Skip to main content

Full text of "The works of Beaumont & Fletcher; the text formed from a new collation of the early editions. With notes and a biographical memoir by Alexander Dyce"

See other formats 


H{ 


im 


\  • 

Pi 

'k 

m 

1  • 

II- 

III: 

I! 

Ji 

1 

Ji-. 

■I 


lii 


nm 


m 


m 


mi 


m 


mi 


jiii 


m 


m 


m 


lIH 

■■■HH 

.  lif^^^^^^^^^^^l 

THE    WORKS 


BEAUMONT    &   FLETCHER; 


THE    TEXT    FORMED    FROM     A    NEW    COLLATION    OF    THE 
EARLY    EDITIONS. 


AND   A   BIOGRAPHICAL    MEMOIR 


THE  REV.   ALEXANDER   DYCE. 


IN   ELEVEN  VOLUMES. 


VOL.  I. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR.  1  THE  WOMAN-HATER. 

DEDICATION,  &c.  THIERRY  AND  THEODQRET. 

COMMENDATORY  POEMS.  I  PHILASTER. 

THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY. 


513864 

to     if.  so 


LONDON  : 
EDWARD    MOXON,   DOVER    STREET. 


MDCCCXLIII. 


A 


LONDON  : 
BRADBURY   AND    EVANS,   PRINTERS,    WHITF.FRIAF 


PR 


i: 


THE   REV.   WILLIAM    HARNESS, 


AS    A    MEMORIAL   OF    A    LONG    AND    UNINTERRUPTED    FRIENDSHIP, 


THESE    VOLUMES    ARE    INSCRIBED 


THE  EDITOR. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.0rg/details/l  worksofbeaumontfOI  beauuoft 


PREFACE. 

Of  Beaumoxt  and  Fletcher  only  three  cri^ico/ editions  have 
been  hitherto  attempted.  The  first  was  that  of  1750,  com- 
menced by  Theobald  and  completed  by  Seward  and  SjTupson, 
in  which  the  most  unwarrantable  liberties  were  taken  vrith  the 
text.  The  second,  published  in  1778,  was  at  least  an  improve- 
ment on  that  of  1750,  inasmuch  as  the  Editors  (of  whom  the 
elder  Colman  was  the  chief)  rejected  the  greater  portion  of 
the  arbitrary  alterations  introduced  by  their  predecessors.  The 
third  Avas  that  of  1812,  edited  by  Weber,  who,  having  availed 
himself  of  Monck  Mason's  Notes  (printed  in  1798),  produced 
on  the  whole  the  best  edition  of  the  di-amatists  which  had  yet 
appeared. 

Much,  however,  remained  to  be  done  for  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher — principally  by  collation  of  the  early  copies.  In  this 
respect  the  above-mentioned  Editors  were  so  unpardonably 
careless,  that  though  (as  their  annotations  prove)  they  used 
nearly  aU  the  early  copies  extant,  they  yet  entirely  overlooked 
a  great  number  of  readings,  by  which  both  the  sense  and  the 
metre  might  have  been  restored.  Nor  were  they  less  deserving 
of  censure  on  another  account :  in  too  many  passages  which 
they  happened  not  to  understand  they  deliberately  substituted 
their  own  improvements  for  the  authors'  genuine  language. 

The  text  of  the  edition  which  I  now  submit  to  the  public, 
is  formed  from  a  minute  collation  of  all  the  early  copies  : 
1  2 


but  I  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  crowd  the  pages  by 
noticing  every  trifling  variation  which  the  quartos  and  the  folios 
exhibit.  Two  of  the  plays, — The  Honest  Man's  Fortune  and 
The  Humorous  Lieutenant, — have  been  greatly  amended  by 
means  of  MSS. 

As  to  the  memoir  of  the  authors, — while  I  have  endeavoured 
to  state,  with  more  precision  than  has  hitherto  been  aimed  at, 
the  particulai's  abeady  known  concerning  themselves  and  their 
writings,  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  discover,  among  some 
other  new  facts  of  less  importance,  the  date  and  place  of 
Fletcher's  birth.  With  the  biographical  details  I  have  mingled 
such  observations  as  were  suggested  to  me  by  repeated  perusals 
of  the  poets'  works. 

To  George  Craufurd  Heath,  Esq.,  I  OAve  my  best  acknow- 
ledgments for  the  unsolicited  loan  of  a  manuscript  commentary 
on  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  written,  soon  after  the  appearance 
of  ed.  1750,  by  Benjamin  Heath,  whose  Notce  on  the  Greek 
tragedians,  and  Revisal  of  Shakespeare's  Text,  are  familiar  to 
many  readers.  From  that  commentary  (in  which  Heath 
has  anticipated  not  a  few  of  the  corrections  made  by  the  Editors 
of  1778  and  by  Monck  Mason)  I  have  derived,  as  will  be  seen, 
considerable  benefit. 

To  the  following  gentlemen  I  beg  leave  to  return  my  thanks 
for  assistance  of  vai'ious  kinds  received  during  the  progress  of 
these  volumes  through  the  press ; — the  Rev.  John  ISIitford ; 
the  Rev.  Henry  Cooper,  Vicar  of  Rye  ;  W.  Coiu'thope,  Esq. ; 
W.  H.  Black,  Esq. j  J.  P.  Collier,  Esq.;  and  Peter  Cunning- 
ham, Esq. 

A.  D. 


SOME  ACCOUNT 


THE  LIVES   AND   WRITINGS   OF   BEAUMONT 
AND  FLETCHER. 


During  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James,  while  dlstingnished 
statesmen,  warriors,  and  divines  occasionally  received  the  honours  of 
biography  soon  after  their  decease,  it  was  not  the  fashion  to  gratify  the 
curiosity  of  readers  with  the  private  history  of  individuals  who  had 
attained  celebrity  by  literature  alone.  When  even  the  most  illustrious 
poets  went  down  to  the  grave,  their  relatives  and  friends  paid  them 
perhaps  the  tribute  of  some  elegiac  verses,  but  left  the  particulars  of 
their  lives  unrecorded,  except  in  the  inscriptions  which  they  placed  upon 
their  tombs".  We  learn,  indeed,  that  Hey  wood  long  meditated  an 
extensive  work,  which  would  have  conveyed  to  posterity  much  valuable 
information  concerning  the  men  of  genius  who  had  been  his  contempo- 
raries, and  most  of  them,  very  probably,  his  intimate  associates — 
"  the  Lives  of  all  the  Poets,  foreign  and  modern,  from  the  first  before 
Homer  to  the  novissimi  and  last  "'' :  but,  though  he  continued  to  write 

.  A  little  tract  which  appeared  iu  1577,  Whetstone's  metrical  Life  of  Gaseoigne, 
is  (to  say  nothmg  of  the  meagreness  of  its  details)  unique  in  its  kind. 

b  That  Hey  wood  was  engaged  ou  this  work  as  early  as  1614,  we  know  from  a 
piece  by  Brathwait  published  dui-Lug  that  year.  Heywood  thus  notices  his  design 
in  The  Hierarchic  of  the  blessed  Angells,  &c.,  1633:  "But  I  had  almost  foi-got 
myself :  for  in  proceeding  further,  I  might  haue  forestalled  a  Worke,  which  here- 
after (I  hope)  by  Gods  assistance  to  commit  to  the  publick  view,  namely,  the  Liues 
of  all  the  Poets,  Forreine  and  Moderne,  from  the  First  before  Homer,  to  the 
Novissimi  and  last,  of  what  Nation  or  Language  soeuer  ;  so  faiTe  as  any  Historie  or 
Chronologie  will  giue  me  warrant."  p.  •24.5.— Malone  {Life  of  Shakespeare,  p.  6,  ed. 
Boswell),  and  others,  have  mentioned  that  Browne,  the  author  of  BritoMnia's  Pas- 
torals, &c.,  intended  to  write  "  the  Lives  of  the  EngUsh  Poets  " :  but  his  work  (if 
he  ever  signified  an  intention  of  composing  it,  which  seems  very  doubtful)  would 
have  comprised  only  the  poets  of  his  native  county.     Let  us  hear  what  Cai-penter 


W  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    AVRITINGS 

at  a  very  advanced  age,  be  never  accomplished  the  design  ;  and  his 
manuscript  collections  have  unfortunately  perished.  The  Theatrum 
Poetarum  of  Phillips,  1675*^,  added  something  to  criticism,  but  very 
little  to  biography:  Langbaine's  Account  of  English  Dramatic  Poets, 
1691,  treats  mucli  less  of  the  authors  than  of  their  plays  :  and  it  was 
not  to  be  expected  that  Wood,  •with  all  his  own  research  and  the  assist- 
ance of  Aubrey,  should  recover  more  than  a  few  comparatively 
unimportant  facts  relating  to  those  earlier  poets  whom  the  plan  of 
his  Athence  embraced. — Hence  the  lamentable  dearth  of  materials  for 
such  memoirs  as  the  present,  which,  in  spite  of  antiquarian  diligence, 
are  generally  mere  catalogues  of  the  writers'  works,  with  some 
incidental  notices  derived  from  the  pages  of  their  contemporaries. 

In  an  Address  to  the  Reader,  prefixed  to  the  folio  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's  Plays,  1647,  Shirley  observes  ;  "  It  is  not  so  remote  in  time, 
but  very  many  gentlemen  may  remember  these  authors  ;  and  some, 
familiar  in  their  conversation,  deliver  them  upon  every  pleasant  occasion 
so  fluent,  to  talk  a  comedy.  He  must  be  a  bold  man  that  dares  under- 
take to  write  their  lives  '^"  ;  and  the  passage  has  been  understood  as  if 
Shirley,  either  from  modesty  or  from  some  less  worthy  feeling,  had 
declined  the  oflSce  of  their  biographer.  I  apprehend,  however,  (for  the 
whole  Address  is  rather  aflfected  and  rhetorical,)  that  the  words  "  He 
must  be  a  bold  man  that  dares  undertake  to  Nvi-ite  their  lives  ",  were 
introduced  solely  for  the  sake  of  impressing  the  reader  with  the  most 
exalted  notions  of  the  genius  and  talent  which,  even  in  the  common 
intercourse  of  society,  distinguished  the  dramatic  pair  ;  nor  do  I  believe 
that  Shirley  had  ever  been  expected,  much  less  solicited,  to  undertake 
the  task  which,  with  all  possible  disadvantages,  I  must  attempt  to  execute. 

But,  first,  it  may  be  well  to  dispose  of  a  question  which  has  been 
frequently  asked,  viz.,  why  that  collection  of  dramas,  in  which  Beaumont 

says  on  this  subject :  "  Many  inferioiu'  faculties  are  yet  loft,  wherein  oui*  Dseuou 
hath  displaied  her  abilities,  as  well  as  in  the  foimer,  as  in  Philosophers,  Historians, 
Oratours,  and  Poets,  the  blazoning  of  whom  to  the  life,  especially  the  last,  I  had 
rather  leaue  to  my  worthy  friend  Mr.  W.  Browne  ;  who,  as  hee  hath  already 
honoured  liis  countrie  [sic]  in  his  elegant  and  sweete  Pastoralls,  so  questionles 
will  easily  bee  intrcated  a  htle  farther  to  grace  it,  by  (h-awing  out  the  lino  of  his 
Pooticke  Aimcesters,  beginning  in  Josephus  Iscanus,  and  ending  m  himselfo." 
Geographic,  p.  263.  ed.  16.35. 

■^  Winstanley's  Lives  of  the  most  Famous  English  Poets,  1687,  is  a  very  worthless 
compilation. 

•^  Vol.  i.  V. — The  expression,  "  some  familiar  in  their  conversation,"  would  seem 
to  prove  that  Shirley  had  not  been  personally  acquainted  with  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher. — We  find  a  similar  chai-acter  given  of  Fletcher's  conversational  powers 
in  the  Prologue  to  a  revival  of  The  Chances  and  in  R.  Bromc's  verses  Tohis  Memory, 
both  which  will  be  cited  afterwards. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Vll 

had  a  comparatively  small  share,  should  be  called  "  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's",  instead  of  '' Fletcher  and  Beaumont's"? — None  of  Beau- 
mont's di-amatic  pieces,  with  the  exception  of  T/ie  Masque  of  the  Inner 
Temple  and  Gray's  Inn  (1612),  were  given  to  the  press  till  after  his 
decease.  Three  plays  only.  The  Scornful  Lady  (1616),  A  King  and  No 
King  (1619),  and  Philaster  (1620),  were  printed  during  Fletcher's  life- 
time as  the  joint-productions  of  himself  and  Beaumont ;  and  the  title- 
pages  of  those  three  dramas  set  forth  that  they  were  written  by 
"  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ", — the  name  of  Beaumont  standing  first,  either 
because  he  was  known  to  have  composed  the  larger  portion  of  them^,  or 
because  that  precedence  was  considei-ed  as  a  mark  of  respect  due  to  a 
deceased  writer f.  At  a  later  date  no  one  was  willing  to  disturb  an 
arrangement  which  had  become  familiar  to  the  reader  ;  and  hence,  on 
the  title-pages  of  the  subsequently-published  quartos  and  of  the  two 
folio  collections,  the  name  of  Beaumont  retained  its  usual  place. 

I  shall  now  proceed  with  separate  biographical  accounts  of  the  two  poets, 
till  the  period  of  their  dramatic  union,  and  shall  commence  with  that  of 
Fletcher,  who  was  born  several  years  earlier  than  Beaumont. 

Richard  Fletcher,  the  father  of  our  poet,  is  generally  said  to 
have  been  a  native  of  Kent "  ; — in  which  county  his  father,  who  was  also 
named  Richard,  held  at  different  times  two  benefices  i'.  In  1563  the 
younger  Richard  Fletcher  was  a  scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
having  probably  been  admitted  there  during  the  preceding  year.     In 

"  As  early  as  1612,  Webster,  in  the  Preface  to  his  White  Devil,  mentions  "the 
no  less  worthy  composures  of  the  both  worthily  excellent  Master  Beaumont  and 
Master  Fletcher  ". 

f  In  the  publication  of  A  King  and  No  Kinr)  and  of  PJdlaster,  Fletcher  was 
certainly  not  concerned  ;  nor,  most  probably,  in  that  of  The  Scornful  Lady.  Indeed, 
it  would  seem  that  the  only  piece  which  he  himself  gave  to  the  press  was  The 
Faithful  Shepherdess. 

e  "  Richard  Fletcher  was  born  in  this  County,"  &c.  Fuller's  Worthies  (Kent), 
p.  72,  ed.  1 662,  where  there  is  a  marginal  note,  "  So  his  near  relation  mformed  me." 
— "  Richard  Fletcher  D.D.  is  generally  said  to  have  been  a  native  of  Kent,  and  as 
such  is  placed  by  Fuller  among  the  Worthies  of  that  County,  where  that  name  has 
been  very  common  ;  otherwise,  from  liis  havmg  been  one  of  the  first  Fellows  here 
upon  Abp.  Parker's  Foundation,  I  should  rather  have  imagined  he  must  have  been 
either  of  Norwich  or  Norfolk,  those  Fellowships  being  solely  appropriated  thereto." 
Masters's  Hist,  of  Corpus  Christi  Coll.,  &c.,  p.  284,  ed.  1753  (a  work  to  which  I 
have  considerable  obligations). 

>>  Richard  Fletcher,  the  elder,  was  appointed  vicar  of  Bishop's  Stortford  in 
Hertfordshii-e,  19th  June,  1551  (Clutterbuck's  Rist.  of  Hertf  iii.  254  :  "12  Junii 
1551,"  according  to  an  extract  by  Kennet  from  Recj.  Bonner,  in  a  note  on  Wood's 
Fasti  Oxon.,Part  First,  p.  190,  ed.  Bliss  ;  but  see  Rennet's  Coll.,  MS.  Lansd.  982, 
fol.  241,  where  the  date  is  "  19  Junii ")  ;  and  deprived  before  23d  Febr.,  1555  (see 
the  same  authorities,  ibid).     In  1555  he  was  vicar  of  Cranbrooko  in  Kent  (Hasted's 


Vlll  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

1560  he  took  the  degree  of  A.M.,  and  was  elected  Fellow  of  Bene't  Col- 
lege ;  and  on  the  15th  of  July',  1572,  he  was  incorporated  A.M.  of  Oxford, 
On  the  30th  of  Septemher  following  he  was  instituted  to  the  prehend  of 
Isledon  (Islington)  in  the  Church  of  St.  Paul,  London,  which  he  held 
together  with  his  fellowship.  In  1573  he  was  chosen  President  of 
Bene't  College  J  ;  but  he  left  Cambridge  soon  after,  carrying  with 
him  testimonials  of  his  learning  and  good  conduct,  and  of  the  credit 
with  which  he  had  acquitted  himself  in  the  college,  in  the  Public 
Schools,  and  in  the  pulpit.  In  1574  we  find  him  officiating  as  minister 
of  Rye  in  Sussex  ;  where  he  was  stiU  resident  in  December  1579,  and 
where  several  of  his  children  were  born''.  In  1581  he  proceeded  D.D. 
and  became  chaplain  to  the  queen  ;  and  in  1583  the  deanery  of 
Peterborough  was  conferred  upon  him  by  her  majesty.  In  1585  he 
received  the  prebend  of  Long  Sutton  in  the  Church  of  Lincoln ;  he  was 
also  parson  of  Alderkirk  (Algarkirk)  in  the  same  diocese  ;  and  in  1586 
he  was  presented  by  Sir  Thomas  Cecil  to  the  church  of  Barnack  in 
Northamptonshire.  As  Dean  of  Peterborough,  he  attended  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots  during  the  fatal  scene  at  Fotheringay,  on  the  8th  of  February, 
1586-7,  and  rendered  himself  conspicuous  by  the  zeal  with  which  he 
urged  that  unfortunate  princess  to  renounce  the  faith  of  Rome. 

On  the  14th  of  December,  1589,  Richard  Fletcher  was  consecrated  Bishop 
of  Bristol ;  and,  if  report  may  be  credited,  he  obtained  that  promotion  on 
condition  of  leasing  out  the  lands  to  certain  greedy  courtiers,  by  which  the 
bishopric  was  not  a  little  impoverished  '.    On  the  5tli  of  February,  1590-1, 

Hiist.  of  Kent,  ui.  oh):  "The  martyrdom  of  Christopher  Wade  in  Kent,  in  July 
1 .555  [is]  related  by  Mr.  Fox  upon  this  authority  ; '  Spectatores  prsesentes,  Richardus 
Fletcher  pater,  nunc  minister  ecclesise  Cranbrook,  Richardus  Fletcher  filius, 
minister  ecclesise  Riensis.'  Act.  Mon.  vol.  3.  p.  382  [ed.  1G41]",  quotation  from 
Kennet's  papers,  note  on  Wood's  Fasti  Oxon.,  ubi  supra.  He  was  inducted  rector  of 
Smarden  in  the  same  county,  19th  July,  1566  (Hasted's  Hist,  of  Kent,  iii.  237  :  Kennet 
from  MS.  Bailey  (^ubi  supra)  gives,  "  Mr.  Ric.  Fletcher  vicarius  de  Cranbrook  et 
rector  de  Smarden  ex  patronatii  Archicpi.  1569  "). 

'  Wood's  Fasti  Oxon.,  Part  First,  p.  190,  ed.  Bliss.  Masters  (Hist,  of  Corpus 
Cliristi  Coll.,  &c.,  p.  285,  ed.  1753)  says  "  on  the  15th  oi  June." 

i  "  Upon  Mr.  Norgate's  promotion  to  the  Mastership."  Masters,  uhi  mijyra. 
Norgate  succeeded  to  the  Mastership  "  22  Aug.  1573."  Id.  p.  113. 

^  On  the  margin  of  the  Rye-Registers  of  baptisms,  man-iages,  and  deaths,  the 
words  "Ric.  Fletcher,  Minister"  are  inserted,  under  the  year  1574  :  and  see  the 
extracts  from  the  Rye-Register  of  baptisms  in  a  later  part  of  this  memoir. 

'  "  Consecratus  est  in  Episcopum  Bristoliensem  (supcrstite  adhue  Bullinghamo) 
decimo  quarto  Decembris  1589  [Recjistr.  Whitg.  f.  62],  cum  scdes  (nisi  quatenus  a 
Commendatariis  administrata  est)  vacasset  annos  32."  Godwin  De  PrcesuL  Anr/lice, 
ii.  144,ed.  Richardson,  1743. — «  I  remembred  before  how  Ely  had  been  long  vacant, 
almost  20  years,  and  Bristol  and  Oxenford,  though  both  new  erected  Bishopricks 
(saved  as  it  were  out  of  the  ruines  and  ashes  of  the  Abbies),  were  thought  in  some 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  IX 

he  was  made  High  Almoner  ™.  On  the  10th  of  February,  1592-3,  he  was 
removed  to  the  see  of  Worcester  ".  The  death  of  Aylmer,  in  June,  1594  °, 
having  caused  a  vacancy  in  the  see  of  London,  Dr.  Fletcher  lost  no  time  in 
earnestly  soliciting  the  Lord  Treasm-er  Burleigh  for  a  translation  thither, 
"  chiefly  because  that  city  he  most  delighted  in,  where  he  had  his  edu- 
cation, most  common  residence,  and  where  he  had  many  agreeable  friends, 
and  a  considerable  share  in  the  love  and  esteem  of  the  citizens,  who 
desired  that  he  might  be  their  bishop  ;  and  that  he  might  be  nearer  the 
court,  where  his  presence  was  accustomed  much  to  be,  and  his  influence 
might  be  of  use  to  serve  the  court  p."  His  solicitations  proved  success- 
ful ;  though  it  was  not  till  some  months  after  that  his  election  was  con- 
firmed, 10th  January,  1594-5  i.  At  this  period  he  was  a  widower  with  a 
numerous  family,  his  first  wife,  Elizabeth,  having  been  buried  at  Chelsea 
Church  between  the  16th  of  December,  1592,  and  the  14th  of  January 
following  "■ :  but  no  sooner  was  he  raised  to  the  metropolitan  see  than  he 
entered  into  a  second  marriage  with  Lady  Baker^,  widow  of  Sir  Richard 

danger  again  to  be  lost  ;  for  Bristoll  was  held  ^?^  Comnicndam,  and  Oxford  not  much 
to  be  commended  ;  wherefore  about  the  year  88,  that  same  anmi^  mirabilis,  some  of 
the  zealous  Courtiers,  whose  devotion  did  serve  them  more  to  prey  on  the  Church 
than  pray  m  the  Church,  barkened  out  for  fit  supplies  to  these  places,  and  sent 
their  Agents  to  find  out  some  men  that  had  gi-eat  mindes,  and  small  means  or 
merits,  that  would  be  glad  to  leave  a  small  Deanry  to  make  a  poor  Bishoprick  by 
new  leasing  out  Lands  that  were  now  almost  out  of  Lease  ;  but  to  free  him  from 
the  guilt  of  it,  the  poor  Bishop  must  have  no  part  of  the  fine.  -----  I  come 
now  to  Bishop  Fletcher,  that  made  not  so  much  scruple  to  take  Bristol  in  his  way 
from  Peterborough  to  Worcester,  though  that  were  wide  of  the  right  way,  upon  the 
sinister  or  bow  hand  many  miles,  as  the  Card  of  a  good  Conscience  will  plainly 
discover,"  &c.  Sii'  J.  Harington's  Briefe  View  of  the  State  of  the  Church  of 
England,  &c.,  1653,  pp.  23—5. 

■»  Cole's  MS.  Collections,  vol.  xli.  440  (Brit.  Museum). 

"  "Confirm.  _Feb.  10.  1592.  Registr.  Whitg."  Godwin  Be  Prmsul.  Anglic,  u.  51, 
ed.  Richardson,  1743. 

"  His  death  is  variously  dated,  the  3d,  5th,  and  13th  June  :  see  Id.,  ii.  193. 

P  Strype's  Life  of  Whitgift,  p.  428,  ed.  1718  (the  passage  being  substance  of  part 
of  a  letter  from  Fletcher  to  the  Lord  Treasurer,  dated  29th  Jime,  1594). 

'1  "  Joanne  [Elmero]  defuncto,  Hcentia  ehgendi  concessa  est  25  Dec.  1594.  Bym. 
Feed.  T.  16.  p.  267.  Regium  liabet  assensum  4  Januarii. /cL  ih.  Confirmatus  est  Jan. 
10.  Registr.Whitg.ip.  2.  f.20."  GodyAnDePrissul.Anglice,  1. 193,ed. Richardson,  1743. 

'  "  Elizabetha  uxor  Rici  Fletcher  Bristol.  Epi.  sepultus  [sic]  in  CanceUo  subter 
mensa."  Chelsea-Clmrch  Register.  This  entry  is  preceded  by  one  dated  16  Dec, 
1592,  and  is  followed  by  one  dated  14  Jan?. 

^  Lady  Baker  was  Maria,  or  Mary,  daughter  of  John  Giiford  (or  Giffard)  of 
Weston-under-Edge  in  Gloucestershu-e  :  see  MS.  Harl.  1543,  fol.  72.  Her  first 
husband.  Sir  Richard  Baker,  died  27'''  ]\Iay,  1594.  Funeral  Certificates,  I.  6,  College 
of  Arms.  After  Bishop  Fletcher's  death,  she  again  became  a  wife,  marr^dng 
Sir  Stephen  Thornhurst,  knight.  She  was  buried  in  St.  Michael's  Chapel  in 
Canterbury   Cathedral,   where  a  very  handsome  monument  was  ei'ected  to  her 


X  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

Baker  of  Sisiugherst  in  Kent,  and  sister  of  Sir  George  Gifford  one  of  the 
gentlemen-pensioners  ;  "  which  ",  says  Harington,  "the  Queen  seemed 
to  be  extremely  displeased  at,  not  for  the  bygamy  of  a  Bishop  (for  she 
was  free  from  any  such  superstition),  but  out  of  her  generall  mislike  of 
Clergymens  Mariage,  this  being  indeed  a  mariage  that  was  talked  of 
at  least  nine  dayes^" — The  character  borne  by  Lady  Baker  must  have 
contributed  to  heighten  the  indignation  of  the  queen  "  ;  and  there  is  no 

memory,  v,ith  the  following  inscription :  "  Here  lieth  the  Lady  Thomhurst, 
who  was  sometime  the  Wife  of  Sir  Richard  Baker  of  Sisiugherst  in  the  Coimty 
of  Kent,  and  had  Issue  by  the  said  Sir  Richai'd,  two  Daughters  ;  the  Lady 
Grisogone  Leuerd,  and  the  Lady  Cicely  Blimt.  She  departed  this  present 
World,  in  the  Month  of  May  in  the  Year  of  our  Lord  God  1609.  She  then 
being  of  the  Age  of  sixty  Years."  Dart's  Hist,  arid  Antiq.  of  Canterbury  Cath., 
p.  74.  (An  engraving  of  her  monument  is  given  in  that  work,  p.  72,)  In  one  par- 
ticular, however,  the  above  inscription  is  certainly  wTong  :  the  Cathedral  Register, 
a  much  better  authority,  states  that  Lady  Thornhiu-st  "  was  bm-yed  the  26  daye  of 
Aprill ",  1609.  From  the  same  register  we  learn  that  Sir  Stephen  Thomhm'st  was 
buried  16th  Oct.,  1616. — The  fii'st  husband  of  Lady  Baker  is  erroneously  called  by 
several  writers  Sir  John  Baker ;  but,  besides  the  inscription  on  the  monument  just 
cited,  see  MS.  Harh  above  referred  to  (where,  by  mistake,  the  name  is  written 
Barlcer). — It  is  worth  notice  that  the  monumental  inscription  makes  no  mention  of 
her  second  nuptials. 

'  A  Bricfe  View  of  the  State  of  the  Church  of  England,  &c.,  1653,  p.  27. 
"  "  He  [Bishop  Fletcher]  married  a  Lady  of  this  county,  who  one  [Xote.  Sir 
Richard  Baker  in  his  Chi-on.]  eommendeth  for  very  virtuous,  wliich  if  so,  the  more 
happy  she  in  herself,  though  unhappy  that  the  world  did  not  believe  it."  Fuller's 
Worthies  {Kent),  p.  73,  ed.  1662. — The  following  poem  was  transcribed  by  Cole  into 
his  MS.  Collections  (vol.  xxxi.  204,  Brit.  Museum)  from  "  MS.  Crewe  ":  another 
copy  of  it  is  in  a  MS.  miscellany  of  my  o^vn  ;  and  a  third  copy  (with  the  passages 
differently  ai'ranged)  is  in  a  MS.  volume  belonging  to  Mr.  J.  P.  Collier.  I  give  it 
from  Cole's  transcript,  corrected  here  and  there  by  the  other  copies.  "  This  bitter 
satu-e,"  says  Cole,  "  was  made  by  some  of  the  gang  of  ^Martin  Mar-Prelate  in  Queen 
Eliz.  time,  when  the  godly  Puritans  took  all  sorts  of  liberty  in  abusing  the  conform- 
able clergy.  The  first  hne  refers  to  John  Ayhner,  Bp.  of  London,  who  in  1.579  was 
brought  before  the  Council,  and  had  a  smart  reprimand  for  his  immodei-ate  falling 
[sic]  of  timber  on  the  bishoprick,  from  the  Lord  Treasurer,  and  an  order  from  the 
Queen  to  fall  no  more.  See  Sti*}'pe's  Life  of  Bp.  Aylmer,  p.  71,  &c. :  and  Sir  Jolm 
Harington  m  his  Brief  View  of  tlie  State  of  the  Church  of  Enylaml,  p.  1 9,  says  that  this 
Bp.  was  caUed  Ellmarr,  for  his  maiTing  the  elms  at  FuUiam." 
"A  Satyr  on  Ri:  Fletcher,  Bp.  of  London. 

John  London  was  condemned  for  spoihng  wood. 

And  now  Dick  London  commons  doth  enclose  ; 

He  sought  his  private,  this  the  pubhke  good. 

And  both  their  credits  by  their  gettings  lose  : 

But  tell  me,  Martin,  whethers  gaine  is  more. 

He  sould  the  wood,  or  this  hath  bought  a  whore  ? 
Mariage,  they  say,  is  honorable  in  aU  ; 

Yet  some  do  yt  in  priests  dishonom-  call  : 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XI 

doubt  tbat  the  marriage  was  hurried  ou  with  unusual  haste,  for  it  took 
place  in  less  thau  a  3'ear  after  the  decease  of  Sir  Richard  Baker. — The 

Yet  honorable  it  is  in  him,  and  more. 
That  wedds  a  Lady  and  a  common  whore. 

The  Romain  Tarquin,  in  his  folly  blyude. 
Did  fayre  chast  Lucrcce  for  a  Lays  take  : 
But  our  proud  Tarciuin  beai-s  a  better  rainde  ; 
He  of  a  Lays  doth  a  Lucrece  make  ; 
And  she,  as  not  confjiTned  in  her  faithe, 
Will  now  be  trewlye  bishoppyd,  she  saythe. 
If  Fletcher  wedded  to  amend  her  misse, 
Good  Fletcher  did  an  honest  deed  in  this. 

The  pride  of  prelaeye,  which  now  long  smcc 
Was  bannisht  with  the  Pope,  is  sayd,  of  late 
To  have  arrived  at  Bristowe,  and  from  thense, 
By  Worceter,  unto  London  brought  his  state. 
Wher,  puffed  up  with  more  then  vanitye, 
He  quite  forgetts  his  calling  and  his  place  ; 
And,  like  a  compound  of  extrcmitye, 
He  bears,  of  lust  the  hart,  of  pride  the  face  : 
None  but  a  Ladye  cane  content  his  eyes, 
None  but  a  whore  his  wanton  lust  suffice. 
Yt  is  a  question  now  in  hcrauldrye 

What  name  proude  prelats  Ladye  now  may  bearc  : 

Though,  London  like,  she  be  of  all  trades  free, 

And  long  hatli  bene  a  common  occupier. 

Her  Lord  of  London  cannot  London  give  ; 

Yt  is  his  ownc,  but  as  he  holds  his  place  ; 

And  that  so  proude  a  foole  in  yt  should  lyve, 

Yt  was  but  superfluitie  of  grace. 

And  Ladye  Fletcher  less  may  she  be  named  ; 

How  can  a  vicars  sonne  a  Ladye  make  ? 

And  yet  her  Ladyship  wore  gi-etelye  shamed, 

Yf  from  her  Lorde  she  could  no  title  take  : 

Wherfore,  they  may  divide  the  name  of  Fletcher, 

He  my  Lord  F.,  and  she  my  Lady  Letcher. 
Yf  any  aske  why  Tartjuin  ment  to  marry  > 

Yt  better  is  to  marry  then  to  bunie  : 

Yf  any,  why  he  could  no  longer  taiTye  ? 

The  devill  ought  his  pride  a  shameful!  turne  : 

Yf  any,  why  he  wold  a  Ladye  wedd  ? 

Because  he  wold  a  double  miter  weere  : 

Yf  whye  a  Ladye  of  a  common  bedd  ? 

The  match  was  equall ;  both  had  common  geare. 

But  yet,  yf  any  wold  the  reason  finde 
Why  he,  which  lok't  as  loftye  as  a  steple, 

Should  be  so  base  as  for  to  come  behmde. 
And  take  the  levings  of  the  common  people  I 
'Tys  playne  ;  for  in  processions,  you  knowe, 
The  priest  must  after  all  the  people  goo." 


Xii  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

bishop  was  inuucdiatcly  forbidden  to  appear  in  the  presence  of  her 
majesty  or  to  approach  the  court  ;  and  (in  spite  of  his  appeal  to  the 
Lord  Treasurer  to  intercede  with  the  queen  in  liis  behalf)  he  was  soon 
after,  at  the  royal  coiuniand,  suspended  from  the  exercise  of  his  episco- 
pal function  by  Archbishop  Whitgift,  23d  of  February,  1594-5.  Time, 
however,  having  softened  the  displeasure  of  Elizabeth,  at  the  expiration 
of  about  six  mouths  Dr.  Fletcher  was  restored  to  the  discharge  of  his 
office  :  but  the  queen  still  continuing  obstinate  in  her  refusal  to  receive 
him  at  court,  on  the  7th  of  January  following  (1595-6)  he  addressed  a 
letter  to  his  friend  the  Lord  Treasurer,  in  which  he  says,  "Yt  is  now  a 
yere  within  a  weeke  or  two  since  I  haue  sene  her  Majesty,  which  to  me 
hath  semed  a  longer  tyme  then  a  whole  seculum,  it  being  the  especiall 
cumfort  seculer  that  ever  I  conceyved  to  haue  lived  in  hir  highnes  gratious 
aspect  and  favour  now  xx^y  yeres  past.  Your  Lordship  was  the  honor- 
able meanes  of  the  fyrst  recovery  of  that  hir  Majestys  good  favour  to  the 
libertye  of  my  function,  and  if  it  please  your  Lordship  to  add  therunto 
your  honorable  mediation  to  hir  Majesty  to  let  hir  vnderstande  my  most 
humble  sute  to  do  my  dutye  and  service  in  hir  presence,  and,  if  not 
farther,  yet  to  see  hir  Majesty,  I  shall  hould  my  self  most  bound  to  yom- 
Lordships  kindenes,"  <fec^.  That  the  bishop  never  fully  recovered  his 
place  in  the  queen's  favour,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  ;  though, 
according  to  one  account,  she  so  entirely  laid  aside  her  anger  that  she 
paid  him  a  visit  in  his  house  at  Chelsea  ^.  But,  could  he  have  foreseen 
what  was  shortly  to  befall  him,  he  would  have  been  alike  indifferent  to 
the  smiles  and  frowns  of  royalty  :  on  the  evening  of  the  15th  of  June,  1596, 
as  he  sat  smoking  in  his  chair,  he  suddenly  expired  ;  his  death  being 
attributed  by  some  to  vexation  at  the  troubles  in  which  his  second  mar- 
riage had  involved  him,  and  by  others  to  the  immoderate  use  of  tobacco  y. 


"  MS.  Lansd.  80,  fol.  131.  This  letter  is  printed  in  Appendix  xx.  to  Strypc's 
Life  of  Wliitrjift,  p.  183,  ed.  1718,  but  there  a  portion  of  the  passage  just  cited  is 
omitted  by  mistake. 

"  "  Yet  in  a  wliilc  he  found  means  to  pacific  licr  so  well,  as  she  promisd  to  come, 
and  I  think  did  come,  to  a  house  he  had  at  Chelsey.  For  there  was  a  stayre  and  a 
dore  made  of  purpose  for  her  in  a  bay  window ",  &c.  Sir  J.  Ilai'ington's  Brief c 
View  of  the  Slate  of  the  Church  of  England,  1653,  p.  27. 

>  "  The  Bishop  of  London  died  the  other  day  very  sodenlye,  having  sette  m  com- 
mission till  Si.xc  a  clocke  at  night  and  deceased  at  seaven."  Letter  from  Anthony 
Bacon  to  Br.  Hawkins,  dated  19th  June,  159G — Kennct's  Coll.,  MS.  Lansd.  982, 
fol.  241. — ^"Mortc  obiit  repcntina  in  Londinensi  suo  palatio,  quando  ante  quartam 
hora>  partem  rectissimc  sanus,  ne  lovi.ssima  quidoni  ajgritudine  tentatus  fuisset, 
Junii  decimo  qumto,  1596."  Godwin  Be  Prcesul.  An'jlicB,\.\'J3,cd.  Richardson,  17-13. 
(In  the  same  work  (ihid.)  we  find,  "  Testamontum  ejus  probat.  2  Jun.  159G.  MS. 
Wood  ",— a  mistake  for  "  22  Jan.":  sec  the  Will  in  Appendix  I.  to  this  Memoir.) — 
In  the  fifth  of  Reasons  to  mouc  her  Majesty,  &c.,  (see  p.  xiv,)  we  arc  told  that  his 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Xlll 

He  was  buried,  "  witliout  any  solemn  funerals  in  the  Cathedral 
Church  of  St.  Paul ;  nor  was  any  monument  erected  to  his  memory. 
— Bishop  Fletcher  is  described  as  "  a  comely  and  courtly  prelate "  ;  and 
the  queen  (to  whom  good  looks  were  always  a  recommendation)  was  so 
anxious  that  his  person  should  be  set  off  to  the  best  advantage,  that 
"  she  found  fault  with  him  once  for  cutting  his  beard  too  short  ^."  As 
a  preacher,  he  was  distinguished  for  his  eloquence.  Fuller  informs  us 
that  "he  lov'd  to  ride  the  great  horse,  and  had  much  skill  in  managing 
thereof  ",  and  that  he  was  "  condemned  for  very  proud  (such  his  natural 
stately  garb)  by  such  as  knew  him  not,  and  commended  for  humility  by 
those  acquainted  with  him'\"  A  paper  consisting  of  Orders  to  be 
observed  bi/  the  ecclesiastical  officers  of  the  diocese  of  London  *=,  and  a  few 
letters,  are  the   only  extant  specimens  of  his   composition  ;  unless  we 

death  "preceded  spetially  from  the  conceipt  of  her  Highnes  displeasui-e  and 
indignation  conceiued  against  him." — "  Riehardus  Fletcherus,  Episcopus  Lon- 
diuensis,  Praesul  splendidus,  qui  dum  cui-as  e  nuptiis  infaustis  et  RegiaEe  improbatis 
(quae  prsesules  conjugatos  minus  probauit)  Nicosia  immodice  hausta  obruit,  ^-itam 
elflauit."  Camdeni  Annates,  &c.,  t.  ii.  128,  ed.  1627. — "He  lost  the  Queens  favour 
because  of  his  second  unhappy  match,  and  died  suddainly,  more  of  grief  then  any 
other  disease."  Fuller's  Church-Histoi-y,  &ic.,  B.  ix.  p.  233,  ed.  1655. — "  Sure  I  am 
that  Queen  Ehzabeth  (who  hardly  held  the  second  matches  of  Bishops  excusable) 
accounted  his  marriage  a  trespasse  on  his  gi-ax-ity,  whereupon  he  fell  into  her  deep 
displeasure.  Hereof  the  Bishop  was  sadly  sensible,  and  seeking  to  lose  his  sorrow 
in  a  mist  of  smoak,  died  of  the  immoderate  taking  thereof."  Fuller's  Worthies  {Kent), 
p.  73,  ed.  1662.— See  also  Wood's  Fasti  Oxon.,  Part  First,  p.  191,  ed.  Bhss.— Sir  J. 
Harington's  accoimt  of  his  death  is  as  follows  :  "  But  certain  it  is  that  (the  Queen 
being  pacified,  and  hee  in  great  joUity,  with  his  faire  Lady  and  her  Carpets  and 
Cushions  in  his  bed-chamber)  he  died  suddenly,  taking  Tobacco  in  his  chaire,  sajang 
to  his  man  that  stood  by  him,  whom  he  loved  very  well,  '  Oh  boy,  I  die  !'  "  A  Briefe 
View  of  the  State  of  the  Church  of  Ewjland,  &c.,  1653,  p.  28.  Harington  (ibid.) 
gives  an  epitaph  on  the  Bishop  composed  by  some  ^^-it  of  the  time, — 
"  Here  lies  the  first  Prelate  made  Clu-istendom  see 
A  bishop  a  husband  unto  a  Ladie  : 
The  cause  of  his  death  was  secret  and  hid  ; 
He  cry'd  out '  I  die ',  and  ev'n  so  he  did." 

A  MS.  Miscellany  in  my  possession  contains  the  above  epitaph  with  considerable 
variations. 

^  Stow's  Swrvey,  &c.,  B.  v.  p.  5,  ed.  1720. 

^  "  Whereas,"  adds  Harington,  "  good  Lady  (if  she  had  known  that)  she  would 
have  found  fault  with  him  for  cutting  his  Bishoprick  so  short."  A  Briefe  Vieio,  &c., 
p.  20. 

''  Church-Histoi-y,  &c.,  B.  ix.  p.  233,  ed.  1655. 

"=  Orders  which  the  Right  Reverend  Father  Richard  Lord  Bishop  of  London  desires 
to  be  assented  unto  and  carefully  observed  by  every  Ecclesiastical  Officer  exercising 
Jurisdktion  Ecclesiastical  under  him,  within  the  Diocess  of  London.  Bat.  March  the 
Sth  1595, — printed  among  the  Records  appended  to  CoUier's  Eccles.  £[ist.,'p.  100,  ed. 
folio. 


XIV  SOME     ACCOUNT    OF    THE     LIVES    AND     \VUITING.S 

include  among  thcni  a  sliort  account  of  The  manner  of  the  Solemnity  of 
the  Scottish  Queen's  Funeral'^,  which,  as  Dean  of  Peterborough,  he 
attested  with  his  signature. 

That  Bishop  Fletcher  left  his  family  in  necessitous  circumstances,  we 
have  incontrovertible  evidence.  Soon  after  his  decease,  his  younger 
brother,  Dr.  Giles  Fletcher  the  civilian,  who  had  become  sccm-ity  for  his 
"  debt  to  the  Exchequer  for  his  first  fruits  and  tenths  •=  ",  was  forced  to 
have  recourse  to  the  favour  of  the  queen,  and  drew  up  the  following 
Reasons  to  moue  her  Majesty  in  some  commiseration  towards  the  orphanes 
of  the  late  Bisshopp  of  London  : 

"\.  He  was  translated  from  Worcester  Bishoprick  to  the  sea  of 
London  within  two  yeares,  and  so  entered  into  new  first  fruites  before  he 
had  fully  paid  the  ould.  By  which  meanes  her  Majestes  good  and 
gratious  meaning  for  his  preferment  was  rather  turned  to  liis  great 
hinderance  and  diminution  of  his  worldly  estate,  hauing  paid  within  3 
yeares,  or  not  much  more,  into  her  Highnesse  Exchequer,  for  his  first 
friiites,  tenthcs,  and  subsidies,  the  some  of  1458  !>. 

"  2.  He  bestowed  in  allowances  and  gratifications  to  diuers  attend- 
ants about  her  Majestic,  since  his  preferment  to  the  sea  of  London,  the 
some  of  3100  ^',  or  thcrcaboutes,  without  any  regarde  made  to  himselfe, 
as  appeareth  by  his  note  of  perticulers  ;  which  was  giuen  by  him,  for 
the  most  parte  of  it,  by  her  Highnes  direction  and  spetiaU  appointment. 

"  3.  Finding  the  building  and  mansion  houses  of  the  sea  of  London 
greatly  decayed  and  in  a  manner  ruinate,  hee  hath  bestowed  great 
somes  of  mony  vppon  reperations,  namclye,  vpon  the  Bishops  houses  at 
Wickham,  ITadhara,  London,  and  Fulham  ^,  where  he  bestowed  extra- 
ordinary charge,  as  in  respect  of  his  owne  dutie  and  necessary  vse,  so  in 
spctiall  regard  of  her  Highnes  liking  and  good  contentment,  hoping  one 
day,  as  himselfe  would  say,  after  the  end  and  pacification  of  her  Highnesse 
displeasure,  and  the  recouery  of  her  gratious  fauour,  which  of  all  worldly 
thinges  he  most  desired,  to  see  her  Majesty  in  his  house  at  Fulham. 

"  4.  He  employed  himselfe  and  his  whole  reuenew  in  hospitality  and 
all  other  duties  of  his  vocation,  as  for  conscience  sake,  so  with  a  spctiall 
regard  of  her  Majestes  liking,  and  to  prouoke  her  Highnes  reconciliation 
and  fauour  towards  him. 

"  5.  He  hath  satisfied  the  crrour  of  his  late  marriage  with  his 
vntimely  and  vnlookcd  for  death,  which  preceded  spetially  from  the  con- 

''  Printed  in  Gunton's  Hist,  of  the  Church  of  Pftcrhurr/h,  p.  77. 

'  Birch'H  Mem.  of  Elizabeth,  u.  11."?. 

'  "  Tlie  hall  [of  Fulham  Palace]  was  fitted  up  by  Bishop  Fletcher  in  the  year 
l.'iO.S.  (Note)  As  appears  liy  that  date  in  the  windows,  and  the  initials  R.  F.  with 
tlio  word  fecit."     Lysons's  Environs  of  London,  ii.  347. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND     FLETCHER.  XY 

ceipt  of  her  Higlines  displeasure  and  indignation  conceiiied  against  him, 
bearing  a  most  louing  and  reuerent  aiFeccion  towardes  her  Majesty  as 
euer  poore  subiect  towardes  his  prince  ;  which  may  moue  her  Majestes 
royall  harte  in  some  compassion  towardes  his  poore  and  fatherles  chill- 
dren.  He  hath  left  behinde  him  8  poore  chilldren,  whereof  diners  are 
very  yong.  His  dettes  due  to  the  Queues  Majestie  and  to  other 
creditors  are  1400  ^,  or  thereaboutes,  his  whole  state  s  is  but  one  house 
wherein  the  widow  claimeth  her  thirds,  his  plate  valewed  at  400  ^,  his 
other  stuife  at  5001'.'^" 

The  Earl  of  Essex,  to  whom  this  memorial  had  been  forwarded  by 
Anthony  Bacon,  "  represented  to  the  queen  the  case  of  the  bishop's 
orphans  in  so  favourable  a  light,  that  she  was  inclined  to  relieve  them  "  : 
but  whether  her  intentions  were  frustrated  by  the  speed  with  which  the 
Exchequer  sued  Dr.  Giles  Fletcher  for  payment,  or  whether  the  bishop's 
family  was  eventually  assisted  by  the  interposition  and  bounty  of 
Elizabeth,  I  am  unable  to  discover'. — Though  now  scarcely  remem- 
bered. Dr.  Giles  Fletcher  was  a  person  of  some  notoriety  among  his 
contemporaries  ;  and  the  account  of  Russia  J  which  he  published  on  his 
return  from  an  embassy  to  that  country,  may  stiU  be  perused  with  plea- 
sure and  Instruction.     He  is  termed  "an  excellent  poet"  by  Wood  "^j 


''  Thi.s  document  wa.s  printed  in  3Icm.  of  Elizaheth,  ii.  113,  by  Birch,  who  made 
some  alterations  in  the  wording  of  it.  I  now  give  it  from  the  Bacon  Papers  in  the 
Lambeth  Library,  vol.  v.  658,  fol.  193  (according  to  Todd's  Catalogue,  "Cod.  Man. 
Tenison,  xii.  6.58  ").  It  is  indorsed  "  Dr.  Fletcher,  the  Bishop  of  Londons  reasons 
to  haue  his  debte  stalled,  the  •21th  [sic]  of  August,  1596." 

'  "  The  Earl  [of  Essex]  likewise  represented  to  the  queen  the  case  of  the  orphans 
of  bishop  Fletcher  in  so  favourable  a  light,  that  she  was  inclin'd  to  reUeve  them  : 
for  which  mi*.  Bacon  return'd  his  thanks  to  liis  lordship  in  a  letter  of  the  8th 
of  December,  but  expressed  his  surprise  to  find,  that  the  under  officers  of  the 
exchequer  took  a  contrary  course  in  suing  and  pressing  dr.  Fletcher  with  threats, 
if  he  fail'd  to  pay  600/.  withm  five  days  ;  by  which  the  queen's  inclination  would  be 
frustrated,  imless  his  lordship  should  take  Sir  John  Fortescu  at  liis  word,  who  pro- 
mis'd  the  day  before  to  join  with  the  earl  in  a  second  motion  for  the  present 
stalment  of  600Z."  Birch's  Mem.  of  Elizaheth,  ii.  •224.— I  find  from  the  iMS.  Pell  Receipt 
Booh,  that,  after  the  Bishop's  death,  various  sums  were  paid  into  the  Exchequer,  at 
different  times,  by  his  executor,  "  for  tenths  of  the  clergy." 

J  Of  the  JRusse  Common  Wealth.  Or  Maner  of  Gouernement  by  the  Russe  Emperour 
{commonly  called  the  Emperour  of  Moskouia)  with  the  manners  and  fashions  of  the 
people  of  that  Countrey,  1591. 

''  Fasti  Oxon.,  Part  First,  p.  191,  ed.  Bliss. — Dr.  Giles  Fletcher  wrote  various  copies 
of  Latin  verses.  A  very  short  tract  consisting  of  Latin  hexameters,  composed  by 
him  during  his  youth,  and  entitled  De  Literis  Antique  BritannicB,  Regilus  'prcesertim 
qui  doctrina  claruerunt,  quique  Collegia  Cantahrigia  funddrunt,  was  pubhshed 
in  1633  by  his  son  Phineas,  who  added  to  it  a  Sylva  Poetica  of  his  o-vra.  The 
whole  of  this  publication  is  generally  attributed  by  mistake  to   Phineas. — A  poem 


XVI  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE     LIVES    AND     WRITINGS 

who,  however,  has  neglected  to  specify  the  compositions  which  entitled 
him  to  such  praise,  llis  two  sons,  Phineas  and  Giles  Fletcher,  have 
acquired  a  more  enduring  fame, — The  Purple  Island  and  Piscalon/ 
Ecloi/ztes,  &,c.  of  the  former,  and  the  ClirisCs  Victory  of  the  latter, 
hcing  familiarly  known  to  all  the  students  of  our  early  poetry  '. 

When  Bishop  Fletcher  made  hia  Will,  26th  Oct.,  1593'",  he  had 
nine  children  alive  :  but  at  the  period  of  his  decease,  as  we  have 
just  learned  from  the  document  drawn  up  by  his  brother,  they  were 
eight  in  number,  and  "  divers  of  them  very  young."  They  were  doubtless 
all  by  one  mother,  Elizabeth,  whose  death  has  been  already  men- 
tioned". The  names  of  four  of  them  are  not  known  :  the  others,  besides 
John  the  poet,  were — Nathaniel,  born  at  Rye  in  Sussex  in  1575,  Theo- 
philus,  born  there  in  1577,  Elizabeth,  born  there  in  1578,  and  Maria, 

called  Tlie  Rlsin'j  to  the  Crowne  of  Richard  tJte  Tlurd,  which  is  appended,  wth 
several  other  short  poems,  to  Licia,  or  Poemes  of  Loue,  &c.  n.  d.  4to,  is  unhesitatingly 
assigned  by  Mr.  Hunter  (New  Illustr.  of  Shakespeare,  ii.  77)  to  the  pen  of  Dr.  Giles 
Fletcher,  because  in  the  First  Piscat.  Eclogue  of  his  son  Phineas,  where  he  certainly 
is  represented  by  the  person  called  Thelgon,  he  is  made  to  say, — 

"  And  then  appear'd  young  Myrtilus,  repining 

At  generall  contempt  of  shepherds  life  ; 

And  rais'd  my  rime  to  sing  of  Richards  climbing,"  &c. 

I  suspect,  however,  that  Mr.  Hunter  is  mistaken.  The  volume  in  question  was 
evidently  intended  for  private  circulation,  having  neither  printer's  nor  publisher's 
name.  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  that  all  the  pieces  in  it  are  by  the  same  writer. 
The  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Lida  is  dated  by  the  author  "  from  my  chamber,  Sep.  4, 
1593";  and  assuredly  the  author  of  the  amatory  rhapsodies  so  entitled  was  not 
Dr.  Giles  Fletcher. 

'  Of  these  pieces  there  are  several  modern  editions.  But  Phineas  wrote  a  good 
deal  of  poetry  (to  say  nothing  of  his  Latin  metrical  compositions)  which  has  never 
been  reprinted  ;  viz.,  Tim  Locusts,  or  Appohjonists,  1627,  4to,  (appended  to  his  Latin 
Locustce) ;  Sicelides,  A  Piscatory,  As  it  hath  bcene  acted  in  Kings  Collcdge  in  Cam- 
bridge, 1631,  4to  ;  and  various  copies  of  verses  scattered  through  a  prose  volume 
entitled  A  Father's  Testament.  Written  long  since  foj'  the  benefit  of  the  Particular 
Relations  of  the  Authour,  Phin.  Fletcher  ;  Sometime  Minister  of  the  Qospel  at  Billgay 
in  Norfolk      And  now  made  Publick  at  the  desire  of  Friends,  1C70,  Svo. 

Whether  the  authors  of  the  following  pieces  were  related  to  our  poet's  family,  I 
have  not  discovered ; — 

Ex  otic  Negotium.  Or,  Martiall  his  Epigrams  translated.  With  Sundry  Poctos 
and  Fancies.    By  R.  Fletcher,  1(556,  8vo. 

Poems  on  several  occasions,  and  Translations  :  Wherein  the  First  and  Second  Booka 
of  Virgil's  jEncis  arc  attempted  in  English,  by  TJio  FletcJier,  B.A.  Fellow  of  New 
College  in  Oxon.,  1692,  Ovo.  Wood  describes  this  person  as  "bach,  of  ai*ts  1690, 
possessed  of  the  donative  of  Faii-field  in  com.  Somerset,  1 694."  A  th.  Oxon.  iv.  559, 
ed.  Bliss. 

""  See  Appendix  I  to  this  Memoir. 

"  See  p.  ix. 


OF    BEAU.MOXT    AND    FLETCHER.  X\Til 

born  at  London  in  1592°.  A  distinguished  writer  on  stage-history 
has  more  than  once  thrown  out  a  conjecture  that  Lawrence  Fletcher 
the  player  was  a  son  of  Bishop  Fletcher,  and  an  elder  brother  of 
the  dramatist, — a  conjecture  in  which  1  am  certainly  not  inclined  to 
acquiesce  P. 

o  "1575.  August.  21"'.  Natbaniell  the  son  of  Mr.  Rich.  Fletcher  preacher  and 
minister  of  the  Church  of  Rye." — "  1577.  October.  The  xx'!'  daie  Theeophj-lous 
the  son  of  Mr.  Richard  Flecher  preacher  of  the  word  of  god  in  Rye." — "  1578. 
November.  The  xxiiii  daie  Elizabeth  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Richard  Flecher  mj-nis- 
ter."  Rye  Baptismal  Rerjister.  "1592.  Maria  filia  Rici  Fletcher  Bristol  Epi. 
baptiz.  15°  Octob."     Chelsea-Church  Baptismal  Register. 

In  a  MS.  note  by  Phihp  Earl  of  Pembroke  and  Montgomery,  on  a  copy  of  Roper's 
Life  of  More,  ed.  1 642,  (sold  among  the  books  of  Horace  Walpole,)  mention  is  made 
of  "  Mr.  Fletcher  [the  poet],  brother  to  Natt  Fletcher,  Mrs.  White's  seruaunt"  ; 
and  Mr.  Collier,  who  cites  the  note  in  his  Life  of  Shahesjteare,  p.  cci,  observes, 
"  what  was  the  precise  nature  of  '  Nat  Fletcher's  '  servitude,  we  have  no  informa- 
tion." It  was  doubtless  the  soft  slavery  of  love  ;  sei-vant  in  the  sense  of  lover 
occm's  repeatedly  in  tlie  present  volumes. — Mr.  CoUier,  I  trust,  vnll  excuse  me  if  I 
notice  a  trifling  mistake  in  the  same  very  valuable  Life, — a  mistake  only  worth 
noticing  because  our  great  dramatist  is  in  question.  At  p.  xcvi,  in  order  to  shew 
that  Shakespeare's  "  deer-stealing  "  must  have  been  regarded  by  his  contemporaries 
as  a  venial  crime,  he  quotes  from  the  Life  of  More  another  MS.  note  by  the  Earl 
of  Pembroke  and  Montgomery,  in  which  mention  is  made  of  "  the  noble  Count  of 
Dorset,  a  Privy  Councillor,  and  a  Knight  of  the  Garter,  and  a  deer-steahr".  But 
Mr.  Collier  has  confoimded  two  distinct  notes :  the  words,  "  and  a  deer-stealer  ", 
do  not  refer  to  Lord  Dorset ;  they  belong  to  an  abominably  obscene  passage  con- 
cerning another  person.  The  mention  of  Lord  Dorset  occurs  in  a  memorandum 
concerning  Aurelian  To\s'nsend,  wliich  runs  literatim  thus, — "  Mr.  Aureliand  Townes- 
end,  a  poore  &  pocky  Poett,  but  a  marryed  man  &  an  howsekeeper  in  Barbican, 
hard  by  y  now  Earl  of  Bridgewaters.  Hee  hath  a  very  fine  &  fayer  daughter, 
Mrs.  to  the  Palsgraue  first,  &  then  afterwards  [to]  if  noble  Count  of  Dorset,  a 
Priuy  Councelour  d-  a  Knight  of  y'  GaHer.  Aurelian  would  bee  glad  to  sell  an  100 
verses  now  at  sixepence  a  peice,  50  shillinges  an  100  verses."  The  words,  "an 
howsekeeper  in  Barbican  ",  illustrate  a  line  at  the  conunencement  of  Carew's  verses 
to  Aurelian  Townsend, — 

"  Why  dost  thou  soimd,  my  deare  Aurehan, 
In  so  shrill  accents,  from  thy  Barbican, 
A  loud  allarum,"  &c.  Poems,  p.  126,  ed.  1642. 

P  In  his  Will  (Appendix  T.  to  this  Memoir)  the  bishop  mentions  only  two  of  his 
sons, — evidently,  the  two  eldest  then  aUve, — Nathaniel  and  John  (Theophilus,  whose 
birth  occurred  between  theirs,  must  have  been  dead  at  that  period)  :  if  Laurence 
had  been  an  elder  brother  of  John,  he  would  surely  have  been  mentioned  in  his 
father's  Will.  Again  : — the  name  of  Lam-ence  Fletcher  heads  the  list  of  actors  in 
the  patent  granted  to  them  by  King  James  on  his  arrival  in  London :  but,  if  we 
suppose  Laurence  Fletcher  to  have  been  the  bishop's  son,  his  age,  at  the  date  of  that 
patent,  17  May  1603,  was  somewhat  under  thirty-one  (for  the  bishop  in  his  Will 
speaks  of  his  children  as  not  ha\nng  "  come  to  the  age  of  one  and  twentye  yeares  "), 
VOL.  I.  2 


X\'iii  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE     LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

Our  poet's  biographers  are  mistaken  both  in  the  place  and  date  of 
his  birth'i.  John  Fletcher  was  born  at  Rye  in  Sussex  (while  his 
father  officiated  there  as  minister)  in  December  1579,  and  was  baptized 
on  the  20th  of  that  month"".  He  perhaps  passed  his  boyhood,  and 
received  the  rudiments  of  learning,  under  his  father's  roof. 

We  find  that  a  "  John  Fletcher  of  London"  was  admitted  pensioner 
of  Bene't  College,  Cambridge,  15th  October,  1591*  ;  and  the  probao-lity 
that  the  pensioner  of  Bene't  College  was  no  other  than  the  rub'  set  ^Qf 
this  memoir,  is  greatly  strengthened,  when  we  consider  that  the  uishop 
would  naturally  entrust  the  education  of  his  son  to  that  society  of  which 
he  had  himself  been  Fellow  and  President,  and  for  which  he  entertained 
dm-ing  his  whole  life  a  sincere  regard*.  At  the  above  date  our  poet  had 
not  completed  his  twelfth  year  ;  but  in  those  days  students  were  admitted 
into  the  imiversities  at  a  very  early  age  :  and  he  might  have  been  de- 
scribed as  "of  London,"  because  he  had  resided  there  with  his  father, 
who,  after  rising  to  the  bench,  spent  much  time  in  the  metropolis". 
The  youth  whom  we  seem  thus  to  have  identified  with  our  poet, 
was  made  one  of  the  Bible-clerks  in  1593  :  whether  he  proceeded  to 
take  the  degrees  of  A.B.  and  A.M.,  and  what  was  the  dm-ation  of  liis 
college-residence,  are  matters  of  uncertainty^.  We  are  told  by 
Fletcher's  biographers  that  he  pursued  his  studies  at  the  university  with 
diligence  and  success.  His  plays,  indeed,  though  containing  various 
graceful  recollections  of  the  classic  wi'iters,  evince  no  traces  of  superior 
scholarship  ;  but  we  cannot  therefore  infer  that  he  had  not  attained  it  : 
among  our  early  dramatists  several  might  be   named,  who  were  un- 

and  it  appears  very  unlikely  that  so  young  a  man,  and  one  too  without  any  celebrity 
as  a  performer,  should  have  held  so  px-omincnt  a  station  m  the  company. 

1  His  biographers  were  led  into  the  error  of  stating  that  he  was  born  in  1576  by 
the  inscription  on  his  portrait,  prefixed  to  the  folio  of  1647, — "  Obiit  1625.  ^ti-t.  49." 
— Fuller  (Worthies,  Northampt.,  p.  288,  ed.  1662)  conjectui-ed  that  he  was  bom  in 
Nortliamptonshire.  Those  who  have  more  recently  written  his  Life,  agree  in  suppos- 
ing him  to  have  been  a  native  of  London. 

'  "1579.  December.  The  xx"'  daie  John  the  son  of  Mr.  Richard  Flecher 
mynister  of  the  word  of  god  in  Rye."     Rye  Baptismal  Register. 

'  Masters's  Jlist.  of  Corpus  Christi  College,  &c.,  p.  288,  ed.  1753. 

'  See,  in  Appendix  to  Masters's  work,  p.  64,  two  Latin  letters  from  the  College  to 
the  bishop,  thanking  him  for  various  proofs  of  his  kindness,  one  dated  "Ap.  12 
1591  ",  the  other  "  6  Jun.  1592  ".  We  learn  from  the  second  of  these  letters  that 
the  bishop  had  presented  to  the  college  "  Globum  totius  Orbis,  singulai-i  artificio 
eiaboratum,  et  sumptibus  magnificis  acquisitum";  and  we  know  from  his  Will 
(Appendix  \.  to  this  Memou-)  that  he  bequeathed  to  tlie  College  a  "peece  of  plate  of 
one  estriges  eggc."  «  See  p.  ix. 

'  "  Whether  it  was  he,  or  Edward  of  the  same  name  and  place,  who  proceeded 
A.B.  the  year  following,  and  afterwards  [1598]  A.M.,  cannot  easily  be  detei-mined." 
Masters,  Id.,  p.  288. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XIX 

questionably  masters  of  a  deep  and  extensive  erudition,  which,  however, 
is  but  faintly  reflected  in  their  scenes^". — His  love  of  literatui-e  had,  no 
doubt,  soon  developed  itself,  and  perhaps  was  remembered  by  his  father, 
when  he  dictated  the  following  bequest, — "  Item,  I  geue  to  Nathaniell 
Fletcher  and  John  Fletclier  all  my  bookes,  to  be  devyded  betweue  them 
equallie^." 

^At  what  period  of  his  life  Fletcher  abandoned  all  other  pursvdts  for 
''rar  ';.t}6  authorship  is  a  question  to  which  no  satisfactory  answer  can  be 
given.  His  first  essays  as  a  play-Avright  may  have  been  alterations  of 
older  pieces,  and  may  have  perished  among  the  multitude  of  dramas  that 
were  never  printed. 

In  Henslowe's  Diary,  under  a  note  of  money  lent  to  various  persons 
"sence  the  14  of  Octobr.  1596,"  we  read, — 

"  Lent  unto  martyne  [Martin  Slaughter,  a  dramatist  and  player]  to 

ie&che  Fleacher  -  ......     vj  s." 

"Lent  the  company  to  gave  Fleatcher,  and 
the[y]  have  promysed  me  payment :  who 
promysed  me  is  marten  [Martin  Slaughter],  Donson, 
and  Jewby  [two  players]  -  -  -  -  -  xx  s.* " 

Malone>'  supposed  that  these  entries  referred  to  our  poet.  Mr.  Collier '- 
is  uncertain  whether  they  relate  to  him  or  to  the  actor  Laurence  Fletcher, 
who  has  been  already  particidarly  mentioned  ».  Assuredly  they  refer  to 
Lam-ence  Fletcher.  Now  that  the  date  of  our  poet's  birth  has  been 
discovered,  we  know  that  in  October  1596  he  was  under  seventeen 
years  of  age. 

It  does  not  appear  that  Fletcher,  on  quitting  the  university,  was 
entered  at  one  of  the  Inns  of  Court :  his  name  has  been  vainly  sought 
for  in  the  registers  of  those  societies. — But  we  must  now  turn  to  the  his- 
tory of  his  celebrated  associate. 

Francis  Beaumont,  the  father  of  our  dramatist,  was  sprung  from  an 
ancient  and  honourable  family,  whose  seat  had  been  more  recently  at 

''  e.g.  Chapman  and  Heywood.     See  their  undramatic  works. 

«  See  the  bishop's  Will  in  Appendix  I.  to  this  Memoir. 

■^  Henslowe's  Diary,  p.  78,  ed.  Collier.  Any  account  of  manager  Henslowe  would 
be  superfluous  here  :  but  probably  few  readers  know  that  this  illiterate  man  (who 
never  for  a  moment  could  have  dreamed  of  "  leaving  a  name  behind  liim  ")  figures 
as  one  of  the  characters  in  a  work  by  a  living  Gei-man  writer  of  acknowledged 
genius, — Dkhterlehen,  a  novel  by  Tieck. 

'■  Shakespeare  (by  Boswell),  iii.  321. 

^  Note  on  Henslowe's  Diary,  p.  78. 

*  See  p.  xvii. — In  a  paper  printed  by  Mr.  Collier  (in  New  Facts  regarding  the  Life 
of  Shal-espeare,  p.  22)  mention  is  made  of  a  player  called  " Laz.  Fletcher":  but 
"  Laz."  is  doubtless  an  error  of  the  scribe  for  «  Lar."  [i.  e.  Laurence]. 
2  ' 


XX  SOME    ACCOUXT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

Grace-dieu*^  in  Leicestershire,  a  property  to  which,  as  the  lineal  heir,  he 
eventually  succeeded.  He  was  brought  up  to  the  law  ;  and  the  high 
office  which  he  afterwards  held  is  a  proof  that  he  pursued  his  profession 
with  assiduity.  His  life  seems  to  have  been  marked  by  few  incidents  ; 
at  least  there  is  little  recorded  concerning  him''.  He  was  appointed  one 
of  the  Justices  of  the  Common  Pleas,  25th   January,    1592-3*-' ;    and 

<=  The  poet's  biographers  talk  of  Grace-dieu  as  if  it  had  been  for  centuries  in  the 
possession  of  his  family.  The  fact  is,  the  site  of  the  priory  of  Grace-dieu  was  pur- 
chased in  1.539  by  his  grandfather  John  Beaumont  ;  who  for  a  time  was  Surveyor  of 
Leicestershire  for  the  crown,  and  Master  of  the  Rolls,  but,  soon  after  the  accession  of 
Queen  Mary,  was  forced  to  resign  both  these  offices.  See  Nichols's  Hist,  of  Lekest., 
iii.  655,  661*.  A  letter  from  him  to  Lord  Cromwell  is  printed  in  Wright's  Letters 
relating  to  the  Suppression  of  Monasteries,  p.  251.  "Grace-dieu,  beautifully  situated 
in  what  was  formerly  one  of  the  most  i-ecluse  spots  in  the  centre  of  Chamwood 
Forest,  is  now  remarkable  only  for  a  noble  fragment  of  its  ruins."  Nichols  /rf.,-p.  65 1 . 
In  Tv:o  Boolccs  of  Epigrammes  and  Epitaphs,  &c.,  by  Thomas  Bancroft,  1639,  are 
the  following  lines  "  To  Grace-dieu  "  ; 

"  Grace-dieu,  that  under  Charnwood  stand'st  alone. 
As  a  grand  Relicke  of  Religion, 
I  reverence  thine  old,  but  fniitfull,  worth. 
That  lately  brought  such  noble  Beamnonts  forth. 
Whose  brave  Heroick  Muses  might  aspire 
To  match  the  Anthems  of  the  Heavenly  Quire  : 
The  moimtaines  crown'd  with  rockey  fortresses. 
And  sheltermg  woods,  secure  thy  happinesse. 
That  highly  favour'd  art  (though  lowly  plac'd) 
Of  Heaven,  and  with  free  Natures  bounty  grac'd  : 
Herein  grow  happier ;  and  that  blisse  of  thine 
Nor  Pride  ore-top,  nor  En\-y  imdei-mine  !"  B.  i.  Ep.  81. 

In  the  Poems  of  Sir  .John  Beaumont  (the  dramatisfs  elder  brother)  we  find  mention 
of  "rocky  Chamwood  ",  and  "  stony  Charnwood's  dry  and  barren  rocks."  pp.  26, 1 0 1 . 

^  Burton  terms  him  "that  grave,  learned,  and  reuerend  Judge."  Dcsc7'.  of 
Leicest.,  p.  120,  ed.  1622.  Dr.  Dryasdust  himself  would  have  derived  little  pleasiu"e 
from  learning  that  "in  a  letter  to  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbvu-y,  dated  Normanton  by 
Derby,  July  .3,  1589,  he  [the  futm-e  Judge]  apologizes  for  omitting  to  pay  £100 
on  a  certain  day,  and  requests  the  earl's  permission  to  name  him  as  his  chief 
patron  in  his  introductory  speech  in  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas  as  a  Serjeant  at  law, 
such  being  the  custom  on  those  occasions",  &c.  Nichols's  I/ist.  of  Leicest.,  iii.  655. 
What  follows  may  be  worth  quoting  for  its  absurdity.  "  One  Judge  Beaumont  lining 
at  Grace-dieu,  two  men  came  before  him  for  justice  ;  and  one  of  the  men  prayed  tlie 
ground  might  open,  and  he  might  sink,  if  what  he  attested  in  his  own  cause  was  not 
true ;  and  the  ground  immediately  opened  ;  but  the  judge,  by  pointing  with  his 
finger,  ordered  them  to  go  off,  and  it  closed  again ;  and  that  place  will  now  sound, 
being  struck  on,  as  Robert  Beaumont  of  Barrow  on  Trent,  esq.  (who  married  one  of 
Sir  Thomas  Beaumont's  coheirs,  and  had  his  part  of  the  estate)  affirmeth."  From  a 
MS.  Note  on  a  copy  of  Burton's  Descr.  of  Leicest.,  Id.  p.  656. 

'  MS.  Patfnf  Bool  of  the  Atulltor  of  the  Receipt,  No.  10,  fol.  20:',. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XXI 

subsequently  he  received  the  dignity  of  knighthood.  He  married  Auue, 
daughter  of  Sir  George  Pierrepoint,  of  Holme-Pierrepoint,  co.  Nott., 
knight,  and  reUct  of  Thomas  Thorold  of  Marston,  co.  Lincoln,  esq. ;  and  by 
that  lady  he  left  issue  born  in  the  following  order, — three  sons,  Henry, 
John,  and  Francis,  and  one  daughter,  Elizabeth^.  He  died  at  Grace- 
dieu,  22nd  April,  1598,  having  made  his  Will  the  day  before.? 

Henry,  the  eldest  of  Judge  Beaumont's  sons,  was  knighted  in  1603, 
and  died  in  1605,  setat.  24^^. John,  the  second  son,  became  posses- 
sor of  Grace-dieu  on  the  decease  of  his  brother  Henry :  he  was  created 
a  baronet  in  1626,  and,  according  to  the  common  accounts,  died  in  the 
winter  of  1628^,  setat.  44.  He  is  still  remembered  as  the  author  of 
Bosworth  Field  and  other  Poems  ^,  the  productions  of  his  youth,  which, 
though  they  display  little  imagination,  have  been  justly  praised  (and  by 
one''  whose  praise  is  fame)  for  their  "spirit,  elegance,  and  harmony." 
In  his  title  and  estate  he  was  succeeded  by  his  eldest  son,  John, 

f  She  married  Thomas  Seyliard  of  Kent.  MS.  Visitation  of  Kent,  1G19,  College 
of  Arms. — Nichols,  Hist,  of  Leicest.  iii.  656,  calls  him,  by  mistake, "  Thomas  Hilyard." 

e  The  inquisition,  taken  June  8  following,  informs  us  that  he  "  was  seised  of  the 
house  and  site  of  Grace-dieu  aforesaid,  of  divers  lands  in  the  parish  of  Belton, 
Grace-dieu,  Meriel,  Shepeshed,  Osgathorpe,  Thringston,  and  Swaunington,"  &c. 
Id.,  p.  656.     And  see  his  Will,  Appendix  II.  to  the  present  Memoii-. 

•»  "Sir  Henrye  Beaumont  knight  buried  IS'i"  day  of  Julie  anno  domini  1605." 
Belton  Church  Register. 

'  Nichols  states  that  he  "  did  not  survive  the  winter  of  1628.  He  is  said  by 
Wood  to  have  been  buried  at  Grace-dieu  ;  but  this  is  a  mistake  for  Belton,  as  the 
priory  church  was  not  then  existing."  Id.  ibid.  The  register  of  Belton  Church 
contains  no  entry  of  his  burial. — "  Obiit  1628."  MS.  Le  Neve's  Baronets,  p.  47,  Col- 
lege of  Arms. — The  act  of  administration  to  his  property  was  granted  S"*  Jan'', 
1628-9.  Registry  of  the  Prer.  Court.— Yet  we  find  ;  "1627.  S--  John  Beaumont 
b''  in  y«  broad  He,  on  y^  south  s.  Apr.  29."  Register  of  burials  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
—Collect.  Top.  et  Gen.  vii.  361. 

J  Printed  in  1629.  Among  the  Commendatory  Verses  prefixed  to  that  volume 
are  some  by  Jonson  and  Drayton. 

k  Wordsworth,— Note  on  Tlie  Song  at  The  Feast  of  Brougham  Cas<Ze.— Campbell 
remarks  that  Sir  John  Beaumont  "  deserves  notice  as  one  of  the  earliest  polishers 
of  what  is  called  the  heroic  couplet  ".  Spec,  of  Brit.  Poets,  p.  105,  ed.  1841. — His 
verses  To  his  late  Majesty,  concerning  the  true  forme  of  English  Poetry  shew  how 
much  he  had  reflected  on  the  subject,  and  may  be  read  with  advantage  by  aU 
youthful  poets.  Besides  the  volimae  above  mentioned,  Sii"  John  wi-ote  a  poem 
called  The  Crown  of  Thorns,  which  appears  to  have  perished. — He  is  thus  noticed, 
together  with  his  brother  Francis,  and  Browne  (the  author  of  Britannia!s  Pastorals), 
in  Drayton's  Epistle  to  Reynolds  Of  Poets  and  Poetry  ; 

"  Then  the  two  Beaumonts  and  my  Browne  arose. 
My  dear  companions,  whom  I  freely  chose 
My  bosom  friends  ;  and  in  their  several  ways 
Rightly  born  poets,  and  in  these  last  days 


XXll  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

Francis  Beaumont,  the  dramatic  writer,  and  third  son  of  Judge  Beau- 
mont, is  said  to  have  been  horn  at  Grace-dieu  in  1586  :  but  it  would  seem 
that  his  birtli  ought  to  be  fixed  at  a  somewhat  earher  date  ;  for  "  1586" 
agrees  neither  with  what  is  found  concerning  him  in  the  Funeral  Certi- 
ficate on  the  decease  of  his  father',  nor  with  what  is  next  to  be  men- 
tioned. At  the  age  of  twelve,  4th  February,  1596-7"',  he  was  admitted 
(together  with  his  two  brothers)  a  gentleman-commoner  of  Broadgates- 
Hall ",  which  was  then  the  principal  nursery  in  Oxford  for  students  of  the 
civil  and  common  law.  He  appears,  however,  to  have  resided  there  only 
a  short  time,  and  to  have  quitted  the  university  without  taking  any  degree. 
He  was  entered  a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple,  3rd  November,  160U°  : 
but,  though  he  may  have  at  first  made  some  exertions  in  following  up 
the  profession  for  which  his  father  had  intended  him,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  he  soon  withdrew  his  attention  from  the  law,  and  devoted 
himself  whoUy  to  poetry  and  the  drama. — His  biographers  speak  of  "  his 
acquirements  in  classical  learning  "  :  what  1  have  before  observed  con- 
cerning Fletcher's  scholarship,  appHes  to  that  of  Beaumont  i'. 

Men  of  much  note  and  no  less  nobler  parts. 
Such  as  have  freely  told  to  me  their  hearts, 
As  I  have  mine  to  them." 
'  Judge  Beaumont  had  issue  "  li\4ng  att  the  tj-me  of  his  death  [•22''  April,  1598], 
three  sounes  and  one  daughter,  \'iz.  Hem-y  Beamount,  his  eldest  sonne  and  heire,  of 
the  age  of  seauenteen  yeares  or  thereaboutes  ;  John  Beamount,  his  second  sonne,  of 
the  age  of  foureteen  yeares  or  thereaboutes  ;  Fmuncys  Beamount,  third  sonne,  of 
the  age  of  thirteen  yeares  or  more  ;  and  Elizabeth  Beamount,  only  daughter,  of  the 
age  of  nj-ne  yeares  or  thereaboutes."     Funeral  Certificates,  I.  16.  College  of  Arms. 
Yet  Ben  Jonson  (as  we  shall  afterwards  see)  told  Drummond  that  Beaumont  died 
before  he  had  completed  liis  thii-ticth  year. — Hoping  to  find  the  entry  of  Beaumont's 
baptism,    I   carefully  examined  the  church-registers  of  Belton  (in  which  parish 
Grace-dieu  stands)  ;  but  in  vain  ;  and  it  seems  doubtful  therefore  if  he  was  born 
at  Grace-dieu. 

™  Wood's  Afh.  Oxon.,  11.  437,  ed.  Bliss. 
"     On  the  site  of  which,  Pembroke  College  now  stands. 

"  In  the  Admission-book  of  the  Inner-Temple  is  the  following  entry.  "  SS 
Franciscus  Beaumont,  de  Gracediewe  in  Com.  Lpic.  generosus,  mmus  [«(c]  fiUonmi 
Francisci  Beaumont  unnus  [sic — read  unius]  Justic.  dnc  R'"^  de  Banco,  admissus  est 
speciahter,  gratis,  in  societatcm  istius  comitive,  per  parUament.  tent,  apud  Interius 
Templum,  tercio  die  Novembris  A"  R'  R'"^  EUz.  xhj''»  ;  et  pcrdonatui-  ab  omnibus 
officiis,  vacacionibus,  festia  natalis  Domini,  et  omnibus  aliis  oneribus  quibuscunque, 
communibus  pencionibus  et  reparacionibus  ecclesie  solum  modo  exceptis  ;  et  extra- 
corammies  esse  ad  Ubitum  su[u]m,  non  jacens  in  domo  Interioris  Templi  predictc 
[^]. 

pi       5  ^-  Beaumont, 

<  .Job.  Beaumont  ". 

p  The  names,  Francis  Beaumont,  were  borne  by  at  least  two  of  om-  di-amatist's 
contemporaries  : — 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XXIU 

If  Salmacis  and  Hermaphroditus  \  which  was  published  in  1G02 
without  the  author's  name,  be  really  from  the  pen  of  Beaumont,  it  is  the 
earliest  of  his  known  attempts  as  a  writer  ;  and,  notwithstanding  the 
doubts  which  have  been  recently  thrown  on   its  genuineness  >■,   I  still 

Francis  Beaumont  (a  relation  of  the  dramatist),  of  the  family  of  the  Beaumonts 
of  Coleorton,  who  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  appointed  Master  of  the  Charter- 
House  in  1 6 1 7,  and  died  in  1 624 .  He  wi-ote  an  epistle  To  his  very  louing  and  assured 
good  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Speght,  prefixed  to  Speght's  edition  of  Chaucer's  Works,  15.98. 
According  to  some  accounts,  he  was  "  a  poet ".  Wood  and  others  have  confoimded 
liim  with  the  di'amatist. 

Francis  Beaimiont,  second  son  of  Su*  John  Beaumont,  and  nephew  to  the  drama- 
tist. A  copy  of  commendatory  verses  by  him  is  prefixed  to  the  Poems  of  his 
*'  deai'e  father  ",  1629.     He  became  a  Jesuit. 

«  There  was  ",  says  Nichols,  "a  Francis  Beaumont  of  Peter-house,  Cambridge, 
and  another  of  St.  Jolm's  ;  but  I  know  not  theu.'  dates".     Hist,  of  Leicest.,  iii.  660. 

Besides  the  nephew  Francis  just  mentioned,  the  di-amatist  had  another  nephew 
who  possessed  some  talent  for  versification, — John,  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  John 
Beaumont,  and  the  successor  to  his  title  and  estate.  He  edited  his  father's  Poems, 
1629,  prefixing  to  them  A  Congratidation  to  the  Muses  for  the  immortalizing  of  his 
deai'e  Father  by  the  sacred  Vertue  of  Poetry  :  he  put  forth  some  lines  To  the  memory 
of  him  who  can  never  he  forgotten,  Master  Benjamin  Jonson,  which  form  a  portion 
oi  Jonsonus  Virhius,  1638:  and  he  figures  among  the  writers  of  Obsequies  to  the 
memone  of  Mr.  Edioard  King  (the  Lycidas  of  Milton),  1638.  He  took  up  arms  in 
defence  of  Charles  the  First,  obtained  a  colonel's  commission,  and  was  killed  at 
the  siege  of  Gloucester  in  1644.     His  strength  and  activity  of  body  were  prodigious. 

Dr.  Joseph  Beaumont,  Master  of  Peter-house,  Cambridge,  was  collaterally  re- 
lated to  the  famOy  of  the  Beaiunonts  of  Cole-orton,  and  might  therefore  claim 
kindred  with  the  dramatist.  He  once  enjoyed  no  mean  reputation  from  his  poem 
entitled  Psyche,  or  Love's  Mystery,  displaying  the  Pntercourse  betwixt  Christ  ctnd  the 
Soul,  wliich  originally  appeared  in  1647,  consisting  of  twenty-four  cantos.  The 
author  died  at  a  very  advanced  age  in  1699  ;  and  a  second  edition  oi  Psyche,  with 
corrections  throughout,  and  four  new  cantos,  was  published  in  1 702.  The  immense 
length  of  this  now-forgotten  work  is  enough  to  deter  the  reader  ;  but  whoever 
peruses  it  will  be  well  rewai'ded  for  his  labour  by  the  many  highly  poetical  passages 
which  it  contains.  Original  Poems  in  English  and  Latin,  &c.  by  Br.  Beaumont,  with 
an  Account  of  his  Life  and  Writings,  were  printed  for  the  fii'st  time  in  1749. 

I  possess  a  transcript  of  an  imprinted  MasTce  presented  on  Candlemas  nighte  at 
Cole-overton  by  the  Earle  of  Essex,  the  Lorde  Willobie,  S'  Tho.  Beaumont,  &c.  It 
was  probably  composed  by  Sir  Thomas  Beaiunont,  who  was  created  Lord  Viscount 
Beaumont  of  Swords  in  1622. 

The  late  G.  Chahners  had  a  copy  of  the  poem  called  The  Metamorphosis  of  Tobacco, 
1602,  on  the  title-page  of  which  was  \\Titten  in  a  contemporary  hand  "  By  John 
Beaumont ".  (The  compiler  of  Chalmers's  sale-catalogue  says  that  "  Chalmers 
ascribed  the  poem  to  John  Beaumont "  ;  but  Chalmers  only  copied  the  old  MS. 
inscription  on  the  title-page.) 

1  A  poem  entitled  Salmacis,  translated  from  the  Itahan  of  Gu-alomo  Preti,  ap- 
peared, among  other  pieces  by  Sherburne,  in  1651.  The  original  {La  Salmace)  was 
first  pi-inted,  I  beUeve,  in  1619. 

■■  By  Mr.  Collier,  Life  of  Shakespeare  ;  vide  note,  vol.  xi.  445  of  the  present  work. 


XXIV  SOftlE    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

believe  that  it  is  his.  Weber  calls  it  "  rather  a  paraphrase  than  a  trans- 
lation of  Ovid's,  tale^"  : — "  rather  a  paraplu-ase,"  indeed  ;  for  it  extends 
to  more  than  900  lines,  Avhile  the  Latin  original  consists  of  only 
104.  Salmacis  and  llennaphroditus  is  evidently  the  production  of  an 
inexperienced  author,  who  has  swelled  out  the  old  fable  with  sundry 
ill-conceived  and  ill-told  incidents,  and  incrusted  the  whole  with  a  variety 
of  those  frigid  conceits,  from  which  even  the  best  narrative  poetry  of 
that  age  is  seldom  altogether  free. 

We  find  that  as  early  as  1607  Beaumont  had  acquired  the  friendship 
of  Ben  Jonson  ;  for  prefixed  to  the  admirable  drama  of  the  latter.  The 
Fox  ^  is  a  copy  of  verses  by  the  former,  in  the  heading  of  which  he 
designates  Jonson  as  his  "  dear  friend  "  ;  and  that  these  verses  exhibit 
singular  judgment  for  so  yoimg  a  man,  is  allowed  even  by  the  accom- 
plished critic  ",  who  is  justly  somewhat  scandalized  at  their  assigning 
to  Jonson  a  pre-eminence  as  a  comic  writer  over  all  his  contempo- 
raries, and  consequently  over  Shakespeare. — When  Jonson  printed  his 
ISiknt  Woman  in  1609  and  his  Cataline  in  1611,  Beaumont  was  again 
ready  with  commendatory  verses,  though  shorter  and  of  less  merit  than 
those  with  which  he  had  hailed  The  Fox  in  1607. — But  a  conjecture  has 
been  hazarded  that,  some  years  before  the  last-mentioned  date,  Beau- 
mont had  aff'orded  more  important  aid  to  the  elder  poet  than  that  of 
eulogy, — having  assisted  him  in  the  composition  of  Sejanus,  which  was 
first  performed  in  1603.  It  was  printed  in  1005  ;  and  in  an  address  "  To 
the  Readers  ",  Jonson  says,  "  Lastly,  I  would  inform  you  that  this  book, 

When  that  note  was  wiitten,  I  believed,  with  Mr.  Collier,  that  in  1 602  Beaumont 
was  only  sixteen  :  but  I  have  since  found  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was  older  ;  see 
p.  xxii.  Among  the  commendatory  verses  prefixed  to  Salmacis  and  Hermaphro- 
ditus,  is  a  copy  signed  "  J.  B.", — which,  surely,  are  the  initials  of  the  author's  elder 
brother,  Jolm  (afterwards,  Sir  John)  Beaumont. — I  have  just  mentioned  that  a 
poem  called  The  Metamorphosis  of  Tobacco,  1 G02,  is  assigned  iu  an  old  MS.  in- 
scription to  "  John  Beaumont  "  ;  and  it  is  worthy  of  particular  notice  that,  among 
the  commendatory  verses  prefixed  to  that  piece,  are  the  following  Imes  signed  with 
the  initials  of  our  poet  ; 

"  In  laudeni  A  uthoris. 

My  new-borae  Muse  assaies  her  tender  wing. 

And,  where  she  should  crie,  is  infoi-st  to  sing  : 

Her  cliildren  prophesie  thy  pleasmg  rime 

Shall  neuer  be  a  dish  for  hungrie  time  : 

Yet  be  regai'dlesse  what  those  verees  say. 

Whose  infant  mother  was  but  borne  to  day. 
F.  B." 
"  Pref.  remarka  to  Beaumont's  Poems. 

'  The  Pox  was  originally  acted  m  1605,  and  printed  in  1(107. 
"  Mr.  Darley  Chimself  a  true  poet), — Inlrod.  to  the  Works  of  B.  and  P.,  p.  .\ix. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XXV 

iu  all  numbers,  is  not  the  same  with  that  which  was  acted  on  the  public 
stage;  wherein  a  second  pen  had  good  share :  in  place  of  which  I  have 
rather  chosen  to  put  weaker,  and,  no  doubt,  less  pleasing,  of  mine  own, 
than  to  defraud  so  happy  a  genius  of  his  right  by  my  loathed  usurpa- 
tion ".  Gifford,  who  at  first  felt  assured  that  the  "  happy  genius  "  meant 
Fletcher,  was  afterwards  less  confident  in  that  opinion,  and  observed 
that  "  if  Beaumont's  age  would  admit  of  it  (he  was  in  his  nineteenth 
year),  I  should  more  willingly  lean  to  him^' ".  For  my  own  part,  I  tliink 
that  the  ' '  happy  genius ' '  was  neither  Fletcher  nor  Beaumont :  I  am 
strongly  inclined  to  believe  that  it  was  Chapman,  a  man  who  stood  high 
in  the  regard  of  Jonson,  and  who  possessed  a  fund  of  classical  learning 
which  fully  qualified  him  for  the  task  ^'. — We  are  told  by  Dryden  that 
"  Beaumont  was  so  accurate  a  judge  of  plays,  that  Ben  Jonson,  while 
he  lived,  submitted  all  his  writings  to  his  censure,  and  'tis  thought,  used 
his  judgment  in  correcting,  if  not  contriving,  all  his  plots  ^  ".  For  this 
report  there  may  have  been  some  foundation  ;  but  Dryden  was  accus- 
tomed to  write  on  such  subjects  very  much  at  random,  and  with  very 
imperfect  knowledge. — More  concerning  the  friendship  of  Beaumont  and 
Jonson  will  be  interwoven  with  the  subsequent  details  of  this  memoir. 

How  and  when  the  acquaintance  between  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
commenced,  we  are  unable  to  ascertain.  Most  probably  it  originated 
in  their  love  of  the  drama :  that  two  young  men,  who  had  deter- 
mined to  devote  themselves  to  stage-composition,  and  who  there- 
fore courted  the  society  of  managers,  should  not  remain  long  unknown 
to  each  other,  was  almost  a  necessary  consequence.  Perhaps,  indeed, 
they  were  first  brought  together  by  Ben  Jonson.  It  has  been 
already  shewn  that  Beaumont  was  intimate  with  Jonson  in  1607, 
when  he  furnished  an  encomium  for  The  Fox  :  at  that  time  Fletcher 
too  was  on  very  familiar  terms  with  Jonson,  for  he  supplied  com- 
mendatory verses  to  the  same  comedy  :  he  also  wrote  some  lines 
which  are  prefixed  to  Jonson' s  Cataline,  1611.  The  acquaintance 
between     Beaumont     and     Fletcher,     whatever    was     its     origin     or 


"  Jousou's  Worl-s,m.  8, — Memoirs  of  Joiison,  p.  Ixx. — I  have  not  discovered  what 
was  Gifford's  authority  for  saying  that  Beaimiont  was  then  in  his  nineteenth  year. 

"■  I  agi-ee  with  Gifford  {uhi  supra)  that  "  Shakespeare  is  entirely  out  of  the 
question". 

^  On  Dram.  Poesy,— Prose  Worls,  Vol.  i.  P.  ii.  p.  100,  ed.  Malone. — "Which", 
observes  Mr.  Darley,  "  would  prove  our  author  indeed  a  precocious  genius,  as 
Every  Manin  his  Humour  was  produced  in  1596,  when  Beaumont  was  but  ten  years 
old."  Introcl.  to  the  Works  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  xix.  Beaiunont  may  have  been  more 
than  ten  ;  and  the  probable  date  of  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  is  1 598  (see  Colher's 
Life  of  Shakespeare,  p.  cl.xvii)  :  Init  still  Dryden's  statement  is  absurd. 


XXVI  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

datc>',  eventually  ripened  into  the  warmest  friendship.  "There  was," 
says  Aubrey,  "  a  wonderfuU  consiraility  of  phansy  between  him  [lieau- 
mont]  and  Mr.  lo.  Fletcher,  which  caused  that  dearnesse  of  frendship 
between  them.*  *  *  They  lived  together  on  the  Banke  side  ^,  not  far  from 
the  Play-house,  both  batchelors,  lay  together,  had  one  wench"  in  the  house 
between  them,  which  they  did  so  admire,  the  same  cloaths  and  cloake, 
&c.  between  them  ''."  Perhaps  Aubrey's  informant  (Sir  James  Hales), 
knowing  his  ready  credulity,  purposely  overcharged  the  picture  of  our 
poets'  domestic  establishment  ;  at  least,  we  are  certain  that  this  com- 
munity of  goods  was  not  during  the  whole  period  of  their  friendship  ;  for 
Beaumont  did  not  die  a  bachelor,  and  his  marriage  must  have  left 
Fletcher  in  undisturbed  possession  both  of  the  lady  and  the  wardrobe  ^. 

"  In  the  most  high  and  palmy  state"  of  our  early  drama,  when  the 
demand  for  novelty  was  almost  incessant,  it  is  well  known  that  more  than 
one  play-wright  was  frequently  employed  by  a  manager  to  labour  on  the 
same  piece, — two,  three,  four,  and  sometimes  even  five  poets  being  hired 
to  combine  their  talents 'i.  But  there  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  the 
literary  partnership,  which  has  given  immortality  to  the  united  names  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  was  altogether  difl'erent, — that  it  was  formed 

>  I  do  not  take  into  consideration  the  commendatory  verses  signed  "  J.F."  in  ed. 
1640  of  Salmacii  and  HermaphrodituSfhecsbMse  in  ed.  1602  they  have  the  initials 
"  A.  F."  :  see  note,  vol.  xi.  445. 

'  In  Southwark.  By  "  the  play-house"  we  are  to  understand  the  Globe  :  but 
other  theatres  stood  there. 

»  Ridiculously  metamorphosed  into  "  bench "  by  almost  all  the  writers  who 
have  cited  this  passage. 

^  Letters  written  hy  Emhient  Persons,  &c.  Vol.  ii.  P.  i.  p.  236. 

'  In  Shadwell's  Bury-Fair,  a  personage  called  Oldw-it  is  made  to  say  ;  "I  myself, 
simple  as  I  stand  here,  was  a  wit  in  the  last  age.  I  was  created  Ben  Jonson's  son, 
in  the  Apollo.  I  knew  Fletcher,  my  friend  Fletcher,  and  his  maid  Joan  ;  well,  I 
shall  never  forget  him  :  I  have  supped  with  him  at  his  house  on  the  Bank-side  ; 
he  loved  a  fat  loin  of  pork  of  all  things  in  the  world  ;  and  Joan  his  maid  had  her 
beer-glass  of  sack  ;  and  we  all  kissed  her,  i'  faith,  and  wei'e  as  men*y  as  passed 
[i.  e.  as  that  it  surpa.ssed]."  Acti.  sc.  1.  In  the  above  passage  Shadwell  probably 
retails  some  of  the  then  floating  traditions  concerning  our  di-amatist. — As  a  writei', 
poor  Shadwell  has  not  the  reputation  which  he  deserves :  if  he  had  never  fallen  under 
the  lash  of  Dryden's  satire,  his  comedies  would  have  been  at  present  better  known  : 
every  lover  of  the  drama  ought  to  read  them— once. — I  may  liere  notice  that  in  my 
copy  of  Langljaine's  Ace.  of  Emjl.  Dram.  Poets,  on  the  margin  of  the  page  (44.9) 
where  Shadwell's  Psyche  is  mentioned,  there  is  written  in  an  old  hand,  "  S"^  R. 
Howard  gaue  14"  for  one  side  box  [on  the  first  representation  of  that  piece  at  the 
Duke's  Theatre]".  The  music,  dancing,  and  scenery  were  the  great  attractions  of 
Psyche. 

''  e.g.  A  (lost)  ])lay  called  Two  I/urpies  was  the  joint-production  of  Dekker, 
Drayton,  Middleton,  Wclistcr,  and  Mundav. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  '  XX\11 

and  continued  at  their  own  free  choice,  and  not  at  the  pleasure  of  a 
theatrical  proprietor, — From  "the  immediate  causes  which  led  to  their 
dramatic  alliance  ",  Weber  tells  us  that  we  must  exclude  "  the  urgency 
of  providing  for  their  subsistence *=."  In  the  case  of  Fletcher,  I  am  cer- 
tainly not  disposed  to  do  so.  Fletcher,  indeed,  declares  that  he  did  not 
print  his  Faithful  Shepherdess  for  the  sake  of  procuring  bread  ^ ;  and 
at  that  period  perhaps  he  may  have  possessed  some  private  resources  (for 
we  are  not  sure  that  the  appeal  made  to  the  crown  in  behalf  of  the 
bishop's  orphans  had  been  unsuccessfiJ) :  but  I  agree  with  his  latest 
biographer?  in  thinking  that  such  an  assertion,  thrown  out  while  he  was 
stiU  irritated  by  the  condemnation  of  his  pastoral,  carries  little  weight  ; 
and  that  a  line  in  his  verses  Ujjon  cm  honest  man's  fortune, — 

"  Nor  want,  the  curse  of  man,  shall  make  me  gi'oan  '^  ", — 

sounds  as  if  he  himself  had  experienced  the  bitterness  of  that  curse. 
Though  a  document,  which  will  be  presently  given,  proves  that  he  was 
not  reduced  to  such  abject  poverty  as  some  of  his  associates,  it  is  yet  far 
from  proving  his  independence  ;  and  that  during  the  later  part  of  his 
life  he  looked  mainly  to  the  stage  for  subsistence,  we  have  strong 
presumptive  evidence  in  the  rapidity  with  which  he  continued  to  produce 
his  dramas'.  I  may  further  observe  that  the  following  passage  in 
Richard  Brome's  verses  To  his  Memory  is  to  be  interpreted  only  of 
Fletcher's  remarkable  facility  in  dramatic  composition  ;  Brome  does 
not  mean  that  he  made  writing  a  mere  pastime  without  regard  to 
profit ; 

"  That  to  him  was  play 
Which  was  to  othex's'  brains  a  toil  ;  with  ease 
He  play'd  on  waves,  which  were  theii-  troubled  seas  : 


«  Introd.  to  the  WorJcs  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  xi. — The  tnith  is,  none  of  Fletcher's 
biogi-aphers  were  aware  of  the  poverty  in  which  his  father  died.  They  say  that  he 
who  could  remember  a  college,  could  hardly  forget  a  son  in  his  WiU.  But  what  was 
the  bequest  which  Bishop  Fletcher  left  to  Bene  't  College  \  see  note,  p.  xviii. 

f      "  Nor  to  make  it  serve  to  feed 
At  my  need,"  &c. 

Verses  to  Sir  W.  Skipwith,  prefixed  to  The  F.  Shep. 

B  Mr.  Darley,  Introd.  to  the  Works  of  B.  and  F.  p.  xiii. 

•»  Vol.  iii.  455. 

•  He  assuredly  gained  no  increase  of  fortune  by  the  death  of  his  uncle.  Dr.  GUes 
Fletcher,  in  1610.  On  searching  the  Registry  of  the  Prerogative  Coui-t,  I  found  that 
Dr.  Giles  Fletcher,  by  a  nimcupative  Will,  dated  11th  February  1610,  left  all  his 
property,  after  the  payment  of  liis  debts,  to  his  wife. 


XXVIU         SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

The  writer  that  made  writing  his  dehght, 

llathcr  than  work.     He  did  not  pump,  nor  drudge. 

To  beget  wit,  or  manage  it,"  &c.J 

As  to  Beaumont, — though  perhaps  he  was  far  from  iuditfcreiit  to  the 
emoluments  of  his  literary  labours,  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
his  shorter  career  was  ever  clouded  by  the  discomforts  arising  from  indi- 
gence. On  the  decease  of  his  eldest  brother,  Henry,  he  inherited  what 
was  probably  a  considerable  sum'^ ;  and,  if  at  any  time  afterwards  he 
required  pecuniary  assistance,  we  may  be  sure  that  it  was  not  withheld  by 
that  amiable  brother  who  was  then  the  possessor  of  Grace-dieu,  and  who 
mom-ncd  his  early  death  in  lines  which  are  evidently  written  from  the 
heart.  Besides,  Beaumont  must  have  received  some  accession  of  fortune 
by  his  marriage,  though  it  would  seem  that  he  made  no  provision  for  the 
daughter  who  so  long  sm-vived  him. 

The  acquaintance  between  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  or  at  least  their 
literary  partnership,  had  perhaps  not  yet  commenced,  when  Tlie  Wojnan- 
Hater,  in  all  probability  the  unassisted  composition  of  the  latter,  was 
brought  upon  the  stage,  either  in  1606  or  1607. — If  this  comedy  was 
one  of  those  "  very  unsuccessful  pieces  "  which  (as  we  shall  presently  see) 
are  mentioned  by  Drydcn  as  having  been  produced  by  our  authors  anterior 
to  PIdlaster,  I  can  hardly  think  that  it  deserved  a  milder  fate  :  yet 
such  is  the  variety  of  taste  in  criticism,  that  Weber  talks  of  the  audience 
having  been  "blind  to  its  excellencies  '." 

Thierry  and  Theodoret  is  generally  considered  as  another  early 
composition  of  Fletcher,  the  epilogue  (which  appears  to  have  been  that 
originally  delivered)  mentioning  only  one  poet.  Perhaps,  however,  it  is  of 
a  later  date  than  most  critics  have  supposed  ;  and  Mr.  Darley's  conjecture 
is  entitled  to  attention, — that  it  was  one  of  those  plays  which,  though 

J     Commend.  Verses,  vol.  i.  Ixiv-v. 

^  In  the  Will  of  Sir  Henry  Beaumont,  of  Grace-dieu,  knight,  which  was  proved 
3''  Feb>,  1605-6,  is  the  following  clause.  "I  do  giue  power  and  authoritie  to  my 
said  Executors  to  sell  the  tythes  of  Woorthington  and  Wilsonn,  and  the  farme  thei-e, 
and  to  dispose  of  my  whole  estate  thus  followinge,  viz.  after  my  debts  paide  and  my 
legacies,  and  after  my  said  sister  Elizabeth  hath  satisfied  her  self  for  soe  much  mony 
of  her  porcion  as  I  haue  in  my  hands,  which  is  not  fiue  Jmndred  pounds,  as  I  thincke, 
then  the  surplusage  to  bee  devided  mto  twoe  partes,  wlierof  one  parte  my  sister 
Elizabeth  to  haue  for  her  aduancement  in  mariage,  the  other  to  bee  equallie  devided 

betwene  my  brother  John  and  my  Irotkcr  Francis " "  Tliis  is  my  laste 

will  published  by  me  Henry  Beamont  of  Gracedieu  in  the  presence  of  Francis 
Bcomont,  Sampson  Shelton,  Francis  Harley."  Registry  of  the  Prcr.  Court. — In 
Judge  Beaumont's  Will  (see  Appendix  ii.  to  tills  Memoir)  none  of  his  children  ai-e 
mentioned  except  Elizabeth. 

'  Itilrod.  to  the  Worh  of  B.  and  F.,  [i.  xiii. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XXIX 

"  not  brought  out  till  after  Beaumont's  death,  may  have  been  planned, 
and  partly  or  wholly  written,  with  his  co-operation,  before  it"\ — 
Whatever  may  be  its  faults,  Thierry  and  Theodoret  is  among  the  most 
energetic  tragedies  in  this  collection.  Brunhalt  and  Ordella  present  one 
of  those  violent  contrasts  which  om-  authors  loved  to  exhibit ;  and, 
though  both  characters  are  strained  very  far  beyond  the  truth  of  nature, 
there  is  unquestionably  much  strong  painting  in  the  fiendish  wickedness  of 
the  former,  and  many  beautiful  touches  in  the  angelic  purity  of  the  latter. 
The  first  scene  of  the  fourth  act  is  praised  by  Lamb  as  "the  finest 
scene  in  Fletcher"":  it  is  indeed  exquisitely  written;  but  it  verges 
closely  on  the  melodramatic  ;  nor  is  it,  I  think,  what  the  poet  evidently 
strove  to  render  it,  pi'ofoundly  pathetic. 

"The  first  play,"  says  Dryden,  "that  brought  Fletcher  and  him 
[Beaumont]  in  esteem  was  their  Philasler ;  for,  before  that,  they  had 
wi'itten  two  or  three  very  unsuccessfully  °."  This  statement  may  be 
correct ;  but  Dryden  has  elsewhere  shewn  such  ignorance  concerning 
our  authors  and  the  early  stage,  and  was  altogether  so  careless  and 
inaccurate  on  points  of  literary  histoiy,  that  no  reliance  can  be  placed 
upon  his  testimony.  Philaster  is  assigned  by  Malone  to  1608  or 
1609p  :  the  former  date  is  most  probably  the  true  one.  If  the  decision 
of  recent  critics  may  be  trusted,  the  weightier  share  in  it  is  Beaumont's : 
we  are  at  least  certain  that  it  was  the  joint-composition  of  our  poets. — 
Concerning  this  play  Mr.  Hallam  observes  ;  "  The  plot  is  most  absurdly 
managed.  It  turns  on  the  suspicion  of  Arethusa's  infidelity.  And  the 
sole  ground  of  this  is  that  an  abandoned  woman,  being  detected  herself, 
accuses  the  princess  of  unchastity.  Not  a  shadow  of  presumptive 
evidence  is  brought  to  confirm  this  impudent  assertion,  which,  howevei, 
the  lady's  father,  her  lover,  and  a  grave  sensible  courtier,  do  not  fail 
implicitly  to  believe^i."  These  remarks  are  very  just,  except  as  far  as 
regards  the  too  easy  credence  of  Philaster,  Mr.  Hallam  having  forgotten 
that  in  act  iii.  se.  I  the  poets  had  chosen  to  make  the  respectable  Dion 
play  the  part  of  a  villain,  and  boldly  assert  to  Philaster  a  downright 
falsehood  concerning  the  princess  and  Bellario, — 

"  In  short,  my  lord,  /  took  them  ;  I  myself." 

Philaster  and  Arethusa  are  delineated  with  great  skill  and  spirit, 
and  both  are,   on  the  whole,  very  pleasing  ;   though  we   can  find  no 

™  Introd.  to  the  Works  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  xxiv. 

"  Spec,  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poets,  p.  403,  ed.  1808. 

°  On  Dram.  Poesy,— Prose  Works,  Vol.  i.  P.  ii.  p.  100,  ed.  Malone 

p  See  vol.  i.  199  of  the  present  work. 

1  Introd.  to  the  Lit.  of  Europe,  iii.  100,  ed.  1843. 


\XX  SOJIE    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

satisfactory  excuse  for  Phllaster  \vhen  be  wounds  his  mistress  and  after- 
wards his  page  (wliich  Dryden  reprobates  as  unmanly''),  and  though  wc 
could  wish  that  Aretbusa  did  not  on  one  occasion  so  unnecessarily 
proclaim  her  own  rectitude,  when,  to  the  simple  question  of  her  father, 
"  Who  attends  you  ?  "  she  replies, 

"  None  but  my  single  self :  I  need  no  guard  ; 
I  do  no  wrong,  nor  fear  none."     Act  iii.  sc.  2. 

But  a  far  higher  interest  belongs  to  Eupbrasia  (disguised  as  the  page 
RcUario).  She  is  one  of  our  authors'  most  perfect  creations, — unequalled 
in  the  romantic  tenderness  and  the  deep  dcvotedness  of  her  affection  by 
any  character  which  at  all  resembles  her  in  the  wide  range  of  fiction, — 
from  her  supposed  prototype,  the  Viola  of  Shakespeare,  down  to  the 
Constance  of  Scott  and  the  Kalcd  of  Byron.  Passages,  remarkable  alike 
for  poetic  beauty  and  felicity  of  language,  arc  profusely  scattered  through 
the  play.  Among  these,  of  course,  is  to  be  reckoned  Philaster's 
description  of  his  page  (act  i.  sc.  2), — 

"  I  have  a  boy, 
Sent  by  the  gods,  I  hope,  to  this  intent,"  &c. 

a  description  which  has  been  often  cited  and  deservedly  praised,  but 
without  the  remark  that  it  is  much  too  long  for  the  situation  of  the 
speaker  s :   the  dramatist  was  lost  in  the  poet. 

The  death  of  Lady  Markbam  on  the  4tb  of  May,  1609*,  occasioned 
an   elegy  by  Beaimiont.      Sprung  from  a  family  intimately  connected 

■■  "  He  will  see  Philaster  wounding  his  mistress,  and  afterwards  his  boy,  to  save 
himself  :  not  to  mention  the  Clown,  who  enters  immediately,  and  not  only  has  the 
advantage  of  the  combat  against  the  hero,  but  diverts  you  from  your  serious  con- 
ccrament  with  his  ridiculous  and  absurd  raillery  ".  Defence  of  the  Ep.  to  the  Sec. 
Part  of  the  Conquest  of  Granada, — Prose  Works,  Vol.  i.  P.  ii.  p.  235,  cd.  Malone. 
"  When  Philaster  wounds  Arethusa  and  the  boy,  and  Perigot  his  mistress  in  Tlie 
Faithful  Shepherdess,  both  these  are  contrary  to  the  character  of  manhood". 
Grounds  of  Crit.  in  Tragedy,  Ibid.  p.  280. 
'  Sec  what  immediately  precedes  it ; 

''Phi.  'Twill  be  ill 

I  should  abide  here  long",  &c.,  vol.  i.  22.5. 
'  According  to  the  Register  of  Twickenham  Church,  she  "dyed  in  the  Ladie 
of  Bedford's  house  in  the  Parke",  and  was  bm'ied  19th  May,  1609.  In  that  church 
a  monument  was  erected  to  her  memory  with  the  following  remarkable  inscription. 
"  Brigidie  lectissimoc,  piissimoc,  innocentissimre,  tamen  hoc  autcm  uno  quo  sexus 
dignior  sexum  fassaj  quod  mater  fuit,  cajtera  viri  ;  quno  generi  sue,  quo  Jacob 
HaiTingtoni  Eq.  Aur.  lo.  Baronis  de  Exton  frat.  filia  fuit,  itaque  inclytse  Lucise 
Comitissic  do  Bedford  sanguine  (quod  satis)  sed  et  amicitia  propin(|uissnna,  quan- 
tum accepit,  addidit  splendoris :  et  serenissimro  Annie  Mag.  Brit.  Reg.  Dan.  Reg. 
F.  cui  ab  intcriori  camera  acceptissima ;  qureque  litigantibus  in  ilia  dc  supcrioritate 
singulis  virtutibus  ad  summum  Dei  tribunal  ut  lis  dirimeritar,  provocavit,  migravit. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XXXI 

with  the  literature  of  the  time, — she  was  Bridget,  daughter  of  Sir 
James  Harington,  baronet,  (a  younger  brother  of  John  Lord  Haring- 
ton,  father  of  Lucy  Countess  of  Bedford)  ;  and  she  was  the  wife  of 
Sir  Anthony  Markham,  knight,  of  Sedgebrook  in  Nottinghamshire. 
Beaumont  himself  declares  that  he  "  never  saw  her  face"  ;  and  he  per- 
haps composed  the  elegy  in  question  at  the  desire  of  some  of  her  rela- 
tives ^  Donne  also  wrote  an  elegy  on  Lady  Markham^.  Both  are  in 
the  vilest  taste  :  but  Donne's  conceits,  however  far-fetched  and  puzzling, 
are  at  least  not  so  outrageous  as  those  of  Beaimiont,  who  gravely  calls 
out  to  the  worms,  "  his  rivals," — 

"  Refrain 
With  your  disordered  eatings  to  deface  her, 
But  feed  j'ourselves  so  as  you  most  may  grace  her. 
First,  tlu'ough  her  ear-tips  see  you  make  a  pair 
Of  holes,"  &c  ^'. 

The  Maid^s  Tragedy,  according  to  the  hypothesis  of  Malone,  was  first 
acted  in  1610'^ :  I  am  now  inclined  to  fix  its  date  in  1609.  It  was 
undoubtedly  written  by  our  authors  in  conjunction, — the  larger  portion 
of  it  perhaps,  as  is  generally  imagined,  having  been  from  Beaumont's 
pen. — Hazlitt  commences  his  critique  on  this  tragedy  by  informing  us 
that  it  is  "  one  of  the  poorest>"  of  their  pieces.  Mr.  HaUam  declares 
that  "it  is  among  the  best^"  For  my  own  part,  notwithstanding 
the  undeniable  faults  of  the  story  (which  were  long  ago  dwelt  on  at 
much  length  by  Rymer'"^),  I  regard  it  as  the  greatest  tragic  efi"ort  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  There  may  be  serious  plays  in  these  volumes 
which  are  superior  to  it  in  particular  scenes  ;  but  it  stands  among  them 

nlatura^•it ;  ante  in  defuncto  Marito  Ante.  Markham,  Eq.  Aur.  semimoi'tuaj  adhuc 
in  ejus  Uberis  lo.  Rob.  Hem*.  Franc,  semisuperstitis,  depositum  hie  servare  voluere 
amici  ejus  mcestiss.  Secessit  4"  Maii  a"  salutis  suae  1609,  setatis  30."  See  Lysons's 
Envlroyis  of  London,  iii.  581,  580. 

^  Other  poets  have  written  in  commendation  of  dead  ladies  who  had  been  utter 
strangers  to  them.  "  Doctor  Donne  .  .  .  acknowledges  that  he  had  never  seen 
Mrs.  Drmy,  whom  he  has  made  immortal  in  his  admirable  Anniversaries.  I  have 
had  the  same  fortune,  though  I  have  not  succeeded  to  the  same  genius  ".  Dryden's 
Ded.  of  Eleonora,  a  panegyrical  poem,  dediceited  to  the  memory  of  the  late  Countess  of 
Abingdon. 

"  Poems,  p.  66.  ed.  1633.  "  Vol.  xi.  504. 

==  See  vol.  i.  313  of  the  present  work. 

5"  Lectures  on  the  Drain.  Lit.  of  Age  of  Eliz.,  p.  135,  ed.  1840. 

^  Introd.  to  the  Lit.  of  Europe,  iii.  99,  ed.  1843. 

*  Rymer's  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age  considered  and.  examined  by  the  Practice  of 
the  Ancients,  and  by  the  Common  sense  of  all  Ages  is  a  \-iolent  censure  on  Tlie  Bloody 
Brother,  or,  jRollo  Didce  of  Normandy,  A  King  and  no  King,  and  The  Maid's  Tragedy. 
RjTuer  had  some  learning,  more  acuteness,  and  no  taste.  How  he  attacked 
Shakespeare,  is  well  known.     In  the  work  of  which  the  title  has  just  been  given,  he 


XXXll  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

unrivalled  for  the  growing  interest  which  it  excites  and  for  the  ultimate 
impression  which  it  produces.  The  daring  character  of  Evadne''  is 
finely  conceived,  and  happily  preserved  through  all  its  phases :  after 
her  repentance  (to  which  she  is  first  roused  by  no  inward  promptings, 
but  by  her  brother's  weapon  pointed  at  her  breast),  she  is  as  resolute  in 
taking  vengeance  on  her  royal  seducer,  as  she  bad  been  impudently 
bold  while  secure  of  his  protection.  The  scene  in  which  Melantius 
wrings  from  her  a  confession  of  her  dishonour  and  an  oath  to  kill  the 
king,  and  that  in  which  she  implores  and  obtains  the  pardon  of 
Amintor,  if  deficient  in  the  subtler  strokes  of  passion,  are  at  least  full 
of  vigour  and  powerfully  affecting  ;  nor  is  it  a  mean  proof  of  the  poets' 
art  that  they  should  have  been  able  to  render  such  a  character  as 
Evadne  an  object  of  sympathy,  even  when,  with  all  her  penitence  for 
her  former  sin,  she  is  rushing  on  to  far  deeper  guilt.  Aspatia,  as  she 
appears  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  play,  is  the  very  personification  of 
blighted  maiden  love,  meekly  submitting  to  unmerited  sufferings  :  the 
quiet  pathos  and  the  picturesque  beauty  of  her  speeches  have  never 
been  surpassed  :  but  the  scene  in  which,  disguised  as  her  brother,  she 
provokes  Amintor  to  the  combat  for  the  sake  of  receiving  a  death-wound 
from  bis  hand,  is  surely  not  only  disagreeable  in  itself,  but  somewhat 
inconsistent  with  the  gentleness  and  resignation  which  she  has  previously 
displayed.  The  weakness  and  irresolution  of  Amintor  are  well  contrasted 
with  the  opposite  qualities  of  his  friend  Melantius, — a  striking  portrait 
of  a  brave  rough  honest  warrior,  which  we  find  repeated,  with  some 
shades  of  difference,  in  several  other  plays  of  this  collection. — An  anec- 
dote, which  perhaps  refers  to  The  Maid's  Tragedy,  is  thus  recorded  by 
Fuller  :  "  [Beaumont  and  Fletcher]  meeting  once  in  a  Tavern,  to  con- 
trive the  iTide  draught  of  a  Tragedy,  Fletcher  undertook  to  kill  (he  Kit^g 
therein  ;  whose  words  being  overheard  by  a  listener  (though  his  Loyalty 
not  to  be  blamed  herein),  he  was  accused  of  High  Treason,  till  the  mis- 
take soon  appearing,  that  the  plot  was  only  against  a  Drammatick  and 
Scenical  King,  all  wound  off  in  merriment*^." 

The  Faithful  Shepherdess  is  wholly  by  Fletcher.  In  composing  it, 
he  e\'idently  had  an  eye  to  the  celebrated  Arcadian  dramas  of  Tasso  and 

mentions  "  that  Paradise  Lost  of  Milton's,  which  some  are  pleased  to  call  a  Poem  ". 
p.  ]43,e(i.  1692. 

^  "  Ml-.  Rj-mer  and  Mr.  Theobald '",  says  Seward  in  a  note  at  tlie  end  of  this 
tragedy,  "  concur  in  blaming  our  authors  for  making  the  title  of  the  play  relate  to 
the  distress  of  Aspatia  ",  &c.  But  from  Mr.  P.  C\mmR^\?iva^»  Extracts  from  the 
Accounts  of  tJiC  Revels  at  Court,  &c.,  it  appears  that  the  title  has  a  reference  to 
Evadne  ;  **  Shroue  Teuesday  A  play  called  the  proud  Mayds  Tragcdic  ".     p.  21 1. 

«  Worthies  (Northampt .),  p.  288,  ed.  1662. — Mr.  Darley,  who  was  misled  by 
Weber  to  suppose  that  Winstanley  was  the  only  authority  for  this  anecdote,  points 


OF    BEAITMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XXXlll 

Guarini ;  and  lie  doubtless  indulged  the  hope  that  it  would  win  no  less 
praise  from  his  countrymen  than  the  Italians  had  awarded  to  the  Aminta 
and  the  Pastor  Fido.  About  the  commencement  of  1610,  and  perhaps 
earlier '',  The  Faithful  Shepherdess  was  submitted  to  the  ordeal  of  the 
stage,  and  received,  on  the  first  night  of  its  performance,  the  most 
decided  condemnation.  Its  failure  must  have  been  a  severe  mortification 
to  the  author.  He  had  some  consolation,  however,  in  the  verses  which 
were  addressed  to  him  on  the  occasion  by  Field,  his  beloved  Beaumont, 
Jonson,  and  Chapman,  who  vied  with  each  other  in  declaring  their 
admiration  of  his  "murder'd  poem",  and  in  stigmatizing  the  ignorance 
and  injustice  of  "  the  many-headed  bench."  With  these  testimonies  of 
his  friends,  and  with  copies  of  verses  by  himself  to  Sir  Walter  Aston, 
Sir  William  Skipwith,  and  Sir  Robert  Townshend,  as  well  as  with  a 
prose  Address  to  the  Reader,  Fletcher  consigned  his  ill-fated  pastoral  to 
the  press. — The  plot  of  The  Faithful  Shepherdess  is  neither  interesting 
nor  skilfully  constructed  :  the  wanton  Cloe,  intended  as  a  contrast  to  the 
all-pure  Clorin,  is  an  ugly  blemish  to  the  piece  ;  and  the  passion  of 
Thenot  for  Clorin,  founded  solely  on  admiration  of  her  constancy  to  her 
deceased  lover,  and  not  to  be  cured  till  she  pretends  to  favour  it,  is 
ridiculous  in  the  extreme  "i.  But  the  imperfections  of  The  Faithful 
Shepherdess  as  a  di-ama  are  counterbalanced  by  its  many  excellencies  as 
a  poem.  The  lyric  portions  are  steeped  in  the  most  delicate  and 
brilliant  hues  of  fancy,  and  so  exquisitely  modulated,  that  the  mere 
music  of  the  verse  with  its  rich  variety  of  cadence  is  delightful  to  the 
reader  :  nor  are  the  unlyric  portions  without  frequent  passages  of  great 
beauty  ;  even  from  the  mouth  of  the  licentious  Cloe  we  have  lines 
which  are  not  inferior  to  any  in  the  play  '^.  Its  failure  on  the  stage  was 
occasioned,  I  apprehend,  not  so  much  by  the  defects  just  specified,  as  by 
the  incapacity  of  the  audience  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  a  piece,  which 

"  Renews  the  golden  world,  and  holds  through  all 
The  holy  laws  of  homely  pastoral, 
Where  flowers  and  founts,  and  njTnphs  and  semi-gods. 
And  all  the  Graces,  find  their  old  abodes  f :" 

out  a  parallel  to  it  in  Tlie  Woman-Hater,  where  "  Lazarillo,  an  epicure,  from  his  vague 
talk  to  a  friend  about  grotesque  means  to  come  at  the  head  of  an  '  umbrana-fish  ',  is 
accused  by  IntelUgencers  [informers]  of  a  plot  to  '  kill  the  duke ',  his  sovereign 
prince  ",  &c.     Introd.  to  the  Works  of  B.  and  F,,  p.  xxi. 

■^  The  first  edition  has  no  date  :  but  Sir  W.  Skipwith,  one  of  the  three  friends  to 
whom  Fletcher  dedicates  it,  died  3''  May,  1610. 

■^  And  see  Dryden's  remark  cited  in  note,  p.  xxx. 

■■  See  vol.  ii.  38  ;  "  Shepherd,  I  pray  thee,  stay  ",  &c. 

^  Chapman's  verses  to  Fletcher  :  see  vol.  ii.  12. 
VOL.  I.  3 


XXXIV  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

and  Fletcher  has  liimself  informed  us  that  "  the  people,  "  having  no  idea 
what  a  "  pastoral  tragi-comedy  "  was,  and  "missing  Whitsun-ales,  cream, 
wassail,  and  morris-dances,  began  to  be  angry."  In  good  truth,  dramas 
of  this  description,  which  exhibit  an  impossible  state  of  sylvan  life,  and 
make  their  strongest  appeal  for  favour  by  the  charms  of  poetry,  are 
rather  for  the  closet  than  the  theatre.  That  The  Sad  Shepherd  of 
Jonson  has  reached  us  incomplete,  will  be  ever  regretted  by  the  reader, 
— but  by  the  reader  only.  Even  when  containing  nothing  of  the  ideal, 
and  reflecting  the  actual  manners  and  feelings  of  the  country  where  the 
scene  is  laid,  a  pastoral  play  has  little  power  upon  an  audience  t-'. 
— Fletcher  had  been  dead  several  years  when  The  Faithful  Shepherdess 
was  revived  at  com-t,  on  the  occasion  of  an  entertainment  given  by  the 
Queen  to  the  King  at  Denmark-House  on  Twelfth-Night,  1633-4''. 
Soon  after  that  revival  (as  we  learn  from  the  title-page  of  the  third 
quarto)  it  was  acted  "  divers  times  with  great  applause"  at  the  theatre 
in  Blackfriars.  The  favom-  which  it  had  experienced  at  court  was 
doubtless  the  cause  of  its  being  produced  af  the  Blackfriars,  and  in 
all  probability  too  the  cause  of  its  eliciting  this  tardy  applause  from 
the  public,  who  were  now  prepared  to  like  what  royalty  had  eon- 
descended  to  admire.  We  hear  of  no  subsequent  attempt  to  revive 
The  Faithful  Shepherdess :  the  prophecy  of  Jonson  that  it  would  "  rise 
up  a  glorified  work  to  time,"  has  been  fulfilled  ;  but  not  through  the 
medium  of  the  stage. — From  this  pastoral,  as  is  well  known,  j\Iilton 
borrowed  largely  for  his  immortal  masque.  Some  critics,  after  closely 
comparing  The  Faithful  Shepherdess  with  Comus,  have  pronounced, 
that,  if  we  take  into  consideration  the  lyric  portions  only,  Milton  seems 
scarcely  to  have  surpassed  his  predecessor, — an  opinion  from  which  I 
altogether  dissent  :  the  lyric  strains  of  Fletcher  are  beautiful  indeed  ; 
but  in  those    of  Milton  a  loftier   imagination,  a  "  diviner  fire,"  is,  1 

«  Of  this  we  have  a  proof  in  Ramsay's  Gentle  Sliepherd,  a  work  deai*  to  all  the 
author's  covuitrj-men  :  it  owes  none  of  its  well-merited  popularity  to  the  Scottish 
stage.  When  it  was  originally  acted  is  not  known  :  but  it  was  certainly  played  as  an 
after-piece  at  Edinburgh  in  1 729,  previous  to  which  date  it  had  passed  tlirough 
several  editions,  ha^^ng  been  fii-st  published  in  1725.  Of  the  later  attempts  to 
bring  it  on  the  stage  in  Scotland,  none  have  been  attended  with  much  success. 
Wlien  performed  at  the  London  theatres,  it  was  tolerated  partly  as  a  curiosity,  and 
partly  on  account  of  the  music. 

^  From  Marmyon's  verses  {vol.  ii.  18)  we  may  gather  that  its  revival  was 
suggested  by  Taylor  the  player.  I  cannot  believe  that  her  Majesty  had  a  very 
refined  taste  in  such  matters.  Montague's  Shcpltcrd's  Parculisc,  which  was  privately 
acted  before  the  King  by  the  Queen  and  her  Ladies  of  Honour,  is  a  piece  of  such 
intolerable  nonsense  (to  say  nothmg  of  its  length)  that  one  wonders  how  the  fair 
performers,  even  with  the  prompter's  assistance,  coidd  have  got  through  their  parts. 
It  was  not  printed  till  16of»  :  most  of  the  copies  have,  by  a  press-error,  the  date  lG2y. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XXXV 

think,  every  where  manifest.  There  have  been  critics  who  have  even 
doubted  to  which  of  the  two  dramas  the  palm  of  excellence  should,  on 
the  whole,  be  given, — a  doubt  something  more  than  foolish  :  The  Faith- 
ful Shepherdess  is  a  gem  with  several  flaws  and  clouds  ;  the  Masque 
at  Ludlow  Castle  is  "one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite." 

The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle^  would  seem  to  have  been  brought 
upon  the  stage  in  1611.  Whether  it  was  the  joint-composition  of  our 
authors,  orwi-ittenbyoneofthemalone,  is  matter  of  uncertainty:  Mr.  Darley 
thinks  that  it  is  "  by  Beaumont  chieflyj."  The  satire  of  this  excel- 
lent mock-heroic  play  (the  first  of  its  kind  in  our  language  both  as  to 
date  and  merit)  is  directed  against  the  absurdities  of  the  earlier  dramas, 
more  particularly  those  of  Heywood's  Four  Prentices  of  London,  while, 
at  the  same  time,  the  ignorance  and  conceit  of  the  citizens  are  abund- 
antly ridiculed  throughout.  The  whole  is  highly  artistic  and  in  perfect 
keeping  ;  the  humour  of  gx'eat  breadth  and  raciness.  On  its  first  per- 
formance, however,  it  was  quite  as  unsuccessful  as  The  Faithfd  Shep- 
herdess :  "  the  world,"  says  the  publisher,  "  for  want  of  judgment,  or 
not  understanding  the  privy  mark  of  irony  about  it,  utterly  rejected  it." 
Perhaps,  as  has  been  suggested,  it  owed  its  condemnation  to  the  anger 
of  the  citizens  and  apprentices  :  the  latter,  indeed,  who  were  a  very 
riotous  and  a  really  formidable  band,  must  have  felt  no  little  indignation 
at  the  ludicrous  picture  of  their  fellow  Ralph, — especially  after  the 
compliment  paid  to  them  by  the  above-mentioned  play  of  Heywood, 
which  in  sober  earnest  sets  forth  how  the  four  sons  of  Godfrey  Earl 
of  Bulioigne  (who  finish  their  prodigious  exploits  by  mainly  contribut- 
ing to  the  conquest  of  Jerusalem)  were  originally  bound  apprentices 
to  London  tradesmen'^! — Many  years  seem  to  have  elapsed  before 
The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle  was  revived  :  but  about  1635  it 
was  a  favourite  piece ;  and  it  was  acted  with  success  even  after  the 
Restoration. 

A  King  and  No  King  was  certainly  produced  in  1611,  and  as  certainly 
composed   by    our   authors    in    conjunction,    though,     as   usual,    their 

■  Its  title  was  perhaps  suggested  by  that  of  an  earlier  (and  not  extant)  play,  The 
history  of  the  Kniyht  in  the  Burning  RocTc :  see  Cunningham's  Extracts  from  the 
Accounts  of  the  Revels  at  Court,  &c.  p.  142. 

J  Introd.  to  the  Worls  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  xlviii. 

''  The  Four  Prentises  of  London  was  written  about  the  close  of  the  preceding 
century:  the  earliest  edition  known  is  dated  1615;  but  an  expression  in  the  present  play 
(vol.  ii.  200,  where  see  note)  seems  to  shew  that  there  must  have  been  a  considerably 
earlier  edition.  Heywood  dedicates  it  "  To  the  honest  and  liie-spirited  Prentises, 
the  Readers  ",  and  concludes  his  Dedication  thus  ;  "  But,  to  returne  againe  to  you, 
my  braue  spirited  Prentises,  upon  whom  I  haue  freely  bestowed  these  Foure,  I  wish 
you  all,  that  haue  their  courages  and  forwardnesse,  their  nnhle  Fate.t  and  Fortunes." 
3' 


XXXAT  SO:\IE    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITIXfJS 

respective  shares  cannot  be  determined.  The  cliicf  subject  of  this 
tragi-conicdy  is  far  from  pleasing  ;  its  plot  is  liable  to  great  objections  ; 
and  it  contains  but  few  passages  of  striking  poetic  merit  :  yet  must  it 
ever  rank  aniong  the  chefs-d'ccuvre  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  The 
suspense  in  which  we  arc  kept  during  the  first  four  acts  is  relieved  by  a 
discovery,  which,  though  rather  violently  brought  about,  we  have 
cei-tainly  not  anticipated.  The  character  of  Arbaces  is  strangely 
compounded  of  valour,  boastfulness,  insolence,  selfishness,  generosity, 
and  voluptuousness  ;  and  there  is  assuredly  great  di-amatic  ettect  in  the 
instantaneous  changes  of  his  temper,  in  the  various  moods  by  which,  at 
the  slightest  impulse,  he  is  swayed  :  perhaps,  however,  the  mechanism 
of  this  ( — I  allude  to  the  earlier  part  of  the  play' — )  is  occasionally  too 
apparent ;  the  reader  almost  feels  as  if  he  were  present  at  a  puppet- 
show,  and  saw  more  than  a  spectator  ought  to  see, — the  master  of  the 
exhibition  pulling  the  wires  that  govern  the  motions  of  his  puppet. 
The  first  meeting  of  Arbaces  and  Panthea,  and  his  sudden  intoxication 
with  her  beauty,  are  admirably  conceived  ;  and  the  subsequent  inconsis- 
tencies of  his  conduct,  while  under  the  bewildering  influence  of  a  sup- 
posed incestuous  passion,  against  which  he  vainly  struggles,  are  displayed 
with  a  truth  and  vigour  worthj'  of  all  praise.  The  character  of  Panthea 
is  drawn  Avith  little  force.  That  of  Bessus  (a  study  after  Ben  Jonson's 
"humours")  has  been  greatly  lauded  by  the  earher  as  well  as  some  of 
the  modern  critics  ;  but,  though  containing  a  considerable  portion  of  vis 
comica,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  a^aolent  caricature, — inferior,  as  the  portrait 
of  a  swaggering  coward,  both  to  Parolles  and  to  Bobadil,  not  to  men- 
tion Falstafi",  with  whom  Bessus  has  been  rashly  compared. 

The  shafts  of  criticism  had  not  yet  assailed  T//e  Arcadia  of  Sidney  ; 
it  was  still  the  delight  of  thousands  when  it  furnished  the  groundwork  of 
the  drama  next  to  be  mentioned, —  Cupid's  Revenge.  According  to  the 
earliest  extant  notice  of  this  tragedy,  it  was  acted  by  the  Children  of 
Whitefriars  on  the  Sunday  following  New-year's  night,  1611-12;  and 
we  may  suppose  that  only  a  short  time  had  elapsed  between  that  date 
and  its  original  representation.  In  an  address  to  the  Reader  (prefixed  to 
the  first  quarto)  the  Printer  speaks  of  "  the  author  [Fletcher]  "  ;  but, 
as  he  immediately  adds  that  "  he  is  not  acquainted  with  him",  his 
authority  is  insufiicient  to  establish  that  the  play  was  wholly  by 
Fletcher  ;  and  the  generally  received  opinion  that  Beaumont  had  some 
share  in  its  composition  is  probably  correct. — Cupid''s  Revenge,  though 
a  wretched  drama,  appears  not  only  to  have  met  with  great  success  at 
first,  but  to  have  long  continued  popular. 

'  Sec,  for  instance,  act  i.  sc-.  1  (vol.  ii.  24.5)  ;  "  Arh.  Talk'il  enough  !  "  &c.,  ami 
the  dialogue  which  follows. 


OF    BEAUMOXT    AND    FLETCHER.  XXXA^l 

Among*  the  noble  ladies  of  tlie  time,  few  were  more  distinguislied  for 
their  love  of  poetry  and  patronage  of  poets  than  Elizabeth  Countess 
of  Rutland.  She  was  the  only  child  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  the  wife 
of  Roo-er  fifth  earl  of  Rutland.  Ben  Jouson  told  Drummond  that  she 
"  was  nothing  inferior  to  her  father  in  poesie"!"  ;  and  in  an  epistle  which 
he  addressed  to  her,  after  declaring  that  he  has  no  gold  to  send  her, — 
only  "  verse," — he  says, 

"  With  you,  I  know,  my  offering  will  find  grace  ; 

For  what  a  sin  'gainst  your  great  fathers  spirit 

Were  it  to  think,  that  you  should  not  inherit 

His  love  unto  the  Muses,  when  lais  skill 

Almost  you  have,  or  may  have  when  you  \\'ill  "." 

Her  marriage  was  an  unhappy  one°  ;  and  she  probably  hoped  to  find  in 
literature  some  consolation  for  her  domestic  grievances.  It  would  seem, 
however,  that  the  earl  disapproved  of  the  familiarity  with  which  she 
treated  those  men  of  genius  whom  she  patronized  ;  for,  on  one  occasion, 
"  he  accused  her  that  she  keept  table  to  poetsP  ". — Beaumont,  like  the 
rest,  offered  up  his  poetical  incense  to  this  admired  lady  in  a  short 
Epistle ;  and  when  (having  survived  her  husband  little  more  than  a 
month)  she  diedi  in  August  1612,  he  lost  no  time  in  putting  forth  an 
Elegy.  Neither  of  these  pieces  rises  above  mediocrity,  though  the 
latter  is  praised  by  Earle  as 

"  A  monument  that  will  then  lasting  be. 
When  all  her  mai'ble  is  more  dust  than  she''." 

■"  Notes  of  Jonson's  Conversations  with  Drummomd,  p.  16,  ed.  Shake.  Soc.  "Sir 
Th  :  Overburie  ",  continues  the  record,  "  was  in  love  \vith  her,  and  caused  Ben  to 
read  his  Wyffe  to  her,  which  he,  with  ane  excellent  grace,  did,  and  praised  the  author. 
That  the  morne  thereafter  he  discorded  with  Overbm-ie,  who  would  haue  him 
to  intend  a  sute  that  was  unlawful.  The  lines  my  Lady  keep'd  in  remembrance.  He 
comes  too  near  ivlio  comes  to  he  denied.  Beaumont  wrott  that  Elegie  on  the  death  of 
the  Countess  of  Rutland  ". 

"  Jonson's  Worlcs,  vii.  277,  ed.  Gifford. 

"  The  cause  is  told  plainly  enough  in  Beaumont's  Elegy  on  her  death. 

p  "  Ben  one  day  being  at  table  with  my  Lady  Rutland,  her  Husband  comming  in 
accused  her  that  she  keept  table  to  poets,  of  which  she  writt  a  letter  to  him  [Jonson], 
which  he  answered.  My  Lord  intercepted  the  letter,  but  never  challenged  him  ". 
Notes  of  Jonson's  Conversations,  &c.  p.  24.— The  earl  was,  at  one  time,  a  great 
lover  of  the  drama:  in  a  letter  to  Sir  Robert  Sidney,  dated  IP''  Ocf.,  1599, 
Rowland  Whyte  wintes  thus  ;  "  My  Lord  Soutliliampton  and  Lord  Rutland  came 
not  to  the  Com-t ;  the  one  doth  but  very  seldome  ;  they  pass  away  the  Tyme  in  Lon- 
don merely  in  going  to  Plaieseuery  Day  ".     Collins's  Sidney  Letters,  &e.  ii.  132. 

'1  Chamberlaine,  m  a  letter  to  Su-  R.  Winwood,  says ;  "  The  Widow  Countess  of 
Rutland  dyed  lately,  and  is  privately  buryed  m  Paids,  by  her  Father  Sir  Phillip 
Sydney  and  Secretary  Walsingham.  Su'  Walter  Raleigh  is  slandered  to  have 
given  her  certaine  Pills  that  dispatch'd  her  ".     Winwood's  Memorials,  iii.  385. 

■■  Vonimcnd.  Poems,  vol.  i.  xxxv. 


XXXmi       SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    ^^RITI\GS 

The  Coxcomb  appears  to  have  been  the  joint- work  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher.  We  may  presume  that  it  was  originally  performed  towards  the 
close  of  1612,  as  Rosscter  and  the  Children  of  the  Queens  Revels  were 
paid  by  a  warrant,  dated  24th  November  of  that  year,  for  having  presented 
it  before  the  Prince,  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  and  the  Count  Palatine,  when 
jirobably  it  was  still  a  novelty  ^  We  learn  from  the  prologue  at  a  revival 
of  the  play,  that  on  its  first  representation,  while  it  was  favourably 
received  by  "men  of  worth",  it  was  condemned  for  its  length  by  some 
"  among  the  ignorant  midtitude". — Though  an  amusing  comedy,  with 
several  snatches  of  natural  painting,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  extravagant  in 
plot,  character,  and  incident. 

On  the  marriage  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth  and  the  Couilt  Palatine 
of  the  Rhine,  the  Inns  of  Court  deteraiined  to  present  masques  of  a  very 
splendid  description  to  the  royal  family  at  Whitehall.  Accordingly,  the 
Middle-Temple  and  Lincoln's-Inn  employed  Chapman  to  compose  a  piece 
for  the  occasion.  The  Inner-Temple  and  Gray's  Inn  selected  Beaumont 
(himself  a  member  of  the  former  society)  to  supply  them  with  a  rival 
entertainment :  its  machinery  and  contrivances  were  by  Inigo  Jones  (as 
were  those  of  the  other  masque)  ;  and  even  Bacon  "  by  his  countenance 
and  loving  affection  advanced  it*." — The  Masque  of  the  Middle-Temple 
and  Lincoin's-Inn "    (a  masque  of    great  magnificence)   was  exhibited 

'  "  Item,  paid  to  Pliilip  Rosseter,  by  Warrant,  24  November,  1612,  for  liimself 
and  the  Cliildren  of  the  Queen's  Majesty's  Revels,  for  presenting  before  the 
Princess  Elizabeth  and  the  Count  Palatine  a  comedy  called  The  Coxcomb  £&.  13.  4  ". 
Memoranda  concerning  Plays  acted  at  Court,  from  the  Accounts  of  Lord  Uarrinjton, 
&c., — Sliakespearc  Soc.  Papers,  ii.  125.  "  To  Philip  Rosseter  upon  a  warrant  dated 
the  24th  of  November  1612,  for  presenting  a  play  [Tfte  Coxcomb']  by  the  Cliildren 
of  the  Cliapple  before  the  Prince,  the  lady  Elizabeth,  and  the  Prince  Palatyne 
vj'".  xiij^  iiij''."  Introd.  to  Cunnmgham's  Extracts  from  the  Accounts  of  the  Revels  at 
Court,  &c.  p.  xlii. — We  are  told  in  the  Biog.  Dram,  that  when  the  elder  Colman 
composed  his  comedy  called  The  Suicide,  which  was  acted  in  1778,  but  never 
printed,  he  bon-owed  "  the  duel  from  The  Coxcomb  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ". 
What  is  meant  by  "  the  duel  ?  " 

'  See  the  Dedication,  vol.  ii.  455.  For  particulars  of  the  charges  attending  this 
masque,  see  ibid.  p.  453. 

"  The  Memorable  Maske  of  the  two  Honorable  Houses  or  Inns  of  Coui-t  ;  the  Middle 
Temple,  and  Lyncolm  Jnm:  As  it  was  performd  before  the  Kinff,  at  White-Hall  on 
Shrove  Munday  at  night  ;  being  the  15.  of  Febiiutry.  1613.  At  the  Princely  celebra- 
tion of  the  most  Royall  Nuptialls  of  the  Palsgraue,  and  his  thrice  gratious  Princesse 
Elizabeth,  <fcc.  With  a  description  of  their  whole  shoxo  ;  in  the  manner  of  their  march  on 
horse-bacl-e  to  the  Court  from  the  Maistcr  of  the  Rolls  his  house  :  with  all  their  right 
Noble  consorts,  and  most  showfull  attendants.  Inuented,  and  fashioned,  icith  the 
ground,  and  speriall  structure  of  the  whole  woi-lce.  By  our  Kingdomes  most  Artfull  and 
Ingenious  Architect  Innigo  Jones.  Supplied,  Aplied,  Digested,  and  urritten,  by  Geo  : 
Chapman.  At  London,  Printed  by  O.  Eld,  for  Ocorge  Norton  and  are  to  be  sould  at 
his  sfioppe  neere  Temple-bar.  n.  d.,  4to. 


or    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  XXXIX 

at  Whitehall  on  Monday  the  15th  of  February,  1612-13.  The  following 
night  had  been  fixed  for  the  performance  of  that  of  the  InnGr-Temple 
and  Gray's  Inn  ;  and  the  masquers  ("  striving  to  vary  from  their  Com- 
petitors, and  their  Device  being  the  marrying  of  the  Thames  to  the 
Rhine  ^ ")  proceeded  to  Whitehall  by  water  :  they  started  from  "Win- 
chester-House in  Southwark,  their  boats  and  barges  gorgeously  decked 
and  brilhantly  illuminated  ;  and  at  their  setting  out,  at  their  passing 
the  Temple,  and  at  their  landing,  peals  of  ordnance  were  fired. 
But,  on  reaching  Whitehall,  they  had  the  vexation  to  find  that  the 
heavy  expenses "'  of  this  river-pageant  had  been  incurred  in  vain  ; 
for  the  performance  of  the  masque  was  deferred  till  the  ensuing 
Satm-day.  If  we  might  credit  some  accounts,  the  hall  was  too  densely 
crowded  to  admit  either  the  masquers  or  those  many  ladies  of  rank  who 
were  stationed  in  galleries  to  see  them  land''  :  the  probability,  however, 
seems  to  be  that  the  exhibition  was  postponed  because  the  good  king 
James  (who  did  not  equal  his  queen  in  passionate  love  of  such  spectacles) 
"  was  so  satiated  and  overwearied  with  Watching,  that  he  could  hold 
out  no  longerJ."  At  last,  on  the  appointed  Saturday,  the  masque  was 
performed  "  in  the  new  Banketting-House,  which  for  a  kind  of  Amends 
was  granted  to  them,  though  with  much  Repining  and  Contradiction  of 
their  Emulators.  The  next  Day  the  King  made  them  all  a  solemn  Supper 
in  the  new  Marriage  Room,  and  used  them  so  well  and  graciously,  that 
ne  sent  both  Parties  away  well  pleased  with  this  great  Solemnity^." — 
Beaumont's  Masque  of  the  Inner-Temple  and  Grai/'s  Tnn,  though  not  to 
be  compared  to  the  finest  of  Jonson's  similar  compositions,  displays  at 
least, — what  is  not  to  be  found  in  Chapman's  Masque  of  the  Middle- 
Temple  and  Lincoln  s-Inn, — some  invention  and  some  gracefulness  of 
style. 

While  the  custom  of  acting  only  a  single  piece  a  day  prevailed  almost 

"    Letter  from  Mr.  Chamberlaine  to  Su'  R.  Winwood, — Memorials,  &c.,  iii.  435. 

«•  Above  ,£300,  Id.  ibid. 

"  Id.  ibid.  The  account  given  in  the  preface  to  the  masque  is  nearly  the 
same. 

y  Id.  ibid. — "  Whereupon  Sir  Francis  Bacon  ventured  to  entreat  his  Majesty, 
that  by  tliis  disgrace  he  would  not  as  it  were  bury  them  quick  ;  and  I  hear  the 
King  should  answer,  that  then  they  must  bury  him  quick,  for  he  could  last  no 
longer  ;  but  withall  gave  them  very  good  words,  and  appointed  them  to  come  again 
on  Saturday  ".  Letter  from  Mr.  Chamberlaiiie  to  Sir  Dudley  Carleton, — Nichols's 
Prog,  of  K.  James,  ii.  590. — On  the  15th  (as  mentioned  above)  Chapman's  Masque 
was  performed  at  Whitehall  ;  and  on  the  14th  (Suaiday)  Campion's  Lords'  Masque 
had  been  exhibited  thex'e.  Another  masque  on  the  1 6th  would  have  been  rather 
too  much. 

^  Chamberlaine,  ubi  supra. 


xl  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WHITINGS 

constantly"  at  our  early  theatres,  the  managers,  for  the  sake  of  a 
little  variety,  occasionally  brought  forward  that  peculiar  species  of 
entertainment  which  consisted  of  several  short  and  distinct  plays  re- 
presented icithin  another  play,  and  which  occupied  no  longer  time  in  the 
exhibition  than  a  common  drama.  Concerning  performances  of  this  kind, 
— Three  Plays  in  One,  Four  Plays  in  One,  and  Five  Plays  in  One, — 
various  notices  are  extant  ;  but  no  specimen''  of  them  remains  except  the 
Four  Plays,  or  Moral  Representations  in  One  which  we  have  among 
the  works  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  In  the  composition  of  these  Four 
Plays,  the  date  of  which  is  uncertain,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe 
that  both  our  poets  were  concerned.  They  are  entitled  The  Triumph  of 
Honoztr,  Tlie  Triumph  of  Love,  The  Triumph  of  Death,  and  T1ie  Triumph 
of  Time,  and  they  are  introduced  into  a  fifth  play  (a  mere  frame  to 
contain  them)  as  successive  representations  at  the  nuptials  of  the  King 
and  Queen  of  Portugal. — The  Triumph  of  Honour  has  a  few  well- 
written  passages  amidst  a  great  deal  of  extravagance.  The  Triumjih 
of  Love  is  better,  and  has  afforded  one  very  natural  scene  for  the 
Specimens  of  Lamb.  In  The  Triumph  of  Death  the  authors  have 
evinced  perhaps  a  more  than  usual  tragic  power  :  but,  while  they  strike 
some  deep  notes  which  we  could  wish  that  they  had  repeated  oftener, 
they  outrage  the  feelings  by  one  of  those  atrocities,  which  om-  early 
dramatists,  mistaking  the  horrible  for  the  terrible,  so  frequently  bring 
before  the  eye  in  disgusting  nakedness <=.  The  Triumph  of  Time  is  an 
allegory  supported  with  ingenuity. — Of  the  effect  which  this  kind  of 
entertainment  produced  on  the  spectators,  we  may  judge  from  our  own 
experience  when  modern  managers  "  set  up"  half-a-dozen  short  ikamas 
for  the  same  night, — when  one  piece  effaces  the  impression  of  the  other, 
and  when  we  carry  away  from  the  theatre  little  more  than  a  confused 
recollection  of  charactei-s  and  incidents. 

»  I  should  liave  said  "  prevailed  constantly  ",  had  it  not  been  for  an  entry  by 
Henslowe  which  seems  to  mean  that  "  Times  Triumpfie "  and  "  Fozlm "  were 
played  on  the  same  day,  and  for  a  passage  in  Field's  Amends  for  Ladies  where  one 
of  the  characters  talks  of  going  "  to  see  Long  Mcj  and  The  Ship  at  the  Fortune." 
Vide  Henslowe's  Diary,  p.  8G,  and  Mr.  Collier's  note  ad  loc. — The  ludicrous  metrical 
composition  called  a  jir/,  wliicli  used  to  be  introduced  after  tlie  play,  cei-tainly  does 
not  come  under  the  denomination  of  a  second  dramatic  piece. 

'■  That  i.s,no  complete  specimen.  A  Yorkshire  Trarjcdy  (attributed  to  ShsLkespeare) 
is  termed  on  the  title-page  AlVs  One,  or,  One  of  the  fourc  Plaus  in  One,  &c. :  but  the 
other  three  do  not  exist. 

"  Gabi-iella,  after  murdering  Lavall,  cuts  out  his  heart,  and  throws  it  down,  from 
a  gallery,  on  the  stage. — A  ••  heart  "  must  have  been  among  the  regular  "  proper- 
ties "  of  our  old  theatres,  for  it  was  freciucntly  required.  So,  towards  the  cUjsc  ol 
Ford's/7'M  Pity  she's  n  Whore,  wc  have  the  stage-dii'cction,  ^^  Enter  Giovanni  with  a 
heart  upon  his  dayycr'". 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  xli 

Concerning  tlie  date  of  The  Scornful  Lady,  we  only  know  that  it  was 
brought  upon  the  stage  some  time  between  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Cleve  wars,  1609  *!,  and  the  death  of  Beaumont  (March  1615-16),  who  is 
mentioned  on  the  title-page  of  the  earliest  4to  as  its  joint-author,  and 
who  appears  to  have  written  a  large  proportion  of  it.  I  cannot  agree 
with  those  critics  who  think  that  this  once-popular  piece  is  not  excelled 
by  any  comedy  in  the  collection.  The  two  principal  characters,  the  Lady 
and  the  Elder  Loveless  (the  former  perhaps  one  of  the  authors'  most  original 
conceptions)  are  no  doubt  delineated  with  considerable  force  :  in  the  scenes 
between  them,  dm-ing  the  last  three  acts, — in  the  ingenious  stratagems  by 
which  she  defeats  his  "  most  fine  plots  "  to  win  her,  and  in  the  provoking- 
nonchalance  of  her  triumph,  till,  in  the  end,  he  •'  casts  beyond  her  wit"  and 
completely  "cozens"  her, — there  are  several  highly  comic  situations, 
abundance  of  broad  humour,  and  numerous  points  (obvious  only  to  a  reader 
famiUar  ^vith  the  stage)  which  skilful  performers  could  not  fail  to  seize 
on,  and  to  bring  out  with  great  effect^.  Another  well-drawn  character 
is  the  old  steward  Savil^,  who  when  left  by  the  Elder  Loveless  to  check, 
dm'ing  his  absence,  the  riot  of  his  brother,  is  unable  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tions which  surround  him,  and  becomes  himself  a  reveller  and  a  debauchee. 
But  the  sudden  transformation  of  the  sordid  usurer  Morecraft  into  a  reck- 
less spendthrift,  is  one  of  those  metamorphoses  to  which  even  the  authority 
of  Terence,  who  suggested  it,  will  hardly  reconcile  us  ;  the  authors  have 
unnecessarily  degraded  the  character  of  the  Younger  Loveless  by  adding 
selfishness  and  heartlessness  to  the  more  excusable  vices  of  youth  ;  an 
unusual  coarseness  of  feeling  prevails  throughout  the  whole  play  ;  and  the 

^  See  act  v.  sc.  3,  vol.  iii.  1 04. 

«■  This  comedy,  I  believe,  has  been  banished  from  the  stage  since  the  days  of  Mi"s. 
Abington,  who  appeared  in  an  alteration  of  it ;  see  vol.  iii.  3  ;  and  Memoirs  of  Mrs. 
Siddons,  i.  370,  by  Boaden,  the  best  of  our  critics  on  acting, — Gibber  always 
e.xcepted. 

f  Theobald  states  in  a  note,  that  Addison  told  him  "  he  sketched  out  the 
character  of  Velliun  in  The  Drummer  purely  from  this  model  "  (see  vol.  iii.  3), — 
a  mistake  evidently  on  the  part  of  Theobald  :  the  two  characters  are  totally  different. 
No  doubt,  what  Addison  said  was  tliis — "  that  the  Abigail  of  The  Scornful  Lady  was 
the  model  on  which  he  formed /u's  Abigail  in  The  Drummer" :  as  in  the  former  play 
there  are  the  loves  of  Abigail  and  the  old  chaplain  Sii"  Roger,  so  in  the  latter  we 
have  the  loves  of  Abigail  and  the  old  steward  Vellum,  &c., — Addison  ha\-ing  chvested 
the  waiting-woman  of  her  coarseness  and  licentiousness. — Now-a-days,  when  Cato 
Uves  only  in  the  recollection  of  those  who  have  seen  John  Kemble  act  its  hero, 
and  when  even  The  Spectator  and  The  Tatler  seem  hastening  to  oblivion,  it  is  scarcely 
to  be  expected  that  the  reader  should  have  any  acquaintance  with  a  minor  work  of 
xYddison  :  I  may  therefore  observe,  that,  in  spite  of  its  odd  and  improbable  plot. 
The  Drummer  is  a  comedy  of  considerable  merit,  vei'y  en ti'r twining,  and  with  a  good 
deal  of  that  quiet  humour  so  characteristic  of  Addison. 


xlii  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THt;    LIVES     VXD    AVRITINGS 

dialogue  (of  which,  in  many  places,  we  evidently  possess  a  corrupted  text) 
is  destitute  of  poetic  colouring.  Mr.  Hallani  has  remarked  that  this  is 
"  one  of  those  comedies  which  exliihit  English  domestic  life,  and  have 
therefore  a  value  independent  of  their  dramatic  merit  ?  ".  I  question,  how- 
ever, if  it  deserves  such  particular  mention  as  a  picture  of  the  olden  time  ; 
at  least,  I  am  sure  that  there  are  not  a  few  comedies  hy  third-rate 
authors,  in  which  the  habits  of  our  ancestors  are  more  fully  revealed  and 
more  vividly  depicted  than  in  The  Scornful  Lady. 

The  Captain  •'  appears  to  have  been  first  acted  either  towards  the  end 
of  1612,  or  early  in  the  following  year,  as  we  learn  that,  on  the  20th  of 
May,  1613,  Hemming  was  paid  for  having  presented  it  and  five  other 
plays  at  court.  It  seems  to  have  been  the  unassisted  work  of  Fletcher. 
— It  is  a  very  indifferent  comedy  :  but,  were  its  merits  even  of  a 
high  order,  we  should  scarcely  remember  them  in  the  intense  disgust 
excited  by  one  of  its  scenes, — that  in  which  Lelia  boldly  avows  to  her 
father  the  passion  she  has  conceived  for  him,  and  as  boldly  argues 
in  defence  of  its  lawfulness.  This  is  perhaps  the  most  odious  incident 
in  any  of  our  early  dramas.  Ford  and  Massinger,  indeed,  (not  to 
mention  others,)  have  written  plays  on  the  subject  of  incestuous  love  ; 
but  those  are  tragedies  of  tlie  deepest  horror,  and  in  them  the  guilty 
parties  are  visited  with  signal  punishment.  Fletcher's  Lelia  is,  on  the 
contrary,  a  character  in  a  broad  comedy  ;  and  her  father,  though  at  first 
so  indignant  that  he  threatens  to  destroy  her,  seems  afterwards  to  regard 
the  overture  she  had  made  to  him  as  little  more  than  an  indiscretion 
arising  from  the  heat  of  youthful  blood' ! 

Among  the  plays  performed  at  court  in  1613  was  TJie  History  of 
Cardenioi,  a  drama,    as  the  title  proves,    derived   from   the   story   of 

e  Introd.  to  the  Lit.  of  Europe,  iii.  104.  ed.  184.3. 

''  In  the  introd.  remarks  on  this  comedy  (vol.  iii.  219)  I  cited  a  MS.  note  by  Oldys 
which  states  that  it  was  "acted  at  Court  20  May  1613  by  the  Kings  Comp.,  under 
Jn"  Hemmings,  &c. "  :  but  I  find  from  some  memoranda  concerning  Plays  acted 
at  Court,  from  the  Accounts  of  Lord  Harrington,  kc.  Shakespeare  Soc.  Papers,  ii. 
12.5, — that  the  "  20  May  1613  "  is  the  date  of  the  paxTnent  to  Hemming  for  plays 
performed  at  court,  of  which  The  Captain  was  one,  and  not  the  date  of  the  actual 
l>erformance  of  that  comedy  :  see  the  next  note  but  one. 

i  "  yet,  because 

Her  youth  is  prone  to  fall  again,  ungovem'd. 

And  marriage  now  may  stay  her '",  &c.  act  v.  so.  i.  vol.  iii.  309. 

'  "  In  the  MS.  Register  of  Lord  Stanhope  of  Harrington,  the  play  of  Cardenes 
or  Cardenio  is  said  to  have  been  pei-foi-med  at  Court  in  1613.  Mr.  Malone,  who 
furnishes  me  with  this  notice  ",  kc.  Gifford, — Massinger's  Worls,  iv.  238,  ed.  \H\?,. — 
"  Paid  to  Jolui  Hemmings,  upon  like  Warrant  for  hims«^lf  and  the  rf  st  of  his  fellows, 
his  Majesty's  Senants  and  Players,  for  presenting  a  play  before  the  Duke  of  Savoy's 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  xliii 

Cardeuio  in  Don  Quixote ;  and  it  was  entered  on  the  Stationers'  Books, 
as  the  joint-production  of  Fletcher  and  Shakespeare,  9th  September, 
1653*^,  but  never  given  to  the  press.  The  Stationers'  Books  are  not 
always  to  be  depended  upon  as  evidence  in  matters  of  authorship  ;  and 
in  the  present  case,  though  they  may  be  right  with  respect  to  Fletcher, 
I  have  little  or  no  doubt  that  they  are  wrong  with  respect  to  Shakespeare. 
According  to  Weber,  "if  we  admit  that  Shakespeare  assisted  Fletcher 
in  The  Txoo  Noble  Kinsmen,  it  will  not  be  altogether  improbable  that  he 
assisted  him  in  Cardenio  ^"  I  must  here  anticipate  my  remarks  on  The 
Two  Noble  Kinsmen  so  far  as  to  say  that,  while  I  am  fidly  convinced 
that  a  large  portion  of  it  is  from  Shakespeare's  pen,  I  deny  that  it  was 
composed  by  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher  in  conjunction. — Cardenio  is  sup- 
posed by  some  critics  to  have  been  that  tragi-comedy  which  Theobald 
published  in  1728  under  the  title  of  Double  Falsehood,  or,  The  Distrest 
Lovers.  Written  originally  by  W.  Shakespeare,  &c.  Of  this  piece 
Theobald  possessed  three  manuscript  copies °\     In  "revising  and  adapt- 

Embassador,  on  the  8th  of  June,  1613,  called  Cardema,  the  sum  of  £6.8.4.": 
"Item,  paid  to  the  said  John  Hemings,  20th  May,  1613,  for  preseutuig  si.x 
several  plays,  viz.,  one  play  called  A  had  bccjinning  makes  a  good  ending;  one 
other,  called  Tlie  Captain;  one.  The  Alchemist ;  one  other,  Cardano ;  one  other. 
Hotspur  ;  one  other,  Benedicite  and  Bettris  ;  all  played  in  the  time  of  this  accoxmt. 
Paid  40  pounds,  and  by  way  of  his  Majesty's  reward  20  pounds  more,  £60  ". — 
Memoranda  concerning  Plays  acted  at  Court, frotnthe  Accounts  of  Lord  Harrington, 
&c.  Sfiakespcare  Soc.  Papers,  ii.  125.  It  is  evident  that  "  Cardema  "  of  the  first 
entry,  and  "  Cardano  "  of  the  second,  shoidd  be  "  Cardenio  ".  For  "  Benedicite 
and  Bettris  "  read  "  Benedict  and  Bettris  [Beatrice],"  i.  e.  Shakespeare's  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing. 

^  The  author  oi  Lives  of  the  Dramatists  (Lardner's  Cyclopcedia)  states  that  Cardenio 
wa.s  printed  in  1653,  and  proceeds  to  speak  of  it  as  if  he  had  read  it  :  vol.  i.  249. 
This  gentleman's  taste  is  on  a  par  with  his  accuracy  :  he  says  that  Cymbeline 
is  "  a  poor  drama,  and  perhaps  one  that  Shakespeare  did  not  compose,  but  merely 
improved,"  and  that  Tlie  Winter^s  Tale  "  is  unworthy  of  Shakespeare's  genius."  pp. 
120,  121. 

'  Introd.  to  the  Woi'Jcs  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  xxiv. 

>"  "  One  of  the  Manuscript  Copies,  wliich  I  have,  is  of  above  Sixty  Years'  Standing, 
in  the  Hand-writing  of  Mr.  Downes,  the  famous  Old  Prompter  ;  and,  as  I  am 
credibly  inform'd,  was  early  in  the  Possession  of  the  celebrated  Mr.  Betterton,  and 
by  Him  design'd  to  have  been  usher'd  into  the  World.  What  Accident  prevented 
This  Purpose  of  his,  I  do  not  preteud  to  liuow  :  Or  thi-o'  what  hands  it  had  succes- 
sively pass'd  before  that  Period  of  Time.  There  is  a  Tradition  (which  I  have  from 
the  Noble  Person,  who  supply'd  me  with  One  of  my  Copies)  that  it  was  given  by 
om-  Author,  as  a  Present  of  Value,  to  a  Natm-al  Daughter  of  his,  for  whose  Sake  he 
wrote  it,  in  the  Time  of  his  Retu-ement  from  the  Stage.  Two  other  Copies  I  have, 
(one  of  wliich  I  was  glad  to  pm'chase  at  a  very  good  Rate,)  which  may  not,  perhaps, 
be  quite  so  Old  as  the  Former  ;  but  One  of  Them  is  much  more  perfect,  and  has 
fewer  Flaws  and  Interi'uptions  in  the  Sense."  Theobald's  Preface. 


Xliv  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

in^  it  to  the  stage"",  he  undoubtedly  made  many  violent  alterations: 
enough,  however,  of  the  genuine  text  remains  to  shew  that,  in  spite  of 
one  or  two  pleasing  passages  °,  the  play  was  originally  a  very  poor 
performance.  I  do  not  beUeve  it  to  be  the  Cardenio  of  1613.  It  is 
founded,  indeed,  on  the  story  in  Don  Quixote :  but  it  has  no  character 
named  Cardenio  ;  and  the  style  bears  less  resemblance  to  Fletcher's 
than  to  Shirley's.  I  agree  with  Dr.  Farmer  P  in  attributing  it  to 
the  latter  dramatist,  whose  name  abbreviated  "Sh."  in  one  of  the 
three  manuscripts  may  have  been  mistaken  (and  perhaps  wilfully)  for 
"  Shakespeare." 

The  Honest  Man's  Fortune  ^i  was  first  played  in  1G13.  If  Weber  be 
wrong  in  assigning  the  greater  part  of  it  to  Beaumont,  there  is  at  least 
every  reason  to  suppose  that  it  was  written  by  our  authors  in  conjunction. 
— Taken  altogether,  it  is  a  drama  of  superior  merit  :  it  has  some  very 
animated  and  effective  scenes,  and  occasional  gnomic  passages  which 
strike  me  as  possessing  more  depth  of  thought  than  is  usual  with  our 
authors.  Montague,  "the  honest  man",  who  preserves  his  mild 
dignity  of  character  and  his  cheerfulness  of  temper  under  the  most 
adverse  circumstances,  is  drawn  with  a  vigorous  pencil  ;  and 
our  curiosity  to  learn  what  "fortune  "  will  eventually  attend  him  is 
unabated  till  the  very  close   of  the  play.     The  page  Yeramour  is   a 

"  It  was  acted  with  success  at  Drury-lane  Theatre  m  1 728,  and  revived  at  Covent- 
Gardcn  Theatre  more  than  once  at  much  later  periods  :  the  Covent-Garden  play-bill 
for  Hull's  benefit,  6th  May,  1767,  amioimces  the  DovMe  Falsehood  "by  pai'ticular 
desire.     Acted  but  once  these  twenty-five  years." 
"  e.  g.  "  Strike  up,  my  masters  : 

But  touch  the  strings  with  a  religious  softness  ; 
Teach  sound  to  languish  through  the  Night's  dull  ear. 
Till  ^lelancholy  start  from  her  lazy  couch, 
And  Carelessness  grow  convert  to  attention."  p.  10. 
(Tlie  above  passage   being  greatly  admired,  Theobald  declared  tliat  it  was  the   only 
one  in   the  whole  play  which  he  had  wi-itten.) 

"  When  lovers  swear  time  faith,  the  Ustening  angels 
Stand  on  the  golden  battlements  of  heaven, 
And  waft  their  vows  to  the  eternal  throne."  p.  63. 
Among  the   lines   of    the    Donllc    Falsehood    which   Pope    unjustly  ridiculed  in 
Martinus  Scrillei'us  Ile^l  BaOovs,  &c.  one  is,  "  None  but  itself  can  be  its  jiarallel," 
p.  2.5.     Such  phraseology  may  be  defended  by  examples,  not  only  from  our  early 
dramatists,  but  from  foreign  writers  also  :    "  Et  leurs  playes,  dissemblables  a  toutes 
autres,  n'avoient rien  de  semblable,  ny  de  pareil,  qu'elles  mesmes."  /list. des  Amours 
de  Lysandre  et  de  Caliste,  p.  ■2,55,  ed.  1663. 

'■  Essay  on  the  Learnhtf)  of  Shakespeare. — The  wTiter  of  an  article  on  Jones's  ed.  of 
the  Bid^.  Dram,  observes  that  "  the  internal  evidence  of  that  play  strongly  confirms 
his  [Farmer's]  decision."     Quart.  liiv.  vii.  2.'»0. 

'I  In  the  present  edition  the  text  of  this  play  is  gi'eatly  amended  from  a  M.S. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  xlv 

pretty  sketcli  ;  but  his  affection  for  Montague  is  carried  to  a  ridiculous 
and  even  somewhat  offensive  excess  when  he  shews  himself  jealous  of 
his  master's  attentions  to  the  other  sex.  The  hatred  which  Orleans 
bears  to  his  wife  seems  to  be  about  as  unreasonable  as  the  suddenness 
with  which  he  at  last  awakens  to  a  sense  of  her  virtues. — Appended  to 
this  tragi-comedy  is  a  long  copy  of  verses  by  Fletcher  Ujwn  an  honest 
mans  fortune  :  some  of  the  lines  are  impressive,  and  the  whole  has  an 
air  of  sincerity. 

In  1613  Beaumont  composed  an  elegy  (entirely  worthless)  on  Lady 
Penelope  Clifton,  who  died  26  th  October  of  that  year:  she  was  the  daughter 
of  Robei-t  Rich,  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  wife  of  Sir  Gervase  Clifton,  baronet. 
Drayton,  too,  made  her  the  subject  of  an  elegy""  ;  and  our  poet's  elder 
brother.  Sir  .John  Beaumont,  has  verses  To  the  immoftall  memory  of  the 
fairest  and  most  vertnous  lady,  the  Lady  CI f ton,  which  conclude  thus  ; 
"  Thy  image  lives  in  thy  sad  husband's  heart ; 

Who,  as  when  he  enjoy'd  thee,  he  was  cliiefe 

In  love  and  comfort,  so  is  he  now  in  griefe.*" 

Sir  Gervase,  however,  did  not  remain  inconsolable  ;  he  had  afterwards 
a  series  of  six  wives. 

For  The  Little  French  Lawyer,  a  play  of  uncertain  date,  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  seem  to  have  combined  their  talents. — Though  it  possesses 
no  mean  attractions  in  the  pleasant  whimsicalness  of  La- Writ,  and  in  the 
many  beautiful  passages  of  the  serious  scenes,  it  cannot  be  reckoned 
among  the  very  best  of  our  authors 'comedies.  A'gooddeal  of  it  is  high  far^e; 
and  some  of  the  incidents  are  rather  forced  and  melodramatic.  La- Writ, 
the  lawyer, — who,  being  persuaded  by  a  stranger  to  aid  him  as  second  in 
a  duel,  and  happening  to  prove  victorious  in  that  encounter,  becomes  so 
fond  of  fighting  that  he  neglects  his  business,  and  sets  up  as  a  regular 
duellist, — is  a  character  conceived  in  the  style  of  Ben  Jonson,  and,  in 
some  respects,  not  unworthy  of  that  great  master  of  "humours."  The 
first  three  scenes  in  which  La- Writ  appeai-s  are  excellent  of  their  kind, — 
most  amusing  exaggerations  of  the  ludicrous,  with  infinite  ease,  smart- 
ness, and  rapidity  of  dialogue.  But,  in  what  follows,  he  shews  to  less 
advantage  ;  and  when  he  challenges  a  venerable  judge  for  giving  a 
decision  in  court  against  him,  we  must  suppose  that  he  has  lost  his 
understanding  as  well  as  his  "  suits  ".  The  other  dramatis  personte  are 
not  delineated  with  such  skill  as  to  demand  particular  notice.  Those 
who  think  that  I  have  undervalued  this  play  may  defend  their  opinion 
by  citing  from  the  Table-Talk  of  Coleridge, — "  The  Little  French  Lawyer 
is  excellent.  La- Writ  is  conceived  and  executed  from  first  to  last  in 
genuine  comic  humour  ^" 

'  See  Elegies  appended  to  The  Battaile  of  A[/inrourt,  Sec.  1627,  p.  198. 
"  Bosworth-field,  &c.,  1629,  p.  175.  »  ii.  119,  ed.  1835. 


xlvi  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WllITINCiS 

Wit  at  several  Weapons,  another  play  of  uncertain  date,  was  most 
probably  a  joint -effort  of  our  poets.  If  we  may  trust  the  epilogue 
spoken  at  a  revival,  it  was  originally  "well  received." — The  plot  of 
this  comedy  is  badly  managed  ;  the  characters  are  either  meagre  or 
overdone  ;  and  the  writing  is  uniformly  mean  :  yet,  like  most  of  even 
the  worst  dramas  in  the  collection,  it  is,  to  a  certain  degree,  interesting 
from  the  mere  force  of  incident. 

Wit  without  Money  was  certainly  produced  after  August,  1614".  That 
Beaumont  had  a  hand  in  it  appears  to  me  extremely  doubtful ;  but, 
according  to  Mr.  Darley,  it  "  has  a  solid  Beaumontesque  air^." — This  is 
a  genuine  comedy,  with  a  well-conducted  plot,  and  a  constant  flow  of 
humorous  dialogue.  Its  hero,  the  spendthrift  Valentine,  light-hearted, 
careless,  yet  not  altogether  depraved  or  unfeeling,  is  a  masterly  delinea- 
tion,— more  highly-finished,  I  think,  and  certainly  more  pleasing,  than 
any  of  the  characters  which  most  resemble  him  in  om-  authors'  other 
plays.  The  present  comedy  was  one  of  those  alluded  to  by  Dryden 
when  he  said  that  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  "  understood  and  imitated  the 
conversation  of  gentlemen  much  better  [than  Shakespeare]  ;  whose  wild 
debaucheries,  and  quickness  of  wit  in  repartees,  no  poet  before  them 
could  paint  as  they  have  done^''."  True  it  is  that  thoy  painted  such 
"gentlemen  '  excellently  ;  but  Shakespeare  would  not  have  agreed  with 
Dryden  in  his  acceptation  of  the  word.  Xext  to  Valentine,  the  free-spoken 
widow  Lady  Heartwell  is  the  character  most  efficiently  brought  out  :  the 
other  personages,  though  they  all  contribute  more  or  less  to  the  interest 
of  the  scene,  are  comparatively  sketches. 

The  date  of  The  Faithful  Friends  is  not  known.  It  was  entered  on 
the  Stationers'  Books  as  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's,  29th  June,  1660  ; 
but  it  remained  in  manuscript  till  1812,  when  it  was  edited  by  Weber 
from  a  prompter's  copy,  which  also  assigns  it  to  our  poets.  I  neverthe- 
less greatly  question  if  either  of  them  had  any  share  in  this  tragi-comedy, 
which,  to  say  nothing  of  its  slender  merits,  is  every  where  dissimilar  in 
style  to  their  undoubted  dramas  :  the  larger  portion  of  it  is  evidently  by 
some  inferior  play-wright. 

At  the  same  time  with  The  Faithful  Friends  i\fO  other  pieces  were  en- 
tered on  the  Stationers'  Books, — A  Right  Woman  and  The  History  if 
Mailor,  King  of  Great  Britain,  the  former  as  composed  by  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  the  latter  as  the  unassisted  work  of  Beaumont.  They  were 
certainly  never  given  to  the  press,  and  probably  have  perished. — One  of 
Massinger's  dramas  (licensed  for  the  stage,  6th  .Tunc.  1034,  and  printed  in 
1655)  is  entitled  A  Very  Woman  ;  and,  as  the  prologue  informs  us,  is  an 

"  See  act  ii.  sc.  4,  vol.  iv.  1-2K.  »  Introd.tothe  Worhof  B.  and  F.,  i>.  1. 

"'^  On  Dram.  Poesy, —  Prone  WorLn,  Vol.  i.  P.  ii.  p.  100,  cd.  Malone. 


or    BEAUMONT    AND     FLETCHER.  xlvii 

alteration  of  an  earlier  play^^.  May  we  not  conjecture  that  it  is  a 
rifacimento  of  A  Right  Woman,  in  which  piece  Massinger  might  have 
been  originally  concerned  ? 

The  Widow  would  seem  to  have  been  produced  soon  after  November, 
1615 ''■.  The  title-page  of  the  only  old  edition  attributes  it  to  Jonson, 
Fletcher,  and  Middleton.  That  the  last-mentioned  dramatist  was  the 
principal  writer  of  this  comedy  is  evident  enough  :  in  several  scenes  the 
pen  of  Jonson  may  be  distinctly  traced  ;  but  Fletcher's  share  in  it  (if 
indeed  he  bore  any)  must  have  been  very  unimportant. —  The  Widow  is 
considerably  above  mediocrity,  and  was  more  than  once  revived. 

In  1628  The  Custoyn  of  the  Country  was  considered  as  "  an  old  playy"  ; 
but  how  many  years  had  intervened  between  that  date  and  its  first  appear- 
ance on  the  stage,  we  are  unable  to  determine.  Whether  any  portion  of 
it  was  composed  by  Beaumont  is  also  uncertain. — ^While  for  interest 
and  happy  management  of  the  plot,  for  contrast  of  character,  and  for 
beauty  of  style,  The  Custom  of  the  Country  yields  to  few  plays  in  this 
collection,  it  is  unfortunately  the  very  grossest  of  them  all. — The  many 
offences  against  decency  which  our  poets  have  committed  are  only  to  be 
extenuated  on  the  plea,  that  they  sacrificed  their  own  taste  and  feelings 
to  the  fashion  of  the  times.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  most 
unblushing  licentiousness  both  in  conversation  and  practice  prevailed 
among  the  courtiers  of  James  the  First :  we  know  too  that  "  to  be  like 
the  Court  was  a  playe's  praise^"  ;  and  for  the  sake  of  such  "  praise  " 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  did  not  scruple  to  deform  their  dramas  with 
ribaldry, — little  imagining  how  deeply,  in  consequence  of  that  base  alloy, 
their  reputation  would  eventually  suffer  "at  the  coming  of  the  better 
day."  In  this  respect  they  sinned  more  grievously  than  any  of  their 
contemporary  play-wrights  :  but  most  of  the  others  have  enough  to  answer 
for  ;  nor  was  Shakespeare  himself  completely  proof  against  the  con- 
taminating influence  of  his  age^. — The  example  of  Charles  tlie  First 
is  generally  supposed  to  have  given  a  higher  tone  to  the  morals  of  our 
nobility  and  gentry  ;  yet,  shortly  before  the  death  of  that  monarch,  we 
find  Lovelace  extoUing  the  art  with  which  in  the  present  play  a  veil  of 
seeming  modesty  is  thrown  over  obscenity  ; 

^  GifiTord  (Massinger's  Worlcs,  iv.  238,  ed.  1813)  thinks  that  A  Very  Woman  is  an 
alteration  either  of  Massinger's  Spanish  Viceroy  (acted  in  1634)  or  of  The  History 
of  Cardenio  (acted  at  court  in  1613— seep,  xliii  of  this  Memoir).  Assuredly,  it  is  not 
an  alteration  of  Cardenio.  "  See  vol.  iv.  303. 

7  See  vol.  iv.  387.  '•  Domie— To  Sir  II.  Wotton,  Poems,  p.  77,  ed.  1633. 

"  Though  Mr.  Wordsworth's  opinion  is  against  me  [Siop.  to  Preface,  —Poet.  TFoj'fc, 
iii.  325.  ed.  1837),  I  must  think  that  it  is  a  mere  dream  of  criticism  to  imagine  that 
the  grosser  passages  in  Shakespeare's  writings  were  foisted  in  by  the  players. 


Xl\lll  SOME    ACCOUNT    OK    THE     LIVES    AND    WIUTINGS 

"  View  here  a  loose  thought  said  with  such  a  grace, 
Minerva  might  iiave  spoke  in  Venus'  face  ; 
So  well  ilisguis'd,  that  'twas  conceiv'd  hy  none 
But  Cupid  had  Diana's  linen  on''"  : — 

it  would  bo  curious  to  know  what  was  Lovelace's  idea  of  downright 
coarseness! — Dryden,  in  the  last  of  his  Prefaces,  and  while  he  was  yet 
smarting-  under  the  attack  of  Collier,  declared  "  there  is  more  bawdry 
in  one  play  of  Fletcher's,  called  Th;  Custom  of  the  Country,  than  in  all 
ours  together''."  But  this  was  a  very  bold  assertion.  If  Dryden  and 
the  other  dramatists  of  Charles  the  Second's  time  did  not  equal  their 
predecessors  in  open  licentiousness  (and  of  that  they  have  a  tolerable 
share),  they  far  exceeded  them  in  wanton  innuendoes  and  allusions''. 
— The  truth  is,  the  greater  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  had  passed 
away,  before  indecency  was  wholly  banished  from  the  writings  of  our 
countrymen"^  :  even  in  the  pages  of  Addison,  who  did  so  much  towards 
the  purification  of  English  literature,  there  are  passages  which  may 
occasion  some  slight  uneasiness  to  one  reading  aloud  in  a  family  circle. 

Thi  Laxrs  of  Candy,  a  tragi-comedy  of  uncertain  date,  is  generally 
reckoned,  and  perhaps  rightly,  among  the  joint-compositions  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher.     Little  can  be  said  in  its  commendation. 

Though  the  following  document  (a  melancholy  proof  of  the  penury 
which  oppressed  our  early  dramatists)  has  already  appeared  in  several 
well-known  publications,  it  must  necessarily  form  a  portion  of  the  present 
memoir.  Malone*^  fixes  its  date  between  the  years  1612  and  IGly. 
Henslowe,  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  died  on  the  Gth  of  January, 
1615-16  ". — However  we  may  disbelieve  the  partnership  of  Fletcher  and 
Shakespeare  in  Cardenio  (see  p.  xliii),  we  have  here  unquestionable 
evidence  that,  even  during  Beaumont's  life-time,  Fletcher  was  occasion- 
ally associated  in  dramatic  composition  with  other  poets. 

•>  Commend.  Poems,  vol.  i.  xxv. 

'^  Preface  to  the  Fables. 

•^  "Itaquidem  ethnicum  hunc  [Aristophancm]  longe  esse  innocentiorem  duco 
multis  nostris  comuediarum  scriptoriljus,  qui  niiscris  ct  perditis  alcndis  aiigondis(|ue 
amoribus  animos  cfTeminant  atque  enervant,  et  quum  verecuiidiam  siniulent,  fuco 
atquc  pignicntis  flagitiosa  condunt,  neque  ad  risum  apertuin  sed  ad  libidinem  occultam 
alliciunt,  et  innatos  hominil)us  igniculos  ad  morum  pravitatem  detorquent."  Reisig, — 
Prccf.  in  Conjcct.  in   Aristoph.,  p.  4. 

*•  Some  worlis,  indeed,  have  appeared  in  our  own  day  which  are  objectionable 
enough  on  the  score  of  occasional  iudecency, — such  as  the  Younger  Cf)lman's  poems 
and  Byron's  Don  Juan :  but  these  are  rare  exceptions. 

'  Sliakespcarc  (l>y  Boswell),  iii.  336. 

«  Henslowe, "  bejiig  sicke  in  bodye,  but  of  perfect  mynde  and  memorye",  made 
his  Will,  fi"'  Jano  161.'-)-lfi  ;  on  which  day,  no  doubt,  he  died  ;  f,.r  the  Will  was 
jiroved  the  day  after.     lici/istry  of  the  Prer.  Cmirt. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  xlix 

"  To  our  most  louing  frend  Mr.  Phillip  Henchlow  Esquire,  these  : 
«  Mr.  Hinchlow, 

You  vnderstand  our  vnfortunate  extremitie,  and  I  do  not 
thincke  you  so  void  of  christiauitie,  but  that  you  would  throw  so  much  money  into 
the  Thames  as  wee  request  now  of  you.  rather  then  endanger  so  many  innocent 
liues  :  you  know  there  is  x'  more  at  least  to  be  receaued  of  you  for  the  play  :  wee 
desire  you  to  lend  vs  v'  of  that,  which  shall  be  allowed  to  you,  without  which  wee 
cannot  be  bayled,  nor  I  play  any  more  till  this  be  dispatch'd  ;  it  will  loose  you  xx' 
ere  the  end  of  the  next  weeke,  beside  the  liinderance  of  the  next  new  play.  Pray, 
sir,  consider  our  cases  with  humanitie,  and  now  giue  vs  cause  to  acknowledge  you 
our  time  freind  in  time  of  neede.  Wee  haue  entreated  Mr.  Dauison  to  deliuer  this 
note,  as  well  to  wittnesse  your  loue  as  our  promises,  and  allwayes  acknowledgment 
to  be  euer 

Your  most  thanckfull  and  louing  fi'einds, 
Nat.  Field''. 
"  The  mony  shall  be  abated  out  of  the  mony 
remaynes  for  the  play  of  3fr  Fletcher  and  ovu's, 

Rob.  Daborne'.  J      "I  have  ever  founde  yow  a  true 

lovinge  freinde  to  mee,  and  in  soe 
small  a  suite,  it  beeinge  honest,  I 
hope  yow  will  not  faile  vs, 

Philip  Massinger." 

On  the  back  of  the  letter,  below  the  direction,  is  the  following  receipt ; 

"  Rec.  by  mee  Robert  Dauison  of  Mr.  Hinshloe  for  the  vse  of  Mr.  Daboera, 
Mr.  Feeld,  Mr.  Messenger,  the  some  of  v', 

Robert  Dauisonj." 

Concerning  the  above-mentioned  "play  of  Mr.  Fletcher  and  ours" 
we  have  no  further  information.  Weber"^  conjectures  that  it  was  The 
Jeweller  of  Amsterdam,  or,  The  Hague,  which  was  entered  on  the 
Stationers'   Books,   8th  April,    1654,   as  the  joint-work  of   Fletcher, 

h  Concerning  Field,  see  note,  vol.  ii.  (3. 

■  Robert  Daborne  (immeasurably  inferior  as  a  dramatist  to  Fletcher  or 
Massinger,  and  considerably  so  to  Field)  wrote  sundry  plays,  of  which  only  two  are 
extant,  A  Christian  turn'd  TurJce,  printed  in  1 6 1 2,  and  The  Poor  Man's  Comfort, 
printed  in  1655.  He  had  received  a  university  education,  for  he  styles  himself 
Master  of  Arts  ;  and  he  appears  to  have  possessed  some  property,  but  to  have 
been  involved  in  law-suits,  which,  dui'ing  his  connection  with  the  stage,  kept  him 
in  constant  poverty.  See  many  particulars  concerning  him  in  The  Alleyn  Papers, 
edited  for  the  Shakespeare  Soc.  by  Mr.  J.  P.  Collier,  pp.  48 — 82.  He  eventually 
took  holy  orders,  and  seems  to  have  been  beneficed  in  Ireland.  A  sermon  preached 
by  liim  at  Waterford  was  printed  in  1618. 

i  This  document  (first  printed  by  Malone)  is  preserved  at  Dulwich  College.  It  is 
now  given  (but  without  abbreviations  and  with  modern  pimctuation)  from  a  fac- 
simile of  the  origuial,  which  was  executed,  for  private  distribution,  under  the 
superintendence  of  Mr.  J.  P.  Collier. 

■^  Introd.  to  the  Worls  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  xx\niL 
VOL.  I.  4 


1  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

Field,  and  Massingor,  but  never  printed  ;  nor  does  the  omission  of 
Daborne's  name  in  that  entry  (which  might  have  been  either  intentional 
or  through  negligence)  weaken  the  probability  of  the  conjecture. 

It  has  been  inferred  from  the  preceding  letter  that  Fletcher  was 
not  in  such  a  wretched  state  of  poverty  as  his  associates  ;  an  inference 
which  is  certainly  warrantable.  But  (as  I  have  already  observed,  p.  xxvii) 
we  are  not  therefore  to  conclude  that  he  was  in  circumstances  which 
rendered  him  independent  of  the  stage  :  he  had  evidently  forsaken  all 
other  pursuits  to  become  a  playwright  by  profession  ;  and  he  continued 
to  toil  at  dramatic  composition  with  a  perseverance  which  evinces  that 
emolimient  must  have  been  his  chief  object. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Beaumont  kept  up  an  intercourse  with  his 
family  by  occasionally  retiring  from  London  into  Leicestershire  ;  and  his 
Letter  to  Ben  Jonson^  was  most  probably  written  during  a  visit  to 
Grace-dieu,  whither  Fletcher  had  accompanied  him.  It  is  chiefly  in- 
teresting from  the  following  enthusiastic  allusion  to  their  convivial 
meetings  at  the  Mermaid  in  Friday-street  "^,  as  members  of  a  club  which 
had  been  instituted  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  and  which  long  numbered  on 
its  list  whatever  names  were  most  illustrious  for  genius  or  learning, — 
the  passage  perhaps  pointing  more  particularly  at  those  sportive  "  wit- 
combats"",  in  which,  to  the  delight  of  the  company,  Shakespeare  and 
Jonson  would  frequently  engage  ; 

"  What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  !  heard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimhle,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest, 
And  had  resolv'd  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life  ;  then  when  there  hath  been  thrown 
Wit  able  enough  to  justify  the  town 


•  It  stands  in  both  the  folios  at  the  end  of  The  Nice  Valour,  vr  the  Passionate 
Madman,  and  is  entitled  Master  Francis  Beaumonfs  Letter  to  Ben  Jonson,  written 
before  he  and  Master  Fletcher  came  to  London,  with  two  of  the  jyrecedent  comedies  then 
not  finished,  which  deferred  their  merry  meetings  at  tlbc  Mermaid. 

"•  Weber  and  others  say  "  in  Comhill "  :  but  see  note,  vol.  iv.  129. — «  Here  [at  the 
Mermaid],"  observes  Gilford,  "  for  many  years,  he  [Jonson]  regularly  repaired  with 
Shakespeare,  Beaumont,  Fletcher.  Selden,  Cotton,  Carew,  Mai-tin,  Donne,  and  many 
others,  whose  names,  even  at  this  distant  period,  call  up  a  mingled  feeling  of 
reverence  and  respect."  Man.  of  Jonson,  \>.  Ixvi. 

"  "Many  were  the  wit-combates  betwixt  him  [Shakespeare]  and  Ben  John.=on, 
which  two  I  behold  like  a  Spanish  great  Gallion  and  an  English  man  of  war.  Master 
Johnson  (Uke  the  former)  was  built  far  higher  in  Learning,  Solid,  but  Slow  in  his 
performances.  Shakespear,  with  the  English  man  of  war,  lesser  in  bulk,  but  hghter 
in  sailing,  could  turn  with  all  tides,  tack  about,  and  take  advantage  of  all  winds,  by 
the  quickness  of  his  Wit  and  Invention."  Fuller's  Worth  us  ( Warwick.),  p.  1 2C,  ed.  1  fifi2. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  ll 

For  three  days  past ;  wit  that  might  warrant  be 

For  the  whole  city  to  talk  foolishly 

Till  that  were  cancell'd  ;  and  when  that  was  gone, 

We  left  an  air  behind  us,  which  alone 

Was  able  to  make  the  two  next  companies 

(Right  witty,  tliough  but  downright  fools)  moi'e  wise"." 

In  answer  to  this  epistle,  and  in  return  for  the  other  laudatory  verses i' 
which  he  had  received  from  Beaumont,  a  short  poem  was  composed  by 
Jonson  in  his  happiest  manner  ; 

"  To  Francis  Beaumont. 
"  How  1  do  love  thee,  Beaumont,  and  thy  Muse, 
That  unto  me  dost  such  rehgion  use ! 
How  I  do  fear  myself,  that  am  not  worth 
The  least  indulgent  thought  thy  pen  drops  forth  ! 
At  once  thou  mak'st  me  happy,  and  unmak'st, 
And,  giving  largely  to  me,  more  thou  tak'st. 
What  fate  is  mine,  that  so  itself  bereaves  ! 
What  art  is  tliine,  that  so  thy  friend  deceives. 
When  even  there,  where  most  thou  praisest  me. 
For  writing  better  I  must  envy  thee*! !" 

Nor  ought  we  to  question  the  sincerity  of  these  beautiful  lines,  because 
we  read  in  Jonson's  recorded  Cotiversatiotis  at  Hawthornden  "that 
Francis  Beaumont  loved  too  much  himself  and  his  own  verses'" "  : 
self-love  is  often  the  besetting  weakness  of  poets  ;  and  friendship  had 
not  rendered  Jonson  blind  to  that  infirmity  in  the  youthful  dramatist. 

What  remains  to  be  told  concerning  Beaumont  falls  under  the  present 
division  of  this  memoir. — We  are  ignorant  at  what  period  he  became  a 
husband  :  but  I  am  inclined  to  fix  the  date  of  his  marriage  about  1613. 
His  wife  was  Ursida,  daughter  and  coheir  to  Henry  Isley  of  Sundridge  in 
Kent^.     The  Isleys  had  been  long  settled  in  that  parish,  and  were  a 

°  Vol.  xi.  501. 

p  Lines  prefixed  to  The  Fox,  TJie  Silent  TFonia«,  and  Cataline  (already  mentioned). 

<i  These  lines  (which  occur  among  the  Commendatory  Poems  on  B.  and  F.,  vol.  i. 
xlvi)  were  first  printed  among  Jonson's  Eingrams  .•  see  his  Works,  viii.  1 8  0,  by  Gifford, 
who  observes,  "  This  short  poem  is  an  answer  to  a  letter,  which  Beaumont,"  &c. 

'  Notes  of  Jonson's  Conversatiom  with  Drummond,  p.  10,  ed.  Shake.  Soc. 

''  "  Ursida  fil .  et  cohaeres  Hen :  Isley  de  Sundridge  in  Kent."  MS.  Vincent's  Leicester, 
1619,  College  of  Arms:  and  see  too  MS.  Visitation  of  Leicester,  1683,  Ibid. — Had  it 
not  been  for  the  authorities  just  cited,  I  should  have  supposed  that  Ursula  was  only 
the  step-daughter  of  Henry  Isley ;  for  in  his  Will,  which  was  proved  3rd  September, 
1599,  he  declares  as  follows.  "  I  doe  will  devise  and  gyve  all  and  singuler  my  manners, 
landes,  tenements,  and  hereditaments,  in  the  coimtie  of  Kent  or  els  where  within  the 
realme  of  England,  vnto  Jane  my  lovinge  wief  m  fee  simple,  riz'  to  her  and  her  heires 
for  euer,  to  the  end  and  purpose  that  she  maye  and  doe  sell  or  otherwise  dispose  at 

4" 


lii  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

family  of  some  note  :  it  would  seem,  however,  tliat  before  the  time  of 
Beaumont's  marriage  nmch  of  their  property  had  passed  into  other  hands'. 
Beaumont  died  on  the  Gth  of  March,  1615-16",  and  was  buried,  on  the 
0th  of  that  month ^',  at  the  entrance  of  St.  Benedict's  Chapel,  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  near  the  Earl  of  Middlesex's  monument.  It  is  said  that 
he  had  not  completed  his  thirtieth  year"".  No  inscription  was  placed  upon 
his  grave. — The  cause  of  his  death,  as  Mr,  Darlcy  remarks'^,  seems  to 
be  indicated  in  the  verses  wliich  were  written  to  his  memory, — 

"  So  dearly  hast  tliou  bought  thy  precious  lines  ; 
Their  praise  grew  swiftly,  as  thy  life  declines." 

