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^
I
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'/ r,-/.:
THE
PLAYS
OF
PHILIP MASSINGER,
IN FOUR VOLUMES. WITH NOTES CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY,
Bt W. GIFFORD, Esq.
HAUO TAMEN INVIDEAS TATI QUEM PULPITA PA9CUNT.
THE SECOND EDITION.
VOLUME THE FIRST.
CONTAINING
ADVBRTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. INTRODUCTION, ESSAY, &c. THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. THE DUKE OF MILAN.
LONDON:
FaiNTED FOR G. AND W. NICOI. ; F. C. AND J. BIYIN6T0N ; CADSLX. AND DATIES; LONGMAN AND CO.; I.ACKINGTON AND CO.;
J. barker; white and Cochrane; r. h. eyans; /. Murray; J. mawman; j. faulder; and r. Baldwin;
B$f W. Bulmer and Co. develmnd-BaWf St. Jmme$^».
1813.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
CHARLES LONG,
ONE OF THE LORDS OF HIS MAJESTY'S TREASURY,
THIS EDITION OF
THE WORKS
OF
PHILIP MASSINGER,
IS INSCRIBED,
AS A SINCERE TESTIMONY OF RESPECT FOR HIS
PUBUC CHARACTER,
AND or
GRATITUDE FOfl MANY ACTS OF FRIENDSHIP AND
PERSONAL KINDNESS,
BY HIS OBLIGED AKD FAITHFUL SEHVANT,
THE EDITOR.
May, 1805.
ADVERTISEMENT
TO THE SECOND EDITION.
If I am vaia enough to believe that a certain species of good fortune has attended my transactions with Mas- singer^ the reader must pardon my simple credulity. The first Edition of this Poet, I was enabled to enrich with a Drama^ of which nothing but the mere existence was previously known ; and while the present Edition was preparing for the press, the following information was transmitted to me by my zealous friend, Mr. Gilchrist.
'* Since the publication of your Massinger, I have obtained, through the kindness of a friend, a literary relic of great curiosity; .namely^ the first edition of the Duke of Miiaine, (4to. I62i3,) corrected throughout by the author. When Mr. Blore was collecting materials foe a history of Derbyshire, he discovered, among the papers of the late Mr. Cell of Hopton, a copy of the Duke of Milan> the dedication of which he conceived to be in the band-writing of the poet ; and, for the sake of Sir Francis Foljambe, a Derbyshire gentleman to whom it was addressed, he wa« desirous to have it engraved in fac'similc for his work. Upon expressing this wish to his friend, the play was frankly given to him* Mr.
VOL. I. a
ii ADVERTISEMENT.
Blore subsequently discovered that what he had taken for the original dedication^ was a short poem addressed to Sir Francis Foljambe. Perhaps the relic lost some- thing of its value in Mr. Blore's estimation, when he perceived it was no longier d^icated to his coun- tryman : it was stilly however, a curiosity of no ordinary sort. When Mr. fibre's favourite pursuit led him to investigate the antiquities of the county of Rutland, a common love of literatare brought us acquainted* Know* ing my fondness for Massinger, he mentioned the circuit- stances which I have related : and shortly afterwards presented me with the Play, which I now transmit to you with pleasure for the advantage of your present Edition. I will anticipate your examination of it only by observing that you will feel some satisfaction in discovering that, in two or three instances, the MS* corrections of Mas^ singer confirm your conjectures, and that another explains a passage, which, by the blunder of the printer, or the interpolation of the prompter, had hitherto, baffled ingenuity."
That such a treasure should have laiiv for nearly two centuries unnoticed and uninjured, must appear some- what extraordinary y and paturally tends to encourage a hope that chance, or more industrious researches, may yet bring to light other valuable matter, of which the existence is unknown, and which m^y oonduce not a little to the literary advantage and honour of the country. Scarcely six years passed between the death of Shak- speare, and the appearance of the Duke of Milan ; it cannot, therefore, be deemed altogether, visionary, to indulge a hope that something more of the immortal bard than is al; present in our. hands, may reward a careful inquisition into the unsunned libraries of some of ojur ancient families. The Duke of JSftVan (which accompanied Mr. 6il^
ADVERTISEMENT. Hi
Christ's letter^) was presented by the poet» as a token of respect^ to Sir F. Foljambe, the generous patron to whom he afterwards dedicated the Maid of Honour. Previously to putting the copy into his hands, Massinger had gone carefully over it with hjs pen, and corrected not only >the errors of the press^ but even the spelling where it did not agree with the system of orthography which he ap<- pears to have adopted. He also wrote the short address., of which a facsimile is given in the last volume, (p. 5Q3,) asaspecimen of his penmanship; it is clear and neat, and proves, beyond a doubt, that the MS. of the Parliament of Love, is froih his own hand. I have, of course, adopted all his corrections, and their value has often drawn from me a wish that they had not been confined to a single play.*
It remains for me to express my grateful sense of the kindness with which the Public have been pleased to accept the former Edition, I am gratified to find that I was not greatly mistaken in my estimate of Massinger's merits, and in believing that he only required to be placed before them in a genuine text, to be very exten« sively read and admired.
The present Edition has been revised^ and the few errors which I have been enabled to detect, carefully removed. I speak merely of the notes : the text remains as it stood ; for such were the unwearied pains with which it was at first established, not only from a collation of all the editions, but of numerous copies of the same edition, that a subsequent examination has not furnished me with a single variation for notice.
* Mr. Malone had coa?iaced himtelf that 4he proper nanie of our poet was Messenger, because it it so spelt in the title-page of the first edition of the Duke of Milan* In thi» copy, it is corrected as we now faaye it, and as it stands at the bottom of his little address.
aS
iv ADVERTISEMENT.
Here I should gladly have closed this ^' Advertisement" had I not conceived it necessarjr to trespass a little longer on the reader's patience^ in Consequence of some remarks which appeared on the former Edition.
Four years after the publication of these Plays^ the Edinburgh Reviewers thought proper to niaice them the subject of an Article in their twenty-third Number. It seemed to be dictated by personal animosity, (altogether unprovoked on my part,) and had all the worst charac- teristics of a pretended review of my Translation of Juvenal, which appeared in some forgotten journal. Like that critique, the present also, not content with demolish- ing the work in hand, deems it a part of justice, to go back some fifteen or twenty years, and fall upon the Baviad, which is condemned as '^ austere, morose, and oyer-bearing/' aiid which the writers strenuously affirm, ^n summing up their censure, " would probably have been thought too harsh, if the corrupt taste of the times had not justified its asperity.' Ed» Rev, No. 23, p. 99*
It is almost too much to be summoned to account for what was published near twenty years ago; nor can [ readily recal the precise ideas which floated in my mind, when I wrote the quatrain quoted by them for the most unworthy purpose. Assuredly, however, I had no more intent to say that Mr. Kemble knew not what he bought, than Persius (for all my strictures were allusive to Us examples) had to affirm that Pacuvius knew not what he wrote. Ignorant and affected imitators were, in both cases, the objects of the satire. That I ridiculed the purchase of old plays, is a mere conceit of the Edinburgh Reviewers, who have shewn a degree of muddy-headedness through the whole of their attack on me, which is truly pitiable. My litie (verse they will not call it) is,
** Buy, at va$t sumif the traih of ancif at days."
ADVERTISEMENT. t
i
Could any but themselves suppose^ that bj trash I meant the works of Shakspeare and Jonson ! I set quite as high a value upon old plays as they deserve: the dif- ference between me and the critics is, (for I shall not affect a modesty which I do not feel in the present case>) that I know something of their merits, and that they are ignorant of them altogether.
In the couplet which immediately follows their quota» tion, I have even specified the object of my satire, the '' Boke ofgode advice,*' which happens not to be a play* I regret, indeed, that the wicked necessity of rhyming obliged me to sophisticate the title, w^hich is, the ^' Boke of gode maners;*' a treasure which the critics might have had the pleasure of seeing sold, within the last three months, for more pounds than it was^ worth pence, and thus have consoled themselves with reflecting that my ^ asperity" against the high price of trash, had done no harm, and what is rather more to their purpose, no good* With respect to Mr. Kemble, who saw that the drift of my satire was to check the mad competition for every rag and scrap of black letter, I have reason to believe that he thought it well directed. He was far more interested in the matter than myself, and had suftered severely fron: this indiscriminate passion.
So much for the Baviad, which, I trust, it will hot be necessary for me to defend a third time. The critics, however, have not yet done with it. " Mr. Gifford (they say) must, as we conceive, have repented him of this attack upon Mr. Kemble — because it precluded him from the advantage of consulting his collection, a liberty which otherwise would have been willingly granted." p. 100.
The neverrdying rancour of the Edinburgh Reviewers IS proverbial. I am still, however, at a loss to know on what pretence they venture to invest Mr. Kembie with their own feelings. If I have been unjust to this
Ti ADVERTISEMENT.
gentleman^ in taxing him (as they say) with unwise pro- fusion^ the offence shrinks to nothing before the infamy of their imputation. Mr. Kemble^ however, instead of brooding over his resentment for the space of twenty years, as the critics " conceive/' no soonef heard that I was engaged on the present work, than with a kindness inherent in his nature, he desired a common friend to offer me, from himself, the free use of his magnificent library, and the loan of every copy of Massinger in his possession ! That I did not avail myself of this generous offer is true; but I was not therefore the less obliged by it. The fact is, that I was already possessed not only of every edition of Mas- singer known to exist, but of^ several copies of each edition respectively.
The dream of interminable malice, so congenial to their dispositions, still follows them. In the same pstge, they accuse me of '* handling Lord Lansdown harshly ;" and they add, in the tender tone of an inquisitor General, *^ We regret that this nobleman's three MS. plays were withheld (ifae thty were) from Mr. Giflfbrd*« examination ; vre regret that Mr. Kemble*s library, (what, again !) was shut against him by his own impetuosity*'* p. 100.
I have already stated, that I declined the use of Mr. Kemble's collection, which was voluntarily tendered to nie, because I had no occasion for it ; and I now add, (for the further satisfaction of the critics,) that if the three MS, plays in question, had been in my own library in- stead of Lord Lansdown*s, I would not have turned over a sitigle page of them. To what purpose should I i Massinger has few difficulties, which my habitual course of reading did not enable me toexplain. lam not without my suspicions, however, that the critics " conceive" the three plays,on which they dwell so mucb^ to be Massinger's.
ADVERTISEMENT. ^ ^ii
It wba]d be well for them^ if all tbeir mistakes were equally innocent ! — Bnt what do they mean I Admit* ting, for a moment^ that Mr. Kemble was justly offended^ what injury had Lord Lansdown received, from me, that he should '^ withhold hb treasures^ if th^ were withheld i** No mention of him occurs in the Baviad, and, as he was not a dealer in blaek letter, he could scarcely take um<- brage at the reflections in Massinger, especially as he was dead long before they appeared.
' But'— to the '^harshness with which he is bandied." Mr. Warburton, who was possessed of more than fifty old MS. plays, very wisely,([ must not say ^'foolishly," it seems,)put them in a place of common access, and forgot them.: the cook-maid, finding them to be go6d for somethings which her master never appears to have suspected, turned them to account, and tore them up to cover her pies. Now, allowing ^f.Warburton three pies a week, and he surely could not eat more, this economical process must have gone quietly on for the space of ten years, during which he never ap- pears to have made a single inquiry about the fate of his waste paper. He recollects it at last, however ; and upoa V^iting his kitchen, or perhaps his coaUhole^ finds his fifty-two MSS. reduced to three : — *^ these, (I add>) it is said, are now in the library of the. Marquis of Lansdown, where they will probably remain in safety, till moths, or damps, or fires, mingle their forgotten dust with that of dieir late companions." This is '^ the very head and front of ray offending" against the Marquis; for, with respect to what follows, it is a genoral reflection, of which not one word applies to him, and forms a separate section, in my '^ Introduction," (p. lii,) though the critics found it more expedient for their purpose^ to join it to the pseceding sentence.
The critics are nearly as judicious in their defence of others as in their accusation of me. I had dismissed
vifi ADVERTISEMENT-
L6rd Lansdown from my thoughts; but since he i^ Wought forward by them as offering me a rudeness^it may be as well to look at him once more. Isaac Reed, a man of no fortune and no pretensions^ procures a curious MS. play^ and prints it at bis own expense. Lord Lansdown^ (who could convey, more money into his pocket in one morning than Isaac possessed in the whole course ot his life,) — a begger of dedications^-^a magnificenk; Maculonus, — becomes possessed of three MS. plays, (saved from the wreck of f]fty*two,}and is applauded, for not laying out five pounds to place them beyond the reach of destruction, because he might not. have found a sufficient number of purchasers to indemnify him for the daring speculation ! *' Few" (the critics say) '' would buy them/' p. 109* But did Isaac Reed sell his copies of the Witch? This conversion of a nobleman inta a bookseller, must be allowed to be a most brilliant idea, and every way worthy of the Edinburgh Reviewers.
But we have not yet done with these MSS. '^ It is said,^' (I had occasion to observe, Introd. p. lii.) <' that they are now/' &c The critics catch at the words it 93 said, and broadly insinuate that I spoke thus doubtfully, because Lord Lan?down, in resentment of I know not what injury, denied me the means of ascertaining the fact. Now mark — the whole of what is brought forward respect* ing the list of plays in the hands of Warburton and Lord Lansdown, even to the very titles, is taken verbatim from the common editions of Shakspeare, and has per- haps been copied, in various publications, fifty or a hun- dred times within the space of the last twenty years \ ** It is said,*' refers to the account given by Steevens, M alone, Reed, and others; and I only forbore to mention it, because it never occurred to me, that any one who might- take up a book of this kind, could possibly be Ignorant of the circumstance. To have done with Lord
ADVERTISEMENT. ix
Lansdown — if be was inflamed against mej he kept, I presnme^his magnanimoos indignation in his ewn breast ; for I never heard of it before. Something, however, may be gleaned from the ravings of absurdity. Whatever Deed I may have to consult the library of an Edinburgh Reviewer, I will, as Shakspeare says, '' rather dwell in my necessity/' than afford his rancour the despicable triumph of a refusal. ~^
The reader who has formed his opinion of the nature of my ** Introduction/' from this hypocritical whining about <' libraries shut" — ^^ access denied/' &c. cannot fail to conclude that it is filled with complaints. Bat what is the fact ^ That I speak of nothing but the un- bounded liberality which not only met but prevented my requests. My words are — '' the kindness of indi- viduals SUPPLIED MB WITH ALL THAT I WANTED."
(p. c.) Indeed, I might have gone further : — for I had more copies than I used, and refused more copies than I had. For what precise object these illiberal insinuations' were hazarded in the face of my express declaration> kindred minds (if such there are) must determine.
I am next accused of calling Mr. Warburton a fool ;*-^ whether the critics confound him with Dr« Warburton, J know not, nor is it of much consequence:-— the charge, however, is made out by implication. Locherhas placed in his Ship ofFoles^ the person who ^' bought books which he could not read, but which he," as my quotation goes on to say, '^ nevertheless, preserved with the utmost care and veneration^— daily brushing the dust from them with a plume of feathers/' Mr. Warburton, whom I would em« bark in his stead, collects a number of valuable MSS. (most of them unique,) and *^ lodges them," as he says himself, <' in the hands of an ignorant servant," who having no charge, it seems, to the contrary,. puts them to the best use which her faculties could .suggest, and
X ADVERTISEMENT.
sends them, one after another, to the oven. As all my acquaintance with this gentleman is derived from the notes on Shakspeare, I know not the precise extent of the injury done him by the projected exchange; but I can inform the critics, that in the Ship, which they sup-» pose to be freighted solely with idiots, there wer^ cha- racters to which, in spite of their wisdom, they might hare looked with humility. Mr. Warburton, however^ like Lord Lansdown, finds, in their tenderness, ample consolation for my *^ asperity." The MSS. they tell ub, (p» 100), *' were destroyed by the nkglect of his sebvawt''— Poor Malkin !
The critics cannot (they say) bestow the unqualified praise of accuracy upon the text, p. 101. I did not expect this. I will take ufion me to assert, that a inore perfect text of. an old poet, never issued from the English press* It was revised, in the first instance, with a care of which there is scarcely an example, and a subsequent examina- tion enables me to speak with a degree of po^itiveness on the subject, which sets all fear of contradiction at defiance. This cbai^ of inaccuracy, be it observed, comes from a set of men who never looked into Coxeter
m
or M. Mason, and never saw, at least never compared, one line of the old copies with my edition. I say this, because the critique itself furnishes me with numerous proofs of the fact. All that they know of M\assinger and his editors, they have learned from me.
We come now to the grand assault, that firom which, as Mr* Gilchrist assured me, (long before the article appeared) the final overthrow of my reputation was con- fidently anticipated.
*' It would be difficult,*' the critics say, >' to bring together more errors than are contained in the following note:
ADVERTISEMENT. xi
« In tfaoie three memorable oyerthrowt At Granson, Morat, Nancy, where hit mattery The warlike Charalois, Ipst.mea and, life.
These were indeed " memorable/' since ibey were given by ill.armed^ undisciplined rustics (invigorated indeed by the calm and fearless spirit of genuine liberty) to armies superior in number to themselves, and composed of regular troops from some of the most warlike nations of Europe. The overthrow of Granson took place, March 5d, 1476 ; that of Mprat, June 2£d, in the same year, and that of Nancy, Jan. 5th, 1477. In this Charles (or, as he is here called, from the Latin, Charalois,) Duke of Burgundy, fell." Vol. iii. p. 372.
" How would Mr. Gifford '* (they insultingly
e:icclaim) '* have handled Coxeter or M. Mason, if thet/
bad written * the battle of Agincourt, gained by Henry
(or as he was called from the Greek aXta-xeo, Wales) king
of England' V* p. 101. I answer without hesitation, that
meanly as I thought of Coxeter and M. Mason, I never
conceived them capable of writing such execrable trash
as the Edinburgh Keviewers, out of the abundance of
their charity, have imposed upon them. If this abortive
ribaldry be meant to insinuate, that it is a part of my
character to make a parade of my no«learning, I can for*
giv^ their ignorance, and smile at their ineffectual malice,
** Charolois," they proceed, *' which he confounds with
the Latin Carolus, was a county subject to the Duke of
Burgundy ; and the title of Comte de Charolois was
borne by Charles till the death of his father in 1467f
when he succeeded to the dukedom." p. 101.
Twenty years ago I read Phil, de Comines in Lord Gros- venor's library. I have not looked into him since : yet I could not possibly forget that Charolois is not mentioned dnce or twice by thfe historian, but probably as many hun- dred times. Nor is this all* I had extracted from Lodge's
xii ADVERTISEMENT.
Illustrations, (a work worthy of all praise, and long faror-^ liar to me,) the following passage, *' Biron was to have had Burgundy, Franche Comt^, and the county of Charolois,'' and given it to the printers with other matter. It waa^ recalled, (fortunately the proof-sheet is yet in my hands,) partly from a' dislike to long notes, and partly from thinking that to term the Duke of Burgundy, Charolois, ten years after the title had merged in a superior one, was not much unlike designating the Kestoration of Charles, by calling it the landing of the Earl of Chester. All this is very foolish^ it must be al- * lowed ; but, in truth, I suspected M assinger of an error of judgment in this place, which I was desirous of passing dightly over, and did not observe, till long after the work was printed, that the poet had committed this imaginary impropriety, in order to account for the name of his hero. The Reviewers, however, could know nothing of what is here advanced : .they have, therefore, full consent to be as- merry at my expense, as they are wise :
** Laugh, happy 80ul»l enjoy, while yet you may. Short pleasure,— for long woes are to succeed."
^' The historical statement is not less inaccurate. Mf. Gifford had a general impression, that the Swiss were vigorous rustics, contending for their liberty^and, without referring to the particulars of their contest," 8lc. p. 101.
The arrogance of these men is intolerable. On what authority do they assume the license of meteing out the quantum of my information on this subject i I have pru« bably read as much of the Swiss as the critics themselves, and, as I think, seen a great deal more of them. My state- ments were taken from their own historians ; and 1 believe them : they are welcome to trust in Phil, de Commes. It is my delight to dwell on the inspiring story of their valour^ their patriotism, and their glory ; <^ it is the baseand bitter disposition" of the Edinburgh Reviewers to sacrifice theoi
ADVERTISEMENT. xiii
^1i to their hatred of whatever appears to obscare the resowD of '^ regenerated France." And what a moment Was chosen to insult over the reputation of the Swiss! While -— *' not the subtle fox/' (as Massinger calls Louis XI.) but the blood-thirsty tiger ** of France/' was growling over his prostrate and mangled prey. Bat this is as it should be — ^tbis is characteristic of the men, who watch the moment of divine visitation to trample rudely on a just and merciful Sovereign — their own sove- reign too^ be it remembered '' though he wasjetchedfrom Hanover** — while they crouch, and tremble, and abjectly crawl in the mire to lick the gory feet of a frantic and ferocious usurper.
But to my '^ blunders." I had said in three words, that the enemies of the Swiss outnumbered them. The critics repel this assertion with great indignation, and prove by many long and laborious extracts from Philip de Comines, that, though their enemies certainly <' outnum- bered them at the battle of Granson," yet I ought to have added, that *' the Swiss were strongly posted T This is excellent. It will henceforth be Expedient, instead of a passing allusion in a note, to copy the minute details of every event. After my death, I trust that the hint will be taken, and Massinger, like Mr. Maloue's promised. Shakspeare, appear in five and twenty volumes quarto.
At the battle of Granson, too, I am wrong. From a grave calculation by PbiU de Comines, it is apparent^ " that the Swiss had 31,000 troops of all kinds/ whereas^ the Duke of Burgundy had but 23,000 regulars, besidu artillery, and those who attended the baggage," who, for any thing that the Reviewers knew to the contrary, might amount to as many more. And aJl this formidable dis* play of accuracy, which contains its. own refutation, is 4rawn up against an incidental remark of half a line!
At the battle of Mancy, it is still worse. The Duke of
x'n ADVERTISEMENT.
Burgundy was indeed defeated and killed^aa I had stated in one word^ but then it seems, ^' some persons who thought they knew, told Pbil« de Comines, that the Duke of Burgundy had but 4,000 men^ and of those^ not more than lyCOO were in a condition to fight;" while "^the Swiss had*— I cannot tell how many^ nor Phil, de Comines either ! — And thus^ like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, '' I am put down."
'^ We bate dwtlt,'^ they sgy, " upon this note, because we are always (what always!) anxious to maintain bisto-^ rical truths and because we cannot better exemplify the inaccuracy with which Mr. GifTord appears to write/' p. 103. Their notion of maintaining historical truth, is not a little curious.. They content themselves with referring to a particular authority, and because they do not find my statements agree with it> candidly conclude, that I either fabricated them, or picked them up at random ! As to their Oracle, I have nothing to say to him : he was, I believe, as honest a man, as a deserter of two or three masters can well be ; and far honester than those who accuse me of ignorance and prejudice, because I presume to consult other authorities than their own. Be this as it may, I have made a most ungrateful return for the three ponder-*- ous pages which the critics have painfully drawn up for my edification, since I have left the note precisely as it stood : nay, — such is the perversity of poor human nature, «—I am more confirmed in its accuracy, by what is urged against it.
The three yfovdsfrom the Latin, ought, however,to have been excepted. I never possessed as many books in my life, as would cover one of the Reviewers' tables : but I have always had access to noble libraries ; and the strength of my memory for more than twenty years, rendered it almost superfluous to set down any very brief passage which engaged my particular attention. But, alas !
ADVERTISEMENT. x?
Omnia fert stai , antmum quoque— •
I now bot regret is unavailing. In some writer^ I found (the Reviewers will not believe me) the derivation which has so amused them, and laid it up in my mind for this very passage. When I came, long afterwards, to the work, the author had escaped me. I thought it had been Mezerai; but I searched him in vain, and had no heart, to go beyond him. 1 do, however, in despite of the critics, re-iterate my assertion, that Carolus and Charolois^ are the same word, and that the latter is an idiomatic ennnoit* ation of the former That from the Latin might and should have been spared, as making no part of Massinger's thought, must be admitted; but that the words justified the wretched sneer of ^' Henry, calkd from the Greek aXifTKco, fVales"^-^v/\\l admit of some question.
^' It seems that Mr. Gifford must have printed the first volumes, before he had even read through the author he was editing." He says, vol. iv. p. 172, " this expression" (candour) *' reconciles me to a passage in the Parliament of Love, vol. ii. of which, though copied with my best care, I was extremely doubtful.. It now appears, that Massinger uses candour in both places, as synonymous with honour," p. 103.
The Reviewers are in the state of poor old Gobbo, high gravel blind." I must again quote my own words, Mr. Evans proposed to me a new edition of M assingert This poet was a favourite ; and I had frequently lamented that he had fallen into such hands : I saw, without the assistance of the old eopies, Sec." Introd, xcix. Again : After meotioniilgikiy intire familiarity with the poet, in the modern editions, I add — '* my Jirst care (on under- taking io re*edite him,) was to look round for the old copies," ibid. It was then that Mr. Malone sent me all his editions; that Mr. Kembie voluntarily offered me the use of his library ; that Mr. Gilchrist transmitted to
a
xvi ADVERTISEM ENT.
xne, the whole of his collection, from Stamford ; that Isaac Reed furnished me with his most valuable copies; that assistance poured in to me from every quarter — ^yet, at this. very time, the Reviewers are pleased to assert, that I had not even read Massinger!
'' Anxiously wishing/' I add, " to render this Edition as perfect as possible, I wrote to Mr. Malone (with whom I had not the pleasure of being acquainted) to know where the manuscript of the Parliament of Love was to be found/* (p. c.) Yet this is the PJay which they accuse me of printing before I had even read Massinger!
Nor is this all. After recurring to my Ipng acquaint- ance with the Poet, in Coxeter and M. Mason, (p^ cii.) and detailing the number of old copies which had come to hand subsequently to my engagement with Mr. Evans, I observe that, " with these aids, I sat down to — what ? — to the business of collation.** Yet I am charged with having printed the first and second volcfmes before I had even read the third and fourth ! If this be stupidity, it is por- tentous; if it be personal malice, all is as it should be, and I am satisfied*
With respect to the word candour, my offence is con- fined to deeming it rather more modest to establish its use by referring to a printed passage of which no doubt was entertained, than to an ancient MS. copied entirely by myself* Such lynxes as the Edinburgh Reviewers, will be surprised to hear that it is not altogether impossible to doubt of the genuineness of a word in a faint and disco- loured hand of two centuries, especially when it is of rare occurrence. Indeed, a gentleman of the law, (James Hill, Esq.) to whom I shewed the passage, advised me to read, honour, which he conceived to be the author's word: against this, I had nothing to produce from Massinger, but the present passage, which, as* I have stated, satisfied me^ and — finally convinced the critics that I must have
ADVERTISEMENT. xvii
printed one half of the work before I h^d even read the other. <
It detracts a little from- their boasted perspicacity, that they should so inopportanely have overlooked a preceding passage. On pale-^spirited, vol. iii. 509, (first edit.) I ob- . serve, (after rescuing it from the corruption of the former editors,) '''since this was written, I have found the word in the Parliament of Love" It follows, therefore, with the critics' leave, that I had not only* read the last two yolames of Massinger, but written notes on them, before the others were printed. In short,— for this absurd burst of spleen has detained me too long, — the Parliament of Love was necesaarily the last of Massinger's plays which fQceived a comment.
The Reviewers, in pure niilkiness of nature, next fall upon me for my. treatment of Coxeter and M. Mason
upon the mms of whose reputations (they say) it hat been my constant aim to build my own :" p* 103. My ambition is then most humble —
'fitrtit immanihti emftum ett
(EtMpodas $edi»9e locai
But eVen this vile passion, to which, it seems, I have sacrificed even my duty to Massinger, is not the only one which actuates me. ^ So strong,'* the critics add, '' is Mr. Gifford^s spirit of anger, that if either of these unfortunate editors' had been within his reach, he would probably have cidled for a staff to knock them down," p. 103. Certainly not. If I had callidfor a staff (which the goodness of
* Id the beati^al ranimary whieh closes ibe fonrtb volnine» Dr. Irekn^obnervesy '* the Editor^ hwmg mlrea^ remivtd an ihepub' UeMSem^ axd r&srARS» tbs tbxt f«]i vbb Fassst requested of me a nrvisioD of these piay^, and such observ«tioiM»** Ac. p. 66S. Yet» with this pasiage staring them in the fiice, they have the hardihood to assure their readers that I mtttl have priatod Ike ftnt two volumes before I had evea rrod the lastl
VOI«. I. b
XTui ADVERTISEMENT.
Providence has hitherto made annecessary) it would be to support my steps/ Such " knock-me-down doings" are fitter for the Edinburgh Reviewers. But this is from the purpose — let us see the proofs of what they call my errors si la mode of Coxeter and M. Mason.
** In the Duke of Milan we find this note : Scarabs means beetles. M. Mason. Very true : and beetles means scarabs." — *^ In the same play we find> Dian, a contrac- tion for Diana. M.Mason. And so it is!" p. 104.
I had casually observed in the Introd. p. cv.^that '^ the readers of our old plays were treated by modern editors as if they wer« ignorant of common things;" but I gave no instances of it^ at the time. When the occasion presented itself^ I remarked^ and certainly, naso adunco, that a beetle was really a scarab — I beg pardon, that a scarab was really a beetle ; and that Dian was^ as Mr. M. Mason had cautiously observed, a contraction of Diana. If, as the Re'^iewers say, there are persons to whom either of these pieces of information can be useful, they have no just ground of complaint against me, for I laid it fairly before them.*
^ A third instance of error" (the reader had just seen , the first and second instances) is to be found in the Virgin Martyr. The author's expression is— the Roman angef$ wings shall melt. This, says Mr. M. Mason, should ceT'- tainlybe the Roman augeVs wings, I defend the text, and quote several passages from our old poets, where angel is used, as here, for bird. Yet, because I object to the
* The hint, however, has not been loBt9«-and I sincerelj felicitate the crilicf on the satiifaction with which they must have recently contemplated the '* useful information" conyeyed in the ezplana- .tions of ** sudden,*' ** ever," ** but," &c. &c. dispersed through that matchless publication which baified all their' efforts to disceyer a fieinlt, and afforded them another opportunity to sneer at the *' errors" of the liate edition of Massin^er.
99
ADVERTISEMENT. . xix
editor's certainly, in a case where he is positively wrong; ai^d, fa noticing a remark of Mr. Hole, that Mandeville supposed *'.the angels (messengers) of God to feed on dead carcases^ add, surely, by angels he meant fowls of the air, — I am in an *' error," and my " harsh assurance, is insultingly opposed to M. Mason's " quiet certainly,' p. ]04.
" Mr. Gifford's animosity against M. Mason has induced him to reject scornfully his suggestions, though not devoid of ingenuity. For example, in the Duke of Milan,
** To see those chuffs, that every day may spend, A soldier's entertainment for a year, Yet make a third meal of a hunch of raisins."
So all the copies — but M. Mason, whose sagacity nothing escapes^ detected the blunder, and, for third, suggest^, nay actually printed; thin. ** This passage (quoth he) appears to be erroneous : the making a third meal on a bunch of raisins^ if they had made two good meals before^ would be no proof of penuriousness." Was ever alteration so capricious? was* ever reasoning so absurd f where is itjsaid that these chuffs had made two good meals before f is not the whole drift of the speech to shew that they starved themselves in the midst of abundance f vol. i. 28 J.
** It is so," exclaim the critics, ** and on that very account, did M. Mason object to third, because, though liot perhaps two good meals, it did imply that they had made two before, and that would not be much like starva- tion!" p. 104.
- When the critics shall be pleased to mak^ the experi- ment, it will be time enough to take their word. Mean- while, they must permit me to express my utter astonish- nient at their ** portentous'* folly. When the note on tbis' plain passage was written, I did most confidently be- lieve Mr. M. Mason to be the only person that ever could
ba
ADVERTISEMENT.
or would mistake its meaning, — and lo ! we have here a bevy of critics from the North running headlong into the same error, and like Dindinaut's sheep, blindly following their baaing leader, to their own confusion.
To observe that these chuffs made three mefils on the same bunch of raisins, and that the poet*s words can pos* sibly have no other sense, seems a deplorable waste of time. Even the Reviewers^ it will be thought, might have seen tbis^ from the quotation subjoined to my remarks; —
« ■ ■ ■ . I have known him wifeit Upon a bunch ofraitins.'*
The man who surfeited upon a bunch of raisins, might surely have made more than«one meal on it. But to what wretched mintUia may not '' the malice of a carper" (espe- cially of a stupid one) reduce a writer who is willing to suppose his readers endowed with a little common sense !
After all, I am only defending the genuine reading : — this, however, the critics honestly assure the public, is not done by me from any regard for the purity of Massinger's text^ but from mere animosity to Mr. M. Mason ! p. 104. As some atonement- to that gentleman, I will give their favourable judgment of his exertions. '^ M. Mason's alter- ation oT third to thin is ingenious, and makes the sentence clearer"! p. 105.
But the reader is not yet acquainted with all my de- merits in this unfortunate passage. In the first line of the quotation M. Mason altered *^ chuffs*' to choughs, i. e. as he informed us, to *^ magpies.'' Magpies seem rather oddly placed here ; but the critics pass rapidly over this, to pour their whole indignation on me for saying that a chuff was always used in a bad-sense^ and meant ,a coarse, unmannered clown, at once sordid and wealthy." On this they first give me the '' lie direct," and then proye, by a quotation of great wisdom, that '' chuff is spoken of a citisen !'' And of what else have I been talk-
ADVERTISEMENT. xxl
ing all this while? My words are— ^' these reproaches are sach as have been cast by soldiers of fortune in all ages, on the sober and frugal citizen/^ Vol. I. $81. What can I say to snch eternal blunderers ! Vi^hen I interpreted chuff a clown, I never expected to be understood as liter* ally describing one whose sole occupation was following the plough ; neither did I, as the critics imagine, mistake the city of Milan for a grange. I meant by clown, as every one else does in common speech, a man 6f rude and vulgar manners : they send me, upon another ocda* sion, to Johnson ; if they will not be offended at receiving the advice which they so politely give, I would intreat them to turn to the same author, — they will find '' Clown, a^coarse, ill bred man.? '^ Clownish^ rough, uncivil/' To be reduced to this child's play, is a miseryi which I flattered myself I had long since escaped.
After affirming that my interpretation is wrong, and doubting whether chuff eoer means a clown, they have the monstrous folly to add, ** that . the word has much more affinity with citizen,** p. 105. Again, let me beseech them to " turn to Johnson,'' — they will find (one meaning for all) ** Chuff, a blunt clown." I have had the curiosity to examine, at least, a dozen dictionaries ; the Reviewers may, if they please, examine as many more, and, if one of them be found to .explain the word otherwise than I explained it, or give citizen as a synonym, I will consent - to chaiige places with the critics, add pass for the most bungling of the fraternity.
'' We find a proper interpretation of Mason's rejected
with scorn as unintelligible ^
He's a man Of strange aad r^seived parts.
Strange here signifies distant. M. Mason. I do not pre- tend to know the meaning of distant parts : Massinger, however, is clear enough," Vol. II. 8.
xxii ADVERTISEMENT.
*' If Mr. Gifford bad found leisure ta 9|;^ Johnson'9 DictioaarjTy (though socomoiop aplKase ought perhaps to be familiar to him^) be would have aeen^ under the word strangeness^ that explanation which he could not pretend to furnish/' p. 105.
It is not nay fault if the critics either will not read, or cannot understand what is before them. I say^ simplyi that I do not pretend to know the meaning of a man of distant parts; and they, with their usual suavity of language^ send me to consult Johnson for the meaning of strange- ness! I tell them that Massinger's expression is sufficiently clear, and means strangely reserved ; and they affirm ttmt I pretend not to be able to give the sense of it 1 My ob- jection was to the explanation of a simple term by one that was, at best, obscure. A man of distant parts, is more commonly spoken of one of a remote country, than one of a ^^y or reserved character. Yet af distant, Mr. M. Mason's word, they say not one syllable ; while all their folly and all their fury are let loose upon an expression which no where occurs but in their own criticism.
By this time the critics are ready to exclaim with one of Massinger's worthies, " Would we were hanged, rather than thus be told of our faults!''— 'But they m4ist hear more.
, ^* Mr. Gifford's irritation against the editors/ displays itself curiously in a note to the Renegadaf\&ic. p. 105.
By corrupting the text, Coxeter and JVI* Mason hs^d turned a line of tolerably good metre iuto vile dactylics^ (by the way, I never loved dactylics,) this I expressed by the significant word lum-ti*ti, vol. ii. 13^- The critics do not, 1 believe, understand much of dactylics, and I am , qui^e sure that my alfusioo has escaped them altogether. This, however, is of no moment — but they burst into a tone of triumph on the occasion. '^ As Eqnius has used taratantara for the sound of a trumpet^ so Mr.
ADVERTISEMENT. xxiii
Gifford may perbapft be justified for expressiog by tarn- titi"— but I will not afflict the reader with the dull ribaldry which follows—" We were surprised'' (they conclude) '' at discovering that the gentlemen who have been re- bukedy might retort the tumtiti upon Mr. Giffbrd with equal propriety. We will give an instance, p. 106*
* Hogtt. I DOW repeat I ever Intended to be honest.
SerJ, Here he comes You had best tell so.
Fort. Worshipful sir, ^
You come in time»' &c.
Mr. M. Mason reads.
Here he comes;
Yoo had best (Urn) ten so.
Uh fake pointing made his barbarous interpolation ne- cessary; The old copy is evidently right.'* Vol. IV. 87. This is what I say ; now for the critics. '* Mr. Mason made his interpolation solely for the purpose of supporting the metre, which was defective; and Mr. Gifford's m^^rtca/ HTiribility must have quite deserted him, when he asserted that a dramatic Terse hobbling with only nine syllables, ^as evidently right." p. 106.*
' I am not obliged, thank heaven ! to find comprehension for the Edinburgh Reviewers, and I will take upon me to say that no Other persons ever mistook so egregiously the sense of a plain passage. In all that they have advanced there is not one word of truth or sense. It is difficult to know where to begin with such a farrago of absurdity ; but let us take the words in their order. *^ Mr. Mason made his interpolation to support the metre." He did no such thing : he made it to support the sense, which he had marred by his false pointing. Indifferent as his ear
* Let not the reader ibrget that this was produced by the critics u ^** ta iMtuioe of the tum-ti.ti." Can he discover anj trace of it ?
xxw ADVERTISEMENT.
was^ he could not possibly imagine that the Hoe Was re- stored to verse by his addition :^*that was an idea exda- sively reserved for the Edinburgh 5ipviewers; and never, certainly, since the days that King Midas sat in judgment on Apollo^ did such a tribunal meet for the arbitrement of a musical question. This is the verse,
** You had best (him) tell so. Worshipful sir."
I seriously declare that I had read it twenty times before I discovered it to be even measure^ (rhythm is out of the question,) but on trying it by my fiogets^ it unexpectedly came out to be ten syliables^e. g.
1S34 56 789 It) You had best him tell so, Wor ship fal sir!
Is not here fine fooling!
^' Mr. Gifford's metrical sensibility" (the sneer is admi- raBiy timed) *^ must have deserted him when be asserted that a verse hobbling with nine syllables^ was evidently right."
If the critics have wilfully or ignorantly mistaken my words^ to their own canfusion be it. I disclaim their inter- pretation. Of metre or of verse I never thought^ and never spoke. By placing a semicolon after ''comes" (I say) Mr. M. Mason made his interpolation necessary; be- cause^ otherwise, the hemistich would have bad no senses What word^ what syllable of mine could lead them to dream that I spoke of the me.tref Ihey might have learned from the prologue of I4ic. BQttpMi> (of'' metrical sensibility/') that the false pointing of a preceding line might destroy the meaning of that which immediately foU lows, but could not, by any means, affect its metre. Ail this wisdom, however, is overlooked by the critics, while tbey are driving headlong after the harmony of their new Or- pheus. *' There is undoubtedly" they continue^ " an error in the passage,^ — some readers may think this Aar^A
/
AI>r£RTIS£M£NT.
XXT
^* uDcloabiedljr/' quite at objectionable m Mr. Gifford't qmei ** evideDtly/' especially ad it is palpably wroag;.^ There is no error whatever. The omission of tbe relative is characteristic of o&r old writers, and of Massinger among the rest : — *^ but there is undoubtedly an error, for''— -I beseech tbe reader to attend, — ^^ forMasstnger is nsv br
BBFECTIVS IN HIS MBTRB."
In this very scene, nay page, there are several nnroe- trical lines* In fact, our old dramatists (with theexceptton of Jonsoo) gave themselves no trouble about their broken lines; if they ran with tolerable smoothness, the number of syllables was left to chance. In Massinger, who is '^ NEVER defective in his metre," I have counted several HrNORBJD instances of deficiency ; and in Beaumont and Fletcher, and Shirley, as many thousands.
'< We will produce," they continue, p. 106, '^ a passage in which Mr. GifFord has been guilty of an interpolation not less objectionable and more in/uHoM to the sense, imagining that a foot was wanting to make the fkeire perfect.
* Secret. Dead doings, daughter.
I^uive, Doings I sufferings, mother: [For poor] men have forgot what doing is ; And, such as have to pay for what they do, Are impotent, or eunuchs.'
' A foot is lost in the originals I liave anhstilated the words between brackets, in the hope of rtsioring iheseftse of the pastege,' vol. iv p. 50.
It is a little hard upon me, that my own words are never taken; bnf Ihe bhindering no-meaning wfa)ch the critics choose to put upon something that does not appear. I had no more idea of completeing the metre here, than above : for, tbongh Ihe Jine had not its requisite number of syllables^ it was not unrhythmical ; and that would have
^
xxvi ADVERTISEMENT*
been quite sufficient for me^ had not the sense appeared defective. '^ And/' in tbe4hird line, is a disjunctive ; and makes the whole passaga^^s it stood, either inconsequen* tial or contradictory. If ctl men have *^ forgot " a cir- cumstance, with what propriety can the rick alone be said to remember it i It was a consideration of this kind, which induced, mi^ to suggest the words marked in the text; *' in the hope," as I expressly state, ** of restoring the sense (not the metre) of the passage." It would be a pity, however, to deprive the reader of tlie exquisite harmony which the critics have struck out, by a new arrangement of the lines :
" Dead do | iikgSf daugh | ter. Do { ings, suf |.fer iagst ** Mother, | men have | forgot | what do | ing is."
And this tuneless, tasteless drawling, which has not a trait of Massipger's manner^ is palmed upon the reader as *^ a rectification of the metre." Metre, however, it is: this I can venture to assure the reader, for I have counted the lines twiee upon my fingers.
But this is venial, it seems, in comparison of my sub« sequent enormities. *' Notwithstanding Mr. Gifford's indignation (again !) at M. Mason, he has left many por^ tentous HneSf which might he easily reduced within proper dimensions by the process employed above"— —^with such admirable effect!-:-^' For instance:
Geifu I would we were to rid of them. Get. Whj?
Goth. I fear, one hath. The art of memory, aniSf will rememher.
. '' One hath, shovULbe the commencemMt of the second, which will bear tt^e addition," p. 107. The line will l)i^n st^nd thus.
One hath the art of memory, and will rememherl Is this verse? is It any thing like verse? And these are
ADVERTLSEMENT. zxru
the Arcana pecuatia bj whose taata ud feeling, the metre of Massioger is to be finally broaght to perfection! I have already observed, that tlus Poet was little soli- citous about the measure of bk broken lines, provided they fell into any thing like rhythm; and the whole of my enormity, therefore, consists in rather choosing to throw the superabundant syllables into the hemistich, where they do not injure the flow of the verse, than upon the perfect line, with the critics, where they convert it ibto downright prose.
But they proceed, p. 107. " In the Ciiy Madam we encountered ihhformidable verse,
* I once held you an upright honest man. I am henester now.*'
If it he formidable, they have made it so ; and it is pot a little amusing to see them start, like children, at the ghost which they have just dressed up. It did not, per- haps, suit their object altogether, to let the reader know that this '' verse '* consists of the broken speeches of two characters, and that it stands thus in Massinger :
** Lacy, I once held you an uprightyhonest man. ^
Luke» I am honester now. By a hundred thousand pounds, I thank my stars for't "*'
Here, as before, my only object was to throw the super* numerary syllables, as the poet had taught me, into the broken line, where they did no injury to the metre of the rest. But to—" the easy remedy." ^' I <mce held you^ (they say,) '' ought to have been at the conclusion of the foregoing line. Though burthm*d by the additions,*^ (have the critics no bowels !) " it will still come within the rules of Massinger*itiotiiic metre, which is purposely superabun* dent in unacctnted syllables, a liberty %hich be takes in imitation of the comic iambics, .that admit anapssts and dactyW — Mefcyon us! what have we beref Upton on the trochaic-dimeter-bracbjrcatalecticl-r-But dismissing
xxviii ADVBRTISEMENT.
0
this deplorftUe affectation of profandity, let lis see the reformed metre.
** You are T^|rj p^mpltory, praylyou ftay ;|I once h6ld | joa/
" We could adduce many instances/' (they add,) *' to shew that this verse is conformable to Massinger's rules of comic versification. One line of similar structure will be {sufficient.
** And p6iush|ment o|Yert&ke him] when he Ie&ft|exp6ct8|it."
p. 107.
The two unfortunate syllables '' you " and '' it/' which are shut out of the pale^ are meant> I presume, for ^' beau* tiful specimens" of the pes proceleusmaticus.
Seriously^ 1 must either be as stupid as the critics, or have a most degrading opinion of the understanding of the reader, if I condescended to waste one word in proving, that neither of these notable ** verses " possesses a single feature of poetry. With respect to the last line, (the former is not Massinger's,) which is spoken as the cha* racters are leaving the stage, it has neither modulation nor n^etre, and was never meant for verse. It is easy prose, and that is all. Yet of this, the critics say, after more pompous jargon about unaccented syllables, &c. that its metre has been, perhaps, as studsotisly arranged as the mdst melodious lines of his^it^r passages !" p. 107. And ]| is by ^* these long*eared judges/' (they know where to' find the quotation,} who, when they have erected five perpendiculars upon aqy given number of sylliables in a right line, contend that it is thereby converted into poetry, that I am accused of defortning the metre of Massinger I
The next observation is confined to a circumstance> in which I take little or no concern. I believed (as I still do believe,) that a line was lost at the press, tiecanse the passage was devoid of meaning ; and therefore gave, at tlie fool of the page, what I imi^ined to be it* import.
ADVERTISEMENT. mxi^
For this, I must refer to the {rface^ voK i. 187« The Re* viewers, as they have a right to do, propose an emenda* tion of their owo*; and^those who can find either rhythm or sense in it, will naturally prefer it to what I ham suggested. The line stands thus^
** Repented to hare brought forth, ad companion/'
All, they suppose to be a misprint for wiihoui, which, (from the striking similarity of the two words) is very likely ; and with respect to the extra-syllable, tbat^ they say, ^' restores the metre according to the author's man* ner,'' p. 106. I suspect that there is still a fmsprini, and that, for the author's manner, we should read our manner*
They now come to my application of the character of Dr. Rut to Dr. D — n, p. 108. It is pertinent and it ]» just. When I find occasion to change my opinion it will be quite time enough ta remoye theofiensive passage; meanwhile, the Doctor's friends may console themselves for my '^ satire," in tbe^^rdial approbation of the Edin* burgh Reviewers. It would be ungrateful, however, in me to pass their censure unnoticed.-— And truly, when their natural disposition to '^ courtesy and . gentleness/' their proverbial candour and liberality, their freedom jfrom all prejudice, their abhorrence of '^ all personalities/' their rigid abstinence from all '^ harshness and invective,'' are considered, the most zealous of thrir friends will find it difficult to determine whether the modesty, or the consistency, of their reproof, be the fittest subject for admiration.
As a set^ofi* to my *' satire" on Dr. D— — these " soft sprited gentlemen" hold it fit to turn their Tibaldry against Dr. Ireland. His offence is an mexpiable one in the eyes of an Edinburgh Reviewer ; it is, as far as I can dis- cover, his piety, or, as the critics term it^his '^ preaching/' p. 11 1 . I will not inji^re my fri^d so much as to ofii^r one
arxx ADVERTISEMENT.
word in his defence-^but I have yet something to say in my own.
Of the ' two passages which they have, quoted from Dr. Ireland, they ane pleased to express their surprise that I should condescend to print the last. Their indig- nation (which is very hot) is levelled at a few passages pHnted in italics, such as ^' glorious vision/' '* heavenly garden," " fruit of immortality," 8ic. which they term ridiculous in the wretched state of the stage at that time, without seeing that every syllable of it is taken from Massinger himself! ''thus it appears that they wrote their observations on the last part of the play before they bad even read the first." As U> the contradictions which I am accused of admittiogi they exist only in the cod* fused head of the critics.* The stage was certainly without decorations; nor had it amy moveable scenery; but in the description to which they object, there is nothing bnt a procession, a bteliet of flowers, and a wreath. Abundance of passages scattered among our old plays shew that the stage was not without a con- siderable portion of expensive dresses in those days,i? which were viewed with pleasure by our ancestors, who had seen no better; and this is all that was meant. The vision of Dorothea in the Virgin Martyr, is of the same nature as that of Queen Katherine in Henry Vill., and
f Perbap§, the coDfasion liei in another part — but it is really itrange that my own words are ne^er taken. I say — ** Scourging^ rackingfVMd beheadings Rre circumstances of no very agreeable kind, and with the poor aids of which the stage was then possessed, must be somewhat worse than ridiculous." Vol. i. p. 1 18. Yet the critics, without shame, or dread of detection, apply the quotation to the <* glorious Tision" of Dorothea } p. 111.
f In Greene's Groats Worth of fFity published many years before the Ftr^'nJtfarf^r, a player is introduced boasting, that ** his shar^ in stage apparel would ndt be sold for two hundrbo povvimI"
ADVERTISEMENT. xxxi
was perhaps exhibited on the same stage^ and with the same materials. Costly dresses were more common in Massinger's age than in our own; gorgeous robes were occasionally procored from the nobility ; and there was, at all times, abundance of cast finery to be cheaply pur- chased. The Reviewers are as ignorant of the customs of those days as of the language.
" Perhaps,** (continue the critics, p. 1 12,) " Mr. Gifford will be offended at the little ceremony with which we have treated his favourite dramatist.'* Not In the least. Judgment is free to all, and the decision rests with the public. In the present case, indeed, if the anxious call for another Edition be permitted to stand for any thing, they have already determined the question in my favour. At any ra(e, Massinger has taken his place on our shelves ; he is noticed by those who qverlooked him in the blander- ing volumes of Coxeter.and M. Ma<)on, and cannot i^ain be thrown entirely SJj^^^of the estimate of our ancient literature. \. ►
But though 1 have no desire . to change the critics' opinion of Massinger, I must not lightly forego my own. I incidentally produced a passage from the Par/tame^^ of Love, where every pause, of which verse is susceptible, is introduced with such exquisite feeling, suqh- rhythmical variety, that I spoke of it with the warmth which its unparalleled artifice appeared to demand. The Reviewers '^ are at a loss,'* they say^ *^ to discover that pre-eminent beauty which called fc^th such unqualified praise," p. 112* I believe it ;— the ears which relaxed, with delight, over such soothing melody, as /
■" ** You are -very peremptory, pray you, ftay. 1 once held you.*' ** And punishment overtake him when he least expects it"-^.
may well be pricked up in scorn at the verses which I bom'mended,-^and which the reader will find, vol. ii« p. 246..
txxii i^DVKRTISEMENT.
f
But have not the critics> ia their anxiety to ^precwte Massinger, been somewhat inconsiderate i They say that '* Massinger has not a single passage which can call forth a tear, amidst all bis butchery,^' p. 1 13. His butchery (if it must be so termed) is not more bloody than that of his con* temporaries.— -But has he really no pathos ? Cumberland declares that a scene in the Fatal Dowry is one of the most pathetic in the English language; and many others might be pointed out, which cannot easily be read ^^ dry-* eyed:"-— But where men have tears of sympathy only for axioms and postulates, obduracy to fantastic miseries is a matter of course.
^ut their taste is not more alive than their natural feelings. When young Beaufort (not ** Belgarde/' the buffoon of the play,) first discovers the body of the injured, the innocent Theocrine, he bursts into tears, with this simple and touching adjuration to hia friends :
** All that have eyea to weep, Spare one tear with me : Theocrine's dead."
He hears an incidental remark, that the thunder-bolt which killed her wicked father, had deformed his features, when he interrupts his sorrows, and exclaims, with trium- phant affection,
** Btit here's one, retains
Her natiTe innocence, that neTer yet Called down heaven's anger I"
And the piece concludes with a paternal and pious ap- plication of- the catastrophe, (or what the Reviewers meer* ingly call '< a dry moral,") by old Beaufort. This '^ cursory* dismission of the circumstance'' is attributed to the incom- petency of Massinger to call forth a tear: and certain it isi that a modern writer would have yelled out many sylla^ hies of dolour on the occasion. But this was not Mas- singer's mode; and it yet remains to be proved tbat> the modern writer would be right*
ADVERTISEMENT. xxxiii
The critics now recur to the Parliament of Love. Here thej seem to be in the situation of poor Elbow^ and would discover my offences if they could* I attribute this p!ay to Massinger, but am ^^ very sparing, it seems, of the grounds of my opinion.*' One word is sufficient* The entry on the Stationers' book which gives the ParliameMt of Love to Rowley, is, as they ought to know, of no authority whatever; whereas the license of the Master of the Revels, which I produced, is an authentic document. Mr. Malone, who believed (what has since been contirmed) that the MS. which I copied was from the poet's own hand, shewed me the blank leaf where the license of Sir Henry Herbert once stood, and which had been cut off with equal folly and dishonesty by some one to whom k had been entrusted.
And would it have, proved derogatory to the critics' candour, if, when they blamed my forbearance, they had condescended to notice the apology for it, which lay immediately before them ? ^^' I have been sparing of my observations, being desirous that the fragment should enjoy the reader's undivided attention." Vol. ii. 239.
This brings me to their' last correction. '^ In page 254 of this drama we observe an error of the MS. (or perhaps of the press) which has escaped Mr. Gifford's observation. ^* I'll not out for a second," should have been, /' I'll out for a second," as appears clearly by a reference
top. 270." (p. 119.)
Bos lassus pes frmius ponits we know; and these gen- tlemen tread cruelly heavy at the end of th^ir journey. My observation, which is somewhat belter thaq the critic^ expected to find it, has not failed me in this place ; nei- ther is there any error of the MS. — there is nothing, in short, but a fresh proof (which was by no means wanted) of the utter incompetency of the Edinburgh Reviewers for the task to which they have unluckily set their hands.
VOL. I. c
xxxir ADVERTISEMENT.
'f I'll not otkV' should have been '' Til out/' Good ! You have studied Massioger to an excellent purpose, gentlemen^ and admirably qualified, undoubtedly, yon are, to read me lectures on the language of our old dramatists. I could produce fifty examples of this expression, (which the critics do not even novr understand,) but I am weary^ and must content myself with those in my immediate recollection. In the very volume where they reprove my oscitancy^ the expression occurs, and, I believe, more than once ;
** Nor am 1 00 precise but I can drab too, I will noi out, for my yart" Renegade.
Again^
^' I could ha^e drank my share, boy; Though I am old, I will not out." Lojfoi Subject,
Again,
" I have no great devotion to this matter, But for a prayer or two, I will net out." Knighi of Mmita.
Again,
" I would 'twere toothsome, too, boys i But all agree, and Til not out." Boniuca. ,
Sympson, whp knew little of our old language, elegantly inserted stick before '< out,^ tor which be is praised by Mr. Weber, who knows nothing at all of it, and who tells uti, '^ that it seems requisite to the sense V^ the critics bhmder therefore, in very admirable company.— •^t I have done.
It is the fashion, it seems, to part good friends* The Reviewers, after all the specimens which they have pro* duced of my stupidity, end with gravely declaring tb»t <' they respect my talents.'^ Bien oblig^, Messieors ! and I beg leave to subjoin, (for I would not willingly be outf» done in politeness,) that I admire yours.
It is material to add that the respect for my talents, was extended by these gentlemen even to the Index lo this Article ; where the changes are rung, with great glee, oil
ADVERTISEMENT.
XXXV
the '^ numerous errors of Mr. Gifford/' the '' frequent errors of Mr. GifFord," &c. Whether the reader, (who has had evtry one of them fairly laid before him^) will feel any obligation to this extrajudicial attack, I know not ; but it was this striking proof of Systematic hostility, which de- termined me, as occasion should offer, to rise" against it. I have reason to think that the merriment of the critics has since been somewhat Sardonic, and that they would not be quite inconsolable if this last triumph had been spared.
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INTRODUCTION.
X HiLiP Massinger, the Author of the following Plays, was born in the year 1584. Of his mother nothing is known; but his father was Arthur Massinger,* a gentleman attached to the family of Henry, second earl of Pem- broke : " Many years," says the Poet, to his descendant, Philip earl of Montgomery, " my father spent in the service of your honourable house, and died a servant to it."
The writers of Massinger's life have thought it necessary to observe in this place, that the
* His father was Arthar Massinger^l " I cannot guess,*' Dayies says, ^^ from what information Oldjs, in his manuscript notes, (to Langbaine,) gives the Christian name of Arthur to Massinger's father, nor vihy he should reproach Wood for calling him Philip ; since Massinger himself, in the Dedication^ of the Bondmanj to the Earl of Montgomery, says expressly that his father Philip Massinger lived and died in the service, of the honourable house of Peml^roke." Life of Massinger,^ prefixed to the last edition.
This preliminary obnervation augurs but ill for the accuracy of what follows. Oldys, who was a very careful writer, got his information from the first edition of^^e Bondman^ 1093, which^ it appears from this, Mr. Davies never saw. In the second edition, published many years after the first, (1638,) ^he is, indeed, called Philip ; but that is not the only error in the Dedication, which, as well as the Flay itself, is most carelessly printed.
xxxviii INTRODUCTION.
word servant carries with it no sense of degra- dation. This requires no proof: at a period when the great lords arid officers of the court numbered inferior nobles among their followers, we may be confident, that neither the name, nor the situation, was looked uponas humiliating. Many considerations united to render this state of dependance respectable, and even honour- able. The secretaries, clerks, and assistants, of various departments, were not then, as now, nominated by the government ; but left to the choice of the person who held the employment ; and as no particular dwelling was officially set apart for their residence, they were entertained in the house of their principal.
That communication too, between noblemen of power and trust, both of a public and private nature, which is now committed to the post, was, in those days, managed by confidential servants, who were dispatched from one to the other, and even to the sovereign :* when to this we add the unbounded state and grandeur which the great men of Elizabeth's days assumed on a variety of occasions ; we may form some idea of the nature of those services discharged
^ An instance of this occurs with respect to Massinger'a father^ ivho D^as thus cmplo^red to Elizabeth : ^' Mr. Massin. ger is newly come up from the Earl of Pembroke with letters to the queen, for his lordship's leave to be awaj this St. George's day." Sidney Letters^ Vol. IL p. 933. The bearer of letters to Elizabeth on an occasion which she perhaps th.ough^
INTRODUCTION. xxxix-
by men of birth and fortune, and the manner in Mrhich such numbers of them were employed*^
Massiager was born, as all the writers of his lif^. agree, at Salisbury;* and educated, probably, at Wilton, the scat of the earl of Pembroke. When be had reached his sixteenth year, be sustained an irreparable loss in the death of that worthy nobleman,* who, from attachment to the father^ would, not improbably, have extended his pow- erful patronage to the young poet. He. was succeeded in bis titles and estates by hia scm
important, could, as Dayies jastly obserTes, be no mean per« son ; for no monarch ever exacted from the nobility in general, and the officers of state in particular, a more rigid and icru« pnious compliance with stated order, than this princess.
* The followmg extract of a letter from a friend, vill shew the result of my inquiries at' Salisbury. ^^ Agreeably to your request particular search has been made in all the parishes for the birth of Philip Massinger; bat without effect. There is a vacuum in the Register of St. Edmund from 1582 to 1507.*' Whether Massinger's birth was registered here it is impo6sil»Ie to say : but the iotenral certainly comprises the date of that
^ Death cf that worthy nohlemani\ This to<lk place on the 19^h of January^ 1601. It is impossible to speak of him with- out mentioning, at the same time, that he was the husband of sir Philip Sidney's sister, the all- accomplished lady for Whom JoBSon wrote the celebrated epiti^h :
<< Underneath this marble herse
^< Lias the subject of all verse,
^^ Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; .
^' Death, ere thou hast skun another,
'^ Leam'd, and fair, and good as she^
^^ Time shall throw a dart at-tiiee."
xl INTRODUCTION.
William, the third carl of Pembroke ; one of the brightest characters that adorned' the court of Elizabeth and James. , He was, says Wood, " not only a great favourer of learned and in- genious me,n, but was himself learned and en- dowed to admiration with a poetical geny, (Antony's notions of *' poetical geny" are suffi- ciently humble) as by those amorous and poetical aires and poems of his composition doth evidently appear ; some of which had musical notes set to them by Hen. Lawes and Nich„ Laneare." Ath. I. 546.
Massinger's father continued in the service of this nobleman till his death. It is not pos- sible to ascertain the precise period at which this took place, but it was not later, perhaps^ than 1606: in the interim he had bestowed, as Langbaine says, a liberal education on his son, and sent him to the University of Oxford, where he became a commoner of St. Alban's Hall,* (1602,) in the eighteenth year of his age. Wood's account varies from this in several par- ticulars. He says, he was entered at St. Alban's Hall in I6OI, when he was in his seventeenth year, and supported there, not by his father, but the earl of Pembroke. Antony had many opportunities for ascertaining these facts, if he had desired to avail himself of them, and there-
5 A Thomas Massinger, of Magdalen College, has a copy of Terses on the death of queen Elizabeth, in 1603, amon|( the Oxford Collection.
INTRODUCTION. xU
fore Davies inclines to his auihority. . The seeming difference, he adds, between the two periods respectively assigned for Massinger's ma- triculation, may be easily reconciled^ for the year then began and ended according to that mode which took place before the alteration of the style. It is seldom safe to speak by guess, and Davies had no authority for his ingenious solu- tion; which, unfortunately, will not apply in the present case. The memorandum of Massinger's entrance now lies before me, and proves Wood to be incorrect: it is dated May 14, 1 602.* How he came to mistake in a matter wherie it required so little pains to be accurate, is diffi. cult to say. .
Langbaine and Wood nearly agree in the time which Massinger spent at Oxford, but seem to differ as to the objects of his pursuit. The for- mer observes, that during his residence, there he applied himself closely to his studies; while the latter writes, that he *^ gave his mind more to poetry and romances for about four years or more, than to logic, and philosophy, which he ought to hcpoe done, as he was patronized to. that end." What ideas this ^' tasteless but useful drudge" had of logic and philosophy it may be ,vain to enquire^ .but, with respect to the first, .Massinger's rea&oning will not be found deficient
»
^ In it he is styled tbe son of a gentleman ; <^ Phihp Mas- tinger, Sarisburiensisy generosi^lius.**
xlii INTRODUCTION.
either in method or effect; and it might easily be proved that he was' no mean proficient in philosophy of the noblest kind : the truth is^ that he must have applied himself to study with uncommon energy, for his literary acquisitions at this early period appear to be multifarious and extensive.
From the account of Wood, however, Davies concludes that the earl of Pembroke was of-* fended at this misapplication of his time to the superficial but alluring pursuits of poetry and romance, and therefore withdrew his support, which compelled the young man to quit the University without a degree; " for which," adds he, ^^ attention to logic and philosophy was absolutely necessary ; as the candidate for that honour must pass through an examination in both, before he can obtain it." Dans lepays des aveuglesy says the proverb, Ics borgnes sont rou: and Davies, who apparently had not these valiEiable acquisitions, entertained probably a vast idea, of their magnitude and importance. A shorter period, however, than four years, would be found amply sufficient, at that period, to furnish even an ordinary mind with enough of school logic and philosophy, to pass the ex- amination for a bachelor's degree ; and I am, therefore, unwilling to believe that Massinger missed it on the score of incapacity in these notable ^.rts.
However this may be, he certainly left the
INTRODUCTION. xliii
University abruptly,; not, I appreliend, on account of the earl of Pembroke withholding his assistance, for it does not appear that he evei^ afforded any, bat of a much more ealamitpus event, the death of his father ; from whom, I inclineto think, with Langbaine, his sole support was derived. »
• Wby the earl of Pembroke, the liberal friead and protector of literature in all its branches,'' neglected a young man to whom his assistance was so necessary ,» and who, from the acknow- ledged services of his father, had so many and just claims on it; one, too, who would have done his patronage such singtilar honour, I have no means of ascertaining: that he was never indebted to it is, I fear, indisputable; since the Poet, of whose character gratitude forms a striking part, while he recurs perpetually to his hereditary obligations to the Herbert family, anxiously avoids all mention of his name. I sometimes, indeed, imagine that I have dis« covered the cause of this alienation, but cannot flatter myself that it will be very generally or even partially allowed : not to keep the reader in suspense, I attribute it to the Poet's having, during his residence at the University, ex*
7 To this noblemaTi (and his younger brother, Philip) He. mingeand Cohdell dedicated their edition ofShakspeare*d Plays'; to him, also, Jonson inscribed his Epigrams, ^^ as the great Example of honour and yirtuc," an idea on which he enlarged in one of his minor poems.
-h
xliv INTRODUCTION.
«
changed the religiojti of his father, for one, at this time/the objectof persecution, hatred, and terror. A close and repeated perusal of Mas- singer's works has convinced me that he was^ a Catholic: the Virgin^ Martyr^ the Renegado^ the Maid of Honour^ exhibit innumerable proofs of it; to- say nothing of those casual intimations which are scattered over his remaining dramas. A consciousness of this might prevent him from applying to the earl of Pembroke for assistance, or a knowledge of it might determine that nobleman to withhold his hand : for it is diffi- cult to believe that his displeasure (if he really entertained any) could arise from Massinger's Attachment to an art of which he and his bro- ther* were universally considered as the patrons, and which, indeed, he himself cultivated with assiduity, at least, if not with success.'
However this be, the period of Massinger's misfortunes commenced with his arrival in London^ His father had probably applied most of his property to the education of his son, and when the . small , remainder was exhausted, he
' The first folio edition of Beaamont and Fletcher's Plaj>8 was dedicated, by the players, to the earl of Montgomery.
9 In 1660 mras published a collection of ^^ amorous and poetical airs and compositions,'^ Wood tells us, ^^ with thi|i. title : Poems written by William Earl of Pembroke^ &c. many of which are answered by way of repartee^ by Sir Benj. Rudyard^ with oth^r Poems written by them occasionally and apart J,^ Athen. Vol. I. p. 546.
INTRODUCTION. xlv
was driven (as he more than once observes) by his necessities, and somewhat inclined perhaps, by the peculiar, bent of his talents, to dedicate himself to the service of the stage.
This expedient, though not the most prudent, nor, indeed, the most encouraging to a young adventurer, was not altogether hopeless. .Men who will ever be considered as the pride and boast of their country, Shakspeare, Jonson, and Fletcher, were solely, or in a considerable degee, dependant on it : nor were there wanting others of an inferior rank, such as Rowley, Middleton, Chapman, Field, Decker, Shirley, &a; writers to whom Massinger, without any impeachment of his modesty, might consider himself as fully equal, who subsisted Qn the emoluments derived from dramatic writing. There was also some- thing to tempt the ambition, or, if it must be so, the vanity, of a young adventurer, in this pursuit : literature was the sole means by which a person undistinguished by birth and fortune, could, at this time, hope to acquire the familia- rity or secure the friendship of the great ; and of all its branches none was so favourably re- ceived, or so. liberally encouraged, as that of the drama. Tilts and tournaments, the boister- x)us but magnificent entertainments of the court, together with pageantries and processions, the absurd and costly mummeries of the city, were rapidly giving way to more elegant and rational iimusementS; to revels, masques, and plays : not
xlvi INTRODUCTION.
•
were the latter merely encouraged by the pre- seijcc of the nobility ; the writers of them were adopted into the number of their acquaintance, and made at once the objects of their bounty and esteem. It is gratifying to observe how the names of Shakspeare, Jonson, &c. are come down to us in connexion with the Sidneys, the Pembrokes, the Southamptons, and other great and splendid ornaments of the courts of Eliza- beth and James.
Considerations of this or a similar kind may naturally be supposed to have had their M'eight with Massinger, as with so mjlny others: but whatever was the motive, Wood informs us, that ** being sufficiently famed for several spe- cimens of wit, he betook himself to making plays." Of what description these specimens were, Antony does not say ; he probably spoke without much examination into a subject for which he had little relish or solicitude ; and, indeed, it seems more reasonable to conclude, from the peculiar nature of Massinger's talents, that the drama was his first and sol6 pursuit. ' It must appear singular, after what has been observed, that, with only one exception, we should hear nothing of Massinger for the long period of sixteen years, that is, from his first appearance in London, 1606, to 1622, when his Virgin' Martyr y the first of his printed works; was given to the public. That his necessities 'would not admit of relaxation in his eiforts for
INTRODUCTION. xlvii
subsistence is certain^and we have the testimony of a contemporary poet, as preserved by Lang- baine, for the, rapidity with which he usually composed :
^^ Ingenious Shakespeare, Massinger that knows : ^^ The strength of plot, to write in verse and prose, *^ Whose easy Pegasus will amble o*cr ^^ Some threescore miles of fancy in a hour."
The best solution of the difficulty which occurs to me, is, that the Poet's modesty, com- bined with the urgency of his wants, deteri'ed him, at first, from attempting to write alone : and that he, therefore, lent his assistance to others of a more confirmed reputation, who could depend on a ready vent for their joint productions. When men labour for the demands of the day, it is imprudent to leave much to hazard ; such certainly was the case with Massinger.
Sir Aston Cockayne, the affectionate friend and patron of our author, printed a collection of, what he is pleased to call, Poems, Epigrams, &c. in 1658. Among these is one addressed tp Humphrey Moseley, the publisher of Beaumont and Fletcher in folio :
<^ In the large book of pUiys you late did print ^^ In Beaumont and in Fletcher's name, why in't *- •« Did yon not justice, gire to each his due ? ^' For Beaumont of those many writ but few ;
xlviii INTRODUCTION.
*^ And Massinger in other few ; the main ^^ Bein|( sweet issues of sweet Fletcher's brain. ^^ Bat how came I, you ask, so much to know ? ^^ Fletchcr^s chief bosom friend informed me so/''
Davies^ for what reason I cannot discover, seems inclined to dispute that part of the asser- tion which relates to Massinger: he calls it vague and hearsay evidence, and adds, with sufficient want of precision, " Sir Aston was well acquainted with Massinger, who would, in all probability, have communicated to his friend a circumstance so honourable to himself." There can be no doubt of it ; and we may be confident that ihe information did come from him ; but Mr. Davies mistakes the drift of Sir Aston's expostulation : the fact was notorious that Beaumont and Massinger had written in conjunction with Fletcher ; what he complains of is, that the mairiy the bulk of the book, should not be attributed to the latter, by whom it was undoubtedly composed. Beaumontdied in 1615,.
