DIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF liVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF I DIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF -^ i •/S6&: RSITY OF CALIFORNU U>^>iM^ LIBRARY of THE UNIVERSITY OF CAIIFORNU ^3vC^^S » RSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE A ^) xl r 'nHIVBESITrj .Ern^-aycd.- 'hv AA :\. X M 'i\ >^vf 'C. V XI ^/-,-KTO -nnriA r>AA7AV TTTTKiATT?, mil T> '7 IVf .A i"f G A, AI \^ BiRiOMDWAY, l^OJU'G/: ^a-A.^ 09 THB ^ [US17BIISIT THE DRAMATIC WORKS MASSINGER ^AND FORD. r *-\ AN INTRODUCTION, BY HARTLEY COLERIDGE. A NEW EDITION, WITH FRONTISPIECE AND VIGNETTE. UHIVSRSlTFl GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE. NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET. 1869. LONDON : BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. '> ^v^^ fo THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. THIS EDITION OF THE DRAMATIC WORKS i OF MASSINGER AND FORD IS INSCRIBED BY THE PUBLISHER. 5>i'7 \ 2.37 CONTENTS. MArS SINGER. PAGE INTRODUCTION ix LIST OF PLAYS li COMMENDATORY VERSES ... Hii THE VIRGIN-MARTYR - 1 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT 26 THE DUKE OF MILAN 49 /the BONDMAN 74 THE RENP:GAD0 99 THE PARLIAMENT OF LOVE «> 123 THE ROMAN ACTOR 144 THE GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE 166 J THE MAID OF HONOUR 189 THE PICTURE 213 THE EMPEROR OF THE EAST 240 THE FATAL DOWRY "^^^taL ' '^^^ J A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. . " ^^p^J- . .290 THE CITY MADAM 315 THE GUARDIAN 340 A VERY WOMAN; OR, THE PRINCE OF TARENT '6(H> THE BASHFUL LOVER . . 391 THE OLD LAW 415 POEMS .... 441 GLOSSARY 44.' CONTENTS. PAGE 19 FOED LIST OF PLAYS COMMENDATORY VERSES » / THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY ..'... 1 V^'TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE . . 25 \^THE BROKEN HEART . . ' ... 48 \/lOVE'S SACRIFICE 74 'ERKIN WARBECK THE FANCIES, CHASTE AND NOBLE 123 U^ THE LADY'S TRIAL 146 THE SUN'S DARLING VTHE WITCH OF EDMONTON i GLOSSARY 169 185 209 .....SRSITy] ^IFO' INTRODUCTION. BY HARTLEY COLEEIDGB. T'HE lives of our dramatists " of the great race " furnish few materials for drama. They are pro- vokingly barren of incident. They present neither complicated plots, nor striking situations * nor well-contrasted characters. In their own age, they were overlooked as too familiar — in the next, cast aside as unfashionable. The conjectures of recent curiosity are not more certain than the Syrian Pantheism of the Irish round towers f, the hieroglyphic dynasties of Egypt, or the earthenware theology of Etruria. Many causes may have contributed to efface the footsteps of those great masters from the sands of time. Theatres were burned by accident or design — demolished by authority of mob, parliament, corporation, and 'prentices J, and at last suppressed by a civil conflict, which, realizing the extremities * I beg pardon. The life cf Ben Jonson does present at least one striking situation, which would make a fine picture either on the stage or v n canvas. I allude to that juncture, when amid a company of friends assembled to congratulate his discharge from prison, his mother produced the packet of poison, which she meant to have given him, had he been sentenced to pillory and mutilation for his reflections on the King's countrymen. But is there any good authority for the story ? The fate of Marlow was a real tragedy ; I am afraid but too certain. George Peele was actually introduced upon the stage under the designation of George Pie-hoard in the " Widow of Watling Street." t Those who are curious to ascertain the degree of certainty intended, may consult Mr. O'Brien's «' Round Towers of Ireland," the works of ChampoUion, Klaproth, &c., and the " Storia degli antichi Popoli Italiani, di Giuseppe Micali." X A ludicrous " Ballade in praise of London 'Prentices, and what they did at the Cockpit Play-house in Drury Lane," may be found in the first volume of Mr. Collier's " Annals of the Stage," p. 402. This outrage took place in 1617, on Shrove Tuesday, a day of general licence, barbarity, and riot ; when the London apprentices claimed an immemorial privilege of attacking houses of ill-fame, covering their true English love of mischief with a pretence of moral reform. The following verse may be quoted as illustrative of the text. " Bookes old and young on heap they flung. And bum'd them in the blazes, Tom Decker, Hey wood, Middleton, And other wandering crazies ; Poor Daye Miat day not 'scaped away ; And what still more amazes, Immortal Cracke was bum'd all black, Whicn every body praises." " Immortal Cracke " never recovered itora his scorching ; but is dead and forgotten. Mr. Collier doubts whether it be the name of an author or of a play. Assuredly the latter, or perhaps the name of a character. By the way, crack, often used by our old writers for a mischievous urchin, is probably an abridgment of crack-rope. Massinger uses the term at full length. ' The Globe on the Bankside was bnmea 29th June, 1613. The Fortune in GoIdingLaneon the Sunday night preceding December 15, 1621. Ben Jonson alludes, in his Execration upon Vtdcan, to both these conflagrations. The Globe was fired by the wadding of the chambers (small pieces of ordnance) falling on the thatch. The cause of the Fortunes' h mTRODUCTlON". of tragedy and farce, absorbed all memories, all hopes, and interests, in itself. Libraries were dispersed, plundered, or retailed for daily sustenance. A new era of dramatic composition commenced with the Restoration, when the mighty labours of the past were just old enough to be superannuated, and not old enough to be antique. Milton lived on in the solitude of his blindness — the ghost and witness of departed greatness. Cowley and Dryden contrived to merit fame without foregoing popularity, by investing the robust intellect and subtile fancy of a former generation in modish habiliments. Butler, like Hogarth, struck out a way for himself, in which he has had many imitators, and no rivals. But no one of these, with all their varied excellence, was suited to create or sustain a taste for the imagination and philosophy which they superseded. The town and the court, not the people, were paramount on Parnassus, and town and court alike were subjected to French influence. But, I believe, after all, that the principal reason why so little has been told of our old dramatists is — that there was very little to tell. They might, no doubt, have written most interesting autobiographies or reminiscences. But I am not aware that, in that diary-keeping age, any dramatic writer left a diary. It is hardly probable that many dramatists have chronicled their days. Not that they were too constantly engaged. Sir Edward Coke, Eichard. Baxter, Whitlocke, Clarendon, — lawyers, statesmen, kings, have left minute and regular diaries *. Even men of pleasure have kept an audit book of their sins, and recorded of themselves what one might fancy a Papist would blush to mutter in confession. But the life of a dramatist, dependent for his daily bread upon the caprice of actors, and the humour of chance- collected audiences, must be too exciting, too fragmentary, for an employment which requires a calm, if not a cheerful, mind. The man whose means of existence are at the mercy of a contingent future, has little inclination to dwell upon the past. You might as well expect the diary of a gamester. However it be, our elder dramatists have told us little about themselves, and their contemporaries have told us little about them. Letters they must occasionally have written ; and the letters of that time, when newspapers were not, contain a great deal more matter of fact than the flippant and sentimental missives of later date. Yet, except Ben Jonson, whose epistles ought surely to be appended to his works, or printed in some accessilile form, has any dramatist left " a collection of letters 1 " There is, indeed, a short and melancholy note, in which the name of Massinger is joined with those of Field and Daborne ; a memorial of poverty, only less afflicting than poor Bums' death- bed supplication for the same trifle of five pounds. misfortune does not appear. Prynne of course ascribes both combustions to the Divine judgment. The Prynnes of our times were equally charitable when the -two " great houses" were consumed. Lighter and saner wits do not seem to have taken the matter very seriously. Sir Henry Wotton, describing the fire of the Globe in a letter to his nephew, concludes thus:— "This was the fatal period of that virtuous fabric, wherein j'et nothing did perish but wood and straw, and a few forsaken cloaks ; only one man had his breeches set on fire, that would perhaps have broiled him, if he had not, by the benefit of a provident wit, put it out with bottle ale."— Annals, vol. iii. 299. Probably a hit at the preposterous size and padding of the femoral garments then in use. * There is an excellent article on diaries in DTsraeli's Curiosities of Literature. He does not mention the very curious diary of Pepys, that whimsical compound of knavery and simplicity, of politics and piety, of foppery and worldly wisdom ; nor the yet more interesting journal of the excellent Evelyn ; nor Bubb Doddington's, the honestest self- exposure ever made by a self-conscious, self-satisfied rogue. Mr. Collier gives some curious extracts, surelynot intended for the public eye, from the diurnal of Sir Humphrey Mildmay, a man of wit and pleasure about town in the age of Massinger. The following, it will be admitted, are characteristic items, and evince good husbandry in sinning. £. *. d. "21 Jan. 1631.— To the wanton nurse at M. Langhome's . . .010 To Mother Gill, a poor naughty woman • ..010 14 Jul. 1632.— To a pretty wench at Paul's Wharfe . . .010 27 Nov. At a tavern with Ann Cressy 8 14 Jul. 1634.— To a tavern with a Bona 10** It does not appear that extravagance was among Sir Humphrey's failings. He was probably a Romacist, for among his disbursements we find eight shillings for a Rhemish Testament, and three for popish books; but, perhaps, he hankered after all forbidden things. The MS. is in the library at Lambeth, and may supply some valuable information on the subject of prices. INTRODUCTION-. The incuriosity of contemporaries has been amply atoned in the last century. Letters, diaries, memoirs, family papers, public records — everything in manuscript or print — has been rummaged with indefatigable eyes. Every syllable, parenthesis, blank, and erasure, has been tortured — yea exorcised, for intelligence respecting men, of whom their contemporaries hardly thought it worth while to invent anecdotes. Much collateral knowledge has been elicited by the research, and much forgotten literature brought to light ; but, with regard to the immediate objects of inquiry, it has rather led to additional doubt of what was heretofore taken for granted, than added to the scanty amount of ascertained facts. It is very well that so few reputations have suflfered by the scrutiny ; for, had the dramatists been conspicuous for either vice or folly, they would not have shared the fate of the heroes before Agamemnon. They lived in an age of personality. The great eye of the world was not then, any more than now, so intent on things and principles, as not to have a comer for the infirmities of individuals. I question whether, with all our newspapers, reviews, magazines, biogra- phies, and autobiographies, a more personal history could be compiled of the courts of George III. and IV. than of those of Elizabeth and James. In no age have men been wanting to woo the favour of the multitude by informing them, that their Betters were no better than they. The numerous memoirs, diaries, pamphlets, letters, so costly to collectors; "Wilson, Winwood, Weldon, Osborne, Peyton, Sanderson," and others, who, as Mr. Gifford remarks, "contributed to propagate a number of scandalous stories, which should have been left sub lodice, where most of them perhaps had birth," sufficiently prove that kings and lords, at least, were not secured from calumny by the darkness of their excessive splendour. Nor were all the eyes of curiosity directed upwards : not a murder, rape, or adultery, could occur without being improved in the pulpit, set to tune by the ballad-mongers *, or dramatized on the scene. In our own days, Thurtell, Corder, Greenacre, the Bloody-lane, and the Red-bam, have been exhibited in tearful melo-drama. That it should be ♦ " Graculo. You may see We are prepared for hanging, and confess We have deserved it. Our most humble suit is. We may not be twice executed. Timoleon. Twice? What meanest thou ? Gra. At the gallows first, and after in a ballad Sung to some villainous tune. There are ten groat rhymers About the town, grown fat on these occasions. Let but a chapel fall, or a street be fired, A foolish lover hang himself for pure love. Or any such like accident ; and before They are cold in their graves, some damn'd ditty 's made. Which makes their ghosts walk." JIassinokr. TJie Bondman, These "damn'd ditties" once composed a very considerable part of the only literature that could truly be styled popular. Swift or Arbuthnot has a very humorous paper on the subject, written about the time that the penny stamp was inflicted on loose sheets. Of late, the victims of the law have been twice executed at the minor theatres. The melancholy music and nasal imtrumentation of these historic ballads were a frequent theme of satire with the old dramatists, between whom and the ballad-makers there was no good will. " If I have not ballads made of you all, and sung to filthy tunes, may this cup of sack be my poison."— J'a^*/a/r' " Now shall we have damnable ballads out against us. Most wicked madrigals. And ten to one, too. Bung to such lousy lamentable tunes." Humorous Lieutenant " They rail upon the general And sing songs of him,— scurvy songs to worse tunes." Flbtchbr's loyal Subject. There is certainly nothing bo Ingnbrious as the cracked voice of a ballad-singer, in a dull, ni-lighted back street, on a rainy night of November. But at present, great men have worse enemies to dread than ballad-singers or players. If their bodies escape the surgeons, and their skulls the phrenologists, their fame, their letters, their family secrets, their least-considered words, are at the mercy of knavish booksellers, radical magajEioists, ill-masked maligners, silly- m'ld idolaters, and even honest admirers of more zeal than prudence. bi xU • INTKODUCTION. so, is a reproach to the taste of the galleries themselves ; but bad taste is no novelty. The stage has, ere this, been indebted for plots to the Tyburn Chronicle. It is enough to mention the titles of "The Yorkshire Tragedy," ♦' Arden of Feversham," "Murderous Michael," "The Fair Maid of Bristol," " A Warning for Fair Women," " The Tragedy of John Cox of Collumpton," &c. all founded on recent atrocities, and decisively proving that this very illegitimate species of drama is not recom- mended even by originality of invention. The singularity of the old criminal tragedy is, that characters, some recently hanged, and others, it might be, living among the identical audience, are made to talk as poetical blank-verse as the authors could have put into the mouth of Caesar or Cleopatra. We do not read that the genuine furniture or weapons of the murderers were exhibited in these performances *. Even the license of the old comedy of Greecef, in producing living persons, sometimes of high * " There is a species of dramatic representation, different from any of which we have yet spoken, and which may be said to form a class of itself: — it may be called domestic tragedy, and pieces of this kind were founded upon comparatively recent events in our own country. Of these several are extant, such as ' Arden of Feversham,* the story of which relates to a murder committed in the reign of Edward VI. ; « A Warning for Fair Women,' arising out of a similar event in 1573 ; ' Two Tragedies in One,' part of which is founded upon the assassination of a merchant of London of the name of Beech, by a person called Thomas Merry ; ♦ The Fair Maid of Bristol,' which had its origin also in a recent tragical incident ; indeed it seems to have been the constant practice of the dramatists of that day to avail themselves (like the ballad-makers) of any circumstances of the kind which attracted attention, in order to construct them into a play, often treating the subject merely as a dramatic narrative of a known occurrence, without embellish- ng, or aiding it with the ornaments of fiction. Shakspeare is supposed to have been concerned, at least, in one production of this kind, « The Yorkshire Tragedy ' (founded upon an event in 1604), which was played at the Globe theatre, and printed with Shakspeare's name, in 1C08. The internal evidence, however, of Shakspeare's authorship, is much stronger than the external, and there are some speeches which could scarcely have proceeded from any other ^en."— History of Dramatic Poetry, vol. iii. 49,50. " The Yorkshire Tragedy " is certainly much better than the rest of the disputed plays—' Pericles 'excepted ; but in diction, versification, and sentiment, as well as in its subject, I agree with Hazlitt, that it is more in the manner of Hey wood, the Lillo of a more imaginative age, than in that of Shakspeare. It is, however, no argument against its authenticity that the plot is not such as Shakspeare generally chooses, or could be supposed to approve. There can be little doubt, that he, as well as his fellows, was sometimes obliged to work to order upon stories not at all to his own taste. But surely, at a time so affluent in dramatic genius, the simple merit of particular speeches can be no fair proof of Shakspeare's authorship, nor does the striking elevation of insulated passages above the level of a work conclude a difi'erent writer. The same man may produce a few flashes of volcanic splendour, and a vast monotony of dull extravagance. The death of Marlow might seem a tempting subject to a dramatist of the Domestic school ; but I have not seen or read of any previous to the short and recent attempt of Mr. Home, which contains much poetry in little space, but certainly does not offend by that prosaic reality, which is censured both on moral and critical grounds. A poet, to tell the truth, is a very unmanageable character in a Poem, or even in a prose Romance. Massinger has no play that classes exactly with " Arden of Feversham," and •* The Yorkshire Tragedy," though •' The New VS'ay to Pay Old Debts " probably glances at recent transactions. Ford and Dekker's " Witch of Edmonton " falls under the denomination of News-plays, The play-bill of one of the minor theatres, announcing "The Hertfordshire Tragedy," promised the identical gig in which Thurtell drove poor Weare to be murdered, and the identical table on which were placed the pork-chops eaten in commemoration of the sacrifice. Music-sellers vied for priority in publishing the score of the song, siuig by Hunt on this interesting occasion. t "Lenard Halidav, Mayor, 1605. " Whereas Kempe, Armyn, and others, players at the Black-Friers, have again not forborn to bring upon their stage one or more of the Worshipful Company of Aldermen of the City of London, to their great scandal and to the lessening of their authority, the Lords of the Right Honourable the Privy Council are besought to call the said players before them, and to enquire into the same, that order may be taken to remedy the abuse, either by putting down or removing the said theatre." From this document it appears that the ofiFence was not the first of the kind ; and we may conjecture, though not certainly conclude, from the wording, that individual aldermen were the objects of ridicule, though, perhaps, not absolutely named by their registered christian and sur-namcs. From a letter to " certain justices of the peace of the county of Middlesex " from the privy council, 10th May, 1601, we learn " that certain players, who used to recite their plays at the Curtain in Moorefields, do represent upon the stage in their interludes the persons of some gent, of good desert and quality, that are yet alive, undt;r obscure manner, but yet in such sort as all the hearers may take notice both of the matter, and the persons that are meant thereby." Hera mTRODUCTION-. xiii rank, upon the stage, by name, or by characteristics not to be mistaken, was not unknown to the palmy period of our drama. The authority of the master of the revels, backed by a court to which the theatres were indebted for their toleration, was insufficient to prevent the most flagrant invasions of the sanctity of private life. In short, personality, in its most offensive form, which has been accounted the peculiar vice of the present age, was equally prevalent under the Tudors and the first Stuarts : though, from the comparative slowness of communication, and the absence of an uncontrolled periodical press, the appetite was less extensively stimulated and more irregularly supplied. But it is not to the want of that appetite that we are to attribute the scanty materials of dramatic biography. It may be thought, however, that the annals of an existence passed in labours, seldom remitted and poorly remunerated, barely relieved by the most successful efforts, and driven by failure into we have the middle comedy of Greece. It is probable that much of this Aristophanic licence was extemporal, and inserted at the discretion of the actors, who would have a shrewd guess at the measure of impudence which the audience for the time being were likely to relish. The Curtain, though one of the oldest theatres, was in little repute, and frequented chiefly by the unwashed. But in 1639, the Prince's players, then performing at the Red Bull, incurred the wrath of the privy council, by personal allusions to an alderman who had been a blacksmith in Holborn. Now the Red Bull eeems to have been a place of genteel resort, for it had silk curtains. — Collier's Annalt, vol. ii. p. 93. But aldermen and common councilmen were long considered the lawful game of the stage, which was, perhaps, justified on the principle of retaliation. But the following extracts from Lord F. Egerton's translation of Von Raumer's "History of the 16ea'fically to the Church of England at all. At any rate, his religious tendencies, whatever they might be, could have little to do with his quitting Oxford, a university always more Catholic than Protestant, attached to every relic of antique formality, as a faithful widow to the effigies of the husband of her youth, or a too confiding damsel to the tokens of a lover whom she would never have forsaken, if he had not forsaken her. Nothing but an overt act of Popary (not likely to have been unknown or unmentioned by Antony Wood) would have endangered Massinger on the banks of Isis. There is nothing in his known works from which we can even conjecture the creed of his conviction, what he did or did not believe. If there ever were any such data, the " Master of the Revels " has intercepted them on their way to posterity. It is impossible to say in what measure he partook of the errors and superstitions which had incrusted Chrislianity, in the lazy lapse of ages, and which were rejected by the Divines who undertook to restore the Primitive Church. But if it be duly considered, that in his days, the visible Church of England was an untrimmed vessel, lurching now towards Rome, and now towards Geneva, it is no wonder if many of the young, the impassioned, the imaginative, inclined towards that form of faith and of worship, which wore at least the semblance of venerable seniority, gave ample room for tlu^ fancy and the affections, was inextricably intertwined with the vhole tissue of chivali"y and romance, hallowed alike the gorgeous ceremony, the austere fast, and the periodic day of rustic merriment — and " was all things to all men," holding out the honours of xxYi INTRODUCTION. apotheosis to the ascetic, and offering an easy absolution to the voluptuous. Contrast with this the saturnine ri^-our of Ultra-protestantism, its utter antipathy, not only to the acted drama, but to all the poetry of life, manners, and nature ; consider the indefatigable and undaunted industry of the propagandists of Romanism, then recommended by the prestige of peril, who so well know how much of their system it may be expedient to bring into relief, and what should be discreetly left in shadow, apprised, as by an instinct, whom and how, and when, to attack ; and the most zealous Protestant will rather be thankful that all the young genius of Britain was not enlisted under the banner of the Cross Keys, than angry at such as clung to the " decaying sanctities " of olden time *. * Let us examine how far these three plays—" The Virgin Martyr," « The Renegado," and « The Maid of Honour," exhibit " innumerable proofs" that Massinger was a Roman Catholic. The " Virgin Martyr " is the joint work of Massinger and Decker ; and though their several shares in the composition may be discerned with proximate probability, it is not known which of them selected the story, or whether either of them chose it at all. It may be the rifacciamento of an older play. It may be borrowed from the work of some foreign dramatist, or founded on one of the so called mysteries. I am not well enough read in martyrology to point out tho particular legend which suggested the plot ; but the tale is made up in great measure of the common-places of the monastic romance, which were as often repeated, as ingeniously varied, and as indispensable, as those of the modern novel. The outline may be sketched as follows :— " In the bloody times of Dioclesian, there lived at Cassarea a noble virgin, named Dorothea, fair and rich, and much beloved of Antoninus, the Governor's son of Caesarea, who, for her sake, rejected the profifered love of Artemia, the Emperor's daughter. But because Dorothea was a Christian, and had devoted her virginity to Heaven, and Antoninus was an idolater, she would not be wooed of him, or other earthly suitor. And she had a page, named Angelo, whom she found at the temple-gate, in likeness of a • sweet-faced, godly, beggar boy,' asking an alms, but in truth he was an angel, come to guard her from all evil and temptation, from fear and from pleasure, for the exceeding favour he had to her holiness and her virginity. Now there was in Ca;sarea a certain Theophilus, a cruel persecutor of the Christians, who had for his servant a fiend named Harpax, by whose means he was informed of many things that of himself he could not have known, and particularly of the love that yown^ Antoninus bore to Dorothea, \\\\erQoi he also did inform the Princess Artemia; so, by the contrivance of Dorothea's wicked servants, Theophilus, with Sapritius the Governor, and the Princess, were brought to overlook where Antoninus was wooing Dorothea, -promising her riches and worldly glory, and liberty to worship after her own fashion, if she would consent to be his wife— all which she set at nought for the love of Him to whom she was betrothed in Heaven. Whereat the Princess, seeing that she was lightly esteemed of him to whom she had demeaned herself to solicit his affection, was exceeding wroth, and would have slain both Antoninus and Dorothea,'bMt that she loved Iiim, and would not give to her the martyrdom which she longed for. Howbeit, Dorothea was bereft of all her goods, and shut up in prison ; and Antoninus given in charge to his father the Governor. " But when it was heard that the young man had fallen sick, and would not be comforted, the Princess, who was an Emperor's daughter, and of a high and noble spirit, was moved with compassion ; and subduing her own desires, gave consent that if Dorothea would return and worship the gods of her fathers, she should be wedded unto Antotiinus. Now, Theophilus had two daughters that had heretofore been Christians, but, because they loved the world, and feared their father, and the terror of his torments, had turned back to their idols. These young damsels, Calista and Ghristeta, were set on by their father to persuade Dorothea to renounce her faith and become even as they were. But Dorothea wrestled mightily, and overcame— having Angelo, her good angel, ever at her side, so that Calista and Christeta again forswore the gods of the heathen ; and when the time came that they should bring forth Dorothea to bow before the image of Jupiter, they cast the image on the grt>und and spat upon it. Whereupon Theophilus, at the instigation of Harpax, sieyf them, and sent back Dorothea to be tortured. All this while Antoninus continued sick and beside him- self, so that his father, hearing him still call out on Dorothea, not being willing that he should perish, sent for Dorothea, that the young man might have his will on her. But when the young man saw her, and heard her words how good they were, and perceived how excellent a thing is virgin chastity, his heart was changed, and he would not touch her. So Sapritius, in his rage, would have given her up to a slave; but the slave being a Briton, would do no suoh vile deed. Then the Governor would have sent for ten slaves, but he was smitten down by an unseen hand, and one side of his face blasted as with lightning ; whereat he was the more hardened ; and he and Theophilus called Dorothea witch . and hired her wicked servants to torture her; but their arms were withered, so that they could not. Wherefore, because it was thought they did their work slightly, they were sent unto the death, and Dorothea was doomed to be beheaded. And when she was brought to the place of suffering, Antoninus would go with her, that he might see her for the last time, and die. But when he heard her discourse of Heaven, and the divine joys whereunto she was hastening, then did he desire to go with her. And behold, Angelo, in his true shape of an angel, appeared above to Dorothea alone, and told her that he had been her page, the beggar-boy, whom she had cherished. Then she made request, that Antoninus, for the true love he had borne her, might be converted and his • love changed to the love of Heaven.' And forthwith he felt a holy fire within, and was changed, and became a Christian. And because Theophilus, mocking, had desired to taste the fruit o INTKODUCTION. Whatever might be Massinger's tenets, his works are strongly tinctured with religious feeling. He had manifestly read and thought much on religious subjects, and sometimes ventures upon topics, which might be deemed fitter for the pulpit than the stage. Gifford has highly and justly commended his reverence for holy things, and his abstinence from jocular allusions to Scripture. Paradise, ot which she had spoEen, she prayed that some of that fruit might bo given to him after she was dead. And then she bowed her neck to the axe, and Antoninus fell dead at her feet. And they were both carried by Angela to Heaven. Now, it came to pass, that Tlieophilus was sitting alone, devising new tortures for the Christians ; and suddenly there was a great light, and a sound of heavenly music, and a fair- faced boy, which was Angela, entered with a basket of fruit and flowers, the like whereof never grew on earth. And when he tasted the fruit, and found how good it was, and he thought how that it was deep winter, and found that the doors were closed, so that no mortal thing could come in, he remembered the words of Barathea, and believed. And when Ilarpax, the fiend, in his own likeness, mocked and tempted him, he held up a cross made of tlie flowers of Paradise, and the fiend fled howling ; and the angel came and strengthened him. So he gave his signet that all the Christiaus should be set at liberty, and conveyed away out of the hand of the persecutor. But when the Emperor found that Theophilus had become a Christian, he was hardened more and more, and put him to strange torments ; Harpax also assaulting him. Then did Dorothea appear on high, in exceeding glory, with Antoninus, Calista, and Christeta, in white garments, and Angelo, after all, holding forth the crown of martyrdom. So Theophilus, ilaQ persecutor, died a martyr ; but the Emperor was hardened still." I cannot pretend, in this succinct narration, to have rivalled Charles Lamb and his excellent sister in the art of turning drama into narrative. The " Shakspeare Tales " is an unique book, the beauty of which all can perceive who are worth pleasing; but few, who have not tried the like, can appreciate the difficulty, the matchless skill of its execution. Neither am I fully satisfied with my imitation of the antique legendary style. But something like this, I opine, might have been the story on which Massinger and Decker founded the " Virgin Martyr." It is monastic enough in taste and feeling, but has nothing peculiarly popish, or even Romish ; nothing that might not have been believed, in what are accounted the orthodox authoritative ages ; little that contravenes the positive creed of the strictest Church- of- England man The possible appearance of good and of evilspirits, guardian angels, and devils in masquerade, is no distinguishing tenet of the church of Rome. The extraordinary worsliip of virginity, the amorous piety, the yearning, the passionate seeking after martyrdom, not as a duty, but as a merit and an especial mark of favour, originated long before '• the supremacy of crafty Rome," and survived, in a considerable portion of the church , long after the separation. They are (to use a word of my revered father's coining,) raihev patristic than popish : those who objected to the com- pulsory celibacy of the clergy, and disapproved of the monastic constitution, yet held celibacy " a more excellent way." Queen Elizabeth disapproved of married bishops. Jeremy Taylor, himself twice married, is large in praise of single life, as a state vowed and devoted to God. And Donne, so passionate a lover of his wife, in speaking of the Saviour's immaculate conception, calls it " a singular testimony how acceptable to God that state of virginity is ; " adding, " He does not dishonour physic that praises health ; nor does he dishonour marriage that praises virginity." It should be remembered, however, that Donne had been a Roman Catholic, and change of communion by no means necessarily works a change in taste, sentiment, or feeling. But, on this head, it is impossible to go farther than Tertullian, Ambrose, and Jerome, (who asserts that the pagan sibyls received the gift of divination in prcemium virginitatii). Now it would be as absurd to call them papists as protestants. As for the miraculous events of the " Virgin Martyr," some of our soundest Divines allude to legends quite as marvellous, and no better authenticated, with apparent faith. Jeremy Taylor talks of the eleven thousand virgins as if he believed every word about them. The marvellous efficacy ascribed to the cruciform figure is the nearest approach to popery in the « Virgin Martyr." Persons who read the play through for the first time, will be amazed and horrified at the unutterable beastliness which Decker has daubed upon this picture of virgin sanctity. The exhibition of racks, scourging, and beheading, with the poor appliances of Massinger's stage, must have been more ridiculous than terrible ; but the superhuman atrocity, obduracy, and blasphemy of the persecutors, of the Princess Artemia herself, one might think would make an atheist shudder. Yet, I doubt not, they drew down thunders of applause, and contributed mainly to the great and continued popularity of the piece while the lovely strains of piety, the sweet imaginations realising wildest fancy, which the better genius, the still revisiting Angelo of the authors, charmed from their hours of quiet, passed ofiF as heavily as pure poetry generally does in our overgrown theatres. I have dwelt the longer on the " Virgin Martyr," nut because it is a fair sample of Massmger ; for though the opening speeches of Dioclesian and the captive kings (borrowed freely from Tacitus and Caractacus,) have much dignity, his part of the play is not in general above good middling, (to