"  Beaumont  is  dead,  by  whose  sole  death  appears. 
Wit's  a  disease  consumes  men  in  few  yearsy." 

Two  daughters  were  the  fruit  of  his  marriage, — Elizabeth,  and  Frances 
(a  posthumous  child).  Elizabeth  married  "a  Scotch  colonel,"  and  was 
resident  in  Scotland  in  March  1681-2.  Frances  was  living  unmarried, 
at  a  great  age,  in  Leicestershire  in  1700,  and  was  then  receiving  a  pension 
of  .£100  a  year  from  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  in  whose  family  she  had  been 
for  some  time  domesticated.  She  is  reported  to  have  possessed  several 
unpublished  poems  by  her  father,  which  were  lost  on  the  passage  from 
Ireland  to  England ^ 

her  discretion  the  same,  or  such  parte  or  soe  much  thereof  as  to  her  shall  seeme  fitt, 
for  the  paycment  of  all  my  iust  and  true  debts  -  -  -  -  and  also  for  the  bringinge  vp 
and  preferment  in  maryage  of  Vvsula  and  Vtia,  the  two  daughters  or  children  of  Iter 
the  said  Jane  my  lovinr/e  wief."  Rcr/istry  of  the  Prer.  Court. 

«  "  The  family  of  Isk  or  Isley,  called  in  French  deeds  Uisle,  and  in  Latin  ones 
De  Insula,  was  seated  in  this  parish  in  very  early  times."  Hasted's  Hist,  of  Kent, 
i.  368.     See  2d.  p.  369, 

«  «0b.  GMartii,  1615."  MS.  Vincent's  Leicester,  1619,  Collc<je  of  Arms. 

'  "  Sepult.  apud  Westm."  MS.  Vincent's  Leicester,  1619,  College  of  Arms.  "  Francis 
Beaimiont  was  bur""  at  y^  ent.  of  S'  Ben'*  Ch.  Mar.  9  [1615-16]."  Register  of  Burials 
in  Westm.  Alhey, — Collect.  Top.  et  Gen.,  vii..  356,  See  too  Aubrey, — Letters  written 
hy  Eminent  Persons,  &c.  Vol.  ii.  P.  i.  p.  237. 

»v  «  Francis  Beaumont  died  ere  he  was  30  years  of  age."  Notes  of  Jonson's  Con- 
versations with  Drummond,  p.  14,  ed.  Shake.  Soe. — But  see  p.  xxii, 

»  Introd.  to  the  Works  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  xx, 

y  See  the  verses  by  Sir  J.  Beaumont  and  Corbet,  vol.  i.  Ixviii,  xlvi. — Weber 
(Introd.  to  the  Works  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  xxxii)  talks  of  Beaumont's  "sudden  death  "; 
but  without  any  authority. 

»  "Elizabetha;  Francesca  posthuma."  MS.  Vincent's  Leicester,  1619,  College  of 
Arms.  "  Elizabeth,  married  to  a  Scotch  Colonell,and  is  resident  in  that  Kingdome. 
Frances,  2''  daughter,  now  resident  in  y"  Family  of  y«  Duke  of  Ormond,  and 
unmarried  1681."  MS.  Visitation  of  Leicester,  1683,  College  of  Arms.  (The  MS.  vol. 
last  cited  bears  date  1683,  because  that  was  the  period  at  which  it  was  completed  ; 
but  the  Beaumont  family  gave  their  account  to  the  visiting-officer  16th  March, 
1681-2.) — "He  left  one  daughter  behind  him,  Mrs.  Frances  Beaumont,  who  died  in 
Leicestershire  since  the  year  1700  :  she  had  been  possessed  of  several  poems  of  her 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHIH.  liii 

Shiriev.  as  we  have  seen,  attributes  equal  brilliance  of  conversation 
both  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher*. — Aubrev  relaxes,  on  the  authority  of 
Earle,  that  Beaumont's  "  maine  businesse  'was  to  correct  the  OTerflowings 
of  Mr.  Fletcher's  witt^"  ; — a  tradition  which  is  repeated  in  some  ai  the 
Commendatory  Verses'',  while  in  others^  Beaumont  is  allowed  his  fuU 
share  in  those  plays  which  he  jointly  composed  with  Fletcher.  This 
subject  may  be  soon  dismissed.  Fletcher  would  naturally  arail  him- 
self of  the  judgment  with  which  Beaumont  appears  to  hare  been  so 
eminentlv  gifted  :  but  not  the  slightest  doubt  can  be  entertained  that  of 
the  earlier  plays  in  the  present  collection  (and  among  those  plays  are  the 
best)  Beatmiont  contributed  a  large  (j>erhaps  the  weightier!  portion. — 
There  was  scarcely  a  poet  of  the  time  whose  Christian  name  escaped 
familiar  curtailment.  Davies  of  Hereford  commences  an  epigram 
addressed  to  Beaumont  by  saying, — 

"ScHne,  that  thv  Jsame  abbranate,  call  diee  Fravkci-;^ 
and  Heywood  too  bears  witness  that 

-  Exceflent  BeaomoDi,  in  ibe  formosi  ranke 
Of  the  TM-'si  Wits,  was  neoer  nKS'e  than  FrasKi:  K" 

The  premature  death  of  Beaumont  was  moomed  in  rase  by  his  eM.'&r 
brother,  by  Eaile.  and  by  Corbet?.  We  are  not  informed  that  Fletcher 
wrote  any  thing  on  the  occasion  :  but  the  following  lines  K  which  may  be 
confidently  regarded  as  his  composition,  and  which  are  now  first  printed, 
seem  reir  like  an  epicede  on  his  beloved  associate  : — 

*  Come,  Siorrow,  come  !  iasog  ah  At  cne% 
All  thy  ^«m<^<R,  and  all  Aj  wsepmg  ejxes! 
Bern  opt,  yog  Ktm^  moBBiwiris  of  woe ! 
Sad  suB^i  gri^  now  ifee  and  OTCxflow! 

father's  wridng.  but  ihey  wiae  lost  at  dea  coming  trcan  IreiuBd,  wliere  she  had 
s-jmetime  lived  in  the  Doke  of  Ocmand's  fiiniih'.'*  I*nrr'acx  to  £.  ojmI  F.^t  WTuHsg, 
ed.  171 1.— Mr.  Dajiey  {Ittirod.  to  flfce  ITerix  ^  £,  amd  J".,  p.  six)  eonjeeteres  dot 
she  had  lived  in  the  Dake's  &inily  ^  as  ccanpanioD  to  one  of  tike  Qnoond  bt&s." 

*  See  p.  vL 

*  Lcii<ert  vriitex  Jy  Emimsxi  Pcrvoms,  &e.  ToL  5.  P.  L  p.  237.  See  too  Anbrey's 
Hi^,  isf  Surrey,  v. -210. 

'  See  those  by  Cartwright  and  Harris,  vxA  L,  xE.  lis. 

*  See  those  by  Slaine  and  Berkenbead,  vol.  i.,  wviv  ,  xlviiL 
'  Th^  ScottfxK  of  Fah,  1611,  p.  -:i5. 

f  Tii'i  Hu-rarc^k  qflJff  N^asx-d  J»;x-77.s,  1635,  p.  ■IN)^. 

s  See  vol  i ,  xsxv.,  jdvi.,  Ixviii. 

*■  FTMn  .V5.  ffari.  6=057,  fol.  34.  'srhere  Aey  are  s^ned  «  L  F."  and  oc«ir  benr^«i 
T  woondoabted  pie«<es  of  Fletcher, — the  song, «  Orpbe<2S,  I  am,"  &e.  (in  T^u  Mad  Liivcr, 
voL  tL  179),  and  the  ode,  ~  Beauty,  dear  and  feir."  <fcc,  (^in  Tiii  Hdtr  Br^i^r,  Tci 
X.  248V 


liv  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AM)    WRITINGS 

Virtue  is  dead  ; 
Oil,  ci-ucl  fate  ! 

All  youtl.  is  fled  ; 

All  our  laments  too  late. 
Oil,  noble  youth,  to  thy  ne'er-dying  name'. 
Oh,  happy  youth,  to  thy  stlll-gro\ving  fame. 
To  thy  long  peace  in  earth,  this  sacred  knell 
Our  last  loves  ring  I — fai'cwell,  farewell,  farewell! 
Go,  happy  soul,  to  thy  eternal  birth  ! 
And  press  his"*  body  lightly,  gentle  earth  !" 

The  text  of  this  "sonnet"  is,  I  apprehend,  somewhat  corrupted  :  those  only 
who  are  accustomed  to  collate  manuscripts  are  fully  aware  how  poetry 
suffers  by  the  process  of  transcription. 

Fletcher  was  now  in  his  thirty-seventh  year,  a  period  of  human  life 
when  new  and  ardent  friendships  are  not  easily  formed  ;  and  he  probably 
felt  that  in  the  death  of  Beaumont  he  had  sustained  an  irreparable  loss  : 

Vix  sibi  quisque  parem  de  millibus  invenit  unum  ; 
Aut  si  sors  dederit  tandem  non  aspera  votis. 
Ilium  inopina  dies,  qua  non  speraveris  hora, 
Smi'ipit,  leteruum  liuquens  in  saecula  damnum '. 

But  Jonson  and  Massinger  still  remained  ;  and  with  both  he  was  on 
intimate  terms, — more  particularly,  I  conceive,  with  the  latter,  who  was 
certaiiJy  his  coadjutor  in  several  plays'". 

'  M.S.  "fame." 
i  M.S.  "rings." 

''  MS.  "  thy." — Compai-c  a  line  of  the  song  in  The  Maid's  Tmrjechj,  act  ii.  sc.  1 , 
vol.  i.  345  ; 

"  Upon  my  buried  body  lie  lightly,  gentle  earth." 

'  Milton, — Epit.  Damonls. 

'"  We  have  seen  (p.  xlix)  that,  even  before  Beaumont's  death,  Massinger  had 
joined  with  Fletcher  in  dramatic  composition. — An  Epitaph  on  Fletcher  and  Massin- 
ger by  Sir  Aston  Cokaine,  which  mentions  their  friendship  and  litei-ai'y  partnershiji, 
is  given  afterwards  in  the  present  Memoir.  Two  copies  of  vei-ses  by  the  same  rhymer 
concerning  the  folio  collection  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  works,  may  be  cited  here  : 

"  To  my  Cousin  Mr.  Charles  Cotton. 
"  I  wonder.  Cousin,  that  you  would  permit 
So  gi-eat  an  Injury  to  Fletcher's  wit, 
Your  friend  and  old  Compauiou,  that  his  fame 
Should  be  divided  to  anothers  name. 
If  Beaumont  had  writ  those  Plays,  it  luvd  been 
Against  his  mex-its  a  deti-acting  Sin, 
Had  they  been  attributed  also  to 
Fletcher.     They  were  two  wits  and  friends,  and  who 
Robs  from  the  one  to  glorifie  the  other, 
Of  these  great  memories  is  a  partial  Lover. 
Had  Beaumont  liv'd  when  this  Edition  came 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Iv 

It  is  impossible  to  allot  to  the  years  iu  which  they  were  first  performed, 


Forth,  and  beheld  his  ever-living  name 
Before  Plays  that  he  never  writ,  how  he 
Had  frown'd  and  blush'd  at  such  Impiety  ! 
His  own  Renown  no  such  Addition  needs. 
To  have  a  Fame  sprung  from  anothers  deedes  : 
And  my  good  friend  Old  Philip  Massinger 
With  Fletcher  writ  in  some  that  we  see  there. 
But  you  may  blame  the  Printers  :  yet  you  might 
Perhaps  have  won  them  to  do  Fletcher  right, 
Would  you  have  took  the  pains ;  for  what  a  foul 
And  miexcusable  fault  it  is  (that  whole 
Volume  of  plays  being  almost  every  one 
After  the  death  of  Beaumont  wi-it)  that  none 
Would  certifie  them  so  much  !     I  wish  as  free 
Y'  had  told  the  Printers  this,  as  you  did  me. 

'Tis  true,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  both  wore  such 

SubUme  wits,  none  could  them  admire  too  much  ; 

They  were  oui-  English  Polestars,  and  did  beare 

Between  them  all  the  world  of  fancie  cleare  : 

But  as  two  Suns  when  they  do  shine  to  us. 

The  aire  is  lighter,  they  prodigious. 

So,  while  they  liv'd  and  writ  together,  we 

Had  Plays  exceeded  what  we  hop'd  to  see. 

But  they  wTit  few  ;  for  youthful  Beaumont  soon 

By  death  eclipsed  was  at  his  high  noon. 

Sm'vivuig  Fletcher  then  did  pen  alone 

Equal  to  both  (pardon  Comparison), 

And  suffered  not  the  Globe  and  Black-Friers  Stage 

T'envy  the  glories  of  a  former  Age,"  &c. 

Pom*,  p.  91,  ed.  1662. 

"  To  Mr.  Humphrey  Mosley,  and  Mr.  Hiimphrcy  Robinson. 
"  In  the  large  book  of  Playes  you  late  did  print 
In  Beavimonts  and  in  Fletchers  name,  why  in't 
Did  you  not  justice  ?  give  to  each  his  due  ? 
For  Beaumont  of  those  many  wTit  in  few. 
And  Massinger  in  other  feiv  ;  the  Main 
Being  sole  Issues  of  sweet  Fletchers  brain. 
But  how  came  I,  you  aslc,  so  much  to  know  ? 
Fletchers  chief  bosome-friend  iuform'd  me  so." 

Ibid., -p.  117. 
It  appears,  therefore,  that  Su-  Aston  knew  nothing  of  W.  Rowley's  having  assisted 
Fletcher  in  Tlie  Maid  in  the  Mill,  and  most  probably  in  other  pieces. — There  is  a 
striking  resemblance  between  a  couplet  of  tliis  scribbling  knight  and  one  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's.     Sir  Aston's  epigram  "  Of  Naples"  begins  with — 

"  Naples,  the  Romans'  old  PaHhenope, 
(Built  under  hills,  upon  the  Midland-Sea)",  &c. 

Ibid.,  p.  109. 


Ivi  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

Bondtica,  The  Kniyht  of  Malta,  Valentinian,  The  Queen  of  Corinth, 
and  The  Mad  Locer :  we  are  only  sure  that,  as  Burbadgc  acted  a 
character  in  each,  they  must  all  have  been  produced  before  loth 
March  1618-19,  when  his  death  took  place"'  ;  and  that  one  of 
them,  The  Queen  of  Corinth,  as  it  contains  an  allusion  to  Coryate's 
Crudities,  161G,  was  not  written  till  after  the  publication  of  that 
notorious  work. 

In  the  composition  of  Bondiica  I  believe  that  Beaumont  had  no  share, 
though  Weber  is  inclined  to  consider  it  as  a  joint  essay  of  our  poets. 
HazHtt  reckons  it  "among  the  best  of  their  tragedies"":  Mr.  Darley 
speaks  of  it  in  terms  much  less  favom-able  °. — It  opens  finely  P  ;  but  it 
wants  continuity  of  action  ;  and,  while  the  serious  scenes  frequently  teem 
Avith  grandeur  of  thought  and  beauty  of  imagery,  the  comic  portions  are 
deformed  with  humour  of  the  very  worst  description.  The  interest  of  the 
play  centres  in  Caratach  and  his  nephew  the  boy  Hengo.  Of  all 
the  attempts  in  these  volumes  to  delineate  the  brave,  blunt,  high- 
minded  soldier,  Caratach  is,  I  think,  the  most  successfid  :  he  is  entirely 
free  from  any  of  those  traits  which,  though  not  intended  by  the  authors 
for  unamiable,  lessen  to  a  certain  degree  the  sympathy  of  the  reader  ; 
he  commands  our  increasing  respect  throughout  all  his  fortunes.  Some 
touches,  perhaps,  may  be  discovered  in  the  picture  of  Hcngo  which  are 
hardly  true  to  the  simplicity  of  childhood  :  but,  on  the  whole,  that 
"bud  of  Britain  "  has  a  delicious  freshness  ;  and  who  can  be  insensible 
to  the  pathos  of  the  scene  in  which  he  slowly  breathes  out  his  life  in  the 
arms  of  Caratach  ?  Next  to  these,  Pcenius  is  the  best-drawn  character  ; 
the  other  personages,  though  more  than  one  of  them  have  splendid 
things  to  utter,  are  deficient  in  strong  and  distinctive  features. — Among 
the  dramas  on  this  portion  of  British  history  which  have  been  put  forth 
by  later  writers  'i,  the  Caractacus  of  Mason  alone  deserves  mention.     It 

Mr.  Wordsworth's  noble  sonnet  "  Ou  the  departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  for  Naples" 
concludes  with — 

"  Be  true, 

Ye  winds  of  ocean  and  tlic  midland-sea, 

Wafting  your  charge  to  soft  Partlunope  I " 

'"  See  ColUer's  Mem.  of  the  Principal  4j:tors  in  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare,  p.  44. 

"  Lectures  on  the  Dram.  Lit.  of  Age  of  Eliz.,  p.  152.  ed.  1840. 

"  Introd.  to  the  Works  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  1. 

I"  "  The  opening  scene,"  however,  is  not  what  Boaden  calls  it — "  by  many  degrees 
the  best  in  the  English  drama."  Mem.  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  i.  161. 

•>  See,  for  instance,  Boadicca  by  Charles  Hopkins,  1 6.07,  and  Boadicia  by  Glover 
(the  author  of  Lconidas),  17.'>3. — In  the  prefatory  remarks  on  Bonduca  (vol.  v.  .*}) 
I  omitted  to  mention  an  earlier  drama  in  which  Caratach  figures  under  the  name  of 
Caradoc,— T^  VnliaiU   Wthhman,  or  The  True  Chronlrk  History  of  the  Life  and 


OF    BEAUMOXT    AND    FLETCHER.  Ivii 

is  a  tragedy  formed  with  great  care  on  the  Grecian  model ;  trom  the 
commencement  to  the  close  it  has  a  very  imposing  tone  of  solemnity  ; 
and  its  choral  odes  occasionally  flash  with  true  poetic  fire  :  but  its  general 
frigidity,  its  finical  phraseology,  and  its  redundant  ornament  are  not  a 
Uttle  repulsive  ;  and  its  hero,  when  contrasted  with  the  Caratach  of  the 
elder  piece,  fades  into  a  shadow. 

According  to  Weber,  the  second  of  these  plays,  The  Knight  of 
Malta,  is  partly  by  Beaumont :  but  I  think  that  the  critic  is  mistaken. — 
We  may  say  of  this  tragi-comedy,  as  of  several  other  pieces  in  the 
collection,  that,  with  a  rambling  plot  and  very  few  characters  which  are 
vigorously  delineated,  it  has  some  liighly  dramatic  and  interesting  scenes, 
and  a  profusion  of  beautiful  writing- 
Concerning  the  third  of  these  plays,  Valentinian,  Mr.  Darley  conjec- 
tures that,  though  "  not  brought  out  tiU  after  Beaumont's  death,  it  may 
have  been  planned,  and  partly  or  whoUy  written,  with  his  co-operation 
before  it  ^"  Weber  assigns  the  entire  play  to  Fletcher,  and,  I 
apprehend,  rightly. — This  tragedy  ought  to  have  concluded  with  the 
death  of  Valentinian,  for  the  incidents  which  follow  that  event,  in  them- 
selves badly  managed,  have  a  tendency  to  mar  the  effect  of  the  whole. 
But,  notwithstanding  the  injudicious  prolongation  of  the  story,  and  some 
minor  blemishes,  it  is  a  very  impressive  drama,  with  great  variety  of 
character,  and  sustained  loftiness  of  style.  Coleridge  observes  that 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  "  chaste  ladies  value  their  chastity  as  a 
material  thing, — not  as  an  act  or  state  of  being  ;  and  this  mere  thing 
being  imaginary,  no  wonder  that  all  their  women  are  represented  with 
the  minds  of  strumpets,  except  a  few  irrational  hvunorists,  far  less 
capable  of  exciting  our  sympathy  than  a  Hindoo,  who  has  had  a  bason 
of  cow-broth  thrown  over  him  ; — ^for  this,  though  a  debasing  superstition, 
is  still  real,  and  we  might  pity  the  poor  wretch,  though  we  cannot  help 
despising  him.  But  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Lucinas  are  clumsy 
fictions^,"  &c.  Now,  Coleridge  assuredly  must  have  had  a  very  im- 
perfect recollection  of  the  present  tragedy,  when  he  classed  Lucina 
among  our  authors'  "  clumsy  fictions  "  :  her  character,  on  the  contrary, 
is  remarkable  for  truth  and  delicacy  of  painting  ;  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  point  out  in  any  tragedy  a  scene  which  works  more  powerfully 
on  our  feelings  than  that  wherein  she  makes  known  her  dishonour  to  her 
husband,   and  bids  him  an   eternal  farewell.      "  An  instance ",   says 

Death  of  Caradoc  the  Great,  Kimj  of  Camhria,  now  called  Wales.  As  it  hath  beene 
sundry  times  Acted,  by  the  Prince  of  Wales  his seruants.  Written  byR,  A  [nnin'],  Gent. 
1615.     It  is  a  miserable  piece. 

'  Introd.  to  the  WorJcs  ofB.  and  F.,  p.  xxiv. 

^  Remains,  ii.  319. 


Iviii  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

Weber,  "of  great  want  of  judgment  is  the  entire  change  of  the  charac- 
ter of  Maximus,  which,  in  the  preceding  parts,  raises  our  admiration  and 
concihates  our  affection  ;  but,  in  the  conclusion,  entirely  destroys  it 
[them  ?],  and  leaves  nothing  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  but  disgust.  We 
come  utterly  unprepared,  not  for  his  being  elected  emperor,  but  for 
the  sudden  disclosure  of  his  having  planned  the  dishonor  of  his  xoife, 
and  the  death  of  his  friend,  the  noble  Aecius*."  In  one  particular 
only,  these  remarks  of  Weber  are  incorrect.  We  find,  indeed,  that 
Maximus,  when  newly  raised  to  the  empire  and  married  to  the  widow 
of  Valcntinian,  flatters  his  bride  by  declaring  that  in  order  to  obtain  her 
hand  he  had  "  himself  prepar'd  the  way,  nay,  made  the  rape  "  of  Lucina  ; 
but  we  have  also  his  own  confession  that  this  was  nothing  more  than  a 
falsehood,  uttered,  for  the  occasion,  in  the  heat  of  joy  and  wine ". 
Aecius  is  another  leading  character  which  disappoints  us  as  the  play 
progresses,  his  fidelity  to  the  emperor,  so  finely  pictured  in  the  earlier 
scenes,  degenerating  at  last  into  absurdity.  On  the  subordinate  person- 
ages the  author  has  bestowed  more  than  usual  pains.  Among  the 
lyrics  in  this  tragedy,  two  are  eminently  beautiful, — the  invocation  to 
Sleep,  sung  beside  the  couch  of  the  dying  Valentinian,  and  the  Bac- 
chanalian ditty,   "God  Lyajus,  ever  young  ",  &.c. 

There  appears  to  be  good  grounds  for  Weber's  conjecture ^,  that  the 
fourth  of  these  plays,  The  Queen  of  Corinth,  was  not  written  wholly  by 
Fletcher  ;  and  I  apprehend  that  his  unknown  coadjutor  was  William 
Rowley  "■",  who  (as  we  shall  see)  assisted  him  in  Tlie  Maid  in  the  Mill, 

'  Pref.  remarks  on  the  play. 

"  «  kid 

Lose  such  a  noble  wife,  and  wilfully  I 
Himself  prepare  the  way,  nay,  make  the  rape  ? 
Did  you  not  tell  me  so  ? 
Max.  'Tis  true,  Eudoxia. 

'Eud. Either  you  love  too  dearly, 

Or  deeply  you  dissemble,  sir. 
Max.  I  do  so ; 

And,  till  lam  more  strengthen' d,  so  I  must  do  : 
Yet,  would  my  joy  and  wine  hadfashion\l  out 
Some  safer  lie!  [Aside"]. — Can  these  things  be,  Eudoxia, 
And  I  dissemble  ?  "  &c.     Act  v.  sc.  6,  vol.  v.  309. 
^  "  From  some  difference,  especially  in  the  third  and  part  of  the  fourth  act,  of  the 
versification  in  particular,  it  may  be  conjectured,"  &c.  Prcf.  rcmarls  on  the  play. 

*  Concerning  William  Ilowlcy,  who  was  both  dramatist  and  actor,  little  is  known. 
He  is  mentioned  as  a  perfoi-mer  early  in  the  reign  of  James  the  First ;  and  he  probably 
lived  till  about  tlie  commencement  of  the  civil  wars.  In  1C37  he  was  married,  at 
Cripplegatc  Churcli,  to  Isabel  Tooley.  See  Collier's  Man.  of  the  Principal  Actors  in 
Uic  Plays  of  Shakcspenre,  p.  233.    Whether  lie  was  related  to  Sanniel  Rowley,  also  a 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  lix 

and,   most  likely,  in   The   Bloody  Brother  also.     The  probability  that 
Rowley  wrote  a  portion  of  this  tragi-comedy  is  rendered  greater  by  the 

di'amatist  and  actor,  has  not  been  ascertained.  (Malone,  I  think,  has  proved — 
Life  of  Shakespeare,  p.  172, — that,  when  Meres,  in  Palladis  Tamia,  1598,  notices 
"  Maister  Rowley,  once  a  rare  scholar  of  learned  Pembroke  HaU  in  Cam- 
bridge ",  as  among  "  the  best  [writers]  for  comedye,"  he  alludes  to  neither  of  these 
Rowleys,  but  to  a  Ralph  Rowley.)  Several  of  William  Rowley's  plays  have 
perished.  Not  to  mention  those  in  which  he  assisted  Fletcher,  his  extant  di'amas 
are, — four  wholly  by  himself,  A  Neio  Wonder,  a  Woman  never  Vext,  1632,  All's 
Lost  hy  Lust,  1633,  A  Match  at  Midnight,  1633,  A  Shoomalcer  a  Oentleman,  1638, — 
one  in  conjunction  with  Day  and  Wilkius,  The  Travailes  of  the  Three  English  Brothers, 
&c.,  1607, — fom-  in  conjunction  with  Middleton,  4  Fair  Quarrel,  1617,  The  World 
tossed  at  Tennis,  1620,  The  Changeling,  1653,  The  Spanish  Cripsey,  1653, — one  in  con- 
junction with  Massinger,  The  Parliament  of  Love  (first  printed  by  Gifford), — one  in 
conjunction  with  Massinger  and  Middleton,  IVtc  0/f?  Law,  1656, — one  in  conjunction 
with  Heywood,  Fortune  by  Land  and  Sea,  1 655, — one  in  conjunction  with  Dekker  and 
Ford,  The  Witch  of  Edmonton,  1 658,— two  in  conjunction  with  Webster,  A  Cure 
for  a  Cuckold,  1G61,  The  Thracian  Wonder  (of  doubtful  authorship),  1661,— and  (in 
conjunction  with  Shakespeare,  as  the  title-page  erroneously  sets  forth)  TJie  Birth  of 
Merlin,  1662.  (The  dates  given  to  the  plays  just  enumerated  are  those  of  the 
earhest  editions,  not  those  of  their  original  representation.)  We  have  also  from  his 
pen  a  prose  tract  called^  Search  for  Money,  1609,  and  A  Funcrall  Elegie  (a  broad- 
side) on  Hugh  Atwell,  a  player,  who  died  in  1621. — The  following  story,  in  which 
Wilham  Rowley  figures,  has  never  been  quoted  :  it  is  silly  enough  ;  but,  as  the 
slightest  notices  of  our  early  dramatists  are  now  eagerly  sought  for,  it  will  probably 
be  acceptable  to  many  readers.  "  Of  Rape  Seed.  A  Handsome  yong  fellow  hauing 
seene  a  Play  at  the  Cui'tame,  comes  to  WiUiam  Rowly  after  the  Play  was  done, 
and  intreated  him,  if  his  leisure  senied,  that  hee  might  giue  him  a  Pottle  of  Wine, 
to  bee  better  acquainted  with  him.  Hee  thankt  him,  and  told  him,  if  hee  pleased  to 
goe  as  farre  as  the  Kings  Head  at  Spittlegate,  hee  would,  as  soone  as  he  had  made 
himsehe  ready,  follow  him,  and  accept  of  his  kindnesse.  He  did  so  ;  but  the  Wine 
seeming  tedious  betwixt  two,  and  the  rather  because  the  yoimg  fellow  covdd  enter- 
taine  no  discom-se,  Rowly  beckoned  to  an  honest  fellow  ouer  the  way  to  come  and 
keepe  them  company  ;  who  promised  to  be  with  them  instantly.  But  not  comming 
at  the  second  or  thhd  caUing,  at  last  he  appeares  in  the  roome,  where  William 
Rowly  begins  to  chide  him  because  he  had  staid  so  long.  He  presently  craned 
pardon,  and  begins  to  excuse  himselfe,  that  he  had  beene  abroad  to  buy  Rape  seed, 
and  that  he  stayd  to  feed  his  bu-ds.  At  the  very  word  of  Rape  seed,  the  man  rose 
from  the  Table  with  a  changed  countenance,  bemg  very  much  discontented,  and 
said, '  Mr.  Rowly,  I  came  m  cui'tesie  to  deshe  your  acquaintance,  and  to  bestow 
the  Wine  vpon  you,  not  thinking  you  would  haue  caUed  this  fellow  vp  to  taimt  mee 
so  bitterly.'  They  won  thing  what  hee  meant,  hee  proceeded  ;  '  'Tis  true  mdeed, 
the  last  Sessions  I  was  arraigned  at  Newgate  for  a  Rape  ;  but  I  thanke  God  I  came 
off  like  an  honest  man,  little  tliinking  to  be  twitted  of  it  here.'  Both  began  to 
excuse  themselues,  as  not  knowing  any  such  thing,  as  well  as  they  might.  But  he  that 
gaue  the  offence,  thinldng  the  better  to  expresse  his  innocence, '  Young  Gentleman,' 
saith  he, '  to  expresse  how  far  I  was  from  wronging  of  you,  looke  you  here ;  as  I 
haue  Rape  seed  in  one  Pocket  for  one  Bhd,  so  hei-e  is  Henipe  seed  on  this  side  for 
another.'     At  which  word  Hempseed,  saith  the  young  man, '  Why,  villaiae,  doest 


Ix  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

fact  that  ill  several  passages  it  resembles  The  Old  Law^,  which  ho  com- 
posed ill  partnership  with  Middletoii  and  Massingcr. — The  chief  incident 
in  The  Queen  of  Corinth,  the  rape  of  Merione,  gives  rise  to  two  scenes  of 
no  ordinary  power  and  pathos  (act  ii.  sc.  1,  3) ;  but  there  is  little  else  to 
admire  ;  the  serious  characters  are,  on  the  whole,  not  strongly  painted, 
and  the  comic  are  altogether  vapid. 

The  fifth  of  these  plays.  The  Mad  Lover,  was  written  by  Fletcher 
alone. — From  the  praise  with  which  this  tragi-comcdy  is  mentioned  in 
the  Commendatory  Verses,  we  may  conclude  that  it  was  highly  success- 
ful on  its  first  representation  ;  and  we  know  that  it  found  favour  with 
the  audiences  of  a  later  and  more  critical  age.  Yet,  from  beginning  to 
cud,  it  is  little  else  than  a  tissue  of  extravagance.  Memnon,  an  old 
and  victorious  general,  whose  time  has  been  wholly  occupied  in  fighting, 
arrives  at  the  court  of  his  sovereign,  the  King  of  Paphos.  Having 
never  before  seen  "  a  woman  of  great  fashion  ",  he  falls  desperately  in 
love  with  the  king's  sister  as  soon  as  he  beholds  her,  declares  his  passion, 
and  (publicly)  asks  her  for  a  kiss.  She,  as  might  be  expected,  treats 
him  with  ridicule  :  upon  which  he  goes  stark  mad,  is  with  difficulty  pre- 
vented from  having  his  heart  cut  out  that  it  may  be  sent  to  the  princess, 
and  does  not  recover  his  senses  till  the  close  of  the  play,  when  he 
determines  that  henceforth  the  war  "  shall  be  his  mistress  ".  Nor  is 
Memnon  the  only  one  of  the  dramatis  personam  that  has  a  love-fit  "  at  first 
sight ", — the  air  of  Paphos,  perhaps,  rendering  them  peculiarly  suscep- 
tible of  amorous  impressions  :  the  moment  that  Syphax  catches  a  glimpse 
of  the  princess,  he  is  ready  to  die  for  her  ;  and  she,  as  instantaneously, 
is  smitten  with  Polydore. — The  character  of  Memnon,  by  far  the  most 
important  figure  in  the  piece,  is  very  carefully  finished  ;  yet  is  it 
altogether  ineffective  ;  for  Fletcher  only  wasted  his  powers  when  he 
laboured  on  the  minutiso  of  a  portrait  which  had  no  truth  of  outline. 

The  Loyal  Subject,  wholly  by  Fletcher,  was  brought  upon  the  stage  in 
1618. — Though  the  plot  is  not  badly  developed,  and  the  characters  are 
not  deficient  in  spirit  and  distinctness, — particularly  that  of  Archas,  with 
his  indomitable  loyalty  under  all  the  severities  inflicted  on  him  by  his 
prince, — this  play,  I  think,  can  only  be  ranked  among  the  second-rate 
productions  of  Fletcher. — Langbaine  was  the  first  to  notice  that  the  plot 
of  Hey  wood's  Royal  King  and  Loyal  Subject  "  extreamly  resembles  that 


thou  tliinke  I  haue  descrued  hanging  ? '  and  tooke  vp  the  Pot  to  fling  at  his  head  ; 
but  his  hand  was  stayed  :  and  as  errour  and  mistake  began  the  quarrell,  so  Wine 
ended  it."  Modenie  Jcntn,  Witty  Jcci-cs,  &.C.,  p.  64.  (The  copy  of  the  very  rare  little 
volume  from  which  I  quote,  has  lost  the  title-page.) 

»  Gifford  (Massingcr's  Works,  iv.  5(iG,  ed.  181.3)  notices  these  parallelisms,  but 
without  drawing  from  them  the  inference  wliich  I  have  made. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Ixi 

of  Fletcher's  Loyal  Subject  y ''' :  and  Mr.  Hallam  observ'es  that  from 
Hejwood's  play  "  the  general  idea  of  several  circumstances  of  The  Loyal 
Subject  has  been  taken.  That  Heywood's  was  the  original,  though  the 
only  edition  of  it  is  in  1637,  while  The  Loyal  Subject  was  represented  in 
1615  [1618],  cannot  bear  a  doubt.  The  former  is  expressly  mentioned 
in  the  epilogue  as  an  old  play,  belonging  to  a  style  gone  out  of  date,  and 
not  to  be  judged  with  rigour.  Heywood  has  therefore  the  praise  of 
having  conceived  the  character  of  Earl  Marshal,  upon  which  Fletcher 
somewhat  improved  in  Archas^  ".  Now,  between  two  dramas,  the  one 
of  which  is  founded  on  the  other,  a  striking  resemblance  may  be 
invariably  traced  in  particular  passages,  if  not  in  entire  scenes  :  but  this 
is  certainly  not  the  case  with  the  pieces  in  question  ;  and,  though  I 
make  no  doubt  that  Heywood's  is  much  the  earlier  of  the  two,  I  am 
not  disposed  to  beheve  that  it  contributed  any  thing  to  om-  poet's  play. 
The  Royal  King  and  Loyal  Subject  was  not  printed  till  long  after  the 
death  of  Fletcher  ;  it  is  in  aU  respects  a  very  poor  production  ^ ;  and,  if 
Fletcher  had  ever  seen  it  represented  on  the  stage,  it  was  no  more  likely 
to  have  impressed  his  memory  than  any  other  of  the  innumerable  dramas 
which,  during  his  career  of  authorship,  had  been  exhibited  at  various 
theatres,  and  which,  after  serving  for  the  attraction  of  a  few  nights,  had 
been  consigned  to  the  dust  and  oblivion  of  the  prompter's  shelves.  The 
general  resemblance  of  these  two  plays,  and  the  partial  agreement  of  their 
titles,  may,  I  think,  be  accounted  for  by  supposing  that  the  materials  of 
both  were  derived  fi-om  a  common  soiu-ce, — some  novel  or  romantic  his- 
tory. In  laying  the  scene  at  Moscow,  in  the  chief  circumstances  of  the 
piece,  and  in  the  names  assigned  to  several  of  the  characters  (to  say 
nothing  of  the  incidental  mention  of  the  Tartar  warrior,  Ohn),  I 
apprehend  that  Fletcher  followed  the  novel.  Heywood  locates  the  scene 
in  England, — having  transferred  it  thither  perhaps  with  the  idea  of 
rendering  his  play  more  interesting  to  the  audience, — and  he  gives  us  a 
royal  family,  designated  only  as  "  Iving  ",  "  Prince  ",  and  "  Princess  ", 
while  his  hero  has  no  other  appellation  than  "The  Marshal".  If 
Fletcher  had  founded  his  Loyal  Subject  on  Heywood's  play,  is  it  likely 
that — when  he  so  studiously  endeavoured  to  conceal  his  obligations  by 
changing  the  place  of  action,  altering  the  events,  and  adding  new 
characters, — he  would  have  committed  such  an  oversight  as  to  retain 
verbatim  a  portion  of  the  old  title  ? 

y  Ace.  of  English  Dram.  Poets,  p.  268. 

^  Introd.  to  the  Lit.  of  Europe,  iii.  103.  ed.  1843. 

^  It  has  little  character,  except  of  an  extravagant  kind  ;  and  no  beauty  of  writing. 
The  slavish  compliance  of  the  :Marshal  with  the  monstrous  demands  of  the  Kmg 
is  downright  foolisliness. 


Ixii  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WHITINGS 

The  dates  of  The  False  One  and  The  Double  Marriage  may  perhaps 
be  fixed  later  than  March  1618-19,  as  the  name  of  Burbadge,  who  died 
on  the  13th  of  that  month,  is  absent  from  the  list  of  the  original 
performers  in  these  two  tragedies. 

Both  the  prologue  and  the  epilogue  attest  that  Tlic  False  One  was 
composed  by  more  than  one  author ;  and  from  the  comparative  regularity 
of  the  plot,  as  well  as  from  the  versification  in  several  scenes,  Weber 
conjectures,  with  much  probability,  that  a  portion  of  it  is  by  Massinger. 
— The  dramatis  personaj  of  this  tragedy,  both  the  chief  and  the  sub- 
ordinate, are  firmly  drawn  and  well  distinguished.  Cleopatra  is  brought 
before  us  in  the  fresh  morning  of  her  youth ;  not  indeed  delineated  with 
those  exquisitely  subtle  touches  of  character  which  Shakespeare  gave 
her  and  which  he  alone  could  give,  but  still  with  "  her  great  mind 
express'd  to  the  height",  and  in  all  respects  a  fit  object  to  captivate  the 
master  of  the  world.  The  portrait  of  Csesar  is  equal,  if  not  superior,  to 
any  of  the  representations  of  him  by  other  dramatists.  The  two  coun- 
sellors, Achoreus  and  Photinus,  are  happily  contrasted,  and  stand  beside 
the  feeble  Ptolemy  like  his  good  and  evil  angels.  Perhaps  the  talent  of 
the  author  (or  authors)  is  no  where  more  conspicuous  than  in  those  parts 
of  the  play  which  relate  to  the  cold-blooded  murderer  Septimius,  whose 
repentance,  produced  chiefly  by  the  abhorrence  and  contempt  with  which 
he  finds  himself  regarded  by  the  world,  lasts  only  tiU  promises  of  advance- 
ment have  tempted  him  to  new  crime.  In  The  False  One,  amidst  the 
general  elevation  of  its  style,  we  meet  with  passages  which  rise  even  to 
sublimity ;  and  where  the  Pharsalia  is  imitated,  the  nervous  poetry  (or 
rather,  rhetoric)  of  Lucan  is  paralleled  to  the  full. 

The  second  of  these  plays.  The  Double  Marriage,  is,  in  all  likelihood, 
the  unassisted  work  of  Fletcher. — The  plot  of  this  tragedy  is  at  least 
free  from  confusion ;  the  incidents  have  not  more  improbability  than 
may  be  allowed  to  the  romantic  drama;  and  the  dialogue  has  often 
much  vigour  and  felicity  of  expression.  The  character  of  Juliana,  on 
which  the  chief  interest  depends,  is  greatly  praised  by  Campbell'';  but, 
with  all  its  striking  beauty,  it  has  a  defect  common  to  some  other  por- 
traitures of  heroines  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, — it  is  not  a  little  over- 
strained. The  very  attempt  to  render  it  a  picture  of  female  excellence 
"  beyond  humanity"  has  to  a  certain  degree  debased  it.  ^Vllen  Virolet 
comes  back  to  Naples,  accompanied  by  Martia,  whom  he  has  sworn  to 
marry  because  she  had  preserved  his  life,  he  immediately  divorces 
.Juliana  from  his  bed  and  house;  and,  without  a  mm-mur,  she  submits  to 
this   unworthy  treatment   from   a  husband  who   owed   her  his  eternal 

''  Spec,  of  Brit.  Poets,  p.  Ixxvi.  cd.  1  \\\  1 . 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 


Ixiii 


gratitude; — in  other  words,  she  altogether  compromises  the  dignity  of 
her  character  as  a  wife  hy  a  suhmission  which  is  more  akin  to  abjectness 
and  imbecihty  of  mind  than  to  exaUed  virtue.  Still,  there  is  no  denying 
that  the  poet's  art  has  thrown  round  Juliana  a  sort  of  saint-like  glory ; 
and  that  it  is  rather  on  after-reflection  than  while  we  are  reading  The 
Double  Marriage  that  we  become  fully  sensible  of  the  impropriety  of  her 
conduct.  Throughout  the  whole  play  her  purity  and  her  devotedness  to 
Virolet  have  an  irresistible  fascination ;  and  there  is  undoubtedly  a  deep 
pathos  in  the  scene  where,  mistaking  him  for  Ronvere,  she  stabs  him  to 
the  heart,  and  then,  sitting  down  upon  the  ground,  silently  expires  from 
the  violence  of  her  emotions. 

The  Humorous  Lieutenant,  a  tragi-comedy  of  uncertain  date,  may 
positively  be  ascribed  to  Fletcher  alone. — When  Cartwright,  speaking  of 
our  poet's  plots,  declared  that 

"  all  [i.  e.  the  spectators]  stand  wondermg  how 
The  thing  will  be,  until  it  is"^, 

we  may  presume  that  he  had  forgotten  the  present  piece,  in  which  the 
discovery  of  Celia's  rank  is  most  injudiciously  anticipated  by  the  author: 
indeed,  nothing  can  be  worse  than  the  conduct  of  the  story  from  first  to 
last.  The  character  of  the  Lieutenant  (like  that  of  La- Writ  and  some 
other  characters  already  noticed)  is  conceived  in  the  style  of  those 
dramatised  "  humours  "  which  Jonson  had  so  successfully  elaborated  ; 
and,  though  it  wants  the  nice  strokes  and  the  perfect  keeping  by  which 
Ben  imparted  a  reality  to  personages  whose  eccentricities  mx^i  j^ossihhj 
have  had  types  in  human  nature,  it  produces,  on  the  whole,  a  very 
comic  efiect.  CeHa  is  so  devoid  of  delicacy  and  refinement,  that,  in 
spite  of  her  playfulness  and  occasional  depth  of  feeling,  she  fails  to 
command  our  fullest  sympathy  f"'.  Among  several  scenes  in  this  play 
distinguished  for  their  truth  and  animation,  the  best  perhaps  is  the 
parting  of  the  two  lovers  (act  i.  sc.  2),  which  has  been  praised  by  more 

<=  Commeiid.  Poems,  vol.  i.  xlii. 

"*  On  the  character  of  King  Antigouus  in  this  play  Mason  has  the  following 
remarks  :  "  Theobald  is  much  offended  with  the  poets  [poet]  for  maldng  a  king,  of 
illustrious  character,  degrade  himself  by  lewdly  hunting  after  a  young  girl ;  which, 
he  says,  might  easily  have  been  avoided.  It  might,  indeed,  have  been  avoided  by 
totally  changing  the  plot  of  the  play,  but  not  otherwise.  The  king,  however,  is  not 
represented  as  a  ^^cious  character  :  his  first  intention,  and  a  laudable  intention,  was 
to  discover  whether  Celia  was  a  proper  object  for  his  son's  affection  ;  and,  for  that 
purpose,  to  try  her  to  the  test,  as  he  terms  it.  On  beholding  her,  he  becomes 
unwarily  captivated  with  lier  charms,  and  wishes  that  he  had  not  seen  her."  Com- 
ments  on  the  Plays  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  99.  But  the  habitual  licentiousness  of  the  king 
is  put  beyond  all  doubt  by  a  portion  of  act  ii.  sc.  1,  which  is  given  in  the  present  ed. 
from  a  manuscript,  and  which  was  unknown  to  Mason  :  see  vol.  vi.  442. 


Ixiv  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

than  one  editor.     Individual  passages  might  be  selected  which  have  all 
the  picturesque  luxuriance  of  Fletcher. 

Wotncn  Pleased  is  also  of  uncertain  date  :  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  that  it  was  composed  by  Fletcher  alone. — For  its  incidents  he 
is  indebted  to  three  novels  of  Boccaccio  and  a  tale  of  Chaucer,  the  whole 
being  combined  with  the  nicest  art,  and  the  interest  of  the  piece  very 
happily  sustained.  Like  many  other  of  his  plays,  however,  it  bears 
marks  of  haste  and  carelessness.  The  hungry  Penurio,  a  kind  of  Justice 
Greedy  in  humble  life  (but  with  a  better  excuse  for  his  voracity  than 
Massinger's  cormorant)  is  the  most  original  character  in  this  ver}' 
entertaining  tragi-comedy.  The  reader  will  smile  at  the  compensation 
which  the  author  finds  it  necessary  to  make  the  Duke  of  Sienna  for  the 
loss  of  his  young  and  beautiful  mistress,  viz.,  her  mother's  hand  in 
marriage :  but  this  is  not  the  only  drama  in  which  Fletcher  has  con- 
soled a  disappointed  lover  by  wedding  him  to  a  respectable  matron ;  see 
the  conclusion  of  T/ie  Queen  of  Corinth. 

The  Woman  s  Prize,  or,  The  Tamer  Tamed,  was  "an  ould  play  "  in 
1633'= :  how  much  earlier  was  its  appearance  on  the  stage,  would  be  a 
vain  inquiry.  It  is  wholly  by  Fletcher. — This  comedy  forms  a  sequel  to 
The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  and  represents  that  Petruchio,  who  had 
hitherto  "been  famous  for  a  woman-tamer",  as  completely  subjugated 
by  his  second  wife, — the  scene  being  transferred  to  England,  and  an 
Englishwoman  having  the  honour  of  that  great  achievement.  But  every 
one  must  perceive  that  the  Petruchio  of  Fletcher  is  Shakespeare's 
Petruchio  only  in  the  name ;  for  the  hero  of  the  elder  comedy  would 
have  been  as  much  proof  against  the  artful  contrivances  of  Maria  as 
against  the  violence  of  Katherine  *".  That  some  of  the  situations,  though 
grossly  improbable,  are  exceedingly  well  imagined,  is  perhaps  the 
highest  praise  which  The  Woman's  Prize  can  claim. 

There  seems  to  be  no  cause  for  doubting  that  The  Chances,  a  comedy 
of  uncertain  date,  has  been  rightly  attributed  to  Fletcher  alone. — It  is 
founded  on  La  Sennora  Cornelia  of  Cervantes.  In  that  novel  we  recog- 
nise the  author's  usual  invention ;  but  the  various  personages  are  very 
slightly  discriminated ;    nor  is  there  even  an   approach  to  pleasantry. 

«  See  vol.  vii.  97. 

'  From  the  admirable  .speech  of  Katherine  at  the  conclusion  of  The  Taniincj  of  the 
Shrew  we  should  have  felt  confident  that  she  and  her  husband  settled  down  into  the 
happiest  of  couples,  had  not  Fletcher  taken  care  to  inform  us  that  the  case  was  very 
different :  hw  Petruchio  has  nothing  but  painful  recollections  of  the  days  he  p.issed 
with  Katherine  !  sec  act  iii.  sc.  3,  vol.  vii.  1C2,  "  Was  I  not  well-w.arn'd ",  &c. — 
Somewhat  akiii  to  this, — I  mean,  in  its  being  opposed  to  the  idea  which  the  original 
author  intended  us  to  form  of  the  lady's  behaviour  in  the  man-led  state,— is  the 
picture  which  Fielding  gives  us  of  (Richardson's)  Pamela  :  see  Joseph  Andrews, 
B.  iv.  ch.  7— vol.  ii.  1G2,  ed.  1768. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  IxV 

Whatever  of  well-marked  character  or  of  humour  the  play  possesses,  is 
therefore  wholly  Fletcher's ;  and  it  has  imquestionably  a  considerable 
share  of  both.  Don  John  is  a  good  picture  of  a  gay,  frank,  impetuous, 
honourable  gallant ;  and  his  friend,  the  less  mercurial  Don  Frederick,  is 
equally  well  delineated.  The  landlady  Gillian  is  a  rich  specimen  of  the 
grotesque.  Towards  the  close  of  the  piece,  Fletcher  deviates  materially 
(and,  I  think,  unfortunately)  from  the  novel ;  and  he  winds  up  the  whole 
bv  means  of  a  very  fantastical  contrivance  which  is  not  in  harmony  with 
what  precedes.  But,  however  faulty  it  may  be  in  structure.  The 
Chances  has  such  a  throng  of  incidents  brought  out  with  high  dramatic 
effect,  and  such  sprightliness  and  ease  of  dialogue,  that  it  affords 
perhaps  more  gratification  in  the  perusal  than  any  of  our  author's 
comedies,  excepting  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife,  The  Spanish 
Curate,  and  The  Elder  Brother :  with  these  three,  unless  I  am  greatly 
mistaken,  it  has  no  pretensions  to  be  compared. — At  the  beginning  of 
the  present  century  The  Chances  (as  altered  by  the  Duke  of  Buckingham 
and  Garrick)  was  still  on  the  list  of  "acting  plays":  somewhat  more 
than  twenty  years  ago,  when  the  rage  for  musical  entertainments  had 
seized  the  public,  it  was  degraded  into  a  flimsy  opera  ;  and,  most  pro- 
bably, it  will  never  again  in  any  shape  "revisit  the  glimpses"  of  the 
lamps. 

In  Monsieur  Thomas,  another  comedy  of  uncertain  date,  Fletcher  had 
no  coadjutor. — The  serious  portions  of  this  play  (which  are  evidently 
derived  from  some  novel)  have  a  large  infusion  of  romantic  interest  and 
grace  ;  but  I  doubt  if  they  were  in  the  recollection  of  Coleridge  when 
he  mentioned  Monsieur  Thomas  as  one  of  his  "  great  favourites  s  "  among 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  works.  The  strength  of  the  piece  lies  chiefly 
in  its  comic  scenes, — in  the  exuberant  animal  spirits,  the  whim,  and 
the  madbrained  freaks  of  the  personage  from  whom  it  takes  its  title. 
That  young  gentleman  may  perhaps  be  thought  to  come  imder  the 
class  of  ingenious  caricatures  :  but  whether  he  provokes  his  father  by 
affecting  the  utmost  sobriety  of  manner  and  sentiment,  or  regains  his 
favour  by  pretending  to  have  been  on  very  intimate  terms  with  "  all  " 
the  maid-servants  in  the  house, — whether,  assisted  by  an  old  bhnd  fiddler, 
he  serenades  his  mistress, — or,  disguised  as  a  woman,  throws  a  whole 
nunnery  into  confusion, — the  character  of  Monsiem-  Thomas  is  kept  up 
with  equal  spirit  and  consistency. 

To  the  3'ear  1621  belong  three  dramas  composed  solely  by  Fletcher, 
— The  Island  Princess,  The  Pilgrim,  and  The  Wild-goose-chase . 

Campbell  observes  that  "  the  most  amusingly  absurd  perhaps  of  all 

«  TaUe-TaU,  i.  72.  ed.  1835. 
VOL.  T.  .5 


Ixvi  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE     LIVES    AND    WKITINfiS 

Fletcher's  bail  plays  is  IVie  Island  Princess  "  ;  and,  to  prove  the  truth  of 
his  criticism,  he  subjoins  a  minute  analysis  of  the  plot.  That  it  is  to  be 
classed  among  the  author's  inferior  performances,  admits  of  no  dispute  ; 
but  its  chief  fault  is  not  the  improbability  of  the  incidents, — such  as 
"  Armusia  hiring  a  boat,  with  a  few  followers,  which  he  hides,  on  land- 
ing at  Tidore,  among  the  reeds  of  the  invaded  island  ;  then  disguising 
himself  as  a  merchant,  hiring  a  cellar  like  the  Popish  conspirators,  and 
in  the  most  credible  manner  blowing  up  a  considerable  portion  of  a  large 
town,  rescuing  the  king,  slaughtering  all  opposers,  and  re-embarking  in 
his  yawl  from  among  the  reeds''  ", — for,  in  such  matters,  the  romantic 
drama  claims,  as  it  were,  a  licence  to  set  probability  at  defiance  :  the 
main  blemish  of  The  Island  Princess  is  the  flagrant  inconsistency  which 
marks  the  conduct  of  Ruy  Dias  and  Quisara, — a  violation  of  character 
which  is  more  or  less  discernible  in  several  other  plays  of  Fletcher '. 

The  second  of  these  dramas,  TJie  Pilgrim,  has  a  loose  and  desultory 
plot,  and  characters  with  no  new  or  striking  features  :  yet  it  charms 
us  by  the  rapid  succession  of  the  events,  the  well-contrived  situations, 
the  vivacity  of  the  comic  scenes,  and  the  unstrained  grace  and 
occasional  vigour  of  the  serious  portions.  The  second  scene  of  the 
fourth  act,  in  which  Pedro  saves  the  life  of  Roderigo,  and  from 
his  mortal  foe  makes  him  his  friend,  is  termed  "truly  excellent" 
by  Coleridge,  who  adds  that  "altogether,  indeed,  this  play  holds 
the  first  place  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  romantic  entertainments'^". 
The  mad-house  scenes  are  in  a  great  measure  extraneous  to  the 
business  of  the  piece  ;  and,  though  the  monomania  of  the  scholar 
Stephano  is  very  happily  developed,  the  various  "follies  and  lunacies  " 
of  his  companions  are  utterl}-^  out  of  nature.  Our  early  dramatists, 
with  equal  bad  taste  and  feeling,  are  fond  of  introducing  us  to  the 
whole  rabble  of  Bedlam ' ;  but  it  happens  luckily  that  these  exhibitions 
of  insanity  are  generally  too  absurd  to  be  painful. 

We  learn  on  sure  authority,  that  when  the  third  of  these  dramas,  The 
Wild-goose-chase,  was  originally  performed,  it  afforded  great  satisfaction, 
not  only  to  the  audience,  but  to  Fletcher  also  :  "  the  play  ",  observe  the 
actors  who  first  gave  it  to  the  press,   "  was  of  so  general  a  received 

''  Tlic  words  of  Campbell, — Spec,  of  Brit.  Poets,  p.  Ixxv.  cd.  1841. 

'  Since  writing  the  above  remarks,  I  have  discovered  the  prose  tale  on  which 
Tlie  Island  Princess  is  founded  :  see  Addenda  aiul  Corrigenda  to  the  present  work. 
Whatever  the  play  has  of  iniiirobable  incident  and  inconsistent  character  may  be 
traced  to  the  novel. 

^Remains,  ii.  315. 

'  Sec,  for  instance,  Dckker  and  Middleton's  Honest  Whore,  I'<nt  1,  and  Webster's 
Duchess  of  Malf. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHLR.  Ixvii 

acceptance,  that,  he  himself  a  spectator,  we  have  known  him  unconcerned, 
and  to  have  wished  that  it  had  been  none  of  his  ;  he,  as  well  as  the 
thronged  theatre,  (in  spite  of  his  innate  modesty,)  applauding  this  rare 
issue  of  his  brain™". — The  Wild-goose-chase,  though  greatly  altei*ed, 
and  under  another  title  ",  still  keeps  possession  of  the  stage,  and  may 
therefore  be  considered  as  well  known  to  many  readers.  Modern 
critics  have  placed  it  in  the  front-rank  of  Fletcher's  comedies  ;  and,  with 
such  merits  as  it  undoubtedly  possesses,  both  of  plot,  character,  and 
dialogue,  I  dare  not  question  their  decision.  I  must  be  allowed,  how- 
ever, to  say,  that  it  is  by  no  means  an  agreeable  comedy  :  the  dramatis  ' 
personse  excite  our  mirth,  but  none  of  our  esteem. 

In  1622  Fletcher  brought  upon  the  stage  The  Prophetess,  The  Sea- 
Voyage,  and  The  Spanish  Curate ;  and  there  seems  to  be  little  doubt 
that,  during  the  same  year,  he  also  produced  the  Beggars'  Bush. 
These  plays  are  wholly  from  his  pen. 

The  Prophetess  was  licensed  May  14th,  1622.  On  the  legend  of 
Diocletian  as  related  by  Vopiscus  and  others,  our  poet  has  engrafted 
much  fable  of  his  own,  exalting  the  Druis  mulier,  who  by  a  quibbling 
prophecy  first  roused  the  ambition  of  the  Dalmatian  soldier,  into  a  potent 
enchantress,  whose  spells  irresistibly  influence  all  his  future  career. 
But  supernatural  machinery  is  seldom  successful  in  the  hands  of  Fletcher : 
besides,  the  magic  wonders  of  the  present  play  are  not  always  suited  to 
the  period  of  its  action  ;  Delphia,  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  dragons, 
hovering  over  the  Capitol,  when  the  Roman  greatness  is  in  its  wane, 
must  be  regarded  as  a  very  incongruous  fiction  ;  such  an  equipage 
belongs  to  Medea  and  the  days  of  the  Argonauts.  The  character  of 
Diocletian  is  not  unskilfully  touched ;  and  the  scene  in  which  he 
voluntarily  resigns  the  imperial  purple  is  worked  out  with  considerable 
effect, — though,  after  all,  it  is  one  of  those  incidents  which  have  their 
fullest  impressiveness  in  the  simple  narrative  of  history.  The  character 
of  Geta  has  received  high  praise  from  Weber  :  it  is  at  least  very 
diverting.  With  a  few  good  scenes,  and  an  abundance  of  good  writing, 
The  Prophetess  is  far  from  being  a  first-rate  production  of  its  author. 

The  second  of  these  plays,  Tlie  Sea-  Voyage,  was  licensed  22nd  June, 
1622.  "Those",  saj's  Dryden,  "who  have  seen  Fletcher's  Sea- 
Voyage,  may  easily  discern  that  it  was  a  copy  of  Shakespeare's  Tempest: 
the  storm,  the  desert  island,  and  the  woman  who  had  never  seen  a  man, 
are  all  sufiicient  testimonies  of  it"".  Tlie  Sea- Voyage  is  in  my 
opinion  so  poor  a  piece,  not  only  as  "a  copy  of  The  Tempest  ",  but  in 

'"  Vol.  viii.  105. 

"  The  Inconstant  by  Farquhar:  see  vol.  ^^ii.  10.3. 

"  Preface  to  Tfie  Tempest. 


Ixnii  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    TUE    LIVES    AND    WUITIXGS 

other  respects,  that  without  hesitation  I  should  have  ranked  it  among  the 
worst  of  the  romantic  dramas  in  this  collection,  had  I  not  seen  that  a  critic 
of  our  own  day  has  placed  it  (together  with  The  Island  Princess  and  The 
Prophetess)  on  a  level  with  The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  and  "little 
behind  "  Philaster  and  The  Maid's  Tragedy  p. 

The  third  of  these  plays.  The  Spanish  Curate,  is  founded  on  portions 
of  a  prose-work  which  had  very  recently  appeared  n.  In  1622  a 
translation  by  Leonard  Diggcs  from  the  Spanish  of  Gongalo  de  Cespides 
was  pubhshed  in  London  under  the  title  of  Gerardo  the  unfortunate 
Spaniard,  or,  a  Pattern  for  Lascivious  Lovers, — a  novel  containing  a 
great  variety  of  adventures  interwoven  with  the  main  story,  some  of 
which  are  neither  badly  conceived  nor  badly  told.  Fletcher,  ever  on  the 
watch  for  materials  to  serve  his  purposes  as  a  playwright,  lost  no  time 
in  availing  himself  of  the  newly-translated  Gerardo^:  and  haA-ing 
selected,  and  judiciously  altered,  two  of  the  tales,  he  combined  them 
into  The  Spanish  Curate,  which  was  licensed  24th  October  of  the 
same  year. — If  the  plot  and  underplot  of  this  excellent  comedy  hang 
together  somewhat  loosely,  the  interest  never  languishes.  The  curate 
Lopez,  and  his  sexton  Diego,  longing  for  a  less  healthy  parish  and 
abundance  of  funerals,  quick  at  expedients  which  promise  gain,  and 
ready  to  play  their  parts  iu  any  waggery, — the  greedy  unprincipled 
lawyer  Bartolus,  and  his  spouse  Amaranta,  "as  cunning  as  she's 
sweet  ",  who  finds  means  to  baffle  his  imsleeping  jealousy, — the  young 
and  amorous  Leandro, — Don  Henrique,  a  slave  to  the  will  of  the 
imperious  woman  who  passes  for  his  wife, — the  noble-minded  Don 
Jamie, — and  the  boy  Ascanio  with  a  tenderness  almost  feminine, — 
compose  a  group  of  well-contrasted  characters,  none  of  which  can  be 
called  weakly  drawn,  while  the  first  two  (though  essentially  caricatures) 
possess  a  firmness  of  outline  and  a  richness  of  colouring,  which  Fletcher 
has  never  sui-passed  and  seldom  equalled  in  his  comic  portraitures. 
Those  incidents  in  which  the  prose  narrative  is  most  closely  followed, — 
the  presentation  of  the  forged  epistle  to  Lopez,  and  the  game  at  chess, 
— are  improved  upon   and  heightened  with  great  dramatic  skill.     As 

p  The  Spectator  for  lfi40,  p.  857. 

I  Mr.  Hallam  supposed  that  Tlie  Spanish  Curate  was  "in  all  probability  taken  from 
one  of  those  comedies  of  intrigue  which  the  fame  of  Loi)e  de  Vega  had  made 
popular  in  Europe."  Introd.  to  the  Lit.  of  Eurojte,  iii.  102,  ed.  184.3. — In  a  note  on 
The  Coxcomfj  (vol.  iii.  121)  I  have  said  that  the  authors  "perhaps  borrowed  a 
portion  of  it  from  some  Spanish  drama  " :  I  ought  rather  to  have  said  "  were 
perhaps  indebted  for  a  portion  of  it  to  some  Spanish  tale."  I  am  now  convinced 
that  our  early  playwrights  very  seldom  made  use  of  foreign  dramas. 

'  That  he  used  the  Engli.'ih  translation,  and  not  the  Spanish  original,  is  certain  : 
see  vol.  viii.  .S02,  41.=i. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Ixix 

the  character  of  Diego  was  not  suppHed  by  Gerardo,  we  seem  warranted 
in  attributing  to  the  invention  of  Fletcher  that  exquisitely  humorous 
scene,  in  which  the  penniless  sexton,  pretending  to  be  at  the  point  of 
death  and  to  possess  enormous  wealth,  dictates  his  testament  to  the 
curate,  and  gulls  the  avaricious  lawyer  by  making  him  sole  executor. 
It  is  to  be  regretted  that  in  one  circumstance  Fletcher  did  not  deviate 
from  the  novel,  and  save  (as  he  might  easily  have  done)  the  honour  of 
Amaranta. 

As  to  the  fourth  of  these  plays,  the  Beggars  Bush, — the  romantic 
nature  of  the  story,  the  well-conducted  plot,  and  the  humoiu-  and  spirit 
of  those  scenes  in  which  "the  ragged  regiment"  is  introduced, 
unquestionably  render  it  a  highly  interesting  and  amusing  piece.  But, 
while  it  is  more  artistic,  it  is  less  poetical  than  Fletcher's  other 
dramas  of  the  same  class  ;  what  is  unusual  with  him,  its  female 
characters  are  altogether  insignificant ;  and  the  slang  phrases  of  the 
Beggars  (which  various  popular  tracts^  had  made  familiar  to  the 
poet's  audience)  are  calculated  only  to  perplex  the  modern  reader. 
Coleridge,  however, — if  we  may  credit  the  reporter  of  his  sayings, — per- 
ceived no  imperfections  in  the  Beggars^  Bush:  "  I  could  read  it,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  from  morning  to  night :  how  sylvan  and  sunshiny  it  is  !  *  ". 

The  Maid  in  the  Mill  Avas  licensed  29th  August,  1623.  In  this 
comedy  Fletcher  was  assisted  by  William  Rowley ",  who  also  performed 
one  of  the  characters,  probably  Bustofa.  The  greater  portion  of  the 
second  act,  the  whole  of  the  fourth,  as  well  as  various  speeches  in  other 
places  of  the  play,  are  evidently  from  the  pen  of  the  latter  poet,  who 
(as  Weber  remarks)  may  be  traced  by  his  "  rugged  versification  "  :  nor 
is  halting  metre  the  only  fault  of  Rowley's  contributions  ;  the  dialogue 
is  often  very  forced  and  poorly  expressed  ;  and  in  one  scene  we  have 
(what  is  strangely  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  comedy)  an 
incident  eftected  by  supernatural  means, — the  reconciliation  of  Julio  and 
Bellides  in  consequence  of  "  a  vision  "  which  had  appeared  to  both  on  the 
same  night  and  had  spoken  to  both  in  precisely  the  same  words  ^  !  With 
respect  to  Fletcher's  share  of  the  play, — while  it  afibrds  no  favourable 
specimen  of  his  powers,  it  contains  one  of  his  deep  ofi"ences  against 
decency, — the  scene  in  which  the  chaste  Florimel  assumes   ' '  for  the 

'  By  Dekker,  &c. 

^  Table  Tall-,  ii.  ]19,  ed.  1835.  I  cannot  help  suspecting  that  Mr.  Nelson 
Coleridge  mistook  the  name  of  the  play,  and  that  his  uncle  mentioned,  not  the 
Begr/ars'  Busk,  but  The  Faithful  Shepherdess.  "  See  note,  p.  Iviii. 

"  Act  iv.  sc.  2,  vol.  ix.  270.  This  incident  is  the  dramatist's.  It  does  not 
occur  in  the  novel  which  fvu'nished  the  characters  of  the  two  old  men  ;  see  vol. 
ix.  199. 


IXX  SOME    ACCOUNT    OK    THE     LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

nonce  "  the  language  and  manners  of  an  abandoned  strumpet.  The 
chief  merit  of  The  Maid  in  the  Mill  consists  in  its  dramatic  effect  ;  and 
to  that  may  be  attributed  the  success  which  it  originally  experienced, 
having  been  acted  at  com-t  three  times  during  the  same  year. 

Under  "  17  October",  1623,  Sir  Henry  Ilerbcrt's  official  register  has 
the  following  notice  ;  "  For  the  King's  Company,  An  Old  Play  called 
More  Dissemblers  besides  Women  [l)y  Middleton],  allowed  by  Sir  George 
Bucke  ;  and,  being  free  from  alterations,  was  allowed  by  me,  for  a  new 
play  called  The  Devil  of  Doicgate,  or  Usury  Put  to  use.  Written  by 
Fletcher''  ".  This  drama  must  be  reckoned  among  the  lost  productions 
of  our  poet,  unless  Weber  be  right  in  conjecturing  that  Fletcher's  Ni(/ht- 
Walker,  which,  after  his  decease,  appeared  on  the  stage  as  "  corrected 
by  Shirley  ",  is  only  an  alteration  of  The  Devil  of  Dou-gate.  The  last- 
mentioned  play  undoubtedly  had  its  origin  in  a  ballad  called  The  decell 
of  Dowgate  and  his  sonne,  which  I  find  entered  on  the  Stationers'  Books 
to  Edward  Wliite,  5th  August,  1596  >,  and  which  is  not  known  to  be 
e.xtant. 

Again,  under  "  6  December  "  of  the  same  year.  Sir  Henry  mentions, 
'•  For  the  King's  Company,  The  Wandring  Lovers,  wi-itten  by  Mr. 
Fletcher^";  and  he  has  further  recorded  that  "Upon  [the  ensuing] 
New-years  night  [was  acted],  by  the  K.  company,  The  Wandering 
Lovers,  the  prince  only  being  there,  att  Whitehall  ^  ".  This  piece  has 
perished. — A  comedy  entitled  The  Wandering  Lovers,  or  The  Painter, 
was  entered  on  the  Stationers'  Books,  9th  Sept'".  1653,  as  the  composi- 
tion of  Massinger,  but  never  printed  ;  and  Weber  has  anticipated  me  in 
the  obvious  remark  that  most  probably  Tlie  Wandering  Lovers  of  Sii- 
H.  Herbert's  memoranda  and  The  Wandering  Lovers  of  the  Stationers' 
Books  were  one  and  the  same  play,  a  joint  essay  of  Fletcher  and 
Massinger''. 

Love's  Cure,  or.  The  Martial  Maid  was  perhaps  produced  in  1622  or 


»  Chalmers's  Sup,  Apol.  p.  21.5. 

"  Lib.  C.  fol.  1 2  (b). — Our  early  dramatists  have  various  allusions  to  the  hero  of 
this  ballad  :  so  in  Wily  Ber/uilde;  "he  does  so  ruffle  before  my  mistresse  with  his 
barbai-ian  eloquence,  and  strut  before  her  in  a  paire  of  Polonian  leggcs,  as  if  hee 
were  gentleman  Vsher  to  the  gi-eat  Turke  or  (he  Diudl  of  Dowgatc  ".  Sig.  F  4 . 
ed.  I60(j. 

'  Chalmers's  Sup.  Apol.  p.  21 G. 

»  Malone's  Shakespeare  (by  Boswell),  iii.  227. 

^  IiUrod.  to  tJie  Worku  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  Ivi.— Both  Weber  and  Gifford  en-oneously 
state  that  The  Wanderiwj  Lovers  was  one  of  the  MS.  plays  destroyed  by  Mr.  War- 
burton's  servant.  No  such  piece  is  mentioned  in  Warburtou's  list  of  those  plays, 
MS.  Lansd.  807. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Ixxi 

1623  :  it  would  seem  to  be  wholly  by  Fletcher. — In  this  comedy  there 
is  not  much  to  praise. 

During  1624  Fletcher  gave  two  dramas  to  the  stage, — A  Wife  for  a 
Month,  and  Eide  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife. 

The  first  of  these  was  licensed  27th  May,  1624. — With  a  plot  in 
itself  disagreeable  and  by  no  means  artfully  framed,  A  Wife  for  a 
Month  is  nevertheless  a  drama  which  few  readers  will  be  content  to  leave 
half-perused.  The  characters  of  the  lovers  Valerio  and  Evanthe  are  not 
unhappily  conceived  nor  destitute  of  interesting  traits,  though  some  of 
the  scenes  between  them  (and  the  best  too  in  the  play)  are  a  good  deal 
sullied  by  that  grossness  to  which  our  author  is  so  prone.  Frederick 
and  his  creature  Sorano,  the  latter  especially,  are  coarse  and  common- 
place exhibitions  of  villany.  The  scene  which  introduces  Alphouso 
labouring  under  the  eftects  of  the  poison  has  been  pronounced  by  Seward  '^ 
"  superior  "  and  by  Weber  '^  "  scarcely  inferior  "  to  what  was  evidently  its 
model, — the  concluding  scene  of  Shakespeare's  King  John.  Such  criti- 
cism is  preposterous.  With  occasional  beauty  of  diction,  the  wailings  of 
Alphonso  are  a  succession  of  extravagances  and  conceits  ;  and  they  are 
spun  out  to  a  length  which  must  necessarily  have  weakened  their  impres- 
siveness,  had  they  been  ever  so  truthful.  Shakespeare,  Avith  his  usual 
judgment,  gave  comparatively  few  speeches  to  the  dying  king.  Besides, 
as  Alphouso  not  only  recovers  from  the  effects  of  the  poison,  but  is 
even  cured  of  his  former  malady  by  its  operation,  the  scene  is  not  a 
little  objectionable  ;  such  a  high-wrought  display  of  physical  suffering 
should  have  been  the  prelude  to  nothing  but  death.  The  dialogue  of 
this  drama  is  generally  spirited,  and  has  much  of  Fletcher's  rapid 
eloquence  and  flowing  versification. 

The  second  of  these  plays,  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife,  was 
licensed  19th  Oct.,  1624.  It  has  always  been  esteemed,  andjustly,  as 
one  of  the  author's  master-pieces  in  comedy.  The  main  plot  and  the 
underplot  *=  are  very  skilfully  connected,  and  both  are  so  judiciously 
managed,  that  the  interest  never  flags,  and  the  rather  unpleasing  nature 
ofthe  fable  is  entirely  overlooked.     The  dramatis  personas  are  forcibly 

'-■  Preface  to  ed.  1750. 

'i  Note  ad  loc. 

'  Mr.  Hallam  remarks ;  "  That  Jlule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife  has  a  prototype  on 
the  Spanish  theati-e  must  appear  likely  ;  but  I  should  be  surprised  if  the  variety 
and  spirit  of  charactei',  the  vivacity  of  humour,  be  not  chiefly  due  to  our  o\\ii 
authors  [author]  ".  Introd.  to  the  Lit.  of  Europe,  iii.  108,  ed.  1843.  From  what 
som-ce  the  main  plot  is  derived  has  not  been  ascertained  ;  but  we  know  that  the 
underplot  is  borrowed  from  one  of  the  Exemplary  Novels  of  Cervantes :  sec  vol. 
i.\.  391  of  the  pi'csent  work. 


l\xii  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

delineated  aud  well  diversified,  with  no  unwarrantable  heightening  of 
their  peculiarities,  and  possess  as  much  individuahty  as  will  be  found  in 
any  of  Fletcher's  characters*^.  The  dialogue,  though  no  vein  of 
what  is  strictly  termed  poetry  runs  through  it,  is  every  where  full  of 
animation,  often  richly  humorous,  and,  in  some  of  the  serious  portions 
assigned  to  Leon,  remarkable  for  the  neat  aud  forcible  expression  of  the 
sentiment.  Rxile  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife  is  better  known  than  any 
play  in  this  collection,  for  (with  some  alterations)  it  still  proves  an 
attractive  entertainment  on  the  stage. 

But  death  suddenly  put  an  end  to  the  unwearied  literary  exertions  of 
Fletcher,  while  he  was  yet  in  all  the  vigour  of  manhood.  Being  about 
to  visit  a  certain  knight  in  Norfolk  or  Suffolk,  and  delaying  his  journey 
only  till  the  tailor  had  furnished  him  with  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  he 
fell  a  victim  to  the  plague,  which  was  then  prevalent  in  the  metropolis  s. 
He  died,  before  completing  his  forty-sixth  year,  in  August  1625,  and 
was  buried,  on  the  29th  of  that  month,  at  St.  Saviour's,  Southwark, 
without  any  memorial  to  mark  the  spot ''.  In  the  following  Epitapli  on 
Mr.  John  Fletcher  and  Mr.  Philip  Massinger  by  Sir  Aston  Cokaine, 
"  the  same  grave  "  perhaps  means  nothing  more  than  the  same  place 


^  Campbell,  speaking  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  mentions,  as  among  the  very 
best  of  their  "humorous  characters",  La- Writ  in  Hie  Little  French  Lawyer,  awA 
Cacafogo  in  the  present  play.  Spec,  of  Brit.  Poeti>;  p.  Ixxv.  ed.  1841. — Da  vies 
notices  a  ti'aditiou,  which  he  had  learned  from  the  old  actors,  that  "  Cacafogo  was 
intended  as  a  rival  to  Falstaff".     Dram.  Miscell.  ii.  406. 

fc'  "  In  the  great  plague,  1625,  a  Knight  of  Norfolk  or  Suffolk  invited  him  into  the 
countrey.  He  stayed  but  to  make  himsehe  a  suite  of  cloathes,  and  while  it  was 
makeing,  fell  sick  of  the  plague  and  dyed.  This  I  had  from  his  tayler,  who  is  now 
a  very  old  man,  aud  clarke  of  St.  Mary  Overy's  ".  Aubrey,— Zt/^t;-«  uritten  by 
Emiiitnt  Persons,  &c..  Vol.  ii.  P.  i.  p.  352.  "  In  this  Church  was  intenvd,  without 
any  Memorial,  that  eminent  Dramatick  Poet  Mr.  John  Fletcher,  Son  to  Bishop 
Fletcher  of  London,  who  dyed  of  the  Plague  the  19th  of  August  1625.  When  I 
searched  the  Register  of  this  Parish  in  1 670  for  his  Obit,  for  the  Use  of  Mr.  Anthony 
a  Wood,  the  Pai-i.sh-Clerk,  aged  above  80,  told  me  that  he  was  his  Taylor,  and  that 
Mr.  Fletcher  staying  for  a  Suit  of  Cloaths  before  he  i-etired  into  the  Counti-ey, 
Death  stopped  his  Journey,  and  laid  him  low  here '".  Aubrey's  Hist,  of  Surrey, 
v.  209.  In  the  second  of  these  passages  there  is  evidently  an  eiTor  :  the  words 
"  who  dyed  of  the  Plague  the  19th  of  .\ugust"  should  be  "  who  died  of  the  plague, 
and  was  buried  the  29th  of  August  ". 

•>  His  burial  is  recorded  at  St.  Saviour's  in  thi-ee  distinct  entries.  1.  In  one 
register  ;  "  1625.  August*  29.  Mr.  Joim  Fletcher  a  man  in  the  church  ". 
2.  In  another  register  ;  "  1625.  August  29.  John  Fletcher  a  poit  in  the  church. 
"T.  and  cl.  2s.  ("  cl."  seems  to  mean,  as  Mr.  P.  Cunningham  observes  to  me,  "  clerk  "  : 
Mr.  Collier — Introil.io  Mem.  of  the  Principal  Actors  in  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare, 
p.  xii -reads  it  "r^.",  i.e.  church).  ."?.  In  the  imbound  monthly  accounts  on 
separate  sheets  ;  "  1625.  August  29.    Jolui  Fletcher  gentleman  in  the  chiu'ch  20s  ". 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  IXXUl 

of  iutermeut,  for  nearly  fourteen  years  elapsed  between  the  burials 
of  Fletelier  and  Massiuger  '  ; 

"  In  the  same  gi-ave  Fletcher  was  bui-ied,  here 
Lies  the  stage-poet,  Philip  Massinger  : 
Playes  they  did  wi-ite  together,  were  great  friends  ; 
And  now  one  gi-ave  includes  them  at  their  ends  : 
So  whom  on  eai-th  notliing  did  part,  beneath 
Here,  in  their  fames,  they  lie,  in  spight  of  death ''  ". 

That  the  decease  of  so  eminent  a  di-amatist  as  Fletcher  must  have 
been  lamented  by  all  to  whom  the  stage  was  an  object  of  interest,  we 
might  have  taken  for  granted  even  without  the  express  testimony  of 
Richard  Brome  ; 

"  I  knew  him  till  he  died  ; 

Aud,  at  his  dissolution,  what  a  tide 

Of  sorrow  overwhelm'd  the  stage  ;  which  gave 

Volleys  of  sighs  to  send  him  to  his  gi-ave, 

Aud  grew  distracted  in  most  ^dolent  fits. 

For  she  had  lost  the  best  part  of  her  wits  ' ". — 

In  the  course  of  this  memou-  we  have  seen  that  llie  Faithful  Shepherdess 
and  The  Kidghtofthe  Burning  Pestle  were  completely  damned  on  their 
first  representation,  and  that  Tlie  Coxcomb,  when  originally  acted,  was 
condemned  for  its  length  by  a  portion  of  the  spectators :  we  learn, 
moreover,  from  a  passage  in  Brome's  Dedication  oi  Monsieur  Thomas  io 
Charles  Cotton,  that  Fletcher  often  failed  to  secure  the  full  approbation 
of  the  audience  ;  "  You  will  find  him  in  this  poem  as  active  as  in  others, 
to  many  of  which  the  dull  apprehensions  of  former  times  gave  but  slender 
allowance,  from  malicious  custom  more  than  reason  ;  yet  they  have  since, 
by  your  candid  self  and  others,  been  clearly  vindicated'"." 

The    probability  is,  that  Fletcher  w^as    never    married ". — Next    to 

'  Massinger  was  buried  18  March  1638-9.  See  Collier's  Introd.  to  Mem.  of  the 
Pnncipal  Actors  in  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare,  p.  xiii. 

''  Cokaine's  Poems,  p.  186,  ed.  1662.  '  Commend.  Poems,  vol.  i.  Ixv. 

"'  Vol.  vii.  309. 

"  Mr.  CoUier  has  fiu-nished  me  with  the  followiug  extracts  from  Parish-registers, 
aud,  more  in  jest  than  in  eai'nest,  would  connect  the  second  and  tliird  entry  with 
the  passage  of  Shadwell's  Bury-Fair  which  is  cited  at  p.  xxvi  of  this  Memoir. 

"John  Fletcher  aud  Elleyne  Archer  were  married  the  4  day  of  August  1608  ". 
Jieg.  of  St.  Botolph,  Bishopsr/ate. 

"  1612.  Nov.  3.  John  Fletcher  and  Joue  Hen-ing  [were  married]  ".  Beg.  of 
St.  Saviour" s,  Southwark. 

"  John  the  son  of  John  Fletcher  and  of  Joan  his  \vife  was  baptised  25  Feb.  1619  ". 
Reg.  of  St.  Bartholomew  the  Great. 

But  John   Fletcher  was  a  very  common  name  :  the  token-books  of  St.  Savionr's, 
Southwark,  shew  that  in  1616  four  persons  so  called  were  h^■ing  in  that  parish. 


Lwiv  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

Beaumont,  it  would  seem  that  Jousou  and  Massinger  were  the  most 
intimate  of  his  friends  :   "I  knew  him  "',  says  Bronic, 

"  when  lif, 
Tliat  w  as  the  master  of  liis  art  and  me, 
Most  knowuig  Jouson,  proud  to  call  him  son, 
In  friendly  envy,  swore  he  had  out-done 
His  very  self""  ; 

and  Jonson  told  Drummond  "  that  Chapman  and  Fletcher  were  loved  of 
him  "  ;  declaring  too  on  the  same  occasion,  "  that,  next  himself,  only 
Fletcher  and  Chapman  could  make  a  Mask  p." — Fletcher's  "innate 
modesty  "  is  mentioned  by  the  actors  Lowin  and  Taylor 'i  ;  and,  as  Mr. 
Darley  observes'',  "the  noble  trait  of  self-respect"  is  attributed  to 
him  "in  very  strong  language  "  by  the  prologue-writer  at  a  revival  of 
The  Nice  Valour  ; 

"  It 's  grown  in  fashion  of  late,  in  these  days. 
To  come  and  Ijeg  a  sufferance  to  our  plays  : 
Faith,  gentlemen,  oiu-  poet  ever  writ 
Language  so  good,  mix'd  with  such  sprightly  wit. 
He  made  the  theatre  so  sovereign 
With  his  rare  scenes,  he  scom'd  this  croucliing  vein  : 
We  stabb'd  him  with  keen  daggers,  when  we  pi*ay'd 
Him  wTite  a  preface  to  a  play  well  made  : 
He  could  not  wTite  these  toys ;  'twas  easier  far 
To  bring  a  felon  to  appeal-  at  the  bar. 
So  much  he  hated  baseness ;  which,  this  day, 
His  scenes  will  best  convince  you  of  in 's  play  *  ". — 

That  sparkling  wit  in  conversation,  for  which,  according  to  Shirley  (in  a 
passage  before  cited,  p.  vi),  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were  equally  dis- 
tinguished, is  noticed  as  a  characteristic  of  the  latter  by  two  other 
authorities  ; — by  the  author  of  a  prologue  at  a  revival  of  The  Chances, — 

"  Comnieml.  Poems,  vol.  i.  Ixv. 

p  Notes  of  Joiison's  Convirsations  with  Drummond,  &c.  pp.  4,  12.  ed.  Shake. 
Soc. — We  have,  however,  no  specimens  of  Fletcher  as  a  masijuc-writ^T.  except  in 
the  masques  which  form  portions  of  some  of  his  plays. 

•1  Ded.  to  Tlie  Wild-f/oose-chase,  already  quoted,  p.  Ixvii. 

'  Introd.  to  tlie  Works  of  B.  and  F.,  p.  xvi. 

"  Vol.  X.  297. — The  following  notice  concerning  Fletcher  and  the  players  occurs 
in  a  comparatively  modem  book.  "  It  is  reported  of  Mr.  Fletcher,  tliat,  though  he 
write  [writ]  with  such  a  free  and  sparkling  Genius,  that  future  Ages  shall  scarce 
ever  parallel,  yet  his  importunate  Cummedians  would  often  croud  upon  him  such 
impertinences,  which  to  him  seemed  needless  and  lame  excuses,  liis  Works  being  so 
good,  his  indignation  rendred  them  a.s  the  onely  bjul  Lines  his  modi'st  Thalia  was 
ever  humbled  with  "'.     Pnfcicc  to  Tin  Myslirus  of  Love  and  Eloqutncc,  S-c,  1658. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  IxXV 

"  Nor  fear  I  to  be  tax'd  for  a  vain  boast  ; 
My  promise  will  fiud  credit  with  the  most, 
When  they  know  ingenious  Fletcher  made  it,  he 
Being  in  himself  a  perfect  comedy  ; 
And  some  sit  here,  I  doubt  not,  dare  aver 
Living  he  made  that  house  a  theatre 
Which  he  pleas'd  to  frequent  '^  "  ; — 

and  by  Brome, — 

"  You,  that  have  known  him,  know 
The  common  talk  that  from  his  Ups  did  flow, 
And  run  at  waste,  did  savour  more  of  wit 
Than  any  of  his  time,  or  since,  have  \vi"it. 
But  few  excepted,  in  the  stage's  way  ' ". — 

As  in  the  case  of  Beaumont  and   other  poets  of  the  time.  Fletcher's 
Christian  name  used  to  undergo  a  familiar  alteration  ; 

"  Fletcher  and  Webster,  of  that  learned  packe 
None  of  the  mean'st,  yet  neither  was  but  Jaclce  "  ". 

The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn,  though  not  brought  upon  the  stage  tiU 
after  Fletcher's  death,  appears  to  have  been  wholly  from  his  pen.  It 
was  licensed  22nd  January,  1625-6.  In  the  plot  of  this  tragi- 
comedy some  circumstances  are  ill  contrived.  There  is  no  adequate 
motive  for  Alberto's  resolution  to  cut  off  the  hand  of  Monte  vole  ; 
nor  does  it  seem  that  the  safety  of  Csesario  is  rendered  more  certain 
by  the  course  which  Mariana  adopts  to  ensure  it, — a  solemn  pro- 
testation in  open  court  that  he  is  not  her  son  ;  while  the  atrocious 
cruelty  in  the  one  instance,  and  the  flagrant  mendacity  in  the  other 
(for  the  lady  supports  her  assertion  by  a  tissue  of  falsehoods,  and 
has  witnesses  ready  to  perjure  themselves  in  her  behalf),  annihilate 
all  the  reader's  sympathy  with  these  two  personages,  whom  Fletcher 
nevertheless  intended  to  represent  as  not  unworthy  of  esteem.  The 
only  interesting  character  in  the  play  is  that  of  Bianca, — a  slight  but 
beautifid  sketch  ;  the  scene  in  which  (having  heard  that  Csesario  is  no 
longer  Alberto's  heir)  she  offers  liim  her  hand,  and  is  scornfully  rejected, 
has  a  pathos  which  the  author  sometimes  missed  in  his  more  ambitious 
attempts  to  move  the  heart. 

The  Noble  Gentleman  was  Ucensed  3rd  February,  1625-6.  As 
various  portions  of  its  dialogue  differ  considerably  from  Fletcher's 
usual  style  of  writing,  we  may  conjectm-e  that^  he  left  it  in  an 
unfinished  state,  and  that  it  was  completed  for  the  theatre  by  a  second 

^  Vol.  vii.  219. 

'■  Commend.  Poems,  vol.  i.  Ixv. 

"  Heywood's  Hierarchic  of  the  blessed  Awjclls,  1635,  p.  206. 


Ixxvi  SOME    ACCOUNT    01"    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

dramatist — perhaps  by  Shirley. — The  story  of  this  comedy  (derived,  we 
may  suppose,  from  some  novel), — the  gulling  of  Monsieur  Marine,  a 
gentleman  who  has  been  persuaded  to  leave  his  estate  in  the  country 
and  to  haunt  the  court  in  hopes  of  honour  and  preferment, — is  well 
adapted  for  the  stage  :  but  here  it  is  most  injudiciously  treated,  the 
incidents  degenerating  into  farcical  absurdities,  at  which  the  reader  is 
the  less  inclined  to  smile,  because  in  one  case  certainly,  and  perhaps 
in  move,  they  involve  a  violation  of  character. 

The  Elder  Brother,  in  which  Fletcher  undoubtedly  had  no  assistant, 
is  a  proof  that,  even  to  the  last,  his  genius  was  capable  of  bearing 
golden  fruit.  We  are  sure  that  it  was  not  performed  till  after  his 
decease  (but  how  long  after,  is  uncertain)  ;  and  when  we  consider  the 
improbability  that  he  would  have  confined  to  his  closet  a  piece  which  he 
had  finished  for  the  theatre  with  more  than  usual  care,  we  may  reason- 
ably conclude  that  it  was  one  of  his  latest  compositions. — The  Elder 
Brother  ranks  with  the  most  perfect  comedies  in  these  volumes. 
The  temptation  to  throw  some  touches  of  strong  caricature  into  the 
picture  of  its  hero,  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  play,  was  more 
than  Fletcher  coidd  resist  ;  and  accordingly  Charles  is  represented 
as  so  wrapped  up  in  study,  and  so  little  acquainted  with  the  most 
common  things  of  life,  that  he  knows  not  what  "  a  cook  "  is,  and  inquires 
the  meaning  of  "  venison"  :  but  the  total  change  which  is  wrought 
upon  him  by  the  all-subduing  power  of  love  is  exhibited  with  equal 
truth  and  delicacy,  as  well  as  with  great  dramatic  effect.  Nor  perhaps 
less  skilful,  though  less  striking,  is  the  delineation  of  the  younger  brother 
Eustace,  who  at  first  a  fop,  and  anxious  only  to  prove  himself  "a 
complete  courtier,"  eventually  redeems  his  character,  and,  in  a  very 
animated  scene,  spurns  from  him  the  unworthy  companions  by  whom  he 
had  been  seduced  into  frivolity.  The  three  old  gentlemen,  Miramont 
more  particularly,  are  drawn  with  considerable  clearness  and  variety  ; 
and  Andrew  is  an  excellent  picture  of  a  shrewd  and  faithful  servant.  If 
Angelina  does  not  fully  satisfy  the  expectations  which  are  raised  by  her 
appearance  in  the  opening  scene,  her  conduct  is  at  least  marked  by 
firmness  throughout.  Of  the  many  poetical  passages  which  adorn  The 
Elder  BrotJier,  the  finest  are  allotted  to  Charles  ;  and  whether  he  pours 
forth  the  enthusiasm  of  the  student  or  the  lover,  his  language  is  noble 
and  imaginative. 

If  we  were  certain  that  Tlie  Nice  Valour,  or.  The  Passionate  Madmen 
was  wholly  by  Fletcher,  the  mention  in  act  v.  sc.  3  of  a  prose-tract  which 
was  not  published  till  1624  would  deterniiue  this  comedy  to  have  been 
among  the  last  he  wrote :  but  the  traces  of  a  second  pen  which  we 
seem  frequi-ntly  to  discover  in  it.  excite  a  suspicion  that,  after  our  poet's 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Ixxvii 

death,  another  playwright  either  altered  it  to  its  present  shape  for  a 
revival,  or  completed  it  for  its  original  appearance  on  the  stage. — Its 
plot  poor  and  disjointed,  its  chief  characters  altogether  unnatural,  and 
its  humoui"  violent  in  the  extreme^,  The  Nice  Yalour  can  add  nothing  to 
Fletcher's  dramatic  fame  :  yet  is  it  memorable  as  containing  that 
exquisite  song>"  (a  pearl  among  rubbish),  to  which  Milton  is  not  without 
obligations  in  his  II  Penseroso. 

The  Bloody  Brother,  or,  Rollo  Duke  of  Normandy,  "  was  certainly 
written,"  says  Weber,  "before  1621^," — an  assertion  for  which  he 
does  not  state  any  authority.  As  far  as  I  can  judge,  it  must  have  been 
one  of  the  latest  pieces  on  which  Fletcher  was  engaged  ;  and,  there 
being  strong  internal  evidence  that  only  a  portion  of  it  is  his,  I  conclude 
that  after  his  decease  it  was  completed  for  the  theatre  by  another 
dramatist, — in  all  probability,  by  William  Rowley*. — Few  critics,  I 
imagine,  will  agree  with  Dryden  in  admiring  the  plot  of  this  play  for  its 
"  uniformity  and  unity  of  design^  "  :  nor  is  there  much  to  admire  on  the 
score  of  character.  What  is  good  in  The  Bloody  Brother  is  Fletcher's  ^ ; 
and,  besides  many  vigorous  and  eloquent  passages,  there  is  one  short 
scene  distinct  in  its  excellence  from  all  the  rest, — 

Latet  arbore  opaca 
Aureus  et  foliis  et  lento  vimine  ramus, — 

the  scene  in  which  Edith  imp'ores  Rollo  to  spare  her  father,  and,  finding 
her  supplications  vain,  abandons  them  for  curses  on  the  tyrant.  The 
passionate  earnestness  and  the  volubility  of  her  language  are  even 
thrilling ;  perhaps,  indeed,  the  dramas  of  Beaimaont  and  Fletcher 
will  supply  no  second  instance  of  the  reality  which  that  short  scene 
possesses  ;  and  every  reader  must  regret  that  an  unlucky  recollection 
of  Shakespeare's  Richard  the  Third  and  Lady  Anne'^  should  have 
induced  our  author  to  destroy  the  consistency  of  Edith's  character  by 
afterwards  representing  her  as  on  the  point  of  yielding  to  the  love-suit 

^  I  ought  not,  however,  to  conceal  from  the  reader  that  one  editor  thinks  very 
differently  of  this  play  :  Weber  speaks  of  "  the  inimitable  humour  displayed  in  every 
part  of  it  ",  and  says  that  "  we  must  claim  for  Galoshio  a  rank  immediately 
after  the  clowns  of  Shakespeare  ".     Pref.  Remarks  on  The  Nice  Valour. 

y  Vol.  X.  33.5. 

^  Introd.  to  the  WorTcs  of  B.  and  P.,  p.  xUii. 

*  See  note,  p.  Iviii. 

i"  On  Dram.  Poesy, — Prose  Worls,  Vol.  i.  P.  ii.  p.  73,  ed.  Malone. 

=  I  now  behave  that  in  the  prefatory  remai-ks  on  the  play  (vol.  x.  373)  I  too 
hastily  assented  to  Weber's  opinion  that  only  a  portion  of  the  fifth  act  was  %vritten 
by  Fletcher. 

•1  Seward  first  noticed  this  imitation  of  Shakespeare. 


Ixxviii         SOMK    ACCOUNT    OT'    THE    LIVES   AM)    WHITINGS 

of  Rollo,  at  tlio  very  niomciit  when  she  is  prepared  to  take  away  liis 
life  aud  avenge  her  father  :  unhke  her  prototype,  however,  she  is  saved 
by  circnmstances  from  the  final  disgrace  of  heing  "fool'd"  by  liis 
blandishments.  Rollo  is  a  mere  exaggeration,  a  monster  of  incredible 
wickedness  :  he  hates  his  brother  Otto  with  a  hatred  fiercer  than  that 
between  the  Theban  brothers  ;  after  failing  in  an  attempt  to  poison 
him,  he  stabs  him  in  his  mother's  arms  ;  offers  his  sword  both  at  her 
and  at  his  sister  ;  sends  his  chancellor  and  his  tutor  to  the  block  because 
they  refuse  to  justify  Otto's  murder  to  the  people  ;  and  has  one  of  his 
captains  put  to  death  for  giving  burial  to  the  beheaded  chancellor.  Yet 
does  Dryden  defend  this  superfluity  of  crime, — "  It  adds,"  he  says,  "  to 
our  horror  and  detestation  of  the  criminal  ;  and  poetic  justice  is  not 
neglected  neither,  for  we  stab  him  in  our  minds  for  every  offence 
which  he  commits  f^"  !  Sophia,  who  at  first  shews  much  energy  and 
address  in  quelling  the  discord  of  her  sons,  sinks  afterwards  into  insig- 
nificance. The  high  farce  of  the  Cook  and  his  comrades,  intended  to 
relieve  the  atrocities  of  the  play,  seems  utterly  out  of  place  ;  and  the 
astrological  jargon  would  be  intolerable  any  where. — Towards  the  close 
of  the  seventeenth  century  this  tragedy,  with  all  its  faults  (and  perhaps 
in  consequence  of  those  very  faults),  was  still  popular  on  the  stage.  The 
following  anecdote,  which  relates  to  a  somewhat  earlier  period,  is  from 
Wright's  Historia  Histrionica  ;  and  I  may  preface  it  by  observing  that 
recent  inquiries  into  stage-history  have  only  confinued  the  authenticity  of 
that  curious  tract.  "  \Anien  the  wars  were  over,  and  the  roj^alists  totally 
subdued,  most  of  "em  [the  ])layers]  who  were  left  alive  gathered  to 
London,  and  for  a  subsistence  endeavoured  to  revive  their  old  trade 
privately.  They  made  up  one  company  out  of  all  the  scattered  members 
of  several  ;  and  in  the  winter  before  the  kings  murder,  1G48,  the}' 
ventured  to  act  some  plays,  with  as  much  caution  and  privacy  as  could 
be,  at  the  Cock-pit,  They  continued  undisturbed  for  three  or  four  days  ; 
but  at  last,  as  they  were  presenting  the  tragedy  of  The  Bloody 
Brother  (in  which  Lowin  acted  Aubrey,  Taylor  Rollo,  Pollard  the  Cook, 
Burt  Latorch,  and,  I  think.  Hart  Otto),  a  party  of  foot-soldiers  beset 
the  house,  surprized  'em  about  the  middle  of  the  play,  and  earned  'em 
away  in  their  habits,  not  admitting  them  to  shift,  to  Ilatton-house,  then 
a  prison,  whcie  having  detained  them  some  time,  they  ])lundorod  them  of 
their  clothes,  and  lot  'om  loose  again  ^" 


•■  Heads  of  an  Answer  to  Riimcr,— Prose  WorH,Y(>\.  i.  P.  ii.,  j).  :<1H,  i-d.  Maloiie.- 
Sec  note  on  this  Memoir,  p.  xxxi. 

'  P.  cl.,— Dodsley'.s  Old  Plays,  vol.  i.  la.st  c<l. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Ixxix 

The  modern  editors  concur  in  stating  that  The  Lovers'  Progress, 
having  been  left  imperfect  by  Fletcher,  was  completed  by  some  other 
dramatist.  But  the  prologue  leaves  no  doubt  that  it  was  finished 
by  Fletcher  (and  perhaps  acted  during  his  life),  and  that  The 
Lovers'  Progress  as  we  now  possess  it,  is  Fletcher's  play  with  sundry 
additions  and  alterations,  made  by  another  dramatist  for  its  revival, 
a  considerable  time  after  Fletcher's  death.  I  agree  with  Weber 
in  thinking  that  the  second  dramatist  was  Massinger  §. — Into  this 
tragedy  the  authors  have  compressed,  with  some  slight  variations,  the 
more  important  incidents  of  a  long  and  tedious  novel  ^,  imbuing  with 
life  and  animation  the  characters  which  they  found  very  faintly  drawn. 
The  ghost  of  the  innkeeper,  as  they  have  exhibited  it,  is  a  spectre 
sui  generis  :  in  the  novel  it  appears  with  all  the  solemnity  which  is 
supposed  to  attend  such  visitations  ;  but  in  the  play  it  sings  a  jovial  song, 
and  enters  into  conversation  exactly  like  a  being  of  flesh  and  blood. 
Yet  the  effect  of  the  scene  to  which  I  allude'  is  the  reverse  of  comic  : 
in  the  very  mirth  and  familiarity  of  the  ghost,  accompanied  with  its 
declaration  that  the  man  himself  has  "been  dead  these  three  weeks," 
there  is  something  which  makes  a  near  approach  to  the  terrible.  This 
spectre  seemed  to  deserve  especial  notice  here,  because  it  was  a  favom-ite 
with  one  '^  whose  judgment  in  all  matters  of  romantic  fiction  must 
command  respect. 

An  entry  in  Sir  Henry  Herbert's  ofiice-book,  dated  11th  May,  1633, 
shews  that  T//e  Night- Walker,  or  the  Little  Thie/wafi  "  corrected  by 
Sherley"  ;  and  hence  the  general  belief  that,  Fletcher  having  died  befoi-e 
he  had  finished  the  play,  Shirley  was  employed  to  complete  it  for  the 
stage.    Weber,  however,  conjectures  that  The  Night-  Walker  is  an  altera- 


g  The  chief  incident  in  this  tragedy  in  the  murder  of  Cleander  ;  and  among  the 
lost  dramas  of  Massinger  was  one  called  The  Tragedy  of  Cleander,  acted  7  May, 
1634:  but  the  Cleander  of  the  present  play  is  an  imaginary  personage  ;  and  The 
Tragedy  of  Cleander  doubtless  treated  of  the  Cleander  who  was  an  offieer  of  Alexander 
the  Great,  and  who  was  put  to  death  for  offering  violence  to  a  no1>le  v-irgin  and 
giving  her  as  a  prostitute  to  his  servants. 

^  Histoire  des  Amours  de  Lysandre  et  de  CaliMe. 

'  Act  iii.  sc.  5  :  see  the  corresponding  passage  of  the  novel  (abridged),  vol.  xi. 
7. — The  accomit  in  the  novel  of  the  ghost's  second  visit  (ibid.  p.  S)  has  a  bold 
extravagance  which  would  have  pleased  Monk  Lewis. 

^  Sir  Walter  Scott : — Mr.  Lockhart,  describing  the  Sunday-evening  "  readings  "' 
for  the  amusement  of  Scott's  domestic  circle,  in  his  house  at  Edinburgh,  mentions  that 
"  Dryden's  Fables,  Johnson's  two  Satires,  and  certain  detached  scenes  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  especially  that  in  The  Lovers'  Progress,  where  the  ghost  of  the  musical 
inn-keeper  makes  his  appearance,  were  frequently  selected  ".  Life  of  Sir  W.  Scott, 
iv.  163,  first  ed.  :  see  also  vi.  1.5<). 


IXXX  SOME    ACCOIXT    OK    Til  K     LIVF.S    AND   WlUTlXfiS 

tion,  by  Shirley,  of  Fletcher's  Deinl  of  Doicij<iU\  a  lost  drama  which 
has  been  already  noticed  (p.  Ixx). — Ilazlitt'  mentions  The  Nifjht-Wnlker, 
together  with  The  Little  Fretick  Laicyei-  and  Monsieur  Thomas,  as 
"  coming  perhaps  next"  to  the  best  comedies  in  the  collection  :  but  to 
me  it  seems  altogether  inferior  to  either  of  the  pieces  with  which  he  has 
classed  it.  The  incidents,  when  we  consider  that  the  scene  passes  in 
London  during  the  time  of  the  author,  have  a  very  startling  improba- 
bility ;  and  the  chief  characters  are  vulgarized  copies  of  personages  in 
some  of  Fletcher's  earlier  comedies.  Yet  is  it  undoubtedly,  what  Sir 
Henry  Herbert  terms  it,  "  a  merry  play,"  nor  does  it  ever  weary  the 
reader.  For  the  marks  of  haste  and  negligence  which  it  frequently 
betrays,  Shirley,  not  Fletcher,  must  be  held  responsible. 

Love's  Pilgrimage,  according  to  the  common  opinion,  was  left  imper- 
fect by  Fletcher  and  completed  by  Shirley™,  the  latter  having  introduced 
into  it  a  whole  scene  and  some  detached  passages  from  Jonson's  Nerc 
Inn  :  but  Weber  inclines  to  believe  that  it  was  written  by  Fletcher  and 
Massinger  in  conjunction,  that  it  was  brought  upon  the  stage  during 
Fletcher's  life-time,  and  (what  I  think  very  unlikely)  that  the  interpola- 
tions from  Jonson  were  made  by  the  players,  without  the  assistance  of 
Shirley,  when  the  comedy  was  revived  in  1 635  ".  All  uncertainty  about 
its  date  and  authorship  would  probably  be  removed,  if  the  entire  memo- 
randa of  Sir  Henry  Herbert  were  given  to  the  public. — Lovers  Pilgrimage 
(founded,  and,  for  the  greater  part,  closely,  on  Las  Dos  Donsellas  of 
CeiTantes)  is  pronounced  by  Weber  to  be  "  one  of  the  most  lively  and 
attractive  productions  in  these  volumes"."  I  can  go  no  farther  in  its 
praise  than  saying  that  there  is  some  force  and  truthfulness  in  the 
serious  scenes,  and  no  lack  of  farcical  humour  in  the  comic  portions. 

One  play  only  remains  to  be  mentioned, —  The  Tico  Nolle  Kinsmen.  For 
this  tragedy,  which  is  replete  with  grandeur  and  beauty.  The  Knightes  Tale 
of  Chaucer  supplied  the  materials. — According  to  the  title-page  of  the 
oldest  edition,  1634,  it  was  "  written  by  the  memorable  worthies  of  their 
time,  Mr.  John  Fletcher  and  Mr.  William  Shakespeare."  That  Fletcher 
was  partly  its  author  has  never  been  disputed  :  but  the  assertion  of  the 
old  title-page  with  respect  to  Shakespeare  has  given  rise  to  much  critical 
discussion  and  variety  of  conjecture.     Passing  over  all  that  has  been  said 

'  Lectures  on  the  Dram.  Lit.  of  Age  of  E/iz.,  p.  152,  ed.  1840. 

™  See  what  Malone  states  on  the  authority  of  Sir  Henry  Herbert,  vol.  xi.  317 
of  the  present  work. 

"  An  entry  of  that  date  regarding  "  the  renewing  "  of  the  ].lay  (see  vol.  xi.  217;  is 
cited  by  Weber  from  Sir  Henry  Herbert's  office-book  ;  but  I  have  not  been  able 
to  find  it  among  those  memoranda  of  .Sir  Henry  which  Malone  has  printed. 

"  Tiitmil.  rrmarks  on  the  jifd;/. 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Ixxxi 

on  the  subject  of  Shakespeare's  participation  in  the  play  by  Messrs.  Seward, 
Colman,  Steeveas,  and  several  others,  I  shall  first  cite  the  opinions  of 
the  more  eminent  recent  critics,  and  then  subjoin  my  own.  "  This  scene", 
observes  Lamb  (speaking  of  the  dialogue  between  Palamon  and  Arcite  in 
prison,  act  ii.  scene  1),  "  bears  indubitable  marks  of  Fletcher  :  the  two 
which  precede  it  [the  first  scene  of  act  1,  and  Emilia's  account  of  her 
friendship  with  Flavina  in  the  third  scene  of  the  same  act]  give  strong 
countenance  to  the  tradition  that  Shakespeare  had  a  hand  in  this  play. 
The  same  judgment  may  be  formed  of  the  death  of  Arcite,  and  some 
other  passages  not  here  given.  They  have  a  luxuriance  in  them,  which 
strongly  resembles  Shakespeare's  manner  in  those  parts  of  his  plays 
where,  the  progress  of  the  intei*est  being  subordinate,  the  poet  was  at 
leisure  for  description.  I  might  fetch  instances  from  Troilus  and  Timon. 
That  Fletcher  should  have  copied  Shakespeare's  manner  through  so 
many  entire  scenes  (which  is  the  theory  of  Mr.  Steevens)  is  not  very 
probable  ;  that  he  could  have  done  it  with  such  facility  is  to  me  not 
certain.  ******  If  Fletcher  wrote  some  scenes  in  imitation,  why 
did  he  stop  ^  ?  "  HazHtt*^  rejects  the  idea  that  any  part  of  the  tragedy 
is  by  Shakespeare.  In  a  long  and  excellent  Letter  on  SliaJcesjyeare'' s 
autJiorsh/jj  of  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen'^,  Mr.  Spalding  declares  that  "  the 
whole  of  the  first  act  may  be  safely  pronounced  to  be  Shakespeare's", — 
that  "  in  the  second  act  no  part  seems  to  have  been  taken  by  Shakes- 
peare ", — that  "  nothing  in  the  third  act  can  with  confidence  be 
attributed  to  Shakespeare,  except  the  first  scene  ", — that  "  the  fourth 
act  may  safely  be  pronounced  wholly  Fletcher's", — that  "in  the  fifth 
act  we  again  feel  the  presence  of  the  master  of  the  spell.  Several 
passages  in  this  portion  are  marked  by  as  striking  tokens  of  his  art  as 
any  thing  which  we  read  in  Macbeth  or  Coriolanus.     The  whole  act,  a 

»  Spec,  of  Engl.  Dram.  Pods,  p.  419,  ed.  1808. 

■^  Lectures  on  the  Dram.  Lit.  of  Age  of  Eliz.,  p.  145,  ed.  1840. 

>=  1830. — Indeed,  Weber,  whose  remarks  on  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  were 
printed  in  1812,  differs  but  slightly  from  Mr.  Spalding  in  distinguishing  the 
Shakespearian  portions.  "  The  supposition  of  Warbm-ton,  that  the  first  act  was 
his  [Shake.speare's],  is  supported  strongly  by  internal  evidence  ;  but  few  will  agi'ee 
with  his  ipse  dixit,  that  it  is  written  in  Shakespeare's  worst  manner.  The  second 
act  bears  all  the  marks  of  Fletcher's  style.  Of  the  third,  I  should  be  inclined  to 
a-scribe  the  first  scene  to  Shakespeare,  and  in  the  fourth,  the  third  scene,  which  is 
written  in  prose  ;  while  the  other  scenes,  ia  which  the  madness  of  the  Jailer's 
Daughter  is  delineated,  are  in  verse,  according  to  the  usual  practice  of  Fletcher. 
The  entire  last  act,  perhaps  with  the  exception  of  the  fourth  scene,  strongly  indicates 
that  it  was  the  composition  of  Fletcher's  illustrious  associate.  Nothing  can  pro\'e 
his  co-operation  more  strongly,  than  the  beautiful  description  of  the  accident  which 
occasioned  the  death  of  Arcite  ".     Observations  appended  to  the  Two  Noble  Kinsmen. 

VOL.  I.  6 


Ixxxii         SOME    ACCOUNT    OV    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

very  long  one,  may  be  boldly  attributed  to  bim,  witb  tbe  exception 
of  one  episodical  scene ".''  Coleridge  is  reported  to  bave  said  "  I 
bave  no  doubt  wbatever  tbat  tbe  first  act  and  tbe  first  scene  of 
the  second  act  of  T/ie  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  are  Sbakespeare's  ^ ".  Mr. 
Hallam  ^  more  tban  doubts  tbat  Sbakespeare  was  concerned  in  it.  Mr. 
Darley  allows  tbat  "it  is  quite  possible  tbat  Sbakespeare  may  bave 
contributed  towards"  tbis  tragedy s.  In  an  ingenious  essay  on  The 
Tico  Noble  Kinsmen^,  Mr.  Knigbt  denies  Sbakespeare's  claim  to  any 
part  of  the  play,  and  endeavours  to  prove  that  it  is  tbe  joint-composition 
of  Fletcher  and  Chapman.  "  We  can  understand  ",  be  says,  "  such  a 
division  of  labour  between  Fletcher  and  Chapman,  as  tbat  Fletcher 
should  take  the  romantic  parts  of  tbe  story,  as  the  knight-errantry,  tbe 
love,  the  rivalry,  the  decision  by  bodily  prowess, — and  tbat  Chapman 
should  deal  with  Theseus  and  tbe  Amazons,  the  lament  of  tbe  three 
Queens,  (which  subject  was  familiar  to  bim  in  The  Seven  against  Thebes 
of  tbe  Greek  drama,)  and  the  mythology  which  Chaucer  bad  so  elabo- 
rately sketched  as  the  machinery  of  bis  great  story."  Mr.  Kjiigbt  then 
compares  several  passages  of  The  Tico  Noble  Kinsmen  with  "  passages 
of  a  similar  nature,  selected  somewhat  hastily  from  three  or  four  of 
Chapman's  plays  "  :  and  concludes  by  observing  that  "  Chapman  died 
in  the  very  year  that  the  first  edition  of  The  Tico  Noble  Kinsmen  was 
published  w^ith  the  name  of  Shakespeare  in  tbe  title-page.  If  the  title- 
page  were  a  bookseller's  invention,  the  name  of  Shakespeare  would  be 
of  higher  price  tban  tbat  of  Chapman". — My  own  opinion  is,  tbat 
Shakespeare  undoubtedly  wrote  all  those  portions  of  The  Tico  Noble 
Kinsmen  which  are  assigned  to  bim  by  Mr.  Spalding,  though  I 
apprehend  that  in  some  places  they  bave  sufi"ered  by  alterations  and  inter- 
polations from  the  pen  of  Fletcher.  Such  passages  as  the  following  could  not 
possibly  have  been  produced  by  any  copyist  of  the  great  poet's  style, — a 
style  which  is  essentially  difierent  from  that  of  all  contemporary  play- 
wrights, and  which  men  of  genius  in  later  days  bave  vainly  tried  to 
imitate  *. 


''  i.  e.,  according  to  the  present  edition,  the  second  scene  of  act  five.  Mr. 
Spalding  (following  Weber's  division  of  scenes)  mentions  it  as  scene  4. 

*  TaUc-Talk,  ii.  1 1 9,  ed.  1 83.5.  Here  the  reporter  of  Coleridge's  conversation 
must  have  made  a  mistake  :  "  the  first  scene  of  the  second  act "  is  evidently 
Fletcher's. 

'  Introd.  to  the  Lit.  of  Europe,  iii.  106,  cd.  1843. 

B  Introd.  to  the  Worlcs  of  B.  and  P.,  p.  1. 

''  Knight's  (S/tai-spcrc  (Lihrcu-y  edition),  xii.  451. 

'  "  There 's  such  a  divinity  doth  hedge  our  Shakespeare  round,  that  we  cannot 
even  imitate  his  style.     I  tried  to  imitate  his  manner  in  the  Remorse,  and,  when  I 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Ixxxiii 

"  Honoiu^'d  Hippolyta, 
Most  dreaded  Amazonian,  that  hast  slain 
The  sc)-the-tusk'd  boar  ;  that,  with  thy  arm  as  strong 
As  it  is  white,  wast  near  to  make  the  male 
To  thy  sex  captive,  but  that  this  thy  lord 
(Born  to  uphold  creation  m  that  honour 
First  Natui-e  styl'd  it  in)  shnmk  thee  into 
The  bound  thou  wast  o'erflo\^'ing,  at  once  subduing 
Thy  force  and  thy  affection  ;  soldieress, 
That  equally  canst  poise  sternness  with  pity  ; 
Who  now,  I  know,  hast  much  more  power  on  hira 
Than  ever  he  had  on  thee  ;  who  ow'st  his  strength 
And  his  love  too,  who  is  a  servant  for 
The  tenor  of  thy  speech  ;  dear  glass  of  ladies, 
Bid  him  that  we,  whom  flaming  War  doth  scorch. 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  sword  may  cool  us  ; 
Require  him  he  advance  it  o'er  our  heads  ; 
Speak  't  in  a  woman's  kej-,  like  such  a  woman 
As  any  of  us  three  ;  weep  ere  you  fail  ; 
Lend  us  a  knee  ; 

But  touch  the  ground  for  us  no  longer  time 
Than  a  dove's  motion,  when  the  head's  pluck'd  off ! " 

Act  i.  se.  1,  vol.  xi.  334. 

"  When  her  arms. 
Able  to  lock  Jove  from  a  sj-nod,  shall 
By  waiTanting  moon-light  corslet  thee,  oh,  when 
Her  twinning  chennes  shall  their  sweetness  fall 
Upon  thy  tasteful  lips,  what  wilt  thou  tliink 
Of  rotten  kings  or  blubber'd  queens  I  what  care 
For  what  thou  feel'st  not,  what  thou  feel'st  being  able 
To  make  Mars  spurn  liis  dmm  ?  Oh,  if  thou  couch 
But  one  night  with  her,  every  hour  in  't  will 
Take  hostage  of  thee  for  a  hundi'ed,  and 
Thou  shalt  remember  nothing  more  than  what 
That  banquet  bids  thee  to  !  "  Ibid.  p.  338. 

"  Thou  mighty  one,  that  with  thy  power  hast  turn'd 
Green  Neptime  into  purple  ;  [whose  approach] 
Comets  prewarn  ;  whose  havoc  in  vast  field 
Unearthed  skulls  proclaim  ;  whose  breath  blows  down 
The  teeming  Ceres'  foison  ;  who  dost  pluck 

had  done,  I  foimd  I  had  been  tracking  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Massinger 
instead.  It  is  really  very  curious.  At  first  sight  Shakespeare  and  his  contemporai-y 
dramatists  seem  to  write  in  styles  much  ahke  :  nothing  so  easy  as  to  fall  into  that 
of  Massmger  and  the  others  ;  whilst  no  one  has  ever  yet  produced  one  scene  con- 
ceived and  expressed  in  the  Shakespearian  idiom".  Coleridge's  Table-Tall;  ii. 
121,  ed.  \83n. 


Ixxxiv        SOME    ACCOUNT    OF     THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

With  hand  ai-mipotent  from  forth  blue  clouds 

The  masou'd  tuiTets  ;  that  both  mak'st  and  break'st 

The  stony  girths  of  cities  ;  me  thy  pupil. 

Youngest  follower  of  thy  drum,  instruct  this  day 

With  miUtary  skill,  that  to  thy  laud 

I  may  advance  my  streamer,  and  by  thee 

Be  styl'd  the  lord  o'  the  day  !  Give  me,  great  Mars, 

Some  token  of  thy  pleasure  ! 

Oh,  gi'cat  corrector  of  enormous  times. 

Shaker  of  o'er-rank  states,  thou  gi-and  decider 

Of  dusty  and  old  titles,  that  heal'st  with  blood 

The  earth  when  it  is  sick,  and  cm-'st  the  world 

0'  the  plm-isy  of  people  ;  I  do  take 

Thy  signs  auspiciously,  and  in  thy  name 

To  my  design  march  boldly  !  " 

Act  V.  sc.  1,  p.  417. 

"  The  hot  horse,  hot  as  fire, 
Took  toy  at  this,  and  fell  to  what  disorder 
His  power  could  give  his  will,  bounds,  comes  on  end, 
Forgets  school-doing,  being  therein  traiu'd, 
And  of  kind  manage  ;  pig-like  he  whines 
At  the  shai-p  rowel,  which  he  frets  at  rather 
Than  any  jot  obeys ;  seeks  all  foul  means 
Of  boisterous  and  rough  jadery  to  dis-seat 
His  lord  that  kept  it  bravely  ". 

Act  V.  so.  4,  p.  435. 

If  wc  could  imagine  a  picture  painted  partly  by  Michael  Angelo  and 
partly  by  Coreggio,  it  would  not  present  a  stronger  contrast  of  styles 
than  we  meet  with  in  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen.  To  prove  the  truth 
of  this  assertion,  I  need  only  quote  a  speech  from  one  of  those  scenes 
which  are  unquestionably  by  Fletcher  ; 

"  No,  Palamon, 
Those  hopes  are  prisoners  with  us  :  here  we  are, 
And  here  the  graces  of  our  youths  must  wither, 
Like  a  too-timely  spring  ;  here  age  must  find  us, 
And,  which  is  hea\-iest,  Palamon,  unmarried  ; 
The  sweet  embraces  of  a  loving  wife, 
Loaden  with  kisses,  ann'd  with  thousand  Cupids, 
Shall  never  clasp  our  necks  ;  no  issue  know  us. 
No  figures  of  ourselves  shall  we  e'er  sec. 
To  glad  our  age,  and  like  young  eagles  teach  them 
Boldly  to  gaze  against  bright  arms,  and  say 
*  Remember  what  yom*  fathers  were,  and  conquer  ! ' 
The  fair-cy'd  maids  shall  weep  our  banishments, 
And  in  their  songs  curse  ever-blmdcd  Fortime, 
Till  she  for  shame  .see  what  a  wrong  she  has  done 
To  youth  and  nature  :  this  is  all  oui'  world  ; 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 


Ixxxv 


We  shall  know  nothing  here  but  one  another  ; 
Hear  nothing  but  the  clock  that  tells  oui'  woes  ; 
The  vine  shall  grow,  but  we  shall  never  see  it ; 
Summer  shall  come,  and  with  her  all  delights, 
But  dead-cold  Winter  must  inhabit  here  still  ". 

Act  ii.  so.  1,  p.  356. 

The  passages  selected  by  Mr.  Kuiglit  from  Chapman's  dramas  as  "of 
a  similar  natm-e"  to  some  in  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  are  certainly  very 
unlike  them  in  two  respects, — in  wanting  compression  of  thought,  and  in 
being  composed  on  another  system  of  versification.  Let  the  reader  judge  : 


The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen. 
"  We  come  unseasonably  ;  but  when  could  Grief 
Cull  forth,  as  unpang'd  Judgment  can,  fitt'st  time 
For  best  solicitation  ?  " 

Vol.  xi.  p.  .337. 


"  Oh,  you  heavenly  charmers, 
What  things  you  make  of  us  !  For  what  we  lack 
We  laugh,  for  what  we  haveare  sorry  ;  still 
Are  children  in  some  kind." 

p.  437. 
"  Let  th'  event, 
That  never-erring  arbitrator,  tell  us 
When  we  know  all  ourselves  ;  and  let  us  follow 
The  becking  of  our  chance  !  " 

p.  345. 


Chapman. 
"  Sin  is  a  coward,  madam,  and  insults 
But  on  our  weakness,  in  his  truest  valour  ; 
And  so  our  ignorance  tames  us,  that  we  let 
His  shadows  fright  us." 

BussyD'Ambols,  1608,  sig.  D  3. 

"  O,  the  good  God  of  gods, 
How  blind  is  pride !  what  eagles  we  are  still 
In  matters  that  belong  to  other  men  ! 
What  beetles  in  our  own  !  " 

All  Fools,  1605,  sig.  G  2. 

"  O,  the  strange  difference  'twixt  us  and  the  stars ! 
They  work  with  inclinations  strong  and  fatal, 
And  nothing  know  :    and   we    know   all    their 

working, 
And  nought  can  do,  or  nothing  can  prevent." 

Byron's  Conspiracie,  1608,  sig.  F   2. 


We  are  next  to  inquire  whether  Fletcher  and  Shakespeare  worked 
simultaneously  on  this  tragedy,  and  Avhat  was  the  probable  date  of  its 
first  representation.  Mr.  Spalding  believes  that  it  was  written  by 
Fletcher  and  Shakespeare  in  coalition,  Shakespeare  having  chosen  the 
story  and  arranged  the  plot.  I  shall  presently  arrive  at  another  con- 
clusion.— The  tale  of  Chaucer  on  which  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  is 
founded,  had  been  dramatized  at  a  much  earlier  period.  A  play  called 
Palamon  and  Arcijte  ^  (by  Richard  Edwards)  was  performed  before 
Queen  Elizabeth  in  the  hall  of  Christ-Church,  Oxford,  in  1566  ;  and  we 
learn  from  Henslowe's  Diari/  that  a  piece  entitled  Palamon  and  Arsctt 
was  acted  several  times  at  the  Newington  theatre  in  1594''.  Mr.  Collier 
conjectures  that  the  last-mentioned  piece  may  have  been  a  rifacimento 
of  Edwards's  play,  and  that  in  1594  Shakespeare  may  have  introduced 
into  Palamon  and  Arsett   those  alterations  and  additions  which  after- 


*  This  piece  has  perished.      Weber,  Mr.  Spalding,  and  others  (deceived  by  that 
arch-inventor  of  editions,  Chetwood)  mention  it  as  having  been  printed  in  1585. 
•*  Henslowe's  Diary,  pp.  41,  43,  44,  ed.  Collier. 


IxXXvi         SOME    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    WRITINGS 

wards  "  were  employed  by  Fletcher  in  the  play  as  it  was  printed  in 
1634 ''."  But  I  suspect  that  the  Paknnon  and  Arsett  oi  1594  was  a 
distinct  piece  from  the  academical  drama  of  15GG  ;  and  I  cannot  persuade 
myself  that  the  "  Shakespearian"  portions  of  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen 
were  composed  so  early  as  1594, — stamped  as  they  every  where  arc 
■with  the  ipanner  of  Shakespeare's  later  years.  In  January  1G09-10,  a 
warrant  was  granted  (but  never  carried  into  effect)  which  empowered 
Daborne,  Shakespeare,  Field,  and  Kirkham,  "  to  provide  and  bring  upp 
a  convenient  nomber  of  children,  who  shall  bo  called  the  Children  of  her 
Majesties  Revels,"  and  who  are  thereby  authorized  to  act  "within  the 
Blackfryers,  in  our  Citie  of  London  or  els  where  within  our  realme  of 
England"  ;  and  together  yni\\  the  draft  of  the  warrant,  there  has  been 
preserved  a  list  of  pieces  which  were  to  be  acted  by  those  Children''. 
In  that  list  is  a  play  called  Kinsmen.  Now,  while  I  have  little  doubt 
that  it  was  an  alteration  of  the  Palamon  and  Arsett  of  1594,  I  am 
strongly  inclined  to  beHeve  that  the  said  alteration  was  by  Shakespeare, 
and  made  only  a  short  time  anterior  to  the  issuing  of  the  warrant. 
But  whatever  be  the  date  of  the  "  Shakespearian  "  portions  of  Tlie  Trco 
Noble  Kins7)ien,  I  feel  assured  that  they  Averc  written  long  before 
Fletcher's  contributions  to  the  play.  The  latter  include  the  distraction 
of  the  Jailer's  Daughter,  which  in  some  points  is  a  direct  plagiarism  of 
Ophelia's  madness  in  Eamlet ;  and  it  is  highly  improbable  that,  if  the 
two  dramatists  had  worked  together  on  the  tragedy,  Fletcher  would 
have  ventured  to  make  so  free  with  the  poetical  property  of  Shakespeare  : 
indeed,  I  fully  assent  to  the  truth  of  Mr.  Knight's  remark,  that  "  the  un- 
derplot,— the  love  of  the  Jailer's  Daughter  for  Palamon,  her  agency  in 
his  escape  from  prison,  her  subsequent  madness,  and  her  unnatural  and 
revolting  union  with  one  who  is  her  lover  under  these  circumstances, — is 
of  a  nature  not  to  be  conceived  by  Shakespeare,  and  further  not  to  be 
tolerated  in  any  work  with  which  he  was  concerned."  Finally, — I  would 
suppose  that  Fletcher,  towards  the  close  of  his  career,  undertook  to 
remodel  the  Kinsmen  ;  that  he  retained  all  those  additions  which  had 
been  made  to  it  by  Shakespeare,  but  tampering  with  them  here  and 
there  ;  and  that  he  wrought  it  into  the  drama  which  we  now  possess 
under  the  title  of  The  Tk-o  Noble  Kinsmen'^. 


•=  Id.  p.  4 1 . 

■'  Collier's  Life  of  Shakespeare,  p.  ccxxix. 

'  According  to  the  title-page  of  4to  1634,  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  was"j))c«c»ted 
at  l/ic  Blackfriers  by  the  Kinrjs  Majesties  Servants  ".  Mr.  Spalding  understands  "  the 
Kiwjs  Majesties  Sei-vanls  "   to  mean  the  servants  of  King  James.      1  believe  that 


OF    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  IxXXvii 

those  of  Charles  the  First  are  intended  :  Sir  Aston  Cokaine  (in  some  lines  already 
cited,  p.  Iv.)  says  that  Fletcher,  after  Beaumont's  death, 

"  suffer  d  not  the  Globe  and  Blaclc-Friers  Stcifjc 
T'  envy  the  glories  of  a  former  Age." 


ADDITIONAL  NOTE. 

P.  xxii.  At  the  age  of  txcelve,  4th  Feh-iuiry,  159G-7,  &e.]  Since  the  earlier  part  of 
this  Memoir  was  printed.  Dr.  BHss  has  kindly  fm'nished  me   with  the  following- 
extract  from  the  Mati-iculatiou  Register  : 
"  Broadgates. 
1596     Feb.  4. 

Henric.  Beawmont  Lecest.  Baron,  fil.  setat.  15. 

Joh.  Beawmont  Lecest.  Baron,  fil.  14. 

Francisc.  Bea\\TQont  Lecest.  Bai-on.  fil.  aetat.  12." 


APPENDIX  I. 

THE   WILL   OF  BISHOP   FLETCHER. 
{From  the  Registry/  of  the  Prerogative  Court  of  Canterhurj/.) 

Ln  the  name  of  God  Amen,  vicesimo  sexto  clie  mensis  Octobris  (L593),I,  Richarde 
Bishopp  of  Wigorn,  hir  Majesties  Highe  Almner,  doe  make  and  ordeyne  this  my 
last  will  and  testameute  in  manner  and  fomie  follomnge.  My  sowle  sanctefyed  by 
faith  in  Ihesus  Christe  I  doe  resigne  willinglye  vnto  God  that  gaue  yt  me,  and  my 
bodye  to  the  carthe  from  whence  yt  was  taken,  theare  to  sleepe  till  the  daie  of  the 
restoringe  of  all  thuiges,  att  which  tyme  I  knowe,  my  Redeemer  livinge,  I  shall  see 
God  in  my  fleshe,  and  shall  then  in  bodye  and  soule  i-eceaue  the  fruition  of  ever- 
lastinge  glorye  with  all  his  Sainctes  :  this  hope  hath  the  God  of  all  comfoi-te  laide  vpp 
in  my  breste.  Item,  I  geue  to  the  poore  of  Watforde  in  Hai-tfordshii-e  tenue 
poimdes  ;  Item,  I  geue  to  the  poore  of  Cranbi-oke  in  Kente  ffyve  powndes  ;  Item, 
I  geue  to  the  poore  of  Rye  ffyve  powndes  ;  Item,  I  geue  to  the  poore  of 
Peterboroughe  ffyve  powndes ;  Item,  I  geue  to  the  poore  of  Chelsey  ffyve 
powndes ;  to  be  disti-ibuted  by  the  Ministers  of  eche  place  where  they  shall 
thincke  most  needefull.  Item,  I  geue  to  Bennett  CoUedge  in  Cambridge  my 
peece  of  plate  of  one  estriges  egge.  Item,  I  will  that  my  house  att  Chelsea  wherein 
I  dwell,  and  the  house  which  I  boughte  of  Mr.  Hungerforde,  and  the  lea-sse  of 
Fishei-s  house  and  gardeyne,  shalbe  all  soulde  by  my  executom-s  to  the  beste  value, 
and  the  money  thereof  an-ysmge  to  be  disposed  and  ymployed,  by  suche  couenieut 
vse  as  shalbe  thought  best  by  myne  executoui's,  towai'dos  the  edueacion  of  my  childi-en. 
Also,  I  will  that  my  plate  and  all  my  moveables  whatsoever,  goodcs  and  chattells, 
shall  likewyse  be  solde  to  the  beste  advauntage,  and  the  money  thereof  to  be  imployed 
to  the  edueacion  of  my  children.  And  my  will  is,  that  as  my  children  come  to  the 
age  of  one  and  twentye  yeai-es  or  mamage,  everie  one  shall  haue  his  or  theii* 
porcion  accordinge  to  proporcion,  that  is,  the  whole  beinge  devyded  into  so  mauie 
partes  as  I  haue  children  nowe  livinge,  that  is,  nyne,  everie  one  to  haue  and  receaue 
att  suchc  t\Tiie  before  saide  efiuall  i-ate  and  soome  of  money.  Item,  I  geue  to 
Nathaniell  Fktcher  and  John  Fletcher  all  my  bookes,  to  be  devyded  betwenc  them 
e([uallie.  And  yf  auye  of  my  children  die  before  the  saide  age  or  man-iage,  then  I 
will  that  suchc  porcion  of  money  as  they  should  haue  hadd  shalbe  equallye  devyded 
aniounges  the  rest.  Item,  I  geue  vnto  my  brother  Doctor  Fletcher  twenty  powndes 
and  all  my  appaiTcll,  save  my  Parliamente  robes.  Item,  I  geue  vnto  my  sister 
PownoU  twcntyc  powndes.  Item,  I  geve  vnto  Mr.  Doctor  James  of  Bristoll  my 
slandinge  cuppe  of  cristall  ;  which  Doctor  James  and  my  brother  Doctor  I'Metcher 
I  doe  make  and  ordeyne  my  executoui-s  of  thin  my  last  will  and  testamente, 
earncstlie  and  witli  all  inst;iunce  dcsvringc  them  to  sec  the  same  exccuti  <1  and  all 


APPENDIX.  Ixxxix 

thiuges  thei-eiu  doim  and  performed  to  the  good  of  my  children  and  their  Chrystian 
and  godlie  educacion,  that,  as  by  Goddes  holie  ordynaunce  I  haue  bene  their  Hfe 
father  of  their  liefe,  so  God  in  mercye  woulde  vouchsaufe  to  bee  the  fynisher  of  their 
ioye  in  Heaven,  wheare  I  tmste  to  receaue  them.  And  I  doe  hartelie  pi'aie  my  good 
and  lovinge  freindes  Mr.  Doctor  Bancrofte  and  Mr.  Doctor  Cosen  to  be  assistauntes 
to  my  executoui's  and  ouerseers  thereof  for  the  better  performinge  of  all  thiuges 
therein ;  and  I  doe  giue  eche  one  of  them  a  ringe  of  golde,  thone  with  a  deathes 
heade,  and  the  other  which  Sir  Fraunces  Drake  gaue  me.  And  I  doe  geue  to  Mr. 
Warde  a  ringe  of  goulde  that  was  my  ffathers  with  a  heade  gi'aven  in  yt.  I  giue  to 
Nathauiell  all  my  wearinge  lynnen  for  my  bodye,  shirtes,  bandes,  handkerchers. 
In  witnes  whereof  I  haue  hereto  putt  my  hande  and  scale,  and  declared  the  same 
to  be  my  testamente,  so  signed  and  sealed  the  daie  and  yeare  aboue  wTytten  in  the 
presence  of  Rich  :  Wigorn. 

Probatum  fuit  Testameutum  suprascriptum  apud  London,  coram  venerabili  vii'o 
Magistro  Willielmo  Lewin,  Legum  Doctore,  Curie  Prerogatiue  Cantuar.  Magistro, 
Custode,  siue  Commissario,  vicesimo  secundo  die  meusis  Junij  anno  Domini 
millesimo  quingentesimo  uonagesimo  sexto,  &c. 


APPENDIX   II. 


THE  WILL  OF  JUDGE  BEAUMONT. 

{From  the  Registry  of  the  Prerogative  Court  of  Canterbury.) 

I.N  the  name  of  God  Amen,  I  Francis  Beamounte,  of  Gracedew  in  the  countie  oi 
Leicester,  one  of  thee  Queenes  Majesties  Justices  of  her  heighnes  Courte  of  Common 
Pleas,  being  sicke  of  bodie,  but  of  good  and  perfect  rememberaunce,  thankes  be  to 
Almightie  God,  doe  make  and  ordaiue  this  my  laste  will  and  testamente  in  manner 
and  forme  followinge.  First,  I  giue  and  bequeathe  my  soule  to  Almightie  God, 
hopinge  to  be  saued  by  the  merrittes,  death,  and  passion  of  Jesus  Christe,  and  by 
no  other  meanes.  Item,  my  bodye  to  be  buryed  at  the  discrecion  of  my  executors. 
Item,  I  giue  and  bequeath  vnto  my  daughter  EHzabeth  Beawmounte  seaven  hmidered 
poundes  of  lawfull  money  of  England  ;  the  same  to  be  leyvied  of  the  issues  and 
proffittes  of  my  tithes  of  Shepshed  and  Belton  in  the  said  countie  of  Leicester, 
after  the  rate  of  fowerscore  poimdes  a  yeare,  for  both  the  said  tythes,  to  the  vse 
of  the  saide  Elizabeth,  by  Henrye  Bea%vmounte  of  Colderton  Esquier,  or  by  such  as 
the  said  Henry  shall  nominate  or  appoynt  by  his  last  will  and  testamente  for  that 
pm-pose.  Item,  I  doe  by  this  my  pi'esent  last  will  and  testamente  ordaine  that  the 
profittes  and  comodities  of  the  tythe  of  Chaddesden  in  the  countie  of  Derb.,  and 
the  rentes,  issues,  profittes,  and  commodities  of  the  lordshipp  of  Cottons  in  the  said 
countie  of  Derb.  shalbe  levyed  for  the  payment  of  my  debtes,  togither  with  my 
goodes  and  chattells,  vntill  the  same  be  fulUe  contented  and  payed  by  my  said 
executors.  Item,  I  doe  giue  vnto  WilHam  Harley,  my  oulde  and  faythefull  servaunte, 
in  consideraeion  of  his  good  and  paynefuU  service,  a  lease  of  the  messuage  or  tene- 
mente  in  Swannington  in  the  said  countie  of  Leicester,  nowe  in  his  occupacion,  or 
of  liis  assignes,  with  all  the  landes,  closes,  commons,  proffites,  and  commodites  to 


XC  APPENDIX. 

the  same  belonginge,  for  the  ternic  of  twentie  and  one  yeares  from  Michaelmas  next 
coniminge,  paying  the  oulde  and  accustomed  rente.  Item,  I  doc  giuc  vnto  Richarde 
Hall  my  servamitc,  in  consideracion  of  his  good  service,  howseroemeth  in  the 
Manner  Howse  of  Normanton,  and  a  close  ther  called  the  Parke,  adioyninge  to  the 
saycd  Mannor  Howse,  and  thx'e  acres  of  arable  lande  in  every  of  the  feildes  of  Nor- 
manton aforesaid,  with  commons  answearable  to  the  same,  in  the  feilde  and 
precinctes  of  Normanton  aforesaide,  for  the  tearme  of  eleauen  yeares  from  the  feast 
of  the  Annunciacion  of  our  Ladye  last  paste.  Item,  I  doe  glue  \iito  John  Copclande 
my  servaunte,  for  his  good  service,  dm-ing  his  life,  one  annuitie  or  yearclie  rente  of  five 
markes,  to  be  issuing  oute  of  all  my  landes  and  tenementes.  Item,  I  doe  giue  \Tito 
Roberte  Kirkly,  James  Hepe,  and  Robert  Lingard,  my  servauutes,  tenn  poundes, 
to  be  equalUe  deuided  amougest  them.  Item,  my  will  and  mind  is,  that  Edwarde 
Sharpe,  Mi\  Robinson  the  person  of  Osgathorpe,  Hughe  Lowe,  and  John  Smithe, 
or  anie  els  whosoever  that  have  taken  anie  groundes  or  closes  of  me  for  one  and 
twentie  yeai-es  or  lesse  tearme,  and  have  payed  theire  money  for  them,  shall  enioy 
the  same  closes  and  gi'oundes  according  to  theire  bargaine  and  bargaines,  albeit  the 
same  leases  be  not  sealed.  Item,  I  giue  vnto  John  Wrighte  and  Gawin  Grenoldc, 
my  servauntes,  twentie  nobles,  to  be  equallie  devided  amougest  them.  And  executors 
of  this  my  last  will  and  testamente,  I  nominate  and  appoynte  Hem-y  Bea^^•moullte 
of  Colerton  in  the  said  countie  of  Leicester,  George  Sherley  of  Staunton  in  the  saide 
countie  of  Leicester,  and  Roberto  Brokesley  of  Sholeby  in  the  said  countye  of 
Leicester,  Esquiers,  executors  of  this  my  last  will  and  testamente,  the  one  and 
twentith  daye  of  Aprill  in  the  fortith  yeare  of  the  raigne  of  om-  soueraigne  ladie 
Queene  Ehzabeth,  &c.  Item,  I  doe  fui-ther  giue  vnto  Phillipp  Vincente  and  John 
Towne,my  servauntes,  in  consideracion  of  theii-e  goode  Rer\-ice,  twentie  nobles  a  yeai-e 
a  peece,  to  ech  of  them  during  theire  lives,  to  be  issuing  out  of  all  my  landes  and 
tenementes  within  the  realme  of  England,  to  be  payed  equaUie  by  even  porcions  at  the 
feastes  of  St.  Michaell  thai'keangell  and  the  Annunciacion  of  our  blessed  Lady  St. 
Mary  the  Virgin,  the  first  payment  thereof  to  begm  at  the  feast  of  St.  Michaell 
tliarcheangell  next  comminge.  Item,  I  do  giue  vnto  my  servauntes,  William  E^^tc, 
Humphrey  Wooluerston,  George  Tate,  and  James  Roylc,  tweutye  poundes,  to  be  equal- 
lie  deuided  amongest  them.  Wittnesses  Phillipp  Vincent,  Humfrey  Woolferstone, 
William  Ejtc,  George  Tate,  James  Royle,  Libbews  Darby. 

A  Codicill  to  be  annexed  to  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Frauncis  Beaw- 
mounte,  one  of  her  Majesties  Justices  of  her  Highenes  Court  of  Common  Pleas,  as 
foUoweth,  viz'. 

Vppon  the  two  and  twentith  daye  of  Aprill,  anno  Domini  millesimo  quingentesimo 
nonagesimo  octavo,  Regnique  Domine  nostre  Regine  Elizabeth,  &c.,  quadragesimo, 
and  in  the  morning  of  the  same  daye,  the  said  Mr.  Beawmount,  being  of  perfect  minde 
and  memory,  and  purposinge  to  add  some  thinge  vnto  his  last  will  and  testamente 
made  the  daye  next  before,  spake  theise  wordes  or  the  like  in  effcete,  that  is  to  saye, 
I  haue  lefte  somewhat  oute  of  my  will  which  is  this,  I  will  that  my  daughter  Elizabeth 
haue  all  the  Jewells  that  were  her  mothers,  beinge  then  and  theire  present  diuerse 
and  sonndry  credible  wittnesses. 

Probatum  fuit  Testamentum,  vnacum  Codicillo,  apnd  London,  coram  vcnerabili 
viro  Magistro  Johaime  Gibson,  Lcguni  Doctore,  Curie  prerogat.  Cant.  Magistro, 
Custode,  sine  Commissario,  octavo  die  mensis  Maij,  anno  Domini  millesimo  quingen- 
tesimo nonagesimo  octauo,  \c. 


ADDENDA   AND   CORRIGENDA. 


VOL.  I. 
COMMENDATORY  POEMS. 
P.  XV.  "  Henry  Moody,  Baronef]  "  He  also  wTote  verses  to  Massiiiger,  ou  A  New 
Way  to  pay  Old  Debts,  prefixed  to  the  4to  of  that  play. 

P.  XX.  "  John  Pettus,  Knirjid'^  "  "  He  appears  ",  says  Mr.  P.  Ciinnuigham,  "  to 
have  been  buried  m  the  Temple  Chiu'ch  in  1685.  New  Survey  of  London,  vol.  ii. 
p.  574,  8vo.  1708". 

THE  WOMAN-HATER. 

P.  ■22.  "  For  a  trutch  sword,  my  naked  knife  stuck  up  ". — A  critic  in  Churton's 
Lit.  Register  for  April,  1845,  observes  that  "Mr.  Dyce's  note  on  this  is  an  ad- 
mirable specimen  of  his  fitness  for  the  task  of  editing  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ", 
— that  "  it  is  hai'dly  necessary  to  say  that  there  is  no  such  word  in  the  English 
language  as  a  triUch-sword,  nor  any  phrase  bearmg  even  a  family  resemblance  to 
it  ",  that  "  it  is  merely  a  misprint  for  '  hatched  sword,^  a  phrase  that  occurs  more 
than  once  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  even  in  this  very  volume  ",  and  he  quotes 
(lohat  I  have  myself  cited  in  another  note)  an  explanation  of  "  hatch  "  from  Holme's 
Acad,  of  Armoury. — I  have  only  to  say,  that  I  am  not  without  hopes  of  finding 
"  trutch-sword  "  in  some  other  early  writer ;  and  that,  if  the  author  had  written 
"  hatched  sworrZ  ",  I  cannot  see  why  the  compositor  should  have  blmidered  about  an 
expression,  which  occurs  repeatedly  in  these  volumes. 

PHILASTER. 

P.  216.  "The  outlandish  prince  looks  like  a  tooth-drawer". — A  proverbial 
expi-ession.  Ray  gives  "  He  looks  Uke  a  Tooth-drawer,  i.  e.,  very  thin  and  meagre  ". 
Proverbs,  p.  db.  ed.   1768. 

P.  267.  "  her  he  hilled  in  the  eye}  "  That  Theobald 's  explanation  of  this  phrase  is 
wrong,  appears  fi'om  other  passages  in  our  authors'  plays,  vol.  vi.  466,  vol.  vii.  241. 

VOL.  IL 

THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS. 

P.  5.  Prefatory  remarks.     "  In  1637,  Milton  testified  to  the  world  his  admiratiou 

of  this  drama  by  the  various  passages  of  Comus  which  are  closely  imitated  from  it ". 

— Comus  was  played  at  Ludlow  Castle  in  1634,  though  it  was  not  printed  till  16?i7, 


XCll  ADDENDA    AND    CORRIGENDA. 

P.  18.  ^*  Joseph  Taylor]  "  He  was  bui-ied  at  Richmond  in  SuiTey  on  the  4th  Nov., 
1 6o2  :  see  note,  vol.  viii.  1 06. 

1'.  36.  "wealth-alluring  swain]  "  Compare  Tlie  Faithful  Friends, &ct  ii.  sc.  1,  vol. 
iv.  2J4  ; 

"  while  this  right  hand 
From  Mars-alhinncf  favourites  has  forc'd 
Unwilling  victory  ". 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  THE  BURNING  PESTLE. 

P.  151,  "hj  lady]  "  See  note,  vol.  viii.  167. 

P.  157.  "and  here  's  money  and  gold  by  th'  eye,  my  hoy".— " By  the  eye" 
seems  to  be  equivalent  to — in  abundance  :  see  note,  vol.  ix.  44. 

P.  17.3.     "  Down,  down,  down  they  fall  ; 

Down,  and  arise  they  never  shall". 
I  find  this  song  quoted  in  a  Masque  (never  printed)  presented  on  Candlemas-night 
at  Cole-Overton,  and  written  perhaps  by  Sir  T.  Beaumont  (see  note,  p.  xxiii.  of  the 
Memoir)  ; 

"  PiKk.  *****  What  newes  abrode  ?  where  the  vengeance  haes  thou 
been  thus  long  ? 

Boh.  Why,  goblin,  He  tell  thee,  boy  ;  all  over  England,  where  ho.spitality  downe 
[he  singn], 

Downe,  downe  it  falls, 
Downe,  and  arise,  downe,  and  arise 
it  never  .shall ". 

P.  223.  "And  some  tlvey  whistled,  &c.]  "  In  Scottish  Traditional  Versions  of 
Ancient  Ballads,  184.5,  published  for  the  Percy  Society,  is  a  version  of  the  ballad 
here  quoted,  under  the  title  of  Lord  Burnett  and  Little  Musgrave  :  but  I  believe 
that  the  said  volume  is  little  more  than  a  collection  of  forgeries. 

P.  227.  "  Enter  Ralph,  with  a  forked  arrow  through  his  head." — This  seems  to  be 
in  ridicule  of  a  stage-dii-ection  in  The  True  Tragedie  of  Richai-d  Duke  of  York, 
1595  ; 

"  Enter  Clifford  wounded,  with  an  arrow  in  his  necke  ". 
When  Shakespeare  re-wrote  The  Triie  Tragedie,  he  omitted  "  with  an  arrow  in  his 
nccke  " ;  see  Third  Part  of  K.  Ilenry  VI.,  act  ii.  sc.  6: 

A   KING  AND  NO  KING." 
P.  243.  "  had  she  so  tempting  fair, 

That  she  could  wish  it  off,  for  damning  souls]  "  So  the  passage 
has  been  amended  by  me ;  and  the  correction  is  certain.  A  cxntic,  however,  in 
Churton's  Lit.  Register  for  April,  1845,  (proposing  to  read  "had  she  so  tempting 
fairness  ",  &c.)  laughs  at  my  adducing  from  Midsummer-Nighf's  Dream  "  Demetrius 
loves  your  fair  ",  as  an  example  of  fair  in  the  sense  of  beauty  :  "  no  one,"  he  says, 
"  but  Mr.  Dyce  needs  be  told  that  in  '  Demetrius  loves  your  fair ',  the  word  fair  is 
placed,  by  the  most  common  of  all  ellipses,  for  a.  fair  on^  "  ! ! !  How  is  such  a  critic 
to  be  answered  ?  Let  the  reader  turn  to  the  notes  ad  loc.  in  the  Var.  Shakespeare  ; 
and  also  compare  the  following  i)assages,  among  a  dozen  which  might  be  cited  ; — 
"  Talie  time,  while  time  doth  last ; 
Mark  how/a<Vc  fadcth  fast".  Farmer's  English  Madrigals, 


ADDENDA    AND    CORRIGENDA.  Xciii 

1599,  p.  48, — reprinted  for  the  Percy  Soc.  by  Mr.  Collier  (who  observes,  "Faire  in 
this  line  is  used  for  fairness,  as  was  very  customary  with  most  writers  of  the 
time  ",  &c). 

"  The  lonely  Lillie,  that  faire  flower  for  beautie  past  compare, 
Whom  winters  cold  keene  breath  had  kill'd,  and  blasted  all  her  faire,"  &c. 

Niccols's  Induction  to  A  Winters  Nights  Vision, — Mirror  for 
Magistrates,  p.  556,  ed.  1610. 

P.  255.  "  Tigranes,  he  has  won  but  half  of  thee, 

Thy  body  "  ; 
So  the  passage  should  be  pointed.    In  some  copies  the  comma  has  di'opt  out  after 
"  thee  ". 

P.  316.  "  Captain,  thou  art  a  valiant  gentleman ; 

AhiJe  tqwn  't,  a  very  valiant  man  ". 
I  ought  to  have  preserved  the  reading  of  the  first  4to,  "  To  allele  upon  H  ", — i.  e. 
my  abiding  opinion  is.     So  in  Shakespeare's  Winter'' s  Tale,  act  i.  sc.  2  ; 

"  Leon.     To  hide  upon  % — thou  art  not  honest ",  &c. 
and  in  Potts's  Discoverie  of  Witches  in  the  Countie  of  Lancaster,  1613  ;  "the  wife  of 
the  said  Peter  then  said,  to  abide  upon  it,  I  tliinke  that  my  husband  will  neuer 
mend",  &c.  Sig.  T  4. 

THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  INNER-TEMPLE  AND  GRAY'S  INN. 

P.  463.  "Merc.  Behold  the  Statuas",  &c. 
Should  be  pointed, 

"  Merc.  Behold,  the  Statuas  ",  &c. 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LOVE. 
P.  532. "  innovation']  "  In  this  sense  it  is  several  times  used  by  Wither ; 
"  They  who  did  neither  by  their  deeds  or  words. 
By  counsel,  by  their  pens,  or  by  their  swords, 
Begin  those  innovations  in  the  state  ",  &c. 

Speculum  Speculativum,  1660,  p.  37. 

VOL.  III. 
THE  SCORNFUL  LADY. 

P.  3.  Prefatory  remarls,  1.  3.     For  "1615"  read  "  1615-16  ". 

P.  38.  "  E.  Love.  What  would  you  with  me,  sir ! " — An  interrogation-point  ought 
to  follow  these  words. 

P.  45.  "  up  goes  my  res<]  "  The  expression  was  not  confined  to  the  game  of 
primero.     See  note,  vol.  vii.  82. 

P.  76.  "  E.  Love.  Will  you  have  more  on't ! " — Instead  of  the  exclamation- 
point  put  an  interrogation-point. 

P.  82.  "  To  use  those  men  most  frowardly  they  love  most  ? " — Instead  of  the 
interrogation-point  put  an  exclamation-point. 

P.  87.  "meechingj  i.e.  lurking,  skulking". — I  ought  to  have  added  to  this  expla- 
nation— "for  amorous  purposes,"  which  the  word  frequently  implies.  Compare 
vol.  X.  123. 


XCIV  ADDENDA     AND    CORRIGENDA. 

THE  COXCOMB. 

P.  130.  "Am.  Oh,  gentlemen,  what  ha' you  lost  ?  " — Instead  of  the  inteiTogation- 
point,  put  an  exd.amation-point. 

P.  143.  In  the  fourth  line  of  the  first  note,  for  «  vol.  i.  27  ",  read  «  vol.  i.  22  ". 

P.  137.  "A  Kilkenny  ring". — No  alteration  is  required.  In  Lookc  about  you, 
1 600,  we  find  ;  "  Cauilero  Skiniie  being  heleagerd  with  an  hoste  of  leaden  heeles, 
arm'd  in  rhig  Ii-ish,  cheated  my  hammerer  of  his  Red  cap  and  coate  ",  &c.,  Sig.  L. 

P.  168.  «  That  she  shall  either  be  my  love  or  wife. — "  Add  to  this  line  a  stage- 
direction,  «  [Aside  ". 

THE  CAPTAIN. 

P.  235.  «  babies]  "  See  note,  vol.  vii.  230. 
P.  303.  "yet,  four  glasses  hence, 

I  will  sit  here  ",  &c. 
The  right  reading  seems  to  be,  "  I  will  sit  near",  Sec. 

THE  HONEST  MAN'S  FORTUNE. 

P.  390.  "  He  made  a  wanton  of  you  ". — See  note,  vol.  viii.  423. 
P.  417.  "They  come  to  steal  your  napkins  and  your  spoons  ;" — There  should 
he  a  break  at  the  end  of  this  line  ;  for  what  immediately  follows  is  addressed,  not 
to  Lamira,  but  to  Charlotte. 

P.  436.  "  'Tis  not  the  hundredth  time  I  have  been  serv'd  so. 
And  yet,  I  thank  Heaven,  I  am  here  ". 
So  the  passage  should  be  pointed.     In  some  copies  the  comma  after  "  serv'd  so  " 
has  dropt  out. 

THE  LITTLE  FRENCH  LAWYER. 
P.  464.  "  Di7i.  No  more,  for  shame,  no  more  ! 

Are  you  become  a  patron  too  ?  'Tis  a  new  one  ; 
No  more  on 't,  burn 't ;  give  it  to  some  orator. 
To  help  him  to  enlarge  his  exercise : 
With  such  a  one  it  might  do  well,  and  profit 
The  curate  of  the  parish  ",  &c. 
In  the  note  on  this  pa.ssage,  I  have  said,  "Seward's  explanation, — 'patron',  i.e. 
pleader,  advocate, — is  perhaps  the  true  one, — there  beuig  an  ellipsis  of '  speech '  or 
'discourse'." — A  critic  in  Churton's  Lit.  Register  for  April,  184,5,  rem.arks  that 
"  such  egregious  blundering  as  this  is  positively  intolerable,"  and  that  "  I  cannot  im- 
derstand  a  simple  passage  even  when  it  is  explained  to  me."     "  The  obvious  mean- 
ing ",  he  continues,  "  is  '  What  ?    are  you  tm-ned  a  pleader  or  advocate  ? '    that  is 
to  say,  a  man  of  words,  a  talJcer,  used  in  opposition  to  a  swordsman  or  man  of 
action ".     My  "  egi-egious  blundering  "  consists  merely  in  my  having  expres.sed 
myself  badly  :  I  ought  to  have  said  that  "it",  in  what  follows  ("  No  more  on  't  ; 
give  it  to  some  orator  ",  &c.),must  be  referred  to  a  word  underetood, — "  speech  " 
or  "  discourse  ". 

P.  .509.  Note.  "  The  distinction  made  by  Gifford  between  spittle  and  spital  is  an 
imaginary  one  ". — Our  early  wTiters  certainly  sometimes  discriminated  the  words  : 
see  the  second  speech  of  the  Soldier  in  The  Nice  Valour,  vol.  x.  339. 

P.  545.  "  As  they  are  chain'd  together ". — Point  "  As  they  arc,  chain'd 
together  ". 

P.  548.  "Thathowsoe'er  wo  seem'd  to  caiTy  it — ". — Point "  That,  howsoe'er",&c. 


ADDENDA    AND    CORRIGENDA.  XCV 

VOL.   IV. 
WIT  AT  SEVERAL  WEAPONS. 

P.  39.  "  with  cut  and  long  to«7]  "  See  note,  vol.  xi.  423. 

p.  67.  "  what  prodigious  bravery's  this  ? 

A  most  preposterous  gallant ! " 

Here  I  have  explained  "bravery" — finery:  it  means  rather — fashionable,  richly- 
dressed  spark.  So  in  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn,  we  have  « the  braveries  of  Florence  ", 
— i.  e.  the  fashionable  gallants,  vol.  x.  12. 

P.  81.  "  Sir  Greg.  Content  !  I  was  never  in  better  contention  in  my  life  ". — Nares 
suspects  that  the  right  reading  is  "  contentation "  {Gloss,  in  v.)  ;  which  I  doubt 
greatly, 

WIT  WITHOUT  MONEY. 

P.  1 09.  "  Than  sickly  men  are  travelling  o'  Sundays  ".    Put  a  comma  after  "  are  ". 

P.  115.  First  note.  The  expression,  "  I'll  sell  the  tiles  of  my  house  ",  occm-s  in 
The  Elder  Brother :  see  vol.  x.  254. 

P.  154.  "As  though  the  term  lay  at  St.  Albans]  "  The  meaning  imdoubtedly  is — 
As  though  the  plague  were  raging  in  London,  and  consequently  the  term  were  kept 
at  St.  Albans.  In  a  note  on  his  Life  of  Slialcspeare,  p.  cxliv,  Mr.  Collier  observes, 
"In  consequence  of  the  virulence  and  extent  of  the  disorder  [the  plague],  ]\Iicliael- 
mas  term,  1593,  was  kept  at  St.  Albans  ". 

P.  155.  "Of  ?(mcZredeemm£?,  tedious  thanks  ",&e.  'Re2idi"0Uand-redeeriiing"  Sic. 

P.  183.  "  With  me,  thou  man  of  Memphis  ?  "  See  the  second  Additional  Remark 
on  Bonduca,  p.  xcvi. 

P.  1 93.  "  disposed]  "  Concerning  the  passage  here  cited  from  Lovers  Labour 's  Lost, 
see  my  Remarks  on  Mr.  Collier's  and  Mr.  Knight's  editions  of  Shakespeare,  p.  37. 

P.  196.  First  note.     The  reading  which  I  proposed,  "  I  know  your  cunning",  is 
doubtless  the  true  one.     So  in  The  Custom  of  the  Country,  p.  456  of  the  same  volume, 
"  Your  cunning  comes  too  late "  is  printed  in  the  foUos  "  Your  comming  (and 
coming)  comes  too  late  "  ;  and  in  The  Double  Marriage,  vol.  vi.  361,  the  passage, 
"  that  fellow 's  cunning, 
And  hides  a  double  heart ", 
stands  in  the  first  foho,  "  that  fellow 's  comming  ",  &c. 

THE  FAITHFUL  FRIENDS. 
P.  258.  "Sir  Per.  This  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  host, 

I,  with  my  page  before  me 

Diiid.  I  went  first.  Aside  ". 

We  must,  surely,  read,  "  I,  with  my  page  behind  me  ". 
P.  26 1 .  «  Enter  Bellario. 

Bell.  My  lord? 

M.  Tull.  Where  's  he  that  brought  this  letter  ? 
Bell.  Posted  hence  ; 

He  said  it  crav'd  no  answer,  and  i«e  discharg'd  him. 
M.  Tull.  I  charge  you  on  your  lives  make  after  liim  ",  &c. 
The   MS.  has  "  you "  ;  and  I  suspect  that  the  speeches  ought  to  be  distril)uted 
thus  ; 

«  Bell.  Posted  hence  ; 
He  said  it  crav'd  no  answer. 


XCVl  ADDENDA    AND    CORRIGENDA. 

M.  Tull.  And  you  discharg'd  him  ? 

I  charge  you  on  your  lives  make  after  him  ",  &c. 

THE  WIDOW. 
P.  341.  "perceM'cmwce]  "     This  rare  word  is  found  in  one  of  the  poems  appended 
to  The  most  famous  and  Trar/ical  Historic  of  Pclops  and  Ilippndamia,  by  Matthew 
Grove,  1587  ; 

"  And  when  perceiuerance  did  him  take 
that  euery  wyght  was  gone, 
And  that  they  two  and  no  more 
on  earth  were  left  alone  ",  &c. 

Sig  II.  iiii. 

THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY. 

P.  390.  First  note.     "  Hugh  Clearke  "  is  one  of  the  players  who  sign  the  Dedica- 
tion prefixed  to  the  folio  of  B.  and  F.'s  plays,  1647.     See  vol.  i.  ii. 

P.  395.  "mad]  Qy.  'sad'  ?  " — An  unnecessary  conjectm-e.     We  have  at  p.  40G 
of  this  play,  "  this  man-ying  is  a  jnad  matter  ". 

P.  403.  "  Empire,  and  more  imperious  love,  alone 

Rule,  and  admit  no  'rivals']"  We  have  the  same  sentiment  in 
Monsieur  Thomas,  act  i.  sc.  1,  vol.  vii.  315.  Compare  Warner's  Pan  his  Syrinx  or 
Pipe,  &c.,  n.d.  (licensed  1584)  ;  "You  are  not,  I  trow,  to  learn,  that  loue  and 
principalitie  brooke  no  copartners".     Sig.  P  4. 

P.  408.  "  Rut.  No  way  to  wipe  his  mouldy  chaps  ? " — i.  e.  no  way  to  cheat  him 
of  his  expectations  ? 

P.  413.  "Man.  To  tram  his  youth  up  : — " — I  now  think,  with  Theobald,  that 
these  words  ought  to  form  a  portion  of  the  preceding  speech. 

P.  427.  "all  the  ports  are  stopt  too  ". — "Ports",  i.  e.  gates. 

P.  433.  "  amher'd]  "  Ambergris  was  supposed  to  be  a  provocative. 

P.  449.  " Leop.  This  was  my  prisoner  once".     Ought  to  be  followed  by  a  stage- 
direction,  "  [Aside." 

VOL.  V. 
BONDUCA. 
V.Z.  Prefatory  remarls,  I.   6.      Burbadge  died    ll'.th   March,   Ifi  18-1  Gift:    see 
ColUer's  Mem.  of  the  Principal  Actors  in  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare,  p.  44. 

P.  45.         "  Awake,  ye  men  of  Memphis  !  " — This  is  a  quotation  from  the  First 
Part  of  Marlowe's  Tamhurlaine,  act  iv.  sc.  1  ; 

"  Soldan.  Awake,  ye  men  of  Memphis  /  hear  the  clang 
Of  Scythian  trumpets  ",  &c. 
P.  59.  "  In  gi'oss  befoi-e  the  enemy  ?  we  pay/or<  't  ". — Read  "  pay /(»•'<  ". 
P.  100.  "My  dear  boy,  what  shall  I  lose  ?  " — These  words  ought  to  be  followed 
by  an  exclamation-point. 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 
P.  153.  "riiff]  "  Ruff  and  ti-ump  were  distinct  games  ;  see  note,  vol.  xi.  fi'2. 
P.  193.  "  And  can  you  be  so 

Ciniel,  thankless,  to  destroy  his  youth  ",  &c.  Arrange  and  point, — 
"  And  can  you  be 
So  cruel  thankless  to  destroy  his  youth  ",  <Scc. 


ADDENDA    AND    CORRIGENDA.  •  XCVll 

P.  202.  "doubt,  sir]  Qy.  '  doubt  her  ? '  " — I  ought  certainly  to  have  adopted  here 
the  reading  whicli  I  only  proposed. 


VALETINIAN. 
P.  216.  "  Come,  goddess,  come  ;  you  move  too  near  the  earth  ; 
It  must  not  be ;  a  better  orb  stays  for  you  : 
Here  ;  be  a  ma/id,  and  take  'em  [Offers  herjetcelsl  ". 
A  critic  in  Churton's  Lit.  Register  for  April,  1845,  (who  evidently  had  not  read 
the  play,  for,  speakmg  of  these  lines,  he  says  that  "  an  old  woman  is  endeavour- 
ing to   corrupt   a    young    maiden  ",  i.  e.   Lucina,  the  wife  of  Maximihs ! !),  after 
mentioning   "  the  absurdity  "   of  my   explanation  of  the  passage,  pronounces  its 
meaning  to  be  "  Come,  be  a  goddess  no  longer  ;  be  a  maid — i.  e.  a  woman, — and 
take  the  king's  presents  ". — My  note  on  the  passage  stands  thus  ;  "  The  meaning,  I 
apprehend,  is  '  Be  coy  as  a  maid,  and  yet  take  them  '  "  :  and  I  now  have  only  to 
regret  that  I  used  the  words  "  I  apprehend  "  in  giving  an  explanation  wliich  is 
undoubtedly  the  true  one.     Compare  ; 

"  Play  the  maid's  part  ;  still  answer  nay,  and  take  it ". 

Shakespeare's  Eichard  the  Third,  act  iii.  sc.  7. 
"  Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  no  to  that 
Which  they  would  have  the  profferer  construe  ay  ". 

Shakespeare's  Two  Gent,  of  Verona,  act  i.  sc.  2. 
(where  Steevens  observes,  "  A  paraphrase  on  the  old  proverb,  'Maids  say  nay,  and 
take  it'  "). 

P.  239.  "  beats]  "  I  now  believe  that  the  right  reading  is  "  heats "  :   compare 
Tlie  Mad  Lover,  vi.  149  ; 

Next  by  the  glorious  battles  we  have  fought  in, 
"  By  all  the  dangers,  wounds,  heats,  colds,  distresses",  &c. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  CORINTH. 
P.  427.  "  dudgeon]  "  In  this  note  I  have  made  a  mistake  ;  the  "  Dudgion "   of 
The  Rates  of  the  Custome  house  means — not  "  cloth  or  stuff",  but  wood. 
P.  449.         "  Your  honour 's  no  whit  less,  your  chastity 
No  whit  impaii''d,  for  fail'  Merione 
Is  more  a  vii'gin  yet  than  all  her  sex. 
Alas,  'tis  done  /  why  burn  these  tapers  now  ?  " 
I  believe  we  ought  to  read, — 

Is  more  a  virgin  yet  than  all  her  sex  ; 
Alas,  'tis  none  !    Why  bui-n  these  tapers  now  \  "  &c. 
i.  e.  Alas,  it  is  no  impairment ! — the  substantive  (as  is  frequently  the  case  in  these 
plays)  being  understood  from  what  precedes. 

P.  470.  "  Time  now  wiU  pluck  her  daughter  from  her  cave,  &ie.]"  I  ought  to  have 
mentioned  that  in  Whitney's  Emblemes,  1586,  p.   4,  is  a  representation  of  Time 
releasing  Truth  from  a  cave,  with  the  motto,  Veritas  temporisfilia. 
VOL.   I.  7 


ADDENDA  AND  CORRIGENDA. 


VOL.  VI. 
THE  LOYAL  SUBJECT. 


P.  18.  ''Archas.  Your  grace  should  first  remember—"  There  ought,  most 
probably,  to  be  a  full  point  after  these  words,  the  sense  being— Your  grace  should 
be  the  first  to  remember  the  meaning  of  this. 

P.  34.  "And  more  his  fear  than /ai</t". A  correspondent,  who  signs  himself 

T.  II.,  observes  that  "  the  old  reading  'fate  '  seems  right,  answering  to  'danger '  in 
the  preceding  Une,  as  'fear '  does  to  'douht ' ".     I  now  think  so  too. 

P.  43.  "  When  I  leave  to  honour  tliis, 

Every  hour  to  pay  a  kiss  ; 
When  each  morning  I  arise, 
I  forget  a  sacrifice  ",  &c. 

The  same  con-espondeut  says  that  "  the  old  reading",  'Ov  I  forget',  is  right, — 
pointing  the  passage  as  it  originally  was  pointed,  with  a  comma  at  the  end  of  the 
second  line  of  the  lyric".     I  do  not  agree  with  him. 

P.  4.0.  "  And  'tis  his  greatest  joy  to  entertain  you  ". The  same  correspondent 

observes,  with  reference  to  my  note,  "  Why  then  not  suppose  the  line  incomplete, 
and  suffer  the  old  reading  to  remain  ?  "  I  now  prefer  the  old  reading,  with  a  break 
at  the  end  of  the  line, 

P.  68.  "  Come,  maidens,  come  along  ",  &c. — According  to  the  same  correspondent, 
"  the  amendment  '  along ',  for  the  old  reading  '  alone ',  is  most  clearly  \NTong, 
destroying  the  rhjTne,  and  not  improving  the  sense  :  the  maidens  are  requested  to 
'  come  alone  '  ;  and  surely  the  next  line  makes  the  reason  plain  enough".  I  doubt 
tliis. 

P.  87.  "  Theod.  Take  heed  of  po-peep  with  your  pate  ",  &c. — Read  "  bo-peep  ". 

P.  1 05.  "  Burris.  I  shall,  sir. 

Or  seal  it  with  my  service.     They  are  villains". 
The  above-mentioned  con-espondent  remarks,  "  The  old  pointing  of  the  line  is, — 

'  Or  seal  it  with  my  service ;   they  are  villains  : ' 
which,  substituting  a  comma  for  the    semicolon,  may  mean, '  Or  prove  them  villains 
by  couquermg  them  in  battle  '  ". 

THE  MAD  LOVER. 

P.  137.  "  harpiesy  See  note,  p.  539  of  the  same  vol. 

P.  141.  "agwsy  The  above-mentioned  correspondent  thinks  that  the  old 
reading  '  ages'  may  be  right"  ;  and,  in  confirmation  of  it,  he  cites  from  Massinger's 
Virgin  Martyr, 

"  Famine,  nor  age,  have  any  being  there." 
But  I  agi'ee  with  Mason  that  no  example  can  be  foimd  of  ages  used  in  the  sense  of 
old  age,  and  that  "agues"  means  here — those  momentary  intervals  of  languor  which 
are  felt,  at  times,  even  by  the  truest  and  most  ai-dent  lovers. 

P.  143.  "Mem.  Stand  still,  sii-,"  &c. The  same  correspondent  objects  to  the 

alteration  here  made  of  tlie  old  prefixes  :  he  says  "  Memnon  might  have  needed  the 
injunction  to  '  stand  still '  more  than  Chilax."  But,  as  I  have  observed  in  the  note, 
"  i<tanfl  still  "  is  an  exprps.sion  wliicli  Menmon  has  ah"eady  u.sed  three  times. 


ADDENDA    AND    CORRIGENDA.  XCIX 

P.  196.  "  Oh,  cUvinelst]  star  of  heaven, 

Thou,  in  power  above  the  seven",  &c. 
The  same  eoiTespondent  thinks  that  "  the  syllable  introduced  in  brackets  might  have 
been  left  out, — that  Fletcher  has  similar  irregularities  of  metre  in  his  lyrics,  and 
that  he  judged  well  in  occasionally  deviating  from  the  monotony  of  the  exact 
measure."  But  it  was  not  for  the  sake  of  the  metre  that  I  inserted  (with  the  other 
editors)  the  additional  syllable  here:  it  was  for  the  sake  of  the  sense,  which 
absolutely  requires  it. 

P.  201.  "greas\l]"  Means  here,  I  believe,  gulled,  cheated  :  see  note,  vol.  viii.  180. 

P.  209.  Calls.  The  goddess  grants  me  this  yet, 

"  I  shall  enjoy  thee  dead  :  no  tomb  shall  hold  thee",  &c. 
The  same  correspondent  remarks  that  "  Seward  was  probably  right  when  he  gave, 
with  the  old  copies,  '  I  shall  enjoy  the  dead '  ;  the  princess  refers  to  what  the 
goddess  had  said  before, '  I  shall  please  thee  with  the  dead.'" — That  "I  shall 
enjoy  thee  dead  "  is  the  true  reading,  I  am  convinced  by  what  immediately  follows, 
— "no  tomb  shall  hold  thee",  &c. 

THE    FALSE   ONE. 
P.  250.         "  Now  I  will  out-brave  all,  make  all  my  servants  [drunk]. 
And  my  brave  deed  shall  be  writ  in  wine  for  virtuous." 
The  same  correspondent  observes, "  When  Mr.  Dyce  made  this  insertion,  he  seems  to 
have  been  misled  by  Mason's  declaration  that  '  the  present  reading  is  nonsensical ' : 
but  language  cannot  fiu'nish  a  clearer  mode  of  expression  ;  it  means  '  I  will  out- 
brave  all  men,  make  all  men  my  servants'."     Nevertheless,  I  think  the  insertion 
right.     In  the   first  place,  Septimius  could  hardly  be    so    foolish  as  to   say   that 
he   would  «  male  all  men  his  servants  "  ;  secondly,  if  we  suppose  that  he  does   say 
so,   the  next   line  still  remains  nonsense  ;  why  should  his  brave  deed  "be  writ 
in  wine  for  vii-tuous"1 

THE   DOUBLE   MARRIAGE. 
P.  383.         "  Now,  whether  willingly  I  have  departed 

With  that  I  lov'd",  &c. ^'Departed  ",  i.  e.  parted. 

THE   HUMOROUS   LIEUTENANT. 
P.  439.  "  And  cram  the  mouth  of  Death  with  executions  :" 

This  line  should  have  an  exclamation-point  after  it. 


VOL.  VH. 
THE   WOMAN'S   PRIZE. 

P.  98.  Prefatory  remarks,  1.  20.     For  "  vol.  v.  3."  read  "  vol.  vi.  3." 
P.  99.    "Which  this  may  prove  !" — Such  a  collocation  of  the  word   "may", 
expressing  a  wish,  is  occasionally  found  in  our  early  writers.      So  in  the  First  Part 
of  Marlowe's  Tamherlaine,  act  i.  sc.  1  ; 

"  And  Jove  may  never  let  me  longer  live 
Than  I  may  seek  to  gratify  your  love,"  &c . 


C  ADDENDA    AND    COHRIGKNDA. 

P.  106.  "make  use  of  me'\  'Use,  in  old  wi-itings,  stands  continually  for  iwuj*?/ '. 
Weber". — "  Tse "  should  be  explained — interest  ;  for  in  niodcni  language  usury 
means  a  good  deal  more. 

P.  173.  "  Vo-d uf/r/s]"  The  following  passage  has  been  pointed  out  to  me  by  Mr. 
Peter  Cunningham.  "  And  as  resolute  of  late  yeares  was  the  answere  of  Verdugo 
a  Spaniard,  Commander  in  Friseland,  to  certaine  of  the  Spanish  Nobiltio,  who 
nmrmured  at  a  gre.at  feast,  the  sonne  of  a  Hang-man  should  take  place  aboue  them 
(for  so  he  was,  and  his  name  irapoi-teth)  :  '  Gentlemen,  (quoth  he,)  question  not  my 
bu'tli,  or  who  my  Father  was,  I  am  the  sonne  of  mine  owne  desert  and  Foi'tune  ;  if 
any  man  dares  as  much  as  I  have  done,  let  him  come  and  take  the  Tables  end  with 
all  my  heart '."     Peacham's  Compkat  Gentleman,  &c.,  p.  17.  ed.  1622. 

THE   CHANCES. 
P.  245.  "Fred.  And  one  of  no  less  woi'th  then  I  assure  you." — Read  "than". 
P.  248.  "Bastay  See  note,  vol.  ix.  414. 

P.  297.  "  Britain  MattJiewf/Nri}"  The  following  lines  occur  in  B.  Barnes's  Bivils 
Charter,  1  fi07  ; 

"  By  purple  Aligant  the  bloudy  gyaut, 
And  leadcn-hcaded  Hollock  pure  and  phant, 
By  Birrha  Martia,  and  by  Sydrack  sweete, 
Who  did  with  Matliew  Glynne  in  combat  meete,"  &c.     Sig.  F.  2. 

MONSIEUR  THOMAS. 
P.  379.  "use]  i.e.  usury".     Here  again  "«5e"  ought  to  have  been  explained — 
interest,  considering  the  sense  which  we  now  attach  to  ustiry. 

THE  ISLAND  PRINCESS. 

This  play  is  founded  on  a  tale,  of  wliich  I  find  a  French  translation  among  the 
Nouvellcs  de  Cervantes,  ed.  1731, — Histoire  dc  Ruis  Dias  E-rpagnol,  et  de  Quixaire 
Princesse  des  Moluques.  The  French  translator  prefaces  it  by  saying  ;  "  II  [Cer- 
vantes] en  admiroit  qu'il  n'avoit  point  faits,  et  il  se  fit  un  plaisir  de  les  traduire. 
Voici  une  de  ces  Nouvelles  qu'il  voulut  bien  mettre  en  sa  propre  Langue,  il  la  tira 
des  M^moires  des  Indes  ".     I  have,  however,  vainly  looked  for  the  Spanish  of  this 

tale,  in  the  collections  of  Cervantes's  novels. Fletcher  has  in   some  particulars 

deviated  from  the  novel.  The  deliverer  of  the  King  of  Tidor  is,  according  to 
the  novel,  a  relation  of  that  monarch,  and  named  Cuchiz  Salama  :  Fletcher 
has  changed  him  into  a  Portugueze  called  Armusia.  Roque  Peynere,  the 
nephew  of  Ruis  Dias,  is,  according  to  the  novel,  a  thorough  villain  :  being  himself 
violently  enamoured  of  Quixaire,  he  assures  her  that  Ruis  Dias  had  basely  deceived 
her ;  and  he  declares  to  her  that  he  is  ready  to  mm-der  his  uncle,  "  Le  desespoir 
ou  etoit  la  Princesse  fit  qu'elle  ^couta  Peynere  tranquillement  II  est  vrai  qu'elle 
n'accepta  pas  I'offre  qu'il  lui  fit ;  mais  clle  nc  lui  defendit  point  de  tremper  ses 
mains  parricides  dans  Ic  sang  du  malhem-eux  Dias.  Peynere  continua  pendant 
quelques  jours  a  lui  teiiir  des  discours  semblables.  Quixaire  ne  repondit  jamais 
positiveraent.  Mais  Peynere  qui  voyoit  bien  d'un  cote  que  la  Pinncesse  dtoit  con- 
vaincue  que  Dias  nc  I'aimoit  point,  et  qui  concluoit  d'une  autre  qu'il  ne  pouvoit 
nianf|ucr  de  se  faire  aimer  des  que  Dias  et  Salama  ne  seroient  plus,  Peynere, 
Ic  denature  Peynere,  foi-raa  la  lache  r(?solution  de  les  massacrer  tons  deux  de  ses 
]iri>prcs  mains  ",     Peynere  accordingly  despatches  Buy  Dias  while  asleep  in  bed  : 


ADDENDA    AND    CORRIGENDA.  CI 

he  then  proceeds  to  the  palace  to  iuform  the  princess  of  the  deed.  As  he  is  about 
to  enter  the  apartment  of  Quixaire,  he  meets  Salama  (whom  the  pruacess  had  by 
this  time  accepted  for  her  husband)  coming  out  of  it.  Peynere  instantly  attacks 
Salama  ;  but  the  latter,  "  qui  avoit  quelque  pressentiment  du  dessein  de  Peynere  ", 
is  on  his  guard,  and  soon  lays  him  dead  at  liis  feet.  Salama  now  mames  Quixaire  ; 
and,  on  the  death  of  her  brother,  becomes  King  of  Tidor. — It  is  not  without  reason 
that  the  novelist  adds,  speaking  of  Quixaire,  "  II  y  a  en  effet  dans  cette  Princesse 
quelque  chose  qui  ne  plait  pas  trop  ". 

P.  465.  "  And  when  he  stands  disputing,  when  you  bid  him",  &c. — The  reading 
"Ae"  is  confirmed  by  a  passage  in  TheWild-goose-Cliase,  vol.  viii.  191  ; 
"Bel.  Is  tliere  ne'er  a  land 
That  you  have  read  or  heard  of         *         * 

For  thither  would  I  travel  ;  where  'tis  felony 
To  confess  he  had  a  mother  :  a  mistress,  treason." 

VOL.  VIII. 
THE  PILGRIM. 

P.  31.  "Pedro.  What  poor  evasions  thou  build'st  on,  to  abuse  me" — The 
exclamation -point  has  dropt  out  fi-om  the  end  of  this  line. 

P.  40.  "  Shall  we  ne'er  happy  meet  !  " — For  the  exclamation-point  put  an  inter- 
rogation-point. 

P.  46.  "  a  royal']  "  Does  not  mean  a  spur-royal,  but  the  Spanish  coin,  a  real. 
This  correction  appUes  to  another  note  on  the  present  play,  p.  62. 

P.  46.  "  Bada]  "  See  note,  vol.  ix.  414 

P.  56.  "  I  fear  me  there's  old  tumbUng." — "  Upon  this  ",  observes  the  critic  in 
Churton's  Lit.  Register  for  Apnl,  1845  ",  Mr.  Dyce  quotes  from  Weber  :  'This  is 
another  proof  that  old  was  very  commonly  used  for  an  augmentative.  So,  in  Much 
Ado  about  Nothimj  (a.  5.  s.  2)  Ursula  says  to  Beatrice, « Madam,  you  must  come  to  your 
uncle  ;  yonder 's  old  coil  at  home '.  Sm'ely  there  never  was  such  an  unlucky  pair 
of  guessers  as  these  men ;  in  both  the  instances  quoted,  old  means,  as  it  so  often 
does,  notliing  more  than  usual,  customary,  that  zvhich  has  been  wont  to  be.  They 
stiuuble  at  straws,  and  break  their  sliins  over  feathers". — Now,  if  Weber  and 
myself  are  "unlucky  guessers",  it  happens  that  Messrs.  Malone,  Steevens, 
CoUier,  Knight,  Nares,  Richardson,  and  Todd  are  in  the  same  predicament :  see 
the  notes  of  the  commentators  on  the  above  cited  passage  of  Shakespeare,  and  on 
King  Henry  IV.  P.  ii,  act.  ii.  sc.  4, — Nares's  Gloss,  in  v., — Richai'dson's  excellent 
Dictionary  in  v,, — and  Todd's  Johnson's  Dictionary  in  v.,  where  the  addition  is — 
"  Old  is  a  common  expression,  in  the  middle  and  northern  parts  of  England,  for 
great,  without  burlesque  intention." 

P.  65.  "  For  so  I  can  say  my  prayers,  and  then  slumber  ".  — The  critic  in  Churton's 
Lit.  Register  for  April,  1845,  insists  that  we  must  read  "  Forsooth  I  can  ",  &c.  I 
believe  that  the  text  is  right,  and  that  "  For  so  "  means — For  in  that  case  (if  I  do 
"  go  sleep  "  as  you  bid  me)  I  can,  &c. 

P.  67.  "  But  we  are  far  enough  off  on  'em,  that 's  the  best  on 't  ". — "  Sense  and 
metre  ",  says  the  critic  in  Churton's  Lit.  Register  for  April  1845,  "  alike  prove  the 
first  071  to  be  an  interpolation,  but  Mr.  Dyce  can  absolutely  see  nothing.     Read, 
'  But  we  are  far  enough  off  'em,  that 's  the  best  on  't.' " 


CU  ADDENDA    AND    CORRIGENDA. 

The  confidence  of  this  critic  is  amusing  enough.  In  the  first  place,  he  does  not 
perceive  that  here  "  on  "  means  of  (the  expression  "  off  on  'em  "  is  very  common  in 
old  wTitcre).  In  the  second  place,  why  should  he  be  anxious  about  cj:act  metre  in 
a  line  which  is  so  soon  followed  by  oiie  offfteen  syllables, — 

"  The  very  brats  in  their  mothers'  belUes  have  their  qualities  "  ? 
P.   80.     TT7(a<   dost   thou    think    me   mad?" — In    my    note    I   have  explained 
"ichat",   "  i.  e.  for  what,  why",  referring  to  other   passages  of  these   plays. — 
On  this  explanation  the  critic  in  Churton's  Lit.  Register  for  April  1845,  remarks  ; 
"  Surely    such    abominable    ignorance    of  the  old   phraseology   was  never  before 
displayed  by   any   one    undertaking   the  ofiRce    of  editor.       WlicU  is  merely    an 
exclamation,  used  much  as  we  now  use  the  word  how  ".     I  have  already  (in  a 
note,  vol.  ix.  163)  collected  various  passages  from  B.and  F.,  where,  as  in  the  present 
one,  whai  is  equivalent  to  why  :  here  is  another  instance  ; 
"  Beau.  I  could  wish  Dinant — 
But  ivhat  talk  I  of  one  that  stepp'd  aside, 

And  durst  not  come  \  "     Tlie  Little  French  Lawyer,  vol.  iii.  .503. 
Examples  of  the  word  employed  in  the  same  sense  by  other  wTitcrs  are  innumera- 
ble.    I  subjoin  a  few  : 

"  Thus  when  he  had  contrjoi'd  in  his  hart  this  desperat  outrage. 
And  meante  fully  to  dy,  ^^•ith  an  hellish  fury  bewitched. 
What  doe  I  stay,  qd  he,  now  ?  'tis  losse  of  tjTne  to  be  Ungring  ",  &e. 

Fraunce's  Countess  of  Pemhrokc's  Ivy-church,  Pai-t  Sec,  1591,  Sig.  L. 

"  But  what  do  I  accuse  my  fathers  best, 

WTiat  mean  I  heere  th'  imfaultie  for  to  blame  ? " 

Mir  our  for  Magistrates,  p.  22.  ed.  1610. 
"  With  that,  my  Sabrines  slender  armes  embrast 

Me  round,  and  would  not  let  me  so  depart. 

Let  me  (quoth  she)  for  her  the  waters  tast. 

Or  let  vs  both  together  end  our  smart ; 

Yea,  rather  rip  you  forth  my  tender  heart  : 

What  should  I  Hue  ?     But  they  the  child  withdrew, 

And  me  into  the  raging  streame  they  threw  ".    Id.  p.  37. 
"  What  pi-each  I  now  ?  I  am  a  man  of  warre  ",  &c.    Id.  p.  311. 
"  What  should  I  stay  to  tell  the  long  discourse  ? " 

Who  wan  the  Palme  ",  &c.         Id.  p.  416.  - 


THE  WILD-GOOSE-CHASE. 

P.  1 03.  Prefatory  remarks,  1.  1 6.  For  "  vol.  v.  3."  read  "  vol.  vi.  3." 
P.  157.  "  bye  and  inain]  Chapman  uses  these  terms  in  a  very  grave  poem  ; 
"  Any  ill 
Is  to  their  appetites  their  supreme  good. 
And  sweeter  then  their  necessary  food. 
All  men  almost  in  all  things  they  apply, 
The  By  the  Maine  make,  and  the  Maine  the  By  ". 

Andromeda  Liberata,  1614,  Sig.  C  2. 
P.  178,  last  note.    For  "  p.  214,  1.  7."  read,  "  p.  214,  1.  6." 


i 


ADDENDA    AND    CORRIGENDA. 


THE  PROPHETESS. 

P.  228.  "  Were  treason  to  true  love,  that  knows  no  pleasure  ",  &c. — In  some 
copies  the  I  has  dropt  out  from  the  word  "  lore  ". 

P.  242.  "For  gravel  for  tJie  Appicm  way,  and  pills". — In  some  copies  the  full 
point  has  dropt  out  from  the  end  of  this  line. 

THE  SPANISH  CURATE. 
P.  400.  "a  royal]  "  Here,  and  agam  in  the  same  play,  pp.  410,  442,  the  word 
means — the  Spanish  real  :  see  the  second  additional  remark  on  The  Pilgrim,  p.  ci. 

P.  416.  "  Cataia]  '  The  ancient  name  for  China '.  Weber".  Again  in  a  note  on 
this  play,  p.  436,  Weber  remarks,  "  The  vicar  is  here  made  to  tetray  his  ignorance, 
for  Cataia  was  only  the  more  ancient  name  by  which  China  was  known  in  Europe  ". 
Our  early  writers,  indeed,  frequently  considered  Cataia  and  China  as  the  same : 
but  the  \-icar  makes  no  mistake.  "  De  Cathaio  et  China.  Next  beyond  Tartaria, 
on  the  North-east  part  of  Asia,  lyeth  a  great  country,  called  Cathaie  or  Cathaia  ; 
the  boundes  whereof  extend  themselues,  on  the  North  and  East,  to  the  vttermost 

seas,  and,  on  the  South,  to  China On  the  South  side  of  Cathaie  and  Easte 

parte  of  Asia,  next  to  the  sea,  lyeth  China  ".    Abbot's  Briefe  Description  of  the  whole 
worlde,  &c,  1599,  4to,  sig.  B  2. 

p.  417.  "  for  to  that  Lopez, 

That  was  my  father's  friend,  I  had  a  charge, 
A  charge  of  money,  to  deliver,  gentlemen  ",  &c. 
So  the  passage  ought  to  stand.     In  all  the  copies  of  this  work,  "  Lopez  "  is  printed 
" lopez",  and,  in  some,  the  comma  has  dropt  out  from  the  end  of  the  second  line. 

P.  471.  "See,  where  the  sea  comes  f  hoio  it  foams  and  brustles!]"  Compare 
Chapman's  Bussy  Z>'  Amhois; 

"  'tis  like  the  sea 
That       ******* 

Bristled  with  surges,  neuer  will  be  wonne  ",  &c.  Sig.  B  3,  ed.  1 608. 

P.  474.  "basfa]  "  See  note,  vol.  ix.  414. 
P.  492.  "  Viol.  No,  Jamie  ; 

He  shall  make  up  the  mess." 
A  mess  means — four.     See  note,  vol.  x.  48. 


VOL.  IX. 

RULE  A   WIFE   AND   HAVE  A   WIFE. 

P.  425.  Second  note.  For  "  The  old  have  no  stage-direction  here",  read  "  The  old 
cds.  have",  &c. 

P.  439.  "that,  sir,  time  has  taught  us]"  To  the  examples  of  "sir"  occurring  in 
soliloquies,  the  following  may  be  added  from  the  Sec.  Part  of  Marston's  Antonio 
and  Mellida  :  Antonio,  who  has  entered  "  solus",  concludes  his  soliloquy  by  saying, 
"  Loe,  sir,  I  am  sped  : 
My  breast  is  Golgotha,  graue  for  the  deade".  Sig.  H.  4,  ed.  1602. 


CIV  ADDENDA     AND    CORRIGENDA. 

VOL.    X. 

THE   NOBLE   GENTLEMAN. 
P.  L54.  Second  note,  last  line  but  one.  For  "  So  in  act  v.  sc.  2",  read  "  So  in  act  v. 
sc.  1." 

P.  155.  "Fifth  Ocnt.  You're  /a?»V(/ met,  good  Monsieur  Mount-Marine." — The 
old  reading  "  faithfully  "  ought  not  to  have  been  disturbed.  Compare  a  passage  in 
The  Nice  Valour,  p.  323  of  the  same  vol. ; 

"  La-Novc.  Now  'tis  so  well,  I  '11  leave  you. 
First  Bro.  Faithfully  vfe\come,  fiir.  [Exit  La-Novc." 

THE  ELDER  BROTHER. 
P.  238.  Note.  I  may  add  the  following  passage  :  "  And  now  (for  a  Parentluisis) 
comes  in  mine  Hoste,"  &c.  Exemplarie  Novels  (from  the  Spanish  of  CerAantes), 
1640,  p.  16. 

P.  24 1 .  First  note. — Compare  a  passage  at  the  commencement  of  TIlc  Wisdomc  of 
Doctor  Dodypoll,  1600; 

"  And  that  faire  artifieiall  hand  of  yours 
Were  fitter  to  haue  painted  heauens  faire  storie. 
Then  liere  to  worke  on  antickes  and  on  me." 

THE   NICE   VALOUR. 
P.  301.  "  your  English  Couiitcss]  "  Perhaps  Godiva,  the  heroine  of  Coventry,  is 
meant. 

P.  362.  "  thinking  indeed 

/Twill  prove  too  great  a  benefit  and  help 
For  one  that 's  new  set  up  ;  they  know  their  way, 
And  make  him  warden  ere  his  beard  be  grey." 
The  proper  punctuation  is, — 


For  one  that 's  new  set  up  (they  know  their  way). 
And  make  him  warden  ere  his  beard  be  grey". 