' And in the former part of the Epistle to Ch. Cotton, (of which the conclusion is cited by Langbaine,) Sir Aston says of the Edition of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays^
^^ And my good friend, old Philip Massinger,
<^ With Fletcher, writ in some that are seen there/'
The circumstance is also repeated in his epitaph (p. Ixxi?.) so that the fact is placed beyond dispute.
INTRODUCTION. xlix
and Fletcher produced, in the interval between that year and the period of his own death, {1625) between thirty and forty plays: it is not, therefore, unreasonable to suppose that he was assisted in a few of them by Massinger, as Sir Aston affirms : it happens, however, that the fact does not rest solely on his testimony ; for we can produce a melancholy proof of it, from an authentic voucher, which the enqui- ries set on foot by the unwearied assiduity of Mr. Malone, have occasioned to be dragged from the dust of Dulwich College :
** To our most loving friend, Mr. Philip Hinch-
low, esquire, These,
" Mr. Hinchlow,
. ^* You understand our unfortunate cxtremitie, and I doc 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 jives- You know there is x/. more at least to be receaved of you for the play. We desire you to ,lend ui^ y/. of that; which shall be allowed to you, without which we cannot be bay led, nor / play any more till this be dispatch'd. It will lose *ypu xxl. ere the* end of the next weeke, besides the hinderance of the next new play. Pray, sir, -<;onsider our cases with humanity, and now give us cause to acknowledge you our true freind
VOL, I. d
1 INTRODUCTION.
in time of neede. Wee have entreated Mt. Da- vison to deliver this note, as well to witness your love, as our prpmises, and alwayes acknow- ledgement to be ever
'* Your most thanckfuU and loving friends,
"Nat. Fielx).'*
" The money shall be abated out of the money ' remay ns for the play of Mr. Fletcher and ours.
Rob, Daborne.'*
*' I 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. Fceld, Mr. Meissenger, the sum of v/.
'' Rob. Davison.'"
This letter tripartite, which it is impossible
* Robert Daborne is the author of two Plays^ the Christian turned Turk, 4* l6l2, and the Poor Man's Comfort, 4<* l655. He was a gentleman of a liberal education, master of arts, and in holjr orders. His humble fortunes appear to haYe im- proved after this period, for there is extant a sermon preached by him at Waterford in Ireland, 1618, where the authors of the Biographia Dramatica think it probable that he had a liTing.
* Additions to M^lont^s Historical Account qf the English Stiigei^. 488*
INTRODUCTION. U
to read without the mo&t poignant regret at the distress of such in6n, fully establishes the part- nership between Massinger and Fletcher, who must, indeed, have had considerable assistance to enable him to bring forward the numerous plays attributed to his name.
We can now account for a part of the time which Massinger spent in London before his appearance in print as a professed writer for the stage: but this is not all. Among the manu- script plays collected with such care by Mr. Warburton, (Somerset Herald,) and applied with such perseverance by his cook to the covering of her pies, were no less than twelve, said to be written by Massinger i* and though it is now made probable that two of the number
3 No les8 than tiielvef ftc.] Their titles, as gi?en hj Mr. WarbnrtoDy are—
Minerva^s Sacrifice,
Tke Farced Lady.
Antonio and VaHa*
The Woman's Plot.
The Tyrant.
Philenzo and HippoHta*
The Judge.
Fast and Welcome.
Bdieoe as you. last.
The Honour of Women.
The Noble Choice. And
The Parliament of Love. When it is added that, together with these, forty other manuscript plays of varions authors were destroyed, it will readily be allowed that English literature has seldom sustained
da
Hi JNTRODUCTION.
do not belong to him, yet scattered notices of others which assuredly do, prove that he va«
not inactive. =
Four only of the plays named in Mr. Warbur- ton's list occur in the Office-book of Sir Henry Herbert, which is continued up to the latest
a greater loss than by the strange conduct of Mr. Warburton, who becoming the master of treasores which ages may not re- produce, lodges them, as he says, «t tie hand* of an ignorarit Menant, and when, after a lapse of years, he condescends to rcTisit his hoards, finds that they hare been burnt from an economical wish to sare him the charges of more faluabto brown paper. It is time to bring on shore the book-hunting passenger* in Locher's NoKis StuUi/era, and exchange htm for one more suitable to the rest of the cargo.
Tardy, howerer, as Mt. Warburton was, i|.appear8 that he ■came in time to preserre three dramas from the fjeneral
wreck: -•■ : The Second Maid^s Trtfgedy.
TheBugbean, And '
The Queen of Corsica.
These, it is said, are now in the library of the marquis of Lknsdown, where they will, probably, remain in safety tOl moths, or damps,+ or fires mingle their "forgotten dust" with that of their late companions.
When it is considered at how trifling an expense a manu- script play may be placed beyond the reach of accident, the withholding it from the press will be allowed to prove a strange indifierence to the ancient literature of the country. The fact, however, seems to be, that these treasures are made subserfi- ent to the gratification of a spurious rage for notoriety: itw
• Span guoqve nee paroam colleita yolumina praibent. . , Calleo nee verbum, nee Hb'ri sentio mentem, Attamtn m maono per me serrantur Hosoaz.
^ J)amf»hiAnn^i\jie»txojei the. Parliament of Love.
INTRODUCTION. liii ^
period of Massingcr's life: It is, therefore, evi- dent that they must have been written pre- viously to its commencement: these, therefore, with the Old LaWy iht Virgin^MartyTy the Unna^ tural Combat J and the Duke of Milarij which are also unnoticed in it, will sufficiently fill up the time till 1622. -
not that any benefit may accrue from them either to the pro- prietors or others, that manuscripts are now hoarded, but that A or B may be celebrated for possessing what no other letter df the alphabet can hope to acquire. Nor is this all. The hateful passion of literary avarice (a compound of vanity and* envy) is becoming epidemic, and branching out in every direo* tion. It has many of the worst symptoms of that madnesr which once raged among the Dutch for the possession of tulips : -^here, as well as in Holland, an artificial rarity is first created, and then made a plea for extortion, or a ground for low- minded and selfish exultation. I speak not of works never intended for sale, and of which, therefore, the owner may ' pjrint as few or as many as his feelings will allow^ but of those- which are ostensibly designed for the public, and which, not- withstanding, prove the editors to labour under this odious disease.- Here, an old manuscript is brought forward^ and' alter a few copies are printed, the press is broken up, that* t|iere may be a pretence for selling them at a price, which none but a collector can reach : there, explanatory plates are en-, graved for a work of general use, and, as soon as twenty or thirty impressions are taken off, destroyed with gratuitous niAlice, (for it deserves no other name,) that there may be a nm4 competition for the favoured copies! To conclude, for this is no pleasant subject, books are purchased now at extra- vagant rates, not because they are good, but because they are! scarce^ so that a fire or an enterprising trunk-maker that should take off nearly the whole of a worthless work, would instanUy render the small remainder invaluable.
liv INTRODUCTION.
There are no data to ascertain the respective periods at which these plays were produced. The Virgin-Martyr is confidently mentioned by the former editors as the earliest of Massinger's works, probably because it was the first that appeared in print : bjit this drama, which they have considerably under-ratedj^ia eon&equence, perhaps, of the dull ribaldry with which it is vitiated by Decker, evinces a style decidedly formed, a hand accustomed to composition, and a mind stored with the richest acquisitions of a long and successful study.
The Old LaxOj which was not printed till many years after Massinger's death, is said to have been written by him in conjunction with Mid- dleton and Rowley/ The latter of these is. ranked by the Author of the Companion to the Play House, in the third class of dramatic writers; higher it is impossible to place him: but the former was a man of considerable powers, who has lately been the object of much discussion, on account of the liberal use which Shakspeare is ascertained to have made of his recently discovered tragi-comedy, the Witch.^
^ The Parliament of Love is entered on the Stationers' books as the production of William Rowley. It is now known frem infinitely better authority, the Official Register of the Mastoid of the Revels, to be the composition of Massinger ; indeed^ the abilities of Rowley were altogether unequal to the execii^ tion of such a work, to the style and manner of which his ae^ knowledgcd performanees bear not the slightest resemblance.
* It would be uiyust to montiou this mamucript play witl^'
INTRODUCTION. Iv
It is said, by Stecvens, that the Old Law was acted in 1599. If it be really so, Massinger's name must in future be erased from the title- page of that play, for he was, at that date, only in the fifteenth year of his age, and probably had not left the residence of his father. Steevens produces no authority for his assertion ; but as he does not usually write at random, unless when Jonson is concerned, it is entitled to notice. In Act III. Sc. I. of that play, in which the Clown consults the church-book on the age of his wife, th^ Clerk reads and comments upon it thus: — " Agatha, the daughter of Pollux, born in an. 1540, and now 'tis 1599.** The ob- servation of Steevens is probably founded upon this passage, (at least I am aware of no other, ) and it will not, perhaps, be easy to conjecture why the authors should fix upon this particular year, unless it really were the current one. It is to no purpose to object that the scene is laid in a distant country, and the period of action necessarily remote, for the dramatic, writers of those days confounded all climes and all ages with
oat noticing, at the same time, the striking contrast which the conduct of its possessor, Mr. Isaac Reed, forms with that of those alluded to in the preceding note. The Wifchy from the circumstance mentioned above, was a literary curiosity of the most valuable kind, yet he printed it at his own eiLpcnse, and, with a liberality which has found more admirers than imitators, gratuitously distributed the copies among his friends. It is thus pldced out of the reach of accident.
lyi INTRODUCTION.
^ facility truly wonderful. On the whole^ I am inclined to attribute the greater part of Mc Old. Law to Middleton and Rowley : it has not muny characteristic traits of Massinger, and the style, with the exception of a few places which are pointed out by Dr. Ireland, is very unlike that of his acknowledged pieces.
It is by no means improbable that Massinger,^. aA author in high repute, was employed by the actors to alter or to add a few scenes to a po- pular drama, and that his pretensions to this partnership of wit were thus recognized and established. A process like this was consonant to th^ manners of the age, M'hen the players^; ' vho were usually the proprietors, exerted, and not unfrequeiitly abused, the privilege of inter- larding such pieces as were once in vogue, from time to time, with newmatter/ Whowill say that Shakspeare's claims to many dramas which for- merly passed under his name, and probably with
' A Terj curious instance ef tbis occurs in the Office.book of sir Henry Herbert : ^^ Received for the adding of a new scene to the Virgin^Martifithis7ih of July, 1624,^0. IQ.O."* Such were the liberties taken with our old plays ! The Virgin Martyr bad now been more than a twelvemoiith before the public, being printed in 1622 ; the new scene does not appear in the subsequent editions, whieh are mere copies of the first : had that, however, not been committed to the press previously to these additions, we may be pretty confident that the whole
* This was sir Henry's fee ; for this mean and rapacious, overseer not only insisted on being paid for allowing a new play, but for every trifling addition which might subsequently; be xpitde to it. '
INTRODUCTION Ivii
no intent, on the part of the publishers, to dc- eeive, had not this or a similar foundation ?
What has been said of the Virgin^Mariyr ap- plies with equal, perhaps with greater force, to the Unnatural Combat ^ and the Duke ofMilan^ of which the style is easy, vigorous, and harmo<- nious, bespeaking a confirmed habit of compo«^ sition, and serving, with the rest, to prove that Massinger began to write for the stage at an earlier period than has been hitherto supposed*
Massinger jappears for the first time in the Office-book of the Master of the Kevels, Dec. S, 16S3, on which day the Bondman was brought forward. About this time too, he printed the Duke of Milany with a short dedication to lady Katherine Stanhope ;* in which he speaks with
would haye come down to us as the joint prodnction of Massinger md Decker*.
Since this note first appeared, an additional proof has been discovered both of the popularity of this play, and of the practice here mentioned^ Sir Henry Herbert's Office*book contains a few memorandums^ extracted from that of his pre- decessor^ Sir George Bnck^ and among them the following, ^' Oct. 0, 1620. For new reforming the VirgiumMarti/r for Hke Red Boll, 40<."
This entry shews it to have been even then an oldr play». I^obabljr it was produced before the year 1609, in the time of Mr. Tyl^ey, who was not so scrupulous in licensing plays, as his immediate successor, Buck«
' Ladif Katherine -Stanhope ;"] Daughter of Francis lord Hastings, and first wife of ^Philip Stanhope, baron of Sbelford^ »nd afterwards (1628) earl of Chesterfield ; a nobleman o{ great honour ai\d virtue. He opposed the high court meaaureii.
I ^
Iviii INTRODUCTION.
great modesty of his course of studies, to which he insinuates, (what he more than once repeats in his subsequent publications,) misfortune ra- ther than choice had determined him.
In 1624, he published the Bondman^ and de- dicated it to Philip earl of Montgomery, who being present at the first representation, had shewn his discernment and good taste, by what the Author calls a Uberal suffrage in its favour. Philip was the second son of Henry earl of Pembroke, the friend and patron of Massinger's father. At an early age he came to court, and was distinguished by the particular favour of James I. who conferred upon him the honour of knighthood ; and, on his marriage* with lady
till he discovered that the parliament were Wolently usurping on the prerogatives of the other branches of the^tate ; when, after an ineffectual struggle to bring them within constittttionai limits, and preserve peace, he joined the arms of his royal matter; Shelford, the seat from wbic]i he derived his title, was burnt in the conflict, two of his sons fell in battle, and he himself suffered a long and severe imprisonment ; yet he pre* served his loyalty and faith, and died as he had lived, unble* mished.
^ On his marriage] There is an account of this marriage in a letter* from sir Dudley Carlton to Mr. Winwood, which is pi^eserveid in the second volume of his Memoiresy and which, as affcH^ng a very curious picture of the grossness that prevailed at the court of James t. may not be unworthy of insertion t *^ On St. John's day we had the marriage of sir Philip Herbert and the lady Susan performed at Whitehall, with all the ho- Boutr could be done a great favourite. The court was great ; and for that day put on the best braverie. The prince and duke
INTRODUCTION- lix
Susan Vere,* daughter of Edward carl of Ox- ford, and grandaughter of William lord Burleigh,
of Hoist led the bride to church ; the queen followed her from thence. The king gare her ; and she, in her tresses and trin- kets, brided and bridled it so handsomely, and indeed became herself so well, that the king said if he were anmarri«d, he would notgiye her but keep her himself. The marriage dinner was kept in the great chamber, where the prince and the duke of Hoist, and the great lords and ladies, accompanied the bride. The ambassadour of Venice was the only bidden guest of stran- gers, and he had pli^ce above the duke of Hoist, which the duke took not well. But after dinner he was as little pleased himself; for being brought into the closet toi retire himself, he If as then Buffered to walk out, his supper unthought of. At night there wa3 a mask in the hall, which, for conceit and fashion, was. suitable to the occasion. The actors were, the earl of Peoobroke, the lord Willoby, sir Samuel Hays, sir Thomas Germain^ sir Robert Gary, sir John Lee, sir Hichard Preston, and sir Thomas Bager. There was no small loss that night of dii^ne&l and jewels, and many great ladies were made shorter by the skirts, and w^re yery well served, that they coq}d keep cut no better. The presents of plate and other thiitgs given by the nqblemen were valued at ^31500. ; but thfit which made it a good marriage was a gift of the king's of £5iQQ» l»nA, for the bride's jointure. They were lodged in the comicQ chamber, where the king, in bis shirt and night-gown, g^re theni ^ reoeUle-maHu before they were up, and spent a good time ia or upon the bed ; chuse which you will belieTe. 1^0 ceremony was omitted 6f bride-cakes, points, garters, and glQTe^ which hare been ever since the livery o^ the court, and at night there was sewing into the sheet, casting off the bride'a left hose, with many other petty sorceries.* Jan. l505.'*
' ' Lctdy Susan Fere,] To this lady Jonson addressed the poem beginning,
' * There is an allusion to one of these " petty sorceries" in the'i&peech of Mirtiila, Guardian^ Act III. sc. ii.
Ix INTRODUCTION.
gave him lands to a considerable amount, and soon afterwards created him a baron and an earl/
*^ Were they that named you prophets ? did they see^
*^ Eyen in the dew of grace, what you would be I
'^ Or did our times require it, to behold
^^ A new Susanna equal to that old?" &c. ^ig* cW^
The dew of grace is aa elegant and beautiful periphrasis for the^ baptismal sprinkling.
* Davies, after noticing the farours heaped on him, as re* corded by lord Clarendon, petulantly adds, ^^ But Clarendon, perhaps, did not know the real cause of lord Herbert's ad* Tancem,ent. The behaYiour of the Scots on James's accession to the throne of England was generally obnoxious and much resented* At a meeting of English and Scotch at a horse-race near Croydon, a sudden quarrel arose between them, occa* sioned by a Mr. Ramsey's* striking Philip lord Herbert in the face with a switch* The English would have made it a national quarrel, and Mr. John Pinchbeck rode about the field with a dagger in his hand, crying, ' Let us break our fast with them here^ and dine with them in London.' But Herbert not resent* ing it, the king was so charmed with his peaceable disposition^ that he made him a knight, a baron, a Tiseount, and an earl, in one day." Life of Massinger^ p. Hi. This is taken from Osborne, one of those gossipping talemongers in which the times of James so greatly abounded, and who, with Weldon^ Wilson, Peyton^ Sanderson, and others, contributed to propa* gate an infinite number of scandalous stories, which should hate been left suh lodiuy where most of them perhaps had birth.
* This ^^ Mr. Bamsey," as DaTieS' calls him, was viscount Haddington ; (the person who killed the earl of Gowrie, in the mysterious attempt to seize James at Perth, August 5, 1600.) In consequence of the assault at Croydon, he was forbid the court; but I know npt how long the interdictic^ continued. He was subsequently created earl of Holderness^
INTRODUCTION. Ixi
This dedication, which is sensible, modest, and affecting, serves to prove that whatever might be the unfortunate circumstance which deprived the Author of the patronage and pro- tection of the eldf r branch of the Herberts, he did not imagine it. to be of a disgraceful nature; or he would not, in the face of the public, have appealed to his connexions with the family:
What reliance maj be placed on them, in general, is sufficiently apparent from the assertion of Osborne. The fact is, that Her- bert had long been a knight, and was nerer a yiscount. He was married in the beginning of 1605, (he was then fir Philip,) and created baron Herbert of Sharland in the Isle of Sheppjr^ and earl of Montgomery, Jane 4th, in the same year: and so far were these titles from being the reward of what Osborna calls his cowardice at Croydon, that they were all conferred on him se?en years before that event took place !* Osborne him« self allows that if Montgomery had not, by his forbearance^ ^^ stanched the blood then ready to be spilt, not only that day, bat all after, must have proved fatal to the Scots, so long as any had staid in England, the royal family excerpted, which^ in respect to majesty, or their own safety, they must have spared, or the kingdom been left to the ihisery of seeing so much blood laid out as the trial of so many crabbed titles would have required." The prevention of these horrors might| in some minds, have raised feelings favourable to the tempci- ranee of the young earl; but OsbornOi whose object, and whose office, was calumny, contrives to convert it into a new accusation : ^^ they could not be these considerations," he says^ "^^ that restrained Herbert, who wanted leisure, no less than capacity, to use them* though laid iahis way by others'M
Memoirs of King James*
^ The hone-race at Croydon, was in March 161 1«19. Thi| is ascertained by a MS. in the Museam,
Ixii INTRODUCTION.
at ihe same time, it is manifest that some cause of alienation existed, otherwise he would scarcely have overlooked so fair an opportunity of alluding to the characteristic generosity of' the earl of Pembroke, whom, on this, as on every other occasion, he scrupulously forbears to name, or even to hint at.
This dedication, which was kindly received, led the way to a closer connexion, and a cer- tain degree of familiarity, for which, perhaps, the approbation, so openly expressed^ of the Bandmanf might be designed by Montgomery as an overture : at a subsequent period,^ Mas* singer styles the earl his " most singular good lord and patron,*' and speaks of the greatness of his obligations :
<* '" ■■ mine being more
<^ Than they could owe, who since, or heretofore,
^^ Have labouT'd with exalted lines to raise
^^ Brave piles or rather pjrramids of praise
*' To Pembroke,* and his family.''
What pecuniary advantages he derived from the present address, cannot be known; what- ever they were, they did not preclude the necessity of writing for the stage, which he continued to do with great industry, seldom producing less than two new pieces annually.
* On the loss of his eldest son^ who died of the small-pox at Florence, Jan. 1635.
* Montgomery had now succeeded td the title and estates of his elder brother, who deceased April 10, 163.0.
INTRODUCTIOR Ixiii
In 1629, his occasions, perhaps, again pressing upon him, he gave to the press the Renegado and the Roman Actor, both of which had now- been several years before the public. The first of these, he inscribed to lord Berkeley in a short address, composed with taste and elegance. He speaks with some complacency of the merits of the piece, but trusts that he shall live " to ten- der his humble thankfulness in some higher strain:'* this confidence in his abilities, the pleasing concomitant of true genius, Massinger cHften felt and often expressed. Thd latter play he presented to sir Philip Knyvet, and sir Thomas Jeay,* with a desire, as he says, that the world mfght take notice of his being in- debted to their support for power to compose the piece: he expatiates on their kindness in warm and energetic language, and accounts for addressing " the most perfect birth of his Minerva" to them, from their superior demands on his gratitude.
Little more than four years had elapsed since the Bondman wi^s printed; in that period Mas- singer had written seven plays, all of which, it is probable, were favourably received: it there- fore becomes a question, what where the emo-
^ Sir Thomas ieuj iras himself a poet : several cdmmendapi tory copies of verses by him are prefixed to Massinger's Flays. He calls the Author his worthy friend, and gives many proofs that his esteem was founded on judgment, and his kindness •andid and sincere.
Ixiv INTRODUCTION.
luments derived from the stage, which could thus leave a popular and successful writer to struggle with adversity ?
There seem to have been two methods of dis- posing of a new piece ; the first, and perhaps the most general, was to sell the copy to one of the theatres; the price cannot be exactly ascer- tained, but appears to have fluctuated between ten and twenty pounds, seldom falling short of the former, and still more seldom, I believe, exceeding the latter. In this case, the author could only print his play by permission of the proprietors, a favour which was sometimes granted to the necessities of a favourite writer, and to non«, perhaps, more frequently than to Massinger. The other method was by offering it to the stage for the advantage of a benefit^ which was commonly taken on the second or third night, and which seldom produced, there is reason to suppose, the net sum of twenty pounds. There yet remain the profits of puhf lication: Mr. Malone, from whose Historical Account of the English Stage, (one of the most instructive essays that ever appeared on the subject,) many of these notices are taken, says» that, in the time of Shakspeare, the custonmry price was, twenty nobles; (£6. 13^. 4d.) if, at a somewhat later period, we fix it at thirty, (£10.) we shall not probably be far from the truth. The' usual dedication fee, which yet remains to be added, was forty shillings : where any coa^
INTRODUCTION. Ixv
nexfon. subsisted: between the parties, it was doubtless increased.
We may be pretty confident, therefore; that Massinger seldom, if ever, received for his most strenuous and fortunate exertions, more than fifty pounds a year ;• this indeed, if regularly enjoyed, would, at that period, be sufficient, with decent economy, to have preserved him from absolute want : but nothing is better known than the precarious nature of dramatic writing. Some of his pieces might fail- of suc- cess, (indeed, we are assured that they actually did so,). others might experience a ** thin third day ;" and a variety of circumstances, not dif- ficult to enumerate, contribute to diminish the petty sum which I have ventured to state as the mai^imum of the poet's revenue. Nor could the benefit which he derived from the press be very extensive, as of the seventeen dramas which make up his printed works, (ex- clusive of the Parliament of Lov^^ which now appears for the first time,) only twelve were published during his life; and of these, two (the Virgin^ Martyr and the Fatal Dowry) were not wholly his own.
In 1630, he printed the Picturej which had appeared on the stage the preceding year. This play was warmly supported by many of the " noble Society of the Inner Temple,*' to whom it. is addressed. These gentlemen were so sen- sible of the extraordinary merits of this admire
VOL. I. e
Ixvi INTRODUCTION.
ahle performance^ that they gave tlie A%tthor leave to particularize their namea at the bead of the dedication^ an honour which he declined, because, as he modestly observes, and evidently with an allusion to some of his contemporaries, h« ^* had rather enjoy the real proofs of their friendship, than, mountebank-like, boa^t their numbers in a catalogue."
In 1631, Massinger appears to have beenun^ usually industrious, for he brought forward three pieces in little mtxre than asi many months^ Two of these, Believe us you List^ and the Unfor* innate Piety ^ are lost, the third is the Emperor of the East J which was published in the follow- ing year, and inscribed to lord Mobun, wba was so much piieased with the perusal of tbe Author's printed works, that he commissioned his nephiew, sir Aston Cockayn®,* to expresS' bis high opinioni of tbemr, and to pveasnt the
^ This is the only .place in inrhich Massinger makes anj mention of sir Aston, who was not less delighted with theEnim perot of the East Aian his Uncle, and who', id a copj of rer^e§ which h^ prefixed to* it, ca^te Mio^sfngifef . his^ vderihyfrknd. It is to the praise tff sir Aston Cockayne th^t be noti ovify maiBK iained his esteem and admiration of Masisiiger. during the poet's life, but preserved ^n affectionate regard for bis noemory, of which' his writings furnish many proofs. Se was, as I hate supposed l^assinger to be, a Catholl<^, and suffered mach for Kis religieif . I will not take upon myself i6 sAf tfaftt this com. Binnity of faith strengtheined their loataal aitaidHOeilt^lhiMigk I do Hoi thii^ it aUo|«tiief imj^obabk*
INTltOBUCTIOM. lavii
writer ** Mrith a token of bi$. love and intended favour/'^
7%r Fa^l Domy waa printed i6 I63S. I oAce su|)f>osed this to be the play which is mentioned above by the name of tke Unfortunate Piety ^ m it does not appear under its presetitt title in the Office-book of sir Henrj- Herbert ; but I now believe it to have been written, previously to l€£S. His coadjutor in this play was Nathaniel^ Field, of whom I can give the reader but little account. His name stands at the head of the principal comedians who performed Cynthia's Reodsy and be is joined with Heminge, Condell, . Burbadg^, and othiers, in the preface to the' foUo edition of Shakspeare. He was also the author of two comedies, A Weman is a Weather* cecky }6lfl, and Amends for Ladies, 161S. Mh Reedy however, conjectures the writer of these playa, tbe assistant of Massinger in the Fatal DiMvyy to be a distinct person from the actor above meaitioned, and *^ a Nath» Field, M. A# fellow of New. ColL who Wfote some Lati^ verses printed in Oxon. Academics Parentalia, l69iSf and who, being of the same University with Massinger, might there join with him in the composition of the play ascribed to them,'*' It 13 seldom safe to difiTer from 'Sfir. Reed on subjects of this nature, yet I still incline to think that Field the actor was the person xueant. There is no authority for supposing that
7 Old Playsy Vol. XII. p. 350.
e 3
Ixviii , INTRODUCTION.
Massinget Wrote plays at College; and if there were, it is not likely that the Fatal Dowry should be one' of them. ' But Mr. Reed's chief reason for his assertion is, that no contemporary author speaks of Field as a writer ; this argument, in the refutation of which I can claim no merit, is now corrtpletely disproved by the discovery of the letter to Mr. Henslowe. Mr, Malone too thinks that the. person who wrote the two co- medies here mentioned, and assisted Massinger, could not be Field the actor, since the first of them was printed in 1612, at which time he must have been a youth, having performed as one of the children of the revels in Jonson's &knt fVbman, I609.* I know not to what age these children were confined, but Barkstead^ who was one of them„and who, from his situa* tion in the list, was probably younger than Field, published, in I6II, a poem called Hiren (Irene) th^ Fair Greeks consisting of 114 stan- zas, which is yet earlier than the date of JVo- marCsa fVeaikercock,
* It had probably escaped Mr. Malone's obseriration, that Field appears as the principal performer in Cynthia's RtveUy acted in 1599 or 1600. He could not then have well been less than twelve years old, and at the time mentioned by Mr. Ma- lone, as too early tor the production of his first play, mast have l)een turned of one^and -twenty.
Mr. Malone informed me, not long before his dt^ath, that he was satisfied from what is here adduced, that the author and the actor were the same person.
INTRODUCTION. Ixix
Mr. Malone conjectures that the affecting let- ter (p. xlix.) was written between I6l2and 1615 : if we take the latest period, Field will then be not far from his twenty-eighth year, a period sufficiently advanced for the production of any work of fancy. I have sometimes felt a pang at imagining that the play on which they were then engaged, and for which they solicit a tri- fling advance in such moving terms, was the Fatal Dowry^ one of the noblest compositions that ever graced the English stage ! Even though it should not be so, it is yet impossible to be unaffected when we consider that those who actually did produce it, were in danger of perishing in gaol for want of a loan of five pounds !
In the following year Massinger brought forward the City Madam. As this play was undoubtedly disposed of to the performers, it remained in manuscript till tlie distress brought on the stage by the persecution of the Puritans, induced them to commit it to the press. The person to whom we are indebted for its appear- ance, was Andrew Penny cuicke, an actor of some note. In the dedication to the countess of Oxford,* he observes, with a spirited reference to the restrictions then laid on the drama, " In
r
^ Countess of Oxford, SccJ] Ann, first wife of Aubrey de Yere, tweotieth and last earl of Oxford. She was a distant relation of the Pembroke family.
Ixx INTRODUCTION.
that age wiien mt and learning 'wer^'nQiimiqfiered btfif^Wy andmoknee, this poem was the object of love and C6mnieK>datioiis :'' he then adds, " the eocourageraent I had to prefer thi^dedi* cation to jowr powerful protection proceeds from the u^rversal fame of the deceased author,* who (although he composed many) wrote none amiss, atid this may justly be ranked among his best." PcnnycuicTce might have gone further ; but this little address is sufficient to shew in what estimation the poet was held by his " fel* lows/' He had then been dead nineteen years. About this time too ( 16S2) Massinger printed fhe Maid of Honour^ with a dedication to sir Francis Foljambe ' and sir Thomas Bland; which
^ The deceased author^'] The City Madam was printed in 1^59. This sufficiently proves the absurdity of the account given by Ijangbaine, Jacob^ Wbincop, and Gibber, who concur In placing Ma^inger^s death in 1660, and'who, ceftainly, nc«ver perused his works with any attention : nor is that ofChetwood more rational, who asserts that he died 1659, since his epitaph is printed among the poems of sir Aston Cockayne, which were published in 1658, and written much earlier. It is, there* fore, worse than a Waste of time to repeat from book to book such palpable errours. (1805.) It is necessary to place the date here, lest I should be supposed to reflect on Mr. Stephen Jones> who had not, at that time, been gailty of diis tale and tiresome blunder.
3 Sir Francis Foljambcy &c.] I suspect that sir Francis was also a Catholick. From the brief account of this ancient family which is given in Lodge's Illustrationsj they appear to have suffered severely on account oif their religion, to which they were eealously attached.
INTRODUCTION. U%1
canbot be read vMiout aotrow. He observe9» tfeaft tliese geiidemen, Avho appear to have been engaged in an amicable suit at lav, bad cooti* nned, for many years, the patrons of hiim and fais despised studies, and be calk upoiu the world to tefce notice, as fix>m himself, that he had no f t^ykat time svAmtedy but that 3bie was supported by tlieir frequent courtesiles and favours.
It h not improbahlq, however, that he was now labouring landecr.the pressure of more than nsied want; as the fkilnre of two of his plays had damped his spirits, and mateiially checked the prosecution df bis dramatic studies. No account of the unsuccessful pieces is come down to us.: their names ^do not occur in the Office- book of sir H. Herbert; nor should we have known tbe circumstance, had not the Author, with a modesty which shames some of his con* temporaries, and a deference to the judgment of the pn^blic, which becomes all who write for it, recorded the fact in the prologue to th^ Guardian. To this, probably, we owe the publi* cation of A Nba> Way to pay Old DebtSy which was now first printed with a sensible and manly address to the «irl of Caernarvon, who bad married lady Sophia Herbert, the sister of his patron, Philip earl of Pembroke and Montgo- mery. ** I was born," he says, ** a devoted ser- vant to the thrice noble family of your incom* parable lady, and am most ambitious, but with a becoming distance, to be known to your
Ixxii INTRODUCTION.
lordship/' All Massinger's patrons appear tfr b^ persons of worth and eminence, Philip 'had not at this time tarnished the name of Pembroke by disloyalty and ingratitude, and the earl of Caernarvon was a man of unimpeachable honour and integrity. He followed the declining for- tunes of his royal master, and fell at Newbury, where he commanded the cavalry, after defeat- ing that part of the parliamentary army to which he was opposed. In his last moments, says Fuller, as he lay on the field, a nobleman of the royal party desired to know if he had any request to make to the king, to whom he was deservedly dear, comforting him with the assurance that it would be readily granted. His reply was such as became a brave and consci- entious soldier : I will not die with a suit in my mouth, but to the King of kings !
Flattered by the success of the Guardian^ which was licensed on the 31st of October 1633, Massinger exerted himself with unusual energy, and produced three plays before the expiration of the following year. One of them, the de- lightful comedy of A Very Woman^ is come down to us ; of the others, nothing is known but the names, which are registered by. the Master of the Revels. In 1635, it does not ap- pear that he brought any thing forward ; but in 16S6 he wrote the Bashful Lover^ and printed the Great Duke of Florence^ which haci now been many years on the stage, with a dedication
I N T R O D U C T:I O.N. Ixxiii
to dir Robert Wiseman of ThorrcUs Hall, in Essex. In this, which is merely expressive of his gratitude for a long., continuation of kind- ness, he acknowledges, ^' and with a zealous thankfulness, that, for many years, he had. but faintly subsisted, if he had not often tasted of his bounty/' In this precarious state of depen* dance passed the life of a man who is charged with no want of industry, suspected of no ex- travagance, and* whose, works were, at this very period, the boast and delight of the stage 1 •
The Bashful Lwer is the latest play of Mas- singer's writing which we possess, but thi^re were three others posterior, to it, of which the last, the Anchoress of Pausilippo, was acted Jun, 26, 1640, about six weeks before his death. Previously to this, he sent to the press one of his early plays, the Unnatural Combat, which he inscribed to Anthony Sentleger, (whose. father, sir Wareham, had been his. particular admirer,) being, as he says, ambitious to publish his many favours to the world. It is pleasant to find the Author, at the close of his blameless life, avow- ing, as he iiere does, with an amiable modesty, that the noble and eminent persons, to whom his former works were dedicated, did not think themselves disparaged by being ^* celebrated as the patrons of his humble studies^ in the .first file of which," he continues, ^' lam confident you shall have no cause to blush, to find your name written."
Ijrxiv I^THODUCTION^
Massin^er (died oq the 17th of Mardi, Ij&4(% He went to lied m good health, saiys Langbaioe, and was found dead in the morniog in his own lioose on the Bankside. He was buried Jn .tbe efaurcbyard of St Saviour's, atid the comediant paid the last sad duty to his naitie^ by attending him to the grave.
It does not appear, from tiie strictest seaxch,* tbart: a stone, or inscription :of any icind, marked the place where his dust was deposited : even the memorial of his mortality is given with a pathetic brevity, which accords but too well with the obscune and humble passages of his life : " March «0, i€a9-40, buried Philip Mas- singer, A sTRAKOER !" No tlowers were flung into his grave, no elegies " soothed his hovcr- ingspirit," and of all the admirers of his talentp and his worth, none bat sir Aston Cockayne dedicated a line to his memoiy. It would hi an abuse 'of language, to honour any composi^ tion of sir Aston with the name of poetry ; but the steadiness of bis regard for Massinger may be justly praised. In that collection of doggrel rhymes, which I have already mentioned, (p. xlvii.) there is ** an epitaph on Mr. John Fletoher, and Mr. Philip Massinger^ who lie both buried in one gravis in St Mary Overy's church, in South war k :
^^ In the same grave was Fletcher buried, here ^< Life tiie.9t«ge .poet, Philip l^aasinger ;
* Every stone^ and every fragment of a stone^ have been examined.
IWTRiODUCTIOK
^^ Pliijw^cu did write ^geiUier, wove great «fvu^p| , ^^ And now one grave inclodes them in their ends. ^^ To whom on earth nothing could party beneath > ' *^ Here in their fame they lie, in spight of death."
It is surely somewhat singular that of a man of such eminence nothing should be known. What I have presumed to give, is merely the history of the successive appearance of iiis works; and I am aware of no source from whence any additional information can be de* rived : no anecdotes are recorded of him by his contemporaries; few casual mentions of his name occur in the writings of the time; and h^ had not the good fortune which attended many ' of less eminence, to attract attention at the revival of dramatic literature from the deathlike torpor of the Interregnum.' But though we are ignorant of every circumstance respecting Mas- singer, but that he lived, wrote, and died,* we may yet form to ourselves some idea of his per- sonal character from the incidental hints scat- tered through his works* In what light he was r<^garded may be collected from the recom- mendatory poems prefixed to his several playi^
^ One exception we shall hereafter mention. Eren in this -the Poet^s ill fate pursaed him, and he was flung back into obscurity, that his spoils might be worn without detection.
^ it IS iseriously to be lamented that sir Atton Cockayne, instead of wasting his leisure in measuring out dull prose which cannot be read, had not employed a part of it in furnish- ing some notices of the dran^tic poets, with whom he was so 'vr^U acquainted^ and whom he professes so much to admire*
ixxvi intrqductio:n,
in which the language of his panegyrists, though warm, expresses an attachment apparently de- rived not so much from his talents as his virtues : he is, as Davies has observed, their beloved^ much* esteemed^ dear, worthy j deserving, honoured, long- known, and long - loved Jr tend, Sec. &c. AH the writers of his life unite in representing him as a man of singular modesty, gentleness, candour, and affability ; nor does it appear that he ever made, or found an enemy. He speaks indeed of opponents on the stage ; but the contention of rival candidates for popular favour must not be confounded with personal hostility. With all this, however, he appears to have maintained a constant struggle with adversity ; since not only the stage, from which, perhaps, his natural reserve prevented him from deriving the usual advantages, but even the bounty of his particu- lar friends, on which he chiefly relied, left him in a state of absolute dependance. Other writers for the stage, not superior to him in abilities, had their periods of good fortune, their bright as well as their stormy hours ; but Mas- singer seems to have enjoyed no gleam of sun- shine; his life was all one wintry day, and ." shadows, clouds, and darkness," rested upon it.
Davies finds a servility in- his dedications which I have not been able to discover : they are principally characterised by gratitude and humility, without a single trait of that gro^
INTRODUCTION. Uxvii
and servile adulation which distinguishes and disgraces the addresses of some of his contem- poraries. That he did not conceal his misery, his editors appear inclined to reckon among his faults; he bore it, however, without impatience, and we only hear of it when it is relieved. Poverty made him no flatterer, and, what is still more rare, no maligner of the great: nor is one symptom of envy manifested in any part of his compositions.
His principles of patriotism appear irrepre- hensible: the extravagant and slavish doctrines which are found in the dramas of his gre^t con- temporaries make no part of his creed, in which the warmest loyalty is skilfully combined with just and rational ideas of political freedom. Nor is this the only instance in which the rectitude of his mind is apparent ; the writers of his day abound in recommendations of suicide; he is uniform in the reprehension of it, with a single exception, to which, perhaps, he was led by the peculiar turn of his studies.^ Guilt of every kind js usually left to the punishment of divine justice: even the wretched Malefort excuses himself to his son on his supernatural appear- ance, because the latter was not marked out by
* See the Duke of Milan^ Vol. I. p. 264. The fr^queni Tiolation of female chastity, which took place on the irruption of the barbarians into Italy, gave rise to many curious disqui* iitions among the fathers of the church, respecting the degree of guilt incurred in preventing it by self-murder* Malinger hftd these, probably, in his thoughts.
Ixxviii INTRODUCTIONl
keaxoen for his nicxther'a avenger; and the yeung^, the brave, the pious Charalois accounts his death fallen upon him by the will of heaven, because ^^ he made himself a judge in his own cause.**
Biit the great, the glorious^ distinction of Massinger, is the uniform respect with, which he treats religion and its ministers, in an age when it was found necessary to add regulation to regulation, to stop the growth of impiety on the stage. No priests are introduced by him, ^* to set on some quantity of barren spectators" to laugh at their Hcentious follies; the sacred name is not lightly invoked; nor daringly sported with; nor is Scripture profaned by buffoon allu- sions lavishly put in the mouths of fodis and women.
• To this brief and desultory delineation of his mind, it may be expected that something should here be added of his talents for dramatic com* position ; but this is happily rendered unneces- sary. The kipdness of Dr. Ferriar has allowed me to annex to this Introduction the elegant and ingeaious Essay on Massingery first printed in the third volume of the Manchester Transac-^ tions; and I shall presently have to notice, in a more particular manner, the value of the assist- ance \yhich has been expressly given to me for this work. . These, if I do not deceive myself, leave little or nothing to be desired on the peculiar qualities, the excellencies and defects, of this much neglected and much injured writer*
iNTRODtTCTION. Ixxix
Mr. M. Mason has remarked the general har- rtJtony of his numbers^ in which, indeed, Mas- singer stands unrivalled. He seems, however, inclined to make a partial exception in favour of Shakspeare ; but I cannot admit of its pro* priety. The claims of this great poet on the admiration of mankind are innumerable, but rhythmical modulation is not one of them : nor do I think it either wise or just to hold him forth as supereminent in every quality which constitutes genius : Beaumont is as sublime, Fletcher as pathetic, and Jonson as nervous :— ttor let it be accounted poor or niggard praise, to allow him only an equality with these extra- ordinary men in their peculiar excellencies, while he is admitted to possess many others, to which they make no approaches. Indeed, if I were asked for the discriminating quality of Shakspeare's mind, that by which he is raised above all competition, above all prospect of rivalry, I should say it was wit. To wit Mas- singer has no pretensions, though he is not without a considerable portion of htimour ; in which, however, he is surpasaed by Fletcher, whose style bears some affinity to his own: there is, indeed, a.morbid softness in the poetry of the latter, which is not visible in the ftowing and vigorous metre of Massinger, but the ge- neral manner is not unlike/
. * There to y^ a pecfdiaiky vhich it vmj %e proper io natieii
Ixxx INTRODUCTION.
With Massinger terminated the triumph of dramatic poetry ; indeed^ the stage itself sur* vived him but a short time. The nation was convulsed to its centre by contending factions^ and a set of austere and gloomy fanatics, enemies to every elegant amusement, and every social relaxation, rose upon the ruins of the state. Exasperated by the ridicule with which they had long been covered by the stage, they per- secuted the actors with unrelenting severity, and consigned them, together with the writers, to hopeless obscurity and wretchedness. Taylor died in the extreme of poverty, Shirley opened a little school, and Lowin, the boast of the stage^ kept an alehouse at Brentford :
Balncolum Gabiis^Jitmos condvcerc Rom(e Tentarunt I
«
Others, and those the far greater number, joined the royal standard, and exerted themselves with
as It contributes in a slight degree, to the flaency of Massinger't style ; it is, the resolution of his words (and principally of those derived from the Latin through the medium of the French) into their component syllables. Virtuous^ partial, nation^ &c. &c. he usually makes dactyls, (if it be not pedantie to apply terms of measure to a language acquainted only with accent,) passing OTer the last two syllables with a gentle but distinct enunciation. This practice, indeed, is occasionally adopted by all the writers of his time, but in Massinger it is frequent and habitual. This singularity may slightly embarrass the reader at first, but a little acquaintance will shew its ad« TBliiages, and render it not only easy but delightfuL
»i
«
]tNTR0Dir61?lUN; Ixxxi
more gallantry tlian good fortune^ in( the service of their old fiind indulgent master.*
We have not yet, perhaps, fully estimated^ and certaiuly not yet fully recovered, what was lost in that unfortunate struggle. The arts were rapidly advancing^ to perfection under the fos- tering wing of a monarch who united in himself taste to feel, spirit to undertake, and munifi- cence to reward. Architecture, painting, and poetry, were by turns the objects of his paternal care. Shakspeare was his " closet companion,"* Jonson his poet, and in conjunction with Inigo Jones, bis" favoured architect, produced those
^ It is gratefol to notice tlie noble contrast which the En- glish stage of that day offers to thatof Rerolutionary France. One wretched actor, only, deserted his Sorereign, and fonght on the side of the Parliament, while of the Tast multitude fostered hy the nobiiitj and the royal family of France, not an individaal adhered to their cause. All rushed madly forward to plunder and assassinate their benefactors ; and, with few exceptions, were recognized as the most bloody and remorseless miscreants of that horrible period.
* His ^^ closet companion^*^'} Milton mentions, as a fact uni. Tcrsally known, the fondness of the unfortunate Charles for the plays of Shakspeare : and it appears from those curious particulars collected from sir Henry Herbert by Mr. Malone, that his attachment to the drama, and his anxiety for its per- fection, began with his retgn. The plot of the Gamester^ one of the best of Shirley's pieces, was giTen to him by the king ; and there is an anecdote recorded by the Master of the Revels, which shews that he was not Inattentlra to the success of Massinger.
<< At Greenwich thif 4 •f Jnne (16S8) Mr. W. Murray
VOL. I. ■ f
ixKxii introduction:
magniiiGent entertainments which, though mo^ dern refinement may affect to despise them^ dfipdern splendour never reached even in thought*
gate mee power frotn the king to allow of the King and the Svbject^ and tould mee that he would warrant it :
^^ Monies ! We'll raise supplies what waj we please
^^ And force you to sobscribe to blanks, in which
^' We'll mulct you as wee shall think fit. The Caesars -
^^ In Rome were wise, acknowledging no laws
** But what their swords did ratify, the wiYes
^^ And daughters of the senators bowing to
<* Their will, s^s deities," &c.
^^ This is a peece taken out of Philip Messenger's play called the King and the Subject^ and enterd here for. ever to bee re« membef d by my son and those that cast their eyes on it, in honour of king Charles,- ipy master, who readinge oter the play at Newmarket, ^et his marke upon the place with his own hande, ^nd in thes words i — Th^ia is top insoleptj and to kte changed.
^^ Note, that the poett makes it the speech of a king, Don Pedro of Spayne, and spoken to his subjects.'^ This play is lost. It was probably a refived one, as sir }(enry receiyed but ^l. for reading it.
f That the exhibition of those masques was attended with a considerable degree of expense, cannot be denied : and jet a question may be modestly started, whether a thousand pounds might not have been as rationally and as creditably laid out on one of thtm at Tibbald's, ^Ithorpe, or Ludlow Castle, as on a basket of unripe trash, in Grosvenor Square.
But we are fallen indeed ! The/estiTal of the knights of the Bath, presentefl an ppportunity for a masqiie appropriate to the subject, in which taste should have united with grandeur* Whose talents were employed on the great occasion I cannot pretend to say ; but assuredly the frequenters of Bartholomew
INTRODUCTION. Ixxxiii
That the tyranny of the commonwealth should sweep all this away, was to be expected : the' circumstance not less to be wondered at than regretted is, that when the revival of monarchy afforded an opportunity for restoring every thing to its pristine place, no advantage should be taken of it. Such, however, was- the horror created in the general mind, by the perverse and unsocial government from which they had so fortunately escaped, that the people appear * to have anxiously avoided all retrospect ; and with Prynne and Vicars, to have lost sight of Shakspeare and ^' his fellows." Instead, there- fore, of taking up dramatic poetry (for to this my subject confines me) where it abruptly ceased in the labours of Massinger, they elicited, as it were,* aimanner of their own, or fetched it from the heavy monotony of their continental neighbours. The ease, the elegance, the -sim- plicity, the copiousness of the former periodi were as if they had never been ; and jangling and blustering declamation took place of nature, truth, and sense. Even criticism, which, in the former reign, had been making no inconsider- able progress under the influence and direction of the great masters of Italy, was now diverted into a new channel, and only studied in the puny and jejune canons of their degenerate followers, the French.
fair were oerer inyited to so vile and senseleis an exhibition,' as was produced at Ranelagh for the entertainment of the do- bility and gentry of the united kingdom.
Ixxxiv INTRODUCTIQN. ^
> The Restoration did little for Mal3singer ; this, however, will the less surprise lus, wheu we find that he but shared the fortune of a greater name. It appeat-s from a Ust of revived plays preserved by Downes the prompter, that of twenty-one, two onjy * werp written by Sbak-* speare ! The Bondman and the Roman Actor were at length brought forward by Betterton, who probably conceived them to be favourable to his fine powers of declamation. We are to\d by Downes, that he gained ^^ great* applause'' in them : his success, however, did not incite him to the revival of the rest, though he might have found among the number ample scope for the display of his highest talents. I cap discover but two more of Massinger*s plays which were acted in the period immediately following the Resto- ration, the Virgin' Martyr^ and the Renegado ; I have, indeed, some idea that the Old Law should be added to the scanty list ; but having mislaid my memorandums, I cannot afiSrm it
The time, however, arrived when he Was to be retnembered. Nicholas Rowe, a man gifted by nature with taste and feeling, disgusted at the tumid vapidity of his own times,^turued his attention to the poets of a former age, and, among the rest, to Massinger. Pleased at the discovery of a nxind congenial with his own, he studied him with attention, and endeavoured to form a style on his model. Suavity, ease, ele-
. ' Thoo.onljfl And of these two, oii6 was Titut AndronkusI
INTRODUCTION. hcxxv
gance, all that close application and sedulous imitation could give, Rowe acquired from tb^ perusal of Massinger: humour, richness, vigouTj and sublimity, the gifts of nature, were not to be caught, and do not, indeed, appear in any of his multifarious compositions.
Rowe, however, had discrimination and judg-« ment : he was alive to the great and striking excellencies of the Poet, and formed the reso- lution of presenting him £o the world in a cor- rect and uniform edition. It is told in the pre- face to the Bondmafiy (printed in 1719,) and there is no reason to doubt the veracity of the affir- mation, that I^owe had revised the whole of Massinger's works, with a view to their publi- cation : unfortunately, however, he was seduced from his purpose by the merits of the Fatal Dowry. The pathetic and interesting scenes of this domestic drama have such irresistible power over the best feelings of the reader, that he determined to avail himself of their excel* lence, and frame a second tragedy on the same story. How he altered and adapted the events to his own conceptions is told by Mn Cumber- land, with equal elegance and taste, in the Essay which follows the origiual piece.*
* S.^ Yd). III. p. 465. A few words may yet be haearded on tbis subject. The moral of the Fatal Dojory is infinitely su- perior to that oi the Fair PemVeitf, which, indeed^ is littlo. better thaa a specious apology for adultery. Rowe has lavished the most seducing colours of his eloquence on Lothario, and
Ixxxvi INTRODUCTION.
Pleased with the success of his performance,* Rbwe conceived the ungbnerous idea of appro- priating, the whole of its merits ; and, from that instant, appears not only to have given up all thoughts of Massinger, but to have avoided all mention of his name. In' the base and servile dedication of his tragedy to the dutchess of Ormond, while he founds his claim to her pa- tronage on the interesting nature of thestenes, he suffers not a hint to escape him that he was indebted for them to any preceding writer.
acted, throughout the piece, as if he studied to frame an ex- cuse for Calista : whereas Massinger has placed the crime of Beaumelle in an odious and proper light. Beaumelle can have no followers in her guilt : — ;no- frail one can urge that she was misled by her example; ^or NoTall has nothing but personal charms, and even in these he is surpassed bj Charalois. For the unhappy husband of Calista, Rowe evinces no consideration, while Massinger has rendered Charalois the most interesting character that was ever produced on the stage.
Beautbelle, who falls a sacrifice, in some measure, to the artifices of her maid, the profligate agent of young Norall, is much superior to Calista. Indeed, the impression which she made on Rowe was so strong, that he n^ed his tragedy after her, and not after the heroine of his own piece : Beaumelle is truly the Fair Penitent, whereas Calista is neither more nor less than a haughty and abandoned strumpet.
' The sjtccess of his performance ^'\ This was somewhat pro. blematical at ^ni. Yqt though the Fair Penitent be now a general favourite with the town, it experienced considerable dpposition on its appearance, owing, as Downes informs us, ^* to the flatness of the fourth and fifth acts." The poverty of Rowers genius is principally apparent in the last ; of which Ae plot and the execution are equally contemptible.
/^
INTRODUCTION. Ixxxvll
It may seem strange that Rowe should flatter himself with the hope of evading detection : that hope,. however, was not so extravagant as it may appear at present.* Few of our old dra- mas were then on sale : those of Shakspeare, Jonson^ and Fletcher, isideed, had been col- lected; depredations on them, therefore, though frequently made, were attended with some de- gree of hazard ; but the works of Massinger, few of which had reached a second edition^ lay scattered in single plays, and might be appro*- priated without fear. What printed copies or manuscripts were extant, were chiefly to be found in private libraries, not easily accessible^ nor often brought to sale ; and it is not, per- haps, too much to say that rtiore old plays may now be found in the hands of a single book-* seller, than, in the days of Rowe, were supposed to be in existence.
The Fair Penitent was produced in 1703^ and the Authqr, having abandoned his first design, undertook to prepare for the press the works' of af poet more worthy, it must be confessed, of his care, but not in equal want of his assistance^ and, in 1709, gave the public the first octavo edition of Shakspeare.
What might have been the present rank of
* Indeed it was justified by the event.. No suspicion of the plligiarism was entertained,. I belie?e, during his life ; and for iqqre than ha^f a century the Fair Penitent was spoken of a9 ihc sole'propertyof Rowe,
ixwviii introduction;
Massitiger, if Rowe had completed his ptirp6le, it would be presumptuous to determine : it may, However^ be conjectured that, reprinted with accuracy, corrected with judgment, and illustrated with ingenuity, he would, at least, have been more generally known,^ and suffered
* More gaieraUy known jl It does not appear from Johnson'^ ' obflerTations od the Fair Penitent^ that he had any knowledge of MaMinger ; Steevens^ I have lome reason to think, took him up late in life ; and Mr. J^alone observes to me^ Aat he only coosuited him for verbal illostrations of Shakspeare« This is merely a subject for regret; but we may be allowed to complain a little of those who discuss his merits without exa- mining his works, and traduce his character on their own mis- conceptions. Capell, whose dull fidelity forms the sole claim on oar kindnesS) becomes both ioaccufate and unjust the instant he speaks of S^assinger ; he accuses him of being one of the props of Jonson's throne, in opposition to the pretensions of Shakspeare !* The reverse of this is the truth : he was the ad- mirer and imitator of Shakspeare ; and it is scarcely possible to look into one of his prologues, without discovering some allusion, more or less concealed, to tiie overweening pride and arrogance of Jonson* This disinelination to the latter was no secret to his contemporaries, while his partiality to the former was so notorious, that in a mock romance, entitled Wit and Fancy in a Maze^ or Don Zara del FogOy 12mo. 1 656, (noticed b y Mr. Todd,) where an uproar amongst the English poets is de- scribed, Massinger is expressly introduced as ^' one of the life* guards to Shakspeare/' So much for the sneer of Capell!— ^ bi]|t Massinger's ill fate still pursues him. In a late Essay on the stage, written with considerable ingenuity^ the author, in • giving a chronological history of dramatic writers from Sack- ville downwards, overlooks* Massinger till he arrives at our
* See his Introduction to Sltakspeart^s Playt^ Vol. L p. 14.
INTRODUCTION. lxxx»
to ocaupy a s^tioa of grei^ter respectability tban he h^s hitherto been permitted to assume*: Maa^inger, thus plundered and abandoned by Rowe, wa$> aftier a considerable lapse, of time/ t^ken up by Tiiomas Coxeter, of whom I l^nowi nothing more than is delivered by Mr. Egertoa Brydgefy in his useful and ingenious additions to the Theatrutn Pottarum^ " He was born of an ancient and respectable family, at Lechladet in Gloucestershire, in 1689,^ and educated at Trinity College^ Oxford, where he wore a civi-. lian'i$ gown, and about 1710, abandoning the civil law, and every other profession, came to Londoln. Here continuing without any settled
own times. He tben recollects that he was one of the fathers of tile drama ; and adds, that ^^ his style was roughy manly, and tigoroas, that he pressed upon his subject with a severe but masterly hand, that his wit was caustic^ Sec. If this gentleman
■s.
had erer looked into the poet thus characterised^he must hare instantly recognised his error. Massinger has no wity and hit humour, in which he abounds, is of a light and frolic nature; and his style is so far from roughness^ that its characteristic excdieujee is a sweetney beyond example. ^* Whoetier^l* says Johnson, ^^ wishes to attain ad English s^e familiar bja^ not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must giie his* days and nights to the Tolumes of Addison.'' Whoever would add to these the qualities of simplicity, purity, sweetness^ and strength, must devote his hours to the study of Massinger.
' I take the offered opportunity to express my thanks to this gentleman for the obliging manner in which he transmitted to me the manuscript notes of Oldys and others, copied into his edition of Langbain^, tormexlj in the ppssession of Mr* Steerens*
xc INTRODUCTION.
purpose, he became acquainted with booksellei'8 and authors, atid amassed materials for a bio- graphy of our old poets. He had a curious col- lection of old plays, and was the first who formed the scheme adopted by Dodsley, of publishing a selection of them," &c.
Warton too calls Coxeter a faithful istnd in-^ dustrious amasser of our old English litersLture, abd this praise, whatever be its worth, is all that can be fairly said to belong to him :* as an editor he is miserably deficient ; though it ap« pears that he was not without assistance which> in other hands, might have been turned tosomd account. " When I left London," says the ac- curate £(nd ingenious Oldys, *^ in the year 1724, to reside in Yorkshire, I left in the care of th^ Rev. Mr. Burridge's family, with whom I had several years lodged, amongst many other books, a copy of this Langbaine, in which I had written several notes and references to further the knowledge of these poets. When I returned to London in 17S0, I underis^tood my books had been dispersed ; and afterwards becoming ac- iquainted with Mr. Coxeter, I found that he
* Johnson , told Bos well that ^^ a Mr. Coxeter, whom he knew, had collected about fi^e hundred Tolumes of poets who«e works were little known ; but that, upon his death, Tom Os* borne bought them, and they were dispersed, which he thought apitj; as it was curious to see any seriei^ complete, And ii| eTery volume of poems something good might be found/' Bag- well's Life^ See. Vol. III. p. 172.
introduction; xci
had bought my Langbaine of a bookseller, as he was a great collector of plays and poetical books« This must have been of service to him, and he has kept it so carefully from my sights that I never could have the opportunity of transcribing into *this I am now writing, the notes I had collected in that. Whether I had entered any remarks upon Massinger, I re- member not ; but he had communications from me concerning him, when he was undertaking to give us a new edition of his plays, which is not published* yet. He (Mr. Coxeter) died on the 10th (or Ifith, I cannot tell which) of AprH, being Easter Sunday, 1747» of a fever which grew from a cold he caught at an auction of books over Exeter Change, or by sitting up late at the tavern afterwards/'*
On the death of Coxeter,^ his collections for
* Manuscript notes on Langbaine, in the British Maseom.
7 The following adrertisement, which has been recovered from the London Gazeteer^ Oct. 29, 1761, relates, I presumei to Goxeter's edition ; and was probably drawn np bj himself; at least, I ha?e been unable to discorer any other person, who, about that period, had formed the design '^ of publishing the Dramatic Works of Massinger." It appears that Dell changed the form of the proposed edition.
^' This day is published^ proposals for printing by&ibscrip* tion, the Dramatic Works of Philip Massinger, Gebtt. in fire Tolnmes, duodecimo. Conditions.
I. ^' The price to subscribers will be twelfe shillings and six-pence ; fife shillings to be paid at the time of subscribing| and the remainder upon the delivery of a set in fife yolnmei isewed in blue paper.
kfAi
INTEODUCTION.
tbe purposed edition of Massinger fell into the bands of a bookseller of the name of Dell, who gate them to the world in 1759. From the publisher's preface it appears that Coxeter did IH>t live to complete his design. ^^ The late ingenious Mr. Coxeter," he says, "had cor- rected and collated all the various editions;* and» if I may judge from his copies, he had spared nQ diligence and care to. make them as correct as possible. Several ingenious observa* ttons and notes he had likewise prepared for his
II. ^^ The work will be put to press as soon as four hundred sets are subscribed for, and finished with all the ex- pedition that is^ consistent with correctness and elegance.
^^ Proposals with a spedmen are delirered, and sabBcriptions taken in by J. Payne and J. Bouquet, at the While*Hart, in Pater-noster.Row, London.'' (Here follow the names of other booksellers in different parts of the kingdom.)
^^ It is hoped, that all who can distinguish literary meriti and enjoy the beauties of poeti*j, will be induced to enconrige fhis undertaking, by tho character which Missinoee has Hlways maintained* Among the dramatic writers of his time lie is unif ersally allowed to hold the third place ; and, in the opinion of many, for his plot, his sentiments, and his moral, he ttOgy joMy contend for the second, and claim the precedence tf JBeatimont and Fletcher.
^^ Great care will be taken to correct the innumerable typo« graphical ertors'of idl the former editions ; and no alteration •f importance will be adopts, without preserfing the old reading. Historical notes will be inserted, where the per* ]ilexity of the diction, or the obscurity of the allusion, render them necessary ; and to tib* whcaie will be prefixed the fullest and most circumstantial life of I3ie author that dan be obtained.'
y This is also asserted in the title-page : but it is not to.
IN T ROD U C T I O N. ji6iH
intended edition, which are all insert^ id thfe present. Had he lived to have oompleted hii^ design, I dftre say he would have added many' more, and that his work would have met with ^ very fkvourable reception, from everj^ jJersoii, of true taste and genius."
As Dell professes to have followed CoxttferV papers, and given all his notes, we ttiiy fortn no inadequate ideii of what the edition would have bc^ai. Though educated at the University, Coxetet exhibits no proofs of literature. To critical sis^aetty he has not the smallest preten- sion; his conjectures are void alike of ingentiity and probability, and his historical referencet^ at once puerile and. incorrect. £ven his parallel passages (the easiest part of an editor's labour) are more calculated to produce a, smile at the ^ collector's expense, than to illustrate his author; while every page of his work bears the sttongest impression of imbecility. The praise of fidelity may be allowed him; but in doing this, the unfortunate Dell must be charged (how justly I know not) witlv the innumerable errors which over-rdn and deform the edition. I need not inform ihose who are con versant with old copies, that tlie printers were frequently less attentive to the measure of the original, than to filling up the line, and saving their paper : this Coxettr attempted to remedy ; his success, however, was but^partial; his vigilance relaxed, or his ear failed him, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of verses are given in the cacophonous and anine*
xciv INTRODUCTION.
trical state in which they appear in the early editions. A few palpable blunders are removed^ others, not less remarkable, are continued, and ^here a word is altered, under the idea of im- proving the sense, it is almost invariably for the worse. Upon the whole, Massinger appeared to less advantage than in the old copies.
Two years afterwards, (17^1,) a second edi- tion* of this work was published by Mr. Thomas Davies^ accompanied by an Essay on . the Old English Dramatic Writers^ furnished by Mr. Colman, and addressed to David Garrick, Esq. to whom Dell's edition was also inscribed.
It may tend to mortify those, who, after bestowing unwearied pains on a work, look for some trifling return of praise, to find the appro- bation, which should be reserved for themselves, thoughtlessly lavished on the most worthless productions. Of this publication, the most igno- rant and incorrect (if we except that of Mr. M. Mason, to which we shall speedily arrive) that ever issued from the press, bishop Percy thus speaks: ^^ Mr. Coxeter's v£ry corkect edition of M^singer's Plays has lately been published in 4 vols. 8vo. by Mr. T. Davies^ (which T. Dayies was many years an actor on Drury-lane 9tage, and I believe still continues so, notwith-
* A second edition] So, at least, it insinnates: bnt my friend, Mr. Waldron, of Drury Iiane Theatre, (to whose imall but carious collection I am much indebted, and on whose accu- racy, I can always rely,) who is far better acquainted with the adroitness of boolcsellers than I pretend to be, informs me that it is only DelPs with a new title-page.
INTRODUCTION. xcv
standing his shop.) To. this edition is prefixed a superficial letter to Mn Garrick, written by Mr. Colman, but giving not the least account of Massinger, or of the old editions from whence this was composed. 'Tis great pity Mr. Coxeter did not live to finish it himself." It is manifest ^hat his lordship never compared a single page of this *^ very correct edition,", with the old copies : and: I mention the circumstance, to point out to writers of eminence the folly, as well as the danger, of deciding at random on any isubject which they have not previously considered.
It 'will readily be supposed that a publication like this was not much calculated to extend the celebrity, or raise the reputation, of the Poet; it found, however, a certain quantity of readers, and was now growing scarce, when it fell by acci* dent into the hands x>f John Monck Mason, Esq.
In 1777» this gentleman, as he tells the stQry, was favoured, by a friend, with ^ copy of Mas-* singer. He received from it a high degree of pleasure, and having contracted a habit of rectifying, in the margin, the mistakes of such books as he read, he proceeded in this manner with those before him ; his emendations were accidentally discovered by two of his acquaint- ance, whq expressed their approbation of theni in very flatjtering terms, and requested th^ author to give them to the public.*
' Preface to Mr. M. Mason's editioD, p. ii«
xcvi INTRODUCTION.
Mr. M. Mason was unfortunate in Bis friends : they should Have considered (a matter which had completely escaped himself,) that the great duty of an editor is fidelity : that the ignorance of Coxeter, in admitting so many gross faults, could give no reasonable mind tlie slightest plea for relying on his general accuracy, and that however high they might rate their fnend's sagacity, it was not morally certain that, when he displaced his predecessor's words to make room for his own, he fell upon the genuine text. Nothing of this, however, occurred to them ; and Mn M. Mason was prevailed upon^ in evil hour, to send his corrected Coxeter to the press.
In a preface which accords but too well with the rest of the work, he observes, that he had '^ never heard of Massinger till about two years before he reprinted him.'"* It must be con* fessed that he lest no time in boasting of bis acquaintance :—^it appears, however, to have been but superficial. In the seqond page he asserts, that the whole of Massinger's plays
^ Tet it is strange (he adds) that a writer df luch erident •xeellence should be so little knows. Prcfoce, p« L As same ilte? latum of Mr. M. Mason's amasement, I will tell him a short story : ^^ Tradition says^ that on a certain timt^ a man^ who had occasion to rise Tcry early, was met by another per- aoD, who expressed his astonishment at his getting np at so unseasonable an hourr the man answered, O master wonder- monger 1 as yon have done th€ hm€ tkmg^ what reaton have 50M to be surprised 2"
INTRODUCTION. xcvii
were published while the author was living! This is a specimen o£ the care with which he usually proceeds : the life of the Author, pre- fixed to his own edition, tells that he died in 1640, and in the list which immediately follows it, no less than four plays are-given in succes- sion, which were not published till near twenty years after that period !
The oscitancy of Mr. M. Mason is so great, that it is impossible to say whether he supposed there was any older edition than that before him or not He talks indeed of Massinger, but he always seems to mean Coxeter; and it is beyond any common powers of face to hear him discourse of the verbal and grammatical i nap- curacies of an author whose text he probably never saw, without a smile of pity or contempt.
He says, " I have admitted into the text all my own amendments^ in order that those who may wish to give free scope to their fancy and their feelings, and without turning aside tp verbal criticism, may read these plays in that •which appears to me the most perfect state;" .(what intolerable conceit!) " but for the satis- faction of more critical readers, I have direqted that the words rejected by me should be inserted in the margin."^ This is not the case; and I cannot account, on any common principles of prudence, for the gratuitous temerity .with which so strange an assertion is advanced : not^
^ Preface, p. iz. VOL. I. g
xcviii INTRODUCTION.
one in twenty is noticed^ and the reader is misled on almost every occasion.
I do not wish to examine the preface further;^ and shall therefore conclude with observing, that Mr. M. Mason's edition is infinitely wor^e than Coxeter*s. It rectifies a few mistakes, and suggests a few improvements ; but, on the other hand, it abounds in errors and omlissions, not only beyond thatj but, perhaps, beyond any other work that ever appeared in prihti* Nor h this all : the ignorant fidelity of Coxeter hai certainly given us n\any absurd readings of thu old printers or transcribers J this, however, ii far moTt tolerable than the ^mischievous inge^ nuity of Mr« M. Mason : the Words which be has silently introduced bear ^ specious appearance of truth, and ^are therefore calculated to elude the vigilance of many readers whom the text of Coxeter would have startled, and compelled to seek the genuine sense elsewhere. To sum dp the accoliiit between the two editions,— both bear the marks of ignorance, inexperience, and inattention ; in both the faults are incredi- bly nuFmerous; but where Coxetfer drops words, Mr. M. Mason drops litaes; and where the for^ mer omits lines, the latter leaves out whole speeches! -
' After what I have just said, the reader^ per*- haps, will feel an inclination to smile at the
4 When this was written, 1805, the obser?ation was correct.
# * ' <
I am sorry to say tharit is so no longer.
INTRODUCTION. xcix
concluding sentence of Mr. M. Mason's Preface:
"I FLATTER MYSELF,^THAT THIS EDITION OF MaSSINGBR will be FOUND MORE CORRECT (and CORRECTNilSS 18 THE ONLY MERIT IT PRETENDS to) ^HAN THE BEST OF THOSE WHICH HAVE AS YET BE-EN PUBLISHED OF ANY OTHER ANCIENT DRAMATIC iV^RITER.'M*
The genuine nlerits bf the Poet, however, were strong enough to overcomethese wretched remoras. The impression was become scarce, and though neVer worth the paper on S^rhich it was printed, sold at an extravagant price, when a new editioil was proposed to me by Mr. Evans of Pali-Mall. Massinger was a favourite ; and I had frequently lamented, with many others^ that he had fallen into such hands. I saw, without the assistance of the old copies, that his metre was disregarded, that his sense was disjointed and broken, that his dialogue was imperfect, and that he was encumbered with ^explanatory trash which would disgrace the pages of a sixpenny magazine; and in the hope of rcthedying these, and enabling the Author to take his place on the same shelf, I will hot say with Shakspeare, but with Jonson, Beaumont^ and his associate, Fletcher, I readily undertook the labour.
--'My iSrst care was to look round tor the old editions, * To collect these is not at all times possiblei and, in every case, is a work of trouble
»
' Preface, p. xi*
c INTRODUCTION.
and expense; but the kindness of individuals supplied me with all that I wanted. Octavius Gilchrist, a gentleman of Stamford,* no sooner beard of my design, than he obligingly sent me all the copies which he possessed; the Rev. P. Bayles of Colchester (only known to me by this act of kindness) presented me with a small but choice selection: and Mr. Malone, with a liber- ality which I shall ever remember with gratitude and delight, furnished me, unsolicited, with his invaluable collection/ among which I found all
^ I must not omit that Mr. Gilchrist, (whose name will occur more than once in the ensuing pages,) together with his copies of Massinger, transmitted a number of useful and judi- cious obseryations on the Poet, derived from his extensive acquaintance with our old historians. ''
7 For this, I owe Mr. Malone my peculiar thanks : but the admirers of Massin^er must join with me in expressing their gratittfde to him for an obligation of a more public kind ; for the communication of that beautiful fragment, which now appears in print for the first time, the Parliament of Love, From the History of the English StagCy prefixed to Mr. Malone's edition of Shakspeare, I learned that ^^ four acts of an uapub. lished drama bj Massinger were still extant in manuscript.^' Anxiously wishing to render this Edition as perfect as possible, I wrote to Mr. Malone, with whom I had not the pleasure of being personally acquainted, to know where it might be found ? in return, he informed me that the manuscript was in his pos« session : its state, he added, was such, thai he doubted whe- ther much advantage could be derived from it, bu^that.! was entirely welcome to make the experiment.* Of this permission,
* I subjoin, an extract from Mr. Malone's letter which now Jies before me, ^^ Mr. Malone presents his compliments to Mr.