use the language of the trade quotations) ; but because it is the most remarkable exemplification of the taste of our play-going ancestors with which I am acquainted, and should be carefully perused by all people who exclaim against the degenerate taste of the moderns. The " Renegado " must be despatched more briefly. Perhaps, the success of the conversion scene, in the " Virgin," indueed Massinger, wlio, unlike Shakspeare, was apt to repeat himself, to try the effect of another. I shall not forestall the reader's curiosity by an abstract of the plot, which is amazingly complicated, nobly careless of the possible, but yef ao vivid, so full of action, and so strongly drawn, that, with all its absurdities, it never perplexes, or leaves you in doubt c 2 INTRODUCTION". ' But I doubt whether the simple perversion of words found in the Bible to a ludicrous sense, however offensive to taste and decorum, would so much shock a modern hearer, as solemn appeals to Heaven, and discourses on the most awful mysteries, uttered by a painted player, or a boy in petticoats, upon a stage but just vacated by a buffoon or ribald rake. This incongruous mixture, where the actors are or what they are about. But this lucidness of business, this clearly defined procession of incidents, is a common merit of all our elder dramatists, strongly contrasted with the confusion, perplexity, and inconsequence, occasionally to be found in the narrative poems and tales of the latter days. To our present purpose ; it is decidedly Italian, and decidedly popish. There is a noble maiden abducted by a renegado pirate from Venice to Tunis, and sold to Asambeg, the viceroy, whose attempts upon her chastity are frustrated by the virtue of a relic which she always carries about her. — Her brother, VitelU, who comes to seek her in the disguise of a merchant, sets up a shop in the bazaar, and puffs off his wares in a very English fashion — Ilis servant, Gazet, the clown, (rather more entertaining than the generality of Massinger's low characters). — The renegado, Grimaldi, a Venetian profligate, who has snatched the host out of the priest's hand at the moment of consecration ; turned corsair in the Viceroy's service; bullies and . blasphemes in the first act, falls into disgrace with the Viceroy, is stripped of all his plunder, sinks into despair, consigns himself to eternal perdition rather too learnedly, is converted by a Jesuit, (the same from whom he tore the consecrated element) by a pious fraud : becomes, after his melanclioly, " a good and honest man," and finally aids the escape of the Christian captives ; an instance of reformation unparalleled till the days of Count Fathom. Hardy Vaux turning preacher in Australia is nothing to it. — Father Francisco, the Jesuit, whose power of conversion is nothing short of miraculous. Massinger must have been a bold man, or confident of protection in some quarter, to represent in such fair colours, (for the character is beautiful in the detail) an order abhorred and dreaded like witchcraft. — Asambeg, the tyrant lover of Paulina, (not quite so bad as zeal could wish a Turk to be). The Princess Donvsa — niece to Sultan Amurath, who falls in love with VitelU at the Bazaar— has him smuggled into her palace, where, at first, he is desperately afraid, then desperately virtuous, — rather too iimocent indeed for a full-grown Venetian— but, in tho course of some twenty lines, all that a woman of Donusd's stamp could wish. A short conversation with Francisco convinces him of the enormity of the sin in which he was glorying; and when he is introduced a second time to his expectant mistress, he sets forth the horrors of her crime, and the depth of her degradation, with a fervour of indignant eloquence in which Massinger, always greatest when most moral, almost exceeds himself. Still it is not language that a youth could or should u.se to a woman in whose fall he had been participant. Like a hundied similar passages in the old plays, and old sermons too, it proves the co-existence of the austerest theoretical chastity, Avith a total absence of that sensitive modesty, that instinctive shrinking from "every appearance of evil," which we suppose at once the sign and amulet of purity. This is very popish, and very patristic, and very puritanical ; an inevitable consequence of auricular confession, that worst of popish abuses, and hardly less incident to the self-examination and comparing of experiences recommended by certain sectaries. TvSidt tnocvrov does not always descend from Heaven. We may be too well acquainted with ourselves. But to return. Vitelli's lecture is cut short by the entrance of the Capiaga, Aga, and Janizaries, shortly followed by Asambeg and Muslapha, Basha of Aleppo, the princess' suitor, (who has discovered her incontinence from one of her waiting-women,) and, in company with the Viceroy, has been lying perdu, to obtain evidence of the fact. VitelU, of course, is carried off to prison, and Donusa committed to custody, to await the sultan's sentence. That sentence is death, reprievable on condition that she convert her paramour to Islaim, and marry him. This she joyfully consents to, notwithstanding the contemptuous rebukes of Mustapha and Asambeg, whom she has been lecturing very unanswerably on their enormous indulgence of the vice, one single case of which condemns a woman beyond earthly redemption. She is introduced into the prison. A scene of controversy follows. Donusa sets forth, in admirable Janguage, the hard yoke of Christianity, and the boundless licence of Mahometism ; and concludes with an argument taken in part from Minucias Felix, (as Gifford informs me) which Pagans have used against Christians, Romanists against Protestants, which Mussulmen might have used as plausibly against both, however its force be abated in the present condition of the Turkish and most other Mahometan empires. Be wise, and weigh The prosperous success of things; if blessings Are donatives from Heaven, (which, you must giant. Were blasphemy to question,) and that They are call'd down and pour'd on such as be Most gracious with the great disposer of them. Look on our flourishing empire, if the splendour The majesty and glory of it dim not Your feeble sight, and then turn back and see The narrow bounds of yours, yet that poor remnant Rent in as many factions and opinions As you have petty kingdoms. I have beard Protestants reason in the same way, not distinguishing between what makes a nation great, - Massinger seems to have been of a shy, reserved, and somewhat melancholy nature. Nothing in his writings betokens the exuberant life and dancing blood of Shakspeare and Fletcher. This defect of animal spirits, perhaps, prevented him from following the example set by Peele, Marlow, Middleton, Rowley, Decker, Heywood, and Shakspeare himself, of uniting the functions of actor and author. This was probably a prudent course for prudent men. It secured a pittance not quite so precarious as the scanty remuneration of the dramatists. Instances were not rare of actors retiring in good circumstances. Dulwich college remains to testify the successful industry of Edward AUeyn, who, to his engagements of actor, author, and manager, added the important office of " Master of the Bears and Dogs *." It is possible that Massinger had tried the stage and failed, as Ben Jonson had done before, and as Otway did afterwards ; but we know nothing of his progress from 1606 till sometime between 1612 and 1614, when the melancholy document already alluded to, exhibits him as engaged with Field and Daborne in the construction of a drama — name unknown. It was discovered by Malone at Dulwich College, and seems to be without date ; but Mr. Payne Collier judges it not later than 1614 — eight years previous to the first edition of the " Virgin Martyr," the earliest published play bearing Massinger's name. It is as follows : — * Th is office must needs have been accounted honourable ; for in 1600itvvas held by a knight, Sir James Darrington. It could hardly have been esteemed profane or immoral (except by the rigid puritans who condemned all exhibitionfl as heathenish vanities) ; for AUeyn is designated by it in the letters patent for the foundation of Dulwich College, 1620. It could not be vulgar ; for bear-baiting was among •' the princely pleasures of Kenilworth," provided for the entertainment of a Virgin Queen. Nor could the penny-wisest economist complain that it was over-paid; for the regular salary, exclusive of fees and perquisites, was but a farthing a day. As for the inhumanity of the business, that was little dreamed of; for in all the invectives and petitions launched against the sport by the city, and the pulpit, and the puritans, the torture of the animals is hardly alluded to. The only person who seemed to care for poor Bruin was his keeper. In Lysons's " Environs of London " is a curious complaint of Alleyn concerning the hard and unsportsmanlike usage which his shaggy charges had sustained, when lent out on some public occ;ision. There were VVyndhams in those days. Among the charges so perseveringly alleged against the theatres, one was that they seduced the people fi-{)m bear-baiting and other manly recreations. Allusions to this amusement are so common in Shakspeare, that it is no breach of charity to suppose that he was an occasional visitor at " Military garden Paris." Slender could commend his valour to sweet Ann Page by no stronger instance than this : " I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and taken him by the chain" Why, Othello could not brag more amoroubly. It would be as utterly unjust to suppose that our bear-baiting ancestors resembled the blackleg ruffians of the modern fancy, as that the Olympic victors celebrated by Pindar were like modern prize-fighters, pigeon-shooters, and riders against time. Their amusement might be a rough relic of the hunter state, but it was not mercenary, base, and fraudulent. The vile spirit of gambling, which produces more cruelty than antique rudeness shall ever have to answer for, has degraded all the athletic exercises of England. Butler is the Pindar of the bear- wards. There is more humour, as distinguished from wit, aad more graphic power in his " Bear-Bait," than in any other part of Hudibras. Some curious particulars concerning this ancient sport may be found in Hone's " Table-Book ; " an amusing reposi tory of antiquities, and modern oddities that will he antiquities in the twentieth century. INTRODUCTION. xxxiii " To our most loving friend, Mr. Philip Hinchlow, esquire. These, " Mr. Hinchlow, " You understand our unfortunate extremitie, and I doe not thincke you so void of cristianitie but that you would throw so much money into the Thames as wee request now of you, rather than endanger so many innocent lives. You know there is x^. more at least to be receaved of you for the play. We desire you to lend us v^. of that ; which shall be allowed to you, without which we cannot be bayled, nor I play any more till this be dispatch'd. It will lose you xxZ. ere the end of the next weeke, besides the hinderance of the next new play. Pray, sir, consider our cases with humanity, and now give us cause to acknowledge you our true friend in time of neede. Wee have entreated Mr. Davison to deliver this note, as well to witness your love as our promises, and alwayes acknowledgement to be ever, " Your most thanckfuU and loving friend, -"^ "Nat. Field." " The money shall be abated out of the money remayns for the play of Mr. Fletcher and ours. Rob. Daborne." "1 have ever found you a true loving friend to mee, and in soe small a suite, it beeinge honest, I hope you will not fail us. Philip Massinger." Indorsed : " Received by mee Robert Davison of Mr. Hinchlow for the use of Mr. Daboerne, Mr. Feeld, Mr. Messenger, the sum of v^. Rob. Davison." This tripartite supplication requires a few remarks and commentaries. Philip Hinchlow, or Henslowe, whose account-book has thrown so much dubious light on our early theatrical history, though extensively engaged in theatrical speculation, was no regular scion of the play-house, but " seems originally to have been a sort of pawnbroker who advanced money upon various kinds of property, but especially wearing apparel. The players often pledged their dresses with him, and afterwards hired them when they were wanted ; this probably was the commencement of Henslowe's connexion with plays and theatres. Various companies, in this manner, might become his debtors, and he ultimately possessed a large share of the wardrobe and properties of the play-houses in which he was concerned. In 1591 he either extensively repaired or built the Rose on the Bankside, and, on the 8th of February in that year, he began to register his receipts *." A comfortable kind of person for three poets to be obliged to, when, it is to be feared, they had nothing but the forestalled labour of their brains to pledge ; and were, too probably, in the catchpole's custody, if not actually in Limbo ! Whether Christianity, or the loss of the 20/ suggef.ted by Field, had most effect in moving the old pawnbroker's bowels, I leave to the reader's charitable judgment. The name of Nathaniel Field, who was Massinger's partner in the " Fatal Dowry," and author of two comedies — " Woman's a Weathercock," from which Lamb has given extracts, printed 1612 ; and "Amends for Fair Ladies," 1618 ; but both written and acted before 1611 — appears in the list of sharers in the Globe and Blackfriars, along with Burbage, (the original Richard III., Hamlet, and Othello,) Lowin, (the original Falstaff,) and others of histrionic note, in a patent under the great seal, dated the 27th March 1619 — 20. He performed as one of the "Children of the Queen's Chapel" in Jonson's "Cynthia's Revels," 1600 — in his " Poetaster," 1601 — and as a child of "the Queen's Revels" in " Epicoene," 1609 — in which latter year he is mentioned with Shakspeare, Daborne, and Kirkham in * History of Dramatic Poetry, vol. iii. 85. By several passages in the same work, we find that Henslowe's extortion was a frequent subject of complaint with the players. But players are apt to be exorbitant as well as pawnbrokers. There is no coming at the rights of the matter now. Philip was far from a learned clerk ; not that his orthography, or rather heterography, is any decisive test of his attainments; for men of classical education at that time spelt as strangely as any love-sick cook maid, ere the schoolmaster was abroad. His diary, we are told, has been wickedly mutilated by tliievish autograph hutiters, who think themselves richer by filching an author's good or ugly name. It supplies a great deal of information respecting the payment of authors and actors, and tlie properties of the play- houses; which though in some respects far le^s various and appropriate than those exhibited in Hogarth's Barn, were exclaimed against by many, as tending by their mimic gorgcousness to bring the splendour of the crown itself into contempt. mTRODUCTION. a curious document brought to light by the indefatigable Collier, and given in his " New Pacts.'* It authorises "the said Robert Daborne, William Shakspeare, Nath. Field, and Edward Kirkham, from time to time, to provide and bring upp a convenient nomber of children, and them to instruct and exercise in the quality of playing tragedies, comedies, &c., by the name of Children of the Revells to the Queene, within the Black fryers in our citie of London, or elsewhere within our realme of England." It would seem that Shakspcare soon drew out of the concern. He had formerly spoken with some- thing like ridicule of these juvenile actors, who were thus enlisted, or rather impressed, into the service of Melpomene and Thalia, though with his usual discretion he muzzles the point of his cen- sure, by intrusting it to that very civil, simple, good-sort of a gentleman, Rosencrantz : — " But there is, sir, an aviary of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyran- nically clapp'd for 't. These are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages {so they call them) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose ([uills, and scarce dare come thither." But Hamlet's question in reply, is hardly fair. '' What ! are they children 1 Who maintains them 1 Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing 1 " Now, as to their maintenance, the children of the Queen's Chapel and the children of Paul's were probably better secured in that respect than their elders of the quality ; and good provision was made for them when they could no longer sing. As early as the reign of Edward IV. it was appointed "Also when they " (the children of the Chapel) " be growen to the age of eighteen yeres, and then theire voyces be chaunged, and they cannot be preferred in this chappell, nor within this court, the number being full, then yf they will absent, the king signeth onely such child to a colledge of Oxford or Cambridge of the king's foundation, there to be in findeing and study sufficiently till the king otherwise list to advance him." And James I., in the first year of his reign, ordained that " after serving three years, if they lose their voices they shall be sent to college to be taught at the king's charge." Yet many good people, who are scandalized at the Latin plays of Westminster, Avill be surprised that in the pious days of England; in the glorious morning of the Eeformation; in "great Eliza's golden time,-" under Kings and Queens, that were the nursing-fathers and nursing-mothers of the Church — the public acting of plays should be, not the permitted recreation, but the compulsory employment of children devoted to sing the praises of God, — of plays, too, the best of. which children may now only read in a " family " edition, — of some, whose very titles a modern father would scruple to pronounce before a woman or a child *. Richard III., who appointed the first public bearwarden, was also the first Avho exercised the pre- rogative of impressing singing men and children, "even from cathedrals, colleges, chapels, and houses of religion," for the royal service. But a usurper may afford a precedent to the most legitimate sovereign; and accordingly we find that, in 1586, Queen Elizabeth "issued a warrant under her sign manual, authorising Thomas Gyles, master of the childrefn of Paul's, to take up any boys in * Among the plays claimed by William Beeston, as " Master of the King and Queen's young company of players, at the Cockpit in Drury-lane," were Ford's " 'Tis Pity She's a Whore ; " his only less offensive « Love's Sacrifice," and "A Fool and her Maidenhead soon parted ; " a play of which I never heard elsewhere. This was in 1639. Three years afterwards the theatres were closed by authority of Parliament. I really think that it was almost time. Can it be wondered that old Prynne thought an attack upon plays a convenient vehicle for censure of a Court, which licensed such juvenile prostitution ? What made the abomination still worse was, that these poor children were purposely selected to utter the grossest licentiousness and personality— as Heywood was constrained to confess in his Apology for Actors : " Now to speak of some abuse lately crept into the quality, as an inveighing against the state, the court, the law, the city, and their governments, with the particularizing of private men's humours, yet alive, noblemen and others, I know that it distastes many ; neither do I by any means approve it, nor dare by any means excuse the liberty which some arrogate to themselves, committing their bitterness and liberal invectives against all estates to the mouths of children, supposing their juniority to be a privilege for any railing, be it never so violent. I could advise all such to curb and limit this presumed liberty within the bounds of discretion and good government." It should be mentioned that the acting of plays by the children of the Chapel Royal was forbidden, when a new warrant of impressment was issued to Nathaniel Giles, Mus. Doc, August 1626. Beeston 's boys, therefore, needed not lose their voices with " hallooing and singing of anthems." But the part of a choir-boy is too histrionic to be wholesome in itself. Dicky Suet. " Clicrub I'ieky," was a chorister of Paul's- INTRODUCTION". cathedrals or collegiate churches, in order to be instructed for the entertainment of the court." James I. passed a similar order. I do not allude to these facts to throw odium on the memory of a great queen, or of a good-hearted and calumniated monarch, hut that parents and children may be duly thankful that they do not live in the good old times. Shakspeare seems to have foreseen, or more likely observed, one necessary consequence of this premature exhibition. " If they should grow themselves to common players {as is most like, if their means are no better)." The royal bounty would not, and could not, provide for all ; and many, who had the offer of liberal education and a sober livelihood, would never be weaned from the stimulating pursuit of their boyhood. The Children of the Revels were not always children ; and the argument of Reed, that Field, the juvenile actor, who played in "Epicoene," in 1609, could not be old enough •to produce a comedy in 1611, and therefore could not be Massinger's coadjutor in the " Fatal Dowry," falls to the ground, when we see that in,ihe same year, 1609, he was old enough to undertake a share in management with Shakspeare. I have little doubt that a considerable portion of those lads became confirmed players. Field must have been an actor of some eminence, — for we find that Henslowe stipulated to allow him six shillings a week (a fair salary at that time ), in addition to the profits of his share (a theatre was then a sort of joint-stock company), as a retaining fee. Robert Daborne, though he appears in such poor plight in the mendicant letter, was a man of good family, and academic education. In the preface to his "Christian turned Turk," 1612, he says, " my own descent is not obscure but generous." He wrote besides the " Christian turned Turk,'' and the " Poor Man's Comfort," printed, probably long after his death, in 1655 ; " The Devil and Machiavel," and the "Arraignment of London," which have not been discovered. He was in orders: his sermon, preached at Waterford, 1618, still survives. Perhaps he obtained some Irish prefer- ment, and abandoned the "loathed stage." He was, however, by no means the only clerical dramatist of his time. Jasper Maine, and Cartwright, were both Divines, — the latter " a florid and seraphical preacner," as old Fuller hath it. It does not appear to me certain, from Daborne's mention of " Mr. Fletcher's play and ours" that Massinger ever assisted Fletcher. But an epigram of Sir Aston Cockayne, who knew them both well, and was Massinger's friend and patron, is much stronger evidence on this point. It is addressed to Humphrey Moseley, on his publishing the folio Beaumont and Fletcher : — In the large book of plays you late did print In Beaumont and in Fletcher's name, why iu't Did you not justice ? Give to both their due ? Since 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 Fletcher's chief bosom friend inform *d me so. I cannot agree with Mr. Gifford that the chMhosom friend was necessarily Massinger himself, — nor do I know that his hand has been detected in any of Fletcher's surviving works : but I think the lines almost conclusive of the fact, which may furnish a field of curious investigation to Fletcher's next editor. Mr. Gifford asks, could the play for which the small advance was solicited be the " Fatal Dowry ] " There is no knowing. The "Fatal Dowry "was not printed till 1632; but this proves nothing. The " Unnatural Combat " was not printed till 1639, yet there is every reason to suppose that it w;ls written prior to the " Bondman," as it is not mentioned in the office-book of Sir Henry Herbert ; and Massinger, in his dedication, calls it an " old tragedy." There is strong internal evidence, in the earlier scenes of the " Fatal Dowry," that it was written by a man in debt, — for their direct tendency is to make creditors odious, and to hold up the laws of debtor and creditor to detestation. But it ia not the only play in which Massinger has betrayed how keenly he felt " The world was not his friend, nor the world's law." He seldom slips an opportunity of glancing at the abuses of the courts, and the corruption of justice. The topic was, indeed, popular, — but he handles it with the sore sincerity of a sufferer. The " Cit? Madam " sets forth with fearful vividness the miseries to which the mere turn of trade might reduci INTRODUCTION. an honest man, and tlie worse than despotic power which the law put into the hands of the obdurate, — alloAving the same individual to be at once plaintiff, judge, and executioner. I cannot but think, that in penning the pathetic pleadings of Luke in behalf of the unfortunate merchants, he forgot that he was putting his own afflicted heart into the mouth of a villain. The " New Way to Pay Old Debts," by its very title, indicates an embarrassed author ; and the whole piece is a keen and powerful satire on the mis-government which furnishes arms to the wicked. My revered father, in a lecture which I shall never forget, with an eloquence of M'hich the Notes published in his Remains convey as imperfect an impression as the score of Handel's Messiah upon paper compared to the Messiah sounding in multitudinous unison of voices and instruments beneath the high embowered roof of some hallowed Minster, contrasted the calm, patriotic, constitutional loyalty of Shakspeare, with the ultra-royal ism of Fletcher on the one hand, and the captious whiggism of Massinger on the other. He should have remembered that Shakspeare was a prosperous man, of a joyous poetic temperament, while Massinger's native melancholy was exacerbated by sorrow and disappointment. The sequel of his story contains little but the dates of his works. His dedications inform us that he had patrons ; but we know not who M^ere his bosom friends. In all probability he never married ; and if he loved, he has left not a stanza nor a hint of his success or rejection. Sometimes I have imagined that, like Tasso, he fixed his affections too high for hope, as his fortunes were certainly too low for marriage. I ground this fancy, — for it is but a fancy, — on the " Bondman," the " Vei'y Woman," and the " Bashful Lover," in all of which high-born ladies become enamoured, as they suppose, of men of low degree. To be sure, they all turn out to be gentlemen in disguise. This discovery is necessary to make the marriage prudent, like the reformation of the agreeable rake in the last scene of more recent comedy. But after all, the lady's love was for the slave, the incognito. Methinks, he soothed his despondency with a visionary unsphering of those stellar beauties, whose effluence was t)redominant over his affections, though they hardly consoled him with so much as " collateral light." He dreamed and shut his eyes, and tried to dream again — a dream he willed not to see realized,* for whatever might be his political bias, he was sufficiently aristocratic in all that * Massinger, liberal as he was, had a superstitious horror of mesalliance. One aery with advantage, ne'er discloses The eagle and the wren. Tissue and frieze On the same garment! Monstrous. Maid of Honour. Where, by the way, Massinger seems to have tumbled into an anti-climax. For the eagle's aery and an old cloak are as ill matched as the frieze and tissue. But the allusion is to the livery of Mary of France and Charles Brandon. Things may be good or beautiful in themselves, but their dignity or meanness is merely circumstantial. The fool's coxcomb was the Kt<§/3«o-/« of the Persian king. Vide Aristophanes in Avibus, aut vocem Ku^/Soto-/* apud Scapulam. The same comparison a little varied occurs in the " New Way to Pay Old Debts," where Margaret says to Lord Lovel — You arc noble, I of a low descent, however rich. And tissue matched with scarlet suits but ill. Where scarlet, which, in point of taste, might match with tissue very well, is evidently chosen as the city colour. But the sentiment is much more characteristic of Margaret, who could not be ignorant of her father's ill name, and who was in love with a page, that of the high and haughty " Maid of Honour," whose descent could not be mean, and who loved the man to whom she depreciated herself. Besides, her scruple is frivolous and vexatious, for her lover is but a left-handed offspring of royalty. She had better reason to object to his birth than he to hers. In these cases, the old dramatists and romantical writers had an infallible mode of reconciling nature and aristocratic prejudice. The lovely Shepherdess or Squire of low degree always proves to be a lost or disowned shoot of royalty :)r nobility. «' The Winter's Tale " furnishes a beautiful instance of this lucky kvetyvai^urt^. Cervantes happily ridicules this sort of equivocal generation. «' The knight having set out for the army, comes to battle, overcomes the king's adversary, takes many town8,makes divers conquests, returns to court, visits his mistress m the ordinary manner, and the affair being concerted between them, demands her in marriage as the reward of his service ; the father refuses to grant the boon on pretence of not knowing who this hero is ; but, nevertheless, either by stealth or some other way, the infanta becomes his wife ; and at last the king is overjoyed at his good fortune, when the knight proves to be the son of a valiant monarch of some unknown country, for I suppose it could not be found on the map."— Z>on Quixote, part 1, book 9, chap. 7. 1)071 7 be too xiire thnl he's n Beefeater. INTRODUCTION-. xxxvil comes home, and concerns our "business and bosoms." His social morals were derived from chivalry and feudal days. In truth, both chivalry and feudalism tended to set the ^'ftw " on a level with the king — at an incommunicable distance from the many. The reverence for descent and degree, always stronger and longer strong, in the retainers of great houses than in the great them- selves, was transfused from Arthur to Philip, and betrays itself in an aversion to jparvenu wealth and civic ostentation, worthy a forfeited Highland chief of '45, or a French marquis of the old r6gime. Charles Lamb remarks how acceptable his showing-up of the City must have been to the haughty females of the Pembroke family. But it is only poor gentility that really enjoy such exhibitions, even as the rich vulgar gloat upon caricature representations of that esoteric school of fashion, in whose secrets they are uninitiate. Massinger, who fell short of Shakspeare in his veneration for constituted authority, had a far more exclusive devotion to rank and blood.^His menial and plebeian characters are, with hardly an exception, worthless, disagreeable, and stupid — stupider than he meant them to be ; as he had no turn for low comedy, nor indeed for comedy of any sort, if comedy be that which " tendeth to laughter; " for of all dull jokers he would have been the dullest, if Ford had not contrived to be still duller. His fools are " fools indeed," and bores and blockheads into the bargain. His attempts at drollery painfully remind you of Sober Lanesborough dancing in the gout. What is much more grievous, he puts his worst ribaldry into the mouths of females. His chastest ladies are very liberal of speech, even according to the standard of his age, but some of his " humble companions" and waiting-gentlewomen would disgrace a penitentiary. I speak not of such as Calipso in the " Guardian," who only talk professionalhj, but of those in whom some regard to modesty and their mistresses' ears would not have been dramatically improper. It is a comfort that they resemble no real women of any sort, and that no women had to act them. Now Shakspeare reserves all his contempt for the mob as a body corporate. For the sovereignty of the people he did entertain a most disloyal disrespect ; but individually, his subordinates are good folks in their way : and when not merely fantastic, like Trinculo, 2iick Bottom, and Pistol, have generally a heart under their garb of motley. Lears Fool, half-crazy, half-idiot, is heart " every inch of him." Hoav skilfully is he commended to our good- will before he enters on the scene ! " Since my young lady 's going into France, the Fool has much pined away." ToucJistone is capable of love and fidelity, and Costard is stoical under his misfortunes. Then for the softer sex, — Who would not snatch a kiss of Maria, mischievous minx and forgeress as she is 1 " Nettle of India ; " *' Youngest wren of nine." She really deserved a soberer husband. But I hope Sir Toby reformed after marriage. The nurse is not a very discreet guardianess for a Beauty in her teens ; but though her principles are far from rigid, and her language sails a little too near the wind, there is no harm in her at the bottom. She is none of your ever-craving doorkeepers of the stage. She does all for the best : errs out of pure good-nature, and anile importance, and is very near, if not quite, as honest as Friar Laivrence, himself a Nurse of different sex and higher education. Emilia is the same character, in somewhat higher rank. But is not Mrs. Quickly the pleasantest hostess that ever gave short measure and long credit ] How different a being from Massinger's Dame Tapwell, who spurns from her door the man who had upmade her by his ruin ! Even Doll Tearsheet is a presentable personage compared to some whom Massinger has made confidantes of noble maidens. But Shakspeare scruples not to bestow the loftiest virtues and richest poetry * on persons of menial ♦ Hear Timon's Under Butler : As we do turn our backs From our companion thrown into his grave. So his familiars from his buried fortunes Slink all away ; leave their false vows with him Like empty purses picked ; and his poor self A dedicated beggar to the air, "With his disease of all-shunn'd poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone.— Act iv.a. 2. mTRODUCTION. condition. Old Adam makes servitude as venerable as grey hairs ; Timon's steward and household remain steadfast when all the " summer files" have flown. Their loyalty is a holy relic of antique faith, an amulet against the infection of their master's misanthropy. Shakspeare seems to have disliked nohody — but constables and jobbing justices, and deals very leniently with them. He was in perfect good-humour with court, city, and country, and spared none of them when a joke came into his head. But again be it remembered, Shakspeare was a prosperous man, of a happy complexion, and could take an excursion when he chose into "Warwickshire or Faery land. We are naturally curious to inquire whether Massingcr was known to Shakspeare ; and whether they liked one another ; and what they thought of each other ; and whether they ever took a cup of sack together at the Mitre or the Mermaid ; and whether Massinger was ever umpire or bottle-holder (he was too grave to be a partaker) at those wit-combats, so happily described by Old Fuller ; * which nevertheless I shrewdly suspect, if taken down after the manner of the Nodes Amhrosianoi, + would Hear too, Alexander, Usher to laisc Cresscide " Hector, whose patience Is, as a virtue, fixt, to-day was moved, — He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer ; And, like as there were husbandry in war. Before the sun rose he was harnessed liglit, And to the field goes he ; where every flower Did, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw In Hector's wrath !