THE   BLOODY   BROTHER. 

P.  426.  "For  the  stay,  ti-c.]"    Mason's  explanation  is  right  on   the  whole  ;  Init 
"  stay  "  is  r&thev forbearance  than  delay  : 

"  and  some  people  haue 
Some  stay,  no  more  than  kijigs  should  giue,  tocraue." 

Donne's  Anat.  of  (he  World, — Poems,  p.  24,0,  ed.  163.3. 

VOL    XL 

THE   TWO   NOBLE   KINSMEN. 
P.  414.  "  desire  to  eat  with  her,  carve  her,  drink  to  her",  &c — Tliat  Seward  and 
Mr.  Knight  were  wrong  in  making  the  alteration,  "carvr  for  her  ",  is  proved  l>y  tlie 
following  hne  of  Beaumont's  Remedy  of  Love,  p.  4^3  of  the  same  vol., — 
"  Drink  to  him,  carve  him,  give  him  compUment." 


< 

^ 


DEDICATION  OF  THE  PLAYERS. 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  FOLIO  OF  1647. 

To  the  Right  Honourable  Philip,  Earl  of  Pembroke  and  Montgo- 
mery, Baron  Herbert  of  Cardiff  and  Shurland,  Lord  Parr 
and  Ross  of  Kendal,  Lord  Fitzhugh,  Marmyon,  and  Saint 
Quintin,  Knight  of  the  most  noble  Order  of  the  Garter,  and 
one  of  his  Majesty's  most  Honourable  Privy  Council ;  and  our 
singular  good  Lord. 

My  Lord, 

There  is  none  among  all  the  names  of  honour  that 
hath  more  encouraged  the  legitimate  Muses  of  this  latter 
age  than  that  which  is  owing  to  your  family  ;  whose  coronet 
shines  bright  with  the  native  lustre  of  its  own  jewels,  which, 
with  the  access  of  some  beams  of  Sidney  twisted  with  their 
flame,  presents  a  constellation  from  whose  influence  all  good 
may  be  still  expected  upon  wit  and  learning. 

At  this  truth  we  rejoice  ;  but  yet  aloof,  and  in  our  own 
valley ;  for  we  dare  not  approach  with  any  capacity  in  our- 
selves to  apply  your  smile,  since  we  have  only  preserved,  as 
trustees  to  the  ashes  of  the  authors,  what  we  exhibit  to  your 
honour,  it  being  no  more  our  own  than  those  imperial  crowns 
and  garlands  were  the  soldiers'  who  were  honourably  designed 
for  their  conveyance  before  the  triumpher  to  the  Capitol. 

But  directed  by  the  example  of  some  ^  who  once  steered  in 

1  the  example  of  some,  &c.]  "  i.  e.  Heininge  and  Coudell,  who  iu  1623 
published  the  first  edition  of  Shakespeare's  Works.  They  dedicated  them  to  this 
same  nobleman,  then  Earl  of  Montgomery,  and  his  elder  brother,  William  Earl 
of  Pembroke."     Ed.  17 IS. 


ii  DEDICATION  Ul"  THE  I'LAVERS. 

our  quality,  and  so  fortunately  aspired  to  choose  your  Honour, 
joined  with  your  (now  glorified)  brother,  patrons  to  the  flowing 
compositions  of  the  then  expired  sweet  swan  of  Avon,  Shake- 
speare ;  and  since,  more  particularly  bound  to  your  lordship''s 
most  constant  and  diffusive  goodness,  from  which  we  did  for 
many  calm  years  derive  a  subsistence  to  ourselves,  and  pro- 
tection to  the  scene  (now  withered,  and  condemned,  as  we  fear, 
to  a  long  winter  and  sterility),  we  have  presumed  to  offer  to 
yourself  what  before  was  never  printed  of  these  authors. 

Had  they  been  less  than  all  the  treasure  we  had  contracted 
in  the  whole  age  of  poesy  (some  few  poems  of  their  own  ex- 
cepted, which,  already  published,  command  their  entertain- 
ment with  all  lovers  of  art  and  language),  or  were  they  not 
the  most  justly  admired  and  beloved  pieces  of  wit  and  the 
world,  we  should  have  taught  ourselves  a  less  ambition. 

Be  pleased  to  accept  this  humble  tender  of  our  duties ;  and, 
till  we  fail  in  our  obedience  to  all  your  commands,  vouchsafe 
we  may  be  known  by  the  cognizance  and  character  of, 

My  Lord, 

Your  Honour's  most  bounden, 

John  Lowin,  Joseph  Taylor, 

Richard  Robinson,  Robert  Benfetld, 

Eyl^rd  Swanston,  Thomas  Pollard, 

Hugh  Clearke,  William  Allen, 

Stephen  Hammehtox,  Theophilus  Byrd. 


TO    THE    READER. 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  FOLIO  OF   1647. 

Poetry  is  the  child  of  nature,  which,  regulated  and  made 
beautiful  by  art,  presenteth  the  most  harmonious  of  all  other 
compositions ;  among  which  (if  we  rightly  consider)  the 
dramatical  is  the  most  absolute,  in  regard  of  those  tran- 
scendent abilities  which  should  wait  upon  the  composer  ;  who 
must  have  more  than  the  instruction  of  libraries  (which  of 
itself  is  but  a  cold  contemplative  knowledge),  there  being 
required  in  him  a  soul  miraculously  knowing  and  conversing 
with  all  mankind,  enabling  him  to  express  not  only  the  phlegm 
and  folly  of  thick-skinned  men,  but  the  strength  and  maturity 
of  the  wise,  the  air  and  insinuations  of  the  court,  the  discipline 
and  resolution  of  the  soldier,  the  virtues  and  passions  of  every 
noble  condition,  nay,  the  counsels  and  characters  of  the  greatest 
princes. 

This,  you  will  say,  is  a  vast  comprehension,  and  hath  not 
happened  in  many  ages.  Be  it,  then,  remembered,  to  the 
glory  of  our  own,  that  all  these  are  demonstrative  and  met  in 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  whom  but  to  mention,  is  to  throw  a 
cloud  upon  all  former  names,  and  benight  posterity  ;  this  book 
being,  without  flattery,  the  greatest  monument  of  the  scene 
that  time  and  humanity  have  produced,  and  must  live,  not 
only  the  crown  and  sole  reputation  of  our  own,  but  the  stain 
of  all  other  nations  and  languages  ;  for,  it  may  be  boldly 
averred,  not  one  indiscretion  hath  branded  this  paper  in  all 
the  lines,  this  being  the  authentic  wit  that  made  Blackfriars 


iv  TO  THE  READER. 

an  academy,  where  the  three  hours'  spectacle,  while  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  were  presented,  was  ^  usually  of  more  advantage 
to  the  hopeful  young  heir  than  a  costly,  dangerous  foreign 
travel,  with  the  assistance  of  a  governing  monsieur  or  signor 
to  boot ;  and  it  cannot  be  denied  but  that  the  young  spirits 
of  the  time,  whose  birth  and  quality  made  them  impatient  of 
the  sourer  ways  of  education,  have,  from  the  attentive  hearing 
these  pieces,  got  ground  in  point  of  wit  and  carriage  of  the 
most  severely-employed  students,  while  these  recreations 
were  digested  into  rules,  and  the  very  pleasure  did  edify  : 
how  many  passable  discoursing  dining  wits  stand  yet  in  good 
credit  upon  the  bare  stock  of  two  or  three  of  these  single 
scenes  ! 

And  now,  reader,  in  this  tragical  age,  where  the  theatre 
hath  been  so  much  out-acted,  congratulate  thy  own  happiness, 
that,  in  this  silence  of  the  stage,  thou  hast  a  liberty  to  read 
these  inimitable  plays,  to  dwell  and  converse  in  these  immortal 
groves,  which  were  only  shewed  our  fathers  in  a  conjuring- 
glass,  as  suddenly  removed  as  represented  ;  the  landscrap^  is 
now  brought  home  by  this  optic,  and  the  press,  thought  too 
pregnant  before,  shall  be  now  looked  upon  as  greatest  bene- 
factor to  Englishmen,  that  must  acknowledge  all  the  felicity 
of  wit  and  words  to  this  derivation. 

You  may  here  find  passions  raised  to  that  excellent  pitch, 
and  by  such  insinuating  degrees,  that  you  shall  not  choose  but 
consent  and  go  along  with  them,  finding  yourself  at  last 
grown  insensibly  the  very  same  person  you  read ;  and  then 
stand  admiring  the  subtile  tracks  of  your  engagement.  Fall 
on  a  scene  of  love,  and  you  will  never  believe  the  writers  could 
have  the  least  room  left  in  their  souls  for  another  passion ; 
peruse  a  scene  of  manly  rage,  and  you  would  swear  they  cannot 
be  expressed  by  the  same  hands  ;  but  both  are  so  excellently 

«  was}  Old  cd.  "  were." 

''  landscrap]  Altered  by  the  modern  editors  to  "landscape"  ;  but,  as  the 
word  is  variously  spelt  by  our  early  writers,  the  present  very  unusual  form  ia 
perhaps  not  an  error  of  the  press. 


TO  THE  READER.  v 

Avrought,  you  must  confess  none  but  the  same  hands  could 
work  them. 

Would  thy  melancholy  have  a  cure  ?  thou  shalt  laugh  at 
Democritus  himself,  and  but  reading  one  piece  of  this  comic 
variety,  find  thy  exalted  fancy  in  Elysium ;  and,  when  thou 
art  sick  of  this  cure,  (for  the  excess  of  delight  may  too  much 
dilate  thy  soul,)  thou  shalt  meet  almost  in  every  leaf  a  soft 
purling  passion  or  spring  of  sorrow,  so  powerfully  wrought 
high  by  the  tears  of  innocence  and  wronged  lovers,  it  shall 
persuade  thy  eyes  to  weep  into  the  stream,  and  yet  smile  when 
they  contribute  to  their  own  ruins. 

Infinitely  more  might  be  said  of  these  rare  copies  ;  but  let 
the  ingenuous  *^  reader  peruse  them,  and  he  will  find  them  so 
able  to  speak  their  own  worth,  that  they  need  not  come  into 
the  world  with  a  trumpet,  since  any  one  of  these  incompara- 
ble pieces,  well  understood,  will  prove  a  preface  to  the  rest ; 
and  if  the  reader  can  taste  the  best  wit  ever  trod  our  English 
stage,  he  will  be  forced  himself  to  become  a  breathing  pane- 
gyric to  them  all. 

Not  to  detain  or  prepare  thee  longer,  be  as  capricious  and 
sick-brained  as  ignorance  and  malice  can  make  thee,  here 
thou  art  rectified  ;  or  be  as  healthful  as  the  inward  calm  of 
an  honest  heart,  learning,  and  temper,  can  state  thy  disposi- 
tion, yet  this  book  may  be  thy  fortunate  concernment  and 
companion. 

It  is  not  so  remote  in  time  but  very  many  gentlemen  may 
remember  these  authors  ;  and  some,  familiar  in  their  conver- 
sation, deliver  them  upon  every  pleasant  occasion  so  fluent,  to 
talk  a  comedy.  He  must  be  a  bold  man  that  dares  undertake 
to  write  their  lives:  what  I  have  to  say  is,  we  have  the 
precious  remains ;  and,  as  the  wisest  contemporaries  acknow- 
ledge they  lived  a  miracle,  I  am  very  confident  this  volume 
cannot  die  without  one. 

■^  ingemtous]  Used  here  (as  it  frequently  is  by  our  old  writers)  for — 
ingenious. 


vi  TO  THE  RKAUER. 

What  more  specially  concern [s]  these  authors  and  their 
works,  is  told  thee  by  another  hand,  in  the  following  Epistle 
of  the  Stationer  to  the  Headers. 

Farewell :  read,  and  fear  not  thine  own  understand ini,' ; 
this  book  will  create  a  clear  one  in  thee  ;  and  when  thou  hast 
considered  thy  purchase,  thou  wilt  call  the  price  of  it  a 
charity  to  thyself,  and  at  the  same  time  forgive 

Thy  friend,  and  these  authors'  humble  admirer, 

JajMes  Shirley. 


THE  STATIONER  TO  THE  READERS. 

PREFIXED    TO    THE    I'OLIO    OF    1647. 

Gentlemen, 

Before  you  engage  farther,  be  pleased  to  take  notice 
of  these  particulars.  You  have  here  a  new  book ;  I  can 
speak  it  clearly  ;  for  of  all  this  large  volume  of  comedies 
and  tragedies,  not  one,  till  now,  was  ever  printed  before,  A 
collection  of  plays  is  commonly  but  a  new  impression,  the 
scattered  pieces  which  were  printed  single  being  then  only 
re-published  together :  'tis  otherwise  here. 

Next,  as  it  is  all  new,  so  here  is  not  any  thing  spurious  or 
imposed  :  I  had  the  originals  from  such  as  received  them 
from  the  authors  themselves ;  by  those,  and  none  other,  I 
publish  this  edition. 

And  as  liere"'s  nothing  but  what  is  genuine  and  theirs,  so 
you  will  find  here  are  no  omissions ;  you  have  not  only  all 
I  could  get,  but  all  that  you  must  ever  expect :  for,  besides 
those  which  were  formerly  printed,  there  is  not  any  piece 
written  by  these  authors,  either  jointly  or  severally,  but 
what  are  now  published  to  the  world  in  this  volume  '^.  One 
only  play  I  must  except  (for  I  mean  to  deal  openly)  ;  "'tis  a 
comedy  called  The  Wild-  Goose  Chase '',  which  hath  been  long 

"^  but  what  are  now  published  to  the  world  in  this  volume.l  "  The  stationer,  for 
the  credit  of  his  book,  makes  an  assertion  in  this  place  which  is  not  borne  out 
by  the  fact,  as  we  know,  from  unquestionable  authority,  that  several  plays  are 
lost,  probably  irrecoverably."     Weber. 

"^  The  TVild- Goose  Chase"]  It  was  published  in  1652  by  the  two  players, 
Lowin  and  Taylor,  who  were  then  reduced  to  poverty  :  see  prefatory  matter  to 
that  comedy. 


viii  THE  STATIONER  TO  THE  READERS. 

lost,  and,  I  fear,  irrecoverable ;  for  a  person  of  quality 
borrowed  it  from  the  actors  many  years  since,  and,  by  the 
negligence  of  a  servant,  it  was  never  returned ;  therefore 
now  I  put  up  this  si  quis,  that  whosoever  hereafter  happily 
meets  with  it  shall  be  thankfully  satisfied,  if  he  please  to  send 
it  home. 

Some  plays,  you  know,  written  by  these  authors,  were  here- 
tofore printed :  I  thought  not  convenient  to  mix  them  with 
this  volume,  which  of  itself  is  entirely  new.  And,  indeed,  it 
would  have  rendered  the  book  so  voluminous,  that  ladies  and 
gentlewomen  would  have  found  it  scarce  manageable,  who  in 
works  of  this  nature  must  first  be  remembered.  Besides,  I 
considered  those  former  pieces  had  been  so  long  printed  and 
reprinted,  that  many  gentlemen  were  already  furnished ;  and 
I  would  have  none  say  they  pay  twice  for  the  same  book. 

One  thing  I  must  answer  before  it  be  objected  ;  'tis  this. 
When  these  comedies  and  tragedies  were  presented  on  the 
stage,  the  actors  omitted  some  scenes  and  passages,  with  the 
authors'  consent,  as  occasion  led  them ;  and  when  private 
friends  desired  a  copy,  they  then,  and  justly  too,  transcribed 
what  they  acted  :  but  now  you  have  both  all  that  was  acted, 
and  all  that  was  not ;  even  the  perfect  full  originals  «=,  without 
the  least  mutilation ;  so  that  were  the  authors  living,  (and, 
sure,  they  can  never  die,)  they  themselves  would  challenge 
neither  more  nor  less  than  what  is  here  published ;  this 
volume  being  now  so  complete  and  finished,  that  the  reader 
must  expect  no  future  alterations. 

For  literal  errors  committed  by  the  printer,  'tis  the  fashion 
to  ask  pardon,  and  as  much  in  fashion  to  take  no  notice  of 
him  that  asks  it ;  but  in  this  also  I  have  done  my  endeavour. 
'Twere  vain  to  mention  the  chargeableness  of  this  work  ;  for 
those  who  owned  the  manuscripts  too  well  knew  their  value  to 

'  eren  the  perfect  full  originals]  This  assertion  is  certainly  not  true  with 
respect  to  some  of  the  plays,  and  is,  in  all  probability,  untrue  as  regards 
many  of  them. 


THE  STATIONER  TO  THE  READERS.  ix 

make  a  cheap  estimate  of  any  of  these  pieces ;  and  though 
another  joined  with  me  in  the  purchase  and  printing,  yet  the 
care  and  pains  was  wholly  mine,  which  I  found  to  be  more 
than  you'll  easily  imagine,  unless  you  knew  into  how  many 
hands  the  originals  were  dispersed  :  they  are  all  now  happily 
met  in  this  book,  having  escaped  these  public  troubles  free 
and  unmangled.  Heretofore,  when  gentlemen  desired  but  a 
copy  of  any  of  these  plays,  the  meanest  piece  here  (if  any  may 
be  called  mean  where  every  one  is  best,)  cost  them  more  than 
four  times  the  price  you  pay  for  the  whole  volume. 

I  should  scarce  have  adventured  in  these  slippery  times  on 
such  a  work  as  this,  if  knowing  persons  had  not  generally 
assured  me  that  these  authors  were  the  most  unquestionable 
wits  this  kingdom  hath  afforded.  Master  Beaumont  was  ever 
acknowledged  a  man  of  a  most  strong  and  searching  brain, 
and,  his  years  considered,  the  most  judicious  wit  these  later 
ages  have  produced  :  he  died  young,  for  (which  was  an  in- 
valuable loss  to  this  nation)  he  left  the  world  when  he  was 
not  full  thirty  years  old.  Master  Fletcher  survived,  and  lived 
till  almost  fifty ;  whereof  the  world  now  enjoys  the  benefit.  It 
was  once  in  my  thoughts  to  have  printed  Master  Fletcher's 
works  by  themselves,  because  single  and  alone  he  would  make 
a  just  volume  ;  but,  since  never  parted  while  they  lived,  I  con- 
ceived it  not  equitable  to  separate  their  ashes. 

It  becomes  not  me  to  say,  though  it  be  a  known  truth,  that 
these  authors  had  not  only  high  unexpressible  gifts  of  nature, 
but  also  excellent  acquired  parts,  being  furnished  with  arts 
and  sciences  by  that  liberal  education  they  had  at  the  univer- 
sity, which,  sure,  is  the  best  place  to  make  a  great  wit  under- 
stand itself ;  this  their  works  will  soon  make  evident.  I  was 
very  ambitious  to  have  got  Master  Beaumont's  picture ;  but 
could  not  possibly,  though  I  spared  no  inquiry  in  those  noble 
families  whence  he  was  descended,  as  also  among  those  gentle- 
men that  were  his  acquaintance  when  he  was  of  the  Inner- 
Temple:   the  best  pictures,  and  those  most  like  him,  you'll 


X  TlIK  STATIONER  TO  THE  READERS. 

tiiitl  in  this  volume.  This  figure  of  Master  Fletcher'  was 
cut  by  several  original  pieces,  which  his  friends  lent  me  ;  but 
withal  they  tell  me,  that  his  uniraitable  soul  did  shine  through 
his  countenance  in  such  air  and  spirit,  that  the  painters  con- 
fessed it  was  not  easy  to  express  him :  as  much  as  could  be 
you  have  here,  and  the  graver  hath  done  his  part. 

Whatever  I  have  seen  of  Master  Fletcher''s  own  hand  is  free 
from  interlining ;  and  his  friends  afl&rm  he  never  writ  any  one 
thing  twice :  it  seems  he  had  that  rare  felicity  to  prepare  and 
perfect  all  first  in  his  own  brain  ;  to  shape  and  attire  his 
notions,  to  add  or  lop  off,  before  he  committed  one  word  to 
wi-iting,  and  never  touched  pen  till  all  was  to  stand  as  firm 
and  immutable  as  if  engraven  in  brass  or  marble.  But  I  keep 
you  too  long  from  those  friends "  of  his,  whom  'tis  fitter  for 
you  to  read  ;  only  accept  of  the  honest  endeavours  of 

One  that  is  a  servant  to  you  all, 

HlMPHREY   MOSELKY. 

At  the  Princk's  Arm.s,  in  St.  Pail's  Chl-rch-Yard, 
Feb.  14th,  1646. 


'  This  figure  of  Master  Fletcher]  i.  e.  the  portrait,  engraved  by  Marshall. 
Vav  the  Latin  Aerses  under  it,  sec  the  last  copy  but  one  of  the  commendatory 
poems. 

B  those  friends,  &c.]  "  Alluding  to  the  commendatory  vei-ses  which  follow 
next  in  the  first  folio."     Weber. 


THE  BOOKSELLERS  TO  THE  READER. 

PREFIXED    TO    THE    FOLIO    OF  1679. 

Courteous  Reader, 

The  first  edition  of  these  plays  in  this  vohune 
having  found  that  acceptance  as  to  give  us  encouragement 
to  make  a  second  impression,  we  were  very  desirous  they 
might  come  forth  as  correct  as  might  be.  And  we  were  very 
opportunely  informed  of  a  copy  which  an  ingenious  and  worthy 
gentleman  had  taken  the  pains,  or  rather  the  pleasure,  to  read 
over ;  wherein  he  had  all  along  corrected  ''  several  faults,  some 
very  gross,  which  had  crept  in  by  the  frequent  imprinting  of 
them :  his  corrections  were  the  more  to  be  valued,  because 
he  had  an  intimacy  with  both  our  authors,  and  had  been  a 
spectator  of  most  of  them  when  they  were  acted  in  their  life- 
time. This,  therefore,  we  resolved  to  purchase  at  any  rate, 
and,  accordingly,  with  no  small  cost,  obtained  it.  From  the 
same  hand  also  we  received  several  prologues  and  epilogues  ', 
with  the  songs  appertaining  to  each  play,  which  were  not  in 
the  former  edition,  but  are  now  inserted  in  their  proper  places. 
Besides,  in  this  edition  you  have  the  addition  of  no  fewer 
than  seventeen  plays  more  than  were  in  the  former,  which  we 
have  taken  the  pains  and  care  to  collect,  and  print  out  of 
quarto  in  this  volume,  which,  for  distinction  sake,  are  marked 
with  a  star  in  the  catalogue  of  them  facing  the  first  page  of 

•'  he  had  all  along  corrected,  &c.]  "  Notwithstanding  this  boast,  in  many 
plays  the  first  folio  is  more  correct  than  the  second."     Ed.  1778. 

'  several  prologues  and  epilogues,  &c.]  "  Several  of  these  had  been  previously 
printed  in  Beaumont's  Poems  [1653]  ."     Weber. 


xii         THE  BOOKSELLERS  TO  THE  READER. 

the  book.  And  whereas  in  several  of  the  plays  there  were 
wanting  the  names  of  the  persons  represented  therein,  in  this 
edition  you  have  them  all  prefixed,  with  their  qualities,  which 
will  be  a  great  ease  to  the  reader.  Thus,  every  way  perfect 
and  complete,  have  you  all,  both  tragedies  and  comedies,  that 
were  ever  writ  by  our  authors,  a  pair  of  the  greatest  wits  and 
most  ingenious  poets  of  their  age ;  from  whose  worth  we 
should  but  detract  by  our  most  studied  commendations. 

If  our  care  and  endeavours  to  do  our  authors  right,  in  an 
incorrupt  and  genuine  edition  of  their  works,  and  thereby  to 
gratify  and  oblige  the  reader,  be  but  requited  with  a  suitable 
entertainment,  we  shall  be  encouraged  to  bring  Ben  Jon- 
6on''s  two  volumes  into  one,  and  publish  them  in  this  form,  and 
also  to  reprint  old  Shakespeare  ;  both  which  are  designed  by 

Yours, 

Ready  to  serve  you, 

John  Marty.v, 
Henry  Herringman, 
Richard  Mariot. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS 

ON 

BEAUMONT     AND     FLETCHER. 

Prefixed  to  the  Folio  ofiM'  ». 

TO    THE    STATIONER. 

Tell  the  sad  world  that  now  the  labouring  press 

Has  brought  forth  safe  a  child  of  happiness  ; 

The  frontispiece  ''  will  satisfy  the  wise 

And  good  so  well,  they  will  not  grudge  the  price. 

'Tis  not  all  kingdoms  join'd  in  one  could  buy 

(If  priz'd  aright)  so  true  a  library 

Of  man  ;  where  we  the  chai-acters  may  find 

Of  every  nobler  and  each  baser  mind. 

Desert  has  here  reward  in  one  good  line 

For  all  it  lost,  for  all  it  might  repine  ; 

Vile  and  ignobler  things  are  open  laid, 

The  truth  of  their  false  colours  are  display'd  : 

You'll  say  the  poet 's  both  best  judge  and  priest  ; 

No  guilty  soul  abides  so  sharp  a  test 

As  their  smooth  pen  ;  for  what  these  rare  men  writ 

Commands  the  world,  both  honesty  and  wit. 

Grandison  ' 


»  The  folio  of  1679  retains  only  (and  in  the  following  order)  those  by  Waller,  Denham, 
Jonson,  Corbet,  Earle,  Cartwright  (his  first  copy),  Palmer,  Maine,  Berkenhead,  L'Estrange, 
and  Stanley. 

To  this  original  collection  of  commendatory  poems  I  have  added  nothing,  except  the 
Latin  lines  by  Berkenhead  below  the  engraved  portrait  of  Fletcher,  and  Sir  John  Beau- 
mont's Epitaph  on  his  brother.  For  other  commendatory  ver.ses,— see  the  prefatory  matter 
to  The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  Monsieur  Thomas,  The  Wild-Goose  Chase,  and  Beaumont's 
Poems. 

^  The  frontispiece^  i.  e.  the  portrait  of  Fletcher,  engraved  by  Marshall. 

<:  Grandisoii]  Was,  most  probably,  John  Villiers,  the  second  Viscount  Grandison.  He 
succeeded  to  the  title  in  1643,  on  the  death  of  his  brother  William  (celebrated  by  Clarendon), 
who  died  at  Oxford  in  consequence  of  the  wounds  he  had  received  at  the  siege  of  Bristol : 
but  the  date  of  his  own  death  is  uncertain  ;  we  can  only  learn  (as  I  am  obligingly  informed 
by  C.  G.  Young,  Esq.  York  Herald),  that  he  died  before  1672.  Saint  Chrysostome,  his 
Paranesis,  ^c  Translated  by  the  Lord  Viscount  Grandison,  Prisoner  in  the  Tower,  1654, 
is,  I  apprehend,  the  work  of  John,  Viscount  Grandison,— not  of  his  brother  William  (to 
whom  it  is  assigned  by  Park — Walpole's  Royal  and  Noble  Authors,  v.  188) 


("O.MMENDATOKV    I'OKMS    (»N 


King  and 
No  King. 


Tlie  Alaid-! 
Tragedy. 


The  Faithful 
Shepherdess. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MASTER  JOHN   FLETCHER. 

Methouuht  our  Fletcher,  weary  of  this  crowd. 

Wherein  so  few  have  wit,  yet  all  ar(>  loud, 

Unto  Elysium  fled,  where  he  alone 

Might  his  own  vdt  admire,  and  ours  bemoan  ; 

But  soon  upon  those  floweiy  banks  a  throng. 

Worthy  of  those  even  numbers  which  he  sung, 

Appear'd,  and  though  those  ancient  laureates  strive. 

When  dead  themselves,  whose  raptures  should  survive. 

For  his  temples  all  their  own  bays  allows, 

Not  sham'd  to  see  him  crown'd,  with  naked  brows. 

Homer  his  beautiful  Achilles  nam'd, 

Urging,  his  brain  with  Jove's  might  well  be  fam'd, 

Since  it  brought  forth  one  full  of  beauty's  charms. 

As  was  his  Pallas,  and  as  bold  in  arms  ; 

But  when  he  the  brave  Arbaces  saw,  one 

That  sav'd  his  people's  dangers  by  his  own, 

And  saw  Tigranes  by  his  hand  undone 

Without  the  help  of  any  Myrmidon, 

He  then  confess'd,  when  next  he'd  Hector  slay, 

That  he  must  boiTow  him  from  Fletcher's  play  : 

This  might  have  been  the  shame  for  which  he  bid 

His  Hiads  in  a  nutshell  should  be  hid. 

Virgil  of  his  ^Eneas  next  begun, 

WTiose  godlike  form  and  tongue  so  soon  had  won 

That  queen  of  Carthage  and  of  beauty  too, 

Two  powers  the  whole  world  else  were  slaves  unto, 

Urging,  that  prince,  for  to  repair  his  fault 

On  earth,  boldly  in  hell  his  mistress  sought  ; 

But  when  he  Amintor  saw  revenge  that  wrong, 

For  which  the  sad  Aspasia  sigh'd  so  long, 

Upon  himself,  to  shades  hasting  away, 

Not  for  to  make  a  visit,  but  to  stay, 

He  then  did  modestly  confess  how  far 

Fletcher  outdid  him  in  a  charactar  : 

Now  lastly  for  a  refuge  Virgil  shews 

The  lines  where  Corydon  Alexis  wooes  ; 

But  those  in  opposition  quickly  met 

The  smooth-tongu'd  Perigot  and  Amoret, 

A  pair  whom  doubtless  had  the  others  seen, 

They  from  their  own  loves  had  apostates  been  : 

Thus  Fletcher  did  the  fam'd  laureate  exceed. 

Both  when  his  trumpet  sounded  and  his  reed. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

Now,  if  the  ancients  yield  that  heretofore 

None  worthier  than  those  e'er  laurel  wore, 

The  least  our  age  can  say,  now  thou  art  gone, 

Is  that  there  never  will  be  such  a  one  ; 
And  since  t'  express  thy  worth  our  rhymes  too  narrow  he, 
To  help  it  we'll  be  ample  in  our  prophecy. 

H.  Howard' 


ON  MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER, 
AND  HIS  WORKS  NEVER  BEFORE  PUBLISHED. 

To  flatter  living  fools  is  easy  slight  % 

But  hard  to  do  the  living-dead  men  right  ; 

To  praise  a  landed  lord  is  gainful  art, 

But  thankless  to  pay  tribute  to  desert. 

This  should  have  been  my  task  :  I  had  intent 

To  bring  my  rubbish  to  thy  monument, 

To  stop  some  crannies  there,  but  that  I  found 

No  need  of  least  repair,  all  firm  and  sound. 

Thy  well-built  fame  doth  still  itself  advance 

Above  the  world's  mad  zeal  and  ignorance  : 

Though  thou  diedst  not  possess'd  of  that  same  pelf, 

Which  nobler  souls  call  dirt,  the  city,  wealth. 

Yet  thou  hast  left  unto  the  times  so  great 

A  legacy,  a  treasure  so  complete, 

That  'twill  be  hard,  I  fear,  to  prove  thy  will ; 

Men  will  be  wrangling,  and  in  doubting  still. 

How  so  vast  sums  of  wit  were  left  behind. 

And  yet  nor  debts  nor  sharers  they  can  find. 

'Twas  the  kind  pro\-idence  of  fate  to  lock 

Some  of  this  treasure  up  ;  and  keep  a  stock 

For  a  reserve  until  these  sullen  days. 

When  scorn,  and  want,  and  danger,  are  the  bays 

That  crown  the  head  of  merit :  but  now  he, 

Who  in  thy  will  hath  part,  is  rich  and  free. 

But  there's  a  caveat  enter'd  by  command, 

None  should  pretend  but  those  can  understand. 

Henry  AIoody,  Baronet.'^ 

<*  H.  Hoivard']  Concerning  this  person  I  know  nothing. 

<=  slight]  i.  e.  artifice,  contrivance. 

f  Henry  Moody,   BaroneC]  "Was  of  the  number  of  those  gentlemen  wlio  had  lionorary 

degrees  conferred  [on  tliem]  by  King  Charles  the  First,  at  his  return  to  Oxford,  after  the 

battle  of  EdgehiU."    .Sewahd. 

Henry  Moody,  Esq.,  of  Garesdon  in  AViltshire,  was  created  a  baronet  in  1621-2,  and  died 


COMMENDATOUY  P(3EMS  ON 


ON  MASTER  FLETCHER'S  WORKS. 

Though  poets  have  a  license,  which  they  use 

As  th'  ancient  privnlege  of  their  free  Muse, 

Yet  whether  this  be  leave  enough  for  me 

To  write,  great  bard,  an  eulogy  for  thee, 

Or  whether  to  commend  thy  work,  will  stand 

Both  with  the  laws  of  verse  and  of  the  land, 

Were  to  put  doubts  might  raise  a  discontent 

Between  the  INIuses  and  the  [Parliament]. 

I'll  none  of  that.     There's  desperate  wits  that  be, 

As  their  immortal  laurel,  thunder-fi-ee  ; 

Whose  personal  virtues,  'bove  the  laws  of  fate, 

Supply  the  room  of  personal  estate  ; 

And,  thus  enfranchis'd,  safely  may  rehearse, 

Rapt  in  a  lofty  strain,  their  own  neck-verse " : 

For  he  that  gives  the  bays  to  thee,  must  then 

First  take  it  from  the  military  men  ; 

He  must  untriumph  conquests,  bid  'em  stand. 

Question  the  strength  of  their  victorious  hand  ; 

He  must  act  new  things,  or  go  near  the  sin, — 

Reader,  as  near  as  you  and  I  have  been '' ; 

He  must  be  that  which  he  that  tries  will  swear 

It  is  not  good  being  so  another  year. 

And  now  that  thy  great  name  I've  brought  to  this. 
To  do  it  honour  is  to  do  amiss, 
What's  to  be  done  to  those  that  shall  refuse 
To  celebrate,  gi'eat  soul,  thy  noble  Muse  ? 
Shall  the  poor  state  of  all  those  wandering  things  ' 
Thy  stage  once  rais'd  to  emperors  and  kings  ; 
Shall  rigid  forfeitures,  that  reach  our  heirs. 
Of  things  that  only  fill  with  cares  and  fears  ; 
Shall  the  privation  of  a  friendless  life, 
Made  up  of  contradictions  and  strife  ; 
Shall  he  be  entity  would  antedate 
His  own  poor  name  and  thine  annihilate  ? 
Shall  these  be  judgments  great  enough  for  one 
That  dares  not  write  thee  an  encomion  ? 

about  1C32.  He  was  succeeded  by  his  son  Sir  Henry  Moody,  who  sold  the  estate  of  Garesdon, 
and  settled  in  New  England,  where  he  is  presumed  to  have  died  in  16Ci  :  see  Burke's  Ext. 
ami  Dor.  Baronetcies,  &c.  These  verses  were,  of  course,  composed  by  the  latter  Sir  Hen;y 
Moody. 

e  neck-verse}  i.e.  the  verse  (generally  the  beginning  of  the  51st  Fsalni,  Miserere  mei, 
Ac.)  read  by  a  criminal  to  entitle  him  to  benefit  of  clergy. 

•>  been]  The  author  probably  wrote  "  bin." 

'  those  icandering  things}  i.  e.  the  phiyers,  during  the  Miiipiession  of  the  theatres. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  xvi 

Then  where  am  1 1     But  now  I've  thought  upon't, 
I'll  praise  thee  more  than  all  have  ventured  on't. 
I'll  take  thy  noble  work,  and,  like  the  trade 
Where,  for  a  heap  of  salt,  pure  gold  is  laid, 
I'll  lay  thy  volume,  that  huge  tome  of  wit, 
About  in  ladies'  closets,  where  they  sit 
Enthron'd  in  their  own  wills  :  and  if  she  be 
A  laic  sister,  she'll  straight  fly  to  thee  ; 
But  if  a  holy  habit  she  have  on. 
Or  be  some  novice,  she'll  scarce  look  upon 
Thy  lines  at  first ;  but  watch  her  then  a  while, 
And  you  shall  see  her  steal  a  gentle  smile 
Upon  thy  title,  put  thee  nearer  yet, 
Breathe  on  thy  lines  a  whisper,  and  then  set 
Her  voice  up  to  the  measures  ;  then  begin 
To  bless  the  hour  and  happy  state  she's  in  ; 
Now  she  lays  by  her  characters ',  and  looks 
With  a  stern  eye  on  all  her  pretty  books  ; 
She's  now  thy  votaress,  and  the  just  crown 
She  brings  thee  with  it,  is  worth  half  the  town. 

I'll  send  thee  to  the  army  ;  they  that  fight 
Will  read  thy  tragedies  with  some  delight. 
Be  all  thy  reformadoes,  fancy  scars 
And  pay  too,  in  thy  speculative  wars. 

I'll  send  thy  comic  scenes  to  some  of  those 
That  for  a  gi-eat  while  have  play'd  fast  and  loose  ; 
New  universalists,  by  changing  shapes. 
Have  made  with  wit  and  fortune  fair  escapes. 

Then  shall  the  country,  that  poor  tennis-ball 
Of  angry  fate,  receive  thy  pastoral^, 
And  from  it  learn  those  melancholy  strains 
Fed  the  afflicted  souls  of  primitive  swains. 

Thus  the  whole  world  to  reverence  will  flock 
Thy  tragic  buskin  and  thy  comic  sock '' ; 
And  winged  Fame  unto  posterity 
Transmit  but  only  two,  this  age  and  thee. 

Thomas  Peyton,  t 

Agricola  Anglo-Cantianus. 

'  characters']  i.  e.,  I  suppose,  Emblems  (not  books  of  Characters). 
J  thypastorar\  i.  e.  The  Faithful  Shepherdess. 
^  sock]    Old ed.  "stock." 

1  Thomas  Peyton]  Most  probably  the  "  Thomas  Peyton  of  Lincoln's  Inn,"  who  was  author 
of  The  Glasseof  Time  in  the  two  first  Ages,  divinely  handled,  1620. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS   ON 


ON   THE   DECEASED   AUTHOR,  MASTER  JOHN    FLETCHER    HIS 
PLAYS,  AND   ESPECIALLY   THE   MAD   LOVER. 

Whilst  his  well-organ 'd  body  doth  retreat 

To  its  first  matter,  and  the  formal  heat 

Triumphant  sits  in  judgment,  to  approve 

Pieces  above  our  candour'  and  our  love, 

Such  as  dare  boldly  venture  to  appear 

Unto  the  curious  eye  and  critic  ear  ; 

Lo,  The  Mad  Lover  in  these  various  times 

Is  press'd  to  life,  t'  accuse  us  of  our  crimes ! 

While  Fletcher  liv'd,  who  equal  to  him  writ 

Such  lasting  monuments  of  natural  wit  ? 

Others  might  draw  their  lines  with  sweat,  like  those 

That  with  much  pains  a  garrison  enclose. 

Whilst  his  sweet  fluent  vein  did  gently  ran, 

As  uncontrol'd  and  smoothly  as  the  sun. 

After  his  death,  our  theatres  did  make 

Him  in  his  own  unequall'd  language  speak  ; 

And  now,  when  all  the  Muses  out  of  their 

Approved  modesty  silent  appear. 

This  play  of  Fletcher's  braves  the  envious  light, 

As  wonder  of  our  ears  once,  now  our  sight. 

Three-and-fourfold-blest"  poet,  who  the  lives 

Of  poets  and  of  theatres  survives  ! 

A  groom  or  ostler  of  some  wit  may  bring 

His  Pegasus  to  the  Castalian  spring ; 

Boast,  he  a  race  o'er  the  Pharsalian  plain 

Or  happy  Tempe-valley  dares  maintain  ; 

Brag,  at  one  leap,  upon  the  double  clifi", 

(W'ere  it  as  high  as  monstrous  Teneriffe,) 

Of  far-renown'd  Parnassus  he  will  get, 

And  there,  t'  amaze  the  world,  confirm  his  seat : 

"WHien  our  admired  Fletcher  vaunts  not  aught. 

And  slighted  every  thing  he  writ  as  naught  ; 

While  all  our  English  wondering  world  in's  cause 

Made  this  great  city  echo  with  applause. 

Read  him,  therefore,  all  that  can  read,  and  those 

That  cannot,  learn,  if  you're  not  learning's  foes, 

1  candour'^  "  i.  e.  indulgence  or  favour."  Heath's  M.S.  Notes.  This  reading,  found  also  in 
Sir  A.  Cokainc'8  Foemt,  1058,  was  altered  by  Theobald  to  "  censure  ;"  and  so  his  suc- 
cessors. 

■n  bUtf]  Sir  A.  Cokaine's  Poemt,  16.18,  "best." 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  x'> 

And  wilfully  resolved  to  refuse 

The  gentle  raptures  of  this  happy  Muse. 

From  thy  great  constellation,  noble  soul, 

Look  on  this  kingdom  ;  suffer  not  the  whole 

Spirit  of  poesy  retire  to  heaven, 

But  make  us  entertain  what  thou  hast  given. 

Earthquakes  and  thunder  diapasons  make  ; 

The  sea's  vast  roar,  and  iiTesistless  shake 

Of  horrid  winds,  a  .sympathy  compose  ; 

So  in  the.se  things"  there's  music  in  the  close  ; 

And  though  they  seem  gi-eat  discords  in  our  ears, 

They  are  not  so  to  them  above  the  spheres". 

Granting  these  ''  music,  how  much  sweeter 's  that 

Mnemosyne's  daughters'  voices  do  create  1 

Since  heaven,  and  earth,  and  seas,  and  air  consent 

To  make  an  harmony,  (the  instrument 

Their  own  agreeing  selves,)  shall  we  refuse 

The  music  which  the  deities  do  use  ? 

Troy's  ravish 'd  Ganymede  doth  sing  to  Jove, 

And  Phoebus'  self  plays  on  his  lyre  above. 

The  Cretan  gods,  or  glorious  men,  who  vdll 

Imitate  right,  must  wonder  at  thy  skill, 

Best  poet  of  thy  times,  or  he  will  prove 

As  mad  as  thy  brave  Memnon ""  was  with  love. 

Aston  Cokaine,  Baronet' 


n  So  in  these  things']  Ibid.  "  So  that  in  these." 

0  They  are  not  so  to  them  above  the  spheres']  Ibid.  "  The  cause  is  not  in  them,  but  in  our 
fears." 

P  these]  Ibid.  "  them." 

1  Memnon]  See  The  Mad  Lover. 

■•  Aston  Cokaine,  Baronet]  The  son  of  Thomas  Cokaine,  Esqre.,  of  Ashbourne  Hall  in  Der- 
byshire and  of  Pooley  in  AVarwickshh-e,  was  born  in  1608,  (according  to  his  own  account)  at 
Elvaston  in  Derbyshire,  the  seat  of  the  family  of  his  mother,  Anne,  daughter  of  Sir  John 
Stanhope  of  Elvaston,  Knight,  (though  it  appears  that  the  register  of  his  baptism  is  dated 
at  Ashbourne).  He  was  educated  (according  to  Wood)  both  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge ;  at 
the  latter  he  was  a  fellow-commoner  of  Trinity  College.  He  afterwards  belonged  to  one  of 
the  Inns  of  Court.  In  1632,  he  set  out  on  his  travels  through  France,  Italy,  &c.  (Wood 
says,  in  company  with  Sir  K.  Digby).  On  his  return,  he  married  Anne,  daughter  of  Sir  Gil- 
bert Kniveton  of  Mercaston  in  Derbyshire,  Knight,  and  retiring  to  his  lordship  of  Pooley, 
gave  himself  up  to  his  books  and  boon  companions.  Being  a  Catholic,  he  is  said  to  have 
suffered  much  for  his  religion,  and  for  the  cause  of  Charles  the  First,  who  (according  to  his 
own  account)  rewarded  him  with  a  Baronetage,  dated  about  the  10th  Jan.  1641,  which 
was,  however,  afterwards  disputed  by  the  OflScers  of  Arms,  his  patent  not  being  enrolled. 
Having  completely  wasted  his  ancient  patrimony,  and  sold  both  his  lordships  of  Ashbourne 
and  Pooley,  he  went  to  reside  at  Derby,  where  he  died,  on  the  breaking  of  the  great  frost,  in 
Feb.  1683-4.  (See  Memoir  of  Sir  A.  C.  (by  Brydges),  Brit.  Bibliog.  ii.  449,  Wood's  Athena,  iv. 
128.  ed.  Bliss,  and  JSw(;.Z)rajn.)  He  was  author  of  D/awea,  a  romance  from  the  Italian  of  G.Fr. 
Loredano,  1654,  and  of  Poems.  With  the  Obstinate  Lady  and  Trappolin  suppos'd  a  Prince. 
Whereunto  is  added  The  Tragedy  of  Ovid,  1662.  (The  Obstinate  Lady  had  previously  ap- 
peared in  1657,  and  the  rest  of  the  volume,  excepting  the  tragedy,  in  1658).  His  ^vritings  are 
utterly  worthless  as  compositions,  but  contain  some  curious  notices  of  the  celebrated 
persons  with  whom  he  was  acquainted, 

b   2 


COMMENDATORV    I'OKMS   OxN 


UPON  THE  WORKS  OF   BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

How  angels,  cloistei'd  in  our  human  cells, 
Maintain  their  parley,  Beaumont-Fletcher  tells  ; 
Whose  strange,  unimitable  intercourse 
Transcends  all  rules,  and  flies  beyond  the  force 
Of  the  most  forward  souls,  all  must  submit 
Until  they  reach  these  mysteries  of  wit. 
The  intellectual  language  here's  exprest, 
Admir'd  in  better  times,  and  dares  the  test 
Of  ours  ;  for  from  wit,  sweetness,  mirth,  and  sense. 
This  volume  springs  a  new  true  quintessence. 

John  Pettvs,  Knight" 


ON  THE  WORKS  OF   THE   MOST   EXCELLENT   DRAMATIC  POET, 
MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER.  NEVER  BEFORE  PRINTED. 

Hail,  Fletcher,  welcome  to  the  world's  great  stage  ! 
For  our  two  hours,  we  have  thee  here  an  age 
In  thy  whole  works  ;  and  may  th'  impression  call 
The  praetor  that  presents  thy  plays  to  all. 
Both  to  the  people,  and  the  lords  that  sway 
That  herd,  and  ladies  whom  those  lords  obey. 
And  what's  the  loadstone  can  such  guests  in^nte. 
But  moves  on  two  poles,  profit  and  delight  ? 
Which  will  be  soon,  as  on  the  rack,  confest. 
When  every  one  is  tickled  with  a  jest, 

•  John  Ptttus.  Kniphf]  Sir  John  Pettus,  of  Cheston-hall  in  SuflFolk,  bom  in  1613,  was 
knighted  in  1641,— served  under  Prince  Rupert  during  the  civil  wars,— was  made  one  of  the 
deputy-governors  of  the  Mines-royal  in  IfiSl,— and  sat  In  parli.iinent  as  member  for  Dunwich 
in  Suffolk.  lie  was  lodged  in  the  Fleet  in  1679  ;  and  in  a  Dedication  written  there  in  16«.3,  he 
says,  "I  am  here  a  confined  Person,  for  my  being  too  kind  to  others  and  too  unjust  to  myself, 
and  for  not  doing  what  was  not  in  my  power  to  perform,  by  wanting  the  Justice  of  my 
Debtors,  whereby  I  am  rather  a  Prisoner  to  them  than  to  my  Creditors."  {Fleta  Minor). 
Besides  a  copy  of  verses  prefixed  to  Cartwright's  Works,  16.51,  he  was  author  of  Fodinte 
JUpales.  Or  the  History,  Laws,  and  Flares  of  the  Chief  Mines  ami  Mineral  Works  in 
England.  WaUs,  and  the  English  Pale  in  Ireland,  tjc.  \SiO.— England's  independency  upon 
Vie  Papal  Potrer,  historically  and  Judicially  stated,  ^c.  1674,— j4  Narrative  of  the  Excom- 
munication of  Sir  John  Pettus  nf  the  County  of  Suffolk,  Knighi.  Obtained  against  him  by 
his  Lady,  a  Roman  Catholick.  And  the  true  slate  of  the  Case  between  them.  Wilti  his  faith- 
ful Answers  to  several  Aspersions  raised  against  him  by  her,  to  the  prepossessing  the  Judge- 
ments ((f  same  Honourable  Persons  and  Otliers,\Qr,i,—  VolatHes  from  the  History  of  Adam 
and  Eve,  Sfc.  1(17*,— The  Case  and  Justification  of  Sir  John  Pettus,  of  the  County  of  Suffolk, 
Knight,  Concerning  Two  Charitable  Bills  now  Depending  in  the  House  of  Lords  under  his 
Care,  ffc.  1677  8— TAc  Constitution  of  Parliaments  in  England,  Deduced  from  the  time  nf 
King  Edward  the  Second,  6fc.  \G»>.— and  Flela  Minor.  The  Laws  of  Art  and  Nature,  in 
Knowing,  Judging,  Assaying,  Fining,  lielining,  and  Inlarging  the  Bodies  of  confin'd 
Metals.  In  Two  Parts,  (the  first  Part  translated  from  the  German  of  Erckem.)  Jtc.  1683. 
According  to  IJromley  (Cat.  of  Engr.  E.  P.),  he  died  in  169a 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 

And  that  pure  Fletcher's  able'  to  subdue 
A  melancholy  more  than  Burton  knew  : 
And,  though  upon  the  by  to  his  designs, 
The  native  may  learn  English  from  his  lines. 
And  th'  alien,  if  he  can  but  construe  it, 
May  here  be  made  free  denizen  of  wit. 
But  his  main  end  does  drooping  Virtue  raise, 
And  crowns  her  beauty  with  eternal  bays. 
In  scenes  where  she  inflames  the  frozen  soul. 
While  Vice,  her  paint  wash'd  oif,  appears  so  foul. 
She  must  this  blessed  isle  and  Europe  leave. 
And  some  new  quadrant  of  the  globe  deceive, 
Or  hide  her  blushes  on  the  Afric  shore. 
Like  Marius,  but  ne'er  rise  to  triumph  more  ; 
That  honour  is  resign 'd  to  Fletcher's  fame  ; 
Add  to  his  trophies,  that  a  poet's  name 
(Late  grown  as  odious  to  our  modern  states 
As  that  of  king  to  Rome)  he  vindicates 
From  black  aspersions,  cast  upon't  by  those 
Which  only  are  inspir'd  to  lie  in  prose. 

And  by  the  court  of  Muses  be't  decreed. 
What  graces  spring  from  poesy's  richer  seed, 
When  we  name  Fletcher,  shall  be  so  proclaim'd, 
As  all  that's  royal  is  when  Caesar's  nam'd. 

Robert  Stapylton,  Knight. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  MOST  HONOURED  KINSMAN, 
MASTER  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT. 

I'll  not  pronounce  how  strong  and  clean  thou  writes. 
Nor  by  what  new  hard  rules  thou  took'st  thy  flights, 
Nor  how  much  Greek  and  Latin  some  refine. 
Before  they  can  make  up  six  words  of  thine  ; 

'  Fletcher 's  able}  Old  ed.  "  Fletcher,  able." 

1  Robert  Stapylton,  Knight}  The  third  son  of  Richard  Stapylton,  Esq.,  of  Carleton  in  York- 
shire, was  educated  as  a  Roman  Catholic  at  Douay ;  but  on  returning  to  England,  he  became 
a  protestant,  and  was  made  gentleman-usher  of  the  privy-chamber  to  Prince  Charles,  after- 
wards Charles  the  Second.  When  the  king  was  compelled  to  leave  London,  Stapylton 
followed  him,  and  was  knighted  in  1642  ;  and  after  the  battle  of  Edgehill,  having  attended 
his  majesty  to  Oxford,  he  was  created  a  doctor  of  civil  law.  During  the  days  of  the  Com- 
monwealth, he  lived  in  retirement,  and  applied  himself  to  study.  At  the  Restoration  he 
was  again  promoted  to  the  service  of  Charles  the  Second,  who  continued  to  hold  him  in 
esteem  till  his  death  in  1669.  Besides  his  versions  of  Musasus,  1647,  Juvenal,  1647,  and  other 
translations,  he  was  author  of  three  bad  plays,— T/fe  Slighted  Maid,  1663,  (ridiculed  in  The 
Rehearsal),  The  Step-mother,  ^6Si,  and  Hero  and  Leander,  1669:  a  drama  called  The  Royal 
Choice  was  entered  as  his  on  the  Stationers'  Books  in  1653. 


COMMKNDATOKY    I'OKMS   ON 

But  this  ril  siy,  thou  stiik'.st  our  sense  so  deep, 
At  once  thou  mak'st  us  blush,  rejoice,  and  weep. 
Great  father  Jonson  bow'd  himself,  when  he 
(Thou  \\Tit'st  so  nobly)  vow'd  he  emded  thee. 
Were  thy  Mardonius '  arm'd,  there  would  be  more 
Strife  for  his  sword  than  all  Achilles  wore  ; 
Such  wise  just  rage,  had  he  been  lately  tried, 
]\Iy  life  on't,  he  had  been  o'  the  better  side  ; 
And  where  he  found  false  odds,  through  gold  or  sloth, 
There  brave  Mardonius  would  have  beat  them  both. 

Behold,  here's  Hetcher  too  !  the  world  ne'er  knew 
Two  potent  wits  co-operate  till  you  ; 
For  still  your  fancies  are  so  woven  and  knit, 
'Twas  Francis  Fletcher  or  John  Beaumont  wTit. 
Yet  neither  borrow'd,  nor  were  so  put  to 't, 
To  call  poor  gods  and  goddesses  to  do  't, 
Nor  made  nine  girls  your  Muses  (you  suppose, 
Women  ne'er  write,  save  love-letters  in  prose) ; 
But  are  your  own  inspirers,  and  have  made 
Such  powerful  scenes  as,  when  they  please,  invade. 
Your  plot,  sense,  language,  all  's  so  pure  and  fit, 
He  's  bold,  not  valiant,  dare  dispute  your  w4t. 

George  Lisle,  Knight" 


ON  MASTER  JOHN   FLETCHER'S  WORKS. 

So  shall  we  joy,  when  all  whom  beasts  and  worms 
Had  turn'd  to  their  own  substances  and  forms, 
Whom  earth  to  earth,  or  fire  hath  chang'd  to  fire. 
We  shall  behold,  more  than  at  first,  entire. 
As  now  we  do,  to  see  all  thine,  thine  own 
In  this  thy  Muse's  resurrection  ; 

Whose  scatter'd  parts,  from  thy  own  race,  more  wounds 
Hath  suffer'd,  than  Actaeon  from  his  hounds  ; 
Which  first  their  brains,  and  then  their  bellies,  fed, 
And  from  their  excrements  new  poets  bred. 

»  Marttoniut']    Sec  A  King  and  No  King. 

"  George  Litle,  KnighC]  "This I  take  to  be  the  same  with  Sir  John  Lisle,  one  of  King 
Charles's  judges;  for  Wood,  in  his  Index  to  his  Athena-,  colls  Sir  John  by  the  name  of 
George:  he  might  perhaps  have  had  two  Christian  names,"  &c.     Skward. 

Surely  the  writer  of  these  verses  could  have  been  no  other  than  the  celebrated  oflBcer  Sir 
George  Lisle,  who  was  knighted  by  Charles  the  First,  and  shot  by  order  of  Fairfax  on  the 
surrender  of  Colchester  in  1G48.  The  writer  of  the  verses  calls  Beaumont  "  his  kinsman  ; " 
and  according  to  Heath,  the  gallant  royalist  "was  extracted  from  a  gentile  family  in 
Surrey"  (Loyal  Englith  Marlyrt,  Izc.,  p.  137.  n.  d.) :  Lloyd,  indeed,  states  that  he  was  "an 
hoocst  bookseller's  son  "  (ilemoires,  &c.  p.  478.  cd.  1677 )i  but  Lloyd  is  an  author  by  no  i 
to  be  trusted. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHEE. 

But  now  thy  Muse,  enraged,  from  her  urn, 
Like  ghosts  of  murder 'd  bodies,  doth  return 
To  accuse  the  murderers,  to  right  the  stage, 
And  undeceive  the  long-abused  age, 
Which  casts  thy  praise  on  them,  to  whom  thy  wit 
Gives  not  more  gold  than  they  give  dross  to  it  ; 
■\\Tio,  not  content  like  felons  to  purloin, 
Add  treason  to  it,  and  debase  thy  coin. 

But  whither  am  I  stray 'd  ?     I  need  not  raise 
Trophies  to  thee  from  other  men's  dispraise  ; 
Nor  is  thy  fame  on  lesser  ruins  built, 
Nor  needs  thy  juster  title  the  foul  guilt 
Of  Eastern  kings,  who,  to  secure  their  reign, 
Must  have  their  brothers,  sons,  and  kindi-ed  slain. 
Then  was  ^^'it's  empire  at  the  fatal  height. 
When,  labouring  and  sinking  with  its  weight, 
From  thence  a  thousand  lesser  poets  sprung, 
Like  petty  princes  from  the  fall  of  Rome  ; 
When  Jonson,  Shakespeare,  and  thyself  did  sit, 
And  sway'd  in  the  triuniA-irate  of  Wit : 
Yet  what  fi-om  Jonson's  oil  and  sweat  did  flow. 
Or  what  more  easy  nature  did  bestow 
On  Shakespeare's  gentler  Muse,  in  thee  full  grown 
Their  graces  both  appear  ;  yet  so,  that  none 
Can  say,  here  nature  ends  and  art  begins. 
But  mixt,  like  th'  elements,  and  born  like  twins  ; 
So  interweav'd,  so  like,  so  much  the  same, 
None  this  mere  nature,  that  mere  art  can  name  : 
'Twas  this  the  ancients  meant,  nature  and  skill 
Are  the  two  tops  of  their  Parnassus'  hill. 

John  Denham^. 


UPON   MASTER  JOHN   FLETCHER'S   PLAYS. 
Fletcher,  to  thee  we  do  not  only  owe 
All  these  good  plays,  but  those  of  others  too  ; 
Thy  wit  repeated,  does  support  the  stage, 
Credits  the  last,  and  entertains  this  age. 
No  worthies  form'd  by  any  Muse  but  thine, 
Could  purchase  robes  to  make  themselves  so  fine  : 
What  brave  commander  is  not  proud  to  see 
Thy  brave  Melantius  ^  in  his  gallantry  ? 

^  John  Denham'i  Bom  in  1615,  died  in  1668. 
7  Melantius}  See  The  Maid's  Tragedy. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS    (JN 

Our  greatest  ladies  love  to  see  their  scorn 

Out-done  by  thine,  in  what  themselves  have  worn  : 

Th'  imp.itient  widow,  ere  the  year  be  done, 

Sees  thy  Aspatia""  weeping  in  her  gown. 

I  never  yet  the  tragic  strain  assay'd, 

Deterr'd  by  that  inimitable  maid  ; 

And  when  I  venture  at  the  comic  style, 

Thy  Scornful  Ladt/  seems  to  mock  my  toil : 

Thus  has  thy  Muse  at  once  improv'd  and  marr'd 

Our  sport  in  plays  by  rendering  it  too  hard. 

So,  when  a  sort*  of  lusty  shepherds  throw 

The  bar  by  turns,  and  none  the  rest  outgo 

So  far,  but  that  the  best  are  measuring  casts, 

Their  emulation  and  their  pastime  lasts ; 

But  if  some  brawny  yeoman  of  the  guard 

Step  in,  and  toss  the  axle-tree  a  yard 

Or  more  beyond  the  farthest  mark,  the  rest 

Despairing  stand,  their  sport  is  at  the  best. 

Edmund  Waller*^ 


TO   FLETCHER   REVIVED. 

How  have  1  been  religious?  what  strange  good 

Has  scap'd  me  that  I  never  understood  ? 

Have  I  hell-guarded  heresy  o'erthrown  1 

Heal'd  wounded  states  1  made  kings  and  kingdoms  one  ? 

That  fate  should  be  so  merciful  to  me, 

To  let  me  live  t'  have  said,  I  have  read  thee  ? 

Fair  star,  ascend !  the  joy,  the  life,  the  light 
Of  this  tempestuous  age,  this  dark  world's  sight  ! 
Oh,  from  thy  crown  of  glory  dart  one  flame 
May  strike  a  sacred  reverence,  whilst  thy  name, 
Like  holy  flamens  to  their  god  of  day, 
\Ve,  bowing,  sing,  and  whilst  we  praise,  we  pray. 

Bright  spirit !  whose  eternal  motion 
Of  wit,  like  time,  still  in  itself  did  run. 
Binding  all  others  in  it,  and  did  give 
Commission,  how  far  this  or  that  shall  live  ; 
Like  Destiny  of  Poems, '  who,  as  she 
Signs  death  to  all,  herself  can  never  die. 

'  Atpalia^  SCO  id.  •  sorf\  i.  e.  set,  band, 

b  Edmund  WaUer-\  Bom  in  1605,  died  in  1087.    (Hotli  folios,  "  Edw.  Waller.") 
'■■  Like  Dettiny  c/ Poemi]  Which  is  the  leading  too  in  Lovelace's  Lucatta,  &c  ,  lfi49,— v 
altered  by  Seward  to  "  Like  Dettiny,  thy  pnrmt ,- "  and  so  his  successors. 


BEAUMONT   AND    FLETCHER. 


And  now  thy  purple-robed  Tragedy, 
In  her  embroider'd  buskins^  calls  mine  eye  ; 
Where  brave  Aecius  we  see  betray'd,  va 

T'  obey  his  death,  whom  thousand  lives  obey'd. 
Whilst  that  the  mighty  fool  his  sceptre  breaks, 
And  through  his  general's  wounds  his  own  doom  speaks 
Weaving  thus  richly  Valentinian, 
The  costliest  monarch  with  the  cheapest  man. 

Soldiers  may  here  to  their  old  glories  add, 
Tlie  Lover  love,  and  be  with  reason  mad; 
Not  as  of  old  Alcides  furious, 
Who,  wilder  than  his  bull,  did  tear  the  house, 
Hurling  his  language  with  the  canvass  stone  ; 
'Twas  thought,  the  monster  roar'd  the  soberer  tone. 

But,  ah  I  when  thou  thy  sorrow  didst  inspire 
With  passions  black  as  is  her  dark  attire. 
Virgins,  as  suiferers,  have  wept  to  see 
So  white  a  soul,  so  red  a  cruelty  ; 
That  thou  hast  griev'd,  and,  with  unthought  redress, 
Dried  their  wet  eyes  who  now  thy  mercy  bless  ; 
Yet,  loath  to  lose  thy  watery  jewel,  when 
Joy  wip'd  it  off,  laughter  straight  sprung't  agen. 

Now  ruddy-cheeked  Mirth  with  rosy  wings 
Fans  every  brow  with  gladness,  whilst  she  sings 
Delight  to  all,  and  the  whole  theatre 
A  festival  in  heaven  doth  appear  ; 
Nothing  but  pleasure,  love,  and,  like  the  morn, 
Each  face  a  general  smiling  doth  adorn. 

Hear,  ye  foul  speakers,  that  pronounce  the  air 
Of  stews  and  shores,  I  will  inform  you  where. 
And  how,  to  clothe  aright  your  wanton  wit, 
Without  her  nasty  bawd  attending  it. 
View  here  a  loose  thought  said  with  such  a  grace, 
Minerva  might  have  spoke  in  Venus'  face  ; 
So  well  disguis'd,  that  'twas  conceiv'd  by  none 
But  Cupid  had  Diana's  linen  on  ; 
And  all  his  naked  pails  so  veil'd,  they  express 
The  shape  with  clouding  the  uncomeliness  ; 
That,  if  this  reformation,  which  we 
Receiv'd,  had  not  been  buried  with  thee. 
The  stage,  as  this  work,  might  have  liv'd  and  lov'd ; 
Her  lines  the  austere  scarlet  had  approv'd  ; 
And  th'  actors  wisely  been  from  that  offence 
As  clear  as  they  are  now  from  audience. 


The  IMad  Lover. 


Tragi-comedies. 


Archas. 
Bellario. 


Comedies. 
The  Spanish 

Curate. 
The  Humorous 

Lieutenant. 
The  Tamer 

Tamed. 
The  little  French 
Lawyer. 


The  Custom  of 
the  Country. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS   ON 

Thus  with  thy  genius  did  the  scene  expire, 
Wanting  thy  active  and  enlivening^  fire, 
That  now,  to  spread  a  darkness  over  all, 
Nothing  remains  but  poesy  to  fall. 
And  though  from  these  thy  embers  we  receive 
Some  warmth,  so  much  as  may  be  said,  we  live  ; 
That  we  dare  praise  thee,  blushless,  in  the  head 
Of  the  best  piece  Hermes  to  Love  e'er  read  ; 
That  we  rejoice  and  glory  in  thy  wit, 
And  feast  each  other  with  remembering  it ; 
That  w^e  dare  speak  thy  thought,  thy  acts  recite  : 
Yet  all  men  henceforth  be  afraid  to  write. 

Richard  Lovelace' 


ON  MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER'S  DRAMATICAL  POEMS. 

Great  tutelary  spirit  of  the  stage, 
Fletcher  !  I  can  fix  nothing  but  my  rage 
Before  thy  works,  'gainst  their  officious  crime 
Who  print  thee  now  in  the  worst  scene  of  time. 
For  me,  uninterrupted  hadst  thou  slept 
Among  the  holy  shades,  and  close  hadst  kept 
The  mysteiy  of  thy  lines,  till  men  might  be 
Taught  how  to  read,  and  then  how  to  read  thee : 

f  enlivenint}']  Lovelace's  Lucasta,  &c.,  1049  "  correcting." 

g  Richard  Lovelace']  "  The  eldest  son  of  Sir  William  Lovelace  of  WooUidge  in  Kent. 
Knight,  was  born  in  that  county,  educated  in  grammar  learning  in  Charter-house  school 
near  London,  became  a  gent,  commoner  of  Glocester  hall  [Oxford]  in  the  beginning  of  the 
year  1634,  and  in  that  of  his  age  10,  being  then  accounted  the  most  amiable  and  beautiful 
person  that  ever  eye  beheld,  a  person  also  of  innate  modesty,  virtue,  and  courtly  deport- 
ment, which  made  him  tlien,  but  especially  after,  when  he  retired  to  the  great  city,  much 
admired  and  adored  by  the  female  sex."  Wood's  Athena,  iii.  400,  ed.  Bliss.  On  leaving  the 
luiiversity,  he  attended  the  court  "  in  great  splendour,"  and  being  patronized  by  Goring, 
served  in  the  Scotch  expeditions,  first  as  ensign  and  then  as  captain.  After  the  paci- 
fication at  lierwick,  he  withdrew  to  his  paternal  seat,  Lovelace-place,  near  Canter- 
bury ;  and  possessing  considerable  estates  in  Kent,  was  chosen  by  that  county  to  present  to 
Parliament  the  petition  for  the  restoration  of  the  king,  &c.  In  consequence  of  that 
obnoxious  measure  he  was  committed  to  prison  ;  from  which,  after  several  months,  he  was 
released  on  the  enormous  bail  of  iO,()0()l.  In  1646,  having  formed  a  regiment  for  the  service 
of  the  French  king,  which  he  commanded  as  colonel,  he  was  wounded  at  Dunkirk  :  and  un- 
fortunately, a  lady  of  great  beauty  and  wealth,  Lucy  Sacheverel  (his  Lucasta),  to  whom  ho 
had  paid  his  addresses,  believing  him  to  be  dead  of  his  wounds,  became  the  wife  of  anotlier. 
On  his  return  to  England  in  1048,  he  was  again  thrown  into  prison,  where  he  remained  till 
after  the  death  of  the  king.  His  loyalty  and  lil  erality  had  entirely  cmsumcd  Iiis  fortune  ; 
and  he  lingered  out  a  wretched  existence  in  sickness  and  poverty  till  Ki.Vl,  when  he  died  in  !> 
very  mean  lodging  in  Gunpowder-alley  ne.ir  Shoe-lane,  (according  to  Aubrey,  "in  a  celhir  in 
Long  Acre"|.  Hcsidcs  two  plays — The  Scholar  and  The  Soldier, — neither  of  which  has  been 
printed,  he  was  .luthor  of  Lucasta :  Epodes,  Odet,  Sonnett,  Sonps,  S[c.  164!»,  .ind  Lucatia, 
I'nslhiime  I'oemt,  le,!!).  The  exquisite  song,  To  Allhca/rom  priion,  was  written  during  his 
first  confinement. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

But  now  thou  art  expos'd  to  the  common  fate  ; 

Revive  then,  mighty  soul,  and  vindicate 

From  th'  age's  rude  affronts  thy  injur'd  fame; 

Instnact  the  envious  with  how  chaste  a  flame 

Thou  warm'st  the  lover  ;  how  severely  just 

Thou  wert  to  punish,  if  he  burn'd  to  lust  ; 

With  what  a  blush  thou  didst  the  maid  adorn, 

But  tempted,  %\'ith  how  innocent  a  scorn  ; 

How  epidemic  en-ors  by  thy  play 

Were  laugh'd  out  of  esteem,  so  purg'd  away  ; 

How  to  each  sense  thou  so  didst  virtue  fit 

That  all  grew  virtuous  to  be  thought  t'  have  wit. 

But  this  was  much  too  nan-ow  for  thy  art : 

Thou  didst  frame  governments,  give  kings  their  part. 

Teach  them  how  near  to  God,  while  just,  they  be. 

But  how  dissolv'd,  stretch'd  forth  to  tyranny  ; 

How  kingdoms  in  their  channel  safely  run. 

But  rudely  overflowing,  are  undone. 

Though  vulgar  spirits  poets  scorn  or  hate, 

Man  may  beget,  a  poet  can  create. 

William  Habington  ' 


UPON  MASTER  FLETCHER'S  DRAMATICAL  WORKS. 
What  !  now  the  stage  is  down,  dar'st  thou  appear, 
Bold  Fletcher,  in  this  tottering  hemisphere  ? 
Yes  ;  poets  are  like  palms,  which,  the  more  weight 
You  cast  upon  them,  grow  more  strong  and  straight : 
'Tis  not  Jove's  thunderbolt,  nor  Mars  his  spear. 
Or  Neptune's  angry  trident,  poets  fear. 
Had  now  giim  Ben  been  breathing,  \A-ith  what  rage 
And  high-swoln  fuiy  had  he  lash'd  this  age  ! 
Shakespeare  with  Chapman  had  grown  mad,  and  torn 
Their  gentle  sock,  and  lofty  buskins  worn, 
To  make  their  Muse  welter  up  to  the  chin 
In  blood  ;  of  feigned  scenes  no  need  had  bin  ; 
England,  like  Lucian's  eagle,  with  an  arrow 
Of  her  own  plumes  piercing  her  heart  quite  thorow, 

■>  William  Habington]  Bom  in  1605,  and  son  of  Thomas  Habington  of  Hendlip  in 
■Worcestershire.  Being  a  Roman  Catholic,  he  was  educated  at  St.  (miers  and  Paris  ;  and  in 
order  to  avoid  the  importunities  of  the  Jesuits,  by  whom  he  was  earnestly  solicited  to  join 
their  order,  he  returned  to  England,  and  finished  his  studies  under  his  father's  eye,  lie  mar- 
ried Lucia,  daughter  of  William  Lord  Powis,  (his  Castaro),  and  dyine  in  1654,  was  buried  in 
the  family  vault  at  Hendlip.  This  amiable  man  was  author  of  the  very  pleasing  volume  of 
poems  entitled  Castara,  1634,  of  The  Queen  of  Arragon,  a  tragi-comedy,  1640,  of  The  History 
of  Edward  the  Fourth,  King  of  England,  (of  which  his  father  laid  the  ground-work),  1640, 
and  of  Observations  on  History,  1641. 


COMMENDATORY    POKMS    ON 

Had  been  a  theatre  and  subject  fit 

To  exercise  in  real  truths  their  wit : 

Yet  none  like  high-wing'd  Fletcher  had  been  found, 

This  eagle's  tragic  destiny  to  sound  ; 

Rare  Fletcher's  quill  had  soar'd  up  to  the  sky, 

And  drawTi  down  gods  to  see  the  tragedy. 

Live,  famous  dramatist !  let  every  spring 

Make  thy  bay  flourish  and  fresh  bourgeons '  bring  ; 

And,  since  we  cannot  have  thee  trod  o'  the  stage, 

We  will  applaud  thee  in  this  silent  page. 

James  Howell,  P.  C.  C. 


ON  THE  EDITION. 
Fletcher,  whose  fame  no  age  can  ever  waste. 
Envy  of  ours,  and  glory  of  the  last, 
Is  now  alive  again  ;  and  with  his  name 
His  sacred  ashes  wak'd  into  a  flame, 

'  bourgeons']  i.e.  buds, sprouts. 

'  James  Ho'.cell,  P.  C.  C]  Son  of  the  minister  of  Abernant  in  Caermarthenshire,  was  born 
about  1594,  educated  at  the  free  school  of  Hereford,  and  thence  removed  to  Jesus  College, 
Oxford,  (of  which  eventually,  during  his  absence  from  England,  he  was  elected  fellow). 
After  finishing  his  academical  course,  he  came  to  London,  and  obtained  the  situation  of 
steward  to  a  glass-manufactory  in  Broad-street,  the  proprietors  of  which,  in  1619,  having  sent 
him  abroad  as  their  agent  to  procure  the  best  materials  and  workmen,  he  lisited  the  chief 
places  of  Holland,  Flanders,  France,  .Spain,  and  Italj-,  and  acquired  a  masterly  knowledge  of 
modern  languages.  Having  resigned  his  stewardship,  he  again  travelled  on  the  continent 
as  companion  to  the  son  of  Baron  Altham.  Next,  he  was  sent  to  Spain  as  British  agent 
to  recover  a  richly-laden  English  ship  which  had  been  imjustly  seized  by  the  viceroy 
of  Sardinia.  In  l&X  he  was  appointed  secretary  to  Lord  !^crnpe,  afterwards  Earl  of  Sunder- 
land, lord-president  of  the  North  ;  and  while  he  was  residing  at  York,  the  corporation  of 
Richmond  chose  him  for  one  of  their  representatives  in  the  Parliament  which  began  to  sit  in 
1627.  In  1632  he  accompanied  Robert  Earl  of  Leicester,  ambassador  extraordinary  to  the 
Court  of  Denmark,  in  the  capacity  of  secretary,  and  displayed  his  oratorical  talents  in 
sundry  Latin  speeches  before  the  king  and  some  German  princes.  During  several  years  after 
his  return,  he  remained  without  employment,  except  that  in  16.35  he  was  despatched  by 
secretary  Windebank  on  what  he  calls  "  a.  flying  journey  as  far  as  Orleans."  In  1639  he  went 
to  Ireland,  and  became  an  assistant  clerk  to  Lord  Strafford,  for  whom  he  transacted  some 
affairs  in  Edinburgh  and  afterwards  in  London.  In  ]6-i(i  he  was  sent  on  a  mission  to 
France.  According  to  Chalmers  (liio;/.  Did.),  in  the  same  year  he  was  appointed  Clerk  of 
the  Council ;  but  from  his  own  Letters  it  would  seem  that  his  appointment  to  that  office, 
which  was  intended  to  be  permanent,  must  have  been  of  a  later  date.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, long  enjoy  it  after  the  king  liad  been  obliged  to  leave  Whitehall ;  for  in  1043  (if  the 
date  which  he  gives  be  correct)  having  come  to  London  on  business  of  his  own,  his 
papers  were  seized,  and  he  was  committed  a  close  prisoner  to  the  Fleet,  (according  to 
W'ood,  because  through  his  extravagance  he  had  run  greatly  into  debt).  lie  had  previously 
appeared  as  a  writer ;  and  he  now  betook  himself  indefatigably  to  bookniaking,  from  which 
he  derived  a  comfortable  subsistence  during  his  long  stay  in  prison,  where  he  remained 
till  the  king  had  been  some  time  dead;  and  after  liis  discharge,  liaving  no  other  means 
of  support,  he  continued  the  profession  of  author.  On  the  Restoration,  he  was  created 
royal  liistoriographcr,  being  the  first  in  England  who  had  borne  that  title.  He  died 
at  London  in  1666.  The  very  long  lifct  of  his  various  writings  may  be  seen  in  Wood's 
Jllience,  and  in  Chalmers's  Bio/;.  J>icl.  They  are  now  all  forgotten,  with  the  exception  of 
one  work  which  has  been  often  reprinted, — Episloltr  Ho-Eliana :  Familiar  Letters,  tlomeitie 
and  foreign,  &c.  (This  valuable  and  entertaining  collection  was  orij,inally  published  in 
portions,  1645,  1647,  Ac.i 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  xxix 

Such  as  before  did  by  a  secret  charm 
The  wildest  heart  subdue,  the  coldest  warm, 
And  lend  the  ladies'  eyes  a  power  more  bright, 
Dispensing  thus  to  either  heat  and  light. 

He  to  a  sympathy  those  souls  betray 'd, 
Whom  love  or  beauty  never  could  persuade ; 
And  in  each  mov'd  spectator  could  beget 
A  real  passion  by  a  counterfeit  : 
When  first  Bellario''  bled,  what  lady  there 
Did  not  for  every  drop  let  fall  a  tear  ? 
And  when  Aspatia '  wept,  not  any  eye 
But  seem'd  to  wear  the  same  sad  livery  ; 
By  him  inspir'd,  the  feign 'd  Lucina  drew 
More  streams  of  melting  soitow  than  the  true  ; 
But  then  The  Scornful  Lady  did  beguile 
Their  easy  griefs,  and  teach  them  all  to  smile. 

Thus  he  affections  could  or  raise  or  lay  ; 
Love,  grief,  and  mirth,  thus  did  his  charms  obey  : 
He  nature  taught  her  passions  to  out-do. 
How  to  refine  the  old,  and  create  new ; 
Which  such  a  happy  likeness  seem'd  to  bear, 
As  if  that  nature  art,  art  nature  were. 

Yet  all  had  nothing  been,  obscurely  kept 
In  the  same  urn  wherein  his  dust  hath  slept  ; 
Nor  had  he  ris'  the  Delphic  wreath  to  claim, 
Had  not  the  dying  scene  expir'd  his  name "» ; 
Despair  our  joy  hath  doubled,  he  is  come 
Thrice"  welcome  by  this  post-liminiitm. 
His  loss  preserv'd  him  ;  they  that  silenc'd  wit 
Are  now  the  authors  to  eternize  it  ; 
Thus  poets  are  in  spite  of  fate  reviv'd. 
And  plays  by  intermission  longer  liv'd. 

Thomas  Stanley". 

^  Bellario']  See  Philaster.  1  Aspatia]  See  The  Maid's  Tragedy. 

'"  name]  After  this  line  in  Stanley's  Poems,  1647,  is  a  couplet  which  both  the  folios  omit ; 
"  Oh ,  the  indulgent  Justice  of  this  age. 
To  grant  the  Press  what  it  denies  the  Stage  !  " 

n  Thrice]  Ibid.  "Twice." 

o  Thomas  Stanley]  Born  about  1625,  was  the  son  of  Sir  Thomas  Stanley,  of  Laytonstone 
in  Essex  and  Cumberlow  in  Herts,  Knight.  His  education,  at  first  carefully  conducted  by 
a  tutor  under  his  father's  roof,  was  completed  at  Pembroke-hall,  Cambridge,  where  he  was 
entered  a  gentleman-commoner,  and  where  lie  found  leisure  from  his  severer  studies  to  com- 
pose several  of  those  poems,  which  will  be  subsequently  mentioned.  On  leaving  the  imi  versity, 
he  spent  some  time  in  foreign  travel.  While  yet  a  minor,  he  married  Dorothy,  daughter  and 
coheir  of  Sir  James  Enyon,  of  Flower  in  Xorthamptonshire,  Bart.  During  the  usurpation, 
he  resided  (it  would  seem,  for  a  considerable  period)  in  the  Jliddle  Temple,  having  formed 
there  a  friendship  and  community  of  literary  pursuits  with  his  first  cousin  Edward  Sher- 
burne, wlio  was  afterwards  knighted,  and  known  as  a  poet  and  translator.  Stanley  died  at 
London,  in  IG7H.    He  was  author  of  Poetns  and  Translations,  1647, — of  which  the  fullest 


COMMENDATORY  POEMS  ON 


ON  THE  EDITION  OF  MASTER  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT'S  AND 

MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER'S  PLAYS,  NEVER 

PRINTED  BEFORE. 

I  AM  nmaz'd  ;  and  this  same  ecstasy 

Ls  both  my  glory  and  apology. 

Sober  joys  are  dull  pa.ssions  ;  they  must  bear 

Proportion  to  the  subject  :  if  so,  where 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  shall  vouchsafe  to  be 

That  subject,  that  joy  must  be  ecstasy. 

Fury  is  the  complexion  of  great  ^^dts, 

The  fool's  distemper  ;  he  that 's  mad  by  fits 

Is  -wise  so  too  ;  it  is  the  poet's  Muse, 

The  prophet's  god,  the  fool's  and  my  excuse, 

For  in  me  nothing  less  than  Fletcher's  name 

Could  have  begot  or  justified  this  flame. 

Beaumont      j  ^.^furu'd  !  methinks  it  should  not  be  ; 

Fletcher         J 

No,  not  in  's  works  ;  plays  are  as  dead  as  he. 

The  palate  of  this  age  gusts"  nothing  high, 

That  has  not  custard  in  "t  or  bawderj*. 

Folly  and  madness  fill  the  stage  :  the  scene 

Is  Athens  ;  where  the  guilty,  and  the  mean, 

The  fool  scapes  well  enough  ;  learned  and  great 

Suffer  an  ostracism,  stand  exulate. 

Mankind  is  fall'n  again,  shrunk  a  degree, 
A  step  below  his  ver>'  apostacy  : 
Nature  herself  is  out  of  tune,  and  sick 
Of  tumult  and  disorder,  lunatic. 
Yet  what  world  would  not  cheerfully  endure 
The  torture  or  disease,  t'  enjoy  the  cure  ? 

This  book 's  the  balsam  and  the  hellebore 
Must  preserve  bleeding  nature,  and  restore 
Our  crazy  stupor  to  a  just  quick  sense 
Both  of  ingratitude  and  providence  ; 

edition,  with  alterations,  additions,  and  some  omissions,  appeared  in  l65\,—lTrantIationit 
o/~]  Anarreon,  Bion,  Moschiis,  A-c.  16Jl, — (these  two  publications  are  generally  done  up  in 
one  volume,  together  with  several  minor  pieces  which  have  distinct  title-pages,) — and  27ic 
Hittory  of  Philofophy  (first  vol.  I6.W,  sec  lfi.^)G.  third  IGGO,  Hist.  o/Chahiaic  Phil.  lGfi2).  His 
edition  of  ^f-schylus  appeared  in  1()63,  (according  to  the  title-pages  of  some  copies,  ]«M'..  The 
poetical  works  of  Stanlej-.  in  spite  of  their  numerous  conceits,  are  ingenious,  elegant,  and 
graceful.  His  jjischyliis,  though  in  certain  minutiae  it  may  fail  to  satisfy  the  later  school  of 
critics,  is  on  the  whole  a  splendid  monument  of  his  learning.  In  variety  of  acquire- 
ments he  has  been  excelled  by  few.  (The  bibliographical  details  given  by  Sir  E.  Bridges,  in 
his  Preface  to  the  reprint  of  Stanley's  Poemt,  are  somewhat  incorrect.  Dr.  Dibdin's  account 
of  Stanley,  in  a  note  on  Inlrmi.  /«  Gr.  and  Lat.  Classics,  i.  2.1s,  is  a  mass  of  error.) 
"  guiU}  "  i.  e- relishes." — Webkb. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

That  teaches  us  at  once  to  feel  and  know 

Two  deep  points,  what  we  want,  and  what  we  owe. 

Yet  great  goods  have  their  ills  :  should  we  transmit 

To  future  times  the  power  of  love  and  wit 

In  this  example,  would  they  not  combine 

To  make  our  imperfections  their  design  ? 

They'd  study  our  corruptions,  and  take  more 

Care  to  be  ill  than  to  be  good  before  ; 

For  nothing  but  so  great  infirmity 

Could  make  them  worthy  of  such  remedy. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  sun's  almighty  ray 
Rescue  th'  affrighted  world,  and  redeem  day 
From  black  despair  ?  how  his  victorious  beam 
Scatters  the  storm,  and  drowns  the  petty  flame 
Of  lightning,  in  the  glory  of  his  eye  ; 
How  full  of  power,  how  full  of  majesty  1 
When  to  us  mortals  nothing  else  was  known, 
But  the  sad  doubt,  whether  to  burn  or  drown. 
Choler  and  phlegm,  heat  and  dull  ignorance. 
Have  cast  the  people  into  such  a  trance, 
That  fears  and  danger  seem  great  equally. 
And  no  dispute  left  now,  but  how  to  die  : 
Just  in  this  nick,  Fletcher  sets  the  world  clear 
Of  all  disorder,  and  reforms  us  here. 

The  formal  youth,  that  knew  no  other  grace 
Or  value,  but  his  title  and  his  lace, 
Glasses  himself  ;  and  in  this  faithful  mirror 
Views,  disapproves,  reforms,  repents  his  error. 

The  credulous,  bright  girl,  that  believes  all 
Language  in  oaths,  if  good,  canonical. 
Is  fortified,  and  taught  here  to  beware 
Of  every  specious  bait,  of  every  snare. 
Save  one  ;  and  that  same  caution  takes  her  more 
Than  all  the  flatteiy  she  felt  before. 
She  finds  her  boxes  and  her  thoughts  betray'd 
By  the  corruption  of  the  chamber-maid  ; 
Then  throws  her  washes  and  dissemblings  by, 
And  vows  nothing  but  ingenuity.  ° 

The  severe  statesman  quits  his  sullen  form 
Of  gra-\aty  and  business  ;  the  lukewarm 
Religious,  his  neutrality  ;  the  hot 
Brainsick  illuminate,  his  zeal  ;  the  sot, 
Stupidity  ;  the  soldier,  his  arrears  ; 
The  court,  its  confidence  ;  the  plebs,  their  fears ; 
o  ingenuity']  i.  e.  ingenuousness. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS    ON 

Gallants,  their  apishness  and  perjury  ; 
Women,  their  pleasure  and  inconstancy  ; 
Poets,  their  wine  ;  the  usurer,  his  pelf  ; 
The  world,  its  vanity  ;  and  1,  myself. 


Ror.F.n  L'EsxnANGF.''. 


ON  THE  DRAMATIC  POEMS  OF    MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

Wonder  !  who  's  here  1     Fletcher,  long  buried, 

Reviv'd  !  'Tis  he,  he  's  risen  from  the  dead  ; 

His  winding-sheet  put  off,  walks  above  gi-ound. 

Shakes  off  his  fetters,  and  is  better  bound  : 

And  may  he  not,  if  rightly  understood, 

Prove  plays  are  lawful  1  he  hath  made  them  good. 

Is  any  Lover  mad  ?  see  here  Love's  cure  ; 

Unmarried  ?  to  A  Wife  he  may  be  sure, 

A  rare  one,  for  a  month  ;  if  she  displease, 

The  Spanish  Curate  gives  a  writ  of  ease. 

Inquire  The  Custom  of  the  Countri/,  then 

Shall  Tlie  French  Lawyer  set  you  free  again. 

If  the  two  Fair  Maids  take  it  wondrous  ill 

(  One  of  the  Inn,  the  other  of  the  Mill,) 

That  The  Lovers'  Progress  stopt,  and  they  defam'd. 

Here 's  that  makes  Women  pleased  and  Tam,er  tam'd. 

v  Roger  L'Eslravfif'^  The  youngest  son  of  Sir  Hamon  L'Estrange,  Knight,  was  born  at 
Hunstanton-hall,  Norfolk,  in  1616.  He  was  brought  up  as  a  zealous  royalist  by  his  father, 
and  probably  finished  his  education  at  Cambridge.  In  1639,  when  about  two  and  twentj', 
he  attended  Charles  the  First  on  his  expedition  to  Scotland.  In  IG44,  he  formed  a  plot  to 
surprise  LjTin  in  Norfolk  for  the  king ;  but  being  betrayed,  and  his  majesty's  commission 
found  upon  him,  be  was  condemned  to  death  as  a  spy.  and  confined  in  Newgate,  lie  was, 
however,  reprieved ;  and,  after  lying  four  years  in  prison,  he  escaped  by  the  connivance 
of  the  keeper,  withdrew  into  Kent,  and  thence  with  great  difficulty  made  his  retreat  to 
the  continent.  He  remained  abroad  till  16.'>,3;  when,  the  Long  Parliament  being  dissolved, 
he  ventured  to  return,  and  obtained  a  discharge  from  Cromwell  on  giving  bail.  After  the 
Restoration,  thinking  himself  unjustly  neglected,  and  making  waam  remonstrances,  he  was 
at  length  appointed  to  the  profitable  post  of  licenser  of  the  press  :  but  this  was  the  only 
recompense  he  received,  except  being  put  in  the  commission  of  the  peace.  In  166.3  he  set  up 
a  paper  under  the  titles  of  The  Intdlifiencer  and  The  Niics,  which  was  not  long  continued  ; 
and  in  1681  he  commenced  another,  named  The  Obxervalor.  He  was  afterwards  knighted, 
and  served  as  member  for  Winchester  in  the  parliament  called  by  .lames  the  Second  in  1685. 
The  Ohservator  (now  swelled  to  three  volumes)  was  dropped  in  1687.  because  Sir  Roger  could 
not  agree  with  the  king  respecting  the  doctrine  of  toleration.  After  the  Revolution,  he  appears 
to  have  been  left  out  of  the  commission  of  the  peace  ;  and  'certainly  during  the  rest  of  his 
life  had  to  encounter  some  troubles  on  account  of  his  presumed  disaflTection.  He  died  in 
1704,  his  intellect  having  been  previously  impaired.  He  had  a  daughter  w)io  became  a  Roman 
Catholic,  a  circumstance  which  strengthened  the  accusations  brought  against  himself  of 
being  a  Papist.  He  was  a  very  voluminous  author.  Of  most  of  his  now-forgotten  writings 
the  titles  may  be  foimd  in  Chalmers's  Bior/.  Diet.  :  those  which  continued  longest  in  esteem 
were  bis  Juiephus  and  his  JEsop't  Fablet. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

But  who  then  plays  Tlie  Coxcomb,  or  will  try 
His  Wit  at  several  Weapons,  or  else  die  ? 
Nice  Valour,  and  he  doubts  not  to  engage 
T7ie  Noble  Gentleman  in  Lovers  Pilgrimage, 
To  take  revenge  on  The  False  One,  and  run 
The  Honest  Man's  Fortune,  to  be  undone 
Like  Knight  of  Malta,  or  else  Captain  be, 
Or  TJi'  Humorous  Lieutenant ;  go  to  Sea, 
A  Voyage  for  to  starve,  he  's  very  loath, 
Till  we  are  all  at  peace,  to  swear  an  oath 
That  then  The  Loyal  Subject  may  have  leave 
To  lie  from  Beggars'  Bush,  and  undeceive 
The  creditor,  discharge  his  debts  ;  why  so, 
Since  we  can't  pay  to  Fletcher  what  we  owe  ? 
Oh,  could  his  Prophetess  but  tell  one  Chance, 
When  that  the  Pilgrims  shall  return  from  France, 
And  once  more  make  this  kingdom,  as  of  late, 
77^6'  Island  Princess,  and  we  celebrate 
A  Double  Marriage  ;  every  one  to  bring 
To  Fletcher's  memory  his  offering, 
That  thus  at  last  unsequesters  the  stage, 
Brings  back  the  silver  and  the  golden  age  ! 

Robert  Gardiner' 


TO  THE  MANES  OF  THE  CELEBRATED  POETS  AND  FELLOW- 
WRITERS,  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHER,  UPON 
THE  PRINTING  OF  THEIR  EXCELLENT  DRAMATIC  POEMS. 

Disdain  not,  gentle  shades,  the  lowly  praise 

Which  here  I  tender  your  immortal  bays  ; 

Call  it  not  folly,  but  my  zeal,  that  I 

Strive  to  eternize  you  that  cannot  die  : 

And  though  no  language  rightly  can  commend 

What  you  have  writ,  save  what  yourselves  have  penn'd. 

Yet  let  me  wonder  at  those  curious  strains 

(The  rich  conceptions  of  your  twin-like  brains) 

Which  drew  the  gods'  attention,  who  admir'd 

To  see  our  English  stage  by  you  inspir'd ; 

Whose  chiming  Muses  never  fail'd  to  sing 

A  soul-aiFecting  music,  ravishing 

1  Kobirt  Gardiner^  Verses  by  "Robert  Gardiner,  ex  ho    M.  Templi,"  [sic]  are  prefixed 
to  Cartwright's  Works,  1651. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS   ON 

Both  ear  and  intellect ;  while  you  do  each 
Contend  with  other,  who  shall  highest  reach 
In  rare  invention  ;  conflicts  that  beget 
New  strange  delight,  to  see  two  fancies  met 
That  could  receive  no  foil,  two  wits  in  growth 
So  just  as  had  one  soul  informed  both  : 
Thence,  learned  Fletcher,  sung  thy  i  Muse  alone, 
As  both  had  done  before,  thy  Beaumont  gone  ; 
In  whom,  as  thou,  had  he  outliv'd,  so  he. 
Snatch 'd  first  away,  survived  still  in  thee. 

What  though  distempers  of  the  present  age 
Have  banish'd  your  smooth  numbers  from  the  stage  ? 
You  shall  be  gainers  by  't ;  it  shall  confer 
To  the  making  the  vast  world  your  theatre  : 
The  press  shall  give  to  every  man  his  part. 
And  we  will  all  be  actors  ;  learn  by  heart 
Those  tragic  scenes  and  comic  strains  you  writ, 
Unimitable  both  for  art  and  wit ; 
And  at  each  exit,  as  your  fancies  rise. 
Our  hands  shall  clap  desei-ved  plaudities. 


John  Web  ' 


TO  THE  DESERT  OF  THE  AUTHOR  IN  HIS  MOST  INGENIOUS 
PIECES. 

Thou  art  above  their  censure  whose  dark  spirits 
Respect '  but  shades  of  things  and  seeming  merits  ; 
That  have  no  soul  nor  reason  to  their  will, 
But  rhyme  as  ragged  as  a  gander's  quill ; 
Where  pride  blows  up  the  error,  and  transfers 
Their  zeal  in  tempests,  that  so  widely  errs  : 
Like  heat  and  air  compress'd,  their  blind  desires 
Mix  with  their  ends,  as  raging  winds  with  fires  ; 
Whose  ignorance  and  passions  wear  an  eye 
Squint  to  all  parts  of  true  humanity  : 
All  is  apocrypha  suits  not  their  vein  ; 
For  wit, — oh,  fie  !  and  learning  too, — profane  ! 

q  thy]  Old  ed.  "  the  ";  and  so  Weber. 

'John  Web']  "I  find  no  other  traces  of  a  Jolin  Webb  who  was  likely  to  bo  author  of 
this  ingenious  copy  of  verses,  but  that  in  1029,  four  years  after  Fletcher's  death,  one  John 
Webb,  M.A.,  and  fellow  of  Magdalen  College,  in  Oxford,  was  made  master  of  Croydon  school." 
— Skwabd. 

'  Respect]  Old  ed.  "  Respects." 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  j 

But  Fletcher  hath  done  miracles  by  wit, 

And  one  line  of  his  may  convert  them  yet, 

Tempt  them  into  the  state  of  knowledge,  and 

[The]  happiness  to  read  and  understand. 

The  way  is  strow'd  with  laurel,  and  every  Muse 

Brings  incense  to  our  Fletcher  ;  whose  scenes  infuse 

Such  noble  kindlings  from  her  pregnant  fire 

As  charms  her  critic  poet '  in  desire  ; 

And  who  doth  read  him  that  parts  less  endu'd 

Than  with  some  heat  of  wit  or  gi-atitude  ? 

Some  crowd  to  touch  the  relique  of  his  bays, 

Some  to  cry  up  their  own  wit  in  his  praise, 

And  think  they  engage  it  by  comparatives, 

When  from  himself  himself  he  best  derives.. 

Let  Shakespeare,  Chapman,  and  applauded  Ben, 

Wear  the  eternal  merit  of  their  pen  : 

Here  I  am  love-sick  ;  and  were  I  to  chuse 

A  mistress  corrival,  'tis  Fletcher's  Muse. 

George  Buck." 


ON  MASTER  BEAUMONT  (WRITTEN  THIRTY  YEARS  SINCE  ^ 
PRESENTLY  AFTER  HIS  DEATH). 

Beaumont  lies  here  ;  and  where  now  shall  we  have 
A  Muse  like  his,  to  sigh  upon  his  grave  ? 
Ah,  none  to  weep  this  with  a  worthy  tear. 
But  he  that  cannot,  Beaumont  that  lies  here  ! 
Who  now  shall  pay  thy "  tomb  with  such  a  verse 
As  thou  that  lady's  didst",  fair  Rutland's  hearse  1 
A  monument  that  will  then  lasting  be, 
When  all  her  marble  is  more  dust  than  she. 
In  thee  all 's  lost :  a  sudden  dearth  and  want 
Hath  seiz'd  on  wit,  good  epitaphs  are  scant ; 
We  dare  not  write  thy  elegy,  whilst  ^  each  fears 
He  ne'er  shall  match  that  ^  copy  of  thy  tears. 

'  poetl  Old  ed.  "  poets." 

"  George  Buck'\  A  relation  of  Sir  George  Buck,  master  of  the  revels,  who,  in  1646,  pub- 
lished, as  his  own  work,  The  History  of  the  Life  and  Reigne  of  Richard  the  Third,  which  was 
written  by  Sir  George.  See  Chalmers's  Supplemental  Apology,  &c  p.  204 — 205.  Verses  by 
George  Buck  are  prefixed  to  Yorke's  Union  of  Honour,  1640,  and  to  Shirley's  Poems,  1646. 

"  since']  i.  e.  anterior  to  1647.  ■"  thy]    In  Beaumont's  Poems,  1640,  "  this." 

^  As  thou  that  lady's  didst,  &c.]  "  Earle  refers  to  Beaumont's  Elegy  on  the  Countess  of 
Rutland."    Weber. 

ywhiist]    In  Beaumont's  Poe»n*,  1640,  "  for."  ^  thaf]    Tbid.  "  n." 

c  2 


CO.M.MEXDATORV    I'OEMS    OX 

Scarce  in  an  age^  a  poet, — and  yet  he 

Scarce  lives  the  third  part  of  his  age  to  see, 

But  quickly  taken  off,  and  only  known, 

Is  in  a  minute  shut  as  soon  as  shown.' 

Why  should  weak  Nature  tire  herself  in  vain 

In  such  a  piece,  to  dash*  it  straight  again  1 

'Why  should  she  take  such  work  beyond  her  skill, 

Which  •",  when  she  cannot  perfect,  she  must  kill  ? 

Alas,  what  is't  to  temper  slime  or '  mire  ? 

But  Nature 's  puzzled  when  she  works  in  fire"" : 

Great  brains,  like  brightest  glass,  crack '  straight,  while  those 

Of  stone  or'  wood  hold  out,  and  fear  not^  blows; 

And  we  their  ancient  hoaiy  heads  can  see, 

Whose  wit  was  never  their  mortality  : 

Beaumont  dies  young  ;  so  Sidney  died*"  before  ; 

There  was  not  poetiy  he  could  live  to  more'  ; 

He  could  not  gi-ow  up  higher  ;  P  scarce  know 

If  th'  art  itself  unto  that  pitch  could  grow, 

Were't  not  in  thee,  that  hadst  arriv'd  the  height' 

Of  all  that  wit"  could  reach,  or  nature  might. 

Oh,  when  I  read  those  excellent  things  of  thine. 

Such  strength,  such  sweetness,  couch'd  in  every  line. 

Such  life  of  fancy,  such  high  choice  of  brain, 

Nought  of  the  vulgar  wit"  or  borrow'd  strain. 

Such  passion",  such  expressions  meet  my""  eye, 

Such  wit  untainted  with  obscenity, 

And  these  so  unaffectedly  exprest. 

All  in  a  language  purely-flowang  dresf, 

And  all  so  born  within  thyself,  thine  own, 

So  new,  so  fresh,  so  nothing  trod  upon, 

I  grieve  not  now,  that  old  Menander's  vein 

Is  ruin'd,  to  survive  in  thee  again  ; 

Such  in  his  time  was  he,  of  the  same  piece, 

The  smooth,  even,  natural  wit,  and  love  of  Greece, 


y  in  an  age]    Ibid.  "  yet  in  age."  » thownl    Ibid.  "  blowne." 

^lodaih]    Ibid  "and  cast."  ^  Which']    Ibid.  "  And."  <:  or]  Ibid.  "  and." 

i  But  Nature's  puzzled  when  she  workt  in  fire]     Ibid.  "Thca's  nature  pusteld,  when  the 
work's  intyre." 

=  like  brightest  glass,  crark]    Ibid.  "  like  bright  glasse,  crackle." 
for]    Ibid,  "wad."  Knot]   Ibid,  "no.''  ^  died]    So  ifciV/.  Both  folios  "  did." 

>  poetry  he  could  live  to  more]  Ibid."  poetry,  he  could  live  no  more."         ^l]Ibid.  "nay,  /.• 
1  that  hadst  arriv'd  the  height]    Ibid.  "  who  hadsl  arrived  to  th'  height." 
m  Wit]  Ibid.  " art."  "  wit]  Ibid.  ••  mint."  "passion]  Ibid.  "  pastiionn." 

Pmy]  Ibid,  "mine." 
<\  All  in  a  language  purely-flowing  drest]  Ibid.  "  But  all  in  a  yiure  flowing  language  dresi  .■  " 
and  the  next  two  lines  transposed. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  xxxvii 

Whose'  few  sententious  fragments  shew  more  worth 

Than  all  the  poets  Athens  e'er  brought  forth  ; 

And  I  am  sorry  we'  have  lost  those  hours 

On  them,  whose  quickness  comes  far  short  of  ours, 

And  dwelt'  not  more  on  thee,  whose  every  page 

Maybe  a  pattern  for"  their  scene  and  stage. 

I  will  not  yield  thy  works'  so  mean  a  praise  ; 

More  pure,  more  chaste,  more  sainted  than  are  plays, 

Nor  with,  that  dull  supineness  to  be  read, 

To  pass  a  fire,  or  laugh  an  hour  in  bed. 

How  do  the  ]\Iuses  suffer  every  where, 

Taken  in  such  mouths'  censure,  in  such  ears". 

That,  twixt  a  whitF,  a  line  or  two  rehearse. 

And  with  their  rheum  together  spawl  a  verse  ! 

This  all  a  poem's  leisure",  after  play. 

Drink,  or>'  tobacco,  it  may  keep'  the  day  ; 

Whilst  even  their  very  idleness,  they  think. 

Is  lost  in  these,  that  lose  their  time  *  in  drink. 

Pity  their  dulness  ;  we  that''  better  know. 

Will  a  more  serious  hour  on  thee  bestow. 

Why  should  not  Beaumont  in  the  morning  please, 

As  well  as  Plautus,  Aristophanes  ? 

Who,  if  my  pen  may  as  my  thoughts"  be  free. 

Were  scurril*  wits  and  buiFons'  both  to  thee  ; 

Yet  these'  our  learned  of  severest  brow 

Will  deign  to  look  on,  and  to^  note  them  too. 

That  will  defy''  our  own  ;  'tis  English  stuff. 

And  th'  author  is  not  rotten  long  enough. 

Alas,  what  phlegm'  are  they,  compar'd  to  thee 

In  thy  Philaster  and''  Maid's  Tragedy  ! 

Where  's  such  an  humour  as  thy  Bessus,  pray'l 

Let  them  put  all  their  Thrasoes"  in  one  play, 

r  Whose\  So  ibid.    Both  folios  "  Those."  ^  14,^]  lUd.  "  I." 

«  dwelf\  So  ibid.    Both  folios  "  dwell."         "/or]  Ibid.  "  to."         »  works^  Ibid.  "  worth." 
«•  mouths'  censure,  in  such  ears']  Ibid.  "  mouthes,  sensur'd  in  such  eares."     The  rhyme  at 
least  requires  "  ear." 

X  This  all  a  poem's  leisure^  Ibid.  "  Tis  all  a  Punies  leasure."  Seward  printed  "  This  all 
a  poem's  pleasure."  Heath  {MS.  Notes)  explains  the  text  to  mean, — This  is  all  the  leisure 
the  people  here  spoken  of  will  afford  a  poem.  7  or]  Ibid,  "and." 

^  keep]  Ibid.  "  spend."    Seward  printed  "  eke."  a  time]  Ibid.  "  times." 

b  Pill/  their  dulness  ;  we  that]  So  ibid.  Both  folios  "Pitp  then  dull  we,  ice  that."  Seward 
printed  "  Pity  them  dull ;  we,  we  that."  '  thoughts]  Ibid.  "  faults." 

d  scurril]  Ibid.  "  humhle."  e  buffbns]  i.  e-  buffoons, 

f  these]  Ibid.  "  those."  s  to]  Ibid.  "  so."  ^  defy]  i.  e.  reject. 

'i  what  phlegm]  76? d.  "  how  ill."  ^  and]  Ibid.  "  or." 

1  an  humour  as  thy  Bessus,  pray]  Ibid.  "  a  humour  as  thy  Bessus  ?  nay."  See  A  King  and 
No  King.  ™  Thi-asoes]  Ibid.  "  treasu7-es." 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS   ON 

He  shall  out-bid  them  ;  their  conceit  was  poor, 

All  in  a  °  circle  of  a  bawd  or  whore  ; 

A  cozening  Da\'us°, — take  the  fool  away, 

And  not  a  good  jest  extant  in  a  play. 

Yet  these  are  wits,  because  they're  old"",  and  now, 

Being  Greek  and''  Latin,  they  are  learning  too  : 

But  those  their  o\\-n  times  were  content  t'  allow 

A  thriftier'  fame,  and  thine  is  lowest  now. 

But  thou  shalt  live,  and,  when  thy  name  is  grown 

Six  ages  older",  shalt'  be  better  kno%vn  ; 

When  thou  'rt  of  Chaucer's  standing  in  the"  tomb, 

Thou  shalt  not  share,  but  take  up  all  his  room. 

John  Earle' 


UPON   MASTER   FLETCHER'S    INCOMPARABLE   PLAYS. 
The  poet  lives :  wonder  not  how  or  why 
Fletcher  re^-ives,  but  that  he  e'er  could  die  : 
Safe  mirth,  full  language,  flow  in  every  page, 
At  once  he  doth  both  heighten  and  a.ssuage  ; 
All  innocence  and  wit,  plea-sant  and  clear, 
Nor  church  nor  laws  were  ever  libell'd  here  ; 
But  fair  deductions  drawn  from  his  great  brain, 
Enough  to  conquer  all  that  "s  false  or  vain  ; 
He  scatters  \\-it,  and  sense  so  freely  flings, 
That  very  citizens  speak  handsome  things, 

■>  a]  Ibid.  ";the." 

o  Davtts'i  Ibid.  " —  "  Both  folios  "  dance  ; "  for  which  '"  dunce  "  was  proposed  by  Sympson. 
"  Davus  "  (see  the  Andria  of  Terence,  &c.)  is  Theobald's  correction. 

V because  they're  old']  Ibid.  "  their  old,  thaX's  it."  tand']  Ibid,  "or." 

'  thri/lier'\  So  ibid.    Both  folios  "  thirsty."  »  older]  Ibid.  "  elder." 

^ Shalt]  So  ibid.    Both  folios  "  shall."  "  the]  Ibid.  "  thy." 

»  John  Earle]  Was  bom  at  York  about  IGOl.  Having  been  entered,  at  an  early  ape,  as  a 
commoner  of  Christ -church,  Oxford,  he  was  admitted  probationary  fellow  of  Merton  College, 
— became  one  of  the  proctors  of  that  university, — was  made  chaplain  to  Philip,  Earl  of  Pem- 
broke (who  gave  him  the  living  of  Bishopston  in  Wilts), — was  appointed  chaplain  and  tutor 
to  Prince  Charles,  afterwards  Charles  the  Second, — and  was  elected  chancellor  of  the  cathe- 
dral of  Salisbury.  In  consequence  of  his  adherence  to  the  royal  cause,  he  was  deprived  of 
all  his  possessions,  and  obliged  to  withdraw  to  the  cimtinent,  where  Charle..  the  Second 
created  him  his  chaplain  and  clerk  of  the  closet.  After  the  Restoration,  he  was  successively 
bishop  of  Worcester  and  Salisbury.  He  died  at  Oxford  in  166.').  His  Microcosmoijraphy,  or 
a  Piece  of  the  \yorld  discovered,  in  Essays  and  Characters,  1628,  has  been  often  reprinted, 
and  is  still  held  in  deserved  estimation.  lie  published  also  a  Latin  translation  of  thj  Eikon 
Basilike,  1649  ;  and,  besides  a  Latin  translation  of  Hooker's  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  which  was 
never  printed  (the  MS.  having  been  almost  wholly  destroyed),  he  was  author  of  several  minor 
pieces  :  see  Wood's  Athence,  iii.  718-19.  ed.  Bliss,  and  Earle'a  Microcotmography  by  the  same 
editor. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

Teaching  their  wives  such  unaffected  grace, 
Their  looks  are  now  as  handsome  as  their  face. 
Nor  is  this  violent :  he  steals  upon 
The  yielding  soul  until  the  frenzy  's  gone  ; 
His  very  lancings  do  the  patient  please, 
As  when  good  music  cures  a  mad  disease. 
Small  poets  rifle  him,  yet  think  it  fair, 
Because  they  rob  a  man  that  well  can  spare  : 
They  feed  upon  him,  owe  him  eveiy  bit ; 
They  're  all  but  sub-excisemen  of  his  wit. 


ON   THE   WORKS  OF   BEAUMONT   AND  FLETCHER, 
NOW  AT  LENGTH  PRINTED. 
Great  pair  of  authors,  whom  one  equal  star 
Begot  so  like  in  genius,  that  you  are 
In  fame,  as  well  as  writings,  both  so  knit. 
That  no  man  knows  where  to  divide  your  wit. 
Much  less  your  praise  ;  you,  who  had  equal  fire, 
And  did  each  other  mutually  inspire  ; 
Whether  one  did  contrive,  the  other  write, 
Or  one  fram'd  the  plot,  the  other  did  indite  ; 
Whether  one  found  the  matter,  th'  other  dress, 
Or  th'  one  dispos'd  what  th'  other  did  express  ; 
Where'er  your  parts  between  yourselves  lay,  we. 
In  all  things  which  you  did,  but  one  thread  see, 
So  evenly  drawn  out,  so  gently  spun, 
That  art  with  nature  ne'er  did  smoother  run  ; — 
Where  shall  I  fix  my  praise,  then  1  or  what  part 
Of  all  your  numerous  labours  hath  desert. 
More  to  be  fam'd  than  other  1     Shall  I  say, 
I've  met  a  lover  so  drawn  in  your  play. 
So  passionately  written,  so  inflam'd, 
So  jealously  enrag'd,  then  gently  tam'd. 
That  I,  in  reading,  have  the  person  seen, 
And  your  pen  hath  part  stage  and  actor  been  ? 
Or  shall  I  say,  that  I  can  scarce  forbear 
To  clap,  when  I  a  captain'  do  meet  there, 

"■  J.  M-l  "  This  poem  is  probably  by  Jasper  Maine,  as  well  as  the  next ;  for  the  stationer, 
in  his  concluding  verses,  mentions  '  thirty-four  witnesses,'  and  as  the  number  of  poems  besides 
his  own  is  thirty-six,  that  of  the  encomiasts  is  thirty-four,  there  being  two  copies  of  verses  by 
Cartwright  and  two  by  Maine."  Wbber. 

*  a  captain}  1.  e.  Bessus  in  A  King  and  No  King. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS    ON 

So  lively  in  his  own  vain  humour  drest, 

So  brjiggingly,  and  like  himself  exprest, 

That  modern  cowards,  when  they  saw  him  play'd, 

Saw,  blush'd,  departed  guilty  and  betray 'd  ? 

You  wrote  all  parts  right ;  whatsoe'er  the  stage 

Had  from  you,  was  seen  there  as  in  the  age. 

And  had  there  equal  life  :  vices,  which  were 

Manners  abroad,  did  grow  conected  there  ; 

They  who  possess'd  a  box,  and  half-crown  spent, 

To  learn  obsceneness,  retum'd  innocent, 

And  thank'd  you  for  this  cozenage,  whose  chaste  scene 

Taught  loves  so  noble,  so  reform'd,  so  clean, 

That  they  who  brought  foul  fires,  and  thither  came 

To  bargain,  went  thence  with  a  holy  flame. 

Be't  to  your  praise  too,  that  your  stock  and  vein 

Held  both  to  tragic  and  to  comic  strain  : 

Wliere'er  you  listed  to  be  high  and  gi-ave, 

No  buskin  shew'd  more  solemn,  no  quill  gave 

Such  feeling  objects  to  draw  tears  from  eyes, 

Spectators  sate  part[s]  in  your  tragedies  ; 

And  where  you  listed  to  be  low  and  free, 

Mirth  turn"d  the  whole  house  into  comedy, 

So  piercing,  where  you  pleas'd,  hitting  a  fault. 

That  humours  from  your  pen  issu'd  all  salt. 

Nor  were  you  thus  in  works  and  poems  knit, 

As  to  be  but  two  halts,  and  make  one  wit ; 

But  as  some  things,  we  .see,  have  double  cause, 

And  yet  the  effect  itself  from  both  whole  draws, 

So,  though  you  were  thus  twisted  and  combin'd, 

As  two  bodies  *  to  have  but  one  fair  mind, 

Yet,  if  we  praise  you  rightly,  we  must  say. 

Both  join'd,  and  both  did  wholly  make  the  play. 

For,  that  you  could  write  singly,  we  may  guess 

By  the  divided  pieces  which  the  press 

Hath  severally  sent"*  forth  ;  nor  were  join'd'  so, 

Like  some  our  modern  authors,  made  to  go 

One  merely  by  the  help  of  th'  other,  who 

To  purchase  fame  do  come  forth  one  of  two  ; 

Nor  wrote  you  so,  that  one's  part  was  to  lick 

The  other  into  shape  ;  nor  did  one  stick 


«  As  Iwobodies'i  Altered  by  Seward  (rightly  perhaps)  to  "  At  in  two  bodies  ,"  and  so  his 
successors.  ^  tent']  In  Beaumont's  Poems,  1653,  "set." 

<:  Join'd^  The  correction  of  Theobald.  Hoth  folios,  and  Beaumont's  Poans,  I6.i:i,  have 
"  gone ;"  but  it  must  bo  a  misprint.    Compare  the  third  line  above. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  xli 

The  other's  cold  inventions  with  such  wit, 

As  serv'd,  like  spice,  to  make  them  quick  and  fit ; 

Nor,  out  of  mutual  want  or  emptiness. 

Did  you  conspire  to  go  still  twins  to  the  press  ; 

But  what,  thus  join'd,  you  WTote,  might  have  come  forth 

As  good  from  each,  and  stor'd  with  the  same  worth  • 

That  thus  united  them  :  you  did  join  sense  ; 

In  you  'twas  league,  in  others  impotence  ; 

And  the  press,  which  both  thus  amongst  us  sends, 

Sends  us  one  poet  in  a  pair  of  firiends. 

Jasper  Maine  "*. 


UPON  THE  REPORT  OF  THE  PRINTING  OF  THE  DRAMATICAL 
POEMS  OF  MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER,  [NEVER]  COLLECTED 
BEFORE,  AND  NOW  SET  FORTH  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 

Though  when  all  Fletcher  writ,  and  the  entire 

Man  was  indulg'd  unto  that  sacred  fire, 

His  thoughts,  and  his  thoughts'  dress,  appear'd  both  such, 

That  'twas  his  happy  fault  to  do  too  much  ; 

Who  therefore  wisely  did  submit  each  birth 

To  knomng  Beaumont,  ere  it  did  come  forth, 

Working  again,  until  he  said  'twas  fit. 

And  made  him  the  sobriety  of  his  wit ; 

Though  thus  he  call'd  his  judge  into  his  fame, 

And  for  that  aid  allow'd  him  half  the  name, 

'Tis  known  that  sometimes  he  did  stand  alone, 

That  both  the  sponge  and  pencil  were  his  own, 

That  himself  judg'd  himself,  could  singly  do, 

And  was  at  last  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  too  : 


^  Jasper  Maine']— Or  Mayne,— born  in  1604  at  Hatherleigh,  Devon,  was  educated  at  West- 
minster-scliool,  and  thence  removed  to  Christ-church,  Oxford.  Having  taken  orders,  he  was 
preferred  to  two  livings  in  the  gift  of  his  college,— Cassington  near  Woodstock,  and  Pyrton 
near  W^atlington.  As  he  had  shewn  himself  a  devoted  royalist,  he  was  ejected  by  Cromwell 
not  only  from  Christ-church  but  from  his  vicarages  :  he,  however,  found  an  asylum  in  the 
house  of  the  Earl  of  Devonshire,  as  chaplain  to  that  nobleman.  There  he  continued  chiefly  to 
reside  till  the  Restoration,  when  he  was  amply  recompensed  for  his  sufferings  by  being 
re-instated  in  both  his  livings,  made  canon  of  Christ-church,  chaplain  in  ordinary  to  the  king, 
and  archdeacon  of  Chichester.  He  died  in  1672.  Maine  appears  to  have  possessed  considerable 
learning ;  he  was  much  admired  for  his  preaching  (in  the  quaint  style  which  was  then  fashion- 
able) ;  and  he  had  a  great  reputation  for  his  wit  and  humour.  Besides  two  comedies,  which 
are  far  above  mediocrity, — The  City  Match,  1639,  and  The  Amorous  War,  1648, — he  was 
author  of  several  Sermons,  of  Part  of  Lucian  made  English  from  (he  Originall,  &c. 


xlii  COMMENDATORY    POEMS    ON 

Else  we  had  lost  his  Shepherdess',  a  piece 
Even  and  smooth,  spun  from  a  finer  fleece  ; 
^V^lere  softness  reigns,  where  pa-^^sions  passions  greet, 
Gentle  and  high,  as  floods  of  balsam  meet  ; 
Where,  dress'd  in  white  expressions,  sit  bright  Loves, 
Drawn,  like  their  fairest  queen,  by  milky  doves  ; 
A  piece  which  Jonson'  in  a  rapture  bid 
Come  up  a  glorified  work  ;  and  so  it  did. 

Else  had  his  Muse  set  with  his  friend  ;  the  stage 
Had  miss'd  those  poems,  which  yet  take  the  age  ; 
The  world  had  lost  those  rich  exemplars,  where 
Art,  language «,  wit,  sit  ruling  in  one  sphere  ; 
Where  the  fresh  matters  soar  above  old  themes. 
As  prophets'  raptures  do  above  our  dreams  ; 
Where,  in  a  worthy  scorn,  he  dares  refuse 
All  other  gods,  and  makes  the  thing  his  Muse  ; 
'WTiere  he  calls  passions  up'',  and  lays  them  so. 
As  spirits  aw'd  by  him  to  come  and  go  ; 
\VTiere  the  free  author  did  whate'er  he  would. 
And  nothing  will'd  but  what  a  poet  should. 

No  vast  uncivil  bulk  swells  any  scene, 
The  strength  's  ingenious',  and  the  vigour  clean  ; 
None  can  prevent^  the  fancy,  and  see  through 
At  the  first  opening  ;  all  stand  wondering  how 
The  thing  will  be,  until  it  is  ;  which  thence. 
With  fresh  delighf*  still  cheats,  still  takes  the  sense  ; 
The  whole  design,  the  shadows,  the  lights,  such 
That  none  can  say  he  shews  or  hides  too  much  : 
Business  grows  up,  ripen "d  by  just  increase, 
And  by  as  just  degrees  again  doth  cease  ; 
The  heats  and  minutes  of  afi'airs  are  watch 'd, 
And  the'  nice  points  of  time  are  met,  and  snatch'd  ; 
Nought  later  than  it  should,  nought  comes  before, — 
Chemists  and  calculators  do  err  more  ; 
Sex,  age,  degree,  affections,  countiy,  place. 
The  inward  substance,  and  the  outward  face. 


«  Ehepherdest]  i.  e.  The  Faithful  Shepherdess.    Seward  having  misunderstood  this  passage, 
the  Editors  of  1778  observe  that  Cartwright  means  "  If  Fletcher  could  not  have  wrote  with- 
out Heaumont,  we  should  not  have  had  The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  in  which  the  latter  had 
no  concern." 
'  tchich  Jonson,  4:c.]  See  Jonson's  verses  prefixed  to  that  drama,  vol  ii.  11. 
*■  language]  In  CartwTight's  VTorks,  1C51,  '■  learning."  *"  up]  Ibid.  "  forth." 

'  ingenious]  /Aid.  "  ingenuous."    (The  words  were  formerly  sj-nonymous.) 
J  prevent]  i.  e.  anticipate.  •*  delight]  Ibid,  and  second  folio  "  delights." 

'  the]  Second  folio  "these." 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

All  kept  precisely,  all  exactly  fit ; 
What  he  would  write,  he  was  before  he  writ. 
'Twixt  Jonson's  grave,  and  Shakespeare's  lighter  sound, 
His  Muse  so  steer'd,  that  something  still  was  found, 
Nor  this,  nor  that,  nor  both,  but  so  his  own. 
That  'twas  his  mark,  and  he  was  by  it  known  : 
Hence  did  he  take  true  judgments;  hence  did  strike 
All  palates  some  way,  though  not  all  alike  : 
The  god  of  numbers  might  his  numbers  crown. 
And,  listening  to  them,  wish  they  were  his  own. 
Thus,  welcome  forth,  what  ease,  or  wine,  or  wit, 
Durst  yet  produce,  that  is,  what  Fletcher  writ ! 

William  Cartwricht. 


ANOTHER. 
Fletcher,  though  some  call  it  thy  fault,  that  wit 
So  overflow'd  thy  scenes,  that,  ere  'twas  fit 
To  come  upon  the  stage,  Beaumont  was  fain 
To  bid  thee  be  more  dull, — that 's,  write  again. 
And  bate  some  of  thy  fire,  which  from  thee  came 
In  a  clear,  bright,  full,  but  too  large  a  flame, — 
And,  after  all,  finding  thy  genius  such, 
That,  blunted  and  allay 'd,  'twas  yet  too  much. 
Added  his  sober  sponge,  and  did  contract 
Thy  plenty  to  less  wit,  to  make  't  exact ; 
Yet  we,  through  his  corrections,  could  see 
Much  treasure  in  thy  superfluity  ; 
Which  was  so  fil'd  away,  as,  when  we  do 
Cut  jewels,  that  that 's  lost  is  jewel  too  ; 
Or  as  men  use  to  wash  gold,  which  we  know 
By  losing  makes  the  stream  thence  wealthy  grow. 
They  who  do  on  thy  works  severely  sit. 
And  call  thy  store  the  over-births  of  wit. 
Say  thy  miscarriages  were  rare,  and  when 
Thou  wert  superfluous,  that  thy  fruitful  pen 
Had  no  fault  but  abundance,  which  did  lay 
Out  in  one  scene  what  might  well  serve  a  play  ; 
And  hence  do  grant,  that  what  they  call  excess. 
Was  to  be  reckon'd  as  thy  happiness, 
From  whom  wit  issued  in  a  full  spring-tide  ; 
Much  did  enrich  the  stage,  much  flow'd  beside. 
For,  that  thou  couldst  thine  own  free  fancy  bind 
In  stricter  numbers,  and  run  so  confin'd 


COMMENDATORY    POKMS    ON 

As  to  observe  the  rules  of  art,  which  sway 

In  the  contrivance  of  a  true-born  play, 

Those"  works  proclaim  which  thou  didst  write  retir'd 

From  Beaumont,  by  none  but  thyself  inspir'd  ; 

"WTiere,  we  see,  'twas  not  chance  that  made  them  hit, 

Nor  were  thy  plays  the  lotteries  of  wit ; 

Rut,  like  to  Durer's  pencil,  which  first  knew 

The  laws  of  faces,  and  then  faces  drew, 

Thou  knew"st°  the  air,  the  colour,  and  the  place. 

The  symmetry  which  gives  a  poem  grace  ; 

Parts  are  so  fitted  unto  parts,  as  do 

Shew  thou  hadst  wit  and  mathematics  too  ; 

Knew'st  where  by  line  to  spai-e,  where  to  dispense, 

And  didst  beget  just  comedies  from  thence, 

Things  unto  which  thou  didst  such  life  bequeathe. 

That  they,  their  own  Blackfriars,  unacted ■■,  breathe. 

Jonson  hath  writ  things  lasting  and  di\ine, 

Yet  his  love-scenes,  Fletcher,  compar'd  to  thine, 

Are  cold  and  frosty,  and  express  "i  love  so. 

As  heat  with  ice,  or  warm  fires  mix'd  with  snow  ; 

Thou,  as  if  struck  with  the  same  generous  darts 

"WTiich  burn  and  reign  in  noble  lovers'  hearts, 

Hast  cloth'd  afi^ections  in  such  native  tires, 

And  so  describ'd  them  in  their  own  true  fires, 

Such  mo^•ing  sighs,  such  undissembled  tears. 

Such  charms  of  language,  such  hopes  mix'd  with  fears. 

Such  grants  after  denials,  such  pursuits 

After  despair,  such  amorous  recniits. 

That  some,  who  sate  spectators,  have  confest 

Themselves  transform'd  to  what  they  saw  exprest. 

And  felt  such  shafts  steal  through  their  captiv'd  sense, 

As  made  them  rise  parts,  and  go  lovers  thence. 

Nor  was  thy  style  wholly  compos'd  of  gi'oves. 

Or  the  soft  strains  of  shepherds  and  their  loves  ; 

When  thou  wouldst  comic  be,  each  smiling  birth, 

In  that  kind,  came  into  the  world  all  mirth. 

All  point,  all  edge,  all  shai-pness  ;  we  did  sit 

Sometimes  five  acts  out  in  pure  sprightful  wit, 

Which  flow'd  in  such  true  salt,  that  we  did  doubt 

In  which  scene  we  laugh 'd  most  two  shillings  out. 


"  Thote'i  Old  ed.  "  These," 

'  kneio'tf]  01(1  cd.  "  know'ht ;  "  but  see  the  fourth  line  after. 

P  unacted'}  i.  e.  though  unacted  on  account  of  the  suppression  of  the  theatres. 

1  exprest}  Old  ed.  "  exprest." 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

Shakespeare  to  thee  was  dull,  whose  best  jest  lies 

r  the  ladies'  questions,  and  the  fools'  replies  ; 

Old-fashion'd  wit,  which  walk'd  from  town  to  town 

In  turn'd  hose',  which  our  fathers  call'd  the  clown. 

Whose  wit  our  nice  times  would  obsceneness  call, 

And  which  made  bawdiy  pass  for  comical : 

Nature  was  all  his  art ;  thy  vein  was  free 

As  his,  but  without  his  scurrility  ; 

From  whom  mirth  came  unforc'd,  no  jest  perplex'd, 

But,  without  labour,  clean,  chaste,  and  unvex'd. 

Thou  wert  not  like  some,  our  small  poets,  who 

Could  not  be  poets,  were  not  we  poets  too  ; 

Whose  wit  is  pilfering,  and  whose  vein  and  wealth 

In  poetry  lies  merely  in  their  stealth  : 

Nor  didst  thou  feel  their  drought,  their  pangs,  their  qualms, 

Their  rack  in  writing,  who  do  write  for  alms. 

Whose  wretched  genius,  and  dependent  fires. 

But  to  their  benefactors'  dole  aspires  : 

Nor  hadst  thou  the  sly  trick,  thyself  to  praise 

Under  thy  friends'  names  ;  or,  to  purchase  bays. 

Didst  write  stale  commendations  to  thy  book, 

Which  we  for  Beaumont's  or  Ben  Jonson's  took  : 

That  debt  thou  left'st  to  us,  which  none  but  he 

Can  truly  pay,  Fletcher,  who  writes  like  thee. 

William  Cartwright' 


r  In  turn'd  hose]  Altered  to  "  In  trunk-Ao«e  "  by  Theobald,  who  cites  from  Sir  John 
Berkenhead's  verses  (see  p.  xlviii.)  the  expression  "  trunk-hose  wit;"  and  so  his  successors. 

s  William  Cartwright']  Born  in  1611  at  Northway,  near  Tewkesbury,  in  Gloucestershire, 
was  the  son  of  a  William  Cartwright,  who,  having  dissipated  a  fair  estate,  was  at  length 
reduced  to  keep  an  inn  at  Cirencester.  (This  is  Wood's  account,  Athence,  iii.  69.  ed.  Bliss : 
Lloyd  in  his  Memoires,  &c.  states, — there  is  reason  to  believe,  incorrectly, — that  he  was  born 
in  1615,  and  the  son  of  Thomas  Cartwright  of  Burford  in  Oxf  )rdshLre.)  He  was  first  sent  to 
the  free-;-chool  at  Cirencester,  afterwards  to  Westminster  as  a  king's  scholar,  and  being  thence 
removed  to  Oxford,  was  elected  a  student  of  Christ-church  in  1628.  Having  been  ordained, 
he  became,  according  to  Wood,  "  the  most  florid  and  seraphical  preacher  in  the  university." 
He  was  also  much  admired  for  the  lectures  which  he  delivered  as  metaphysical  reader.  In 
1642  he  was  made  suceentor  in  the  Cathedral  of  Salisbury,  and  in  1G43  was  chosen  junior 
proctor  of  the  university.  There  he  died,  during  the  latter  year,  of  a  malignant  fever  (called 
the  camp-disease) ;  and,  as  he  had  acquired  a  great  celebrity  for  his  abilities  and  learning, 
his  early  death  was  very  widely  lamented,— the  king  (who  was  then  at  Oxford)  appearing  in 
blacken  the  day  of  his  burial.  Ben  Jonson  used  to  say,  "  My  son  Cartwright  writes  all 
like  a  man  " ;  and  bishop  Fell  declared  that  he  "  was  the  utmost  man  could  come  to."  He 
was  author  of  four  plays,— The  Royal  Slave,  The  Lady  Errant,  The  Ordinary  (an  excellent 
comedy),  and  Tlie  Siege,  or  Love's  Convert:  thefirstof  these  was  published  in  1639,  the  others 
were  originally  printed  in  the  collection  of  his  Plays  and  Poems,  1651,  to  which  are  prefixed 
more  copies  of  commendatory  verses  than  even  to  the  first  folio  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
Works.  A  sermon  by  Cartwright,  entitled  An  Offspring  of  Mercy  issuing  out  of  the  Womb 
of  Cruelty,  &c.  appeared  in  1652. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS   ON 


ON   MASTER  FRANCIS   BEAUMONT 
(THEN  NEWLY  DEAD). 

He  that  hath  such  acuteness  and  such  wit" 
As  would  ask  ten  good  heads"  to  husband  it  ; 
He  that  can  write"  so  well  that  no  man  dare 
Refuse  it  for  the  best,  let  him  beware  : 
Beaumont  is  dead  ;  by  whose  sole  death"  appears, 
Wit 's  a  disease  consumes  men>'  in  few  years. 

Richard  Corbet,  D.D' 


TO   MASTER   FRANCIS   BEAUMONT 
(THEN   LIVING). 

How  I  do  love  thee,  Beaumont,  and  thy  Muse, 
That  unto  me  dost  such  religion  use  ! 
How  I  do  fear  myself,  that  am  not  worth 
The  least  indulgent  thought  thy  pen  drops  forth  ! 
At  once  thou  mak'st  me  happy,  and  unmak'st, 
And  giving  largely  to  me,  more  thou  tak'st. 
What  fate  is  mine,  that  so  itself  bereaves  ! 
What  art  is  thine,  that  so  thy  friend  deceives. 
When  even  there,  where  most  thou  praisest  me, 
For  writing  better,  I  must  envy  thee  ! 

Ben  Jonson'. 


o  He  that  hath,  &c.]  In  BesLumonVs Poems,  1640,  "  He  that  had  Youth,  and  Friends,  and  so 
much  ]Fil."  "  ten  good  heads'[  Ibid,  "fiue  <700(i  Wits." 

w  can  write']  Ibid.  "  hath  wrote."  "^  whose  sole  death]  Ibid.  "  which  our  Art." 

7  men]  Ibid.  "  one." 

»  Richard  Corbet,  D.  D.]  Said  to  be  descended  from  an  ancient  family  in  Shropshire, 
and  born  at  Ewoll,  Surrej',  in  1582,  was  the  son  of  Vincent  Corbet,  a  man  of  some  emi- 
nence for  his  fekill  in  gardening,  who  usually  resided  at  'Whitton  near  Twickenham,  and 
who  died  at  a  verj-  advanced  age,  leaving  consideiable  property.  He  was  educated  at 
Westminster  school,  from  which  he  was  removed  to  Oxford,  where  he  was  first  entered  at 
Broadgate  Hall,  and  afterwards  admitted  a  student  of  Christ  Church.  "  In  16<i5,  he  proceeded 
M.  of  A.,  being  then  esteemed  one  of  the  mosl  celebrated  wits  in  the  university,  as  his 
poems,  jests,  romantic  fancies  and  exploits,  which  he  made  and  performed  extempore,  shew'd. 
Afterwards  entering  into  holy  orders,  he  became  a  most  quaint  preacher,  and  therefore  much 
followed  by  ingenious  men."  (Wood's  Athenee,  ii.  5ft4,  ed.  Bliss.)  Having  been  made  by 
King  James  one  of  his  chaplains  in  ordinarj',  and  having  received  considerable  preferment, 
he  was  promoted  in  If)20  to  the  deanery  of  Christ  Church.  In  1629  he  was  raised  to  the  see 
of  Oxford,  and  in  16.32  he  was  translated  to  that  of  Norwich.  His  wife  was  the  daughter  of 
Dr.  Leonard  Hutten  (or  Hutton) ;  but  the  date  of  his  marriage  (perhaps  about  162.'>)  has  not 
been  discovered.  He  died  in  1635.  The  Poems  of  this  facetious  writer  were  first  printed  in 
164/  :  the  best  edition  of  them  (with  various  additions)  is  that  by  O.  Gilchrist,  1807- 

•  Ben  Jonion]  Burn  in  1.574,  died  in  16.37- 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


UPON   MASTER   FLETCHER'S   INCOMPARABLE   PLAYS. 

Apollo  sings,  his  harp  resounds  :  give  room, 

For  now,  behold,  the  golden  pomp  is  come  ! 

Thy  pomp  of  plays,  which  thousands  come  to  see, 

With  admiration  both  of  them  and  thee. 

0  volume,  worthy,  leaf  by  leaf  and  cover, 

To  be  with  juice  of  cedar  wash'd  all  over  ! 

Here  's  words  with  lines,  and  lines  with  scenes  consent, 

To  raise  an  act  to  full  astonishment ; 

Here  melting  numbers,  words  of  power  to  move 

Young  men  to  swoon,  and  maids  to  die  for  love : 

Love  lies  a-bleeding^  here  ;  Evadne'  there 

Swells  with  brave  rage,  yet  comely  every  where  ; 

Here  's  a  Mad  Loiter  ;  there  that  high  design 

Of  King  and  No  King,  and  the  rare  plot  thine. 

So  that  whene'er  we  circumvolve  our  eyes, 

Such  rich,  such  fresh,  such  sweet  varieties 

Ravish  our  spirits,  that  entranc'd  we  see, 

None  writes  love's  passion"*  in  the  world  like  thee. 

Robert  Herrick'. 


ON  THE  HAPPY  COLLECTION  OF  MASTER  FLETCHER'S  WORKS, 
NEVER  BEFORE  PRINTED. 

Fletcher,  arise  !  usurpers  share  thy  bays, 

They  canton  thy  vast  wit  to  build  small  plays  : 

He  comes  !  his  volume  breaks  through  clouds  and  dust ; 

Down,  little  wits  !  ye  must  refund,  ye  must. 

•>  Love  lies  a-bleeding'}  The  second  title  of  Philaster- 

c  Evadne']  See  The  Maid's  Tragedy.  d  passioii]  Weber  prints,  "passions." 
e  Robert  Herrick']  Descended  from  an  ancient  family  in  Leicestershire,  and  bom  in 
Cheapside  in  1591,  was  the  fourth  son  of  Nicholas  Herrick,  goldsmith.  (Chalmers  says, 
"  Nicholas  Herrick,  of  St.  Vedast,  Foster  Lane."  Bioij.  Diet..'  St.  Vedast  was  the  church 
at  which  the  poet  was  baptised.)  Being  sent  to  Cambridge  by  his  uncle  and  guardian  Sir 
William  Herrick,  he  was  entered,  about  161.5,  a  fellow-commoner  of  St.  John's  College  ;  and 
about  1618  he  removed  to  Trinity  Hall,  where  he  studied  the  law.  (Wood  by  mistake  has 
placed  Herrick  in  his  Athena  ,-  see  vol.  iii.  250,  ed.  Bliss.)  He,  however,  took  orders;  and 
having  the  Earl  of  Exeter  for  his  patron,  he  was  presented  in  1629,  by  Charles  the  First,  to 
the  vicarage  of  Dean  Prior,  Devon.  During  the  civil  wars,  he  was  ejected  from  his  livmg,  and 
resided  in  St.  Anne's  parish,  Westminster.  After  the  Restoration,  he  again  took  possession 
of  his  vicarage  ;  and  there  he  is  believed  to  have  died,  but  the  date  of  his  death  has  not  been 
ascertained.  (See  Nichols's  Hist,  of  Leicest.  vol.".  P.  ii.  631—633.)  Hesperides :  or  The 
Works  both  Humane  and  Divine  of  Robert  Herrick,  Esq.,  appeared  in  1648.  {His  Noble 
Numbers :  or  His  Pious  Pieces,  &c.,  which  come  last  in  the  volume,  have  a  distinct  title- 
page,  dated  1647  :  Esq.  means  perhaps  that  during  the  civil  wars  he  had  laid  aside  his  gown.) 
He  is  a  very  unequal  writer ;  but  in  his  best  poems  he  displays  a  fine  vein  of  fancy  and  great 
beauty  of  versification. 


COMMENDATORY   POEMS  ON 

Nor  comes  he  private  ;  here  's  great  Beaumont  too  : 
How  could  one  single  world  encompass  two  ? 
For  these  coheirs  had  equal  power  to  teach 
All  that  all  wits  both  can  and  cannot  reach. 
Shakespeare  was  early  up,  and  went  so  drest 
As  for  those  dawning  hours  he  knew  was  best ; 
But,  when  the  sun  shone  forth,  you  two  thought  fit 
To  wear  just  robes,  and  leave  off  trunk-hose  wit. 
Now,  now  'twas  perfect  ;  none  must  look  for  new  ; 
Manners  and  scenes  may  alter,  but  not  you. 
For  yours  are  not  mere  humours,  gilded  strains  ; 
The  fashion  lost,  your  massy  sense  remains. 

Some  think  your  wits  of  two  complexions  fram'd. 
That  one  the  sock,  th'  other  the  buskin  claim'd  ; 
That,  should  the  stage  embattail  all  its  force, 
Fletcher  would  lead  the  foot,  Beaumont  the  horse. 
But  you  were  both  for  both,  not  semi-wits  ; 
Each  piece  is  wholly  two,  yet  never  splits : 
Ye  're  not  two  faculties,  and  one  soul  still. 
He  th'  understanding,  thou  the  quick  free  will  ; 
But',  as  two  voices  in  one  song  embrace, 
Fletcher's  keen  treble,  and  deep  Beaumont's  base. 
Two  full,  congenial  souls  ;  still  both  prevail 'd  ; 
His  Muse  and  thine  were  quarter'd,  not  impal'd  ; 
Both  brought  your  ingots,  both  toil'd  at  the  mint. 
Beat,  melted,  sifted,  till  no  dross  stuck  in  't, 
Then  in  each  other's  scales  weigh 'd  every  grain. 
Then  smooth'd  and  burnish'd,  then  weigh'd  all  again, 
Stamp'd  both  your  names  upon  't  at  one  bold  hit, — 
Then,  then  'twas  coin,  as  well  as  bullion-wit. 

Thus  twins  :  but  as  when  fate  one  eye  deprives. 
That  other  strives  to  double,  which  survives, 
So  Beaumont  died,  yet  left  in  legacy 
His  rules  and  standard-\dt,  Fletcher,  to  thee  ; 
Still  the  same  planet,  though  not  fill'd  so  soon, 
A  two-hom'd  crescent  then,  now  one  full  moon. 
Joint  love  before,  now  honour,  doth  provoke  : 
So  th'  old  twin  giants  forcing  a  huge  oak. 
One  slipp'd  his  footing,  th'  other  sees  him  fall, 
Grasp'd  the  whole  tree,  and  single  held  up  all. 
Imperial  Fletcher  !  here  begins  thy  reign  ; 
Scenes  flow  like  sun-beams  from  thy  glorious  brain  ; 

'  But]  Altered  by  Seward  to  "  Not ;"  and  so  bis  successors. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  xlix 

Thy  swift-despatching  soul  no  more  doth  stay, 

Than  he  that  built  two  cities  in  one  day  ; 

Ever  brim-full,  and  sometimes  running  o'er. 

To  feed  poor  languid  wits  that  wait  at  door, 

Who  creep  and  creep,  yet  ne'er  above  gi-ound  stood, 

For  creatures  have  most  feet  which  have  least  blood  ; 

But  thou  art  still  that  bird  of  paradise. 

Which  hath  no  feet,  and  ever  nobly  flies  ; 

Rich,  lusty  sense,  such  as  the  poet  ought. 

For  poems,  if  not  excellent,  are  nought ; 

Low  wit  in  scenes  in  state  a  peasant  goes  ; 

If  mean  and  flat,  let  it  foot  yeoman  prose, 

That  such  may  spell,  as  are  not  readers  gi-own  ; 

To  whom  he,  that  writes  wit,  shews  he  hath  none. 

Brave  Shakespeare  flow'd,  yet  had  his  ebbings  too, 
Often  above  himself,  sometimes  below  : 
Thou  always  best ;  if  aught  seem'd  to  decline, 
'Twas  the  unjudging  rout's^  mistake,  not  thine  : 
Thus  thy  fair  Shepherdess  *■,  which  the  bold  heap. 
False  to  themselves  and  thee,  did  prize  so  cheap, 
Was  found,  when  understood,  fit  to  be  crown'd  ; 
At  worst  'twas  worth  two  hundred  thousand  pound. 

Some  blast  thy  works,  lest  we  should  track  their  walk. 
Where  they  steal  all  those  few  good  things  they  talk  ; 
Wit-burglaiy  must  chide  those  it  feeds  on, 
For  plunder'd  folks  ought  to  be  rail'd  upon  ; 
But,  as  stoln  goods  go  off  at  half  their  worth. 
Thy  strong  sense  palls,  when  they  purloin  it  forth. 
When  didst  thou  borrow  ?  where 's  the  man  e'er  read 
Aught  begg'd  by  thee  from  those  alive  or  dead  ? 
Or  from  diy  goddesses  1  as  some,  who,  when 
They  stuff  their  page  \%'ith  gods,  write  worse  than  men  ; 
Thou  wast  thine  own  Muse,  and  hadst  such  vast  odds, 
Thou  out-writt'st'  him  whose  verse  made  all  those  gods. 
Surpassing  those  our  dwarfish  age  uprears. 
As  much  as  Greeks  or  Latins  thee  in  years. 
Thy  ocean-fancy  knew  nor  banks  nor  dams  : 
We  ebb  down  dry  to  pebble-anagrams  ; 
Dead  and  insipid,  all  despairing  sit, 
Lost  to  behold  this  great  relapse  of  wit  ; 
AVhat  strength  remains,  is  like  that,  wild  and  fierce, 
Till  Jonson  made  good  poets  and  right  verse. 

g  roues']  i.  e.  multitude's.  ^  Shepherdess]  i.  e.  The  Faithful  Shepherdess. 

'  outwriU'sQ  So  in  Beaumont's  Poetnx,  J653.    Both  folios  "  outwrit'st ;"  and  so  the  modern 
editors. 


I  COMMENDATORY   POEMS  ON 

Such  boisterous  triHes  thy  Muse  would  not  brook, 
Save  when  she  'd  shew  how  scurvily  they  look  ; 
No  savage  metaphors,  things  rudely  great, 
Thou  dost  display,  not '  butcher  a  conceit  ; 
Thy  nerves  have  beauty,  which  invades  and  charms, — 
Looks  like  a  princess  harness'd  in  l)right  arms. 

Nor  art  thou  loud  and  cloudy  :  those  that  do 
Thunder  so  much,  do  't  without  lightning  too. 
Tearing  themselves,  and  almost  split  their  brain, 
To  render  harsh  what  thou  speak'st  free  and  clean  : 
Such  gloomy  sense  may  pass  for  high  and  proud, 
But  ti-ue-born  wit  still  flies  above  the  cloud  ; 
Thou  knew-'st  'twas  impotence,  what  they  call  height  ; 
Who  blusters  strong  i'  the  dark,  but  creeps  i'  the  light. 

And  as  thy  thoughts  were  clear,  so  innocent, 
Thy  fancy  gave  no  unswept  language  vent  ; 
Slander'st  not  laws,  profan'st  no  holy  page. 
As  if  thy  father's  crosier  aw'd  the  stage  ; 
High  crimes  were  still  arraign 'd  ;  though  they  made  shift 
To  prosper  out  four  acts,  were  plagued  i'  the  fifth  : 
AH  's  safe  and  wise  ;  no  stiflt  affected  scene, 
Nor  swoln,  nor  flat,  a  tiiie  full  natural  vein  ; 
Thy  sense,  like  well-drest  ladies,  cloth'd  as  skinn'd, 
Not  all  unlac'd,  nor  city-starch'd  and  pinn'd  ; 
Thou  hadst  no  sloth,  no  rage,  no  sullen  fit, 
But  strength  and  mirth  ;  Fletcher  's  a  sanguine  wit. 

Thus  two  great  consul-poets  all  things  sway'd, 
Till  all  was  English-born  or  English-made  : 
Mitre  and  coif  here  into  one  piece  spun, 
Beaumont  a  judge's,  this  a  prelate's  son. 
What  strange  production  is  at  last  display'd. 
Got  by  two  fathers,  without  female  aid  ! 
Behold,  two  masculines  espous'd  each  other  ! 
Wit  and  the  world  were  bom  without  a  mother. 

.Ton.N  Bf,rkemikad\ 

j  nof]  Weber  prints  "  nor." 

k  Jnhn  Berkcnheady-OT  IJirkenhead,— the  son  of  a  saddler,  was  bom,  about  1615,  at  North- 
■wich  in  Cheshire.  IlavinR  received  a  common  grammar-school  education,  he  was  entered, 
in  163-2.  a  servitor  of  Oriel  CoUcKe.  C.xford,  under  the  tuition  of  Dr.  Humphrey  Lloyd  (after- 
wards Bishop  of  Hangor).  At  the  recommendation  of  Lloyd,  he  became  amanuensis  to 
Archbishop  Laud;  who  created  him  by  diploma  .\..M.,  and  on  whose  letters  commendatory 
he  was  elected  a  probation.nry  fellow  of  All-Souls  College.  Huring  the  civil  war,  when 
Charles  the  First  had  made  Oxford  his  head-quarters.  Horkenhead  was  employed  to  support 
the  royal  cause,  and  to  ridicule  its  opponents,  by  writing  a  newspaper,  entitled,  Mercurius 
Aulicus,  communiralinp  the  Inlellirifnie  and  jl flairs  of  Ihc  Court  to  the  rest  </  thf  Kintjdom. 
He  commenced  it  in  1642.  and  gained  by  it  a  great  reputation.  (His  place  as  journali.st  was 
frequently  supplied  by  Dr.  Peter  Hcylin,  but  with  inferior  humour.)  At  the  desire  of  the 
king,  he  was  appointed  reader  in  moral  philosophy;  and  he  continued  to  held  that  office, 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MASTER  FLETCHER. 

There's  nothing  gain'd  by  being  witty  ;  fame 
Gathers  but  wind  to  blather  up'  a  name. 
Orpheus  must  leave  his  lyre,  or,  if  it  be 
In  heaven,  'tis  there  a  sign,  no  harmony  ; 
And  stones  that  follow'd  him  may  now  become 
New"  stones  again,  and  serve  him  for  his  tomb. 
The  Theban  Linus,  that  was  ably  skill 'd 
In  Muse  and  music,  was  by  Phoebus  kill'd, 
Though  Phoebus  did  beget  him  :  sure,  his  art 
Had  merited  his  balsam,  not  his  dart. 

But  here  Apollo's  jealousy  is  seen, 
The  god  of  physic  's  troubled  with  the  spleen  ; 
Like  timorous  kings,  he  puts  a  period 
To  high-grown  parts,  last  he  should  be  no  god. 

Hence  those  great  master-wits  of  Greece,  that  gave 
Life  to  the  world,  could  not  avoid  a  grave  ; 
Hence  the  inspired  prophets  of  old  Rome, 
Too  gi-eat  for  earth,  fled  to  Elysium. 

But  the  same  ostracism  benighted  one 
To  whom  all  these  were  but  illusion  ; 
It  took  our  Fletcher  hence,  Fletcher,  whose  wit 
Was  not  an  accident  to  the  soul,  but  it. 
Only  diffus'd  ;  thus  we  the  same  sun  call, 
Mo\'ing  i'  the  sphere,  and  shining  on  a  wall ; 
Wit  so  high  plac'd  at  first,  it  could  not  climb, 
Wit  that  ne'er  grew,  but  only  shew'd,  by  time  ; 
No  fire-work  of  .sack,  no  seldom  shown 
Poetic  rage,  but  still  in  motion. 
And  with  far  more  than  spheric  excellence 
It  mov'd,  for  't  was  its  own  intelligence  ; 

though  with  very  little  profit,  till  1648,  when  he  was  expelled  by  the  parliamentary'  visitors 
not  only  from  it  but  also  from  his  fellowship.  "  Afterwards  he  retired  to  London,  suffered 
several  imprisonments  for  his  majesty's  cause,  lived  by  his  wits  in  helping  young  gentlemen 
out  at  dead  lifts  in  making  poems,  songs,  and  epistles,  on,  and  to,  their  respective  mistresses, 
as  also  in  translating  and  writing  several  little  things,  and  other  petite  employments." 
(Wood's  Athena,  iii.  1203,  ed.  Bliss.)  On  the  Restoration,  he  was  created,  by  virtue  of  the 
king's  letters,  D.C  L.  at  Oxford,  was  chosen  burgess  to  serve  in  parliament  for  Wilton,  was 
knighted  in  1662,  and  next  year  succeeded  Sir  Richard  Fanshawe  as  master  of  requests, 
"  being  then  also  master  of  the  faculties  and  a  member  of  the  royal  society."  (Wood,  ibid.) 
He  died  at  Westminster  in  1679.  For  the  titles  of  liis  various  writings,  in  several  of  which 
he  has  exhibited  great  powers  of  ridicule,  see  Wood's  Athentp,  and  Chalmers's  Biog-  Diet.  : 
his  spirited  satire,  PanVsChurehyard,  &c.  may  be  found  reprinted  in  The  Harl.  Miscell., 
ix.  408.  ed.  Park. 

'  Mather  up']  i.e.  gabble  up  (written  also  blatter  and  fc?offter),— unless  the  word  is  used 
here  for  bladder. 

n>  New]  Old  ed.  "  Now." 

d2 


COMMKNDATORV    POEMS    ON 

And  yet  .so  obvious  to  sense,  so  plain, 

You  'd  scarcely  think  't  allied  unto  the  brain  ; 

So  sweet,  it  gain'd  more  ground  upon  the  stage 

Than  Jonson  with  his  self-admiring  rage 

E'er  lost  ;  and  then  so  naturally  it  fell, 

That  fools  would  think  that  they  could  do  as  well. 

This  is  our  loss  ;  yet,  spite  of  Phoebus,  we 
W\]\  keep  our  Fletcher,  for  his  wit  is  he. 

Edward  Powell' 


UPON  THE  EVER-TO-BE-ADMIRED  MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER 
AND  HIS  PLAYS. 

What  's  all  this  preparation  for  ?   or  why 

Such  sudden  triumphs  ?     Fletcher  !  the  people  ciy  : 

Just  so,  when  kings  approach,  our  conduits  ran 

Claret,  as  here  the  spouts  flow  Helicon  : 

See,  every  sprightful  Muse,  dress'd  trim  and  gay, 

Strews  herbs  and  scatters  roses  in  his  way  ! 

Thus  th'  outward  yard  set  round  with  bays  we  've  seen. 
Which  from  the  garden  hath  transplanted  been  ; 
Thus,  at  the  praetor's  feast",  with  needless  costs. 
Some  must  be  employ'd  in  painting  of  the  posts  ; 
And  .some,  as  dishes  made  for  sight,  not  ta-ste. 
Stand  here  as  things  for  show  to  Fletcher's  feast. 
Oh,  what  an  honour,  what  a  grace  't  had  been '', 
T'  have  had  his  cook  in  Rollo  serv'd''  them  in  ! 

Fletcher,  the  king  of  poets  !  such  was  he. 
That  eam'd  all  tribute,  claim'd  all  sovereignty  ; 
And  may  he  that  denies  it,  learn  to  blush 
At 's  Loyal  Subject,  starve  at 's  Beggars^  Bush  ; 
And,  if  not  drawn  by  example,  shame,  nor  grace, 
Turn  o'er  to  's  Coxcomb  and  The  IVild-Goose  Chase. 

Monarch  of  wit  I  great  magazine  of  wealth  ! 
From  whose  rich  bank,  by  a  Promethean  stealth, 
Our  lesser  flames  do  blaze  !  his  the  trae  fire, 
When  they,  like  glow-worms,  being  touch'd,  expire. 

n  Edward  Potcein  Verses  by  tlii§  person  are  prefixed  to  Shirley's  Poems,  If^fi.  He  was 
perhaps  the  "  ancient  Player,  lately  dead,"  mentioned  by  Gildon  as  the  father  of  George 
Powell  the  actor:  Livet  ami  CharacUrt  of  Entjl.  Dram.  Poets,  IfiOH,  p.  11.3. 

o  al  the  prutnr's  feast,  Ac]  i.  e.  at  tlie  Lord  Mayor's  feast :  when  he  entered  into  office, 
the  posts  which  were  set  up  at  his  door  (and  at  the  doors  of  sherifi"s)  were  usually  ncw- 
piiinted. 

P  heen'\  The  writer's  word  probably  was  "  bin,"  a  common  form. 

'I  srrv'it'\  The  I'.ditors  of  1778  and  Weber  print  "  ser\'e." 


BEAUMONT    AND   FLETCHER. 

'Twas  first  believ'd,  because  he  always  was 

The  ij)se  dixit  and  Pythagoras 

To  our  disciple-wits,  his  soul  might  run, 

By  the  same  dreamt-of  transmigi-ation, 

Into  their  rude  and  indigested  brain, 

And  so  inform  their  chaos-lump  again  ; 

For  many  specious  brats  of  this  last  age 

Spoke  Fletcher  perfectly  in  every  page. 

This  rous'd  his  rage  to  be  abused  thus. 

Made  's  Lover  Mad,  Lieutenant  Htimorous. 

Thus  ends-of-gold-and-silver-men '  are  made, 

As  th'  use  to  say,  goldsmiths  of  his  own  trade ; 

Thus  rag-men  from  the  dunghill  often  hop, 

And  publish  forth  by  chance  a  broker's  shop  : 

But  by  his  own  light  now  we  have  descried 

The  dross  ft-om  that  hath  been  so  purely  tried. 

Proteus  of  wit  !  who  reads  him  doth  not  see 

The  manners  of  each  sex,  of  each  degree  ? 

His  fuU-stor'd  fancy  doth  all  humours  fill. 

From  TTie  Queen  of  Corinth  to  The  Maid  o'  the  Mill ; 

His  Curate,  Laun/er,  Captain,  Prophetess, 

Shew  he  was  all  and  every  one  of  these  ; 

He  taught,  so  subtly  were  their  fancies  seiz'd, 

To  Rule  a  Wife,  and  yet  the  Women  Pleased. 

Parnassus  is  thine  ov^ti  ;  claim  it  as  merit ; 

Law  makes  The  Elder  Brother  to  inherit. 

G.  Hills'. 


IN  HONOUR  OF  MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

So  Fletcher  now  presents  to  fame 

His  alone  self  and  unpropt  name, 

As  rivers  rivers  entertain, 

But  still  fall  single  into  the  main  ; 

So  doth  the  moon  in  consort  shine, 

Yet  flows  alone  into  its  mine, 

And  though  her  light  be  jointly  thrown, 

When  she  makes  silver,  'tis  her  own. 

■'  ends-o/gold-and-silver-men']  i.  e.  itinerant  purchasers  of  broken  pieces  of  gold  and  sil- 
ver :  see  T?ie  Beggars'  Bnsh,  act  iii.  so.  1. 

s  G.  Hills']  Perhaps  the  "  Geo.  Hill,"  who  wrote  two  copies  of  verses  (one  Latin,  one 
English)  prefixed  to  Shirley's  Poems,  1646,  and  some  lines  before  Cartwright's   Works,  KHi- 


COMMENUATORV    POEMS    ON 

I'eihaps  his  quill  Hew  stronger  when 
'Twas  weaved  with  his  Beaumont's  pen, 
And  might  with  deeper  wonder  hit, — 
It  could  not  shew  more  his,  more  wit  ; 
So  Hercules  came  by  sex  and  love, 
When  Pallas  sprang  from  single  Jove  : 
He  took  his  Beaumont  for  embrace. 
Not  to  grow  by  him  and  increase. 
Nor  for  support  did  with  him  twine, — 
He  was  his  friend's  friend,  not  his  vine  ; 
His  wit  with  wit  he  did  not  twist 
To  be  assisted,  but  t'  assist. 
And  who  could  succour  him  whose  quill 
Did  both  run  sense  and  sense  distill. 
Had  time  and  art  in  t,  and  the  while 
Slid  even  as  theirs  wh'  are  only  style  I 
WTiether  his  chance  did  cast  it  so, 
Or  that  it  did  like  rivers  flow 
Because  it  must,  or  whether  't  were 
A  smoothness  from  his  file  and  ear, 
Not  the  most  strict  enquiring  nail 
Could  e'er  find  where  his  piece  did  fail 
Of  entire  oneness  ;  so  the  frame 
Was  composition,  yet  the  same. 

How  does  he  breed  his  Brother ',  and 
Make  wealth  and  estate  understand  ! 
Suits  land  to  wit,  makes  luck  match  meiit, 
And  makes  an  Eldest  fitly  inherit ! 
How  was  he  Ben,  when  Ben  did  write 
To  the  stage,  not  to  his  judge  indite  ! 
How  did  he  do  what  Jonson  did, 
And  earn  what  Jonson  would  have  s'ed '  ! 

JosiAS  Howe  of  Trin.  Coll.  Oxon" 


»  Brother]  "  Alluding  to  The  Elder  Brother."  Weber. 

'  And  earn  what  Jonson  would  have  s'ed]  Weber  supposes  that  "  s'ed  "  is  put  for  "  sow'd." 
The  Rev.  J.  Mitford  would  read,  "  And  learn  what  Jonson  would  have  said." 

«  Josias  Howe  of  Trin.  Col.  Oxon]  The  son  of  Tliomas  IIowc,  minister  of  Grendon  in 
Buckinghamshire,  was  bom  about  1611.  lie  was  elected  scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford, 
took  orders,  and  became  fellow  of  the  college  in  1&37.  Heing  a  very  warm  loyalist,  he  was 
ejected  from  his  fellowship  by  the  parliamentarian  visitors  in  K'AU.  lie  was  restored  to  it  in 
lt>60,  "  but,"  says  Wood,  "  was  no  gainer  by  his  sufferings  as  many  honest  cavaliers  were  not 
by  theirs."  {Fasti,  Part  Sec.  p.  97.  ed.  Uliss).  He  died  at  O.xford  in  1701.  He  was  author  of 
A  Sermon  before  the  Kinff  at  Ch.  Ch.,  &c.,  printed  in  red  letters  about  1644,  and,  according  to 
Wood,  of  another  sermon.  Verses  by  him  arc  prefixed  to  Randolph's  Poems,  1643,  to  Cart- 
wright's  Works,  l(i.")l,  and,  I  believe,  to  several  other  books. 


BEAUMOxNT    AND    FLETCHEU. 


[ONJ  MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER  HIS  DRAMATICAL  WORKS, 
NOW  AT  LAST  PRINTED. 

I  COULD  praise  Heywood  now,  or  tell  how  long 

Falstaff  from  cracking  nuts '  hath  kept  the  throng  ; 

But  for  a  Fletcher  I  must  take  an  age, 

And  scarce  invent  the  title  for  one  page. 

Gods  must  create  new  spheres,  that  should  express 

The  several  accents,  Fletcher,  of  thy  dress  ; 

The  pen  of  Fates  should  only  write  thy  praise. 

And  all  Elysium  for  thee  turn  to  bays. 

Thou  felt'st  no  pangs  of  poetiy,  such  as  they 

Who  the  heavens  quarter  still  before  a  play, 

And  search  the  ephemerides  to  find 

When  the  aspect  for  poets  will  be  kind. 

Thy  poems,  sacred  spring,  did  from  thee  flow 

With  as  much  pleasure  as  we  read  them  now  : 

Nor  need  we  only  take  them  up  by  fits. 

When  love  or  physic  hath  diseas'd  our  wits, 

Or  construe  English,  to  untie  a  knot 

Hid  in  a  line  far  subtler  than  the  plot. 

With  thee  the  page  may  close  his  lady's  eyes, 

And  yet  with  thee  the  serious  student  rise  : 

The  eye,  at  several  angles  darting  rays. 

Makes,  and  then  sees,  new  colours  ;  so  thy  plays 

To  eveiy  understanding  still  appear 

As  if  thou  only  meant 'st  to  take  that  ear ; 

The  phrase  so  terse  and  free,  of  a  just  poise, 

Where  eveiy  word  has  weight,  and  yet  no  noise  ; 

The  matter  too  so  nobly  fit,  no  less 

Than  such  as  only  could  deserve  thy  dress  ; 

Witness  thy  comedies,  pieces  of  such  worth, 

All  ages  shall  still  like,  but  ne'er  bring  forth. 

Other  in  season  last  scarce  so  long  time 

As  cost  the  poet  but  to  make  the  rhyme  ; 

"Where,  if  a  lord  a  new  way  does  but  spit, 

Or  change  his  shrag,  this  antiquates  the  wit : 

That  thou  didst  live  before,  nothing  would  tell 

Posterity,  could  they  but  WTite  so  well  ; 

Thy  catholic  fancy  will  acceptance  find, 

Not  whilst  an  humour  's  living,  but  mankind  ; 

"■  ci-acking  nutsi  A  common  amusement  of  the  audience  at  our  old  theatres. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS   ON 

Thou,  like  thy  writings,  innocent  and  clean, 
Ne'er  practis'd  a  new  vice,  to  make  one  scene  ; 
None  of  thy  ink  had  gall,  and  ladies  can 
Securely  hear  thee  sport  without  a  fan. 

But  when  thy  tragic  Muse  would  please  to  rise 
In  majesty,  and  call  tribute  from  our  eyes. 
Like  scenes,  we  shifted  passions,  and  that  so, 
^\^lo  only  came  to  see,  tum'd  actors  too. 
How  didst  thou  sway  the  theatre  !  make  us  feel 
The  players'  wounds  were  true,  and  their  swords  steel  I 
Nay,  stranger  yet,  how  often  did  I  know 
When  the  spectators  ran '  to  save  the  blow ! 
Frozen  with  grief,  we  could  not  stir  away 
Until  the  epilogue  told  us  "t  was  a  play. 
^Miat  shaU  I  do  ?  aU  commendations  end. 
In  sa\Hng  only, — thou  wert  Beaumont's  friend  ! 
Give  me  thy  spirit  quickly,  for  I  swell, 
And  like  a  raving  prophetess  cannot  tell 
How  to  receive  thy  genius  ^^  in  my  breast : 
Oh,  I  must  sleep  I  and  then  I'll  sing  the  rest. 

Francis  Palxer  of  Ch.  €h.  Oxon' 


rPON'  THJC  r.NPxEALLELED  PLATS  WRITTEN'  BT  THOs£  RE.NOW>'ED  TWINS  OF    POETRT, 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

What  "s  here  ]  another  library  of  praise*. 

Met  in  a  troop  t'  advance  contemned  plays. 

And  bring  exploded  wit  again  in  fashion  ! 

I  can't  but  wonder  at  this  reformation  ; 

My  skipping  soul  surfeits  with  so  much  good. 

To  see  my  hopes  into  fruition  bud. 

A  happy  chemistry  !  blest  viper,  Joy, 

That  through  thy  mother's  bowels  gnaw'st  thy  way  ! 

Wits  flock  in  shoals,  and  club  to  re-erect. 
In  spite  of  ignorance,  the  architect 

^  n'htn  the  rptetattyrt  ran,  &c.]  "  Thisallades  to  Chase  spectators  who  were  accommodated 
with  chairs  [stools]  on  the  stage."  Weber. 

T  thg  gfikiit$'\    The  second  folio,  '■  the  full  god." 

«  Francii  Palmar  lif  Ch  Ch.  OxoitJ  So  the  second  folio  gives  the  Christian  name.  The 
first  folio  has  '•  T.  Palmer.-  Ac.  Among  the  commendatory  rersesprefiied  to  Cartwright's 
fforkt,  IS51 .  a  copy  is  signed  •'  Fr.  Palmer,  Student  of  Ch.  Ch.  Oxoo." 

»  aKOtker  lil/rary  of  frai»e\  ••  This  alludes  to  the  numerous commendatorj-  copies  of  verses 
'•n  Tom  Coryat's  Cndituf,  which  swelled  into  an  entire  Tolume."    Theobald 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER.  Ivii 

Of  occidental  poesy  ;  and  turn 
Gods,  to  recal  Wit's  ashes  from  their  urn  : 
Like  huge  Colosses,  they  've  together  met '' 
Their  shoulders,  to  support  a  world  of  wit. 

The  tale  of  Atlas,  though  of  truth  it  miss. 
We  plainly  read  mythologiz'd  in  this  ; 
Orpheus  and  Amphion,  whose  undying  stories 
Made  Athens  famous,  are  but  allegories  : 
'Tis  poetry  has  power  to  civilize 
Men  worse  than  stones,  more  blockish  than  the  trees. 
I  cannot  choose  but  think,  now  things  so  fall. 
That  wit  is  past  its  climacterical  ; 
And  though  the  Muses  have  been  dead  and  gone, 
I  know  they  '11  find  a  resurrection. 

'Tis  vain  to  praise  :  they  're  to  themselves  a  glory, 
And  silence  is  our  sweetest  oratoiy  ; 
For  he  that  names  but  Fletcher  must  needs  be 
Found  guilty  of  a  loud  hyperbole  ; 
His  fancy  so  transcendent  Ij'  aspires. 
He  shews  himself  a  wit  who  but  admires. 

Here  are  no  volumes  stuff'd  with  cheverel  sense  % 
The  very  anagrams  of  eloquence  ; 
Nor  long  long-winded  sentences  that  be, 
Being  rightly  spell'd,  but  \\-it's  stenography  ; 
Nor  words  as  void  of  reason  as  of  rhyme. 
Only  caesura'd  to  spin  out  the  time. 
But  here  's  a  magazine  of  purest  sense. 
Cloth'd  in  the  newest  garb  of  eloquence ; 
Scenes  that  are  quick  and  sprightly,  in  whose  veins 
Bubbles  the  quintessence  of  sweet  high  strains  ; 
Lines,  like  their  authors,  £md  each  word  of  it 
Does  say,  'twas  writ  by  a  gemini  of  wit. 

How  happy  is  our  age,  how  blest  our  men, 
^^^len  such  rare  souls  live  themselves  o'er  agen  ! 
We  en-,  that  think  a  poet  dies  ;  for  this 
Shews  that  'tis  but  a  metempsychosis. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  here,  at  last,  we  see 
Above  the  reach  of  dull  moitality, 
Or  power  of  fate  :  and  thus  the  proverb  hits, 
(That's  so  much  cross'd,)  These  men  live  by  their  wits. 

Alexander  Brome". 

b  mff]  Altered  ut  may  be,  rightly)  to  ■ '  knit "  by  Theobald  ;  and  so  his  successors. 
<:  chcvcret  sentel  i.  e.  sense  that  stretches,  is  pUant,  like  cheverel,  or  kid-leather. 
^  Alej-ander  Broiiie^  Born  in  lb"2o,  w.as  an  attorney  in  the  Lord  Mayor's  Court.    Of  his 
personal  history  very  little  is  known.    During  the  civil  wars  and  the  protectorship,   he 


C()MMKNi)AI(»KV  I'OK.MS  ON 


ON  THE  DEATH  AND  WORKS  OF  MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

My  name,  so  far  from  great  that  'tis  not  knowm, 
Can  lend  no  praise  l)ut  what  thou'dst  blush  to  own  ; 
And  no  rude  hand  or  feeble  wit  should  dare 
To  vex  thy  shrine  with  an  unlearned  tear. 

I'd  have  a  state  of  wit  convok'd,  which  hath 
A  power  to  take  up  on  common  faith, 
That,  when  the  stock  of  the  whole  kingdom  's  spent 
In  but  preparative  to  thy  monument, 
The  prudent  council  may  invent  fresh  ways 
To  get  new  contribution  to  thy  praise, 
And  rear  it  high,  and  equal  to  thy  wit, 
Which  must  give  life  and  monument  to  it. 

So  when,  late,  Essex  died  %  the  public  face 
^Vore  sorrow  in  't  ;  and  to  add  mournful  grace 
To  the  sad  pomp  of  his  lamented  fall, 
The  Commonwealth  sen-'d  at  his  funeral. 
And  by  a  solemn  order  built  his  hearse  ; — 
But  not  like  thine,  built  by  thyself  in  verse, 
Where  thy  advanced  image  safely  stands 
Above  the  reach  of  sacrilegious  hands  : 
Base  hands,  how  impotently  you  disclose 
Your  rage  'gainst  Camden's  learned  ashes,  whose 
Defaced  statua  *  and  martyr'd  book 
Like  an  antiquity  and  fragment  look  ! 
NcmnuUa  desunfs  legibly  appear. 
So  truly  now  Camden's  Remains  lie  there  : 
Vain  malice  1  how  he  mocks  thy  rage,  whih^  breath 
Of  Fame  shall  speak  his  great  Elizabeth  ! 
'Gainst  time  and  thee  he  well  provided  haih  ; 
Britannia  is  the  tomb  and  epitaph. 

displayed  his  fervent  loyalty  in  a  variety  of  sonps  and  poems,  by  which  he  acquired  a  great 
celebrity  among  his  own  party.  He  died  in  1666.  The  most  complete  edition  of  his  Soiigf 
and  other  Poems  is  that  of  1668.  lie  was  also  author  of  a  comedy,  called  Tlie  Cunniiiy 
Lovers,  1654  ;  of  portions  of  a  complete  translation  of  The  Poems  of  Horace,  1<)(>6  ;  and  he 
edited  two  volumes  of  plays  by  Richard  Brome,  (to  whom,— as  he  tells  us  in  a  copy  of 
verses, — he  was  not  related.) 

e  Si>,  u-heii,  late,  Essex  died,  &c.]  "  The  Earl  of  Essex,  who  had  been  General  for  the 
Parliiiment  in  the  civil  war  against  King  Charles  the  First,  died  on  the  14lh  of  September. 
I(i4C,  and  the  first  folio  of  Heaumont  and  Fletcher's  ICorA-;  was  published  in  1647."  Thkobai.d. 
"  After  these  things  were  done,  was  a  monument  erected  on  the  West-wall  of  the  said 
S.  cross  isle  [of  Westminster  Abbey]  with  the  bust  of  the  defunct  [Camden]  resting  his  hand 
un  a  btH>k  with  Britannia  insculp'd  on  the  leaves  thereof.  This  monument,  which  wa.s 
composed  of  black  and  white  marble,  was  somewhat  defaced  in  1646,  when  the  hearse  and 
effigies  of  Robert  Earl  of  Essex,  the  parliamentarian  general,  were  cut  in  pieces  and 
defaced."  Wood's  Alhemr.  ii.  .348.  cd.  Bliss. 

'  statua]  See  note  vol.  ii.  45!». 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

Thus  princes  honours '',  but  wit  only  gives 
A  name  which  to  succeeding  ages  lives. 

Singly  we  now  consult  ourselves  and  fame, 
Ambitious  to  twist  ours  with  thy  great  name  : 
Hence  we  thus  bold  to  praise.     For  as  a  vine 
With  subtle  wreath  and  close  embrace  doth  twine 
A  friendly  elm,  by  whose  tall  trunk  it  shoots, 
And  gathers  gi'owth  and  moisture  from  its  roots  ; 
About  its  arms  the  thankful  clusters  cling 
Like  bracelets,  and  with  purple  amelling ' 
The  blue-cheek'd  grape,  stuck  in  its  vernant  hair, 
Hangs  like  rich  jewels  in  a  beauteous  ear ; 
So  grow  our  praises  by  thy  wit ;  we  do 
Borrow  support  and  strength,  and  lend  but  show  : 
And  but  thy  male  wit,  like  the  youthful  sun. 
Strongly  begets  upon  our  passion. 
Making  our  sorrow  teem  with  elegy, 
Thou  yet  unwept  and  yet  unprais'd  mightst  be. 
But  they  're  imperfect  births  ;  and  such  are  all 
Produc'd  by  causes  not  univocal, 
The  scapes  of  nature,  passives  being  unfit ; 
And  hence  our  verse  speaks  only  mother-wit. 

Oh,  for  a  fit  o'  the  father  !  for  a  spirit 
That  might  but  parcel  of  thy  worth  inherit ; 
For  but  a  spark  of  that  diviner  fire, 
Which  thy  full  breast  did  animate  and  inspire  ! 
That  souls  could  be  divided,  thou  traduce 
But  a  small  particle  of  thine  to  us  ! 
Of  thine,  which  we  admir'd  when  thou  didst  .sit 
But  as  a  joint-commissioner  in  wit ; 
When  it  had  plummets  hung  on,  to  suppress 
Its  too  luxuriant-gi-owing  mightiness  ; 
Till,  as  that  tree  which  scorns  to  be  kept  down, 
Thou  grew'st  to  govern  the  whole  stage  alone  : 
In  which  orb  thy  throng'd  light  did  make  the  star  ; 
Thou  wert  th'  intelligence  did  move  that  sphere. 
Thy  fuiy  was  compos'd  ;  rapture  no  fit 
That  hung  on  thee  ;  nor  thou  far  gone  in  wit 
As  men  in  a  disease  ;  thy  fancy  clear, 
Muse  chaste,  as  those  flames '  whence  they  took  their  fire 
No  spurious  composures  amongst  thine, 
Got  in  adultery  'twixt  wit  and  wine. 


l"  princes  honours']  i.e.  princes  (7UT  honours.    Weber  prints  "princes'  honours." 
'  amelUng']  i.e  enamelling.  i  fame.'']  Old  ed.  "  frames." 


COMMENDATORY    I'OEMS    ON 

And  as  th'  hermetical  physicians  draw 
From  things  that  curse  of  the  first-broken  law, 
That  ens  vcnenum,  which,  extracted  thence, 
Leaves  nought  but  primitive  good  and  innocence  ; 
So  was  thy  spirit  calcin'd  ;  no  mixtures  there 
But  perfect,  such  as  next  to  simples  are  : 
Not  like  those  meteor-wits,  which  wildly  fly 
In  storm  and  thunder  through  th'  amazed  sky, 
Speaking  but  th'  ills  and  villanies  in  a  state, 
Which  fools  admire,  and  wise  men  tremble  at, 
Full  of  portent  and  prodigy,  whose  gall 
Oft  scapes  the  vice,  and  on  the  man  doth  fall  : 
Nature  us'd  all  her  skill,  when  thee  she  meant 
A  wit  at  once  both  great  and  innocent. 

Yet  thou  hadst  tooth  ;  but  'twas  thy  judgment,  not, 
For  mending  one  word,  a  whole  sheet  to  blot. 
Thou  couldst  anatomise,  with  ready  art 
And  skilful  hand,  crimes  lock'd  close  up  i'  the  heart  ; 
Thou  couldst  unfold  dark  plots,  and  shew  that  path 
By  which  aml)ition  climb 'd  to  greatness  hath  ; 
Thou  couldst  the  rises,  turns,  and  falls  of  states. 
How  near  they  were  their  periods  and  dates  ; 
Couldst  mad  the  subject  into  popular  rage. 
And  the  grown  seas  of  that  great  stonn  assuage  ; 
Dethrone  usurping  tyrants,  and  place  there 
The  lawful  prince  and  true  inheriter  ; 
Knew'st  all  dark  turnings  in  the  labyrinth 
Of  policy,  which  who  but  knows,  he  sinn'th, 
Save  thee,  who  un-infected  didst  walk  in  't, 
As  the  great  genius  of  government. 
And  when  thou  laid'st  thy  tragic  buskin  by. 
To  court  the  stage  with  gentle  comedy. 
How  new,  how  proper  th'  humours,  how  express'd 
In  rich  variety,  how  neatly  dress'd 
In  language,  how  rare  plots,  what  strength  of  wit 
Shin'd  in  the  face  and  eveiy  limb  of  it  ! 
The  stage  gi-ew  narrow,  while  thou  grew'st  to  be 
In  thy  whole  life  an  excellent  comedy. 

To  these  a  virgin  modesty,  which  first  met 
Applause  with  blush  and  fear,  as  if  he  yet 
Had  not  deserv'd  ;  till,  bold  with  constant  praise, 
His  brows  admitted  the  unsought-for  bays. 
Nor  would  he  ravish  fame  ;  but  left  men  free 
To  their  own  vote  and  ingenuity  ■■: 

^  infienuily']  i.  c.  ingenuousness. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 

When  his  fair  Shepherdess' ,  on  the  guilty  stage, 
Was  martyr'd  between  ignorance  and  rage, 
At  which  the  impatient  \-irtues  of  those  few 
Could  judge,  gi-ew  high,  cried  murder  !  though  he  knew 
The  innocence  and  beauty  of  his  child. 
He  only,  as  if  unconcerned,  smil'd. 
Princes  have  gather 'd  since  "  each  scatter'd  gi-ace, 
Each  line  and  beauty  of  that  injur 'd  face, 
And  on  th'  united  parts  breath'd  such  a  fire 
As,  spite  of  malice,  she  shall  ne'er  expire. 
Attending,  not  affecting,  thus  the  crown. 
Till  every  hand  did  help  to  set  it  on. 
He  came  to  be  sole  monarch,  and  did  reign 
In  wit's  great  empire  absolute  sovereign. 

John  Harris' 


ON  MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER'S  EVER-TO-BE-ADMIRED 
DRAMATICAL  WORKS. 

I  'vE  thought  upon  't  ;  and  thus  I  may  gain  bays  ; 
I  will  commend  thee,  Fletcher,  and  thy  plays. 
But  none  but  vrits  can  do  't :  how,  then,  can  I 
Come  in  amongst  them,  that  could  ne'er  come  nigh  1 

1  fair  Shepherdess'^  i.  e.  The  Faithful  Shepherdess. 

m  Princeshnve  gather'd  since,  &c.'\  "This  relates  to  King  Charles  the  First  causing  Tfte 
Faithful  Shepherdess  to  be  revived  and  acted  before  him."    Seward. 

n  John  Harris'^  "  John  Harris,  son  of  Rich.  Harris  of  Padbury  in  Bucks,  sometime 
fellow  of  New  coll.  and  afterwards  rector  of  Hardwick  in  the  same  county,  was  born  in  the 
parsonage  house  at  Hardwick,  educated  in  grammar  learning  at  Wykeham's  school  near 
Winchester,  admitted  perpetual  fellow  of  New  college  in  1606,  took  the  degrees  in  arts,  and 
became  so  admirable  a  Grecian,  and  so  noted  a  preacher,  that  Sir  Hen.  Savile  used  frequently 
to  say  that  he  was  second  to  St.  C'hrysostome.  In  1617  be  was  unanimously  elected  one  of  the 
proctors  of  the  university,  and  two  years  after  was  made  Greek  professor  thereof;  both  which 
offices  he  executed  to  his  great  honour  and  credit.  Afterwards  he  became  prebendary  of 
Winchester,  rector  of  Meonstoke  in  Hampshire,  doct.  of  divinity,  and  at  length  in  Sept.  1030 
warden  of  Wykeham's  coll.  near  Winchester,  he  being  then  preb.  of  Whitchurch  in  the 
church  of  Wells.  In  the  beginning  of  the  grand  rebellion  raised  by  the  presby  terians,  he  sided 
with  them,  was  elected  one  of  the  assembly  of  divines,  took  the  covenant  and  other  oaths, 
and  so  kept  his  wardenship  to  his  d>'ing  day.  He  hath  written  A  short  View  of  the  Life  and 
Virtues  of  Dr.  Arth.  Lake,  sometime  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells.  Lond.  1629  in  6  sh.  and  an 
half  in  ful.  As  also  several  letters  to  the  noted  anti-arminian  Dr.  W.  Twysse,  of  which  one 
■was  Of  God's  fnite  and  indefinite  Decrees,  another  Of  the  Object  of  Predestination,  which, 
with  Twysse's  Answers,  were  published  by  Hen.  Jeanes  in  a  folio  book  which  he  published 
at  Oxon  1653.  Our  author  Harris'died  at  Winchester  on  the  eleventh  day  of  August  in 
si.xteen  hundred  fifty  and  eight,  aged  70  ye.irs,  and  was  buried  in  the  chappel  belonging  to 
the  coll.  of  W.  of  Wykeham  near  Winchester."  Wood's  Athence,  iii.  455.  ed  Bliss.  I  know- 
not  if  any  other  verses  by  Harris  are  extant  besides  the  present  poem,  which  has  considerable 
(Seward  says,  great)  merit. 


COMMENDATORY    POEMS   ON 

There  is  no  other  way  ;  I'll  tlirong  to  sit, 
And  pass  i'  the  crowd  amongst  them  for  a  wit  : 
Apollo  knows  me  not,  nor  I  the  Nine  ; 
All  my  pretence  to  verse  is  love  and  wine. 

By  your  leave,  gentlemen :  you  wits  o'  the  age, 
You  that  both  furnish 'd  have  and  judg'd  the  stage, 
You  who  the  poet  and  the  actors  fright, 
Lest  that  your  censure  thin  the  second  night", — 
Pray,  tell  me,  gallant  wits,  could  critics  think 
There  e'er  was  solecism  in  Fletcher's  ink. 
Or  lapse  of  plot  or  fancy  in  his  pen  1 
A  happiness  not  still  allow'd  to  Ben ; 
After  of  time  and  wit  h'ad  been  at  cost, 
He  of  his  own  New-Inn"  was  but  an  host. 
Inspired  Fletcher  !  here  's  no  vain-glorious  words  ; 
How  even  thy  lines,  how  smooth  thy  sense  accords  ! 
Thy  language  so  insinuates,  each  one 
Of  thy  spectators  has  thy  passion  ; 
Men  seeing,  valiant,  ladies  amorous  prove, 
Thus  owe  to  thee  their  valour  and  their  love  : 
Scenes  chaste,  yet  satisfying  ;  ladies  can't  say, 
Though  Stephen  1  miscarried,  that  so  did  the  play ; 
Judgment  could  ne'er  to  this  opinion  lean, 
That  Lowin,  Taylor  e'er  could  gi-ace  thy  scene  ; 
'Tis  richly  good  unacted,  and  to  me 
Thy  veiy  farce  appears  a  comedy  ; 
Thy  drolleiy  is  design,  each  looser  part 
Stuflfs  not  thy  plays,  Isut  makes  'em  up  an  art 
The  stage  has  seldom  seen  :  how  often  vice 
Is  smartly  scourg'd  to  check  us  !  to  entice. 
How  well  encourag'd  virtue  is  !  how  guarded  ! 
And,  that  which  makes  us  love  her,  how  rewarded  ! 

Some,  I  dare  say,  that  did  with  loose  thoughts  sit, 
Reclaim'd  by  thee,  came  converts  from  the  pit ; 
And  many  a  she  that  to  be  ta'en  up  came. 
Took  up  themselves,  and  after  left  the  game. 

Henry  Hauington' 


°  the  second  nigltf]  WTien  the  poet  was  interested  in  the  profits. 

P  New-Inn']  Jonson's  last  and  unsuccessful  drama. 

1  Slrphen']  i.  e.  Stephen  Ilammerton,  "  who  was  at  first  a  most  noted  and  beautiful 
woniiin  actor,  but  afterwards  he  acted,  with  equal  grace  and  applause,  a  young  lover's  part." 
Hint.  Ilislrion.,  1699,  (see  p.  cxlvii.  of  prefatory  matter  to  the  last  ed.  of  Dodsley's  Old  Plans). 
He  was  one  of  the  players  who  signed  the  Dedication  of  the  first  folio. 

'  Henry  Hnrinyton}  Another  copy  of  verses  by  this  person  will  be  found  prefixed  to  The 
Wild. Goose  Chase. 


BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF   THE  DECEASED,  BUT  EVER-LIVING 

AUTHOR    IN    THESE    HIS    POEMS, 

MASTER  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

On  the  large  train  of  Fletcher's  friends  let  me, 

Retaining  still  my  wonted  modesty, 

Become  a  waiter,  in  my  ragged  verse, 

As  follower  to  the  Muses'  followers. 

Many  here  are  of  noble  rank  and  worth, 

That  have  by  strength  of  art  set  Fletcher  forth 

In  true  and  lively  colours,  as  they  saw  him, 

And  had  the  best  abilities  to  draw  him  ; 

Many  more  are  abroad,  that  write,  and  look 

To  have  their  lines  set  before  Fletcher's  book ; 

Some  that  have  known  him  too,  some  more,  some  less, 

Some  only  but  by  hearsay,  some  by  guess  ; 

And  some  for  fashion-sake  would  take  the  hint. 

To  try  how  well  their  wits  would  shew  in  print. 

You,  that  are  here  before  me,  gentlemen, 

And  princes  of  Pamassus,  by  the  pen 

And  your  just  judgments  of  his  worth,  that  have 

Presei-v'd  this  author's  memory  from  the  grave, 

And  made  it  glorious, — let  me  at  your  gate 

Porter  it  here,  'gainst  those  that  come  too  late. 

And  are  unfit  to  enter.     Something  I 

Will  deserve  here  ;  for,  where '  you  versify 

In  flowing  numbers,  lawful  weight,  and  time, 

I'll  write,  though  not  rich  verses,  honest  rhyme. 

I  am  admitted.     Now,  have  at  the  rout' 

Of  those  that  would  crowd  in,  but  must  keep  out ! 

Bear  back,  my  masters ;  pray,  keep  back ;  forbear ; 

You  cannot,  at  this  time,  have  entrance  here. 

You,  that  are  worthy,  may,  by  intercession, 

Find  entertainment  at  the  next  impression ; 

But  let  none  then  attempt  it,  that  not  know 

The  reverence  due,  which  to  this  shrine  they  owe  : 

All  such  must  be  excluded ;  and  the  sort". 

That  only  upon  trust,  or  by  report. 

Have  taken  Fletcher  up,  and  think  it  trim 

To  have  their  verses  planted  before  him. 

Let  them  read  first  his  works,  and  learn  to  know  him, 

And  offer  then  the  sacrifice  they  owe  him. 

But  far  from  hence  be  such  as  would  proclaim 

Their  knowledge  of  this  author,  not  his  fame  ; 

^  wfierel  i.  e.  whereas.  '■  rout~\  i.  e.  multitude.  "  sort'}  i.  e.  pet,  b.iiid. 


Ixiv  COMAIF.NDATORY    POKMS    ON 

And  sucli  as  would  proteml.  (if  all  the  rest, 

To  1)6  the  best  wits  that  have  known  him  best  : 

Depart  hence,  all  such  writers,  and  before 

Inferior  ones  thnist  in  by  many  a  score  ; 

As  formerly  before  Tom  Coryate, 

Whose  work,  before  liis  praisers,  had  the  fate 

To  perish  ;  for  the  witty  copies  took 

Of  his  encomiums  made  themselves  a  book'. 

Here's  no  such  subject  for  you  to  out-do, 

Out-shine,  out-live,  (though  well  you  may  do  too 

In  other  spheres);  for  Fletcher's  flourishing  bays 

Must  never  fade  while  Phoebus  wears  his  rays  : 

Therefore  forbear  to  press  upon  him  thus. 

Why,  what  are  you,  cry  some,  that  prate  to  us  ? 

Do  not  we  know  you  for  a  flashy  meteor, 

And  styl'd,  at  best,  the  Muses'  serving-creature  ? 

Do  you  control  ?     Ye  've  had  your  jeer :  sirs,  no  ; 

But  in  an  humble  manner  let  you  know, 

Old  serving-creatures  oftentimes  are  fit 

T' inform  young  masters,  as  in  land,  in  wit, 

A\^hat  they  inherit,  and  how  well  their  dads 

Left  one,  and  wish'd  the  other  to  their  lads  ; 

And,  from  departed  poets,  I  can  guess 

WHio  has  a  greater  share  of  wit,  who  less. 

'Way,  fool!  another  says.     Ay"',  let  him  rail. 

And  'bout  his  own  ears  flourish  his  wit-flail, 

Till  with  his  swangle  he  his  noddle  break, 

While  this  of  Fletcher  and  his  works  I  speak  ; — 

His  works  !  says  Momus  ;  nay,  his  plays,  you  'd  say. 

Thou  hast  said  right,  for  that  to  him  was  play 

Which  was  to  others'  brains  a  toil  ;  with  ease 

He  play'd  on  waves,  which  were  their  troubled  seas  : 

His  nimble  births  have  longer  liv'd  than  theirs 

That  have,  with  strongest  labour,  divers  years 

Been  sending  forth  the  issues  of  their  brains 

Upon  the  stage  ;  and  shall,  to  the  stationers'  gains, 

Life  after  life  take,  till  some  after-age 

Shall  put  down  printing,  as  this  doth  the  stage, 

Which  nothing  now  presents  unto  the  eye 

But  in  dumb-shows  her  own  sad  tragedy. 

Would  there  had  been  no  sadder  works  abroad, 

Since  her  decay,  acted  in  fields  of  blood  ! 

»  mailelhemite.lves  a  hook']  Sec  note,  p.  Ivi. 

"■  Ay]  Old.  e<I.  "  I,"  with  a  comma  after  it,— evidently  intended  to  stand  for  "  Ay."    Tlic 
Kditorsof  17711  and  Weber  print  "  I." 


BEAUMONT    AND  FLETCHER. 

But  to  the  man  again,  of  whom  we  write, 
The  \TOter  that  made  writing  his  delight, 
Rather  than  work.     He  did  not  pump,  nor  drudge, 
To  beget  wit,  or  manage  it ;  nor  tnidge 
To  wit-conventions  with  note-book,  to  glean 
Or  steal  some  jests  to  foist  into  a  scene  : 
He  scom'd  those  shifts.     You,  that  have  known  him,  know 
The  common  talk  that  from  his  lips  did  flow, 
And  run  at  waste,  did  savour  more  of  \^■it 
Than  any  of  his  time,  or  since,  have  writ, 
But  few  excepted,  in  the  stage's  way  : 
His  scenes  were  acts,  and  eveiy  act  a  play. 
I  knew  him  in  his  strength ;  even  then  when  he, 
That  was  the  master  of  his  art  and  me. 
Most  kno^\•ing  Jonson,  proud  to  call  him  son, 
In  friendly  envy,  swore  he  had  out-done 
His  veiy  self :  I  knew  him  till  he  died  ; 
And,  at  his  dissolution,  what  a  tide 
Of  sorrow  overwhelm'd  the  stage ;  which  gave 
Volleys  of  sighs  to  send  him  to  his  gi-ave, 
And  grew  distracted  in  most  violent  fits, 
For  she  had  lost  the  best  part  of  her  wdts. 

In  the  first  year,  our  famous  Fletcher  fell, 

Of  good  King  Charles,  who  grac"d  these  poems  well, 

Being  then  in  life  of  action  ;  but  they  died 

Since  the  king's  absence,  or  were  laid  aside, 

As  is  their  poet.     Now,  at  the  report 

Of  the  king's  second  coming  to  his  court. 

The  books  creep  from  the  press  to  life,  not  action, 

Ciying  unto  the  world,  that  no  protraction 

May  hinder  sacred  majesty  to  give 

Fletcher,  in  them,  leave  on  the  stage  to  live. 

Others  may  more  in  lofty  verses  move  ; 

I  only  thus  express  my  truth  and  love. 

Richard  Brome". 


^>'  Richard  Brome]  Concerning  this  person  no  particulars  are  known,  except  that,  before 
commencing  dramatist,  he  attended  on  Ben  Jonson  in  a  menial  capacity :  "  To  my  old 
faithful  servant,  and  (by  his  continued  virtue)  my  loving  friend,  the  author  of  this  work," 
is  the  heading  of  some  verses  by  Jonson  which  are  prefixed  to  Brome's  earliest  play.  The 
f>'orthe)-n  Laxs,  1632.  The  date  of  his  death  is  uncertain  ;  but  he  was  dead  in  1653.  Besides 
a  drama  which  he  wrote  in  conjunction  with  Heywood,  fifteen  of  his  plays  .ire  extant. 
Some  of  them  possess  no  ordinary  merit,  especially  The  Northern  Lass,  The  Antipodes,  and 
The  Jovial  Crete .-  the  last-mentioned  piece,  turned  into  an  opera,  has  been  acted  during  the 
present  century.   Commendatory  poems  by  Brome  occur  in  several  publications  of  the  time. 