INTRODUCTION. ci
the first editions:* these, with such as I could procure in the course of a few months from the
^ which I accepted with singular pleasure, I instantly atailed mjself, and receired the manuscript. It was, indeed, in a forlorn condition : seYeral leayes were torn from the beginnings and the top and bottom of erery page wasted by dataps, to which it had formerly been exposed. On examination, how- ever, I had the satisfaction to find, that a considerable part of ' the first act, which was supposed to be totally lost, jet existed, and that a certain degree of attention, which I was not nnwill* ing to bestow on it, might recover nearly the whole of the relnainder. How I succeeded may be seen in the second volume; where the reader will find such an account, as was consistent with the brevity of my plan, of the singular institu- tion on which the fable is founded. Perhaps the subject merits no further consideration : I would, however, just observe, that, since the article was printed, I have been furnished by my friend, the Rev. R. Nares, with a curious old volume, called Arreita Amorum^ or Arrets dAmgury writtten in French by Martial d'Auvergne, who died in 1508. It is not possible to imagine any thing more frivolous than the causes, or rather appeals, which are supposed to be heard in this Court of Love.
Gifford — ^he has sent the Parliament of Love by his servant, for Mr. Gifford's inspection, and transcription, if he should think it worth that trouble. This piece, however, is in such a mutilated stjLte, wanting the whole of the first act and part of the second (to say nothing of its other defects from damp and time) that it is feared, it can be of little use. Queen Anne Street Easty Fehrvary 1, 1803." The copying of this fragmentengaged me about six. weeks, (for I worked diligently,) and on the 24th of March, in that year, I had the pleasure of returning Mr. Malone his MS. with a fair copy of it. In his answer, which is dated March 95, 1803, and is also before me, he says, *^ Your transcript of the FarUament of Lffoe quite astonishes me, for I feaced that a good part of the concluding lines of several pages was irre« trievable."
cii INTRODUCTION.
booksellers, in addition to the copies in the Museum, and in the rich collection of His Majesty, which I consulted from time to time, form the basis of the present work.
With these aids I sat down to the business of collation : if was now I discovered,, with no less surprise than indignation, those alterations and omissions of which I have already spoken ; and which I made it my first care to reform and supply. At the outset, finding it difficult to
What IS, howerer, somewhat extraordinary is, that these miserable trifles are commented upon by Benoit le. Court, a celebrated jarisconsult o( those times, with a degree of serious- ness which would not disgrace the most important questions. Every Greek and Roman writer, then known, js quoted with profusion, to proie some trite position dropt at random : occa« sion is also taken to descant on many subtile points of law, which might not be altogether, perhaps, without their in? terest. I hare nothing further to say of this elaborate piece of foolery, which I read with equal wearisomeness and disgust, but which serves, perhaps, to shew that these Parliaments 6f Love, though confessedly imaginary, occupied much of the public attention, than that it had probably fallen inta Mas^ ginger's hands, as the scene betw^n Beliisant and Clarindore (Vol. II. p. ^80) seems to be founded on the^^firsi-ft^^eal which is heard in the Arrets ^ Amour. ' - ♦ • - ' -
' I have no intention of entering into the dispute respecting the comparative merits of the first and second foltOA of Shak- speare. Of Massinger,^ howeverj I-mAy-be a1id'Wed<to «ay tfrnt I constatntly. found the earliest editions' tlf6 nfost correct A palpable error might be, and, indeed, sometimes wal removed in the subsequent ones; but the spirit, and what I would call the raciness, of the author only appeared complete in th« •riginal copids*.
INTRODUCTION. ^iii
conceive that the variations in Coxeteraa4 Mr.. M.Mason were the effect of ignorance or caprice^ I imagined that an authority for them might be somewhere found; and therefore collated not only every edition, but even several copies of the same edition;' what began in necessity was continued by choice, and every play has under- gone, at least, five close examinations with the original text. On this strictness of revision rests the great distinction of this edition from the preceding ones, from which itwill.be found to vary in an infinite number of places : indeed, accuracy, as Mr. M. Mason says, is all the merit to which it pretends ; and though I would not provoke, yet I see no reason to deprecate the consequences of the severest scrutiny/ , .; There is yet another distinction. The old copies rarely specify the place of action : sqcb» indeed, was the poverty of the stage, that it admitted of little variety. A .plain curtain hung up in a corner, separated distant regions; and if a board was advanced with Milan or Florence written upon it, the delusion was com- plete. ^^ A table with pen and ink thrust in," signified that the stage was a counting-house; if these were withdrawn, and two stools put in their places, it was then a tavern. Instances of
' In several of tbese plajSi I discoTered that an error had been detected aftei^ a patt of the impression was worked off, and consequently corrected, or what was more frequentlj the case» exchanged for another*
civ INTRODUCT^O^f.
•
this may be found in the margin of all our oW plays, which seem to be copied from the prompter's books; and Mr. Malone might have produced from his Massinger alone, more than enough to satisfy the veriest sceptic, that the notion of scenery, as we now understand it, was utterly unknown to the stage* Indeed, he had so much the advantage of the argument without these aids, that I have always wondered how Steevens could so long support, and so strenu- ously contend for, his most hopeless cause. But he was a wit and a scholar; and there is some pride in shewing how dexterously a clumsy weapon may be wielded by a practised swords- man. With all this, however, 1 have ventured on an arrangement of the scenery. Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason attempted it in two or three plays, and their ill success, in a matter of no extraordinary difficulty, proves how much they mistook their talents, when they commenced the trade of editorship, with little more than the negative qualities of heedlessness and inex- perience.*
* Heedlessness and inexperience.] Those ^ho recollect the boast of Mr. M. Mason, mrill be somewhat surprised, perhaps, eTcn after all which they have heard, at learning that, in so simple a matter as marking the exitSy this gentleman blunders at eyery step. If Pope were now alive, he need not apply to his black-letter plaj^s for such niceties as exit omnes, enter three witchei ioluSf* &c. Mr. M. Mason's edition, which he ^^ flatters himself will be found more correct than the hest of those which
* See his Preface to Shakspeare.
INTRODUCTION. cv
I come now to the notes. Those who arc accustomed to the crowded pages of our modern
hare been yet published of any other ancient dramatic writer/' would furnish abundance of them. His copy of the Fatal Dowri/ now lies before me, and, in the compass of a few pages, I observe, Exit Oficers with Nqvoll, (196») Bxit Churaloi^ Creditors, and Officers, (200,) Exit Romont and Servant, (215») Exit Novail senior^ and Fontalier, (258,) &c. All exit, occurs in the Emperor of the East, (311,) Exit Gentlemen, (224,) and Exit Tiberio and Stephana, (245,) in the Duke of Milan : thes^ last blunders are Toluntary on the part of the editor : Coxeter^. whom he usually follows, reads Ex, for Exeunt, the filling «pi therefore, is solely due to his own ingenuity. Similar instances might be produced from e? ery play. I woald not infer from this that Mr. M. Mason is unacquainted with the meaning of so common a word ; but if we relieye him from the charge of ignorance, what becomes of his accuracy ? Indeed, it is diffi« cult to say on what precise exertion of this faculty his claims tOxfayoar were founded. Sometimes characters come in that nerer go out,, and go out that neyer come in ; at other times they speak before they enter, or after they have left the stage, nay, ^^ to make it the more gracious," after they are asleep or dead ! Here one mode of spelling is adopted, there another ) hereCoxeter is servilely followed, there, capriciously deserted ; herp ,the scenes are numbered, there continued without dis- tinction; here asides are multiplied without necessity, there suppressed with manifest injury to the sense ; while the page is every where encumbered with marginal directions, which, being intended solely for the property-man, who, as has been already mentioned, had but few properties at his .disposal, can now only be regarded as designed to excite a smile at the ex? pense of the author. Nor is this all: the absurd scenery introduced by Coxeter is continued in despite of common sense ; the lists of dramatis personae are, imperfectly givea in every instance ; and even that of the Fatal Dowry, which has no description of the characters^ is left by Mr. M. Mason as
^vi INTRanUCTION.
editors,, will probably be somewhat startled at the comparative nakedness of mine. If this be ap error, it is a voluntary one. I never could l^onceive why the readers of our old dramatists should.be suspected of labouring under a greater degree of ignorance than those of any other class of writers ; yet, from the trite and insig* pificapt materials amassed for their information, it is evident that. a persuasion of this nature is uncommonly prevalent. Customs which «are universal, and expressions ^^ familiar as house- hold words" in every mouth, are illustrated, that is to say, overlaid, by an immensity of ^aralleLpassages, with jpstas ipuch wisdom and jeach^of thought as. would be evinced by bin) ^ who, to explain any simple word in this « line, should empty upon the reader all the examples to be found under it in Johnson's Dictionary !
This cheap and miserable display of minute erudition grew up, in great measure, with
he fonnd it, though nothing can be more' destructi? e of that imiformitj which the reader is led to expect from the l)6ld pretensions of his preface,; in which (he will hear with some surprise, after what he has just read) Cbxeter is bitt^rlj re^ proached for ^^ has want of attcntum^^ and accused of ^^ retaining, in the text, a number of palpable blnilders!" I liope it is need- less to add that these irregularities will not be fouiid in th^ present volumes. 1805.
' Sereral short nptes, relatiye to Mr. M.Hason's errors, h'ayt been omitted in this edition. I protest, however, kgailiSt ererjr attempt to take advantage of this forbearance, and' to represent me as not sufficiently justified in my reproof of the editor, bj the small number of mistakes now brought forward.
INTRODTJOTION. cvH
Warton : — peace to bis manes ! the <ause ^ of sound literature ha» been fearfully, avenged yj>on his head^ and the knight^errant who, with his attendant Bowles^ the dullest ^ of all mortal squires, ( whose ^driyellings are yet suf* fered to defile the pages of the last editions,) sallied forth in quest of the original proprietor of every common word in Milton, has had his copulatives and disjunctives, his buts^ and his andSf sedulously ferretted out from aU the school- books in the kingdom. As a prose- writer, he will long continue to instruct and delight; but as a poet, he is buried— lost» He is not of the race of the Titans, nor does he possess sufiicient vigour to shake off the weight of incumbent mountains. However this may be, I have proceeded on a different plan. Passages which only exercise the memory, by suggesting similar thoughts and expressions in other writers, are, if some- what obvious,- generally left to the reader's own discovery. Uncommon and obsolete words arc briefly explained, and, where the phraseology ^as doubtful or p^cj^re,, jlt^jsj illu^tr^.^d. and confirmed, by quotations from contemporary authors. In this part of the work, no abuse has been attempted of the reader's patience : the most positive that qould.be fouu3., ar^^given, and a sqrupulous at|;ention Js cyery where paid to brevity ; as it has been ^Ijy^^ysany persuasion^
^^ That ivhere one's ptoofs are aptlj chosen^ '^ Foar are a3 valid as four doxeo."
cviii INTRODUCTION.
I do not know whether it may be proper to add here, that the freedoms of the Author (of which, as. none can be more sensible than ipyself, so none can more lament them) have obtained little of my solicitude : those, there- fore, who examine the notes with a prurient eye, will find no gratification of their licentiousness. I have called in no Amner to drivel out gra- tuitous obscenities in uncouth language;* no Collins (whose name should be devoted to lasting infamy) to ransack the annals of a bro* thel for secrets ** better hid ;"' where I wished not to.detfiin the readef, I have been silent, and instead of aspiring to the fame of a licentious commentator, sought only for the quiet appro- bation with which the guardians of youth and innocence may reward the faithful editor.
But whatever may be thought of my own
^ In uncouth language/] It is singular that Mr. Steeyens, who was so well acquainted with.the words of our ancient writers, should be so ignorant of their style. The language which he has put into the mouth of Amner is a barbarous jutable of different ages, that n^Tcr had, and neyer could haye, a prototype,
^ One book wh'ich (not being, perhaps, among the archiyes so carefully explored for the benefit of the youthful readers of Shakspeare) seems to haye escaped the notice of Mr. Collins, may yet be safely commended to his future researches, as not unlikely to reward his pains. He will find in it, among many other things equally yalnable, that,^^^ The knowledge of tricked' ness ii not wisdom^ neither, at any time, the council of sinners prudence/' EccUs, xix. 22*
INTRODUCTION. cix
notes, the critical observations which follow each play, and, above all, the eloquent and masterly^ delineation of Massinger's character, subjoined to the Old Law, by the companion of my youth, the friend of my maturer years, the inseparable and affectionate associate of my pleasures and my pains, my graver and my lighter studies, the Rev. Dr. Ireland,* will, I am persuaded, be re- ceived with peculiar pleasure, if precision, vigour, discrimination, and originality, preserve their usual claims to esteem.
The head of Massinger, pre6xed to this volume, was copied by ftiy young friend, Las- celles Hoppner, from the print before the three octavo plays published by H. Moseley, 1655.* Whether it be really the ** vera effigies" of the Poet, I cannot pretend to say : it was produced sufficiently near his time to be accurate, and it has not the air of a fancy portrait. There is, I believe, no other.
^ Prebendary and sub-dean of Westminster, and vicar of Croydon, in Surrey.
i The date on the plate is 1633. This mistake of thd engraver, which was not discovered till it was printed off, th« reader will have the goodness to correct witif the pen.
\
ESSAY ON THE DRAMATIC WRITINGS
OF MASSIN.GER.
4 1
By JOHN FERRIAR, M.D.
Manchester, October 35, 1786*
.... Ret antiquct laudU et artis Ingrtdior^ sanctos ausut recluderefontes. Virg.
It might be urged, as a proof of our possessing ar superfluity of good plays in our language, that one of our best drannttic writers is very gener- ally disregarded. But whatever conQlusion may be drawn from thit^ fact, it will not be easy to free 'the public from the £»ispicio« of capricci while it continues to idolize Sh^kspeare, ^nd to neglect an author nqt ^fteo^ mvtch inferior^^ and sometimes nearly equal, to that wonderful poe<K llf ussi n ger's fat efaas, i nd ^ed^been hard, far beyond tht donkmon topics of the infelieity of genius. He was not merely denied the fortune for which hm laboured, and tii9 fame which he merited j^
cxii ESSAY ON THE
a still more cruel circumstance has attended his productions : literary pilferers have built their reputation on his obscurity, and the popularity of their stolen beauties has diverted the public attention from the excellent original.
An attempt was made in favour of this in- jured Poet, in 1761, by a new edition of his works, attended with a critical dissertation on the old English dramatists, in which, though composed with spirit and elegance, there is little to be found respecting Massinger. Another edition appeared in 177S, but the Poet remained unexamined. Perhaps Massinger is still unfor- tunate in his vindicator.
The same irregularity of plot, and disregard of rules, appear in Massinger's productions, as in those of his cotemporaries. On this subject, Shakspeare has been so well defended, that it is unnecessary to add any arguments in vindication of our Poet. There is every reason to suppose that Massinger did not neglect the ancient rules From ignorance, for he appears to be one of our most learned writers, (notwithstanding, the insipid^ sneer of Antony Wood j?) and Cart- wright, who was confessedly a man of great erudition, is not more attentive to the unities, than any other poet of that age. But our Au- thor, like Shakspeare, wrote for bread : it ap- pears, from different parts of his works,* that
* Athena Oxon. Vol. I.
* See particularly the dedication of Y/ie Maid of Honour ^ and Great Duke of Florence.
• ««t
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxiii
much of his life had passed in slavish dependance, and penury is not apt to eneourage a desire of fame. One observation, however, may be risked;^ on
. our irregular and regular plays ; that the for- mer are more pleasing to the taste, and the latter to the understanding ; readers must de- termine, then, whether it is better to feel, or to approve. Massinger^s dramatic art is too great to allow a faint sense of propriety to dwell on the mind, in perusing his pieces; he inflames or soothes, excites the strongest . terror, or the softest pity, Vith all the energy and power of a true poet.
But if we must admit, that an irregular plot subjects a writer to peculiar disadvantages, the force of Massinger's genius will appear more evidently, from this very concession. The interest of his pieces is, for the most part, strong and well defined ; the story, though worked up to a studied intricacy, is, in general, resolved with as much ease and probability as its nature will permit ; attention is never disgusted by antici- pation,, nor tortured with unnecessary delay. These characters are applicable to most of Mas- singer's own productions; but in those which he wrote jointly with other dramatists, the in- terest is often weakened, by incidents which
, that age permitted, but which ihe present would not endure. Thus, in the RenegadOy^ the honour
' This play wai written by Massinger alone. TOL. I. h
c?iv ESSAY ON THE
of Paulina is preserve4 from the brutality of her Turkish master, by the influence of a relicy which she wears on her breast : in the Virgin- • Mart'^r^ the heroine is attended, through* all her sufferings, by an angel disguised as her page ; her persecutor is urged on to destroy her by an attendant fiend/ also iq disguise. Here our anxiety for the distressed, and our hatre4 of the wicked, are completely stifled, and we are more easily affected by 3ome burlesque passages which follow, in the same legendary strain. In the last quoted play, the attendant angel picks the pockets of two debauchees, and Theopbilus^ overcomes the devil by means of a cr.oss com-, posed of flow0i:s, which Dorothea had sent him from. Paradise.
The story of the Bondman is more intricate than that of the Duke of Milan, yet the former is a more interesting play ; for in the latter the motives of Francisco's conduct, which occasions the distress of the piece, are.only disclosed in narration, at the beginning of the fifth act : we therefore consider hiQi:^ till that moment, as a man absurdly, and unnaturally vicious: hut in the Bandmanf m^tq' have frequent glimpses of sl ccmcedled splen-i dour in the character of Pisander, which .keep our attention fixed, and exalt our expfictation^ of the catastrophe. A more striking jcomparison might be instituted between the Fatal Dtmry ^ of our Author, and Rowe's copy of it in his Fmr Penitent; but this is very fully and judiciously
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxv
done, by the author of the Observer ^"^ who has prorved sufBciently, that the interest of the Fair Penitent is much weakened, by throwing into narration what Masai nger had forcibly repre- sented on the.stagc. uYet Howe's play is ren- dered much more regular by alteration* Far- quhar's Inconstant^ which is taken from our Author's Guar&an^ and Fletcher's TVild-goose Chace^ is considerably less elegant and less in- teresting, by the plagiary's indiscretion; the lively, facetious Durazzo of Massinger is trans- formed into a nauseous buffboui in the cha- racter of old Mirabel.
The art and judgment with which our Poet conducts his incidents are every where admira- ble. In the Duke ofMilan^ our pity for Marcelia would inspire a detestation of all the other cha- ractersi if she did not facilitate her ruin by the indulgence of an excessive pride. In the Bond'^ man, Cleora would be despicable when she changed her lover, if Leosthenes had not ren- dered himself unworthy of her, by a mean jea- lousy» The violence: of Almira's passion in the Fhfy ff^oman^ prepares us for its decay. Many detached scenes in these pieces possess uncom- mon beauties of incident and situation. Of this kind, are the interview between Charles V. and Sforza,*. which, though notoriously contrary to true history, and very deficient in the repre-
4 NovLXXXViri, LXXXIX. XC
9 Duke ff Milan, Act 11.
ha
cxvi ESSAY ON THE
mentation of the emperor, arrests our attention^ and awakens our feelings in the strongest man- ner; the conference of Mathias and Baptista, when Sophia's virtue becomes suspected;* the pleadings in the Fatal Dcfwry^ respecting the funeral rites of Charalois; the interview be- tween don John, disguised as a slave, and his mistress, to whom he relates his story;' but, above all, the meeting of Pisander and Cleora,* after he has excited the revolt of the slaves, in order to get her within his power. These scenes are eminently distinguished by their novelty, correctness, and interest; the most' minute critic will find little wanting, and the lover of truth and nature can suffer nothing to be taken away.
It is no reproach of our Author, that the foundation of several, perhaps all, of his plots may be traced in different historians, or novel- lists ; for in supplying himself from these sources, he followed the practice . of the age. Shak- speare, Jonson, and the rest, are not more ori- ginal, in this respect, than our Poet ; if Cart- wright may be exempted, he is the only excep- tion to this remark. As the minds of an audi- ence, unacquainted with the models of antiquity, could only be affected by immediate applica- tion to their passions, our old. writers crowded as many incidents, add of as perplexing a. nature as possible, into their works, to support anxiety
• Picture, ^ A Very Woman. • Bondman.
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxvii
and expectation to their utmost height. Iti our reformed tragic school, our pleasure arises from the coDtemplation of the writer's art; and instead of eagerly watching for the unfolding of the plot, (the imagination being left at liberty by the simplicity of the action,) we consider whether it be properly conducted* Another reason, however, may be assigned for the intri- cacy of those plots, namely, the prevailing taste for the manners and writings of Italy, During the whole of the. sixteenth, and part of the seventeenth century, Italy was the seat of elegance and arts, which the other European natrons had begun to admire, but not to imitate. From causes which it would be foreign to the present purpose to enumerate, the Italian writers abounded in complicated and interesting stories, which were eagerly seized by a people not well qualified for invention;' but the richness, va- riety, and distinctness of character which our writers added to those tales, conferred beauties on them which charm us at this hour, however disguised by the alterations of manners and langujige.
Exact discrimination and consistency of cha* racter appear in all Massinger's productions: sometimes, indeed, the interest of the play suf-
' Cartwriglit and. Congreve, . who resemble each other ttrongly in some remarkable circumstances, are almost our only drainatists who hate any claim to originality in their plotf*
cxviii ESSAY ON THE
fers by his scrupulous attention to them; Thus^^ in the Fatal Htmryy Charalois's fortitude and determined sense of honour are carried to a most unfeeling and barbarous degree: and Francisco's villainy, in the Duke of' Milan, is cold and considerate beyond nature. But here We must again plead the sad necessity under which our Poet laboured, of pleasing his audience at any rate. It was the prevailing opinion, that the characters ought to approach towards each other as little as possible. This was termed arty and in consequence of this, as Dr. Hurd ob- serves,* some writers of that time have founded their characters on abstract ideas, instead of copying from real life. Those delicate and beautiful shades of manners, which we admire in Shakspeare, were reckoned inaccuracies by his contemporaries. Thus Cartwright says, in his verses to Fletcher, speaking of Shakspeare, whom he undervalues, " nature was alt his art:** General manners must always influence the stage; unhappily, the manners of Massinger's age were pedantic. Yet it must be allowed that our Author's characters are less abstract than those of Jonson or Cartwright, and that^ with more dignity, they are equally natural with those of Fletcher. His conceptions are, for the most part, just and noble. We have a fine instance of this in the character of Dioclesian, who, very differently from the ranting tyrants
■
' Essay on the Provinces of the Drama*
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxix
by whom the stage has been so long possessed, is generous to his vanquished enemies, and per- secutes from policy as mucfi as f;rom zeal. He attracts our respect, immediately, on. his ap- pearance, by the following sentiments :
I
^* m. l Ir. all ^cowing empires, Even cruelty is ase&l ; ^ some nost saffer, . « , 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 :
Virgin Martyr^ Act I. sc* i.
Sforza is an elevated character, cast in a diffe- rent mould; brave, frank, and generous, he is hurried, by the unrestrained force of his pas- sions, into fatal excesses in love and friendship. He appears with great dignity before the em- peror, on whose mercy he is thrown, by the defeat of his allies, the French, at the battle of Pavia* After recounting his obligations to Francis, he proceeds .\ »
If that, then, to be grateful For courtesies received, or not to leate A friend in his necessities, be a crime Amongst you Spaniards, ...
, . . Sforza brings his head
To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slare, Pinion'd and fetter'd, in a squalid weed, Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling. For a forestaU*d remission : that xrere poor,
cxx ESSAY ON THE
And ^ould but shame thj Tietory ; for Gonquest
Oyer base foes, is a captiTity,
And not a triumph* I ne'er fear'd to die,
More than I wish'd to lire. When I had reach'd
My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes,
This crown upon my head, and to my side
This sword was girt ; and witness truth, that, now
'Tis in another's power when I shall part
With them and life together, I'm* the same :
My veins then did not swell with pride ; nor now
Shrink they for fear.
The Duke of Mila»h Act III. sc. ii.
In the scene where Sforza enjoins Francisco to dispatch Marcelia, in case of the emperor's pro- ceeding to extremities against him, the Poet has given him a strong expression of horror at his own purpose. After disposing Francisco to ohey his commands without reserve, by reca- pitulating the favours conferred on him, Sforza proceeds to impress him with the blackest view of the intended deed :
•
- - - 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.
- • Thou must do, then,
What no malerolent 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 I ,
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxi
I ,
t
In which the memory of all good actions We can pretend' to^ shall be buried quick : Or, if we be remember*^* it shall be To fright posterity by our example, / That have outgone all precedents of ? iliaint lliat were before us ;
The Duke ofMUan^ Act I. sc. nlt« * • . ^
If we compare this scene, and especially the passage quoted, with the celebrated scene be- tween king John and Hubert, we shall perceive this remarkable difference, that Sforza, while he proposes to his brother-in-law and favourite, the eventual murder of his wife, whom he ido- lizes, is consistent and determined ; his mind is filled with the horror of the deed, but borne to the execution of it by the impulse of an extra- vagant and fantastic delicacy : John, who is actuated solely by the desire of removing his rival in the crown, not only fears to communi- cate his purpose to Hubert, though he perceives him to be
A fellow by the hand of nature markM, Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame ;
but after he has sounded him, and found him ready to execute whatever he can propose^ he only hints at the deed. Sforza enlarges on the cruelty and atrocity of his design; John is afraid to utter his^ in the view of the sun : nay, the sanguinary Richard hesitates in proposing the murder of his nephews to Buckingham. In this instance then, as well as that of Cbaralois,
cxxii ESSAY ON I'HE
our Poet may seem to deviate from nature, for ambition is a stronger passion than love, yet Sforza decides with more promptness and con- fid euce than either of Shakspeare's characters. We must consider, however, that timidity and irresolution are characteristics of John, and that Richard's hesitation appears to be assumed, only in order to transfer the^ guilt and odi'Um of the action to Buckingham.
It was hinted before, that the character of Pisander in the Bondman^ is tnore interesting than that of Sforza. His virtues, so unsuitable to the character of a slave, the boldness of his desigps, and the ^steadiness of his courage, ex«* cite attention a;nd anxiety iti the most powerful manner. He is perfectly consistent, and though lightly shaded with chivalry is not deficient in nature or pfission, Leosthenes is also the child
•
of nature, whom perhaps we trace in some later jealous characters. Cleora is finely drawn, but to the presetit age, perhaps, appears rather too masculine : the exhibition of characters which should wear an unalterable charm, in their finest; and almost insensible touches, wlas peculiar to the prophetic genius of Shakspeare.* Massinger has given a strong proof of his genius, by in- troducing in a different play, a similar character,
* If Massinger formed the lingular character of sir Giles Orer-reach from his own imagination, what should we think of his sagacity, who have seen this poetical phantom realised in our days ? Its apparent eztraragance required this support*
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxiii
in a like situation to that of Pisatideri yet with snfficient discriroination of manners and inci- dent; I mean don John, in the Very fVaman^ who, like Pisander, gains bis mistress's heart, under the disguise of a slave. Don John is a model of magnanimity^ superior to Cato^ because he is free from pedantry- and ostentation. I believe, he may be regarded as an original cha- racter. It was easy to interest our feelings for all the characters already described, but no writer, before Massinger, had attempted td make a player the hero of tragedy. This, how- ever, he has executed, with surprising address, in. the Roman Actor. It must be confessed that Paris, the actor, owes much of his dignity to incidents: at the opening of the play, he de- fends his profession successfully before the senate; this artful introduction raises him in our ideas, above the level of his situation, for the Poet has " graced him with all the power of words;" the empress's passion for him places him in a -still more distinguished light, and he meets his death from the hand of the emperor himself, in a mock-play. It is, perhaps, from a sense of the difficulty of exalting Paris's character, and of the dexterity requisite to fix the attention of the audience on it, that Mas- singer says, in the dedication of this play, that " he ever held it the most perfect birth of his Minerva." I know not whether it is owing to design, or to want of art, that Romont, in the
cxxiv ESSAY ON THE
Fatal Dor&ry f .interests us aa much as Charalois^ the hero. If Charalois surrenders his liberty to procure funeral rites for his father, Romont previously provokes the court to imprison him, by speaking with too much animation in the cause of. his friend. Romont, though insulted by Charalois, who discredits his report of Beau- melle*s infidelity, flies to him with alt the eager*- ness of attachment, when Cbaralois is involved in difficulties by the murder of Novall and his wife, and revenges his death, when he is asgas* sinated by Pontalier. Rowe, who neglected the finest parts of this tragedy in his plagiarism, (the Fair P^nitent^) has not failed to copy the fault I have pointed out His Horatio is a much finer character than his Altamont, yet he is but a puppet when compared with Massinger's Romont. Camiola (the Maid of Honour) is a most delightful character; her fidelity, genero-? sity, dignity of manners, and elevation of senti- ments, are finely displayed, and nobly sustained throughout. It is pity that the Poet thought himself obliged to debase all the other charac- ters in the piece in order to exalt her. There is an admirable portrait of Old Malefort, in that extravagant composition, the Unnatural Combat. The Poet seems to equal the art of the writer whom he here imitates :
. - . I hare known him
From his first youth, but never jet observed^
In all the passages of his life and fortunes^ ^
WRITINGS OF MASSINGEft. cxxv
Virtues so mix'd with rices : valiant the .world speaks him,
Bat with that, bloody ; liberal in his gifts too.
But to maintain his prodigal expense,
A fierce extortioner ; an impotent loYcr
Of women for a' flash, bat, his fires quenchM,
Hating as deadly : Act. III. sc. ii*
Alraira and Cardenes, in the Very JVoman^ are copied from nature, and therefore never obsolete. They appear like many favourite characters in our present comedy, amiable in their tempers, and warm in their attachments, but capricious, and impatient of control. Massinger, with unusual charity, has introduced a physician in a respectable point of view, in this play. We are agreeably interested in Durazzo,' who has all the good nature of Terence's Micib, with more spirit. His picture of country sports may be viewed with delight even by those who might not relish the reality :
rise before the son, Then make a breakfast of the morning dew, SerTed up by nature on some grassy hill ; T6aMi find it nectar, .
In the City Maddniy we are presented with the character of a finished hypocrite, but so artfully drawn, that he appears to be rather governed by external circumstances, to which he adapts himself; than to act, like Moliere's Tartuffe, from a formal system of wickedness. His humi- lity and benevolence, while he appears as a
' The Guardian.
cxxvi ESSAY ON THE
ruined man/ and ad his. brother's servanti are evidently produced by the pressure of his mis- fortunes, and he discovers a tameness, amidst the insults of his relations, that indicates an inherent baseness of disposition/ — ^When he is informed that his brother has retired from the world, and has left him his immense fortune, he seems at first to apprehend a deception :
Omj good lord ! This heap of wealth which yoa possess me of, Which to a worldly Ddan had been a blessing, / And to the messenger might with justice challenge A kind of adoralion, is to me . . A curse I cannot thank jou for ; and much less Rejoice in that tranquillity of mind My brother's tows inast purchase. I have made A dear exchange with him : he now enjoys My peace and po?erty, the trouble of His wealth conferred on me, and that a burthen Too heafy for my weak shoulders. Act. III. sc. ii.
On receiving the will, he begins to promise unbounded lenity to his servants, and makes professions and promises to the ladies who used him so cruelly in his adversity, which appear at last to be ironical, though they take them to be sincere. He does not disf>lay himself till he has visited his wealth, the sight, of which, dazzles and astonishes him so far as to throw him oiF hia guard; and to render him insolent. Massinger displays a knowledge of man not very usual
^ See particularly his soUioquy, Aet III. sc. ii.
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxvii
with dramatic writers, while he reprwents the same person as prodigal of a small fortune in his youth, servile and hypocritical in his distresses, arbitrary and rapacious in the possession of wealth suddenly acquired: for those- seeming changes of character depend on the same dis- position variously infiuenced; I mean, on a base and feeble mind, incapable of resisting the power of external circumstances. In order, however, to prepare us for the extravagances of this character, after he is enriched, the Poet delineates his excessive transports on viewing his wealth, in a speech which cannot be injured by a comparison with any soliloquy in our lan- guage :
'Twas no fantastic object, but a truth,
A real truth ; nor dream : I did not slumber^
And could wake ever with a brooding eye
To gaze upon't! it did endure the touch,
I saw and felt it ! Yet what I beheld
And handled oft, did so transcend belief,
(Mj wonder and astonishment pass'd o'er,)
I faintly could gifc credit to my tenses.
Thou dumb magician,-— -[raA:t»^ oui a A:tf^.]-*that without
a charm Did'st make my entrance easy, to possess What wise men wish, and toil for ! Hermes* moly, Sibylla's golden bough, the great elixir, Imagined only by the alchymist,
Compared with thee are shadows, — thou the substance^ And guardian of felicity I No marvel, My brother made thy place of rest his bosom^ Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress
cxxviii ESSAY ON THE
To be hagg'd eTer ! In bj-corners of , oThis sacred room, siWer in bags, heap'd np Like billets sawM and ready for the fire, Unworthy to hold fellowship, with bright gold That flowM about the room, concealed itself. There needs no artificial light ; the splendor Makes a perpetaal day there, night and darkness By that still-burning lamp for erer banish'd ! Bat when, guided by that, my eyes had made DiscoTery of the caskets, and they open'd. Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth A pyramid of flames^ and in the roof Fix'd it a glorious star^ and made the place Heaven's abstract, or epitome! — rubies, sapphires, And ropes of oriental pearl ; these seen, I could not But look on gold with contempt.^ And yet I found What weak credulity could have no faith in, ^ treasure far exceeding these : here lay A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment, The wax continuing hard, the acres melting ; Here a sure deed of gift for a market.town, If not redeemed this day, which is not in The nnthriffs power : there being scarce one ahire In Wales, or England, where my monies are not Lent out at usury, the certain hodk To draw in more. I am sublimed ! gross earth Supports me not ; I walk on air ! — Who's there ?
' In these quotations, the present edition has been hitherto followed. Dr. Ferriar, it appears, made use of Mr. M. Mason's, to whose vitiated readings it is necessary to recur on the pre- sent occasion, as the Doctor founds on them his exception to the general excellence of Massingers Tersification. The reader who wishes to know how these lines were really given by the Poety must turn to Vol. IV. p. 67, where he will find them to be as flowing and harmonious as any part of the speech.
Editor.
^^
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxix
Enter Lord Lact, with Sir John Frugal, Sir Maurice hxctf
and Plenty, disguised as Indians.
Thieves! raise the street! thi^yes! Act IIL sc, iif.
It was a great effort by which such a train of violent emotions and beautiful images was drawn, with the strictest propriety, from the. indulgence of a passion to which other poets can only give interest in its anxieties and dis- iappointments. Every sentiment in this fine soliloquy is touched with the hand of a master; the speaker, overcome by the splendour of his acquisitions, can scarcely persuade himself that the event is real; " it is no fantasy, but a truth; a real truth, no dream ; he does not slumber ;" the natural language of one who strives to con- vince himself that he is fortunate beyond all probable expectation; for ** he could wake ever to gaze- upon his treasure :" again he re- verts to his assurances; " it did endure the touch; he saw and felt it." These broken ex- clamations and anxious repetitions, are the pure voice of nature. Recovering from his astonish- ment, his mind dilates with the value of his possessions, and the Poet finely directs the whole gratitude of this mean character to the key of his stores. In the description which follows, there is a striking climax in sordid luxury; that passage where
Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth A pyramid of flames, and in the roof / Fix'd it a glorious star, and made the pki^« HeaTen's abstract, or epitome !
VOL. I. i
exxx ESSAY ON THE
though founded on a false idea in natural his- tory, long since exploded, is amply excused by the singular and beautiful image which it pre* sents. The contemplation of his enormous wealth, still amplified by his fancy, transports him at length to a degree of frenzy ; and now seeing strangers approach, he cannot conceive them to come upon any design but that of rob- bing him, and with the appeasing of his ridicu* ious alarm this storm of passion subsides, which stands unrivalled in its kind, in dramatic his- tory. The soliloquy possesses a very uncommon beautj", that of forcible description united with J passion and character. I should scarcely hesi- tate to prefer the description of sir John FrugaPs counting-house to Spenser's house of riches.
It is very remarkable, that in this passage, the versification is so exact, (two lines only excepted*) and the diction so pure and elegantj^ that, although much more than a century has elapsed since it was written, it would be per- haps impossible to alter the measure or language without injury, and certainly very difficult to produce an equal length of blank verse, from any modern poet, which should bear a com- parison with Massingcr's, even in the mechani- cal part of its construction. This observation may be extended, to all our Poet's productions: majesty, elegance, and sweetness of diction predominate in them. It is needless to quote any single passage for. proof of this, because
^ Bat see the preceding note, p. czxTiii.
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxxl
noBe of those which I am gotag to introduce will afford any exception to the remark, Indcr pendent of character, the writings of this great Poet abound with noble passages. It is only in the productions of true poetical genius that we meet with successful allusions to sublime natural objects ; the attempts of an inferior writer, in this kind, are either borrowed or disgusting. If Massinger were to be tried by this rule alone, we must rank him very high; a few instances will prove this. Theophilus, speaking of Dio- clesian's arrival, says,
• - • - The marches of great princes, Like to the motions of prodigious meteors,
Are step by step obseryetl; Virgin Martyr^ Act I. sc. i.
The introductory circumstances of a threaten- ing piece of intelligence, are
• - - - bat creeping billows.
Not got to shore yeii lb* Act II. sc. ii.
In the same play, we meet with this charming image, applied to a modest young nobleman :
The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him,
Shine there but as in water, and gild him
Not with one spot of pride: Ih. sc. iii.
No Other fig\ire could so happily illustrate the peace and purity of an ingenuous mind, uncor- rupted by favour. Massinger seems fond of this thought; we meet with a similar one in the Guardian t
I have seen those eyes with pleasant glances play Upon Adorio's, like Pfaoebe's shine^ Gilding a crystal ri?er ; Act IV. sc. i.
is
cxxxii : ESSAY ON THE '
There are two parallel passages in Shakspearc, to whom we are probably indebted for this, as well as for many other fine images of our Poet, The first is in tht'JVinter' s Tale*
He says h« lores my daughter ; ,
I think so too : for neyer gazM the moon Upon the water, as he'll stand, and read. As 'twere, my daughter's eyes. Act IV. ac. if.
The second is ludicrous :
JS!ing, Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine (Those clouds remov'd) upon our wat'ry eyne.
l^o^. O Tain petitioner! beg a greater matter;
Thou now requesfst but moon-shine in the water.
Love*s Labour's Losty Acf V. sc. if.
The following images are applied, I think, in a new manner :
. . - • as the suDy 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 ?
Virgin Martyr^ Act V. sc. ii.
O summer-friendship, Whose flattering leaves, that sbadow'd us in our Prosperity, with the least gust drop off In the autumn of adversity.
Maid of Honour^ Act III* sc. i.
In the last quoted play, Camiola says, in per- plexity,
- - - What a sea
Of melting ice I walk on ! Act III. sc. iv.
A very noble figure, in the following passage, seems borrowed from Sbakspeare :
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxxiii
- - ' What a bridge
* Of glass I walk upon, orer a river Of certain ruin, mine-cmi weighty fears Cracking what should support me !
The Bondman^ Act IV* sc. iii.
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous ; As full of peril, and adyent^rous spirit, As to o'er-walk a current, roaring loud. On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. ^
Henry IV, Part I, Act I. sc. iii.
It cannot be denied that Massinger has im- proved on his original: he cannot be said to borrow, so properly as to imitate. This remark may be applied to many other passages : thus Harpax's menace,
I'll take thee " and hang thee In a contorted chain of isicles In the frigid zone : Virgin Martyr^ Act V. sc. i.
is derived from the same source with that pas- sage in Measure for Measure^ where it is said to be a punishment in a future state,
. • - to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice.
Again, in the Old Law^ we meet with a passage similar to a much celebrated oneof Shakspeare's, but copied with no common hand :
- - In my youth
I YiVA a soldier, no coward in my age;
I nerer turn'd my back upon my foe ;
I hare felt nature^s winters, sicknesses,
Tet ever kept a lively sap in me
To greet the cheerful spring of health again. Act I* sc. i.
\
\
cxxxiv ESSAY ON THE
Though I look old, yet I am Atrong and lusty :
For in my youth I never did appl)r
Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood ;
Nor did not i¥ith unbashful forehead wop
The means of weakness and debility ;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly. 7 As You Like J/, Act II. sc. iii*
Our Poet's writings are stored with fine sen- timents, and thie same observatioa which has bein made on Shakspeare's, holds true of our Author, that his sentiments are so artfully in-» troduced, that they appear to come uncjilledi and to force themselves on the mind of the speaker.* In the legendary play of the Virgin^ Martyr, Angelo delivers a beautiful sentiment, perfectly iu the spirit of the piece :
Lpok oi^ the pppr Witfi geqt|e eyes, for in such lu^bits, often, Angels desire an alms.
When Francisco, in the.Duke of MilaUj succeeds in his designs against the life of Marcelja; he remarks with exultation, that
When he's a suitor, that brings cunning arm'd With [^wer, to be his advocates, the denial
7 In an expression of Archidacpus, in the Bondman^ we dif« cover, perhaps^ the origin of an image in Paradise Lost : . . ^ O'er our heads, with sail-stretch 'd wings, Destruction borers. T^e ^mdman^ Act I. sc. iii.
Milton says of Satan, . • - His sail-broad vanns
He spreads .for flight* * Mrs* MoniAgii^s Essay on Shakspeare.
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. (jxxxr
Is a disease as Ulling as the plague^ And chastity a clue that leads to death.
Act IV. sc. it.
Pisander, in the Bondman^ moralizes the in- solence of the slaves to their late tyrants, after the revolt, in a manner that tends strongly to interest us in his character :
Here they, that nerer see themselves, bat in The glass of servile flattery, might behold The weak foandatioa apon which they baild Their trust in human frailty. Happy are those^ That knowing, in their births, they are subject to Uncertain change, are still prepared, and arm'd For either fortune : a rare principle, And with much labour, learn'd in wisdom's school} For, as these bondmen, by their actions, shew That their prosperity, like too large a sail For their small bark of judgment, sinks them with A fore-right gale of liberty, ere they reach The port they long to touch at : so these wretches, Swollen with the false opinion of their worth. And proud of blessings left them, not acquired ; That did believe they could with giant arms Fathom the earth, and were above their fates, Those borrow'd helps, that did support them, vanish'd^ Fall of themselyes, and by unmanly suffering, • Betray their proper weakness. Act III. sc iii«
His complaint of the hardships of slavery must not be entirely passed over :
. - The noble hor&e, That^ in his fiery youth^ftwn his wide nostrils Neighed courage to his ridir, and brake through Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord Safe to triumphant victory ; old or wounded Was set at liberty, and freed from service.
cxxxvi ESSAY ON THE
The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew Marble, hew'd for the temples of the gods. The great work ended, were dismiss'd, and fed At the public cost ; nay, faithful dogs haye found Their sepulchres ; but man, to man more cruel, Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave.
lb. Act IV. sc. ii*
The sense of degradation in a lofty mind, hur- ried Into vice by a furious and irresistible pas- sion, is expressed very happily in tlie Renegade, by Donusa :
- - - What poor means
Must I make use of now ! and flatter such,
To whom, till I betray'd my liberty,
One gracious look of mine would hare erected
An altar to my service ! Act II. sc. i.
Again,
- . . O that I should blush To speak what I so much desire to do I
When Mathias, in the Picture^ is informed by the magical skill of his friend, that his wife's honour is in danger, his first exclamations have at least as much sentiment as passion:
It is more Impossible in nature for gross bodies, Descending of themselves, to hang in the air ; Or with my single arm to underprop A falling tower ; nay, in its violent course To stop the lightning, than to stay a woman Hurried by two furies, lust and falsehood, In her full career to wickedness !
- - . I am thrown •
From a steep rock headlong into a gulph
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxxvii
Of misery, and find myself past hope, In the same moment that I apprehend That I am falling. Act IV. sc. i.
But if Massinger does not always ^exhibit the liveliest and most natural expressions of pas- sion ; if, like most other poets, he sometimes substitutes declamation for those expressions ; in description at least he puts forth all his strength, and never disappoints us of an asto- nishing exertion. We may be content to rest his character, in the description of passion, on the following single instance. In the Feri/ Womatiy Almira's lover, Cardenes, is danger- ously wounded in a quarrel, by don John An- tonio, who pays his addresses to her.. Take, now, a description of Aluiira's frenzy on this event, which the prodigal author has put into the mouth of a chambermaid :
• - - If she slnmber'd, straight, As if some dreadful Tision had appear'd. She started ap, her hair unbound, and, with Distracted looks staring about the chamber. She asks aloud, Where is Martino f where Have you conceal'd him f sometimes names Antonio, Trembling in every joint^ her brows contracted^ Her fair face as 'twere changed into a curse^ Her hands held up thus; and, as if her words Were too big to find passage through her mouth, She groans, then throws herself upon her bed, Beating her breast. Act II. sc. iii.
To praise or to elucidate this passage, would be equally superfluous; I am acquainted with
•xxxviii ESSAY ON THE
« ■
nothing superior to it, in descriptive pofstry, and it would be hardy to bring any single in* stance in competition with it. Our Poet is not less happy in his descriptions of inanimate nature^ and his descriptions bear the peculiar stamp of true genius in their beautiful concise- ness. What an exquisite picture does he present in the compass of less than two lines !
jon haoging cliff, that glasses His rugged forehead in the neighbouriDg lake,
RenegadOf Act II. sc. r.
Thus also Dorothea's description of Paradise :
Ther€U a perpetual spring, perpetual youth : Ko joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat, Famine, nor age, hare any being there.
The Virgin Martyr, Act 17. sc. iii.
After all the encomiums on a rural life, and after all the soothing sentiments and beautiful images lavished on it, by poets who never lived in the country, Massinger has furnished one of the most charming unborrowed descriptions that can be produced on the subject :
Happy the golden mean ! had I been bonk
In a poor sordid cottage, not nurs'd up
With expectation to command a court^
I might, like such of your condition, sweetest,
Haye ta^en a safe and middle course, and not^
As I am now, against my choice, compcU'd
Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised
So high upon the pinnacles of state,
That I must, either keep my height with danger.
Or fall with certain ruin - - •
» • Pi » we Bught walk
WRITINGS OF MA^SINGER, cxxxijf
In solitary groves^ or in choice gardens ;
From the variety of curious flowers
Contemplate nature's workmanship, and wonders ;
And then, tor change, near to the murmur of
Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing,
And, from the w'ell-tuned accents of your tongue^
In my imagination conceive
With what melodious harmony a quire
Of angels sing abore their Maker's praises*
A-nd then with qhaste discourse, as we return'dj^
Imp feathers to the broken wings of time :— «
. - - walk into
. The silent groves, and hear the amorous birds Warbling their wanton notes ; here, a sure shad# Of barren sycamores, which the all.seeing sun Could not pierce through ; near that, an arbour hung With spreading eglantine ; there, a bubbling spring Watering a bank of hyacinths and lilies ;
The Great Duke of Florence^ Act \p sc, i. and Act IV. sc« ii.
Let U3 pppwe to the§e peaceful and inglorious images^ the picture of a triumph by tHe same masterly h^n^ :
r when she views you,
like a triumphant conqueror, carried through The streets of Syracusa, the glad people Pressing to meet you, and the senators Contending who shall heap most honours on you ; The oxen, erown^d with garlands, led before yoD^ Appointed for the sacrifice ; and the altars Smoaking with thankful inoense to the gods : The soldiers chanting loud hymns io yoar pn^e, The windows fill'd with matrons and with virginsy Throwing upon your head, as you pass by, The choicest iowers, and sUeady invoking
cxl ESSAY ON THE
The queen of Iotc, with tbeir particular rowf 9 To be thought worthy of you.
The Bondmatty Act III. sc. in
Every thing here is animated, yet every action is appropriated : a painter might work after this sketch, without requiring an additional circumstance.
The speech of young Charalois, in the funeral procession, if too metaphorical for his character and situation, is at l^ast highly poetical :
How like a silent stream shaded with night, And gliding softly, with our windy sighs. Moves the whole frame of this solemnity !
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove Of death, thus hollowly break forth.
The Fatal Dofwry^ Act II. sc* i.
It may afford some consolation to inferior genius, to remark that even Massinger some- times employs pedantic and overstrained allu- sions. He was fond of displaying the little military knowledge he possessed, which he in- troduces in the following passage, in a most extraordinary manner : one beautiful image in it must excuse the rest :
• . - were Margaret only fair, The cannon of her more than earthly form, Though mounted high, commanding all beneath it. And ramm'd with bullets of her sparkling eyes. Of all the bulwarks that defend your senses
Could batter none, but that which guards your sight.
But . - - -
• • when you feel her^ouch, and breath
WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxli
Like a soffwestern wind, when it glides o'er Arabia^ creating gums and spices ; And in the van, the nectar of her lips^ Which you must taste, bring the battalia on^ Well arm'd, and strongly lined with her discourse^
Hippoljtus himself would Uare Dlana^ To follow such a Venus.
A New Way to pay Old Debts^ Act III. sc. !•
What pity, that he should ever write so extra- vagantly, who could produce this tender and delicate image, in another piece :
What's that ? oh, nothing but the whispering wind Breathes through yon churlish hawthorn, that grew
' rude, As if it chid the gentle breath that kiss'd it.
The Old Lawy Act IV. sc. ii.
I wish it could be added to Massinger's just praises, that he had preserved his scenes from the impure dialogue which disgusts us in most of our old writers. But we may observe, in defence of his failure, that several causes ope- rated at that time to produce such a dialogue, and that an author who subsisted by writing was absolutely subjected to the influence of those causes. The manners of the age permitted great freedoms in language ;" the theatre was not frequented by the best company; the male part of the audience was by much the more numerous ; and, what perhaps had a greater effect than any of these, the women's parts were performed by boys. So ]f)Owerful was the effect of those circumstanceSf that Cartwright is the
elxii ESSAY ON THE
only dramatist of that age whose works are tolerably, free from indecency. Massinger's error, perhaps, appears more strongly, because his indelicacy has not always the apology of wit ; for, either from a natural deficiency in that quality, or from the peculiar model on which he had formed himself, his comic characters are less witty than those of his cotemporaries, and when he attempts wit, he frequently dege- nerates into buffoonery. But he has shewed, in a remarkable manner, the justness of his taste, in declining the practice of quibbling ; and as wit and a quibble were supposed, in that age, to be inseparable^ we are perhaps to seek, in his aversion to the prevailing folly, the true cause of his sparing employment of wit.
Our Poet excels more in the description than in the expression of passion ; this may be as- cribedi in somb measure, to his nice attention to the fable : while bis scenes are managed with consumnKtte skill, the lighter shades of character and sentiment ate lost in the tendency of each part to the catastr(^he.
The prevailing beauties of his productions are dignity and elegance; their predominant fault is want of passion.
The melody, force, and variety of his versi- fication are every where remarkable : admitting the force of all the objections which are made to the enqxloyment of blank verse in comedy, Massittger possesses charms sufficient to dissipitte
WRITINGS OF MAS8INGER. cxliu
them all. It is indeed equally different from that which modem authors are pleased to style blank verse, and from the flippant prose so loudly celebrated in the comedies of the day* The neglect of our old comedies seems to arise from other causes, than from the employment of blank verse in their dialogue ; for, in general, its construction is so natural, that in the mouth of a good actor it runs into elegant prose. The frequent delineations of perishable manners, in our old comedy, have occasioned this neglect, and we may foresee the fate of our present fashionable pieces^ in that which has attended Jonson's, Fletcher's, and Massinger's : they are either entirely overlooked, or so mutilated, to fit them for representation, as neither to retain the dignity of the old comedy, nor to acquire the graces of the new.
Tlie changes of manners have necessarily produced very remarkable effects on theatrical performances. In proportion as our best writers are further removed from the present times, they exhibit bolder and more diversified characten, because the prevailing manners admitted a fuller display of sentiments, in the common inter* course of life. Our own times, in which the ^intention of polite education is to produce a general, uniform manner, afford little diversity of character for the stage. Our dramatistSi therefore, mark the distinctions of their cha- racters, by incideats more than by sentiments.
cxliv: ESSAY ON THE
and abound more in striking situations than interesting dialogue. In the old comedy, , the catastrophe is occasioned, in general, by a change in the mind of some principal character, artfully prepared, and cautiously conducted; in the modern, the unfolding of the plot is effected by .the overturning of a screen, the opening of a door, or by some other equally dignified machine.
When we compare Massinger with the other dramatic writers of his age, we cannot long hesitate where to place him. More natural in his characters, and more poetical in his diction, than Jonson or Cartwright, more elevated and nervous than Fletcher, the only writers who can be supposed to contest his pre-eminence, Massinger ranks immediately under Shakspeare himself.
It must be confessed, that in comedy Mas- singer falls considerably beneath Shakspeare ; his wit is less brilliant, and his ridicule less deli- cate and various ; but he affords a specimen of elegant comedy,* of which there is no archetype in his great predecessor. By the rules of a very judicious critic,* the characters in this piece appear to be of too elevated a rank for comedy; . yet though the plot is somewhat embarrassed by this circumstance, the diversity, spirit, and , consistency of the characters render it a most
9 The Great Duke of Florence.
' See the Essatf an the Provinces of the Drama,
WRITINGS OF MASSING ER. cxlv
teresting play. In tragedy, Massinger is rather eloquent than pathetic ; yet he is often as ma- jestic, and generally more elegant than his master ; he is as powerful a ruler of the under- standing, as Shakspeare is of the passions : with the disadvantage of succeeding that matchless poet, there is still much original beauty in his works; and the most extensive acquaintance with poetry will hardly diminish the pleasure of a reader and admirer of Massinger.
VOL. I.
[ cxlvli ]
COMMENDATORY VERSES
ON MASSINGER.
Upon this Work [The Duke of Milan] of his be- loved Friend the Author.
X A M snapt already, and may go my way ;
The poet-critic's come ; I hear him say
This youth's mistook, the author's work's a play.
He could not miss it, he will straight appear At such a bait ; 'twas laid on purpose there, To take the vermin, and I have him here.
Sirrah ! you will be nibbling ; a small bit, A syllable, when you're in the hungry fit, Will serve to stay the stomach of your wit.
Fool, knave, what worse, for worse cannot de- prave thee ; And were the devil now instantly to have thee. Thou canst npt instance such a work to save thee,
'Mongst all the ballets which tl^ou dost compose, And what thou stylest thy Poems, ill as those, And void of rhyme and reason, thy worse prose :
Yet like a rude jack-sauce in poesy, With thoughts unblest, and hand unmannerly, Ravishing branches from Apollo's tree ;
k S
cxlviii COMMENDATORY VERSES
Thou mak'st a garland, for thy touch unfit, And boldly deck'st thy pig-brain'd sconce with
As if it were the supreme head of wit :
The blameless Muses blush ; who not allow That reverend order to each vulgar brow, ' Whose sinful touch profanes the holy bough. •
Hence, shallow prophet, and admire the strain Of thine own pen, or thy poor cope-mate's vein ; This piece too curious is for thy coarse brain.
Here wit, more fortunate, is join'd with art, And that most sacred frenzy bears a part, Infused by nature in the Poet's heart.
Here may the puny wits themselves direct, Here may the wisest find what to affect. And kings may learn their proper dialect.
On then, dear friend, thy pen, thy name, shall
spread, ^ And shouldst thou write, while thou shalt not be
read. The Muse must labour, when thy hand is dead*
W. B/ N
■ W, B.] 'Tis the opinion of Mr. Reed, that the initials W. B. stand for William Brown, the author of Britannia's Pastorals. I see no reason to think otherwise, except that Ben Jon&on, whom W. B. seems to attack all through this Poem, had greatly cele. brated Brown's Pastorals ; but indeed Jonson was so capricious in his tepiper, that we must not suppose him to be ferj constat in his friendships. Daties.
This is a pretty early specimen of the judgment which Davies brought to the elucidation of his work. Not a line, not a syl- lable of this little poem can, by any Tiolence, be tortured into a reHection on Jonson, whom he supposes to be ^^ attacked all through it!" In 162^, when it was written^ that great poet w^ §t the heigjit of kis reputation. Would a ^^ yoaog" wetter
ON MASSINGER. cxlix
The Author^ s Friend to the Reader^ on the Bondman.
The printer's haste calls on ; I must nor drive
My time past six, though I begin at five.
One hour I have entire, and 'tis enough ;
Here are no gipsy jigs, no drumming-stuff,
Dances, or other trumpery to delight,
Or take, by common way, the common sight
The author of this poem, as he dares
To stand the austerest censure, so he cares
As little what it is; his own best way
Is, to be judge, and author of his play:
It is his knowledge makes him thus secure ;
Nor does he write to please, but to endure.
And, feader, if you have disbursed a shilling,
To see this worthy story, and are willing
To have a large increase, if ruled by me,
You may a merchant and a poet be.
Tis granted for your twelve-pence you did sit,
And see, and hear, and understand not yet.
presame to term such a man ^^ fool, knaTe," &c. ? would he— - but the enquiry is too absurd for further pursuit.
I know not the motif es which induced Mr. Reed to attribute these stanzas to W. Brown^ they may, I think, with some pro« bability, be referred to W.' Basse, a minor poet, -whose tribute of praise is placed at the head of the commendatory verses on Shakspeare ; or to W. Barksted, author of Myrrha the Mother of Adonis^ a poem, 1607. Barksted was an actor, as appears from a list ,of ^^ the principal comedians" who represented Jonson's Silent Woman ; and therefore not less likely than the author of Britannia^ s Pastorals to say, that,
« ' ' in the way of poetry^ now-a-days,
** or all that are call'd works the best are plays/' There is not much to be said for these introductory poems, which must be viewed rather as proofs of friendship than of talents, ki the former editions they are given with a degree of ignorance and inattention truly scandalous.
cl COMMENDATORY VERSES
The author, in a Christian pity, takes Care of your good, and prints it for your sakes ; That such as will but venture sixpence more, ,May know what they but saw and heard before : 'Twill not be money lost, if you can 'read, (There's all the doubt now,) but your gains
exceed. If you can understand, and you are made Free of the freest and the noblest trade ; And in the way of poetry, now-a-days, Of all that are call'd works, the best are plays.
W. B.
To my honoured Friend^ Master Philip Mas- siNQEii, 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 name To rescue judgment, no poetic flame
To dress thy Muse with praise.
And Phoebus his own bays; Yet I commend this poem, and dare tell The world I liked it well ;
ON IAASSINGER. cli
And if there be A tribe who in their wisdoms dare accuse This offspring of thy Muse, Let them agree Conspire one comedy, and they will say, 'Tis easier to commend, than make a play.
James Shirlet."
To his worthy Friend, Master Philip Massinger, on his Play calVd the Renegado.
The bosdm 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
* James Shirley.] A weli-known dramatic writer. His works, which are rery Yoluminous, have never been collected in an uniform edition^ though highly deserving of it. He assisted Fletcher in many of his plays ; and some, say his biographers, thought him equal to that great poet. He died in 1666.
Shirley was of Catharine *Hall} and in a MS. poem, whieh.I have seen in Mr. Waldron's hands, is the followiog pretty allu- sion to it, in the taste of the times:
^^ Jatnesj you and I have spent some precious years ^^ At Catharine Hall, as by the Book appears : ^^ Since which we, sometimes, are too apt to feel ^^ Poetic whirlings, caught from Catharine's Wheel." *
Shirley's plays, as Dr. Farmer says, in a letter now lying before me, are '* cursedly printed.** In hundreds of places, as I have found, to my regret, it is scarcely possible, to discover what the author really wrote. I notice this, lest the Booksellers, at a time when ignoc^nce and inexperience are prowling in every shop for jobs, should be tempted, by the cheapness of the offer, to trust Uiem to unworthy hands.
* A well known tavem> the name of which frequently occuH in oui old dia* madtts*
clii COMMENDATORY VERSES
That honour thee, do only sectti 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 world's opinion, such as can Censure with judgment, no such piece of man Makes up my spirit; where desert does live, There wift 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 mav 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, eir. When they their love before the work prefer. If I should say more, some may blame me for't, Seeing your merits speak you, not report.
Daniel Lakyn,
0 ^ ■ — m*t%
- — this fvork of your9y -ftc] The ^enegttSo WJrt always accomited an i^xcellent play by the poet'« con temporaries. The following curious notice of it is taketi from Sliepfacrd^s Times displayed^ kc. After metitioningsoine who shall ettt \U^ on earth, in spite of enty« the writtdr adds,
ii
and, Fletcher, so shall you,
*^ With him that the sweet Renegado penned, '^ And him that Cressy sung and Poictiers too«"
ON MASSINGER. diii
To his, dear Friend the Author, on the Romaa Actor.
I AM no great admirer of the plays, Poets, or actors, that are tiow-adays ; Yet, in this work of thine, methinks, I sec 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, who can affirm him dead? Such power lies in this lofty strain as Can Give swords and legions to Domitian : And when thy Paris pleads in the defence Of actors, every grace and excellence Of argument for that subject, are by thee Contracted in a sweet epitome. Nor do thy women the tired hearers vex With language no way proper to their sex. Just like a cunning painter thou let'st fall Copies more fair than the original. I'll add but this : from all the modern plays The stage hath lately born, this wins the bays; And if it come to trial, boldly look To carry it clear, thy witness being thy book.
T. J.*
^ T. J.] Coteter giVBli tbese initials to sir Thomas Jay, or Jeaj, to whom the plaj is dedicated; (sec p. Ixiii.) but without Mithority^ and, indeed, 5^HHoiit ndve^ting to his real setttitnents on the subject ; see p. clix. The writer before us, Mrho was ^^ no ^eat admiret" 0i tbe piays of liis days, when Jolison, Shirley, Ford, &c. w^pe in full rigottr, wottld not, 1 suspect, be ahogetlier fslraptared if be could witness those of ours ! .
cliv COMMENDATORY VERSES
In Philippi Massinoeri, Poeicdj ekgantiss. Actorem Romanum, typis excusum.
m
EccE PhilippinsB celebrata Tragoedia Musse,
Quam Roseus Britonum Roscius* egit, adest. Semper frbnde ambo vireant Parnasside, semper
Liber ab invidiam dentibus esto, liber. Crebra papyrivQri spernas incendia pseti,
Thus, vaenum exf^siti tegmina suta libri : Nee metuas rauQos, Momorum sibila, rhoncos,
Tarn bardus nebulo si tamen uUus erit. Nam toties festis, actum, placuisse theatris
Quod liquet, hoc, cusum, crede, placebit, opus.
Tho. Goff/
To his deserving Friendj Mr. Philip Massingkr, upon his Tragedy^ the Roman Actor.
Paris, the best of actors in his age,
Acts yet, and speaks upon our Roman 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
^ RosciusJ] This was Joseph Taylor, whose namt occun in a subsequent page.
^ Tho. Goff.] Goff was a man of considerable learning, and highly celebrated for his oratorical powers, which he turned to the best of purposes, in the serrice of the church. He also wrote ieyeral tragedies; but these do no honour to his memory, being full of the most ridiculous bombast; and one comedy, which is not without merit.
ON MASSINGER. civ
Which from th* applauding theatres were paid
To his brave action, nor his ashes laid
In the Flaminian way, where people strow'd'
His grave with flowers,, and Martial's wit bestow'd
A lasting epitaph ; not all these same
Do add so much renown to Paris' name
As this, that thou present'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 Ids Roman Actor.
To write is grown so common in our time, That every one who can but/rame 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 com- mend. 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,
^ Tho. Mat.] May translated Lucan into English yerse, and "was a candidate for the office of Poet Laureat with sir Willam Dayenant. He wrote seyeral plays ; his Latin Supplement to Lucan is much admired by the learned. Daties.
This, ^^ admired," supplement May dedicated to the ^' best and greatest of kings, his most sacred Majesty Charles I." But bis most ^^ sacred majesty" or his minister, having refused him the laurdyhe threw himself into the arms of the rebels^ and per. leeuted his soTereign with implacable malignity.
clvi COMMENDATORY VERSES
Without a soul, until thy abler pen Spoke them, and made them speak, nay act again In such a height, that here to know their deeds, He may become an actor that but reads.
John Fokd.
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 Ijne speaks him an emperor, every phrase Crowns thy deserving temples with the bays; So that reciprocally both agree. Thou liv'st in him, and he survives in thee.
ROBEBT HaRVET.
To his hng^hnoxvn and loved Friend^ Mr. Phiiif Massinger, upon his Roman Actor.
If that my lines, being placed before thy book, Could make it sell, or alter but a look Of some sour censurer, who's apt to say. No one in these times can produce a play Worthy his reading, since of late, 'tis true, The old accepted are more than the new : Or, could I on some spot o'the court work so, . To make him speak no more than he doth know;
ON MASSINGER. dvii
Not borrowing from his flattering flattered 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 Tayloe/
To Mr. PHTLrp Massinoer, my muck^esiecm^d Friend, on his Great Duke of Florence,
Enjoy thy laurel ! 'tis a noble choicfc,
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, Withered 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.
G£ORGE Donne.
* Joseph Tat]:*or, wbo, in 1611, was at the head of tke ladj Elizabeth's players, is said to have beea the original performer of Hamlet and lago. When he represented Pads in Massioger^ Tragedy, he was one of the king's players. In 1639, he was appointed yeoman of the Revels, under sir Henry Herbert, anjf in 1647, was one of the actors who joined in dedicating -Beau, mont and Fletcher's plays to the earl of PembrokfQ* Taylor died at Richmond, in 1654, at a very adf aiu^d s^^ ancl i<i tht •xtremce of poverty* Gilchrist.
clviii COMMENDATORY VERSES
To the deserving Memory of this worthy Workj [the Great Duke of Florence,] and the 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 censur'd; toys, no sooner hatch'd than dead: Here, without blush to truth of commendation, Is proved, how art hath outgone imitation.
John Ford.
To my worthy Friend the Author ^ upon his Tragic Comedy the Maid of Honour.
Was not thy Emperor enough ^before For thee to give, that thou dost give us more? I would be just, but cannot; that I know r did not slander, this I fear I do. But pardon me, if I offend ; 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 I>eserve applause, but speak against their mind3« I, out of justice, would commend thy play. But (friend, forgive me) 'tis above my way.
ON MASSINGER- clix
One word, and I have done, (and from my heart Would I could speak the whole truth, not the part, Because 'tis thine,) it henceforth will be said, Not the Maid of Honour, but the Honoured Maid.
Aston Cockaiwe.*
To his worthy Friend, Mr. Philip Massinger, ^ upon his Tragi'Comedy styled the Picture.
Methinks I hear some busy critic say, Who's this that singly ushers in this play ? Tis boldness, I confess, and yet perchance It may be construed love, not arrogance. I do not here upon this leaf intrude, By praising one to wrong a multitude. N^or do I think, that all are tied to be (Forced by my vote) in the same creed with me, Each man hath liberty to judge; free will, At his own pleasure, to speak good or ill. But yet your Muse already's known so well Her worth will hardly find an infideL Here she hath drawn a Picture, which shall lie Safe for all future times to practise by ; Whatever 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 whosoe'er beyond desert commends, Errs more by much than he that reprehends ; For praise misplaced, and honour set upon A worthless subject, is detraction.
* Aston Cockixite.] Set the Introduction pasHm.
clx COMMENDATORY VERSES
I cannot sin so liere, unless I went
About to style you only excellent*
Apollo's gifts arc not confined alone
To your dispose, he hath more heirs {han 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 preferred before your own. I know you'd take it for an injury, (And *tis a weJUbecoming modesty,) To be parallel'd with Beaumont, or to hear Your name by some too partial friend writ near Unequaird 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, Thali, with a certainty of loss, to hold A foolish competition : 'tis too bokl A task, and to beshunn'd : n&r shall my praise. With too mueh weighty ruin what it would rais«.
Thomas J at.
. . '
To my worthy Friend^ Mr. Philip Massinceb, upon his TragihQmi^dy 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 thij. And it will shew how fdir thy Emperor is, Thou more than poet ! our Mercury, that art Apollo's messenger, and dost impart
I
r
ON MASSINGER.
clxt
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 nlay 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 i)f 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.
ASTOK COCKAINE.
VOL. I»
1
4
clxii COMMENDATORY VERSES
A Friend to the Author, and Well-wisher to th€ 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 beea >
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 blamei> 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 CiiAVELL.*
' John Cla?ell, ^^ in the aatumn of his years," published A recantation of an ilU'ledde Lifty &c. dated from ^^ his lonely, sad and unfrequented chamber in the King's Bench, Oct. 1627," where he lad been committed for a high-way robbery, for which offence he was tried and cdndemnedt He was afterwards par* doned through the. interest of the Queen, moved by the earnest j
solicitations of his wife :— of whose attachment during his im- prisonment, Clayell speaks, in a prefatory poem, with the I tenderest expressions of gratitude and affection. He was living in 1634, (two years after the appearance of his commendatory verses,) reformed and respected. Gilchsist.
ON MASSINGER. clxiii
To my true Friend and Kinsman^ Philip Mas- singer^ on hh Emperor of the East.
I TAKE' not upon trust, nor am I led By an itnplicit 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. Thi9, 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 devour The Well-forih'd features of thy Emperor,
William Singleton.
To the ingenious Author^ Master Philip Mas- singer, on his Comedy called A New Way to Pay Old Debts.
'Tis a rare charity, and thou couldst not So proper to the time have found a plot : Yet whilst you teach to pay, you lend ; the age We wretches live in, that to come the stage. The thronged audience that was thither brought, Invited by your fame, and to be taught
12
clxiv COMMENDATORY VERSES
This lesson ; all are grown indebted more, And when they look for freedom, ran in score. It was a cruel courtesy to call In hope of liberty, and then^ inthrall. The nobles are your bondmen, gentry, and All besides those that did not understand. They were no men of credit, bankrupts bom, Fit to be trusted with no stock but scorn. You have more wisely credited to such, That though they cannot pay, can value much. I am your debtor too, but, to my shame. Repay you nothing back but your own fame.
Henry Moody.V Miles*
To his Friend the Author^ on A New Way to Pay
Old Debts.
You may remember how you chid me, when I rank'd you equal with tnose 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 Fresti and unsullied ; all is of weight, Able to make the captive reader, know I did but justice when I placed you so.
' Henrv Mooot.] Sir Henrj Moody plays on the title of the piece. He hat not mucli of the poet in him, bat appears to be a friendly, good-natured man. A short poem of his, is pre- fixed to the folio edition of Beanmont and Fletcher. He was one of the gentlemen who had honorary degrees conferred on them by Charles I. on his return to Oxford from the battle of Edgehill,
ON MASSINGER. clxv
♦
A shamefaced blushing would become the brow
Of some weak virgin writer; we allow
To you a kind of pride, and there where most
Should blush at commendations, you should boast.
If any think I flatter, let him look
Off from my idle trifles on thy book.