— Act i. s. 2. • It may be asked, do not these poetic speeches in the mouths of underlings violate dramatic decorum ? to cfMion of Aristotle ? Certainly they do. Servants in general not only do not talk thus,— but they talk nothing like it. There ia no hint in their talk, and probably no germ in their thoughts, that could under any circumstances expand into such poetry; and were a plebeian character to hold such language throughout a play, it would be an impropriety, in any but a romantic-pastoral drama, which nowhere imitated the language of real life. But with Shakspeare these speeches constituted the whole character, — the persona merely appear to utter them, and then depart. He felt in truth that they were too poetical, too Shakspcarian, to be entrusted to any of the active partners of the plot. The Greek dramatists, whose practice Shakspeare follows in many things, whether knowingly or unconsciously, in like manner generally distribute the oc^yce, ^£g»j — the reflections and retrospects, and descriptions, which suggest either a splendid or an abstruse diction, between the Chorus and the Nuntius, — who are, for the most part, no characters : the Chorus being only xy^vriji «a-g«.«7«9 a sleeping partner, and the Nuntius a viva-voce newspaper. The restricted plan of the Greek drama, and the epic nature of many of its subjects, necessitated a great deal of narration, which it has been thought necessary to enliven by a gorgeous display of imngery, and an oriental pomp of words. But the good sense of the authors showed them that such language, uttered by interested personages, would destroy all verisimilitude ; they therefore committed it to the Nuntius, whose only business was to talk. The English reader may form a good idea of this part from the choruses to Henry V. * ''Many were the wit-combats betwixt him (Shakspeare) and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish gi-eat galleon and an English man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the former, was built higher in learning,— solid but slow in his performances. Shakspeare, with an English man-of-war,— lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention."— Fuller's Worthies. t The genuine Noctes (now collected, revised, and published in a separate form) will not only afford to future historians a true feeling of the spirit of the times, and to all readers a shoeinghorn to thought or to laughter, but form a valuable addition to dramatic literature. Barring an occasional irregularity of plot, they are perfect specimens of comedy. Indeed, I know not any comedy in which actual conversation is so naturally imitated, without ever stiffening into debate or amabcean oratory, or slipping into morning-call twaddle. Whatever the strain, whether wit, or fun, or pathos, or philosophy, — it arises spontaneously, as the tones of an aeolian harp ; you never feel that the party are met to discuss anything. One topic succeeds another, with the same apparent casualty, and the same under current of suggestion, as in the Odes of Pindar. The characters are sustained with consummate skill and consistency. Christopher North himself is, perhaps, the happiest speaking mask since Mp Father Shandy and My Uncle Toby were silent (for Elia is Charles himself). To be sure, the compotators have no bowels for Cockneys or Whigs. Yet I like their Toryism, because it is of the old, hearty, cavalier, fox-hunting, beef and port kidney, such as Ben and Shakspeare, and Dick Corbett (pride of the lawn), would have chimed in with. Tories, of the Ambrosial sect, understood, that in order to be a gentleman it is necessary to be a man. The prudish Conservatism of the present day is no more like genuine old Toryism, than Milton's Republicanism was like modern Badicalism- Let all Blues, of ei'her sex, or INTRODUCTION". not have much enhanced the fame either of Shakspeare or Jonson, whatever they might say for their conviviality. The vnt-comhats in their plays, are the dullest sins of which they are ever guilty. Eepartee is the accomplishment of lighter thinkers and a less earnest age. Besides, Uliau fxyfj/xoi/a 'XvfXKOT^iv. Most likely Shakspeare and Massinger met, but we have no ground to conjecture the amount of their acquaintance. As dramatists, they were hardly contemporary — at least, Shakspeare retired some years before Massinger produced his earliest extant play ; though no less than nine, exclusive of the " Old Law " (his share in which is doubtful), are placed, in the lists of Malone and Gifford, before the " Virgin Martyr." * Let us take it for granted that the old Bard encouraged the young aspirant (for he knew the fatalities of the human will too well to dissuade), and prognosticated his future greatness ; though the prognostics of poets with regard to each other are as fallible as their political vaticinations. There can be no doubt that Massinger admired and studied Shakspeare. In the haste of composition, his mind turned up many thoughts and phrases of the elder writer, in a more or less perfect state of preservation, but he was neither a plagiarist nor an imitator. His style, conduct, characterisation, and metre, are perfectly distinct. No serious dramatist of the age owed Shakspeare so little. Yet in a mock romance called " Wit and Fancy in a Maze, or Don Zara del Togo," 1656, where an uproar of the poets is described, Massinger is introduced as one of Shakspeare's body-guard. Hence, and from an ambiguous expression or two in his prologues,t seeming to glance none, — liberal or conservative, high churcli, low church or no church, — water drinkers or liqueur sippers, — keep in good company, out of the reach of Christopher's crutch. * Their titles are, « The Forced Lady," «« The Secretary," " The Noble Choice," " The Wandering Lovers," "Philenzo and Ilippolyta," " Antonio and Vallia," " The Tyrant," " Fast and Welcome " (a title that does not sound popish), and The Woman's Plot," which last was acted at Court in 1621. All these, except "The Secretary," which seems to have been printed, though now lost, with "The Spanish Viceroy " (acted 1624), "Minerva's Sacrifice" (Nov. 3, 1629), and "Believe as You List" (May 7, 1631), perished in Mr. Herald Warburton's kitchen by a more ignominious combustion than the Alexandrian library, though that was twice consumed,— first by Christian zeal, and then by Saracenic fanaticism. Mr, Warburton should have walked barefoot over the ashes of Herculaneum for a penance ; but he did no penance : and I am afraid he did scold his cook, who was not to blame. Yet I would commend this incident to the serious reflection of those persons who would not have domestics able to write, or to read writing. Only consider,— they might have been sermons instead of plays. Fifty-two sermons,— warranted original ! We need not, however, utterly despair of recovering some of these sybilline books. The " Parliament of Love " came to light very opportunely for Mr. GifiFord, by whom it was first printed (though with some unavoidable lacunae) from a MS. in the possession of Mr. Malone, and supposed to be Massinger's autograph, with sundry obliterations and interpolations, by the oflScious — I mean oflicial— Sir H. Herbert. A lucky discovery put the fact beyond doubt. Mr. Gifford, in the interval between his first and second edition, received a letter from Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, announcing that Mr. Blore, in collecting materials for a History of Derbyshire, had discovered, among the papers of the late Mr Gell of Hopton, a copy of the original edition of the " Duke of Blilan,"— presented by the author to Sir Francis Foljambe, a Derbyshire gentleman, to whom he afterwards dedicated his " Maid of Honour,"— interlined and corrected throughout with his own hand, and preceded by a copy of verses addressed to Sir Francis himself. The acquisition of this treasure must have brightened at least one day in Gifford's painful existence. It established jMassinger's claim to the " Parliament of Love," sometime attributed to Kowley, — a play in which the Editor had the interest of a foster-father, — though, as seems to me, of no very gracious child. It decided the orthography of Massinger's name,— which Mr. Malone would have to be Messenger,— as it is spelt in Davison's endorsement. A man who makes a name has an undoubted right to spell it as he ch oses. But, above all, Mr. Gifford ascertained from Massinger's own hand the correctness of several of his conjectural emendations ! His triumph must have been as great as Bentley's when he found that his conjectural restoration of a Greek inscription was the actual reading of the stone. These statements, derived from the advertisement to the second edition, may give us hope, that in some forgotten hiding-place of some old Catholic or Royalist mansion, redolent of foisty antiquity— where countless generations of the genus Blatta have wi-ought their winding catacombs for centuries,— some unknown labour of Massinger, Fletcher, or Shakspeare himself, may now bz crumbling Were it but a note or a memorandum While speaking of Mr. Gifford, I must take leave gently to complain of him, and other investigators of curious literature, for referring, with the most provoking bibliographical accuracy, to books and manuscripts which, to all but one out of ten thousand, might as well be in the lost Pleiad as where they are ; instead of transcribing the passages required to establish the point in question. I am sorely puzzled about Don Zara del Fogo, with whom 1 have no acquaintance, and no chance of an introduction. I cannot tell what he implies by making Massingf r a satellite of Shakspeare. t TTo siiliniits 'i'o the grave ccubure of those abler wits INTRODUCTIOK. at the impatience of Ben at the ill-usage of his "New Inn," and other senilia, it has been surmised, I hope erroneously, that he was ill-aflfected towards Jonson, It is an unwise thing in an author to show that he is hurt, and a vain attempt to appeal against the decrees of such an irresponsible despot as an audience. It is only for a Coriolanus, Shakspeare's Coriolanus, to say to the people, " I banish you." But it is worse than unwise to reproach an aged genius with the decay of his powers, and if Massinger joined with the "stinkards, in the twopenny rooms," or the gallants who took tobacco on the stage, to insult the infirmities of poor old Ben, not all our admiration of the Dramatist ought to save the man from contempt. But I do not, I cannot believe it. Genius may be vicious, may be mad, but can it be base ? ]!^Iassinger himself was not tame to censure. It appears that his " Emperor of the East " was opposed on its first appearance. The dishonour was fairly wiped off when the play was commanded sit court. A court bespeak * was the highest favour a dramatist could look for ; and Massinger took the occasion to express his vexation in an occasional prologue, as follows : — A As ever, sir, you lent a gracious ear To oppressed innocence, now vouchsafe to hear llis weakness, nor dares he profess that when The critics laugh, he *11 laugh at them again. Strange self-love in a writer ! — Prologue, to Guardian. Let others, building on their merit, say You 're in the wrong, if you move not that way Which they prescribe you ; as you were boimd to learn Their maxims, but incapable to discern 'Twixt truth and falsehood. Ours had rather be Censured by some for too much obsequy Than tax'd of self-opinion, — Prologue to Bashful Lover. .. cannot positively affirm that Massinger did not Avrite this mob-adulation, for everything he has written in rhyme ia exceedingly clumsy, but there is no proof whatever that ho did write it, Prol<'gues were then, as in later times, after-thoughts, nnd in general not composed by the author of the play. No one can think, for instance, that the prologue to "King Henry VIII." was written by Shakspeare, — or Ben Jonson either. Such jobr, were generally committed to the operatives of the play-house. Dryden seems to have been the first who fairly set his wits to work at a prologue or epilogue. I believe Mr, Miles Peter Andrews was the last who acquired a reputation in this line. Epilogue writers in particular have applied the experimentum crticis, to ascertain how much doggrel, vulgarity, and impudence, they could get an actress to speak, or a gallery to endure. Nothing short of demonstration shall make me believe that Massinger curried favour by insulting Jonson. There were hands enough about any play-house for such dirty work, and I beg leave to propose that the obnoxious lines be attributed to Swanston, the "wretched player," as Gifford calls him, who, while his fellow actors either fought for their royal patron, or were content to beg, steal, or starve, as best they could, slunk over to the prevailing party, and professed that " he had always been a pre-sbyterian in his heart," 1 confess, I can bring no evidence of this, only Swanston was an actor at the theatres where Massinger's plays were produced, very famous in Chapman's Busfi/ d'Ambois, and the only one of the quality that ratted ; and what is a little additional soot to a chimney-sweeper? * Massinger had his share of bespeaks. It may surprise some of our Sabbatarian high-church-men that the semi- canonized Charles ordered "The Guardian," — no very Hannah Morisco drama — to be performed at court on Sonday, 12th January, 1633. just after the appearance of Prynne's Histriomastyx. This looks like defiance, and to say the best of it, was in bad taste. For 'the Book of Sports there was at least a plausible pretext— the inhibition of healthful exercises in the open air does not induce the labouring class to keep the sabbath holy. But there is a wide difference between out-of-door recreation, permitted to the poor on their only day of leisure, and a play performed for lucre, in a crowded room, before persons who may see plays any day in the week. But it was by no means the only instance in which Charles, partly from opposition to the puritans, and partly in complaisance to his wife, outraged the religious feelings of his best friends. He actually gave leave to a French company to play on sermon days during Lent. How came it that Laud did not remonstrate against acts, which, whether criminal or not, were certainly Mali exempli, and superfluously unpopular? Perhaps he did— and was disregarded ; perhaps his devotion to the king, as head of the church, closed his lips. Yet St, Ambrose did not scruple to put an emperor to open penance. Loyalty is the boundcn duty of a Christian, but ultra-royalism is the Acliilles heel of the Church of England, which has suffered more by the reign of Charles II than by the temporary domination of its enemies. Sir Henry Herbert, who know well enough who was at the bottom of the Lent business, refused ten pounds from the French players " because he INTRODUCTION. A short petition. At your feet, in me The poet kneels, and to your Majesty Appeals for justice. What we now present, When first conceived, in his vote and intent Was sacred to your pleasure, in each part With his best of fancy, judgment, language, art Fashioned and formed so as might well and may Deserve a welcome, and no vulgar way. lie durst not, sir, at such a solemn feast, Lard his grave matter with one scurrilous jest ; Hut laboured that no passage might appear But what the Queen without a blush might hear, And yet this poor work suffered by the rage And envy of someXatos of the Stage. Yet still he hopes this play^ which then was seen. With sore eyes, and condemned out of their spleen. May be by you, the supreme judge* set free And raised above the reach of calumny. I know not what Queen Henrietta did and did not blush at, but certainly I would not undertake to read the " Emperor of the East " in the presence of female majesty, without considerable curtailment, and the entire excision of the prose part of the fourth scene of the fourth act, in which the author (not Massinger, who never wrote prose), for the sake of a scurrilous jest, has committed a medical 1 wished to render the Q,ueen, his mistress, an acceptable service." Yet he made Massinger pay twenty shillings for a play he would not permit to be performed. — Sneak ! \j Queen Henrietta paid Massinger a more unusual compliment than ordering his plays at court. She attended tliq^ performance of his "Cleander" (a lost tragedy), at the Blackfriars' Theatre. Considering what theatres then were, when the young gallants were in the habit of displaying their bravery and tobacco-pipes on stools upon the stage (a nuisance which Charles II. thought necessary to abate by an order in council), and when there were twopenny rooms wlieie ale and tobacco were sold, I cannot think this a very queenly or prudent condescension. On another occasion, February, IfiSU, when Davenant's " Triumphs of the Prince d' Amour " was presented at the Middle Temple, the daughter of Henri Quatre with her ladies sat on the platform with the promiscuous assemblage, in the dress of citizens' wives, then far more distinct from court habiliments than at present. Charles should not have permitted these vagaries. Unseemly condescension never atones for habitual hauteur ; and unpopular personages, by hunting popularity, only add contempt to hatred. Popular characters, Avhile their day lasts, may do anything ; their vices are only proofs of a good heart; their ill-humours are dulces Amaryllidis irce— pretty Fanny's way— their grossest absurdity is perfume in the i>ublic nostrils. Decipiunt caecum vitia, aut etiam base Delectant, veluti Halbinum polypus Agnae. But every man that squinted was not a Wilkes, even in the heyday of Wilkes and liberty. Kemble's cough and Kean'a " damnable faces " were only admired in Kemble and Kean. Desdemcma might not have fancied Ignatius Sancho, though she fell in love with Othello. The very peculiarities, which as symbols of individuality, serve as pegs for love to hang upon, are just as liable to arrest the burs of hatred. Every one must have felt this in their own case. A lisp — a stammer— a provincial accent— a cast of the eye — un petit nez retroussi, how amiable in the amiable, in the disagreeable how odious. A popular person can do nothing wrong : an unpopular person, especially if of high rank, can do nothing right. The French never affected puritanical rigour. Yet the levities into which Marie Antoinette was seduced by the over- confidence of virtue, were served up as a bonne-bouche for jacobin malice. But what with the common unthinking vulgar is merely prejudice, becomes deadly rancour when vulgarity i? intensified by fanaticism. Poor Henrietta and her royal husband were sorely mistaken if they thought that by publicity and splendour they could appease a hatred which had usurped the throne of duty. I know not whether Massinger received any pecuniary bounty from the king beyond the customary honorarium, which he ni'ght share with the players. Charles gave Cartwright forty pounds for his " Royal Slave," perhaps from some mysterious presentiment connected with the name. His interest in theatricals was more than consistent with the gravity of his character. He furnished Shirley with the plot of his "Gamester," and desired Sir H. Herbort to inform him that it was the best play he had seen for seven years. I like Charles all the better for these things, bnt the puritans did not. His expenses in masques and pageants would have paid and armed many loyal soldiers, and perhaps might have bought off a patriot or two. y'.ii INTRODUCTION. anachronism. But surely Massinger could have no right, after authorising this prologue, to reflect on Ben. With this doubtful exception, our author seems to have lived on good terms with all his brethren. No line in his plays could annoy any writer — living or dead — which is more than can be said for Shakspeare, who was rather prone to parody. Shirley, Ford, May, GofF (in a Latin epigram which would puzzle Martial, and break Prjscian's heart), George Donne (whom Mr. "Weber innocently confounded with Dr. John Donne), and a cortege of Jays, and W. B.'s, and T. J.'s, heralded his plays, like the dwarf before the giant, with commendatory verses, which it is well to accept as testimonies of friendship — for assuredly they are good for nothing else. His dedications are beautiful samples of pure mother English, commendable for a self-respectful respectfulness, very different from the presumptuous adulation of Dryden and Young, but painful from their weary iteration of complaint and acknowledgment — ■ I 've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas ! the {jratitudc of men Hath oftener left me luouining. — Wordsworth. Complaint seems to have become habitual to him, like the sickly tone of a confirmed valetudi- narian, who thinks you unfeeling if you tell him he is looking well. We are accustomed to hear of the peaceful days of Charles, as days when the sister Muses sang together in the warm light of a Christian Phoebus. Yet Massinger continually talks of his " despised quality," and addresses each successive dedicatee as his sole and last hope. Gifford says, " all Massinger'a. patrons were persons . of worth and consideration." He never degraded himself, like poor Otway, by dedicating to a titled courtezanf; but his principal patron, Philip of Pembroke and Montgomery, has left a stain upon the name of Herbert which no dedication can wash away. His ignorance and cowardice have, no doubt, been much exaggerated ; but of his brutality, meanness, and ingratitude, there can be no doubt at all. The only undramatic x>oem (if so it may be called) of any length that Massinger has left, memo- rializes the death of this nobleman's eldest son, who died at Florence, January, 1636. It might as well be forgotten — if it were not for one passage, curious as illustrating the customs of the age. That great ladies mourn His sudden death, and lords vie at his urn ' Drops of compassion ; that true sorrow fed With showers of tears, still bathes the widowed bed Of his dear spouse — Now this " dear spouse " had never been, in any rational or Christian sense, a wife at all. Charles Lord Herbert was married (if the profane abuse of a hoi}'- ceremony can constitute marriage) to Mary, daughter of Villiers Duke of Buckingham, 1634, when the poor little girl was so young, that it was expedient the bridegroom should immediately set out on his travels. Providence employed the small-pox to disappoint the avarice or ambition of the match-makers. Had this young couple arrived at nubile years, would either of them have been bound in conscience to stand to the bargain ] Is it not lamentable to see a man like Massinger, Avhom we would preserve in everlasting remem- brance, constrained to write nonsense for a poor pittance from one who deserved not the impunity of oblivion % Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se Quam quod ridiculos homines facit. — Juveval, iii 132. The woes of poverty might well be borne, AVere not the poor compelled to merit scorn. Massinger did feel, painfully feel his humiliation. The degradation of patronage ate into his soul. It is good to be dependent, where the dependency grows out of natural relation, or constituted order. But to sue for dependence ; — to court the bondage of obligation, as it is a sore evil for any INTRODUCTION. xliii man, so for the highly-gifted and high-minded it is worse than pauperism. Literature is a bad trade ; but it is better to pursue it as a trade, than calculate upon the bounty of great ones, which is only honourable when " it droppeth as the gracious dew from heaven." To inward disquietude, and a desire to utter in falsetto what his poverty forbade him to speak in his natural tones, rather than to any sincere sympathy with the nascent republicanism of his age, we must ascribe the angry dislike of kings, and courts, and ministers, which is so obtrusive in Massinger's plays, and the unnecessary, — unpoetical baseness of many of his characters. His political sentiments, abstractedly considered, are, for the most part, just ; but tliey are thrust in head and shoulders, where there is no dramatic call for them. He could not get fairly out of England — not the grand ancestraP England of imaginative patriotism — but the factious, quarrelsome, half-servile, half-rebellious England of his own day. He felt the manacles about him. And drneged, at eagh- remove, a lengthening cliain. His political allusions sometimes brought him into trouble ; and if King Charles had not been more liberal than Sir Henry (who did little more credit to the name of Herbert than his kinsman Philip), he might have suffered more severely. On the 11th January, 1631, the Master of the Revels refused to license a play of his, the name of which has not transpired, " because it did contain dangerous matter, as the deposing of Sebastian king of Portugal by Philip II., there being peace sworn between England and Spain. I had my fee notAvithstanding, which belongs to me for reading it over, and ought always to be brought with a book." So far Sir Henry, who seems to have been a mighty gnat-strainer, and a bit of a puritan, who reconciled his conscience to the profane employment of reading and allowing plays, by exacting the uttermost farthing from poet and player — holding with hh fellow-creature in Sheffield's Session, Though the function was wicked— the salary was good. Now mark the difference between a Jack in office and a generous King. In 1638, when the dispute ran high about ship-money, ^Inasinger produced a play on the history of Don Pedro the Cruel, called " The King and Subjeci,." in which occurred the following passage : — JSIonies ? We '11 raise supplies which ways we please. And force you to subscribe to blanks, in which We 11 mulct you as we shall think fit. The Caesars In Rome were wise, acknowledging no laws But what their swords did ratify ; the wives And daughters of the senators bowing to Their wills as deities, &c. *' This is a piece taken out of Philip Massinger's play, called the King and the Subject, and entered here for ever, to be remembered by my son, and those that cast their eyes upon it, in honour of king Charles my master, who reading over the play at Newmarket, set his mark upon the place with his own hand, and in these words : — ' This is too insolent, and to be changed.' Note, that the poet makes it the speech of a king, Don Pedro, king of Spain, and spoken to his subjects." — Register of Master of Bevels. Now there can be little doubt, that by Don Pedro Massinger meant King Charles, and more than insinuated that the liberty taken with the people's purse would be extended to their wives and daughters ; and had Charles not chanced to read the play at NcAvmarket, ten to one Sir Henry would have dealt with Don Pedro as he did with Don Sebastian, pocketed his fee, and left the poet his pains for his labour. But the king was content to set his mark over the obnoxious passage, and gave his special allowance to the writer who had gone out of the way for a clap-trap at his expense. In the same register we read : — " At Greenwich, the 4th of June. Mr. W. Murray gave me power from the king to allow of the play, and „old me that he would warrant it." Sir Ilcnry informs us that the name of the play was altered. Mr, Malone conjectures that it was the " Tyrant' before mentioned ; but I do not see how that could mend the matter. It was acted June 5, 1G38, but never printed, and has not been found. The fcubject has great dramatic rf2 xliv INTRODUCTION. capabilities ; but I doubt whether Massinger would treat it worthily either of the theme, or of himself. Neither Tragedy nor Comedy, in the strictest force of the terms, was his province. Besides, he had an unlucky habit of getting into a passion with his bad characters, and making them wilful demonstrators of their own depravity. Smollett, particularly in his Count Fathom, falls into this mistake. Euripides was not free from it. It nowhere occurs in Homer, Cervantes, or Shakspeare, the great and true dramatists, and very seldom in Fielding or Sir Walter Scott. Massinger's excellence — a great and beautiful excellence it is — was in the expression of virtue, in its probation, its strife, its victory. He could not, like Shakspeare, invest the perverted will with the terrors of a magnificent intellect, or bestow the cestus of poetry on simple unconscious loveliness. We draw to a close. After " The King and Subject," so happy in its timely expurgation, Massinger produced two dramas, " Alexius, or the Chaste Lover," and " The Fair Anchoress of Pausilippo." It is a pity they are both lost, for the titles promise much in his best way. The last was acted in January, 1640. On the 16th March in the same year, he went to bed in apparent health, and was found dead in the morning in his house on the Bankside. Such is the received account ; but he seems to have had none to care for him, none to mark his symptoms, or to detect the slow decay which he might conceal in despair of sympathy. Poorly, poor man, he lived — poorly, poor man, he died. He was buried in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, and the comedians were his only mourners — perhaps half envious of his escape from the storm that was already grumbling afar, and sending ahead its herald billows. No stone marked his neglected resting-place, but in the parish register appears this brief memorial, "March 20, 1639-40 — buried Philip Massinger, a strakgek." His sepulchre was like his life, obscure : like the nightingale, he sung darkling — it is to be feared, like the nightingale of the fable, with his breast against a thorn.* John Ford + was descended from a family long settled in the north of Devonshire. Those who have an opportunity of consulting Prince's " Worthies of Devon," may find a great deal about his genealogy, but little or nothing about himself. Suffice it to say, that Thomas Ford, of Ilsington, married the sister or daughter " of the famous Lord Chief Justice Popham, and had issue John the Poet and several others." John the Poet Avas baptized in Ilsington church, 17th April, 1586, and became a member of the Middle Temple, November 1602. He found a cousin, John Ford (the Fords were almost all Johns,) at Gray's Inn. No small advantage is it for a youth, on his first entrance at town or college, to have a kinsman or friend established just before him, old enough for a counsellor, and not too old for a companion.^ To the influence of John Ford, of Gray's Inn, it * Following Gifford, I was here led into an error in the first edition, which I suffer to stand in the text, the more to fix attention on the correction. Massinger was buried in St. Saviour's, March 18, 1638-9 ; and no less a sum than £2 was paid for his funeral, which shows that he was interred Avith unusual cost and ceremony. Gifford (strangely enough) did not know that every person there buried, who did not belong to the parish, was termed " a atranger." See these facts in Collier's Memoirs of the Principal Actors in the Plays of Shakspeare. t Lucian wrote a whimsical piece called A/«>j iptuvr^ivrmt the lawsuit of the bowels. The letter E might find ground for litigation in the names of Shakspear or Shakespeare, Massinger or Messenger, and Ford or Fordo. lam not aware that any autograph of the last has been discovered ; but the anagram. Fide Honor, seen in the title-pages of some of his plays, pleads for the final E. I doubt, however, if anagrams are legal evidence in these cases; and the matter is not worth contesting,— as this anagram is no way significant or pra?figurative, like some wliich Camden has collecttd. The most extraordinary instance of anagrammatical prophecy tliat I remember, is that of Horatio Nelson, — Honor est a Nilo, The Cabala cannot equal it, X This observation I owe to my late father, who often used to dwell on the advantage he derived from finding his fellow Christ's-boy Middleton, afterwjirds Bishop of Calcutta, at Cambridge, and the loss he sustained at the depar- ture of such a guide and example. I experienced a similar loss at Oxford, in the late Bishop of Barbadocs, now master of St. Augustine's College, Canterbury, though his rank in the university would have prohibited him from associating with a freshman who was not his kinsman. INTRODUCTION xlv may perhaps be attributed, that John Ford, of the Middle Temple, stuck to his legal studies, and persevered in his profession, seemingly with good success, though we know not what was the peculiai nature of his professional engagements. He did not forget the obligation, but affectionately remembered his cousin, and is anxious to proclaim to the world, that he had not left his " calling for the idle trade *." As plays and masques were periodically represented by the Inns of Court, a young lawyer's becoming a writer of plays could be no indecorum : yet it was not in this line that Ford first appeared in print. He was early in the field. In 1606, in his eighteenth year, he published " Fame's Memorial," a tribute to the memory of Charles Blount, Lord Mountjoy f, for by that title he is better and more honourably known, than by the earldom of Devonshire. It is dedicated to the Lady Penelope, the unhappy cause of the great Mountjoy's unhappiness. Ford speaks of himself as "a young stranger, totally unknown " to the lady, and probably to her lord also ; but the sad history and premature death of such a man must have been rife in the mouths of men, and well might actuate a genius yet in the egg, but destined to be potent in the issues of erratic passion. The dread strife Of poor humanity's afflicted will Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny. — Wordsworth. I say genius in the egg, for a young crocodile could not crawl forth from the shell, prematurely crushed, a more unseemly miniature of its future self, than " Fame's Memorial " presents of the future Ford. It is worth reading as a warning to all those fip-ure-casters who prognosticate the success or failure of authors from their Juvenilia. Had any seer predicted that the maker of all that stuff was to deserve a lofty seat among England's dramatists, he would have been as heartily laughed at, as he who should have foretold to Trajan, that a Christian priest would one day fulminate * His dedications sire tiresomely iterative upon this point. He calls " The Lover's Melancholy " " the first fruits of his leisure,"—" 'Tis l*ity, &c.," " the first fruits of his leisure,"—" The Lady's Trial,"" tl>e issue of less serious hours; " and he tells the Earl of Antrim, to whom he presented the "Fancies Chaste and Noble," that his "courtship of greatnes^s never aimed at any thrift." So much the better ; but what was all this to the public or his patrons either? Ford's dedications present a curious contrast to Massinger's in snotlier respect. Ain all his dramas his language, when not obscured by vain emulation of Shakspeare's involution and superfoetation of thought, is as clear as the stars on a frosty night when there is no moon,— but in his prose addresses he is sometimes as laboriously unintelligible as if he would give the Sphynx a lesson— that might have saved her lifo— to secure her meaning from being guessed by having no meaning at all. Take a specimen : " As plurality hath reference to a multitude, so I care not to please many, but where there is a parity of condition, there the freedom of construction makes the best music." Is not this curiosa iufelicitas f t The life of this great man is the finest subject for biography now unoccupied. He Avas the true conqueror of Ireland.— the friendly rival of Essex,— the more his friend because he had been his rival ; but that sad destiny which makes some men martyrs,— and inflicts on others infinite pains, far worse than mai'tyrdom, — tried Mountjoy to the utmost. If he failed,— ^ef hhn that has no sin throw the first st?OURED FRIEND, MASTER PHILIP MASSINGER, UPON HIS " RENEGADO." Dabblers 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 nam e To rescue judgment, no poetic flame To dress thy Muse with praise. And Plioebus his own bays ; Yet I commend this poem, and dare toll The world I liked it well ; And if there be A tribe who in their wisdoms dare accuse This off'spring of thy Muse, Let them agree Conspire one comedy, and they will say, *Tis easier to commend, than make a play. JAMES SHIRLEY. COiMMENDATORY VERSES. TO Ills WORTHY FRIEND, MASTER PHILIP MASSINGER, ON HIS PLAY CALLED '« THE RENEGADO.- The bosom of a friend cannot breathe 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. Know, friend. Though there are some who merely do commend To live i' the worlji'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 more 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 LAKYX. TO HIS DEAR FRIEND THE AUTHOR, ON " THE ROMAN ACTOR.