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7 FiEST SELECTED ebo^i the WHOLE oe theie WORKS, 

To the Exclusion of whatever is Morally Objectionable : 





















It is not customary, I believe, to write prefaces to books of 
selection. " Beauties'* are understood to speak for them- 
selves ; and the more they deserve the name, the less politic 
it may be considered to dilate on the merits of the writings 
from which they have been culled. A wit who was shown 
the collection of detached passages called the Beauties of 
Shakspeare, is reported to have said : " Where are the other 
nine volumes?" 

There are such especial reasons, however, why a selection 
from the works of Beaumont and Eletcher is a thing not only 
warrantable but desirable (to Bay nothing of the difference of 
this volume from collections of merely isolated thoughts and 
fancies), that it is proper I should enter into some explana- 
tions of them ; and for this purpose I must begin with a 
glance at the lives of the two poets. 

Feakcis Beaumont, youngest son of a judge of the 
Common Pleas, is supposed to have been born about the year 
1584, at the abbey of Graee-Dieu, in Leicestershire, which, at 
the dissolution of the monasteries, had become possessed by 
the judge's father, who was recorder of the county, and subse- 
quently a judge himself. The poet was intended tor the 
family profession, and, after studying awhile at Oxford, was 
entered of the Middle Temple ; but on becoming acquainted 
with the stage, he probably felt that his vocation had been 
otherwise destined. The date of his first acquaintance with 
Fletcher is unknown ; but it must of necessity have been 
when he was young ; and the intimacy became so close, that 
the two friends are said not only to have lived in the same 
house (which was on the Surrey side of the Thames, near the 
Globe Theatre), but to have possessed everything in common. 


Beaumont however, if not Fletcher, married ; and he had 
not passed what is called the prime of life, when he died ; 
for, according to Ben Jonson, he had not completed his 
thirtieth year. But there is reason to believe otherwise. 
He was buried in "Westminster Abbey. 

Johk Fletcher, son of a Bishop of London who had ac- 
quired an unenviable celebrity as one of the troublers of the 
last moments of Mary Queen of Scots, was born at Bye, in 
Sussex, in the year 1579. He appears to have been educated 
at Cambridge, and to have led a life wholly theatrical. There 
is nothing to prove that he ever married ; though, on the 
other hand, there is nothing to disprove that he was the 
"John Fletcher" whose marriage with " Jone Herring" in 
the year 1612 is on record in the Southwark books. Be this 
as it may, he continued to live and write in the parish of 
St. Saviour long after the death of the friend who had kept 
house with him ; and he died there, and was buried in the 
church, in the year 1625. He himself had not lived to be 
old ; for he was not forty-six. His death was occasioned by 
an accident. Bequiring a new suit of clothes for a visit to 
which he had been invited in the country, he stopped in town 
to have it made, and the consequence was a seizure by the 
plague, which sent him on the journey from which "no 
traveller returns." 

Nothing is known of the personal habits of these illus- 
trious men except that they were intimate with other cele- 
brated poets, Ben Jonson in particular; that Beaumont (and 
doubtless Fletcher) frequented the famous Mermaid Tavern, 
of which he has recorded the merits ; that Fletcher, though 
dissatisfied with his plays when he saw them acted, hated to 
bespeak favour for them in prologues ; and that neither 
Beaumont nor Fletcher entertained much respect for their 
critics in general. The very talk of the two friends is said to 
have been " a comedy." A certain aristocratical tone, as well 
as the ultra-loyal breeding which has been noticed in them, is, 
I think, discernible in their writings, though qualified occa- 
sionally as genius is sure to qualify it. Ben Jonson told 
Drummond that Beaumont thought too much of himself, — 


probably because Beaumont had joined the rest of the world 
in saving the same thing of Ben; but this did not hinder them, 
or had not hindered them, from giving one another tbe 
warmest praises. Of Shakspeare, who said nothing of any- 
body, Beaumont and Fletcher said as little. Their only 
allusions to his writings look very like banters. Perhaps 
the artificial superiority of their birth and breeding, and 
the tone of fashionable society in which they excelled, con- 
spired with a natural jealousy to make them fancy him a less 
man than he was; as, on the other hand, Shakspeare' s extra- 
ordinary silence with regard to his contemporaries may 
hare originated in habits of self-suppression, attributable to 
anything but pride of position. 

"Whatever Beaumont and Eletcher may have thought in 
this particular instance, little did the two young poets suspect, 
that the advantages of rank and training on which they pro- 
bably valued themselves, as giving their genius its solidest 
opportunities and most crowning grace, were the very things 
destined to do it the greatest mischief, and to threaten 
their names with extinction. Though poets truly so called, 
and therefore naturally possessed of earnestness of mind and 
a tendency to believe in whatsoever was best and wisest, they 
had not sufficient complexional strength to hinder a couple 
of lively and flattered young men from falling in with the 
tone of the day and the licenses in fashion ; and unfortu- 
nately for their repute in a day to come, they entered on 
their career at a time when the example in both these respects 
happened to be set by a court which was the vulgarest in Its 
language, and the most profligate in its morals, of any that 
ever disgraced the country : for the court of Charles the 
Second, however openly dissolute, and (compared with our 
present refinement) coarse in its language, was elegance 
itself in comparison with that of James the First \— to say 
nothing of depths of crime and enormity, with which our 
poets had assuredly nothing in common. It is interesting 
to see how the diviner portion of spirit inherent in all true 
genius saved these extraordinary men from being corrupted 
to the core, and losing those noblest powers of utterance 
which nothing but sincerity and right feeling can bestow ; 
how, in the midst of the grossest effeminacy, they delighted 


in painting the manliest characters ; how they loved sim- 
plicity and tenderness, and never wrote so well as when 
speaking their language ; and how, when on the very knees 
of the slavishest of the doctrines in which they had been bred, 
their hearts could rise against the idols of their worship, and 
set above all other pretensions the rights of justice and 
humanity. To read one of the pages of the beautiful por- 
tions of their works, you would think it impossible that such 
writers should frame their lips to utter what disgraces the 
page ensuing : yet there it is, like a torrent of feculence 
beside a chosen garden ; nay, say rather like a dream, or a 
sort of madness, — the very spite and riot of the tongue of a 
disordered incontinence for the previous self-restraint. And 
this was the privilege of their position ! the gain they had 
got by their participation of polite life in the days of James 
the First, and their right to be considered its perfect expo- 
nents ! Had Beaumont been fortunate enough, to have 
been the son of a briefless barrister, or Fletcher's father, 
happily for himself, have risen no higher in the Church than 
his ministry in the village of Eye, — the two dramatists, unhurt 
by those blighting favours of the day, and admonished to 
behave themselves as decorously as their brethren, might now 
have been in possession of a thoroughly delightful fame, and 
such a volume as the one before us have been a thing out of 
the question ; but the son of the judge, and the son of the 
bishop, unluckily possessed rank as well as gaiety enough to 
constitute themselves the representatives of what in the next 
age was styled the " gentleman of wit and pleasure about 
town : " and the consequence was, that while on the serious 
side of their natures they were thoughtful and beautiful poets, 
and probably despised nine-tenths of the persons whom they 
amused, — on the other side, and in the intoxication of success, 
they threw themselves with their whole stock of wit and 
spirits into the requirements of the ribaldry in fashion, and, 
by a combination peculiar to the reigns of the Stuarts, became 
equally the delight of the "highest" and the "lowest 
circles." Not that there was wanting in those times a circle 
of a less nominal altitude, in which their condemnation was 
already commencing; for though the gloomier class of Puritans 
were as vulgar in their way, as the Im-puritans were in theirs, 


yet a breeding alien to both prevailed in the families which 
the young Milton frequented ; and when the author of Allegro 
and Penseroso spoke of the dramatists who attracted him to 
the theatre, he tacitly reproved the two friends by limiting 
his mention of names to those of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson; 
though how he admired the culprits, apart from their mis- 
demeanours as fine gentlemen, is abundantly proved by his 
imitations of them in those very poems, and in the masque 
of Co mus. 

It might be asked by those who know Beaumont and 
Fletcher by name only, or by little else than the modern 
adaptations of one or two of their plays, whether this view 
of their offences against decency is not exaggerated, and 
whether it was possible for any British court to set so low 
an example. 

It is not pleasant to be under the necessity of satisfying 
doubts of this nature, especially with a book full of beauties 
before us, taken from the authors who are found so much 
fault with ; and it is impossible, for obvious reasons, to pro- 
duce proofs from the authors themselves, and so do the very 
thing we object to, and quote what is not fit to be read. 
Nevertheless, it is proper to show from what an amount of 
deformity those beauties have been rescued ; and it will be 
sufficient for this purpose to bring the testimony of two 
witnesses, who may fairly represent all the others, and both 
of whom would far rather have found the poets faultless, than 
biameable. The first is Schlegel, one of the fondest as well 
as ablest critics of our national drama ; the other, the latest 
editor of the works of Beaumont and Fletcher, Mr. Dyce. 

" There is an incurable vulgar side of human nature," 
observes Schlegel, " which the poet should never approach 
but with a certain bashfulness, when he cannot avoid allowing 
it to be perceived ; but instead of this, Beaumont and 
Fletcher throw no veil whatever over nature. They express 
everything bluntly in words : they make the spectator the 
unwilling confidant of all that more noble minds endeavour 
to hide even from themselves. The indecencies in which 
these poets allowed themselves to indulge, exceed all con- 
ception. The licentiousness of the language is the least 
evil; many scenes, nay, whole plots, are so contrived, that 


the very idea of them, not to mention the sight, is a gross 
iiisult to modesty. Aristophanes is a bold interpreter of 
sensuality ; but like the Grecian statuary in the figures of 
satyrs, &c. he banishes them into the animal region to 
which they wholly belong ; and judging him according to the 
morality of his times, he is much less offensive. But Beau- 
mont and Fletcher exhibit the impure and nauseous colouring 
of vice to our view in quite a different sphere ; their compo- 
sitions resemble the sheet full of pure and impure animals in 
the vision of the Apostle. This was the universal inclination 
of the dramatic poets under James and Charles the First. 
They seem as if they purposely wished to justify the Puritans, 
who affirmed that the theatres were so many schools of se- 
duction, and chapels of the Devil."* 

It might have been more philosophical in the excellent 
G-erman critic, if, instead of the words " incurably vulgar," 
at the commencement of this passage, he had said, tC of 
necessity repulsive;" for we must not say of Nature, in 
relation to any of her works, human or otherwise, that she 
has done anything vulgar or incurable. Nothing requires 
cure, but what she has rendered curable ; and vulgarity, in 
the offensive sense of the word, though for wise purposes 
she has rendered us sensible of such an impression in relation 
to one another, is not to be thought predicable of herself. 
It was in some measure, most probably, out of a mistaken 
sense of this truth, and from a certain hearty universality 
natural to poets, that Beaumont and Fletcher allowed them- 
selves to go to the extremes they did, against the other extreme 
of the Puritans ; forgetting, that a genial boldness is not 
a shameless audacity, and that the absence of all restraint 
tends to worse errors than formality. 

Too true is the charge of Schlegel against them. "With 
rare and beautiful exceptions, they degrade love by confining 
it to the animal passion : they degrade the animal passion 
itself, by associating it with the foulest impertinences ; they 
combine, by anticipation, Rochester and Swift, — make chas- 
tity and unchastity almost equally offensive, by indecently 

* lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature, Black's Translation, vol. ii. 
p. 308. (Bonn's edition, p. 470.) 


and ex: ntly coDtrasting them ; nay, put into the 

mouths of their chastest persons a language evincing the 

I knowledge of vice, sometimes purposely as 

;aracter, and pretending, in zeal lor its defeat, to be 
intoxicated with its enjoyment ! 

And these fatal mistakes occur not only in one, two, or 
_:y, or thirty of their plays, but more or loss in 
all c: . — in everyone of the whole fil ; some:: 

in patches and small scenes, sometimes in great ones, 
throughout a great part of the play, frequently as its foun- 

: n and main interest, and almost always in some offensive 
link ox ;:i:-r with toe very nines: passages, from which you 
are obliged to cut it away. It is like a disease ; like 
cankers; the plague-spots of the drama, at the rime when 
it * raa infected with the presence of king James toe First. 

,; The many onences against decency which cor poets 
have committed," says "Mr. Dyce, ;; can only be extenuated 
on the pJ : they sacrificed their own taste and feelings 

ion :: the times. There can be little doubt that 
the most unblushing licentiousness, both in conversation 
and practice, prevailed among the courtiers of Jamea the 
First : wo know too that ; to be like the court was a playe's 

ie; 5 and for the sake of such praise Beaumont and 

:her 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 ;: the better day.' In this respect they sinned 
more grievously than any of their contemporary play- 
wrighta ; but most ol the others have enough to ans «rer for ; 
n:r ~:s Shakespeare himself completely proof against the 
contaminating influence of his age. Toe example oi Charles 
the Pirst is generally supposed to have given a higher tone 
to the :o jrals :■: our nobility and gentry ; yet, shortly before 
the death oi that monarch, ^e find Lovelace extolling the art 
with which in the present play (The Custom of the Country) 

.. :: seeming modesty is thrown over obscenity: 

'View here a loose thought sail ~:h s :i; a grace, 
Minerva might have spoke in Venus' face ; 
8c treD iisguis'cL that 'twas ^onceiv'd by none 

But Cupid had Diana's linen on.' 


It would be curious, observes Mr. Dyce, "to know what 
was Lovelace's idea of downright coarseness." 

This very play, as the same critic remarks, was the one 
which Dry den instanced, in self-defence, as containing more 
indecency than all the plays of his own time put together. 
" A very bold assertion," continues Mr. Dyce. " 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 inuendos 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."* 

So true is this remark on the Spectator, that the passages 
alluded to could not, with propriety, be read aloud at all. 
They are harmless, as far as mere coarseness is harmless ; 
and Steele (for the benefit of conjugality) ventures a luxu- 
riance now and then, which to readers who can take it as he 
meant, is equally so. But if caution has become necessary 
in reading Addison, who is justly designated as one of the 
purifiers of our literature, and whose name has been held 
synonymous with propriety, it may easily be supposed how 
abundant the necessity is rendered in the case of the two 
most licentious writers of a licentious age. Fortunately 
they wrote much, and beautifully; and it has been still 
more fortunate for them, that genius and purity go best 
together ; so that my selection has not only been enabled 
to be copious as well as spotless (thanks to the facilities 
afforded to excision by the authors themselves), but with the 
exception of a few of their sentences, not so easily detach- 
able, and of the equally few incidents connected with 
them, contains, I think I may say, the whole of their finest 
writing, and every presentable scene that has been deservedly 

Not that indecency has been the sole bar to approval 

* Works of Beaumont and Fletcher, vol. i. p. (of Memoir) xlvii. 


for the same baste to please, and want of discretion in the 
mode of pleasing, — joined perhaps to necessities for re- 
cruiting the purse (Beaumont being a younger brother, and 
Fletcher s father, the bishop, having at least been free from 
the scandal of leaving his family rich), — induced these illus- 
trious " gentlemen about town" to put up with improbable 
plots, gratuitous and disjointed scenes, extravagant effects, 
and all those other substitutions of the surprising for the 
satisfactory, that lower the dramatist into the melodramatist, 
and have abundantly subjected even these great geniuses 
to the mortifying consequences. The same imperfection of 
moral discernment, or carelessness to sharpen it, led them 
into mistakes of sentimentalism for sentiment, violence for 
sincerity, and heapings of superlative phrases for paint- 
ings of character. The truth is, that, great geniuses as 
they were, and exquisite in a multitude of passages, few 
even of the lovers of books read their works through. 
The most willing admirers are not only repelled by the 
ribaldry, but tired by the want of truth and by the positive 
trash. They grow impatient of exits and entrances that 
have no ground but the convenience of the writers ; of 
childish adventures, inconsistent speeches, substitutions of 
the authors themselves for their characters, sudden conver- 
sions of bad people to good, and heaps of talking for talk- 
ing' s sake. If they hurry the perusal, they perceive nothing 
distinctly ; if they proceed step by step, the impediments 
become vexations ; and if, nevertheless, they resolve to read 
everything, they are always finding themselves in those foul 
places which delighted the courtiers of James the First, 
and which nauseate a modern reader to the soul. I have 
as little respect for prudery as anybody, and should be the 
last man in the world to formalise honest passion, or to 
deny to poetry and geniality that right poetic luxury of ex- 
pression which is analogous to the utterances of Nature her- 
self in the glowing beauty of her works ; but some years 
ago, in attempting a regular perusal of Beaumont and 
Fletcher, I found myself desisting on these accounts at the 
fifth or sixth play. I have just now finished the whole 
fifty-two ; and though my task has been rewarded by the 
beautiful volume before us, and by the consciousness of having 


done a service both to the authors and to the public, I feel 
a strong conviction, that none but antiquarian editors, or 
persons with very strange tastes indeed, could ever make 
such a thorough-going perusal a labour of love. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, says Sir "Walter Scott, may " be 
said to have taken for their model the boundless license of 
the Spanish stage, from which many of their pieces are ex- 
pressly and avowedly derived. The acts of their plays are 
so detached from each other, in substance and consistency, 
that the plot can scarce be said to hang together at all, or 
to have, in any sense of the word, a beginning, progress, and 
conclusion. It seems as if the play began because the cur- 
tain rose, and ended because it fell." 

"Beaumont and Fletcher's plots," observes Coleridge, 
" are wholly inartificial ; they only care to pitch a character 
into a position to make him or her talk ; you must swallow 
all their gross improbabilities, and, taking it all for granted, 
attend only to the dialogue." 

These two judgments are quoted by Mr. Peter Cun- 
ningham in the notes to his edition of Campbell's Specimens 
of British Poets ,-* and they occasion him to observe, that, 
" you could not publish tales from their plays, but scenes 
and incidents of truth and beauty without number" 

I was happy to find my project so felicitously prejudged. 
These scenes and incidents, it is trusted (as I have already 
intimated), the reader will find in the collection before him ; 
though it must needs go to prove them not exactly " without 
number." If two or three of the most popular should be sup- 
posed absent — such as lively passages of dialogue in the 
Chances, and Leon's taming of his bvide in. Itule a Wife and 
Have a Wife — it is to be borne in mind,that those acquaintances 
of the old play-goer are not printed as the authors wrote them, 
but as they were adapted to the modern stage, and that my 
reasons for omitting the originals are the same which caused 
the adaptation. It is to be regretted that much of the wit 
of Beaumont and Fletcher is so inextricably interwoven with 
freedoms no longer endured, that it has ceased to be pro- 
ducible either in theatres or private circles ; but, saving the 

* Edition of 1841. 


talk of King James's gentlemen, enough remains to show what 
it was; and even of that, when it became decent, — "which," 
as Autolycus says, "was odd," — intimations will not be found 
wanting. If Don John and Don Frederick are not here, 
talking of nurses and surgeons, vet here is Bessus, the 
prince of cowards ; and Lazarillo, who worships a good 
dish; and Count Valore, who introduces him ; and La Writ, 
the Little French Lawyer, who bustles himself into 
being a duellist ; and Monsieur Mount-Marine, who is 
hoaxed up through all the degrees of nobility with as many 
whisks of a sword ; and the Scornful Lady, who anticipates 
the style of Congreve ; and Diego, in the Spanish Curate, 
who cheats a lawyer, and bequeaths vast estates out of no- 
thing ; besides many an airy passage in transitu, that will 
not leave the best tone of the day, or of any day, undis- 

Again, if wit was the most popular, and seemed as if it 
would have been the most lasting quality of Beaumont and 
Fletcher, it has not turned out to be so. They were authors 
destined to survive only in fragments ; and the fragments for 
which they have been most admired, are serious ones, not 
comic, — speeches of forlorn maidens, descriptions of inno- 
cent boys, effusions of heroism and of martyrdom, songs of 
solitudes and of graves. Here are all those, and many to 
keep them company. Here are the most striking passages 
of their best and (as far as they could be given) of their 
worst characters, of their noble Caratachs and Mirandas, their 
good and wicked parents, their affecting children, their piteous 
sweet Euphrasias, Ordellas, and Julianas, — creations, many of 
which it did honour to the poets' hearts to conceive, and 
which, I have no doubt, their own conduct could have 
matched in corresponding manly worthiness, had circum- 
stances occurred to challenge it ; for though they were not 
Miltons, they were not Wallers, — much less the Eochesters 
whom they condescended to foreshadow. They did not grow 
baser, as they grew older ; nor, when a noble character pre- 
sented itself to their minds, did they fail, notwithstanding 
the weaknesses that beset them, to give it the welcome of 
undoubting hearts, and of expression to its height. In the 


tragedy of The False One Septimius enters with the head of 
Pompey, which he has cut off, exclaiming — 

5 Tis here ! 'Tis done ! — Behold, you fearful viewers, 
Shake, and behold the model of the -world here, 
The pride and strength ! Look ; look again ; 'tis finish'd! 
That which whole armies, nay, whole nations, 
Many and mighty kings, have been struck blind at, 
Have fled before, wing'd with their fears and terrors, 
That steel' d War waited on, and Fortune courted. 
That high-plum' d Honour built up for her own ; 
Behold that mightiness, behold that fierceness, 
Behold that child of war, with all his glories, 

By this poor hand made breatniess 

Achillas. Thou poor Roman, 

It was a sacred head I durst not heave at ; 
Nor heave a thought. 

And King Ptolemy, coming in, says — ' 

Stay ; come no nearer : 
Methinks I feel the very earth shake under me ! 

And then Caesar, to whom the head is presented as a 
trophy, addresses it as the whole awful man, and as a thing 
sacred : — 

O thou conqueror ! 
Thou glory of the world once, now the pity, 
Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ! 
What poor fate follow'd thee, and pluck'd thee on, 
To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ? 
The light and life of Rome to a blind stranger, 
That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness, 
Nor worthy circumstance show'd what a man was! 
Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven ; 
No pyramids set off his memories, 
But the eternal substance of his greatness. 

So when Ordella, in the tragedy of Thierry and Theodoret, 
is prepared to undergo any infliction for the good of the state, 
Thierry says — 

Suppose it death. 
Ord. I do. 

Thu And endless parting 

With all we can call ours f with all our sweetness, 


With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason ! 

For in the silent gi'ave no conversation, 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 

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 then* painted glories, 

Fall like spent exhalations to this centre. — 
Thi. Then you can suffer ? 

Ord. As willingly as say it. 

Thi. (to his friend Martell). Martell, a wonder! 

Here is a woman that dares die. — Yet, tell me, 

Are you a wife ? 
Ord. I am, sir. 

Thi. And have children ? 

She sighs and weeps. 
Ord. Oh, none, sir. 

But the reader must turn to the rest. I shall he repeating 
the volume. 

Here, in a word, is all the best passion and poetry of the 
two friends, such as I hope and believe they would have 
been glad to see brought together ; such as would have re- 
minded them of those happiest evenings which they spent 
in the same room, not perhaps when they had most wine in 
their heads, and were loudest, and merriest, and least 
pleased, but when they were most pleased both with them- 
selves and with all things, — serene, sequestered, feeling their 
companionship and their poetry sufficient for them, without 
needing the ratification of it by its fame, or echo ; such 
evenings as those in which they wrote the description of 
the boy by the fountain's side, or his confession as Euphrasia, 
or Caratach's surrender to the Romans, or the address to 
Sleep in Valentinian, or the divine song on Melancholy, which 
must have made them feel as if they had created a solitude 
of their own, and heard the whisper of it stealing by their 

How, at such times, or on some rare and particular even- 
ing at such times (I hope not oftener), must they not have 
been disposed to hate and abhor what they had conde- 
scended to write for the purpose of pleasing the court and 


rvill EEMAEKS. 

the canaille ! — how not have wished it all unsaid, and the 
money returned to the manager ; or that somebody could 
take the passages out of the books, and even squeeze the 
volumes together into one small tome, all poetry and pas- 
sion, dainty as spices from Araby, and rescued from cor« 
ruption ! 

Let me hope (if the hope itself be not immodest) that 
something of the kind has here been done. 