COMMENDATORY    I'OKMS    ON 


UPON  THE   PRINTING  OF  MASTER   JOHN  FLETCHER'S  WORK!- 

What  means  this  numerous  guard  ?  or  do  we  come 

To  file  om-  names  or  verse  upon  the  tomb 

Of  Fletcher,  and,  by  boldly  making  known 

His  wit,  betray  the  nothing  of  our  own  1 

For  if  w^e  grant  him  dead,  it  is  as  true 

Against  ourselves, — no  wit,  no  poet  now  ; 

Or  if  he  be  retum'd  fiom  his  cool  shade 

To  us,  this  book  his  resurrection  's  made  ; 

We  bleed  ourselves  to  death,  and  but  contrive 

By  our  own  epitaphs  to  shew  him  alive. 

But  let  him  live ;  and  let  me  prophesy, 

As  I  go  swan-like  out,  our  peace  is  nigh  ; 

A  balm  unto  the  wounded  age  I  sing, 

And  nothing  now  is  wanting  but  the  king. 

James  Shirley'. 


THE  STATIONER. 

As  after  th'  epilogue  there  comes  some  one 
To  tell  spectators  what  shall  next  be  shown. 
So  here  am  I  ;  but,  though  I  've  toil'd  and  vext, 
Cannot  devise  what  to  present  ye  next  ; 
For,  since  ye  saw  no  plays  this  cloudy  weather. 
Here  we  have  brought  ye  our  whole  stock  together ; 
'Tis  new,  and  all  these  gentlemen  attest, 
Under  their  hands,  'tis  right  and  of  the  best ; 
Thirty-four  witnesses  >',  without  my  task, — 
Y'  have  just  so  many  plays,  besides  a  masque  ; 
All  good,  I  'm  told,  as  have  been  read  or  play'd  : 
if  this  book  fail,  'tis  time  to  quit  the  trade. 

HlMPHREY    MOSELEY'. 

»  Jamet  Shirley']  Bom  in  1596,  died  in  16W;. 

r  Thirty-four  witnestes]  "  Humphrey  Moseley  makes  a  bimilar  enumeration  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  commendatory  verses  on  Cartn-right  [prefixed  to  Cartwrights  irorfcf,  1651. 
of  which  Moseky  was  the  publisher]  ; 

'  as  many  hands  attest  it  here 
As  there  are  shires  in  Knglanri,  weeks  i'  th'  year.' " 


BEAUMONT    AXD    FLETCHER,  Ixvii 


POSTSCRIPT. 


'W'e  forgot  to  tell  the  reader  that  some  prologues  and  epilogues  here 
inserted  were  not  written  by  the  authors  of  this  volume,  but  made  by 
others  on  the  revival  of  several  plays.  After  the  comedies  and  tragedies 
were  wrought  off,  we  were  forced,  for  expedition,  to  send  the  gentlemen's 
verses  to  several  printers,  which  was  the  occasion  of  their  different 
character ;  but  the  work  itself  is  one  continued  letter,  which,  though  very 
legible,  is  none  of  the  biggest,  because,  as  much  as  possible,  we  would 
lessen  the  bulk  of  the  volume. 


VERSES  UNDER  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  FLETCHER,  ENGRAVED  BY 
MARSHALL,  PREFIXED  TO  THE  TWO  FOLIOS. 

Felicis  cevi  ac  prcesulis  natus,  comes 
Beaumontio,  sic,  quippe  Parnassus,  biceps, 
Fletcherus  unam  in  pyramida  furcas  agens, 
Struxit  chorum  plus  simplicem  vates  duplex. 
Plus  duplicem  solus  ;  nee  ullum  transtulit. 
Nee  transferendus  :  dramatum  ceterni  sales, 
Anglo  tlieatro,  orbi,  sibi,  superstites. 

Fletcher e,  fades  absque  vultu  pingitur ; 
Qumvtus,  vel  timbram  circuit  nemo  tuam. 

JoHX  Berkknhe.^d''. 

*  Juhn  Berkiiihcadi  See  note  p.  1. 


C'OMMliNDATUKV    POEMS. 


AN   KPITAI'II  UPON  MY  DKAR  BROTHER,  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT. 
(From  Sir  John  Beaumont's  Poenu,  162y.) 

On  Death,  thy  murderer,  this  revenge  I  take; 

I  slight  his  terror,  and  just  question  make 

A\'hich  of  us  two  the  best  precedence  have, 

Mine  to  this  wretched  worW,  thine  to  the  grave  ; 

Thou  shouldst  have  follow'd  me,  but  Death,  to  blame, 

Miscounted  years,  and  measur'd  age  by  fame  : 

So  dearly  hast  thou  bought  thy  precious  lines  ; 

Their  praise  grew  swiftly,  so  thy  life  declines  : 

Thy  Muse,  the  hearer's  queen,  the  reader's  love, 

All  ears,  all  hearts,  but  Death's,  could  please  and  move. 


X 


THE   WOMAN-HATER. 


The  Woman  Hater.  As  it  hath  bcene  lateJy  Acted  by  the  Children  of  Paiiles.  London 
Printed,  and  are  to  be  sold  by  John  Hodgets  in  Patties  Church-yard.    1607,  4to. 

Some  copies  of  this  4to  have  on  the  title-page  "  Printed  by  R.  R.  and  are  to  l>e  .told"  &c. ; 
and  exhibit  one  or  two  corruptions  of  the  text  from  which  tlie  other  copies  are  free-  The 
latter  must  have  been  altered  after  part  of  the  impression  had  been  struck  off. 

The  Woman  Hater.  As  it  hath  beene  Acted  by  his  Majesties  Servants  with  great 
Applause.     Written  by  John  Fletcher  Gent.  &c.    1648,  4to. 

This  impression,  with  the  addition  of  a  prologue  and  an  epilogue  (the  former  by 
Davenant),  and  with  a  new  title-page,  was  put  forth  as— 

The  Wotnan  Hater,  or  the  Hungry  Courtier.  A  Comedy,  as  it  hath  been  Acted  by  his 
Majesties  Servants  with  great  Applause.    Written  liy 

Francis  Beaumont  •\ 

and  >  Gent. 

John  Fletcher.  '  fzc.    1(749, 4to. 

The  Woman  Hater  is  also  in  the  Folio  of  1679. 


)(i 


This  drama,  according  to  the  Stationers'  Books,  was  licensed  by  Sir 
George  Buc,  20th.  jVIay,  1607  (Chahners's  Suppl.  Apol.  p.  200)  ;  and  as 
both  the  entry  in  those  books,  and  the  title-page  of  the  first  4to  state 
that  it  had  been  "  lately  acted,"  we  may  conclude  that  it  was  originally 
brought  upon  the  stage  either  in  IGOG  or  1607.  The  title-page  of  1649 
attributes  a  portion  of  it  to  Beaumont,  but  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  that  it  was  the  unassisted  composition  of  Fletcher. 

The  source  from  which  the  poet  derived  (though  perhaps  not 
immediately)  the  underplot  of  Lazarillo  and  the  umbrana's  head,  was 
first  pointed  out  by  a  ^vriter  in  The  Athenmim  for  1807,  who,  while 
turning  over  Bayle's  Dictionary^  accidentally  discovered  it  in  a  quotation 
from  Paulus  Jovius  On  Roman  Fishes^.  The  passage  (with  a  better 
text  than  Bayle  has  chosen)  is  as  follows.  "  Extat  adhuc  in  ore  quoi-undam 
facetorum  ridenda  fabula  de  T.  Tamisio,  qui  Romanis  aulicisque  salibus 
erat  insignis,  sed  guise  adeo  prostitutae  ut  infamis  haberetur.  Is  quum 
per  servum,  qui  in  foro  piscario  in  eam  curam  intentus  excubare  solebat, 
ingentis  umbrinse  caput  Triumviris  delatum  esse  cognovisset,  in  Capi- 
toliura  protinus  ascendit,  ut  simulate  apud  magistratum  negotio,  ser- 
moneque  de  industria  protracto,  prandium  captaret.  Verum  illud 
Triumviri  jam  Riario  Cardinal!  donandum  decreverant :  ita  Tamisius, 
quum  limine  curiae  efferri  ingenti  coronataque  patina  caput  illud  nobile 
conspexisset,  primo  deceptus  consilio,  illud  subsecutus  est,  praemisso  servo 
qui  vestigiis  deferentium  ministrorum  insisteret.  Nee  multo  post  quum 
Riarianis  aedibus  inferretur,  Bene  habet,  salva  res  est,  inquit  Tamisius, 
opipare  excipiemur ;  erat  enun  in  primis  mensae  Riarianae,  quae  longe 
omnium  semper  lautissima  fuit,  familiaris.  At  Riarius,  ut  erat  natura 
munificus,  Maximum,  inquit,  hoc  Triumvu-ale  caput  maximo  debetur 
cardinali ;  statimque  Federico  Sanseverino  proceritatis  admirandae cardinal! 
transmittitur.    CoUigit  extemplo  togam  Tamisius,  Riarium  intempestivae 

a  Bayle's  Diet.  Art.  Oiigi  (Augusfhi),  Note  A. 
B  2 


m\inificcntife  incusaiis,  in  iiuilanK|uc  rcsilit,  ctnninus  ad  Sanscvciinianam 
domnm  consc(juitur.  Idem  pari  liheralitate  facit  Fedcricus,  capiitfiuc 
ipsuni,  splendidis  oxornatum  verbis'',  aurataque  illatum  patina,  Chisio'" 
publicano  ditissimo  deferri  jubet,  quod  ci  multo  »rc  alicno  gravibusque 
usuris  obstrictus  crat.  Volitat,  tcrtia  jam  spe  avidam  frustratus  gnlam, 
aestuans  Tamisins,  festinabundupqueincalcscente  jam  die  in  Transtilterinos 
hortos,  quos  ipse  Chisius  maguificentissimos  extniebat,  contendit :  iliique 
fessus  admodum  et  multo  sudorc  madidus,  quod  gravis  erat  abdominis, 
quarto  a  fortuna  decipitur  ;  quippe  qui  Chisium  caput  illud  reccntibus 
floribus  redimitum  adamato  scorto,  cui  ab  forma  eruditisque  illecebris 
Imperiae  cognomen  fuit,  ut  extemplo  deferretur  curantcm  reperit.  Flectit 
itaque  indignabundus  habenas  retro,  nee  tamen  subiratus  gulje,  quae 
Herculeos  labores  attulerat,  et  ad  Imperiam  jam  multo  sole  Sixtini 
Pontis  semitam  exurente  adequitat.  Ad  extremum  anhelantis  gulae 
ca  vis  atque  libido  fuit,  ut  qui  per  totam  urbem  fuerat  raptatus,  idem  ct 
togatus  et  senex,  cum  scorto,  admirante  novi  hominis  adventum,  nullo 
pudore  discubuerit."  De  Rom.  Pise.  cap.  v.  Sig.  C  6.  sqq.  ed.  Antwerp, 
1.528,  12mo. 

•>  Uayle  supposed  that  "verbis"  (which  evidently  means  tconU  0/  cpmiliment)  was  an 
error  of  the  press  for  "herbis." 

I  i.  e.  Augustin  Clngi :  see  Bayle  i/''i  supra. 


^\ 


PROLOGUE, 


Gentlemen,  Inductions  **  are  out  of  date,  and  a  Prologue  in 
verse  is  as  stale  as  a  black  velvet  cloak  and  a  bay  garland  '"; 
therefore  you  shall  have  it  plain  prose,  thus.  If  there  be 
any  amongst  you  that  come  to  hear  lascivious  scenes,  let  them 
depart ;  for  I  do  pronounce  this,  to  the  utter  discomfort  of 
all  two-penny  gallery-men  \  you  shall  have  no  bawdry  in  it : 
or  if  there  be  any  lurking  amongst  you  in  corners,  with  table- 
books  s,  who  have  some  hope  to  find  fit  matter  to  feed  his 

^  malice  on,  let  them  clasp  them  up  and  slink  away,  or 

stay  and  be  converted.  For  he  that  made  this  play  means 
to  please  auditors  so  as  he  may  be  an  auditor  himself  here- 
after, and  not  purchase  them  with  the  dear  loss  of  his  ears. 
I  dare  not  call  it  comedy  or  tragedy  ;  "'tis  perfectly  neither  : 
a  play  it  is,  which  was  meant  to  make  you  laugh ;  how  it 

''  Inductions']  "  Such  as  precede  [B.  Jonsou's]  Cynthia  s  Revels,  Bar- 
tholomew Fair,  [Shakespeare's]  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  and  many  other  plays 
of  that  period."     Reed. 

*  a  black  velvet  cloak  and  a  lay  garland]  A  black  cloak  was  the  usual  dress 
of  the  person,  who  spoke  the  prologue  ;  and  in  the  tragedy  played  before  the 
Kmg  m  Shakespeare's  Hamlet,  the  prologue-speaker  still  wears  it  on  the  modern 
stage.  A  bay  garland  was  also  a  customary  addition  to  his  attire.  "  The  bay 
was  the  emblem  of  authorship,  and  the  use  of  the  garland  arose  out  of  the  custom 
for  the  author,  or  a  person  representing  him,  to  speak  the  prologue."  Collier's 
Hist,  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poet.,  iii.  442. 

'  two  penny  gallery-men]  The  two-penny  rooms,  or  galleries,  were  the 
cheapest  parts  of  the  large  public  theatres  :  see  CoUier's  Hist,  of  Eng. 
Dram.  Poet.,  iii.  343. 

K  table-books]  i.  e.  memorandum  books,  which  persons  used  to  take  to  the 
theatre  for  the  purpose  of  noting  down  particular  passages. 

^  ]   So  old  eds.    Gifibrd,  without  any  authority,  cites  the  passage  thus  ; 

"feed  their  malice."     Note  on  B.  Jonsou's  fforks,  ii.  90. 


vi  TROLOGUi:. 

will  please  you,  is  not  written  in  my  part ;  for  though  you 
should  like  it  to-day,  perhaps  yourselve.s  know  not  how  you 
should  digest  it  to-morrow.  Some  things  in  it  you  may 
meet  with,  which  are  out  of  the  common  road  :  a  duke  there 
is,  and  the  scene  lies  in  Italy,  as  those  two  things  lightly '  we 
never  miss  ;  but  you  shall  not  find  in  it  the  ordinary  and 
over-woiTi  trade  of  jesting  at  lords,  and  courtiers,  and 
citizens,  without  taxation  of  any  particular  or  new  vice  by 
them  found  out,  but  at  the  persons  of  them  :  such,  he  that 
made  this,  thinks  vile,  and  for  his  own  part  vOws,  that  he 
did  never  think  but  that  a  lord  lord-born  might  be  a  wise 
man,  and  a  courtier  an  honest  man. 

'  lightly]  i.  c.  commonly. 


PROLOGUES 

AT    A    REVIVAL    OP    THE    PLAY. 


Ladies,  take't  as  a  secret  in  your  ear, 

Instead  of  homage  and  kind  welcome  here, 

I  heartily  could  wish  you  all  were  gone  ; 

For  if  you  stay,  good  faith,  we  are  undone. 

Alas,  you  now  expect  the  usual  ways 

Of  our  address,  which  is  your  sex''s  praise  ! 

But  we  to-night,  unluckily,  must  speak 

Such  things  will  make  your  lovers'  heart-strings  break, 

Belie  your  virtues,  and  your  beauties  stain, 

With  words  contrivM  long  since  in  your  disdain. 

'Tis  strange  you  stir  not  yet ;  not  all  this  while 

Lift  up  your  fans  to  hide  a  scornful  smile, 

Whisper,  or  jog  your  lords  to  steal  away ; 

So  leave  us  to  act  unto  ourselves  our  play. 

Then,  sure,  there  may  be  hope  you  can  subdue 

Your  patience  to  endure  an  act  or  two ; 

Nay  more,  when  you  are  told  our  poet''s  rage 

Pursues  but  one  example,  which  that  age 

Wherein  he  livM  produc''d  ;  and  we  rely 

Not  on  the  truth,  but  the  variety. 

His  Muse  believ'd  not  what  she  then  did  write  ; 

Her  wings  were  wont  to  make  a  nobler  flight, 

Soar  d  high,  and  to  the  stars  your  sex  did  raise  ; 

For  which,  full  twenty  years  he  wore  the  bays  : 

J  Prologue]  Prefixed  to  4to  1649  :  it  was  written  by  Sir  William  Davenaut, 
when  he  revived  this  play  ;  see  his  Works,  p.  239. 


i  PROLOGUE,  AT  THE  REVIVAL. 

'Twas  he  rcducM  Evadnc  ^  from  her  scorn, 

And  taught  the  sad  Aspatia  '  how  to  mourn  ; 

Gave  Arethusa''s  love'"  a  glad  relief; 

And  made  Panthca"  elegant  in  grief. 

If  those  great  trophies  of  his  noble  ^lusc 

Cannot  one  humour  'gainst  your  sex  excuse. 

Which  wG  present  to-night,  you'll  find  a  way 

How  to  make  good  the  libel  in  our  play  : 

So  you  arc  cruel  to  yourselves  ;  whilst  he 

(Safe  in  the  fame  of  his  integrity) 

Will  be  a  prophet,  not  a  poet  thought, 

And  this  fine  web  last  long,  though  loosely  WTought. 

^  Evadne]  Sec  The  Maid's  Tragedy. 

'  yispada]  See  the  same. 

"'  Aretltusa's  love'\  See  Philaster. 

"  PaiilheaJ  See  //  King  and  No  King. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 


Duke  of  Milan. 

Valore,  a  count,  brother  to  Oriana. 

GoNDARiNo,  a  lord  and  general. 

Lucio,  a  lord. 

ArrigOj  a  knight. 

Lazarillo,  a  needy  courtier. 

Secretary  to  Lucio. 

Mercer. 

Pandar. 

Two  Intelligencers, 


Boy,  page  to  Lazarillo. 

Gentlemen,  Prentices,  Page,  Servants. 


Oriana,  sister  to  Valore. 

Julia,  } 

_,  >  courtesans. 

Francissina,   3 

Old  Gentlewoman. 

Waiting-woman  to  Oriana. 

Ladies. 


Scene,  Milan. 


THE    WOMAN-HATER. 


ACT   I. 

Scene   I. — A  Street. 


Enter  Duke,  Arrigo,  and  Lucio. 

Duke.  'Tis  now  the  sweetest  time  for  sleep  ;  the  night 
Scarce  spent :  Arrigo,  what 's  o'clock  I 
\       Arr.  Past  four. 

Duke.  Is  it  so  much,  and  yet  the  morn  not  up  ? 
v  See  yonder,  where  the  shame-fac'd  maiden  comes  ! 
Into  our  sight  how  gently  doth  she  slide, 
Hiding  her  chaste  cheeks,  like  a  modest  bride, 
With  a  red  veil  of  blushes  !  as  is  she^, 
Even  such  all  modest  virtuous  women  be. 
Why  thinks  your  lordship  I  am  up  so  soon  ? 

Lucio.  About  some  weighty  state-plot. 

Duke.  And  what  thinks 
Your  knighthood  of  it  ? 

Arr.  I  do  think,  to  pure 
Some  strange  corruptions  in  the  commonwealth. 

Duke.  Ye're  well  conceited  of  yourselves,  to  think 
I  chuse  you  out  to  bear  me  company 
In  such  affairs  and  business  of  state  ! 
But  am  not  I  a  pattern  for  all  princes, 

0  as  is  she]  So  4to  1607.     Other  eds.  "as  if  she." 


12  THE  WoMAN-HATEll.  [act  i. 

That  break  my  soft  sleep  for  my  subject!*'  good  I 
Am  I  not  careful  i  very  provident  I 

Lucio.  Your  grace  is  careful. 

Arr.  Very  provident. 

Duke.  Nay,  knew  you  how  my  serious  working  plots 
Concern  the  whole  estates  of  all  my  subjects, 
Ay,  and  their  lives ;  then,  Lucio,  thou  wouldst  swear, 
I  were  a  loving  prince. 

Lucio.  I  think  your  grace 
Intends  to  walk  the  public  streets  disguisM, 
To  see  the  streets'  disorders. 

Duke.  'Tis  not  so. 

Arr.  You  secretly  will  cross  some  other  states, 
That  do  conspire  against  you. 

Duke.  Weightier  far  : 
You  are  my  friends,  and  you  shall  have  the  cause ; 
I  break  my  sleeps  thus  soon  to  see  a  wench. 

Lucio.  You  Ve  wondrous  careful  for  your  subjects'"  good  ! 

Arr.  You  are  a  very  loving  prince  indeed  ! 

Duke.  This  care  I  take  for  them,  when  their  dull  eyes 
Are  clos'd  with  heavy  slumbers. 

Arr.  Then  you  rise 
To  see  your  wenches. 

Lucio.  "W^hat  Milan  beauty  hath  the  power 
To  charm  her  sovereign's  f  eyes  and  break  his  sleeps  ? 

Duke.  Sister  to  count  Valore  :  she  "s  a  maid 
Would  make  a  prince  forget  his  throne  and  state, 
And  lowly  kneel  to  her :  the  general  fate 
Of  all  mortality,  is  hers  to  give ; 
As  she  disposeth,  so  we  die  and  live. 

Lucio.  My  lord,  the  day  grows  clear ;  the  court  will  rise. 

Duke.  We  stay  too  long.  Is  the  umbrana's  head  'i,  as  we 
commanded,  sent  to  the  sad  Gondarino,  our  general  \ 

p  ioiercigns'\  So  4to  1007.     Other  eds.  "  sovereign." 

■)  ihc  umbrana't  head]  The  umbrina — scitena  aquila,  or  maigre,  "appears 
always  to  have  been  in  great  request  witli  epicures  ;  and  as  on  account  of 
its  large  size,  [being  taken  seldom  less  tlian  three,  and  sometimes  six  feet  in 
length]  it  was  always  sold  in  pieces,  the  fishermen  of  Rome  were  in  the  habit  of 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  13 

Arr.  Tis  sent. 

Duke.  But  stay.: — where  shines  that  light  ?    . 

Arr.  'Tis  in  the  chamber  of  Lazarillo. 

Duke.  Lazarillo  !  what  is  he  ? 

Arr.  A  courtier,  my  lord  ;  and  one  that  I  wonder  your 
grace  knows  not,  for  he  hath  followed  your  CQurt,  and  your 
last  predecessor's,  from  place  to  place,  any  time  this  seven 
year,  as  faithfully  as  your  spits  and  your  dripping-pans '  have 
done,  and  almost  as  greasily. 

Duke.  Oh,  we  know  him :  as  we  have  heard,  he  keeps  a 
calendar  of  all  the  famous  dishes  of  meat,  that  have  been  in 
the  court  ever  since  our  great-grand  fa  there's  time;  and  when 
he  can  thrust  in  at  no  table,  he  makes  his  meat  *  of  that. 

Liicio.  The  very  same,  my  lord. 

Duke.  A  courtier  call'st  thou  him  ? 
Believe  me,  Lucio,  there  be  many  such 
About  our  court,  respected,  as  they  think, 
Even  by  ourself.     With  thee  I  will  be  plain  : 
We  princes  do  use  to  prefer  many  for  nothing,  and  to  take 
particular  and  free  knowledge,  almost  in  the  nature  of  ac- 
quaintance, of  many  whom  we  do  use  only  for  our  pleasures  ; 
and  do  give  largely  to  numbers,  more  out  of  policy  to  be 
thought  liberal,  and  by  that  means  to  make  the  people  strive 
to  deserve  our  love,  than  to  reward  any  particular  desert  of 
theirs  to  whom  we  give ;  and   do  suffer   ourselves  to  hear 
flatterers,  more  for  recreation  than  for  love  of  it,  though  we 
seldom  hate  it  : 

And  yet  we  know  all  these ;   and  when  we  please. 
Can  touch  the  wheel,  and  turn  their  names  about. 

Lucio.  I  wonder  they  that  know  their  states  so  well, 
Should  fancy  such  base  slaves. 

Duke.  Thou  wonder'st,  Lucio  ! 

presenting  the  head,  which  was  considered  the  finest  part,  as  a  sort  of  tribute  to 
the  tliree  local  magisti-ates  who  acted  for  the  time  as  conservators  of  the  city." 
Yarrell's  Hist,  of  Brit.  Fishes,  i.  91. 

^  your  spits  and  your  dripping-pans'^  i.  e.  according  to  the  English  custom 
in  the  poet's  own  time, — when,  during  the  royal  progresses,  these  utensils,  with 
all  other  articles  of  furniture,  were  moved  in  carts  from  palace  to  palace. 

"  mcatl  Qy.  "  meal "  ? 


14  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  i. 

Dost  not  thou  think,  if  thou  wort  Duko  of  Milan, 
Tliou  shouUlst  be  flattered  I 

Liicin.  I  know,  my  lord,  I  would  not, 

Duke.  Why,  80  I  thought  till  I   was  Duke ;   I  thought  I 
should  have  left  me  no  more  flatterers  than  there  are  now 
plain-dealers  ;  and  yet,  for  all  this  my  resolution,  I  am  most 
palpably  flattered.     The  poor  man  may  loathe  covetousness 
and  flattery,  but  fortune  will  alter  the  mind  when  the  wind 
turns  ;  there  may  be  well  a  little  conflict,  but  it  will  drive 
the  billows  before  it. — Arrigo,  it  grows  late  ; 
For  see,  fair  Thetis  *  hath  undone  the  bars 
To  Phoebus'  team ;  and  his  unrivalFd  light 
Hath  chasM  the  morning's  modest  blush  away : 
Now  must  we  to  our  love. — Bright  Paphian  queen, 
Thou  Cytherean  goddess,  that  delights 
In  stirring  glances,  and  art  still  thyself 
More  toying  than  thy  team  of  sparrows  be ; 
Thou  laughing  Erycina  ',  Oh,  inspire 
Her  heart  with  love,  or  lessen  my  desire  !  yExeimt. 


SCENE  11. — Lazarillo's  Lodfjinfj. 
Enter  Lazarillo  and  Boy. 

Laz.  Go,  run,  search,  pry  in  every  nook  and  angle  "  of  the 
kitchens,  larders,  and  pastries  ;  know  what  meat's  boiled, 
baked,  roast,  stewed,  fried,  or  soused,  at  this  dinner,  to  be 
served  directly,  or  indirectly,  to  every  several  table  in  the 
court ;  begone  ! 

Boy.  I  run  ;  but  not  so  fast  as  your  mouth  will  do  upon 
the  stroke  of  eleven  ''.  [  Exit. 

Laz.  What  an  excellent  thing  did  God  bestow  upon  man, 

»   Thel\s"\  Altered  by  the  modern  editors  to  "  Tethys." 
'  laughing  Erycitia]  "  Erycina  x-idens."    Hor.  Carm.  i.  2. 
"  finglel  i.  e.  corner. 

"  upon  the  stroke  of  eleven.]  "The  usual  dinner  liour  at  the  time.  See  the 
Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,  passim."     Weber. 


SCENE  II.  THE   WOMAN-HATER.  15 

when  he  did  give  him  a  good  stomach  !  ^Vhat  unbounded 
graces  there  are  poured  upon  them  that  have  the  continual 
command  of  the  very  best  of  these  blessings  !  'Tis  an  excellent 
thing  to  be  a  prince ;  he  is  served  with  such  admirable  variety 
of  fare,  such  innumerable  choice  of  delicates ;  his  tables  are 
full- fraught  with  most  nourishing  food,  and  his  cupboards 
heavy-laden  with  rich  wines  :  his  court  is  still  filled  with  most 
pleasing  varieties  ;  in  the  summer  his  palace  is  full  of  green- 
geese,  and  in  winter  it  swarmeth  woodcocks.  Oh,  thou  Goddess 
of  Plenty, 

Fill  me  this  day  ^A^th  some  rare  delicates, 

And  I  will  every  year  most  constantly. 

As  this  day,  celebrate  a  sumptuous  feast, 

If  thou  wilt  send  me  victuals,  in  thine  honour  ! 

And  to  it  shall  be  bidden,  for  thy  sake, 

Even  all  the  valiant  stomachs  in  the  court "'' ; 

All  short-cloaked  knights,  and  all  cross-garter' d  '^  gentlemen. 

All  pump  and  pantofle  ^,  foot-cloth  ^  riders. 

With  all  the  swarming  generation 

Of  long  stocks^,  short  pan'd  hose'',  and  huge  stuff'd  doublets'": 

All  these  shall  eat,  and,  which  is  more  than  yet 

Hath  e''er  been  seen,  they  shall  be  satisfied  ! — 

I  wonder  my  ambassador  returns  not. 

w  Even  all  the  valiant  &c.]  "  This  scene,"  says  Coleridge,"  from  the  begin- 
ning is  prose  printed  as  blank  verse,  down  to  the  line — '  E'en  all  the  valiant ' 
&c.,  where  the  verse  recommences.  This  transition  from  the  prose  to  the  verse 
enhances,  and  indeed  forms,  the  comic  effect."  Remains,  ii.  322.  Surely,  the 
verse  recommences  at  "  Fill  me  this  day,"  &c. 

*  cross-garter'd]  i.  e.  having  the  garter  crossed  on  the  leg,— which,  as  well 
as  the  other  peculiarities  of  dress  here  mentioned,  was  a  mode  highly  fashion- 
able at  the  time  tliis  play  was  produced. 

y  pantofle'[  i.  e.  a  kind  of  slipper. 

^  foot-cloth']  i.  e.  a  cloth  to  protect  the  feet,— housmgs  of  cloth,  hangmg  down 
on  each  side  of  the  horse. 

^  stocks]  i.  e.  stockings. 

^  pan'd  hose]  i.  e.  a  sort  of  breeches  (generally  full  and  bombasted)  made  of 
stripes  {pa7ies)  of  various-coloured  cloth  stitched  together,  having  slips  of  silk  or 
velvet  occasionally  intermixed. 

'  huge  stuffed  doublets]  i.  e.  doublets,  bombasted  to  a  ridiculous  size. 


If,  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  i. 

Rc-cnkr  Boy. 

Boy.  Here  I  am,  master. 

Laz.  And  welcome : 
Never  did  that  sweet  virgin  in  her  smock, 
Fair-chcek'd  Andromeda,  when  to  the  rock 
Her  ivory  limbs  were  chain'd,  and  straight  before 
A  huge  sea-monster,  tumbling  to  the  shore. 
To  have  devour  d  her,  with  more  longing  sight 
Expect  the  coming  of  some  hardy  knight, 
That  might  have  quell'd  his  pride  and  set  her  free, 
Than  I  with  longing  sight  have  look'd  for  thee. 

Boy.  Your  Perseus  is  come,  master,  that  will  destroy  him; 
The  very  comfort  of  whose  presence  shuts 
The  monster  Hunger  from  your  yelping  guts. 

Laz.  Brief,  boy,  brief  ! 
Discourse  the  service  of  each  several  table 
Compendiously. 

Boy.  Here''s  a  bill  of  all,  sir. 

Laz.  Give  it  me.  \^Reads.'\    A  hill  of  all  the  several  services 
this  day  appointed  for  every  table  in  the  court. 
Ay,  this  is  it  on  which  my  hopes  rely ; 
Within  this  paper  all  my  joys  are  closed. 
Boy,  open  it,  and  read  it  with  reverence. 

Boy.    [^Beads.']   For  the   Captain   of  the  yuai'd's  table.,   three 
chines  of  beef  and  twojoles  ofsturyeon. 

Laz.  A  portly  service,  but  gross,  gross.     Proceed  to  the 
Duke's  own  table,  dear  boy,  to  the  Duke's  own  table. 

Boy,  \_Beads.~\  For  the  Duke'' s  oivn  table, the  head  of  an  umbrana. 

Laz.  Is't  possible  ? 
Can  heaven  be  so  propitious  to  the  Duke  I 

Boy.  Yes,  ril  assure  you,  sir,  'tis  possible  ;    heaven  is  so 
propitious  to  him. 

Laz.  Why,  then,  he  is  the  richest  prince  alive ; 
He  were  the  wealthiest  monarch  in  all  Europe, 
Had  he  no  other  territories,  dominions, 
Provinces,  seats,  nor  palaces,  but  only 
That  umbrana's  head. 

Boy.    Tis  very  fresh  and  sweet,  sir ;   the  lish  was  taken  but 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  17 

tliis  night,   and  the  head,   as  a  rare  novelty,  appointed  by 
special  commandment  for  the  Duke's  own  table,  this  dinner. 

Laz.  If  poor  unworthy  I  may  come  to  eat 
Of  this  most  sacred  dish,  I  here  do  vow 
(If  that  blind  huswife  Fortune  will  bestow 
But  means  on  me)  to  keep  a  sumptuous  house  ; 
a  board  groaning  under  the  heavy  burden  of  the  beast  "^  that 
cheweth  the  cud,  and  the  fowl  that  cutteth  the  air.     It  shall 
not,  like  the  table  of  a  country-justice,  be  sprinkled  over  with 
all  manner  of  cheap  salads,  sliced  beef,  giblets,  and  pettitoes, 
to  fill  up  room  ;  nor  should  there  stand  any  great,  cumber- 
some, uncut-up  pies  at  the  nether  end,  filled  with  moss  and 
stones,  partly  to  make  a  show  with,  and  partly  to  keep  the 
lower  mess  '^  from  eating  ;  nor  shall  my  meat  come  in  sneak- 
ing, like  the  city-service,  one  dish  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after 
another,  and  gone  as  if  they  had  appointed  to  meet  there  and 
had  mistook  the  hour;   nor  should  it,  like  the  new  court- 
service,  come  in  in  haste,  as  if  it  fain  would  be  gone  again, 
all  courses  at  once,  like  a  hunting  breakfast ' :  but  I  would 
have  my  several  courses  and  my  dishes  well  filed  ° ;  my  first 
course  should  be  brought  in  after  the  ancient  manner,  by  a 

^  beast'\  Old  eds.  «  beasts." 

«•  the  lower  jwes.?]  "  That  is,  those  who  used  to  sit  at  the  table  below  the 
salt ;  a  custom  frequently  mentioned  in  our  ancient  writers.  Mr.  Whalley 
[Note  on  B.  Jonson's  Cynthia's  Revels,  act  ii.  sc.  1.]  gives  the  following 
account  of  the  manner  in  which  our  ancestors  were  usually  seated  at  their 
meals  :  '  The  tables  being  long,  the  salt  [i.  e.  salt-cellar,  of  a  very  large  size] 
was  commonly  placed  about  the  middle,  and  served  as  a  kind  of  boundary 
to  the  different  quality  of  the  guests  invited.  Those  of  distinction  were  ranked 
above ;  the  space  below  was  assigned  to  the  dependants  or  inferior  relations 
of  the  master  of  the  house.'  "     Reed. 

'  nor  should  it,  like  the  new  court  service,  come  in  in  haste,  as  if  it  fain 
would  be  gone  again,  all  courses  at  once,  like  a  hunting  bi-eakfast}  "  It  appears 
to  have  been  an  usual  trick  at  the  court-entertainments  at  that  time,  for  the 
servants  to  remove  the  dishes  before  the  guests  had  time  to  eat  of  them.  When 
the  Muscovite  ambassadors  were  entertained  at  King  James's  court  in  1617, 
Sir  John  Finett,  then  master  of  ceremonies,  informs  us,  *  their  servants  (about 
fifty  of  them)  had  a  dinner  provided  in  the  guard-chamber,  where  the  guard 
that  waited  on  them  failed  not  of  their  accustomed  care  (by  soone  shifting  away 
their  dishes)  to  keep  them  from  surfeiting.' — Finetti  Philod-cnis,  London,  165G, 
Hvo,  p.  47."     Weber  (qy.  Sir  W.  Scott  ?). 

8  filed'\  "  i.  e.  ari'.^ngcd,  ranked."     Weber. 
VOL.    I.  C 


18  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  |a(t  i. 

score  of  old  blear-eyed   serving-incn  in  long  blue  coats'', — 

marry,  they  shall  buy  silk-facing  and  buttons  themselves,  but 

that's  by  the  way — 

Boy.  Master,  the  time  calls  on  ;   will  you  be  walking  I 
Laz.  Follow,  boy,  follow  :  my  guts  were  half  an  hour  since 

in  the  privy-kitchen.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE   Til. — An  Apartment  in  the  honse  n/Y. \ho\iy. 
Enter  V  a  lore  and  Oriana. 

Ori.  Faith,  brother,  I  must  needs  go  yonder. 

Fal.  And  i'faith,  sister,  what  will  you  do  yonder  I 

Ori.  I  know  the  lady  Honoria  will  be  glad  to  see  me. 

Val.  Glad  to  see  you  ?  Faith,  the  lady  Honoria  cares  for 
you  as  she  doth  for  all  other  young  ladies ;  she's  glad  to  see 
you,  and  will  shew  you  the  privy-garden,  and  tell  you  how 
many  gowns  the  Duchess  had.  ^larry,  if  you  have  ever  an 
old  uncle  that  would  be  a  lord,  or  ever  a  kinsman  that  hath 
done  a  murder  or  committed  a  robbery,  and  will  give  good 
store  of  money  to  procure  his  pardon,  then  the  lady  Honoria 
will  be  glad  to  see  you. 

Ori.  Ay,  but  they  say  one  shall  see  fine  sights  at  the  court. 

Val.  ril  tell  you  what  you  shall  see.  You  shall  see  many 
faces  of  man's  making,  for  you  shall  find  very  few  as  God  left 
them  :  and  you  shall  see  many  legs  too  ;  amongst  the  rest  you 
shall  behold  one  pair,  the  feet  of  which  were  in  times  past 
Bockless,  but  are  now,  through  the  change  of  time  (that  alters 
all  things),  very  strangely  become  the  legs  of  a  knight  and 
a  courtier ;  another  pair  you  shall  see,  that  were  heir- 
apparent  legs  to  a  glover;  these  legs  hope  shortly  to  be 
honourable  ;  when  they  pass  by  they  will  bow,  and  the  mouth 
to  these  legs  will  seem  to  offer  you  some  courtship  ;  it  will 
swear,  but  it  will  lie ;  hear  it  not. 

Ori.  Why,  and  are  not  these  fine  sights  i 

'•  fi/ue  cont.i^  Tlie  usual  habit  of  servants. 


SCENE  III.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  19 

Val.  Sister,  in  seriousness  you  yet  are  young, 
And  fair  ;  a  fair  young  maid,  and  apt 

Ori.  Apt! 

Val.  Exceeding  apt ;  apt  to  be  drawn  to — 

Ori.  To  what  ? 

Val.  To  that  you  should  not  be ;  'tis  no  dispraise  ; 
She  is  not  bad  that  hath  desire  to  ill. 
But  she  that  hath  no  power  to  rule  that  will: 
For  there  you  shall  be  woo'd  in  other  kinds 
Than  yet  your  years  have  known  ; 
The  chiefest  men  will  seem  to  throw  themselves 
As  vassals  at  your  service,  kiss  your  hand. 
Prepare  you  banquets,  masques,  shows,  all  enticements 
That  wit  and  lust  together  can  devise. 
To  draw  a  lady  from  the  state  of  grace 
To  an  old  lady  widow's  gallery'; 
And  they  will  praise  your  virtues ;  beware  that : 
The  only  way  to  turn  a  woman  whore. 
Is  to  commend  her  chastity.     You'll  go  ? 

Ori.  I  would  go,  if  it  were  but  only  to  shew  you  that  I 
could  be  there,  and  be  moved  with  none  of  these  tricks. 

Val.  Your  servants  are  ready  ? 

Ori.  An  hour  since. 

Val  Well,  if  you  come  off  clear  from  this  hot  service, 
Your  praise  shall  be  the  greater.     Farewell,  sister. 

Ori.  Farewell,  brother. 

Val.  Once  more, — if  you  stay  in  the  presence  till  candle- 
light, keep  on  the  foreside  o'  the  curtain  ;  and,  do  you 
hear,  take  heed  of  the  old  bawd  in  the  cloth-of-tissue 
sleeves  and  the  knit  mittens.  Farewell,  sister.  —  [Exit. 
Oriana.]  Now  am  I  idle.  I  would  I  had  been  a  scholar, 
that  I  might  have  studied  now  !  the  punishment  of  meaner 
men  is,  they  have  too  much  to  do ;  our  only  misery  is,  that 
without  company  we  know  not  what  to  do.  I  must  take  some 
of  the  common  courses  of  our  nobility,  which  is  thus.     If  I 

'  an  old  lady  widow's  gallery]  See  Middleton's  Women  beware  Women,  act 
ii.  sc.  2.  (vol.  iv.  of  my  ed.  of  his  Works),  where  Bianca  is  seduced  by  the  Duke 
at  the  house  of  Livia. 

c2 


20  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  t. 

can  find  no  company  that  likes ^  me,  pluck  off  my  hat-band, 
throw  an  old  cloak  over  my  face,  and,  as  if  I  would  not  be 
known,  walk  hastily  through  the  streets  till  I  be  discovered  : 
then  "There  goes  count  Such-a-one,"  says  one  ;  "  There  goes 
count  Such-a-one,"  says  another ;  "  Look  how  fast  he  goes," 
says  a  third  ;  "  There''s  some  great  matters  in  hand  question- 
less," says  a  fourth  ;  when  all  my  business  is  to  have  them 
say  so.  This  hath  been  used.  Or,  if  I  can  find  any  company  •", 
l''ll  after  dinner  to  the  stage  to  see  a  play ;  where,  when  I 
first  enter,  you  shall  have  a  murnmr  in  the  house  ;  every  one 
that  does  not  know,  cries,  "  What  nobleman  is  that  V  all  the 
gallants  on  the  stage '  rise,  vail'"  to  me,  kiss  their  hand,  offer 
me  their  places  ;  then  I  pick  out  some  one  whom  I  please  to 
grace  among  the  rest,  take  his  seat,  use  it,  throw  my  cloak 
over  my  face,  and  laugh  at  him  ;  the  poor  gentleman  imagines 
himself  most  highly  graced,  thinks  all  the  auditors  esteem 
him  one  of  my  bosom-friends,  and  in  right  special  regard  with 
me.  But  here  comes  a  gentleman,  that  I  hope  will  make 
me  better  sport  than  either  street  and  stage  fooleries. 

l^Retires. 
Enter  Lazarillo  and  Boy. 
This  man  loves  to  eat  good  meat ;  always  provided  he  do  not 
pay  for  it  himself.  He  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Hungry 
Courtier ;  marry,  because  I  think  that  name  will  not  suffi- 
ciently distinguish  him,  (for  no  doubt  he  hath  more  fellows 
there),  his  name  is  Lazarillo  :  he  is  none  of  these  same  ordi- 
nary "  eaters  that  will  devour  three  breakfasts,  and  as  many 
dinners,  without  any  prejudice  to  their  bevers",  drinkings, 

J  likes]  "  i.  e.  pleases."     Reed. 

''  company]  "Means  here  a  company  of  comedians,  not  companions,  as 
Seward  supposes."     Mason. 

'  gallants  on  the  stage]  i.  e.  gallants,  who  during  'the  performance,  sat  upon 
the  stage  on  stools  and  smoked  tobacco, — a  fashionable  affectation  which  pre- 
vailed long  after  this  play  was  wi-itten. 

">  vail]  "  i.  e.  pull  off  their  hats."     Mason. 

"  ordinary]  "  i.e.  common,  [not  eaters  at  an  ordinary]."    Ed.  1118. 

°  bevers]  i.  e.  slight  repasts  between  meals.  "  As  our  ancestors  dined  at 
eleven  o'clock,  it  was  customary  to  take  some  further  refreshment  in  the  after- 
noon, which  custom  is  still  retained  in  some  parts  of  England,  and  is  called  a 
bever."    Weber. 


SCENE  m.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  21 

or  suppers  ;  but  he  hath  a  more  courtly  kind  of  hunger,  and 
doth  hunt  more  after  novelty  than  plenty.  Fll  over-hear 
him.  [Jaide. 

Laz.  Oh,  thou  most  itching  kindly  appetite, 
Which  every  creature  in  his  stomach  feels, 
Oh,  leave,  leave  yet  at  last  thus  to  torment  me  ! 
Three  several  salads  have  I  sacrifice, 
Bedewed  with  precious  oil  and  vinegar. 
Already  to  appease  thy  greedy  wrath. — 
Boy  ! 

Bo7/.  Sir  I 

Imz.  Will  the  count  speak  with  me  I 

Boy.  One  of  his  gentlemen  is  gone  to  inform  him  of  your 
coming,  sir. 

Laz.  There  is  no  way  left  for  me  to  compass  this  fishhead, 
but  by  being  presently  made  known  to  the  Duke. 
Boy.  That  will  be  hard,  sir. 
Laz.  When  I  have  tasted  of  this  sacred  dish, 
Then  shall  my  bones  rest  in  my  father  s  tomb 
In  peace ;  then  shall  I  die  most  willingly, 
And  as  a  dish  be  serv"'d  to  satisfy 
Death's  hunger  ;  and  I  will  be  buried  thus. 
My  bier  shall  be  a  charger  p  borne  by  four ; 
The  coffin  where  I  lie  a  powdering-tub  'i, 
Bestrewed  with  lettuce  and  cool  salad-herbs  ; 
My  winding-sheet  of  tansies ;  the  black  guard ' 
Shall  be  my  solemn  mourners  ;  and — instead 
Of  ceremonies,  wholesome  burial  prayers — 
A  printed  dirge  in  rhyme  shall  bury  me  ; 
Instead  of  tears  let  them  pour  capon-sauce 
Upon  my  hearse,  and  salt  instead  of  dust ; 
Manchets  ^  for  stones  ;  for  other  glorious  shields 

p  a  charger]  "  i.  e.  a  great  dish."     Weber. 

1  a  pou'dering  tub]  "  i.  e.  a  tub  for  powdering  or  salting  meat."    Weber. 

'  the  black  guard]  A  nick-name  given  to  the  lowest  menials  in  great  houses, 
but  more  particularly  in  royal  residences,  who  can-ied  coals,  &c.,  and  who,  during 
the  progresses,  rode  in  the  carts  with  the  pots,  kettles,  &c.  See  note,  p.  1 3..  and 
Gifford's  note  on  B.  Jonson's  IVorks,  ii.  169. 

*  Afanchet.^]  i.  e.  small  loaves,  or  rolls,  of  the  finest  white  bread. 


2-2  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  i. 

Give  me  a  voider';  and  above  my  hearse. 

For  a  trutch  sword  ",  my  naked  knife  stuck  up  f 

[Valoue  comes  foricard. 

Boy.  JNIaster,  the  count ''e  here. 

Laz.  Where? — My  lord,  I  do  beseech  you [^Kneels. 

Val.  You  Ve  very  welcome,  sir ;  I  pray  you  stand  up ;  you 
shall  dine  with  me. 

Laz.  I  do  beseech  your  lordship,  by  the  love  I  still  have 
borne  to  your  honourable  house 

Val.  Sir,  what  need  all  this  I  you  shall  dine  with  me.  I 
pray,  rise. 

Laz.  [Rising.]  Perhaps  your  lordship  takes  me  for  one  of 
these  same  fellows,  that  do,  as  it  were,  respect  victuals. 

Val.  Oh,  sir,  by  no  means. 

Laz.  Your  lordship  has  often  promised  that,  whensoever  I 
should  affect  greatness,  your  own  hand  should  help  to  raise 
me. 

Val.  And  so  much  still  assure  yourself  of. 

Laz.  And  though  I  must  confess  I  have  ever  shunned 
popularity,  by  the  example  of  others,  yet  I  do  now  feel  myself 
a  little  ambitious.  Your  lordship  is  great,  and,  though  young, 
yet  a  privy-councillor. 

Val.  I  pray  you,  sir,  leap  into  the  matter ;  what  would 
you  have  me  do  for  you  ? 

Laz.  I  would  entreat  your  lordship  to  make  me  known  to 
the  Duke. 

Val.  When,  sir? 

Laz.  Suddenly,  my  lord ;  1  would  have  you  present  me 
unto  him  this  morning. 

'  a  voider]  Which  Weber  most  l  neously  explains— was  a  basket  or  tray, 
into  which  the  relics  of  a  dinner  or  other  meal,  the  trenchers,  &c.,  were  swept 
from  the  table  with  a  wooden  knife. 

"  a  trutch  sword]  "  From  the  context  it  means  apparently  a  sort  of  sword  of 
ceremony  displayed  at  funerals  ;  but  it  is  somewhat  extraordinary  that  the  term 
has  not  been  found  except  in  this  humorous  description  of  a  gourmand's 
funeral."  Nares's  Gloss,  in  v. —  Truckman,  meaning  an  interpreter,  is  a  not 
uncommon  word  ;  and  perhaps  the  right  reading  here  is  "  Iruch-suord  " — 
i.  e.  a  sword  which  interprets  the  profession  of  the  deceased,  and  shows 
that  he  was  a  soldier :  by  the  mention  of  "  shields,"  it  would  seem  that  the 
funeral  which  Lazariilo  did  not  wish  to  have  was  a  military  one. 


SCENE  III.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  23 

Val.  It  shall  be  done  :  but  for  what  virtues  would  you  have 
him  take  notice  of  you  I 

Laz.  Your  lordship  shall  know  that  presently. 

Val.  ""Tis  pity  of  this  fellow ;  he  is  of  good  wit  and  sufficient 
understanding,  when  he  is  not  troubled  with  this  greedy 
worm.  [^Aside. 

Laz.  Faith,  you  may  entreat  him  to  take  notice  of  me  for 
any  thing ;  for  being  an  excellent  farrier,  for  playing  well 
at  span-counter,  or  sticking  knives  in  walls,  for  being  im- 
pudent, or  for  nothing.  Why  may  not  I  be  a  favourite  on 
the  sudden  ?     I  see  nothing  against  it. 

Val.  Not  so,  sir ;  I  know  you  have  not  the  face  to  be  a 
favourite  on  the  sudden. 

Laz.  Why,  then,  you  shall  present  me  as  a  gentleman 
well  quahfied,  or  one  extraordinary  seen  in  divers  strange 
mysteries. 

Val.  In  what,  sir  ?  as  how  ? 

Laz.  Marry,  as  thus 

Enter  Intelligencer. 

Val.  Yonder's  my  old  spirit,  that  hath  haunted  me  daily, 
ever  since  I  was  a  privy-councillor  ;  I  must  be  rid  of  him 
[Aside]. — [To  Intelligencer.]  I  pray  you  stay  there,  I  am 
a  little  busy ;    I  will  speak  with  you  presently. 

Laz.  You  shall  bring  me  in,  and  after  a  little  other  talk, 
taking  me  by  the  hand,  you  shall  utter  these  words  to  the 
Duke  :  "  May  it  please  your  grace,  to  take  note  of  a  gentle- 
man, well  read,  deeply  learned,  and  throughly "  grounded  in 
the  hidden  knowledge  of  all  salads  and  potherbs  whatsoever." 

Val.  'Twill  be  rare.  If  you  will  walk  before,  sir,  I  will 
overtake  you  instantly. 

Laz.  Your  lordship's  ever.  [Exit  with  Boy. 

Val.  This  fellow  is  a  kind  of  informer  ^ ,  one  that  lives  in 
ale-houses  and  taverns ;  and  because  he  perceives  some 
worthy  men  in  this  land,  with  much  labour  and  great  expence, 
to  have  discovered  things  dangerously  hanging  over  the  state, 

^  throuc/hly]  Altered  by  the  editors  of  1778,  and  Weber,  to  "  thoroughly.  " 
y  informer]  The  modern  editors  give  with  folio  1679  "au  informer." 


24  TIIK  WO.MAX-IIATKR.  [aci  i. 

he  thinks  to  discovei'  as  much  out  of  the  talk  of  drunkards 
in  tap-houses.  He  brings  me  informations,  picked  out  of 
broken  words  in  men"'s  common  talk,  which  with  his  malicious 
misapplication  he  hopes  will  seem  dangerous ;  he  doth,  besides, 
bring  me  the  names  of  all  the  young  gentlemen  in  the  city 
that  use  ordinaries  or  taverns,  talking  (to  my  thinking)  only 
as  the  freedom  of  their  youth  teach  them  without  any  further 
ends,  for  dangerous  and  seditious  spirits.  He  is,  besides,  an 
arrant  whoremaster  as  any  is  in  Milan,  of  a  layman, — I  will 
not  meddle  with  the  clergy.  He  is  parcel  lawyer  ''\  and,  in  my 
conscience,  much  of  their  religion.  I  must  put  upon  him  some 
piece  of  service  [Aside\. — Come  hither,  sir :  what  have  you 
to  do  with  me  ? 

Int.  Little,  my  lord  ;  I  only  come  to  know  how  your  lord- 
ship would  employ  me. 

J'dl.  Observed  you  that  gentleman  that  parted  from  me 
but  now  i 

Int.  I  saw  him  now,  my  lord. 

Vnl.  I  was  sending  for  you  ;  I  have  talked  with  this  man, 
and  I  do  find  him  dangerous. 

Int.  Is  your  lordship  in  good  earnest  I 

Vnl.  Hark  you,  sir ;  there  may  perhaps  be  some  within 
car-shot.  [JV/iispers. 

Re-enter  Lazarillo  and  Boy. 

Lfiz.  Sirrah,  will  you  venture  your  life,  the  Duke  hath 
sent  the  fish-head  to  my  lord  ? 

Bo?/.  Sir,  if  ho  have  not,  kill  me,  do  what  you  will  with  me. 

Laz.  How  uncertain  is  the  state  of  all  mortal  thinpjs !  I 
have  these  crosses  from  my  cradle,  from  my  very  cradle,  inso-  \ 

much  that  I  do  begin  to  grow  desperate.  Fortune,  I  do  r^ 
despise-  thee,  do  thy  worst  U-  Yet,  when  I  do  better  gather 
myself  together,  I  do  find  it  is  rather  the  part  of  a  wise  man 
to  prevent  the  storms  of  fortune  by  stirring,  than  to  suffer 
'em,  by  standing  still,  to  pour  themselves  upon  his  naked 
body.     T  will  about  it.  [Aside. 

J'(tl.  ^\'llo  's  within  there  ? 

'  parcel  /niri/p)]  "  i.  c.  partly  lawyer.'     Slwauk. 


SCENE  III]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  25 

Enter  Servant. 
Let  this  gentleman  out  at  the  back-door. — Forget  not  my  in- 
structions :  if  you  find  any  thing  dangerous,  trouble  not  yourself 
to  find  out  me,  but  carry  your  informations  to  the  lord  Lucio  ; 
he  is  a  man  grave,  and  well-experienced  in  these  businesses. 

Int.  Your  lordship's  servant. 

\^Exeunt  Intelligencer  and  Servant. 

Laz.  Will  it  please  your  lordship  walk  ? 

Val.  Sir,  I  was  coming ;  I  will  overtake  you. 

Laz.  Iwillattend  you  over  against  the  lord  Gondarino's  house. 

Val.  You  shall  not  attend  there  long. 

Laz.  Thither  must  I 
To  see  my  love's  face,  the  cliaste  virgin-head 
Of  a  dear  fish,  yet  pure  and  undeflower'd, 
Not  known  of  man.     No  rough-bred  country-hand 
Hath  once  touchVl  thee,  no  pandar's  withered  paw  ; 
Nor  an  unnapkiu'd  lawyer's  greasy  fist 
Hath  once  slubber'd  thee ;  no  lady's  supple  hand, 
Wasli'd  o'er  with  urine,  hath  yet  seiz'd  on  thee 
AVith  her  two  nimble  talons'" ;  no  court-hand. 
Whom  his  own  natural  filth,  or  change  of  air. 
Hath  bedeck'd  with  scabs,  hath  marr'd  thy   whiter  grace : 
Oh,  let  it  be  thought  lawful  then  for  me. 
To  crop  the  flower  of  thy  virginity  !      [Aside.,  and  exit  icith  Boy. 

Val.  This  day  I  am  for  fools ;   I  am  all  theirs : 
Though,  like  to  our  young  wanton  cocker'd  heirs. 
Who  do  affect  those  men  above  the  rest 
In  whose  base  company  they  still  are  best, 
I  do  not  with  much  labour  strive  to  be 
The  wisest  ever  in  the  company  ; 
But  for  b  a  fool  our  wisdom  oft  amends. 
As  enemies  do  teach  us  more  than  friends.  [Exit. 

*  talons]  Old  eds.  "  talents  ;"  but  since  in  a  line  towards  the  end  of  the  play, 
where  4to  1607  has  "talents"  the  other  eds.  have  "talons,"  I  prefer  giving 
the  latter  form  here.  Besides  the  passage  in  Shakespeare's  Love's  Labour's 
Lost,  "  If  a  talent  be  a  claw,  look  how  he  claws  him  with  a  talent"  act  iv.  sc.  2., 
many  quotations  might  be  adduced  from  our  early  writers  to  shew  that  the 
words  were  formerly  confounded.  I  may  add  that  "  her  two  nimble  talons," 
(which  Seward  altered  to  "her  too  nimble,"  &c.),  means — two  of  her  nimble, 
^c.  *•  /o»-]  "  i.  e.  because."     Seward. 


26  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  ii. 


ACT    II. 

Scene  I. — A  Room  in  the  house  o/Go.nuakino. 


Enter  Gondarino  meeting  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord — 

Gond.  Ha  ! 

Serv.  Here  's  one  hath  brought  you  a  present. 

Gond.  From  whom  ^  from  a  woman  J  if  it  be  from  a  woman, 
bid  him  carry  it  back,  and  tell  her  she 's  a  whore.     What  is  it  i 

Serv.  A  fish-head,  my  lord. 

Gond.  What  fish-head  ? 

Serv.  J  did  not  ask  that,  my  lord. 

Go7id.  Whence  comes  it  i 

Serv.  From  the  court. 

Gond.  Oh,  'tis  a  cod's  head. 

Serv.  No,  my  lord  ;  'tis  some  strange  head  ;  it  comes  from 
the  Duke. 

Gond.  Let  it  be  carried  to  my  mercer ;  I  do  owe  him 
money  for  silks;  stop  his  mouth  with  that. — [Exit  Servant.] 
Was  there  ever  any  man  that  hated  his  wife  after  death  but 
I  ?  and,  for  her  sake,  all  women  I  women  that  were  created 
only  for  the  preservation  of  little  dogs. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  the  count's  sister  being  overtaken  in  the 
streets  with  a  great  hail-storm,  is  light  '^^  at  your  gate,  and 
desires  room  till  the  storm  be  overpast. 

Gond.  Is  she  a  woman  ? 

Serv.  Ay,  my  lord,  I  think  so. 

Gond.  I  have  none  for  her  then ;  bid  her  get  her  gone  ; 
tell  her  she  is  not  welcome. 

Serv.  My  lord,  she  is  now  coming  up. 

Gond.  She  shall  not  come  up  :  tell  her  any  thing ;   tell  her 

"■  %/i/l  Altcrrd  l>y  ili.>  pilitorsof  1778,  and  Wi-ber,  to  "lit." 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  27 

I  have  but  one  great  room  in  my  house,  and  I  am  now  ir.  it 
at  the  close-stool. 

Serv.  She's  here,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Gond.  Oh,  impudence  of  women  !  I  can  keep  dogs  out  of  my 
house,  or  I  can  defend  my  house  against  thieves  ;  but  I  can- 
not keep  out  women. 

Enter  Oriana,  Waiting-woman,  a?id  Page. 
Now,  madam  ;  what  hath  your  ladyship  to  say  to  me  ? 

Ori.  INIy  lord,  I  was  bold  to  crave  the  help  of  your  house 
against  the  storm. 

Gond.  Your  ladyship's  boldness  in  coming  will  be  impudence 
in  staying ;  for  you  are  most  unwelcome. 

Ori.  Oh,  my  lord  ! 

Gond.  Do  you  laugh  ?  by  the  hate  I  bear  to  you,  'tis  true  ! 

Ori.  You're  merry,  my  lord. 

Gond.  Let  me  laugh  to  death,  if  I  be,  or  can  be,  whilst 
thou  art  here,  or  livest,  or  any  of  thy  sex  ! 

Ori.  I  commend  your  lordship. 

Gond.  Do  you  commend  me  I  why  do  }'ou  commend  me  ? 
I  give  you  no  such  cause.  Thou  art  a  filthy,  impudent  whore ; 
a  woman,  a  very  woman  ! 

Ori.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Gond.  Begot  when  thy  father  was  drunk. 

Ori.  Your  lordship  hath  a  good  wit. 

Gond.  How  ?  what  ?  have  I  a  good  wit  l 

Ori.  Come,  my  lord  ;  I  have  heard  before  of  your  lord- 
ship's merry  vein  in  jesting  against  our  sex ;  which  I  being 
desirous  to  hear,  made  me  rather  chuse  your  lordship's  house 
than  any  other ;  but  I  know  I  am  welcome. 

Gond.  Let  me  not  live,  if  you  be  !  Methinks  it  doth  not 
become  you  to  come  to  my  house,  being  a  stranger  to  you  ; 
I  have  no  woman  in  my  house  to  entertain  you,  nor  to  shew 
you  your  chamber :  why  should  you  come  to  me  I  I  have  no 
galleries,  nor  banqueting-houses,  nor  bawdy  pictures  to  shew 
your  ladyship. 

Ori.  Believe  me,  this  your  lordship's  plainness  makes  me 
think  myself  more  welcome  than  if  you  had  sworn  by  all  the 


28  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  ii. 

pretty  court-oaths  that  are,  I  had  been  welcomer  than  your 
soul  to  your  body. 

Gond.  Now  she's  in,  talking  treason  will  [nof^]  get  her 
out :  I  durst  sooner  undertake  to  talk  an  intelligencer  out  of 
the  room,  and  speak  more  than  he  durst  hear,  than  talk  a 
woman  out  of  my  company.  \^  Aside. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  the  Duke  being  in  the  streets,  and  the 
storm  continuing,  is  entered  your  gate,  and  now  coming  up. 

[Exit. 

Gond.  The  Duke  ! — Now  I  know  your  errand,  madam ; 
you  have  plots  and  private  meetings  in  hand.  Why  do  you 
chuse  my  house?  are  you  ashamed  to  go  to't  in  the  old 
coupling-place  ?  though  it  be  less  suspicious  here,  (for  no 
Christian  will  suspect  a  woman  to  be  in  my  house),  yet  you 
may  do  it  cleanlier  there,  for  there  is  a  care  had  of  those 
businesses  :  and  wheresoever  you  remove,  your  great  main- 
tainor and  you  shall  have  your  lodgings  directly  opposite ;  it 
is  but  putting  on  your  night-gown  and  your  slippers.  Madam, 
you  understand  me  1 

Ori.  Before,  I  would  not  understand  him  ;  but  now  he 
speaks  riddles  to  me  indeed.  [Aside. 

Enter  Duke,  Arrigo,  and  Lucio. 

Duke.  'Twas  a  strange  hail-storm. 

Lucio.  'Twas  exceeding  strange. 

Gond.  Good  morrow  to  your  grace. 

Duke.  Good  morrow,  Gondarino. 

Gond.  Justice,  great  prince  ! 

Duke.  Why  should  you  beg  for  justice  ? 
I  never  did  you  wrong  :  what's  the  offender  ? 

Gond.  A  woman. 

Duke.  Oh,  I  know  your  ancient  quarrel  against  that  sex; 
but  what  heinous  crime  hath  she  committed  I 

Gond.  She  hath  gone  abroad. 

Duke.  What  ?  it  cannot  be. 

''  fnotj   Inserted  by  Scwai-d. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  29 

Gond.  She  hath  done  it. 

Duke.  How !  I   never  heard  of  any  woman  that   did   so 
before. 

Gond.  If  she  have  not  laid  by  that  modesty 
That  should  attend  a  virgin,  and,  quite  void 
Of  shame,  hath  left  the  house  where  she  was  born, 
(As  they  should  never  do,)  let  me  endure 
The  pains  that  she  should  suffer  ! 

Duke.  Hath  she  so  1 
Which  is  the  woman  I 

Gond.  This,  this ! 

Duke.  How  !  — Arrigo,  Lucio  ! 

Gond.  Ay,  then  it  is  a  plot  :  no  prince  alive 
Shall  force  me  make  my  house  a  brothel-house  ; 
Not  for  the  sin''s,  but  for  the  woman's  sake, 
I  will  not  have  her  in  my  doors  so  long : 
Will  they  make  my  house  as  bawdy  as  their  own  are  I    [^Aside. 

Duke.  Is  it  not  Oriana  I 

Lucio.  It  is. 

Duke.  Sister  to  count  Valore  ! 

Arr,  The  very  same. 

Duke.  She  that  I  love  ? 

Lucio.  She  that  you  love. 

Duke.  I  do  suspect 

Lucio.  So  do  I. 

Duke.  This  fellow  to  be  but  a  counterfeit ; 
One  that  doth  seem  to  loathe  all  woman-kind, 
[  To  hate  himself  because  he  hath  some  part 
iOf  woman  in  him  ;  seems  not  to  endure 
ITo  see  or  to  be  seen  of  any  woman, 
jOnly  because  he  knows  it  is  their  nature 
iTo  wish  to  taste  that  which  is  most  forbidden  ; 
jThat  ^  with  this  show  he  may  the  better  compass  ^ 

(And  with  far  less  suspicion)  his  base  ends. 

Lucio.  Upon  my  life,  'tis  so. 

Duke.  And  I  do  know, 

'   That]   Old  eds.  "And" — a  mistake  of  the  original  compositor,  his   eye 
having  caught  the  word  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  line. 


30  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  ii. 

Before  his  slain  w  ife '  gave  him  that  offence, 
He  was  the  greatest  servant  to  that  sex 
That  ever  was.     ^Vhat  doth  this  lady  here 
With  him  alone  ?  why  should  he  rail  at  her 
To  me  J 

Lucio.  Because  your  grace  might  not  suspect. 

Duke.  It  was  so.      I  do  love  her  strangely  : 
1  would  fain  know  the  truth  ;  counsel  me. 

[Duke,  Arrigo,  and  Lccio  ivhisper. 

Enter  Valore,  Lazarillo,  and  Boy. 

Fal  It  falls  out  better  than  we  could  expect,  sir,  that  wo 
should  find  the  Duke  and  my  lord  Gondarino  together,  both 
which  you  desire  to  be  acquainted  with. 

Laz.  Twas  very  happy.— Boy,  go  do\\Ti  into  the  kitchen, 
and  see  if  you  can  spy  that  same. — [Exit  Boy.]  I  am  now 
in  some  hope ;  I  have  methinks  a  kind  of  fever  upon  me,  a 
certain  gloominess  within  me,  doubting,  as  it  were,  betwixt 
two  passions.  There  is  no  young  maid  upon  her  wedding- 
night,  when  her  husband  sets  first  foot  in  the  bed,  blushes 
and  looks  pale  again,  oftner  than  I  do  now.  There  is  no 
poet  acquainted  with  more  shakings  and  quakings,  towards 
the  latter  end  of  his  new  play,  (when  he's  in  that  case  that 
he  stands  peeping  betwixt  the  curtains,  so  fearfully  that  a 
bottle  of  ale  cannot  be  opened  but  he  thinks  somebody 
hisses,)  than  I  am  at  this  instant.  [Aside. 

Fal.  Are  they  in  consultation  I  If  they  be,  either  my 
young  Duke  hath  gotten  some  bastard,  and  is  persuading 
my  knight  yonder  to  father  the  child  and  marry  the  wench, 
or  else  some  cockpit  is  to  be  built.  [Aside. 

Laz.  My  lord,  what  nobleman's  that  ? 

Val.  His  name  is  Lucio ;  'tis  he  that  was  made  a  lord, 

'  slain  wife]  Seward  "ventured  to  alter  this  to  'late  wife;'  there  not 
being  the  least  hint  of  his  wife's  being  slain  by  him  or  any  other.  Lain  for 
liuried  might  probably  be  allowed."  The  Editors  cf  1778  retained  "  slain." 
Mason  "  agreed  with  .Seward  in  reading  '  lain  wife ' "  !  and  Weber  printed 

"  late  wife." If  we  could  recover  the  tale  from  which  the  character  of 

Gondarino  was  borrowed,  it  would  no  doubt  inform  us  why  and  by  whom  his 
wife  was  "slain." 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  31 

at  the  request  of  some  of  his  friends,  for  his  wife's  sake ;  he 
affects  to  be  a  great  statesman,  and  thinks  it  consists  in 
nightcaps,  and  jewels,  and  toothpicks. 

Laz.  And  what's  that  other  ? 

Val.  A  knight,  sir,  that  pleaseth  the  Duke  to  favour  and 
to  raise  to  some  extraordinary  fortunes :  he  can  make  as 
good  men  as  himself  every  day  in  the  week,  and  doth. 

Laz.  For  what  w^as  he  raised  \ 

Val.  Truly,  sir,  I  am  not  able  to  say  directly  for  what, 
but  for  wearing  of  red  breeches,  as  I  take  it :  he's  a  brave 
man ;  he  will  spend  three  knighthoods  at  a  supper  without 
trumpets. 

Laz.  My  lord,  Fll  talk  with  him  ;  for  I  have  a  friend  that 
would  gladly  receive  the  honour". 

Val.  If  he  have  the  itch  of  knighthood  upon  him,  let  him 
repair  to  that  physician,  he'll  cure  him.  But  I  will  give  you 
a  note :  is  your  friend  fat  or  lean  I 

Laz.  Something  fat. 

Val.  'Twill  be  the  worse  for  him. 

Laz.  I  hope  that's  not  material. 

Val.  Very  much,  for  there  is  an  impost  set  upon  knight- 
hoods, and  your  friend  shall  pay  a  noble  ^  in  the  pound. 

Duke.  I  do  not  like  examinations  ; 
We  shall  find  out  the  truth  more  easily 
Some  other  way  less  noted ;  and  that  course 
Should  not  be  us'd  till  we  be  sure  to  prove 
Something  directly  ;  for  when  they  perceive 
Themselves  suspected,  they  will  then  provide 
More  warily  to  answer. 

Lucio.  Doth  she  know 
Your  grace  doth  love  her  I 

Duke.  She  hath  never  heard  it. 

Lucio.  Then  thus,  my  lord. 

[Duke,  Arrigo,  and  Lucio  whisper. 

Laz.  What's  he  that  walks  alone  so  sadly,  with  his  hands 
behind  him  I 

s  honour^  Old  eds.  "  humour." 

''  a  noble]   i.  e.  a  gold  coin  worth  fis.  %d. 


32  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  ti. 

I'aL  Tlie  lord  of  the  house,  he  that  you  desire  to  be 
ac(juainted  with.  He  doth  hate  women  for  the  same  cause 
that  I  love  them. 

Laz.   Whaf  s  that  i 

Val.  For  that  which  apes  want :  you  perceive  me,  sir  I 

Laz.  And  is  he  sad  \  can  he  be  sad  that  hath 
So  rich  a  gem  under  his  roof,  as  that 
^\llich  I  do  follow  !   \Asidei\ — What  young  lady's  that  ■ 

Val.  "Which  \ — Have  I  mine  eyesight  perfect  I  'tis  my 
sister !  Did  I  say  the  Duke  had  a  bastard  \  what  should 
she  make  here  with  him  and  his  council  \  she  hath  no 
papers  in  her  hand  to  petition  to  them ;  she  hath  never  a 
husband  in  prison,  whose  release  she  might  sue  for :  that's 
a  fine  trick  for  a  wench,  to  get  her  husband  clapt  up,  that 
she  may  more  freely  and  with  less  suspicion  visit  the  private 
studies  of  men  in  authority.  Now  I  do  discover  their  con- 
sultation :  yon  fellow  is  a  pandar  without  all  salvation. 
But  let  me  not  condemn  her  too  rashly,  without  weighing 
the  matter.  She  's  a  young  lady  ;  she  went  forth  early  this 
morning  with  a  waiting-woman  and  a  page  or  so  ;  this  is  no 
garden-house  ^ :  in  my  conscience,  she  went  forth  with  no  dis- 
honest intent ;  for  she  did  not  pretend  going  to  any  sermon 
in  the  further  end  of  the  city ;  neither  went  she  to  see  any  odd 
old  gentlewoman  that  mourns  for  the  death  of  her  husband 
or  the  loss  of  her  friend,  and  must  have  young  ladies  come  to 
comfort  her;  those  are  the  damnable  bawds.  'Twas  no  set 
meeting  certainly,  for  there  was  no  wafer- woman '  with  her 
these  three  days,  on  my  knowledge.  FU  talk  with  her. 
[Jsifle.] — Good  morrow,  my  lord. 

GoiuL  You  're  welcome,  sir. — Here's  her  brother  come  now 
to  do  a  kind  office  for  his  sister  :    is  it  not  strange  I      [Jside. 

Val.  I  am  glad  to  meet  you  here,  sister. 

Ori.  I  thank  you,  good  brother  ;  and  if  you  doubt  of  the 
cause  of  my  coming,  I  can  satisfy  you. 

^  gardeti-hiruse]  i.  e.  summer-house.  Buildings  of  this  kind  abounded 
formerly  in  the  suburbs  of  London,  and  were  often  used  as  j)laces  of  intrigue. 

'  irafer-woman]  "One  that  sells  cakes."  Webkr.  VVafer-woinen  appear 
from  various  passages  of  our  old  plays  to  have  been  frequently  employed  .is 
thi'  i>eani-s  of  litters  or  messagfs  in  affairs  of  love. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  33 

Vol.  No,  faith,  I  dare  trust  thee  :  I  do  suspect   thou  art  , 
honest ;  for  it  is  so  rare  a  thing  to  be  honest  amongst  you,  | 
that  some  one  man  in  an  age  may  perhaps  suspect  some  two 
women  to  be  honest,  but  never  believe  it  verily. 

Lucio.  Let  your  return  be  sudden. 

Arr.  Unsuspected  by  them. 

Duke.  It  shall ;  so  shall  I  best  perceive  their  love, 
If  there  be  any. — Farewell. 

Vol.  Let  me  entreat  your  grace  to  stay  a  little. 
To  know  a  gentleman  to  whom  yourself 
Is  much  beholding  ^  ;  he  hath  made  the  sport 
For  your  whole  court  these  eight  years,  on  my  knowledge. 

Duke.  His  name  ? 

Val.  Lazarillo. 

Duke.  I  heard  of  him  this  morning :  which  is  he  ? 

Val.  Lazarillo,  pluck  up  thy  spirits,  thy  fortunes  are  now 
raising;  the  Duke  calls  for  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  ac- 
quainted with  him. 

Laz.  He's  going  away,  and  I  must  of  necessity  stay  here 
upon  business. 

Val.  'Tis  all  one  ;  thou  shalt  know  him  first. 

Laz.  Stay  a  little. — 
If  he  should  offer  to  take  me  away  with  him, 
And  by  that  means  I  should  lose  that  I  seek  for  I 
But  if  he  should,  I  will  not  go  with  him.  \^  Aside. 

Val.  Lazarillo,  the  Duke  stays :  wilt  thou  lose  this  oppor- 
tunity ? ' 

Laz.  How  must  I  speak  to  him  ? 

Val.  ""Twas  well  thought  of.     You  must  not  talk  to  him 
As  you  do  to  an  ordinary  man. 
Honest  plain  sense,  but  you  must  wind  about  him  : 
For  example  ;  if  he  should  ask  you  w  hat  o'clock  it  is. 
You  must  not  say,  "  If  it  please  your  grace,  'tis  nine ;" 
But  thus,  "  Thrice  three  o'clock,  so  please  my  sovereign;" 
Or  thus,  "  Look  how  many  Muses  there  doth  dwell 
Upon  the  sweet  banks  of  the  learned  well. 
And  just  so  many  strokes  the  clock  hath  struck  ; " 

"'  beholding]  i.  e.  beholden — a  form  common  in  our  early  wi-iters. 
VOL.  I.  n 


34  THK  WOMAN-IIATKH.  [act  ii. 

And  so  forth :  and  you  nuist  now  and  then  enter 
Into  a  description. 

Laz.  I  hope  I  shall  do  it. 

Val.  Come. — May  it  please  your  grace "  to  take  note  of  a 
gentleman,  well  seen,  deeply  read,  and  throughly  grounded 
in  the  hidden  knowledge  of  all  salads  and  potherbs  what- 
soever. 

Duke.  I  shall  desire  to  know  him  more  inwardly  ". 

Laz.  I  kiss  the  ox-hide  of  your  grace's  foot. 

I'ah  Very  well  ! — Will  your  grace  question  him  a  little? 

Duke.  How  old  are  you  I 

Laz.  Full  eight-and-twenty  several  almanacks  '' 
Have  been  compiled,  all  for  several  years, 
Since  first  I  drew  this  breath ;  four  ""prenticeships 
Have  I  most  truly  served  in  this  world  ; 
And  eight-and-twenty  times  hath  Phoebus''  car 
Run  out  his  yearly  course  since 

Duke.  1  understand  you,  sir. 

Lucio.  How  like  an  ignorant  poet  he  talks  !  [Aside. 

Duke.  You  are  eight  and-twenty  year  old.  What  time  of 
tiie  day  do  you  hold  it  to  bo  i 

Laz.  A  bout  the  time  that  mortals  whet  their  knives  ** 
On  thresholds,  on  their  shoe-soles,  and  on  stairs ; 

"  Afaj/  it  please  your  grace,  &c.]   See  p.  23. 
°  inwardlt/}  i.  e.  intimately. 

P  Full  eight-and-twenty  several  almanacks,  &c.]  "There  is  a  serious 
pa.ssage  in  Shakespeare,  which  exactly  resembles  this  comical  one  of  our 
authors  :  it  is  in  All's  Well  that  Euds  Well,  act  ii.,  whei-e  Helena  says  to  the 
King, 

*  The  greatest  grace  lending  grace. 

Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 
Their  fiery  torcher  his  diurnal  ring  ; 
Ere  twice  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist  Hesperus  hath  qucnch'd  his  sleepy  lamp  ; 
Or  four-and-twenty  times  the  pilot's  glass 
Hath  told  the  thievish  minutes  how  they  pass  ; 
What  is  infirm  from  yoiu-  sound  parts  shall  fly.'  " — Mason. 
1  About  the  time  that  mortals  w/iet  their  knives,  &c.]  "  Lazarillo  moans  to  say, 
when  they  make  preparations  for  dinner.     From  Valore's  speech  on  the  last 
page,  it  was  then  nine  o'clock,  or  two  liours  before  the  usual  diuner-hour,  which 
was  generally  at  eleven."     Wedf.r. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  35 

Now  bread  is  grating,  and  the  testy  cook 
Hath  much  to  do  now  ;  now  the  tables  all — 

Duke.  'Tis  almost  dinner-time  I 

Laz.  Your  grace  doth  apprehend  me  very  rightly. 

Val.  Yom*  grace  shall  find  him,  in   your  further  confer- 
ence, grave,  wise,  courtly,  and  scholar-like,  understandingly 
read  in  the  necessities  of  the  life  of  man  : 
He  knows  that  man  is  mortal  by  his  birth  ; 
He  knows  that  man  must  die,  and  therefore  live ; 
He  knows  that  man  must  live,  and  therefore  eat. 
And  if  it  shall  please   your  grace    to    accompany   yourself 
with  him,  I  doubt  not  but  that  he  will,  at  the  least,  make 
good  my  commendations. 

Duke.  Attend  us,  Lazarillo  ;  we  do  want 
Men  of  such  action,  as  we  have  receivM  you 
Reported  from  your  honourable  friend. 

Laz.  Good  my  lord,  stand  betwixt  me  and  my  overthrow : 
you  know  I  am  tied  here,  and  may  not  depart. — ^ly  gracious 
lord,  so  weighty  are  the  businesses  of  mine  own,  which  at 
this  time  do  call  upon  me,  that  I  will  rather  choose  to  die 
than  to  neglect  them. 

Val.  Nay,  you  shall  well  perceive,  besides  the  virtues  that 
I  have  already  informed  you  of,  he  hath  a  stomach  which 
will  stoop  to  no  prince  alive. 

Duke.  Sir,  at  your  best  leisure ;  I  shall  thirst  to  see  you. 

Laz.  And  I  shall  hunger  for  it. 

Duke.  Till  then,  farewell,  all ! 

Gond.   Val.  Long  life  attend  your  grace  ! 

Duke.  I  do  not  taste  this  sport. — \^Aside.^    Arrigo,  Lucio  ! 

Arr.  Lucio.  We  do  attend. 

[^Exeunt  Duke,  Arrigo,  and  Lucio. 

Gond.  His  grace  is  gone,  and  hath  left  his  Helen  with  me : 
I  am  no  pandar  for  him ;  neither  can  I  be  won,  with  the  hope 
of  gain  or  the  itching  desire  of  tasting  my  lord's  lechery  to 
him,  to  keep  her  at  my  house  or  bring  her  in  disguise  to 
his  bedchamber. 

The  twines  of  adders  and  of  scorpions 
About  my  naked  breast  will  seem  to  me 
d2 


;{6  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  ii. 

More  tickling  thiin  those  clasps  which  men  adore, 
The  lustful,  dull,  ill-spirited  embraces 
Of  women.     The  much-praist'd  Amazons, 
Knowing  their  own  infirmities  so  well, 
Made  of  themselves  a  people,  and  what  men 
They  take  amongst  them  they  condemn  to  die  ; 
Perceiving  that  their  folly  made  them  fit 
To  live  no  longer  that  would  willingly 
Come  in  the  worthless  presence  of  a  woman. 
I  will  attend,  and  see  what  my  young  lord  will  do  with  his 
sister.  [Aside. 

Re-enter  Boy. 

Bo7/.  My  lord,  the  fish-head  is  gone  again. 

Fal  Whither? 

Bo7/.  I  know  whither,  my  lord. 

Fal.  Keep  it  from  Lazarillo. — Sister,  shall  I  confer  with, 
you  in  private,  to  know  the  cause  of  the  Duke's  coming  hither  ? 
]  know  he  makes  you  acquainted  with  his  business  of  state. 

Ori.  ril  satisfy  you,  brother ;  for  I  see  you  are  jealous  of  me. 

Gond.  Now  there  shall  be  some  course  taken  for  her 
conveyance.  \_Aside. 

Laz.  Lazarillo,  thou  art  happy !  thy  carriage  hath  begot 
love,  and  that  love  hath  brought  forth  fruits.  Thou  art 
here  in  the  company  of  a  man  honourable,  that  will  help 
thee  to  taste  of  the  bounties  of  the  sea  ;  and  when  thou 
hast  so  done,  thou  shalt  retire  thyself  unto  the  court,  and 
there  taste  of  the  dellcates  of  the  earth,  and  be  great  in  the 
eyes  of  thy  sovereign.  Now  no  more  shalt  thou  need  to 
scramble  for  thy  meat,  nor  remove  thy  stomach  with  the 
court;  but  thy  credit  shall  command  thy  heart's  desire,  and 
all  novelties  shall  be  sent  as  presents  unto  thee.  \^Astde. 

Fal.  Good  sister,  when  you  see  your  own  time,  will  you 
return  home  ? 

Ori.  Yes,  brother,  and  not  before. 

Laz.  I  will  grow  popular  in  this  state,  and  overthrow  the 
fortunes  of  a  number  that  live  by  extortion.  [Aside. 

Fal.  Lazarillo,  bestir  thyself  nimbly  and  suddenly,  and 
hear  me  with  patience. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMA.N-HATER.  37 

Laz.  Let  me  not  fall  from  myself!  [Aside. 

Speak,  I  am  bound  to  hear. 

Vol.  So  art  thou  to  revenge,  ivhen  thou  shalt  hear  *"  ; 
The  fish-head  is  gone,  and  we  know  not  whither, 

Laz.  I  will  not  curse  nor  swear,  nor  rage  nor  rail, 
Nor  with  contemptuous  tongue  accuse  my  fate, 
Though  I  might  justly  do  it ;  nor  will  I 
Wish  myself  uncreated  for  this  evil  ! — 
Shall  I  entreat  your  lordship  to  be  seen 
A  little  longer  in  the  company 
Of  a  man  cross'd  by  fortune  ? 

Val.  I  hate  to  leave  my  friend  in  his  extremities. 

Laz.  'Tis  noble  in  you  :  then  I  take  your  hand, 
And  do  protest,  I  do  not  follow  this 
For  any  malice  or  for  private  ends. 
But  with  a  love  as  gentle  and  as  chaste 
As  that  a  brother  to  his  sister  bears ; 
And  if  I  see  this  fish-head  yet  unknown. 
The  last  words  that  my  dying  father  spake. 
Before  his  eye-strings  brake,  shall  not  of  me 
So  often  be  remember 'd  as  our  meeting. 
Fortune  attend  me,  as  my  ends  are  just. 
Full  of  pure  love  and  free  from  servile  lust ! 

Val.  [To  GoNDARiNO.]  Farewell,  my  lord  :  I  was  entreated 
to  invite  your  lordship  to  a  lady'^s  upsitting  ^ 

Gond.  Oh,  my  ears  !  [Exeunt  Valore,  Lazarillo,  and  Boy.] 
AVhy,  madam,  will  not  you  follow  your  brother  ?  you  are 
waited  for  by  great  men  ;  he'll  bring  you  to  'em  '. 

Ori.  Fm  very  well,  my  lord ;  you  do  mistake  me,  if  you 
think  I  affect  greater  company  than  yourself. 

Gond.  What    madness  possesseth   thee,  that  thou   canst 

'  Speak,  &c.  when  thou  shali  hear]  A  quotation  from  Shakespeare's 
Hamlet,  act  i.  sc.  5, 

^  upsitting]  "  Cotgrave  interprets  relevailles  d'une  femme  '  the  uprising  or 
upsitting,  also  the  churching  of  a  woman. '  "  Weber. — Jamieson  gives  "  Up- 
sitting.  A  tenn  used  to  denote  a  sort  of  wake  after  the  baptism  of  a  child." 
Suppl.  to  Et.  Diet,  of  Scott.  Lang. 

'  'em]  Seward's  correction.  Old  eds  "  liim."  These  words  are  frequently 
confounded  by  the  early  printers. 


33  Tin:  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  ii. 

imagine  me  a  fit  man  to  entertain  ladies  ?  I  tell  thee,  I  do 
use  to  tear  their  hair,  to  kick  them,  and  to  twinge  their 
noses,  if  they  bo  not  careful  in  avoiding  nie. 

Ori.  Your  lordship  may  descant  upon  your  own  behaviour 
as  please  you,  but  I  protest,  so  sweet  and  courtly  it  appears 
in  my  eye,  tliat  I  mean  not  to  leave  you  yet. 

Gond.  I  shall  grow  rough. 

Ori.  A  rough  can-iagc  is  best  in  a  man.  Fll  dine  with 
you,  my  lord. 

Gond.  Why,  I  will  starve  thee  ;  thou  shalt  have  nothing. 

Ori.  I  have  heard  of  your  lordship*'s  nothing ;  Fll  put 
that  to  the  venture. 

Gond.  Well,  thou  shalt  have  meat ;  I'll  send  it  to  thee. 

Ori.  ril  keep  no  state,  my  lord  ;  neither  do  I  mourn  ;  Til 
dine  with  you. 

Gond.  Is  such  a  thing  as  this  allow'd  to  live  'i 
AMiat  power  hath  let  thee  loose  upon  the  earth 
To  plague  us  for  our  sins  ?     Out  of  my  doors  ! 

Ori.  I  would  your  lordship  did  but  see  how  well 
This  fury  doth  become  you  !  it  doth  shew 
So  near  the  life  as  it  were  natural. 

Gond.  Oh,  thou  damned  woman  !  I  will  fly  the  vengeance 
That  hangs  above  thee  :  follow,  if  thou  darest  !  \_Exit. 

Ori.  I  must  not  leave  this  fellow  ;  I  will  torment  him  to 
madness : 

To  teach  his  passions  against  kind  "  to  move. 
The  more  he  hates,  the  more  Fll  seem  to  love. 

\^Exeunt  Oriana,  Waiting-woman,  and  Page. 


SCENE  II.— 77i('  Street  before  Julia's  house. 
Enter  Pandar  and  i\Ierccr. 
Pandar.  Sir,  what  may  be  done  by  art  shall   be  done  ;    I 
wear  not  this  black  cloak  for  nothing. 

Mercer.  Perform  this,  help  me  to  this  great  heir  by  learn- 
ing,   and  you   shall   want   no   black   cloaks;    taff'aties,   silk- 

"  kind']  "\.  c.  nature.'"     Wkhkr. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  39 

grograms,  satins,  and  velvets  arc  mine ;  they  shall  be  yours : 
perform  what  you  have  promised,  and  you  shall  make  me  a 
lover  of  sciences ;  I  will  study  the  learned  languages,  and 
keep  my  shop-book  in  Latin. 

Pandar.  Trouble  me  not  now ;  I  will  not  fail  you  within 
this  hour  at  your  shop. 

Mercer.  Let  art  have  her  course  ! 

Pandar.  'Tis  well  spoken. —  \Exit  Mercer. 

Madonna  ! 

'Enter  SvLix  from  the  house. 

Jidia.  Hast  thou  brought  me  any  customers  I 

Pandar.  No. 

Julia.  What  the  devil  dost  thou  in  black  I 

Pandar.  As  all  solemn  professors  of  settled  courses  do  ", 
cover  my  knavery  with  it.  Will  you  marry  a  citizen,  reason- 
ably rich  and  unreasonably  foolish,  silks  in  his .  shop,  money 
in  his  purse,  and  no  wit  in  his  head  ? 

Julia.  Out  upon  him  !  I  could  have  been  otherwise  than 
so;  there  was  a  knight  swore  he  would  have  had  me,  if  I 
would  have  lent  him  but  forty  shillings  to  have  redeemed  his 
cloak  to  go  to  church  in. 

Pandar.  Then  your  waistcoat- waiter '""  shall  have  him  :  call 
her  in ''. 

Julia.  Francissina  ! 

Enter  Francissina. 

Fran.  Anon. 

Julia.  Get  you  to  the  church  and  shrive  yourself  y,  for 
you  shall  be  richly  married  anon.  \^Exit  Francissina. 

'  do"]  Omitted  in  Weber's  ed. 

^  waistcoal-waiter]  From  innumerable  passages  in  our  old  dramas  it  appears 
that  courtesans  generally  wore  a  waistcoat,  and  hence  the  lowest  strumpets 
were  called  waistcoateers.  The  waistcoat,  however,  formed  part  of  a  fine 
lady's  attii'e,  and  was  sometimes  very  expensive.  "  It  was  only  when  it  was 
worn  without  a  gown  or  upper  di-ess,  that  it  was  considered  as  the  mark  of  a 
profligate  woman."     Nares's  Gloss,  in  v. 

"  call  her  in]  The  conversation  between  the  Pandar  and  Mercer  seems  to 
take  place  in  the  street  ;  but,  I  suspect,  that  on  the  exit  of  the  latter,  our 
author  intended  the  audience  to  suppose  (for  there  was  then  no  moveable 
painted  scenery)  that  the  .stage  represented  the  interior  of  Julia's  house. 

y  shrive  yourself]  "  i.  c.  go  to  confession."     Ed.  177S. 


40  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [kct  m. 

Pandar.  And  got  you  after  her.  I  will  work  upon  my 
citizen  whilst  he  is  warm ;  I  must  not  suffer  him  to  consult 
with  his  neighbours  :  the  openest  fools  are  hardly  cozened,  if 
they  once  grow  jealous.  \^Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.  — A  Room  in  the  house  o/'Gondarino. 


Enter  Gondarino  hastily. 
Gojid.  Save  me,  ye  better  powers  !  let  me  not  fall 
Between  the  loose  embracements  of  a  woman  ! 
Heaven,  if  my  sins  be  ripe,  grown  to  a  head, 
And  must  attend  your  vengeance,  I  beg  not  to  divert  my  fate, 
Or  to  reprieve  a  while  thy  punishment ; 
Only  I  crave,  (and  hear  me,  equal  ^  Heavens  !) 
Let  not  your  furious  rod,  that  must  afflict  me. 
Be  that  imperfect  piece  of  Nature 
That  Art  makes  up,  woman,  unsatiate  woman  ! 
Had  we  not  knowing  souls,  at  first  infusM 
To  teach  a  difference  'twixt  extremes  and  goods  ? 
Were  we  not  made  ourselves,  free,  unconfinM, 
Commanders  of  our  own  affections  i 
And  can  it  be  that  this  most  perfect  creature, 
This  image  of  his  Maker,  well-squar'd  man, 
Should  leave  the  handfast  ^  that  he  had  of  grace, 
To  fall  into  a  woman's  easy  arms  ? 

Enter  Oriana. 

Ori.  Now,  Venus,  bo  my  speed  !  inspire  me  with  all  the 

several  subtle  temptations  that  thou  hast  already  given  or 

hast   in  store  hereafter   to  bestow   upon  our   sex  !     Grant 

that  I  may  apply  that  physic  that  is  most  apt  to  work  upon 

*  equal}  I.  c.  just. 

''  hanilfast]  i.  e.  liold,  conucxion  with. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  41 

him ;  whether  he  will  soonest  be  moved  with  wantonness, 
singing,  dancing,  or  (being  passionate)  with  scorn ;  or  with 
sad  and  serious  looks,  cunningly  mingled  with  sighs,  with 
smiling,  lisping,  kissing  the  hand,  and  making  short  curtsies; 
or  with  whatsoever  other  nimble  power  he  may  be  caught, 
do  thou  infuse  into  me ;  and  when  I  have  him,  I  will  sacrifice 
him  up  to  thee  !  [Aside. 

Gond.  It  comes  again  !  new  apparitions. 
And  tempting  spirits  !  [Aside.] — Stand  and  reveal  thyself; 
Tell  why  thou  followest  me  ?     I  fear  thee. 
As  I  fear  the  place  thou  earnest  from,  hell. 

Ori.  My  lord,  I  am  a  woman,  and  such  a  one — 

Gond.  That  I  hate  truly  :  thou  hadst  better  been  a  devil. 

Ori.  Why,  my  unpatient  lord  ? 

Gond.  Devils  were  once  good ;  there  they  excelFd  you  women. 

Ori.  Can  you  be  so  uneasy  ?  can  you  freeze. 
And  such  a  summer's  heat  so  ready  to  dissolve  ? 
Nay,  gentle  lord,  turn  not  away  in  scorn, 
Nor  hold  me  less  fair  than  I  am  !      Look  on  these  cheeks, 
They  have  yet  enough  of  nature,  true  complexion  ; 
If  to  be  red  and  white,  a  forehead  high. 
An  easy  melting  lip,  a  speaking  eye, 
And  such  a  tongue,  whose  language  takes  the  ear 
Of  strict  religion  and  men  most  austere  ; 
If  these  may  hope  to  please,  look  here  ^ ! 

Gond.  This  woman  with  entreaty  would  shew  all.      [Aside. 
Lady,  there  lies  your  way  ;  I  pray  you,  farewell. 

Ori.  You  are  yet  too  harsh,  too  dissonant ; 
There's  no  true  music  in  your  words,  my  lord. 

Gond.  What  shall  I  give  thee  to  be  gone  ?     Here  stay, 
An  thou  want'st  ^  lodging ;  take  my  house,  'tis  big  enough, 
'Tis  thine  own  ;  'twill  hold  five  lecherous  lords 
And  their  lackeys,  without  discovery  : 
There's  stoves  and  bathing-tubs. 

"^  //  these  may  hope  to  please,  look  here}  One  of  the  many  corrupted  passages 
in  this  play.    Seward  printed  :  "  If  these  may  hope  to  please  you,  look  you  here." 

''         Here  stay 
An  thou   want's f]   Restored   by  Sj-mpson.     Old  eds.  "  Heares   [and  Here's] 
ta,  and  tha  wants." 


•12  THE  WOMAN-IIATKU.  [act  m. 

Ori.  Dear  lord,  you  arc 
Too  wild. 

Gond.  ''Shalt  have  a  doctor  too,  thou  shalt, 
'Bout  six  and  twenty,  'tis  a  pleasing  age ; 
Or  I  can  help  thee  to  a  handsome  usher  ; 
Or  if  thou  lack'st  a  page,  V\\  give  thee  one  : 
Prithee,  keep  house,  and  leave  me  ! 

Ori.  I  do 
Confess  I  am  too  easy,  too  much  woman. 
Not  coy  enough  to  take  affection. 
Yet  I  can  frown,  and  nip  a  passion 
Even  in  the  bud  ;   I  can  say, 

Men  please  their  present  heats,  then  please  to  leave  us  ; 
I  can  hold  off,  and  by  my  chymic  power 
Draw  sonnets  from  the  melting  lover's  brain, 
Aye-me's  and  elegies.     Yet  to  you,  my  lord, 
My  love,  my  better  self,  I  put  these  off. 
Doing  that  office  not  befits  our  sex. 
Entreat  a  man  to  love.     Are  you  not  yet 
Relenting  I  ha'  you  blood  and  spirit  in  those  veins  I 
You  are  no  image,  though  you  be  as  hard 
As  marble  :  sure,  you  have  no  liver  ^  ;  if  you  had, 
'Twould  send  a  lively  and  desiring  heat 
To  every  member.     Is  not  this  miserable  ? 
A  thing  so  truly  form'd,  shap'd  out  by  symmetry, 
Has  all  the  organs  that  belong  to  man, 
And  working  too,  yet  to  shew  all  these 
Like  dead  motions  ^  moving  upon  wires  ? 
Then,  good  my  lord,  leave  off  what  you  have  been, 
And  freely  be  what  you  were  first  intended  for, 
A  man. 

Ciond.  Thou  art  a  precious  piece  of  sly  damnation. 
I  will  be  deaf;   I  will  lock  up  my  ears  : 
Tempt  mo  not ;   I  will  not  love  :   if  I  do — 

Ori.  Then  I'll  hate  you. 

•  Sure  you  have  no  liver.']     "The  liver  w:is  ancicntlv  imagiiitd  to  be  the 
residence  of  love."    Weder. 

'  motions]  "  i.  e.  puppet-shows."     VVeuer. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  43 

Gond.  Let  me  be  'nointed  with  honey  and  turn'd 
Into  the  sun,  to  be  stung  to  death  with  horse-flies  ! 
Hearest  thou,  thou  breeder  ?   here  I  will  sit, 
And,  in  despite  of  thee,  I  will  say  nothing. 

[^Sits  down. 

Ori.  Let  me,  with  your  fair  patience,  sit  beside  you  ! 

\Sits  doicn. 

Gond.  Madam,  lady,  tempter,  tongue,  woman,  air. 
Look  to  me,  I  shall  kick  !     I  say  again. 
Look  to  me,  I  shall  kick  ! 

Ori.  I  cannot  think  your  better  knowledge 
Can  use  a  woman  so  uncivilly. 

Gond.  I  cannot  think  I  shall  become  a  coxcomb. 
To  ha''  my  hair  curled  by  an  idle  finger, 
My  cheeks  turn  tabors  and  be  play'd  upon, 
Mine  eyes  look'd  babies  in,  and  my  nose  blowM  to  my  hand  : 
I  say  again,  I  shall  kick  !  sure,  I  shall. 

Ori.  'Tis  but 
Your  outside  that  you  shew ;   I  know  your  mind 
Never  was  guilty  of  so  great  a  weakness  : 
Or,  could  the  tongues  of  all  men  join'd  together 
Possess  me  with  a  thought  of  your  dislike, 
My  weakness  were  above  a  woman's,  to  fall  off 
From  my  affection  for  one  crack  of  thunder. 
Oh,  would  you  could  love,  my  lord  ! 

Gond.  I  would  thou  wouldst 
Sit  still,  and  say  nothing  !     What  madman  let  thee  loose, 
To  do  more  mischief  than  a  dozen  whirlwinds  I 
Keep  thy  hands  in  thy  muff  and  warm  the  idle 
Worms  in  thy  fingers'"  ends.     Will  you  be  doing  still? 
Will  no  entreating  serve  you  ?  no  lawful  warning  ? 
I  must  remove,  and  leave  your  ladyship  : 
Nay,  never  hope  to  stay  me  ;  for  I  will  run  from  that  smooth, 
smiling,  witching,  cozening,  tempting,  damning  face  of  thine, 
as  far  as  I  can  find  any  land,  where  I  will  put  myself  into  a 
daily  course  of  curses  for  thee  and  all  thy  family, 

Ori.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  sit  still ;  I'll  promise  peace, 
And  fold  mine  arms  up  ;  let  but  mine  eye  discourse ; 


44  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  hi. 

Or  lot  my  voice,  set  to  some  pleasing  chord,  sound  out 
The  sullen  strains  of  my  neglected  love. 

Goiid.  Sing  till  thou  crack  thy  treble-string  in  pieces, 
And  when  thou  hast  done,  put  up  thy  pipes  and  walk ! 
Do  any  thing ;  sit  still  and  tempt  me  not  ! 

Ori.  I  had  ^  rather  sing  at  doors  for  bread  than  sing  to 
tiiis  fellow  but  for  hate.  If  this  should  be  told  in  the  court, 
that  I  begin  to  woo  lords,  what  a  troop  of  the  untrussed 
nobility  should  I  have  at  my  lodging  to-morrow  morning  ! 

[Aside. — Siiif/s. 

Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceiving 

Lock  me  in  delight  a  while  ; 

Let  some  pleasing  dreams  beguile 

All  my  fancies  ;  that  from  thence 

I  may  feel  an  influence, 
All  my  powers  of  care  bereaving ! 

Though  but  a  shadow,  but  a  sliding, 

Let  me  know  some  little  joy  ! 

We  that  suffer  long  annoy 

Are  contented  with  a  thought, 

Through  an  idle  fancy  wrought  : 
Oh,  let  my  joys  have  some  abiding  ! 

Gond.  Have  you  done  your  wassail '  ?  'tis  a  handsome 
drowsy  ditty.  Til  assure  you  :  now  I  had  as  lief  hear  a  cat 
cry  when  her  tail  is  cut  off,  as  hear  these  lamentations, 
these  lowsy  love-lays,  these  bewaihuents.  You  think  you 
have  caught  me,  lady ;  you  think  I  melt  now,  like  a  dish  of 
May-butter,  and  run  all  into  brine  and  passion  :  yes,  yes,  I 
am  taken ;  look  how  I  cross  my  arms,  look  pale  and 
dwindle,  and  would  cry  but  for  spoiling  my  face  !  ^\^e  must 
part :  nay,  we'll  avoid  all  ceremony  ;  [  T/ict/  rise]  no  kissing, 
lady  ;   I  desire  to  know  your  ladyship  no  more. 

''  had]  Altered  by  Weber  to  "  would." 

'  was.voi/.]  "  In  the  present  place  the  word  is  not  used  in  its  general  sense 
of  a  festivity,  nor  does  it  allude  to  the  drinking  the  wassel  cup,  but  to  a  drinking 
song  which  was  sung  on  Twelfth-day."  Weder.  Gondarino  uses  the  word 
merely  as  a  term  of  contempt. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  45 

Enter  Duke,  Arrigo,  and  Lucio. 

Death  of  my  soul,  the  Duke  ! 

Ori.  God  keep  your  lordship  ! 

Gond.  From  thee  and  all  thy  sex. 

Ori.  ril  be  the  clerk,  and  cry,   Amen.      Your  lordship''s 
ever-assured  enemy,  Oriana.  \^Exit. 

Gond.  All  the  day's  good  attend  your  lordship  ! 

Duke.  We  thank  you,  Gondarino.     Is  it  possible  ? 
Can  belief  lay  hold  on  such  a  miracle  I 
To  see  thee  (one  that  hath  cloister'd  up  all  passion, 
TurnM  wilful  votary,  and  forsworn  converse 
With  women,)  in  company  and  fair  discourse 
With  the  best  beauty  of  Milan  ? 

Gond.  'Tis  true ;  and  if  your  grace,  that  hath  the  sway 
Of  the  whole  state,  will  suffer  this  lewd  sex, 
These  women,  to  pursue  us  to  our  homes. 
Not  to  be  pray'd  nor  to  be  raiFd  away. 
But  they  will  woo,  and  dance,  and  sing. 
And,  in  a  manner  looser  than  they  are 
By  nature  (which  should  seem  impossible), 
To  throw  their  arms  on  our  unwilling  necks 

Duke.  No  more  !  I  can  see  through  your  visor ;  dissemble  it 
No  more  !  Do  not  I  know  thou  hast  us^l  all  art 
To  work  upon  the  poor  simplicity 
Of  this  young  maid,  that  yet  hath  known  none  ill, 
Thinks  ^  that  damnation  will  fright  those  that  woo 
From  oaths  and  lies  ?     But  yet  I  think  her  chaste, 
And  will  from  thee,  before  thou  shalt  apply 
Stronger  temptations,  bear  her  hence  with  me. 

Gond.  My  lord,  I  speak  not  this  to  gain  new  grace  ; 
But  howsoever  you  esteem  my  words, 
My  love  and  duty  will  not  suffer  me 
To  see  you  favour  such  a  prostitute. 
And  I  stand  by  dumb  ;  without  rack,  torture, 

''  Thinks'\  Old  eds.  "  Thinkst"  and  "  Thinkest."— "  Thinks  is  surely  the 
ti'ue  reading,  and  it  is  the  supposed  simplicity  of  the  young  maid,  who  thinks 
that  the  fear  of  damnation  will  deter  men  from  Ijing  and  falsely  swearuig 
to  them." — Seward. 


46  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  hi. 

Or  strapado,  I  will  unrip  myself  : 

I  do  confess,  I  was  in  company  with 

That  pleasing  piece  of  frailty  that  we  call  woman  ; 

I  do  confess, 

After  a  long  and  tedious  siege,  I  yielded. 

Duke.  Forward  ! 

Gond.  Faith,  my  lord,  to  come  quickly  to  the  point, 
The  woman  you  saw  with  me  is  a  whore. 
An  arrant  whore. 

Duke.  Was  she  not  count  Valore's  sister  ? 

Gond.  Yes  ;  that  count  Valore's  sister  is  naught. 

Duke.  Thou  darest  not  say  so  ! 

Gond.  Not  if  it  be  distasting  to  your  lordship  ; 
But  give  me  freedom,  and  I  dare  maintain 
She  has  embrac''d  this  body,  and  grown  to  it 
As  close  as  the  hot  youthful  vine  to  the  elm. 

Duke.  Twice  have  I  seen  her  with  thee,  twice  my  thoughts 
Were  prompted  by  mine  eye  to  hold  thy  strictness 
False  and  impostcrous. 

Is  this  your  mewing-up,  your  strict  retirement. 
Your  bitterness  and  gall  against  that  sex  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  thee  say,  thou  would'st  sooner  meet 
The  basilisk's  dead-doing  eye  than  meet 
A  woman  for  an  object  I     Look  it  be  true  you  tell  me, 
Or,  by  our  country's  saint,  your  head  goes  off!  — 
If  thou  prove  a  whore, 

No  woman's  face  shall  ever  move  me  more.  \^  Aside. 

\^Exeunt  Ddke,  Arrigo,  and  Ldcio. 

Gond.  So,  so  !  'tis  as't  should  be. 
Are  women  grown  so  mankind '  ?  must  they  be  wooing  ? 
I  have  a  plot  shall  blow  her  up ;  she  flies,  she  mounts  ! 
I'll  teach  her  ladyship  to  dare  my  fury  ! 
I  will  be  known  and  fcar'd,  and  more  truly  hated 
Of  women  than  an  eunuch.     She's  here  again  : 

lie-enter  Oriana. 

Good  gall,  be  patient !   for  I  must  dissemble.  [Aside. 

'  mankind]  i.  e.  "  masculine."     Mason. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  47 

Ori.  Now,  my  cold  frosty  lord,  ray  woman-hater, 
You  that  have  sworn  an  everlasting  hate 
To  all  our  sex  ! 

By  my  troth,  good  lord,  and  as  I  am  yet  a  maid, 
Methought  "'twas  excellent  sport  to  hear  your  honour 
Swear  out  an  alphabet,  chafe  nobly  like  a  general. 
Kick  like  a  resty  jade,  and  make  ill  faces  ! 
Did  your  good  honour  think  I  was  in  love  ? 
Where  did  I  first  begin  to  take  that  heat  ? 
From  those  two  radiant  eyes,  that  piercing  sight  ? 
Oh,  they  were  lovely,  if  the  balls  stood  right  ! 
A  nd  there's  a  leg  made  out  of  a  dainty  stuff  ™, 
Where,  the  gods  be  thanked,  there  is  calf  enough  ! 

Gond.  Pardon  him,  lady,  that  is  now  a  convertite  : 
Your  beauty,  like  a  saint,  hath  wrought  this  wonder. 

Ori.  Alas,  has  it  been  pricked  at  the  heart  I  is  the 
stomach  come  down  I  will  it  rail  no  more  at  women,  and  call 
'em  devils,  she-cats,  and  goblins  I 

Gond.  He  that  shall  marry  thee  had  better  spend  the 
poor  remainder  of  his  days  in  a  dung-barge  for  two-pence 
a-week  and  find  himself. 

Down  again,  spleen  !  I  prithee,  down  again  !  [Aside. 

Shall  I  find  favour,  lady  ?  shall  at  length 
My  true  unfeigned  penitence  get  pardon 
For  my  harsh  unseasoned  follies  ? 
I  am  no  more  an  atheist ;  no,  I  do 
Acknowledge  that  dread  powerful  deity. 
And  his  all- quickening  heats  burn  in  my  breast : 
Oh,  be  not,  as  I  was,  hard,  unrelenting. 
But,  as  I  am,  be  partner  of  my  fires  ! 

Ori.  Sure,  we  shall  have  store  of  larks ;  the  skies  will  not 
Hold  up  long :  I  should  have  look'd  as  soon  for  frost 
In  the  Dog-days,  or  another  inundation, 
As  hop'd  this  strange  conversion  above  miracle. 
Let  me  look  upon  your  lordship  :  is  your  name 

"  stuff}  Old  eds.  "  stafFe."  That  the  rhyme  should  not  have  led  the  modern 
editors  to  the  right  reading,  is  marvellous.  The  expression  "dainty  stuff" 
occurs  again,  act  iv.  sc.  2. 


48  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  in. 

Gondarino  ?  are  you  Milan's  general,  that 
Great  bugbear  Bloody -bones,  at  whose  very  name 
All  women,  from  the  lady  to  the  laundress, 
Shake  like  a  cold  fit  ? 

Go7id.  Good  patience,  help  me  ! 
This  fever  will  enrage  my  blood  again. —  [Aside. 

Madam,  I  am  that  man ;   I  am  even  he 
That  once  did  owe  unreconciled  hate 
To  you  and  all  that  bear  the  name  of  woman  ; 
I  am  the  man  that  wrong'd  your  honour  to  the  Duke  ; 
I  am  he"  that  said  you  were  unchaste  and  prostitute ; 
Yet  I  am  he  that  dare  deny  all  this. 

Ori.  Your  big  nobility  is  very  merry. 

Gond.  Lady,  'tis  true  that  I  have  wrong'd  you  thus, 
And  my  contrition  is  as  true  as  that ; 
Yet  have  I  found  a  means  to  make  all  good  again. 
I  do  beseech  your  beauty,  not  for  myself, 
(My  merits  are  yet  in  conception,) 
But  for  your  honour's  safety  and  my  zeal, 
Retire  a  while. 

Whilst  I  unsay  myself  unto  the  Duke, 
And  cast  out  that  ill  spirit  I  have  possessed  him  with  ! 
I  have  a  house  conveniently  private. 

Ori.  Lord,  thou  hast  wrong'd  my  innocence  ; 
But  thy  confession  hath  gain'd  thee  faith. 

Gond.  By  the  true  honest  service  that  I  owe  those  eyes, 
My  meaning  is  as  spotless  as  my  faith  ! 

Ori.  The  Duke  doubt  mine  honour  l  a'  may  judge  strangely. 
'Twill  not  be  long  before  I'll  be  cnlarg'd  again  i 

Gond.  A  day  or  two. 

Ori.  Mine  own  servants  shall  attend  me  ? 

Gond.  Your  ladyship's  command  is  good. 

Ori.  Look  you  be  true  ! 

Gond.  Else    let    me    lose    the  hopes  my  soul  aspires  to  ! 

[E.dt  Ori  AN  A. 
I    will   be   a   scourge    to  all  females    in    my  life,   and,  after 

n  /  am  he'\  So  4t(»  1C07.     The  uiodfrn  editors  follow  the  reading  of  the  other 
cda.  "/  am  the  man." 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  49 

my   death,   the   name   of  Gondarino    shall    be    terrible    to 
the  mighty  women  of  the  earth  :    they  shall   shake    at  my 
name,    and    at   the    sound   of  it   their    knees   shall    knock 
together ;  and  they  shall  run  into  nunneries,  for  they  and  I 
are  beyond  all  hope  irreconcileable.     For  if  I  could  endure 
an  ear  with  a  hole  in''t,  or  a  plaited  lock,  or  a  bareheaded 
coachman  that  sits  like  a  sign  where  great  ladies  are  to  be 
sold  within,  agreement  betwixt  us  were  not  to  be  despaired 
of:    if  I  could  be  but  brought  to  endure  to  see  women,   I 
would  have  them  come  all  once  a-week  and  kiss  me  where  " 
witches  do  the  devil  in  token  of  homage. 
I  must  not  live  here  ;   I  will  to  the  court, 
And  there  pursue  my  plot ;  when  it  hath  took, 
Women  shall  stand  in  awe  but  of  my  look.  [Exit. 


SCENE  11.— A  Court  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  two  Intelligencers. 

First  Int.  There  take  your  standing  ;  be  close  and  vigilant. 
Here  will  I  set  myself :  and  let  him  look  to  his  language  ! 
""a  shall  know  the  Duke  has  more  ears  in  court  than  two. 

Sec.  Int.  ril  quote  him  to  a  tittle  :  let  him  speak  wisely, 
and  plainly,  and  as  hidden  as  'a  can,  I  shall  crush  him  ; 
""a  shall   not  ""scape  characters  f ;    though  'a  speak  Babel,  I 

o  where]  So  4to  1607.  Other  eds.  "as  ;"  which  the  modem  editors  give ! 
P  ril  quote  him  to  a  tittle  ....  ^ scape  characters]  The  editors  of  1778,  and 
Weber,  give  '^ scape  by  characters"  an  unliappy  alteration  of  Seward,  who, 
however,  very  properly  observed  that  "  from  writing  the  metaphor  before  is 
taken,"  though  Weber  deckres  authoritatively  that  "  Seward  does  not  under- 
stand the  word  quote."  From  the  hundred  passages  which  might  be  adduced 
to  shew  that  quote  was  used  in  the  sense  of  note,  write  down,  I  select  the 
following,  because  it  also  proves  how  unnecessarily  "by"  has  been  thrust  into 
our  text ; 

"  Fine  madam  Tiptoes,  in  her  velvet  go\vn, 
That  quotes  her  paces  in  characters  do^vn." 

Micro-ci/?iicon — Middleton's  Works,  V.  493,  ed.  Dyce. 
Valore  presently  says  "  Yonder's  my  informer  and  his   fellow,   with  table- 
books,"  i.  e.  memorandum-books, — and  they  accorduigly  proceed  to  ivrite  down, 
as  treasonable,  certain  expressions  of  Lazarillo. 
VOL.  I.  E 


50  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  hi. 

shall  crush  hiin.     We  have  a  fortune  by  this  service  hanging 

over  us,  that,  within  this  year  or  two,  I  hope 

Wo  shall  be  call'tl  to  be  examiners, 

AV^ear  politic  gowns  garded  '■  with  copper-lace, 

Making  groat  faces  full  of  fear  and  office  ; 

Our  labours  may  deserve  this. 

First  Int.  I  hope  it  shall. 
Why,  have  ■"  not  many  men  been  raised  from 
This  worming  trade,  first  to  gain  good  access 
To  great  men,  then  to  have  commissions  out 
For  search,  and  lastly  to  be  worthily  nani'd 
At  a  great  arraignment  ?  Yes  ;  and  why  not  we  ? 
They  that  endeavour  well  deserve  their  fee. 
Close,  close  !  ""a  comes  ;  mark  well,  and  all  goes  well. 

[  The?/  retire. 

Enter  Valore,  Lazarillo,  and  Boy. 

Laz.  Farew'ell,  my  hopes  !  my  anchor  now  is  broken  : 
Farewell,  my  quondam  joys,  of  which  no  token 
Is  now  remaining  !  such  is  the  sad  mischance, 
Where  lady  Fortune  leads  the  slippery  dance. 
Yet  at  the  length  let  me  this  favour  have, 
Give  rae  my  wishes  or  a  wished  grave  ! 

Vol.  The  gods  defend ',  so  brave  and  valiant  maw 
Should  slip  into  the  never-satiate  jaw 
Of  black  Despair  !  No  ;  thou  shalt  live  and  know 
Thy  full  desires;  Hunger,  thy  ancient  foe. 
Shall  be  subdu'd  ;  those  guts  that  daily  tumble 
Through  air  and  appetite,  shall  cease  to  rumble  ; 
And  thou  shalt  now  at  length  obtain  thy  dish, 
That  noble  part,  the  sweet  head  of  a  fish. 

Laz.  Then  am  I  greater  than  the  Duke. 

Sec.  Int.  There,  there's  a  notable  piece  of  treason  !  greater 
than  the  Duke  ;  mark  that. 

Val.  But  how,  or  where,  or  when  this  shall  be  compass'd, 
Is  yet  out  of  my  reach. 

Laz.  I  am  so  truly  miserable,  that  might  I 

<J  garded']  L  e.  adonied  with  yards,  triniraiugs,  facings. 

»  have]  Old  eds.  "  has  "  •  defend]  i.  e.  forbid. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  51 

Be  now  knock'd  o'  the  head,  with  all  my  heart 
I  would  forgive  a  dog -killer. 

Val.  Yet  do  I  see, 
Through  this  confusedness,  some  little  comfort. 

Laz.  The  plot,  my  lord,  as  e'er  you  came  of  a  woman, 
discover ! 

First  Int.  Plots,  dangerous  plots !  I  will  deserve  by  this 
most  liberally. 

Val.  'Tis  from  my  head  again. 

Laz.  Oh,  that  it  would  stand  me,  that  I  might  fight,  or 
have  some  venture  for  it  !  that  I  might  be  turned  loose,  to 
try  my  fortune  amongst  the  whole  fry  in  a  college  or  an  inn 
of  court,  or  scramble  with  the  prisoners  in  the  dungeon  ! 
Nay,  were  it  set  down  in  the  outer  court, 
And  all  the  guard  about  it  in  a  ring, 
With  their  knives  drawn,  (which  were  a  dismal  sight,) 
And  after  twenty  leisurely  were  told, 
I  to  be  let  loose  only  in  my  shirt. 
To  try  the[ir]  '  valour,  how  much  of  the  spoil 
I  could  "  recover  from  the  enemies'  mouths, 
I  would  accept  the  challenge. 

Val.  Let  it  go  !  Hast  not  thou  been  held  to  have  some  wit 
in  the  court,  and  to  make  fine''  jests  upon  country-people  in 
progress-time  ?  and  wilt  thou  lose  this  opinion  "  for  the  cold 
head  of  a  fish  I  I  say,  let  it  go  !  Fll  help  thee  to  as  good  a 
dish  of  meat. 

Laz.  God,  let  me  not  live,  if  I  do  not  wonder 
Men  should  talk  so  profanely  ! 
But  'tis  not  in  the  power  of  loose  words 
Of"  any  vain  or  misbelieving  man. 
To  make  me  dare  to  wrong  thy  purity. 
Shew  me  but  any  lady  in  the  court 

'  the[ir'\  A  conjecture  of  Seward  ;  who,  however,  prmted  "  by." 

"  could'\  A  conjecture  of  Seward  ;  who,  however,  gave  with  the  old  eds. 
"would  " — a  mistake  of  the  original  compositor,  caused  by  the  occurrence  of  the 
word  in  the  following  line. 

"  finel  Weber  chose  to  print  "  someone." 

"  opinion']  "  i.  e.  reputation."     Weber. 

»  O/]   In  Weber's  ed.  "Or." 

E  2 


52  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  hi. 

That  hath  so  full  an  eye,  so  sweet  a  breath, 

So  soft  and  white  a  flesh.     This  doth  not  lie 

In  almond-gloves',  nor  ever  hath  been  wash'd 

In  artificial  baths;  no  traveller 

That  hath  brought  doctor  home  with  him%  hath  dar'd, 

With  all  his  waters,  powders,  fucuses  % 

To  make  thy  lovely  corps  sophisticate, 

Val.  I  have  it ;  'tis  now  infus\l ;  be  comforted  ! 

Laz.  Can  there  be  that  little  hope  yet  left  in  nature  \  Shall 
I  once  more  erect  up  trophies  1 
Shall  I  enjoy  the  sight  of  my  dear  saint, 
And  bless  my  palate  with  the  best  of  creatures  I 
Ah,  good  my  lord,  by  whom  I  breathe  again, 
Shall  I  receive  this  being  '•  ? 

Val.  Sir,  I  have  found  by  certain  calculation. 
And  settled  revolution  of  the  stars, 
The  fish  is  sent  by  the  lord  Gondarino 
To  his  mercer :  now,  it  is  a  growing  hope 
To  know  where  'tis. 

Laz.  Oh,  it  is  far  above 
The  good  of  women ;  the  pathick  cannot  yield 
More  pleasing  titillation  ! 

Val.  Vtwi  how  to  compass  it  I  Search,  cast  about, 
And  bang  your  brains,  Lazarillo  !  thou  art 
Too  dull  and  heavy  to  deserve  a  blessing. 

Iaiz.  My  lord,  I  will  not  be  idle. — Now,  Lazarillo,  think, 
think,  think  !  [Aside. 

Val.  Yonder's  my  informer  and  his  fellow,  with  table- 
books  f;  they  nod  at  me:  upon  my  life,  they  have  poor 
Lazarillo  (that  beats  his  brains  about  no  such  weighty 
matter)  in  for  treason  before  this.  \^  Aside. 

y  almond-gloves]  "  To  render  the  skin  white,"  as  Weber,  perhaps  unneces- 
sarily, explains  it. 

•  halh  brought  doctor  home  with  him]  "  i.  c.  has  had  a  doctor's  degree 
io  some  foreign  university."     Seward. 

*  fucuses]  FucHs  was  a  term  repeatedly  used  by  our  early  writers  to  signify 
the  colours  with  which  ladies  improved  their  complexions. 

•>  Leing]  Qy. "  blessing  ?"  compare  the  next  speech  but  one  of  Valorc. 
"  table-buola]   See  note  p.  49. 


SCENE  11.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  53 

Laz.  My  lord,  what  do  you  think,  if  I  should  shave  myself, 
put  on  midwife's  apparel,  come  in  with  a  handkercher,  and 
beg  a  piece  for  a  great-bellied  woman  or  a  sick  child  I 

Vol.  Good,  very  good  ! 

Laz.  Or  corrupt  the  waiting  'prentice  to  betray  the  rever- 
sion ? 

First  Int.  There's  another  point  in  s  plot ;  corrupt  with 
money  to  betray  !  sure,  'tis  some  fort  'a  means.  Mark ;  have 
a  care. 

Laz.  An  'twere  the  bare  vinegar  'tis  eaten  with,  it  would 
in  some  sort  satisfy  nature  :  but  might  I  once  attain  the 
dish  itself,  though  I  cut  out  my  means  through  sword  and 
fire,  through  poison,  through  any  thing  that  may  make  good 
my  hopes — 

Sec.  Int.  Thanks  to  the  gods  and  our  officiousness,  the 
plot's  discovered  !  fire,  steel,  and  poison  ;  burn  the  palace, 
kill  the  Duke,  and  poison  his  privy-council ! 

Val.  To  the  mercer's— let  me  see  :  how  if,  before  we  can 
attain  the  means  to  make  up  our  acquaintance,  the  fish  be 
eaten  ? 

Laz.  If  it  be  eaten,  here  he  stands  that  is    the    most 
dejected,    most    unfortunate,   miserable,    accursed,    forsaken 
slave  this  province  yields  !   I  will  not,  sure,  out-live  it ;  no,  I 
will  die  bravely  and  like  a  Roman , 
And  after  death,  amidst  the  Elysian  shades 
I'll  meet  my  love  again. 

First  Int.  "I  will  die  bravely,  like  a  Roman:"  have  a  care; 
mark  that :  when  he  hath  done  all,  he  will  kill  himself. 
Val.  AVill  nothing  ease  your  appetite  but  this  I 

Laz.  No  ;  could  the  sea  throw  up  his  vastness, 
And  offer  free  his  best  inhabitants, 
'Twere  not  so  much  as  a  bare  temptation  to  me. 

Val.  If  you  could  be  drawn  to  affect  beef,  venison,  or  fowl, 
'twould  be  far  the  better. 

Laz.  I  do  beseech  your  lordship's  patience  ! 
I  do  confess  that,  in  this  heat  of  blood, 
I  have  contemn'd  all  dull  and  grosser  meats  ; 
But  I  protest  I  do  honour  a  chine  of  beef,  I  do  reverence  a 


54  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  in. 

loin  of  veal ;  but,  good  my  lord,  give  me  leave  a  little  to 
adore  this  !  liut,  my  good  lord,  would  your  lordship,  under 
colour  of  taking  up  some  silks,  go  to  the  mercer''s,  I  would  in 
all  humility  attend  your  honour ;  where  we  may  be  invited,  if 
fortune  stand  propitious. 

V^al.  Sir,  you  shall  work  mc  as  you  please. 

Laz.  Let  it  be  suddenly,  I  do  beseech  your  lordship  !  'tis 
now  upon  the  point  of  dinner-time. 

Val.  I  am  all  yours.    [^Exerint  Valore,  Lazarillo,  a?if/  Boy. 

First  Int.  Come,  let  us  confer.  Imprimis^  'a  saith,  like  a 
blasphemous  villain,  he  is  greater  than  the  Duke;  this  peppers 
him,  an  there  were  nothing  else. 

Sec.  Int.  Then  'a  was  naming  plots ;  did  you  not  hear  ? 

First  Int.  Yes ;  but  ""a  fell  from  that  unto  discovery,  to 
corrupt  by  money,  and  so  attain — 

Sec.  Int.  Ay,  ay,  'a  meant  some  fort  or  citadel  the  Duke 
hath ;  his  very  face  betrayed  his  meaning.  Oh,  he  is  a  very 
subtle  and  a  dangerous  knave  !  but  if  ""a  deal,  a'  God's  name, 
we  shall  worm  him. 

First  Int.  But  now  comes  the  stroke,  the  fatal  blow ;  fire, 
sword,  and  poison  !     Oh,  canibal,  thou  bloody  canibal ! 

Sec  Int.  What  had  become  of  this  poor  state,  had  not  we 
been? 

First  Int.  Faith,  it  had  lien  buried  in  his  own  ashes,  had 
not  a  greater  hand  been  in't. 

Sec.  Int.  But  note  the  rascal's  resolution  ;  after  tli'  acfs 
done,  because  'a  would  avoid  all  fear  of  torture  and  cozen 
the  law,  'a  would  kill  himself.  Was  there  ever  the  like 
danger  brought  to  light  in  this  age  I  Sure,  we  shall  merit 
much;  we  shall  bo  able  to  keep  two  men  a-piece  and  a  two- 
hand  sword  between  us  ;  we  will  live  in  favour  of  the  state, 
betray  our  ten  or  twelve  treasons  a-week,  and  the  people 
shall  fear  us.  Come ;  to  the  lord  Lucio !  the  sun  shall  not 
go  down  till  he  be  hanged.  [^Exeunt. 


THE  WOMAN-HATER. 


SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  the  Mercer's  House. 
Enter  Mercer  and  Prentice. 
Mercer.  Look  to  my  shop ;  and  if  there  come  ever  a 
scholar  in  black,  let  him  speak  with  me.  \_Exit  Prentice.] 
We  that  are  shopkeepers  in  good  trade  are  so  pestered  that 
we  can  scarce  pick  out  an  hour  for  our  morning''s  meditation ; 
and  howsoever  we  are  all  accounted  dull,  and  common  jesting 
stocks  for  your  gallants,  there  are  some  of  us  do  not  deserve 
it ;  for,  for  my  own  part,  I  do  begin  to  be  given  to  my  book. 
I  love  a  scholar  with  my  heart ;  for,  questionless,  there  are 
marvellous  things  to  be  done  by  art :  why,  sir,  some  of  them 
will  tell  you  what  is  become  of  horses  and  silver  spoons,  and 
will  make  wenches  dance  naked  to  their  beds.  I  am  yet 
unmarried,  and  because  some  of  our  neighbours  are  said  to 
be  cuckolds,  I  will  never  marry  without  the  consent  of  some 
of  these  scholars  that  know  what  will  come  of  it. 

Enter  Pandar. 

Pandar.  Are  you  busy,  sir  ? 

Mercer.  Never  to  you,  sir,  nor  to  any  of  your  coat.  Sir, 
is  there  any  thing  to  be  done  by  art  concerning  the  great 
heir  we  talked  on  I 

Pandar.  AVill  she,  nill  she,  she  shall  come  running  into  my 
house,  at  the  farther  corner  in  Saint  Mark's  street,  betwixt 
three  and  four. 

Mercer.  Betwixt  three  and  four  ?  She's  brave  in  clothes, 
is  she  not  I 

Pandar.  Oh,  rich,  rich  ! — Where  should  I  get  clothes  to 
dress  her  in ;  Help  me,  invention  !  \^  Aside'] — Sir,  that  her 
running  through  the  street  may  be  less  noted,  my  art  more 
shown,  and  your  fear  to  speak  with  her  less,  she  shall  come 
in  a  white  waistcoat  %  and 

Mercer.  What  !  shall  she  ? 

Pandar.  And  perhaps  torn  stockings. — She  hath  left  her 
old  wont  else.  [^ Aside. 

■^  a  white  titaistcoat.]  See  note,  p.  39. 


56  THE  WOMAN-HATKK.  |actiii. 

Re-enter  Prentice. 

Pren.  Sir,  my  lord  Gondarino  hath  sent  you  a  rare  fish- 
head. 

Mercer.  It  comes  right;  all  things  suit  right  with  uie 
since  I  began  to  love  scholai's. — You  shall  have  it  home  with 
you  against  she  come. — Carry  it  to  this  gentleman's  house. 

Pandar.  The  fair  white  house,  at  the  farther  corner  in** 
Saint  Mark's  street.  Make  haste.  \^Exit  Prentice] — I  must 
leave  you  too,  sir ;  I  have  two  hours  to  study.  Buy  a  new 
accidence,  and  ply  your  book,  and  you  shall  want  notliing 
that  all  the  scholars  in  the  town  can  do  for  you. 

Mercer.  Heaven  prosper  both  our  studies  !  [^Exit  Pandar,] 
What  a  dull  slave  was  I  before  I  fell  in  love  with  tliis 
learning !  not  worthy  to  tread  upon  the  earth  ;  and  what 
fresh  hopes  it  hath  put  into  me  !  I  do  hope,  within  this 
twelvemonth,  to  be  able  by  art  to  serve  the  court  with  silks, 
and  not  undo  myself ;  to  trust  knights,  and  yet  get  in  my 
money  again ;  to  keep  my  wife  brave  t\  and  yet  she  keep 
nobody  else  so. 

Enter  Valore  and  Lazarillo. 
Your  lordship  is  most  honourably  welcome  in  regard  of  your 
nobility ;  but  most  especially  in  regard  of  your  scholarship. 
Did  your  lordship  come  openly  ? 

Val.  Sir,  this  cloak  keeps  me  private  ;  besides,  no  man 
will  suspect  me  to  be  in  the  company  of  this  gentleman ; 
with  whom  I  will  desire  you  to  be  acquainted  :  he  may  prove 
a  good  customer  to  you. 

Laz.  For  plain  silks  and  velvets. 

Mei'cer.  Are  you  scholastical  I 

Laz.  Something  addicted  to  the  Muses. 

Val.  I  hope  they  will  not  dispute.  [Aside. 

Mercer.  You  have  no  skill  in  the  black  art '. 

Enter  Second  Prentice. 
Sec.  Pren.  Sir,   yonder 's  a  gentleman  cnijuires  hastily  for 
count  Valore. 

"*  in]  Old  cds.  "at."  But  sec  tliu  ^JH-ceding  page.   '  li)uve\  i.  e.  rielily  di-esbed. 


SCENE  III.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  57 

Val.  For  me  I  what  is  he  ? 

Sec.  Pren.  One  of  your  followers,  my  lord,  I  think. 

Val.  Let  him  come  in.  \^Exit  Sec.  Prentice. 

Mercer.  [^To  Laz.]  Shall  I  talk  with  you  in  private,  sir? 

Enter  Attendant  with  a  letter,  which  he  gives  to  Valore. 

Val.  \_Reads.^  Count,  come  to  the  court;  your  business  calls 
you  thither.  I  will  go. — Farewell,  sir :  111  see  your  silks 
some  other  time. — Farewell,  Lazarillo. 

Mercer.  Will  not  your  lordship  take  a  piece  of  beef  with  me  ? 

Val.  Sir,  I  have  greater  business  than  eating  ;  I  will 
leave  this  gentleman  with  you. 

\^Exeunt  Valore  and  Attendant. 

Laz.  No,  no,  no,  no* !  Now  do  I  feel  that  strained=  strug- 
gling within  me,  that  I  think  I  could  prophesy.  [Aside. 

Mercer.  The  gentleman  is  meditating. 

Laz.  Hunger,  Valour,  Love,  Ambition,  are  alike  pleasing, 
and,  let  our  philosophers  say  what  they  will,  are  one  kind  of 
heat ;  only  Hunger  is  the  safest :  Ambition  is  apt  to  fall ; 
Love  and  Valour  are  not  free  from  dangers  ;  only  Hunger, 
begotten  of  some  old  limber  courtier  in  paned  hose,''  and 
nursed  by  an  attorney's  wife,  now  so  thriven  that  he  need 
not  fear  to  be  of  the  Great  Turk's  guard,  is  so  free  from  all 
quarrels  and  dangers,  so  full  of  hopes,  joys,  and  ticldings,  that 
my  life  is  not  so  dear  to  me  as  his  acquaintance. 

Enter  Boy. 

Boy.  Sir,  the  fish-head  is  gone. 

Laz.  Then  be  thou  henceforth  dumb,  with  thy  ill-boding 
voice ! — 

Farewell,  Milan  !  Farewell,  noble  Duke  ! 
Farewell,  my  fellow -courtiers  all,  with  whom 
I  have  of  yore  made  many  a  scrambling  meal 
In  corners,  behind  arrases,  on  stairs  ; 

'  No,   no,   no,    no  /]     Altered  by  Seward  (and  rightly  perhaps)   to  "  Now, 
now,  now,  now  !"     So  the  subsequent  editors. 

s  strained]   Seward  and  his  successors  "  strange ." 
*•  paned  hose]     See  note  p.  15. 


58  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  hi. 

And  in  the  action  ot'tcntimcs  have  spoird 
Our  doublets  and  our  liose''  with  licjuid  stuff  ! 
Farewell,  you  lusty  archers  of  the  guard, 
To  whom  I  now  do  give  the  bucklers  up, 
And  never  more  with  any  of  your  coat 
Will  cat  for  wagers  !  now  you  happy  be  ; 
When  this  shall  light  upon  you,  think  on  me  ! 
You  sewers,  carvers,  ushers  of  the  court, 
Sirnamed  gentle  for  your  fair  demean, 
Here  I  do  take  of  you  my  last  farewell : 
May  you  stand  stifly  in  your  proper  places, 
And  execute  your  offices  aright ! 
Farewell,  you  maidens,  with  your  mother'  eke  ! 
Farewell,  you  courtly  chaplains  that  be  there  ! 
All  good  attend  you  !  may  you  never  more 
Marry  your  patron's  lady's  waiting-woman, 
But  may  you  raised  be  by  this  my  fall  ! 
May  Lazarillo  suffer  for  you  all ! 

Mercer.  Sir,  I  was  hearkening  to  you. 

Laz.  I  will  hear  nothing  :   I  will  break  my  knife, 
The  ensign  of  ray  former  happy  state, 
Knock  out  my  teeth,  have  them  hung  at  a  barber's, 
And  enter  into  religion.^ 

Boy.  Why,  sir,  I  think  I  know  whither  it  is  gone. 

Laz.  See  the  rashness  of  man  in  his  nature  ! — Whither, 
whither? — I  do  unsay  all  that  I  have  said. — Go  on,  go  on, 
boy  !      I  humble  myself,  and  follow  thee. — Farewell,  sir. 

Mercer.  Not  so,  sir  ;  you  shall  take  a  piece  of  beef  with  me. 

Laz.  I  cannot  stay. 

Mercer.  By  my  fay,**  but  you  shall,  sir,  in  regard  of  your 
love  to  learning  and  your  skill  in  the  black  art. 

''  hose'\  i.  e.  breeches. 

1  mother]  Lazarillo,  who  is  speaking  of  the  court,  means — the  Mother  of 
tlie  Maids  :  yet  the  modern  editore  print  "  mothers  !" 

i    Knock  nut  my  teeth,  hare  them  hung  at  a  barber's, 
And  enter  into  rclif;ion.]     "  That  is,  into  a  rehgious  order.    It  was  anciently 
customary  with  barl)cr-surgcons  to  hang  the  teeth  they  drew  upon  a  string,  and 
exhibit  them  as  an  emblem  of  one  department  of  their  multifarious  profession." 
Weber.  k  fay]   i.  e.  faith. 


SCENE  III.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  59 

Laz.  I  do  hate  learning,  and  I  have  no  skill  in  the  black 
art :  I  would  I  had  ! 

Mercer,  Why,  your  desire  is  sufficient  to  me ;  you  shall 
stay. 

Laz.  The  most  horrible  and  detested  curses  that  can  be 
imagined,  light  upon  all  the  professors  of  that  art  !  may 
they  be  drunk,  and,  when  they  go  to  conjure  and  reel  in  the 
circle,  may  the  spirits^  by  them  raised  tear  'em  in  pieces,  and 
hang  their  quarters  on  old  broken  walls  and  steeple-tops  ! 

Mercer.  This  speech  of  yours  shews  you  to  have  some  skill 
in  the  science ;  wherefore,  in  civility,  I  may  not  suffer  you  to 
depart  empty. 

Laz.  My  stomach  is  up ;   I  cannot  endiu-e  it :   I  will  fight 
in  this  quarrel  as  soon  as  for  my  prince. 
Room  !  make  way  !  \T>raiDs  his  rapier. 

Hunger  commands  ;  my  valour  must  obey.  \Lxeunt. 


ACT   IV. 

Scene  I. — An  Antechamber  in  the  Palace. 


Enter  Valore  and  Arrigo. 

Val.  Is  the  Duke  private  ? 

Arr.  He  is  alone  ;  but  I  think  your  lordship  may  enter. 

\^Exit  Valore. 
Enter  Gondarino. 

Gond.  Who's  with  the  Duke  I 

Arr.  The  count  is  new  gone  in ;  but  the  Duke  will  come 
forth  before  you  can  be  weary  of  waiting. 
Gond.  I  will  attend  him  here. 
Arr.  I  must  wait  without  the  door.  [^Exit. 

'  and,  when  they  go  to  conjure  and  reel  in  the  circle,  mat/  the  spirits,  Sic] 
Exhibited  thus  in  tlie  modern  editions  ;  "and  when  they  go  to  conjure,  reel  in 
the  circle  !     May  the  spirits,''  &c. 


60  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  iv. 

Gnnd.  Doth  he  hope  to  clear  his  sister  i  She  will  come  no 
more  to  my  house  to  laugh  at  me ;  I  have  sent  her  to  a  habita- 
tion, where,  when  she  shall  be  seen,  it  will  set  a  gloss  upon  her 
name :  yet,  upon  my  soul,  I  have  bestowed  her  amongst  the 
purest-hearted  creatures  of  her  sex,  and  the  freest  from  dissi- 
nudation  ;  for  their  deeds  are  all  alike,  only  they  dare  speak 
what  the  rest  think.  The  women  of  this  age,  (if  there  be  any 
degrees  of  comparison  amongst  their  sex,)  are  worse  than 
those  of  former  times  ;  for  I  have  read  of  women  of  that  truth, 
spirit,  and  constancy,  that,  were  they  now  living,  I  should 
endure  to  see  them :  but  I  fear  the  writers  of  the  time  belied 
them  ;  for  how  familiar  a  thing  is  it  with  the  poets  of  our  age, 
to  extol  their  whores  (which  they  call  luistresses)  with  heavenly 
praises, — but,  I  thank  their  furies  and  their  crazed  brains, 
beyond  belief !  nay,  how  many  that  would  fain  seem  serious, 
have  dedicated  grave  works  to  ladies,  toothless,  hollow-eyed, 
their  hair  shedding,  purple-faced,  their  nails  apparently  coming 
off,  and  the  bridges  of  their  noses  broken  down,  and  have 
called  them  the  choice  handy-works  of  Nature,  the  patterns 
of  perfection,  and  the  wonderment  of  women  !  Our  women 
begin  to  swarm  like  bees  in  summer  ;  as  I  came  hither,  there 
was  no  pair  of  stairs,  no  entry,  no  lobby,  but  was  pestered"" 
with  them :  methinks  there  might  be  some  course  taken  to 
destroy  them. 

Re-enter  Arrigo,  with  an  old  Gentlewoman. 

Arr.  I  do  accept  your  money  :  walk  here ;  and  when  the 
Duke  comes  out,  you  shall  have  fit  opportunity  to  deliver 
your  petition  to  him. 

Gnitlm-.  1  thank  you  heartily.  I  pray  you,  who  's  he  that 
walks  there  ? 

Arr.  A  lord  and  a  soldier,  one  in  good  favour  with  the 
Duke :  if  you  could  get  liim  to  deliver  your  petition 

Gentleiv.   What  do  you  say,  sir  I 

Arr.  If  you  could  get  him  to  deliver  your  petition  lor  you, 
or  to  second  you,  'twere  sure. 

Gentlexc.  I  hope  I  shall  live  to  requite  your  kindness. 

"■  pestered^  i.  c.  crowded,  cncumbei'ed. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  61 

Arr.  You  have  already.  [Exit. 

Gentleio.  May  it  please  your  lordship 

Gond.  No,  no. 

Gentleio.  To  consider  the  estate 

Gond.  No. 

Gentleio.  Of  a  poor  oppressed  country-gentlewoman. 

Gond.  No,  it  doth  not  please  my  lordship. 

Gentleio.  First  and  foremost,  I  have  had  great  injury ; 
then  I  have  been  brought  up  to  the  town  three  times. 

Gond.  A  pox  on  him  that  brought  thee  to  the  town  ! 

Gentleio.  I  thank  your  good  lordship  heartily :  though  I 
cannot  hear  well,  I  know  it  grieves  you.  And  here  we  have 
been  delayed,  and  sent  down  again,  and  fetched  up  again, 
and  sent  down  again,  to  my  great  charge  ;  and  now  at  last 
they  have  fetched  me  up  and  five  of  my  daughters — 

Gond.  Enough  to  damn  five  worlds. 

Gentlew.  Handsome  young  women,  though  I  say  it :  they 
are  all  without ;  if  it  please  your  lordship,  I'll  call  them  in. 

Gond.  Five  women  !  how  many  of  my  senses  should  I  have 
left  me  then  ?  call  in  five  devils  first. 
No,  I  will  rather  walk  with  thee  alone. 
And  hear  thy  tedious  tale  of  injury, 
And  give  thee  answers  ;  w'hisper  in  thine  ear, 
And  make  thee  understand  through  thy  French  hood ; 
And  all  this  with  tame  patience. 

Gentleio.  I  see  your  lordship  does  believe  that  they  are 
without ;  and  I  perceive  you  are  much  moved  at  our  injury  : 
here*'s  a  paper  will  tell  you  more.  [Offers  petition. 

Gond.  Away ! 

Gentleio.  It  may  be  you  had  rather  hear  me  tell  it  viva  voce, 
as  they  say. 

Gond.  Oh,  no,  no,  no,  no  !     I  have  heard  it  before. 

Gentlew.  Then  you  have  heard  of  enough  injury  for  a  poor 
gentlewoman  to  receive. 

Gond.  Never,  never ! — But  that  it  troubles  my  conscience  to 
wish  any  good  to  these  women,  I  could  afford  them  to  be 
valiant  and  able,  that  it  might  be  no  disgrace  for  a  soldier  to 
beat  them.  [Aside. 


62  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  iv. 

Gentkic.  I  hope  your  lordship  will  deliver  my  petition  to 
his  grace ;  and  you  may  toll  him  withal 

Gond.  What  ?  I  will  deliver  any  thing  against  myself,  to  be 
rid  on  thee. 

Gentlew.  That  yesterday,  about  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, I  met  my  adversary. 

Gond.  Give  me  thy  paper  :  he  can  abide  no  long  tales. 

[  Takes  petition. 

Gentleiv.  'Tis  very  short,  my  lord  :  and  I  demanding  of  him — 

Gond.  ni  tell  him  that  shall  serve  thy  turn. 

Gentlew.  How? 

Go7id.  ni  tell  him  that  shall  serve  thy  turn:  begone! 
[Gentlewoman  retires  a  little.]  Man  never  doth  remember  how 
great  his  offences  are,  till  he  do  meet  with  one  of  you  that 
plagues  him  for  them.  Why  should  women  only,  above  all 
other  creatures  that  were  created  for  the  benefit  of  man, 
have  the  use  of  speech  ?  or  why  should  any  deed  of  theirs, 
done  by  their  fleshly  appetites,  be  disgraceful  to  their  owners  ? 
nay,  why  should  not  an  act  done  by  any  beast  I  keep,  against 
my  consent,  disparage  me  as  much  as  that  of  theirs  I 

Gcntlen:  [Cominr/  foricard.']  Here's  some  few  angels"  for 
your  lordshi]^.  \_Offers  money. 

Gond.  Again  ?  yet  more  torments  ? 

Gentleio.  Indeed  you  shall  have  them. 

Gond.  Keep  off ! 

Gentlew.  A  small  gratuity  for  your  kindness. 

Gond.  Hold,  away  !  [  Throws  the  money  on  the  ground. 

Gentlew.  Why,  then,  I  thank  your  lordship:  I'll  gather 
them  up  again  ;  and  FU  be  sworn  it  is  the  first  money  that 
was  refused  since  I  came  to  the  court. 

[Gathers  up  the  money. 

Gond.  What  can  she  devise  to  say  more  ?  [A.iide. 

Gentlew.  Truly,  I  would  have  willingly  parted  with  them 
to  your  lordship. 

Gond.  I  believe  it,  I  believe  it. 

Gentlew.  Rut  since  it  is  thus 

Gond.  More  yet  ? 

"  angels']  i.  p.  Gold  poins  worth  about  10s.  each. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  63 

Gentlew.  I  will  attend  without,  and  expect  an  answer. 

Gond.  Do;  begone,  and  thou  shalt  expect,  and  have  any 
thing :  thou  shalt  have  thy  answer  from  him  ;  and  he  were 
best  to  give  thee  a  good  one  at  first,  for  thy  deaf  importunity 
will  conquer  him  too  in  the  end. 

Gentleiv.  God  bless  your  lordship,  and  all  that  favour  poor 
distressed  country-gentlewomen  !  [Exit. 

Gond.  All  the  diseases  of  man  light  upon  them  that  do, 
and  upon  me  when  I  do  !  A  week  of  such  days  would  either 
make  me  stark  mad  or  tame  me.  Yonder  other  woman,  that 
I  have  sure  enough,  shall  answer  for  thy  sins.  Dare  they 
incense  me  still,  I  will  make  them  fear  as  much  to  be  ignorant 
of  me  and  my  moods,  as  men  are  to  be  ignorant  of  the 
law  they  live  under.  Who''s  there  ?  my  blood  grew  cold  ;  I 
began  to  fear  my  suitor's  return.     'Tis  the  Duke. 

Enter  Duke  with  Valore. 

Vol.  I  know  her  chaste,  though  she  be  young  and  free, 
And  is  not  of  that  forc'd  behaviour 
That  many  others  are  ;  and  that  this  lord, 
Out  of  the  boundless  malice  to  the  sex, 
Hath  thrown  this  scandal  on  her. 

Gond.  Fortune  befriended  me  against  my  will  with  this 
good  old  country-gentlewoman  [Aside].  I  beseech  your  grace 
to  view  favourably  the  petition  of  a  wronged  gentlewoman. 

[  Gives  petition. 

Duke.  What,  Gondarino,  are  you  become  a  petitioner  for 
your  enemies  ? 

Gond.  My  lord,  they  are  no  enemies  of  mine :  I  confess, 
the  better  to  cover  my  deeds,  which  sometimes  were  loose 
enough,  I  pretended  it  (as  it  is  wisdom  to  keep  close  our 
incontinence) ;  but  since  you  have  discovered  me,  T  will  no 
more  put  on  that  vizard,  but  will  as  freely  open  all  my 
thoughts  to  you  as  to  my  confessor. 

Duke.  What  say  you  to  this  ? 

Val.  He  that  confesses  he  did  once  dissemble, 
ril  never  trust  his  words.     Can  you  imagine 
A  maid,  whose  beauty  could  not  suffer  her 


64  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  it. 

To  live  thus  long  iintemptcd  by  the  noblest, 
Richest,  and  cunning'st  masters  in  that  art, 
And  yet  hath  over  held  a  fair  repute, 
Could  in  one  morning,  and  by  him,  be  brought 
To  forget  all  her  virtue,  and  turn  whore  I 

Gond.  I  would  I  had  some  other  talk  in  hand 
Than  to  accuse  a  sister  to  her  brother ; 
Nor  do  I  mean  it  for  a  public  scandal, 
Unless  by  urging  me  you  make  it  so. 

Duke.  I  will  read  this  at  better  leisure,  Gondarino. — Where 
is  the  lady  ? 

Val.  At  his  house. 

Gond.  No,  she  is  departed  thence. 

Val.  Whither? 

Gond.  Urge  it  not  thus  ;  or  let  me  be  excusM, 
If  what  1  speak  betray  her  chastity, 
And  both  increase  my  sorrow  and  your  own. 

Val.  Fear  me  not  so  :  if  she  deserve  the  fame 
Which  she  hath  gotten,  I  would  have  it  publishM, 
Brand  her  myself,  and  whip  her  through  the  city  : 
I  ^^^sh  those  of  my  blood  that  do  offend 
Should  be  more  strictly  punished  than  my  foes. 
Let  it  be  provM  ! 

Duke.  Gondarino,  thou  shalt 
Prove  it,  or  suffer  worse  than  she  should  do. 

Gond.  Then  pardon  me.  if  I  betray  the  faults 
Of  one  I  love  more  dearly  than  myself, 
Since,  opening  hers,  I  shall  betray  mine  own. 
But  I  will  bring  you  where  she  now  intends 
Not  to  be  virtuous  :  Pride  and  Wantonness, 
That  are  true  friends  in  deed,  though  not  in  show, 
Have  entered  on  her  heart ;  there  she  doth  bathe 
And  sleek  her  hair,  and  practise  cunning  looks 
To  entertain  me  with  ;  and  hath  her  thoughts 
As  full  of  lust  as  ever  you  did  think 
Them  full  of  modesty. 

Duhr.  Gondarino,  lead  on;  we'll  follow  thee.  [E.vennt. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  65 

Scene  II. —  The  Street  before  Julia's  house. 

Enter  Pandar. 

Pandar.  Here  hope  I  to  meet  my  citizen,  and  here  hopes  he 
to  meet  his  scholar.  I  am  sure  I  am  grave  enough  to  his 
eyes,  and  knave  enough  to  deceive  him  :  I  am  beheved  to 
conjure,  raise  storms  and  devils,  by  whose  power  I  can  do 
wonders  ;  let  him  believe  so  still,  belief  hurts  no  man  :  I  have 
an  honest  black  cloak  for  my  knavery,  and  a  general  pardon 
for  his  foolery  from  this  present  day  till  the  day  of  his 
breaking.  Is't  not  a  misery,  and  the  greatest  of  our  age, 
to  see  a  handsome,  young,  fair  enough,  and  well-mounted 
wench  humble  herself  in  an  old  stammel  °  petticoat,  standing 
possessed  of  no  more  fringe  than  the  street  can  allow  her  ; 
her  upper  parts  so  poor  and  wanting,  that  ye  may  see  her 
bones  through  her  bodice  ?  shoes  she  would  have,  if  her 
captain  were  come  over,  and  is  content  the  while  to  devote 
herself  to  ancient  slippers.  These  premises  well  considered, 
gentlemen,  will  move  :  they  make  me  melt,  I  promise  ye,  they 
stir  me  much ;  and  were't  not  for  my  smooth,  soft,  silken 
citizen,  I  would  quit  this  transitory  trade,  get  me  an  ever- 
lasting robe,P  sear  up  my  conscience,  and  turn  sergeant.  But 
here  'a  comes  is  mine,  as  good  as  prize  :  Sir  Pandarus,  be  my 
speed  ! 

Enter  Mercer. 

You  are  most  fitly  met,  sir. 

Mercer.  And  you  as  well  encountered.  What  of  this  heir  ? 
have''  your  books  been  propitious  ? 

Pandar.  Sir,  'tis  done ;  she's  come,  she's  in  my  house  : 
make  yourself  apt  for  courtship,  stroke  up  your  stockings, 

°  stammel'^  i.  e.  a  sort  of  red,  coarser  and  cheaper  than  scarlet.  "  As  if  the 
scarlet  robes  of  their  honour  had  a  stain  of  the  stamell  die  in  them."  Fuller's 
Holy  Slate,  B.  iv.  eh.  12.  p.  29h,ed.  1642. 

P  an  everlasting  robe]  i.  e.  a  robe  of  the  stuff  called  everlasting,  or  perpeiU' 
ana,  which  was  formerly  worn  by  sergeants,  and  other  city-officers. 

1  have]  Old  eds.  "hath." 
VOL.  I.  F 


66  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  iv. 

lose  not  an  inch  of  your  legs'  goodness  :  I  am  sure  you  wear 
socks. 

Mercer.  There  your  books  fail  you,  sir ;  in  truth  I  wear  no 
socks. 

Pandar,  I  would  you  had.  sir  !  it  were  the  sweeter  grace 
for  your  legs.     Get  on  your  gloves  :  are  they  perfumed""  ? 

Mercer.  A  pretty  wash,  Til  assure  you. 

Pandar.  Twill  serve.  Your  offers  must  bo  full  of  bounty' ; 
velvets  to  furnish  a  gown,  silks  for  petticoats  and  foreparts, 
shag  for  linings* ;  forget  not  some  pretty  jewel,  to  fasten  after 
some  little  compliment.  If  she  deny  this  courtesy,  double 
your  bounties ;  be  not  wanting  in  abundance  :  fullness  of 
gifts,  linked  with  a  pleasing  tongue,  will  win  an  anchorite. 
Sir,  you  are  my  friend,  and  friend  to  all  that  profess"  good 
letters ;  I  must  not  use  this  oflfice  else  ;  it  fits  not  for  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman.  Those  stockings  are  of  Naples, 
they  are  silk  I 

Mercer.  You  are  again  beside  your  text,  sir ;  they  are  of 
the  best  of  wool,  and  they  [are]  cleped'  Jersey''". 

Pandar.  Sure,  they  are  very  dear  ? 

Mercer.  Nine  shillings,  by  my  love  to  learning  ! 

Pandar.  Pardon  my  judgment ;  we  scholars  use  no  other 
objects  but  our  books. 

Mercer.  There  is  one  thing  entombed  in  that  grave  breast, 
that  makes  me  equally  admire  it  with  your  scholarship. 

'  perfumed]  On  this  passage  Reed  has  a  long  note  borrowed  from  Shake- 
speare's commentators.  It  is  sufficient  to  observe,  that  perfumed  gloves  (in 
which  Queen  Elizabeth  had  "taken  pleasure")  were  still  very  fashionable  when 
the  present  play  was  written. 

*  Vour  offers  must  be  full  of  bounty,  &e.]  "  So  Shakespeare,  in  the  Two  Gen- 
tlemen of  "Verona  : 

*  Win  her  with  pifts,  if  she  respect  not  words  ; 

Dumb  jeirels  often  in  their  silent  kind, 

More  than  quick  words,  do  move  a  woman's  mind.' " — Reed. 

«  lin\ngs'\  So  4to,  1607.     Other  eds.,  «  lining." 
"   profess'\  Old  eds.  "professes." 

'  cleped]  i.  e.  called. — Old  eds.  "  cleeped,"  "  clypped,"  "  clipped." 
"  Jertey]    These,  as  well  as  silk   stockings,  wex-e  articles   of  luxury  and 
fashion. 


SCENE  n.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  67 

Pandar.  Sir,  but  that  in  modesty  I  am  bound  not  to  affect 
mine  own  commendation,  I  would  enquire  it  of  you. 

Mercer.  Sure,  you  are  very  honest ;  and  yet  you  have  a 
kind  of  modest  fear  to  shew  it :  do  not  deny  it ;  that  face  of 
yours  is  a  worthy,  learned,  modest  face. 

Pandar.  Sir,  I  can  blush. 

Me?'cer.  Virtue  and  grace  are  always  paired  together  :  but 
I  will  leave  to  stir  your  blood,  sir ;   and  now  to  our  business. 

Pandar.  Forget  not  my  instructions. 

Mercer.  I  apprehend  you,  sir  ;  I  will  gather  myself 
together  with  my  best  phrases,  and  so  I  shall  discourse  in 
some  sort  takingly. 

Pandar.  This  was  well  worded,  sir,  and  like  a  scholar. 

Mercer.  The  Muses  favour  me,  as  my  intents  are  virtuous  ! 
Sir,  you  shall  be  my  tutor ;  'tis  never  too  late,  sir,  to  love 
learning.     When  I  can  once  speak  true  Latin 

Pandar.   What  do  you  intend,  sir  ? 

Mercer.  Marry,  I  will  then  beggar  all  your  bawdy  writers, 
and  undertake,  at  the  peril  of  my  own  invention,  all  pageants, 
posies  for  chimneys  "=,  speeches  for  the  Duke's  entertainment, 
whensoever  and  whatsoever  ;  nay,  I  will  build  at  mine  own 
charge  an  hospital,  to  which  shall  retire  all  diseased  opinion  s^, 
all  broken  poets,  all  prose-men  that  are  fallen  from  small  sense 
to  mere  letters ;  and  it  shall  be  lawful  for  a  lawyer,  if  he  be  a 
civil  man,  though  he  have  undone  others  and  himself  by  the 
language,  to  retire  to  this  poor  life,  and  learn  to  be  honest. 

Pandar.  Sir,  you  are  very  good  and  very  charitable ;  you 
are  a  true  pattern  for  the  city,  sir. 

Mercer.  Sir,  I  do  know  sufficiently,  their  shop-books  cannot 
save  them ;  there  is  a  further  end — 

Pandar.  Oh,  sir,  much  may  be  done  by  manuscript. 

Mercer.  I  do  confess  it,  sir,  provided  still  they  be  canonical, 

*  posies  for  chimneys'\  "  Inscriptions  on  different  parts  of  the  house,  and  par- 
ticularly on  chimnies,  containing  instructions  to  the  servants,  and  other  lessons 
of  morality,  were  very  usual  at  the  time.  Tusser  has  collections  of  posies  for 
the  hall,  the  parlour,  the  guests'  chamber,  and  '  for  thine  own  bed-chamber.'" — 
Weber. 

y  opinions']  i.e.  "reputations." — Weber. 
F  2 


68  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  iv. 

and  have  some  wortliy  hands  set  to  'em  for  probation.     But 
we  forget  ourselves. 

Pandar.  Sir,  enter  when  you  please,  and  all  good  language 
tip  your  tongue  ! 

Mercer.  All  that  love  learning  pray  for  my  good  success  ! 

\^Exit  into  the  house. 

Enter  Lazarillo  and  Boy. 

Laz.  Boy,  whereabouts  are  we  ? 

Boi/.  Sir,  by  all  tokens,  this  is  the  house ;  bawdy,  I  am 
sure,  because  of  the  broken  windows  :  the  fish-head  is  within ; 
if  you  dare  venture,  here  you  may  surprise  it. 

Laz.  The  misery  of  man  may  fitly  be  compared  to  a 
didapper,  who,  when  she  is  under  water,  past  our  sight,  and 
indeed  can  seem  no  more  to  us,  rises  again,  shakes  but  herself, 
and  is  the  same  she  was;  so  is  it  still  with  transitory  man. 
This  day,  oh,  but  an  hour  since  !  and  I  was  mighty,  mighty 
in  knowledge,  mighty  in  my  hopes,  mighty  in  blessed  means, 
and  was  so  truly  happy,  that  I  durst  have  said,  "  Live,  Laza- 
rillo, and  be  satisfied  V     But  now 

Boi/.  Sir,  you  are  yet  afloat,  and  may  recover  ;  be  not  your 
own  wreck  ;  here  lies  the  harbour  ;  go  in,  and  ride  at  ease. 

Laz.  Boy,  I  am  received  to  be  a  gentleman,  a  courtier,  and 
a  man  of  action,  modest  and  wise,  and,  be  it  spoken  with  thy 
reverence'',  child,  abounding  virtuous  ;  and  vvouldst  thou  have 
a  man  of  these  choice  habits  covet  the  cover  of  a  bawdy-house  ? 
Yet,  if  I  go  not  in,  I  am  but 

BoT/.  But  what,  sir  ? 

Laz.  Dust,  boy,  but  dust ;  and  my  soul,  unsatisfied,  shall 
haunt  the  keepers  of  my  blessed  saint,  and  I  will  appear. 

Boi/.  An  ass  to  all  men.  [A.wle.] — Sir,  these  are  no  means 
to  stay  your  appetite  ;  you  must  resolve  to  enter. 

•  with  thy  reverence']  "  Tlie  editors  [of  1778]  think  that  Lazarillo  alludes  to 
the  old  Latin  .saying— 

Maxima  debetur  pueris  reverentia ; 

but  he  is  npeakin);  of  the  reverence  the  boy  ought  to  have  for  him,  not  his  respt-ct 
to  the  boy." — Mason. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  69 

Laz.  Were  not  the  house  subject  to  martial  law * 

Boy.  If  that  be  all,  sir,  you  may  enter,  for  you  can  know 
nothing  here  that  the  court  is  ignorant  of;  only  the  more 
eyes  shall  look  upon  you,  for  there  they  wink  one  at  another's 
faults. 

Laz.  If  I  do  not — 

Boy.  Then  you  must  beat  fairly  back  again,  fall  to  your 
physical  mess  of  porridge  and  the  twice-sacked  carcass  of  a 
capon  :  fortune  may  favour  you  so  much  to  send  the  bread 
to  it ;  but  it's  a  mere  venture,  and  money  may  be  put  out 
upon  it''. 

Laz.  I  will  go  in  and  live  ;  pretend  some  love  to  the  gentle- 
woman, screw  myself  in  affection,  and  so  be  satisfied. 

Pandar.  This  fly  is  caught,  is  meshed  already ;  I  will  suck 
him,  and  lay  him  by.  [_ Aside. 

Boy.  Muffle  yourself  in  your  cloak,  by  any  means  ;  'tis  a. 
received  thing  among  gallants,  to  walk  to  their  lechery  as 
though  they  had  the  rheum.  'Twas  well  you  brought  not 
your  horse. 

Laz.    Why,  boy  ? 

Boy.  Faith,  sir,  'tis  the  fashion  of  our  gentry  to  have  their 
horses  wait  at  door  like  men,  while  the  beasts  their  masters 
are  within  at  rack  and  manger ;  'twould  have  discovered  much. 

Laz.  I  will  lay  by  these  habits,  forms,  and  grave 
Respects  of  what  I  am,  and  be  myself  '^ ; 

»  Were  not  the  house  subject  to  martial  lawl  "  That  is,  subject  to  the  inspec- 
tion of  the  Mai-shalsea,  for  in  page  72  the  Pandar  says, '  Be  he  rich  or  poor,  if 
he  will  take  thee  with  him,  thou  mayest  use  thy  trade,  free  from  constables  and 
marshals.'  The  public  stews  of  London  were  formerly  established  in  South wark, 
within  the  precincts  of  the  Marshalsea." — Mason. 

^  but  it's  a  mere  venture,  and  money  may  be  put  out  upon  if]  An  allusion  to 
the  custom  (formerly  very  common)  for  those  who  undertook  expeditious  to /)«f 
out  sums  of  money  on  condition  of  receiving  them  back  trebled,  quadrupled,  or 
quintupled,  at  the  completion  of  their  voyages  or  journies.  They  forfeited  of 
course  the  deposit,  if  they  did  not  perform  what  they  had  undertaken. 

■=  Respects  of  what  I  am,  and  be  myself^  "  Seward  says,  <  How  could  Lazarillo 
change  hunself  in  all  outward  respects,  and  yet  contmue  to  be  himself,  and  then 
again  except  his  appetite,  which  should  stay  with  him  ?  The  Duke  below  [p.  75], 
when  disguised,  says,  We  are  not  ourselves  ;  but  without  this  confirmation 
'twas  evident  at  the  first  sight  that  a  negative  was  omitted.'     He  therefore  reads, 


70  THE  WOMAN-HATEIL  [act  iv. 

Only  niy  appetite,  my  fire,  my  soul, 

My  being,  my  dear  appetite,  shall  go 

Along  with  me ; 

ArmM  with  whose  strength  I  fearless  will  attempt 

The  greatest  danger  dare  oppose  my  fury. 

I  am  resolv'd,  wherever  that  thou  art, 

Most  sacred  dish,  hid  from  unhallow'd  eyes, 

To  find  thee  out : 

Be'st  thou  in  hell,  rap'd  by  Px'oscrpina'', 

To  be  a  rival  in  black  Pluto's  love  ; 

Or  mov'st  thou  in  the  heavens,  a  form  divine, 

Lashing  the  lazy  spheres  ;  or  if  thou  be'st 

Returned  to  thy  first  being,  thy  mother  sea, 

There  will  I  seek  thee  forth  :  earth,  air,  nor  fire, 

Nor  the  black  shades  below  shall  bar  my  sight, 

So  daring  is  my  powerful  appetite  ! 

Boy.  Sir,  you  may  save  this  long  voyage,  and  take  a  shorter 
cut :  you  have  forgot  yourself ;  the  fish-head's  here ;  your  own 
imaginations  have  made  you  mad. 

Laz.  Term  it  a  jealous  fury,  good  my  boy. 

Boy.  Faith,  sir,  term  it  what  you  will,  you  must  use  other 
terms  before  you  can  get  it. 

Laz.    The  looks  of  my  sweet  love  arefair^^ 
Fresh  and  feeding  as  the  air. 

Boy.  Sir,  you  forget  yourself. 

Laz.    Was  never  seen  so  rare  a  head 
Of  any  fish^  alive  or  dead. 

Boy.  Good  sir,  remember  :  this  is  the  house,  sir. 

Laz,  Cursed  he  he  that  dare  not  venture 

and  be  no  more  myself.  We  apprehend  this  addition  to  be  unnecessary,  and  to 
pervert  the  sense.  Lazarillo  says, '  he  will  lay  by  outward  funns,  which  are  no 
part  of  himself,  and  carry  with  him  only  his  passions,  soul,  and  being,  which  are 
his  very  self.     In  sliort,  I  will  lay  by  these /(/rms,  and  he  myself.'  " — Ed.  1778. 

•*  rap'd  by  Proserpina]  i.  e.  snatched  away  by  Proserpina.  The  editoi-s  of 
1778  give,  "  by  rap'd  Proserjnna,"  and  tliey  "  ajiprohend  every  reader  will  see 
the  necessity  of  the  transposition  here  made."  This  alteration  (which  Weber 
adopted)  is  certainly  very  specious,  but  I  believe  the  old  reading  to  be  right. 

'  The  looks  of  my  sweet  love  are  fair,  <|c.J  Perhaps,  aa  the  editors  of  1778 
remark,  Lazarillo  here  parodies  some  verses  well-known  at  the  time. 


SCENE  Ti.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  71 

Boy.  Pity  yourself,  sir,  and  leave  this  fury. 

Laz.  For  such  a  prize  !  and  so  I  enter. 

QLazarillo  and  Boy  exeunt  into  the  house. 

Pandar.  Dun's  i'  the  mire  ^;  get  out  again  how  he  can  ! 
My  honest  gallant,  111  shew  you  one  trick  more 
Than  e'er  the  fool  your  father  dreani'd  of  yet. 
Madonna  Julia  I 

Enter  Julia. 

Julia.  What  news,  my  sweet  rogue  I  my  dear  sin's  broker, 
what  good  news  ? 

Pandar.  There  is  a  kind  of  ignorant  thing,  much  like 
a  courtier,  now  gone  in. 

Jidia.  Is  he  gallant  ? 

Pandar.  He  shines  not  very  gloriously. 
Nor  does  he  wear  one  skin  perfuni'd  to  keep 
The  other  sweet ;  his  coat  is  not  in  or. 
Nor  does  the  world  run  yet  on  wheels  with  him  ; 
He's  rich  enough,  and  has  a  small  thing  follows  him, 
Like  to  a  boat  tied  to  a  tall  ship's  tail. 
Give  him  entertainment ; 
Be  light  and  flashing,  like  a  meteor ; 
Hug  him  about  the  neck,  give  him  a  kiss. 
And  lisping  cry,  "  Good  sir  !"  and  he's  thine  own 
As  fast  as  he  were  tied  to  thine  arms  by  indenture. 

Jidia.  I  dare  do  more 
Than  this,  if  he  be  o'  the  true  court-cut ; 
I'll  take  him  out  a  lesson  worth  the  learning  : 
But  we  are  but  their  apes.     What  is  he  worth  ? 

^  Dun's  V  the  mire]  This  expression,  of  frequent  occurrence  in  our  early 
writers,  was  first  properly  explamed  by  Gifford.  "  Dun  is  in  the  mire  !  is  a 
Christmas  gambol,  at  which  I  have  often  played.  A  log  of  wood  is  brought  into 
the  midst  of  the  room  :  this  is  Dun  (the  cart-horse),  and  a  cry  is  raised  that  he 
is  stuck  in  the  mire.  Two  of  the  company  advance,  either  with  or  without  ropes, 
to  draw  him  out.  After  repeated  attempts,  they  find  themselves  unable  to  do  it, 
and  call  for  more  assistance.  The  game  continues  till  all  the  company  take  part 
in  it,  when  Dun  is  extricated  of  course  ;  and  the  merriment  arises  from  the 
awkward  and  affected  efforts  of  the  rustics  to  lift  the  log,  and  from  sundry  arch 
contrivances  to  let  the  ends  of  it  fall  on  one  another's  toes."  Note  on  B.  Jonspn's 
Works,  vii.  283. 


72  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  iv. 

Pandar.  Be  he  rich  or  poor,  if  he  will  take  thee  with  him, 
thou  maycst  use  thy  trade,  free  from  constables  and  marshals. 
Who  hath  been  here  since  I  went  out  ? 

Julia.  There  is  a  gentlewoman  sent  hither  by  a  lord  :  she's 
a  piece  of  dainty  stuff,  my  rogue,  smooth  and  soft  as  new 
satin  ;  she  was  never  gummed  yet,  boy,  nor  fretted^. 

Pandar.  Where  lies  she  ? 

Jidia.  She  lies  above,  towards  the  street ;  not  to  be  spoke 
with  but  by  the  lord  that  sent  her  or  some  from  him,  we 
have  in  charge  from  his  servants. 

Re-enter  Lazarillo  avd  Boy. 

Pandar.  Peace  ;  he  comes  out  again  upon  discovery.  Up 
with  all  your  canvas,  hale  him  in  ;  and,  w'hen  thou  hast  done, 
clap  him  aboard  bravely,  my  valiant  pinnace  ! 

Jidia.  Be  gone  :   I  shall  do  reason  with  him.  \^Exit  Pandar. 

Laz.  Are  you  the  special  beauty  of  this  house  ; 

Julia.  Sir,  you  have  given  it  a  more  special  regard  by  your 
good  language  than  these  black  brows  can  merit. 

Laz.  Lady,  you  are  fair. 

Julia.  Fair,  sir  I  I  thank  you  : 
All  the  poor  means  I  have  left  to  be  thought  grateful, 
Is  but  a  kiss,  and  you  shall  have  it,  sir.  QLazarillo  lasses  her. 

Laz.  You  have  a  very  moving  lip. 

Julia.  Prove  it  again,  sir ;  it  may  be  your  sense 
Was  set  too  high,  and  so  o'er-wrought  itself. 

Laz.  [Kissing  her.^  'Tis  still  the  same.  How  far  may  you 
hold  the  time  to  be  spent,  lady  ? 

Julia.  Four  o''clock,  sir. 

Laz.  I  have  not  eat  to-day. 

f  xke  teas  never  gummed  yet,  hoy,  nor  fretled]  "  Both  terras  were  usually 
applied  to  velvet.  So  in  Hcury  IV.  Part  I.,  Poins  says  to  the  prince — '  I  have 
removed  Falstaff's  hoi*se,  and  he  frets  like  a  ijummed  velvet.' To  under- 
stand the  allusion  in  the  text  fully,  it  should  be  recollected  that  velvet  seems  to 
have  been  an  usual  dress  of  bawds  and  courtezans." — Weber.  What  non- 
sense !  Does  not  Julb  talk  of  satin  ? — which  (as  well  as  velvet)  was  sometimes 
stiffened  with  gum,  either  to  make  it  sit  well,  or  to  give  it  a  gloss  :  its  fretting 
was  the  consequence  of  its  being  thus  hardened.  Compare  Middleton's  Workt, 
iv.  443.  ed.  Dyce. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  Ti 

Julia.  You  will  have  the  better  stomach  to  your  supper ; 
In  the  mean  time  I'll  feed  you  with  delight. 

Laz.  'Tis  not  so  good  upon  an  empty  stomach :  if  it  might 
be  without  the  trouble  of  your  house,  I  would  eat. 

Julia.  Sir,  we  can  have  a  capon  ready. 

Laz.  The  day? 

Julia.  ''Tis  Friday,  sir. 

Laz.  I  do  eat  little  flesh  upon  these  days. 

Julia.  Come,  sweet,  you  shall  not  think  on  meat ; 
I'll  drown  it  with  a  better  appetite. 

Laz.  I  feel  it  work  more  strangely ;   I  must  eat. 

Julia.  ""Tis  now  too  late  to  send  :  I  say  you  shall  not  think 
on  meat ;  if  you  do,  by  this  kiss,  I'll  be  angry. 

Laz.  I  could  be  far  more  sprightful,  had  I  eaten,  and  more 
lasting. 

Julia.  What  will  you  have,  sir  I  name  but  the  fish, 
My  maid  shall  bring  it,  if  it  may  be  got. 

Laz.   Methinks  your  house  should  not  be  so  unfurnished, 
As  not  to  have  some  pretty  modicum. 

Julia.  It  is  so  now  :  but,  could  you  stay  till  supper 

Laz.  Sure,  I  have  offended  highly  and  much,  and  my 
inflictions  make  it  manifest.  I  will  retire  henceforth,  and 
keep  my  chamber,  live  privately,  and  die  forgotten.       [Aside. 

Julia.  Sir,  I  must  crave  your  pardon  ;  I  had  forgot  myself. 
I  have  a  dish  of  meat  within,  and  it  is  fish  :   I  think  this 
dukedom  holds  not  a  daintier ;  'tis  an  umbrana's  head. 

Laz.  Lady,  this  kiss  is  yours,  and  this.  [Kisses  her. 

Julia.  Ho,  within  there  ! 
Cover  the  board,  and  set  the  fish-head  on  it. 

Laz.  Now  am  I  so  truly  happy,  so  much  above  all  fate  and 
fortune,  that  I  should  despise  that  man  durst  say,  "  Remem- 
ber, Lazarillo,  thou  art  mortal  !"  [Aside. 

Enter  tico  Intelligencers  with  a  Guard, 

Sec.  Int.  This  is  the  villain  ;  lay  hands  on  him. 

[  The  Guard  seize  Lazarillo. 
Laz.  Gentlemen,  why  am  I  thus  entreated  ?  what  is  the 
nature  of  my  crime  l 


74  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  iv. 

Sec.  Inf.  Sir,  though  you  have  carried  it  a  great  while  pri- 
vately, and  (as  you  think)  well,  yet  we  have  seen  you,  sir, 
and  we  do  know  thee,  Lazarillo,  for  a  traitor. 

Laz.  The  gods  defend  our  Duke  ! 

Sec.  Inf.  Amen.     Sir,  sir, 
This  cannot  save  that  stiff  neck  from  the  halter. 

Julia.  Gentlemen,  I  am  glad  you  have  discovered  him :  he 
should  not  have  eaten  under  my  roof  for  twenty  pounds  ;  and 
surely  I  did  not  like  him  when  he  called  for  fish  ''. 

Laz.  jMy  friends,  will  yc  let  me  have  that  little  favour 

First  Int.  Sir,  you  shall  have  law,  and  nothing  else. 

Laz.  To  let  me  stay  the  eating  of  a  bit  or  two ;  for  I 
protest  I  am  yet  fasting. 

Julia,  ril  have  no  traitor  come  within  my  house. 

Laz.  Now  could  I  wish  myself  I  had  been  traitor  :  I  have 
strength  enough  for  to  endure  it,  had  I  but  patience.     Man, 
thou  art  but  grass,  thou  art  a  bubble,  and  thou  must  perish. 
Then  lead  along ;   I  am  preparM  for  all  : 
Since  I  have  lost  my  hopes,  welcome  my  fall  ! 

Sec.  Lit.   Away,  sir  ! 

Laz.  As  thou  hast  hope  of  man,  stay  but  this  dish  this  two 
hours  !  I  doubt  not  but  I  shall  be  discharged :  by  this  light, 
I  will  marry  thee  ! 

Julia.  You  shall  marry  me  fii'st  then. 


''  n-hen  he  calVd  for  fsh]  "  In  King  Lear,  one  of  Kent's  articles  of  self- 
recommendation  is,  that  he  eats  no  Jish  :  the  following  explanation  is  there 
given  hy  Warburton. — '  In  Queen  Elizabeth's  time  the  papists  were  esteemed, 
an<l  with  good  reason,  enemies  to  the  government.  Hence  the  proverbial 
phrase  of,  he^s  an  honest  man,  and  eats  no  fish,  to  signify  he's  a  friend  to  the 
government  and  a  protestant.  The  eating  fish,  on  a  religious  account,  bemg 
then  esteemed  such  a  badge  of  popery,  that  when  it  was  enjoined  for  a  season 
by  act  of  parliament,  for  the  encouragement  of  the  fish-towns,  it  was  thought 
necessary  to  declare  the  reason  ;  hence  it  was  called  Cecil's  fast.  To  tliis  dis- 
graceful badge  of  popery  Fletcher  alludes  in  his  Woman-Ilater,  who  makes 
the  courtezan  say,  w  hen  Lazarillo,  in  search  of  the  unibrana's  head,  was  seized 
at  her  house  by  the  intelligencei-s  for  a  traitor,  '  Gentlemen,  I  am  glad  you  have 
discovered  him  :  he  should  not  have  eaten  under  my  roof  for  twenty  pounds  ; 
and  surely  I  did  not  like  him  when  he  called  for  fish.'  And  Marston's  Dutch 
Courtezan  :  '  I  trust  I  am  none  of  the  wicked  that  catfish  a  Fridays'  " — Ed. 
I'TH-     Perhaps,  Warburton  is  right. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  75 

Laz.  I  do  contract  myself  unto  thee  now,  before  these 
gentlemen. 

Julia.  I'll  preserve  it  till  you  be  hanged  or  quitted. 

Laz.  Thanks,  thanks  ! 

^ec.  Int.  Away,  away  !  you  shall  thank  her  at  the  gallows. 

Laz.  Adieu,  adieu  ! 

[^Exeunt  Lazarillo,  Boy,  Intelligencers,  a7icl  Guard. 

Julia.  If  he  live,  I'll  have  him  ;  if  he  be  hanged,  there's  no 
loss  in  it.  [  Exit  into  the  house. 

Oriana  and  Waiting-woman  appear  at  a  window. 

Ori.  Hast  thou  provided  one  to  bear  my  letter  to  my 
brother  ? 

Wait.  I  have  inquired ;  but  they  of  the  house  will  suffer 
no  letter  nor  message  to  be  carried  from  you  but  such  as  the 
lord  Gondarino  shall  be  acquainted  with :  truly,  madam,  I 
suspect  the  house  to  be  no  better  than  it  should  be. 

Ori.  What  dost  thou  doubt  I 

Wait.  Faith,  I  am  loath  to  tell  it,  madam. 

Ori.  Out  with  it !  'Tis  not  true  modesty  to  fear  to  speak 
that  thou  dost  think. 

Wait.  I  think  it  be  one  of  these  same  bawdy-houses. 

Ori.  'Tis  no  matter,  wench  ;  we  are  warm  in  it :  keep 
thou  thy  mind  pure,  and,  upon  my  word,  that  name  will  do 
thee  no  hurt.  I  cannot  force  myself  yet  to  fear  anything  : 
when  I  do  get  out,  I'll  have  another  encounter  with  my 
woman-hater.  Here  will  I  sit :  I  may  get  sight  of  some  of 
my  friends  ;  it  must  needs  be  a  comfort  to  them  to  see  me 
here. 

Enter  Duke,  Gondarino,  Valore,  and  Arrigo,  disguised. 

Gond.  Are  we  all  sufficiently  disguised  ?  for  this  house, 
where  she  attends  me,  is  not  to  be  visited  in  our  own  shapes. 

Duke.  We  are  not  ourselves. 

A)'r.  I  know  the  house  to  be  sinful  enough  ;  yet  I  have 
been  heretofore,  and  durst  now,  but  for  discovering  of  you, 
appear  here  in  my  own  likeness. 

Duke.  Where's  Lucio  ? 


76  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  iv. 

Arr.  My  lord,  he  said  the  affairs  of  the  commonwealth 
would  not  suffer  him  to  attend  always. 

Duke.  Some  great  ones,  questionless,  that  he  will  handle. 

Val.  Come,  let  us  enter. 

Gond.  See,  how  Fortune  strives  to  revenge  my  quarrel 
upon  these  women  !  she"'s  in  the  ^N-indow  :  were  it  not  to  undo 
her,  I  should  not  look  upon  her.  \^  Aside. 

Duke.  Lead  us,  Gondarino. 

Gond.  Stay ;  since  you  force  me  to  display  my  shame, 
Look  there  ! — and  you,  my  lord,  know  you  that  face  \ 

Duke.  ""Tis  she. 

Val.  It  is. 

Gond.  'Tis  she,  whose  greatest  virtue  ever  was 
Dissimulation  ;  she  that  still  hath  strove 
More  to  sin  cunningly  than  to  avoid  it ; 
She  that  hath  ever  sought  to  be  accounted 
Most  virtuous  when  she  did  deserve  most  scandal ; 
""Tis  she  that  itches  now,  and,  in  the  height 
Of  her  intemperate  thoughts,  with  greedy  eyes 
Expects  my  coming  to  allay  her  lust. 
Leave  her  ;  forget  she  is  thy  sister. 

Val.  Stay,  stay  ! 

Duke.  I  am  as  full  of  this  as  thou  canst  be  ; 
The  memory  of  this  will  easily 
Hereafter  stay  my  loose  and  wandering  thoughts 
From  any  woman. 

Val.  This  will  not  down  with  me  ;   I  dare  not  trust 
This  fellow. 

Duke.  Leave  her  here  :  that  only  shall  be 
Her  punishment,  never  to  be  fetched  from  hence, 
But  let  her  use  her  trade  to  get  her  living. 

Val.  Stay,  good  my  lord  !  I  do  believe  all  this  ;  as  great 
men  as  I  have  had  known  whores  to  their  sisters,  artd  have 
laughed  at  it.  I  would  fain  hear  how  she  talks,  since  she 
grew  thus  light :  will  your  grace  make  him  shew  himself  to 
her,  as  if  he  were  now  come  to  satisfy  her  longing  I  whilst  we, 
unseen  of  her,  overhear  her  wantonness.  Let''s  make  our  best 
of  it  now; 


SCENE  n.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  77 

Duke.  Do  it,  Gondarino. 

Gond.  I  must :   Fortune,  assist  me  but  this  once  !     \^  Aside. 
Vol.  Here  we  shall  stand  unseen,  and  near  enough. 
Gond.  Madam  !  Oriana  ! 
Ori.  Who;?  that  ?     Oh,  my  lord. 
Gond.  Shall  I  come  up  ? 

Ori.  Oh,  you  are  merry  :  shall  I  come  down  ? 
Gond.  It  is  better  there. 

Ori.  What  is  the  confession  of  the  lie  you  made  to  the 
Duke,  which  I  scarce  believe  yet  you  had  impudence  enough 
to  do  ?  Did  it  not  gain  you  so  much  faith  with  me,  as  that 
I  was  willing  to  be  at  your  lordship's  bestowing  till  you  had 
recovered  my  credit,  and  confessed  yourself  a  liar,  as  you 
pretended  to  do  ?  I  confess  I  began  to  fear  you,  and  desired 
to  be  out  of  your  house ;  but  your  own  followers  forced  me 
hither. 

Gond.  'Tis  well  suspected  ; 
Dissemble  still,  for  there  are  some  may  hear  us. 

Ori.  More  tricks  yet,  my  lord  I     What  house  this  is,  I 
know  not ;  I  only  know  myself :  it  were  a  great  conquest,  if 
you   could  fasten  a  scandal  upon  me.     Faith,  my  lord,  give 
me  leave  to  write  to  my  brother. 
Duke.  Come  down  ! 
Val.  Come  down  ! 

Arr.  If  it  please  your  grace,  there's  a  back-door. 
Val.     Come,  meet  us  there  then. 

[Oriana  and  Waiting-woman  disappear  from  the  window. 
Duke.  It  seems  you  are  acquainted  with  the  house. 
Arr.  I  have  been  in  it. 
Gond.  She  saw  you,  and  dissembled. 
Duke.  Sir,  we  shall  know  that  better. 
Gond.  Bring  me  unto  her :  if  I  prove  her  not 
To  be  a  strumpet,  let  me  be  contemn'd 
Of  all  her  sex.  \^Exeunt. 


78  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — Lucio's  Apartment. 


Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Now,  whilst  the  young  Duke  follows  his  delights, 
We  that  do  mean  to  practise  in  the  state, 
Must  pick  our  times,  and  set  our  faces  in. 
And  nod  our  heads,  as  it  may  prove  most  fit 
For  the  main  good  of  the  dear  commonwealth. 
Who's  within  there  I 

Enter  Secretary. 

Seer.  My  lord  I 

L^ucio.  Secretary,  fetch  the  go\Mi  I  use  to  read  petitions  in, 
and  the  standish  I  answer  French  letters  with  ;  and  call  in 
the  gentleman  that  attends.  {Exit  Secretary. 

Little  know  they  that  do  not  deal  in  state, 
How  many  things  there  are  to  be  observM, 
Which  seem  but  little  ;  yet  by  one  of  us 
(\V'hose  brains  do  wind  about  the  commonwealth) 
Neglected,  cracks  our  credits  utterly. 

Re-enter  Secretary  with  Gentleman. 
Sir,  but  that  I  do  presume  upon  your  secrecy,  I  would  not 
have   appeared  to  you  thus    ignorantly    attired,    without   a 
toothpick  in  a  ribband  J,  or  a  ring  in  my  bandstring. 

Gent.  Your  lordship  sent  for  me  ? 

Lucio.  I  did.  Sir,  your  long  practice  in  the  state,  under  a 
great  man,  hath  led  you  to  much  experience. 

Gent.  My  lord  ! 

J  a  toothpick  in  a  ribband]  "  Travellers,  and  all  those  who  imitated  foreign 
fashions,  affected  to  use  toothpicks,  which,  till  about  the  year  1600,  appear  to 
liave  been  unknown  in  Eii.'iaml." — Wkuer. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  79 

Lucio.  Suffer  not  your  modesty  to  excuse  it.  In  short, 
and  in  private,  I  desire  your  direction.  I  take  my  study 
already  to  be  furnished  after  a  grave  and  wise  method. 

Gent.  What  will  this  lord  do  ?  [Aside. 

Lucio.  My  book-strings  are  suitable  and  of  a  reaching'' 
colour. 

Ge/zff.  How's  this?  [Aside. 

Lucio.  My  standish  of  wood  strange  and  sweet,  and  my 
fore-flap'  hangs  in  the  right  place  and  as  near  Machiavel's 
as  can  be  gathered  by  tradition. 

.  Gent.  Are  there  such  men  as  will  say  nothing  abroad,  and 
play  the  fools  in  their  lodgings  ?  This  lord  must  be  followed. 
[Aside.^ — And  hath  your  lordship  some  new-made  words  to 
scatter  in  your  speeches  in  public,  to  gain  note,  that  the 
hearers  may  carry  them  away,  and  dispute  of  them  at  dinner  ? 

Lucio.  I  have,  sir;  and,  besides,  ray  several  gowns  and 
caps  agreeable  to  my  several  occasions. 

Gent.  ""Tis  well :  and  you  have  learned  to  write  a  bad 
hand,  that  the  readers  may  take  pains  for  it  ? 

Lucio.  Yes,  sir ;  and  I  give  out  I  have  the  palsy. 

Gent.  Good. — 'Twere  better  though  if  you  had  it.  [Aside.'} 
— Your  lordship  hath  a  secretary  that  can  write  fair  when 
you  purpose  to  be  understood  ? 

Lucio.  Faith,  sir,  I  have  one ;  there  he  stands ;  he  hath 
been  my  secretary  these  seven  years,  but  he  hath  forgotten  to 
write. 

Gent.  If  he  can  make  a  writing  face,  it  is  not  amiss,  so  he 
keep  his  own  counsel.  Your  lordship  hath  no  hope  of  the 
gout? 

Lucio.  Uh  !  little,  sir,  since  the  pain  in  my  right  foot 
left  me. 

Gent.  'Twill  be  some  scandal  to  your  wisdom,  though  I  see 
your  lordship  knows  enough  in  public  business. 

Lucio.  I  am  not  employed  though  to  my  desert  in  occasions 
foreign,  nor  frequented  for  matters  domestical. 

^  reaching']  "  Which  Seward  would  not  have  changed  for  teaching,  had  he 
recollected  that  reaching  means  penetrating." — Mason. 
'  fore-flap'\  i.  e.  "  bands  " — Weber. 


PO  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  r. 

Gent.  Not  frequented  ?  what  course  takes  your  lordship  ? 

Lucio.  The  readiest  way;  my  door  stands  wide"",  my 
secretary  knows  I  am  not  denied  to  any. 

Gent.  In  this  (give  me  leave)  your  lordship  is  out  of  the 
way :  make  a  back-door  to  let  out  intelligencers ;  seem  to  be 
ever  busy,  and  put  your  door  under  keepers,  and  you  shall 
have  a  troop  of  clients  sweating  to  come  at  you. 

Lucio.  I  have  a  back-door  already  :  I  will  henceforth  be 
busy. — Secretary,  run  and  keep  the  door.       [Exit  Secretary. 

Gent.  This  will  fetch  'era. 

Lucio.  I  hope  so. 

Re-enter  Secretary. 

Seer.  My  lord,  there  are  some  require  access  to  you  about 
weighty  affairs  of  state. 

Lucio.  Already? 

Ge7it.  I  told  you  so. 

Lucio.  How  weighty  is  the  business  ? 

Seer.  Treason,  my  lord. 

Lucio.  Sir,  my  debts  to  you  for  this  are  great. 

Gent.  I  will  leave  your  lordship  now. 

Lucio.  Sir,  my  death  must  be  sudden,  if  I  requite  you  not. 
At  the  back-door,  good  sir. 

Gent.  I  will  be  your  lordship's  intelligencer  for  once. 

[Exit. 

Seer.   My  lord  ! 

Lucio.  Let  'em  in,  and  say  I  am  at  my  study. 

iRetires  behind  the  curtain.^ 

Secretnry  brings  in  Lazarillo  and  two  Intelligencers. 
First  Int.  Where  is  your  lord  ? 

Seer.  At  his  study;  but  he  will  have  you  brought  in. 
Laz.  Why,  gentlemen,  what  will  you  charge  me  withal  ? 

»  tcide"]  So  4to.  1607.     Other  eds.  "  winde"  and  "  wind." 
■  Retires  behind  the  curtain]    Not  in  old  eds.,  which  presently,  liowever, 
give  the  stage-direction  "  Secretary  draws  the   curtain."      It   ought   to   be 
remembered  that  curtains  (called  also  traverses)   were   formerly,  on  various 
occasions,  used  a.s  substitutes  for  scenes. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  81 

Sec.  Int.  Treason,  horrible  treason  :  I  hope  to  have  the 
leading  of  thee  to  prison,  and  prick  thee  on  i'  th'  arse  with  a 
halbert ;  to  have  hira  hanged  that  salutes  thee,  and  call  all 
those  in  question  that  spit  not  upon  thee. 

Laz.  My  thread  is  spun ;  yet,  might  I  but  call  for  this  dish 
of  meat  at  the  gallows,  instead  of  a  psalm,  it  were  to  be 
endured.  [Secretary  draws  the  curtain. 

The  curtain  opens ;  now  my  end  draws  on.  [Jside. 

Lucio.  Gentlemen,  I  am  not  empty  of  weighty  occasions  at 
this  time.     I  pray  you,  your  business. 

First  Int.  My  lord,  I  think  we  have  discovered  one  of  the 
most  bloody  traitors  that  ever  the  world  held. 

Lucio.  Signer  Lazarillo,  I  am '  glad  you  are  one  of  this 
discovery  :  give  me  your  hand. 

Sec.  Int.  My  lord,  that  is  the  traitor. 