* I am no great admirer of the plays. Poets, or actors, that are now-a-days ; Yot, in this work of thine, methinks I see Sufficient reason for idolatry. Each line thou hast 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, Avho 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'st fall Copies more fair than the original. I'll add but this : from all the modern plays Ihe 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. Ivi COMMENDATORY VERSES. IN PHILIPPI MASSINGERI, POET^ ELEGANTISS. ACTOREM ROMANUM, TYPIS EXCCSUM. Ecce Pliilippinse celebrata Tragoedia Mus3b, Quam Rosens Britonum Roscius egh, adest. Semper fronde ambo vireant Parnasside, semper Liber ab invidise dentibus esto, liber. Crebra papyrivori spernas incendia pgeti, Thus, vaenum expositi tegmina suta libri : Nee metuas raucos, Momorum sibila, rhoncos, Tarn bardiis nebulo si tamen ullus erit. Nam toties festis, actum, placuisse theatris Quod liquet, hoc, cusum, crede, placebit, opus. THO. GOFF. TO HIS DESERVING FRIEND, MR. PHILIP MASSINGER, Ur .N HIS TRAGEDY, " THE ROMAN ACTOR." Paris, the best of actors in his agi'- Acts yet, and speaks upon our Ra/nan stage Such lines by thee, 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 JNIartial's wit bestow'd A lasting epitaph ; not all these same Do add so much renown to Paris' name As this, that thou present'st 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. MAY. UPON MR. MASSINGER HIS " ROMAN ACTOR." 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 By their applause, whose judgments apprehend The weight and truth of what they dare commend. In this besotted age, friend^'tis thy glory That here thou 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. J^i^rX FORD. COMMENDATORY VERSES. Ivu UPON MR. MASSINGER'S " ROMAN ACTOR." Long'st thou to see proud Caesar 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 Caesar's glory Rose to its height before, or in this story ; Or whether Paris, in Domitian's favour, * Were more exalted, than in this thy labour. Each line speaks him an emperor, every phrase Crowns thy deservirjg temples with the bays ; So that reciprocally both agree. Thou liv'st in him, and he survives in thee. ROBERT HARVEV. TO niS LONG-KNOWN AND LOVED FRIEND, MR. PHILIP MASSING ER, 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 hira 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 TAYLOR. TO MR. PIHLIP MASSINGER, MY MUCH-ESTEEMED FRIEND, ON HIS " GREAT DUKE OP 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, 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. Iviii COMMENDATORY VERSES. TO THE DESERVING MEMORY OF THIS WORTHY WORK, " THE GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE, AND TUB AUTHOR, MR. PHILIP MASSINGER. Action gives many poems right to live ; This piece gave life to action ; and 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 censured ; toys, no sooner hatch'd than dead : Here, without blush to truth of commendation, Is proved, how art hath outgone imitation. JOHN roRD. TO M^ WORTHY FRIEND THE AUTHOR, UPON HIS TRAGICOMEDY "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 I do. But pardon me, if I oflfend ; thy fire Let equal poets praise, while I admire. If any say that I enough have writ. They are thy foes, and envy at thy wit. Believe not them, nor me ; they know thy lines Deserve applause, but speak against their minds. I, out of justice, would commend thy play, But (friend, forgive me) 'tis above my way. One word, and I have done, (and from ray heai't 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 BIS WORTHY FRIEND, MR. PHILIP MASSINGER, UPON HIS TRAGICOMEDY STYLKO " 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. Hero she hath drawn a Picture, which shall lie Safe for all future times to practise by ; Whate'er shall follow are but copies, some Preceding works were types of this to come. *Tis your own lively image, and sets forth. 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 Avhosoe'er beyond desert commends. Errs more by much than he that reprehends ; COMMENDATORY VERSES. li^^ 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 ftn* 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. TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MR. PHILIP 5IASSINGER, UPON HIS TRAGI-COMEDY CALLED "THE EMPEROR OF THE EAST." Suffer, my friend, these lines to have the grace, That they may 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 English 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, Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, or Thy neat-limn'd 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 be bold To say, it with the world shall not grow old. ASTON cocKAijnr. Ix COMMENDATORY VERSES A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, AND AVELL-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 name 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 CLAVEM. TO MY TRUE FRIEND AND KINSMAN, PHILIP MASSINGER, ON HIS «« EMPEROR OF THE EAST.' I take not upon trust, nor am I led By an implicit faith : what I have read With an impartial censure I dare crown With a deserved applause, howe'er cried down By such whose malice will not let them be Equal to any piece limn'd forth by thee. 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 I must say, 'Tis not enough to make a passing play In a true poet : works that should endure Must have a genius in them strong as pure, And such is thine, friend : nor shall time devoui The well-form'd features of thy Emperor. WILLIAM SINGLETON. TO THE INGENIOUS AUTHOR, MASTER PHILIP MASSINGER, ON HIS COMEDY CALLED •' A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEIiTS " '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 brouglit, Invited by your 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. COMMENDATORY VERSES. Ixi 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 vahie much. I am your debtor too, but, to my shame, Repay you nothing back but your own fame. HENRY MOODY, MUcS. TO raS FRIEND THE AUTHOEy 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 shame-faced 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, MiUs THE YIEGIN-MAETYE. ui CBn ::^*2: '■aHIVlRSITT] THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. DRAMATIS PERSONiE. Dio<;LESrAN, I _ . „ King of Pontus. King of Epire. King of Macedon. Sapritius, Governor of C08 in the shape of a Secretary. Angelo, a good Spirit, serving Dorothea in the habit cf a Page. SCENE, — C^SAREA HiRcius, a Whoremasfer, ) Servants of Spungius, a Drunkard, j Dorothea. Julian us, ) , „ Geta i ^^^'"(^^i* of Thkophii,u3. Priest of Jupiter. British Slave. Artemia, Daughter to Dioclksiaw. Calista, ) ^ , „ Christeta, \ ^a^ffhters to Th«ophilus. Dorothea, the Virgin-Martyr. Officers and Executioners. ACT I. SCENE I.— The Governor's Palace. Enter Theophilus and Harpax. Theoph. Come to Caesarea to-night I Harp. Most true, sir. Theoph. The emperor in person ! Harp. Do I live ? Theoph. 'Tis wondrous strange ! The inarches of great princes, Like to the motions of prodigious metfeors, Are step by step observed; and loud-tongued | Fame The harbinger to prepare their entertainment : And, were it possible so great an army, Though cover'd 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 Caesar'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 me In things more difficult, but have discover'd 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 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 the Priest of Jupiter, bearing an Image, and followed by Calista and Christeta. Harp. Look on the Vestals, The holy pledges that the gods have given you, Your chaste, ftiir daughters. Were't not to up- A service to a master not unthankful, [braid 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 jrielded up themselves To this new-found religion. This I cross 'd, Discover'd their intents, 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 torment 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 Belonging to his deity. [ones, 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. They teach their teachers with their depth of judgment, And are with arguments able to convert The enemies to our gods, and answer all They can object against us. Theoph. My dear daughters I THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Cal. We dare dispute against this new-sprung In private or in public. [sect, Harp. My best lady, Persever 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. Theoph. I young again. To your devotions. Harp. Do — My prayers be present with you. iExcimt Priest, Cal, and Chris. Theoph. O my Harpax I Thou engine of my wishes, thou that steel'st My bloody resolutions, thou that arm'st My eyes 'gainst womanish tears and soft compas- Instructing me, without a si^h, to look on [sion. 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. Theoph. Were all sceptres That grace the hands of kings, made into one. And offer'd me, all crowns laid at my feet, I would contemn them all, — thus spit at them ; So I to all posterities might be call'd The 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 Sapritius and SEMPRomus. Theoph. No more — The governor. Sap. Keep the ports close, and let the guards be doubled ; 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 : 1 know the emperor's edict, and my charge, And they shall find no favour. Theoph. My good lord. This care is timely for the entertainment Of our great master, who this night in person Comes here to thank you. Sap. Who ! the emperor ? Harp. To clear your doubts, he doth return in triumph. Kings lackeying 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, 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. The army pass'd 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 : \_Trvmpets. 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. lExit. Sap. O, I am ravish'd With this great honour ! cherish, good Theophilus, This knowing scholar. Send [for] your fair daugh- 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 Harpax. lExit Harpax. Enter SKMPRomus, at the head of the guard, soMurs lead- ing three Kings bound ; Antonintis and Macrinus hear- ing the Emperor's eagles ; Dioclesian with a gilt laurel on his head, leading in Artemia : SAPRmus kisses the Emperor's hand, then embraces his Son ; Harpax brings in Calista atid Christeta. Loud shouts. Diccle. So : at all parts I find Csesarea Completely govern'd : the licentious soldier Confined in modest limits, and the people Taught to obey, and not compell'd with rigour : The ancient Roman discipline revived. Which raised Rome to her greatness, and pro- claim 'd her The glorious mistress of the conquer'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 Csesar, 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 Won in the Giants' war ; whose conquering sword, Guided by his strong arm, as deadly kills As did His thunder ! all that I have done. Or, if my strength were centupled, could do, Comes short of what my loyalty must challenge. But, if in anything I have deserved Great Caesar's smile, 'tis in my 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 allows Nor sacrifice nor altars. [tliem Diode. Thou, in this, Walk'st hand in hand with me : my will and power Shall not alone confirm, but honour all That are in this most forward. THE VIllGlN-MARTYR. Sap. Sacred Csesar, 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, [points to Theophi- Lus] to whom the power Of searching out, and punishing such delinquents, Was by your choice committed : and, for proof, He hath deserv'd the grace imposed upon him, And with a fair and even hand proceeded. Partial to none, not to himself, or those Of equal nearness to himself ; behold This pair of virgins. Diode. What are these ? .^ Sap. His daughters. Artem. Now by your sacred fortune, they are fair ones. 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 ; I 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. I 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 begg'dthem, though they would Be cruel to themselves, they would take pity On my gray hairs ; now note a sudden change. Which I with joy remember ; those, whom torture, Nor fear of death could terrify, were o'ercome 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, I that used justice with a rigorous hand. Upon such beauteous virgins, and mine own, Will use no favour, where the cause commands me, To any other ; but, as rocks, be deaf To all entreaties. Diode. 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 kingjf, \nd had command o'er others ; we confess Our grandsires paid yours tribute, yet left us, As their forefathers had, desire of freedom. And, if you Romans bold 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 worot. 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 Jigyptian Hercules, Sesostris, That had his chariot drawn by captive kings, To free them from that slavery ; — but to hope Such mercy from a Roman, were 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 raised to her perfection, and her bases Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy, And do't with safety : but to whom ? not cowanls, Or such whose baseness shames the conqueror, And robs him of his victory, as weak Perseus Did great ^milius. 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 too easy for you : but such is The power of noble 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, Csesar. Diode. By the gods, I do not. Unloose their bonds : — I now as friends embrace Give them their crowns again. [you. 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 Rome. K. of Epire. All kingdoms fall before her ! K. of Pontus. And all kings Contend to honour Csesar I 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 comma'nders, here with new-made friends : THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. AOT I. But, what's the crown of all, in thee, Artemia, My only child, whose love to me and duty, Strive to exceed each other 1 Artcm. 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 ; Which that thou may'st with greater pleasures taste of, Thou shalt 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 they affect not. May my life Deserve this favour ! Diode. Speak ; I long to know The man thou wilt make happy. Artem. If that titles, Or the adored name of Queen could take me, Here would I fix mine eyes, and look no further ; But these are baits to take a mean -born lady, Not her, that boldly may call Csesar father : In that I can bring honour unto any, But from no king that lives receive addition : To raise desert and virtue by 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. I 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 you ? That have served you most faithfully ; that in dan- gers Have stood next to you ; that have interposed Their breasts as shields of proof, to dull the swords Aim'd at your bosom ; that have apent their blood To crown yo«r brows with laurel ? Macr. 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. And, that she may hate me, transfix her with it ; 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. [advances to Anton.] 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 gaze 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 ev€r. Artem. And it will become you. While thus we stand at distance ; but, if love. Love born out of the assurance of your virtues, Teach me to stoop so low — Anton. 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 ! such a worm as I am. Refuse what kings upon their knees would sue for ! Call it, great lady, by another name ; An humble modesty, that would not match 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 Caesar ; 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. Wise in direction, bold in execution ; You would have said, Great Caesar's self excepted, The world yields not his equal. Artem. Yet I have heard, Encountering him alone in the head of his troop. You took him prisoner. K. of Epire. 'Tis a truth, great princess ; I'll not detract from valour. Anton. 'Twas mere fortune ; Courage bad no hand in it. Theoph. Did ever man Strive so against his own good.-' Sap. Spiritless villain ! How I am tortured ! By the immortal gods, I now could kill him. Diode. Hold, Sapritius, hold. On our displeasure hold ! Harp. Why, this would make A father mad ; 'tis not to be endured ; Your honour's tainted in't. Sap. 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, but 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, THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 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 ? The fox, When he saw first the forest's king, the lion, Was almost dead with fear ; the second view Only a little daunted him ; the third, He durst salute him boldly : pray you, apply this j 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. Artem. 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 Caesarea. 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, Theophi- Sapritius, be you my daughter's guardian, [lus ; 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 Macrinit.s. 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 flattering To me, ready to starve, a painted banquet, [glories 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, security, Usher'd by all that in this life is precious : With Dorothea (though her birth be noble, The daughter to 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 ; 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 preferr'd before All joys in Dorothea : therefore leave her. Anton. In what thou think'st thou art most wise, thou art Grossly abused, Macrinus, and most foolish. For any man to match above his rank, Is but to sell his liberty. With Artemia 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 thus- — If, then, thou art my friend, As I dare swear thou art, and wilt not take A governor's place upon thee, be my helper. Mac. You know I dare, and will do anything ; 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. To make her understand how much I love her. And how I languish for her. Bear these jewels, 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. [_Exeunt. ACT 11. SCENE I. — A Room in Dorothea's House. Enter Spun'gius and Iliwyua. Spun. Turn Christian ! Would he that first tempted 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 ofl. Hir. So then, if any coxcomb has a galloping desire to ride, here's a gelding, if he can but sit hiin. Spun. I kick, for all that, like a horse ; — look else. Hir. But that is a kickish jade, fellow Spun^ gius. Have not I as much cause to complain as thou hast ? When I 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. Spu7i. Bacchus, the god of brew'd wine and sugar, grand patron of rob-pots, upsy-freesy tip THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. piers, 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 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 Cala- moothe. 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 Christians, I can no sooner stagger out of one alehouse, but I reel into another ; they have whole streets of nothing but drinking-rooms, and drabbing-chambers, jumbled together. Hir. Bawdy Priapus, the first schoolmaster that taught butchers how to stick pricks in flesh, and make it swell, thou know'st, was the only ningle that I cared for under the moon ; but, since I left him to follow a scurvy lady, what with her praying and our fasting, if now I come to a wench, and offer to use her anytliing hardly, (telling her, being a Christian, she must endure,) she presently han- dles me as if I were a clove, and cleaves me with disdain, as if I were a calf's head. Spun. I see no remedy, fellow Hircius, but that thou and I must be half pagans, and half Chris- tians ; 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 ; parboil one of these rogues, and he is not meat for a dog : no, 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 ? Hir. Eat it ; or be choked else. Spun. Would my ass, basket and all, were in thy maw, if I did ! No, 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. Our puling, snotty- nose lady sent me out likewise with a purse of money, to reUeve 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- an-apes boy, her page. Spun. As I am a pagan from my cod-piece downward, that white-faced monkey frights me too. I stole but a dirty pudding, last day, out of an almsbasket, 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 ms 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 ? 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 Anoelo with a book, and a taper liglded ; seeing him, they counterfeit devotion. I 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 time. When the religious man was on his knees, Speaking the heavenly language ? Spun. Why, fellow Angelo, we were speaking in pedlar's French, I hope. Hir. W^e have not been idle, take it upon my word. Ang. Have you the baskets emptied, which your lady Sent, from her charitable hands, to women That dwell upon her pity ? Spun. Emptied them ! yes ; I'd be loth to have my belly so empty : yet, I am sure, I munched not one bit of them neither. Ang. And went your money to thi prisoners ? Hir. Went ! no ; I carried it, and with these fingers paid it away. Ang. What way ? the devil's way, the way of The way of hot damnation, way of lust ? [sin, And you, to wash away the poor man's bread, In bowls of drunkenness? Spun. Drunkenness ! yes, yes, I use to be drunk ; our next neighbour's man, called Chris- topher, hath often seen me drunk, hath he not ? Hir. Or me given so to the flesh : my cheeks speak my doings. Ang. Avaunt, 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. Ang. Your names even brand you ; you are Spungius call'd, 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 ? Ang. For blood of grapes you sold the widows food. SCENE II. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. And, starving them, 'tis murder ; what's this but hell ? Hircius 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 ? No angel, but the devil, waits on you. Spun. Shall I cut his throat ? Hir. No ; better burn liim, 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 mucJTout 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 Chris- tian 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 s1 I call my wish back. Mac. I'm in haste. Theoph. One word. Take the least hand of time up: — stay. Mac. Be brief. Theoph. As thought : I prithee tell me, good Macrinus, How health and our fair princess lay together 8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. This night, for you can tell ; courtiers have flies, That buzz all news unto them. Mac. She slept but ill. Theoph. Double thy courtesy ; bow does An- toninus ? Mac. Ill, well, straight, crooked, — I know not Theoph. Once more ; [how. — Thy head is full of windmills : — when doth the princess Fill a bed full of beauty, and bestow it On Antoninus, on the wedding-night ? Mao. I know not. Theoph. 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 } 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. And Csesar'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 lan- guage, Which printed is in such crabb'd characters, It puzzles all my reading : what, in the name )f 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 Endymion 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, (Your coldest women do so), — had you ink Brew'd from the infernal Styx, not all that black- Can make a thing so foul, as the dishonours, [ness Disgraces, buffetings, and most base aff"ronts Upon the bright Arteraia, star o' the court, Great Csesar's daughter. Theoph. I now conster thee. Harp. Nay, more ; a firmament of clouds, being With Jove's artillery, shot down at once, [fill'd To pash your gods in pieces, cannot give. 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 — Theoph. Eats through Csesarea's heart like liquid poison. Have I invented tortures to tear Christians, To see but which, could all that feel hell's tor- ments 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 ^y 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-masquer Strangle me in a dance ? Harp. No : — 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 Doro- Fly thou and I in thunder. [thea, 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 I look on him, I must sink down. Theoph. I will not lose thee then, her to con- found : 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 business, 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 : BiJ 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 gracefully become. There is in him so much man, so much goodness, 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 The want shall be as little, as when seas [him, 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 the whiteness Of your chaste hand alone, should be ambitious But to be parted in their numerous shares ; 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 : The greatness of his state, his father's voice. And arm, awing Csesarea, he ne'er boasts of ; The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him, Shine there but as in water, and gild him Not with one spot of pride : 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. SCENE III. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Dor. Could gold buy you To speak thus for a friend, you, sir, are worthy Of more than I will number ; and this your Ian- Hath power to win upon another woman, [guage 'Top of whose heart the feathers of this world Are gaily stuck : but all which first you named, . And now this last, his love, to me are nothing. Mac. You make me a sad messenger ; — but himself Enter Antoninus, Being come in person, shall, I hope, hear from you Music more pleasing. Anton. Has your ear, Maori nus, 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. I am guilty of a shame 1 yet ne'er knew, Thus to hold parley with you ; — pray, sir, pardon. \_Going. Anton. Good sweetness, you now have it, and shall go : Be but so merciful, before your wounding me 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, I hate you everlastingly. Anton, My true love dares not do it. Mac. Hermes inspire thee ! Enter above, Artemia, Sapritius, Theophilds, Spungius, 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 And no words of it. [.yonr mouths, Hir. No ; nor no words from you of too much damning neither. I know women sell themselves daily, 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. Theoph. 'Tis well done ; go, go, you're my fine white boys. 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 1 to my full pot. lExeunt Hir. and Spun. Anton. Come, let me tune you : — glaze not thus With self-love of a vow'd virginity, [your eyes Make every man your glass ; you see our sex Do never murder propagation ; We all desire your sweet society, But if you bar me from it, you do kill me, \nd 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 chat I love is richer ; and for worth, [gold, You are to him lower than any slave Is to a monarch. Sap. So insolent, base Christian ! Dor. Can I, with wearing out my 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 ! Anton. Your mocks are great ones ; none be- neath the sun Will I be servant to. — On my knees I 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 ! lAloud. Would, when I got thee, the high Thunderer's hand Had struck thee in the womb ! Mac. We are betray'd. Artem. Is that the idol, traitor, which thou Trampling upon my beauty ? [kneel'st 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 ven- geance flies Into my bosom ; caitiff ! here all love dies. lExeunt abov<'. Anton. O ! I am thunderstruck ! We 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 10 THE VIRGIN-MARTYU. 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. Re-enter below, Artkmta, Sapritius, Theophilus, a guard ; Angelo comes and stands close by Dorothea. Artem, My father's nerves put vigour in mine arm, 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. By lingering out thy terrors; but, with one frown, Kill tliee : — hence with them all to execution. Seize him ; but let even death itself be weary In torturing her. I'll change those smiles to shrieks ; Give the fool what she's proud of, martyrdom : In pieces rack that bawd too. [_Points to Macr. Sap. Albeit the reverence I owe our gods and you, are, in my bosom. Torrents so strong, that pity quite lies drown'd From saving this young man ; yet, when I see What face death gives him, and that a thing within me Says, 'tis my son, I am forced to be a man, And grow fond of his life, which thus I beg. Artem. And I deny. Anton. Sir, you dishonour me. To sue for that which I disclaim to have. I shall more glory in my sufferings gain, Than you in giving judgment, since I offer My blood up to your anger ; nor do I kneel To keep a wretched life of mine from ruin : Preserve this temple, builded fair as yours is, And Caesar never went in greater triumph. Than I shall to the scaffold. Artem. Are you so brave, sir ? Set forward to his triumph, and let those two Go cursing along with him. Dor. No, but pitying, For my part, I, that you lose ten times more By torturing me, than I that dare your tortures : Through all the army of my sins, I have even Liabour'd to break, and cope with death to th' face. The visage of a hangman frights not me ; The sight of whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fires. Are scaffoldings by which my soul climbs up To an eternal habitation. Theoph. Csesar's imperial daughter ! hear me speak. Let not this Christian thing, in this her pageantry Of proud deriding both our gods and Csesar, Build to herself a kingdom in her death. Going laughing from us : no ; her bitterest torment Shall be, to feel her constancy beaten down ; The bravery of her resolution lie Batter'd, by argument, into such pieces, That she again shall, on her belly, creep To kiss the pavements of our paynim gods. Artem. How to be done ? Theoph. I'll send my daughters to her. And they shall turn her rocky faith to wax ; Else spit at me, let me be made your slave, And meet no Roman's but a villain's grave- Artem. Thy prisoner let her be, then ; and, Sapritius, Your son and that, be yours : death shall be sent To him that suffers them, by voice or letters, To greet each other. Rifle her estate ; Christians to beggary brought, grow desperate. Dor. Still on the bread of poverty let me feed. Ang. O I my admired mistress, quench not out The holy fires within you, though temptations Shower down upon you : Clasp thine armour on, Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these Vv^ars, Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch stars. lExeunl all but Angelo. Enter HiRCius and Spungius. Hir. How now, Angelo ; how is it, how is it ? What thread spins that whore Fortune upon her wheel now ? Spun. Com' esta, com' esta, poor knave ? Hir. Comment portez-vous, comment portex- vous, mon petit gar^on ? Spun. My pretty wee comrade, my half-inch of man's flesh, how run the dice of this cheating world, ha .-' Ang. Too well on your sides ; you are hid in gold, o'er head and ears. Hir. We thank our fates, the sign of the gingle- boys hangs at the doors of our pockets. Svun. W^ho would think that we, coming forth of the a — , as it were, or fag-end of the world, should yet see the golden age, when so little silver is stirring ? Hir. Nay, who can say any citizen is an ass, for loading his own back with money till his sou cracks again, only to leave his son like a gilded coxcomb behind him .'' Will not any fool take me for a wise man now, seeing me draw out of the pit of my treasury this little god with his belly full of gold } Spun. And this, full of the same meat, out of my ambry ? Ang. That gold will melt to poison. Spun. Poison ! would it would ! whole pints for healths should down my throat. Hir. Gold, poison ! there is never a she-thrasher in Csesarea, that lives on the flail of money, will call it so. Ang. Like slaves you sold your souls for golden dross, Bewraying her to death, who stept between You and the gallows. Spun. It was an easy matter to save us, she being so well back'd. Hir. The gallows and we fell out : so she did but part us. Ang. The misery of that mistress is mine own ; She beggar'd, I left wretched. Hir. I can but let my nose drop in sorrow, with wet eyes for her. Spun. The petticoat of her estate is unlaced, I confess. Hir. Yes, and the smock of her charity is now all to pieces. Ang. For love you bear to her, for some good turns Done you by me, give me one piece of silver. Hir. How 1 a piece of silver ! if thou wert an angel of gold, I would not put thee into white money unless I weighed thee ; and I weigh thee not a rush. Spun. A piece of silver ! I never had but two calves in my life, and those my mother left me ; I will rather part from the fat of them, than from a mustard-token's worth of argent. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 11 Hir. And so, sweet nit, we crawl from thee. Spun. Adieu, demi-dandiprat, adieu ! Ang, Stay, — one word yet ; you now are full of gold. Hir. I would be sorry my dog were so full of the pox. Spun. Or any sow of mine of the meazles either. Ang. Go, go ! you're beggars both ; you are not worth That leather on your feet. Hir. Away, away, boy ! Spun. Page, you do nothing but set patches on the soles of your jests. Ang. I am glad I tried your love, which, see ! I want not, -^ So long as this is full. Both. And so long as this, so long as this. Hir. Spungius, you are a pickpocket. Spun. Hircius, thou hast nimm'd : — So long as ! — not so much money is left as will buy a louse. Hir. Thou art a thief, and thou liest in that gut through which thy wine runs, if thou deniest it. Spun. Thou liest deeper than the bottom of mine enraged pocket, if thou affrontest it. Ang. No blows, no bitter language ; — all your gold gone ! Spun. Can the devil creep into one's breeches ? Hir. Yes, if his horns once get into the cod- piece. Ang. Come, sigh not ; I so little am in love With that whose loss kills you, that, see i 'tis yours, All yours : divide the heap in equal share, So you will go along with me to prison, And in our mistress' sorrows bear a part : Say, will you ? Both. Will we ! Spun. If she were going to hanging, no gallows should part us. Hir. Let us both be tum'd into a rope of onions, if we do not. Ang. Follow me, then ; repair your bad deeds past ; Happy are men, when their best days are last ! Spun. True, master Angelo ; pray, sir, lead the way. lExit Anoelo. Hir. Let him lead that way, but follow thou me this way. Spun. I live in a gaol ! Hir. Away, and shift for ourselves : — She'll do well enough there ; for prisoners are more hungry after mutton, than catchpoles after prisoners. Spun. Let her starve then, if a whole gaol will not fill her belly. {,Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE I. — A Room in Dorothea's House. Enter Sapritius, Theophilus, Priest, Calista, and Christeta. Sap, Sick to the death, I fear. Theoph. L meet your sorrow. With my true feeling of it. Sap. She's a witch, A sorceress, Theophilus ; my son Is charm'd by her enchanting eyes ; and, like An image made of wax, her beams of beauty Melt him to nothing : all my hopes in him. And all his gotten honours, find their grave In his strange dotage on her. Would, when first He saw and loved her, that the earth had open'd, And swallow'd both alive ! Theoph. There's hope left yet. Sap. Not any : though the princess were ap- All title in her love surrender' d up ; [peased, Yet this coy Christian is so transported With her religion, that unless my son (But let him perish first!) drink the same potion, And be of her belief, she'll not vouchsafe To be his lawful wife. Priest. But, once removed From her opinion, as I rest assured The reasons of these holy maids will win her, You'll find her tractable to anything. For your content or his. Theoph. If she refuse it. The Stygian damps, breeding infectious airs. The mandrake's shrieks, the basilisk's killing eye. The dreadful lightning that does crush the bones, And never singe the skin, shall not appear Less fatal to her, than my zeal made hot With love unto my gods. I have deferr'd it. In ho][>es to draw back this apostata. Which will be greater honour than her death, Unto her father's faith ; and, to that end. Have brought my daughters hither. Cal. And we doubt not To do what you desire. Sap. Let her be sent for. Prosper in your good work ; and were I not To attend the princess, I would see and hear How you succeed. Theoph. I am commanded too, I'll bear you company. Sap. Give them your ring. To lead her as in triumph, if they win her, Before her highness. \,Exit, Theoph. Spare no promises, Persuasions, or threats, I do conjure you : If you prevail, 'tis the most glorious work You ever undertook. Enter Dorothea and Angklo. Priest. She comes. Theoph. We leave you ; Be constant, and be careful. \_Exeunt Theoph. and Priest Cal. We are sorry To meet you under guard. Dor. But I more grieved You are at liberty. So well I love you. That I could wish, for such a cause as mine, You were my fellow-prisoners : Prithee, Angelo, Reach us some chairs. Please you sit Cal, We thank you : Our visit is for love, love to your safety. Christ. Our conference must be private, pray you, therefore. Command your boy to leave us. Dor. You may trust him 12 THE VIRGIN-MART VK. ACT III. With any secret that concerns my life, Falsehood and he are strangers : had you, ladies, Been bless'd with such a servant, you had never Forsook that way, your journey even half ended, That leads to joys eternal. In the place Of loose lascivious mirth, he would have stirr'd To holy meditations ; and so far [you He is from flattery, that he would have told you. Your pride being at the height, how miserable And wretched things you were, that, for an hour Of pleasure here, have made a desperate sale Of all your right in happiness hereafter. He must not leave me ; without him I fall : In this life he's my servant, in the other A wish'd companion- ing. 