Beaumont and Fletcher were two born poets, possessed 
of a noble and tender imagination, of great fancy and wit, 
and of an excess of companionability and animal spirits, 
which, by taking them off from study, was their ruin. They 
had not patience to construct a play like Ben Jonson, yet 
their sensibility and their purer vein of poetry have set 
them above him, even as dramatists. By the side of merely 
conventional or artificial poets they are demigods : by the 
side of Shakspeare they were striplings, who never 
arrived at years of discretion. Tet even as such, they show 
themselves of ethereal race ; and as lyrical poets, they sur- 
passed even Shakspeare, There was nothing to compare 
with their songs, for tenderness and sweetness, till the 
appearance of Percy's Reliques, — and some of the best 
touches even of those were found to be from their hands. 

Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
For violets pluck'd the sweetest showers 

Will ne'er make grow again. 

This exquisite image is from a song in the Queen of Corinth. 
The very cheeks of youth and innocence are not simpler and 
sweeter than these productions of Beaumont and Fletcher. 
You accept them as vou would actual sorrow, or the sight of 
artless tears. 

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 he 

Lightly, gentle earth. 


So, tlie conclusions of the two beautiful stanzas in tin* 
Captain, beginning 

Away, delights, go seek some other dwelling : — 

the mourner says to Love, 

Alas ! for pity go, 
And fire their hearts 
That have been hard to thee : mine was not so. 

And the cry of the poor maidens who would fain be resting 
like the one thvfc is dead — 

Men cannot mock us in the clay. 

But I shall be repeating the whole set. They haunt the 
memory, like airs of music. 

It is observable, that though Beaumont was his friend's 
junior by some years, and though he died earlier, and wrote 
by far the less number that are collected as their joint pro- 
duction, his name always precedes that of his associate. 
This has been attributed to various causes. If it was not 
simply owing to the alphabetical precedence of an initial 
letter (a great adjuster of such ceremonies), it may have 
r originated in the superior standing of Bp^umont's family, 
which was very ancient, and allied to royalty. I agree, 
however, with those who attribute it, either to his having 
had the greater share in the composition of the plays first 
published, or to a feeling of respect towards the memory 
of the dead. Perhaps there was something in it also ot that 
reputation for superior judgment which has been awarded 
\\\m by tradition, and in which my late attentive perusal 
of the plays has forced me to believe. I cannot help think- 
ing, that in those in which he is supposed to have been most 
concerned, there is a certain weight, both of style and sen- 
timent, in which the tread of his presence is discernible. 
Not but what I am of opinion that there was a thorough 
sympathy of power on both sides, and that each of the two 
friends could either be grave or gay, witty or imaginative, 
as he thought proper : — nothing else, it appears to me, could 
account for their writing so much in conjunction, and of a 
nature which for the most part is held to be so un distinguish- 


able. Beaumont had spirits as well as wit enough to let 
himself go all lengths with his friend in the first instance 
(borne away by the robuster temperament of the man who 
lived longest) ; andPietcher was wise enough to be called back 
" on reflection," and to allow, that, pleasant as the extra- 
vagance was, it was not to be hazarded with " the dullards." 
I think also that Beaumont checked a certain mannerism and 
excess in Fletcher's versification ; though I still hold the 
opinion, however well contested it was by Mr. Darley, that 
in the more judicious moments of their ventures in that 
direction there were the germs of a finer, freer, more impul- 
sive, arid therefore more suitably various system of musical 
modulation — that is to say, rhythmical as contradistinguished 
from metrical — than is supplied by the noble but conventional 
harmony of Shakspeare himself, and such as might have 
struck a new note in our versification in general, or at all 
events in that of our drama. And Mr. Darley himself, who 
had not only a fine ear, but a profound sense both of the 
formative and modulative necessity of verse to poetry, as the 
shaper of its emotions into all their analogous beauty, ended 
his objections with expressing a wish to see a perfection 
which he despaired of.* Beaumont's death, however, and 
Fletcher's impatience, probably left their system undeveloped, 
supposing them to have consciously entertained it, or that it 
was anything better than an impulse. Such a novelty, too, 
might have required a nation more musically educated than 
ours, — perhaps of a more musical tendency by nature ; and 
Beaumont, who had already expressed himself indignant 
against censurers 

" Whose very reading made verse -senseless prose" 

(perhaps in allusion to difficulties created by his experiments) 
would have had many a pang to undergo at finding his most 
scientific harmonies taken for discord. 

But this is not the place to discuss a theory ; and I must 
bring my preface to a close. 

In making the selection no requisite trouble has been 

* Introduction to the first of the two editions published by Mr. Moxon, 
joI. i. p. xli, Mr. Dyce's was the second. 


spared. I have not busied myself with tasks befitting 
editors of entire works, such as collating texts with every 
possible copy, arbitrating upon every different reading, or 
even amending obviously corrupt ones ; though the latter 
abound in every edition, and the temptation to notice 
them is great. On the other hand, where readings were 
disputed, I have not failed to pay attention to the dispute, 
and make such conclusion as seemed best. I first perused 
the plays in succession, pen in hand, marking everything 
as it struck me ; then made the selection from the marked 
passages, on re-perusal ; and finally compared my text with 
that of the latest editions, and added the critical and expla- 
natory notes. I felt some hesitation with regard to such 
of the notes as contain encomiums from celebrated writers ; 
fearing that passages thus distinguished might throw a 
slur on the rest. But I reflected, that approbation in those 
cases does not imply the reverse in the others ; that the 
mere fact of selection conveys the tacit approbation which 
the selector may be qualified to give ; and above all, that 
poets like Beaumont and Fletcher can " speak for themselves," 
and readers be often quite willing that they should do so. 

I must add, that though omissions, for obvious reasons, 
have been abundant, not a word has been altered. 

Above all, I must observe, that of the passages needing 
rejection, not a particle has been spared. The most cautious 
member of a family may take up the volume at random, and 
read aloud from it, without misgiving, in circles the most 

S/S*%/WN*W>/>/WN^^ ■ 

Introductory Remarks 

PAG b 

The WoiiAX-HATER — Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Adoration of a Dish. . . 

Poetical Mystification . # 

Court Sights and Welcomes . 
Song of a Sad Heart 

Phtlastee ; oe, Love Lies a-Bl3EDEN t G — Beaumont and Fletcher, 

Love Made by a Lady. 

Love Loth to Part with the Object of its Worship 

Love Described by Lore 

A Threat of Vengeance 


Love Forgiven by Love 

An Inundation 

A Disclosure 




The Maid's Teagedy — Beaumont and Fletcher, 
Love Forlorn 




Passages from a Masque performed on the Wedding Night 

of Amintor and Evadne . • . ib. 

Self-pity Demanding Sympathy . . ,51 

A Wife Penitent and Forgiven . • .53 
Death Sought by Two Despairing Women, one Violent 

and the other G-entle . . . .56 

A King- and No Kin O— Beaumont and Fletcher. 

The Philosophy of Kicks and Beatings . . 66 

The Scoeneul Lady — Beaumont and Fletcher. 

An Elderly Serving-maid looking Marriage-wards • 74 

An Accepted Lover Eepressed • . .75 

A " Dominie" Bantered . . . .78 

The Custom or the Cottntey — Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Heroic Hospitality . . • .80 

Wit Without Money — Beaumont and Fletcher. 

A New Eeceiver General . . . - .84 

The Little Ebench Lawyee — Beaumont and Fletcher* 

An Extempore Duellist . . • .87 

Intoxication of Unlooked-for Success • .94 

Bonduca— Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Boasting Eebuked • • . .99 

Valour permitting itself to be made Over-cautious by 

Pique . . • .104 


Roman Valour and Griory . • » 

Ascendancy must not Despair 

Innocence of an Infant Hero 

Lost Honour Despairing . • 

A Little Victim of War ; and Homage to a Great One 



The Knight or Malta— Beaumont, and Fletcher* 

Sensual Passion No Love • 130 

Loving Self-sacrifice • 1'6'd 

The Coxcomb — Beaumont and Fletcher* 

Drunkenness Repented . . . • 145 

The Drunken Penitent Forgiven . „ . 149 

Wit at Several Weapoks — Beaumont and Fletcher. 

A « Poached Scholar'' . . . .153 

The Knight op the Burning Pestle — Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Londoner's and their Favourite Plays and Legends 

Bantered ..... 154 
Books of Knight-errantry Bantered . . 158 
Animal Spirits, Motherly Partiality, and a Child's Hypo- 
crisy ..... 166 
Traitorous Nature of Sadness, and Vitality of Mirth . 170 

Cupid's Revenge — Beaumont and Fletcher. 

A G-odlike Appearance . • . , . 171 

Excess of Provocation . . . U. 

Simple and Truthful Death for Love . . 172 


Thierry and Theodoret — Beaumont and Fletcher. 


Tears, Good and Evil . . . .172 

A Coward Proved and Exposed . . . 173 

A Willing Martyr . . . .177 

The Honest Man's Fortune — Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Superiority to Misfortune . . . 188 

Calamity's Last and Noblest Consolation • ib. 

Heart of Oak 9 • ib. 

Yalentinian— Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Scorn of Love Admonished „ . « 188 

A Tyrant Poisoned . • .3.89 

The Double Marriage— Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Fatal Mistake . . . . .194 

Four Plays, or Moral Kepresentations, in One — Beaumont 
and Fletcher. 

Childbirth Comforted . . .199 

The Masque of the Inner Temple and Gray's Inn — 

A Celestial Dance • o . . 201 

3?he Elder Brother — Fletcher. 

A Glutton of Books . . * ,201 

Prejudices for and against Books . . . 202 

Knowledge a Better Love-maker than Ignorance . 206 



The Spanish Curate -Fletcher. 

How to Convei t Poor Memories into Gifted ones 
Precious Utterance 
The Sexton's Will 


The Beggars' Bush — Fletcher. 

Beggars' Holiday Song 

Pride of Rank Admonished ., * 






The Humorous Lieutenant — Fletcher. 

Claims of Externals 
Exalted Martial Speaking 
Devoted Yalour 
Retreating in order to Return 
Battle no Respecter of Persons 



XiiE Faithful Shepherdess — Flefclier. 

Constancy after Death 

Song to Pan . * 

A Virtuous Well 

A Spot for Lovers 

Innocence Saved from Death 

Dawn «, . . 

Sounds at Night 

A Prayer to Pan for Help against Outrage 

A Spotless Bosom 

A Poetical Farewell . . 


, 236 





. 243 



. 244 




. 245 

The Mad Lover — Fletcher. 
A Sold .er J s Taunting 




Prayer to Yenus . » • .248 

State of the Souls of Lovers after Death . • ib. 

The Loyal Subject — Fletcher, 

Involuntary Triumph of Yirtuo - 250 

Etjle a Wiee and Have a Wiee — Fletcher* 

The Conquering Husband * ♦ « 253 

The Chances— Fletcher. 

Love's Cruelty Deprecated . . . 254 

An Incantation * » • 254 

The Wild-goose Chase— Fletcher. 

A Prize • » # 255 

Apparent Levity Capable of Loving Gravity . . ib. 

A Wiee eop* a Month — Fletcher. 

Another Tyrant Poisoned • • . ,256 

Thought of a Bridegroom who is to Die at the End of tne 

Month . . . . .257 

A Threatening Love-masque . ib. 

The Pilgrim — Fletcher. 

Innocent Passion . . . 259 

Pretty Imitation of Madnesa , ■„ 260 

The Captain — Fletcher. 

Song of Love Despairing, and Prepared to Die » • 261 

What is Love ? . . . . ib. 



The Prophetess — Fktcher. 

Triumph over Triumph itself • . .262 

Dioclesian in his Retirement . . . 262 

Love's Cuke ; oe, The Maetial Maid — Fletcher. 

Presumption Taught .... 266 

WoiTE>' Pleased— Fletcher. 

A Miser's Delicacies «... 267 

The Sea-totage— Fletcher. 

Unquenchability of Truth . . .270 

The Faie aTaed oe the Ihn — Fletcher. 

An Old Sailor's Opinion of Sea and Land . . 270 

The Crowning Virtue . . • 271 

The Tvro Xoble Kinsmen— Fletcher and Shalspeare, 

Affliction must be Served before Joy . 
Friendship in Girlhood 
Imprisonment, Friendship, and Lore 
Prayer to Mars . 

Prayer to Diana . 9 

A "Victor Victim" 



'he False 0:s~e — Fletcher and (it is supposed) Massinger. 

Defeat and "Worldly Counsel . . . 295 

Imprisoned Beauty .... 300 

The Head of Pompey . . ib. 

Feminine ATanners • • . 305 



The Loyeb's Peogeess— Fletcher {query, Shirley). 

Song of Heavenly against Earthly Love . . 305 

Love's Gentleness . . a ib. 
A Matter-of-fact Ghost . . . .306 

The Ghost Keeps his Promise . . . 309 

The Noble Gentleman — Fletcher and {it is supposed) Shirley « 313 

Lightly Come, Lightly Go . . % 316 

Loye's Pilgkimage— Fletcher. 

Prosperities of Pull Dress and Pine Language . • 320 

Inn Consciences ..... 323 

Second-Love Won .... 326 

The ]N 7 ight-tvalkee ; ok, The Little Thief — Fletcher. 

The Living Phantom . 33B 

The Bloody Beothee; oe, Ecllo, Duke oe Nokmandy — 

Fleic her and (it is supposed) Rowley. 

Mad Fancies of Peasters . • ... 334 
Pratricide . . , . .386 

The Queen - oe Coelnth — Fletcher. 

True Generosity .... 347 

Eulogy from a Queen in Love . . . 350 

Song of Consolation for Survivors of the Dead . 16. 

April . „ . . ib. 

The Maid in the Mill— Fletcher 

A Little Charmer .... 350 



The Nigh Yaloue ; oe 3 The Passionate Madman — Fletcher 
and (it is supposed) some unknown writer, 

A Candid Poltroon and a Proud Mind unable to conceive 

him . . . . .351 

Lo-ve-song of the Passionate Madman . . 355 

Song in Praise of Melancholy . . . id. 

Miscellaneous Poems of Beaumont. 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey . 357 

The Mermaid Tavern . . . S58 

To My Friend Mr. John Fletcher, upon his Faithful 

Shepherdess . 359 

Miscellaneous Poexis oe Fletchee. 

From the verses entitled " Upon an Honest Man's 

Fortune" . . 361 




Lazarillo, a diner-out \ is bent upon feasting on an umlr ana's head? 
Lazaeillo and Boy. 

Laz. Go, run, search, pry in every nook and angle of the 
kitchens, larders, and pasteries ; know what meat's 
boiled, baked, roast, stewed, fried or soused, at this 
dinner, to be served directly, or indirectly, to every 
several table in the court ; begone ! 

Boy. I run ; but not so fast as your mouth will do upon 
the stroke of eleven. [Exit, 

Laz. "What an excellent thing did God bestow upon man, 
when he did give him a good stomach ! ^Yhat 
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 

1 The Woman-Eater is an absurd, story of a dull and tiresome misogynist, 
who charges an honest woman with licentiousness. The underplot, by far 
the best thing in the play, is that of a diner-out, who pursues a present of 
fish through its various transferences from house to house, in order that he 

may partake of it: but the extracts in this volume relating to him are of 
necessity confined to one or two scenes. Fortunately they are the wittiest. 

2 An umbrands head.'] The umbrana (-whose name comes, through 
an Italian variation, from the umbrina, or v.mbra, of the Eomans) is a 
species of turbot or halibut, formerly mucir in request. 

3 Upon the stroke of el even. ~] The usual dinner-hour at that time. 



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 filTd 

with most pleasing varieties : in the summer his palace 

is full of green-geese, and in the winter it swarmeth 

woodcocks. Oh, thou goddess of Plenty ! 

Pill me this day with some rare delicates, 

And I will every year most constantly, 

As this day, celebrate a sumptuous feast 

(If thou wilt send me victuals) in thine honour ! 

And to it shall be bidden, for thy sake, 

Even all the valiant stomachs in the court ; 

All short-cloaked knights, and all cross-gartered 

gentlemen, 1 
All pump and pantofle, foot- cloth riders f 
With all the swarming generation 
Of long stocks, short pain'd hose, 3 and huge stufPd 

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. 

Enter Boy. 

Boy. Here I am, master. 
Laz. And welcome ! 

Brief, boy, brief! 

Discourse the service of each several table 

Boy . Here is a bill of all, sir. 
Laz. Give it me ! [Reads on the outside. 

" A bill of all the several services this day appointed 
for every table in the court." 

Aye, this is it on which my hopes rely ; 

Within this paper all my joys are closed ! 

Boy, open it, and read with reverence. 

Cross-gartered^] A fashion of the day. 

2 ¥ ant ofte, foot- cloth riders.] Eiders in pantofles, a kind of slipper, 
who needed cloths hanging across their horses, to protect their feet. 

3 Stocks.] Stocks were stockings, and shorl-jpaned hose breeches 
haying panes, or stripes, of different colours. 


Boy. [Reads. ~\ " For the captain of the guard's table 
three chines of beef and two joles of sturgeon." 

La z. A portly service ; 

But gross, gross. Proceed to the duke's own table, 
Dear boy, to the duke's own table ! 

Boy. " For the duke's own table, the head, of an unibrana." 

Laz. Is it possible ? 

Can heaven be so propitious to the duke ? 

Boy. Yes, I'll assure you, sir, 'tis possible ; 
Heaven is so propitious to hirn. 

Laz. Why then, he is the richest prince alive ! 

He were the wealthiest monarch in all Europe, 
Had he no other territories, dominions, 
Provinces, seats, nor palaces, but only 
That umbrana's head. 

Boy. 'Tis very fresh and sweet, sir ; the fish was taken but 
this night, and the head, as a rare novelty, appointed 
by special commandment for the duke's own table, this 

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. 

[Scene changes to an apartment in the house of Count Valore, 
one of the nobles of Milan. ~\ 

Valore. Now am I idle ; I would I had been a scholar, that 
I might have studied now ! the punishment 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 can find no company that 
likes me, pluck off my hat-band, throw an old cloak 
over my face, and, as if I would not be known, walk 
hastily through the streets, till I be discovered ; then 
" there goes Count Such-a-one," says one ; " There goes 
Count Such-a-one'' says another; "Look how fast 
he goes," says a third; "There's some great matters 
in hand questionless," says a fourth ; when all my 
business is to have them say so. This hath been used. 
Or, if I can find any company, I'll after dinner to tho 


stage to see a play ; where, when I first enter, you 
shall have a murmur in the house ; every one that does 
not know, cries, " "What nobleman is that ?" all the 
gallants on the stage rise, vail to me, kiss their hand, 
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 or stage fooleries. 

[Retires to one side of the stage. 

Enter Lazaeillo 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 sufficiently distinguish him (for no 
doubt he hath more fellows there) his name is Lazarillo ; 
he is none of these same ord'nary eaters, that will 
devour three breakfasts and as many dinners, without 
any prejudice to their bevers, 1 drinkings, or suppers ; 
but he hath a more courtly kind of hunger, and doth 
hunt more after novelty than plenty. Til over-hear him. 

Laz. Oh, thou most itching kindly appetite, 
W hich every creature in his stomach feels, 
Oh, leave, leave yet at last thus to torment me ! 
Three several salads have I sacrificed, 
Bedew'd with precious oil and vinegar, 
Already to appease thy greedy wrath. — 

Boy. Sir ? 

Laz. "Will the count speak with me ? 

Boy. One of his gentlemen is gone to inform him of your 
coming, sir. 

1 Bevers. ~\ From I ever e (Italian) to drink : — refreshments between 
meals ; evidently so called from their having consisted, at least in the 
first instance, of liquid rather than solid food 5 which is the case with 
those that still retain the name at college. 


Laz. There is no way left for me to compass this fish-head, 
but by being presently made known to the duke. 

Boy. That will be hard, sir. 

Laz. When I have tasted of this sacred dish, 

Then shall my bones rest in my father's tomb 
In peace ; then shall I die most willingly, 
And as a dish be served to satisfy 
Death's hunger ; and I will be buried thus : 
My bier shall be a charger borne by four ; l 
The coffin where I lie, a powd'ring tub 2 
Bestrew' d with lettuce and cool salad-herbs ; 
My winding-sheet, of tansies ; the black guard 3 
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 4 for stones ; for other glorious shields 
Give me a voider ; 5 and above my hearse, 
Eor a hack'd sword, my naked knife stuck up ! 

[Valoee comes forward* 

Boy. Master, the count's here. 

Laz. "Where ? — My lord, I do beseech you 


Vol. Tou are very welcome, sir ; I pray you stand up ; you 
shall dine with me. 

Laz. I do beseech your lordship, by the love I still have 
borne to your honourable house 

Vol. Sir, what need all this ? you shall dine with me. I 
pray rise. 

Laz. Perhaps your lordship takes me for one of these same 
fellows, that do, as it were, respect victuals. 

1 Chargers."] The great dish formerly so called. 

2 Powdering tub.] Now called a salting tub, 

3 The black guard.] A nickname for those menials who, when goods 
were carried from one hcjse to another during visits (a common custom 
with the greatest in those days), had the charge of the pots, kettles, 
coal-skuttles, &c. 

4 Manchets.] Brick loaves of the finest white bread. 

5 Voider.] The tray into which the remnants of dinner were swept 
off the table. 


Vat. Oh, sir, by no means. 

Las. Tour 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. 

Las. And though I must confess I have ever shunn'd popu- 
larity, by the example of others, yet I do now feel 
myself a little ambitious. Tour 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 : I would have you present me 
unto him this morning. 

Val. It shall be done. But for what virtues would you 
have him take notice of you ? 

Las. 'Faith, you may entreat him to take notice of me for 
anything ; for being an excellent farrier, for playing 
well at span-counter, or sticking knives in walls ; for 
being impudent, or for nothing ; why may I not be a 
favourite on the sudden ? I see nothing against it. 

Val. Not so, sir ; I know you have not the face to be a 
favourite on the sudden. 

Las. "Why then, you shall present me as a gentleman well 
qualified, or one extraordinary seen in divers strange 

Val. In what, sir ? as how ? 

Las. Marry as thus : you shall bring me in, and after a 
little other talk, taking me by the hand, you shall utter 
these words to the duke : u May it please your grace, 
to take note of a gentleman, well read, deeply learned, 
and thoroughly grounded in the hidden knowledge of 
all salads and pot-herbs whatsoever." 

Val. 'Twill be rare ! 



Scene changes to the presence of the Duke, who is about 

to leave. 

Valore. Let me entreat your Grace to stay a little, 
To know a gentleman, to whom yourself 
Is much beholding. He hath made the sport 
For your whole court these eight years, on my know- 

Duke. His name ? [ledge. 

Val. Lazarillo. 

Duke. I heard of him this morning ; 
"Which is he ? 

Val. (aside) Lazarillo. pluck up thy spirits ! 

Thy fortunes are now raising ; the duke calls for thee. 

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 what o'clock it is, 
You must not say, " If it please your grace, 'tis nine ;" 
But thus, "Thrice three o'clock, so please my sovereign;" 
Or thus, " Look how many Muses there doth dwell 
Upon the sweet banks of the learned well, 
And just so many strokes the clock hath struck ;" 
And so forth. And you must now and then 
Enter into a description. 

Laz. I hope I shall do it. 

Val. Come! " 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 
pot-herbs whatsoever." 

Duke. I shall desire to know him more inwardly. 

Laz. I kiss the ox-hide of your grace's foot. 

Val. {aside to him.) Very well! — Will your grace question 
him a little ? 

Duke. How old are you ? 

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 

Bun out its yearly course, since 

Buke. I understand you, sir. 

Lucio. How like an ignorant poet he talks ! 

Duke, Tou are eight-and-twenty years old. What time of 

the day do you hold it to be ? 
Las. About the time that mortals whet their knives 

On thresholds, on their shoe-soles, and on stairs. 

Now bread is grating, and the testy cook 

Hath much to do now: now the tables all— — 
Buke. 'lis almost dinner time ? 
Laz. Your grace doth apprehend me very rightly. 