Lucio.  Keep  him  off! 
I  would  not  for  my  whole  estate  have  touched  him. 

Laz.  My  lord 

Lucio.  Peace,  sir  !  I  know  the  devil  is  at  your  tongue's 
end,  to  furnish  you  with  speeches. — What  are  the  particulars 
you  charge  him  with  ? 

[They  deliver  a  paper  to  Lucio. 

Both  Inf.  We  have  conferred  our  notes,  and  have  extracted 
that  which  we  will  justify  upon  our  oaths. 

Lucio.  [Reads-]  That  he  ivould  be  greater  than  the  Duhe; 
that  he  had  cast  plots  for  this,  and  meant  to  corrupt  some  to 
betray  him;  that  he  woidd  burn  the  city., -kill  the  Duke.,  and 
poison  the  privy-council;  and,  lastly,  kill  himself.  Though 
thou  deservest  justly  to  be  hanged  with  silence,  yet  I  allow 
thee  to  speak:  be  short. 

Laz.  My  lord,  so  may  my  greatest  wish  succeed, 
So  may  I  live,  and  compass  what  I  seek, 
As  I  had  never  treason  in  my  thoughts. 
Nor  ever  did  conspire  the  overthrow 
Of  any  creatures  but  of  brutish  beasts. 
Fowls,  fishes,  and  such  other  human  food. 
As  is  provided  for  the  good  of  man  ! 

VOL.  I,  G 


S2  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  Fact  t. 

If  stealing  custards,  tarts,  and  florcntincs  «, 
By  some  late  statute  be  created  treason, 
How  many  fellow-courtiers  can  I  bring, 
AV'hose  long  attendance  and  experience 
Hath  made  them  deeper  in  the  plot  than  I  ! 

Liicio.  Peace  !  Such  hath  ever  been  the  clemency  of  my 
gracious  master  the  Duke  in  all  his  proceedings,  that  I  had 
thought,  and  thought  I  had  thought  rightly,  that  Malice 
would  long  ere  this  have  hid  herself  in  her  den,  and  have 
turned  her  own  sting  against  her  own  heart ;  but  I  well  now 
perceive  that  so  froward  is  the  disposition  of  a  depraved 
nature,  that  it  doth  not  only  seek  revenge  where  it  hath 
received  injury,  but  many  times  thirst  after  their  destruction 
where  it  hath  met  with  benefits. 

Laz.  But,  my  good  lord 

Sec.  Int.  Let's  gag  him. 

Lucio.  Peace  !  again  ?  —  but  many  times  thirst  after 
[their]  destruction  where  it  hath  met  with  benefits — there  I 
left.  Such,  and  no  better,  are  the  business  that  we  have 
now  in  hand. 

First.  Int.  He's  excellently  spoken. 

Sec.  Int.  He'll  wind  a  traitor,  I  warrant  him. 

Lucio.  But  surely,  methinks,  setting  aside  the  touch  of 
conscience,  and  all  other  inward  convulsions 

Sec.  Int.  He'll  be  hanged,  I  know  by  that  word. 

Laz.  Your  lordship  may  consider 

Lucio.  Hold  thy  peace  !  thou  canst  not  answer  this  speech  ; 
no  traitor  can  answer  it.  But,  because  you  cannot  answer 
this  speech,  I  take  it  you  have  confessed  the  treason. 

First  Int.  The  count  Valore  was  the  first  that  discovered 
him,  and  can  witness  it;  but  he  left  the  matter  to  your 
lordship's  grave  consideration. 

Lnrio.  I  thank  his  lordship.  Carry  him  away  speedily  to 
the  Duke. 

"  florentines]  "  This  is  a  kind  of  pic,  differing  from  a  pasty  by  having  no 
crust  beneath  the  meat.  A  veal  JJoretiiine  is  a  dish  well  known  in  ancient 
Scottish  cookery." — Wkber  fQy.  Sir  W.  Scott  ?].  See  Jamieson's  El.  Diet 
of  Scot.  Lang.,  and  Narcs's  (ilosn.  in  v. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  83 

Laz.  Now,  Lazarillo,  thou  art  tumbled  down 
The  hill  of  Fortune  with  a  violent  arm  : 
All  plagues  that  can  be,  famine  and  the  sword, 
Will  light  upon  thee ;  black  despair  will  boil 
In  thy  despairing  breast ;  no  comfort  by. 
Thy  friends  far  off,  thy  enemies  are  nigh ! 

Lucio.  Away  with  him  !  Fll  follow  you.  Look  you  pinion 
him,  and  take  his  money  from  him,  lest  he  swallow  a  shilling, 
and  kill  himself. 

Sec.  Int.  Get  thou  on  before  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II, — An  apartment  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Duke,  Valore,  Gondarino,  and  Arrigo. 

Duke.  Now,  Gondarino,  what  can  you  put  on  now 
That  may  again  deceive  us  ? 
Have  you  more  strange  illusions,  yet  more  mists, 
Through  which  the  weak  eye  may  be  led  to  error  ? 
What  can  you  say  that  may  do  satisfaction 
Both  for  her  wronged  honour  and  your  ill  ? 

Gond.  All  I  can  say,  or  may,  is  said  already  : 
She  is  unchaste,  or  else  I  have  no  knowledge, 
I  do  not  breathe  nor  have  the  use  of  sense. 

Duke.  Dare  you  be  yet  so  wilful-ignorant 
Of  your  own  nakedness  ?  did  not  your  servants. 
In  mine  own  hearing,  confess 
They  brought  her  to  that  house  we  found  her  in. 
Almost  by  force,  and  with  a  great  distrust 
Of  some  ensuing  hazard  ? 

Val  He  that  hath  begun  so  worthily. 
It  fits  not  with  his  resolution 
To  leave  off  thus,  my  lord.     I  know  these  are 
But  idle  proofs.     What  says  your  lordship  to  them  1 

Gond.  Count,  I  dare  yet 
Pronounce  again,  thy  sister  is  not  honest. 

Fal.  You  are  yourself,  my  lord  ;   I  like  your  settledness. 
g2 


P4  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  v. 

Gond.  Count,  thou  art  young,  and  uncxpcricncVl  in 
The  dark  hidden  ways  of  women  :  thou  dar  st  affirm 
With  confidence,  a  lady  of  fifteen 
May  bo  a  maid  ? 

Val.  Sir,  if  it  were  not  so, 
I  have  a  sister  would  sit ''  near  my  heart. 

Gond.  Let  her  sit  near  her  shame  !   it  better  fits  her. 
Call  back  the  blood  that  made  your  ^  stream  in  nearness, 
And  turn  the  current  to  a  better  use  : 
'Tis  too  much  mudded  ;   I  do  grieve  to  know  it. 

DuJie.  Dar'st  thou  make  up  again  ?  dar'st  thou  turn  face, 
Knowing  we  know  thee  I 
Hast  thou  not  been  discovered  openly  ? 
Did  not  our  ears  hear  her  deny  thy  courtings  I 
Did  we  not  see  her  blush  with  modest  anger, 
To  be  so  overtaken  by  a  trick  ? 
Can  you  deny  this,  lord  ] 

Gond.  Had  not  your  grace  and  her  kind  brother  been 
Within  level  of  her  eye,  you  should  have  had  a  hotter 
Volley  from  her,  more  full  of  blood  and  fire, 
Ready  to  leap  the  window  where  she  stood  ; 
So  truly  sensual  is  her  appetite. 

Duke.  Sir,  sir, 
These  are  but  words  and  tricks :  give  me  the  proof ! 

J^al.  What  need  a  better  proof  than  your  lordship?  I  am  sure 
You  have  lain  with  her,  my  lord. 

Gond.  I  have  confessed  it,  sir. 

Duke.  I  dare  not  give  thee  credit  without  witness. 

Gond.  Does  your  grace  think  we  carry  seconds  with  us, 
To  search  us  and  see  fair  play  ?     Your  grace  hath  been 
Tll-tutor\l  in  the  business  :  but  if  you  hope 
To  try  her  truly,  and  satisfy  yourself 
What  frailty  is,  give  her  the  test. 
Do  not  remember,  count,  she  is  your  sister  ; 

P  sit]  Old  eds.  "  set."  The  meaning  of  this  speech,  which  Seward  could  not 
fathom,  was  obvious  even  to  Weber, — "  If  a  girl  of  fifteen  mij;ht  not  bu  a  maid, 
I  should  feel  great  uneasiness  on  account  of  my  sister." 

1  your'\   An  alturation  by  Seward.     Old  eds.  "  our."     Qy.  "  one  "  ? 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  85 

Nor  let  my  lord  the  Duke  believe  she's  fair  ; 

But  put  her  to  it  without  hope  or  pity. 

Then  ye  shall  see  that  golden  form  fly  off, 

That  all  eyes  wonder  at  for  pure  and  fix\], 

And  under  it  base  blushing  copper  ;  metal 

Not  worth  the  meanest  honour  : 

You  shall  behold  her  then,  my  lord,  transparent,  look  through 

Her  heart,  and  view  the  spirits  how  they  leap ; 

And  tell  me  then  I  did  belie  the  lady. 

Duke.  It  shall  be  done. 
Come,  Gondarino,  bear  us  company. 
We  do  believe  thee  :  she  shall  die,  and  thou 
Shalt  see  it. 

Enter  Lazarillo  bound,  two  Intelligencers,  mid  Guard. 
How  now,  my  friends  ?  who  have  you  guarded  hither  ? 

Sec.  Int.  So  please  your  grace,  we  have  discovered  a  villain 
and  a  traitor  :  the  lord  Lucio  hath  examimed  him,  and  sent 
him  to  your  grace  for  judgment. 

Val  My  lord,  I  dare 
Absolve  him  from  all  sin  of  treason :   I  know 
His  most  ambition  is  but  a  dish  of  meat, 
AVhicli  he  hath  hunted  with  so  true  a  scent. 
That  he  deserveth  the  collar,  not  the  halter ' . 

Duke.   Why  do  they  bring  him  thus  bound  up  I 
The  poor  man  had  more  need  have  some  warm  meat, 
To  comfort  his  cold  stomach. 

Val.  Your  grace  shall  have 
The  cause  hereafter,  when  you  may  laugh  more  freely.   . 

■■  he  deserveth  the  collar,  not  the  halter']  "  i.  e.  he  deserves  the  steward's 
chain,  rather  thau  to  be  hanged." — Reed. 

"  Mr.  R.  says,  that  collar  means  the  steward's  chain ;  but  that  was  not  a 
collar.  I  think  it  rather  means  a  collar  of  brawn  ;  unless  it  were  customary 
at  the  time  to  ornament  with  a  collar  the  dog  that  had  distinguished  himself  in 
the  cliase,  which  I  believe  was  the  case  ;  for  Richelet  in  his  French  Dictionary 
says,  that  '  Un  chien  a  grand  collier  est  un  chien  qui  conduit  les  autres  :  ces 
mots  se  disent  Jignrativement  d'un  habile  hotnme  qui  a  grand  credit  parmi 
ceux  de  sa  compagnie,  et  qui  entraine  les  autres  a  ses  opinions.'  This  appears 
to  me  an  explanation  of  the  passage."     Mason. 

Surely,  the  context  proves  that  the  allusion  is  to  the  collar  of  a  hound. 


86  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  v. 

But  these  are  caird  informers  ;  men  that  Uvo 
By  treason,  as  rat-catchers  do  by  poison. 

Duke,  Would  there  were 
No  heavier  prodigies  hung  over  us 
Than  this  poor  fellow  !     I  durst  redeem  all  perils, 
Ready  to  pour  themselves  upon  this  state, 
With  a  cold  custard. 

Vol.  Your  grace 
Might  do  it  without  danger  to  your  person. 

Laz.  My  lord,  if  ever  I  intended  treason 
Against  your  person  or  the  state,  unless 
It  were  by  wishing  from  your  table  some  dish 
Of  meat,  which  I  must  needs  confess  was  not 
A  subject's  part ;  or  coveting  by  stealth 
Sups  from  those  noble  bottles,  that  no  mouth. 
Keeping  allegiance  true,  should  dare  to  taste, — 
I  must  confess,  with  more  than  covetous  eye 
I  have  beheld  those  dear  concealed  dishes, 
That  have  been  brought  in  by  cunning  equipage. 
To  wait  upon  your  grace's  palate  : 
I  do  confess,  out  of  this  present  heat, 
I  have  had  stratagems  and  ambuscadoes  ; 
But,  God  be  thanked,  they  have  never  took  ! 

Duke.  Count, 
This  business  is  your  own :  when  you  have  done, 
Repair  to  us. 

Val.  I  will  attend  your  grace. 

[^Exeunt  Duke,  Goxdarino,  and  Arrigo. 
Lazarillo, 
You  are  at  liberty  ;  be  your  own  man  again  ; 
And,  if  you  can,  be  master  of  your  wishes ; 
I  wish  it  may  be  so. 

Laz.  I  humbly  thank  your  lordship  !  I  must  be  unman- 
nerly :  I  have  some  present  business.  Once  more,  1  heartily 
thank  your  lordship.  \^Exit. 

Val.  Now  even  a  word  or  two  to  you,  and  so  farewell. 
You  think  you  have  deserved  much  of  this  state 
By  this  discovery  :  ye're  a  slavish  people, 


SCENE  II.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  87 

Grown  subject  to  the  common  curse'  of  all  men. 
How  much  unhappy  were  that  noble  spirit, 
Could  work  by  such  base  engines' !     What  misery 
Would  not  a  knowing  man  put  on  with  willingness, 
Ere  he  [would]  see  himself  grown  fat  and  full-fed 
By  fall  of  those  you  rise  by  i     I  do  discharge 
You  my  attendance  :  our  healthful  state 
Needs  no  such  leeches  to  suck  out  her  blood. 

First  Int.  I  do  beseech  your  lordship 

Sec.  Int.  Good  my  lord 

Val.  Go,  learn  to  be  more  honest :  when  I  see 
You  work  your  means  from  honest  industry, 
I  will  be  willing  to  accept  your  labours  ; 
Till  then  I  will  keep  back  my  promised  favours. 

[Exeunt  Intelligencers  and  Guard. 
Here  comes  another  remnant  of  folly :  I  must  dispatch 
him  too. 

Enter  Lucio. 
Now,  lord  Lucio,  what  business  brings  you  hither  ? 

Lucio.  Faith,  sir,  I  am  discovering  what  will  become  of 
that  notable  piece  of  treason  intended  by  that  variet  Lazarillo  ; 
I  have  sent  him  to  the  Duke  for  judgment. 

Val.  Sir,  you  have  performed  the  part  of  a  most  careful 
statesman ;  and,  let  me  say  it  to  your  face,  sir,  of  a  father  to 
this  state  :  I  would  wish  you  to  retire,  and  insconce  yourself 
in  study  ;  for  such  is  your  daily  labour  and  our  fear,  that  the" 
loss  of  an  hour  may  breed  our  overthrow. 

Lucio.  Sir,  I  will  be  commanded  by  your  judgment ;  and 

though  I  find  it  a  trouble  scant  to  be  waded  through  by  these 

weak  years,  yet,  for  the  dear  care  of  the  commonwealth,  I 

will  bruise  my  brains,  and  confine  myself  to  much  vexation. 

Val.  Go ;  and  mayest  thou  knock  down  treason  like  an  ox  ! 

Lucio.  Amen  !  [Exeunt  severally. 

'  curse]  Old  eds.  "  course." 

'  base  engines']  Old  eds.  "  baser  gaines,"  (aud  "  gains.")  Corrected  by 
Sympson. 

"  the^  So  some  copies  of  4to.  J  607.  Other  copies  of  that  4to.  and  later  eds. 
"  our."     The  modei-n  editors  give  "  vour." 


THE  WOMAN-IIATEK.  [act  v. 


SCENE  III.— J  Street. 
Enter  Mercer,  Pandar,  ayid  Francissina. 

Mercer.  Have  I  spoke  thus  much  in  the  honour  of  learning, 
learned  the  names  of  the  seven  liberal  sciences  before  my 
marriage,  and  since  have  in  haste  wi-itten  epistles  congratu- 
latory to  the  nine  Muses ;  and  is  she  proved  a  whore  and  a 
beggar  ? 

Pandar.  "'Tis  true.  You  are  not  now  to  be  taught  that  no 
man  can  be  learned  of  a  sudden :  let  not  your  first  project 
discourage  you ;  what  you  have  lost  in  this,  you  may  get 
again  in  alchymy. 

Fran.  Fear  not,  husband  ;  I  hope  to  make  as  good  a  wife  as 
the  best  of  your  neighbours  have  and  as  honest. 

Mercer.  I  will  go  home.  Good  sir,  do  not  publish  this ; 
as  long  as  it  runs  amongst  ourselves,  'tis  good  honest  mirth. 
You'll  come  home  to  supper  ?  I  mean  to  have  all  her  friends 
and  mine,  as  ill  as  it  goes. 

Pandar.  Do  wisely,  sir,  and  bid  yoiir  own  friends;  your 
whole  wealth  will  scarce  feast  all  hers :  neither  is  it  for  your 
credit  to  walk  the  streets  with  a  woman  so  noted ;  get  you 
home,  and  provide  her  clothes ;  let  her  come  an  hour  hence 
with  an  hand-basket,  and  shift  herself;  she'll  serve  to  sit  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  table,  and  drink  to  your  customers. 

Mercer.  Art  is  just,  and  will  make  me  amends. 

Pandar.  No  doubt,  sir. 

Mercer.  The  chief  note  of  a  scholar,  you  say,  is  to  govern 
his  passions ;  wherefore  I  do  take  all  patiently  :  in  sign  of 
which,  my  most  dear  wife,  I  do  kiss  thee.  Make  haste  home 
after  me  ;  I  shall  be  in  my  study, 

Pandar.  Go,  avaunt !  \^Exit  Mercer.] — My  new  city-dame. 
Bend  me  what  you  promised  me  for  consideration,  and  mayest 
thou  prove  a  lady  ! 

Fran.  Thou  shalt  have  it ;  his  silks  shall  fly  for  it. 

YExennt  severally. 


scKNKiv.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER. 


SCENE  IV.— 77ie  Street  before  Julia's  house. 
Enter  Lazarillo  and  Boy. 

Laz.  How  sweet  is  a  calm  after  a  tempest !  what  is  there 
now  that  can  stand  betwixt  me  and  felicity  ?  I  have  gone 
through  all  my  crosses  constantly,  have  confounded  my 
enemies,  and  know  where  to  have  my  longing  satisfied;  I 
have  my  way  before  me :  there''s  the  door,  and  I  may  freely 
walk  in  to  my  delights.     Knock,  boy  !  [Boy  knocks. 

Julia.   \^1Vithin.^   AVho's  there  ? 

Laz.  Madonna,  my  love  !  not  guilty,  not  guilty  !  Open 
the  door ! 

Enter  JvLiA/rom  the  house. 

Julia.  Art  thou  come,  sweetheart  ? 

Laz.  Yes,  to  thy  soft  embraces,  and  the  rest 
Of  my  overflowing  blisses. 
Come,  let  us  in,  and  swim  in  our  delights  ; 
A  short  grace  as  we  go,  and  so  to  meat ! 

Julia.  Nay,  my  dear  love,  you  must  bear  with  me  in  this ; 
we'll  to  the  church  first. 

Laz.  Shall  I  be  sure  of  it  then  ? 

Julia.  By  my  love,  you  shall ! 

Jjaz.  I  am  content ;  for  I  do  now  wish  to  hold  off  longer, 
to   whet  my   appetite,    and   do   desire   to   meet   with  more 
troubles,  so  I  might  conquer  them  : 
And,  as  a  holy  lover  that  hath  spent 
The  tedious  night  with  many  a  sigh  and  tears, 
Whilst  he  pursued  his  wench,  and  hath  observM 
Her^'  smiles  and  fro^Mis,  not  daring  to  displease  ; 
When  [he]  "'  at  last  hath  with  his  service  won 
Her  yielding  heart,  that  she  begins  to  dote 

'•  Her]  A  correction  by  Heath.     (MS.  Notes.)     Old  eds.  "  The." 
"    [He]  Inserted  here,  and  in  the  next  line  but  four,  by  Seward. 


90  THE  WOMAN  HATER.  [act  v. 

Upon  him,  and  can  hold  no  longer  out, 

But  hangs  about  his  neck,  and  woos  him  more 

Than  ever  he  desir'd  her  love  before ; 

[He]  then  begins  to  Hatter  his  desert, 

And,  growing  wanton,  needs  will  cast  her  off; 

Try  her,  pick  quarrels,  to  breed  fresh  delight. 

And  to  encrease  his  pleasing  appetite. 

Julia.  Come,  mouse,  will  you  walk  \ 

Laz.  I  pray  thee,  let  me  be  dehvered  of  the  joy  I  am  so 
big  with  :   I  do  feel  that  high  heat  within  me,  that  I  begin  to 
doubt  whether  I  be  mortal. 
How  I  contemn  my  fellows  in  the  court. 
With  whom  1  did  but  yesterday  converse, 
And  in  a  lower  and  an  humbler  key 
Did  walk  and  meditate  on  grosser  meats  ! 
There  are  they  still,  poor  rogues,  shaking  their  chops, 
And  sneaking  after  cheeses,  and  do  run 
Headlong  in  chase  of  every  jack""  of  beer 
That  crosseth  them,  in  hope  of  some  repast 
That  it  will  bring  them  to  ;  whilst  I  am  here, 
The  happiest  wight  that  ever  set  his  tooth 
To  a  dear  novelty.     Approach,  my  love  ; 
Come,  let  us  go  to  knit  the  true  love's  knot. 
That  never  can  be  broken  ! 

Boy.  That  is,  to  marry  a  whore.  \_Aside. 

Laz.  AVhen  that  is  done,  then  will  we  taste  the  gift 
Which  fates  have  sent,  my  fortunes  up  to  lift. 

Boy.  When  that  is  done,  you'll  begin  to  repent  upon  a 
full  stomach  :  but  I  see,  'tis  but  a  form  in  destiny,  not  to  be 
altered.   [^Aside.^  \^Exeunt. 

*  jack]  "  i.  e.  a  kiud  of  leathern  tankard."     Webeb. 


SCENE  v.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER. 


SCENE  v.— An  A-partmmt  in  the  Palace  ^  with  a  Gallery. 

Enter  Arrigo  and  Oriana  helow  ;  Duke,  Valore,  and 
GoNDARiNo  ahove. 

Ori.  Sir,  what  may  be  the  current  of  your  business, 
That  thus  you  single  out  your  time  and  place  ? 

^;t.  Madam,  the  business  now  iraposM  upon  me 
Concerns  you  nearly ; 
I  wish  some  worser  man  might  finish  it. 

Ori.  Why  are  you  changed  so  ?  are  you  not  well,  sir  ? 

Arr.  Yes,  madam,  I  am  well :   would  you  were  so  ! 

Ori.  Why,  sir,  I  feel  myself  in  perfect  health. 

Arr.  And  yet  you  cannot  live  long,  madam. 

Ori.  Why,  good  Arrigo  ? 

Arr.  Why,  you  must  die. 

Ori.  I  know  I  must ; 
But  yet  my  fate  calls  not  upon  me. 

Ai-r.  It  does ; 
This  hand  the  Duke  commands  shall  give  you  death. 

Ori.  Heaven  and  the  powers  divine,  guard  well  the  inno- 
cent ! 

Arr.  Lady,  your  prayers  may  do  your  soul  some  good, 
But  sure  your  body  cannot  merit  "^  by  'em  : 
You  must  prepare  to  die. 

Ori.  What's  my  offence  ?  what  have  these  years  committed, 
That  may  be  dangerous  to  the  Duke  or  state  2 
Have  I  conspir'd  by  poison  ?  have  I  given  up 
My  honour  to  some  loose  unsettled  blood, 

y  An  apartment  in  the  Palace,  .|-c.]  So  Weber ;  and  rightly,  perhaps,  as 
Oriana  at  p.  95  desires  the  Duke  to  take  liis  "  state."  The  poet  probably  left 
the  location  of  the  scene  to  the  imagination  of  the  audience :  see  note  p.  39. 

»  merit']  "  The  word  merit  is  here  used  in  a  very  uncommon  sense,  and  sig- 
nifies to  derive  profit  or  advantage.  So  in  Thien-y  and  Theodoret,  Ordella 
says — 

'  And  if  in  my  poor  death  fair  France  may  merit. 
Give  me  a  thousand  blows.  !'  "     Mason. 


92  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  v 

That  may  give  action  to  my  plots  ?  doar  sir, 
Let  me  not  die  ignorant  of  my  faults  I 

Arr.  You  shall  not. 
Then,  lady,  you  must  know,  you  are  hold  unhonest : 
The  Duke,  your  brother,  and  your  friends  in  court, 
With  too  much  grief  condemn  you  ;  though  to  me 
The  fault  deserves  not  to  be  paid  with  death. 

07'i.   Who*'s  my  accuser  ? 

Arr.  Lord  Gondarino. 

Ori.  Arrigo,  take  these  words,  and  bear  them  to  the  Duke 
It  is  the  last  petition  I  shall  ask  thee. 
Tell  him,  the  child  this  pi-esent  hour  brought  forth 
To  see  the  world  has  not  a  soul  more  pure, 
More  white,  more  virgin,  than  I  have  ;  tell  him. 
Lord  Gondarino''s  plot  I  suffer  for. 
And  willingly  ;  tell  him,  it  had  been 
A  greater  honour  to  have  sav\l  than  kill'd  : 
But  I  have  done  :   strike  !     I  am  arnf  d  for  heaven. 
Why  stay  you  ?  is  there  any  hope  ? 

Arr.  I  would  not  strike. 

Ori.  Have  you  the  power  to  save  ? 

Arr.  With  hazard  of  my  life,  if  it  should  be  known. 

Ori.  You  will  not  ventui-e  that  ? 

Arr.  I  will :  lady, 
There  is  that  means  yet  to  escape  your  death. 
If  you  can  wisely  apprehend  it. 

Ori.  You  dare  not  be  so  kind  ? 

Arr.  I  dare,  and  will,  if  you  dare  but  deserve  it. 

Ori.  If  I  should  slight  my  life,  I  were  to  blame. 

Arr.  Then,  madam, 
This  is  the  means,  or  else  you  die  :   I  love  you — 

Ori.  I  shall  believe  it,  if  you  save  my  life. 

Arr.  And  you  must  lie  with  me. 

Ori.  I  dare  not  buy  my  life  so. 

Arr.  Come,  you  must  resolve  ;  say  yea  or  no. 

Ori.  Then,  no  !     Nay,  look  not  ruggedly  upon  me  ; 
I  am  made  up  too  strong  to  fear  such  looks  : 
Come,  do  your  butcher'.^  part  !  before 


SCENE  v.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER. 

I  would  win  ^  life  with  the  dear  loss  of  honour, 
I  dare  find  means  to  free  myself, 

jirr.  Speak,  will  you  yield  ? 

Ori.  Villain,  I  will  not !  murderer,  do  the  ''  worst 
Thy  base  unnoble  thoughts  dare  prompt  thee  to  ! 
I  am  above  thee,  slave  ! 

Arr.  Wilt  thou  not  be  drawn 
To  yield  by  fair  persuasions  ? 

Ori.  No,  nor  by 

Arr.  Peace  !  know  your  doom  then  :  your  ladyship  must 
remember 
You  are  not  now  at  home,  where  you  dare  jest 
At  all^"  that  come  about  you  ;  but  you  are  fallen 
Under  my  mercy,  which  shall  be  but  small, 
If  thou  refuse  to  yield  :  hear  what  I  have  sworn 
Unto  myself ;   I  will  enjoy  thee,  though  it  be 
Between  the  parting  of  thy  soul  and  body  ; 
Yield  yet,  and  live  ! 

Ori.  I'll  euard  the  one  ;  let  Heaven  guard  the  other  ! 

Arr.  Are  you  so  resolute  then  ? 

Duke.  Hold,  hold,  I  say  ! 

[Exeunt  above  Duke,  Valore,  and  Gondarino. 

Ori.  What,  have  I  yet  '^  more  terror  to  my  tragedy  ? 

Arr.  Lady,  the  scene  of  blood  is  done  ; 
You  are  now  as  free  from  scandal  as  from  death. 

Enter  Duke,  Valore,  and  Gondarino. 
Duke.  Thou  woman,  which  wert  born  to  teach  men  virtue, 
Fair,  sweet,  and  modest  maid,  forgive  my  thoughts  ! 

^  win]  So  some  copies  of  4to.  1607  ;  other  copies  of  that  4to.,  and  later  eds. 
"  wish,"  which  the  modern  editoi's  give. 

»>  the]  Old  eds.  "  thy." 

<=  jest 

At  all]  So  some  copies  of  4to.  1607,  where  the  spelling  is  "  least  at  all ;" 
other  copies  "  feast  at  all."  Later  eds.  "  feast  all,' '  which  the  modern  editors 
give.     Such  was  the  progress  of  the  corruption  in  this  passage. 

•^  What,  have  I  yet]  So  some  copies  of  4to.  1607  ;  other  copies  of  that  4to., 
and  later  eds.  "  What  I  ?  yet,"  which  Sewai'd  gives. — "  As  the  /  is  undoubtedly 
an  interpolation,  we  have  discarded  it,"  say  the  Editors  of  1778,  whom  Weber 
follows  ! 


94  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  fACT  r. 

My  trespass  was  my  love. — 

Seize  Gondarino  :   let  him  wait  our  dooms. 

Go7id.  I  do  begin  a  little  to  love  this  woman  ; 
I  could  endure  her  already  twelve  miles  off.  [^side. 

Vol.  Sister, 
I  am  glad  you  have  brought  your  honour  off  so  fairly, 
A\'ithout  loss  ;  you  have  done  a  work  above  your  sex  : 
The  Duke  admires  it ;  give  him  fair  encounter. 

Duke.  Best  of  all  comforts,  may  I  take  this  hand, 
And  call  it  mine  ? 

Ori.   I  am  your  grace's  handmaid. 

Duke.  Would  you  had  said  myself !  might  it  not  be  so,  lady  ? 

Val.  Sister,  say  ay  ;   I  know  you  can  afford  it. 

Ori.  My  lord,  I  am  your  subject ;  you  may  command  me, 
Provided  still  your  thoughts  be  fair  and  good. 

Duke.  Here  I  am  yours  ;  and  when  I  cease  to  be  so, 
Let  Heaven  forget  me  !  thus  I  make  it  good.  \^Kisses  her. 

Ori.  My  lord,  I  am  no  more  mine  own. 

Val.  So  !  this  bargain  was  well  driven. 

Gond.  Duke, 
Thou  hast  sold  away  thyself  to  all  perdition  ; 
Thou  art  this  present  hour  becoming  cuckold  : 
Methinks  I  see  thy  gall  grate  through  thy  veins, 
And  jealousy  seize  [on  **]  thee  with  her  talons. 
I  know  that  woman's  nose  must  be  cut  off; 
She  cannot  'scape  it. 

Duke.  Sir,  we  have  punishment  for  you. 

Ori.  I  do  beseech  your  lordship,  for  the  wrongs 
This  man  hath  done  me,  let  me  pronounce  his  punishment ! 

Duke.  Lady,  I  give't  to  you  ;  he  is  your  own. 

Gond.  I  do  beseech  your  grace,  let  me  be  banish'd 
With  all  the  speed  that  may  be  ! 

Val.  Stay  still ;  you  shall  attend  her  sentence. 

Ori.  Lord  Ciondarino.  you  have  vsTong'd  me  highly ; 
Yet  since  it  sprung  from  no  ]>eculiar  hate 
To  me,  but  from  a  general  dislike 

«•  on]   Added  bv  Seward, 


SCENE  v.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  95 

Unto  all  women,  you  shall  thus  suffer  for  it. — 
Arrigo,  call  in  some  ladies  to  assist  us. — 

[Exit  Arrigo,  who  presenthj  returns. 
Will  your  grace  take  your  state  ^?  [Duke  seats  himself. 

Gond.  My  lord,  I  do 
Beseech  your  grace  for  any  punishment, 
Saving  this  woman  !  let  me  be  sent  upon 
Discovery  of  some  island  ;   I  do  desire 
But  a  small  gondola,  with  ten  Holland  cheeses, 
And  ril  undertake  it. 

Ori.  Sir,  you  must  be  content. 
Will  you  sit  down?  nay,  do  it  willingly. — 
Arrigo,  tie  his  arms  close  to  the  chair  ; 
I  dare  not  trust  his  patience.       [Gondarino  is  tied  to  a  chair. 

Gond.  Mayest  thou 
Be  quickly  old  and  painted !  may'st  thou  dote 
Upon  some  sturdy  yeoman  of  the  wood-yard, 
And  he  be  honest !  mayest  thou  be  barr'd 
The  lawful  lechery  of  thy  couch  ^  for  want 
Of  instruments  !  and,  last,  be  thy  womb  unopenM  ! 

Duke.  This  fellow  hath  a  pretty  gall. 

Val.   My  lord, 
I  hope  to  see  him  purged  ere  he  part. 

Enter  Ladies. 

Ori.  Your  ladyships  are  welcome  :   I  must  desire 
Your  helps,  though  you  are  no  physicians, 
To  do  a  strange  cure  upon  this  gentleman. 

Ladies.  In  what  we  can  assist  you. 
Madam,  you  may  command  us. 

Gond.  Now  do  I 
Sit  like  a  conjuror  within  my  circle, 
And  these  the  devils  that  are  rais'd  about  me : 
I  will  pray  that  they  may  have  no  power  upon  me. 

Ori.  Ladies,  fall  off  in  couples ; 

'  state']  i.  e.  x'aised  chair.  ?  couch]  Old  eds.  "  coach." 


f)f.  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  v. 

Then,  with  a  soft  still  inarch,  with  low  demeanours, 
Charge  tliis  gentleman  :   Fll  be  your  leader. 

Gond.  Let  me  be  quartered,  Duke,  quickly  !  I  can  endure  it. 
These  women  long  for  man's  flesh  ;  let  them  have  it ! 

Duke.  Count,  have  you  ever  seen  so  strange  a  passion  ? 
What  would  this  fellow  do,  if  he  should  find  himself 
In  bed  with  a  young  lady  I 

Val.  Faith,  my  lord, 
If  he  could  get  a  knife,  sure  he  would  cut  her  throat ; 
Or  else  he  would  do  as  Hercules  did  by  Lichas, 
Swing  out  her  soul : 
He  has  the  true  hate  of  a  woman  in  him. 

Ori.  Low  with  your  curtsies,  ladies  ! 

Gond.    Come   not   too   near   me  !    I    have  a    breath    will 
poison  yc ; 
My  lungs  are  rotten  and  my  stomach  raw ; 
I  am  given  much  to  belching  :  hold  off,  as  you  love  sweet  airs  ! 
Ladies,  by  your  first  night's  pleasure  I  conjure  you, 
As  you  would  have  your  husbands  proper  men. 
Strong  backs  and  little  legs ;  as  you  would  have  'em  hate 
Your  waiting-women 

Ori.  Sir,  we  must  court  you,  till  we  have  obtained 
Some  little  favour  from  those  gracious  eyes ; 
'Tis  but  a  kiss  a-piecc. 

Gond.  I  pronounce  perdition  to  ye  all  ! 
Ye  are  a  parcel  of  that  damned  crew 
Th'it  fell  down  with  Lucifer,  and  here  ye  stay'd 
On  earth  to  plague  poor  men.     Vanish,  avaunt  ! 
I  am  fortified  against  your  charms  :  heaven  grant  me 
Breath  and  patience  ! 

First  Lady.  Shall  we  not  kiss,  then  ? 

Gond.  No! 
Sear  my  lips  with  hot  irons  first,  or  stitch  them 
Up  like  a  ferret's  !     Oh,  that  this  brunt  were  over  ! 

»S>c.  Lady.  Come,  come,  little  rogue,  thou  art  too  maidenly ; 
by  my  troth  T  think  I  must  box  thee  till  thou  be'st  bolder ; 
the  more  bold,  the  more  welcome  :  I  prithee,  kiss  me ;  be  not 
afraid.  \Sits  on  his  knee. 


SCENE  v.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  97 

Gond.  If  there  be  any  here 
That  yet  have  so  much  of  the  fool  left  in  them 
As  to  love  their  mothers,  let  them  look ''  on  her, 
And  loathe  them  too  ! 

Sec.  Lady.  What  a  slovenly  little  villain  art  thou  !  why 
dost  thou  not  stroke  up  thy  hair  I  I  think  thou  ne'er  combest 
it ;  I  must  have  it  lie  in  better  order ;  so,  so,  so.  Let  me 
see  thy  hands  ;  are  they  washed  ? 

Gond.  I  would  they  were  loose,  for  thy  sake ! 

Duke.  She  tortures  him  admirably. 

Val.  The  best  that  ever  was. 

Sec.  Lady.  Alas,  how  cold  they  are,  poor  golls  ! '  why  dost 
thee  not  get  thee  a  muff? 

Arr.  Madam,  here's  an  old  country-gentlewoman  at  the 
door,  that  came  nodding  up  for  justice ;  she  was  with  the 
lord  Gondarino  to-day,  and  would  now  again  come  to  the 
speech  of  him,  she  says. 

Ori.  Let  her  in,  for  sport's  sake,  let  her  in  !     \^Exit  Arrigo. 

Gond.  Mercy,  O  Duke  !  I  do  appeal  to  thee  : 
Plant  cannons  there,  and  discharge  them 
Against  my  breast  rather  !     Nay,  first 
Let  this  she-fury  sit  still  where  she  does, 
And  with  her  nimble  fingers  stroke  my  hair, 
Play  with  my  fingers'  ends  or  any  thing. 
Until  my  panting  heart  have  broke  my  breast ! 
Duke.  You  must  abide  her  censure. 

[Sec.  Lady  rises  from  Gondarino's  knee. 

Re-enter  Arrigo  loith  old  Gentlewoman. 

Gond.  I  see  her  come  ! 
Unbutton  me,  for  she  will  speak. 
Gentlew.   Where  is  he,  sir  ? 
Gond.  Save  me  !  I  hear  her. 

•>  look'\  So  some  copies  of  4to.  1607  :  in  other  copies  of  that  4to,,  and  in  the 
later  eds.,  this  word  is  wanting.  The  editors  of  1778,  however,  supplied  it  by 
conjecture. 

'  golls]   "  A  cant  term  for  hands," — Weber.     Fists,  paws. 
VOL.    I.  H 


98  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  [act  v, 

Arr.  There  he  is  in  state,  to  give  you  audience. 

Geiitlcw.  How  does  your  good  lordship  i 

Gond.  Sick  of  the  spleen. 

Gentleio.  How  I 

Gond.  Sick. 

Gentlew.  Will  you  chew  a  nutmeg?  you  shall  not  refuse 
it ;  'tis  very  comfortable. 

Gond.  Nay,  now  thou  art  come,  I  know  it  is 
The  devil's  jubilee ;  hell  is  broke  loose  ! — 
My  lord,  if  ever  I  have  done  you  service, 
Or  have  deserv'd  a  favour  of  your  grace. 
Let  me  be  turned  upon  some  present  action, 
Where  I  may  sooner  die  than  languish  thus  ! 
Your  grace  hath  her  petition  ;  grant  it  her, 
And  ease  me  now  at  last. 

Duke.  No,  sir  ;  you  must  endure. 

Gentlew.  For  my  petition,  I  hope  your  lordship  hath  re- 
membered me. 

Ori.  Faith,  T  begin  to  pity  him.  Arrigo,  take  her  off; 
bear  her  away  ;  say  her  petition  is  granted. 

Gentlevj.  Whither  do  you  draw  me,  sir  •  I  know  it  is  not 
my  lord's  pleasure  I  should  be  thus  used,  before  my  business 
be  dispatched. 

Arr.  You  shall  Ivuow  more  of  that  without. 

[Lraf/s  off  the  Old  Gentlewoman. 

Ori.  Unbind  him,  ladies  :  but,  before  he  go,  this  he  shall 
promise. — For  the  love  I  bear  to  our  own  sex,  I  would  have 
them  still  hated  by  thee ;  and  enjoin  thee,  as  a  punishment, 
never  hereafter  willingly  to  come  in  the  presence  or  sight  of 
any  woman,  nor  never  to  seek  wrongfully  the  public  disgrace 
of  any. 

Gond.  'Tis  that  I  would  have  sworn,  and  do :  when  I 
meddle '  with  them,  for  their  good  or  their  bad,  may  time 
call  back  this  day  again  !  and  when  I  come  in  their  compa- 
nies, may  I  catch  the  pox  by  their  breath,  and  have  no  other 
pleasure  for  it  ! 

'  meddle}  So  I  to.  Iti07.     Other  eds.  "  meditate." 


SCENE  v.]  THE  WOMAN-HATER.  99 

Duke.  You  are  too  merciful. 

Ori.  My  lord,  I  shew'd  my  sex  the  better. 

Vol.  All  is  over-blown.  Sister,  you're  like  to  have  a  fair 
m'ght  of  it,  and  a  prince  in  your  arms. — Let's  go,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Thus,  through  the  doubtful  streams  of  joy  and  grief 
True  love  doth  wade,  and  finds  at  last  relief.  [Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE^ 

AT  A  REVIVAL  OF  THE  PUAY. 

The  monuments  of  virtue  and  desert 
Appear  more  goodly  when  the  gloss  of  art 
Is  eaten  off  by  time,  than  when  at  first 
They  were  set  up,  not  censurd  at  the  worst : 
We  have  done  our  best,  for  your  contents  to  fit 
With  new  pains  this  old  monument  of  wit. 

^  Epilogue]  "  Fi-om  the  quarto  of  1649.  It  was  evidently  spoken  when 
the  play  was  revived  by  Sir  William  Davenant,  who  furnished  the  prologue.'' 
— Weber. 


h2 


THIERRY   AND   THEODORET. 


The  Tragedy  cf  Thierry  King  of  France,  and  his  Brother  Tlieodoret.  As  it  teas  diuerte 
timft  acted  at  the  Blacke-Friert  by  the  Kings  Maiesties  Seruantt.  London,  Printed  for 
Thomas  Walkley,  and  are  to  bee  sold  at  his  shop  in  Britaines  Burse,  at  the  tigne  of  the  Eagle 
and  Child.    1621,  4to. 

The  Tragedy  of  Thierry  King  of  France,  and  his  Brother  Tlieodoret.  As  it  teas  diverse 
times  acted  at  the  Blacke-Friers  by  the  Kings  Maiesties  Servants.  lVritt4:n  by  John  Fletcher 
Gent.  London,  Printed  for  Humphrey  Mosely,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  Shop  at  the  Princes 
Armes  in  St.  Pauls  Churchyard.  1648,  4to.  Tliis  edition  was  put  forth  in  1649  with  a  new 
title-page,  in  which  the  play  is  said  to  be 
fTrillen  by 

Fralnynt  Beamont  "J 

and  >  Gent. 

John  Fletcher  ' 

and  with  the  addition  of  a  leaf  containing  the  Prologue,  Epilogue,  and  Pram.  Persona?. 

Also  in  the  folio  of  1670,  where  a  considerable  portion  of  the  last  act  is  omitted  by 
niistaka 


"  This  tragedy,"  says  Weber,  "  was  probably  one  of  the  earliest 
amongst  the  plays  in  these  volumes,  as  the  epilogue  seems  to  intimate 
that  it  was  the  first  furnished  by  Fletcher  for  the  theatre  in  the  Black - 
friars  ....  That  it  was  written  by  Fletcher  alone,  (perhaps  previous  to 
liis  partnership  with  Beaumont,)  we  have  sufficient  evidence.  The 
epilogue  speaks  of  '  the  poet '  throughout,  and  it  bears  intrinsic  marks  of 
having  been  the  original  one  spoken  at  the  first  representation.  This 
evidence  is  not  weakened  by  the  prologue '  speaking  of  both  our  poets, 
as  the  latter  was  professedly  written  after  the  death  of  Fletcher,  at  which 
time  his  name  was  so  wedded  to  that  of  Beaumont,  that  their  names 
were  seldom  mentioned  separately." 

Though  unable  to  oppose  any  facts  to  the  reasoning  of  Weber,  I  am 
by  no  means  satisfied  either  that  Thierry  and  Theodoret  was  produced  so 
early  as  he  concludes,  or  that  it  was  written  entirely  by  Fletcher. 
The  hand  of  Beaumont  may  be  traced,  I  think,  in  its  composition ;  and 
an  acute  critic  has  conjectured  that  it  was  one  of  those  plays,  which 
though  "  not  brought  out  till  after  Beaumont's  death,  may  have  been 
planned,  and  partly  or  wholly  ^vritten,  with  his  co-operation,  before 
it."    (Barley's  Introd.  to  The  Works  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  p.  xxiv.) 

"  The  Plot  of  this  Play  is  foimded  on  History.  See  the  French 
Chronicles  in  the  Reign  of  Clotaire  the  Second.  See  Fredegarius  Scho- 
lasticus,  Aimoinus  Monachus  Floriacensis,  De  Serres,  Mezeray,  Crispin, 
&c." — Langbaine's  Account  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poets,  p.  215. 

"  As  to  the  character  of  Brunhalt,  or  Brunhaud,  though  it  may  perhaps 
be  thought  too  shocking  to  appear  upon  the  stage,  history  has  still 
represented  her  as  a  worse  devil  than  our  poets  have  done.  Thierry 
and  Theodoret  or  Theodibert  were  her  grandchildren,  whose  father  she 
had  poisoned  when  he  came  of  age,  in  order  to    keep  the  government  in 

»  "  The  Prologue  is  the  same  as  that  prefixed  to  the  Noble  Gentleman.  To  which  play  it 
belongs  cannot  be  decided." 


her  own  hands.  She  iiritated  ThieiTV  .against  Theodibcrt,  whom  she 
caused  him  to  slay,  and  then  poisoned  Thierry  in  hopes  tliat  the  states 
would  have  submitted  to  her  goveniment ;  but  her  Iiorrid  wickednesses 
being  laid  open  to  the  peers  of  France,  she  was  accused  of  having  been 
the  murderess  of  ten  kings,  beside  debauching  her  grandchild  Thierry, 
making  him  put  away  a  virtuous  wife  and  providing  him  with  misses. 
She  was  condemned  to  the  rack,  which  she  suffered  three  days,  was  then 
canied  about  the  camp  upon  a  camel's  back,  afterwards  tied  by  the  feet 
to  a  wild  mare,  and  so  dashed  in  pieces." — Seward. 

From  the  memoranda  of  Henslowe  wc  learn  that  the  present  tragedy 
was  preceded  bj'  a  drama  on  the  same  subject,  which  has  not  come  down 
to  our  times  :  in  "  A  Note  of  all  suche  bookes  as  belong  to  the  Stocke, 
and  such  as  I  have  bought  since  the  3d  of  March,  1.598,"  he  mentions 
"  BrunhowUe." — Malone's  Shakespeare  (by  Boswell),  iii.  316. 


PROLOGUE/ 


Wit  is  become  an  antic,  and  puts  on 
As  many  shapes  of  variation 
To  com't  the  times'  applause,  as  the  times  dare 
Change  several  fashions ;  nothing  is  thought  rare 
Which  is  not  new  and  followed  :  yet  we  know 
That  what  was  worn  some  twenty  years  ago 
Comes  into  grace  again ;  and  we  pursue 
That  custom  by  presenting  to  your  view 
A  play  in  fashion  then,  not  doubting  now 
But  'twill  appear  the  same,  if  you  allow 
Worth  to  their  noble  memories,  whose  names 
Beyond  all  power  of  death  live  in  their  fames. 

''   Prologue]   From  4to.  1649. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Thierry,  king  of  France. 
Theodoret,  his  brother,  prince   of 

Austracia. 
Martell  <^,  follower  and  friend   to 

Theodoret. 
De  Vitry,  a  chsbanded  officer. 
Protaldy,  paramour  to  Brunhalt. 
Lecure,  her  physician. 
Bawdber,  a  pandar. 
Huntsmen. 
Soldiers. 
Doctors. 


Revellei-s. 

Courtiers. 

Priest. 

Post. 

Gentleman,  Attendants. 


Brunhalt,  mother  to  Thierry   and 

Theodoret. 
Ordella,  queen  to  Thierry. 
Memberge,  daughter  to  Theodoret. 
Ladies. 


Scene,  Austracia  and  France. 


"=  Martell]  "  their  noble  kinsman  "  according  to  4to.  Iti49  ;  and  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
play  Thierry  says,  when  dying,  "  Martell,  the  kingdom's  yours :  "  but  see  the  speech  of 
Brunhalt,  p.  110. 


THIERRY    AND    THEODORET. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  Palace  of  Theodoret, 


Enter  Theodoret,  Brdnhalt,  and  Bawdber. 

Brim.  Tax  me  with  these  hot  taintures** ! 

Theod.  You'  re  too  sudden  ; 
I  do  but  gently  tell  you  what  becomes  you, 
And  what  may  bend  your  honour ;  how  these  courses 
Of  loose  and  lazy  pleasures,  not  suspected, 
But  done  and  known  ;  your  mind  that  grants  no  limit, 
(And  all  your  actions  follow'',)  which  loose  people, 
That  see  but  tlu-ough  a  mist  of  circumstance. 
Dare  term  ambitious  ;  all  your  ways  hide  sores 
Opening  in  the  end  to  nothing  but  ulcers. 
Yom-  instruments  like  these  may  call  the  world. 
And  with  a  fearful  clamour,  to  examine 
Why,  and  to  what  we  govern.     From  example, 
If  not  for  virtue"'s  sake,  you  may  be  honest : 
There  have  been  great  ones,  good  ones ;  and  'tis  necessary. 
Because  you  are  yourself,  and  by  yourself 

"*  taintures']  The  old  eds.  have  "  tainturs  "  and  "  tainters."  Seward  gave 
the  latter.  The  Editors  of  1778  rightly  printed  "tamtures,"  "though  they  do 
not  remember  meeting  with  the  word  !"  It  occurs  elsewhere  in  these  plays,  as 
well  as  in  Shakespeare,  &c.  :  see  Richardson's  Diet,  m  v. 

«  follow]  Old  eds.  «  follows." 


112  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  i. 

Since  you  have  left  your  honour,)  mend  those  ruins, 

And  build  again  that  broken  fame,  and  fairly, 

Your  most  intemperate  fires  have  burnt ;  and  quickly, 

Within  these  ten  days,  take  a  monastery, 

A  most  strict  house ;  a  house  where  none  may  whisper, 

Where  no  more  light  is  known  but  what  may  make  you 

Believe  there  is  a  day ;  where  no  hope  dwells. 

Nor  comfort  but  in  tears 

Brun.  Oh,  misery  ! 

Theod.  And  there  to  cold  repentance  and  starved  penance 
Tie  your  succeeding  days  ;  or,  ciu-se  me  Heaven, 
If  all  your  gilded  knaves,  brokers"  and  bedders. 
Even  he  you  built  from  nothing,  strong  Protaldy, 
Be  not  made  ambling  geldings  !  all  your  maids. 
If  that  name  do  not  shame  ""em,  fed  w^ith  spunges 
To  suck  away  their  rankness  !  and  yourself 
Only  to  empty  pictures  and  dead  arras 
Offer  your  old  desires  ! 

Brun.  I  will  not  curse  you, 
Nor  lay  a  prophecy  upon  your  pride. 
Though  Heaven  might  grant  me  both  ;  unthankful,  no  ! 
I  nourisli'd  you  ;  'twas  I,  poor  I,  groan"'d  for  you ; 
Twas  I  felt  what  you  suffer'd  ;  I  lamented 
When  sickness  or  sad  hours  held  back  your  sweetness  ; 
'Twas  I  payM  »  for  your  sleeps,  I  watch''d  your  wakings ; 
My  daily  cares  and  fears  that  rid,  play'd,  walk'd, 
Discours'd,  discoverM,  fed  and  fashion'd  you 
To  what  you  are  ;  and  am  I  thus  rewarded  I 

Theod.  But  that  I  know  these  tears,  I  could  dote  on  'em, 
And  kneel  to  catch  'em  as  they  fall,  then  knit  'em 
Into  an  armlet,  ever  to  be  honoured  : 
But,  woman,  they  are  dangerous  drops,  deceitful, 
Full  of  the  weeper,  anger  and  ill  nature. 

Brun.  In  my  last  hours  despis'd  ! 

Theod.  That  text  should  tell 

n  brokers]  i.  c.  pandars. 

o  paijd]   "  i.  c.  suifcrcd."      Wkbeu.      (Seward  had  absurdly  altered  it  to 
"  pray'd.") 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  113 

How  ugly  it  becomes  you  to  err  thus : 

Your  flames  are  spent,  nothing  but  smoke  maintains  you  ; 

And  those  your  favour  and  your  bounty  suffers  p, 

Lie  not  with  you,  they  do  but  lay  lust  on  you. 

And  then  embrace  you  as  they  caught  a  palsy ; 

Vour  power  they  may  love,  and,  like  Spanish  jennets. 

Commit  with  such  a  gust 

Brno.  I  would  take  whipping, 
And  pay  a  fine  now  !  ^  Aside  and  exit. 

Tlieod.  But  were  you  once  disgrac'd, 
Or  fallen  in  wealth,  like  leaves  they  would  fly  from  you, 
And  become  browse  for  every  beast.     You  willM  me 
To  stock  myself  with  better  friends  and  servants  : 
With  what  face  dare  you  see  me,  or  any  mankind, 
That  keep  a  race  of  such  unheard-of  relics. 
Bawds,  lechers,  leeches,  female  fornications. 
And  children  in  their  rudiments  to  vices, 
Old  men  to  shew  examples  and  (lest  art 
Should  lose  herself  in  act)  to  call  back  custom  \ 
Leave  these,  and  live  like  Niobe  ;  I  told  you  how  ; 
And  when  your  eyes  have  dropt  away  remembrance 
Of  what  you  were,  I  am  your  son  :  perform  it.  [  Exit. 

Brun.  Am  I  a  woman,  and  no  more  power  in  me 
To  tie  this  tiger  up  ?  a  soul  to  no  end  ? 
Have  I  got  shame,  and  lost  my  will  ?     Brunhalt, 
From  this  accursed  hour  forget  thou  bor'st  him. 
Or  ahy  part  -of  thy  blood  gave  him  living  ! 
Let  him  be  to  thee  an  antipathy, 
A  thing  thy  nature  sweats  at  and  turns  backward  ; 
Throw  all  the  mischiefs  on  him  that  thyself, 
Or  women  worse  than  thou  art,  have  invented. 
And  kill  him  drunk  or  doubtful ! 

Re-enter  Bawdber,  irith  Protaldy,  and  Lecure. 

Baiv.  Such  a  sweat 
I  never  was  in  yet :  dipt  of  ray  minstrels, 

>•  suffers'\  Seward  gave  Sympson's  conjecture, —  "succoui-s." 


114  THIERKV  AND  TIIEODORET.  [act  i. 

My  toys  to  prick  up  wenches  withal  !     Uphold  nie ; 
It  runs  like  snow-balls  tlirough  me. 

Bnni.  Now,  ray  varlets, 
My  slaves,  my  running  thoughts,  my  executions ! 

Bate.  Lord,  how  she  looks  ! 

Brun.  Hell  take  ye  all ! 

Baw.  We  shall  be  gelt. 

Brun.  Your  mistress, 
Your  old  and  honoured  mistress,  you  tir"'d  curtals '', 
Suffers  for  your  base  sins.     I  must  be  cloister'd, 
Mew*'d  up  to  make  me  virtuous  :  who  can  help  this  I 
Now  you  stand  still,  like  statues  !     Come,  Protaldy, 
One  kiss  before  I  perish ;  kiss  me  strongly ; 
Another,  and  a  third.  [Protaldy  kisses  her. 

Lee.  I  fear  not  gelding. 
As  long  as  she  holds  this  way. 

Brun.  The  young  courser, 
That  unlick'd  lump  of  mine,  will  win '  thy  mistress  : 
Must  I  be  chaste,  Protaldy  I 

Prot.  Thus,  and  thus,  lady.  [Kisses  her. 

Brun.  It  shall  be  so  :  let  him  seek  fools  for  vestals  ; 
Here  is  my  cloister. 

Lee,  But  what  safety,  madam, 
Find  you  in  staying  here  ? 

Brun.  Thou  hast  hit  my  meaning  : 
I  will  to  Thierry,  son  of  my  blessings, 
And  there  complain  me,  tell  my  tale  so  subtilely, 
That  the  cold  stones  shall  sweat,  and  statues  mourn  ; 
And  thou  shalt  weep,  Protaldy,  in  my  witness, 
And  there  '  forswear — 

Prot.  *  Yes  ;  any  thing  but  gelding. 
I  am  not  yet  in  quiet,  noble  lady  : 
Let  it  be  done  to-night,  for  without  doubt 
To-morrow  we  are  capons. 

'  curtals]  i.  e.  nags. 

■■  win]  "  i.  e.  will  make  jou  lose  her,  will  separate  you  from  her."     Mason. 
The  word  scarcely  re'iuires  explanation  ;  yet  it  had  pei-plexed  (he  editors. 
'  there]  Altered  h\  Seward  to  "these  :"  and  so  his  successors. 
'  Prot.]  Botli  (.1.1  :iiid  mod.rn  cd*.  "  Rnv." 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  115 

Brun.  Sleep  shall  not  seize  me, 
Nor  any  food  befriend  me  but  thy  kisses, 
Ere  I  forsake  this  desert.     I  live  honest  ! 
He  may  as  well  bid  dead  men  walk,     I  humbled 
Or  bent  below  my  power  !  let  night-dogs  tear  me, 
And  goblins  ride  me  in  my  sleep  to  jelly, 
Ere  I  forsake  my  sphere  ! 

Lee.  This  place  you  will. 

Brun.  What's  that  to  you  or  any  i 
You  dose  ",  you  powder'd  pigsbones,  rhubarb-glister  '', 
Must  you  know  my  designs  ?  a  college  on  ^''  you 
The  proverb  makes  but  fools. 

Prot.  But,  noble  lady 

Brun.  You  [are]  ""  a  saucy  ass  too.     Off  I  will  not, 
If  you  but  anger  me,  till  a  sow-gelder 
Have  cut  you  all  like  colts.     Hold  me,  and  kiss  me. 
For  I  am  too  much  troubled.     Make  up  my  treasure, 
And  get  me  horses  private  ;  come,  about  it !  ^Exeunt. 


SCENE    n. — Another  apartment  iii  the  same. 
Enter  Theodoret,  IMartell,  and  Attendants. 

Theod.  Though  I  assure  myself,  Martell,  your  coimsel 
Had  no  end  ^  but  allegiance  and  my  honour, 
Yet  I  am  jealous  I  have  pass'd  the  bounds 
Of  a  son's  duty  :  for,  suppose  her  worse 

"  dose']  Old  eds.  "  dosse,"  and  "  doss."  The  modern  editors  give,  with  Seward, 
"  dross."     In  act  v.  sc.  2,  Thierry  says  to  the  Doctors 
"  have  I  not  endur'd 
More  than  a  mangy  dog,  among  your  doses  9  " 
where  the  4tos  have  "  dosses  : "  and  Brunhalt  is  now  addressing  her  physician, 
Lecure. 

"  glister]  Altered  by  the   editors   of  1778  to  "  clisters,"  and  by  Weber  to 
"glisters." 

"  on]  i.  e.  of.     The  editors  of  1778  and  Weber  print  "  of." 
'^  are]  Inserted  by  Seward, 
y  no  end]  Weber  prints  "  no  other  end"  ! 
I  2 


IIG  THIERRY  AM)  THEODORET.  [act  i. 

Than  your  ''■  report,  not  by  bare  circumstance 

But  evident  proof  confirniVl,  has  given  her  out ; 

Yet  since  all  weaknesses  in  a  kingdom  are 

No  more  to  be  severely  punished  than 

The  faults  of  kings  are  by  the  Thunderer, 

As  oft  as  they  offend,  to  be  revengM  ; 

If  not  for  piety,  yet  for  policy, 

Since  some  are  of  necessity  to  be  spar'd, 

1  might,  and  now  I  wish  I  had  not  lookM 

With  such  strict  eyes  into  her  follies. 

Mart.  Sir, 
A  duty  well  discharged  is  never  followed 
By  sad  repentance  ;  nor  did  your  highness  ever 
Make  payment  of  the  debt  you  ow'd  her,  better 
Than  in  your  late  reproofs,  not  of  her,  but 
Those  crimes  that  made  her  worthy  of  reproof. 
The  most  remarkable  point  in  which  kings  differ 
From  private  men,  is  that  they  not  alone 
Stand  bound  to  be  in  themselves  inr\ocent. 
But  that  all  such  as  are  allied  to  them 
In  nearness  or  dependence,  by  their  care 
Should  be  free  from  suspicion  of  all  crime  : 
And  you  have  reap'd  a  double  benefit 
From  this  last  great  act ;  first,  in  the  restraint" 
Of  her  lost  pleasures ",  you  remove  the  example 
From  others  of  the  like  licentiousness  ; 
Then,  when  'tis  known  that  your  severity 
Extended  to  your  mother,  who  dares  hope  for 
The  least  indulgence  or  connivance  in 
The  easiest  slips  that  may  prove  dangerous 
To  you  or  to  the  kingdom  \ 

Theod.  I  must  grant 
Your  reasons  good,  Martell,  if,  as  she  is 
My  mother,  she  had  been  my  subject,  or 
That  only  here  she  could  make  challenge  to 

'  yo?<r]   A  correction  by  Sewaril.     Old  eds.  "you." 

•  lost  pleasures]  "  That  is,  pleasures  now  lost  to  her,  which  she  is  compelled 
to  relinquish."     Mason. 


SCENE  11.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  117 

A  place  of  being  :  but  I  know  her  temper, 
And  fear  (if  such  a  word  become  a  king) 
That,  in  discovering  her,  I  have  let  loose 
A  tigress,  whose  rage,  being  shut  up  in  darkness, 
Was  grievous  only  to  herself ;   which,  brought 
Into  the  view  of  light,  her  cruelty, 
Provok'd  by  her  own  shame,  will  turn  on  him 
That  foolishly  presumed  to  let  her  see 
The  loath'd  shape  of  her  own  deformity. 

Mart.  Beasts  of  that  nature,  when  rebellious  threats 
Begin  to  appear  only  in  their  eyes. 
Or  any  motion  that  may  give  suspicion 
Of  the  least  violence,  should  be  chainM  up  ; 
Their  fangs  and  teeth,  and  all  their  means  of  hurt, 
Par'd  off  and  knock'd  out ;  and,  so  made  unable 
To  do  ill,  they  would  soon  begin  to  loathe  it. 
Ill  apply  nothing ;  but  had  your  grace  done, 
Or  would  do  yet,  what  your  less-forward  zeal 
In  words  did  only  threaten,  far  less  danger 
Would  grow  from  acting  it  on  her  than  may 
Perhaps  have  being  from  her  apprehension 
Of  what  may  once  be  practised  :  for,  believe  it. 
Who,  confident  of  his  own  power,  presumes 
To  spend  threats  on  an  enemy  that  hath  means 
To  shun  the  worst  they  can  effect,  gives  armour 
To  keep  off  his  own  strength ;  nay,  more,  disarms 
Himself,  and  lies  unguarded  'gainst  all  harms 
Or  doubt  or  malice  may  produce. 

Theod.  'Tis  true : 
And  such  a  desperate  cure  I  would  have  us'd, 
If  the  intemperate  patient  had  not  been 
So  near  me  as  a  mother ;  but  to  her, 
And  from  me,  gentle  unguents  only  were 
To  be  applied  :  and  as  physicians. 
When  they  are  sick  of  fevers,  eat  themselves 
Such  viands  as  by  their  directions  are 
Forbid  to  others,  though  alike  diseased  ; 
So  she,  considering  what  she  is,  may  challenge 


118  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  i. 

Those  cordials  to  restore  her.  by  her  birth 
And  privilege,  which  at  no  suit  must  be 
Granted  to  others. 

Mart.   May  your  pious  care 
Effect  but  what  it  aira'd  at !     I  am  silent. 

Enter  De  Vitry. 

Theod.  What  laugh'd  you  at,  sir  \ 

De  Vit.  I  have  some  occasion, 
I  should  not  else  ;  and  the  same  cause  perhaps 
That  makes  me  do  so,  may  beget  in  you 
A  contrary  effect. 

Theod.  Why,  whafs  the  matter  \ 

De  Vit.  I  see,  and  joy  to  see,  that  sometimes  poor  men 
(And  most  of  such  are  good)  stand  more  indebted 
For  means  to  breathe  to  such  as  are  held  vicious, 
Than  those  that  wear,  like  hypocrites,  on  their  foreheads 
The  ambitious  titles  of  just  men  and  virtuous. 

Mart.  Speak  to  the  purpose. 

De  Vit.  Who  would  e'er  have  thought 
The  good  old  queen,  your  highness'  reverend  mother, 
Into  whose  house  (which  was  an  academe. 
In  which  all  principles  of  lust  were  practised) 
No  soldier  might  presume  to  set  his  foot ; 
At  whose  most  blessed  intercession 
All  offices  in  the  state  were  charitably 
Conferred  on  pandars,  o'er-worn  chamber-wi'estlers, 
And  such  physicians  as  knew  how  to  kill 
With  safety,  under  the  pretence  of  saving, 
And  such  like  children  of  a  monstrous  peace  ; 
That  she,  I  say,  should  at  the  length  provide 
That  men  of  war  and  honest  younger  brothers, 
That  would  not  owe  their  feeding  to  their  codpiece. 
Should  be  esteemed  of  more  than  moths  \  or  drones, 
Or  idle  vagabonds  ! 

Theod.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it ; 
Prithee,  what  course  takes  she  to  do  this  ? 

•"  moths]     Seward's  correction.     Old  eds.  "  mothers.'" 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  119 

De  Vit.  One 
That  cannot  fail  :  she  and  her  virtuous  train, 
With  her  jewels  and  all  that  was  worthy "  the  carrying, 
The  last  night  left  the  court ;  and,  as  'tis  more 
Than  said,  for  'tis  confirm'd  by  such  as  met  her, 
She's  fled  unto  your  brother. 

Theod.  How  ! 

De  Vit.  Nay,  storm  not ; 
For  if  that  wicked  tongue  of  hers  hath  not 
Forgot  its  pace,  and  Thierry  be  a  prince 
Of  such  a  fiery  temper  as  report 
Has  given  liim  out  for,  you  shall  have  cause  to  use 
Such  poor  men  as  myself,  and  thank  us  too 
For  coming  to  you  and  without  petitions  : 
Pray  Heaven  reward  the  good  old  woman  for't ! 

Mart.  I  foresaw  this. 

Theod.  I  hear  a  tempest  coming. 
That  sings  mine  and  my  kingdom's  ruin.     Haste, 
And  cause  a  troop  of  horse  to  fetch  her  back — 
Yet  stay  :  why  should  I  use  means  to  bring  in 
A  plague  that  of  herself  hath  left  me  ?     INIuster 
Our  soldiers  up  ;  we'll  stand  upon  our  guard  ; 
For  we  shall  be  attempted — Yet  forbear  : 
The  inequality  of  our  powers  will  yield  me 
Nothing  but  loss  in  their  defeature.     Something 
Must  be  done,  and  done  suddenly.     Save  your  labour : 
In  this  I'll  use  no  counsel  but  mine  own  ; 
That  course,  though  dangerous,  is  best.     Command 
Our  daughter  be  in  readmess  to  attend  us. 
Martell,  your  company, — and,  honest  Vitry, 
Thou  wilt  along  with  me  ? 

De  Vit.  Yes,  any  where ; 
To  be  worse  than  I  am  here,  is  past  my  fear.  \^Exeunt. 

"=  tvorthy'\  Altered  by  Seward,  for  the  metre,  to  "  worth." 


120  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  ii 


ACT    II. 

Scene  I. — Before  the  Palace  of  Thierry. 


Enter  Thierry,  Brunhalt,  Bawdber,  Lecure,  and  Attendants. 

Thi.  You  are  here  in  a  sanctuary  ;  and  that  viper 
( Who,  since  he  hath  forgot  to  be  a  son, 
I  much  disdain  to  think  of  as  a  brother) 
Had  better,  in  despite  of  all  the  gods. 
To  have  razM  their  temples  and  spurn'd  down  their  altars. 
Than,  in  his  impious  abuse  of  you, 
To  have  call'd  on  my  just  anger. 

Brun.  Princely  son, 
And  in  this  worthy  of  a  nearer  "^  name, 
I  have  in  the  relation  of  my  wrongs 
Been  modest,  and  no  word  my  tongue  deliver'd 
To  express  my  insupportable  injuries 
But  gave  my  heart  a  wound  :  nor  has  my  grief 
Being  from  wdiat  I  suffer ;  but  that  he. 
Degenerate  as  he  is,  should  be  the  actor 
Of  my  extremes,  and  force  me  to  divide 
The  fires  of  brotherly  affection  "^ 
Which  should  make  but  one  flame. 

Thi.  That  part  of  his, 
As  it  deserves,  shall  burn  no  more,  if  or 
The  tears  of  orphans,  widows,  or  all  such 
As  dare  acknowledge  him  to  be  their  lord, 

■*  nearer'\  So  Seward,  and  his  successors.  Old  eds.  "  neere  "  and  "  near."  I 
suspect  that  the  right  reading  is  "  so  near  a  name  " — for  what  name  could  be 
nearer  than  that  of  son  ?     Compare  p.  117,  last  Une  but  six. 

"•  to  divide 

The  fires  of  brotherly  affection^  "  Mr.  Theobald  has  very  justly  put  in  tlie 
margin,  Eteocles  and  Polynices.  The  metaphor  is  a  noble  allusion  to  the 
remarkable  poetic  fiction  of  the  flames  of  their  funeral  pyre  dividing  and  flying 
asunder."     Seward. 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  1-21 

Join'd  to  your  wrongs,  with  his  heart-blood  have  power 

To  put  it  out :  and  you,  and  these  your  servants, 

Who  in  our  favours  shall  find  cause  to  know, 

In  that  they  left  not  you,  how  dear  we  hold  them, 

Shall  give  Theodoret  to  understand 

His  ignorance  of  the  priceless  jewel  which 

He  did  possess  in  you,  mother,  in  you ; 

Of  which  I  am  more  proud  to  be  the  owner  f, 

Than  if  the  absolute  rule  of  all  the  world 

Were  offerM  to  this  hand.     Once  more,  you  are  welcome ; 

Which  with  all  ceremony  due  to  greatness 

I  would  make  known,  but  that  our  just  revenge 

Enter  Protaldy  with  Soldiers. 

Admits  not  of  delay. — Your  hand,  lord-general. 

Bnm.  Your  favour  and  his  merit,  I  may  =  say, 
Have  made  him  such  :  but  I  am  jealous  how 
Your  subjects  will  receive  it. 

TJii.  How  !  my  subjects  I 
What  do  you  make  of  me  ?     Oh  Heaven  !  my  subjects  I 
How  base  should  I  esteem  the  name  of  prince, 
If  that  poor  dust  were  any  thing  before 
The  whirlwind  of  my  absolute  command  ! 
Let  'em  be  happy,  and  rest  so  contented. 
They  pay  the  tribute  of  their  hearts  and  knees 
To  such  a  prince,  that  not  alone  has  power 
To  keep  his  own,  but  to  encrease  it ;  that, 
Although  he  hath  a  body  may  add  to 
The  fam'd  night-labour  of  strong  Hercules, 
Yet  is  the  master  of  a  continence 
That  so  can  temper  it,  that  I  forbear 

Their  daughters  and  their  wives  ;  whose  hands,  though  strong, 
As  yet  have  never  drawn  by  unjust  mean 
Their  proper  wealth  into  my  treasury — 

'  owner'\  Old  eds.  "  doner  "  and  "  douoi'." — ^^  Owner  seemed  at  fii-st  sight 
self-evidently  the  ti'ue  reading  both  to  Mr.  SjTnpson  and  myself."     Seward. 
f  may]  Altered  by  Weber  to  "  must  "  ! 


122  THIERRY  AND  THKUDOKET.  [act  ii. 

But  I  grow  glorious '' — and  let  them  beware 
That,  in  their  least  repining  at  my  pleasures, 
They  change  not  a  mild  prince  (for,  if  provokM,     . 
I  dare  and  will  be  so)  into  a  tyrant. 

Bnin.  You  see  there's  hope  that  we  shall  rule  again, 

[^Apart  to  Lecure  and  Bawdber. 
And  your  fallen  fortunes  rise. 

Ban:  I  hope  your  highness 
Is  pleasVl  that  I  should  still  hold  my  place  with  you ; 
For  I  have  been  so  long  us\l  to  provide  you 
Fresh  bits  of  flesh  since  mine  grew  stale,  that  surely. 
If  cashiered  now,  I  shall  prove  a  bad  cater ' 
In  the  iish-market  of  cold  Chastity. 

Lee.  For  me,  I  am  your  own ;  nor,  since  I  first 
Knew  what  it  was  to  serve  you,  have  remember''d 
I  had  a  soul,  but  such  a  one  whose  essence 
Depended  wholly  on  your  highness'  pleasure ; 
And  therefore,  madam 

Brun.  Rest  assured  you  are 
Such  instruments  we  must  not  lose. 

Lee.  Baw.  Our  service. 

Thi.  You  have  view'd  them  then  ;  what's  your  opinion  of 
them  I 
In  this  dull  time  of  peace  we  have  preparM  'em 
Apt  for  the  war ;  ha  ? 

Prot.  Sir,  they  have  limbs 
That  promise  strength  sufficient,  and  rich  armours, 
The  soldier's  best-lov'd  wealth  :  more,  it  appears 
They  have  been  drill'd,  nay,  very  prettily  drill'd. 
For  many  of  them  can  discharge  their  luusiiuots 
Without  the  danger  of  throwing  off"  their  heads, 
Or  being  offensive  to  the  standers-by 
By  sweating  too  much  backwards ;  nay,  1  find 
They  know  the  right  and  left-hand  file,  and  may 
With  some  impulsion  no  doubt  be  brought 

''  </lorions\  "  Tliat  is,  vain-gloriouH."     Mason. 

'  cater]  A  word  of  fn-quent  occurroiier, —altered  by  Seward  to  tlie  niodtrn 
form,  "  caterer  '';  and  so  liis  sufctssoj>. 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  123 

To  pass  the  A,  B,  C,  of  war,  and  come 
Unto  the  horn-book. 

Tin.  Well,  that  care  is  yours  ; 
And  see  that  you  effect  it. 

Prot.  I  am  slow 
To  promise  much ;  but  if  within  ten  days, 
By  precepts  and  examples,  not  drawn  from 
Worm-eaten  precedents  of  the  Roman  wars, 
But  from  mine  own,  I  make  them  not  transcend 
All  that  e'er  yet  bore  arms,  let  it  be  said, 
Protaldy  brags,  which  would  be  unto  me 
As  hateful  as  to  be  esteem'd  a  coward  : 
For,  sir,  few  captains  know  the  way  to  win  'emJ, 
And  make  the  soldiers  valiant.     You  shall  see  me 
Lie  with  them  in  their  trenches,  talk,  and  drink. 
And  be  together  drunk  ;  and,  what  seems  stranger, 
We'll  sometimes  wench  together ;  which,  once  practised, 
And  with  some  other  rare  ^  and  hidden  arts  \ 
They  being  all  made  mine,  Fll  breathe  into  them 
Such  fearless  resolution  and  such  fervour, 
That  though  I  brought  them  to  besiege  a  fort 
Whose  walls  were  steeple-high  and  cannon- proof. 
Not  to  be  underminM,  they  should  fly  up 
Like  swallows ;  and,  the  parapet  once  won, 
For  proof  of  their  obedience,  if  I  will'd  them. 
They  should  leap  down  again ;  and,  what  is  more, 
By  some  directions  they  should  have  from  me, 
Not  break  their  necks. 

Thi.  This  is  above  behef. 

Brun.  Sir,  on  my  knowledge,  though  he  hath  spoke  much. 
He's  able  to  do  more. 

Lee.  She  means  on  her.  [Aside. 

Brun.  And  howsoever,  in  his  thankfulness 

J  Vm]  The  Editors  of  1778,  and  Weber,  cliose  to  give  with  fol.  1679  "  him  ;" 
and  were  consequently  obliged  in  the  next  line  to  alter  "  soldiers  "  to  "  soldier." 

''  rare']  Seward's  emendation,  which  his  successors  rejected.  Old  eds. 
"care." 

•  artsj  A  correction  by  Sympson  and  Seward.  Old  eds.  "  acts  :"  the  words 
are  very  frequently  confounded  by  early  printers. 


1-24  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  ii. 

For  some  few  favours  done  him  by  myself, 

He  left  Austracia ;  not  Theodoret, 

Though  he  was  chiefly  aimM  at,  could  have  laid, 

With  all  his  dukedom's  power,  that  shame  upon  him, 

"Which,  in  his  barbarous  malice  to  my  honour, 

He  swore  with  threats  to  effect. 

Thi.  I  cannot  but 
Believe  you,  madam. — Thou  art  one  degree 
Grown  nearer  to  my  heart,  and  I  am  proud 
To  have  in  thee  so  glorious  a  plant 
Transported  hither :  in  thy  conduct  we 
Go  on  assured  of  conquest ;  our  remove 
Shall  be  with  the  next  sun. 

Enter  Theodoret,  Memberge,  Martell,  and  De  Vitry. 

Lee.  Amazement  leave  me  ! 
'Tis  he. 

Baw.  We  are  again  undone  ! 

Prot.  Our  guilt 
Hath  no  assurance  nor  defence. 

Baw.  If  now 
Vour  ever-ready  wit  fail  to  protect  us, 
AV^e  shall  be  all  discovered. 

Brim.  Be  not  so 
In  your  amazement  and  your  foolish  fears : 
I  am  preparM  for't. 

TJieod.  How  !  not  one  poor  welcome, 
In  answer  of  so  long  a  journey  made 
Only  to  see  you ',  brother  'i 

Thi.  I  have  stood 
Silent  thus  long,  and  am  yet  unresolv'd 
Whether  to  entertain  thee  on  my  sword, 
As  fits  a  parricide  of  a  mother's  honour  ; 
Or  whether,  being  a  prince,  I  yet  stand  bound 
(Though  thou  art  here  condemned )  to  give  thee  hearing 
Before  1  execute.     What  foolish  hope, — 
Nay,  pray  you,  forbear, — or  desperate  nuidncss  rather, 
'  ijoh\  Old  cds.  "your." 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET. 

(Unless  thou  com'st  assured  I  stand  in  debt 

As  far  to  all  impiety  as  thyself,) 

Has  made  thee  bring  thy  neck  unto  the  axe  ? 

Since  looking  only  here,  it  cannot  but 

Draw  fresh  blood  from  thy  sear'd-up  conscience, 

To  make  thee  sensible  of  that  horror  which 

They  ever  bear  about  them,  that,  like  Nero — 

Like,  said  I  ?  thou  art  worse,  since  thou  dar'st  strive 

In  her  defame  to  murder  thine  ""  alive. 

Theod.  That  she  that  long  since  had  the  boldness  to 
Be  a  bad  woman,  (though  I  wish  some  other 
Should  so  report  her,)  could  not  want  the  cunning, 
Since  they  go  hand  in  hand,  to  lay  fair  colours 
On  her  black  crimes,  I  was  resolv'd  "  before  ; 
Nor  make  I  doubt  but  that  she  hath  impoison''d 
Your  good  opinion  of  me,  and  so  far 
Incens'd  your  rage  against  me,  that  too  late 
I  come  to  plead  my  innocence. 

Brun.  To  excuse 
Thy  impious  scandals  rather. 

Prot.  Rather  forc'd 
With  fear  to  be  compell'd  to  come. 

Thi.  Forbear  ! 

Theod.  This  moves  not  me  ;  and  yet,  had  T  not  been 
Transported  on  my  own  integrity, 
I  neither  am  so  odious  to  my  subjects. 
Nor  yet  so  barren  of  defence,  but  that 
By  force  I  could  have  justified  my  guilt, 
Had  I  been  faulty.     But  since  innocence 
Is  to  itself  an  hundred  thousand  guards. 
And  that  there  is  no  son  but  though  he  owe 
That  name  to  an  ill  mother,  but  stands  bound 
Rather  to  take  away,  with  his  own  danger. 
From  the  number  of  her  faults,  than,  for  his  own 
Security,  to  add  unto  them  ;  this, 

'"  thine']  «  Means,  thy  mother. "    Mason. 
"  reso/v'rf]  i.  e.  satisfied,  convinced. 


126  THIERRY  AND  Til ICODORET.  [act  ii. 

This  hath  made  me,  to  prevent  the  expense 

Of  blood  on  both  sides,  the  injuries,  the  rapes, 

(Pages  that  ever  wait  upon  the  war,) 

The  account  of  all  which,  since  you  are  the  cause. 

Believe  it,  would  have  been  requirVl  from  you  ; 

Rather,  I  say,  to  offer  up  my  daughter. 

Who  living  only  could  revenge  my  death, 

^Vith  my  heart-blood,  a  sacrifice  to  your  anger. 

Than  that  you  should  draw  on  your  head  more  curses 

Than  yet  you  have  deservM. 

Tin.  I  do  begin 
To  feel  an  alteration  in  my  nature. 
And,  in  his  fuU-sail'd  confidence,  a  shower 
Of  gentle  rain,  that,  falling  on  the  fire 
Of  my  hot  rage,  hath  quench'd  it.     Ha  !   I  would 
Once  more  speak  roughly  to  him,  and  I  will ; 

Yet  there  is  something  whispers  to  me,  that 

I  have  said  too  much.     [Aside.']— How  is  my  heart  divided 

Between  the  duty  of  a  son  and  love 

Due  to  a  brother  !      Yet  I  am  sway'd  here. 

And  must  ask  of  you,  how  'tis  possible 

You  can  affect "  me,  that  have  learnM  to  hate 

Where  you  should  pay  all  love  I 
Tlieod.  Which,  joind  with  duty. 

Upon  my  knees  I  should  be  proud  to  tender. 

Had  she  not  usM  herself  so  many  swords 

To  cut  those  bonds  that  tied  me  to  it. 
Thi.  Fie, 

No  more  of  that ! 

Tkeod.  Alas,  it  is  a  theme 

I  take  no  pleasure  to  discourse  of !  would 

It  could  as  soon  be  buried  to  the  world, 

As  it  should  die  to  me  I  nay,  more,  I  wish 

(Next  to  my  part  of  Heaven)  that  she  would  spend 

The  last  part  of  her  life  so  here,  that  all 

Indifferent  judges  might  condemn  me  for 

"  affect^  "  i.  e.  love.''      Wriii.k. 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  127 

A  most  malicious  slanderer,  nay,  text  p  it 

Upon  my  forehead. — If  you  hate  me,  mother. 

Put  me  to  such  a  shame  ;  pray  you,  do  !     Believe  it, 

There  is  no  glory  that  may  fall  upon  me, 

Can  equal  the  delight  I  should  receive 

In  that  disgrace  ;  provided  the  repeal 

Of  your  long-banish'd  virtues  and  good  name 

UsherM  me  to  it. 

Thi.  See,  she  shews  herself 
An  easy  mother,  which  her  tears  confirm. 

Theod.  'Tis  a  good  sign  ;  the  comfortablest  rain 
I  ever  saw. 

Thi.  Embrace. — Why,  this  is  well : 

[Theodoret  embraces  Brunhalt. 
May  never  more  but  love  in  you,  and  duty 
On  your  part,  rise  between  you  ! 

Baw.  Do  you  hear,  lord-general  ? 
Does  not  your  new-stamp'd  honour  on  the  sudden 
Begin  to  grow  sick  I 

Prot.  Yes  ;   I  find  it  fit, 
That,  putting  off  my  armour,  I  should  think  of 
Some  honest  hospital  to  retire  to. 

Baw.  Sure, 
Although  I  am  a  bawd,  yet  being  a  lord, 
They  cannot  whip  me  for't :  what's  your  opinion  I 

Lee.  The  beadle  will  resolve  ">  you,  for  I  cannot : 
There's  something  that  more  near  concerns  myself, 
That  calls  upon  me. 

Mart.  Note  but  yonder  scarabs  ■■, 
That  liv'd  upon  the  dung  of  her  base  pleasures  ; 
How  from  the  fear  that  she  may  yet  prove  honest 
Hang  down  their  wicked  heads  ! 

Be  Fit.  What's  that  to  me  ? 
Though  they  and  all  the  polecats  of  the  court 

P  text]    "  i.  e.   "  write,  mark."     Reed, — who  incorrectly  states  tliat   folio 
1679,  has  "  texte  :"  it  has,  Uke  the  earlier  eds.,  "  texde." 
1  resolve]  i.  e.  satisfy,  inform. 
■■  scarabs]  "  i.  e.  beetles."     Weber. 


1-28  THIERRY  AM)  TIIEODORET.  [act  ii. 

Were  truss'd  together,  I  perceive  not  how 

It  can  advantage  me  a  cardecu  \ 

To  help  to  keep  me  honest.  [J  /torn  xonnded  within. 

Enter  a  Post. 

Thi.  How  !    from  whence  ' 

Post.  [Giving   letters  to   Tin.]   These   letters    will    resolve 
your  grace. 

Thi.  What  speak  they  I —  [Beads. 

How  all  things  meet  to  make  me  this  day  happy  ! 
See,  mother,  brother,  to  your  reconcilement 
Another  blessing,  almost  equal  to  it. 
Is  coming  towards  me  !  my  contracted  wife, 
Ordella,  daughter  of  wise  Datarick, 
The  king  of  Arragon,  is  on  our  confines  : 
Then  to  arrive  at  such  a  time,  when  you 
Are  happily  here  to  honour  with  your  presence 
Our  long-deferr'd  but  much-wish'd  nuptial, 
F'alls  out  above  expression  !     Heaven  be  pleas'd 
That  I  may  use  these  blessings  pour'd  on  me 
AVith  moderation  ! 

Brim.  Hell  and  Furies  aid  me, 
That  I  may  have  power  to  avert  the  plagues. 
That  press  upon  me  !  [Aside. 

Thi.  Two  days'  journey,  say'st  thou  ' 
We  will  set  forth  to  meet  her.     In  the  mean  time. 
See  all  things  be  prepar'd  to  entertain  her.     [To  Attendants. 
Nay,  let  me  have  your  companies ;  there's  a  forest 
In  the  midway  shall  yield  us  hunting  sport. 
To  ease  our  travel.     I'll  not  have  a  brow 
liut  shall  wear  mirth  upon  it ;   therefore  clear  thorn  : 
We'll  wash  away  all  sorrow  in  glad  feasts ; 
And  the  war  we  mean[t]  to  men,  we'll  make  on  beasts. 

[Ereunt  all  hut  Bri;nm.m,t,  Hawdrer,  Protai.dy,  rind  Lkcure. 
Bnin.  Oh,  that  I  had  the  magic  to  transform  you 
Into  the  shape  of  .such,  that  your  own  hounds 

'  (V/r'/cfM]   A  FrtiK'Ii  vo'in— quart  il'eai,  tlie  quarter  of  a  crown. 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  129 

Might  tear  you  piece-meal  ! — Are  you  so  stupid  I 
No  word  of  comfort  ?     Have  I  fed  you,  moths  \ 
From  my  excess  of  moisture  with  such  cost, 
And  can  you  yield  no  other  retribution 
But  to  devour  your  maker  ?  pandar,  spunge, 
Impoisoner,  all  grown  barren  ? 

Prot.  You  yourself, 
That  are  our  mover,  and  for  whom  alone 
We  live,  have  faiFd  yourself  in  giving  way 
To  the  reconcilement  of  your  sons. 

Lee.  Which  if 
You  had  prevented,  or  would  teach  us  how 
They  might  again  be  severM,  we  could  easily 
Remove  all  other  hindrances  that  stop 
The  passage  of  your  pleasures. 

Bate.  And  for  me, 
If  I  fail  in  my  office  to  provide  you 
Fresh  delicates,  hang  me  ! 

B)-u7i.  Oh,  you  are  dull,  and  find  not 
The  cause  of  my  vexation  !  their  reconcilement 
Is  a  mock  castle  built  upon  the  sand 
By  children,  which,  when  I  am  pleas'd  to  overthrow, 
I  can  with  ease  spurn  down. 

Lee.  If  so,  from  whence 
Grows  your  affliction  ? 

Brun.  My  grief  comes  along 
With  the  new  queen,  in  whose  grace  all  ray  power 
Must  suffer  shipwreck.    For  me  now. 
That  hitherto  have  kept  the  first,  to  know 
A  second  place,  or  yield  the  least  precedence 
To  any  other,  's  death ;  to  have  my  sleeps 
Less  enquired  after,  or  my  rising  up 
Saluted  with  less  reverence,  or  my  gates 

*  you,  moths']  Old  eds.  "you  mothers." — "This,"  says  Seward,  "is  the 
second  time  that  mothers  has  been  intruded  into  the  text.  Mouths  is  here  pretty 
evidently  the  true  word  ;"  and  accordingly  the  modern  editions  exhibit  "  your 
mouths  "  !  That  the  misprint  to  which  he  refers  (see  p.  118)  should  not  have  led 
Seward  to  the  right  reading  in  the  present  passage,  is  beyond  my  comprehension, 
VOL.  I,  K 


130  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act 

Empty  of  suitors,  or  the  King's  great  favours 
To  pass  through  any  hand  but  mine,  or  he 
Himself  to  be  directed  by  another, 
Would  be  to  me — do  you  understand  me  yet  ? 
No  means  to  prevent  this  i 

Prot.  Fame  gives  her  out 
To  be  a  woman  of  a  chastity 
Not  to  be  wrought  upon  ;  and  therefore,  madam, 
For  me,  though  I  have  pleas'd  you,  to  attempt  her, 
Were  to  no  purpose. 

Brun.  Tush,  some  other  way  ! 

Baic.  Faith,  I  know  none  else  ;  all  my  bringing-up 
Aim'd  at  no  other  learning. 

Lee.  Give  me  leave  ; 
If  my  art  fail  me  not,  I  have  thought  on 
A  speeding  project. 

Briin.  AVhat  is't  ?  but  effect  it, 
And  thou  shalt  be  my  /Esculapius  ; 
Thy  image  shall  be  set  up  in  pure  gold. 
To  which  I  will  fall  down,  and  worship  it. 

Lee.  The  lady  is  fair  ? 

Brun.  Exceeding  fair. 

Lee.  And  young  ^ 

Brim.  Some  fifteen  at  the  most. 

Lee.  And  loves  the  King 
With  equal  ardour  ? 

Brun.  More  ;  she  dotes  on  him. 

Lee.  Well,  then  ;  what  think  you  if  I  make  a  drink. 
Which,  given  unto  him  on  the  bridal-night, 
Shall  for  five  days  so  rob  his  faculties 
Of  all  ability  to  pay  that  duty 
^Miich  new-made  wives  expect,  that  she  shall  swear 
She  is  not  matclfd  to  a  man  I 

Prot.  ^Twere  rare. 

Lee.   And  then. 
If  she  have  any  part  of  woman  in  her. 
She'll  or  fly  out.  or  at  least  give  occasion 
Of  such  a  breach  which  ne'er  can  be  made  up ; 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  131 

Since  he  that  to  all  else  did  never  fail 
Of  as  much  as  could  be  performed  by  man, 
Proves  only  ice  to  her. 

Brun.  'Tis  excellent. 

Baw.  The  physician 
Helps  ever  at  a  dead  lift ;  a  fine  calling, 
That  can  both  raise  and  take  down  :  out  upon  thee  ! 

Brun.  For  this  one  service,  I  am  ever  thine  : 
Prepare  it ;   I  will  give  it  him  myself. 
For  you,  Protaldy, 

By  this  kiss  and  our  promis'd  sport  at  night, 
[I]  do  conjure  you  to  bear  up,  not  minding 
The  opposition  of  Theodoret 
Or  any  of  his  followers  :  whatsoe'er 
You  are,  yet  appear '  valiant,  and  make  good 
The  opinion  that  is  had  of  you.     For  myself. 
In  the  new  queen's  remove  being  made  secure. 
Fear  not,  Fll  make  the  future  building  sure.  [^Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— A  Forest— Winding  of  Horns  zviihin. 
Enter  Theodoret  and  Thierry. 
Tlieod.  This  stag  stood  well  and  cunningly. 
Thi.   My  horse, 
I  am  sure,  has  found  it,  for  her ''  sides  are  blooded 
From  flank  to  shoulder.     Where's  the  troop  ? 
Theod.  Pass'd  homeward. 

Enter  Martell. 
Weary  and  tir'd  as  we  are. — Now,  Martell ; 
Have  you  remember'd  what  we  thought  of? 

Mart.  Yes,  sir ;   I  have  snigled  "^  him ;  and  if  there  be 

"  yet  appear]   In  Weber's  ed.  "yet  you  appear."  ! 

"   her]   Seward  and  his  successors  "  his." 

"  snigled]  A  term  for  a  particular  method  of  catching  eels,  whicli  Walton 
thus  describes  :  "  And  because  you  that  are  but  a  young  Angler  know  not  what 

snigling  is,  I   will  now  teach  it  to  you you  observing  your  time  in  a 

warm  day,  when  the  water  is  lowest,  may  take  a  strong  small  hook  tied  to  a 

strong  Une,  or  to  a  string  about  a  yard  long,  and  then  into  one  of  these  holes,  or 

K  2 


132  THIERRY  AND  THEODORE?.  [act  ii. 

Any  desert  in  his  blood  beside  the  itch, 
Or  manly  heat  but  what  decoctions, 
Leeches,  and  cullises''  have  cramind  into  hira. 
Your  lordship  shall  know  perfect. 

Thi.  M'hat  is  that  ? 
May  not  I  know  too  ? 

Tlieod.  Yes,  sir ;  to  that  end 
We  cast  the  project. 

Till  Whatis't? 

Mart.  A  desire^,  sir, 
Upon  the  gilded  flag  your  grace's  favour 
Has  stuck  up  for  a  general ;  and  to  inform  you 
(For  this  hour  he  shall  pass  the  test)  what  valour, 
Staid  judgment,  soul,  or  safe  discretion, 
Your  mother's  wandering  eyes  and  your  obedience 
Have  flung  upon  us ;  to  assure  your  knowhnlge, 
He  can  be,  dare  be,  shall  be,  must  be  nothing 
(Load  him  with  piles  of  honours,  set  him  off" 
With  all  the  cunning  foils  that  may  deceive  us) 
But  a  poor,  cold,  unspirited,  unmannerM, 
Unhonest,  unaffected  *,  undone  fool. 
And  most  unheard-of  coward  ;  a  mere  lump 
Made  to  load  beds  withal,  and,  like  a  night-mare. 
Hide  ladies  that  forget  to  say  their  prayers  ; 
One  that  dares  only  be  diseased  and  in  debt ; 
^^'hose  body  mews  '*  more  plasters  every  month 
Than  women  do  old  faces. 

between  any  boards  about  a  Mill,  or  under  any  great  stone  or  plank,  or  any 
place  where  you  think  an  Eel  may  hide  or  shelter  herself,  you  may  with  the 
help  of  a  short  stick  put  in  your  bait,  but  leasurely,  and  as  far  as  you  may 
conveniently  :  and  it  is  scarce  to  be  doubted  but  that  if  there  be  an  Eel  within 
the  sight  of  it,  the  Eel  will  bite  instantly,  and  as  certainly  gorge  it  :  and  you 
need  not  doubt  to  have  him  if  you  pull  him  not  out  of  the  hole  too  quickly,  but 
pull  him  out  by  degrees,"  &c.  The  Complcut  Aitf/lcr,  P.  i.  Ch.  13.  p.  202.  ed. 
1676.  With  Walton's  work  lying  before  him,  Weber  contrived  to  give  a 
wrong  explanation  of  the  term. 

''  cullises]  "  Restorative  broths,  coulis,  Fr."     Weber. 

'  desire]  "  We  all  throe  concurred  in  changing  this  to  design."     Seward. 

'  unaffected]  "  Means  insensible  of  affections."     Mason. 

^  mews]  "  i.  e.  sheds,  [moults]     A  term  in  falconry."     Ed.  1778. 


SCENE  III.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  133 

Thi.  No  more  ;  I  know  him  : 
I  now  repent  my  error.     Take  your  time, 
And  try  him  home,  ever  thus  far  reserv'd. 
You  tie  your  anger  up. 

Mart.  I  lost  ^  it  else,  sir. 

Thi.  Bring  me  his  sword  fair-taken  without  violence, 
(For  that  will  best  declare  him) 

Theod.  That's  the  thing. 

Thi.  And  my  best  horse  is  thine. 

Mart.  Your  grace's  servant.  \_Exit. 

Theod.  You'll  hunt  no  more,  sir  ? 

Thi.  Not  to-day  ;  the  weather 
Is  grown  too  warm  ;  besides,  the  dogs  are  spent : 
We'll  take  a  cooler  morning.     Let's  to  horse, 
And  hollow  ''  in  the  troop.        \^Exeunt.     Horns  loinded  icithin. 


SCENE  III.— Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Uco  Huntsmen. 

First  Hunts,  Ay,  marry,  Twainer, 
This  woman  gives  indeed  ;  these  are  the  angels  ^ 
That  are  the  keepers'  saints. 

Sec.  Hunts.  I  like  a  woman 
That  handles  the  deer's  dowsets  ^  with  discretion, 
And  pays  us  by  proportion. 

First  Hunts.  'Tis  no  treason 
To  think  this  good  old  lady  has  a  stump  yet 
That  may  require  a  coral. 

Sec.  Hunts.  And  the  bells  too ; 
She  has  lost  a  friend  of  me  else. 

Enter  Protaldy. 

But  here's  the  clerk  : 
No  more,  for  fear  o'  the  bell-ropes. 

"=  losf^  Weber  prints  "  lose." 

^  hollow'^  Altered  by  the  Editors  of  1778  to  "  halloo"  ;  and  so  Weber. 
"  angels]  "  One  of  the  numerous  quibbles  upon  the  coin  so  called."   Weber. 
See  note,  p.  62.  '  dozvsets] — a  hunting-term, — i.  e.  testes. 


134  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [actii. 

Prot.  How  now,  keepers  ? 
Saw  you  the  King  \ 

First  Hunts.  Yes,  sir ;  he's  newly  mounted. 
And,  as  we  take  it,  ridden  home. 

Prot.  Farewell,  then.  {Exeunt  Huntsmen. 

Enter  Mautkll. 

Mart.  My  honour'd  lord,  fortune  has  made  me  happy 
To  meet  with  such  a  man  of  men  to  side  me. 

Prot.  How,  sir  ;     I  know  you  not, 
Nor  what  your  fortune  means. 

Mart.  Few  words  shall  serve  : 
I  am  betrayM,  sir  ;  innocent  and  honest. 
Malice  and  violence  are  both  against  me, 
Basely  and  foully  laid  for ;  for  my  life,  sir ; 
Danger  is  now  about  me,  now  in  my  throat,  sir. 

Prot.  Where,  sir  ? 

Mart.  Nay,  I  fear  not ; 
And  let  it  now  pour  down  in  storms  upon  mc, 
I  have  met  a  noble  guard. 

Prot.  Your  meaning,  sir  ? 
For  I  have  present  business. 

Mart.  Oh,  my  lord, 
Your  honour  cannot  leave  a  gentleman, 
At  least  a  fair  design  of  this  brave  nature. 
To  which  your  worth  is  wedded,  your  profession 
Hatch'd  in "  and  made  one  piece,  in  such  a  peril. 
There  are  but  six,  my  lord. 

Prot.  What  six  ? 

Mart.  Six  villains. 
Sworn  and  in  pay  to  kill  me. 

Prot.  Six? 

Mart.  Alas,  sir, 
\V^hat  can  six  do,  or  six  score,  now  you  arc  present  I 
Your  name  M-ill  blow  'cm  off:  say  they  have  shot  too; 
Who  dare  present  a  piece  I  your  valour's  proof,  sir. 

Prot.  No,  ril  assure  you,  sir,  nor  my  discretion 

s  Hatch'd  in]  i.  e.  Inlaid  :  bcc  Gifford's  note  on  Shirley's  IVorks,  ii.  301. 


SCENE  III.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  135 

Against  a  multitude.     Tis  true,  I  dare  fight 
Enough,  and  well  enough,  and  long  enough  ; 
But  wisdom,  sir,  and  weight  of  what  is  on  me. 
In  which  I  am  no  more  mine  own  nor  your's,  sir. 
Nor,  as  I  take  it,  any  single  danger 
But  what  concerns  my  place,  tells  me  directly, 
Beside  my  person,  my  fair  reputation, 
If  I  thrust  into  crowds  and  seek  occasions, 
Suffers  opinion.     Six  1  why,  Hercules 
Avoided  two,  man  ^  :  yet,  not  to  give  example. 
But  only  for  your  present  danger  s  sake,  sir, 
Were  there  but  four,  sir,  I  car'd  not  if  I  kilPd  "'em ; 
They'll  serve  to  whet  my  sword. 

Mai't.  There  are  but  four,  sir ; 
I  did  mistake  them  ;  but  four  such  as  Europe, 
Excepting  your  great  valour 

Prot.   Well  considered, 
I  will  not  meddle  with  'em ;  four  in  honour 
Are  equal  with  four  score  :  besides,  they  are  people 
Only  directed  by  their  fury. 

Mart.  So  much  nobler 
Shall  be  your  way  of  justice'- 

Prot.  That  I  find  not. 

Mart.  You  will  not  leave  me  thus  ? 

Prot.  I  would  not  leave  you  ; 
But,  look  you,  sir,  men  of  my  place  and  business 
Must  not  be  questioned  thus. 

Mart.  You  cannot  pass,  sir. 
Now  they  have  seen  me  with  you,  without  danger  : 
They  are  here,  sir,  within  hearing.     Take  but  two. 

Prot.  Let  the  law  take  'em  !     Take  a  tree,  sir — I 
Will  take  my  horse — that  you  may  keep  with  safety. 
If  they  have  brought  no  hand-saws.     Within  this  hour 
I'll  send  you  rescue  and  a  toil  to  take  'em. 

Mart.  You  shall  not  go  so  poorly  :  stay  but  one,  sir. 

Prot.  I  have  been  so  hamper'd  with  these  rescues, 

^  two,  man'\  So  4to.  1621.     Later  eds.  "  two  men". 

'  way  of  justice]  i.  e.  justice  :  a  common  periphrasis  ;  see  GifFord's  note  on 
Massingei''s  Works,  iv.  309.  ed.  1813. 


U6  THIEURV  AND  THEODORET.  [act  ii. 

So  liew'tl  and  tortur\l,  that  the  truth  is,  sir, 

I  have  mainly  vowM  against  'em  :  yet  for  your  sake, 

If,  as  you  say,  there  be  but  one,  Fll  stay 

And  see  fair  play  o'  both  sides. 

Mart.  There  is  no  more,  sir, 
And,  as  I  doubt,  a  base  one  too. 

Proi.  Fie  on  him  ! 
Go,  lug  him  out  by  the  ears. 

Mart.  [Seizinr/  him  hij  the  ears.\   Yes,  this  is  he,  sir ; 
The  basest  in  the  kingdom. 

Prot.  Do  you  know  me  \ 

Mart.  Yes,  for  a  general  fool,  a  knave,  a  coward, 
AnJ  upstart  stallion,  bawd,  beast,  barking  puppy 
That  dares  not  bite. 

Prot.  The  best  man  best  knows  patience. 

Mart.  [Kickhi//  him.]  Yes.  this  way,  sir.     Now  draw  your 
sword  and  right  you, 
Or  render  it  to  me ;  for  one  you  shall  do. 

Prot.  If  wearing  it  may  do  you  any  honour, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  grace  you  ;  there  it  is,  sir.  {^Gives  his  sword. 

Mart.  Now  get  you  home,  and  tell  your  lady-mistress. 
She  has  shot  up  a  sweet  mushroom  :   quit  your  place  too, 
And  say  you  are  counselled  well ;  thou  wilt  be  beaten  else 
By  thine  own  lanceprisadoes '',  when  they  know  thee, 
That  tuns  of  oil  of  roses  will  not  cure  thee. 
Go,  get  you  to  your  foining  work  at  court. 
And  learn  to  sweat  again  and  eat  dry  mutton ; 
An  armour  like  a  frost  will  search  your  bones 
And  make  you  roar,  you  rogue.     Not  a  reply, 
For,  if  you  do,  your  ears  go  off. 

Prot.  Still  patience  !  [^Exeunt  severally. 

J  An]  Oldeds.  "and." 

''  lanceprisadoes]  Lanceprisado, — WTitten  v.ariously  by  our  early  autliors, 
lancepersado,  lancepesado,  lancepesade,  lancepesata,  S^c. — (Ital.  lancia  spezzata), 
— was  the  meanest  officer  of  foot,  one  under  the  corporal.  "  He  is  a  gentleman 
of  no  ancient  standing  in  the  militia,  for  he  draws  his  pedigi'ce  from  the  time 
of  the  wars  between  Francis  I.  and  his  son  Henry  II.,  kings  of  France,  on  the 
one  part  ;  and  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  and  his  brother-in-law,  the  Duke  of 
Savoy,  on  the  other  part.  In  those  wars,  when  a  gentleman  of  a  troop  of 
horse  in  any  skirmish,  battle,  or  I'cncountcr,  had  bi'okc  his  lance  on  the  enemy. 


SCENE  IV.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET. 


SCENE  YV.— A  Hall  in  the  Palace  0/ Thierry.— ^  Banquet 
set  out.     Loud  Music  within. 

Enter  Thierry,  Ordella,  Brunhalt,  Theodoret,  Lecure, 
Bawdber,  and  Attendants. 

Thi.  It  is  your  place ;  and  though  in  all  things  else 
You  may  and  ever  shall  command  me,  yet 
In  this  I'll  be  obey'd. 

Ord.  Sir,  the  consent 
That  made  me  yours  shall  never  teach  me  to 
Repent  I  am  so  ;  yet,  be  you  but  pleas'd 
To  give  me  leave  to  say  so  much,  the  honour 
You  offer  me  were  better  given  to  her. 
To  whom  you  owe  the  power  of  giving. 

Thi.  Mother, 
You  hear  this,  and  rejoice  in  such  a  blessing 
That  pays  to  you  so  large  a  share  of  duty. — 
But,  fie,  no  more !  for  as  you  hold  a  place 
Nearer  my  heart  than  she,  you  must  sit  nearest 
To  all  those  graces  that  are  in  the  power 
Of  majesty  to  bestow. 

Brun.  Which  Fll  provide 
Shall  be  short-liv'd.  \^Aside.^ — Lecure. 

Lee.  I  have  it  ready. 

Brun.  ""Tis  well ;  wait  on  our  cup. 

Lee.  You  honour  me. 

Thi.  We  are  dull;  no  object  to  provoke  mirth  'I 

Theod.  Martell, 
If  you  remember,  sir,  will  grace  your  feast 

and  lost  his  horse  m  the  scuffle,  he  was  entcrtaiu'd  (under  the  name  of  a  broken 
lance)  by  a  captaui  of  a  foot  company  as  his  comerade,  till  he  was  agam 
mounted.  But  as  all  good  orders  fall  soon  from  their  primitive  institution,  so 
in  a  short  time  our  Monsieur  Lancespesata  (for  so  he  was  called)  was  forced  to 
descend  from  being  the  captain's  comerade,  and  become  the  caporal's  com- 
panion, and  assisted  him  in  the  exercise  of  his  charge,  and  therefore  was 
sometimes  called  by  the  French,  aide  caporal.  But  when  the  caporal  grew 
weary  of  the  comeradeship  of  his  lancespesata,  he  made  him  ofKciate  under  him, 
and  for  that  [he]  had  some  allowance  of  pay  more  than  the  common  souldier." 
Grose,  (from  Turner's  Pallas  Armata),  Milit.  Antiq.  i.  262.  ed.  1801. 


i;{8  THIERRY  AND  THEOUORET.  [act  ii. 

With  something  that  will  yield  matter  of  mirth, 
Fit  for  no  common  view. 

Thi.  Touching  Protaldy  ? 

Tlieod.  You  have  it. 

Brun.   What  of  him  ?     I  fear  his  baseness, 
In  spite  of  all  the  titles  that  my  favours 
Have  clotli'd  him  with  ',  will  make  discovery 
Of  what  is  yet  concealM.  [^  Aside. 

Enter  Martell  ^okh  Protaldy's  sicord. 

Tlieod.  Look,  sir,  he  has  it : 
Nay,  we  shall  have  peace,  when  so  great  a  soldier 
As  the  renownM  Protaldy  will  give  up 
His  sword  rather  than  use  it. 

Brun.  'Twas  thy  plot, 
Which  I  will  turn  on  thine  own  head.  [^  Aside. 

Thi.  Pray  you,  speak  ; 
How  won  you  him  to  part  from^t  ? 

Mart.  Won  him,  sir  ? 
He  would  have  yielded  it  upon  his  knees, 
Before  he  would  have  hazarded  the  exchange 
Of  a  fillip  of  the  forehead.     Had  you  will'd  me, 
I  durst  have  undertook  he  should  have  sent  you 
His  nose,  provided  that  the  loss  of  it 
Might  have  savM  the  rest  of  his  face.     He  is,  sir, 
The  most  unutterable  coward  that  e''er  nature 
BlessM  with  hard  shoulders ;  which  were  only  given  him 
To  the  ruin  of  bastinadoes. 

Thi.  Possible? 

Theod.  Observe  but  how  she  frets  ! 

Mart.  Why,  believe  it. 
But  that  I  know  the  shame  of  this  disgrace 
Will  make  the  beast  to  live  with  such,  and  never 
Presume  to  come  more  among  men,  Pll  hazard 
My  life  upon  it,  that  a  boy  of  twelve 
Should  scourge  him  hither  like  a  parish-top  '", 
And  make  him  dance  before  you. 

'  »/•///*]   A  correction  by  Seward.     (Jld  cds,  "  which." 

"•  «  parish-top]  i.  e.  a  large  top  kept  by  tlie  parish  for  the  exercise  and  amusement 
of  the  peasantry :  sec  Steevens's  note  on  Shakespeare's  Twelfth  Night,  act  i.  sc.  3. 


SCENE  IV.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET,  139 

Brun.  Slave,  thou  liest ! 
Thou  dar'st  as  well  speak  treason  in  the  hearing 
Of  those  that  have  the  power  to  punish  it, 
As  the  least  syllable  of  this  before  him  : 
But  'tis  thy  hate  to  me. 

Mart.  Nay,  pray  you,  madam  ; 
I  have  no  ears  to  hear  you,  though  a  foot 
To  let  you  understand  what  he  is. 

Brun.  Villain ! 

Theod.  You  are  too  violent. 

Enter  Protaldy. 

Prot.  The  worst  that  can  come 
Is  blanketing ;  for  beating  and  such  virtues 
I  have  been  long  acquainted  with.  yAside. 

Mart.  Oh,  strange  ! 

Baw.  Behold  the  man  you  talk  of ! 

Brun.  Give  me  leave. — 
Or  free  thyself — think  in  what  place  you  are — 
From  the  foul  imputation  that  is  laid 
Upon  thy  valour — be  bold,  I'll  protect  you — 
Or  here  I  vow — deny  it  or  forswear  it — 
These  honours  which  thou  wear''st  unworthily — 
Which,  be  but  impudent  enough  and  keep  them — 
Shall  be  torn  from  thee  with  thy  eyes. 

Prot.  I  have  it. — 
My  valour  I  is  there  any  here,  beneath 
The  style  of  king,  dares  question  it  ? 

Tlii.  This  is  rare  ! 

Prot.  Which  of  my  actions,  which  have  still  been  noble, 
Has  render'd  me  suspected  ? 

Thi.  Nay,  iMartell, 
You  must  not  fall  off. 

Mart.  Oh,  sir,  fear  it  not. — 
Do  you  know  this  sword  I 

Prot.  Yes. 

Mart.  Pray  you,  on  what  terms 
Did  you  part  with  it  I 

Prot.  Part  with  it,  say  you  i 


140  THIERRY   AND  THEODORET.  [act  ii. 

Mart.  So. 

Tlii.  Nay,  study  not  an  answer  ;  confess  freely. 

Prot.  Oh,  I  remember't  now.    At  the  stag's  fall ", 
As  we  to-day  were  hunting,  a  poor  fellow, 
(And,  now  I  view  you  better,  I  may  say 
Much  of  your  pitch,)  this  silly  wretch  I  spoke  of. 
With  his "  petition  falling  at  my  feet, 
(AMiich  much  against  my  will  he  kiss'd,)  desir'd 
That,  as  a  special  means  for  his  preferment, 
I  would  vouchsafe  to  let  him  use  my  sword 
To  cut  off  the  stag's  head. 

Brun.  Will  you  hear  that  I 

Baw.  This  lie  bears  a  similitude  of  truth. 

Prot.  I,  ever  courteous  (a  great  weakness  in  me), 
Granted  his  humble  suit. 

Mart.  Oh,  impudence  ! 

Thi.  This  change  is  excellent. 

Mart.  A  word  with  you. 
Deny  it  not :   I  was  that  man  disguis'd ; 
You  know  my  temper,  and,  as  you  respect 
A  daily  cudgelling  for  one  whole  year, 
Without  a  second  pulling  by  the  ears, 
Or  tweaks  by  the  nose,  or  the  most  precious  balra 
You  us'd  of  patience,  (patience,  do  you  mark  me  ?) 
Confess  before  these  kings  with  what  base  fear 
Thou  didst  deliver  it. 

Prot.  Oh,  I  shall  burst  I 
And,  if  I  have  not  instant  liberty 
To  tear  this  fellow  limb  by  limb,  the  wTong 
Will  break  my  heart,  although  Herculean 
And  somewhat  bigger  !     There's  my  gage  :  pray  you  here 
Let  me  redeem  my  credit  ! 

T/ti.  Ha,  ha  ! — Forbear  ! 

Mart.  Pray  you,  let  me  take  it  up ;  and  if  I  do  not, 
Against  all  odds  of  armour  and  of  weapons, 
AVith  this  make  him  confess  it  on  his  knees, 
Cut  off  my  head. 

"  fall]  Old  cds.  "  falls." 

"  his]  Weber  chooses  to  print  "this." 


SCENE  IV.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  141 

Prot.  No,  that's  my  office. 

Brno.  Fie, 
You  take  the  hangman's  place  ! 

Ord.  Nay,  good  my  lord. 
Let  me  atone  p  this  difference  :  do  not  suffer 
Our  bridal  night  to  be  the  Centaurs''  feast. — 
You  are  a  knight,  and  bound  by  oath  to  grant 
All  just  suits  unto  ladies  :  for  my  sake 
Forget  your  supposed  wrong. 

Prot.  Well,  let  him  thank  you  : 
For  your  sake  he  shall  live,  perhaps  a  day  ; 
And  may  be,  on  submission,  longer. 

Theod.  Nay, 
Martell,  you  must  be  patient. 

Mart.  I  am  yours  ; 
And  this  slave  shall  be  once  more  mine. 

Tin.  Sit  all: 
One  health,  and  so  to  bed  ;  for  I  too  long 
Defer  my  choicest  delicates. 

Brun.  Which,  if  poison 
Have  any  power,  thou  shalt,  like  Tantalus, 
Behold,  and  never  taste.  \^Aside.^ — Be  careful. 

Lee.  Fear  not. 

Brun.  Though  it  be  rare  in  our  sex,  yet  for  once 
I  will  begin  a  health. 

Thi.  Let  it  come  freely  ! 

Brun.  Lecure,  the  cup  !     Here,  to  the  son  we  hope 
This  night  shall  be  an  embrion  !  \^Drmks. 

Till.  You  have  nam'd 
A  blessing  that  I  most  desir'd  :   I  pledge  you. — 
Give  me  a  larger  cup  ;  that  is  too  little 
Unto  so  great  a  good  "i. 

Brun.  Nay,  then  you  wrong  me  ; 
Follow  as  I  began, 

Thi.  Well,  as  you  please.  {Brhiks. 

Brun.  Is't  done  ? 

V  atone]  i.  e.  reconcile. 

*)  good]  Seward's  correction.     Old  eds.  "  god." 


142  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  ii. 

Lec.  Unto  your  wish,  I  warrant  you  ; 
For  this  night  I  durst  trust  him  with  ray  mother. 

Thi.  So,  'tis  gone  round.     Lights  !  \_Tlieij  rise. 

Brim.  Pray  you,  use  my  service. 

Orel.  'Tis  that  which  I  shall  ever  owe  you,  madam, 
And  must  have  none  from  you  :  pray,  pardon  "^  me. 

Thi.  Good  rest  to  all  ! 

Theocl  And  to  you  pleasant  labour  ! — 
Martell,  your  company. — Madam,  good  night. 
\^Exeunt  all  hut  Brunhalt,  Protaldy,  Lecure,  and  Bawdber. 

Brun.  Nay,  you  have  cause  to  blush ;  but  I  will  hide  it, 
And,  what's  more,  I  forgive  you.     Is't  not  pity. 
That  thou,  that  art  the  first  to  enter  combat 
With  any  woman,  and  what's  more,  o'ercome  her, 
(In  which  she  is  best  pleasM,)  should  be  so  fearful 
To  meet  a  man  ? 

Prot.  Why,  would  you  have  me  lose 
That  blood  that's  dedicated  to  your  service. 
In  any  other  quarrel  ? 

Brun.  No.  reserve  it ; 
As  I  will  study  to  preserve  thy  credit. — 
You,  sirrah,  be't  your  care  to  find  out  one 
That's  poor,  though  valiant,  that  at  any  rate 
Will,  to  redeem  my  servant's  reputation, 
Receive  a  public  baffling  ^ 

Baiu.  Would  your  highness 
Were  pleas'd  to  inform  me  better  of  your  purpose  ! 

Brun.  Why,  one,  sir,  that  would  thus  be  box'd  or  kick'd ; 

[^Strikes  and  kicks  him. 
Do  you  apprehend  me  now  ? 

Baiv.  I  feel  you,  madam. 
The  man  that  shall  receive  this  from  my  lord. 
Shall  have  a  thousand  crowns  ? 

Prot.  'He  shall. 


•■  pray,  pardon]     So  fol.  1679.     The  Editors  of  1778,  and  Weber,  give  the 
reading  of  the  4tos.  "prat/  you,  pardon.'" 

'  bafflmg'\  i.  e.  affront,  insult :  see  note  on  A  Ring  and  No  King,  act  iii.  so.  2. 
'  Prot}  Altered  by  Seward  (rightly,  perhaps)  to  «  Brun." 


SCENE  IV.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  143 

Baic.  Besides, 
His  day  of  bastinadoing  past  o'er, 
He  shall  not  lose  your  grace  nor  your  good  favour  I 

Brun.  That  shall  make  way  to  it. 

BaiD.  It  must  be  a  man 
Of  credit  in  the  court,  that  is  to  be 
The  foil  unto  your  valour  ? 

Prot.  True,  it  should. 

Baw.  And  if  he  have  place  there,  'tis  not  the  worse  ? 

Brun.  'Tis  much  the  better. 

Baio.  If  he  be  a  lord, 
'Twill  be  the  greater  grace  ? 

Brun.  Thou'rt  in  the  right. 

Baw.  Why,  then,  behold  that  valiant  man  and  lord. 
That  for  your  sake  will  take  a  cudgelling  ! 
For  be  assur'd,  when  it  is  spread  abroad 
That  you  have  dealt  with  me,  they'll  give  you  out 
For  one  of  the  Nine  Worthies  ". 

Brun.  Out,  you  pandar  ! 
Why,  to  beat  thee  is  only  exercise 
For  such  as  do  affect  it :  lose  not "'  time 
In  vain  replies,  but  do  it. — Come,  my  solace, 
Let  us  to  bed  ;  and,  our  desii-es  once  quench'd. 
We'll  there  determine  of  Theodoret's  death. 
For  he's  the  engine  us'd  to  ruin  us. — 
Yet  one  word '''  more  ;  Lecure,  art  thou  assurd 
The  potion  will  work  ? 

Lee.  My  life  upon  it  i 

Brun.  Come,  my  Protaldy,  then  '^,  glut  me  with 
Those  best  delights  of  man,  that  are  denied 
To  her  that  does  expect  them,  being  a  bride  !  [Exeunt. 

"  the  Nine  Worthies']  Perhaps  the  reader  may  require  to  be  informed  that 
these  were  Joshua,  Judas  MaccabEeus,  David,  Alexander  the  Great,  Hector, 
Juhus  Csesar,  Charlemagne,  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  and  King  Arthur :  see,  for 
instance,  Middleton's  World  Tost  at  Tennis, —  Works,  V.  177.  ed.  Dyce. 

"■'  nof]  Weber  prints  "  no." 
»*'  tvord]  Old  eds.  "  work." 
'^  then]  Seward,  for  the  metre,  gave  "  thou  then  " ;  and  so  the  Editors  of  1778. 


144  THIERRY  AND  THE0D0R?:T.  [act  hi. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I- — An    Apartment  in  the  palace  o/' Thierry. 


Enter  Thierry  and  Ordella,  cls from  bed^'. 

Thi.  Sure,  I  have  drunk  the  blood  of  elephants  "= ; 
The  tears  of  mandrake[s],  and  the  marble-dew, 
MixM  in  my  draught,  have  queneli'd  my  natural  heat, 
And  left  no  spark  of  fire  but  in  mine  eyes, 
With  which  I  may  behold  my  miseries. 
Ye  wretched  flames  which  play  upon  my  sight, 
Turn  inward  !  make  me  all  one  piece,  though  earth "" ! 
My  tears  shall  overwhelm  you  else  too. 

Ord.  What  moves  my  lord  to  this  strange  sadness  ? 
If  any  late-discerned  want  in  me 
Give  cause  to  your  repentance,  care  and  duty 
Shall  find  a  painful  way  to  recompense. 

Thi.  Are  you  yet  frozen,  veins  ?  feel  you  a  breath. 
Whose  temperate  ^  heat  would  make  the  north  star  reel. 
Her  icy  pillars  thawed,  and  do  you  not  melt  ? 
Draw  nearer,  yet  nearer, 

y  as  from  bed]  A  stage  direction  of  the  old  eds. 

»  the  blood  of  elephants']  "  Both  Mr.  Tlieobald  and  Mr.  Sympson  observed 
that  this  property  of  elephants'  blood  is  mentioned  by  Pliny."     Seward. 

»  make  me  all  one  piece,  though  earth]  "The  last  editors  [of  1778]  say, 
that  tliey  cannot  conceive  why  Thierry's  beinj;  composed  of  eartli  should 
prevent  his  being  all  one  piece.  This  observation  shews  that  they  have  totally 
mistaken  the  meaning  of  the  passage.  Thierry  complains  that  he  has  lost  his 
natural  heat  in  every  part  of  him,  except  his  eyes,  wliich  enable  him  to  behold 
his  miseries  ;  he  wishes,  therefore,  either  to  be  entirely  himself  again,  or  to 
become  totally  insensible  :  to  be  all  one  piece,  though  that  piece  should  be  cold 
clay  only."     Mason. 

^  Irmperate]  The  Editors  of  177Jt  think  that  this  is  "  an  oddly-chosen  word  ;" 
and  Weber  "  believes  we  should  read  intemperate,  as  Thierry  is  speaking  of  his 
hot  desires  "  !  The  meaning  is  plain  enough  :  Thierry  is  speaking  of  Ordella's 
breath, — the  heat  of  which  even  when  temperate  would  make,  &c. 


SCENE  I.)  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  145 

That  from  thy  barren  kiss  thou  may'st  confess 
I  have  not  heat  enough  to  make  a  bhish. 

Ord.  Speak  nearer  to  my  understanding,  like  a  husband. 

Thi.  How  should  he  speak  the  language  of  a  husband, 
Who  wants  the  tongue  and  organs  of  his  voice  I 

Ord.  It  is  a  phrase  will  part  with  the  same  ease 
From  you  with  that  you  now  deliver. 

Thi.  Bind  not 
His  ears  up  with  so  dull  a  charm,  who  hath 
No  other  sense  left  open  :  why  should  thy  words 
Find  more  restraint  than  thy  free-speaking  actions, 
Thy  close  embraces,  and  thy  midnight  sighs. 
The  silent  orators  to  slow  desire  ? 

Ord.  Strive  not  to  win  content  from  ignorance ", 
Which  must  be  lost  in  knowledge.     Heaven  can  witness. 
My  farthest  hope  of  good  reachM  at  your  pleasure, 
Which  seeing  alone  may  in  your  look  be  read  : 
Add  not  a  doubtful  comment  to  a  text. 
That  in  itself  is  direct  and  easy. 

Tin.  Oh,  thou  hast  drunk  the  juice  of  hemlock  too  ! 
Or  did  upbraided  Nature  make  this  pair. 
To  shew  she  had  not  quite  forgot  her  first 
Justly-prais'd  workmanship,  the  first  cha.ste  couple, 
Before  the  want  of  joy  taught  guilty  sight 
A  way,  through  shame  and  sorrow,  to  delight  ? 
Say,  may  we  mix,  as  in  their  innocence 
W^hen  turtles  kissM  to  confirm  happiness, 
Not  to  beget  it  ? 

Ord.  I  know  no  bar. 

Thi.  Should  I  believe  thee,  yet  thy  pulse  beats  woman, 
And  says,  the  name  of  wife  did  promise  thee 
The  blest  reward  of  duty  to  thy  mother  ; 
Who  gave  so  often  witness  of  her  joy. 
When  she  did  boast  thy  likeness  to  her  husband. 

Strive  not  to  win  content  from  hjnorance,  &c.]  Here,  I  tliink,  Weber  [(\y.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  ?J  is  right  in  his  explanation — "  Do  not  endeavour  to  deprive  me  of 
that  contentment,  which  I  now  feel  in  my  ignorance  of  the  cause  of  your  unhappi- 
ness,  by  a  disclosure  which  would  deprive  me  of  that  content." 
VOL.  I.  L 


14G  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  m. 

Ord.  'Tis  true, 
That  to  bring  forth  a  second  to  yourself, 
Was  only  worthy  of  my  virgin-loss  ; 
And  should  I  prize  you  less  unpattern^d,  sir, 
Than  being  exemplified  ?     Is't  not  more  honour 
To  be  possessor  of  unequall'd  virtue 
Than  what  is  paralleFd  I     Give  me  belief ; 
The  name  of  mother  knows  no  way  of  good 
More  than  the  end  in  me  :  who  weds  for  lust 
Is  oft  a  widow :  when  I  married  you, 
I  lost  the  name  of  maid  to  gain  a  title 
Above  the  wish  of  change,  which  that  part  can 
Only  maintain  is  still  the  same  in  man, 
His  virtue  and  his  calm  society  ; 
Which  no  grey  hairs  can  threaten  to  dissolve, 
Nor  wrinkles  bury. 

Till.  Confine  thyself  to  silence,  lest  thou  take 
That  part  of  reason  from  me  is  only  left 
To  give  persuasion  to  me  I  am  a  man ; 
Or  say,  thou  hast  never  seen  the  rivers  haste 
With  gladsome  speed  to  meet  the  amorous  sea. 

Ord.  Ne'er ''  but  to  praise  the  coolness  of  their  streams. 

Thi.  Nor  viewM  the  kids,  taught  by  their  lustful  fires, 
Pursue  each  other  through  the  wanton  lawns, 
And  likM  the  sport. 

Ord.  As  it  made  way  unto  their  envied  rest, 
With  weary  knots  binding  their  harmless  eyes. 

TJii.  Nor  do  you  know  the  reason  why  the  dove. 
One  of  the  pair  your  hands  wont  hourly  feed, 
So  often  dipt  *  and  kissM  her  happy  mate  ? 

Ord.  Unless  it  were  to  welcome  his  wish'd  sight. 
Whose  absence  only  gave  her  mourning  voice. 

Till.  And  you  could,  dove-like,  to  a  single  object 
Bind  your  loose  spirits  1  to  one  I  nay,  such  a  one 

■'  AVer]  01(1  eds.  «  We  are  ;"  and  so  the  modern  editors.  Mason  proposed 
"  'Twcre."  I  Kive  the  conjecture  of  Heath  {MS.  Notes),  which  is  confirmed 
Ijy  the  preceding  line  but  one,  "Or  say,  thou  hast  never  seen,"  &c. 

'  clipf^  i.  c.  embraced. 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  147 

Whom  only  eyes  and  ears  must  flatter  good, 
Your  surer  sense  made  useless  ?  nay,  myself^, 
As  in  my  all  of  good,  already  known  ? 

Ord.  Let  proof  plead  for  me :  let  me  be  mew'd  up 
Where  never  eye  may  reach  me  but  your  own  ; 
And  when  I  shall  repent  but  in  my  looks  ; 
If  sigh — 

Thi.  Or  shed  a  tear  that's  warm  \ 

Ord.  But  in  your  sadness 

Thi.  Or  when  you  hear  the  birds  call  for  their  mates, 
Ask  if  it  be  Saint  Valentine,  their  couphng  day  ? 

Ord.  If  any  thing  may  make  a  thought  suspected 
Of  knowing  any  happiness  but  you, 
Divorce  me  by  the  title  of  Most  Falsehood  ! 

Thi.  Oh,  who  would  know  a  wife. 
That  might  have  such  a  friend  !     Posterity, 
Henceforth  lose  the  name  of  blessing,  and  leave 
The  earth  inhabited  ^  to  people  heaven  ! 

Eriter  Theodoret,  Brunhalt,  Martell,  and  Protaldy, 

Mart.  All  happiness  to  Thierry  and  Ordella  ! 

Thi.  'Tis  a  desire  but  borrowed  from  me ;  my  happiness 
Shall  be  the  period  of  all  good  men's  wishes, 
Which  friends,  nay,  dying  fathers  shall  bequeathe, 
And  in  my  one  give  all.     Is  there  a  duty 
Belongs  to  any  power  of  mine,  or  love 
To  any  virtue  I  have  right  to  ?     Here,  place  it  here  ; 
Ordella's  name  shall  only  bear  command, 
Rule,  title,  sovereignty. 

Brun.  What  passion  sways  my  son  ? 

Thi.  Oh,  mother,  she  has  doubled  every  good 
The  travail  of  your  blood  made  possible 
To  my  glad  being  ! 

f  nay,  myself]   Seward's  alteration.     Old  eds.  "  myself,  nay" 
s  inhabited^  "  Which  Seward  changes    [and  so  the   Editors  of   17 78 J   for 
'  uninhabited.''     He  ought  to  have  recollected  that  inhabited  and  inhabitable 
frequently  mean,  in  the  old  dramatic  writings,  uninhabited  and  uninhabitable ; 
having  also  in  French  the  same  meaning."     Mason. 
L  2 


148  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  hi. 

Prot.  He  should  have  done 
Little  to ''  her,  he  is  so  lii^ht-hearted.  \^Aside. 

Thi.  Brother,  friends,  if  honour  unto  shame. 
If  wealth  to  want ',  enlarge  the  present  sense, 
My  joys  are  unbounded.     Instead  of  question, 
Let  it  be  envy  not  [to]  J  bring  a  present 
To  the  high  offering  of  our  mirth  !  banquets  and  masques 
Keep  waking  our  delights,  mocking  night's  malice. 
Whose  dark  brow  would  fright  pleasure  from  us  !  our  court 
Re  but  one  stage  of  revels,  and  each  eye 
The  scene  where  our  content  moves  ! 

Theod.  There  shall  want 
Nothing  to  express  our  shares  in  your  delight,  sir. 

Mart.  Till  now  I  ne'er  repented  the  estate 
Of  widower. 

Tlii.  Music,  why  art  thou  so 
Slow-voicM  I    It  stays  thy  presence,  my  Ordella  ; 
This  chamber  is  a  sphere  too  narrow  for 
Thy  all-moving  virtue.     Make  way,  free  way,  I  say  ! 
Who  must  alone  her  sex's  want  supply, 
Had  need  to  have  a  room  both  large  and  high. 

Mart.  This  passion's  above  utterance. 

Theod.  Nay,  credulity. 

\^Exciint  all  hut  Thierry  and  Brunhalt. 

Briin.  Why,  son,  what  mean  you  ? 
Are  you  a  man  ? 

Tlii.  No,  mother,  I  am  no  man  : 
Were  I  a  man,  how  could  I  be  thus  happy  ? 

I"  to]  Seward  gives  "  unto  ;"  and  so  his  successors.  Pcrliaps  tliis  speech  of 
Protaldy  was  meant  to  foi-m  a  single  line  of  verse. 

'  if  honour  unto  shame. 

If  wealth  to  irant,  8ic.]  "T  sec  no  difficulty  in  this  passage,  the  meaning 
being  clearly  this  :  If  the  accession  of  honour  to  a  person  condemned  to  shame  ; 
if  the  accession  of  wealth  to  one  in  want,  enlarge  their  feelings,  their  joys  are 
unbounded.  He  considers  himself  as  relieved  both  from  a  sense  of  his  own 
inability,  or  poverty,  as  he  calls  it,  and  a  sense  of  shame  also,  by  Ordella's 
temperance.  Instead  of  quenlion, mea.QS  instead  of  questioning  whether  I  am 
happy  or  not  ;  let  it  be  considered  as  malice  not  to  congratulate  me  on  it." 
Ma.son. 

i  [/o]    Inserted  by  Seward. 


SCENE  1.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  149 

Brun.  How  can  a  wife  be  author  of  this  joy  then  ! 

TId.  That,  being  no  man,  I  am  married  to  no  woman : 
The  best  of  men  in  full  ability 
Can  only  hope  to  satisfy  a  wife ; 
And,  for  that  hope  ridiculous,  I  in  my  want. 
And  such  defective  poverty,  that  to  her  bed 
From  my  first  cradle  ^  brought  no  strength  but  thought, 
Have  met  a  temperance  beyond  her''s  that  rock'd  me, 
Necessity  being  her  bar ;  where '  this 
Is  so  much  senseless  of  my  deprivM  fire. 
She  knows  it  not  a  loss  by  her  desire. 

Brun.  It  is  beyond  my  admiration. 

Thi.  Beyond  your  sex's  faith  : 
The  unripe  virgins  of  our  age,  to  hear  it. 
Will  dream  themselves  to  women,  and  convert 
The  example  to  a  miracle. 

Biiin.  Alas,  'tis  your  defect  moves  my  amazement ! 
But  what  ill  can  be  separate  from  ambition  I 
Cruel  Theodoret ! 

Thi.  What  of  my  brother  l 

Brun.  That  to  his  name  your  barrenness  adds  rule  ; 
Who,  loving  the  effect,  would  not  be  strange '" 
In  favouring  the  cause :  look  on  the  profit, 
And  gain  will  quickly  point  the  mischief  out. 

Thi.  The  name  of  father,  to  what  I  possess, 
Is  shame  and  care. 

Brun.  Were  we  begot  to  single  happiness, 
I  grant  you  ;  but  from  such  a  wife,  such  virtue. 
To  get  an  heir,  what  hermit  would  not  find 
Deserving  argument  to  break  his  vow. 
Even  in  his  age,  of  chastity  ? 

^  From  my  first  cradle]  Mason  proposed  to  read  "As  my  first  cradle,"  i.  e. 
"  as  to  my  first  cradle,  the  particle  to  referring  to  cradle  as  well  as  to  bed  in  the 
preceding  Ime  :  with  this  amendment  the  passage  requires  no  explanation. 
That  rocked  here  means  that  nursed  me."  This  conjecture  was  adopted  by 
Weber,  who,  however,  allows  that  "  the  word  from  was  not  easily  corrupted 
into  as." 

'  where]  i.  e.  whereas.     Seward  printed  "  whereas." 

""  strange]  i.  e.  backwai-d. 


150  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  L-vct  i.i. 

Tin.  You  teach  a  tleaf  man  language. 

Brun.  The  cause  found  out,  the  malady  may  cease. 
Have  you  heard  of  one  Leforte  °  I 

Thi.  A  learnM  astronomer  °,  great ''  magician, 
Who  lives  hard -by  retirM. 

Briin.  Repair  to  him  with  the  just  hour  and  place 
(^f  your  nativity  :  fools  are  amazM  at  fate  ; 
Griefs,  but  i  conceaFd,  are  never  desperate. 

Tlii.  You  have  timely  wakened  me  ;  nor  shall  I  sleep 
Without  the  satisfaction  of  his  art. 

Brun.  Wisdom  prepares  you  to't.  \^Exit  Thierry. 

Enter  Lecure. 

Lecure,  met  happily ! 

Lee.  The  ground  answers  your  purpose,  the  conveyance 
Being  secure  and  easy,  falling  just 
Behind  the  state  set  for  Theodoret"". 

Brun.   'Tis  well : 
Your  trust  invites  you  to  a  second  charge  ; 
You  know  Leforte's  cell  ? 

Lee.  Who  constellated  your  fair  birth. 

Brun.    Enough;     I    see    thou    know'st    him.       Where  is 
Bawdber  ? 

Lee.  I  left  him  careful  of  the  project  cast 
To  raise  Protaldy's  credit. 

Brun.  A  sore  that  must  be  plastorM ;  in  whose  wound 
Others  shall  find  their  graves  think  themselves  sound. 
Your  car  and  quickest  apprehension  !  \_Exeunt. 

"  Leforip]  01.1  cds.  «  Forts." 

"  uslronomer]  i.  c.  astrologer. 

P  great]  Seward  gave  "  and  great  ;"  his  successors,  "  a  great." 

•I  /jut]  "  i.  e.  unless."     Mason. 

'  the  conveyance 

Being  secure  and  easy,  falling  just 

Behind  the  stale  set  for  Theodoret]  "  Tlie  conveyance  here  nfers  to  a  pri- 
vate Irap-dofir  behind  the  state,  that  is,  chair  of  stale,  throne.  [See  the  next 
scene]."     Wkbeu. 


SCENE  11.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET, 


SCENE  II.— The  Presence  Chamber  hi  the  Palace  of  Thierry. 
Enter  Bawdber  and  Servant. 

Baw.  This  man  of  war  will  advance  ? 

Serv.  His  hour's '  upon  the  stroke. 

Baw.  Wind  him  back,  as  you  favour  my  ears :  I  love  no 
noise  in  my  head  ;  my  brains  have  hitherto  been  employed  in 
silent  businesses. 

Serv.  The  gentleman  is  within  your  reach,  sir. 

Enter  De  Yitry. 

Baw.  Give  ground,  whilst  I  drill  my  wits  to  the  encounter. 

{^Exit  Servant. 
De  Vitry,  I  take  it. 

De  Fit.  All  that's  left  of  him*. 

Baw.  Is  there  another  parcel  of  you  ?  If  it  be  at  pawn,  I 
will  gladly  redeem  it,  to  make  you  wholly  mine. 

De  Vit.  You  seek  too  hard  a  pennyworth. 

Baw.  You  do  "  ill  to  keep  such  distance ;  your  parts  have 
been  long  known  to  me,  howsoever  you  please  to  forget 
acquaintance. 

De  Vit.  I  must  confess,  I  have  been  subject  to  lewd 
company. 

Baw.  Thanks  for  your  good  remembrance !  You  have 
been  a  soldier,  De  Vitry,  and  borne  arms. 

»  His  hour's,  &c.]  This  audthe  next  speech  but  one  are  given  in  the  old  eds. 
to  "  Lecure  " — an  absurdity  which  the  modern  editors  have  overlooked.  "  They 
belong,"  says  Heath,  "to  Bawdber's  Servant  who  comes  upon  the  stage  with 
him.  Lecure  has  just  before  gone  out  with  Brunhalt.  Bawdber's  threatening 
treatment  of  him  proves  the  same  thing."  ATS.  Note.  He  might  have  added, 
that  a  new  scene  evidently  commences  after  the  exit  of  Brunhalt  and  Lecure. 

'  All  that's  left  of  him']  "  A  phrase  from  Hamlet,  which  had  probably  become 
proverbial."  Weber.  A  sort  of  cant  expression.  The  passage  in  Hamlet, 
act  i.  sc.  1,  from  which  Weber  chooses  to  say  that  it  is  taken,  is  "  A  piece 
of  him." 

"  do]  Old  eds.  "  to  "  and  "too."  CoiTected  by  Seward,— who  observes,  that 
"  You  too  ill " — i.  e.  you  too  ill  a  pennyworth  to  keep  such  distance,  is  scarcely 


152  THIERRY  AND  THEODOIIKT.  [act  in. 

De  Vit.    A   couple  of  unprofitable    ones,  that   have   onlv 
served  to  get  me  a  stomach  to  my  dinner. 
Bato.  Much  good  may  it  do  you,  sir  ! 

De  Vit  You  should  have  heard  me  say,  I  had  dined  first : 
I  have  built  on  an  unwholesome  ground,  raised  up  a  house 
before  I  knew  a  tenant,  marched  to  meet  weariness,  fought 
to  find  want  and  hunger. 

Baio.   'Tis  time  you  put  up  your  sword,  and  run  away 
For  meat,  sir :  nay,  if  I  had  not  withdrawn. 
Ere  now  I  might  have  kept  the  fast  with  you ; 
But  since  the  way  to  thrive  is  never  late, 
AVhat  is  the  nearest  course  to  profit,  think  you  ? 
De  Vit.  It  may  be  your  worship  will  say  bawdry. 
Bate.  True  sense,  bawdry. 

De  Vit.  Why,  is  there  five  kinds  of  'em  \  I  never  knew  but  one. 
Baw.  ril  shew  you  a  new  way  of  prostitution.     Fall  back  ! 
further  yet !  further  !     There  is  fifty  crowns  ;  do  but  as  much 
to  Protaldy,  the  queen's  favourite,  they  are  doubled. 

[^Gives  monet/. 
De  Vit.   But  thus  much  I 

Baic.  Give  him  but  an  affront  as  he  comes  to  the  presence, 
and  in  his  drawing  make  way,  like  a  true  bawd,  to  his  valour, 
the  sum's '  thy  own ;  if  you  take  a  scratch  in  the  arm  or  so, 
every  drop  of  blood  weighs  down  a  ducat. 

De  Vit.  After  that  rate,  I  and  my  friends  would  beggar 
the  kingdom. 

Sir,  you  have  made  me  blush  to  see  my  want. 
Whose  cure  is  such  a  cheap  and  easy  purchase : 
This  is  male-bawdry,  belike. 

Enter  Protaldy  and  a  Lady  *. 
Bmc.  See  I    you   shall  not   be  long  earning   your  wages ; 
)ur  work's  before  your  eyes. 


v< 


'   .vMrn's]   Old  ods.  "  sou's." 

*  a  Lady]  Old  f;<ls.  add  "and  Revellers"  which  the  iiiodurij  editors  roUiiii, 
But  that  iiKJtii.ii  of  this  stage-direction  was  merely  intended  to  warn  the  actors 
who  played  the  Revellers  to  be  ready  for  (heir  entnuiee,  when  Thierry  (see 
what  follows)  should  cominaiid  them  in. 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  153 

De  Fit.  Leave  it  to  my  handling ;  FU  fall  upon  't  instantly. 

Bmv.  Wliat  opinion  "  will  the  managing  of  this  affair  bring 
to  my  wisdom  !  my  invention  tickles  with  apprehension  on't. 

I  Aside. 

Prot.  These  are  the  joys  of  marriage,  lady. 
Whose  sights  are  able  to  dissolve  virginity. 
Speak  freely ; 
Do  you  not  envy  the  bride's  felicity  I 

Lady.  How  should  I,  being  partner  oFt  ? 

Prof..  What  you 
Enjoy  is  but  the  banquet's  view ;  the  taste 
Stands  from  your  palate  :  if  he  impart  by  day 
So  much  of  his  content,  think  what  night  gave  ! 

De  Fit.   Will  you  have  a  relish  of  wit,  lady  ? 

Baw.  This  is  the  man. 

Lady.  If  it  be  not  dear,  sir. 

De  Fit.  If  you  affect  cheapness,  how  can  you  prize  this 
sullied  ware  so  much  ?     Mine  is  fresh,  my  own,  not  retailed. 

Prot.  You  are  saucy,  sirrah  ! 

De  Fitry.  The  fitter  to  be  in  the  dish  with  such  dry  stock- 
fish as  you  are.  [Protaldy  strikes  him.]  How  !  strike  ? 

Baic.  Remember  the  condition,  as  you  look  for  payment ! 

De  Fit.  That  box  was  left  out  of  the  bargain. 

[Strikes  Protaldy. 

Prot.  Help,  help,  help  ! 

Baw.  Plague  of  the  scrivener's  running  hand  > !  what  a 
blow  is  this  to  my  reputation  ! 

Enter  Thierry,  Theodoret,  Brunhalt,  Ordella,  Memberge, 
Martell,  Attendants,  a7id  Guards. 

Thi.   What  villain  dares  this  outrage  ? 

De  Fit.  Hear  me,  sir.  This  creature  hired  me  with  fifty 
crowns  in  hand  to  let  Protaldy  have  the  better  of  me  at 
single  rapier  on  a  made  quarrel :  he,  mistaking  the  weapon, 

^  opi7don]  "  i.  c.  reputation."     Weber. 

y  Plague  of  the  scrivener's  running  hand]  "  That  is '  Plague  on  the  scrivener 
for  leaving  out,  in  liis  hurry,  the  blow.'  "     Mason. 


154  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  hi. 

lays  me  over  the  chaps  with  his  club-fist,  for  which  I  was  bold 
to  teach  him  the  art  of  memory. 

Thi.  Theod.  Martell,  ^c.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Theod.   Your  general,  mother,  will  display  himself, 
Spite  of  our  peace,  I  see. 

Thi.  Forbear  these  civil  jars.     Fie,  Protaldy, 
So  open  in  your  projects  ? — Avoid  our  presence,  sirrah  ! 

De  Fit.  Willingly. — If  you  have  any  more  wages  to  earn, 
you  see  I  can  take  pains. 

Uieod.  There's  somewhat  for  thy  labour 
More  than  was  promised.     Ha,  ha,  ha  !  [Exit  De  Vitry. 

Baiv.  Where  could  I  wish  myself  now  ?  in  the  Isle  of 
Dogs  ^,  so  I  might  scape  scratching ;  for  I  see  by  her  cat's 
eyes  I  shall  be  clawed  fearfully.  [Aside. 

Thi.  We'll  hear  no  more  on't.     Music,  drown  all  sadness  ! 

ISofi  music. 
Command  the  revellers  in.  [^Exit  an  Attendant. 

At  what  a  rate  I'd  purchase  '^ 
My  mother's  absence,  to  give  my  spleen  ^  full  liberty  ! 

[Seats  himself  in  the  state  ^. 

Enter  several  Revellers. 
Brun.  Speak  not  a  thought's  delay  !  it  names  thy  ruin. 

[Apart  to  Protaldy. 
Prot.  I  had  thought  my ''  life  had  borne  more  value  with  you. 
Brun.  Thy  loss  carries  mine  with't ;  let  that  secure  thee. 
The  vault  is  ready,  and  the  door  conveys  to't 
Falls  just  behind  his  chair ;  the  blow  once  given, 
Thou  art  unseen. 

Prot.  I  cannot  feel  more  than  I  fear,  Fm  sure. 
Brun.  Be  gone,  and  let  them  laugh  tiieir  own  destruction  ! 

[Protaldy  withdraics. 

'^  the  Jxle  of  Dogs]  Opposite  Greenwich. 

■  7'rf  purchase]  Mason's  correction.  Old  eds.  "  /  do  purchase."  Seward 
gave  "  I  purchase."  The  editors  of  1778  followed  the  old  eds.  Weber  printed 
"  /  would  purchase." — In  this  pa.ssage,  I  prefer  the  metrical  aiTangement  of 
the  old  eds.  to  that  of  the  modem  editors. 

''  spleen]  i.  c.  mirth, — of  which  the  spleen  was  supposed  to  he  the  seat. 

■■  slate]  Sec  note,  p.  160.  <<  my']  Omitted  by  Weber  ! 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  155 

Thi.  You'll  add  unto  her  rage. 

Theod.  'Foot,  I  shall  burst, 
Unless  I  vent  myself :  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Brun.  Me,  sir!  [To  one  of  the  Revellers. 

You  never  could  have  found  a  time  to  invite 
More  willingness  in  my  dispose  to  pleasure. 

Memb.  Would  you  would  please  to  make  some  other  choice  ! 
[Zb  another  of  the  Revellers. 

Rev.  ""Tis  a  disgrace  would  dwell  upon  me,  lady, 
Should  you  refuse. 

Memb.  Your  reason  conquers. — My  grandmother's  looks 
Have  turn'd  all  air  to  earth  in  me ;  they  sit 
Upon  my  heart,  like  night-charms,  black  and  heavy. 

[Aside. — The2/  dance. 

Thi.  You  are  too  much  libertine. 

Theod.  The  fortune  of  the  fool  persuades  my  laughter 
More  than  his  cowardice  :  was  ever  rat 
Ta'en  by  the  tail  thus  I  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Thi.  Forbear,  I  say  ! 

Prot.  [Rising  from  the  trap-door  behind  the  state. ^  No  eye 
looks  this  way  ;   I  will  wink  and  strike, 
Lest  I  betray  myself.  [Stabs  Theodoret,  and  disappears. 

Theod.  Ha  !  did  you  not  see  one  near  me  ? 

Thi.  How  !  near  you  l  why  do  you  look  so  pale,  brother  ? — 
Treason,  treason  !  [Theodoret  dies. 

Memb.  Oh,  my  presage  ! — Father  ! 

Ord.  Brother ! 

Mart.  Prince,  noble  prince  ! 

Thi.  Make  the  gates  sure  !  search  into  every  angle  ^ 
And  corner  of  the  court !     Oh,  my  shame  ! — Mother, 
Your  son  is  slain,  Theodoret,  noble  Theodoret  ! 
Here  in  my  arms,  too  weak  a  sanctuary 
'Gainst  treachery  and  murder  ! — Say,  is  the  traitor  taken? 

First  Guard.  No  man  hath  pass'd  the  chamber,  on  my  life,  sir. 

Thi.  Set  present  fire  unto  the  place,  that  all 
Unseen  may  perish  in  this  mischief  !  who 
Moves  slow  to  it  shall  add  unto  the  flame. 

^  angle  And  corner]  Words  nearly,  if  not  altogether,  synonymous. 


156  THIERRY  AND  THEODORE!.  [act  hi. 

Brun.  What  mean  you  ?  give  mo  your  private  hearing. 

Tin.  Persuasion  is  a  partner  in  the  crime ; 
I  will  renounce  my  claim  unto  a  mother, 
If  you  make  offer  on''t. 

Brun.  Ere  a  torch  can  take  flame,  I  will  produce 
The  author  of  the  fact  ^ 

Tlii.  Withdraw  but  for  your  lights  ^. 

Memh.  Oh,  my  too-true  suspicion  ! 

\^Exeunt  all  except  Thierry  and  Brunhalt. 

Thi.  Speak  !  where"'s  the  engine  to  this  horrid  act  ? 

Brun.  Here  you  do''  behold  her;  upon  whom 
Make  good  your  causeless  rage  !     The  deed  was  done 
By  my  incitement,  [and]  '  not  yet  repented. 

Thi.  Whither  did  nature  start  when  you  conceived 
A  birth  so  unlike  woman  ?  say,  what  part 
Did  not  consent  to  make  a  son  of  him, 
Resery'd  itself  within  you  to  his  ruin  l 

Brun.  Ha,  ha  !  a  son  of  mine  !  do  not  dissever 
Thy  father's  dust,  shaking  his  (juiet  urn. 
To  which  thy  breath  would  send  so  foul  an  issue : 
My  sou  !  thy  brother  ! 

Thi.  "Was  not  Theodoret  my  bi'other  I 
Or  is  thy  tongue  confederate  with  thy  heart 
To  speak  and  do  only  things  monstrous  I 

Brun.  Hear  me,  and  thou  shalt  make  thine  own  belief. 
Thy  still-with-sorrow-mention'd  father  liv'd 
Three  careful  J  years  in  hope  of  wished  heirs, 

'  Ere  a  torch,  ^c]  So  arranged  in  old  ccLs. — By  Seward,  and  his  successors, 
thus  : 

"  Ere  a  torch  can  take  flame 
I  will  produce  the  author  of  the  fact." — 
But  compare  many  other  passages  in  this  play. 

K  Withdruw  but  for  your  lights.}  The  meaning  of  these  words  (Withdi-aw 
but  to  procure  the  torclios")  I  should  have  thought  no  one  could  niLstiko  ;  yet 
the  Editors  of  1778,  and  Weliir,  exhibit  them  thus  : 

"  Withdraw  !     But  for  your  lights — " 
"  th\  OinitU'd  by  Seward  for  the  siike  of  his  metrical  arrangement,  and  by 
Weber  through  earele.ssncss. 
■  \nnd]  IiiRorted  by  Sewai'd. 
J  careful.]  "  That  is,  full  of  care."     Webeb. 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  1.^7 

When  I  conceivM,  being  from  his  jealous  fear 
Enjoin'd  to  quiet  home.     One  fatal  day, 
Transported  with  my  pleasure  to  the  chase, 
I  forc'd  command,  and  in  pursuit  of  game 
Fell  from  my  horse,  lost  both  my  child  and  hopes. 
Despair,  which  only  in  his  love  saw  life 
Worthy  of  being,  from  a  gardener's  arms 
SnatchVl  this  unlucky  brat,  and  callVl  it  mine  ; 
When  the  next  year  repaid  my  loss  with  thee, 
But  in  thy  wrongs  preservVl  my  misery ; 
Which  that  I  might  diminish  though  not  end. 
My  sighs  and  wet  eyes  from  thy  father's  will 
Bequeath  [\1]  '^  this  largest  part  of  his  dominions 
Of  France  unto  thee  ;  and  only  left  Austracia 
Unto  that  changeling,  whose  life  affords 
Too  much  of  ill  'gainst  me  to  prove  my  words, 
And  call  him  stranger. 

Thi.  Come,  do  not  weep  :  I  must,  nay,  do  believe  you  ; 
And,  in  my  father's  satisfaction,  count  it 
Merit,  not  wrong  or  loss. 

Brun.  You  do  but  flatter ;  there  is  anger  yet 
Flames  in  your  eyes. 

Thi.  See,  T  will  quench  it,  and  confess  that  you 
Have  suffer'd  double  travail  for  me. 

Brun.  You  will  not  fire  the  house  then  ? 

Thi.  Rather  reward  the  author  who  gave  cause 
Of  knowing  such  a  secret ;  my  oath  and  duty 
Shall  be  assurance  on't. 

Bnin.  Protaldy,  rise. 
Good  faithful  servant  !     Heaven  knows  how  hardly 
He  was  drawn  to  this  attempt. 

Protaldy  rises  from  the  trap-door. 

Thi.  Protaldy?     He  had 
A  gardener's  fate,  Fll  swear,  fell '  by  thy  hand  : 
Sir,  we  do  owe  unto  you  for  this  service. 

•*  BequeathY'd]  Corrected  by  Masou. 

'  fell]  So  4to.  1621.     Other  eds.  "  Tell." — There  is,  as  Weber  remarks,  an 
ellipsis  of  who  before  "  fell." 


1.58  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  im. 

Brun ,  Why  look'st  thou  so  dejected  ? 
Prot.  I  want  a  little 
Shift,  lady  ;  nothing  else. 

Re-enter  Martell  and  Attendants. 
Mart.  The  fires  are  ready  ; 
Please  it  your  grace  withdraw,  whilst  we  perform 
Your  pleasure. 

Thi.  Reserve  them  for  the  body  :  since 
He  had  the  fate  to  live  and  die  a  prince, 
He  shall  not  lose  the  title  in  his  funeral. 

[Exit  with  Brunhalt  and  Protaldv. 
Mart.  His  fate  to  live  a  prince  I — Thou  old  impiety, 
Made  up  by  lust  and  mischief ! — Take  up  the  body. 

\_Exeunt  with  the  body  o/'Theodoret. 


SCENE    III. — A  room  in  the  dwelling  of  Le  Forte. 

Enter  Lecdre  disguised  as  Le  Forte,  and  Servant, 

Lee.  Dost  think  Leforte''s  sure  enough  ? 

Serv.  As  bonds  can  make  him.  I  have  turned  his  eyes  to 
the  east,  and  left  him  gaping  after  the  morning-star:  his 
head  is  a  mere  astrolabe  ;  his  eyes  stand  for  the  poles ;  the 
gag  in  his  mouth  being  the  coachman,  his  five  teeth  have  the 
nearest  resemblance  to  Charles'  Wain. 

Lee.  Thou  hast  cast  a  figure 
Which  shall  raise  thee.     Direct  my  hair  a  little  ; 
And  in  my  likeness  to  him  read  a  fortune 
Suiting  thy  largest  hopes. 

Serv.  You  are  so  far  'bove  likeness,  you  are  the  same  : 
If  you  love  mirth,  persuade  him  from  himself ; 
""Tis  but  an  astronomer  ""  out  of  the  way. 
And  lying  will  bear  the  better  place  for't. 

Lee.   I 
Have"  profitable 'r  use  in  hand.     Haste  to 
The  queen,  and  tell  her  how  you  left  me  changM. 

[Exit  Servant. 

"■  a.itronnmer]  i.  o.  astrologer. 


SCENE  in.  J  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  159 

Who  would  not  serve  this  virtuous  active  queen  ? 
She  that  loves  mischief  'bove  the  man  that  does  it, 
And  him  above  her  pleasure,  yet  knows  no  heaven  else. 

Enter  Thierry. 

T7ii.  How  well  this  loneness  suits  the  art  I  seek, 
Discovering  secret  and  succeeding  fate, 
Knowledge  that  puts  all  lower  happiness  on 
With  a  remiss  and  careless  hand  ! —  [Aside. 

Fair  peace  unto  your  meditations,  father  ! 

Lee.  The  same  to  you  you  bring,  sir  ! 

Thi.  Drawn  by  your  much-fam'd  skill,  I  come  to  know 
Whether  the  man  who  owes  this  character " 
Shall  e'er  have  issue.  [Gives  scroll. 

Lee.  A  resolution  falling  with  most  ease 
Of  any  doubt  you  could  have  nam"'d.     He  is  a  prince 
Whose  fortune  you  inquire. 

Thi.  He  is  nobly  born. 

Lee.  He  had  a  dukedom  lately  fallen  unto  him 
By  one  call'd  brother,  who  has  left  a  daughter. 

Thi.  The  question  is  of  heirs,  not  lands. 

Lee.  Heirs  ?  yes  ; 
He  shall  have  heirs. 

Thi.  Begotten  of  his  body  ?     Why  look'st  thou  pale  I 
Thou  canst  not  suffer  in  his  want. 

Lee.  Nor  thou  ; 
I  neither  can  nor  will  give  farther  knowledge 
To  thee. 

Thi.  Thou  must :   I  am  the  man  myself, 
Thy  sovereign  ;  who  must  owe  unto  thy  wisdom 
In  the  concealing  of  my  barren  shame. 

Lee.  Your  grace  doth  wrong  your  stars  :  if  this  be  yours, 
You  may  have  children. 

Tlii.  Speak  it  again. 

Lee.  You  may  have  fruitful  issue. 

"  who   owes   this   characler.]  "  i.   e.  who  owns The  character  is  the 

calculation  of  his  nativity,  which  his  mothei'  advised  him  to  lay  before  Leforte. 
The  word  resolution,  in  Lecure's  answer  to  this,  signifies  the  same  with  sobition." 
Seward. 


160  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  in. 

Thi.  By  whom  ?  when  ?  how  ? 

Lee.  It  was  the  fatal  means  first  struck  my  blood 
With  the  cold  hand  of  wonder,  when  I  read  it 
Printed  upon  your  birth. 

Thi.  Can  there  be  any  way  unsmooth,  has  end 
So  fair  and  good  ? 

Lee.  We,  that  behold  the  sad  aspects  of  heaven 
Leading  sense-blinded  men,  feel  grief  enough 
To  know,  though  not  to  speak,  their  miseries. 

Tlii.  Sorrow  must  lose  a  name,  where  mine  finds  life  '^ : 
If  not  in  thee,  at  least  ease  pain  with  speed. 
Which  must  know  no  cure  else  p. 

Lee.  Then  thus : 
The  first  of  females  which  your  eye  '^  shall  meet. 
Before  the  sun  next  rise,  coming  fi-om  out 
The  temple  of  Diana  ,  being  slain,  you  live 
Father  of  many  sons. 

Till.  Cairst  thou  this  sadness  ?  can  I  beget  a  son 
Deserving  less  than  to  give  recompense 
Unto  so  poor  a  loss  ?     "^^^hate'er  thou  art, 
Rest  peaceable,  blest  creature,  born  to  be 
Mother  of  princes,  whose  grave  shall  be  more  fruitful 

\^E.rit  Lecubk. 
Than  others'  marriage-beds  !   Methinks  his  art 
Should  give  her  form  and  happy  figure  to  me  ; 
I  long  to  see  my  happiness.     He's  gone. 
As  I  remember,  he  nam'd  my  brother"'s  daughter : 
Were  it  my  mother,  'twere  a  gainful  death 
Could  give  Ordella's  virtue  living  breath.  [£.riV. 

°  lose  a  name,  where  mine  finds  life]  "  i.  e.  lose  its  being  where  mine,  i.  e. 
my  name  finds  life  by  my  gaining  heirs  to  it."  Seward, — who  makes  sad  work 
with  the  next  line. 

P  //  not  in  thee,  at  least  ease  pain  with  speed, 
IVhich  mu^t  know  no  cure  else.]  "  The  meaning,"  says  Mason,  "appears  tome 
to  Ik-  tlii.s  :  If  it  he  not  in  your  power  to  point  out  a  remedy  to  my  calamity, 
j>ut  nic  out  of  pain  by  telling  me  so  speedily,  as  you  are  my  only  resource." 
According  to  Weber  (<|y.  Sir  Walter  Scott  ?).  if  we  su]ipose  the  construction  to 
be  affectedly  latinised,  the  sense  is  clearly — "  At  least  ease  pain  with  speed, 
which  must  know  no  cure  else,  if  not  in  thee." 

1  ryt]  Weber  chooses  to  print  "  eyes." 

'  Diana]  Seward  "  Dian  :" — and  -o,  probably,  the  poet  wTote. 


SCENE  1.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  161 


ACT    IV. 

Scene  I. — Before  the  Temple  o/'Diaxa. 


Enter  Thierry  mid  Martell. 

Mart.  Your  grace  is  early  stirring. 

Thi.  How  can  he  sleep, 
Whose  happiness  is  laid  up  in  an  hour 
He  knows  comes  stealing  toward  him  I     Oh,  Martell, 
Is''t  possible  the  longing  bride,  whose  wishes 
Out-run  ^  her  fears,  can,  on  that  day  she's  married, 
Consume  in  slumbers  ?  or  his  arms  rust  in  ease. 
That  hears  the  charge,  and  sees  the  honour''d  purchase ' 
Ready  to  gild  his  valour  ?     Mine  is  more, 
A  power  above  these  passions:  this  day  France 
(France,  that  in  want  of  issue  withers  with  us, 
And,  like  an  aged  river,  runs  his  head 
Into  forgotten  ways)  again  I  ransom, 
And  his  fair  course  turn  right ;  this  day  Thierry, 
The  son  of  France,  whose  manly  powers  like  prisoners 
Have  been  tied  up  and  fetterM,  by  one  death, 
Gives  life  to  thousand  ages  ;  this  day  beauty. 
The  envy  of  the  world,  the  pleasure ",  glory, 
Content  above  the  world,  desire  beyond  it, 
Are  made  mine  own  and  useful. 

Mart.  Happy  woman 
That  dies  to  do  these  things  I 

Thi.  But  ten  times  happier 
That  lives  to  do  the  greater  !     Oh,  Martell, 

»   Out-run]  Old  eds.  "  Outruns." 

'  purchase'\  "Meant  [in  cant  language]  property  acquired,  generally  hy 
unlawful  means,  but  the  phrase  is  here  applied  to  the  object  for  which  the 
soldier  fights."     Weber. 

"  the  pleasure]   Old  eds.  "  pleasure  the." 
VOL.    I.  M 


1G2  THIERRY  AND  TIIEODORET.  [act  w 

The  gods  have  heard  mc  now !  and  tliose  that  scorn\l  me, 

Mothers  of  many  chikh-en,  and  blest  fathers, 

That  see  their  issues  like  the  stars  unnumbered, 

Their  comfort [s]  more  than  them,  shall  in  my  praises 

Now  teach  their  infants  songs  ;  and  tell  their  ages 

From  such  a  son  of  mine,  or  such  a  queen, 

That  chaste  Ordella  brings  me.     Blessed  marriage, 

The  chain  that  links  two  holy  loves  together  ! 

And  in  the  marriage  more  than  blest  Ordella, 

That  comes  so  near  the  sacrament  itself, 

The  priests  doubt  whether  purer  ! 

Mart.  Sir,  you  are  lost. 

Thi.  I  prithee,  let  me  be  so. 

Mart  The  day  wears  ; 
And  those  that  have  been  offering  early  prayers 
Are  now  retiring  homeward. 

Thi.  Stand,  and  mark  then. 

Mart.  Is  it  the  first  must  suffer  ? 

Thi.  The  first  woman. 

Mart.  What  hand  shall  do  it,  sir  i 

Thi.  This  hand,  Martell ; 
For  who  less  dare  presume  to  give  the  gods 
An  incense  of  this  oflTering  ? 

Mart.  Would  I  were  she  ! 
For  such  a  way  to  die,  and  such  a  blessing, 
Can  never  crown  my  parting. 

7  wo  men  from,  the  Temple  pass  over  the  stage. 

lid.  What  are  those  ? 
Mart.  Men,  men,  sir,  men. 
Thi.  The  plagues  of  men  light  on  'em  ! 
They  cross  my  hopes  like  hares  ! 

yi  priest  from  the  Temple  passes  over  the  stage. 

\Vho's  that  ? 
Mart.  A  priest,  sir. 
Thi.  Would  he  were  gelt  ! 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  I6c 

Mart.  INIay  not  these  rascals  serve,  sir, 
AV^ell  liangM  and  quartered  I 
ThL  No. 
Mart.  Here  comes  a  woman. 

Enter  from  the  Temple  Ordella  veiled. 

Till.  Stand,  and  behold  her  then. 

Mart.  I  think,  a  fair  one. 

Thi.  Move  not,  whilst  I  prepare  her.     May  her  peace, 
(Like  his  whose  innocence  the  gods  are  pleas'd  with, 
And  offering  at  their  altars  gives  his  soul 
Far  purer  than  those  fires,)  pull  Heaven  upon  her  ! 
You  holy  powers,  no  human  spot  dwell  in  her  ! 
No  love  of  any  thing  but  you  and  goodness 
Tie  her  to  earth  !  fear  be  a  stranger  to  her, 
And  all  weak  blood's  affections  but  thy  hope 
Let  her  bequeathe  to  women  !     Hear  me,  Heaven  I 
Give  her  a  spirit  masculine  and  noble. 
Fit  for  yourselves  to  ask  and  me  to  offer  ! 
Oh,  let  her  meet  my  blow,  dote  on  her  death  ; 
And,  as  a  wanton  vine  bows  to  the  pruner, 
That  by  his  cutting  off  more  may  encrease, 
So  let  her  fall  to  raise  me  fruit ! — Hail,  woman, 
The  happiest  and  the  best  (if  thy  dull  will 
Do  not  abuse  thy  fortune)  France  e'er  found  yet ! 

Ord.  She  ""s  more  than  dull,  sir,  less  and  worse  than  woman, 
That  may  inherit  such  an  infinite 
As  you  propound,  a  greatness  so  near  goodness, 
And  brings  a  will  to  rob  her. 

Thi.  Tell  me  this,  then  ; 
Was  there  e'er  woman  yet,  or  may  be  found, 
That  for  fair  fame,  unspotted  memory. 
For  virtue's  sake,  and  only  for  itself-sake, 
Has  or  dare  make  a  story  ? 

Ord.  Many  dead,  sir ; 
Living,  I  think,  as  many. 

Thi.  Say,  the  kingdom 
May  from  a  woman's  vdll  receive  a  blessing, 


164  THIERRY  AND  TIIEODORET,  [act  iv. 

The  king  and  kingdom,  not  a  private  safety, 
A  general  blessing,  lady  I 

Ord.  A  general  curse 
Light  on  her  heart  denies  it  ! 

Thi.  Full  of  honour, 
And  such  examples  as  the  former  ages 
Were  but  dim  shadows  of  and  empty  figures  ? 

Ord.  You  strangely  stir  me,  sir ;  and  were  my  weakness 
In  any  other  flesh  but  modest  woman's. 
You  should  not  ask  more  questions.     May  I  do  it  ? 

Thi.  You  may ;  and,  which  is  more,  you  must. 

Ord.  I  joy  in't 
Above  a  moderate  gladness.     Sir,  you  promise 
Tt  shall  be  honest  ? 

Thi.  As  ever  time  discover'd. 

Ord.  Let  it  be  what  it  may  then,  what  it  dare, 
I  have  a  mind  will  hazard  it. 

Thi.  But,  hark  you ; 
What  may  that  woman  merit  makes  this  blessing  ? 

Ord.  Only  her  duty,  sir. 

Thi.  'Tis  terrible. 

Ord.  'Tis  so  much  the  more  noble. 

Thi.  'Tis  full  of  fearful  shadows. 

Ord.  So  is  sleep,  sir. 
Or  any  thing  that's  merely  ours  and  mortal ; 
We  were  begotten  gods  else  :  but  those  fears, 
Feeling  but  once  the  fires  of  nobler  thoughts. 
Fly,  like  the  shapes  of  clouds  we  form,  to  nothing. 

Thi.  Suppose  it  death  \ 

Ord.  I  do. 

Thi.  And  endless  parting 
^^'ith  all  we  can  call  ours,  with  all  our  sweetness. 
With  youth,  strength,  pleasure,  people,  time,  nay,  reason  ? 
For  in  the  silent  grave,  no  conversation ', 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 

»  For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation,  &c.]  Lamb  {Spec,  of  Engl.  Dram. 
Poela,  p.  402)  cites  "There  is  no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor 
wisdom  in  the  grave,  whither  thou  goest." — Eccles.  [ix.  10.] 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  1G5 

No  careful  father's  counsel ;  nothing's  heard 

Nor  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 

Dust  and  an  endless  darkness :  and  dare  you,  woman, 

Desire  this  place  ? 

Ord.  'Tis  of  all  sleeps  the  sweetest  : 
Children  begin  it  to  us,  strong  men  seek  it, 
And  kings  from  height  of  all  their  painted  glories 
Fall  like  spent  exhalations  to  this  centre  : 
And  those  are  fools  that  fear  it,  or  imagine 
A  few  unhandsome  pleasures  or  life's  profits 
Can  recompense  this  place  ;  and  mad  that  stay  ^  it. 
Till  aofe  blow  out  their  lights,  or  rotten  humours 
Bring  them  dispersed  to  the  earth. 

Thi.  Then  you  can  suffer  2 

Ord.  As  willingly  as  say  it. 

Thi.  Martell,  a  wonder  ! 
Here  is  a  woman  that  dares  die. — Yet,  tell  me, 
Are  you  a  wife  ? 

Ord.  I  am,  sir. 

Tin.  And  have  children  ?— 
She  sighs  and  weeps. 

Ord.  Oh,  none,  sir  ! 

Thi.  Dare  you  venture, 
For  a  poor  barren  praise  you  ne'er  shall  hear, 
To  part  with  these  sweet  hopes  1 

Ord.  With  all  but  Heaven, 
And  yet  die  full  of  children :  he  that  reads  me. 
When  I  am  ashes,  is  my  son  in  wishes. 
And  those  chaste  dames  that  keep  my  memory. 
Singing  my  yearly  requiems,  are  my  daughters. 

Thi.  Then,  there  is  nothing  wanting  but  my  knowledge, 
And  what  I  must  do,  lady. 

Ord.  You  are  the  King,  sir. 
And  what  you  do  I'll  suffer  ;  and  that  blessing 
That  you  desire,  the  gods  shower  on  the  kingdom  ! 

Thi.  Thus  much  before  I  strike,  then  ;  for  T  must  kill  you, 

"  slay]  Old  eds.  "  staies  ". 


166  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  iv. 

Tlie  gods  have  will'd  it  so  :  they've "  made  the  blessing 
Must  make  France  young  again  and  me  a  man. 
Keep  up  your  strength  still  nobly. 

Ord.  Fear  me  not. 

Thi.  And  meet  death  like  a  measure  K 

Ord.  I  am  steadfast. 

Thi.  Thou  shalt  be  sainted,  woman  ;  and  thy  tomb 
Cut  out  in  crystal,  pure  and  good  as  thou  art ; 
And  on  it  shall  be  graven,  every  age. 
Succeeding  peers  of  France  that  rise  by  thy  fall. 
Till  ^  thou  liest  there  like  old  and  fruitful  Nature. 
Dar'st  thou  behold  thy  happiness  ? 

Ord.  I  dare,  sir.  [Pidls  off  her  veil. 

Thi.  Ha  !  \_Letsfall  his  sword. 

Mart.  Oh,  sir,  you  must  not  do  it  ! 

Thi.  No,  I  dare  not ! 
There  is  an  angel  keeps  that  paradise, 
A  fiery  angel,  friend.     Oh,  virtue  %  virtue. 
Ever  and  endless  virtue  ! 

Ord.  Strike,  sir,  strike  !  [Kneels. 

And  if  in  my  poor  death  fair  France  may  merit '', 
Give  me  a  thousand  blows  !  be  killing  me 
A  thousand  days ! 

'  they've']  Old  eds.  «  they'r  "  and  "they're."  Seward  printed  "  thou'rt ;  " 
and  so  his  successors  :  he  conjectured,  however,  in  a  note  "  they've,"  which  is 
nearer  to  the  ductus  Uterarum,  and  which  Lamb  gives  in  Spec,  of  Engl.  Dram. 
Poets,  p.  403.  Qy.  "  they've  made  thee  the  blessing  ?"  The  preceding  line  is 
over-measure. 

r  a  measure]  i.  e.  a  solemn,  stately  dance,  with  slow  and  measured  steps. 

'  Till]  Old  eds.  "  Tell."  The  correction  is  by  Seward,  who  thus  explains 
the  passage  :  "  On  thy  tomb  shall  be  engraved  from  age  to  age  the  succeeding 
Kings  of  France  as  acknowledging  their  being  all  derived  from  thee,  till  thou 
liest  there  like  Nature,  the  fruitful  mother  of  all  things."  Tiie  Editoi-s  of  1778 
endeavoured  to  defend  the  old  reading  ;  but  it  is  certainly  a  misprint  for  "  Till"  : 
BO,  in  an  earlier  passage  of  this  play,  "  till  a  sowgelder,"  &c.  (p.  115),  the  4tos. 
have  "tell." 

•  ange!,  friend.  Oh,  virtue]  As  4to.  1621  has  "angell  friend;o  vertue,"  it 
has  been  suggested  to  me  that  the  right  reading  of  the  line  is,  "  A  fiery  angel, 
friend  to  virtue,"  &c. ;  but  compare  p.  193,  where  Thierry  addresses  Marteli, 
"  J  know  it,  friend." 

••  merit]  See  note,  p.  01. 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  167 

Tin.  First,  let  the  earth  be  barren, 
And  man  no  more  rememberM  !   Rise,  Ordella,      \_Raises  her. 
The  nearest  to  thy  Maker,  and  the  pm-est 
That  ever  dull  flesh  shew'd  us  !— Oh,  my  heart-strings  !  [Exit. 

Mart.  I  see  you  full  of  wonder  ;  therefore,  noblest 
And  truest  amongst  women,  I  will  tell  you 
The  end  of  this  strange  accident. 

Ord.  Amazement 
Has  so  much  won "  upon  my  heart,  that  truly 
I  feel  myself  unfit  to  hear.     Oh,  sir, 
My  lord  has  slighted  me  ! 

Mart.  Oh,  no,  sweet  lady  ! 

Ord.  E-obVd  me  of  such  a  glory  by  his  pity 
And  most  unprovident  respect 

Mart.  Dear  lady, 
It  was  not  meant  to  you. 

Ord.  Else  where  the  day  is. 
And  hours  distinguish  time,  time  runs  to  ages, 
And  ages  end  the  world,  I  had  been  spoken. 

Mart.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  was,  if  but  your  patience 
Will  give  me  hearing. 

Ord.  If  I  have  transgressed, 
Forgive  me,  sir  ! 

Mart.  Your  noble  lord  was  counselled 
(Grieving  the  barrenness  between  you  both, 
And  all  the  kingdom  ^  with  him)  to  seek  out 
A  man  that  knew  the  secrets  of  the  gods  : 
He  went,  found  such  an  one,  and  had  this  answer  ; 
That,  if  he  would  have  issue,  on  this  morning, 
(For  this  hour  was  prefixed  him,)  he  should  kill 
The  first  he  met,  being  female,  from  the  temple. 
And  then  he  should  have  children.     The  mistake 
Is  now  too  perfect,  lady. 

Ord.  Still  'tis  I,  sir  ; 
For  may  this  work  be  done  by  common  women  ? 

«  won']  Corrected  by  the  Editors  of  1778.  So  too  Heath,  MS.  Notes.— Old 
eds.  "  woue  "  and  "  wove." 

^  kingdom']  "  Refers  to  grieving  not  to  counselled  [as  Seward  thought,  who 
printed  '  kingdoms ']."     Ed.  111%. 


168  THIERRY  AND  TIIEODORET.  [act  iv. 

Durst  any  but  myself,  that  knew  the  blessing 
And  felt  the  benefit,  assume  this  dying  l 
In  any  other  ""t  had  been  lost  and  nothing, 
A  curse  and  not  a  blessing :   I  was  figurM  ; 
And  shall  a  little  fondness  bar  my  purchase''  ? 

Mart.  Where  should  he  then  seek  children  I 

Ord.  Where  they  are  ; 
In  wombs  ordaiu'd  for  issues  ;  in  those  beauties 
That  bless  a  marriage-bed,  and  make "  it  proud  ' 
With  kisses  that  conceive  and  fruitful  pleasures  : 
Mine,  like  a  grave,  buries  those  loyal  hopes, 
And  to "  a  grave  it  covets. 

Mart.  You  are  too  good. 
Too  excellent,  too  honest.     Rob  not  us. 
And  those  that  shall  hereafter  seek  example. 
Of  such  inestimable  worths  ^  in  woman. 
Your  lord  of  such  obedience,  all  of  honour, 
In  coveting  a  cruelty  is  not  yours, 
A  will  short  of  your  wisdom  !  make  not  error 
A  tombstone  of  your  virtues,  whose  fair  life 
Deserves  a  constellation  !     Your  lord  dare  not. 
He  cannot,  ought  not,  must  not  run  this  hazard  ; 
He  makes  a  separation  Nature  shakes  at, 
The  gods  deny,  and  everlasting  Justice 
Shrinks  back  and  sheaths  her  sword  at. 

Ord.  AlFs  but  talk,  sir  ; 
I  find  to  what  I  am  reserv'd  and  needful : 
And  though  my  lord's  compassion  makes  me  poor, 
And  leaves  me  in  my  best  use ',  yet  a  strength 

''  purchase]  i.  c.  acquisition:  see  note,  p.  161. 

•  make]  Old  eds.  "makes." 

'  proud]  Theobald's  conjecture.  Old  eds.  "  proceede  "  and  "  proceed," — 
(a  transciibcr  probably  having  written  by  mistake  "procede").  Seward 
printed  "  proci-tant  ;"  and  so  his  successors.  The  P^ditors  of  17/15  proposed 
"  breed  "  ! 

E  to]  Was  altered  by  the  Editors  of  J  778,  and  Weber,  to  "  too."  Heath  pro- 
poses" 'tis."  MS.  Notes. — But  is  not "  covets  <o  "  equivalent  to  "covets  a/Ver?" 

^  worths]  Old  eds.  "  worthies." 

'  leaves  me  in'my  best  use]  "  i.  e.  neglects  putting  me  to  the  use  I  am  most 
fit  for,  tlie  best  use  I  can  be  employed  in."     £d.  1778. 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  169 

Above  mine  own,  or  his  dull  fondness,  finds  me  ; 
The  gods  have  given  it  to  me.  [Draws  a  dagger. 

Mart.  Self-destruction?  [Holds  her. 

Now  all  good  angels  bless  thee  !     Oh,  sweet  lady, 
You  are  abus'd  J !  this  is  a  way  to  shame  you, 
And  with  you  all  that  know  you,  all  that  love  ^-  you ; 
To  ruin  all  you  build  !     Would  you  be  famous  I 
Is  that  your  end  \ 

Ord.  I  would  be  what  I  should  be. 

Mart.  Live,  and  confirm  the  gods  then  !  live,  and  be  loaden 
With  more  than  olives  bear  or  fruitful  autumn  ! 
This  way  you  kill  your  merit,  kill  your  cause. 
And  him  you  would  raise  life  to.     Where  or  how 
Got  you  these  bloody  thoughts  I  what  devil  durst 
Look  on  that  angel-face  and  tempt  ?  do  you  know 
What  "'tis  to  die  thus  ?  how  you  strike  the  stars 
And  all  good  things  above '  ?  do  you  feel 
What  follows  a  self-blood  l  whither  you  venture, 
And  to  what  punishment  ?     Excellent  lady, 
Be  not  thus  cozenVl,  do  not  fool  yourself  ! 
The  priest  was  never  his  own  sacrifice, 
But  he  that  thought  his  hell  here. 

Ord.  I  am  counselPd. 

Mart.  And  I  am  glad  on't ;  lie,  I  know,  you  dare  not. 

Ord.  I  never  have  done  yet. 

Mart.  Pray,  take  my  comfort. 
Was  this  a  soul  to  lose  I  two  more  such  women 
Would  save  their  sex.     See,  she  repents  and  prays  ! 
Oh,  hear  her,  hear  her  !  if  there  be  a  faith 
Able  to  reach  your  mercies,  she  hath  sent  it. 

Ord.  Now,  good  JMartell,  confirm  me. 

Mart.  I  will,  lady. 
And  every  hour  advise  you  ;  for  I  doubt 
Whether  this  plot  be  heaven's,  or  hell's  your  mother, 
And  I  will  find  it,  if  it  be  in  mankind 

J  abused]   i.  e.  deceived,  mistakeu. 

■*  know  ....  love]  Old  eds.   "  knows  ....  loves." 

'  above]  The  Editors  of  1778,  for  the  mttre,  "  above  us." 


170  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [activ. 

To  search  the  centre  of  it.     In  the  mean  time, 
I'll  give  you  out  for  dead,  and  by  yourself, 
And  shew  the  instrument ;  so  shall  I  find 
A  joy  that  will  betray  her. 

Ord.  Do  what's  fittest, 
And  I  will  follow  you. 

Mart.  Then  ever  live 
Both  able  to  engross  all  love  and  give !  \_Exeunt. 


SCENE  11. — An  Apartment  in  the  Palace  o/'Tiiierry. 
Enter  Brunhalt  and  Protaldy. 

Brun.  I  am  in  labour 
To  be  deliver'd  of  that  burthenous  project 
I  have  so  long  gone  with.     Ha,  here's  the  midwife  ! 

Enter  Lecuue. 

Or  life,  or  death  ? 

Lee.  If  in  the  supposition 
Of  her  death  in  whose  life  you  die,  you  ask  me, 
I  think  you  are  safe. 

Brun.  Is  she  dead  I 

Lee.  I  have  us'd 
All  means  to  make  her  so  :   I  saw  him  waiting 
At  the  temple-door,  and  us'd  such  art  within. 
That  only  she  of  all  her  sex  was  first 
Given  up  unto  his  fury. 

Brun.  ^^'hich  if  love 
Or  fear  made  him  forbear  to  execute, 
The  vengeance  he  determined,  his  fond  pity 
Shall  draw  it  on  himself;  for  were  there  left 
Not  any  man  but  he,  to  serve  my  pleasures, 
Or  from  me  to  receive  commands,  (which  are 
The  joys  for  which  I  love  life,)  he  should  be 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  171 

Reraov'd,  and  I  alone  left  to  be  queen 
O'er  any  part  of  goodness  that's  left  in  me. 

Lee.  If  you  are  so  resolv'd,  I  have  provided 
A  means  to  ship  him  hence.     Look  upon  this, 

[Sheicin(/  a  handkerchief. 
But  touch  it  sparingly  ;  for  this  once  usM, 
Say  but  to  dry  a  tear,  will  keep  the  eye-lid 
From  closing  until  death  perform  that  office. 

Brun.  Give  't  me,  I  may  have  use  of  't ;  and  on  you 

[^Taking  the  handkerchief. 
ril  make  the  first  experiment,  if  one  sigh 
Or  heavy  look  beget  the  least  suspicion. 
Childish  compassion  can  thaw  the  ice 
Of  your  so-long-congeard  and  flinty  hardness  : 
'Slight,  go  on  constant,  or  I  shall ! 

Prot.  Best  lady, 
We  have  no  faculties  which  are  not  yours. 

Lee.  Nor  will  be  any  thing  without  you. 

Brun.  Be  so. 
And  we  will  stand  or  fall  together  ;  for 
Since  we  have  gone  so  far  that  death  must  stay 
The  journey,  which  we  wish  should  never  end, 
And  innocent  or  guilty  we  must  die. 
When  we  do  so,  let's  know  the  reason  why. 

Enter  Thierry  and  Courtiers. 

Lee.  The  King. 

Thi.  We'll  be  alone.  [Exeunt  Courtiers. 

Pi-ot.  I  would  I  had 
A  convoy  too,  to  bring  me  safe  ^  off ! 
For  rage,  although  it  be  allay'd  with  sorrow, 
Appears  so  dreadful  in  him,  that  I  shake 
To  look  upon  it. 

Brun.  Coward,  I  will  meet  it, 
And  know  from  whence  'thas  birth. — Son,  kingly  Thierry  ! 

Thi.  Is  cheating  grown  so  common  among  men, 

"•  safe]  Q,y.  "safely"? 


172  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  iv. 

And  thrives  so  well  here,  that  the  gods  endeavour 
To  practise  it  above  ? 

Bntn.  Your  mother  ! 

Tin.   Ha!— 
Or  are  they  only  careful  to  revenge, 
Not  to  reward  \  or  when  for  our "  offences 
"NVe  study  satisfaction,  must  the  cure 
Be  worse  than  the  disease  ? 

Brun.  Will  you  not  hear  me  ? 

77a'.  To  lose  the  ability  to  perform  those  duties 
For  which  I  entertainM  the  name  of  husband, 
Ask'd  more  than  common  sorrow  ;  but  to  impose. 
For  the  redress  of  that  defect,  a  torture. 
In  marking  her  to  death  for  whom  alone 
I  felt  that  weakness  as  a  want,  requires 
More  than  the  making  the  head  bald,  or  falling 

\^Tears  his  hair,  and  throics  himself  on  the  ground. 
Thus  flat  upon  the  earth,  or  cursing  that  way. 
Or  praying  this.     Oh,  such  a  scene  of  grief, 
And  so  set  down,  (the  world  the  stage  to  act  on,) 
May  challenge  a  tragedian  better  practis''d 
Than  I  am  to  express  it !  for  my  cause 
Of  passion  is  so  strong,  and  my  performance 
So  weak,  that  though  the  part  be  good,  I  fear 
The  ill  acting  of  it  will  defraud  it  of 
The  poor  reward  it  may  deserve,  men's  pity. 

Brun.  I  have  given  you  way  thus  long  :  a  king,  and,  what 
Is  more,  my  son,  and  yet  a  slave  to  that 
AVhich  only  triumphs  over  cowards,  sorrow  l 
For  shame,  look  up  ! 

Thi.  Is't  you?  look  do\vn  on  me  ! 
And  if  that  you  are  capable  to  receive  it. 
Let  that  return  to  you  that  have  brought  forth 
One  mark\l  out  only  for  it  !     What  are  these  ? 
Come  tliey,  upon  your  privilege,  to  tread  on 
The  tomb  of  my  afflictions  I 

"  our]  All  altci-atioii  by  Seward.     Old  cds.  "your." 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  173 

Prot.  No,  not  we,  sir. 

Thi.  How  dare  you  then  omit  the  ceremony 
Due  to  the  funeral  of  all  my  hopes  I 
Or  come  unto  the  marriage  of  my  sorrows, 
But  in  such  colours  as  may  sort  with  them  I 

Prot.  Alas,  we  will  wear  any  thing  ! 

Brun.  This  is  madness  : 
Take  but  my  counsel. 

Thi.  Yours  ?  dare  you  again, 
Though  arm\l  with  the  authority  of  a  mother, 
Attempt  the  danger  that  will  fall  on  you, 
If  such  another  syllable  awake  it  I 
Go,  and  with  yours  be  safe ;   I  have  such  cause 
Of  grief,  (nay,  more,  to  love  it,)  that  I  will  not 
Have  such  as  these  be  sharers  in  it. 

Lee.  Madam — 

Prot.  Another  time  were  better. 

Brun.  Do  not  stir. 
For  I  must  be  resolved,  and  will :  be  statues  ! 

Enter  Martell. 

Thi.  Ay,  thou  art  welcome  ;  and  upon  my  soul 
Thou  art  an  honest  man. — Do  you  see  1  he  has  tears 
To  lend  to  him  whom  prodigal  expence 
Of  sorrow  has  made  bankrupt  of  such  treasure. — 
Nay,  thou  dost  well. 

Mart.  I  would  it  might  excuse 
The  ill  I  bring  along  ! 

Thi.  Thou  mak'st  me  smile 
r  the  height  of  my  calamities  ;  as  if 
There  could  be  the  addition  of  an  atom 
To  the  giant  body  of  my  miseries  ! 
But  try ;  for  I  will  hear  thee. — All  sit  down :  'tis  death 

[  The?/  seat  themselves. 
To  any  that  shall  dare  to  interrupt  him 
In  look,  gesture,  or  word. 

Mart.  And  such  attention 
As  is  due  to  the  last  and  the  best  story 


174  THIERRY  AND  TIIEODORf:T.  (activ. 

That  over  was  delivered,  will  become  you. 

The  griev'd  Ordella  (for  all  other  titles 

But  take  away  from  that)  having  from  me, 

Prompted  by  your  last  parting  groan,  inquired 

What  drew  it  from  you,  and  the  cause  soon  learnM, — 

For  she,  whom  barbarism  could  deny  nothing, 

With  such  prevailing  earnestness  desir''d  it, 

'Twas  not  in  me,  though  it  had  been  my  death. 

To  hide  it  from  her  ; — she,  I  say,  in  whom 

All  was  that  Athens,  Rome,  or  warlike  Sparta, 

Have  registered  for  good  in  their  best  women, 

But  nothing  of  their  ill ;  knowing  herself 

Mark'd  out  (I  know  not  by  what  power,  but  sure 

A  cruel  one)  to  die  to  give  you  children ; 

Having  first  with  a  settled  countenance 

LookVl  up  to  heaven,  and  then  upon  herself, 

(It  being  the  next  best  object,)  and  then  smil'd. 

As  if  her  joy  in  death  to  do  you  service 

Would  break  forth  in  despite  of  the  much  sorrow 

She  shewVl  she  had  to  leave  you ;  and  then  taking 

Me  by  the  hand,  (this  hand  which  I  must  ever 

Love  better  than  I  have  done,  since  she  touch'd  it,) 

"  Go,"  said  she,  "  to  my  lord,  (and  to  go  to  him 

Is  such  a  happiness  I  must  not  hope  for,) 

And  tell  him  that  he  too  much  priz'd  a  trifle 

Made  only  worthy  in  his  love  and  her 

Thankful  acceptance,  for  her  sake  to  rob 

The  orphan  kingdom  of  such  guardians  as 

Must  of  necessity  descend  from  him  ; 

And  therefore  in  some  part  of  recompense 

Of  his  much  love,  and  to  shew  to  the  world 

That  'twas  not  her  fault  only,  but  her  fate. 

That  did  deny  to  let  her  be  the  mother 

Of  such  most  certain  blessings  ;  yet,  for  proof 

She  did  not  envy  her,  that  happy  her 

That  is  appointed  to  them,  her  quick  end 

Should  make  way  for  her."     ^Vilich  no  sooner  spoke, 

But  in  a  moment  this  too-ready  engine  [Shews  a  dofjgcr. 


SCENE  ri.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  175 

Made  such  a  battery  in  the  choicest  castle 
That  ever  Nature  made  to  defend  Hfe, 
That  straight  it  shook  and  sunk. 

'JTld.  Stay  !  dares  any 
Presume  to  shed  a  tear  before  me  ?  or 
Ascribe  that  worth  unto  themselves,  to  merit 
To  do  so  for  her  ?  I  have  done  ;  now  on  ! 

Mart.  Fallen  thus,  once  more  she  smilM,  as  if  that  death 
For  her  had  studied  a  new  way  to  sever 
The  soul  and  body  without  sense  of  pain  ; 
And  then,  "  Tell  him,'"'  quoth  she,  "  what  you  have  seen, 
And  with  what  willingness  'twas  done  ;  for  which 
My  last  request  unto  him  is,  that  he 
Would  instantly  make  choice  of  one  (most  happy 
In  being  so  chosen)  to  supply  my  place ; 
By  whom  if  Heaven  bless  him  with  a  daughter, 
In  my  remembrance  let  it  bear  my  name." 
Which  said,  she  died. 

Th'i.  I  hear  this,  and  yet  live  ! 
Heart,  art  thou  thunder-proof  \  will  nothing  break  thee  ? 
She's  dead ;  and  what  her  entertainment  may  be 
In  the  other  world  without  me  is  uncertain ; 
And  dare  I  stay  here  unresolved  p  I    \^Drmcs  his  sicord.     They 

Mart.  Oh,  sir  !  hold  him. 