'Tis not in the devil. Nor all his wicked arts, to shake such goodness. Dor. But you were speaking, lady. Cal. As a friend And lover of your safety, and I pray you So to receive it ; and, if you remember How near in love our parents were, that we, Even from the cradle, were brought up together. Our amity increasing with our years, We cannot stand suspected. Dor. To the purpose. Cal. We come, then, as good angels, Dorothea, To make you happy ; and the means so easy, That, be not you an enemy to yourself, Already you enjoy it. Christ. Look on us, Ruin'd as you are, once, and brought unto it, By your persuasion. Cal. But what foUow'd, lady } Leaving those blessings which our gods gave freely. And shower'd upon us with a prodigal hand, As to be noble born, youth, beauty, wealth, And the free use of these without control, Check, curb, or stop, such is our law's indul- gence ! All happiness forsook us ; bonds and fetters. For amorous twines ; the rack and hangman's whips. In place of choice delights ? our parents' curses Instead of blessings ; scorn, neglect, contempt. Fell thick upon us. Christ. This consider'd wisely. We made a fair retreat ; and reconciled To our forsaken gods, we live again In all prosperity. Cal. By our example, Bequeathing misery to such as love it, Learn to be happy. The Christian yoke's too heavy For such a dainty neck ; it was framed rather To be the shrine of Venus, or a pillar. More precious than crystal, to support Our Cupid's image : our religion, lady. Is but a varied pleasure ; yours a toil Slaves would shrink under. Dor, Have you not cloven feet } are you not devils ? Dare any say so much, or dare I hear it Without a virtuous and religious anger ? Now to put on a virgin modesty. Or maiden silence, when His power is question'd That is omnipotent, were a greater crime, Than in a bad cause to be impudent. Your gods! your temples ! brothel-houses rather. Or wicked actions of the worst of men. Pursued and practised. Your religious rites ! Oh ! call them rather juggHng mysteries. The baits and nets of hell : your souls the prey For which the devil angles ; your false pleasures A steep descent, by which you headlong fall Into eternal torments. Cal. Do not tempt Our powerful gods. Dor. Which of your powerful gods ? Your gold, your silver, brass, or wooden ones, That can nor do me hurt, nor protect you.'^ Most pitied women ! will you sacrifice To such, — or call them gods or goddesses. Your parents would disdain to be the same. Or you yourselves ? O blinded ignorance ! Tell me, Calista, by the truth, I charge you. Or anything you hold more dear, would you, To have him deified to posterity, Desire your father an adulterer, A ravisher, almost a parricide, A vile incestuous wretch ^ Cal. That, piety And duty answer for me. Dor. Or you, Christeta, To be hereafter register'd a goddess, Give your chaste body up to the embraces Of goatish lust ? have it writ on your forehead, " This is the common whore, the prostitute. The mistress in the art of wantonness. Knows every trick, and labyrinth of desires That are immodest ?" Christ. You judge better of me, Or my affection is ill placed on you ; Shall I turn strumpet ? Dor. No, I think you would not. Yet Venus, whom you worship, was a whore Flora, the foundress of the public stews. And has, for that, her sacrifice ; your great god, Your Jupiter, a loose adulterer. Incestuous with his sister : read but those That have canonized them, you'll find them worse Than, in chaste language, I can speak them to you Are they immortal then, that did partake Of human weakness, and had ample share In men's most base affections ; subject to Unchaste loves, anger, bondage, wounds, as meri are ? Here, Jupiter, to serve his lust, turn'd bull. The shape, indeed, in which he stole Europa ; Neptune, for gain, builds up the walls of Troy As a day-labourer ; Apollo keeps Admetus' sheep for bread ; the Lemnian smith Sweats at the forge for hii'e ; Prometheus here, With his still-growing liver, feeds the vulture ; Saturn bound fast in hell with adamant chains : And thousands more, on whom abused error Bestows a deity. Will you then, dear sisters. For I would have you such, pay your devotions To things of less power than yourselves ? Cal. We worship Their good deeds in their images. Dor. By whom fashion'd ? By sinful men. I'll tell you a short tale, Nor can you but confess it is a true one : A king of Egypt, being to erect The image of Osiris, whom they honour. Took from the matrons' neck the richest jewels, And purest gold, as the materials. To finish up his woi-k ; which perfected. WENE II. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 13 With all solemnity he set it up, To be adored, and served himself his idol ; Desiring it to give him victory Against his enemies : but, being overthrown, Enraged against his god, (these are fine gods, Subject to human fury !) he took down The senseless thing, and melting it again, He made a bason, in which e\inuchs wash'd His concubine's feet ; and for this sordid use, Some months it served : his mistress proving false. As most indeed do so, and grace concluded Between him and the priests, of the same bason He made his god again ! — Think, think, of-*his, And then consider, if all worldly honours, Or pleasures that do leave sharp stings behind them, Have power to win such as have reasonable souls, To put their trust in dross. Cal, Oh, that I had been born "Without a father ! Christ. Piety to him Hath ruin'd us for ever. Dor. Think not so ; You may repair all yet : the attribute That speaks his Godhead most, is merciful : Revenge is proper to the fiends you worship, Yet cannot strike without his leave. — You weep, — Oh, 'tis a heavenly shower ! celestial balm To cure your wounded conscience ! let it fall, Fall thick upon it ; and, when that is spent, I '11 help it with another of my tears : And may your true repentance prove the child Of my true sorrow, never mother had A birth so happy ! Cal. "We are caught ourselves. That came to take you ; and, assured of conquest, We are your captives. Dor. And in that you triumph : Your victory had been eternal loss, And this your loss immortal gain. Fix here, And you shall feel yourselves inwardly arm'd 'Gainst tortures, death, and hell : — but, take heed, sisters, That, or through weakness, threats, or mild Though of a father, you fall not into [persuasions, A second and a worse apostacy. Cal. Never, oh never ! steel'd by your example, We dare the worst of tyranny. Christ. Here's our warrant. You shall along and witness it. Dor. Be confirm'd then ; And rest assured, the more you suffer here, The more your glory, you to heaven more dear. \^Exeunt, SCENE II — The Governor's Palace. Enter Artemia, Sapritius, Theophilus, and Harpax. Artem. Sapritius, though your son deserve no pity, We grieve his sickness : his contempt of us, We cast behind us, and look back upon His service done to Csesar, that weighs down Our just displeasure. If his malady Have growth from his restraint, or that you think His liberty can cure him, let him have it: Say, we forgive him freely. Sap. Your grace binds us, Ever your humblest vassals. Artem. Use all means For his recovery ; though yet I love him, I will not force affection. If the Christian, Whose beauty hath out-rivall'd me, be won To be of our belief, let him enjoy her ; That all may know, when the cause wills, I can Command my own desires. Theoph. Be happy then, My lord Sapritius : I am confident, Such eloquence and sweet persuasion dwell Upon my daughters' tongues, that they will work To anything they please. [her Sap. I wish they may ! Yet 'tis no easy task to undertake, To alter a perverse and obstinate woman. \_A shout within : loud music, Artem. What means this shout ? Sap. 'Tis seconded with music, Triumphant music. — Ha ! Enter Sempronius. Semp. My lord, your daughters. The pillars of our faith, have converted. For so report gives out, the Christian lady, The image of great Jupiter born before them. Sue for access. Theoph. My soul divined as much. Blest be the time when first they saw this light ! Their mother, when she bore them to support My feeble age, filled not my longing heart With so much joy, as they in this good work Have thrown upon me. Enter Priest, with the image of Jupiter, incense and censers ; followed by Calista and Christeta, leading Dorothea. Welcome, oh, thrice welcome, Daughters, both of my body and my mind ! Let me embrace in you my bliss, my comfort ; And, Dorothea, now more welcome too. Than if you never had fallen off ! I am ravish'd With the excess of joy : — speak, happy daughters, The blest event. Cal. We never gain'd so much By any undertaking. Theoph. O my dear girl. Our gods reward thee ! Dor. Nor was ever time, On my part better spent. Christ. We are all now Of one opinion. Theoph. My best Christeta ! Madam, if ever you did grace to worth, Vouchsafe your princely hands. Artem. Most willingly— Do you refuse it .-• , Cal. Let us first deserve it. Theoph. My own child still ! here set our god ; i prepare The incense quickly : Come, fair Dorothea, I will myself support you ; — now kneel down, And pay your vows to Juptter. Dor. I sheQl 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 iThcy both spit at the image, Cal. And thus. Ithrow it down, and spurn it. Harp. Profane, 14 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. ACT III. 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 I have no motion ; I would I had 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 So blasphemous a deed in any other : [at For my sake, hold awhile thy dreadful thunder, And give me patience to demand a reason Ti'or this accursed act. Dor. 'Twas bravely done. Theoph. Peace, damn'd enchantress, peace ! — I should look on you 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 anything. Sap. Stop her mouth. Dor. It is the patient' st godling ! 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. Theoph. Blasphemer ! Ingenious cruelty shall punish this : Thou art past hope : but for you yet, 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. I will not 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 nve Of worldly blessings. We profess ourselves To be, like Dorothea, Christians ; And owe her for that happiness. Theoph. My ears Receive, in hearing thi^, all deadly charms, Powerful to make man wretched. Artem. Are these they You bragg'd could convert others ! 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 I will. Harp. They merit death ; but, falling by your 'Twill be recorded for a just revenge, [hand. And holy fury in you. Theoph. Do not blow The furnace of a wrath thrice hot already ; ^tna is in my 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, I take that life Which I gave to you. SjLills them. Dor. O most cruel butcher ! Theoph. My anger ends not here : hell's dread- ful porter. Receive into thy ever-open gates 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. lExit, with Harpax. Artem. 'Tis a brave zeal. Enter Angelo, smiling. Dor. Oh, call him back again, Call back your hangman ! here's one prisoner left To be the subject of his knife. Artem. 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 Hirchts, ragged, at opposite doors. Hir. Spungius 1 Spun. My fine rogue, how is it ? how goes this tattered world ? Hir. Hast anj' money ? Spun. Money ! no. The tavern ivy clings about my money, and kills it. Hast thou any money ? Hir. No. My money is a mad bull ; and find- ing any gap opened, away it runs. Spun. 1 see then a tavern and a bawdyhouse have faces much alike*; the one hath red grates next the door, the ocher hath peeping-holes within doors : the tavern hath evermore a bush, the bawdyhouse sometimes neither hedge nor bush. From a tavern a man comes reeling ; from a bawdyhouse, notable to stand. In the tavern you are cozen'd with paltry wine ; in a bawdyhouse, 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 I 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, look- 8CENK III. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 15 ing upon my lousy breeches, cries out it cannot mend them ; which so pricks the linings of my body, (and those are, heart, lights, lungs, guts and midriff,) that I beg on my knees, to have Atropos, the tailor to the Destinies, to take her sheers, and cut my thread in two ; or to heat the iron goose of mortality, and so press me to death. Ilir. Sure thy father was some botcher, and thy hungry tongue bit off these shreds of com- plaints, 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 nothing) thrusts such scurvy stitches 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 sowterly 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 shows 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 famished. Spun. All the members in my body are in a rebellion one against another. Hir. 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, Why dost not gape and feed me ? Hir. And my mouth sets out a throat to my hand, Why dost not thou lift up meat, and cram my cliops 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 anything. Hir. Why, among so many millions of people, should thou and I only be miserable tatterdemaU iions, ragamuffins, and lousy desperates ? 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 foetida ? Sp9in. Worse ; all tottering, all out of frame, thou fooliamini ! Hir. As how, arsenic ? come, make the world smart. Spun. Old honour goes on crutches, beggary rides caroched ; honest men make feasts, knaves sit at tables, cowards are iapp'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 2 Hir. Stop, look ! who's yonder ? Enter Angelo. Spun. Fellow Angelo ! how does my little man ? well? Ang. Yes ; 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 cozen'd us. Spun. And therefore, I prithee, Angelo, if thou hast another purse, let it be confiscate, and brought to devastation. Ang. Are you made all of lies ? 1 know which way Your guilt-wing'd pieces flew. I will no more Be mock'd 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 sliame, that this scurvy pueriiis should give us lessons ? Hir. I have dwelt, thou know'st, a long time in the suburbs of consfdence, 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 no more to the bar of beggary ; the sound of Score a pottle of sack, is worse than the noise of a scolding oyster wench, or two cats incorporating. Harp. This must not be — I do not like when conscience Thaws; keep her frozen still. [Comes forward.'] How now, my masters ! Dejected ? drooping ? drown'd in tears ? clothes torn ? Lean, and ill colour'd ? sighing? where's the whirlwind Which raises all these mischiefs ? I have seen yo ' 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, Who shortly now must die. Where's now hev praying ? 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 rogues, And lousy prisoners ? Hir. Pox on them ! I never prospered since 1 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, becaus*» I turned Christian, and he cries. Poh ! 16 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Harp. You're rightly served; before that peevish lady Had to do with you, women, wine, and money Fiow'd in abundance with you, did it not ? Hir. Oh, those days ! those days ! 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 at- tendant on the lord Theophilus. Harp. Yes, yes ; in shew his servant : but — hark, hither I — Take heed nobody listens. 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 drunk ; I am a prince, and any man by me. Let him but keep my rules, shall soon grow rich, Exceeding rich, most infinitely rich : He that shall serve me, is not starved from plea- sures As other poor knaves are ; no, take their fill. Spnn. 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 hang'd ! Spun. And pox'd ! Harp. Why, now you're mine ; Come, let my bosom touch you. Spun. We have bugs, sir. Harp. There's money, fetch your clothes home; there's for you. Hir. Avoid, vermin ! give over our mistress ; a 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 Iving 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, anything ; if you have money, it's ten to one but I'll bring him to some tavern to you or other. Spun. I'll bespeak the best room in the house for him 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 ? Harp. Loves him from the teeth outward. Spun. Pray, my lord and prince, let me en- counter you with one foolish question: dees the devil eat any mace in his broth ? Harp. Exceeding much, when his burning fever takes him ; and then he has the knuckles of a 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 he 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 stroaking their cheeks, lead hellish lives under him ? Harp. No, no, no, no ; he will be damn'd be- fore he hurts any man : do but you (when you are throughly acquainted with him) ask for anything, see if it does not come. Spun. Anything 1 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 warrant ; 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; I, I. Harp. What is his word ? Hang ! hang I 'tis nothing — Or stab a woman ? 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 Hir. Hang them I Harp. And to the scrubbing poor. Hir. I'll see them hang'd first. Harp. One service you must do me. Both. Anything. Harp. Your mistress, Dorothea, ere she sufferij, 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 ? Hir. Suppose this she, and that I 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 ? Harp. No, not for hills of diamonds ; the grand master. Who schools her in the Christian discipline. Abhors my company : should I be there. You'd think all hell broke loose, we should so quarrel. Ply you this business ; he, her flesh who spares. Is lost, and in my love never more shares. lExit. Spun. Here's a master, you rogue I Hir. Sure he cannot choose but have a horrible number of servants. lExeunt. THK VIRGIN-MARTYR. 17 ACT IV. SCENE I.— The Governor's Palace. Anioninus on a couch, asleep, w?7ft Doctors about him,; Sapritius and Macrinus- Sap. O you, that are half gods, lent^then that life Their deities lend us ; turn o'er all the volumes Of your mysterious ^sculapian 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. 1 Doct. What art can do, we promise ; physic's As apt is to destroy as to preserve, [hand 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? a midwife ! 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 Dorofhea ; 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 : She, or none, cures him ; and how that can be, The princess' strict command barring that happi- To me impossible seems. [ness, Sap. To me it shall not ; I'll be no subject to the greatest Caesar Was ever crown'd with laurel, rather than cease To be a father. \_Exit. Mac. Silence, sir, he wakes. Anion. Thou kill'st me, Dorothea ; oh, Doro- Mac. She's here : — enjoy her. [thea ! Anion. Where ? Why do you mock me? Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet, Yet I'm an old man, a fond doating fool Upon a woman. I, to buy her beauty, (In truth I am bewitch'd,) offer my life. And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers : Yet, for our equal sufferings, none holds out A hand of pity. 1 Doci. Let him have some music. Anion. Hell on your fidling ! [_Star ting from his couch. 1 Doct. Take again your bed, sir ; Sleep is a sovereign physic. Anton. Take an ass's head, sir : Confusion on your fooleries, your charms ! — Tliou stinking clyster-pipe, where's the god of rest. Thy pills and base apothecary drugs Tbreaten'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. Re-enter Sapritius, dragging in Dorothea by the hair^ Angelo following. Sap. Follow me, thou damn'd sorceress ! Call up thy spirits. And, if they can, now let them from my hand 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 ? Anton. To death. Sap. Wouldst thou recover ? Anton. Would I live in bliss ! Sap. And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that Tliat brings thee health ? [man Anton. It is not in the world. Sap. It's here. Anton. To treasure, by enchantment lock'd In caves as deep as hell, am I as near. Sap. Break that enchanted cave : enter, and The spoils thy lust hunts after ; I descend [rifle To a base office, and become thy pander. In bringing thee this proud thing : make her thy whore. Thy health lies here ; if she deny to give it, Force it : imagine thou assault'st a town's Weak wall ; to't, 'tis thine own, but beat this dovm. Come, and, unseen, be witness to this battery, How the coy strumpet yields. 1 Doct. Shall the boy stay, sir ? Sap. No matter for the boy : — pages are used To these odd bawdy shufilings ; and, indeed, are Those little young snakes in a Fury's head, Will sting worse than the great ones. Let the pimp stay. lExeunt Sap., Mac, and Doer. Dor. O, guard me, angels ! What tragedy must begin now ? •^ Anion. When a tiger Leaps into a timorous herd, with ravenous jaws, Being hunger-starv'd, what tragedy then begins ? Dor. Death ; I am happy so ; you, hitherto. Have still had goodness sphered within your eyes. Let not that orb be broken. Ang. Fear not, mistress ; If h6 dare offer violence, we two Are strong enough for such a sickly man. Dor. What is your horrid purpose, sir? your Bears danger in it. [eye Anton. I must Dor. What? Sap. [within.'] Speak it out. Anton. Climb that sweet virgin tree. Sap. [within.] Plague o' your trees ! Anton. And pluck that fruit which none, I think, e'er tasted. Sap. [within.] A soldier, and stand fumbling so ! Dor. Oh, kill me, ^ [Kticels Id THE V^lIlGiN-MARTYR. ACT IV. And heaven will take it as a sacrifice ; But, if you play the ravisher, there is A hell to swallow you. Sap. [within.] Let her swallow thee ! Anton. Rise : — for the Roman empire, Dorothea, I would not wound thine honour. Pleasures forced. Are unripe apples ; sour, not worth the plucking : Yet, let me tell you, 'tis my father's will, That I should seize upon you, as my prey ; Which I abhor, as much as the blackest sin The villainy of man did ever act. [Saprit.ius breaks in tvith Macrinus. Dor, Die happy for this language 1 Sap. Die a slave, A blockish idiot ! Mac. Dear sir, vex him not. Sap. Yes, and vex thee too ; both, I think, are geldings ; 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 shalt 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 plea- sures 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 ? Sap. Teach her a trade, which many a one would learn In less than half an hour, — to play the whore. Enter Soldiers with 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 conquer'd, none comes The Briton for true whoring. SiiTah fellow, [near What wouldst thou do to gain thy liberty ? Slave. Do ! liberty ! fight naked with 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 And that I could not do't but by thy death, [off, Stoodst 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. Sap. Thou shalt, then, be no slave, for I will set Upon a piece of work is fit for man ; [thee Brave for a Briton : — drag that thing aside, And ravish her. Slave. And ravish her ! is this your manly ser- A devil scorns to do it ; 'tis for a beast, [vice ? 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. [//e is carried in. Dor. That Power supernal, on whom waits my Is captain o'er my chastity. soul, Anton. Good sir, give o'er : The more you wrong her, yourself's vex'dthe more. Sap. Plagues light on her and thee ! — thus down I throw Thy harlot, thus by the hair nail her to earth. Call in ten slaves, let every one discover What lust desires, and surfeit here his fill. Call in ten slaves. Enter Slaves. Mac. They are come, sir, at your call. Sap. Oh, oh ! IFalls down. Enter Theophilds. Theoph. Where is the governor ? Anton. There's my wretched father. Theoph. My lord Sapritius — he's not dead! — That witch there — [my lord ! Anton. 'Tis no Roman gods can strike These fearful terrors. O, thou happy maid. Forgive this wicked purpose of my father. Dor. I do. Theoph. Gone, gone ; he's pepper'd. It is thou Hast done this act infernal. Dor. Heaven pardon you ! And if my wrongs from thence pull vengeance down, (I can no miracles work,) yet, from my soul. Pray to those Powers I serve, he may recover. Theoph. He stirs — help, raise him up, — my lord! Sqp. Where am I ? Theoph. One cheek is blasted. Sap. Blasted ! where's the lamia That 'ears my entrails ? I'm bewitch'd; seize on DiT. I'm here ; do what you please. [her. Theoph. Spurn her to the bar. Dor. Come, boy, being there, more near to heaven we are. Sap. Kick harder ; go out, witch ! ^Exeunt. Anton. O bloody hangmen ! Thine own gods give thee breath ! Each of thy tortures is my several desth. lExit. SCENE 11.—^ Public Square. Enter Harpax, Hircius, and Sfungius. Harp. Do you like my service now ? say, am A master worth attendance ? [not I Spun. Attendance ! I had rather lick clean the soles of your dirty boots, than wear the richest suit of any infected lord, whose rotten life hangs between the two poles. Hir. A lord's suit ! I would not give up the cloak of your service, to meet the splayfoot estate of any left-eyed knight above the antipodes ; be- cause they are unlucky to meet. Harp. This day I'll try your loves to me ; tis But well to use the agility of your arms. [only Spun. Or legs, I am lusty at them. Hir. Or any other member that has no legs. Spun. Thou'lt run into some hole. SCENE II. THE VIROIN-MARTYR. 10 Hir. If I meet one that's more than my match, and that I cannot stand in their hands, I must and will creep on my knees. Harp. Hear me, my little team of villains, hear me ; I cannot teach you fencing with these cudgels, Yet you must use them ; lay them on but soundly ; That's all. Hir. Nay, if we come to mauling once, pah ! Spun. But what walnut-tree is it we must beat ? Harp. Your mistress. Hir. How ! my mistress ? I begin to have a Christian's heart made of sweet butter, I melt ; I cannot strike a woman. Spun. Nor I, unless she scratch ; bum my mis- Harp. You're coxcombs, silly animals, [tress 1 Hir. What's that ? Harp. Drones, asses, blinded moles, that dare not thrust Your arms out to catch fortune : say, you fall off, It must be done. You are converted rascals. And, that once spread abroad, why every slave Will kick you," call you motley Christians, And half-faced Christians. Spun. The guts of my conscience begin to be of whitleather- Hir. I doubt me, I shall have no sweet butter in me. Harp. Deny this, and each pagan whom you meet, Shall forked fingers thrust into your eyes Hir. If we be cuckolds. Harp. Do this, and every god the Gentiles bow Shall add a fathom to your line of years. [to, Spun. A hundred fathom, I desire no more. Hir. I desire but one inch longer. Harp. The senators will, as you pass along. Clap you upon your shoulders with this hand, And with this give you gold : when you are dead, Happy that man shall be, can get a nail. The paring, — nay, the dirt under the nail, Of any of you both, to say, this dirt Belonged to Spungius or Hircius. Spun. They shall not want dirt under my nails, I will keep them long of purpose, for now my fin- gers itch to be at her. Hir. The first thing I do, I'll take her over the lips. Spun. And I the hips, — we may strike any where % Harp. Yes, any where. Hir. Then I know where I'll hit her. Harp. Prosper, and be mine own ; stand by, I must not To see this done, great business calls me hence : He's made can make her curse his violence. [.Exit. Spun. Fear it not, sir ; her ribs shall be basted. Hir. I'll come upon her with rounce, robble- hobble, and thwick-thwack-thirlery bouncing. Enter Dorothea, led prisoner; Sapritttts, Theophilus, Angelo, and a Hangman, who sets up a Pillar.- Sa- PRiTius and Theophilus sit; Akgelo stands fcy Doro- thea. A Guard attending. Sap. According to our Roman customs, bind That Christian to a pillar. Theoph. Infernal Furies, Could they into my hand thrust all their whips To tear thy flesh, thy soul, 'tis not a torture Fit to the vengeance I should heap on thee, For wrongs done me ; me ! for flagitious facts. By thee done to our gods : yet, so it stand To great Caesarea's governor's high pleasure, Bow but thy knee to Jupiter, and offer Any slight sacrifice ; or do but swear By Ceesar's fortune, and be free. Sap. Thoushalt. Dor. Not for all Caesar's fortune, were it chain'd To more worlds than are kingdoms in the world. And all those worlds drawn after him. I defy Your hangmen ; you now shew me whither to fly. Sap. Are her tormentors ready ? Ang. Shrink not, dear mistress. Spun, and Hir. My lord, we are ready for the business. Dor. You two ! whom I like foster'd children fed. And lengthen'd out your starved life with bread. You be my hangmen ! whom, when up the ladder Death haled you to be strangled, I fetch'd down. Clothed you, and warm'd you, you two my tor- Both. Yes, we. [mentors ! Dor. Divine Powers pardon you ! Sap. Strike. \_They strike at her : Angelo kneeling holds her fast. Theoph. Beat out her brains. Dor. Receive me, you bright angels I Sap. Faster, slaves. Spun. Faster I I am out of breath, I am sure ; if I were to beat a buck, I can strike no harder. Hir. O mine arms I I cannot lift them to my head. Dor. Joy above joys ! are my tormentors weary In torturing me, and, in ray sufferings, I fainting in no limb ! tyrants, strike home, And feast your fury full. Theoph. These dogs are curs, [Comes from his seat. Which snarl, yet bite not. See, my lord, her face Has more bewitching beauty than before : Proud whore, it smiles ! cannot an eye start out. With these ? Hir. No, sir, nor the bridge of her nose fall ; 'tis full of iron-work. Sap. Let's view the cudgels, are they not coun- terfeit ? Ang. There fix thine eye still ; — thy glorious crown must come Not from soft pleasure, but by martyrdom. There fix thine eye still ; — when we next do meet, Not thorns, but roses, shall bear up thy feet : There fix thine eye still. [Exit. Dor. Ever, ever, ever ! Enter IIarpax, sneaking. Theoph. We're mock'd ; these bats have power Yet her skin is not scarr'd. [to feU down giants, Sap. What rogues are these ? Theoph. Cannot these force a shriek ? [Beats Spungfus. Spun. Oh ! a woman has one of my ribs, and now five more are broken. Theoph. Cannot this make her roar? [Beats IliKcius ; he roars. Snp. Who hired these slaves ? what are they ? 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. 20 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Sap. Unbind her ; hang up these. Theoph. Hang the two hounds on the next tree. Hir. Hang u-s ! master Harpax, what a devil, shall we be thus used ? Harp. What bandogs but you two would worry a woman ? 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 Itnives, 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 the 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 HrRCius. Sap. Death this day rides in triumph, Theo- See this witch made away too. [philus. Theoph. My soul thirsts for it ; Come, I myself the hangman's part could play. Dor. O haste me to my coronation day ! {_Exeunt. « SCENE III The Place of Execution. A Scaffold, Block, ^c. Enter Antoninus, supported hy 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. I Mac. Strange affection ! ! Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with And kills, instead of giving life. [Death, Anton. Nay, weep not ; Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm, i On me they're cast away. It is decreed i That I must die with her ; our clue of life I Was spun together. I Mac. Yet, sir, 'tis my wonder, That you, who, hearing only what she suff'ers. Partake of all her tortures, yet will be, To add to your calamity, an eye-witness 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 wnat is made sharp by my constant love And true aff*ection ? 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 he/ore her ; followed hy Theophilus, Sapritius, and Harpax. See, she comes ; How sweet her innocence appears ! more like To heaven itself, than any sacrifice That can be off'er'd to it. By my hopes Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful In my belief ; nor can I think our gods Are good, or to be served, that take delight In off"erings 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 ofi'ended ; 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 think 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 Of the Elysian joys thou might'st have tasted, Hadst thou not turn'd apostata to those gods That so reward their servants ; let despair Prevent the hangman's sword, and on this sc.Jiff'nld Make thy first entrance into hell. Anton. She smiles, Unmoved, by Mars ! as if she were assured Death, looking on her constancy, would forget The use of his inevitable hand. Theoph. Derided too ! dispatch, I say. Dor. Thou fool ! That gloriest in having power to ravish A trifle from me I am weary of. What is this life to me? not worth a thought ; Or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it To win a better : even thy malice serves To me but as a ladder to mount up To such a height of happiness, where I shall Look down with scorn on thee, and on the world ; W^here, circled with true pleasures, placed above The reach of death or time, 'twill be my glory To think at what an easy price I bought it. There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth : No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat. Famine, nor age, have any being there. Forget, for shame, your Tempe ; bury in Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards: — The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragoa- Which did require a Hercules to get it. SCENE I IX. THE VlllGlN-MARTYK. 