Oriana. 'Faith, brother, I must needs go yonder. 

Valore. And i'faith, sister, what will you do yonder ? 

Ori. I know the lady Honoria will be glad to see me. 

Vol. Grlad to see you ? 'Faith, the lady Honoria cares for 
you as she doth for all other young ladies ; she is glad 
to see you, and will shew you the garden, and tell you 
how many gowns the duchess had. Marry, if you have 
ever an old uncle, that would be a lord, or ever a kins- 
man 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 

Ori. Ay, but they say one shall see fine sights at the court. 

Val. I'll tell you what you shall see. Tou shall see many 
faces of man's making, for you shall find very few as 
Gk>d 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 sockless, but are now, through 
the change of time (that alters all things,) very 
strangely become the legs of a knight and courtier. 
Another pair you shall see, that w r ere heir-apparent 
legs to a glover. These legs hope shortly to become 
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 ! 



Come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving 

Lock me in delight awhile ; 

Let some pleasing dreams beguile 

All my fancies ; that from thence, 

I may feel an influence, 
All my powers of care bereaving ! 

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 ! 



Arethusa, the daughter of the reigning King of Sicily, makes honourable 
love to Philaster, the rightful heir to the crown, 

Abethtjsa and One of her Ladies. 

Arethusa. Comes he not ? 

Lady. Madam ? 

Are. "Will Philaster come ? 

Lady. Dear madam, you were wont to credit me 

At first. 
Are. But didst thou tell me so ? 

1 am forgetful, and my woman's strength 

1 Philaster is the story of an injured heir to the throne^ whose rights are 
-finally adjusted by a marriage with the usurper's daughter % who loves and 
is beloved by him. Another lady, disguised as a page, is also in love with him, 
and is made the cause of mistakes and jealousies^ which produce great 

Philaster ; or, Love lies a-Bleeding.~\ This pretty title, in which 
a graceful name, a tender calamity, and the image of a beautiful 
flower are so happily mixed up, must have added to the popularity for 
which the play before U3 was celebrated. Beaumont and Eletcher are 
generally happy in the titles of their plays and the names of their cha- 
racters. Those before us, — Philasteb, Abethusa, Etjphbasia, 
Bellabio, are supremely elegant. 


Is so o'ercharged with dangers like to grow. 
About my marriage, that these under things 
Dare not abide in such a troubled sea. 
How look'd he, when he told thee he would come ? 

Lady. Why, well. 

Are. And not a little fearful ? 

Lady. Fear, madam ! sure, he knows not what it is. 

Are. You all are of his faction ; the whole court 
Is bold in praise of him : 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. 

Lady. Methought his looks hid more of love than fear. 

Are. Of love ? to whom ? to you ? — 

Did you deliver those plain words I sent, 
With such a winning gesture and quick look, 
That you have caught him ? 

Lady. Madam, I mean to you. 

Are. Of love to me ? alas ! thy ignorance 

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 I am. If a bowl of blood, 
Drawn from this arm of mine, would poison thee, 
A draught of his would cure thee. Of love to me ? 

Lady. Madam, I think I hear him. 

Are. Bring him in. 

Ye gods, that would not have your dooms withstood, 
Whose holy wisdoms at this time it is 
To make the passions of a feeble maid 
The way unto your justice, I obey. 

Enter Philaster. 

Lady. Here is my lord Philaster. 
Are. Oh ! 'tis well. 

Withdraw yourself. 
Phi. Madam, your messenger 

Made me believe you wish'd to speak with ine. 


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 yefc am loth to speak them. Have you known, 

That I have aught detracted from your worth ? 

Have I in person wrong' d you ? Or have set 

My baser instruments to throw disgrace 

Upon your virtues ? 
Phi. Never, madam, you. 
Are. Why, then, should you, in such a public place, 

Injure a princess, and a scandal lay 

Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great ; 

Calling a great part of my dowry in question ? 
Phi. Madam, this truth which I shall speak, will be 

Foolish : but, for your fair and virtuous self, 

I could afford myself to have no right 

To anything 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 ; 

Tet would be loth to have posterity 

Find in our stories, that Philaster gave 

His right unto a sceptre and a crown, 

To save a lady's longing. 
Are. Nay then, hear ! 

I must and will have them, and more 

Phi. "What more ? 

Are. Or lose that little life the gods prepared 

To trouble this poor piece of earth withal. 
Phi. Madam, what more ? 
Are. Turn, then, away thy face. 
Phi. No. 
Are. Do. 
Phi. I cannot endure it. Turn away my face ? 

I never yet saw enemy that look'd 

So dreadfully, but that I thought myself 


As great a basilisk as he ; or spake 

So horrible, but that I thought my tongue 

Bore thunder underneath, as much as his ; 

Nor beast that I could turn from. Shall I then 

Begin to fear sweet sounds ? a lady's voice, 

Whom I do love ? Say, you would have my life 5 

"Why, I will give it you ; for 'tis of me 

A thing so loath' d, and unto you that ask 

Of so poor use, that I shall make no price : 

If you entreat, I will unmov'dly hear. 

Are. Tet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks. 

Phi. I do. 

Are. Then know, I must have them, and thee. 

Phi. And me ? 

Are. Thy love ; without which all the land 
Discover' d yet, will serve me for no use, 
But to be buried in. 

Phi. Is't possible ? 

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 I 
So violently, would amaze a man 
That would be jealous. 

Are. Another soul, into my body shot, 

Could not have fill'd me with more strength and spirit, 

Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time, 

In seeking how I came thus. 'Tis the gods, 

The gods, that make me so ; and, sure, our love 

Will be the nobler, and the better blest, 

In that the secret justice of the gods 

Is mingled with it. How shall we devise 

To hold intelligence, that our true loves, 

On any new occasion, may agree 


What path is best to tread ? 

Phi. I have a boy, 

Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, 

Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck, 

I found him sitting by a fountain's side, 

Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, 

And paid the nymph again as much in tears. 

A garland lay him by, made by himself, 

Of many several flowers, bred in the bay, 1 

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 his face, I ask'd him all his story. 

He told me, that his parents gentle died, 

Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, 

Which gave him roots ; and of the crystal springs, 

Which did not stop their courses ; and the sun, 

Which still, he thank' d him, yielded him his light* 

Then took he up his garland, and did shew 

What every flower, as country people hold, 

Did signify ; and how all, ordered thus, 

Express'd his grief: and, to my thoughts, did read 

The prettiest lecture of his country art 

That could be wish'd : so that, methought, I could 

Have studied it. I gladly entertain' d him, 

Who was [as] glad to follow ; and have got 

The trustiest, loving' st, and the gentlest boy, 

That ever master kept. Him will I send 

To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. 2 

Are, 'Tis well. JSTo more. [Re-enter Lady. 

1 Bred in the bay \] Of Messina ; in which city and its neighbourhood 
the scenes of the play are laid. 

2 It has been thought that this long description of his page, especially 
by a lover who has just had a declaration made to him by a lady, is one 
of those instances of misplaced indulgence of the pen, with which our 
poets are sometimes too justly chargeable. But I cannot help thinking it 
an exquisite instance to the contrary, — an irrelevancy purposely dwelt 
upon by the lover, to enable the lady to recover her spirits, by giving to 
then 1 sudden intercourse an air of perfect comfort and the very privileges 
of habit. 



'Euphrasia, who for love of Thilaster has disguised herself as a boy, and 
been taken into his service under the name of Bellario^ endeavours 
to avoid becoming 'page to the Princess Arethusa. 

Enter Philastee and Bellaeio. 

Phi. And tliou shalt find her honourable, boy ; 
Pull of regard unto thy tender youth, 
Por thine own modesty ; and for my sake, 
Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask ; 
Aye, or deserve, 

Bel. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing ; 
And only yet am something, by being yours. 
Tou trusted me unknown ; and that which you were apt 
To construe a simple innocence in me, 
Perhaps might have been craft ; the cunning of a boy 
Hardened 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: 
But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions, 
Thou wilt remember best those careful friends, 
That placed thee in the noblest way of life. 
She is a princess I prefer thee to. 

Bel. In that small time that I have seen the world, 
I never knew a man 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 wilful fault,. think me not past all hope, 
For once. "What master holds so strict a hand 
Over his boy, that he will part with him 
"Without one warning ? Let me be corrected, 
To break my stubbornness, if it be so, 
Rather than turn me off ; and I shall mend. 

Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay, 

That, trust me, I could weep to part with theo. 

Alas ! I do not turn thee off; thou know'st 

It is my business that doth call thee hence ; 

And, when thou art with her, thou dwell' st with me ; 

Think so, and 'tis so. And when time is full, 

That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust, 

Laid on so weak a one, I will again 

"With joy receive thee : as I live, I will. 

Nay, weep not, gentle boy ! 'Tis more than time 

Thou did'st attend the princess. 

Bel. I am gone. 

But since I am to part with you, my lord, 
And none knows whether I shall live to do 
More service for you, take this little prayer : — 
Heav'n bless your loves, your fights, all your designs : 
May sick men, if they have your wish, be well. [Exit. 


Aeethtjsa, Lady, and Bellaeio. 

Are. "Where's the boy ? 
Lady. Here, madam. 

Enter Bellaeio. 

Are. Sir, you are sad to change your service ; is't not so ? 
Bel. Madam, I have not changed ; I wait on you, 

To do him service. 
Are. Thou disclaim'st in me. 1 

Tell me thy name. 
Bel. Bellario. 

Are. Thou can'st sing, and play ? 
Bel. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can. 

1 Thou disclaim? st in me."] A phrase of the time j meaning, thou dis- 
claimest any interest in myself. 


Are. Alas ! what kind of grief can thy years know ? 

Hadst thou a curst 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 knew'st love ? 
Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me, 
As if he wish'd 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 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. 



Keep this fault, 
As you would keep your health, from 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 ; I'll set it, 
Like a prodigious star, for all to gaze at ; 
So high and glowing, that kingdoms far and foreign 
Shall read it there ; nay, travel with't till they find 
No tongue to make it more, nor no more people ; 
And then behold the fall of your fair princess. 1 


A lord of the court having out of mistaken zeal for the welfare of Philaster 
rendered him jealous of the Princess and Bellario, brings them all three 
into 'peril of their lives. 

Philaster left alone. 
Phi. Oh, that I had a sea 

"Within my breast to quench the fire I feel ! 
It more afflicts me now, to know by whom 
This deed is done, than simply that 'tis done. 
Oh that, like beasts, we could not grieve ourselves 
"With that we see not ! Bucks 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 
Into their pastures, growing fresh and fat, 
And taste the waters of the springs as sweet 
As 'twas before, finding no start in sleep : 2 
But miserable man — 

Enter Bellaeio with a letter. 

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 

1 This passage is one of those instances of a magnificent idea spoiled 
by mislocation, which are too often found in Beaumont and Fletcher. 
And observe the consequent anti-climax. A bad woman is threatening 
a father with defamation of his child ; and she raises a phenomenon 
in the heavens which of itself is truly grand and awful, a spectacle 
for a world, in order to represent what at the utmost could be 
nothing but a scandal confined to a particular country. A comet 
leads kingdoms forth to travel by its light, in order to arrive at 
nothing greater than the fall of a princess, by a lie about a boy ! 

2 And taste the waters, <^<?.] One of the editors changed waters to 
water ^ in order to suit the 'Tvjas; and probably it was first written 
so : yet this confusion of singular and plural numbers was not un- 


To intrap mortality, that you allow 

Treason so smooth a brow ? I cannot now 

Think he is guilty. 
Bel. Health to you, my lord ! 

The princess doth commend her love, her life, 

And this, unto you. 
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 attired 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 all the world besides ; but, unto me, 

A maiden-snow that melted with my looks. — 

Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess use thee ? 

Eor 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 preserv'd 

Her life three times by my fidelity. 

As mothers fond do use their only sons ; 

As I'd use one that's left unto my trust, 

Eor whom my life should pay if he met harm, 

So she does use me. 
Phi. Why, this is wond'rous well : 

But what kind language does she feed thee with ? 

common with our old poets, not excepting the most learned of them, 
Spenser allows himself the license, for the sake of a rhyme : — 
And oftentimes loud strokes and ringing sowndes 
From under that deepe rock most horribly rebowndes. 

Faerie Queene, Book iii. Canto 3. St. 9. 
So Shakspeare, in an instance still more direct to the purpose 
before us : — 

Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phosbus 'gins arise 
His steeds to water at those springs. 
On chaliced flowers that lies. 

Qymbeliize, vol. iii. St. 2- 
* l Finding no start in sleep" is very pathetic. 


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 
Eegarded ; 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. 111? No, Bellario. 

Bel. Methinks, your words 

Fall not from off your tongue so evenly, 
]STor is there in your looks that quietness 
That I was wont to see. 

Phi. Thou art deceived, boy. 
And she strokes thy head ? 

Bel Tes. 

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 ? 

Bel. Not so, my lord. 

Phi. Come, come, I know she does. 

Bel. No, by my life. 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 plac'd thee there, 
To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds. 

Bel. My lord, you did mistake the boy you sent. 
Had she a sin that way, 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 



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. [Kneels, 

She is (for aught I know) by all the gods, 

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, 

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 vour hate. 
Phi. Pie, fie, 

So. young and so dissembling ! 
Bel "When I lie 

To save my life, may I live long and loath' d. 

Hew me asunder, and, whilst I can think, 

I'll love those pieces you have cut away, 

Better than those that grow ; and kiss those limbs P 

Because you made 'em so. 
Phi. Fear'st thou not death ? 

Can boys contemn that ? 
Bel. Oh, what boy is he 

Can be content to live to be a man, 

That sees the best of men thus passionate, 

Thus without reason ? 
Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know 

"What 'tis to die. 
Bel. Tes, 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 perjured souls : think but on these, and then 

Thv heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all. 


BeL May they fall upon me whilst I live, 
If I be perjured, or have ever thought 
Of thai; you charge me with ! If I be false, 
Send me to suffer in those punishments 
You 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. Eise, Bellario ! 
Thy protestations are 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 honest looks, and take no revenge upon 
Thy tender youth. A love from me to thee 
Is firm, whate'er thou dost. It troubles me 
That I have cali'd 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 honour' d mind. But through these tears, 

Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see 

A world of treason practis'd 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 ! — Oh, where shall I 
Go bathe this body ? Nature, too unkind, 
That made no medicine for a troubled mind I 



Areihusds Apartment in the Palace. 

Enter Abethtjsa. 

Are. I marvel my boy comes not back again : 
But that I know my love will question him 
Over and over, how I slept, waked, talk'd — 
How I remembered him when his dear name 
"Was last spoke — and how, when I sigh'd, wept, sung, 
And ten thousand such — I should be angry at his stay, 

Enter KitfG. 

King. What, at your meditations ? "Who attends you ? 

Arc, 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. Tes, sir. 

King. "What kind of boy ? 

Are. A page, a waiting-boy. 

King. A handsome boy ? 

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. Tes, sir ! 

King. About eighteen ? 

Are. I never ask'd his age. 

King. Is he full of service ? 

Are. By your pardon, why do you ask ? 

King. Put him away. 

Are. Sir! 

King. Put away that boy. 

Are. Let me have reason for it, sir, and then 
Tour will is my command. 

King. Do not you blush to ask it ? Cast him off, 
Or I shall do the same to you. Tou'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 be foul whispers stirring. Cast him off. 
And suddenly. Doit! Farewell, [Exit Knra. 

Are. Where may a maiden live securely free, 

Keeping her honour safe ? JS~ot with the living : 
They feed upon opinions, errors, dreams, 
And make 'em truths ; they draw a nourishment 
Out of defamings, grow upon disgraces ; 
And, when they see a virtue fortified 
Strongly above the battery 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 Phxlastek. 

Phi. Peace to your fairest thoughts, my dearest mistress ! 

Are. Oh, dearest servant, I have a war within me. 

Phi. He must be more than man, that makes these crystals 
Run into rivers. Sweetest fair, the cause ? 
And, as I am your slave, tied to your goodness, 
Tour creature, made again from what I was, 
And newly-spirited, I'll right your honour. 

Are. Oh, mv 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 
Letters, rings, bracelets ? lose his health in service ? 


Wake tedious nights in stories of your praise ? 

Who shall now sing your crying elegies ? 

And strike a sad soul into senseless pictures, 

And make them mourn ? who shall take up his late. 

And touch it, till he crown a silent sleep 

Upon my eye-lid, making me dream, and cry, 

" Oh, my dear, dear Philaster !" 

Phi. \aside.~\ Oh, my heart ! 

Would he had broken thee, that made thee know 
This lady was not loyal. — Mistress, forget 
The boy : I'll get thee a far better. 

Are. Oh, never, never such a boy again, 
As my Bellario ! 

Phi. '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 ; you put him to me ; and 

The loss of such must have a mourning for ['em.j 

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 [to] do thus. 

Are. Do what, sir ? Would you sleep ? 

Phi. For ever, Arethusa. Oh, ye gods, 

Give me a worthy patience ! Have I stood 
Xaked, 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 ? Oh, that boy ? 
That cursed boy ! 

Are. Nay, then I am betray' d : 

I feel the plot cast for my overthrow. 
Oh, I am wretched ! 

ThL 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 

Both heal and poison ; how your thoughts are woven 
"With thousand changes in one subtle web, 
And worn so by you ; how that foolish man 
That reads the story of a woman's face, 
And dies believing it, is lost for ever ; 
How all the good you have is but a shadow, 
I' th' morning with you, and at night behind you, 
Past and forgotten ; how your vows are frosts, 
Past 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 ail my woe, all my delight ! 

[Exit Philastsh. 

Are. Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me dead ! 

What way ha^e I deserv'd this ? Make my breast 
Transparent as pure crystal, that the world, 
Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought 
My heart holds. Where shall a woman turn her eyes, 
To find out constancy ? 

Enter Beliaeio. 

Save me, how black 


And guilty, rnethinks, 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 conqu est is 

Nothing so great as wicked. Ply away ! 

Let my command force thee to that, which shame 

"Would do without it. If thou understood' st 

The loathed office thou hast undergone, 

"Why, 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 

Tou add unto me is no more than drops 

To seas, for which they are not seen to swell : 

My lord has struck his anger through my heart, 

And let out all the hope of future joys. 

Tou 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 of 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 ; 
Tet 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 dishevell'd, through the fiery streets. 

Enter a Lady. 

Lady. 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, 1 let me discover thee 

Bathing, and turn me to a fearful hind, 

That I may die pursued by cruel hounds, 

And have my story written in my wounds. [Exeunt. 

Scene, a forest. Enter Philaster. 

Phi. Oh, that I had been nourish' d in these woods, 
With milk of goats, and acorns, and not known 
The right of crowns, 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 dwells ; that might have strew' d my bed 
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 Bellaeio. 

Bel. Oh, wicked men ! 

An innocent may walk safe among beasts ; 
Nothing assaults me here. See! my griev'dlord 
Sits as his soul were searching out a way 
To leave his body. — Pardon me, that must 
Break thy last commandment ; for I must speak. — 
Tou, 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 
Prom cold and hunger. 

Phi. Is it thou ? Begone ! 

Go, sell those misbeseeming clothes thou wear'st. 
And feed thyself with them. 

1 A man.] Alluding to the story of Actseon* 


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 fall'n again to thy dissembling trade : 

How should' st thou think to cozen me again? 

E-emains there yet a plague untried for me ? 

Even so thou wept'st, and look'd'st, and spok'st, when 

I took thee up : [first 

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 

To mine ; and I am loth to grow in rage. 

This way, or that way ? 

Bel. Any will serve. But I will chuse to have 
That path in chase, that leads unto my grave. 

[Exeunt Philasteb and Bellabio severally. 

Enter Diosr and the Woodmen. 

Dion. This is the strangest sudden chance ! You, woodman • 

1 Wood. My lord Dion ! 

Dion. Saw you a lady come this way, on a sable horse 
studded with stars of white ? 

2 Wood. Was she not young and tall ? 

Dion. Yes. Eode she to the wood or to the plain ? 
2 Wood. ''Faith, my lord, we saw none ? 

[Exeunt Woodmen. 

Enter Clebemont. 

Dion. What, is she found ? 

Cle. Nor will be, I think. There's already a thousand 
fatherless tales amongst us. Some say, her horse run 
away with her ; some, a wolf pursued her ; others, it 
was a plot to kill her, and that armed men were seen 
in the wood. But, questionless, she rode away 


Enter King and TniiASlLiltB. 

King. Where is she ? 
Cle. Sir, I cannot tell. 
King. How is that ? 

Answer me so again ! 
Cle. Sir, shall I lie ? 
King. Yes, lie and damn, rather than tell me that, 

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 ; show her me ; 

I do command you all, as you are subjects, 

To show her me ! What ! am I not your king ? 

If " ay," then am I not to be obey'd ? 
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 ; show her me, 

Or, let me perish, if I coyer not 

All Sicily with blood ! 
Dion. Indeed I cannot, unless you tell me where she is. 
King. You haye betray' d me ; you have let me lose 

The jewel of my life. Go, bring her me, 

And set her here before me. J Tis the king 

Will haye it so ; whose breath can still the winds, . 

TJncloud the sun, charm down the swelling sea, 

And stop the floods of heaven. Speak, can it not ? 
Dion. No. 

King. ~No ! cannot the breath of kings do this P 
Dion. ]NTo ; nor smell sweet itself, if once the lungs 

Be but corrupted. 
King. Is it so ? Take heed ! 
Dion. 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, flatter' d ? 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. 
I have sinn'd, 'tis true, and here stand to be punish'd ; 
Yet would not thus be punish'd. Let me chuse 
My way, and lay it on. 
Dion. He articles with the gods ! 

'Would somebody would draw bonds, for the perform- 
Of covenants betwixt them ! [ance 

Enter Phabamokd, Galatea, and Megba, 

King. "What, is she found ? 

Pha. No ; we have ta'en her horse : 

He gallop'd empty by. There is some treason. 

Tou, Galatea, rode with her into the wood : 

"Why left you her ? 
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 ; 

Run all ; disperse yourselves ; the man that finds her, 

Or (if she be kill'd), the traitor, I'll make him great. 

[Exeunt severally. 

Another part of the Forest. 

Enter Abethttsa. 

Are. Where am I now ? Feet, find me out a way, 
Without the counsel of my troubled head : 
I'll follow you, boldly, about these woods, 
O'er mountains, through brambles, pits, and floods. 
Heaven, I hope will ease me. I am sick. 

\Sits down. 

Enter Bellaeio. 

Bel. Yonder' s my lady ! Heaven knows I want nothing, 
Because I do not wish to live ; yet I 
Will try her charity. — 


Oh, hear, you that have plenty, from that store, 
Drop some on dry ground. — See, the lively red 
Is gone to guide her heart ! I fear she faints. — 
Madam, look up ! — She breathes not. Ope once more 
Those rosy twins, and send unto my lord 
Tour 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 pr'ythee, let me go ; 

I shall do best without thee ; I am well. 

Enter Philastee. 

Phi. I am to blame to be so much in rage : 

I'll tell her coolly, when and where I heard 
This killing truth. I will be 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 ! 

Bel. My lord, help the princess. 

Are. I am well : forbear. 

Phi. Let me love lightning, let me be embraced 
And kiss'd by scorpions, or adore the eyes 
Of basilisks, rather than trust the tongues 
Of hell-bred women ! Some good gods look down, 
And shrink these veins up ; stick me here a stone 
Lasting to ages, in the memory 
Of this damn'd act ! Hear me, you wicked ones ! 
You ha?e 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 ! 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 jEolus locks up his windy brood, 


Is less disturb 'd than I : I'll make you know it. 

Dear Arethusa, do but take this sword, 

And search how temperate a heart I have ; 

Then you, and this your boy, may live and reign 

Without controul. Wilt thou, Bellario ? 

I pr'ythee kill me : thou art poor, and may'st 

Nourish ambitious thoughts, when I am dead : 

This way were freer. Am I raging now ? 

If I were mad, I should desire to live. 

Sirs, feel my pulse. [Say] whether have you kno^n 

A man in a more equal tune to die ? 