Thomas Jay. Miles.
[ clzvii ]
A LIST
OV
MASSING ER'S PLAYS.
These marked thus * are in the present EdUion.
1. T HC Forced Lad/, T. This was one of the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's seryant.f
a. The Noble Choice, C. • ^ Entered on theStationers'
3. The WinderiHg Lover., C. . [j^fpl'^xe^jtrnJ? 4e Philenzo and Hippolita, T. C. 3 printed. These were among the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's seryant.
5. Antonio and Yallia, j; C. \ Entered on the Stationeia'
6. The Tyrant, T. > ^^^^^^^ , Sn^w *''^:
^ ' \r June a9, 1660, but not
7. Fast and Welcome, G. / printed. These, too, were
among the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's seryant.
f After this, I bad entered, in the former edition, the Secretary ^ of which the tide appears in the catalogue which fumrshed the materials for Poole's Pamastus, Mr. (jruchrist, who seems destined to serve the cause of Massinger, by his for- tunate d^coveries, has enabled me to correct my statement. The person men- tioned by Poole is John Massinger, and the work to which he refers is a transla- tion of Familiar Letters, by Mons. La Serre, historiographer of France. From a Indrico-pompous introduction to this little manual, which Mr: Gilchrist disco* vered among some old rubbish in a yillage library, John might be taken for a schoolAiaster, though he signs himself J. M. Gent, instead of Philomath, The full title of his work is, the Secretanr in Fashion^ or a compendious and refined way ofexpremon in aU manner of Letters, It is dated 1640, the year of the Poet's death.
X In that most curious MS. Register discovered at Dulwich College, and subjoined by Mr. Malone to his Historical Account of the English Stage, is the fdlowing entiy '* R. so of June, 1505, at antor^ asnd vallea ol, xxs, od/' If this be itie play entered by Moseley, Massinger's clums can only arise from his hay- ing revised and altered it : for ne must have becai a mere child when it was firK produced. See the IntioductioDf p. Ivi.
clxviii LIST OF MASSINGER'SJPLAYS.
S. The Woman's Plot, C. Acted at court 1621* Destroyed by Mr. Warbarton*8 seryant.
9. *The Old Law, C.
10. *The Virgin-Martyr, T. Acted by the serrants of his
Majesty's revels. Quarto, 1622; Quarto, 1631 ; Quarto, 1661.
11. ^The Unnatural Combat, T. Acted at the Globe. Quarto^
1639.
12. ^The Duke of Milan, T. Acted at Black-Friars. -Qaarto,
1623; Quarto, 1638.
13. *The Bondman, T. C. Acted Dec. 3, 1623, at the Cockpit,
Drory Lane. Quarto, 1624; Quarto, 1638.
14. *The Renegado, T. C. Acted April 17, 1624, at the
Cockpit, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1630.
15. *The Parliament of LoVe, C' , Acted Not. 3, 1624, at the
Cockpit, Drury Lane.
16. The Spanish Viceroy, C. Acted in 1624. Entered on the
Stationers' books Sept. 9, 1653, by H. Moseley, but not printed. This was one of the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant.
17. *The Roman Actor, T. Acted October 11, 1626, by the
King's company. I^narto, 1629.
1^. The Judge. Acted June 6, 1627, by the King's company. This play is lost.
19. *The Great Duke of Florencj. Acted July 5, 1627, at
the Phoenix, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1636.
20. The Honour-of Women. Acted May 6, 1628. This play
is lost.
" »
21. *The Maid of Honour, T. C.+ Acted at the Phoenix, Drnry
Lane. Date of its first appearance uncertain. Quarto^ 1632.
22. *The Picture, T. C. ' Acted June 8, 1629, at the Globe.
Quarto, 1630.
23. Minenra's Sacrifice, T. Acted Not. 3, 1629, by the King's
company. Entered on the Stationers' books Sept. 9^ 1653, but not printed. This was one of the plays dcn stroyed by Mr. Warburton's serTant.
Mr. Malone thinks this to be the play immediately preoediog it^ with a title. This isy howeTtr, extremely ooaotfiil.
LIST OF MASSINGER'S PLAYS, clxix
24. ^The Emperor of the East, T. C« Acted March 11, 1631,
at Black-Friars. Quarto^ 1632.
25. Believe as you List, C. Acted Maj 7, 1631. Entered
on the Stationers' books Sept. 9, 1653, and again June *29, 1660, but not printed. This also was one of the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton*s servant*
26. The Unfortunate Piety, T. Acted June 13, 1631, by the
King's company. This play is lost.
27. •Th^ Fatal Dowry, T. Acted by the Ring's company.
Quarto, 1632.
28. *A New Way to pay Old Debts, C. Acted at the Phoenix,
Drnry Lane. Quarto^ 1633.
29. *The City Madam, C. Acted May 2S, 1632, by the King's
company. Quarto, 1659.
30. •The Guardian, C. Acted October 31, 1633, by the
King's company. Octavo, 1655.
31. The Tragedy of Oleander. Acted May 7, 1634, by the
King's company. This play is lost.+
32. 'A Very Woman, T. C. Acted June 6, 1634, by the
King's company. Octavo, 1655.
33. The Orator. Acted June 10, 1635, by the King's com-
pany. This play is lost.
34.. *The Bashful Lover, T. C. Acted May. 9, 1636, by the King's company. Octavo, 1^55.^
35. The King and the Subject. :|: Acted June 5, 1638, by the
King's company. This play is lost.
36. Alexius, or the Chaste Lover. Acted Sept* 25, 1639, by
the King's company. This play is lost.
37. The Fair Anchoress of Pausilippo. Acted Jan. 26, 1640,
by the King's company. This play is lost.
f This play must fiave been possessed of more than common merit, since it drew the GLueen (Henrietta-Maria) to Black-Friars. A remarkable event at that time» ¥7b«n our sovereigns were not accustomed to visit the public theatres. She honoured it with her presence on the I3th of May, six dajrs after its first ap. pearance. ' I hope that it was the Poet's benefit-day. The circumstance is re- corded by the Master of the Revels.
t The title of this play, sir H. Herbert tells us, was changed. Mr. Malone conjectures it ^im named the Tyrant^ one of Warburton's unfortunate col- lection.
[ clxxi ]
GLOSSARIAL INDEX.
A.
Abram men, iii. 522*
absurd, iii. 280.
abuse, iii. 65.
acts of parliament, iv. 469.
actuate, ii. 396.
aerie, i. 276.
- - - iii. 25.
affects, ii. 30.
Alba Regalis, iii. 125.
iii. 188. '
altar, ii. 274. a many, i. 35. amorous, ii. 465. Amsterdam, ii. 127. Anaxarete, ii. 381. angel (bird), i. 36. ape, ii. 6i. apostata, i. 93.
i. III.
------ i. 140.
i. 145.
apple, iii. 324. Argiers,i. 139, arrearages, iii. i6o* as (as if), iii. 593. astrology, iv. 38. at all, iv. 78. atheism, iii. 66* atonement, i. 315. Aventine, ii. 333.
B. bake-house, ii. 304.
bandog, i, 44. banquet, i. 167. - - - - . - iv. 29. banqueting-house, ii. 13. Baptista Porta, iii. 122. bar, ii. 267. barathrum, iii. 551. barley-break, i. 103. bases, iii. 145. basket, iii. 449. ----- iii. 511. ----- iv. 12, battalia, iii. 144, battle of Sabla, iv. 366. beadsmen, iv. 26*
---.-- "7 »▼• 57;
bearing dishes, iii. 594.
Beaumelle, iii. 392.
becco, iii. 233*
bees, iv. 91.
beetles, i. 281.
beg estates, iii. 256. .
beglerbeg, ii. 182.
Bellona, iii. 152.
bells ring. backward, i. 238<
bend the bpdyi i. 277.
- -iv. 411.
beneath the salt, iv. 7. ' beso las manos, ii. 488. betake, i. 140. ----- iv. 89. bind with, iv. 14a bird-bolts, iv. 172. birthright, ii. 40. Biscan, iv. 321.
elxxii
GLOSSARIAL INDEX.
bisognion. Hi. 70. blacks> iii. 380. blasphemous^ ii. 476. bloods, lii. 436. blue gown, iv. 84.
- iv. 113.
bocnan, iv. 85. box-keeper, iv. 4. ....... iv, 14,
braches, i. 210. iii. 493,
--iv. 53-
brave, ii. 210.
iv. 331.
braveries, ii. I2» ...... ii. 258.
bravery, t. 208. ..... Ill, 148, ... - .It. 486, Breda, iii. 503. Brennus, iii. 459. - breadside (to shew), ii. 232. brother in arms, iii. 39. buck, i. 88. bue, iii. 556. bullion, iii. 389. buov'd, iii. 51^. bunal denied, iii. 368. burse, iv. 50. ~ bury money, iv. 539. but, ii. 133. - - - iii. 329. Butler, dr. iv. 496.
C.
calver'd salmon, iii. 54. • ....-•*..iv. 2o6. camel, iii. 394. canceller, iv. 142, candour, ii. 294. ... iv, 171,
canters, iii. 497. Caranza, i. 159. .••..- iv. 178. carcanet, iv. g^, carc«net> iv. 243,
caroch, ii. 135.
iii. 95-
carouse, i. 239.
carpet knights, iii. 47.
caster, iv. 82.
casting, iii. 220.
cast suit, iii. 206.
cater, iv. 34.
catsjLick, iii. 32.
cautelous, ii. 46*
cavallery, iii. 43.
censure, ii. 107.
----- ii. 517,
ceruse, iv. 80.
chamber, ii. 231.
chapel fkll, ii. 11 6.
chapines, ii. 135.
Charles the robber, iv. 163.
charms on rubies, ii. 463.
cheese-trenchers, iv. 489.
chiaus, ii. 182.
chine evil, iii. 204.
choice and richest, ii. 148*
chreokopia, iv. 465.
chuff's, i. 281.
church 'book, iv. 468.
circular, iii. 288.
civil, ii. 2 1 8.
- - - iv. 18. clap-dish, ii. 257. clemm'd, ii. 366. close breeches, iii. 426. clubs, ii. 142.
• - --iv. 16. coats, iv. 509. Colbrand, iii. 426. colon, i. 1 32 J
- --- iii. 146, come aloft, ii. 6i. • comfort, iv. 370. coming in, i. 283. commence, i. 308. .•••... ill, 279,
commodities, ii. 51. come off*, i. 210, commoner, i. ^3. comparison^ iii. 159.
GLOSSARIAL INDEX. clxxiii
comrogues> iv. 72. IX
conceited^ ii. 47. dag, iii. 429.
conclusions, i. 308. dalliance, i. 8i*
condition, iv. 492. danger, iii. 374*
conduit, ii. 304. - . . . iv, io8,
conquering Romans, ii. 62. dead pays, i. 207.
consort, iii.- 140. death, the, i. 252.
----- iii. 427. decimo sexto, iii, 32*
constable, to steal a, iii. 9* deck, iv. 177.
constant ih> i. 7. decline, iii. 13. constantly, ii. 515. , deduct, iv. 506.
cooks' shops, iii. 530. deep ascent, iv. 403.
Corinth, ii.' 13. . deer of ten, iii. 309,
corsives, ii. 406. defeature, ii. 73.
• - - - - iii. 340. defended, iv. 206. counsel, i. 283. ^ defensible, iv. 136. ----- ii. 396. degrees, ii. 376. counterfeit gold thread, ii. 52. Delphos, iii. 459.
--•-- ----iii. 517. demeans, iii. ii8,
courtesy, ii. 467. denying burial» iii. 368.
courtship, i. 304. depart, ii. 136.
...... i. 297. dependencies, iii. 9.
------ ii. 446. -,-.-- .-iv. 1^7.
... ii. j;o5. deserved mei iii. 575,
• •••.. iv. 244. Dianaj i. 317.
courtsies, iii. 586. discourse and reason, i. 148.
cow eyes, i. 196. .--*-..-.-. ii. 208.
------ iii. 279. -...---.--. iv, 57^
crack, i. 120. disclose, iii. 2^.
crincomes, iv. 209. dispartations, ii. 165*
crone, i. 130. dissolve, i. 321. erosses, ii, 161. - - - - ii* 382.
crowd, iv. 569. distaste, i. 188,
crowns o'the sun, i. 133. • ii- 133.
.........ii, 274. distempered, i, 238.
cry absurd ! iii. 280. divert, ii. 44.5 .
cry aim, ii. 27. doctor, go out^ i. 308.
- - - - - ii. 131, doctrine, iii. 11. . Cupid and Death, i. 91. .... - iii. 293. cullions, iv. 167, drad, i. 22. cunning, iv. 160. drawer-on, iv. 157. cuHosify, iv. 9. dresser, cook's drum, i. 166,
Curious Impertinent, iii. 418. • • iv. 177.
curiousness, i. 190. drum, iv. 24.
- ----- ii. 242. drum-wine, iv. 51, cypressj iv. 407. Dunkirk, i. 294.
Dutch hangman* iv. 1 10.
dxxiv GLOSSARIAL INDEX.
elenchs, iii. 280. elysium, i. 94. empiric^ iii. 317. enghle, iv, 70. entradas^ iv. 222. equal, i. 133. equal mart, ivt 393. estridge train, i. 206. estridge, iii. 43. extend, iii. 590.
- - - - iv. 109. eyasses, iii. 220.
F.
faith, i. 61. fame, iv. j3^. far-fetch'df, iv. 167. fault, ii. 98.
iv. 520.
fautors, ii. 1IO.
fellow, iii. 169.
festival exceedings, iii. 216.
.---,•-_. ^ iv. 12,
fetch in, ii. 390. fewterer, iii. 32.
- - • - • iii. 219. Fielding, iv. 87. fineness, ii. 190* Fiorinda, ii. 432* files, i« 35.
for, i. loi. forks, ii. 48!^. forms, i. 178. fore -right, ii. 232. forth, iii. 335. frequent, ii. 333* ------ ii. 343.
frippery, iv. 11. fur, iv. 13,
G.
galley foist, iii. 389. galliard, iv. 524. garded, ii. 332. garden-house, ii 13. gauntlets to feed in, i. 182. Gay, iii. 381. gazet, iii. 53. gemonies, ii. 336. Geneva print, i. 238. gimcrack, i. 320. Giovanni, ii, 432. glad to, i. 34. glorious, i 142. ----- i. 198.
"• 445-
go by, iii. 91.
God be wi' you, iv. 49.
gods to friend, ii. 337.
gold and store, iii. 158.
------- iv. 82.
golden arrow, ii. 382.
------ *-iv. 138.
go less, iv. 66.
- - - - iv. 419.
-golls, iv. 73. -
go near, ii. 159.
good, iv. 69.
good fellows, iv. 222.
....... iv. 229.
good lord, iii. 242. good man, iii. 373. good mistress, ii. 342. goody wisdom, iii. 386. Gorgon, iv. 369. governor's place, i. 24. Granson, iii. 372. Great Britain, i. 100. green aproQ, ii. 128. Gresset, iv. 365. grim sir, i. 170. grub up forests, iv. 165. guard, iii. 131.
H.
gabel,^iii. 263. hairy comet, i. 139.*
gallantofthelasf edition,iv. 14. hand, ii. 194.
OLOSSARIAL INDEX.
clxxv -
hawking, lii. 220. heats> ii. 30. h^catombaion, iv. 508. Hecuba, ii. 386. hell, iv. 7.
Herbert, sir H., ii. 3U. high forehead, i. 129. hole, iv. 7.
horned moons, ii. 161. horse- trick, iv. 521. hose, ii. 4^6. humanity, iii. 378. hunt's up, i. 273. hurricano, i. 226.
I.
Jane of apes, ii. 64* jewel, iv. 217.
- - - iv. 314^ imp, ii. 230. * - - ii. 421.
- - - ii. 440. impotence, ii. 408.
- - . - - . iv, 260. -
impotent, i. 173. Indians, iv. 10 1. induction, iii. 441 • ingles, iv. 72. interess, i. 241. Iphis, ii. 381.
K.
ka meka thee, iv 34. katexochcn, iv. 171. ' keeper of the door, ii. 296. knock on the dresser, i. i66.
L.
'Lachrymac, iii. 10. •- _ — * - iii. 232. viackey ing," i. 9.
lady Compton, iv 43.
lady of the lake, iii. 522.
lamia, i. 84.
lanceprezado, iii, 52. lapwing's cunning, iv. 546. last edition, iv. 15.. lavender, iii. 588, lavolta, ii. 496.
iv. 55,
leaden dart, i. 19* leaguer, iii. 121.
- - - - iii. 408. leege, iii. 310. Lent* ii. 213. PenVoy, iv. 421.
- • - iv. 442. leper, ii. 257. lets, i. 25.
- - - i. 220. lightly, ii. 6^. lime-hound, iv. sco. hne, 1. 37.
little, i. 26c.
- - • ui. 156. little legs, iv« 284. lively grave, iii, 379. living funeral, ii. 85. looking-glasses at the girdle^
iv. 8. lost, ii. 227. loth to depart, iv. 538. lottery, u. 31c* lovers peijurics, ii. 470. . Ludgate, iv. 23. Luke, iv. 10 1. lye abroad, ii. 126.
M.
M. for master, iv. 86. master iv. 59. magic picture, iii* 125* magnificent, iii* 273. , Mahomet, ii. 125. Malefort, i. 135. Mammon, ii. 364^ manchets, iii. 447, mandrakes, i. 1 27, mankind, iv. 53^ marginal fingers, iiii 419,
clxxvi GLOSSARIAL INDEX.
marmoset, iv. 51.
MaFS>iii. ij2«
MarseilieSj 1. I3i> 193.
.•••-. ii. 245.
masters of depeadencies» iii. 9.
Mephostophilus> iii. 229.
mermaid, vr. 536.
micher, iv. 182.
Minerva, ii. 41^.
miniver cap, iv. 04.
mirror of knighthood^ iv. 145.
mistress, i. 193.
- - • - - ii. 246. mistress' colours, iL 106. moppes, ii. 61. Morat, iii. 372.
more, iii. 15$. most an end, iv. 282. music, iii. 432. . music-master, iii. 432.
N.
Nancy, iii. 372. peat^house, iv. 51. never falling iii. 258. Nell of Greece, iv. 534. niggle, iii. 345. nightingale, ii. ^44. night-rai], iv. 60. nimming, iv. 217. no cunning quean, ii. 10. north passage, iv. 48* Novall, iii. 423.* number his years, ii. 352.
O.
October^ ii. 34.
often and return, iv. 541.
oil of angels, i. 292.
oil of talc, iv. 79. .
Olympus, iii. 566.
once, ii. 365.
only, ii. 208.
— - iv 66. Ovid>i. 191. . .
Ovid, iv. 418. outcry, iv. 25. owe, ii. 39. owes, i. i8. ii. 154.
packing, ii 485. padder, iii. 522. pale-spirited, iii. 521 Pandarus, iv. 172. . paned hose, ii. 486.
iv, 485.
pantofle, sworn to» i. 175. parallel, i. 314.
- .... iii. 24.
parle, iv. 368. parted, i. 40.
- - - - ii. 502. parts, iii. 77. pash, i. 38. passionate, ii. 439. passionately, iv. 513. • passions, iv. 466.
iv. 575.
pastry fortifications, iii. 505. Patch, iii. 553.
- - - - m. 591. Pavia, battle of, i. nz. peat, iii. 36. peevish i. 71. peevishness, iii. 580. perfected, u 189. persever, i. 7. ----- iii. 105. ^ personate, ii. 504.
• • • - - iii. 120. Pescara, i. 255. petty j iii. 65. physicians, iv. 266. piety, iv. 38^. pig-sconce, iv. 55. pine*tree, i. 268. pip, iii. 386. place, iv. 14K
- - - - iv. 448.
GLOSSARIAL INDEX. clxxvii
play my prize, iii. 576. R.
plumed victory, i. 154.
plurisy, i. 197. rag, iii. 408.
riymouth cloak, iii. 494* ragged, ii. 30^.
- • - - • - iy. 82.' Ram Alley, iii. 530.
Pontalier, iii. 414. remarkable, i. 157*
poor John, ii. 126. relic, ii. 132.
-•-.... iii. 167. remember, ii. 86.
porter's lodge, i. 294. .--.-.- ii. 263,
-- iii. 500- .-«...- iy. 175.
ports, i. 8. re-refine, iii. 260.
- • - - ii. 224. resolved, i. 277. possessed,, ii. 472. ------ iii, 230.
power of things, ii. 336. rest on it, ii. 21.
practice, ii. 308. riches of catholic king, iv. 417.
- - ii. 525. ride, iv. 54.
practic, iii. 279. rivo, ii. 167.
precisian, iii. 493^ roarer, ii. 145.
prest, iv. 64. Roman, iv. 82.
pretty, iii. 6^, roses, iv. 11,
prevent, iii. 581. - - - - iv. 95.
-"»■--- iv. 474. rouse, i. 239.
prevented, ii. 147. - - . - ii, 49.
prodigious, i. 125. royal merchant, ii. 156.
' IN*ogress, iv. 130. rubies* ii. 463. provant sword, iii. id.
providence, iii. 542. S.
pull down the side, i. 150.
. .-ii 501. Sabla, battle of, iv. 371.
puppet, i. 268. sacer, iii. 325.
purer, i. 260. sacratus, iii. 325.
purge, iii. 167. sacred badge, ii. 209. •
put on, i. 305. sacrifice, iii. 382.
- - - - - ill. 358. sail-stretch'd, i. 141.
- . - . - iii. j;49. - • - - • - - « - ii. 12. . iv. 105, sainted, iii- 213.
St. Dennis, ii. 255.
Q^ St. Martin's, iv. 80.
sanzacke, ii. 182.
quality, ii. 344. salt, above the, i. 1 70.
- ... - iii. 146. scarabs, i. 281.
- • - . . iii. 4^2. scarlet, iv. ai. quellio ruffs, iv. 95. scenery, iv. 21. quirpo, iii. 390. scholar, iii.^ 122. quited, iv* 502. *» scirophorion, iv. 508.
scotomy, iv. 526. sedan-chairs, ii. 7.
VOL. I* m
clxxviii GLOSSARIAL INDEX.
sea-rats«iv. 329. Sedgley curse, iv. 41. seeX to> i. 223.
iii. 135-
seisactheia> iv. 465.
servant,!. 185.
i- ^93-
• - - - - iv. 148.
shadows, i. 165. shall b^e, is» iv. 154. shape, ii. 113.
- • - - ii. 279.
• - - . ii. 374.
- - - - ii. 381.
- - - - iii. 301. she-Dunkirk, i. 295. sheriff's basket, iv. 12. shew water, iii. 5. shining shoes, iv. 166. siege, IV. 140. ^
sir Giles Mompesson» iii. 517. skills not, i. 239.
!^-3*»-
--- --U. 331.-
sleep on either ear, iv. 155.
small legs, iv. 284.
softer neck, i. 192.
so, ho, birds, iii. 220.
solve, i. 321.
sort, i. 71.
sovereign, iv. 569.
sought to, i. 222.
sparred, i. 79.
Spartan boy, iv. 192.
sphered, i. 79.
spit, i. 107.
spital, iv. 53*
spittle, iii. 202.
- - - - iii. 409.
iv. S3.
spot, i. 244. spring, i. 184.
squire o' dames, ii. 29$. ......-..•lu, 253.
squire o' Troy, iv. 172, stale the jest, i. 204. startup, iii. 221.
state, ii. 16.
ii. 523.
states, ii. 5II.
statute against witches, iii. 590.
statute lace, ii. 303.
staunch, ii. 14.
ste^l a constable, iii. 9.
steal courtesy from heaven, ii.
+^7- ... Sterne, iii. 388.
stiletto, iii. 190.
still an end, iv. 282,
stones, iii* 220.
stool, to bring with one, i* 181.
. ---•-•. ---.lu. 54.
story, ii. 496.
strange, ii. 8.
strongly, iii. 311.
street fired, ii. 116.
strengths, ii. 199.
*.••-- ii; 228.
- - iii. 307.
striker, i. 209. suit, iv. 56. supplant, ii. 197. sweating sickness, i. 210. sworn servant, ii. 365. Swiss, iii. 370. syhonyma, iii. 253. iii.-447.
T.
table, iv, 489.
tailors, iii. 447.
taint, ii. 296.
take in, iii. 592.
take me with you, ii. 49$.
.......•••. iii, 68.
-^iT. 323.
take up, ii. 447.
- • - - - iii, 228. tall ships, i. 112.
tall trenchermen, i. 166. tamin, iii. 543.« tattered, i. 66. Termagant, ii. 125.
GLOSSARIAL INDEX.
clxxix
theatre, ii. .33 1 . Theocrine> u 145. thick- skinned, i. 317. thing of things, ii. 50. third meal, i. 281. thought for, iii'. 591. Thrace, iii. 152. Timariots, iii. 117. time, ii. 361. Timoleon, ii. 17. Timophanes, ii. i8. to 'to, iv. 300. token, iii. 496.
iv. 88.
toothful, i. 106. toothpicks, ii. 486. tosses, iii. 160. touch, iv. 420. train, i. 206. tramontanes, ii. 458* trillibuhs, iv. 523. trimmed, ii. 252* tripe, iii. 54. try conclusions, i. 308* tune, ii. 361. turn Turk, ii. 222.
- iii. 33-
twines, iv. 136.
unbidden guests, i. 181. uncivil, iii. 420. unequal, iii. 337. untappice, iv. 298. Uses, iii. II. - • - iii. 293.
V.
vail, ill. 71. «>• -iii. 261. varlets,.4ii. 446.^^ Venice glasses, ii. 144. Virbius, ii. 380. voley, iii- 186. votes, iv. 212.
W.
waistcoateer, iv. 52. walk after supper, i. i68. walk the round, iii. 141. • •--••.^••- iv, 184* Walstein, iv. 430. ward, iii. 131. wards, iv. 129. wardship, iv. 128. watchmen, iv. 471. water, to shew, iii. 5. way of youth, ii. 339.
iv. 309.
weakness, the last, iv. 335.
wear the caster, iv. 82.
wear scarlet, iv. 21.
well, iii. 396.
wheel, iii, 155.
where, (whereas) ii. 248.
-.-----..-. iii. 360.
.-..-•..•.. in. 4<^6.
.....«.....iv. 344. while, ii. 414. - - - - iv. 476. whiting-mop, iv. 207. whole field wide, iii. 31. .••......- iv, 64.
why, when! ii. 405.
witches, iii. 590.
witness, iii. 286.
wishes^ as well as, iv. 305,
wolf, iv. 369.
work of grace, ii. 190.
worm, ii. 290.
wreak, ii. 131.
Y.
yaws, iv. 297. yellow, i. 310. yeoman fewterer, iii. 32. -»--.-... ..iii, 219.
youthful heats, ii. 30.
THE
VIRGIN-MARTYR,
VOL. I.
B
/
The Virgtw-Mamtr.] Of this Tragedyj which appears to hare been very popular, there are four editions in qaarto, 16^^^ 1631, 1651, and 1661 ; the last of which is infinitely the worst. It is not possible to ascertain ^vhen it wjis first produced ; but it was certainly amongst the Authors earliest efforts. In * the composition of it he was assisted by Decker, a poet of no mean reputation, and the writer of several plays much esteemed by his contemporaries.
In the first edition of this Tragedy it is said to have been ^^ divers times publicly acted with great applause by the jBer« yants of his Majesty's Revels.*' The plot of it, as Coxeter observes, is founded on the tenth and last general persecution of the Christians, which broke out in the nineteenth year of Dioclesian's reign, with a fury hardly to J>e expressed ; th& Christians being every where, without distinction of sex, age, or condition, dragged to execution, and subjected to the most exquisite tonnents that rage, cruelty^ and hatred could suggest...
Bs
* DRAMATIS PERSONJE.
TVT • • > Emperors of Rome. Maximmus, J ^ ^^
King of Pontus,
King ^Epire.
Kin^ e>/*Macedon.
Sapritius, Gwerwor 0/ Caesarea.
Theophilus, ^? zealous persecutor of the Christians.
Sempronius, captain 0/ Sapritius' gf<fl/*^A\
Antoninus, son to Saf)ritius.
MacrinuSj^newrf to Antoninus.
Harpax, an evil spirit, following Theophilus m the
shape of a secretary. Angelo, a good spirit^ serving Dorothea in the
habit of a page.
Hire i u s « whore^naster. \ ^ . r-n 11
c ' ^ J 1 ^^^ > servants of Dorothea. Spungius, a drunkard^ J "^ . .
Get^'^"^^ Uert?awif5 oyTTheopl^ilus. /
Priest of Jupiter* ,
British Slave.
Artemia, daughter to Dioclesian.
Oalistci 1
Clirist'e'ta ?^"g^^^^^ '<' Theophilus.
Dorothea, the Virgin- Martyr. Officers and Executioners.
SCENE, Cssarea.
THE
VIRGIN-MARTYR;
ACT I. SCENE I.
The Governor's Palace. Enter Theophilus and Harpax.
TheopK Come to Caesarea to-night !
Harp. Most true, sir.
Theoph. The emperor in person !
Harp, Do I live?
Theoph. 'Tis wondrous strange ! The marches of great princes, Like to the motions of prodigious meteors, 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 mcredulous.
' Of CcBsar^s purpose ; — in this then excuse we,] Before Mr. M. Mason's edition, it stood :
he should have notice Of Casars purpose in thisy^ '
meaning, perhaps, in this hasty and unexpected visit : I haye not, however, altered his pointing.
6 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Harp. At your ple^asiire.
Theoph. Yet, when I call to mind you never
faird me In things more difficult, hut have discovered 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 linage^ and followed by Calista and Chkisteta,
Harp. Look on the Vestals, The holy pledges that the gods have given you. Your chaste, fair daughters. Were't not to up- braid A^service to a master not unthankful, I could say these, in spite of your prevention. Seduced by an imagined faith, not reason, (Which is the strength of nature,) quite forsaking The Gentile gods, had yielded up themselves To this new-found religion. This I cross'd, Discover'd their 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 reclaimed 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,
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. y
And, by his priest instructed, grown familiar With all the mysteries, nay, themost abstruse oneSi Belonging to his deity. .
Theoph. 'Twas a benefit. For which I ever owe you. — Hail, Jove's flamen ! Have these my daughters reconciled themselves^ Abandoning for ever the Christian way, To your opinion ?
Priest. And are constant in' it. They teach their teachers with their depth of
judgment, And are wiih arguments able to convert The enemies to our gods, and answer all. They can object against us. Theoph, My dear daughters ! Cal. We dare dispute against this new-sprung sect, In private or in public. 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.
\Ej:eunt Priest^ Cal. and Chris.
* * Priest. And are constant in tV.] So the first two editions. The last, tihich is very incorrectly printed, reads to % and is followed by the modern editors.
' Perse?er in iV.] So this word was anciently written and pronounced: thus the king, in Hamlet:
. but to pers^yer
In obstinate condofement. Coiceter adopts the unmetrical reading of the third quarto^ persevere in it, and is followed by Mr. M. Mason, who^ howerer^ irarn9 the reader to lay the siccent on the p«naUimate«
8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYE-
Theopk. O my Harpax ! . ' -
Thou entwine of my wishes, thou that stcel'st My bloody resolutions, thou that arm'st My eyes 'gainst womanish tears and soft com- passion, Instructing me, without a sigh, to look on Babes torn by violence from their mothers*
breasts To feed the fire, . and with them m.ake one flame ; . . ,
Old men, as beasts, in beasts' skins torn by
dogs; Virgins and matrons tire the executioneris ; 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 mc, all crowns laid at my feet, I would contemn them all, — :thus^pit 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.
- ♦ .
JEnier Sapritius and Sempronius.
TheGph. No more — ^The governor, ^ Sap. Keep the ports close,'* and let the guards be doubled ;
^ Sap. Keep the ports closed Tliis word, which is directly from the Latin, is so frequeutly used by Massingcr and the wri- ters of his time, for the gates of a town, that it appears super*
iluoas to produce aoy 6xaxopl«9 of it.. To have noticed it 6oc« i8 9a£cieat.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 9
Disarm the Christians ; call it death in any To wear a swonl, or in his house to have one.
Semp I shall be careful, sir. - Sop. Twill well become you, Swcl) as refuse to offer sacrifice To any of our ofods, 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
Snap. You pour oil On fire that burns ali^adyat the height: 1 know the emperor's edict, and my charge, And they shall find no favour.
Theoph. My good lord, Tiiis 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 ichariot; 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 wowy pluBfies so deep^Jn enemiesV bloody, \
s Kings lackeying by his triumphant chariot ;^'] Running by the si(le<of it like lackiesy or fodt-boys. So in Marston's An* tonio and Mellida :
" Oh that" our power
" Could lackey or keep pace with our desire I"
^ So well kathJiesh^d^Sic,] Massinger was a great reader and admirer of Shakspeare : he has here not only adopted his senti* ment, but his words:
*^ Come, brother John, fdll bravely hast thoii^esh'd " Thy maiden stoord'* But Shakspeare h ux ercry one's head, or, at least, in ev«ry
10 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
That, besides public grace beyond his hopes, There are rewards propounded.
Sap. 1 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 passed a full day's journey higher, Into the country.
Harp. It was so determined ; But, for the further honour of your son, And to observe the government of the city, And with what rigour, or remiss indulgence, The Christians are pursued, he makes his stay here : [Trumpets^
For proof, his trumpets speak his near arrival.
Sap. Haste, good Sempronius, draw up our guards. And with all ceremonious pomp receive The conquering army. Let our garrison speak Their welcome in loud shouts, the city shew Her state and wealth.
Semp. I'm gone. [Ea^it.
Sap. O, I am ravish*d With this great honour ! cherish, good Thco- philus,
one's hand ; aiid I should therefore be constantly anticipated in such remarks as these.
I will take this opportunity to saj, that it is not mj intention to encumber the page with tracing every expression of Massin* ger to its imaginary source. This is a compliment which should only be paid to ^ great and mighty geniuses; with respect to those of a second or third order, it is somewhat worse than superfluous to hunt them through innumerable works of all descriptions, for the purpose of discoTcring whence erery com« mon epithet, or trivial phrase is taken. Of this folly we haTC lately had enough, and more than enough.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 11
This knowing scholar. Send [for] your fair daugh*
ters;' I will present them to the emperor, And in their sweet conversion, as a mirror, Express your zeal and duty.
Theopfi. Fetch them, good Harpax.
[Esit Harpar.
Enter Semprontus, at the head of the guards soldiers leading three kings bound; An ton i n u$ and Macri^vs bearing /Ae Emperor's eagles; DiocLESiAN with a gilt laurel on his head^ leading in Artem^a : Sa^pritius kisses the Emperor's handy then embraces his Son ; Harpax brings in Calista and Christsta, Loud shouts.
Diocle. So : at all parts I find Cassarea . , 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 Jlome to her greatness, and pro- claimed her The glorious mistress of the conquer'd world ; But, above all, the service of the gods,
7 send [for] your fair daughters;] All the copies read,—
send yoiirfair daughters : for^ which I have inserted, seems ae.- cessarj to complete the sense as well as the metre; as Ilarpaz is immediately dispatched to bring them.
« ■ the licentious soldier] Mr. M. Mason, reads sol*
dierSy the old and true lection is soldier. The stage direction ia this place is very strangely given by the former editors. It may be here obserTed that I do not mean to notice every slight cof* rection : already several errors have been silently reformed by the assistance of the first quarto : to say nothing of the removal of such barbarous contractions as conq'ring^ ad'mant, ranc'rouSj ignorance, rhet'rick, &c. with which the modern editiong artt •very where deformed without authority or reason.
12
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
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 Caesar, •Whose power upon this globe of earth is equal To Jove's in heav-en ; whose victorious triumphs On proud rebellious kings that stir against it, Are perfect figures of his immortal trophies Won in the Giants' war; whose conqueringsword, 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 any thing 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
them* Nor sacrifice nor altars. ; ;:^
Diocle. Thou, in this, Walk'st hand in hand with* me : my will and
power
• Whose power y kc] An imitation of the well-known line,
Divisum imperium cum Jove Ccesar habet,
• and allows them
Nor sacrifice^ nor altarsJ] The modern editors hare,
antl allow them
No sacrifice nor altars : which is the corrupt reading of the quarto, 1661. .
- I
THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. 13
Shall not alone confirm, but honour all That are in this most forward.
Sap. Sacred Caesar, If your imperial majesty stand pleased To shower your favours upon such as are The boldest champions of our religion ; Look on this reverend xain^Scpinnts to Tkeophilus.]
to whom the power* r
Of searching out, and punishing such delin- quents, ' Was by your choice committed ; and, for proof, He bath 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, t^ey are fair ones, Exceeding fair ones : would 'twere in my power To make tbemitiine! / ' / Theoph. They are the gods', great lady. They were most ha|)py>in your service else: On these, when they fell from their father's
faith, ' ' '- . •> . .
I uised a judge's power, entrJeati^ failing .(They being seduced) to -win them to adore The holy Powers we worship ; I put on The scarlet robe of boW authority, And, as they had been strangers to my bloody Presented them in the most horrid form. All kind of tortures; part of which they sufFer'd With Roman constancy.
Artem^ And could vou endure,
* This pair of virgins^ Changed, I know not why, by the modern editors^ into-r-l hese pair of virgins*
14 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Being a father, to behold their liinbs 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 bcgg'd them, though
they would Be cruel to themselves, they would take pity On m}' g^ay hairs; now note a sudden change^ W!iich I with joy remember; those, whom torture,. Nor fear of death could terrify, were overcome By seeing of my sufferings ; and so won, lieturning 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 ail entreaties.
Diode. Thou deserv'st thy place ; Still hold it, and with honour. Things thus ordered 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, Wijat can you urge to qualify your crimes. Or mitigate my anger?
•iC. oj Epire. We are now
' K. of Rpire. We are now
Slates to % powery &c.] I hare obsenred sereral imiiatiosi
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. iS
Slaves to thy power, that yesterday were kingi, And had command o'er others; we confess Our grandsires paid yours tribute, yet left \Xi, As their forefathers had, Atsivt of freedom. And, if you Romans hold it glorious honour, Not only to defend what is your own, - But to enlarge your empire, (though our fortune Denies that happiness,) who can accuse The famished mouth, if it attempt to feed ? Or such, whose fetters eat into their freedoms, If they desire to shake them off?
K. ofFontus. We stand The last examples, to prove how uncertain AH human happiness is ; and are prepared To endure the worst.
K. ofMacedon. That spoke, which now is highest In Fortune's wheel, must, when she turns it next^ Decline as low as we are. This consider'd. Taught the ^Egyptian Hercules, Sesostris, That had his chariot drawn by captive kings, To free them from that slavery; — but to hope Such mercy from a Roman, were mere madness : We are familiar with what cruelty Rome, since her infant greatness, ever used Such as she triumph d uvci , age uui sex Exempted from her tyranny ; seepter'd princes Kept in her common dungeons, and their cnildren. In scorn train'd up in base mechanic art^,
of Massinger in the dramas of Mason : there is, for instance, a Striking similarity betwecn'this spirited speech, and the indignant exclamation of the brave but unfortunate Caractacus : ■ *^ Soldier, I had arms»
^^ Had neighing steeds to whirl my iron cars, *^ Had wealth, dominions : Dost (hou wonder, Romany ^^ I fought to save them ? What if Cassar aims ^^ To lord it universal o'er the world, <^ Shall the world tamely crouch to Cassar's footstool ?^
16 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
For public bondmen. In the catalogue
Of those unfortunate mefl^ we expect to have
Our natfi^s remembered.
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
cowards. Or such whose baseness shames the conqueror, And robs him of his victory, as-weak Perseus Did great ^milius.' Know, therefore, kings Of Epire, Pontiis, and of Macedon, That I with courtiesy 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
4 And do*t with Bofety :] This is admirably vxpretised ; ^^ maxim, howeyer, though just, is of the most dangerous nature, for what ambitious chief will erer allow the state to be ^' raised to her perfection," or ' that the time for using '* merej with safety'' is arriTcd ? Even Dioclesian has his exceptions, — strong ones too I for Rome was old enough in his time. There is an allusion to Virgil, in the ppening of this speech :
Res dura^et novitas regni me talia cogunt Molirij &c.
5 ■ ■■■ as weak Perseus
Did great Xmilius.} It is said that Perseus sent to desire Paulns iGmilius not to exhibit him as a spectacle to the Romans, and to spare him the indignity of being led in triumph, ^milius replied coldly : The favour he asks of' me is in his own power ; ht can procure it for Umself* Coxsxbb*
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 1?
Even in our enemies, and taken with it, Desire to make them friends, as I will you, K. of Epire. Mock us not, Caesar. Diode, By the gods, I do not. Unloose their bonds : — I now as friends embrace
you. Give them their crowns again,
K, qf'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 Caesar !
Diocle. 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 : Fm girt round With true felicity ; faithful subjects here, Here bold commanders, here with new-made
friends : But, what's the crown of all, in thee, Artemia, My only child, whose love to me and duty, Strive to exceed each other !
Artem. I make payment But of a debt, which I stand bound to terrier As a daughter and a subject. *
Diode. Which requfres yet A retribution from me, Artemia, Tied by a father's care, how to bestaw A jewel, of all things to me most precious: Nor will I therefore longer keep thee from The chief joys of creation, marriage rites;
VOL. I. C *
18 THE VTRGIN-MARTYR.
Which that thou inay'st with greater pleasures
taste of, Thou shalt not like with mine eyes, but thine own. Among these kings, forgetting they were ''cap- tives ; 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 Caesar father: In that I can bring nonour 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.
^ To matcH where they affect not.l This d«es better for modera than Roman practice ; and indeed the author was thinking moie of Hamlet than Dioclesian, ia this part of the dialogue.
^ Than to mix greatness vdth a prince that owes] Wherever the former editors meet with this word, in the sense of possess^ they alter it into ottms ; though it is 80 used ux almost Qif^rj page of our old dramatists.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYE. 19
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
dangers . 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 spent their
blood To croM'n your 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'stlam 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.
7 ■ to dull the swords] So the old copies. Mr. M.
Mason reads, to dull their sTi/ords !
* Fair Venus* son draw forth a leaden dartf} The idea of this doable effect, to which Massinger has more than one allusion, is from Ofid :
filius huic Veneris ; Figat tuus omnia, Phabe^ Te mens arcusy ait i^—Parnassi constitit arce^ Eque sugittifera promsit duo tela pharetra Diversorum operum : fugat hoCffacit iUud amorem. Quod/acity auratum estf et cuspidefulget acuta ; Quodjugatf obtusum est, et habet sub arundine plumbum.
Met. lib. U 470.
Cft
20 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
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 ever.
Artem. And it will become you, While thus we stand at distance ; but, if love, Love born out of the assurance of your virtues. Teach me to stoop so low —
Antoft. 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 lam, 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'eicome by Caesar; it was victory,
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 21
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 ex- cepted, 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. 9fEpire. 'Tis a truth, great princess ; I'll not detract from valour.
Anion. Twas mere fortune ; Courage had nto 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.
83 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Anton. Gracious madam, hear me.
Arttm. And be again refused ?
Anton. .The tender of My life, my service, or, since you vouchsafe it,* My love, my heart, my all : and pardon me, Pardon, dread princess, that I made some
scruple To leave a valley of security, To mount up to the hill of majesty, On which, the nearer Jove, the nearer lightning. What knew I, but your grace made trial of me; Durst I presume to embrace, where but to touch With an unmanner'd hand, was death ? 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 ; 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.
Ariem. 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 Caesarca.
Sap. And here, as yourself. We will obey and serve her.
Diode. Antoninus, So you prove hers, I wish no other heir;
9 My life^ my service^ or, since you vouchsafe tV, My love^ &c.] This is the reading of the first edition, and if etidently right. Coxeter follows the second and third, which read not instead of or. How did this nonsense escape Mr. M. Mason ?
' Was almost dead with fear ;] The reading of the first quarto is dradf which may, perhaps, be the genuine word* The fable is from the Greek. In a preceding line there is an allusion to the proverb— Proctt/ a /we, sedprocul a/ulmine.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 23^
Think on't^ — be careful of your charge, Thco-
philus; Sapritius, be you my daughter's guardian. Your company I wish, confederate princes, In our Dalmatian wars; which finished With victory I hope, and Maximinus, Our brother and copartner in the empire, At my request won to confirm as much, The kingdoms I took from you weHl restore. And make you greater than you were before,
[La^eunt all but Antoninus and Macrinus.
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 theirabundance 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. Yiet poison still is poison. Though drunk in gold ; and all these flattering
glories To me, ready to starve, a painted banquet. And no essential food. When I am scorch'd With fire, can flames in any other quench me? What is her love to me, greatness, or empire^ That am slave to another, who alone Can give me ease or freedom ?
Mac. Sir, you point at Your dotage on the scornful Dorothea : Is she, though fair, the same day to be named With best Artemia ? Jn ail their courses,
24 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
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 mortkl
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 preferred before All ioys 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 any thing ; Put me unto the test.
Anton. Go then, Macrinus,
^ A gofoernofs place upon thee,] From the Latin : ne sis mihi tutor.
THE VIRGIN. MARTYR, £5
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.
A CT II. SCENE I.
A Room in Dorothea's House. Enter Spungius, and Hiucius/
Spun. Turn Christian! Would he that first tempted me to have my shoes walk upon Chris- tian soles, had turn'd me into a capon ; for I am sure now, the stones of all my pleasure, in this fleshly life, are cut off.
Hir. So then, if any coxcomb has a galloping
3 All lets thrown behind me,] i. e. All impediments.
So in the Mayor of Quinborough :
" Hope, and be sure I'll soon remove the let '^ That stands between thee and thy glory.''
* Very few of our old English plays are free from these dia- logues of low wit and buflbonery : 'twas the vice of the age ;
as THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. .
desire to ride^ here's a geldings if he can but sit him.
J^n. I kick, for all that, like a horse ; — ^look else.
Hir. But that is a kickish iade, fellow Spungius. Have not I as much cause to com- plain 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 pouU terers* wives: — No money, no coney.
Spun. Bacchus, the god of brew'd wine and sugar, grand patron of rob-pots, upsy-freesy
nor is Massinger less free from it than his cotemporaries. To defend them is impossible, nor shaU I attempt it. They are of this use, that they mark the taste, display the manners, and shew us what was the chief delight and entertainment of oar forefathers. Coxeter.
It should, however, be obsenred, in justice to our old plays^ that few, or rather none of them, are contaminated with such detestable ribaldry as the present. To ^' low wit,'* or indeed to wit of any kind, it hais not the slightest pretension ; being, in fact, nothing more than a loathsome sooterkin engendered of filth and dulness. Hircius and Spungius were evidently brought forward by the writer as personifications of Lust and Drunk. ENNESS ; this indeed forms no excuse for the vile language in which they indulge, though it may serre in some degree to ac. eount for it. That Massinger himself is not free from dialogues ef low wit and bufibonery, (though certainly, notwithstanding Cozeter'sasserticMi, he is much more so than his contemporaries,) may readily be granted; but the person who^ after perusing this execrable trash, can imagine it to bear any resemblance to his style and manner, must have read him to very little purpose* It was assuredly written by Decker, as was the rest of this act, in which there is much to approve : with respect to this scene, and every other in which the present speakers are introduced, I recommend them to the reader's supreme scorn and contempt ; if he pass them entirely over, he will lose little of the story, and nothing of his respect for the writer. I have carefully corrected the text in Innumerable places, but given it no farther consideration. I repeat my entreaty that the reader would re- ject it altogether^
THE VIRGlN-MARTYR. sr
tipplers, and super-naculum takers ; this Bacchus, who is head warden of Vintners'-hall, ale-conner, mayor of all victiialling-houscs, the sole liquid benefactor to bawdy-houses ; lanceprezade to red noses, and invincible adelantado over the armado of piriipled, deep-scarleted, fubified, and carbuncled faces ^
Hir. What of all this ?
Spun. This boon Bacchanalian skinker, 'did I make legs to.
Hir, Scurvy ones, when thou wert drunk.
Spun. There is no danger of losing a man's ears by making these indentures; he that will not now and then be Calabingo, is worse than a Calamootbe, When I wap a pagan, and kneeled to. this Bacchus, t durst out-drink a lord ; but your Christian lord^ 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 hav^ whole streets of nothing but drinking- roonis,' and drabbing-chambers, jumbled together. \ ^
Hir. Bawdy Priapus, the first schoolmaster thattaught 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 any thing hardly, (telling her, being* a Christian, she must endure,) she presently handles me as if I were a clove, and cleaves me with disdain, as if I were a calPs head.
Spun. I See no. remedy, fellow Hircius, but that thou and I must be half pagans, and half Christians; for we know very fools that are Christians
^
S8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
i
Hir. Right : the quarters of Christiaus are good for nothing but to feed crows.
Spun. True : Christian brokers, thou know'st, are made up of the quarters of Christians ; par- boil one of these rogues, and he is not meat for a dog : no, 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. ITierein 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 relieve and release prisoners :— Did I so, think you ?
Spun. Would thy ribs were turned into grates of iron then.
Hir. As I am a total pagan, I swore they should be hanged first : for, sirrah Spungius, I lay at my old ward of lechery, and cried, a pox on your two-penny wards ! and so I took scurvy common flesh for the money.
Spun. And wisely done ; for our lady, sending it to prisoners, had bestowed it out upon lousy knaves : and thou, to save that labour, cast'st it away upon rotten whores.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
29
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 me once with a cow-turd, which in knavery I would have crumb'd into one's porridge, .uJio was half a pagan too. The smug dandiprat smells us out, wnatsoevcr 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 A^gelo with a booky and a taper lighted i seeing him, they counterfeit devotion.
Ang. 0\ 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.
^ir. We havetiot been idle, take it upon my word.
Ang. Have you the baskets emptied, which your lady Sent, from her charitable hands, to women That dwdl upon her pity ?
^ ^
...^-.T^.• ^k
»». >
•v',», r
30 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
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 the prisoners ? ' Hir. Went 1 no ; I carried it, and with these
fingers paid it away.
Ang. What way ? the devil's way, th^ way of sin, The way of hot damnation, way of lust ? And you, to wash away the poor man's bread, In bowls of drunkenness ?
Spun. Drunkenness ! yes, yes, I use to be 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, andhollow 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.
Spung. To hell ! can any drunkard 'is legs carry him so far?
Ang. For blood of grapes you^old the widows* food. And, starving them, 'tis murder; what's this but
hell?
Hircius your name, and goatish J5 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.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 31
^un. Shall I cut his throat ?
Hir. No; better burn him, for I. think he is a witch : but sooth, sooth him.
Spun. Fellow Aogelo, true it is, that falling into the company of wicked he- christians, for my part
Hir. And $he ones, for mine, — we have them swim in shoals hard by
Spun. We must confess, I took too much out of the pot ; and he of t'other hollow commodity.
Her. 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 ypu take us creep- ing into any of these mouse-holes of sin any more, let cats flay off our skins.
Hir. And put nothing but the poison'd tails of rats into those skins.
Ang, Will you dishonour her sweet charity, Who saved you from the tree of death and shame ?
Hir. Would I were hang'd, rather than thus be told of my faults 1
Spun. She took us, 'tis true, from the gallows j yet I hope she will not bar yeomen sprats to have their swing.
Ang. She comes, — beware, and mend.
Hir. Let's break his neck, and bid him mend.
/
Enter Dorothea.
Dor. Have you my messages, sent to the poor, Delivered with good hands, not robbing them Of any jot was theirs ?
Spun. Rob them, lady ! I hope neither my fcl- low nor I am thieves*
32 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Hir. Delivered with good hands, madam ! else let me never lick my fingers more when I eat biitter'd fish.
Dor. Who cheat the poor, and from them pluck their alms, Pilfer from heaven ; and there arc thunderbolts. From thence to beat them ever. Do not lie ; Were you both faithful, true distributers?
Spun, Lie, madam ! what grief is it to see you turn swaggerer, and give your poor-minded ras- cally servants the lie !
Dor. Fm glad you do not; if those wretched people. Tell you they pine for want of any thing, Whisper but to mine ear, and you shall furnish them.
Hir. Whisper! nay, lady, for my part I'll cry whoop.
Ang. Play no more, villains, with so good a lady; For, if you do
Spun. Are we Christians ?
Hir. The foul fiend snap all pagans for me !
Ang. Away, and, once more, mend.
Spun. 'Takes us for botchers.
Hir. A patch, a patch !* [E.veunt Spun, and Hir.
Dor. My book and taper.*'
Ang. Here, most holy mistress.
Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound.
5 A patch, a patch !] i. c. A fool, a fool !
* Dor. Mt/ book and taper.] What follows, .to the end of th« scene, is exquisitely beautiful. What pity that a man so capa- ble of interesting our best pMSsions (for I am persuaded that this also ^^as written by Decker), should prostitute his genius and his judgment to the, production of what could only disgrace himself, and disgust his reader.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 8a
Were every servant in the world like thee,. So full of goodness, angels would- come down To dwell with us : thy name is Angelo, And like tbtt name thou art; get thee to rest, Thy youth with too much watching is opprest
Jing. No, my dear lady, I could weary stars, And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes, By my late watching, but to wait on you. When at your prayers you kneel before the altar, Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven. So blest I hold me in your company t Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ; For then you break his heart-
Dor. Be nigh me still, then : In golden letters down Til set that day. Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself. This little, pretty body ; when I, coming Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy, My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an
alms, .Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand \ — And, when I took thee home, my most chaste
bosom, Methought, was fill'd with no hot wanton fire, But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, On wings of cherubins, than it did before.
jdng. Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye So likes so poor a servant.
Dor. I have ott'er'd Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of
some, To dwell with thy good father; for, the son Bewitching me so deeply witii his presence, lie that begot him must do't ten times more.
VOL. I. D
34 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
I pray thee, my sweet boy, shew me thy parents ; Be not ashamed.
Ang. I am not : I did never Know who my mother was ; but, by yon palace, Fiird with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare
assure you. And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand. My father ia in heaven : and, pretty mistress. If your illustrious hourglass spend his sand, No worse than yet it does ; upon my life, You and I both shall meet my father there, And he shall bid you welcome.
Dor. A blessed day ! We all long to be there, hut lose the way.
\Ea;eunt.
SCENE IL
A Street^ near Dorothea's House.
Enter Maceinus, met by Theophilus and
, Harpax.
Theoph. The Sun, "god of the day, guide thee, Macrinus !
Mac. And thee, Theophilus !
Theoph. Glad'st thou in such scorn ? ' I call my wish back.
Mac. I'm in haste.
Theoph. One word, Take the least hand of time up: — stay.
^ Theoph. Giad'st thou in such scorn ?] Theophilas, who 19 represented as a furious zealot for paganism, is mortified at the indi£ference with which Macrinus returns the happiness he had wished him by his god. Mr. M. Mason reads, Gaddest thou id such scorn ? He roaj be right ; for Macrinus is evidently anxious to pass on : the reading of the text^ however, is that of all the old copies.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 35
Mac. Be brief.
Theoph. As thought : I prithee tell tne, good Macrinus, How health and our fair princess lay together This night, for you can tell; courtiers have flies,' Th?it buzz all news unto them.
Mac. She slept but ill.
Theoph. Double thy courtesy ; how does An- toninus?
Mac. Ill, well, straight, crooked, — I know not how.
Theoph. Once more ; — Thy head is full of windmills : — when doth
the princess Fill ja bed full of beauty, and bestow it On Antoninus, on the wedding-night?
Mac. I know not.
Theoph. No ! thou art the manuscript, Wher^ Antoninus writes down all his secrets : Honest Macrinus, tell me.
Mac. Fare you well, sir. [E.vit.
Harp. Honesty' is some fiend, and frights him hence ; A many courtiers love it not. '
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.
• courtiers have flies,] This word is used by Ben
Jonson, a close and devoted imitator of the ancients, for a domestic parasite, a familiar, Sec. and from him, probably. Decker adopted it in the present sense.
9 A mani/ courtiers love it not.'] This is the reading of the fifst quarto. The editors folio vr that of the last two: — And mantff &c* which is not scr good.
\
36 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Harp. Oh, sir, his brain-pan is a bed of snakes, Whose stings shoot through his eye-balls, whose
poisonous spawn Ingenderu such a fry of speckled villainies, That, unless charms more strong than adamant Be used, the Roman angel's* wings shall melt, And Caesar's diadem be from his head
' « the Roman angel's] As angels were no part of
the pagan thex)logy, this should certainly be augel from the liir lian augello^ which means a bird. M. Mason.
It were to be wished that critics would sometimes apply to themselves the advice which Gonerill gives to poor old Lear:
^* I pray you, father, being weak^ seem so ;" we should not then find so many of these certmnlics. The bar- barous word augel^ of which Mr. M. Mason speaks so confi. dttBtiy, is foreign to our language ; whereas angel^ in the sense, of bird, occurs frequently. Jonson beautifully calls the night- ingale, '' the dear good angel of the spring ;" and if this should be thought, as it probably is, a Grecism ; yet we have the same term in another passage, which will admit of no dispute :
*' Not an angel of the air, f* Bird melodious, or bird fair, &c."
Two Noble Kwsmen, In Mandeville, the barbarous Herodotus of a barbarous age, there is an account of a people (probably the remains of the old Guebrcs) who exposed the dead bodies of their parents to the fowles of the air. They reserved, however, the sculls, of which, says he, the son, " letethe make a cuppe, and thereof dryrikethe he with gret devocioun, in remembraunce of the holy man that the avngeles of God han eten/'
'' By this expression,'' says Mr. Hole, " Mandeville possibly meant to insinuate that they were considered as sacred mtssenm gers.'^ Not so: aww^c/^* 0/ Gorf, was probably synonymous in Mandeville's vocabulary, to fowles' of' the air. With Greek phraseology he was, perhaps, but little acquainted; but he knew his own language well. To return to the ie%t\ it can scarcely be necessary to add, that by the " Roman angel," is meant the eagle, the well-known military ensign.
The reader cannot but have already observed how ill the style of Decker assimilates with that of Massinger: in the former act, Ilarpax had spoken sufficiently plain, and told Theophilus of strange and important events^ ifithout these harsh and violent starts and metaphors.
THEVIRGIN-MARTYR. 37
Spurn'd by bjise feet ; the Uurel 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.
Theopii. 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 Of Pluto, ^low is hatching ?
Harp. This Macrinus,* The line is, upon which love-errands run Twixt Antoninus and that ^host of women, The bloodless Dorothea ; who in prayer And meditation, mycking all your gods, Drinks up her ruby colour: yet Antoninus Plays the Endymion to this pale-faced Moon, Courts, s6eks 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- -
ness Can make a thing so foul, as the dishonours,
* Harp. This Macrinus
The line is &c.] The old copies read iime. Before I saw Mr. M. Mason's emendation, I had altered it to twine. This, how- ever, appears to be the genuine reading, and I have therefore placed it in the text. The allusion is to the ri\de firQ-works of our ancestors. So, in the Fawne^ by Marston :
*'' Page. There be squibs, sir, running upon Rms^ like some of our gawdy gallants," &c.
And in the Honest Whore by Decker, the author of the pas- sage before us: *' Troth, mistress, to tell you true, the fire-> works then ran from me upon lines ^^^ &c*
38 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Disgraces, bufFetings, and most base affronts Upon the bright Artemia, star o' the court, Great Caesar's daughter.
Theopk. I now conster thee.
Harp. Nay, more; a firmament of clouds, being fill'd With Jove's artillery, shot down at once, 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 my hand
' To pash your gods in pieces^] So the old copies. Coxeter, (who is /ollowfd, as usual, bj Mr. M. Mason,) ignorant perhaps of the sense of pash, changed it to dash^ a word of far less energy, and of a different meani r.g. The latter signifies, to throw one thing with violence against another ; the former, to strike a thing with such force as to crush it to pieces. Thus in Act IV. of this tragedy :
'* when the battering ram
*^ Was fetching his career backwards, topash *' Me with his hums in pieces.''
The word is now obsolete; which is to be regretted, as we have none that can adequately supply its place : it is used in its proper sense by Drydcn, which is the latest instance I recol- lect :
^' Thy cunning engines have with labour raised ^^ My heavy anger, like a mighty weight, " To fall and pash thee."
THE VIRGIN-MAHTYR. 39
Set down a Christikn's execution In such dire postures, that the very hangman Fell at my foot dead, hearing but their figure^ ; *^ And shall Macrinus and his feliow-masqiier 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 Dorothea, Fly thou and I in thunder*
Harp. Not for kingdoms Piled upon kingdoms : there's a villain page Waits on her, whom I would not for the world Hold traffic with ; I do so hate his sight,, , That, should I Ipok on him, I muist sink down.
Theoph. I >yill 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 Ilf.
J Room in Dorothea's ^Toe^^.
JE^zfer Dorothea, Macrikus, tfwrf Angelo,
Dor. My trusty Angelo, with that curio^s 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 j else will' you find them
flies, Not lying still, yet in thc^m no good lies ; Be careful, dear boy. \ ^
, . ... • I'. * > '-** '^j.j^nA >\
40 THE YIRGIN-MARTYJl.
Ang. Yes, my sweetest mistress/ [JBjtV.
Dor. Now, sir, you may go oa. ^ 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 him, The want shall be as little, as when seas Lend from their bounty, to fill up the poorness* Of needy rivers.
Dor. Sir, he is more indebted To you for praise, than you to him that owes it.
Mac. If qujeens, 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,
♦ Ang. Yesy my sweetest mistress^ So the old copies: the modern e^It^rs read^ Yes^ my sweet mistress^ whiclji destroys the metre.
5 ■ to Jill up the poorness^ The modern editors read,
I know not vf\yy*-^tojiU up their poorness !
^ Btct to be- parted in their numerous shares ;] This tlie. former editors \i^,\e. modernized into
But to be partners, &c.
% better word, perh^^^ bijt not, for that, to be unwarrantably thrust into the text. The expression may be found in most of the writers of our author's ago, in the sense here required; to be parted ; to be favoured or endowed with a part. It fre- / . jt quently occurs in Jonson. ^ ^ , . ^ >^
THE VIRGIN^MABTYJI, 4\
And arm, awing C^evsarea/ he ne'er boasts of; The sunbeams which the emperor thro H^aupon him, Shine there but as in water, and gild him Not with one spot of .pride ; no, dearest beauty^ All these, hcap'd up together in onescale,^ Cannot weigh down the love he bears to you, Being put into the other.
Dor. Could gold buy you To speak thus for a friend, you, sir, are worthy Of more than I will number ; and tbi^ your Ian*
guage Hath power to win upon another woman, 'Top of whose heart th« fe;athers 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 mes&enger j^—but himself
Enter Akvokinus«
Being come in person, shall, I hope, hear from you Music more pleasing.
Anton. Has your ear, Macrinus, Heard none, then ?
Mac. None I like,
Anton. But can there be In such a noble casket, wherein lie Beauty and chastity in their full perfection, A rocky heart, killing with cruelty A life that's prostrated beneath your feet?
JDor. I am guilty of a shame I yet ne'er knew. Thus to hold parley with you ;-^pray, sir, pardon.
[Going.
7 And army awing Casareay] I hay^ ventured to differ 4iere from aU the copies, which read ovHng ; the error, if it be one, as I think it is, probably arose from the ezpression being taken down by the ear.
4i THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
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 aiove, Artemia, Sapritius, Tueophilus,
Spunoius, andYLiB^civs.
Spun. So, now, do you see ? — Our work is done ; the fish you angle for is nibbling at the hook, and therefore untruss the cod-piece-point of our reward, no matter if the breeches of conscience fall about our heels.
Theoph. The gold you earn is here; dam up your mouths. And no words of it.
Hir. No ; nor no words from ydu of too much damning neither. I know women sell themselves daily, and are hacknied out for silver : why nuiy not we, then, betray a scurvy mistress for gold ?
Spun. She saved us from the gallows, and, only, to ketp 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 !
^v
• y
THfe VIRGIN-MARTYR. 43
Hir. I to my sweet placket.
Spun, And I to my full pot.
* [EMmit- Hir. and Spun*
Anton. Come, let me tune you: — glaze not thus your eyes With self-love of a vow*d virginity, 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, And of my blood are guilty.
Artem. O base villain !
Sap. Bridle your rage, sweet princess.
Anton. Could not my fortunes, Rear'd higher far than yours, be worthy of you, Methinks my dear affection makes you mine.
Dor. Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines of gold. He that I love is richer ; and for worth, 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 him, Get you but be his servant, you shall boast You're equal to a king.
Sap. Confusion on thee, For playing thus the lying sorceress !
Anton. Your mocks are great onesj none beneath the sun Will I be servant to. — On my knees I beg it, Pity me, wondrous maid.
Sap, I cutse thy baseness.
Theoph. Listen to more.
Dor. O kneel not, sir, to me.
Anton. This knee is emblem of an humbled heart :
44 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
That heart which tortured is with yourdisds^in, Justly for scorning others, even this heart, To which for pity such a princess sues, As in her hand oifers me all the world. Great Caesar's daughter.
Arttnu 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 ! [Aloud.
Would, when I got thee, thehiffh Thunderer's hand Had struck thee in the womb !
Mac. We arc betray'd.
Artem. Is that the idol, traitor, which thou kneel'st to. Trampling upon my beauty ?
Theoph. Sirrah, bandog !• Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter
• Theoph. Sirrah, bandog ! Wilt thou in pieces fear our Jupiterl A bandogs as the name imports, was a dog so fierce, as to require to be chained up. Bandogs are frequently mentioned by our •Id wrtteri (Indeed the word occurs three times in Ms play) and always with a reference to their savage nature* If the term was appropFiated to a species,' it probably meant a large dog, of the mastift' kind, which, though no longer met with here, is still common in many parts of Germany : it was familiar to Snyders, and is found in most of his hunting-pieces.
In this country the bandog was kept to bait bears: with th«
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 45
t
For her ? our Mars for her ^ dur Sol for her? — A u'hore 1 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. Threateri not, but strike : quick ven* geance flies Into my bosom;* caitiff! here all love dies.
[Exeunt ^above.
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
decline of that '^ nol)1e sport/' perhaps, the animal fell into disuse, as he was too ferocious for any domestic purpose. Mr. Gilchrist has furnished me with a curious passage from Laneham, which renders any further details on the subject unnecessary. "On the syxth day of her Majestyes cnmming, a great sort of bandogs whear thear tyed in the utter coourt, and thy rtcen bears in the inner. Whoosoevcr made the pannell thear wear enoow for a queast, and one for a challenge and need wear. A wight of great wisdoom and grayitie seemed their foreman to be, had it cum to a jury : but it fell oout that they wear causd to appeer thear upon no such matter, but onlietoo onswear too an auncitnt qnarnle betwem them and the bandogs^'^ &c. Queen EHzabeth^s Entertainment at Killingwoorth Castle^in 1575.
9 quick vengeancejiies
Into my bosom &c.] The old copies read, Into thy bosom. For the change, which is obTiously necessary^ I am answerable*
46 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Out of her house of earth ; you only dread The stroke, and not what follows when you're
dead; There's the great fear, indeed :* come, let your
eyes Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies.
Re-enter bclow^ Artemia, Sapritius, Theophi- Lus, a guard ; Anoelo 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, Pl^y'd with thee gently, when thou struck'st my
heart, I'll not insult on a base, humbled prey, Bylingering out thy terrors; but, with one frown, Kill thee : — 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.
' There s the gresLtfear^ indeed:'] The modern editors omit greaty which is found in the first aed second quartos.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 47
Anton. Sir, you cfishonour 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, J, 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 Labour'd to break, ^nd cope with death to th'
face. The visage of a hangman frights not me ; The sight of whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fire^. Are scaffoldings by which my soul climbs up To an eternal habitation.
Theoph. CaBsar*s imperial daughter, hear me speak. Let not this Christian thing, in this her pageantry Of proud deriding both our gods and Caesar,
* Preserve thU temple^ build it fair/is yours «,] As this line stands, Antoninus's request is, not merely that Artemia should preserve Dorothea, but that she shouM raise her to a degree of splendour equal to her own. The absurdity of supposing that he should make this request to a princess, who had condemned him to death, in favour of her rival, made me suppose that there must be an error in this passage, and suggested the amendment. M. Mason.
Wonderfully sagacious I A single glanqe at either of the first three editions would have saved all this labour : build it is the blunder of the quarto, 1661, which Coxeter followed; in., the others, it stands as in the text. -
48 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR*
Build to herself a kingdom in her death. Going* laughing from us: no; her bitterest
torment Shall be, to feel her constancy b<iaten down ; The bravery of her resolution lie Batter'd, by argument, into such pieCelb, That she again shall, on her belly, creep To kiss the pavementii of our paynim gods. '
Artem. How to be done ?
Theoph. I'll ierid 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, theti; 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.
Dot. Still on the bread of poverty let me feed.
Ang. O ! my admired mistress, quench not out The holy fires within you, though temptations Show6r down upon you : Clasp thine armour on, Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars, Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch stars. \Ej:eunt all but Angela.
Enter Hircius and Spukgius.
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 ?
' Going laughing from m :] So the old copies, which is far more correct than the modern reading — Go, laughing from us.
^ Your Bcn and that,] Macrinus, whom before she had called a bawd. M. Mason.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 49
Hir. Comment portez^vouz, comment portez**t>wZy mon petit gargon ?
Spun. My pretty wee comrade, my half-inch of man's flesh, how rua the dice of this chedting world, ha?
^ng. Too well on your sides; you are hid in gold, O'er h6ad and cars.
Hir. We thank our fates, the sign of the gingle-hoys hangs at the doors of our pockets.
Mun. Who would think that we, coming forth of tne a — , as it were, or fag*end of the world, should yet see the golden age, when so little s^ilver is stirring?
Hir. Nay, who can say any citizen is an ass, for loading his own back with money till his soul cracks again, onlv 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 Caesarea, 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'dL
Mr. The gallows and we fell out; so she did but part us. '
voir. I. E *
dO THE VIRGIN..MARTYR.
Ang^ The misery of that mistress is mine own ; She bcggar'd, I left wretched.
Hvr. I can but let my nose drop in sorrow, with wet eyes for her.
Spun. The petticoat of her estate is uiilaced, I confess.
Hir. Yes, and the smock of her charity is now all to pieces.
Ang. For love you bearto her, for some good turns Done you by me, give me one piece of silver.
Hir. How ! 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 mether left me; I will rather part from the fat of them, than from a mustard-token's worth of argent.
Hm 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 bojth ; 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.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 51
Spun. Hircius, thouhast nimm^ A:— Solong 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 pockety 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! '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 I
Spun^ If she were going to hanging, no gallows should part. us.
Hir. Let us both he turn'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. [Ea^it Angelo.
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 pri- ^soners.
" Spun. Let her starve then, if a whole gaol will not fill her belly. [Eseunt.
E2*
52 THE VlRGlN^MARtYR.
ACT in. SCENE L
A ttbom in Dordthest's ffouse*
Uw^er Sapeitius, Theophilus, Ptlcst, Calista,
^/z^Christeta.
Sap. Sick to the death, I fear.*
Thtoph. I mtti your sorron^, With my true feelitig of it.
Sap. Sbe*d & Witch^ A sorceress, Theophilus \ tny sort Is charmed 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 honoufs^ find their grave In his strange dotage on her. Would, when first He saw atid MVed hef, that the earth had open'd. And swallowed both alive !