21 Compared with what grows in all plenty there, Deserves not to be named. The Power I serve, Laughs at your happy Araby, or the Elysian shades ; for he hath made his bowers Better in deed, than you can fancy yours. Anton. O, take me thither with you ! Dor. Trace my steps, And be assured you shall. Sap. With my own hands I'll rather stop that little breath is left thee, And rob thy killing fever. Theoph. By no means ; Let him go with her : do, seduced young man, And wait upon thy saint in death ; do, do : And, when you come to that imagined place, -"^ That place of all delights — pray you, observe me, And meet those cursed things I once call'd Daughters, Whom I have sent as harbingers before you ; If there be any truth in your religion, In thankfulness to me, that with care hasten Your journey thither, pray you send me some Small pittance of that curious fruit you boast of, Anton. Grant that I may go with her, and I will. Sap. Wilt thou in thy last minute damn thyself? Theoph. The gates to hell are open. Dor. Know, tlaou tyrant, Thou agent for the devil, thy great master, Though thou art most unworthy to taste of it, I can, and will. Enter Angelo, in the Angel's habit. Harp. Oh ! mountains fall upon me. Or hide me in the bottom of the deep, Where light may never find me ! Theoph. What's the matter ? Sap. This is prodigious, and confirms her witch- Theoph. Harpax, my Harpax, speak ! [craft. Harp. I dare not stay : Should I but hear her once more, I were lost. Some whirlwind snatch me from this cursed place. To which compared, (and with what now I suffer,) Hell's torments are sweet slumbers ! lExit. Sap. Follow him. Theoph. He is distracted, and I must not lose Thy charms upon my servant, cursed w^itch, [him. Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die. Till my return. lExeunt Sap, and Theoph. Anton. She minds him not : what object Is her eye fix'd on ? Mac. I see nothing. Anton. Mark her. [serve ! Dor. Thou glorious minister of the Power I (For thou art more than mortal,) is't for me, Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave Thy heavenly habitation, and vouchsafest, Though glorified, to take my servant's habit? For, put off thy divinity, so look'd My lovely Angelo. Ang. Know, I am the same ; And still the servant to your piety. [me, Your zealous pra-yers, and pious deeds first won (But 'twas by His command to whom you sent To guide your steps. I tried your charity, [them) When in a beggar's shape you took me up. And clothed my naked hmbs, and after fed. As you believed, my famish 'd mouth. Learn all, By your example, to look ou the poor With gentle eyes ! for in such habits, often, Angels desire an alms, I never left you, Nor will I now ; for I am sent to carry Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal, Your martyrdom once suffer'd ; and before it. Ask anything from me, and rest assured, You shall obtain it. Dor. I am largely paid ,> For all my torments. Since I find such grace, Grant that the love of this young man to me, In which he languisheth to death, may be Changed to the love of Heaven. Ang. I will perform it ; And in that instant when the sword sets free Your happy soul, his shall have liberty. Is there aught else ? Dor. For proof that I forgive My persecutor, who in scorn desired To taste of that most sacred fruit I go to ; After my death, as sent from me, be pleased To give him of it, Ang. Willingly, dear mistress. Mac. I am amazed. Anton. I feel a holy fire. That yields a comfortable heat within me ; I am quite alter'd from the thing I was. See ! I can stand, and go alone ; thus kneel To heavenly Dorothea, touch her hand With a religious kiss. IKneeli. Re-enter Sapritius and Theophilus. Sap. He is well now. But will not be drawn back. Theoph. It matters not. We can discharge this work without his help. But see your son. Sap. Villain ! Anton. Sir, I beseech you. Being so near our ends, divorce us not. Theoph. I'll quickly make a separation of them : Hast thou aught else to say ? Dor. Nothing, but to blame Thy tardiness in sending me to rest ; My peace is made with heaven, to which my soul Begins to take her flight : strike, O ! strike quickly ; And, though you are unmoved to see my death, Hereafter, when my story shall be read. As they were present now, the hearers shall Say this of Dorothea, with wet eyes, " She lived a virgin, and a virgin dies." IHer head is struck off. Anton. O, take my soul along, to w^ait on thine ! Mac. Your son sinks too. IAntosiws /alls. Sap. Already dead ! Theoph. Die all That are, or favour this accursed sect : I triumph in their ends, and will raise up A hill of their dead carcasses, to o'erlook The Pyrenean hills, but I'll root out These superstitious fools, and leave the world No name of Christian. ILoud music: Exit Anselo, having first laid bis hand upon the mouths 0/ Anton, and Dor. Sap, Ha ! heavenly music ! Mac. 'Tis in the air. Theoph. Illusions of the devil, Wrought by some witch of her religion, That fain would make her death a miracle ; It frights not me. Because he is your son, Let him have burial ; but let her body Be cast forth with contempt in some highway. And be to vultures and to dogs a prey. {Exmni 22 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. ACT V. ACT V. SCENE I. — Theophilus discovered sitting in his Study : books about him. Theoph. Is't holiday, O Csesar, that thy servant, Thy provost, to see execution done On these base Christians in Csesarea, 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 Chris- tians, 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, — what ? IReads. A thousand icives, 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 Ha! ha 1 [Christians. Again, again, — East Angles, — oh, East Angles : Bandogs, kept three days hungr,y, 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 thou- sand Torn by wild beasts : two hundr.ed rammed in the earth To the armpits, and full platters roundabout them. But far enough for reaching : Eat, dogs, ha 1 ha I ha ! [^« rises. Tush, all these tortures are but fillipings, Fleabi tings ; I, before the Destinies Enter Angelo with a basket JiUed with fruit and flowers. My bottom did wind up, would flesh myself Once more upon some one remarkable 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 ? IMusic. Ang. Are you amazed, sir ? So great a Roman spirit — and doth it tremble ! Theoph. How cam'st thou in ? to whom thy A?ig. To you ; [business ? I 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 shewent, and where, nowhappy, 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 ? Aug. Yes, if the master Will give you entrance. LHe vanishes. 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 it not 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 ? — My delicate boy, — gone ! vanish'd ! within there, Julianus ! 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 Geta. No, sir ! [basket. Theoph. Away — but be in reach, if my voice calls you. lExeunt Jul. and Geta. 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. lEats of the fruit. Harp. Iwithin-I Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph. So good ! I'll have some more, sure. 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! Re-enter Geta. Geta. My lord. Harp, [within.'] Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph. What insolent slave is this, dares Or what is't the dog grins at so ? [laugh at me ? Geta. I neither know, my lord, at what, nor whom ; for there is none without, but my fellow Julianus, and he is making a garland for Jupiter. Theoph. Jupiter 1 all within me is not well ; And yet not sick. Harp, [within.'] Ha, ha, ha, ha I Theoph. What's thy name, slave .' Harp, [at one end of the room.] Go look. Geta. 'Tis Harpax' 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, [in the middle.] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! Theoph. He is at barley-break, and the last Are now in hell. [couple Search for him. [Exit Geta.j All this ground, methinks is bloody, THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 2li And paved with thousands of those Christians' eyes Whom I have tortured ; and they stare upon me. What was this apparition ? sure it had 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 ; And 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? IMusic] Ha! I re- member, 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 JIarp. l7vithin.'\ Ha, ha, ha ! [gore. Theoph. Again ! — What dainty relish on my tongue This fruit hath left ! some angel hath me fed ; If so toothfull, I will be banqueted. lEats again. Enter Harpax in a fearful shape,Jire fashing out of the Study. Harp. Hold! Theoph. Not for Caesar. Harp. But for me thou shalt. Theoph. Thou art no twin to him that last was here. 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. I 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 1 shall give thee, and I'm gone. Theoph. My fruit ! Does this offend thee } see ! lEats again. Harp. Spit it to the earth. 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 In a contorted chain of isicles, [hang thee In the frigid zone : down with them ! Theoph. At the bottom One thing I found not yet. See ! [Holds up a cross of flowers. Harp. Oh ! I am tortured. Theoph. Can this do't ! hence, thou fiend in- fernal, hence ! Harp. Clasp Jupiter's image, and away with that. Theoph. At thee I'll fling that Jupiter; for, methinks, I serve a better master : he now checks me For murdering my two daughters, put on by thee. — 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. Theoph. I serve a strength above thine ; this small weapon, Methinks, is armour hard enough. Harp. Keep from me. [Sinks a little. Theoph. 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 up, the strong defence, In the fair Christian's quarrel ! Enter Anqelo. ■Ang. Fix thy foot there, Nor be thou shaken with a Caesar'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 things 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. [Exit. Theoph. 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 ray soul. Now look I back On my black tyrannies, which, as they did Outdare the bloodiest, thou, blest spirit, that lead'st me, Teach me what I must to do, and, to do well. That ray last act the best may parallel. [Exit. SCENE II. — Dioclesian's Palace. Enter DrocLESiAN, Maximinus, the Kings of Epire, Pon- tus and Macedon, meeting Artemia ; Attendants. Artem. Glory and conquest still attend upon Triumphant Caesar ! Diode. Let thy wish, fair daughter, Be equally divided ; and hereafter Learn thou to know and reverence Maximinus, Whose power, with mine united, makes one Caesar. Max. But that I fear 'twould be held flattery, The bonds considered 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 shew yourself Both courtier and soldier ; but take heed. Take heed, my lord, though my duU-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; 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 Phars^ilia cover'd With the dead carcasses of senators, And citizens of Rome ; when the world knew No other lord but him, struck deep in years too, (And men gray-hair'd forget the lusts of youth,) After all this, meeting fair Cleopatra, THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. ACT V- 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 pur- chased. Diode. This meets my wishes. Welcome it, 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 To our continued league. [give strength Diode. 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. Diode. We much thank your loves : But Where's Sapritius, our governor, And our most zealous provost, good Theophilus .'' 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 Apostate in death ; 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 scatFoid, And saw her lose her head. Diode. He is all worthy : And from his own mouth I would gladly hear The manner how she suifer'd. Artem. 'Twill be deliver'd With such contempt and scorn, (T know his nature,) That rather 'twill beget your highness' laughter, Than the least pity. Diode. To that end I would hear it. Enter Theophilus, Sapritius, and Macrinus. Artem. He comes ; with him the governor. Diode. O, Sapritius, I am to chide you for your tenderness ; But yet remembering that you are a father, 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 Receive my signet : — By the power of this, [me, Go to my prisons, and release all Christians, That are in fetters there by my command., Mao. 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 : Haste, good Macrinus ; and the great God guide you ! Mac. I'll undertake't; 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 esteem'd a sin. \_Exit. Diode. You know your charge ? Sap. And will with care observe it. Diode. For I profess he is not Ctesar'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 change. Prithee deliver, and for my sake do it, [li»g. 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. Diode. 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 but hereafter named, You will rise up with reverence, and no more, As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember What the canonized Spartan ladies were. Which lying Greece so boasts of. Your own ma- trons, Your Roman dames, whose figures you yet keep As holy relics, in her history Will find a second urn : Gracchus' Cornelia, 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 ? Diode. 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 SCENE II. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 26 With sinful ears, and belch'd out blasphemous words Against his Deity, which then I knew not, Nor did believe in him. Diode. 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 1 would speak, and speak again, and boldly, 1^1 am a Christian, and the Powers you worship, ^&ut dreams of fools and madmen. ^ Max. Lay hands on him. Diode. 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. Max. Do ; no way is left, else, To save thy life, Theophilus. Diode. 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; 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 A:CComptable 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 chere are a thousand engines Of studied cruelty, which I did prepare For miserable Christians ; let me feel As the Sicilian did his brazen bull. The horrid'st you can find ; and I will say, In death, that you are merciful. Diode. Despair not ; In this thou shalt prevail. Go fetch them hither : [^Exeunt some of the 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. Theoph. "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 racks and other instruments of torture. Diode. 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'st. [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 1 you are unskilful — For heaven's sake more ; my breast is yet untorn: Here 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. Diode. Harder, villains ! Enter Harpax. Harp. Unless that he blaspheme, he's lost for ever. If torments ever could bring forth despair. Let these compel him to it : — Oh me ! My ancient enemies again 1 IFalls down. Enter Dorothea in a white robe, a crown upon her head, led in by Angelo ; Antoninus, Calista, and Christet A following, all in ichite, but less glorious f Angelo holds out a crown to Theophii,us. Theoph. Most glorious vision ! — Did e'er so hard a bed 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 this blest minute, I 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 1 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. \^Dics. Sap. I have seen thousands tortured, but ne'er A constancy like this. [yet Harp. 1 am twice damn'd. Ang. Haste to thy place appointed, cursed fiend ! fllARi'Ax sinks with thu7ider and lightning. In spite of hell, this soldier's not thy prey ; 'Tis I have won, thou that hast lost the day. lExit with Dor. ^c. Diode. I think the centre of the earth be crack'd — Yet I stand still unmoved, and will go oa . The persecution that is here begun. Through all the world with violence shall run. IFlourith. Exeunt. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. TO MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, ANTHONY SENTLEGER, 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 Senti-eger (whose remarkable virtues must be ever remembered) being, while he lived, a master, for his pleasure, in poetry, feared not to 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 tlie world. Besides (and it was not the least encouragement to me) 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, peradve.iture, 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 Massinoer. DRAMATIS PERSONiE. Beaufort Senior, Governor of Marseilles, Beaufort Junior, his Son. Malekort Senior, Admiral of Marseilles. Malefort Junior, his Son. Chamont, "j Montaigne, yAssistants to the Governor. Lanour, j Montreville, a pretended Friend to Malbfort Senior. Belgarde, a poor Captain. Three Sea Captains, of the Navy of Malefort Junior. A Steward, An Usher. A Page. Theocrinr, Daughter to Malefort Senior. Two Waiting-Women. Two Courtezans. A Bawd. Servants and Soldiers. SCENE, — Marseilles. ACT I. SCENE I.— A Hall in the Court of Justice. Enter Montreville, 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 a while must part with Soft silence, and the blushings of a virgin : Though I must grant, did not this cause com- mand 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 / -j^, ■' icc^ In this bag shall wake her, though she had drunk opium. 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 tnem do what they can) with all Their mines, their culverins, and basiliscos. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 27 Shall cool their feet without ; this being the pick- That never fails. [lock 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 in 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 bosom 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 prospers ; the world's wicked. We are men, not saints, sweet lady ; you must practise The manners of the time, 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 to you. 1 Worn. Some wicked counsel on my life. 2 Worn. Ne'er doubt it, If it proceed from him. Page. I wonder that My lord so much affects him. Ush. Thou'rt a child, And durst not understand on what strong basis This friendship's raised between this Montreville And 6ur lord, monsieur Malefort ; but I'll teach thee : From thy years they have been joint purchasers 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 by 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 My lady's garter, and can guess [tied, sir, Ush. Peace, infant ; Tales out of school ! take heed, you will be breech' d else. 1 Worn. My lady's colour changes. 2 Worn. She falls off too. Theoc. You are a naughty man, indeed you are ; Vnd 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 tanght To howl, and cry, when you begin to whimper ; Nor following my lord's coach in the dirt, Nor 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. 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 exchange of courtesy, — you conceive Enter Beaufort junior, and Belgakde. Were madness at the height. Here's brave young Beaufort, The meteor of Marseilles, one that holds The governor his father's will and power In more awe than his own ! Come, come, ad- vance. Present your bag, cramm'd with crowns of the sun ; Do you think he cares for money ? he loves plea- sure. Bum your petition, burn it : he doats on you. Upon my knowledge : to his cabinet, do, And he will point you out a certain course, Be the cause right or wrong, to have your father Released with much facility. ZExit. Theoc. Do you hear ? Take a pander with you. Beauf. jmt,. 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. Beauf. 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 you. Belg. But how shall I do, to satisfy colon, monsieur ? There lies the doubt. Beauf. jun. That's easily decided ; My father's table's free for any man That hath born arras. 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 ray 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 Beauf. jun. Kvidiy, 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 ; I know my man»^ ners : This is, indeed, great business, mine a gewgaw. I may dance attendance, this must be dispatch'd, 28 THE UNNATURAL CUAJBAr. And suddenly, or all will go to wreck ; Charge her home in the flank, my lord : nay, I am gone, sir. [Exit. Beauf. jun. [raising Theoc. /rom tier knees.} Nav, pray you, madam, rise, or I'll kneel with you. Page. I would bring you on your knees, 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 ? Beauf. 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 sway'a 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 own worth, Should you receive me, since there come with you Not lustful lires, 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, ready to be devour'd By ravenous wolves, and at that instant, I But entertain a thought of those delights, In which, perhaps, my ardour meets with yours ! Duty and piety forbid it, sir. Beauf. jun. But this 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. Beauf. jun. I urge no more ; Confirnti it with a kiss. Theoc. [Kissing him.^ 1 doubly seal it. Ush. This would do better abed, the business ended : — They are the loving'st couple I Enter Bbaufort senior, JIontaigne, Chamont, and Lanour. Beauf. jun. Here comes my father. With the Council of War : deliver your petition, And leave the rest to me. [Theoc. offers a paper. Beauf. sen. 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. Beauf. sen. Thou foolish boy ! I can deny thee nothing. ^Takes the paper from Theoc. Beauf. jun. Thus far we are happy, madam : quit the place ; You shall hear how we succeed. Theoc. Goodness reward you ! lExeunt Theocrine, Usher. Page, a7id Women. Mont. It is apparent ; and we stay too long To censure Malefort as he deserves. IThey take their seats. Cham. There is no colour of reason that makes for 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 up, and, in our sight. Our goods made prize, our sailors sold for slaves. By his prodigious issue. Lan. I much grieve. After so many brave and high achievements. He should in one ill forfeit all the good He ever did his country. Beauf. sen. Well, 'tis granted. Beauf. jun. I humbly thank you, sir. Beauf. sen. He shall have hearing. His irons too struck off ; bring him befoi'e us, But seek no further favour. Beauf jun. Sir, I dare not. lExit Beauf. sen. Monsieur Chamont, Montaigne, Lanour, assistants. By a commission from the most Christian king, In punishing or freeing Malefort, Our late great admiral : though I know you need Instructions from me, how to dispose of [not Yourselves in this man's trial, that exacts Your clearest judgments, give me leave, with fa- To offer my opinion. We are to hear him, [vour, 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 Intelligence 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 ; We sit engaged to censure him with all Extremity and rigour. Cham. Your lordship shews 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, Mai.efoiit senior, Belgarde, a7id Officers. Beauf. sen. He comes, but with A strange distracted look. SCKNK I. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 2P Malef. sen. Live I once more To see these hands and arms free ! these, that In the most dreadful horror of a fight, [often, 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 appear'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 With such swift motion from deck to deck. As they that saw it, with amazement cried, He does not run, but fiies ! Mont. He still retains The greatness of his spirit. Male/, sen. Now crarapt 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 applauses. With which, when I retum'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, 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 Malef. 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 serv'd, you would join with To the ruin of Marseilles ? [them, Mont. More, what urged Your son to turn apostata ? Cham. Had he from The stale, or governor, the least neglect, Which envy could interpret for a wrong ? Lan. Or, if you slept not in your charge, how So many ships as do infest our coast, [could 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'll answer each particular objection [I can, With which you charge me. The main ground, on which 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, Because that he is impious, I am false ? I would not boast my actions, yet 'tis lawful To upbraid my benefits to unthankful men. Who sunk the Turkish gallies in the streights But Malefort ? Who rescued the French mer- chants. 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 ? then you fiU'd The air with shouts of joy, and did proclaim, When 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 1 Beauf. sen. What you have done Is granted and applauded ; but yet know This glorious relation 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 Had been with ease prevented. Malef. sen. 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 conrmand forbear To make his progress to the other world. 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 undiscern'd, without resistance. Beset our harbour : make not that my fault, W^hich you in justice must ascribe to fortune.— But if that nor my former acts, nor what I have delivered, can prevail with you. To make good my integrity and truth ; Rip up this bosom, and pluck out the heart That hath been ever loyal. \.A trumpet within. Beauf. sen. How 1 a trumpet ? Enquire the cause. [Exit Montrkvilub. 30 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 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 by some unexpected means confirm, I am accused unjustly ! [Aside. Re-enter Montreville with a Sea Captain. Beauf. 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 ? Beauf. jun. Strange and prodigious ! Malef. sen. Thou seest 1 stand unmoved : were thy voice thunder, It should not shake me; say, what would the viper? Capt. The reverence a father's name may chal- And duty of a son no more remember'd, [lenge. He does defy thee to the death. Malef. sen. Go on. Capt. And with his sword will prove it on thy Thou art a murderer, an atheist ; [head. 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 overwhelm 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, 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 Brulus, The father of the Roman liberty, With more assured constancy beheld His traitor sons, for labouring to call home The banish'd Tarquins, scourged with rods to death, Than I 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 kiU 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 reCorSeJ. 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 Theocrine ; 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 j by the next sun. The disobedient rebel shall hear from me. And so return in safety. [To the Captain.] My 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. 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 oveijoy'd in't ; and, as it had been A fair invitement to a solemn feast, And not a combat to conclude with death, He cheerfully embraced it. 3 Capt. Are the articles Sign'd to on both parts ? i Cavt . At the father's suit. With much unwillingness the governor Conse:\ted to them. 2 Ca])t. 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. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 31 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 laying then his hand upon his sword, He would murmur, but yet so as I ott heard lum, We shall meet, cruel father, yes, we shall ; When I'll exact, for every womanish drop Of sorrow from these eyes, a strict accompt Of much more from the heart. 2 Cupt. '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 minds 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 Exp r ess 'd by him for victory. Enter Malefort jun. 2 Capt. Here he comes. But with more cheerful looks than ever yet I saw him wear. Malef. jun. It was long since resolved on. Nor must I stagger now [in't.] May the cause, That forces me to this unnatural act 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 of 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 [it. — ^^ar from this place, and where you please inter 1 should say more, but by his sudden coming I am cut off. Enter liKAvroBX junior awrf Montreville, leading in Malefort senior ; MaLOAKoa following , with others. Beauf. jun. Let me, sir, have the honour To be your second. 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 have seen me fight, And handsomely, though I say it ; and if now. At this downright game, I may but hold your I'll not pull down the side. [cards, 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.] And leave me to my fortune. [Lead the way, Beauf. 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, Leave deadly hate and fury. [and with us Malef sen. From this place You ne'er shall see both living. Belff. What's past help, is Beyond prevention. [They embrace on both sides, and take leave teverallp 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 griefis. 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 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 satety : But this confest on my part, I rise up, And not as with a father, (all respect. Love, fear, and reverence cast ott".) but as A wicked man I thus expostulate with >( u. Why have you done that which 1 dare not speak, ;?2 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. And in the action changed the humble shape Of my obedience, to rebellious rage, And insolent pride ? and with shut eyes con- To run my bark of honour on a shelf [ strain' d me 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 Asa fearful prisoner at the bar, while he That owes his being to me sits a judge To censure that, which onjy by myself Ought to be question'd ? mountains sooner fall Beneath their valleys, and the lofty pine Pay homage to the bramble, or what else is Preposterous in nature, ere my tongue In one short syllable yield satisfaction To any doubt of thine ; nay, though it were A certainty disdaining argument ! Since, though my deeds wore hell's black livery, To thee they should appear 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 Malef. sen. It cannot : [knot. It cannot, wretch ; and if thou but remember From whom thou hadst this spirit, thou dar'st not hope it. [thee "Who train'd thee up in arms but I ? Who taught Men were men onJy when they durst look down With scorn on death and danger, and contemn'd All opposition, till plumed Victory Had made her constant stand upon their helmets ? 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, but 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. May, now my anger's up, Ten thousand virgins kneeling at my feet, And with one general cry howling for mercy. Shall not redeem thee. Malef. jun. 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. iThey fight. Beaufort junior, Montheville, Beloarde, and the three Sea Captains, appear on the Mount. Beauf. jun. They are at it. "2 Capt. 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 Malefort is slain. Belg. He's fallen, the day is ours ! 2 Capt. The admiral's slain. Montr. The father is victorious ! Belg. Let us haste To gratulate his conquest. 1 Capt. We to mourn The fortune of the son. Beauf. jun. With utmost speed Acquaint the governor with the good success, That he may entertain, to his full merit, The father of his country's peace and safety. IThey retire. Malef. sen. Were a new life hid in each mangled limb, I would search, and find it : and howe'er to some I may seem cruel thus to tyrannize Upon this senseless flesh, I glory in it. — That I have power to be unnatural. Is my security ; die all my fears, And waking jealousies, which have so long Been my tormentors ! there's now no suspicion : A fact, which I alone am conscious of, Can never be discover'd, or the cause That call'd this duel on, I being above All perturbations ; nor is it in The power of fate, again to make me wretched. Re-enter Bkaufort junior, Montrev(lle, Belgahde, and the three Sea Captains. Beauf. jun. All honour to the conqueror ! who My friend of treachery now ? [dares tax Belg. I am very glad, sir, You have sped so well : but I must tell you thus much. To put you in mind that a low ebb must follow Your high-swoll'n tide of happiness, you have This honour at a high price. [purchased Malef. 'Tis, Belgarde, Above all estimation, and a little To be exalted with it cannot savour Of arrogance. That to this arm and sword Marseilles owes the freedom of her fears, Or that my loyalty, not long since eclipsed. Shines now more bright than ever, are not things To be lamented ; though, indeed, they may Appear too dearly bought, my falling glories Being made up again, and cemented With a son's blood. 'Tis true, he was my son. While he was worthy ; but when he shook off His duty to me, (which my fond indulgence. Upon submission, might perhaps have pardon'd,) And grew his country's enemy, I look'd on him As a stranger to my family, and a traitor Justly proscribed, and he to be rewarded That could bring in his head. I know in this That I am censured rugged, and austere, That will vouchsafe not one sad sigh or tear Upon his slaughter'd body : but I rest Well satisfied in myself, being assured that Extraordinary virtues, when they soar Too high a pitch for common sights to judge of, Losing their proper splendor, are condemned For most remarkable vices. Beauf. jun. 'Tis too true, sir. SCENE III. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 33 In the opinion of the multitude ; But for myself, that would be held your friend, And hope to know you by a nearer name, They are as they deserve, received. Malef. My daughter Shall thank you for the favour* Beauf. jun. I can wish No happiness beyond it. 1 Capt. Shall we have leave To bear the corpse of our dead admiral. As he enjoin'd us, from this coast ? Malef. Provided The articles agreed on be observed. And you depart hence with it, making oath Never hereafter, but as friends, to touch Upon this shore. 1 Capt. We'll faithfully perform it. Malef. Then as you please dispose of it : 'tis an object That I could wish removed. His sins die with him ! So far he has my charity. 1. Capt. He shall have A soldier's funeral. i_The Captains hear the Body off, with sad Music. Malef. Farewell ! Beauf. jun. These rites Paid to the dead, the conqueror that survives Must reap the harvest of his bloody labour. Sound all loud instruments of joy and triumph. And with all circumstance and ceremony, Wait on the patron of our liberty. Which he at all parts merits. Malef. I am honoured Beyond my hopes. Beauf. jun. 'Tis short of your deserts. Lead on : oh, sir, you must ; you are too modest. [_Exeunt with loud Music. SCENE II. — A Room in Malefort's House. Enter Tubocrinb, Page, and Waiting-women. Theoo. Talk not of comfort ; I am both ways wretched. And so distracted with my doubts and fears, I know not where to fix my hopes. My loss Is certain in a father, or a brother, Or both ; such is the cruelty of my fate. And not to be avoided. 1 Worn. You must bear it With patience, madam. 2 Worn.. And what's not in you To be prevented, should not cause a sorrow Which cannot help it. Page. Fear not my brave lord, Your noble father ; fighting is to him Familiar as eating. He can teach Our modern duellists how to cleave a button. And in a new way, never yet found out By old Caranza. 1 Worn. May he be victorious. And punish disobedience in his son ! Whose death, in reason, should at no part move you, Ke being but half your brother, and the nearness Which that might challenge from you, forfeited By his impious purpose to kill him, from whom He received life. [A. shout within. 2 Worn. A general shou t 1 Worn. Of joy. D Page. Look up, dear lady ; sad news never came Usher'd with loud applause. Theoc. I stand prepared To endure the shock of it. Enter Usher. Ush. I am out of breath With running to deliver first — Theoc. What.' Ush. We are all made. My lord has won the day ; your brother's slain ; The pirates gone : and by the governor. And states, and all the men of war, he is Brought home in triumph : — nay, no musing, pay For my good news hereafter. [me Theoc. Heaven is just ! Ush. Give thanks at leisure ; make all haste to meet him. I could wish I were a horse, that I might bear you To him upon my back. Page. Thou art an ass. And this is a sweet burthen. Ush. Peace, you crack-iope ! iExeuni SCENE III.