Bel. Alas, my lord, your pulse keeps madman's time ; 
So does your tongue. 

Phi. Tou 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 meeting. — [Exit Bellaeio.] Kill me with 

this sword ; 
Be wise, or worse will follow. We are two 
Earth cannot bear at once. Eesolve 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 jealousy in the other world ; no ill there ? 

Phi. No. 

Are. Shew me, then, the way. 

Phi. Then guide my feeble hand, [Draws. 

Tou that have power to do it, for I must 
Perform a piece of justice ! — If your youth 
Have any way offended heaven, let prayers 
Short and effectual reconcile you to it. 

Are. I am prepar'd. 

Enter a Country Fellow. 
Conn. I'll see the king, if he be in the forest. I have hunted 


him these three hours. If I should come home and not 
see him, my sisters would laugh at me. I can see 
nothing hut people better horsed than myself, that 
outride 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 

Phi. Are you at peace.? 

Are. With heaven and earth. 

Pfti. May they divide thy soul and body ! [Wounds her„ 

Conn. Hold, dastard. Strike a woman ! Thou art a craven, 
I warrant thee. Thou would' st be loth to play half a 
dozen of venies at wasters with a good fellow for a 
broken head. 1 

Phi. Leave us, good friend. 

Are. "What ill-bred man art thou, to intrude thyself 
Upon our private sports, our recreations ? 

Coun. Grod 'uds me, 2 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. 

Coun. I know not your rhetoric ; but I can lay it on, if you 
touch the woman. [They fight. 

Phi. Slave ! take what thou deservest. 

Are, Heavens guard my lord ! 

Coun. Oh, do you breathe ? 

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, 
Though I do loath it. I would find a course 
To lose it rather by my will, than force. 


1 Venies at wasters.] Bouts at cudgels. Veney seems to have been 
the French word venez. anglicised ; " as who should say," come on. 
Why cudgels were called icasters I cannot say ; though metaphorical 
etymologies of the word might he obvious enough. 

2 God 'vds me.] God judge me. Mr. Dyce tells us 3 that in one of 
the old editions the word is printed so. 


Enter Pharamond, Dxok, Cleremokt, Thrasiline, and 

Pha. "What art thou ? 
Coun. Almost kill'd I am for a foolisn woman ; a knave has 

hurt her, 
Cha. The princess, gentlemen ! "Where's the wound, madam? 
Pre. He has not hurt me. 
Coun. V faith she lie3 ; he has hurt her in the breast ; look 

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 ? 
Coun. Is it the princess ? 
Dion. Ay. 

Coun. Then I have seen something yet. 
Pha. But who has hurt her ? 

Coun. 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. 
Coun. He's hurt too ; he cannot go far; I made my father's 

old fox 1 fly about his ears. 
Pha. How will you have me kill him ? 
Are. Not at all ; 

'Tis some distracted fellow. 
Pha. By this hand, I'll leave ne'er a piece of him bigger 

than a nut, and bring him all in my hat. 
Are. Nay, good sir, 

If you do take him, bring him quick to me, 

And I will study for a punishment 

Great as his fault. 
Pha. I will. 
Are. But swear. 
Pha. By all my love, I will. — Woodmen, conduct the 

princess to the king, and bear that wounded fellow to 

dressing. — Come, gentlemen, we'll follow the chase 

close. [Exeunt. 

1 Fox.~\ A popular term for a sword. 


Scene IV. — Another 'part of the same. 

Enter Bellakio, and lies down on a hank of flowers. 

Bel. A heaviness near death sits on my brow , 

And I must sleep. Bear me, thou gentle bank, 
]For ever, if thou wilt. You sweet ones all, 
Let me unworthy press you : I could wish, 
I rather were a corse strew'd o'er with you, 
Than quick 1 above you. Dulness shuts mine eyes, 
And I am giddy. Oh, that I could take 
So sound a sleep, that I might never wake. 

[Falls asleep. 
Enter Philastek. 

Phi. I have done ill ; my conscience calls me false, 
To strike at her, that would not strike at me. 
When I did fight, methought I heard her pray 
The gods to guard me. She may be abus'd, 
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 ? Bellario sleeping ? If thou be'st 
Guilty, there is no justice that thy sleep 
Should be so sound ; and mine, whom thou hast 
wrong' d, \S^ r V within. 

So broken. — Hark ! I am pursued. Te gods, 
I'll take this offer'd means of my escape: 
They have no mark to know me but my wounds, 
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. 2 

1 Quick."] Alive. 

2 Wounds Bellario.] These pinMngs of the poor princess and her 
page by Philaster are justly objected to by Dryden. " When Philaster 
(he says) wounds Arethusa and the boy, and Perigot his mistress in the 
* Faithful Shepherdess? both these are contrary to the charities of man- 
hood." Preface to Troilus and Cressida. Works — Vol. VI. p. 255, 
Walter Scott's edition. — It is as if the jealous but naturally gentle 
lover wished to do a little bit of murder without actually committing it. 


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 : 
I'll teach thee to revenge. This luckless hand 
Wounded the princess ; tell my followers, 
Thou didst receive the hurts in staying me, 
And I will second thee. Gret a reward. j 

BeL Ply, fly, my lord, and save yourself. 

Phi. How's this? 

"Wouldst thou I should be safe? 

BeL Else were it vain 

[For me to live. These little wounds I have, 
Have not bled much ; reach me that noble hand 
I'll help to cover you. 

Phi. Art thou true to me ? 

Bel. Or let me perish loath 5 d; Come, rny good lord, 
Creep in amongst those bashes : who does know 
But that the gods may save your much-loved 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. 

[Philastek creeps into a hush. 

Within. Pollow, follow, follow! that way they went. 

BeL "With my own wounds I'll bloody my own sword. 
I need not counterfeit to fall ; Heaven knows 
That I can stand no longer. 

Enter Phabamokd, Dioisr, Cleeemont, and Theasilike. 

Pha. To this place we have track'd him by Iris blood. 

Cle. Yonder, my lord, creeps one away. 

Dion. Stay, sir ! what are you ? 

BeL A wretched creature wounded in these woods 

By beasts. Relieve me, if your names be men, 

Or I shall perish. 
Dion. This is he, my lord, 

Upon my soul, that hurt her. 'Tis the boy, 

That wicked boy, that served her. 


Pha. Oh, thou damn'd 

In thy creation ! What cause could' st thou shape 
To hurt the princess ? 

Bel. Then I am betray'd. 

Dion. Betrayed! no, apprehended. 

Bel I confess, 

Urge it no more, that, big with evil thoughts, 
I set upon her, and did take 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 hired thee to this deed. 

Bel. Mine own revenge. 

Pha. Eevenge ! for what ? 

Bel. It pleased her to receive 

Me as her page, and, when my fortunes ebb'd, 
That men strid o'er them careless, she did shower 
Her welcome graces on me, and did swell 
My fortunes, till they overflow' d their banks, 
Threat' ning the men that crost 'em ; when as swift 
As storms arise at sea, she turn'd her eyes 
To burning suns upon me, and did dry 
The streams she had bestow'd; leaving me worse 
And more contemn' d, 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. [Philaster creeps oat of a hush. 

Cle, Help to lead him hence. 

Phi. Turn back, you ravishers of innocence; 
Know ye the price of that you bear away 
So rudely ? 

Pha. Who's that ? 

Dion. 'Tis the lord Philaster. 

Phi. '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 piramis 1 , 
Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice 
Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence 
I may discourse to all the under-world 
The worth that dwells in him ! 

JPha. How's this ? 

Bel. My lord, some man 

Weary of life, that would be glad to die. 

Phi. Leave these untimely courtesies, Bellario. 

Bel. Alas, he's mad ! Come, will you lead me on ? 

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! 
Tou 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 deceiv'd. 

Phi. Have I no friend here ? 

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? 
Then lay me gently on his neck, that there 
I may weep Hoods, and [so] breathe forth my spirit. 
? Tis not the wealth of Plutus, nor the gold 
Lock'd in the heart of earth, can buy away 
This arm-full from me. This had been a ransom 
To have redeemed the great Augustus Caesar, 
Had he been taken. Tou hard-hearted men, 
More stony than these mountains, can you see 
Such clear blue 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 'em ? — Forgive me, thou that art the wealth 
Of poor Philaster ! 

1 Piramis.'] A pyramid. 


Enter King, Aretkusa, and a Guard. 

King. Is the villain ta'en ? 

Pha. Sir, liere bo two confess the deed ; but say 

It -was Philaster ? 
Phi. Question it no more; it was. 

King. The fellow that did fight with him, will tell us that. 
Are. Ah me ! I know he will. 
King. Did not you know him ? 
Are. Sir, if it was he, 

He was disguised. 
Phi. I was so. — Oh, my stars ! 

That I should live still. 
King. Thou ambitious fool ! 

Thou, that hast laid a train for thy own life ! — 

Now I do mean to do, I'll leave to talk. 

Bear him to prison. 
Are. Sir, they did plot together to take hence 

This harmless life ; should it pass unrevenged, 

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 death. 
King. 5 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 watch. [people, 

Cle. I pray that this action lose not Philaster the hearts of the 

Dion. Pear it not : their over-wise heads will think it but a 

trick. [Exeunt. 


Arethusa and Bellario (whose sex is still unsuspected) forgive Philaster the 
suspicions thai have subjected himself to sentence of death, and them to 
the resolution of sharing it. 

Are. 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 shot from Heaven, as now from earth, 

If you continue so. I am a man, 

Pake 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, 

I shall deliver words will mollify 

The hearts of beasts, to spare thy innocence. 
Bel. 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. 1 

Should I out-live 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 my limbs to nothing ! 
Are. And I (the woful'st 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 ye 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 ye 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. 
Are. Why, 'tis well. 
Bel. Lament no more. 
Phi. What would you have done 

If you had wrong'd me basely, and had found 

Tour life no price, compared to mine ? For love, sirs, 

Deal with me truly. 

1 Childhood thrown away.'] Hazlitt exclaims, at this passage, " What 
exquisite beauty and delicacy !" 


Bel. 'Twas mistaken, sir. 

Phi. Why, 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 would, my lord. 

Phi. Forgive me, then. 

•Are. So, so. 

Bel. 'Tis as it should be now. 

Phi. Lead to my death. 


Dion warns the King against putting Philaster to deaths 
King, you may be deceived 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 
TJpon his back, and, in that heat of pride, 
Charges strong towns, towers, castles, palaces, 
And lays them desolate ; so shall thy head, 

[Apostrophising his .absent friend. 
Thy noble head, bury the lives of thousands, 
That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice, 
In thy red ruins. 


Pkilaster and the court, en the restitution of his rigid to the crown, 
being again threatened with loss of happiness by a renewal of his 
suspicions respecting the princess and the sup-posed Bellarlo, are finally 
delivered from them by Euphrasia f s disclosure of her sex. 

Enter King, Aeethusa, Galatea, JMeg-ba, Dio:s t , Cleee- 
moht, Teeasiline, Bellabio, and attendants. 

King. Is it appeas'd? 1 

1 Is it appeas'd ?~\ A revolt which had taken place in order to right 


Dion. Sir, all is quiet as the 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 w r orld 
Of grief upon his head, which yet I hope 
To wash away. 

Enter Philaster and Phabamond. 

Cleremont. My lord is come. 

King. My son I 1 

Blest be the time, that I have leave to call 

Such virtue mine ! JSTow thou art in my arms, 

Methinks I have a salve unto my breast, 

For all the stings that dwell there. Streams of grief 

That 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, 
"W horn I have thus redeem'd, 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, [Looking at Megra, 
who has been the Prince of' Spain's mistress.'] 
Methinks, would gladly bear you company. 

Megra. Can shame remain perpetually in me, 
And not in others ? or, have princes salves 
To cure ill names, that meaner people want ? 

Phi. "What mean you ? 

Meg. Tou 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. 2 

1 My sonT] The king calls Philaster his syon, because he has become 
his son-in-law in consequence of his betrothal to the princess. 

2 Her and him.'] Meaning, that she had seen the Princess and Beliario 


Ship us all four, my lord ; we can endure 

Weather and wind alike. [father, 

Kxng (to Arethnsa). Clear thou thyself, or know not me for 

Arc. This earth, how false it is ! What means is left for me 
To clear myself ? It lies in your belief. 
My lords, believe me ; 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 
Eevenge on you ; then, what were to be known 
But death ? " 

King. Forget her, sir, since all is knit 

Between us. But I must request of you 
One favour, and will sadly be denied. 1 

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. 2 I will have her clear' d or buried. 

Phi. Oh, let me call my words 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. 

1 Will sadly be denied^] Shall be sorry to be denied. 

2 Bear away that boy 

To torture^ For the purpose of forcing him to a disclosure of the 


King. Away with him ! It stands irrevocable. 

Phi. Turn all your eyes on me. Here stands a man s 

The falsest and the basest of this world. 

Set swords against this breast, some honest man, 

For I have lived till I am pitied ! 

My former deeds were hateful, but this last 

Is pitiful ; for I, unwillingly, 

Have given the dear preserver of my life 

Unto his torture ! Is it in the power 

Of flesh and blood to carry this, and live ? 

[Offers to hill himself. 
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. (to Dion.) Will you torture me ? 
King. Haste there ! 

"Why stay you ? 
Bel. Then I shall not break my vow, 

You know, just gods, though I discover ail. 
King. How's that ? will he confess ? 
Dion. Sir, so he says. 
King. Speak, then. 
Bel. Great king, if you command 

This lord to talk with me alone, my tongue, 

Urged by my heart, shall utter all the thoughts 

My youth hath known ; and stranger things than thesa 

You hear not often. 
King. Walk aside with him.— [They walk aside. 

Dion. Why speak' st thou not ? 
Bel. Know you this face, my lord ? 
Dion. No. 

Bel. Have you not seen it, nor the like ? 
Dion. Yes, I have seen the like, but readily 

I know not where. 
Bel. I have been often told 

In court of one Euphrasia, a lady, 

And daughter to you ; betwixt whom and me 


They, that would flatter my bad face, would swear 

There was such strange resemblance, that we two 

Could not be known asunder, dress'd alike. 
Dion. By heaven, and so there is. 
Bel. For her fair sake, 

Who now doth spend the spring-time of her life 

In holy pilgrimage, move to the king, 

That I may 'scape this torture. 
Dion. 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 ; aud do scarce believe it. 
Dion. Oh, my shame ! Is it possible ? Draw near, 

That I may gaze upon thee. Art thou she, 

Or else her murderer ? Where wert thou bom ? 
Bel. In Siracusa. 
Dion. What's thy name ? 
Bel. Euphrasia. 
Dion. Oh, 'tis just, 'tis she . 

Now I do know thee. Oh, that thou hadst died 9 

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 ? 
Bel. 'Would I had died indeed ; I wish it too : 

And so I must have done by vow, ere publish'd 

W hat 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 ? [He offers to stab himself. 

All is discover' d ! Pray you, let me go. 
King. Stay him. 
Are. What is discover' d ? 
Dion. Why, my shame ! 

It is a woman. Let her speak the rest 
Phi. How ? that again. 
Dion. It is a woman. 


Phi. Bless' d be you powers that favour innocence ! 

King. Lay hold upon that lady. [Megkra is seized. 

Phi. It is a woman, sir ! Hark, gentlemen ! 
It is a woman ! Arethusa, take 
My soul into thy breast, that would be gone 
With joy. It is a woman ! Thou art fair, 
And virtuous still to ages, in despite 
Of malice. 

King. Speak you, where lies his shame ? 

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. 1 

Phi. Take it freely ; for, I know, 

Though what thou didst were indiscreetly 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. 

Bel. 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 outweigh' d it. All these jealousies 
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discover 'd 
What now we know. 

Bel. My father oft would speak 

Tour worth and virtue ; and, as I did grow 
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst 
To see the man so prais'd ; but yet all this 
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost 
As soon as found ; till sitting in 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, 

1 For mercy."] Dion, out of a wrong notion of doing Philaster a 
service, had borne false witness to the charge against the Princess. 


As I had puff'd it forth and suck'd it in, 

Like breath. Theu was I cali'd away in haste 

To entertain you. iSTever 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 stirr'd it so. Alas ! I found it love ; 

Tet far from lust ; for could I but have liv'd 

In presence of you, I had had my end. 

For this I did delude my noble father 

"With a feign' d 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 seein'd, 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. 

Phi. I grieve such virtues 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. 

King. 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 purposed will. 

Pha. I do confess, 
Renowned sir. 

King. 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 
By this, to rule the passions of their blood, 
Eor what Heaven wills can never be withstood. 1 

[Exeunt omnes. 

1 u rj^ occas i on should as naturally fall, 
As when Beilario confesses all." 

Sheffield's Essay on Poetry. 

" The character of Beilario must have been extremely popular in its 
day. For many years after the date of Philaster' s first exhibition on 
the stage, scarce a play can be found ['A remark,' says Mr. Dyee, 
e thrown out somewhat at random'] without one of these women pages 
in it, following in the train of some pre-engaged lover, calling on the 
gods to bless her happy rival (his mistress) whom no doubt she secretly 
curses in her heart, giving rise to many pretty equivoques by the way on 
the confusion of sex, and either made happy at last by some surprising 
turn of fate, or dismissed with the joint pity of the lovers and the 
audience. Our ancestors seem to have been wonderfully delighted with 
these transformations of sex. Women's parts were then acted by young 
men. What an odd double confusion it must have made, to see a boy 
play a woman playing a man ! one cannot disentangle the perplexity 
without some violence to the imagination." — Lamb. 

" Beilario is suggested by Viola [in Shakspeare's Twelfth Night], 
There is more picturesqueness, more dramatic importance, not, perhaps, 
more beauty and sweetness of affection, but a more elegant develope- 
ment of it, in Fletcher; on the other hand, there is still mo^e of that 
improbability which attends a successful concealment of sex by mere 
disguise of clothes, though no artifice has been more common on the 
stage. "—Hall am. 

tjie maid's tragedy. 49 



Aminior, a nobleman of the court of Rhodes, forsakes Aspatia by Hue King's 
command, to marry Evadne. The grief of the forsaken 07ie described. 

This lady 

Walks discontented, with her watery eyes 
Bent on the earth. The unfrequented woods 
Are her delight ; and 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 strew her over like a corse. 
She carries with her an infectious grief, 
That strikes all her beholders ; she will sing 
The mournful' st 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, which her grief 
Will put in such a phrase, that, ere she end, 
She'll send them weeping, one by one, away. 


Night, rising in mists, addresses Cynthia {the Moon). 

Our reign is come, for in the raging sea 

The sun is drown' d, and with him fell the Day. 

Bright Cynthia, hear my voice. I am the Night, 

For whom thou bear'st about thy borrow' d light. 

Appear ! no longer thy pale visage shroud, 

But strike thy silver horns quite through a cloud. 

1 A king persuades a nobleman of his court to forsake one lady and marry 
another, the latter having been seducedbythejcing himself > and being secretly 
his mistress. The bad woman, stimulated by her brother to regret and 
revenge^ murders the king in his bed ; the forsaken one, disguised as a page, 
contrives to be killed by her deserter ; and the deserter kills himself from 

50 the maid's tkagedy. 

CYNTRiA/ordids any winds to appear but gentle ones. 

We must have none here 
But vernal blasts and gentle winds appear, 
Such as blow flowers, and through the glad boughs dug 
Many soft welcomes to the lusty spring. 

An invocation to Night, before music. 

Dark Night, 
Strike a full silence : do a thorough right 
To this great chorus ; that our music may 
Touch high as heaven, and make the east break day 
At midnight. 

Aspatia's wishes for Amintor and Evadne, on their wedding-day, 

Evadne, Aspatia, Dula, and other Ladies. 

Evad. (to Dula) 'Would thou could' st instil 

Some of thy mirth into Aspatia. 
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 

With sacrifice, than now. 
Evad, Nay, leave this sad talk, madam. 
Asp, Would I could ! 

Then should I leave the cause. [She sings. 

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. [She sings again. 

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 

Erom my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth ! 

Madam, good night. — 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 wateh one night about my hearse ; 
Bring each a mournful story, and a tear, 
To offer at it when I go to earth. 
With flatt'ring ivy clasp my coffin round ; 
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. 
Ecad. Alas, I pity thee. 

Enter Amintor. 

Asp. (to Amintor) 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. 
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 another true to me. 


u Aspatia will have her maidens le sorrowful, because s/ie is so™ 

Aspatia, A^tiphila, and Oxyopias. 

Be sure 
Tou credit anything the light gives light to, 
Before a man. Bather believe the sea 
"Weeps for the ruin'd merchant, when he roars ; 
Rather, the wind courts but the pregnant sails, 
When 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, 
("Forced by ill fate) take to your maiden bosoms 
Two dead-cold aspicks, and of them make lovers : 

52 the maid's teagedy. 

They cannot natter, nor forswear ; one kiss 
Makes a long peace for all. But man, 
Oh, that beast man ! Come, let's be sad, my girls! 
That down-cast of thine eye, Olympias, 
Shows a fine sorrow. Mark, Antiphila ; 
Just 3uch another was the nymph CEnone, 
"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, 
Pull 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 ? 

Asp. Tes, that piece. — (Looking at it.) 

This should be Theseus ; he has a cozening face : 
You meant him for a man ? 

A.nt. He was so, madam. 

Asp. Why, then, 'tis well enough. Never look back: 
Tou 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 ? 

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 ? 
But they are all as ill ! This false smile 
Was well express'd ; just such another caught me. — 
Tou shall not go so. — 
Antiphila, in this place work a quicksand, 
And over it a shallow smiling water, 
And his ship ploughing it ; and then a Pear : 
Do that Pear to the life, wench. 

Ant. 'Twill wrong the story. 

Asp. 'Twill make the story, wrong'd by wanton poets, 
Live long, and be believed. But where's the lady ? 

Ant. There, madam. 


Asp. Fie ! you have miss'd it here, Antiphila ; 
You are much mistaken, wench : 
These 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, 
"Wild as that desart ; and let all about me 
Be teachers of my story. 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 
Groan with continual surges ; and, behind me, 
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches ; 
A miserable life of this poor picture ! 

Olym. Dear madam ! 

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 sadness 
Give us new souls. 1 


Evadne implores forgiveness 0/*Araintor, for marrying him while she was 

the King's mistress. 

Evad. Oh, where have I been all this time ? how 'friended, 
That I should loso 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. — Oh, my lord ! 

" The plaintive image of the forsaken Aspatia has an indescribably 
sweet spirit and romantic expression. Her fancy takes part with her 
heart, and gives sorrow a visionary gracefulness. — The resemblance of 
this poetical picture to * Guido's Bacchus and Ariadne' has been noticed 
by Mr. Seward, in the preface to his edition of Beaumont and Fletcher. 
In both representations, the extended arms of the mourner, her hah' 
blown by the wind, the barren roughness of the rocks around her, and 
the broken trunks of leafless trees, make her figure appeal' like sorrow's 
monument." — Campbell. 

54 the maid's tragedy, 

Enter Amintob. 

Amint. How now? 

Evad. {kneeling) My much-abused lord ! 

Amin. This cannot be ! 

Evad, I do not kneel to live ; I dare not hope it ; 
The wrongs I did are greater. Look upon me, 
Though 1 appear with all my faults. 

Amin. Stand up. 

This is a new way to beget more sorrow. 
Heaven knows I have too many ! Do not mock me : 
Though I am tame, and bred up with my wrongs, 
"Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap, 
Like a hand- wolf, 1 into my natural wildness, 
And do an outrage. Pr'ythee, do not mock me. 

Evad. My whole life is so leprous, it infects 

All my repentance. I would buy your pardon, 
Though at the highest set ; 2 even with my life, 
That slight contrition, that's no sacrifice 
For what I have committed. 

Amin. Sure I dazzle : 3 

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 I might put a thousand sorrows off, 

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. 

1 Like a hand-wolf I\ A wolf brought up by hand ; domesticated from 
its birth. — This passage, from its perfect nature, analogy, and spirit, 
might have been written by Shakspeare. 

~ At the highest set J] Rated at the highest price. 

