in LIBRART * THE PLAYS OF PHILIP MASSINGEB. 1L ) TP THI IT "( "( Jli A J-J -i y , & I J :i t) ^< E D . SOUmWAR^.THE BTJIUAL RL*CE FROM A PKTNI El HOLI Jjt . J.^V: BOIfD *: B-A.I. THE PLAYS PHILIP MASSINGEK, WITH NOTES, CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY, BY WILLIAM GIFFORD. 0AUD TAKEN INYIDEAS VOTA QUEM PULPITA PASCUNT. ElJition, COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. N E W - Y O R K : H. B. MAHN, 61 JOHN STRi:ET, 1857. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LONG, ONE OP THE LORDS OF HIS MAJESTY'S TREASURY THIS EDITION OF THE WORKS OF PHILIP MASSINGER, 18 INSCRIBED AS A SINCERE TESTIMONY OF RESPECT TO HIS PUBLIC CHARACTER, AND OF GRATITUDE FOR MANY ACTS OF FRIENDSHIP AND PERSONAL KINDNESS, BY HI8 OBLIGED AND FAITHFUL SERVANT. THE EDITOR. J%, 1805. PREFACE. THE present Edition of this admired writer has been published with a design of meeting the spirit of the age for cheap literature ; and its triumphant success is a gratifying proof of the manner in which the exertions of the publishers are appreciated. Previous to the appearance of this volume, the public, owing to the scarcity of former editions, possessed but a slight acquaintance with the writings of Massinger, and that derived only from occa- sional notices and extracts in periodicals, and the representation of " A New Way to Pay Old Debts," the only one of his Plays still acted on the stage. In this undertaking, accuracy of text and good critical notes were deemed indispensable ; and the editor had but to choose between the gross negligence of Coxeter, and the odious vanity of Monk Muson, on the one hand, and the carefully and accurately edited compilation of Mr. Gifford, on the other. Never was an author under greater obligations to an editor, than is Massinger to Gifford. It is true his works had already appeared in a collected form ; but the bungling inaccuracies, unwarrantable interpolations, and absurd commentaries, which disfigured these editions, had rather contributed to involve the author in still deeper obscurity, than to rescue him from that in which he had originally slumbered. In his attempt to do justice to his favourite poet, Mr. Gifford had many difficulties to contend against, and no hope of assistance from the labours of his predecessors. Of a patient and vigorous cast of mind, his unclouded intellect was the first to form a due esti- mate of the manly productions of this author ; he sat down to his task as to a labour of love, and after careful and repeated collations of the text with the original editions, suc- ceeded in expunging from its pages a mass of stupid criticism and crude innovations, such as never, perhaps, disfigured the works of any other author. None but those who are acquainted with the editions referred to, can fully estimate the labours of this critic, of whose admirable qualifications as an editor, his exertions in favour of this abused poet will remain a lasting- monument. He has been justly called by one who was himself no common master of the art, " a giant in literature, in criticism, in poli- tics, and in morals, and an ornament and an honour to his country and the age in whH- he lived." Brt fcr him. thpse exquisite dramas would be as little known to us as the mstitu tions of the Chinese ; and the re-action of public taste in favour of the productions of *h PREFACE. Our early dramatists, so conspicuous at the present day, received its first impulse from the endeavours of the translator of Juvenal, and the champion of Jonson and Massinger A valuable appendage to his labours, are the critical observations subjoined to each Play, the masterly delineation of Massinger's character, and the general criticism on his works, furnished by Dr. Ireland, the Dean of Westminster. There is something interesting in the consideration of this literary partnership ; it reminds us of the old days of Beaumont and Fletcher, and Fletcher and Massinger, and Dekker and Greene ; and was not without a pleasing effect upon the feelings of the two friends. In closing his preface to Jonson, a splendid vindication of that calumniated poet, Gifford, in allusion to their long uninterrupted friendship, thus writes, " With what feelings do I trace the words of the Dean of Westminster. Five and forty springs have passed over my head since I first found Dr. Ireland, some years my junior, m our little school, at his spelling-book. During this long period our friendship ha^ been without a cloud, my delight in youth, my pride and consolation in old age." The writer of these affectionate lines has long been an inhabitant of the dark and narrow house ; he died on the last day of the year 1826, aged 70 ; and the survivor, for whom these tender senti- ments were expressed, well stricken in years, is fast hastening to the land where " the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest." In Sir Walter Scott's Diary appears the following admirable character of Gifford : " As a commentator he was capital, could he but have suppressed his rancours against those who had preceded him in the task ; but a misconstruction or misinterpretation, nay the misplacing of a comma, was in Giflford's eyes a crime worthy of the most severe animadversion. This lack of temper probably arose from indifferent health ; for he was very valetudinary, and realised two verses, wherein he says Fortune assigned him " One eye not over good, Two sides that to their cost have stood A ten years' hectic cough, Aches, stitches, all the various ills That swell the devilish doctors' bills And sweep poor mortals off." 2ut he might justly claim, as his gift, the moral qualities expressed in the next fine stanza A soul That spurns the crowds' malign control, A firm contempt of wrong ; Spirits above affliction's power, And skill to soothe the lingering hour With no inglorious song." The rigour, with which the derelictions of his predecessors were visited, auovc alluded to, is displayed in an uncommon degree in the work beture us; ana tour PREFACE. years after its first appearance in 1805, the Edinburgh Reviewers," losing their sense of the criminal's guilt in dislike of the savage pleasure which the executioner seemed to take in inflicting the punishment," appeared as the champions of Monk Mason and Coxeter, and had the hardihood to attack not only the judgment but even the accuracy of Gifford. In his second edition of 1813, the abused commentator turned upon his foes, and in a pre- face, powerful and energetic, successfully defended himsell from th-eir aspersions; with regard to the charge of inaccuracy, he justly says, " I did not expect this. I will take upon me to f>?sert, that a more perfect text of an old poet never issued from the English press. It was revised in the first instance with a care of which there is scarcely an example ; and a subsequent examination enables me to speak with a degree of positiveness on the subject which sets all fear of contradiction at defiance." An accusation, such as the above, could only have been made by those who had never looked into Coxeter and Monk Mason's editions, or had never consulted the old copies. From internal evidence, it appears that all that these reviewers knew of Massinger and his editors, was learned from the very " Introduction" whose accuracy they pretended to impeach. It has been the fate of Massinger to have been generally but imperfectly understood or appreciated by the lovers of the Drama ; while to Jonson, and Beaumont and Fletcher, have been assigned the place nearest to Shakspeare in the scale of superiority, he has scarcely ever been mentioned but as a writer of inferior merit. Although far from con- curring in the opinion of Gifford, which would reduce Shakspeare to the level of his contemporaries, it appears to us that singular injustice has been done to this harmonious poet. Hazlitt, whose genius revelled in the more glowing conceptions of the Swan of Avon, has pronounced this harsh sentence on Massinger : " Massinger makes an impression by hardness and repulsiveness of manner. In the intellectual processes which he delights to describe, ' reason panders will ;' he fixes arbitrarily on some object which there is no motive to pursue, or every motive combined against it, and then, by screwing up his heroes and heroines to the deliberate and blind accomplishment of this, thinks to arrive at ' the true pathos and sublime of life.' That is not the way. He seldom touches the heart or kindles the fancy." Did Mr. Hazlitt forget the speech of Sforza before the Emperor in " The Duke of Milan," that noble picture of a good man buffetting with adversity ; or the pathos of " The Fatal Dowry ;" the fine character of Pisander in " The Bondman ;" the interview between Don John Antonio, disguised as a slave, and his mistress, in " A Very Woman ;" or those splendid conceptions, Luke and Sir Giles Overreach, in "The City Madam," and " A New Way to Pay Old Debts"? Our respect for Hazlitt, as a critic, is great; but we certainly cannot assent to his low estimate of Massinger. Schlegel, who bestows so much elaborate and philosophical criti- cism upon his contemporaries, dismisses the merits of this writer in a few lines, conspicuous neither for justice nor an intimate acquaintance with the writings he professes to criticize- The late Charles Lamb was one of the first to direct the public attention to the works of this and other of our neglected dramatists ; and it has been admirably observed by a late writer in the " Quarterly Review," that Lamb's Essays and Gifford's editions have most powerfully contributed to disseminate a knowledge of the manly and vigorous writers of the PREFACE. Elizabethan age. In the year 1786 an elegant essay on the dramatic writings of Mas- singer by Dr. Ferriar, appeared in the third volume of the " Manchester Transactions," and was afterwards, with permission of the author, reprinted by Gifford at the close of his introduction. In this pleasing performance the plays of Massinger are philosophically analysed ; and the cause of the general neglect of our old dramatists is ingeniously attri- buted to their too frequent delineation of perishable manners. In his closing notice of Massinger, Dr. Ireland feelingly observes, " It is truly sur- prising that the genius which produced these Flays should have obtained so little notice from the world /' and Hallam, the critic who next to Gifford displays the most profound knowledge of his writings, and the fullest appreciation of his genius, does not hesitate to place him as a tragic writer second only to Shakspeare, and in the lighter comedy scarcely inferior to Jonson. Any comparison of Massinger to Shakspeare would be invidious; but though second to that great writer in the vastness and variety of his conceptions, he may certainly take the lead of those who have hitherto been considered his superiors. His in- vention is as fertile, and his management of his plots as ingenious, as those of Beaumont and Fletcher; wh.le the poetry of his language, the knowledge of human nature, and the fine development of the passions displayed in his Tragedies, can only be surpassed by the great master himself. By Ben Jonson he is excelled in the studied exactness and classical polish of his style ; but in the freezing coldness of this writer he is deficient. The charm of his Plays consists in the versatility of his imagination, and the fine bursts of pathos which embellish his tender scenes. In his female characters he is particularly happy ; and while proclaiming our veneration for Juliet, Desdemona, or Cordelia, we should not heedlessly overlook the graces of Dorothea*, Theocrinef, Matilda^, Camiola, and Pulcheria||. Massinger was the last of his tribe ultimus Romanorum. With him expired the dra- inatic genius of this country. In the anarchy which followed the outbreak of the civil war, the stage was neglected, and the emasculated school of dramatic poetry, subse- quently founded by Dryden and his followers, can never bear comparison with the productions of the vigorous intellects of the Elizabethan era. Since that period many unsuccessful attempts have been made to revive the drama ; and though many have appeared bearing an outward resemblance to our old plays, yet that true dramatic essence, which can only flourish in a soil uncorrupted by ultra refinement, is evidently wanting. Virgin Martyr, t Unnatural Combat. \ Bashful Lover. Maid of Honour. 1) Emperor of the Eat INTRODUCTION. PHIMP MASSINGF.R, the author of the following Plavs, was born in the year 1584. Of his mother nothing is known ; but his father was Arthur Alas- singer*, a gentleman attached to the family of Henry second Earl of Pembroke : " Many years," says the poet, to his descendant, Philip Earl of Montgomery, "my father spent in the service of your honourable house, and died a servant to it. " The writers of Massinger's life have thought it necessary to observe in this place, that the word servant carries with it no sense of degradation. Tins requires no proof: at a ptriod when the great lords and officers of the court numbered inferior nobles among their followers, we may be confident that neither the name nor the situation was looked upon us humiliating. Many considerations united to render this state of dependence respectable, and even honourable. 1 he secretaries, clerks, and assist- ants, t f various departments, were not then, as now, nominated by the Government ; but left to the choice of the person who held the employment; and as no particular dwelling was officially set apart for their residence, they were entertained in the house of their principal. '1 hut communication, too, between noblemen of power and trust, both of a public and private nature, which is now committed to the post, was, in those days, managed by confidential servants, who were di.s|>Hti-h"d from one to the other, and even to the Boverrknt: when to this we add the unbounded His father vat Arthur Massinyer,'] " I cannot gnes," D-tiies s.i}f, "from what information Oldys, in his inamt- tt-iipi noies (to LangbaineJ, gives the Christian name Of Arthur to Mas.-inger's father, nor why lie should lepioach \S Mid lor calling him Philip ; since Massinyer himself, in the Dedication of " The Bondman," to the "Earl of Mont- d"iiier}, *a>s expressly that his father Philip Massinger livx-l and ilied in the service of the honourable house of Pembroke." Life of Massinyer prefixed to the last edi- tion. This preliminary observation augurs but ill for the accu- racy of what follows. Old} s, who was a very cartful writer, yot his information from the first edi.ion of " The Bond- man,'' lt>-23, which, it appears from this, Mr. Davies never aw. In ttie second edition, published many >ears alter the torsi (1638), he is, indeed, called Philip; bin that is not the only error in the Dedication, which, is well as the Play it- ell, is most carelessly printed. t An in.-tance of this occurs with respect to Massins;er's father, who was thuseioployed to Elizabeth: " Mr. Malinger is newly come up from the Karl . f Pembroke with letters lo the Queen, for IMS lordship's leave to be away this St. George's day." .Sidney Lettert, Vol. II. p. 933. The bearer of letters to Elizabell on an occasion which she pth. Time shall throw a dm at *hn." INTRODUCTION. many opportunities for ascertaining these facts, if he had desired to avail himself of them, and therefore Davies inclines to his authority. The seeming dif- feren.'e, he adds, between the two periods respect- ively assigned for Massinger's matriculation, may be easily reconciled, for the year then began and tnded according to that mode which took place be- fore the alteration of the style. It is seldom safe to speak by guess, and Davies had no authority for his ingenious solution ; wLich unfortunately will not apply in the present case. Tke memorandum of Massinger's entrance now lies before me, and proves Wood to be incorrect; i', is dated May 14, 1602*. How he came to mistake in a matter where it required so little pains to be accurate, is difficult to say. Langbaine and Wood agree in the time Massinjjer spent at Oxford, but differ as to the object* of bis pursuit. The former observes, that during his reside'nce there he applied himself closely to bis studies ; while the latter writes, that he " gave his mind more to poetry and romances for about four years or more, than to logic and philosophy, which he ought to have done, as he was patronized to that end." What ideas this tasteless but useful drudge bad of logic and philosophy it may be vain to enquire ; but, with respect to the first, Massinger's reasoning will not be found deficient either in method or effect ; and it might easily be proved that he was no mean proficient in philosophy of the noblest kind : the truth is, that he must have applied himself to study with uncommon energy ; for his literary acquisitions at this early period appear to be multifarious and extensive. From the account of Wood, however, Davies concludes that the Earl of Pembroke was offended at this misapplication of his time to the superficial but alluring pursuits of poetry and romance, and therefore withdrew his support, which compelled the young man to quit the University without a de- gree; " for which," adds he, "attention to logic and philosophy was absolutely necessary ; as the candi- date for that honour must pass through an examina- tion in both, before he can obtain it." Dans (e pays des aveugles, says the proverb, les borgnes sont roit: and Davies, who apparently had not these valuable acquisitions, entertained probably a vast idea of their magnitude and importance. A shorter period, however, than four years, would be found amply sufficient to furnish even an ordinary mind with enough of school logic and philosophy, to pass the examination for a bachelor's degree ; and I am, therefore, unwilling to believe that Massinger missed it on the score of incapacity in these notable arts. However this may be, he certainly left the Uni- versity abruptly : not, I apprehend, on account of the Earl of Pembroke withholding his assistance, for it does not appear that he ever afforded any, but of a much more calamitous event, the death of his fa- ther ; from whom, I incline to think with Lang- baine, his sole support was derived. Why the Earl of Pembroke, the liberal friend and protector of literature in all its branchesf, ne- * In it be is styled the son of a gentleman : " 1'liili p Mas- linger, Sariilnu-ienxit, yeneroii Jilius.'' + To this noblniMii and his yoim<:er brother Philip) Rctniuge and Condtll dedicaied their edition of Sli,,k.-pc,irc '= glected a young man to whom his assistance iras ao necessary, and who, from the acknowledged services of his father, had so many and just claims on it ; one, too, who would have done his patronage such singular honour, I have no means of ascertaining ; that he was never indebted to it is, I fear, indisputable, since the poet, of whose character gratitude forms a striking part, while he recurs perpetually to his hereditary obligations to the Herbert family, anxiously avoids all mention of his name. I sometimes, indeed, imagine that I have discovered the cause of this alienation, but cannot flatter myself that it will be very generally or even partially allowed : not to keep the reader in suspense, I attribute it to the poet's having, during his residence at the Univer- sity, exchanged the religion of his father, for one, at this time the object of persecution, hatred, and terror. A close and repeated perusal of Massinger's works has convinced me that he was a Catholic. "The Virgin-Martyr," "The Renegado," "The Maid of Honour," exhibit innumerable proofs of it; to say nothing of those casual intimations that are scattered over his remaining dramas : a consciousness of this might prevent him from applying to the Earl of Pembroke for assistance, or a knowledge of it might determine that nobleman to withhold bis hand : for it is difficult to believe that his displea- sure (if he really entertained any) could arise from Massinger's attachment to an art of which he and his brother* were universally considered as the patrons, and which, indeed, he himself cultivated, with assiduity at least, if not with successf. However this be, the period of Massinger's mis- fortunes commenced with his arrival in London. His father had probably applied most of his property to the education of his son ; and when the small remainder was exhausted, he was driven (as he more than once observes) by his necessities, and somewhat inclined, perhaps, by the peculiar bent of his talents, to dedicate himself to the service of the stage. This expedient, though not the most prudent, nor, indeed, the most encouraging to a young ad- venturer, was not altogether hopeless. Men who will ever be considered as the pride and boast of their country, Shakspeare, Johnson, and Fletcher, were solely, or in a considerable degree, dependent on it : nor were there others wanting of an inferior rank, such as Rowley, Middleton, Field, Decker, Shirley, and Ford ; writers to whom Massinger, without any impeachment of his modesty, might consider himself as fully equal, who subsisted on the emolu- ments derived from dramatic writing. There was Plays; to him, also, Jonson inscribed his Epigrams, " as the great example of honour and viittie," an idea on which he enlarged in one of his minor poems. It is evident that there was iitile cordiality between Jonson and our Author; the former could bear no rival near the throne: nanguam partitur amieum, fiolvf habet : yet it wniiM be unju-t to accuse, or even to suspect him of doing Massinger an ill office with his lather's friend, on no better grounds than his unhappy disposition. The first folio edition of Beaumont and Fletcher's Play* was dedicated, by the players, to the Earl of Montgomery. t In UiliO was pnhli>hf(i a collection of " amorous and poetical airs and compositions," Wood tells ns, "with this title: Poem* written by H'illiam arl of Pembroke, i^c., many of which are antwered by it ay of repartee, by A'ir lienj Hudyard, with other Poems written by ther* ocea- \ionally and apart." Atheu. Vol. 1. p. i u INTRODUCTION. also something to tempt the ambition, or, if it must be so, the vanity, of a young adventurer in this pur- suit literature was the sole means by which a per- son undistinguished by birth and fortune could, at this time, hope to acquire the familiarity, or secure the friendship of the great; and of all its branches none was so favourably received, or so liberally encouraged, as that of the drama. Tilts and tournaments, the boisterous but magnificent entertainments of the court, together with pageant- ries and processions, the absurd and costly mum- meries of the city, were rapidly giving way to more elegant and rational amusements, to re- vels, masks, and plays : nor were the latter merely encouraged by the presence of the nobility ; the writers of them were adopted into the number of their acquaintance, and made at once the objects of their bounty and esteem. It is gratifying to observe how the names of Shakspeare, Jonson, &c.. are come down to us in connection with the Sidneys, the Pembrokes, the Southamptons, and other great and splendid ornaments of the courts of Elizabeth and James. Considerations of this or a similar kind may na- turally be supposed to have had their weight with Massinger, as with so many others : but whatever was the motive, Wood informs us, that " being sufficiently famed for several specimens of wit, he betook himself to making plays." Of what description these specimens were, Antony does not say ; he probably spoke without much examination into a subject for which he had little relish or soli- cituue ; and, indeed, it seems more reasonable to conclude, from the peculiar nature of Massinger's talents, that the drama was his first and sole pur- suit. It must appear singular, after what has been ob- served, that with only one exception we should hear nothing of Massinger for the Inns period of sixteen years, th.it is, from his first appearance in London, 1606 to 162*, when his "Virgin Martyr," the first of his jirinted works, was given to the public. That his necessities would not admit of relaxation in ais efforts for subsistence, is certain ; and we have the tt-siiniony of a contemporary poet, as preserved by I HML; I'aine, for the rapidity with which he usually composed : " Ingenious Shakespeare, Massinger, that knows The strength of plot, to write in verse and prose, \\ hose ensy Pegasus will amble o'er Some threescore miles of fancy in a hour." The best solution of the difficulty which occurs to me, is, that the poet's modesty, combined with the urgency of his wants, deterred him, at first, from attempting to write alone : and that he, there- fore, lent his assistance to others of a more con- fiimeil reputation, who could depend on a ready vent for their joint productions. When men labour for the demands of the day, it is imprudent to leave much to hazard ; such certainly was the case with Massinger. Sir Aston Cockayne, the affectionate friend and patron of our author, printed a collection of, what he is pleased to call, Poems, Epigrams, &c., in 1638. Among these, is one addressed to Hum- phrey Moseley, the publisher of Beaumont and Fletcher in folio : " In the large book of plays you late did print In Beaumont and in Fletcher's name, why in't Did you not justice give ; to each his due .' For Beaumont of those many writ but few : And Massinger in other few ; the main Being sweet issues of sweet Fletcher's brain But how came I, you ask, so much to know 1 Fletcher's chief bosom friend inform 'd me so." Davies, for what reason I cannot discover, seems inclined to dispute that part of the assertion which relates to Massinger : he calls it vague and hearsay evidence, and adds, with sufficient want of preci- sion, " Sir Aston was well acquainted with Mas- singer, who would, in all probability, have com- municated to his friend a circumstance so honourable to himself." There can be no doubt of it ; and we may be confident that the information n was, it appears that be came in lime to preserve three drama! from the general wreck : The Second Maid's Tragedy. The Bugbear*. And, The Qiieen of Corsica. These, it is said, are now in the library of the Marquis of Lan.-.low ne, where they will probably remain in safety, till moths, or damps, or in t ., mingle their " forgotten dust" with that of their late companions. When it is considered at how trifling an expense a manu- script play may be placed beyond the reach of accident, the withholding it from the press will be allowed to prove a strange indifference to the ancient literature of the country. The fact, however, seems to be, that these treasures are maile subservient to the gratification of a spurious rage for notoriety; it is not that any benefit may accrue from them, either to the proprietors or others, that manuscripts are now hoarded, but that A or H may be celebrated for possessing what no other letter of the alphabet can hope to acquire. Nor is this all. The hateful passion of literary avarice (a compound of vanity and envy) is becoming epidemic, and { fiprm qtinqur nre part-am collecta volumina priebent ('alien nee oerbutn, nee libri tentio rnfntem Attamen in JIAG.NO per me servaiitur HONOR* Four only of the plays named in Mr. Warburton'B list occur in the Office-book of Sir Henry Herbert, wliich is continued up to the latest period of Mas- singer's life; it is, therefore, evident that they must have been written previous to its commencement, these, therefore; with " The Old Law," " The Virgin Martyr," " The Unnatural Combat," and " The Duke of Milan," which are also unnoticed in it, will sufficiently fill up the time till 1622. There are no data to ascertain the respective pe- riods at which these plays were produced "The Virgin Martyr" is confidently mentioned by th former editors as the earliest of Massing-er's works, probably because it was the first that appeared in print : but this drama, which they have considerably under-rated, in consequence, jierhaps, of the dull ribaldry with which it is vitiated by Decker evinces a style decidedly formed, a hand accustomed to com- position, and a mind stored with the richest acqui- sitions of a long and successful study. " Th Old Law," which was not printed till many years after Massinger's death, is said to have been wiitten by him in conjunction with Middleton and Rowley*. The latter of these is ranked by the author of "The Companion to the Play House," in the third class of dramatic writers ; higher, it is impossible to place him : but the former was a man of considerable powers, who has lately been the object of much discussion, on account of the liberal use Shakspeare is supposed to have made of his recently discovered iragi-comedv of " The Witch*." It is said, by Steevens, that "The Old Law" was acted in 1559. If it be really so, Massinger's name must, in future, be erased from the title-page of that play, for he was, at that date, only in the fif- branching out in every direction. It has many of the worst symptoms of that madness which once raged among the Dutch for the possession of tulips; here, as well a- in Hol- land, an an ifici.il rarily is first created, and then rn-ide a plea for extortion or a ground tor low-minded and tclfish exultation. 1 speak not of works never intended for sale, and of which, therefore, the owner may print as few 01 a* many as his feelings will allow ; but of those which are os- tensibly designed for the public, and which, notwithstanding, prove the editors to labour under this ixli.ni- 'lisease. Here an old manuscript is brought for want, and after a few opies are printed, the press is broken up, that there ma\ be a pre- tence for selling them at a price which none but a collector canre'di: there, explanatory plates are engraved for work of general n-e, ami, as soon as twenty or thirty im- pressions are taken off, destrojed with gratuitous malice (for it deserves no other name), that there may be a mad competition for the favoured copies! To conclude, tor this i; no pleasant subject, books are purchased now at extrava- gant rates ; not because they are good, but because they are scarce ; so that a tire, or an enterprising trunk-maker, that should take oft" nearly the whole of a worthless work, would instantly render the small remainder invaluable. " The Parliament of Love" is entered on the stationers* books as the production of William Rowley It is now known from infinitely better authority, the Official Register of the Master of the Revels, to be the composition of Mas- singer; indeed, the abilities of Rowley were altogether un- equal to the execution of such a work, to the .-t\ le and manner of which his acknowledged performances bear not the slightest resemblance. t It would be unjust to mention this manuscript Play, without noticing, at the same time, the striking contrast which the conduct of its possessor. Air. Isaac Reed, form* with that of those alluded to in the. preceding note. " The Witch," from the circumstance men'ioned above, wa a literary curiosity of the most valuable kind ; >et he printed it at his own expense, and, with a liberality that has found more admirers than imitator*, gratuitously distributed the copies among his friend). It is thus placcd'out of the reach of accident. INTRODUCTION. xvu eenth year of bis age, and probably had not left he residence of his father. Steevens produces no authority for his assertion ; but as he does not usually write at random, it is entitled to notice. In Act III. Scene 1, of that play, in which the clown *onsults the church-book on the age of his wife, the clerk reads and comments upon it thus : " Agatha, the daughter of Pollux, born in an. 1540, and NOW 'tis 1599." The observation of Steevens is, pro- bably, founded upon this passage (at least I am aware of no other), and it will not, perhaps, be easy to conjecture why the authors should fix upon this particular year, unless it really were the current one. It is to no purpose to object that the scene is laid in a distant country, and the period of action necessarily remote, for the dramatic writers of those days confounded all climes and all ages with a fa- cility truly wonderful. On the whole, I am inclined to attribute the greater part of " The Old Law" to Middleton and Rowley: it has not many charac- teristic traits of Massinger, and the style, with the exception of a few places, which are pointed out by Dr. Ireland, is rery unlike that of his acknowledged pieces. It is by no means improbable that Massinger, an author in high repute, was employed by the actors to alter or to add a few scenes to a popular drama, and that his pretensions to this partnership of wit were thus recognized and established. A process like this was consonant to the manners of the age, when the players, who were usually the proprietors, exerted, and not unfrequently abused, the privilege of interlarding such pieces as were once in vogue, from time to time, with new matter*. Who will say that Shakspeare's claims to many dramas which formerly passed under his name, and probably with no intent, on the part of the publishers, to deceive, had not this or a similar foundation ? What has been said of " The Virgin Martyr," applies with equal, perhaps with greater force, to " The Unnatural Combat" and " The Duke of Milan," of which the style is easy, vigorous, and harmonious, bespeaking a confirmed habit of com- position, and serving, with the rest, to prove that Massinger began to write for the stage at an earlier period than has been hitherto supposed. Massinger appears for the first lime in the office- book of the Master of the Revels, Dec. 3, 1623, on which day his play of " The Bondman" was brought forward. About this time, too, he printed " The Duke of Milan," with a short dedication to Liicly Katheriue Stanhopef ; in which he speaks with A very curious instance oftliis occurs in the OHice-Book of Sir Henry Herbert; " Received tor the adding of a new icene to "The Virgin Martjr," (his 7lh of Jnlj, 1024, 10.-+." Such were the liberties taken wi h our ulil i'lays ! " The Virgin Martyr" had now bren a twelvemonth before the public, being printed in 16*2; the new scene, which was probably a piece of low buifoonery, does not appear in the subsequent editions, which are ui-re copies of the first ; had that, however, not been committed to the press previous to these additions, we may be prett_ confident that the whole would have come down to us as the joint production of Mas- cinger and Decker. j Lad'i Catherine Stanhope ;] daughter of Francis Lord Hastings, and tirst wife of l j hilip Stanhope, Baron of Sliel- ford, and afterwards (IMS) Earl of Chesterfield, a nobleman This was Sir Henry's fee ; for this mean and rapacious overseer not only insisted on being paid for allowing a new I'laj, but for every trifling audition which might sut-sequcutlv te ma le to it. great modesty of his course of studies, to which he insinuates (what he more than once repeats in his subsequent publications), misfortune rather than choice had determined him. In 1624, he published "The Bondman," and de- dicated it to Philip Earl of Montgomery, who being present at the first representation, had shown his discernment and good taste, by what the author calls a liberal suffrage in its favour. Philip was the second son of Henry Earl of Pembroke, the friend and patron of Massinger's father. At an early age he came to court, and was distinguished by the par- ticular favour of James I., who conferred the honour of knighthood upon him ; and, on his marriage* with Lady Susan Veref, daughter of Edward Earl of Oxford, and grand-daughter of William Lord Burleigh, gave him lands to a considerable amount, and soon afterwards created him a baron and an earl$. of great honour and virtue. He opposed the hi,licomt measures, till he discovered that the parliament were vio- lently usurping on the prerogatives of the other brandies of the state; when, after an ineltei-tual struggle to bring them iuto constitutional limits, and preserve peace, he joined the arms of his royal master. Shelford, the seat from which lie deriveil his title, was burnt in the conflict, two of his OD fell in battle, and he himself stiffen d a long and severe xm- prisonment ; yet he preserved his loyalty and faith, and died as he had lived, unblemished. * On his marriage.} There is an account of this marriage, in a letter from Sir Dudlev Carlton to Mr. Winwood, which is preserved in the seco xt volume of liis Alemoires, and which, as affording a very curious picturi of the gro^ness that prevailed at the court of James l.,ir.a> not be unworthy of insertion : " On St. John's day, we han the marriage ot SirPhilip Herbert and the Lady Susan performed at White- ball, with all the honour could be done a great favourite. The court was great, and for that day put on the best brav- erie. The prince and Duke of Hoist led the bride to church ; the ftu-un followed her from thence. The king gave her, and she, in her ties.-rs and trinkets, brided and bridled it so handsomely, and indeed became herself so well, that the king said, if he were unmarried, he would not give her, but keep her himself. The marriage dinner was kept in the great chamber, where the prince and the Duke ol Hoist, and the great lords and ladies, accompanied the bride. The ambas- sador of Venice w.is the only bid'ien guest of strangers, and he had place above the Duke of Hol-t, which the duke took not well. But after dinnei, he was a little pleased himself; for being brought into the closet to retire himself, he was then suffered to walk out, his supper unthought of. At night, there was a mask in the hall, which, for conceit and fashion, was suitable to the occasion. The actors were the Earl of Pembroke, the Lord W illoby, Sir Samuel Hays, Sir Thomas Germain, Sir Robert Cary, Sir John Lee, Sir Richard Preston, and Sir Thomas Bager. There was no Mil :ll loss that night of chains and jewels, and many great 1 Klii-s were made shorter by the skirls, and were very well >ervel, that they could keep cut no better. The presents ot plate and other things given by tl:e nobltmcn were valued at 2,51)01.; but that which made it a good marriage, was a gift of the king's, of 50U1. laud, for "the bride's joyntnre. They were lodged in the council chamber, where the king, in hi> shirt and night gown, gave them a reveille -matin be- fore they were up, and spei't a good time in or upon the bed, chuse which you will believe. No ceremony was omit- ted of bride-cakes, points, gaiters, and gloves, which have been ever since the livery of the court, and at night there was sew ing into the sheet, casting oli the bride's left hose, with many other petty sorceiiest. Jan. 1605." ; Jjaay Susan fere,] To this lady Jonson addressed the poem beginning, " Were they that named you prophets? did they see Even in the dew of grace, w hat you would be f Or did our limes requite it, to behold A new Susanna equal to that old t" &c. Epig. civ. The dew of grace is an elegant and beautiful periphrasis for the baptismal sprinkling. j Davies, after noticing the favours heaped on him, as re- corded by Lord Clarendon, petulant!) adds, " But Clarendon, t There is an allusion to one of these " petty sorcerie' iu the speech of Mirtilla, " Guardian," Act. III. 8 INTRODUCTION. This dedication, which is sensible, modest, and affecting, serves to prove that whatever might be the unfortunate circumstance which deprived the author of the patronage and protection of the elder branch of the Herberts, he did not imagine it to be of a disgraceful nature ; or he would not, in the face of the public, have appealed to his connections with the family : at the same time, it is manifest that some cause of alienation existed, otherwise he would scarcely have overlooked so fair an opportu- nity of alluding to the characteristic generosity of the Earl of Pembroke, whom on this, as on every other occasion, he scrupulously forbears to name, or even to hint at. This dedication, which was kindly received, led the way to a closer connection, and a certain degree of familiarity, for which, perhaps, the approbation so openly expressed of " The Bondman," might be designed by Montgomery as an overture ; at a subsequent period*, Massinger styles the earl his " most singular good lord and patron," and speaks of the greatness of his obligations : " mine being more " Than they could owe, who since, or heretofore, " Have labour'd with exalted lines to raise " Brave piles, or rather pyramids of praise *' To Pembrokef, and his family." What pecnniary advantages he derived from the present address, cannot be known ; whatever they were, they did not preclude the necessity of writing for the stage, which he continued to do with great perhaps, did not know the real cause of Lord Herbert's ad- vancement. The behaviour of the Scots on James's accession to the throne of England was generally obnoxions and much resenti-d. At a meeting of KnglUh and Scotch at a horse-race near Croydon, a sudden quarrel arose between them, occa- sioned, by a Mr. Ramsey's striking Philip Lord Herbert in the face with a switch. The Koglih would have made it a national quarrel, and Mr. John Pinchbeck rode about the field with a dagger in his hand, crying, Let us break o-.tr fast with them fiert,and dine with them in London. But Herbert not resenting it, the king was so charmed with his peaceable dis- position, that he made him a knight, a baron, a viscount, and an earl, in one day." Life of Massinger, p. liii. This is taken from Osborne, one of those gossipping talemongers in which the times of James so greatly abounded, and who, with Weldon, Wilson, Peyton, Sanderson, and others, contributed lo propagate an infinite uiimbcr of scandalous stories, which should have been left sub lodici; where most ot them perhaps had birth \V hat reliance may be placed on them, in general, is sufficiently apparent from the assertion of Osborne. The fact is, thai Herbert had long been a knight, and was never a viscount. He was married in the beginning of 1605 (he was then Sir Philip), and created Baron Herbert of Sliurland in the Isle of Shoppy, and Earl of Montgomery, June 4:h, in the same year: and so far were these titles from being the reward of what Osborne calls his cowardice at Croydon, that they were all confened o him two years before that event took place. Osborne himself allows that if Montgomery had not, by his forbearance, " stanched the blood then ready to be spilt, not only that day, but all afier, must have proved fatal to the Scots, sn long as any had staid in England, the royal family excepted, which, in respect to majesty, or their own safety, they mast have spared, or the kingdom been left to the misery of seeing so much blood laid out as the trial of so many crabbed titles would have required." The prevention of these horrors might, in some minds, have raised feelings favourable to the temperance of the young earl ; bat Osborne, whose object and whose office was ca- lumny, contrives to convert it into a new accusation : " they could not be these considerations," he says, "that restrained Herbert, who wanted leisure, no less than capacity, to use them, though laid in his way by others!" Memoirs of King James. * On the loss of his eldest son, who died of the small- pox at Florence, Jan. 1035. t Montgomery had now succeeded to the title and estates pf bis eldei brother, who deceased April 10, 1630 industry, seldom producing less than two new pieces annually. In 1629, his occasions, perhaps, again pressing upon him, he gave lo the press " The Henegado" and " The Roman Actor," both of which had now been several years before the public. The first of these he inscribed to Lord Berkeley in a short address composed witli taste and elegance. He" speaks with some complacency of the merits of the piece, but trusts that he shall live " to render his humble thankfulness in some higher strain :" this confidence in his abilities, the plensing concomitant of true genius, Massinger often felt and expressed. The latter play he presented to Sir Philip Kny vet and Sir Thomas Jeay*, with a desire, as he savs, that the world might take notice of his being in- debted to their support for power to compose the piece : he expatiates on their kindness in warm and energetic language, and accounts for addressing " the most perfect hirth of his Minerva" to them, from their superior demands on his gratitude. Little more than four years had elapsed since "The Bondman" was printed ; in that period Massinger had written seven plays, all of which, it is probable, were favourably received : it there- fore becomes a question, what were the emoluments derived from the stage which could thus leave a popu- lar and successful writer to struggle with adversity. There seem to have been two methods of dis- posing of a new piece; the first, and perhaps the most general, was to sell the copy to one of the theatres; the price cannot be exactly ascertained, hut appears to have fluctuated between ten' and twenty pounds, seldom falling short of the former, and still more seldom, I believe, exceeding the latter. In this case, the author could only print his play by permission of the proprietors, a favour which was sometimes granted to the necessities of a favourite writer, and to none, perhaps, more fre- quently than to Massinger. The other method wag by offering it to the stage for the advantage of benefit, which was commonly taken on the seconc or third night, and which seldom produced, there is reason to suppose, the net sum of twenty pounds. There yet remain the profits of publication : Mr. Malone, from whose " Historical Account of the English Stage" (one of the most instructive essays that ever appeared on the subject), many of these notices are taken, says, that, in the time of Shak- speare, the customary price was twenty nobles (til. 13s. 4d.) ; if at a somewhat later period we fix it at thirty (101.), we shall not, probably, be far from the truth. The usual dedication fee, which yet re- mains to be added, was forty shillings : where any connection subsisted betwen the parties, it was doubt- less increased. We may be pretty confident, therefore, that Mas- singer seldom, if ever, received for his most stre- nuous and fortunate exertions more than fifty pounds a-year; this, indeed, if regularly enjoyed, would be sufficient, with decent enconomy, to have preserved him from absolute want : but nothing is better known than the precarious nature of dramatic writing. Some of his pieces might fail of success (indeed, we are assured that they actually did so), Sir Thomas Jeay was himself a poet : several commend- atory copies of verses by him are prefixed to Massinger's Plays. He calls the author his worthy friend, and gives many proets that his esteem was founded on judgment, and his kindness candid and sincere INTRODUCTION. Others might experience n lf thin third day ;" and a variety of circumstances, not difficult to enumerate, contribute to diminish the petty sum which we have ventured to state as the maximum of the poet's re- venue. Nor could the benefit which lie derived from the press be very extensive, as of the seventeen dramas which make up his printed works (exclusive of the " Parliament of Love," which now appears for the first time\ only twelve were published dur- ing his l.fe, and of these, two (" The Virgin- Martyr" and " The Fatal Dowry") were not wholly bis own. In 1630 he printed " The Picture," which had appeared on the stage the preceding year. This play was warmly supported by many of the " no'ble Society of the Inner Temple," to whom it is ad- dressed. '1 hese gentlemen were so sensible of the extraordinary merits of this admirable per- formance, that they gave the author leave to par- ticularize their names at the head of the dedication, an honour which he declined, because, as he mo- destly observes, and evidently with an allusion to some of his contemporaries, he " had rather ei.joy the real proofs of their friendship, than, moun- tebank-like, boast their numbers in a catalogue." In 1631 Massinger appears to have been unu- sually industrious, for he brought forward three pieces in little more than as many months. Two of these, " Believe as you List," and " The Unfortu- nate Piety," are lost; the third is " The Emperor of the East," which was published in the following year, and inscribed to Lord Mohun, who was so much pleased with the perusal of the author's printed works, that he commissioned his nephew, Sir Aston Cockayne*, to express his high opinion of them, and to present the writer " with a token of his love ar.d intended favour." " The Fatal Dowry" was printed in 1632. 1 once supposed this to be the play which is men- tioned above by the name of " The Unfortunate Piety," ns it does not appear under its present ti:le in the office-book of Sir Henry Herbert ; but I now believe it to have been written previou>ly to 1623. His coadjutor in this play was Nathaniel Field, of whom I can give the reader but little ;ccount. His name stands at the head of the principal come- dians who performed " Cynthia's Revels," and he is joined with Heminge, Condell, Burbadge, and otheis, in the preface to the fuho edition of Shak- speare. He was also the author of two comedies, ''A Woman is a Weathercock," 1612, and " Amends for Ladies," 1618. Mr. Reed, however, conjectures the writer of these plays, the assistant of Massinger in " The Fatal Dowry," to be a dis- tinct person from the actor above mentioned, and "a Nath. Field, M. A., Fellow of New Coll., who wrote some Latin verses printed in Oian. Academic Parentalia, 1625, and who, being of the same uni- This is the only place in which Ma?singer makes any mention of Sir Asion.whu was not less delighted with "The Eii/pernr of ihe East" than his uncle, and who, in a copy of verses which he prefixed toit.cnlls Massinger his worthy friend. It is 10 the praise of Sir Aston Cockayne, thai he nut only maintained his encem and admiration of Massin- ger during the poet's life, but preserved an affectionate regard lor his memory, of which his %\ritings ttmiUli many proofs. He was, as 1 have supposed Massinger to be, a Catholic, and suffered much for his religion. I \ ill not lake upon m>sclf to ay that this communiiy of faith strengthened their mu- tual attachment, though I do not think it altogether im- probable. 2 versify with Massinger, might there join with him in the composition of the play ascribed to tln-m*.' It is seldom safe to differ from Mr. Reed on sub- jects of this nature, yet I still incline to think that field the actor was the person meant. There ia no authority for supposing that Massinger wrota. plays at college ; arid if there were it it- not likely thai " The Fatal Dowry" should be one of them. But Mr. Reed's chief reason for his assertion is, that no contemporary author speaks of Field as a writer: this argument, in the refutation of which I can claim no merit, is now completely disproved by the discovery of the letter to Mr. Henslowe. Mr. Ma- lone, too, thinks that the person who wrote the two comedies ln-re mentioned, and assisted Ma-singer, could not be Field the actor, since the first of them was printed in 1612, at which time he must have been a youth, having performed as one of the chil- dren of the revels in __ Jonson's " Silent Woman," 1609t- I know not to what age these children were confined, but Bark.-tead, who was one of them, and who, from his situation in the list, was probably younger than Field, published, in 1611, a poem called ' Hiren (Irene) the Fair Greek," consisting of 1 14 stanzas, which is yet earlier than the date of " Woman's a Weathercock." Mr. Malone conjectures that the affecting letter (p. xv.) was written between 1612 and 1615 : if we take the latest period, Field will be then not far from his twenty-eighth year, a period sufficiently advanced for the production of any work of fancy 1 havf sometimes felt a pang at imagining that the play on which they were then engaged, and for which they solicit a trifling advance in such moving terms, was " The Fatal Dowry," one of the not. lest compositions that ever graced the English stage ! Even though it should not be so, it is yet impossible to be unaffected, when we consider that those who actually did produce it were in danger of perishing in gaol lor want of a loan of five pounds ! In the following year, Massinger brought forward " The City Madam." As this play was undoubtedly disposed of to the performers, it remained in manu- script till the distress brought on the stage by the persecution of the Puritans, induced them to com- mit it to the press. The person to whom we are in- debted foi its appearance was Andrew Pennycuicke, an actor of some note. In the dedication to the Countess of Oxford}:, he observes, with a spirited reference to the restrictions then laid on the drama, " In that age, when wit and learning were not con- quered 61; it-jury and violence, this poem was the ob- ject of love and commendations :" he then adds, " the encouragement I had to prefer this dedication to your powerful protection, proceeds from the uni- versal fame of the deceased author^, who (although * Old Plays, Vol. XII., p. 350. t It had probably escaped Mr. Malone's observation, that Field appears as the principal performer in " Cj nthia's Re vi-ls," acted in 1599 or 1000. He could not then have well been less than twelve j ears old, and, at the time mentioned by Mr. Malone, as loo early for the prodiiciion of his firsJ play, must have been turned of one and twenty. ; Countess of Oxford, &c.j Ann, first wife of Aubrey de Vere, twentieth and last Earl of Oxtoid. She was a distant relation of the Pembroke family. The deceased author,} " The City Madam" was printed in" 165H. This furticiently proves the absurdity of the ac- count give. i by Langbaine, Jacob, \Vhincop, and Cibber, who concur in pl.u-ing his death in 1669, and who, cer- laiiily, never oerused his works with any attention: nor il INTRODUCTION. he competed many) wrote none amiss, and tins may jusdy be ranked among his best." Pennycuicke might hnTe gene further; but this little address is sufficient to show in what estimation the poet was held by his " fellows." He had now been dead nineteen years. About this time too (1632), Massinger printed "The .Maid of Honour," with a dedication to Sir Francis Foljambe*, and Sir Thomas Bland, which cannot be r>-ad without sorrow. He observes, that these gentlemen, who appear to have been engaged in an amicable suit at law, bad continued for many years the patrons of him and his despised studies, and he calls upon the world to take notice, as from himself, that lie had not to that time subsisted, but that he was supported by their frequent courtesies and favours. It is not improbable, however, that he was now- labouring: under the pressure of more than usual want ; as the failure of two of his plays had damped his spirits, and materially checked the prosecution f his dramatic studies. No account of the unsuc- tessful pieces is come down to us ; their names do not occur in the Office-book of Sir H. Herbert, nor should we have known the circumstance, had not the author, with a modesty which shames some of his contemporaries, and a deference to the judgment of the public, which becomes all who write for it, re- corded the fact in the prologue to " The Guardian." To this, probably, we owe the publication of " A New Way to Pay Old Debts," which was now first printed with a sensible and manly address to the Earl of Caernarvon, who had married Lady Sophia Herbert, the sister of his patron, Philip Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery. " I was born," he says, " a devoted servant to the thrice noble family of your incomparable lady, and am most ambitious, but with a becoming distance, to be known to your lordship." All Massinger's patrons appear to be persons of worth and eminence. Philip had not, at this time, tarnished the name of Pembroke by in- gratitude, and the Earl of Caernarvon was a man of unimpeachable honour and integrity. He fol- lowed the declining fortunes of his royal master, and fell at Newbury, where he commanded the ca- valry, after defeating that part of the parliamentary army to which he was opposed. In his last mo- ments, says Fuller, as he lay on the field, a noble- man of the royal party desired to know if he had any request to make to the king, to whom he was deservedly dear, comforting him with the assurance that it would be readily granted. His reply was such as became a brave and conscientious soldier : I will not die with a suit in my mouth, but to the king of kings ! Flattered by the success of " The Guardian," which was licensed on the 31st of October, 1633, Massinyer exerted himself with unusual energy, and produced three plays before the expiration of the following year. One of them, the delightful comedy that of Chetwoocl more rational, who asserts that he died in 105!), since bit epitaph i printed among the poems of Sir AMon Cocka) ne, which were published in 1058, and written much earlier. It is, therefore, worse than a waste of time to repeat from book to book such palpable errors. * A'ir Francis Foljambe, &c.] I suspect that Sir Francis was also a C.rh-'Hc. From the brief account of this ancient family which is given in Lodge's " Illustrations," they ap- pear lo have Mitten-d severely on account of their religion, to which they were zealously attached. of " A Very Woman," is come down to us; of the others, nothing is known but the names, which are registered by the Master of the Revels. In 1635, it does not appear that he brought any thing forward : but in 1636, he wrote " The Bashful Lover," and printed " The Great Duke of Florence," which had now been many years on the stage, with a dedica- tion to Sir Robert Wiseman, of Thorrells Hall, in Essex. In this, which is merely expressive of his gratitude for a long continuation of kindness, he ac' knowledges, " and with a zealous thankfulness, that for many years, he had but faintly subsisted, if he had not often tasted of his bounty." In this pre- carious state of dependance passed the life of a man who is charged with no want of industry, suspected of no extravagance, and whose works were, at thaj very period, the boast and delight of the stage ! " The Bashful Lover" is the latest play of Mas- singer's writing which we possess, but there were three others posterior to it, of which the last, " The Anchoress of Psiusilippo, was acted Jan. 26, 1640, about six weeks before his death. Previous to this, he sent to the press one of his early plays, " The Unnatural Combat," which he inscribed to Anthony Sentleger (whose father, Sir Wareham, had been his particular admirer), being., as he says, ambitious to publish his many favours to the world. It is pleasant to find the author, at the close of his blameless life, avowing, as he here does, with an amiable modesty, that the noble and eminent persons to whom his former works were dedicated, did not think them- selves disparaged by being " celebrated as the pa- trons of his humble studies, in the first file of which," he contines " I am confident you shall have no cause to blush to find your name written." Massinger died on the 17th of March, 1640. He went to bed in good health, says Langbaine, and was found dead in the morning in his own house on the Bankside. He was buried in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, and the comedians paid the last sad duty to his name, by attending him to the grave. It does not appear, from the strictest search, that a stone, or inscription of any kind, marked the place where his dust was deposited : even the memorial of his mortality is given with a pathetic brevity, which accords but too well with the obscure and humble passages of his life : " March 20. 1639-40. buried Philip Massinger, A STRANGER!" No flowers were flung into his grave, no elegies " soothed his hovering spirit," and of all the admirers of his tal- ents and his worth, none but Sir Aston Cockayne, dedicated a line to his memory. It would be an abuse of language to honour any composition of Sir Aston with the name of poetry, but the steadiness of his regard for Massinger may be justly praised. In that collection of doggrel rhymes, which I have already mentioned, (p. xv.) there is "an epitaph on Mr. John Fletcher, and Mr. Philip Massinger, who lie both buried in one grave in St. Mary Overy's church, in Southwark : " In the same grave was Fletcher buried, here Lies the stage-poet Philip Massinger; Plays they did write together, were great friends, And now one grave includes them in their ends. To whom on earth nothing could part, beneath Here in their fame they lie, in spight of death." It is surely somewhat singular that of a man of such eminence, nothing should be known. What I have presumed to gire, is merely the history of the INTRODUCTON. successive appearance of bis works ; and I am aware of no source from whence any additional information can be derived : no anecdotes are recorded of him bv his contemporaries, few casual mentions of his name occur in the writings of the time, and he had not the good fortune which attended many of less eminence, to attract attention at the revival of dra- matic literature from the deathlike torpor of the In- terregnum*. But though we are ignorant of every circumstance respecting Massinger, but that lie lived and diedf, we may yet form to ourselves some idea of his personal character from the incidental hints scattered through his works. In what light he was regarded may be collected from the recommendatory poems prefixed to his several plays, in which the language of his panegyrists, though warm, expresses an attachment apparently derived not so much from his talents as his virtues ; he is, as Davies has ob- served, their beloved, much-esteemed, dear, wortliij, deserving, honoured, long knotcn, and long loved friend, &.C., &c. All the writers of his life unite in repre- senting him as a man of singular modesty, gentle- ness, candour, and affability ; nor does it appear that he ever made or found an enemy. He speaks, indeed, of opponents on the stage, but the contention of rival candidates for popular favour must not be con- founded with personal hostility. With all this, however, he appears to have maintained a constant struggle with adversity ; since not only the stage, from which, perhaps, his natural reserve prevented him from deriving the usual advantages, but even the bounty of his particular friends, on which he chiefly relied, left him in a state of absolute depend- ance. Jonson, Fletcher, Shirley, and others, not superior to him in abilities, had their periods of good fortune, their bright, as-well as their stormy hours ; but Mnssirtger seems to have enjoyed no gleam of sunshine ; his life was all one wintry day, and " shadows, clouds, and darkness," rested upon it. Davies finds a servility in his dedications which I have not been able to discover ; they are princi- pally characterized by gratitude and humility, without a single trait of that gross and servile adulation which distinguishes and disgraces the addresses of some of his contemporaries. 