— ^ Street. Loud Music. Enter MoNTBEVrLLE, Belgardb, Beaufort senior, Beaufort junior ; Malefort, followed by Mon- taigne, Chamont, and Lanour. Beauf. sen. All honours we can give you, and rewards. Though all that's rich or precious in Marseilles Were laid down at your feet, can hold no weight With your deservings : let me glory in Your action, as if it were mine own ; And have the honour, with the arms ot love, To embrace the great performer of a deed Transcending all this country e'er could boast of. Mont. Imagine, noble sir, in what we may Express our thankfulness, and rest assured It shall be freely granted. Cham. He's an enemy To goodness and to virtue, that dares think There's anything within our power to give. Which you in justice may not boldly challenge. Lan. And as your own ; fof we will ever be At your devotion. Malef. Much honour'd sir. And you, my noble lords, T can say only, The greatness of your favours overwhelms me, And like too large a sail, for the small bark Of my poor merits, sinks me. That I stand Upright in your opinions, is an honour Exceeding my deserts, I having done Nothing but what in duty I stood bound to : And to expect a recompense were base. Good deeds being ever in themselves rewarded. Yet since your liberal bounties tell me that I may, with your dlowance, be a suitor, To you, my lord, I am an humble one. And must ask that, which known, I fear you will Censure me over bold. Beauf. sen. It must be something Of a strange nature, if it find from me Denial or delay. Malef. Thus then, my lord. Since you encourage me : You are happy in A worthy son, and all the comfort that Fortune has left me, is one daughter ; now. 34 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. If it may not appear too much presumption, To seek to match my lowness with your height, I should desire (and if I may obtain it, I write nil ultra to my largest hopes) She may in your opinion be thought worthy To be received into your family, And married to your son : their years are equal. And their desires, I think, too ; she is not Ignoble, nor my state contemptible. And if you think me worthy your alliance, 'Tis all I do aspire to. Beauf. jun. You demand That which with all the service of my life I should have labour'd to obtain from you. sir, why are you slow to meet so fair And noble an offer ? can France shew a virgin That may be parallel'd with her ? is she not The phoenix of the time, the fairest star In the bright sphere of women? Beauf. sen. Be not rapt so : Though I dislike not what is motion'd, yet In what so near concerns me, it is fit 1 should proceed with judgment. Enter Usher, Theocrine, Page, and "Waiting-women. Beauf. jun. Here she comes : Look on her with impartial eyes, and then Let envy, if it can, name one graced feature In which she is defective. Malef. Welcome, girl ! My joy, my comfort, my delight, my all, "Why dost thou come to greet my victory In such a sable habit t This shew'd well When thy father was a prisoner, and suspected ; But now his faith and loyalty are admired. Rather than doubted, in your outward garments You are to express the joy you feel within : Nor should you with more curiousness and care Pace to the temple to be made a bride. Than now, when all men's eyes are fixt upon you, You should appear to entertain the honour From me descending to you, and in which You have an equal share. Theoc. Heaven has my thanks, With all humility paid for your fair fortune, And so far duty binds me ; yet a little To mourn a brother's loss, however wicked, The tenderness familiar to our sex May, if you please, excuse. Malef. Thou art deceived. He, living, was a blemish to thy beauties, But in his death gives ornament and lustre To thy perfections, but that they are So exquisitely rare, that they admit not The least addition. Ha ! here's yet a print Of a sad tear on thy cheek ; how it takes from Our present happiness ! with a father's lips, A loving father's lips, I'll kiss it oif. The cause no more remember'd. Theoc. You forget, sir, The presence we are in. Malef. 'Tis well consider'd ; And yet, who is the owner of a treasure Above all value, but, without offence, May glory in the glad possession of it .-* Nor let it in your excellence beget wonder, Or any here, that looking on the daughter, I feast myself in the imagination Of those sweet pleasures, and allow'd delights, I tasted from the mother, who still lives In this her perfect model ; for she had Such smooth and high-arch'd brows, such spark- ling eyes, Whose every glance stored Cupid's emptied quiver. Such ruby lips, — and such a lovely bloom, Disdaining all adulterate aids of art, Kept a perpetual spring upon her face. As Death himself lamented, being forced To blast it with his paleness : and if now Her brightness dimm'd with sorrow, take and please you. Think, think, young lord, when she appears herself, This veil removed, in her own natural pureness. How far she will transport you. Beauf. jun. Did she need it. The praise which you (and well deserved) give to Must of necessity raise new desires [her, In one indebted more to years ; to me Your words are but as oil pour'd on a fire. That flames already at the height. Malef. No more ; I do believe you, and let me from you Find so much credit ; when I make her yours, I do possess you of a gift, which 1 With muc'h unwillingness part from. Mygood lords, Forbear your further trouble ; give me leave. For on the sudden I am indisposed, To retire to my own house, and rest : to-morrow. As you command me, I will be your guest. And having deck'd my daughter like herself, You shall have further conference. Beauf sen. You are master Of your own will ; but fail not, I'll expect you. Malef. Nay, I will be excused ; I must part with you. [.To young Ueaufort and the rest. My dearest Theocrine, give me thy hand, I will support thee. Theoc. You gripe it too hard, sir. Malef Indeed I do, but have no further end in it But love and tenderness, such as I may challenge. And you must grant. Thou art a sweet one ; yes, And to be cherish'd. Theoc. May I still deserve it ! [Exeunt several ways ACT III. SCENE I.- -A Banqueting -room in Beaufort's House. Enter Beaufort senior, and Steward. Beauf. sen. Have you been careful ? Stew. With my best endeavours. [sir. Let them bring stomachs, there's no want of meat. Portly and curious viands are prepared, To please all kinds of appetites. Beauf. sen. 'Tis well. I love a table furnish'd with full plenty, And store of ft-iends to eat it : but with this caution, I would not have my house a common inn. For some men that come rather to devour me. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. S5 Than to present their service. At this time, too, It being a serious and solemn meeting, I must not have my board pester'd with shadows, That, under other men's protection, break in Without invitement. Stew. With your favour, then. You must double your guard, my lord, for on my knowledge, There are some so sharp set, not to be kept out By a file of musketeers : and 'tis less danger, I'll undertake, to stand at push of pike; With an enemy in a breach, that undermined too, And the cannon playing on it, than to stop One harpy, your perpetual guest, from entrance. When the dressel-, the cook's drum, thuatlers, Come on. The service will be lost else ! Bemif. sen. What is he ? Stew. As tall a trencherman, that is most As e'er demolish'd pye-fortification [certain, As soon as batter' d ; and if the rim of his belly Were not made up of a much tougher stuff Than his buff jerkin, there were no defence Against the charge of his guts : you needs must know him. He's eminent for his eating. Beauf. sen. O, Belgarde ! Stew. The same ; one of the admiral's cast cap- tains, "V\Tio swear, there being no war, nor hope of any, The only drilling is to eat devoutly. And to be ever drinking — that's allow'd of, But they know not where to get it, there's the spite on't. Beauf. sen. The more their misery ; yet, if you For this day put him off. [can. Stew. It is beyond The invention of man. Beauf. sen. No : — say this only, [ Whispers to him. And as from me ; you apprehend me ? Stew. Yes, sir. Beauf sen. But it must be done gravely. Stew. Never doubt me, sir. Beauf. sen. We'll dine in the great room, but let the music And banquet be prepared here. [Exit. Stew. This will make him Lose his dinner at the least, and that will vex him. As for the sweetmeats, when they are trod under foot. Let him take his share with the pages and the Or scramble in the rushes. [lackies, Enter Belgardr. Belg. 'Tis near twelve ; r keep a watch within me never misses, — Save thee, master steward ! Stew. You are most welcome, sir. Bel(/. Has thy lord slept well to-night ? I come to enquire. I had a foolish dream, that, against my will, Carried me from my lodging, to learn only How he's disposed. Stew. He's in most perfect health, sir. Belff. Let me but see him feed heartily at dinner. And I'll believe so too ; for from that ever I make a certain judgment. Stew. It holds surely In your own constitution. Belg. And in all men's. 'Tis the best symptom ; let us lose no time, Delay is dangerous. Stew. Troth, sir, if I might, Without offence, deliver what my lord ha Committed to my trust, I shall receive it As a special favour. Belg. We'll see it, and discourse, As the proverb says, for health sake, after dinner, Or rather after supper ; willingly theu I'll walk a mile to hear thee. Stew. Nay, good sir, I will be brief and pithy. Betg. Prithee be so. Stew. He bid me say, of all his guests, that he Stands most affected to you, for the freedom And plainness of your manners. He ne'er ob- served you To twirl a dish about, you did not like of. All being pleasing to you ; or to take A say of venison, or stale fowl, by your nose, Which is a solecism at another's table ; But by strong eating of them, did confirm They never were delicious to your palate, But when they were mortified, as the Hugonot says. And so you» part grows greater ; nor do you Find fault with the sauce, keen hunger being the best, Which ever, to your much praise, you bring with Nor will you with impertinent relations, [you ; Which is a master-piece when meat's before you, Forget yoTir teeth, to use your nimble tongue, But do the feat you come for. Belg. Be advised. And end your jeering ; for, if you proceed, You'll feel, as I can eat I can be angry ; And beating may ensue. Stew. I'll take your counsel, And roundly come to the point : my lord much wonders. That you, that are a courtier as a soldier. In all things else, and every day can vary Your actions and discourse, continue constant To this one suit. Belg. To one ! 'tis well I have one, Unpawn'd, in these days ; every cast commander Is not blest with the fortune, I assure you. But why this question ? does this offend him ? Stew. Not much ; but he believes it is the rea- You ne'er presume to sit above the salt : [son And therefore, this day, our great admiral, With other states, being invited guests, He does entreat you to appear among them, In some fresh habit. Belg. This staff shall not serve To beat the dog off ; these are soldier's garments. And so by consequence grow contemptible. Stew. It has stung him. [Aside. Belg. I would I were acquainted with the play- ers, In. charity they might furnish me : but there is No faith in brokers ; and for believing tailors. They are only to be read of, but not seen ; And sure they are confined to their own hells. And there they live invisible. Well, I must not Be fubb'd off thus : pray you, report my service To the lord governor ; 1 will obey him : And though my wardrobe's poor, rather than lose His company at this feast, I will put on The richest suit I have, and fill the chair That makes me worthy of. ^ 2 [Exit. 86 THE UNNATURAL COxMBAT. Stew. We are shut of him, He will be seen no more here : how my fellows Will bless me for his absence ! he had starved them, Had he staid a little longer. Would he could. For his own sake, shift a shirt ! and that's the ut- Of his ambition : adieu, good captain. [most lExit. SCENE II The same. Enter Beaufort senior, and Beaufort junior. Beauf. sen. 'Tis a strange fondness. Beauf. jun. 'Tis beyond example. His resolution to part with his estate. To make her dower the weightier, is nothing ; But to observe how curious he is In his own person, to add ornament To his daughter's ravishing features, is the wonder. I sent a page of mine in the way of courtship This morning to her, to present my service, From whom I understand all. There he found him Solicitous in what shape she should appear ; This gown was rich, but the fashion stale ; the other Was quaint, and neat, but the stuff not rich enough : Then does he curse the tailor, and in rage Falls ou her shoemaker, for wanting art To express in every circumstance the form Of her most delicate foot ; then sits in council With much deliberation, to find out What tire would best adorn her ; and one chosen, Varying in his opinion, he tears off, And stamps it under foot ; then tries a second, A third, and fourth, and satisfied at length, With much ado, in that, he grows again Perplex'd and troubled where to place her jewels. To be most mark'd, and whether she should wear This diamond on her forehead, or between Her milkwhite paps, disputing on it both ways. Then taking in his hand a rope of pearl, (The best of France,) he seriously considers, Whether he should dispose it on her arm, Or on her neck ; with twenty other trifles, Too tedious to deliver. Beauf. sen. I have known him From his first youth, but never yet observed. In all the passages of his life and fortunes. Virtues so mix'd with vices : valiant the world speaks him. But with that, bloody ; liberal in his gifts too, But to maintain his prodigal expense, A fierce extortioner ; an impotent lover Of women for a flash, but, his fires quench'd. Hating as deadly : the truth is, I am not Ambitious of this match ; nor will I cross you In your affections. Beauf. jun. I have ever found you (And 'tis my happiness) a loving father, ILoud music. And careful of my good : — by the loud music, As you gave order, for his entertainment. He's come into the house. Two long hours since, The colonels, commissioners, and captains. To pay him all the rites his worth can challenge, Went to wait on him hither. Enter Malefort, Montatgnr, Chamont, Lanour, Mon- TREviLLE, Theocrine, Usliep, Page, and Waiting-wo- men. Beavf. sen. You are most welcome. And what I speak to you, does from my heart Disperse itself to all. Malef. You meet, my lord, Your trouble. Beauf. sen. Rather, sir, increase of honour. When you are pleased to grace my house. Beauf. jun. The favour Is doubled on my part, most worthy sir. Since your fair daughter, my incomparable mis tress. Deigns us her presence. Malef. View her well, brave Beaufort, But yet at distance ; you hereafter may Make your approaches nearer, when the priest Hath made it lawful : and were not she mine, I durst aloud proclaim it, Hymen never Put on his saffron-colour'd robe, to change A baiTcn virgin name, with more good omens Than at her nuptials. Look on her again. Then tell me if she now appear the same. That she was yesterday. Beauf. sen. Being herself. She cannot but be excellent ; these rich And curious dressings, which in others might Cover deformities, fi'om her take lustre. Nor can add to her. Malef. You conceive her right. And in your admiration of her sweetness. You only can deserve her. Blush not, girl, Thou art above 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 hath 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 not, 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, Montreville. Ush. Would I had been born a lord I 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 ? SCKN"K III. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 37 Ush. Why, had I been bom a lord, I had been no servant. 1 IVom. And whereas now necessity makes us We had been attended on. [waiters, 2 Worn. And might have slept then As long as we pleased, and fed when we had sto- machs, 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 pantofle, I have heard my tutor Prove it by logic, that a servant's life Was better than his master's ; and by that ,^ 1 learn' d from him, if that my memory fail not, I'll make it good. Ush. Proceed, my little wit In decimo sexto. Page. Thus then : From the king To the beggar, by gradation, all are servants ; And you must grant, the slavery is less To study to please one, than many. Ush. True. Page. Well then ; and first to you, sir : you complain 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 boimd 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, From the minion's self, to the groom of his close- He hourly seeks not favour, he is sure [stool. To be eased of his oflBce, though perhaps he bought Nay, more ; that high disposer of all such [it. 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 learn'dst thoti this morality ? Page. Why, thou dull pate, As I told thee, of my tutor. 2 Worn. Now for us, boy. Page. I am cut off: — the governor. Enter Beaufort senior and Beaufort junior, Servants setiing 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. lExeunt Beaufort senior and Bbaufort junioi. Serv. We are ready, when you please. Sweet forms, your pardon! It has been such a busy time, I could not Tender that ceremonious respect Which you deserve : but now, the great work ended, I will attend the less, and with all care Observe and serve you. 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 111.— The same. A Banquet set forth. Loud music. Enter Beaufort senior, Malefort, Mon- taigne, Chamont, Lanour, Beaufort junior, Montrk- viLLE, 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. [Aiidt. 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 ? Malef. You shall ; I will not choose a foreign queen's. Nor yet our own, for that would relish of Tame flattery ; nor do their height of title, Or absolute power, confirm their worth and good- ness, These being heaven's gitts, and frequently coa- On such as are beneath them ; nor will 1 [ferr'd Name the king's mistress, howsoever she In his esteem may carry it : but if I, 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. [Drinkt. 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 have done her right ; if there be any Worthy to second this, propose it boldly, I am your pledge. Beauf. sen. Let's pause here, if you please, And entertain the time with something else. Music there ! in some lofty strain ; the song too That I gave order for ; the new one call'd The Soldier's Delii/ht. [Music and a sonff. 38 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. ACT III. Enter Bklqardb 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 With state and ceremonious pomp, but, thus Accoutred, T 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 birth-day ; (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. Belg. Soldiers out of action, That very rare ***** h: * * * * but, like unbidden guests, Bring their stools with them, for their own defence. 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 Idrd, 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 (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 shew myself in that which I have worn In the heat and fervour of a bloody fight ; And 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, Fet 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. Black fox, and ermines, and changed the proud colour Of scarlet, though of the right 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 vfait 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 tameness ; 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 five 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 petition. This will speed 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 : When this dumb rhetoric \Aside.'[ — 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. lExit. 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 1 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. [ship Your daughter's safe, and now exchanging court- With my son, her servant. Why do yoa hear this With such distracted looks, since to that end You brought her hither ? Malef. 'Tis confess'd 1 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. SCKNK IV. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, Si) lAside. 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. [.Aside. Mont. We wait upon you. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Another Room in Beaufort's House. j^ J?n^erBEAUFOHT junior, and Theocuine. 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 1 should say ; since from your sun of favour, 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. Beauf. 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 at a distance Beaufort senior, Malefort, Montre, viLLE, and the rest. Beauf. sen. Yonder they are. Malef. At distance too ! 'tis yet well. Beauf. jun. I may take then This hand, and with a thousand burning kisses, Swear 'tis the anchor to my hopes .' Theoc. You may, sir. Malef. Somewhat too much. Beauf. jun. And this done, view myself In these true mirrors ? Theoc. Ever true to you, sir : And may they lose the ability of sight, When they seek other object ! Malef. This is more Than I can give consent to. Beauf. jun. And a kiss Thus printed on your lips, will not distaste you ? Malef. Her lips ! Montr. Why, where should he kiss ? are you distracted ? 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. Beauf. jun. And what's spoke here is register'd above ; I must engross those favours to myself Which are not to be named. Theoc. All I can give. But what they are 1 know not. Beauf. jun. I'll instruct you. Malef. O how my blood boils ! Montr. Pray you, contain yourself ; Methinks his courtship's modest. Beauf. jun. Then being mine. And wholly mine, the river of your love To kinsmen and allies, nay, to your father, (Howe'erout 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. 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 no proportion. Montr. New turnings ! Beauf. sen. Whither tends this ? Malef. Had you observed, my lord, With what a sweet gradation he woo'd. As I did punctually, you cannot blame her, Though she did listen with a greedy ear To his fair modest offers : but so great A good as then flow'd to her, should have been With more deliberation entertain'd, And not with such haste swallow'd ; she shall first Consider seriously what the blessing is, And in what ample manner to give thanks for't. And then receive it. And though I shall think Short minutes years, till it be perfected, 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 arms She must embrace it. Beauf. jun. This is coriousness 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. [Rushes forward and seizes Theoc.]— 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 ! [Exit with Theotirinb 40 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. ACT IV. Montr. 'Tis most certain He's mad, or worse. Beauf. sen. How worse ? 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. \_Exeiint. ACT IV. SCENE I. — A Room in Malefout's House. Enter Malefort. What flames are these my wild desires fan in me ? The torch that feeds them 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 aifection (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 betray '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. 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, willingly forgetting The name of daughter, choosing rather she Should style me servant, than, with reverence, father : 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,) 1 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, A.nd 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 To teach me what the nature of my fault is, [you That hath incens'd 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 I Who can but doat on this humility. That sweetness Lovely in her tears ! The fetters, That seem'd to lessen in their weight but now. By this grow heavier on me. lAside. Theoc. Dear sir — ■ Malef Peace! I must not hear thee. Theoc. Nor look on me .' Malef. No, Thy 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 might 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, But in a perplex'd and mysterious method, Will make relation : That which all the world Admires and cries up in thee for perfections, Are to unhappy me foul blemishes. And mulcts in nature. If thou hadst been born Deform'd and crooked in the features of Thy body, as the manners of thy 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 human 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 ? SCENE THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 41 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. With your hyperboles of praise pour'd on them, My modesty to a defensive red, Strew'd o'er that paleness, which you then were To style the purest white. [pleased Malef. And in that cup I drank the poison 1 now feel dispersed ^ Through every vein and artery. Wherefore art So cruel to me ? This thy outward shape [thou 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 Auxiliary helps to strengthen that [up 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 compeJl'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 word, 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, 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. iExtt. Malef. O that I Have reason to discern the better way. And yet pursue the worse I When I look on her, I burn with heat, and in her absence freeze With the cold blasts of jealousy, that another 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 Montrbvillb. Ush. 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. Ush. I am gone, sir. {,Exit. Malef. Ha ! who disturbs me ? Montreville ! your pardon. Montr. Would you could grant one to yourself! I speak it With the assurance of a friend, and yet, 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 ob- Your alterations with a stricter eye, [served 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 inno- Loud crying sins. [cent 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, I shall no sooner know What the disease is, but, if you give leave, I will apply a remedy. Is it madness ? I am familiarly acquainted with A deap-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 I can 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. Montr. Are you wrung there ! Why, what of her ? hath she Made shipwreck of her honour, or consuircd 42 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Against your life ? or seal'd a contract with The devil of hell, for the recovery of Her young Inamorato ? Malef. None of these ; A.nd 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 darughter 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 hazard 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. Malef. Thus then : you have a fort, of which you are 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 Than ever heretofore, and so compel me [higher Once more to wish to see her ; though I use Persuasions mix'd with threat'nings, (nay, add to it, That I, this failing, should with hands held up thus. Kneel at your feet, and bathe them with my tears,) Prayers or curses, vows or imprecations, Only to look upon her, though at distance, You still must be obdurate. 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 ! lExeunt. SCENE U.—A Street, Enter Beaukort junior, Chamont, and Lanoub. Cham. Not to be spoke with, say you? Beauf. 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 In a kind he does not look for. [him 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 ; but if you will look on The malecontent Belgarde, newly rigg'd up. With the train that follows him, 'twill be an 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. Beloakde comes out of Ms house in a gallant habit ; stay* at the door with his sword drawn. Several voices within. Nay, captain ! glorious Belg. Fall back, rascals ! [captain ! 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 I Then I walk'd securely by my creditors' noses. Not a dog mark'd me ; every officer shunn'd me. And not one lousy prison would receive me : But now, as the ballad says, / 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 behindhand with him SCENE II. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 43 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 benevo- lence The governor and the states bestow'd upon me. The city cormorants, my 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 la^ney, 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 consider'd 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, That a captain cannot think himself a captain. If he wear not this, like a fore-horse 1 yetrit is not Staple commodity : these are perfumed too O' the Roman wash, and yet a stale red herring 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 1 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 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 ? Belg. I 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 ! Bawd. Upon him without ceremony I now's the While he's in the paying vein. [time, 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 fcom- ing to you. 1 Court. O, sir, you may in public pay for the You had in private. [fiddling 2 Court. We hear you are full of crowns, sir. 1 Court. And therefore, knowing you are open- handed, Before all be destroy'd, I'll put you in mind, sir, Of your young heir here. 2 Court. Here's a second, sir, That looks for a child's portion. Bawd. There are reckonings For muscadine 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 puH'd ; here's a boy, sir, Pray you, kiss him ; 'tis your own, 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. Lan. A smart quean ! Belg. Why, braches, will you worry me ? 2 Court. No, but ease you Of your golden burthen , the heavy carriage may Bring you to a sweating sickness. Be'g. 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, I 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 may 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 biggings ? 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 ? Have you no mercy ? what a chargeable devil We carry in our breeches ! Beauf. jun. Now 'tis time To fetch him off. {They come/orward. Enter Beaufort senior. Mont. Your father does it for us. Bawd. The governor ! Beauf. sen. What are these ? 1 Court. An it like your lordship, Very poor spinsters. Bawd. I am his nurse and laundress. Belg. You have nurs'd and launder'd me, hell Vanish ! [take you for it ! Cham. Do, do, and talk with him hereafter. 1 Court. "Tis our best course. 44 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 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. lExennt. ACT V. SCENE I. — A Street near Malkfort's House. Enter Montreville and Servants, with Theocrine, Page, and Waiting-women. Montr. Bind them, and gag their mouths sure ; Will be your convoy. [I alone 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 com- fort, 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, 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 Y^ou answer my affection. Theoc. In what kind ? 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 ! What frontless impudence is this ? what devil Hath, to thy certain ruin, tempted thee To offer me this motion ? by 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 t 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, Will raise in him a tempest not to be But with thy heart-blood calm'd : this, when I see him Montr. As thou shalt never. Theoc, Wilt thou murder me ? 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 presumest upon, that father. That, when I 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 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 eyes : their golden beams Are unto 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, THE UNNATURAL COiMBAT. 45 And make use of my fortune. As we walk, I'll tell thee more. Theoc. I will not stir. Montr. I'll force thee. Theoc. Help, help ! 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 Malefort. 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'd. She's absent, but 1 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 I desired, what had it been But incest ? and there's something here that tells I stand accomptable for greater sins [me I never check' d at. Neither had the crime Wanted a precedent : I have read in story, 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, snd, in the same degree, The Thunderer Juno, Neptune Thetis, and By their example, after 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 ; The bird with fertile seed gives new increase To her that hatch'd him : why should envious man then Brand that close act, wWcli adds proximity To what's most near him, with the abhorred title Of incest? 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 ; I 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 1 Enter two Soldiers. 1 Sold. With your pardon We must forbid your entrance. MaleJ^. Do you know me ? 2 Sold. Perfectly, my lord. Malef. I am [your] captain's friend. 1 Sold. It may be so ; but till we know his You rr.ust excuse us. [pleasure, 2 Sold. We'll acquaint him with Your waiting here. Malef. Waiting, slave I he was ever By me commanded. 1 Sold. As we are by him. Malef. So punctual! pray you then, in my His presence. [name entreat 2 Sold. That we shall do. lExeunt Bold. Malef. I must use Some strange persuasions to work him to j 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 j Into some close cave or desert, where we'll end ■ Our lusts and lives together. Enter Montrevillb and Soldiers upon the Walls. Montr. Fail not, on The forfeit of your lives, to execute What I command. [.Exeunt Soldiers. Malef 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. 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, I ? Thou art deceived, T am most happy in her. Montr. I am glad to hear it. Malef. My incestuous fires To'ards her are quite burnt out ; I love her now As a 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 I'll 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 ofiler me the motion ; having bound me, With oaths and imprecations, on no terms. 46 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. Reasons, or argument-s, 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 what we are more worthy, than in keeping Our words, much more our vows. Malef. 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 rights 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 your own, I know not with what arts, 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 by, 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 Theocrine 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 way, 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 You bear a register in your own bosom, [since. That can at large inform you. Malef. Montreville, I do confess all that you charge me with To be strong truth, and that I bring a cause Most miserably guilty, and acknowledge That though your goodness made me mine own I should not shew the least compassion [judge, Or mercy to mysetf. 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 too, 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 revenge An injury, is proper to the wishes Of feeble women, that want strength to act it : But to have power to punish, and yet pardon, Peculiar to princes. See ! these knees, iKneds. That have been ever stiff to bend to heaven, To you are supple. Is there aught beyond this That may speak my submission ? or can pride (Though I well know it is a stranger to you) Desire 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 A kind of satisfaction, that I will Dispense a little with those serious oaths You made me take : your daughter shall come to I will not say, as you deliver'd her, [you. 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, against my nature, Compell'd me from the crocodile to borrow Her counterfeit tears : there's now no turning backward. May I but quench these fires that rage within me, And fall what can fall, I am arm'd to bear it ! Enter Soldiers helow, thrusting forth Theocrine ; 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 the port, and leave them. [^Exeunt Soldiers. Malef. Ha ! who is this } how alter'd I how deform '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. O 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 deep descent ; But to acknowledge me, a certain ruin. O, 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 .'' ^^ Malef. What hath he done } Theoc. Abused me, sir, by violence; and this told. SCENE II. THE UNNATURAL COiMBAT. 