3 Sure I dazzle.~] Am confused in my eyesight ; do not see properly. 

the maid's teagedy. 55 

EcacL 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 lived in : the same monster ! 
But these are names of honour, to what I am : 
I do present myself the foulest creature, 
Most poisonous, dangerous, and despis'd 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 condemn' d, 
Till I have got your pardon. 

Amin. Else, 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. 

Evad. I have done nothing good to win belief, 

My life hath been so faithless. All the creatures, 
Made for heaven's honours, have their ends, and good ones, 
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 told and unbelieved, they pass away, 
And go to dust forgotten ! But, my lord, 
Those short days I shall number to my rest 

1 I do not fall here 

To shadow."] I do not prostrate myself to make my fault appear 
otherwise than it is. 

56 the maid's tkagedy. 

(As many must not see me) shall, though too late, 
Though in my evening, yet perceive I will 
(Since I can do no good, because a woman) 
Beach constantly at something that is near its 
I will redeem one minute of my age, 
Or, like another Niobe, I'll weep 
Till I am water. 
A.min. I am now dissolved : 

My frozen soul melts. May each sin thou hast 
Find a new mercy ! Rise ; I am at peace. 
Hadst thou been thus, thus excellently good, 
Before that devil king tempted thy frailty, 
Sure thou hadst made a star ! Give me thy hand. 
Prom this time I will know thee ; and, as far 
As honour gives me leave, be thy Amintor : 
"When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly, 
And pray the gods to give thee happy days : 
My charity shall go along with thee, 
Though my embraces must be far from thee. 1 


Scene — Antechamber to Evadne's apartments in the Palace. 

Miter Aspatia, in man's apparel, and with artificial scars on her face. 

Asp. This is mj fatal hour. Heaven may forgive 
My rash attempt, that causelessly hath laid 
Griefs on me that will never let me rest. 

Enter Servant. 

God save you, sir ! 
Ser. And you, sir. "What's your business ? 
Asp. With you, sir, now ; to do me the fair office 

To help me to your lord. 
Ser. What, would you serve him ? 

1 " The difficulty of giving at once truth, strength, and delicacy to 
female repentance for the loss of honour is finely accomplished in 
Evadne. The stage perhaps has few scenes more affecting than that in 
which she obtains forgiveness of Amintor, on terms which interest U3 
in his compassion without compromising his honour." — Campbell. 

the maid's tragedy. 57 

, I'll do him any service ; but to haste, 

Tor my affairs are earnest, I desire 

To speak with him. 
Ser. Sir, because you're in such haste, I would be loth 

Delay you any longer : you cannot. 
Asp. It shall become you, though, to tell your lord. 
Ser. Sir, he will speak with nobody ; but, in particular, 

I have in charge, about no weighty matters. 
Asp. This is most strange. Art thou gold-proof? 

There's for thee ; help me to him, 
Ser. Pray be not angry, sir. I'll do my best. [Exit, 

Asp. How stubbornly this fellow answered me ! 

There is a vile dishonest trick in man, 

More than in woman. All the men I meet 

Appear thus to me ; are all harsh and rude ; 

And have a subtilty in everything, 

Which love could never know. But we fond women 

Harbour the easiest and the smoothest thoughts, 

And think, all shall go so ! It is unjust 

That men and women should be match' d together. 

Enter Airis'TOE and his JIan. 

Atnin m "Where is he ? 

Ser. There, my lord, 

Aram, Wnat would you, sir? 

Asp. Please it your lordship to command your man 
Out of the room, I shall deliver things 
Worthv vour hearing. 

Amin. .Leave us. [Exit Servant. 

Asp. Oh, that that shape 

Should bury falsehood in it ! 

Amin. ZS"ow 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 
jLj sister's picture, and her mine. In short, 
lam the brother to the wrong'd Aspatia. 

Amin. The wrong'd Aspatia ! 'Would thou wert so too 
Unto the wrong'd Amintor ! Let me kiss 

58 the maid's tragedy. 

That hand of thine, in honour that I bear 
Unto the wrong' d Aspatia. Here I stand, 
That did it. 'Would he could not ! Gentle youth, 
Leave me ; for there is something in thy looks, 
That calls my sins, in a most hideous 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 this hour ; I now arriv'd : 

She sent for me to see her marriage ; 

A woful one ! But they, that are above, 

Have ends in everything. She used few words 

But yet enough to make me understand 

The baseness of the injuries 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 loth to lose 

Honour, that is not easily gain'd again. 

.Fairly I mean to deal. The age is strict 

For single combats ; and we shall be stopp'd, 

If it be publish'd. If you like your sword, 

Use it ; if mine appear a better to you, 

Change : for the ground is this, and this the time, 

To end our difference. 

Amin. Charitable youth, 

(If thou be'st such) think not I will maintain 
So strange a wrong : and, for thy sister's sake, 
Know, that I could not think that desperate thing 
I durst not do ; yet, to enjoy this world, 
I would not see her ; for, beholding thee, 
I am I know not what. If I have aught, 
That may content thee, take it, and begone ; 
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, 

the maid's tragedy. 59 

Lest I were cozen' d ; and be sure to fight, 

Ere I return' d. 
Amin. That must not be with me. 

For her I'll die directly ; but against her 

Will never hazard it. 
Asp. You must be urged. 

I do not deal uncivilly with those 

That dare to fight ; but such a one as you 

Must be used thus. [She strikes him. 

Amin. I pr'ythee, youth, take heed. 

Thy sister is to me a thing 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 kick'd 

[She 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 show [Draws. 

The spirit thou pretend' st, and understand, 

Thou hast no hour to live. 

[They fight ; Aspatia is ivounded. 
What dost thou mean ? 

Thou canst not fight : the blows thou mak'st at me 

Are quite besides ; and those I offer at thee, 

Thou spread'st thine arms, and tak'st upon thy breast, 

Alas, defenceless ! 
Asp. I have got enough, 

And my desire. There is no place so fit 

For me to die as here. 

Enter Eyadke, her hands bloody, with a knife. 

Evad. Amintor, I am loaden with events, 

That fly to make thee happy. I have joys, 
That in a moment can call back thy wrongs, 

GO the maid's tbagedy. 


And settle thee in thy free state again. 
It is Evadne still that fellows 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 stay'd. 

Evad. jNToble Amintor, put off thy amaze, 

Let thine eyes loose, and speak. Am I not fair ? 
Looks not Evadne beauteous, with these rites now ? 
Were those hours half so lovely in thine eyes, 
"When our hands met before the holy man ? 
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 are 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 ; 
We lay our sleeping lives within their arms ! 
Why, thou hast raised up Mischief to his height, 
And found out one, to out-name thy other faults. 
Thou hast no intermission of thy sins, 
But all thy life is a continued ill. 
Black is thy colour now, disease thy nature. 
" Joy to Amintor !" Thou hast touch' d a life, 
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 thv 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 a violent fate, to fetch his death 
Erom my slow hand : and, to augment my woe, 
Tou are now present, stain' d with a king's blood, 
Violently shed. This keeps night here, 
And throws an unknown wilderness about me. 


Asp. Oh, oh, oli ! 

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 

Than thou canst make thy sword. 
Amin. Away, away ! 

Thy knees are more to me than violence. 

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 : 

In 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. 

[Leaves her* 
Evad. 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. 

[Kills herslf. 
Amin. 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. 

[She 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 ! 

62 THE maid's tkagedy. 

Be resolute, and bear 'em company. 
There's something, yet, which I am loth 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. 
Though she may justly arm herself with scorn 
And hate of me, my soul will part less troubled, 
"When 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 Amintor still ; 

Or I dream still. 
Amin. How dost thou ? Speak ! receive my love and help. 
Thy blood climbs 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 surely live, Amintor ; I am well : 

A kind of healthful joy wanders within me. 
Amin. 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 loved me then ? 
Amin. Alas ! 

All that I am's not worth a hair from thee. 
Asp. Give me thy hand ; my hands grope up and down, 

the maid's tragedy. 63 

And cannot find thee. I am wondrous sick : 

Have I thy hand Amintor ? 
Amin. Thou greatest Messing of the world, thou hast. 
Asp. I do believe thee better than my sense. 

Oh ! I must go. Farewell ! [Dies. 

Amin. She swoons ! Aspatia ! — Help ! for Heaven's sake, 
water ! 

Such as may chain life ever to this frame. — 

Aspatia, speak ! — What, no help yet ? I fool ! 

I'll chafe her temples. Yet there's nothing stirs : 

Some hidden power tell her, Amintor calls, 

And let her answer me ! — Aspatia, speak ! — 

I have heard, if there be any life, but bow 

The body thus, and it will show itself. 

Oh, she is gone ! I will not leave her yet. 

Since out of justice we must challenge nothing, 

I'll call it mercy, if you'll pity me, 

Ye heavenly powers ! and lend, for some few years, 

The blessed soul to this fair seat again. 

]S r o 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 ? Here's to be with thee, love ! 

[Stabs himself. 
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, 
God ! Help, help ! 

Enter Lysippus, Melasttitjs (Evadne's brother.) Calianax 
(Aspatia's father), Cleon, Diphiltjs, and Steato. 

Lys. "Where's Amintor ? 

Serv, Oh, there, there. 

Cys. How strange is this ! 

Cat. 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. 
Biph. 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 ? what's that? 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 knew any but direct 

Mel. I am a prattler ; but no more. \Offers to hill himself. 
Biph. Hold, brother. 
Lys. Stop him, 
Diph. Pie ! how unmanly was this offer in you ; 

Does this become our strain ? 
Cal. I know not what the matter is, but I am grown very 

kind, and am friends with you. Tou have given me 

that among you will kill me quickly ; but I'll go home, 

and live as long as I can. 
Mel. His spirit is but poor, that can be kept 

Prom death for want of weapons. 

Is not my hand a weapon sharp enough 

To stop my breath ? or, if you tie down those, 

I vow, Amintor, I will never eat, 

the maid's tragedy. 05 

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 curst is he that is their instrument. [Exeunt. 

[One characteristic of the excellent old poets is their being able to 
bestow grace upon subjects which naturally do not seem susceptible of 
any. I will mention two instances : Zelmane in the Arcadia of Sidney, 
and Helena in the All's Well that Ends Well of Shakspeare. What can oe 
more unpromising at first sight than the idea of a young man dis- 
guising himself in woman's attire, and passing himself off as a woman 
among women ? and that too for a long space of time ? Yet Sir 
Philip has preserved such a matchless decorum, that neither does 
Pyrocles' manhood suffer any stain for the effeminacy of Zelmane, nor is 
the respect due to the princesses at all diminished when the deception 
comes to be known. In the sweetly constituted mind of Sir Philip 
Sidney it seems as if no ugly thought nor unhandsome meditation could 
find a harbour. He turned all that he touched into images of honour 
and virtue. Helena, in Shakspeare, is a young woman seeking a man 
in marriage. The ordinary laws of courtship are reversed. Yet with 
such exquisite address is this dangerous subject handled, that Helene/s 
forwardness loses her no honour ; delicacy dispenses with her laws in 
her favour, and Mature in her single case seems content to suffer a sweet 

" Aspatia, in this tragedy, is a character equally difficult with Helena 
of being managed with grace. She too is a slighted woman, refused by 
a man who had once engaged to marry her. Yet it is artfully contrived 
that while we pity her, we respect her, and she descends without de- 
gradation. So much true poetry and passion can do to confer dignity 
upon subjects which do not seem capable of it. But Aspatia must not 
be compared at all points with Helena ; she does not so absolutely pre- 
dominate over her situation, but she suffers some diminution, some 
abatement of the full lustre of the female character, which Helena never 
does : her character has many degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy, 
but it has weakness which if we do not despise we are sorry for. After 
all, Beaumont and Fletcher were but an inferior sort of Shakspeares and 
Sidneys." — Lamb. 

u The Maid's Tragedy, unfortunately, beautiful and essentially moral 
as it is, cannot be called a tragedy for maids, and indeed should hardly 
be read by any respectable woman. It abounds with that studiously 
protracted indecency which distinguished Fletcher beyond all our early 
dramatists, and is so much incorporated with his plays, that very few of 
them can be so altered as to become tolerable at present on the stage." 



Bessus. a heat en poltroon, applies to a couple of professional bullies, also 
poltroons, to sit in judgment on his ease, and testify to his character for 
valour. They accompa?iy him to the house of Bacurius to do so, and 
bring an unexpected certificate on the whole party. 

Scene — A Boom in the House of Bessus. 
Enter Bessus, Two Swordsmen, and a Boy. 

Bes. You're very welcome, both ! Some stools there, boy ; 

And reach a table. Gentlemen o' th' sword, 

Pray sit, without more compliment. Begone, child ! 

I have been curious in the searching of you, 

Because I understand you wise and valiant. 
1st Sw. We understand ourselves, sir. 
Bessus. Nay, gentlemen, and dear friends of the sword, 

]No compliment, I pray ; but to the cause 

I hang upon, which, in few, is my honour. 
2nd &iv. Tou cannot hang too much, sir, for your honour — 

But to your cause. Be wise, and speak the truth. 
Bes. My first doubt is, my beating by my prince. 
1st Sw. Stay there a little, sir. Do you doubt a beating ? 

Or, have you had a beating by your prince ? 
Bes. Gentlemen o' th' sword, my prince has beaten me, 
2nd Siv. {to 1st). Brother, what think you of this case ? 
1st Sw. If he has beaten him, the case is clear. 
2nd Sw. If he have beaten him, I grant the case : 

But how ? "We cannot be too subtle in this business ; 

I say, but how ? 
Be5. Even with his royal hand. 
1st Sw. "Was it a blow of love or indignation ? 
Bes. 'Twas twenty blows of indignation, gentlemen : 

Besides two blows o' th' face. 
2ndSw. Those blows o' th' face have made a new cause on't; 

The rest were but an honourable rudeness. 

1 Story of a brave but pompous and bragging sovereign, who turns 
out to have no right to his throne. The only scenes in the play worth 
preserving are the admirable ones here extracted concerning Bessus, 
who may be styled the Prince of Poltroons. 


1st Sw. Two blows o' tli' face, and given by a worse man, 
I must confess, as the swordsmen say, bad turn'd 
The business ; mark me, brother, by a worse man ; 
But, being by his prince, had they been ten, 
And those ten drawn ten teeth, besides the hazard 
Of his nose for ever, all this had been but favour. 
This is my flat opinion, which I'll die in. 

2nd Sic. The king may do much, Captain, believe it ; 

For had he crack' d your skull through, like a bottle, 
Or broke a rib or two, with tossing of you, 
Yet you had lost no honour. This is strange, 
Tou may imagine ; but this is truth now, Captain. 

Bes. I will be glad to embrace it, gentlemen ; 
But how far may he strike me ? 

1st Sic. There's another ; 

A new cause rising from the time and distance? 

In which I will deliver my opinion. 

"We may strike, beat, or cause to be beaten 

(Tor these are natural to man). 

Tour prince, I say, may beat you so far forth 

As his dominion reaches : that's for the distance ; 

The time, ten miles a day, I take it. 

2nd Sw. Brother, you err ; 'tis fifteen miles a day ; 
His stage is ten, his beatings are fifteen. 

Bes. 'Tis of the longest, but we subjects must — 

1st Sw. (interrupting). Be subject to it. Tou are wise and 

Bes. Obedience ever makes that noble use on't, 

To which I dedicate my beaten body. [sword. 

I must trouble you a little further, gentlemen o' th' 

2nd Siv. No trouble at all to us, sir, if we may 
Profit your understanding. ~We are bound, 
By virtue of our calling, to utter our opinion 
Shortly and discreetly. 

Bes. My sorest business is, I have been kick'd. 

2nd Sw. How far, sir ? 

Bes. JSoi to flatter myself in it, all over. 

My sword lost, but not forced ; for discreetly 
I rendered it, to save that imputation. 

1st Sw. It show'd discretion, the best part of valour. 

68 A KI3T9 AKD 25"0 KIXGr. 

2nd Sw. Brother, this is a pretty cause : pray, think on'tr 

Our friend here has been kick'd. 
1st Sw. He has so, brother. 
2nd Siv. Sorely, he says, Now had he sat down here 

Upon the mere kick, ? t had been cowardly. 
1st Sw. I think it had been cowardly, indeed. 
2nd Sw. But our friend has redeem' d it, in delivering 

His sword without compulsion ; and that man 

That took it of him, I pronounce a weak one. 

And his kicks nullities. 

He should have kick'd him after the delivering, 

"Which is the confirmation of a coward. 
1st Sw. Brother, I take it, you mistake the question : 

For say, that I were kick'd. 
2nd Sw. I must not say so : 

Nor I must not hear it spoke by th' tongue o' man. 

Tou kick'd, dear brother ! Tou are merry 
1st Siv. But put the case, I were kick'd. 
2nd Sw. Let them put it, 

That are things weary of their lives, and know 

Not honour ! Put the case, you were kick'd ! 
1st Sw. I do not say I was kick'd. 
2nd Sw. No ; nor no silly creature that wears his head 

Without a case, his soul in a skin-coat. 

You kick'd, dear brother! 
Bes. Nay, gentlemen, let us do what we shall do, 

Truly and honestly. Good sirs, to the question. 
1st Sw. "Why then, I say, suppose your boy kick'd, 

2nd Siv. The boy, may be suppos'd, is liable ; 

But, kick my brother ! 
1st Sw. (to Bessus). A foolish forward zeal, Sir, in my friend. 

But, to the boy. Suppose the boy were kick'd. 
Bes. I do suppose it. 
1st Sw. Has your boy a sword ? 

Bes. Surely, no. I pray, suppose a sword too. [then. 

1st Sw. I do suppose it. Tou grant your boy was kick'd, 
2nd Sw. By no means, Captain. Let it be supposed, still 

The word (i grant " makes not for us. 
1st Sw. I say this must be granted. 
2nd Sw. This must be granted, brother ? 


1st Sw. Ay, this must be granted. 

2nd Sw. Still, this must ? 

1st Sw. I say, this must be granted. 

2nd Sic. Ay ? Give me the must again ? Brother, you 

1st Sw. I will not hear you, wasp. [palter. 

2nd Sw. Brother, 

I say you palter. The must three times together ! 

I wear as sharp steel as another man, 

And my fox 1 bites as deep. Musted, my dear brother ! 

But to the cause again. 
Bes. Nay, look you, gentlemen. 
2nd Sw. In a word, I ha } done. 
1st Sw. (to Bessus). A tall man, but intemperate. 'lis great 

Once more, suppose the boy kick'd. [p^7« — 

2nd Sw. Forward. 

]st Sw. And being thoroughly kick'd, laughs at the kicker. 
2nd Siv. So much for us. Proceed. 
1st Sw. And in this beaten scorn, as I may call it, 

Delivers up his weapon. Where lies the error ? 
Bes. It lies i' th' beating, sir. I found it four days since. 
2nd Siv. The error, and a sore one, I take it, 

Lies in the thing kicking. 
Bes. I understand that well — 'Tis sore, indeed, Sir. 
1st Siv. That is according to the man that did it. 
2nd Sw. There springs a new branch. "Whose was the foot ? 
Bes. A lord's. 
1st Sw. The cause is mighty : but had it been two lords, 

And both had kick'd you, had you laugh' d, 'tis clear. 
Bes. I did laugh ; but how will that help me, gentlemen ? 
2nd Sw. Yes, it shall help you, if you laugh'd aloud. 
Bes. As loud as a kick'd man could laugh, I laugh'd, Sir. 
1st Sw. My reason now. The valiant man is known 

By suffering and contemning. Tou have had 

Enough of both, and you are valiant. 
2nd Sw. If he be sure he has been kick'd enough : 

Tor that brave sufferance you speak of, brother, 

Consists, not in a beating and away, 

But in a cudgell'd body, from eighteen 

To eight and thirty : in a head rebuked 

1 The old cant word for sword. 


"With pots of all size, daggers, stools, and bedstaves, 

This shows a valiant man. 
Bes. Then I am valiant : as valiant as the proudest ; 

Eor these are all familiar things to me ; 

Familiar as my sleep, or want of money. 

All my whole body's but one bruise with beating. 

I think I have been cudgell'd by ail nations, 

And almost all religions. 
2nd Sw. Embrace him, brother. This man is valiant. 

I know it by myself, he's valiant. 
1st Siv. Captain, thou art a valiant gentleman, 

To bide upon ; a very valiant man. 
Bes. My equal friends o' th' sword, I must request 

Tour hands to this. 
2nd Sw. 'Tis fit it should be. 
Bes. Boy, 

Go get me some wine, and pen and ink, within. — 

Am I clear, gentlemen ? 
1st Sw. Sir, when the world 

Has taken notice of what we have done, 

Make much of your body ; for I'll pawn my steel, 

Men will be coyer of their legs hereafter. 
Bes. I must request you go along, and testify 

To the lord Bacurius, whose foot has struck me, 

How you find my cause. 
2nd Sw. "We will ; and tell that lord he must be rul'd, 

Or there be those abroad will rule his lordship. 


Scene — The House of Bacurius. 

Enter Bacueitjs and a Servant. 

Bac. Three gentlemen without, to speak with me ? 

Serv. Tes, sir. 

Bac. Let them come in. 

Enter Bessus with the two Swordsmen. 

Serv. They are enter'd, sir, already. [men ? 

Bac. ~Now fellows, your business ? Are these the gentle- 
Bes. My lord, I have made bold to bring these gentlemen, 
My friends o' th' sword, along with me. 


Bac. I am 

Afraid you'll fight, then ? 
Bes. My good lord, I will not ; 

Your lordship is mistaken. Eear not, lord. 
Bac. Sir, I am sorry for it. 
Bes. I ask no more 

In honour. — Gentlemen, you hear my lord 

Is sorry. 
Bac. Not that I have beaten you, 

But beaten one that will be beaten ; 

One whose dull body will require a lamming, 

As surfeits do the diet, spring and fall. 

Now, to your swordsmen : 

What come they for, good Captain Stockfish ? 
Bes. It seems your lordship has forgot my name. 
Bac. No, nor your nature neither ; though they are 

Things fitter, I must confess,, for auything 

Than my remembrance, or any honest man's — [yard? 

"What shall these billets do ? Be piled up in my wood- 
Bes. Tour lordship holds your mirth still : heaven continue 

But, for these gentlemen, they come — [it ! 

Bac. To swear you are a coward ? Spare your task ; 

I do believe it. 
Bes. Tour lordship still draws wide : 

They come to vouch, under their valiant names, 

I am no coward. 
Bac. That would be a show indeed worth seeing. Sirs, 

Be wise, and take money for this motion j 1 travel 
with it ; 

And where the name of Bessus has been known, 

Or a good coward stirring, 'twill yield more than 

A tilting. This will prove more beneficial to you/ 

If you be thrifty, than your Captainship, 

And more natural. Men of most valiant hands, 

Is this true ? 
2nd Siv. It is so, most renown'd. 
Bac. 'Tis somewhat strange. 

1 Take money for this ?notion.~] Make money by showing these fellows 
about the country. Motion, i. e. a spectacle set in motion, was a word 
for a puppet-show. 


1st Sw. Lord, it is strange, yet true. 

We have examin'd, from your lordship's foot there 
To this man's head, the nature of the beatings ; 
And we do find his honour is come off 
Clean and sufficient. This as our swords shall help us. 
Bac .{to Bessus). Tou are much bounden to your bilbo-men. 1 
I am glad you're straight again, Captain. 'Twere good 
Tou would think some way how to gratify them : 
They have undergone a labour for you, Bessus, 
"Would have puzzled Hercules with all his valour. 
2nd Sw. Tour lordship must understand we are no men 
Of the law, that take pay for our opinion : 
It is sufficient we have clear' d our friend. 
Bac. Tet there is something due, which I, as touch'd 
In conscience, will discharge. — Captain, I'll pay 
This rent for you. 
Bes. Spare yourself, my good lord ; 

My brave friends aim at nothing but the virtue. 
Bac. That's but a cold discharge, sir, for the pains. 
2nd Sw. Oh lord, my good lord ! 
Bac. Be not so modest ; I will give you something. 
Bes. They shall dine with your lordship. That's sufficient. 
Bac. Something in hand the while. Tou rogues, you apple 
squires ! 
Do you come hither with your bottled valour, 
Tour windy froth, to limit out my beatings ? 