'I hat he did not conceal his misery, his editors appear inclined to reckon among bis faults; he bore it, however, with- out impatience, and we only hear of it when it is relieved. Poverty made him no flatterer, and, what is still more rare, no maligner of the great; nor is one symptom of envy manifested in any part of his compositions. His principles of patriotism appear irrepreben- sihle ; the extravagant and slavish doctrines which are found in the dramas of his great contemporaries, make no part of his creed, in which the warmest loyalty is skilfully combined with just and rational ideas of political freedom. Nor is this the only instance in which the rectitude of his mind is ap- parent ; the writers of his day abound in recom- mendations of suicide ; he is uniform in the repre- One exception we ehall hereafter mention. Even in this tlie poit's ill fate pursued him, and he was dung back into obscurity, (bat his Sj.oils might be worn without dtticiu n. t Jt is seriously to be lamented that Sir Aston Cock vane, iiiMi'iid i't' wasting his leisure in measuring out dull "prose which cannot be read, had not employed a part of it in tumUliing some notices if the dramatic potts, \\ilh whom he was ?o well acquainted, and whom he profiles so much o admire. hension of it, with a single exception, to which, perhaps, he was led by the peculiar turn of his studies*. Guilt of every kind is usually left ;.o the punishment of divine justice : even the wretched Malefort excuses himself to his son on his s^per- natural appearance, because the latter was not marked out by heaven for his mother's avenger ; and the young, the brave, the pious Charalois accounts his death fallen upon him by the will of heaven, be- cause "he marie himself a judge in his otrn cause.'' But the great, the glorious distinction of Mas- singer, is the uniform respect with which he treats religion and its ministers, in an age when it was found necessary to add regulation to regulation, to stop the growth of impiety on the stage. No priests are introduced by him, " to set on some quantity of barren spectators" to laugh at their licentious fol- lies ; the sacred name is not lightly invoked, nor daringly sported with ; nor is Scripture profaned by buffoon allusions lavishly put into the mouths of fools and women. To this brief and desultory delineation of his mind, it may be expected that something should here he added of his talents for dramatic composition; but this is happily rendered unnecessary. The kindness of Dr. Ferriar has allowed me to annex to this introduction the elegant and ingenious " Essav on Massinger," first printed in the third volume of the " Manchester Transactions ;" and I shall pre- sently have to notice, in a more particular manner, the value of the assistance which has been expressly given to me for this work. These, if I do not de- ceive mvself, leave little or nothing to be desired on the peculiar qualities, the excellencies, and defects, of this much neglected and much injured writer. Mr. M. Mason has remarked the general har- mony of his numbers, in which, indeed, Massinger stands unrivalled. He seems, however, inclined to make a partial exception in favour of Shakspeare ; but I cannot admit of its propriety. The claims of this great poet on the admiration of mankind are innumerable, but rhythmical modulation is not one of them, nor do I think it either wise or just to hold him forth as supereminent in every quality which constitutes genius. Beaumont is as sublime, Fletcher as pathetic, and Jonson as nervous : nor let it be accounted poor or niggard praise, to allow him only an equality with these extraordinary men in their peculiar excellencies, while he is admitted to possess many others, to which they make no ap- proaches. Indeed, if I were asked for the dis- criminating quality of Shakspeare's mind, that by which he is raised above all competition, above al 1 prospect of rivalry, I should say it was WIT. Ti wit Massinger has no pretensions, though he is in. without a considerable portion of humour ; in which, however, he is surpassed by Fletcher, whose style bears some affinity to his own ; there is, indeed, a morbid softness in the poetry of the latter, which is not visible in the flowing and vigorous metre of Massinger, hut the general manner is not unlikef. See "The Duke of Milan." The frequent violation of female chasiity, which took place on iheir motion of the barbarians into Italy, gave rise to many curious dis- quisitions among the fathers of the church, respecting the degree of guilt incurred in preventing it by self-mur- der. Massinger hail tliese, probably, in I it thoughts. i There is yet a peculiarly which it may be proper to notice, us il contribute in a slight degree to the fluency of INTRODUCTION. With Massinger terminated the triumph of dra- matic poetry ; indeed, the stage itself survived him hut a short time. The nation was convulsed to its centre by contending factions, and a set of austere and gloomy fanatics, enemies to every ele- gant amusement, and every social relaxation, rose upon the ruins of tiie state. Exasperated hy the ridicule with which they had long been covered by the stage, they persecuted the actors with unrelent- ing severity, and consigned them, together with the writers, to hopeless obscurity and wretchedness. Taylor died in the extreme of poverty, Shirley opened a little scliool, and Lowin, the boast of the stage, kept an alehouse at Brentford : Balneolitm Gabiis, furncs conducere Rome Tentarunt ! Others, and those the far greater number, joined the royal standard, and exerted themselves with more gallantry than good fortune in the service of their old and indulgent master. We have not yet, perhaps, fully estimated, and certainly not yet fully recovered, what was lost in that unfortunate struggle. The arts were rapidly advancing to perfection under the fostering wing of a monarch who united in himself taste to feel, spirit to undertake, and munificence to reward. Archi- tecture, painting, and poetry, were by turns the ob- jects of his paternal care. Shakspeare was Lis " closet companion,*" Jonson his poet, and in con- junction with Inigo Jones, his favoured architect, produced those magnificent entertainments which, though modern refinement may affect to despise Massinger't style; it is, the resolution of his words (and principally or those which are derived from the Latin through the medium of the French) into their component syllables. J-'irtuout, partial, nation, &c., &c., lie usually makes dactyls (if it be not ped.intic to apply terms of measure to a language acquainted only with accent), passing over the last two syllables with a gentle but distinct enun- ciation. This practice, indeed, is occasionally adopted by all the writers of his time, but in Massinger it is frequent and habitual. This singularity may slightly embarrass the reader at nrt, but a little acquaintance will show its advantages, and render ii not only easy but delightful. fJif "Closet Companion,"} Milton, and certainly with no symptoms of disapprobation, mentions, as a fact univer- ally known, the fonducss of the unfortunate Charles for the plays of Shakspeare; and it appears, '.VOID those curious particulars collected from Sir Henry Herbert, by Mr. Ma- lone, that his attachment to the drama, and his anxiety for it* perfection, began with his reign. The plot of "The Gamester," one of the best of Shirley's pieces, was given to him by the kin;:; and there is an anecdote recorded by the Master of the Revels, which shows that he was not inat- tentive to the succrss of Massinger. " Al Greenwich this 4 of June (I63S), Mr. W. Murray gave mee power from the king to allow of "The King and the Subject," and tould mee that lit would warrant it : " ' Monies! We'll raise inpplics what way we please, And io! ce you to subscribe to blanks, in which We'll mulct yon as we shall think lit. The Caisari In Rome were wise, acknowledging no laws But what their sword* dU ratil), the wives And daughters of the senators bow ing to Their will, as deities,' " &c. "This is a peece taken out of Philip Messenger's play- called 'The King and the Subject,' and entered here tor ever to bee remembered by my son and those that cast their eyes on it, in honour of Kinj; Charles, my master, who leadings over the play at Newmarket, set his marke upon the place with his own liande, and in these words: ' This it too insolent., and to bee changed? "Note, that the pi>et makes it the speech of a king, Don Pedro of Spayne, and spoken to his subjects." them, modem splendour never reached even in thought*. That the tyranny of the commonwealth should sweep all this away, was to be expected : the cir- cumstance not less to he wondered at than regretted is, that when the revival of monarchy afforded an opportunity for restoring every thing to its pristine place, no advantage should be taken of it. Such, however, was the horror created in the general mind, by the perverse and unsocial government from which they had so fortunately escaped, that the people appear to have anxiously avoided all retro- spect ; and with Prynne and \ r icars, to have lost sight of Shakspeare and " his fellows." Instead, therefore, of taking up dramatic poetry (for to this my subject confines me) where it abruptly ceased in the labours of Massinger, they elicited, as it were, a manner of their own, or fetched it from the heavy monotony of their continental neighbours. The ease, the elegance, the simplicity, the copiousness of the former period, were as if they had never been ; and jangling an;l blustering declamation took place of nature, truth, and sense. Even criucijm, which, in the former reign, had been making no inconsi- derable progress under the influence and direction of the great masters of Italy, was now diverted into a new channel, and only studied in the puny and jejune canons of their unworthy followers, the French. The Restoration did little for Massinger ; this, however, will the less surprise us, when we find that he but shared the fortune of a grea'.er name. It appears from a list of revived plays preserved by Downes the prompter, that of twenty-one, two onlyf were written by Shakspeare ! " The Bond- man," and " The Roman Actor," were at length brought forward hy Betterton, who probably con- ceived them to be favourable to his fine powers of declamation. We are told by Downes, that he gained "great applause" in them: his success, however, did not incite him to the revival of the rest, though he might have found among the num- ber ample scope for the display of his highest Jalents. I can find but two more of Massinger's plays which were acted in the period immediately following the Restoration, " The Virgin-Mariyr," and "The Renegade:" I have, indeed, some idea that " The Old Law" should be added to the scanty list ; but hering mislaid my memorandums, 1 can- not affirm it. The time, however, arrived, when he was to be remembered. Nicholas Rowe, a man gifted hy na- ture with taste and feeling, disgusted at the tumid vapidity of his own times, turned his attention to the poets of a former age, and, among the rest, to That the exhibition of those masks was attended with a considerable degree of expense cannot be denied : and yet a question may be modestly started, whether a tliuusa:: and abandoned strumpet. t The nitwit* oj his performance,} This was somewhat problematical at first. For though "The Fair Penitent" be now a general favourite with the (own, it cxptiience con- tjflerabfe opposition on its appearance, owing, as Uownes informs us, "to the Hat ness of the found and fifth acts." The poverty of Rowe's genius is principally apparent in Ihe las; ; ol which the plot and ihe execution are equally rootempablc. had been collected ; depredations on them, .there- fore, though frequently made, were attended will, some degree of hazard ; but the works of Massin- ger, few of whii h had reached a second edition, lay scattered in single plays, and might be appropriated without fear. What printed copies or manuscripts were extant, were chiefly to be found in private li- braries, not easily accessible, nor often brought to sale; and it is not, perhaps, too much to say that more old plavs mav now be found in the hands of a single bookseller, than, in the days of Howe, wero supposed to be in exi-tence. " 1 he Fair Penitent " was produced in 1703, and the Author, having abandoned his first design, un- dertook to prepare for the press the works of a poet more wortln. it must be confessed, of his care, but not in equal wa;>t of his assistance; and, in 1709, gave the public the first octavo edition of Shakspeare. What might have been the present rank of Massin- ger, if Rowe had completed his purpose, it would be presumptuous to determine : it may, however, be conjectured that, reprinted witli accuracy, corrected witli judgment, and illustrated witb ingenuity, he would, at least, have been more generally known*, and suffered to occupy a station of greater respecta- bility than he has hitherto been permitted to assume. Massinger, thus plundered and abandoned by Rowe, was. after a considerable lapse of time, taken up by Thomas Coxeter, of whom I know nothing more than is delivered by Mr. Egerton Brydges, in his useful and ingenious additions to the " Thea- * More generally knoit-n,] Itd<-es not appear from John- son's observations on "The F.iir Penitent," that he had any knowledge of Massinger; Steevens, I have some reason to think, took him up l.ite in life ; and Mr. M alone observes to nit , ihat he only consulted him tor verbal illustrations of bhak- speare. This is merely a subject for regret; but we may be allowed to complain a little of those who discuss his merits without examining his works, and traduce his character on their own misconceptions. C'api II, whose dull fidelity forms the sole claim on our kindness, becomes both inaccurate and unjust the instant he speaks of Massinger; he accuses him of being one of the props of Jonson's throne, in opposition to the pretensions of Shakspeartf ! The reverse of this is the truth: he was the admirer and imitator of Shakspeare, and it is scarce- ly possible to look into one of his prologues, without discover- ing some allusion, more or less concealed, to the overwhelm- ing pride and arrogance of Jonson. This disinclination to the latter was no secret to his contemporaries, while his par- tiality to the former was so notorious, that in a mock romance, entitled " Wit and Fancy in a Maze, or Don Zara del Fogo," 12mo, 16S6 (the knowledge of which wa obligingly communicated to me by the Rev. W. Tidd,), where an uproar amongst the English poets is described, Mattlnger is expressly introduced as "one of the life guards to Shakspeare." So much for Ihe sneerof Capell ! but Massinger's ill fite still pursues him. In a late Essay on Ihe stage, written with considerable ingenuity, ths author, in giving a chronological history of dramatic writers from Sackville downwards, overlooks Massinger till he arrives at onr own limes. He then recollect" that he was one of the fathers of the drama; and adds, that his style was rnuyh, manly, and vigorous, that he pressed upon his subject with a severe but masterly hand, that his wit was caustic," &c. If this gentleman had ever looked into the poet he thus charac- terises, he must have instantly recognized his error. Mas- singer has no wit, ami his humour, in which he abounds, U of a light and fro ic nature ; he presses not on his subject with severity, hut with fulness of knowledge; and his sl)le is so far from roughness, Ihat )'* characteristic excellence is sweetness beyond example. " \\ hoever," fa>s Johnson, " wi-hes to attain an English style familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentations, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison." Whoever would add to these Ihe qualities of simplicity, purity, sweetness, and strength, must devote hi^ hours to ihe study of Massinger. t See hi* " Introduction to Shakipeare'* I'lays," Vol. I. p. 14. INTRODUCTION. trum Poeiarum*." " He was born of an ancient nnd respectable family, at Lechlade, in Gloucester- shire, in 1689. and educated at Trinity College, Oxford where he wore a civilian's gown, and about 1710. abandoning the civil law, and every other profession, came to London. Here continuing without any settled purpose, he became acquainted with booksellers and authors, and amassed materials for a biography of our old poets. He had a curious collection of old plays, and was the first who formed the scheme adopted by Dodsley, of publishing a selection of them," &c. Warton too calls Coxeter a faithful and industrious amasser of our old English literature, and this praise, whatever be its worth, is all that can be fairly said to belong to himf : as an editor he is miserably defi- cient ; though it appears that he was not without assistance which, in other hands, might have been tuined to some account. " When I left London," says the accurate and ingenious Oldys, " in the year 17^4, to reside in Yorkshire, I lett in the care of the Rev. Mr. Burridge's family, with whom 1 had several years lodged, amongst many other books, a copy of this Langbaine, in which I had written several notes and references to further the know- )ede of these poets. \\henlreturned to London in 1730, I understood my books had been dispersed ; and afterwards becoming acquainted with Mr. Coxeter, 1 found that he had bought my Langbaine of a bookseller, as he was a great collector of plays and poetical books. This must have been of service to him, and he has kept it so carefully from my sight that I never could have the opportunity of trans- cribing into this I am now writing, the notes I had collected in that. \\hether 1 had entered any remarks upon Massinger, I remember not ; but he had coiumunica'ions from me concerning him, when he was undertaking to give us a new edition of his piays, which is not published yet. He (Mr. Cox- eter) died on the 10th (or 19..h, 1 cannot tell which) of April, being Easter Sunday, 1747, of a fever which grew from a cold lie caught at an auction of books over Exeter I hange, or by sitting up late at the tavern afterwards}." On the death of Coxeter, his collections for the purposed edition of Massinger fell into the hands of a bookseller, of the name of Dell, who gave them to tie world in 1759. From the publisher's preface it appears that Coxeter did not live to complete his design. " The late ingenious Mr. Coxeter," he says, " bad corrected and collated all the various editions^ ;" and, if I may judge from his copies, he had spared no diligence and care to make them as correct as possible. Several inge- nious observations and notes he had likewise pre- * I take the offered opportunity to express my thanks to this gentleman for the obliging manner in which he trans- milled to me the manuscript notts of Oldys and others, copied into his edition of Laugbaine, formerly in the posses- sion of Air. Steevens. + Johnson told Boswell that "a Mr. Coxeteri whom he knew, had collected about live hundred volumes of poets whose works were most known; bnt that, upon his death, Tom Osborne bought them, and they were dispersed, which he thought a piiy ; as it was curious to see any series complete, and in every volume of poems something good might be found." Boswell's '' Lite," &c. vol. II., p. -I52. } Manuscript notes on Langbainr, in the British Museum. This is also asserted in the title-page bnt it is not v pared for his intended edition, which are all inserted in the present. Had he lived to have completed his design, 1 dare say he would have added many more, and that his work would have met with a very fa- vourable reception from every person of true taste and genius." As Dell professes to have followed Coxeter's papers, and given all his notes, we may form nt> inadequate idea of what the edition would have been. Though educated at the University, Cox- eter exhibits no proofs of literature. To critical sagacity he has not the smallest pretensions; his conjectures are void alike of ingenuity and proba- bility, and his historical references at once puerile and incorrect. Even his parallel passages (the easiest part of an editor's labour) are more calcu- lated to produce a smile at the collector's expense, than to illustrate his author ; while every page of his work bears the strongest impression of imbe- cility. The praise of fidelity may be allowed him ; but in doing this the unfortunate Deil must be charged (how justly I know not) with the innu- merable errors which over-run and deform the edition. I need not inform those who are convers- ant with old copies, that the printers were less at- tentive to the measure of the original, than to tilling up the line, and saving their paper : this Coxeter attempted to remedy ; his success, however, was but partial ; his vigilance relaxed, or his tar failed him, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, ot verses are given in the cacophonous and unmetrical state in which they appear in the early editions. A few- palpable blunders are removed ; others, not less remarkable, are continued, and where a word is altered, under the idea of improving the sense, it is almost invariably for the worse. Upon the whole, Massinger appeared to less advantage than in the old copies. Two years afterwards (1761), a second edition* of this work was published by Mr. Thomas Davies, accompanied by an ' Kssay on the Old English Dramatic Writer," furnished by Mr. Colman, and addressed to David (Jarrick, Esq., to whom Dell's edition was also inscribed. It may tend to mortify those, who, after bestow- ing unwearied pains on a work, look for some trifling return of praise, to find the approbation, which should be justly reserved for themselves, thought- lessly lavished on the most worthless productions. Of this publication, the most ignorant and incorrect (if we except that of Mr. M. Mason, to which we shall speedily arrive) that ever issued from the press, tiishop Percy thus speaks : " Air. Coxeter's vtrsv coiiHb.cr EDITION of Massinger's Plays has lately been published in 4 vols. 8vo, by Air. T. Davies (which T. Davies was many years an actor on Drury-lane stage/and 1 believe still con- tinues so, notwithstanding his shop). To this edition is prefixed a superficial letter to Mr. Gar- rick, written by .Mr. Colman, but giving not the least account ot Massinger, or of the old editions from whence this was composed. ' 1'is great pity Mr. Coxeter did not live to finish it himself." It is * A second edition] So, at least, it insinuates : but Mr. W..lilron, of Drury Lane (a most friendly and in(;eni..uj man, to whose small but curious library 1 am much iiUeuiedj, who is belter acquainted with the ad-oitness of booksellers tuan 1 (neiend to bo, informs me that it is only Dai's with new tillu-pagi>. INTRODUCTION. manifest that his lordship never compared a single page of this " correct edition" with the old copies : and I mention the circumstance to point out to writers of eminence the folly, as well as the danger, of deciding at random on any subject which they have not previously considered. It will readily be supposed that a publication like this was not much calculated to extend the celebrity or raise the reputation of the poet ; it found, however, a certain quantity of readers, and was now growing scarce, when it fell by accident into the hands of John Monk Mason, Esq. In 1777 he was favoured by a friend, as he tells the story, with a copy of Massiriger j he received from it a high degree of pleasure, and having con- tracted a habit of rectifying, in the margin, the mis- takes of such books as he read, he proceeded in this manner with those before him ; his emenda- tions were accidentally discovered by two of his acquaintance, who expressed their approbation of them in very flattering terms, and requested the author to give them to the public*. .Mr. M. Mason was unfortunate in his friends : they should have considered (a matter which had completely escaped him) that the great duty of an editor is fidelity : that the ignorance of Coseter in admitting so many gross faults could give no reasonable mind the slightest plea for rely- ing on his general accuracy, and that however high thev might rate their friend's sagacity, it was not morally certain that when he displaced his prede- cessor's words to make room for his own, he fell upon the genuine text. Nothing of this, however, occurred to them, and Mr. M. Mason was prevailed upon, in an evil hour, to send his corrected Coxeter to the press. In a preface which accords but too well with the rest of the work, he observes, that he had " never heard of Massinger till about two years before lie reprinted liimf." It must be confessed that he lost no time in boasting of his acquaintance it appears, however, to have been but superficial. In the second page he asserts that the whole of Massinser's plays were published while the author was living ! This is a specimen of the care with which he usually proceeds : the life of the author, prefixed to his own edition, tells that he died in 1640, and in the list which immediately follows it, no less than four plays are given in succession, which were not published till near twenty years after that period ! The oscitancy of Mr. M. Mason is so great, that it is impossible to say whether he supposed there was any older edition than that before him. He talks indeed of Massinger, but he always means Coxeter ; and it is beyond any common powers of face to hear him discourse of the verbal and gram- matical inaccuracies of an author whose woiks he probably never saw, without a smile of pity or contempt. * Preface to M. Mason's edition, p. ii. * Yet if ij strange (he adds; that a writer of snch evident excellence should be so little known. Preface, p. i. As si'ine alleviation of Mr. M. Mason's amazement* I "ill tell him a short story: "Tradition says, that on a certain time, a man, who had < ccasion 10 rise very early, was met by another person, who expressed his astonishment at his getting up also unseasonable an hour, the man answered, O, nias- Itr wonder monger, as yon have dune the same thing, what reason have you to be surprised?" He says, " I have admitted into the text all my own amendments, in order that ihose who may wish to give free scope to their fancy and their feelings, and without turning aside to verbal criticism, may read these plays in that which appears to me the most perfect state;" (what intolerable conceit!) " but for the satisfaction of more critical readers, 1 have directed that the words rejected by me should be inserted in the margin*." This is not the case; and 1 cannot account, on any common principles of prudence, for the gratuitous temerity with which BO strange an assertion is advanced: not one in twenty is noticed, and the reader is misled on almost erery occasion. I do not wish to examine the preface further ; and shall therefore conclude with observing, that Mr. M. Mason's edition is infinitely worse than Coxeter's It rectifies a few mistakes, and suggests a few im provements ; but, on the other hand, it abounds in errors and omissions, not only beyond that, but per- haps beyond anv other work that ever appeared in print. Nor is this all : the ignorant fidelity of Coxeter has certainly given us many absurd readings of the old printers or transcribers ; this, however, is far more tolerable than the mischievous ingenuity of Mr. M. Mason : the words he has silently intro- duced bear a specious appearance of truth, and are therefore calculated to elude the vigilance of many readers, whom the text of Coxe er would have startled, and compelled to seek the genuine sense elsewhere. To sum up the account between the two editions, both bear the marks of ignorance, inexperience, and inattention ; in both the faults are incredibly numerous ; but whete Coxeter drops words, Mr. M. Mason drops lines ; and where the former omits lines, the latter leaves out whole speeches! After what I have just said, the reader, perhaps, will feel an inclination to smile at the concluding sentence of Mr. M. Mason's preface: "I FLATTER MYSELF, THAT THIS EDITION OF MASSING t-'R WILL BE FOUND MORE CORRECT (AND CORRECTNESS IS TI1F. ONLY MERIT IT PRETENDS TO) THAN THE BEST OK THOSE WHICH HAVE AS YET BEEN PUBLISHED OF AN* OTIIEU ANCIENT DRAMATIC WRITER. t" The genuine merits of the Poet, however, were strong enough to overcome these wretched remoras. The impression was become scarce, and though never worth the paper on which it was printed, sold, at an extravagant price, when a new edition was proposed to me by Mr. Evans of Pali-Mall. Mas- singer was a favourite ; and 1 had frequently la- mented, with many others, that he had fsillen into such hands. I saw, without the assistance of the old copies, that bis metre was disregarded, that his sense was disjointed and broken, that his dialogue was imperfect, and that he was encumbired with explanatory trash which would disgrace the pages of a sixpenny magazine ; and in the hope of remedy- ing these, and enabling the Author to take his place on the same shelf, 1 will not say with Shakspeare, but with Jonson, Beaumont, and his associate Flet- cher, 1 readily undertook the labour. My first care was to look round for the old editions. To collect these is not at all times possi- ble, and in every case, is a work of tio'ible and ex- pense : but the kindness of individuals supplied me with all that 1 wanted. Octavius Gilchrist, Preface, p. ix. t Preface, p. xi. INTRODUCTION. gentleman of Stamford*, no sooner heard of my de- sign, than he obligingly sent ine all the copies^ which be possessed; the Kev. P. Buyles of Colchester (only known to me bv this act of kindness) pre- sented me with a small but choice selection ; and Mr. Malone, with a liberality which I shall ever remember with gratitude and delight, furnished me, unsolicited, with his invaluable collection!, among which I found all the first editions^: these, with such as I could procure in the course of a few months frtfm the booksellers, in addition to the copies in the Museum, and in the rich collection of his .Majesty, which 1 consulted from time to time, form tLe basis of the present Work. With these aids 1 sat down to the business of colla- tion : it was now that I discovered, with no less surprise than indignation, those alterations arid omis- * I must not omit that Mr. Gilchrist ("hose name will occur mor: ili.ui mice in the ensuing pages:, together with his copies of Massiuger, transmitted a number of n.-i n.l and judicious observations on the Pott, derived from his exten- sive acquaintance with our old historians. t For this, I owe Mr. M alone in y peculiar thanks: but the admin r.- of Massingcr must join unli me in expressing (heir gratitude to him for an obligation of a more public kind; for the communication of that beautiful n-.ii.nnnt, which now appears in piint for the first lime, " The Parli.i- ment of Lo\t." From "The History of ihe Knglish .Stage," preh'xed to Air. Malone's edition of Shakspcaie, I [earned that " Four acts of an unpublished drama, by UaMinter, were still extant in manusciipt." As I axiou.-ly wished to render this edition as perfect as possible, I wrote to Mr. Malone, wi h win 'in I had not the pleasure of being per- tonally acquainted, to know where it minht be found ; in return, he informed me that the manuscript was in his pos- session : it:- stale. he added, was such, that he doubted uhtther nun h advantage could be derived Ironi it, but that I was entirely welcome to make the experiment. Of this pcunis- ion, which I accepted with singular pleasure, I instantly availed myself, and received the manuscript. It was, indeed, in a forlorn condition: several leave* were torn from the beginning, and the top aud bottom of every page wasttd by damps, to which it had formerly been exposed. On ex- amination, however, I had Ihe satisfaction to find, that a considerable part of the first act, which was supposed to be lost, jet exi.-tcd, and that a certain degree of attention, which I was not unwilling to bestow on it, might recover nearly Ihe whole of ihe remainder. How I succeeded, may be eeen in Ihe present volume; where the reader will lind inch an account, as was consistent with the brevity of my plan, of the singular institution on which the fable is founded. Perhaps the subject merits no further con., that these miserable trifles are commented upon by Bi-noit le Court, a celebrated juris- consult of th se times, with a degree of scrinusmss which would not disgrace the most important questions. Every Greek and Roman writer, then known, is quoad with pro- fn>ion, 10 prove some trite position dropt at random : occa- sion is also taken to descant on many subtle points of law, which might not be altogether, perhaps, without iheir in- terest. I have nothing further to say of this elaborate piece of foolery, which 1 read with equal weari.-omeness and dis- gust, but which serves, perhaps, to show that these I'.ulia- meuts of Love, though confessedly imaginary, occupied much of the public attention, than thai it had pmbably fallen into Massinger'j hands, as the scene between Bellis.,nt and Clariudore (page 156) seems to be founded on the first appeal which is heard in the " Arrets d'Amour." j 1 have no intention of entering into the dispute respecting the conparativc merits of the first and second lolios of Shakspeare. Of Vassingcr, however. I may be allowed to (ay, that I constantly found the earliest editions the most correct. A palpable eiror might he. and, indeed, sometimes was removed in the subsequent ones, but the spirit, and what I would call the raciness, of the author only appealed complete in the original copies. sions of which I have already spoken ; and which 7 made it my first care to reform and supply. At tno outset, finding it difficult to conceive that the Taria- tions in Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason were the effect of ignorance or caprice, I imagined that an authority for them might be somewhere found, and therefore collated not only every edition, but even several copies of the same edition* ; what began in necessity was continued by choice, and every play has under, gone, at least, five close examinations with the ori ginal text. On this strictness of revision rests the great distinction of this edition from the preceding ones, from which it will be found to vary in an in- finite number of places : indeed, accuracy, as Mr. M. .Mason says, is all the merit to which it pretends ; and though I not provoke, yet I see no reason to deprecate the consequent es of the severest scrutiny. There is yet another distinction. The old copies rarely specify the place of action : such, indeed, was the poverty of the stage, that it admitted of little varietv. A plain curtain hung up in a corner, se- parated distant regions ; and if a board were ad- vanced with Milan and Florence wiitten upon it, the delusion was complete. " A table with pen and ink thrust in," signified that the stage was a counting- house ; if these were withdrawn, and two stools put in their places, it was then a tavern. Instances of this may be found in the margin of all our old plays, which seem to be copied from the prompters' books ; and Mr. M alone might have produced from his Massinger alone, more than enough to satisfy the veriest sceptic, that the notion of scenery, as we now understand it, was utterly unknown to the stage. Indeed, he had so much the advantage of the argument without these aids, that I have always wondered how Steevens could so long support, and so strenuously contend for, his most hopeless cause. Hut he was a wit and a scholar ; and there is some pride in showing how dexterously a clumsy wea- pon may b wielded by a practised swordsman. With all this, however, 1 have ventured on an arrange- ment of the scenery. Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason attempted it in two or three plays, and their ill success in a mailer of no extraordinary difficulty, proves how much they mistook their talents, when they commenced the trade of editorship, with little more than the negative qualities of heedlessness and inexperience. t * In some of these plays I discovered that an error had been detected after a part of the impres.-ion was worked olt, and consequently corrected, or what was more frequently Ihe case, exchanged for another. t Heed lamest and inexperience-] Those who recollect the boast of Mr. M. V : ason, will be somewhat surprised, per- haps, even after all which they have heard, at learning that, in so -imple a matter as mat king the exit*, this gentleman blunders at every .step. If Pope now wre alive, he need, n t applj to his black- letter plays lor such niceties as exit omnes, enter three blitek vitc/ienxf.lus,l &c. Mr. M. Mason's ediiiun, which he "flatters himself will be found more cor- rect than the be.-t of those which have been jet published of any other ancient dramatic writer," would fiur.ish abund- ance of them. His copy of 'The Fatal Dowry,' now lies before me, ami, in the compass of a few pages, 1 observe, Ej-it officers with A'ovall (I9ti), Exit Charaluis, Creditnrt, and (>J/if the youthful reader* of Sliakspeare) seems to Uave escaped the notice of Mr. Collins, may yet be safely commended to his future researches as not unlikely to reward his pains. He will find in it. among many other thing* equally valuable, that " The knowledge of irictednesx is not wis. ; Prebendary of Westminster, and Vicar of Croydon i Surrey. INTRODUCTION. gentleman of Stamford*, no sooner heard of my de- sign, than he obligingly sent me all the copie^which be possessed ; the Kev. P. Bayles of Colchester (only known to me by this act of kindness) pre- sented me with a small but choice selection ; and Mr. Malone, with a liberality which I shall ever remember with gratitude and delight, furnished me, unsolicited, with his invaluable collection!, among which I found all the first editions}: these, with sucl) as I could procure in the course ofa few months fnfm the booksellers, in addition to the copies in the Museum, and in the rich collection of his Majesty, which 1 consulted from time to time, form tl.e basis of the present Work. With these aids 1 sat down to the business of colla- tion : it was now that I discovered, with no less surprise ihan indignation, those alterations and omis- I must not omit lliat Mr. GilchrUt (whose name will occur more th.ui once in the ensuing pages', together with bis copies of Massinger, transmitted a number ol list nil and judicious observations on the Poel, derived from his exten. ive acquaintance with our ol atsinger, however. I may be allow id to say. that I constantly found the earliest editions the most correct. A palpable eiror might be. and, indeed, sometimes was removed in the subsequent ones, but the spirit, and what I would call the raeiness, of the author only appealed complete in the original copies. sions of which I have already spoken ; and which 7 made it my first care, to reform and supply. At tna outset, finding it difficult to conceive that the varia- tions in Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason were the effect of ignorance or caprice, I imagined that an authority for them might be somewhere found, and therefore collated not only every edition, but even several copies of the same edition* ; what began in necessity was continued by choice, and every p!uy has under, gone, at least, five close examinations with the ori ginal text. On this strictness of revision rests the great distinction of this edition from the preceding ones, from which it will be found to vary in an in- finite number of places : indeed, accuracy, as Mr. M. .Mason says, is all the merit to which it pretends ; and though I not provoke, yet 1 see no reason to deprecate the consequent es of the severest scrutiny. There is yet another distinclion. The old copies rarely specify the place of action : such, indeed, was the poverty of the stage, that it admitted of little viirietv. A plain curtain hung up in a corner, se- parated distant regions ; and if a board were ad- vanced with Milan and Florence wiitten upon it, the delusion was complete. " A table with pen and ink thrust in," signified I bat the stage was a counting- house ; if these were withdrawn, and two stools put in their places, it was then a tavern. Instances of this miiy be found in the margin of all our old plays, which seem to be copied from the prompters' books ; and Mr. Malone might have produced from his Massinger alone, more than enough to satisfy the veriest sceptic, that the notion of scenery, as we now understand it, was utterly unknown to the stage. Indeed, he had so much the advantage of the argument without ihese aids, that I have always Wondered how Steevens could so long support, and so strenuously contend for, his most hopeless cause. But he was a wit and a scholar; and there is some pride in showing how dexterously a clumsy wea- pon may b wielded by a practised swordsman. With all this, however, 1 have ventured on an arrange- ment of the scenery. Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason attempted it in two or three plays, and their ill success in a maiter of no extraordinary difficulty, proves how much they mistook their talents, when they commenced the trade of editorship, with little more than the negative qualities of heedlessuess and inexperience. t In some of these plays I discovered that an error had been detected after a part of the impression was vvoiked oft, anil consequently corrected, or what was more frequently the case, exchanged for another. + }]eeiilistnest and inexperience-} Those who recollect the boast of Mr. M. Masi/n, will be somewhat surprised, per- haps, even after all which tiny have heard, at learning that, in &o simple a matter as inaiking Ihe exits, this gentleman blunders at every step. If J'ope new wire alive, he need n t apply to his black-letter plays lor such niceties as exit omnrs, enter three blaek vitche**(.lut,l &c. Mr. M. Mason's edition, which he "flatUrs himself will be found more cor- rect than the best of those which have been jet published of any oilier ancient dramatic writer," would furnish abund- ance of them. His copy of 'The Fatal Dowry,' now lies before me, and, in the compass of a few pages, I observe, Ej-it officers with \ovall (190), Exit Charaluis, Creditnrt, and (,'Jfti e: * (200), Exit liomont and Servant (215;, Exit Nmall senior and /-'onlatier t'258), &c. All exit, occurs in "The Kmperor of the East (31 l),.rif Gentlemen (224), and EfUTlberio and Stephana (IMS), in " The Duke of Milan : these last blunders aie voluntary on the. part of the editor. Coxder, whoih he usually follows, reads Ex. for Exe-mt : the tilling up, tlureloie, is solely due to his own ingenuity. Similar instances might be produced from every play. I would J See his Preface to Shukspearc. INTRODUCTION. I come DOW to the notes. Those who are accustomed to the crowded pages of our modern editors, will probvibly be somewhat startled at the comparative nakedness. If this be an error it is a voluntary one. 1 never could conceive why the readers of cur old dramatists should be suspected of labouring under a greater degree of ignorance than those of any oilier class of writers ; yet, from the trite and iu'.gc fi- cant materials amassed for their information, ii is evident that a persuasion of this nature is uncom- monly prevalent. Customs which are universal, and expressions "familiar as household words" in every mouth, are illustrated, that is to say, over- laid, by an immensity of parallel passages, with just as much wisdom and reach of thought as would be evinced by him who, to explain any simple word in this line, should empty upon the reader all the examples to be found under it in Johnson's Dic- tionary ! This cheap and miserable display of minute erudition grew up, in great measure, with Warton : peace to his manes ! the cause of sound litera- ture has been fearfully avenged upon his head : and, the knight-errant who, with his attendant Bowles, the dullest of all mortal squires, sallied forth in quest of the original proprietor of every common word in Slilton, has had his copulatives and disjunctives, his bitts and his ands, sedulously ferretted out from all the school-books in the kingdom. As a prose writer, lie will long continue to instruct and delight ; but as a poet he is buried lost. He is not of the Titans, nor does he possess sufficient vigour to shake off the weight of incumbent mountains. However this may be, I have proceeded on a dif- ferent plan. Passages that only exercise the me- mory, by suggesting similar thoughts and expres- sions in other writers, are, if somewhat obvious, generally left to the reader's own discovery. Un- common and obsolete words are briefly explained, not infer from this, tliat Mr. M. Mason is unacquainted with the meaning of 50 common a word ; but if we relieve him from Ihe charge of ignorance, what becomes of his accuracy I Indeed, it is difficult to say on what precise exertion of this faculty his cl.iim.- to favour were founded. Sometimes cha- racters come in that never go out, and go out that never come in ; at other times they speak before they enter, or after they have lelt the stasje, nay, "to make ft the more gracious," after they are asleep or dead ! Here one mode of spelling is adopted, there another; here Coxeter 13 ser- vilely followed, there capriciously deserted; here the scenes are numbered, there continued without distinction; here af'ides are multiplied without necessity, there suppressed with manifest injury to the sense : while the pa<;e is every where encumbered with marginal direction?, which being intended solely lor the property-man, who, as has been already mentioned, h.d but few properties at his disposal, can now only be regarded as designed to excite a smile at the ex- pense of the author. Nor is this all: the absurd scenery in- troduced by Coxeter is continued, in de;pight of common sense: the lists of dramatis persona: are imperfectly given in every instance; and even that of "The Fatal Dowry." which has no description of the chaiactets, is left by Mr.'M. Mason as he found it, though nothing can be more destruc- tive of that uniformity which the reader is ltd to expect from the bold pretensions of his preface. I hope it is neerl- less to ,K!I|. that the-c irregularities will not be fouud in the present volume. and, wbere the phraseology was doubtful or ob- scuie, it is illustrated and confirmed bv quotations from contemporary authors. In this part of the work no abuse has been attempted of the reader's patience: the most positive that could be found, are given, and a scrupulous attention is every where paid to brevity ; as it Las been always mv jr.rb- ision, " That where one's proofs are aptly chosen, Four are as valid as four dozen." I do not know whether it may be proper to add here, that the freedoms of the author (of which, as none can be more sensible than myself, so none can more lament them) hive obtained lii''e o~~ my soli- citude: those, therefore, who examine the notes with a prurient eye, will find no gratification in their licentiousness. I have called in no Amner to drivel out graiuiious obscenities in uncouth lan- guage* ; no Collins (whose name should be devoted to lasting infamy) to ransack the annals of a brothel for secret "better hidf ;" where I wished not to detain the reader, I have been silent, and instead of aspiring to the fame of a licentious commentator, sought only for the quiet approbation with which the father or the busband may reward the faithful editor. But whatever may be thought of my own notes, the critical observations that follow each play, and, above all, the eloquent and masterly delineation of Massinger's character, subjoined to " The Old Law," by the companion of my youth, the friend of my maturer years, the inseparable and affection- ate associate of my pleasures and my pains, my graver and mv lighter studies, the Rev. JJr. Ire- land}, will, 1 am persuaded, be received with pecu- liar pleasure, if precision, vigour, discrimination, and originality, preserve their usual claims to esteem. The head of Massinger, prefixed to this volume, was copied by my young friend Lascelles Hoppner, from the print before three octavo plays published by If. Moseley, 1655. Whether it be really the " vera effigies" of the poet, 1 cannot pretend to say : it was produced sufficiently near his time to be accurate, and it has not the air of a fancy portrait. There is, I believe, no other. * In uncouth language] It is singular that Mr. Stccven.% who was so well acquainted with the words of our ancient wrilers> should be so ignorant of their style. The language which he has put imo the mouth of Amner is a barbarous jumble of dittereiit ages, that never had, and never could have, a prototype. tOne book which (not being, perhaps, among the arc' ives so carefully explond for the benefit f the youthful reader* of Shak?peare) seems to l;ave escaped the notice of Mr. Collins, may yet be safely commended to his future rcsearche*. as not unlikely to reward his pains. He wil| find in it, among many other thing* equally valuable, that " The knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom, nei- ther at any time the counsel of sinners prudence." Eccle*. xix. 2'2. ; Prebendary of Westminster, and Vicar of Croydon in Surrey. ESSAY DRAMATIC WRITINGS OF MASSINGER, BY JOHN FERRIAR, M.D. - Res antiguee laudis et artis Ingredior, sanetos ausus rccludere f antes. Vino. IT might be urged, as a proof of our possessing a uperfluity of good plays in our language, that one of our best dramatic writers is very generally dis- jegarded. But whatever conclusion may be drawn from this fact, it will not be easy to free the public from the suspicion of caprice, while it continues to idolize Shiikspeare, and to neglect an author not often much inferior, and sometimes nearly ecjual, to that wonderful poet. Massinger's fate has, indeed, been hard, far beyond the common topics of the infelicity of genius. He was not merely denied the fortune for which he laboured, and the fame which he merited ; a still more cruel circumstance has at- tended his productions : literary pilferers have built their reputation on his obscurity, and the popularity of their stolen beauties has diverted the public attention from the excellent original. An attempt was made in favour of this injured poet, in 1761, by a new edition of his works, at- tended with a critical dissertation on the old Knglish dramatists, in which, though composed with spirit and elegance, there is little to be found respecting Massinger. Another edition appeared in 1773, but the poet remained unexamined. Perhaps Mas- singer is still unfortunate in his vindicator. The same irregularity of plot, and disregard of rules, iippear in Massinger's productions as in those of his contemporaries. On this subject Shakspeare has been so well defended that it is unnecessary to add any arguments in vindication of our poet. There is every reason to suppose that Massinger did not neglect the ancient rules from ignorance, for he appears to be one of our most learned writers, (notwithstanding the insipid sneer of Antony Wood*) : and Cartwriyht, who was confessedly a At/tents Oxon. Vol. I. i man of great erudition, is not more attentive to the unities than any other poet of that age. But our author, like Shakspeare, wrote for bread : it ap- pears from different parts of his works*, that much of his life had passed in slavish dependence, and penury is not apt to encourage a desire of fame. One observation, however, may be risked, on our irregular and regular plays ; that the former are more pleasing to the taste, and the latter to the understanding; readers must determine, then, whe- ther it is better to feel or to approve. .Massinger's dramatic art is too great to allow a faint sense of"pro- priety to dwell on the mind, in perusing his pieces ; he inflames or soothes, excites the strongest terror, or the softest pity, with ali the energy and power of a true poet. But if we must admit that an irregular plot subjects a writer to peculiar disadvantages, the force of Massinger's genius will appear more evi- dently from this very concession. The interest of his pieces is, for the most part, strong and well denned ; the story, though worked up to a studied intricacy, is, in general, resolved with as much ease and probability as its nature will permit; attention is never disgusted by anticipation, nor tortured with unnecessary delay. These characters are applicable to most of Massinger's own produc- tions ; but in those which he wrote jointly witli other dramatists, the interest is often weakened, by incidents which that age permitted, but which the present would not endure. Thus, in " The Kene- gadoj," the honor of Paulina is preserved Ironi the brutality of her Turkish master, by the influence of a * See particularly the dedication of" The Maid of iliwur,' and "Tlie Great i>nl,e of MOI-MUV." t This play was written by Malinger alone. ESSAY ON THE WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. relic, which she wears on her breast: in "The Virgin Martyr," the heroine is attended, through all her sufferings, by an angel disgui.-ed as her page ; her persecutor is urged on to destroy her by an attendant fiend, also in disguise. Here our anxiety for tha distressed, and our hatred of the Tricked, are completely stifled, and we are morj easily affected by some burlesque passages which follow in the same legendary strain. In the last quoted plav, the attendant angel picks the pockets of two dfbaucbees, and Tbeopbilus overcomes the devil by means of a cross composed of flowers, which Dorothea had sent him from Paradise. The story of " The Bondman" is more intricate than that of " The Duke of Milan," yet the former is a more interesting play ; for in the latter, the motives of Fnmcisco's conduct, which occasions the distress of the piece, ate only disclosed in nar- ration, at the beginning of the fifth act : we there- fore consider him, till that moment, as a man absurdly and unnaturally vicious : but in " The Bondman," we have frequent glimpses of a concealed splendour in the character of Pisander, which keep our attention fixed, and exalt our expectation of the catastrophe. A more striking comparison might be instituted between " The Fatal Dowry'' of our author, and Rowe's copy of it in his " Fair Penitent ;" but this is very fully and judiciously done, by the author of " The Observer*," who has proved suf- ficiently, that the interest of " The Fair Penitent" is much weakened, by throwing into narration what Massinger had forcibly represented on the stage. Yet Howe's play is rendered much more regular by the alteration. Farquhar's " Inconstant," which is taken from our author's " Guardian," and Fletcher's " Wild-goose Chace, is considerably less elegant and less interesting ; by the plagiarist's indiscretion, the lively, facetious Durazzo of Massinger is trans- formed into a nauseous buffoon, in the character of Id Mirabel. The art and judgment with which our poet con- ducts his incidents are every where admirable. In " The Duke of Milan," our pity for Marcelia would inspire a detestation of all the other characters, if she did not facilitate her ruin by the indulgence of an excessive pride. In" ) he bondman," Cleora would be despicable when she changes her lover, if Leos- thenes had not rendered himself unworthy of her, by a mean jealousy. The violence of Almira's passion in the " Very Woman," prepares us for its decay. Many detached scenes in these pieces pos- sess uncommon beauties of incident and situation. Of this kind are, the interview between Charles V. and Sforzaf, which, though notoriously contrary to true history, and very deficient in the representation of the emperor, arrests our attention, and awakens our teelings in the strongest manner; the conference of Matthias and Baptista, when Sophia's virtue becomes suspected J ; the pleadings in ' The Fatal Dowry," respecting the funeral lites of Charalois ; the interview between Doc John, disguised as a slave, and his mistress, to whom he relates his story$ ; but, above all, the meeting of Pisander my design but that of robbing him, and with the appeasing of his ridiculous alarm, this storm of passion subsides, which stands unrivalled in its kind in dramatic history. The soliloquy possesses a very uncommon beauty, that of forcible description united with passion and character. I should scarcely hesitate to prefer the description of Sir John Frugal's count- ing-house to Spenser's house of riches. it is verv remarkable, that in this passage the versification is so exact (two lines only txtepied), and the diction so pure and elegant, that, although much more than a century has elapsed since it was written, it would be, perhaps, impossible to alter the measure or language without injury, and certainly very difficult to produce an equal length of blank verse, from any modern poet, which should bear a compari- son with Massinger's, even in the mechanical part of its construction. This observation may ho extended to all our poet's productions : majesty, elegance, and sweetness of diction predominate in them. It is needless to quote anv single passage for proof of this, because none of those which 1 am going to introduce will afford any exception to the remark. Independent of character, the writings of this great poet abound with noble passages. It is only in the productions of true poetical genius that we meet successful allusions to sublime natural objects; the attempts of an inferior writer, in this kind, are either borrowed or disgusting. If Mat- singer were to be tried by this rule alone, we must rank him very high ; a few instances will prove this. Theopbilus, speaking of Dioclesian's arrival, says, - - - The marches of great princes, Like to the motions of prodigeous meteors, Are step by step observed ; Virgin Martyr, Act I. sc. i. The introductory circumstances of a threatening piece of intelligence, are but creeping billows. Not got to shore yet: Ib. Act II. sc. ii. In the same play, we meet with this charming image, applied to a modest young nobleman : The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him, Shine there but as in water, and gild him Not with one spot of pride : Ib* sc. ii:. No other figure could so happily illustrate tba peace and purity of an ingenuous mind, uncorrupted ESSAY ON THE WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. by favour. Massinger seems fcad of this thought ; we meet with a similar one in " The Guardian :" I have seen those eyes with pleasant glances play Upon Adorio's, like Phoebe's shine, Gilding a crystal river ; Act 1 V. sc. i. There are two parallel passages in Shakspeare, to whom we are prohably indebted for this, as well as for many other tine images of our poet. The first is in " The Winter's Tale:" He says he lores my daughter : I think so too : for never gazed" the moon Upon the water, as he'll stand and read, As 'twere my daughter's eyes. Act IV. sc. iv. The second is ludicrous : King. Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to slime (Those clouds remov'd) upon our wat'ry eyne. Jlos. O, vain petitioner! beg a greater matter ; Thou now request's! but moon-shine in the water. Love's Labour's Lost, Act V. sc. ii. The following images are applied, I think, in a new manner : as the sun, Thou didst rise gloriously, kept'st a constant course lu all thy journey ; and now, in the evening, When thou shpufd'st pass with honour to thy rest, \Vilt thou fall like a meteor? Virgin-Martyr, Act V. sc. ii. O summer friendship, W hose flattering leaves that sbadow'd us in our Prosperity, with the least gust drop off lu the autumn of adversity. Maid of Honour, Act III. SC. i. In the last quoted play, Camiola says, in perplexity, - What a sea Of melting ice I walk on ! Act III. sc. iv. A very noble figure, in the following passage, seems borrowed from Shakspeare : - What a bridge Of glass I walk upon, over a river Of certain ru:n, mine own weighty fear* Cracking vhat should support me ! The Bondman, Act IV. sc. iii. I'll read you matter deep and dangerous ; As full of peril and advent'rous spirit, As to o'er-walk a current, roaring loud, On the unsteadfast fooling of a spear. Henry 1 V., Part I. Act I. SC. iii. It cannot be denied that Massinger has improved on his original : he cannot be said to borrow, so properly as to imitate. 1 his remark may be applied to many other passages : thus Harpax's menace, I'll take thee - - and hang thee In a contorted chain of icicles In the frigid zone : The Virgin-Martyr, Act V. sc. i. Is derived from the same source with that passage in " Measure for Measure," where it is said to be a punishment in a future state, to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice. Again, in " The Old Law," we meet with a passage similar to a much celebrated one of Shakspeara's, but copied with no common hand : In my youth I was a soldier, no coward in my age; I never turn'd my back upon my foe ; I have felt nature's winters, sicknesses, Vet ever kept a lively sap in me To greet the cheerful spring of health again. Act I. sc. i. Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty : For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood; Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo The means of weakness and debility ; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly*. As You- Like It, Act. II. sc. iii. Our poet's writings are stored with fine senti- ments, and tbe same observation which has been made on Shakspeare's, holds true of our Author, that his sentiments are so artfully introduced, that they appear to come uncalled, and so force themselves on the mind of the speakerf. In the legendary play of " The Virgin-Martyr," Angelo delivers a beau- tiful sentiment, perfectly in the spirit of the piece : Look on the poor With gentle eyes, for in such habits, often, Angels desire an alms. When Francisco, in " The Duke of Milan," suc- ceeds in his designs against the life of MarceLa, he remarks with exultation, that When he's a suitor, that brings cunning arm'd With power, to be his advocaies, the denial Is a disease as killing as the plague, And chastity a clue that leads to death. Act IV. sc. ii. Pisander, in " Tbe Bondman," moralizes the inso- lence of the slaves to their late tyrants, after the revolt, in a manner that tends strongly to interes* us in his character: Here they, that never see themselves, but in The glass of servile flattery, might behold The weak loundation upon which they build 1 heir trust in human fraiity. Happy are those, That knowing, in their births, they are subject tc Uncertain change, are still prepared, and arm'd For either fortune : a rare principle, And with much labour, learn d in wisdom's school ! For, as these bondmen, by their actions show- That their prosperity, like too large a sail For their small bark of judgment, sinks them with A fore-right gale ot liberty, ere they reach The port they long to touch at : so these wretches, In an expression of Archid.imiis, in " The Bou'lnian,'' we discover, perhaps, the origin of an image in " ParadiM Lost ;' O'er our heads, with sail Krctch'cl wing', Detraction hovers. 'Ihe llvndman, Act 1. e. lit. Hilton says of Satan, His tail broad vannt He spreads lor flight. t Mrs. Alonugu's " Essay on Shkspar. ESSAY OX THE WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. Swollen with the false opinion of their wort'i. And proud of blessings left them, not acquired ; That did believe they could with giant arras Fathom the earth, and were above their fates, Those oorrow'd helps that did support them, vanish'd, Fall of themselves, nnd by unmanly suffering-, Betray their proper weakness. Act JII. sc. iii. His complaint of the hardships of slavery must not *>e entirely passed over : The noble horse, That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils Keigk'd courage to his rider, and brake through Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord Safe to triumphant victory ; old or wounded Was set at liberty, and freed from service. The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew Marble, hevv'd for the temples of the gods, The great work ended, were dismissed and fed At the public cost ; nay, faithful dogs have found Their sepulchres ; but man, to man more cruel, Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave. Ib. Act IV. sc. ii. The sensa of degradation in a lofty mind, hurried into vice by a furious and irresistible passion, is expressed very happily in " The Reuegado," by Donusa : - What poor means Must I make use of now ! and flatter such, To whom, till I betray'd my liberty, One gracious look of mine would have erected An altar to my service ! Act II. sc. i. Again, that I should blush To speak what 1 so much desire to do ! When Mathias, in " The Picture," is informed by the magical skill of his friend, that his wife's honour is in danger, his first exclamations have at least as much sentiment as passion : It is not more Impossible in nature for gross bodies, Descending of themselves to hang in the air; Or with my single arm to underprop A falling tower : nay, in its violent course To stop the lightning, than to stay a woman Hurried by two furies, lust and falsehood, In her full career to wickedness ! 