you serve him ? Asp. I'll do him any service ; but to haste, For my affairs are earnest, I desire To speak with him. Ser. Sir, because you're in such haste, I would be loth Delay you any longer : you cannot. Asp. It shall become you, though, to tell your lord. Ser. Sir, he will speak with nobody; but, in particular, I have in charge, about no weighty matters. Asp. This is most strange. Art thou gold-proof? There's for thee ; help me to him. Ser. Pray be not angry, sir. I'll do my best. {Exit. Asp. How stubbornly this fellow answered me I There is a vile dishonest trick in man More than in woman. All the men I meet Appear thus to me ; are all harsh and rude ; And have a subtilty in everything, Which love could never know. But we fond women Harbour the easiest and the smoothest thoughts. And think, all shall go so ! It is unjust That men and women should be niatch'd together. Enter Amintor and his Man. Amin. Where is he ? Ser. There, my lord. Amin. What would you, sir ? Asjj. Please it your lordship to command your man Out of the room, I shall deliver things Worthy your hearing. Amin. Leave us. {Exit Servant. Asp. Oh, that that shape Should bury falsehood in it ! Amin. Now your will, sir. Asp. When you know me, my lord, you needs must guess My business ; and I am not hard to know ; For till the chance of war mark'd this smooth face With these few blemishes, people would call me My sister's ])icture, and her mine. In short, I am the brother to the wrong'd Aspatia. Amin. The wrong'd Aspatia ! 'Would thou wert so too Unto the wrong'd Amintor ! Let me kiss That hand of thine, in honour that I bear Unto the wrong'd Aspatia. ' Here I stand, That did it. 'Would he could not ! Gentle youth, Leave me ; for there is something in thy looks, That calls my sins, in a most hideov.s form Into my mind ; and I have grief euongh Without thy help. Asp. I would I could with credit. Since I was twelve years old, I had not seen My sister till this hour ; I now arriv'd : She sent for me to see her marriacre : A woful one ! But they, that are above, Have ends in everything. She used few words But yet enough to make me understand The baseness ot the injuries you did her. That little training I have had, is war : 1 may behave myself rudely in peace ; I would not, though. I shall not need to tell you, I am but young, and would be loth to lose Honour, that is not easily gain'd again. Fairly I mean to deal. The age is strict For single combats ; and we shall be stopp'd, If it be publish'd. If you like your sword, Use it ; if mine appear a better to you, Change : for the ground is this, and this the tinea, To end our difference. Amin. Charitable youth, (If thou be'st such) think not I will maintain So strange a wrong : and, for thy sister's sake, Know, that I could not think that desperate thing I durst not do ; yet to enjoy this world, I would not see her ; for, beholding thee, I am I know not what. If I have aught, That may content thee, take it, and begone j For death is not so terrible as thou. Thine eyes shoot guilt into me. Asp. Thus, she swore, Thou wouldst behave thyself; and give me words That would fetch tears into mine eyes; and so Thou dost indeed. But yet she bade me watch, Lest I were cozen'd ; and be sure to fight, Ere I return'd. Amin. That must not be with me. For her I'll die directly ; but against her Will never hazard it. Asp. You must be urged. I do not deal uneivilly with those That dare to fight ,' but such a one as yon ^ Must be used thus. . l^^^ «^^'^^« ^"^«- Amin. I pr'ythee, yoiith, take heed. Thy sister is to me a thiu^r so much Above mine honour, that I "an eudure All this. Good gods ! a blow ^ can endure ! But stay not, lest thou draw a timeless death Upon thyself. Asp. Thou art some prating fellow' 5 One, that hath studied out a trick to tu\lk, And move soft-hearted people ; to be kictl" ^ , , ^ , . \Si}^- kicks him. Thus, to be kick'd ! — Why should he be so sk"'^ In giving me my death ? [Aside. Amin. A man can bear § Ko more, and keep his flesh. Forgive me, then ! I would endure yet, if I could. Now show [Drawo''' i The spirit thou pretend'st, and understand, ^ \ Thou hast no hour to live. ^ [They fight; As-patia. is wounded. What dost thou mean? Thou canst not fight : the blows thou mak'st at me Are quite besides ; and those I offer at thee, Thou spread'st thine arms, and tak'st upon thy breast, Alas, defenceless ! Asp. I have got enough, And my desire. There is no place so fit For me to die as here. Unier Evadne, her hands bloody with a knife, Evad. Amintor, I am leaden with events. That fly to make thee happy. I have joys, That in a moment can call back thy wrongs, And settle thee in thy free state again. 26 THE MAIDS TRAGEDY. It is Evadne still that follows thee, / But not her mischiefs. ^ Am'in. Thou canst not fool me Jto believe again ; But thou hast looks and things,^© full of news, That I am stay'd. -^ Exad. Noble Amintor, pint off thy amaze, Let thine eyes loose, and.'fepeak. Am I not fair ? Looks not Evadne bea-