[Kicks them. 
1st Sw. I do beseech your lordship — 
2nd Sw. Oh, good lord ! 

Bac. 'Sfoot, what a bevy of beaten slaves are here ! 
Get me a cudgel, sirrah, and a tough one. 

[Exit Servant. 
2nd Sw. More of your foot, I do beseech your lordship. 
Bac. Tou shall, you shall, dog, and your fellow beagle. 
1st Sw. 0' this side, good my lord. 
Bac. Off with your swords ; 

"Fov if you hurt my foot, I'll have you flayed, 
Tou rascals. 

1 Bilbo-men.'] Swordsmen ; from Bilboa in Spain, a place famous for 
the manufacture of swords, 


1st Sw. ]Miiie s off, my lord. \_They take off their swords. 

d Sw. 1 beseech your lordship, stay a little ; my strap's 

lYow, when you please. [tied. 

Bac. Captaiu, these are your valiant friends : 

You long for a little too ? 
Bes. I am very well, I humbly thank your lordship. 
Bac. "What's that in your pocket hurts my toe, you mongrel ? 
2nd Sw. {takes out a pistol). Here 'tis, sir ; a small piece of 

That a gentleman, a dear friend of your lordship's, 

Sent me with to get it mended, sir ; for, if you mark ? 

The nose is somewhat loose. 
Bac. A friend of mine, you rascal ! 

I was never wearier of doing nothing, 

Than kicking these two foot-balls. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Here's a good cudgel, sir. 

Bac. It comes too late : I am weary. Pr'ythee, 
Do thou beat them. 

2nd Sw. My lord, this is foul play, 

'I faith, to put a fresh man upon us ; 
Men are but men, sir. 

Bac. That jest shall save your bones. — Captain, rally up 
vour rotten regiment, and begone. — I had rather 
thrash, than be bound to kick these rascals till they 
cried, Ho ! — Bessus, — you may put your hand to them 
now, and thus you are quit. — Farewell ! As you like 
this, pray visit me again. 'Twill keep me in good 
health. [Exit. 

2nd Svj. He has a devilish hard foot ! I never felt the like ! 

1st Siv. In or I ; and yet I am sure I have felt a hundred. 

2 nd Sw. If he kick thus i' th' dog days, he'll be dry- 
foundered. 1 
"What cure now, Captain, besides oil of bays ? 

Bes. Why, well enough, I warrant you. You can go ? 

2nd Sw. Yes, heaven be thank' d ! But I feel a shrewd ache ; 
Sure he has sprang my ankle-bone. 

1 Hdll he dry '•foundered.'] "Will sink to the earth for thirst. 



1st Sw. I have lost a haunch. 

Bes. A little butter, friend, a little butter : 

Butter and parsley is a sovereign matter : 

Probatum est. 
2nd Sw. Captain, we must request 

Tour hand now to our honours. 
Bes. Yes, marry, shall ye ; 

And then let all the world come. We are valiant 

To ourselves ; and there's an end. 
1st Sw. JNTay, then, we must be valiant. Oh my ribs ! 
2nd Sw. A plague upon those sharp-toed shoes ! They're 
murderers ! 

[" The pretended self-deception with which a coward lies to his own 
thoughts, the necessity for support which induces him to apply to 
others as cowardly as himself for the warrant of their good opinion, and 
the fascinations of vanity which impel such men into the exposure which 
they fancy they have taken the subtlest steps to guard against, are most 
entertainingly set forth in the interview of Bessus with the two bullies, 
and the subsequent catastrophe of all three in the hands of Bacurius. 
The nice balance of distinction and difference in which the bullies pre- 
tend to weigh the merits of kicks and beatings, and the impossibility 
which they affect of a shadow of imputation against their valour, or 
even of the power to assume it hypothetically, are masterly plays of wit 
of the first order." — Wit and Humour, Sfc. p. 174. ] 


She had a tale how Cupid struck her in love with a 
great lord in the Tilt-yard/ hut he never saw her ; yet 
she, in kindness, would needs wear a willow-garland at 
his wedding : she loved all the players in the last 
queen's time once over ; she was struck when they 
acted lovers, and forsook some when they played 

1 On the site of the present Horse Guards ; where the courtiers used 
to amuse themselves with knightly exercises. 


murderers. She has nine spur-royals, 1 and the servants 
say she hoards old gold ; and she herself pronounces, 
eagerly, that the farmer's eldest son (or her mistress's 
husband's clerk that shall be) that marries her shall 
make her a jointure of fourscore pounds a year. 


An apartment in the house of the Scornful Lady. Enter {with Younglote, 
her waiting-maid) the Lady to Loveless, who has begged to speak with 

Lady. Xow, sir, this first part of your will is performed : 
what's the rest ? 

Loveless. Mistress, for me to praise over again that worth 
which you yourself and all the world can see — 

Lady {shivering). It's a cold room this, servant. 

Love. Mistress — 

Lady. "What think you if I have a chimney for it, out here ? 

Love. Mistress, another in my place, that were not tied to 
believe all your actions just, would apprehend himself 
wronged : but I whose virtues are constancy and. 
obedience — 

Lady (to waiting-ioomaii). Younglove, make a good fire 
above, to warm me after my servant's exordiums. 

Love. I have heard, and seen, your affability to be such, that 
the servants you give wages to may speak. 

Lady, 'Tis true, 'tis true ; but they speak to the purpose. 

Love. Mistress, your will leads my speeches from the pur- 
pose : but, as a man— — 

Lady (interrupting him). A simile, servant? This room was 
built for honest meaners, that deliver themselves hastily 
and plainly, and are gone. Is this a time or place for 
exordiums, and similes, and metaphors ? If you have 
aught to say, break into it. My answers shall very 
reasonably meet you. 

Love. Mistress, I came to see you. 

Lady. That's happily dispatched. The next ? 

Love. To take leave of you. 

Lady. To be gone ? 

1 Gold coins worth 15s. each, and so called because they had a star 
on the reverse resembling the rowel of a spur. — Dyce. 


Love. Yes. 

Lady. You need not have despaired of that ; nor have used 
so many circumstances to win me to give you leave to 
perform my command. Is there a third ? 

Love. Yes, I had a third, had you been apt to hear it. 

Lady. I ? Never apter. East, good servant, fast. 

Love. 'Twas to entreat you to hear reason. 

Lady. Most willingly. Have you brought one can speak it ? 

Love. Lastly, it is to kindle in that barren heart love and 

Lady, You would stay at home ? 

Love. Yes, lady. 

Lady, Why, you may, and doubtlessly will, when you have 
debated that your commander is but your mistress ; a 
woman ; a weak one, wildly overborne with passions. 
But the thing by her commanded, is, to see Dover's 
dreadful cliff, passing, in a poor water-house, the 
dangers of the merciless channel 'twixt that and Calais ; 
five long hours' sail, with three weeks' poor victuals ! 

Love. You wrong me. 

Lady. Then, to land dumb, unable to enquire for an English 
host ; — to remove from city to city, by most chargeable 
post-horses, like one that rode in quest of his mother 
tongue ; — 

Love, (interrupting) . You wrong me much. 

Lady. And for all these almost invincible labours performed 
for your mistress, to be in danger to provoke her, and 
to put on new allegiance to some Erench lady, who 
is content to change language with you for 
laughter ; and, after your whole year spent in tennis 
and broken speech, to stand to the hazard of being 
laughed at, at your return, and have tales made on you 
by the chambermaids. 

Love. You wrong me much. 

Lady. Louder yet. 

Love. You know your least word is of force to make me 
seek out dangers : move me not with toys. But in 
this banishment I must take leave to say you are unjust. 
"Was one kiss, forced from you in public by me, so 
unpardonable ? Why, all hours have seen us kiss. 


Lady, 'Tis true ; and so you satisfied the company that 
heard me chide. 

Love. Your own eyes were not dearer to you than I. 

Lady. And so you told 'em. 

Love. I did ; yet no sign of disgrace need to have 
stained your cheek. Tou yourself knew your pure and 
simple heart to be most unspotted, and free from the 
least baseness. 

Lady. I did : but if a maid's heart doth but once think 
that she is suspected, her own face will write her 

Love. But where lay this disgrace ? The world that knew 
us, knew our resolutions well ; and could it be hoped 
that I should give away my freedom, and venture 
a perpetual bondage, with one I never kissed ? or could 
I, in strict wisdom, take too much love upon me, from 
her that chose me for her husband ? 

Lady. Believe me, if my wedding- smock were on, — 

Were the gloves bought and given, — the license come,— 

"Were the rosemary branches dipped, 1 and all 

The hip po eras 2 and cakes eat and drank of,— 

"Were these two arms encompass' d with the hands 

Of batchelors, to lead me to the church, — 

"Were my feet at the door, — were "I John" said,— 

If John should boast a favour done by me, 

I would not wed that year. And you, I hope, 

When you have spent this year commodiously, 

In achieving languages, will, at your return, 

Acknowledge me more coy of parting with mine eyes 

Than such a friend. More talk I hold not now. 

If you dare go ■ 

Love. 1 dare, you know. First, let me kiss. 

1 This herb was used as an emblem of remembrance at weddings as 
well as funerals.— Weber and Dtce. 

2 Hippocras was a favourite medicated drink, composed of wine 
(usually red), with spices and sugar. It is generally supposed to have 
been so called from Hippocrates (contracted by our earliest writers to 
Hippocras) ; perhaps., because it was strained, — the woollen bag used by 
apothecaries to strain syrups and decoctions being termed Hippocrates' 3 

78 a "dominie" bartered. 

Lady (declining). Farewell, sweet servant. Tour task 
perform' d, 
On a new ground, as a beginning suitor, 
I shall be apt to hear you. [Exit. 

Eld. Love. Farewell, cruel mistress. 1 


Sir Roger, a foolish chaplain, carries a message to a wit? 

Sib Bo gee, and "Weleosd. 

Rog. God save you, sir ! My lady lets you know, she desires 

to be acquainted with your name, before she confer 

with you. 
Wei. Sir, my name calls me "Welford. 
Rog. Sir; you are a gentleman of a good name. — (aside) 

Til try his wit. 
Wei. I will uphold it as good as any of my ancestors had 

this two hundred years, sir. 
Rog. I knew a worshipful and a religious gentleman of your 

name in the bishopric of Durham. Call you him 

cousin ? 
Wei. I am only allied to his virtues, sir. 
Rog. It is modestly said. I should carry the badge of your 

Christianity with me too. 
Wei. What's that ? a cross ? There's a tester. 

[Gives money. n 
Rog. I mean, the name which your godfathers gave you at 

the font. 
Wei. 'Tis Harry. But you cannot proceed orderly now in 

your catechism ; for you have told me who gave me that 

name. Shall I beg your name ? 
Rog. Eoger. 
Wei. What room fill you in this house ? 

1 This scene, with the airs that the lady gives herself, the readiness 
and sprightliness of her replies, and the lasting style of the prose, is an 
anticipation of the writing of Congreve. 

ct Sir" was the college title of a Bachelor of Arts. 

a Money often bore a cross on it. 

A " dominie" bantered. 79 

Rog. More rooms than one. 

Wei. The more the merrier. But may my boldness know 
why your lady hath sent you to decypher my name ? 

Rog. Her own words were these : — To know whether you 
were a formerly- denied suitor, disguised in this mes- 
sage : for I can assure you Hymen and she are at 
variance. I shall return with much haste. 

[Exit Bo GEE. 

Wei. And much speed, sir, I hope. Certainly I am arrived 
amongst a nation of new-found fools, on a land where 
no navigator has yet planted wit. Here's the walking 
nightcap again. 

Re- enter Sib So gee. 

Rog. Sir, my lady's pleasure is to see you; who hath com- 
manded me to acknowledge her sorrow, that you must 
come up for so bad entertainment. 

Wei. I shall obey your lady that sent it, and acknowledge 
you that brought it to be your art's master. 

Rog. I am but a bachelor of arts, sir : and I have the 
mending of all under this roof. 

Wei. A cobbler, sir ? 

Rog. 2s"o, sir : I inculcate divine service within these walls. 

Wei. But the inhabitants of this house do often employ you 
on errands, without any scruple of conscience. 

Rog, Tes, I do take the air many mornings on foot, three 
or four miles, for eggs. But why move you that ? 

Wei. To know whether it might become your function to 
bid my man to neglect his horse a little, to attend 
on me. 

Rog. Most properly, sir. 

Wei. I pray you do so then, and whilst I will attend your 
lady. You direct all this house in the true way ? 

Rog. I do, sir. 

Wei. And this door, I hope, conducts to your lady ? 

Rog. Your understanding is ingenious. \Exeunt severally. 

[Our latest and best historian, speaking of the general condition of 
the domestic chaplain during the century which followed the accession 
of Queen Elizabeth, says : " A young Levite — such was the phrase then 
in use — might be had for his board, a small garret, and ten pounds a 


year, and might not only perform his own professional functions, migfit 
not only be the most patient of butts and listeners, might not only" be 
always ready in fine weather for bowls, and in rainy weather for shovel- 
board, but might also save the expense of a gardener, or of a groom. 
Sometimes the reverend man nailed up the apricots, and sometimes he 
curried the coach-horses. He cast up the farriers' bills. He walked ten 
miles with a message or a parcel." — Macattlay's History of England, 
vol. i. p. 327.] 


Donna Guiomar, a lady of Lisbon, having given shelter, without knowing 
the circumstance, to a stranger who has killed her son, persists, after 
learning it, in screening him from his pursuers. 

Scene, a Bed-chamber. Enter Doishsta G-ijtomar and Servants. 

Guiomar. He's not i' th' house ? 

Servants. ~No, madam. 

Gui. Haste, and seek him. 

&o, all, and everywhere : I'll not to bed, 

Till you. return him. Take away the lights too ; 

The moon lends me too much to find my fears ! 

And those devotions 1 I am to pay, 

Are written in my heart, not in this book ; 

And I shall read them there, without a taper. 

[She kneels. Exeunt Servants, 

Enter Eutilio. 

Rut. I am pursued ; all the ports are stopt too ; 
Not any hope to escape : behind, before me, 
On either side, I am beset. Cursed in fortune ! 
My enemy on the sea, and on the land too ; 
Kedeem'd from one affliction to another ! 
5 Would I had made the greedy waves my tomb, 
And died obscure and innocent ; not as Nero, 
Smear' d o'er with blood. "Whither have my fears 
brought me ? 

1 Devotions.'] To be read, de-vo-ti-ons. Words of this kind had 
not yet ceased to be quadrisyllables, whenever it suited the poet to 
treat them as such. 


I am got into a house ; the doors all open ; 
This, by the largeness of the room, the hangings 
And other rich ornaments, glist'ning through 
The sable mask of night, says it belongs 
To one of means and rank. No servant stirring, 
Murmur, nor whisper. 
Gui. Who's that ? 
Rut. By the voice, 

This is a woman. 
Gui. Stephano, Jasper, Julia ! 

Who waits there ? 
Rut. 'Tis the lady of the house ; 

I'll fly to her protection. 
Gui. Speak ; what are you ? 

Rut. Of all, that ever breath' d, a man most wretched. 
Gui. I'm sure you are a man of most ill manners ; 
Tou co old not with so little reverence else 
Press to my private chamber. Whither would you P 
Or what do you seek for ? 
Rut. Gracious woman, hear me ! 

I am a stranger, and in that I answer 
All your demands ; a most unfortunate stranger, 
That calPd unto it by my enemy's pride, 
Have left him dead i' th' streets. Justice pursues me, 
And, for that life I took unwillingly, 
And in a fair defence, I must lose mine, 
Unless you, in your charity, protect me. 
Tour house is now my sanctuary ; and the altar 
I gladly would take hold of, your sweet mercy. 
By all that's dear unto you, by your virtues, 
And by your innocence that needs no forgiveness, 
Take pity on me ! 
Gui. Are you a Castilian ? 
Rut. No, madam ! Italy claims my birth. 
Gui* I ask not 

With purpose to betray you ; if you were 
Ten thousand times a Spaniard, the nation 
We Portugals most hate, I yet would save you, 
If it lay in my power. Lift up these hangings \ 
Behind my bed's head there's a hollow place, 


Into which enter. (Eutilio conceals himself.) 

but from this place stir not : 
If the officers come, as you expect they will do, 
I know they own such reverence to my lodgings, 
That they will easily give credit to me, 
And search no further. 

Rut. The blest saints pay for me 
The infinite debt I owe you ! 

Qui. {aside) . How he quakes ! 

Thus far I feel his heart beat. — "Be of comfort ; 

Once more I give my promise for your safety. 

All men are subject to such accidents, 

Especially the valiant ; — and (aside) who knows not, 

But that the charity I afford this stranger, 

My only son elsewhere may stand in need of ? 

Enter Page, Officers, and Servants, with Duaete on a bier. 

1st Serv. Now, madam, if your wisdom ever could 
Raise up defences against floods of sorrow, 
That haste to overwhelm you, make true use of 
Tour great discretion. 

2nd Serv. Tour only son, 

My lord Duarte, 's slain. 

1st Off. His murderer, 

Pursued by us, was by a boy discover'd 
Entering your house, and that induced us 
To press into it for his apprehension. 

GuL Oh! 

1st Serv. Sure, her heart is broke. 

1st Off. Madam ! 

GuL Stand off: 

My sorrow is so dear and pretious to me, 

That you must not partake it. Suffer it, 

Like wounds that do bleed inward, to despatch me.— 

(Aside.) Oh, my Duarte ! such an end as this 

Thy pride long since did prophesy ! thou art dead : 

And, to increase my misery, thy sad mother 

Must make a wilful shipwreck of her vow, 

Or thou fall unreveng'd. My soul's divided ; 

And piety to a son, and true performance 


Of hospitable duties to my guest, 
That are to others angels, are my Furies : 
Vengeance knocks at my heart, but my word given 
Denies the entrance. Is no medium left, 
But that I must protect the murderer, 
Or suffer in that faith he made his altar ? 
Motherly love, give place ; the fault made this way, 
To keep a vow to which high Heaven is witness, 
Heaven maybe pleas'd to pardon. 

Enter the lady's brother Manuel, Doctors and Surgeons. 

Man. 'Tis too late ; 

He's gone, past all recovery : now reproof 

Were but unreasonable, when I should give comfort ; 

And yet remember, sister 

Gui. Oh, forbear ! 

Search for the murderer, and remove the body, 
And as you think fit, give it burial. 
"Wretch that I am, uncapable of all comfort ! 
And therefore I entreat my friends and kinsfolk, 
And you, my lord, for some space to forbear 
Tour courteous visitations. 

Man. We obey you. 

[Exeunt with Duabte on the bier, all except GkriOMAB 

and Eutilio. 

Rut. (aside). My spirits come back, and now despair resigns 
Her place again to hope. 

Gui, Whate'er thou art, 

To whom I have given means of life, to witness 
With what religion I have kept my promise, 
Come fearless forth : but let thy face be cover 'd, 
That I hereafter be not forced to know thee ; 
For motherly affection may return, 
My vow once paid to Heaven. 

[B/utilio comes forth with his face covered. 
Thou hast taken from me 
The respiration of my heart, the light 
Of my swoln eyes, in his life that sustained me: 
Yet my word given to save you I make good, 
Because what you did was not done with malice. 


You are not known ; there is no mark about you 

That can discover you ; let not fear betray you. 

With all convenient speed you can, fly from me, 

That I may never see you ; and that want 

Of means may be no let unto your journey, 

There are a hundred crowns. \_Gives parse. ~\ Tou are 

at the door now, 
And so, farewell for ever. 
Rut. Let me first fall [Kneels. 

Before your feet, and on them pay the duty 
I owe your goodness : next, all blessings to you, 
And Heaven restore the joys I have bereft you, 
"With full increase, hereafter ! Living, be 
The goddess styl'd of hospitality. \_Exeunt severally. 

[The beautiful incidents of this scene may have been taken either 
from the Hecatommithi of Griraldi Cinthio, in which they first appeared, 
or from the Persiles and Sigismunda of Cervantes, into which the great 
novelist transferred them. The situation of the mother between the 
dead body of her son, and the murderer to whom she has promised re- 
fuge, is one of the most affecting conceivable, and worthily borne out. 
It may be pleasant to the reader to know, that the son is not slain, and 
that Rutilio and the lady marry.] 



" The humour of a Gallant who will not be persuaded to keep his Lands, but 
chooses to live by his Wits rather P 

Valentine's Uncle. Merchant, who has his Mortgage. 

Mer. When saw you Valentine ? 
Unc. Not since the horse-race. 

He's taken up with those that woo the widow. 
Mer. How can he live by snatches from such people? 

He bore a worthy mind. 
Unc. Alas ! he's sunk ; 

His means are gone ; he wants ; and, which is worse, 

Takes a delight in doing so. 
Mer. That's strange. 
Unc. Euns lunatic if you but talk of states : l 

1 States."] Conditions of circumstance, property, &c. Standings in 
society. Estates, with all which thev confer. 


He can't be brought (now he has spent his own) 
To think there is inheritance, or means, 
But all a common riches ; all men bound 
To be his bailiffs. 

Mev. This is something dangerous. 

Unc. ^so gentleman, that has estate, to use it 

In keeping house or followers : for those ways 

He cries against for eating sins, dull surfeits, 

Cramming of serving-men, mustering of beggars, 

Maintaining hospitals for kites and curs, 

Grounding their fat faiths upon old country proverbs, 

"God bless the founders. " These he would have venturd 

Into more manly uses, wit and carriage, 

And never thinks of state or means, the groundworks, 

Holding it monstrous, men should feed their bodies 

Aud starve their understandings. 

Y^lentixe joins them. 

Val. Xow to your business, uncle. 

Unc. To your state then. 

Val. 'Tis gone, and I am glad on 't ; name 't no more ; 

'Tis that I pray against, and Heaven has heard me. 

I tell you, sir, I am more fearful of it 

(I mean, of thinking of more lands and livings) 

Than sickly men are o' travelling o' Sundays, 

For being quell' d with carriers. 1 Out upon it ! 

Caveat emptor;' 2 ' let the fool out-sweat it, 

That thinks he has got a catch on't. 
Unc. This is madness, 

To be a wilful beggar. 
Val. I am mad then, 

And so I mean to be. Will that content you ? 

How bravely now I live i how jocund ! 

How near the first inheritance ! without fears I 

How free from title troubles ! 
Unc. And from means too ! 
Val. Means! 

1 Quell* d with carriers.'] Plagued to death with the people whom the 
circumstance brings around them ? 

2 Caveat emptor.'] Let the purchaser beware. 


"Why, all good men 's my means ; my wit 's my plough, 
The town 's my stock, tavern's my standing-house 
(And all the world know, there's no want) : all gentle- 
That love society, love me ; all purses [men, 
That wit and pleasure open, are my tenants ; 
Every man's clothes fit me ; the next fair lodging 
Is but my next remove ; and when I please 
To be more eminent, and take the air, 
A piece 1 is levied, and a coach prepar'd, 
And I go I care not whither. "What need 's state here ? 

Unc. But say these means were honest, will they last, sir ? 

VaL Par longer than your jerkin, and wear fairer. 
Tour mind's enclos'd; nothing lies open nobly: 
Tour very thoughts are hinds, that work on nothing 
But daily sweat and trouble. "Were my way 
So full of dirt as this, — 'tis true, — I 'd shift it. 
Are my acquaintance graziers ? — But, sir, know, 
No man that I 'm allied to in my living, 
But makes it equal whether his own use 
Or my necessity pull first : nor is this forc'd, 
But the mere quality and poisure 2 of goodness. 
And do you think I venture nothing equal ? 

Unc. Tou pose me, cousin. 

VaL What's my knowledge, uncle? 

Is 't not worth money ? "What's my understanding ? 