1 am thrown From a steep rock headlong into a gulph Of misery, and find myself past hope, In the same moment that I apprehend That 1 am falling. Act IV. sc. i. But if Massinger does not always exhibit the live- liest and most natural expressions of passion ; if, like most olher poets, he sometimes substitutes de- clamation for those expressions ; in description at least he puts forth all his strength, and never disappoints us of an astonishing exertion. We may be content, to rest his character, in the description cf passion, on the following single instance. In " The Very Woman," Almira's Lover, Cardenes, is dangerously wounded in a quarrel, by don John Antonio, who pays his addresses to her. Take, now, a description of Almira's frenzy on this event, which the prodigal author has put into the mouth >f a chambermaid i - If she slumber'd, straight, As if some dreadful vision had nppear'd, She started up, her hair unbound, and, with Distracted looks, staring about the chamber, She asks aloud, Where is Martina? where Have you concealed him ? sometimes names Antonio, Trembling in every joint, her broics contracted, Her fair face as 'twere changed into , Act II. sc. v. Thus, also Dorothea's description of Paradise : There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth : No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat, Famine, nor age, have any being there. The Virgin Martyr, Act IV. Sc. iii. After all the encomiums on a rural life, and after all the soothing sentiments and beautiful images lavished on it by poets who never lived in the country, Massinger has furnished one of the most charming unborrowed descriptions that can be pro- duced on the subject: Happy the golden mean ! had I been born In a poor sordid cottage, not nurs'd up With expectation to command a court, I might, like such of your condition, sweetest, Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not, As I am now, against my choice, compell'd Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised So high upon the pinnacles of state, That I must either keep my height with danger, Or fall with certain ruin - we might walk In solitary groves, or in choice gardens; From the variety of curious flowers Contemplate nature's workmanship nacl wonders And then, for change, near to the murmur of Some bubbling fountain, 1 might hear you sing, And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue, In my imagination conceive With what melodious harmony a quire Of angels sing above their Maker's praises. And then with chaste discourse, as we return'd, Imp feathers to the broken wings of time : - walk into The silent groves, and hear the amorous birds Warbling their wanton notes ; here, a sure shade Of barren siccamores, which the all-seeing sun Could not pierce through ; near that, an arbour hung With spreading eglantine ; there, a bubbling spring Watering a bank of hyacinths and lilies ; The Great Duhe of 'Florence, Act I. Sc. i. and A".t IV. Sc. ii. ESSAY ON THE WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. Let us oppose to these peaceful and inglorious ima- ges, the picture of a triumph by the same masterly band : - when she views you, Like a triumphant conqueror, carried through The streets of Syracusa, the glad people Pressing to meet you, and the senators Contending who shall heap most honours on you ; The oxen, crown'd with garlands, led before you, Appointed for the sacrifice ; and the altars Smoking with thankful incense to the gods : The soldiers chaunting loud hymns to your praise, The windows fill'd with matrons and with virgins, Throwing upon your head, as you pass by, The choicest flowers, and silently invoking The queen of love, with their particular vows, To be thought worthy of you the Bondman, Act III. Sc. iv. Every thing here is animated, yeX every action is ap- propriate : a painter might work after this sketch, without requiring an additional circumstance. The speech of young Charalois, in the funeral pro- cession, if too metaphorical for his character and situation, is at least highly poetical: How like a silent stream shaded with night, And gliding softly with our windy sighs, Moves the whole frame of this solemnity ! Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove Of death, thus hollowly break forth. The' Fatal Dowry, Act II. Sc. i. It may afford some consolation to inferior genius, to remark that even MasMnger sometimes employs pedantic and overstrained allusions. He was fond of displaying' the little military knowledge he pos- sessed, which he introduces in the following passage, in a most extraoidmary manner: one beau- tiful image in it must excuse the rest : - were Margaret only fair, The cannon of her more than earthly form, Though mounted high, commanding all beneath it, And ramm'd with bullets of her sparkling eyes, Cf all the bulwiirks that defend your senses Could batter none, but that which guards your sight. But when you feel her touch, and breath Like a soft western wind, when it glides o'er Arabia, creating gums and spices ; And in the van, the nectar of her lips, Which you must taste, bring the battalia on, Well arm'd, and strongly lined with her discourse, Hippolytus himself would leave Diana, To follow such a Venus. A New Way to Pay Old Debts, Act II F. Sc. i. What pity, that he should ever write so extrava- gantly, who could produce this tender and delicate image, in another piece : What's that? oh.nothingbut the wliispering wind Breathes through yon churlish hawthorn, that grew rude, As if it chid the gentle breath that kiss'd it. The Old Law, Act IV. Sc. ii. I wish it could be added to Massinger's just praises, that he I, ad preserved his scenes from the impure dialogue which disgusts us in most of our old writers. But we may observe, in defence of his failure, that several causes operated at that lime to produce such a dialogue, and that an author who subsisted by writing, was absolutely subjected to the influence of those causes. The manners of the age permitted great freedoms in language; the the- atre was not frequented by the best company : the male part of the audience was by much the more numerous ; and what, perhaps, had a greater effect than any of these, the women's parts were performed by boys. So powerful was the effect of those cir- cumstances, that Cariwright is the only dramatist of that age whose works are tolerably free from inde- cency. Massinger's error, perhaps, appears more strongly, because his indelicacy has not always the apology of wit ; for, either from a natural deficiency in that quality, or from the peculiar model on which he had formed himself, his comic characters are less witty than those of his contemporaries, and when he attempts wit, he frequently degenerates into buffoonery. But he has showed, in a remarkable manner, the justness of his taste, in declining the practice of quibbling ; and as wit and a quibble were supposed, in that age, to be inseparable, we are per- haps to seek, in his aversion to the prevailing folly, the true cause of his sparing emplojment of wit. Our Poet excels more in the description than in the expression of passion ; this may be ascribed, in some measure, to his nice attention to the fable : while his scenes are managed with consummate skill, the lighter shades of character and sentiment are lost in the tendency of each part to the catastrophe. The prevailing beauties of liis productions are dignity and elegance ; their predominant fault is want of passion. The melody, force, and variety of his versification are every where remarkable : admitting the force of all the objections which are made to the employment of blank verse in comedy, Massinger possesses charms sufficient to dissipate them all. It is, indeed, equally different from that which modern authors are pleased to style blank verse, and from the flip- pant prose so loudly celebrated in the comedies of the day. The neglect of our old comedies seems to arise from other causes, than from the employ- ment of blank verse in their dialogue ; for, in general, its construction is so natural, that in the mouth of a good actor it runs into elegant prose. The frequent delineations of perishable manners, in our old comedy, "have occasioned this neglect, and we may foresee the fate of our present fashionable pieces, in that which has attended Jonson's, Fletcher s, and Massinger's : they are either entirely overlooked, or so mutilated, to fit them for representation, as neither to retain the dignity of the old comedy, nor to acquire the graces of the new. The changes of manners have necessarily pro- duced very remarkable effects on theatrical perform- ances. In proportion as our best writers are further removed from the present times, they exhibit bolder and more diversified characters, because the prevailing manners admitted a fuller display of sentiments in the common intercourse of life. Our own limes, in which the intention of j polite education is to produce a general, uniform manner, afford little diversity of character for the stage. Our dramatists, therefore, mark the dis- tinctions of their characters, by incidents more than by sentiments, and abound more in striking situ- ations, than interesting dialogue. In the old ESSAY ON THE WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. comedy, the catastrophe is occasioned, in general, bv n change in the mind of some principal character, artfully prepared, and cautiously conducted ; in the modern, the unfolding of the plot is effected by the overturning of a screen, the opening of a door, or by some other equally dignified machine. When we compare Massinger with the other dramatic writers of his age, we cannot long hesitate where to place him. More natural in his charac- ters, and more poetical in his diction than Jonson or Cartwright, more eleyated and nervous than Fletcher, the onlv writers who can be supposed to contest his pre-eminence, Massinger ranks imme- diately under Shakspeare himself. It must be confessed, that in comedy Massinger falls considerably beneath Shakspeare ; his wit is less brilliant, arid his ridicule less delicate and rarious ; but he affords a specimen of elegant comedy*, of which there is no archetype in hia great predecessor. By the rules of a very judicious criticf. the characters in this piece srppear to he of too elevated a rank for comedy : yet thougli the plot is somewhat embarrassed by this circam- stance, the diversity, spirit, and consistency of th characters render it a most interesting play. In tragedy, Massinger is rather eloquent than pathetic; yet he is often as majestic, and generally more elegant than his master ; he is as powerful a ruler of the understanding as Shakspeare is of the paa- sions : with the disadvantages of succeeding that matchless poet, there is still much original beauty in his works ; and the most extensive acquaintance with poetry will hardly diminish the pleasure of a reader and admirer of Massinger. " The Great Duke of Florence." * See (be " Kssay on the Provinces of the Drann," COMMENDATORY VERSES ON MASSINGER. UPON THIS WORK (THE DUKE OF MILAN) OF HIS BFLOVID FRIEND THE AUTHOR. I AM snapt already, and may go my way ; The poet-critic's come ; I hear him sav This youth's mistook, the author's work's a play. He could not miss it, he will straight appear At such a bait ; 'twas laid on purpose tliere To take the vermin, and I have him here. Sirrah ! you will be nibbling ; a small bit, A syllable, when you're in the hungry fit, Will serve to stay the stomach of your wit. Fool, knave, what worse, for worse cannot deprave thee ; And were the devil now instantly to have thee, Thou canst not instancesuch a work to save thee, 'Mongst all the ballads which thou dost compose, And what thou stvlest thy poems, ill as those, And void of rhyme and reason, thy worse prose Yet like a rude jack-sauce in poesy, With thoughts unblest, and hand unmannerly, Ravishing branches from Apollo's tree ; Thou mak'st a garland, for thy touch unfit, And boldly deck'st thy pig-brain'd sconce with it, As if it were the supreme head of wit : The blameless Muses blush ; who not allow That reverend order to each vulgar brow, Whose sinful touch profanes the holy bough. Hence, shallow prophet, and admire the strain Of thine own pen, or thy poor cope-mate's vein ; This piece too curious is for thy coarse brain. Here wit, more fortunate, is join'd with art, And that most secret frenzy bears a part, Infused by nature in the poet's heart. Here may the puny wits themselves direct, Here may the wisest find what to affect, And kings may learn their proper dialect. On then, dear friend, thy pen, thy name, shall spread, AD'} shouldst thou write, while thou shall not to read, The Muse must labour, when thy hand is dead. W.B*. THE AUTHOR'S FRIEND TO THE READER, ON "TH BONDMAN." THE printer's ha>te calls on ; I must not drive My time past six, though I begin at five. One hour I have entire, and 'tis enough, Here are no gipsy jigs, no drumming stuff, Dances, or other trumpery to delight, Or take, by common way, the common sight. Tlie author of this poem, as he dares To stand the austerest censures, so he cares W. B.] 'Tis the opinion of Mr. Reed, that the initials W. B. stand for William Brown, the author of " Briitannia'i Pastorals. 1 see no reason to think otherwise, except that Ben Jonson, whom VV. B. seems to attack all through this poem, had greatly celebrated Brown's " I'astorals;" but, indeed, Joh*on was so capricious in his temper, that we must not suppose him to be very constant in his friendships, DA VIES. This is a pretty early specimen of the judgment which Davies brought to the elucidation of his work. Not a line, not a syllable of this little pot in can, by any violence, be tortured into a reflection on Jonson, whom he supposes to be " attacked all through it !" In I Oil, when it WHS written, that great poet was at ~lhe height of his reputation, the envy, the admiration, and the terror, of his contemporaries : would a "young" writer presume to term such a man "fool, knave ,"&c.? would lie but the enquiry is too absurd for further pursuit. I know not the motives which induced Mr. Reed to at- tribute these stanzas to W. Brown ; they may, 1 think, with some probability, be referred to \V. Basse, a minor poet, whose tribute of praise is placed at the head of the commen- datory verses on Shakspe.ire; or to W. Barksted, author of " Myrrha the Moth.r of Adonis," a poem, 1607. Barksted was an actor, as appears from a list of " the principal come- dims" who represented Jonson's " Silent Woman;" and, Jlit-refore, not less likely than the author of "Britannia! 1'astorals," to say , that, in the way of poetry, now a-days, Of all that are call'd works the best are play ' There is not much to be said for these introductory poeraf, whicii must be viewed rather as pro"fs of friendship than of talents. In die former edition* they are given with a decree of ignorance and inattention truly scandalou*. COMMENDATORY VERSES ON MASSINGER. As little what it is ; his own hest way Is to be judge, and author of his play ; It is his knowledge makes him thus secure ; Nor does he write to please, but to endure. And. reader, if you have disburs'd a shilling, To see this worthy story, and are willing To have a large increase, if ruled by me, You may a merchant and a poet be. 'Tis granted for your twelve-pence you did sit, And see, and hear, and understand not yet. The author, in a Christian pity, takes Care of your good, and prints it for your sakes, That such as will but venture sixpence more, May know what they but saw and heard before ; 'Twill not be money lost, if you can read ("There's all the doubt now), but your gains exceed, If you can understand, and you are made Free of the freest and the noblest trade ; And in the way of poetry, now-a-days, Of all that are call'd works the best are plays. W. B. TO MY HONOURED FRIEND, MASTER PHILIP MAS- SINGER, UPON HIS " HENEGADO." DABBLER* in poetry, that only can Court this weak lady, or that gentleman, With some loose wit in rhyme ; Others that fright the time Into belief, with mighty words that tear A passage through the ear; Or nicer men, That through a perspective will see a play, And use it the wrong way (Not worth thy pen), Though all their pride exalt them, cannot be Competent judges of thy lines or thee. I must confess I have no public name To rescue judgment, no poetic flame To dress thy Muse with praise, And Phcebus his own bays ; Yet I commend this poem, and dare tell The world 1 liked it well ; And if there be A tribe who in their wisdoms dare accuse This offspring of thy Muse, Let them agree Conspire one comedy, and they will say, ''Tis easier to commend than make a play. JAMES SHIRLEY*. TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND, MASTER PHILIP MASSINGER, ON HIS PLAY CALL'D THE " HESEGADO." THE bosom of a friend cannot breath forth A flattering phrase to speak the noble worth Of him that hath lodged in his honest breast So large a title : I, among the rest That honour thee, do only seem to praise, Wanting the flowers of art to deck that bays Merit has crown'd thy temples with. Knov, friend. Though there are some who merely do commend * JAMES SHIRLEY.] A well-known dramatic writer. His works, \\liicli are very voluminous, have never been coll. clod in au uniform edition, though highly deserving of it. He assisted Fletcher in many of his plays; am) some, lay his biographers, thought liim equal to that great pott. tie died in lliou. (They were afterwards collected and tubliaued in 6 Vols., by Mr. Uiiiord him-clr. To live i' the world's opinion such as can Censure with judgment, no such piece of man Makes up my spirit; where desert does live, There will I plant my wonder, and there give My best endeavours to build up his story That truly merits. I did ever glory To behold virtue rich ; though cruel Fate In scornful malice does beat low their state That best deserve ; when others that but know Only to scribble, and no more, oft grow Great in their favours that would seem to be Patrons of wit, and modest poesy ; Yet, with your abler friends, let me say this, Many may strive to equal you, but miss Of your fair scope ; this work of yours men may Throw in the face of envy, and then say To those, that are in great men's thoughts morn blest, Imitate this, and call that work your best. Yet wise men, in this, and too often err, When they their love before the work prefer. If I should say more, some may blame me for't, Seeing your merits speak you, not report. DANIEL LAKYN. TO HIS DEAR FRINED THE AUTHOR, ON THE " ROMAN ACTOR." I AM no great admirer of the plays, Poets, or actors, that are now-a-days ; Yet, in this work of thine, methinks, I see Sufficient reason for idolatry. Each line thouhast taught Caesar is as high As he could speak, when groveling flattery, And his own pride (forgetting heaven's rod) By his edicts styled himself great Lord and God. By thee, again, the laurel crowns his head, And, thus revived, who can affirm him dead? Such power lies in this lofty strain as can Give swords and legions to Domitian : And when thy Paris pleads in the defence Of actors, every grace and excellence Of argument for that subject are by thee Contracted in a sweet epitome. Nor do thy women the tired hearers vex With language no way proper to their sex. Just like a cunning painter thou let's fall Copies more fair than the original. I'll add but this : from all the modern plays The stage hath lately born, this wins the bays; And if it come to trial, boldly look To carry it clear, thy witness being thy book. T. J* IN PHILLIPI MASSINGERI POET* ELEGANTISS ACTOREM ROMANUM TYPIS EXCUbUM. ECCE Philippine celebrata Tragoedia Musae, buam Hoseus Britonum Rosciust egit, adest. T. J.] Coxetcr gives these initials to Sir Thomas Jay, or Jeay, to whom the play is dedicated: he is, probably right. Sir Thomas, who was "no great admirer" of the pla>sof his days, when Jonson, Shirley, Ford, &c. were in full vigour, would not, I siupect, be altogether enrap- tured if he could witiu^s those ot ours! t Jto.nnii3.} Tills was Joseph Taylor, whose name occur! in a subsequent page. COMMENDATORY VERSES ON MASSINGER. Semper fronde ambo vireant Parnasside, semper Liber ab invidize dentibus esto, liber. Crebra papyrivori spernas incendia pasti, Thus, vsenum expositi tegraina suta libri: Net metuas raucos, Momorum sibila, rhoncos, Tarn bardus nebulo si tamen ullus erit. Nam toties festis, actum, placuisse theatris Quod liquet, hcc, cusum, crede, placebit, opus. TBO. GOFF*. TO HIS DESERTING FRIEND, MR. PHILIP MASSINGER, UPON HIS TRAGEDY " THE ROMAN ACTOR." PARIS, the best of actors in bis age, Acts yet, and speaks upon our Roman stage Such lines by tbee as do not derogate From Rome's proud heights, and her then learned state. Nor great Domitian's favour ; nor the embraces Of a fair empress, nor those often graces Which from th' applauding theatres were paid To his brave action, nor his ashes laid In the Flaminian way. where people strow'd His grave with flowers, and Martial's wit bestow'd A lasting epitaph ; not all these same Do add so much renown to Paris' name As this that thou present's! his history So well to us : for which, in thanks, would he (If that his soul, as thought Pythagoras, Could into any of our actors pass) Life to these lines by action gladly give, Whose pen so well has made his story live. THO. UPON MR. MASSINGER HIS " ROMAN ACTO*." To write is grown so common in our time, That every one who can but frame a rhyme, However monstrous gives himself that praise Which only he should claim that may wear bays Bu' their applause whose judgments apprehend The weight and truth of what they dare commend, In this besotted age, friend, 'tis thy glory That here tbou hast outdone the Roman story. Domitian's pride : his wife's lust unabated In death ; with Paris merely were related Without a soul, until thy abler pen Spoke them, and made them speak, nay, act again In such a height, that here to know their deeds, He may become an actor that but reads. JOHN FORD}. UPON MR. MASSINGER'S " ROMAN ACTOR." LONO'ST thou to see proud Ceesar set in state, His morning greatness, or his evening fate, With admiration here behold him fall, And yet outlive his tragic funeral : For 'tis a question whether Cicsar's glory Rose to its height before or in this story ; THO. GOFF.] Goff was a man of considerable learning and highly celebrated for his oratorical powers, which he tin iied to the best of purposes, in the service of the church. He also wrote several plays; but these do no honour to his memory, being full of the most ridiculous bombast. J THO. MAY.] May translated 7,t/cai into English verse. and was a candidate for the office of Poet l.anreat with Sir William Davenant. He wrote several plays; his Latin " Supplement to Lucan" is much admired by the learned. DAVIJS. 1 JOTTN Ford.] Ford was a very good poet. \Ve have eleven plays of his wrking, none of which are without merit. The writers of his time opposed him with some suc- cess to Jonson. Or whether Paris, in Domitian's favour, Were more exalted that in this thy labour. Each line speaks him an emperor, every phrase Crowns thy deserving temples with the bays ; So that reciprocally both agree, ThouJiv'st in him, and he survives in thee. ROBERT HARVEY. TO HIS LONG-KNOWN AND LOVED FRIEND, MR. PHILIP MASSINGER, UPON HIS " ROMAN ACTOR." IF that my lines, being placed before thy book, Could make it sell, or alter but a look Of some sour censurer, who's apt to say, No one in these times can produce a play Worthy his reading, since of late, 'tis true, The old accepted are more than the new : Or, could I on some spot o'the court work so, To make him speak no more than he doth know; Not borrowing from his flatt'ring flatter'd friend What to dispraise, or wherefore to commend : Then, gentle friend, I should not blush to be Rank'd 'mongst those worthy ones which here I see Ushering this work ; but why I write to thee Is, to profess our love's antiquity, Which to this tragedy must give my test, Thou hast made many good, but this thy best. JOSEPH TAYI.OP.. TO MR. PHILIP MASSINGER, MY MUCH-ESTEEM D FHIEXD, ON HIS " GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE." ENJOY thy laurel ! 'tis a noble choice. Not by the suffrages of voice Procured, but by a conquest so achieved, As that thou hast at full relieved Almost neglected poetry, whose bays, Sullied by childish thirst of praise, i Wither'd into a dullness of despair, Had not thy later labour (heir Unto a former industry) made known This work, which thou mayst call thine own, So rich in worth, that th' ignorant may grudge To find true virtue is become their judge. GEORGE DONNE. TO THE DESERVING MEMORY OF THIS WORTHY WOHI ("THE GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE") AND THE AU- THOR, MR. PHILIP MASSINGER. ACTION gives many poems right to live . This piece gave life to action ; nd will give For state and language, in each change of age, To time delight, and honour to the stage. Should late prescription fail which fames that seat This pen might style the Duke of Florence Great. Let many write, let much be printed, read And censur'd ; toys no sooner hatch'd than dead. Here, without blush to truth of commendation, Is proved, how art hath outgone imitation. JOHN FHD. TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, THE AUTHOR, UPON HIS TRAOI COMEDY " THE MAID OF HONOUR." WAS not thy Emperor enough before For thee to give, that thou dost give us more? I would be just, but cannot: that I know I did not slander, this I fear 1 do. COMMENDATORY VERSES ON MASSINGER. But pardon me, if I offend ; thy -e Let equal poets praise, while 1 adi*ire. If any say that 1 enough have writ. They are thy foes, and envy at thy wit. Believe not them, nor me ; they know thy lines Deserve applause, hut speak against their minds. I, out of justice, would commend thy play, But (friend forgive me) 'tis above my way. One word, and 1 have done (and from my heart Would I could speak the whole truth, not the part Because 'tis thine), it henceforth will be said. Not the Maid of Honour, but the Honour'd Maid. ASTON COCKAINE*. TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND, MR. PHILIP MASSINGER, UPON HIS TRAGI-COMEDY, STYLED " THE PICTURE" METHINKS I hear some busy critic say, Who's this that singly ushers in this play ? 'Tis boldness, I confess, and yet perchance It may be construed love, not arrogance. I do not here upon this leaf intrude, By praising one to wrong a multitude. Nor do I think that all are tied to be (Forced by my vote) in the same creed with me, Each man hath liberty to judge ; free will, At his own pleasure to speak good or ill. But yet your Muse already's known so well Her worth will hardly find an infidel. Here she hath drawn a picture which shall lie Safe for all future times to practice by ; Whate'er shall follow are but copies, some Preceding works were types of this to come. 'Tis your own lively image, and sets forih, When we are dust, the beauty of your worth. He that shall duly read, and not advance Aught that is here, betrays his ignorance : Yet whosoe'er beyond desert commends, Errs more by much than he that reprehends; For praise misplaced, and honour set upon, A worthless subject, is detraction. I cannot sin so here, unless I went About to style you only excellent. Apollo's gifts are not confined alone To your dispose, he hath more heirs than one, And such as do derive from his blest hand A large inheritance in the poets' land, As well as you ; nor are you, I assure Myself, so envious, but you can endure To hear their praise, whose worth long since was known, And justly too preferr'd before your own, I know you'd take it for an injury, (And 'tis a well-becoming modesty), To be parallel'd with Beaumont, or to hear Your name by some too partial friend writ near Unequall'd Jonson ; being men whose fire At distance, and with reverence, you admire. Do so, and you shall find your gain will be Much more, by yielding them priority, Than with a certainty of loss, to hold A foolish competition : 'tis too bold A task, and to be shunn'd : nor shall my praise, With too much weight, ruin what it would raise. THOMAS JAY. COCKAINC.] See the Introduction pattim. TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, Mr. PHILIP MASSINGER UPON HIS TRAGI-COMtDV CALLED THE " EMPEROR Of THE EAST." SUFFER, my friend, these lines to have the grace, That they mav be a mole on Venus' face. There is no fault about thy book but this, And it will show how fair thy Emperor is, Thou more than poet! our Mercury, that art Apollo's messenger, and dost impart His best expressions to our ears, live long To purify the slighted Enrlish tongue, That both the nymphs of Tagus and of Po May not henceforth despise our language so. Nor could they do it, if they e'er had seen The matchless features of the Fairy Queen ; Read Jonson, Shukspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, or Thy neat-limned pieces, skilful Massinger. Thou known, all the Castilians must confess Vego de Carpio thy foil, and bless His language can translate thee, and the fine Italian wits yield to this work of thine. Were old Pythagoras alive again, In thee he might find reason to maintain His paradox, that souls by transmigration In divers bodies make their habitation: And more, than all poetic souls yet known, Are met in thee, contracted into one. This is a truth, not an applause : I am One that at furthest distance views thy flame, Yet may pronounce, that, were Apollo dead, In thee his poesy might all be read. Forbear thy modesty : thy Emperor's vein Shall live admired, when poets shall complain It is a pattern of too high a reach, And what great Phoebus might the Muses teach. Let it live, therefore, and I dare he bold To say, it with the world shall not grow old. ASTON A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, AND WELL-WISHER TO THE READER, ON THE EMPEROR OF " THE EAST." WHO with a liberal hand freely bestows His bounty on all comers, and yet knows No ebb, nor formal limits, but proceeds Continuing his hospitable deeds, With daily welcome shall advance his nnme Beyond the art of flattery ; with such fame May yours, dear friend, compare. Your muse hath been Most bountiful, and I have often seen The willing seats receive such as have fed, And risen thankful ; yet were some misled By NICETY, when this fair banquet came (So I allude) their stomachs were to blame, Because that excellent, sharp, and poignant sauce Was wanting, they arose without due grace, Lo ! thus a second time he doth invite you : Be your own carvers, and it may delight you. JOHN CLAVILL. TO MY THUE FRIEND AND KINSMAN, PHILIP MASSiN- CER, ON HIS " EMPEROR OF THE EAST." I TAKE not upon trust, nor am I led By an implicit faith : what 1 have read With an impartial censure 1 dare crown With a deserved applause, howe'er cried down By such whose malice will not let them be Equal to any piece liran'd forth by thee. COMMENDATORY VERSES ON MASSINGER. Contemn their poor detraction, and still write Poems like this, that can endure the light, And search of abler judgments. This will raise Thy name ; the others' scandal is thy praise. This, oft perused by grave wits, shall live long, Not die as soon as past the actor's tongue, The fate of slighter toys ; and 1 must say, 'Tis not enough to make a passing play In a true poet : works that should end"ure Must have a genius ; n the\n strong as pure, And such is thi'-e, friend : nor shall time devour The well-forin'd features of thy Emperor. WILLIAM SINGLETON. TO THE INGENIOUS AUTHOR MASTER PHILIP MAS- SINGER, ON HIS' COMEDY CALLED " A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBfi." 'Tis a rare charity, and thou couldst not So proper to the time have found a plot : Yet whilst you teach to pay, you lend; the age We wretches live in, that to come the stage, The thronged audience that was thither brought, Invited by you fame, and to be taught This lesson ; all are grown indebted more, And when they look for freedom, ran in score. It was a cruel courtesy to call In hope of liberty, and then, inthrall. The nobles are your bondmen, gentry, and All besides those that did not understand. They were no men of credit, bankrupts born. Fit to be trusted with no stock but scorn- You have more wisely credited to such, That though they cannot pay, can value much. I am your debtor too, but, to my shame, Repay you nothing back but your own fame. HENRY MOODY*. Miles. TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR, ON " A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. You may remember how you chid me, when I rank'd you equal with those glorious men, Beaumont and Fletcher : if you love not praise, You must forbear the publishing of plays. The crafty mazes of the cunning plot, The polish'd phrase, the sweet expressions, got Neither by theft nor violence ; the conceit Fresh and unsullied ; all is of weight, Able to make the captive reader know I did but justice when I placed you so. A shamefaced blushing would become the brow Of some weak virgin writer; we allow To you a kind of pride, and there where most Should blush at commendations, you should boast. If any think I flatter, let him look Off from my idle trifles on thy book. THOMAS JAY. Miles HENRY MOODY.! Sir Henry Moody play on the titte of the piece. He has not much of the poet in him, but ap pears to be a friendly, good-natured rjan. A short poem ot his i prefixed to the folio edition of Beaumont and Fletcher. He was one of the gentlemen who had Honorary degree* conferred on them by Charles I., on h'u return to Oxford from the battle of Edge-hill. GLOSSARIAL INDEX. ABRAM HEN, 356 absurd, 294 abase, 240 acts of parliament, 497 actuate, 189 aerie, 72, 230 affects, 97 alba regalis, 271 Itar, 158 a many, 11 amorous, 207 Amsterdam, 121 Anaxarete, 185 ngel (bird), 11 ape, 105 apostata, 25, 29, 37. 38 apple, 305 Argiers, 37 arrearages, 264 as (as if) 359 astrology, 386 atheism, 240 atonement, 82 Aventine, 173 B. bake-house, 166 bandog, 13 banquet, 44,384 banqueting-house, 93 Baptista Porta, 254 bar, 157 barathrum, 363 barley-break, 28 bases, 260 basket, 337, 353, 379 battalia. 260 batile of Sabla, 472 beadsmen, 383, 391 bearing dishes, 374 Beaumelle, 322 betco, *32 bees, 399 beetles. 73 beg estates, 588 bglerbeg, 135 Bellona, 262 cautelus, 10J bells ring backward, 62 cavallery, 234 bend the body, 7 2, 482 censure, 116, 221 beneath the salt, 378 ceruse, 3% beso las rnanos, 213 chamber, 147 betake, 399 chapel fall, 118 bind with, 412 chapines, 123 bird-bolts, 420 Charles the robber, 418 birthright, 99 charms on rubies, 207 Biscan, 459 cheese-trenchers, 502 bisognion, 241 chiaus, 135 blacks, 319 chine evil, 274 blasphemous, 210 choice and richest, 126 bloods, 333 chreokopia, 496 blue gown, 405 chuffs, 73 braches, 54,349, 390 church-book, 496 brave, 142, 461 circular, 296 braveries, 92, 155 civil, 144, 08! bravery, 54, 261, 501 clap-dish, 154 Breda, 351 clemm'd, 182 Brennus, 339 close breeches, 331 broadside (to shew), 147 clubs, 125, 380 brother in arms, 233 coats, 507 buck, 24 Colbrand, 331 bug, 365 colon, 35.260 bullion,321 come aloft, 105 buoy'd, 354 comfort, 471 burial denied, 316 coming in, 74 burse, 389 commence, 80, 293 bury money, 515 commodities, 102 but, 123, S06 come off, 54 Butler (Dr.), 504. commoner, 20 comparison, 263 C. comrogues, 395 calver'd salmon, 237, 429 conceited, 101 camel, 322 conclusions, 80 cancelier, 41S conduit, 166 canters, 349 conquering Romans, 105 Caranra, 42, 422 consort. 259, 331 carcanet, 400, 439 constable, to steal a, 246 caroch, 123, 248 constant in, 4 carouse, 62 constantly, 220 carpet knights, 235 cooks' shops, 358 caster, 397 Corinth, 93 casting, 278 corsives, 192,3(10 cast suit, 275 counsel, 74, loV* cater, 385 counterfeit gold dread, 3A4 GLOSSARIAL INDEX. courtesy, 208 courtship, 79, 77, 203, 217, 439 courtesies, 372 cpw-eyes, 51 , 293 crack, 34 crincomes, 430 crone, 34 crosses, 130 crowd. 522 crowns o' the sun, 35 cry absurd ! 294 cry aim, 96. 122 Cupid and Death, 24 culliona, 419 cunning, 417 curiosity, 379 Curious Impertinent, 329 curiousness, 49, 151 cyprets, 481 D. dags, 332 dalliance, 22 danger, 318, 404 dead pays, 54 death, the, 66 deck, 422 decline, 227 deduct, 506 deep ascent, 480 deer of ten, 301 defeature, 108 defensible, 411 degrees, 184 Delphos, ?39 demeans, 253 denying burial, 316 depart, 123 dependencies, 226 deserved me, 369 Diana, 82 discourse and reason, 39 disclose, 230 dispartations, 131 dissolve, 83, 186 distaste, 49, 123 divert, 202 doctor, go out, 80, doctrine, 226, 297 diad,8 drawer-on, 417 dresser, cook's drum, 43, 422 drum-wine, 889 Dunkirk, 77 E. elenchs, 294 elysium, 95 empiric, 303 entradas, 433 equal, 35 equal mart, 477 estridge, 234 extend, 373, 404 eyasses, 278 F. faith, 17 fame, 462 far-fetch'd, 419 fault, 114, 510 fautors, 117 fellow, 266 festival exceedings, 278 fetch in, 188 fewterer, 232, 278 Fielding, 398 fineness, 137 Fiorinda, 199 flies, 11 for, 27 forks, 213 forms, 46 fore-right, 147 forth, 308 frequent, 174, 176 frippery, 379 fur, 380 G. gabel, 289 gallant of the last edition, 379 galley foist, 321 galliard, 511 garden-house, 93 gauntlets, 47 Gay, 320 gazet, 237 gemonies, 174 gimcrack, 83 Giovanni, 199 gliid to, 11 glorious, 37, 51,202 go by, 246 God be wi* you, 389 gods to friend, 174 gold and store, 263, 397 "olden arrow, 186 less, 393, 484 golls, 395 jo near, 129 jood, 394 rood fellows, 435 rood lord, 284 jood man, 317 jood mistress, 176 joody wisdom, 321 aorgon, 471 governor's place, 8 iranson, 317 Great Britain ,27 jreen apron, 122 jresset, 470 jrim sir, 46 rub up forests, 419 juard, 256 H. iairy comet, 36 land, 133 lawking, 278 leats, 97 lecatombaion, 507 'rlecuba, 187 iell, 378, 478 ligh forehead, 34 lole, 378 lorued moons, 130 hose, 213 uraanity, 319 hunt's up, 71 hurricano, 58 I. Jane of apes, 105 jewel, 432, 457 imp, 147, 195. 201 impotence, 192, 444 impotent, 45 Indians, 402 induction, 335 ingles, 395 interess, 63 Iphis, 185 K ka me ka tbee, 385 katexochien, 420 keeper of the door, 164 knock on the dresser, 43 Lachrymje, 226, 281 lackeying, 4 Lady Compton, 387 lady of the lake, 356 lanceprezado, 237 lapwing's cunning, 516 lavender, 273 lavolta, 215, 390 leaden dart, 7 leaguer, 254, 326 leege, 301 Lent, 143 I'envoy, 484, 490 leper, 154 lets, 8, 57 tightly, 106 line, 11 little, 69 lively grave, 319 living funeral, 110 looking-glasses at the girdle, 378 ost, 146 loth to depart, 514 lottery, 167 overs perjuries, 208 Lowin, John, 173 Ludgate, 382 Luke, 402 ye abroad, 121 M. M. for master, 398 magic picture, 255 magnificent, 292 Mahomet, 121 Malefort, 36 Mammon, 181 mandrakes, 3 1 mankind, 390 marginal fingers, 329 marmoset, 389 IMars.262 Marseilles, 35, 151 masters of dependencies, 226 Mephostophilus, 280 mermaid, 514 Minerva, 194 miniver cap, 400 GLOSSARIAL INDEX. mirror of knighthood, 414 possessed. 209 shining slices, 419 mistress, 48, 152 power of th'ngs, 174 Sir Giles Mompesson, 354 mistress' colours, 116 practice, 167, 223 skills not. 62, 170, 173 moppes, 105 practick, 29 + sleep on either ear, 416 Moral, 317 precisian, 319 small legs, 450 more, 262 prest, 393 softer neck, 50 most an end, 449 prettv. 40 so, ho, birds, 278 music, 333 prevent, .371, 498 solve. 83 music-master, 333 prevented, 126 sort, 20 progress, 410 sovereign, 522 N. provant sword, 226 sought to, 57 Nancy, 317 providence, 361 sparred, 22 Mvtr-felting, 288 pull down the side, 40, 216 Spartan boy, 426 Nell of Greece, 515 puppet, 70 sphered, 22 niggle, 310 purer, 68 spit, 28 nightingale, 202 purge, 265 spitnl, 390 night-rail, 393 put on, 79, 314, 363, 403 spittle, 274, 327, 390 nimming, 434 spring, 48 no cunning quean, 92 Q. squire o'dames, 164, 287 north passage, 388 Novall, 330 quality, 176, 260, 333, 510 squire o' Troy, 421 stale the jest, 53, 487 number his years, 178 quirpo, 321 quited, 505 stiirtup, 279 state, 93, 93, 222 O. statute against witches, 373 October, 98 R. __ ota/? staunch, 93 oil of angels, 76 oil of talc, 396 Olympus, 367 rag, 3zo Ram Alley, 358 remarkable, 41 i-oli/t 1 ao steal a constable, 226 steal courtesy from heaven, 208 Sterne, 321 Ovid, 484 outcry, 382 relic, i zo remember, 111, 156, 429 stiletto, 271 still an end, 449 owe, 99 remora, 130 stones, 278 owes, 7, 128 re-refine, 289 story, 215 resolved, 72, 281 strange, 92 P. packing 212 rest on it, 95 riches of catholic king, 483 o strongly, 302 street tired, 118 padder, 356 ride, 390 strengths, 139, 146, 301 palo-spirited, 356 rivo. 131 striker, 54 Pandarus, 421 roarer, 126 suit, 391 paned hose, 213, 501 pantofle, sworn to, 46 Roman, 398 roses, 379, 401 sworn servant, 181 Swiss, 517 parallel, 81,230 rouse, 62, 102 royal merchant, 129 synonyma, 287, 336 |)HrlG t 4/1 parted, 12, 217 rubies, 207 T. parts, 2 13 table, 502 pash, 12 S. taint, 164 passionately, 508 Sabla, battle of, 472 take in, 374 passions, 496, 524 sacer, 305 take me with you, 215, 241, 459 pastry fortifications, 351 sacratus, 305 take up, 203 Patch, 364. 374 sacred badj;e, 141 tall ships, 30 Pavia, battle of, 63 sacrifice, 320 tall trenchermen, 44 peat, 233 sail-stretch'd, 37 tamin,361 peevish, 20 tainted, 277 tattered, 13 peevishness, 371 St. Dennis, 154 Termagant, 121 perfected 49 St. Martin's, 397 theatre, 173 perseVer, 4, 250 sanzacke, 135 Theocrine, 38 personate, 217, 254 salt, above the, 44 thick-skinned, 82 Pescara, 66 scarabs, 73 thing of things, 102 physicians, 445 scenery, 381 third meal, 73 piety, 476 scholar, 254 thought for, 373 pine-tree, 70 seirophorion, 507 Thrace, 262 pip, 321 scotomy, 511 time, 180 place, 413, 492 sea-rats, 461 Timoleon, 94 play my prize, 370 Sedgely curse, 387 to-to, 453 plumed victory. 40 seisactheia, 496 token, 349, 399 plurisy, 5t servant, 48, 50, 152, 414 toothful, 28 Plymouth cloak, 349, 397 shadows, 43 toothpicks, 213 Ponialier, 328 shall be, is, 416 tosses, 263 poor John, 121, 265 shape, 117, 164, 184, 186, 299 touch, 484 porter's lodge, 76, 350 she-Dunkirk, 77 train, 53 ports, 4 sheriffs basket, 379 tramontane!, 206 GLOSSARIAL INDEX. trillibubs, 511 roley, 270 where, (whereas) 152, 314, 349 trimmed, 153 votes, 431 441,464 try conclusions, 80 while, 194, 499 tune, 180 W. whiting-mop, 429 turn Turk, 145, 232 waistcoateer, 390 whole field wide, 232, 392 twines, 411 walk after supper, 44 why, when ! 1 92 walk the round, 259, 423 witches, 373 U. ward, 256 witness, 295 uncivil, 330 wards, 409 wishes, as well as, 455 unequal 308 wardship, 409 wolf, 471 uses, 226, 297 watchmen, 497 work of grace, 137 way of youth, 175, 456 wreak, 122 V. weakness the last, 462 rail, 241, 289 wear the caster, 397 Y. varlets. 336 wear scarlet, 381 yaws, 453 Venice glasses, 125 well, 323 yellow, 80 \irbius, 185 wheel, 262 yeoman fewterer, 232, 27t A LIST Of MASSINGER'S PLAYS. Thoat marked thu* * are in the present Edition. 1. THE Forced Lady, T. This was one of the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant*. 2. The Noble Choice, C. ~j Entered on the Stationers' books, by H. Moseley, 3. The Wandering Lovers, C. /-"Sept. 9, 1653 ; but not printed. These were among the 4. Philenzo and Hippolita, T. C. J plays destroyed by Mr. Waiburton's servant. 5. Antonio and Valliaf, C. ~) Entered on the Stationers' books, by H. Mosely, June 29, 6. The Tyrant, T. V1660, but not printed. These too were among the plays 7. Fast and Welcome, C. J destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. 8. The Woman's Plot, C. Acted at court 1621. Destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. 9. *The Old Law, C. Assisted by Rowley and Middleton, Quarto, 1656. 10. *The Virgin-Martyr, T. Assisted by Decker. Acted by the servants of his Majesty's revels. Quarto, 1622 ; Quarto, 1631 ; Quarto, 1661. 11. *The Unnatural Combat, T. Acted at the Globe. Quarto, 1639. 12. *The Duke of Milan, T. Acted at Black-Friars. Quarto, 1623 ; Quarto, 1638. 13. "The Bondman, T. C. Acted December 3, 16'23, at the Cockpit, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1624 ; Quarto, 1638. 14. *The Renegado, T. C. Acted April 17, 1624, at the Cockpit, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1630. 15. *The Parliament of Love, C. Unfinished. Acted November 3, 1624, at the Cockpit, Drury Lane. 16. The Spanish Viceroy, C. Acted in 1624. Entered on the Stationers' books, September 9, 1653, by H. Moseley, but not printed. This was one of the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. 17. "The Roman Actor, T. Acted October 11,1626, by the King's company. Quarto, 1629. 18. The Judge. Acted June 6, 1627, by the King's company. This play is lost. 19. *The Great Duke of Florence. Acted July 5, 1627, at the Phoenix, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1636. 20. The Honour of Women. Acted May 6, 1628. This play is lost. 21. *The Maid of Honour, T. Cj. Acted at the Phoenix, Drury Lane. Date of its first appearance uncertain. Quarto, 1632. 22. *The Picture, T.C. Acted June 3, 1629, at the Globe. Quarto, 1630. 23. Minerva's Sacrifice, T. Acted November 3, 1629, by the King's company. Entered on the Stationers' books Sept. 9, 1653, but not printed. This was one of the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. In his first edition, Mr. Gifford had entered after this play Me Secretary, of which the title appears in the catalogue wliich furnished the materials for Poole's Parnassus. Mr. Gilchnst having discovered among some old rubbish in^a village library, that the work referred to is a translation of familiar letters by Mons. La Serre, aud that the translator's name was John Massinger.it was omitted in the list furnished for tlie second edition. + In Ihat most curious MS. Register discovered at Dulwich College, and subjoined by Mr. Malone to his " Historical Account of the English St.ige, is the following entry, " R. 20 of June, 1695, at antany and vallea 01. xxs. Od " If this be the play entered by Mosely, Massinger's claims can only arise from his having revised and altered it; for he must have be!n a mere child when it was first produced. See the Introduction, p. J Mr. Malone thinks this to be the play immediately preceding it, with a new title. This is, however, extremely doubtful LIST OF MASLINGER'S PLAtS 4. 'The Emperor of the East, T. C. Acted March 11, 1831. at Black Friars. Quarto, 1632. 85. Believe as you List, C. Acted May 7, 1631. Entered on the Stationers' books, September 9, 1653. and again June 29, 1660, but not printed. This also was one of the plays destroyed by Mr \Varb urton's servant. 4t>. The Italian Nightpiece, or The Unfortunate Piety, T. Acted June 13, 1631, by the King's companj. 1'bis play is lost. T. "The Fatal" Dowry, T. Assisted by Field. Acted by the King's company. Quarto, 1632. 28. *A New Way to Pay Old Debts, C. Acted at the Phoenix, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1633. 29. *The City Madam, C. Acted May 2.5, 1632, by the King's company. Quarto, 1659. SO. * The Guardian, C. Acted October 31, 1633, by the King's company. Octavo, 1655. 31. The Tragedy of Cleander. Acted May 7, 1634, by the King's company. This play is lost. 32. *A Very Woman, T. C. Acted June 6, 1634. by the King's company. Octavo, 1655. 33. The Orator. Acted June 10, 1635, by the King's company. This play is lost. 34. *The Bashful Lover, T. C. Acted May 9, 1636, by the King's company. Octavo, 1655. 35. The King and the Subject. Acted June 5, 1638, by the King's company. This play is lost. 36. Alexius, or the Chaste Lover.|| Acted September 25, 1639, by the King's company. This play is lost. 37. The Prisoner, or the Fair Anchoress of Pausilippo. Acted June 26, 1640, by the King's company This play is lost. THE VIRGIN MARTYR. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.] Of this Tragedy, which appears to nave been very popular, there are three editions in quarto, 1622, 1631, and 1661; the last of which is infinitely the worst. It is not possible to ascertain when it was first produced ; but as it is not mentioned among the dramatic pieces " read and allowed " by Sir H. Herbert, whose account commences with 1622, it was probably amongst the author's earliest efforts. In the composition of it he was assisted by Decker, a poet of sufficient reputation to provoke the hostility or the envy of Jonson, and the writer of several plays much esteemed bj ms con- temporaries. In the first edition of this tragedy it is said to have been " divers times publicly acted with great applause by the servants of his Majesty's Revels." The plot of it, as Coxeter observes, is founded on the tenth and last general persecution of the Christians, which broke out in the nineteenth year of Dioclesian's reign, with a fury hardly to be expressed ; the Christians being every where, without distinction of sex, age, or condition, dragged to execution, and subjected to the most exquisite torments that rage, cruelty, and hatred could suggest. DRAMATIS PERSONS. DlOCLESIAN, MAXIMINOS, King of Pontus. King of Epire. King of Macedon. SAPRITIUS, Governor of Cresarea. TIIF.OPHILUS, a zealous persecutor of the Chriitiant SEMPRONIUS, captain of SAPRITIUS' guards. ANTONINUS, son to SAPRITIVS. MACRINUS, friend to ANTONINUS. HAIIPAX, an evil spirit, following THEOPHILUS in the shape of a secretary. ANOELO, a good spirit, serving DOROTHEA in the habit of a page. HIRCIUS, a whoremaster, > .. _. SPUNGIUS, a drunkard, I*** J DOROTHEA. Priest of Jupiter. British Slavs. AUTEMIA, daughter to DIOCLESIAN. CHmsTETA,}^^ to THEOPHILW. DOROTHEA, the Virgin-Martyr. Officers and Executioners. SCENE, Cajsarea. ACT I. SCENE L The GOVERNOR'S Palace. Enter THEOPHILUS and HARPAX. Theoph. Come to Cresarea to-night ! Harp. Most true, sir. Theoph. The emperor in person ! farp. Do I live ? r heoph. 'Tis wondrous strange ! The marches of great princes, Lu ) to the motions of prodigious meteors, Art step by step observed ; and loud-tongued Fame Tht, harbinger to prepare their entertainment : And, were it possible so great an army, Though coverd with the night, could be so near, The governor cannot be so unfriended Among the many, that attend his person, But, by some secret means, he should have notice Of Czesar's purpose* ; in this then excuse me. If I appear incredulous. Harp. At your pleasure. Theoph. Yet, when I call to mind you never fail'd In things more difficult, but have discover'd [me, Deeds that were done thousand leagues distant from me, When neither woods, nor caves, nor secret vaults, No, nor the Power they serve, could keep these Christians Or from my reach or punishment, but thy magic Of Censor's p trpose ; in this then excuse me,} Before Mr. M. Masoa's e ii;ion, it stood : lie should have noticg Of Conor's purpose in this, meaning, perhaps, in this hasty and unexpected visit : i have not, however, allured the pointing. a 2 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr L Still laid them open ; I begin again To be as confident as heretofore. It is not possible thy powerful art Should meet a check, or fail. Enter a Priest with the Image of Jupiter, CALISTA and CHRISTETA. Harp. Look on the Vestals, The holy pledges that the gods have given you, Your chaste, fair daughters. Wer't not to upbraid A service to a master not unthankful, I could say these, in spite of your prevention, Seduced by an imagined faith, not reason, (Which is the strength of nature,) quite forsaking The Gentile gods, had yielded up themselves To this new-found religion. This I cross'd, Discover'd their intentions, taught you to use, With gentle words and mild persuasions, The power and the authority of a father Set off with cruel threats ; and so reclaim'd them : And, whereas they with torments should have died, (Hell's furies to me, had they undergone it !) [Aside. They are now votaries in great Jupiter's temple, And, by his priest instructed, grown familiar With all the mysteries, nay, the most abstruse ones, Belonging to his deity. Theoph. 'Twas a benefit, For which I ever owe you. Hail, Jove's flamen ! Have these my daughters reconciled themselves, Abandoning for ever the Christian way, To your opinion ? Priest. And are constant in* it. [nient, They teach their teachers with their depth of judg- And are with arguments able to convert The enemies to our gods, and answer all They can object against us. Theoph. My dear daughters ! [sect, Cal. We dare dispute against this new-sprung In private or in public. Harp. My best lady, PerseVerf in it. Chris. And what we maintain, We will seal with our bloods. Harp. Brave resolution ! I e'en grow fat to see my labours prosper. Tlieopli. I young again. To your devotions. Harp. Do My prayers be present with you. [Exeunt Priest and Daughter of Theophilus. Theoph. O my Harpax ! Thou engine of my wishes, thou that steel'st My bloody resolutions ; thou that arm'st [sion ; My eyes 'gainst womanish tears and soft compas- Instructing me, without a sigh, to look on Babes torn by violence from their mothers' breasts To feed the fire, and with them make one flame ; Old men, as beasts, in beasts' skins torn by dogs ; Virgins and matrons tire the executioners ; Yet I, unsatisfied, think their torments easy. Harp. And in that, just, not cruel. * Priest And are constant in it.] So the first two edi- tions. The last, which is very incorrectly printed, reads to it, and is followed by the modern editors. t Persever in it.] So this word was anciently written and pronounced : thus the king, in Hamlet : but to persever In obttinate condolement. Coxeter adopts the unmetrical reading of the third quarto, persevere in it, and is followed by Mr. M. Mason, who how- ever, warns the reader to lay the accent on the penultimate. Theoph. Were all sceptres That grace the hands of kings, made into one, And oifer'd me, all crowns laid at my feet, I would contemn them all, thus spit at them ; So 1 to all posterities might be call'd f he strongest champion of the Pagan gods, And rooter out of Christians. Harp. Oh, mine own. Mine own dear lord ! to further this great work, I ever live thy slave. Enter SAPIUTIUS and SEMPRONIUS. Theoph. No more the governor. [doubled j Sap. Keep the ports close*, and let the guards be Disarm the Christians, call it death in any To wear a sword, or in his house to have one. Semp. I .shall be careful, sir. Sap. Twill well become you. Such as refuse to offer sacrifice To any of our gods, put to the torture. Grub up this growing mischief by the roots ; And know, when we are merciful to them, We to ourselves are cruel. Semp. You pour oil On fire that burns already at the height : I know the emperor's edict, and my charge. And they shall find no favour. Theoph. My good lord, This tare is timely for the entertainment Of our great master, who this night in person Comes here to thank you. Sap. Who ! the emperor ? [triumph, Harp. To clear your doubts, he doth return iu Kings lackeying t by his triumphant chariot ; And in this glorious victory, my lord, You have an ample share : for know, your son, The ne'er-enough commended Antoninus, So well hath flesh'd his maiden sword i, and died His snowy plumes so deep in enemies' blood, That, besides public grace beyond his hopes, There are rewards propounded. Sap. I would know No mean in thine, could this be true. Harp. My head Answer the forfeit. Sap. Of his victory- There was some rumour ; but it was assured, Sap. Keep the ports dote,] Thij word, which is di- rectly from the Latin, is so frequently used by Alassiiiger and the writers of his time, for the yatcs of a town, that it appears superfluous to produce any examples of it. To have noticed it once is sufficient. t Kinys lackeying by his triumphant chariot ;] Running by the side of ii Use lackies, or loot boys. So in Marston'ti Antonio and Mellida: " Oh that our power Could lackey or keep pace with our desire!" J So well hath fltsh'd, &c.] Massingerwas a great reader and admirer of Shakspeare : he has here not only adopted his sentiment, but his words . " Come, brother John, full bravely hast thoujlesh'd 7 ky maiden sword" But Shakspeare is in every one's head, or, at least, in every one's hand ; and I should therefore be constantly antici- pated, in such remarks as these. I will take this opportunity to say, that it is not my in- tention to encumber the page with tracing every phrase of Massinger to it imaginary source. This is a compliment which should only be paid to great and ruighty geniusei; with respect to those of a second or third order, it it gome what worse than superfluous to hunt them through innu- merable works of all descriptions, for tlie purpose of disco vering whence every common epithet, or trivial expression was taken. THE VIRGIN MARTYR, The army pass'cl a full day's journey higher, Into the country. Harp. It was so determined ; But, for the further honour of your son. And to observe the government of the city, And with what rigour, or remiss indulgence, The Christians are pursued, he makes his stay here : [Trumpets. For proof, his trumpets speak his near arrival. Sap. Haste, good Sempronius, draw up our guards, And with all ceremonious pomp receive The conquering army. Let our garrison speak Their welcome in loud shouts, the city shew Her state and wealth. Semp. I'm gone. [Exit. Sap. O, I am ravish'd With this great honour ! cherish, good Theophilus, This knowing scholar ; send [for] your fair datigh- I will present them to the emperor, [ters*; And in their sweet conversion, as a mirror, Express your zeal and duty. Theoph. Fetch them, good Ilarpax. [Eiit Ilarpax. A guard brought in hif SEMPRONU'S, soldiers leading in three kings bound ; ANTONINUS and MACHINVS carrying tie Emperor's eagles ; DIOCI.ISIAN icith a gilt laurel on his head, boding in ARTEMIA : SAPRIITUS kisses tl,e Emperor's hand, then em- braces his Son; HARPAX brings in CAJ.ISTA and CHRISTETA. Loud iliouts. Diode. So : at all parts I find Cwsarea Completely govern'd ; the licentious soldier f Confined in modest limits, and the people Taught to obey, and, not compell'd with rigour : The ancient Roman discipline revived, [her Which raised Rome to her greatness, and proclaim'd The glorious mistress of the comjuer'd world ; But, above all, the service of the gods So zealously observed, that, good Sapritius, In words to thank you for your care and duty, Were much unworthy Dioclesian's honour, Or his magnificence to his loyal servants. But I shall find a time with noble titles To recompense your merits. Sap. Mightiest Cjusar, J Whose power upon this globe of earth is equal To Jove's in heaven ; whose victorious triumphs On proud rebellious kings that stir against it, Are perfect figures of his immortal trophies \\oii in the Giants' war ; whose cono-iering sword, Guided by hi.3 strong arm, as deaJl'-" I'J.'j As did Lis thunder ! all that I have done, Or, if my strength were centupled, could do, Conies short of what my loyalty must challenge. * said [fin] your fair daughters ;] AH the copies read, send your fair dauyldcrs ; for, which I lime inserted steins um^.-.'.n, t complete the Mi:se as \M-11 as the metre; as Harpax is immediately dispatched to bring Ihein. t the licentious soldier] \.r. M. Mason reads tol- dierg, the old and true lection is soldier. The stage direction in this place is very strangely yiven by the former editors. I may t.ere observe, that [ do nut mean 10 notice every slj jrt: correction : already several errors have been silently reformed by the assistance of the first quarto : without reckoning the removal of such barbarous contractions as conq'ring, ad'inant, ranc'rons, iyn'rance, rhet'iick, Jcr. with which the modern edition* are everywhere deformed with- out authority or reason. I II' hone power, &c.] A translation of the well-known line : Divisum imperium ?um Jove Ccesar habet. But, if in any tiling I have deserved Great Ca-sar's smile, 'tis in mv humble care Still to preserve the honour of those gods, That make him what he is : my zeal to them, I ever have express'd in my fell hate Against the Christian sect that, with one blow, (Ascribing all things to an unknown power,) Would strike down all their temples, and allowi Nor sacrifice nor altars. [them* Diode. Thou, in this, U alk'st hand in hand with me : my will and power Shall not alone confirm, but honour all That are in this most forward. Sap. Sacred Caesar, If- your imperial majesty stand pleased To shower your favours upon such as are The boldest champions of our religion ; Look on this reverend man, to whom the power Of searching out, and punishing such delinquents, Was by your choice committed; and, for proof, He hath deserved the grace imposed upon him, And with a lair and even hand proceeded, Partial to none, not to himself; or those Of equal nearness to himself; behold I 1 his pair of virgins. Diode. What are these 1 Sap. His daughters. [ones, Artcm. Now by your sacred fortune, they are fait Exceeding fair ones : would 'twere in my power To make them mine ! Theoph. They are the gods', great lady, They were most happy in your service else : On these, when they fell from their father's faith, I used a judge's power, entreaties failing (They being seduced) to win them to adore The holy powers we worship ; 1 put on The scarlet robe of bold authority, And as they had been strangers to my blood, Presented them, in the most horrid form, All kind of tortures : part of which they suffer'd With Roman constancy. Artem. And could you endure, Being a father, to behold their limbs Extended on the rack > Theoph. 1 did ; but must Confess there was a strange contention in me, Between the impartial office of a judge, And pity of a father ; to help justice Religion stept in, under which odds Compassion fell : yet still I was a father; For e'en then, when the flinty hangman's whips Were worn with stripes spent on their tender limbs I kneel'd and wept, and begged them, though thej Be cruel to themselves they would take pity [would On my grey hairs : now note a sudden change, \\ hich 1 with joy remember ; those whom torture, Nor fear of death could terrify, were o'eicome By seeing of my sufferings; and so won, Returning to the faith that they were born in, I gave them to the gods : and be assured, 1 that used justice with a rigorous hand, Upon such beauteous virgins, and mine own, \\ ill use no favour, where the cause commands me, and allows them Nor sacrifice, nor altars.] 'I he modem editors haye, and allow them No sacrifice nor til/ttrs : which is the corrupt reading of the ruiart", 10(51. t This pair of viryins.} Changed, I know not why, by the modern editors, into These ]?air of ciiyinr. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr L To any other ; but, as rocks, be deaf To all entreaties. Diocle. Thou deserv'st thy place ; Still hold it, and with honour. Things thus order'd Touching the gods; 'tis lawful to descend To human cares, and exercise that power Heaven has conferr'd upon me ; which that you, Rebels and traitors to the power of Rome, Should not with all extremities undergo, What can you urge to qualify your crimes, Or mitigate my anger? *K. of Epire. We are now Slaves to thy power, that yesterday were kings, And had command o'er others ; we confess Our grandsires paid yours tribute, yet left us, As their forefathers had, desire of freedom. Aud, if you Romans hold it glorious honour Not only to defend what is your own, But to enlarge your empire, (though our fortune Denies that happiness,) who can accuse The famish'd mouth if it attempt to feed ? Or such, whose fetters eat into their freedoms, If they desire to shake them off? K. of Pontus. We stand The last examples, to prove how uncertain All human happiness is ; and are prepared To endure the worst. K. of Macedon. That spoke, which now is highest In fortune's wheel, must when she turns it next, Decline as low as we are. This consider'd, Taught the /Egyptian Hercules, Sesostris, That had his chariot drawn by captive kings, To free them from that slavery ; but to hope Such mercy from a Roman, where mere madness : We are familiar with what cruelty Rome, since her infant greatness, ever used Such as she triumph'd over ; age nor sex Exempted from her tyranny : scepter'd princes Kept in her common dungeons, and their children, In scorn train'd up in base mechanic arts, For public bondmen. In the catalogue Of those unfortunate men, we expect to have Our names remember'd. Diode. In all growing empires, Even cruelty is useful ; some must suffer, And be set up examples to strike terror In others, though far off : but when a state Is nii.sed to her perfection, and her bases Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy, And do't with safety :f but to whom? not cowards, Or such whose baseness shames the conqueror, * K. of Epire. We are now Slaves to thy power, &c.] I have observed several imi- tations of Massinger in the dramas of Mason : there is, for Instance, a striking similarity between this spirited speech, and the indignant exclamation of the brave but unfortu- nate Caractacus : " Soldier, I had arms, Had neighing steeds to whirl my iron cars, Had wealth, dominions : Dost thou wonder, Roman, I fought to save them ! What if Ciesar aims To lord it universal o'er the world, Shall the world tamely crouch to Caesar's footstool ?" I And do't with safety :] This is admirably expressed ; the maxim however, though just, is of the most dangerous nature, for what ambitious chief will ever allow the state to be " raised to her perfection," or that the lime for using " merry with safety" is arrived'? even Dioclcsian lias his exceptions, strong ones too ! for Rome was old enough in bis time. There is au allusion to Virgil, in the opening of this speech : ftes dura, et novita* reyni me talia coyunt Afvliri, 4& And robs him of his victory, as weak Perseus Did great ^'Emilius.* Know, therefore, kings Of Epire, Pontus, and of Macedon, That I with courtesy can use my prisoners, : As well as make them mine by force, provided That they are noble enemies : such I found you, Before I made you mine ; and, since you were so, You have not lost the courages of princes Although the fortune. Had you born yourselves Dejectedly, and base, no slavery Had been ',00 easy for you : but such is The power of nobie valour, that we love it Even in our enemies, and taken with it, Desire to make them friends, as I will you. K. of' Epire. Mock us not, Ctcsar. Diode. By the gods, I do not. Unloose theirbonds ; I nowas friends embrace you ; Give them their crowns again. K. of Pontus. We are twice o'ercome ; By courage and by courtesy. K. of Macedon. But this latter, Shall teach us to live ever faithful vassals To Dioclesian, and the power of Home. K. of Epire. All kingdoms fall before her ' K. of Pontus. And all kings Contend to honour Caesar ! Diode. I believe Your tongues are the true trumpets of your hearts, And in it I most happy. Queen of fate, Imperious fortune ! mix some light disaster With my so many joys, to season them, And give them sweeter relish : I'm girt round With true felicity ; faithful subjects here, Here bold commanders, here with new-made friends But, what's the crown of all, in thee, Artemia, My only child, whose love to me and duty, Strive to exceed each other ! Artem. I make payment But of a debt, which I stand bound to tender As a daughter and a subject. Diode. Which requires yet A retribution from me, Artemia, Tied by a father's care, how to bestow A jewel, of all things to me most precious : Nor will I therefore longer keep thee from The chief joys of creation, marriage rites ; [of, Which that thou may'st with greater pleasures taste Thou shall not like with mine eyes, but thine own. Among these kings, forgetting they were captives Or those, remembering not they are my subjects, Make choice of any ; by Jove's dreadful thunder, My will shall rank with thine. Artem. It is a bounty The daughters of great princes seldom meet with ; For they, to make up breaches in the state, Or for some other public ends, are forced To match where (hey affect iiot.f May my life Deserve this favour ! Diode. Speak ; I long to know The man thou wilt make happy. as weak Perseus Pa o w/r. A vt turns Did yreat ^Kmilitts.