Thtoph. Thete'6 hope left yet
Sap. Not any : though the princdss Were ap- peetsed, All title ih her love surfetider'd up ; Yet this coy Christian is so transported With het i*eligion, that unless my son (But let him perish first !) drink the same potion. And be of her belief, she'll Hot vouchsafe To be his lalirful wife.
Priest. But, ontJfe removed
i Sap. Sick to the death, I fear.] It is delightfnl, after th^tife ribaldry and ttarshnew of the pree«diiig act, to fall In a^ain with the clear and harmonions periods of Massinger. Frotn hence to the conclusion of the second scene, where Decker takes up the atory, eyery page is crowded with beauties of no common kind*
THE VlftGIN MARTYR. S9
■
From her opinion, as I rest assured The reasons of these holy maids will win her, You'll find hier tractable to any thing. For your content or his.
Tkeoph. If she refuse it, The Stygian damps, breeding infectious airs, The mandrake's shrieks, the basilisk's killing ey«^ 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 deferred it, In hopes to draw back this apostata, Which will be greater honour than her death, Unto her father's faith; and, to that end, Htve brought my daughters hither.
CaL And ve 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. \Emt.
Theoph. Spare no promises, Persuasions, or threats, I do conjure you : If you prevail, 'tis the most glorious work You ever undertook.
Enter Doboth]ea and Angxlo.
Priest* She comes. Theoph. We leave you ; Be i&onstant, and be carcfuL
[Ewetmt Theoph. and Priest.
54 THE virgin-martyr:
Cat. We are sorry To meet you under guard.
Dor. But I more grieved You are at liberty. So well I love you, That I coyld 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 With any secret that concerns my life. Falsehood and he are strangers : bad 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
you To holy meditations ; and so far 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.
Aug. 'Tis not in the devil, Nor ail 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 V How near in love our parents were, that we, Even from the cradle, were brought up together.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 55
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 foUowM, 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 indulgence! 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 piUar, 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.
56 THE VIEGIN-MARTYR.
Dor. Have you not cloven feet P^ are you not
devils ? Dare any say so much, or dare I hear it Without a virtuous and religious aager ? Now to put on a virgin modesty. Or maiden silence^ when His power is questioned That is omnipotent, were a greater crimei 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 Juggling 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.
Col. 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 goddes^es^ Your parents would disdain to be the same, Or you yourselves ? O blinded ignorance \ Tell me, Calista, by the truth, I charge you, Or any thing you hold more dear, would yon^ 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 anst^er for me.
• That can nor do m^ hnrt, nor protect you f] More 8piriM> and more in the author^s manner, than the reading of U^p la^^ quarto^ which the modern editing follow :
That cannot do me hwrt^ nor fr^tect you f
THE VIRGIN^MARTYR. St
Dor. Or you, Christeta, To be hereafter registered a godd^ft, 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 i$ ill placed on you ; Shall I turn strumpet?
Dor. No, I think you •vrould not Yet Venus, whom you worship, was a whore ; Flora, the f<>undres8 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, yonUtfind them worse Than, in chaste language, I can speak them to
yott- Are they immortal then, that did partake
Of human weakness, and had ample share
In men^B most base affections ; subject to
Unchaste loves, an^er, bondage, wounds, as men
are ?
Here, Jupiter, tp serve liis lust, turn*d bull.
The shape, indeed, in which he stole Europa ;
Neptune, for gain, builds up the walls of Troy,
A3 a day-labourer; Apollo keeps
Admetus' sheep for bread ; the Lemnian smith
Sweats at the forge for hire ; Prometheus here,
With his stijl-growtng liver, feeds the vulture ;
Saturn bound fa$t in hell with adamaiit 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 ?
58 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
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 thematrons' necks the richest jewels, And purest gold, as the materials, To finish up his work ; which perfected. With all solemnity he set it up, To be adored, and served himself his idol ; Desiring it to give him victory Against his enemies z^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 eunuchs 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 this. And then consider, if all worldly honours, Or pleasures that do leave sharp stings behind them.
• ril tell you a short tale, &c ] I once thought
that I had read this short tale in Arnobius, from whom, and from Augustin, much of the preceding speech is taken ; but, upon looking him over again, I can scarcely find a trace of it. Herodotus has, indeed, a story of a king of Egypt (Amasis), which bears a distant resemblance to it ; but the application is altogether different : — there is a hason of gold in which he and hts guests were accustomed to spit, wash their feet ^ &c. which is formed into a god; but whether this furnished the poet with any himts, I cannot undertake to say«
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 59
Have power to win such as have reasonable souls, To put their trust in dross.
Cat. 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, Yetcannotstrikewithouthisleave. — 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'll l;ielp 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 perr
suasions. Though of a father, you fall not into A second and a worse apostacy.
Cal. Never, oh never ! steel'd by your ex- ample, We dare the worst of tyranny.
Christ. Here's our warrant, You shall along and witness it.
Dor. Be confirm'd then ;
€0 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
And rest assured, the more you suffer here, The more your glory, you ta he^-vea mort^ dear.
SCENE IL
The Governor's Pahce.
Enter AnTEu J A, Sapeitiup, THPOPfiiLys,
and Ha^jpai^.
Jrtem. Sapritius, though ypur spa deserve no pity, We grieve his sickness : his contempt of u», We cast behind us, and look back upon His service done to Caesar, that weighs down Our just displeasure. If his malady Have growtn from his restraint, or that y#u think His liberty can cure him, let luro h?ive it: Say, we forgive him freely.
Sap. Your grace binds us, Ever your humblest vassfils*
Artem. Use all means For his recovery ; though yet I love him, I will uot force affection. If the Chri^tiaUi Whose beauty hath out-rivaird me, be iBFon To be of our belief, let hipn enjoy her ; That all may know, when the cause wiUs, 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 wHl
work her To any thing they pleape*
Sap. I wish they may !
T^HIl VIRGIN-MARTYR. 61
Yet 'tis no easy task to undertake,
To alter a perverse and obstinate woman.
[A shout within : hud rmmc.
Artem. What means this shout?
Sap. 'Tis seconded with music, *
Triumphant music. — Ha !
' -Ewifer Sempronius*
Semp. My lord, your daughters, The pillars of our faith/ having conveftedj 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 1bdre 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^ intense and censers ; followed by Calista and Chris* TETA, leading Dorothea.
Welcome, oh, thrice welcome,
Daughters, both of my body and my mind J
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 : — «peak, happy daughters,
The blest event.
9 The pillars qfour faith, &c.] Here, as ir man j other ]>la«#% the language of Christianit)r and paganism is confounded; ^atM
WM always the diitiaotife term for the imvmt^ in o[^o8itioit,to heathenism*
6£ THE VIRGIN-MAllTYll.
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 ! Midam,'if ever you did grace to worthy 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 ; prepare The incense quickly : Come, fair Dorothea, I will myself support you ;— now kneel down. And pay your vows to Jupiter.
Dor. I shall do it Better by their example.
Theoph. They shall guide you, They are familiar with the sacrifice. . Forward, my twins of comfort, and, to teach her. Make a joint offering,
Christ. Thus {they both spit at the image,
CaL And thus [throw it dmn, and spurn it*
Harp. Profane, And impious ! stand you now like a statue ? Are you the champion of the gods ? where is Your holy zeal, your anger ?
Theoph. I am blasted ; And, as my feet were rooted here, I find I have no motion ; I would I had no sight too ! Or if my eyes can serve to any use,*
' Ortfmifeyescanseroetoanyusey} The modem editors roftdx Or ^ my eyes can serve to any other use.
THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. 63
Give me, thou injured Power ! a sea of tears. To expiate this madness in my daughters ; For, being themselves, they would have trem- bled at
So blasphemous a deed in any other :
For my sake, hold awhile thy dreadful thurider, And give me patience to demand a reason For this accursed act. Dor, 'Twas bravely done. Theoph. Peace, damn'd enchantress, peace!— ^ I should look on you With eyes made red with fiiry, and niy 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 1 He is no swaggerer; how smug he stands ! He'll take a kick, or any thing. Sap. Stop her mouth.
Dor. Itisthepatient'stgodling I'donotfearhim; 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.
Thtoph. Blasphemer! IngeniQus cruelty shall punish this : Thou art past hope : but for you yet, ' dear daughters,
OiheVy which destroys at once the metre and the sense, is an absurd interpolation of the quartos 1631 and 1661.
^ Dor. It is the patienfst godling ;] I have inserted this word at the recommendation of Mr. M. Mason. The old copies con- car in -reading antient^st^ which may yet be the proper word.
' "but for you yet,] Yet^ which completes the verse,
is now restored from the tot editioii^
64 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.
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 eartL
CaL I will not offer A grain of incense to it, much less kneel, Nor look on it but with contemj>t and scorn. To have a thousand years eonferr'd upon me Of worldly blessings. We profess ourselves To be, like Dorothea, Christians ; And owe her for that happiness.
Theoph. My ears Receive, in hearing this, 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 hand, 'Twill be recordjed for a just revenge. And holy fury in you.
Theoph. Do not blow The furnace of a wrath thrice hot already ; iEtna is in my breast, wildfire burns here, Which only blood must quench. Incensed Powef I 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^
THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. 65
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. {^Kills 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.
[Exit, 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 arc not so near reconciled unto thee ; Thou shalt not perish such an easy way.
^ Artem. *Tis a brave zeaL} The first two qaartos bare a stage direction here, which Coxeter and M. Mason follow: Enter Artemia laughing. But Artemia continues on the stage : tile error was seen and remoTedby the qaarto 1651. It is worth obserTing with what care Harpax and Angelo are kept apart, > till the catastrophe^
VOL. I. F ♦
66 THE VIRGII^.MARTYR.
■ r
Be she yoiir charge, Sapritius, novr i 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. [^Eo'eunt^
SCENE III.
A Room in Dorothea's 'House.
Enter Spungius and Hircius, raggedy at opposite
doors.
Hir. Spungius!
Spun. My fine rogue, how is it ? how goes this tattered world ?•
Hir. Hast any 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 finding any gap opened, away it runs.
Spun. I see then a tavern and a bawdyhouse have faces much alike; the one hath red grates next the door, the other hath peeping-holes within doors : the tavern hath evermore a bush, the bawdyhouse sometimes neither hedge nor bush. From a tavern a man comes reeling ;
y • how goes this tattered world?] These odious
wretches'^: — but they are not worth a thought, Mr. Malone •obserTes that tattered is spelt with an.o in the old editions of : Shakspeare : this is the first opportunity I have had for men- tioning, that Ms^ssipger conforms to. the same practice. The modern editors sometimes adopt q^e mode of spelling it, and sometimes another^ as if the words were different* li is best ^ be uniform.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 67
from a bawdyhouse, not able to stand. In the tavern you are cozen'd with paltry ivine ; in a bawdyhouse; by a painted whore: money may hare wine, and a whore will have money ; but to neither can you cry, Drawer, you rogue! or, Keep door, rotten bawd ! without a silver whistle : — We are justly plagued, therefore, for running from our mistress.
Hir. Thou didst ; I did not : Yet I had run too, but that one gave me turpentine pills, and that ^taid my running.
Sptm. Well! the thread of my life is drawn through the needle of necessity, whose, eye, looking upon my lousy breeches, cries out it Cannot mend them ; which so pricks the linings of my body, (and those are, 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.
Hir. Sure thy father was som€ botcher, and thy hungfjr tongue bit off these shreds of com- plaints, to patch up the elbows of thy nitty eloquence.
I^n. And what was thy father?
Hir. A low-minded cobler, a cobler whose zeal set many a woman upright; the remem- brance of whose awl (I now having nothing) thrusts such scurvy stitches into my soul, that the heel of my happiness is gone awry.
I^un. Pity that e'er thou trod'st thy shoe awry«
Hir. Long I cann\)t 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 arc seamrrent, and go wet-shod.
Spun. This shows thou art a cobler's son, by
F*2
€8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
going through stitch : O Hircius, would thou aud 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 chops with it?
Spun. Then my hand hatha fling at mine eyes, because they look not out, and shark for victuals.
Hir. Which mine eyes seeing, full of tears, cry aloud, and curse my feet, for not ambling up and down to feed colon ; sithence if good meat be in any place, *tis known my feet can smell.
Spun. But then my feet, like lazy rogues, lie still, and had rather do nothing, than run to and fro to purchase any thing. ^ Hir. Why, among so many millions of people, should thou and I only be miserable tatterdemal- Ijons, 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? " >
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 69
Spun. Worse ; all tottering, all oat 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'lapp'd in velvet, soldiers (as we) in rags; beauty turns whore, whore, bawd, and both die of the pox : why then, when all the world stumbles, should thou and 1 walk upright ?
Hir. Stop, look ! who's yonder ?
Enter Angelo.
Spun. Fellow Angelo ! how does my little man?
well ? Jng. 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 ave 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 r I know which way Your guilt-wing*d pieces flew. I will no more
70 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
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 nqt want ; till then, my pity dies.
Spun. Is it not a shame, that this scurvy puerilis should give us lessons?
J2/r. I have dwelt, thou know'st, a long time in the suburbs of conscience, and they are ever bawdy; but now my heart shall take a. house within the walls of honesty.
Enter Harp ax behind.
Spun. O you drawers of wine, draw me no more to the bar of beggary ; the sound of Score a pottle ofsackf is worse than the noise of ascold- ing oysterwench, or two cats incoi^orating. Harp. This must not be— I do not like whep conscience , Thaws ; keep her frozen still, \c07nes Jbrwdrd."]
How now, niy masters ! Dejected? drooping? drown- d in tear^ ? clothes
torn? Lean, and ill colour'd? sighing? where's the
whirlwind Which raises all these mischiefs ? I have seen you Drawn better on't. O ! but a spirit told me You both M^ould come to this, when in you thrust* Yourselves into the service of that lady,
* when in you thrusf\ In^ wbloh completes the rer^^t
was omitted by Mr. M. MasoD, from an opinion, perhaps, that it was superfluous to the sense. But this was the language of the times : for the rest, this whole act is most carelessly printed bj the last editors.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 71
Who shortly now must die. \5fhere's now her
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 1 I never prospered since I did it.
Spun. Had I been a pagan stilly I should not have spit white for want of drink ; but come to any vintner now, and bid him trust me, because I turned Christian, and he cries, Poh !
Harp. You're rightly served; before that peevish' lady Had to do with you, women, wine, and money Flow'd in abundance with you, did it not ?
V
^ And to hear money to a sort qfrogues^ Sec] Or, as we now, saj — to a set, or parcel of rogues. The word occurs so fre- quently ia this sense, In our old writers, tiiat it seems almost^ unnecessary to give any examples of it :
^* Here are a sort of poor petitioners, <^ That are importunate/^ Spanish Tragedy •
Again :
^^ And, like a sort of trne born scayengers, ^^ Scour me this famous reahnof enemies/'
Khight of the Burning Testle.
« ■ before that peevish lady
Had to do toith you^^ Peevish is foolish ; thus, in the Merry Wives of Windsor J Mrs. Quickly says of her fellow-servant, ^^ His worst fault is, that he is given to prayer ; he is something peevish that way.** Mr. Malone thinks this' to be one of dame Quickly's blunders, and that she means to say precise : but he is mistaken. In Mycke Scomer^ the word is used in the very sense here given :
^* For an I sholde do after your scole ** To learn to pater to make me pevysse/'
Again, in God's Revenge against Adultery ; '^ Albemare kept a man-fool of some forty years old in his house, who indeed was so naturally peedshj as not Milan> hardly Italy, could match him for simplicity.''
72 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR:
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 attendant on the lord Theophilus.
Harp. Yes, yes ; in shew his servant : but — ^hark, hither ! — Take heed no body 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
pleasures As other poor knaves are ; no, take their fill.
Spun, But that, sir, we're so ragged
Harp. You'll say, you'd serve me ? Hir. Before any master under the zodiac. Harp. For clothes no matter ; I've a mind to both. And one thing I like in you ; now that you see. The bonfire of your lady's state burnt out, You give it over, do you not? Hir. Let her be hang'd ! Spun. And pox'd ! Harp. Why, now you're mine j Come, let my bosom touch you. Spun. We have bugs, sir. Harp. There's money, fetch your clothes home; there's for you.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 73
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 Ij'ing Christians make him.
Both. No!
Harp. He's more loving To man, than man to man is.'
Hir. Is he so ? Would we two might come acquainted with him !
Harp. You shall : he's a wondrous good fellow, loves a cup of wine, a whore, any thing ; if you have money, it's ten to one but I'll bring him to 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 : does the devil eat any mace in his broth?
Harp. Exceeding much, when his burning
9 Harp. He*s more loving
To mmiy than man to man w.] Though this horrid prostita- tion of that fine sentiment in JuYenal, Carior eat illis homo quafn «i6f, may not be altogether ont of character for the speaker* it were to be wished that it had not been employed. To say the ' truth, the whole of this scene, more especially what yet re* mains of it, is as profligate as it is stupid,
' Spun. How a commouer ?J That is, a common lawyer* M. Mason.
74 THE VIRGIN-MABTYR.
feyer 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 catch- pole ! he hath sworn, if ever he dies, to niake a Serjeant his heir, and a yeoman bis 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 damnM be- fore he hurts any man : do but you (when you are throughly acquainted with him) ask for any thing, see if it does not come.
Spun. Any thing I
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. Ves, yes; 1, I.
iJarp. What is his word? Hang! hang! 'tis nothing. — Or stab a woman?
Hir. Yes, yes ; I, I.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 75
Harp. Here is the worst word he gives you : A pox on't, go on !
Hir. O inveigling rascal I— 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 mpney flies, So you give none away to beggars;
Hir. Hang them !
Harp, And to the scrubbing poor,
Hir. I'll see them hang'd first.
Harp. One service you must do me.
Both. Any thing*
Harp. Your ipjstress, Dorothea, ere she siiflPprs, Is to be put to tortures :. h^v^ you hearts To tear ner ip^to shrieks, to fetch her soul Up in the pangs of death, yet not to die?
Hir. Suppose this §he> and that I had no hands, here's my teeth. . .
Spun. Suppose this sh^ and that I had no teeth, here's my nails.
Hir. But will not you be there, sir ?
Harp^ No, not for hjUs of diamonds ; the grand master, i
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. [Exit*
Spun. Here's a master, you rogue !
Hir. Sure he cannot choQse but h^ve ^ horrible number of servants. [Exeunt.
76 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR,
ACT IV. SCENE I.
The Governor's Palace.
Antoninus on a couch, asleep, with Doctors about him; Satritws and Macki^vs.
Sap. O you, that are half gods, lengthen 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 hand As apt is to destroy as to preserve, If heaven make not the med'cine : all this while, Our skill hath combat held with his disease; But 'tis so arm'd, and a deep melancholy, To be such in part with death,* we arc 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.
* To be such in part with deaths] Mr. M. Mason reads, after Coxeter, To such in part with death j and explains it to mean ^^ To such a degree." I doubt whether he understood his own expla* nation or not. The genuine reading, which I haye restored^ takes away all difficulty from the passage.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. n
ISap. 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 Dorothea; And, when his arms fly open to catch her, Closing together, he falls fast asleep. Pleased with embraoings of her airy form. Physicians but torment him, his diseasp 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 hap- piness, To me impossible seems.
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.
Anton.Tho\i\ii\Vstmty Dorothea; oh, Dorothea!
Mac. She's here :-■ — enjoy her.
Anton. 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.
J Doct. Let him have some music.
Anton. Hell on your fidling !
[Starting from his couch.
3 Sap. Is he with child f a midwife /] The modern e^ort cead^ A midw^'e I i$ he %vith child? Had thej no earn!
78 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
\ Doct. Take again your bed, sir; Sleep is a sovereign physic.
Anton. Take an ass's head, sir: Confusion on your fooleries, your charms ! — Thou stinking clyster-pipe, where*s the god of
rest. Thy pills and base apothecary drugs Threaten'd to bring un tome? Out, you impostors! Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks! your skill Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill.
Mac. Oh, be yourself, dear friend.
Anion. Myself, Macrinus ! How can I be ittyself, when I am mangled Into a thousand pieces ? h^re moves my head, But where *s my heart ? wherever — that lies dead.
Re-enter Sapritius, drttgging in Dorothea by the hairy Aihgelo following.
Sap* Follow mo, thou damn'd sorceress ! Call up thy spirits. And, if they can, now let them frotn my hand Untwine thes^ 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 ?
Anion. To death.
Sap. Wouldst thou recover ?
Anton. Would I live in bliss !
Sap. And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that man That brings thee health ?
Anton. It is not in the world.
Sap.- It's here.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 79
Anton. To treasure/ by enchantment locked In caves as deep as hell, am I as near.
Sap. Break that enchanted cave : enter, and rifle The spoils thy lust hunts after ; I descend 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 Weakwall ; to't, *tis thine own, but beat this down* 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 shufflings ; and, indeed, are Those little young snakes in a Fury's head.
Will sting worse than the great ones.
Let the pimp stay. [Exeunt Sap. Mac. and Doct
Dor. O, guard me, angels ! What tragedy must begin now ?
Anton. 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 ;
4 Ant. To treasure^ &c.] This is the emendation of Mr. M. Mason. It appears a happy substitution for the old reading, which was, O treasure^ &c.
5 Come, and J unseen^ be toitiiess to this battery j ,
How the coy strumptt yklds^] These two lines are addressed
to Macrinus and the doctors. M. Mason. • . yoUy hitherto^
Have still had goodness spar'd mthin your eyes^
Let not that orb be broken.] The word orb in this last linf
proTes that we should read sphered instead of spar'd; the latter^
80 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
If he dare offer violence, we two
Are strong enough for such a sickly man.
Dor. Whatisyour horrid purpose, sir? your eye Bears danger in it.
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, [kneels.
And heaven will take it as a sacrifice; But, if you play the ravisher, there is A hell to swallow you.
Sap. [within.} Lev 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.
[Sapj^itius breaks in with Macrinus.
Dor. Die happy for this language !
Sap. Die a slave, A blockish idiot !
Mac. Dear sir, vex him not.
Sap. Yes, and vex thee too ; both, I think, arc < geldings :
indeed, made the passage nonsense^ which is now yerj poetical* TVI. Mason.
Mr. M. Mason if somewhat rash in his assertion : sparred^ is, shut upy inclosed^ it is not therefore nonsense. I hare, how* ever adopted his emendation, which, if not just, is at least Ingenious.
THE VIRGIN^MARTYR. 81
Cold, phlegmatic bastard, thou'ct no brat of
mine; Qne 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 near
hut thou skalt curse
Thi/ dalliance,] i. e. thj hesitation, thy delay : ^^ Good lord ! you use this dalliance to excuse *' Your breach of promise.'* Comedy of Errors.
VOL.1. G*
8S THE VIRGIN-MA^TYK
The Briton for true whoring. Sirrah fellow, What wouldst thou do to gain thy liberty ?
Slwoe. Do ! liberty ! fight naked with a lion, Venture to pluck a standard from the heart Of an arm'd legion. Liberty ! Td 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 sliake my chains
off. And that I could not do't but by thy death, 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, III venture on, to be no more a slave.
Sap. Thou shalt, then, be no slave, for I will set thee Upon a piece of wprk is, fit for man ; Brave for a Briton : — drag that thing aside. And ravish her.
SUwe. And ravish her ! is this your manly service ? A devil scorns to do it ; 'tis for a beast, A villain, not a man : I am, as yet^ But half a slave ; but, when that work is past, A damned whole one, a black ugly slave. The slave of all base slaves : — do't thyself, Roman, Tis drudgery fit for thee.
Sap. He's be witch 'd too : Bind him, and with a bastinado give him, Upon his naked belly, two hundred blows.
Slme. Thou art more slave than L
[He is carried in.
Dor. That Power supernal, on whom waits my soul, Is captain o'er my chastity.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR/
83
Anton. Good sir, give o*er : The more you wrong her, yourselPs vexM the 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* Thev are come, sir, at your call.
Sap. Oh, oh ! [Falls dorm.
Enter Theophilus.
Theoph. Where is the governor ?
Anton. There's my wretched father.
Theoph. My lord Sapritius — he's not dead ! — my lord ! That witch there —
Anton. 'Tis no Roman gods can strike These fearful terrors. O, thou happy maid, Fore:ivc this wicked purpose of my father.
i5or, I do.
Theoph. Gone, gone ; he's peppered. It is thou Hast done this act infernal.
Dor. Heaven pardon you ! And if my wrongs from thence puU 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!
' Mac. Tkey are come, &c.] Tbe old copies give this speech to Angelo: it is, however, so palpable an error, that the emen- dation which I hare introduced requires no apology.
♦Gg
84 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Sap. Where am I? Theoph. One cheek is blasted. Sap. Blasted ! where's the lamia' That tears my entrails? I'm bewitch'd ; seize on her. Dor. I'm here ; do what you please. 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 death. [Exit.
SCENE IL A Public Square.
Enter Hahvaxj Hircius, and Sfv in Givfi.
Harp. Do you like my service now ? say, am jiot I A master worth attendance ?
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 ! 1 would not give up the cloak of your service, to meet the splayfoot estate of any left-eyed knight above the anti- podes ; because they are unlucky to meet.
Harp. This day I'll try your loves to mc ; 'tis only But well to use the agility of your arms.
9 Whereas f^c lamia, SfcJ The sorceress, the hag : the wwd is pure Latin
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 85
l^un. Or legs, I am lusty at them.
Hir. Or any other member that has na legs.
Spun. Thou'It run into some hole.
Hir. If I meet one that's more than my match, and that I cannot stand in their hands, I must and will x;reep 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 mistress 1
Harp. You're coxcombs, silly animals.
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. 1 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 w« be cuckolds.
86 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Harp. Do this, and every god the Gentiles bow to, Shall add a fathom to your line of years.
Spun. A hundred fathom, I desire no mote.
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 fingers 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 wiiere 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.
Stmn. Fear it not, sir ; her ribs shall be basted.
tlir. I'll come upon her with rounce, robble* hobble, and thwick-thwack-thirlery bouncing.
Enter Dorothea, led prisoner; SAPRifius, Theophilus, Akgelo, and a Hangman, who sets up a Pillar; Sapritius and Theophilus sit ; Angelo stands ^j^.Dorothea. A Guard attending.
Sap. According to our Roman custonuii bind
That Christian to a pillar.
THE VIRGIN- MARTYR, 87
, Tkeoph. Infernal Furies, Gould 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 m? ; 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 Caesar's fortune, and be free.
Sap. Thou shalt.
Dor. Not for all C»sar*s fortune, were it chain'd To more worlds than are kingdoms in the world, And all those worlds drawn after him. I defy Yourhangmen ; you now shew me whither to fly.
Sap. Are her tormentors ready ?
Ang. Shrink not, dear mistress.
S^un. and Hir. My lord, we are ready for the business.
Dor. You two ! whom I like foster'd children fed, And lengthened 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 tormentors !
Both. Yes, we.
Dor. Divine Powers pardon you !*
Sap» Strike. [They strike at her : Angela kneeUng holds her fast.
Theoph. Beat out her brains.
Dor. Receive me, you bright angels^
Sap. Faster, slaves.
' Dor. pvoine Powers pardon yon !] I know not whether by inadTertence or design ; but M. Mason, in opposition to all the editions, reads. Divine Powers pardon me !
88 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.
Slmn. Faster ! I am out of breath, I am sure ; if 1 were to beat a buck,' I can strike no harder.
Hir. O mine arms ! I cannot lift them to my head.
Dor. Joy above joys ! are my tormentors weary In torturing me, and, in my 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 counterfeit ?
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. [Eant.
Dor. Ever, ever, ever !
^Ifl were to heat a buck, I can strike no harder,"] To huck^ Johnson says, '^ is to wash clothes." This is but a lame expla- nation of the term : to buck is to wash clothes by laying them on a smooth plank, or stone, and beating them with a pole flat- tened at the sides.
3 Proud whorcy it smiles /] So the old copies ; the modern editors read, she smiles. In every page, and almost in every speech, I haye had to remove these imaginary improrements of the author's phraseology.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR, 89
Enter Harpax, sneaking.
Theaph. We're mock'd ; these bats have power to fell down giants. Yet her skin is not scarr'd. Sap. What rogues are these ? Theoph. Cannot these force a shriek ?
{Beats Spungius. Spun. Oh ! a woman has one of my ribs, and now five more are broken.
Theoph. Cannot this make her roar?
[Beats Hircius ; he roars.
Sap. 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 sometime servants To her, and for that cause forbear to hurt her, Sap. Unbind her ; hang up these. Theoph. Hang the two hounds on the next
tree. Hir. Hang us ! master Harpax, what a devil, shall we be thus used ?
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 dndure your sight : 'tis your best course
^ Span. We serre that noble gentleman, SfC.} This is the lec- tion of the first quarto. The modern editors follow the others^ which incorrectlj read, We sero^df &c
90 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Now, had you secret knives, to stab yourselves; — But, since you have not, go and be hang'd.
Hir. I thank you.
Harp, 'Tis your best course.
Theoph. Why stay they trifling here ? To the gallows drag them by the heels ; — away 1
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.
Jnarp. Dispatch them.
Spun. The devil dispatch thee !
[Exeunt Guard with Spungius and Hircius.
Sap. Death this day rides in triumph, Theo- philus. See this witch made away too.
Theoph. My soul thirsts for it ; Come, I myself the hangman's part could play.
Dor. O naste me to my coronation day !
[Ejmcnt.
SCENE III.»
ITie Place of Execution. A scaffold^ blocks Sgc.
Enter Antoninus, supported by Macrihus, 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,
5 From hence, to the conclusion of the act, I recognise the hand of Massinger. There may be (and probably are) finer pas- sagei in our dramatic poets^ bv^ I am not acquainted with them.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 91
You wiell 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 1 Set me down, friend, that, ere the iron hand Of death close up mine eyes, they may at once Take my last leave both of this light and her : For, she being gone, the glorious sun himself To me's Cimmerian darkness.
Mac. Strange affection!* Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with
Death, f
And kill's, instead of giving life.
Anton. Nay, weep not ; Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm, On me they're cast away. It is decreed That I must die with her; our clue of life Was spun together.
Mac. Yet) sir, 'tis my wonder,
^ Mac* Strange ejection ! Cupid once more hath changed his shafts vMh Deaths 'And kUls^ instead of giving Ufe.l This is a beautiful allusion to a little poem among the Elegies ofSecundus. Cupid and Death unite in the destruction of a loTer, and in endeavouring to recoyer their weapons from the body of the victim, commit a mutual mistake^ each plucking out the '^ shafts" of the other* The consequences of this are prettily described : Missaperegrinis sparguntur vulnera nerois,
Et manus ignoto savit utrinque moLo. Jbrrita Mors arcus vdUdi molimina damnatf
Plorat Amor teneras tarn valuifse numus ; Foedabcmtjuvenesprinias in puloere malas
Oscula qttas, heu, ad blanda vocabat Arnor^ Ckmicies vemisjlorebat multa corollis
Persephone ainem vulserat tinde «i^. Quid facetent 9 fahas procul aJbjecere sagittate
De pharetra jaculum prompsit uterque novum. Bes bona ! sed virus pueri penetravit in arcum ;
Ex ilia miseros tot dedii iUe neci. Lib. ii. El6g. 0* The lable, howevery is very ancient.
92 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.
That you, who, hearing only what she suffers.
Partake of all her tortures, yet will be,
To add to your calamity, an eyewitness
Of her last tragic scene/ which must pierce
deeper,' And make the wound more desperate.
Anton. Oh, M acrinus ! *Twould linger out my torments else, not kill me, Which is the end I aim at : being to die too, What instrument more glorious can I wish for, Than what is made sharp by my constant love And true affection ? It may be, the duty And loyal service, with which I pursued her. And seard it with my death, will be remembered Among her blessed actions ; and what honour Can I desire beyond it ?
Enter a Guard bringing in Dorothea, a Headsman before her ; JbUowedbyTHEOTRihvs,SAPKiTiV8f and Haktax.
See, she comes ; How sweet her innocence appears ! more like To heaven itself, than any sacrifice That can be offer'd to it. By my hopes Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful In my belief; nor can I thitifc our gods Are good, or to be served,- that take delight In offerings of this kind : that, to maintain Their power, deface the master-piece of nature. Which they themselves come short of. She
ascends. And every step raises her nearer heaven. What god soe'er thou art, that must enjoy her, Receive in her a boundless happiness !
7 , which must pierce deeper,] So the first edition.
The quarto 1661 reads, in defiance of metre, — which must th* deeper pierce^ and is followed by Coxeter and M. Mason !
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 93
Sap. You arc to blame To let him come abroad.
McX, It was his will ; And we were left to serve him, not command him.
Anton. Good sir, be not offended ; nor deny My last of pleasures in this happy object, That I shall e'er be blest with.
Theoph. Now, proud contemner Of us, and of our gods, tremble to 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 thoii not tum'd apostata' to those gods That so feward their servants; let despair Prevent the hangman's sword, and on this scaffold 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 !
f ^ Hadst thou not turned apostata to those gods'] Oar o(d writers usaally said, apostata^ statua^ &c. where we now say, apostate^ statue. Massinger's editors, however, who were ignorant alike of his language^and that of his contemporaries, resolutef j persist in moderuiziog him upon all occasions : they read, apostate.
94 THE VIRGIN-MARTYE.
That gloriest in having power to ravish A trifle from me I am weary of, What is this life to me ? not worth a thoftght ; Or, if it be esteemM, '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 ; Where, circled with true pleasures, placed above The reach of death or time, 'twill be my ^lory To think at what an easy price I bought it. There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth : Ko joint«benumbing cold, or scorching heat, Famine, nor age, have any being there. Foreet, for shame, your Tempe ; bury in Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards :-^ The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon, Which did require a Hercules to get* it. Compared with what grows in all plenty there, Deserves not to be named* The Power I serve, Laughs at your happy Araby^ or the
' Whkh did require a Hercules to get tV ,] The modern editors read, to ffamrd U» This deviation from tlie old copies is at the expeose of «eBse. It was the dragon which gMHirdfid it t the ot>- ject of Hercules was to get lU In almost ejerj speech Massinger is thus injured bj carelessness or ignorance. It is the more^ inexcusable here, as the rery same expression !$ to be found>i* ' the Emperor of the East*
This beautiful description of E^jsium^ as Mr. Gllchiist ^« serves to me, has been imitated hy Nabbes, in that lery poet|c rhapsod J, Microcosmus : some of the lines may be giTen s '^ Cold there compels no use of rugged furs, ^' Nor makes the mountains barren-; there's no dog ^^ To rage, and scorch the land. Spring's always there, ^' And paints the valleys; whilst a temperate air <^ Sfreeps their embroider'd face with his curi'd gales^ ^' And breathes perfumes: — ^there night doth never spread " Her ebon wings; but day.l^ht's always there* '' AM one blest season crqwns the eternal year.''
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 9S
Elysian shades ; for he hath made his bowers Better in deed, than you can fancy yours.
Anton. O, take me thither with you !
Dor. Trade my steps. And be assured you snalL
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, M^om 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 fruityou 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, thou 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 AngeTs habit.^
Harp. Oh ! mountains fall upon me, Or hide me in the bottom of the deep, Where light may never find me !
* Enter Akoelo, tn the AngtVs habit, &c. J It appears that Angelo was not meant to be seen or heard bj -any of the people present, but Dorothea. In the inventory of the Lord Admiral's
96 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Theoph. What's the matter ?
Sap. This is prodigious, and confirms her witch- craft.
Theoph. Harpaxy my Harpax, speak !
Harp I dare not stay : Should I but hear her once more, I were lost Some whirlwind snatch me from thiscursed plape» To which compared, (and with what nowIsufFer,) Hell's torments are sweet slumbers ! [Exit.
Sap. Follow him.
Theoph. He is distracted, and I must not lose him. Thy charms upon my servant, cursed witch. Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die. Till my return. [Ea^eunt JSap. and Theoph.
Anton. She minds him not : what object Is her eye fix'd on ?
Mac. 1 see nothing.
Anton. Mark her.
Dor. Thou glorious minister of the Power I serve ! (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. Your zealous prayers, and pious deeds first won
me (But 'twas by His command to whom you sent them)
properties, given by Mr. Malone, is, ^^ a roobe for to goe in- Tisibell." It was probably of a ligbt gauzy texture, and afforded a sufficient hint to our ancestors, not to sec the person inrested with it ; or rather, to understand that some of the characters on the stage were not to see him.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 97
To guide your steps. I tried your charity, When in a beggar's shape you took me up, And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed, As you believed, my famish'd mouth. Learn all, By your example, to look on 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 any thing from me, and rest assured, You shall obtain it.
Dor. I am largely paid For all my Xorments. Since I find such grace, Grant that the love of this yoiing 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, assent 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 comfortably heat within me ; I am quite altered from the thing I was. See ! I can stand, and go alone ; thus kneel
Learn ally
By your example^ i^c.] ^^ Be not forgetfal to entertain stran. gers ; for thereby sonie have entertained angels aiiawares.'' Heb. c.xiii. t. 2. Here is also a beautiful allusion to the parting speech of the '' sociable archangel,*' to Tobit and his son. VOL. T, H *
08 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.
To heavenly Dorothea, touch her hand
With a religious kiss. [Kneeh.
Re-enter Sapritius ^^^Theophilus.
Sap. He is well now, But will not be drawn back.
Theoph. It matters not. We can discharge this work without hit 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 r
Dor. Nothing, but to blame Thy tardiness in sending me to rest ; My peace is made witii heaven, to which my soul Begins to take her flight ; strike, O ! strike
quickly ; And, though you are unmoved to sec 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."
[Her head is struck off[
Anton. O, take my soul along, to wait on thine !
Mac. Your son sinks too. [Antoninm falls.
Sap. Already dead !
Theoph. Die all That are, or favour this accursed * sect : I triumph in their ends, and will raise up .
^ That are^ or favour this accursed sect ;J So the old copies t the modern editors, to adapt the text- to their own idi^ of ac curacy, read : That .are of, ^rfawwt^ ftc* but tfaore is no need of alteration ; this mode of ezpeeailoai recurs perpetftally : Mdd top, that the interpolation de8troys the metr«.
THE VIRGIN-MAHTYIt
99
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.
\^Loud music : Exit Jngelo, having first laid his hand upon the mouths of Anton, and Dot.
S^. Ha! heavenly mujic !
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 ti^t 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 dogSB prrey, [Exeunt.
ACT V. SCENE L
Theothilvs discovered sitting in his Study : books
about him.
Theoph. Is't holiday, O Caesar, that thy servant, Thy provost, to see execution done On these base Christians in Caesarea, Should now want work ? Sleep these idolaters, That none arc stirring ? — As a curious painter. When he has made some honourable piece, Stands off, and with a searching eye examines Each colour, how 'tis sweetened ; and then hugs Himself for his rare workmanship— so here. Will 1 my drolleries, and bloody landscapes, Long past wrapt up, unfold, to make me merry With shadows, now I want the substances.
100 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
My muster book of hell-hounds. Were the
Christians, Whose names stand here, alive and arm'd, not
Rome Could move upon her hinges. What I've done, Or shall hereafter, is not out of hate To poor tormented wretches ;* no, I'm carried With violence of zeal, and streams of service I owe our Roman gods. Great Britain^ — what ?*
[reads. A thousand wives, with brats sucking their breasts^ Had hot irons pinch them off, and thrown to swine ; And thentheir fleshy back'pai^tSy hew^dwith hatchets. Were minced, and baked in pies, to feed starved
Christians. Ha! hal
Again, again, — East Angles, — oh. East Angles: Bandogs, kept three days huitgry^ worried A thousand British rascals, stied up fat Of purpose, stripped naked, and disarmed. I could outstare a year of suns and moons. To sit at these sweet bull-baitings, so I Could thereby but one Christian win to fall In adoration to my Jupiter. — Twelve hundred Eyes bored with augres out — Oh ! eleven thousand Torn by wild beasts : two hundred ramm'd in the
earth
is not out dfhate
To poor tormented wretches^ &c.] This is said to distinguisk his character from that of Sapritias, whose zeal is influenced by motives of interest, and by many other considerations^ which appear to weigh nothing with Theophiias.
* Great Britain^ — what?} Great Britain, is a curious ana- chronism ; but this our oid dramatic writers were little solicit- ous to avoid. The reader wants not vay assistance to discover that this rugged narrative is by Decker : the horrible enumera- tion of facts> is taken from the histories of those times.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 101
To the armpit Sy and full platters round about them^ But far enough for reaching ;' Eat, dogs, ha ! ha! ha! ^ [He rises.
Tush, all these tortures are but fillipings, Fleabitings ; I, before the Destinies
JEnter Anoelo with a basket filled with fruit and
flowers.
My bottom did wind up, would flesh myself
Once more upon some one remarkable
Above all these. This Christian sluf 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 ? [Munc.
Ang. Are you amazed, sir ? So great a Roman spirit — and doth it tremble!
Theoph. How cam'st thou in? to whom thy business ?
7 But far enough for reaching :2 -For occurs perpetually ia these plays, in the sense of prevention^ y^t the modern editors have altered it to from : indeed, the word is thus used by eyery writer of Massinger's age ; thus Fletcher :
" Walk oflF, sirrah,
^^ And stir my horse^r taking cold/'
Love*8 Pilgrimagei Again:
" he'll not tell me,
<< For breaking of my heart/'
Maid in the Mill.
Now I am on the subject, let me observe, that a similar altera- tion has been unnecessarily made in Pericles. The old reading is^
^' And with dead cheeks adrise thee to desist <c For going on death's net, which none resist."
** This is corrupt," says the editor, *' I think it should be/r<wi going,'^ and so he has printed it; place a comma after desist^ and all will be right : ^'for going," i. ^mforfedr of going, &c«
102 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Ang. To you : 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 she went, and where, now
happy, She feeds upon all joy, ate.would send to you Some of that garden fruit and flowers ; which
here, To have her promise saved, are brought by roe.
Theoph. Cannot I see this garden ?
Ang. Yes, if the master Will give you entrance, [He vamshe$.
Theoph^ 'Tis a tempting fruit. And the most bright-cheek 'd child I ever view'd; Sweet smelling, goodly fruit What flowers are
these ? lu Dio.clesian'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 suipmer ? pretty, sweet boy, say, In what country shall a man find this garden ? — My delicate boy, — gone! vanish'dl within there, Julianus ! Oeta !—
Enter Julianus and Geta»
Both. My lord.
Theoph. Are my g^tes shut ?
Geta. And guarded.
Theoph. Saw you not A boy?
Jul. Where?
Theoph. Here he entered ; a young lad ; A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes :
THE V I RG IN - M A R T Y R. 103
A smoothfaced, glorious thing, that brought this basket'
Geta. No, sir !
Theoph. Away — but be in reach, if my voice calls you, [Eo'dunt 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 essentia], and, howe'er it grows. Will taste it. [Eats of the fruit.
Harp. \withinJ\ Ha, ha, ha, ha !
Theoph. So good ! I'll have some more, sure.
Harp. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! great liquorish fool I
Theoph. What art thou ?
Harp. A fisherman.
Theoph. What dost thou catch ?
Harp. Souls, souls ; a fish call'd souls.
TheopU. Geta!
Re-enter Geta.
Geta. My lord.
Harp, [within.l Ha, ha, ha, ha !
Theoph. What insolent slave is this, dares laugh at me ? Or what is't the dog grins at so ?
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 I all within me is not well ; And yet not sick,
• Theoph. Here he entered; &c.\ It may give the. reader some idea of the metrical skiU with which Massinger has been hitherto treated, to print these lines as they stand in Cox«ter knd M. Mason :
Theoph. Here he enter^d^ a ^9ung lad ; a thousand Biemngs damfd upon his eyes ; a smooth fac'd glorious Tkmg<, that brought this basket.
104 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Harp. [tt?iVAi«.] Ha, ha, ha, ha !
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 tfie other end.'] Fool, thou lieat !
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 couple Are now in hell.' Search for him. [Exit Geta.] All this ground,
methinks, is bloody. And paved with thousands of those Christians' eyes Whom I have tortured ; and they stare upon me. What was I his apparition ? sure it had A shape angelical. Mine eyes, though dazzled,
9 Theoph. He is at barley-break, and the last couple Are now in hell.] i. e. in the middle ; alluding to the situation of Harpax. This wretched copy of a wretched original, the hie et ubique of the Ghost in Hamlet, is much too puerile for the occasion, and the character : — decipit exemplar vitiis imiiabile. With respect to the amusement of barley-break, allusions to it occur repeatedly in our old writers; and their commentators have piled one parallel passage upon another, without advancing a single step towards explaining what this celebrated pastime really was* It was played by six people, (three of each sex,) who were coupled by lot. A piece of ground was then choaeD^ and divided into three compartments, of which the middle one was called hell. It was the object of the couple condemned to this division, to catch the others, who advanced from the two extremities ; in which case a change of situation took place, and hell was tilled by the couple who were excluded by preoc- cupation, from the other places : in this " catching,*' however, there was some difficulty, as, by the regulations of the game, the middle couple were not to separate before they had succeeded, while the others might break hands whenever they found them-'
THE VIRGIN'MARTYR. 105
And daunted at first sight, tell me, it wore
A pair of glorious wings ; yes, they were wings ;
And hence h« 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? [fnusic.'] 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,
Belves hard pressed. When aU had been takea in turn, the last couple was said to ht in hell^ and the game ended. In tenui labor I — Mr. M. Mason has given the following description of this pastime with allegorical personages, from sir John Suckling :
*' Love, Reason, Hate, did once bespeak
^^ Three mates to play at barley-break ;
^^ LoYe Folly took ; and Reason Fancy ;
'^ And Hate consorts with Pride ; so dance they :
^^ LoTe coupled last, and so it fell
** That Lote and Folly were in hell.
^^ They break ; and Lo?e would Reason meet,
^^ But Hate was nimbler on her feet ;
^^ Fancy looks for Pride, and thither
^^ Hies, and they two hug together :
^'. Yet this new coupling still doth tell
^^ That LoYC and Folly were in hell.
^^ The rtst do break again, and Pride ^^ Hath now got Reason on her side 4 ^^ Hate and Fancy meet, and stand ^^ Untouch'd by Lote in Folly's hand ; " Folly was dull, but Love ran well, ** So Lore and Folly were in hell."-
' Or from some better place ;] In Cozeter's edition, place was dropt at the press, I suppose : and M. Mason, who seems to haye had no conception of any older or other copy, blindly followed him ; though the line has neither measure nor sense without the word, inserted from the oldijuartos : — but indeed the whole of this scene, as it stands in the two former editions^ especially the last, is full of the most shameful blunders*
106 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Through my djatrk ignorance, on my soul 4q0s
shine, And makes me see a conscience all staiq'd o'er, Nay, drown'd and damn'd for ever in Christian
gorct Harp, [within.'] Ha^ ha, ha ! Theoph. Again! — Whaf dainty relish on my
tongue This fruit hath left ! some angel hath me fed ; If so toothful],^ I will be banqueted. [Eats again.
Enter Harpax in a fearful shape^ fire flashing out
of the Study.
Harp. Hold!
Theoph. Not for Cassar.
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,
guard me ! What art thou ?
Harp: I am thy master.
Theoph. Mine !
Harp. And thou my everlasting slave: that Harpax, Who hand m hand hath jied tbee to thy hell. Am L
Theoph. Avaunt!
Harp. I will not ; cast thou down That basket with the things in't, and fetch up What thou hast swallowed, and then take a
drinkj Which I shall give thee^ and Fm gone.
* If 90 toothfiiU, &&] So the old copies; tht modern editions have toothsome.: it may perhaps be a better word, but should not hare been silently foisted upon the author.
THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. 107
Theoph. My fruit ! Does tnis offend thee ? see ! [Eats again.
Harp. Spit it to the earth/ And tread upon it, or Fll peieemeal tear thee. Theoph. Art thou with this affrighted ? see,
here *s more. \PulU out a handful of flowers. Harp. Fling them away, I'll take thee else, and hang thee In a contorted chain of isicles. In the frigid zone : down with them I
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
infernal, hence ! Harpi Glasp 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 rhetorte did I hunt the life Of Dorothea, the holy virgin-martyn She i$ 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.
s Harp. SpH it to the earth^'\ Tke fint ami second quartos read«/7f^, which was now beginniag t» grow obsolete^ in the succeeding one it is ipit.
♦ ■ ■ ■ ■ — put on by ^Aec— ] i. e. encouraged, instigated. So in Shakspeare :
^^ ■ Macbeth
^^ Is ripe for shaking, and the Powers aboTO
^^ Fut on their instraments."
108 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Harp. No ; I'll bind thee here. The^h. 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, [Harpaa? disappears.
Save me, and set me up, the strong defence, In the fair Christian's quarrel !
Enter Angelo.
V 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, afar greater king. [Eant. Theoph. It is, it is, some angel. Vanish'd again ! Oh, comeback, ravishingboy 1 bright messenger ! Thou hast, by these mine eyes fix'd on thy beauty, Illumined all my soul. Now look I back On my black tyrannies, which, as they did Outdare the bloodiest, thou, blest spirit, that
lead'st me,
5 this small weapon,] Meaning, I believe, th9
(( cross of flowers," which he had just found. The language and ideas of this play are .purely ca^thoUc.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 109
Teach me what I must to do, and, to do well, That my last act the best may parallel.* [Ejnt.
SCENE II.
Dioclesian's Palace.
*
Enter Dioclesian, Maximinus, the Kings of Epire, Pontus and Macedon, meeting Artemia ; Attendants.
Artem. Glory and conquest still attend upon Triumphant Caesar ! '
Diocle. Let thy wish, fair daughter, Be equally divided ; and hereafter Learn thou to know and reverence Maximinus, Whose power, withmine united, makes oneCaesar.
Mao:. 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 dull-pointed '
beauty, Stain'd by a harsh refusal in my servant. Cannot dart forth such beams as may inflame you. You may encounter such a powerful one. That with a pleasing heat will thaw your Jieart, 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 Csesar, Whom war could never tame, that with dry eyes
^ That my last act the best may parallel.^ Thus far Decker ; ^hat follows, I apprehend, was written by Massinger. In pathos, gtrength, and harmony it is not .surpassed by any passage of i;qual length) in the English language.
no THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Beheld tht large plains of Phar»alia covered
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,
A suppliant too, the magic of her eye,
Even in his pride of conquest, took nim captive :
Nor are you more secure,
Mao;. Were you deform'd, (But, by the gods, your are most excellent,) Your gravity and discretion ^ould o'ercom« me ; And I should be more proud in being prisoner To your fair virtues, tnan of all Ihd nonouTS, Wealth, title, empire, that my sword hath purchased.
Diode. This meets my wishes. Welcome it, Artemia, With outstretched arms, and study to forget That Antoninus ever was : thy fate Reserved thee for this better choice ; embrace it.
Mas J' This happv match brings new nerves to give strength To our continued league.
Diock. Hymen himself Will bless this marriage, which we-'U solemnize In the presence of these kings.
K. ofPontus. 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,
^ Max. This happi/ match &c.] The old copies gire this to the iC. of Epire ; it is evident, however, that he cannot be the speaker : I make no apology for restoring it to Maximinus.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Ill
Both they and we stand far engaged to jcheritdi His piety apd. service.
Artem. Sir, the governor Brooks sadly his son's loss, although he ttirn!d Apostata in death;" but bold Theophilus, Who for the same cause, in ttiy presence, seal'd His holy anger on his daughters' hearts ; Having with tortures first tried to convert her, Dragg'd the bewitching Christian to the scaffold, And sajv her lose her head.
Diode. He is all worthy : And from his own mouth I would gladly hear The manner how she suffered.
Artem. 'Twill be deliver'd With such contempt and scorn, (I know bis nature,) That rather 'twill beget your highness' laughter, Than the least pity.
Diock. To that end 1 would hear.it.
%
JSwfer TrtjEpBHii-us, SArFniTiua, a/i^ Macrinus.
Artem. He comes ; with him the governor. Diode. O, Sapritius, ^
I am to chide yo\x\i for your tenderness ; p^^ yZ^."^^ But yet, remembering that.yQu are a. father, ^
I will forget it. Good Theophilus^ I'll speak with you anon. — Nearer, your ear.
\to SapFiiitis. Theoph. [aside to MacrinmJ] - By Antoninus* soul, I do conjure yc\u,\ And though not for religion, for his friendship, Without demanding what's the cause that moves me,
' Apostata in death ;] Here again the modern editors, read, Apostate in ieath^ though it absolutely destroys the measure. It is Tery strange that the frequent recarrence of^thit'word ihrould not teach them to hesitale on' the prc^piety p€ .corrupt- ing it upon all occasions.
Ui THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Receive my signet :— By the power of this, Go to my prisons, and release all Christians, That are in fetters there by my command.
Mac. But what shall follow ?
Theoph. Haste then to the port ; You there shall find two tall ships ready rigg*d/ In which embark the poor distressed souls, And bear them from the reach of tyranny. Enquire not whither you are bound : the Deity That they adore will give you prosperous winds, And make your voyage such, and largely pay for Your hazard, and your travail. Leave me here ; There is a scene that I must act alone : Haste, good Macrinus ; and the ^reat God guide you 1
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 theniselves* esteem'd a sin, [^E.vit.
Diode. You know your charge ?
Sap. And will with care observe it.
Diock. For I profess he. is not Caesar's friend, That sheds a tear for any torture that A Christian suffers. Welcome, ray best servant, My careful, zealous provost! thou hasttoil'd To satisfy my will, though in extremes : I love thee for't ; thou art firm rock, no changeling. Prithee deliver, and for my sake do it, Without excess of bitterness, or scoffs. Before my brother and these kings, how took The Christian her death ?
Theoph. And such a presence. Though every private head in this large room
9 You there shall Jind two tall ships ready rig^d^ We should DOW say^ two stout ships ; but see the Unnatural Combat. *
' hy moral men themselves &c.] This is the reading Qtthe first copy : all the others haTe, mortal men.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 113
Were circled round with an imperial crown, Her story will deserve, it is so full Of excellence and w'onder.
Diocle. Ha ! how is this ?
Theoph. O ! mark it, therefore, and with that attention, As you would hear an embassy from heaven By a wing'd legate; for the truth deliver'd, Both how, and what, this blessed virgin sufFer'd, And Dorothea but hereafter named. You will rise up with reverence, and no morC; As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember What the canonized Spartan ladies were, Which lying Greece so boasts of. Your own
matrons^ 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 ?
Diocle. Why, they did die, Theophiius, 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,
* Gracchui' Cornelia^'] This passage, as printed in the old edition, is nonsense. M. Masoi^ .
This is somewhat bold in one who never saw the old editions. In Coxeter, indeed, it is printed, or rather, pointed as nonsense ; but to Ck\\\ his the old edition, is scarcely correct. The first quarto reads as in the text^ with the exception of an apostrophe accidentally misplaced; the second foUovrs it, and both are more correct than Mr. M. Mason, either in his text or note.
VOL. I. I*
114 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.
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, wko 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 ravisning sounds ?
Sap. Yet you said then 'twas witchcraft, And devilish illusions.
Theoph. I then heard it With sinful ears,and belch'd outblasphemouswordg 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 I would speak, and speak again, and boldly, I am a Christian, and the Powers you worship, But dreams of fools and madmen.
Max. Lay hands on him.
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 whatever thou hast done good or great — Thy youth did promise much ; and| grown a maii|
THE yiKGIN. MARTYR. 115
Thou mad'st it good, and, with increase of years,
Thy actions still bettered : 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 Accomptabk 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,
' Ti$ not for lift Isueior;] The modern editors omit the last for : but they are too squeamish. This reduplication was prac. tised by all the writers of oar author's time ; of which I could, if it wore necessary, gire a thousand examples ; Massinger him- self would idrnish a considerable niuober.
12*
116 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
My suit is, you would have no pity on me.
Tn mine own house there 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 :
[Exit some of' the Guard. Death shall put on a thousand shapes at once, And so appear before thee; racks, and whips I — — 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
force thee To curse the Power thou worship'st.
.- 4 The 9[2iSQ that makts him give the loudest shrUk^} 'So read all thie editions before theiast ; when Mr. M. Mason, to soit the line to his own ideas of harmony, discarded The sUgoe iot He!
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 117
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. Fm honoured in my sufferings. Weak tormentors, More tortures, more : — alas ! 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.
Diock. Harder, villains \
Enter Harp ax.
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 1 My ancient enemies again ! [Falls down.
Enter Dorothea in a white robe^ a crown upof^ her heady led in by Angelo ; Antoninds^ Calista, and Christ kt a following, all in white, but less glorious ; Angelo holds out a crown to Theophilus. »
Theoph. Most glorious vision f — Did e*er so hard a bed yiold man a dream So heavenly as this ? I am confirmed. Confirmed, yoii 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
118 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
Hasten thee now, for any pain I suffer, But that thou keep'st me from a glorious wreath, Which through this stormy way I would creep to, And, humbly kneeling, with humility wear it. Oh ! now I feel thee : — blessed spirits ! I come; And, witness for me all these wounds and scars, I die a soldier in the Christian wars. [^Dies.
Sap. I have seen thousands tortured, but ne'er yet A constancy like this.
Harp. I am twice damn'd. Ang. Haste to thy place appointed, cursed fiend !
l^Harpax sinks with thunder and lightning. In spite of hell, this soldier's not thy prey ; Tis I have won, thou that hast lost the day.
{^Exit with Dor. Sgc. Diode. I think the centre of the earth be crack'd — Yet I stand still unmoved, and will go on : The persecution that is here begun, Through all the world with violence shall run.
[Flourish. Exeunt.*
^ Mr. M. Mason capriciously deranged the order in. whicli Coxeter printed these Plays, and began vith the Picture^ a piece which bears the strongest internal marks of being a late pro-^ duction. With rtspect to the Virgin-Martyr ^ he considerably under-rates it, and indeed displays no portion of judgment in appreciating either its beauties or defects. He adopts Goxeter's idea that it was indebted for its success to the abominable scenes between HirciHS and Spungins ; pronounces the subject of the tragedy to be unpleasant, the incidents unnaturaty and the supernatural agents empl^ed to bring them about, destitute of the singularity and wildness which distinguish the fictitious beings of Shakspeare. With respect to the subject^ it is un^ doubtedly ill chosen. Scourging, racking, and beheaiding, are circumstances of no very agreeable kind ; and with the poor aids of which the stage was then possessed, must hate been somewhat worse than ridiculous. Allowing} howeyer^ for tho
V.
<,
THE VIRGIN MARTYR. 119
Agency of flupemataral beings, I scarcely see how the incldeDts which they produce can, as Mr. M. Mason represents them, be unnatural. The comparison drawn between them and the ficti- tious beings of Shakspeare is incorrect. Shakspeare has nO angels nor devils ; his wonderful judgment, perhaps, instructed him to avoid such untractable machinery. With fairies f^nd spirits he might wapton in the regions of fancy, but the cha- racter of a heavenly messenger was of too sacred a nature for wildness and singularity j and that of a fiend too horrible for the •portiveness of imagination. It appears to me, that Massinger and his associate had conceived the idea of combining the pro- minent parts of the old Mystery, with the Morality, which -was not yet obliterated from the niemoriesi nor perhaps from 'the affections, of many of the spectators: to this, I am willing to hope, and not to the ribaldry, which Mr. M. Mason so pro- perly reprobates, the great success of this singular medley might be in some measure owing. I have taken notice of many beautiful passages ; but it would be unjust to the authors to con- clude, without again remarking on the good sense and dexterity with which they have avoided the untimely concurrence of the good and evil spirit ; an error into which Tasso, and others of greater name than Massinger, have inadvertently fallen.
With a neglect of precision which pervades all the arguments of Mr. M. Mason, he declares it to be easy to distinguish the hand of Decker from that of Massinger ; yet finds a difficulty in appropriating their most characteristic language! If I have spoken with more confidence, it is not done lightly ; but from a long and careful study of Massinger's manner, and from that species of internal evidence which, though it might not perhaps sufficiently strike the common reader, is with me decisive. With respect to the scenes between the Uyo buffoons, it would be an injury to the name of Massinger to waste a single argu- ment in proving them not to be his. In saying this, I am ac- tuated by no hostility to Decker, who in this Play has many passages which evince that he wanted not talents to rival^ if ht had pleased; his friend and associate. Editor.
Notwithstanding the blemishes which have been justly ob- jected to this Play, it possesses beauties of no ordinary kind, — ^Indeed, nothing more biise and filthy can be conceived than ~ the dialogues between Hircius and Spungius ; but the genuine and dignified piety of Dorothea, her unsullied innocence, her unshaken constancy, the lofty pity which she expresses for her persecuf ors, her calm contempt of tortures, and her heroic death^ exalt the^ mind iji no common degree, and miake the
J
*"
M<
120 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
reader almost insensible of the sarroatiding tmpuritjr, throngli . the bo)y contempt of it which they inspire.
How sentiments and images thns opposite should be contained in the same piece, it is soinewhat difficult to conceive. If Decker had furnished none but the comic parts, the doubt would be soon at an end. But there is good reason to suppose that he wrote the whole of the second act: and the very first scene of it has the same mixture of loathsome beastliness and angelic purity, which are observed in those passages that are more distant from each otfler. — It is the strange and forced con. junction of Mezentius:
Morfua • • jungebat corpora vivUy Tormenti genus ; — —
The subject in general is certainly extravagant; and the intro« duction of a good and evil spirit, disguised in human shapes^ was not to be expected in what aspired to the credit of a regular tragedy. Yet it should be remembered, that poetic license ' calls in '^ a thousand liveried ajagels" to ^* lackey saintly chas- " tity ;" — that, whatever be their departure from propriety, ^such representations had a most solemn origin ; and that, with this allowance, the business in which the spirits are engaged has a substantial conformity with the opinions of the early ages in which the plot is laid. The permitted but vain op- position of the demons to the progress of the faith, and the reasoning and raillery which Dorothea expresses, under the influence of Angelo, against the pagan gods, are to be found in Justin, Tatian, Arnobius, and others.— The separate agency of the spirits, and the consequence of their personal encounter, are also described in a characteristic manner.
Apart from Angelo, Harpax seems to advance in his malig- nant work. When the daughters of Theophilus express their zeal for paganism, he '' grows fat to see his labours prosper." Yet he cannot look forward to the defeat of those labours in their approaching conversion, thougb on some occasions, we find he could '^ see a thousand leagues" in his master's service. Atid this agrees with the doctrine, that when some signal triumph of the faith was at hand, the evil spirits were abridged of their usual powers. Again^ when Harpax expects to meet Angelo, he thus expresses the dread of his presenee, and the effect which it afterwards produced on him :
« I do so hate his sight,
^^ That, should I look on him, I should sink down."
Act II. sc. 2. And this, too, perfectly agrees with the power attributed to the superior spirits of quelling the demons by those indications of
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 121
tbeir' quality wbich were not to be perceived by mortals : per occultissima signa pratsentke^ qua angelicU sensibus etiam maUgno^ rum spiriiuum, potius quam infirmitati hominum^potsunt esse perspu cua. Civ, Dei, lib. ix.
Tbe other parts of the Play do not require macb observation. Indeed, the characters of Calista and Christeta are well sus- tained. Hasty, self-confident, readily promising for their steadiness, soon forgetting their resolutions, and equally secure in every change of opinion, they are well contrasted with Dorothea, whose fixed principles always guard her against rash- ness, and therefore preserve her from, contradiction. As to Dioclesian and his captive kings, they come in and go out with little of our admiration, or our pity. Artemia's love for Anto- ninus would be wholly without interest, if we were not moved for a moment by her indignation at the rejection of her offer ; and we see her at length consigned to Maximinus with as little emotion as is shewn by themselves. This, however, is somewhat relieved by Antoninus's passion, a genuine one, for Dorothea.
Certainly there is too much horror in this tragedy. The daughters of Theophilus are killed on the stage. Theophilus himself is racked, and Dorothea is dragged by the hair, kicked, tortured, and beheaded. Its popularity must therefore in a con- siderable degree be attributed to the interest occasioned by the contrary agencies of the two spirits, to the ^^ glorious vision" of the beatified Dorothea at the conclusion of the piece, and the re- appearance of Angelo, in his proper character, with the sacred fruit and flowers, from the ^^ heavenly garden," and the ^^ crown of immortality," for Theophilus.
THE
UNNATURAL COMBAT.
The Unnatural Combat.] Of this Tragedy there is bat one edition, which was printed for John Waterson, in 1639. It does not occur in sir Henry Herbert's Office^book ; so that it is pro. bably of a yery early date : and indeed M assinger himself calls it ^^ an old tragedy." Like the Virgin-Jdartyr^ it has neither Prologue nor Epilogue, for which the author accounts in. his Dedication, by obser?ing that the play was composed at a time ^^ when such by-ornaments were not advanced abore the fabric of the whole work."
The Editors of the Biographia Dramatica speak in rapturous terms of the various excellencies of this piece, and think, ^^ that with very little' alteration, it might be rendered a valuable ac. quisition to the present stage." This I doubt : it is indeed a noble performante; grand in conception, and powerful in execution ; but the passion on which the main part of the story hingesy is of too revoltihg a nature for public representation : we may admire in the closet what we should turn from on fiie stage.
It is said, in the title-page, to have been ^^ presented by the King's Majesty's Servants, at the Globe."
TO
I
MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,
ANTHONY SENTLEGER,
OF OAKHAM IN KENT, ESQ.
SIR,
I HAT the patronage of trifies, in this kind, hath long since rendered dedications, and inscriptions obsolete^ and out of fashion, I perfectly understand, and cannot but ingenu" ously 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 J cannot (in my thankfulness for so many favours received) but be ambitious to publish them. Tour noble father, Sir Warham Sentleger (whose remarkable virtues must be ever remembered) being, while he lived, a master, for his pleasure, in poetry, feared not to hold con- verse with divers, whose necessitous fortunes made it their pro^ fession, 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 Ay ^y fi^^ ^^^ S^^^ profession of it to the world. Besides (and tt 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, peradventure, as knowing as this) when such by-ornaments were not advanced above the fabric of the whole work. Accept it, I beseech you, as it is, and continue your favour to the author,
'^vi Your Servant,
PHILIP MASSINGER.
DRAMATIS PERSONiE.
Beaufort senior y governor of Marseilles.
Beaufort jwwior, his son.
Malcfort senior j admiral o/* Marseilles.
Malefort /wwior, his son.
Chamont, ^
Montaigne, ^assistants to the governor.
Lanour, 3
Montv^vxWe^ a pretended friend to Malefort senior.
Belgarde, a poor captain^
Three Sea Captains^ of the navy o/* Malefort j'wmor
A Steward.
An Usher.
A Page.
Theocrine, daughter to Malefort senior. Two Waiting-women. Two Courtezans* A Bawd*
Servients and Soldiers.
SCENE, Marseilles.
THE
UNNATURAL COMBAT.
ACT I. SCENE I.
A Hall in the Court of Justice.
jE;i/tfr MoNTREviLLE, Theocrinb, Usher^ Page,
and Waiting-women,
Montr. Now tobe modest, madam, when youare A suitor for your father, would appear Coarser than boldness; you awhile must pari with Soft silence, and the blushings of a virgin : Though I must grant, did not this cause com- mand it, > They arc 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 stem power, We bless the means and industry.
Ush, Here's music 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
' Or eaten nandrakes.] Dr.'Hill obserres, that '' the mandrake has a soporific quality, and that it was used by the ancients "when they wanted a narcotic of a most powerful kind.'^ To this there are perpetual allusions in our old writers.
128
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT,
To this petard, it shall blow open, madam. The iron doors of a judge, and make you entrance ; When they (let them do what they can) with all Their mines, their culvcrins, and basiliscos. Shall cool their feet without; this being the
picklock That never fails.
Montr. 'Tis true, gold can do much, But beauty more. Were I the governor, Though the admiral, your father, stood convicted Of what he's only doubted, half a dozen Of sweet close kisses from these cherry lips, With some short active conference 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.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 129
Of chastity and virtue. Bid your waiters Stand further off, and Til 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 dost not understand on what strong basis This friendship's raised between this Montreville And our 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 tied, sir. My lady's garter, and can guess —
Ush, Peace, infant ; , •
* 2 Worn. Ne'er doubt itj
If it proceed from him.'] The character of Montreyille is opened with great beauty and propriety. The freedom of his language^ and the advice he gtres Theocrine, fally prepare us for any act of treachery or cruelty he may hereafter perpetrate.
♦ CL8 appears by
The increase of your high forehead.] Alluding, perhaps, to the jpreraature baldness occasioned by dealing in the commodities just mentioned j or, it may be, to the falling oif of his hair from age : so the women to Anacreon, YiAoy h aw fMrungnu
5 Ush. Here's a crack ! J A crack is an arch, sprightly boy. Thus, in the Devil's an Ass :
^' If we could get a witty boy, now,- Engine, ^' That were an excellent cracky I could instruct him " To the true height" The word occurs again in the Bashful Lffoer^ and^ indeed, in most of our old plays.
K*
130 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT^ '
Tales out of school! take heed^ you will be, breech'd else.
1 fVhm. My Udy*s colour changes.
2 IVom. She falls off too,
Theoc. You are a naughty man, indeed you are j And I will sooner perish with my father, Than at this price redeem him*
Montr. Take your own way. Your modest, legal way : 'tis not your veil, Nor mourning habit, nor these creatures taught To howl, and cry, when you begin to whimper ; Nor following my lord's coach in the dirt. Nor that which you rely upon, a bribe, Will do it, when there's somethinghe likes better. These courses in an old crone or 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 me-
* These courses in an old crone of threescore^"] This egEpressioD, which, as Johnsoa says, means on old toothless ewe, is con- temptuously used for an old woman, hj ftll the writers of Massi«ger'4 tine. Thus Shakspeftre :
" .■■ -' ' ■ taJte up the bastard;
^^ Takel up, I say ; gire't 49 thy crone,'* WhutirU T&k, And Jonson translates,
Sed mala toilet unum vitiato meUe cicuta,
^^ '— let him alone
^^ With temper'^ poison to rtmawe the crone.'' FoeUister,
^ Fw thef\ecfyceiry of a straf^gling husband^'] The old copy readv strangling. This evident mispriflt is qnoteid by Steeveiis, as an instotice oftiie irregular use ol'the active participle : strangling — he says, — -i. e. one that was to be strangled I And so languagO is confounded. Can any thing be plainer, from the context, than that Montrerille means a husband who' had abandoned his wife, and was to be brought back to her? — ButSteevens never read the pAMUiige, aiwd, probably, picked up the line^ as in a hundred other instances^ from a chance quotation.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 131
Enter Beaufort Jwwfor, and Belgarde.
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. Burn your petition, burn it ; he doats on you, Upon my knowledge : to his cabinet, do. And he will point you out a certain course, Be the cause right or wrong, to have your father Released with much facility. [Exit.
Theoc. Do you hear ? Take a pander with you.
Beauf.jun. I tell thee there is neither Euiployment yet, nor money.
Belg. I have commanded, And spent my own means in my country's service, In hope to raise a fortune.
Beazif.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 mc up A tavern, or a vaulting- house ; while men love
* The meteor o^ Marseilles,] It maf be proper to observe Ihere, once for all, that Marseilles, or, as Massinger spells it, Marsellis, is commonly ased by him as a trisyllable, which, in fact, it is.
9 ■ crowns of the sun ;] Escus de soleil^ the best kind
of crowns, says Cotgrave, that are now made ; they have a kind of little star (sun) on one side. This coin is f frequently men* tioned by our old writers.