Brun.  Dear  son  ! 

Prot.  Great  King  ! 

Thi.  Unhand  me  I  am  I  fallen 
So  low  that  I  have  lost  the  power  to  be 
Disposer  of  my  own  life  I 

Mart.  Be  but  pleas'd 
To  borrow  so  much  time  of  sorrow  as 
To  call  to  mind  her  last  request,  for  whom 
(I  must  confess  a  loss  beyond  expression) 
You  turn  your  hand  upon  yourself :  'twas  hers, 
And  dying  hers,  that  you  should  live,  and  happy 

p  unresolv'd]  i.  e.  unsatisfied,  uninformed. 


17G  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  iv. 

In  seeing  little  models  of  yourself, 
By  matching  with  another  ;  and  will  you 
Leave  any  thing  that  she  desirM  ungranted  ? 
And  suffer  such  a  life,  that  was  laid  down 
For  your  sake  only,  to  be  fruitless  ? 

Tlii.  Oh, 
Thou  dost  throw  charms  upon  me,  against  which 
I  cannot  stop  my  ears  ! — Bear  witness,  Heaven, 
That  not  desire  of  life,  nor  love  of  pleasures, 
Nor  any  future  comforts,  but  to  give 
Peace  to  her  blessed  spirit  in  satisfying 
Her  last  demand,  makes  me  defer  our  meeting  ! 
Which  in  my  choice,  and  sudden  choice,  shall  be 
To  all  apparent. 

Brun.  How  !   do  I  remove  one  mischief. 
To  draw  upon  my  head  a  greater?  [Aside. 

Thi.  Go, 
Thou  only  good  man,  to  whom  for  herself 
Goodness  is  dear,  and  prepare  to  inter  it 
In  her  that  was — Oh,  my  heart ! — my  Ordella ; 
A  monument  worthy  to  be  the  '•  casket 
Of  such  a  jewel. 

Mart.  Your  command,  that  makes  way 
Unto  my  absence,  is  a  welcome  one  ; 
For,  but  yourself,  thcrc''s  nothing  here  JMartell 
Can  take  delight  to  look  on  :  yet  some  comfort 
Goes  back  with  me  to  her,  who,  though  she  want  it, 
Deserves  all  blessings.  [Exit. 

Brun.  So  soon  to  forget 
The  loss  of  such  a  wife,  believe  it,  will 
Be  censur'd  in  the  world. 

Thi.  Pray  you,  no  more  ! 
There  is  no  argument  you  can  use  to  cross  it. 
But  does  increase  in  me  such  a  suspicion 
1  would  not  cherish. — Who\s  that  I 

T  Ihe]   In  Weber's  ed.  "ii." 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  177 

Enter  Mejiberge. 

Memh.  One  no  guard 
Can  put  back  from  access,  whose  tongue  no  threats 
Nor  prayers  can  silence  ;  a  bold  suitor,  and 
For  that  which,  if  you  are  yourself,  a  king, 
You  were  made  so  to  grant  it,— justice,  justice  ! 

Thi.  With  what  assurance  dare  you  hope  for  that 
Which  is  denied  to  me  I  or  how  can  I 
Stand  bound  to  be  just  unto  such  as  are 
Beneath  me,  that  find  none  from  those  that  are 
Above  me  ? 

Memh.  There  is  justice  :  'twere  unfit 
That  any  thing  but  vengeance  should  fall  on  him, 
That,  by  his  giving  way  to  more  than  murder, 
(For  my  dear  father's  death  was  parricide,) 
Makes  it  his  own. 

Brun,  I  charge  you,  hear  her  not  ! 

Memb.  Hell  cannot  stop  just  prayers  from  entering  heaven ; 
I  must  and  will  be  heard. — Sir,  but  remember 
That  he  that  by  her  plot  fell  was  your  brother ; 
And  the  place  where,  your  palace,  against  all 
The  inviolable  rights  of  hospitality ; 
Your  word,  a  king's  word,  given  up  '  for  his  safety  ; 
His  innocence,  his  protection  ;  and  the  gods 
Bound  to  revenge  the  impious  breach  of  such 
So  great  and  sacred  bonds  :  and  can  you  wonder 
(That,  in  not  punishing '  such  a  horrid  murder, 
You  did  it)  that  Heaven's  favour  is  gone  from  you  I 
Which  never  will  return  until  his  blood 
Be  wash'd  away  in  hers. 

Brun.  Drag  hence  the  wretch  ! 

Thi.  Forbear. — With  what  variety 
Of  torments  do  I  meet  !    Oh,  thou  hast  open'd 

"■  Mjo]  Omitted  by  the  Editors  of  1778,  and  Weber. 

'   That  in  not  punishing']  "  Mason  says  that  we  must  read, — '  For  in  not 
punishing  ;'  but  tliere  is  no  necessity  for  variation.     That  here,  and  [in]  many 
other  places,  means  because."     Weber. 
VOL.    I.  N 


178  THIERRY  AND  TIIKOIXJUKT.  [act  iv. 

A  book,  in  which,  writ  down  in  bloody  letters, 

My  conscience  finds  that  I  am  worthy  of 

More  than  I  undergo  !  but  Til  begin, 

For  my  Ordella''s  sake,  and  for  thine  own, 

To  make  less  Heaven's  great  anger.     Thou  hast  lost 

A  father, — I  to  thee  am  so ;  the  hope 

Of  a  good  husband, — in  me  have  one ;  nor 

Bo  fearful  T  am  still  no  man  ;  already 

That  weakness  is  gone  from  me. 

Bnm.  That  it  might 
Have  ever  growii  inseparably  upon  thee  ! —  y  Aside. 

What  will  you  do  I    Is  such  a  thing  as  this 
Worthy  the  lov'd  Ordella's  place  I  the  daughter 
Of  a  poor  gardener  I 

Memb.  Your  son  ! 

Thi.  The  power 
To  take  away  that  lowness  is  in  me. 

Brun.  Stay  yet ;  for  rather  than  that  thou  shalt  add 
Incest  unto  thy  other  sins,  I  will, 
With  hazard  of  my  own  life,  utter  all : 
Theodoret  was  thy  brother. 

77//.   You  denied  it 
Upon  your  oath  ;  nor  will  I  now  believe  you  : 
Your  Protean  turnings  cannot  change  my  purpose. 

Memb.  And  for  me,  be  assur'd  the  means  to  be 
Reveng'd  on  thee,  vile  hag,  admits  no  thought 
But  what  tends  to  it.  \_E.rit. 

Brun.  Is  it  come  to  that  ? 
Then  have  at  the  last  refuge  !   [^5?VZe.] — Art  thou  grown 
Insensible  in  ill,  that  thou  goest  on 
Without  the  least  compunction  I    There,  take  that ; 

yOives  him  the  handkerchief. 
To  witnes.x  that  thou  hadst  a  mother,  which 
F'oresaw  thy  cause  of  grief  and  sad  repentance, 
Thf  t,  so  soon  after  blest  Ordella's  death, 
W^ithout  a  tear,  thou  canst  embrace  another. 
Forgetful  man  I 

77//.   Mine  eyes,  when  she  is  nam'd, 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  179 

Cannot  forget  their  tribute,  and  your  gift 
Is  not  unuseful  now. 

Lee.  He''s  past  all  cure  ; 
That  only  touch  is  death. 

Tin.  This  night  I'll  keep  it ; 
To  morrow  I  will  send  it,  you  and  full 
Of  my  affliction.  [Exit. 

Brun.  Is  the  poison  mortal  I 

Lee.  Above  the  help  of  physic. 

Brun.  To  my  wish. 
Now  for  our  own  security.     You,  Protaldy, 
Shall  this  night  post  towards  Austracia 
With  letters  to  Theodoret's  bastard  son, 
In  which  we  will  make  known  what  for  his  rising 
We  have  done  to  Thierry  :  no  denial 
Nor  no  excuse  in  such  acts  must  be  thought  of. 
Which  all  dislike,  and  all  again  commend 
When  they  are  brought  unto  a  happy  end.  \^Exeunt. 


ACT   V. 

Scene  I. — A  Forest. 


Enter  De  Vitry  and  four  Soldiers. 

De  Vit.  No  war,  no  money,  no  master  !  banished  the  court, 
not  trusted  in  the  city,  whipt  out  of  the  country, — in  what  a 
triangle  runs  our  misery  !  Let  me  hear  which  of  you  has  the 
best  voice  to  beg  in,  for  other  hopes  or  fortunes  I  see  you  have 
not.  Be  not  nice  ;  nature  provided  you  with  tones  for  the 
purpose ;  the  people's  charity  was  your  heritage,  and  I  would 
see  which  of  you  deserves  his  birthright. 

All.  We  understand  you  not,  captain. 

De  Vit.  You  see  this  cardecu*,  the  last  and  the  only  quin- 

'  cardecu]  See  note,  p.  128. 
N  2 


180  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  v. 

tcsscneo  of  fifty  crowns,  distilled  in  the  limbeck  of  your 
guardage  ;  of  which  happy  piece  thou  shalt  be  treasurer. 
[Gives  it  to  First  Soldier.]  Now,  he  that  can  soonest  persuade 
him  to  part  with  't,  enjoys  it,  possesses  it,  and  with  it  me 
and  my  future  countenance. 

First  Sold.  If  they  want  art  to  persuade  it,  I'll  keep  it  myself. 
.  De  Vit.  So  you  be  not  a  partial  judge  in  your  own  cause, 
you  shall. 

All  A  match  ! 

Sec.  Sold.  I'll  begin  to  you.  Brave  sir,  be  proud  to  make 
him  happy  by  your  liberality,  whose  tongue  vouchsafes  now 
to  petition,  was  never  heard  before  less  than  to  command. 
I  am  a  soldier  by  profession,  a  gentleman  by  birth,  and  an 
officer  by  place  ;  whose  poverty  blushes  to  be  the  cause  that 
so  high  a  virtue  should  descend  to  the  pity  of  your  charity. 

First  Sold.  In  any  case  keep  your  high  style :  it  is  not 
charity  to  shame  any  man,  much  less  a  virtue  of  your 
eminence ;  wherefore,  preserve  your  worth,  and  FU  preserve 
my  money. 

Third  Sold.  You  persuade  !  you  are  shallow  :  give  way  to 
merit. — Ah,  by  the  bread  of  God,  man",  thou  hast  a  bonny 
countenance  and  a  blithe,  promising  mickle  good  to  a  sicker 
womb  ^  that  has  trod  a  long  and  a  sore  ground  to  meet  with 
friends,  that  will  owe  much  to  thy  reverence  when  they  shall 
hear  of  thy  courtesy  to  their  wandering  countryman '''. 

Fii'st  Sold.  You  that  will  use  your  friends  so  hardly  to 
bring  them  in  debt,  sir,  will  deserve  worse  of  a  stranger ; 
wherefore,  pead  on  "^  pead  on,  I  say. 

Fourth  Sold.  It  is  the  Welsh  must  do't,  I  see. — Comrade, 
man  of  urship,  St.  Tavy  be  her  patron,  the  gods  of  the 
mountains  keep  her  cow  and  her  cupboard ;  may  she  never 

"  bread  of  God,  manl  The  4tos.  "  bread  o/good  man."  Fol.  1679,  "  bread  of 
a  good  man."  The  repetition  of  these  words  by  De  Vitry  shews  the  ti-uc 
reading  :  see  next  p.ige. 

*  nicker  toomb']  .Seward  altered  "sicker"  to  "  siiiing  "  ( sighing,' groaning)  ; 
and  Ills  sucecssoi-s  print  "siking  womb," — When  our  early  dramatists  introduce 
a  j)rovincial  dialect,  they  arc  seklom  accurate  or  consistent. 

*  coitnlrf/man]  In  Weber's  ed.  "  countrjinen  "  ! 

*  pead  on]  "  i.  e.  pad  on,  foot  it  on."     Sew  auu. 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  181 

want  the  green  of  the  leek  nor  the  fat  of  the  onion,  if  she 
part  with  her  bounties  to  him  that  is  a  great  deal  away  from 
her  cousins  and  has  two  big  suits  in  law  to  recover  her 
heritage  ! 

First  Sold.  Pardon  me,  sir  ;  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
your  suits ;  it  comes  within  the  statute  of  maintenance. 
Home  to  your  cousins,  and  sow  garlick  and  hempseed  ;  the 
one  will  stop  your  hunger,  the  other  end  your  suits.  Gam- 
mmcash,  comrade,  gammawash  ^. 

Fourth  Sold.  'Foot,  he'll  hoard  all  for  himself. 

De  Vit.  Yes,  let  him.  Now  comes  my  turn  ;  I'll  see  if  he 
can  answer  me. — Save  you,  sir !  they  say  you  have  that  I 
want,  money. 

First  Sold.  And  that  you  are  like  to  want,  for  aught  I 
perceive  yet, 

De  Vit.  Stand,  deliver  ! 

First  Sold.  'Foot,  what  mean  you  ?  you  will  not  rob  the 
exchequer  ? 

De  Vit.  Do  you  prate  ? 

First  Sold.  Hold,  hold  !    here,  captain.    [Gives  the  cardecu. 

Sec.  Sold.  Why,  I  could  have  done  this  before  you. 

Third  Sold.  And  I. 

Fourth  Sold.  And  I. 

De  Vit.  You  have  done  this  !  "  Brave  man,  be  proud  to 
make  him  happy  !"  "  By  the  bread  of  God,  man,  thou  hast 
a  bonny  countenance  !"  "  Comrade,  man  of  urship,  St.  Tavy 
be  her  patron  ! "  Out  upon  you,  you  uncurried  colts !  walking 
cans  ^,  that  have  no  souls  in  you,  but  a  little  rosin  to  keep 
your  ribs  sweet  and  hold  in  liquor  ! 

All.  Why,  what  would  you  have  us  to  do,  captain  ? 

De  Vit.  Beg,  beg,  and  keep  constables  waking,  wear  out 
stocks  and  whipcord,   maunder  '"^  for  butter-milk,  die  of  the 

y  Gammawash]  A  coiTuption,  I  suppose,  of  some  Welsh  word  or  words. 

^  walking  cans,  (|c.]  "The  metaphor  is  here  taken  from  the  old  English 
black  jacks,  made  almost  in  the  shape  of  a  boot,  (the  name  Erasmus  gave  them  ; ) 
they  were  stiffened  leather  lined  with  rosin,  from  whence  a  stift'ened  boot  is 
called  a,  jack-boot."     Seward. 

"  maunder']  i.  e.  beg  (mutter,  whine)  :  a  cant  term. 


182  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  v. 

jaundice,  yet  have  the  cure  about  you,  lice '',  large  lice,  begot 
of  your  own  dust  and  the  heat  of  the  brick-kilns  !  May  you 
starve,  and  fear  of  the  gallows  (which  is  a  gentle  consumj^tion 
to'f^)  only  prevent  if*!  or  may  you  fall  upon  your  fear,  and 
be  hanged  for  selling  those  purses  to  keep  you  from  famine, 
whose  monies  my  valour  empties,  and  be  cast  without  other 
evidence  !  Here  is  my  fort,  my  castle  of  defence  :  who  comes 
by  shall  pay  me  toll  ;  the  first  purse  is  your  mittimus, 
slaves. 

Sec.  Sold.  The  purse  !  'foot,  we'll  share  in  the  money, 
captain,  if  any  come  within  a  furlong  of  our  fingers. 

Fourth  Sold.  Did  you  doubt  but  we  could  steal  as  well  as 
yourself  i  did  not  I  speak  Welsh  i 

Third  Sold.  We  are  thieves  from  our  cradles,  and  will 
die  so. 

Dr  Vit.  Then  you  will  not  beg  again  i 

All.  Yes,  as  you  did  ;   "  Stand  and  deliver  !"" 

Sec.  Sold.  Hark  !  here  comes  handsel :  'tis  a  trade  quickly 
set  up,  and  as  soon  cast  down. 

De  Fit.  Have  goodness  in  your  minds,  varlets,  and  to't 
like  men  !  He  that  has  more  money  than  we,  cannot  be  our 
friend,  and  I  hope  there  is  no  law '"  for  spoiling  the  enemy. 

Third  Sold,  "^'ou  need  not  instruct  us  farther  ;  your  ex- 
ample pleads  enough. 

De  Fit.  Disperse  yourselves  ;  and,  as  their  company  is, 
fall  on  ! 

Sec.  Sold.  Come  there  a  band '  of  'em.  Til  charge  single. 

[E.reunt  Soldiers. 

''  tfic  cure  about  you,  lice'\  "  They  ai-e  swallowed  of  Countrey  people  againsl 
tiie  Jaundise  "  Schroder's  Hist,  of  Animah  as  they  are  useful  in  Phijsick, 
SiC.  lf,o9,  !>.  154. 

'■  /o'/]  "i.  e.  compared  to  it."     Mas^o.n. 

•'  prevent  it]  Old  eds.  "  preferre  (—and  "  preferr  "—)  it."— Seward  priiitod 
"  prc8er>e  you  from  it,"  and  proposed  in  a  note  "  defer  i7."  Tlie  Editors  of  1 77>! 
followed  Seward's  text.  Weber  gave  the  emendation  of  Mason,  which,  though 
not  (juit<'  satisfied  with  it,  I  also  have  adopted. 

•'  there  is  no  Inu-]  "  i.  e.  that  there  is  no  puuishnient  l)y  l.iw  "     jMaso.v. 

'  Comr  /hire  n  hand]  Heath's  correction,  MS.  Notes.  Ol.l  eds.  "  Come, 
thrrc  are  a  tm ud ," —\\\\\c\\  the  modern  editors  givi\ 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  18S 

Enter  Protaldy. 

Prot.  'Tis  wonderful  dark.  I  have  lost  ray  man,  and  dare 
not  call  for  him,  lest  I  should  have  more  followers  than  I 
would  pay  wages  to.  What  throes  am  I  in,  in  this  travel  ! 
these  be  honourable  adventures  !  Had  I  that  honest  blood 
in  my  veins  again,  queen,  that  your  feats  and  these  frights 
have  drained  from  me,  honour  should  pull  hard  ere  it  drew 
me  into  these  brakes. 

De  Fit.  Who  goes  there  ? 

Prot.  Heigh-ho  !  here's  a  pang  of  preferment. 

De  Fit.  'Heart,  who  goes  there  ? 

Prot.  He  that  has  no  heart  to  your  acquaintance.  What 
shall  I  do  with  my  jewels  and  my  letter[s]  ?  My  codpiece  i 
that's  too  loose;  good,  my  boots.  \^Aside,  and  puts  jeicels  and 
letters  into  his  boots. ^ — Who  is't  that  spoke  to  me  ?  here's  a 
friend. 

De  Fit.  We  shall  find  that  presently.  Stand,  as  you  love 
your  safety,  stand  ! 

Prot.  That  unlucky  word  of  standing  has  brought  me  to 
all  this.  \^Aside.^ — Hold,  or  I  shall  never  stand  you. 

Re-enter  Soldiers. 

De  Fit.  I  should  know  that  voice.     Deliver  ! 

Prot.  All  that  I  have  is  at  your  service,  gentlemen  ;  and 
much  good  may  it  do  you  ! 

De  Fit.  Zowns,  down  with  him  ! — Do  you  prate  \ 

Prot.  Keep  your  first  word,  as  you  are  gentlemen,  and  let 
me  stand  !    Alas,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Sec.  Sold.  To  tie  you  to  us,  sir,  bind  you  in  the  Imot  of 
friendship.  [Thei/  bind"  Protaldy. 

Prot.  Alas,  sir,  all  the  physic  in  Europe  cannot  bind  me  ! 

De  Fit.  You  should  have  jewels  about  you,  stones,  precious 
stones. 

First  Sold.  Captain,  away !  there's  company  within  hearing ; 
if  you  stay  longer,  we  are  surprised. 

s  Thei/  bind,  §-c.  j  Weber  gives  here  "  The;/  tie  him  to  a  tree,'"  ^wA  presently, 
"  He  {De  Vitry]  is  tied  to  a  tree.'' 


184  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [a  cr  v. 

De  Vit.  Let  the  devil  come,  Til  pillage  this  frigate  a  little 
better  yet. 

Sec.  Sold.  'Foot,  wc  are  lost !  they  are  upon  us. 

De  Vit.  Ha !  upon  us  ? — Make  the  least  noise,  'tis  thy 
parting  gasp  ! 

Third  Sold.  Which  way  shall  we  make,  sir? 

De  Vit.  Every  man  his  own :  do  you  hear  ?  only  bind  me 
before  you  go,  and  when  the  company's  past,  make  to  this 
place  again.  This  carvel '^  should  have  better  lading  in  him. 
You  are  slow  ;  why  do  you  not  tie  harder  ? 

\Theij  hind  De  Vitry. 

First  Sold.  You  are  sure  enough,  I  warrant  you,  sir. 

De  Vit.  Darkness  befriend  you  !  away  !     \^Exeiint  Soldiers. 

Prot.  What  tyrants  have  I  met  with  !  they  leave  me  alone 
in  the  dark,  yet  would  not  have  me  cry.  I  shall  grow 
wondrous  melancholy,  if  I  stay  long  here  without  company. 
I  was  wont  to  get  a  nap  with  saying  my  prayers  ;  Fll  see 
if  they  will  work  upon  me  now  :  but  then  if  I  should  talk  in 
my  sleep,  and  they  hear  me,  they  would  make  a  recorder '  of 
my  windpipe, — slit  my  throat.  Heaven  be  praised !  I  hear 
some  noise;  it  may  be  new  purchase ^  and  then  I  shall  have 
fellows. 

De  Vit.  They  are  gone  past  hearing :  now  to  task,  De 
Vitry.  [^sff/e.]— Help,  help,  as  you  are  men,  help!  some 
charitable  hand  relieve  a  poor  distressed  miserable  \ATetch  ! 
Thieves,  wicked  thieves,  have  robbed  me,  bound  me. 

Prot.  'Foot,  would  they  had  gagged  you  too  !  your  noise 
will  betray  us,  and  fetch  them  again. 

De  Vit.  What  blessed  tongue  spake  to  me  i  where,  where 
are  you,  sir  ? 

•"  carvel]  "  Caravel  or  Carvel,  a  kind  of  light  round  Ship  with  a  square  Poop, 
rigg'd  and  fitted  out  like  a  Galley,  holding  about  six  score  or  seven  score  Tun." 
Kersey's  Diet. 

'  recorder]  "  i.  e.  a  flageolet."     Weber. 

'  purchase]  i.  e.  booty.  "  Purchase,  in  the  cant  language  of  the  times, 
ahvay.s  moans  anything  acquired  by  robbery  or  cozening  :  thus  Gadshill  says, 
in  first  part  of  Henry  IV.  act  ii.  so.  1.  '  Give  me  tliy  hand  ;  thou  shalt  have  a 
share  in  onr  purchase  ;  T  am  a  true  man.'  See  Mr.  Steevens's  note  on  this 
|ias.sagc."     Ri;ki». 


SCENE  I.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  185 

Prot.  A  plague  of  your  bawling  throat !  we  are  well  enough, 
if  you  have  the  grace  to  be  thankful  for't.  Do  but  snore  to 
me,  and  'tis  as  much  as  I  desire,  to  pass  away  time  with  till 
morning ;  then  talk  as  loud  as  you  please,  sir :  I  am  bound 
not  to  stir ;  wherefore,  lie  still  and  snore,  I  say. 

De  Vit.  Then  you  have  met  with  thieves  too,  I  see. 

Prot.  And  desire  to  meet  with  no  more  of  them. 

De  Vit.  Alas,  what  can  we  suffer  more?  they  are  far 
enough  by  this  time  ;  have  they  not  all,  all  that  we  have,  sir  I 

Prot.  No,  by  my  faith,  have  they  not,  sir.  I  gave  them 
one  trick  to  boot  for  their  learning  :  my  boots,  sir,  my  boots  ! 
I  have  saved  my  stock  and  my  jewels  in  them,  and  therefore 
desire  to  hear  no  more  of  them. 

De  Vit.  Now.  blessing  on  your  wit,  sir !  what  a  dull  slave 
was  T,  dreamed  not  of  your  conveyance  !  Help  to  unbind  me, 
sir,  and  Fll  undo  you ;  my  life  for  yours,  no  worse  thief  than 
myself  meets  you  again  this  night ! 

Prot.  Reach  me  thy  hands. 

De  Vit.  Here,  sir,  here.  [Protaldy  vnhinds  De  Vitry's 
hands.^  I  could  beat  my  brains  out,  that  could  not  think  of 
boots,  boots,  sir,  wide-topt  boots ;  I  shall  love  them  the 
better  whilst  I  live.  But  are  you  sure  your  jewels  are  here, 
sir  2 

Prot.  Sure,  sayst  thou  \  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

De  Vit.  So  ho,  illo  ho  ! 

Soldiers.  [  Within.^  Here,  captain,  here  ! 

Prot.  'Foot,  what  do  you  mean,  sir  I 

Re- enter  Soldiers. 

De  Vit.  A  trick  to  boot,  say  you  I  [  Takes  out  jewels  from 
Protaldy's  hoots.^ — Here,  you  dull  slaves,  purchase,  pur- 
chase !  the  soul  of  the  rock,  diamonds,  sparkling  diamonds  ! 

Prot.  I  am  betray 'd,  lost,  past  recovery  lost  ! —  \_Aside. 
As  you  are  men 

De  Vit.  Nay,  rook,  since  you  will  be  prating,  well  share 
your  carrion  with  you.  Have  you  any  other  conveyance  now, 
sir? 


18(1  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  fxcr  v. 

First  Sold.  [Takinf/  out  letters  from  V  rot  Ahur'' a  hoots.']  ""Foot, 
here  are  letters,  epistles,  familiar  epistles  :  we'll  see  what 
treasure  is  in  them  ;  they  are  sealed  sure. 

Prat.  Gentlemen,  as  you  are  gentlemen,  spare  my  letters, 
and  take  all  willingly,  all !  FU  give  you  a  release,  a  general 
release,  and  meet  you  here  to-morrow  with  as  much  more. 

I)e  Fit.  Nay,  since  you  have  your  tricks  and  your  convey- 
ances, we  will  not  leave  a  wrinkle  of  you  unscarched. 

Prat.  Hark  !  there  comes  company ;  you  will  be  betrayed. 
As  you  love  your  safeties,  beat  out  my  brains ;  I  shall  betray 
you  else. 

De  Pit.  [Reading  the  letters.]  Treason,  unheard-of  treason  ! 
monstrous,  monstrous  villainies  ! 

Prof.  1  confess  myself  a  traitor ;  shew  yourselves  good 
subjects,  and  hang  me  up  for't. 

First  Sold.  If  it  be  treason,  the  discovery  will  get  our 
pardon,  captain. 

De  Fit.   Would  we  were  all  lost,  hangM, 
Quarter'd,  to  save  this  one,  one  innocent  prince  I 
Thierry's  poisonM,  by  his  mother  poisoned. 
The  mistress  to  this  stallion  ; 
Who,  by  that  poison,  ne'er  shall  sleep  again  ! 

Sec.  Sold.  'Foot,  let  us  mince  him  by  piece-meal  till  he  eat 
himself  up. 

Fhird  Sold.  Let  us  dig  out  his  heart  with  needles,  and  half 
broil  him  like  a  muscle. 

Prot.  Such  another,  and  I  prevent  you  ;  my  blood's  settled 
already. 

De  Fit.  Here  is  that  shall  remove  it  !     Toad,  viper!  — 
Drag  him  unto  MartcU  !  — 
Unnatural  parricide  !  cruel,  bloody  woman  ! 

Soldiers.  On,  you  dog-fish,  leech,  caterpillar  ! 

De  Fit.  A  longer  sight  of  him  will  make  my  rage 
Turn  pity,  and  with  his  sudden  end  prevent 
Kevenge  and  torture  ! — Wicked,  wicked  Brunhalt  !   [^E.veunt. 


scENKii.l  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  187 


SCENE  n. — Ayi  Apartment  in  the  Palace  o/*Thierry. 

Enter  Bawdber  mid  three  Courtiers. 

Ivst  Cour.  Not  sleep  at  all !  no  means  ? 

Sec.  Cour.  No  art  can  do  it  1 

Baw.  I  will  assure  you,  he  can  sleep  no  more 
Than  a  hooded  hawk ;  a  centinel  to  him, 
Or  one  of  the  city- constables,  are  tops. 

Third  Cour.  How  came  he  so  ? 

Baw.  They  are  too  wise  that  dare  know  : 
Something's  amiss  ;  Heaven  help  all  ! 

First  Cour.  What  cures  "  has  he  I 

Bate.  Armies  of  those  we  call  physicians  ; 
Some  with  glisters,  some  with  lettice-caps ", 
Some  posset-drinks,  some  pills ;  twenty  consulting  hero 
About  a  drench,  as  many  here  to  blood  him. 
Then  comes  a  don  of  Spain,  and  he  prescribes 
More  cooling  opium  than  would  kill  a  Turk, 
Or  quench  a  whore  i'  the  dog-days ;  after  him, 
A  wise  Italian,  and  he  cries,  "  Tie  unto  him 
A  woman  of  fourscore,  whose  bones  are  marble, 
Whose  blood  snow-water,  not  so  much  heat  about  her 
As  may  conceive  a  prayer  !*"  after  him, 

•"  cures']  So  4tos.     Fol.  1679,  "  cure"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 

"  lettice-caps']  "  These  are  somehow  connected  with  old  medical  practice,  for 
they  are  twice  mentioned  in  connection  with  physicians  [in  the  present  passage, 
and  in  our  authors'  Monsieur  Thomas,  act  iii.  sc.  I].  We  find  from  Minshew's 
Spanish  Dictionary  that  a  letlice-cap  was  originally  a  lattice-cap,  that  is,  a  net 
cap,  which  resembles  lattice  work,  often  spelt  lettice.  See  him  in  '  Lettise 
bonnet,' or  cap  for  gentlewomen,'  and  the  Spanish  Albanega  there  referred  to." 
Nares's  Gloss,  in  v. — Tliat  the  leitice-caps  in  our  text  mean  certain  applications 
of  the  plant  lettuce,  as  a  soporific,  to  the  head  of  the  patient,  is,  1  think,  evident. 
In  Parkinson's  Theat.  Botan.,  1()40,  we  are  told;  "Galen  sheweth  that  the 
eating  of  boyled  Lettice  at  night  when  hee  went  to  bed  procured  him  rest  and 
sleepe  ....  the  same  is  found  eff'ectuall  also  with  divers,  or  the  juice  thereof 
mixed  or  boyled  with  oyle  of  Roses  and  applied  to  the  forehead  and  temples, 
both  to  procure  rest  and  sleepe  and  to  ease  the  headach  of  any  hot  cause." 
p.  812. 


188  THIERTIY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  v. 

An  English  doctor  with  a  bunch  of  pot-herbs, 
And  he  cries  out,  "  Endive  and  succory. 
With  a  few  mallow- roots  and  butter-milk  !" 
And  talks  of  oil  made  of  a  churchman's  charity. 
Yet  still  he  wakes. 

First  Cotir.  But  your  good  honour  has  a  prayer  in  store, 
If  all  should  fail  ? 

Baiv.  I  could  have  pray\l  and  handsomely,  but  age 
And  an  ill  memory 

Third  Cour.  Has  spoiFd  your  primmer. 

Baiv.  Yet  if  there  be  a  man  of  faith  i'  the  court. 
And  can  pray  for  a  pension 

Thierry  is  Irought  in  on  a  conchy  icith  Doctors  and  Attendants. 

Sec.  Cour.  Here's  the  King,  sir ; 
And  those  that  will  pray  without  pay. 

Baic.  Then  pray  for  me  too. 

First  Doctor.  How  does  your  grace  now  feel  yourself  ? 

Thi.  What's  that  ? 

First  Doctor.  Nothing  at  all,  sir,  but  your  fancy. 

Thi.  Tell  me. 
Can  ever  these  eyes  more,  shut  up  in  slumbers. 
Assure  my  soul  there  is  sleep  ?  is  there  night 
And  rest  for  human  labours  \  do  not  you 
And  all  the  world,  as  I  do,  out-stare  Time, 
And  live,  like  funeral  lamps,  never  extinguishM  ? 
Is  there  a  grave  ;  (and  do  not  flatter  me. 
Nor  fear  to  tell  me  tnith,)  and  in  that  grave 
Is  there  a  hope  I  shall  sleep  ?  can  I  die  \ 
Are  not  my  miseries  immortal  ?    Oh, 
The  happiness  of  him  that  drinks  his  water. 
After  his  weary  day,  and  sleeps  for  ever  ! 
Why  do  you  crucify  me  thus  with  faces, 
And  gaping  strangely  upon  one  another  ? 
When  shall  I  rest  ? 

.SV'.?,  Doctor.  Oh,  .sir,  l)e  patient  ! 

Thi.  Am  1  not  patient?  have  I  not  endurM 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  189 

More  than  a  mangy  dog,  among  your  doses  °  I 
Am  I  not  now  your  patient  \     Ye  can  make 
Unwholesome  fools  sleep  for  a  garded  footcloth  p, 
Whores  for  a  hot  sin-offering  ;  yet  I  must  crave, 
That  feed  ye  and  protect  ye  and  proclaim  ye. 
Because  my  power  is  far  above  *i  your  searching. 
Are  my  diseases  so  I  can  ye  cure  none 
But  those  of  equal  ignorance  ;  dare  ye  kill  me  I 

First  Doctor.  Vie  do  beseech  your  grace  be  more  reclaimed  "^ ! 
This  talk  doth  but  distemper  you. 

Thi.  Well,  I  will  die. 
In  spite  of  all  your  potions.     One  of  you  sleep  ; 
Lie  do^Ti  and  sleep  here,  that  I  may  behold 
What  blessed  rest  it  is  my  eyes  are  robb'd  of. 

\^An  Attendant  lies  doicn. 
See,  he  can  sleep,  sleep  any  where,  sleep  now, 
When  he  that  wakes  for  him  can  never  slumber  ! 
Is't  not  a  dainty  ease  I 

Sec.  Doctor.  Your  grace  shall  feel  it. 

Thi.  Oh,  never  I,  never '  !    The  eyes  of  Heaven 
See  but  their  certain  motions,  and  then  sleep  ; 
The  rages  of  the  ocean  have  their  slumbers 
And  quiet  silver  calms ;  each  violence 
Crowns  in  his  end  a  peace  ;  but  my  fix'd  fires 
Shall  never,  never  set ! — Who's  that  ? 

Enter  Martell,  Brunhalt,  De  Vitry,  and  Guards. 

Mart.  No,  woman, 
Mother  of  mischief,  no  !  the  day  shall  die  first, 

°  doses']  Qto's.  "  dosses  "  (see  note  p.  115.).     Here  fol.  1679  is  deficient. 

P  for  a  garded  footcloth]  i.  e.  on  condition  of  receiving  as  a  reward  a  set  of 
laced  housings  (see  note  p.  15), — a  decoration,  which  was  particularly  affected 
by  the  physicians  of  the  poets'  time. 

1  above]  In  Weber's  ed.  "  from  "  ! 

'  reclaimed]  "  The  expression  is  taken  from  falconry.  To  reclaim  a  hawk  is 
to  make  him  tame."    Mason. 

'  never  I,  never  .']  Altered  by  the  Editoi-s  of  1778,  and  Weber,  to  "  Never, 
never,  I  ! " 


190  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  Imtv. 

And  all  good  things  live  in  a  worse  than  thou  art ', 
Ere  thou  shalt  sleep  !     Dost  thou  see  him  ? 

Ih-int.  Yes,  and  curse  him  ; 
And  all  that  love  him,  fool,  and  all  live  by  him. 

Mart.  Why  art  thou  such  a  monster  ? 

Brun.  Why  art  thou 
So  tame  a  knave  to  ask  me  ? 

Mart.  Hope  of  hell, 
By  this  fair  holy  light,  and  all  his  wrongs. 
Which  are  above  thy  years,  almost  thy  vices, 
Thou  shalt  not  rest,  not  feel  more  what  is  pity, 
Know  nothing  necessary,  meet  no  society 
But  what  shall  curse  and  crucify  thee,  feel  in  thyself 
Nothing  but  what  thou  art,  bane  and  bad  conscience, 
Till  this  man  rest ;  but  for  whose  reverence, 
Because  thou  art  his  mother,  I  would  say, 
Whore,  this  shall  be  !     Do  you  nod  ?    I'll  waken  you 
With  my  sword's  point. 

Brun.  I  wish  no  more  of  Heaven, 
Nor  hope  no  more,  but  a  sufficient  anger 
To  torture  thee  ! 

Mart.  See,  she  that  makes  you  see,  sir  ! 
And,  to  your  misery,  still  see  your  mother. 
The  mother  of  your  woes,  sir,  of  your  waking. 
The  mother  of  your  people's  cries  and  curses, 
Your  murdei'ing  mother,  your  malicious  mother  ! 

Thi.  Physicians,  half  my  state  to  sleep  an  hour  now  !  — 
Is  it  so,  mother  ? 

Brun.  Yes,  it  is  so,  son  ; 
And,  were  it  yet  again  to  do,  it  should  be.  " 

Mart.  She  nods  again  ;  swinge  her  ! 

Tlii.  But,  mother, 
(For  yet  I  love  that  reverence,  and  to  death 
Dare  not  forget  you  have  been  so,)  was  this. 
This  endless  misery,  this  cureless  malice s 

'  Anil  all  good  things  live  in  a  worse  than  thou  art]  "  The  moaning  Sfenis  !ii 
bii,' And  all  good  thingH  live  in  a  worse  [thing]  than  thou  art.'"  Ed.  1778. 
So  too  Heatli  explains  tlie  line.     MS.  Notes.  ■ 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  191 

This  snatching  from  me  all  my  youth  together, 
All  that  you  made  me  for,  and  happy  mothers 
CrownM  with  eternal  time  are  proud  to  finish, 
Done  by  your  will  I 

Brun.  It  was,  and  by  that  will 

Tld.  Oh,  mother,  do  not  lose  your  name  !  forget  not 
The  touch  of  nature  in  you,  tenderness  ! 
'Tis  all  the  soul  of  woman,  all  the  sweetness  : 
Forget  not,  I  beseech  you,  what  are  children. 
Nor  how  you  have  groan'd  for  them ;  to  what  love 
They  are  born  inheritors,  with  what  care  kept ; 
And,  as  they  rise  to  ripeness,  still  remember 
How  they  imp  out "  your  age  !  and  when  time  calls  you, 
That  as  an  autumn-flower  you  fall,  forget  not 
How  round  about  your  hearse  they  hang  like  pennons  ! 

Brun.  Holy  fool. 
Whose  patience  to  prevent  my  wrongs  has  kill'd  thee, 
Preach  not  to  me  of  punishments  or  fears, 
Or  what  I  ought  to  be ;  but  what  I  am, 
A  woman  in  her  liberal  "  will  defeated. 
In  all  her  greatness  cross'd,  in  pleasure  blasted  ! 
My  angers  have  been  laughM  at,  my  ends  slighted. 
And  all  those  glories  that  had  crowned  my  fortunes, 
Suffered  by  blasted  virtue  to  be  scatter'd  : 
I  am  the  fruitful  mother  of  these  angers. 
And  what  such  have  done  read,  and  know  thy  ruin  ! 

Thi.  Heaven  forgive  you  ! 

Mart.  She  tells  you  true  ;  for  millions  of  her  mischiefs 
Are  now  apparent.     Protaldy  we  have  taken. 
An  equal  agent  with  her,  to  whose  care, 
After  the  damn'd  defeat  ^''  on  you,  she  trusted 
The  bringing-in  of  Leonor  the  bastard, 

"  imp  ouf^  A  metaphor  frequent  in  our  old  wTiters.     "  It  often  falls  out, 
that  a  Hawk  breaks  her  Wing  and  Train- Feathers,  so  that  others  must  be  set. 
in  their  steads,  which  is  termed  Ymping  them. ''     The  Gentleman's  Recreation , 
Part  Sec,  Hawking,  p.  5-9,  ed.  1686. 
"  liberal]  i.  e.  licentiously  free. 

*"  defeat]  i.  e.  act  of  destruction.     So  in  Shakespeare's  Hamlet  ; 
"  Upon  whose  property,  and  most  dear  life, 
A  damn'd  defeat  was  made."  act  ii.  sc.  2. 


l'.)2  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  v. 


Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Son  to  your  murderM  brother  :  her  physician 
By  this  time  is  attach'd  too,  that "'  damn'd  devil  ! 

Gent.  'Tis  like  he  mil  be  so  ;  for  ere  we  came, 
Fearing  an  equal  justice  for  his  mischiefs. 
He  drench'd  himself. 

Briin.  He  did  like  one  of  mine  then  ! 

Till.  Must  I  still  sec  these  miseries  ?  no  night 
To  hide  me  from  their  horrors  I  That  Protaldy 
See  justice  fall  upon  ! 

Brun.  Now  I  could  sleep  too. 

Mart,  ril  give  you  yet  more  poppy. — Bring  the  lady, 
And  Heaven  in  her  embraces  give  him  quiet ! 

Ayi  Attendant  brings  in  Ordella  veiled. 

Madam,  unveil  yourself. 

Ord.  \  Unveiling  herself.^  I  do  forgive  you  ; 
And  though  you  sought  my  blood,  yet  PU  pray  for  you. 

Brun.  Art  thou  alive  ? 

Mart.  Now  could  you  sleep  ? 

Brun.  For  ever. 

Mart.  Go  carry  her  without  wink  of  sleep  or  quiet 
Where  her  strong  knave  Protaldy's  broke  o'  the  wheel, 
And  let  his  cries  and  roars  be  music  to  her  ! 
I  mean  to  waken  her. 

Thi.  Do  her  no  wrong  I 

Mart.  No,  right ",  as  you  love  justice  ! 

Brun.  I  will  think  ; 
And  if  there  be  new  curses  in  old  nature, 
I  have  a  soul  dare  send  them  ! 

Mart.  Keep  her  waking  ! 

\^Exit  Bruxhalt  with  Gentleman  and  Guards. 

"  too,  that]  Till  Mason  made  this  correction,  the  text  was  "  to  that." 
*  Nil  right]   Old  eds.   "  Nor  riyht"     "  The  slight  alteration   in   the  text'  is 
absolutely  requisite.     Martell,upon  Thierry's  exclamation,  '  Do  her  no  wrong  !' 
naturally  s.iys, '  No,  do  her  right,  inflict  the  justice  due  to  her.'     Wkiiek  (<iy. 
Sir  W.  Scott  ?). 


SCENE  II.]  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  193 

Thi.  What's  that  appears  so  sweetly  ?  there's  that  face'' 

Mart.  Be  moderate,  lady  ! 

Thi.  That  angel's  face 

Mart.  Go  nearer. 

Thi.  Martell,  I  cannot  last  long.     See,  the  soul 
( I  see  it  perfectly)  of  my  Ordella, 
The  heavenly  figure  of  her  sweetness,  there  ! 
Forgive  me,  gods  !     It  comes  ! — Divinest  substance  ! — 
Kneel,  kneel,  kneel,  every  one  ! — Saint  of  thy  sex. 
If  it  be  for  my  cruelty  thou  coraest — 
Do  ye  see  her,  ho  I 

Mart.  Yes,  sir ;  and  you  shall  know  her. 

Tlii.  Down,  down  again  ! — to  be  reveng'd  for  blood, 
Sweet  spirit,  I  am  ready. — She  smiles  on  me  : 
Oh,  blessed  sign  of  peace  ! 

Mart.  Go  nearer,  lady. 

Ord.  I  come  to  make  you  happy. 

Thi.  Hear  you  that,  sirs  ? 
She  comes  to  crown  my  soul.     Away,  get  sacrifice  ! 
Whilst  I  with  holy  honours 

Mart.  She's  alive,  sir. 

Thi.  In  everlasting  life  ;  I  know  it,  friend  : 
Oh,  happy,  happy  soul ! 

Ord.  Alas,  I  live,  sir  ! 
A  mortal  woman  still. 

Thi.  Can  spirits  weep  too  ? 

Mart.  She  is  no  spirit,  sir  ;  pray,  kiss  her. — Lady, 
Be  very  gentle  to  him  ! 

Thi.  Stay  ! — She  is  warm  ; 
And,  by  my  life,  the  same  lips  ! — Tell  me,  brightness. 
Are  you  the  same  Ordella  still  ? 

Ord.  ^  The  same,  sir. 
Whom  Heavens  and  my  good  angel  stay'd  from  ruin. 

Thi.  Kiss  me  again  ! 

Ord.  The  same  still,  still  your  servant. 

Thi.  'Tis  she  !  I  know  her  now,  Martell. — Sit  down,  sweet. 

y  so  sweetly?    there's  that  face—}    Heath  (MS.   Notes)  would  read,  aiic 
rightly  perhaps — "  so  sweetly  there  ?  that  face — " 

«  Ord.'\  Old  eds.  "  Mart. ;"  and  so  the  modern  editors. 
VOL.  I.  O 


194  THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  [act  iv. 

Oh,  blest  and  happiest  woman  ! — A  dead  slumber 
Begins  to  creep  upon  me. — Oh,  my  jewel ! 

Ord.  Oh,  sleep,  my  lord  ! 

Thi.  My  joys  are  too  much  for  me. 

Re-enter  Gentleman  icith  Memberge. 

Gent.  Brunhalt,  impatient  of  her  constraint  to  see 
Protaldy  tortur'd,  has  chok'd  herself. 

Mart.  No  more  : 
Her  sins  go  with  her  ! 

Thi.  Love,  I  must  die  ;   I  faint : 
Close  up  my  glasses  ! 

Fir&t  Doctor.  The  queen  faints  too,  and  deadly. 

Thi.  One  dying  kiss  ! 

Ord.  My  last,  sir,  and  my  dearest : 
And  now  close  my  eyes  too  ! 

Thi.  Thou  perfect  woman ! — 
Martell,  the  kingdom's  yours  :  take  Memberge  to  you, 
And  keep  my  Une  alive. — Nay,  weep  not,  lady. — 
Take  me  !  I  go.  [Dies. 

Ord.  Take  me  too  !     Farewell,  honour  !  [Dies. 

Sec.  Doctor.  They  are  gone  for  ever. 

Mart.  The  peace  of  happy  souls  go  after  them  ! 
Bear  them  unto  their  last  beds,  whilst  I  study 
A  tomb  to  speak  their  loves  whilst  old  Time  lasteth. 
I  am  your  king  in  sorrows. 

j^ll.  We  your  subjects  ! 

Mart.  De  Vitry,  for  your  service[s]  be  near  us. 
Whip  out  these  instruments  of  this  mad  *  mother 
From  court  and  all  good  people ;  and,  because 
She  was  born  noble,  let  that  title  find  her 
A  private  grave,  but  neither  tongue  nor  honour  K 
And  now  lead  on.     They  that  shall  read  this  story 
Shall  find  that  virtue  lives  in  good,  not  glory.  [^Exeunt. 

•  mad]  May,  perhaps,  be  right  :  butqy.  "  bad  ?"  as  at  p.  111.,  "The  more 
my  shame  is  of  so  bad  a  mother." 

•>  Bui  neither  tongue  nor  honour]  "  Both  Mr.  Theobald  and  Mr.  Sj-mpson 
would  reject  tongue  here,  and  read  tomb,  but  surely  without  sufficient  reason  : 
for  tongue  signifies  the  funeral  oration,  honour  the  escutcheons  and  other 
ceremonies  of  the  funeral,  together  with  the  monument,  or  whatever  may  shew 
respect  to  the  deceased."     Seward. 


EPILOGUE 


Our  poet  knows  you  will  be  just,  but  we 

Appeal  to  mercy ;  he  desires  that  ye 

Would  not  distaste  his  Muse,  because  of  late 

Transplanted,  which  would  grow  here,  if  no  fate 

Have  an  unlucky  bode.     Opinion 

Comes  hither  but  on  crutches  yet,  the  sun 

Hath  lent  no  beam  to  warm  us  ;  if  this  play 

Proceed  more  fortunate,  we'll  crown  the  day 

And  love  that  brought  you  hither.     'Tis  in  you 

To  make  a  little  sprig  of  laurel  grow 

And  spread  into  a  grove,  where  you  may  sit 

And  hear  soft  stories,  when  by  blasting  it 

You  gain  no  honour,  though  our  ruins  lie 

To  tell  the  spoils  of  your  offended  eye. 

If  not  for  what  we  are,  (for,  alas,  here 

No  E-oscius  moves  to  charm  your  eyes  or  ear  !) 

Yet  as  you  hope  hereafter  to  see  plays. 

Encourage  us,  and  give  our  poet  bays. 

^  Epilogue]  From  4to.  1G49. 


At  p.  154,  the  stage-direction 

"  [Seats  himselfin  the  state." 
ought  to  be 

"  [Thierry  and  Theodoret  seat  themselves,  each  in  kit  state.' 
And  at  p.  155,  instead  of 

"  Prot.  [Rising  from  the  trap-door  behind  the  state']  " 
read 

"  Prot.  [Rising  from  the  trap-door  behind  Tkeodoret's  state.]" 


PHILASTER, 


LOVE   LIES   A-BLEEDING. 


Philaster.  Or,  Loue  lyes  a  Bleeding.    Acted  at  the  Globe  by  his Maiesties  Seruants. 
/     Francis  Baymont     \ 
Written  by  <  and  V  Gent. 

\     John  Fletcher  ) 

Printed  at  London/or  Thomas  Walkley,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop  at  the  Eagle  and 
mid,  in  Brittaines  Biirsse.  1620,  4to.  On  the  title-page  is  a  wood-cut  representing  "  The 
Princes,"  "  A  Cuntrie  Gentelhnan  ",  and  "  Phielaster  " :  vide  act  iv.  sc.  3. 

This  impression  has  not  been  used  by  any  of  the  editors.  Both  at  the  commencement 
and  at  the  end  of  the  play,  the  text  is  so  utterly  and  absurdly  different  from  that  of  the 
authors,  as  to  leave  no  doubt  that  those  portions  must  have  been  supplied  "  for  the  nonce  " 
by  some  hireling  writer ;  and  throughout  all  the  other  scenes  very  gross  mistakes  occur. 
Yet,  notwithstanding  its  imperfections,  this  edition  is  of  considerable  value,  and  has  enabled 
me  in  several  places  to  restore  the  true  readings. 

Philatter.    Or,  Loue  lies  a  Bleeding.    As  it  hath  beencdiuerse  times  Acted,  at  the  Globe, 
and  Blacke-Friers,  by  his  Maiesties  Serttants- 
/•     Francis  Beaumont  \ 
Written  by  <  and  I  Gent. 

{.     John  Fletcher.  J 

The  second  Impression,  corrected,  and  amended.  London,  Printed/or  Thomas  Walkley, 
and  are  to  be  solde  at  Mi  shoppe,  at  the  signe  of  the  Eagle  and  Childe,  in  Brittaines  Bursse. 
1022.  4to. 

Philaster,  &c.  &c.  Tlte  third  Impression.  London,  Printed  by  A.  M.  for  Richard 
Hawkins,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  Shop  in  Chancery-lane,  adioyning  to  Sarjeants  Innc  gate. 
1628.  4to. 

Philaster,  &c.  &c.  The  fourth  Impression.  London,  Printed  by  W.  I.  for  Richard 
Hawkins,  &c.  1634,  4to. 

Philaster,  Itc.  &c.  The  fourth  Impression.  London,  Printed  by  E.  Grijffin  for  William 
Leak,  &c.    1639,  4to.    An  edition  distinct  from  that  last  mentioned. 

Philaster,  &c.  &c.  The  ffth  Impression.  London  :  Printed  for  William  Leake,  &c. 
16.52.  4to. 

Another  Impression,  also  called  The  fifth,  1652,  4to,  and  a  Sixth  edition,  n.  d.  4to.,  are 
mentioned  in  some  dramatic  catalogues,  but  I  have  not  seen  them. 

Philastrr  is  in  the  folio  of  1679. 


"  Philaster,"  says  Malone,  "  had  appeared  on  the  stage  before  1611, 
being  mentioned  by  John  Davies  of  Hereford,  in  his  Epigrams  %  which 
have  no  date,  but  were  published  according  to  Oldys  in  or  about  that 
year.  Dryden  mentions  a  tradition  (which  he  might  have  received  from 
Sir  William  D'Avenant),  that  Philaster  was  the  first  play  by  which 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  acquired  reputation,  and  that  they  had  written 
two  or  three  less  successful  pieces,  before  Philaster  appeared.  From  a 
prologue  *•  of  D'Avenant's  their  first  production  should  seem  to  have  been 
exhibited  about  the  year  1605.  Philaster,  therefore,  it  may  be  presumed, 
was  represented  in  1608  or  1609."  Life  of  Shakespeare,  p.  453,  ed.  1821. 
Perhaps,  so ;  but  in  conjectures  of  this  kind  little  confidence  can  be 
placed. 

Philaster  was  undoubtedly  the  joint-essay  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  : 
concerning  their  respective  shares  in  its  composition  there  is,  I  think, 
much  uncertainty,  though  modem  critics  seem  to  agree  in  assigoing  the 
greater  portion  of  it  to  Beaumont's  pen. 

"  The  principal  incident  in  the  play,"  Weber  <=  observes,  "  the  disguise 
of  Euphrasia,  was  perhaps  suggested  to  the  poets  by  a  tale  in  the  Diana 

a  "  Additions  to  Langbaine's  Account  of  Dramatick  Poets,  M.S." — Oldy's  note  is  this — 
[Philaster]  "Written  ab'  the  year  1610.  See  in  Davis  his  Scourge  of  Folly  an  Epigram  on 
it." — The  miserable  epigram  to  which  he  alludes,  is  as  follows : 

"  TO  THE  WELL  DESERUING  MR.  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

EPIG.  206. 
Loue  lies  ableeding,  if  it  should  not  proue 
Her  vtmost  art  to  shew  why  it  doth  loue, 
Thou  being  the  Subiect  (now)  it  raignes  vpon  ; 
Raign'st  in  Arte,  Judgement,  and  Inuention  : 
For  this  I  loue  thee ;  and  can  doe  no  lesse 
For  thine  as  faire,  as  faithfull  Sheepheardesse." 

Scourge  of  Folly,  n.  d.  p.  98. 
b  To  The  Woman-Hater :  see  p.  viii.  of  the  present  volume.    Davenant,  however,  as  Weber 
remarks,  speaks  of  Fletcher  singly. 

c  He  also  observes  that  "  the  disguise  of  Viola  in  the  Twelfth  Night  of  Shakespeare  may 
possibly  have  been  suggested  by  Philaster,"  &c. :  but,  since  Weber  wrote,  evidence  has  been 
adduced  to  prove  that  theiormer  play  was  acted  before  1602.  See  Collier's  Hist,  of  Engl. 
Dram.  Poet-  i.  32?. 


200 

of  Montemaj'or,  a  work  which  had  been  translated  by  Bartholomew 
Young,  in  1583,  and  which  was  very  popular  in  those  days.  One  of  the 
heroines,  FcUisarda,  follows  her  lover,  Don  Felix,  to  the  capital,  where, 
discovering  his  passion  for  Celia,  one  of  the  court-ladies,  she  engages 
herself  to  him  as  a  page,  and  in  this  capacity  she  is  employed  in  carrying 
on  the  love  intrigues  of  Celia  and  her  master.  The  rest  of  the  story, 
however,  bears  no  resemblance  to  the  remainder  of  the  plot  of  Philaster." 

"  The  character  of  Bellario,"  says  Lamb,  "  must  have  been  extremely 
popular  in  its  day.  For  many  years  after  the  date  of  Philaster's  first 
exhibition  on  the  stage,  scarce  a  piny  can  be  found  without  one  of  these 
women-pages  in  it,  following  m  the  train  of  some  pre-engaged  lover,"  &c. 
Spec,  of  Dram.  Poets.,  p.  863.    A  remark  thrown  out  somewhat  at  random. 

Philaster  continued  to  be  received  with  great  applause  till  puritanism 
had  silenced  the  stage. 

Tlie  4th  scene  of  the  5th  act,  under  the  title  of  The  Club-men,  was  one 
of  the  drolls  (comic  portions  of  various  favourite  plays),  which,  during 
the  suppression  of  the  theatres,  were  performed  at  the  Red  Bull,  at 
Bartholomew  -fair,  at  country-fairs,  &c.,  being  "  allowed,  and  that  but 
by  stealth  too,  and  under  the  pretence  of  rope-dancing  or  the  like." 
Robert  Cox,  a  celebmted  comedian,  "  was  not  only  the  principal  actor, 
but  also  the  contriver  and  author  of  most  of  these  farces."  See  the 
collection  by  Kirkman,  entitled  T/te  Wits,  or  Sport  upon  Sport,  Part 
First,  1072,  (Preface,  and  p.  83.)"*. 

The  following  ballad,  founded  on  the  present  drama,  is  one  of  the 
"  Songs""  in  A  Royal  Arbor  of  Loyal  Poesie,  &c.  by  Thomas  Jordan, 
1664.  It  was  doubtless  written  several  years  anterior  to  that  date,  and 
while  theatrical  entertainments  were  prohibited. 

"  LOVE    IN    LANGUISHMENT. 

Tlne — Have  I  not  lov'd  thee  much  and  long. 

1. 
You  to  whom  melting  hearts  belong, 

That  Lovers  woes  bewail, 
Aud  would  not  have  true  love  take  wrong, 

Attcixl  unto  my  tale. 
The  like  to  this  is  seldom  known  ; 
'Twill  make  your  very  souls  to  groau, 
As  if  the  ca.sc  were  all  your  own. 

•I  Kirkman.  by  an  oversight,  states  in  the  Catalogue  at  the  end  of  the  vol.,  that  T)ic  Club- 
nti-n  ig  taken  from  CHjiiiCii  Rfvewic,  and  that  the  droll,  which  is  derived  from  the  latter  i)lay, 
i.s'a  portion  of  Philntlcr. 

«  These  "  Songs  "  are,  I  believe,  appended  only  to  some  copies  of  the  work. 


201 


A  great  man  late  a  Daughter  had. 
Which  now  may  not  be  nam'd  : 

She  had  two  Suitors,  good  and  bad, 
Both  by  her  eyes  inflam'd  ; 

But  young  Philaster  was  his  Name, 

A  Gentleman  of  noble  fame. 

That  her  affections  overcame. 

3. 

The  tother  was  her  fathers  choice, 

Antonio  he  was  call'd. 
Who  with  her  feature,  youth  and  voice 

Was  very  much  uithrall'd  ; 
And  though  her  Father  bid  her  she 
Should  to  Antonio's  suit  agree, 
She  cries,  Philaster  is  for  me, 

4. 

One  day  Philaster  liavujg  walkt 

Close  by  a  River  side. 
He  found  a  pretty  boy  that  talkt 

Unto  hunself,  and  cry'd. 
Could  I  but  now  a  master  view. 
To  give  my  tender  youth  its  due, 
I  would  appear  a  Servant  true. 


Philaster  entertain'd  him  straight. 

And  sent  him  to  Ills  Love, 
That  he  with  her  might  live  and  wait. 

And  'twixt  each  other  move  : 
His  pretty  face  did  so  engage. 
She  lookt  upon  his  tender  age 
More  like  a  brother  then  a  Page. 


Betwixt  them  he  so  often  went 

With  letters  to  and  fro, 
That  it  gave  cause  of  discontent 

To  young  Antonio ; 
Who  'cause  he  could  not  have  his  swinge. 
But  all  his  love  was  off  the  hinge. 
He  secretly  doth  vow  i-evenge. 


202 


rhylaster  and  the  Lady  now, 

By  Cupids  great  command, 
Are  by  the  Priest  with  holy  vow 

United  hand  in  hand  ; 
But  when  the  bonds  of  love  were  seal'd. 
And  that  their  fears  were  quite  expell'd, 
Their  marriage  joyes  were  all  reveal'd. 


Her  father  apprehends  him  strait 
For  stealing  of  his  Heir  ; 

He's  hurried  to  the  prison-gate, 
And  she  left  in  despair  : 

Antonio  makes  false  witness  swear 

That  foi-nication  did  appear 

One  day  betwixt  the  boy  and  her. 

9. 

For  which  they  both  by  course  of  law 

Are  to  the  prison  sent ; 
Her  father  which  did  thither  draw 

Her  love  doth  now  lament : 
Phylaster  hearing  this,  quoth  he, 
Must  I  thus  lose  my  life  for  she 
That's  taken  in  Adultery  ! 

10. 

The  Ladies  tears  not  guilty  prove, 

Each  eye  so  overflows, 
To  think  her  Honour  and  her  Love 

She  in  one  hour  should  lose  : 
Justice  against  them  doth  proceed, 
Two  must  be  punisht,  tother  bleed  : 
Love  lies  a  bleeding  now  indeed. 


11. 

The  Boy  cryes  out,  you  do  amiss. 

For  you  do  all  mistake, 
I  am  a  Virgin  and  did  this 

For  young  Antonio's  sake  ; 
This  Suit  which  now  you  see  me  wear, 
And  all  the  course  which  I  did  steer. 
Was  'cause  he  should  not  marry  her. 


203 


12. 


Antonio  knows  her,  and  doth  vow 

He'l  marry  none  but  she  ; 
Phylaster  takes  his  Love,  and  now 

The  Father  doth  agree  : 
Their  lives  were  near  the  push  of  pike, 
But  now  embrace  and  soft  hands  strike : 
May  all  true  Lovers  do  the  like !" 

After  the  Restoration,  Philaster  again  enjoyed  the  highest  popularity  : 
"  and  this  Play  was  One  of  those  that  were  represented  at  the  old 
Theatre  in  Lincolns-Inn-Fields,  when  the  Women  acted  alone."  Lang- 
baine's  Account  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poets,  p.  213  ^ 

In  1695,  Philaster  "  Revis'd,  and  the  Two  last  Acts  new  "Written  "  by 
Elkanah  Settle,  was  produced  at  the  Theatre  Royal :  "  the  alterations," 
says  the  Biog.  Dram.,  "  were  not  improvements,  and  the  piece  had  no 
success." 

The  Restauration ;  or,  Right  will  take  Place.  A  Tragicomedy. 
Written  by  George  Villiers,  late  Duke  of  Buckingham.  From  the  Original 
Copy,  never  before  Printed,  1714,  forms  part  of  the  first  volume  of  that 
nobleman's  Works,  and  is  nothing  more  than  an  alteration  of  Philaster, 
the  names  of  the  dramatis  personse  bemg  entirely  changed.  The  title 
seems  intended  as  a  sort  of  compliment  to  Charles  the  Second ;  but  the 
play  itself,  as  far  as  I  can  discover,  contains  no  political  allusions.  In  all 
probability  it  was  not  written  by  the  Duke,  and  appears  never  to  have 
been  brought  upon  the  stage. 

In  1763,  Philaster  "  with  alterations"  by  the  elder  Colman  was  per- 
formed with  much  applause  at  Drury-lane  theatre.  A  portion  of  his 
Prologue,  (which,  according  to  the  Biog.  Dram.,  "  has  been  both  greatly 
admired  and  criticised,")  is  as  follows : 

*'  While  modern  tragedy,  by  rule  exact, 
Spins  out  a  thin-wTought  fable,  act  by  act, 
We  dare  to  bring  you  one  of  those  bold  plays 
Wrote  by  rough  English  wits  in  former  days, 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ;  those  twin  stars  that  run 
Their  glorious  course  round  Shakespeare's  golden  sun, 
Or  when  Philaster  Hamlet's  place  suppHed, 
Or  Bessus  walk'd  the  stage  by  FalstafiPs  side. 

f  He  adds  "The  Prologue  and  Epilogue  were  spoken  by  Mrs.  Marshal,  and  printed  in 
Covent-garden  Drollery,  p.  18."— The  Editors  of  1778  are  mistaken  in  saying  that  the  Prologue 
for  this  occasion  was  written  by  Dryden. 


204 


Their  souls,  well  pair'd,  shot  fire  in  mingled  rays, 

Their  hands  together  twin'd  the  social  bays, 

Till  fashion  drove,  in  a  refining  age, 

Virtue  from  court,  and  nature  from  the  stage. 

Then  nonsense,  in  heroics,  seem'd  sublime  ; 

Kings  rav'd  in  couplets,  and  maids  sigh'd  in  rhj-me. 

Next,  prim,  and  trim,  and  delicate,  and  chaste, 

A  hash  from  Greece  and  France,  came  modem  taste : 

Cold  are  her  sons,  and  so  afraid  of  dealing 

In  rant  and  fustian,  they  ne'er  rise  to  feeling. 

0  say,  ye  bards  of  phlegm,  say,  where's  the  name 

That  can  with  Fletcher  urge  a  rival  claim  ? 

Say,  where's  the  poet,  train'd  in  pedant  schools. 

Equal  to  Shakespeare,  who  o'erleapt  all  rules  ? " 


TO  THE  READER 


Courteous  Reader, — Philaster  and  Arethusa  his  love  have 
lain  so  long  a-bleeding,  by  reason  of  some  dangerous  and 
gaping  virounds  which  they  received  in  the  first  impression, 
that  it  is  wondered  how  they  could  go  abroad  so  long,  or 
travel  so  far,  as  they  have  done.  Although  they  were  hurt 
neither  by  me  nor  the  printer,  yet  I  knowing  and  finding  by 
experience  how  many  well-wishers  they  have  abroad,  have 
adventured  to  bind  up  their  wounds,  and  to  enable  them  to  visit, 
upon  better  terms,  such  friends  of  theirs  as  were  pleased  to 
take  knowledge  of  them  so  maimed  and  deformed  as  they  at 
the  first  were  ;  and  if  they  were  then  gracious  in  your  sight, 
assuredly  they  will  now  find  double  favour,  being  reformed, 
and  set  forth  suitable  to  their  birth  and  breeding,  by  your 
serviceable  friend, 

Thomas  Walkley. 

s  Prefixed  to  4to.  1622. 


THE    STATIONER*"    TO    THE    UNDERSTANDING 
GENTRY. 


This  play,  so  affectionately  taken  and  approved  by  the 
seeing  auditors  or  hearing  spectators  (of  which  sort  I  take  or 
conceive  you  to  be  the  greatest  part),  hath  received  (as 
appears  by  the  copious  vent  of  two  editions)  no  less  acceptance 
with  improvement  of  you  likewise  the  readers,  albeit  the  first 
impression  swarmed  with  errors,  proving  itself  like  pure  gold, 
which,  the  more  it  hath  been  tried  and  refined,  the  better  is 
esteemed.  The  best  poems  of  this  kind  in  the  first  presenta- 
tion resemble  that  all-tempting  mineral  newly  digged  up, 
the  actors  being  only  the  labouring  miners,  but  you  the 
skiful  triers  and  refiners :  now,  considering  how  current  this 
hath  passed  under  the  infallible  stamp  of  your  judicious 
censure  and  applause,  and  (hke  a  gainful  office  in  this  age) 
eagerly  sought  for,  not  only  by  those  that  have  heard  and 
seen  it,  but  by  others  that  have  merely  heard  thereof ;  here 
you  behold  me  acting  the  merchant-adventurer's  part,  yet  as 
well  for  their  satisfaction  as  mine  own  benefit;  and  if  my 
hopes  (which,  I  hope,  shall  never  lie  like  this  Love  a-bleeding) 
do  fairly  arrive  at  their  intended  haven,  I  shall  then  be  ready 
to  lade  a  new  bottom,  and  set  forth  again,  to  gain  the  good 
will  both  of  you  and  them.  To  whom  respectively  I  convey 
this  hearty  greeting :  Adieu. 

h  Prefixed  to  4to.  1628. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


King. 

PHii.ASTER,heirto  the  crown  of  Sicily. 

Pharamoxd,  prince  of  Spain. 

Dion,  a  lord. 

Cleremont. 

Thrasiline. 

An  old  Captain. 

Citizens. 

A  country-fellow. 

Two  Woodmen. 

Guard,  Attendants. 


Arethusa,  daughter  to  the  King. 

Euphrasia,  daughter  to  Dion,  dis- 
guised as  a  page  under  the  name  of 
Bellario. 

Megra,  a  court-lady. 

Galatea,  a  lady  attending  the  prin- 
cess. 

Two  other  Ladies. 


Scene,  Messina  and  its  neighbourhood. 


PHILASTER. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — The  Presence-Chamber  in  the  Palace. 


Enter  Dion,  Cleremont,  and  Thrasiline. 

Cle.  Here's  nor  lords  nor  ladies. 

Dion.  Credit  me,  gentlemen,  I  wonder  at  it.  They  received 
strict  charge  from  the  King  to  attend  here  :  besides,  it  was 
boldly '  published,  that  no  officer  should  forbid  any  gentlemen 
that  desired  •■  to  attend  and  hear. 

Cle.  Can  you  guess  the  cause  ? 

Dion.  Sir,  it  is  plain,  about  the  Spanish  prince,  that''s  come 
to  marry  our  kingdom''s  heir  and  be  our  sovereign. 

Thra.  Many,  that  will  seem  to  know  much,  say  she  looks 
not  on  him  like  a  maid  in  love. 

Dion.  Oh,  sir,  the  multitude,  that  seldom  know  any  thing 
but  their  own  opinions,  speak  that  they  would  have  ;  but  the 
prince,  before  his  own  approach,  received  so  many  confident 
messages  from  the  state,  that  I  think  she''s  resolved  to  be 
ruled, 

Cle.  Sir,  it  is  thought,  with  her  he  shall  enjoy  both  these 
kingdoms  of  Sicily  and  Calabria. 

Dion.  Sir,  it  is  without  controversy  so  meant.  But  'twill 
be  a  troublesome  labour  for  him  to  enjoy  both  these  kingdoms 

•  boldly']  Altered  unnecessarily  by  Seward  to  "  loudly." 
desired]  So  4tos.  1622,  1628.     Later  eds.  "desii-e."     In  4to.   1620,  the 
opening  scene  (as  I  have  already  noticed)  is  entirely  different  from  the  present. 
VOL.  I.  P 


210  PIIILASTER.  [act  i, 

with  safety,  the  right  "^  heir  to  one  of  them  living,  and  living 
so  virtuously ;  especially,  the  people  admiring  the  bravery  of 
his  mind  and  lamenting  his  injuries. 

Oe.  Who,  Philaster  I 

Dion.  Yes ;  whose  father,  we  all  know,  was  by  our  late 
king  of  Calabria  unrighteously  deposed  from  his  fruitful 
Sicily.  Myself  drew  some  blood  in  those  wars,  which  I  would 
give  my  hand  to  be  washed  from. 

Cle.  Sir,  my  ignorance  in  state-policy  will  not  let  me  know 
why,  Philaster  being  heir  to  one  of  these  kingdoms,  the  King 
should  suffer  him  to  walk  abroad  with  such  free  liberty. 

Dion.  Sir,  it  seems  your  nature  is  more  constant  than  to 
inquire  after  state-news.  But  the  King,  of  late,  made  a 
hazard  of  both  the  kingdoms,  of  Sicily  and  his  own,  with 
offering  but  to  imprison  Philaster ;  at  which  the  city  was  in 
arms,  not  to  be  charmed  down  by  any  state-order  or  procla- 
mation, till  they  saw  Philaster  ride  through  the  streets 
pleased '  and  without  a  guard ;  at  which  they  threw  their 
hats  and  their  arms  from  them  ;  some  to  make  bonfires,  some 
to  drink,  all  for  his  deliverance  :  which  wise  men  say  is  the 
cause  the  King  labours  to  bring  in  the  power  of  a  foreign 
nation  to  awe  his  own  with. 

Enter  Galatea,  a  Lady,  and  ]\Iegra  '". 
Thru.  See,  the  ladies  !     What's  the  first  ? 
Dion.  A  wise  and  modest  gentlewoman  that  attends  the 
princess. 

k  right'\  Altered  in  Weber's  ed.  to  "  rightful." 

'  pleased^  Can  the  true  reading  be  "  released  "  ? 

"  Enter  Galatea,  a  Lady,  and  Megra]  The  old  eds.  have  "  Enter  Galatea, 
Mcgia,  and  a  Lady  ;"  and,  in  the  dialogue  which  precedes  the  entrance  of  the 
Kin'x,  they  assign  to  "  La."  the  speeches  now  given  to  Megi-a,  while  tliey  prefix 
"  Meg."  to  those  now  appropriated  to  the  Lady. 

"  I  have  made  a  transposition  in  the  speakers,  liere,  from  the  following  accu- 
rate criticism  of  Mr.  Seward." — TnEoiiALD.  "  The  character  given  of  the  last 
of  these  three  ladies  so  exactly  suits  Megra,  and  all  the  speeches  which  the 
anonymous  Lady  speaks,  her  excessive  fondness  for  the  courtship  of  men,  and  of 
foreigners  in  particuhr  •,  are  so  entirely  in  her  strain,  that  I  am  pei-suadcd  she 

*  e.  g.  •'  Wliy,  if  they  should,  I  sny,  they  were  never  abroad  :  what  foreigner  would  do 
so?  if  writes  them  directly  untravellcd."     p.  l'12. 

"  Hut  eye  yon  Btrangcr ;  ib  hu  not  a  fine  complete  gentleman  ?  Oh,  these  strangers,  I  do 
affect  them  strangely ! "  &c.    p.  220. 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  .  211 

ae.  The  second  ? 

Dion.  She  is  one  that  may  stand  still  discreetly  enough, 
and  ill-favoured ly  dance  her  measure " ;  simper  when  she  is 
courted  by  her  friend,  and  slight  her  husband. 

has  been  unjustly  deprived  of  them.  It  is  not  the  custom  of  any  good  writer 
to  give  a  long  and  distinguishing  character  of,  and  to  make  a  person  the  chief 
speaker  in  any  scene,  who  is  a  meer  cipher  in  the  whole  play  besides  ;  par- 
ticularly,  when  there  is  another  in  the  same  scene,  to  whom  both  the  character 
and  the  speeches  exactly  correspond.  I  should  guess  it  to  have  been  some 
jumble  of  the  players  ;  she,  who  acted  Megra,  having  given  up  so  much  of  her 
part  to  initiate  some  younger  actress.     The  entrance  should  have  been  thus 

regulated  : 

Enter  Galatea,  a  Lady,  and  Megra, 
and  all  the  speeches  of  the  two  latter  transposed."     Seward. 

"  Had  Mr.  Seward  been  altering  this  play  for  representation,  his  right  to 
make  this  transposition  would  certainly  be  allowable,  but  is  not  as  an  editor. 
It  was,  however,  necessary  to  mention  his  conjecture.  The  person  here 
speaking  is  doubtless  the  old  wanton  lady,  or  crony  Icronel ,  whose  chai-acter  is 
left  out  of  the  drama  in  Mr.  Theobald's  edition."  Editors  of  1778.  They 
accordingly  followed  the  old  eds.  So  did  Weber,  except  that  he  changed  the 
stage-dii'ection  to  "  Enter  Galatea,  Megra,  and  an  old  Lady." 

Seward  was  not  the  first  to  discover  the  error  of  the  old  editions  in  the 
present  scene.  When  Settle  altered  Philaster  in  1695  (see  p.  203),  he  omitted 
the  character  of  the  "  anonymous  Lady,"  and  assigned  ivhat  he  retained  of  her 
speeches  to  Megra  ;  and  the  author  of  The  Restauration,  an  alteration  of 
Philaster  (attributed  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  see  ibid.),  made  the  descrip- 
tion given  by  Dion,  "Marry,  I  think  she  is  one,"  &c.  apply  to  Alga,  who  answers 
to  the  Megra  of  the  original  play.  Indeed,  a  transposition  here  is  so  obviously 
necessary  that  (with  all  my  unwillingness  to  deviate  from  the  old  copies)  I 
should  assuredly  have  had  recourse  to  it,  even  if  it  had  never  been  suggested 
by  any  preceding  editor.  I  could  easily  point  out  other  early  dramas,  in  which, 
owing  to  some  blunder  of  the  transcriber  or  printer,  (not,  as  Seward  says,  to  "  some 
jumble  of  the  players,")  the  speeches  of  a  scene  are  wrongly  appropriated. 

In  the  Dramatis  Pei'sonae  of  the  old  eds.  (first  prefixed  to  4to.  1628, — long 
after  Beaumont's  death,  and  three  years  after  Fletcher's)  we  find, 
"  Megi'a,  a  Lasciuious  Lady. 
An  old  Wanton  Lady,  or  Croane"  ; 
but  the  second  of  these  "  Ladies  "  evidently  originated  in  some  mistake  of  the 
wi'iter  who  drew  up  the  list :  and  when  the  Editors  of  1778  pronounced  that 
"the  person  here  speaking  is  doubtless  the  old  wanton  lady,"  &c.,  they  must 
have  overlooked  Dion's  account  of  the  frail  one  in  question,  which  proves  that 
she  could  not  be  old.     In  act  ii.  sc.  2,  we  hear  of  "the  reverend  mother" 
( — compare  the  incidental  notice  in  The  Woman-Hater,"  You  maidens,  with 
your  mother  eke  ",  p.  58. — )  i.  e.  the  matron  who  held  at  court  the  situation 
of  Mother  of  the  Maids  :  should  it  be  conjectured  that  she  is  the  "  anonymous 
Lady "  of  the  old  eds.  who  figures  in  the  present  scene,  the  speech  of  Dion 
just  mentioned  (to  gay  nothing  of  other  strong  objections)  is  decisive  against 
the  supposition.  "  measure]  See  note  p.  166. 

P  2 


212  rillLASTER.  [act  i. 

Cle.  Tlic  last  ? 

Dion.  Marry,  I  think  she  is  one  whom  the  state  keeps  for 
the  agents  of  our  confederate  princes  :  she'll  cog  °  and  lie 
with  a  whole  army,  before  the  league  shall  break.  ITer  name 
is  common  through  the  kingdom,  and  the  trophies  of  her 
dishonour  advanced  beyond  Hercules''  Pillars.  She  loves  to 
try  the  several  constitutions  of  men's  bodies ;  and,  indeed,  has 
destroyed  the  worth  of  her  own  body  by  making  experiment 
upon  it  for  the  good  of  the  commonwealth. 

Cle.  She's  a  profitable  member. 

Meg.  Peace,  if  you  love  me  :  you  shall  see  these  gen- 
tlemen stand  their  ground  and  not  court  us. 

Gal.  What  if  they  should  ? 

La.   What  if  they  should  ! 

Mcrj.  Nay,  let  her  alone. — What  if  they  should  !  why,  if 
they  should,  I  say  they  were  never  abroad  :  what  foreigner 
would  do  so  ?  it  writes  them  directly  untravelled. 

Gal.  Why,  what  if  they  be  ? 

La.  What  if  they  be  ! 

Meg.  Good  madam,  let  her  go  on. — Mliat  if  they  be  !  why, 
if  they  be,  I  will  justify,  they  cannot  maintain  discourse  with 
a  judicious  lady,  nor  make  a  leg'\  nor  say  "  excuse  me."" 

Gal.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Meg.  Do  you  laugh,  madam  ? 

Dion.  Your  desires  upon  you,  ladies  ! 

Meg.  Then  you  must  sit  beside  us. 

Dion.  I  shall  sit  near  you  then,  lady, 

Meg.  Near  me,  perhaps  :  but  there's  a  lady  endures  no 
stranger ;  and  to  me  you  appear  a  very  strange  fellow. 

/ycr.  Methinks  he's  not  so  strange  ;  he  would  quickly  be 
acquainted. 

Tlira.  Peace,  the  King  ! 

Enter  King,  Piiaramond,  AnExnusA,  and  Attendants. 
King.  To  give  a  stronger  testimony  of  love 
Than  sickly  promises  (which  conmionly 
In  princes  find  both  birth  and  burial 
In  one  breath)  we  have  drawn  you,  worthy  sir, 

o  cog]  i.  o.  client,  falsify,  cajole.  p  leg]  i.  e.  bow. 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  213 

To  make  your  fair  endearments  to  our  daughter, 

And  worthy  services  known  to  our  subjects, 

Now  lov'd  and  wonder'd  at ;  next,  our  intent 

To  plant  you  deeply  our  immediate  heir 

Both  to  our  blood  and  kingdoms.     For  this  lady, 

(The  best  part  of  your  life,  as  you  confirm  me. 

And  I  believe,)  though  her  few  years  and  sex 

Yet  teach  her  nothing  but  her  fears  and  blushes, 

Desires  without  desire,  discourse  "^  and  knowledge 

Only  of  what  herself  is  to  herself, 

jMake  her  feel  moderate  health  ;  and  when  she  sleeps, 

In  making  no  ill  day,  knows  no  ill  dreams  : 

Think  not,  dear  sir,  these  undivided  parts. 

That  must  mould  up  a  virgin,  are  put  on 

To  shew  her  so,  as  borrowed  ornaments, 

To  speak  her  perfect  love  to  you,  or  add 

An  artificial  shadow  to  her  nature — 

No,  sir  ; 

I  boldly  dare  proclaim  her  yet  no  woman. 

But  woo  her  still,  and  think  her  modesty 

A  sweeter  mistress  than  the  offer 'd  language 

Of  any  dame,  were  she  a  queen,  whose  eye 

Speaks  common  loves  and  comforts  to  her  servants  ". 

Last,  noble  son  (for  so  I  now  must  call  you), 

What  I  have  done  thus  pubHc,  is  not  only 

To  add  a  comfort  in  particular 

1  discourse']  "  It  is  very  difficult  to  deteiinine  the  precise  meaning  which  our 
ancestors  gave  to  discourse  ;  or  to  distinguish  the  line  which  separated  it  from 
reason.  Perhaps,  it  indicated  a  more  rapid  deduction  of  consequences  from 
premises,  than  was  supposed  to  be  effected  by  reason : — but  I  speak  with 
hesitation.  The  acute  Glanville  says, '  The  act  of  the  mind  which  connects 
propositions,  and  deduceth  conclusions  from  them,  the  schools  call  discourse, 
and  we  shall  not  miscall  it,  if  we  name  it  reason.'  Whatever  be  the  sense,  it 
frequently  appears  in  our  old  vvritei-s,  by  whom  it  is  usually  coupled  with  reason 
or  judgment,  which  last  should  seem  to  be  the  more  proper  word."  Note 
on  Massiuger's  IVorks  i.  148.  ed.  1813.  When  Gilford  added  that  in  the  well- 
knowTi  passage  of  Hamlet,  "  a  beast,  that  w^ants  discourse  of  reason,"  we  must 
read  "  discourse  and  reason,"  he  was  certainly  mistaken  :  see  Boswell's  note, 
Malone's  Shakespeare,  A-ii.  206. 

"■  servants]  i.  e.  lovers  (the  title  which  ladies  foinnerly  bestowed  on  their 
professed  and  authorised  admirers). 


2U  PHILASTER.  [act  i. 

To  you  or  mc,  but  all ;  and  to  confirm 
The  nobles  and  the  gentry  of  these  kingdoms 
By  oath  to  your  succession,  which  shall  be 
Within  this  month  at  most. 

Thru.  This  will  be  hardly  done. 

Clc.  It  must  be  ill  done,  if  it  be  done. 

Dion.  When  'tis  at  best,  'twill  be  but  half  done,  whilst 
So  brave  a  gentleman  is  wrong'd  and  flung  off. 

Thra.  I  fear. 

Cle.  Who  does  not  ? 

Dion.  I  fear  not  for  myself,  and  yet  I  fear  too  : 
Well,  we  shall  see,  we  shall  see.     No  more. 

Pha.  Kissing  your  white  hand,  mistress,  I  take  leave 
To  thank  your  royal  father  ;  and  thus  far 
To  be  my  own  free  trumpet.     Understand, 
Great  King,  and  these  your  subjects,  mine  that  must  be, 
(For  so  deserving  you  have  spoke  me,  sir, 
And  so  deserving  I  dare  speak  myself,) 
To  what  a  person,  of  what  eminence, 
llipe  expectation,  of  what  faculties, 
jNIanners  and  virtues,  you  would  wed  your  kingdoms ; 
You  in  me  have  your  wishes.     Oh,  this  country  ! 
By  more  than  all  my  hopes,  I  hold  it  happy  ; 
Happy  in  their  dear  memories  that  have  been 
Kings  great  and  good  ;  happy  in  yours  that  is ; 
And  from  you  (as  a  chronicle  to  keep 
Your  noble  name  from  eating  age)  do  I 
Opine  myself  "^  most  happy.     Gentlemen, 
lielieve  me  in  a  word,  a  prince"'s  word, 
There  shall  be  nothing  to  make  up  a  kingdom 
Mighty,  and  flourishing,  defenccd,  fear'd, 
Eipial  to  bo  commanded  and  obey'd, 
Jiut  through  the  travails  of  my  life  I'll  find  it, 
And  tic  it  to  this  country.     And  I  vow 
My  reign  shall  bo  so  easy  to  the  subject, 

'  opine  myself]  Theobald  gave,  from  Seward's  conjecture,  "  Opine  it  in 
myself."  The  Editors  of  1778  adoi)ted  the  misprint  of  the  4tos.,  "  Open 
myself"  1     Mason  proposes,  strangely  enough,  "  Hope  in  myself." 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  215 

That  every  man  shall  be  his  prince  himself 

And  his  owti  law — yet  I  his  prince  and  law. 

And,  dearest  lady,  to  your  dearest  self 

(Dear  in  the  choice  of  him  whose  name  and  lustre 

Must  make  you  more  and  mightier)  let  me  say, 

You  are  the  blessed'st  living ;  for,  sweet  princess, 

You  shall  enjoy  a  man  of  men  to  be 

Your  servant ;  you  shall  make  him  yours,  for  whom 

Great  queens  must  die. 

Thra.  JNIiraculous  ! 

Cle.  This  speech  ^  calls  him  Spaniard,  being  nothing  but  a 
large  inventory  of  his  own  commendations. 

Dion.  I  wonder  what's  his  price ;  for  certainly 
He'll  sell  himself,  he  has  so  prais'd  his  shape. 
But  here  comes  one  more  worthy  those  large  speeches, 

Enter  Philaster. 
Than  the  large  speaker  of  them. 
Let  me  be  swallowM  quick  *,  if  I  can  find, 
In  all  the  anatomy  of  yon  man's  virtues, 
One  sinew  sound  enough  to  promise  for  him. 
He  shall  be  constable.     By  this  sun,  he'll  ne'er  make  king 
Unless  it  be  for  "  trifles,  in  my  poor  judgment. 

Phi.  \]i7ieeling.'\  Right  noble  sir,  as  low  as  my  obedience, 
And  with  a  heart  as  loyal  as  my  knee, 
I  beg  your  favour. 

King.  Rise  ;  you  have  it,  sir.  [Philaster  rises. 

Dion.  Mark  but  the  King,  how  pale  he  looks  with  fear  ! 
Oh,  this  same  whorson  conscience  '',  how  it  jades  us  ! 

King.  Speak  yom*  intents,  sir. 

*  Cle.  This  speech,  ^c]  Perhaps  intended  for  loose  metre  : 
"  This  speech 
Calls  him  Spaniard,  being  nothing  but  a  large 
Inventory  of  his  own  commendations." 
'  quick']  i.  e.  alive. 

>■  for]  Qtos,  1620,  1622,  1628  "of"  ;  which  Theobald  gave. 
"  Oh,  this  same  ivhorson  conscience,  how  it  jades  us .']    "  This  sentiment 
Shakespeare  has  finely,  and  as  concisely,  expressed  in  his  Hamlet ; 
'  Tis  conscience  that  makes  cowards  of  us  all.'  " 

Theobald. 


216  PHIL  ASTER.  [act  i. 

Phi.  Shall  I  speak  ""em  freely  ? 
Be  still  my  royal  sovereign. 

King.  As  a  subject, 
We  give  you  freedom. 

Bion.  Now  it  heats. 

Phi.  Then  thus  I  turn 
My  language  to  you,  prince  ;  you,  foreign  man  ! 
Ne'er  stare  nor  put  on  wonder,  for  you  must 
Endure  me,  and  you  shall.     This  earth  you  tread  upon  " 
(A  dowry,  as  you  hope,  with  this  fair  princess), 
By  my  dead  father  (oh,  I  had  a  father, 
Whose  memory  I  bow  to  !)  was  not  left 
To  your  inheritance,  and  I  up  and  living — 
Having  myself  about  me  and  my  sword, 
The  souls  of  all  my  name  and  memories. 
These  arms  and  some  few  friends  beside  the  gods — 
To  part  so  calmly  with  it,  and  sit  still 
And  say,  "  I  might  have  been."     I  tell  thee,  Pharamond, 
AVhen  thou  art  king,  look  I  be  dead  and  rotten, 
And  my  name  ashes  :  for,  hear  me,  Pharamond  ! 
This  very  ground  thou  goest  on,  this  fat  earth, 
My  father's  friends  made  fertile  with  their  faiths. 
Before  that  day  of  shame  shall  gape  and  swallow 
Thee  and  thy  nation,  like  a  hungry  grave. 
Into  her  hidden  bowels ;  prince,  it  shall ; 
By  Nemesis,  it  shall ! 

Pha.  He's  mad ;  beyond  cure,  mad. 

Dion.  Here  is  a  fellow  has  some  fire  in's  veins  : 
The  outlandish  prince  looks  like  a  tooth-drawer. 

"   This  earth  you  tread  upon,  cjc]  Old  eds.  thus  : 
"  This  earth  you  tread  upon 
(A  dowTy  as  you  hope  with  this  fair  [sweet,  4to.  1620]  princess. 
Whose  memory  I  bow  to)  was  not  left 
By  my  dead  father  (Oh,  1  had  a  father) 
To  your  inheritance,"  &c. 
The  transposition  was  made  by  Seward,  who  confirms  it  by  cituig  the  foUowuig 
passage  from  the  commencement  of  The  Fahe  One  ; 

"  She  being  by  hcT  father's  testament 
{Whose  memory  I  bow  to),"  &c. 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  217 

Phi.  Sir  prince  of  popinjays ",  I'll  make  it  well 
Appear  to  you  I  am  not  mad. 

King.  You  displease  us  : 
You  are  too  bold. 

Phi.  No,  sir,  I  am  too  tame, 
Too  much  a  turtle,  a  thing  born  without  passion, 
A  faint  shadow,  that  every  drunken  cloud 
Sails  over,  and  makes  nothing. 

King.  I  do  not  fancy  this. 
Call  our  physicians  :  sure,  he's  somewhat  tainted. 

Thra.  I  do  not  think  'twill  prove  so. 

Dion.  H'as  given  him  a  general  purge  already, 
For  all  the  right  he  has  ;  and  now  he  means 
To  let  him  blood.     Be  constant,  gentlemen  : 
By  these  hilts,  I'll  run  his  hazard. 
Although  I  run  my  name  out  of  the  kingdom  ! 

Cle.  Peace,  we  are  all  one  soul. 

Pha.  What  you  have  seen  in  me  to  stir  offence, 
I  cannot  find,  unless  it  be  this  lady, 
Offer'd  into  mine  arms  with  the  succession  ; 
Which  I  must  keep,  (though  it  hath  pleas'd  your  fury 
To  mutiny  within  you,)  without  disputing 
Your  genealogies,  or  taking  knowledge 
Whose  branch  you  are :  the  King  will  leave  it  me. 
And  I  dare  make  it  mine.     You  have  your  answer. 

Phi.  If  thou  wert  sole  inheritor  to  him 
That  made  the  world  his  y,  and  couldst  see  no  sim 
Shine  upon  any  thing  but  thine  ;  were  Pharamond 
As  truly  valiant  as  I  feel  him  cold, 
And  ring'd  among  the  choicest  of  his  friends 
(Such  as  would  blush  to  talk  such  serious  follies, 
Or  back  such  bellied  commendations), 
And  from  this  presence,  spite  of  all  these  bugs  ^, 
You  should  hear  further  from  me. 

^  popinjays'\  i.  e.  parrots. 

y   That  made  the  world  his'\  "i.  e.  Alexander  the  Great."     Theobald. 

^  hugs\  i.  e.  terrors,  (goblins).  Settle,  in  his  alteration  of  the  play  (see  p. 
203),  substituted  "boasts,"  conceiving  that  "bugs"  was  here  equivalent  to 
"  bugs-words." 


218  PHILASTER.  [act  i. 

King.  Sir, 
You  wrong  the  prince  ;  I  gave  you  not  this  freedom 
To  brave  our  best  friends  :  you  deserve  our  frown. 
Go  to  ;  be  better  temperM. 

Phi.  It  must  be,  sir,  when  I  am  nobler  us"'d. 

Gal.  Ladies, 
This  would  have  been  a  pattern  of  succession  *, 
Had  he  ne'er  met  this  mischief.     By  my  life, 
He  is  the  worthiest  the  true  name  of  man 
This  day  within  my  knowledge. 

Meg.  I  cannot  tell  what  you  may  call  your  knowledge  ; 
But  the  other  is  the  man  set  in  mine  eye  : 
Oh,  "'tis  a  prince  of  wax  ^  ! 

Gal.  A  dog  it  is. 

King.  Philaster,  tell  me 
Tlie  injuries  you  aim  at  in  your  riddles. 

Phi.  If  you  had  my  eyes,  sir,  and  sufferance, 
My  griefs  upon  you  and  my  broken  fortunes, 
My  wants  great,  and  now  nought  but  hopes  and  fears, 
My  wrongs  would  make  ill  riddles  to  be  laugh'd  at. 
Dare  you  be  still  my  king,  and  right  me  not  \ 

King.  Give  me  your  wrongs  in  private. 

Phi.  Take  them, 
And  ease  me  of  a  load  would  bow  strong  Atlas. 

[  They  talk  apart. 

Cle.  He  dares  not  stand  the  shock. 

Dion.  I  cannot  blame  him;  there's  danger  in't.  Every 
man  in  this  age  has  not  a  soul  of  crystal,  for  all  men  to  read 
their  actions  through  :  men's  hearts  and  faces  are  so  far 
asunder,  that  they  hold  no  intelligence.  Do  but  view  yon 
stranger  well,  and  you  shall  see  a  fever  through  all  his 
bravery,  and  feel  him  shake  like  a  true  tenant  •■ :  if  lie  give 

•  a  pattern  of  succession]   "  i.  c.  a  pattern  to  succeeding  kings."     Theoiiai.d. 

•>  oftrn.r']  i.  e.  well  made,  as  if  he  had  been  modelled  in  wnx  :  sec  Steevcns's 
note  on  "  a  man  of  wax,"  Shakespeare's  Romeo  and  Juliet,  act  i.  sc.  3.  In  the 
words  of  Galatea,  "  A  dog  it  is,"  there  is  some  allusion  which  I  do  not  under- 
stand :  "  You'll  clap  a  dog  of  wax  as  soon,  old  Blurt,"  occurs  in  Jonsou's  Tale 
of  a  Tub — IVorks  vi.  150,  ed.  Gifford,  who  has  no  note  on  the  expression. 

'  true  tenant]  So  all  the  old  cds.,  except  4to.  1620,  which  has  "  true  tniant." 
Theobald  printed  "  true  recreant  "  ;  and  so  liis  successors.   I  am  not  satisfied  that 


SCENE  I.]  PHIL  ASTER.  219 

not  bcick  his  crown  again  upon  the  report  of  an  elder-gun,  I 
have  no  augury. 

King.  Go  to ; 
Be  more  yourself,  as  you  respect  our  favour  ; 
You'll  stir  us  else.     Sir,  I  must  have  you  know, 
That  you  are,  and  shall  be,  at  our  pleasure,  what 
Fashion  we  will  put  upon  you.     Smooth  your  brow, 
Or  by  the  gods 

Phi.  I  am  dead,  sir  ;  you're  my  fate.     It  was  not  I 
Said,  I  was  wronged :  I  carry  all  about  me 
My  weak  stars  lead  me  to,  all  my  weak  fortunes. 
Who  dares  in  all  this  presence  speak,  (that  is 
But  man  of  flesh,  and  may  be  mortal,)  tell  me, 
I  do  not  most  entirely  love  this  prince, 
And  honour  his  full  virtues  ! 

King.  Sure,  he's  possessed. 

Phi.  Yes,  with  my  father's  spirit.    It's  here,  O  King, 
A  dangerous  spirit !  now  he  tells  me,  King, 
I  was  a  king's  heir,  bids  me  be  a  king. 
And  whispers  to  me,  these  are  all  my  subjects. 
'Tis  strange  he  will  not  let  me  sleep,  but  dives 
Into  my  fancy,  and  there  gives  me  shapes 
That  kneel  and  do  me  service,  cry  me  king : 
But  I'll  suppress  him ;  he's  a  factious  spirit, 
And  will  undo  me.     Noble  sir,  your  hand  ; 
I  am  your  servant. 

King.  Away  !     I  do  not  like  this : 
I'll  make  you  tamer,  or  I'll  dispossess  you 
Both  of  your  "^  life  and  spirit.     For  this  time 
I  pardon  your  wild  speech,  without  so  much 
As  your  imprisonment. 

[Exeunt  King,  Pharamond,  Arethusa,  and  Attendants. 

"tenant  "  is  the  right  reading  ;  but  I  am  far  from  thinking  with  Theobald  that 
it  "  is  as  arrant  nonsense  as  ever  the  press  was  guilty  of :  "  see  what  immedi- 
ately follows  :  "  if  he  [shaking  like  a  true  tenant, — hke  one  who  has  only 
temporary  possession]  give  not  lack  his  ci-own,"  &c.  The  Rev.  J.  Mitford  con- 
jectures "true  tjTant." 

^  your"]  Found  only  in  4to.  1620.     Inserted  by  Theobald  from  conjecture. 


220  PHIL  ASTER.  [act  i. 

Diov.  I  thank  you,  sir  !  you  dare  not  for  the  people. 

Gal.  Ladies,  what  think  you  now  of  this  brave  fellow  I 

Meg.  A  pretty  talking  fellow,  hot  at  hand.  But  eye  yon 
stranger ;  is  he  not  a  fine  complete  gentleman  ?  Oh,  these 
strangers,  I  do  affect  them  strangely !  they  do  the  rarest 
home-things,  and  please  the  fullest  !  As  I  live,  I  could  love 
all  the  nation  over  and  over  for  his  sake. 

Gal  Pride ''  comfort  your  poor  head-piece,  lady  !  'tis  a  weak 
one,  and  had  need  of  a  night-cap. 

[Exeunt  Galatea,  Megra,  and  Lady. 

Dion.  See.  how  his  fancy  labours  I     Has  he  not 
Spoke  home  and  bravely  \  what  a  dangerous  train 
Did  he  give  fire  to  !  how  he  shook  the  King, 
Made  his  soul  melt  within  him,  and  his  blood 
Run  into  whey  !  it  stood  upon  his  brow 
Like  a  cold  winter-dew. 

Phi.  Gentlemen, 
You  have  no  suit  to  me  I     I  am  no  minion  : 
You  stand,  mcthinks,  like  men  that  would  be  courtiers, 
If  I  '^  could  well  be  flattered  at  a  price. 
Not  to  undo  your  children.     You're  all  honest : 
Go,  get  you  home  again,  and  make  your  country 
A  virtuous  court,  to  which  your  great  ones  may, 
In  their  discas'd  age,  retire  and  live  recluse. 

Cle.  How  do  you,  worthy  sir  I 

Phi.  Well,  very  well ; 
And  so  well  that,  if  the  King  please,  I  find 
I  may  live  many  years. 

Dion.  The  King  must  please, 
AMiilst  we  know  what  you  are  and  who  you  are, 


•'  Pride]  Theobald  gave  from  the  earlier  4t03.  "  Gods." 

•  /]  Old  eds.  "  you." — "  I  cannot  discover  any  sense  in  this  passage  as  it 
stands,  but  believe  we  should  read, '  If  /  could  well  be  flatter'd,'  instead  of, 
•  If  yo7i,'  and  then  the  meaning  will  be, '  You  look  as  if  you  could  be  \\illing 
to  pay  your  court  to  me,  if  you  could  do  so  without  hazarding  the  fortunes  of 
your  families  by  offending  the  king.'  "  Mason.  The  error  probably  arose  from 
the  eye  of  the  original  compositor  having  caught  the  initial  word  of  the  two 
preceding  lines. 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  221 

Your  wrongs  and  virtues  f.     Shrink  not,  worthy  sir, 
But  add  your  father  to  you  ;  in  whose  name 
We'll  waken  all  the  gods,  and  conjure  up 
The  rods  of  vengeance,  the  abused  people, 
Who,  like  to  raging  torrents,  shall  swell  high. 
And  so  begirt  the  dens  of  these  male-dragons ", 
That,  through  the  strongest  safety,  they  shall  beg 
For  mercy  at  your  sword's  point. 

Phi.  Friends,  no  more  ; 
Our  ears  may  be  corrupted  :  His  an  age 
We  dare  not  trust  our  wills  to.     Do  you  love  me  ? 

TJira.  Do  we  love  heaven  and  honour  I 

Phi.  My  lord  Dion,  you  had 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman  calFd  you  father  ; 
Is  she  yet  ahve  ] 

Dion.  INIost  honoured  sir,  she  is  ; 
And,  for  the  penance  but  of  an  idle  dream. 
Has  undertook  a  tedious  pilgrimage. 

Enter  a  Lady. 

Phi.  Is  it  to  me. 
Or  any  of  these  gentlemen,  you  come  ? 

Lady.  To  you,  brave  lord  ;  the  princess  would  entreat 
Your  present  company. 

Phi.  The  princess  send  for  me  !  you  are  mistaken. 

Lady-.  If  you  be  calFd  Philaster,  'tis  to  you. 

Phi.  Kiss  her  fair  hand,  and  say  I  will  attend  her. 

[  Exit  Lady. 

Dion.  Do  you  know  what  you  do  ? 

Phi.  Yes ;  go  to  see  a  w^oman. 

Cle.  But  do  you  w-eigh  the  danger  you  are  in  ? 

*  virtues'^  So  4to.  1620.  Other  eds.  "injuries;"  and  so  the  modern  editors. 
I  may  just  notice  that  the  author  of  The  Restauration,  an  aUeration  of 
Philaster  (attributed  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  see  p.  203),  substituted 
"  merits  "  for  "  injuries." 

^  male-dragons']  So  all  the  old  eds.,  with  a  hyphen.  Richai'dson  {Diet,  in  v.) 
cites  the  present  passage  as  an  example  of  male  in  the  sense  of  masculine  ; 
rightly,  perhaps  :  "  male-griffin  "  is  an  heraldic  term  ;  and  see  Spenser's  Works, 
vi.  277.  ed.  Todd.    A  fi'iend  suggests  that  male  here  means  evil. 


222  nilLASTER.  [act  i. 

Phi.  Danger  in  a  sweet  face  ! 
By  Jupiter,  I  must  not  fear  a  woman  ! 

Thra.  But  arc  you  sure  it  was  the  princess  sent  ? 
It  may  be  some  foul  train  to  catch  your  life. 

Phi.  I  do  not  think  it,  gentlemen;   shc"'s  noble. 
Her  eye  may  shoot  me  dead,  or  those  true  red 
And  white  friends  in  her  cheeks ''  may  steal  my  soul  out ; 
There's  all  the  danger  in't :  but,  be  what  may, 
Her  single  name  hath  armed  me.  \^Exit. 

Dion.  Go  on. 
And  be  as  truly  happy  as  thou'rt  fearless  ! — 
Come,  gentlemen,  let's  make  our  friends  acquainted, 
Lest  the  King  prove  false.  [^Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — Arethusa"'s  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Arethusa  and  a  Lady. 

Are.  Comes  he  not  ? 

Ladi/.  Madam? 

Are.  Will  Philaster  come  ? 

Lady.  Dear  madam,  you  were  wont  to  credit  me 
At  first. 

Are.  But  didst  thou  tell  me  so  I 
I  am  forgetful,  and  my  woman's  strength 
Is  so  o'ercharg'd  with  dangers  like  to  grow 
About  my  marriage,  that  these  under-things 
Dare  not  abide  in  such  a  troubled  sea. 
How  look\l  he  when  he  told  thee  he  would  come  ? 

Lady.  Why,  well. 

Are.  And  not  a  little  fearful  ? 

Lady.  Fear,  madam  !  sure,  he  Icnows  not  what  it  is. 

Arc.  You  all  are  of  his  faction  ;  the  whole  court 
Is  l,.)l(l  in  praise  of  him  ;  whilst  I 
May  live  neglected,  and  do  noble  things. 
As  fools  in  strife  throw  gold  into  the  sea, 
Drown'd  in  the  doing.     But,  I  know  he  fears. 

••  cheeks'\  So  4tn.  1620.     Other  cds.  "  face  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors  : 
but  Phila&ter  ha.s  just  used  that  word. 


SCENE  II.]  PHILASTER.  223 

Lady.  Fear,  madam  !  methought,  his  looks  hid  more 
Of  love  than  fear. 

Are.  Of  love  !  to  whom  I  to  you  ? 
Did  you  deliver  those  plain  words  I  sent, 
With  such  a  winning  gesture  and  quick '  look 
That  you  have  caught  him  ? 

l.adij.  Madam,  I  mean  to  you. 

Are.  Of  love  to  me  !  alas,  thy  ignorance 
Lets  thee  not  see  the  crosses  of  our  births  ! 
Nature,  that  loves  not  to  be  questioned 
Why  she  did  this  or  that,  but  has  her  ends, 
And  knows  she  does  well,  never  gave  the  world 
Two  things  so  opposite,  so  contrary. 
As  he  and  T  am  :  if  a  bowl  of  blood. 
Drawn  from  this  arm  of  mine,  would  poison  thee, 
A  draught  of  his  would  cure  thee.     Of  love  to  me  ! 

Lady.  Madam,  I  think  I  hear  him. 

Ai-e.  Bring  him  in.  \^Exit  Lady. 

You  gods,  that  would  not  have  your  dooms  withstood, 
Whose  holy  wisdoms  at  this  time  it  is. 
To  make  the  passion  of  a  feeble  maid 
The  way  unto  your  justice,  I  obey. 

Re-enter  Lady  tcith  Philaster, 

Lady.  Here  is  my  lord  Philaster. 

Are.  Oh,  'tis  well. 
Withdraw  yourself.  [Exit  Lady. 

Phi.  Madam,  your  messenger 
Made  me  believe  you  wisliM  to  speak  with  me. 

Are.  'Tis  true,  Philaster  ;  but  the  words  are  such 
I  have  to  say,  and  do  so  ill  beseem 
The  mouth  of  woman,  that  I  wish  them  said. 
And  yet  am  loath  to  speak  them.     Have  you  known 
That  I  have  aught  detracted  from  your  worth  ? 
Have  I  in  person  wrong'd  you  ?  or  have  set 
My  baser  instruments  to  throw  disgrace 
Upon  your  virtues  ? 

Phi.  Never,  madam,  you. 

■  quick'\  i.  e.  lively. 


224  PHTLASTER.  [act  i. 

Arr.  Why,  then,  should  you,  in  such  a  public  place, 
Injure  a  princess,  and  a  scandal  lay 
Upon  my  fortunes,  famM  to  be  so  great. 
Calling  a  great  part  of  my  dowry  in  question  ? 

Phi.  Madam,  this  truth  which  1  shall  speak  will  be 
Foolish  :  but,  for  your  fair  and  virtuous  self, 
I  could  afford  myself  to  have  no  right 
To  any  thing  you  wish'd. 
Are.  Philaster,  know, 
I  must  enjoy  these  kingdoms. 
Phi.  Madam,  both  ? 

Are.  Both,  or  I  die ;  by  fate,  I  die,  Philaster, 
If  I  not  calmly  may  enjoy  them  both. 

Phi.  I  would  do  much  to  save  that  noble  life  ; 
Yet  would  be  loath  to  have  posterity 
Find  in  our  stories,  that  Philaster  gave 
His  right  unto  a  sceptre  and  a  crown 
To  save  a  lady's  longing. 
Are.  Nay  then,  hear  : 

I  must  and  will  have  them,  and  more 

Phi.  What  more  ? 

Are.  Or  lose  that  Uttle  life  the  gods  prepared 
To  trouble  this  poor  piece  of  earth  withal. 
Phi.  Madam,  what  more  I 
Are.  Turn,  then,  away  thy  face. 
Phi.  No. 
Are.  Do. 

Phi.  I  canJ  endure  it.     Turn  away  my  face  ! 
I  never  yet  saw  enemy  that  look'd 
So  dreadfully,  but  that  I  thought  myself 
As  great  a  basilisk  as  he ;  or  spake 
So  horribly,  but  that  I  thought  my  tongue 
Bore  thunder  underneath,  as  much  as  his ; 
Nor  beast  that  I  could  turn  from  :  shall  I  then 
Begin  to  fear  sweet  sounds  I  a  lady'^s  voice. 
Whom  I  do  love  ?     Say,  you  would  have  my  life ; 

i  can]  So  4tos.    1C20,    1G22.     Other   eds.    "cannot";   wliich    the  modern 
editors  give  ! 


SCENE  11.]  PHILASTER.  225 

Why,  I  will  give  it  you  ;  for  'tis  of  me 
A  thing  so  loatliM,  and  unto  you  that  ask 
Of  so  poor  use,  that  I  shall  make  no  price  : 
If  you  entreat,  I  will  unmovedly  hear. 

Are.  Yet,  for  my  sake,  a  little  bend  thy  looks. 
Phi.  I  do. 

Are.  Then  know,  I  must  have  them  and  thee. 
Phi.  And  me  I 

Are.  Thy  love  ;  without  which,  all  the  land 
Discovered  yet  will  serve  me  for  no  use 
But  to  be  buried  in. 
Phi.  Is't  possible  ? 

Are.  With  it,  it  were  too  little  to  bestow 
On  thee.     Now,  though  thy  breath  do  strike  me  dead, 
(Which,  know,  it  may,)  I  have  unript  my  breast. 

Phi.  Madam,  you  are  too  full  of  noble  thoughts 
To  lay  a  train  for  this  contemned  life. 
Which  you  may  have  for  asking  :  to  suspect 
Were  base,  where  I  deserve  no  ill.     Love  you  ! 
By  all  my  hopes,  I  do,  above  my  life  ! 
But  how  this  passion  should  proceed  from  you 
So  violently,  would  amaze  a  man 
That  would  be  jealous. 

Are.  Another  soul  into  my  body  shot 
Could  not  have  filFd  me  with  more  strength  and  spirit 
Than  this  thy  breath.     But  spend  not  hasty  time 
In  seeking  how  I  came  thus  :  'tis  the  gods. 
The  gods,  that  make  me  so  ;  and,  sure,  our  love 
Will  be  the  nobler  and  the  better  blest. 
In  that  the  secret  justice  of  the  gods 
Is  mingled  with  it.     Let  us  leave,  and  kiss ; 
Lest  some  unwelcome  guest  should  fall  betwixt  us. 
And  we  should  part  without  it. 

Phi.  'Twill  be  ill 
I  should  abide  here  long. 

Are.  'Tis  true  ;  and  worse 
You  should  come  often.     How  shall  we  devise 
To  hold  intelligence,  that  our  true  loves, 

VOL.    I.  ^ 


226  PHIL  ASTER.  [act  i. 

On  any  new  occasion,  may  agree 
What  path  is  best  to  tread  ? 

Phi.  I  have  a  boy, 
Sent  by  the  gods,  I  hope,  to  this  intent, 
Not  yet  seen  in  the  court.     Hunting  the  buck, 
I  found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain's  side, 
Of  which  he  borrow'd  some  to  quench  his  thirst. 
And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears. 
A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself 
Of  many  several  flowers  bred  in  the  vale '', 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  me ;  but  ever  when  he  turn'd 
His  tender  eyes  upon  'em,  he  would  weep. 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  'em  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  liis  face,  1  ask'd  him  all  his  story : 
He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died. 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields. 
Which  gave  him  roots ;,  and  of  the  crystal  springs, 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses ;  and  the  sun, 

^  vale]  So  4to.  1620.  Other  eds.  "bay;"  ami  so  the  modem  editors. — 
"  These  words,  bred  in  the  bay,  have  not  been  noticed  by  any  of  the  commen- 
tators, yet  require  explanation  ;  for,  if  taken  in  their  usual  acceptation,  they 
would  be  nonsense  here.  It  appears  to  me  that  by  bred  in  the  bay  Philaster 
means,  woven  in  tlie  garland.  A  bay  means  a  garland,  and  to  brede,  or  braid, 
as  it  is  now  spelt,  means  to  weave  together.  Bred  is  the  participle  of  the  verb 
to  brede,  not  of  to  breed."  Mason.  The  play-wTight  who  made  an  alteration  of 
Philaster  under  the  title  of  The  Restauration  (which  has  been  attributed  to  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham,  see  p.  20;}),  puzzled  perhaps  l)y  the  common  reading, 
seems  to  have  been  forced,  like  Mason,  to  undei-stand  "  bay  "  in  tlie  sense  of 
garland  ;  for  he  gives 

"  Of  many  several  flowers  he^d  in  the  bay 
Stuck,"  &c. 
The  first  portion  of  Weber's  remarks  on  this  passage  is  sensible  enough  ;  the 
latter  part  absurd  :  "  it  were  to  be  wished,"  he  says, "  that  Mason  had  furnished 
us  with  instances  which  would  bear  out  these  interpretations.  I  believe  that  the 
words  in  question  simply  mean,  bred  in  the  bay,  or  on  the  shallow  edge  of  the 
fountain"  !  That  4to.  1 620  exhibits  the  true  text  in  several  places  of  this 
drama,  where  all  the  other  eds.  are  corrupted,  is  beyond  a  doubt  ;  and  here 
too,  I  apprehend,  it  preserves  the  right  reading.  I  ought  to  add  that  it  has  the 
spelling  "  vayle  "  j  whence,  perhaps,  by  a  typographical  error,  the  other  lection, 
"  bay." 


SCENE  II.]  PHILASTER.  227 

Which  still,  he  thank'd  him,  yielded  him  his  light. 

Then  took  he  up  his  garland,  and  did  shew 

What  every  flower,  as  country-people  hold, 

Did  signify,  and  how  all,  orderM  thus, 

Express'd  his  grief;  and,  to  my  thoughts,  did  read 

The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country-art 

That  could  be  wish'd  ;  so  that  methought  I  could 

Have  studied  it.     I  gladly  entertained  ' 

Him,  who  was  glad  to  follow  ;  and  have  got 

The  trustiest,  loving'st,  and  the  gentlest  boy 

That  ever  master  kept.     Him  will  I  send 

To  wait  on  you,  and  bear  our  hidden  love. 

Re-enter  Lady. 

Are.  'Tis  well ;  no  more. 

Lady.  Madam,  the  prince  is  come  to  do  his  service. 

Are.  What  will  you  do,  Philaster,  with  yourself? 

Phi.  Why,  that  which   all  the  gods  have  pointed  "^  out 
for  me. 

Are.  Dear,  hide  thyself. — 
Bring  in  the  prince.  [Exit  Lady. 

Phi.  Hide  me  from  Pharamond  ! 
When  thunder  speaks,  which  is  the  voice  of  Jove, 
Though  I  do  reverence,  yet  I  hide  me  not ; 
And  shall  a  stranger-prince  have  leave  to  brag 
Unto  a  foreign  nation,  that  he  made 
Philaster  hide  himself  ? 

Are.  He  cannot  know  it. 

Phi.  Though  it  should  sleep  for  ever  to  the  world. 
It  is  a  simple  sin  to  hide  myself. 
Which  will  for  ever  on  my  conscience  lie. 

'  I  gladly  entertain' d,  SiC]    The  old  eds.  (excepting  4to.  1620,  where  this 
speech  is  printed  as  prose)  give  the  passage  thus  ; 

"  I  gladly  entertain'd  him 
Who  was  glad  to  follow  " — 
and  Theobald,  to  complete  the  second  line,  inserted  "as  "before  "glad,"— a 
reading  adopted  by  his  successors  ! 

""  pointed]  A  correction  by  Mason.     Old  eds.  "  appointed." 
Q2 


228  PHILASTER.  [act  i. 

A?-e.  Then,  good  Philaster,  give  him  scope  and  way 
In  what  lie  says ;  for  he  is  apt  to  speak 
What  you  are  loath  to  hear  :  for  my  sake,  do. 

PA// I  will. 

Re-enter  Lady  with  Pharamond. 

Pha.  My  princely  mistress,  as  true  lovers  ought, 
I  come  to  kiss  these  fair  hands,  and  to  shew,         [Exit  Lady. 
In  outward  ceremonies,  the  dear  love 
\Vrit  in  my  heart. 

Phi.  If  I  shall  have  an  answer  no  directlier, 
I  am  gone. 

Fha.  To  what  w^ould  he  have  answer  ? 

j4re.  To  his  claim  unto  the  kingdom. 

Pha.  Sirrah,  I  forbare  you  before  the  King — 

Phi.  Good  sir,  do  so  still ;   I  would  not  talk  with  you. 

Pha.  But  now  the  time  is  fitter :  do  but  offer 
To  make  mention  of  right  °  to  any  kingdom, 
Though  it  be  scarce  habitable 

Phi.  Good  sir,  let  me  go. 

Pha.  And  by  my  sword — 

Phi.  Peace,  Pharamond  !  if  thou 

Are.  Leave  us,  Philaster. 

Phi.  I  have  done.  [Going. 

Pha.  You  are  gone  !  by  heaven,  Fll  fetch  you  back. 

Phi.  You  shall  not  need.  [Returning. 

Pha.  What  now  ? 

Phi.  Know,  Pharamond, 
I  loathe  to  brawl  with  such  a  blast  as  thou, 
Who  art  nought  but  a  valiant  voice  ;  but  if 
Thou  shalt  provoke  me  further,  men  shall  say, 
"  Thou  wert,"  and  not  lament  it. 

Pha.   Do  you  slight 
My  greatness  so,  and  in  the  chamber  of 
The  princess? 

Phi.   It  is  a  place  to  which  I  must  confess 

"  ri(fht]  Tlaobald  i)rinted  "  vour  riylU  "  ;  and  so  liis  successors. 


SCENE  II.]  PHILASTER.  229 

I  owe  a  reverence  ;  but  were't  the  church, 

Ay,  at  the  altar,  there's  no  place  so  safe, 

Where  thou  dar'st  injure  me,  but  I  dare  kill  thee  : 

And  for  your  greatness,  know,  sir,  I  can  grasp 

You  and  your  greatness  thus,  thus  into  nothing. 

Give  not  a  w^ord,  not  a  word  back  !     Farewell.  [Exit. 

Pha.  'Tis  an  odd  fellow,  madam ;  we  must  stop 
His  mouth  with  some  office  when  we  are  married. 

Are.  You  were  best  make  him  your  controller. 

Pha.  I  think  he  would  discharge  it  well.     But,  madam, 
I  hope  our  hearts  are  knit ;  and  yet  so  slow 
The  ceremonies  of  state  are,  that  'twill  be  long 
Before  our  hands  be  so.     If  then  you  please. 
Being  agreed  in  heart,  let  us  not  wait 
For  dreaming  form,  but  take  a  little  stolen 
Delights,  and  so  prevent  ^  our  joys  to  come. 

Are.  If  you  dare  speak  '^  such  thoughts, 
I  must  withdraw  in  honour.  [Exit. 

Pha.  The  constitution  of  my  body  will  never  hold  out  till 
the  wedding  ;   I  must  seek  elsewhere.  [Exit. 

p  prevent"]  i.  e.  anticipate. 

1  Are.  If  you  dare  speak,  &c.]  So  arranged  in  old  eds.     Perhaps,  the  author 
intended  the  passage  to  stand  thus  : 

"  Are.  If  you  dare  speak  such  thoughts,  I  must  withdraw 

In  honour.     \^Exit. 
Pha.  The  constitution  of  my  body 

Will  ne'er  hold  out  till  the  wedding  ;  I  must  seek  elsewhere." 


230  PHILASTER.  [act  u. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 


Enter  Philaster  and  Bellario. 

Phi.  And  thou  shalt  find  her  honourable,  boy  ; 
Full  of  regard  unto  thy  tender  youth, 
For  thine  own  modesty  ;  and,  for  my  sake, 
Apter  to  give  than  thou  wilt  be  to  ask, 
Ay,  or  deserve, 

Bel.  Sir,  you  did  take  me  up 
When  I  was  nothing ;  and  only  yet  am  something 
By  being  yours.     You  trusted  me  unknown  ; 
And  that  which  you  were  apt  to  conster  "^ 
A  simple  innocence  in  me,  perhaps 
Might  have  been  craft,  the  cunning  of  a  boy 
HardenM  in  lies  and  theft :  yet  ventured  you 
To  part  my  miseries  and  me  ;  for  which, 
I  never  can  expect  to  serve  a  lady 
That  bears  more  honour  in  her  breast  than  you. 

Phi.  But,  boy,  it  will  prefer  thee.     Thou  art  young, 
And  bear'st  a  childish  overflowing  love 
To  them  that  clap  thy  cheeks  and  speak  thee  fair  yet ; 
But  when  thy  judgment  comes  to  rule  those  passions, 

'  were  apt  to  consterl  Theobald  printed  "  are  apt  to  construe  now," — "  are  " 
being  tlio  reading  of  fol.   I(j79,  "construe"  (wliich  his  successors  retained)  a 
wanton  aheration  of  the  old  and  common  form,  and  "  now  "  an  insertion  of  his 
own  to  support  the  metre.     A  word,  perhaps,  ha-s  dropt  out ;  but  (among  other 
passages  of  this  kind  which  might  be  cited)  compare — 
"  Yet,  if  it  he  your  wills,  forgive  the  sin 
I  have  committed  ;  let  it  not  fall 
Upon  this  understanding  child  of  mine  ! "    p.  242. 
I  n  the  present  speech  I  have  ailopted  Tlicobalil's  arrangement  of  the  vei"se  : 
the  EcUtors  of  1778  and  VVcbtr  followed  that  of  the  old  eds.,  which  is  certainly 
wrong. 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  231 

Thou  wilt  remember  best  those  careful  friends 
That  plac'd  thee  in  the  noblest  way  of  life. 
She  is  a  princess  I  prefer  thee  to. 

Bel.  In  that  small  time  that  I  have  seen  the  world, 
I  never  knew  a  man  hasty  to  part  with 
A  servant  he  thought  trusty  :  I  remember, 
My  father  would  prefer  the  boys  he  kept 
To  greater  men  than  he  ;  but  did  it  not 
Till  they  were  grown  too  saucy  for  himself. 

Phi.  Why,  gentle  boy,  I  find  no  fault  at  all 
In  thy  behaviour. 

Bel.  Sir,  if  I  have  made 
A  fault  of  ignorance,  instruct  my  youth  : 
I  shall  be  willing,  if  not  apt,  to  learn  ; 
Age  and  experience  will  adorn  my  mind 
With  larger  knowledge  ;  and  if  I  have  done 
A  ^\^lful  fault,  think  me  not  past  all  hope 
For  once.     What  master  holds  so  strict  a  hand 
Over  his  boy,  that  he  will  part  with  liim 
Without  one  warning  ?    Let  me  be  corrected, 
To  break  my  stubbornness,  if  it  be  so. 
Rather  than  turn  me  off;  and  I  shall  mend. 

Phi.  Thy  love  doth  plead  so  prettily  to  stay, 
That,  trust  me,  I  could  weep  to  part  with  thee. 
Alas,  I  do  not  turn  thee  off !  thou  know'st 
It  is  my  business  that  doth  call  thee  hence  ; 
And  when  thou  art  with  her,  thou  dwelFst  with  me. 
Think  so,  and  'tis  so  :   and  when  time  is  full, 
That  thou  hast  well  discharged  tliis  heavj-  trust, 
Laid  on  so  weak  a  one,  I  will  again 
With  joy  receive  thee  ;  as  I  live,  I  will ! 
Nay,  weep  not,  gentle  boy.     'Tis  more  than  time 
Thou  didst  attend  the  princess. 

Bel.  I  am  gone. 
But  since  I  am  to  part  with  you,  my  lord. 
And  none  knows  whether  I  shall  live  to  do 
More  service  for  you,  take  this  little  prayer : 
Heaven  bless  your  loves,  your  fights,  all  your  designs  ! 


232  PHILASTER.  [act  u. 

May  sick  men,  if  they  have  your  wish,  be  well ; 

And  Heaven  hate  those  you  curse,  though  I  be  one  I      [Exit. 

Phi.  The  love  of  boys  unto  their  lords  is  strange  ; 
I  have  read  wonders  of  it :  yet  this  boy 
For  ray  sake  (if  a  man  may  judge  by  looks 
And  speech)  would  out-do  story.     I  may  see 
A  day  to  pay  him  for  his  loyalty.  [Exit. 


SCENE  11.— A  Gallery  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Pharamond. 

Pha.  Why  should  these  ladies  stay  so  long?  They  must 
come  this  way  :  I  know  the  queen  employs  ""em  not ;  for  the 
reverend  mother'  sent  me  word,  they  would  all  be  for  the 
garden.  If  they  should  all  prove  honest  *  now,  I  were  in  a 
fair  taking ;  I  was  never  so  long  without  sport  in  my  life, 
and,  in  my  conscience,  'tis  not  ray  fault.  Oh,  for  our  country 
ladies  ! 

Enter  Galatea. 
Here's  one  bolted  ;   I'll  hound  at  her.   [J5^■(f?.]— Madara  "  ! 

Gal.   Your  grace  ! 

Pha.  Shall  I  not  be  a  trouble  ? 

Gal  Not  to  rae,  sir. 

Pha.  Nay,  nay,  you  are  too  (^uick.     By  this  sweet  hand 

Gal.  You'll  be  forsworn,  sir ;   'tis  but  an  old  glove. 
If  you  will  talk  at  distance',  I  ara  for  you  : 
But,  good  prince,  be  not  bawdy,  nor  do  not  brag ; 
These  two  I  bar  ; 
And  then,  I  think,  I  shall  have  sense  enough 

'  the  reverend  mother]  i.e.  the  .Mother  of  the  Maids  :  compare  The  Woman- 
holer,  p.  58  of  this  vol. 

'  honc.it]  i.  e.  chaste. 

"  Mufiam]  Tills  necessai-y  word  is  found  only  in  4to.  1620.  Not  in  modern 
eds. 

"  distance]   Altered  by  Weber  to  "  a  distance." 


SCE.^E  II.]  PHILASTER.  233 

To  answer  all  the  weighty  apothegms 
Your  royal  blood  shall  manage  "". 

Pha.  Dear  lady,  can  you  love  I 

Gal.  Dear,  prince  !  how  dear  \  I  ne'er  cost  you  a  coach 
yet,  nor  put  you  to  the  dear  repentance  of  a  banquet.  Here's 
no  scarlet,  sir,  to  blush  the  sin  out  it  was  given  for.  This 
wire "  mine  own  hair  covers ;  and  this  face  has  been  so  far 
from  being  dear  to  any,  that  it  ne'er  cost  penny  painting ; 
and,  for  the  rest  of  my  poor  wardrobe,  such  as  you  see,  it 
leaves  no  hand  ^  behind  it,  to  make  the  jealous  mercer's  wife 
curse  our  good  doings. 

Pha.  You  mistake  me,  lady. 

Gal.  Lord,  I  do  so :  would  you  or  I  could  help  it ! 

Pha.  YouVe  very  dangerous  ^  bitter,  like  a  potion. 

"  manage}  "  This  word  is  used  as  the  French  do  their  mesnager,  and  the 
Italians,  inaneggiare.  So  we  Hkewise  have  adopted  it,  and  say,  manage  (or 
handle)  a  dispute  or  argument."     Theobald. 

^  unre'\  In  Jonson's  Silent  Woman,  Mistress  Otter  says  "  it  di'opt  all  luy 
wire  and  my  ruff  with  wax  candle,"  Works,  iii.  398,  ed.  Gifford,  who  has  no 
note  ou  the  passage.     In  the  Prologue  to  that  play  we  find 

"  Some  for  your  waiting- wench,  and  city-wires  "  ,• 
where  the  same  editor  remarks,  "  This  term,  which  seems  to  designate  the 
matrons  of  the  city  in  opposition  to  the  '  White-fi-iars  nation,'  is  new  to  me. 
In  the  stiff  and  foi-mal  dresses  of  those  days,  wire  indeed  was  much  used  ;  but 
I  know  not  that  it  was  peculiar  to  the  city  dames.  Perhaps,  I  have  missed  the 
sense."  p.  342.  In  S.  Marmyon's  Hollands  Leaguer,  1632,  the  term  is  again 
employed  as  peculiar  to  city-ladies  ; 

"  And  haue  thy  seuerall  Govvnes  and  Tires  take  place. 
It  is  thy  owne,  from  all  the  City  wires. 
And  Summer  birds  in  Towne,  that  once  a  yeare 
Come  up  to  moulter."     Sig.  E. 
In  Daniel's  Queenes  Arcadia  mention  is  made  of 

"  Deuisors  of  new  fashions  and  strange  wyers." 

Workes,  p.  337.  ed.  1623. 
In  Middleton's  Michaelmas  Term,  Mistress  Comings,  a  fashionable  cap-maker, 
while  she  assists  in  dressing  the  Country-Weuch,  exclaims,  "  Excellent, 
exceeding,  i'faith  !  a  narrow-eared  luire  sets  out  a  cheek  so  fat  and  so  full :  and 
if  you  be  ruled  by  me,  you  shall  wear  your  hair  still  like  a  mock-face  behind." 
Works  i.  461.  ed.  Dyce. 

y  hand'}  "Perhaps,"  says  Mason,  "  we  should  read  '  handle ;^  "  which  Weber 
unnecessarily  adopted. 

'■  Pha.  You're  very  dangerous,  &c.]  This  speech  and  the  next  are  found 
only  in  4to.  1620.     Not  in  modern  eds. 


234  PHILASTER-  [act  u. 

GaJ.  No,  sir,  I  do  not  mean  to  purge  you,  though 
I  mean  to  purge  a  little  time  on  you. 

Pha.  Do  ladies  of  this  country  use  to  give 
No  more  respect  to  men  of  my  full  being  ? 

Gal.  Full  being  !  I  understand  you  not,  unless  your  grace 
means  growing  to  fatness;  and  then  your  only  remedy  (upon  ray 
knowledge,  prince)  is,  in  a  morning,  a  cup  of  neat  white  wine 
brewed  with  carduus  ;  then  fast  till  supper  ;  about  eight  you 
may  eat :  use  exercise,  and  keep  a  sparrow-hawk ;  you  can 
shoot  in  a  tiller  ^  :  but,  of  all,  your  grace  must  fly  phlebotomy, 
fresh  pork,  conger,  and  clarified  whey ;  they  are  all  dullers  of 
the  ntal  spirits. 

Pha.  Lady,  you  talk  of  nothing  all  this  while. 

Gal.  'Tis  very  true,  sir  ;  I  talk  of  you. 

Pha.  This  is  a  crafty  wench ;  I  Uke  her  wit  well ;  'twill 
be  rare  to  stir  up  a  leaden  appetite  :  she's  a  Danae,  and  must 
be  courted  in  a  shower  of  gold.  [A.nde.'] — Madam,  look  here  ; 
all  these,  and  more  than [Offers  gold. 

Gal.  A\^hat  have  you  there,  my  lord  ?  gold  !  now,  as  I  live, 
'tis  fair  gold  !  You  would  have  silver  for  it,  to  play  with  the 
pages :  you  could  not  have  taken  me  in  a  worse  time  ;  but, 
if  you  have  present  use,  my  lord,  I'll  send  my  man  with  silver, 
and  keep  your  gold  for  you.  [Takes  gold. 

Pha.  Lady,  lady  ! 

Gal.  She's  coming,  sir,  behind,  will  take  white  money  b. — 
Yet  for  all  this  I'll  match  ye. 

[Aside.     Exit  behind  the  hangings. 

Pha.  If  there  be  but  two  such  more  in  this  kingdom,  and 
near  the  court,  we  may  even  hang  up  our  harps.  Ten  such 
camphire-constitutions  "^  as  this  would  call  the  golden  age 
again  in  question,  and  teach  the  old  way  for  every  ill-faced 


*  tiller'\  i.  e.  a  steel  bow,  or  cross  bow.  "  Arcus  comu,  prsesertim  arcus 
brachio  chalybeo  instructus,  nescio  an  q.  d.  steeler,  quasi  arcus  chalybeatus." 
Skinner's  Etymol.  in  v.     A  very  forced  derivation. 

''  white  money]  A  cant  name  for  silver  specie, 

'  camphire-constitutions]  "  Camphire  was  anciently  classed  among  those 
articles  of  the  materia  medica,  which  were  cold  in  an  eminent  degree."  Weber. 
See  Sir  T.  Browne's  Vulgar  Errors,  B.  ii.  c.  vii.  p.    111.  ed.  16  72. 


SCENE  II.]  PHILASTER.  235 

husband  to  get  his  own  children ;  and  what  a  mischief  that 
would  ^  breed,  let  all  consider. 

Enter  Megea. 
Here's  another  :  if  she  be  of  the  same  last,  the  devil  shall 
pluck  her  on.  [Aside.] — Many  fair  mornings,  lady  ! 

Me^.  As  many  mornings  bring  as  many  days, 
Fair,  sweet,  and  hopeful  to  your  grace  ! 

Pha.  She  gives  good  words  yet ;  sure,  this  wench  is  free. — 

\_Aside, 
If  your  more  serious  business  do  not  call  you, 
Let  me  hold  quarter  with  you ;  we  will  talk 
An  hour  out  quickly. 

Meg.  What  would  your  grace  talk  of? 

Pha.  Of  some  such  pretty  subject  as  yourself: 
ril  go  no  further  than  your  eye,  or  lip ; 
There's  theme  enough  for  one  man  for  an  age. 

Me^.  Sir,  they  stand  right,  and  my  lips  are  yet  even  smooth. 
Young  enough,  ripe  enough,  and  ^  red  enough, 
Or  my  glass  wrongs  me. 

Pha.  Oh,  they  are  two  twinn'd  cherries  dy'd  in  blushes 
Which  those  fair  suns  above  with  their  bright  beams 
Reflect  upon  and  ripen  !     Sweetest  beauty. 
Bow  down  those  branches,  that  the  longing  taste 
Of  the  faint  looker-on  may  meet  those  blessings, 
And  taste  and  live. 

Meff.  Oh,  delicate  sweet  prince  ! 
She  that  hath  snow  enough  about  her  heart 
To  take  the  wanton  spring  of  ten  such  lines  off, 
May  be  a  nun  without  probation.  [Aside.'} — Sir, 
You  have  in  such  neat  poetry  gather  d  a  kiss. 
That  if  I  had  but  five  lines  of  that  number. 
Such  pretty  begging  blanks  ^,  I  should  commend 
Your  forehead  or  your  cheeks,  and  kiss  you  too. 

Pha.  Do  it  in  prose  ;  you  cannot  miss  it,  madam. 

Meff.  I  shall,  I  shall. 

^  would]  So.  4to.  1620.     Other  eds.  "will  ;"  and  so  the  modern  editors. 
«  and]  So  most  of  the  4tos.     Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the  modern 
editors. 

'  blanks]  i,  e.  blank  verses. 


23G  PHILASTER.  [act  ii. 

Pha.  By  my  life,  but  ^  you  shall  not ; 
ril  prompt  you ''  first.  [^Kisses  lier.^  Can  you  do  it  now? 

Meg.  Methinks  'tis  easy,  now  you  ha'  done't  before  me  ' ; 
But  yet  I  should  stick  at  it. 

Pha.  Stick  till  to-morrow  ; 
ril  never  part  you,  sweetest.     But  we  lose  time  : 
Can  you  love  me  ? 

Meg.  Love  you,  my  lord  !  how  would  you  have  me  love  you  ? 

Pha.  ril  teach  you  in  a  short  sentence,  'cause  I  will  not 
load  your  memory  :  this  is  all ;  love  me,  and  lie  with  me. 

Meg.  Was  it  lie  with  you,  that  you  said  ?  'tis  impossible. 

Pha.  Not  to  a  willing  mind,  that  will  endeavour:  if  I  do 
not  teach  you  to  do  it  as  easily  in  one  night  as  you'll  go  to 
bed,  I'll  lose  my  royal  blood  for't. 

Meg.  Why,  prince,  you  have  a  lady  of  your  own 
That  yet  wants  teaching. 

Pha.  I'll  sooner  teach  a  mare  the  old  measures^  than 
teach  her  any  thing  belonging  to  the  function.  She's  afraid 
to  lie  with  herself,  if  she  have  but  any  masculine  imaginations 
about  her.     I  know,  when  we  are  married,  I  must  ravish  her. 

Meg.  By  my  honour,  that  is  a  foul  fault  indeed ; 
But  time  and  your  good  help  will  wear  it  out,  sir. 

Pha.  And  for  any  other  I  see,  excepting  your  dear  self, 
dearest  lady,  I  had  rather  be  Sir  Tim  the  schoolmaster,  and 
leap  a  dairy-maid. 

Meg.  Has  your  grace  seen  the  court-star,  Galatea? 

Pha.  Out  upon  her  !  she's  as  cold  of  her  favour  as  an 
apoplex  :  she  sailed  by  but  now. 

Meg.  And  how  do  you  hold  her  wit,  sir  ? 

Pha.  I  hold  her  wit !  The  strength  of  all  the  guard 
cannot  hold  it,  if  they  were  tied  to  it ;  she  would  blow  'em 
out  of  the  kingdom.  They  talk  of  Jupiter;  he's  but  a  squib- 
cracker  to  her :  look  well  about  you,  and  you  may  find  a 
tongue-bolt.  But  speak,  sweet  lady,  shall  I  be  freely  wel- 
come ? 

'^  hnt\   Found  tmly  in  4t().  I6_'n.      Not  in  modern  cds. 
''  you]  Omitted  by  Wtber  I 

'  you  ha'  rione't  before  mr]  So  4to.  Ifi20.  Other  eds.  "  I  ha'  don't  before  "  ,- 
and  so  the  modem  editors.  J  mcasuref]  See  note  p.  1()6. 


SCENE  III.]  PHILASTER.  237 

Meg.  Whither? 

Pha.  To  your  bed.  If  you  mistrust  my  faith,  you  do  me 
the  unnoblest  wrong. 

Meg.  I  dare  not,  prince,  I  dare  not. 

Pha.  Make  your  own  conditions,  my  purse  shall  seal  'em ; 
and  what  you  dare  imagine  you  can  want,  TU  furnish  you 
withal :  give  two  hours  to  your  thoughts  every  morning  about 
it.     Come,  I  know  you  are  bashful ; 
Speak  in  my  ear,  will  you  be  mine  ?     Keep  this, 
And  with  it  me  :  soon  I  will  visit  you.         \_Gwes  her  a  ring  ^. 

Meg.  My  lord, 
My  chamber's  most  unsafe  ;  but  when  'tis  night, 
ril  find  some  means  to  slip  into  your  lodging  : 
Till  when 

Pha.  Till  when,  this  and  my  heart  go  with  thee  ! 

[Exeimt  severally. 

Re-enter  Galatea. 

Gal,  Oh,  thou  pernicious  petticoat -prince  !  are  these  your 
virtues  ?  Well,  if  I  do  not  lay  a  train  to  blow  your  sport  up, 
I  am  no  woman  :  and,  lady  Towsabel  \  I'll  fit  you  for't. 

{Exit. 


SCENE    III. — Arethusa's  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Arethusa  and  a  Lady. 
Are.  Where's  the  boy  ? 
Lady.  Within,  madam. 

Are.  Gave  you  him  gold  to  buy  him '"  clothes  ? 
Lady.  I  did. 
Are.  And  has  he  done't  ? 
Lady.  Yes,  madam. 

Are.  'Tis  a  pretty  sad-talking  boy,  is  it  not  i 
Ask'd  you  his  name  ? 
Lady.  No,  madam. 

''  Gives  her  a  ring]   This  stage-direction  was  added  by  Weber. 
'  Towsabel]  A  jocular  alteration  of  Doivsubel,  which  is  a  name  common  in 
our  early  pastoral  poetry.     Qto.  1620  erroneously  gives  the  latter  word. 
™  him]   Omitted  by  Weber. 


23H  PHILASTER.  [act  ii. 

Enter  Galatea. 

Are.  Oh,  you  are  welcome.     What  good  news  ? 

Gal.  As  good  as  any  one  can  tell  your  grace, 
That  says,  she  has  done  that  you  would  have  wishM. 

Are.  Hast  thou  discover'd  I 

Gal.  I  have  strainM  a  point 
Of  modesty  for  you. 

Are.  I  prithee,  how  i 

Gal.  In  hstening  after  bawdry.     I  see,  let  a  lady 
Live  never  so  modestly,  she  shall  bo  sure  to  find 
A  lawful  time  to  hearken  after  bawdry. 
Your  prince,  brave  Phararaond,  was  so  hot  on't ! 

Are.  With  whom  ? 

Gal.  Why,  with  the  lady  T  suspected  : 
I  can  tell  the  time  and  place. 

Are.  Oh,  when,  and  where  ? 

Gal.  To-night,  his  lodging. 

Are.  Run  thyself  into  the  presence ;  mingle  there  again 
With  other  ladies ;  leave  the  rest  to  me.  \^Exit  Galatea. 

If  Destiny  (to  whom  we  dare  not  say, 
AVhy  thou  didst"  this,)  have  not  decreed  it  so. 
In  lasting  leaves  (whose  smallest  characters 
Were  never  altered  yet),  this  match  shall  break.  [Aside. 

Where\s  the  boy  ? 

Lady.  Here,  madam. 

Enter  Bellario,  richly  dressed. 

Are.  Sir, 
You  are  sad  to  change  your  service ;   is't  not  so  ? 

Bel.  Madam,  I  have  not  cliangM  ;   I  wait  on  you, 
To  do  him  service. 

Are.  Thou  disclaim'st  in  me  °. 
Tell  mc  thy  name. 

Bel.  Bellario. 

"  thou  didsl]  Altered  unnecessarily  by  Theobald  to  "  didst  thou  ;  "  and  so 
Weber,  though  the  Editors  of  1778  had  restored  the  old  reading. 

"  disclaim' st  in  me}  i.  e.  disclaiinest  me.  The  expression  is  commou  in  our 
early  writers. 


SCENE  III.]  PHILASTER.  239 

Are.  Thou  canst  sing  and  play  I 

Bel.  If  grief  will  give  me  leave,  madam,  I  can. 

Are.  Alas,  what  kind  of  grief  can  thy  years  know  I 
Hadst  thou  a  curst  p  master  when  thou  went'st  to  school ! 
Thou  art  not  capable  of  other  grief ; 
Thy  brows  and  cheeks  are  smooth  as  waters  be 
When  no  breath  troubles  them  :  believe  me,  boy, 
Care  seeks  out  wrinkled  brows  and  hollow  eyes, 
And  builds  himself  caves,  to  abide  in  them. 
Come,  sir,  tell  me  truly,  does  your  lord  love  me  ? 

Bel.  Love,  madam  !   I  know  not  what  it  is. 

Are.  Canst  thou  know  grief,  and  never  yet  knevv'st  love  I 
Thou  art  deceiv'd,  boy.     Does  he  speak  of  me 
As  if  he  wished  me  well  ? 

Bel.  If  it  be  love 
To  forget  all  respect  of  his  own  friends 
In  thinking  of  your  face  ;  if  it  be  love 
To  sit  cross-arm'd  and  sigh  away  the  day, 
Mingled  with  starts,  crying  your  name  as  loud 
And  hastily  as  men  i'  the  streets  do  fire  ; 
If  it  be  love  to  weep  himself  away 
When  he  but  hears  of  any  lady  dead 
Or  kill'd,  because  it  might  have  been  your  chance  ; 
If,  when  he  goes  to  rest  (which  will  not  be), 
'Twixt  every  prayer  he  says,  to  name  you  once, 
As  others  drop  a  bead,  be  to  be  in  love, 
Then,  madam  'i,  I  dare  swear  he  loves  you. 

Are.  Oh  you're  a  cunning  boy,  and  taught  to  lie 
For  your  lord's  credit !  but  thou  know'st  a  lie 
That  bears  this  sound  is  welcomer  to  me 
Than  any  truth  that  says  he  loves  me  not. 
Lead  the  way,  boy. — Do  you  attend  me  too. — 
'Tis  thy  lord's  business  hastes  me  thus.     Away  !         [Exeunt 

p  curst]  "i.  e.  cross."     Weber. 

1  Then,  madam,  &c.]  Arranged  thus  by  Theobald : 

"  Then,  madam,  I  dare  swear  he  loves  you. 
Are.  Oh, 

You  are  a  cunning  boy,"  &c. 
He  may  have  been  right  ;  but  "  swear  "  is  repeatedly  used  as  a  dissyllable  by 
our  early  poets. 


PHILASTER.  [act  II. 


SCENE  IV. — Before  Piiaramoxd's  lodgimj  in  the  Court 
of  the  Palace. 

Enter  Dion,  Cleremont,   Torasiline,   Megra,   and  Galatea. 

Dion.  Come,  ladies,  shall  we  talk  a  round?     As  men 
Do  walk  a  mile,  women  should  talk  an  hour 
After  supper;  'tis  their  exercise. 

Gal.  ""Tis  late. 

Meg.  'Tis  all 
My  eyes  will  do  to  lead  me  to  my  bed. 

Gal.  I  fear,  they  are  so  heavy,  you'll  scarce  find 
The  way  to  your  own  "■  lodging  with  'em  to-night. 

Enter  Pharamo>d. 

Thra.  The  prince  ! 

Pha.  Not  a-bed,  ladies  ?  you're  good  sitters-up  : 
^Vhat  think  you  of  a  pleasant  dream,  to  last 
Till  morning  i 

Meg.  I  should  chuse,  my  lord,  a  pleasing  wake  before  it. 

Enter  Arethusa  and  Bellario. 

Are.  'Tis  well,  my  lord  ;  you're  courting  of  these  ladies. — 
Is't  not  late,  gentlemen  ? 

Cle.  Yes,  madam. 

Are.  Wait  you  there.  [£'.r?Y. 

Meg.  She's  jealous,  as  I  live.  [Aside.'\ — Look  you,  my  lord. 
The  princess  has  a  Hylas,  an  Adonis. 

Pha.  His  form  is  angcl-like. 

Meg.  Why,  this  is  he  that '  must,  when  you  are  wed. 
Sit  by  your  pillow,  like  young  Apollo,  with 
His  hand  and  voice  binding  your  thoughts  in  sleep ; 
The  princess  does  provide  him  for  you  and  for  herself. 

Pha.  I  find  no  music  in  these  boys. 

'  owTi]   Found  only  in  4to.  1620.     Not  in  modern  eds. 

•  tha(]  Found  only  in  4to.  1620.     Not  in  modern  eds.     Theobald,  for  the 
metre,  printed  " — when  you  once  are  wed." 


SCENE  IV.]  PHILASTER.  241 

Meg.   Nor  I : 
They  can  do  little,  and  that  small  they  do, 
They  have  not  wit  to  hide. 

Dion.  Serves  he  the  princess  ? 

Thra.  Yes. 

Dion.  ''Tis  a  sweet  boy  :  how  brave  *  she  keeps  him  ! 

Pha.  Ladies  all,  good  rest ;  I  mean  to  kill  a  buck 
To-morrow  morning  ere  you  ve  done  your  dreams. 

Meg.  All  happiness  attend  your  grace  !   [^zz^Pharamond.] 
Gentlemen,  good  rest. — Come,  shall  we  to-bed  ? 

Gal.  Yes. — All  good  night. 

Dion.  May  your  dreams  be  true  to  you  I — 

\_Exeunt  Galatea  and  Megra. 
What  shall  we  do,  gallants  I  'tis  late.     The  King 
Is  up  still :  see,  he  comes ;  a  guard  along  with  him. 

Enter  King,  with  Arethusa,  Guards,  and  Attendants. 

King.  Look  your  intelligence  be  true. 

Are.  Upon  my  life,  it  is ;   and  I  do  hope 
Your  highness  will  not  tie  me  to  a  man 
That  in  the  heat  of  wooing  throws  me  off, 
And  takes  another. 

Dion.  What  should  this  mean  I 

King.   If  it  be  true, 
That  lady  had  been  better  "  have  embraced 
Cureless  diseases.     Get  you  to  your  rest : 
You   shall   be    righted.  \^Exeunt   Arethusa   and   Bellario.] 

— Gentlemen,  draw  near  ; 
We  shall  employ  you.     Is  young  Pharamond 
Come  to  his  lodging  I 

Dion.  I  saw  him  enter  there. 

King.  Haste,  some  of  you,  and  cunningly  discover 
If  Megra  be  in  her  lodging.  \^Exit  Dion. 

Cle.  Sir, 
She  parted  hence  but  now,  with  other  ladies. 

'  brave'[  i.  e.  finely  dressed. 

"   had  been  better^  This  not  unfrequent  expre.ssion  was  altered  by  Theobald 
to  "  had  much  belter  "  ,•  and  so  his  successors. 
VOL.  I.  R 


242  PHILASTER.  [act  ii. 

King.  If  she  be  there,  we  shall  not  need  to  make 
A  vain  discovery  of  our  suspicion. 
You  gods,  I  see  that  who  unrighteously 
Holds  wealth  or  state  from  others  shall  be  curs'd 
In  that  which  meaner  men  are  blest  withal : 
Ages  to  come  shall  know  no  male  of  him 
Left  to  inherit,  and  his  name  shall  be 
Blotted  from  earth  ;  if  he  have  any  child, 
It  shall  be  crossly  matched ;  the  gods  themselves 
Shall  sow  wild  strife  betwixt  her  lord  and  her. 
Yet,  if  it  be  your  wills,  forgive  the  sin 
I  have  committed ;  let  it  not  fall 
Upon  this  understanding  child  of  mine  ! 
She  has  not  broke  your  laws.     But  how  can  I '' 
Look  to  be  heard  of  gods  that  must  be  just. 
Praying  upon  the  ground  I  hold  by  wrong  ?  {_Aside. 

Re-enter  Dion. 
Dion.  Sir,  I  have  asked,  and  her  women  swear  she  is 
^vithin ;  but  they,  I  think,  are  bawds.  I  told  'cm,  I  must 
speak  with  her ;  they  laughed,  and  said,  their  lady  lay 
speechless.  I  said,  my  business  was  important ;  they  said, 
their  lady  was  about  it.  I  grew  hot,  and  cried,  ray  business 
was  a  matter  that  concerned  life  and  death ;  they  answered, 
so  was  sleeping,  at  which  their  lady  was.  I  urged  again,  she 
had  scarce  time  to  be  so  since  last  I  saw  her ;  they  smiled 
again,  and  seemed  to  instruct  me  that  sleeping  was  nothing 
l>ut  lying  down  and  winking.  Answers  more  direct  I  could 
not  get :  in  short,  sir,  I  think  she  is  not  there. 


-But  how  can  I 


Look  to  he  heard  of  gods  that  must  be  just, 

Praying  upon  the  ground  I  hold  by  xvrongf]  "  In  this  sentiment  onr 
authors  seem  to  be  copying  Shakespeare,  in  a  noble  passage  of  liis  Hamlet  : 

'  Forgive  me  my  foul  murder  ! 

That  cannot  be  ;  since  I  am  still  possess'd 

Of  those  effects  for  which  I  did  the  murder, 

Afy  crown,  mine  own  ambition,  and  my  queen. 

May  one  be  pardon'd,  and  retain  the  offence  ? '     &e." 

Theobald. 


SCENE  IV.]  PHILASTER.  243 

King.  'Tis  then  no  time  to  dally. — You  o'  the  guard. 
Wait  at  the  back  door  of  the  prince''s  lodging, 
And  see  that  none  pass  thence,  upon  your  lives. — 

^Exeunt  Guards. 
Knock,  gentlemen  ;  knock  loud  "  ;  louder  yet. 

[Diox,  Cler.,  &c.  knock  at  the  door  o/*Pharamond's  lodging. 
What,  has  their  pleasure  taken  off  their  hearing  1 — 
rU  break  your  meditations. — Knock  again. — 
Not  yet  ?  I  do  not  think  he  sleeps,  having  this 
Larum  by  him. — Once  more. — Pharamond  !  prince  ! 

[Pharamond  appears  at  a  windotc. 

Pha.   What  saucy  groom  knocks  at  this  dead  of  night  ? 
Where  be  our  waiters  ?    By  my  vexed  soul, 
He  meets  his  death  that  meets  me,  for  this  boldness. 

King.  Prince,  prince '',  you  wrong  your  thoughts ;  we  are 
your  friends  : 
Come  down. 

Pha.  The  King  ! 

King.  The  same,  sir.     Come  down,  sir  ^  : 
We  have  cause  of  present  counsel  with  you. 

Enter  Pharamond  below. 

Pha.  If  your  grace  please 
To  use  me,  I'll  attend  you  to  your  chamber. 

Ki7ig.  No,  'tis  too  late,  prince ;   Fll  make  bold  with  yours, 

Pha.  I  have  some  private  reasons  to  myself 
Make  ^  me  unmannerly,  and  say,  you  cannot. — 
Nay,  press  not  forward,  gentlemen ;  he  must 
Come  through  my  life  that  comes  here. 

King.  Sir,  be  resolvM  ^  I  must  and  will  come. — Enter. 

'"  loud]  Theobald  printed,  for  the  metre,  "louder." 

*  Prince, prince]  So  4to.  1620.     Other  eds.  "  Prince"  ;  and  so  the  modern 
editors.     Theobald,  to  assist  the  metre,  gave  "  Prince  you  do  wrong,"  &c. 

y  sir]  Found  only  in  4to.  1620.     Not  in  modem  eds. 
^  Make]  Old  eds.  "  Makes." 

*  be  resolv'd]  "  i.  e.  be  assured."     Mason.     Qto.  1620  gives  the  speech  thus  ; 

"  Sir  be  resolued,  I  must  come,  and  will  come  enter." 
Weber,  who  sometimes  (and  in  most  cases,  unnecessarily)  noted  the  readings 
of  4to.  1622,  uiforms  us  that  here  it  has  "  /  must  and  will  enter," — a  specimen 
of  his  inaccuracy  :  it  reads 

"  Sir,  be  resolu'd,  I  must,  and  will  come  :  Enter.'' 
R  2 


244  PHILASTER.  [vcrii. 

Pha.  I  will  not  be  dishonour'd  : 
He  that  enters  enters  upon  his  death. 
Sir,  'tis  a  sign  you  make  no  stranger  of  me, 
To  bring  these  rencgadoes  to  my  chamber 
At  these  unseasoned  hours. 

King.  ^Vhy  do  you 
Chafe  yourself  so  ?  you  are  not  wrong'd  nor  shall  be  ; 
Only  ril  search  your  lodging,  for  some  cause 
To  ourself  kno^Ti. — Enter,  I  say. 

Pha.  I  say,  no.  [Megra  appears  at  a  windoui. 

Meg.  Let  'em  enter,  prince,  let  'em  enter ; 
I  am  up  and  ready  ^ :  I  know  their  business ; 
'Tis  the  poor  breaking  of  a  lady's  honour 
They  hunt  so  hotly  after  ;  let  'em  enjoy  it. — 
You  have  your  business,  gentlemen  ;   I  lay  here. — 
Oh,  my  lord  the  King,  this  is  not  noble  in  you 
To  make  public  the  weakness  of  a  woman  ! 

King.  Come  down. 

Meg.   I  dare,  my  lord.     Your  hootings  and  your  clamours. 
Your  private  whispers  and  your  broad  ^  fleerings. 
Can  no  more  vex  my  soul  than  this  base  carriage : 
But  1  have  vengeance  yet  in  store  for  some 
Shall,  in  the  most  contempt  you  can  have  of  me, 
Be  joy  and  nourishment. 

King.  Will  you  come  down  1 

Meg.  Yes,  to  laugh  at  your  worst ;  but  I  shall  wring  you. 
If  my  skill  fail  me  not.  [Exit  above. 

King.  Sir,  I  must  dearly  chide  you  for  this  looseness  ; 
You  have  wrong'd  a  worthy  lady  :  but,  no  more. — 
Conduct  him  to  my  lodging  and  to  bed. 

[^Exeunt  Pharamoxd  and  Attendants. 

Cle.  Get  him  another  wench,  and  you  bring  him  to  bed  indeed. 

So  too  4to.  1628.  The  other  eds.  seem  to  make  "  Enter  "  a  stage-direction, 
though  they  have  "  Pha.  below  "  at  the  earlier  place  where  I  have  marked 
his  entrance.  Theobald  and  the  Editors  of  1778  gave  both  these  stage-direc- 
tions !  Weber,  the  latter.  That  "  Enter  "  is  a  portion  of  the  text  is  plain  from 
what  Pharamoiid  immt-diately  sa}s,  "  He  that  eaters"  &c.,  and  from  the  King's 
repetition  of  the  word  in  his  next  speech,  "  Enter,  I  say." 

*  reaJi/]  "i.  e.  dressed."     Mason. 

''  bronJ]  Theobald  printed,  for  the  metre,  "  broader." 


SCENE  IV.]  PHIL  ASTER.  245 

Dion.  'Tis  strange  a  man  cannot  ride  a  stage " 
Or  two,  to  breathe  himself,  without  a  warrant. 
If  this  gear  hold,  that  lodgings  be  searchM  thus. 
Pray  heaven  we  may  lie  with  our  own  wives  in  safety. 
That  they  be  not  by  some  trick  of  state  mistaken  ! 

Enter  Megra  below. 

King.  Now,  lady  of  honour,  where's  your  honour  now  ? 
No  man  can  fit  your  palate  but  the  prince  : 
Thou  most  ill-shrouded  rottenness,  thou  piece 
Made  by  a  painter  and  a  'pothecary, 

Thou  troubled  sea  of  lust,  thou  wilderness  ■ 

Inhabited  by  wild  thoughts,  thou  swoln  cloud 
Of  infection,  thou  ripe  mine  of  all  diseases,  ' 

Thou  all-sin,  all-hell,  and  last  all-devils,  tell  me,  / 

Had  you  none  to  pull  on  with  your  courtesies 
But  he  that  umst  be  mine,  and  wrong  my  daughter  i 
By  all  the  gods,  all  these,  and  all  the  pages, 
And  all  the  court,  shall  hoot  thee  through  the  court, 
Fling  rotten  oranges,  make  ribald  rhymes, 
And  sear  thy  name  with  candles  upon  walls  ! 
Do  you  laugh,  lady  Venus  I 

Meg.  Faith,  sir,  you  must  pardon  me ; 
I  cannot  choose  but  laugh  to  see  you  merry. 
If  you  do  this,  O  King  !  nay,  if  you  dare  do  it, 
By  all  those  gods  you  swore  by,  and  as  many 
More  of  my  own,  I  will  have  fellows,  and  such 
Fellows  in  it,  as  shall  make  noble  mirth  ! 
The  princess,  your  dear  daughter,  shall  stand  by  me 
On  walls,  and  sung  in  ballads,  any  thing : 
Urge  me  no  more  ;  T  know  her  and  her  haunts. 
Her  lays,  leaps,  and  outlays,  and  will  discover  all ; 
Nay,  will  dishonour  her.     I  know  the  boy 

«  stage]  So  4to.  1620.  Later  eds.  "stagge";  which  (though  Theobald 
had  printed  "  stage  "  from  conjecture)  the  Editors  of  1778  retained  on  account 
of  "  the  seeming  reference  to  a  buck-warrant  in  the  next  line  "  !  Weber  gave 
this  speech  as  prose.  It  is,  however,  verse  in  old  eds.  ;  and  appears  to  have 
been  intended  for  that  loose  sort  of  I'hythm,  which  our  authors  frequently 
affect.     Theobald,  as  usual,  propped  up  the  metre  by  inserting  a  word. 


•246  I'HILASTER.  [act  n. 

She  keeps  ;  a  handsome  boy,  about  eighteen  ; 
Know  what  she  does  with  liini,  where,  and  when. 
Come,  sir,  you  put  me  to  a  woman's  madness, 
Tlie  glory  of  a  fury  ;  and  if  I  do  not 
Do  it  to  the  height 

King.  What  boy  is  this  she  raves  at  I 

Meg.  Alas,  good-minded  prince,  you  know  not  these  things  ! 
I  am  loath  to  reveal  'em.     Keep  this  fault, 
As  you  would  keep  your  health  fi'om  the  hot  air 
Of  the  corrupted  people,  or,  by  heaven, 
I  will  not  fall  alone.     What  I  have  known 
Shall  be  as  public  as  a  print ;  all  tongues 
Shall  speak  it  as  they  do  the  language  they 
Are  born  in,  as  free  and  commonly ;   Til  set  it, 
Like  a  prodigious  ^  star,  for  all  to  gaze  at, 
And  so  high*^  and  glowing,  that  other  kingdoms  far  and  foreign 
Shall  read  it  there,  nay,  travel  with  it,  till  they  find 
No  tongue  to  make  it  more,  nor  no  more  people ; 
And  then  behold  the  fall  of  your  fair  princess  ! 

King.  Has  she  a  boy  ? 

Cle.  So  please  your  grace,  I  have  seen  a  boy  wait  on  her. 
A  fair  boy. 

King.  Go,  get  you  to  your  quarter  : 
For  this  time  I  will  study  to  forget  you. 

Meg.  Do  you  study  to  forget  me,  and  Fll  study 
To  forget  you.  [_Exeunt  King  and  Megra,  severally. 

Cle.  Why,  here's  a  male  spirit  fit  ^  for  Hercules.  If  ever 
there  be  Nine  Worthies  ^  of  women,  this  wench  shall  ride 
astride  and  be  their  captain. 

■'  prodigions]  i.  e.  portentous. 

•  And  so  high,  &c.]   This  formidable  line  was  reduced  by  Theobald  to 

"  So  high  and  glowing,  that  kingdoms  far  and  foreign." 
The  Editors  of  1778  divided  it  thus  ; 

"  And  so  high  and  glowing,  that  other  kingdoms 
Far  and  foreign. ' ' 
There  may  be  some  corruption  :  but  compare,  at  p.  40  of  this  vol..  "  And  must 
attend,"  &c. 

'  fit]  Found  only  in  4to.s.  1G20,  1(;22.     Not  in  modern  eds. 

*  Nine  IVorthies]  See  note,  p.  143.— This  sj)cech  perhajts  ought  to  stand  as 
three  lines  of  colloquial  verse. 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  247 

Dion.  Sure,  she  has  a  garrison  of  devils  in  her  tongue,  she 
uttered ''  such  balls  of  wild-fire  :  she  has  so  nettled  the  King, 
that  all  the  doctors  in  the  country  will  scarce  cure  him.  That 
boy  was  a  strange-found -out  antidote  to  cure  her  infection ; 
that  boy,  that  princess'  boy ;  that  brave,  chaste,  virtuous 
lady's  boy ;  and  a  fair  boy,  a  well-spoken  boy  !  All  these 
considered,  can  make  nothing  else — but  there  I  leave  you, 
gentlemen. 

Tlira.  Nay,  we'll  go  wander  with  you.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 

Scene  I. —  Tlie  Court  of  the  Palace. 


Enter  Dion,  Cleremont,  and  Thrasiline. 

Cle.  Nay,  doubtless,  'tis  true. 

Dion.  Ay ;  and  'tis  the  gods 
That  rais'd  this  punishment,  to  scourge  the  King 
With  his  own  issue.     Is  it  not  a  shame 
For  us  that  should  write  noble  in  the  land, 
For  us  that  should  be  freemen,  to  behold 
A  man  that  is  the  bravery  of  his  age, 
Philaster,  press'd  down  from  his  royal  right 
By  this  regardless  King  ?  and  only  look 
And  see  the  sceptre  ready  to  be  cast 
Into  the  hands  of  that  lascivious  lady 
That  lives  in  lust  with  a  smooth  boy,  now  to  be  married 
To  yon  strange  prince,  who,  but  that  people  please 
To  let  him  be  a  prince,  is  born  a  slave 
In  that  which  should  be  his  most  noble  part. 
His  mind  ? 

Thra.  That  man  that  would  not  stir  with  you 
To  aid  Philaster,  let  the  gods  forget 
That  such  a  creature  walks  upon  the  earth  ! 

''  uttered]  So  all  the  4tos.    Fol.  1679  "  uttereth"  ;  and  so  the  modei-n  editors 


248  PHIL  ASTER.  [acf  iii. 

( 'k.  Philaster  is  too  backward  in  t  himself. 
The  gentry  do  await  it,  and  the  people, 
Atraiust  their  nature ',  are  all  bent  for  him, 
And  like  a  field  of  standing  corn,  thafs  mov'd 
With  a  stiff  gale,  their  heads  bow  all  one  way. 

Dion.  The  only  cause  that  draws  Philaster  back 
From  this  attempt  is  the  fair  princess'  love, 
Which  he  admires,  and  we  can  now  confute. 

Thru.  Perliaps  he'll  not  believe  it. 

D'wn.  Why,  gentlemen, 
'Tis  without  question  so. 

Cle.  Ay,  'tis  past  speech. 
She  lives  dishonestly  ;  but  how  shall  we. 
If  he  be  curious  J,  work  upon  his  faith  \ 

Thra.  We  all  are  satisfied  within  ourselves. 

Dion.  Since  it  is  true,  and  tends  to  his  own  good, 
I'll  make  this  new  report  to  be  my  knowledge ; 
ril  say  I  know  it ;  nay,  I'll  swear  I  saw  it. 

Cle.  It  will  be  best. 

Thra.  'Twill  move  him. 

Dion.  Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Puilastek. 
Good-morrow  to  your  lionour  :  we  have  spent 
Some  time  in  seeking  you. 

Phi.   My  worthy  friends, 
You  that  can  keep  your  memories  to  know 
Your  friend  in  miseries,  and  cannot  frown 
On  men  disgrac'd  for  virtue,  a  good  day 
Attend  you  all  !     What  service  may  I  do 
Worthy  your  acceptation  ? 

Dion.  My  good  lord. 
We  come  to  urge  that  virtue,  whicii  we  know 
Lives  in  your  breast,  forth.     Rise,  and  make  a  head  : 
The  nobles  and  the  people  are  all  duH'd 

'  AgaiiiKt  their  nature]    "  i.  c.  contrary  to    ihv   natiu-e    of  the    discordant 
multitude.''     Mason. 

)  ruriouf]   "  i.  <•.  scrupulous."      Wkbkr. 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER,  249 

With  this  usurping  King ;  and  not  a  man, 
That  ever  heard  the  word,  or  knew  such  a  thing 
As  virtue,  but  will  second  your  attempts. 

Phi.  How  honourable  is  this  love  in  you 
To  me  that  have  deservM  none  !     Know,  my  friends, 
(You,  that  were  born  to  shame  your  poor  Philaster 
With  too  much  courtesy,)  I  could  afford 
To  melt  myself  in  thanks  ;  but  my  designs 
Are  not  yet  ripe  :  suffice  it,  that  ere  long 
I  shall  employ  your  loves  ;  but  yet  the  time 
Is  short  of  what  I  would. 

Dion.  The  time  is  fuller,  sir,  than  you  expect ; 
That  which  hereafter  will  not,  perhaps,  be  reach'd 
By  violence  may  now  be  caught.     As  for  the  King, 
You  know  the  people  have  long  hated  him ; 
But  now  the  princess,  whom  they  lovM 

Phi.  Why,  what  of  her  '. 

Dion.  Is  loath'd  as  much  as  he. 

Phi.  By  what  strange  means? 

Dion.  She's  known  a  whore. 

Phi.  Thou  liest ! 

Dion.  My  lord 

Phi.  Thou  liest,  ^Offers  to  draw  his  sword :  they  hold  him. 
And  thou  shalt  feel  it  !     I  had  thought  thy  mind 
Had  been  of  honour.      Thus  to  rob  a  lady 
Of  her  good  name,  is  an  infectious  sin 
Not  to  be  pardon'd  :  be  it  false  as  hell, 
'Twill  never  be  redeeniM,  if  it  be  sown 
Amongst  the  people,  fruitful  to  increase 
All  evil  they  shall  hear.     Let  me  alone, 
That  I  may  cut  off  falsehood  whilst  it  springs  ! 
Set  hills  on  hills  betwixt  me  and  the  man 
That  utters  this,  and  I  will  scale  them  all, 
And  from  the  utmost  top  fall  on  his  neck, 
Like  thunder  from  a  cloud. 

Dion.  This  is  most  strange  : 
Sure,  he  does  love  her. 

Phi.   I  do  love  fair  truth  : 


250  PHILASTER.  [act  in. 

She  is  my  mistress,  and  wlio  injures  her 

I3ra\\s  vengeance  from  me.     Sirs,  let  go  my  arms. 

Thra.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  patient. 

Cle.  Sir,  remember  this  is  your  honourM  friend, 
That  comes  to  do  his  service,  and  will  shew  you 
^^'hy  he  uttcr'd  this. 

PJii.  I  ask  you  pardon,  sir; 
My  zeal  to  truth  made  me  unmannerly  : 
Should  I  have  heard  dishonour  spoke  of  you, 
Behind  your  back,  untruly,  I  had  been 
As  much  distemper'd  and  enrag'd  as  now. 

Dion.  But  this,  my  lord,  is  truth. 

Phi.  Oh,  say  not  so  ! 
Good  sir,  forbear  to  say  so  ;  'tis  then  truth 
That  all  womankind  is  false  :  urge  it  no  more ; 
It  is  impossible.     Why  should  you  think 
The  princess  light  I 

Dion.  Why,  she  was  taken  at  it. 

Phi.  'Tis  false  !  by  ^-  heaven,  'tis  false  !  it  cannot  be  ! 
Can  it  ?     Speak,  gentlemen  ;  for  love  of  truth,  speak  ! 
Is't  possible  ?  can  women  all  be  danm'd  ; 

Dion.  Why,  no,  my  lord. 

Phi.  Why,  then,  it  cannot  be. 

Dion.  And  she  was  taken  with  her  boy. 

Phi.  What  boy? 

Dion.  A  page,  a  boy  that  serves  her. 

Phi.  Oh,  good  gods  ! 
A  little  boy  i 

Dion.  Ay  ;  know  you  him,  my  lord  I 

Phi.  Hell  and  sin  know  him.  [Aside.] — Sir,  you  are  deceived ; 
I'll  reason  it  a  little  coldly  with  you  : 
If  she  were  lustful,  would  she  take  a  boy, 
That  knows  not  yet  desire  I  she  would  have  one 
Should  meet  her  thoughts  and  know  the  sin  he  acts, 
Which  is  the  great  delight  of  wickedness. 
You  are  abus'd,  and  so  is  she,  and  I. 

^  by]  .So  all  tlif  4tob.    Fol.  1670  "O;"  and  so  the  Editoi-s  of  17"lt  and  Wubur. 


SCENE  I.J  PHILASTER.  251 

Dion.  How  you,  ray  lord  I 

Phi.  Why,  all  the  world's  abus'd 
In  an  unjust  report. 

Dion.  Oh,  noble  sir,  your  virtues 
Cannot  look  into  the  subtle  thoughts  of  woman  ! 
In  short,  my  lord,  T  took  them  ;   I  myself. 

Phi.  Now,  all  the  devils,  thou  didst !     Fly  from  my  rage  ! 
Would  thou  hadst  ta'en  devils '  engendering  plagues. 
When  thou  didst  take  them  !     Hide  thee  from  my  eyes  ! 
Would  thou  hadst  taken  thunder  on  thy  breast, 
When  thou  didst  take  them ;  or  been  strucken  dumb 
For  ever ;  that  this  foul  deed  might  have  slept 
In  silence  ! 

Thra.  Have  you  known  him  so  ill-temper'd  i 

Cle.  Never  before. 

Phi.  The  winds,  that  are  let  loose 
From  the  four  several  corners  of  the  earth, 
And  spread  themselves  all  over  sea  and  land, 
Kiss  not  a  chaste  one.     What  friend  bears  a  sword 
To  run  me  thorough  ™  l 

Dion.  Why,  my  lord,  are  you 
So  mov'd  at  this  ? 

Phi.  When  any  fall  from  virtue, 
I  am  distract ;  I  have  an  interest  in't. 

Dion.  But,  good  my  lord,  recall  yourself,  and  think 
What's  best  to  be  done. 

Phi.  I  thank  you  ;   I  will  do  it : 
Please  you  to  leave  me  ;   Til  consider  of  it. 
To-morrow  I  will  find  your  lodging  forth, 
And  give  you  answer  ". 

'  devils'\  Perhaps  a  mistake  of  the  original  compositor,  whose  eye  had  caught 
the  word  from  the  preceding  line.  In  the  alteration  of  Philaster,  called  The 
Restauration  (atti'ibuted  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  see  p.  203),  "fiends  "  is 
substituted  ;  and  in  Settle's  alteration  of  the  play  (see  ibid.),  "  furies." 

°»  thorough]  So  4to.  1620.  Other  eds.  "  through  ;"  and  so  the  modem 
editors. 

°  And  give  you  ansioer,  &c.]  The  later  eds.  have 
"  And  give  you  answer 
The  readiest  way.     Di.  All  the  gods  dii-ect  you  "  ; 


2,V2  PHILASTER.  [act  iii. 

Dion.  All  the  gods  direct  you 
The  readiest  way  ! 

Till  (I.  Ho  was  extreme  impatient. 

Clf.  It  was  his  virtue  and  his  noble  mind. 

[Exeunt  Dion,  Clekemont,  and  Thrasiline. 

PJii.  T  had  forgot  to  ask  him  where  he  took  them ; 
ril  follow  him.     Oh,  that  I  had  a  sea 
Within  my  breast,  to  quench  the  fire  \  feel ! 
More  circumstances  will  but  fan  this  fire : 
It  more  afflicts  me  now,  to  know  by  whom 
This  deed  is  done,  than  simply  that  'tis  done  ; 
And  he  that  tells  me  this  is  honourable. 
As  far  from  lies  as  she  is  far  from  truth. 
Oh,  that,  like  beasts,  we  could  not  grieve  ourselves 
With  that  we  see  not !     Bulls  and  rams  will  fight 
To  keep  their  females,  standing  in  their  sight ; 
But  take  'em  from  them,  and  you  take  at  once 
Their  spleens  away  ;  and  they  will  fall  again 
Unto  their  pastures,  growing  fresh  and  fat ; 
And  taste  the  waters"  of  the  springs  as  sweet 
As  'twas  before,  finding  no  start  in  sleep  : 
But  miserable  man 

Enter  Bellario. 

See,  see,  you  gods. 
He  walks  still ;  and  the  face  you  let  him  wear 
When  he  was  innocent  is  still  the  same, 
Not  blasted  !     Is  this  justice  ?  do  you  mean 
To  intrap  mortality,  that  you  allow 
Treason  so  smooth  a  brow  \     I  cannot  now 
Think  ho  is  guilty.  \_Aside. 

Bel.  Health  to  you,  my  lord  ! 
The  princess  doth  commend  her  love,  her  life, 
And  this,  unto  you.  [Gikcs  a  letter. 

anil  Wilxr  rfriiarks  that  "  this  accidental  transposition  was  rectified  by 
Tlieohnld."  Y«-t  Wchcr  used  several  of  those  earlier  4tos.  in  which  there  is  no 
transjiohition  of  the  jiassage  ! 

"  iratrrs'\  Theobald,  on  account  of  "  'twas  "  in  the  next  line,  g.ive  "  water  "  ; 
and  bo  the  Editors  of  1778. 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  253 

Phi.  Oh,  Bellario, 
Now  I  perceive  she  loves  me  !  she  does  shew  it 
In  loving  thee,  my  boy :  she  has  made  thee  brave. 

Bel.  My  lord,  she  has  attirVl  me  past  my  wish. 
Past  my  desert ;  more  fit  for  her  attendant, 
Though  far  unfit  for  me  who  do  attend. 

Phi.  Thou  art  grown  courtly,  boy. — Oh,  let  all  women, 
That  love  black  deeds,  learn  to  dissemble  here. 
Here,  by  this  paper  !     She  does  write  to  me 
As  if  her  heart  were  mines  of  adamant 
To  ail  the  world  besides  ;  but,  unto  me, 

A  maiden-snow  that  melted  with  my  looks. —  [Aside. 

Tell  me,  my  boy,  how  doth  the  princess  use  thee  ? 
For  I  shall  guess  her  love  to  me  by  that. 

Bel.  Scarce  like  her  servant,  but  as  if  I  were 
Something  allied  to  her,  or  had  preserved 
Her  life  three  times  by  my  fidelity ; 
As  mothers  fond  do  use  their  only  sons. 
As  Fd  use  one  thafs  left  unto  my  trust. 
For  whom  my  life  should  pay  if  he  met  harm. 
So  she  does  use  me. 

Phi.  Why,  this  is  wondrous  well : 
But  what  kind  language  does  she  feed  thee  with  I 

Bel.  Why,  she  does  tell  me  she  will  trust  my  youth 
With  all  her  loving  secrets,  and  does  call  me 
Her  pretty  servant ;  bids  me  weep  no  more 
For  leaving  you ;  she'll  see  my  services 
Regarded  " ;  and  such  words  of  that  soft  strain, 
That  I  am  nearer  weeping  when  she  ends 
Than  ere  she  spake. 

Phi.  This  is  much  better  still. 
Bel.  Are  you  not  ill,  my  lord  ? 
Phi.  Ill  !  no,  Bellario. 
Bel.  Methinks  your  words 
Fall  not  from  off  your  tongue  so  evenly, 

o  Regarded]   Is,  I  believe,  right  :  but  1  may  just  notice  that  4to,  ]620  has 
"rewarded." 


2:)4  I'll IL ASTER.  [act  in. 

Nor  is  there  in  your  looks  that  (luietness 
That  I  was  wont  to  see. 

Phi.  Thou  art  deceiv\l,  boy  : 
And  she  strokes  thy  head  ] 

Bel  Yes. 

Phi.  And  she  does  clap  thy  cheeks  ? 

Bel.  She  does,  my  lord. 

Phi.  And  she  does  kiss  thee,  boy  ?  ha  ! 

Bel.  How,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  She  kisses  thee  I 

Bel  Not  so,  my  lord  p. 

Phi.  Come,  come,  I  know  she  does. 

Bel.  No,  by  my  life ! 

Phi.  Why,  then,  she  does  not  love  me.     Come,  she  does  : 
I  bade  her  do  it ;   I  charged  her,  by  all  charms 
Of  love  between  us,  by  the  hope  of  peace 
We  should  enjoy,  to  yield  thee  all  delights 
Naked  as  to  her  bed  ;   I  took  her  oath 
Thou  should'st  enjoy  her.     Tell  me,  gentle  boy. 
Is  she  not  paralleless  ;  is  not  her  breath 
Sweet  as  Arabian  winds  when  fruits  are  ripe  i 
Are  not  her  breasts  two  liquid  ivory  balls  ? 
Is  she  not  all  a  lasting  mine  of  joy  I 

Bel.  Ay,  now  I  see  why  my  disturbed  thoughts 
Were  so  perplex'd  :  when  first  I  went  to  her. 
My  heart  held  augury.     You  are  abusVl ; 
Some  villain  has  abusVl  you  :   I  do  see 
Whereto  you  tend.     Fall  rocks  upon  his  head 
That  put  this  to  you  !  'tis  some  subtle  train 
To  bring  that  noble  frame  of  yours  to  nought. 

Phi.  Thou  think"'st  I  will  be  angry  with  thee.     Come, 
Thou  shalt  know  all  my  drift :   I  hate  her  more 
Than  I  love  happiness,  and  placM  thee  there 
To  pry  with  narrow  eyes  into  her  deeds. 

••  licl.  Not  so,  my  lord]  Theobald  gave,  from  tlie  earlier  4tos.,  "  Bel.  Never, 
my  lord,  by  heaven  ;"  but  he  did  not  adoj.t  their  variation  in  the  next  speeeh, 
viz.  "  Fhi.  That's  strange  :  /  knovc  she  does." 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  255 

Hast  thou  discovered  I  is  she  fallen  to  lust, 

As  I  would  wish  her  i     Speak  some  comfort  to  me. 

Bel.  My  lord,  you  did  mistake  the  boy  you  sent : 
Had  she  the  lust  of  sparrows  or  of  goats, 
Had  she  a  sin  that  way,  hid  from  the  world, 
Beyond  the  name  of  lust,  I  would  not  aid 
Her  base  desires  :  but  what  I  came  to  know 
As  servant  to  her,  I  would  not  reveal. 
To  make  my  life  last  ages. 

Phi.  Oh,  my  heart ! 
This  is  a  salve  worse  than  the  main  disease. 
Tell  me  thy  thoughts  ;  for  I  will  know  the  least 

[Di'ciivs  his  sioord. 
That  dwells  within  thee,  or  will  rip  thy  heart 
To  know  it ;   I  will  see  thy  thoughts  as  plain 
As  I  do  now  thy  face. 

Bel.  Why,  so  you  do. 
She  is  (for  aught  I  know),  by  all  the  gods,  [Kneels. 

As  chaste  as  ice  !  but  were  she  foul  as  hell. 
And  I  did  know  it  thus,  the  breath  of  kings. 
The  points  of  swords,  tortures,  nor  bulls  of  brass  'i. 
Should  draw  it  from  me. 

Phi.  Then  it  is  no  time 
To  dally  with  thee  ;  I  will  take  thy  life. 
For  I  do  hate  thee :   I  could  curse  thee  now. 

Bel.  If  you  do  hate,  you  could  not  curse  me  worse ; 
The  gods  have  not  a  punishment  in  store 
Greater  for  me  than  is  your  hate. 

Phi.  Fie,  fie. 
So  young  and  so  dissembling  !     Tell  me  when 
And  where  thou  didst  enjoy  her,  or  let  plagues 
Fall  upon  me  \  if  I  destroy  thee  not  ! 

Bel.  Heaven  knows  I  never  did  ;  and  when  I  lie 
To  save  my  life,  may  I  live  long  and  loath'd  ! 
Hew  me  asunder,  and,  whilst  I  can  think, 

1  bulls  of  brass]  An  allusion  to  the  story  of  the  tyi'ant  Phalaris. 
"■  upon  me]    So  4to.    1620.      Other  eds.  "on  me"  ;    and  so   the  modern 
editors.     Theobald,  for  the  metre,  gave  "  on  me  strait." 


•226  PHILASTER.  [act  in. 

ril  love  those  pieces  you  have  cut  away 

Better  than  those  that  grow,  and  kiss  those  Hnibs 

Because  you  made  'em  so. 

Phi.  Fear'st  thou  not  death  ? 
Can  boys  contemn  that  I 

Bel.  Oh,  what  boy  is  he 
Can  be  content  to  Hve  to  be  a  man, 
That  sees  the  best  of  men  thus  passionate. 
Thus  without  reason  ? 

Phi.  Oh,  but  thou  dost  not  know 
^^'hat  'tis  to  die. 

Bel.  Yes,  I  do  know,  my  lord  : 
'Tis  less  than  to  be  born ;  a  lasting  sleep  ; 
A  quiet  resting  from  all  jealousy, 
A  thing  we  all  pursue  ;  I  know,  besides, 
It  is  but  giving  over  of  a  game 
That  must  be  lost. 

Phi.  But  there  are  pains,  false  boy. 
For  perjurM  souls  :  think  but  on  these,  and  then 
Thy  heart  will  melt,  and  thou  wilt  utter  all. 

Bel.  May  they  fall  all  upon  me  whilst  T  live, 
Tf  I  be  perjur'd,  or  have  ever  thought 
Of  that  you  charge  me  with  !     If  I  be  false, 
Send  me  to  suffer  in  those  punishments 
Yon  speak  of ;  kill  me  ! 

Phi.  Oh,  what  should  I  do  ? 
Why,  who  can  but  believe  him ''".  he  does  swear 
So  earnestly,  that  if  it  were  not  true. 

The  gods  would  not  endure  him.   [Sheath.'^  his  stoord.] — Rise, 
Bellario  :  [  Bellario  rises. 

Thy  protestations  arc  so  deep,  and  thou 
Dost  look  so  truly  when  thou  utter'st  them. 
That,  though  I  know  'em  false  as  were  my  hopes, 
I  cannot  urge  thee  further.     But  thou  wert 
To  blame  to  injure  me,  for  I  must  love 
Thy  houfst  looks,  and  take  no  revenge  upon 
Thy  tender  youth  ;  a  love  from  me  to  thee 
Is  firm,  \\liat(;'er  thou  dost :  it  troubles  me 


SCENE  II.]  PHILASTER.  257 

That  I  have  calFd  the  blood  out  of  thy  cheeks, 
That  did  so  well  become  thee.     But,  good  boy, 
Let  me  not  see  thee  more  :  something  is  done 
That  will  distract  me,  that  will  make  me  mad, 
If  I  behold  thee.     If  thou  tender'st  me, 
Let  me  not  see  thee. 

Bel.  I  will  fly  as  far 
As  there  is  morning,  ere  I  give  distaste 
To  that  most  honoured  mind.     But  through  these  tears, 
Shed  at  my  hopeless  parting,  I  can  see 
A  world  of  treason  practised  upon  you, 
And  her,  and  me.     Farewell  for  evermore  ! 
If  you  shall  hear  that  sorrow  struck  me  dead, 
And  after  find  me  loyal,  let  there  be 
A  tear  shed  from  you  in  my  memory. 
And  I  shall  rest  at  peace. 

Phi.  Blessing  be  with  thee. 
Whatever  thou  deserv'st !  \^Exit  Bellario.]  Oh,  whore  shall  I 
Go  bathe  this  body  ?     Nature  too  unkind. 
That  made  no  medicine  for  a  troubled  mind  !  [Exit. 


SCENE  II. — Arethusa"'s  Ajxirtment  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Arethusa. 
Are.  I  marvel  my  boy  comes  not  back  again  : 
But  that  1  know  my  love  will  question  him 
Over  and  over, — how  I  slept,  wak'd,  talk'd, 
How  I  rememberM  him  when  his  dear  name 
Was  last  spoke,  and  how  when  I  sighM,  wept,  sung, 
And  ten  thousand  such, — I  should  be  angry  at  his  stay. 

Enter  King. 

King.  What,  at  your  meditations  !     Who  attends  you 
Are.  None  but  my  single  self :   I  need  no  guard  ; 
I  do  no  wrong,  nor  fear  none. 

King.  Tell  me,  have  you  not  a  boy  ? 
Are.  Yes,  sir. 

VOL.  I.  s 


'HILASTER.  [act  hi. 


King.  \\'hat  kind  of  boy  ? 

Are.  A  page,  a  waiting-boy. 

King.  A  handsome  boy  I 

Are.  I  think  he  be  not  ugly : 
Well  qualified  and  dutiful  I  know  him  ; 
I  took  him  not  for  beauty. 

King.  He  speaks  and  sings  and  plays  ? 

Are.  Yes,  sir. 

King.  About  eighteen  ? 

Are.  I  never  askVl  his  age. 

King.  Is  he  full  of  serv 


ice  i 


Are.  By  your  pardon,  why  do  you  ask  I 

King.  Put  him  away. 

Are.  Sir! 

King.  Put  him  away.     H'as  done  you  that  good  service 
Shames  me  to  speak  of. 

Are.  Good  sir,  let  me  understand  you. 

King.  If  you  fear  me, 
Shew  it  in  duty  ;  put  away  that  boy. 

Are.  Let  me  have  reason  for  it,  sir,  and  then 
Your  will  is  my  command. 

King.  Do  not  you  blush  to  ask  it  ?     Cast  him  off. 
Or  I  shall  do  the  same  to  you.     You're  one 
Shame  with  me,  and  so  near  unto  myself. 
That,  by  my  life,  I  dare  not  tell  myself 
What  you,  myself,  have  done. 

Are.  What  have  I  done,  my  lord  ? 

King.  'Tis  a  new  language,  that  all  love  to  learn  : 
The  common  people  speak  it  well  already  ; 
They  need  no  grammar.     Understand  me  well ; 
There  bo  foul  whispers  stirring.     Cast  him  off, 
And  suddenly  :   do  it  !     Farewell.  [Exit. 

Are.  Where  may  a  maiden  live  securely  free, 
Keeping  her  honour  fair "  ?     Not  with  the  living ; 
They  feed  upon  opinions,  errors,  dreams, 

•  fair]  So  4to.s.  1G20,  1G22,  1628.     Luter  cds.  "  safe  "  ;  aud  so  the  modern 
editors. 


SCENE  II.]  PHILASTER.  259 

And  make  'em  truths  ;  they  draw  a  nourishment 
Out  of  defamings,  grow  upon  disgraces  ; 
And,  when  they  see  a  virtue  fortified 
Strongly  above  the  batteiy  of  their  tongues, 
Oh,  how  they  cast  to  sink  it !  and,  defeated, 
(Soul-sick  with  poison)  strike  the  monuments 
Where  noble  names  lie  sleeping,  till  they  sweat, 
And  the  cold  marble  melt. 

Enter  Philaster. 

Phi.  Peace  to  your  fairest  thoughts,  dearest '  mistress  ! 

Are.  Oh,  my  dearest  servant ",  1  have  a  war  within  me  ! 

Phi.  He  must  be  more  than  man  that  makes  these  crystals 
Run  into  rivers.     Sweetest  fair,  the  cause  I 
And,  as  I  am  your  slave,  tied  to  your  goodness, 
Your  creature,  made  again  from  what  I  was 
And  newly-spirited,  TU  right  your  honour. 

Are.  Oh,  my  best  love,  that  boy  ! 

Phi.  What  boy? 

Are.  The  pretty  boy  you  gave  me 

Phi.  What  of  him  ? 

Are.  Must  be  no  more  mine. 

Phi.  Why? 

Are.  They  are  jealous  of  him. 

Phi.  Jealous  !  who  ? 

Are.  The  King. 

Phi.  Oh,  my  fortune  *  ! 
Then  'tis  no  idle  jealousy.  \^Aside.^ — Let  him  go. 

Are.  Oh,  cruel  ! 
Are  you  hard-hearted  too  ?     Who  shall  now  tell  you 
How  much  I  lov'd  you  ?  who  shall  swear  it  to  you, 
And  weep  the  tears  I  send  ?  who  shall  now  bring  you 

'  dearest]  Theobald  printed  "  my  dearest "  ;  and  so  perhaps  the  author  wrote, 

"  servant]  See  note,  p.  213. ' 

'  my  fortune']  Qto.  1620  "  my  misfortune,"  which  is  perhaps  the  right  read- 
ing ;  for  4to.  1622  lias  "  my  mi  fortune,"  and  4to.  1628  "  my  my  fortune."   Later 
eds.  "  my  fortune."     In  The  Mad  Lover,  act  ii.  sc.  3,  the  old  eds.  read  "  my 
fortunes,"  where  the  sense  positively  requires  "misfortunes." 
S2 


260  PIIILASTER.  [*"  in. 

Letters,  rings,  bracelets  ?  lose  liis  health  in  service  ? 

Wake  tedious  nights  in  stories  of  your  praise  l 

"Who  shall  now  "'  sing  your  crying  elegies. 

And  strike  a  sad  soul  into  senseless  pictures, 

And  make  them  mourn  I  who  shall  take  up  his  lute, 

And  touch  it  till  he  crown  a  silent  sleep 

Upon  my  eye-lids  ^  making  me  dream,  and  cry, 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  dear  Philaster  !" 

P/ii.  Oh,  my  heart ! 
Would  he  had  broken  thee,  that  made  thee  know 
This  lady  was  not  loyal !  [Aside.l — Mistress, 
Forget  the  boy  ;  Fll  get  thee  a  far  better. 

Are.  Oh,  never,  never  such  a  boy  again 
As  my  Bellario ! 

P/iL  'Tis  but  your  fond  affection. 

Are.  With  thee,  my  boy,  farewell  for  ever 
All  secrecy  in  servants  !     Farewell  faith, 
And  all  desire  to  do  well  for  itself ! 
Let  all  that  shall  succeed  thee  for  thy  wrongs 
Sell  and  betray  chaste  love  ! 

Phi.  And  all  this  passion  ^  for  a  boy  ? 

Are.  He  was  your  boy^,  and  you  put  him  to  me. 
And  the  loss  of  such  must  have  a  mourning  for. 

Phi.  Oh,  thou  forgetful  woman  ! 

Are.  How,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  False  Arethusa  ! 
Hast  thou  a  medicine  to  restore  my  wits, 
When  I  have  lost  'em  ?     If  not,  leave  to  talk, 
And  do  *  thus. 

"  Tioic]  Found  only  in  4to.  1620.     Theobald  inserted  it,  from  conjecture, 
thus — "  Who  notv  shall  sing,"  &c. 

•  eijelids]  So  4tos.  1620,  1622,  1628.     Later  eds.  « eye-lid";  and   so   the 
modem  editors. 

T  passion]  i.  e.  sorrowful  exclamation. 

»  He  ipas  your  boy,  &c.]  There  seems  to  be  a  slight  corruption  of  the  text 
here  :  Theobald  fearlessly  refonned  it  thus  ; 

"  He  was  your  boy,  you  put  him  to  me,  and 
The  loss  of  such  must  have  a  mourning  for." 

•  do]  Theobald  printed  "  to  do." 


SCENE  II.] 


PHILASTER.  261 


Are.  Do  what,  sir  I  would  you  sleep  ? 
Phi.  For  ever,  Arethusa.     Oh,  you  gods, 

Give  me  a  worthy  patience  !     Have  I  stood 

Naked,  alone,  the  shock  of  many  fortunes  ? 

Have  I  seen  mischiefs  numberless  and  mighty 

Grow  like  a  sea  upon  me  ?     Have  I  taken 

Danger  as  stern  as  death  into  my  bosom, 

And  laugh'd  upon  it,  made  it  but  a  mirth. 

And  flung  it  by  ?     Do  I  live  now  like  him. 

Under  this  tyrant  King,  that  languishing 

Hears  his  sad  bell  and  sees  his  mourners  ?     Do  I 

Bear  all  this  bravely,  and  must  sink  at  length 

Under  a  woman's  falsehood  1     Oh,  that  boy, 

That  cursed  boy  !     None  but  a  villain  boy 

To  ease  your  lust  I 

Are.  Nay,  then,  I  am  betray'd  : 

I  feel  the  plot  cast  for  my  overthrow. 