} It is said that Perseus sent to desire i aulus .'Kniiliiis 1101 to exhibit him as a spectacle to the Romans, and to spare him the indignity of being led in triumph. yEmilius replied coldly : The favour he ask* of me is in his own power ; he can procure it for himself. COXETER. t To match where they affect not.] This does better for modern than Roman practice; ami indeed the author was thinking more of Hamlet than Diocletian, in this part of (he dialogue. SCENE I.] THE VIBGIN-MARTYR. Artem. If that titles, Or the adcred name of Queen could take me, Here would 1 fix mine eyes, and look no further : But these are baits to take a mean-born lady, Not her, that boldly may call Caesar father; In that I can bring: honour unto any, Hut from no king that lives receive addition: To raise desert and virtue bv my fortune, Though in a low estate, were greater glory Than to mix greatness with a prince that owes* No worth but that name only. Diode. 1 commend thee, 'Tis like myself. Artem. If then, of men beneath me, My choice is to be made, where shall I seek, But among those that best deserve from vou ? That have served you most faithfully ; that in dangers Have stood next to you ; 4hat have interposed Their breasts as shields of proof, to dull the swordsf Aim'd at your bosom ; that have spent their blood To crown your brows with laurel .' Alacr. Cytherea, Great Queen of Love, be now propitious to me ! Harp, (to Sap.) Now mark what I foretold. Anton. Her eye's on me. Fair Venus' son, draw forth a leaden dart, i And. that she may hate me, transfix her with it J Or, if thou needs wilt use a golden one, Shoot it in the behalf of any other : Thou know'st I am thy votary elsewhere. [Aside. Artem. (to An ton . ) Sir. Theoph. How he blushes ! Sap. Welcome, fool, thy fortune. Stand like a block when such an angel courts thee ! Artem. I am no object to divert your eye From the beholding:. Anton. Rather a bright sun, Too glorious for him to sjaze upon, That took not first flight from the eagle's aerie. As I look on the temples, or the gods, And with that reverence, lady, I behold you, And shall do ever. Artem. And it will become you, While thus we stand at distance ; but, if love, Love born out of the assurance of your virtues, 1 each me to stoop so low Auton. O, rather take A higher flight. Artem. Why, fear you to be raised ? Say I put off the dreadful awe that waits On majesty, or with you share my beams, Nay, make you to outshine me ; change the name Of Subject into Lord, rob you of service That's due from you to me, and in me make it Duty to honour you, would you refuse me ? Anton. Refuse you, madam 1 such a worm as I amt * Than to mix greatness with a prince that owe*] Wherever the former editors meet with this w rd, in the' sense uf possess, they alter it into oirns, though it is so used in almost every page of our old dramatists. t to dull the swords] So the old copies. Mr. M. Mam*, reads, to dull tbeir swords > ; Fair Venus 1 ton draw forth a leaden dart,} The idea of this double etlect, to which Massiu<;er has more than one aHiiMon, is from Ovid : Filius hnic Veneris ; Figat tnus omnia, Phcebe, Te rneus arcus, ait ; Parna.'si constitit arce, Eque sagittifera promsit duo ttU pharetra Uiversorimi operum : fugat hoc. lacit illnd amorcm. Quod (Hci 1 , auratum est, ct cuspide fulget acnta ; Quod lugat, obtusum est, et habct sub ai undine plumbum. Met. lib 1. 470. Refuse what kings upon their knees would sue for! Call it, great lady, by another name ; An humble modesty, that would not matci A molehill with Olympus. Artem. He that's famous For honourable actions in the war, As you are, Antoninus, a proved soldier, Is fellow to a king. Anton. If you love valour, As 'tis a kingly virtue, seek it out, And cherish it in a king : there it shines brightest, And yields the bravest lustre. Look on Epire, A prince, in whom it is incorporate ; And let it not disgrace him that he was O'ercome by Ca?sar ; it was victory. To stand so long against him : had you seen him, How in one bloody scene he did discharge The parts of a commander and a soldier, W ise in direction, bo'd in execution ; Vou would have said. Great C;esar's self excepted, The world yields not his equal. Artem. Yet I have heard, Encountering him alone, in the head of his troop, \ ou took him prisoner. A', of Epire. 'Tis a truth, great princess ; I'll not detract from valour. Anton. T\vas mere fortune; Courage had no hand in it. Tlieoph. Did ever man Strive so atrainst iiis > wn good ? S. Spiritless villain ! How I am tortured ! By the immortal gods, I now could kill him. Diode. Hold, Sapritius, hind, On our displeasure hold ! Harp. Why, this would make A father mad, 'tis not to be emluxtxl ; \ our honour's tainted in't. Zap. By heaven, it is ; I shall think of it. Harp. 'Tis not to be forgotten. Artem. Nay, kneel not, sir, I am no ravisher, Nor so far gone in fond affection to you, But that I can retire, my honour safe : Yet say, hereafter, that thou hast neglected What, hut seen in possession of another, Will make thee mad with envy. Anton. In her looks Revenge is written. Mac. As you love your life, Study to appease her. Anton. Gracious madam, hear me. Artem. And be again refused? Anton. The tender of My life, my service, or, since you vouchsafe it,* My love, my heart, my all : and pardon me, Pardon, dread princess, that I made some scruple To leave a valley of security, To mount up to the hill of majesty, On which, the nearer Jove, the nearer lightning. What knew I, but your grace made trial of me : Durst I presume to embrace, where but to touch With an unmanner'd hand, was death ? Tbe fox. When he saw first the forest's king, the lion, * Uly life, my service, or, since you vouchsafe it. My love, &c.] This is the rcaiiing of the first edition ana is evidently right. Coxeter follows the Kcond ami third, which read not instead of or. How did this nonsense escape Mr. M. Mason 1 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr II. Was almost dead with fear ;* the second view Onlv a little daunted him; the third, He durst salute him boldly : pray you, apply this; And you shall find a little' time will teach me To look with more familiar eyes upon you, Than duty yet allows me. Sap. Well excused. A rtem. You may redeem all yet. Diode. And, that he may Have means and opportunity to do so, Artemia, I leave you my substitute In fair Cresarea. Sap. And here, as yourself, We will obey and serve her. Diode. Antoninus, So you prove hers, I wish no other heir ; Think on't : be careful of your charge, Theophilus ; Sapritius, be you my daughter's guardian. Your company I wish, confederate princes, In our Dalmatian wars, which finished With victory I hope, and Maximinus, Our brother and copartner in the empire, At my request won to confirm as much. The kingdoms I took from you we'll restore, And make you greater than you were before. [Exeunt all but Antoninus and Macri/uis. Anton. Oh, I am lost for ever ! lost, Macrinus ! The anchor of the wretched, hope, forsakes me, And with one blast of fortune all my light Of happiness is put out. Mac. You are like to those That are ill only, 'cause they are too well ; That, surfeiting in the excess of blessings, Call their abundance want. What could you wish, That is not fall'n upon you ? honour, greatness, Respect, wealth, favour, the whole world for a dower ; And with a princess, whose excelling form Exceeds her fortune. Anton. Yet poison still is poison, Though drunk in gold ; and all these nattering glories To me, ready to starve, a painted banquet, And no essential food. When I am scorch'd With fire, can flames in any other quench me ? What is her love to me, greatness, or empire, That am slave to another, who alone Can give me ease or freedom ? Mac. Sir, you point at Your dotage on the scornful Dorothea : | Is she, though fair, the same day to be named With best Artemia ? In all their courses, Wise men propose their ends : with sweet Artemia There comes along pleasure, secui ity, Usher'd by all that in this life is precious : With Dorothea (though her birth be noblw. The daughter of a senator of Rome, By him left rich, yet with a private wealth. And far inferior to yours) arrives The emperor's frown, which, like a mortal plague, Speaks death is near ; the princess' heavy scorn, Under which you will shrink ;t your father's fury, Which to resist, even piety forbids : And but remember that she stands suspected A favourer of the Christian sect ; she brings Not danger, but assured destruction with her. This truly weigh'd one smile of great Artemia Is to be cherish'd, and pr-eferr'd before All joys in Dorothea : therefore leave her. [thoti art Anton. In what thou think'st thou art most wise Grossly abused, Macrinus, and most foolish. For any man to match above his rank, Is but to sell his liberty. With Artemh I still must live a servant ; but enjoying Divinest Dorothea, I shall rule, Rule as becomes a husband : for the danger, Or call it, if you will, assured destruction, I slight it vhus. If, then, thou art my friend, As I dare swear thou art, and wilt not take A governor's place upon thee.t be my helper. Mac. You know I dare, and will do any thing ; Put me unto the test. Anton. Go then, Macrinus, To Dorothea ; tell her I have worn. In all the battles I have fought, her figure, Her figure in my heart, which, like a deity, Hath still protected me. Thou can'st speak well, And of thy choicest language spare a little, i To make her understand how much I love her, And how I languish for her. Bear these jewels, j Sent in the way of sacrifice, not service, | As to my goddess : all lets$ thrown behind me, Or fears that may deter me, say, this morning: I mean to visit her by the name of friendship : No words to contradict this. Mac. I am yours ; And, if my travail this way be ill spent, Judge not my readier will by the event. [Eueunt. ACT II. SCENE I. A Room in DOROTHEA'S Hvuse. Enter SPUNGIUS, and HIRCIUS.|| Spun. Turn Christian \V >u Id he that first tempted I \ 'at almost dead with fear ,-] The reading of the first quarto is drad, which may perhaps, be the genuine word. The fabl* is from the Greek. In a preceding line there is an allusion to the proverb : Procul a Jove, scd pron.1 fit /mine. f Under which you will shrink ;] So all the old copies. Modern editors incorrectly, and unmctrically read : Under which you'll sink, &c. (omitted in Edit, of 1813.) t A governor's place vpon thee.\ From the Latin : nc sis mihi tutor. 6 All lets thrman behind me,"] i. e. All impedi- menta. So in the Mayor of Quinborouyh : me to have my shoes walk upon Christian soles, had turn'd me into a capon ; for I am sure now, the stones of all my pleasure, in this fleshly life, are cut off. " Hope, and be sure I'll soon remove the let That stands between thee and thy glory." U Very few of our old English plajs are free from these dialogues of low wit and buttbonery : 'twas the \ice of the asje > nor ' 8 Massingcr less free from it thap his cotcmpo- rarics. To defend them is impossible, nor snail I attempt it. They arc of this use, that they mark the taste, display the manners, and shew us what was the chief delight and entertainment of our forefathers. COXETEK. It should, however, be observed, in jnslice to our old plays, that few, or rather none of them, are contaminated with such detestable ribaldry as the present. To " low wit," SCF.NE I.J THE VIRGIN-MARTYR, Hir. So then, if any coxcomb has a galloping de- sire to ride, here's a gelding, if he can but sit hi n. Spun. I kick, for all that, like a horse ; look else. Hir. But that is a kickish jade, fellow Spungius. Have not I as much cause to complain as thou hast ? When 1 was a pagan, there was an infidel punk of mine, would have let me come upon trust for my curvetting: a pox on your Christian cockatrices ! they cry, like poulterers' wives: No money, no coney. Spun. Bacchus, the god of brew'd wine and sugar, grand patron of rob-pots, upsy-freesy tipplers, and super-naculum takers ; this Bacchus, who is head warden of Vintners'-hall, ale-conner, mayor of all victualling-houses, the sole liquid benefactor to bawdy houses; lanceprezade to red noses, and invincible adelantado over the armado of pimpled, deep-scarleted, rubified, and carbuncled faces Hir. What of all this ? Spun. This boon Bacchanalian skinker, did I make legs to. Hir. Scurvy ones, when thou wert drunk. Spun. There is no danger of losing a man's ears by making these indentures ; he that will not now and then be Calabingo, is worse than a Calamoothe. When I was a pagan, and kneeled to this Bacchus, I durst out-drink a lord ; but your Christian lords out-bowl me. I was in hope to lead a sober life, when I was converted ; but, now amongst the Chris- tians, I can no sooner stagger out of one alehouse, but I reel into another : they have whole streets of nothing but drin king-rooms, and drabbing-cham- bers, jumbled together. Hir. Bawdy Priapus, the first schoolmaster chat taught butchers to stick pricks in flesh, and make it swell, thou know'st, was the only ninglethat I cared for under the moon ; but, since I left him to follow a scurvy lady, what with her praying and our fast- ing, if now I come to a wench, and offer to use her any thing hardly (telling her, being a Christian, she must endure), she presently handles me as if I were a clove, and cleaves me with disdain, as if I were a calf s head. Spun. L see no remedy, fellow Hircius, but that thou and I must be half pagans, and half Christians ; for we know very fools that are Christians. Hir. Right : the quarters of Christians are good for nothing but to feed crows. Spun. True : Christian brokers, thou know'st, are made up of the quarters of Christians ; par-boil one of these rogues, and he is not meat for a dog : no, or indeed to wit of any kind, it has not the slighest preten- sion; being, in fact, nothing more than a loathsome sooter- Uin engendered of filth and dulness. (It was c\iilenlly the anchor's, design to personify Lust and Drunkenneti in the characters of Hircius and Spungius, and this muy account for t:,e ribaldry in which they indulge.) That Massinger is in. t free from dialogues of low wit and butt'oonery (llimii.li certaiaijr, notwithstanding Coxeter's assertion, he is much more so than his contemporaries) may readily be granted; butTlie person who, after perusing this execrable tr.^h, can imagine it to bear any resemblance to his style and manner, niii.-t have reail him to very little purpose, "it was assuredly _written by Decker, as was the rest of this act, in which there b much to approve : with respect to this scene, and every ;her in which the present speakers are introduced, I recom- mend them to the reader's supreme scorn and contempt ; if he pass them entirely over, he will lose little of the story, and nothing of his respect for the author. I have carefully ""netted the text in innumerable places, but given it no farther consideration. 1 repeat my eutix-aty th.it the reader woulJ reject it altogether. j no, I am resolved to have an infidel's heart, though in shew I carry a Christian's face. Hir. Thy last shall serve my foot : so will I. Spun. Our whimpering lady and mistress sent me with two great baskets full of beef, mutton, veal and goose, fellow Hircius Hir. And woodcock, fellow Spungius. Spun. Upon the poor lean ass-fellow, on which I ride, to all the almswomen : what think'st thou I have done with all this good cheer ? 7/i'r. t.u it ; or be cbok-jd else. Spun. Would my ass, basket and all, were in thy maw, if I did ! Xo, as I am a demi-pagan, I sold the victuals, and coined the money into pottle pots of wine. Hir. Therein thou shewed'st thyself a perfect demi-christian too, to let the poor beg, starve, and hang, or die of the pip. O^r puling, snotty-nose lady sent me out likewise with a purse of money, to relieve and release prisoners : Did I so, think you ? Spun. Would thy ribs were turned into grates of iron then. Hir. As I am a total pagan, I swore they should be hanged first ; for, sirrah Spungius, I lay at my old ward of lechery, and cried, a pox on your two- penny wards ! and so I took scurvy common flesh for the money. Spun. And wisely done ; for our lady, sending it to prisoners, had bestowed it out upon lousy knaves : and thou, to save that labour, cast'st it away upon rotten whores. Hir. All my fear is of that pink-an-eye jack-au- apes boy, her page. Spun. As I am a pagan from my cod-piece down- ward, that white-faced monkey frights me too. I stole but a dirty pudding, last day, out of an alms- basket, to give my dog when he was hungry, and the peaking chitty-face page hit me in the teeth with it. Hir. With the dirty pudding ! so he did me once with a cow-turd, which in knavery I would have crumb 'd into one's porridge, who was half a pagan too. The smug dandiprat smells us out, whatsoever we are doing. , Spun. Does he t let him take heed I prove not his back-friend : I'll make him curse his smelling what I do. Hir. 'Tis my lady spoils the boy ; for he is ever at her tail, and she is never well but in his company. Enter AsctLO with a book, and a taper lighted; they seeing him, counterfeit devotion, Ang. O ! now your hearts make ladders of your eyes, In shew to climb to heaven, when your devotion Walks upon crutches. Where did you waste your When the religious man was on his knees, [time. Speaking the heavenly language? Spun. Why, fellow Angelo, we were speaking in pedlar's French, I hope, Hir. We have not been idle, take it upon my worl. Ang. Have you the baskets emptied, which your Sent, from her charitable hands, to women ^lad ' That dwell upon her pity ? Spun. Emptied them ! yes ; I'd be loth to hare my belly so empty ; yet, I am sure, I munched not one bit of them neither. An*. And went your money to the prisoners? Hir. Went ! no ; I carried it, and with these fin- gers paid it away. 10 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr II. Aug. What way ? the devil's way, the way of sin, The way of hot damnation, way of lust ! And you, to wash away the poor man's bread In bowls of drunkenness. Spun. Drunkenness ! yes, yes, I use to be druuk ; our next neighbour's man, called Christopher, hath often seen me drunk, hath he not? Hir. Or me given so to the flesh ! my cheeks speak my doings. Ang. Arrant, ye thieves, and hollow hypocrites ! Your hearts to me lie open like black books, And there I read your doings. Spun. And what do you read in my heart ? Hir. Or in mine ? come, amiable Angelo, beat the flint of your brains. Spun. And let's see what sparks of wit fly out to kindle your cerebrum. [n'i us call'd, Ang. Your names even brand you ; youareSpun- And like a spunge, you suck up lickerish wines, Till your soul reels to hell. Spun. To hell ! can any drunkard's legs carry him so far ? food, Ang. For blood of grapes you sold the widows' And starving them 'tis murder : what's this but hell ? Ilircius your name, and goatish is your nature : You snatch the meat out of the prisoner's mouth, To fatten harlots : is not this hell too 1 No angel, but. the devil, waits on you. Spun, Shall I cut his throat ? Hir. No ; better burn him, for I think he is a witch ; but sooth, sooth him Spun. Fellow Angelo, true it is, that falling into the company of wicked he-christians, for my part Hir. And she-ones, for mine, we have them swim in shoals hard by Spun. We must confess, I took too much out of the pot ; and he of t'other hollow commodity. Hir. Yes, indeed, we laid Jill on both of us : we cozen 'd the poor ; but 'tis a common thing ; many a one, that counts himself a better Christian than we two, has done it, by this light. Spun. But pray, sweet Angelo, play not the tell- tale to my lady ; and, if you take us creeping into any of these mouse-holes of sin any more, let cats flay off our skins. Hir. And put nothing but the poison'd tails of rats into those skins. Ang. Will you dishonour her sweet, charity, Who saved you from the tree of death and shame ? Hir. Would I were hang'd, rather than thus be told of my faults. Spun. She took us, tis true, from the gallows ; yet I hope she will not bar yeomen sprats to have their swing. Ang, She comes, beware and mend. Hir. Let's break his neck, and bid him mend. Enter DOROTHEA. Dor. Have you my messages, sent to the poor, Deliver'd with good hands, not robbing them Of a*iy jot was theirs? Spun. Rob them, lady ! I hope neither my fellow nor I am thieves. IJir. Delivered with good hands, madam ! else let me never lick my fingers more when I eat but- ter'd fish. Dor. Who cheat the poor, and from them pluck their alms. Pilfer from heaven ; and there are thunderbolts From thence to beat them ever. Do not lie, Were you both faithful, true distributers ? Spun. Lie, madam ! what grief is it to see you turn swaggerer, and give your poor-minded rascally servants the lie. Dor. I'm gliid you do not ; if those wretched people Tell you they pine for want of any thing, Whisper but to mine ear, and you shall furnish them. Hir. Whisper! nay, lady, for my part I'll cry whoop. Aug. Play no more, villains, with so good a lady ; For, if you do Spun. Are we Christians ? Hir. The foul fiend snap all pagans for me. A tig. Away, and, once more, mend. Spun. Takes us for hoteliers. Hir. A patch, a patch !* [Exeunt Spun, and Hir Dor. My book and taper.f Aug. Here, most holy mistress. Dor. Thy rvoice sends forth such music, that I Was ravish 'd with a more celestial sound. [never Werf every servant in the world like thee, So full of goodness, angels would come down To dwell with us : thy name is Angelo, And like that name thou art ; get thee to res<, Thy youth with too much watching is opprest. Ang. No, my dear lady, I could weary stars, And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes By my late watching, but to wait on you. When at your prayers you kneel before the altar, Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven, So blest I hold me in your company : Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ; For then you break his heart. Dor. Be nigh me still, then ; In golden letters down I'll set that day, Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, This little, pretty body ; when I, coming Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy, My sweet-faced, godly beggar boy, crave an alms, Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand ! Arid when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom, Methought, was fill'd with no riot wanton fire, But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, On wings if cherubins, than it did before. Ang. Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye So likes so poor a servant. Doc. I have offer'd Ilandfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some, To dwell with thy good father ; for, the son Bewitching me so deeply with his presence, He that begot him must do't ten times more. 1 pray thee, my sweet boy, shew me thy parents ; Be not ashamed. Ang. I am not : I did never Know who my mother was : but, by yon palace * Hir. ' patch, a patch !} A knave a fool in this sense the word is evidently used in the following. "Here is such patcherie, such iugling and such knaverie." fihak. Troilns & Ores. Act II. Sc. 3. although now obsolete in the sense here intended ;t frequently occurs in the old dramatists. ED. + Dor. My booh and taper.] What follows, to the end of the scene, is exquisitely bediitilul. What pity that a man .so capable or interesting our best passions (tor I am persuaded that this also was written by Decker), shonld 'piMsiiiute his genius and his judgment to the production of what eould only disgrace himself, and disgust his reader. SCENE II.] THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. It Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand, [you, My father is in heaven : and pretty mistress, If vour illustrious hour-glass spend his sand No worse than yet it does, upon my life, You and I both shall meet my father there, And he shall bid you welcome. Dor. A blessed" day ! We all long to be there, but lose the way. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Street near DOROTHEA'S House. Enter MACRINUS, met by THEOPUILUS and HAUPAX. Theop. The Sun, god of the day, guide thee, Mac. And thee, Theophilus ! [Macrinus ! Theoph. Glad'st thou in such scorn* ? I call my wish b.ick. Mac. I'm in haste. Theoph. One word. Take the least hand of time up : stay : Mac. Be brief. [Macrinus, Theoph. As thought : I prithee tell me, good How health and our fair princess lay together This night, for you can tell ; courtiers have fliesf That buzz all news unto them. Mac. She slept but ill. Theoph. Doublethy courtesy ; how does Antoninus? Mac. Ill, well, straight, crooked, I know not how. Theoph. Once more ; Thy head is full of windmills : when doth the Fill a bed full of beauty, and bestow it [princess On Antoninus, on the wedding-night'? Mac. I know not. Thenph. No ! thou art the manuscript, Where Antoninus writes down all his secrets : Honest Macrinus, tell me. Mac. Fare you well, sir. [Exit. Harp. Honesty is some fiend, and frights him A many courtiers love it not}. [hence ; Theoph. What piece Of this state-wheel, which winds up Antoninus, Is broke, it runs so jarringly 1 the man Is from himself divided : O thou, the eye By which I wonders see, tell me, my Harpax, What gad-fly tickles this Macrinus so, That, flinging up the tail, he breaks thus from me. Harp. Oh, sir, his brain-pan is a bed of snakes, Whose stings shoot through his eye balls, whose poisonous spawn Ingenders such a fry of speckled villainies, That, unless charms more strong than adamant Be used, the Roman angel's$ wings shall melt, * Theoph. Glad'st thou in such scorn .'] Tliis is the reading of all the olt so good. j the Raman ang-.l's] As angels wore no part of the pagan theology, this should certainly be auyel from the Italian aiigeUo, wliieh means a bird. M. MASON. I. were to be wished that critics would sometimes apply lo themselves the advice which Guuerill gives t pool old Lear : . " I pray you, father, being weak, seem so ;" And Caesar's diadem be from his head Spurn'd by base feet ; the laurel which he wears, Returning victor, be enforced to kiss, That which it hates, the fire. And can this ram, This Antoninus-engine, being made ready To so much mischief, keep a steady motion ? His eyes and feet, you see, give strange assaults. Theoph. I'm turn'd a marble statue at thy language Which printed is in such crabb'd characters, It puzzles all my reading : what, in the name Of Pluto, now is hatching ? Harp. This Macrinus* The line is, upon which love-errands run 'Twixt Antoninus and that ghost of women, The bloodless Dorothea, who in prayer And meditation, mocking all your gods, Drinks up her ruby colour : yet Antoninus Plays the Endyrnion to this pale-faced moon, Courts, seeks to catch her eyes Theoph. And what of this ? Harp. These are but creeping billows, Not got to shore yet : but if Dorothea Fall on his bosom, and be fired with love, (\our coldest women do so,) had you ink Brew'd from the infernal Styx, not all that blackness Can make a thing so foul, as the dishonours, Disgraces, buffetings, and most base affronts Upon the bright Artemia, star o' th" court, Great Caesar's daughter. Theoph. I now conster thee. [fill'd Harp. Nay, more ; a firmament of clouds, being With Jove's artillery, shot down at once, To pashf your gods in pieces, cannot give, we should not then find so many of these certainties. The b.irbirons word auyel, of which Mr. M. Mason speaks so confidently, is foreign to our language, whereas anyel, in the sense of birds, occurs frequently. JUIIMHI beautifully calls the nightingale, "the dear good angel of the spiiiig ;" and if this should be thought, as it probably is, a Grecism ; yet we have the same term in another passage, which will admit of no dispuie : " Not an angel of the air ird melodious, or bird fair, &c. Two Noble Kinsmen. In Mandeville, the barbarous Herodotus of a baibar^u age, there is an account of a people (probably the remain* of the old Guebres) who exp< scd the dead bu!ii> c.f their parents to \\iefotrles of the air. They icserved, however, the sculls, of which, says he, the son, " letethe make a cuppe, and thereof drynkethe he with gret devocionn, in reniem- braunce of the holy man that the aunyelcs of God had eten. " By this expression," says Mr. Hole, " Mandeville postK- bly meant to insinuate that they were considered as> sacred messengers." No, surely : aunyeles of God, was synony- mous in Mandeville's vocabulary, lofowles of the air. With Greek phraseology he wa, perhaps, but little acquainted, but he knew his own language well. (By anyel is meant the Roman ensign, the eayle). The reader cannot but have already observed how ill the style of Decker assimilates wilh that of Massinger : in the former act Harpax had spoken surticiently plain, and told Theophilus of strange and important events, without these ha r h and violent starts and metaphors. * Harp. This Macrinus The line is, SfC.] The old copies read time. Before I w Mr. M. Mason's emendation, 1 had altered 'motiving. Line however, appears to be the genuine word. The allusion ii to the rude lire-works of our ancestors. So, in the fawn* by Marston. " Page. There be squibs, sir, running upon lines, like so.-r.e ot our gawdy gallants," &c., (an. I in Decker's Honest Whore. "Troth mistress, to tell you true, the fire-works then ran from me upon lines," o c. ) + To pash your yods in pieces ] So the old copies. Cox- eter (who is followed, as usual, by Mr. M. Mason), ignorant perhaps of the sense of pash, changed it to dash, a word of far lei* energy, and of a different meaning. The latter sig nines, to throw one thing with violence against another ; th IS THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr 11. With all those thunderbolts, so deep a blow To the religion there, and pagan lore, As this ; for Dorothea hates your gods, And, if she once blast Antoninus' soul, Making it foul like hers, Oh ! the example Tkeofih. Eats through Caesarea's heart like liquid poison. Have I invented tortures to tear Christians, To see but which, could all that feel hell's torments Have leave to stand aloof here on earth's stage, They would be mad 'till they again descended, Holding the pains most horrid of such souls, May-games to those of mine : has this my hand Set down a Christian's execution In such dire postures, that the very hangman Fell at my foot dead, hearing but their figures ; And shall Macrinus and his fellow-masker Strangle me in a dance? Harp. N o ; on ; I hug thee, For drilling thy quick brains in this rich plot Of tortures 'gainst these Christians : on ; I hug thee ! Theoph. Both hug and holy me ; to this Dorothea Fly thou and I in thunder. Harp. Not for kingdoms Piled upon kingdoms : there's a villain page Waits on her, whom I would not for the world Hold traffic with ; I do so hate his sight That, should 1 look on him, I must sink down. Theoph. I will not lose thee then, her to confound ; None but this head with glories shall be crown'd. Harp. Oh ! mine own as I would wish thee. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Room in DOROTHEA'S House. Enter DOROTHEA, MACRINUS, and ANGELO. Dor. My trusty Angelo, with that curious eye Of thine, which ever waits upon my busine'ss, I prithee watch those my still-negligent servants, That they perform my will, in what's enjoin'd them To the good of others ; else will you find them flies, Not lying still, yet in them no good lies : Be careful, dear boy. Ang. Yes, my sweetest mistress.* [Exit. Dor. Now, sir, you may go on. Mac. I then must study A new arithmetic, to sum up the virtues Which Antoninus gratefully become. There is in him so much man, so much goodness, ormer, to strike a thing with such force as to crush it to piece*. Thus in Act IV. of this tragedy : when the battering ram Was fetching his career backwards, to path, Me witb his horns in pieces." The word is now obsolete ; which it to be regretted, as we have none that can adequately supply its place : it is used in its proper sense by Dryden, which is tiie latest instance 1 recollect : " Thy cunning engines have with labour raised My heavy anger, like a mighty weight, To fall and path thee." Mr. Gifford might have added the following illustration iu which the distinction between posh and dash is pointedly marked. " They left him (Bccket) not till they had cut and poshed out his brains, and dashed them about upon the church pavement." Holinshed, Hen. II. an. 1171. It would not be difficult to cite many c.thcr authorities to mpport of the use here made of this now obsolete word. Shaks- peare frequently u.es it. ED. Ang. Yeg, my sweetest mistress.] So the old copies : the modern editors read, Ye>, my sweet mistress, which de- Uovs the metre. So much of honour, and of all things else, Which make our being excellent, that from his store He can enough lend others ; yet, much ta'en from him, The want shall be as little, as when seas Lend from their bounty, to fill up the poorness* Of needy rivers. Dor. Sir he is more indebted To you for praise, than you to him that owes it. Mac. If queens, viewing his presents paid to th whiteness Of your chaste hand alone, should be ambitious But to be parted in their numerous shares ;f This he counts nothing : could you see main armies Make battles in the quarrel of his valour, That 'tis the best, the truest, this were nothing j The greatness of his state, his father's voice And arm awing Ca;sarea,| he ne'er boasts of; The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him, Shine there but us in water, and gild him Not with one spot of priile : no, dearest beauty, All these, heap'd up together in one scale, Cannot weigh down the love he bears to you, Being put into the other. Dor. Could gold buy you To speak thus for a friend, you, sir, are worthy Of more than I will number ; and this your language Hath power to win upon another woman, Top of whose heart the feathers of this world Are gaily stuck : but all which first you numed, And now this last, his love, to me are nothing. Mac. You make me a sad messenger ; but him- self Enter ANTONINUS. Being come in person, shall, I hope, hear from you Music more pleasing. Anton. Has your ear, Macrinus, Heard none, then ? Mac. None I like. Anton. But can there be In such a noble casket, wherein lie Beauty and chastity in their full perfections, A rocky heart, killing with cruelty A life that's prostrated beneath your feet? Dor. 1 am guilty of a shame I yet ne'er knew, Thus to hold parley with you ; pray, sir, pardon. Anton. Good sweetness, you now have it, and shall Be but so merciful, before your wounding me [goj With such a mortal weapon as Farewell, To let me murmur to your virgin ear, What I was loth to lay on any tongue But this mine own. Dor. If one immodest accent Fly out, 1 ha!e you everlastingly. Anton. My true love dares not do it. Mac. Hermes inspire thee ! * to Jill up the poorness.] The modern editors read I know not why to Jill up their poornets .' 1 Jiut to be paite;! in their numerous shares ;] This the former editors have modernized into But to be partners, &c. a better word, perhaps, but not for that, to be unwarrantably thrust into the text. The expression may be found in the writers of our author's age, especially in Ben Jonson, in the sense here required: to be parted ; to be favoured, or en- dowed with a part. J And arm awing Ctesarca.] I have ventured to differ here from all the copies, which read owing ; the error, if it be one, as I think it is, probably arose from llic expression being taken down by the ear. SCENE III.] THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 13 Enter above, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, TUEOPHILUS, SFVXGIUS, and HIRCICS. Spun. So, now, do you see ? Our work is done ; the fish you angle for is nibbling at the hook, and therefore untruss the cod-piece-point of our reward no matter if the breeches of conscience fall about our heels. Theoph. The gold you earn is here ; dam up your And no words of it. [mouths, Hir. No ; nor no words from you of too much damning neither. I know women sell themselves dailv, and are hacknied out for silver : why may not we, then, betray a scurvy mistress for gold ? Spun. She saved us from the gallows, and, only to keep one proverb from breaking his neck, we'll hang her. [white boys. Theoph. 'Tis well done ; go, go, you're my fine Spun. If your red boys, 'tis well known more ill- favoured faces than ours are painted. Sap. Those fellows trouble us. Theoph. Away, away! Hir. I to my sweet placket. Spun. And I to my full pot. [Exeunt. Hir. and Spun. Anton. Come let me tune you : glaze not thus With self-love of a vowed virginity, [your eyes Make every man your glass ; you see our sex Do never murder propagation ; We all desire your sweet society, And if you bar me from it, you do kill me, And of my blood are guilty. Artem. O base villain ! Sap. Bridle your rage, sweet princess. Anton. Could not my fortunes, Rear'd higher far than yours, be worthy of you, Methinks my dear affection makes you mine. Dor. Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines of He that I love is richer ; and for w orth, [gold, You are to him lower than any slave Is to a monarch. Sap. So insolent, base Christian ! Dor. Can I, with wearing out mv knees before Get you but be his servant, you shall boast [him, You re equal to a king. Sap. Confusion on thee, For playing thus the lying sorceress ! [the sun Anton. Your mocks are great ones ; none beneath Will I be servant to. On my knees 1 beg it, Pity me, wondrous maid. Sap. I curse thy baseness. Theoph. Listen to more. Dor. O kneel not, sir, to me. Anton, This knee is emblem of an humbled heart : That heart which tortured is with your disdain, Justly for scorning others, even this heart, To which for pity such a princess sues, As in her hand offers me all the world, Great Caesar's daughter. Artem. Slave, thou liest. Anton. Yet this Is adamant to her, that melts to you In drops of blood. Theoph. A very dog ! Anton. Perhaps Tis my religion makes you knit the brow ; Yet be you mine, and ever be your own : I ne'er will screw your conscience from that Power, On which you Christians lean. Sap. I can no longer Fret out my life with weeping at thee, villain. Sirrah ! [AUmd, Would, when I got thee, the high Thunderer's hand Had struck thee in the womb ! Mac. We are betrav'd. Artem. Is that the Idol, traitor, which thou kneel'st Trampling upon my beauty ? [to, Theoph. Sirrah, bandog* ! Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter For her? our .Mars for her ? our Sol for her ? A whore! a hell-hound ! In this globe of brains, Where a whole world of furies for such tortures Have fought, as in a chaos, which should exceed, These nails shall grubbing lie from skull to skull, To find one horrider than all, for you, You three ! Artem. Threaten not, but strike : quick vengeance Into my bosomf ! caitiff! here all love dies. [flies [Ezeunl above. Anton. O ! I am thunderstruck ! \Ve are both o'erwhelm'd Mac. With one high-raging billow. Dor. You a soldier, And sink beneath the violence of a woman ! Anton. A woman ! a wrong'd princess. From such a star Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for, But tragical events? my life is now The subject of her tyranny. Dor. That fear is base. Of death, when that death doth but life displace Out of her house of earth ; you only dread The stroke, and not what follows when you're dead There's the great fear, indeed^ : come, let your eyes Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies. He-enter below, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, TIIEOPHILUS, o guard ; ANGEI.O comes and stands close by DORO- THEA. Artem. My father's nerves put vigour in minearm, And I his strength must use. Because I once Shed beams of favour on thee, and, with the lion, Play'd with thee gently, when thou struck'st my I'll not insult on a base, humbled prey, [heart, Theoph. Sirrah, bandog. J T'ilt thou in pieces tear our Jvpiter.] A bandog, as the name imports, was a (log so fierce, as to require to be chained up. Bandogs are frequently mentioned by our old writers (indeed the word ocrurs three times in this very play) and always with a reference to their savage nature. If the term was appropriated to a species, it probably meant a large dog, of the mastiff kind, which, tlu-ugh no longer met with here, is still common in many parts of Germany : it was familiar to Snyders.and is found in most of his hunt- ing-pieces. In this country the bandog was kept to bait bears: with the dtclinc of that " noble !-port," peihap.*, tlie animal fell into disuse, as he was too ferocious fur any domestic pur- pose. !Mr. (lilchrist has furnished me with a curious pas- fage from Laneham, which renders any further details on the subject unnecessary. ' On the sjxili d.iy Dsition to heathenism. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr. III. Dor. I shall do it Better by their example. Theoph. They shall guide you, They are familiar with the sacrifice. Forward, my twins of comfort, and, to teach her, Make a joint offering. Christ. Thus [they both spit at the image, Cal. And thus throw it down, and spurn it. Harp^ Profane, And impious ! stand you now like a statue ? Are you the champion of the gods ? where is Your holy zeal, your anger? Theoph. I am blasted ; And, as my feet were rooted here, I find T have no motion ; I would I hud no sight too ! Or if my eyes can serve to any use*, Give me, thou injured Power! a sea of tears, To expiate this madness in my daughters ; For, being themselves, they would have trembled at So blasphemous a deed in any other : For my sake, hold awhile thy dreadful thunder, And give me patience to demand a reason Fur this accursed act. Dor. ' I'was bravely done. [should look on you Theo h. Peace, damn'd enchantress, peace! I With eyes made red with fury, and my hand, That shakes with rage, should much outstrip my tongue, And seal my vengeance on your hearts ; but nature, To you that have fallen once, bids me again To be a father. Oh ! how durst you tempt The anger of great Jove ? Dor. Alack, poor Jove ! He is no swaggerer ; how smug he stands ' He'll take a kick, or any thing. Sap. Stop her mouth. Dor. It is the patient'st godlingf; do not fear him ; He would not hurt the thief that stole away Two of his golden locks ; indeed he could not And still 'tis the same quiet thing Tlieop. Blasphemer ! Ingenious cruelty shall punish this ; Thou art past hope : but for you yt j t$, dear daughters, Again bewitch'd, the dew of mild forgiveness May gently fall, provided you deserve it With true contrition : be yourselves again ; Sue to the offended deity. Christ. Not to be The mistress of the earth. Cal. 1 will (iot offer A grain of incense to it, much less kneel, Nor look on it but with contempt and scorn, To have a thousand years conferr'd upon me Of worldly blessings.- We profess ourselves To be, like Dorothea, Christians, And owe her for that happiness. Theop. My ears Receive, in hearing this, all deadly charms, Powerful to make man wretched. Artem. Are these they You bragg'd could convert others ! Or if my eyes can serve to any use,} The modern editors roHti ; Or if my ei/es can serve to any other use. Other, which desiroys ; ,t once Hit n, ire and ihe jenje is an absurd interpolation ,,f i| le quartos 1631 and 16C1 Dor. Jt is the patient'si yodling ; I have inserted this word at the recommendation ol Mr. M. Mason. The old copies concur in reading ancirnt'gt. bxtforyou yet,] Yet. which completes the verse, I now restored from the tirst edil'on. Sap. That want strength To stand themselves ! Harp. Your honour is engaged, The credit of your cause depends upon it ; Something you must do suddenly. Theoph. And 1 will. Harp. They merit death ; but, falling by your hand, 'Twill be recorded for a just revenge, And holy fury in vou. Theoph. Do not blow The furnace of a wrath thrice hot already ; ^Ctna is in mv breast, wildfire burns here, Which only blood must quench. Incensed Power ! Which from my infancy I have adored, Look down with favourable beams upon The sacrifice, though not allow 'd thy priest, Which I will offer to thee , and be pleased (My fiery zeal inciting me to act) To call that justice others may style murder. Come, you accurs'd, thus by the hair I drag you Before this holy altar ; thus look on you, Less pitiful than tigers to their prey : And thus with mine own hand 1 take that life Which I gave to you. [Kills them. Dor. O most cruel butcher ! Theoph. My anger ends not here : hell's dreadful Receive into thy ever-open gates, [porter. Their damned souls, and let the Furies' whips On them alone be wasted ; and, when death Closes these eyes, 'twill be Elysium to me To hear their shrieks and bowlings. Make me, Pluto, Thy instrument to furnish thee with souls Of that accursed sect ; nor let me fall, Till my fell vengeance hath consumed them all. [Exit, Harpax hugging him. Artem. 'Tis a brave zeal*. [Enter Angela smiling. Dor. Oh, call him back again, Call back your hangman ! here's one prisoner left To be the subject of his knife. Art. Not so ; We are not so near reconciled unto thee ; Thou shalt not perish such an easy way. Be she your charge, Sapritius, now ; and suffer None to come near her, till we have found out Some torments worthy of her. Ang. Courage, mistress, These martyrs but prepare your glorious fate ; You shall exceed them, and not imitate. [Exeunt, SCENE III. A Room in DOROTHEA'S House. Enter SPUNGIUS and Hincius, ragged, at apposite doors- Hir. Spungius ! [tattered world* ? Spun. My line rogue, how is it? how goes this Hir. Hast any money ? Spun. Money ! No, The tavern ivy clings about my money, and kills it. Hast thou any mone\M ? Hir. No. My money is a mad bull ; and finding any gap opened, away it runs. * Artem "J'it a brave zeal.] The first two quartos have a stage direction here, which Coxeter and M. Mason lol- low : Enter Artemia lauyhiny. But Anemia continues on the stage : the error was i-ten and removed by ihe quarto 1051, which roads as 1 have tiven it. + how goes this tattered world? These odion wretches hut tliey are not woith a line. Mr. Malone ob- serves that tattered is spelt with an o in the old editions ol Sliak.'peare: this is the first opportunity I have ha:i fc mentioning, that Massingrr conforms to the s^me practice The modem editors sometimes adopl one mode of spelling it, and sometime* another, as if the woids were ditierentl It is bust to be uniform. SCENE III.] THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 19 Spiin. I see then a tavern and a bawdy-house have faces much alike ; the one hath red grates next the door, the other hath peeping- holes within- doors : the tavern hath evermore a bush, the bawdy-house sometimes neither hedge nor bush. From a tavern man comes reeling ; from a bawdy-house, not able to btand In the tavern you are cozen'd with paltry wine ; in a bawdv-house, by a painted whore : money may have wine, and a whore will have money ; but to neither can you cry, Drawer, you rogue ! or, Keep door, rotten bawd ! without a silver whistle : We are justly plagued, therefore, for running from our mistress. Hir. Thou didst ; I did not : Yet I had run too, but that one gave me turpentine pills, and that staid my running, Spun. Well ! the thread of my life is drawn through the needle of necessity, whose eye, looking upon my lousy breeches, cries out it cannot mend them ; which so pricks the linings of my body (and those are, heirt, lights, lungs, guts, and midriff), that I beg on my knees, to have Afropos, the tailor to the Des- tinies, to take her sheers, and cut my thread in two, or to heat the iron goose of mortality, and so press me to death. Hir. Sure thy father was some botcher, and thy hungry tongue bit off these shreds of complaints, to patch up the elbows of thy nitty eloquence. Spun. And what was thy father ? Hir. A low-minded cobler, a cobler whose zeal set many a woman upright ; the remembrance of whose awl (I now having nofning)thrusts such scurvyatitcb.es into my soul, that the heel of my happiness is gone awry. Spun. Pity that e'er thou trod'st thy shoe awry. Hir. Long I cannot last ; for all sovvterly wax of comfort melting away, and misery taking- the length of my foot, it boots not me to sue for life, when all my hopes are seam-rent, and go wet-shod. Spun. This shews thou art a cobler's son, by going through stitch : O Hircius, would thou and I were so happy to be coblers ! Hir. So would I ; for both of us being weary of our lives, should then be sure of shoemakers' ends. Spun. I see the beginning of my end, for I am almost starved. Hir. So am not I ; but I am more than famish'd. Spun. All the members in my body are in a re- bellion one against another. ///). So are mine ; and nothing but a cook, being a constable, can appease them, presenting to my nose instead of his painted staff, a spit full of roast meat. Spun. But in this rebellion, what uproars do they make ! my belly cries to my mouth, \Vhy dost not g-ape and feed me 1 Hir. And my mouth sets out a throat to my hand, A\ hy dost not thou lift up meat, and cram mv chops with it ? Spun. Then my hand hath a fling at mine eyes because they look not out, and shark for victuals. Hir. Which mine eyes seeing, full of tears, cry aloud, and curse my feet, for not ambling up and down to feed colon, sithence if good meat be in any place, 'tis known my feet can smell. Spun. But then my feet, like lazy rogues, lie still, and had rather^do nothing, than run to and fro to purchase any thing. Hir. Why, among so many millions of people, should thou and I only be miserable tatterdema^ons, ragamuffins, and lousy desperates 1 Spun. Thou art a mere I-am-an-o, I-am-an-as : consider the whole world, and 'tis as we are. Hir. Lousy, beggarly ! thou whoreson assa foetidal Spun. Worse; all tottering, all out of frame, thou fooliamini ! Hir. As how, arsenic ? c^rtm, make the world smart . Spun. Old honour goes on crutches, beggary rides caroched ; honest men make feasts, knaves sit at tables, cowards are lapp'd in velvet, soldiers (as we) in rags ; beauty turns whore, whore, bawd, and both die of the pox : why then, when all the world stumbles, should thou and I walk upright 1 Hir. Stop, look! who's yonder'' Enter ANGELO. Spun. Fellow Angelo! how does my little man, Ang. Yes ; [well '! And would you did so, too. Where are your clothes? Hir. Clothes ! You see every woman almost go in her loose gown, and why should not we have our clothes loose '! Spun. Would they were loose ! Ang. Why, where are they ? Spun. Where many a velvet cloak, I warrant, at this hour, keeps them company ; they are pawned to a broker. Ang. Why pawn'd ? where's all the gold I left with you ? Hir. The gold ! we put that into a scrivener's hands, and he hath cozened us. Spun. And therefore, I prithee, Angelo, if 'thou hast another purse, let it be confiscate, and brought to devastation. [way Ang. Are you made all of lies ? I know which Your guilt-wing'd pieces flew. I will no more Be mockt by you : be sorry for your riots, Tame your wild flesh by labour ; eat the bread Got with hard hands ; let sorrow be your whip, To draw drops of repentance from your heart : When I read this amendment in your eyes, You shall not want ; till then, my pity dies. [Exit. Spun. Is it not a shame, that this scurvy puerilis should give us lessons. Hir. I have dwelt, thou tnow'st, a long time in the suburbs of conscience, and they are ever bawdy ; but now my heart shall take a house within the walls of honesty. Enter HARPAX behind. Spun. O you drawers of wine, draw me nd more to the bar of beggary ; the sound of score a pottle oj sack, is worse than the noise of a scolding oyster- wench, or two cats incorporating. Harp. This must not be 1 do not like when conscience [tei ~ . Thaws ; keep her frozen still. How now, my mas- Dejected 1 drooping? drown'd in tears? clothes torn ? [wind Lean, and iU colour'd ? sighing ? where's the whirl- Which raises all these mischiefs ? I have seen you Drawn better on't. O ! but a spirit told me You both would come to this, when in you thrust* Yourselves into the service of that lady, [praying 1 W r ho shortly now must die. Where's now Ler when in you thrust. I In, which completes the verse, was omitted by Mr. M. Mason, from an opinion perhaps, that it was superfluous to the S(.'U~e. But this \va the language of the times : for the rest, this whole act ii most carel-ssly priatel by the Ivt editors. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr. Ill What good got you by wearing out your feet, To run on scurvy errands to the poor, And to bear money to a sort* of rogue And lousy prisoners ? Hir. Pox on them ! I never prospered since I did it. Spun. Had I been a pagan still, I should not have spit white for want of drink ; but come to any vintner now, and bid him trust me, because 1 turned Christian, and he cries, Poh ! Harp. You're rightly served ; before that peevishf lady Had to do with you, women, wine and money Flow'd in abundance with you, did it not 1 Hir. Oh, those days ! those days! f Harp. Beat not your breasts, tear not your hair in madness ; Those days shall come again, be ruled by me, And better, mark me, better. Spun. I have seen you, sir, as I take it, an attendant on the lord Theophilus. Harp. Yes, yes ; in shew his servant ; but hark, Take heed no body listens. [hither ! Spun. Not a mouse stirs. Harp. I am a prince disguised. Hir. Disguised ! how } drunk ? Harp Yes, my fine boy ! I'll drink too, and be I am a prince, and any man by me, [drunk ; Let him but keep my rules, shall soon grow rich, Exceeding rich, most infinitely rich : lie that shall serve me, is not starved from pleasures As other poor knaves are ; no, take their nil. Spun, But that, sir, we're so ragged Harp. You'll say, you'd serve me ? Hir. Before any master under the zodiac. Harp. For clothes no matter ; I've a mind to both. And one thing I like in you ; now that you see The bonfire of your lady's state burnt out, You give it over, do you not ? Hir. Let her be liang'd ! Spun. And pox'd ! Harp. Why, now you're mine; Come, let my bosom touch you. Spuu. We have bugs, sir. Harp. There's money, fetch your clothes home ; there's for you. * And to bear money to a sort of rogues, -&c.] Or, as we fhoiil'l now say to a set, or parcel of rogues. The word recur: so frequently in this sense, in our old writers, that it seems almost miiici-i:>-;ny to give any examples of it : " Here are a tort of poor petitioners, That are importunate." Spanish Tragedy. Again : " And, like a tort of true born scavenger?, Scour me this famous realm of enemies." Anight of tJte Burning Pestle. (This word, will) asimilHr.nieaning to that here intended, frequently occurs in Sliakspeare, as " But tl.ty can see a sort of Traitors here." Richard, II. Again in Richard III. "a sort of vagabonds, rascaU, and runaways." ED). + before that peevish ! ;dy Had to do with you,] Peevish is foolish ; thus, in the Merry W'lves of H indsor, Mrs. Quickly sa^s of her felbw- ciTvaiit, " His worst fault is, that lie is given to prayer ; he is something peevish that way." Mr Malone thinks this to he one of dame Quickly'* blunders, and that she means to say precise: but 1 believe he is mistaken. In Jlycke ticorner, the word is used in the very sense here given : For an 1 shulcle do alter your scole To loarn to pater to make me pcvysse." Again, in God't liecenge ayainst Adultery ; " Albemare kept a man-fool of, some lorty yeais old in his house, who indeed was so naturally peevish, as not Milan, haidly Italy, could match him lor simplicity." Hir. Avoid, vermin ! give over our mistress ! man cannot prosper worse, if he serve the devil. Harp. How ! the devil ? I'll tell you what now of the devil. He's no such horrid creature ; cloven-footed Black, saucer-eyed, his nostrils breathing fire, As these lying Christians make him. Both. No! Harp. He's more loving To man, than man to man is*. Hir. Is he so ? Would we two might come acquainted with him ! Harp. You shall: he's a wondrous good fellow, loves a cup of wine, a whore, any thing ; if you have money, it's ten to one but I'll bring him to him. some tavern to you or other. Spun. I'll bespeak the best room in the house foi Harp. Some people he cannot endure. Hir. We'll give him no such cause. Harp. He hates a civil lawyer, as a soldier does peace. Spun. How a commoner f? Harp. Loves him from the teeth outward. Spun. Pray, my lord at.d prince, let me encounter you with one foolish question : does the devil eat any mace in his broth ? Harp. Exceeding much, when his burning fever takes him ; and then he has the knuckles of ;. bailiff boiled to his breakfast. Hir. Then, my lord, he loves a catchpole, does he not? Harp. As a bearward doth a dog. A catchpole ' he hath sworn, if ever he dies, to make a Serjeant his heir, and a yeoman his overseer. Spun. How if lie come to any great man's gate, will the porter let him come in, sir! Harp. Oh ! he loves porters of great men's gates because they are ever so near the wicket. Hir. Do not they whom he makes much on, for all his streaking their cheeks, lead hellish lives under him ? * Harp. No, no, no, no ; he will be damn'd before he hurts any man : do but you (when you are throughly acquainted with him) ask for any thing, see if it does not come. ^l^iin. Any thing ! Harp. Call for a delicate rare whore, she is brought you. Hir. Oh! my elbow itches. Will the devil keep the door? Harp. Be drunk as a beggar, he helps you home. Spun. O my fine devil ! some watchman, I war- rant ; I wonder who is his constable. Harp. Will you swear, roar, swagger? he claps you Hir. How ? on the chaps ? Harp. No, on the shoulder ; and cries, O, my brave boys ! Will any of you kill a man ? Spun. Yes, yes; 1, I. Harp. What is his word? Hang! hang! t's nothing. Or stab a woman? Harp. lie's more lot ing To man, than man to man is.] Thongli this horrid pros- titution of that line sentiment in Juvenal, Carior eat Hits homo quum sibi, may not be altogether out of character lor the speaker ; it were to be wished it had not been employed. To say the truth, the whole of this scene, more especially what jet remains ol it, is as foolish as it is profligate. t Spun. How a commoner?] That is a common lawyer. M. Mason. SCENE I.] THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Hir. Yes, yes ; I, I. Harp. Here is the worst word he gives you : A pox on't, go on ! Hir. O inveigling rascal ! I am ravish'd. Harp. Go, get your clothes ; turn up your glass of youth, And let the sands run merrily ; nor do I care From what a lavish hand your money flies, So you give none away to beggars Hie. Hang them ! Harp. And to the scrubbing poor. Hir. I'll see them hang'd first. Hurp. One service you must do me. Both. Any thing. Harp. Your mistress, Dorothea, ere she suffers, Is to be put to tortures : have you hearts To tear her into shrieks, to fetch her soul Up in the pangs of death, yet not to die 1 Hir. Suppose this she, and that 1 had no hands, here's my teeth. Spun. Suppose this she, and that I had no teeth, here's my nails. Hir. But will not you be there, sir? [master Harp. No, not for hills of diamonds; the grand Who schools her in the Christian discipline. Abhors my company : should I be there, [quarrel You'd think all hell broke loose, we should so Ply you this business ; he, her flesh who spares, Is lost, and in my love never more shares. [Exit. Spun. Here's a master, you rogue ! Hir. t Sure he cannot choose but have a horrible number of servants. [Exeunt. ACT IV SCENE I. The Governor's Palace. ANTONINUS sick, u-itJi Doctors about him ; SAPRITIUS and MACRIXVS. Sap. O you, (hat are half gods, lengthen that life Their deities lend us ; turn o'er all the volumes Of your mysterious JEsculapian science, T' increase the number of this young man's days ; And, for each minute of his time prolong'd, Your fee shall be a piece of Roman gold With Caesar's stamp, such as he sends his captains When in the wars they earn well : do but save him, And, as he's half myself, be you all mine. [hand Doct. What art can do, we promise ; physic's As apt is to destroy as to preserve, If heaven make not the med'cine : all this while, Our skill hath combat held with his disease ; But 'tis' so arm'd, and a deep melancholy, To be such in part with death*, we are in fear The grave must mock our labours. Mac. I have been His keeper in this sickness, with such eyes As I have seen my mother watch o'er me ; And, from that observation, sure I find It is a midwife must deliver him. Sap. Is he with child 1 a midwife t ! Mac. Yes, with child ; And will, I fear, lose life, if by a woman He is not brought to bed. Stand by his pillow Some little while, and in his broken slumbers, Him shall you hear cry out on Dorothea ; And, when his arms fly open to catch her, Closing together, he falls fast asleep, Pleased with embracings of her airy form. Physicians but torment him, his disease Laughs at their gibberish language ; let him hear The voice of Dorothea, nay, but the name, He starts up with high colour in his face : * To be tuch in part with death,] Mr. M. Mason reads, after Coxeter, To tuch in part with death, and explains it to mean " To sucli a degree. " I doubt whether he under- stood his own explanation or not. The genuine reading, which 1 have restored, takes away all difficulty I'ro.n tlie passage. t Sap. /* hf with ch'-ld? a midwife ! ! The modern editon read, 4 inidirij'e ' i* he with child ? Had they no She, or none, cures him ; and how that can be, The princess* strict command, barring that happiness, To me impossible seems. Sap. To me it shall not : I'll be no subject to the greatest Ca;sar Was ever crown'd with laurel, rather than cease To be a father. [Erit Mac. Silence, sir, l.e wakes. Anton. Thou kill'st me, Dorothea ; oh, Dorothea! Mac. She's here : enjoy her. Anton. Where? Why do vou mock me 1 Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet, Yet I am an old man, a fond dealing fool Upon a woman. I, to buy her beauty, (In truth I am be witch 'd,') offer my life, And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers ; Yet, for our equal sufferings none holds out A hand of pity. Doct. Let him have some music. Anton. Hell on your fiddling! Doct. Take again your bed, sir , Sleep is a sovereign physic. Anton. Take an ass's head, sir : Confusion on your fooleries, your charms ! Thou stinking clyster-pipe, where's the god of rest, Thy pills and base apothecary drugs Threaten'd to bring unto me ? Out, you impostors! Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks ! your skill Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill. Mac. Oh, be yourself, dear friend. Anton. Myself, Macrinus ! How can I be myself when I am mangled Into a thousand pieces ? here moves my head, But where's my heart? wherever that lies dead. Ee-enter SAFIUTIUS, dragging in DOROTHEA by the hair, ANGF.IO attending. Sap. Follow me, thou damn'd sorceress ! call up thy spirits, And, if they can, now let them from my hard Untwine these witching hairs. Anton. I am that spirit : Or, if I be not, were you not my father, One made of iron should hew that hand in pieces, That so defaces this sweet monument Of my love's beauty. Sap. Art thou sick ? THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr IV Anton. To death. Sap. Wouldst them recover ? Anton. Would I live in bliss ! Sap. And the emendation of Mr. M. Mason. It appear* a happy substitution for the old reading, which w:is, O treasure, &c. t Come, and, unseen, be witness to this battery How the coy strumpet yields.} These two lines are ad- dressed to Macrinus and the doctors. 'M. Mason. t you, hitherto, Have still had yoodnen jp.ir'd within your eyes, Let not that orb be broken. , The word urb in this last line proves that we should read sphered instead of spar'd ; the latter, indeed, made the passage nonsense, which is now very poetical. M. Mason. Mr. M. Mason if somewhat rash in his assertion : sparred, Is shvtup, ittclofed, it is not therefore nonsense. 