K2»
138 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Or drunkenness, or lechery, they'll ne'er fail me : Shall I have that?
Beaiifjun. 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.
Beatif jun. That's easily decided ; My father's table's free for any man That hath born arms.
Belg. And there's good store of meat?
Beauf.jun. Never fear that.
Belg. I'll seek no other ordinary then, But be his daily guest without invitement; And if my stomach hold, I'll feed so heartily, As he shall pay me suddenly, to be quit of me.
Beauf.jun. 'Tis she.
Belg. And further ■ *
Beauf.jun. Away, you are troublesome; Designs of more weight
Belg, Ha ! fair Theocrine. Nay, if a velvet petticoat move in the front. Buff jerkins must to the rear; I know my
manners: This is, indeed, great business, mine a gewgaw.
' Philosophermlikef capry all you have about youJ] Alluding to the well-known sajing of Simonides. Omnia mea mecum porto. * ■ to Matufy colon, monsieur f'\ i. e. the crayings of
hunger : the colon is the largest of the human intestines : it fre- quently occurs in the same sense as here, in our old poets. So in the Wits :
^^ Abstain from flesh— whilst colon keeps more noise ** Than mariners at plays, or apple*wiTes, V That wrangle for a sieve/'
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 133
I may dance attendance, this must be dispatch 'd, And suddenly, or all will go to wreck; Charge her home in the flank, my lord : nay, I am gone, sir, [Ea^it.
Beauf.jun. [raising Theoc.from her knees.'] Nay, pray you, madam, rise, or I'll kneel with you.
Page. I would bring you on your knees, were I a woman.
Beatif. 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.
' An equal hearing] A just, impartial hearing ; so equal is constantly used by Massingcr and his contemporaries: thus Fletcher:
^^ What could this thief haye done, had his cause been equal/ ^^ He made my heartstrings tremble." Knight qf Malta.
134 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
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'd 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 fires, but fair and lawful flames* But I\ must be excused, 'tis now no time For me to think of Hymeneal joys. Can he (and pray you, sir, consider it) That gave me life, and faculties to love, Be, as he's now, 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 arid piety forbid it, sir.
Beauf.jun. But this efFected,andyour fatherfrcc, 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 ; Confirm it with a kiss.
Theoc. [Kissing him.'] I doubly seal it.
Ush. This would do better abed, the business ended : — They are the loving'st couple !
THE UNNATORAL COMBAT. 155
Ent£r BzAV¥o fLT'senior, Montaigne, Chamont,
Beauf.jun. Here comes my father, With the Council of War: deliver your peti- tion, 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.
Beaiif.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. Thejoc. Goodness reward you !
\JEiXeunt Theocrine^ Usher ^ P(^gCy and Women. Mont. It is apparent ; and we stay too long To censure Malefort* as he deserves.
[Tkey take their seats. Cham. There is no colour of reason that make9 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.*
^ To censure Malefort &o.] Malefwt vk b^re, 9^d gcd^^rsllj throughout the play, pruperly o^ed aa a trisjUaUa.
^ By his prad^ioil# ffMM*] }• ^n miiuUjiral, hofril^ie, portsaist
1S6 THE lETNNATURAL COMBAT.
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 before us, But seek no further favour.
Beauf. jun. Sir, I dare not. [Exit.
Beauf. sen. Monsieur Cham on t, 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
not Instructions from me, how to dispose of Yourselves in this man's trial, that exacts Your clearest judgments, give me leave, with
favour. To offer my opinion, "^e arc to hear him, A little looking back on his fair actions, Loyal, and true demeanour; not as now By the general voice already he's condemned. But if we find, as most believe, he hath held Intelligence with his accursed son,
of eWl : in ibis sense it is often applied to comets, and other extraiordinary appearances in the sky :
^' Behold yon comet shews his head again !
*' Twice hath he thus at cross turns thrown on us
*^ Prodigious looks." The Honest Whore.
Again :
'' This woman's threats, her eyes e'en red with fury,
$^ Which, like prodigious meteors, foretold
*^ Assured destruction, are still before me.'* The Captain.
* Beauf. sen. Well^ ^tis granted.] It appears, from the subse- quent speeches, that young Beaufort had been soliciting his father to allow Malefort to plead without his chains.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 137
Fallen off from all allegiance, and turned
(But for what cause wc 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 engasred 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 Beav tort junior, with Montreville, Malefort senior^ Beloarde, and Officers.
Beauf. sen. He comes, but with A strange distracted look.
7 * all compassion ^
Of what Sicc'l The quarto reads,
all compassion
Of what he was^ or may be^ if now pardon d ; Upon which Mr. M. Mason observes, ^^ This sentence as it stands is not sense ; if the words cdl compassion are right, we must necessarily suppose that bexng laid aside^ or words of a similar import, have been omitted in the printing : but the most natural manner of amending the passage, is bj reading no conu passion^ the word having being understood."
I can neither recoucilemy self to no compassion qfwhafhf; maybcy nor to all. He might, if acquitted, be af successful commander, as before, and to such a circumstance Beaufort evidently alludes. I believe that a line is lost, and with due hesitation would propose to supply the chasm somewhat in this way:
■ all compassion
Of his years pass'd over, all consideration Of what he was f or may be^ if now pardon d ; We sity &c.
138 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT;
Malef. sen. Live I once more' To see these hands and arms free ! tl^se, that
often, In the most dreadful horror of a fight, Have been as seamarks to teach such as were Seconds in my attempts, to steer between The rocks of too much daring, and pale fear, To reach the port of victory ! when my sword, Advanced thus, to my enemies 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 decki As they that saw it, with amazement cried. He dDes not run, but flies J
Mont. He still retains The greatness of his spirit
Malef. sen. Now crampt with irons, Hunger, and cold, they hardly do support me— *• But I forget myself. O, my good lords,
' Malf. sen. Livt I.ence more^ &e.] Tkewe is lomeihlng very striking in the indignant burst of savage ostentation with which this old warrior introduces himself on the seene«
» A hairy comet ^ &c.] So in Fuimus Troes:
« comets shook their Jlaming hair :
'^ Thus ail our wars were acted first on high, ^^ And we iaught what to look for.''
From this, and the passage in the iext^ Milton, who appears, by various marks of imitation, to have been a careful reader of Massinger, probably formed the magnificent and awful picture which follows :
** ' On the other side,
^^ Incensed with indignation, Satan stood ^* Unterrified, and like a comet burn'df ** That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge *^ In the arctic sky, and from his horrid AaiV " Shakes pestilence and war."—
V-
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 1S9
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 return'd loaden with spoil, You entertain'd your admiral ? all's forgotten : And I stand here to gire 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 contractpass'd between you. That, when occasion serv'd, you would join with
them, To the ruin of Marseilles ?
■^ That sit there as mjjudgesy to determine^'] My^ which com» pletes the metre, is now first inserted from the old copj,
* The eyes of him^ So the old copy : .the modern editors read eye*
^ Could with the pirates of Argiers] Argiers is the old read* ing, and is that of erery author of Massinger's time. The editon iarariably modernise it into AlgUrt.
140 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Mont: More, what urged Your son to turn apostata?*
Cham. Had he from The state, or governor, the least neglect, Which envy could interpret for a wrong ?
Lan. Or, if you slept not in your charge, hovir could So many ships as do infest our coast. And have in our own harbour shut our navy. Come In unfought with?
Beauf.jun. They put him hardly to it.
Malef. sen. My lords, with as much brevity as
I can, I'll answer each particular objection 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,
4 Your son to turn apostata?] The modern editors, as before, Yead apostate !
5 I afid I therefore
Betake him to the devil &c.] i. e. consign, make him t>Te»» See the City Madam,
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 14l
When they were boarded, and stow'fl under
hatches By the pirates of Argiers, when every minute They did expect to be chained to the oar, But your now doubted admiral ? then you filled 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 expressed 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 !
Bcauf. sen. What you have done Is granted^ and applauded ; but yet know
* Hovered with sail-stretch'd wings over their headsy] So Jonson :
« " o'er our heads
^' Black ravenous ruin, with her saihstretch^d wmgs^
*^ Readj to sink us down, and cover us.''
Everi/ Man out of his Humour ^ And Fletcher :
^^ Fix here and rest awhile your sailmStretch^d wings^
*' That hare outstript the winds." The Prophetess.
Milton, too, has the same bold expression : the original to which they are all indebted, is, perhaps^ a Sttblime passage in the Fairjf Queefiy B. I. c. xi. st. 10.
14« THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
This glorious relation' of your actions Must not 80 blind our judgments, as to suffer This most unnatural crime you stand accused of, Tp pass unquestioned.
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.
Maltf. 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 command 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, Which you in justice must ascribe to fortune. — But if that nor my former acts, nor what I have deli ver'd, 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.
T Tkis glorious relationl Our old writers frequently use thi» :irord in the sense of gloriosusy vain^ boastful^ pstentatiotts.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. US
Beauf. sen. How ! a trumpet ? Enquire the cause. [Eant Montreville.
Malef. sen. Thou searcher of men's hearts^ And sure defender of the innocent, (My other crying sins — awhile not looked on) . If I in this am guilty, strike me dead, Or by some unexpected means confirm, I am accused unjustly \ {Aside.
Re-enter Montreville mth a Sea Captain*
Beauf. sen. Speak, the motives That bring thee hither ?
Ctrpt. 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 be The ruin of his country, but aims only To wreak a private wrong : and if from you He may have leave* ah<l liberty to decide it In single combat, he'll give tip 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.
Capu Tis to you*
Beauf. sen. His father I
Montr. Can it be?
Beaif. jun. Sirange and prodigious \ '
Malef. sen. Thou seest I stand unmoved : were thy voice thunder, Itshould not shake me; say, what would the viper ?
and, if from you,
fie may have leave &c.] This passage is rery incorrectly pointed in the former editions.
144 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Capt. The reverence a father's name inay challenge, And duty of a son no more remember'd, He does defy thee to the death.
Makf. sen. Go on.
Capt. And with bis sword will prove it on thy head, Thou art a murderer, an atheist ; And that all attributes of men turn'd furies, Cannot express, thee : this he will make good, If thou dar'st give him meeting.
Malef. sen. Dare I live ! Dare I^ when mountains of my sins o'erwhelm
me, At, my last gasp ask for mercy ! How I bless Thy coming, captain ; never man to me Arrived so opportunely; and thy message, However it may seem to threaten death, Does yield to me a second life in curing My wounded honour. Statid 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 Brutus, The father of the Roman liberty,* With more assured constancy beheld His traitor spns, for labouring to calf 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.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 145
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 considerM, We would not so expose you.
Malef. sen. Then you kill me, Under pretence to save me. O my lords, As you love honour, and a wrong'd man's
fame, Deny me not this fair and noble means To make me right again to all the world. Should any other but myself be chosen To punish this apostata with death,* You rob a wretched father of a justice That to all after times will be recorded, I wish his strength were centuple, his skill
equal To my experience, that in his fall He may not shame my victory I 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. — M you do affect,
sir, My daughter Theocrine ;* as you are
*. Tojptim«A this apostata with death^l Both the editors read, To punish this apostate son with death I Here is the mischief of altering an author's language. When the metre does not suit our 'newfangled terms, we are obliged to insert words of our own, to complete it. Apostata stood in the Terse very well; but Coxeter and M. Mason having determined to write apostate^ found themselves compelled to tack son to it, and thus enfeebled the original expression.
* My daughter Theocrine ;] Theocrine is used us a quadrisyl- lable. It should be observed that as the story and the names are French, Massinger adopts the French mode of enouncing them. The reader must bear this in mind. VOL. I. L •
146 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
•
. My true and ancient friend ; as thou art valiant;* And as all love a soldier, second me
\They all sue to the governor. In this my just petition. In your looks I see a grant, my lord.
Beauf\ sen. You shall o'erbear me ; And since you are so confident in your cause, Prepare you for the combat. Malef. sen. With more joy Than yet I ever tasted : by the next sun^ The disobedient rebef 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 mak^ doubt, But his impiety is a potent charm, To edge my sword, and add strength to ray arm.
[Ejceunt.
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 overjoy'd in't ; and, ^s it had been A fair invitement to a solemn feast. And not a combat to conclude with death, He cheerfully embraced it.
' as thou ^art valiant;} This is said to the captain
who brought the chaUenge : the other persons adjured are youog Beaufort, and Montreville. It appears, from the pointing of the former editions, that the passage was not understood.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 147
3. Capt. Are the articles Sign'd to on* both parts?
1. Cap. At the father's suit,
With much unwillingness the governor Consented to them.
2. Capt. You are inward with
Our admiral; could you yet never learn What the nature of the quarrel is, that renders The son more than incensed, implacable, Against the father?
1. Capt. Never; yet I have,
As far as manners would give warrant to it. With my best curiousncss of care observed him. I have sat with him in his cabin a day together,* Yet not a syllable exchanged between us. Sigh he did often, as if inward grief And melancholy at that instant would Choke up his vital spirits, and now and then A tear or two, as in derision of The toughness of his rugged temper, would Fall on his hollow cheeks, which but once felt, A sudden flash of fury did dry up ; And laying then his hand upon his sword. He would murmur, but yet so as I oft heard him, We shall meet, cruel father, yes, we shall ; When I'll exact, for every womanish drop Of sorrow from these eyes, a strict accompt Of much more from thy heart.
2. Capt. 'Tis wondroys 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,
^ I have sat with him in his cabin &c.] This beautiful passage, expressing concealed resentment, deserves to be remarked bj every reader of taste and judgment. Coxeter.
•Ls
148 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
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 th« reward, His will made known, he does retire himself To his private contemplation, no joy Expressed by him for victory.
Enter Ma lefoet junior.
S. Capt. Here he comes. But with more cheerful looks than ever yet I saw him wean
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, aqd but too well know
0
3 Nor must I stagger now [in't].] In the old copy, a. syllable has dropt out, which renders the line quite finmetricaL I hare no great confidence in the genuineness of what is inserted be- tween brackets : It is harmless, however, and senres, as Fal* staff says, to fill a pit as well as a better.
^ It adds to my calamity^ that I have
IKscourse and reason^ It is Tery difficult to determine the precise meaning which our ancestors gave to discourse ; or to
THE UNNATUBAL COMBAT. 149
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 viewed
All kinds of his inevitable darts.
Nor are they terrible. Were I condemned 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,
distifignish the line which separated it from reason. Perhaps, it isdicaled a more rapid deduction •»£ consequences from premises, than was supposed to be effected by reason : — but I speak witii hesitation. The acate GlanriUe says* ^^ The act of the mind which connects propositions, and deduceth conclusions from them, the schools call dUcourscy and we shall not miscall it, if we name it reason/^ Whateyer be the sense, it frequently ap- pears in our old writers, by whom it is usually coupled with^ reason or judgment j which last should seem to be the more proper word. Thus in the City Madam :
" ■ ** Such aff want
'< Discourse BJidJudgment^ and through weakness fidl^ ^^ May merit mea's compassion/' Again in the Coxcomb :
^' Why should a man that has discourse and reason^ '^ And knows how near he loses all in these things, ^^ Co? et to haye his wishes satisfied ?** The reader remembers the exclamation of Hamlet,
^^ Oh heayen ! a beast that wants discourse of reason,'' &e« " This," says Warburton, who contriyed to blunder with more ingenuity than usually falls to the lot of a commentator, ^^ is finely expressed, and with a philosophical exactness. Beasts want not reason^'' (this is a new discoyery,) *^ but the discourse of reason ; i. e. the regular inferring one thing from another by the assistance of universals."' Discourse of reason is so poor and perplexed a phrase, that, without regard for the '' philosophical exactness" of Shakspeare, 1 should dismiss it at once, for what I belieye to be his genuine language :
'^ 0 hearen ! a beast that wants discourse and reason," &c.
150 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
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 honoured, now my deadliest enemy ; The last is, if I fall, to bear my body Far from this place, and where you please in- ter it. — I should say more, but by his sudden coming
I am cut off.
Enter BEAVfORT junior and Mo^t rev ille, lead- ing in Malefort senior; Belg arve follawtngy 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 out tried friendship Hath lasted from our infancy.
Belg. I have served Under your command, and you have seen me
fight, ^5
And handsomely, though I say it ; and if now. At this downright game, I may but hold your
cards, I'll not pull down the side.
and if now f
At this downright game^ I may but hold your cards. Til not pull down the side.] i. e. I'll not injure your cause ; the same expression occurs in the Grand Duke of Florence: ^' Coz, Vt2Lj you pause a little. " If I hold yoar cards, 1 shall j^W/ down the hide; " I am not good atihe game." The allusion is to a party at cards : to set up a side, was to become partners in a game ; to pull or pluck down a side, (for both
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 151
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 diflFerence determined, Your favours meetmv wishes.
Malef. jun, 'Tis approved of By me ; and I command you [To his Captains.^
lead the way. And leave me to my fortune.
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. c
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.
these terms are found in our old plays) was to occasion its loss by ignorance or treachery. Thus, in the ParsorCs Wedding :
<^ Pkas, A trfiitor ! bind him, he has ptdPd down a side." And in the Maid^s Tragedy :
^' Evad. Aspatia, take her part. " Dela. T will refuse it, ^^ She wil] pluck down a side^ she does not use it.^'
152 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Malef.jun. Embrace with love on both sides, and with us Leave deadly hate and fury.
Male/, sen. From this place You ne^er shall see both living.
Belg. What's past help, is Beyond prevention.
[They embrace on both sides:, and take leave severally of the father and son.
Malefi sen. Now we are alone, sir ; And thou hast liberty to unload the burthen Which thou groan'st under. Speak thy griefs.
Malefjun. 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 f<^ce me to deliver, So I were nothing ! As you are my father, I bend my knee, and, uncompell'd, profess My lif?, and all that's mine, to be your gift ; ' -And that in a son's duty I stand bound To lay this head beneath your feet,, and run All desperate hazards for your ease and safety : But this confest on my part, I rise up. And not#s with a father, (all respect. Love, fear, and reverence cast oflf,) but as A wicked man, I thus expostulate with you. Why have you done th^t which I dare not speak. And in the action changed the humble shape Of my obedience, to rebellious rage. And insolent pride? and with shut eyes con-
strain'd me To run my bark of honour on a shelf I must not see, nor, if I saw it, shun it? In my wrongs nature suffers, and looks backward, And mankind trembles to see me pursue What beasts would fly from. For when I advance
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 153
This sword, as I must do, against your head, Piety will weep, and filial duty mourn. To see their altars which you bailt qp in me. In a moment razed and ruin'd. That you could (From my grieved soul I wish it) but produce, To quality, 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 mu«t give account Of my actions to my son ? or must I plead As a fearful prisoner at the bar, while he That owes his bein^ to me sits a judge To censure that, wnicb only by myself Ough;^ to be questioned? 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 disdainhtg argument I Since, though my deeds wore hell's black livery, To thee they should appear triumphal robes, Set ofi^ 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.
Midef. jun. This sword divides that slavish knot.
Malef. sen. It cannot : It cannot, wretch ; and if thou but remember From whom thou hadst this spirit, thou dar'st not
hope it. Who train'd thee "up in arms but I? Who taught thee
^ That you could, SfC.'] 0 thaty &c. This omission of the sign of the optattTe^interjection is common to all oar old dra- matists.
154 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Men were men only 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 bast 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, ungrate- ful, 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. Nay, now my anger's up, Ten thousand virgins kneeling at my feet. And with one general cry howling for mercy, Shall not redeem thee.
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.
IThty fight.
^ i till plumed Victory
Had made her constant stand upon their helmets f ] This noble image seems to have been copied by Milton, who describing Satan, says,
^' His stature reach'd the sky, and on his crest ^' Sat Horror plumed ;*' And^ in another place :
" at his right hand Victory
*' Sat eagle^wing'd,*^ — , The whole speech of Malefort here noticed is truly sublime^ and above ail commendation. Coxeter.
F'-
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 1 55
BEAUFORTJWWfor,MoNTREVlLLE,BELGAllDEjtfwJ
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 cock.
J. Capt. That was a strange miss.
Beauf.jun. That a certain hit.
[Young Makfort 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*
I. 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.
[They retire.
Malef. sen. Were a new life hid in each mangled limb, I would search, and find it : and howe'er tosome I may seem cruel thus to tyrannize Upon this senseless flesh, 1 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 discovered, or the cause That call'd this duel on, I being above^
156 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
All perturbations; nor is it in
The power of fate, again to make me wretched.
Re-enter Be Avtonrjuniory Monteeville, Bel- GARDEy and the three Sea Captains.
Beauf.jun. All honour to the conqueror! who dares tax My friend of treachery now ?
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 hi^h-swoU'n tide of happiness, you have
purchased This honour at a high price.
Makf. 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 hpr 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 submissioB, might perhaps have pardon'd,) And grew his country's enemy, 1 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
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 157
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.*
Beatif.jun. 'Tis too true, sir, 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 tJiank 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 snail have A soldier's funeral.
[The Captains bear the body off] with sad rmme, Malef. Farewell !
' For most remSLTkMe vices, 1 RemarkablelkSid inMassinget\ time a more dignified sound, and a more appropriate meaning^ than it bears at present. With him it constantly stands for surprising, highly striking, or obserfable in an uncommon degree ; of this it will be well to take notice.
\5S THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Beauf.jun. Thes^ 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, Whrch he at all parts merits.
Maltf. I am honoured Beyond my hopes.
Beauf.jun. 'Tis short of your deserts. Lead on : oh, sir, you must ; you are too modest.
. [Ejteunt with loud music.
SCENE IL
A Roam in Malefort's House. Enter Theocrine, Page, flfwrf Waiting-women.
Theoc. 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. fFom. You must bear it With patience, madam.
. 2. PFom. 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.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 159
And in a new way, never yet found out By old Caranza.*
1. JVom. May he be victorious, And punish disobedience in his son ! Whose death, in reason, should at no part move you. He being but half your brother, and the nearness Which that might challenge from you, forfeited By his impious purpose to kill hjm, from whom He received life. [A shout witfun,
2- fFom. A general shout
1. fFom. Of joy.
Page. Lookup, dear lady; sad news never came Usher'd with loud applause. ^
Theoc. I stand prepared To endure the shock of i(.
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 slaiu; The pirates gone : and by the goveraor. And states, and all the men of war, he is Brought home in triumph : — nay, no musing, pay
me For my good news hereafter.
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 -rope ! [Exeunt.
9 % old Caranza.'\ See ike Guardian^ Vol. IV.
leo THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
SCENE III. A Street.
Loud musk. Enter Montbevillx, Bbigardx, Beaufort senior^ Beaufort jauwr; Male- vonTy followed by Montaigne, Chamont, and Lanour.
Btauf. ten. All honours we can give you, and rewards, Though all that's rich or precious in Mai^lles 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 of 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 any thing within our power to give,* Which you injustice may not boldly challenge.
Lan. And as your own ; for we will ever be At your devotion.
Malef. Much honour'd sir. And you, my nobljB lords, I can say only. The greatness of your favours overwhelms me,
■ There s any thing within our power to give^'] The old copy incorrectly reads, There's any other thiag &c. and in tlie next speech, overwhelm for overwhelms — the last is so common a mode of expression, that I should not hare corrected it, if sinks had not immediately followed.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. I6l
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 allowance, 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, 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 laboured to obtain from you. O sir, why arc 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
VOL. I. * M
162 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
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 I 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? 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 pur 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
THE UNNAtURAL COMBAT. 168
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 oh thy cheek ; how it takes
from Our present happiness ! with a father's lips, A loving father's lips, I'll kiss it off, The cause no more remcmber'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 allowed 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 evefy glance stored Cupid's emptied
• quiver.
Such fuby 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,
* And tuck a lately bloom,] For this reading we are indebted
to Mr. M. Mason. All the former editions read brown ; vrhich the cooclading linei of this beautiful speech incontestibly pro?« to be a mlsprijDt*
*M2
164 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
/
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 her, Must 6f necessity raise new desires 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 mucn credit; when I make her yours, I do possess you of a gift, which I With much unwillingness part from. My good
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 dcck'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 Beaufort and the rest. My dearest Theocrine, give me thy hand, I will support thee.
Ttieoc. 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!
[Ejceunt several ways.
THE UNNATURAL CQMBAT. 165
ACT III. SCENE I.
1
A Banqueting-room in Beaufort's Hotue. Enter Beau fort senior^ and Steward..
Beauf. sen. Have you been careful ?
Stew. With my best endeavours. Let them bring stomachs, there's no want of
meat, sir. 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 friends 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. 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^
3 I must not have my board peaterd with shadows,] It was con- tidered, Plutarch days, as a mark of politeness, to let an invited guest know that he was at liberty to bring a friend or two with him ; a permission that was, however, sometimes abased. These friends the Romans called shadows^ (^umbroty) a term which Massinger has Tery happily explained.
165 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
I'll undertake, to stand at push of pile , With an enemy in a breach, that undermined too. And the cannon p^ayins^ on it, than to stop One harpy, your perpetual guest, from entrance, When the dresser, the cook's drum, thunders,
Come on, The service will be lost else !*
Beauf. sen. What is he?
Stew. As tall a trencherman,* that is most Certain, As e'er demolish 'd pye-fortification As soon as batter'd ; and if the rim of his belly Were not made up of a much tougher stuff Than his buft jerkin, there were no defence Against the charge of his guts : you needs must
kuow him, He's eminent for his eating.
Beauf. sen. O, Belgarde!
* When the dresser^ the cook's drum^ thunders^ Come on^ The service will he lost else /] It was formerlj customary for the cook, when dinner was neady, to knock on the dresser with his knife, by wa) of summoning the serfants to carry it into the hall ; to this there are many allusions. In i/ie Merry Beggars^ Old-rents says, " Hark ! they knock to the dresser.** Servants were not then allowed, as at present, to frequent the kitchen, lest they should interfere with the momentous con- cerns of tiie cook. Mr. Heed says that this practice '^ was continued in the family of Lord Fairfax'' (and doubtless in that of many others) '' after the civil wars: in that nobleman's orders for the servants of his household, is the following : Then must he warn^to the dresser. Gentlemen and yeomen, to the dresser.* Old Plays, xii, 430.
s Stew. As tall a trencherman^ &c.] Tall, in the language of our old writers, meant stout, or rather bold and fearless.; but they abused the word (of which they seem fond) in a great variety of senses. A tall man of' his hands was a great fighter ; a tall man of his tongue, a licentious speaker ; and a tall man of his trencher, or, as above, a tall trencherman^ a hearty feeder. In- stances of these phrases occur so frequently, that it would be a waste of time to dwell upon them.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 167
Stew. The same; one of the admirars cast captains. Who swear/ there being no war, nor hope of any, Th^ 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. BeauJ. sen. The more their misery ; yet, if you can. For this day put him oiF/
Stew. It is beyond The invention of man.
Btauf. sen. No : — say this only, \Whispers to him. And as from me; you apprehend me? Ste^K 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. [Ejcit^
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
lackies, Or scramble in the rushes.
Enter Belgarde,
Belg. Tis near twelve;
^ Who swear, &c.] So the old copy : the modern editors re^A swears y than which nothing can be more injudicious.
' Beauf. sen. The more their misery ; yety if you can,
For this d/iy put him iiff^ This has been hitherto giyen as an imperfect speech ; why, it is difficult to imagine*
» ; — « but let the music
And banquet be prepared here.} That is^ the dessert. See the City Madam. Vol. IV.
168 I'HE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
I keep a watch within me never misses. — , Save thee, master steward !
Stew. You are most welcome, sir.
Belg. 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.
Belg. 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 has 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 then I'll walk a mile to hear thee.''
Stew. Nay, good sir, I will be brief and pithy.
Belg. Prithee be so.
Steiv. 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
^ Or rather after supper ; willingly then
lUl walk a mile to hear thee.] Alluding to the good old pro- Terb, which inculcates temperance at this meal, by recom. mending a walk after it.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 1^9
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 your 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
you ; Nor will you with impertinent relations. Which is a master-piece when meat's before you, Forget your 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.
' A B3LJ cf venison^'] i.e. a taste, a proof, a sample. It has been notified to me that the word should be printed with a mark of elision, as if it were corrupted from as$a^ : bat the truth is, that the corruption, if there be any, is in the latter wordi The expression is so common that I should not havs Boticed it, but as it tends to my own justification :
** but pray do not
*' Take the first say of her yourself." Chapman,
^' So good a say in?ites the eye
'^ A little downward to espy.'' Sir P. Sidney.
** Wolsey makes dukes and erles to serve him of wine, with a say taken." Holings,
'^ I could cite more, but these shall suffice for a say** Old Translation of the Andria.
iro THE UNNATURAL COMBAT-
_ •
111 all things else, and every day can vary Your actions and discourse, continue constant To this one suit.
Btlg. To one ! 'tis well I have one, Uupawn'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 reason Your ne'er presume to sit above the salt ;* And therefore, this day, our great admiral, With other states, being invited guests, lie does entreat you to appear among them. In some fresh habit.
Btlg. 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.
* You ne*er presume to di above the salt ;J This refers to the manner in which oar ancestors were usually seated at their meals The tables being long, the salt was commonly placed about the middle, and serred as a kind of boundary to the diffe- rent quality of the guests invited* Those of distinction were ranked above ; the space below was assigned to the dependents, inferior relations of the master of the house, Sec. It argues little for the delicacy of our ancestors, that they should admit of such distinctions at their board ; but, in truth, they seem to bave placed their guests below the salt, for no better purpose than that of mortifying them. Nixon, iit his Strange Footpostj (F. 3.) gives a very admirable account of the miseries ^^ of a poor scholar," (Hall's well known satire, ^^ A gentle squire/* Sec. is a versification of it,) from which I have taken the following characteristic traits : ^^ Now as for his fare, it is lightly at the cheapest table, but he must sit under the saltj that is an axiome in such places: — then having drawne his knife leisurably, un- folded his napkin mannerly^ after twice or thrice wyping his beard, if he have it^-iie may reach the bread on his knife's point, and fall to his porrige, and between every sponefull take as much deliberation, as a capon craming, lest he be out ofhisporm rige before they have burkd part of their jfirst course in their bellies**'
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 171
Belg. I would I were acquaiated with thcj
players, In charity they might furnish me : bat there i? 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; I will obey him : And though my wardrobe's poor, rather than lose His compariy at this feast, I will put on The richest suit I have, and fill the chair That makes me worthy of.' [Ejcit.
^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
utmost Of his ambition : adieu, good captain. [jEj;«V.
SCENE II.
The same. Enter Beaufort senior, and Bi,avvokt junior.
Beattf. 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 ;,
and Jill the chair
That makes me worthy of.] This too has been hitherto printed as an imperfect sentence; but, surely without necessity. The meaning is, ^' I will fill the chair of which that (i. e. the richest ffuit I have) makes me worthy/*
173 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
But to observe how curious he is
In his own person, to add ornament
To his daughter'ar 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 on 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,
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 173
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,
\^Loud music. And careful of my good :- — by the loud music, As you gave order, for his entertainment, lie'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, Montaigne, Chamont, La-
NOUR, MONTREVILLE, ThEOCRINE, Ushcr,
Page, and Waiting-women.
Beauf. 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 hou^e.
Beauf. jun. The favour Is doubled on my part, most worthy sir. Since your fair daughter, my incomparable
mistress, Deigns us her presence.
Malef. View her well, brave Beaufort,
an impotent loDer
Oftoomenfor a flashy &€.] Wild, fierce, uncontrollable in his passions ; this is a Latiniun^ impotess amom^ and is a rery strong •zpression.
174 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT,
But yet at distance ; you hereafter may Make your approaches nearer, when the pri^t Hath made it lawful : and were not she mine, I durst aloud proclaim it, Hymen never Put on his saffron- colourM robe, to change A barren 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.
Beatif. sen. Being herself, She cannot but be excellent ; these rich And curious dressings, which in others might Cover deformities, from 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 ap«-
pareat, That, losing her qwn servile shape and name, She will* be thought Detraction : but I Forget myself; and something whispers to mfe, I have said too much.
Mont. I know not what to think on't. But there's some mystery in it, which 1 fear Will be too soon discovered,
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.
THE UNNATtJilAL COMBAT. 17^
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 Beaiifort senior^ Male* forty Theocrinej Beaufort junior^ Montaigne^ Chamonty Lanour^ Montreville.
Ush. Would I had been born a lord !
1. IVom. 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, Arc 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 ?
Ush. Why, had I been born a lord, I had be6n no servant.
1. Worn. And whereas now necessity makes us waiters, We had been attended on.
9. IVom. And might have slept then ^
As long as we pleased, and fed when we had
stomachs. And worn new clothes, nor lived as now, in hope Of a cast gown, or petticoat.
Page. You are fools, ;^ud ignorant of your happiness. Ere I was
' Mont^ So the old copy : it mnst, howerer, be a nistak* for Thepc. or rather, perhaps^ for Mtd^.
176 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Sworn to the pantoflei* I have heard my tutor Prove it by logic, that a servant's life Was better than his master's ; and by that I learn 'd from him, if that my memory fail not, ril make it good.
Ush. Proceed, my little wit In decimo sexto.
Page, Thus then : From the king To the beggar, by gradation^ all arc 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 bound to sooth Every grim sir above him :' if he frown, For the least neglect you fear to lose your place ; But if, and with all slavish observation, From the minion's self, to the groom of his close- stool. He hourly seeks not favour, he is sure To be eased of his office^ though perhaps he bought it.
Ere I was
Sworn to the paatofle,] i. e taken from attending in the por- ter*s lodge, (which seems to hare been the first degree of servi- tude,) to wait on Theocrine.
7 ' he is bound to sooth
Every grim sir above him :^ Grim sir, Mr. Dodsley injudici- ously altered to trim sir ; for this he is honoured with the ap* probation of Coxeter ; though nothing can be more certain than that the old reading is right. Skelton calls WoJsey a grim sire^ and Fletcher has a simitar expression in the Elder Brother :
*' Cowst/. It is a faith *^ That we will die in ; since from the blackguard ^' To the t^rim sir, in office^ there are few <^ Hold other tenets/'
r
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 177
Nay, more ; that high disposer of all such
That are subordinate to him, screes 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 leamd'st thou this morality ?
Page. Why, thou dull pate. As I told thee, of my tutor.
2. Worn. Now for us, boy.
Page. I am cut off: — the governor.
Enter Beaufort seni(yr and Be av fort junior; Servants setting forth a banquet.
Beauf. sen. Quick, quick, sirs. See all things perfect.
Serv. Let the blame be ours else.
Beauf. sen. And, as I said, when we ate 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 wrth't.
VOL.1. N*
178 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
t
Beauf. sen. Nay, dispatch there, fellows.
[Kveunt Beaufort senior and Beauf ort junior. Serv. Wq 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. [EMunf.
SCENE III. The same. A Banquet set forth.
Loud music. Enter Beaufort senior^ Malefort, Montaigne, Chamont, Lanour, Beaufort, junior^ Montreville, ^y^rf Servants.
Beauf sen. You are not merry, sir. Malef Yes, my good lord. You have given us ample means to drown all
cares : — And yet I nourish strange thoughts, which I
would Most willingly destroy. [Aside.
Beauf sen. Pray you, take your place.
• Sweet forms, &c.] This is a paltry play on words. Th# foiiyns meant by the servant, are the benches on which the guests were to sit^ The trite pedantry of the speech is well exposed by the Page.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 179
Beaufjun. 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 honour, 1 will begin it.
Qham. May we know her name, sir ?
Malef, You shall ; I will not choose a foreign queen's, Nor yet our ov\hi, for that would relish of Tame flattery; nor do their height of title, Or absolute power, confirm their worth and
goodness, These being heaven's gifts, and frequently con-
ferr'd On such as are beneath them ; nor will I Name the king's mistress, howsoever she In his esteem may carry it : but if 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.
[Drinks.
Mont. What may we think of this ?
Beauf. sen. It matters not.
Lan. For my part, I will sooth him, rather than Draw on a quarrel.'
9 J)raw on a quarrel.] This has hitherto been printed, Draw on a quarrel j Chamont ; and the next speech giren to MontreTille. It is not very probable that the latter should re- ply to an observation addressed to Chamont, with whom he dueg not appear to be familiar : and besides, the excess of metre seems
180 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Cham. It is the safest coarse; 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 1 in some lofty strain ; the song too That I gave order for ; the new one, call'd The Soldier's Delight » [Mtisic and a song.
Enter Belgarde in armour^ a case of carbines by
his side.
Belg. Who stops me now ? Or who dares only say that I appear not In the most rich and glorious habit that Renders a man complete ^ What court so set off With state and ceremonious pomp, but, thus Accoutred, 1 may enter? Or what feast, Though all the elements at once were ransack'd To store it with variety transcending The curiousness and cost on Trajan's birthday ; (Where princes only, and confederate kings, Did sit as guests, served and attended on By the senators of Rome,) at which* a soldier.
to prove that the name has slipt from the margin of the succeed- ing line into the text of this.
* - ■ at which a soldier^ &c.] The old copy reads,
9at with a soldier. The emendation, which is a very happy one, was made by Mr. M. Mason. The corruption is easily accounted for : the printer mistook the second parenthesis for an/, and haT« ing given fat for af , was obliged to alter the next word, to make sense of the line. This will be understood at once by a reference
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 181
*
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 ?
Btauf. sen. 'Tis acknowledged ; And this a grace done to me unexpected.
Mont. But why in armour ?
Makf. What's the mystery ? Pray you, reveal that.
^Belg. Soldiers out of action, m
That very rare ***** ^
* * * * ^ jj^j^^ ijj^g unbidden guests. Bring their stools with them, for their own de- fence,
to the quarto, where the first parenthesis only appears, which wa» therefore omitted b j the sacceeding editors. I know not where Massinger fonnd this anecdote of Trajan ; he was, indeed, a magnificent, and, in some cases, an ostentatious prince ; but neither his pride, nor his prudence, I believe, would have al- lowed the '' senators of Rome'' to degrade themselves by wait* ing on the allies of the republic.
* Belg. Solditrs out of actiouy
That very rare *******
* * * * ^e> * i^f. ii]^g unhidden guests^
Bring their stools with them, &c.] So I have ventured to print this passage, being persuaded that a Une is lost. The breaks * cannot be filled up, but the sense might be. Soldiers out of action^ that very rarefy find seats reserved for them, i. e. are invited^ but like, &c. How the modern editors understood this passage^ I know not, but they all give it thus :
Belg. . Soldiers out of action^ That very rarcy but like unbidden guests Bring &c.
T.he«singular custom of uninvited or unexpected guests bring, ing seats with them, is frequently noticed by the writers of Mas* singer's time. Thus Rowley : '' Widow. What copesmate's this trow V (speaking of Young, who had just taken aplace at table,) <^ Who let him in ? Jarvis. By this light, a fellow of an excellent breeding ! he came unbidden, and brought his stool with kimJ' Match at Midnight. And it appears, from a subsequent sf ene^ that this was really the case^ for Jarvis says^ ^^ What tlTink yoa
182 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
At co\irt should feed in gauntlets ;* they may havtf Their fingers cut else : there your carpet knights. That never charged heyond a mistress' lips, Are still most keen, and valiant. But to you,
of the irentleman (Young) that brought a stool with him out of the hall, and sat down at dinner witbtyou in the parlour?''
It is probable that the practice originated in n^^cessitj. Our ancient houses were not much encumbered with furniture, and the little which they had, was moTed from place to place at occasion required ; an unexpected guest, therefore, was obliged to provide for his own accommodation. A singular instance of this occurs in the story of Ursini^ duke of Brachiano. The circumstance, which is matter of fact, is thus tpld in Webster's White Devil:
Fron, A chair there for his lordship! Brack, [laying a rich gown under Aim] Forbear^ Forbpar your kindness ; an unbidden guest Should travel as Dutch women go to church, Bear their stool with them.
It is likewise noticed by Howell, in a passage almost too solemn for this occasion. Of th« Holy Sacrament, and the Soul, he says :
*' She need not bring her stoolj As some unbidden fool ; The master of this beavenly feast Invites and wooi her for his guest.''
Lib, iii. lett, 4« J .jof lJii;glf 0117^ defence J
At court should feed in gauntlets ; they may have Their fingers cut else :] Here is the bon-mot for which Quin was 80 much celebrated ; that '^ at city feasts it was neither safe nor prudent to help one's self without a basket-hilted knife.'' Massinger got it, I suppose, from -Barclay's second Eclogue^ which has great merit for the tim* in which it was written :
^' If the dishe be pleasannt eyther fleshe or fishe,
^^ Ten handes at once swarme in the dishe
*^ To put there thy handes is peril without fayle, ^^ Without a gauntlet^ or els a-glove ofma^le; ^^ Among all those knives, thou one of both must haye, *' Or eU it is harde thy fingers to save.''
Where Barclay found it, I cannot tell ; but there is sdmething of the kind in Diogenes Laertius. ^^ There it nothing new under the sun !"
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 183
Whom it does roost concern, my lord, I will Address my speech, and, with a soldier's freedom, In my reproof, return the bitter scoff You threw upon my poverty : you contemn'd My coarser outside, and from that concluded (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 fervpur 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, Yet scorn'd to take impression from their fury : With this, as still you see it, fresh and new, I've charged through fire that would have singed
your sables. 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 offcasts,* 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^ilks you wear, we with our blood spin for
\ you ; •
This massy plate, that with the ponderous weight Does make your cupboards crack, we (unaf-
frighted With tempests, or the long and tedious way,
184 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Or dreadful monsters of the deep, that wait With open jaws still ready to devour us,) Fetch from the other world. Let it not then, In after ages, to your shame he 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,* Sucl> as you long have wish'd for. And the rest Of your profession, like you, discontented For want of means, shall, in their presentjpay ment^ 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.
* hut spring up fruity'] i. e. cause it to spring np.
This sense of the word is familiar to Massinger and his contem- poraries.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 185
Lan. I could wish it more.
Belg. This is the luckiest jest ever came from me. I et 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.l — 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. [Kvit.
Beauf. sen. You are dull, sir, And seem not to be taken with the passage You saw presented.
Malef. Passage ! I observed none, My thoughts were elsewhere busied. Ha! she is In danger to be lost, to be lost for ever. If speedily I come not to her rescue. For so my genius tells me.
Montr. What chimeras Work on your fantasy ?
Malef. Fantasies ! they are truths. Where is my Theocrine? you have plotted To rob me of my daughter ; bring me to her. Or I'll call dqwn the saints to witness for me, You are inhospitable.
Beauf. sen. You amaze me. Your daughter's safe, and now exchanging
courtship With my son, her servant.* Why do you hear this
* Your daughter's safe^ and now exchanging courtship
With mi/ son, her senrant*] Servant was at this time the in-
1H6 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
With such distracted looks, since to that end You brought her hither?
Malef. 'Tis confessed I did ; But novv^, pray you, pardon me ; and, if you please. Ere she delivers up her virgin fort, I would observe what is the art he uses In planting his artillery against it : ' She is my only care, nor must she yield. But upon noble terms.
Beauf. sen. 'Tis so determined.
Malef. Yet I am jealous,
Mont. Overmuch, I fear. What passions are these ? \^Aside.
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.
Enter Beavtokt junior, andTuEoCRi^E.
Beattf. 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,
tariable term for a suitor, who, in return, called the object of his addresses, mistress. Thus Shirley, (one example for all,)
^' Bon. What's the gentleman she has married?
*' Serv. A man of pretty, fortune, that has been ^' Her servant many years.
" Bon, How do you mean, '^ Wantonly, or does he serve for wages?
" Serv. Neither; I mean her suUor.'^ Hyde Park.
THE UNNATUHAL combat., 187
That your excess supplies my want, and makes me Strong in ray weakness, which could never be, But in your good opinion.
Theoc. You teach me, sir, What I should say ; since from your sun of favour, 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 niy 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.
Ent^ at a distance Beaufort senior^ Malefort, MoNTREviLLE, and the rest.
Beauf. sen. Yonder they are.
Malef. At drstance 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 ?
Th^oc. 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!
188 THE UNNATUfeAL COMBAT.
Malef. This is more Than I can give consent to.
Beattf.jun. And a kiss Thus printed on your lips, will not distaste you r*
Makf, Her lips !
Montr. Why, where should he kiss? are you distracted ?
Beattf.jun. Then, when this holy man hath made it lawful [Brings in a Priest.
Malef. A priest so ready too I I must break in.
BeauJ.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 I know not.
Beauf.jun. I'll instruct you.
Malef. O how my blood boils !
Montr. Pray you, contain yourself ; Methinks his courtship's modest/
Beaufjun. Then being mine, And wholly mine, the river of your love To kinsmen ^nd allies, nay, to your father, (Howe'er out of his tenderness he admires you,) Must in the ocean of your affection To me, be swallow'd up, and want a name^ Compared with what you owe me..
Theoc. 'Tis most fit, sir.
^ Beauf. Jan. And a kiss
Thus printed on your lips^ will not distaste you f\ i. e. displease yov> : the ivord perpetually recurs in this sense.
7 Methinks his courtship's modest."] For his the modern editdrs have this. The change is unnecessary. The next speech, as Mr. Gilchrist obserres, bears a distant resemblance to the first fionnet of Daniel to Delia :
" Unto the boundlesse ocean of thy beautie
^^ Runnes this poor river, charg'd with strearaes of zcale^
" Returning thee the tribute of my datie,
" Which here my love, my truth^ my plaints reveale.'*
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. m
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 J 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 Mer 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 oiFers : 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," ,
» ^tiU it he perfected,] The old orthography wai
I(?0 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
I will defer that which I moist desire ; And so must she, till longing expectation, That heightens pleagurc, makes her truly know Her happiness, and with what outstretched arms She must embrace it,
Beauf.jun, This is curiousness Beyond example.*
Malef. Let it then begin From me : in what's mine own I'll use my will, And yield no further reason. I lay claim to The liberty of a subject. [Rushes J^orward and
seizes JTieoc] — 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 !
[Ea;it with Theocrine.
Montr. Tis most certain He's mad, or worse.
Beauf. sen. How worse ?
Montr. ISlay^ there I leave you ; My thoughts are- free.
Beauf. jun. This I forcsaM'.
Beauf. sen. Take comfort. He shall walk in clouds, but I'll discover him : And he shall find and feel, if he excuse not. And with strong reasons, this gross injury, I can make use of my authority. [Exeunt.
perfittedy a mode of spelling much better adapted to poetry* and which I am sorry we have suffered to grow obsolete.
' Beauf. jun. T^is is curiousness
Beyond exawpl^*] i- e. a refined and oyer scrupulous considera- tion of the subject. So the word is frequently used by our old writers.
* Beauf. sen. How worse f] This short speech is not appro, priated in the old copy. Dodsley gi?es it to the present speaker, and is evidently right. M. Mason follows Coxeter^ who gires it to no one ! ^
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 191
ACT IV. SCENE I.
A Room in Malefort's House. Enter Male fort.
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 affection (rather wicked lust) That does pursue her, is a greater crime Than any detestation, with which I should af&ict 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.
IFith what cunning
I have betrafd myself^ Src^ I hare earsonly said in a subse- quent scene, that Malefort had been studying 0?id : but the ipeech before as is so close a translatiQu of the description of
192 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
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
the fatal passion of By bits, that the reader, perhaps, may not dislike the opportunity of comparing a few lines :
lUa quidem primb nitllos inteUigit ignes ;
Nee peeeare putat, quod s^epius ascula jungat :
Qiwd suafratemo eircumdet brdchia eoUo:
Mendadque diu pietatis faUitur temhrd,
Paullatim declinat amor; visuraqtte fratrem
Culta venit; nimvamque eupitformosa videri:
Et, si qua est Ulic formosior, invidet UU.
Sed nondum manifesta sibi est ; nuUumque sub ilh
Ignefacit voium; verumtamen astuat intus.
Jam dominum adpellat ; jam nomina sanguinis odit :
Byblidajam mavult, quam se vocet ille sororem,
Spes tamen obscanas animo demittere non est
Ausa suo vigikms, placidd resoluta quiete
ScBpe videt, qv^d amat, visa est quoque jungere frairi
Corpus; et erubuit, quamvis sopitajaeebat,
Metam. Lib. ix. 456*
4 Or twine mine arms about her softer neck^l i. e. her soft neck : our old poets frequently'^dopt, and indeed with singular good taste, the comparative for the positive. Thus, in a very pretty passage in the Combat of Love and Friendship, by R. Mead :
•
^^ When I shall sit circled within your armes, ^^ How shall I cast a blemish on your honour, * '^ And appear onely like some falser stone, ^^ Placed in a ring of gold, which grows a jewel ^' But from the seat which holds it !"
And indeed Massinger himself furnishes numerous instances of this practice ;. one occurs just below :
«6 which your gentler temper,
^^ On my submission, I hope, infill pardon."
Another we have already had, in the Virgin'Martyr :
^^ Judge not my readier will by the event."
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 193
My wishes to myself were not discoverM. 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,
fatner : Yet, waking, I ne'er cheri8h!d obscene hopes,* But in my troubled slumbers often thought She was too near to me, and then sleeping blush'd At my imagination ; which pass'd, (My eyes being open not condemning it,) I was ravish'd with the pleasure of the dream. Yet, spite of these temptations, I have reason . That pleads against them, and commands me to Extinguish these abominable fires : And I will do it ; I will send her back To him that loves her lawfully. Within there !
Enter Theocrine.
Theoc. Sir, did you call ?
Makf. I look no sooner on her. But all my boasted power of reason leaves me, And passion again usurps her empire. — Does none else wait me?
Theoc. I am wretched, sir. Should any owe more duty.
Malef. This is worse Than disobedience ; leave me.
'^ I would call her mistress, &c.] See p. 185.
^ Ytt^ nf aking, I ne^er cherish*d obscene hope$,] The old copy reads. Yet mocking,— -if this be the genuine word, it must mean ^' notwithstanding my wanton abuse of the terms mentioned aboTe, I ne? er cherished,*' &c. ; this is certainly not defectiTe in tense ; but the rest of the sentence calls so loudly for viaking^ (in allusion to the vigilans of the quotation above) that I have not scrupled to insert it iii the te%i ; the corruption, at the press, was sufficiently easy.
VOL, I. O ♦
194 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Theoc. On my knees, sir, As I have ever squared mv will by yours, And liked and loathed with your eyes, I beseech
you To teach me what the nature of my fault is, That hath incens'd you ; sure 'tis one of weak- ness And not of malice, vvhjch your gentler temper^ On my submission, I hope, will pardon : Whicn granted by your piety, if that I, Out of the least neglect of mine hereafter, Make you re'member it, may I sink ever Under your dread command, sir.
Malef. O my stars ! Who can but aoat on this humility.
That sweetens Lovely in her tears ! The
fetters That seem'd to lessen in their weight but now,' By this grow heavier on me. [Aside,
Tfieoc. Dear sir —
7 0 my stars f
Who can hut doat on this humility ^
That siDeetenS'-''''^Lo'oely in her tears /— — The fetters,
That seem'd to lessen in their weight but now,
By this groro heavier on me.] So 1 Tentnre to point the passage : it is abrupt, aod denotes the distracted state of the speaker^! mind* It stands thns in Mr. M. Mason :
Malef. 0 my stars ! who can hut d'oat on this humility * Thai sweetens (lovely in her tears J the fetters That seemed to lessen in their weight ; hut now By this grow heavier on me.
Coxeter follow^ the old copies, which only differ from this, in placing a note of interrogation after tears. Both are evidently wrong, becaase nninteUigible.
The reader must not be surprised at the portentous verse which begins the quotation from Mr. M. Mason. Neither he, norCoxeter, nor Dodsley^ seems to have had the smallest solici- tude (I will notiKty kiiowledge) respecting the metre of their author: and Massinger, the most harmonious of poets, appears. In their desultory pages, as uatuneable as Marston or Donne.
THE UNNATURAL CX)MBAT. 195
■
Malef. Peace! I must not hear thee.
Thcoc. Nor look on me ?
Makf. No, Thy- looks and words are charms.
Tkeoc. 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 shew 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.
Makf. O that my heart Were rent in sunder,^hat 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*cl the milk of tigers ; rise, and I, * But in a perplex'd and tnysterious method^ Will make relation ; That which all the world Admires and cries \ip in thee for perfections. Are to unhappy me foul blemishes, And mulcts in nature. If thou hadst been born*
* The cause in my decUh buried ! yet I know not ] Meaning,
I apprehend, that his incestuous passion tras perhaps suspected. As this passage has been hitherto pointed, it was not to be an- derstood.
' But in a perplexed and mysterioua methodfl We haye already had this expression from the son :
^^ But in a perpiex'd form and method,'' &c. p. 152.
And nothing can more strongly express the character of this most vicious father, whose crimes were too horrible for his son to express, and whose wishes are too flagitioas for bia^oghter to hear. 9 If thou hadst been bom^ 8cqJ\ Thus in King John:
^^ If thou, that bid'st me be content, wcrt grim,
02 *
196 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Deform'd and crooked in the features of ^hy body, as- the manners of thy mind ; Moor-lipp'd, flat-nosed, dim-eyed, and beetle- browed, With a dwarfs stature to a giant's waist ; Sour-breath 'd, <^ith 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 ?
Malef. Rather than as now, (Though I had drown'd t15ee 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,
** Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb, ^^ Full of nnpleasing blots, and sightless stains, *^ Lame, foolish^ crooked, swart, prodigious, ^^ Patch'd with foul moles, and eye*offending marks, ^^ I would not care, I then would be content ; ^^ For then I should not loye thee ;" Coxeteb.
' With JunoUfair cow-eyes, &<c«] These lines are an imme- diate translation from a pretty Greek epigram :
O^/aat' f vi (( HfDf, Mf Arm, Tac ^itf Af AOijvd^,
T»$ ^i^mfyq Xla^vnq^ T» a^vpet m; GfTtlb;, 8cc, DoDD*
These cow^es^ howerer, make but a sorry kind of an appear* ance in English poetry ; but so it ever will be when the figura- tive terms of one language are literally applied to another. See the Emperor of the Easty Vol. III.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 197
Strew'd o'er that paleness, which you then were
pleased To style the purest white.
Makf. And in that cup I drank the poison I now feel dispersed Through every vein and artery. Wherefore -art
thou So cruel to me ? This thy outward shape Brought a fierce war against nie, 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 drcw'st up Auxiliary helps to strengthen that Which was already in itself too patent. 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
tnrough All opposition ; and, my ranks of reason Disbanded, my victorious passions fell To bloody execution, and compelled 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, However it make me guilty. In a word, Thy plurisy* of goodness is thy ill ;
^Thy plarisy of goodness is thy ill;] i. e. thy superabundance of goodness : the wonght is from Shakspeare :
^^ For goodness, growing to a plurisyy ^^ IMes in his own too much.''
198 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT,
Thy virtacs vices, and thy humble lowtiess Far worse than stubborn sullenness and pride ; Thy looks, that ravish all beholders else, As killing as the basilisk's^ thy tears, Expressed in sorrow for the much I suiFer» A glorious insultaticti,' 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 tnink 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 com.mands, But willingly to serve them ; yet I must, Since that your will forbids the knowledge of My fault, lament my fortune. [Exit.
Malef. O that I Have reason to discern the better way. And yet pursue the worse !* 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,
^ A glorions insultation^] See p. 14^ ♦ Malef. 0 that I
Have reason to discern the better Wi^y,
And yet pursue the worse /] This had been said before by Medea:
— _ >oideo meliora, proboquef
Deteriora sequor*
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 199
And that by my cross fates it is determined That I am both ways wretched.
Enter Usher and Monteeville.
Ush. Yonder he wallcs, 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.
XJ^h. I am gone, sir. \Es%t.
Malef. Ha! who disturbs me? Montreville ! your pardon.
Montr. Would you could grant one to your* self! I speak it With the assumnce of a friend, and yet, Before it be too late, make reparation Of the gross wrong your indiscretion oiFer'd To the governor and his son; nay, to yourself; For there begins my sorrow.
Makf. 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- served Your alterations with a stricter eye, Perhaps, than others ; and, to lose no time In repetition, your strange demeanour To your sweet daughter.
Makf. Would you could find out Some other theme to treat of!
^ We must not do &c.] This and the two next speeches art jjftmbled eotirelj oat of metre hy )the modern, editors. It seems odd that thejr should not knoir whether they were printing prose or verse.
200 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT
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 Esteemed by you, as tney hold weight with me, No inward trouble should be of ^ shape So horrid to yourself, but that to me You stand bound to discover it, and unlock Youi secret'st thoughts ; though the most inno- cent were Loud crying sins«
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 deep-read man, that can with charms and herbs Restore you to your reason : or, suppose You are bewitch'd, — he with more potent spells
^ I am familiarly acquainted toith a deepTead matif That can with charms and herbs] So the lines stand in all th& editions: upon which Mr. M. Mason remarks, for the first and only time, that the metre requires a different division. This is well thought of! In hi^ edition, the Unnatural Combat stands towards the end of the third volume, and, to speak moderately, I have already corrected his Tersification in a hundred places within the compass of as many pages: nay, of the little which has passed since the entrance of Montre? ille, nearly a moiety ha3 undergone a new arrangement*
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. «6l
And magical rites shall cure you. Is't heaven's anger?
With penitence and sacrifice appease it.
Beyond this, there is nothing tnat I can Imagine dreadful : in your rame 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 conspired Against your life ? or seal'd a contract with The devil of hell, for the recovery of Her young Inamorato ?
Malef. None of these ; And yet, what must increase the wonder in you. Being innocent in herself, she hath wounded me; But where, enquire not. Yet, I know not how I am persuaded, from my confidence Of your vow'd love to me, to trust you with My dearest secret ; pray you chide me for it. But with a kind of pity, not insulting On my calamity.
Montr. Forward.
Malef. This same daughter
Montr. What is her fault ?
Malef. i^e 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.
aoa THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Your dcep*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 ril undertake it. What means hj^ve 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 th§ fit
Montr. See her no more, then.
Makf. Tis my last refuge ; and *t was 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 JSourish those flames, which I feel something
lessen'd, By all the ties of friendship I conjure you, And by a solemn oath you must confirm it, That though my now calm'd passions should rage
higher Than ever heretofore, and so compel me Once more to wish to see her; though I use Persuasions mix'd with threatnings, (nay, add
to it. That I^ this failjng, 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
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 203
Your pleasure, sir, that I shall be unmoved, I will eaddavour.
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.
Makf. Leave that to me* I'll presently give order How you shall surprise her; be not frighted
^ with Her exclamations.
Montr. Be you constant to Your resolution, I will not fail In what concerns my part.
Malef. Be ever bless'd for't ! ' \Exeunt.
SCENE IL
A Street.
Enter Beaufort junior^ Chamont, and
Lanoub.
Cham. Not to be spoke with, say you ?
Beauf.jun. No.
Lan. Nor you Admitted to have conference with herP
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 ;
804 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
IiCt 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 fai r reasons, Malefort will hear from him In a kind he does not look for.
Cham. In the mean time, Pray you put on cheerful looks.
Enter Montaigne.
Beatif.jun. Mine suit my fortune.
Lan. O, here's Montaign.
Mont I never could have met you More opportunely. I'll not stale the jest By my relation;' but if you will look on
andy like a hoUrtifCd horse^
'Twill quickly tire itself. "l This is from Shakspeare,
^^ ———Anger is like
^" A full hot horse, who being allow'd his way, ^^ Self-mettle tires him." Coxeter.
ril not stale the jest
By my relation ;] i. e. render it flat, deprire it of zest by preTious intimation. This is one of a thousand instances which mi^ht be brought to prove that the true reading in. C§riolanus, Act J. sc. 1, is,
" I shall tell you
" A pretty tale ; it may be, you hate heard it ;
*^ But since it serres my purpose* I will renture
" To staUn a little more/'.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. S05
«
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.
Beloarde comes out of his house in a gallant habit ; stays at the door with his sword drawn.
Seoeral voices within. Nay, captain ! glorious captain !
Belg. Fall back, rascals ! Do you make an owl of me ? this day I will Receive no more petitions. — Here are bills of all occasions, and all sizes ! If this be the pleasure of a rich suit, would I were Again in my buff jerkin, or my armour ! Then I walked securely by my creditors* noses, Not a dog marked me ; every officer shunn'd me, And not one lousy prison would receive me :
The old copies bare scale^ for which Theobald judiciously pro. posed stale. To this Warburton objects petulantly enough, it must be confessed, because to fca^ signifies to weigh; so, indeed, it does, and many other things; none of which, however, bear any relation to the text. Steevens, too, prefers ectde^ which he proves, from a Tariety of authorities, to mean ^^ scatter, disperse, spread ;'' to make any of them, however, suit his pur- pose, he is obliged to give an unfaithful version of the text : ^' Though 9omt of you have heard the story, I will spread it yet wider, and diflfhse it among the rest J* There' is notiiing of this in Shakspeare; and indeed I cannot avoid looking upon the whole of his long note, as a feeble attempt to justify a palpable ^rror of the press, at the cost of taste and sense. ^ The mistakes of Steevens are dangerous, and should be noticed* They have seduced the editors of Beaumont and Fletcher, who have brought back to the text of their authors, a corruption long since removed, on the authority (as they say) of the quotations produced in the note to Coriolanus. See Vol. V II. p. 958«
S06 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
• I
But now, as the ballad says, I am turned gallant^ Tb^re does not live that thing I owe a sous to^ But does torment nie* A faithful cobler told xne» With his awl in his hand, I was behindhand with
him For setting me upright, and bade me look to
myself. A sempstress too, that traded but in socks, Swore she would set a serjeant on my back For a borrowed ^hirt : 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 cashierM. cap tain, To pay debts, though grown up to one and
twenty, Deserves more reprehension, in my judgment, Than a shopkeeper, or a lawyer that lends
money, In a long dead vacation.
Mont. How do you like His meditation ?
Cham. Peace 1 let him proceed. Bdg, I cannot now go on the score for shame. And where I shall begin to pawn— ay, marry. That is consider'd timely! 1 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.
I paid for
This train of yours^ dame Estridge^'] i.e. this tail; there if some humour in this liTely apostrophe to the ostrich.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 207
That a captain cannot think himself a captain. If he wear not this, like a fore-horse ! yet it is
not Staple commodity : these are perfumed too O* the Roman wash, and yet a stale red herring Would fill the belly better, and hurt the head
less : And this is Venice gold ; would I had it again In French crowns in my pocket ! O you com- mander, 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, videUcet^ To pay your debts, and take your letchery
gratis; To have your issue warm*d by others fires ; To be ofjten 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.
O you commanderiy
Thatf like me, have no dead pays^ nor can cozen The commmary at a muiter^ The collasoiy practices hem aHoded to (as Mr. Gilchrist obienres) appear not to hare been unfrequent, and indeed, sir W. D* ATenaat, with this, mentions many similar corruptions in the ^^ war department'* of his time :
*^ Can you not gull the state finely, ^^ Muster up your ammuniUon cassocks staff'd with straw, <^ Number a hundred forty nine dead pays, ^^ And thaiik hearen for yenr arithmetic ? ^' Cannot you clothe your ragged infantry ^^ With cabbage leares ? devour the reckonings, ^^ And grow fat in the ribs, but you must hinder ^^ Poor ancients from eating warm beef?'* The Siege^ Act III.
«08 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Let courtiers* trip like courtiers, and your lordd 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 ! now's
the time. '
While he's in the paying vein. S. Court. Save you, brave captain ! Beauf.jun. 'Slight, how he stares ! they are
worse than she-wolves to him.
* Let courtiersj &c.] The reader will smile at the accarate notions of metre possessed bj the former editors : this and the four following lines stand thus in Coxeter, and M. Mason :
Let courtieri trip like courtiers, And your lords of dirt and dunghills mete Their woods and acres, in velvets^ satinSy tissues ; But keep you^ constant to cloth and shamois.
Mont. Have you heard of such a penitent homily f
^ My wealth and bravery Danish.] Braoery is used by all the writers of Massinger's time^ for ostentations finery of appareL
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. S09
Belg. Shame me not in the streets; I was cominff to vou.
1 Court. O, sir, you may in public pay for the
fiddling You had in private.
2 Court, We hear you are full of crowns, sir.
1 Court And therefore, knowing you are open-
handed, \
Before all be destroyed, 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.
J5^r£;rf.^ There are reckonings For muscadine and eggs too, m\ist 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 puU'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 !
^ ^Tmll prove a notable sinkeTy] A striker is a, xoencher : th^ word occurs again in the Parliament of Love.
s Ne^er studied Aristotle.] This has been hitherto printed, Ne^er studied Aristotle's problems: a prosaic redundancy, of which every reader of Massinger will readily acquit him.
VOL. I, P *
210 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
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.
Belg. Very likely ; I foam all o'er already.
1 Court. Will you come off, sir?'
Belg. Would I had ne'er come on ! Hear me with patience, Or I will anger you. Go to, you know me ; And do not vex me further : by my sins, And your diseases, which are certain truths. Whatever you think, I am not master, at This instant, of a livre.
^ Belg. Why J braches, will pau worry ntef ] A brache is a female hound. It is strange to see what quantities of paper have been wasted in confounding the sense of this plain word. The pages of Shakspeare, and Jonson, and Fletcher, are incumbered with endless quotations, which generally leave the reader as ignorant as they found him. One, however, which has escaped the commentators, at least the material part of it, is worth all that they hare advanced on the word : The GentlemarCs Recreation^ p.28« ^^ There are in England and Scotland two kinds of hunting dogs, and no where else in the world ; the first kind is called a rache^ and this is a foot scenting creature both of wilde-beasts, birds, and fishes also which lie hid among the rocks. The female hereof in England is called a brache: a brache is A mankerit name for all houndJfitches :^^ and, when we Siddyforall others, it will surely be allowed that enough has been said on the subject.
* Bring you to a sweating ^itekness.] This alludes to a species of plague, (sudor anglicus^J peculiar, the physicians say, to this country, where it made dreadful ravages in the 16th century. It is frequently mentioned by our old writers.
^ 1 Court. Will you come off, sir f } 1. e. Will yott pay, sir ? so the word is used by all our old dramatic wrileifs :
" -~ if he
^^ In the old justice's: suit, whom he robb'd lately^ *' Will come ^roundly, we'll set him free too.*'
The Widow. Again^ i^ the Wedding j by Shirley:
^f yfhdt was the price you took for Gratiana ?
^' Did Marwood come cff roundly with his wages ?"
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 2 1 1
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. Wjll you see your issue starve ?
2 Court. Or the mothers beg ?
Belg. Why, you unconscionable strumpets, would you have me, Transform my hat to double clouts and biggins? My corselet to a cradle ?. or my belt To swaddlebands ? or turn my cloak to blankets? Or to sell my sword and spurs, for soap and
candles? Have you no mercy ? what a chargeable devil We carry in our breeches !
Beaiif.jun. Now 'tis time To fetch him off. \They comejorward.
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 take you for it ! Vanish !
Cham. Do, do, and talk with him hereafter.
1 Court. Tis our best course.
2 Court. We'll find a time to .fit him.
{Exeunt Bawd and Courtesans. 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
212 THE. UNNATURAL COMBAT.
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. 6'en. 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 disco ver'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 profandd ; 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 l.go, I will instruct you to what purpose. Such as have power to punish, and yet spare, From fear or from connivance, others ill, Though not in act, assist them in their will.
[Exeunt.
ACT V. SCENE I,
A Street near Malefort's House.
Enter Montrevii/J.e and Servants, a;iM Theo- "cRiNE, Page, flrwrf Waiting- wonien.
^Montr. Bind them, and gag their mouths sure ; I alone Will be your convoy. 1 Worn. Madam I
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 213
2 IVoin. 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 fVaiiing-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 3ufFer 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
* Montr. How fier heartbeats/ &c«] This is a?ery pretty simile, and, though not altogether new^ is made striking by the eleganct with which it is expressed*
214 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Your page, your woman, parasite, or fool, Or any other property, provided You 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, sal Enjoy you as a private friend or mistress, Twill be sufficient.
Theoc. Blessed angels guard me ! What frontl^ss impudence is this? what devil Hath, to thy certain ruin, tempted thee To otfer 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 I have a father, And such a father, as, when this arrives at His knowledge, as it shall, the terror of His vengeance, which as sure as fate must follow. Will make thee curse the hour in which lust
taught thee To nourish tiiese 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
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 215
That may be useful to him, does himself
The injury: know, thou most wretched creature,
That father thou presumcst 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
or 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 untq me divine artillery. And therefore, since what I so long in vain Pursued, is offered to me, and by him Given up to my possession ; do not flatter Thyself with an imaginary hope. But that I'll take occasion by the forelock, And make use of my fortune. As we walk, ril 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.
216 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
SCENE II.
» A Space before the Fort.
Enter Malefobt.
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 I have her figure here ; And every grace and rarity about her, Are by the pencil of my memory, In living colours painted on my heart. My fires too, a short interim closed up. Break out with greater fury. Why was I, Since 'twas my fate, and not to be declined. In this so tender-conscienccd? Say I had Enjoy'd what I desired, what had it been But incest ? and there's something here that tells
me I stand accomptable for greater sins I never check'd at.* Neither had the crime Wanted a precedent : I have read in story,*
9 and there 8 something here that tells me
I stand accomptable for greater sins
I ntoer checked at.} These dark allusions to a dreadful fact, are introduced with admirable judgment, as they awaken, with, out gratifying, the curiosity of the reader, and continue the interest of the story.
* • ''I have read in story, &c.] He had been study.
ing Oyid, and particularly the dreadful story of Myrrha. This wretched attempt of Malefort (a Christian, at least in name, we may suppose) to palliate, or defend his meditated crime^ by the
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 217
Those first great heroes, that, for their brave
deeds, Were in the world's first infancy styled gods, Freely cnjoy'd what I denied myself. Old Saturn, in the golden age, embraced His sister Ops, and, in the same degree. The Thunderer Juno, Neptune Thetis, and. By their example, 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, which 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 arc 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 !
Enter two Soldiers.
1 Sold. With your pardon Wd must forbid your entrance.
examples of fabulous deities, men in a state of nature, and beasts, is a just and striking picture of the eagerness with which a mind resolved on guilt, ministers to its own deception. This, in^he Scripture phraseology, is called, ^^ hardening the hefirt;" and seems to be the last stage of human depraration.
«18 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
Malef. Do you know me ? . 2 Sold. Perfectly, my lord.
Malef. I am [your] captain's friend.
\ S^ld. It may be so; but till we know his pleasure. You must excuse us.
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 name entreat His presence.
i Sold. That we shall do. [Exeunt Sold.
Malef. I must use Some strange persuasions to work hina to Deliver her, and to forget the vows, And horrid oaths I, in my madness, made him Take to the contrary : and may I get her Once more in my possession, I will bear her Into some dose cave or desert, where we'll
end Our lusts and lives together.
Enter Montbevi lle and Soldiers, vpon the fFalk.
Montr. Fail not, on The forfeit of your lives, to execute What I command. ^Exeunt Soldiers.
Malef. Montreville ! bow is't friend ?
Montr. I am gl^d to see you wear such cheerful looks; The world's well alter'd.
Malef. Yes, I thank my stars : But methinks thou art troubled.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 219
Montr. Some ligbt croas^ • .'
But of no moment.