Travel ? reading ? wit ? all these digested ? my daily 

Making men, some to speak, that too much phlegm 

Had frozen up ; some, that spoke too much, to hold 

Their peace, and put their tongues to pensions ; some 

To wear their clothes, and some to keep them : these 

Are nothing, uncle ? Besides these ways, to teach 

The way of nature, a manly love, community 

To all that are deservers, not examining 

How much or what J s done for them : it is wicked. 

Are not these ways as honest as persecuting 

The starv'd inheritance with musty corn 

The very rats were fain to run away from ? 

Or selling rotten wood by the pound, like spices ? 

1 Of money. 

2 Poisure.'] Balance. Equipoise. 


I tell you, sir, I would not change way with you 

(Unless it were to sell your state that hour, 

And if 'twere possible, to spend it then too) 

Tor all your beans in Euinnillo. Xow you know me. 

[" The wit of Fletcher is excellent, like his serious scenes ; but there is 
something strained and far-fetched in both. He is too mistrustful 
of Nature ; he always goes a little on one side of her. Shakespeare 
chose her without a reserve ; and had riches, power, understanding, 
and long life with her, for a dowry." — Lamb. 

I have inserted these passages from Wit Without Money, because Lamb 
has put them in his Specimens : otherwise Valentine, though amusing as 
a caricature, is ridiculous as a copy from life. As an hypothetical jester, 
letting his animal spirits run riot, he is very pleasant as well as witty ; 
as an actual liver by his wits, winch is the necessary dramatic supposi- 
tion, he would soon have found all men his " bailiffs" in a very modern 
sense of the word.", 


La Weit, a lawyer, is pressed into being second in a duel. 

Sce^TE — A Field outside one of the gates of Paris. 


Cler, I am first i' th' field ; that honour 's gain'd of our side ; 
Pray Heaven, I may get off as honourably ! 
The hour is past ; I wonder Dinant comes not : 
This is the place ; I cannot see him yet : 
It is his quarrel too that brought me hither, 
And I ne'er knew him yet but to his honour 
A firm and worthy friend ; yet I see nothing, 
Kor horse, nor man. 'Twould yex me to be left here 
To the mercy of two swords, and two approv'd ones. 
I never knew him last. 

Enter Beaupee and Yeedone. 

Beau. You 're well met, Cleremont. 

Verdone. You 're a fair gentleman, and loye your friend, sir. 

What, are you ready ? The time has overta'en us. 
Beau. And this, you know, the place, 
Cler. Xo Dinant yet. [Aside. 


Beau, We come not now to argue, but to do : 

"We wait you, sir. 
Cler. There 's no time past yet, gentlemen ; 

We have day enough. — Is 't possible he comes not ? 


Ton see I am ready here, and do but stay 

Till my friend come ! Walk but a turn or two ; 

'Twill not be long. 
Verdone. We came to fight. 
Cler. Te shall fight, gentlemen, 

And fight enough : but a short turn or two ! 

I think I see him ; set up your watch, we'll fight by it. 
Beau. That is not he ; we will not be deluded, 
Cler. (aside.) Am I bobb'd 1 thus ? — Pray take a pipe of 

Or sing but some new air ; by that time, gentlemen — — 
Verdone. Come, draw your sword ; you know the custom 

Eirst come, first served. [here, sir ; 

Cler. Though it be held a custom, 

And practised so, I do not hold it honest. 

What honour can you both win on me single ? 2 
Beau. Yield up your sword then. 
Cler. Yield my sword ! that's Hebrew ; 

I'll be first cut a-pieces. Hold but a while, 

I'll take the next that comes. 

Enter an Old Gentleman. 

You are an old gentleman ? 
Gent. Yes, indeed am I, sir. 
Cler. And wear no sword ? 
Gent. I need none, sir. 
Cler. I would you did, and had one ; 

I want now such a foolish courtesy. 

You see these gentlemen ? 
Gent. You want a second ? 

In good faith, sir, I was never handsome at it. 

1 Bobb'd.'] Bob is a word of unknown origin for a mocking trick. 
Or does it come from Bob-cherry, a play full of disappointments ? 

3 Win on me single^ It was once the custom of duels inFrance for seconds 
as well as principals to fight ; som etimes two seconds to one principal. 


I would you had my sou ; but he's in Italy. 

(Aside.) A proper gentleman! (To the other.) Tou may 
do well, gallants, 

If your quarrel be not capital, to have more mercy j 

The gentleman may do his country 

Cler. Xow I beseech you, sir. 

If you daren't fight, don't stay to beg my pardon : 

There lies your way. 
Gent. Good morrow, gentlemen. [Exit. 

Verdone. You see your fortune ; 

Tou had better yield your sword. 
Cler. 'Pray ye, stay a little ; 

Upon mine honesty, you shall be fought with.— 

Enter Two Gentlemen. 

Well, Dinant, well! — These wear swords, and seem 

brave fellows. — 
As you are gentlemen, one of you supply me : 
I want a second now, to meet these gallants ; 
Tou know what honour is. 

1 Gent. Sir, you must pardon us : 

We go about the same work you are ready for, 

And must fight presently ; else we were your servants, 

2 Gent. God speed you, and good day ! [Exeunt Gentlemen. 
Cler. Am I thus colted r 1 

Beau, Come, either yield 

Cler As you are honest gentlemen, 

Stay but the next, and then I'll take my fortune ; 

And if I fight not like a man Fy, Dinant ! [Aside, 

Cold now and treacherous ! 
La Writ, (within.) I understand your causes , 

Tours about corn, yours about pins and glasses — 

Will ye make me mad ? have I not all the parcels ? 

And his petition too, about bell-founding ? 

Send in your witnesses. — What will ye have me do ? 

Will you have me break my heart ? my brains are 

And tell your master, as I am a gentleman, [melted ! 

His cause shall be the first. Commend meto your mistress, 

1 Colted.'] Made a fool of ; — treated like one young in horse-dealing 
(for so the term seems to have originated). 


And tell her, if there be an extraordinary feather, 
And tall enough for her — I shall dispatch you too, 
I know your cause, for transporting of farthingales : 
Trouble me no more, I say again to you, [dings ; 

No more vexation ! — Bid my wife send me some pud- 
I have a cause to run through, requires puddings ; 
Puddings enough. Farewell ! 

Enter La Wbit. 

Cler. Glod speed you, sir ! 

Beau. 'Would he would take this fellow ! 

Verdone. A rare youth. 

Cler. If you be not hasty, sir 

La Writ. Yes, I am hasty, 

Exceeding hasty, sir ; I am going to the parliament ; 

You understand this bag : if you have any business 

Depending there, be short and let me hear it, — 

And pay your fees. 
Cler. 'Faith, sir, I have a business, 

But it depends upon no parliament. 
La Writ. I have no skill in't then, 
Cler. I must desire you ; 

'Tis a sword matter, sir. 
La Writ. I am no cutler ; 

I am an advocate, sir. 
Beau. How the thing looks ! 

Verdone. When he brings him to fight 

Cler. Be not so hasty ; 

You wear a good sword. 
La Writ. I know not that, 

I never drew it yet, or whether it be a sword 

Cler. I must entreat you try, sir, and bear a part 

Against these gentlemen ; I want a second : 

You seem a man, and 'tis a noble office. 
La Writ. I am a lawyer, sir, I am no fighter. 
Cler. You that breed quarrels, sir, know best to satisfy. 
Beau. This is some sport yet ! 
Verdone. If this fellow should fight ! 
La Writ. And, for anything I know, I am an arrant coward. 

Do not trust me ; I think I am a coward. 


Cler. Try, try : you are mistaken. — AValk on, gentlemen, 

The man shall follow presently. 
La Writ. Are ye mad, gentlemen ? 

My business is within this half-hour. 
Cler. That's all one ; 

We'll despatch within this quarter. — There, in that 

'Tis most convenient, gentlemen. [bottom ; 

Beau. "Well, we'll wait, sir. [Moving to go thither. 

Verdone. Why, this will be a comic fight. You'll follow ? 
La Writ. As I am a true man, T cannot fight. 
Cler. Away, away. — [Exeunt Beatjpre and Verdone. 

I know you can ; I like your modesty ; 

I know you will fight, and so fight, with such mettle, 

And with such judgment meet your enemy's fury — 

I see it in your eye, sir. 
La Writ. I'll be hang'd then ; [fighting, 

And I charge you, in the king's name, name no more 
Cler. I charge you, in the king's name, play the man ; 

Which, if you do not quickly, I begin with you ; 

I'll make you dance. Do you see your fiddlestick ? 

Sweet advocate, thou shalt fight. 
La Writ. Stand further, gentleman, 

Or I'll give you such a dust o' th' chaps 

Cler. Spoke bravely. 

And like thyself, a noble advocate ! 

Come, to thy tools. 
La Writ. I do not say I'll fight. 
Cler. I say thou shalt, and bravely. 
La Writ. If I do fight— 

I say, if I do, but don't depend upon 't — 

(And yet I have a foolish itch upon me) — 

What shall become of my writings ? 
Cler. Let 'em lie by ; 

They will not run away, man. 
La Writ. I may be kill' d too, 

And where are all my causes then ? my business ? 

I will not fight : I cannot fight. My causes 

Cler. Thou shalt fight, if thou hadst a thousand causes ; 

Thou art a man to fight for any cause, 

And carry it with honour. 


La Writ, Hum ! say you so r If I should 

Be such a coxcomb to prove valiant now ! 
Cler. I know thou art most valiant. 
La Writ, Do you think so ? 

I am undone for ever, if it prove so ; 

I tell you that, my honest friend, for ever ; 

For I shall ne'er leave quarrelling. 

How long must we fight ? for I cannot stay, 

ISTor will not stay ! I have business. 
Cler. "We'll do it in a minute, in a moment. 
La Writ, Here will I hang my bag then ; it may save my 
belly ; [Hangs his bag before him, 

I never loved cold iron there. 
Cler, Tou do wisely. [quickly ! 

La Writ, Help me to pluck my sword out then ; quickly ; 

It has not seen sun these ten years. 
Cler, How it grumbles ! 

This sword is vengeance angry. 
La Writ, Now I'll put my hat up, 

And say my prayers as I go. Away, boy ! 

If I be kill'd, remember the Little Lawyer ! [Exeunt, 

Scene II. — Another part of the same. 

Enter Beatjpre. 
Beau, They are both come on; that may be a stubborn 

Enter La Writ. 
Take you that ground ; I'll stay here. Fight bravely ! 
La Writ, To 't cheerfully, my boys ! You'll let's have fair 
None of your foining tricks r 1 [p^ a J ? 

Beau. Come forward, monsieur ! 

What hast thou there ? a pudding in thy belly ? 
I shall see what it holds. 
La Writ, Put your spoon home then ! [Fight. 

Nay, since I must fight, have at you without wit, 2 sir ! 

[Beatjpre hits him on the bag, 
G-od-a-mercy, bag ! 

1 Foining triclcs.'] Fencing tricks. To foine was a technical term in 
fencing, for making a pass or push. 

3 Without wit.] In earnest ; — without playing upon words. 


Beau. Nothing but bombast 1 in you ? 

The rogue winks and fights. 

[Beaupre loses his sword ; La "\Yeit treads on it. 
La Writ. Xow your fine fencing, sir ! 

Stand off; thou diest on the point else! I have it, I 

Yet further off ! — I have his sword. [have it ! 

[Calls to Clebemont. 
Cfer. (within.) Then keep it : 

Be sure you keep it ! 
La Writ. I'll put it in my mouth else. 

Stand further off yet, and stand quietly, 

And look another way, or I'll be with you ! 

Is this all ! I'll undertake within these two days 

To furnish any cutler in this kingdom. 
Beau. "What fortune's this ! Disarmed by a puppy ? 

A snail ? a dog ? 
La Writ. Xo more o' these words, gentleman ! 

Sweet gentleman, no more ! Do not provoke me ! 

Go walk i 5 th' horse-fair f whistle, gentleman. — 

What must I do now ? [To Cleeemo^t, entering. 

Enter Glebemoot, pursued by YEEDOifE. 

Cler. Help me ; I am almost breathless. 
La Writ. With all my heart. There's a cold pie for you, 
sir ! [Strikes Clebemont. 

Cler. Thou strik'st me, fool ! 
La Writ. Thou fool, stand further off then. — 

Deliver, deliver ! 

[Strikes up Yeeloxe's heels and takes his sword too. 
Cler. Hold fast. 
La Writ. I never fail in't. 

There's twelve-pence ; go, buy you two leaden daggers ! 

Have I done well ? 
Cler. Most like a gentleman. 
Beau. And we two basely lost ! 

1 Bombast.'] Stuffing ; now called wadding, and padding. Hence its 
metaphorical application to false and tumid writing. 

2 Go walk in the horse-fair •.] I know not what is meant by this, nor 
do the commentators tell me. Perhaps, if it was anything but a whim, 
it was a recommendation to go and study caution. 


Verdone. 'Tis but a fortune. 

We shall yet find an hour. 

[Exeunt Beaupee and Veedone, sad. 
Cler. I shall be glad on't. 
La Writ. Where's my cloak, and my trinkets ? Or will you 

Fight any longer for a crash or two ? 
Cler. I am your noble friend, sir. 
La Writ. It may be so. 

Cler. What honour shall I do you, for this great courtesy ? 
La Writ. All I desire of you is to take 

The quarrel to yourself, and let me hear no more on 't ; 

(I have no liking to 't, — 'tis a foolish matter ;) 

And help me to put up my sword. 
Cler. Most willingly : [j ou - 

But I am bound to gratify you, and I must not leave 
La Writ. I tell you I will not be gratified ; 

ISTor I will hear no more on't. Take the swords too, 

And do not anger me, but leave me quietly. 

For the matter of honour, 'tis at your own disposure ; 

And so, and so [Exit La Writ. 

Cler. This is a most rare lawyer ; 

I am sure, most valiant. — Well, Dinant, as you satisfy 

I say no more. I am loaden like an armourer, [me — 

[Exit with the swords. 


La Weit, in consequence of his success in the duel, is seized with such a 
mad whim of neglecting his business and fighting everybody, that he 
challenges the judge for giving causes against him. 

Scene — A Street. 

Enter Sampson (a foolish Advocate) and Three Clients. 

Samp. I know monsieur La Writ. 
1 Client. 'Would he knew himself, sir ! 
Samp. He was a pretty lawyer, a kind of pretty lawyer, 
Of a kind of unable thing. 

1 Client. He 's blown up, sir. 

2 Client. Run mad, and quarrels with the dog he meets : 

He is no lawyer of this world now. 


Sa?np. Your reason ? 

Is he defunct ? is he dead ? 

2 Client. No, he's not dead yet, sir ; [hours : 

But I would be loth to take a lease on 's life for two 
Alas, he is possess'd, sir, with the spirit of fighting, 

And quarrels with all people ; but how he came to it 

Samp. If he fight well, and like a gentleman, 

The man may fight ; for 'tis a lawful calling. 
Look you, my friends, I am a civil gentleman, 
And my lord my uncle loves me. 

3 Client. We all know it, sir. [ness, 
Samp. I think he does, sir ; I have business too, much busi- 

Turn you some forty or fifty causes in a week : 

Yet, when I get an hour of vacancy, 

I can fight too, my friends ; a little does well ; 

I would be loth to learn to fight. 1 
1 Client. But, an't please you, sir, 

His fighting has neglected all our business ; 

We are undone, our causes cast away, sir ; 

His not-appearance 

Samp. There he fought too long ; [friends : 

A little, and fight well : he fought too long, indeed, 

But, ne'ertheless, things must be as they may, 

And there be ways 

1 Client. We know, sir, if you please — — 

Samp. Something I'll do. Gro, rally up your causes. 

Enter La Writ, in the habit of a gallant, and a Gentleman 

at the door. 

2 Client. Now you may behold, sir, 

And be a witness, whether we lie or no. 
La Writ. I'll meet you at the ordinary, sweet gentlemen, 

No handling any duels before I come ; 

We'll have no going less ; I hate a coward ! 
Gent. There shall be nothing done. 
La Writ. Make all the quarrels 

You can devise before I come, and let's all fight ; 

There's no sport else. 

1 To learn tojight.'] That is to say, — to be still under the necessity of 


Gent. "We'll see what may be done, sir. 

1 Client. Ha ! monsieur La "Writ ! 
La Writ. Baffled in way of business. 

My causes cast away, judgment against us ! 
"Why, there it goes. 

2 Client.* What shall we do the whilst, sir ? 

La Writ. Breed new dissensions ; go hang yourselves ! 

'lis all one to me ; I have a new trade of living. 
1 Client. Do you hear what he says, sir*? 
Samp. The gentleman speaks finely. 
La Writ. Will any of you fight ? Fighting's my occupation. 

If you find yourselves aggrieved 

Samp. A complete gentleman ! 

La Writ. A vaunt, thou buckram budget of petitions ! 

[Throws away his bag of papers. 

Thou spital 1 of lame causes ! — I lament for thee ; 

And, till revenge be taken 

Samp. 'Tis most excellent. 

La Writ. There, every man choose his paper, and his place ; 

I'll answer ye all ; I will neglect no man's business, 

But he shall have satisfaction like a gentleman. 

The judge may do and not do ; he's but a monsieur. 8 
Samp. Tou have nothing of mine in your bag, sir. 
La Writ. I know not, sir ; 

But you may put anything in, any fighting thing. 
Samp. It is sufficient ! you may hear hereafter. 
La Writ. I rest your servant, sir ! 
Samp. No more words, gentlemen, 

But follow me ! no more words, as you loye me, 

The gentleman's a noble gentleman ! 

I shall do what I can, and then 

Clients. We thank you, sir. 

Samp. Not a word to disturb him ; he's a gentleman. 

[Exeunt Sampson and Clients. 
La Writ. No cause go o' my side ? the judge cast all ? 

And, because I was honourably employ'd in action, 

i Spital.'] Hospital. 

2 But a monsieur^ I know not what this means, unless it be that the 
judge is not of a rank above an advocate's challenging. It will be seen 
that he addresses him as " Monsieur yertaigne." 


And not appear'd, pronounce ? 'Tis very well, 
'Tis well, faith ! 'tis well, judge ! 

Enter Cleremont. 

Cler. "Who have we here ? 

My little furious lawyer ! 
La Writ. I say, 'tis well ! 

But mark the end ! 
Cler. How he is metamorphosed ! 

Nothing of lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, 

No soliciting face now ! This is no simple conver- 

Tour servant, sir, and friend ! [sion. 

La Writ. You come in time, sir. 

Cler. The happier man. to be at your command then. 

La Writ. Tou may wonder to see me thus ; but that's all 

Time shall declare. 'Tis true, I was a lawyer, [one ; 

But I have mew'd 1 that coat ; I hate a lawyer ; 

I talk'd much in the court ; now I hate talking. 

I did you the office of a man ? 
Cler. I must confess it. 

La Writ. And budged not ; no, I budged not. 
Cler. No, you did not. 

La Writ. There's it then ; one good turn requires another. 
Cler. Most willing, sir ; I am ready at your service. 
La Writ {gives him a paper). There, read, and under- 
stand, and then deliver it. 
Cler. This is a challenge, sir. 
La Writ. 'Tis very like, sir ; 

I seldom now write sonnets. 
Cler. O, admirantis P 

" To Monsieur Vertaigne, the president/ 1 
La Writ. I choose no fool, sir. 
Cler. Why, he's no swordsman, sir. 
La Writ. Let him learn, let him learn ; 

Time, that trains chickens up, will teach him quickly. 
Cler. Why, he's a judge, an old man ! 

1 Mew'd.'} Cast ; as a bird does its feathers. A term in falconry. 

2 O y admirantis /] 0, of admiring. This, unless part of a passage in 
some Latin psalm or hymn, is probably the beginning of something ha 
a Latin grammar, relative to the use of the interjection or vocative O. 



La Writ. Never too old 

To be a gentleman ; and he that is a judge, 

Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. 

[Points to the scattered papers, 

There are my griefs ; he has cast away my causes, 

In which he has bow'd my reputation: 

And therefore, judge or no judge 

Cler. Pray be ruled, sir ! 

This is the maddest thing 

La Writ. Tou will not carry it ? 

Cler. I do not tell you so ; but, if you may be persuaded- 

La Writ. Tou know how vou used me when I would not 

Cler. The devil's in him. [Aside. 

La Writ. I see it in your eyes, that you dare do it ; 

Tou have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. 
Cler. The least is banishment. 
La Writ. Be banish'd then ; 

'Tis a friend's part. "We'll meet in Africa, 

Or any corner of the earth. 
Cler. Say, he will not fight ? 

La Writ. I know then what to say ; take you no care, sir. 
Cler. Well, I will carry it and deliver it, 

And to-morrow morning meet you in the Louvre ; 

Till when, my service. [Exit. 

La Writ. A judge, or no judge ? no judge. 1 

1 No judge."] La Writ, in this ludicrous summing up, puts it, as it 
were, to a jury, whether his judge is to be considered a judge at all ; and 
pronounces the verdict against him. A more fortunate hemistich for 
the termination of a scene could not be desired by a master of comic 
delivery. One fancies Grarrick going off the stage with it in his mouth, 
and exalting his voice in a tone of triumphant finality — 
" Judge or no judge ? — No judge." 




TJie Britons having defeated the 'Romans in a pitched battle, Bonduca, their 
queen, indulges in a strain of contemptuous triumph, for which she is 
rebuked by her kinsman and general, Caraiach. 1 

Scene, the BritisJi Camp. — Enter Bqnduca, Daughters, 
He^go, Neiottjs, and Soldiers. 

Bond. The " hardy Homans ?" Oh, ye gods of Britain, 
The rust of arms, the blushing shame of soldiers ! 

Enter Cabatach. 

Are these the men that conquer by inheritance ? 
The fortune-makers ? these the Julians, 
That with the sun measure the end. of nature, 
Making the world but one Eome, and one Csesar ? 
Shame, how they flee ! Caesar's soft soul dwells in 'em, 
Their bodies sweat with sweet oils, love's allurements, 
Not lusty arms. Dare they send these to seek us, 
These Eoman girls ? Is Britain grown so wanton ? 
Twice have we beat 'em, Nennius, scatter' d 'em : 
And through their big-boned Germans, on whose pikes 
The honour of their actions sits in triumph, 
Made themes for songs to shame 'em. And a woman ? 
A woman beat 'em, jNTennius ; a weak woman ; 
A woman beat these Romans ! 

Car. So it seems ; 

A man would shame to talk so. 

Bond. Who's that ? 

Car. I. 

Bond. Cousin, do you grieve my fortunes ? 

Car. No, Bonduca ; 

If I grieve, 'tis the bearing of your fortunes : 
Ton put too much wind to your sail ; discretion 
And hardy valour are the twins of honour, 
And, nurs'd together, make a conqueror ; 

1 Caratach.'] Caradoc (the same, it is said, as the modern Cradock), 
the famous British chieftain, best known to English readers under his 
Latinised name, Caractacus. 



Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth, 

That Roine has fled before us twice, and routed - 

A truth we ought to crown the gods for, lady, 

And not our tongues ; a truth is none of ours, 

Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing ; 

For then it leaves to be a virtue, lady, 

And we, that have been victors, beat ourselves, 

When we insult upon our honour's subject. 

Bond. My valiant cousin, is it foul to say 
"What liberty and honour bid us do, 
And what the gods allow us ? 

Car, No, Bonduca ; 

So what we say exceed not what we do. 
You call the Romans fearful, fleeing Romans, 
And Roman girls, the lees of tainted pleasures :"! 
Does this become a doer ? are they such ? 

Bond, Thev are no more. 

Car. Where is your conquest then ? 

Why are your altars crown' d with wreaths of flowers ? 

The beasts with gilt horns waiting for the fire ? 

The holy Druides composing songs 

Of everlasting life to victory ? 

Why are these triumphs, lady ? for a May-game ? 

For hunting a poor herd of wretched Romans ? 

Is it no more ? Shut up your temples, Britons, 

And let the husbandman redeem his heifers ; 

Put out your holy fires ; no timbrel ring ; 

Let's home and sleep ; for such great overthrows 

A candle burns too bright a sacrifice, 

A glow-worm's tail too full of flame. — Oh, Nennius, 

Thou hadst a noble uncle knew a Roman, 

And how to speak him, how to give him weight 

In both his fortunes. 