1 have, however, adopted his emendation, which, if not just, is at least ingenious. Wliich I abhor, as much as the blackest sin The villainy of man did ever act. [Sapritms breaks in with Macrinus. Ang. Die happy for this language. Sap. Die a slave A blockish idiot ! Mac. Dear sir, vex him not. [geldings : Sap. Yes, and vex thee too ; both, I think, are Cold, phlegmatic bastard, thou'rt no brat of mine; One spark of me, when I had heat like thine, By this had made a bonfire : a tempting whore, For whom thou'rt mad, thrust e'en into thine arms, And stand'st thou puling! had a tailor seen her At this advantage, he, with his cross capers Had ruffled her by this : but thou shall curse Thy dalliance*, and here, before her eyes, Tear thy own flesh in pieces, when a slave In hot lust bathes himself, and gluts those pleasures Thy niceness durst not touch. Call out a slave; You, captain of our guard, fetch a slave hither. Anton. What will you do, dear sir? [learn Sap. Teach her a trade, which many a one would In less than half an hour, to play the whore. Enter A SLAVE. Mac. A slave is come ; what now ? Sap. Thou hast bones and flesh Enough to ply thy labour : from what country Wert thou ta'en prisoner, here to be our slave; Slave. From Britain. Sap. In the west ocean? Slave, Yes. Sap. An island ? Slave. Yes. Sap. I'm fitted: of all nations Our Roman swords e'er conquered, none comes near The Briton for true whoring. Sirrah fellow, What wouldst thou do to gain thy liberty? Slave. Do ! liberty ! fight naked wth a lion, Venture to pluck a standard from the heart Of an arm'd legion. Liberty! I'd thus Bestride a rampire, and defiance spit I' the face of death, then, when the battering-ram Was fetching his career backward, to pash Me with his horns in pieces. To shake my chains ofi, And that 1 could not do't but by thy death, Stood'st thou on this dry shore, I on a rock Ten pyramids high, down would I leap to kill thee, Or die myself: what is for man to do I'll venture on, to be no more a slave. [thee Sap. Thou shalt, then, be no slave, for I will set Upon a piece of work is fit for man, Brave for a Briton : drag that thing aside, And ravish her, Slave. And ravish her ! is this your manly service ? A devil scorns to do it ; 'tis for a beast, A villain, not a man : I am as yet, But half a slave; but when that work is past, A damned whole one, a black ugly slave, The slave of all base slaves : do't thyself, Roman, 'Tis drudgery fit for thee. Sap. He's bewitch'd too : Bind him, and with a bastinado give him, Upon his naked belly, two hundred blows. Slave. Thou art more slave than I. [He is carried in. -but thou shalt curse Thy dalliance,] i. e. thy hesitation, thy delay : " Coo I lord ! you use this dalliance to excnse Your breach of promise." Comedy le flattened at the end, } Proud whore, it milet .'] So the old copies ; the modern editors read, sh* smile*. lu every page, and almost in every speech, I have had to remove these imaginary improvements of the author's phraseology. Spun. We serve that noble gentleman*, there ; he enticed us to this dry beating: oh! for one half pot. Harp. My servants ! two base rogues, and some- time servants To her, and for that cause forbear to hurt her. Sop. Unbind her, hang up these. Theoph. Hang the two hounds on the next tree. Hir. Hang us ! master Harpax, what a devil, shall we be thus used ? [a woman. Harp. What bandogs but you two would worry Your mistress ? I but clapt you, you flew on. Say I should get your lives, each rascal beggar Would, when he met you, cry out Hell-hounds ! traitors ! Spit at you, fling dirt at you ; and no woman Ever endure your sight : 'tis your best course Now, had you secret knives, to stab yourselves ; But, since you have not, go and be hang'd. Hir. I thank you. Harp. 'Tis your best course. Theoph. Why stay they trifling here ? To th' gallows drag them by the heels ; away. Spun. By the heels ! no, sir, we have legs to do us that service. Hir. Ay, ay, if no woman can endure my sight, away with me. Harp. Dispatch them. Spun. The devil dispatch thee ! [Exeunt Guard with Spungius and Hirciut, Sap. Death this day rides in triumph, Theophilus. See this witch made away too. Theoph. My soul thirsts for it. Come, I myself the hangman's part could play. Dor. haste me to my coronation day! [Exeunt. SCENE Illf. The Place of Execution. A sea/old, block, Jfc. Enter ANTONINUS, MACRINUS, and Servants Anton. Is this the place where virtue is to suffer, And heavenly beauty leaving this base earth, To make a glad return from whence it came ? Is it, Macrinus ? Mac. By this preparation, You well may rest assured that Dorothea This hour is to die here. Anton. Then with her dies The abstract of all sweetness that's in woman ! Set me down, friend, that, ere the iron hand Of death close up mine eyes, they may at once Take my last leave both of this light and her : For, she being gone, the glorious sun himself To me's Cimmerian darkness. Mac. Strange affection! ! * Spun, ffg serve that noble gentleman, fee.] Thi is the lectfen of the first quarto. The modern editors follow the others, which incorrectly read, We sere'd, &c. + From hence, to the conclusion of the act, I recognise the hand of Massinger. There may be (and probably are) finer passages in our dramatic poets, but I am not acquainted with them. J Mac. fitrange affrctitm T Cupid once more hath changed his fhafts with Death, And kilt*, instead of giving life.] This is a most beauti- ful allusion to a littie poem among the Eleyies of fiteundu*. Jupiil and Death unite in the destruction of a lover, and in udeavouring to recover their weapons from the body ot he victim, commit a mutual mistake, each plucking out the ' thal'ts" of the other. The consequences of this are pret ily described : Missa peregrinis sparcunter vnlnera nervis, Et man us ignoto ssevit utrinque malo SCENE 11I.J THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with Death, And kills, instead of giving life. Anton. Nay, weep not ; Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm, On me they're cast away. It is decreed That I must die with her j our clue of life Was spun together. Mac. Yet, sir, 'tis my wonder, That you, who, hearing only what she suffers, Partake of all her tortures, yet will be, To add to your calamity, an eyewitness Of her last tragic scene, which must pierce deeper*, And make the wound more desperate. Anton. Oh, Macrinus ! 'Twould linger out my torments else, not kill me, Which is the end I aim at : being to die too, What instrument more glorious can I wish for, Than what is made sharp by my constant love And true affection? It may be,' the duty And loyal service, with which I pursued her, And seal'd it with my death, will be remember'd Among her blessed actions ; and what honour Can I desire beyond it ? Enter a Guard, bringing in DOROTHEA, a Headsman before her; followed by THEOPHILUS, SAPRITIUS, and HARPAX. See, she comes ; How sweet her innocence appears ! more like To heaven itself, than any sacrifice Than can be offer 'd to it. By my hopes Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful In my belief; nor can 1 think our gods Are good, or to be served, that take delight In offerings of this kind : that, to maintain Their power, deface the master-piece of nature, Which they themselves come short of. She ascends, And every step raises her nearer heaven. What god soe'er thou art, that must enjoy her, Receive in her a boundless happiness ! Sap. You are to blame To let him come abroad. Mac. It was his will ; And we were left to serve him, not command him. Anton. Good sir, be not offended ; nor deny My last of pleasures in this happy object, That I shall e'er be blest with. Theoph. Now, proud contemner Of us, and of our gods, tremble to tbink It is not in the Power thou serv'st to save thee. Not all the riches of the sea, increased By violent shipwrecks, nor the unsearch'd mines (Mammon's unknown exchequer), shall redeem thee. And, therefore, having first with horror weigh'd What 'tis to die, and to die young ; to part with All pleasures and delights; lastly, to go Where all antipathies to comfort dwell, Furies behind, about thee, and before thee; And, to add to affliction, the remembrance Irrita More arcus valid! molimina damn.il, Plorat Amor teneras tain valuisse m.inus; F.vcl.ibant juvt'nes piinias in polvere malas Oscula quas, heu, ad blanda vocabat Amor. Canicies verms florebat mnlta corollis Persephone crinem vnlserat undc sibi Quiil t'acerent ! '.lisas prucul abjecere sagittas, Uv pharetra jaculum prompsit uterque oovnm. Res b.nia ! >cd virus pueri penetravit in arcum ; K\ illo ini-tros tot dedit ille neci. Lib. ii. Eleg. 0. which must pierce deeper,] So the first editions. Flie q-iarto Hitil, reads, in defiance of melre, which most III' T faVOur this r,<-d sect :} So the old ?dT V r " t ' :li "' r!S lo a(ii 'l" ""- <" to their own e^ifnT'T^'T'' 1 '."' are '"'' Or *"*"" * C ' bu in. need ot aturailon ; tins mode of expression recur mem; = ' 00> " Ut thu iut Twlai>u destroys the Sen** I.] THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. ACT V. SCENE I. THEOPHILUS discovered in his Study: books about him. Theoph. I'st holiday, O Caesar, that thy servant, Thy provost, to see execution done On these base Christians in Cajsarea, Should now want work ? Sleep these idolaters, That none are stirring ? As a curious painter, When he has made some honourable piece, Stands off, and with a searching eye examines Each colour how 'tis sweeten 'd: and then hugs Himself for his rare workmanship so here Will I my drolleries, and bloody landscapes, Long past wrapt up, unfold, to make me merry With shadows, now I want the substances. My muster-book of hell-hounds. Were the Christians, Whose names stand here, alive and arm'd, not Rome Could move upon her hinges. What I've done, Or shall hereafter, is not out of hate To poor tormented wretches*; no, I'm carried With violence of zeal, and streams of service I owe our Roman gods. Great Britain, whatf ? [reads. A thousand wives, with brats sucking their breasts, Had hot irons pinch them off, and thrown to swine : And then their fleshy back-parts, hew'd with hatchets, Were minced, and baked in pies, to feed starved Christians. Ha ! ha ! Again, again, East Angles, oh, East Angles : Bandogs, kept three days hungry, worried A thousand British rascals, stied up fat Of purpose, stripped naked, and disarmed. I could outstare a year of suns and moons, To sit at these sweet bull-baitings, so I Could thereby but one Christian win to fall In adoration to my Jupiter. Twelve hundred Eyes bored with augres out Oh! eleven thousand Torn by wild beasts : two hundred ramm'd in the earth To the armpits, and full platters round about them, But far enough for reaching^ : Eat, dogs, ha ! ha ! ha ! [He rises. Tush, all these tortures are but fillipings, Fleabitings; I, before the Destinies Enter ANGELO with a basket filled with fruit and flowers. My bottom did wind up, would flesh myself Once more upon some one remarkable -is not out of hate To poor tormented wretches, &c. j This is said to dietinjmsh his character from that of Sapritius, whose zeal is influenced by motives of interest, and by many other considerations, which appear u> weigh nothing with Thtophilus. t Great Britain, what ?\ Great Britain, is a curious anachronism ; but this our old dramatic writers were little solicitous to avoid. The reader wants not my assistance to din-cover that this rugged narative is by Decker : the horrible numeration of facts, is taken from the histories of those times. I Hut far enough (or reaching :] For occurs perpetually in these plays, in the sense of prevention, yet the modern edi- tors have here altered itto_/rom! indeed, the word it thus used by every writer of Massinger's age; thus Fletcher: " Walk ort, sirrah, And stir my horse for taking cold." Love't Pilyriinage. Again ; " he'll not tell me, For breaking of my heart." Maid in Above all these. This Christian slut was well, A pretty one ; but let such horror follow The next I feed with torments, that when Rome Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound ' May feel an earthquake. How now ? [Mtufe. Ang. Are you amazed, sir? So great a Roman spirit and doth it tremble ! Theoph. How cam'st thou in ? to whom thy busi- ness. Ang. To you : 1 had a mistress, late sent hence by you Upon a bloody errand ; you entreated, That, when she came into that blessed garden Whither she knew she went, and where, now happy, She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you Some of that garden fruit and flowers ; which here, To have her promise saved, are brought by me. Theoph. Cannot I see this garden 1 Ang. Yes, if the master Will give you entrance 1 [He i:unishcth. Theoph. Tis a tempting fruit, And the most bright-cheek'd child I ever view'd ; Sweet smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are these ? In Dioclesian's gardens ; the most beauteous, Compared with these, are weeds: is knot February The second day she died ? frost, ice, and snow, Hang on the beard of winter : where's the sun That gilds this summer? pretty, sweet boy, say, In what country shall a man find this garden 1 My delicate boy, gone ! vanished ! within there, Juliauus ! Geta! Enter JULIANUS and GETA. Both. My lord. Theoph. Are my gates shut ! Geta. And guarded. Theoph. Saw you not A boy? Jul. Where? Theoph. Here he enter'd ; a young lad ; A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes, A smoothfaced, glorious thing, that brought this basket*. Geta. No, sir ! Theoph. Away but be in reach, if my voice calls you. [Exetmt. No ! vanish 'd, and not seen ! Be thou a spirit Sent from that witch to mock me, I am sure This is essential, and, howe'er it grows, Will taste it. [Eott. Harp, [within."] Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph. So good ! I'll have some more, sure. Now I am on the subject, let me observe, that a similar al- teration has been unnecessarily made in Periclet. The old reading is, " And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist, For going on death's net, which none resist." " This is corrupt," says the editor, " I think it should be from going;" and so he has primed it ; place a comma after desist, and all will be right: "for going," i. e. for fear of going, &c. * Thpoph. Here he enter'd : &c.] It may give the readei some idea of the metrical skill with which Massinger ha* been hitherto treated, to print these lines as they stand in Coxeter and M. Mason : Theoph. Here he enter'd, a young lad ; a. fhoutand Blessings danc'd upon hit eyes ; a smoothfaC'dglorvHtt Thing, that brought this basket. 28 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr V Harp. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! great liquorish fool. Theoph. What art thou ? Harp. A fisherman. Theoph. What dost thou catch ? Harp. Souls, souls ; a fish call'd souls. Theoph. Geta ! Enter GETA. Geta. My lord. Harp. [ivithin.] Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph. What insolent slave is this, dares laugh Or what is't the dog grins at so ? [at me '! Geta. I neither know, my lord, at what, nor whom ? for there is none without, hut my fellow Julianus, and he is making a garland for Jupiter. Theoph. Jupiter ! all within me is not well ; An;l yet not sick. Harp. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theofih. What's thy name, slave? Harp, [at one end.] Go look. Geta. Tis I Inrpax' voice. Theoph. Harpax ! go, drag the caitiff to my foot, That I may stamp upon him. Harp, [at the other end.] Fool, thou liest ! Geta. He's yonder, now, my lord. Theoph. Watch thou that end, Whilst I make good this. Harp, [at the middle.] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph. He is at barley-break, and the last couple Are now in hell.* [is bloody, Search for him. [E.i it Geta.] All this ground, methinks, And paved with thousands of those Christians' eyes Whom I have tortured, and they stare upon me. What was this apparition ? sure it had Theoph. fie it at barley-break, and the last couple Are now in hell.] i. e. in the middle; alluding to the situation of Harpax. This wretched copy of a wretched original, the Ate et ubique of the Ghost in Hamlet, is much loo puerile for the occasion, and the character: decipit ex- emplar vitiit imitabile. With respect to the amusement of barley-break, allusions to it occur repeatedly in our old writers; and their commentators have piled one parallel passage upon another, without advancing a single step towards explaining what this celebrated pastime really was It was played by six people (three of each sex), who were coupled by lot. A piece of ground was then chosen, and divided into three compartments, of which the middle one was called HelL It was the object of the couple condemned to this division, to catch the other*, who advanced from the two extremities ; in which case a chmge of situation took plaoe, and hell was filled by the couple who were excluded by preoccupation, from the other places: in this" catching," however, there was some difficulty, as, by the regulations of the game, the middle couple were not to separate before they had succeeded, while the others might break hands whenever they found themselves hard pressed. When all had been taken in turn, the last couple was said to be in hell, and the game ended. In tenni labor.' Mr. M. Mason has given the following description of this pastime with allegorical personages, from Sir John Suckling: " Love, Reason, Hate, did once bespeak Three mates to play at barley-break ; Love Folly took ; and Reason Fancy ; And Hate consorts with Pride ; sodance they : Love coupled last, and so it fell That Love and Folly were in hell. They break ; and Love would Reason meet, But Hate was nimbler on her feet; Fancy looks for Pride, and thither Hies, and they two hug together : Yet this new coupling still doth tell That Love and Folly were in hell. The rest do breaV again, and Pride Hath now got Reason on her side ; Hate and Fancy meet, and stand Untouch'd by Love in Folly's hand ; Folly was dull, but Love ran well, So Love and Folly were in hell." A shape angelical. Mine eyes, though dazzled And daunted at first sight, tell me, it wore A pair of glorious wings ; yes, they were wings, A nd hence he flew : 'tis vanish d Jupiter, For all my sacrifices done to him, Never once gave me smile. How can stone smile, Or wooden image laugh? [music.] Ha! I remember Such music gave a welcome to mine ear, When the fair youth came to me : 'tis in the air, Or from some better place* ; a power divine, Through my dark ignorance on my soul does shine, And makes me see a conscience all stain'd o'er, Nay, drown'd and damn'd for ever in Christian gore. Harp, [within.] Ha, ha, ha ! [tongue Theoph. Again ! What dainty relish on my This fruit hath left ! some angel hath me fed ; If so toothfull t I will be banqueted. [Eats. Enter HARPAX in a fearful shape, fire fashing out of the Study. Harp. Hold! Theoph. Not for Caesar. Harp. But for me thou shalt. [here. Theoph. Thou art no twin to him that last was Ye Powers, whom my soul bids me reverence, What art thou ? [guard me ! Harp. I am thy master. Theoph. Mine ! Harp. And thou my everlasting slave ;that Harpax, Who hand in hand hath led thee to thy hell, Ami. Theoph. Avaunt? Harp. 1 will not ; cast thou down That basket with the things in't, and fetch up What thou hast swallow'd, and then take a drink, Which I shall give thee, and I'm gone. Theoph, My fruit ? Does this offend thee ? see ! [Eats again. Harp. Spit it to the earthf, And tread upon it, or I'll piecemeal tear thee. Theoph. Art thou with this affrighted ? see, here's more. [Pulls out a handful of flowers. Harp. Fling them away, I'll take thee else, and hang thee In a contorted chain of isicles In the frigid zone : down with them ! Theoph. At the bottom One tiling I found not yet. See ! [Holds up a cross of flowers. Harp. Oh ! I am tortured. (hence ! Theoph. Can this do't ? hence, thou fiend infernal, Harp. Clasp Jupiter's image, and away with that. Theoph. At thee I'll fling that Jupiter ; for, ine- thinks, I serve a better master : he now checks me For murdering my two daughters, put on$ by thee Or from some better place;] In Coxeter's edition, placf was dropt at the press, I suppose : and M. Mason, who srems to have no conception of any older or other copy, blindly followed him; though the line has neither measur nor sense without the word, inserted from the old quartos : but indeed the whole of this scene, as it stands in the two former editious, especially the last, is full of the most shame- ful tlonders. T Jf to toothfull, &c.] So the old copies, the modern edi tions have toothsome : it may perhaps be a better word, but should not have been silently foisted upon the author. t Harp. Spit it to the earth,] The first and second quartos read spet, which was now beginning to grow obsolete; in the succeeding one it is spit. put on by thee] i. e. encouraged, instigated. So in Shakspeare : SCENE II.] THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. By thy damn'd rhetoric did I hunt the life Of Dorothea, the holy virgin-martyr. She is not angry with the axe, nor me, But sends these presents to me ; and I'll travel O'er worlds to find her, and from her white hand Beg a forgiveness. Harp. No; I'll bind thee here. [weapon*, Theoph. I serve a strength above thine ; this small Methinks is armour hard enough. Harp. Keep from me [Sinks a little. Thtoph. Art posting to thy centre? down, hell- hound ! down ; Me thou hast lost : that arm, which hurls thee hence, [Harpax disappears. Save me, and set me 1,1, the strong defence In the fair Christian's quarrel ! Enter ANGELO. Ang. Fix thy foot there, Nor be thou shaken with a Cresar's voice, Though thousand deaths were in it ; and I then Will bring thee to a river, that shall wash Thy bloody hands clean and more white than snow ; And to that garden where these blest tilings grow, And to that martyr'd virgin, who hath sent That heavenly token to thee : spread this brave wing, And serve, than Caesar, a far greater king. [Eaif. Theop. It is, it is some angel. Vanish'd again ! Oh, come back, ravishing boy ! bright messenger ! Thou hast, by these mine eyes fix'd on thy beauty, Illumined all my soul. Now look 1 back On my black tyrannies, which, as they did [me, Outdare the bloodiest, thou, blest spirit, that lead'st Teach me what I must to do, and, to do well, That my last act the best may parallelf. [Exit. SCENE II. DIOCLESIAN'S Palace. Enter DIOCLESIAN, MAXIMINUS, the Kings of Epire. Pontus, and Macedon, meeting AHTEMIA ; Atten- dants. Ariem. Glory and conquest still attend upon tri- umphant Caesar I Diocle. Let thy wish, fair daughter, Be equally divided ; and hweafter Learn thou to know and reverence Maximinus, Whose power, with mine united: makes one Caesar. Mai. But that I fear 'twould be held flattery, The bonds consider'd in which we stand tied, As love and empire, I should say, till now I ne'er had seen a lady I thought worthy To be my mistress. Artem. Sir, you show yourself Both courtier and soldier ; but take heed, Take heed, my lord, though my dull-pointed beauty, Stain 'd by a harsh refusal in my servant, Cannot dart forth such beams as may inflame you, You may encounter such a powerful one, That with a pleasing heat will thaw your heart, Though bound in ribs of ice. Love still is love, Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the Powers above Put on their instruments." thii frnall weapon,] Meaning, I believe, the " cross of flowers," which he ha'l just found. The language and ideas of this play are purely catholic. t That my last act the bett may parallel J Thus far Decker ; what follows I apprehend was written by Massiu- jer; (and is unsurpassed in me English language.) His bow and arrows are the same : great Julius, That to his successors left the name of Caesar, Whom war could never tame, that with dry eyes Beheld the large plains of Pharsalia cover'd With the dead carcases of senators And citizens of Rorp fhen the world knew No other lord but Inr. , struck deep in years too, (And men gray-bai~'d forget the lusts of youth) After all th's, meeting fair Cleopatra, A suppliant too, the magic of her eye, Even in his pride of conquest, took him captive ; Nor are you more secure. Max. Were you deform'd (But, by the gods, you are most excellent), Your gravity and discretion would o'ercome me ; And I should be more proud in being prisoner To your fair virtues, than of all the honours, Wealth, title, empire, that my sword hath purchased. Diocle. This meets my wishes. Welcome % Artemia, With outstretch'd arms, and study to forget That Antoninus ever was ; thy fate Reserved thee for this better choice, embrace it. Max.* This happy match brings new nerves to give strength To our continued league. Diocle Hymen himself Will bless this marriage, which we'll solemnize In the presence of these kings. K. of Pontus. Who rest most happy, To be eyewitnesses of a match that brings Peace to the empire. Diocle. We much thank your loves ; But where's Sapritius, our governor, And our most zealous provost, good Theophilus 1 If ever prince were blest in a true servant, Or could the gods be debtors to a man, Both they and we stand far engaged to cherish His piety and service. Artem. Sir, the governor Brooks sadly his son's loss, although he turn'd Apostata in death f ; but bold Theophilus, Who, for the same cause, in my presence, seal'd His holy anger on his daughters' hearts ; Having with tortures first tried to convert her, Dragg'd the bewitching Christian to the scaffold, And saw her lose her head. Diocle. He is all worthy : And from his own mouth I would gladly hear The manner how she suffer'd. Artem. 'Twill be deliver'd With such contempt and scorn (I know his nature) That rather 'twill beget your highness' laughter, Than the least pity. Diocle. To that end I would hear it. Enter THEOPHILUS, SAPRITII-S, and MACRIXUS. Artem. He comes ; with him the governor. Diocle. O, Sapritius, I am to chide you for your tenderness ; But yet, remembering that you are a father, * Max. This happy match, &c.] The old copies give this to the K. of Epire ; it is evident, however, that he cannot be the speaker ; I make no apology for restoring it to Max- /miiins. t Apostata in death ;i Here again the modern editors, rcail, Apostate in death, though it absolutely destroys the iiHMMire. It is very strange that the frequent recurrence of this word should not teach them to hesitate on the propriety of corrupting it upon all occasions. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr V I will forget it. Good Theophilus, I'll speak with you anon Nearer, your ear. [To Sapritius. Theoph. [aside to Macrinus.'] By Antoninus' soul, I do conjure you, And though not for religion, for his friendship, Without demanding what's the cause that moves me, Receive my signet ; by the power of this, Go to my prisons, and release all Christians That are in fetters there by my command. Mac. But what shall follow ? Theoph. Haste then to the port ; You there shall find two tall ships ready rigg'd*, In which embark the poor distressed souls, And bear them from the reach of tyranny. Enquire not whither you are bound ; the Deity That they adore will give you prosperous winds, And make your voyage such, and largely pay for Your hazard, and your travail. Leave me here ; There is a scene that I must act alone. [y ou ' Haste, good Macrinus ; and the great God guide Mac. I'll undertake'!, there's something prompts me to it ; 'Tis to save innocent blood, a saint-like act ; And to be merciful has never been By moral men themselves f esteem'd a sin. [Erit. Diocle. You know your charge ? Sap. And will with care observe it. Diocle. For I profess he is not Cresar's friend, That sheds a tear for any torture that A Christian suffers. Welcome, my best servant, My careful zealous provost ! thou hast toil'd To satisfy my will, though in extremes : I love thee for't ; thou art firm rock, no changeling. Prithee deliver, and for my sake do it, Without excess of bitterness, or scoffs, Before my brother and these kings, how took The Christian her death ? Theoph. And such a presence, Though every private head in this large room Were circled round with an imperial crown, Her story will deserve, it is so full Of excellence and wonder. Diocle. Ha! how is this? Theoph. O ! mark it, therefore, and with that attention, As you would hear an embassy from heaven By a wing'd legate ; for the truth deliver'd Both how, and what, this blessed virgin suffer'd, And Dorothea hut hereafter named, You will rise up with reverence, and no more, As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember What the canonized Spartan ladies were, [matrons, Which lying Greece so boasts of. Your own Y'our Roman dames, whose figures you yet keep As holy relics, in her history Will find a second urn : Gracchus' Cornelia J, You there shall find two tall ships ready riffy'd,] We should now say, two stout t>hi}>s; but sec the Unnatural Combat. f By moral men themselves, &c,] This is the reading of the first copy : all the the others have, mortal men. % Gracchus' Cornelia, This passage, as punted in the olil edition, is nonsense. M. MASON. Thi is somewhat bold in one who never saw the old edi- tions. In Coxcter, indeed, it is printed, or rather pointed, as nonsense : but to call his the old edition is scarcely cor- rect. The first quarto reads as in P e text with the exception of an apostrophe accidentally misplaced ; the second follows it, and both are more correct than Mr. M. Mason, either in his text or note. Paulina, that, in death desired to follow Her husband Seneca, nor Brutus' Portia, That swallow'd burning coals to overtake him, Though all their several worths were given to one, With this is to be mention'd. Max. Is he mad 1 Diocle. Why, they did die, Theophilus, and boldly; This did no more. Theoph. They, out of desperation, Or for vain glory of an after-name. Parted with life: this had not mutinous sons, As the rash Gracchi were ; nor was this saint A doating mother, as Cornelia was: This lost no husband, in whose overthrow Her wealth and honour sunk ; no fear of want Did make her being tedious ; but, aiming At an immortal crown, and in his cause Who only can bestow it, who sent down Legions of ministering angels to bear up Her spotless soul to heaven ; who entertain'd it With choice celestial music, equal to The motion of the spheres, she, uncompell'd, Changed this life for a better. My lord Sapritius You were present at her death ; did you e'er hear Such ravishing sounds ? Sap. Yet you said then 'twas witchcraft, And devilish illusions. Theoph. I then heard it With sinful ears, and belch'd out blasphemous words Against his Deity, which then I knew not Nor did believe in him. Diocle. Why, dost thou now* Or dar'st thou, in our hearing Theoph. Were my voice As loud as is his thunder, to be heard Through all the world, all potentates on earth Ready to burst with rage, should they but hear it ; Though hell, to aid their malice, lent her furies, Yet I would speak, and speak again, and boldly, I am a Christian, and the Powers you worship But dreams of fools and madmen. Max. Lay hands on him. Diocle. Thou twice a child! for doating age so makes thee, Thou couldst not else, thy pilgrimage of life Being almost past through, in this last moment Destroy whate'er thou hast done good or great Thy youth did promise much ; and, grown a man, Thou mad'st it good, and, with increase of years, Thy actions still better'd : as the sun, Thou did'st rise gloriously, kept'st a constant course In all thy journey ; and now, in the evening, When thou should'st pass with honour to thy rest, Wilt thou fall like a meteor ? Sap. Yet confess That thou art mad, and that thy tongue and heart Had no agreement. Mai. Do ; no way is left, else, To save thy life, Theophilus. Diocle. But, refuse it, Destruction as horrid, and as sudden, Shall fall upon thee, as if hell stood open, And thou wert sinking thither. Theoph. Hear me, yet ; Hear for my service past. Artem. What will he say ? Theoph. As ever I deserved your favour, hear me, And grant one boon : 'tis not for life I sue for *, Tit not for life I sue for ' The modern editors omil SCENE II.] THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 31 Nor is it fit that I, that ne'er knew pity To any Christian, being one myself, Should look for any ; no, I rather beg The utmost of your cruelty ; I stand Accomptuble for thousand Christians' deaths ; And, were it possible that I could die A day for every one, then live again To be again tormented, 'twere to me An easy penance, and I should pass through A gentle cleansing fire ; but, that denied me, It being beyond the strength of feeble nature, My suit is, you would have no pity on me. In mine own house there are thousand engines Of studied cruelty, which I did prepare For miserable Christians ; let me feel, As the Sicilian did his brazen bull, The horrid'styou can find, and I will say, In death that you are merciful. Diocle. Despair not, In this thou shall prevail. Go fetch them hither : [Exit. Guard. Death shall put on a thousand shapes at once, And so appear before thee ; racks, and whips! Thy flesh, with burning pincers torn, shall feed The fire that heats them ; and what's wanting to The torture of thy body, I'll supply In punishing thy mind. Fetch all the Christians That are in hold ; and here, before his face, Cut them in pieces. Theopk. 'Tis not in thy power : It was the first good deed I ever did. They are removed out of thy reach ; howe'er I was determined for my sins to die, I first took order for their liberty, And still I dare thy worst. Re-enter Guard with the instruments of torture. Diocle. Bind him I say ; Make every artery and sinew crack : The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek,* Shall have ten thousand drachmas : wretch ! I'll To curse the Power thou worship's! : [force thee Theoph. Never, never; No breath of mine shall e'er be spent on him, [They torment him. But what shall speak his majesty or mercy. I'm honour'd in my sufferings. Weak tormentors, More tortures, more : alas ! you are unskilful For neaven's sake more ; my breast is yet untorn : I 1 ere purchase the reward that was propounded. The irons cool, here are arms yet, and thighs; Spare no part of me. Max. He endures beyond The sufferance of a man. Sap, No sigh nor groan, To witness he hath feeling. Diocle. Harder, villains ! Enter HARPAX. Harp. Unless that he blaspheme he's lost for ever. 2f torments ever could bring forth despair, the last for: but they are too squeamish. This reduplica- tion was practised by all the writers of our author's lime ; of which I could, if it were necessary, give a thousand c\- ,' amples ; Massinger himself would furnish a considerable lumber. The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek,] So [ read all the editions before the last; when Mr. M. Mason, to j suit the line to his own ideas of harmony, discarded The tlave \ for He I Let these compel him to it : Oh me, My ancient enemies again ! [_FaUs down. Enter DOROTHEA in a white ~obe, a crown upon her head, led in by ANGELO ; ANTONINUS, CALISTA, and CIIRISTETA J allowing, all in white, but less glorious ANGELO holds out a crown to THEOPHILUS. Theoph. Most glorious vision ! Did e'er so hard abed yield man a dream So heavenly as this? I am confirm 'd, Confirm'd, you blessed spirits, and make haste To take that crown of immortality You offer to me. Death, till tins blest minute, 1 never thought thee slow-paced ; nor would I Hasten thee now, for any pain I suffer, But that thou keep'st me from a glorious wreath, Which through this stormy way I would creep to, And, humbly kneeling, with humility wear it. Oh ! now I feel thee : blessed spirits ! I come ; And, witness for me all these wounds and scars, I die a soldier in the Christian wars. [Diet Sap. I have seen thousands tortured, but ne'er yet A constancy like this. Harp. I am twice damn'd. Aug. Haste to thy place appointed, cursed fiend ' In spite of hell, this soldier's not thy prey ; 'Tis I have \von, thou that hast lost the day. [Exii [Harpax sinks with thunder and lightning. Diocle. I think the centre of the earth be crack'd, Yet I stand still unmoved, and will go on : The persecution that is here begun, Through all the world with violence shall run. [Flourish. Exeunt* Mr. M. Mason capriciously deranged the order in which Coxeter printed these plays, and began with The Picture, a piece which bears the strongest internal marks of being a late production. With resptct to the t'iryhi-Martyr, he considerably under-rate it, and indeed displays no portion of judgment in appreciating either its beauties or flefecti. He adopts Coxeter's idea tliat it was indebted for its succest to the abominable scenes between Hirciuj and Spungius, pronounces the subject of the tragedy to be unpleasant, the incidents' unnatural, and the supernatural agents employed to bring them about, destitute of the singularity and wildnesa which distinguish the fictitious beings of Shaksj>eare. With repect to the subject, it is undoubtedly ill chosen. Scour^- ing, racking, and beheading, are circumstances of no veiy agreeable kind; and wilh the poor aids of which the stage was then possessed, must have been somewhat worse than ridictilouf . Allowing, however, for the agency ot supernatural beings, I icarcely see how the incident! they produce can, as Mr. M. Mason represents them, be unnatural. 1'he ci.in- parion drawn between them and the fictitioui being* of Shaksp are is injudicious. Shakspeare has no angels nor devils; his womteriul ju'lgment, perhaps, instructed him to avoid sue It untractable m,,^. !;-.;:;. With fairies and spirits he might wanton in the regions of fancy, i.. '.'.'" -ha>-.-irter of a heavenly messenger wa of too sacred a nature for wiiit- ness and singularity, and that of a fiend too horrible for the -{.oitivi'iiess of imagination. It appears to me that Massin- ger and his associate had conceived the idea of combining the prominent parts of the old Mystery, with the Morality, which was not yet obliterated from the memories, nor perhaps from the affections of many of the spectators ; to this, I am willing to hope, and no) to the ribaldry, which Mr. M. Ma son so properly rcpiobates, the great success of this singular medley might be in some measure owing. I have taken notice of many beautiful passages; but it would be unjust to the authors to conclude, without remarking on the good sense and dexterity with which they have avoided the con- currence of Angelo and Harpax, till the concluding scene; an error into which Tasso, and others of greater name than Massinger, have inadvertently fallen. H'ith a neglect of precision which pervades all the argc- ments of Mr. M. Mason, he declares it is easy to distinguish the hand of Decker from that of Massinger, yet finds a dif- ficulty in apppropriating their most characteristic language' If I have spoken with more confidence, it U not dona lightly, but from a long and careful study of Massiage:- THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. [Acr manner, and from that species of internal evidence which, though it ini^tit not perhaps sufficiently strike the common reader, is with me decisive. With respect to the scenes be- tween the two buttoons, it would be an injury to the name of Massinger to waste a single argument iu proving them hot to bf his. In saying this 1 am actuated irv no hostility to Decker, wiio in this Play has many passages which evince that he wanted not talents to rival, if he had pleated, his friend and associate. GIFFOKU. Notwithstanding the blemishes which have been justly objected to this play, it possesses beauties of an extraordi- nary kind. Indeed", nothing more base and filthy can be conceived than the dialogues between Hirciiitaud Spungius! but the genuine and dignified piety of Dorothea, her unsul- lied innocence, her unshaken constancy, the lolly pity she expresses for her persecutors, her calm contempt of tortures, and her heroic death, exalt the mind in no common degree, and make the reader almost insensible of the surrounding imparity, through the holy contempt of it which they in- spire. How .sentiments and images thus opposite should be con- tai.ied in the same piece, it is somewhat difficult to conceive, ll Deoker had furnished none but the comic parts, the doubt would be soon at an end. But there is good reason to sup- pose that he wrote the \\ hole of the second act ; and the very first scene of it has the same mixture of loathsome beastliness and angelic purity, which are ob-erved iu those passages that are more distant from each other. It is the strange and forced conjunction of Mczentius: Mortua jungebat corpora vivit, 7'ormenti genut The subject in general is certainly extravagant ; and the introduction of a good and evil spirit, disguised in human shapes, was not to be expected iu what aspired to the credit of a regular tragedy. Yet it should be remembered, that poetic licence calls in "a thousand liveried angels" to " lac- key saintly chastity;" that whatever be their departure from propriety, such representations had a most solemn origin ; and that, with this allowance, the business in which the spirits are engaged has a substantial conformity with the opinions of the early ages in which the plot is laid. The permitted but vain opposition of the demons to the progress of the i there- fore in a considerable degree be attributed to the interest occasioned by the contrary agencies of the two spirits, to the glorious vision of the beatified Dorothea at the conclu- sion of the piece, and th reappeatance of Angelo, in his proper character, with the sacred fruit and flowers, from (he " heavenly garden," and the " crown of immortality,'' fcr Tiiuoohiius, DR. IRELAND. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.] Of this Tragedy there is but one edition, which was printed for John Water- son, in 1659. It does not occur in Sir Henry Herbert's Office-book ; so that it is probably of a very early date : and indeed Massinger himself calls it " an old tragedy." Like the Virgin-Marttfr, it has neither Prologue nor Epilogue, for which the author accounts in his Dedication, by observing that the play was composed at a time " when such by-ornaments were not advanced above the fabric of the whole work." The editors of the Biographia Dramatica speak in rapturous terms of the various excellencies of this piece, and think, " that with very little alteration, it might be rendered a valuable acquisition to the present stage." This I doubt : it is indeed a most noble performance ; grand in conception, and powerful in execution ; but the passion on which the main part of the storv hinges, is of too revolting a nature for public representation we may admire in the closet what we should turn from on the stage. It is said, in the title-page, to have been " presented by the King's Majesty's Servants, at the Globe. TO MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, ANTHONY SENTLEGEK, OF OAKHAM, IN KENT, ESQ. SIR, That the patronage of trifles, in this kind, hath long since rendered dedications, and inscriptions obsolete and out of fashion, I perfectly understand, and cannot but ingenuously confess, that I walking in the same path, may be truly argued by you of weakness, or wilful error : but the reasons and defences, for the tender of my service this way to you, are so just, that I cannot (in my thankfulness for so many favours received) but be ambitious to publish them. Your noble father, Sir Warham Sentleger (whose remarkable virtues must be ever remembered), being, while he lived, a master, for his pleasure, in poetry, feared not tc hold converse with divers, whose necessitous fortunes made it their profession, among which, by the clemency of his judgment, I was not in the last place admitted. You (the heir of his honour and estate) inherited his good inclinations to men of my poor quality, of which I cannot give any ampler testimony, than by my free and glad profession of it to the world. Besides (and it was not the least encouragement tome) many of eminence, and the best of such, who disdained not to take notice of me, have not thought themselves disparaged, I dare not say honoured, to be celebrated the patrons of my humble studies : in the first file of which, I am confident, you shall have no cause to blush, to find your name written. I present you with this old tragedy, without prologue or epilogue, it being composed in a time (and that too, peradventure, as knowing as this) when such by-ornaments were not advanced above the fabric of the whole work. Accept it, I beseech you, as it is, and continue your favour to the author Your servant, PHILIP MASSINGER. DRAMATIS PERSONS. A Steward. An Usher. A Pasie. BEAUFORT senior, governor of Marseilles. BEAUFORTjunior, his son MALEFORT senior, admiral of Marseilles. MALEFOKT junior, his son CIIAMOXT, ) MONTAIGNE, > assist an ts to ihe governor. LA.VOUR, J MONTREVILI.E, a pretended friend to MALEFORT senior. BELG.AHDE, a poor captain. Three Sea Captains, of the navy of MALEFORT junior SCENE. MARSEILLES. TIIEOCRINE, daughter to MALEFORT senior Two Waiting Women. Two Courtezans. A Bawd. Servants and Soldiers. 54 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. ACT I. ACT I. SCENE I. A Hall in the Court of Justice. Enter MONTREVII.LF., THEOCRINE, Usher, Page, and Waiting Women. Montr. Now to be modest, madam, when you are A suitor for your father, would appear Coarser than boldness ; you awhile must part with Soft silence, and the blushings of a virgin : Though I must grant, did not this cause command it, They are rich jewels you have ever worn To all men's admiration. In this age, If, by our own forced importunity, Or others purchased intercession, or Corrupting bribes, we can make our approaches To justice, guarded from us by stern power, We bless the means and industry. Ush. Here's music [opium, In this bag shall wake her, though she had drunk Or eaten mandrakes*. Let commanders talk Of cannons to make breaches, give but fire To this petard, it shall blow open, madam, The iron doors of a judge, and make you entrance ; When they (let them do what they can) with all Their mines, their culverins, and basiliscos, [lock Shall cool their feet without; this being the pick- That never fails. Montr. 'Tis true, gold can do much, But beauty more. Were I the governor, Though the admiral, your father, stood convicted Of what he's only doubted, half a dozen Of sweet close kisses from these cherry lips, With some short active conference ia private, Should sign his general pardon. Theoc. These light words, sir, Do ill become the weight of my sad fortune ; And I much wonder, you, that do profess Yourself to be my father's bosorn friend, Can raise mirth from his misery. Montr. You mistake me ; I share in his calamity, and only Deliver my thoughts freely, what I should do For such a rare petitioner : and if You'll follow the directions I prescribe, With my best judgment I'll mark out the way For his enlargement. Theoc. With all real joy I shall put what you counsel into act, Provided it be honest. Montr. Honesty In a fair she client (trust to my experience) Seldom or never p >spers ; the world's wicked : We are men, nol saints, sweet lady ; you must practice The manners of the ime, if you intend To have favour from it : do not deceive yourself By building too much on the false foundations Of chastity and virtue. Bid your waiters Stand further off, and I'll come nearer tp you 1 Worn. Some wicked counsel, on my life. ers er * Or eaten mandrakes.] Hill observes, that " the man- drake IMS a soporific quality, and that it was used by die ancients when they wanted a narcotic of a most powerful kind." To this there are perpetual allusions in our old writers. 2 Worn. Ne'er doubt it*, If it proceed from him. Page I wonder that My lord so much aiFects him. Ush. Thou'rt a child f, And dost not understand on what strong basis This friendship's raised between this Montreville Andourlord, Monsieur Malefort; but I'll teach thee- From thy years they have been joint purchas- In fire and water works, and truck'd together Page. In fire and water works ! Ush. Commodities, boy, Which you may know hereafter. Page. And deal in them, When the trade has given you over, as appears bj The increase of your high forehead^. Ush. Here's a crack$ ! I think they suck this knowledge in their milk. Page. I had an ignorant nurse else. I have tied, My lady's garter, and can guess [sir, Ush. Peace, infant ; Tales out o'school ! take heed, you will be breech'd else. \Theocrlne retires. 1 Worn. My lady's colour changes. 2 Worn. She falls oft' too. Theoc. You .are a naughty man, indeed you are } And I will sooner perish with my father, Than at this price redeem him. Montr. Take your own way, Your modest, legal way : 'tis not your veil, Nor mourning habit, nor these creatures taught To howl, and cry, when you begin to whimper: Nor following my loni's coach in the dirt, i\or that which you rely upon, a bribe, Will do it, when there's something he likes better. These courses in an old crone of threescore!), That had seven years together tired the court With tedious petitions, and clamours, 2 Worn. Ne'ei doubt it Jf it proceed from him.] The character of Montrcville is opened with great beauty and propriety. The freedom of his language, and the advice he gives Theocrinc, fully pre- pare us for any a>:t of treachery or cruelty he may hereafter perpetrate. + t'sh. Thou'rt a child, And dost not understand, &c.] This speech, it is impossi- ble to say why, h,is been h'nh.Tlo printed as prose, though nothing is clearer than that the author meant it for verse, into which, indued, it runs as readily as any other part of the play. (Omitted unintentionally in Edit. 1813.) | as appears by The increase of your high forehead] Alluding, per- haps, to the preiii.iiuie baldness occasioned by dealing iu the commodities just mentioned ; or, it may be, to the fall- ing off of his hair from age : go the women to Anacreon, ipiXov ft aiv fjitrwov. Ush. Here's a crack !] A crack is an arch, sprightly boy. Thus, in the Devil's an Ass : " If we could get a witty boy now, Engine, That svere an excellent crack, 1 could instruct him To the greai height." The word occurs again in the Bashful Lover, and, indeed in most of our old plays. || These courxes in an old, crone of threescore,} This ex pression, which, as Johnson says, means an old toothless ewe, ii contemptuously used for an old woman, by all the writer* of Messenger's time. Thus Jonson : " let him alone With temper d poison to remove the crone." Poetattef And Shakspeaic: " take up the bastmrd ; f Tak't it up. 1 say ; giv't to thy crone." Wtntertlalt. SCEXE I. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 35 For the recovery of a straggling* husband, To pay, forsooth, the duties of one to her ; But for a lady of your tempting; beauties, Your youth, and ravishing features, to hope only In such a suit as this is, to gain favour, Without exchage of courtesy, you conceive me Enter BEAUFORT junior, and BELGARDE. Were madness at the height. Here's brave young Beaufort, The meteor of Marseillesf, one that holds The governor his father's will and power In more awe than his own ! Come, come, advance, Present your bag, cramm'd with crowns of the sun} ; Do you think he cares for money ? he loves pleasure. Burn your petition, burn it ; he doats on you, Upon my knowledge: to his cabinet, do, And he will point you out a certain course, He the cause right or wrong, to have your father Released with much facility. [Exit. | Theoc. Do you hear ? Take a pandar with you. Beauf.jun. I tell thee there is neither Employment yet, nor money. Belg. I have commanded, And spent my own means in my country's service In hope to raise a fortune. Beahf.jun. Many have hoped so ; But hopes prove seldom certainties with soldiers. Belg. If no preferment, let me but receive My pay that is behind, to set me up A tavern, or a vaulting house ; while men love Or drunkenness, or lechery, they'll ne'er fail me : Shall I have that? Beauf.jun. As our prizes are brought in ; Till then you must be patient. Belg. In the mean time, How shall I do for clothes ? Beauf.jun. As most captains do : Philosopher-like, carry all you have about youj. Belg. But how shall I do, to satisfy colon||, mon- There lies the doubt. [sieur ? Beauf.jun. That's easily decided : My father's table's free for any man That hath born arms. Belg. And there's good store of meat? Beauf.jun. Never fear that. Belg. I'll seek no other ordinary then, But be his daily guest without invitement ; And if my stomach hold, I'll feed so heartily, As he shall pay me suddenly, to be quit of me. Beauf.jun. 'Tis she. . Belg And further * For the recovery of a straggling husband.} The old copy re i, car y all you bar* abo t you.] Allu- ding to the well known sa.,i.ig of Simonides. " Umnia mea niecum porto." II to tat'ttfy colon, monsintr ?] \. e. the cravings of hunger: the colon is tin: largest of the human intestines: jt frri|iiontly occurs in the same sense as here, in our old poets. So in the H'its. " Abstain from flesh whilst cnlnn keeps more noise Than mariners at plays, or apple-wives, That wrangle for a sieve." Beanf.jun. Away, you are troublesome ; Designs of more weight Belg. Ha ! fair Theocrine. Nay, if a velvet petticoat, move in the front, Buff jerkins must to the rear; 1 know my manner? This is, indeed, great business, mine a gewgaw. I may dance attendance, this must be dispatch'd, And suddenly, or all will go to wreck ; Charge her home in tlie flank, my lord: nay, I am gone sir. [Exif. Beauf. jun.Xay, pray you, madam, rise, or I'll kne*l with you. Page. I would bring you on your kneas, were I a woman. Beauf.jun. What is it can deserve so poor a name As a suit to me? This more than mortal form Was fashion'd to command, and not entreat : Your will but known is served Theoc. Great sir, my father, My brave, deserving father ; 'but that sorrow Forbids the use of speech Beauf.jun. I understand you, Without the aids of those interpreters That fall from your fair eyes ; I know you labour The liberty of your father ; at the least, An equal* hearing to acquit himself: And 'tis not to endear my service to you, Though I must add, and pray you with patience hear it, 'Tis hard to be effected, in respect The state's incensed against him : all presuming, The world of outrages his impious son, Turn'd worse than pirate in his cruelties, Express'd to this poor country, could not be With such ease put in execution, if Your father, of late our great admiral, Held not or correspondence, or connived At his proceedings. Theoc. And must he then suffer, His cause unheard ? Beanf.jun. As yet it is resolved so, In their determination. But suppose (For I would nourish hope, not kill it, in you) I should divert the torrent of their purpose, And render them, that are implacable, Impartial judges, and not swayM with spleen ; Will you, I dare not say in recompense, For that includes a debt you cannot owe me, But in your liberal bounty, in my suit To you, be gracious ? Theoc. You entreat of me, sir. What I should offer to you, with confession That you much undervalue your owu worth, Should you receive me, since there come with you Not lustful fires, but fair and lawful flames. But I must be excused, 'tis now no time For me to think of Hymeneal joys. Can he, (and pray you, sir, consider it) That gave me life, and faculties to love, Be, as he's now, readv to be devour'd By ravenous woU*es, and at that instant, 1 But entertain a thought of those delights, In which perhaps, my arJou; meets with yours ! Duty and piety forbid it, sir, * An equal hearinf/1 A just impartial hearing; o rqual i constantly nsed by Massinger and lii contemporaries: thiu Fletcher : " What could this thief have done, I d his cause been fqval He made my heartstrings tremble." Knlyht of Malta. THE UNNA'IURAL COMBAT. ACT Beauf. jun. Butthis effected, and your father free, What is your answer ? Theoc, Every minute to me Will be a tedious age, till our embraces Are warrantable to the world. Beaiif. fun. I urge no more ; Confirm it with a kiss. Theoc. I doubly seal it. Ush. This would do better abed, the business ended : They are the loving'st couple ! Knter BEAUFORT unior, MONTAIGNE, CHAMONT, and LANOUR. Beatif.jun. Here comes my father, With the Council of War : deliver your petition, And leave the rest to me. [Theoc. offers a paper. Beauf. $en. I am sorry, lady, Your father's guilt compels your innocence To ask what I in justice must deny. Beauf. jun. For my sake, sir, pray you receive and read it. [nothing. Beauf. sen. Thou foolish boy ! I can deny thee Beauf. jun. Thus far we are happy, madam : quit You shall hear how we succeed. [the place ; Theoc. Goodness reward you ! [Exeunt Theocrine, Usher, Page, and Women, Mont. It is apparent ; and we stay too long To censure Malefort* as he deserves. [They take their seats. Cham. There is no colour of reason that makes foi him : Had he discharged the trust committed to him, With that experience and fidelity He practised heretofore, it could not be Our navy should be block'd wid, in our sight, O ur goods made prize, our sailors sold for slaves, y his prodigious issue + Lan. 1 much grieve, After so many brave and hit*n achievements He should in one ill forfeit all the good He ever did his country. Beauf. sen. Well, 'tis granted \. Beaiif. jun. I humbly thank you, sir. Beauf. sen. He shall have hearing, His irons too struck off; bring him before us, But seek no further favour. Beauf. jun. Sir, I dare not. [Exit. Beauf. sen. Monsieur Chamont, Montaigne, La- nour, assistants, By a commission from the most Christian king, n punishing or freeing Malefort, [not Our late great admiral : though I know you need Instructions from me, how to dispose of Yourselves in this man's trial, that exacts Your clearest judgments, give me leave, with favour, * To censure Malefort &c.] Malefort is here, and through- out the piny, properly n.ed as a trisyllable. \ By hit prodigious issue. \ i. e. unnatural horrible por- tentous of evil; in this sense it is often applied to comets, and other extraordinary appearances in the sky " Behold yon comet shews his head again ! Twicf hath he thus at cross turns thrown on no Prodigious looks." The Honest Whort. Again : " This woman's threats, her eyes e'en red with fury Which like jtrodiyiovs meteors, foretold Assured destruction are still before me." The Captain. t Beanf. sen. Well, 'tis granted.] It appears, from the ubsequent speeches, that young Beaufort had lie- n soliciting father to allow Malefort to plead without his chains To offer my opinion. We are to hear him, A little looking back on his fair actions, Loyal, and true demeanour ; not as now By the general voice already he's condemn'd. But if we find, as most believe, he hath held lutelligence with his accursed son, Fallen off from all allegiance, and turn'd (But for what cause we know not) the most bloody And fatal enemy this country ever Repented to have brought forth ; all compassion* ****** Of what he was, or may be, if now pardon'd j We sit engaged to censure him with all Extremity and rigour. Cham. Your lordship shows us A path which we will tread in. Lan. He that leaves To follow, as you lead, will lose himself. Mont. I'll not be singular. Re-enter BEAUFORT junior, with MONTREVILLE, MALEFORT senior, BELGARDE, and Officers. Beauf. sen. He comes, but with A strange distracted look. Malff. sen. I .ive I once moref To see these hands and arms free ! these, that often, In the most dreadful horror of a fight, Have been as seamarks to teach such as were Seconds in my attempts, to steer between The rocks of too much daring, and pale fear, To reach the port of victory ! when my sword, Advanced thus, to my enemies nppear'd A hairy comet, threatening death and ruin $ To such as durst behold it ! These the legs, That, when our ships were grappled, carried me all compassion Of what &c.} The quarto reads, all compassion Of what he was, or may be, if now pardon'd ; Opon which Mr. M. Mason observes, "This sentence as L* stands is not fense ; if ihe words all compassion are right, we must necessarily suppose that bring laid aside, or word: of a similar import, have been omitted in the printing : but the most natural manner of amending the passage, is by reading no compassion , the word having being understood " 1 can neither reconcile myself to no compassion of what lie may be, nor to all. He might, if acquitted, be a successful commander as before, and to such a circumstance Beaufort evidently alludes. I believe that a line is lo.-t, and with due hesitation would propose to supply the chasm somewhat in this way : all companion Of hit years pass'd over, all consideration Of wh:\t he was, or may be, if now pardon'd li'e tit, &c. t Malef. sen. Live 7 once more &c. ' There is something very striking in the indignant burst of savage ostentation with which this old warrior introduces himself on the icezc. J A hairy comet, &C.1 So in Fuimus Trees: " comets shook their flaming hair; Thus all our wars were acted first on high, And we taught what to look for." From this, and the passage in the text, Milton, who appears, by various marks of imitation, to have been a careful reader of Massingcr, probably formed the magnificent and awful picture which foHows : " On the other tide, Incensed with indignation, Satan stood Unterrified, and like a comet bnrn'd, That fires the length of Ophiuciis huge In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair fihakes pe:-tilence and war." -j- CA more explicit illustration may be qnoved from Philcaiel Holland's transition of Pliny, b. ii. c. 25. "These blazing starre* the Greckcs call cometat onr Ro- manes crinilos : dreadful to be scene with bloudie fiairet, and all over rough and shagged in the top, like the bush of of haire upon the bead.) Ki>. CENE I.] THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 37 With such swift motion Trom deck to deck, As they that saw it, with amazement cried, He does not run, but flies ! Mont. He still retains The greatness of his spirit. Malef. sen. Now crampt with irons, Hunger, and cold, they hardly do support me But I forget myself. O, my good lords, That sit there as my judges, to determine* The life and death of Malefort, where are now Those shouts, those cheerful looks, those loud ap- plauses, With which, when I return'd loaden with spoil, You entertain'd your admiral ? all's forgotten : And I stand here to give account of that Of which I am as free and innocent As he that never saw the eyes of him t, For whom I stand suspected. Beauf. sen. .Monsieur Malefort, Let not your passion so far transport you, As to believe from any private malice, Or envy to your person, you are question'd : Nor do the suppositions want weight, That do invite us to a strong assurance, Your son - Nalef. sen. My shame ! Beauf. sen. Pray you, hear with patience, never Without assistance or sure aids from you, Could, with the pirates of Argiers} and Tunis, Even those that you had almost twice defeated, . Acquire such credit, as with them to be Made absolute commander (pray you observe me) ; If there had not some contract pass'd between you, That, when occasion served, you would join with To the ruin of Marseilles. [them, Mont. More, what urged Your son to turn apostata $ 1 Cham. Had he from The state, or governor, the least neglect Which envy could interpret for a wrong ? [could 7>an. Or, if you slept not in your charge, how So many ships as do infest our coast, And have in our own harbour shut our navy, Come in unfought with ? Beauf. jun. They put him hardly to it. Malef. sen. My lords, with as much brevity as I can, I'll answer each particular objection [which With which you charge me. The main ground, on You raise the building of your accusation, Hath reference to my son : should I now curse him, Or wish, in the agony of my troubled soul, Lightning had found him in his mother's womb, You'll say 'tis from the purpose ; and I therefore Betake him to the devil, and so leave him. Did never loyal father but myself Beget a treacherous issue ? was't in me With as much ease to fashion up his mind, As in his generation to form. The organs to his body ? Must it follow, * That tit there a* my judges, to determine,] My, which completes the metre, is now first inserted from ihe old copy. + The eyes of htm.