Malef. So I hope : beware Of sad and impious thoughts ; you kno:<«r hiDW far They wrought on me. ^
Montr. No such come near me, sir. . ■ -
I have, like you, no daughter, and much wi^h You tiever had been eurs'd with one*' . ; "
Malef. Who, I? ■
Thou art deceived, I am most happy in bcr. .
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 Yt^^ friend, though she' were By millions of degrees more excellent In her perfections ; nay, though she could borrow A form angelical to take ray frailty, It would not do : and therefore, Montreviile^ My chief delight next her, I come to tell thee, The governor and I are reconciled, And I confirmed, and with all possible speed, To make large satisfaction to 3'oung Beaufort, And her, whom I have so mucn 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
220 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
The easiness of my nature, and assurance You are firm and can hold out, I could consent ; You needs must know there are so manv lets* That make against it, that it is my wonder You offer me the motion ; having bound me, With oaths and imprecations, on no terms, Reasons, or arguments, you could propose, I ever should admit you to her sight, Much less restore her to you.
Malef. Are we soldiers, And stand on oaths !
Montr. It is beyond my knowledge In what we are more worthy, than in keeping^ Our words, much more our vows.
Malef. Heaven pardon all ! How many thousands, in bur heat of wine. Quarrels, -and play, and in our younger days, In private I may say, between ourselves, "^ In points of love, have we to answer for, Should we be scrupulous that way ?
Montr. You say well : And very aptly call to memory Two oaths, against all ties and rites of friendship, Broken by you to me.
Malef, No more of that.
Montr. Yes, 'tis material, and to the purpose : The first (and think upon't) was, when I brought you As a visitant to my mistress then, (the mother Of this same daughter,) whom, with dreadful
words, Too hideous to remember, you swore deeply For my sake never to attempt; yet then, Then, when you had a sweet wife of your own, I know not with what arts, philtres, and charms
* You needs mitst know there are so many lets] i. e. impedi- mentS) obstacles, &c. See the Virgin'Martyr^ p. 25.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 221
(Unless in wealth' and fame you were above me) You won her from me ; and, her grant o'btain'd, A marriage with the second waited on The burial of the first, that to the world Brought your dead son: this! sat tamely down by, Wanting, indeed-, occasion and power To be at the height reveilged.
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 beinglike 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 since, You bear a register in your own bosom, That can at large inform you,
Malef. Montreville, I do confess all that you charge me with To be strong truth, and that I bring a cause Most miserably guilty, and acknowledge That though your goodness made me mine awn
j^idge, I should not shew the least compassion Or mercy to myself. O, let not yet My foulness taint your pureness, or my falsehood Divert the torrent of your loyal faith !
a
{Unkss in wealth &c.] i. e. Unkss it ivere that in wealthy &c.
222 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
My ills, if not return'd by you, will add Lustre to your much good ; and to overcome 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 kneea, [Kneels. 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 r
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
To revenge
An injury is proper to the wiskes Of feeble wotnen, that want strength to act it .*]
' ■■ Quippe nunuti Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas Ultio, Continub sic coUige^ qubd vindicta Nemo f/td^ gaudet, qudm fosrnina.
Jut. Sat. xMi. 19^. * Montr. I required not
To be sought to this poor wwj J So the old copy : the modem editors, ignorant of the language of the time, arbitrarily exchange
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 223
You made me take : your daughter shall come
to you, I will not say, as you deliver'd her, But, as she is, you may dispose of her As you shall think most requisite. [E.vit,
Malef. His last words Are riddles to me. Here the lion's force Would have proved useless, and, against my nature, Compeird 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 below^ thrusting forthTn^ocKrs's.; 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.
to for tit, and thus perrert the sense. To seek tOj is to suppli- cate, entreat, have earnest recourse to, &c. which is the mean- ing of the text.
There was a book much read by our ancestors, from which as being the puro well-head of English prose, they derived a number of phrases that have sorely puzzled their descendants. This book, which Is fortunately stitl in existence, is the Bible : and 1 yenture to affiria, without fear of contradiction, that those old fashioned people who have studied it well, are as conu petent judges of the meaning of our ancient writers, as most of the devourers of black literature^, from Theobald to Steevens. The expression in the text frequently occurs in it : ^^ And Asa was diseased in his feet— yet in his disease he sought not to th^ Lord, bat to the physicians." 2 Chron. xtI. 1%
224 THE UNNATURAL 'COMB AT.
Malef. Ha ! who is this ? how alter'd ! how deform '(I! 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.
0 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 doiie?
Theoc. Abused me, sir, by violence; and this told,
1 cannot live to speak more : may the cause In you find pardon, but the speeding curse
Of a ravish'd maid fall heavy, heavy on him ! — Beaufort, my lawful love, farewell for ever. [Dies. Malef. Take not thy flight so soon, immacu- late spirit ! Tis fled already.— How the innocent, As in a gentle slumber, pass away !
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 2£5
Bat to cut off the knotty thread of life In guilty men, must force stefn Atropos To use her sharp knife often. I would help The edge of her's with thjB sharp point of mine, But that I dare not die, till I have rent This dog's heart piecemeal. G, that I had wings To scale these walls, or that my hands were cannons,
^ To bore their flinty sides, that I might bring The villain in the reach of my good sword ! The Turkish empire ofFer'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 ! as thou dur3t 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
thee. Be but a just examiner of thyself. And in an equal balance poise the nothing. Or little mischief I have done, compared
vox. I. ♦ Q*
286 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
With the pondVous 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. sSSo/J. Our outworks are surprised, the centinel
slain, The corps de guard defeated too. Montr. By whom ?
1. Sold. The sudden storm and darkness of the night Forbids the knowledge.; make up speedily, Or all is lost. \_Exeunt.
Montr. In the deviKs name, whence comes this ? [Exit.
\A storm ; with thunder and lightning. Malef, Do, do rage on ! rend open, iEolus, Thy brazen prison, and let loose at once Thy stormy issue ! Blustering Boreas, Aided with all the gales the pilot numbers Upon his compasS; cannot raise a tempest Through the vast region of the air, like that I feel within me : for I am possessed With whirlwinds, and each guilty thought to me is A dreadful hurricano.* Though this centre
' A dreadful hurricano.] So the old copy, and rightly : the modern editors prefer hurricane^ a simple improTement, which merely destroys the metre ! How they contrived to read the line^ thus printed, I canmot conceive. With respect to httrricane^ I doubt whether it was much in use in Massinger's time; he
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 227
Labour to tring forth earthquakes, and hell open Her ^ide-strctch'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 Malefort, 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 orianguage. And so denied to tell me, that by signs
\The Ghosts use various gestures. 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
and his contemporaries almost inyariably write hurricann\ jast as they received it from the Portuguese narrators of voyages, &c.
* You bid me ask here of myself f] AnKruttf^^ pointing to hii breast
SS8 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
The cause (which to the world is undiscovered) That forced thee to shake off thy fiJial 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 band con firm'd. — [Anstoered still by
signs.] — Tis granted by thee.
Can ai|y penance expiate my guilt, Or can repentance save me ?—
[The G hosts disappear^ They are vanished ! What's left to do then ? I'll accuse my fate, That did not fashion me for nobler uses : For if those stars, cross to me in my birth, Had not denied their prosperous influence to it, With peace of conscience, like to innocent men, I might have ceased to be, and not as now.
To curse my cause of being
[He is kilVd with a flash of lightning.
Enter Belgarde, with Soldiers.
Belg. Here's a night To season my silks ! BufF-jerkin, now I miss thee: Thou hast endured man)'- 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 ?
7 Wilt thou never cease f] This short apostrophe is addressed to the storm.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 229
Is the petard, as I gave directions, fastened On the portcullis ?
1. Sold. It hath been attempted By divers, but in vain.
Belg. These are your gallants. That at a feast take the first place, poor I Hardly allow'd to follow ; marry, in : These foolish businesses they are content That I shall have precedence : ' I much thank Their manners, or their fear. Second me, soldiers; They have had no time to undermine, or if They have, it is but blowing up, and fetching A caper or two in the air ; and I will do it, . Rather than blow my nails here,.
S. Sold. O brave captain ! [Eseunt.
An Alarum ; noiseandcries within. After a flourish^ enterB^AVVORT senior, Be av tort junior, Mon- taigne, Chamont, Lanour, Belgarde, and Soldiers, with Movtreville, prisoner.
Montr. Racks cannot force more from me than I have Already told you : I expect no favour ; I have cast up my accompt.
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 puird by the sleeve, and bid remember The thing 1 wot of;
Beauf. jun. All that have eyes to weep, Spare one tear with me, Theocrine's dead. Mont. Her father too lies breathless here, I think Struck dead with thunder.
230 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT,
Cham, Tis apparent : how His carcass smells !
Lan. His face is altered to Another colour.
Beauf.jun. But here's one retains Her native-innocence, that never yet Caird down heaven's anger.
Beatifl 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 !
[Eseunt*
• This Play opens with considerable interest and vigour ; but the principal action is quickly exhausted by its own briskness. The Unnattaral Combat ends early in the second act, and leaves the reader at a loss what further to expect. The remaining part, at least fron the beginning of the fourth act, might be called the Unnatural Attachment, Yet the two subjects are not without connexion ; and this is afforded chiefly by the projected mar- riage of young Beaufort and Theocrine, which Malefort urges as the consequence of his victory.
The piece is therefore to be considered not so much in its plot, as in its characters ; and these are dr^wn with great force, and admirable discrimination. The pity felt at first for old Malefort, is soon changed into horror and detestation ; while the dread inspired by the son is somewhat relieved by the suspicion that he avenges the cause of a murdered mother. Their parley is as terrible as their combat; and they encounter with a fury of passion and a deadliness of hatred approaching to savage na- ture.— Claudian will almost describe them : —
Torvus aper,fulv usque leo coiere superbis Viribus ; hie setd scevior, illejubd. On the other hand, Montreviile artfully conceals his enmity till he can be *' at the height revenged." Deprived of Theocrine by Malefort^s treachery, be yet appears his '' bosom friend,'' offers to be his second in the combat, on account of their tried affec^ tion *^ from his infancy," and seems even to recommend the marriage of Theocrine with his rival. To Theocrine herself, who can less comprehend his designs, he shews some glimpses of
TH^ UNNATURAL COMBAT. 831
•pleen from the beginning. He takes a malignant pleasure in vonnding her delicacj with light and vicious talking ; and when at length he has possession of her person, and is preparing the dishonour which ends in her death, he talks to her of his yil- lainous purpose with a coolness which shews him determined on his revenge, and secure of its accomplishment.
Theocrine herself is admirable throughout the piece. She has a true virgin modesty, and, perhaps, one of the best marks of modesty, a true virgin frankness. We admire her fearless purity of thought, her filial reverence, and her unconsciousness of the iniquity that approaches her ; and we are filled with the most tender concern for the indignities to which she is exposed, and the fate which she suffers.
Among the lighter characters, Montaigne, Chamont, and Lanonr are well drawn. They are some of those insignificant people who endeavour to support themselves in society by a ready subjection to the will of others. When Malefort is on his trial, they are glad to be h.is accusers ; and it is allowed that they ^^ push him hard." After his victory, they are most eager to profess themselves his friends and admirers. When he is in his moody humour, they sooth him, that being the ^' safest course ;'' * and when Beaufort at length takes up the neglected Belgarde, they are the first to lavish their money upon him.
* This consistency in their insipid characters woold of itself dtCennine ta whom these words hdong, if the editor bad not given them to Chamont on other accounts. See p. 179*
Tab DtTKS of Milav.] Of thU tragedy there are two editioiu in quarto i the fint, which is very correct, and dow very rare, hears date 1023 1 the other, of little value, 1638. It does oot appear in the Office-hook of the licenser; from which, we may be pretty certain that it was among the author*8 earliest performances.
The plot, as the editor of the Companion to the Play Home informs us, is founded on Guicciardini, Lib. viii. This is not the case, and the writer, who probably never looked into Guicciardini, must have picked up his mistafken re^rence at second hand. If Massinger was at all indebted to this historian, it was to his zvth and xixth books; but it is more likely that he derived his plot (as was then the practice) from some popular collection of interesting events. However this may be, he has strangely perverted the few historical facts on which he touches, and brought together events considerably distant in time. When the French king invaded Italy in 1525, Sforza was on the side of the Emperor — in fact, the French began by an incursion into the Milanese, and the siege of the capital, which they continued, at intervals, till their route before Pavia, In the foUowinz year, indeed, the duke of Milan entered into a league with Francis, who had now regained his liberty, against the Emperor, and was driven out of his dutcny, which he did not recover till 1530, when he presented himself before Charles, at Bologna, but not in the way described by Massinger, for he abjectly surrendered all his rights to the Emperor, who re*iastated him in them, on his i^reeing to certain stipula- tions. The duke is named Ludovico in the list of dramatis personas ; and it is observable that Massinger has entered with great accuracy into the Tigorous and active character of that prince : he, however, had long been dead, and Francis Sforza, the real agent in this play, was little capable of the spirited part allotted to him. The Italian writers term him a weak and irresolute prince, the sport of fortune, and the victim of indecision.
Injustice to Massinger, it should be observed that he appears aware of the distinction here noticed, and probably also of the fabulous nature of his materials, for, in the list of dramatis personie, Ludovico Sforza i» called a iupposed duke of Milan.
The remaining part of the plot is from Joseph ns*s HUtary of ike Jew$f lib. XV. ch. 4 ; an wteresting story, which has been told in manv languages, and more than once in our own. The last piece on the subject was, I believe, the Mariamne of Fenton, which,. though infinitely inferior to the Duke of Milan, was, as I have heard, very welireceived.
That Fenton had read Massinger before he wrote his tragedy, is certain from internal evidence : there are not, however, many marks of simila- rity : on the whole, the former is as cold, uninteresting, and improbable, as the latter is ardent, natural, and affecting. Massineer has but two deaths, while, in Fenton, six out of eleiren personi^es perish, with nearly as much rapidity, and as little necessity, as the heroes of Tom Thumb or Chronan" hotonthologos.
The Duke of Milan is said, in the title-page, to have ** been often acte4 by his Majesty's Servants at the Black Friars." Either through ignorance or disingenuity, Coxeter and M. Mason represent it as frequently per- formed in 1623, giving, as in every other instance, the time of publication for that of its appearance on the stage.
TO
The Right Honourable, and nmch esteemed for her high birth, but more admired for her virtue,
THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE,
WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, BARON OF SHELFORD.
MADAM,
IF I were not most assured that works of this nature hate found both patronage and protection amongst the greatest princesses* of Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons most eminent in our kingdom, I should not presume to offer these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar of your favour. Let the example of others, more knowing, and more experienced, in this kindness {if my boldness offend) plead my pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left 9ne (my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to the fvorld (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 con* temn the tender of las duty, who, while he is, will ever be
An humble Servant to your ^ Ladyship, and yours.
PHILIP MASSINGER.
* Princesses] So the quarto 1623. That of 1638 exhibits princes^ which Goxeter, and consequently M. Mason, follows.
DRAMATIS PERSONS.
Ludovico Sforza, supposed duke o/* Milan. Francisco, his especial favourite.
C4. u ' \lords of his council. Mepnano, J ^
GracchOi a creature of Mariana.
Julio, )
r';^,ro««; c courtiers. Ijriovanni, i
Charles, the emperor.
Pescara, an imperialist, but a friend to Sforsa.
Hernando, i
Medina, ^captains to the emperor.
Alphonso, J
Three Gentlemen.
Fiddlers.
An Officer.
Two Doctors. Two Couriers.
' Marcelia, the dutchess, wife to Sforza. Isabella, mother to Sforza. Mariana, wfe to Francisco, and sister to Sforza. Eugenia, sister to Francisco. A Gentlewoman.
Guards^ Servants, Attendants.
SCENE, for the first and second acts, in Milan; during part of the third, in tJie Imperial Camp near Pavia ; the rest of the play, in Milan, and its neighbourhood.
THE
DUKE OF MILAN
«S£
ACT I. SCENE L Milan. An outer Room in the Castled
Enter Graccho, Julio, and Giovanni,* with
Flaggons.
Grac. Take every man hisflaggon: give the oath To all yoameet; lam this day the state-drunkard, I am sure against my will ; and if j^ou find A man at ten that's sober, he's a traitor. And, in my name, arrest him.
' ' Milan. An outer Room in the Castle.^ The old copies have ' no distiDction of scenery ; indeed, they could Jiare none with their miserable platform and raised gallery, but what was furnished by a board with Milan or Rhodes painted upon it. I have ven. tured to supply it, iu conformity to the modern mode of printing Shakspeare^ and to consult the ease of the general reader. I know not what pricked forward Coxeter, but he thought proper (for the first time) to be precise in this Play, and specify the place of action. I can neither compliment him upon his judg. ment, nor Mr. M. Mason upon his good sense in following him : the description here is, ^^ Scene^ a public Palace in Pisa," Pisa! a place which is not onee mentioned, nor even hinted at, in the whole play.
* Juuo, and Giotakni,] These are not found among the old dramatis personae, nor are they of much importance. In a sub- sequent scene, where they make their appearance, as Isf and ^nd Gentlemen^ I have taken the liberty to name them again. Jovio^ which stood in this scene, appears to be. a misprint lor Jtdio^
238 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
JuL Very good, sir : But, say he be a sexton?
Grac. If the bells Ring out of tune,' as if the street were burning. And he cry, '7?^ rare music ! bid him sleep : Tis a sign he has ta'en his liquor ; and if you meet An officer preaching of sobriety,* Unless he read it in Geneva print,* Lay him by the heels.
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 distempcr'd,* But kind, and in his tottering* chair carousing, They do the country service. If you meet One that cats bread, a child of ignorance,
* Grac. If the belU
Ring out of tune, &c.] i. e. backward: the usual signal * of alarm, on the breaking out of fires. So in the Captain:
" certainly, my body
^* Is all a wildfire, for my head rings backward.** Again : in t/ie City Match :
«< ^Then, sir, in time
'^ You may be remember'd at the quenching of ^^ Fired houses, when the bells ring backward^ by '^ Your name upon the buckets."
^ Unless he read it in Genera print^"] Alluding to the spirituous liquor so called. M. Mason.
' 1 dare not say distemper'd,] i. e. intoxicated : so the
word is frequently used by our old writers. Thus Shirley :
" Clear. My lord, he's gone.
« Lod. How ?
" Clear, Distempered.
" Lod. Not with wine ?" Tlie Grateful Servant. ft occurs also in Hamlet*
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 239
<
And bred up in the darkness of no drinking, Against his will you may initiate him In the truie posture ; though he die in the taking His drench, it skills not :* what's a private man, For the public 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 Tiberio 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 ! [Eseunt 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 hin^self Had sorrow in his face ! which, waited on By his mother, sister, and his fairest dutchess, Dispersed a silent mourning through all Milan ;
though he die in the taking
His drench, it skills not : &c.] It matters or signifies not. So in the Gamester :
^' Nepk. I desire no roan's privilege : it skills not whether ^^ I be kin to any man living."
7 ■ f/our lord hy his patent.
Stands bound to take his rouse.] This word has never been properly explained. It occurs in Hamlet, where it is said by Steevens, as well as Johnson, to mean a quantity of liquor rather too large : the latter derives it fromrti5cA,^half drunk, Germ, while he brings caroiMe from ^aratf^z^ali out \ Hou^eandcaroKje^howerer,
S40 THE DUKE OF MILAN,
As if some great blow had been given the state, Or were at least expected.
like vye and reoycy are but the reciprocation of the same action, and must therefore be derived from the same source. A rouse was a large glass (^^ not past a pint," as lago says) in which a health was giren, the drinking of which bj the rest of the com- , pany formed a carouse, Bamabj Rich is exeeedkigly angrj with the inventor of this custom, which, howeyer, with a lau- dable zeal for the honour of his country, he attributes to an Englishman, who, it seems, ^^ had his brains beat out with a pottlepot*' for his ingenuity. ^* In former ages,'' says he, ** they had no conceit whereby to draw on drunkencsse,'' (Barnaby was no great historian,) ^^ their best was, I drinke to you, and I pledge you, till at length some shallow-witted drunkard found out the carouse^^* an invention of that worth and worthinesse as it is pitie the first founder was not hanged, that we might have found out his name in the antient record of the hangman's register." English Hue and Cry^ I6I75 P* ^* I^ is necessary to add, that there could be bo rouse or carouse^ unless the glasses were emptied : ^' The leader," continues honest Barnaby, ^^ soupes up his broath, turnes the bottom of the cuppe upward, and in ostentation of his dexterite, gives it a phylip, to make it cry tynge ! id.
In process of time, both these words were used in a laxer sei\se ; but I believe that what is here advanced, will serve to explain many passages of our old dramatists, in which they oc- cur in their primal and appropriate signification ; . " Nor. I've ta'en, since supper, ^^ A rouse or two too much, and by the gods *' It warms my blood." Knight of Malta.
This proves that Johnson and Steevens are wrong : a rouse has here a fixed and determinate sense* In the language of the present day it would be, a bumper or two; or, still more vulgarly, a toast or two too much. Again :
<^ Duke. Come, bring some wine. Here's to my sister^ gentlemeji, ^< A Aea/^^, and mirth to all!
*^ Archas. PrAjJiU it fully sir ; <^ 'Tis a high health to virtue. Here, lord Bnrris, ^ A maiden health 1 ■ ■
^' Duke, Go to, no more of this. ^' Archas, Take the rouse freely j sir, <« 'Twill warm your blood, and mii^ke you fit for jollity."
The Loyal Subject.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 241
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 laboured for, the harvest Sown by hi» industry ready to be rcap'd too. Being now at stake ; and all his hopes confirmed, Or lost for ever.,
Steph. I know no such hazard : His guards are strong and sure, his coffers full ; The people well affected ; and so wisely His provident care hath wrought, that though
war rages In most parts of our. western world, there is No enemy near us.
Tib. Dangers, that we see To threaten ruin, are with ease prevented ; But those strike deadly, that come unexpected ; The lightning is far off, yet, soon as seen. We may behold the terrible effects That it produceth. But Til 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,
* Have intereBs'd in eitker's came the most
Of the Italian princes ; Ssc] So the old copies. The modern editors, much to the adYantage of the rhythm, read :
^^ Have interested in citherns dtwe, the mostj &c. Probably they were ignorant of the existence of such » word
VOL. I. * R
£42 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
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.
Stepfu 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 hum'an counsel they can e'er be severed. Until it be determined by the swordj Who hath the better cause : for the success, Concludes thevictorinnocent, and the vanquished 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 noake her glorious stand, You capBot blame the duke, though he appear Perplex'd and troubled.
as inti^rtaSy which occors, however^ pretty fr^qaently In oor old writers. Johnson considers it as synonymous with ipteresiy hnt in some of the examples which he gives, and in many others which might be produced, it seems to convey an idea of a more intimate connexion than is usually understood by that terra ; somewhat, for instance, like impKcate, in voire, inwekve, «&c« in wMc^ case, it, must be deiiTed from tntrtcciOy through the medium of the French. ^
9 So near intrench' d, &c.] The French army "^as at this time engaged in the tftege of Ptfvia, un^er the waUs of which .the de- eisive battle was fought, on the S4th of February^ 16^^' - '
THE DUKE OF MILAN. US
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.
I\b. Ijudgesotoo; *
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 qot 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 argu^ me of fiction*
Steph. She's, indeed, A lady of most exquisite f6rm.
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 Stamped on great women, great in birth and
fortune, And blown by flatterers greater than it is, 'Tis seldoni unaccompanied* with pride; Nor is she that way n'ee : presuming on The'duke's affection, and her own desert, She bears herself with such a majesty, Lookinff 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 sist6r, A lady too acquainted with her worth, Will brook it well j and howsoe'er their hate Is smother'd for a time, 'tia more than feared It will at length break out.
•RS
244 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
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. [Exeunt.
SCENE IL Another Room in the same.
Enter Trav CISCO, Isabella, andMAKijiHA.
Mari. 1 will not go; I scorn to be a spot* In her proud train.
Isab. Shall I, that am his mother. 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, Nat use her like herself?
Isab. You are ever forward To sing her praises.
ft
* I scorn to be a spot, &c.] Mariana alludes to the spoi$ (eyes) in the peacock's tail.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 245
Mari. Others are as fair; I am sure, as noble. '
Fran. I detract from none, In giving her what's due. Were she dcform'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 ! She coufident in herself he's wholly her's, And cannot seek for change ; and he secure, That 'tis not in the power of man to tempt hen And therefore to contest with her, thatds 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 ; JBut 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.
lEj^eunt
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.
s.
2^*6 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
2 Gent. All that may be had
To please the eye, the ear, tas.te> touch, or amell. Are carefully provided.
3 Gent. 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. S.Gent. All is in order.
Flourish. EnterTiBZKio, StephaiJo, Francisco, Sforza, Marcelia, Isabella, Mariana, -and Attendaffts.
J^hr. Yoii 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,*
, *
' To fashion one ; yet still you must confe^^ The reader if 'already acquainted with t^e recent discorery of a ^presentation copy of this play, in which the errors of the press are corrected by Massinger's own hand. The line above stands in all the old editions,
To fashion, aii(2 yet still yoa must confew.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 247
The pho&nix of perfection ne'er was seen, But in my fair Marcelia.
Fran. She's, indeed, The wonder of all times.
Tib. Your exrcellence, Though I confess, you give her but her own, Forces* her modesty to the defence Of a sweet blush.
Sj'or. It need riot, my Marcelia ; When most I strive to praise thee, I appear A poor detractor : for tliou 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 ! s ae is more to me. And every day deserves more to be sued to. Such as are cloy'd with those they have cm- braced. 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
I need not point out how mncb the sense, aa weU as the spif;it of the passage, is improTed by this simple alteration ; nor how unlikely it was that any of the poet's editors, if the change had even occurred to them, should haf e rentured on such an ernen- dation,
* FoTceg hermodestif] So the edition 16^, which Coxeter docs not appear to hare often consulted. He reads, after that of 1638, enforces f though it destroys the metre. Mr. M. Mason^ of course, follows him.
' So absolute in body and in mindy] For this spirjted reading, which is that of the first edition, the second, has, So perfect botn in body and in mind^ and thus it stands in Coxeter andM. Mason t
248 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Her virgin fruit — Blest night ! and be it num*
ber'd Amongst those happy ones, in which a blessing Was, by the full consent of all the stars^ Conferred upon mankind.
Marc. My worthiest lord ! The only object I behold with pleasure,— My pride, my glory, in a word, my all ! 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 swear!*
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 blest one.
Mari, How she winds herself Into his soul !
♦ Sfor. 0 swe^Tf for ever swear f] This is the lection of the ' first quarto 5 the second poorly reads, 0 uwe^tyjvr ever swear ! •and is followed by both the former editors.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. U9
Sfor. Sit all. — Let others feed On those gross catcs, while Sforza banquets with Immortal viands ta'en in at his eyes, I coald live ever thus* — Command the eunuch To sing the ditty that 1 last composed,
E^ter a Convitr. . ^
In praise of my Marcelia. From whence?
Cour. From Pavia, my dread lord.
Sfor. Speak, is all lost ?
Uour. [Delivers a letterJ] The letter will inform you. [Ea^t.
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:
Majf it please your ejpcellence to understand^ that the *oery hour I wrote tkisy I heard a bold defiance delivered by a herald from the empero7% which was cheerfully received by the king of Prance. The bat- tailes being ready to join^ and the vanguard com- mitted to my charge, enforces me to end abruptly. . Your Highnesses humble servant-
Gaspzro.
Ready to join ! — By this, then, I am nothing, Or my estate secure. . [Aside.
Marc. My lord.
Sfor. To doubt, Is worse than to have lost ; and to despair, Is but to antedate those miseries That must f»ll 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.
S50 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
T' inform me what I am. The cause cohsider*d, Why should I fear ? The French arc 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. \^Aside.
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
none That dare speak to him.
Marc. I will run the hazard. — My lord !
Sfor. Ha! — pardon me, Marcelia,Iam 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, 3e, as you purposed, merry.
Sfor. Out of my sight ! [Throws away thedetter. And all thoughts that may strangle mirth forsake
me. Fall Avhat can fall, I dare the worst of fate : Though the foundation of the earth should
shrink, The glorious eye of heaven lose his splendour, Supported thus, I'll stand upon the ruins. And seek for new life here. Why are you sad ?
THE DUKE OF MILAN. jMl
No other sports I by heaven, he's not my
friend, That^^ears one furrow ia his face. I was told There was a masque*.
Fram They wait your highness* pleasure^ And when you please to have it
Bfor. Bid them enter : Come, jnake me happy once again. I am rapt — *Tis not to day, to morrow, or the nejtt, But all my days, and years, shall be employed To do thee honour.
Marc. And my life to serve you.
[A barn without. Sfor. Another ^ost ! Go hang him, hang him, I say ; I will not interrupt my present pleasures, "Although his message should import my head : Hang him, I say.
Marc. Nay, good sir, I am pleased To grant a little intermissiou to you ; Who knows but he brings news we wish to hear, To heighten our delights. Sfor. As wise as fair!
. > • , .
Enter onQth&r CoxxxiQT.
» • From Gaspero?
Cour. That was, my lord.
< ^r.. How! dead? * :\ . ^
Cour. [Delivers a letter. '\ With the delivery of
this, and prayers,
To guard your excellency from ceitain dangers,
He ceased to be'a man. . [Exik
Sfor. All that ray fears Could fashion to me, or my enemies wish, Is fallen upon me,— Silence that harsh music j 'Tis now unseasonable : a tolling bell.
S5S THE DUKE OF MILAN.
As a sad harbinger to tell tne» 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
but usher'd Sorrow and ruin. Marc. Bless us, heaven ! Isah. My son.
Marc. What sudden change is this ? SJor. 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,
Marcelia ; I cannot be so greedy of a sorrow, In which you must not share.
\Exmnt liberie, Stephano^ Francisco, iMbeUa^ Mariana, and Attendants. Marc. And cheerfully I will sustain my part. Why look you pale ? Where is that wonted coi^stancy and courage. That dared the worst of fortune? where is SK)rza, To whom all dangers that fright common men. Appeared but panic terrors? why do you eye
me With such fix'd looks? Love, counsel, duty,
service. May flow from me, not danger. '■
»^or. O, Marcelia ! It is for thee I fear ; for thee, thy Sforza Shakes like a coward : for myself, unmoved,
^ Sick to the d€ath^'\ The modern editors omit the article, no less to the injury of the metre than of the language of the X>oet) ivbich was, indeied^ that of the time.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 853
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
prisoner To so proud enemies.*
Marc. Then you have just cause To shew vou are a man.
«§/ir. All this were nothing, Though I add to it, that I am assured^ For giving aid to this unfortunate king^ The emperor, incens'd, lays his command On his victorious army, flesh'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 ravishM ; 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 damn'd Howl for in hell, are gentle strokes, compared To what I feel, Marcelia.
Marc. Oood sir, have patience : I can as well partake your adverse fortune,
* There is a striking similaritj (as Mr. Gilchrist observes) between this passage, and the parting speech of Hector to Andromache :
Ov/ auiifii 'ExaCigf , art JlfmiAoto aveutlotj Ovrt Koatynrtifff ot xi» voXii? ri nat i aSXoi
Otrirof ^11, «. T. •. Il.TI. 4fi0
«54 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
As I thus long have had an ample share In your prosperity. Tis not in the power Of fate to alter me ; for while I am, In spite of it, Vm 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 compelPd, upon another ; Or those sweet lips, yielding immortal nectar, Be gently touched by any but myself; Think, think, Marcelia, what a cursed thing I were, beyond expression !
Marc. Do not feed Those jealous thoughts ; the only blessing that Heaven hath bestow'd on us, 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 youfs, and I will die so.
Sfor. Angels reward the goodness of this woman !
Enter FRAKCieco.
All 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 for- tunes. And with speed, to impart.
^ To be «o - . - forced^ Marcelia ;1 In the former edition I Tentnredy eyen at the risk of a little harshness, to Insert be in the break. Something is evidently wrong, though the metre is complete: but as it escaped thenotice of the author,! have merelj pointed out the defect.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. . -^s
*" Sfor. Wait on him hither. [Exit Francesco. And, dearest, to thy closet. Let thy prayers Assist my councils*
Marc. To spare imprecations Against myself, without you I am nothing, [JEa?iV.
Sfor. The marquis of Pescara! a great sol- dier ; ' And, though he serv'd upon the adverse party, Ever my constant friend,
Re-enttr Feancisgo with Psscara.
Fran^ Yonder he walks, ' Full of sad thoughts*
Pesc. Blame him not, good Francisco, He hath much caui^e to grieve; would I might
end so, . And not add this, — to fear !
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. You then should have just cause to say, Pescara Looked 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
All compliment; thus, then, sir, to the purpose: The cause that, unattended, brought me hither, Was not to tell you of your loss, or danger ;
7 Sfor. The'frtatquis of Pescara! a great soldier ;] The dmkt. does not exaggerate the merits of Pescara : he was, indeed, a great soldier^ a fortunate commander, an able negociator, in a vord, one of the chief ornaments of a period which abounded in extraordinary characters.
fU6 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
For fame hath many wings to bring ill tidings. And I presume youVe 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, tne 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 pertbrce, . You must expect extremes. , Sfor. I understand you ; And I will put your counsel into act, And speedily. I only will take order For some domestical affairs, that do Concern me nearly, and with the next sun Ride with you: in the mean time, my best
friend. Pray take your rest.
Pesc. Indeed, I have travell'd hard ; i And will embrace your counsel. [Eait.
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
* Were flattery in yourself^ So, both the quartos*^ the moders editors read, Were flattering yourself*
- THE DUKE OF MILAN. 257
A sacrifice to restore them as they wete, I willingly would lay it down.
Sfor. I think so ; For I have ever found you true ahd thankful, Which makes me love the building I have raised In your advancement ; and repent no gf*ace • I have conferred upon you. And, believe me, Though now I should repeat my favours to you, The titles I have given you, arid the means Suitable to your honours ; that I thought you Worthy my sister and my family. And in my dukedom made yoii next myself; It is not to upbraid you ; but to tell you I find you are wbrthy of f hem, in your love And service tt) mfe.
Fran. Sii", I am your creature; And any shape, thit you would have me wear, I gladly will put on.
Sfor. Thus, then, Francisdo : * I now am to ddiver to yout trust A weighty secret ; of so stratige a nature, And 'twill, I know, appear so moiiistrous to you, That you will tremble m the execution, As much as I am tortured to coramand.it : For 'tis a deed so horrid, that, but to hear it, Would strike into a ruffiati flesh'd in muriders, Or an obdurate hangman, soft compassion; And yet, Francisco, of all men the dearest. And from me most deserving, such my state And strange condition is, that thou alonie Must know the fatal service, and perform it.
Fran. These preparations, sir, to wotk jx stranger. Or to one unacquaiuted with yoiir bouhties. Might appear useful ; but to me they are Needless impertinencies : for I dare do Whate'er you dare command.
VOL. I. * S
fi5« THE DUKE OF MILAR
Sfar. 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.
JV<i;i.. Minister The oath in any way or form you please, I stand resolved to take it.
iS/br. 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 remembered, 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 confirm'4
Sfar. 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.
^or. Add too, her goodness,
THE DUKE OF MILAN. asg
Her tenderness of me, her care to please me, Her unsuspected chastity, ne'er equalled ; Her innocence, her honour : — O, I am lost In the ocean of her virtues and her graces, When I think of them !
Fran. Now I find the end Of all your conjurations ; there's some service To be done for this sweet lady. If she have
enemies. That she would have removed
Sfor. Alas ! Francisco, Her greatest enemy is her greatest lover ; Yet, in that hatred, her idolater. One smile of her's would make a savage tame ; One accent of that tongue would calm the seas^ Though all the winds at once strove there for
empire. Yet I, for whom she thinks all this too little. Should I miscarry in this present journey. From whence it is all number to a cipher, I ne'er return with honour, by thy hand Must have hermurder'd.
Fran. Murder'd ! — She that loves so. And so deserves to be beloved again ! And I, who sometimes you were pleased to favour, Pick'd out the inst^rument !
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. Where she resides. I ask from her but justice. And what I would have paid to her, had sickness,
♦S2
260 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Or any other accident, divorced
Her purer soul from her unspotted body.*
The slavish Indian princes, when they die,
Are cheerfully attended to the fire,
By the wife and slave that, living, they loved best,
To do them service in another world :
Nor will I be less honour'd, that love more.
And therefore trifle not, but, in thy looks,
Express a ready purpose to perform
What I command ; or, by Marcelia's soul,
This is thy latest minute.
Fran. Tis not fear Of death, but love to you, makes me cmbi^ce 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 discovered. I may come back ; then this is but a trial To purchase thee, if it were possible, A nearer place in my affection : — but I know thee honest.
Fran. 'Tis a character I will not p^rt with.
Sfor. I may live to reward it.' IKreunf.
4
• Her purer s^mlfrom her umpotted 6<%.] The ferlaer edition read kisy wi(h the old copies. In the lax use of pronouns which pretailed among our old writers, it appeared to staiid for its, and to refer to soul. It is now printed, as Corrected by Massinger. I make no apology for harhi^ refusM to admit the conjecture of Coxeter and Monck Mason. With f espect to purer ^ it is used in perfect concurrence with the pracjtice, of the poet> contemporaries, for jot/re, the comparatire for the positive. See the ITnnatural Combat^ p. 192.
» TWe obserrktioni in ^•^ Eilaj^ i^refiiWl 1o ftff»'Volih»e>
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 261
ACT II. SCENE I.
The same. An open Space before the Castle. Enter Txberio and Stephano.
Steph. How ! left the court ?
Tib. Without guard or retinue Fitting a prince.
Steph. No enemy near, to force him .To leave his own strengths, yet deliver up Himself, as 'twere, in bonds, to the discretion Of him that hates him ! 'tis beyond example. You never heard the motives th^t induced him To this strange course ?
Tih. No, those are cabinet councils, And not to be communicated, but To such as are his own, and sure. Alas I We fill up empty places, and in public Are taught to give our suffrages fo that Which was before determined ; and are safe so. Signior Francisco (upon whom alone His absolute power is, with all strength, conferr'd. During his absence) can with es|.se. resolve you : To me they are riddles.
Sttph. Well) he shall no}: he
preclude the necessity of any farther remarks on this admirably spene : ac^ it seemS) howeyer, to haTe engrossed the critics' atteo* tionj (to the manifiest neglect of the rest,) let n^e suggest, in ju9^ tice to Massinger, tliat it is equalled, if not 8urpas«e(d» by sonM of the succeeding ones, and, among the re^t, by. tl^at which concludes the second act.
262 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
My (Edipus ; I'll rather dwell in darkness. But, my good lord Tiberio, this Francisco Is, on the sudden, strangely raised.
Tib. O sir, He took the 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
chamber, No visitants admitted. In the church. She hath been seen to pay her pure devotions, Seasoned with tears; and sure her sorrow's true. Or deeply counterfeited ; pomp, and state. And bravery cast off : and she, that lately Rivall'd Poppsea in her varied shapes. Or the Egyptian queen, now, widow-like. In sable colours, as her husband's dangers
« ■ He had a sister^ &c.] There is great art in this
introduction of the sister. In tiie management of these prepa- ratory hints, Massinger surpasses all his contemporaries. In Beaumont and Fletcher, '^ the end sometimes forgets the be- ginning ;" and eien Shakspeare is not entirely free from jpat- tentions of a similar nature. I will not here praise the general felicity of our author's plots : but whateyer they were, he seems to have minutely arranged all the component parts before a Hne of the dialogue was written.
* Upon the tight cf this, &c«] i. e. of the present dutchess.
THE DUKE OF MILAN.
S65
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 brotheir's fortune, She ne'er appeared so full of mirth.
Steph. 'Tis strange.
Enter Graccho with Fiddlers.
But see ! her favourite, and accompanied. To your report.
Grac. You shall scrape, and I will sing A scurvy ditty to a scurvy tune. Repine who dares.
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 '11 be for my lady's.
Tib. Signior Graccho, ^
Grac. A poor man, sir, aservant to* the princess; But you, great lords' and counsellors of state. Whom I stand bound to reverence.
Tib. Come ; we know You are a man in grace.
Grac. Fie ! no : I grant, I bear my fortunes patiently ; serve the princess, And have access at all times to her closet,
' But y(m^ great lords &cJ\ So the old copies. Mr. If. Mason ^ chooses to deriate from them, and read But you are great lards &C. Neter was alteration more uanecessaiy.
264 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Such is my impudeace ! when your grave lordships
Are masters of the modesty t;o attend
Three hours, nay sometin^es* four ; and then bid
wait Upon her the oext mofning.
Steph. He derides us.
Tib. Pray, you, what news is stirring ? yoa know all.
Grac. Who, I ? alas ! IVe 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, ami foolish fiddles : It is our element ; and — could yon tell me What point of state 'tis that I am commanded To muster up this music, on mine honesty^ Yon should much befriend me.
Steph. Sirrah, you grow saucy.
Tib. And would be laid by the heelsi.
Grac. Not by your lordships,^ Without a special warrant ; look to your own
stakes ; Were I committed, here cooae those would bail me : Perhaps, we might change places too.
Enter Isabella, and Maui ana j Graccho
whispers 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 mushropn^ !
Mart. Thou dost mistake ; they durst not
THE DUKE OF MILAN. «65
Use the least word of scorn, although provoked, To any thing of mine. — Go, get you home, And to your servants, friends, and flatterersi
number How many descents you're noble :— look to your
wives too; The smooth-chinn'd courtiers are abroad.
Tib. No way to be a freeman !
[Exeunt Tiberio and Stephana^
Grac. Your Excellence hath the best gift to dispatch These arras pictures of nobility, I ever read of.
Mari. I can speak sometimes.
Grac. And cover so your bitter pills with sweetness Of princely language to forbid risply, They are greedily swallow'd.
Isah. But the purpose, daughter, That brings us hither? Is it td bestow A visit on this woman, that, because She only would be thought truly to grieve The absence and the dangers of my s^oq, Proclaims a general sadness ?
Mari. If to vex her May be interpreted to do her honour. She shall hare many of them. I'll make use Of my short reign : my lord now governs alt ; And she shall kiK>w that her idolater. My brother, being not by now to protect her, I' am her equal.
Grac. Of a little thin
Qty
It is so full of gall !^ A devil of this size,
^ Grac. Of a Kttte tiiii>^,
It is icfull 0fgaU / j Nottnng more strongly tanrks «ie poferfy of the itaji^e in |ho«e tiateVj tbati the frequent aHusioiis wiiiclt we find to the size of the acto^rs^ ani v/iaA ma^r be eonaidercd as a
i66 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
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 musty, 'We must be sad, on pajn of her displeasure: We will, we will ! this is her private chamber, 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 any thing That's light and loud enough but to torment her. And we will have rare sport [Music and a song.*
Marcel r A appears at a Windtw 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 ; And that breeds melancholy,asyour doctor tells us: To purge which, we, that arc 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 ?
kjnd of apology to the audience. It is not possible to ascertain who played the part of Mariana, but it was not improbably^ Theophilus Bourne, who acted Paulina in the Henegodo, where an expression of the same nature occurs. Domitilla, in the Roman Actor J is also little ; she was played by John Hunnieman. I do not condemn these indirect apologies ; indeed, there appears to be something of good sense in them, and of proper deference to the understandings of the audience. At present, we run intrepidly into erery species of absurdity: men and women un- wieldy at once from age and fatness, take upon them the parts of actiTe boys and girls ; and it is not only in a pantomime that we are accustomed to see children of six feet high in leading strings! ' A song.] This, like many othen^ does not appear ; it was probably supplied at pleasure^ by the actors.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. S67
Isaby 'T would shew rare in ladies.
Mari. Being intended for so sweet a creature, Were she but pleased to grace it.
Isab. Fie ! sne will. Be it ne'er so mean ; shq's made of courtesy.
MarL The mistress of all hearts. One smile, I pray you, On your poor servants, or a fiddler's fee ; Coming from thosefair 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 fearsand griefs, in which youshould 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 my just anger
Isab. A set speech, on my life.
MarL 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.
Grac. 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,
* Marc. Fm, it can speakf] So the old copies ; the modem editions, Fe», I am speak /
868 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
The duke stands now on his own legs^ ^nd needs No nurse to lead him.
Isab. How, a nurse !
Marc. A dry one, And useless too : — but I am mercifuli 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. You owe him, as ^ subject, due to me
Mari. To you ?
Marc. To me : and therefore, as a vassal, From this hour learn to serve m^f, or yoM^'ll feel I must make use of my authority. And, as a princei^s, punish it.
Isab. A princess !
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 reme^iber' The issue in her leg.
7 Marc. For j^v, PYippis^rT'
Mari. What of me, pine-tcee?]
^^ Now I percciTe that she hath made compare ^' Between our statures'*—— Pvfpet and may-poky and Boanj othef terms of .equal ekgaQce, are bandied about in the quarrel between Heri^ia and Helena, in Midsummer'Night's Prcam^ which is here too closely imitated. I forbear to quote the passages, which are familiar to every reader of Shakspeare.
' Mari. Let her but remember^ &c.] Fpr this IJ^lassinger is in* debted to less respectable authority, to the troftK^drajd* iQigmacltTl
^ THE DUKE OP MILAN. 259
Isab. The charge she puts The state to, for perfumei.
Maru And howsoever 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 scratbh those
eyes out. Do but come down*
Marc. Were there no other way. But leaping on thy neck, to break mitie own, Rather than be outbraved thus. [She retires.
Grac. Forty ducats Upon the little hen ; she's of the kind, And will not leave the pit. [Aside.
Mari. That it Were lawful To meet her with a poniard and a pistol ! But these weak hands shall shew my spleen—
Ri* enter MaHoelia betow.
Marc. Where are you. You modicum, yon dwarf! Mari. Here, giantess, here.
of the dntchess'8 waiUng.wottian, m her ihfdliight cdftfer^nce with Don Qaixote. These traits, faowerer disgaiting, are not without their valae ; they strongly mark the preTaiiing features of the times, which were uniyersaUy coarse and indelicate! they exhibit also a circumstance worthy of particular notice, namely, that those' Vfgofous powers Of genias, whJeh carry men far beyond the literacy state of th^ir age, do not enable thenf tb outgo that of its maBiiers. This- must serre as an apology for our author; indeed, it is the only one which can be offered for many Who stand higher in the ranks of fame tiian Massivger, and who ha?e still more need of it.
270 THE DUKE OP MILAK
Enter Francisco, Tiberio, St£phano, and
Gtuird$.
Fran. A tumult in the court !
Maris Let her come on.
Fran. What wind hath raised this tempest ? Sever them, I command you. What's the cause ? Speak, Mariana.
MarL I am out of breath ; But we shall meet| we shall. — ^And do you hear,
sir I 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 >vere 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 tlie 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 nne, 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 ! '
Imb. We are like To have an equal judge !
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 871
Tran. But, should I find That you are touched in any point of honour, Or that the least neglect is fall'n upon you, I then stand up a prince.
1 Fid. Without reward, Pray you dismiss us.
Grac. Would I were five leagues hence I
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 those that have offended you.
hab. I am one. And I will justify it.
Mart. Thou art a base fellow, To take her part.
Fran. Remember, she's the dutchess.
Marc. But used with more contempt, than if I were A peasant's daughter ; baited, and hooted at, Like to a common strumpet ; with loud noises Forced from my prayers; and niy private chamber. Which with all willingness, I would make my
prison , During the absence of my lord, denied me : 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.
Isah. 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.
trs THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Isab. Mart. 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, 1*11 ratherlive inany loathsome dungeon, Than in a paradise at her entreaty : And, for you, upstart— —
Steph. There is no contending.
Ttb. What shall become df 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.
[Eseunt all but Francisco and Marcelia.
Fran. Let them first knbw themselves, and how you are To be served and honoured; which, when they confess,
• Tib. Now^ signior Graccho^
What think you of your greatness 9'\ So the first quarto. Cox- eter and Mr. M. Mason follow the second, which reads^ What's become of your greatness f
■ 1 Fid. / was never yet
At Slick a hunt's-upj The hunt^S'Upir^B a leflson on the bom, played under the windows of sportsmen, to. call them up in the morning. It was, probably, sufficiently obstreperous,' for it is frequently applied by our old writers, as in this place, to any noise or clamour of an awakening or alarming nature. The tune^ or rather, perhaps, the words to it,. was composed by one Gray, in the time of Henry VIII. who, as Puttenham tdls ua, in his Art of English Poesy , was much pleased with ,it. Of its popularity there can be no doubt, for it was one of the songs
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 273
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 conferred upon unthankful men; So, any service done to so much sweetness, However dangerous, and subject to An ill construction, in your fovour finds A wish'd, and glorious end.
Marc. From yoq, I take this As loyal duty; but, in any other, It would appear gross flattery.
Fran. Flattery, madam ! You are so rare and excellent in all things. And raised so high upon a rock of goodness. As that vice cannot reach you ;* who but looks on
travestied by the Scotch Reformers into ^^ ane gade and godly ballate/' for the edification of the elect. The first stanza of the original is come down to us :
^* The hunte is up, the hunte is up,
" And nowe it is almost daye ; ^^ And he thaf s in bed with another man's wife,
". It is iim« Jto g<^t awaye/'
The tune, I suppose, is lost ; bat we hare a hunt*s»up of our own, which is still played under the windows of the sluggish sports- man, and consists of a chorus of men, dogs, and horns, not a little alarming.
• • v^« that vice cwMXoi reach you ;] i. e, flattery : Coxeter desertf ih0 old copies .hvre^ and raads, I know not for what reason,
That vice can never reach you : His^ Achates foitowi hirn^ as asnal. VOL, I. * T
274 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
This temple, built by nature to perfectioYi, 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 ? [Aside.
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, far it is mbre 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 j If you do, it will prove fatal.
Fran. Be it death. And death with torments tyrants ne'er found out, Yet I mast say, I love you.
Marc. As a subject ; And 'twill beqome you.
Fran, Farewell, circumstance ! And since you are not pleased to understand me. But by a plain and usual form of speech ; All superstitious reverence laid by, I love you as a man, and, as a man, I would enjoy you. Why do you start, and fly 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, vhich creatures wanting reason, fly trom. Are all the princely bounties, favours, honours, ■ Which, with some prejudice to his own wisdom. Thy lord and raiser hath conferr'd upon thee, j
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 275
In three days absence buried ? Hath he made thee, A thing obscure, almost without a name, The envy of great fortunes ? Have I graced thee, Beyond thy rank, and entertain'd thee, as A friend, and not a servant ? and is this. This impudent attempt to taint mine honour, The fair return of both our ventured favours !
Fran. Hear my excuse^.
Marc. The devil may plead mercy. And with as much assurance, as thou yield one. Burns lust so hot in thee ? 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 enemiescould wishme, I'll be thy strumpet.
Fran. 'Tis acknowledged, madam, That your whole course of life hath been a pattern For chaste and virtuous women. In your beauty, Which I first. saw, and loved, as a fair crystal, I read your heavenly mind, clear and untainted ; And while the duke did prize you to your value, Could it have been in man to pay that duty, I well might envy him, but durst not hope To stop you in your full career of goodness : But now I find that he's fall'n from his fortune, And, howsoever he would appear doting. Grown cold in his affection ; I presume, >
From his most barbarous neglect of you. To offer my true service. Nor stand I boun^, To look back on the courtesies of him, That, of all living men, is most unthankful.
Marc. Unheatd-of impudence !
T*2 .. -. ^...
376 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Fran. Youll say I am modest, When I have told the story. Can he tax me, That have received some worldly trifles fromhim. For being ungrateful ; when 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 aceiirs'd ! Thy soul, if thou hast any, Can witness, never lady stood so bound To the unfeign'd affection of ber 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 standstill ; The ocean keeps nor floods nor ebbs ; or that ' There's peace between the lion and the lamb ; Or that the ravenous eagle atid the dove Keep in one aerie,' and bring up their young j Or any thing that is averse to nature :
3 Or that ^e ravenous eagte and the dove Keep in one aerie,] i. e. in one nest. Mr. M. Mason degrades Massinger and himself, by reading, Keep in one aviary ! Such rashness, and incompetence^ it is to be hoped, do not often meet in one person*
THE DUKE OF MILAN. ?77
And I will sooner credit it, than that
My lord can think of me, but as a jewel,
He lovei 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; — \Givesherapaper^--^^nA
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'litry What the inscription is.
Fran. Pray you, do iso.
Marc, [reads.] You know mypleasurCj and the hour of Marcelia's deaths whichfail not to execute^ as you will answer the contrary j not with your head alone, hut 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. \Swoons.
Fran. What have I done ? Madam ! for heaven's sake, madam !— O my fate ! I'll bend her body •/ this is yet some pleasure :
^ ^Tis his hand, Fm resolved qfit^ I am conrinced of it; 80 the word is frequently used by Massinger's contemporaries. Thus Fletcher, in the Faithful Shepherdess :
^' But be they far from me with their fond terror !«-
^^ I am resolved my Chloe yet is true." And Webster, in the White Devil:
** I am resohedf
'^ Were there a second paradise to lose,
«' This devil would betray it." ' I'll bend her body:^ — ^to try if there be any life in it. Thus, pk the Maid^s Tragedy :
'^ Pre heard, if there be any life, but bow
<< The body thus, and it will show itself.''
J78 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
I'll kiss her into a new life. Dear lady ! — Shestirs. 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 Marcelia !
Fran. But I am true, And live to make you happy. All the pomp, State, and observance you had, being his. Compared to what you shall enjoy, when mine. Shall be no more remembered. 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 I*
Marc. Thou art a villain ! All attributes of arch-villains made into one. Cannot express thee. I prefer the hatp.
^ But I mil grasp my aims in you, mydearestf^ Dearest f and best of women /] It would scarcely be credited* if we had not the proof before us, that for his bold and ani« mated expression, which is that of both the quartos, Mr. M. ^ason should presume to print, But I mil grasp you in my arms, "in the tame rant of modern comedy. Coscter's reading is simple nonsense, which is better than specious sophist ication, as it excites suspipioa.
THE DUKE OF MILAN.
279
Of Sforza, though it mark me for the grave, Before thy base aifection. 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 I Think on't, and tremble.
Marc, No, though thou wert now To play thy hangman's part — ^Thou well may 'st be 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. [Exit.
Fran. 1 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 T have put off ' From theshore of innocence, guilt be now my pilotl Revenge first wrought me ; ' murder's his twin- brother : One deadly sin, then, help to cure another! [Exit,
7 Reoengejirst wrought me^ &c.] The reader should not suffer these hints, of which he will find several in the succeeding pages, to escape him : they are not thrown out at random by Massinger, but intended to prepare the mind for the dreadful retaliation which follows.
230 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
ACT III. SCENE I.
The Imperial Camp, before Pavia.
Enter Medina, Hernando, and Alphonso.
Med. The spoil, the spoil ! 'tis that the soldier fights fpr. Our victory, as yet, affords us nothing But wounds and empty honour. We have pass'd The hazard of a dreadful day, and forced . A passage with our swords through all the dan- gers That, page-like, wait oft the success of war; And now expect reward.
Hem. Hell put it in The enemy's mind to be desperate, and hold
out ! Yieldings and compositions will undo us ; And what is that way given, for the most part. Conies to the emperor's coffers, to defray The charge of the great action, as 'tis rumour'd : When, usually, some thing in grace, that ne'er
heard The cannon's roaring tongue, but at a triumph, Puts in, and for his intercession shares All that we fought for ; the poor soldier left To starve, or fill up hospitals,
Alph. But, when We entfer towns by force, and carve ourselves, Pleasure with pillage, and the richest wines Open our shrunk-up veins, and pour into them
New blood and fervour-^
Med. I long to be at it ;
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 281
To see these chuffs, • that every day may spend A soldier's entertainment for a year, Yet make a third meal of a bunch of raisins :* These sponges, that suck up a kingdom's fat, Battening like scarabs* in the dung of peace, To be sq^ueezed out by the rough hand of war ; And all that their whole lives have heap'd
together, By cozenage, perjury, or sordid thrift. With one gripe to be ravish'd.
' To see these chuffs,] So it stood in every edition before Mr. M* Mason's, when it was altered to choughsy and said, in a note, to mean magpies ! ViThat magpies could have to do here, it would, perhaps, puzzle the editor, had he thought at all on the subject, to discoVer. The truth is, that chuff is the genuine word : it is always used in a bad sense, and means a coarse un- mannered clown, at once sordid and wealthy.
9 Yet make a third meal of a bunch of raisins :]. So all the old copies, and so, indeed, Goxeter ; but Mr. M. Mason, whose sagacity nothing escapes, detected the poefs blunder, and for third suggested, nay, actually printed, thin. • ^^ This passage,'' quoth he, ^^ appears to be erroneous : the making a third meal of raisins, if they made two good meals before, would be no proof of penuriousness. I therefore read thin,*'
Seriously, was erer alteration so capricious, was ever reason- ing so absurd I Where is it said that these chuffs ^' had made two good meals before ?" Is not the whole tendency of the speech to shew that they starred themselves in the midst of abundance ? and are not the reproaches such, as have been east, in all ages, by men of Medina's stamp, on the sober and frugal citizen, who lived within his income ? '' Surely," says Flotwell, in the City Matchy
*' Surely, myself,
^^ Cipher his factor, and an ancient cat, ^^ Did keep strict diet, had our Spanish fare, ^* Four olives among three ! My uncle would ^^ Look fat with fasting ; I have known him surfeit ^^ Upim a bunch ef raisinsy swoon at sight ^^ Of a whole joint, and rise an epicure ^^ From half an orange." ' Battening like scarabs] Scarabs .means beetles. M. Masok. Very true ; and beetles means scarabs t
S8S THE DUKE OF MILAN.
«
Hern. I would be tousing Their fair madonas, that in little dogs. Monkeys, and paraquittos, consume thousands ; Yet, for the advancement of a noble action, Repine to part with a poor piece of eight : War's plagues upon them ! I hJive seen them
stop Their scornful noses first, then seem to swoon, At sight of a buff jerkin, if it were not Perfumed, and hid with gold : yet these nice
wantons, Spurr'd on by lust, covered in some disguise, To meet some rough court-stallion, and be
leap'd. Durst enter into any common brothel, Though all varieties of stink contend there ; Yet praise the entertainment.
Med, I may live To see the tatter 'd'st rascals of my troop Drag them out of their closets, with a vengeance ! When neither threatening, flattering, kneeling,
howling, Can ransome one poor jewel, or redeem Themselves, from their blunt wooing.
Hern. My main hope is. To begin the sport at Milan : there's enough. And of all kinds of pleasure we can wish for. To satisfy the most covetous.
AlphJ Every day, We look for a remove.
Med. For Lodowick Sforza, The duke of Milan, I, on mine own knowledge, Can say thus much : he is too much a soldier. Too confident of his own worth, too rich too. And understands top well the emperor hatea
him. To hope for composition.
THE DUKE OF MILAN, 283
Alph. On my life, We need not fear his coming in."
Hern. On mine, I do not wish it : I had^ rather that, To shew his valour, he'd put us to the trouble To fetch him in by the ears,
Med. The emperor !
Flourish. Enter Charles, Pescara, and
Attendants.
CharL You make me wonder: — nay, it is no counsel,' You may partake it, gentlemen : who'd have
thought, That he, that scorn'd our proiFer'd amity When he was sued to, should, ere he be summon'd, (Whether persuaded to it by base fear. Or flatter'd by false hope, which, 'tis uncertain,) First kneel for mercy ?
Med, When your majesty Shall please to instruct us who it is, we may Admire it with you.
CharL Who, but the duke of Milan, The right hand of the French ! of alLthat stand In our displeasure, whom necessity Compels to seek our favour, I would have sworn Sforza had been the last.
Hern. And should be writ so, In the list of those you pardon. Would his city
* Alph, On my life We need not fear his coming in.] His surrender of himself. Hernando, in the next speech, plays upon the word.
3 nay^ it is no eounselj i. e. no secret: so
in Cu'pid*s Revenge :
^* I would worry her,
** As never cur was worried, I would, neighbour,
" Till my teeth met I know where ? but that is counsel.**
284 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Had rather held us out a siege, like Trov, Than, by a feign'd submission, he should cheat
you Of a just revenge ; or us, of those fair glories Wc have sweat blood to purchase !
Med. With your honour You cannot hear him.
Alph. The sack alone of Milan Will pay the army.
Chart. I am not so weak, To be wrought on, as you fear ; nor ignorant That money is the sinew of the war : And on what terms soever he seek peace, 'Tis in our power to grant it, or deny it : Yet, for our glory, and to shew him that We've brought him on his knees, it is resolved To hear him as a suppliant. Bring him in ; But let him see the effects of our just anger. In the guard that you make for him.
[Exit Pescara.
Hern. I am now Familiar with the issue ; all plagues on it ! He will appear in some dejected habit. His countenance suitable, and for his order, A rope about his neck : then kneel, and tell Old stories, what a worthy thing it is To have power, and not to use it ; then add to
that A tale of king Tigranes, and great Pompey, Who said, forsooth, and wisely! 'twas more
honour To make a king, than kill one : which, applied To the emperor, and himself, a pardon's granted To him an enemy; and we, his servants, Condemn'd to beggary. [Aside to Med.
Med. Yonder he comes ; But not as you expected.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. «85
Jte-enter Pescara «?iVA Sforza, strongly guarded.
Alph, He looks as if He would outface his dangers.
Hern. I am cozen'd : A suitor, in the devil's name !
Med. Hear him speak.
Sfo7\ I come not, emperor, to invade thy mercy. By fawning on thy fortune ; nor bring with me Excuses, or denials. I profess, And with a good man's confidence, even this
instant That I am in thy power, I was thine enemy ; - Thy deadly and vow'd enemy : one that wish'd Confusion to thy person and estates; And with my utmost powers, and deepest coun- sels, Had they been truly followed, furthered it. Nor will I now, although my neck were under The hangman's axe, with one poor syllable Confess, but that I honoured the French king, More than thyself, and all men,
Med. By saint Jaques, This is no flattery.
Hem. There is fire and spirit in't ; Bat not long-lived, I hope.
Sfor. Now give n\e leave. My hate against thyself, and love to him Freely acknowledged, to give up the reasons That made me so affected : In my wants ' I ever found him faithful ; had supplies Of men and monies from him ; and my hopes. Quite sunk, were, by his grace, buoy'd up
again: He was, indeed, to me, as my good angel ,
fi86 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
To guard me from all dangers. I dare speak, Nay, must and will, his praise now, in as high And loud a key, as when he was thy equal. — The benefits he sow'd in me, met not Unthankful ground, but yielded him his own With fair increase, and I still glory in it. And, though my fortunes, poor, compared to his, And Milan, weighed with France, appear as
nothing. Are in thy fury burnt, let it be mentioned, They served but as small tapers to attend The solemn flame at this great funeral :* And with them I will gladly waste myself, Rather than undergo the imputation Of being base, or unthankful.
Alph. Nobly spoken I
'Hern. I do begin, I know not why, to hate him Less than I did.
Sfor. If that, then, to be grateful For courtesies received, or not to leave A friend in his necessities, be a crime Amongst you Spaniards, which other nations That, like you, aim'd at empire^ loved, and
cherish'd Where'er they found it, Sforza brings his head To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slave, Pinion'd and fetter'd, in a squalid weed, Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling, For a forestaird remission : that were poor, And would but shame thy victory ; for conquest Over base foes^ is a captivity, And not a triumph. I ne'er fear'd to die,
4 at this great funeral :] Mr. M. Mason,
•whether by design or not, I will not say, reads, his great funeral: meaning, perhaps, the French king's; bat the old reading is )i>etter in e?ery respect ..
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 287
More than I wish'd to live. When I had reach'd My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes, This crown upon my head, and to my side This sword was girt ; and witness truth, that, now 'Tis in another's power, when I shall part With them and life together, I'm the same : My veins then did not swell with pride; nor
now Shrink they for fear. Know, sir, that Sforza
stands Prepared for either fortune.
Htm As I live, I do begin strangely to love this fellow; And could part with three quarters of ray share in The promised spoil, to save him.
Sjor. But, if example Of my fidelity to the French, whose honours, Titles, and glories, are now mix'd with yours. As brooks, devour'd by rivers, lose their names. Has power to invite you to make him a friend, That hath given evident proof, he knows to love. And to be thankful : this my crown, now yours, You may restore me, and in me instruct These brave bommanders, should your fortune
change. Which now I wish not, what they may expect From noble enemies, for being faithful. The charges of the ^var I will defray. And, what you may, not without hazard, force, Bring freely to you : I'll prevent the cries Of murder'd infants, and of r^vish'd maids. Which, in a city sack'd, call on heaven's justice, And stop the course of glorious victories : And, when I know the captains and the soldiers, Thai have in the late battle done best service, And are to be rewarded, I myself. According to their quality and merits,
288 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Will see them largely recompensed. — ^I have
- said, And now expect my senteace.
Alph. By this light, TTis a brave gentleman.
Med. How like a block The emperor sits !
Hern. He hath delivered reasons/ Especially in his purpose to enrich Such as fought bravely, (I myself am one, I care not who knows it,) as I wonder that He can be so stupid. Now he begins to stir : Mercy, an't be thy will !
CbarL Thou hast so far Outgone my expectation, noble Sforza, For such I nold thee ; — and true constancy, Raised on a brave foundation, bears such palm And privilege with it, that where we behold it. Though in an enemy, it does command us To love and honour it. By my future hopes, I am glad, for thy sake, that, in seeking favour, Thou didst not borrow of vice her indirect. Crooked, and abject means ; and for mine own. That, since my purposes must now be changed, Touching thy life and fortunes, the world can- not Tax me of levity in my settled counsels ; I being neither wrought by tempting bribes,
^ He hath delivered reasons,] Hernando eyidently means to say that Sforza has spoken rationally, especially in expressing his purpose of enriching those who fought brarely : the word remans in the plural will not express that sense. M. Masos.
He therefore alters it to reason ! T(^«tt0inpt to prore that tira> old copies ar« right, would be superfluous:— but I «aonot refteci^, without some indignation, on the scandalous manner in which Mr. M. Mason has given this speech. He first deprives it of metre and sense^ and then builds up new readings on his ows blunders. -
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 289
Nor servile flattery ; but forced into it By a fair war of virtue.
Hern. This sounds well.
Charl. Ail former passages of hate be buried : For thus with open arms I meet thy love, And as a friend embrace it ; and so far I am from robbing thee of the least honour, That with my hands, to make it sit the faster, I set thy crown once more upon thy head ; And do not only style thee, Duke of Milan, But vow to keep thee so. Yet, not to take From others to give only to myself,* I will not hinder your magnificence To my commanders, neither will I urge it ; But in that, as in all things else, I leave you To be your own disposer.
[Flourish, Eant with Attendants.
Sfor. May I live To seal my loyalty, though with loss of life, In some brave service worthy Caesar's favour, And I shall die most happy i Gentlemen, Receive me to your loves; and if henceforth There can arise a difference between us, It shall be in a noble emulation . Who hath the fairest sword, or dare go farthest. To fight for Charles the emperor.
Hern. We embrace you. As one well read in all the points of honour : And there we are your scholars.
l^or. True ; but such As far outstrip the master. We'll contend
•Fef , not to take
From others^ lo give only to myself,] This is the readitig of ait the old copies, and nothing can be clearer than that it is per- fectly proper. The modern editors, howerer, choose to weaJten both the sense and the sentiment, by a conceit of their own : they print^ » . ..^.fo give otUy to thyself !
VOL. I. U *
290 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
In love hereafter; ip the mean time, pray you. Let me discharge my debt, and, as an earnest Of what's to come, divide this cabinet : In the small body of it there are jewels Will yield a hundred thousand pistoleta, Which honour me to receive.
Med. You bind us to you.
Sfar. And when great Charles conimands me to his presence, If you will please to excuse my abrupt departure^ Designs that most concern mel, next this mercy. Calling me home, I shall hereafter meet you, And gratify the favour.
Hern. In this, and all things, •
We are your servants. :
Sfor. A name I ever owe you.
{^E^teunt Medina^ Hernando^ and Alphonso.
Peso. So, sir ; this tempest is well overblpwu. And all things fall out tx> our wish^/« but. In my opinion, this quick return. Before you've made a jparty in the court Among the great ones, (for these needy c^ptains^ Have little power in peace,) may beget danger,^ At least suspicion.
Sfor. Where true honour lives^ Doubt hath no being : I desire no pa^a Beyond an emperor's word, for 'my aiisuiiance* Besides, Pescara, to thyself, of all men, I will confess my weakness :r*-tthough way state And crown's restored me, though. I am in grac6> And that a. little stay might be a step To greater honours, I must hence. Alas ! I live not here ; my wife, my wife, Pescara,' Being absent, I am dead* Prithee, excirse,
•my QN^i;, m j wifid, Peti^arc,] Mn. M. Mason fee^ljr
and. vBmetrically reads^— -^*-oty »t^, Peveara^ Thero k greal beauty in the repetition ; it \$y lleskte»y pei^o^ m eiia^ttclep:
T^kE btJKE OF MiLAN. 891
Aiid' dd ribt chide, fdr friendsht[i's hike, nly
fondness, But ride along with me ; I'll give ydu reasons. And strong ones, to plead fbr ine.
Pesc. Use your bwri pI^Etsure; I'll bear you cotnpany.
^r. Fareweii, grief ! I aitl stored with Two blessirig^ most desired in "human life, A constdiit mend, an unsqspectcd wife. [JEi^eutit
SCENE II.
Milan. A room in tfiH Cmtte.* Enter an Officer with Graccho.
Offic. What I did, I had warrant for ; you havfe tasted My office gently, and fo*" those ioft strokes, Flea-bitings to the jerks I could have lent you, There does belong a ftelihg.'^
Grac. Must I pay For being tortnebted, and dUhonoor'd?
Offic. Fie ! no, Your honour's pot impair'd in't. What's the,
■letting oiit Of a little corrupt blftod/ arid th6 neit way too? There is no surgeon like me, to take oiF A eoortier's itch that's rampant at great ladiis; Or torns knave for prcfermeiit, or grows proud
• Mifan. ARoMiril s tot* C6i6ter priKfei'
*<' Siene changes tn Pisa f i it followed by thd
^' iaoA AztwtMk oi editoi b.
9 Of a little com^i bl popiec the modem
edHon read, Of a Utile c This rcdncea the Im*
to rerjr good prote, wliic j merit.
adS THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Of his rich cloaks and sqits, though got by
brokage, And so forgets his betters:
Grac. Very good, sir : But am I the first man of quality That e'er came under your fingers r
Offic. Not by a thousand ; And they have said I have a lucky hand too : Both men and women of all sorts have bow'd. Under this sceptre. I have had a fellow That could endite, forsooth, and make fine metres To tinkle in the ears of ignorant mad am s. That, for defaming of great men, was sent me Threadbare and lousy, and in- three days after, Discharged by anotner that set him on, I have
seen him Cap k pi6 gallant, and his stripes wash'd of With oil of angels.*
Grac. *Twas a sovereign cure.
Offic. There was a sectary* too, that would not be ■ '
Conformable to the orders of the church, Nor yield to any argument of reason, But still rail at authority, brought to me, When I had worm'd his tongue, and truss'd his
haunches, Grew a fine pulpitman, and was beneficed : Had he not cause to thank me ?