Oh,  I  am  wretched  ! 

Phi.  Now  you  may  take  that  little  right  I  have 

To  this  poor  kingdom  :  give  it  to  your  joy  ; 

For  I  have  no  joy  in  it.     Some  far  place, 

Where  never  womankind  durst  set  her  foot 

For  bursting  with  her  poisons '',  must  I  seek. 

And  live  to  curse  you  : 

There  dig  a  cave,  and  preach  to  birds  and  beasts 

What  woman  is,  and  help  to  save  them  from  you  ; 

How  heaven  is  in  your  eyes,  but  in  your  hearts 

More  hell  than  hell  has  ;  how  your  tongues,  like  scorpions. 

Both  heal  and  poison  ;  how  your  thoughts  are  woven 

With  thousand  changes  in  one  subtle  web. 

And  worn  so  by  you  ;  how  that  fooHsh  man, 

That  reads  the  story  of  a  woman's  face 

And  dies  believing  it,  is  lost  for  ever  ; 

>>  For  bursting  with  her  poisons]  "  Means  for  fear  of  bursting  with  her 
poisons  ;  a  mode  of  expression  which  so  frequently  occurs  in  these  plays,  that 
a  particular  example  of  it  is  unnecessary.  It  was  vulgarly  supposed  that  there 
were  places  where  no  venomous  creatures  could  live.  Ireland,  in  particular, 
because  none  such  are  to  be  found  in  that  country." — Mason. 


262  PIIILASTER.  [act  hi. 

How  all  the  good  you  have  is  but  a  shadow, 

r  the  morning  with  you,  and  at  night  behind  you 

Past  and  forgotten ;  how  your  vows  are  frosts. 

Fast  for  a  night,  and  with  the  next  sun  gone  ; 

How  you  are,  being  taken  all  together, 

A  mere  confusion,  and  so  dead  a  chaos, 

That  love  cannot  distinguish.     These  sad  texts, 

Till  my  last  hour,  I  am  bound  to  utter  of  you. 

So,  farewell  all  my  woe,  all  my  delight !  [Exit. 

Are.  Be  merciful,  ye  gods,  and  strike  mo  dead  ! 
"What  way  have  I  deserved  this?     Make  my  breast 
Transparent  as  pure  crystal,  that  the  world. 
Jealous  of  me,  may  see  the  foulest  thought 
]\Iy  heart  holds.     Where  shall  a  woman  turn  her  eyes. 
To  find  out  constancy  ? 

Enter  Bellario. 

Save  me,  how  black 
And  guiltily  ^,  methinks,  that  boy  looks  now  ! 
Oh,  thou  dissembler,  that,  before  thou  spak'st, 
Wert  in  thy  cradle  false,  sent  to  make  lies 
And  betray  innocents  !     Thy  lord  and  thou 
May  glory  in  the  ashes  of  a  maid 
Fool'd  by  her  passion  ;  but  the  conquest  is 
Nothing  so  great  as  wicked.     Fly  away  ! 
Let  my  command  force  thee  to  that  which  shame 
AVould  do  without  it.     If  thou  understood'st 
The  loathed  office  thou  hast  undergone, 
AVhy,'  thou  wouldst  hide  thee  under  heaps  of  hills, 
Lest  men  should  dig  and  find  thee. 

Bel.  Oh,  what  god, 
Angry  with  men,  hath  sent  this  strange  disease 
Into  the  noblest  minds  !     Madam,  this  grief 
You  atld  unto  me  is  no  more  than  drops 

'  ffuillilt/]  Qto.  1620  "vile."  Qto.  1622  «  guiltily,"— a  reading,  wliicli 
Theobald  inserted  from  conjecture.  The  other  4tos.,  and  fol.  lC/9  "guilty." 
Weber,  with  4to.  1C22  lying  before  him,  gives  "  guiltily  "  as  the  emendation  of 


SCENE  II.]  PHILASTER.  263 

To  seas,  for  which  they  are  not  seen  to  swell ; 
My  lord  hath  struck  his  anger  through  my  heart, 
And  let  out  all  the  hope  of  future  joys. 
You  need  not  bid  me  fly ;  I  came  to  part, 
To  take  my  latest  leave.     Farewell  for  ever  ! 
I  durst  not  run  away  in  honesty 
From  such  a  lady,  like  a  boy  that  stole 
Or  made  some  grievous  fault.     The  power  of  gods 
Assist  you  in  your  sufferings  !     Hasty  time 
Reveal  the  truth  to  your  abused  lord 
And  mine,  that  he  may  know  your  worth ;  whilst  I 
Go  seek  out  some  forgotten  place  to  die  !         [Exit  Bellario. 
Are.  Peace  guide  thee  !      Thou  hast  overthrown  me  once  ; 
Yet,  if  I  had  another  Troy  to  lose. 
Thou,  or  another  villain  with  thy  looks. 
Might  talk  me  out  of  it,  and  send  me  naked, 
My  hair  dishevelFd,  through  the  fiery  streets. 

Enter  a  Lady. 

Ladi/.  Madam,  the  King  would  hunt,  and  calls  for  you 
With  earnestness. 

Are.  I  am  in  tune  to  hunt ! 
Diana,  if  thou  canst  rage  with  a  maid 
As  with  a  man  '^,  let  me  discover  thee 
Bathing,  and  turn  me  to  a  fearful  hind, 
That  I  may  die  pursu'd  by  cruel  hounds. 
And  have  my  story  written  in  my  wounds  !  [Exeunt. 

^  a  wan]  i.  e.  Acteon. 


PIIILASTER.  [act  iv. 


ACT   IV. 

ScEN'E  I. — Before  the  Palace. 


Enter  King,  Pharamond,  Arethcsa,  Galatea,  Megra,  Dion, 
Cleremont,  TnRAsiLiNE,  and  Attendants. 

King.  What,  are  the  hounds  before  and  all  the  woodmen ', 
Our  horses  ready  and  our  bows  bent  ? 

Dion.  All,  sir. 

King.  You  are  cloudy,  sir :  come,  we  have  forgotten 

[To  Pharamond. 
Your  venial  trespass  ;  let  not  that  sit  heavy 
Upon  your  spirit ;  here's  none  dare  utter  it. 

Dion.  He  looks  like  an  old  surfeited  stallion  after  his 
leaping,  dull  as  a  dormouse.  See  how  he  sinks  !  the  wench 
has  shot  him  between  wind  and  water,  and,  I  hope,  sprung  a 
leak. 

Jlira.  He  needs  no  teaching,  he  strikes  sure  enough  :  his 
greatest  fault  is,  he  hunts  too  much  in  the  purlieus  ;  would 
he  would  leave  off  poaching  ! 

Dion.  And  for  his  horn,  h'as  left  it  at  the  lodge  where  he 
lay  late  K  Oh,  he's  a  precious  lime-hound  s !  turn  him  loose 
upon  the  pursuit  of  a  lady,  and  if  he  lose  her,  hang  him  up  i' 
the  sHp.  When  my  fox-bitch  Beauty  grows  proud.  Til 
borrow  him. 

King.  Is  your  boy  turn'd  away  i 

Are.  You  did  command,  sir. 
And  I  obeyM  you. 

King.  'Tis  well  done.     Hark  ye  further.     [Theg  talh  apart. 

Cle.   Is't  possible  this  fellow  should  rei)ent  i  niethinks.  that 

'  troodmen]  i.  e.  foresters. 

'  lale]  "  Means  lately,"  says  Mason,  rather  unnecessarily. 
*  lime-hound']  i.  e.  a  hound  of  the  chase,  so  called  from  the  ft/am,  or  lyme 
(leash)  by  which  it  was  led. 


SCENE  I.]  PHILASTER.  2G5 

were  not  noble  in  him ;  and  yet  he  looks  like  a  mortified 
member,  as  if  he  had  a  sick  man's  salve  ^  in''s  mouth.  If  a 
worse  man  had  done  this  fault  now,  some  physical  justice  or 
other  would  presently  (without  the  help  of  an  almanack)  have 
opened  the  obstructions  of  his  liver,  and  let  him  blood  with  a 
dog- whip. 

Dion.  See,  see  how  modestly  yon  lady  looks,  as  if  she 
came  from  churching  with  her  neighbour  !  Why,  what  a 
devil  can  a  man  see  in  her  face  but  that  she's  honest  •  ! 

Thra.  Troth ^  no  great  matter  to  speak  of;  a  foolish 
twinkling  with  the  eye,  that  spoils  her  coat  ^ ;  but  he  must  be 
a  cunning  herald  that  finds  it. 

Dion.  See  how  they  muster  one  another  !  Oh,  there's  a 
rank  regiment  where  the  devil  carries  the  colours  and  his 
dam  drum-major !  now  the  world  and  the  flesh  come  behind 
with  the  carriage '. 

C2e.  Sure  this  lady  has  a  good  turn  done  her  against  her 
will ;  before  she  was  common  talk,  now  none  dare  say 
cantharides  can  stir  her.  Her  face  looks  like  a  warrant, 
willing  and  commanding  all  tongues,  as  they  will  answer  it, 
to  be  tied  up  and  bolted  when  this  lady  means  to  let  herself 
loose.     As  I  live,  she  has  got  her  a  goodly  protection  and  a 

''  sick  man's  salve]  An  allusiou  to  a  work  by  Thomas  Becon,  or  Bea  con 
entitled  The  Sicke  Mans  Salue.  Wherein  al  faithful  christians  may  learne 
both  how  to  hehaue  themselues  patiently  and  thankfully  in  the  time  of  sickenesse, 
and  also  vertuousUe  to  dispose  their  temporall  goods,  and  finally  to  prepare 
themselues  gladly  and  godly  to  die.  Gifford  mistakingly  states  (after  Reed  apud 
Mason)  that  it  was  "pubUshed  about  1591."  Note  on  Jonson's  Works,  iii. 
443.  The  first  edition  was  in  1561  ;  and  it  was  sevei-al  times  reprinted.  Our 
early  dramatists  and  pamphleteers  frequently  allude  to  it  with  ridicule.  Reed 
(wij  sup.)  mentions  another  piece  called, —  The  Salue  for  a  Sick  Man  &c.,by 
William  Perkins. 

'  honestl  i.  e.  chaste. 

J  Thra.  Troth,  kc]  "  The  name  of  the  speaker  is  corrected  [from"P/ia." 
to  "  Thra.'']  by  Theobald,  who  did  not  know  that  he  had  the  authority  of  the 
quarto  of  1622  for  the  variation."  Weber.  The  mistake  was  obvious  and 
easily  corrected. 

''  that  spoils  her  coaf]  "  The  allusion  is  to  mullets,  or  stars,  introduced  into 
coats  of  arms,  to  distinguish  the  younger  branches  of  a  family,  which  of  course 
denote  inferiority."     Mason. 

'  carriage]  "  i.  e.  baggage."     Maso*n. 


266  PHILASTER.  [act  iv. 

gracious  ;  and  may  use  her  body  discreetly,  for  her  health's 
sake,  once  a  week,  excepting  Lent  and  Dog-days.  Oh,  if 
they  were  to  be  got  for  money,  what  a  great  sum  would  come 
out  of  the  city  for  these  licences ""  ! 

Kimj.  To  horse,  to  horse  !  we  lose  the  morning,  gentlemen. 

[^Exeunt. 


SCENE  \l.— A  Forest 

Enter  two  Woodmen". 

First  Wood.  What,  have  you  lodged  the  deer  ? 

Sec.   Wood.  Yes,  they  are  ready  for  the  bow. 

First  Wood.  Who  shoots  ? 

Sec.  Wood.  The  princess. 

First  Wood.  No,  she'll  hunt. 

Sec.  Wood.  She'll  take  a  stand,  I  say. 

First  Wood.  Who  else  ? 

Sec.  Wood.  Why,  the  young  stranger-prince. 

First  Wood.  He  shall  shoot  in  a  stone-bow"  for  me.  I 
never  loved  his  beyond-sea-ship  since  he  forsook  the  say,  for 
paying  ten  shillings ''.     He  was  there  at  the  fall  of  a  deer,  and 

■"  licences'\  "  It  was  formerly  a  branch  of  revenue  to  grant  licences  for 
etews."     Weber. 

"   Woodmen}  i.  e.  Foresters. 

°  a  sfone-bow]  i.  e.  a  cross-bow,  which  shoots  stones. 

p  since  he  forsook  the  say,  for  paying  ten  shillings ;]  "  When  a  deer  is  hunted 
down,  and  to  be  cut  up,  it  is  a  ceremony  for  the  keeper  to  offer  his  knife  to  a 
man  of  the  first  distinction  in  the  field,  tliat  he  may  i*ip  up  the  belly,  and  take 
an  assay  of  the  plight  and  fatness  of  the  game.  But  this,  as  the  Woodman 
says,  Pharamond  declined,  to  save  the  customary  fee  of  ten  shillings." 
Theobald. — "  Our  [English]  order,"  says  Turbervile,  "  is,  that  tlie  Prince  or 
chiffe  (if  so  please  them)  do  alight  and  take  assaye  of  the  Deare  with  a  sharpe 
knife,  the  which  is  done  in  this  maner.  The  deare  being  layd  vpon  his  backe, 
the  Prince,  chiefe,  or  such  as  they  shall  appoint,  comes  to  it.  And  the  chicfe 
huntsman  (kneeling,  if  it  be  to  a  Prince)  doth  hold  the  Deare  by  the  fore  foote 
whiles  the  I'rince  or  chicfe  cut  a  slit  drawn  alongst  the  bryskct  of  the  deare, 
somewliat  lower  than  the  l)rysket  towards  the  belly.  This  is  done  to  see  the 
goodnessc  of  the  flesh,  and  liowe  thickc  it  is."  The  Noble  Art  of  Venerie,  &c. 
1011,  ji.  133,  where  a  wood-cut  represents  .James  the  First  about  to  take  the 
say,  and  the  huntsman  on  his  knees,  offering  the  knife  to  the  king. 


SCENE  II.]  PHIL  ASTER.  267 

would  needs  (out  of  his  mightiness)  give  ten  groats  for  the 
dowcets  '^ ;  marry,  his ""  steward  would  have  the '  velvet- 
head'  into  the  bargain,  to  turf"  his  hat  withal.  I  think  he 
should  love  venery  ;  he  is  an  old  Sir  Tristrem  ^' ;  for,  if  you 
be  remembered,  he  forsook  the  stag  once  to  strike  a  rascal 
miching  in  a  meadow,  and  her  he  killed  in  the  eye  "■'.  Wlio 
shoots  else  ? 

Sec.  Wood.  The  lady  Galatea. 

First  Wood.  That's  a  good  wench,  an  she  would  not  chide 
us  for  tumbling  of  her  women  in  the  brakes.  She's  liberal, 
and,  by  my  bow,  they  say  she's  honest'';  and  whether  that 
be  a  fault,  I  have  nothing  to  do.     There's  all  ? 

1  dowcets]  "  As  for  the  deinty  morsels  which  mine  Author  speaketh  off  for 
Princes,  our  vse  (as  farre  as  euer  I  could  see)  is  to  take  the  caule,  the  tong, 
the  eares,  the  doulcets  [i.  e.  testes],  the  tenderlings  (if  his  head  be  tender)  and 
the  sweete  gut,  which  some  call  the  Inchpmne,  in  a  faire  handkercher  altogether, 
for  the  Prince  or  chiefe."    Id.  p.  134. 

'  his]  So  4to.  1620.     Other  eds.  "the  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 

'  would  have  the]  So  the  earlier  4tos.  Other  eds.  "  would  have  had  the." 
The  Editors  of  1778  give  the  former  reading,  Theobald  and  Weber  the  latter. 

'  velvet-head]  "  His  [the  hart's]  head  [i.  e.  horns],  when  it  commeth  first 
out,  hath  a  russet  pjll  \'pon  it,' the  which  is  called  Veluet,  and  his  head  is  called 
i\\Qn  a,  velvet  head."     The  Noble  Art  of  Venerie,&c.  by  Turbervile,  1611,  p.  244. 

"  turf]  "  The  original  word,"  says  Theobald,  "  must  certainly  have  been 
tuft  ;"  which  accordingly  he  inserted  in  the  text,  and  is  followed  by  the  later 
editors.  Compare  "  Caps  double  turfed  called  cockred  caps."  The  Rates  of  the 
Custome  house,  &c.  1582,  Sig.  B.  "Caps  double  turfed  or  cockared  caps." 
The  Rates  of  Marchandizes,  Sec.  n.  d.  (in  the  8th  year  of  James  the  First),  Sig. 
C.  V.  The  same  description  occurs  again  in  The  Rates  of  Marchandizes,  &c., 
printed  in  1635,  Sig.  B.  6.  I  am  informed  that  the  expression  "  turfing  a  hat," 
in  the  sense  of  covering  an  old  liat  with  beaver's  fur  or  silk,  was,  up  to  a  recent 
period,  not  unusual  among  hatters. 

"  an  old  Sir  Tristrem]  i.  e.  an  expert  huntsman, — that  hero  of  romance  being 
reputed  the  patron  of  the  chase,  and  the  first  who  brought  hunting  to  a  science. 

"^  to  strike  a  rascal  miching  in  a  meadow,  and  her  he  killed  in  the  eye.]  Old 
eds.  "  to  strike  a  rascal  milking,"  &c. ;  which  is  doubtless  a  misprint.  "  A 
rascal,"  says  Theobald,  "  is  a  lean  deer  or  doe  ;  but  what  sense  is  there  in  a 
deer  milking  in  a  meadow  ?  I  hope  I  have  retrieved  the  true  reading, 
mitching,  i.  e.  creeping,  soUtary,  and  withdrawn  from  the  herd.  To  kill  her 
in  the  eye,  is  a  sarcasm  on  Pharamond  as  a  bad  shooter  ;  for  aU  good  ones 
level  at  the  heart."  Succeeding  editors  have  adopted  Theobald's  emendation  ; 
and  it  may,  indeed,  be  the  right  word  ;  but  qy.  "  walking  "  (which  is  nearer  the 
trace  of  the  old  letters),  the  original  compositor  having  mistaken  v:a  for  mi  ? 

*  honest]  i.  e.  chaste. 


268  PHILASTER.  [act  iv. 

Sec.  Wood.  No,  one  more  ;   Megra. 

First  Wood.  That's  a  firker,  Tfaith,  boy ;  there's  a  wench 
will  ride  her  haunches  as  hard  after  a  kennel  of  hounds  as  a 
hunting-saddle,  and  when  she  comes  home,  get  'em  clapt,  and 
al!  is  well  again.  I  have  known  her  lose  herself  three  times 
in  one  afternoon  (if  the  woods  have  been  answerable),  and  it 
has  been  work  enough  for  one  man  to  find  her,  and  he  has 
sweat  for  it.  She  rides  well  and  she  pays  well.  Hark  ! 
let's  go.  \^Exeunt. 

Enter  Philaster. 
Phi.  Oh,  that  I  had  been  nourish'd  in  these  woods 
A\'ith  milk  of  goats  and  acorns,  and  not  known 
The  right  of  cro\%'ns  nor  the  dissembling  trains 
Of  women's  looks  ;  but  digg'd  myself  a  cave, 
Where  I,  my  fire,  my  cattle,  and  my  bed, 
Might  have  been  shut  together  in  one  shed  ; 
And  then  had  taken  me  some  mountain-girl, 
Beaten  with  winds,  chaste  as  the  harden'd  rocks 
Whereon  she  dwelt  ^\  that  might  have  strew'd  my  bed 

y  dwelt]  So  4to.  lC-20.     Later  eds.  "  dwells;"  and  so  the  modern  editore. 
Tills  speech  is  beautifully  imitated  from  the  opening  of  Juvenal's  Sixth  Satire  : 
/'  Credo  pudicitiam  Satunio  rcge  moratam 
In  terris  visamque  diu,  quum  frigida  parvas 
Prteberet  spelunca  domos  ignomque  laremque 
Et  pecus  et  dominos  communi  clauderet  umbra  ; 
Silvestrem  montana  torum  quum  sterneret  uxor 
Frondibus  et  culmo  vicinarumquc  ferarum 
Pcllibus,  baud  sirailis  tibi,  Cynthia,  nee  tibi,  cujus 
Turbavit  nitidos  exstinctus  passer  ocellos, 
Sed  potanda  fcrens  iufantibus  ubera  magnis 
Et  sajpe  hon'idior  glandcm  ructante  marito." 

The  Editors  of  1778  quote,  as  an  imitation  of  the  above  speech  of  Philaster,  a 
passage  from  Lee's  Theodosius  ; 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  been  bom  some  happy  swain,"  &c. 
They  might  have  cited  an  earlier  imitation  of  it  from  Chambcrlayne's  Pharon- 
nida,  1G59  ; 

"  Happy  had  we. 

Great  princess,  been,  if  in  that  low  degree,"  &c. 
in  which  tlie  very  expression  of  our  text,  "large  coarse  issue,"  presently 
occurs  :  see  Book  ii.  Canto  5.  pp.  169,  170. 


SCENE  II.]  PHIL  ASTER.  ^^^ 

With  leaves  and  reeds,  and  with  the  skins  of  beasts, 
Our  neighbours,  and  have  borne  at  her  big  breasts 
My  large  coarse  issue  !     This  had  been  a  life 
Free  from  vexation.  __— — — -.,,^^ 

Enter  Bellario. 

Bel  Oh,  wicked  men  ! 
An  innocent  may  walk  safe  among  beasts  ; 
Nothing  assaults  me  here.     See,  my  griev'd  lord 
Sits  as  his  soul  were  searching  out  a  way 
To  leave  his  body  !   [^5zV/e.]— Pardon  me,  that  must 
Break  thy  last  commandment ;  for  I  must  speak  : 
You  that  are  griev'd  can  pity ;  hear,  my  lord  ! 

Phi.  Is  there  a  creature  yet  so  miserable. 
That  I  can  pity  ? 

Bel  Oh,  my  noble  lord, 
View  my  strange  fortune,  and  bestow  on  me. 
According  to  your  bounty  (if  my  service 
Can  merit  nothing),  so  much  as  may  serve 
To  keep  that  little  piece  I  hold  of  life 
From  cold  and  hunger  ! 

Phi.  Is  it  thou  ?  begone  ! 
Go,  sell  those  misbeseeming  clothes  thou  wear'st, 
And  feed  thyself  with  them. 

Bel  Alas,  my  lord,  I  can  get  nothing  for  them  ! 

The  silly  country-people  think  'tis  treason 

To  touch  such  gay  things. 
Phi.  Now,  by  my  life,  this  is 

Unkindly  done,  to  vex  me  with  thy  sight. 

Thou'rt  fallen  again  to  thy  dissembling  trade  : 

How  shouldst  thou  tliink  to  cozen  me  again  ? 

Remains  there  yet  a  plague  untried  for  me  ? 

Even  so  thou  wepfst,  and  look'd'st,  and  spok'st,  when  first 

I  took  thee  up  : 

Curse  on  the  time  !     If  thy  commanding  tears 

Can  work  on  any  other,  use  thy  art  ; 

I'll  not  betray  it.     Which  way  wilt  thou  take  ? 

That  I  may  shun  thee,  for  thine  eyes  are  poison 


270  rillLASTER.  [act  iv. 

To  mine,  and  I  am  loath  to  grow  in  rage : 
Tliis  way,  or  that  way  i 

Bel.  Any  will  serve ;  but  I  will  choose  to  have 
That  path  in  chase  that  leads  unto  my  grave. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

Enter  on  one  side  Dion,  and  on  the  other  the  tioo  "Woodmen. 
Dion.  This  is  the  strangest  sudden  chance  ! — You,  wood- 
man ! 
First  JVood.  My  lord  Dion  ? 

Dion.  Saw  you  a  lady  come  this  way  on  a  sable  horse 
studded  with  stars  of  white  ? 

Sec.  Wood.  Was  she  not  young  and  tall  ? 

Dion.  Yes.     Rode  she  to  the  wood  or  to  the  plain  ? 

Sec.  Wood.  Faith,  my  lord,  we  saw  none. 

Dion.  Pox  of  your  questions  then  !         \_Excunt  Woodmen. 

Enter  Cleremont. 

What,  is  she  found  ? 

Cle.  Nor  will  be,  I  think. 

Dion.  Let  him  seek  his  daughter  himself.  She  cannot 
stray  about  a  little  necessary  natural  business,  but  the  whole 
court  must  be  in  arms  :  when  she  has  done,  we  shall  have 
peace. 

Cle.  There's  already  a  thousand  fatherless  tales  amongst  us. 
Some  say,  her  horse  ran  away  with  her  ;  some,  a  wolf  pursued 
her ;  others,  it  was  a  plot  to  kill  her,  and  that  armed  nien  were 
seen  in  the  wood :  but  questionless  she  rode  away  willingly. 

Enter  King,  Tiirasiline,  and  Attendants  ^. 
King.  Where  is  she  ? 
Cle.  Sir,  I  cannot  tell. 
King.  How*'s  that  ? 
Answer  me  so  again  ! 
Cle.  Sir,  shall  I  lie  \ 
King.  Yes,  lie  and  damn,  rather  than  tell  me  that. 

*  and  attendants]  Qto.  1620  "  and  other  Lords."  Later  eds.  give  only  the 
entrance  of  the  King  and  Thrasiline  :  but  compare  the  fourth  speech  of  the 
King,  "  You  fellow.s,"  &c. 


SCENE  II.] 


PHILASTER.  271 


I  say  again,  where  is  she  ?     Mutter  not ! — 
Sir,  speak  you  ;  where  is  she  ? 
Dion.  Sir,  I  do  not  know. 

King.  Speak  that  again  so  boldly,  and,  by  heaven. 
It  is  thy  last ! — You,  fellows,  answer  me  ; 
Where  is  she  ?     Mark  me,  all ;  I  am  your  king  : 
I  wish  to  see  my  daughter  ;  shew  her  me  ; 
I  do  command  you  all,  as  you  are  subjects. 
To  shew  her  me  !     What  !  am  I  not  your  king  ? 
If  ay,  then  am  I  not  to  be  obeyed  ? 

Dion.  Yes,  if  you  command  things  possible  and  honest. 
King.  Things  possible  and  honest !  Hear  me,  thou  ", 
Thou  traitor,  that  dar'st  confine  thy  king  to  things 
Possible  and  honest  !  shew  her  me, 
Or,  let  me  perish,  if  I  cover  not 
All  Sicily  with  blood  ! 

Dion.  Indeed  I  cannot, 
Unless  you  tell  me  where  she  is. 

King.  You  have  betrayed  me ;  you  have  let  me  lose 
The  jewel  of  my  life.     Go,  bring  her  me. 
And  set  her  here  before  me :  'tis  the  King 
Will  have  it  so ;  whose  breath  can  still  the  winds, 
Uncloud  the  sun,  charm  down  the  swelling  sea, 
And  stop  the  floods  of  heaven.     Speak,  can  it  not  I 
Dion.  No. 

King.  No  !  cannot  the  breath  of  kings  do  this  I 
Dion.  No ;  nor  smell  sweet  itself,  if  once  the  lungs 
Be  but  corrupted. 

King.  Is  it  so  ?     Take  heed  ! 

Dioji.  Sir,  take  you  heed  how  you  dare  the  powers 
That  must  be  just. 

King.  Alas,  what  are  we  kings  ! 
Why  do  you  gods  place  us  above  the  rest, 
To  be  serv'd,  flattered,  and  ador'd,  till  we 
Believe  we  hold  within  our  hands  your  thunder. 
And  when  we  come  to  try  the  power  we  have, 
There's  not  a  leaf  shakes  at  our  threatenings  ? 

"  lhou'\  Qto.  1620  "  then,"  rightly  perhaps. 


272  PHILASTER.  [act  iv. 

I  liave  sinnM,  'tis  true,  and  here  stand  to  be  punislfd  ; 
^'ct  would  not  thus  be  punis'hM  :  let  mc  choose 
My  way,  and  lay  it  on  ! 

Dion.  He  articles  with  the  gods.     Would  somebody  would 
draw  bonds  for  the  performance  of  covenants  betwixt  them  ! 

\^  Aside. 
Eyiter  Pharamond,  Galatea,   and  Megra. 

King.  What,  is  she  found  I 

Pha.  No  ;  we  have  ta'en  her  horse ; 
He  gallopM  empty  by.     There  is  some  treason. 
You,  Galatea,  rode  with  her  into  the  wood  ; 
Why  left  you  her  i 

Gal.  She  did  command  me. 

King.  Command  !  you  should  not. 

Gal.  'Twould  ill  become  my  fortunes  and  my  birth 
To  disobey  the  daughter  of  my  King. 

King.  You're  all  cunning  to  obey  us  for  our  hurt ; 
But  I  will  have  her. 

Pha.  If  I  have  her  not, 
By  this  hand,  there  shall  be  no  more  Sicily  ! 

Dion.  ^Vhat,  will  he  carry  it  to  Spain  in's  pocket  I   [Aside. 

Pha.  I  will  not  leave  one  man  alive,  but  the  King, 
A  cook,  and  a  tailor, 

Dion.  Yet  you  may  do  well  to  spare  your  lady-bedfellow  ; 
and  her  you  may  keep  for  a  spawner.  \^Aside. 

King.  I  see 
The  injuries  I  have  done  must  be  reveng'd.  \^Aside. 

Dion.  Sir,  this  is  not  the  way  to  find  her  out. 

King.  Run  all,  disperse  yourselves.    The  man  that  finds  her, 
Or  (if  she  be  kill'd)  the  traitor,  TU  make  him  great. 

Dion.  I  know  some  would  give  five  thousand  pounds  to 
find  her.  {_Aside. 

Pha.  Come,  let  us  seek. 

King.  Each  man  a  several  way ; 
Here  I  myself. 

Dion.  Come,  gentlemen,  we  here. 

Cle.  Lady,  you  nmst  go  search  too. 

Meg.  I  had  rather  be  search'd  myself.        ^Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  III.]  PHILASTER. 


SCENE  III.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Arethusa. 

Are.  Where  am  I  now  ?     Feet,  find  me  out  a  way, 
Without  the  counsel  of  my  troubled  head  : 
ril  follow  you  boldly  about  these  woods, 
O'er  mountains,  thorough  brambles,  pits,  and  floods. 
Heaven,  I  hope,  will  ease  me :   I  am  sick.  [Sits  dotcn. 

Enter  Bellario. 

Bel.  Yonder's  my  lady.     Heaven  knows  I  want 
Nothing,  because  I  do  not  wish  to  live ; 
Yet  I  will  try  her  charity.  [Aside.'] — Oh  hear, 
You  that  have  plenty  !  from  that  flowing  store 
Drop  some  on  dry  ground. — See,  the  lively  red 
Is  gone  to  guard  her  heart !     I  fear  she  faints. — 
Madam,  look  up  ! — She  breathes  not. — Open  once  more 
Those  rosy  twins,  and  send  unto  my  lord 
Your  latest  farewell ! — Oh,  she  stirs. — How  is  it, 
Madam  ?  speak  comfort. 

Are.  'Tis  not  gently  done, 
To  put  me  in  a  miserable  life, 
And  hold  me  there  :   I  prithee,  let  me  go ; 
I  shall  do  best  without  thee  ;  I  am  well. 

Enter  Philaster. 

Phi.  I  am  to  blame  to  be  so  much  in  rage : 
ril  tell  her  coolly  when  and  where  I  heard 
This  killing  truth.     I  will  bo  temperate 

In  speaking,  and  as  just  in  hearing. 

Oh,  monstrous  !  Tempt  me  not,  ye  gods  !  good  gods, 
Tempt  not  a  frail  man  !  What's  he,  that  has  a  heart, 
But  he  must  ease  it  here  ! 


274  IMIILASTEU.  [act  iv. 

Bel.  My  lord,  help,  help  ! 
The  princess '' ! 

Are.  I  am  well ;  forbear. 

Phi.  Let  me  love  lightning,  let  me  be  embracM 
And  kiss'd  by  scorpions,  or  adore  the  eyes 
Of  basilisks,  rather  than  trust  the  tongues 
Of  hell-bred  women  !     Some  good  god  '^  look  down, 
And  shrink  these  veins  up ;  stick  me  here  a  stone, 
Lasting  to  ages  in  the  memory 

Of  this  damn'd  act !  [Asirle.] — Hear  me,  you  wicked  ones  ! 
You  have  put  hills  of  fire  into  this  breast. 
Not  to  be  quench'd  with  tears  ;  for  which  may  guilt 
Sit  on  your  bosoms  !  at  your  meals  and  beds 
Despair  await  you  !     What,  before  my  face  ? 
Poison  of  asps  between  your  lips  !  diseases 
Be  your  best  issues !     Nature  make  a  curse. 
And  throw  it  on  you  ! 

Are.  Dear  Philaster,  leave 
To  be  enrag'd,  and  hear  me. 

Phi.  I  have  done  ; 
Forgive  my  passion.     Not  the  calmed  sea, 
When  iEolus  locks  up  his  windy  brood, 
Is  less  disturbed  than  I :   TU  make  you  know  it. 
Dear  Arethusa,  do  but  take  this  sword, 

[Offers  his  draiim  siconl. 
And  search  how  temperate  a  heart  I  have  ; 
Then  you  and  this  your  boy  may  live  and  reign 
In  lust  without  control.     Wilt  thou,  BcUario  i 
I  prithee,  kill  me :  thou  art  poor,  and  may'st 
Nourish  ambitious  thoughts  ;  when  I  am  dead, 
Thy ''  way  were  freer.     Am  I  raging  now  'i 
If  I  were  mad,  I  should  desire  to  live. 

'•  My  lord,  help,  help  .' 

The  princess  .']  So  4tos.  1G20,  1622, 1628.    Other  eds.  "  My  lord,  help,  the 
princess  ;"  and  so  the  modem  editors. 

<•  god]  So  -Itos.  1620,  1622,  1628.     The  line  has  dropt  out  from  the  later 
eds.     The  modern  editors  print  "  gods." 

•>   Thy]  So  Ito.  1C20.     Other  eds.  "This"  ;  and  so  the  mod.rn  editors. 


SCENE  III.] 


PHILASTER.  275 


Sirs  p,  feel  my  pulse,  whether  you  have  ^  known 
A  man  in  a  more  equal  tune  to  die. 

Bel.  Alas,  my  lord,  your  pulse  keeps  madman's  time  ! 
So  does  your  tongue. 

Phi.  You  will  not  kill  me,  then  ? 
Are.  Kill  you ! 
Bel.  Not  for  a  world. 
Phi.  I  blame  not  thee, 
Bellario :  thou  hast  done  but  that  which  gods 
Would  have  transform'd  themselves  to  do.     Begone, 
Leave  me  without  reply  ;  this  is  the  last 
Of  all  our  meetings'-.— [jE^-ij!  Bellario.]  Killmewiththissword; 
Be  wise,  or  worse  will  follow :   we  are  two 
Earth  cannot  bear  at  once.     Resolve  to  do, 
Or  suffer. 

Are.  If  my  fortune  be  so  good  to  let  me  fall 
Upon  thy  hand,  I  shall  have  peace  in  death. 
Yet  tell  me  this,  will  there  be  no  slanders. 
No  jealousies  •"  in  the  other  world ;  no  ill  there  I 
Phi.  No. 

Are.  Shew  me,  then,  the  way '. 
Phi.  Then  guide  my  feeble  hand, 
You  that  have  power  to  do  it,  for  I  must 
Perform  a  piece  of  justice  ! — If  your  youth  J 
Have  any  way  offended  Heaven,  let  prayers 
Short  and  effectual  reconcile  you  to  it. 
Are.  I  am  prepar'd. 

Enter  a  Country  Fellow. 
C.  Fell.  I'll  see  the  King,  if  he  be  in  the  forest ;  I  have 

^  5'jrs]  "  It  should  be  recollected  that  sir  was  a  term  of  address  to  females  as 

well  as  men."     Webek. 

f  whether  you  have]  So  4to.  1620.     Other  eds.  "whether  have  you"  ;  and  so 

the  modern  editors — Theobald  excepted,  who  chose  to   print   "  where   ever 

have  you." 

B  meetings']  So  4to.  1620.    Other  eds. "  meeting  " ;  and  so  the  modern  editors, 
^  jealousies']   The  Editors  of  1778  and  Weber  print  with  the  earlier  eds. 

"jealousy." 

i  Shew  me,  then,  the  loay']  Qto.  1620  "  Shew  me  the  way  to  ioy." 
J  Jf  your  youth  &c.]  A  recollection,  perhaps,  of  Shakespeare's  Othello  ; 
"  If  you  bethink  yourself  of  any  crime,"  &c.     Act  v.  sc.  2. 
T  2 


276  I'HILASTKR.  [activ. 

hunted  him  these  two  hours ;  if  I  should  come  home  and  not 
see  liim,  my  sisters  would  laugh  at  me.  1  can  see  nothing 
but  people  better  horsed  than  myself,  that  out-ride  me  ;  I 
can  hear  nothing  but  shouting.  These  kings  had  need  of 
good  brains  ;  this  whooping  is  able  to  put  a  mean  man  out  of 
his  wits.  There's  a  courtier  with  his  sword  drawn  ;  by  this 
hand,  upon  a  woman  I  think  !  [Aside. 

Phi.  Are  you  at  peace  ? 

Are.  With  heaven  and  earth. 

Phi.  May  they  divide  thy  soul  and  body  !         [  Wounds  her. 

C.  Fell.  Hold,  dastard  !  strike  a  woman  !  Thou'rt  a  craven, 
I  warrant  thee :  thou  wouldst  be  loath  to  play  half  a  dozen 
venies^  at  wasters  with  a  good  fellow  for  a  broken  head. 

Phi.  Leave  us,  good  friend. 

Are.  What  ill-bred  man  art  thou,  to  intrude  thyself 
Upon  our  private  sports,  our  recreations  I 

C.  Fell.  God  'uds  ^  me,  I  understand  you  not ;  but  I  know 
the  rogue  has  hurt  you. 

Phi.  Pursue  thy  own  affairs :  it  will  be  ill 
To  multiply  blood  upon  my  head  ;  which  thou 
Wilt  force  me  to. 

C.  Fell.  I  know  not  your  rhetoric  ;  but  I  can  lay  it  on,  if  you 
touch  the  woman. 

Phi.  Slave,  take  what  thou  deservest  !  [  Thet/Jtr/lif. 

Are.  Heavens  guard  my  lord  ! 

C.  Fell.  Oh,  do  you  breathe  I 

Phi.  I  hear  the  tread  of  people.  I  am  hurt  : 
The  gods  take  part  against  me ;  could  this  boor 
Have  held  me  thus  else '  ?     I  must  shift  for  life, 

J  dozmvenies]  So  4tos.  1620, 'l&-22,\62fi.    Latercds  "  dozen  of  venies  ";  ami 
so  tlio  modern  editors.      Venies  at  wasters  means — bouts  at  cudgels.     On  the 
doubtful  etymology  of  n-ai>tcr,  Theobald  has  a  long  and  unsatisfactory  note. 
^  'ud.s]   I  may  notice  that  4to.  1620  has  "judge." 
'     The  gods  lake  part  against  me  ;  could  this  boor 

Have  held  me  thus  else  ?]  "  Mr.  Steevens  ha.s  obeerved  that  this  beai-s  a 
strong  resemblance  to  the  following  speech  of  lachimo  in  Cymbeline  : — 

' I  have  belied  a  lady, 

The  princess  of  this  country,  and  the  air  on  't 
Revengingly  enfeebles  me  ;  or  could  this  carl, 
A  very  drudge  of  naturo'.s,  have  subdued  me 
In  my  profession  V  "     Webkr. 


SCENE  III.]  PHILASTER.  277 

Though  I  do  loathe  it.     1  would  find  a  course 
To  lose  it  rather  by  ray  will  than  force.  [Aside  and  exit. 

C.  Fell.  I  cannot  follow  the  rogue.     I  pray  thee,  wench,  come 
and  kiss  me  now. 

Enter  Pharamond,  Dion,  Cleremont,  Thrasiline,  awe?  Woodmen. 

Pha.  What  art  thou  I 

C.  Fell.  Almost  killed  I  am  for  a  foolish  woman  ;  a  knave 
has  hurt  her. 

Pha.  The  princess,  gentlemen ! — Where's  the  wound,  madam? 
Is  it  dangerous  ? 

Are.  He  has  not  hurt  me. 

C.  Fell.  V  faith,  she  lies  ;  h'as  hurt  her  in  the  breast ;  look 
else. 

Pha.  Oh,  sacred  spring  of  innocent  blood  ! 

Dion.  'Tis  above  wonder  !  who  should  dare  this  ? 

Are.  I  felt  it  not. 

Pha.  Speak,  villain,  who  has  hurt  the  princess  \ 

C.  Fell.  Is  it  the  princess  ? 

Dion.  Ay. 

C.  Fell.  Then  I  have  seen  something  yet. 

Pha.  But  who  has  hurt  her  ? 

C.  Fell.  I  told  you,  a  rogue  ;   I  ne*'er  saw  him  before,  I. 

Pha.  Madam,  who  did  it  ? 

Are.  Some  dishonest  wretch  ; 
Alas,  I  know  him  not,  and  do  forgive  him  ! 

C.  Fell.  He 's  hurt  too ;  he  cannot  go  far  :  I  made  my 
father's  old  fox  "  fly  about  his  ears. 

Pha.  How  will  you  have  me  kill  him  I 

Are.  Not  at  all ; 
'Tis  some  distracted  fellow. 

Pha.  By  this  hand, 
I  '11  leave  ne'er  a  piece  of  him  bigger  than  a  nut. 
And  bring  him  all  to  you  "  in  my  hat. 

™  /oo?]  A  familiar  (and  very  common)  term  for  the  old  English  broad-sword. 

^toyoii]  So  4tos.  1622,  1628.  Not  in  other  eds.  These  words  are  omitted 
by  the  modern  editors, — Theobald  excepted,  who  transposed  them  thus,  "  And 
bring  him  all  in  my  hat  to  you." 


278  PHILASTER.  [act  iv. 

Are.  Nay,  good  sir, 
If  you  do  take  liini,  bring  him  quick "  to  mu, 
And  I  will  study  for  a  punishment 
Great  as  his  fault. 

Fha.  I  will. 

Are.   But  swear. 

Fha.  By  all  my  love,  I  will  !  — 
Woodmen,  conduct  the  princess  to  the  King, 
And  bear  that  wounded  fellow  to  dressing  P. — 
Come,  gentlemen,  we'll  follow  the  chase  close. 

[Exeu7it  on  one  side  Puaramond,  Dion,  Cleremont,  and 
Thrasiline  ;  exit  on  the  other,  Arethusa  attended  by 
the  First  Woodman. 

C.  Fell.  I  pray  you,  friend,  let  me  see  the  King. 

Sec.  Wood.  That  you  shall,  and  receive  thanks. 

C.  Fell.  If  I  get  clear  with  "^  this,  Fll  go  see  '■  no  more  gay 
sights.  \^Exeunt. 


SCENE  \\  .—Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Bell  arid. 

Bel.  A  heaviness  near  death  sits  on  my  brow, 
And  I  umst  sleep.  Bear  me,  thou  gentle  bank. 
For  ever,  if  thou  wilt.     You  sweet  ones  all,  \^Lies  down. 

Let  me  unworthy  press  you  :   I  could  wish 
I  rather  were  a  corse  strew'd  o'er  with  you 
Than  quick  above  you.      Dulness  shuts  mine  eyes, 
And  I  am  giddy :   oh,  that  I  could  take 
So  sound  a  sleep  that  I  might  never  wake  !  [Sleeps. 

o  quick]  i.  e.  "  alive."  Masox. 

P  to  dreniiing']  A  word  seems  to  have  dropt  out  IVom  this  liiio.  The  tspeech 
was  evidently  intended  for  verse,  thoui^h  the  modern  editors  leave  it  prose. 

t  with]  Theobald  gave  the  reading  of  -Itos.  Il22,  1628,  "of." 

•■  (jo  sec]  So  fol.  1079.  Other  eds.  "go  to  see"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors, 
Theobald  excepted. 


SCENE  IV.]  PHILASTER.  279 

Enter  Piiilaster. 

Phi.  I  have  done  ill ;  my  conscience  calls  me  false, 
To  strike  at  her  that  would  not  strike  at  me. 
AVhen  I  did  fight,  methought  I  heard  her  pray 
The  gods  to  guard  me.     She  may  be  abusM, 
And  I  a  loathed  villain  :   if  she  be, 
She  will  conceal  who  hurt  her.     He  has  wounds 
And  cannot  follow  ;  neither  knows  he  me. 
Who's  this  I     Bellario  sleeping  !     If  thou  be'st 
Guilty,  there  is  no  justice  that  thy  sleep 
Should  be  so  sound,  and  mine,  whom  thou  hast  wrongM, 

[C/7/  iclthin. 
So  broken.     Hark  !  I  am  pursu'd.     You  gods 
I'll  take  this  offerM  means  of  my  escape  : 
They  have  no  mark  to  know  me  but  my  blood ', 
If  she  be  true  ;  if  false,  let  mischief  light 
On  all  the  world  at  once  !     Sword,  print  my  wounds 
Upon  this  sleeping  boy  !     I  have  none,  I  think, 
Are  mortal,  nor  would  I  lay  greater  on  thee. 

[  Wounds  Bellario. 

Bel.  Oh,  death,  I  hope,  is  come  !     Blest  be  that  hand  ! 
It  meant  me  well.     Again,  for  pity's  sake  ! 

Phi.  I  have  caught  myself;  [^Falls. 

The  loss  of  blood  hath  stay'd  my  flight-     Here,  here, 
Is  he  that  struck  thee  :  take  thy  full  revenge  ; 
Use  me,  as  I  did  mean  thee,  worse  than  death ; 
ril  teach  thee  to  revenge.     This  luckless  hand 
Wounded  the  princess ;  tell  my  followers  " 
Thou  didst  receive  these  hurts  in  staying  me, 
And  I  will  second  thee  ;  get  a  reward. 

Bel.  Fly,  fly,  my  lord,  and  save  yourself  I 

Phi.  How"'s  this  ? 
Wouldst  thou  I  should  be  safe  I 

'  my  blood]  So  4to.  1G'20.  Other  eds.  "  my  wounds  "  ;  and  so  the  modern 
editors.  The  latter  reading  originated  probably  in  a  mistake  of  the  compositor, 
his  eye  having  caught  "ray  wounds"  at  the  end  of  the  next  line  but  one. 
Compare  the  first  words  of  Pharamond,  when  he  enters  presently. 

"  follmvers]  "  i.  e.  pursuers."     Theobald. 


280  PHILASTER.  [act  iv. 

Bel.  Else  were  it  vain 
For  me  to  live.     Those  little  wounds  I  have 
Have  not  bled  much  :   reach  me  that  noble  hand  ; 
Fll  help  to  cover  you. 

Phi  Art  thou  then  "  true  to  me  ? 

Bel.  Or  let  me  perish  loath'd  !     Come,  my  good  lord, 
Creep  in  amongst  those  bushes  :  who  does  know 
But  that  the  gods  may  save  your  much-lovM  breath  ? 

Phi.  Then  I  shall  die  for  grief,  if  not  for  this  \ 
That  I  have  wounded  thee.     What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Bel  Shift  for  myself  well.     Peace  !   I  hear  'em  come. 

[Philaster  creeps  into  a  bush. 

[Voices  icithin.]   Follow,  follow,  follow  !  that  way  they  went. 

Bel  With  my  own  wounds  Fll  bloody  my  own  sword. 
T  need  not  counterfeit  to  fall ;  Heaven  knows 
Tiuit  I  can  stand  no  longer.  [^Falls. 

Enter  Pharamcxd,  Dion,  Clehemont,  and  Thrasiline. 

Pha.  To  this  place  we  have  tracked  him  by  his  blood. 

Cle.  Yonder,  my  lord,  creeps  one  away. 

Dion.  Stay,  sir  !  what  are  you  ? 

Bel  A  wretched  creature,  wounded  in  these  woods 
By  beasts  :  reUeve  mo,  if  your  names  be  men, 
Or  I  shall  perish. 

Dion.  This  is  he,  my  lord, 
Fpon  my  soul,  that  hurt  her :  'tis  the  boy. 
That  wicked  boy,  that  served  her. 

Pha.  Oh,  thou  damnM 
In  thy  creation  !  what  cause  couldst  thou  shape 
To  hurt  the  princess  ? 

Bel  Then  I  am  betrayM. 

Dion.  Betray'd !  no,  apprehended. 

Bel  I  confess 
(Urge  it  no  more)  that,  big  with  evil  thoughts, 

"  then'\   Found  only  in  4to.  1G20.     Not  in  modern  eds. 

"  if  not  for  this]  "  Tlic  sense  requires  that  we  should  read, '  If  but  for  this  ', 
tliat  is,  were  it  only  for  tliis.  There  arc  no  two  words  so  often  mistaken  for 
each  other  in  the  old  editions  as  not  and  but."     Maso.n. 


SCENE  IV.]  PHILASTER.  ,2bl 

I  set  upon  her,  and  did  make '''  my  aim 
Her  death.     For  charity  let  fall  at  once 
The  punishment  you  mean,  and  do  not  load 
This  weary  flesh  with  tortures. 

Pha.  I  will  know 
Who  hirM  thee  to  this  deed. 

Bel.  jNIine  own  revenge. 

Pha.  Revenge  !  for  what  ? 

Bel.  It  pleas'd  her  to  receive 
Me  as  her  page,  and,  when  my  fortunes  ebb\l. 
That  men  strid  o'er  them  careless,  she  did  shower 
Her  welcome  graces  on  me,  and  did  swell 
My  fortunes  till  they  overflowed  their  banks. 
Threatening  the  men  that  cross'd  'em ;  when,  as  swift 
As  storms  arise  at  sea,  she  turned  her  eyes 
To  burning  suns  upon  me,  and  did  dry 
The  streams  she  had  bestowM,  leaving  me  worse 
And  more  contemned  than  other  little  brooks. 
Because  I  had  been  great.     In  short,  I  knew 
I  could  not  live,  and  therefore  did  desire 
To  die  revenged. 

Pha.  If  tortures  can  be  found 
Long  as  thy  natural  life,  resolve  to  feel 
The  utmost  rigour. 

Cle.  Help  to  lead  him  hence. 

[Phil ASTER  creeps  out  of  the  bush. 

Phi.  Turn  back,  you  ravishers  of  innocence  ! 
Know  ye  the  price  of  that  you  bear  away 
So  rudely? 

Pha.  Who's  that  I 

Dipn.  'Tis  the  loi'd  Philaster. 

Plii.  'Tis  not  the  treasure  of  all  kings  in  one. 
The  wealth  of  Tagus,  nor  the  rocks  of  pearl 
That  pave  the  court  of  Neptune,  can  weigh  down 
That  virtue.     It  was  I  that  hurt  the  princess. 
Place  me,  some  god,  upon  a  pyramis 

«   make]  So  4tos.  1620,  1622,  1628.     Later  eds.  « take  "  ;  aud  so  the  modern 
editors,  Theobald  excepted. 


282  PHILASTER.  [act  iv. 

Higher  than  hills  of  earth,  and  lend  a  voice 
Loud  as  your  thunder  to  mo,  that  from  thence 
1  may  discourse  to  all  the  under-world 
The  worth  that  dwells  in  him  ! 

Pha.  How's  this  ? 

Bel.  My  lord,  some  man 
Weary  of  life,  that  would  be  glad  to  die. 

Phi.  Leave  these  untimely  courtesies,  Bellario. 

Bd.  Alas,  he's  mad  !     Come,  will  you  lead  me  on  I 

Phi.  By  all  the  oaths  that  men  ought  most  to  keep, 
And  gods  do  punish  most  when  men  do  break, 
He  touch'd  her  not ! — Take  heed,  Bellario, 
How  thou  dost  drown  the  virtues  thou  hast  shown 
With  perjury. — By  all  that's  good,  'twas  I  ! 
You  know  she  stood  betwixt  me  and  my  right. 

Pha.  Thy  own  tongue  be  thy  judge  .' 

Cle.  It  was  Philaster. 

Dion.  Is't  not  a  brave  boy  ? 
Well,  sirs,  I  fear  me  we  were  all  dcceiv'd. 

Phi.  Have  I  no  friend  here  I 

Dion.  Yes. 

Phi.  Then  shew  it :  some 
Good  body  lend  a  hand  to  draw  us  nearer. 
Would  you  have  tears  shed  for  you  when  you  die  I 
Then  lay  me  gently  on  his  neck,  that  there 
I  may  weep  floods  and  breathe  forth  my  spirit. 
'Tis  not  the  wealth  of  Plutus,  nor  the  gold 

[Embracing  Bellario. 
Lock'd  in  the  lieart  of  earth,  can  buy  away 
This  arm-full  from  me :  this  had  been  a  ransom 
To  have  redeem'd  the  great  Augustus  Caesar, 
Had  he  been  taken.     You  hard-hearted  men, 
More  stony  than  these  mountains,  can  you  see 
Such  clear  pure  blood  drop,  and  not  cut  your  flesh 
To  stop  his  life  ■  to  bind  whose  bitter  wounds, 
Queens  ought  to  tear  their  hair,  and  with  their  tears 
Bathe  'cm. — J^'orgive  me,  thou  that  art  the  wealth 
f)f  poor  Philaster  ! 


SCENE  IV.]  PHIL  ASTER.  283 

Enter  King,  Arethusa,  and  Guard. 
Ki7ig.  Is  the  villain  ta'en  : 

Pha.  Sir,  here  be  two  confess  the  deed  ;  but  sure " 
It  was  Philaster. 

Phi.  Question  it  no  more ; 
It  was. 

King.  The  fellow  that  did  fight  with  him 
Will  tell  us  that. 

Are.  Aye  me  !   I  know  he  will. 
King.  Did  not  you  know  him  I 
Are.  Sir,  if  it  was  he. 
He  was  disguis'd. 

Phi.  I  was  so  ^.     Oh,  my  stars, 
That  I  should  live  still !  [Aside. 

King.  Thou  ambitious  fool, 
Thou  that  hast  laid  a  train  for  thy  own  life  ! — 
Now  I  do  mean  to  do,  I  '11  leave  to  talk. 
Bear  them  ^  to  prison. 

Are.  Sir,  they  did  plot  together  to  take  hence 
This  harmless  life  ;  should  it  pass  unreveng'd, 
I  should  to  earth  go  weeping  :  grant  me,  then, 
By  all  the  love  a  father  bears  his  child. 
Their  custodies,  and  that  I  may  appoint 
Their  tortures  and  their  deaths'*. 

Dion.  Death !  Soft;  our  law  will  not  reach  that  for  this  fault. 
King.  'Tis  granted  ;  take  'em  to  you  with  a  guard. — 
Come,  princely  Pharamond,  this  business  past, 
We  may  with  more  security  go  on 
To  your  intended  match. 

{_Exeunt  all  except  Dion,  Cleremont,  and  Thrasiline. 
Cle.  I  pray  that  this  action  lose  not  Philaster  the  hearts  of 
the  people. 

Dion.  Fear  it  not ;  their  over-wise  heads  will  think  it  but 
a  trick.  [Exeunt. 

^  sure'\  Qto.  1620  "sute"  (evidently  a  misprint  for  "sure").  Later  eds. 
"  say  "  ;  which,  though  nonsense,  satisfied  the  modern  editors. 

y  I  was  so]  i.  e.  1  was,  in  a  figurative  sense,  disguised:  the  word  is  still  apphed 
in  vulgar  language  to  those  who  are  disordered  or  deformed  by  drink 

'■  lhem'\  So  4to.  1620.     Other  eds.  "him  "  ;  aud  so  the  modern  editors. 

»  deaths]   So  all  the  4tos.     Fol.  1679  "  death  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 


284  nil L ASTER.  [act  v. 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — Before  the  Palace. 


Enter  Dion,  Cleremont,  arid  Tdrasiline. 

Thra.  Has  the  King  sent  for  him  to  death  ? 

Bion.  Yes  ;  but  the  Kmg  must  know  'tis  not  in  his  power 
to  war  with  Heaven. 

Cle.  We  linger  time  :  the  King  sent  for  Philaster  and  the 
headsman  an  hour  ago. 

Thra.  Are  all  his  wounds  well  ? 

Dion.  All ;  they  were  but  scratches ;  but  the  loss  of  blood 
made  him  faint. 

Cle.  We  dally,  gentlemen. 

Thra.  Away! 

Bion.  We'll  scuffle  hard  before  he  perish.  {Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— A  Prison. 
Enter  Philaster,  Aretudsa,  and  Bellario. 

Arc.  Nay,  dear  Philaster,  grieve  not ;   we  are  well. 

Bel.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  forbear ;  we  are  wondrous  well. 

Phi.  Oh,  Arethusa,  oh,  Bellario, 
Leave  to  be  kind  ! 

I  shall  be  shut  "  from  heaven,  as  now  from  earth, 
If  you  continue  so.     I  am  a  man 
False  to  a  pair  of  the  most  trusty  ones 
That  ever  earth  bore :  can  it  bear  us  all  ? 
Forgive,  and  leave  me.     But  the  King  hath  sent 
To  call  me  to  my  death :  oh,  shew  it  me. 
And  then  forget  me  !  and  for  thee,  my  boy, 

•  .shut]   So  4tfl.  1620.     Other  cds.  "shot"  ;  and  so  tlie  modern  editors  ! 


SCENE  II.]  PHILASTER.  285 

I  shall  deliver  words  will  mollify 

The  hearts  of  beasts  to  spare  thy  innocence. 

Bd.  Alas,  my  lord,  my  life  is  not  a  thing 
Worthy  your  noble  thoughts  !  'tis  not  a  life, 
'Tis  but  a  piece  of  childhood  thrown  away. 
Should  I  outlive  you,  I  should  then  outlive 
Virtue  and  honour  ;  and  when  that  day  comes, 
If  ever  I  shall  close  these  eyes  but  once. 
May  I  live  spotted  for  my  perjury. 
And  waste  by  '^  limbs  to  nothing  ! 

Are.  And  I  (the  wofuFst  maid  that  ever  was, 
Forc'd  with  my  hands  to  bring  my  lord  to  death) 
Do  by  the  honour  of  a  virgin  swear 
To  tell  no  hours  beyond  it  ! 

Phi.  Make  me  not  hated  so. 

Are.  Come  from  this  prison  all  joyful  to  our  deaths  ! 

Phi.  People  will  tear  me,  when  they  find  you  true 
To  such  a  wretch  as  I ;   I  shall  die  loath'd. 
Enjoy  your  kingdoms  peaceably,  whilst  I 
For  ever  sleep  forgotten  with  my  faults  : 
Every  just  servant  ^  every  maid  in  love. 
Will  have  a  piece  of  me,  if  you  be  true. 

Are.  My  dear  lord,  say  not  so. 

Bel.  A  piece  of  you  ! 
He  was  not  born  of  woman  ^  that  can  cut 
It  and  look  on. 

Phi.  Take  me  in  tears  betwixt  you,  for  my  heart 
Will  break  with  shame  and  sorrow  ^. 

^  by]   So  4to.  1622.     Other  eds.  "  my"  ;  and  so  the.modern  editors. 

•■  servant}  See  note,  p.  213. 

^  woman']  So  4to.  16"20.     Other  eds.  "  women  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 

*   Take  me  in  tears  betwixt  you,  for  my  heart 

Will  break  iinth  shame  and  sorrow]  Stands  thus  in  old  eds.  : 
"  Take  me  in  tears  betwixt  you, 
For  my  heart  will  break  with  shame  and  sorrow  " — 
an  arrangement  followed  by  the  modern  editors,  Seward  (in  his   Postscript) 
proposing  to  read  "For  else  my  heart"  &c. — "It  is  not  easy  to   explain   in 
sober  language  the  rapturous  effusions  of  love  and  grief ;  but  it  is  evident  that 
theii-  dividuig  him   in  tears  betwixt  them  was  to  be  the  consequence  of  his 


28C  PIIILASTER.  [act  v. 

Are.  Why,  'tis  well. 

Bel.  Lament  no  more. 

Phi.  Why  *^,  what  would  you  have  done, 
Tf  you  had  wronged  me  basely,  and  had  found 
Your  life  no  price  comparM  to  mine  ^  I  for  love,  sirs, 
Deal  with  me  truly. 

Bel.  'Twas  mistaken,  sir. 

Phi.  AVhy,  if  it  were  ? 

Bel.  Then,  sir,  we  would  have  ask'd 
You  pardon. 

Phi.  And  have  hope  to  enjoy  it  ? 

Are.  Enjoy  it !  ay. 

Phi.  Would  you  indeed  ?  be  plain. 

Bel.  We  w^ould,  my  lord. 

Phi.  Forgive  me,  then. 

Are.  So,  so. 

Bel.  'Tis  as  it  should  be  now. 

Phi.  Lead  to  my  death.  [E.veimt. 

heart's  breaking,  not  the  prevention  of  it  ;  it  must  be  broken  before  it  could  be 
divided.  The  word  else,  therefore,  should  be  struck  out."  Mason, — who  did 
not,  however,  observe  that  the  lines  were  wTongly  divided. 

'   lVfit/1  Found  only  m  4to.  1620.     Not  in  modern  eds. 

'  Your  life  no  price  compared  to  mine?']  Old  eds.  "  My /(/I?  no  price  com- 
pared to  yours." — "  It  is  evidently,"  says  Mason,  "  the  intention  of  Philaster,  in 
this  speech,  to  describe  what  he  considered  as  his  own  situation  at  the  moment. 
I  have  no  doubt,  therefore,  but  the  passage  is  eiToneous,  and  that  it  ought  to 
nin  thus —  ....  *  Your  life  no  price  compar'd  to  mine.^  That  is,  Suppose 
yourself  [yourselves]  in  the  same  situation  that  I  am  ;  that  you  had  wi-onged 
me  basely,  as  I  have  wronged  you,  and  had  found  that  your  life  was  [lives  were] 
of  no  value  compared  with  mine  ;  which  is  what  I  feel  when  I  compare  my  Hfc 
with  yours."  Mason  was  not  aware  that  the  transposition  which  he  proposed 
(and  which  Weber  adopted)  had  been  made  long  ago.  In  an  altci'ation  of 
Philaster,  entitled  The  liestauration  (attributed  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
see  p.  203),  the  passage  stands  thus  ; 

'•  Pray  tell  me  now,  if  you  liad  wrong'd  mc  basely, 
And  found  your  life  no  price  compar'd  to  mine"  &c. 


PHILASTER.  287 


SCENE  III.— J  State-room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King,  Dion,  Cleremont,  Thrasiline,  and  Attendants. 

Kinff.  Gentlemen,  who  saw  the  prince  ? 

Cle.  So  please  you,  sir,  he's  gone  to  see  the  city 
And  the  new  platform,  with  some  gentlemen 
Attending  on  him. 

Km(/.  Is  the  princess  ready 
To  bring  her  prisoner  out  ? 

T7i7'a.  She  waits  your  grace. 

Kinp.  Tell  her  we  stay.  lExit  Thrasiline. 

Dion.  King,  you  may  be  deceivM  yet : 
The  head  you  aim  at  cost  more  setting  on 
Than  to  be  lost  so  lightly".     If  it  must  off; 
Like  a  wild  overflow,  that  swoops  before  him 
A  golden  stack,  and  with  it  shakes  down  bridges, 
Cracks  the  strong  hearts  of  pines,  whose  cable-roots 
Held  out  a  thousand  storms,  a  thousand  thunders, 
And,  so  made  mightier,  takes  whole  villages 
Upon  his  back,  and  in  that  heat  of  pride 
Charges  strong  towns,  towers,  castles,  palaces, 
And  lays  them  desolate  ;  so  shall  thy  head. 
Thy  noble  head,  bury  the  lives  of  thousands. 
That  must  bleed  with  thee  like  a  sacrifice, 
In  thy  red  ruins,  \^  Aside. 

Enter  Arethcsa,  Philaster,  Bellario  in  a  robe  and  garland  ^^ 
and  Thrasiline. 

King.  How  now  ?  what  masque  is  this  ? 

Bel.  Right  royal  sir,  I  should 
Sing  you  an  epithalamium  of  these  lovers, 
But  having  lost  my  best  airs  with  my  fortunes, 
And  wanting  a  celestial  harp  to  strike 

8  lighlli/l  i.  e.  easily. 

^  in  a  robe  and  gar  land]  Qto.  1620  "  wilk  a  garland  of  flowers  07i's  head." 


288  rHILASTER.  [act  v. 

This  blcsst'd  union  on,  thus  in  glad  story 

I  give  you  all.     These  two  fair  cedar-branches, 

The  noblest  of  the  mountain  where  they  grew, 

Straightest  and  tallest,  under  whose  still  shades 

The  worthier  beasts  have  made  their  lairs,  and  slept 

Free  from  the  fervour  of '  the  Sirian  star 

And  the  fell  thunder-stroke,  free  from  the  clouds, 

When  they  were  big  with  humour,  and  delivered 

In  thousand  spouts  their  issues  to  the  earth  ; 

Oh,  there  was  none  but  silent  quiet  there  ! 

Till  never-pleased  Fortune  shot  up  shrubs, 

Base  under-brambles,  to  divorce  these  branches ; 

And  for  a  while  they  did  so,  and  did  reign 

Over  the  mountain,  and  choke ■"  up  his  beauty 

A\"ith  brakes,  rude  thorns  and  thistles,  till  the  sun 

Scorch'd  them  even  to  the  roots  and  dried  them  there  : 

And  now  a  gentle  gale  hath  blown  again, 

That  made  these  branches  meet  and  twine  together. 

Never  to  be  divided ''.     The  god  that  sings 

His  holy  numbers  over  marriage-beds 

Hath  knit  their  noble  hearts  ;  and  here  they  stand 

Your  children,  mighty  King :  and  I  have  done. 

King.  How,  how  ? 

Are.  Sir,  if  you  love  it  in  plain  truth, 
(For  now'  there  is  no  masquing  in't,)  this  gentleman. 
The  prisoner  that  you  gave  me,  is  become 
]My  keeper,  and  through  all  the  bitter  throes 
Your  jealousies  and  his  ill  fate  have  wrought  him, 
Thus  nobly  hath  he  struggled,  and  at  length 
Arriv'd  here  my  dear  husband. 

King.  Your  dear  husband  ! — 

'  the  fervour  of]  These  words  are  found  only  iu  4to.  1C20.  Not  in  modern 
cds. 

J  choke]  Theobald  gave,  with  4to.  1652  and  fol.  1679,  "  choak'd." 

•■  divided]  Qto.  1620  has  the  uncommon,  but  perhaps  more  poetical  word, 
"  unarm'd." 

'  now]  So  4tos.  1620,  1622,  1G28.  Not  in  other  cds.  The  Editors  of  1778, 
supposing  it  to  be  one  of  Theobald's  interpolations,  threw  it  out. 


SCENE  III.]  PHILASTER.  289 

Call  in  the  Captain  of  the  Citadel '". — 

There  you  shall  keep  your  wedding.     I'll  provide 

A  masque  shall  make  your  Hymen  turn  his  saffron 

Into  a  sullen  coat ",  and  sing  sad  requiems 

To  your  departing  souls  ; 

Blood  shall  put  out  your  torches  ;  and,  instead 

Of  gaudy  flowers  about  your  wanton  necks, 

An  axe  shall  hang  like  a  prodigious  o  meteor, 

Ready  to  crop  your  loves'  sweets.     Hear,  you  gods  ! 

From  this  time  do  I  shake  all  title  off 

Of  father  to  this  woman,  this  base  woman  ; 

And  what  there  is  of  vengeance  in  a  lion 

ChafdP  among  dogs  or  robb'd  of  his  dear  young. 

The  same,  enforced  more  terrible,  more  mighty. 

Expect  from  me  ! 

Are.  Sir,  by  that  little  life  I  have  left  to  swear  by, 
There's  nothing  that  can  stir  me  from  myself. 
What  I  have  done,  I  have  done  without  repentance  ; 
For  death  can  be  no  bugbear  unto  me, 
So  long  as  Phai'amond  is  not  my  headsman. 

Dion.  Sweet  peace  upon  thy  soul,  thou  worthy  maid. 
Whene'er  thou  diest  !     For  this  time  I'll  excuse  thee. 
Or  be  thy  prologue.  [Aside. 

Phi.  Sir,  let  me  speak  next ; 
And  let  my  dying  words  be  better  with  you 
Than  my  dull  living  actions.     If  you  aim 
At  the  dear  life  of  this  sweet  innocent. 
You  are  a  tyrant  and  a  savage  monster, 

■"  Call  in  the  Captain  of  the  Citadel']  Here  perliaps  an  attendant  sliould  go 
out  :  but  that  the  Captaiu  of  the  Citadel  does  not  enter,  is  plain  from  what  the 
King  says  before  his  exit,  "Away  to  the  Citadel,"  &c.,  p.  291. 

■>  A  masque  shall  make  your  Hymen  turn  his  saffron 
Into  a  sullen  coat]     "  Mr,  Warton,  in  his  notes  on  Milton's  Allegro,  has 
collected  various  mstances  from  old  authors  to  prove  that  Hymen  was  always 
appropriately  clothed  in  saffron-coloured  robes  in  the  ancient  masques  and 
pageantries."     Weber. 

°  prodigious]  i.  e.  portentous. 

p  Chaf'd]  So  4to.  1620.  Other  eds.  "  Chast "  and  "Cast":  the  modern 
editors  give  the  latter  word. 

VOL.  I.  U 


290  PIIILASTER.  [act  v, 

That  feeds ''  upon  the  blood  you  gave  a  life  to  ; 
Your  memory  shall  be  as  foul  behind  you, 
As  you  are  living  ;  all  your  bettor  deeds '' 
Shall  be  in  water  writ,  but  this  in  marble ; 
No  chronicle  shall  speak  you,  though  your  own, 
But  for  the  shame  of  men.     No  monument, 
Though  high  and  big  as  Pelion,  shall  be  able 
To  cover  this  base  murder  :  make  it  rich 
With  brass,  with  purest  gold  and  shining  jasper. 
Like  the  Pyramides ;  lay  on  epitaphs 
Such  as  make  great  men  gods  ;  my  little  marble 
That  only  clothes  my  ashes,  not  my  faults. 
Shall  far  outshine  it.     And  for  after-issues. 
Think  not  so  madly  of  the  heavenly  wisdoms. 
That  they  will  give  you  more  for  your  mad  rage 
To  cut  off,  unless  it  be  some  snake,  or  something 
Like  yourself,  that  in  his  birth  shall  strangle  you. 
Remember  my  father,  King  !  there  was  a  fault. 
But  I  forgive  it :  let  that  sin  persuade  you 
To  love  this  lady  ;  if  you  have  a  soul. 
Think,  save  her,  and  be  saved.     For  myself, 
I  have  so  long  expected  this  glad  hour, 
So  languisird  under  you  and  daily  withered. 
That,  Heaven  knows,  it  is  a  "^  joy  to  die  ; 
I  find  a  recreation  in"'t. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 
Gent.  Where  is  the  King  ? 
Kinff.  Here. 

Gent.  Get  you  to  your  strength, 
And  rescue  the  prince  Pharamond  from  danger  ; 

'•   That  frnls  ttc]  This  line  Ls  found  only  in  4to.  1G20.     Not  in  modeni  cds. 

"^ all  your  better  deeds 

Shall  be  in  water  writ,  but  this  in  marble]  Ilci'e   Theobald  cites  Sliake- 
spcftn's  Henry  the  Eighth  ; 

"  Mcn'ii  evil  manners  live  in  lirsiss,  their  virtues 
Wc  write  in  water." 
and  (.'atulliis  ; 

"  In  venlo  el  rapidri  scribcre  oportet  aqua." 
'  «]  Theobald  and  the  Editors  of  177R  gave  with  the  later  eds.  "  my." 


SCENE  III.]  PHILASTER.  291 

He's  taken  prisoner  by  the  citizens, 
Fearing  »  the  lord  Philaster. 

Dion.  Oh,  brave  followers  ^ ! 
Mutiny,  my  fine  dear  countrymen,  mutiny  ! 
Now,  my  brave  valiant  foremen,  shew  your  weapons 
In  honour  of  your  mistresses  !  \^AsicIe. 

Enter  a  Second  Gentleman. 

Sec.  Gent.  Arm,  arm,  arm,  arm  "  ! 

Kinr/.  A  thousand  devils  take  'em  ! 

Dion.  A  thousand  blessings  on  'em  !  \^  Aside. 

Sec.  Gent.  Arm,  O  King  !     The  city  is  in  mutiny, 
Led  by  an  old  grey  ruffian,  who  comes  on 
In  rescue  of  the  lord  Philaster. 

Kznff.  Away  to  the  citadel !  I  '11  see  them  safe, 
And  then  cope  with  these  burghers.     Let  the  guard 
And  all  the  gentlemen  give  strong  attendance. 

[Exeunt  all  except  Dion,  Cleremont,  and  Thrasiline. 

Cle.  The  city  up  !  this  was  above  our  wishes. 

Dio7i.  Ay,  and  the  marriage  too.     By  my  life, 
This  noble  lady  has  deceivVl  us  all. 
A  plague  upon  myself,  a  thousand  plagues, 
For  having  such  unworthy  thoughts  of  her  dear  honour  ! 
Oh,  I  could  beat  myself !  or  do  you  beat  me. 
And  I  '11  beat  you ;  for  we  had  all  one  thought. 

Cle.  No,  no,  'twill  but  lose  time. 

Dion.  You  say  true.  Are  your  swords  sharp  ? — Well,  my 
dear  countrymen  What-ye-lacks  *,  if  you  continue,  and  fall 
not  back  upon  the  first  broken  skin  ^^ ,  I  '11  have  you  chronicled 
and  chronicled,  and  cut  and  chronicled,  and  all-to-be-praised 

'  Fearing]  i.  e.  Fearing  for. 

'  followers]  Qto.  16-20  «  fellows". 

"  Arm,  arm,  arm,  arm]  So  -Itos.  1622,  1628.  Other  eds.  "Arm,  arm, 
arm";   and  so  the  modern  editors. 

"   What-ye-lacks']  i.  e,  shopkeepers, — "  what  do  you  lack,"  being  formerly 

the  usual  address  of  the  London  shopkeepers  to  the  passers  by So  4tos.  1620, 

1622.     Later  eds.  "  fVhal-i/e-\a.ck  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 

"^  skin]  So  4to.  1620.     Other  eds.  "shin"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 
U  2 


292  PHIL  ASTER.  [act  v. 

and  Sling  in  sonnets ",  and  bawled  >  in  new  brave  ballads,  that 
all  tongues  shall  tvoul  you  in  scucida  saculorum,  my  kind  can- 
carriers. 

Thra.  What,  if  a  toy  ^  take  'em  i'  the  heels  now,  and  they 
run  all  away,  and  cry  "  the  devil  take  the  hindmost "  ? 

Dion.  Then  the  same  devil  take  the  foremost  too,  and 
souse  him  for  his  breakfast  !  If  they  all  prove  cowards,  my 
curses  fly  amongst  them,  and  be  speeding  !  May  they  have 
murrains  reign  •'»  to  keep  the  gentlemen  at  home  unbound  in 
easy  frieze  !  may  the  moths  branch  t*  their  velvets,  and  their 
silks  only  be  worn  before  sore  eyes  !  may  their  false  lights  ^ 
undo  'em,  and  discover  presses,  holes,  stains,  and  oldness  in 
their  stuffs,  and  make  them  shop-rid  !  may  they  keep  whores 
and  horses,  and  break  ;  and  live  mewed  up  with  necks  of 
beef  and  turnips  !  may  they  have  many  children,  and  none 
like  the  father  !  may  they  know  no  language  but  that  gib- 
berish they  prattle  to  their  parcels,  unless  it  be  the  goatish  ^ 

"=  and  all-to-be -praised  and  sung  in  sonnets]  Altered  by  Theobald  to  "  and 
sung  in  all-to-be-praised  sonnets  "  ;  which  the  succeeding  editors  give  ! 

y  bawled]  Old  eds.  "bath'd".  Theobald  pi-inted  "graved"  ;  and  so  his 
successors.  I  have  adopted  the  conjecture  of  Heath  {MS.  Notes),  which  is  at 
least  better  and  nearer  to  the  trace  of  the  old  letters  than  "  graved". 

'  toy]  i.  e.  whim.         *  reign]  The  Editors  of  1 778  and  Weber  print  "  rain  "  ! 
^  branch]  i.  e.  embroider,  figure,  sprig. 

"  false  lights']   Were  used,  it  would  seem,  in  the  shops  of  dishonest  London 
tradesmen,  to  enable  them  to  palm  upon  their  customers  injured  or  inferior 
goods.    In  Middleton's  Michaelmas  Term,  the  rascally  woollen- draper  Quomodo 
has  an  assistant  named  Falselight,  whom  he  thus  addresses ; 
"  Go,  make  my  coarse  commodities  look  sleek  ; 
With  subtle  art  beguile  the  honest  eye: 
Be  near  to  my  trap-window,  cunning  Falselight." 

Works,  L421.  ed.  Dyce. 
■'  goatish]  Qto.  1G20  "  gotish  ".  Qtos.  1G22,  1628  "goatish".  Later  eds. 
•' goarish."  Theobald  printed  "Gothic"  (a  reading  previously  given  in  The 
Restanration,  an  alteration  of  this  play  attributed  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
see  p.  20:<)  ;  and  so  his  successors. — That  "  goatish",  i.  e.  rank,  coai-se,  bar- 
barous, is  the  genuine  word,  there  cannot  be  the  slightest  doubt :  in  Hormanni 
Vulgaria  we  find,  "  The  ranke  sauour  of  riotes  is  applied  to  them  that  wyll  not 

come  out  of  tlicyr  baudy  [i.  e.  foul,  barbarous]  latyn. qui  barbariem 

nunquamexuunt."  Sig.  R  vi.  ed.  1530  ;  and  in  Drayton's  Elinor  Cobham  to 
Duke  Humphrey, 

"  Which  in  the  Gotish  Island  tongue  were  taught." 
Todd    in    his   additions    to    .Johnson's    Diet,    gives,    on    the  strength   of  the 


SCENE  III.]  PHILASTER.  293 

Latin  they  write  in  their  bonds — and  may  they  write  that  false, 
and  lose  their  debts  ! 

Re-enter  King. 

King.  Now  the  vengeance  of  all  the  gods  confound  them  I 
How  they  swarm  together  !  what  a  hum  they  raise  ! — Devils 
choke  your  wild  throats!— If  a  man  had  need  to  use  their 
valours,  he  must  pay  a  brokage  for  it,  and  then  bring  'em 
on,  and  they  will  fight  like  sheep.  'Tis  Philaster,  none  but 
Philaster,  must  allay  this  heat :  they  will  not  hear  me  speak, 
but  fling  dirt  at  me  and  call  me  tyrant.  Oh,  run,  dear  friend, 
and  bring  the  lord  Philaster !  speak  him  fair ;  call  liim 
prince ;  do  him  all  the  courtesy  you  can ;  commend  me  to 
him.     Oh,  my  wits,  my  wits  !  \^Exit  Clekemont. 

Dion.  Oh,  my  brave  countrymen  !  as  I  live,  I  will  not  buy 
a  pin  out  of  your  walls  for  this  ;  nay,  you  shall  cozen  me,  and 
ril  thank  you,  and  send  you  brawn  and  bacon,  and  soil  you 
every  long  vacation  a  brace  of  foremen  ^',  that  at  Michaelmas 
shall  come  up  fat  and  kicking.  [Aside. 

King.  What  they  will  do  with  this  poor  prince,  the  gods 
know,  and  I  fear. 

Dion.  Why,  sir,  they'll  flay  him,  and  make  church-buckets 
on's  skin,  to  quench  rebellion  ;  then  clap  a  rivet  in's  sconce  ^, 
and  hang  him  up  for  a  sign. 

Enter  Philaster  and  Cleremont. 
King.  Oh,  worthy  sir,  forgive  me  !  do  not  make 
Your  miseries  and  my  faults  meet  together, 
To  bring  a  greater  danger.     Be  yourself. 
Still  sound  amongst  diseases.     I  have  wrong'd  you ; 
And  though  I  find  it  last,  and  beaten  to  it, 

present  passage,  "  Goarish.  adj.  (from  goar).  Patched,  mean,  doggerel  "  ;  and, 
what  is  more  to  be  wondered  at,  Richardson  in  his  very  learned  work  has 
bori'owed  from  Todd  this  precious  adjective  and  the  example  of  its  use. 

^  soil  you  every  long  vacation  a  brace  of  foremen']  "Soil,  to  fatten  com- 
pletely." "  Soiling,  the  last  fattening  food  given  to  fowls  when  they  are  taken 
up  from  the  stack  or  barn-door,  and  cooped  for  a  few  days."  Forby's  Vocab. 
of  East  Anglia.     Foremen  can  only  be  a  sort  of  cant  name  for  geese. 

f  sconce'\  i.  e.  head. 


•Jf)4  I'HILASTER.  [act  v. 

Let  first  your  goodness  know  it.     Calm  the  people, 

And  be  what  you  were  born  to :  take  your  love, 

And  with  her  my  repentance,  all  =  ray  wishes 

And  all  my  prayers.     By  the  gods,  my  heart  speaks  this  ; 

And  if  the  least  fall  from  me  not  performed, 

May  I  be  struck  with  thunder  ! 

Phi.  Mighty  sir, 
I  will  not  do  your  greatness  so  much  wrong, 
As  not  to  make  your  word  truth.     Free  the  princess 
And  the  poor  boy,  and  let  me  stand  the  shock 
Of  this  mad  sea-breach,  which  Fll  either  turn, 
Or  perish  with  it. 

King.  Let  your  own  word  free  them. 

Phi.  Then  thus  I  take  my  leave,  kissing  your  hand, 
And  hanging  on  your  royal  word.     Be  kingly, 
And  be  not  mov'd,  sir  :   I  shall  bring  you ''  peace 
Or  never  bring  myself  back. 

King.  All  the  gods  go  with  thee.  ^Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— J  Street. 


Enter  an  old  Captain  and  Citizens  inith  Pharamond  prisoner. 

Cap.  Come,  my  brave  myrmidons,  let  us  fall  on  ! 
Let  your "'  caps  swarm,  my  boys,  and  your  nimble  tongues 
Forget  your  mother-gibberish  of  "what  do  you  lackV' 
And  set  your  mouths  ope'',  children,  till  your  palates 
Fall  frighted  half  a  fathom  past  the  cure 
Of  bay-salt  and  gross  pepper,  and  then  cry 
Philaster,  brave  Philaster  !     Let  Philaster 

«  air\  So  4t08.  1620,  1622,  1628.  Later  eds.  "and"  ;  which  the  modem 
editors  give. 

»■  yow]  So  4to.  1620.  Later  eds.  "youi-"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editore, — 
Thei.liald  <xce|ited,  who  gave  "  you  "  from  conjectui-e. 

'  your]  So  4to.  1620.     Other  eds.  "our"  ;  and  so  the  modem  editoi-s. 

J  what  do  you  lack]   See  note,  p.  291. 

••  op«]  So  4to.  1620.     Other  eds  "  up"  ;  and  so  the  modem  editors. 


SCENE  IV.]  PHILASTER.  295 

Be  deeper  in  request,  my  ding-a-dings ', 

My  pairs  of  dear  indentures,  kings  of  clubs  •", 

Than  your  cold  water-camlets,  or  your  paintings 

Spitted  with  copper  °.     Let  not  your  hasty  silks, 

Or  your  branch'd  cloth  of  bodkin  °,  or  your  tissues. 

Dearly  beloved  of  spic'd  cake  and  custard, 

Your  Robin-hoods,  Scarlets,  and  Johns  p,  tie  your  affections 

In  darkness  to  your  shops.     No,  dainty  duckers  \ 

'  ding-a-dings]  So  4to.  1G20.  Other  eds.  " dvig-dongs"  ;  and  so  the  modern 
editors. 

■"  kings  of  clubs]  Clubs  were  formerly  the  favourite  weapons  of  the  London 
shopkeepers,  which,  when  a  fray  arose  in  the  streets,  their  apprentices  were 
always  ready  to  use. 

"  Spitted  with  copper]  "  I  have  ventured,"  says  Theobald,"  to  substitute  spotted, 
i.  e.  sprinkled  with  copper,  as  our  painted  papers  for  hangings  are,  to  resemble 
gold  and  look  gaudy."  And  so  his  successors.  Heath  conjectui-ed  "  Spirted." 
MS.  Notes. — "  Spitted"  is  right  ;  and  the  context  might  have  shown  Theobald 
that  cloths,  not  papers,  were  meant  by  "  paintings."  We  read  of  *'  cloth  of 
gold  broched  upon  sattin  ground,  and  blue  cloth  of  silver  broched  upon  satin 
ground."  Strutt's  Dress  and  Habits,  &c.  ii.  213.  And  Cotgrave  has  "  Broche, 
Broached,  spitted  ;  also,  grosely  stitched  ;  sowed  or  set  with  great  stitches.'"  French- 
English  Diet.  ed.  1650.  In  The  Rates  of  Marchandizes,  &c.  1635,  under  the 
head  of  "  Silkes  wrought,"  is  "  Bridges  Sattin  tinceled  with  Copper."   Sig.  E  8. 

"  branch'd  cloth  of  bodkin]  Bodkin  is  a  corruption  of  baudkin.  "  Baudekyn 
cloth  of  sylk,  olocericus."  Prompt.  Parv.  in  v.  ed.  1499.  "  Baldakinus,  Bal- 
dekinus,  Pannus  omnium  ditissimus,  cujus  utpote  stamen  ex  filo  auri,  subtemen 
ex  serico  tegitur,  plumario  opere  intertextus  ("branch'd"),  sic  dictus  quod 
Baldacco,  sen  Babylone  in  Perside,  in  Occidentales  provineias  defeiTetur." 
Du  Cange,  Gloss,  in  v.  "  Observat  denique  Scaliger  in  Notis  ad  Catullum 
Babylonica  appellasse  veteres  quDecumque  acu  picta  erant,  licet  in  Babylonia 
facta  non  essent."  Id.  in  v.  Baudequinus.  Nares  defines  it,  after  Du  Cange, 
"  the  richest  kind  of  stuff,  the  web  being  gold,  and  the  woof  silk,  with  em- 
broidery." Gloss,  in  Baudkin.  Strutt  observes  that  "  it  was  probably  known 
upon  the  Continent  some  time  before  it  was  brought  into  this  kmgdom  ;  for 
Henry  the  Third  appears  to  have  been  the  first  English  monarch  that  used  the 
cloth  of  Baudkius  for  his  vesture."  Dress  and  Habits,  &c.  ii.  130  ;  and  after- 
wards cites  from  the  Wardrobe  Inventories  of  Henry  the  Fifth  and  Henry  the 
Eighth,  "  baudekgn  of  purple  silk,"  "  white  baudekyn  of  gold,"  "  blue,  white, 
green,  and  crimson  baudekins  with  flowers  of  gold,' '  "  green  baudikins  of 
Venice  gold."  ii.  213. 

P  Robin-hoods,  Scarlets,  and  Johns]  "  All,  who  know  any  thing  of  the  story  of 
Robin  Hood  must  know  that  Scarlet  and  John  were  two  of  his  favourite 
dependants."     Theobald. 

1  duckers]  i.  e.  cringers,  bowers — alluding  to  theu*  ducking  (bowing)  to 
customers. 


296  PHIL  ASTER.  [act  v. 

Up  with  your  three-pil'd ''  spirits,  your  wrought  valours'; 
And  lot  your  uncut  cholers*  make  the  King  feel 
The  measure  of  your  mightiness.     Philaster  ! 
Cry,  my  rose-nobles  \  cry  ! 

All.  Philaster  !  Philaster  ! 

Cap.  How  do  you  like  this,  my  lord-prince "  ? 
Those  are  mad  boys,  I  toll  you  ;  these  are  things 
Tliat  will  not  strike  their  top-sails  to  a  foist '', 
And  let  a  man  of  war,  an  argosy, 
Hull  and  cry  cockles. 

Pha.  Why,  you  rude  slave,  do  you  know  what  you  do  ? 

Cap.  My  pretty  prince  of  puppets,  we  do  know  ; 
And  give  your  greatness  warning  that  you  talk 

t  ihree-pil'd]  Is  frequently  used  by  our  early  writei-s  metaphorically,  and 
with  much  less  propriety  than  in  this  punning  harangue  to  shopkeepers  :  three- 
pile  was  velvet  of  the  richest  and  strongest  quality  ;  "  it  seems  to  have  been 
tliouglit,"  says  Nares  (Gloss,  in  v.),  "  that  there  was  a  three-fold  accumulation 
of  the  outer  substance  or  pile." 

'  valours'}  Another  quibble  :  velure  (sometimes  spelt  valure)  is  velvet. 

«  cholers]  Another  play  on  words.  Qto.  1620  "colours."  Qtos.  1622, 
1628  "CoUers."  Later  eds.  "Coller."  The  modern  editors  give 
"  choler." 

'  rose-tiobles]  "  A  rose-noble  was  a  gold  coin,  struck  originally  in  the  reign 
of  Edward  III.  and  stamped  with  a  rose,  worth  C*.  8rf."  Weber.  In  our 
author's  time,  its  value  was  considerably  higher. 

"  prince]  Qto.  1 620  «  prisoner," — rightly,  perhaps. 

'    That  will  not  strike  their  top-sails  to  a  foist, 
And  let  a  man  of  war,  an  argosy, 

Hull  and  cry  cockles]  "  A.  foist  means  a  small  vessel  with  sails  and  oars, 
called  fuste  in  French,  and  fusta  in  Italian.  The  Lord- Mayor's  barge  was 
formerly  called  the  galley-foist."  Mason.  "  Jn  argosy— any  large  vessel, 
so  called  from  Jason's  large  ship  Argo  [the  most  probable  derivation  of  the 
word] .  A  vessel  is  said  to  hull,  when  she  floats,  or  rides  idle  to  and  fro  upon 
the  water."  Theobald.  Nares  (Gloss,  in  v.  Foist)  explains  the  present 
pawiage  thus — "  They  will  not  yield  to  an  inferior  vessel,  and  suffer  a  man  of 
war,  i«  ti'hich  they  are,  to  lie  inactive  and  in  base  traffic"  ;  but  he  mistakes 
tln'  meaning  of  the  latter  part  :  Weber  rightly  observes  that  "foist  evidently 
alludes  to  the  Lord  Mayor's  or  any  other  barge  gorgeously  painted,  in  reference 
to  the  gaudy  apparel  and  etfenunacy  of  Pharamond  "  (so  again  Fletcher  in 
The  lV<nnan's  Prize,  act  ii.  sc.  fi.,  has  "  painted /oi5<  ")  ;  and  "  a  man  of  war  " 
as  evidently  refers  to  Philaster.  According  to  Grose,  "  To  cry  cockles  "  is  "  to 
be  hanged  ;  perhaps  from  the  iioi.s<!  made  whilst  strangUng."  Class.  Diet,  of 
tin:  Vulgar  Tongue. 


SCENE  IV.]  PHILASTER.  297 

No  more  such  bug's-words ''',  or  that  solder'd  crown 

Shall  be  scratch'd  with  a  musket ".     Dear  prince  Pippin, 

Down  with  your  noble  blood,  or,  as  I  live, 

ril  have  you  coddled. — Let  him  loose,  my  spirits  : 

Make  us  a  round  ring  with  your  bills  ^,  my  Hectors, 

And  let  us  see  what  this  trim  man  dares  do. 

Now,  sir,  have  at  you  !  here  I  lie  ; 

And  with  this  swashing  blow  (do  you  see,  sweet  prince  ?  ^ ) 

I  could  hock  ^  your  grace,  and  hang  you  up  cross-leggM, 

Like  a  hare  at  a  poulter's  ^\  and  do  this  with  this  wiper. 

Pha.  You  will  not  see  me  murderM,  wicked  villains  ? 

First.  Cit.  Yes,  indeed,  will  we,  sir ;  we  have  not  seen  one 
For  *^  a  great  while. 

Cap.  He  would  have  weapons,  would  he  ? 
Give  him  a  broadside,  my  brave  boys,  with  your  pikes  ; 

'"  bug'' s-words\  i.  e.  swaggering,  high-sounding  words, — properly,  terrific 
words,  from  bug,  a  goblin  :  such  at  least  is  its  generally  received  etymology  ; 
but  Richardson  (Diet,  in  v.)  considers  "  bug-v/ovA.  "  as  merely  a  form  of  "  big- 
word." — Here  Theobald  and  his  successors  print  "  hug-ivords" ;  and  so  too 
Gifford  in  Perkin  Warbeck  (Ford's  Works  ii.  65),  though  the  old  ed.  of  that 
play  has  "hugs-words.  Compare  Nash;  "  Thats  a  bugges  tuord."  Strange 
Newes  of  the  intercepting  certaine  Letters,  ^c.,  1592,  Sig.  I. 

^  scratch'd  with  a  musket]  The  Captain  is  still  quibbling, — musket  (from 
which  perhaps  the  weapon  had  its  name)  being  a  male  sparrow-hawk  :  "  all  these 
kind  of  hawkes  haue  their  male  birds  and  cockes  .  .  .  as  .  .  .  the  Sparrowhawke 
his  Musket."     The  Booke  of  Falconrie,  &c.  by  Turbervile,  1611,  p.  3. 

y  bills]  i.  e.  a  kind  of  pikes  or  halberds  with  hooked  points  :  see  the  wood-cut 
in  Malone's  Shakespeare  (by  Boswell),  vii.  87. 

^  do  you  see,  sweet  prince  ?]  Q,to.  1620  "  doe  you  huffe  siveete  Prince  ?"  Q,to. 
1622  ^'  do  you  see  sweete  Prince  9"  (which  reading  I  have  adopted).  Later 
eds.  "do  you  sweet  Prince f^',  "do  you  sweat  Prince?",  "do  you  swet 
Prince 9",  and  "do  you  swear  Prince?"  Theobald  and  [his  successors  give 
"  do  you  sweat,  prince? " 

*  hock]  i.  e.  hough.  So  4to.  1620.  Later  eds.  "  hulk  "  and  "  hulke  "  ;  and 
so  the  modern  editors. 

''  poulter's}  The  old  and  common  form  of  the  word  ;  yet  Theobald  printed 
"  poulterer's." 

''-  For]  Mason's  correction.  Old  eds.  "foe".  Theobald  printed  "so  "from 
Sympson's  conjecture, — a  reading  also  found  in  the  alteration  of  Philaster 
called  The  Restauration  (attributed  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  see  p. 
203.)  The  Editors  of  1778  gave  "  foe '',  and  defended  it  in  a  note  !  From  this 
place  to  the  end  of  the  play  4to.  1620  is  most  absurdly  at  variance  with  the 
authors'  text  :  see  p.  198. 


298  PIIILASTER.  [act  v. 

Branch  '^  me  his  skin  in  flowers  hke  a  sattin. 
And  between  every  flower  a  mortal  cut. — 
Your  royalty  shall  ravel. — Jag  him,  gentlemen  ; 
ril  have  him  cut  to  the  kelb',  then  down  the  seams. 
O  for  a  wliip  to  make  him  galloon-laces  ! 
I'll  liave  a  coach- whip. 

P/ia.  Oh,  spare  me,  gentlemen  ! 

Cap.  Hold,  hold  ; 
The  man  begins  to  fear  and  know  himself : 
He  shall  for  this  time  only  be  seelVl  up 
AVith  a  feather  through  his  nose ',  that  he  may  only 
See  heaven,  and  think  whither  ^  he  is  going. 
Nay,  my  beyond- sea  sir,  we  will  proclaim  you : 
You  would  be  king  ! 

Thou  tender  heir  apparent  to  a  church-ale '', 
Thou  slight  prince  of  single  sarcenet. 
Thou  royal  ring-tail ',  fit  to  fly  at  nothing 
But  poor  men's  poultry,  and  have  every  boy 
Beat  thee  from  that  too  with  his  bread  and  butter ! 

Pha.  Gods  keep  me  from  these  hell-hounds  I 

First  at.  Shairs  geld  him,  captain  ? 

Cap.  No,  you  shall  spare  his  dowcets,  my  dear  donsels  ^ ; 

«■  Branch']  i.  e.  embroider,  figure,  sprig. 

<=  kell]  "  The  eaule  about  his  [the  hart's]  paunch  is  called  his  Kell."  The 
Noble  Art  of  Venerie,  &c.  by  Turbervile,  1611,  p.  244. 
'  seel'd  up 
With  a  feather  through  his  nose]  "Seel'd  [Fr.  siller]  is  a  term  in  falconry  : 
when  a  hawk  is  first  taken,  a  thread  is  run  through  its  eyelids  so  that  she  may 
see  very  little,  [or  not  at  all]  to  make  her  the  better  endure  the  hood." 
TiiKOBALD.  See  The  Booke  of  Falconrie,  &c.  by  Turbervile,  1611,  pp.  21,  88, 
1 00.    Sometimes  a  small  feather  was  used  for  this  purpose. 

K  whither]  "  I  beHeve  we  should  read  '  thither  he  is  going ',  instead  of 
*  whither  '  ;  and  the  meaning  is,  we  will  confine  his  eyes  in  such  a  manner,  that 
he  bhall  see  nothing  but  heaven,  and  think  that  he  is  going  there.  If  a  pidgeon 
be  hoodwinked  in  such  a  manner  that  it  can  receive  no  light  but  from  above, 
it  will  arise  perpendicularly  till  it  dies  :  to  this  the  citizen  alludes."     Mason. 

^  a  church-ale]  "  Is  a  festival  to  commemorate  the  dedication  of  a  church." 
Maso.n. 

»  ritiff-lail]  «  Is  a  sort  of  a  kite  with  a  whitish  tail."     Theobald. 

i  donsels]  i.  c.  youths  ( — so,  in  the  last  speech  of  this  scene  the  Captain  calls 
them  "  sweet  youths" — ),  properly,  young  gentlemen  professing  anns  and  not 


scK.NE  IV.]  PHILASTER.  299 

As  you  respect  the  ladies,  let  them  flourish  : 
The  curses  of  a  longing  woman  kill 
As  speedy  as  a  plague,  boys. 

First  Cit.  I'll  have  a  leg,  that's  certain. 

Sec.  Cit.  ril  have  an  arm. 

Third  Cit.  I'll  have  his  nose'',  and  at  mine  own  charge  build 
A  college  and  clap  it  upon  the  gate. 

Fourth  Cit.  I'll  have  his  little  gut  to  string  a  kit  with  ; 
For  certainly  a  royal  gut  will  sound  like  silver. 

Pha.  Would  they  were  in  thy  belly,  and  I  past 
My  pain  once  ! 

Fifth  Cit.  Good  captain,  let  me  have  his  liver  to  feed  ferrets. 

Cap.  Who  will  have  parcels  else  I  speak. 

Pha.  Good  gods,  consider  me  !  I  shall  be  tortur'd. 

First  Cit.  Captain,  I'll  give  you  the  trimming  of  your  two- 
hand  sword, 
And  let  me  have  his  skin  to  make  false  scabbards. 

Sec.  Cit.  He  had  no  horns,  sir,  had  he  '  ? 

Cap.  No,  sir,  he's  a  pollard  ™  : 
What  wouldst  thou  do  vAi\\  horns  I 

Sec.  Cit.  Oh,  if  he  had  had  ", 

yet  knighted  ;  Low  Lat.  domicellus,  donzellus,  Hal.  damigello,  donzello.  Span, 
donzel,  Fr.  damoisel.  Here  is  an  allusion  to  the  Donzel  del  Phebo,  a  hero  m  a 
celebrated  Spanish  romance,  which,  previous  to  the  production  of  this  play,  had 
been  translated  into  English  under  the  title  of  The  Mirrour  of  Knighthood.  .  . 
The  Mirrour  of  Princely  Deedes  and  Knighthood,  wherein  is  shewed  the 
Worthinesse  of  the  Knight  of  the  Sunne  and  his  Brother  Rosicleer,  &c.  4to. 
(pubUshed  in  Parts,  with  various  dates).  The  Captain  presently  calls  Philaster 
"  my  royal  Rosicleer,"'  and  asks  if  he  is  "  free  as  Phosbus."  Allusions  to 
these  personages  occur  in  several  other  old  di'amas. 

^  I'll  have  his  nose  ^'c]  "  An  allusion  to  Brazen-Nose  College  at  Oxford." 
Weber. 

'  He  had  no  horns,  sir,  had  he?}  The  Editors  of  1778  printed  "  He  has  no 
horns,  sir,  has  he  9  "  an  alteration,  they  say,  "  which  from  the  other  pai'ts  of  the 
dialogue  seems  absolutely  necessary"  !  and  so  Weber. 

"  a  pollard]  "  A  pollard  amongst  gardenei's  is  an  old  tree  which  has  been 
often  lopped  ;  but  amongst  hunters  a  stag  or  male  deer,  which  has  cast  its  head 
or  horns."  Theobald.  The  latter  signification  of  the  word  is  given  in 
Cockeram's  Diet,  and  probably  may  be  found  (though  I  have  not  met  with  it) 
in  some  of  the  old  books  on  hunting. 

°  he  had  had]  So  4tos.  1622,  1628  (the  passage  is  not  m  4to.  1620— see 
note,  p.  297).     Later  eds.  "  he  had'"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 


300  PHILASTER.  [act  v. 

I  would  have  made  rare  hafts  and  whistles  of  'em  ; 
But  his  shin-bones,  if  they  be  sound,  shall  servo  me. 

Enter  Philaster. 

All.  Long  live  Philaster,  the  brave  prince  Philaster  ! 

Phi.   I  thank  you,  gentlemen.      But  why  are  these 
Rude  weapons  brought  abroad,  to  teach  your  hands 
Uncivil  trades  I 

Cap.  My  royal  Rosicleer  ", 
\\'Q  are  thy  mjTmidons,  thy  guard,  thy  roarers  p  ; 
And  when  thy  noble  body  is  in  durance, 
Thus  do  we  clap  our  musty  murrions  ^  on, 
And  trace  the  streets  in  terror.     Is  it  peace, 
Thou  Mars  of  men  ?  is  the  King  sociable. 
And  bids  thee  live  ?  art  thou  above  thy  foemen. 
And  free  as  Phoebus '  ?  speak.     If  not,  this  stand 
Of  royal  blood  shall  be  abroach,  a-tilt, 
And  run  even  to  the  lees  of  honour. 

Phi.  Hold,  and  be  satisfied  :   I  am  myself ; 
Free  as  my  thoughts  are  ;  by  the  gods,  I  am  ! 

Cap.  Art  thou  the  dainty  darling  of  the  King  ? 
Art  thou  the  Hylas  to  our  Hercules  i 
Do  the  lords  bow,  and  the  regarded  scarlets 
Kiss  their  gummM  golls%  and  cry  "  We  arc  your  servants"? 
Is  the  court  navigable,  and  the  presence  stuck 
With  flags  of  friendship  l     If  not,  we  are  thy  castle, 
And  this  man  sleeps. 

•  Rosicleer]  See  note,  p.  299. 

P  roarers]  Or  roaring  boys,  was  a  cant  name  for  a  set  of  quarrelsome  bullying 
blades,  who,  wlicn  this  play  was  ^vritten  and  long  after,  infested  the  streets  of 
Londrjn  :  the  allusions  to  them  in  our  early  dramas  are  innumei-able  ;  but  for 
an  elaborate  jiicture  of  a  roarer,  see  particularly  A  Fair  Quarel,  Middleton's 
Jl'ork.s,  vol.  iii.  ed.  Dyce. 

T  rmirrions]  i.  e.  steel  caps,  plain  helmets. 

'  Phcubus]  Another  allusion  to  the  Donzel  del  Fhebo  ;  see  note,  p.  299. 

'  Ifieir  ffumm'd  galls]  i.  e.  their  hands  (or  rather  fists,  paws),  to  which  some 
sort  r)f  gum  had  been  applied  either  for  its  perfume  or  its  bleaching  quality. 
IJ.  Jonson  speaks  of  effeminate  persons  «  bleaching  their  hands  at  midnight, 
gumming  and  bridling  their  beards,"  &c.  Discoveries,  IVorks,  (by  Gifford),  ix. 
202.  Tlieobald  cliose  to  i)rint  «  the  gum-r/o/s  "  ;  which  Nares  (in  Gloss.)  gives 
as  a  legitimate  compound,  and  supposes  to  mean  clammy  hands. 


SCENE  IV.]  PHILASTER.  301 

Phi.  I  am  what  I  desire  ^  to  be,  your  friend ; 
I  am  what  I  was  born  to  be,  your  prince. 

Pha.  Sir,  there  is  some  humanity  in  you  ; 
You  have  a  noble  soul :  forget  my  name, 
And  know  my  misery  ;  set  me  safe  aboard 
From  these  wild  cannibals,  and,  as  I  live, 
I  '11  quit  this  land  for  ever.     There  is  nothing, — 
Perpetual  prisonment,  cold,  hunger,  sickness 
Of  all  sorts,  all  dangers,  and  all  together  ", 
The  w^orst  company  of  the  worst  men,  madness,  age. 
To  be  as  many  creatures  as  a  woman, 
And  do  as  all  they  do,  nay,  to  despair, — 
But  I  would  rather  make  it  a  new  nature, 
And  live  with  all  those,  than  endure  one  hour 
Amongst  these  wild  dogs. 

Phi.  I  do  pity  you. — Friends,  discharge  your  fears  ; 
Deliver  me  the  prince  :  I  '11  warrant  you 
I  shall  be  old  enough  to  find  my  safety. 

Third  Cit.  Good  sir,  take  heed  he  does  not  hurt  you ; 
He  is  a  fierce  man,  I  can  tell  you,  sir. 

Cap.  Prince,  by  your  leave,  I  '11  have  a  surcingle, 
And  maiP  you  like  a  hawk. 

'  /  desire]  So  folio  1679.     Other  eds.  "/  do  desire"  ;  and  so  the  modern 
editors, — Theobald  excepted. 
"  sickness 

Of  all  sorts,  all  dangers,  and  all  together]  So  folio  16/9.     The  earlier  eds. 
"  sicknesse, 
"  Of  all  sorts,  of  all  dangers,  and  altogether  "  ; 

and  so  the  Editors  of  1778  and  Weber — except  that  they  threw  out  the  comma 
after  "  sickness"  and  printed  "all  together".  Theobald  gave  the  passage  thus 
altered  by  Seward  ; 

"  sickness. 
All  dangers  of  all  sorts,  and  all  together." 
"  mail]  So  the  folio  1679,  where  the  word  is  spelt  "male".  All  the  other 
old  eds.  "  make." — "  Surcingle  generally  means  a  gii'th  or  the  girdle  of  a  cas- 
sock ;  but  in  the  present  case  I  suspect  the  word  to  signify  the  hood  in  which 
the  hawk  was  mailed  or  shrowded.  This  meaning  of  mailed  is  proved  by  the 
Duchess  of  Gloucester's  speech  in  Henry  VI.  Part  ii.  when  she  is  led  through 
the  streets  wrapped  up  in  the  sheet  of  penance  ; 

'  Methinlis  I  should  not  thus  be  led  along, 
JSIaiPd  up  in  shame.' " — Weber. 


:502  PillLASTKK.  [act.  v. 

Phi.  Away,  away,  there  is  no  danger  in  liim  : 
Alas,  he  liad  rather  sleep  to  shake  his  fit  off! 
Look  you,  friends,  how  gently  he  leads  !     Upon  my  word, 
He's  tame  enough,  he  need[s]  no  further  watching'*'. 
Good  my  friends,  go  to  your  houses, 
And  by  me  have  your  pardons  and  my  love  ; 
And  know  there  shall  be  nothing  in  ray  power 
You  may  deserve,  but  you  shall  have  your  wishes  : 
To  give  you  more  thanks,  were  to  flatter  you. 
Continue  still  your  love  ;  and,  for  an  earnest, 
Drink  this.  [^Gives  money. 

All.  Long  mayst  thou  live,  brave  prince,  brave  prince, 
brave  prince  ! 

\_Exeunt  Philaster  and  Pharamond. 


Surcingle  could  never  signify  a  "  hood  "  :  the  meaning  of  the  present  passage 
is  evidently, —  I'll  have  a  girth  or  band,  and  puiion  you,  or  fasten  down  your 
wings,  like  a  hawk  :  "  Mail  a  haivk  is  to  wrap  her  up  in  a  handkerchief  or 
other  cloath,  that  she  may  not  be  able  to  stir  her  wings  or  struggle."  R.  Holme's 
Ac.  of  Armory,  1688,  B.  ii.  p.  239.  The  reading  of  the  folio  1679  is  therefore 
clearly  preferable  to  that  of  the  earlier  eds.,  "  make",  which,  however,  was  a 
term  of  falconry,  and  meant  to  order,  fashion,  render  obedient ; 

"  What  greater  glee  can  man  desire,  than  by  his  cunning  skill 
So  to  reclaime  a  haggard  Hawke,  as  she  the  fowle  shall  kill. 
To  make  and  man  her  in  such  sort,  as  tossing  out  a  traiue 
<  )r  but  the  lewre,  when  she  is  at  large,  to  whoup  her  in  againe  ? " 

Turbervile's  Booke  of  Falconrie,  &c.  Introd.  Poem — ed.  1611. 

"  How  to  beare  and  make  a  Falcon."  id.  p.  99.  "  To  enter  or  make  a  Hawke 
after  the  fashion  of  Lombardy."  p.  117.  "  To  enseame  a  Falcon  and  to  make 
her."  p.  119.  "To  keepe  and  make  Sparrowhawkes."  p.  132.  "To  reclayme 
and  make  the  Nyasse  Sparowhawke."  p.  199. 

"  -My  purpose  was  to  set  them  dowue  the  trade. 
To  man  their  Hawks,  and  how  they  might  be  made." 

Epilogue. 

At  the  end  of  the  present  speech  the  modern  editors  give  a  stage-direction, 
"  He  stirs  "  !  For  this  nonsense  they  certainly  had  the  authority  of  most  of 
the  old  eds.  ;  but  they  might  have  found  ui  some  of  them  "  lie  strives,"  i.  e. 
Fharaniond  struggles. 

*  He's  tame  enough,  he  need[s]  no  further  watching'\  "  One  of  the  means  used 
to  tame  hawks  is  to  keep  them  continually  awake."  Mason.  But  is  there  any 
allusion  to  it  here  ? 


SCENE  V.J  PHILASTER.  303 

Cap.  Go  thy  ways '',  thou  art  the  king  of  courtesy  . 
Fall  off  again,  my  sweet  youths.     Come, 
And  every  man  trace  to  his  house  again, 
And  hang  his  pewter  up  ;  then  to  the  tavern, 
And  bring  your  wives  in  muffs.     We  will  have  music  ; 
And  the  red  grape  shall  make  us  dance  and  rise,  boys. 

[^Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — An  Apartmoit  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King,  Arethusa,  Galatea,    Megra,  Dion,  Cleremont, 
Thrasiline,  Bellario,  and  Attendants. 

King.  Is  it  appeas'd  l 

Dion.  Sir,  all  is  quiet  as  this  dead  of  night ', 
As  peaceable  as  sleep.     My  lord  Philaster 
Brings  on  the  prince  himself. 

King.  Kind  gentleman  ^ ! 
I  will  not  break  the  least  word  I  have  given 
In  promise  to  him  :   I  have  heap'd  a  world 
Of  grief  upon  his  head,  which  yet  I  hope 
To  wash  away. 

Enter  Philaster  and  Pharabiond. 

Cle.  My  lord  is  come. 

King.  My  son ! 
Blest  be  the  time  that  I  have  leave  to  call 
Such  virtue  mine  !     Now  thou  art  in  mine  arms, 
Methinks  I  have  a  salve  unto  my  breast 

"  Go  thy  ways']  "  These  words  [omitted  by  Theobald  and  the  Editors  of 
1778]  are  retrieved  from  the  second  quarto."  Weber.  They  are  found  also  m 
4to.  1628. 

y  this  dead  of  night]  "  There  is  no  hint "  said  Seward  "  of  the  scene  being  at 
midnight ;  we  must  therefore  read  '  the  dead  of  night '  " — which  accordingly 
Theobald  adopted  ;  and  so  his  successors.  But  is  there  any  "  hint  of  the  scene 
not  being  at  midnight"  ?  and  the  very  expression  "  this  dead  of  night  "  occurs 
in  an  earlier  part  of  the  play,  p.  243. 

'  gentleman]  A  correction  by  Seward.     Old  eds.  "gentlemen." 


30  J  PHILASTER.  [act  v. 

F'or  all  the  stings  that  dwell  there.     Streams  of  grief 

Tiiat  I  have  wrong'd''  thee,  and  as  much  of  joy 

That  I  repent  it,  issue  from  mine  eyes  : 

Let  them  appease  thee.     Take  thy  right ;  take  her  ; 

She  is  thy  right  too  ;  and  forget  to  urge 

My  vexed  soul  with  that  I  did  before. 

Phi.  Sir,  it  is  blotted  from  my  memory, 
Past  and  forgotten. — For  you,  prince  of  Spain, 
Whom  I  have  thus  redeemM,  you  have  full  leave 
To  make  an  honourable  voyage  home. 
And  if  you  would  go  furnish'd  to  your  realm 
With  fair  provision,  I  do  see  a  lady, 
Methinks,  would  gladly  bear  you  company  : 
How  like  you  this  piece  \ 

Meg.  Sir,  he  likes  it  well. 
For  he  hath  tried  it,  and  hath ''  found  it  worth 
His  princely  liking.     We  were  ta''en  a-bed  ; 
I  know  your  meaning.     I  am  not  the  first 
That  nature  taught  to  seek  a  fellow  forth  ; 
Can  shame  remain  perpetually  in  me. 
And  not  in  others  ?  or  have  princes  salves 
To  cure  ill  names,  that  meaner  people  want  I 

Phi.  What  mean  you  ? 

Meg.  You  must  get  another  ship, 
To  bear  the  princess  and  her  "^  boy  together. 

Dion.  How  now ! 

Meg.  Others  took  me,  and  I  took  her  and  him 
At  that  all  women  may  be  ta'en  some  time  "^ : 
Ship  us  all  four,  my  lord  ;  we  can  endure 
Weather  and  wind  alike. 

King.  Clear  thou  thyself,  or  know  not  me  for  father. 

Arc.  This  earth,  how  false  it  is  !    What  means  is  left  for  mo 


•  wToiKj'd]  Old  cds.  "  wrought." 

•>  hath]  So  Ito.  l()2-2.  Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the  modem  editors. 
(The  pa.ssage  is  not  in  4to.  1G20  :  sec  note  p.  297.) 

'  her]  So  4to.  1622.  Other  eds.  "  the  "  ;  and  so  tlie  modern  editors,  Weber 
excepted. 

*  some  time\  Theobald  gave  with  fol.  1679  "sometimes." 


SCENE  v.]  PHILASTER.  305 

To  clear  myself?    It  lies  in  your  belief : 
My  lords,  believe  rae  ;  and  let  all  things  else 
Struggle  together  to  dishonour  me. 

Bel.  Oh,  stop  your  ears,  great  King,  that  I  may  speak 
As  freedom  would  !  then  I  will  call  this  lady 
As  base  as  are  her  actions  :  hear  me,  sir ; 
Believe  your  heated  blood  when  it  rebels 
Against  your  reason,  sooner  than  this  lady. 

Meg.  By  this  good  light,  he  bears  it  handsomely. 

Phi.  This  lady  !     I  will  sooner  trust  the  wind 
With  feathers,  or  the  troubled  sea  with  pearl, 
Than  her  with  any  thing.     Believe  her  not. 
Why,  think  you,  if  I  did  believe  her  words, 
I  would  outlive  'em  ?     Honour  cannot  take 
Revenge  on  you  ;  then  what  were  to  be  known 
But  death  I 

King,  Forget  her,  sir,  since  all  is  knit 
Between  us.  But  I  must  request  of  you 
One  favour,  and  will  sadly  be  denied  ^'. 

Phi.  Command,  whate'er  it  be. 

King.  Swear  to  be  true 
To  what  you  promise. 

Phi.  By  the  powers  above. 
Let  it  not  be  the  death  of  her  or  him. 
And  it  is  granted  ! 

King.  Bear  away  that  ^  boy 
To  torture  :  I  will  have  her  cleared  or  buried. 

Phi.  Oh,  let  me  call  my  word "  back,  worthy  sir  ! 
Ask  something  else  :  bury  my  life  and  right 
In  one  poor  grave  ;  but  do  not  take  away 
My  life  and  fame  at  once. 

King.  Away  with  him  !     It  stands  irrevocable, 

Phi.  Turn  all  your  eyes  on  me  :  here  stands  a  man, 
The  falsest  and  the  basest  of  this  world. 
Set  swords  against  this  breast,  some  honest  man, 

«  will  sadly  be  denied.'^  "  i.  e.  shall  be  very  sorry  to  be  denied."     Theobald. 
f  thaq  Theobald  gave  with  folio  1679  «  the  ". 

B  word'\  So  4tos.  1G22,  1628.     Other  eds.   "words";  and   so  the   modern 
editors. 


306  PHILASTER.  [act  v. 

For  I  have  lived  till  I  am  pitied  ! 

Mv  former  deeds  were  hateful ;  but  this  last 

Is  pitiful,  for  1  unwillingly 

Have  given  the  dear  preserver  of  my  life 

Unto  his  torture.     Is  it  in  the  power 

Of  flesh  and  blood  to  can-y  this,  and  live  J  [Offers  to  stab  hinrnf. 

Are.  Dear  sir,  be  patient  yet  !     Oh,  stay  that  hand  ! 

King.  Sirs,  strip  that  boy. 

Dion.  Come,  sir  ;  your  tender  flesh 
Will  try  your  constancy. 

Bel.  Oh,  kill  me,  gentlemen  ! 

Dion.  No.— Help,  sirs. 

Bel.  Will  you  torture  me  ? 

Kiiirjf.  Haste  there ; 
Why  stay  you  I 

Bel  Then  I  shall  not  break  my  vow, 
You  know,  just  gods,  though  I  discover  all. 

Kin^.  How's  that  I  will  he  confess  ? 

Dion.  Sir,  so  he  says. 

Kinff.  Speak  then. 

Bel.  Great  King,  if  you  command 
This  lord  to  talk  with  me  alone,  my  tongue, 
Urg'd  by  my  heart,  shall  utter  all  the  thoughts 
My  youth  hath  known  ;  and  stranger  things  than  these 
You  hear  not  often. 

Kin^.  Walk  aside  with  him.  [Dio\  anrl  Bellario  iralk  apart. 

Dion.  ^Mly  speak'st  thou  not  • 

Bel.  Know  you  this  face,  my  lord  i 

Dion.  No. 

Bel.  Have  you  not  seen  it,  nor  the  like  i 

Dion.  Yes,  I  have  seen  the  like,  but  readily 
1  know  not  where. 

Bel.  I  have  been  often  told 
In  court  of  one  Euphrasia,  a  lady. 
And  daughter  to  you;  betwixt  whom  and  me 
Tliey  that  would  flatter  my  bad  face  would  swear 
There  was  such  strange  resemblance,  that  we  two 
Could  not  be  known  asunder,  drest  alike. 

Dion.  Bv  heaven,  and  so  there  is  ! 


SCENE  v.]  PHILASTER.  307 

Bel.  For  her  fair  sake, 
Who  now  doth  spend  the  spring-time  of  her  Hfe 
In  holy  pilgrimage,  move  to  the  King, 
That  I  may  scape  this  torture. 

Diov.  But  thou  speak'st 
As  like  Euphrasia  as  thou  dost  look. 
How  came  it  to  thy  knowledge  that  she  lives 
In  pilgrimage  ? 

Bel.  I  know  it  not,  my  lord  ; 
But  I  have  heard  it,  and  do  scarce  believe  it. 

Dion.  Oh,  my  shame  !  is  it  possible  I     Draw  near, 
That  I  may  gaze  upon  thee.     Art  thou  she, 
Or  else  her  murderer  ^  I  where  wert  thou  born  I 

Bel.  In  Syracusa. 

Dion.  What's  thy  name  ? 

Bel.  Euphrasia. 

Dion.  Oh,  'tis  just,  'tis  she  ! 
Now  I  do  know  thee.     Oh,  that  thou  hadst  died, 
And  I  had  never  seen  thee  nor  my  shame  ! 
How  shall  I  own  thee  ?  shall  this  tongue  of  mine 
E'er  call  thee  daughter  more  i 

Bel.  Would  I  had  died  indeed  !   I  wish  it  too  : 
And  so  I  must  have  done  by  vow,  ere  publish'd 
What  I  have  told,  but  that  there  was  no  means 
To  hide  it  longer.     Yet  I  joy  in  this. 
The  princess  is  all  clear. 

King.  What,  have  you  done  ? 

Dion.  All  is  discover'd. 

Phi    Why  then  hold  you  me  \  [^Offers  to  stab  himself. 

All  is  discover'd  !     Pray  you,  let  me  go. 

King.  Stay  him. 

Are.  What  is  discover'd  i 

Dion.  Why,  my  shame. 
It  is  a  woman  :  let  her  speak  the  rest. 

Phi.  How  ?  that  again  ! 

^  Art  thou  she. 

Or  else  her  murderer .«]  "  It  was  tlie  received  opinion  iu  some  barbarous 
countries,  that  the  murderer  was  to  inherit  the  qualities  and  sliape  of  tlie  pei*son 
he  destroyed."     Mason. 

X  2 


308  PHILASTER.  [act  v. 

Dion.   It  is  a  woman. 

Phi.  Blcss\l  be  you  powi.n-s  that  favour  innocence  ! 

King.  Lay  hold  upon  tliat  lady.  [Megra  is  seized. 

Phi.  It  is  a  woman,  sir  ! — Hai-k,  gentlemen, 
It  is  a  woman  ! — Arethusa,  take 
My  soul  into  thy  breast,  that  would  be  gone 
\Vith  joy.     It  is  a  woman  I     Thou  art  fair. 
And  virtuous  still  to  ages,  in  despite 
Of  malice. 

King.  Speak  you,  where  lies  his  shame  I 

Bel.  I  am  his  daughter. 

Phi.  The  gods  are  just. 

Dion.  I  dare  accuse  none  ;  but,  before  you  two, 
The  virtue  of  our  age,  I  bend  my  knee 
For  mercy.  [Knceh. 

Phi.   [raising  him.]  Take  it  freely ;  for  I  know, 
Though  what  thou  didst  were  undiscreetly  done, 
""Twas  meant  well. 

Are.  And  for  me, 
I  have  a  power  to  pardon  sins,  as  oft 
As  any  man  has  power  to  wrong  me. 

Cle.  Noble  and  worthy  ! 

Phi.  But,  Bellario, 
(For  I  must  call  thee  still  so,)  tell  me  why 
Thou  didst  conceal  thy  sex.     It  was  a  fault ; 
A  fault,  Bellario,  though  thy  other  deeds 
Of  truth  outweighed  it :  all  these  jealousies 
Had  flown  to  nothing,  if  thou  hadst  discovert 
What  now  we  know. 

Bel.  My  father  oft  would  speak 
Your  worth  and  virtue  ;  and,  as  I  did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive ',  I  did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  prais'dJ.     But  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a  maiden-longing,  to  be  lost 

'  apprehensive]  "  i.  v.  tjuick  to  apprehend,  or  understand."     Weber. 

J  prai.sd]  Old  ed.s.  "  rais'd  ",  the  first  letter  of  the  word  having  dropt  out 
from  4to.  ni22  ( — the  pai*sagenot  in  4to.  1620  :  see  note  p.  297 — )  ;  fertile  poet 
would  hardlv  have  used  "  rais'd  "  as  equivalent  to — extolled.  Settle,  in  his 
alteration  of  Philaster  (see  p.  203),  gave  "prais'd";  but  the  author  of  the 


SCENE  v.]  PHILASTER.  309 

As  soon  as  found  ;  till,  sitting  in  my  window, 

Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god, 

I  thought,  (but  it  was  you,)  enter  our  gates: 

My  blood  flew  out  and  back  again,  as  fast 

As  I  had  puffed  it  forth  and  suckM  it  in 

Like  breath  :  then  was  I  call'd  away  in  haste 

To  entertain  you.     Never  was  a  man, 

Heav'd  from  a  sheep-cote  to  a  sceptre,  rais'd 

So  high  in  thoughts  as  I  :  you  left  a  kiss 

Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 

From  you  for  ever  ;   I  did  hear  you  talk, 

Far  above  singing.     After  you  were  gone, 

I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 

What  stirrM  it  so :  alas,  I  found  it  love  ! 

Yet  far  from  lust ;  for,  could  I  but  have  liv'd 

In  presence  of  you,  I  had  had  my  end. 

For  this  1  did  delude  my  noble  father 

With  a  feign \1  pilgrimage,  and  dress'd  myself 

In  habit  of  a  boy  ;  and,  for  I  knew 

My  birth  no  match  for  you,  I  was  past  hope 

Of  having  you  ;  and,  understanding  well 

That  when  I  made  discovery  of  my  sex 

I  could  not  stay  with  you,  I  made  a  vow, 

By  all  the  most  religious  things  a  maid 

Could  call  together,  never  to  be  known. 

Whilst  there  was  hope  to  hide  me  from  men's  eyes. 

For  other  than  I  seemM,  that  I  might  ever 

Abide  with  you.     Then  sat  I  by  the  fount. 

Where  first  you  took  me  up. 

King.  Search  out  a  match 
Within  our  kingdom,  where  and  when  thou  wilt, 
And  I  will  pay  thy  dowry  ;  and  thyself 
Wilt  well  deserve  him. 

Bel.  Never,  sir,  will  I 
Marry  ;  it  is  a  thing  within  my  vow : 

other  alteration  called  The  Restauration  (attributed  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
see  ibid.)  has 

"  Which,  as  I  grew  in  age,  encreas'd  a  thii-st 

Of  seeing  of  a  man  so  rats' d  above  the  rest." 


310  THILASTER.  L'^^-'^'  ^■• 

Hut,  if  I  may  have  leave  to  serve  the  princess, 
To  see  the  virtues  of  her  lord  and  her, 
1  shall  have  hope  to  live. 

Are.  I,  Philaster, 
Cannot  be  jealous,  though  you  had  a  lady 
Drest  like  a  page  to  serve  you  ;  nor  will  I 
Suspect  her  living  here. — Come,  live  with  me  ; 
Live  free  as  I  do.     She  that  loves  my  lord, 
Curs'd  be  the  wife  that  hates  her  ! 

Phi.  I  grieve  such  virtue''  should  be  laid  in  earth 
Without  an  heir. — Hear  me,  my  royal  father  : 
Wrong  not  the  freedom  of  our  souls  so  much, 
To  think  to  take  revenge  of  that  base  woman  ; 
Her  malice  cannot  hurt  us.     Set  her  free     • 
As  she  was  born,  saving  from  shame  and  sin. 

Kinp.  Set  her  at  liberty. — But  leave  the  court  ; 
This  is  no  place  for  such. — You,  Pharamond, 
Shall  have  free  passage,  and  a  conduct  home 
Worthy  so  great  a  prince.     When  you  come  there, 
Remember  "'twas  your  faults  that  lost  you  her, 
And  not  my  purposM  will. 

Pha.  I  do  confess. 
Renowned  sir. 

Kirif/.  Last,  join  your  hands  in  one.     Enjoy,  Philaster, 
This  kingdom,  which  is  yours,  and,  after  me. 

Whatever  I  call  mine.     My  blessing  on  you  ! 

All  happy  hours  be  at  your  marriage-joys. 

That  you  may  grow  yourselves  over  all  lands, 

And  live  to  see  your  plenteous  branches  spring 

Wherever  there  is  sun  !     Let  princes  learn 

liy  this  to  rule  the  passions  of  their  blood  ; 

For  what  Heaven  wills  can  never  be  withstood.  [  Ext- nut. 

^  virtue]   .So  tlic  4t09.     Fol.  1G79  "  virtues"  ;  and  80  the  modern  editors. 


NOTE  OMITTED  AT  I'AGE  234. 
match   yr]  "  'lliis  is  sense,  yet  probably  we  ought  to  read  '  watch  you,"  a.s 
flalatea  docs  actually  watch  I'haranioud,  and  retires  behind  the  scene  for  that 
purpose."     Maso.v.      Settle   in    his  altei-ation  of  the  play  (sec   p.   203)  givcw 
•  fi-alch  ye." 


THE   MAID'S    TRAGEDY. 


The  Maidcs  Tragedy.  As  it  hath  beene  diuers  times  Acted  at  the  Btacke-friers  by  the 
Kings  Maiesties  Seruants.  London  Printed/or  Francis  Constable  and  are  to  be  sold  at  the 
while  Lyon  otter  against  the  great  North  doore  of  Pauls  Church.  1619.  4to. 

The  Maids  Tragedie.  As  it  hath  bezne  diuers  times  Acted  at  the  Black-Friers  by  the 
Kings  Maiesties  Seruants.  Newly  perused,  augmented,  and  inlarged.  This  second  Impression. 
London,  Printed  for  Francis  Constable,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  the  White  Lion  in  Pauls 
Church-yard,  1622.  4to. 

The  Maids  Tragedie,  &c.  Written  by  Francis  Beaumont,  and  John  Fletcher  Gentlemen. 
The  Third  Impression,  Reuised  and  Refined.  London,  Printed  by  A.  M.  for  Richard 
HoKkins,  and  are  to  bee  sold  at  his  Shop  in  Chancery-Lane  neere  Serjeants-Inne.  1630.  4to. 

The  Maides  Tragedie,  &c.  The  fourth  Impression,  Revised  and  Refined.  Printed  by  E. 
G.for  Henry  Shepherd,  andare  to  be  sold  at  the  signe  of  the  Bible  in  Chancery  lane.  1638.  4to. 

The  Maids  Tragedie,  &c.  The  fifth  Impression,  Revised  and  Refined.  London  Printed 
by  E.  P.  far  William  Leake,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop  in  Chancery-lane,  neere  the 
Howies.    1641. 4to. 

The  Maids  Tragedy,  &c.  The  sixth  Impression,  Revised  and  Corrected  exactly  by  the 
Original.  London  Printed  for  William  Leake,  at  the  Crown  in  Fleet  street  between  the  two 
Temple  Gates.    1650.  4to. 

Another  Impression,  also  called  llic  sixth,  1G61,  4to. 

All  the  above  mentioned  editions,  except  the  two  last,  have  a  wood-cut  on  the  title-page 
representing  Amintor  stabbing  Aspatia. 

The  Maid's  Tragedy  is  in  the  folio  of  167!'- 


With  respect  to  the  date  of  this  drama,  I  have  nothuig  to  offer  except 
the  hypothesis  of  Alalone.  "  If,"  says  he,  "  the  date  of  the  Maid's 
Tragedy  were  ascertained,  it  miglit  throw  some  light  on  the  present 
inquiry  [concerning  the  date  of  Shakespeare's  Julius  C(jesar~\ ;  the 
quarrelling  scene  between  Melantius  and  his  friend  being  manifestly 
copied  from  a  similar  scene  in  Julius  Caesar.  It  has  already  been  observed 
that  Philaster  was  the  first  play  which  brought  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
into  reputation,  and  that  it  probably  was  represented  in  1608  or  1609. 
We  may  therefore  presume  that  the  Maid's  Tragedy  did  not  appear 
before  that  year;  for  we  cannot  suppose  it  to  have  been  one  of  the 
unsuccessful  pieces  which  preceded  Philaster.  That  the  Maid's  Tragedy 
was  written  before  1611  is  ascertained  by  a  MS.  play  now  extant  entitled 
The  Second  Maid's  Tragedy,  which  was  licensed  by  Sir  George  Buck  on 
the  31st  of  October,  1611.     I  believe  it  never  was  printed  ^      If,  there- 


sufficiently  well  with  that  here  assigned  [1607]  to  Julius  Caesar."  Life 
of  Shakespeare,  p.  450,  ed.  1821. 

That  The  Maid's  Tragedy  was  the  joint  composition  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  is  beyond  a  doubt ;  that  Beaumont  wTote  the  greater  portion  of 
it  is  by  no  means  certain,  though  most  modern  critics  from  internal 
evidence  have  arrived  at  that  conclusion. 

The  source  from  which  the  incidents  of  this  drama  were  derived  has 
not  been  discovered.  Aspatia  fighting  in  male  attire  with  Amintor  has 
a  sort  of  prototype  in  the  combat  between  Parthenia  and  Amphialus  :  see 
Sir  P.  Sidney's  Arcadia,  Book  iii. 

=1  The  MS.  of  The  Second  Maiden's  Tragedy,— one  of  the  three  plays  which  AVarburton, 
the  Somerset  Herald,  rescued  from  his  cook,— is  now  in  the  Lansdown  Collection,  British 
Jluseum.  It  was  printed  in  1824  :  see  vol.  i.  of  The  Old  English  Drama,  1825.  It  appears 
(see  ibid.)  to  have  received  its  name  from  the  licenser;  but  that  circumstance  will  not 
affect  the  inference  dra\\Ti  by  :Malone. 


314 

The  Muitfs  Trngi'dy  suffered  no  abatement  of  its  high  popularity '  till 
an  interdict  was  laid  on  dramatic  performances. 

A  droll  entitled  The  Testy  Lord,  made  up  from  those  scenes  in  which 
tJalianax  is  concerned,  was  acted  during  the  suppression  of  the  theatres, 
and  may  be  found  in  The  Wits,  or.  Sport  upon  Sport:  see  p.  200  of  the 
jiresent  volume. 

After  the  Restoration,  the  poet  Waller  (leavmg  the  first  four  acts  in 
their  original  state)  composed  a  new  fifth  act  in  rhyme,  which  renders  the 
catastrophe  fortunate, — Evadne  voluntarily  quitting  Rhodes,  the  King 
and  Melantius  being  reconciled,  and  Amintor  man-ying  Aspatia.  As  this 
absurd  piece  of  sing-song  is  not  included  among  Waller's  writings  in  the 
Collections  of  British  Poets,  a  few  extracts  from  it  are  now  subjoined. 
Evadne,  at  the  commencement  of  the  act,  soliloquizes  thus  : 

"  Ohj  that  I  had  my  innocence  again, 
My  untouch'd  honour  !  but  I  wish  in  vain  : 
The  fleece  that  lias  been  by  the  dyer  stain'd 
Never  again  its  native  whiteness  gain'd. 
Th'  unblemish'd  may  pretend  to  virtue's  crown  : 
'Tis  beauty  now  must  perfect  my  renown. 
With  tliat  I  govern'd  htm  that  rules  this  isle  ; 
'Tis  that  which  makes  me  triumph  in  the  spoil, 
The  wealth  I  bear  from  this  exlxausted  court, 
Which  here  my  bark  stands  ready  to  transport. 
In  nari'ow  Rhodes  I'll  be  no  longer  pent, 
But  act  my  part  upon  the  continent : 
Asiatic  kings  shall  see  my  beauty's  prize, 
iMy  shining  jewels,  and  my  brighter  eyes. 
Princes  that  fly  (their  sceptres  left  behind) 
Contempt  or  pity  where  they  travel  find  ; 
The  ensigns  of  our  power  about  we  bear 
And  every  land  pays  tribute  to  the  fair  : 
So  shines  the  sun,  though  hence  remov'd,  as  clear 
When  his  beams  warm  th'  Antipodes  as  here." 

■J'owards  the  end  of  the  act, 

•'  Enter  AbPAsiA  alune,  with  a  bough  full  of /air  Icrritt. 
Asp.  This  Itappy  bough  shall  give  relief 
Not  to  my  hunger  but  my  grief. 
The  birds  know  how  to  chuse  their  fai'e  ; 
To  peck  this  fruit  they  all  forbear  : 

**  "Of  all  our  elder  plays 

This  and  Philaster  have  tlie  loudest  fame." 

A\aller'i  Prologue  to  The  Maid's  Trngcilij  Alteri'l. 


Those  cheerful  singers  know  not  why 
They  should  make  any  haste  to  die  ; 
And  yet  they  couple  :  can  they  know 
What  'tis  to  love,  and  not  know  son'ow  too  ?  " 

Presently,  when  she  has  ""^  put  some  of  the  berries  to  her  mouth"  Amintor, 
who  had  entered  unseen  by  her,  "  strikes  them  out  of  her  hand,  and 
snatches  the  bough. 

Am.  Rash  maid  forbear,  and  lay  those  berries  by  ! 

Or  give  them  him  that  has  deserv'd  to  die. 

Asp.  What  double  cruelty  is  this  !  would  you 

That  made  me  wretched  keep  me  always  so  ? 

Evadne  has  you  :  let  Aspasia  have 

The  common  refuge  of  a  quiet  grave. 

If  you  have  kindness  left,  there  see  me  laid  : 

To  bury  decently  the  injur'd  maid 

Is  all  the  favour  that  you  can  bestow 

Or  I  receive, — pray,  render  me  my  bough. 

Am.  No  less  than  you  was  your  Amintor  wrongM  : 

The  false  Evadne  to  the  King  belong'd. 

You  had  my  promise,  and  my  bed  is  free  ; 

I  may  be  yours,  if  you  can  pardon  me. 

Asp.  If  ever  you  should  prove  uuconstant  now, 
I  shall  remember  where  those  berries  grow. 

Am.  My  love  was  always  constant  ;  but  the  King, 
Melantius'  friendship,  and  (that  fatal  tliiug) 
Ambition,  me  on  proud  Evadne  threw, 
And  made  me  cruel  to  myself  and  you. 
But  if  you  still  distrust  my  faith,  I  vow 
Here  Ln  your  presence  I'll  devour  the  bough. 

Asp.  [Snatching  the  bough  from  him.}   Rash  man,  forbear  ! 
but  for  some  unbelief. 
My  joy  had  been  as  fatal  as  my  grief  ; 
The  sudden  news  of  imexpected  bhss. 
Would  yet  have  made  a  tragedy  of  this. 
Secure  of  my  Amiutor,  still  I  fear 
Evadne's  mighty  friend,  the  King. 

Am.  He's  here. 

Enter  the  King  and  his  Brother  to  them. 

King.  How  shall  I  look  upon  that  noble  youth 
So  full  of  patience,  loyalty,  and  truth  ! 
The  fail"  Aspasia  I  have  injur'd  too, 
The  guilty  author  of  their  double  woe. 
My  passion's  gone  ;  and,  reason  in  her  throne, 
Amaz'd  I  see  the  mischiefs  I  have  done  : 
After  a  tempest,  when  the  winds  are  laid, 
The  calm  sea  wonders  at  the  wrecks  it  made. 


316 

.till.  Men  wrong'd  by  kings  impute  it  to  their  faic. 
And  royal  kindness  never  comes  too  late  : 
So  wlien  Heaven  frowns,  we  think  our  anger  vain  ; 
Joj'ful  and  thankful  when  it  smiles  again. 

[Tahing  Aspasia  by  the  hand. 
Tliis  knot  you  broke  be  plcas'd  again  to  bind. 
And  wc"  ehall  both  forget  you  were  unkind. 

King.   May  you  be  happy,  and  your  sorrows  past 
Set  off  those  joys  I  wish  may  ever  last  ! 

[Giving  the  letter  to  AMiNTOii. 
Read  this. 

Am.  Evadne  fled  !— Aspasia,  now 
You'll  have  no  more  occasion  for  your  bough." 

Waller's  new  fiftli  act  was  first  printed  in  the  Second  Part  of  liis  Foeim, 
1690,  the  Preface  to  which  informs  us  tliat  "  The  play  was  alter'd  to 
please  the  Court :  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  who  sat  for  the  Two  Brothers' 
characters," — the  King  and  Lucippus  (Lysippus)  being  evidently  intended 
for  Charles  II.  and  his  brother  James,  and  the  latter  thus  excusuig  the 
licentiousness  of  the  former — 

"  Long  may  he  reign,  that  is  so  far  above 
All  vice,  all  passion,  but  excess  of  love  ! 

Love  is  the  frailty  of  heroic  minds  ; 

And,  where  great  virtues  are,  our  pardon  finds." 

Fenton  says  "that  Langbaine  \^Account  of  English  Dram.  Poets,  p.  212.] 
mistook  in  affirming  that  King  Charles  II.  would  not  suffer  the  Play  to 
appear  [in  its  original  state]  on  the  stage  :  for  I  have  been  assur'd  by  my 
friend  .Mr.  Southerne,  that  in  the  latter  end  of  that  reign  he  has  seen  it 
acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  as  it  was  originally  wTitten  by  Fletcher ; 
but  never  with  Mr.  Waller's  alterations."  Observ.  on  Waller  s  Poems, 
p.  clxiii.  ed.  1744.  Cibber,  however,  mentions  this  prohibition  of  The 
Maid's  Tragedy  by  an  order  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain  as  a  circumstance 
"  that  common  fame  has  delivered  down  to  us."  "  For  what  Reason," 
he  continues,  "  the  Politicks  of  those  Days  have  only  left  us  to  guess. 
Some  said,  that  the  killing  of  the  King  in  that  Play,  while  the  tragical 
]>eath  of  King  Charles  the  First  was  then  so  fresh  in  People's  Memory, 
was  an  Object  too  horrildy  impious  for  a  publick  Entertainment.  ^V''hat 
makes  this  Conjecture  seem  to  have  some  Foundation  is  that  the  celebrated 
AValler,  in  Compliment  to  that  Court,  alter'd  the  last  Act  of  this  Pla}'. 
....  Others  have  given  out  that  a  rei)enting  Mistress  in  a  romantick 
Revenge  of  her  Dishonour  killing  tlic  King  in  the  very  Bed  he  expected 
her  to  come  into,  was  shewing  a  too  dangerous  Example  to  other  Evadnes 


317 

then  shining  at  Court  in  the  same  Rank  of  royal  Distinction  ;  who,  if 
ever  their  Consciences  should  have  run  equally  mad,  might  have  had 
frequent  Opportunities  of  putting  the  Expiation  of  their  Fi-ailty  into  the 
like  Execution.  But  this  I  doubt  is  too  deep  a  Speculation,  or  too  ludi- 
crous a  Reason,  to  be  relied  on ;  it  being  well  known  that  the  Ladies  then 
in  favour  were  not  so  nice  in  their  Notions,  as  to  think  their  Preferment 
their  Dishonour,  or  their  Lover  a  Tyrant :  Besides,  that  easy  Monarch 
loved  his  Roses  without  Thorns ;  nor  do  we  hear  that  he  much  chose  to 
be  himself  the  first  Gatherer  of  them."     Apology,  &:c.  p.  282.  ed.  1750. 

"  The  part  of  Melantius  was  the  last  that  was  acted  by  the  celebrated 
Betterton,  three  days  before  liis  death,  which  happened  the  28th  of  April, 
1710.  Before  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  it  stUl  continued  to 
be  performed  with  great  applause,  as  appears  from  Theobald's  notes ", 
who  began  his  labours  for  an  edition  of  our  authors  in  17-42.  How  long 
it  retained  possession  of  the  stage  after  that  period  I  am  unable  to  say  ; 
but  it  had  been  laid  aside  in  1764,  when  Baker's  Biographia  Dramatica 
{^Companion  to  the  Pkiij-house']  appeared,  for  some  years."     Weber. 

The  Maid's  Tragedy,  under  the  title  of  The  Bridal,  with  alterations  by 
the  eminent  tragedian  Mr.  Macready,  and  with  three  original  scenes  by 
Mr.  Sheridan  Knowles,  was  acted  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre  in  1837, 
and  very  favourably  received  by  the  public. 

'^  In  a  note  (omitted  in  the  present  edition)  on  the  quarrelling  scene  between  Melantius 
and  Amintor,  he  says  '■  I  have  always  seen  it  received  with  vehement  applause."  He, 
perhaps,  alludes  to  a  period  somewhat  earlier  than  1742. 


THE  STATIONER'S  CENSURE' 


Good  wine  requires  no  bush,  they  say, 
And  I,  no  prologue  such  a  play : 
The  makers  therefore  did  forbear 
To  have  that  ^race  prefixed  here. 
But  cease  here,  censure,  lest  the  buyer 
Hold  thee  in  this  a  vain  supplyer. 
My  office  is  to  set  it  forth, 
Where  ^  fame  applauds  its  real  worth. 

''  Censure']  i.  e.   Opinion,  judgment. — These  lines  occur  after  the   Dram. 
Pers.,  in  Uos.  16.-^0,  1638,  1G41,  1650,  IGGl. 
*■    JVherel  "  i.  e.  Whereas."     Weber. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 


King. 

Lysippus,  his  brother. 

Amintor. 

Mela.vtiis 


I-   brothers  to  Evadxe. 


DiPHILUS, 

Calianax,  father  to  Aspatia. 

Cleon. 

Strato. 

Diagoras. 

Lords,  Gentlemen,  Servants,  &c. 


EvADNE,  sister  to  Melaxtics. 

Aspatia,  betrothed  to  Amintor. 

Antipuila,    1 

y  attendants  to  Asi 
Olympias,     J 

DuLA,  attendant  to  Evadne. 

Ladies. 

Characters  in  the  Masque. 
Night. 
Cynthia. 
Neptune. 
.Eolus. 
.Sea-gods. 


Scene,  The  City  of  Rhodes. 


THE    MAID'S    TRAGEDY. 


ACT   I. 

Scene  I. — A71  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 


Enter  Lysippus,  Diphilus,  Cleon,  and  Strato. 

Cle.  The  rest  are  making  ready,  sir. 

Li/s.  So  let  them  ; 
There's  time  enough. 

Diph.  You  are  the  brother  to  the  King,  my  lord  ; 
We'll  take  your  word. 

Lt/s.  Strato,  thou  hast  some  skill  in  poetry ; 
What  think'st  thou  of  the  f  masque  ?  will  it  be  well  ? 

St?'a.  As  well  as  masques "  can  be. 

Lt/s.  As  masques  can  be  ! 

Sfra.  Yes ;  they  must  commend  their  king,  and  speak  in 
praise 
Of  the  assembly,  bless  the  bride  and  bridegroom 

f  thel  Old  eds.  "a." — "  It  should  be  'the  masque.'  It  was  not  then  to  be 
formed  ;  nor  does  the  prince  mean  to  ask  whether  it  will  be  well  to  have  one, 
but  whether  this,  which  is  prepared,  will  be  a  good  one.  This  Strato's  answer 
and  the  sequel  of  the  play  plainly  shew."     Seward. 

e  masques]  So  here,  and  in.  the  next  line,  4tos.  1619,  1622.  Later  eds. 
"maske  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors  :  but  Strato  proceeds  to  say  "  they  must 
commend,"  &c. 


322  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  i. 

In  person  of  some  god  ;  they're  tied  to  rules 
Of  Hattery. 

Ck.  See,  good  my  lord '',  who  is  return  d  ! 

Enter  Melantius. 

Lrjs.  Noble  Melantius,  the  land  by  me 
Welcomes  thy  virtues  home  to  Rhodes  ; 
Thou  that  with  blood  abroad  buy'st  us  our  peace  ! 
The  breath  of  kings  is  like  the  breath  of  gods  ; 
My  brother  wish'd  thee  here,  and  thou  art  here  : 
He  will  be  too '  kind,  and  w^eary  thee 
With  often  welcomes ;  but  the  time  doth  give  thee 
A  welcome  above  his  or  all  the  world's. 

Mel  My  lord,  my  thanks ;  but  these  scratch'd  limbs  of  mine 
Have  spoke  my  love  and  truth  unto  my  friends, 
More  than  my  tongue  e'er  could.     My  mind's  the  same 
It  ever  was  to  you :  where  I  find  worth, 
I  love  the  keeper  till  he  let  it  go, 
And  then  I  follow  it. 

Diph.  Hail,  worthy  brother  ! 
He  that  rejoices  not  at  your  return 
In  safety  is  mine  enemy  for  ever. 

Mel.  I  thank  thee,  Diphilus.     But  thou  art  faulty  : 
I  sent  for  thee  to  exercise  thine  arms 
With  me  at  Patria  ;  thou  cam'st  not,  Diphilus  ; 
'Twas  ill. 

Diph.  My  noble  brother,  my  excuse 

•>  Cle.  See,  good  my  lord,  &c.]  Arranged  by  Theobald  tliu3  : 
"  Cle.  See,  good  my  lord,  who  is 
Retum'd  ! 

£n<€r  Melantiis. 
Lys.  Noble  Melantius,  the  land 
By  me  welcomes  thy  virtues  home  to  Rhodes  ; 
Thou  that,"  &c. 
As  4to.  1619  omits  the  words  "to  Rhodes",  the  arrangement  might  be — 
"  Lys.  Noble  Melantius, 
The  land  by  me  welcomes  thy  virtues  home  ; 
TIk.u  that,"  &c. 
'  too]  Theobald  printed  "  e'en  too  ".     The  Editors  of  1778  removed  "  With  " 
from  the  beginning  of  the  next  line  to  the  end  of  this. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  323 

Is  my  king''s  strict  J  command, — which  you,  my  lord, 
Can  witness  with  me. 

Lys.  'Tis  most  ^  true,  Melantius  ; 
He  might  not  come  till  the  solemnities ' 
Of  this  great  match  were  "'  past. 

Diph.  Have  you  heard  of  it  ? 

Mel.  Yes,  and  have  given  cause  to  those  that  here 
Envy  my  deeds  abroad  °  to  call  me  gamesome  ; 
I  have  no  other  business  here  at  Rhodes. 

Lys.  We  have  a  masque  to-night,  and  you  must  tread 
A  soldier's  measure  «, 

Mel.  These  soft  and  silken  wars  are  not  for  me : 
The  music  must  be  shrill  and  all  confus^l 
That  stirs  my  blood  ;  and  then  I  dance  with  arms. 
But  is  Amintor  wed  l 

Diph.  This  day. 

Mel.  All  joys  upon  him  !  for  he  is  my  friend. 
Wonder  not  that  I  call  a  man  so  young  my  friend  : 
His  worth  is  great ;  valiant  he  is  and  temperate  ; 
And  one  that  never  thinks  his  life  his  own, 
If  his  friend  need  it.     When  he  was  a  boy. 
As  oft  as  I  returned  (as,  without  boast, 
I  brought  home  conquest),  he  would  gaze  upon  me 
And  view  me  round,  to  find  in  what  one  limb 
The  virtue  lay  to  do  those  things  he  heard ; 
Then  would  he  wish  to  see  my  sword,  and  feel 
The  quickness  of  the  edge,  and  in  his  hand 

J  stricf]  Theobald  and  the  Editors  of  1778  gave  with  4to.  1619  "  straight." 
t  mosf]  Found  only  in  4to.  1619  ;  which  Theobald  followed  :   his  successors 
tlirew  out  the  word. 

'  solemnities']    So  4to.   1619.      Later  eds.  "  solenmitie,"  which  the  modern 
editors  give  :  but  compare  p.  325, 1.  6,  and  p.  327,  1.  15. 
™  were']  Altered  by  the  modern  editors  to  "  was." 
n  Yes,  and  have  given  cause  to  those  that  here 
Envy  my  deeds  abroad]   So  4to.  1519.     Later  eds.  : 
"  Yes^  I  have  given  cause  to  those  that 
Envy  my  deeds  abroad.^^ 
Theobald  followed  the  first  4to.     His  successors  adopted  the  reading  of  the 
later  eds. 

"  measure]  See  note,  p.  166. 

Y  2 


324  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  i. 

Weigh  it :  he  oft  would  make  me  smile  at  this. 
His  youth  did  promise  much,  and  his  ripe  years 
^Vill  sec  it  all  performM. 

Enter  Aspatia,  passing  over  the  stage  p. 
Hail,  maid  and  wife  ! 
Thou  fair  Aspatia,  may  the  holy  knot, 
That  thou  hast  tied  to-day,  last  till  the  hand 
Of  age  undo  it !  may'st  thou  bring  a  race 
Unto  Amintor,  that  may  fill  the  world 
Successively  with  soldiers  ! 

Asp.  My  hard  fortunes 
Deserve  not  scorn,  for  I  was  never  proud 
When  they  were  good,  \^Exit. 

Mel.  How's  this  ? 

Lys.  You  are  mistaken,  sir  '^  ; 
She  is  not  married. 

Mel.  You  said  Amintor  was. 

Diph.  'Tis  true  ;  but 

Mel.  Pardon  me  ;  I  did  receive 
Letters  at  Patria  from  my  Amintor, 
That  he  should  marry  her. 

Diph.  And  so  it  stood 
In  all  opinion  long ;  but  your  arrival 
Made  me  imagine  you  had  heard  the  change. 

Mel.  Who  hath  he  taken  then  ? 

Lys.  A  lady,  sir, 
That  bears  the  light  above  her',  and  strikes  dead 

p  passing  &c.]  Qto.  1619  has"  passing  with  attendance,"  which  Theobald  gave. 
<i  sir]  So  4to.  1619.  Later  eds.  "for  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 
'  above  her]  Qto.  1622  "  about  Aer  ",  which  Weber  adopted.  Mason  says, 
"  Whether  we  suppose  that  the  pronoun  her  refers  to  Aspatia,  or  to  Evadne 
hers<'lf,  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  extract  any  sense  from  this  passage  as  it  stands  ; 
but  a  flight  alteration  [ !]  will  not  only  render  it  intelligible,  but  highly  poetical. 
I  .should  tluTofore  read  it  thus  -  -  - 

«  That  bears  the  lightning's  power,  [and]  strikes  dead '." 
Surely,  "  her  "  refers  to  Aspatia  :  compare  what  Amintor  presently  says— 
"  thy  sister. 
Accompanied  with  graces  above  her  ",  (p.  327) — 
where,  it  ought  to  be  observed,  4tos.  1619,  1C22  have,  by  a  misprint,  "  about." 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  325 

With  flashes  of  her  eye  ;  the  fair  Evadne, 
Your  virtuous  sister. 

Mel.  Peace  of  heart  betwixt  them  ! 
But  this  is  strange. 

L?/s.  The  King,  my  brother,  did  it 
To  honour  you ;  and  these  solemnities 
Are  at  his  charge. 

Mel.  'Tis  royal,  like  himself.     But  I  am  sad 
My  speech  bears  so  unfortunate  a  sound 
To  beautiful  Aspatia.     There  is  rage 
Hid  in  her  father's  breast,  Calianax, 
Bent  long  against  me ;  and  he  should  not  think, 
If  I  could '  call  it  back,  that  I  would  take 
So  base  revenges,  as  to  scorn  the  state 
Of  his  neglected  daughter.     Holds  he  still 
His  greatness  with  the  King  ? 

Lt/s.  Yes.     But  this  lady 
Walks  discontented,  with  her  watery  eyes 
Bent  on  the  earth.     The  unfrequented  woods 
Are  her  delight ;  where  *,  when  she  sees  a  bank 
Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she  with  a  sigh  will  tell 
Her  servants  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in  ;  and  make  her  maids 
Pluck  'em,  and  strow  her  over  like  a  corse. 
She  carries  with  her  an  infectious  grief, 
That  strikes  all  her  beholders  :  she  will  sing 
The  mournfuFst  things  that  ever  ear  hath  heard. 
And  sigh,  and  sing  again ;  and  when  the  rest 
Of  our  young  ladies,  in  their  wanton  blood. 
Tell  mirthful  tales  in  course  ",  that  fill  the  room 
With  laughter,  she  will,  with  so  sad  a  look, 
Bring  forth  a  story  of  the  silent  death 
Of  some  forsaken  virgin,  w^hich  her  grief 
Will  put  in  such  a  phrase  that,  ere  she  end, 
Shell  send  them  weeping  one  by  one  away. 

•  ///  could']  Q,to.  1619  "  Could  I  but  ",— perhaps  the  better  reading. 
'  where]  So  4to.  J  619.     Later  eds.  "  and  "  ;  which  the  modern  editors  give, 
— Theobald  excepted. 

"  in  course]  "  Means,  in  their  turn,  one  after  the  other."     Mason. 


320  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  i. 

Mel.  She  has  a  brother '  under  my  command, 
Like  her ;  a  face  as  womanish  as  hers. 
But  with  a  spirit  that  hatli  much  out-grown 
The  number  of  his  years. 

Ck.  My  lord,  the  bridegroom  ! 

Enter  Amintor. 

Mel  I  might  run  fiercely,  not  more  hastily  ", 
Upon  my  foe.     I  love  thee  well,  Amintor ; 
My  mouth  is  much  too  narrow  for  my  heart ; 
T  joy  to  look  upon  those  eyes  of  thine  ; 
Thou  art  my  friend,  but  my  disorder''d  speech 
Cuts  off  my  love. 

Amin.  Thou  art  Melantius  ; 
All  love  is  spoke  in  that.     A  sacrifice, 
To  thank  the  gods  Melantius  is  returned 
In  safety  !     Victory  sits  on  his  sword, 
As  she  was  wont :  may  she  build  there  and  dwell ; 
And  may  thy  armour  be,  as  it  hath  been. 
Only  thy  valour  and  thine  innocence  ! 
AMiat  endless  treasures  would  our  enemies  give, 
That  I  might  hold  thee  still  thus  ! 

Mel.  I  am  poor  '^ 
In  words  ;   but  credit  me,  young  man,  thy  mother 
Could  do  no  more  but  weep  for  joy  to  see  thee 
After  long  absence  :  all  the  wounds  I  have 
FetchM  not  so  much  away,  nor  all  the  cries 
Of  widowed  mothers-^.     But  this  is  peace, 
And  that  was  war. 

Amin.  Pardon,  tliou  holy  god 
Of  marriage-bed,  and  frown  not,  I  am  forc'd, 

'  She  has  a  brother,  (Sec]  "  Tliis  is  the  most  artful  preparation,  that  I 
rcnicmljcr  in  all  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  plays,  for  an  incident  which  is  in  no 
kind  siwpected.'*    Theobald, — who  has  a  Ipng  note  on  the  passage. 

"  /  rtiiijht  run  fiercely,  not  more  hastUi/]  "  Read 

'  I  might  run  m^ire  fiercely,  not  more  hastily'." 
Coleridge's  Remains,  ii.  293.     An  unnecessary  alteration. 

'■  I  am  poor]  So  4to8.  1619,  1622, 1630.  Later  eds.  "  /  am  but  poor"'  ;  and 
.so  the  modem  editors. 

^  mothers]  Theobald,  for  the  metre,  printed  ".mothers  too." 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  327 

In  answer  of  such  noble  tears  as  those, 
To  weep  upon  my  wedding-day  ! 

Mel.  I  fear  thou  art  gro\^'n  too  fickle  ^ ;  for  1  hear 
A  lady  mourns  for  thee  ;  men  say,  to  death ; 
Forsaken  of  thee ;  on  what  terms  I  know  not. 

Amin.  She  had  my  promise  ;  but  the  King  forbad  it, 
And  made  me  make  this  worthy  change,  thy  sister. 
Accompanied  with  graces  above ""  her ; 
With  whom  I  long  to  lose  my  lusty  youth, 
And  grow  old  in  her  arms. 

Mel.  Be  prosperous  I 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  the  masquers  rage  for  you. 

Lys.  We  are  gone. — Cleon,  Strato,  Diphilus  ! 

Amin.  We'll  all  attend  you. 
\^Exeunt  Lysippus,  Cleon,  Strato,  Diphilus,  and  Servant. 
We  shall  trouble  you 
With  our  solemnities. 

Mel.  Not  so,  Amintor  : 
But  if  you  laugh  at  my  rude  carriage 
In  peace,  I'll  do  as  much  for  you  in  war, 
When  you  come  thither.     Yet  I  have  a  mistress 
To  bring  to  your  delights  ;  rough  though  I  am, 
I  have  a  mistress,  and  she  has  a  heart 
She  says ;  but,  trust  me,  it  is  stone,  no  better  ; 
There  is  no  place  that  I  can  challenge  in't  ^. 
But  you  stand  still,  and  here  my  way  lies.     \^Exeunt  severally. 

^  fickle^  So  4to.  1622.     Qto.  1619  "cruell."     Other  eds.  "sick." 
»  above  her]  Theobald  printed  "tar  above  her  "  ;  and  so  his  successors  :  hut 
the  line,  as  given  in  the  old  eds. ,  is  not  deficient  in  melody,  if  an  emphasis  he 
laid  on  "  her."     Compare  a  line  in  Philaster  (p.  308  of  this  vol.)— 
"  As  any  man  has  power  to  wrong  me." 
^  challenge  in'f]  So  all  the  old  eds.,  except  4to.  1619,  which  has  "challenge 
gentlemen,"  and  4to.  1622,  which  ends  the  line  with  '^challenge."     Theobald 
printed  (rather  boldly  indeed,  but  not,  as  Weber  asserts,  "  rather  ludicrously  ") 
"  There's  no  place  I  can  challenge  gentle  in't.^ 


THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  i. 


SCENE  II.— A  Hall  in  the  Palace,  with  a   Gallery  full  of 
Spectators. 

Calianax  and  Diagoras  discovered. 

Cal.  Diagoras,  look  to  the  doors  better,  for  shame  !  you  let 
in  all  the  world,  and  anon  the  King  will  rail  at  me.  Why, 
very  well  said*^.  By  Jove,  the  King  will  have  the  show  i* 
the  court. 

Diag.  Why  do  you  swear  so,  my  lord  ?  you  know  he''ll 
have  it  here. 

Cal.  By  this  light,  if  he  be  wise,  he  will  not. 

Diag.  And  if  he  will  not  be  wise,  you  are  forsworn. 

Cal.  One  may  wear  his  heart  out  "^  with  swearing,  and  get 
thanks  on  no  side.     I'll  be  gone,  look  to"'t  who  will. 

Diag.  My  lord,  I  shall  never  keep  them  out.  Pray,  stay ; 
your  looks  will  terrify  them. 

Cal.  My  looks  terrify  them,  you  coxeombly  ass,  you  !  Fll 
be  judged  by  all  the  company  whether  thou  hast  not  a  worse 
face  than  I. 

Diag.  I  mean,  because  they  know  you  and  your  office. 

Cal.  Office  !  I  would  I  could  put  it  off  ^^ !  I  am  sure  I  sweat 
quite  through  my  office.  I  might  have  made  room  at  my 
daughter's  wedding  :  they  ha'  near  killed  her  among  them ; 
and  now  I  must  do  service  for  him  that  hath  forsaken  her. 
Serve  that  will.  \^Exit. 

■=  well  said'\  It  has  never  been  remarked,  I  believe,  that  this  expression  is 
frequently  used  by  our  early  writei-s  as  equivalent  to  "  well  done."  Caliauax 
is  here  commending  Diagoras  for  having  followed  his  direction  to  "  look  to 
the  doors  better."     Compare  John  Davies  of  Hereford  ; 

"  Now  wipe  thine  Nose  (sweete  Babe)  vpon  thy  sleeue : 
What,  wilt,  I  faith  ?     Why,  well  sedd,  I  perceiue 
Til'  wilt  do  as  thou  art  bidde,"  &c. 

The  Scourge  of  Folly,  p.  102. 
^  may  wear  his  heart  out]  So  fol.  1679.     Qto.   IGiy  "must  sweat  out  his 
heart."     Later  4tos.  "  rnay  swear  his  heart  out."     The  modern  editors  give 
"  may  wear  out  his  heart." 

•  Office!  1  would  I  could  put  it  off .']  "The  syllable  o/f  reminds  the  testy 
statesman  of  his  robe,  and  he  carries  on  the  image."  Coleridge's  Remains, 
ii.  '29:i. 


SCENE  11.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  329 

Diag.  He's  so  humorous  since  his  daughter  was  forsaken  ! 
[Knocking  within.^  Hark,  hark  !  there,  there  !  so,  so  !  codes, 
codes  ^ !     What  now  ? 

Mel.  [ivithi?!.]  Open  the  door. 

Diag.  Who's  there  ? 

Mel.  [withiji.]  Melantius. 

Diag.  I  hope  your  lordship  brings  no  troop  with  you ;  for, 
if  you  do,  I  must  return  them.  [[Opens  the  door. 

Enter  Melantius  a7id  a  Lady. 

Mel.  None  but  this  lady,  sir. 

Diag.  The  ladies  are  all  placed  above,  save  those  that  come 
in  the  King's  troop  :  the  best  of  Rhodes  sit  there,  and  there's 
room. 

Mel.  I  thank  you,  sir. — When  I  have  seen  you  placed, 
madam,  I  must  attend  the  King  ^ ;  but,  the  masque  done,  I'll 
wait  on  you  again. 

Diag.  [opening  another  c/oor"'.]  Stand  back  there  ! — Room 
for  my  lord  Melantius  !  [Exeunt  Melantius  and  Ladg.] — 
Pray,  bear  back — this  is  no  place  for  such  youths  and  their 
trulls — let  the  doors  shut  again. — No  ! — do  your  heads  itch? 
I'll  scratch  them  for  you.  [Shuts  the  door.] — So,  now  thrust 
and  hang!  [Knocking  ivithin.] — Again!  who  is't  now? — I 
cannot  blame  my  lord  Calianax  for  going  away  :  would  he 
were  here  !  he  would  run  raging  among  them,  and  break  a 
dozen  wiser  heads  than  his  own  in  the  twinkhng  of  an  eye  '\ — 
What's  the  news  now  ? 

'  codes']  Sometimes  wTitten  coads, — is  a  vulgar  exclamation  frequently  found 
in  old  plays  :  its  etymology,  about  which  Mason  and  Weber  puzzle  themselves,  is 
hardly  worth  an  enquiry. 

«  the  King]  Theobald,  by  reading  "  upon  the  King  ",  exhibited  tliis  speech 
as  verse, — which,  I  think,  it  originally  was. 

•>  Opening  another  door]  Qto.  1619  has  "Exit  Melantius'  Lady  other  dore." 
Later  eds.  have  no  stage-direction  here. 

'  he  would  run  raging  among  them,  and  break  a  dozen  wiser  heads  than  his 
own  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.]  "  This  practice  was  probably  not  uncommon  in 
the  days  of  Fletcher.  At  the  exliibitiou  of  Shirley's  masque,  called  the 
Triumph  of  Peace,  at  court,  m  the  year  1633,  Lord  Pembroke,  who,  along  with 
the  office  of  Calianax,  had  the  same  violence  of  temper  and  weakness  of 
intellect,  broke  his  staff  over  the  shoulders  of  Thomas  May,  the  celebrated 


:m  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  i. 

[Voice  icithin.']  I  pray  you,  can  you  help  me  to  the  speech 
of  the  raastcr-cook  ? 

Diag.  If  I  open  the  door,  Fll  cook  some  of  your  calves- 
heads.    Peace,  rogues  !  [Knocking loithin.^ — Again!  who  is''t? 

Mel  \icithin.\  Melantius. 

Re-enter  Calianax. 
Cal.  Let  him  not  in. 

Diag.  Oh,  my  lord,  I  must.  [Opening  the  door.'] — Make 
room  there  for  my  lord  ! 

Re-enter  Melantius. 
Is  your  lady  placed  ? 

Mel.  Yes,  sir, 
I  thank  you. — My  lord  Calianax,  well  met : 
Your  causeless  hate  to  me  I  hope  is  buried. 

Cal.   Yes,  I  do  service  for  your  sister  here, 
That  brings  my  own  poor  child  to  timeless  death  : 
She  loves  your  friend  Amintor ;  such  another 
False-hearted  lord  as  you. 

Mel.  You  do  me  wrong, 
A  most  unmanly  one,  and  I  am  slow 
In  taking  vengeance  :  but  be  well  advis'd. 

Cal.  It  may  be  so. — Who  placed  the  lady  there, 
So  near  the  presence  of  the  King  ? 

Mel.  I  did. 

Cal.  My  lord,  she  must  not  sit  there. 

Mel.  Why? 

Cal.  The  place  is  kept  for  women  of  more  worth. 

Mel.  More  worth  than  she  !     It  misbecomes  your  age 
And  place  to  be  thus  womanish  :  forbear  ! 
What  you  have  spoke,  I  am  content  to  think 
The  palsy  shook  your  tongue  to. 

poet.  Tlie  story  is  related  in  Strafford's  Letters,  and  by  Osborne  in  his  Tra- 
ditional Memoirs.  The  latter  uses  the  very  words  of  our  poets,  as  he  observes 
that  Pembroke  '  did  not  refrainc,  whilst  he  was  chamberlaine,  to  break  many 
triaer  heads  than  his  oivtie.' "  Weber,  (qy.  Sir  Walter  Scott?). — See  my 
Account  of  Shirley,  kc.  (prefixed  to  his  Works),  p.  xxvii.  I  possess  a  copy  of  4to. 
1638,  on  the  margin  of  which,  opposite  to  the  pi-csent  passage,  is  written  in  an 
old  hand  "  Pembrocke." 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  331 

Cal.  Why,  'tis  well, 
If  I  stand  here  to  place  men's  wenches. 

Mel  I 
Shall  quite  •"  forget  this  place,  thy  age,  my  safety, 
And,  thorough  •"  all,  cut  that  poor  sickly  week 
Thou  hast  to  live  away  from  thee, 

Cal.  Nay,  I  know  you  can  fight  for  your  whore. 

Mel.  Bate  me  '  the  King,  and,  be  he  flesh  and  blood. 
He  lies  that  says  it  !     Thy  mother  at  fifteen 
Was  black  and  sinful  to  her. 

Diag.  Good  my  lord — 

Mel.  Some  god  pluck  threescore  years  from  that  fond  "^  man, 
That  I  may  kill  him,  and  not  stain  mine  honour  ! 
It  is  the  curse  of  soldiers,  that  in  peace 
They  shall  be  braved  by  such  ignoble  men. 
As,  if  the  land  were  troubled,  would  with  tears 
And  knees  beg  succour  from  'em.     Would  the  °  blood, 
That  sea  of  blood,  that  I  have  lost  in  fight, 
Were  running  in  thy  veins,  that  it  might  make  thee 
Apt  to  say  less,  or  able  to  maintain, 
Should'st  thou  say  more  !     This  Rhodes,  I  see,  is  nought 
But  a  place  privileged  to  do  men  wrong. 

Cal.  Ay,  you  may  say  your  pleasure. 

Enter  Amintor. 
Amin.  What  vild  «  injury 

J  quile'\  So  4to.  1619.     Omitted  in  later  eds. ;  and  by  the  modern  editors. 
^  thorough]  A  correction  by  Theobald.     Old  eds.  "  through." 
'  me]  So  4to.   1619,     Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the  modern  editors^ 
Theobald  excepted. 
">  fond]  i.  e.  foolish. 

"  the]  So  4to.  1619.     Later  eds.  "that"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 
0  vild]  So  all  the  old  eds.     Altered  by  the  modern  editors  to  "vile  ". — When 
this  play  was  written,  vild  appears  to  have  been  the  most  common  form  of  the 
word  :  but  both  forms  are  sometimes  found  in  the  same  piece  ;  as,  for  instance, 
in  Cornu-copicB,  PasquiVs  Night-cap,  &c.,  1612  (attributed  to  S.  Rowlands) ; 
"  'Tis  true  (quoth  he)  but  this  is  too  too  vilde, 
She  knowes  not  who  is  father  to  her  childe." 
p.  28. 


332  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  i 

Has  stirr'd  my  worthy  friend,  who  is  as  slow- 
To  fight  with  words  as  he  is  quick  of  hand  ? 

Mel  That  heap  of  age,  which  I  should  reverence 
If  it  were  temperate,  but  testy  years 
Are  most  contemptible. 

Amin.  Good  sir,  forbear. 

Cal.  There  is  just  such  another  as  yourself. 

Amin.  He  will  wTong  you,  or  me,  or  any  man, 
And  talk  as  if  he  had  no  hfe  to  lose, 
Since  this  our  match.     The  King  is  coming  in ; 
I  would  not  for  more  wealth  than  I  enjoy 
He  should  perceive  you  raging ;  he  did  hear 
You  were  at  difference  now,  which  hastened  him. 

[Hautboys  pluT/  within. 

Cal.  Make  room  there  ! 

Enter  King,  Etadne,  Aspatia,  Lords  °  ami  Ladies. 

King.  Melantius,  thou  art  welcome,  and  my  love 
Is  with  thee  still :  but  this  is  not  a  place 
To  brabble  in. — Calianax,  join  hands. 

Cal.  He  shall  not  have  my  hand. 

King.  This  is  no  time 
To  force  you  to  it.     I  do  love  you  both  : 
Calianax,  you  look  well  to  your  office  ; 
And  you,  Melantius,  are  welcome  home. — 
Begin  the  masque. 

Mel.  Sister,  I  joy  to  see  you  and  your  choice ; 
You  lookM  with  my  eyes  when  you  took  that  man  : 
Be  happy  in  him  ! 

Evad.  Oh,  my  dearest  brother, 
Your  presence  is  more  joyful  than  this  day 
Can  bo  unto  me  !  [Recorders  f  plag. 

"  Cursing  eacb  other  with  reproches  vile. 
After  they  were  asunder  lialfe  a  mile."     Id.  p.  55. 
Throughout  the  present  work,  I  shall  retain  "  vild  "  where  the  earUcst  editions 
have  that  spelling. 

"  Lords']   Perhaps  the  entrance  of  Lysippus,   Diphilus,  Cleon,  and  Strato 
is  not  marked  because  they  assisted  iu  the  performance  of  the  Masque. 
f  Recorders]  i.  e.  Flageolets. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  333 

Tile  Masque. 

Night  rises  in  mists. 
Night.   Our  reign  is  come ;  for  in  the  raging  sea 
The  sun  is  drown  d,  and  with  him  fell  the  Day. 
Bright  Cynthia^  hear  my  voice  !     I  am  the  Night, 
For  ichom  thou  hearst  about  thy  borrow' d  light : 
Appear  !  no  longer  ^1  thy  pale  visage  shroud. 
But  strike  thy  silver  horns  quite  through  a  cloud, 
And  send  a  beam,  upon  my  swarthy  face, 
By  which  I  may  discover  all  the  place 
And  persons,  and  how  many  longing  eyes 
Are  come  to  wait  on  our  solemnities. 

Enter  ^  Cynthia. 
Hoio  dull  and  black  am  I !  I  could  not  find 
This  beauty  without  thee,  I  am  so  blind  : 
Methinks  they  shew  like  to  those  eastern  streaks, 
That  tcarn  us  hence  before  the  warning  breaks. 
Back,  my  pale  servant !  for  these  eyes  know  how 
To  shoot  far  more  and  quicker  rays  than  thou. 

Cynth.   Great  queen,  they  be  a  troop  for  whom  alone 
One  of  my  clearest  moons  I  have  put  on  ; 
A  troop,  that  looks  as  if  thyself  and  I 
Had  pluck' dour  reins  in  and  our  whips  laid  by. 
To  gaze  upon  these  mortals,  that  appear 
Brighter  than  we. 

Night.   Then  let  us  keep  'em  here  ; 
And  never  more  our  chariots  drive  away. 
But  hold  our  places  and  outshine  the  Day. 

Cynth.   Great  queen  of  shadows,  you  are  pleas' d  to  speak 
Of  more  than  may  be  done :  we  may  not  break 

1  Appear  !  no  longer  &c.]  This  passage  (as  his  commentators  observe)  was 
probably  in  Milton's  recollection  when  he  wrote — 

"  Stoop  thy  pale  ^^sage  through  an  amber  cloud." 

Comus. 
'  Enter'\  Qy.  "  Descend  "  ?     Night  and  Neptune  rise. 


334  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  i. 

The  gods'  decrees  ;  but^  w/ien  our  time  is  come, 

Must  drive  away,  and  give  tJie  Day  our  room. 

Yet,  whilst  ^  our  reign  lasts,  let  us  stretch  our  power 

To  give  our  servants  one  contented  hour. 

With  such  umconted  solemn  grace  and  state, 

As  may  for  ever  after  force  them  hate 

Our  brothers  glorious  beams,  and  icish  the  Night 

Crotcn'd  with  a  thousand  stars  and  our  cold  light  : 

For  almost  all  the  world  their  service  bend 

To  Phoebus,  and  in  vain  my  light  I  lend, 

Gaz'd  on  unto  my  setting  from  my  rise 

Almost  of  none  but  of  unquiet  eyes. 

Night.   Then  shine  at  full,  fair  queen,  and,  by  thy  poicer 
Produce  a  birth,  to  crown  this  happy  hour. 
Of  nymphs  and  shepherds  ;  let  their  songs  discover. 
Easy  and  sweet,  who  is  a  happy  lover  ; 
Or,  if  thou  woo't,  then  call  *  thine  otcn  Endymion 
From  the  sweet  flowery  bed  he  lies  upon,  . 
On  Latmus'  top,  thy  pale  beams  drawn,  away. 
And  of  his  long  night  let  him  make  a  day". 

Cynth.   Thou  dream' st,  dark  queen  j  that  fair  boy  was  not  mine. 
Nor  went  I  dozen  to  kiss  him.     Ease  and  wine 

•  whilst]  Altered  by  the  modern  editors  to  "  while." — This  passage, — «  Yet, 
whilst  our  reign,"  &e.,  to  the  end  of  the  speech, — is  found  in  all  the  old  eds. 
except  4to.  1G19.  The  editors  of  1778  removed  it  to  a  note  ;  erroneously  stating 
(after  Theobald)  that  it  was  "first  added  in  the  edition  of  1G30,"  and  not 
believing  that  it  was  from  the  pen  either  of  Beaumont  or  Fletcher.  "  The 
first  eight  lines,"  says  Coleridge,  "  are  not  worse,  and  the  last  couplet  incom- 
parably better,  than  the  stanza  retained."  Remains,  ii.  294.  Weber  very 
properly  restored  the  passage  to  the  text. 

'  (hen  call]  These  words  are  not  in  4to.  1619.  Theobald  rejected  them  ; 
perhaps,  rightly,— the  preceding  vert  "Produce"  bcuig  understood  before 
"  thine  own  Endjinion." 

"  And  of  his  long  night  let  him  make  a  day]  Q,to.  1619: 

"  And  of  his  long  night  let  him  make  thy  da;/." 
Qto.  1622: 

"  And  of  this  long  night  let  him  make  this  day." 
Later  eds.  : 

"  And  o/this  long  night  let  him  make  a  day" — 
which  the  modem  editors  give.     That  "his  long  night"  is  the  true  reading, 
there  can  bo  no  doubt  :  in  the  fourth  line  of  the  next  speech,  the  same  well- 
known  mythos  is  again  allmlcd  to. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  335 

Have  bred  these  hold  tales :  poets,  when  they  rage. 
Turn  gods  to  men,  and  make  an  hour  an  age. 
But  I  icill  give  a  greater  state  and  glory. 
And  raise  to  time  a  nobler^'  mmiary 
Of  tchat  these  lovers  are. — Rise,  rise,  I  say. 
Thou  power  of  deeps,  thy  surges  laid  away ''', 
Neptune,  great  king  oficaters,  and  by  me 
Be  proud  to  he  commanded ! 

Neptune  rises. 

Nept.  Cynthia,  see. 
Thy  tcord  hath  f etch' d  me  hither :   let  me  know 
Why  I  ascend. 

Cyntli.  Doth  this  majestic  show 
Give  thee  no  knoicledge  yet  ? 

Nept.   Yes,  noio  I  see 
Something  intended,  Cynthia,  worthy  thee. 
Go  on  ;  I'll  be  a  helper. 

Cynth.   Hie  thee  then. 
And  charge  the  Wind Jiy  from  his  rocky  den. 
Let  loose  his  ^  subjects  ;  only  Boreas, 
Too  foul  for  our  intention,  as  he  teas. 
Still  keep  him  fast  chain  d :  we  must  have  none  here 
But  vernal  blasts  and  gentle  winds  appear, 
Such  as  blow  flowers,  and  through  the  glad  boughs  sing 
Many  soft  welcomes  to  the  lusty  spring  ; 
These  are  our  music.     Next,  thy  icatery  race 
Bring  on  in  couples  ^'  (we  are  pleas' d  to  grace 
This  noble  night),  each  in  their  richest  things 

■'  nobler]  So  4to.  1619  ;  and  so  Theobald.     Later  eds.  "  noble ;"  and  so  the 
Editors  of  1778  and  Weber. 

«"  thy  surges  laid  away]  "That  is,  thy  surges  being  laid  aside."     Mason. 
— Theobald,  and  the  Editors  of  1778,  gave  Seward's  emendation — "lade"  ! 

^  his]  So  4to.  1619.     Later  eds.  "  thy  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors.     "  His 
subjects"  means,  the  subjects  of  .(Eolus,  who  in  the  preceding  hne  is  termed 
"  the  Wind  "  :  compare  the  next  speech,  and  the  stage-direction  which  follows  it. 
y   These  are  our  music.     Next,  thy  watery  race 
Bring  on  in  couples]  So  all  the  eds.  except  4to.  1619,  which  has — 
"  Bid  them  draw  neere  to  haue  thy  tvatrie  race 
Led  on  in  couples  ; ' ' 
I  should  therefore  prefer  reading  "  Lead  o?i  in  couples ",  instead  of  "  Bring 
on  ",  &c.,~the  word  "  brings  "  occurring  in  the  next  line  but  one. 


336  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  i. 

Your  own  d^ps  or  the  broken  vessel  brings  : 
Be  prodigal,  and  I  shall  be  as  kind 
And  shine  at  full  upon  you. 

Nept.  Ho,  the  Wind! 
Commanding  JEolus  ^  ! 

Enter  ^olus  out  of  a  Rock. 

JEo\.   Great  Neptune  ! 

Nept.  He. 

Mo\.   What  is  thy  will  ? 

Nept.    We  do  command  thee  free 
Favonius  and  thy  milder  winds,  to  wait 
Upon  our  Cynthia  ;  but  tie  Boreas  strait, 
He's  too  rebellious. 

iEol.  /  .^hall  do  it. 

Nept.  Do  ^  \^Eu-it  iEoLUS  into  the  rock. 

1  Ho,  the  Wind! 
Commanding  ^olus  /]  "  All  the  editions,"  says  Theobald,  "  have  mistaken 
the  intention  of  the  authors  here.     'Tis  well  known,  /Eolus,  in  poetic  fable,  was 

the  muster  and  controller  of  the  winds He  is  therefore  called  here  the 

wind-commanding  ./Eolus  ;  a  compound  adjective,  which  must  be  wrote  with  an 
hyphen,  as  I  have  reformed  the  text.  The  editors  were  led  into  a  mistake  by 
the  word  being  divided,  and  put  into  two  lines  for  the  preservation  of  the 
rhyme.  I  ought  to  take  notice,  for  two  reasons,  that  both  Mr.  Seward  and  Mr. 
Sympson  joined  with  me  in  starting  this  correction  :  because  it  is  doing  justice 
to  the  sagacity  of  my  friends  ;  and,  besides,  it  is  certainly  a  great  confirmation 
of  the  truth  of  an  emendation,  whei-e  three  persons,  all  distant  from  one  another, 
strike  out  the  same  observation,"  Theobald's  successors  adopted  the  hj-phen. 
But  compare  the  second  line  of  the  preceding  speech,  where  iEolus  is  called 
"the  Wind" — ,  which  these  gentlemen  sti-angely  overlooked. 
•  Nep.  Do,  &c.]  Qto.  1619  : 

"  Nept.  Doe  maister  of  th^  floud,  and  all  below 
Thy  full  command  has  taken. 

Eol.  0  !  the  Maine 
Neptune. 

Nept.  Here." 
And  so  the  later  eds.,  except  that  in  the  first  line  they  supply  the  epithet «  great  " 
before  "  master  ".     I  give  these  speeches  as  they  were  distributed  by  Theobald. 
The  words, 

"  Great  master  of  the  flood  and  all  below , 
Thy  full  command  has  taken," 
are  assigned  by  Heath  to  Cyntliia,  "she  perceiving  the  approach  of  the  milder 
winds  sot  at  liberty  by  yEolus.     Just  as  she  has  said  this,  yEolus  who  has  not  yet 
returned  from  executing  his  ordi-rs  cries  out  'Ho,  the  Main  !'  &c."    MS.  Notes. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  337 

^ol.   [within]   Great  master  of  the  flood  and  all  beloie, 

Thy  full  command  has  taken. Ho,  the  Main  ! 

Neptune  ! 

Nept.  Here. 

Re-enter  JEolvs,  followed  by  Favonius  and  other  Winds. 

Mo\.  Boreas  has  broke  his  chain, 
And,  struggling,  icith  the  rest  has  got  aicay. 

Nept.  Let  him  alone,  I'll  take  him  up  at  sea  ; 
I  *  xcill  not  long  be  thence.      Go  once  again. 
And  call  out  of  the  bottoms  of  the  main 
Blue  Proteus  and  the  rest ;  charge  them  put  on 
Their  greatest  pearls,  and  the  most  sparkling  stone 
The  beaten  rock  breeds  ;  tell  ^  this  night  is  done 
By  me  a  solemn  honour  to  the  Moon  : 
Fly,  like  a  full  sail. 

Mo\.  I  am  gone.  [_Exit. 

Cynth.  Dark  Night, 
Strike  a  full  silence,  do  a  thorough  right 
To  this  great  chorus,  that  our  music  may 
Touch  high  as  heaven,  and  make  the  east  break  day 
At  mid-night.  \JiIusic. 

FIRST    SONG, 

During  which  Proteus  and  other  sea-deities  enter. 
CjTithia,  to  thy  power  and  thee 

We  obey. 
Joy  to  this  great  company  ! 
And  no  day 
Come  to  steal  this  night  away, 

Till  the  rites  of  love  are  ended, 
And  the  lusty  bridegroom  say, 
Welcome,  light,  of  all  befriended  ! 

Pace  out,  you  watery  powers  below  ; 

Let  your  feet. 
Like  the  galleys  when  they  row, 
Even  beat  : 

*  /]   So  4to.  1619.     Later  eds.  "  He  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors,  Theobald 
excepted. 

b  tell]  A  correction  by  Mason,  who  compares    the  last  stanza  of  the  next 
song.     Old  eds.  "till"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors.     These  words  are  very  fre- 
quently confounded  by  the  early  printers. 
VOL.   I.  Z 


338  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  i. 

'  Let  your  unknown  measures,  set 

To  the  btill  winds,  tell  to  all, 
That  gods  ai'c  come,  immortal,  great, 
To  honour  this  great  nuptial. 

[A  measure'^. 

SECOND    SONG. 

Hold  hack  thy  hours,  dark  Night,  till  we  have  done  ; 

The  Day  will  come  too  soon  : 
Young  maids  will  curse  thee,  if  thou  steal'st  away. 
And  leav'st  their  losses  "^  open  to  the  day  : 

Stay,  stay,  and  hide 

The  blushes  of  the  bride. 

Stay,  gentle  Night,  and  with  thy  darkness  cover 

The  kisses  of  her  lover  ; 
Stay,  and  confound  her  tears  and  her  shrill  cryings, 
Her  weak  denials,  vows,  and  often-dyiugs  ; 

Stay,  and  hide  all : 

But  help  not,  though  she  call. 

Nept.   Great  qiieen  ^  of  us  and  heaven,  hear  what  I  bring 
To  make  this  hour  a  full  one,  if  not  her  nieasiire. 

"^  measure  ]  See  note  p.  166. 

''  losses]   So  4to.  1619.     Later  eds.  "  blushes  " — which  word  occurs  in  the 
next  line  but  one. 

«  Great  queen  &c.]  Stands  thus  in  old  eds. 
"  Great  queen  of  us  and  heauen. 
Hear  what  I  bring  to  make  this  hour  a  full  one, 
If  not  her  measure." 

The  words  "  If  not  her  measure  "  were  thrown  out  of  the  text  by  Theobald, — 
and,  as  far  as  the  metre  is  concerned,  it  was  certainly  an  improvement.  "  Some 
careful  annotator,"  he  says,  "  had  made  a  marginal  quiere  at  the  close  of  the 
second  song,  //  uot  her  measure,  i.  e.  Whether  this  measure  is  not  to  be  sung 
by  Cynthia  ;  as  it  undoubtedly  b  :  but  the  note  of  reference  to  this  quare  being 
forgot,  it  was  mistaken  at  press  for  a  i)art  of  the  text  and  casually  clapt 
to  Neptune's  speech."  Theobald  had  forgotten  that  measure  meant  a  dance 
not  a  song  ;  and,  if  we  suppose  that  the  words  in  question  are  not  a  portion  of 
the  text,  the  probability  would  be  that  they  are  a  conniption  of"  If  not  here, 
measure,"  i.  e.  If  the  present  speech  and  the  two  next  speeches  (none  of  which 
are  found  in  4to.  1619)  be  omitted  by  -the  actors,  let  the  measure  be  danced 
here.  In  the  Postscript  to  vol.  1.  of  ed.  1 750,  Seward  proposed  to  read  "  If 
not  oVr-measure  "  ;  and  observes  "  as  to  the  interruption  of  the  measure,  such 
intercalations  of  words  between  verses  are  used  by  our  authors.  Thus  [in 
The  Failhful  Shepherdess,  towards  the  end  of  the  last  act] 


scKNE  II.]  THE  MAIDS  TRAGEDY.  339 

Cynth.   Speak,  seas  king. 

Nept.   The  ^  tunes  my  Amjyhitrke  joys  to  have, 
Wheti  she  ^  tcill  dance  upon  the  rising  tcave. 
And  court  me  as  she^  sails.     My  Tritons,  play 
Music  to  lay '  a  storm  !  I'll  lead  the  icay. 

[A  measure, l:^EPTVT!iE  leading  it. 

THIRD    SONG. 

To  bed,  to  bed  !     Come,  Hymen,  lead  the  bride, 
And  lay  her  by  her  husband's  side  ; 

Bring  in  the  virgins  every  one, 

That  grieve  to  lie  alone, 
That  they  may  kiss  while  they  may  say  a  maid  ; 
To-morrow  'twill  be  other  kiss'd  and  said. 

Hesperus,  be  long  a-shining, 

Whilst  these  lovers  are  a-twining. 


.^ol.  \toitliin.']  Ho,  Nept 


une 


Nept.   Molus! 

Re-enter  ^I^olus. 

^ol.   Tlie  sea  goes  high, 
Boreas  hath  rais'd  a  storm  :  go  and  apply 
Thy  trident ;  else,  I  prophesy,  ere  day 
Many  a  tall  ship  will  be  cast  aicay. 
Descend  icith  all  the^  gods  and  all  their  power. 
To  strike  a  calm.  \^Exit, 

'  we  have  perfonn'd  a  work 
Worthy  the  gods  themselves. 

Sat.  Come  forward,  maiden  ;  do  not  lurk.' 
The  hemistich  is  an  intercalation  ;  the  liberties  in  measure  taken  by  our  old 
dramatic  poets  being  quite  boundless."  The  Editors  of  1778  and  Weber 
adopted  Seward's  needless  alteration, "  o'er-measure".  The  meaning  of  Neptune's 
speech  is  clearly  tills  : — Great  queen  of  us  and  heaven,  hear  what  I  bring,  endea- 
vouring to  make  this  hour  a  full  one,  though  perhaps  what  I  bring  may  not 
completely  fill  up  her  measure.  The  pronoun  her  is  frequently  applied  to 
hour  by  our  early  writers. 

f  The']  Seward's  correction.     Old  eds.  "Thy." 

s  she]  Seward's  correction.     Old  eds    "they";  which  the  Editors  of  1778 
and  Weber  chose  to  retain. 

••  she]  Seward's  correction.     Old  eds.  "  the  ";  and  so  the  Editors  of  1778  ! 

'  lai/]  Old  eds.  "lead", — and  so  the  modem  editors, — a  manifest  error,  the 

eye  of  the  original  compositor  having  caught  that  word  in  the  latter  part  of 

the  line.      I  give  the  coiTection  of  Heath,  ATS.  Notes. 

J  the]  Theobald  chose  to  print  "  thy." 

z  2 


340  THE  MAIDS  TRAGEDY.  [act  i. 

Cyntli.    ff'e  thank  yoxi  for  this  liuur  : 
Ml/  facour  to  you  all.      To  yratulate  ^ 
So  great  a  service^  done  at  my  desire, 
Ye  shall  hace  many  floods,  fuller  and  higher 
Than  you  have  wish' d  for  ;  and '  no  ebb  shall  dare 
To  let  the  Day  see  where  your  dwellings  are. 
Now  back  unto  your  governments  "^  in  haste. 
Lest  your  proud  charge  should  swell  above  the  waste, 
And  win  upon  the  island. 

Nept.   IVe  obey. 

[Neptune  descends  with  PROXErs,  &c.  Exeunt  Favonius 
and  other  Winds. 

Cynth.   Hold  up  thy  liead,  dead  Night ;  see'st  thou  not  Day  ? 
The  east  begins  to  lighten  :   I  must  down. 
Arid  gire  my  brother  plc.ce. 

Night.   Oh,  I  could  frown 
To  see  the  Day,  the  Day  that  flings  his  light 
Upon  my  kingdom  and  contemns  old  Night  ! 
Let  him  go  on  and  flame  !  I  hope  to  see 
Another  wild-flre  °  in  his  axletree. 
And  all  fall  drench'd.     But  I  forget "  ;  speak,  queen  : 
TJie  Day  grows  on  ;   I  must  no  more  he  seen. 

Cyntli.  Heave  up  thy  drotcsy  head  again,  and  see 
A  greater  light,  a  greater  majesty. 
Between  our  set  p  and  tcs  !  whip  up  thy  team  : 

^    We  thank  you  for  this  hour  : 
My  favour  to  you  all.     To  gratulate']  So  4to.  1619.     Later  eds.  have  only 
"  A  thanks  to  every  one,  and  to  gratulate." 
That  something  ha.s  dropt  out  is  evident     Theobald  followed  4to.  1G19.     The 
Editors  of  1778  and  Weber,  supposing  that  he  had  altered  the  passage  by  con- 
jecture, gave  the  reading  of  the  later  eds. 