} So the old copy : the modern editors read tye ! ; Could with the pirates of Argiers] Argiers is the old reading, and is that of every author of Massinger's time. (So in the Tempest, Black ravenous ruin, with her sail-stretch'd wings, Ready to sink us down, and cover u-." Every Man out ofhii Humour. And Fletcher : " Fix here and rest awhile your sail-stretch'd uringt, That have outstript the winds." The Prophetess. Milton, too, has the same bold expression : the original to aw. on, in ji.gi.ri. LU., I which they are all indebted, is a sublime passage in the The editors invariably modernize it into Algiers. Fairy Queen. B. I. c. xi.st. 10. $ Your sontotum apostata]The modern editors, asbefore, T This glorious relation.] Our old writers frequently ue read apostatf ! (See note to tirgin Martyr, act iv. this woid in the sense of gloriosus, vain, boastful, csten- scnu iii. Eu.j g 1 tatiuus. , " froxpero. - Where was she born ? speak ; tell me. Ariel. Sir, in Argier." ED.) Because that he is impious, I am false ? I would not boast my actions, vet 'tis lawful To upbraid my benefits to unthankful men. Who sunk the Turkish gallies in the streights, But Malefort ? Who rescued the French merchants When they were boarded, and stow'd under hatches By the pirates of Argiers, when every minute They did expect to be chain 'd to the oar, But your now doubted admiral 1 then you fill'd The air with shouts of joy, and did proclaim, W hen hope had left them, and grim-look'd despair Hover'd with sail-stretch'd wings over their heads* To me, as to the Neptune of the sea, They owed the restitution of their goods, Their lives, their liberties. O, can it then Be probable, my lords, that he that never Became the master of a pirate's ship, But at the mainyard hung the captain up, And caused the rest to be thrown over-board ; Should, after all these proofs of deadly hate, So oft express'd against them, entertain A thought of quarter with them ; but much less (To the perpetual ruin of my glories) To join with them to lift a wicked arm Against my mother-country, this Marseilles Which, with my prodigal expense of blood, I have so oft protected ! Beauf. xn. What you have done Is granted and applauded ; but yet know This glorious relation f of your actions Must not so blind our judgments, as to suffer This most unnatural crime you stand accused of, To pass unquestion'd Cham. No ; you must produce Reasons of more validity and weight, To plead in your defence, or we shall hardly Conclude you innocent. Mont. The large volume of Your former worthy deeds, with your experience, Both what, and when to do, but makes against you. Lan. For had your care and courage been the same As heretofore, the dangers we are plunged in Plad been with ease prevented. Malef. ten. What have I Omitted, in the power of flesh and blood Even in the birth to strangle the designs of This hell-bred wolf, my son ? alas ! my lords, I am no god, nor like him could foresee His cruel thoughts, and cursed purposes ; Nor would the sun at my command forbear To make his progress to the other tvorld, Affording to us one continued light. Nor could my breath disperse those foggy mists, Cover'd with which, and darkness of the night, Their navy undisceru'd, without resistance, Beset our harbour : make not that my fault, Which you injustice must ascribe to fortune. Hover'd with sail stretch'd wings over their heads.] Si Jonson : o'er our heads THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. [Acr. I But if that nor my former acts, nor what I have deliver'd, can prevail with you, To make pood my integrity and truth ; Rip up this bosom and pluck out the heart That hath been ever loyal. [A trumpet within. Beauf. ten. How ! a trumpet ! Enquire the cause. [E.ri( Montreville. Malef. sen. Thou searcher of men's hearts, And sure defender of the innocent, (My other crying sins awhile not look'd on) If I in this am guilty, strike me dead, Or bv some unexpected means confirm, I am accused unjustly ! [Aside. Re-enter MONTREVILLE with a Sea Captain. Beanf. sen. Speak the motives That bring thee hither ? Capt. From our admiral thus : He does salute you fairly, and desires It may be understood no public hate Hath brought him to Marseilles ; nor seeks he The ruin of his country, but aims only To wreak a private wrong : and if from you He may have leave* and liberty to decide it In single combat, he'll give up good pledges, If he fall in the trial of his right, We shall weigh anchor, and no more molest This town with hostile arms. Beauf. sen. Speak to the man, If in this presence he appear to you To whom you bring this challenge. Capt. 'Tis to you. Beauf. sen. His father ! Montr. Can it be ? Beanf. jun. Strange and prodigious ! Malef. sen. Thou seest I stand unmoved : were thy voice thunder, It should not shake me ; say, what would the viper ? Capt. The reverence a father's name may challenge, And duty of a son no more remember'd, He does defy thee to the death. Malef. sea. Go on. [head, Capt. And with his sword will prove it on thy Thou art a murderer, an atheist ; And that all attributes of men turn'd furies Cannot express thee ; this he will make good, If thou dar'st give him meeting. Malef. sen. Dare I live ! Dare I, when mountains of my sins o'erwhelm me, At my last gasp ask for mercy ! how I bless Thy coming, captain ; never man to me Arrived so opportunely ; and thy message, However it may seem to threaten death, Does yield to me a second life in curing My wounded honour. Stand I yet suspected As a confederate with this enemy, Whom of all men, against all ties of nature, He marks out for destruction ! you are just, Immortal Powers, and in this, merciful ; And it takes from my sorrow, and my shame For being the father to so bad a son, and if from you He nay haee leave, &c.] This passage it very incorrectly pointed in the former editions. In that you are pleased to offer up the monster To my correction. Blush and repent As you are bound, my honourable lords, Your ill opinions of me. Not great Brutus The father of the Roman liberty With more assured constancy beheld His traitor sona, for labouring to call home The banish'd Tarquins, scourged with rods to death Than 1 will shew, when I take back the life This prodigy of mankind received from me. Beauf. sen. We are sorry, monsieur Malefort for our error, And are much taken with your resolution ; But the disparity of years and strength, Between you and your son, duly consider'd, We would not so expose you. Malef. sen. Then you kill me, Under pretence to save me. O my lords, As you love honour, and a wrong'd man's fame, Deny me not this fair and noble means To make me right again to all the world. Should any other but myself be chosen To punish this apostata with death*, You rob a wretched father of a justice That to all after times will be recorded. I wish his strength were centuple, his skill equal To my experience, that in his fall He may not shame my victory ! I feel The powers and spirits of twenty strong men in me Were he with wild fire circled, I undaunted Would make way to him. As you do affect, sir, My daughter Theocrinef ; as you are My true and ancient friend ; as thou art valiant^ ; And as all love a soldier, second me [They all sue to the governor In this my just petition. In your looks I see a grant, my lord. Beauf. sen. You shall o'erbear me ; And since you are so confident in your cause, Prepare you for the combat. Malef'. sen. With more joy Than yet I ever tasted : by the next sun, The disobedient rebel shall hear from me, And so return in safety. [Tu the Captain.} Mjr good lords, To all my service, I will die, or purchase Rest to Marseilles ; nor can I make doubt, But his impiety is a potent charm, To edge my sword, and add strength to my arm. [Exeunt. To punith thit apostata urith death.'] Both the editors read, To punish thit apostate son with death .' Here is the mischief of altering an author's language. When the metre does not suit oar new fangled terms, we are obliged to insert words of our own to complete it. Apostata stood in the verse very well : but Coxeter and M. Mason having deter- mined to write apostate, found themselves compelled to tack ton to it, and thus enfeebled tl>e original expression. f Uy daughter Theocrine ;] Theocrine is constantly used as a quadrisyllable. It should be observed that as the story and the names are French, Massinger adopts the French mode of enouncing them. The reader must bear this in mind. I a* thou art valiant;] This is said to the captain who brought the challenge : the other persons ad- jured are ioung Beaufort and Montreville. Itappears, from the pointing of the former editions, that the passage was not understood. I.] THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 39 ACT II SCENE I. An open Space without the City. Enter three Sea Captains. 2 Capt. He did accept the challenge, then] 1 Capt. Nay more, Was overjov'd in't ; and, as it had been A fair invitement to a solemn feast, And not a comhat to conclude with death, He cheerful! v embraced it. 3 Capt Are the articles Sign'd to on both parts ? 1 Capt. At the father's suit, With much unwillingness the governor Consented to them. 2 Capt. You are inward with Our admiral ; could you yet never learn What the nature of the quarrel is, that renders The son more than incensed, implacable, Against the father ? 1 Capt. Never; yet I have,' As far as manners would give warrant to it, With my best curiousness of care observed him. I have sat with him in his cabin a day together*, Yet not a syllable exchanged between us Sigh he did often, as if inward grief And melancholy at that instant would Choke up his vital spirits, and now and then A tear or two, as in derision of The toughness of his rugged temper, would Fall on his hollow cheeks, which but once felt, A sudden flash of fury did dry up ; And lay in <* then his hand upon his sword, He would murmur, but yet so as I oft heard him, We shall meet, cruel father, yes, we shall ; When I'll exact, for every womanish drop Of sorrow from these eyf-s, a strict accompt Of much more from thy heart. 2 Capt. 'Tis wondrous strange. 3 Capt. And past my apprehension. 1 Capt. Yet what makes The miracle greater, when from the maintop A sail's descried, all thoughts that do concern Himself laid by, no lion, pinch'd with hunger, Rouses himself more fiercely from his den, Than he comes on the deck : and there how wisely He gives directions, and how stout he is In his executions, we, to admiration, Have been eyewitnesses : yet he never mind's The booty when 'tis made ours : but as if The danger, in the purchase of the prey, Delighted him much more than the reward, His will made known, he does retire himself To his private contemplation, no joy Express'd by him for victory. Enter MALEFORT junior. 2 Capt. Here he comes, But with more cheerful looks than ever yet I saw him wear. Malrf.jun. It was long since resolved on, Nor must I stagger now [in'ti]. May the cause, That forces me to this unnatural act, / have sat with him in hi* cabin, &c.] This beautiful passage, expressing concealed resentment, deserves to be remarked by every reader of taste and judgment. COXETER. t \or must I ttagyernovi 'in't]. In the old copy, a syl- lable has dropt out, which readers the line quite unmet rical. Be buried in everlasting silence, And I find rest in death, or my revenge ! To either I stand equal. Pray you, gentlemen, Be charitable in your censures of me, And do not entertain a false belief That I am mad, for undertaking that Which must be, when effected, still repented. It adds to my calamity, that I have Discourse* and reason, and but too well know I can nor live, nor end a wretched life, But both ways I am impious. Do not, therefore, Ascribe the perturbation (if my soul To a servile fear of death : I oft have view'd All kinds of his inevitable darts, Nor are they terrible. Were I condemn 'd to leap From the cloud-cover 'd brows of a steep rock, Into the deep ; or Curtius like, to fill up, For my country's safety, and an after name, A bottomless abyss, or charge through fire, It could not so much shake me, as th' encounter Of this day's single enemy. 1 Capt. If you please, sir, You may shun it, or defer it. Malef.jun. Not for the world : Yet two things I entreat you : the first is, You'll not enquire the difference between Myself and him, which as a father once I honour'd, now my deadliest enemy ; The last is, if I fall, to bear my body Far from this place, and where you please inter it. I should say more, but by his sudden coming I am cut off. Enter BEAUFORT junior and MONTREVILT.E, leading in MALEFORT senior ; BELGAHDE following, with others. Beauf.jun. Let me, sir, have the honour To be your second. I have no great confidence in the genuineness of what I have inserted between brackets : it is harmless, however, and serves, as Falstatf says, to fill a pit as well as a better. It adds to my calamity, that I have Discourse and reason] It is very difficult to determine the precise meaning which otir ancestors gave to discourse; or to distinpiish the line which separated it from reaton. Perhaps it indicated a more rapid deduction of consequence! from premises, than was supposed to be effected by rea- son : bill I speak with hesitation. The acute Gl.m ville says, " The act of the mind which connects propositions, and deduceth conclusions from ihem, the schools called discourse, anil we shall not miscall it, if we name it reason." What- ever be the sense, it frequently appears in onr old writers, by whom it is u-ii.ilU coupled with reason or judgment, which last should seem to be the more proper word. Thus in the City Madam : '' Such as want Discourse and judgement, and through weakness fall, May merit men's i ompassion." Again, in the Coxcomb' " Why should a man that has discourse and reason, And knows how near he loses all in these things, Covet to have his wbhes satisfied?" The reader remembers the exclamation of Hamlet " Oh heaven ! a beast that wants discourse of reason, &c. "This," says Warburton, who contrived to blunder with more ingenuity than usually f.ills to the lot of a commenta- tor, ' is finely expressed, and with a philosophical exactness! Beasts want not reason," (this is a new discovery,) " but the discourse of reason : i. e. the regular inferring one thing from another by the assistance of universals" ! Discourse (^'reason is so poor and perplexed a phrase, that without regard for the " philosophical exactness" of Shakspeare, I should dismiss it at once, lor what 1 believe to be his gcnuin* language : " O heaven ! a beast that wants discourse and reason." & 40 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. [Acr II Montr. With your pardon, sir, I must put in for that, since our tried friendship Hath lasted from our infancy. Belg. I have served Under your command, and you hare seen me fight, And handsomely, though I say it; and if now*, At this downright game, I may but hold your cards I'll not pull down the side. Malef. sen. I rest much bound To your so noble offers, and I hope Shall find your pardon, though I now refuse them ; For which I'll yield strong reasons, but as briefly As the time will give me leave. For me to borrow ( That am supposed the weaker) any aid From the assistance of my second's sword, Might write me down in the black list of those That have nor fire nor spirit of their own ; But dare, and do, as they derive their courage From his example, on whose help and valour They wholly do depend. Let this suffice In my excuse for that. Now, if you please, On both parts, to retire to yonder mount, Where you, as in a Roman theatre, May see the bloody difference determined, Your favours meet my wishes. Malef. jun. 'Tis approved of By me ; and I command you [To his Captains \ lead the way, And leave me to my fortune. Beatif.jun, I would gladly Be a spectator (since I am denied To be an actor) of each blow and thrust, And punctually observe them. Malef. jun. You shall have All you desire ; for in a word or two I must make bold to entertain the time If he give suffrage to it. Malef. sen. Yes, I will ; I'll hear thee, and then kill thee : nay, farewell. Malef. jun. Embrace with love on both sides, and Leave deadly hate and fury. [with us Malef. sen. From this place You ne'er shall see both living. Belg. What's past help, is Beyond prevention. [They embrace on both sides, and take leave severally of the father and son. Malef. sen. Now we are alone, sir ; And thou hast liberty to unload the burthen Which thou groan'st under. Speak thy griefs. Malef. jun. I shall, sir ; But in a perplex'd form and method, which You only can interpret : Would you had not A guilty knowledge in your bosom, of and if now. At this downright game, 1 may but hold your cards, I'll not pull down the side.] i. e. I'll not injure your cause : the same expression occurs in the Grand Duke of Florence : " Cox. Pray you pause a little. If I hold your cards, I shall pull down the side, I am not good at the game." The allusion is to * party at cards : to set up a side, was to become partners in a game ; to pull or pluck down a side (for both these terms are found in our old plays) wag to occasion its loss by ignorance or treachery. Thus, in the Parson's Wedding '. "Pleas. A traitor! bind him, \\K\\MpuWddown a side." And in the Maid'* Tragedy : Evad. Aspatia, take her part. Dela. I will refuse it, " She will pluck down a tide, she docs not nse It" The language which you force me to deliver, So I were nothing ! As you are my father, I bend my knee, and, uncompell'd, profess My life, and all that's mine, to be your gift ; And that in a son's duty I stand bound To lay this head beneath your feet, and run All desperate hazards for your ease and safety : But this confest on my part, I rise up And not as with a father, (all respert, Love, fear, and reverence cast off,) but as A wicked man, 1 thus expostulate with you. Why have you done that which I dare not speak And in the action changed the humble shape Of my obedience, to rebellious rage, [me, And insolent pride ? and with shut eyes constrain'd To run my bark of honour on a shelf I must not see, nor, if I saw it, shun it ? In my wrongs nature suffers, and looks backward, And mankind trembles to see me pursue What beasts would fly from. For when I advance This sword, as I must do, against your head, Piety will weep, and filial duty mourn, To see their altars which you built up in me, In a moment razed and ruin'd. *That you could (From my grieved soul I wish it) but produce, To qualify, not excuse, your deed of horror, One seeming reason, that I might fix here, And move no further ! Malef. sen. Have I so far lost A father's power, that I must give account Of my actions to my son ? or must I plead As a fearful prisoner at the bar, while he That owes his being to me sits a judge To censure that, which only by myself Ought to he question'd ? mountains sooner fall Beneath their valleys, and the lofty pine Pay homage to the bramble, or what else is Preposterous in nature, ere my tongue In one short syllable yields satisfaction To any doubt of thine ; nay, though it were A certainty disdaining argument ! Since, though my deeds wore hell's black liverv, To thee they should appear triumphal robes, Set off with glorious honour, thou being bound To see with my eyes, and to hold that reason, That takes or birth or fashion from my will. Malef. jun. This sword divides that slavish knot. Malef. sen. It cannot : It cannot, wretch ; and if thou but remember, From whom thou hadst this spirit, thou dar'st not hope it. Who train'd thee up in arms but I ? Who taught thee Men were men only when they durst look down With scorn on death and danger, and contemn'd All opposition, till plumed Victoryt Had made her constant stand upon their helmets? * That you could &c.] O that, &c. This omission of the ngn of the optative interjection is common to all our old liamathls. t till plumed Victory Had made her constant stand upon their helmets?} This noble image seems to have been copied by Milton, who describing Satan, says, " His stature reach'd the sky, and on his crest Sat Horror plumed ;" . And, in another place : " at his right hand Victory Sat eagle-u'ing'd." The whole speech of Malefort here noticed is truly sublime, nd above all commendation. COXBTJEB. SCENE I.I THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 41 Under my shield thou hast fought as securely As the young eaglet, cover'd with the wings Of her fierce dam, learns how and where to prey. All that is manly in thee, I call mine ; But what is weak and womanish, thine own. And what I gave, since thou art proud, ungrateful, Presuming to contend with him, to whom Submission is due, I will take from thee. Look, therefore, for extremities, and expect not I will correct thee as a son, hut kill thee As a serpent swollen with poison ; who surviving A little longer, with infectious breath, Would render all things near him, like itself, Contagious. Nay, now my anger's up, Ten thousand virgins kneeling at my feet, And with one general cry howling for mercy, Shall not redeem thee. Mttlef.jitn. Thou incensed Power, Awhile forbear thy thunder ! let me have No aid in my revenge, if from the grave My mother Malef. sen. Thou shalt never name her more. [Theyfght. BEAUFORT junior, MONTREVILLE, BELGARDE, and the three Sea Captains, appear on the Mount. Beanf.jitn. They are at it. 2 Copt. That thrust was put strongly home. Montr. But with more strength avoided. Belg. Well come in ; He has drawn blood of him yet : well done, old 1 Capt. That was a strange miss. [cock. Beauf.jun. That a certain hit. [Young Malef art it slain. 3ery strong expression. 46 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. [Acr III Malef. You conceive her right, And in your admiration of her sweetness, You only can deserve her. Blush not, girl, Thou art abo'-e his praise, or mine ; nor can Obsequious Flattery, though she should use Her thousand oil'd tongues to advance thy worth, Give aught, (for that's impossible,) but take from Thy more than human graces; and even then, When she liath spent herself with her best strength, The wrong she has done thee shall be so apparent, That, losing her own servile shape and name, She will be thought Detraction : but I Forget myself ; and something whispers to me, I have said too much. Mont. I know not what to think on't, But there's some mystery in it, which I fear Will be too soon discover'd. Malef. I much wrong Your patience, noble sir, by too much hugging My proper issue, and, like the foolish crow, Believe my black brood swans. Beauf, sen. There needs noi, sir, The least excuse for this ; nay, I must have Your arm, you being the master of the feast, And this the mistress. Theoc. I am any thing That you shall please to make me. Beauf. jun. Nay, 'tis yours, Without more compliment. .Mont*. Your will's a law, sir. [Loud music. Exeunt Beaufort senior, Malefort, Theocrine, Beaufort junior, Montaigne, Chamont, Lanour, Montrevilie. Ush. Would I had been born a lord ! 1 Worn. Or I a lady ! Page. It may be you were both begot in court, Though bred up in the city ; for your mothers, As I have heard, loved the lobby ; and there, nightly, Are seen strange apparitions : and who knows But that some noble faun, heated with wine, And cloy'd with partridge, had a kind of longing To trade in sprats ? this needs no exposition : But can you yield a reason for your wishes ? Uth. Why, had I been born a lord, I had been no servant. [waiters, 1 Worn. And whereas now necessity makes us We had been attended on. 2 Worn. And might have slept then As longas we pleased, and fed when we had stomachs, And worn new clothes, nor lived, as now, in hope Of a cast gown, or petticoat. Page. You are fools, And ignorant of your happiness. Ere I was sworn To the pantoflef, I have beard my tutor Prove it by logic, that a servant's life Was better than his master's and by that I learn'd from him, if that my memory fail not, I'll make it good. Uth. Proceed, my little wit In decimo sexto. Page. Thus then : from the king To the beggar, by gradation, all are servants , Afont.] So the old copy: it must, however, be a mistake f or Theoc. or rather, perhaps, for Multf. t Ere I vat Sworn to the pantofle,] i. e. takeu from attt>nding in the porter's lodge, (which seem? to have been the first degree o r tervitude,; to wait on Theocrine. And you must grant the slavery is less To study to please one, than many. Ush. True. [plain Page. Well then ; and first to you, sir, you com- You serve one lord, but your lord serves a thousand, Besides his passions, that are his worst masters ; You must humour him, and he is bound to sooth Every grim sir above him' : if he frown, For the least neglect you fear to lose your place ; But if, and with all slavish observation, [stool, From the minion's self, to the groom of his close- He hourly seeks not favour, he is sure it.] To be eased of liis office, though perhaps he bought Nay, more : that high disposer of all such That are subordinate to him, serves and fears The fury of the many -headed monster, The giddy multitude : and, as a horse Is still a horse, for all his golden trappings, So your men of purchased titles, at their best, are But serving men in rich liveries. Ush. Most rare infant! Where learnd'st thou this morality ? Page. Why, thou dull pate, As I told thee, of my tutor. 2 Worn. Now for us, boy. Page. I am cut oft': the governor. Enter BEAUFOHT senior, and BEAUFORT junior ; Servant* setting forth a banquet. Beauf. sen. Quick, quick, sirs. See all things perfect. Serv. Let the blame be ours else. Beauf. sen. And, as I said, when we are at the banquet, And high in our cups, for 'tis no feast without it, Especially among soldiers ; Theocrine Being retired, as that's no place for her, Take you occasion to rise from the table, And lose no opportunity. Beauf. jun. 'Tis my purpose ; And if I can win her to give her heart, I have a holy man in readiness To join our hands ; for the admiral, her father, Repents him of his grant to me, and seems So far transported with a strange opinion Of her fair features, that, should we defer it, I think, ere long, he will believe, and strongly, The dauphin is not worthy of her: I Am much amazed with't. Beauf. sen. Nay, dispatch there, fellows. [Exeunt Beaufort senior and Beaufort junior. Serv. We are ready, when you please. Sweet formsf, your pardon ! It has been such a busy time, I could not. Tender that ceremonious respect Which you deserve ; but now, the great work I will attend the less, and with all care [ended, Observe and serve you. he is bound to tooth Every grim sir above htm :] Grim sir, Mr. Uodsley inju diciouMy altered to trim sir! tor this he ishonouied withihe approbation of Coxeter ; though nothing can be more certain than that the old reading is rii;hi. Skelton calls Wolsey a grim sire, and Fletcher has a similar expression in the Elder Brother : " Cowry. It is a faith That we will die in ; since from the blackguard To the/;rji sir in office, there are few Hold other tenet i." + fiwett forms, &c.] This is a paltry play on words. The form* meant by the servant, arr the Ions; benches on which the guests were to sit. The trite pedantry of the speech ii well exposed by the Page. SCENE III.] THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 47 Page. This is a penn'd speech, And serves as a perpetual preface to A dinner made of fragments. Ush. We wait on you. [Exeunt. SCENE III. The same. A Banquet set forth. Loud Music. Enter BEAUFORT senior, MALEFORT, MONTAIGNE, CHAMONT, LANOUR, BEAUFORT junior, MONTREVILLE, and Servants. Beauf. sen. You are not merry, sir. Malef. Yes, my good lord, You have given us ample means to drown all cares : And yet I nourish strange thoughts, which I would Most willingly destroy. [Aside. Beauf. sen. Pray you, take your place. Beauf . jun. And drink a health ; and let it be, if you please, To the worthiest of women. Now observe him. Malef. Give me the bowl ; since you do me the I will begin it. [honour, Cham. May we know her name, sir ? [queen's, Malef. You shall ; I will not choose a foreign Nor yet our own, for that would relish of Tame flattery ; nor do their height of title, [ness, Or absolute power, confirm their worth and good- These being heaven's gifts, and frequently couferr'd On such as are beneath them; nor will I Name the king's mistress, howsoever she In his esteem may carry it ; but if J, As wine gives liberty, may use my freedom, Not sway'd this way or that, with confidence, (And I will make it good on any equal,) If it must be to her whose outward form Is better 'd by the beauty of her mind, She lives not that with justice can pretend An interest to this so sacred health, But my fair daughter. He that only doubts it, I do pronounce a villain : this to her, then. [Drinks. Mont. What may we think of this ? Beauf. sen. It matters not. Lan. For my part, I will sooth him, rather than Draw on a quarrel *. Cham. It is the safest course ; And one I mean to follow. Beauf. jun. It has gone round, sir. [Exit. Malef. Now you hare done her right ; if there Worthy to second this, propose it boldly, [be any I am your pledge. Beauf. sen. Let's pause here, if you please, And entertain the time with something else. \Iusic there ! in some lofty strain ; the song too That I gave order for ; the new one, call'd The Soldier's Delight. [Music and a song. Enter BELGARDE in armour, a case of carbines by his side. Belg. Who stops me now ? Or who dares only say that I appear not In the most rich and glorious habit that Renders a man complete ? What court so set off Draw on a quarrel.] This has hitherto been printed, Draw on a quarrel, Chamont ; and the next speech given to Montreville. It is not very probable that the latter should reply to an observation addressed to Charaont, with whom he does not appear to be familiar: and besides, the excess of metre seems to prove that the name has sliptfrom the margin of the succeeding line into the text of this. With state and ceremonious pomp, but, thus Accoutred, I may enter ? Or what feast, Though all the elements at once were ransack'd To store it with variety transcending The curiousness and cost on Trajan's birthday ; (Where princes only, and confederate kings, Did sit as guests, served and attended on By the senators of Rome), at which a soldier, In this his natural and proper shape, Might not, and boldly, fill a seat, and by His presence make the great solemnity More honour'd and remarkable ? Beauf. sen. Tis acknowledged ; And this a grace done to me unexpected. Mont. But why in armour ? Malef. What's the mystery ? Pray you, reveal that. iBelg. Soldiers out of action, That very rare * * * * * * * * but, like unbidden guests. Bring their stools with them, for their own defence J, At court should feed in gauntlets, they may have Their fingers cut else : there your carpet knights. That never charged beyond a mistress' lips, Are still most keen, and valiant. But to you, Whom it does most concern, my lord, I will Address my speech, and with a soldier's freedom In my reproof, return the bitter scoff You threw upon my poverty : you contemn'd My coarser outside, and from that concluded * at which a soldier &c.] The old copy reads, tat with a soldier. The emendation, which is a very happy one, was made by Mr. M. Mason. The corruption is easily accounted for: the primer mistook the second paren- thesis foi an s, and having uiven sat for at, was obliged to alter the next word, to make sense of the line. This will be understood at once by a reference to the quarto, where the first parenthesis only appears, which was therefore omitted by the succeeding editors. I know not where Mas- singer found this anecdote of Trajan ; he wa<, indeed, a magnificent, and, in some cases, an ostentatious prince ; but neither his pride, nor his prudence, I believe, would have allowed the " senators of Rome" to degrade them- selves by wailing on the allies of the republic. t Belg. Soldier* out of action, That very rare, ** * * but, like unbidden guests Bring their stools with them, &c.l So I have ventured to print this passage, being persuaded that a line is lost. The breaks c innot be filled up, but the sense might be, Soldiers out of action, that very rarely find seats reserved for them, i. e. arc invited, but, like, &c. How the mudern editors understood this passage I know not but, they all give it thus. Belg. Soldier f out of action. That very rare, but like unbidden guests JBrinu &c. This custom of guests, who are uninvited bringing their scats with them, is frequently referred to by our old writers: so Rowley : Widuw. What cope.'mate's this trow ? Who let him in 1 Jarvis. By this light, a fellow of an excellent breeding; he came unbidden, and brought his stool with him. J for their own defence, At court should feed in gauntlets, they may have Their fingers cut else: Here is the bon-mot for which Quin was so much celebrated that "at city leasts it was neither safe nor prudent to help one's self without a basket- hilted knife." Massinger got it, I suppose, from Barclay's second Eclogue, which has great merit for the lime in which it was written: " If the dishe be pleasaunt eyther fleshe or fislie, Ten handes at once swarme in the dishe To put there tliy handes is peril without fayle. Without a yauntltt, or els a ylove ofmayle ; Among all those knives, thou one of both must have, Or eli it is harde thy fingers to save." Where Barclay found it, I cannot tell ; but there is something of the kind in Diogenes Laertius. " There a nothing new under the sun ! " 48 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. [Acr III (As by your groom you made me understand) I was unworthy to sit at your table, Among these tissues and embroideries, Unless I changed my habit : I have done it, And show myself in that which I have worn In the heat and fervour of a bloody fight ; Arid then it was in fashion, not as now, Ridiculous and despised. This hath past through A wood of pikes, and every one aim'd at it, Yet scorn'd to take impression from their fury : With this, as still you see it, fresh and new, I've charged through fire that would have singed your sables, [colour Black fox, and ermines, and changed the proud Of scarlet, though of the r'ght Tyrian die. But now, as if the trappings made the man, Such only are admired that come adorn'd With what's no part of them. This is mine own, My richest suit, a suit I must not part from, But not regarded now : and yet remember, 'Tis we that bring you in the means of feasts, Banquets, and revels, which, when you possess, With barbarous ingratitude you deny us To be made sharers in the harvest, which Our sweat and industry reap'd, and sow'd for you. The silks you wear, we with our blood spin for you ; This massy plate, that with the ponderous weight Does make your cupboards crack, we (unaffrighted With tempests, or the long and tedious way, Or dreadful monsters of the deep, that wait With open jaws still ready to devour us,) Fetch from the other world. Let it not then, In after ages, to your shame be spoken, That you, with no relenting eyes, look on Our wants that feed your plenty : or consume, In prodigal and wanton gifts on drones, The kingdom's treasure, yet detain from us The debt that with the hazard of our lives, We have made you stand engaged for ; or force us, Against all civil government, in armour To require that, which with all willingness Should be tender'd ere demanded. Beauf. sen. I commend This wholesome sharpness in you, and prefer it Before obsequious lameness ; it shews lovely : Nor shall the rain of your good counsel fall Upon the barren sands, but spring up fruit*, Such as you long have wish'd for. And the rest Of your profession, like you, discontented For want of means, shall in their present payment Be bound to praise your boldness : and hereafter I will take order you shall have no cause, For want of change, to put your armour on, But in the face of an enemy ; not as now, Among your friends. To that which is due to you, To furnish you like yourself, of mine own bounty I'll add two hundred crowns. Cham. I, to my power, "Will follow the example. Mont. Take this, captain, Tis all my present store ; but when you please, Command"^ me further. Lan. I could wish it more. Belg. This is the luckiest jest ever came from me. Let a soldier use no other scribe to draw The form of his position. This will speed but spring tip fruit,] i. e. cauie it to spring up- This sense of the word isr familiar to Massing and liu contemporaries, When your thrice-humble supplications, With prayers for increase of health and honours To their grave lordships, shall, as soon as read, Be pocketed up, the cause no more remember'd j When this dumb rhetoric Well, I have a life, Which I, in thankfulness for your great favours, My noble lords, when you please to command it, Must never think mine own. Broker, be happy, These golden birds fly to thee. [Exit. Beauf'. sen. You are dull, sir, And seem not to be taken with the passage You saw presented. Malef. Passage ! I observed none, My thoughts were elsewhere busied. Ha ! she is In danger to be lost, to be lost for ever, If speedily I come not to her rescue, For so my genius tells me. Montr. What chimeras Work on your fantasy ? Malef. Fantasies! they are truths. Where is my Theocrine ? you have plotted To rob me of my daughter ; bring me to her, Or I'll call down the saints to witness for me, You are inhospitable. Beauf. sen. You amaze me. Your daughter's safe, and now exchanging courtship With my son, her servant*. Why do you hear this With such distracted looks, since to that end You brought her hither ? Malef. Tis confess'd I did ; But now, pray you, pardon me ; and, if you please, Ere she delivers up her virgin fort, I would observe what is the art he uses In planting his artillery against it : She is my only care, nor must she yield, But upon noble terms. Beauf. sen. 'Tis so determined. Malef. Yet I am jealous. Mont. Overmuch, I fear. What passions are these ? Beauf. sen. Come, I will bring you Where you, with these, if they so please, may see The love-scene acted. Montr. There is something more Than fatherly love in this. Mont. We wait upon you. [Exeunt SCENE IV. Another Room in BEAUFORT'S Houu. Enter BEAUFORT junior, and THEOCRINE. Beauf. jun. Since then you meet my flames with equal ardour, As you profess, it is your bounty, mistress, Nor must I call it debt ; yet 'tis your glory, That your excess supplies my want, and makes me Strong in my weakness, which could never be, But in your good opinion. Theoc. You teach me, sir, What I should say ; since from your sun of favour, * Your daughter's safe, and now exchanging courtship With my son, her servant.] Servant was at ihis time the invariable term for a suitor, who, in return, called the object of his addresses, mistreat. Thus Shirley, Cone example for all,) " Bon. What's the gentleman she has married? Serv. A man of pretty fortune, that has been Her servant many years. Htm. How do you mean, Wantonly, or docs he serve for wages? Serv. Neither; I mean her tuitur." 6CENE II.] THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. I, like dim Phoebe, in herself obscure, Borrow that light I have. Beauf. jun. Which you return With large increase, since that you will o'ercome, And I dare not contend, were you but pleased To make what's yet divided one. Theoc. I have Already in my wishes ; modesty Forbids me to speak more. Beanf.jun. But what assurance, But still without offence, may I demand, That may secure me that your heart and tongue Join to make harmony. Theoc. Choose any, Suiting your love, distinguished from lust, To ask, and mine to grant. Enter, behind, BEAUFORT senior, MALEFORT, MONTREVILLE, and the rest. Beauf. sen. Yonder they are. Malef. At distance too ! 'tis yet well. Beanf.jun. I may take then This hand, and with a thousand burning kisses, Swear 'tis the anchor to my hopes 1 Theoc. You may, sir. Malef. Somewhat too much. Beaiif.jun. And this done, view myself In these true mirrors ? Theoc. Ever true 1o you, sir : And may they lose the ability of sight, When they seek other object ! Malef. This is more Thiin 1 can give consent to. Beauf. jun. And a kiss Thus printed on your lips, will not distaste you * 1 Malef. Her lips ! [tracted? Montr. Why, where should he kiss ? are you dis- Beauf.jun. Then, when this holy man hath made it lawful [Brings in a Priest. Malef, A priest so ready too ! I must break in. Beanf.jun. And what's spoke here is register'd I must engross those favours to myself [above ; Which are not to be named. Theoc. All I can give, But what they are I know not. Beaiif.jun. I'll instruct you. Malef. O how my blood boils ! Montr. Pray you, contain yourself; Methinks his courtship's modest f. Beanf.jun. Then being mine, And wholly mine, the river of your love To kinsmen and allies, nay, to your father, ( Howe'er out of his tenderness he admires you,) Must in the ocean of your affection To me, be swallow'd up, and want a name, Compared with what you owe me. Theoc. 'Tis most fit, sir. The stronger bond that binds me to you, must Dissolve the weaker. Malef. I am ruin'd, if I come not fairly off. * Beauf. jun. And a kist Tims printed on your lips, will not distaste yoji ?] i. e. displease you : the word perpetually lecnrs in this sense. t Met/links his courtship's modest.] For his the modern editors have this. The change is unnecessary. The next speecn, as Mr. G ilchrist observes, bears a distant resemblance to the nrst sonnet of Daniel to Delia: " Unto the boundlesse ocean of thy beantic Runnes this poor river, charg'rt with streames of zeale, Returning thee the tribute of my diitie. Which here my love, my truth, my plaints reveale." Jieauf. sen. There's nothing wanting But your consent. Malef. Some strange invention aid me ! This ! yes, it must be so. [Aside Montr. Why do you stagger, When what you seem'd so much to wish, is offer'd, Both parties being agreed too * ? Beauf. sen. I'll not court A grant from you, nor do I wrong your daughter, Though I say my son deserves her. Malef. 'Tis far from My humble thoughts to undervalue him I cannot prize too high : for howsoever From my own fond indulgence I have sung Her praises with too prodigal a tongue. That tenderness laid by, I stand confirm'd All that I fancied excellent in her, Balanced with what is really his own, Holds weight in I will defer that which I most desire ; And so must she, till longing expectation, That heightens pleasure, makes her truly know Her happiness, and with what outstretch'd anna She must embrace it. Beaiif.jun. This is curiousness Beyond example $. Malef. Let it then begin From me : in what's mine own I'll use my will, And yield no further reason. I lay claim to The liberty of a subject. Fall not off, But be obedient, or by the hair I'll drag thee home. Censure me as you please, I'll take my own way. O the inward fires That, wanting vent, consume me ! [Eiit with Theocrine. Montr. 'Tis most certain He's mad, or worse. Beauf. sen. How worse ? Both parties being agreed too ?] The old copy gives this hemistich to Beaufort junior, and is probably rilit, as Male- fort had by this time interposed between the lovers. The alteration is by Coxeter. For to, which stands in all the editions, I read too. It should be observed that our old writers usually spell those two words alike, leaving the sense to be discovered by the context (omitted in edit. 1813). t till it be perfected,] The old orthography v a perfitted, a mode of spelling much better adapted to poetry, anil which I am sorry we have suti'ered to grow obsolete. t Beauf. jun. This is curiousness Beyond example.} i. e. a refined and over scrupulous con- sideration of the subject. So ihe word is frequently applied by our old writeis. (It occurs again in the " Parliament of Love," Act. i, sc.4; and in the Works of Tyndall, folio p 67, I find the following apposite illustration of this ex pression, " Be diligent, therefore, that those be not deceaved with curiousnes. For me of no small reputation have been deceaved with their owne sophistry." Eu.) $ Beauf. sen. How worse.'} This shoit speech is not appropriated in the old copy. Dodsley gives it to the present 50 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. ACT IV. Montr. Nay, there I leave you ; My thoughts are free. 'Beauf.jun. This I foresaw. Beauf. sen. Take comfort, He shall walk in clouds, but I'll discover him : And he shall find and feel, if he excuse not, And with strong reasons, this gross injury, I can make use of my authority. [Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE I. A Room in MALEFORT'S House. Enter MALEFORT. What flames are these my wild desires fan in me ? The torch that feeds then was not lighted at Thy altars, Cupid : vindicate thyself, And do not own it ; and confirm it rather, That this infernal brand, that turns me cinders, Was by the snake-hair'd sisters thrown into My guilty bosom. O that I was ever Accurs'd in having issue ! my son's blood, (That like the poison'd shirt of Hercules Grows to each part about me,) which my hate Forced from him with much willingness, may admit Some weak defence ; but my most impious love To my fair daughter Theocrine, none ; Since my affection (rather wicked lust) That does pursue her, is a greater crime Than any detestation, with which I should afflict her innocence. With what cunning I have betrav'd myself*, and did not feel The scorching heat that now with fury rages ! Why was I tender of her ? cover 'd with That fond disguise, this mischief stole upon me. I thought it no offence to kiss her often. Or twine mine arms about her softer neck t, And by false shadows of a father's kindness I long deceived myself : but now the effect Is too apparent. How I strove to be In her opinion held the worthiest man In courtship, form, and feature ! envying him That was preferr'd before me ; and yet then My wishes to myself were not discover'd. But still my fires increased, and with delight I would call her mistress J, willingly forgetting The name of daughter, choosing rather she Should style me servant, than, with reverence, father : speaker, and is evidently right. M. Mason follows Coxeter, who gives it to no one I * With what cunning I have betrayed myself, 4-c.l Gifford, in the edition of 1813, icm.irks on this speech that it is a close translation of the description of the fatal passion of Byblis, by Ovid, to whom I must refer the reader for the parallel passage. Mttamorph, Lib. ix, 456. Ki> ) t Or twine mine arms about her softer neck,] i. e. her soft neck: our oil poets frequently adopt, and indeed with sin- gular good taste, the comparative for the positive. Thus, in a very pretty passage in the Combat of Love and, friend- ship, by R. Mead : " When I shall sit circled within yonr armes, How shall I cast a blemish on your honour, And appear onely like tome falter stone, Placed in a ring of gold, which growi a jewel But from the seat which holds it!" And indeed Massinger himself furnishes numerous instances of this practice ; one occurs just below: " which jour gentler temper, On my submission, 1 hope, will pardon." Another we have already hart, in the Viryin-Martyr : " Jud-ge not my readier will by the event." t / would call her mistress, &c.] See note to Act iii, tc. 4. ante Yet, waking, I ne'er cherish'd obscene hopes *, But in my troubled slumbers often thought She was too near to me, and then sleeping blush'd At my imagination ; which pass'd, (My eyes being open not condemning it,) I was ravish'd with the pleasure of the dream. Yet spite of these temptations I have reason That pleads against them, and commands me to Extinguish these abominable fires ; And I will do it ; I will send her back To him that loves her lawfully. Within there ! Enter THEOCRINE. Theoc. Sir, did you call ? Malef. I look no sooner on her, But all my boasted power of reason leaves me. And passion again usurps her empire. Does none else wait me ? Theoc. I am wretched, sir, Should any owe more duty ? Malef. This is worse Than disobedience ; leave me. Theoc. On my knees, sir, As I have ever squared my will by yours, And liked and loath'd with your eyes, I beseech yoa To teach me what the nature of my fault is, That hath incensed you ; sure 'tis one of weakness And not of malice) which your gentler temper, On my submission, I hope, will pardon : Which granted by your piety, if that I, Out of the least neglect of mine hereafter, Make you remember it, may I sink ever Under your dread command, sir. Malef. O my stars ! Who can but doat on this humility, [ters That sweetens Lovely in her tears ! The fet- That seem'd to lessen in their weight but now t> But this grow heavier on me. Yet waking, / nt'er cherish'd obscene hopes,] The old copy read<, Yet mocking, if this be the genuine word, it must mean " notwithstanding my wanton abuse of the terms mentioned above, I never cherished," &c. this is certainly not defective in sense ; but the rest of the sentence calls no loudly for waking, that I have not scrupled to insert it in the text; the corruption, at the press, was sufficiently easy. t Malef. O my stars ! Who can but doat on this humility, That sweetens Lovely in her tears! The fetter*, That seem'd to lessen in their weight but nmo, By this grow heavier on me.] So I venture to point the passage : it is abrupt, and denotes the distracted state of the speaker's mind. It stands thus in Mr. Af. Mason : Malef. O my stars .' who can but doat on this humility That sweetens 'lovely in her tears) the fetters That seem'd to lessen in their weight ; but now By this grow heavier on me. Coxete* follows the old copies, which only differ from this, in placing a note of interrogation after teart. Both are evidently wrong, because unintelligible. The reader must not be surprised at the portentous verse which begins the quotation from Mr. M. Mason. Neither he, nor Coxeter, nor Dodsley, reems to have had the smallest solicitude (1 will not say knowledge) respecting th>- metre of their author : and Massinger, the most harmonious of poets, appears, in their desultory pages, as imiuncablc a Marstou or Donne* SCENE I.] THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 51 Theoc. Dear sir. Malef. Peace ! T must not hear thee. Theoc. Nor look on me ? Malef. No, Thv looks and words are charms. Theoc. May they have power then To calm the tempest of your wrath ! Alas, sir, Did I but know in what I give offence, In my repentance I would show my sorrow For what is past, and, in my care hereafter, Kill the occasion, or cease to be ; Since life, without your favour, is to me A load I would cast off. Malef. O that my heart Were rent in sunder, that I mght expire, The cause in my death buried* ! yet I know not With such prevailing oratory 'tis begg'd from me, That to deny thee would convince me to Have suck'd the milk of tigers : rise, and I, t But in a perplex'd and mysterious method, Will make relation : That which all the world A dmires and cries up in thee for perfections, Are to unhappy me foul blemishes, And mulcts in nature. If thou hadst been born J Deform 'd and crooked in the fe itures of Thy body, as the manners of th y mind ; Moor-lipp'd, flat-nosed, dim-eyed, and beetle-brow'd With a dwarf's stature to a giant's waist ; Sour-breath'd, with claws for fingers on thy hands, Splay-footed, gouty-legg'd, and over all A loathsome leprosy had spread itself, And made thee shunn'd of hum.in fellowships ; I had been blest. Theoc. Why, would you wish a monster (For such a one, or worse, you have described) To call you father ? Malef. Rather than as now, (Though I had drown'd thee for it in the sea,) Appearing, as thou dost, a new Pandora, With Juno's fair cow-eyes {, Minerva's brow, Aurora's blushing cheeks. Hebe's fresh youth, Venus' soft paps, with Thetis' silver feet. Theoc. Sir, you have liked and loved them, and oft forced, * The cam* in my death buried !] yet I know not. Meaning, 1 appiehend, that his incestuous passion was per- haps suspected. As tliis passage hath been hitherto pointed, it was not lo be understood. t But in a perplex'd and mysterious method,] We have already had this expression from the son : '' But in a perplex'd form and method," &c., Actii, sc. 1. And mulling c.m more stronly express the character of this most vicious father, whose crimes were too horrible for his eon to express, and whose wishes are too flagitious for his (laughter lo hear. * If thou hadst been born, &c.] Thus in K ing John : " If thon, that bid'nt me be content, wert grim, I'gly, and Mand'rons to thy mother's womb, Full of unpleasing blots, and sightless stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-otiending marks, I would not care, I then would be content ; For ihen I should not love thee ;" COXETER. With Juno'* fair cow-eyes, &c.] These lines of Mas- singer are an immediate translation from a pretty Greek epigram : Ofifiar' x 'C Hpjjc, MtXirr;, rac XP a C AOqvjjc., Tc wac. Ila^iJjc., ra fffvpa rijc. QtTiSof, &c. Do DO. These cote-eyes, however, make but a sorry kind of an ap- pearance in English poetry ; but so it ever will be when the figurative terms of one languagg are literally applied to nether. See the Emperor of the East. With your hyperboles of praise pour'd on them, My modesty to a defensive red, [pleased Strew'd o'er that paleness, which you then were To style the purest white. Malef. And in that cup I drank the poison I now feel dispersed Through every vein and artery. Wherefore art thou So cruel to me ? This thy outward shape Brought a fierce war against me, not to be By flesh and blood resisted : but to leave me No hope of freedom, from the magazine Of thy mind's forces, treacherously thou drew'st up Auxiliary helps to strengthen that Which was already in itself too potent. Thy beauty gave the first charge, but thy duty, Seconded with thy care and watchful studies To please, and serve my will, in all that might Raise up content in me, like thunder brake through All opposition ; and, my ranks of reason Disbanded, my victorious passions fell To bloody execution, and compell'd me With willing hands to tie on my own chains, And, with a kind of flattering joy, to glory In my captivity. Theoc. I, in this you speak, sir, Am ignorance itself. Malef. And so continue ; For knowledge of the arms thou bear'st against me, Would make thee curse thyself, but yield no aids For thee to help me ; and twere cruelty In me to wound that spotless innocence, Howe'er it make me guilty. In a wprd, Thy plurisy * of goodness is thy ill ; Thy virtues vices, and thy humble lowness Far worse than stubborn sullenness and pride ; Thy looks, that ravish all beholders else, As killing as the basilisk's, thy tears, Express'd in sorrow for the much I suffer, A glorious insultation t, and no sign Of pity in thee : and to hear thee speak In thy defence, though but in silent action, Would make the hurt, already deeply fester'd, Incurable : and therefore, as thou wouldst not By thy presence raise fresh furies to torment me, I do conjure thee by a father's power, (And 'tis my curse I dare not think it lawful To sue unto thee in a nearer name,) Without reply to leave me. Theoc. My obedience Never learn 'd yet to question your commands, But willingly to serve them ; yet I must, Since that your will forbids the knowledge of My fault, lament my fortune. [Exit. 'Malef. O that 1 Have reason to discern the better way, And yet pursue the worse J ! When I look on her, I burn with heat, and in her absence freeze With the cold blasts of jealousy, that another * Thy plurUy of yoodness is thy ill ;} i. e. thy superabtfn dance of goodness : the thought is from Shakspeare : " For goodness, growing to a plurisy, Dies in his own too much." For thy, the old copy reads the; it is, however, an evident error of the pres. t A glorious instillation,] used in the senst of gloriosus. See note to Act. i, sc. I. } Mal.-f. O that / Have reason to diseern the better tray, And yet pursue the worse!} This had been said before b> Medea : video meliora, proboque, Deteriora sequor. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. [Acr IV. Should e'er taste those delights that are denied me ; And which of these afflictions brings less torture, I hardly can distinguish : Is there then No mean ? No ; so my understanding tells me, And that by my cross fates it is determined That I am both ways wretched. Enter Usher and MONTREVILLE. Usher. Yonder he walks, sir, In much vexation : he hath sent my lady, His daughter, weeping in ; but what the cause is, Rests yet in supposition. Montr. I guess at it, But must be further satisfied ; I will sift him In private, therefore quit the room. Usher. I am gone, sir. L^ 1 '*- Malef. Ha ! who disturbs me ? Montreville ! your pardon. Montr. Would you could grant one to yourself ! With the assurance of a friend, and yet, [I speak it Before it be too late, make reparation Of the gross wrong your indiscretion offer'd To the governor and his son ; nay, to yourself ; For there begins my sorrow. Malef. Would I had No greater cause to mourn, than their displeasure ! For I dare justify Montr. We must not do * All that we dare. We're private, friend. I observed Your alterations with a stricter eye, Perhaps, than others ; and. to lose no time In repetition, your strange demeanour To your sweet daughter. Malef. Would you could find out Some other theme to treat of. Montr. None but this ; And this I'll dwell on ; how ridiculous, And subject to construction Malef. No more ! Montr. You made yourself, amazes me, and if The frequent trials interchanged between us Of love and friendship, be to their desert Esteem'd by you, as they hold weight with me, No inward trouble should be of a shape So horrid to yourself, but that to me You stand bound to discover it, and unlock Your secret'st thoughts ; though the most innocent Loud crying sins. [were Malef. And so, perhaps, they are : And therefore be not curious to learn that Which, known, must make you hate me. Montr. Think not so. I am yours in right and -wrong ; nor shall you find A verbal friendship in me, but an active ; And here I vow, 1 shall no sooner know What the disease is, but, if you give leave, I will apply a remedy. Is it madness ? t I am familiarly acquainted with * We mutt not do, &c.] This and the two next speeches are jumbled entirely out of metre by the modern editors. It geems odd that they should not know whether they were printing prose or verse + / am familiarly acquainted with a deep-read man, That can with charms and herbs] So the lines stand in all the editions: upon which Mr. M. Mason remarks, for the first time, that the metre requires a different division. This is well thought of I In his edition, the Unnatural Combat stands towards the end of the third volume, and, to speak moderately, I have already corrected his versification in a hundred places within the compass of at many pages: Bay, of the little which has passed since the entrance of Montreville, nearly a moiety has undergone a new arrange- ment. A deep-read man, that can with charms and herbs Restore you to your reason ; or suppose You are bewitch' d ? he with more potent spells And magical rites shall cure you. Is't heaven's anger ? With penitence and sacrifice appease it : Beyond this, there is nothing that lean Imagine dreadful ; in your fame and fortunes You are secure ; your impious son removed too, That render'd you suspected to the state ; And your fair daughter Malef. Oh ! press me no further. [hath she Montr. Are you wrung there ! Why, what of her? Made shipwreck of her honour, or conspired Against your life? or seal'd a contract with The devil of hell, for the recovery of Her young Inamorato ? Malef. None of these; And yet, what must increase the wonder in you, Being innocent in herself, she hath wounded me But where, enquire not. Yet, I know not how I am persuaded, from my confidence Of your vow'd love to me, to trust you with My dearest secret ; pray you chide me for it, But with a kind of pity, not insulting On my calamity. Montr. Forward. Malef. This same daughter Montr. What is her fault ? Malef. She is too fair to me. Montr. Ha ! how is this? Malef. And I have look'd upon her More than a father should, and languish to Enjoy her as a husband. Montr. Heaven forbid it ! Malef. And this is all the comfort you can give me ! Where are your promised aids, your charms, your herbs, Your deep-read scholar's spells and magic rites? Can all these disenchant me ? No, I must be My own physician, and upon myself Practise a desperate cure. Montr. Do not contemn me : Enjoin me what you please, with any bazar 1 I'll undertake it. What means have you practised To quench this hellish fire ? Malef. All I could think on, But to no purpose ; and yet sometimes absence Does yield a kind of intermission to The fury of the fit. Montr. See her no more, then. Malef. 'Tis my last refuge, and 'twas my intent, And still 'tis, to desire your help. Montr. Command it. [are Malef. Thus then : you have a fort, of which you The absolute lord, whither, I pray you, bear her : And that the sight of her may not again Nourish those flames, which I feel something lessen'd By all the ties of friendship I conjure you, And by a solemn oath you must confirm it, That though my now calm'd passions should rage higher Than ever heretofore, and so compel me Once more to wish to see her ; though I use Persuasions mix'd with threatnings, (nay, add to it. That I, this failing, should with hands held up thus Kneel at your feet, and bathe them with tears Prayers or curses, vows, or imprecations, Only to look upon her, though at distance j You still must be obdurate. SCENE II.] THE UNNATURAL COMBAT Montr. If it be Your pleasure, sir, that I shall be unmoved, I will endeavour. Malef. You must swear to be Inexorable, as you would prevent The greatest mischief to your friend, that fate Could throw upon him. Montr. Well, I will obey you. But how the governor will be answer'd yet, And 'tis material, is not consider'd. Malef. Leave that to me. I'll presently give order How you shall surprise her ; be not frighted with Her exclamations. Montr. Be you constant to Your resolution, I will not fail In what concerns my part. Malef. Be ever bless'd for't ! [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Street. Enter BEAUFORT junior, CHAMONT, and LANOUR. Cham. Not to be spoke with, say you 1 Beanf.jun. No. Lan. Nor you Admitted to have conference with her? Beauf.jun. Neither. His doors are fast lock'd up, and solitude Dwells round about them, no access allow'd To friend or enemy ; but Cham. Nay, be not moved, sir; Let his passion work, and, like a hot-rein'd horse*, 'Twill quickly tire itself. Beauf.jun. Or in his death, Which, for her sake, 'till now I have forborn, I will revenge the injury he hath done to My true and lawful love. Lan. How does your father, The governor, relish it ? Beauf.jun. Troth, he never had Affection to the match ; yet in his pity To me, he's gone in person to his house, Nor will he be denied ; and if he find not Strong and fair reasons, Malefort will hear from him In a kind he does not look for. Cham. In the mean time. Pray you put on cheerful looks. Enter MONTAIGNE. Beauf.jun. Mine suit my fortune. Lan, O here's Montaigne. Mont. I never could have met you More opportunely. I'll not stale the jest By my relation f ; but if you will look on The malecontent Belgarde, newly rigg'd up, -and, like a hot-rein'd horse, ana, iitte a noi-rei7i a nurse, 'Twill quickly tire itself.} This is from Shakspeare, " Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Sclf-metlle tires him." COXETER. t I'll not stale the jest By my relation ,-] i. e. render it flat, deprive it of zest by previous intimation. This is one of a thousand instances which might be brought to prove that the true reading in Coriotanttt, Act. I. sc. i. is, " I shall tell you A pretty tale ; it may be, yon have heard it ; But since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale't a little more." With the train that follows him, 'twill be *n object Worthy of your noting. Beauf.jun. Look you the comedy Make good the prologue, or the scorn will dwell Upon yourself. Mont. I'll hazard that ; observe now. BELGARDE comes out in a gallant habit ; ttays at the door with his sword drawn. Several voices within. Nay, captain ! glorious captain ! Belg. Fall back, rascals ! Do you make an owl of me ? this day I will Receive no more petitions. - Here are bills of all occasions, and all sizes ! If this be the pleasure of a rich suit, would I were Again in my buff jerkin, or my armour ! Then I walk'd securely by my creditors' noses, Not a dog marked me ; every officer shunn'd me, And not one lousy prison would receive me : But now, as the ballad says, I am turn d gallant, There does not live that thing I owe a sous to, But does torment me. A faithful cobler told me, With his awl in his hand, I was behind hand with him For setting me upright, and bade me look to myself. A sempstress too, that traded but in socks, Swore she would set a Serjeant on my back For a borrow'd shirt : my pay, and the benevolence The governor and the states bestow 'd upon me, The city cormorants, ray money-mongers, Have swallow'd down already ; they were sums, I grant, but that I should be such a fool, Against my oath, being a cashier'd captain, To pay debts, though grown up to one and twenty,, Deserves more reprehension, in my judgment, Than a shopkeeper, or a lawyer that lends money, In a long, dead vacation. Mont. How do you like His meditation ? Cham. Peace ! let him proceed. Belg. I cannot now go on the score for shame, And where I shall begin to pawn ay, marry, That is considered timely ! I paid for This train of yours, dame Estridge *, fourteen crowns, And yet it is so light, 'twill hardly pass For a tavern reckoning, unless it be To save the charge of painting, nail'd on a post For the sign of the feathers. Pox upon the fashion, 'J hat a captain cannot think himself a captain, If he wear not this, like a fore-horse ! yet it is not Staple commodity : these are perfumed too O' the Roman wash, and yet a stale red herring so, indeed, it does, and many other things ; none of which, however, bear any relation lo the text. Steevens, too, pre- fers scale, which he provts, from a variety of learned autho- rities, to mean " scatter, disperse, spread :" to make any of them, however, suit his purpose, he is obliged to give ail unfaithful version of the text : " Though some of you, have tieard the story, I will spread, it yet widrr, and Jirtuse it among the re*t."l There is nothing of this in Shnkspeare; and indeed 1 cannot avoid looking upon the whole of oil ong note, as a feeble attempt to justify a palpable error of the press, at the cost of taste and sense. The mistakes of Stecvtns are dangerous, and should b noticed. They have seduced the editors of Beaumont and Fletcher, who have brought back to the text of their authors a conuption long since removed, on the authority (as they ay) of the quotations produced in the note to Coriolanui Se'e Vol. vii. p. 258. 