* Wxtk oil of angeU.] It maj be jast necessary to obserre^ thiit this is a pleasant allusion to the gold coin of that name. ;
' There was a sectary f oo, &c.] In the former editions, secrC'^ iary* We owe this change, which- improres at once the metre apd the sense, to Massinger's pen. The emendation was sug- gested to me during the first passage^of this play through the press ; but an oyer scrupulous adherence to the old copies induced me to decline ceceiving it.
• THE DUKE OF MILAN. 293
Grac. There was physic Was to the purpose.
Qffic. Now, for women, sir, For your more consolation, I could tell you Twenty fine stories, but Fll end in one. And 'tis the last that's memorable.
Grac. Prithee, do ; For I grow weary of thee.
Offic. There was lately' A fine she- waiter in the court, that doted Extremely of a gentleman, that h^d His main dependence on a signior's favour I will not name, but could not compass him On any terms. This wanton, at dead midnight, Was found at the exercise behind the arras. With the 'foresaid signior: he got clear off. But she was seized on, and, t6 save his honour. Endured the lash; and, though I made her often Curvet and caper, she would never tell Who play'd at pushpin with her,
Grac. But what follow'd ? Prithee be brief.
Offic. Why this, sir: She delivered. Had store of crowns assign'd her by her patron. Who forced the gentleman, to save her credit, To marry her, and say he was the party Found in Lob's pound: so she, that, before, gladly
' Offic. There -mas lately &c.] I have little doubt but that this lively story njras founded in fact, and well understood by the poet^s contemporaries. The courtiers were not slow in indem- nifying themselves for the morose and gloomy hours wKich they had passed during the last two or three years of Elizabeth ; and the coarse and inelegant manners of James, which bordered closely on licentiousness, afforded them ample opportunities.
It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader, that wherever our old dramatists laid the scene of their plays, the habits and manners of them are, generally speaking, as truly English, as the language.
S94 THE DUKE OF MILAN*
Would have been his whore, reigns o'er Vw as
his wife; Nor dares he grumble at it. Speak but trutlv then. Is not my office lucky ?
Grac. Go, there's for thee ; But what will be my fortune r
Offic. If you thrive not After that soft correction, come again.
Grac. I thank you, knave,
(Mc, And then, knave, I will fit you. [EfiK
U^rac. Whipt like a rogue ! no lighter punish- ment serve To balance with a little mirth ! Tis well ; My credit sunk for ever, I am now Fit company only for pages and for footboys. That have perused the porter's lodge/
Enter Julio and Giovanni.*
Giw. See, Julio, Yonder the proud slave is. How he looks now. After his castigation !
Jul. As he came From a close fight* at sea under the hatches,
♦. Fit company for pages andforfootboys^
That have perused the porter's lodge.] i. e. that hare been whipt there. The porter's lodge, ia onr author's days, when the great claimed, and, indeed, frequently exercised, the right of chastising their servants, was the usual place of punishment.
Thus Shirley, in the Grateful Servant : ^* My friend, what
make you here ? Begone, begone, I say ; — there is a porter's lodge else, where you may have due chastisement."
' Enter' JvLi'o and Giovanni.] This has been hitherto print, ed. Enter two Gentlemen, though one of them is immediately named< Not to multiply characters unnecessarily, I have sup. posed them to be the same that appear with Graccho, in tho first scene of the first act.
^ Jul. As he came
From a close Jight &c.] Our old poets made irery free witK
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 295
With a she-Dunkirk, that was shot before Between wind and water; and he hath sprung a
leak too, Or I am cozen'd.
Griov. Let's be merry with him.
Grac. How they stare at me ! am I turn'd to an owl ? — The wonder, gentlemen ?
Jul. I read, this morning, Strange stories of the passive fortitude Of men in forn^er ages, which I thought Impossible, and not to be believed : But now I look on you, my wonder ceases.
Grac. The reason, sir?
Jul. Why, sir, you have been whipt, Whipt, signior Graccho ; and the whip, I take it, Is to a gentleman, the greatest trial That may be of his patience.
Grac. Sir, I'll call you To a strict account for this.
6riw. I'll not deal with you, Unless I have a beadle for my second : And then I'll answer you.
Jul. Farewell, poor Graccho.
[Ea^eunt Julio and Giovanni.
Grac. Better and better still. If ever wrongs Could teach a wretch to find the way to vengeance,
one another's property.: it mast be confessed, how e?er, that their literary rapine did not originate in pover^, for they gave as liberally as they took. This speech has been '' conveyed" by Fletcher or his editor, into his excellent comedy of the Elder Brother:
ci . ' — They look ruefully,
^ As they had newly come from a yaulting house, ^^ And had been quite shot through between wind and water ** By a she-Dunkirk, and had sprung a leak, sir.'' The meaning is sufficiently obvious.
996 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Enter Francisco and a Servant.
Hell now inspire me! How, the lord protector! My judge; I thank him ! Whither thus in private ? I will not see him. [Stands aside.
Fran. If I am sought for, Say I am indisposed, and will not hear Or suits, or suitors.
Serv.^But, sir, if the princess Enquire, what shall I answer?
Fran. Say, I am rid' Abroad to take the air ; but by no means* Let her know I'm in court.
Sera. So I shall tell her. [Ejcii.
Fran. Within there, ladies!
Enter a Gentlewoman.
Gentlew. My good lord, your pleasure?
Fran. Prithee, let me beg thy lavour for access To the dutchess.
Gentlew. In good sooth, my lord, I dare not; She's very private.
F^^an. Come, there's gold to buy thee A new gown, and a rich one.
Gentlew. I once swore* If e'er I lost my maidenhead, it should be
7 Fran. 5ay, I am rid
Abroad &c.] So the old copies: the modern editors, with equal accuracy and elegance,
Sai/ I'm rode Abroad^ &c.
' / once swore] Both the quartos hare a marginal hemistich here: they read, This vnll tempt me; an addition of the promp- ter, or an unnecessary interpolation of the copyist, which spoils the metre. Cozeter and Mr. M. Mason have adyanced it into the text
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 297
With a great lord, as you are ; and, I know not
how, I feel a yielding inclination in me, If you have appetite.
Fran. Pox on thy maidenhead ! Where is thy lady ?
Gentlew. If you venture on her, She's walking in the gallery ; perhaps, You will find her less tractable.
Fran. Bring me to her.
Gentlew. I fear you'll have cold entertainment, when . You are at your journey's end; and 'twere
discretion To take a snatch by the way.
Fran. Prithee, leave fooling : My page waits in the lobby; give him sweetmeats; He IS train'd up for his master's ease, And he will cool thee. {Exeunt Fran, and Gentlew.
Grac. A brave discovery beyond my hope, A plot even ofFer'd lo my hand to work on 4 If I am dull now, may I live and die The scorn of worms and slaves! — Let meconsider; My lady and her mother first committed, In the favour of the dutchess ; and I whipt ! That, with an iron pen, is writ in brass ' On my tough heart, now grown a harder metal. — And all his bribed approaches to the dutchess To be conceal'd ! good, good. This to my lady Deliver'd, as I'll order it, runs her mad. — But this may prove but courtship ! * let it be, I care not, so it feed her jealous3\ {Exit.
* But this may prove but coortship! &c.3 This is^ merelj. paying his court to her as datchess. M. Masok.
99S THE DUKE OF MILAN.
SCENE III. Another Room in the same.
Enter Marcklia and Vkakcisco.
Marc. Believe thy tears or oaths ! can it be hoped, After a practice so abhorr'd and horrid. Repentance e'er can find thee?
Fran. Dearest lady, Great in your fortune, greater inyoar goodness. Make a superlative of excellence, In being greatest in your saving mercy. I do confess, humbly confess my fault, To be beyond all pity ; my attempt, So barbarously rude^ that it \rould turn A saint-like patience into savage fury. But you, that are all innocence and virtue. No spleen or anger in you of a woman^ But when a holy zeal to piety fires you. May, if you please, impute the fault to lovis. Or call it beastly lust, for 'tis no better; A sin, a monstrous sin ! yet with it many That did prove good men after, have been
tempted; And, though I'm crooked now, 'tis in your power To make me straight again.
Marc, Is't possible ^
This can be cunning ! [Aside*
. Fran. But, if no submission, Nor prayers can appease you, that you may know 'Tis not the fear of death that makes me sue thus,
TUE DUJCEOF MII^AN. 9$9
*
But a loatVd destestatiqin of my madue^a^ Wbjcb makes 9^e wish to live to have your
pardon \ I will not wait the sentence of the duke, . Since his return is doubtful, but I myself Will do ^ fearful justice on myself. No witness by hut you, there being np more, When \ offended. Y et, b^fo^-e I 4o it. For I perceive in ypu no signs of mercy, I will, disclosei ^ secret, which, dyi^g with me. May pi^ov^ your j\\\xy*
Mari^., Speak it; \t will take from The burthen of thy conscience,
Frun. TfauSy thep, n^^d^m : The warrant by my lofd sign'd for your de$tl), Was but conditional ; biit you must swea^r By your unspotted truths not tQ T^v^al it. Or I end here abruptly.
Marc. By my hopes Of joys hereafter. On.
Fran. Nor was it hate That forced him to it, but excess of love Andy if I ne'er return^ (so said gr^at Sforza,) No living man deserving to enjoy My best MarcelMy with the first ne^s That 1 am deady (J or no man ajter me Must e'er enjoy ^rjjfail not to kill ker ■■ ^ But till certain proof
Assure thee X cm lost ^ (these were hia words,) Observe and honour her^ as if the soul
• And if I ne'er return^ &c.] I have regulated thig gpeeds which was exceedingly harsh and confused in all the printed copies, according to Massinger's manuscript corrections. The re* petitions must foe attrib|ite4 to. the embarrassed state of f rapcisco's mind.
In the^ seventh lint, the poet has altered ^^ 4eal of woman'i goodness,'^ (the*rtading of all the copies^) to sauf^ No f^a^iifi
300. THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Of womatCs goodness only dwelt in her*s.
This trust I have abused, and basely wrong'd;
And, if the excelling pity of your mind
Cannot forgive it^ as I dare not hope it,
Rather than look on my offended lord,
I stand resolved to punish it. [Draws hissfword.
Marc. Hold ! 'tis forgiven, And by me freely pardoned. In thy fair life Hereafter, study to deserve this bounty, Which thy true penitence, such I believe it, Against my resolution hath forced from me. — • But that my lord, my Sforza, should esteem My life fit only as a page, to wait on The various course of his uncertain fortunes ; Or cherish in himself that sensual hope, In death to know me as a wife, afflicts me; Nor does his envy less deserve mine anger. Which though, such is my love, I would not
nourish. Will slack the ardour that I had to see him Return in safety.
Fran. But if your entertainment Shoukl give the least ground to his jealousy. To raise up an opinion I am false, You then destroy your mercy. Therefore,
madam, (Though I shall ever look on you as on My life's preserver, and the miracle Of human pity,) would you but vouchsafe, In company, to do me those fair graces. And favours, which your innocence and honour May safely warrant, it would to the duke,
in another could hare furnisbed this most happy emendation, -which now appears so necessarj, and so obvious. I haye been tempted to smile in the course of this revision at the surpris- ing gravity with which we sometimes labour to explain the un.* intelligible blunders of a careless compositor.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 301
I being to your best self alone known guilty. Make me appear most innocent.
Marc. Have your wishes ; And something I may do to try his temper. At least, to make him know a constant wife Is not so slaved to her husband's doting humours, But that she may deserve to live a widow, Her fate appointing it.
Fran. It is enough ; Nay, all I could desire, and will make way To my revenge, which shall disperse itself On him, on her, and all,
[Aside and exit — Shout andJiourUh.
Marc. What shout is that ?
Enter Tiberio and Stephano.
7tb. All happiness to the dutchess, that may flow From the duke's new and wish'd return! Marc. He's welcome. Steph. How coldly she receives it! Tib. Observe the encounter.
Flourish. Enter Sforza, Pescara, Isabella, Mariana, Gbaccuo, and Attendants.
Mart. What you have told me, Graccho^ is believed. And I'll find time to stir in't.
Grac. As you see cause ; I will not do ill offices.
Sfor. I have stood Silent thus long, Marcelia, expecting When, with more than a greedy haste, thou
wouldst Have flown into my arms, and on my lips Have printed a deep welcome. My desires
\
80i THE DI/KE OF MILAN.
To glass myself in these fair eyes, have born me With more than human speed : nor durst 1 stay In any temple, or to any saint To pay my V6ws and thanks for my t*eturn, Till I had seen thee.
Afarc. Sir, I am most happy To look upon you safe, and would exprfess My love and duty in a modest fashion, Such as might suit with the behaviour Of one that knows herself k wife, and how To temper her desires, not like a wantdil Fired with hot appetite; nor can it wrdrig tttt To love discreetly.
Sf'or. How ! why, can there b^ A mean in your, affections to Sforza? Or any act, though ne'er so Idose, that may Invite or heighten appetite, appear Immodest or uncomely i^ t>o not move m^ ; My passions to you are in extremesy And know no bounds : — come ; kiss me.
Marc. I obey you. .
Sfar. By all the joys of love, she docs salute me As if I were her grandfather ! What witch, With carstd spells, hath quench'd the amoroils
beat That lived upon these lips ? Tell me, Marcelia, Aftd truly tell me, is't a ftult of fnin6 That hath begot this coldness ? or negiwi Of others, in my ajbsencc ?
Marc. Neither, sir : I stand indebted to your substitdie; Noble and good Francisco, for his oat e And fair observance 6f me : there wtiS i^hihg With whi<rh yoo, beitrg pres^iit, could supply Hie, That I dare say I wanted.
Sf'or. Howl
Marc. The pleasu^s^*
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 303
That sacred Hymen warrants us, excepted. Of which, in troth, you are too great a doterj And there is more of beast in it than man. Let us love temperately; things violent last
not, And too much dotage rather argues folly Than tine aiFection.
Grac. Observe but this, And how she praised my lord's care and observe
ance; And then judge, madam, if my intelligeiKre Have any ground of truth.
Mari. No more ; I mark it.
Steph. How the duke stands !
Tib. As he were rooted there, And had no motion.
Pesc. My lord, from whence Grows this a^azem^ent ?
Sfor. It is more, dear my friend ; For I am doubtful whether I've a beings But certain that my life's a burden to me. Take me back, good Pescara, shew me to Cassftt In all his. rage and fury ;. I disclaim His mercy : to live now^ which is his gift, Is worse than death, and with all studied tor«*
ments. Marcelia is unkind, nay, worse, grown cold ' In her affection ; my excess of fervour.
Which yet was never equall'd, grown distasteful. . — But have thy wishes, woman ; thou shalt know That I can be myself, and thus shake q& Th« fetters of fond dotage. Fjom my »ight^ Without reply ; for I am apt to do Something I may repent. — [Ejcit MarcJ] — Oh!
. who would place His happiness, in most accursed womaB, Jn whom obsequiousness engenders pride ;
304 THE DUKE OF MILAN
And harshness deadly hatred ! From this hour I'll labour to forget there are such creatures ; True friends be now my mistresses... Clear your
brows, ^ ' . .
And, though my heart-strings crack for% I will be To all a free example of delight. We will have sports of all kinds, and propound Rewards to such as can produce us pjew ; Unsatisfied, though we surfeit in their store : And never think of curs'd Marcelia more.
' ;
ACT IV. SCENE L Tht same. A Room in the Castle. Enter Francisco and Graccho.
Fran. And is it possible thou shouldst forget A wrong of such a nature, and then study My safety and content?
Gruc. Sir, but allow me Only to have read the elements of courtship," Not the abstruse and hidden arts to thrive there ;
' Jnd harshness deadly hatred!] This necessary word is sup. plied bj the hand of Massinger. It had either dropt oat at the press, or prored illegible. The old copies read, And harshness deadly ; on which the following note was made in the first edi- tion. I preserve it merely to shew that I was not inattentive to the verbal errors of the original, though I could not remove them •: ^^ These inversions are not common in Massinger ; nor was this probably intended by him : the metre, too, is defective by a foot, so that some word has been lost at the press."
» ■■• the elements of courtship^] i. e. of
«oart-policy« M« Mason.
\
THE DUKE OF MILAN- 305
And you may please to grant me do much know-
That injuries from one Jn grace, like you, Are noble favours. Is it not grown common,* In every sect, for those that want, to suffer From such as have to give ? Your captain cast, If poor, though not thought daring, but ap- proved so. To raise a coward into name,^ that's rich, Suffers disgraces publicly; but receives Rewards for them in private.
Fran. Well observed. Put on ;* we'll be familiar, and discourse A little of this argument. That day, In which it was first rumour'd, then .confirmed. Great Sforza thought me worthy pf his favour, I found myself to be another thing ; Not what I was before. I passed then For a pretty fellow, and of pretty parts too, And was perhaps recelvjed so^ but, once raised, The liberal courtier made me master of Those virtues which I ne'er knew in myself: If I pretended to a jest^ 'twas made one By their interpretation ; if I offer'd To reason of philosophy, though absurdly. They had helps to save me, and without a blush Would swear that I, by nature, bad .maie kaow-
ledge. Than others could acquire by any labour: Nay, all I did, indeed, which in another Was not remarkable, in me shew'd rarely.
Grac, But tb^a they tasted of your bounty.
Frm* True :
* -.......-. Js it not groton common &c.] Graccho is an apt
tcbolar : these notable obserrations are deiiTed from the les- ions of the Ofteer^ in the last act.
^ Fut M ;] Be cmeMtA ;. a frequent expreenon in these plajs*
VOL. I. • X
"H
306 THE DUKE OF MILAN-
They gave me those good parts I was not born to.
And, by my intercession, they got that
Which, had I cross'd them, they durst not have
hoped for. Grac. All this is oracle : and shall I, then, For a foolish whipping, leave to honour him, That holds the wheel of fortune? no; that savours Too much of the ancient freedom. Since great
men Receive disgraces and give thanks, poor knaves Must have nor spleen, nor anger. Though I love My limbs as well as any man, if you had now A humour to kick me lame into an office, Where I might sit in state and undo others, Stood I not bound to kiss the foot that did it? — Though it seem strange, there have been such
things seen In the memory of man.
Fran. But to the purpose, . And then, that service done, make thine own
fortunes. My wife, thou say'st, is jealous I am too Familiar with the dutchess.
Grac. And incensed For her commitment in her brother's absence ; And by her mother's anger is spurr'd on To make discovery of it. This her purpose Was trusted to my charge, whch I declined As much as in me lay ; but, finding her Determinately bent to undertake it, Though breaking my faith to her may destroy My credit with. your lordship, I yet thought, Though at my peril, I stood hound to reveal it» Frati. I thank thy care, and will deserve this
secret, In making thee acquainted with a greater. And of more nioment Come intomy bo^om,
THE* DUKE OF MILAN. SO?
And take it from me: Canst thoii thinks dull
Graccho, My power and honours were conferr'd upon me, And, add to them, this form, to have my pleasures Confined and limited ? I delight in change, And sweet variety; that's my heaven on earth, For which I love life only. 1 confess, My wife pleased me a day, the dutchess, two, (And yet I must not say I have enjoy 'd her,) But now I care for neither: tTierefore, Graccho, So far I am from stopping Mariana In making her complaint, that I desire thee > To urge her to it.
Grac^ That may prove your ruin: The duke already being, as 'tis reported, Doubtful she hath play'd false.
Fran. There thou art cozen' d ; . . His dotage, like an ague, keeps his course. And now 'tis strongly onjiim. But! lose time. And therefore know, whether thou wilt or no, Thou art to be my instrument ; and, in spite Qf the old saw, that says, It is not safe On any terms to trust a man that's . wrong'd, I dare thee to be false.
Grac. This is a language. My lord, I understand not.
Fran. You thought, sirrah, To put a trick on me for the relation Of what I knew before, and, having won Some weighty secret from me, in revenge To play the traitor. Know, thou wretched thing, By my command thou wert whipt ; and every day I'll have thee freshly tortured, if thou miss In the least charge, that I impose upon thee. Though what I speak, for the most part, is true : Nay, grant thou hadst a thousand witnesses To be deposed they heard it, 'tis in me^
308 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
With one word, such is Sforza's confideacc Of my fidelity not to be shaken, To make all void, and ruin my accusers. Therefore look to't ; bring my wife hotly on To accuse me to the duke — I have an end in% Or think vrhat 'tis makes man most miserable. And that shall fall upon thee. Thou wert a fool To hope, by being acquainted with my courses, To curb and awe me ; or that I should live Thy slave, as thou didst saucily divine: For prying in my counsels, still live mine. [Eait. Grac, I am caught on both sides. This 'tis for
a puisne In policy's Protean school, to try conclusions With one that hath commenced, and gone out
doctor/ If I discover what but new he bragg'd of, I shall not be believed : if I fall off From him, his threats, and actions go together, And there's no hope of safety. Till I gjet A plummet that may sound his deepest counsels^ I must obey and* serve him : Want of skill Now makes me play the rogue against my will.
to try coodasioBS
With one that hath commenced^ and gone- out doctoral To try conclusions^ a very common expression, is, to try experifneAts.:. '' God help them," says Oabtiel Hervey, in bis OAtA Htttr^ ^^ that haire. neither hibWityto helpe, nor' trit to pitie them* selres, but will needs fr^ conclusions betweeiv th«ir bead3 and the neat wall.*' Commencfd, and gone out^ which occur in the next line, are UniTergity t«rms, and to be met with in most of our old dramas :
• • ' - •
"How many that bare dobp ill, mi proceed^
" Women that take degrees ill' wantonn^ss^
^^ Cmmekct^ and ilse in radiments of last^^' &4r.
TlteQ,ucmofCopi$ak.
THE DUKE OF MIXAN. 509
SCENE il.
Another Ream in the Same.
Enter Marcelta, Ti^eiiio, Stefhano^ ^nd
Gentlewoman.
Marc. Command me from his sight, and with such scorn As be would rate his slave !
Tib. 'Twas in his fury.
St^h. And he repents it, n^am.
Marc. Was I borti To observe his humofu^rs ? or, because he dotes, Must I run mad ?
lib. If that yom* ExceileBce Would please but to sreceiive a fedkig know"
ledge Of what he suffers, and iio^ decsp the least Unkiadsiess woiuids from yt>u, you would excuse His hasty ian^a^^
Steph. He hath paid the forfeit Of his t>flende> I^ sure, with such a sorrowi As, if it had been greater, would deserve A full remission*
Marc. Why, perhaps, he hath it ; And I stand more afflicted for his absence, Thau fae can be for mine :-^80, pray you, tell
him. ^^ ^
But, till I have digested some sad thoughts^ And reconciled passions that are at war Within myself, I purpose to be private : And have you care, unless it be Francisco, That no man be admitted. [Esit Gentlewoman^
Tib. How ! Francisco ?
\
310 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Steph. He, that at every stage keeps livery- mistresses ; The stallion of the state !
Tib. They are things above us, And so no way concern us.
Steph. If I were The duke, (I freely must confess my weakness,)
-Bw^er Francisco.
I should wear yellow breeches.* Here he comes.
Tib. Nay, spare your labour, lady, we know our duty,' And quit the room.
Steph. Is this her privacy ! Though with the hazard of a check, perhaps. This may go to the duke.
[^Exeunt Hberio and Stephana.
Marc. Your face is full Of fears and doubts : the reason?
Fran., O, best madam, They are not counterfeit. I, your poor convert, That only wish to live in sad repentance, To mourn my desperate attempt of you. That have no ends nor aims, but that your good- ness Might be a witness of my penitence,
* I should wear yeWow •breeches,'] i.e. Be jealous; yellow,
with our old -poets, being the lirory of jealousy ; probably, be*
caus3 it was that of Hymen. This expression needs no example.
7 Nay^ spare your labour ^ lady, pe kfiow our duty,
And quit the room,] Duty was inserted by Cbzeter, on the
supposition of this, or a word of similar import, having been
dropt at the press. Both the quartos hare, we know our exit,
with this difference, that the last (1638) exhibits exit^ in italic
characters. Massinger has made no alteration here^ so that exit
is perhaps the genuine reading. I have, hoWeyer, left the text
undisturbed.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 311
Which seen, would teach yoij how to love your
mercy, Am robb'd of that last hope. The duke, the duke, I more than fear, hath found that I am guilty.
Marc. By my unspotted honour, not from me; Nor have i with him changed one syllable, Since his return, but what you heard.
Fran. Yet malice Is eagle eyed, and would see that which is riot; And jealousy's too apt to build ujxon Unsure foundations.
Marc. Jealousy !
Fran. {^Aside.'] It takes.
Marc. Who dares but only think I can be ' tainted ? But for him, though ^almost on certain proof, To give it hearing, not belief, deserves My hate for ever.
Fran. Whether grounded on Your noble, yet chaste favours shewn unto me ; Or her imprisonment, for her contempt To you, by my command, my frantic wife Hath put it in his head.
Marc. Have I then lived So long, now to be doubted ? Are my favours The themes of her discourse? or what I do, That never trod in a suspected path, Subject to base construction ? Be undaunted ; For now, as of a creature that is mine, I rise up your protectress : all the grace I hitherto have done you, was bestow'd With a shut hand ; it shall be now more free, Opeii, and liberal. But let it not. Though counterfeited to the life, teach you To nourish saucy hopes.
Fran. May I be blasted^ When I prove such a monster !
» V
312 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Marc. I will stand then Betvvreen you and all danger. He shall know, Suspicion overturns what confidence builds ; And he that dares but doubt when there's no
ground, Is neither to himself nor others sound. \Ejnt.
Fran. So, let it work I Her goodness, that denied My service, branded with the hariie of lust. Shall now destroy itself; and sfie shall find, When he's a suitor, that brings cunning afm'd With power, to be his advocates; tlie denial Is a disease as killing as the plague, And chastity a clue that leads to death. Hold but thy nature, duke, and be h\\t rash And violent enorrgh, and then at leisure Repent; I care not.
And let my plots produce this longM-fbr birth. In my revenge I have my heaven on earth. [Exit.
SCENE III.
Another Room in the same.
Enter Sforz a, PeIscaha, and three Gentlemen.
iPesc. You promised to be merry.
1 Gent. There are pleasures,
And of all kinds, to entertain the time*
2 Gtnt. Your excellence vouchsafing to make
choice Of that which best a^ects you.
Sfor. Hold your pi'ating. Learn manners too ; you are rude.
S Gent. I hav.e my answer. Before I ask the question. {^Aside*
THE DUKE OF M1;LAN. 813
Ptsc. I riiut borrow The privilege of a friend, ind will ; or elsp I am like thes^, a servant or, what's worse, A parasite to the sorrow Sfora^a worships In spite of reason.
^wr. Pray you, use your freedom; Ana so far, if you please^ allow me minib, To hear you only ; not to be compeU'd To take your moral potions. I am a man. And, though philosophy^ your mistress, rage fort, Now I have cause to grieve, I must be sad ; And I dare shew it.
Pe$c. Would it were bcstow'd Upon a worthier subject 1
SJor. Take beed^ friend. You rub a sore, whose pain will make me mad^ And I shall then forget myself and you. Lance it no further.
Pe^c. Have you stood the shock Of thousand enemies, and outfaced the anger Of a great -semperor, that vow'd your ruin, Though by a desperate, a glorious way, That nad no precedent? are you returned with
honour, Lovfed by yo^r subjects'^ does your fortune
court yon, '
Or rather say, your courage does command it ? Have you given proof, to this hour of your life, Prosperity, that searches the best temper, "Could never puff you np,tior adverse fate Deject your valour? Shall, I say, tbeise virtues, So many and so various trials of Your constant mind, be buried in the frown (To please you, I Will say so) of a fair woman ? — ^Yet I have seen -her equals*
SjoT. Good Pescara, This language in another were profane ;
S14 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
In yoirit is unmannerly. — Her equal !
I tetl you as a friend, and tell you plainly,
(To all men else my sword should make reply^)
Her goodness does disdain comparison,
And, but herself, admits no parallel.*
But you will say she's cross ; 'tis fit she should be^
When I am foolish ; for she's wise, Pescara,
And knows how far she may dispose her bounties.
Her honour safe; or, if she were averse,
'Twas a prevention of a greater sin
Ready to fall upon me ; for she's not ignorant,
But truly understands how much I love her,
And that her rare parts do deserve all honour.
Her excellence increasing with her years too,
I might have fallen into idolatry,
And, from the admiration of her worth,
* Her goodness docs disdain comparison^ Andy but herself, admits no parallel.] The reader who has any acquaintance with the literary squabbles of the last century, cannot but recollect how Theobald was annoyed by the jests levelled at him for this line in the Double Faleshood :
^' None but himself can be his parallel." He justified it, indeed, at some length; but ^Mt is not for gravity," as Sir Toby well observes, " to play at cherry-pit with Satan/' His waggish antagonists drove him out of his patience, and he, who had every thing bat wit on his side, is at this moment labouring under the consequences of his imagined defeat. With respect to the phrase in question, it is sufficiently common : and I could produce, if it were necessary, twenty instances of it from Massinger's contemporaries alone: nor is it peculiar to this country, but exists in every language with which I am acquainted. Even while I*am writing this note, the following pretty example lies before me, in the address of a grateful Hindoo to Sir William Jones :
'' To you there are many like me ; yet to me there is none like you^ but yourself; there are numerous groves of night flowers; yet the night flower sees nothing /i^e themoon^but the moon. A hundred chiefs rule the world, but thou art an ocean, and they are mere wells ; many luminaries are awake in the sky, but which of them can be compared to the sun V* See Memoirs ofhisIAfe^ by Lord Teignmouth.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 315
Been taught to think there is no Power above her; And yet I do believe, had angels sexes, The most would be' such women, and assume No other shape, when they were to appear In their fuU glory.
Pesc. Wei!, sir, 1*11 not -cross you, Nor labour to diminish your esteem, Hereafter, of her. Since your happiness, As you will have it, has alone dependence Upon her favour, from my soul I wish you A fair atonement.*
Sfor. Time, and my submission,
■ *
Enter Tiberio and Stephano.
May work her to it. — O ! you are well return'd j Say, am I blest? hath she vouchsafed to hear
you? Is there hope left that she may be appeased ? I^et her propound, and gladly I'll subscribe To her conditions.
7?^. She, sir, yet is froward, And desires respite, and some privacy.
Stcph. She was harsh at first ; but, ere we parted, se^m'd not Implacable.
Sfor. There's comfort yet : I'll ply her Each hour with new. ambassadors of more honours, Titles, and eminence : my second self, Francisco, shall solicit hen-
Steph. That a wise man,
9 A fair atonement.] i. e. as Mr. M. Mason obserires^ a re- conciliation. To a^one has often this sense in oar old Writers: so Shakspeare :
^' He and Aufidiiui can no more atoncy
^' Than violentest contrarieties^' Coriolanus^
316 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
And what is morei a prince tbat may command. Should sue thus poorly, and treat With his wifci As she were a victorious enemy, At whose proud feet, himself, his statCi and
country, Basely hcgg'd mercy !
Sfor. What is^ that you mutter ? I'll have thy thoughts*
Steph. You shalL You are too fond, And feed a pride that's swollen too big already. And surfeits with observance.
Sfor. O my patience ! My vassal speak thus ?
Steph. Let my head answer it, If I offend. She, that you think a saint, I fear, may play the devil.
Pesc. Well said, old fellow, [A^ide.
Steph. And he that hath so long engross'd your favours, Though to be named with reverence, lord Fran- cisco, Who, as you purpose, shall solicit for you, I think's too near her.
\Sforza lays his hand on his mord.
Peso. Hold, sir ! this is madness.
Steph. It may be they confer of joining lord^ ships ;• I'm sure he's private with her.
Sfor. Let me go, I scorn to touch himj he deserves my pity, And not my anger. Dotard ! and to be one Is thy protection, else thou durst not think That love to my Marcelia hath left room
' It may he they confer of" joining lordships ;] This material improTement we owe to Maasinger's reiirion. It formerly stood —of winning lordships.
THE DUKE OP MILAN. 317
In my full heart for any jealous thought :— That idle passion dwell with thick»skinn'd
tradesmen,' The undeserving lord, or the unable ! Lock up thy own wife/ fool, that must take
physic From her young doctor, physic upon her back,* Because tnou hast the palsy in that part That makes her active. I could smile to think What wretched things they are that dare be
jealous : Were I match'd to anotlier Messaline, While I found merit in miyself to please her, I should believe her chaste, and would not seek To find oat my own torment ; bu^ alas ! Enjoying one that, but to me, 's a Dian,^ I am too secure.
Tib. This is a confidence Beyond example.
Enter Graccho, Isabelia, ivni/ Mariawa*
Grac. There he is— now speak. Or be for ever silent. Sfor. If you come
* ThatidUptt8S$aH.dwdlmiiththkk9$lLMn'dtrades»MH^] Thkkf siLinn'd is the reading of both the ^qa^tos ; the modern editori wantonly, and, I moy add, ignojantly, displaced it for thiclp' slLull'd. It is not to a want of understanding, but to a bluntne8» of ifeeling, that'the speaker alludes.
* From her young doctor ^ physic, i&c.} The old .copies lpL& a break here, to shew that the WHud was illegible at. the press : Cozeter and M. Manctn fiUed up 0^ sppfae.wit)^ (mil. I chose rather to continue the break,.i|i .which the po8sei38ors of the fijyst edition may now, if they please, insert the genuine word, which is taken from Massinger's corrected copy.
♦, ^ * ' ihatfimfio^meifUMjMmy} AfOHtrac*
tioD- ofDioiui. M. Mason. 4tnd. saat is^l
318 THE DUKE OP MILAN^
To bring me comfort, say. that you have made My peace with my Marcelia.
Isab. I had rather Wait on you to your funeral.
Sfor. You are my mother ; ^ Or, by her life, you were dead else.
JUari. Would you were, To your dishonour ! and, since dotage makes you Wilfully blind, Ijorrow of me my eyes. Or some part of my spirit. Are you all flesh ? A lump of patience only ?* no fire in you r But do your pleasure : — here your mother was Committed by your servant, (for I scorn To call him husband,) and.myself, your sister. If that ypu dare remember such a name, Mew'd up, to make the, way open and free For the adultress, I am unwilling To say, a part of Sforza.
Sfor. Take her head off ! She hath blasphemed, and by our law must die.
Isab. Blasphemed ! for calling of a whore, a whore ?
Sfor. O hell, what do I suffer !
Mari. Or is it treason For me, that am a subject, to endeavour To save the honour of the duke, and that He should not be a wittol on record? ♦For by posterity 'twill be believed, As certainly as now it can be proved, Francisco, the great minion, tnat sways all, To meet the chaste embraces of the dutchess, tiath leap'd into her bed.
Sfor. Some proof, vile creature ! Or thou hast spoke thy last..
^ 4 l^nip of patience only f] In all the copies^ a limh of pati- ence only. Corrected by MasaiDger. .
THE DUKE OF MILAN, 319
MarL The public fame, Their hourly private meetings ; and, e'en now, When, under a pretence of grief or anger, You are denied the joys due to a husband, And made a stranger to her, at all times The door stands open to him. To a Dutchman, This were enough, but to a right Italian, A hundred thousand witnesses.
Isab. Would you have us To be her bawds ?
Sfor. O the malice And envy of base women, that, with horror, . Knowing their own defects and inward guilt, Dare lie, and swear, and damn, for what's most
false. To cast aspersions upon one untainted ! Ye are in your natures devils, and your ends. Knowing your reputation sunk for ever, And not to be recovered, to have all Wear your black livery. Wretches ! you have
raised A monumental trophy to her pureness. In this your studied purpose to deprave ber : And all the shot made by your foul detraction, Falling upon her sure-arm 'd innocence. Returns upon yourselves; and, if my love Could suffer an addition, I'm so far From giving credit to you, this would teach me More to admire and serve her. You are not
worthy To fall as sacrifices to appease her ; And therefor^ liye till your own envy burst you.
Isab. All is in vain ; he is not to be moved.
Maru She has bewitch'd him.
Peso. 'Tis so past belief, To me it shews a fable.
3S0 THE DUKE OF MILAN-
Enter YfLA^ciscQf speaking to^a Servant within.
Fran. On thy life, Provide ray horses, and without the port With care attend me.
Sere. \within.^ I shall, my lord.
Grac. He's come. What gimcrack have we next r*
Fran. Great sir.
Sfor. Francisco, Though all the joys in woman are led from me. In thee I do em brace jiie full delight That I can hope from man»
Fran. I would impart, Please yoU to lend your ear, a weighty secret, I am in labour to deliver to you.
Sfor. All leave, title room, [JSfeunt hab. Maru and Graceiu>I\ — ^Excuse me, good Pescara, Ere long I will wait on you.
Ptsc. You speak, sir, The language. Lshould uae. . \Ent.
SfoT. (Be within call, Perhaps we .may have .use. of. you.
Tib. Weshall^sini [Exeunt Tib. and Steph.
Sfor. Say oo, my comfort.
Fran. Comfort ! no, your torment,
^ What gimcrack hflive Vfe^mxt f] It nay be that Goxet^r hat hit upon the right word ; but the first syllable is omitted in the old copies; probably it was of an offensive tendency. Besides the terror of t^e law which hung over the poet's head about this tiffie, the Master of the Revels kept a scrutinising eye upon every pusage of an indecent (indecent lov the times) or proone tendency. It is Massioger'fl peculiar puraise^ that )^e i» altoge- ther free from the latter. 180^.
My suspicion was wrong. Massinger has completed fho word as It stands inCoxeter; I have continued the note, however. In justice to his memory.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 321
For so my fate appoints me. I could curse The hour that gave me being.
Sfor* What new monsters Of misery stand ready to devour me ? Let them at once dispatch me.
Fran. Draw your sword then, And, as you wish your own peace, quickly kill
me ; Consider not, but do it.
Sfor. Art thou mad ?
Fran. Or, if to take my life be too much mercy, As death, indeed, concludes all human sorrows, Cut off my nose and ears ; pull out an eye. The other only left to lend me light To see my own deformities. Why was I born Without some mulct imposed on me by nature ? Would from my youth a loathsome leprosy Had run upon this face, or that my breath Had been infectious, and so made me shunn'd Of all societies ! Curs'd be he that taught me Discourse or manners, or lent any grace That makes the owner pleasing in the eye Of wanton women ! since those parts, which
others Value as blessings^ are to me afflictions, Such my condition is.
Sfor. I am on the rack : Dissolve this doubtful riddle.'
Fran. That I alone,
7 Dissolve this doubtful riddle.] Our old writers used dissolve and solve indiscriminately ; or, if they made any difference, it was in favour of the former :
ci ■ ■ ' * he is pointed at
^^ Far the fine courtier^ the woman's man,
^* That tells my lady stories, dissohes riddles^
The Queen of Corinth*
VOL, I.
822 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
»
Of all mankind) that stand most baund to love
you, And study your content, should be appointed. Not by my will, but forced by cruel fate. To be your greatest enemy ! — not to hold you In this amazement longer, in a word, Your dutchess loves me,
Sfor. Loves thee !
Fran. Is mad for me, Pursues me hourly.
Sfor. Oh!
Fran. And from hence grew Her late neglect of you.
Sfor. O women ! women !
Fran. I laboured to divert her by persuasion. Then urged your much love to her, and the danger; Denied her, and with scorn.
Sfor. Twas like thyself
Fran. But when I saw her smile, then heard her say. Your love and extreme dotage, as a. cloak. Should cover our embraces, and your power Fright others from suspicion ; and all favours That should preserve her in her innocence, By lust inverted to be used as bawds ; I could not but in duty (though I know That the relation kills in you all hope Of peace hereafter, and in me 'twill shew Both base and poor to rise up her accuser) Freely discover it.
Sfor. Eternal plagues ' Pursue and overtake her ! for her sake, To all posterity may he prove a cuckold, And, like to me, a thing, so miserable As words may not express him, that gives trust To all'deceiving women I Or, since it is The will of heaven, to preserve mankind,
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 323
That we must know and couple with these
serpents, No wise man ever, taught by my example, Hereafter use his wife with more respect Than he would do his horse that does him service ; Base woman being in her creation made A slave to man. But, like a village nurse, Stand I now cursing and considering, when The tamest fool would do ! — Within there !
Stephano,
Tiberio, and the rest ! 1 will be sudden.
And she shall know and'feel, love in extremes Abused, knows no .degree in hate/
-Ew^er Tiberio ^wrf Stephano.
Tib. My lord^
Sfor. Go to the chamber of that wicked woman —
Steph What wicked woman, sir ?
Sfor. The devil, my wife. Force a rude ejitry, and, if she refuse To follow you, drag her hither by the hair. And know no pity ; any gentle usage To her will call on cruelty from me, To such as shew it. — Stand you staring ! Go, And put my will in act.
Steph. There's no disputing. '
Tib. But 'tis a tempest, on the sudden raised, Who durst have dream'd of?
[Exeunt Tiberio and Stephano^
Sfor. Nay, since she dares damnation, I'll be a fury to her.
Fran. Yet, great sir,
no degree in hate.] For no degree in hate^ the modem
editors yery incorrectly read, no degree of hate*
YS*
3«4 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Exceed not in your fury ; she's yet guilty " Only in her intent.
iS/br. Intent, Francisco ! It does include all fact ; and I might sooner Be won to pardon treason to my crown, Or one that kiird my father.
Tran. You are wise, And know what's best to do : — ^yet, if you please, To prove her temper to the height, say only That I am dead, and then observe how far She'll be transported. I'll remove a little, Bat be within your call. — ^Now to the upshot !^ Howe'er, I'll shift for one. \A8idt and exit.
Re-enter Tiberio, Stephano, and Guard with
Marcelia.
Marc. Where is this monster. This walking tree of jealousy, this drieamer, This horned beast that would be ? Oh ! are you
here, sir? Is it by your commandment or allowance, I am thus basely used? Which of my virtues, My labours, services, and cares to please you, For, to a man suspicious and unthankful^ Without a blush I may be mine own trumpet, Invites this barbarous course ? dare you look on
me Without a seal of shame?
Sfor. Impudence, How ugly thou appeat*st now ! Thy intent To be a whore, leaves thee not blood enough To make an honest blush : what had the act dbne? Marc. Return'd thee the dishonour thou de-
serv'st; Though willingly I had giveia up myself To every conimon letcher.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. S25
^or. Your chief minion, Your chosen favourite, your woo'd Francisco, Has dearly paid fot*t; fot-,wr6tch ! know, he's
dead, And by my hand.
Marc. The bloodier villain thou ! Biit 't^s not to be wonder'd at, thv love Doesknownootherobject: — thou hast kilPd then, A man I do profess I loved ; a man For ivhom a thousand queens might well be rivals. But he, I iSpeak it to thy teeth, that dares be A jealous fool, dares be a murderer, And knows no end in mischief.
Sfor. I begin now In this my Justice. [Stabs her.
Marc. Oh ! I have fool'd myself Into my grave, and only grieve for that Which, when you know you've slain an innocent, You needs must suffer.
Sfor. An innocent ! Let one Call in Francisco ; — ^for he liv^s, vile creature,
[Ejcit Stephana. To justify thy falsehood, and how often, With whorish flatteries, thou hast tempted him ; I being only fit to live a stale, A bawd and property to your wantonness.
Re-enter Stephano.
Steph. Signior Francisco, sir, but even now. Took horse without the ports.
Marc. We are both abused, And both by him undone. Stay, death, a little, Till I have clear'd me to my lord, and then* I willingly obey thee. — O my Sforza !
9 Till I haoe cleat^d me to my lord, and then} This is the read-
326 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Francisco was not tempted, but the tempter ; And, as he thought to win me, shew'd the warrant That you sign'd for my death. .
Sfor. Then I believe thee ; Believe thee innocent too.
Marc, But, being contemn'd. Upon his knees with tears he did beseech me. Not to reveal it ; I, soft-hearted fool, Judging his penitence true, was won unto it: Indeed, the unkindness to be sentenced by you. Before that I was guilty in a thought, Made me put on a seeming anger towards you. And now — behold the issue ! As I do, May heaven forgive you ! [Dies.
Tib. Her sweet soul has left Her beauteous prison.
Steph. Look to the duke ; he stands As if he wanted motion.
Tib. Grief hath stopp'd The organ of his speech.
Steph. Take up this body. And call for his physicians.
Sfor. O my heart-strings ! [Exeunt.
ing of the first quarto : tbe second, which is that followed bj the modern editors, gives the line in this unmetrical manner :
Till I have clear d mjself nnto my lord^ and then !
Ford has imitated this fine scene, to which a parallel will not easilj be found, in the Lady*s Trial : but with as little success as judgment. It is singular that Ford's editor should take no notice of his frequent plagiarisms from Massinger^ unless (which I incline to think,) he ncTer read more of Massinger than the notes appended to him.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 327
ACT V. SCENE I.
The Milanese. A Room in Eugenia's House.
Enter Francisco, and Eugenia in male attire.
Fran. Why, couldst thou think, Eugenia, that rewards, *
Graces, or favours, though strew'd thick upon
mc, Could ever bribe me to forget mine honour ? Or that I tamely would sit down, before I had dried these eyes still wet with showers of
tears, By the fire of my revenge ? look up, my dearest ! For that proud fair, that, thief-like, stepped
between Thy promised hopes, and robb'd thee of a fortune Almost in thy possession, hath found, With horrid proof, his love, she thought her glory, And an assurance of all happiness, But hastened her sad ruin.
Eug. Do not flatter A grief that is beneath it ; for, however The credulous duke to me proved false and cruel, It is impossible he could be wrought To look on her, but with the eyes of dotage. And so to serve hen
Fran. Such, indeed, I grant. The stream of his affection was, and ran A constant course, till I, with cunning malicer— And yet I wrong my act, for it was justice, Made it turn backward ; and hate, in eictremes^
328 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
*
(Love banish'd from his heart,) to fill the room : In a word, know the fair Marcelia's dead/
Eug. Dead !
Fran. And by Sforza's hand. Does it not move you r How coldly you receive it ! I expected The mere relation of so great a blessing, Born proudly on the wings of sweet revenge, Would have call'd on a sacrifice of thanks. And joy not to be bounded or conceal'd. You entertain it with a look, as if You wish'd it were undone.
Eug. Indeed I do : For, if my sorrows could receive addition, Her sad rate would increase, not lessen them. She never injured me^ but entertain'd A fortune humbly ofFef*d to her band. Which a wise lady gladly would have kneeled for. Unless you would impute it as a crimen She was mote fair than I, and had discretion Not to deliver up her virgin fort, ^ Though strait besieged with flatteries, vows, and tears, . ,. . :
Until the church had made it safe a;id lawful. And had I been the mistress of faier iudgment And constant temper, skilful in the knowledge Of man's malicious falsehoodi'I h^Miever, Upon his hell-deep oaths tb marry in e, Given up my fair name, and my maiden honour. To his foul lust; nor lived now, being branded In the forehead for his whore, the scorn and shame Of all good women. '
Fran. Have you then no gall, Anger, or spleen, familiar to yx)ur sex?
^ Ina wordy know i}iefa%r Marcelid^s dead,"] Coxe^er and Me. M. Mason omit the article, which utterly destroys the rhythm ofthelitie.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. S29
Or is it possible, that you could see Another to possess what was your due, And not grow pale with envy ?
Eug. Yes, of him That did deceive me. There's no passion, that A maid so injured ever could partake of, - .
But I have dearly suflfer'd. Tbes6 three years, In my desire andf l^bo\it of revenge. Trusted to you, I have endured the throes Of teeming women ; and will hazard all Fate can inflict on me, but I will resch Thy heart, false Sforza! You have trifled with me, And not proceeded with that fiery zeal. I look'd for from a brother of your spirit. Sorrow forsake me, and all signs of grief Farewell for ever ! Vengeance, arm'd with fury, Possess me wholly now ! **
Fran. The reason, sister. Of this strange metamorphosis ?
Eug. Ask thy f pairs': Thy base, unmanly* fears, thy poor delays. Thy dull forgetfuiness eiqual with deatfh ; My wrong, else, and the scandal whioh can never Be washed off from our house, but in his 'blodd. Would have stiryVi up a coward to a deed ' In which, though be had fallen, the brave intent Had crown!d itself with a fair mbHumient Of noble resolution. In this shape I hope to get access ; and, then, with shame. Hearing my sudden execution, judge What honour thou hast lost, in being transcended By a weak woinan. ' '
-Pr^w. Stiii tdine own, and dearer! And yet lii this you but |)0ur oil on fire, And offer your asststahcc where it needs not, And, that you may perceive I lay not fallow,
330 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
But had your wrongs stamped deeply on iny
heart By the iron pen of vengeance, I attempted^ By whoring ner, to cuckold him : that failing, I did begin his tragedy in her death, To whicn it served as prologue, and will make A memorable story of your fortunes In my assured revenge : Only, best sister, Let us not lose ourselves in the performance. By your rash undertaking ; we will be As sudden as you could wish.
Eug. Upon those terms I yield myself and cause to be disposed of As you think fit.
Enter a Servant.
Fran. Thy purpose ?
Serv. There's one Graccho, That foUow'd you, it seems, upon the track, Since you left Milan, that's importunate To have access, and will not be denied : His haste, he says, concerns you*
Fran. Bring him to me. [E:pit Seroant.
Though he hath laid an ambush for my life, Or apprehension, yet I will prevent him, And work mine own ends out
Enter Graccho.
Grac. Now for my whipping ! And if I now outstrip him not, and catch him, And by a new and strange way too, hereafter I'll swear there are worms in my brains. [Aside.
Fran. Now, my good Graccho I We meet as 'twere by miracle.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 3S1
Grac. Love, and duty, And vigilance in me for my lord's safety, First taught me to imagine you were here. And then to follow you. AlPs come forth, my
lord, That you could wish conceal'd. The dutchess*
wound, In the duke^s rage put home, yet gave her leave To acquaint him with your practices, which your
flight Did easily conGnn.
Fran. This I expected ; But sure you come provided of good counsel. To help in my extremes.
Grac. I would not hurt you.
Fran, How! hurt me? such another word's thy death ; Why, dar'st thou think it can fall in thy will, To outlive what I determine ?
Grac. How he awes me ! [Aside.
Fran. Be brief; what brought thee hither?
Grac. Care to inform you You are a condemned man, pursued and sought
for. And your head rated at ten thousand ducats To him that brings it.
Fran. Very good.
Grac. All passages Are intercepted, and choice troops of horse Scour o'er the neighbour plains ; your picture
sent - .
To every state confederate with Milan : That, though I grieve to speak it, in my judgment, So thick your dangers meet, and run upon you, It is impossible you should escape . Their curious search.
sas THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Eug. Why^ let us then turo Jtomansi Andy falling by our own hand s, mpck their threats. And dreadful preparations.
Fran. Twould show nobly ; But that the honour of our full revenge Were lost in the rash action. No, Eugeoia, Graccho is wise, my friend too, not>my 3ervant» And I dare trust him with my latest secret. We would, and thou must help us to perform it, First kill the duke — then, fall what c'an upon us ! For injuries are wr|t in brass, kind Graccno, And not to be forgotten.
Grac. He instructs me What I should do. [Aside,
Fran. What's that ?
'Grac. I labour with A strong desire, to assist you with my aervicc; And now I am delivered oPt.
Fran. I told you. — Speak, my oraculous Graccho.
Grac. I have heard, sir. Of men in debt that, lay'd for by their creditors, In all such places where it could be thought They would take shelter, chose, for sanctuary. Their lodgings underneath their creditors' noses, Or near that prison to which they were designed, If apprehended ; confident that there They never should be sought for.
Eug. Tis a strange one !
Fran. But what infer you from it ?
Grac. This, my lord ; That, since all ways of your escape are stopped, In Milan only, or, what's more, in the court, Whither it is presumed you dare not come, Conceard in some disguise, you may" live safe*
Fran. And not to be discovered ?
THE DUKE OP MILAN. S3S
Grac. But by myself.
Fran. By thee! Alas! I know thee honest, Graccho, And I will put thy counsel into act, And suddenly. Yet, not to be ungrateful For all thy loving travail to preserve me, What bloody end soe'er my stars appoint. Thou shalt be safe, good Graccho, — Who's within there ?
Grac. In the devil's name, what means he !*
Enter Servants.
Fran. Take my friend Into your custody, and bind him fast : I would not part with him.
Grac. My good lord.
Fran. Dispatch < Tis for your good, to keep you honest, Graccho : I would not have ten thousand ducats tempt you. Being of a soft and wax-like disposition, To play the traitor ; nor a foolish itch To be revenged for your late excellent whipping, Give you the opportunity to offer My head for satisfaction. Why, thou fool! I can look through and through thee ? thy intents Appear to me as written in thy forehead. In plain and easy characters : and but that I scorn a slave's base blood should rust that sword That from a prince expects a scarlet dye. Thou now wert dead ; but live, only to pray
* Grac. In the deciPs name^ xAat tnians he /] The iieeoad quarto omks the adjaraiion aihd tilmelj je^dSf^-^hat means ket The licenser, in many casei, seems to h%ve aqi^d Cfipricfpn^ly I' here, as weU as in seTeral other places, he has strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel. The expression has already occnrred In. the Unnatural Cannot.
334 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
For good success to crown my undertakings ; And then, at my return, perhaps, I'll free thee, To make me further sport. Away with him ! I will not hear a syllable.
[Ejceunt Servants with Graccho. We miist trust Ourselves, Eugenia ; and though we make use of The counsel of our servants, that oil spent, Like snuffs that do offend, we tread them out. — But now to our last scene,^ which we'll so carry, That few shall understand how 'twas begun. Till all, with half an eye, may see 'tis done.
\ExeunU
SCENE IL
Milan. A Room in the Castk.
Enter VzscARAj Tiberio, and Stethxno.
Pesc. The like was never read of,
Steph. In my judgment, To all that shall but hear it, 'twill appear A most impossible fable.
Tib. For FrancisQo, My wonder is the less, because there are Too many precedents of unthankful men Raised up to greatness, which have after studied The ruin of their makers.
Steph. But that melancholy, Though ending in distraction, should work So far upon a man, as to compel him To court a thing that has nor sense nor being, Is unto me a miracle.
Pesc. Troth, I'll tell you. And briefly as I can, by what degrees
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 335
He fell into this madness. When, by the care
Of his physicians, he was brought to life,
As he had only pass'd a fearful dream,
And had not acted what I grieve to think on,
He caird for fair Marcelia, and being told
That s]\e was dead, he broke forth in extremes,
(I would not i^ay blasphemed,) and cried that
heaven, For all the offences that mankind could do. Would never be so cruel as to rob it Of so much sweetness, and of so much goodness ; That not alone was sacred in herself. But did preserve all others innocent, That haa but converse with hen Then it came Into his fancy that she was accused By his mother and hissister; thrice he curs 'd them, And thrice his desperate hand was on his sword T'have kilPd them both ; but he restrained, and
they Shunning his fury, spite of all prevention He would have turned his rage upon himself; When wisely his physicians, looking on The Dutchess' wound, to stay his ready hand, Cried out, it was not mortaL
Tih. 'Twas well thought on.
Pesc. He easily believing what he wish'd, More than a perpetuity of pleasure In any ohject else; flattered by hope, Forgetting his own greatness, he fell prostrate At the doctors' feet, implored their aid, and swore, Provided they recover'd her, he would live A private man, and they, should share his duke- dom. They seem'd to promise fair, and every hour Vary their judgments, as they find his fit To suffer intermission or extremes : For his behaviour since— —
V
336 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Sfor. \a)it}iin\ As you have pity, Support her gently.
^tsc. Nqvv, be your own witnesses ; I am prevented,
Enttr Sforza, Isabella, Mariana, Doctors and Servants mth the body oj Marcelia.
Sfor. Carefully, I beseech you, The gentlest touch torments her ; and then think What I shall suffer. O you earthly' gods. You second natures, that from your great master. Who join^ the limbs of torn Hippolitus, And drew upon himself the Thunderer's envy. Are taught those hidden secrets that restore To life death-wounded men ! you have a patient. On whom to express the excellence of art. Will bind even heaven your debtor, though it
pleases To make your hands the organs of a work The saints will smile to look on, and good angels Clap their celestial wings to give it plaudits. How pale and wan she looks ! O pardon me, That I presume (dyed o'er with bloody guilt. Which makes me, I confess, far, far unworthy) To touch this snow-white hand. How cold it is ! This once was Cupid's fire-brand, and still 'Tis so to me. How slow her pulses beat too ! Yet in this temper, she is all perfection. And mistress or a heat so full of sweetness. The blood of virgins, in their pride of youth. Are balls of snow or ice compared unto her.
Mart. Is not this strange ?
hob. Oh I cross him not, dear daughter;
' Oy(M earthlj god&^ Corrected by Massioger from wrihy^ the former reading.
THE DUKE OF MILAN, 337
Our conscience tells us we have been abused, Wrought to accuse the innocent| and with him Are guilty of a fact
Enter a Servant, and whispers Pescara.
Mart. Tis now past help.
Pesc. With me? What is he?
Seri). He has a strange aspect ; A Jew by birth, and a physician By his profession, as he savs, who, hearing Of the duke's frenzy, on the forfeit of His life will undertake to render him Perfect in every part : — provided that Your lordship's favour gain him free access, And your power with the duke a safe protection, Till the great work be ended.
Pesc. Bring me to him ; As I find cause, I'll do. [Exeunt Peso, and Serv.
Sfor. How sound she sleeps !
Heaven keep her from a lethargy ! How long
(But answer me with comfort, I beseech you) Does your sure judgment tell you'^ that these
lids. That cover richer jewels than themselves, Like envious night, will bar these glorious suns From shining on me?
1 Doct. We have given her, sir, A sleepy potion, that will hold her long, That she may be less sensible of the torment The searching of her wound will put her to.
S Doct. She now feels little ; but, if we should wake her, To hear her speak would fright both us and you. And therefore dare not hasten it.
Sfor. I am patient. You see I do not rage, but wait your pleasure.
VOL. I. * Z
338 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
What do you think she dreams of now ? for sure, Although her body's organs are bound fast, ^ Her fancy cannot slumber.
1 Doct. That, sir, looks on Your sorrow for your late rash act, with pity Of what you suffer for it, and prepares To meet the free confession of your guilt With a glad pardon.
Sfor. She was ever kind ; And her displeasure, though call'd on, short-lived Upon the least submission. O you Powers, Tnat can convey our thoughts to one another Without the aid of eyes or ears, assist me ! Let her behold me in a pleasing dream [Kneels. Thus, on my knees before her ; (yet that duty In me is not sufficient;) let her see me Compel my mother, from whom I took life, And this my sister, partner of my being, To bow thus low unto her ; let her hear us In my acknowledgment freely confess That we in a degree as high are guilty ,Aa she is innocent. Bite your tongues, vile
creatures. And let your inward horror fright your souls. For having belied that pureness, to come near
which. All women that posterity can bring forth Must be, though striving to be good, poor rivals. And for that dog Francisco, that ^educed me, In wounding her, to rase a temple built . To chastity and sweetness, let her know I'll follow^ him to hell, but I will find him. And there live a fourth Fury to torment.him. Then, for this cursed hand and arm that guided The wicked steel, I'll have them, joint by joint, With burning irons sear'd off, which I will eat,
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 339
I being a vulture fit to taste such carrion ;
Lastly
1 Doct. You are too loud, sir ; you disturb
Her sweet repose.
Sfor. I am hush'd. Yet give us leave, Thus prostrate at her feet, our eyes bent down- wards, Unworthy, and ashamed, to look upon her, To expect her gracious sentence.
2 Doct. He's past hope.
1 Doct. The body too will putrify, and then We can no longer cover the imposture.
Tib. Which, in his* death, will quickly be dis- cover'd. I can but weep his fortune.
Steph. Yet be careful You lose no minute to preserve him ; time May lessen his distraction.
Re-enter Pescara, roith Feancisco, as a Jew doctor^ and Eugenia disguised as before.
Fran. I am no god, sir. To give a new life to her ; yet I'll hazard My head, I'll work the senseless trunk t'appear To him as it had got a second being, Or that the soul that's fled from't, were call'd
back To govern it again. I will preserve it In the first sweetness, and by a strange vapour, Which I'll infuse into her mouth, create A seeming breath ; I'll make her veins run high
too, As if they had true motion.
* Tib. Which in his death will quickly be discover*d^ I know not how the modern editors understood this line, but for his^ thej ready her death: a strange sophistication I
•Z2
340 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
Pesc. Do but this, Till we use means to win upon his passions T'endure to hear she's dead with some small
patience, And make thy own reward.
Fran. The art I use Admits no looker on : I only ask The fourth part of an hour, to perfect that I boldly undertake.
Pesc. I will procure it.
2 Doct. What stranger's this ?
Pesc. Sooth me in all I say ; There 's a main end in it.
Fran. Beware !
Eug. I am warn'd.
Pesc. Look up, sir^ cheerfully ; comfort in me Flows strongly to you.
Sfor. From whence came that sound ? Was it from my Marcelia? If it were, \Rtses. I rise, and joy will give me wings to meet it.
Pesc. Nor shall your expectation be cieferr'd But a few minutes. Your physicians are Mere voice, and no performance ; I have found A man that can do wonders. Do not hinder The dutchess' wish'd recovery, to enquire Or what he is, or to give thanks, but leave him To work this miracle.
Sfor. Sure, 'tis my good angel. I do obey in all things : be it death For any to disturb him, or come near, Till he be pleased to call us. O, be prosperous, And make a duke thy bondman !
[Exeunt all but Francisco and Eugenia.
Fran. 'Tis my purpose ; If that to fall a Jong-wish'd sacrifice To my revenge can be a benefit. J'U first make fast the doors ; — so !
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 341
Eug. You amaze me : What follows now?
Fran. A full conclusion Of all thy wishes. Look on this, Eugenia, Even such a thing, the proudest fair on earth (For whose delight the elements are ransacked, And art with nature studied to preserve her,) Must be, when she is summon'd to appear In the court of Death. But I lose time.
Eug. What mean you ?
Fran. Disturb me not. — ^Your ladyship looks^ pale; But I, your doctor, have a ceruse for you, — See, my Eugenia, how many faces. That are adored in court, borrow these helps,
[Paints the checks. And pass for excellence, when the better part Of tnem are like to this. — Your mouth smells
sour too. But here is that shall take away the scent ; A precious antidote old ladies use, when they would kiss, knowing their gums are rotten. [Paints the lips.
These hands too, that disdain'd to take a toucn From any lip, whose owner writ not lord,* Are now but as the coarsest earth ; but I Am at the charge, my bill not to be paid too. To give them seeming beauty. [Paints the hands.]
— So ! 'tis done. How do you like my workmanship ?
^ From any lip whose owner writ not lordj'] This raluable improTement is from the corrected copy, which originally had honour^ as it stands in all our editions/ It is impossible to pass OTer these corrections without a sigh for the fallacy of criticism. Alas 1 alas ! who knows whether much of the ingenious toil to explain nonsense, in the Variomm edition of Shakspeare, is not absolutely wasted upon mere errors of the press !
542 THE DUKE OF MILAN;
Eug. I tremble : And thus to tyrannize upon the dead. Is most inhuman.
Fran. Come we for revenge, And can we think on pity ! Now to the upshot. And, as it proves, applaud it. — My lord the duke! Enter with joy, and see the sudden change Your servant's hand hath wrought.
Re-enter Sforza and the rest.
Sfor. I live again In my full confidence thsit Marcelia may Pronounce my pardon. Can she speak yet ?
Fran. No : You must not look for all your joys at once ; That will ask longer time. ,
Pesc. 'Tis wondrous strange !
Sfor. By all the dues of love I have had from her. This hand seems as it was when first I kiss'd it. These lips invite too : I could ever feed Upon these roses, they still keep their colour And native sweetness : only the nectar's wanting. That, like the morning dew in flowery May, Preserved them in their beauty.
JE«/er Graccho hastily.
Grac. Treason, treason !
Tib. Call up the guard.
Fran. Graccho ! then we are lost \ Aside.
Enter Guard.
Grac. I am got off, sir Jew ; a bribe hath done it^ ,
THE DUKE OF MILAK 343
For all your serious charge ; there*s no disguise Can keep you from my knowledge*
Sfor. Speak.
Grac. I am out of breath, But this is
Fran. Spare thy labour, fool, — Francisco.*
AIL Monster of men !
Fran. Give me all attributes Of all you can imagine, yet I glory To be the thing I was born. I am Francisco ; Francisco, that was raised by you, and made . The minion of the time ; the same Francisco, That would have whored this trunk, when it had
life; And, after, breathed a jealousy upon thee, As killing as those damps that belch out plagues When the foundation of the earth is shaken : I made thee do a deed heaven will not pardon, Which was — to kill an innocent.
Sfor. Call forth the tortures For all that flesh can feel.
Fran. I dare the worst. Only, to yield some reason to the world Why I pursued this course, look on this face. Made old by thy base falsehood : 'tis Eugenia.
Sfor. Eugenia 1
Fran. Does it start you, sir? my sister. Seduced and fool'd by thee : but thou must pay
• Fran. Spare thy labour fool^'-^Francisco.'] Francisco*6 bold" ayowal of his guilt, with an emphatical repetition of his name^ and the enumeration of liis several acts of rillainy, which he justifies from a spirit of reyenge, in all probability gare rise t(y one of the most animated scenes in dramatic poetry. The reader will easily see, that I refer to the last act of Dr. Young's Revenge^ where Zanga, like Francisco, defends every cruel and treacherous act he has committed from a principle o( deep re- sentment. Dayies.
344 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
The forfeit of thy falsehood. Does it not work
yet !— Whate'er becomes of me, which I esteem not, Thou art mark'd for the grave : I've given thee
poison In this cup/ now observe me, which, thy lust Carousing deeply of, made thee forget Thy vow*d faith to Eugenia.
Pesc. O damn'd villain !
Isab. How do you, sir?
Sfor. Like one That learns to know in death what punishment Waits on the breach of faith. Oh ! now I feel An JEtna in my entrails. — I have lived A prince, and my last breath shall be command. — 1 bum, I burn! yet ere life be consumed, Let me pronounce upon this wretch all torture That witty cruelty can invent.
Pesc. Away with him !
. 754. In all things we will serve you.
Fran. Farewell, sister ! Now I have kept my word, torments I scorn : I leave the world with glory. They are men,
J'Of given thee poUon
In this cap, now observe me, which, % last, &c.] i. e. in th.e lips of Marcelia. This is a terrible scene, and has the air of being taken from some Italian story. The circumstance of rub* bing p<H8on on the lips of a dead beauty, occurs in a dreadful passage in the Revenger's Tragedy, by Cyril Tourner, 1609. There too the Duke is poisoned by kissing them.
In the former edition I had accounted for the confusion which appeared in the grammatical construction of this speech, from the perturbed state of the speaker's mind. I might have spared my sagacity, it seems, for it had no better foundation than the printer's errors. The line which stood,
^^ In this cup, now obserre me, with thy lasf'
is corrected by Massinger as it appears in the text, and the. grammar of the speech is now as perfect as the sense.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 845
And leave behind them name and memory, That, wrong'd, do right themselves before they die. [Kveunt Guard with Francisco.
Stepk. A desperate wretch !
l^or. I come : Death ! I obey thee. .Yet I will not die raging ; for, alas ! My whole life was a frenzy. Good Eugenia^ In death forgive me. — As you love me, bear her To some religious house, there let her spend The remnant of her life : when I am ashes. Perhaps she'll be appeased, and spare a prayer For my poor soul. Bury me with Marcelia, And let our epitaph be \Dies.
Tib. His speech is stopp*d.
Steph. Already dead !
Pesc. It is in vain to labour To call him back. We'll give him funeral, And then determine of the state affairs : And learn, from this example, There's no trust In a foundation that is built on lust. [Exeunt.^
' Mr. M. Mason, cont^ry to his custom, has giTen an account of this play : but it is too loose and unsatisfactory to be pre* rented to the reader. He has obserYed, indeed, what could not easily be missed, — ^the beauty of the language, the eleyatioB of the sentiments, the interesting nature of the situations, &c. But the interior motire of the piece,— ^Ihe spring of action from which the tragic events are made' to flow, — seems to hare utterly escaped him. He has taken the accessory for the pri- mary passion of it, and, upon his own error, founded a compa- rison between the Duke of Milan and Othello. — But let us hear Massinger himself. Fearing that, in a reverse of fortune, his wife may fall into the possession of another, Sforza gives a secret order for her murder, and attributes his resolution, to the excestf of his attachment :
'^ 'Tis more than love' to her, that marks her out ^^ A wish'd companion to me in both fortunes."
Act. I. sc. iiit
This is carefully remembered in the conference between Mar*
346 THE DUKE OF MILAN.
celia and Franciico, and connected with the feelings which ' occasions in her :
** that my lord, my Sforza, should esteem .
'^ My life fit only as a pag;p, to wait on '^ The rarious coarse of his uncertain fortunes : ^' Or cherish in himself that sensual hope, ^^ In death to know me as a wife, afilicts me."
^ Act III. sc. ii.
Upon this disapprobation of his selfish motire, is founded her reserve towards him, — a reserre, however, more allied to ten- derness than to anger, and meant as a prudent corrective of his. unreasonable d'esires. And from this reserve, ill interpreted by Sforza, proceeds that jealousy of his in the fourth act, which Mr. M. Mason will have to be the groundwork of the whole subject.
But if Massinger must be compared with somebody, let it be with himself: for, as the reader will by and by perceive, tfte Duke of Milan has more substantial connexion with the Picture than with Othello* In his uxoriousness,—- his doating entreaties of his wife's favours, — his abject requests of the mediation of others for him, &c. &c. Sforza strongly resembles Ladislaus ; while the friendly and bold reproofs of his fondness by Pescara and Ste- phano prepare us for the rebukes afterwards employed against the same failing by the intrepid kindness of Eubulus^ And not only do we find this similarity in some<of the leading sentiments of the two plays, but occasionally the very language of the one is carried into the other.
As to the action itself of this piece, it is highly animating and interesting ; and its connexion, at the very opening, with an important passage of history, procures for it at once a decided attention. This is, for the most part, well maintained by strong and rapid alternations of fortune, till the catastrophe is matured by the ever-working vengeance of Francisco. Even here, the author has contrived a novelty of interest little expected by the teaider : and the late appearance of the injured Eugenia throws a fresh emotion into the conclusion of the play, while it explains a considerable part of the plot, with which, indeed, it is essen- tially connected.
The character of Sforza himself is strongly conceived. His passionate fondness for Marcelia — his sudden rage at her appa- rent coolness, — his resolute renunciation of her, — his speedy repentance and fretful impatience of her absence, — his vehement defence of her innocence^, — his quick and destructive vengeance against her, upon a false asbertion of her dishonour, — and his prostrations and mad embraces of her dead body^ — shew the
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 847
force of dotage and hate in their extremes. His actions^ire wild and ungOYerned, and his whole life (as he says) is made up of frenzjr.
One important lesson is to be drawn from the principal fea- ture of this character. From Sforza's ill-regulated fondness for Marcelia flows his own order for her murder. The discovery of it occasions the distant behaviour of the wife^ the revenge of the husband, and the death of both.-^Let us use the blessings of life with modesty and thankfulness. He wlio aims at intem- perate gratifications, disturbs the order of Providence; and, in the premature loss of the object which he too fondly covets, is made to feel the just punishment of unreasonable wishes, and ungoverned indulgence.
e'nd of vol, i^
k*.««.
London : Printed by W. Bulmer and Co. Cleveland'Tow, Stt James's.