47 I 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. Malef. Take not thy flight so soon, immaculate 'Tis fled already. — How the innocent, [spirit ! 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 walls, or that my hands were can- nons, ■'^ To bore their flinty sides, that I might bring The villain in the reach of my good sword 1 The Turkish empire ofifer'd for his ransom, 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 I 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 ! Malef. 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 Be but a just examiner of thyself, [thee. And in an equal balance poise the nothing. Or little mischief I have done, compared With the pond'rous weight of thine : and how canst thou 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 ! 2 Sold. Our outworks are surprised, the centinel The corps de guard defeated too. [slain, Montr. By whom ? 1 Sold. The sudden storm and darkness of the night Forbids the knowledge ; make up speedily, Or all is lost. lExeunt. Montr. In the devil's name, whence comes this? {Exit. \_A storm ; with thunder and lightning. Malef. Do, do rage on ! rend open, ^olus, Thy orazen 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 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 terrors that each minute threaten To fall on my accursed head. — Enter the Ghost of young Malefoht, naked from the waist, full of wounds, leading in the Shadow of a Lady, her face leprous. Ha ! is't fancy ? Or hath hell heard me, and makes proof if I Dare stand the trial } Yes, I do ; and now I view these apparitions, I feel I once did know the substances. For what come you ? Are your aerial forms deprived of language, And so denied to tell me, that by signs [The Ghosts use various gestur:.g. You bid me ask here of myself ? 'Tis so : And there is something here makes answer for you. You come to lance my sear'd up conscience ; yes, And to instruct me, that those thunderbolts. That hurl'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 still by signs. ^ — 'Tis granted by thee. Can any penance expiate my guilt. Or can repentance save me ? — IThe 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 ray birth. Had not denied their prosperous influence to it, With peace of conscience, like to innocent men, I mifjht have ceased to be, and not as now, To curse my cause of being iHe is kiird with a fash of lightning Enter Belgarde, with Soldiers. Befg. 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 } Is the petard, as I gave directions, fasten'd On the portcullis ? 1 Sold. It hath been attempted By divers, but in vain. £elg. These are your gallants. That at a feast take the first place, poor I Hardly allow'd to follow ; marry, in These foolish businesses they are content That I shall have precedence : I much thank Their manners, or their fear. Second me, soldiers ; 48 THE UNNATURAL <^OMBAT. 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 captaia ! {_Exeunt. An Alarum ; noise and cries within. After a flourish, enter Beaufort senior, Beaufort junior, Mon- taigne, Chamont, Lanodr, Belgardb, and Soldiers, with Montreville, prisoner. Montr. Racks cannot force more from me than I have Already told you : I expect no favour ; I have cast up my acoompt. Beauf. sen. Take you the charge Of the fort, Belgarde ; your dangers have de- served it. Belg. I thank your excellence : this will keep me safe yet From being 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. Theoci-ine's dead. Mont. Her father too lies breathless here, I Struck dead with thunder. [think 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. Beauf. 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 ! \Exeunl. THE DUKE OF MILAN, TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, AND MUCH ESTEEMED FOR HER HIGH BIRTH, BUT MORE ADMIRED FOR HER VIRTUE, THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE, WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, BARON OF SHELFORD. IMadam, — 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 sliould not presume to oflFer 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 pai-don, 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 your Ladyship, and yours. Phiup JLassinger, DRAMATIS PERSONS. LuDovico Sforza, supposed Duke of Milan. Francisco, his especial Favourite. TiBERIO, ) ^ ^ 1 . ^ Stephano, ( ^^^<^* ^-^ ^'^ ^''«"<' Graccho, a creature of Mariana. GroVANNI,}^^^"*-'*'^'-*- Charlks, the Emperor, Pescara, an Imperialist, but a Friend to Sforza. Hernando, ^ Medina, KCaptains to the Emperor. Alphonso, j Three Gentlemen. Fiddlers. An Officer. Two Doctora Two Couriers. Marcelia, the Dutchess, Wife to Sforza. Isabella, Mother to Sforza. Mariana, Wife to Francisco, and Sister to Sforza. Eugenia, Sister to Francisco. A Gentlewoman. Guards, Servants, Attendants. SCENE, — FOR THR First and Second Acts, in Milan; during part of the Thirh, IN THE Imperial Camp near Pavia ; the rest of the ptJiY, IN Milan, and its Neighbourhood. ACT L SCENE I.- -MiLAN. An outer Room in the Castle. '^nter Graccho, Julio, and Giovanni, with Flaggon$. Grac. Take every man his flaggon : give the oath To all you meet ; I am this day the state-drunkard, I am 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 belis Ring out of tune, as if the street were burning, And he cry, ' Tis rare music / bid him sleep : 'Tis a sign he has ta'en his liquor ; and if you zactt An officer preaching of sobriety. Unless he read it in Geneva print. Lay him by the heels. 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'^, But kind, and in his tottering chair carousing. They do the country service. If you meet One that eats bread, a child of ignorance. 69 THE DUKE OF MILAN. ACT , And bred up in the daikne.3s of no drinking, Against his will you may initiate him In the true posture ; though he die in the taking His drench, it skills not : what's a private man, For the pubHc honour ! We've nought else to think on. And so, dear friends, copartners in my travails, Drink hard ; and let the health run through the city. Until it reel again, and with me cry, Long live the dutchess ! Enter Tiberto and Stephano. Jul. Here are two lords ; — what think you ? Shall we give the oath to them ? Grac. Fie ! no : I 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. Steph. The cause of this ? but yesterday the court Wore the 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, and 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, I know as you are noble, you are honest, And capable of secrets of more weight Than now I shall deliver. If that 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 ready to be reap'd too. Being now at stake ; and all his hopes confirm'd, Or lost for ever. Sleph. 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 Tr raost 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 come unexpected : The lightning is far off, yet, soon as seen. We may behold the terrible effects That it produceth. But I'll help your knowledge, And make his cause of fear familiar to you. The wars so long continued between The emperor Charles, and Francis the French king. Have interess'd, in cither's cause, the most Of the Italian princes ; among which, Sforza, As one of greatest power, was sought by both ; But with assurance, having one his friend^ The other lived his enemy. Steph. 'Tis true : And 'twas a doubtful choice. Tib. But he, well knowing, And hating too, it seems, the Spanish pride^ Lent his assistance to the king of France : Which hath so far incensed the emperor. That all his hopes and honours are embark'd With his great patron's fortune. Steph. Which stands fair, For aught I yet can hear. Tib. But should it change. The duke's undone. They have drawn to the field Two royal armies, full of fiery youth ; Of equal spirit to dare, and power to do : So near intrench'd, that 'tis beyond all hope Of human counsel they can e'er be severed, Until it be determined by the sword. Who hath the better cause : for the success, Concludes the victor innocent, and the vanquish'd Most miserably guilty. How uncertain The fortune of the war is, children know ; And, it being in suspense, on whose fair tent Wing'd Victory will make her glorious stand. You cannot blame the duke, though he appear Perplex'd and troubled. Steph. But why, then, In such a time, when every knee should bend For the success and safety of his person. Are these loud triumphs ! in my weak opinion. They are unseasonable. Tib. I judge so too ; But only in the cause to be excused. It is the dutchess' birthday, once a year Solemnized with all pomp and ceremony ; In which the duke is not his own, but her's : Nay, every day, indeed, he is her creature, For never man so doated ; — but to tell The tenth part of his fondness to a stranger, Would argue me of fiction. Steph. She's, indeed, A lady of most exquisite form. Tib. She knows it, And how to prize it. Steph. I ne'er heard her tainted In any point of honour. Tib. On my life, She's constant to his bed, and well deserves His largest favours. But, when beauty is Stamp'd on great women, great in birth and fortune, And blown by flatterers greater than it is, 'Tis seldom unaccompanied with pride ; Nor is she that way free : presuming on The duke's affection, and her own desert. She bears herself with such a majesty. Looking with scorn on all as things beneath her, That Sforza's mother, that would lose no part Of what was once her own, nor his fair sister, A lady too acquainted with her worth. Will brook it well ; and howsoe'er their hate Is smother'd for a time, 'tis more than fear'd. It will at length break out. Steph. He in whose power it is, Turn all to the best ! Tib. Come, let us to the court ; We there shall see all bravery and cost, That art can boast of. Steph. I'll bear you company. [^ExcukI SCENE II. — Another Room in th^ same. Enter Francisco, Isabella, and Mariana. Mart. I will not go ; I scorn to be a spot In her proud train. Isab, Shall I. that am his mother. SCENE III. THE DUKE OF MILAN, 51 Be so indulgent, as to wait on her That owes me duty ? Fran. 'Tis done to the duke, And not to her : and, my sweet wife, remember, And, madam, if you please, receive my counsel, As Sforza is your son, you may command him ; And, as a sister, you may challenge from him A brother's love and favour : but, this granted, Consider he's the prince, and you his subjects, And not to question or contend with her Whom he is pleased to honour. Private men Prefer their wives ; and shall he, being a prince, And blest with one that is the paradise Of sweetness, and of beauty, to whose charge^ The stock of women's goodness is given up. Not use her like herself ? I sab. You are ever forward To sing her praises. Marl. Others are as fair ; I am sure, as noble. Fran. I detract from none. In giving her what's due. Were she deform 'd, Yet being the dutchess, I stand bound to serve her ; But, as she is, to admire her. Never wife Met with a purer heat her husband's fervour ; A happy pair, one in the other blest 1 She confident in heroelf he's wholly hers. And cannot seek for change ; and he secure. That 'tis not in the power of man to tempt her. And therefore to contest with her, that is The stronger and the better part of him, Is more than folly : you know him of a nature Not to be played with ; and, should you forget To obey him as your prince, he'll not remember The duty that he owes you. Isab. 'Tis but truth : Come, clear our brows, and let us to the banquet ; But not to serve his idol. Mart. I shall do What may become the sister of a prince ; But will not stoop beneath it. Fran. Yet, be wise ; Soar not too high, to fall ; but stoop to rise. lExeunt. SCENE III. — A State Room in the same. Enter three Gentlemen, setting forth a Banquet. 1 Gent. Quick, quick, for love's sake ! let the court put on Her choicest outside : cost and bravery Be only thought of. 2 Gent. All that may be had To please the eye, the ear, taste, touch, or smell. Are carefully provided. 3 Ge7it. There's a masque : Have you heard what's the invention ? 1 Gent. No matter : It is intended for the dutchess' honour ; And if it give her glorious attributes, As the most fair, most virtuous, and the rest, 'Twill please the duke. [Loud music.]They come. 3 Gent, All is in order. Flourish. Enter Tiberio, Stephano, Francfsco, Skorza, Marcelia, Isabella, Mar[ana, and Attendants. Sfor. You are the mistress of the feast — sit here, O my soul's comfort ! and when Sforza bows Thus low to do you honour, let none think The meanest service they can pay my love. But as a fair addition to those titles They stand possest of. Let me glory in My happiness, and mighty kings look pale With envy, while I triumph in mine own. O mother, look on her ! sister, admire her ! And, since this present age yields not a woman Worthy to be her second, borrow of Times past, and let imagination help. Of those canonized ladies Sparta boasts of, And, in her greatness, Rome was proud to owe, To fashion one ; yet still you must confess, The phoenix of perfection ne'er was seen, But in my fair Marcelia. Fran. She's, indeed. The wonder of all times. Tib. Your excellence, Though I confess, you give her but her own, Forces her modesty to the defence Of a sweet blush. Sfor. It need not, my Marcelia ; When most I strive to praise thee, I appear A poor detractor : for thou art, indeed, So absolute in body and in mind, That, but to speak the least part to the height. Would ask an angel's tongue, and yet then end In silent admiration ! Isab. You still court her, As if she were a mistress, not your wife. Sfor. A mistress, mother ! she is more to me, And every day deserves more to be sued to. Such as are cloy'd with those they have embraced May think their wooing done : no night to me But is a bridal one, where Hymen lights His torches fresh and new ; and those delights, Which are not to be clothed in airy sounds, Enjoy'd, beget desires as full of heat, And jovial fervour, as when first I tasted Her virgin fruit. — Blest night ! and be it number't Amongst those happy ones, in which a blessing Was, by the full consent of all the stars, Conferr'd upon mankind. Marc. My worthiest lord ! The only object I behold with pleasure, — My pride, my glory, in a word, my all 1 Bear witness, heaven, that I esteem myself In nothing worthy of the meanest praise You can bestow, unless it be in this. That in my heart I love and honour you. And, but that it would smell of arrogance. To speak my strong desire and zeal to serve you, I then could say, these eyes yet never saw The rising sun, but that my vows and prayers Were sent to heaven for the prosperity And safety of my lord : nor have I ever Had other study, but how to appear Worthy your favour ; and that my embraces Might yield a fruitful harvest of content For all your noble travail, in the purchase Of her that's still your servant : By these lips. Which, pardon me, that I presume to kiss Sfor. O swear, for ever sw^ear I Marc. I ne'er will seek Delight but in your pleasure : and desire. When you are sated with all earthly glories, And age and honours make you fit for heaven, That one grave may receive us. Sfor. 'Tis believed, Believed, my bleat one. Mart. How she winds herself Into his soul t j, n THE DUKE OF MILAN. Sfor. Sit all. — Let others feed On those gross cates, while Sforza banquets with Immortal viands ta'en in at his ej'es. I could live ever thus. — Command the eunuch To sing the ditty that I last composed, Enter a Courier. In praise of my Marcelia. From whence ? Cour. From Pavia, my dread lord. Sfor. Speak, is all lost ? Cour. [Delivers a letter. l^^Tht letter will inform you. lExU. Fran. How his hand shakes, As he receives it ! Mart. This is some allay To his hot passion. Sfor. Though it bring death, I'll read it : IMay it please your excellence to understand, that the very hour I wrote this, I heard a bold defiance delivered by a herald from the emperor, which was cheerfully received by the king of France. The battailes being ready to join, and the vanguard committed to my charge, enforces me to end abruptly. Your Highness's humble servant, Gaspero. Ready to join ! — By this, then, I am nothing, Or my estate secure. IJside. Mwrc. My lord. Sfor. To doubt, Is worse than to have lost ; and to despair, Is but to antedate those miseries That must fall on us ; all my hopes depending Upon this battle's fortune. In my soul, Methinks, there should be that imperious power By supernatural, not usual means, T' inform me what I am. The cause consider'd, Why should I fear.^^ The French are bold and strong, Their numbers full, and in their councils wise ; But then, the haughty Spaniard is all fire, Hot in his executions ; fortunate In his attempts ; married to victory : — Ay, there it is that shakes me. Fran. Excellent lady. This day was dedicated to your honour ; One gale of your sweet breath will easily Disperse these clouds ; and, but yourself, there's That dare speak to him. [none Marc. I will run the hazard. — My lord ! Sfor. Ha ! — pardon me, Marcelia, I am troubled ; And stand uncertain, whether I am master Of aught that's worth the owning. Marc. I am yours, sir ; And I have heard you swear, I being safe. There was no loss could move you. This day, sir, Is by your gift made mine. Can you revoke A grant made to Marcelia ? your Marcelia? — For whose love, nay, whose honour, gentle sir. All deep designs, and state-affairs deferr'd, Be, as you purposed, merry. Sfor. Out of my sight ! [Throws away the Letter. And all thoughts that may strangle mirth forsake Fall what can fall, I dare the worst of fate : [me. Though the foundation of the earth should shrink. The glorious ey€ of heaven lose his splendour. Supported thus, I'll stand upon the ruins. And seek for new life here. Why are you sad ? No other sports ! by heaven, he's not my friend, That wears one furrow in his face. I was told Tliere was a majgque. [Aside. Fran. They wait your highness' pleasure. And when you please to have it. Sfor. Bid them, enter : Come, make me happy once again. I am rapt — 'Tis not to-day, to-morrow, or the next, But all my days, and years, shall be employ''d To do thee honour. Marc. And my life to serve you. 'iA Horn tvithout. Sfor. Anotner post ! Go hang him, hang him, I I will not interrupt my present pleasures, [say ; Although his message should import my head : Hang him, I say. Marc. Nay, good sir, I am pleased To grant a little intermission to you ; Who knows but he brings news we wish to hear, I To heighten our delights. Sfor. As wise as fair ! Enter another Courier. From Gaspero ? Cour. That was, my lord. Sfor. How ! dead ? Cour. [Delivers a Letter.'] With the delivery of this, and prayers, To guard your excellency from certain dangers, He ceased to be a man. [Exit. Sfor. All that my fears Could fashion to me, or my enemies wish. Is fallen upon me. — Silence that harsh music ; 'Tis now unseasonable : a tolling bell, As a sad harbinger to tell me, that This pamper'd lump of flesh must feast the worms, Is fitter for me : — I am sick. Marc. My lord ! Sfor. Sick to the death, Marcelia. Remove These signs of mirth ; they were ominous, and hnx Sorrow and ruin. [usher'd Marc. Bless us, heaven ! Isab. My son. Marc. What sudden change is this ? Sfor. All leave the room ; I'll bear alone the burden of my grief, And must admit no partner. I am yet Your prince, where' s your obedience ? — Stay, I cannot be so greedy of a sorrow, [Marcelia ; In which you must not share. [Exeunt Tiberio, Stephamo, Francisco, Isabella, Mariana, and Attendants. Marc. And cheerfully I will sustain my part. Why look y^ou pale ? Where is that wonted constancy and courage That dared the worst of fortune ? where is Sforza, To whom all dangers that fright common men, Appear'd but panic terrors ? why do you eye me With such fix'd looks ? Love, counsel, duty, ser- May flow from me, not danger. [vice, Sfor. O, Marcelia ! It is for thee I fear ; for thee, thy Sforza Shakes like a coward : for myself, unmoved, I could have heard my troops were cut in pieces. My general slain, and he, on whom my hopes Of rule, of state, of life, had their dependence. The king of France, my greatest friend, made pri- To so proud enemies. [sonei Marc. Then you have just cause To shew you are a man. Sfor. All this were nothing. Though I add to it, that I am assurer!. For giving aid to this unfortunate king, The emperor, incens'd, lays his command SCEKE III. THE DUKK OF MILAN. 6:5 On his victorious army, flesli'd with spoil, And bold of conquest, to march up against me, And seize on my estates ; suppose that done too, The city ta'en, the kennels running blood, The ransack'd temples falling on their saints; My mother, in my sight, toss'd on their pikes. And sister ravish'd ; and myself bound fast In chains, to grace their triumph ; or what else An enemy's insolence could load me with, I would be Sforza still. But, when I think That my Marcelia, to whom all these Are but as atoms to the greatest hill, Must suffer in my cause, and for me suffer ! All earthly torments, nay, even those the dajaan'd Howl for in hell, are gentle strokes, compar'ed To what I feel, Marcelia. Marc. Good sir, have patience : I can as well partake your adverse fortune, As I thus long have had an ample share In your prosperity. 'Tis not in the power Of fate to alter me ; for while 1 am. In spite of it, I'm yours. Sfor. But should that will To be so . . . forced, Marcelia : and I live To see those eyes I prize above my own, Dart favours, though compell'd, upon another ; Or those sweet lips yielding immortal nectar, Be gently touch'd by any but myself; Tliink, think, Marcelia, what a cursed thing 1 were, beyond expression ! Marc. Do not feed Those jealous thoughts ; the only blessing that Heaven hath bestow'd onus, more than on beasts. Is, that 'tis in our pleasure when to die. Besides, were I now in another's power, There are so many ways to let out life, I would not live, for one short minute, his ; I was born only yours, and 1 will die so. Sfor. Angels reward the goodness of this woman ! Filter Francisco. ,V11 I can pay is nothing. — Why, uncall'd for ? Fran. It is of weight, sir, that makes me thus press Upon your privacies. Your constant friend, The Marquis of Pescara, tired with haste. Hath business that concerns your life and fortunes. And with speed to impart. Sfor. Wait on him hither. lExit Francisco. And, dearest, to thy closet. Let thy prayers Assist my councils. Marc. To spare imprecations Against myself, without you I am nothing. iFxit. Sfor. The marquis of Pescara ! a great soldier ; And, though he serv'd upon the adverse party. Ever my constant friend. Re-enter Francisco with Pescara. Fran. Yonder he walks, Full of sad thoughts. Peso. Blame him not, good Francisco, He hath much cause to grieve ; would I might end And not add this, — to fear ! [so, Sfor. My dear Pescara ; A miracle in these times I a friend, and happy. Cleaves to a falling fortune I Pesc. If it were As well in my weak power, in act, to raise it, As 'tis to bear a part of sorrow with you, Vou then should have just cause to say, Tescara Look'd not upon your state, but on your virtues, When he made suit to be writ in the list Of those you favoured. But my haste forbids Ml compliment ; thus, then, sir, to the purpose : The 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 1 presume you've heard it ; but to give you Such friendly counsel, as, perhaps, may make Your sad disaster less. Sfor. You 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. 1 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 frien Pray take your rest. Pesc. Indeed, I have travell'd hard ; And will embrace your counsel. lExv Sfor. With all care, Attend my noble friend. Stay you, Francisco. You see how things stand with me ? Fran. To my grief : And if the loss of my poor life could be A sacrifice to restore them as they were, I willingly would lay it down. Sfor. I 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 I have given you, 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 I am tortured to command it : For 'tis a deed so horrid, that, but to hear it. Would strike into a ruffian flesh'd in murdtis, Or an obdurate hangman, soft compassion ; And yet, Fi'ancisco, 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 stran:;^f, 64 THE DUKE OF MILAN. ACT II, Or to one unacquainted with your bounties, Might 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 my 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 come near us. — Art thou not shaken yet ? Fran. I grant you move me : But to a man confirmed 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 not 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 : — O, I am lost In the ocean of her virtues and her graces, When I think of them I Fran. Now I find the end Of all your conjurations : there's some service To be done for this sweet lady. If she have ene- That she would have removed [mies, 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 for em- Yet I, for whom she thinks all this too little, [pire. 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 belov'd again ! And I, who sometimes you were pleased to favour, Pick'd out the instrument ! Sfor. 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, W^here 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 besV 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 Marcelia'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 afi"ection : — but I know thee honest. Fran. 'Tis a character I will not part with. Sfor. I may live to reward it. ^Exeunt. ACT 11. SCENE I. — The same. An open space before the Castle. Enter Tieerio 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, yst 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, con- ferr'd. During his absence) can with ease resolve you : To me they are riddles. Steph. Well, he shall not be My (Edipus ; I'll rather dwell in darkness. THE DUKE OF MILAN. But, my good lord Tiberio, this Francisco Is, on the sudden, strangely raised. Tib. O sir. He took the thriving course : he had a sister, 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,) Upon the sight of this, 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 cham- No visitants admitted. In the church, [ber. 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 off : 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, "lis strange. Enter Graccho loiih Fiddlers. But see ! her favourite, and accompanied, To your report. Grac. You shall scrape, nnd I will sing A scurvy ditty to a scurvy tune, Repine who dares. 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 beeir my fortunes patiently ; serve the princess, And have access at all times to her closet. Such is my impudence ! when your grave lordships Arc masters of the modesty to attend Three hours, nay sometimes four ; and then bid wait Upon her the next morning. Steph. He derides us. Tib. Pray you, what news is stirring ? you know all. Grac. Who, I .' alas ! I've no intelligence At home nor abroad ; I only sometimes guess The change of the times : I should ask of your lordships, 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 muolc, 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 ovra stakes ; Were I committed, here come those would bail me : Perhaps, we might change places too. Enter Isabella and Mariana ; Graccho ivhispers the latter, 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 ! Mari. Thou dost mistake ; they durst not Use the least word of scorn, although provoked, To anything of mine. — Go, get you home. And to your servants, friends, and flatterers, num- ber 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 Tibkrio and Stephand. Grac. Your Excellence hath the best gift to dis- patch 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 swallow' d. Isab. But the purpose, daughter. That brings us hither ? Is it to bestow A visit on this woman, that, because She only would be thought truly to grieve The absence and the dangers of my son. Proclaims a general sadness ? Mari. 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. Of a 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. {Aside Mari. On her birthday. We were forced to be merry, and now she's must)-, W^e must be sad, on pain of her displeasure : We will, we will ! this is her private chamoer, Where, 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 anything That's light and loud enough but to torment her, And we will have rare sport. IMusic and a xnntf m THE DUKE OF MILAN. AOT II. Marcelia appears at a Window above, in black. Isab. She frowns as if Her looks could fright us. Mari. May it please your greatness, We heard that your late physic hath not work'd ; Arid 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 Of a new antic ? Isab. 'Twould shew 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 enshrine it as a holy relic. Isab. 'Tis wormwood, and it works. Marc. If I lay by My fears and griefs, in which you should be sharers, If doting age could let you but remember You have a son ; or frontless impudence. You are a sister ; and, in making answer To what was most unfit for you to speak. Or me to hear, borrow of ray just anger Isab. A set speech, on my life. Mari. Penn'd by her chaplain. Marc. Yes, it can speak, without instruction speak. And tell your want of manners, that you are rude. And saucily rude, too. Grnc. Now the game begins. Marc. You durst not, else, on any hire or hope, Remembering what I am, and whose I am, Put on the desperate boldness, to disturb The least of my retirements. Mari. Note her, now. Marc. For both shall understand, though the one presume Upon the privilege due to a mother. The duke stands now on his own legs, and needs No nurse to lead him. Isab. How, a nurse ! Marc. A dry one. And useless too : — but I am merciful, And dotage signs your pardon. Isab. I defy thee ; Thee, and thy pardons, proud one ! Marc. For you, puppet Mari. What of me, pine-tree .' Marc. Little you are, I grant. And have as little worth, but much less wit ; You durst not else, the duke being wholly mine, His power and honour mine, and the allegiance, I'ou owe him, as a subject, due to rae Mari. To you ? Marc. To me : and therefore, as a vassal, From this hour learn to serve me, or you'll feel I must make use of my authority, And, as a princess, punish it. Isab. A princess I Mari. I had rather be a slave unto a Moor, Than know thee for my equal. Isab. Scornful thing ! Proud of a white face. Mari. Let her but remember The issue in her leg. Isab. The charge s'le puts The state to, for perfumes. Mari. And howsoe'er She seems when she's made up, as she's herself, She stinks above the ground. O that I could reach you ! The little one you scorn so, with her nails Would tear your painted face, and scratch those Do but come down. [eyes out. Marc. Were there no other way. But leaping on thy neck, to break mine own, Rather than be outbraved thus. \_She retires Giac. Forty ducats Upon the little hen ; she's of the kind, And will not leave the pit. lAsiJe. 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, Stephano, and Guards. 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. 1 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 ! Fran. 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. Grac. I would I were well off ! Fran. And therefore, I beseech you, madam, frown not. 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. Mari. O base ! Isab. We are like To have an equal judge ! Fran. But, should I find That you are touch'd in any point of honour, Or that the least neglect is fali'n upon you, I then stand up a prince. 1 Fid. Without reward. Pray you dismiss us. Grac. Would I were five leagues hence ' Fran. I 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 thoi-e that have offended yon. THE DUKE OF MILAN. 67 Isab. I am one, And 1 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 prayers ; and my private chamber, Which with all willingness I would make my pri- During the absence of my lord, denied me : [son But if he e'er return — Fran. Were you an actor ^ In this lewd comedy ? Mart. Ay, marry was I ; And will be one again. Isab. 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. Isab. Mari. Prisoners ! Fran. Bear them hence ; This is your charge, my lord Tiberio, And, Stephano, this is yours. Marc. I am not cruel. But pleased they 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 j'^ou, upstart Steph. There is no contending. T'ib. What shall become of these ? Fran. See them well whipp'd, As you will answer it. Tib. Now, signior Graccho, What think you of your greatness ? Grac. I preach patience, And must endure my fortune. 1 Fid. I was never yet At such a hunt's-up, nor was so rewarded. \_Excunt all hut 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 ; 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, A nd 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 ? lAside. 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 useful 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 me ? 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, 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 1 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 ? 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. 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 Ufe hath been a pattern For chaste and virtuous women. In your lieauty, Which 1 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, 68 THE DUKE OF MILAN. ACT II. Grown cold in his affection ; I presume, From his most barbarous neglect of you, To offer my true service. Nor stand I bound, To look back on 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 w^orldly trifles from him, For being ungrateful ; vi^hen he, that first tasted, And hath so long enjoy'd, your sweet embraces, In which all blessings that our frail condition Is capable of, are wholly comprehended. As cloy'd with 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 anything that is averse to nature : And I 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. Fran. 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. "l — and then observe How dear he holds you ! 'Tis his character. Which cunning yet could never counterfeit. Marc. 'Tis his hand, I'm resolved of it. I'll try What the inscription is. Fian. Pray you do so. Marc. [ReadsJ] You know my pleasure, and the hour of Marcelia's death, which fail not to execute, as you will 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. ISwoons. Fran. What have I done ? Madam ! for heaven's sake, madam ! — O 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, I will be his, And even my ashes shall abhor the touch Of any other. — O unkind, and cruel ! Learn, women, learn to trust in one another ; There is no faith in man : Sforza is false, False to MarceHa I 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 reraember'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. If 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 I 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. I am yet Pure and unspotted in my true love to him ; Nor shall it be corrupted, though he's tainted : Nor will I 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 : Thy life is in my power, disdainful woman ! Think on't, and tremble. Marc. No, though thou wert now To play thy hangman's part. — Thou well may'stbe My executioner, and art only fit For such employment ; but ne'er hope to have The least grace from me. I will never see thee, But as the shame of men : so, with my curses Of horror to thy conscience in this life. And pains in hell hereafter, I spit at thee ; And, making haste to make my peace with heaven. Expect thee as my hangman. iExu, Fran. I am lost In the discovery of this fatal secret. Curs'd hope that flatter'd me, that wrongs could make her A stranger to her goodness ! all my plots Turn back upon myself ; but I am in. And must go on : and, since I have put off From the shore of innocence, guilt be now in5 pilot ! Revenge first wrought me; murder's his twin brother : One deadly sin, then, help to cure another I iBxit. SCENE I. TFIE DUKE OF MILAN. 5