7 paid for This train of your. t, dame Estridge,] i. e. this tail ; ther 9 some humour in thii lively apostrophe to the ostrich. THE UNNATUKAL COMBAT. Would fill the belly better, and hurt the head less: And this is Venice gold ; would I had it again In French crowns in my pocket! O you com- manders, That, like me, have no dead pays, nor can cozen The commissary at a muster *, let me stand For an example to you ! as you would Enjoy your privileges, videlicet, To pay your debts, and take your letchery gratis ; To have your issue warm'd by others fires ; To be often drunk, and swear, yet pay no forfeit To the poor, but when you share with one another ; With all your other choice immunities : Only of this I seriously advise you, Let courtiers f trip like courtiers, and your lords Of dirt and dunghills mete their woods and acres, In velvets, satins, tissues ; but keep you Constant to cloth and shamois. Mont. Have you heard Of such a penitent homily? Betg. 1 am studying now Where I shall hide myself till the rumour of My wealth and bravery vanish $ : let me see, There is a kind of vaulting house not far off, Where I used to spend my afternoons, among Suburb she gamesters ; and yet, now I think on't, I have crack'd a ring or two there, which they made Others to solder : No Enter a Bawd, and two Courtezans with two Children. 1 Court. O ! have we spied you ! [time, Bawd. Upon him without ceremony ! now's the While he's in the paying vein. 2 Court. Save you, brave captain ! Beauf.jun. 'Slight, how he stares ! they are worse than she-wolves to him. Belg. Shame me not in the streets ; I was coming to you. 1 Court. O sir, you may in, public pay for the You had in private. [fiddling 2 Court. We bear you are full of crowns, sir, 1 Court. And therefore, knowing you are open- handed, Before all be destroy'd, T 'll put you in mind, sir, Of your young heir here. 2 Court. Here's a second, sir, That looks for a child's portinn. - O you commanders, That, like me, have no dead pays, nor can cozen The commissary at a muster,] The collusory practices here alluded to (as Mr. Gilclirist observes) appear not to have been um'rcquent, and indeed, Sir W. D'Avenant, with this, mentions many similar corruptions in the "war depart- ment" of his time : " Can you not gull the state finely, Muster up your ammunition cassocks slutted with straw, Number a hundred forty nine dead pays, And thank heaven for your arilhmetick ? Cannot you clothe your ragged infantry With cabbage leaves ? devour the reckonings, And grow tat in the ribs, but you must hinder Poor ancients from eating warm beef?" The Siege, Act iii. t Let courtiers, &c.] The reader will smile at the aocu- tate notions of metre possessed by the former editors : this and the four following lines stand thus in Coxetcr, and Mr M. Mason ; J^et courtiers trip like courtiers, And your lords of dirt and dunghills mete Thr.ir woods and actes, in velvets, satins, tissues ; But keep you constant to cloth and shamois. Moat. Have you heard of such a penitent homily f J My wealth and bravery vanish:} Itravery is used by U the -vriters of Mas-inker's time, for ostentatious finery of cpparel. Bawd. There are reckonings For muskadine and eggs too, must be thought on. 1 Court. We have not been hasty, sir. Bawd. But staid your leisure : But now you are ripe, and loaden with fruit 2 Court. 'Tis fit you should be pull'd ; here's a boy, Pray you, kiss him, 'tis your own, sir. [sir, 1 Court. Nay, buss this first, It hath just your eyes ; and such a promising nose, That if the sign deceive me not, in time 'Twill prove a notable striker*, like his father. Belg. And yet you laid it to another. 1 Court. True, While you were poor ; and it was policy ; But she that has variety of fathers, And makes not choice of him that can maintain it, Ne'er studied Aristotle f. Lan. A smart quean ' Belg. Why, braches, will you worry me f ? 2 Court. No, but ease you Of your golden burthen ; the heavy carriage may Bring you to a sweating sickness. Belg. Very likely ; I foam all o'er already. 1 Court. Will you come off, sir ? Belg. Would I had ne'er come on ! Hear me with patience, Or I will anger you. Go to, you know me, And do not vex me further : by my sins, And your diseases, which are certain truths, Whate'er you think, 1 am not master, at This instant, of a livre. 2 Court. What, and in Such a glorious suit ! Belg. The liker, wretched things, To have no money. Bawd. You mav pawn your clothes, sir. 1 Court. Will you see your issue starve? 2 Court. Or the mothers beg ? Belg. Why, you unconscionable strumpets, would you have me Transform my hat to double clouts and biggins ? My corselet to a cradle ? or my belt To swaddlebands ? or turn my cloak to blankets ? Or to sell my sword and spurs, for soap and candles ? * 'Twill prove a notable striker,] A striker is a wencher: the word occurs again in the Parliament of Love. t Ne'er studied Aristotle ,} Thi? has been hitherto printed, Ne'er studied Aristotle's problems: a prosaic redundancy, of which every reader of Alassinger will readily acquit him. } Belg. Why, braches, will ytiu worry me ?} A brarhe is a female hound. It is strange to see what quantities of paper have been wasted in confounding the sense of this plain word! The pages of Shakspeare, and Jonson, and Fletcher, are incumbcred with endless quotations, which Ktnerally leave the reader as ignorant as they found him. One, how- ever, which has escaped the commentators, at least the material part of it, is worth all that they have advanced on the word. The Gentleman's Rfcreation, p. '28. " There are in England and Scotland two kimls of hunting dogs, and no where else in the world ; the first kind is called Arache, and this is a foot-scenting creature both of wilde-bcasts, birds, and fishes also which lie hid among the rocks. The female hereof in England is called a brache : a brache is A MANNERLY NAME for all huunA-bitches:" and when we add for all others, it will be allowed that enough has been said on the subject. $ I Court. Will you come off , sir ?} i.e. Will you pay, sir? to the word is used by all our old dramatic writers: " if he In the old justice's suit, whom he robb'd lately, Will come off" roundly, we'll set him free to ' The (Fidoui. Again, in the Wedding, by Shirley : " What was the price yo-i took for Gratiana 7 Did Marwood come off roundly with hia wages 7" SCENE I.] THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 55 Have you no m _>rcy ? what a chargeable devil We carry in 01 r breeches ! Beauf. jun. Now 'tis time To fetch him off. Enter BEAUFORT senior, Mont. ^ our father does it for us. Bawd. The governor ! Beau/, sen. What are these? 1 Co irt. An it like your lordship, Very poor spinsters. Bi .icd. I am his nurse and laundress, J elg. You have nurs'd and launder'd me, hell V> nish ! [take you for it ! Cliam. Do, do, and talk with him hereafter. 1 Court. Tis our best course. 2 Court. We'll find a time to fit him. [Exeunt Bawd and Courtezans. Beauf. sen. Why in this heat, Belgarde? Belg. You are the cause oft. Beauf. sen. Who, I? Belg. Yes, your pied livery and your gold Draw these vexations on me ; pray you strip me, And let me be as I was : I will not lose The pleasures and the freedom which I had In my certain poverty, for all the wealth Fair France is proud of. Beauf. sen. We at better leisure Will learn the cause of this. Beauf. jun. What answer, sir, From the admiral ? Beauf. sen. None ; his daughter is removed To the fort of Montreville, and he himself In person fled, but where, is not discover'd ; I could tell you wonders, but the time denies me Fit liberty. In a word, let it suffice The power of our great master is contemn'd The sacred laws of God and man profaned ; And if I sit down with this injury, I am unworthy of my place, and thou Of my acknowledgment: draw up all the troops ; As I go, I will instruct you to what purpose. Such as have power to punish, and yet spare, From fear or from connivance, others ill, Though not in act, assist them in their will. [Exeunt ACT V. SCENE I. A Street near MALEFORT'S House. Enter MONTREVILLE with Servants, TIIEOCRINE, Page, and Waiting Women. Montr. Bind them, and gag their mouths sure ; I alone Will be your convoy. 1 Worn. Madam ! 2 Worn. Dearest lady ! Page. Let me fight for my mistress. Serv. Tis in vain, Little cockerel of the kind. Montr. Away with them, And do as I command you. [Exeunt Servants with Page and Waiting Women. Theoc. Montreville, You are my father's friend ; nay more, a soldier, And if a right one, as I hope to find you, Though in a lawful war you had surprised A city, that bow'd humbly to your pleasure, In honour you stand bound to guard a virgin From violence ; but in a free estate, Of which you are a limb, to do a wrong Which noble enemies never consent to, Is such an insolence Montr. How her heart beats* ! Much like a partridge in a sparhawk's foot, That with a panting silence does lament The fate she cannot fly from ! Sweet, take comfort, You are safe, and nothing is intended to you, But love and service. Theoc. They came never clothed In force and outrage. Upon what assurance (Remembering only that my father lives, Who will not tamely suffer the disgrace) Have you presumed to hurry me from his house, * Montr. Flow her heart heal*! &c. I This is a vt-iy pretty ritnile, and, though not altogether new, is made striking by the elegance with which it is expressed. .And, as I were not worth the waiting on, To snatch me from the duty and attendance Of my poor servants ? Montr. Let not that afflict you, You shall not want observance ; I will be Your page, your woman, parasite, or fool, Or any other property, provided You answer my affection. Theoc. In what kind 1 Montr. As you had done young Beaufort's. Theoc. How ! Montr. So, lady ; Or, if the name of wife appear a yoke Too heavy for your tender neck, so I Enjoy you as a private friend or mistress, Twill be sufficient. Theoc. Blessed angels guard me ! Whit frontless impudence is this ? what devil Hath, to thy certain ruin, tempted thee To offer me this motion ? bv my hopes Of after joys, submission nor repentance Shall expiate this foul intent. Montr. Intent ! 'Tis more, I'll make it act. Theoc. Ribald, thou darest not : And if (and with a fever to thy soul) Thou but consider that I have a father, And such a father, as, when this arrives at His knowledge, as it shall, the terror of His vengeance, which as sure as fate must follow, Will make thee curse the hour in which lust taught thee To nourish these bad hopes ; and 'tis my wonder Thou darest forget how tender he is of me, And that each shadow of wrong done to me, AVill raise in him a tempest not to be [him But with thy heart-blood calm'd : this, when I see, Montr. As thou shall never Theoc. Wilt thou murder me ? THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. [Acr V. Montr. No, no, 'tis otherwise determined, fool. The master which in passion kills his slave That may be useful to him, does himself The injury: know, thou most wretched creature, That father thou presumes! upon, that father, That, when 1 sought thee in a noble way, Denied thee to me, fancying in his hope A higher match from his excess of dotage, Hath in his bowels kindled such a flame Of impious and most unnatural lust, That now he fears his most furious desires May force him to do that, he shakes to think on. Theoc, O me, most wretched ! Montr. Never hope again To blast him with those eves : their golden beams Are to him arrows of death and hell, But unto me divine artillery And therefore, since what I so long in vain Pursued, is offer'd to me, and by him Given up to my possession ; do not flatter Thyself with an imaginary hope, But that I'll take occasion by the forelock, And make use of my fortune. As we walk, I'll tell thee more. Theoc. 1 will not stir. Montr. I'll force thee. Theoc. Help, help I Montr. In vain. Theoc. In me my brother's blood Is punish 'd at the height. Montr. The coach there ! Theoc. Dear sir Montr. Tears, curses, prayers, are alike to me ; I can, and must enjoy my present pleasure, And shall take time to mourn for it at leisure. \_He bears her off". SCENE II. .4 Space before the Fort. Enter MALKFORT. I have play'd the fool, the gross fool, to believe The bosom of a friend will hold a secret, Mine own could not contain ; and my industry In taking liberty from my innocent daughter, Out of false hopes of freedom to myself, Is, in the little help it yields me, punish'cl. She's absent, but I have her figure here ; And every grace and rarity about her, Are by the pencil of my memory, In living colours painted on my heart. My fires too, a short interim closed up, Break out with greater fury. Why was I, Since 'twas my fate, and not to be declined, In this so tender-conscienced ? Say I had Enjoy'd what 1 desired, what had it been But incest ? and there's something here that tells me I stand accomptable for greater sins I never check'd at*. Neither had the crime Wanted a precedent : I have read in storyl, -and there's something here that tell* me I stand accomptable for greater sins I never check d at.] These (lark allusions to a dreadful fact, aie introduced with admirable judgment, as they awaken, without gratifying, the curiosity of the reader, and continue the interest of the story. t / have read in story, &c.] He had been study- ing Ovid, and [mticnlarly the dreadful story of Myrrha. This wretched attempt* of Malt-fort (a Christian, at lea?t in name, we may suppose) to palliate, or defend his meditated crime, by the examples of fabulous dt ities, men in a state Those first great heroes, that for their brave deeds Were in the world's first infancy styled gods, Freely enjoy'd what I denied myself. Old Saturn, in the golden age, embraced His sister Ops, and, in the same degree, The Thunderer Juno, Neptune Thetis, and, By their example, afuer the first deluge, Deucalion Pyrrha. Universal nature, As every day 'tis evident, allows it To creatures of all kinds : the gallant horse Covers the mare to which he was the sire ; 1 he bird with fertile seed gives new increase To her that hatch'd him : why should envipus man Brand that close act, which adds proximity [then To what's most near him, with the abhorred title Of incest 1 or our later laws forbid What by the first was granted ? Let old men, That are not capable of these delights, And solemn superstitious fools, prescribe Rules to themselves ; 1 will not curb my freedom, But constantly go on, with this assurance, I but walk in a path which greater men Have trod before me. Ha ! this is the fort : Open the gate ! Within, there ! Enter two Soldiers. 1 Sold. With your pardon We must forbid your entrance. Malef. Do you know me? % Sold. Perfectly, my lord. Malef. I am [your] captain's friend*. 1 Sold. It may be so ; but till we know his plea- You must excuse us. [sure, 2 Sold. We'll acquaint him with Your waiting here. Malef. Waiting, slave ! he was ever Byrne commanded. 1 Sold. As we are by him. Malef. So punctual ! pray you then, in my name His presence. [entreat 2 Sold. That we shall do. [Eieunt Malef. I must use Some strange persuasions to work him to Deliver her, and to forget the vows, And horrid oaths I, in my madness, made him Take to the contrary : and may I get her Once more in my possession, I will bear her Into some close cave or desert, where we'll end Our lusts and lives together. Enter MONTREVILLE, and Soldiers. Montr. Fail not, on The forfeit of your lives, to execute What I command. [Exeunt Soldiers Mulef. Montreville ! how is't friend ? Montr. I am glad to see you wear such cheerful The world's well alter'd. [looks ; Malef. Yes, I thank my stars : But methinks thou art troubled. Montr. Some light cross, But of no moment. SCENE II.] THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 57 Malef. So I hope ; beware Of sad and impious thoughts ; you know how far They wrought on me. Montr. No such come near me, sir. I have, like you, no daughter, and much wish You never had been curs'd with one. Malef. Who, 1 1 Thou art deceived, I am most !tappy in her. Montr. I am glad to hear it. Malef. My incestuous fires To'ards her are quite burnt out ; I love her now Asa father, and no further Montr. Fix there then Your constant peace, and do not try a second Temptation from her. Malef. Yes, friend, though she were By millions of degrees more excellent In her perfections ; nay, though she could borrow A form angelical to take my frailty, It would not do : and therefore, Montreville, My chief delight next her, I come to tell thee The governor and I are reconciled, And I confirm 'd, and with all possible speed, To make large satisfaction to young Beaufort, And her, whom I have so much wrong'd : and for Thy trouble in her custody, of which III now discharge thee, there is nothing in My nerves or fortunes, but shall ever be At thy devotion. Montr. You promise fairly, Nor doubt I the performance ; yet I would not Hereafter be reported to have been The principal occasion of your falling Into a relapse : or but suppose, out of The easiness of my nature, and assurance You are firm and can hold out, I could consent ; You needs must know there are so many lets* That make against it, that it is my wonder You offer me the motion ; having bound me With oaths and imprecations on no terms, Reasons, or arguments, you could propose, I ever should admit you to her sight, Much less restore her to you. Malef. Are we soldiers, And stand on oaths ! Montr. It is beyond my knowledge In w hat we are more worthy, than in keeping Our words, much more our vows. MaUf. Heaven pardon all ! How many thousands, in our heat of wine, Quarrels, and play, and in our younger days, In private I may say, between ourselves, In points of love, have we to answer for, Should we be scrupulous that way ? Montr. You say well : And very aptly call to memory Two oaths against all ties and rites of friendship Broken by you to me. Malef. No more of that Montr. Yes, 'tis material, and to the purpose : The first (and think upon't) was, when I brought you As a visitant to my mistress then, ( the mother Of this same daughter,) whom, with dreadful words, Too hideous to remember, you swore deeply For my sake never to attempt ; yet then, Then, when you had a sweet wife of yosr own, * You need* mutt know there are to many lets] i. e. impe- diment*, obstacles, &c. See the Viryin-Martyr. I know not with what *rts. philtres, and charms (Unless in wealth* and fame you were above me) You won her from me ; and, her grant obtain'd, A marriage with the second waited on The burial of the first, that to the world Brought your dead son : this I sat tamely down bv Wanting, indeed, occasion and power To be at the height revenged. Malef. Yet this you seem'd Freely to pardon. Montr. As perhaps I did. Your daughter Tbeocrine growing ripe, (Her mother too deceased,) and fit for marriage, I was a suitor for her, had your word, Upon your honour, and our friendship made Authentical, and ratified with an oath, She should be mine : but vows with you being like To your religion, a nose of wax To be turn'd every wav, that very day The governor's son but making his approaches Of courtship to her, the wind of your ambition For her advancement, scatter'd the thin sand In which you wrote your full consent to me, And drew you to his party. What hath pass'd sine* You bear a register in your own bosom, That can at large inform you. Malef. Montreville, I do confess all that you charge me with To be strong truth, and that 1 bring a cause Most miserably guilty, and acknowledge That though your goodness made me mine own judg I should not shew the least compassion Or mercy to myself. O, let not yet My foulness taint your pureness, or my falsehood Divert the torrent of your loyal faith ! My ills, if not return'd by you, will add Lustre to your much good ; and to o'ercome With noble sufferance, will express your strength And triumph o'er my weakness. If you please toi My black deeds being only known to you. And, in surrendering up my daughter, buried, You not alone make me your slave, (for I At no part do deserve the name of friend,) But in your own breast raise a monument Of pity to a wretch, on whom with justice You may express all cruelty. Montr. You much move me. Malef. O that I could but hope it! To rerenge An injury is proper to the wishes Of feeble women, that want strength to act itf " But to have power to punish, and yet pardon, Peculiar to princes. See ! these knees, That have been ever stiff to bend to heaven. To you are supple. Is there aught beyond this 1 hat may speak my submission ? or can pride (Though I well know it is a stranger to you) l)esire a feast of more humility, To kill her growing appetite ? Montr. I required not To be sought to this poor way$ ; yet 'tis so far * (Unlett in wealth, &.c.] i.e. L'nless it were that in wealth, lie. t To revenge An injury it proper to the wisfies Of feeble women, that want ttrenfth to act it:] Quiipe mintiti Semper et infirmi est animi exiyuique tolvptat liltio. Continue tic collide, qund vindicta Ainao mat/it yaudet, quamfcemina." JUT. Sat. xlii. 199. J Montr. / required not To be sought to thit poor way ;] So the olU copy : the 58 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. [AcrV A kind of satisfaction, that I will Dispense a little with those serious oaths You made me take : your daughter shall come to you, I will not say, as you deliver 'd her, But as she is, you may dispose of her As you shall think most requisite. [Exit. Malef. His last words Are riddles to me. Here the lion's force Would have proved useless, and, egainst my nature, Compell'd me from the crocodile tn borrow Her counterfeit tears : there's now no turning back- ward. May 1 but quench these fires that rage within me, And fall what can fall, I am arm'd to bear it ! Enter Soldiers, thrusting forth TIIEOCIUNE ; her garments loose, her hair dishevelled. 2 Sold. You must be packing. Theoc. Hath he robb'd me of Mine honour, and denies me now a room To hide my shame ! 2 Sold. My lord the admiral Attends your ladyship. 1 Sold. Close ihe port, and leave them. [Exeunt Soldiers. Malef. Ha ! who is this ? how alter'd ! how de- form'd ! It cannot be : and yet this creature has A kind of a resemblance to my daughter, My Theocrine ! but as different From that she was, as bodies dead are, in Their best perfections, from what they were When they had life and motion. Theoc. 'Tis most true, sir; I am dead, indeed, to all but misery. come not near me, sir, I am infectious ; To look on me at distance, is as dangerous As from a pinnacle's cloud-kissing spire With giddy eyes to view the steep descent ; But to acknowledge me, a certain ruin. 0, sir ! Malef. Speak, Theocrine, force me not To further question ; my fears already Have choked my vital spirits. Theoc. Pray you turn away Your face and hear me, and with my last breath Give me leave to accuse you : what offence, From my first infancy, did I commit, That for a punishment you should give up My virgin chastity to the treacherous guard Of goatish Montreville ? Maltf. What hath he done ? Theoc. Abused me, sir, by violence ; and this told, 1 cannot live to speak more : may the cause In you find pardon, but the speeding curse Of a ravish'd maid fall heavy, heavy on him ! Beaufort, my lawful love, farewell for ever. [Dies. modern editors, ignorant of the language of the time, arbi- trarily exchange to for in, and thus pervert the sense. To teek to, is to supplicate, entreat, liave earnest recourse to, &c., which is the meaning of the text. There was a book, much read by our ancestors, from which, as being the pure well-head of English prose, they derived a number of phrases that have sorely puzzled their descendants. This book, which is fortunately still in existence, is the Bible : and I venture to affirm, without fear of con- tradiction, that those old fashioned people who have studied it well, areas competent judges of the meaning of our ancient writers, as most of the devourers of black literature, from Theobald to Steevens. The expression in the text frequently occurs in it: " And Asa was diseased in his feet yet in his di-tase he sought not to the Lord, but to the physicians." Chron. xvi. 12. Malef. Take not thy flight so soon, immaculate 'Tis fled already. How the innocent, [spiri* As in a gentle slumber, pass away ! But to cut off the knotty thread of life In guilty men, must force stern Atropos To use her sharp knife often. I would help The edge of her's with the sharp point of mine, But that I dare not die, till I have rent This dog's heart piecemeal. O, that I had wings To scale these wails, or that my hands were cannons To bore their flinty sides ! that I might bring The villain in the reach of my good sword ? The Turkish empire oft'er'd for his ransome, Should not redeem his life. O that my voice Were loud as thunder, and with horrid sounds Might force a dreadful passage to his ears, And through them reach his soul! libidinous monster! Foul ravisher ! as thou durst do a deed Which forced the sun to hide his glorious face Behind a sable mask of clouds, appear, And as a man defend it ; or like me, Shew some compunction for it. Enter MONTREVILLE on the Walls above. Montr. Ha, ha, ha ! MaleJ. Is this an object to raise mirth ? Montr. Yes, yes. Malef. My daughter's dead. Montr. Thou hadst best follow her ; Or if thou art the thing thou art reported, Thou shouldst have led the way. Do tear thy hair, Like a village nurse, and mourn, while I laugh at thee. Be but a just examiner of thyself, And in an equal balance poize the nothing, Or little mischief I have done, compared [thou With the pond'rous weight of thine ; and how canst Accuse or argue with me ? mine was a rape, And she being in a kind contracted to me, The fact may challenge some qualification ; But thy intent made nature's self run backward, And done, had caused an earthquake. Enter Soldiers above. 1 Sold. Captain ! Montr. Ha! [slain. 2 Sold. Our outworks are surprised, the sentinel The corps de guard defeated too. Montr. By whom ? 1 Sold. The sudden storm and darkness of the night Forbids the knowledge ; make up speedily, Or all is lost. [Exeunt. Montr. In the devil's name, whence comes this ? [Exit. [A Storm ; with thunder and lightning. Malef. Do, do rage on ! rend open, ./Eolus, Thy brazen prison, and let loose at once Thy stormy issue ! Blustering Boreas, Aided with all the gales the pilot numbers Upon his compass, cannot raise a tempest Through the vast region of the air, like that I feel within me : for I am possess'd With whirlwinds, and each guilty thought to me is A dreadful hurricano*. Though this centre * A dreadful hurricano.] So the old copy, and rightly : the modern editors prefer hurricane, a simple improvement, which merely destroys the metre ! How they contrive to read the line, thus printed, I cannot conceive. With respect to hurricane, I doubt whether it was much in use in Mas- singer's time ; he and his contemporaries j-lrnost invariably write hurricano, just as they receive it from the 1'ortugueie narrators of voyages, &c. SCENE II.] THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 59 Labour to bring forth earthquakes, and hell open Her wide-stretch'd jaws, and let out all her furies. They cannot add an atom to the mountain Of fears and terrours that each minute threaten To fall on my accursed head. Enter the Ghost of young MALEFOJIT, naked from the waist, f nit of wounds, leading in the Shadow of a Lady, her fact leprous. Ha ! is't fancy ? Or hath lull hea-d me, and makes proof if I Dare sta id the trh;! ? Yes, I do ; and now I view th'se appaiitions, I feel I on e di i know he substances. For what come you? Are your aerial fjrms deprived of language, And so denied to tell me, that by signs [The Ghosts use gestures. You bid me ask here of myself*? 'Tis so : And there is something here makes answer for you. \ ou come to lance my sear'd up conscience ; ves, And to instruct me, that those thunderbolts, That burl'd me headlong from the height of glory, Wealth, honours, worldly happiness, were forged Upon the anvil of my impious wrongs And cruelty to you ! I do confess it ; And that my lust compelling me to make way For a second wife, I poison'd thee ; and that The cause ("which to the world is undiscover'd) That forced thee to shake off thy filial duty To me, thy father, had its spring and source From thy impatience, to know thy mother, That with all duty and obedience served me, (For now with horror I acknowledge it,) Removed unjustly : yet, thou being my son, Wert not a competent judge mark'd out by heaven For her revenger, which thy falling by My weaker hand confirm 'd. [Answered stillby signs. Tis granted by thee. Can any penance expiate my guilt, Or can repentance save me ? [The ghosts disappear. They are vanish'd ! What's left to do then? I'll accuse my fate, That did not fashion me for nobler uses : For if those stars cross to me in my birth, Had not denied their prosperous influence to it, With peace of conscience, like to innocent men, I might have ceased to be, and not as now, To curse my cause of being [He is killed with a flash of lightning. Enter BELGARDE with Soldiers. Belg. Here's a night To season my silks ! Buff-jerkin, now I miss thee : Thou hast endured many foul nights, but never One like to this. How fine my feather looks now ! Just like a capon's tail stol'n out of the pen, And hid in the sink ; and yet 't had been dishonour To have charged without it. Wilt thou never cease f? Is the petard, as I gave directions, fasten'd On the portcullis ? 1 Sold. It haih been attempted By divers, but in vain. Belg. These are your gallants, That at a feast take the first place, poor I Hardly allow'd to follow ; marry, in * You bid me atk here of myself '?] AfiKrticwc., pointing to his In-east. + Wilt thou never ceate ?} This short apostrophe is ad- Tressed to the storui. These foolish businesses they are content That I shall have precedence : I ranch thank Their manners or their fear. Second me, soldiers ; They have had no time to undermine, or if They have, it is but blowing up, and fetching A caper or two in the air ; and I will do it, Rather than blow my nails here. 2 Sold. O brave captain ? [Exeunt. An alarum ; noise and cries within. After a flourish, enter BEAUFORT senior, BEAUFORT junior, MON- TAIGNE, CHAMONT, LANOUR, BELGARDE, and Sol- diers, With MONTHEVILLE. Montr. Racks cannot force more from me than I have Already told you : I expect no favour ; I have cast up my accompt. Eeauf. sen. Take you the charge Of the fort, Belgarde ; your dangers have deserved it. Belg. I thank your excellence ; this will keep me safe yet From beinj; pull'd by the sleeve, and bid remember The thing I wot of. Beauf.jun. All that have eyes to weep, Spare one tear with me. Theocrine's dead. Montr. Her father too lies breathless here, I think Struck dead with thunder. Cham. 'Tis apparent : how His carcass smells ! Lan. His face is alter'd to Another colour. Beauf.jun But here's one retains Her native innocence, that never yet Call'd down heaven's anger. Beanf. sen. 'Tis in vain to mourn For what's past help. We will refer, bad man, Your sentence to the king. May we make use of This great example, and learn from it, that There cannot be a want of power above, To punish murder and unlawful love ! [Exeunt*. * This Play opens with considerable interest and vigour : but the principal action is quickly exhausted by its own briskness. The Unnatural Combat end* early in the second act, and leaves the reader at a loss what further to expect. The remaining part, at least from the beginning of the fourth act, might be called the Unnatural Attachment. Yet the two subjects are not without connexion ; ;md this is afforded chiefly by the projected marriage of young Beaufort and Theocrine, which Malet'ort urges as the consequence of hit victory. The piece is therefore to be considered not so much in ita plot, as in its characters ; and these are drawn with great force, and admirable discrimination. The pity felt at first for old Malefort, is soon changed into horror and detesta- tion ; while the dread inspired by the son is somewhat relieved by the suspicion that he avenges the cause of a murdered mother. Their parley is as terrible as their combat ; and they encounter with a fury of passion and a deadlines* of hatred approaching to savage nature. Claudiau will almost describe them : Torvus aper, fulvusque leo'cpirre superbit yiribus ; hie seta savior, tile juba. On the other hand, Montrcville artfully conceals his enmity till he can be " at the height revenged." Deprived of The- ocrine by Malefort's treachery, he yet appears his " bosom friend," otters to be his second in the combat, on account of their tried affection ' from his infancy," and seems even to recommend the marriage of Theocrine with his rival. To Theocrine herself, who can less comprehend his designs, he shews some glimpses of spleen from the beginning. He takes a malignant pleasure in wounding her delicacy with light and vicious talking ; and when at length he has |;ossession of her person, and is preparing the dishonour which ends in her death, he talks to her of his villainous purpose withacoolnesi which shews him determined on his revenge, and secure of its accomplishment. Theocrine herself it admirable throughout the piece. She 60 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. [Acr V. hai a true virgin modesty, and, perhaps, one of the best marks of modesty, a true virgin frankness. We admire her fearless parity of thought, hei filial reverence, and her unconscious- ness of the iniquity that approaches her; and we are filled with the most tender concern for the indignities to which she is exposed, and the fate which she suffers. Among the lighter characters, Montaigne, CUamont, and Lauonr are well drawn. They are some of those insignificant people who endeavour to support themselves in society by a ready siibjeclion to the will of others. When Malefort is to his trial, they are glad to be his accusers ; and it is allowed I that they " push him hard." Alter his victory, they are most engerto profess themselves his friends and admiicrs. When he is in his moody humour, they sooth him, that being the "safest course* ," and when Beaufort at length takes up the neglected Belgarde, they are the first to lavish their money upon him. Dr. IRELAND. This consistency in their insipid characters would of itself determine to whom 'hose words belong, if the editor had not given them to Chamont on other actv.uutt. THE DUKE OF MILAN. THE DUKE OF MILAN.] Of this Tragedy there are two editions in quarto ; the first, which is very correct and now very rare, bears date 1623 ; the other, of little value, 1638. It does not appear in the Office-book of the licenser; from which we may be certain that it was among the author's earliest performances. The plot, as the editor of the Companion to the Play House observes, is founded on Guicciardini, Lib. viii. This, however, is a mistaken idea, as if Massinger was at all indebted to Guicciardini, it must be to his xvth and xixth books. It should be added, however, that by this expression nothing more must be under- stood than that a leading circumstance or two is taken from the historian. There was certainly a struggle, in Italy between the emperor and the king of France, in which the duke of Milan sided with the latter, who was defeated and taken prisoner at the fatal battle of Pavia. The rest, the poet has supplied, as suited his design. Charles was not in Italy when this victory was gained by his generals ; and the final restoration of the Milanese to Sforza took place at a period long subsequent to that event. The duke is named Ludo- vico in the list of dramatis persona? ; and it is observable that Massinger has entered with great accuracy into the vigorous and active character of that prince : he, however, had long been dead, and Francis Sforza, the real agent in this play, was little capable of the spirited part here allotted to him. The Italian writers term him a weak and irresolute prince, the sport of fortune, and the victim of indecision. The remaining part of the plot is from Josephus's History of the Jews, lib. xv. ch. 4 ; an interesting story, which has been told in many languages, and more than once in our own. The last piece on the subject was, I believe, the Marianne of Fenton, which, though infinitely inferior to the Duke of Milan, was, as I have heard, very well received. That Fenton had read Massinger before he wrote his tragedy, is certain from internal evidence ; there are not, however, many marks of similarity : on the whole the former is as cold, uninteresting, and improbable, as the latter is ardent, natural, and affecting. Massinger has but two deaths ; while, in Fenton, six out of eleven personages perish, with nearly as much rapidity, and as little necessity as the heroes of Tom Thumb or Chrononhotonthologos. It is said, in the title-page, to have " been often acted by his Majesty's Servants at the Black Friars." Either through ignorance or disingenuity, Coxeter and M. Mason represent it as frequently performed in 1623, giving, as in every other instance, the time of publication for that of its appearance on the stage. TO THt RIGHT HONOURABLE, AND MUCH ESTEEMED FOR HER HIGH BIRTH, BUT MORE ADMIRED FOR HER TIKTUK, 1 THE LADY CATHERINE STANHOPE, WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, BARON OF SHELFORD. MADAM, If I were not most assured that works of this nature have found both patronage and protection amongst the greatest princesses* of Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons most eminent in our kingdom, I should not presume to offer these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar of your favour. Let the example of others, more knowing, and more experienced in this kindness (if my boldness offend) plead my pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left me (my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to the world (if it hold the least good opinion of me) that I am ever your ladyship's creature Vouchsafe, therefore, with the never-failing clemency of your noble disposition, not to contemn the tender of his duty, who, while he is, will ever be An humble Servant to j^our Ladyship, and yours PHILIP MASSINGER. Prineettes} So the quarto 1023. That of 1638 exhibits princes, which Coxeter, and consequently M. Mason, follows. THE DUKE OF MILAN [Act 1. DRAMATIS PERSONS. LUDOVICO SFORZA, supposed duke of Milan. FRANCISCO, his especial Javourite. TIBERIO, i. i i f i,' / STEPHANO, ) GRACCIIO, a creature of Mariana. . GIOVANNI, ) CHARLKS the emperor, PESCARA, an imperialist, but a friend to Sforza. HER.NANDO, \ MEDINA, > captains to the emperor. ALPHONSO, J SCENE, for the first and second acts, in MILAN ; during part of the third, in the IMPERIAL CAMP near Three Gentlemen. An Officer. Two Doctors. Two Couriers. MARCEI.IA, the dutches*, wife to SFORZA. ISABELLA, mother to SFOIIZA. MARIANA, wife to FRANCISCO, and sistet io SFORZA. EUGENIA, sister to FRANCISCO. A Gentlewoman. A Guard, Servants, Fiddlers, Attendants. PA VIA ; the rest of the play, in MILAN, and its neighbourhood. ACT I. SCENE I. Milan, An outer Room in t/ie Castle*. Enter GUACCHO, JULIO, and GIOVANNI t, with Flaggons. Grac. Take every man his flaggon : give the oath To all you meet ; I am this day the state-drunkard, I'm sure against my will ; and if you find A man at ten that's sober, he's a traitor, And, in my name, arrest him. Jul. Very good, sir : But, say he be a sexton ? Grac. If the bells Ring out of tune}, as if the street were burning, And he cry, 'Tit rare music ; bid him sleep : 'J'is a sign he has ta'en his liquor; and if you meet An officer preaching of sobriety, Unless he read it in Geneva print , Lay him by the heels. Milan, dn outer Room in the Castle.} The old copies have no distinction of scenery ; inileed, they could have none wilb their miserable platform and raised gallery, but what was furnished by a board with Milan or Rhodes painted upon It. 1 have vcnturrd to supply it, in conformity to the modern mode of printing Shakspeare, and to consult the ease of the general reader. I know uot what pricked forward Coxeter, but he thought proper (for the first time) to be precise in this Play, and specify the place of action. I can neither com- pliment him upon his judgment, nor Mr. M. Mason upon his good sf ne in following him: the description here is, "ficene, a public Palace in Pisa," Pisa ! a place which is not once mentioned, nor even hinted at, in the whole play. t JULIO, and GIOVANNI,] These are not found among the old dramatis personae, nor are they of much importance. In a subsequent scene, where they make their appearance asl*< and 2nd Uentlemen, I have taken the liberty to name them again. Jonio, which stood in this scene, appears to be a misprint for Julio. 1 Grac. Jfthe bells King out of tune, &c.] i. c. backward : the usual signal of alarm, on the breaking out of fires. So in the Captain: " certainly, my body Is all a wildfire, for my head rings backward." Again : in the City Match : " Then, sir, in time You may be remember'd at the quenching of Fired houses, when the bells ring backward, by Your nnme upon the buckets." $ Unless he read it in Geneva print,] Alluding to the ipirituous liquor so called. M. MASON. Jul. But think you 'tis a fault To be found sober ? Grac. It is capital treason ; Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay Forty crowns to the poor : but give a pension To all the magistrates you find singing catches, Or their wives dancing ; for the courtiers reeling,- And the duke himself, I dare not say distemper'd *, But kind, and in his tottering chair carousing, They do the country service. If you meet One that eats bread, a child of ignorance, And bred up in darkness of no drinking, Against his will you may initiate him In the true posture ; though he die in the taking His drench.it skills notf: what's a private man, For the public honour 1 We've nought else to think And so, dear friends, copartners in my travails, [on. Drink hard ; and let the health run through the city, Until it reel again, and with me cry, Long live the dutchess ! Enter TIBERIO and STEPHANO. Jul. Here are two lords ; what think you ? Shall we give the oath to them 1 Grac. Fie ! no : 1 know them, You need not swear them ; your lord, by his patent, Stands bound to take his rouse}. Long live the dutchess ! [Exeunt Grac. Jul. and Gio. / dare not say distemper'd,] i. e intoxicated : so the word if frequently used by our old writers. Thus Shirley : " Clear. My lord, he's gone, " Lod. How I " Clear. Distemper'd. " Lod. Not witlr wine t" The Grateful Servant. It occurs also in Hamlet. t though he die in the taking His drench, it skills not : &c.] It matters or signifies not. So in the Gamester : " JVeph. I desire no man's privilege: it skills not whether I be kin to any mm living." } - your lord, by his patent, Stands bound fo take his rouse.] This word his never been properly explained. It occur* in Hamlet, wheie it is sail 1 by Steevcn*, as well as Johnson, to mean a quantity of liquor rather too larce : the latter drrivcs it from rusch, li ill drunk, Germ, while he brings carouse from yar ausz, all out! Roust SCENE I.] THE DUKE OF MILAN. 63 Steph. The cause of this ? but yesterday the court Wore rhe sad livery of distrust and fear ; No smile, not in a buffoon to be seen, Or common jester : the Great Duke himself Had sorrow in his face; which, waited on By his mother, sister, nnil his fairest dutchess, Dispersed a silent mourning through all Milan ; As if some great blow had been given the state, Or were at least expected. Tib. Stephano, know as you are noble, you are honest, And capable of secrets of more weight Than now I shall deliver. Ift':at Sforza. The present duke, (though his whole life hath been But one continued pilgrimage through dangers. Affrights, and horrors, which his fortune guided By his strong judgment, still hath overcome,) Appears now shaken, it deserves no wonder : All that his youth hath labour'd for, the harvest Sown by his industry readv to be reap'd too, Being now at stake ; and all his hopes confirm'd, Or lost for ever. Steph. I know no such hazard : His guards are strong and sure, his coffers full; The people well affected; and so wisely His provident care hath wrought, that though war rages In most parts of our western world, there is No enemy near us. Tib. Dangers, that we see To threaten ruin, are with ease prevented ; But those strike deadly, that coTie unexpected : The lightning is far off, yet, soon as seen, We may behold the teriible effects That it produceth. But I'll help your knowledge, and carouse, however, like vye and revye, are but the reci- procation of tile same action, and iiui.M therefore be derived from the same sou ice. A rouse was a large gla^s (' not past a pint," as lago says) in which a health was given, the drink- ing of which by the rest of the company formed a carouse. fiarnaby Rich is exceedingly angry with the inventor of this cusiom, which, however, with a laudable zeal for the honour of his country, he attributes to an Englishman, who, it seems " had his brains beat out with a pottlepot" for his ingenuity. " ID former ages," says he, "they had no conceit whereby to draw on drnnkene^se," (Barnaby wa n treat historian.) " their best was, I drinke to you, and I pledge yon, till at length some shallow-wilted drunkard found out the carouse, an invention ot that worth and \vit should that mill To be so, be forced ] I have venti red to insert be, which was prob.ibly dropl at the press, betbie forced, (la the Edit, of ISKi, Mr Gilford being diffident of (he correctness of his emendation, has supplied the place of the inserted be, by spaces, thus - - -. I have however retained his original correction, \\lfich I think superior to the subsequent one, although unnecessary to the rhythm and perhaps rendering tbf verse rattier harsh. Eu.) t Stbr. The marguit of Petcara ! a great soldier;] Thn duke does not exaggerate the merits of 1'escara : he was, iu- deed, a great siildier, a fortunate coniii.ainkr, an able 4ie t o- ciator, in a word, one of the greatest ornaments of a peril $ which abounded in extraordinary characters. SCENE III.] THE DUKE OF MILAN. 6? Peso. If it were As well in my weak power, in act, to raise it, As 'tis to hear a part of sorrow with you, You then should have just cause to say, Pescara Look'd not upon your state, hut on your virtues, When he made suit to be writ in the list Of those you favour'd. But my haste forbids All compliment ; thus, then sir, to the purpose : flie cause that, unattended, brought me hither, Was not to tell you of your loss, or danger; For fame hath many wings to bring ill tidings, And I presume you've heard it ; but to give yon Such friendly counsel, as, perhaps, may make Your sad disaster less. Sfor. Your are all goodness : And I give up myself to be disposed of, As in your wisdom you think fit. Pesc. Thus, then, sir : To hope you can hold out against the emperor, Were flattery in yourself*, to your undoing : Therefore, the safest course that you can take, Is, to give up yourself to his discretion, Before you be compell'd ; for, rest assured, A voluntary yielding may find grace, And will admit defence, at least excuse : But, should you linger doubtful, till his powers Have seized your person and estates perforce, You must expect extremes. Sfor. I understand you ; And I will put your counsel into act, And speedily. I only will take order For some domestical affairs, that do Concern me nearly, and with the next sun Ride with you : in the mean time, my best friend, Pr;iy take your rest. Prec. Indeed, I have travell'd hard ; And will embrace your counsel. [Erif. Sfor. U'ith all care, Attend my noble friend. Stay you, Francisco. \ ou see how things stand with me ? Fran. To mv grief: And if the loss of my poor life could be A sacrifice to restore them as they were, 1 willingly would lay it down. Sfor. 1 think so ; For I have ever found you true and thankful, Which makes me love the building I have raised In your advancement ; and repent no grace I have conferr'd upon you. And, believe me, Though now I should repeat my favours to you, The titles 1 have given \ou, and the means Suitable to your honours ; that I thought you Worthy my sister and my family, And in my dukedom made you next myself; It is not to upbraid you ; but to tell you I find you are worthy of them, in your love And service to me. Fran. Sir, I am your creature ; And any shape, that you would have me wear, I gladly will put on. Sfor. Thus, then, Francisco: I now am to deliver to your trust A weighty secret ; of so strange a nature, And 'twill, I know, appear so monstrous to you, That you will tremble in the execution, As much as 1 am tortured to command it : fl'ere flattery in yourself,] So, both the quartos; the modern editors read, Were flattering yourtelf. For 'tis a deed so horrid, that, but to hear it, Would strike into a ruffian flesh 'd in murders, Or an obdurate hangman, soft compassion ; And yet, Francisco, of all men the dearest, And from me most deserving, such my state And strange condition is, that thou alone Must know the fatal service, and perform it. . Fran. These preparations, sir, to work a stranger, Or to one unacquainted with your bounties, M ight appear useful ; but to me they are Needless impertinencies : for I dare do Whate'er you dare command. Sfor. But you must swear it ; And put into the oath all joys or torments That fright the wicked, or confirm the good ; Not to conceal it only, that is nothing, But, whensoe'er mv will shall speak, Strike now ! To fall upon't like thunder. Fran. Minister The oath in any way or form you please, I stand resolved to take it. Sfor. Thou must do, then, What no malevolent star will dare to look on, It is so wicked : for which men will curse thee For being the instrument ; and the blest angels Forsake me at my need, for being the author : For 'tis a deed of night, of night, Francisco ! In which the memory of all good actions We can pretend to, shall be buried quick : Or, if we be remember'd, it shall be To fright posterity by our example, That have outgone all precedents of villains That were before us ; and such as succeed, Though taught in hell's black school, shall ne'er Art thou not shaken yet ? [come near us. Fran. I grant you move me : But to a man confirm 'd Sfor. I'll try your temper : What think you of my wife ? Fran. As a thing sacred ; To whose fair name and memory I pay gladly These signs of duty. Sfor. Is she no/ the abstract Of all that's rare, or to be wish'd in woman? Fran. It were a kind of blasphemy to dispute it: But to the purpose, sir. Sfor. Add too, her goodness, Her tenderness of me, her care to please me, Her unsuspected chastity, ne'er equall'd ; Her innocence, her honour : 0, I am lost In the ocean of her virtues and her graces, When I think of them ! Fran. Now I find the end Of all your conjurations ; there's some service To be done for this sweet lady. If she have enemies That she would have removed Sfor. Alas ! Francisco, Her greatest enemy is her greatest lover ; Yet, in that hatred, her idolater. One smile of her's would make a savage tame ; One accent of that tongue would calm the seas, Though all the winds at once strove there fo empire. Yet I, for whom she thinks all this too little, Should I miscarry in this present journey, From whence it is all number to a cipher, I ne'er return with honour, by thy hand Must have her murder'd. Fran. Murder'd '. She that loves so, And so deserves to be beloved again ! THE DUKE OF MILAN. [AciII And I, who sometimes you were pleased to favour, Pick'd out the intrument! Sfffr. Do not fly off: What is decreed can never be recall'd ; 'Tis more than love to her, that marks her out A wish'd companion to me in both fortunes : And strong assurance of thy zealous faith, That gives up to thy trust a secret, that Racks should not have forced from me. O, Francisco ! There is no heaven without her ; nor a hell, Where she resides. I ask from her but justice, And what I would have paid to her, had sickness, Or any other accident, divorced Her purer soul from her unspotted body*. The slavish Indian princes, when they die, Are cheerfully attended to the fire, By the wife and slave that, living, they loved best, To do them service in another world : Nor will I be less honour'd, that love more. And therefore trifle not, but in thy looks Express a ready purpose to perform What I command; or, by Alarcelia's soul, This is thy latest minute. Fran. 'Tis not fear Of death, but love to you, makes me embrace it : But for mine own security, when 'tis done, What warrant have I ? If you please to sign one. I shall, though with unwillingness and horror, Perform your dreadful charge. Sfor. I will, Francisco : But still remember, that a prince's secrets Are balm, conceal'd ; but poison, if discover 'd. I may come back ; then this is but a trial To purchase thee, if it were possible, A nearer place in my affection : but I know thee honest. Fran. 'Tis a character I will not part with. Sj'ar. I may live to reward it *. [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. The same. An open Space before the Castle. Enter TIBERIO and STEPHANO. Steph. How, left the court ! Tib. Without guard or retinue Fitting a prince. Steph. No enemy near, to force him To leave his own strengths, yet deliver up Himself, as 'twere, in bonds, to the discretion Of him that hates him ! 'tis beyond example. You never heard the motives that induced him To this strange course ? Tib. No, those are cabinet councils, And not to be communicated, but To such as are his own, and sure. Alas ! We fill up empty places, and in public Are taught to give our suffrages to that Which was before determined ; and are safe so. Signior Francisco (upon whom alone His absolute power is with all strength conferr'd, During his absence) can with ease resolve you : To me they are riddles. Steph, Well, he shall not be My QEdipus ; I'll rather dwell in darkness. But, my good lord Tiberio, this Francisco Is, on the sudden, strangely raised. Tib. O sir He took the tnriving course : he had a sisterf, A fair one too, with whom, as it is rumour'd, The duke was too familiar ; but she, cast off (What promises soever past between them) Her purer soul from her unnpotted body.] .Purer is used in perfect concurrence with the practice of Massinger's con- temporaries, for pure, the comparative for the positive. See the Unnatural Combat. + He had a sister, &c.] There is great art in this introduction of the sister. In the management of these pre- paratory liints, Massinger surpasses all his contemporaries. In Beaumont and Fletcher, " ilie end sometimes forgets the beginning ;" and even Shakspeare is not entirely free from inattentions of a similar nature. I will not here praise the general felicity of our author's plots ; but whatever they were, he seems to have minutely arranged all the component parts before a line of the dialogue was written. Upon the sight of thisf, forsook the court, And since was never seen. To smother this, As honours never fail to purchase silence, Francisco first was graced, and, step by step, Is raised up to this height. Steph. But how is His absence born ? Tib. Sadly, it seems, by the dutchess ; For since he left the court, For the most part she hath kept her private chamber, No visitants admitted. In the church, She hath been seen to pay her pure devotions Season'd with tears ; and sure her sorrow's true, Or deeply counterfeited ; pomp, and state, And bravery cast of : and she, that lately Rivall'd Poppaea in her varied shapes, Or the Egyptian queen, now, widow-like, In sable colours, as her husband's dangers Strangled in her the use of any pleasure, Mourns for his absence. Steph. It becomes her virtue, And does confirm what was reported of her. Tib. You take it right : but, on the other side, The darling of his mother, Mariana, As there were an antipathy between Her and the dutchess' passions ; and as She'd no dependence on her brother's fortune, She ne'er appear'd so full of mirth. Steph. 'Tis strange. Enter GRACCHO with Fiddlers. But see ! her favourite, and accompanied. To your report. Grac. You shall scrape, and I will sing A scurvy ditty to a scurvy tune, Repine who dares. The observations in the Essay prefixed to this Volume, preclude the necessity of any remarks from me, on this ad- mirable scene : as it seems, however, to have engrossed the critic's attention, (to the manifest neglect of the rest,) let me suggi-st, in justice to the author, that it is equalled, if not surpassed, by some of the succeeding ones, and. among the rest, by that which concludes the second act. t Upon tht sight of this, &c.J i. e. of the present dutcbci*. M. MASON. SCENE I.] THE DUKE OF MILAN. 69 1 Fid. But, if we should offend, The dutchess having silenced us; and these lords Stand by to hear us. Grac. They in name are lords, But I am one in power : and, for the dutchess, But yesterday we were merry for her pleasure, We now'll be for my lady's. Tib. Signior Graccho. Grac. A poor man, sir, a servant to the princess ; But you, great lords* and counsellors of state, Whom I stand bound to reverence. Tib. Come ; we know You are a man in grace. Grac. Fie ! no : I grant, I bear my fortunes patiently ; serve the princess, And have access at all times to her closet, Such is my impudence ! when your grave lordships Are masters of the modesty to attend Three hours, nay sometimes four ; and then bid Upon her the next morning. [wait Steph. lie derides us. Tib. Pray you, what news is stirring ? you know Grac. Who, I ? alas ! I've no intelligence [all. At home nor abroad ; I only sometimes guess The change of the times : 1 should ask of your lord- ships Who are to keep their honours, who to lose them : Who the dutchess smiled on last, or on whom frown'd, You only can resolve me ; we poor waiters Deal, as you see, in mirth, and foolish fiddles : It is our element ? and could you tell me What point of state 'tis that I am commanded To muster up this music, on mine honesty, You should much befriend me. Steph. Sirrah, you grow saucy. Tib. And would be laid by the heels. Grac. Not by your lordships, Without a special warrant ; look to your own stakes ; Were I committed, here come those would bail me : Perhaps, we might change places too. Enter ISABELLA, and MARIANA. Tib. The princess ! We must be patient. Steph. There is no contending. Tib. See, the informing rogue ! Steph. That we should stoop To such a mushroom ! Mart. Thou dost mistake ; they durst not Use the least word of scorn, although provoked, To any thing of mine. Go, get you home, And to your servants, friends, and flatterers number How many descents you're noble : look to your wives too : The smooth-chinn'd courtiers are abroad. Tib. No way to be a freeman ! Exeunt Tiberio and Stephana. Grac. Your excellence hath the best gift to dispatch These arras pictures of nobility, I ever read of. Mari. I can speak sometimes. Grac. And cover so your bitter pills, with sweet- Of princely language to forbid reply, [ness, They are greedily swallowed. Isab. But to the purpose, daughter, That brings us hither. Is it to bestow * But you, great lords, &c.] So the old copies. Mr. M. Mason chooses to deviate from them, and read But you are grant lords, &c. Never was alti.'Wioi> more unnecessary. I A visit on this woman, that, because She only would be thought truly to grieve The absence and the dangers of mv son, j Proclaims a general sadness? Alan. If to vex her May be interpreted to do her honour, She shall have many of them. I'll make use Of my short reign : my lord now governs all ; And she shall know that her idolater, My brother, being not by now to protect her, I am her equal. Grac. Ofa little thing, It is so full of gall* ! A devil of this size, Should they run for a wager to be spiteful. Gets not a horse-head of her. [Asith Mari. On her birthday, We were forced to be merry, and now she's musty. We must be sad, on pain of her displeasure : We will, we will ! this is her private chamber, U here, like an hypocrite, not a true, turtle, She seems to mourn her absent mate ; her servants Attending her like mutes : but I'll speak to her. And in a high key too. Play any thing That's light and loud enough but to torment her, And we will have rare sport. [Music and a songf. MAHCELIA appears at a Window above, in black. Isab. She frowns as if Her looks cou'd fright us. Mari. May it please your grea'ness, We heard that your late physic hath not work'd; And that breeds melancholy, as your doctor tells us. To purge which, we, that are born your highness vassals, And are to play the fool to do you service, Present you with a fit of mirth. What think you Ofa new antic? Isab. ''I would show rare in ladies. Mari. Being intended for so sweet a creature, Were she but pleased to grace it. Isab. Fie ! she will, Be it ne'er so mean ; she's made of courtesy. Mari. The mistress of all hearts. One smile, I pray you, On your poor servants, or a fiddler's fee ; Coming from those fair hands, though but a ducat, We will inshrine it as a holy relic. Isab. Tis wormwood, and it works. Marc. If I lay by My feurs and griefs, in which you should be sharera. If doting age could let you but remember, You have a son ; or frontless impudence, You are a sister ; and in making answer, Grac. Ofa lilllc thing, It is so full of yall !] Nothing more strongh murks the poi erty of the Mage ill those times, than the frequent allusions we rind to the size of the actors, which may he considered as a kind of apology to the audience. It i> noi possible to ascertain who played the part of Mari.tii.t, hut it was, not improbably, Theophilus Bonnie, who acted I anlina in (fit Rewgado, where an expression nf the saiiie natnie (/c*cnrg. Domitill.i, in the Roman victor, is also little ; flic- w.is played by John Hunnieman. 1 do not condemn these indirect apo- logies ; indeed, litre appears to he s> meihi g of auixt sens* in them, and of proper deference to 'he undi rsiandiniis of thk audience. At present, we run in.trepi.IIy into exery specie* of absurdity, men and women unwieldly /n : she's of the kind, And will not leave the pit. [Aside. Mari. That it were lawful To meet her with a poniard and a pistol ! But these weak hands shall shew my spleen, Re-enter MARCELIA below. Marc. Where are you ? You modicum, you dwarf ! Mari. Here, giantess, here. Enter FRANCISCO, TIBERIO, and STEPHANO. Fran. A tumult in the court ! Mari. Let her come on. .Fran. What wind hath raised this tempest ? Sever them, I command you. What's the cause ? Speak, Mariana. Mari. I am out of breath ; But we shall meet, we shall. And do you hear sir ! Or right me on this monster, (she's three feet Too high for a woman,) or ne'er look to have A quiet hour with me. Isab. If my son were here, And would endure this, may a mother's curse Pursue and overtake him ! F ran. O forbear : In me he's present, both in power and will ; And, madam. I much grieve that, in his absence, There should arise the least distaste to move you : It being his principal, nay, only charge, To have you, in his absence, served and honour'd, As when himself perform 'd the willing office. Mari. This is fine, i'faith. Grae. I would I were well off! [not, fra. And therefore, I beseech you, madam, frown. Till most unwittingly he hath deserved it, On your poor servant ; to your excellence I ever was and will be such ; and lay The duke's authority, trusted to me, With willingness at your feet. Marl. O base ! Isab. We are like To have an equal judge! Fran. But, should I find That you are touch'd in anv point of honour Or that the least neglect is fall'n upon you, I then stand up a prince. 