'  and\  So  4to.  IGIO.     Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the  modem  editore. 

■^  governments'\  So  4to.  K-l.*).  Later  eds.  "government";  and  so  the 
modern  editors.  But  compare  what  precedes  :  Cynthia  is  addressing  "  all  the 
gods." 

"  Another  wild-fire  &c.]  "  This  alludes  to  the  fable  of  Phaeton,"  &c.  &c. 
Theobaj.d. 

"forget]  .So  4tos.  KIIO,  1622,  1630,  1638.  Later  eds.  "forgot";  and  so 
the  modern  editors,  Theobald  excepted. 

f  set]  Seward's  correction.  Old  eds.  "sect." — "The  last  editors  [of  1778] 
follow  the  old  copies,  which  they  say  only  imply,  by  an  exti-avagant  compliment. 


SCENE  11.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  341 

The  Day  breaks  '^  here^  and  yon  sun-flar'mg  stream "" 
Shot  from  the  south.      Which  xcay  icilt  thou  go  ?  say^. 

Niglit.  Til  vanish  into  mists. 

Cynth.  /  into  Day.  \_Exetint  Night  and  Cynthia. 

King.  Take  lights  there  ! — Ladies,  get  the  bride  to  bed. — 
We  will  not  see  you  laid  ;  good  night,  Amintor  ; 
We'll  ease  you  of  that  tedious  ceremony  : 
Were  it  my  ease,  I  should  think  time  run  slow. 
If  thou  be'st  noble,  youth,  got  me  a  boy, 
That  may  defend  my  kingdom  from  my  foes. 

Amin.  All  happiness  to  you  ! 

King.  Good  night,  Melar.tius.  \^Exeunt. 

that  the  brightness  of  the  Court  transcends  that  of  the  Sun,  and  is  more  repug- 
nant to  Night  and  her  attendants  than  even  the  splendour  of  the  day.  The 
compUment  mentioned  by  the  editors  was  certainly  intended,  and  will  still 
remain,  though  Seward's  amendment  should  be  adopted :  but  it  is  impossible 
that  the  words, '  between  our  sect  and  us ',  can  signify  '  more  repugnant  to  me 
and  my  attendants '  ;  they  will  equally  imply  any  other  meaning  whatsoever. 
But  though  I  agree  with  Seward  in  reading  set  instead  of  sect,  I  cannot  approve 
of  his  explanation  of  the  passage.  He  says  that  the  Night  and  Cynthia  both 
talk  of  the  morning's  approach,  and  that  they  must  go  down  ;  till  Cynthia  finds 
out  that  it  was  only  the  rays  of  light  shot  from  the  King's  court  which  they 
mistook  for  the  day-break  :  but  this  was  not  the  case  ;  they  were  not  mistaken 
with  respect  to  the  approach  of  day  ;  for  Cynthia  says, '  The  day  breaks  here  ', 
pointuig  to  the  east ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  shews  old  Night  that  there  was  a 
greater  light  shot  from  the  south,  which  stood  between  them  and  their  point  of 
setting,  and  asks,  which  way  she  would  go  in  this  dilemma  ;  to  which  Night 
replies,  that  she  will  vanish  into  mists  ;  and  Cynthia  says, '  I  into  day  ',  which 
was  then  at  hand."     Mason. 

1  day  breaks']  The  Editors  of  1778  and  Weber  print  "day-break's  ". 

'  sun-flaring  stream']  So  4to.  1G19.  Qtos.  1622,  1630,  1638,  1641  "same 
flashing  stream  "  (misprinted  in  later  eds.  "  some  flashing  "  &c.),  which  Theobald 
gave.  The  Editors  of  1778  and  Weber  print  "  sun-flaring  beain  ",— forgetting 
that  "  stream  "  had  been  used  by  poets  in  the  sense  of  rai/  even  from  the  time 
of  Chaucer ; 

"  Tho  ben  the  sonnes  stremes,  soth  to  sain." 

The  Monkes  Tale,  v.  14672,  ed.  Tyi-. 

'  Which  way  wilt  thou  go  ?  say]  Old  eds.  "  Say,  which  way  wilt  thou  go  1 " 
Theobald  gave  "  Say,  wilt  thou  go?  which  way?"  The  Editors  of  1778  and 
Weber  (who  seem  not  to  have  perceived  that  this  line  and  the  two  next  speeches 
make  up  a  couplet)  followed  the  old  eds. ! 


342  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  : 


ACT   II. 

ScEN-E  I. — Ante-room  to  Evadne's  Bed-c/t amber. 


Enter  Evadne,  Aspatia,  Dcla,  and  Ladies. 

Dula.  Madam,  shall  we  undress  you  for  this  fight  I 
The  wars  are  nak'd  that  you  must  make  to-night. 

Evad.  You  are  very  merry,  Dula. 

Dula.  I  should  be  * 
Far  merrier,  madam,  if  it  were  with  me 
As  it  is  with  you. 

Evad.  How's  that  ? 

Dula.  That  I  might  go 
To  bed  with  him  with  credit  that  you  do. 

Evad.  Why,  how  now,  wench  • 

Dula.  Come,  ladies,  will  you  help  ? 

Evad.  I  am  soon  undone. 

Dula.  And  as  soon  done  : 
Good  store  of  clothes  will  trouble  you  at  both. 

Evad.  Art  thou  drunk,  Dula  ? 

Dula.  Why,  here's  none  but  we. 

Evad.  Thou  think'st  belike  there  is  no  modesty 
When  we're  alone. 

•  /  should  be,  &c.]  As  Theobald  had  "  a  strong  suspicion  that  Dula  is  here 
singing  a  stanza  from  some  old  known  ballad,' '  lie  tortured  the  passage  into  the 
following  shape  : 

"  Dula.  /  should  be  merrier  far,  if  'twere 
}Vith  me  as  'tis  with  you,  [Singing. 

Evad.   How's  that  ? 

Dula.    That  I  might  go  to  bed  with  him 
IVi'  th''  credit  that  you  do  :  " 
and  the  Editors  of  1778  and  Weber  adopted  his  alteration  !     Why  did  they  not 
reduce  to  the  ballad-stanza  all  the  other  rhjTiiing  portions  of  this  scene  ? 

Weber,  after  giving  in  a  note  the  first  of  those  speeches  as  it  stands  in  every 
one  of  the  old  cds.,  observes  "  So  the  quarto  of  162-2."  !  The  second  si)cech, 
and  the  exclamation  of  Evadne  which  precedes  it,  are  found  only  in  4to.  1619. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  343 

Dula.  Ay,  by  my  troth,  you  hit  my  thoughts  aright. 

Evad.  You  prick  me,  lady. 

First  Lady ".  'Tis  against  my  will. 

Dula.  Anon  you  must  endure  more  and  lie  still ; 
You're  best  to  practise. 

Evad.  Sure,  this  wench  is  mad. 

Bula.  No,  faith,  this  is  a  trick  that  I  have  had 
Since  I  was  fourteen. 

Evad.  'Tis  high  time  to  leave  it. 

Dula.  Nay,  now  Fll  keep  it  till  the  trick  leave  me. 
A  dozen  wanton  words,  put  in  your  head. 
Will  make  you  livelier  in  your  husband's  bed. 

Evad.  Nay,  faith,  then  take  it. 

Dula.  Take  it,  madam  !  where  I 
"We  all,  I  hope,  will  take  it  that  are  here. 

Evad.  Nay,  then.  Til  give  you  o'er. 

Dula.  So  will  I  make 
The  ablest  man  in  Rhodes,  or  his  heart  ache. 

Evad.  Wilt  take  my  place  to-night  ? 

Dula.  I'll  hold  your  cards 
'Gainst  any  two  I  know. 

Evad.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Dula.  Madam,  we'll  do't,  and  make  'em  leave  play  too, 

Evad.  Aspatia,  take  her  part. 

Dula.  I  will  refuse  it : 
She  will  pluck  down  a  side  ^' ;  she  does  not  use  it. 

Evad.  Why,  do,  I  prithee  '^. 

Dida.  You  will  find  the  play 
Quickly,  because  your  head  lies  well  that  way. 

"  First  Lady'\  So  4to.  1619.    Later  eds.  "  Dula  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 

'  She  will  pluck  down  a  side'\  Here  the  modem  editors,  with  the  exception 
of  Weber,  printed  "  fliirfe." — "The  allusion  is  to  a  party  at  cards,  and  Dula 
refuses  to  take  Aspatia  for  her  partner,  because,  as  she  was  not  used  to  play, 
she  would  make  her  side  the  loser."  Mason.  To  set  up  a  side  meant  to 
become  partners  in  a  game,  to  pluck  or  pull  down  a  side,  to  cause  the  loss  of 
the  game  by  ignorance  or  treachery  :  see  Gififord's  note  on  Massinger's  Works, 
i.  150.  ed.  1813. 

"^  /  prithee'^  These  words,  found  only  in  4to.  1619,  were  rightly  adopted  by 
Theobald  :  his  successors  rejected  them. 


3»J  TilE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  ii. 

Evad    I  thank  thee,  Dula.     Would  thou  couldst  instil 
Some  of  thy  mirth  into  Aspatia  ! 
Nothing  but  sad  thoughts  in  her  breast  do  dwell : 
Methinks,  a  mean  betwixt  you  would  do  well. 

Dula.  She  is  in  love  :  hang  me,  if  I  were  so, 
But  I  could  run  my  country.     I  love  too 
To  do  those  things  that  people  in  love  do. 

Asp.  It  were  a  timeless  smile  should  prove  my  cheek : 
It  were  a  fitter  hour  for  me  to  laugh, 
When  at  the  altar  the  religious  priest 
Were  pacifying  the  offended  powers 
W^ith  sacrifice,  than  now.     This  should  have  been 
My  rite  '^ ;  and  all  your  hands  have  been  employed 
In  giving  me  a  spotless  offering 
To  young  Amintor''s  bed,  as  we  are  now 
For  you.     Pardon,  Evadne  :  would  my  worth 
Were  great  as  yours,  or  that  the  King,  or  he, 
Or  both,  thought  so  !     Perhaps  he  found  me  worthless  : 
But  till  he  did  so,  in  these  ears  of  mine. 
These  credulous  ears,  he  pour'd  the  sweetest  words 
That  art  or  love  could  fi'arae.     If  he  were  false, 
Pardon  it.  Heaven  !  and,  if  I  did  want 
Virtue,  you  safely  may  forgive  that  too  ; 
For  I  have  lost  none  that  I  had  from  you. 

Evad.  Nay,  leave  this  sad  talk,  madam. 

A&p.  Would  I  could  ! 
Then  should  I  leave  the  cause. 

Evad.  See,  if  you  have  not  spoil'd  all  Dula's  mirth  ! 

Asp.  Thou  think'st  thy  heart  hard;  but,  if  thou  be'st  caught, 
Remember  me  ;  thou  shalt  perceive  a  fire 
Shot  suddenly  into  thee. 

Dida.  That's  not  so  good  ; 
Let  'em  shoot  any  thing  but  fire,  I  fear  'em  not. 

Asp.  Well,  wench,  thou  may'st  be  taken. 

Evad.  Ladies,  good  night :  Til  do  the  rest  myself. 

Dula.  Nay,  let  your  lord  do  some. 

*  rile]  Qto  .1619  «  riglit "  ;  whidi  Tluobalil  gave.    Later  cils.  "  night  "'  ;  and 
so  the  editorb  of  UTS  and  Weber. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  345 

Asp.  \singing.'\ 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse  of  the  dismal  yew — 

Evad.  That's  one  of  your  sad  songs,  madam. 
Asp.  Believe  me,  'tis  a  very  pretty  one. 
Evad.  How  is  it,  madam  I 
Asp.  [singing.'] 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse  of  the  dismal  yew  ; 

Maidens,  willow-branches  bear  ;  say  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm  from  my  hour  of  birth  : 

Upon  my  buried  body  lie  y  lightly,  gentle  earth  ! 

Evad.  Fie  on  it,  madam  !  the  words  are  so  strange,  they 
Are  able  to  make  one  dream  of  hobgoblins. — 
I  could  never  have  the  power — sing  that,  Dula. 
Dula.  [singing.] 

I  could  never  have  the  power 
To  love  one  above  an  hour, 
But  my  heart  would  prompt  mine  eye 
On  some  other  man  to  fly. 
Venus,  fix  mine  eyes  fast. 
Or,  if  not,  give  me  all  that  I  shall  see  at  last ! 

Evad.  So,  leave  me  now. 

Dula.  Nay,  we  must  see  you  laid. 

Asp.  Madam,  good  night.     May  all  the  marriage-joys 
That  longing  maids  imagine  in  their  beds 
Prove  so  unto  you  !     May  no  discontent 
Grow  'twixt  your  love  and  you  !  but,  if  there  do, 
Inquire  of  me,  and  I  will  guide  your  moan  ; 
Teach  you  an  artificial  way  to  grieve. 
To  keep  your  sorrow  waking.     Love  your  lord 
No  worse  than  I  :  but,  if  you  love  so  well, 
Alas,  you  may  displease  him  !  so  did  I. 
This  is  the  last  time  you  shall  look  on  me. — 
Ladies,  farewell.     As  soon  as  I  am  dead, 
Come  all  and  watch  one  night  about  my  hearse  ; 
Bring  each  a  mournful  story  and  a  tear. 
To  offer  at  it  when  I  go  to  earth  : 
With  flattering  ivy  clasp  my  coffin  round ; 

y  lie}  Old  eds.  "  lay  ;"    and  so  perhaps  the  author  wrote. 


346  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  ii. 

Write  on  my  brow  my  fortune ;  let  my  bier 
Be  borne  by  virgins,  that  shall  sing  by  course  ^ 
The  truth  of  maids  and  perjuries  of  men. 

Evad.  Alas,  I  pity  thee  ! 

All.  Madam,  good  night.  [Exit  Evad.ne. 

Eirst  Lady.  Come,  well  let  in  the  bridegroom. 

Dula.  Where's  my  lord  ? 

Enter  Amintor. 

Eirst  Lady.  Here,  take  this  light. 

Dula.  He'll "  find  her  in  the  dark. 

Eirst L^ady.  Your  lady's  scarce  a-bed  yet;  you  must  help  her. 

Asp.  Go,  and  be  happy  in  your  lady's  love. 
May  all  the  wrongs  that  you  have  done  to  me 
Be  utterly  forgotten  in  my  death  ! 
I'll  trouble  you  no  more ;  yet  I  will  take 
A  parting  kiss,  and  will  not  be  denied.  [Kisses  Amintor. 

You'll  come,  my  lord,  and  see  the  virgins  weep 
When  I  am  laid  in  earth,  though  you  yourself 
Can  know  no  pity.     Thus  I  wind  myself' 
Into  this  willow-garland,  and  am  prouder 
That  I  was  once  your  love,  though  now  refus'd ", 
Than  to  have  had  anoth(ir  true  to  me. 
So  with  my  prayers  I  leave  you,  and  must  try 
Some  yet-unpractis'd  way  to  grieve  and  die.  [Exit. 

Dula.  Come,  ladies,  will  you  go  ? 

All.  Good  night,  my  lord. 

Amin.  Much  happiness  unto  you  all ! 

[Exeunt  Dula  a7ul  Ladies. 
I  did  that  lady  wrong.     Methinks,  I  feel 
A  ''  grief  .shoot  suddenly  through  all  my  veins  ; 

*  1)1/  course]  i.  o.  by  turns. 

•  Jle'll]  So  4to.  1619.  Other  eds.  "You'll".  Theobald  gave  the  former 
reading  ( — thus,  "  He  will" — ),  liis  successors,  the  latter. 

''  thus  I  wind  myself  &c.]  It  would  seem  that  Aspatia  carried  a  willow- 
garland,  and  that  she  here  suited  the  action  to  the  word. 

«  refus'd]  i.  c.  rejected. 

<•  A]  So  4to.  1019.  Later  eds.  "Her";  and  so  the  modern  editors, 
Theobald  excepted. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  347 

Mine  eyes  rain  ^  :  this  is  strange  at  such  a  time. 
It  was  the  King  first  movM  me  to't ;  but  he 
Has  not  my  will  in  keeping.     Why  do  I 
Perplex  myself  thus  ?     Something  whispers  me, 
Go  not  to  bed.     My  guilt  is  not  so  great 
As  mine  o\mi  conscience  too  sensible 
"Would  make  me  think ;  I  only  brake  a  promise, 
And  'twas  the  King  enforc"'d^  me.     Timorous  flesh, 
Why  shak'st  thou  so  ?     Away,  my  idle  fears  ! 

Re-enter  Evadne. 
Yonder  she  is,  the  lustre  of  whose  eye 
Can  blot  away  the  sad  remembrance  ^ 
Of  all  these  things. — Oh,  my  Evadne,  spare 
That  tender  body ;  let  it  not  take  cold  ! 
The  vapours  of  the  night  shall  ^  not  fall  here. 
To  bed,  my  love  :   Hymen  will  punish  us 
For  being  slack  performers  of  his  rites. 
Cam'st  thou  to  call  me  I 

Evad.  No. 

Amin.  Come,  come,  my  love, 
And  let  us  lose  ourselves  to  one  another. 
Why  art  thou  up  so  long  ? 

Evad.  I  am  not  well. 

Amin.  To  bed  then  ;  let  me  wind  thee  in  these  arms. 
Till  I  have  banisli'd  sickness. 

Evad.  Good  my  lord, 
I  cannot  sleep. 

Amin.  Evadne,  we  will  watch  ; 
I  mean  no  sleeping. 

Evad.  I'll  not  go  to  bed. 

Amin.  I  pi'ithee,  do. 

Evad.  I  will  not  for  the  world. 

«  rain]  So  4to.  1619.  Later  eds.  "run";  and  so  the  modern  editors, 
Theobald  excepted. 

f  enforc'd]  So  4to.  1619.  Later  eds.  "that  forc'd  "  ;  and  so  the  modern 
editors,  Theobald  excepted. 

s  remembrance]  Is  of  course  to  be  read  here  as  a  quadrisyllable — "  reniem- 
berance  "  ;  which  Weber  printed. 

'•  shall]  So  4to.  1619.  Later  eds.  "will";  and  so  the  modern  editors, 
Theobald  excepted. 


348  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  ii. 

Ajnin.  Why,  my  dear  love  ? 

Evad.  Why  !   I  have  sworn  I  will  not. 

Amin.  Sworn  ! 

Evad.  Ay. 

Amin.  How  I  swoi'n,  Evadnc  I 

Evad.  Yes,  sworn,  Amintor ;  and  will  swear  again, 
If  you  will  wish  to  hear  me. 

Amin.  To  whom  have  you  sworn  this  ? 

Evad.  If  I  should  name  him,  the  matter  were  not  great. 

Amin.  Come,  this  is  but  the  coyness  of  a  bride. 

Evad.  The  coyness  of  a  bride  ! 

Amin.  How  prettily 
That  frown  becomes  thee  ! 

Evad.  Do  you  like  it  so  ? 

Amin.  Thou  canst  not  dress  thy  face  in  such  a  look 
But  I  shall  like  it. 

Evad.  What  look  likes  'i  you  best  I 

Amin.  Why  do  you  ask  \ 

Evad.  That  I  may  shew  you  one  less  pleasing  to  you. 

Amin.  How's  that? 

Evad.  That  I  may  shew  you  one  less  pleasing  to  you. 

Amin.  I  prithee,  put  thy  jests  in  milder  looks ; 
It  shews  as  thou  wert  angry. 

Evad.  So  perhaps 
I  am  indeed. 

Amin.  Why,  who  has  done  thee  wrong  ? 
Name  me  the  man,  and  by  thyself  I  swear. 
Thy  yet-unconquer'd  self,  I  will  revenge  thee  ! 

Evad.  Now  I  shall  try  thy  truth.     If  thou  dost  love  nic. 
Thou  weigh'st  not  any  thing  compar'd  with  me  : 
Life,  honour,  joys  eternal,  all  delights 
This  world  can  yield ',  or  hopeful  people  feign, 

^  likes]  i.  e.  pleases. 
'  all  delights 

This  world  can  yield  &c.]  Theobald  printed 

"  all  delights 
This  world  can  yield,  or  hopeful  people  feign 
ylre  in  the  life  to  come" — 
But  the  text    requires  no  such    alteration.     Evadne   mentions  frst,  all   the 
delights  which  are  actually  to  be  found  in  the  world,  secondly,  those   which 
exist  in  the  imaginations  of  hopeful  people,  thirdly,  those  in  a  future  life. 


SCENE  1.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  349 

Or  in  the  life  to  come,  are  light  as  air 

To  a  true  lover  when  his  lady  frowns, 

And  bids  him  do  this.     Wilt  thou  kill  this  man  ? 

Swear,  my  Amintor,  and  Til  kiss  the  sin 

Off  from  thy  lips. 

Amin.  I  will  not  swear,  sweet  love, 
Till  I  do  know  the  cause. 

Evad.  I  would  thou  wouldst  ! 
Why,  it  is  thou  that  wrongest  me  ;   I  hate  thee  ; 
Thou  should'st  have  killM  thyself. 

Amin.  If  I  should  know  that,  I  should  quickly  kill 
The  man  you  hated. 

Evad.  Know  it,  then,  and  do't. 

Amin.  Oh,  no  !  what  look  soe'er  thou  shalt  put  on, 
To  try  my  faith,  I  shall  not  think  thee  false ; 
I  cannot  find  one  blemish  in  thy  face. 
Where  falsehood  should  abide.     Leave,  and  to  bed. 
If  you  have  sworn  to  any  of  the  virgins 
That  were  your  old  companions  to  preserve 
Your  maidenhead  a  night,  it  may  be  done 
Without  this  means. 

Evad.  A  maidenhead,  Amintor, 
At  my  years ! 

Amin.  Sure  she  raves  ;  this  cannot  be 
Her'  natural  temper.   [Aside.] — Shall  I  call  thy  maids  I 
Either  thy  healthful  sleep  hath  left  thee  long. 
Or  else  some  fever  rages  in  thy  blood. 

Evad.  Neither,  Amintor  :  think  you  I  am  mad. 
Because  I  speak  the  truth  ? 

Jmin.  Is  this  the  truth  ^  ? 
Will  you  not  lie  with  me  to-night  ? 

Evad.  To-night  ! 
You  talk  as  if  you  thought '  I  would  hereafter. 

J  Her]  So  4to.  1619.     Later  eds.  "Thy"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 

k  Is  this  the  truth?]  So  4to.  1619.  Omitted  m  later  eds.;  and  by  the 
modern  editors,  Theobald  excepted. 

•  1/011  thought]  So  4to.  1619.  Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the  modern 
editors,  Theobald  excepted. 


350  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  ii. 

Amin.  Hereafter  !  yes,  I  do. 

Evad.  You  are  deceiv'd. 
Put  off  amazement,  and  with  patience  mark 
What  I  shall  utter,  for  the  oracle 
Knows  notliing  truer  :  'tis  not  for  a  night 
Or  two  that  I  forbear  thy  bed,  but  ever™. 

Amin.  I  dream.     Awake,  Amintor  ! 

Evad.  You  hear  right : 
I  sooner  will  find  out  the  beds  of  snakes, 
And  with  my  youthful  blood  warm  their  cold  flesh, 
Letting  them  curl  themselves  about  my  limbs, 
Than  sleep  one  night  with  thee.     This  is  not  feign'd, 
Nor  sounds  it  like  the  coyness  of  a  bride. 

Amin.  Is  flesh  so  earthly"  to  endure  all  this ? 
Are  these  the  joys  of  marriage  ?     Hymen,  keep 
This  story,  that  will  make  succeeding  youth 
Neglect  thy  ceremonies,  from  all  ears ; 
Let  it  not  rise  up  for  thy  shame  and  mine 
To  after-ages  :  we  will  scorn  thy  laws, 
If  thou  no  better  bless  them.     Touch  the  heart 
Of  her  that  thou  hast  sent  me,  or  the  world 
Shall  know  this  :  not  an  altar  then  will  smoke  ° 
In  praise  of  thee  ;  we  will  adopt  us  sons  ; 
Then  virtue  shall  inherit,  and  not  blood. 
If  we  do  lust,  we'll  take  the  next  we  meet, 
Serving  ourselves  as  other  creatures  do  ; 
And  never  take  note  of  the  female  more. 
Nor  of  her  issue. — I  do  rage  in  vain  ; 
She  can  but  jest.   [Aside.^ — Oh,  pardon  mc,  my  love  ! 
So  dear  the  thoughts  are  that  I  hold  of  thee. 
That  I  must  break  forth.     Satisfy  my  fear ; 
It  is  a  pain,  beyond  the  hand  of  death, 

»  but  et'cr]  So  4to8.  1619,  1622,  1630.     Later  eds.  «  but  for  ever";  and  so 
the  modern  editors,  Theobald  excepted, 

"  earthly']  Altered  by  Theobald  to  "earthy", — a  specious  correction. 

"  Shall  know  this  :  not  an  altar  then  will  smoke']  So  4to.  16iy.     Later  eds. 
"  Shall  know  there's  not  an  altar  that  will  smoke,'" — 
and  so  the  modem  editors,  Theobald  excepted. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MATD'S  TRAGEDY.  351 

To  be  in  doubt :  confirm  it  with  an  oath, 
If  this  be  true. 

Evad.  Do  you  invent  the  form  : 
Let  there  be  in  it  all  the  binding  words 
Devils  and  conjurers  can  put  together, 
And  I  will  take  it.     I  have  sworn  before. 
And  here  by  all  things  holy  do  again, 
Never  to  be  acquainted  with  thy  bed  ! 
Is  your  doubt  over  now  ? 

Amin.  I  know  too  much  :  would  I  had  doubted  still  ! 
Was  ever  such  a  marriage-night  as  this  ! 
You  powers  above,  if  you  did  ever  mean 
Man  should  be  us'd  thus,  you  have  thought  a  way 
How  he  may  bear  himself,  and  save  his  honour  : 
Instruct  me  in  it ;  for  to  my  dull  eyes 
There  is  no  mean,  no  moderate  course  to  run  ; 
I  must  live  scorn'd,  or  be  a  murderer : 
Is  there  a  third  ?     Why  is  this  night  so  calm  ? 
Wliy  does  not  Heaven  speak  in  thunder  to  us  p, 
And  drown  her  voice  ? 

Evad.  This  rage  will  do  no  good. 

Amin.  Evadne,  hear  me.     Thou  hast  ta'en  an  oath, 
But  such  a  rash  one,  that  to  keep  it  were 
Worse  than  to  swear  it :  call  it  back  to  thee  ; 
Such  vows  as  that  "^  never  ascend  the  heaven ; 
A  tear  or  two  will  w^ash  it  quite  away. 
Have  mercy  on  my  youth,  my  hopeful  youth, 
If  thou  be  pitiful  !  for,  without  boast, 
This  land  was  proud  of  me  :  wdiat  lady  was  there, 
That  men  calFd  fair  and  virtuous  in  this  isle, 

p    Why  is  this  night  so  calm  9 

Why  does  not  Heaven  speak  in  thunder  to  us  .?]    "  The  poets  seem  mani- 
festly to  have  had  in  their  eye  this  passage  of  Seneca,  in  his  Hippolytus  :— 

Magne  regnator  Deum, 

Tarn  lentils  audis  scelera  9  tarn  lentus  vides  ? 
Ecquaudo  scevd  fulmen  emittes  manu. 
Si  nunc  serenum  est  ?"— Theobald. 
1  thnt]  So  4to.   1619.      Later  eds.  "those";  and  so  the  modem  editors, 
Theobald  excepted. 


3o2  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [icr  n. 

That  would  have  shunn\l  my  love  ?     It  is  in  thee 
To  make  me  hold  this  worth.     Oh,  we  vain  men, 
That  trust  out  all  our  reputation 
To  rest  upon  the  weak  and  yielding  hand 
Of  feeble  woman  !     But  thou  art  not  stone  ; 
Thy  flesh  is  soft,  and  in  thine  eyes  doth  dwell 
The  spirit  of  love  ;  thy  heart  cannot  be  hard. 
Come,  lead  me  from  the  bottom  of  despair 
To  all  the  joys  thou  hast ;   I  know  thou  wilt ; 
And  make  me  careful  lest  the  sudden  change 
O'ercome  my  spirits. 

Evad.  When  I  call  back  this  oath, 
The  pains  of  hell  environ  me  ! 

Amin.  I  sleep,  and  am  too  temperate.     Come  to  bod  ! 
Or  by  those  hairs,  which,  if  thou  ha[d]st  a  soul 
Like  to  thy  locks,  were  threads  for  kings  to  wear 
About  their  arms ■ 

Evad.  Why,  so  perhaps  they  are. 

Amin.  Til  drag  thee  to  my  bed,  and  make  thy  tongue 
Undo  this  wicked  oath,  or  on  thy  flesh 
I'll  print  a  thousand  wounds  to  let  out  life  ! 

Evad.  I  fear  thee  not :  do  what  thou  dar'st  to  me  ! 
Every  ill-sounding  word  or  threatening  look 
Thou  shew'st  to  me  will  be  rcveng'd  at  full. 

Amin.  It  will  not  sure,  Evadne  ? 

Evad.  Do  not  you  hazard  that. 

Amin.  Have  you  your  champions  ? 

Evad.  Alas,  Amintor,  think'st  thou  I  forbear 
To  sleep  with  thee,  because  I  have  put  on 
A  maiden's  strictness  ?     Look  upon  these  cheeks. 
And  thou  shalt  find  the  hot  and  rising  blood 
Una})t  for  such  a  vow.     No  ;  in  this  heart 
There  dwells  as  much  desire  and  as  much  will 
To  put  that  wishM  act  in  practice  as  e'er  yet 
Was  known  to  woman  ;  and  they  have  been  shewn 
Both.     But  it  was  the  folly  of  thy  youth. 
To  think  this  beauty,  to  what  land  soe'er 
It  shall  be  call'd,  shall  stoop  to  any  second. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  353 

I  do  enjoy  the  best,  and  in  that  height 

Have  sworn  to  stand  or  die  :  you  guess  the  man. 

Amin.  No ;  let  me  know  the  man  that  wrongs  me  so, 
That  I  may  cut  his  body  into  motes, 
And  scatter  it  before  the  northern  wind. 

Evad.  You  dare  not  strike  him. 

Amin.  Do  not  wrong  me  so  : 
Yes,  if  his  body  were  a  poisonous  plant 
That  it  were  death  to  touch,  I  have  a  soul 
Will  throw  me  on  him. 

Evad.  Why,  'tis  the  King. 

Amin.  The  King ! 

Evad.  What  will  you  do  now  ? 

Amin.  It  is  not  the  King  ! 

Evad.  What  did  he  make  this  match  for,  dull  Amintor  ? 

Amin.  Oh,  thou  hast  nam'd  a  word,  that  wipes  away 
All  thoughts  revengeful !     In  that  sacred  word  •■, 
"  The  King,"  there  lies  a  terror  :  what  frail  man 
Dares  lift  his  hand  against  it  ?     Let  the  gods 
Speak  to  him  when  they  please ;  till  when,  let  us 
Suffer  and  wait. 

Evad.  AVhy  should  you  fill  yourself  so  full  of  heat, 
And  haste  so  to  my  bed  ?     I  am  no  virgin. 

Amin.  What  devil  put  it  in  thy  fancy,  then, 
To  marry  me  ? 

Evad.  Alas,  I  must  have  one 
To  father  children,  and  to  bear  the  name 
Of  husband  to  me,  that  my  sin  may  be 
More  honourable! 

Amin.  What  strange '  thing  am  I  ! 

Evad.  A  miserable  one ;  one  that  myself 
Am  sorry  for. 

Ami7i.  Why,  shew  it  then  in  this  : 
If  thou  hast  pity,  though  thy  love  be  none, 

"  word]  So  4to.  1619.  Later  eds.  "name";  and  so  the  modern  editors, 
Theobald  excepted. 

'  What  stranc/e'i  So  4tos.  1619,  1661.  Other  eds.  "  JVhat  a  strange"  ;  and 
so  the  modern  editors. 


354  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  ii. 

Kill  me ;  and  all  true  lovers,  that  shall  live 
In  after-ages  crossM  in  their  desires, 
Shall  bless  thy  memory,  and  call  thee  good, 
Because  such  mercy  in  thy  heart  was  found, 
To  rid '  a  lingering  ^^Tetch. 

Evad.  I  must  have  one 
To  fill  thy  room  again,  if  thou  wert  dead  ; 
Else,  by  this  night,  I  would  !     I  pity  thee. 

Amin.  These  strange  and  sudden  injuries  have  fallen 
So  thick  upon  me,  that  I  lose  all  sense 
Of  what  they  are.     Methinks,  I  am  not  wrong'd  ; 
Nor  is  it  aught,  if  from  the  censuring  world 
I  can  but  hide  it.     Reputation, 
Thou  art  a  word,  no  more  ! — But  thou  hast  shewn 
An  impudence  so  high,  that  to  the  world 
I  fear  thou  wilt  betray  or  shame  thyself. 

Evad.  To  cover  shame,  I  took  thee  ;  never  fear 
That  I  would  blaze  myself. 

Amin.  Nor  let  the  King 
Know  I  conceive  he  wrongs  me  ;  then  mine  honour 
Will  thrust  me  into  action  :  that "  my  flesh 
Could  bear  with  patience.     And  it  is  some  ease 
To  me  in  these  extremes,  that  I  knew  this 
Before  I  touch'd  thee ;  else,  had  all  the  sins 
Of  mankind  stood  betwixt  me  and  the  King, 
I  had  gone  through  'em  to  his  heart  and  thine. 
T  have  left  "■■  one  desire :  'tis  not  his  crown 

'  rid'\  i.  e.  despatch. 

"  that]  If  the  text  be  right, — must  refer  to 

"  Nor  let  the  King 
Know  I  conceive  he  wrongs  me  "  ; — 
that  concealment  would  enable  me  to  bear  my  injury  with  patience — The 
Editors  of  1778  jirint  the  passage  thus  ; 

"  then  mine  honour 
Will  thrust  me  into  action,  though  my  flesh 
Could  bear  with  patience  :" 
and  so  Weber. 

'  Ifft]  So  4to.  1G19.  Later  eds.  "lost"  ;  which  the  Editors  of  1778  give. 
— «  The  desire  that  Amintor  had  lost,  or  left— for  it  ia  indifferent  which  of 
these  words  shall  stand,  as  they  both  imi)ly  the  same  sense — was  that  of  going 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  355 

Shall  buy  me  to  thy  bed,  now  I  resolve  ^^ 
He  has  dishonourM  thee.     Give  me  thy  hand  : 
Be  careful  of  thy  credit,  and  sin  close  ; 
'Tis  all  I  wish.     Upon  thy  chamber-floor 
I'll  rest  to-night,  that  morning-visitors 
May  think  we  did  as  married  people  use : 
And,  prithee,  smile  upon  me  when  they  come, 
And  seem  to  toy,  as  if  thou  hadst  been  pleasM 
With  what  we  did. 

Evad.  Fear  not ;   I  will  do  this. 

Amin.  Come,  let  us  practise  ;  and,  as  wantonly 
As  ever  longing ""  bride  and  bridegroom  met. 
Let's  laugh  and  enter  here. 

Evad.  I  am  content. 

Amin.  Down  all  the  swellings  of  my  troubled  heart ! 
When  we  walk  thus  intwin'd,  let  all  eyes  see 
If  ever  lovers  better  did  agree.  ^Exeunt. 


SCENE  II, — An  Apartment  in  the  house  o/'Calianax. 

Enter  Aspatia,  Antiphila,  and  Olympias. 

Asp.  Away,  you  are  not  sad  !  force  it  no  further. 
Good  gods,  how  well  you  look  !  Such  a  full  colour 
Young  bashful  brides  put  on  :  sure,  you  are  new  married  ! 

A7it.   Yes,  madam,  to  your  grief. 

Asp.  Alas,  poor  wenches  ! 
Go  learn  to  love  first ;  learn  to  lose  yourselves  ; 

to  her  bed.  To  leave,  in  the  time  of  our  Poets,  meant,  to  give  away,  or  to  part 
with.  So  Portia  says,  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  speakmg  of  the  ring  she 
had  given  to  Bassanio, 

'  And  here  he  stands, 
I  dare  be  sworn  for  him,  he  would  not  leave  it. 
Nor  pluck  it  from  his  finger,  for  the  weaUh 
That  the  world  masters.' 
And  Julia  says  to  Protheus,  in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 

'  It  seems  you  lov'd  her  not  to  leave  her  token.' "    Mason. 
"   now  I  resolve]  "  i.  e.  now  that  I  am  convinced."     Weber. 
"^  longinff]   So  4to.  1619.     Later  eds.  "loving"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 
a  A  2 


35G  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  ii. 

Learn  to  be  flattcrM,  and  believe  and  bless 

The  double  tongue  that  did  it ;  make  a  faith  ^ 

Out  of  the  miracles  of  ancient  lovers, 

Such  as  spake  ^  truth,  and  died  in"'t ;  and,  like  me, 

Believe  all  faithful,  and  be  miserable. 

Did  you  ne'er  love  yet,  wenches  ?     Speak,  Olympias  : 

Thou  hast  an  easy  temper,  fit  for  stamp. 

Olym.  Never. 

Asp.  Nor  you,  Antiphila  ? 

Ant.  Nor  I. 

Asp.  Then,  my  good  girls,  be  more  than  women,  wise ; 
At  least  be  more  than  I  was  ;  and  be  sure 
You  credit  any  thing  the  light  gives  life  ^  to, 
Before  a  man.     Rather  believe  the  sea 
AVeeps  for  the  ruin'd  merchant,  when  he  roars  ; 
Rather,  the  wind  courts  but  the  pregnant  sails, 
AMien  the  strong  cordage  cracks  ;  rather,  the  sun 
Comes  but  to  kiss  the  fruit  in  wealthy  autumn, 
When  all  falls  blasted.     If  you  needs  must  love, 
(Forc'd  by  ill  fate,)  take  to  your  maiden-bosoms 
Two  dead-cold  aspicks,  and  of  them  make  lovers  : 
They  cannot  flatter  nor  forswear ;  one  kiss 
Makes  a  long  peace  for  all.     But  man — 

y   The  double  tongue  that  did  it.     Make  a  faith  &c.]  In  4to.  1G22,  and  in  all 
the  later  eds.,  the  passage  stands  thus  : 
"  The  double  tongue  that  did  it, 
Make  a  faith  out  of  the  miracles  of  ancient  loners, 
Did  you  nere  loue  yet  wenches  ?  speake  Olimpias, 
Such  as  speake  truth  and  di'd  in't, 
And  like  me  beleeue  all  faithful!,  and  be  miserable, 
Thou  hast  an  easie  temper,  fit  for  stampe." 
The  transposition  given  above  was  made  by  Theobald,  and  is  confirmed  by 

'Ito    IGiy,  which  has  only 

"  The  double  tongue  that  did  it, 

Did  you  ere  loue  yet  wenches,  speake  Olimpas, 
Thou  hast  a  metled  temper,  fit  for  stamp." 
'  spnkel   Here  Weber  most  absurdly  gave   the  spelling   of  the   old  eds. 
"speak." 

^  /i/<?]  So  4to.  1022  (this  passage  is  not  in  4to.  1619).     Later  eds.,  "light"  ; 
and  so  the  modern  editors  ! 


SCENE  n.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  357 

Oh,  that  beast  man  !     Come,  let's  be  sad,  my  girls. 

That  down-cast  of  thine  eye,  Olympias, 

Shews  a  fine  sorrow. — Mark,  Antiphila ; 

Just  such  another  was  the  nymph  ffinone, 

When  Paris  brought  home  Helen.— Now,  a  tear ; 

And  then  thou  art  a  piece  expressing  fully 

The  Carthage-queen,  when  from  a  cold  sea-rock, 

Full  with  her  sorrow,  she  tied  fast  her  eyes 

To  the  fair  Trojan  ships  ;  and,  having  lost  them, 

Just  as  thine  eyes  do,  down  stole  a  tear. — Antiphila, 

What  would  this  wench  do,  if  she  were  Aspatia  ? 

Here  she  would  stand,  till  some  more  pitying  god 

Turn'd  her  to  marble. — 'Tis  enough,  my  wench. — 

Shew  me  the  piece  of  needlework  you  wrought. 

Ant.  Of  Ariadne,  madam  I 

Asp.  Yes,  that  piece. — 
This  should  be  Theseus  ;  h'as  a  cozening  face. — 
»You  meant  him  for  a  man  \ 

Ant.  He  was  so,  madam. 

Asp.  Why,  then,  'tis  well  enough. — Never  look  back  ; 
You  have  a  full  wind  and  a  false  heart,  Theseus. — 
Does  not  the  story  say,  his  keel  was  split. 
Or  his  masts  spent,  or  some  kind  rock  or  other 
Met  with  his  vessel  I 

Ant.  Not  as  I  remember. 

Asp.  It  should  have  been  so.     Could  the  gods  know  this, 
And  not,  of  all  their  number,  raise  a  storm  I 
But  they  are  all  as  evil ''.     This  false  smile 
Was  well  expressed  ;  just  such  another  caught  me. — 
You  shall  not  go  so. — " 

^  eyj/]  Old  eds.  "ill";  and  so  the  modern  editors, — Theobald  inserting 
"  Ay  "  after  it  to  eke  out  the  metre.  From  a  comparison  of  many  passages  in 
our  early  plays  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  transcribers  sometimes  wrote  "  ill  " 
aJid  sometimes  "  evil "  without  any  regard  to  the  vei-se. 

"  You  shall  not  go  so]  i.  e.  You  shall  not  escape  so.  Here  Aspatia  addresses 
Theseus  :  compare  the  preceding  speech.  Seward  "  restored  both  sense  and 
measure  "  thus, 

"  You  shall  not  go  on  so,  Antiphila  ; 
In  this  place  work  a  quicksand," — 
and  his  successors  adopted  the  restoration  ! 


3,^g  TIIK  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  n  . 

Antiphila.  in  thi"  place  work  a  quicksand, 
Antl  over  it  a  shallow  smiling  water, 
Aiul  his  ship  ploughing  it ;  and  then  a  Fear  : 
Do  that  Fear  bravely'',  wench. 

Jilt.  Twill  wrong  the  story. 

Asp.  'Twill  make  the  story,  wrong  d  by  wanton  poets. 
Live  long  and  be  bclicvVl.     liut  where's  the  lady  I 

Ant.  There,  madam. 

Asp.  Fie,  you  have  raiss'd  it  here,  Antiphila; 
You  are  much  mistaken,  wench  : 
Those  colours  are  not  dull  and  pale  enough 
To  shew  a  soul  so  full  of  misery 
As  this  sad  lady's  was.     Do  it  by  me, 
Do  it  again  by  me,  the  lost  Aspatia ; 
And  you  shall  find  all  true  but  the  wild  island  <^. 
Suppose  I  stand  upon  the  sea-beach  now'', 
Mine  arms  thus,  and  mine  hair  blown  with  the  wind. 
\Vild  as  that  desert ;  and  let  all  about  me 
Tell  that  I  am  forsaken  e.     Do  my  face 
(If  thou  hadst  ever  feeling  of  a  sorrow) 
Thus,  thus,  Antiphila  :  strive  to  make  me  look 
Like  Sorrow's  monument ;  and  the  trees  about  me. 
Let  them  be  dry  and  leafless ;  let  the  rocks 
CJroan  with  continual  surges  ;  and  behind  me 
Make  all  a  desolation.     See,  see\  wenches, 
A  miserable  life  of  this  poor  picture  ! 
Oli/in.  Dear  madam  ! 

■i  bravely]  So  4to.  1G19.  Later  cds.,  "  to  the  life"  ;  and  so  the  mo.Icm 
editors,  Tlieohald  excepted. 

'  island]  i.  e.  Naxos, — where  Theseus  abandoned  Ariadne. 

«  Suppose  I  statid  upon  the  sea-beach  now]  So  4to.  1619,  except  that  it  has 
"  sea  hreach."     Later  eds. 

"  /  stand  upon  the  sea  breach  now,  and  think." 

*  Tell  that  I  am  forsaken]  So  all  the  old  eds.,  except  4to.  1619,  which  has 
«  He  tcare»  of  my  story."  Tiieobald,  ingeniously  con-ecting  that  misprint,  gave 
"  Be  loachcrH  of  my  story  "  ;  and  so  "Weber,  who  (after  Mason)  pronounces  it 
to  be  more  poetical  than  the  other  reading.  Perhaps,  it  is  ;  but,  unless  in 
ra»cK  of  necessity,  I  am  unwilling  to  adopt  conjectural  lections. 

>■  See,  see]  So  4to.  TiTJ.  Later  eds.  "  Look,  look  "  ;  and  so  the  modern 
fditors,  Theobald  excepted.     The  word  "  look  "  occurs  in  the  fourth  line  above. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  369 

Asp.  I  have  done.     Sit  down  ;  and  let  us 
Upon  that  point  fix  all  our  eyes,  that  point  there. 
Make  a  dull  silence,  till  you  feel  a  sudden  •  sadness 
Give  us  new  souls. 

Enter  Calianax. 

Cal.  The  King  may  do  this,  and  he  may  not  do  it : 
My  child  is  wrong'd,  disgraced. — Well,  how  now,  huswives  1 
What,  at  your  ease  !  is  this  a  time  to  sit  still  I 
Up,  you  young  lazy  whores,  up,  or  I'll  swinge  you  ! 

Olf/jn.  Nay,  good  my  lord — 

Cal.  You'll  lie  down  shortly.     Get  you  in,  and  work  ! 
What,  are  you  grown  so  resty '  you  want  heats  'I 
We  shall  have  some  of  the  court-boys  heat  you  shortly ''. 

Ant.  My  lord,  we  do  no  more  than  we  are  chargM  : 
It  is  the  lady's  pleasure  we  be  thus 
In  grief  she  is  forsaken '. 

Cal.  There's  a  rogue  too, 
A  young  dissembling  slave  ! — Well,  get  you  in. — 
I'll  have  a  bout  with  that  boy.     'Tis  high  time 
Now  to  be  valiant :   I  confess  my  youth 
Was  never  prone  that  way.     What,  made  an  ass  ! 
A  court-stale  !     Well,  I  will  be  valiant,    ; 
And  beat  some  dozen  of  these  whelps  ;   I  will ! 
And  there's  another  of  'em,  a  trim  cheating  soldier  ; 
I'll  maul  that  rascal ;  h'as  out-brav'd  me  twice  : 
But  now,  I  thank  the  gods,  I  am  valiant. — 
Go,  get  you  in. — I'll  take  a  course  with  all.  [Exeunt. 

'  sudden]  Throwii  out  by  Theobald, — rightly,  perhaps. 

J  What,  are  you  groivn  so  resty,  &;c.]  "  The  old  man,  in  his  allusion,  compares 
them  to  lazy,  resty  mares,  that  want  to  be  rid  so  many  heats."     Theobald. 

''  heat  you  shortly"]  So  4to.  1619.     Other  eds.,  "  do  that  office," 

'  In  grief  she  is  forsaken]  i.  e.  In  grief  that,  or  because  she  is  forsaken. 
The  modern  editors  have  misunderstood  the  passage. 


300  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  hi 


ACT    III. 

Scene  I. — Ante-room  to  Evadne"'s  Bed-chamber. 


Enter  Cleon,  Strato,  and  Diphilus. 

Ck.  Your  sister  is  not  up  yet. 

Diph.    Oh,  brides  must  take  their  morning's  rest ;    the 
night  is  troublesome. 

Stra.  But  not  tedious. 

Diph.    What  odds,  he  has  not  my  sister's  maidenhead 
to-night  ? 

Stra.  None  ™ ;  it's  odds  against  any  bridegroom  Hving,  he 
ne'er  gets  it  while  he  lives. 

Diph.  You're  merry  with  my  sister ;   you'll  please  to  allow 
me  the  same  freedom  with  your  mother. 

Stra.  She's  at  your  service. 

Diph.  Then  she's  merry  enough  of  herself;  she  needs  no 
tickling.     Knock  at  the  door. 

Stra.  We  shall  interrupt  them. 

Diph.  No  matter;  they  have  the  year  before  them. 

[Strato  knocks  at  the  door. 
Good  morrow,  sister.     Spare  yourself  to-day  ; 
The  night  will  come  again. 

Enter  Amintor. 

Amin.  Who's  there?  my  brother  !     I  am  no  readier"  yet. 
Your  sister  is  but  now  up. 

Diph.  You  look  as  you  had  lost  your  eyes  to-night : 
I  think  you  have  not  slept. 

Amin.  I'faith  I  have  not. 

Diph.  You  have  done  better,  then. 

■"  None]  So  4to.  161.0.     Later  eds.  "  No  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors, 
Theobald  excepted. 

»  no  rtadier}  i.  e.  no  more  drest. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  361 

Amin.  We  ventur"'d  for  a  boy :  when  he  is  twelve, 
He  shall  command  against  the  foes  of  Rhodes. 
Shall  we  be  merry  i 

Stra.  You  cannot ;  you  want  sleep. 

Amin.  'Tis  true. — But  she, 
As  if  she  had  drunk  "  Lethe,  or  had  made 
Even  with  Heaven,  did  fetch  so  still  a  sleep, 
So  sweet  and  sound \^Aside. 

Diph.  What's  that  I 

Amin.  Your  sister  frets 
This  morning,  and  does  turn  her  eyes  upon  me. 
As  people  on  their  headsman.     She  does  chafe, 
And  kiss,  and  chafe  again,  and  clap  my  cheeks : 
She's  in  another  world. 

Diph.  Then  I  had  lost :   I  was  about  to  lay 
You  had  not  got  her  maidenhead  to-night. 

Amin.  Ha  !  does  he  not  p  mock  me  I   \^Asicle.^ — You  had 
lost  indeed ; 
I  do  not  use  to  bungle. 

Cle.  You  do  deserve  her. 

Amin.  I  laid  my  lips  to  hers,  and  that  wild  breath, 
That  was  so  rude  and  rough  to  me  last  night, 
Was  sweet  as  April.     I'll  be  guilty  too, 
If  these  be  the  effects.  \^Aside. 

Enter  Melantius. 

Mel.  Good  day,  Amintor ;  for  to  me  the  name 
Of  brother  is  too  distant :  we  are  friends, 
And  that  is  nearer. 

Amin.  Dear  Melantius  ! 
Let  me  behold  thee.     Is  it  possible  ? 

Mel.  What  sudden  gaze  is  this  ? 

Amin.  'Tis  wondrous  strange  ! 

Mel.  Why  does  thine  eye  desire  so  strict  a  view 

•  had  drunk']  Carefully  altered  to  •' Aarf  drank  "  by  the  Editors  of  1778 
and  Weber. 

p  does  he  nof]  So  4to.  1619.  Later  eds.,  "he  does  not  "  ;  and  so  the  modern 
editors. 


.^02  i'HK  MATD'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  hi. 

Of  th.it  it  knows  so  well  I     There's  nothing  here 
That  i.s  not  thine. 

Anwi.  I  wonder  much,  jNIelantius, 
To  see  those  noble  looks,  that  make  me  think 
How  virtuous  thou  art :  and,  on  the  sudden, 
'Tis  strange  to  me  thou  shouldst  have  worth  and  honour  ; 
Or  not  be  base,  and  false,  and  treacherous, 
And  every  ill.     But 

Mel.  Stay,  stay,  my  friend  ; 
I  fear  this  sound  will  not  become  our  loves  : 
No  more  embrace  me ''. 

Amin.  Oh,  mistake  me  not  ! 
I  know  thee  to  be  full  of  all  those  deeds 
That  we  frail  men  call  good ;  but  by  the  course 
Of  nature  thou  shouldst  be  as  quickly  changed 
As  arc  the  winds  ;  dissembling  as  the  sea, 
That  now  wears  brows  as  smooth  as  virgins*'  be. 
Tempting  the  merchant  to  invade  his  face. 
And  in  an  hour  calls  his  billows  up. 
And  shoots  'em  at  the  sun,  destroying  all 
He  carries  on  him. — Oh,  how  near  am  I 
To  utter  my  sick  thoughts  !  \^  Aside. 

Mel.  But  why,  my  friend,  should  I  be  so  by  nature  ? 

Amin.  I  have  wed  thy  sister,  who  hath  virtuous  thoughts 
Enough  for  one  whole  family ;  and  it  is  strange 
That  you  should  feel  no  want. 

Mel.  Believe  me,  this  compliment's  too  cunning  for  me. 

Dipli.  ^V^lat  should  I  be  then  by  the  course  of  nature, 
They  having  both  robb'd  me  of  so  much  virtue? 

Stra.  Oh,  call  the  bride,  my  lord  Amintor, 
That  we  may  see  her  blush,  and  turn  her  eyes  down : 
It  is  the  prettiest  sport. 

Amin.  Evadne  ! 

1  No  more  embrace  me']  Pointed  thus  by  the  modern  cditoi-s,  Theobald 
excepted, — "  No  more  ;  embrace  me  :"  which  the  context,  I  think,  proves  to 
be  wrong.  Amintor  has  taken  hold  of  Melantius,  and  is  earnestly  gazing  on 
him,  when  these  words  are  spoken.  So  in  the  next  scene  Melantius  says  to 
Amintor  "  Out  of  my  bosom  !"  p.  371. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  363: 

Evad.  [icitldnJ]  My  lord? 
Amhi.  Come  forth,  my  love  : 
Your  brothers  do  attend  to  wish  you  joy. 
Evad.  \ioithin.']  I  am  not  ready  yet. 
Amin.  Enough,  enough. 
Evad.  [unthin.^  They'll  mock  me. 
Amin.  Faith,  thou  shalt  come  in. 

Enter  Evadne. 

Mel.  Good  morrow,  sister.     He  that  understands 
Whom  you  have  wed,  need  not  to  wish  you  joy  ; 
You  have  enough  :  take  heed  you  be  not  proud. 

Diph.  Oh,  sister,  what  have  you  done  I 

Evad.  I  done  !  why,  what  have  I  done  I 

Stra.  ]\Iy  lord  Amintor  swears  you  are  no  maid  now. 

Evad.  Push'"! 

Stra.  Ffaith,  he  does. 

Evad.  I  knew  I  should  be  mock''d. 

Diph.  With  a  truth. 

Evad.  If  'twere  to  do  again, 
In  faith  I  would  not  marry. 

Amin.  Nor  I,  by  Heaven  ! 

Diph.  Sister,  Dula  swears 
She  heard  you  cry  two  rooms  off. 

Evad.  Fie,  how  you  talk  ! 

Diph.  Let's  see  you  walk. 

Evad.  By  my  troth,  you're  spoil'd'. 

Mel.  Amintor — 

■■  Push  !"[  Altered  by  the  modern  editors,  Theobald  excepted,  to  "  Pish  ! " 
but  the  former  is  not  uncommon  in  old  plays,  —  especially,  in  those  of 
Middleton. 

'  Diph.  Lei's  see  you  ivalk. 
Evad.  By  my  troth,  you're  spoil'd]  "  As  it  is  impossible,"  say  the  Editors 
of  1778,  "the  words  thus  given  to  Evadne  should  be  spoken  by  her,  we  have 
varied  from  the  copies,  by  giving  them  to  her  brother."    They  print  accordingly 

"  Diph.  Let's  see  you  walk,  Evadne.     By  my  troth,  you're  spoil'd  "  : 
and  this  (in  every  sense)  wanton  alteration  is  adopted  by  Weber.     But  why  is 
it  impossible  that  the  words  which  all  the  old  eds.  assign  to  Evadne  should  be 
spoken  by  her?     She  has  already  chid  Diphilus — "  Fie,  how  you  talk  !"  and 
when  he  continues  to  jeer  her,  she  exclaims  "  By  my  troth,  you're  spoil'd." 


361  THE  MAIDS  TRAGEDY.  [act  in. 

A  mill.  Ila ! 

Mel.  Tliou  art  sad. 

A)77i7i.  Who,  I  ?     I  tlic-mk  you  for  that. 
Sliall  Diphilus,  thou,  and  I,  sing  a  catch  ? 

Mrl.  How! 

Amin.   Prithee,  let's. 

Mel  Nay,  that's  too  much  the  other  way. 

Amin.  I  am  so  lighten  d  with  my  happiness  ! — 
How  dost  thou,  love  ?  kiss  me. 

Evad.  I  cannot  love  you,  you  tell  tales  of  me. 

Amin.  Nothing  but  what  becomes  us. — Gentlemen, 
"Would  you  had  all  such  wives,  and  all  the  world, 
That  I  might  be  no  w^onder  !     You're  all  sad  : 
What,  do  you  envy  me  ?     I  walk,  methinks, 
On  water,  and  ne'er  sink,  I  am  so  light. 

Mel.  'Tis  well  you  are  so. 

Amin.  Well  !  how  can  I  be  other. 
When  she  looks  thus  \ — Is  there  no  music  there  ? 
Let's  dance. 

Mel.  AVhy,  this  is  strange,  Amintor  ! 

Amin.  I  do  not  know  myself  ;  yet  I  could  wish 
My  joy  were  less. 

Diph.  ril  marry  too,  if  it  will  make  one  thus. 

Evad.  Amintor,  hark. 

Amin.  What  says  my  love  ? — I  must  obey. 

Evad.  You  do  it  scurvily,  "'twill  be  perceiv''d. 

Cle.  My  lord,  the  King  is  here. 

Amin.  Where? 

Stra.  And  liis  brother. 

Enter  King  and  Lysippus. 

Kinrj.  Good  morrow,  all. — 
Amintor,  joy  on  joy  fall  thick  upon  thee  ! — 
And,  madam,  you  are  altered  since  I  saw  you  ; 
1  nm.«t  salute  you  ;  you  are  now  another's. 
How  lik'd  you  your  night's  rest  ? 

Evad.  Ill,  sir. 

Amin.  Ay,  Meed, 
She  took  but  little. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  365 

Lys.  You'll  let  her  take  more, 
And  thank  her  too,  shortly. 

King.  Amintor,  wert  thou  truly  honest  till 
Thou  wert  married  ? 

Amin.  Yes,  sir. 

King.  Tell  me,  then,  how  shews 
The  sport  unto  thee  ? 

Amin.  Why,  well. 

King.  ^\''hat  did  you  do  ? 

Amin.  No  more,  nor  less,  than  other  couples  use  ; 
You  know  what  'tis  ;  it  has  but  a  coarse  name. 

King.  But,  prithee,  I  should  think,  by  her  black  eye, 
And  her  red  cheek,  she  should  be  quick  and  stirring 
In  this  same  business  ;  ha  ? 

Amin.  I  cannot  tell ; 
I  ne'er  tried  other,  sir ;  but  I  perceive 
She  is  as  quick  as  you  delivered. 

King.  Well, 
You  will  trust  me  then,  Amintor,  to  chuse 
A  wife  for  you  again  ? 

Amin.  No,  never,  sir. 

King.  Why,  like  you  this  so  ill  I 

Amin.  So  well  I  like  her, 
For  this  I  bow  my  knee  in  thanks  to  you. 
And  unto  Heaven  will  pay  my  grateful  tribute 
Hourly ;  and  do  hope  we  shall  draw  out 
A  long  contented  life  together  here, 
And  die  both,  full  of  grey  hairs,  in  one  day  : 
For  which  the  thanks  is'  yours.     But  if  the  powers 
That  rule  us  please  to  call  her  first  away, 
Without  pride  spoke,  this  world  holds  not  a  wife 
Worthy  to  take  her  room. 

King.  I  do  not  like  this. — All  forbear  the  room, 
But  you,  Amintor,  and  your  lady. 

\^Exeunt  all  hut  the  King,  Aimintor,  and  Evadne. 
I  have  some  speech  with  you,  that  may  concern 
Your  after  living  well. 

'  is]   Altered  by  the  Editors  of  1778  to  "  are"  ;  and  so  Weber. 


3G6  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iir. 

Amin.  He  will  not  tell  me  that  he  lies  with  her  ? 
If  he  do,  something  heavenly  stay  my  heart, 
For  I  shall  be  apt  to  thrust  this  arm  of  mine 
To  acts  unlawful !  [Aside. 

Ki/if/.  You  will  suffer  me 
To  talk  with  her,  Amintor,  and  not  have 
A  jealous  pang  ? 

Amin.  Sir,  I  dare  trust  my  wife 
With  whom  she  dares  to  talk,  and  not  be  jealous.      {^Retirea. 

King.  How  do  you  like  Amintor  ? 

Evad.  As  I  did,  sir. 

King.  How's  that  ? 

Evad.  As  one  that,  to  fulfil  your  pleasure", 
I  have  given  leave  to  call  me  wife  and  love. 

King.  I  see  there  is  no  lasting  faith  in  sin ; 
They  that  break  word  with  Heaven  will  break  again 
'With  all  the  world,  and  so  dost  thou  with  me. 

Evad.  How,  sir  I 

King.  This  subtle  woman's  ignorance 
Will  not  excuse  you :  thou  hast  taken  oaths. 
So  great,  methought,  they  did  not  well  become 
A  woman's  mouth,  that  thou  wouldst  ne'er  enjoy 
A  man  but  me. 

Evad.  I  never  did  swear  so  ; 
You  do  me  wrong. 

King.  Day  and  night  have  heard  it. 

Evad.  T  swore  indeed  that  I  would  never  love 
A  man  of  lower  place  ;  but,  if  your  fortune 
Should  throw  you  from  this  height,  I  bade  you  trust 
I  would  forsake  you,  and  would  bend  to  him 
That  won  your  throne  :  I  love  with  my  ambition, 
Not  with  my  eyes.     But,  if  I  ever  yet 
Touch'd  any  other,  leprosy  light  here 
Upon  my  face  !  which  for  your  royalty 
I  would  not  stain. 

-your  pleasure]  So  4to  1619.     Later  eds.,  "  your  v.ill  and  pleasure''  ;  and 
so  tlie  modern  editors,  Theobald  excepted. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  367 

King.    Why,  thou  dissemblest,  and 
It  is  in  me  to  punish  thee. 

Evad.  Why,  it  is  in  me. 
Then,  not  to  love  you,  which  will  more  afflict 
Your  body  than  your  punishment  can  mine. 

King.  But  thou  hast  let  Amintor  lie  with  thee. 

Evad.  I  have  not. 

King.  Impudence  !  he  says  himself  so. 

Evad.  He  lies. 

King.  He  does  not. 

Evad.  By  this  light,  he  does, 
Strangely  and  basely  !  and  I'll  prove  it  so  : 
I  did  not  only''  shun  him  for  a  night, 
But  told  him  I  w^ould  never  close  with  him. 

King.  Speak  lower  ;  it  is  false. 

Evad.  I  am  no  man 
To  answer  with  a  blow  ;  or,  if  I  were, 
You  are  the  King.     But  urge  me  not ;   'tis  most  true. 

King.  Do  not  I  know  the  uncontrolled  thoughts 
That  youth  brings  with  him,  when  his  blood  is  high 
With  expectation  and  desire  of  that 
He  long  hath  waited  for  I     Is  not  his  spirit. 
Though  he  be  temperate,  of  a  valiant  strain 
As  this  our  age  hath  known  ?     What  could  he  do, 
If  such  a  sudden  speech  had  met  his  blood. 
But  ruin  thee  for  ever,  if  he  had  not  kill'd  thee  ? 
He  could  not  bear  it  thus  "■" :  he  is  as  we, 
Or  any  other  wrong'd  man. 

Evad.  It  is  dissembling. 

"  only']  So  4tos  1619,  1622,  1630,  1638.   Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the 
modern  editors,  Theobald  excepted. 

"  But  ruin  thee  for  ever,  if  he  had  not  kill'd  thee  .? 

He  could  not  bear  it  thus  :]  So  Mason  rightly  points  the  passage.  "  The 
King,"  he  says,  "  tells  Evadne  that  he  could  not  believe  she  had  ventured  to 
tell  her  husband  that  she  would  never  close  with  him,  as  she  expresses  it  ;  for 
that  if  such  a  declaration  had  been  made  to  Amintor  in  his  heat  of  blood,  he 
would  certainly  have  ruined  her  for  ever,  that  is,  maimed  or  defaced  her,  if  he 
did  not  kill  her.  He  could  not  suppose  that  Amintor  would  bear  such  an  injury 
with  so  much  temper,  as  he  had  the  same  feelings  that  the  King  himself  would 
have,  or  any  other  man  that  was  so  wronged." 


3(;8  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  in. 

King.  Take  him  !  farewell :  henceforth  I  am  thy  foe  ; 
And  what  disgraces  I  can  blot  thee  with  look  for. 

Evad.  Stay,  sir  !— Auiintor  !— You  shall  hear.— Amintor  ! 

Amin.  [coming  forivard.']  What,  my  love  ? 

Evad.  Amintor,  thou  hast  an  ingenious''  look, 
And  shouldst  be  virtuous  :  it  amazeth  me 
That  thou  canst  make  such  base  malicious  lies  ! 

Amin.  What,  my  dear  wife  ? 

Evad.  Dear  wife  !  I  do  despise  thee. 
Why,  nothing  can  be  baser  than  to  sow 
Dissention 'amongst  lovers. 

Amin.  Lovers  !  who  ? 

Evad.  The  King  and  me— 

Amin.  Oh,  heaven >' ! 

Evad.  Who  should  live  long,  and  love  without  distaste, 
Were  it  not  for  such  pickthanks  as  thyself. 
Did  you  lie  with  me  ?  swear  now,  and  be  punish\l 
In  hell  for  this  ! 

Amin.  The  faithless  sin  I  made 
To  fair  Aspatia  is  not  yet  revengM  ; 
It  follows  me. — I  will  not  lose  a  word 
To  this  vild^  woman  ;  but  to  you,  my  king, 
The  anguish  of  my  soul  thrusts  out  this  truth, 
You  are  a  tyrant !  and  not  so  much  to  wrong 
An  honest  man  thus,  as  to  take  a  pride 
In  talking  with  him  of  it. 

Evad.  Now,  sir,  see 
How  loud  this  fellow  lied  ! 

Awiu.  You  that  can  know  to  wrong,  should  know  how  men 
Must  right  themselves.     What  punishment  is  due 
From  me  to  him  that  shall  abuse  my  bed  ? 
Is  it"  not  death  ■   nor  can  that  satisfy, 

»  ingenioiu'j^  Altered  \jy  the  modern  editoi-s  to  "  ingenuous."  But  there  is  no 
misiirint  here  :  that  ingenious  and  ingenuity  were  formerly  used  for  ingenuous 
and  ingenuousness  appears  from  innumerable  passages  of  our  early  writers. 

y  heaven}  Weber  unnecessarily  gave  the  reading  of  the  two  earliest  4t08 
"  God." 

'  wi/rf]  Old  cds.  "  wild," — which  Theobald  absurdly  retained;  his  successors 
gave  "  vile."     See  note  p.  331. 

•  Is  «■/]  A  correction  by  the  Editors  of  1778.     Old  eds.,  "  It  is." 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY,  369 

Unless  I  send  your  limbs ''  through  all  the  land, 
To  shew  how  nobly  I  have  freed  myself. 

King.  Draw  not  thy  sword  ;   thou  know'st  I  cannot  fear 
A  subject's  hand ;  but  thou  shalt  feel  the  weight 
Of  this,  if  thou  dost  rage. 

Amin.  The  weight  of  that ! 
If  you  have  any  worth,  for  heaven's  sake,  think 
I  fear  not  swords  ;  for,  as  you  are  mere  man, 
I  dare  as  easily  kill  you  for  this  deed, 
As  you  dare  think  to  do  it.     But  there  is  *" 
Divinity  about  you,  that  strikes  dead 
My  rising  passions  :  as  you  are  my  king, 
I  fall  before  you,  and  present  my  sword 
To  cut  mine  own  flesh,  if  it  be  your  will. 
Alas,  I  am  nothing  but  a  multitude 
Of  walking  griefs  !     Yet,  should  I  murder  you, 
I  might  before  the  world  take  the  excuse 
Of  madness ;  for,  compare  my  injuries, 
And  they  will  well  appear  too  sad  a  weight 
For  reason  to  endure  :  but,  fall  I  first 
Amongst  my  sorrows,  ere  my  treacherous  hand 
Touch  holy  things  !     But  why  (I  know  not  what 
I  have  to  say),  why  did  you  choose  out  me 
To  make  thus  wretched  ?  there  were  thousand  fools 

•»  limbs'^  Sympson's  correction.  Old  eds.  "  liues  "  and  "lives", — doubtless 
a  misprint  for  " /iws."  Yet  the  Editors  of  1778  follow  the  old  eds.,  and 
inform  us  that  "  To  send  their  lives  through  all  the  land,  means,  to  send  an 
account  through  the  land  of  their  vicious  mode  of  life  and  criminal  connection"! 
Compare  Amintor's  speech  at  p.  353 ; 

"  let  me  know  the  man  that  wrongs  me  so. 
That  I  may  cut  his  body  into  motes, 
And  scatter  it  before  the  northern  wind." 

•^  But  there  is 

Divinity  about  you,  that  strikes  dead 

My   rising  passions']    "So   Shakespeare  said,    before   our   poets,   in   his 
Hamlet : 

'  Let  him  go,  Gertrude  ;  do  not  fear  our  person  ; 
There's  such  divinity  doth  hedge  a  king, 
That  treason  can  but  peep  to  what  it  would. 
Acts  little  of  his  will.'  "     Theobald. 
VOL.  I.  BR 


370  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iii. 

Easy  to  work  on,  and  of  state  enough, 
Within  the  island. 

Evad.  I  would  not  have  a  fool ; 
It  were  no  credit  for  me. 

Amin.  Worse  and  worse  ! 
Thou,  that  dar'st  talk  unto  thy  husband  thus, 
Profess  thyself  a  whore,  and,  more  than  so. 

Resolve  to  be  so  still  ! It  is  my  fate 

To  bear  and  bow  beneath  a  thousand  griefs, 

To  keep  that  little  credit  with  the  world. — 

But  there  were  wise  ones  too  ;  you  might  have  ta'en 

Another. 

Khuj.  No  ;  for  I  beUevd ^  thee  honest. 
As  thou  wert  valiant. 

Amin.  All  the  happiness 
Bestow'd  upon  me  turns  into  disgrace. 
Gods,  take  your  honesty  again,  for  I 
Am  loaden  with  it ! — Good  my  lord  the  King, 
Be  private  in  it. 

King.  Thou  mayst  live,  Amintor, 
Free  as  thy  king,  if  thou  wilt  wink  at  this. 
And  be  a  means  that  we  may  meet  in  secret. 

Amin.  A  bawd  !     Hold,  hold,  my  breast  !     A  bitter  curse 
Seize  me,  if  I  forget  not  all  respects 
That  are  religious,  on  another  word 
Sounded  like  that ;  and  through  a  sea  of  sins 
Will  wade  to  my  revenge,  though  I  should  call 
Pains  here  and  after  life  upon  my  soul  ! 

King.  Well,  I  am  resolute  *^  you  lay  not  with  her  ; 
And  80  I  leave  you.  \^Exit. 

Evad.  You  must  needs  be  prating  ; 
And  see  what  follows  ! 

Amin.  Prithee,  vex  me  not : 

''  beitev'd]  Old  eds.  "believe"  :  but  the  slight  alteration  which  I  have 
made  seems  absolutely  necessary.  Theobald  endeavoured  to  rectify  the 
inconsistency  of  the  speech  by  printing  "  ai't  "  instead  of  "  wert "  in  the  next 
line. 

*  I  am  resolute')^  i.  e.  "  1  am  convinced. "     Mason. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAIDS  TRAGEDY.  371 

Leave  me ;  I  am  afraid  some  sudden  start 
Will  pull  a  murder  on  me. 

Evad.  I  am  gone ; 
I  love  my  life  well.  [£x?Y. 

Amin.  I  hate  mine  as  much. 
This  'tis  to  break  a  troth  !     I  should  be  glad, 
If  all  this  tide  of  grief  would  make  me  mad.  [Exit. 


SCENE  U.—A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Melantius. 
Mel.  ril  know  the  cause  of  all  Amintor's  griefs. 
Or  friendship  shall  be  idle. 

Enter  Calianax. 

Cal.  Oh,  Melantius, 
My  daughter  will  die  ! 

Mel.  Trust  me,  I  am  sorry  : 
Would  thou  hadst  ta'en  her  room  I 

Cal.  Thou  art  a  slave, 
A  cut-throat  slave,  a  bloody  treacherous  slave  ! 

Mel.  Take  heed,  old  man ;  thou  wilt  be  heard  to  rave, 
And  lose  thine  offices. 

Cal.  I  am  vahant  gro\^Ti 
At  all  these  years,  and  thou  art  but  a  slave  ! 

Mel.  Leave  ! 
Some  company  will  come,  and  I  respect 
Thy  years,  not  thee,  so  much,  that  I  could  wish 
To  laugh  at  thee  alone. 

Cal.  rU  spoil  your  mirth  : 
I  mean  to  fight  with  thee.     There  he.  my  cloak. 
This  was  my  father's  sword,  and  he  durst  fight. 
Are  you  prepar  d  I 

[^T/iroics  doicn  his  cloak,  and  draws  his  sicord. 

Mel.  Why  wilt  thou  dote  thyself 
Out  of  thy  life  ?     Hence,  get  thee  to  bed  * ; 

'  to  bed'\  Theobald  prints,  for  the  sake  of  the  verse,  "  to  thy  bed." 
B  B  2 


372  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [xar  in. 

Have  careful  looking-to,  and  eat  warm  things,' 
And  trouble  not  me  :  my  head  is  full  of  thoughts 
More  weighty  than  thy  life  or  death  can  be. 

Cal.  You  have  a  name  in  war,  where  you  stand  safe 
Amongst  a  multitude ;  but  I  mil  try 
What  you  dare  do  unto  a  weak  old  man 
In  single  fight.     You  wAW  give  ground,  I  fear. 
Come,  draw. 

Mel.  I  will  not  draw,  unless  thou  pulFst  thy  death 
Upon  thee  with  a  stroke.     There's  no  one  blow 
That  thou  canst  give  hath  strength  enough  to  kill  me. 
Tempt  me  not  so  far,  then :  the  power  of  earth 
Shall  not  redeem  thee. 

Cal.  I  must  let  him  alone  ; 
He's  stout  and  able  ;  and,  to  say  the  truth. 
However  I  may  set  a  face  and  talk, 
I  am  not  vaUant.     When  1  was  a  youth, 
I  kept  my  credit  %vith  a  testy  trick 
T  liad  'mongst  cowards,  but  durst  never  fight.  [Aside. 

Mel.  I  will  not  promise  to  preserve  your  life. 
If  you  do  stay. 

Cal.  I  would  give  half  my  land 
That  I  durst  fight  with  that  proud  man  a  little  : 
If  I  had  men  to  hold  him,  I  would  beat  him 
Till  he  ask'd  rae  mercy.  [Aside. 

Mel.  Sir,  mil  you  be  gone  I 

Cal.  I  dare  not  stay ;  but  I  will  go  home,  and  beat 
My  servants  all  over  for  this. 

\_  Aside — takes  up  his  cloak,  sheat/is  his  sicord,  and  exit. 

Mel.  This  old  fellow  haunts  me. 
But  the  distracted  carriage  of  mine  Amintor 
Takes  deeply  on  me.     I  will  find  the  cause : 
I  fear  his  conscience  cries,  he  wrongM  Aspatia. 

Enter  Amintor. 

Amin.  Men's  eyes  are  not  so  subtle  to  perceive 
My  inward  misery  :   1  bear  my  grief 
Hid  from  the  world.     How  art  thou  wretched  then  ? 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  373 

For  aught  I  know,  all  husbands  are  like  me ; 

And  every  one  I  talk  with  of  his  wife 

Is  but  a  well  dissembler  of  his  woes, 

As  I  am.     Would  I  knew  it !  for  the  rareness 

Afflicts  me  now.  [Aside. 

Mel.  Amintor,  we  have  not  enjoy'd  our  friendship  of  late, 
For  we  were  wont  to  change  ^  our  souls  in  talk. 

Amin.  Melantius,  I  can  tell  thee  a  good  jest 
Of  Strato  and  a  lady  the  last  day. 

Mel.  How  was''t  ? 

Amin.  Why,  such  an  odd  one  ! 

Mel.  I  have  longM  to  speak  with  you  ; 
Not  of  an  idle  jest,  that's  forced,  but 
Of  matter  you  are  bound  to  utter  to  me. 

Amin.  What  is  that,  my  friend  ? 

Mel.  I  have  observ'd  your  words 
Fall  from  your  tongue  wildly ;  and  all  your  carriage 
Like  one  that  strove  to  shew  his  merry  mood, 
When  he  were  ill-dispos'd :  you  were  not  wont 
To  put  such  scorn  into  your  speech,  or  wear 
Upon  your  face  ridiculous  jollity. 
Some  sadness  sits  here,  which  your  cunning  would 
Cover  o'er  with  smiles,  and  't^\^ll  not  be.     What  is  it  ? 

Amin.  A  sadness  here  ^ !  what  cause 
Can  fate  provide  for  me  to  make  me  so  ? 
Am  I  not  lov'd  through  all  this  isle  ?     The  King 
Rains  greatness  on  me.     Have  I  not  received 
A  lady  to  my  bed,  that  in  her  eye 
Keeps  mounting  fire,  and  on  her  tender  cheeks 

g  change]  Old  eds.  "  charge  ".—"  This  is  flat  nonsense  by  the  mistake  of  a 
single  letter.  The  slight  alteration  I  have  made  gives  us  the  true  meanmg. 
So  in  A  King  and  no  King  •• 

'  or  for  honesty  to  interchange  my  bosom  with'  &c. 

And  again, 

'  And  then  how  dare  you  offer  to  change  u^ords  with  her?' 
Mr.  Seward  and  Mr.  Sympson  concurred  with  me  in  starting  this  emenda- 
tion."    Theobald, 

^  A  sadness  here  &c.]  I  have  little  doubt  that  the  author  wrote, 
"  A  sadness  here,  Melantius  !  what  cause ' '  &c. 


;.-4  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iii. 

Inevitable '  colour,  in  her  heart 
A  prison  for  all  virtue  ?     Are  not  you, 
^Vhich  is  above  all  joys,  my  constant  friend  ? 
What  sadness  can  I  have  ?     No  ;  I  am  liojht, 
And  feel  the  courses  of  my  blood  more  warm 
And  stirring  than  they  were.     Faith,  marry  too ; 
And  you  will  feel  so  unexpress'd  a  joy 
In  chaste  embraces,  that  you  will  indeed 
Appear  another. 

Mel.  You  may  shape,  Amintor, 
Causes  to  cozen  the  whole  world  withal, 
And  yourself  too  ;  but  'tis  not  like  a  friend 
To  hide  your  soul  from  me.     'Tis  not  your  nature 
To  be  thus  idle  :  I  have  seen  you  stand 
As  you  were  blasted  'midst  of  all  your  mirth  ; 
Call  thrice  aloud,  and  then  start,  feigning  joy 
So  coldly  !— AVorld,  what  do  I  here  ?  a  friend 
Is  nothing.     Heaven,  I  would  have  told  that  man 
My  secret  sins  !     I'll  search  an  unknown  land. 
And  there  plant  friendship  ;  all  is  wither'd  here. 
Come  with  a  compliment  !     I  would  have  fought. 
Or  told  my  friend  he  lied,  ere  sooth'd  him  so. 
Out  of  my  bosom ! 

Amin.  But  there  is  nothing. 

Mel.  Worse  and  worse  !  farewell : 
From  this  time  have  acquaintance,  but  no  friend. 

i  Inevitable]  So  aU  the  old  eds.,  except  4to.  1619,  which  has  «  Immutable." 
Theobald  printed  "  Inimitable  "  ;  the  editors  of  1778  "  Immutable  "  ;  Weber 
"  Inevitable". 

"  Inevitable  means  not  only  unavoidable,  but  irresistible  ;  in  which  last  sense 
the  word  is  used  here.     So  Drjdcn,  in  liis  tale  of  Palamon  and  Arcite,  says  : 
<  But  even  that  glimmering  serv'd  him  to  descry 
Th'  inevitable  charms  of  Emily.' 
The  word  inevitable  in  Latin  had  the  same  import,  as  we  find  from  the  follow- 
ing i)ai4sago   in   the   first    Annal   of  Tacitus  :    '  Sed    Marcellum   insimulabat 
[CrisjiinuH]  sinistros  de  Tiberio  sermones  habuisse  :  inevitabile  crimen,  cum 
px  moribuH  principLs  foedissima  quajque  deligeret  accusator,  objectaretque  reo.' 
It  is  e\ident  in  this  passage  that  inevitabile  crimen  does  not  mean  an  accusation 
that  could  not  have  been  prevented,  but  one  from  which,  when  preferred,  it 
was  impossible  to  escape."     Mvson. 


SCENE  11.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  375 

Amin.  Melantius,  stay :  you  shall  Icnow  what  that  ^  is. 

Mel.  See,  how  you  playM  with  friendship  !  be  advis'd 
How  you  give  cause  unto  yourself  to  say 
You  have  lost  a  friend. 

Amin.  Forgive  what  I  have  done  ; 
For  I  am  so  o'ergone  with  injuries 
Unheard  of,  that  I  lose  consideration 
Of  what  I  ought  to  do.     Oh,  oh  ! 

Mel.  Do  not  weep. 
What  is  it  I     May  I  once  but  know  the  man 
Hath  turn'd  my  friend  thus  ! 

Amin.  I  had  spoke  at  first, 
But  that 

Mel  But  what? 

Amin.  I  held  it  most  unfit 
For  you  to  know.     Faith,  do  not  know  it  yet. 

Mel.  Thou  see'st  my  love,  that  will  keep  company 
With  thee  in  tears ;  hide  nothing,  then,  from  me ; 
For  when  I  know  the  cause  of  thy  distemper, 
With  mine  old  armour  I'll  adorn  myself, 
My  resolution,  and  cut  through  thy ''  foes. 
Unto  thy  quiet,  till  I  place  thy  heart 
As  peaceable  as  spotless  innocence. 
What  is  it  \ 

Amin.  Why,  'tis  this it  is  too  big 

To  get  out let  my  tears  make  way  awhile. 

Mel.  Punish  me  strangely,  Heaven,  if  he  escape 
Of  life  or  fame,  that  brought  this  youth  to  this  ! 

Amin.  Your  sister 

Mel.  Well  said. 

Amin.  You  will  wish't  unknown, 
When  you  have  heard  it. 

Mel  No. 

Amin.  Is  much  to  blame. 
And  to  the  King  has  given  her  honour  up, 
And  lives  in  whoredom  with  him. 

J  thati  So  all  the  old  eds.  :  yet  the  modern  editors  give  "  it." 
'^  thy'\  Weber  prints  "  my  "  ! 


376  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  mi. 

Mel.  How  is  this  ? 
Thou  art  run  mad  with  injury  indeed  ; 
Thou  couldst  not  utter  this  else.     Speak  again ; 
For  I  forgive  it  freely  ;  tell  thy  griefs. 

Amin.  She's  wanton ;  I  am  loath  to  say,  a  whore, 
Though  it  be  true. 

Mel.  Speak  yet  again,  before  mine  anger  grow 
Up  beyond  tlu'owing  down  :  what  arc  thy  griqfs  ? 

Amin.  By  all  our  friendship,  these. 

Mel.  What,  am  I  tame  ? 
After  mine  actions,  shall  the  name  of  friend 
Blot  all  our  family,  and  stick  the  brand 
Of  whore  upon  my  sister,  unreveng'd  ? 
My  shaking  flesh,  be  thou  a  witness  for  me. 
With  what  unwillingness  I  go  to  scourge 
This  railer,  whom  my  folly  hath  calFd  friend  ! — 
I  will  not  take  thee  basely  :  thy  sword         [^Draivs  his  sword. 
Hangs  near  thy  hand ;  draw  it,  that  I  may  whip 
Thy  rashness  to  repentance ;  draw  thy  sword  ! 

Amin.  Not  on  thee,  did  thine  anger  swell  as  high 
As  the  wild  surges.     Thou  shouldst  do  me  ease 
Here  and  eternally,  if  thy  noble  hand 
Would  cut  me  from  my  sorrows. 

Mel.  This  is  base 
And  fearful.     They  that  use  to  utter  hes 
Provide  not  blows  but  words  to  qualify 
The  men  they  wronged.     Thou  hast  a  guilty  cause. 

Amin.  Thou  pleasest  me ;  for  so  much  more  like  this 
Will  raise  my  anger  up  above  my  griefs, 
(^V'hich  is  a  passion  easier  to  be  borne,) 
And  I  shall  then  be  happy. 

Mel.  Take,  then,  more 
To  raise  thine  anger  :  'tis  mere  cowardice 
Makes  thee  not  draw  ;  and  I  will  leave  thee  dead, 
However.     But  if  thou  art  so  much  press'd 
With  guilt  and  fear  as  not  to  dare  to  fight, 
I'll  make  thy  memory  loath VI,  and  fix  a  scandal 
Upon  thy  name  for  ever. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  377 

Amin.   \^Dr awing  his  sicord.]   Then  I  draw, 
As  justly  as  our  magistrates  their  swords 
To  cut  offenders  off.     I  knew  before 
""Twould  grate  your  ears  ;  but  it  was  base  in  you 
To  urge  a  weighty  secret  from  your  friend, 
And  then  rage  at  it.     I  shall  be  at  ease, 
If  I  be  kill'd  ;  and,  if  you  fall  by  me, 
I  shall  not  long  outlive  you. 

Mel  Stay  awhile. — 
The  name  of  friend  is  more  than  family. 
Or  all  the  world  besides  :   I  was  a  fool. 
Thou  searching  human  nature,  that  didst  wake 
To  do  me  wrong,  thou  art  inquisitive, 
And  thrusts  me  upon  questions  that  will  take 
My  sleep  away  !     Would  I  had  died,  ere  known 
This  sad  dishonour  ! — Pardon  me,  my  friend. 

[Sheaths  his  stooi'd. 
If  thou  wilt  strike,  here  is  a  faithful  heart ; 
Pierce  it,  for  I  will  never  heave  my  hand 
To  thine.     Behold  the  power  thou  hast  in  me  ! 
I  do  believe  my  sister  is  a  whore, 
A  leprous  one.     Put  up  thy  sword,  young  man. 

Amin.  How  should  I  bear  it,  then,  she  being  so  ? 
I  fear,  my  friend,  that  you  will  lose  me  shortly  ; 

[Sheaths  his  sioord. 
And  I  shall  do  a  foul  act  on  myself 
Through  these  disgraces. 

Mel.  Better  half  the  land 
Were  buried  quick '  together.     No,  Amintor ; 
Thou  shalt  have  ease.     Oh,  this  adulterous  king. 
That  drew  her  to  it !  where  got  he  the  spirit 
To  wrong  me  so  \ 

Amin.  What  is  it,  then,  to  me, 
If  it  be  wrong  to  you  ? 

Mel.  Why,  not  so  much  : 
The  credit  of  our  house  is  thrown  away. 

'  quick']  i.  e.  alive. 


378  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  hi. 

But  from  his  iron  den  I'll  waken  Death, 
And  hurl  him  on  this  king  :  my  honesty 
Shall  steel  my  sword  ;   and  on  its  horrid  point 
ril  wear  my  cause,  that  shall  amaze  the  eyes 
Of  this  proud  man,  and  be  too  glittering 
For  him  to  look  on. 

Amin.  I  have  quite™  undone  my  fame. 

Mel.  Dry  up  thy  watery  eyes, 
And  cast  a  manly  look  upon  my  face  ; 
For  nothing  is  so  wild  as  I  thy  friend 
Till  I  have  freed  thee  :   still  this  swelling  breast. 
I  go  thus  from  thee,  and  will  never  cease 
My  vengeance  till  1  find  thy  heart  at  peace. 

Amin.  It  must  not  be  so.     Stay.     Mine  eyes  would  tell 
How  loath  I  am  to  this  ;  but,  love  and  tears. 
Leave  me  awhile  !  for  I  have  hazarded 
All  that  this  world  calls  happy. — Thou  hast  wrought 
A  secret  from  me,  under  name  of  friend, 
Which  art  could  ne''er  have  found,  nor  tortiu'e  wrung 
From  out  my  bosom.     Give  it  me  again  ; 
For  I  will  find  it,  wheresoe''er  it  lies, 
Hid  in  the  mortaPst  part  :  invent  a  way 
To  give  it  back. 

Md.   ^^^ly  would  you  have  it  back  ? 
I  will  to  death  pursue  him  with  revenge. 

Amin.  Therefore  I  call  it  back  from  thee ;  for  I  know 
Thy  blood  so  high,  that  thou  wilt  stir  in  this. 
And  shame  me  to  posterity.     Take  to  thy  weapon. 

[Draws  his  sicord. 

Mel.  Hear  thy  friend,  that  bears  more  years  than  thou. 

Amin.  I  will  not  hear  :  but  draw,  or  I 

Mel.  A  mint  or  ! 

Amin.    Draw,  then  ;  for  I  am  full  as  resolute 

""  /  have  quite  &c.]  Theobald  here   (as  in  fifty  other  places)  silently  en- 
deavours to  restore  the  verse  : 

"Amin.  I  have  quite  undone 
My  fame. 

Mel.   Dry  up  thy  watery  ryes  awhile." 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  379 

As  fame  and  honour  can  enforce  me  be  : 
I  cannot  linger.     Draw  ! 

Mel.  [Draicinp  his  sicoj-d.]  I  do.     But  is  not 
My  share  of  credit  equal  with  thine  ", 
If  I  do  stir  ? 

Aniin.  No  ;  for  it  will  be  call'd 
Honour  in  thee  to  spill  thy  sister's  blood, 
If  she  her  birth  abuse,  and  on  the  King 
A  brave  revenge ;  but  on  me,  that  have  walkM 
With  patience  in  it,  it  will  fix  the  name 
Of  fearful  cuckold.     Oh,  that  word  !     Be  quick. 

Mel.  Then,  join  with  me. 

Amin.  I  dare  not  do  a  sin,  or  else  I  would. 
Be  speedy. 

Mel.  Then,  dare  not  fight  with  me  ;  for  that's  a  sin. — 
His  grief  distracts  him. — Call  thy  thoughts  again. 
And  to  thyself  pronounce  the  name  of  friend. 
And  see  what  that  will  work.     I  will  not  fight. 

Amin.  You  must. 

Mel.  [Sheathinf/  his  sivorcl]  I  will  be  killM  first.     Though 
my  passions 
Offered  the  like  to  you,  'tis  not  this  earth 
Shall  buy  my  reason  to  it.     Think  awhile, 
For  you  are  (I  must  weep  when  I  speak  that) 
Almost  besides  yourself. 

Amin.  [Sheathing  his  sivord.J  Oh,  my  soft  temper  ! 
So  many  sweet  words  from  thy  sister's  mouth, 
I  am  afraid  would  make  me  take  her  to 
Embrace,  and  pardon  her.     I  am  mad  indeed. 
And  know  not  what  I  do.     Yet  have  a  care 
Of  me  in  what  thou  dost. 

Mel.  Why,  thinks  my  friend 
I  will  forget  his  honour  ?  or,  to  save 
The  bravery  of  our  house,  will  lose  his  fame, 
And  fear  to  touch  the  throne  of  majesty  ? 

Amin.  A  curse  will  follow  that ;  but  rather  live 
And  suffer  with  me. 

"  thine]   Probably  the  poet  wrote  "  tkine  own."     Theobald  printed  "—equal 
then  with  thine.'' 


nso  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  in, 

Mel.  I  will  do  what  worth 
Shall  bid  mc,  and  no  more. 

Amin.  Faith,  I  am  sick, 
And  desperately,  I  hope  ;  yet,  leaning  thus, 
I  feel  a  kind  of  ease. 

Mel.  Come,  take  again 
Your  mirth  about  you. 

Amin.  I  shall  never  do't. 

Mel.  I  warrant  you  ;  look  up  ;  we'll  walk  together  ; 
Put  thine  arm  here  ;  all  shall  be  well  again. 

Amin.  Thy  love  (oh,  wretched  !),  ay,  thy  love,  Melantius ; 
Why,  I  have  nothing  else. 

Mel.  Be  merry,  then.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Melantius. 
Mel.  This  worthy  young  man  may  do  violence 
Upon  liimself ;  but  I  have  cherishM  him 
To  my  best  power,  and  sent  him  smiling  from  me, 
To  counterfeit  again.     Sword,  hold  thine  edge  ; 
My  heart  will  never  fail  me. 

Enter  Diphilus. 

Diphilus  ! 
Thou  com'st  as  sent  ^. 

Diph.  Yonder  has  been  such  laughing. 

Mel.  Betwixt  whom  I 

Diph.  Why,  our  sister  and  the  King  ; 
I  thought  their  spleens  p  would  break  ;  they  laugh'd  us  all 
Out  of  the  room. 

Mel.  They  must  weep,  Diphilus. 

Diph.  Must  they  ? 

Mel.  They  must. 
Thou  art  my  brother  ;  and,  if  I  did  believe 
Thou  hadst  a  base  thought,  I  would  rip  it  out. 
Lie  where  it  durst. 

"  as  sent^  "  That  Ls,  as  if  you  were  sent  on  purpose.  Theobald  censures 
this  expression  as  r.bscure  ;  but  tlie  word  as  is  frequently  used  by  our  author[s] 
in  the  sense  of  an  if.'''     Mason. 

f  apleenx]  Sec  note,  p.  15-1. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  381 

Diph.  You  should  not ;  I  would  first 
Mangle  myself  and  find  it. 

Mel.  That  was  spoke 
According  to  our  strain.     Come,  join  thy  hands  to  mine  "^^ 
And  swear  a  firmness  to  what  project  I 
Shall  lay  before  thee. 

Diph.  You  do  wrong  us  both  : 
People  hereafter  shall  not  say,  there  pass'd 
A  bond,  more  than  our  loves,  to  tie  our  lives 
And  deaths  together. 

Mel.  It  is  as  nobly  said  as  I  would  wish. 
Anon  ril  tell  you  wonders  :  we  are  wrongM, 

Diph.  But  I  will  tell  you  now,  we'll  right  ourselves. 

Mel.  Stay  not :  prepare  the  armour  in  my  house ; 
And  what  friends  you  can  draw  unto  our  side, 
Not  knowing  of  the  cause,  make  ready  too. 
Haste,  Diphilus,  the  time  requires  it,  haste  ! — 

\^Exit  Diphilus. 
I  hope  my  cause  is  just ;  I  know  my  blood 
Tells  me  it  is  ;  and  I  will  credit  it. 
To  take  revenge,  and  lose  myself  withal. 
Were  idle  ;  and  to  scape  impossible. 
Without  I  had  the  fort,  which  (misery  !) 
Remaining  in  the  hands  of  my  old  enemy 
Calianax but  I  must  have  it.     See, 

Re-enter  Calianax. 

Where  he  comes  shaking  by  me  ! — Good  my  lord. 
Forget  your  spleen  to  me  ;  I  never  wrong'd  you. 
But  would  have  peace  with  every  man. 

Cal.  'Tis  well ; 
If  I  durst  fight,  your  tongue  would  lie  at  quiet. 

Mel.  You're  touchy  without  all  cause. 

Cal.  Do,  mock  me. 

Mel.  By  mine  honour,  I  speak  truth. 

1  to  mine]    These  words,  which  are  found  in  all  the  old  eds.  except  4to 
1619,  were  omitted  (perhaps  rightly)  by  Theobald. 


382  THE  MAIDS  TRAGEDY.  [act  hi. 

Cal.  Honour  !  where  is  it  ? 

Mel.  See,  what  starts  you  make 
Into  your  idle '  hatred,  to  my  love 
And  freedom  to  you.     I  come  with  resolution 
To  obtain  a  suit  of  you. 

Cal.  A  suit  of  me  ! 
'Tis  very  like  it  should  be  granted,  sir. 

Mel.  Nay,  go  not  hence  : 
'Tis  this  ;  you  have  the  keeping  of  the  fort. 
And  I  would  wish  you,  by  the  love  you  ought 
To  bear  unto  me,  to  dehver  it 
Into  my  hands. 

Cal.  I  am  in  hope  thou  art  mad 
To  talk  to  me  thus. 

Mel.  But  there  is  a  reason 
To  move  you  to  it :  I  would  kill  the  King, 
That  wrongM  you  and  your  daughter. 

Cal.  Out,  traitor  ! 

Mel  Nay, 
But  stay  ;  I  cannot  scape,  the  deed  once  done, 
Without  I  have  this  fort. 

Cal.  And  should  I  help  thee  ? 
Now  thy  treacherous  mind  betrays  itself. 

Mel.  Come,  delay  me  not ; 
Give  me  a  sudden  answer,  or  already 
Thy  last  is  spoke  !  refuse  not  offered  love, 
When  it  comes  clad  in  secrets. 

Cal.  If  I  say 
I  will  not.  he  will  kill  me ;  I  do  see't 
Writ  in  his  looks  ;  and  should  I  say  I  will, 
Hf'll  run  and  toll  the  King.   [^/Iside.^ — I  do  not  shun 
Your  friendship,  dear  Melantius ;  but  this  cause 
Is  weighty  :  give  mo  but  an  hour  to  think. 

Mel.  Take  it.— I  know  tliis  goes  unto  the  King; 
Hut  I  am  ann'd.  [Aside,  and  exit. 

'  idle]  So  4to  1619.  Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the  modern  editors,— 
Theobald  excepted,  who  here,  as  elsewhere,  takes  intolerable  liberties  with  the 
text. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  383 

Cal.  Methinks  I  feel  myself 
But  twenty  now  again.     This  fighting  fool 
Wants  policy  :   I  shall  revenge  my  girl, 
And  make  her  red  again.     I  pray  my  legs 
Will  last  that  pace  that  I  will  carry  them  : 
I  shall  want  breath  before  I  find  the  King.  \^Exit. 


ACT    IV. 

Scene  I. — The  Apartment  of  Evadne. 


EvADNE  and  Ladies  discovered.     Enter  Melantios. 

Mel.  Save  you  ! 

Evad.  Save  you,  sweet  brother  ! 

Mel  In  my  blunt  eye,  methinks,  you  look  Evadne  \ 

Evad.  Come,  you  would  *  make  me  blush. 

Mel.  I  would,  Evadne  ;   I  shall  displease  my  ends  else. 

Evad.  You  shall,  if  you  commend  "  me ;   I  am  bashful. 
Come,  sir,  how  do  I  look  I 

Mel.  I  would  not  have  your  women  hear  me 
Break  into  commendation  of  you ;  'tis  not  seemly. 

Evad.  Go  wait  me  in  the  gallery.  [Exeunt  Ladies. 

Now  speak. 

Mel.  I'll  lock  the  door  first. 

Evad.  Why? 

Mel.  I  will  not  have  your  gilded  things,  that  dance 
In  visitation  with  their  Milan  skins "', 
Choke  up  my  business. 

5    In  my  blunt  eye,   methinks,  you   look   Evadne]    The   modern   editors, 
strangely  misunderstanding  the  Ime,  exhibit  it  thus  : 

"  In  my  blunt  eye,  methinks,  you  look,  Evadne — " 

'  would]  Weber  chose  to  print "  will "  ! 

"  commend]  Theobald's  correction  ;  which,  as  he  observes,  is  confirmed  by 
what  Melantius  immediately  subjoins.     Old  eds.  "  command." 

"  Milan  skins']  Mentioned  again  in  Valentinian,  act  ii.  sc.  2., — are  suppos 
by  Nares  to  mean  "fine  gloves  manufactured  at  Milan."     Gloss,  in  v. 


384  THE  MAID'S  TRArxEDV.  [act  iv. 

Evad.  You  are  strangely  disposed,  sir. 

Mel.  Good  madam,  not  to  make  you  merry. 

Evad.  No  ;  if  you  praise  me,  it  will  make  me  sad. 

Mel.  Such  a  sad  commendation  I  have  for  you. 

Evad.  Brother, 
The  court  hath  made  you  witty,  and  learn  to  riddle. 

Mel.  I  praise  the  court  fort :  has  it  learnt  you  nothing  I 

Evad.  Me! 

Mel.  Ay,  Evadne  ;  thou  art  young  and  handsome, 
A  lady  of  a  sweet  complexion, 
And  sucli  a  flowing  carriage,  that  it  cannot 
Choose  but  inflame  a  kingdom. 

Evad.  Gentle  brother  ! 

Mel.  'Tis  yet  in  thy  repentance,  foolish  woman, 
To  make  me  gentle. 

Evad.  How  is  this  ? 

Mel  'Tis  base ; 
And  I  could  blush,  at  these  years,  thorough  all 
My  honour'd  scars,  to  come  to  such  a  parley. 

Evad.  I  understand  you  not. 

Mel  You  dare  not,  fool  ! 
They  that  commit  thy  faults  fly  the  remembrance. 

Evod.  My  faults,  sir !    I  would  have  you  know,  I  care  not 
If  they  were  written  here,  here  in  my  forehead. 

Mel  Thy  body  is  too  little  for  the  story  ; 
The  lusts  of  which  would  fill  another  woman. 
Though  she  had  twins  within  her''. 

*    Thy  body  is  too  little  for  the  story, 

The  lusts  of  which  ivould  fill  another  woman, 

Though  she  had  tivins  within  her.]  "  This  is  mock-reasoning,  and  primd 
facie  shews  its  absurdity.  Surely,  if  a  woman  has  twins  within  her,  she  can 
want  very  little  more  to  fill  her  up.  I  dare  be  confident  I  have  restored  the 
pocta'  genuine  reading.  ["Ah  though  sh\td  ttvins  within  her".]  The  propriety 
of  the  reasoning  is  a  conviction  of  the  certainty  of  the  emendation." — Theobald. 
"  It  is  evident  he  [Theobald]  has  misunderstood  our  authors  :  they  do  not  mean 
an  internal,  but  an  external  filling.  Your  whole  body,  says  Meiantius,  is  so  far 
from  being  large  enough  to  contain  an  account  of  your  lusts,  that,  if  it  was 
wrote  all  over,  there  would  still  remain  enough  of  the  story  to  cover  the  body 
of  another  woman,  even  though  she  were  swelled  with  twins.  Either  way, 
however,  it  must  be  allowed,  the  thought  and  exi)ression  are  rather  uncouth." — 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  385 

Evad.  This  is  saucy  : 
Look  you  intrude  no  more  ;  there  lies  your  way. 

Mel.  Thou  art  my  way,  and  I  will  tread  upon  thee, 
Till  I  find  truth  out. 

Evad.  What  truth  is  that  you  look  for  ? 
Mel.  Thy  long-lost  honour.     Would  the  gods  had  set  me 
Rather  to  grapple  with  the  plague,  or  stand 
One  of  their  loudest  bolts  !  Come,  tell  me  quickly, 
Do  it  without  enforcement,  and  take  heed 
You  swell  me  not  above  my  temper. 

Evad.  How,  sir  ! 
Where  got  you  this  report  ? 

Mel.   Where  there  was'"  people. 
In  every  place. 

Evad.  They  and  the  seconds  of  it  are  base  people  : 
Believe  them  not,  they  lied. 

Mel.  Do  not  play  with  mine  anger,  do  not,  wretch !  \^Seizes  her. 
I  come  to  know  that  desperate  fool  that  drew  thee 
From  thy  fair  life  :  be  wise,  and  lay  him  open. 

Evad.  Unhand  me,  and  learn  manners  !  such  another 
Forgetfulness  forfeits  your  life. 

Mel.  Quench  me  this  mighty  humour,  and  then  tell  me 
Whose  whore  you  are  ;  for  you  are  one,  I  know  it. 
Let  all  mine  honours  perish  but  I'll  find  him. 
Though  he  lie  lockM  up  in  thy  blood  !     Be  sudden ; 
There  is  no  facing  it  ;  and  be  not  flatter'd  ; 
The  burnt  air,  when  the  Dog  reigns,  is  not  fouler 
Than  thy  contagious  name,  till  thy  repentance 
(If  the  gods  grant  thee  any)  purge  thy  sickness. 

Evad.  Begone  !  you  are  my  brother  ;  that's  your  safety. 
Mel.  I'll  be  a  wolf  first :  'tis,  to  be  thy  brother, 

Ed.  1778.  "The  last  editors,  supposing  the  bodies  of  Evadne  and  the  other 
woman,  who  was  swelled  with  twins,  to  be  scribbled  over  with  the  story  of  the 
former,  is  an  admii'able  travestie  of  the  poets'  meaning,  and  would  not  disgrace 
the  pages  of  Cotton,  Brydges,  or  Scarron.  Theobald's  comment  bids  fairest  to 
be  the  true  explanation."  Weber.  The  meaning  of  the  passage  is  probably 
this  : — the  overflowings  of  thy  lust  would  be  sufficient  to  inflame  another  woman 
though  she  already  had  twins  in  her  womb. 

'"  was}  Altered  by  the  modern  editors  to  "  were." 
VOL.  I.  c  r; 


386  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iv. 

An  infamy  below  the  sin  of  coward. 

I  am  as  far  from  being  part  of  thee 

As  thou  art  from  thy  virtue :  seek  a  kindred 

'jNIongst  sensual  beasts,  and  make  a  goat  thy  brother  ; 

A  goat  is  cooler.     Will  you  tell  me  yet  ? 

Evad.  If  you  stay  here  and  rail  thus,  I  shall  tell  you 
ril  have  you  whipp'd.     Get  you  to  your  command, 
And  there  preach  to  your  sentinels,  and  tell  them 
AVhat  a  brave  man  you  are  :  I  shall  laugh  at  you. 

Mel.  YouVe  gro^vn  a  glorious  whore !     Where  be  your 
fighters  l 
AVhat  mortal  fool  durst  raise  thee  to  this  daring, 
And  I  alive  !     By  my  just  sword,  he  had  safer 
Bestrid '''  a  billow  when  the  angry  North 
Ploughs  up  the  sea,  or  made  Heaven''8  fire  his  foe " ! 
Work  me  no  higher.     Will  you  discover  yet  ? 

Evad.  The  fellow's  mad.    Sleep,  and  speak  sense. 

Mel.  Force  my  swoln  heart  no  further:  I  would  save  thee. 
Your  great  maintainors  are  not  here,  they  dare  not : 
Would  they  were  all,  and  armM  !  I  would  speak  loud  ; 
Here's  one  should  thunder  to  'em.     Will  you  tell  me  I — 
Thou  hast  no  hope  to  scape :  he  that  dares  most, 
And  damns  away  his  soul  to  do  thee  service, 
W'\\\  sooner  snatch^  meat  from  a  hungry  lion 
Than  come  to  rescue  thee  ;  thou  hast  death  about  thee  ; — 
He  has^  undone  thine  honour,  poison'd  thy  virtue, 
And,  of  a  lovely  rose,  left  thee  a  canker". 

Evad.  Let  me  consider. 

Mel.  Do,  whose  child  thou  wert, 

*  Br.slrid]  Weber  chose  to  restore  the  speUing  of  the  old  eds., — "  Bestride"  ; 
wTongly,  as  the  next  line  shews. 

^  foe]  So  1  to.  1019.    Later  eds.  "  food"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors  ! 

^  match]  .So  4to.  1G22.  (The  passage  is  not  in  4to.  1619.)  Later  eds. 
"  fetch" ;  and  so  the  modern  editors,  Weber  excepted. 

'  Ifc  has]  «  That  it  should  be  '  Who  [has],'  and  that  Mclantius  is  still 
questioning  Evadne  about  the  destroyer  of  her  innocence,  is  not,  we  think,  to 
be  doubt«(l."  Efl.  1778  ;  whom  Weber  followed.  But  this  reading  is  not 
warranted  by  the  old  eds.,  the  4tos.  having  "  has",  the  folio  of  1679  "  h'aa  "  (the 
commoD  contraction  for  he  has). 

•  canker]  i.  c.  a  wild  rose,  or  dog-rose. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  387 

Whose  honour  thou  hast  murder'd,  whose  grave  open'd, 
And  so  puird  on  the  gods,  that  in  their  justice 
They  must  restore  him  flesh  again  and  life, 
And  raise  his  dry  bones  to  revenge  this  scandal. 

Evad.  The  gods  are  not  of  my  mind  :  they  had  better 
Let  'em  lie  sweet  still  in  the  earth  ;  they'll  stink  here. 

Mel.   Do  you  raise  mirth  out  of  my  easiness  I 
Forsake  me,  then,  all  weaknesses  of  nature,    [^Draics  his  siconl. 
That  make  men  women  !     Speak,  you  whore,  speak  truth. 
Or,  by  the  dear  soul  of  thy  sleeping  father. 
This  sword  shall  be  thy  lover  !  tell,  or  I'll  kill  thee  ; 
And,  when  thou  hast  told  all,  thou  wilt  deserve  it. 

Evad.  You  will  not  murder  me  ? 

Mel.  No  ;  'tis  a  justice,  and  a  noble  one. 
To  put  the  light  out  of  such  base  offenders. 

Evad.  Help  ! 

Mel.  By  thy  foul  self,  no  human  help  shall  help  thee. 
If  thou  criest !     When  I  have  kilFd  thee,  as  I 
Have  vowM  to  do,  if  thou  confess  not,  naked 
As  thou  hast  left  thine  honour  will  I  leave  thee, 
That  on  thy  branded  flesh  the  world  may  read 
Thy  black  shame  and  my  justice.     Wilt  thou  bend  yet  ? 

Evad.  Yes.  [^Kneels. 

Mel.  [^Raising  her.^  Up,  and  begin  your  story. 

Evad.  Oh,  I  am  miserable  ! 

Mel.  'Tis  true,  thou  art.     Speak  truth  still. 

Evad.  I  have  offfended  :  noble  sir,  forgive  me  ! 

Mel.  With  what  secure  slave  ? 

Evad.  Do  not  ask  me,  sir  ; 
Mine  ov.n  remembrance  is  a  misery 
Too  mighty  for  me. 

Mel.  Do  not  fall  back  again  ; 
My  sword's  unsheathed  yet. 

Evad.  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Mel.  Be  true,  and  make  your  fault  less. 

Evad.  I  dare  not  tell. 

Mel.  Tell,  or  Fll  be  this  day  a-killing  thee. 

Evad.  Will  you  forgive  me,  then  I 
cc  2 


388  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iv. 

Mel  Stay  ;   I  must  ask  mine  lionour  first. 
I  have  too  much  foolish  nature  in  me  :  speak. 

Evad.  Is  there  none  else  here  I 

Mel.  None  but  a  fearful  conscience  ;  that's  too  many. 
Who  is't  ? 

Evad.  Oh,  hear  me  gently  !     It  was  the  King. 

Mel.  No  more.     My  worthy  father's  and  my  services 
Are  Uberally  rewarded  !     King,  I  thank  thee  ! 
For  all  my  dangers  and  my  wounds  thou  hast  paid  me 
In  my  own  metal :  these  are  soldiers'  thanks  !  — 
How  long  have  you  liv'd  thus,  Evadne  ? 

Evad.  Too  long. 

Mel.  Too  late  you  find  it.     Can  you  be  very''  sorry  I 

Evad.  Would  I  were  half  as  Ijlameless  ! 

Mel.  Evadne,  thou  wilt  to  thy  trade  again. 

Evad.  First  to  my  grave. 

Mel.  Would  gods  thou  hadst  been  so  blest  ! 
Dost  thou  not  hate  this  King  now !  prithee  hate  him  : 
Couldst  thou  not  curse  him  I     I  command  thee,  curse  him  ; 
Curse  till  the  gods  hear,  and  deliver  him 
To  thy  just  wishes.     Yet  I  fear,  Evadne, 
You  had  rather  play  your  game  out. 

Evad.  No  ;  I  feel 
Too  many  sad  confusions  here,  to  let  in 
Any  loose  flame  hereafter. 

Mel.  Dost  thou  not  feel,  'mongst  all  those,  one  brave  anger 
That  breaks  out  nobly  and  directs  thine  arm 
To  kill  this  base  king  ? 

Evad.  All  the  gods  forbid  it ! 
Mel.  No,  all  the  gods  require  it ; 
They  are  dishonoured  in  him. 
Evofl.  'Tis  too  fearful. 

Mel.  You're  valiant  in  his  bed,  and  bold  enough 
To  be  a  stale  whore,  and  have  your  madam's  name 
Discourse  for  grooms  and  pages ;  and  hereafter, 
When  his  cool  majesty  hath  laid  you  by, 

i-  very]  5o  4to.  1619.     Omitted  in  later  cds.  ;  and  by  the  modern  editors. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  389 

To  be  at  pension  with  some  needy  sir 

For  meat  and  coarser  clothes  :  thus  far  you  know 

No  fear.     Come,  you  shall  kill  him. 

Evad.  Good  sir  ! 

Mel.  An  'twere  to  kiss  him  dead,  thou'dst ""  smotlier  him : 
Be  wise,  and  kill  him.     Canst  thou  live,  and  know 
What  noble  minds  shall  make  thee,  see  thyself 
Found  out  with  every  finger,  made  the  shame 
Of  all  successions,  and  in  this  great  ruin 
Thy  brother  and  thy  noble  husband  broken  ? 
Thou  shalt  not  live  thus.     Kneel,  and  swear  to  help  me, 
When  I  shall  call  thee  to  it ;  or,  by  all 
Holy  in  Heaven  and  earth,  thou  shalt  not  live 
To  breathe  a  full  hour  longer  ;  not  a  thought ! 
Come,  'tis  a  righteous  oath.     Give  me  thy  hand[s], 
And,  both  to  Heaven  held  up,  swear,  by  that  wealth 
This  lustful  thief  stole  from  thee,  when  I  say  it, 
To  let  his  foul  soul  out. 

Evad.  Here  I  swear  it ;  \^Kneels. 

And,  all  you  spirits  of  abused  ladies, 
Help  me  in  this  performance  ! 

Mel.  [Raising  her.^  Enough.     This  must  be  known  to  none 
But  you  and  T,  Evadne ;  not  to  your  lord. 
Though  he  be  wise  and  noble,  and  a  fellow 
Dares  step  as  far  into  a  worthy  action 
As  the  most  daring,  ay,  as  far  as  justice. 
Ask  me  not  why.     Farewell.  [Exit. 

Evad.  Would  I  could  say  so  to  my  black  disgrace  ! 
Oh,  where  have  I  been  all  this  time  ?  how  friended, 
That  I  should  lose  myself  thus  desperately, 
And  none  for  pity  shew  me  how  I  wander'd  ? 
There  is  not  in  the  compass  of  the  light 
A  more  unhappy  creature  :  sure,  I  am  monstrous ; 
For  I  have  done  those  follies,  those  mad  mischiefs, 
Would  dare  a  woman''.     Oh,  my  loaden  soul, 

^    <^  thou'dst]   So  (literatim)  all  the  old  eds.,  except  4tos.  1650,  1661,  and  folio 
1679,  which  have  "thou'd  ".     Weber  printed  "thou  shouldst  "  ! 

■1    IVouhldarea  woman,]  "  i.  e.  Would  scare,  would  fright  her  out  of  her 
wits  to  commit."     Theobald. 


yjO  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [aci  iv. 

Be  not  SO  cruel  to  me  ;  choke  not  up 
The  way  to  my  repentance  ! 

Enter  Amintor. 

Oh,  my  lord  ! 

Amin.  How  now  ? 

Evad.  My  much-abused  lord  !  \^Kneels. 

Amin.  This  cannot  be  ! 

Evad.  I  do  not  kneel  to  live ;   I  dare  not  hope  it ; 
The  ^vrongs  I  did  are  greater.     Look  upon  me, 
Though  I  appear  with  all  ray  faults. 

Amin.  Stand  up. 
This  is  a  ^  new  way  to  beget  more  sorrows  ^  : 
Heaven  knows  I  have  too  many.     Do  not  mock  me  ; 
Though  I  am  tame,  and  bred  up  with  my  wrongs, 
Which  are  my  foster-brothers,  I  may  leap, 
Like  a  hand-wolf  ^,  into  my  natural  wilduess. 
And  do  an  outrage  :  prithee,  do  not  mock  me. 

Evad.  My  whole  life  is  so  leprous,  it  infects 
All  my  repentance.     I  would  buy  your  pardon. 
Though  at  the  highest  set '' ;  even  with  my  life  : 
That  slight  contrition,  thafs  no  sacrifice 
For  what  I  have  committed. 

Amin.  Sure,  I  dazzle  : 
There  cannot  be  a  faith  in  that  foul  woman. 
That  knows  no  god  more  mighty  than  her  mischiefs. 
Thou  dost  still  worse,  still  number  on  thy  faults. 
To  press  my  poor  heart  thus.     Can  I  believe 
There's  any  seed  of  virtue  in  that  woman 
Left  to  shoot  up,  that  dares  go  on  in  sin 
Known,  and  so  known  as  thine  is  ?     Oh,  Evadne, 
Would  there  were  any  safety  in  thy  sex ', 
That  1  might  put  a  thousand  sorrows  off, 

«  n]   So  4 to.  1()19.     Later  cds.  "no  ". 

'  sorrows]  So  4to.  1619.     Later  eds,  "  sorrow  "  ;  and  so  tlie  modern  cditor.s 
but  see  next  line. 

B  hand  rcolf]  "  Means  a  tamed  wolf."     Weber. 

i'  at  the  highest  scf]  "  i.  e.  at  the  highest  stake.''    Weber. 

'  any  safety  in  thy  sct]  "  i.  e.  any  security,  any  trust,  or  belief,  to  be  reposed 
in  them."     Theobald. 


scEXBr.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  391 

And  credit  thy  repentance  !  but  I  must  not : 
Thou  hast  brought  me  to  that  dull  calamity, 
To  that  strange  misbelief  of  all  the  world 
And  all  things  that  are  in  it,  that  I  fear 
I  shall  fall  like  a  tree,  and  find  my  grave, 
Only  remembering  that  I  grieve. 

Evad.  My  lord. 
Give  me  your  griefs  :  you  are  an  innocent, 
A  soul  as  white  as  Heaven  ;  let  not  my  sins 
Perish  your  noble  youth.     I  do  not  fall  here 
To  shadow  by  dissembling  with  my  tears, 
(As  all  say  women  can,)  or  to  make  less 
What  my  hot  will  hath  done,  which  Heaven  and  you 
Know  ^  to  be  tougher  than  the  hand  of  time 
Can  cut  from  man's  remembrance  ;  no,  I  do  not ; 
I  do  appear  the  same,  the  same  Evadne, 
Drest  in  the  shames  I  liy'd  in,  the  same  monster. 
But  these  are  names  of  honour  to  what  I  am  ; 
I  do  present  myself  the  foulest  creature, 
Most  poisonous,  dangerous,  and  despisM  of  men, 
Lerna  e'er  bred  or  Nilus.     I  am  hell. 
Till  you,  my  dear  lord,  shoot  your  light  into  me. 
The  beams  of  your  forgiveness  ;   I  am  soul-sick. 
And  wither  with  the  fear  of  one  condemned, 
Till  I  have  got  your  pardon. 

Jmin.  Rise,  Evadne. 
Those  heavenly  powers  that  put  this  good  into  thee 
Grant  a  continuance  of  it  !     I  forgive  thee  : 
Make  thyself  worthy  of  it ;  and  take  heed. 
Take  heed,  Evadne,  this  be  serious. 
Mock  not  the  powers  above,  that  can  and  dare 
Give  thee  a  great  example  of  their  justice 
To  all  ensuing  ages  ^,  if  thou  playest 
With  thy  repentance,  the  best  sacrifice. 

J  Know]  Old  eds.  «  Knows  ". 

k  ages'i  Was  proposed  by  Weber  in  a  note,  and  is  obviously  the  true  reading. 
Old  eds.  "eyes." 


392  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [aci  iv. 

Evad.  I  have  done  nothing  good  to  win  behcf, 
My  hfe  hath  been  so  faithless.     i\ll  the  creatures, 
Made  for  Heaven  s  honours ',  have  their  ends,  and  good  ones. 
All  but  the  cozening  crocodiles,  false  women  : 
They  reign  here  like  those  plagues,  those  killing  sores, 
Men  pray  against  ;  and  when  they  die,  like  tales 
111  tohl  and  unbelievM,  they  pass  away, 
And  go  to  dust  forgotten.     But,  my  lord, 
Those  short  days  I  shall  number  to  my  rest 
(As  many  must  not  see  me)  shall,  though  too  late. 
Though  in  my  evening,  yet  perceive  a  will. 
Since  I  can  do  no  good,  because  a  woman, 
Reach  constantly  at  something  that  is  near  it : 
T  will  redeem  one  minute  of  my  age, 
Or,  like  another  Niobe,  Til  weep, 
Till  I  am  water. 

Amiyi.  I  am  now  dissolv'd  ; 
My  frozen  soul  melts.     May  each  sin  thou  hast. 
Find  a  new  mercy  !     Rise;   I  am  at  peace.       [Evaum: /vV>\ 
Hadst  thou  been  thus,  thus  excellently  good. 
Before  that  devil-king  tempted  thy  frailty. 
Sure  thou  hadst  made  a  star.     Give  me  thy  hand  • 
From  this  time  I  will  know  thee  ;   and,  as  far 
As  honour  gives  me  leave,  be  thy  Amintor. 
When  we  meet  next,  1  will  salute  thee  fairly, 
A  nd  pray  the  gods  to  give  thee  happy  days  : 
My  charity  shall  go  along  with  thee, 
Though  my  embraces  must  be  far  from  thee. 
I  should  have  killM  thee,  but  this  sweet  repentance 
Locks  up  my  vengeance  ;  for  which  thus  I  kiss  thee — 

[Ames  her. 
The  last  kiss  we  must  take  :  and  would  to  heaven 
The  holy  priest  that  gave  our  hands  together 
Had  given  us  equal  virtues  !     Go,  Evadne; 
The  gods  thus  part  our  bodies.     Have  a  care 
My  iionour  falls  no  farther  :   I  am  well,  then. 

'  Heaven's  honours]  "  Wcbhould  road  *  lieaven's  AonoMj '."  Mason.  No  no. 


SCENE  11.]  TFIE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  393 

Evad.  All  the  clear  joys  here,  and  above  hereafter, 
Crown  thy  fair  soul !     Thus  1  take  leave,  my  lord  ; 
And  never  shall  you  see  the  foul  Evadne, 
Till  she  have  tried  all  honoured  means,  that  may 
Set  her  in  rest  and  wash  her  stains  away.      [^Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE    11.—^  Hall  in  the  Palace. 

A  Banquet  spread.      Hautboys  play  within. — Enter  King  and 
Calianax. 

King.  I  cannot  tell  how  I  should  credit  this 
From  you,  that  are  his  enemy. 

Cal.  I  am  sure 
He  said  it  to  me ;  and  I'll  justify  it 
What  way  he  dares  oppose — but  with  my  sword. 

King.  But  did  he  break,  without  all  circumstance, 
To  you,  his  foe,  that  he  would  have  the  fort, 
To  kill  me,  and  then  scape  ? 

Cal.  If  he  deny  it, 
I'll  make  him  blush. 

King.  It  sounds  incredibly. 

Cal.  Ay,  so  does  every  thing  I  say  of  late. 

Kiru/.  Not  so,  Calianax. 

Cal.  Yes,  I  should  sit 
Mute  whilst  a  rogue  with  strong  arms  cuts  your  throat. 

King.  Well,  I  will  try  him  :  and,  if  this  be  true, 
ril  pawn  my  life  FU  find  it ;  if  't  be  false. 
And  that  you  clothe  your  hate  in  such  a  lie, 
You  shall  hereafter  dote  in  your  own  house, 
Not  in  the  court. 

Cal.  Why,  if  it  be  a  lie. 
Mine  ears  are  false,  for  I'll  be  sworn  I  heard  it. 
Old  men  are  good  for  nothing  :  you  were  best 
Put  me  to  death  for  hearing,  and  free  him 
For  meaning  it.     You  would  have  trusted  me 
Once,  but  the  time  is  alterM. 


394  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iv. 

King.  And  will  still, 
AVHicrc  I  may  do  with  justice  to  the  world  : 
You  have  no  witness. 

Cal  Yes,  myself. 

King.  No  more, 
I  mean,  there  were  that  heard  it. 

Cal.  How  ?  no  more  ! 
AV^ould  you  have  more  l  why,  am  not  I  enough 
To  hang  a  thousand  rogues  ? 

King.  But  so  you  may 
Hang  honest  men  too,  if  you  please. 

Cal.  I  may  ! 
'Tis  like  I  will  do  so  :  there  are  a  hundred 
Will  swear  it  for  a  need  too,  if  I  say  it 

King.  Such  witnesses  we  need  not. 

Cal.  And  'tis  hard 
If  ray  word  cannot  hang  a  boisterous  knave. 

King.  Enough. — Where's  Strato  ? 

Enter  Strato. 

Stra.  Sir? 

King.  Why,  where's  all  the  company  ?     Call  Amintor  in  ; 
Evadne.     Where's  my  brother,  and  Melantius  I 
Bid  him  come  too ;  and  Diphilus.     Call  all 
That  are  without  there.—  [Exit  Strato. 

If  he  should  desire 
The  combat  of  you,  'tis  not  in  the  power 
Of  all  our  laws  to  hinder  it,  unless 
We  mean  to  quit  'em. 

Cal.   Why,  if  you  do  think 
'Tis  fit  an  old  man  and  a  councillor 
To ""  fight  for  what  he  says,  then  you  may  grant  it. 

Enter  Amintor,  Evadne,  Melantius,  Dipjiilus,  Lysippus,  Cleon, 
Strato,  and  Diagoras. 
King.  Come,  sirs  ! — Amintor,  thou  art  yet  a  bridegroom, 
And  I  will  use  thee  so ;  thou  shalt  sit  down. — 
Evadne,  sit ; — and  you,  Amintor,  too  ; 

"'   To]   Unnecessarily  altered  by  the  modern  editors  to  «  Do  ". 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  31)5 

This  banquet  is  for  you,  sir. — Who  has  brought 
A  merry  tale  about  him,  to  raise  laughter 
Amongst  our  wine  ?     Why,  Strato,  where  art  thou  ? 
Thou  wilt  chop  out  with  them  unseasonably, 
When  I  desire  'em  not. 

Stra.  'Tis  my  ill  luck,  sir,  so  to  spend  thera,  then. 

King.  Reach  me  a  bowl  of  wine. — ^Melantius,  thou 
Art  sad. 

Mel°.  I  should  be,  sir,  the  merriest  here, 
But  I  have  ne'er  a  story  of  mine  own 
Worth  telling  at  this  time. 

King.  Give  me  the  wine. — 
Melantius,  I  am  now  considering 
How  easy  'twere  for  any  man  we  trust 
To  poison  one  of  us  in  such  a  bowl. 

Mel.  I  think  it  were  not  hard,  sir,  for  a  knave. 

Col.  Such  as  you  are.  \^Aside. 

King.  I'faith,  'twere  easy.     It  becomes  us  well 
To  get  plain-dealing  men  about  ourselves  ; 
Such  as  you  all  are  here. — Amintor,  to  thee ; 
And  to  thy  fair  Evadne  !  \^Drinhs. 

Mel.  Have  you  thought 
Of  this,  Calianax  ?  \^Apart  to  him. 

Cal.  Yes,  marry,  have  I. 

Mel.  And  what's  your  resolution  I 

Cal.  You  shall  have  it, — 
Soundly,  I  warrant  you.  \^ Aside. 

King.  Reach  to  Amintor,  Strato. 

Amin.  Here,  my  love  ; 

\^Drinks,  and  then  hands  the  cup  to  Evadne. 
This  wine  will  do  thee  wrong,  for  it  will  set 
Blushes  upon  thy  cheeks ;  and,  till  thou  dost 
A  fault,  'twere  pity. 

Ki7ig.  Yet  I  wonder  much 
At  the  strange  desperation  of  these  men. 
That  dare  attempt  such  acts  here  in  our  state  : 
He  could  not  scape  that  did  it. 

°  Mel.']  So  4to.  1619.     Later  eds.  "  ^mtn^." 


396  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iv. 

Mel.  Were  he  knouTi, 
Unpossible  '\ 

King.  It  would  be  known,  Melantius. 

Mel.  It  ought  to  be.     If  he  got  then  away, 
He  must  wear  all  our  lives  upon  his  sword : 
He  need  not  fly  the  island ;  he  must  leave 
No  one  ahve. 

King.  No  ;   I  should  think  no  man 
Could  kill  me,  and  scape  clear,  but  that  old  man. 

Cal.  But  I  !  heaven  bless  me  !  I  !  should  I,  my  liege  I 

King.  I  do  not  think  thou  wouldst ;  but  yet  thou  mightst. 
For  thou  hast  in  thy  hands  the  means  to  scape, 
By  keeping  of  the  fort. — He  has,  Melantius, 
And  he  has  kept  it  well. 

Mel.  From  cobwebs,  sir, 
"'TIS  clean  swept :  I  can  find  no  other  art 
In  keeping  of  it  now  ;  'twas  ne'er  besieg'd 
Since  he  commanded  \\ 

Cal.  I  shall  be  sure 
Of  your  good  word  :  but  I  have  kept  it  safe 
From  such  as  you. 

Mel.  Keep  your  ill  temper  in  : 
I  speak  no  malice  ;  had  ray  brother  kept  it, 
I  should  have  said  as  much. 

Kimj.  You  are  not  merry. 
Brother,  drink  wine.     Sit  you  all  still. — Calianax, 

\^  Apart  to  hi  in. 
I  cannot  trust  thid  "■  :   I  have  thrown  out  words, 
That  would  have  fetched  warm  blood  upon  the  cheeks 

'  Unpossiblel  So  all  the  old  eds.  Altered  by  tlie  modern  editors  to  "  Im- 
possible ".  The  latter  form  indeed  occurs  in  act  v.,  sc.  2.  ;  but  our  early 
wTiters  did  not  confine  themselves  to  the  use  of  a  single  form  of  a  word.  Todd 
(Additions  to  Johnson's  Did.),  among  other  passages  quoted  for  an  example  of 
"  unpossible  ",  cites  St.  Matt.  .\ix.  '20.,  where,  he  observes, "  in  modem  editions 
of  the  Bible  the  word  is  finically  altered  to  impossible." 

p  commanded]  Theobald  printed  '■^commanded  it";  and  so  his  successors, 
without  noticing  the  insertion. 

">  this]  Old  eds.  "thus"  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors.  Compare  the  first 
speech  of  the  King  in  this  scene — "  I  cannot  tell  how  I  should  credit  Mi«,"  and 
the  next  speech  but  one  of  Calianax, — "  this  he  did  say.' 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  397 

Of  guilty  men,  and  he  is  never  mov'd  ; 
He  knows  no  such  thing. 

Col.  Impudence  may  scape, 
When  feeble  virtue  is  accusM. 

King.  He  must, 
If  he  were  guilty,  feel  an  alteration 
At  this  our  whisper,  whilst  we  point  at  him  : 
You  see  he  does  not. 

Cal.  Let  him  hang  himself : 
What  care  I  what  he  does  ?  this  he  did  say. 

King.  Melantius,  you  can  easily  conceive 
What  I  have  meant ;   for  men  that  are  in  fault 
Can  subtly  apprehend  when  others  aim 
At  what  they  do  amiss  :  but  I  forgive 
Freely  before  this  man, — Heaven  do  so  too  ! 
I  will  not  touch  thee,  so  much  as  with  shame 
Of  telling  it.     Let  it  be  so  no  more. 

Cal.  Why,  this  is  very  fine  ! 

Mel.  I  cannot  tell 
What  'tis  you  mean  ;  but  T  am  apt  enough 
Rudely  to  thrust  into  [an]  •"  ignorant  fault. 
But  let  me  know  it :  happily  'tis  nought 
But  misconstruction  ;  and,  where  I  am  clear, 
I  will  not  take  forgiveness  of  the  gods. 
Much  less  of  you. 

King.  Nay,  if  you  stand  so  stiff, 
I  shall  call  back  my  mercy. 

Mel.  I  want  smoothness 
To  thank  a  man  for  pardoning  of  a  crime 
I  never  knew. 

King.  Not  to  instruct  your  knowledge,  but  to  shew  you 
My  ears  are  every  where  ;  you  meant  to  kill  me, 
And  get  the  fort  to  scape. 

Mel.  Pardon  me,  sir  ; 
My  bluntness  will  be  pardon  d.     You  preserve 
A  race  of  idle  people  here  about  you, 

■■  an'\  Inserted  by  Theobald. 


398  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iv. 

Facers '  and  talkers,  to  defame  the  worth 

Of  those  that  do  things  worthy.     The  man  that  utter'd  this 

Had  perish'd  without  food,  be't  who  it  will, 

But  fur  this  arm,  that  fenc'd  him  from  the  foe  : 

And  if  I  thought  you  gave  a  faith  to  this, 

The  plainness  of  my  nature  would  speak  more. 

Give  me  a  pardon  (for  you  ought  to  do't) 

To  kill  him  that  spake  this. 

Cal.  Ay,  that  will  be 
The  end  of  all :  then  I  am  fairly  paid 
For  all  my  care  and  service. 

Mel  That  old  man, 
Who  calls  me  enemy,  and  of  whom  I 
(Though  I  will  never  match  my  hate  so  low) 
Have  no  good  thought,  would  yet,  I  think,  excuse  me, 
And  swear  he  thought  me  wronged  in  this. 

Cal.  Who,  I  ? 
Thou  shameless  fellow  !   didst  thou  not  speak  to  me 
Of  it  thyself? 

Mel.  Oh,  then,  it  came  from  him  ! 

Cal.  From  me  !  who  should  it  come  from  but  from  me  ? 

Mel.  Nay,  I  believe  your  malice  is  enough : 
But  I  have  lost  my  anger. — Sir,  I  hope 
You  are  well  satisfied. 

King.  Lysippus,  cheer 
Amintor  and  his  lady  :  there's  no  sound 
Comes  from  you  ;   I  will  come  and  do't  myself. 

Amin.  You  have  done  already,  sir,  for  me,  I  thank  you.  [  Aside. 

King.  Melantius,  I  do  credit  this  from  him. 
How  slight  soc'er  you  make't. 

Mel.  'Tis  strange  you  should. 

Cal.  'Tis  strange  he  should  believe  an  old  man's  word, 
That  never  lied  in's  life  ! 

Mel.  I  talk  not  to  thee. — 
Shall  the  wild  words  of  this  distemperVl  man, 

•  Facers'^  So  4to.  1619.  Later  eds.  "Eaters."  "Facers  and  facing  arc 
words  used  by  our  authors  to  express  shameless  people  and  effronUryr  Ed. 
1778,— as  Theobald  had  already  shown  by  his  citations. 


SCENE  ii.J  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  399 

Frantic  with  age  and  sorrow,  make  a  breach 

Betwixt  your  majesty  and  me  ?.    'Twas  wrong 

To  hearken  to  him  ;  bnt  to  credit  him, 

As  much  at  least  as  I  have  power  to  bear. 

But  pardon  me — whilst  I  speak  only  truth, 

I  may  commend  myself — I  have  bestow' d 

My  careless  blood  with  you,  and  should  be  loath 

To  think  an  action  that  would  make  me  lose 

That  and  my  thanks  too.     When  I  was  a  boy, 

I  thrust  myself  into  my  country's  cause, 

And  did  a  deed  that  pluckM  five  years  from  time, 

And  styl'd  me  man  then.     And  for  you,  my  king, 

Your  subjects  all  have  fed  by  virtue  of 

My  arm  :  this  sword  of  mine  hath  ploughed  the  ground, 

And  reapt  the  fruit  in  peace  * ; 

And  you  yourself  have  liv'd  at  home  in  ease. 

So  terrible  I  grew,  that  without  swords 

My  name  hath  fetcli'd  you  conquest :  and  my  heart 

And  limbs  are  still  the  same ;  my  will  as  great 

To  do  you  service.     Let  me  not  be  paid 

With  such  a  strange  distrust. 

King.  Melantius, 
I  held  it  great  injustice  to  believe 
Thine  enemy,  and  did  not ;  if  I  did, 
T  do  not ;  let  that  satisfy. — What,  struck 
With  sadness  all  I     More  wine  ! 

Cal.  A  few  fine  words 
Have  overthrown  my  truth.     Ah,  thou'rt  a  villain  ! 

Mel.  Why,  thou  wert  better  let  me  have  the  fort  : 

\^Apart  to  him. 
Dotard,  I  will  disgrace  thee  thus  for  ever ; 
There  shall  no  credit  lie  upon  thy  words : 
Think  better,  and  deliver  it. 

'  And  reapt  the  fruit  in  j^eace]  Theobald  printed  the  line  thus  amended  by 
Seward  ;  "  And  they  have  reapt  the  fruit  of  it  in  peace." — "  Melantius  means 
to  say,  not  in  plain  prose,  but  in  poetical  languge,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  his 
sword,  the  people  could  neither  have  ploughed  the  ground,  or  have  reaped  the 
fruits  of  it."     Mason. 


400  THE  MAIDS  TRAGEDY.  [act  iv. 

Cal.   ISIy  liege, 
He's  at  me  now  again  to  do  it. — Speak ; 
Deny  it,  if  thou  canst. — Examine  him 
Whilst  he  is  hot,  for,  if  he  cool  again. 
He  will  forswear  it. 

King.  This  is  lunacy, 
I  hope,  Melantius. 

Mel.  He  hath  lost  himself 
Much,  since  his  daughter  miss'd  the  happiness 
My  sister  gain'd  ;   and,  though  he  call  me  foe, 
I  pity  him. 

Cal.  Pity  !  a  pox  upon  you  ! 

Mel.  Mark  his  disorder'd  words  :  and  at  the  masque 
Diagoras  knows  he  rag'd  and  rail'd  at  me, 
And  caird  a  lady  whore,  so  innocent 
She  understood  him  not.     But  it  becomes 
Both  you  and  me  too  to  forgive  distraction : 
Pardon  him,  as  I  do. 

Cal.  ril  not  speak  for  thee. 
For  all  thy  cunning. — If  you  will  be  safe, 
Chop  off  his  head  ;  for  there  was  never  known 
So  impudent  a  rascal. 

King.  Some,  that  love  him, 
Get  him  to  bed.     Why,  pity  should  not  let 
Age  make  itself  contemptible ;  we  must  be 
All  old.     Have  him  away. 

Mel.  Calianax,  [Apart  to  him. 

The  King  believes  you  ;  come,  you  shall  go  home, 
And  rest ;  you  have  done  well.  You'll  give  it  up, 
\Vhen  I  have  us'd  you  thus  a  month,  I  hope. 

Cal.  Now,  now,  'tis  plain,  sir ;  he  does  move  me  still  : 
He  says,  he  knows  I'll  give  him  up  the  fort. 
When  he  has  us'd  me  thus  a  month.     I  am  mad, 
Am  I  not,  still  ? 

All.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Cal.  I  shall  be  mad  indeed,  if  you  do  thus. 
Why  should  you  trust  a  sturdy  fellow  there 
(That  has  no  virtue  in  him.  all's  in  his  sword) 


SCENE  II.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  401 

Before  me  ?     Do  but  take  his  weapons  from  him, 

And  he's  an  ass ;  and  I  am  a  very  fool, 

Both  with  'em  and  without  'em ",  as  you  use  me. 

All.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

King.  'Tis  well,  Calianax  :  but  if  you  use 
This  once  again,  I  shall  entreat  some  other 
To  see  your  offices  be  well  discharg'd. — 
Be  merry,  gentlemen. — It  grows  somewhat  late. — 
Amintor,  thou  wouldst  be  a- bed  again. 

Amin.  Yes,  sir. 

King.  And  you,  Evadne. — Let  me  take 
Thee  in  my  arms,  Melantius,  and  beheve 
Thou  art,  as  thou  deserv'st  to  be,  my  friend 
Still  and  for  ever. — -Good  Cahanax, 
Sleep  soundly  ;  it  will  bring  thee  to  thyself. 

\^Exeunt  all  except  Melantius  and  Calianax. 

Cah  Sleep  soundly  !     I  sleep  soundly  now,  I  hope  ; 
I  could  not  be  thus  else. — 'How  dar'st  thou  stay 
Alone  with  me,  knowing  how  thou  hast  us'd  me  ? 

Mel.  You  cannot  blast  me  with  your  tongue,  and  that's 
The  strongest  part  you  have  about  you. 

Cal  I 
Do  look  for  some  great  punishment  for  this ; 
For  I  begin  to  forget  all  my  hate, 
And  take't  unkindly  that  mine  enemy 
Should  use  me  so  extraordinarily  scurvily. 

Mel.  I  shall  melt  too,  if  you  begin  to  take 
Unkindnesses  :   I  never  meant  you  hurt. 

Cal.  Thou'lt  anger  me  again.     Thou  wretched  rogue, 
Meant  me  no  hurt  !  disgrace  me  with  the  King  ! 
Lose  all  my  offices  !     This  is  no  hurt, 
Is  it  ?     I  prithee,  what  dost  thou  call  hurt  I 

Mel.  To  poison  men,  because  they  love  me  not ; 
To  call  the  credit  of  men's  wives  in  question  ; 

"  Both  with  'em  and  ivithout  'ein]  Old  eds.  "  Both  with  him  and  ivithoat 
him  " ;  and  so  the  modern  editors  !  The  misprint  of  him  for  'em  is  a  not 
uncommon  one  in  early  dramas. 

VOL.    I.  D  D 


102  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iv. 

To  murder  children  betwixt  me  and  land ; 
This  I  call  hurt  \ 

Cal  All  this  thou  think'st  is  sport ; 
For  mine  is  worse  :  but  use  thy  will  with  me  ; 
For  betwixt  grief  and  anger  I  could  cry. 

Mel.  Be  wise,  then,  and  be  safe ;  thou  may'st  revenge. 

Cal.  Ay,  o'  the  King :     I  would  revenge  of ''  thee. 

Mel.  That  you  must  plot  yourself. 

Cal.  I  am  a  fine  plotter. 

Mel.  The  short  is,  I  will  hold  thee  with  the  King 
In  this  perplexity,  till  peevishness 
And  thy  disgrace  have  laid  thee  in  thy  grave  : 
But  if  thou  wilt  deliver  up  the  fort, 
ril  take  thy  trembling  body  in  my  arms, 
And  bear  thee  over  dangers  ;  thou  shalt  hold 
Thy  wonted  state. 

Cal.  If  I  should  tell  the  King, 
Canst  thou  deny  't  again  ? 

Mel.  Try,  and  believe. 

Cal.  Nay,  then,  thou  canst  bring  any  thing  about. 
Melantius  %  thou  shalt  have  the  fort. 

Mel  Why,  well. 
Here  let  our  hate  bo  buried ;  and  this  hand 
Shall  right  us  both.     Give  me  thy  aged  breast 
To  compass. 

Cal.  Nay,  I  do  not  love  thee  yet ; 
I  cannot  well  endure  to  look  on  thee  ; 
And  if  I  thought  it  wore  a  courtesy, 
Thou  shouldst  not  have  it.     But  I  am  disgrac'd  ; 
My  offices  are  to  be  ta'en  away  ; 
And,  if  I  did  but  hold  this  fort  a  day, 

»  This  I  call  hurt]  So  4to9.  1619,  1C22.  Later  eds.  "  This  is  all  hurt",— 
which  the  modem  editors  give, — a  misprint  caused  by  the  compositor's  eye 
having  caught  the  fii-st  word  of  the  next  speech.  Melantius  here  replies  to  the 
question  of  Calianax,— «  what  dost  thou  call  hurlV 

»■  of]   Altered  in  the  modern  eds  to  "  o'." 

"  Alelantim]  .So  Ito.  1G19.  Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the  modern 
editors,  Theobald  excepted. 


SCENE  II,]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  403 

I  do  believe  the  King  would  take  it  from  me, 
And  give  it  thee,  things  are  so  strangely  carried. 
Ne'er  thank  me  for't ;  but  yet  the  King  shall  know 
There  was  some  such  thing  in't  I  told  him  of, 
And  that  I  was  an  honest  man. 

Mel  He'll  buy 
That  knowledge  very  dearly. 

Re-enter  Diphilus. 

Diphilus, 
What  news  with  thee  ? 

Diph.  This  were  a  night  indeed 
To  do  it  in :  the  King  hath  sent  for  her. 

Mel.  She  shall  perform  it,  then. — Go,  Diphilus, 
And  take  from  this  good  man,  my  worthy  friend. 
The  fort ;  he'll  give  it  thee. 

Diph.  Have  you  got  that  ? 

Cal.  Art  thou  of  the  same  breed  ?  canst  thou  deny 
This  to  the  King  too  ? 

Diph.  With  a  confidence 
As  great  as  his. 

Cal.  Faith,  like  enough. 

Mel.  Away,  and  use  him  kindly  ^'. 

Cal.  Touch  not  me  ; 
I  hate  the  whole  strain.     If  thou  follow  me 
A  great  way  off,  I'll  give  thee  up  the  fort ; 
And  hang  yourselves. 

Mel.  Begone. 

Diph.  He's  finely  wrought.  [^Exeunt  Calianax  and  Diphilus. 

Mel.  This  is  a  night,  spite  of  astronomers  ^, 
To  do  the  deed  in.     I  will  wash  the  stain 
That  rests  upon  our  house  off  with  his  blood. 

y  Mel.   Away,  and  use  him  kindly,  &c.]   Theobald,  to  perfect  the  measure, 
printed : 

"Mel.  Away, 
And  use  him  kindly, 

Cal.  Touch  not  me ;  I  hate 
The  whole  strain  of  you.     If  thou  follow  me,"  &c. 
^  astronomers]  i,  e.  astrologers, 

D  D  2 


404  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  iv. 

Re-enter  Amintor. 
Amin.  Melantius,  now  assist  me  ;  if  thou  be'st 
That  which  thou  say'st,  assist  me.     I  have  lost 
All  my  distempers,  and  have  found  a  rage 
So  pleasing  !  Help  me. 

Mel.  Who  can  see  him  thus, 
And  not  swear  vengeanee? — [Aside.']     What's  the  matter, 
friend  ? 
Amin.  Out  with  thy  sword ;  and,  hand  in  hand  with  me, 
Rush  to  the  chamber  of  this  hated  king, 
And  sink  hiin  with  the  weight  of  all  his  sins 
To  hell  for  ever. 

Mel.  'Twere  a  rash  attempt. 
Not  to  be  done  with  safety.     Let  your  reason 
Plot  your  revenge,  and  not  your  passion.  ' 

Ami7i.  If  thou  refusest  me  in  these  extremes, 
Thou  art  no  friend.     He  sent  for  her  to  me ; 
By  heaven,  to  me,  myself !  and,  I  must  tell  you, 
I  love  her  as  a  stranger :  there  is  worth 
In  that  vild*  woman,  worthy  things,  Melantius  ; 
And  she  repents.     Til  do't  myself  alone,       [Draios  his  sivord. 
Though  I  be  slain.     Farewell. 

Mel  HeMl  overthrow 
My  whole  design  with  madness  [Aside']. — Amintor, 
Think  what  thou  dost :  I  dare  as  much  as  valour ; 
But  'tis  the  King,  the  King,  the  King,  Amintor, 
With  whom  thou  fightest  ! — I  know  he  is  honest, 
And  this  will  work  with  him.  I  Aside. 

Amin.  I  cannot  tell  [Lets  fall  his  sxuord. 

What  thou  hast  said  ;  but  thou  hast  charmVl  my  sword 
Out  of  my  hand,  and  left  me  shaking  here 
Defenceless. 

Mel.  I  will  take  it  up  for  thee. 

[_Tahes  up  the  sword,  and  gives  it  to  Amintor. 
Amin.  What  a  \\nld  beast  is  uncollected  man  ! 

»  vild]  So  4to8.  1619,  1622.     Later  eds.  "vile";  and  so  the  modern  editors. 
See  note,  p.  331. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  405 

The  thing  that  we  call  honour  bears  us  all 
Headlong  unto  ^  sin,  and  yet  itself  is  nothing. 

Mel.  Alas,  how  variable  are  thy  thoughts  ! 

Amin.  Just  like  my  fortunes.    I  was  run  to  that 
I  purposed  to  have  chid  thee  for.     Some  plot, 
I  did  distrust,  thou  hadst  against  the  King, 
By  that  old  fellow"'s  carriage.     But  take  heed ; 
There's  not  the  least  limb  growing  to  a  king 
But  carries  thunder  in  it. 

Mel  I  have  none 
Against  him. 

Amin.  Why,  come,  then ;  and  still  remember 
We  may  not  think  revenge. 

Mel.  I  will  remember.  ^ExeunL 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — A  Room  in  the  Palace. 


Enter  Evadne  and  a  Gentleman  of  the  Bed-chamber. 

Evad.  Sir,  is  the  King  a-bed  1 

Gent.  Madam,  an  hour  ago. 

Evad.  Give  me  the  key,  then;  and  let  none  be  near ; 
'Tis  the  King's  pleasure. 

Gent.  I  understand  you,  madam ;  would  'twere  mine ! 
I  must  not  wish  good  rest  unto  your  ladyship. 

Evad.  You  talk,  you  talk. 

Gent.  Tis  all  I  dare  do,  madam  ;  but  the  King 
Will  wake,  and  then,  methinks  ^ — 

Evad.  Saving  your  imagination,  pray,  good  night,  sir. 

Gent.  A  good  night  be  it,  then,  and  a  long  one,  madam. 
I  am  gone.  ^Exeunt  severally'^. 

^  unto'\  Theobald  (besides  another  more  violent  alteration  in  this  Hne)  printed 
at  Seward's  suggestion  "  to  "  ;  and  so  Weber. 

•^  methinks]   So  4to.  1619.      Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the  modern  editors. 
''  Exeunt  severally]  The  old  eds.  mark  only  the  "  Exit "  of  the  Gentleman, 


THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act 


SCENE  U.—  The  Bed-chamber.     T/ie  King  discocered  in  led 
asleep. 

Enter  Evadne. 

Evad.  The  night  grows  horrible ;  and  all  about  me 
Like  my  black  purpose.     Oh,  the  conscience 
Of  a  lost  virgin  f,  whither  wilt  thou  pull  me  I 
To  what  things  dismal  as  the  depth  of  hell 
Wilt  thou  provoke  me  ;  Let  no  woman  dare 
From  this  hour  be  disloyal,  if  her  heart  be  flesh, 
If  she  have  blood,  and  can  fear.     'Tis  a  daring 
Above  that  desperate  fool's  that  left  his  peace. 
And  went  to  sea  to  fight :  'tis  so  many  sins. 
An  age  cannot  repent  *  'em ;  and  so  great, 
The  gods  want  mercy  for.     Yet  I  must  through  'em  : 
I  have  begun  a  slaughter  on  my  honour, 
And  I  must  end  it  there. — He  sleeps.     Good  Heavens, 
"NVhy  give  you  peace  to  this  untemperate  beast, 
That  hath  so  long  transgressed  you  I     I  must  kill  him, 
And  I  will  do  it  bravely  :  the  mere  joy 
Tells  me,  I  merit  in  it.     Yet  I  must  not 
Thus  tamely  do  it,  as  he  sleeps — that  were 
To  rock  him  to  another  world  ;  my  vengeance 
Shall  take  liim  waking,  and  then  lay  before  him 
The  number  of  his  wTongs  and  punishments : 
ni  shape  8  his  sins  like  Furies,  till  I  waken 
His  evil  angel,  his  sick  conscience, 

and  place  a  stage  direction  "King  a  bed"  at  the  commencement  of  Evadne'b 
next  speech.  So  WTctchcd  were  the  appointments  of  our  early  theatres,  that 
when  the  Gentleman  had  left  the  stage,  and  a  bed  containing  the  slcepuig  King 
had  been  thrust  on,  the  audience  were  to  suppose  that  they  beheld  the  royal 
bed-chamber. 

•^  virgin]  I  may  just  notice  that  4to.  1C19  has  "virtue  ". 

'  repent]  So  4to.  1619.  Later  eds.  «  prevent".— Theobald,  who,  throughout 
tlie  i)lay,  made  great  use  of  the  first  4to,  gives  <'  repent "  as  his  own  conjectural 
emendation  ! 

s  shape]  So  4tos.  1619,  1622.  Later  eds.  "shake";  and  so  the  modern 
editors. 


SCENE  n.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  407 

And  then  Fll  strike  him  dead.     King,  by  your  leave  ; 

\^Ties  his  arms  to  the  bed. 
I  dare  not  trust  your  strength  ;  your  grace  and  I 
Must  grapple  upon  even  terms  no  more. 
So,  if  he  rail  me  not  from  my  resolution, 
I  shall  be  strong  enough  ^. — My  lord  the  King  ! 
My  lord  ! — He  sleeps,  as  if  he  meant  to  wake 
No  more. — My  lord  ! — Is  he  not  dead  already  I — 
Sir  !  my  lord  ! 

Kiiig.  Who''s  that  ? 

EvacL  Oh,  you  sleep  soundly,  sir. 

King.  My  dear  Evadne, 
I  have  been  dreaming  of  thee  :  come  to  bed. 

Evad.  I  am  come  at  length,  sir ;  but  how  welcome  I 

King.  What  pretty  new  device  is  this,  Evadne  ? 
What,  do  you  tie  me  to  you  ?  By  my  love ', 
This  is  a  quaint  one.     Come,  my  dear,  and  kiss  me  ; 
I'll  be  thy  Mars  J ;  to  bed,  my  queen  of  love  : 
Let  us  be  caught  together,  that  the  gods 
May  see  and  envy  our  embraces. 

Evad.  Stay,  sir,  stay  ; 
You  are  too  hot,  and  I  have  brought  you  physic 
To  temper  your  high  veins. 

•"  So,  if  he  rail  me  not  from  my  resolution, 
I  shall  be  strong  enough. — My  lord  the  King,  &c.]  So  all  the  old  eds. ;  except 
4to  1619,  which  has— 

"  So,  if  he  raile  me  not  from  my  resolution. 
As  I  beleeue  I  shall  not,  /  shall  fit  him. 
My  Lord  the  King  ",  &c. 
In  the  concluding  lines  of  this  speech  I  have  followed  the  modern  arrange- 
ment (Theobald's),  though  not  quite  satisfied  with  it. 

1  love]  Altered  by  Theobald  to  "Ufe", — probably  because  the  former  word 
occurs  in  the  next  line  but  one. 

J  I'll  be  thy  Mars']  "  The  allusion  here  is  to  the  words  of  Ovid  in  the  fourth 
book  of  his  Metamorphoses,  where  Mars  and  Venus  are  caught  in  conjunction 
by  a  subtle  net  which  her  husband  Vulcan  had  bound  over  them,  and  exposed 
them  to  the  view  of  the  gods  : — 

Turpes  jacuere  ligati 

Turpiter,  atque  alujuis  de  Dts  non  tristibus  optet 
Sic  fieri  turpis." — Theobald. 


408  THE  MAIDS  TRAGEDY.  [act  v. 

King.  Prithee,  to  bed,  then  ;  let  me  take  it  warm  ; 
There  thou  shalt  know  the  state  of  my  body  better. 

Evad.  I  know  you  have  a  surfeited  foul  body  ; 
And  you  must  bleed.  [Draics  a  knife 

King.  Bleed  ! 

Evad.  Ay,  you  shall  bleed.    Lie  still ;  and,  if  the  devil, 
Your  lust,  will  give  you  leave,  repent.     This  steel 
Comes  to  redeem  the  honour  that  you  stole. 
King,  my  fair  name ;  which  nothing  but  thy  death 
Can  answer  to  the  world. 
Kiii^.  How's  this,  Evadne  I 
Evad.  I  am  not  she  ;  nor  bear  I  in  this  breast 
So  much  cold  spirit  to  be  call'd  a  w^oman  : 
I  am  a  tiger  ;  I  am  any  thing 
That  knows  not  pity.     Stir  not :  if  thou  dost, 
ril  take  thee  unprepared,  thy  fears  upon  thee. 
That  make  thy  sins  look  double,  and  so  send  thee 
(By  my  revenge,  I  will  !)  to  look''  those  torments 
Prepared  for  such  black  souls. 

King.  Thou  dost  not  mean  this  ;  'tis  impossible  ; 
Thou  art  too  sweet  and  gentle. 

Evad.  No,  I  am  not : 
I  am  as  foul  as  thou  art,  and  can  number 
As  many  such  hells  here.     I  was  once  fair, 
Once  I  was  lovely  ;  not  a  blowing  rose 
More  chastely  sweet,  till  thou,  thou,  thou,  foul  canker, 
(Stir  not)  didst  poison  me.     I  was  a  world  of  virtue, 
Till  your  curs'd  court  and  you  (Hell  bless  you  for't !) 
With  your  temptations  on  tempto-tions 
Made  rae  give  up  mine  honour  ;  for  which.  King, 
I  am  come  to  kill  thee. 
King.  No! 
Evad.  I  am. 
King.  Thou  art  not ! 
I  prithee  speak  not  these  things  :   thou  art  gentle, 
And  wort  not  meant  thus  rugged. 

i"  to  look]  "  Occurs  continually  in  old  plays  for  look  for  ;  and  yet  Theobald 
says  it  is  no  English  expression,  and  reads  seek."     Weber. 


SCENE  n.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  409 

Evad.  Peace,  and  hear  me. 
Stir  nothing  but  your  tongue,  and  that  for  mercy 
To  those  above  us  ;  by  whose  Hghts  I  vow, 
Those  blessed  fires  that  shot  to  see  our  sin, 
If  thy  hot  soul  had  substance  with  thy  blood, 
I  would  kill  that  too  ;  which,  being  past  my  steel, 
My  tongue  shall  reach'.     Thou  art  a  shameless  villain  ; 
A  thing  out  of  the  overcharge  of  nature, 
Sent,  like  a  thick  cloud,  to  disperse  a  plague 
Upon  weak  catching  women  ;  such  a  tyrant, 
That  for  his  lust  would  sell  away  his  subjects, 
Ay,  all  his  Heaven  hereafter  ! 

King.  Hear,  Evadne, 
Thou  soul  of  sweetness,  hear  !   I  am  thy  king. 

Evad.  Thou  art  my  shame !  Lie  still ;  there's  none  about  you, 
Within  your  cries  ;  all  promises  of  safety 
Are  but  deluding  dreams.     Thus,  thus,  thou  foul  man, 
Thus  I  begin  my  vengeance  !  \^Stahs  him. 

King.  Hold,  Evadne  ! 
I  do  command  thee  hold  ! 

Evad.  I  do  not  mean,  sir, 
To  part  so  fairly  with  you  ;  we  must  change 
More  of  these  love-tricks  yet. 

King.  What  bloody  villain 
Provok'd  thee  to  this  murder  ? 

Evad.  Thou,  thou  monster  ! 

King.  Oh  ! 

Evad.  Thou  kept'st  me  brave ""  at  court,  and  whorM"  me, 
King ; 
Then  married  me  to  a  young  noble  gentleman. 
And  whor'd  me  still. 

King.  Evadne,  pity  me  ! 

Evad.  Hell  take  me,  then  !     This  for  my  lord  Amintor  ! 

\^Stahs  him. 

'  reach^  So  4tos.  1619,  1622,  1630,  1638  (—Theobald  gives  "reach"  as  his 
own  conjectural  emi3ndation  ! — ).     Later  eds.  "  teach." 

■n  brave}  i.  e.  in  fine  apparel,  «&.c. 

"  whor'd]  So  the  old  eds.  both  here  and  in  the  next  line  but  one,  and  so 
doubtless  the  author  wrote.     Altered  by  the  modern  editors  to  "  whor'd'st." 


410  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  v. 

This  for  my  noble  brother  !  and  this  stroke 
For  the  most  wrong'd  of  women  ! 

King.  Oh  !   I  die.  [Dies. 

Evad.  Die  all  our  faults  together  !    I  forgive  thee.     [Exit 

Enter  two  Gentlemen  of  the  Bed-chamber. 

First  Gent.  Come,  now  she's  gone,  let's  enter ;  the  King 
expects  it,  and  will  be  angry. 

Sec.  Gent.  'Tis  a  fine  wench  :  we'll  have  a  snap  at  her  one 
of  these  nights,  as  she  goes  from  him. 

First  Gent.  Content.     How  quickly  he  had  done  with  her  ! 
I  see  kings  can  do  no  more  that  way  than  other  mortal  people. 

Sec.  Gent.  How  fast  he  is  !  I  cannot  hear  him  breathe. 

First  Gent.  Either  the  tapers  give  a  feeble  light, 
Or  he  looks  very  pale. 

Sec.  Gent.  And  so  he  docs  : 
Pray  Heaven  he  bo  well !  let's  look.— Alas  ! 
He's  stiff,  wounded,  and  dead  !     Treason,  treason  ! 

First  Gent.  Run  forth  and  call. 

Sec.  Gent.  Treason,  treason  !  [Exit. 

First  Gent.  This  will  be  laid  on  us  : 
Who  can  believe  a  woman  could  do  this  ? 

Enter  Cleon  and  Lysippus. 

de.  How  now  !  whore's  the  traitor  ? 

First  Gent.  Fled,  fled  away  ;  but  there  her  woful  act 
Lies  still. 

Ck.  Her  act  !  a  woman  ! 

Lys.  Where's  the  body  ? 

First  Gent.  There. 

Lys.  Farewell,  thou  worthy  man !     There  were  two  bonds 
That  tied  our  loves,  a  brother  and  a  king. 
The  least  of  which  might  fetch  a  flood  of  tears  ; 
But  sucli  the  misery  of  greatness  is. 
They  have  no  time  to  mourn  ;  then,  pardon  me  ! 

Enter  Strato. 
Sirs,  which  way  went  she  'i 
Stra.  Never  follow  her ; 


SCENE  III]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  411 

For  she.  alas  !  was  but  the  instrument. 
News  is  now  brought  in,  that  Melantius 
Has  got  the  fort,  and  stands  upon  the  wall, 
And  with  a  loud  voice  calls  those  few  that  pass 
At  this  dead  time  of  night,  delivering 
The  innocence  of  this  act. 

Lys.  Gentlemen, 
I  am  your  king. 

^tra.  We  do  acknowledge  it. 

Lys.  I  would  I  were  not !     Follow,  all ;  for  this 
Must  have  a  sudden  stop.  {Exeunt. 


SCENE  \\\.— Before  the  Citadel. 

Enter  Melantius,  Diphilus,  and  Calianax,  on  the  zcalls. 

Mel.  If  the  dull  people  can  believe  I  am  arni'd, 
(Be  constant,  Diphilus,)  now  we  have  time 
Either  to  bring  our  banish'd  honours  home. 
Or  create  new  ones  in  our  ends. 

Diph.  I  fear  not ; 
My  spirit  lies  not  that  way. — Courage,  Calianax  ! 

Col.  Would  I  had  any  !  you  should  quickly  know  it. 

Mel.  Speak  to  the  people  ;  thou  art  eloquent. 

Cal.  'Tis  a  fine  eloquence  to  come  to  the  gallows  : 
You  were  born  to  be  my  end ;  the  devil  take  you  ! 
Now  must  I  hang  for  company.     'Tis  strange, 
I  should  be  old,  and  neither  wise  nor  valiant. 

Enter  Lysippus,  Cleon,  Strato,  Diagoras,  and  Guard. 

Lys.  See  where  he  stands,  as  boldly  confident 
As  if  he  had  liis  full  command  about  him  ! 

Stra.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  the  better  cause,  sir ; 
Under  your  gracious  pardon,  let  me  speak  it. 
Though  he  be  mighty-spirited,  and  forward 
To  all  great  things,  to  all  things  of  that  danger 
Worse  men  shake  at  the  telling  of,  yet  certainly 


i\-2  Tin:  .MAID'S  TRAGEUV.  [act  v. 

I  tlo  hflifvc  liini  nobk'.  and  this  action 

RatliiT  puird  on  than  sought  :   liis  mind  was  ever 

As  worthy  as  Iiis  hand. 

Li/s.  Tis  my  fear  too. 
Heaven  forgive  all  ! — Summon  him,  lord  Cleon. 

Cle.  Ho,  from  the  walls  there  ! 

Mel.  Worthy  Cleon,  welcome  : 
We  could  have  wishM  you  here,  lord  ;  you  are  honest. 

Cal.  Well,  thou  art  as  flattering  a  knave,  though 
I  dare  not  tell  thee  so [Aside. 

Li/s.  Melantius ! 

Mel.  Sir? 

Lt/s.  I  am  sorry  that  we  meet  thus  ;  our  old  love 
Never  requir'd  such  distance.     Pray  to"  Heaven, 
You  have  not  left  yourself,  and  sought  this  safety 
More  out  of  fear  than  honour  !     You  have  lost 
A  noble  master  ;  which  your  faith,  Melantius, 
Some  think  might  have  preser\''d  :  yet  you  know  best. 

Cal.  ^Vhen  time  was,  I  was  mad  :  some  that  dares  fight, 
1  hope  will  pay  this  rascal.  [Aside. 

Mel.  Royal  young  man,  those"  tears  look  lovely  on  thee  : 
Had  they  been  shed  for  a  deser\ing  one. 
They  had  been  lasting  monuments.     Thy  brother, 
Wliilsf  he  was  good,  I  call'd  him  King,  and  serv'd  him 
With  that  strong  faith,  that  most  unwearied  valour, 
Puird  people  from  the  farthest  sun  to  seek  him. 
And  beg  '  his  friendship  :   I  was  then  his  soldier. 
Hut  since  his  hot  pride  drew  him  to  disgrace  me, 
And  brand  my  noble  actions  with  his  lust, 
(That  ncver-cur'd  dishonour  of  my  sister. 
Base  stain  of  whore,  and,  which  is  worse,  the  joy 
To  make  it  still  so,)  like  myself,  thus  I 

■  toi]  So  4U).  1610.     Omitted  in  later  cds. ;  and  by  the  modern  editors. 

o  those]  So  4to8.  1619,  1622.  Later  eds.  "whose";  and  so  the  modem 
cditom. 

r   fVhiUl]  Altered  by  the  modem  editors  to  "  While". 

•>  beg]  So  4to.  1019.  Other  eda.  «  buy"  (and  «  by") ;  and  so  the  Editors  of 
1778. 


SCENE  III.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  413 

Have  flung  him  oflP  with  my  allegiance  ; 
And  stand  here  mine  own  justice,  to  revenge 
What  I  have  suffer'd  in  him,  and  this  old  man 
Wronged  almost  to  lunacy. 

Cal.  Who,  I  ? 
You  would  draw  me  in.     I  have  had  no  wrong  ; 
I  do  disclaim  ye  all. 

Mel.  The  short  is  this. 
""Tis  no  ambition  to  lift  up  myself 
Urgeth  me  thus ;  I  do  desire  again 
To  be  a  subject,  so  I  may  be  free'': 
If  not,  I  know  my  strength,  and  will  unbuild 
This  goodly  town.     Be  speedy,  and  be  wise, 
In  a  reply. 

Stra.  Be  sudden,  sir,  to  tie 
All  up  again.     What's  done  is  past  recall. 
And  past  you  to  revenge ;  and  there  are  thousands 
That  wait  for  such  a  troubled  hour  as  this. 
Throw  him  the  blank. 

Lys.  Melantius,  write  in  that 
Thy  choice  :  my  seal  is  at  it.     [  Throws  a  paper  to  Melantius. 

Mel.  It  was  our  honours  drew  us  to  this  act. 
Not  gain ;  and  we  will  only  work  our  pardons. 

Cal.  Put  my  name  in  too. 

Diph.  You  disclaimed  us  all 
But  now,  Calianax. 

Cal.  That  is  all  one ; 
I'll  not  be  hang'd  hereafter  by  a  trick : 
Y\\  have  it  in. 

Mel.  You  shall,  you  shall. — 
Come  to  the  back  gate,  and  we'll  call  you  King, 
And  give  you  up  the  fort. 

Lys.  Away,  away  !  [Exeunt. 

'  free]  Theobald  gave  with  the  later  eds.  "  freed." 


11,  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  v. 

SCENE  lY.— Ante-room  to  Amintor  s  Apartments. 
Enter  AsPATiA  in  male  apparel,  and  with  artificial  scars  on  her  face. 

Asp.  This  is  iny  fatal  hour.     Heaven  may  forgive 
My  rash  attempt,  that  causelessly  hath  laid 
Griefs  on  me  that  will  never  let  me  rest, 
And  put  a  woman's  heart  into  my  breast. 
It  is  more  honour  for  you  that  I  die  ; 
For  she  that  can  endure  the  misery 
That  I  have  on  me,  and  be  patient  too, 
May  live  and  laugh  at  all  that  you  can  do. 

Enter  Servant. 
God  save  you,  sir  ! 

Ser.  And  you,  sir  !     Whafs  your  business  ? 

Asp.  With  you,  sir,  now  ;  to  do  me  the  fair  oflfice 
To  help  me  to  your  lord. 

Ser.  What,  would  you  serve  him  I 

Asp.  ril  do  him  any  service ;  but,  to  haste. 
For  my  affairs  are  earnest,  I  desire 
To  speak  with  him. 

Ser.  Sir,  because  you  are  in  such  haste,  I  would 
Be  loath  delay  you  longer':  you  can  not. 

Asp.  It  shall  become  you,  though,  to  tell  your  lord. 

Ser.  Sir,  he  will  speak  with  nobody  ; 
But  in  particular,  I  have  in  charge. 
About  no  weighty  matters*. 

ylsp.  This  is  most  strange. 
Art  thou  gold-proof  ?  there's  for  thee  ;  help  me  to  him. 

[Gims  money. 

Srr.  Pray  bo  not  angry,  sir  :  111  do  my  best.  [Exit. 

Asp.   How  stubbornly  this  fellow  answered  me  ! 

•  you  longer'^  The  modern  editors  pivc  witli  the  later  eds.  "  ynu  any  longer.'" 
'   But  in  particular  I  have  in  charge, 
Aliout  no  iccighty  maller.s]   Found  only  in  4to  lOH). 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  415 

There  is  a  vild"  dishonest  trick  in  man, 

More  than  in  woman  ''.     All  the  men  I  meet 

Appear  thus  to  me,  are  harsh '''  and  rude, 

And  have  a  subtilty  in  every  thing, 

Which  love  could  never  know  ;  but  we  fond  women 

Harbour  the  easiest  and  the  smoothest  thoughts, 

And  think  all  shall  go  so.     It  is  unjust 

That  men  and  women  should  be  matchM  together. 

Enter  Amintor  with  Servant. 

Amin.  Where  is  he  I 

Ser.  There,  my  lord. 

Amin.  What  would  you,  sir  ? 

Asp.  Please  it  your  lordship  to  command  your  man 
Out  of  the  room,  I  shall  deliver  things 
Worthy  your  hearing. 

Amin.  Leave  us.  [^Exit  Servant. 

Asp.  Oh,  that  that  shape 
Should  bury  falsehood  in  it !  [^Aside. 

Amin.  Now  your  will,  sir. 

Asp.  When  you  know  me,  my  lord,  you  needs  must  guess 
My  business  ;  and  I  am  not  hard  to  know  ; 
For,  till  the  chance  of  war  mark'd  this  smooth  face 
With  these  few  blemishes,  people  would  call  me 
My  sister's  picture,  and  her  mine.     In  short, 
I  am  the  brother  to  the  wrong'd  Aspatia. 

Amin.  The  wrong'd  Aspatia  !     Would  thou  wert  so  too 
Unto  the  wrongVl  Amintor  !     Let  me  kiss     [A^isses  her  hand. 
That  hand  of  thine,  in  honour  that  I  bear 
Unto  the  ^^Tong''d  Aspatia.     Here  I  stand 
That  did  it.     Would  he  could  not  "^ !     Gentle  youth, 

"  vild\  So  4t03.  1619,  1622,  1630.      Later  eds.  "vile  "  ;  and  so  the  modern 
editors.     See  note,  p.  331. 

'  woman]  So  4to.  1661.  Other  eds.  "  women  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 

"  are  harsh]  Theobald  for  the  metre  printed  "  are  all  harsh"  ;  and  so  his 
successors.     But  "  appear"  is  frequently  used  as  a  ti-isyllable. 

"  Here  I  stand 

That  did  it.     Would  he  could  not .']  Heath  (3IS.  Notes)  proposes  to  read 
"  Here  he  stands"  &c.     Of  the  words,  "  Would  he  could  not !"  Weber  attempts 


.,,,;  THK  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [Arr  v. 

I.cavc  nio  ;  for  there  is  something  in  thy  looks 
That  calls  my  sins  in  a  most  liideous  form 
Into  my  mind  ; "  and  I  have  grief  enough 
Without  thy  help. 

Asp.  I  would  I  could  with  credit  ! 
Since  I  was  twelve  years  old,  I  had  not  seen 
My  sister  till  tliis  hour  I  now  arrived  : 
She  sent  for  me  to  see  her  marriage  ; 
A  woful  one  !  but  they  that  are  above  '^ 
Have  ends  in  every  thing.     She  us'd  few  words, 
But  yet  enough  to  make  me  understand 
The  baseness  of  the  injury  >'  you  did  her. 
That  little  training  I  have  had  is  war  : 
I  may  behave  myself  rudely  in  peace  ; 
I  would  not,  though.     I  shall  not  need  to  tell  you, 
I  am  but  young,  and  would  be  loath  to  lose 
Honour,  that  is  not  easily  gaind  again. 
Fairly  I  mean  to  deal :   the  age  is  strict 
For  single  combats  ;  and  we  shall  be  stopped, 
If  it  be  publish'd.     If  you  like  your  sword, 
Use  it ;  if  mine  appear  a  better  to  you, 
Change  ;  for  the  ground  is  this,  and  this  the  time, 
To  end  our  difference.  [Draics  her  sicord. 

Amin.  Charitable  youth, 
If  thou  be'st  such,  think  not  I  will  maintain 
So  strange  a  wrong :  and,  for  thy  sister's  sake, 
Know,  that  I  could  not  think  that  desperate  thing 

a  most  absurd  explanation.    Tim  text  may  be  corrupted ;  yet  in  a  preceding  part 
of  the  play  we  find  a  passage  somewhat  similar  ; 

"  /  bear  my  grief 
Hid  from  the  world.      How  art  thou  wxetched  then  ? 
For  aught  /  know,  all  husbands  are  like  me." — p.  372. 
»  But  they  that  are  above,  ^c]  "  How  nobly,  and  to  what  advantage,  ha-s 
Sbake.speare  expres-sed  this  sentiment  in  his  Hamlet  ! — 
«  And  that  should  teacli  us, 
There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Il<jugh-hcw  them  how  we  will.'  " — Theobald. 
r  injury]  So  the   later  eds.     Earlier  eds.   "  injuries"  ;  and  so  the  modern 
editors,  Theobald  excepted. 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  417 

I  durst  not  do ;  yet,  to  enjoy  this  world, 
I  would  not  see  her  ;  for,  beholding  thee, 
I  am  I  know  not  what.     If  I  have  aught 
That  may  content  thee,  take  it,  and  begone, 
For  death  is  not  so  terrible  as  thou  ; 
Thine  eyes  shoot  guilt  into  me. 

Asp.  Thus,  she  swore, 
Thou  wouldst  behave  thyself,  and  give  me  words 
That  would  fetch  tears  into  mine  eyes  ;  and  so 
Thou  dost  indeed.     But  yet  she  bade  me  watch, 
Lest  I  were  cozenM,  and  be  sure  to  fight 
Ere  I  returned. 

Amin.  That  must  not  be  with  me. 
For  her  Fll  die  directly ;  but  against  her 
Will  never  hazard  it. 

Asp.  You  must  be  urg'd  : 
I  do  not  deal  uncivilly  with  those 
That  dare  to  fight  ;  but  such  a  one  as  you 
Must  be  us\i  thus.  [Strikes  him. 

Amin.  I  prithee,  youth,  take  heed. 
Thy  sister  is  a  thing  to  me  so  much 
Above  mine  honour,  that  I  can  endure 
All  this — Good  gods  !  a  blow  I  can  endure  ; 
But  stay  not,  lest  thou  draw  a  timeless  death 
Upon  thyself. 

Asp.  Thou  art  some  prating  fellow  ; 
One  that  hath  studied  out  a  trick  to  talk. 
And  move  soft-hearted  people  ;  to  be  kickM,  [Kicks  him. 

Thus  to  be  kick'd. — Why  should  he  be  so  slow- 
In  giving  me  my  death  ?  [Aside. 

Amin.  A  man  can  bear 
No  more,  and  keep  his  flesh.     Forgive  me,  then  ! 
I  would  endure  yet,  if  I  could.     Now  shew   [Drmos  his  sword. 
The  spirit  thou  pretend'st,  and  understand 
Thou  hast  no  hour  to  live.       [They Jight,  Aspatia  is  icounded. 

What  dost  thou  mean  • 
Tiiou  canst  not  fight :  the  blows  thou  mak"'st  at  me 
Are  quite  besides ;  and  those  I  offer  at  thee, 


41H  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  v. 

Thou  sprcad'st  thine  arms,  and  tak'st  upon  thy  breast, 
Alas,  defenceless  ! 

Asp.  I  have  got  enough, 
And  my  desire.     There  is  no  place  so  fit 
For  me  to  die  as  here.  [Falls. 

Enter  Evadne,  her  hands  hloodt/,  icith  a  knife. 

Evad.  Amintor,  I  am  loaden  with  events, 
That  fly  to  make  thee  happy  ;  I  have  joys, 
Tliat  in  a  moment  can  call  back  thy  wrongs, 
And  settle  thee  in  thy  free  state  again. 
It  is  Evadne  still  that  follows  thee, 
But  not  her  mischiefs. 

Amin.  Thou  canst  not  fool  me  to  believe  again  ; 
But  thou  hast  looks  and  things  so  full  of  news. 
That  I  am  stayVl. 

Evad.  Noble  Amintor,  put  off  thy  amaze  ; 
Let  thine  eyes  loose,  and  speak.     Am  I  not  fair  ? 
Looks  not  Evadne  beauteous  with  these  rites  now  I 
^Vere  those  hours  half  so  lovely  in  thine  eyes 
AVhen  our  hands  met  before  the  holy  man  I 
I  was  too  foul  within  to  look  fair  then  : 
Since  I  knew  ill,  I  was  not  free  till  now. 

Amin.  There  is  presage  of  some  important  thing 
About  thee,  which,  it  seems,  thy  tongue  hath  lost : 
Thy  hands  arc  bloody,  and  thou  hast  a  knife. 

Evad.  In  this  consists  thy  happiness  and  mine: 
Joy  to  Amintor  !   for  the  King  is  dead. 

Amin.  Those  have  most  power  to  hurt  us,  that  we  love ; 
^^'e  lay  our  sleeping  lives  within  their  arms. 
\\'hy,  thou  hast  rais'd  up  mischief  to  his  height, 
And  found  one'  to  outname  thy  other  faults; 
Thou  hast  no  intermission  of  thy  sins, 
hut  all  thy  life  is  a  continued  ill : 
Black  is  thy  colour  now,  disease  thy  nature. 
Joy  to  Amintor  !     Thou  hast  touched  a  life, 

r  found  one]  So  4tos.  IGl!),  1622,  1630,  1638,  1641.     Later  eds.  "found  out 
one";  and  so  tlic  modern  cditora,  those  of  1778  excepted. 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  419 

The  very  name  of  which  had  power  to  chain 
Up  all  my  rage,  and  calm  my  wildest  wrongs. 

Evad.  'Tis  done  ;  and,  since  I  could  not  find  a  way 
To  meet  thy  love  so  clear  as  through  his  life, 
I  cannot  now  repent  it. 

Amin.  Couldst  thou  procure  the  gods  to  speak  to  me, 
To  bid  me  love  this  woman  and  forgive, 
I  think  I  should  fall  out  with  them.     Behold, 
Here  lies  a  youth  whose  wounds  bleed  in  my  breast, 
Sent  by  his  violent  fate  to  fetch  his  death 
From  my  slow  hand  !     And,  to  augment  my  woe. 
You  now  are  present,  stain''d  with  a  king's  blood 
Violently  ^  shed.     This  keeps  night  here. 
And  throws  an  unknown  wilderness^  about  me. 

Asp.  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Amin.  No  more  ;  pursue  me  not. 

Evad.  Forgive  me,  then, 
And  take  me  to  thy  bed  :  we  may  not  part.  [^Kneels. 

Amin.  Forbear,  be  wise,  and  let  my  rage  go  this  way. 

Evad.  'Tis  you  that  I  would  stay,  not  it. 

Amin.  Take  heed ; 
It  will  return  with  me. 

Evad.  If  it  must  be, 
I  shall  not  fear  to  meet  it :  take  me  home. 

Amin.  Thou  monster  of  cruelty,  forbear  ! 

Evad.  For  Heaven's  sake,  look  more  calm  :  thine  eyes  are 
sharper 
Than  thou  canst  make  thy  sword. 

Amin.  Away,  away ! 
Thy  knees  are  more  to  me  than  violence ; 

^    Violently'^  Theobald  chose  to  print  "  Most  violently." 
"  wilderness'^  "  This  is  a  word  here  appropriated  by  the  poets  to  signify 
wildness,  from  the  verb  bewilder.      Milton  seems  to  have  been  pleased  with 
the  liberty  of  usmg  it  in  this  sense,  as  he  has  copied  it  in  his  Paradise  Lost  ,■ 
B.  ix.  V.  245. 

'  These  paths  and  bowers  doubt  not  but  our  joint  hands 
Will  keep  from  wilderness  with  ease.' "  Theobald, — who  appears  to 
have  forgot  that  Shakespeare    had    used  the  word  in  that  sense,  Meas.  for 
Meas.  act  iii.  sc.  1 . 


(20  THE  MAID'.S  TRAGEDY.  [act  v. 

I  am  worse  than  sick  to  see  knees  follow  me 

For  that  I  must  not  grant.     For  Heaven's  sake,  stand. 

Evad.  Receive  me,  then. 

Amin.  I  dare  not  stay  thy  language  : 
Tn  midst  of  all  my  anger  and  my  grief, 
Thou  dost  awake  something  that  troubles  me, 
And  says,  I  lov'd  thee  once.     I  dare  not  stay  ; 
There  is  no  end  of  woman's  reasoning.  [Retiring. 

Evad.  [rishuj.']  Amintor,  thou  shalt  love  me  now  again  : 
Go ;   I  am  calm.     Farewell,  and  peace  for  ever  ! 
Evadne,  whom  thou  hat'st,  will  die  for  thee.        [^Stabs  herself. 

Amin.  [returning.']  I  have  a  little  human  nature  yet, 
That's  left  for  thee,  that  bids  me  stay  thy  hand. 

Evad.  Thy  hand  was  welcome,  but  it  came  too  late. 
Oh,  I  am  lost  !  the  heavy  sleep  makes  haste.  \_Dies. 

Asp.  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Amin.  This  earth  of  mine  doth  tremble,  and  I  feel 
A  stark  affrighted  motion  in  my  blood  ; 
My  soul  grows  weary  of  her  house,  and  I 
All  over  am  a  trouble  to  myself. 
There  is  some  hidden  power  in  these  dead  things. 
That  calls  my  flesh  unto  'em ;   I  am  cold  : 
Be  resolute,  and  bear  ""em  company. 
There's  something  yet,  which  I  am  loath  to  leave  : 
There's  man  enough  in  me  to  meet  the  fears 
That  death  can  bring ;   and  yet  would  it  were  done  ! 
I  can  find  nothing  in  the  whole  discourse 
Of  death,  I  durst  not  meet  the  boldest  way  ; 
Yet  still,  betwixt  the  reason  and  the  act, 
The  wrong  I  to  Aspatia  did  stands  up  ; 
I  have  not  such  another  fault  to  answer  : 
Tiiough  she  may  justly  arm  herself  with  scorn 
And  hate  of  me,  my  soul  will  part  less  troubled, 
NN'hcn  I  have  paid  to  her  in  tears  my  sorrow  : 
I  will  not  leave  this  act  unsatisfied, 
If  all  that's  left  in  me  can  answer  it. 

Asp.  Was  it  a  dream  ?  there  stands  vVmintor  still ; 
Or  I  dream  still. 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  421 

Amin.  How  dost  thou  ?  speak  ;  receive  my  love  and  help. 
Thy  blood  dimbs  up  to  his  old  place  again  ; 
There's  hope  of  thy  recovery. 

Asp.  Did  you  not  name  Aspatia  ? 

Amin.  I  did. 

Asp.  And  talk'd  of  tears  and  sorrow  unto  her  ? 

Amin.  'Tis  true ;  and,  till  these  happy  signs  in  thee 
Did  stay  my  course,  'twas  thither  I  was  going. 

Asp.  Thou  art  there  already,  and  these  wounds  are  hers  : 
Those  threats  I  brought  with  me  sought  not  revenge, 
But  came  to  fetch  this  blessing  from  thy  hand  : 
■  I  am  Aspatia  yet. 

Amin.  Dare  my  soul  ever  look  abroad  again  ? 

Asp.  I  shall  sure  live  ^,  Amintor  ;   I  am  well ; 
A  kind  of  healthful  joy  wanders  within  me. 

A7ni7i.  The  world  wants  lives  to  excuse  ''  thy  loss  ; 
Come,  let  me  bear  thee  to  some  place  of  help. 

Asp.  Amintor,  thou  must  stay  ;   I  must  rest  here  ; 
My  strength  begins  to  disobey  my  will. 
How  dost  thou,  my  best  soul  ?  I  would  fain  live 
Now,  if  I  could  :  wouldst  thou  have  lov'd  me,  then  ? 

Amin.  Alas, 
All  that  I  am's  not  worth  a  hair  from  thee  ! 

Asp.  Give  me  thy  hand ;  mine  <^  hands  grope  up  and  down, 
And  cannot  find  thee  ;  I  am  wondrous  sick  : 
Have  I  thy  hand,  Amintor  I 

Amin.  Thou  greatest  blessing  of  the  world,  thou  hast. 

Asp.  I  do  believe  thee  better  than  my  sense. 
Oh,  I  must  go  !  farewell  !  [Dies. 

*  /  shall  sure  live']  So  4tos.  1619,  1622  ;  and  so  Theobald.  Qtos.  1630, 1638, 
"  /  shall  surely  live  ;"  and  so  the  editors  of  1778  and  Weber.  Other  eds.  "  / 
shall  live  ". 

>>  lives  to  excuse']  Old  eds.  "  lines  to  excuse " — a  misprint  for  "  lines,"  &c. 
Theobald  admitted  into  the  text  Seward's  conjecture,  "  lives  to  exjiiate,"  pro- 
posing in  a  note  "  limits  to  excuse." 

"^  mine']  Altered  by  the  Editors  of  1778  to  "my"  ;  and  so  Weber.  I  may 
notice  that  in  this  line,  the  three  earliest  4tos.  have  "  Giue  me  thine  hand  ",  and 
that  4to.  1619  has  "  mine  eyes  grow  vp  and  dow7ie." 


422  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  [act  v. 

Amin.  She  swounds'^. — Aspatia  ! — Help  !>for  Heaven's  sake, 
water, 
Such  as  may  chain  life  ever  to  this  frame ! — 
Aspatia,  speak  !  —  What,  no  help  yet  I    I  fool ; 
I'll  chafe  her  temples.     Yet  there's  nothing  stirs  : 
Some  hidden  power  tell  her,  Amintor  calls, 
And  let  lier  answer  me  ! — Aspatia,  speak  ! — 
I  have  heard,  if  there  be  any  life,  but  bow 
The  body  thus,  and  it  will  shew  itself^'. 
Oh,  she  is  gone  !  I  will  not  leave  her  yet. 
Since  out  of  justice  we  must  challenge  nothing, 
ni  call  it  mercy,  if  you'll  pity  me, 
You  heavenly  powers,  and  lend  for  some  few  years 
The  blessed  soul  to  this  fair  seat  again ! 
No  comfort  comes  ;  the  gods  deny  me  too. 
I'll  bow  the  body  once  again. — Aspatia  ! — 
The  soul  is  fled  for  ever  ;  and  I  wrong 
Myself,  so  long  to  lose  her  company. 
Must  I  talk  now  I     Here's  to  be  with  thee,  love  ! 

[Siabs  himself. 
Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.  This  is  a  great  grace  to  my  lord,  to  have  the  new  king 
come  to  him  :  I  must  tell  him  he  is  entering. — Oh,  Heaven  ^ ! 
— Help,  help  ! 

Enier  Lysippus,  Melantius,  Calianax,  Cleon,  Diphilus,  atnl 
Strato. 
Lt/n.  ^Vherc■'s  Amintor  ? 
Serv  ^  Oh,  there,  there  ! 

■^  swounds]  Altered  by  the  modern  editors   to   the   modern  form  "swoons." 
Compare  Fletclier's  Faithful  Shepherdess,  act  iii.  sc.  1 ; 
"  I  take  tliy  body  from  the  ground 
In  this  deep  and  deadly  swound." 
»  /  have  heard,  if  there  be  any  life,  but  bow 

The  body  thus,  and  it  will  shew  itself. \  "  These  lines  form  the  best  comment 
ujum  the  common  direction  in  old  plays,  to  bend  the  body  of  a  dying  or  dead 
person."     Wkuek. 

'  Heaven]  (itos.  lOi'J,  IG22,  "God";  which  Weber  very  unnecessarily 
ado[ited. 

K  Serv.]  Old  cds.  "Strat."     "  We  cannot  believe  our  poets  intended  these 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  42a 

Lys.  How  strange  is  this  ! 

Cal.  What  should  we  do  here  ? 

Mel.  These  deaths  are  such  acquainted  things  with  me, 
That  yet  my  heart  dissolves  not.     May  I  stand 
Stiff  here  for  ever  !     Eyes,  call  up  your  tears  ! 
This  is  Amintor  :  heart,  he  was  my  friend  ; 
Melt !  now  it  flows. — Amintor,  give  a  word 
To  call  me  to  thee. 

Amin.  Oh  ! 

Mel.  Melantius  calls  his  friend  Amintor.     Oh, 
Thy  arms  are  kinder  to  me  than  thy  tongue ! 
Speak,  speak  ! 

Amin.  What? 

Mel.  That  little  word  was  worth''  all  the  sounds 
That  ever  I  shall  hear  again. 

Diph.  Oh,  brother, 
Here  lies  your  sister  slain !  you  lose  yourself 
In  sorrow  there. 

Mel.   Why,  Diphilus,  it  is 
A  thing  to  laugh  at,  in  respect  of  this  : 
Here  was  my  sister,  father,  brother,  son  ; 
All  that  I  had. — Speak  once  again  ;   what  youth 
Lies  slain  there  by  thee  ? 

Amin.  'Tis  Aspatia. 
My  last  is  said  '.     Let  me  give  up  my  soul 
Into  thy  bosom.  \^Dies. 

Cal.  What's  that  I  what's  that  I  Aspatia  ! 

Mel.  I  never  did 
Repent  the  greatness  of  my  heart  till  now ; 
It  will  not  burst  at  need. 

Cal.  My  daughter  dead  here  too  !     And  you  have  all  fine 
new  tricks  to  grieve ;  but  I  ne'er  knev/  any  but  direct  crying. 

words  to  be  spoken  by  Strato.     Strato  is  following  Lysippus  into  the  room,  yet 

is  the  first  to  give  information  of  what  that  prince  must  have  seen  before  him. 

The  speech  appears  to  us  to  belong  to  the  Servant  ;  to  whom  therefore  we  have 

assigned  it."   Ed.  1778. 

^  worthy  Theobald,  dissatisfied,as  usual,  with  the  metre,  printed  "more  wor</»." 
'  My  last  is  said]^  So  4tos.  1619,  1622.     Later  eds.  «  My  senses  fade." 


42i  THE  MAIDS  TRAGEDY.  [act  v. 

Mel.  T  am  a  prattler  :  but  no  more.  [Offers  to  stab  himself. 

Diph.  Hold,  brother  ! 

Lys.  Stop  him. 

Diph.  Fie,  how  unmanly  was  this  offer  m  you  ! 
Does  this  become  our  strain  ? 

Cal.  I  know  not  what  the  matter  is,  but  I  am  grown  verv 
kind,  and  am  friends  with  you  all  now\  You  have  given  me 
that  among  you  will  kill  me  quickly ;  but  FIl  go  home,  and 
live  as  long  as  I  can.  [Exit. 

Mel.  His  spirit  is  but  poor  that  can  be  kept 
From  death  for  want  of  weapons. 
Is  not  my  hands  ^  a  weapon  good '  enough 
To  stop  my  breath  ?  or,  if  you  tie  down  those, 
I  vow,  Amintor,  I  will  never  eat, 
Or  drink,  or  sleep,  or  have  to  do  with  that 
That  may  preserve  life  !     This  I  swear  to  keep. 

Lys.  Look  to  him,  though,  and  bear  those  bodies  in. 
May  this  a  fair  example  be  to  me, 
To  rule  with  temper  ;  for  on  lustful  kings 
Unlook'd-for  sudden  deaths  from  Heaven  are  sent : 
But  cursVl  is  he  that  is  their  instrument.  [Exeunt. 

J  all  «o«']  So  4to.  1619.  Omitted  in  later  eds.  ;  and  by  the  modern  editors. 
— Qy.  Were  not  tiiis  and  the  preceding  speech  of  Calianax  originally  verse? 

"<  hands]  So  4tos.  1619,  1G22,  1630,  1C38,  1641,— and  no  doubt  rightly  ;  see 
tlie  next  line.     Later  eds.  "hand  "  ;  and  so  the  modern  editors. 

'  yood\  The  Editors  of  177."  and  Weber  gave  w-ith  the  three  earliest  4tos. 
"  sharp  ". 


E.\D    OF    VOL.     I. 


T.ONDOV: 
AND    RVAN.'S,    PRI.NTKns,    WHITEirRIARS. 


i 


APRe 


PR  Beaumont,   Francis 

2421  The  works  of  Beaumont  & 

D8  Fletcher 

18^13 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY 


HCI WMS  i  m