1 Fid. Without reward, Prav you dismiss us Grac. Would I were five leagues hence ! Fran. 1 will be partial To none, not to myself; Be you but pleased to shew me my offence, Or if you hold me in your good opinion, Name those that have offended you. Isab. I am one, And I will justify it. Mart. Thou art a base fellow, To take her part. Fran. Remember, she's the dutchess. Marc. But used with more contempt, than if I were A peasant's daughter; baited, and hooted at, Like to a common strumpet ; with loud noises Forced from my pravers ; and my private chamber, Which, with all willingness, I would make my prison CENE I.] THE DUKE OF MILAN. During the absence of my lord, denied me : But it he e'er return Fran. Were you an actor In this lewd comedy ? Mart. Ay, marrv was I j And will be one again. [tab. I'll join with her, Though you repine at it. Fran. Think not, then, I speak, For I stand bound to honour, and to serve you, But that the duke, that lives in this great lady, For the contempt of him in her, commands you To be close prisoners. I sab. Mart. Prisoners ! Frati. Bear them hence ; This is your charge, my lord Tiberio, And. Stephano, this is yours. Marc. I am not cruel, But pleased thev may have liberty. Isab. Pleased, with a mischief ! Mari. I'll rather live in any loathsome dungeon, Than in a paradise at her entreaty : And, for you, upstart Steph. There is no contending. Tib. What shall become of these ? Fran. See them well whipp'd, As you will answer it. fib. Now, signior Graccho, What think you* of your greatness ? Grac. I preach patience, And must endure my fortune. 1 Fid. 1 was never yet At such a hunt's-upt, nor was so rewarded. [Eieunt all but Francisco and Marcelia. Fran. Let them first know themselves, and how you are To be served and honour'd ; which, when they con- fess, You may again receive them to your favour : And then it will shew nobly. Marc. With my thanks The duke shall pay you his, if he return To bless us with his presence. Fran. There is nothing That can be added to your fair acceptance ; That is the prize, indeed ; all else are blanks. And of no value. As, in virtuous actions, The undertaker finds a full reward, Although conferr'd upon unthankful men ; Tib. \ow Siynior Graccho, H'hat think you of your yreatnest J] So the first qnarto. Coxeter anil Mr. W. Mason IV,lluw the second, which reads, What's hfcome of your yreattiets ? t 1 Fill / lias nt rer yet At *uch a hunt's -up,] The hunt't-ttp was a lesson on the horn, played under the windows of sportsmen, to call them np in the morning. It was, probably, sufficiently obstrepe- rous, tor it is irequentl) applied by our rid writers, as in this place, to any noise or clamour of an awakening or alarming natme. The tune, or rather, perhaps, the words to it, was compos d by oi.e Gray, in the time of Henry VIII. who, as Puttenham tills us, to lib Art of Enylish Poesy, WMS much pleased with it. Of its popularity there can be no doubt, for it w.is 01. e of the songs travestied by the Scotch Reformers into " ane glide and gully ballale," for the edification of the elect. The first stanza of (he original is come down to us: " The hnnte is np, the hnn'e is up, And umvt it is almost dayc ; And he that's in bed with another man's wife, It is time to get awaye." The tune, I suppose, is lost; but we have a hant's-iipof our own, which is still played under the window* of the -lug^ish sportsman, and consists of a chorus of men, dogi, and burns, not a little alarming. So. any service done to so much sweetness. However dangerous, and subject to An ill construction, in your favour finds A wish'd, and glorious end. Marc. From you, I take this As loyal duty ; but, in any other, It would appear gross flattery. Fran. Flattery, madam ! You are so rare and excellent in all things, And raised so high upon a rock of goodness, As that vice cannot reach you* ; who but looks on This temple, built by nature to perfection, But must bow to it ; and out of that zeal, Not only learn to adore it, but to love it ? Marc. Whither will this fellow? [Asidt Fran. Pardon, therefore, madam, If an excess in me of humble duty, Teach me to hope, and though it be not in The power of man to merit such a blessing, My piety, for it is more than love, May find reward. Marc. You have it in my thanks ; And, on my hand, I am pleased that you shall take A full possession of it ; but, take heed That you fix here, and feed no hope beyond it ; If you do, it will prove fatal. Fran. Be it death, And death with torments tyrants ne'er found out, Yet I must say, I love you. Marc. As a subject ; And 'twill become you. Fran. Farewell circumstance ! And since you are not pleased to understand me, But by a plain and usual form of speech ; All superstitious reverence laid by, I love you as a man, and, as a man, I would enjoy you. Why do you start, and fly met I am no monster, and you but a woman, A woman made to yield, and by example Told it is lawful : favours of this nature, Are, in our age, no miracles in the greatest ; And, therefore, lady Marc. Keep off. O you Powers ! Libidinous beast ! and, add to that, unthankful ! A crime, which creatures wanting reason, 1 fly from ; Are all the princely bounties, favours, honours, Which, with some prejudice to his own wisdom, Thy lord and raiser hath conferr'd upon thee, In three days absence buried ! Hath he made thee, A thing obscure, almost without a name, The envy of great fortunes ? Have I graced thee, Beyond thy rank, and entertain 'd thee, as A friend, and not a servant ? and is this, This impudent attempt to taint mine honour, The fair return of both our ventured favours ! Fran. Hear my excuse. Marc. The devil may plead mercy, And with as much assurance, as thou yield one, Burns lust so hot in thee 1 or is thy pride Grown up to such a height, that, but a princess, No woman can content thee ; and, add to it, His wife and princess, to whom thou art tied In all the bonds of duty ? Read my life, And find one act of mine so loosely carried That could invite a most self-loving fool, At that vice cannot reach you;] i. e. flattery : Coxi-ter deserts the old copies here, and reads, I know not for what reason, Th'it vice can never reach you! His Achates follows him a< usual. 72 THE DUKE OF MILAN. a Set off with all that fortune could throw on him, To the least hope to find way to my favour ; And, what's the worst mine enemies could wish me, I'll be thy strumpet. Fran. 'Tis acknowledged, madam, That your whole course of life hath been a pattern For chaste and virtuous women. In your beauty, Which I first saw, and loved, as a fair crystal, I read your heavenly mind, clear and untainted ; And while the duke did prize you to your value, Could it have been in man to pay that duty, I well might envy him, but durst not hope To stop you in your full career of goodness : But now" I find that he's fall'n from his fortune, And, howsoever he would appear doting, Grown cold in his affection ; I presume, Frbm his most barbarous neglect of you, To offer my true service. Nor stand I bound, To look back ou the courtesies of him, That, of all living men, is most unthankful. Marc, Unheard-of impudence ! Fran. You'll say I am modest, When I have told the story. Can he tax me. That have received some worldly trifles from him, For being ungrateful ; when he, that first tasted, And bath so long enjoy 'd, your sweet embraces. In which all blessings that our frail condition Is capable of, are wholly comprehended, As cloy'dwith happiness, contemns the giver Of his felicity ! and, as he reach'd not The masterpiece of mischief which he aims at, Unless he pay those favours he stands bound to, With fell and deadly hate ! You think he loves you With unexampled fervour ; nay, dotes on you, As there were something in you more than woman: When, on my knowledge, he long since hath wish'd You were among the dead ; and I, you scorn so, Perhaps, am your preserver. Marc. Bless me, good angels, Or I am blasted ! Lies so false and wicked, And fashion'd to so damnable a purpose. Cannot be spoken by a human tongue. My husband hate me ! give thyself the lie, False and accurs'd ! Thy soul, if thou hast any. Can witness, never lady stood so bound To the unfeign'd affection of her lord. As I do to my Sforza. If thou wouldst work Upon my weak credulity, tell me, rather, That the earth moves ; the sun and stars stand still ; The ocean keeps nor floods nor ebbs ; or that There's peace between the lion and the lamb ; Or that the ravenous eagle and the dove Keep in one aerie*, and bring up their young ; Or any thing that is averse to nature : And 1 will sooner credit it, than that My lord can think of me, but as a jewel, He loves more than himself, and all the world. F ran. O innocence abused ! simplicity cozen'd ! It were a sin, for which we have no name, To keep you longer in this wilful error. Read his affection here ; [Gives her a paper.] and then observe How dear he holds you ! 'Tis his character, Which cunning yet could never counterfeit. Or that the ravenous eayle and the dove Krpt in one aerie,) i. e. in one nest. Mr. M. Mason degrades \fas?inger and himself, by reading, Keep in one aviary ! Such rashness, and such incompetence, it is to be hoped, do not often meet in one person. Marc. Tis his hand, I'm resolved* of it. I'll try What the inscription is. Fran. Pray you, do so. Marc, [reads.] You know my pleasure, and the how of Marcetia's death, which Jail not to eiecute, as i/ wilt answer the contrary, not with your head alone, but with the ruin of your whole family. And this, written with mine own hand, and signed with my privy signet, shall be your sufficient warrant. LODOVICO SFORZA. I do obey it ; every word's a poniard, And reaches to my heart. [S/ie swoons. Fran. What have I done ! Madam ! for heaven's sake, madam ! my fate! I'll bend her body* : this is, yet, some pleasure : I'll kiss her into a new life. Dear lady ! She stirs. For the duke's sake, for Sforza's sake Marc. Sforza's ! stand off' ; though dead, 1 will be his, And even my ashes shall abhor the touch, Of any other. unkind, and cruel ! Learn, women, learn to trust in one another ; There is no faith in man : Sforza is false, False to Marcelia ! Fran. But I am true, And live to make you happy. All the pomp, State, and observance you had, being his, Compared to what you shall enjoy, when mine, Shall be no more remember'd. Lose his memory, And look with cheerful beams on your new creature , And know, what he hath plotted for your good, Fate cannot alter. ]f the emperor Take not his life, at his return he dies, And by my hand ; my wife, that is his heir, Shall quickly follow : then we reign alone! For with this arm I'll swim through seas of blood, Or make a bridge, arch'd with the bones of men, But 1 will grasp my aims in you, my dearest, Dearest, and best of women $! Marc. Thou art a villain ! All attributes of arch villains made into one, Cannot express thee. I prefer the hate Of Sforza though it mark me for the grave, Before thy base affection. 1 am yet Pure and unspotted in my true love to him ; Nor shall it be corrupted, though he's tainted : Nor will 1 part with innocence, because He is found guilty. For thyself, thou art A thing, that, equal with the devil himself, I do detest and scorn. Fran. Thou, then, art nothing : 'Til his hand, I'm resolved of it.] I am convinced of it : so the word is frequently used by Massinger's cuntem poraries. Thus Fletcher, in the Faithful Shepherdess : " But be they t'.tr from me with ihfir fond lertoi I 1 am resolved my Chloe yet is true." And Webster, in the / kite Devil: " I am resolved, Were there a second paradise to lose, This devil would betray it." t fit bend her boy force, and carve ourselves, Pleasure with pillage, and the richest wines, Open our shrunk-up veins, and pour into them New blood and fervour Med, 1 long to be at it ; To see these chuffs*, that every day may spend A soldier's entertainment for a year, Yet make a third meal of a bunch of raisinsf : To see these chuffs,] So it stood in every edition before Mr. M. Mason's, when it was altered to chotiyhs, and ex- plained in a note, to mean maypieg ! What magpie* could have to do here, it would, perhaps, have puttied Uic editor, had he thought at all on tlie subject, to discover The truth is, that chuff is the genuine word : it is always used in a had ten e, an I means a coarse uninannered clown, at once sordid and wealthy. t Yet make a third meal of a lunch ofraix'ns:] So all the old copies: and so, indeed, Coxeter ; but Mr. M. Mason, whose si<;acitj nothing escapes, detected the poet's blunder, and for third suggested, nay, actually printed, thin. " This passage," quoth i,e, " appears to be erroneous : the making a third meal of raisin-, if they made two good meals be ore, would be no proof of penurionsness. I therefoie lead th n." Serioujly, was ever alteration so capricious, was ever rea- soning so absurd ? Where is it said that these chuffs ' had made two good meals before?" Is not the whole tend my of the spe.-ch to shew that they siaivrd themselves m tie midst of abundance > and are not the reproaches such, as have been cast, in all ayes, by men of Medina's stamp, on the These sponges, that suck up a kingdom's fat, Battening like scarabs t in the dunir of peace, To be squeezed out by the rough hand of war ; And all that their whole lives have heap'd together ; By cozenage, perjury, or sordid thrift, With one gripe to be ravish'd. Hern. I would be tousing Their fair madonas, that in little dogs, Monkeys, and paraquittos, consume thousands: Yet, for the advancement of a noble action, Repine to part with a poor piece of eight : War's plagues upon them ! I have seen them stop Their scornful noses first, then seem to swoon, At sight of a buff jerkin, if it were not Perfumed, and hid with gold : yet these nice wantons, Spurr'd on by lust, cover'd in some disguise, To meet some rough court-stallion, and be leap'd Durst enter into any common brothel, Though all varieties of stink contend there; Yet praise the entertainment. Med. I may live To see the tatter'd'st rascals of my troop Drag them out of their closets with a vengeance ; When neither threatening, flattering, kneeling, how- ling. Can ransome one poor jewel, or redeem Themselves, from their blunt wooing. Hern. My main hope is, To begin the sport at Milan : there's enough, And of all kinds of pleasure we can wish for, To satisfy the most covetous. Alpli. Every day, We look for a remove. Med. For Lodowick Sforza, The duke of Milan, I, on mine own knowledge, sober and frugal citi/en, who lived within his income t " Surely." says I'lotwtll, in tlte City Match, " Surfly, myself, Cipher his factor, and an ancient cat, Did keep strict diet, h.id our Spanish fare, Four olives among three! My uncle would Lock fat with fasting; I have known him surfeit C'pon a bunch of raisins, swoon at sight Ol a whole joint, and rise an epicure From half an orange." * Becenye first wrought me, &c.] The reader should not suffer these hints, of whicn he will find several in the suc- ceeding pages, to esc-ipe him : they are not thrown out at landom by Malinger, but intended to prepare the mind for the dreadful retaliation which follows. t fattening like scarabs I Scarabs mears beetles. M. MASON. Very true; and beetles means scarabs 1 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Can say thus much : he is too much a soldier, Too confident of his own worth, too rich too, And understands too well the emperor hates him, To hope for composition. Alph. On my life, We need not fear his coming in *. Hern. On mine, I do not wish it : I had rather that, To shew his valour, he'd put us to the trouble To fetch him in by the ears. Med. The emperor. Flimrish. Enter CHARLES, PESCARA. and Attendants Churl. You make me wonder: nay, it is no counsel t, You may partake it, gentlemen : who'd have thought, That he, that scorn 'd our proft'er'd amity When he was sued to, should, ere he be summon'd (Whether persuaded to it by base fear. Or flatter'd by false hope, which, 'tis uncertain,) First kneel for mercy ? Med. When your majesty Shall please to instruct us who it is, we may Admire it with you Chart. Who. but the duke of Milan, The right hand of the French ! of all that stand ]n our displeasure, whom necessity Compels to seek our favour, I would have sworn Sforza had been the last. Hern. And should be writ so, In the list of those you pardon. Would his city Had rather held us out a siege, like Troy, Than, by a feign'd submission, he should cheat you Of a just revenge ; or us, of those fair glories We have sweat blood to purchase ! Med. With your honour You cannot hear him. Alph. The sack alone of Milan Will pay the army. Churl. 1 am not so weak, To be wrought on, as you fear; nor ignorant That motiey is the sinew of the war : And on what terms soever he seek peace, 'Tis in our power to grant it, or deny it : Yet, for our glory, and to shew him that We've brought him on his knees, it is resolved To hear him as a suppliant. Bring him in ; But let him see the eflvcts of our just anger, In the guard that you make for him. [Exit Pescara. Hem. I am now Familiar with the issue ; all plagues on it ! He will appear in some dejected habit, His countenance suitable, and, for his order, A rope about his neck : then kneel, and tell Old stories, what a worthy thing it is To have power, and not to use it ; then add to that, A tale of king Tigrane?, and great Pompey, Who said, forsooth, and wisely ! 'Twasmore honour To make a king, than kill one ; which, applied To the emperor, and himself, a pardon's granted To him, an enemy ; and we, his servants, Condemn'd to beggary. Alph. On my life We need, not. fear hir coining in.l His surrender of himself. Hernamlu, in the nt- it sr-erch, plnys upon the word. nay, it is no counsel, | i. e. no secret: o in Cupid' t lievenye : 1 would worry her, As never cur was worried, I would, neighbonr, Till my teeth met I know where ; but that is counsel." Med. Yonder he comes ; But not as you expected. Re-enter PESCARA with SFORZA. Alph. He looks as if He would out face his dangers. Hern. I am cozen'd : A suitor, in the devil's name ! Med. Hear him speak. Sfor. I come not, emperor, to invade thy mercy, By fawning on thy fortune ; nor bring with me Excuses, or denials. I profess, And with a good man's confidence, even this instant That I am in thy power, I was thine enemy ; Thy deadly and vow'dj enemy : one that wish'd Confusion to thy person and estates ; And with my utmost powers, and deepest counsels, Hud they been truly follow'd, further'd it. Nor will I now, although my neck were under The hangman's axe, with one poor syllable Confess, but that I honour'd the French king, More than thyself, and all men, Med. By saint Jaques, This is no flattery Hern. There is fire and spirit in't ; But not long-lived, I hope. Sj'or. Now give me leave, My hate against thyself, and love to him Freely acknowledged, to give up the reasons That made me so affected : In my wants I ever found him faithful ; had supplies Of men and monies from him ; and my hopes, Quite sunk, were, by his grace, buoy'd up again : He was, indeed, to me, as my good angel, To guard me from all dangers. I dare speak, Nay, must and will, his praise now, in as high And loud a key, as when he was thy equal. The benefits he sow'd in me, met not Unthankful ground, but yielded him his own With fair increase, and I still glory in it. And, though my fortunes, poor, compared to his, And Milan, weigh 'd with France, appear as nothing, Are in thy fury burnt, let it be mention'd, They served but as small tapers to attend The solemn flame at this great funeral * : And with them I will gladly waste myself, Rather than undergo the imputation Of being base, or unthankful. Alph. Nobly spoken ! Hern. I do begin, I know not why, to hate him Less than I did. Sfcr. If that, then, to be grateful For courtesies received, or not to leave A friend in his necessities, be a crime Amongst you Spaniards, which other nations That, like you, aim'd at empire, loved, and cherish'd Where'er they found it, Sforza brings his head To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slave, Piniori'd and fetter'd, in a squalid weed, Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling, For a forestall'd remission : that were poor, And would but shame thy victory ; for conquest Over base foes, is a captivity, And not a triumph. I ne'er fear'd to die, More than 1 wish'd to live. When I had reach'd My ends in being a duke, 1 wore these robes, * at this great funeral .] Mr. M. Mason. whether by design or not, I will not say, read?, his great funeral : meaning, perhaps, the French kind's; but 'he oW reading is better in every respect- SCENE I.] THE DUKE OF MILAN.' 75 This crown upon my head, and to my side This sword was girt ; and witness truth, that, now 'Tis in another's power when 1 shall part With them and life together, I'm the same : My veins then did not swell with pride ; nor now Shrink they for tear. Know, sir, that Sforza stands Prepared for either fortune. Hern. As I live, I do begin strangely to love this fellow ; And could part with three quarters of my share in The promised spoil, to save him. Sjor. But, if example Of mv fidelity to the French, whose honours, Titles, and glories, are now mix'd with yours, As brooks, devour'd by rivers, lose their names, Has power to invite you to make him a friend, That hath given evident proof, he knows to love, And to be thankful ; this my crown, now yours, You may restore me, and in me instruct [change, These brave commanders, should your fortune Which now I wish nut, what they may expect From noble enemies, for being faithful. The charges of the war I will defray. And, what you may, not without hazard, force, Bring freely to you : I'll prevent the cries Ofmurderd infants, and of ravish'd maids, Which, in a city sack'd, call on heaven's justice, And stop the course of glorious victories: And, when I know the captains and the soldiers, That have in the late battle done be=t service, And are to be rewarded, I myself, According to their quality and merits, \\ill see them largely recompensed. I have said, And now expect my sentence. Aiph. By this light, Tis a brave gentleman. Merl. How like a. block The emperor sits ! Hern. He hath deliver'd reasons*, Especially in his purpose to enrich Such as fought bravely, I myself am one, I care not who knows it, as I wonder that He can be so stupid. Now he begins to stir : Mercy, an't be thy will ! Churl. Thou hast so far Outgone my expectation, noble Sforza, For such I hold thee ; and true constancy, Raised on a brave foundation, bears such palm And privilege' with it, that where we behold it, Though in an enemy, it does command us To love and honour it. By my future hopes, I am glad, for thy sake, that, in seeking favour, Thou didst not borrow of vice her indirect, Crooked, and abject means ; and for mine own, That since my purposes must now be changed, Touching thy life a^d fortunes, the world cannot Tax me of levity in my settled compels ; I being neither wrought bv tempting bribes, Nor servile flattery ; but forced into it By a fair war of virtue. * He hath deliver'd reasons,' Hernando evidently means to say that Stor/..i IMS >poki>n ratinall\, especially in ex- pressing liis purpose of enriching those who (ought bravely : the word reasons in the plural will not express that sense. M. MASON. He therefore alters it to reason ! To attempt lo prove that the old copies are right, wonM be superflnoii- : but I c.miiot reflect, without some indignation, on the scandalous manner in which Mr. 41. Mason has given this speech. He first deprives it "f metre and sense, ami then bin'-ls up new read- ings OD his own blunders. Hern. This sounds well. Chart. All former passages of hate be buried : For thus with open arms I meet thy love, And as a friend embrace it ; and so far I am from robbing thee of the least honour, That with my hands, to make it sit the faster, I set thy crown once more upon thy head ; And do not only style thee, Duke of Milan, But vow to keep thee so. Yet, not to take From others to uive only to myself*, I will not hinder your magnificence To my commanders, neither will 1 urge it ; But in that, as in all things else, I leave you To be your own disposer. [Flourish. Exit ti-ith Attendants. Sfor. May I live To seal my loyalty, though with loss of life, In some brave service worthy Cwsar's favour, And I shall die most happy ! Gentlemen, Receive me to your loves ; and if henceforth There can arise a difference between us, It shall be in a noble emulation Who hath the fairest sword, or dare go farthest, To fight for Charles the emperor. Hern. We embrace you, As one well read in all the points of honour* And there we are your scholars. Sjor. True ; but such As far outstrip the master. We'll contend In love hereafter ; in the mean time, pray you, Let me discharge my debt, and, as an earnest % Of what's to come, divide this cabinet : In the small body of it there are jewels Will yield a hundred thousand pistolets, Which honour me to receive. J\Ied. You bind us to you. [his presence, Sjor. And when great Charles commands me to If you will please to excuse my abrupt departure, Designs that most concern me, next this mercy, Calling me home, I shall hereafter meet you, And gratify the favour. Hern. In this, and all things, W 7 e are your servants. Sfor. A name I ever owe you. [Exeunt Medina, Hernando, and Alphonso. Pesc. So, sir ; this tempest is well overblown, And all tilings fall out to our wishes : but, In my opinion, this quick return, Before you've made a party in the court Among the great ones, (for these needy captains Have little power in peace,) may beget danger, At least suspicion. Sfor. Where true honour lives, Doubt hath no being : I desire no pawn Beyond an emperor's word, for my assurance. Besides, Pescara, to thyself, of all men, I will confess my weakness : though my state And crown's restored me, though 1 am in grace, And that a little stay might be a step To greater honours, 1 must hence. Alas ! I live not here ; my wife, my wife Pesiaraf, Yet, not to take From others, tn give only to myself.l This is the reading of all the old copies, and nothing can be clearer than that it is perfectly proper. The modern editors, however, choose to weaken both the sense and the sentiment, by a conceit of their own : they print, toyiveimly lo thyself! t my wife, my wife, Pescara,] Mr. M. Mason feebly and immetrically reads, mywife.Pescara. Thre is great beauty in the repetition ; it is, besides, perfectly IB character. THE DUKE OF MILAN. [Acr III Being absent, I am dead. Prithee, excuse. And do not chide, for friendship's sake, my fondness, Hut ride along with me ; I'll give you reasons, And strong ones, to plead for me. Pesc. Use your own pleasure ; I'll bear you company. Sjbr. Farewell, grief! I am stored with Two blessings most desired in human life, A constant friend, an unsuspected wife. [Eieunl, SCENE II. Milan. A Room in the Castle*. Enter an Officer with GUACCHO. Offic. What I did, I had warrant for ; you have tasted My office gently, and for those soft strokes, Flea-bitings to the jerks I could have lent you, There Goes belong a feeling. Graf. Must I pay For being tormented, and dishonour'd ? Offic. Fie ! no, [out Your honour's not impair'd in't, What's the letting Of a little corrupt bloodt, and the next way too? There is no surgeon like me, to take off A courtier's itch that's rampant at great ladies, Or turns knave for preferment, or grows proud Of his rich cloaks and suits, though got by brokage, And so forgets his betters. Graff. Very good, sir : But am I the first man of quality That e'er came under your fingers ? Offic. Not by a thousand ; And they have said 1 have a lucky hand too : Both men and women of all sorts have bow'd Under this sceptre. I have had a fellow That could endite, forsooth, and make fine metres To tinkle in the ears of ignorant madams, That, for defaming of great men, was sent me Threadbare and lousy, and in three days after, Discharged by another that set him on, I have seen Cap a pie gallant, and his stripes wash'd off [him With oil of angels.J Grac. 'Twas a sovereign cure. Offic. There was a sectary too, that would not be Conformable to the orders of the church, Nor yield to any argument of reason, But still rail at authority, brought to me, When I had worm'd his tongue, and truss'd his haunches, Grew a fine pulpitman, and was beneficed : Had he not cause to thank me ? Grac. There was physic Was to the purpose. Offic. Now, for women, sir, For your more consolation, I could tell you Twenty fine stories, but I'll end in one, And 'tis the last that's memorable. Grac. Prithee, do ; For I grow weary of thee. Milan. A Room in the Castle.'] Here too Coxeter prints, * Scene chani/et t o Pita f" and here too lie is followed by die " most accurate of editors," Mr. M. Mason. t Of a little corrupt blood,] So the old copies ; the modern editors read, Of a little corrupted blood.' This reduces the line to very ^ood prose, which is indeed its only merit. J With oil <2/"angeU ] It may be just necessary to observe, Uut this it a pleasant allusion to the gold coin of that name. Offic. There was lately* A fine she-waiter in the court, that doted Extremely of a gentleman, that had His main dependence on a signior's favour I will not name, but could not compass him On any terms. This wanton at dead midnight, Was found at the exercise behind the arras, With the 'foresaid signior : he got clear off, But she was seined on, and, to save his honoui, Endured the lash ; and, though I made her often Curvet and caper, she would never tell Wlio play'd at pushpin with her. Grac. But what follow'd ? Prithee be brief. Offic. Why this, sir : She, deliver'd, Had store of crowns assign' her by her patron, Who forced the gentleman, to save her credit, To marry her, and say he was the party Found in lob's pound : so she, that, before, gladly Would have been his whore, reigns o'er him as his wife ; Nor dares he grumble at it. Speak but truth, then, Is not my office lucky? Grac. Go, there's for thee; But what will be my fortune ? Ojfic If you thrive not After that soft correction, come again. Grac. I thank you, knave. Offic. And then, knave, I will fit you. [Ea'K. Grac. Whipt like a rogue! DO lighter punishment serve To balance with a little mirth : 't is well. My credit sunk forever, I am now Fit company only for pages and for footboys, That have perused the porter's lodgef. F.nter JULIO and GIOVANNI}:. Giov. See, Julio, Yonder the proud slave is ; how he looks now, After his castigation ! Jul. As he came From a close fight at sea under the hatches, With a she-Dunkirk, that was shot before Offic. There wat lately, &C. 1 I have little doubt but that this lively story was founded in fact, and well mnlrrstood by the pott's contemporaries. The courtiers were not slow in indemnifying themselves for the morose and gloomy hours which they had passed (luring ihe last iwo or three >ears of Elizabeth; and the course ami inelegant manners of James, which bordered closely on licentiousness, affoided them ample opportunities. It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader, that wher- ever our old dramatists laid the scene of tlu-ir plays, the habits and manners of them are, generally speaking, as truly English as the language. t fit company for page* and for footboys, That have perused the portei's lodge.] i. e. that have been whip there. The porter's lodge, in our author's days, when the great claimed, and, indeed, frequently exercised, the right of chastising their servants, was the usual place of punishment. Thus Shirley, in the Grateful Servant : " My friend, what make you here'? Bi-gone, begone, I say : there is a porter's lodge else, where you may have due chastisement.*' J Enter JULIO and GIOVANNI.] This has been hitherto printed, Enter two Gentlemen, though one of them is imme- diately named. Not to multiply characters unnecessarily, I have supposed them to be the same that appear with Graccho, in the first scene of the first act. Jul. As fie came from a close fiyht, &c.1 Our old poets made very free with one another's property : it must be confe>sed, however, that their literary lapine dH not originate in poverty, for they gave as liberally as they took. This speech has been " ronveyrd" by Fletcher into his excellent comedy of tht Elder Urother: SCENE III.] THE DUKE OF MILAN. Between wind and water ; and he hath sprung a leak Or I am cozen 'd. [too, Giov. Let's be merry with him. Grac. How they stare at me ! am I turn'd to an The wonder, gentlemen ? [owl ? Jul. I read this morning 1 , Strange stones of the passive fortitude Of men in former ages, which I thought Impossible, and not to be believed : But, now 1 look on you my wonder ceases. Grac. The reason, sir ? Jul. VVIiy, sir you have been whipt, Wliipt, signior Graccho ; and the whip, I take it, Is, to a gentleman, the greatest trial That may be of his patience. Grac. Sir, I'll call you To a strict account for this. Giov. I'll nut deal with you, Unless I have a beadle for my second ; And then I'll answer you. Jul. Farewell, poor Graccho. [E.ieunt Julio and Giovanni. Grac. Better and better still. If ever wrongs Could teach a wretch to find the way to vengeance, Enter FKANCISCO and a Servant. Hell now inspire me ! How, the lord protector ! My judge ; 1 thank him ! Whither thus in private? I will not see him. [Stands aside. Fran, If I am sought for, Say 1 am indisposed, and will not hear Or suits, or suitors. Serv. But, sir, if the princess Enquire, what shall 1 answer? Fran. Say, I am rid* Abroad to take the air ; but by no means Let her know I'm in court. Serv. So I shall tell her. [Exit. Fian- Within there, ladies ! Enter a Gentlewoman. Gentlew. My good lord, your pleasure? Fran. Prithee, let me beg thy favour for access To the dutchess. Gentlew. In good sooth, my lord, I dare not ; She's very private. Fran. Come, there's gold to buy thee A new gown, and a ricli one. Gentlew. I once sworef If e'er 1 lost my maidenhead, it should be With a great lord, as you are ; and 1 know not how, I feel a yielding inclinHtion in me, If you have appetite. -They lnok ruefully, As they had newly come from a vaulting house, Ami had been quite shoi through between wind and water By a she-Dunkirk, ami had ;>prm>s; a leak, fir." I charge the pi tty depredation on Fletcher, because the pub- lication of the Uuke of Milan preceded that of the Eider Brother, bv many years * Fran, fiay / am rid Abroad, &c.] So the rid copies: the modern editors, wilh equal accuracy ar.d elegance, .Nay I'm rode Abroad, \v. f / once ,worel Both the quartos have a marginal hcmis tichhere ; they read, Thvt will tetnpt tr.e ; an addition of the prompier, or :is bribed approaches to the du'.chcss To be conceal'd ! good, good. This to my lady Deliver'd, as I'll order it, runs her mad. But this may prove but courtship f ; let it be, I care not, so it feed her jealousy. [Exii. SCENE III. Another Room in the same. Enter MAHCELIA and FRANCISCO. Marc. Believe thy tears or oaths ! can it be hoped, After a practice so abhorr'd and horrid, Repentance e'er can find thee ] Fran. Dearest lady, Great in your fortune, greater in your goodness, Make a superlative of excellence, In being greatest in your saving mercy. 1 do confess, humbly confess rny fault, To be beyond all pity ; my attempt So barbarously nidi-, that it would turn A saint-like patience into savage fury. But you. that are all innocence and virtue, No spleen or anger in yon of a woman. But when a holy zeal to piety fires you, May, if you please, impute the fault to love, Or call it beastly lust, for 'tis no better ; A sin, a monstrous sin ! jet with it many That did prove good men after, have been tempted; And, though I'm crooked now, tis in your power To make me straight again. Marc. Is t possible This can be cunning ! Fran. But, if no submission, Nor prayers can appease you, that you may know 'Tis not the fear of death that makes me sue thus, But a loath'd detestation of my madness, Which makes me wish to live to have your pardon; I will not wait the sentence of the duke. Since his return is doubtful, but I myself Will do a fearful justice on myself, No witness by but you, th< re being no more, * lie in train'd up, &c.] A hemistich, or more, is lost here, or, not improbably, purposely omiiled. 1 only mention it to account lor the defect of mttre ; for the circumstance itself is not worth regretting. + Hut tliis may prove but courtship : &C.J That is, merely puyiug ins court to her a duuhcss. M MASON. THE DUKE OF MILAN. [Acr III When I offended. Yet, before I do it, For 1 perceive in you no signs of mercy, I will disclose a secret, which, dying with me, May prove your ruin. Marc. Speak it ; it will take from The burthen of thy conscience. Fran. Thus, then, madam : The warrant by my lord sign'd for your death, Was but conditional ; but you must swear By your unspotted truth, not to reveal it, Or I end here abruptly. Marc. By my hopes Of joys hereafter. On. Fran. Nor was it hate That forced him to it, but excess of love : And, if I ne'er return, (so said great Sforza,) No living man deserving to enjoy Mi/ best Marcelia, with the first news That I am dead, (for no man after me Must e'er enjoy her) fail not to kill her, But till certain proof Assure thee I am lost (these were his words,) Observe and honour her, as if the snul Of woman's goodness only dwelt in her's. This trust 1 have abused, and basely wrong'd ; And, if the excelling pity of your mind Cannot forgive it, as 1 dare not hope it, Rather than look on my offended lord, I stand resolved to punish it. Marc. Hold ! 'tis forgiven, And by me freely pardon'd. In thy fair life Hereafter, study to deserve this bounty, Which thy true penitence, such 1 believe it, Against my resolution hath forced from me. But that my lord, my Sforza, should esteem My life tit only as a page, to wait on The various course of his uncertain fortunes ; Or cherish in himself that sensual hope, In death to know me as a wife, afflicts me ; Nor does his envy less deserve mine anger, Which, though, such is my love, I would not nourish, Will slack the ardour that 1 had to see him Return in safety. Fran. But if your entertainment Should give the least ground to his jealousy, To raise up an opinion I am false, You then destroy your mercy. Therefore, madam, (Though I shall ever look on you as on My life's preserver, and the miracle Of human pity,) would you but vouchsafe, In company, to do me those fair graces, And favours, which your innocence and honour May safely warrant, it would to the duke, I being to your best self alone known guilty, Make me appear most innocent. Marc. Have your wishes, And something 1 may do to try his temper, At least, to make him know a constant wife Is not so slaved to her husband's doting humours, But ;hat she may deserve to live a widow, Her fate appointing it. Fran. It is enough ; Nay, all I could desire, and will make way To my reven'ge, which shall disperse itself On him, on her, and all. [57tout and flourish. Marc. What shout is that ? Enter TIBERIO and STEPHANO. , Tib. All happiness to the dutchess. that may flow From the duke's new and wish'd return ! Marc. He's welcome. Steph. How coldly she receives it ! Tib. Observe the encounter. Flourish. Enter SFORZA, PESPARA, ISABELLA. MARIAN*, GRACCIIO, and Attendants. Mari. What you have told me, Graccho, is be- And I'll find time to stir in't. [Ueved, (irac. As you see cause ; I will not do ill offices. Sfor. I have stood Silent thus long, Marcelia, expecting When, with more than a greedy haste, thou wouldst Have flown into my arms, and on my lips Have printed a deep welcome. My desires To glass myself in these fair eyes, have borne me With more than human speed : nor durst I stay In any temple, or to any saint To pay my vows and thanks for my return, Till I had seen thee. Marc. Sir, I am most happy To look upon you safe, and would express My love and duty in a modest fashion, Such as might suit with the behaviour Of one that knows herst-lf a wife, and how To temper her desires, not like a wanton Fired with hot appetite; nor can it wrong me To love discreetlv. Si or. How ! why, can there be A mean in your affections to Sforza ? Or any act, though ne'er so loose, that may Invite or heighten appetite, appear Immodest or uncomely ? Do not move me , My passions to you are in extremes, And know no bounds : come ; kiss me. Mure. 1 obey you. Sfar. By all the joys of love, she does salute me As if I were her grandfather ! What witch, With cursed spells, hath quench'd the amorous heat That lived upon these lips ? Tell me, Marcelia, And truly tell me, is't a fault of mine That hath begot this coldness? or neglect Of others, iv my absence? Marc. Neither, sir : 1 stand indebted to your substitute, Noble and good Francisco, for his care And fair observance of me : there was nothing With which you, being present, could supply me, That I dare say 1 wanted. Sfor. How! Marc. The pleasures That sacred Hymen warrants us, excepted, Of which, in troth, you are too great a doter ; And there is more of beast in it than man. Let us love temperately ; things violent last not, A nd too much dotage rather argues folly Than true affection. Grac. Observe but this, And how she praised my lord's care and observance j And then judge, madam, if my intelligence ' Have anv ground of truth. Mari. No more ; I mark it. Steph. How the duke stands ! Til>. As he were rooted there, And had no motion. Pesc. My lord, from whence Grows this amazement.' Sjor. It is more, dear my fnend ; For I am doubtful whether I've a being. I.] THE DUKE OF MILAN. But certain that my life's a burrben to me. Take me back, good Pescara, shew me to Ca?sar Jn all his rage and fury ; 1 disclaim His mercy : to live now, which is his gift, Is worse than death and with all studied torments. Marcelia is unkind, nay, worse, grown cold In her affection ; my excess of fervour, Which yet was never equall'd, grown distasteful. But have thy wishes, woman ; thou shall know That 1 can be myself, and thus shake oft' The fetters of fond dotage, rrom my sight, Without reply ; for I am apt to do Something 1 may repent. [Exit Marc ] Oh ! who would place His happiness in most accursed woman, In whom obsequiousness engenders pride ; And harshness deadly hatred ! From this hour I'll labour to forget there are such creatures ; True friends be now my mistresses. Clear your brows, And, though mv heart-strings crack for't, I will be To all a free example of delight : We will have sports of all kinds, and propound Rewards to such as can produce us new : Unsatisfied, though we surfeit in their store, And never think of curs'd Aiarcelia more, [/ ceunt. ACT IV. SCENE I. The same. A Koom in the Castle. \ Enter FRANCISCO and GRACCHO. Fran. And is it possible thou shouldst forget A wrong of such a nature, and then study My safety and content? Grac. Sir, but allow me Only to have read the elements of courtship*, Not the abstruse and hidden arts to thrive there ; And von ir.ay please to grant me so much knowledge, That injuries from one in grace, like you, Are noble favours Is it not grown comnionf lu every sect, for those that want, to suffer From such as have to give ? Your captain cast, If poor, though not thought daring, but approved so, To raise a coward into name, that's rich, Suffers disgraces publicly ; but receives Rewards for them in private. Fran. Well observed. Put orij ; we'll be familiar, and discourse A little of this argument. That day, In which it was first rumour'd, then confirm'd, Great Sl'orza thought me worthy of his favour, I found myself to be another thing ; Not what 1 was before. I passed then For a pretty fellow, and of pretty parts too, And was perhaps received so ; but, once raised, The liberal courtier made me master of Those virtues which I ne'er knew in myself: . If I pretended to a jest, 'twas made one By their iiiterpretaiion ; if 1 offer'd To reason of philosophy, though absurdly, They had helps to save me, and without a blush Would swear that 1, by nature, had more know- ledge, Than others could require by any labour: Nay, all I did, indeed, which in another Was not remarkable, in me shew'd larely. * -- the element* of courtship,] i. e. of court-policy. M. MASON. t - J it not grown common, &c.] Gracrlio is an apt scholar : iho.*e notable observations are derived I'ruiu the Its- sons of tlio Ollicer, in the Ust act. 1 Put on ;] Be covered ; a frequent expression in these play*. Grac. But then they tasted of your bounty. Fran. True : They cave me those good pj rts I was not born to. And, oy my intercession, they got that Which, had I cross'd them, they durst not have hoped for. Grac. All this is oracle : and shall I, then, For a foolish whipping, leave to honour him, j That holds the wheel of fortune f no ; that savours Too much of the ancient freedom. Since great mea Receive disgraces and give thanks, poor knaves Must have nor spleen, nor anger. '1 hough 1 love My limbs as well as any man, if you had now A humour to kick me lame into an office, Where 1 might sit in state and undo others, Stood I not bound to kiss the foot that did it ? Though it seem strange, there have been such things seen In the memory of man. Fran. But to the purpose, And then, that service done, make thine own for- tunes. My wife, thou say'st, is jealous 1 am to Familiar with the dutchess. Grac And incensed For her commitment in her brother's absence , And by her mother's anger is spurr'd on To make discovery of it. This her purpose Was trusted to my charge, which I declined As much as in me lay ; but, finding her Deterniinately bent to undertake it, Though breaking my faith to her may destroy My credit with your lordship, 1 yet thought, Though at my peril, I stood bound to reveal it. Fran. 1 thank thy care, and will deserve this secret, In making thee acquainted with a greater, And of more moment. Come into my bosom, And take it from me: Canst tho'u think, dul] Graccho, I My power and honours were conferr'd upon me, And, add to them, this form, to have my pleasures Confined and limited ? 1 delight in change, And sweet variety ; that's my heaven on earth. For which 1 love life only. 1 confess. 80 THE DUKE OF MILAN. [Acr IV My wife pleased me a day, the dutcliess, two, (And yet I must not say 1 have enjoy 'd her,) But now I care for neither: therefore, Graccho, So far I am from stopping Mariana In making her complaint, that I desire tliee To urge her to it. Grac. That may prove your ruin : The duke already being, as 'tis reported, Doubtful she hath play'd false. Fian. There thou art cozen'd ; His dotage, like an ague, keeps his course, And now 'tis strongly on him. But I lose time, And therefore know, whether thou wilt or no, Thou art to be my instrument ; and, in spite Of the old saw, that says. It is not safe On any terms to trust a man that's wrong'd, I dare thee to be false. Grac. This is a language, My lord, I understand not. Fran. You thought, sirrah, To put a trick on me for the relation Of what 1 knew before, and, having won Some weighty secret from me, in revenge To play the traitor. Know, thou wretched thing, By my command tbou wert whipt ; and every day I'll have thee freshly tortured, if thou miss In the least charge that I impose upon thee. Though what I speak, for the most part, is true; Nay, grant thou hadst a thousand witnesses To be deposed they heard it, 'tis in me, With one word, such is Sforza's confidence Of my fidelity not to be shaken, To make all void, and ruin my accusers. Therefore look to't ; bring my wife hotly on To accuse me to the duke 1 have an end in't, Or think what 'tis makes man most miserable, And that shall fall upon thee. Thou wert a fool To hope, by being acquainted with mv courses, To curb and awe me ; or that I should live Thy slave, as thou didst saucily divine : For prying in my counsels, still live mine. [Exit. Grac. I am caught on both sides. This 'tis for a puisne In policy's Protean school, to try conclusions With one that hath commenced, and gone out doctor*. If I discover what but now he bragg'd of, I shall not be believed : if I fall off From him, his threats and actions go together, And there's no hope of safety. Till I get A plummet that may sound his deepest counsels, I must obey and serve him : Want of skill Now makes me play the rogue against my will. [Exit. SCENE II. Another Room in the same. Enter MARCELIA, TIBERIO, STEPHANO, and Gentlewoman. Marc. Command me from his sight, and with such scorn As he would rate his slave ! -to try concisions ffith one that hath commenced, and gone out doctor.] To try conclutions, a very common u \-pirs-ioii, is, to try experiments: " God help them," sax s Gabriel Harvey, in his thin! letter, ''that h.ive neither luMUty tur foul detraction, Falling upon her .sure-arm'd innocence, I should believe her chaste, arid would not seek To fiud out my own torment ; but, alas ! Enjoying one that, but to me, 's a Dian *, 1 am too secure. Tib. This is a confidence Beyond example. Enter GHACCIIO, ISABELLA, and MARIANA. Grac. There he is nuw speak, Or be for ever silent. Sjor. If you come To bring me comfort, say that you have made Mv peace with my Marcelia. hub. I had rather Wail on you to your funeral. Sjor. You are my mother : Or, by her life, you were dead else. Mari. Would you were, To your dishonour ! and, since dotage makes you Wilfully blind, burrow of me my eyes, Or some part of my spirit. Are you all flesh ? A lump of patience only ? no fire in you ! But do your pleasure : here your mother was Committed by vour servant, (for 1 scorn To call him husband,) ;md myself, your sister, If that you dare remember such a name. Mew'd up, to make the way open and free For the adultress, I am unwilling To say, a part of Sf.r/a. Sjor. 'lake her head off! She hath blasphemed ! and by our law must die I&ib. BbspM&Md! for calling of a whore, a whore? Sjor. O he!!, what do 1 suffer ! Mari. Or is it treason For me, that am a subject, to endeavour To save the honour of the duke, and that He should not be a wiltol on record ? For by posterity 'twill be believed, As certainly as now it can be proved, Francisco, the great minion that sways all, To meet the chaste embraces of the dutchess, Hath leap'd into her bed. Sjor. Some proof, vile creature ! Or thou hast spoke thy last. Mari. The public fame. Their hourly private meetings; rnd e'en now, When, under a pretence of grief or anger, Y(,u are denied the joys due to a husband, And made a stranger to her, at all times The door stands open to him. To a Dutchman, This were enough, but to a right Italian, A hundred thousand witnesses. Isab. Would y<-u have us To be her bawds? Sjor. O the malice And envy of base women, that, with horror, Knowing their own defects and inward guilt, Dare lie. and swear, and damn, for what's most false, To cast aspersions upon one untainted ! Ye are in your nature's devils, aud your ends. Knowing your reputations sunk for ever, And not to be recover'd, to have all Wear your black livery. Wretches ; you have raised A monumental trophy to her pureness, that, but to me,'ta Dian,] A contrac- tion of Diana. M. MASON. And K it ii I SONS III.] THE DUKE OF MILAN. Returns upon yourselves ; and, if my love Could suffer an addition, I'm so far From giving credit to you, this would teach me More to admire and serve her. You are not worthy To fall as sacrifices to appease her ; And therefore live till your own envy burst you. /safe. All is in vain ; he is not to be moved. Man. She has bewitch'd him. Pesc. 'Tis so past belief, To me it shews a fable. Enter FRANCISCO, speaking to a Servant within. Fran. On thy life, Provide my horses, and without the port With care attend me. Serv. [within.'] I shall, my lord. Grac. He's cume. What gimcrack have we next*? Fran. Great sir. Sjor. Francisco, Though all the joys in women are fled from me, In thee 1 do embrace the full delight That I can hope from man. Fran. I wou'd impart, Please you to lend your ear, a weighty secret, I am in labour to deliver to you. Sfor. All leave the room. Excuse me, good Pescara, Ere Ion? I will wait on vou. Pesc. You speak, sir. The language I should use. Sfor. Be within call. Perhaps we may have use of yoo. Tib. We shall sir. [Exeunt all but Sfana and Francuco. Sfor. Say on, my comfort. Fran. Comfort ! no, your torment, For so my fate appoints me. I could curse The hour that pave me being. Sfor. What new monsters Of misery stand ready to devour me 1 Let them at once dispatch me. Fran. Draw your sword then, And, as you wish your own peace, quickly kill me ; Consu.er not, but do it. f'f'r. Ar t.hou mad ? Fran. Or. if to take my life be too much mercy, As death, indeed, concludes all human sorrows, Cut off my nose and ears ; pull out an eye. The other only left to lend me light To see my own deformities. Why was I born Without some mulct imposed on me by nature ? Would from my youth a loathsome leprosy Had run upon this face, or that my breath Had been infectious, and so made me shunn'd Of all societies ! curs'd be he that taught me Discourse or manners, or lent any grace That makes the owner pleasing in the eye Of wanton women ! since those parts, which others Value as blessings, are to me afflictions, Such mv condition is. IfTiat gimcrack have we nextf\ It may be that Coxeter has hit upon the right word ; but tl>e first syllable is omitted in the old copies; (irobably it was of an i ttensive tendency. Besides the terror ol the law tb.it him; over the poet's head about this time, the Mast-r of the Rcvrls kept a scrutinizing ye upon every passage of an indecent (indecent for the limes) or protanr tendency It i* Massinger's peculiar praise, that he is altogether free from the latter. Sfor. I am on the rack : Dissolve this doubtful riddle*. Fran. That 1 alone, Of all mankind, that stand most bound to love you, And study your content, should be appointed, Not by my will, but forced by cruel fate, To be your greatest enemy ! not to hold you In this amazement longer, in a word, Your dutchess loves me. Sfor. Loves thee ? Fran. Is mad for me, Pursues me hourly. Sfor. Oh ! I- ran. And from hence grew Her late neglect of you. Sfor. women ! women ! y-ran. I labour'd to divert her by persuasion, Then urged your much love to her, and the danger ; Denied her, and with scorn. Sfor. "Twas like thyself. Fran. But when 1 saw her smile, then heard her say, Your love and extreme dotage as a cloak, Should cover our embraces, and your power Fright others from suspicion ; and all favours That should preserve her in her innocence, By lust inverted to be used as bawds ; I could not but in duty (though I know That the relation kills in you all hope Of peace hereafter, and in me 'twill shew Both base and poor to rise up her accuser) Freely discover it. Sfor. Eternal plagues Pursue and overtake her ! for her sake, To all posterity may he prove a cuckold, And, like to me, a thing so miserable As words may not express him, that gives trust To all deceiving women ! Or, since it is The will of heaven, to preserve mankind, That we must know and couple with these serpents, No wise man ever, taught by my example, Hereafter use his wife with more respect Than he would do his horse that does him service ; Base woman being in her creation made A slave to man. But, like a village nurse, Stand I now cursing and considering, when The tamest fool would do ! VV ithin there ! Stephano, Tiberio, and the rest. 1 will be sudden, And she shall know and feel, love in extremes Abused, knows no degree in hatef. Enter TIBERIO and STEPHANO. Tib. My lord. Sfor. Go to the chamber of that wicked woman Steph, What wicked woman, sir? Sjor. The devil, my wife. Force a rude entry, and, if she refuse To follow you, drag her hither by the hair, And know no pity; any gentle usage To her will call on cruelty from me, To such as show it. Stand you staring ! Go, And put my will in act. Dittohe this doubtful riddle.] Our old writer* nsed dissolve and tolvf inilisciiminately ; or, if they made any ditlerence, it was in favour of the former : " he is pointed at For the fine courtier, the woman's man, Tlwt tells my lady stories, dissolve* riddle*." 'I he Qtiern of Corinth. no detjrre in hate.} For no dryret in hate, the modern editor* very incorrectlv lead, no degree ol hale. 84 THE DUKE OF MILAN. [Acr V S'eph. There's no disputing. Tib. But 'tis a tempest on the sudden raised, Who durst have dream'd of ? \Exenut Tiberio and Stephana. Sfor. Nay, since she dares damnation, I'll be a fury to her. Fran. Yet, great sir, Kxceed not in your fury ; she's yet guilty Only in her intent, Sfor. Intent, Francisco ! It does include all fact ; and I might sooner Be won to pardon treason to my crown, Or one that kill'd my father. Fran. You are wise, And know what's best to do: yet, if you please, To prove her temper to the height, say only That I am dead, and then observe how far She'll be transported. I'll remove a little, But be within your call. Now to the upshot? Howe'er I'll shift for one. [Exit. Re-enter TIBEKIO, STEPHANO, and Guard with MAR- CELI.A. Marc. Where is this monster, This walking tree of jealousy, this dreamer, This horned beast that would be? Oh! are you here, Is it by your commandment, or allowance, [sir, I am thus basely used ? Which of my virtues, My labours, services, and cares to please you, For, to a man suspicious and unthankful, Without a blush I may be mine own trumpet, Invites this barbarous course? dare you look on me Without a seal of shame? Sfor. Impudence, How ugly thou appear'st now ! thy intent To be a whore, leaves thee not blood enough To make an honest blush : what had the act done? Marc. Return'd t hee the dishonour thou deservest, Though willingly I had ^iven up myself To every common letcher. Sfor, Your chief minion, Your chosen favourite, your woo'd Francisco, Has dearly paid for't ; for, wretch ! know, he's dead, And by my hand. Marc. The bloodier villain thou ! But 'tis not to be wondered at, thy love Does know no other object : thou hast kill'd then, A man I do profess I loved ; a man For whom a thousand queens might well be rivals. But he, I speak it to thy teeth, that dares be A jealous fool, dares be a murderer, And knows no end in mischief. Sfor. I begin now In this my justice. [Stabs her. Marc. Oh ! I have fool'd myself Into my grave, and only grieve for that Which, when you know you've slain an innocent, You needs must suffer. Sfor. An innocent ! Let one Call in Francisco, for he lives, vile creature, [Eiit Stephana. To justify thy falsehood, and how often, With whorish flatteries thou hast tempted him ; I being only fit to live a stn. And by Sforza's hand. Does it not move How coldly you receive it ! I expected The mere relation of so great a blessing, Born proudly on the wings of sweet revenge, Would have call'd on a sacrifice of thanks, And joy not to he bounded or conceal'd. You entertain it with a look, as if You wish'd it were undone. F.ug. Indeed I do : For, if my sorrows could receive addition, Her sad fate would increase, not lessen them. She never injured me, but entertain'd A fortune humbly offer'd to her hand, Which a wise lady gladly would have kneel'd for. Unless you would impute it as a crime, She was more fair than I, and had discretion Not to deliver up her virgin fort, [tears, Though strait besieged with flatteries, vows, and Until the church had made it safe and lawful. And had I been the mistress of her judgment And constant temper, skilful in the knowledge Of man's malicious falsehood, 1 had never, Upon his hell-deep oaths to marry me, Given up my fair name, and my maiden honour, To his foul lust ; nor lived now, being branded In the forehead for his whore, the scorn and shame Of all good women. Fran. Have you then no gall, Anger, or spleen, familiar to your sex 1 Or is it possible that you could see Another to possess what was your due, And not grow pale with envy ! Eug. Yes, of him That did deceive me. There's no passion, that A maid so injured ever cculd partake of, But 1 have dearly suffer'd. These three years, In my desire and labour of revenge, Trusted to you, I have endured the throes Of teeming women ; and will hazard all Fate can inflict on me, but I will reach Thy heart, false Sforza ! You have trifled with me, And not proceeded with that fiery zeal I look'd for from a brother of your spirit. Sorrow forsake me, and all signs of grief Farewell for ever. Vengeance, arm'd with fury, Possess me wholly now ! Fran. The reason, sister, Of this strange metamorphosis ? Eug. Ask thy fears : Thy base, unmanly fears, thy poor delays, Thy dull forgttfulness equal with death ; My wrong, else, and the scandal which can never Be wash'd oft' from our house, but in his blood, Would have stirr'd up a coward to a deed In which, though he had fallen, the brave intent Had crown'd itself with a fair monument * In a word, know l\\e fair HI arc flia'i dead.} Coxeterand Mr. M. Ma.on omit the article, which uttedy destroys ilic rlij tliin ui' the line. Of noble resolution. In this shape 1 hope to get access ; and, then, with shame, Hearing my sudden execution, judge What honour thou hast lost, in being transcended I By a weak woman. Fran. Still mine own, and dearer ! And yet in this you but pour oil on fire, And offer your assistance where it needs not. And, that you may perceive I lay not fallow, But had your wrongs stamp'd deeply on my heart By the iron pen of vengeance, 1 attempted, By whoring her, to cuckold him : that failing, I did begin his tragedy in her death. To which it served as prologue, and will make A memorable story of your fortunes In my assured revenge : Only best sister, Let us not lose ourselves in the performance, By your rash undertaking ; we will be As sudden as you could wish. " Upon those terms I yield myself and cause, to be disposed of As you think fit. Enter a Servant. Fran. Thy purpose ? Serv. There's one Graccho, . That follow'd you, it seems, upon the track, Since you left .Milan, that's importunate To have access, and will not be denied ; His haste, he says, concerns you. Fran. Bring him to me. [E.n't Servant, Though he hath laid an ambush for my life. Or apprehension, yet 1 will prevent him, And work mine own ends out. Enter GHACCHO. Grac. Now for my whipping ! And if I now outstrip him not, and catch him, And by a new and strange way too, hereafter I'll swear there are worms in my brains. [Asidt. Fran. Now, my good Graccho ; We meet as 'twere by miracle. Grac. Love, and duty, And vigilance in me tor my lord's safety, First taught me to imagine you were here, And then to follow you. All's come forth, my lord, That you could wish conceal'd. The dutchess' wound , In the duke's rage put home, yet gave her leave To acquaint him with your practices, which vour Did easily confirm. [flight Fran. This I expected : But sure you come provided of good counsel. To help in my extremes. Grac. I would not hurt you. [death ; Fran. How! hurt me? such another word's thy Why, dar'st thou think it can fall in thy will, To outlive what I determine ? Grac. How he awes me ! [Aside. Fran. Be brief; what brought thee hither ? Grac. Care to inform you You are a condemn 'd man, pursued and sought for. And your head rated at ten thousand ducats To him that brings it. Fran. Very good. Grac. All passages Are intercepted, and choice troops of horse Scour o'er the neighbour plains ; your picture sent To every stale confederate with IViilan : That, though I grieve to speak it, in my judgment. 86 THE DUKE OF MILAN. [Acr V So thick your dangers meet, and run upon you, It is impossible you should escape Their curious search. Eug. Why, let us then turn Romans, And, falling hy our own hands, mock their threats, And dreadful preparations. Fran. 'Twould show nobly ; But that the honour of our full revenge Were lost in the rash action. No, Eugenia, Graccho is wise, my friend too, not my servant, And I dare trust him with my latest secret. We would, and thou must help us to perform it, First kill the duke then, full what can upon us ! For injuries are writ in brass, kind Graccho, And not to be forgotten. Grac. He instructs me [Aside. What I should do. Fran. What's that? Grac. I labour with A strong desire to assist you with my service ; And now I am deliver'd oft. Fran. I told you. Speak, my oraculous Graccho. Grac. I have heard, sir, Of men in debt that, lay'd for by their creditors, In all such places where it could be thought They would take shelter, chose, for sanctuary, Their lodgings underneath their creditors' noses, Or near that prison to which they were design'd, If apprehended ; confident that there They never should be sought for. Ettg. 'Ti.s a strange one ! Fran. But what infer you from it? Grac. This, my lord ; That, since all ways of your escape are stopp'd, In Milan only, or, what's more, in the court, Whither it is presumed you dare not come Conceal'd in some disguise, you may live safe. Fran. And not to be discover'd ? Grac. But by myself. [Graccho, F ran. By thee ! Alas ! I know tliee honest And 1 will put thy counsel into act, And suddenly. Yet, not to be ungrateful For all thy loving travail to preserve me, What bloody end soe'er my stars appoint, [there ? Thou shall be safe, good Graccho. Who's within Grac. In the devil's name, what means he * ! Enter Servants. Fran. Take my friend Into your custody, and bind him fast ; I would not part with him. Grac. My good lord. Fran. Dispatch : 'Tis for your good, to keep you honest, Graccho : I would not have ten thousand ducats tempt you, Being of a soft and wax -like disposition, To play the traitor ; nor a foolish itch To be revenged for your late excellent whipping Give you the opportunity to offer My head for satisfaction. Why, thou fool ! I can look through and through thee ; thy intents Appear to me as written in thy forehead In plain and easy characters : and but that Grac. In the devil'* namf, what meant he .'] The second quarto omits the adjuration anil tamely reads, what means net Hie licenser, in in.iny cases, si-ems to have a