Bond. By the gods, I think 

You dote upon these Romans, Caratach ! 

Car. Witness these wounds, I do ; they were fairly given. 
And are not all these Roman ? Ten struck battles 
I sucked these honour' d scars from, and all Roman ; 
Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches 
(When many a frozen storm sung through my cuirass, 


And made it doubtful whether that or I 
Were the more stubborn metal) have I wrought through, 
And all to try these Eomans. Ten times a-night 
I have swam the rivers, when the stars of Rome 
Shot at me as I floated, and the billows 
Tumbled their wat'ry ruins on my shoulders, 
Charging my batter' d sides with troops of agues ; 
And still to try these Romans, whom I found 
(And, if I lie, my wounds be henceforth backward, 
And be you witness, gods, and all my dangers) 
As ready, and as full of that I brought 
. ; (Which was not fear, nor flight), as valiant, 
As vigilant, as wise, to do and suffer, 
Ever advanced as forward, as the Britons ; 
Their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours, 
<Aye, and as subtle, lady. 'Tis dishonour, 
And, follow' d, will be impudence, Bonduca, 
And grow to no belief, to taint these Eomans. 
Have not I seen the Britons 

Bond. What? 

Car. Dishearten' d, 

Bun, run, Bonduca ! Not a flight drawn home, 
A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish, 
E'er made that haste that they have. By the gods, 
I have seen these Britons, that you magnify, 
Eun as they would have out-run time, and roaring, 
Basely for mercy roaring ; the light shadows, 
That in a thought scur 1 o'er the fields of corn, 
Halted on crutches to 'em. 

Bond. Oh, ye powers, 

What scandals do I suffer ! 

Car. Yes, Bonduca, 

I have seen thee run too ; and thee, Nennius ; 
Tea, run apace, both ; then, when Penius 
(The Eoman girl !) cut through your armed carts, 
And drove 'em headlong on ye, down the hill : 
Then did I see 

These valiant and approved men of Britain, 
Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy, 
And hoot their fears to one another nightly. 
1 Scur.'] Scouiv 


Nen. And what did you then, Caratach ? 

Car, I fled too, 

But not so fast ; your jewel had been lost then, 

Young Hengo there ; he trasht me, 1 JSTennius : 

For, when your fears out-run him, then stept I, 

And in the head of all the Roman fury 

Took him, and, with my tough belt, to my back 

I buckled him ; behind him my sure shield ; 

And then I follow' d. If I say I fought 

Five times in bringing off this bud of Britain, 

I lie not, JSTennius. Neither had you heard 

Me speak this, or ever seen the child more, 

But that the sun of virtue, Penius, 

Seeing me steer through all these storms of danger, 

My helm still in my hand (my sword), my prow 

Turn'd to my foe (my face), 2 he cried out nobly, 

" Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely ; 

Thy manly sword has ransom' d thee ; grow strong, 

And let me meet thee once again in arms ; 

Then, if thou stand'st, thou'rt mine. 55 I took his offer, 

And here I am to honour him. 

Bond. Oh, cousin, 

From what a flight of honour hast thou check' d me ! 
"What wouldst thou make me, Caratach? 

Ca?\ See, lady, 

The noble use of others in our losses. 

Does this afflict you ? Had the Eomans cried this, 

And, as we have done theirs, sung out these fortunes, 

Sail'd on our base condition, hooted at us, 

Made marks as far as th' earth was ours, to show us 

Nothing but sea could stop our flights, despis'd us, 

And held it equal whether banqueting 

1 Trasht me.'] Restrained ; retarded. " The French, trasher, trasser, 
is to trace ; to put in trace, to confine or restrain in traces. A trash, — 
anything trashed or confined in traces, that it may not pursue too fast, 
rashly ; like an untrained dog." — Richardson's Dictionary. 

2 We are to suppose here that the stage-performer of Caratach, while 
speaking the words "face" and " sword," is "suiting the action to the 
word;" that is to say, putting his hand to his sword, in order to show 
that he means his "helm" by it, and pointedly facing somebody, to 
show that his face means his " prow." 

BO> T DUCA. 103 

Or beating of the Britons were more business, 
It would have gall'd you. 

Bond. Let me think we conquer'd. 

Car, Do ; but so think as we [too] may be conquer'd ; 
And where we have found virtue, though in those 
That came to make us slaves, let's cherish it. 
There's not a blow we gave since Julius landed, 
That was of strength and worth, but, like records, 
The j file to after-ages. Our registers 
The Romans are, for noble deeds of honour ; 
And shall we burn their mentions with upbraidings ? 

Bond. No more; I see myself. Thou hast made me, cousin, 
More than my fortunes durst, for they abus'd me, 
And wound me up so high, I swell' d with glory : 
Thy temperance has cured that tympany, 
And given me health again, — nay, more, discretion. 
Shall we have peace ? for now I love these Bomans. 

Car. Thy love and hate are both unwise ones, lady. 

Bond. Tour reason ? 

Neh. Is not peace the end of arms ? 

Car. jS"ot where the cause implies a general conquest. 
Had we a difference with some petty isle, 
Or with our neighbours, lady, for our land-marks, 
The taking in of some rebellious lord, 
Or making head against commotions, 
After a day of blood, peace might be argued ; 
But where we grapple for the ground we live on, 
The liberty we hold as dear as life, 
The gods we worship, and, next those, our honours, 
And with those swords that know no end of battle, 
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour, 1 
Those minds, that where the day is, claim inheritance, 
Amd where the sun makes ripe the fruits, their harvest; 
And where they march, but measure out more ground 
To add to Borne, and here i' th' bowels on us, 
It must not be. Xo ; as they are our foes, 
And those that must be so until we tire 'em, 

1 Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour.'] That is to say. — 
Those men, vjho> besides themselves, allow no neighbour. The ellipsis 
is common in the old poets, but in this instance is yery harsh. 


Let's use the peace of honour, 1 that's fair dealing, 

But in our hands our swords. That hardy Roman 

That hopes to graft himself into my stock, 

Must first begin his kindred under-ground, 

And be allied in ashes. 
Bond. Caratach, 

As thou hast nobly spoken, shall be done ; 

And Hengo to thy charge I here deliver : 

The Romans shall have worthy wars. 
Car. They shall : 

And, little sir, when your young bones grow stiffer, 

And when I see you able in a morning 

To beat a dozen boys, and then to breakfast, 

I'll tie you to a sword. 
Hengo. And what then, uncle ? 
Car. Then you must kill, sir, the next valiant Roman 

That calls you knave. 
Hengo. And must I kill but one ? 
Car. An hundred, boy, I hope. 
Hengo. I hope five hundred. 
Car. That is a noble boy ! — Come, worthy lady, 

Let's to our several charges, and henceforth 

Allow an enemy both weight and worth. 



Fenius, one of the Roman captains, despairing of the success of a remnant 
of his countrymen against a countless host of Britons, is confirmed in his 
determination not to bring up his regiment to the fight, by a message from 
the general which piques his dignity. 

Scene — The Roman Camp, with the Tent of 1*311$ m$. 

Enter Pekius, Regulus, Macer, and Drusius. 

Pen. I must come ? 

Macer. So the general commands, sir. 

Pen. I must bring up my regiment ? 

1 Let's use the peace of honour 7\ The passage is obscurely worded, but 
means, — Let us so far, and so far only, be peaceful as becomes our 
honour ; that is to say, let us give them the benefit of fair dealing, but 
nothing more ; since the only ends which can satisfy nations whose in- 
dependence is threatened, must be secured by the sword. 


Placer. Believe, sir, 

I bring no lie. 
Pen. But did he say, I must come ? 
Macer. So deliver' d. 
Pe^. How long is't, Begulus, since I commanded 

In Britain here ? 
Reg. About five years, great Penius. 
Pen. The general some five months. Are all my actions 

So poor and lost, my services so barren, 

That I'm remember' d in no nobler language 

But must come up ? 
Macer. I do beseech you, sir, 

Weigh but the time's estate. 
Pen. Yes. good lieutenant, 

I do, and his that sways it. Must come up ? 

Am I turn'd bare centurion ? Must, and shall, 

Fit embassies to court my honour ? 
Macer. Sir— 
Pen. Set me to lead a handful of my men 

Against an hundred thousand barbarous slaves, [doers ? 

That have march'd name by name with Home's best 

Serve 'em up some other meat. I'll bring no food 

To stop the jaws of all those hungry wolves ; 

My regiment's mine own. I must, my language ? 

Enter Cueiiis. 

Cur. Penius, where lies the host ? 

Pen. Where Pate may find 'em. 

Cur. Are they ingirt ? 

Pen. The battle's lost. 

Cur. So soon ? 

Pen. ]STo ; but 'tis lost, because it must be won; 

The Britons must be victors. "Whoe'er saw 

A troop of bloody vultures hovering 

About a few corrupted carcases, 

Let hirn behold the silly Roman host, 

Girded with millions of fierce Britain swains, 

With deaths as many as they have had hopes ; 

And then go thither, he that loves his shame ! 

I scorn my life, yet dare not lose my name. 


Cur. Do not you hold it a most famous end, 

When both our names and lives are sacrificed 
Bor Eome's increase ? 
Pen. Yes, Curius ; but mark this too : 

What glory is there, or what lasting fame 
Can be to Borne or us, what full example, 
"When one is smother' d with a multitude, 
And crowded in amongst a nameless press ? 
Honour, got out of flint, and on their heads 
Whose virtues, like the sun, exhaled all valours, 
Must not be lost in mists and fogs of people, 
Voteless and not of name, but rude and naked: 
Nor can Borne task us with impossibilities, 
Or bid us fight against a flood. We serve her, 
That she may proudly say she has good soldiers, 
Not slaves to choke all hazards. Who but fools, 
That make no difference betwixt certain dying, 
And dying well, would fling their fames and for- 
Into this Britain gulf, this quicksand ruin, 
That, sinking, swallows us ? what noble hand 
Can find a subject fit for blood there ? or what sword 
Boom for his execution ? what air to cool us, 
But poison' d with their blasting breaths and curses, 
Where we lie buried quick above the ground, 
And are with labouring sweat, and breathless pain, 
Kill'd like to slaves, and cannot kill again ? 

Drus. Penius, mark ancient v\ ars, and know that then 
A captain weigh' d an hundred thousand men. 

Pen. Drusius, mark ancient wisdom, and you'll find then, 
He gave the overthrow that saved his men. 
I must not go. 

Reg. The soldiers are desirous, 

Their eagles all drawn out, sir. 

Pen. Who drew up, Begulus ? [this ? 

Ha, speak! did you? whose bold will durst attempt 
Drawn out? why, who commands, sir? on whose 

Durst they advance ? 

Reg. I keep mine own obedience. 


Drus. 'Tis like, 1 the general cause, their love of honour, 

Relieving of their wants 

Pen. "Without my knowledge? 

Am I no more ? my place but at their pleasures ? 

Come, who did this ? 
Drus. By Heaven, sir, I am ignorant. 

[Drum softly within, then enter Soldiers with drum 

and colours. 
Pen. What ! am I grown a shadow ? — Hark ! they march. 

I'll know, and will be myself. — Stand ! Disobedience ? 

He that advances one foot higher, dies for't. 

Run through the regiment, upon your duties, 

And charge 'em on command, beat back again; 

By Heaven, I'll tithe 'em all else ! 2 
Reg. We'll do our best. [Exeunt Dettsxus and Regtjlus. 
Pen. Back ! cease your bawling drums there, 

I'll beat the tubs about vour brains else. Back ! 

_ »/ 

Do I speak with less fear than thunder to ye ? 
Must I stand to beseech ye ? Home, home 1 — Ha ! 
Do ye stare upon me P Are those minds I moulded, 
Those honest valiant tempers I was proud 
To be a fellow to, those great discretions [fires ? 

Made your names fear'd and honour' d, turn'd to wild- 
Ob. ! gods, to disobedience ? Command, farewell ! 
And be ye witness with me, all things sacred, 

1 have no share in these men's shames! March, soldiers, 
And seek your own sad ruins ; your old Penius 
Dares not behold your murders. 

1 Sold. Captain ! 

2 Sold. Captain ! 

8 Sold. Dear, honour' d captain ! 

Pen. Too, too dear-loved soldiers 

(Which made ye weary of me, and Heaven yet knows, 
Though in your mutinies I dare not hate you), 
Take your own wills. 'Tis fit your long experience 
Should now know how to rule yourselves ; I wrong ye 
In wishing ye to save your lives and credits ; 
To keep your necks whole from the axe hangs o'er ye : 

1 'Tls liker] 'Tis likely; probable. 

2 Tithe 'em all else.'] Decimate theni ; kill every tenth man. 


Alas ! I much dishonour'd ye ; go, seek the Britons, 

And say ye come to glut their sacrifices ; 

But do not say I sent ye. "What ye have been, 

How excellent in all parts, good and govern 5 d, 

Is only left of my command, for story ; 

What now ye are, for pity. Pare ye well ! [Going. 

Enter Dbtjsitts and Begot/us. 

Drus. Oh, turn again, great Penius ! see the soldier 
In all points apt for duty. 

Reg. See his sorrow 

Por his disobedience, which he says was haste, 

And haste, he thought, to please you with. See, captain, 

The toughness of his courage turn'd to water ; 

See how his manly heart melts. 

Pen. G-o ; beat homeward ; 

There learn to eat your little with obedience ; 
And henceforth strive to do as I direct ye. 

[Exeunt Soldiers. 

Macer. My answer, sir. 

Pen. Tell the great general, 

My companies are no faggots to fill breaches : 

Myself no man that must or shall can carry : 

Bid him be wise, and where he is, he's safe then ; 

And when he finds out possibilities, 

He may command me. Commend me to the captains. 

Macer. All this I shall deliver. 

Pen. Parewell, Macer ! [Exit. 

Cur. Pray gods this breed no mischief! 

Reg. It must needs, 

If stout Suetonius win ; for then his anger, 
Besides the soldiers' loss of due and honour, 
Will break together on him. 

Drus. He's a brave fellow ; 

And but a little hide his haughtiness 

(Which is but sometimes neither, on some causes), 1 

He shows the worthiest Boman this day living.^ 

1 Which is hut sometimes neither, on some causes,~] And even that but 
occasional, and for special reasons ? 

B0NDT7CA. 109 

Tou may, good Curius, to the general 

Make all things seem the best 
Cur* I shall endeavour. 

Pray for our fortunes, gentlemen ; if we fail, 

This one farewell serves for a funeral. 

The gods make sharp our swords, and steel our hearts ! 
Reg. We dare, alas ! but cannot fight our parts. [Exeunt. 


Suetonius, the Roman General, harangues his officers before battle. 

Suetonius, Petillius, Junius, Cueius, Decius, 
Demeteius, and Macee. 

Suet. Draw out apace ; the enemy waits for us. 
Are ye all ready ? 

Junius. All our troops attend, sir. 

Suet. G-entlemen, 

To bid you fight is needless ; ye are Eomans ; 

The name will fight itself: — to tell ye who 

You go to fight against, his power and nature, 

But loss of time ; ye know it, know it poor, 

And oft have made it so. To tell ye further, 

His body shows more dreadful than it has done, 

To him, that fears, less possible to deal with, 

Is but to stick more honour on your actions, 

Load ye with virtuous names, and to your memories 

Tie never-dying Time and Fortune constant. 

Gro on in full assurance ! draw your swords 

As daring and as confident as justice ; 

The gods of Some fight for ye ; loud Fame calls ye, 

Pitch' d on the topless Apennine, and blows 

To all the under-world, all nations, [dwells ; 

The seas and unfrequented deserts, where the snow 

Wakens the ruin'd monuments ; and there, 

Where nothing but eternal death and sleep is, 

Informs again the dead bones with your virtues. 1 

: The gods of Rome, §>c.'] Mr. Seward, in the preface to his edition 
of Beaumont and Fletcher, quotes this passage as a sample of noble 
imagery. Lord Karnes, in his Elements of Criticism, in which he refers 
but twice to Beaumont and Fletcher, and both times in condemnation 
(so entirely did his lordship confine his eulogies to writers in fashion), 


Go on, I say. Valiant and wise rule Heaven, 
And all the great aspects attend 'em, Do but blow 
Upon this enemy, who, but that we want foes, 
Cannot deserve that name ; and like a mist, 
A lazy fog, before your burning valours 
You'll find him fly to nothing. This is all, 
"We have swords, and are the sons of ancient Romans, 
. Heirs to their endless valours ; fight and conquer ! 

Bee, Bern. "lis done. 

Pet. That man that loves not this day, 

And hugs not in his arms the noble danger, 
May he die fameless and forgot ! 

Suet. Sufficient ! 

Up to your troops, and let your drums beat thunder ; 
March close and sudden, like a tempest : all executions 

Done without sparkling of the body; keep your phalanx 
Sure lined, and piec'd together, your pikes forward, 
And so march like a moving fort. Ere this day run 
"We shall have ground to add to Eome, well won. 



Penius has the mortification of seeing his melancholy presentiments refuted. 

Scene — Near the Field of Battle. In the background the 
Tent of Penius, with a platform. 

Enter DExrsrcjs and Penius above. 

Brus. Here you may see them, all, sir ; from this hill 

The country shows off level. 
Pen. Gods defend me, 

"What multitudes they are, what infinites ! 

The Roman power shows like a little star 

Hedged with a double halo. — Now the knell rings : 

[Loud shouts. 

Hark, how they shout to the battle ! how the air 

quotes it as an instance of the false sublime. I confess it appears to me 
to possess the right imaginative warrant of enthusiasm, and to express a 
true sense of the world-wide greatness and victoriousness of Kome. 


Totters and reels, and rends a-pieces, Drusius, 

With the huge-vollied clamours ! 
Drus. ISTow they charge 

(Oh, gods !) of all sides fearfully. 
Pen. Little Borne, 

Stand but this growing Hydra one short hour ? 

And thou hast out-done Hercules ! 
Drus. The dust hides 'em ; 

We cannot see what follows. 
Pen. They are gone, 

Gone, swallow' d, Drusius ; this eternal sun 

Shall never see 'em march more. 
Drus. Oh, turn this way, 

And see a model of the field ! some forty, 

Against four hundred ! 
Pen. Well fought, bravely followed ! 

Oh, nobly charged again, charged home too ! Drusius, 

They seem to carry it. jSTow they charge all ; 

[Loud shouts. 

Close, close, I say ! they follow it. Te gods, 

Can there be more in men ? more daring spirits ? 

Still they make good their fortunes. Xow they are 
gone too, 

For ever gone ! see, Drusius, at their backs 

A fearful ambush rises. Farewell, valours, 

Excellent valours ! oh, Koine, where' s thy wisdom ? 
Drus. They are gone indeed, sir. 
Pen. Look out toward the army ; 

I am heavy with these slaughters. 
Drus, 'Tis the same still, 

Cover' d with dust and fury. 
\_The Scene is diverted, for a few minutes, to some other 
persons ; during which time Penius stands lost in thought, 
while Drusius continues looking out on the battle. At 
length the latter exclaims — ] 

Awake, sir ; — yet the Roman body J s whole : 

I see 'em clear asrain. 
Pen. "Whole ? 'tis not possible ; 

Drusius, they must be lost. 
Drus. By Heaven, they are whole, sir, 


And in brave doing ; see, they wheel about 
.To gain more ground. 
Pen. But see there, Drusius, see, 

See that huge battle moving from the mountains ! 
Their gilt coats shine like dragons' scales, their march 
Like a rough tumbling storm ; see 'em, and view 'em, 
And then see Eome no more. Say they fail, look, 
Look where the armed carts stand ; a new army ! 
Look how they hang like falling rocks, as murdering ! 
Death rides in triumph, Drusius, fell Destruction 
Lashes his fiery horse, and round about him 
His many thousand ways to let out souls. 1 
Move me again when they charge, when the mountain 
Melts under their hot wheels, and from their ax'trees 
Huge claps of thunder plough the ground before 'em ! 
Till then, I'll dream what Eome was. 

Enter Suetonius, Petillius, Demeteius, Macer, and 


Suet. Oh, bravely fought ! 

Honour till now ne'er show'd her golden face 
I' the field. Like lions, gentlemen, you have held 
Tour heads up this day. Where's young Junius 
Curius, and Decius ? 

Pet. Gone to heaven, I think, sir. 

Suet. Their worths go with 'em ! Breathe a while. How 
do ye ? 

Pet. Well ; some few scurvy wounds ; my heart 's whole yet. 

Bern. 'Would they would give us more ground ! 

Suet. Grive ? we'll have it. 

Pet. Have it ? and hold it too, despite the devil. 

Enter Junius, Decius, and Curius. 

Jun. Lead up to th' head, and line sure ! The queen's battle 
Begins to charge like wildfire. Where's the general ? 
Suet. Oh, they are living yet. — Come, my brave soldiers, 

1 His many thousand ways to let out souls.'] Must we read has for Ms ?. 
or does the poet mean, that Death lashes forward, not only his horse, 
but his many thousand modes, or instruments, of slaughter ? In either 
case, a fine thought is ill- worded ; in the one tamely, in the other un- 


Come, let ine pour Eoine's blessing on ye. Live, 

Live, and lead armies all ! Ye bleed hard. 
Jum Best; 

We shall appear the sterner to the foe. 
Dec. More wounds, more honour. 
Pet. Lose no time. 
Suet. Away then ; 

And stand this shock, ye have stood the world, 

Enter Bonditca, Cabatach, Daughters, Neistnttjs, and 


Car. Charge 'em i' th' flanks ! Oh, you have play'd the fool, 

The fool extremely, the mad fool ! 
Bond. "Why, cousin ? 
Car. The woman fool ! Why did you give the word 

Unto the carts to charge down, and our people 

In gross before the enemy ? We pay for 't ; 

Our own swords cut our throats ! 

Why do you offer to command ? The devil, 

The devil, and his dam too ! who bid you 

Meddle in men's affairs ? 
Bond. I'll help all. [Exeunt all hut Cabatach. 

Car. Home, 

Home and spin, woman, spin, go spin ! you trifle. 

Open before there, or all 's ruin'd ! — How ? 

[Shouts within* 

Now comes the tempest on ourselves, by Heaven ! 
Within. Victoria! 

Car. Oh, woman, scurvy woman, beastly woman ! [Exit. 
Drus. Victoria, victoria ! 
Pen. How's that, Drusius? 

Drus. They win, they win, they win! Oh, look, look, 
look, sir, 

For Heaven's sake, look! The Britons fly, the Britons 
fly ! Victoria ! 

Enter Suetonius, Soldiers, and Captains. 

Suet. Soft, soft, pursue it soft, excellent soldiers ! 
Close, my brave fellows, honourable Romans ! 
Oh, cool thy mettle, Junius ; they are ours, 



The world cannot redeem 'em : stern Petillius, 
Govern the conquest nobly. Soft, good soldiers ! 


Enter Bokduca, Daughters, and Britons flying. 

Bond. Shame ! whither fly ye, ye unlucky Britons ! 

Hares, fearful hares, doves in your angers ! leave me ? 
Leave your queen desolate ? 

Enter Caeatach and Hengq. 
Car. My, ye buzzards ! 

Te have wings enough, ye fear ! Get thee gone, woman, 

[Loud shout within. 
Shame tread upon thy heels! All's lost, all's lost! 
Hark how the Romans ring our knells ! [Hark, 

[Exeunt Bondtjca, Daughters, fyc. 
Hengo. Good uncle, 
Let me go too. 
Car. No, boy ; thy fortune *s mine ; 

I must not leave thee. Get behind me ; shake not ; 
I'll scourge you, if you do, boy. 

Enter Petillius, Junius, and Decitjs. 

Come, brave Eomans ! 

All is not lost yet. 
Jun. Now I'll thank thee, Caratach. [Fight. Drums. 

Car. Thou art a soldier ; strike home, home ! Have at you ! 
Pen. His blows fall like huge sledges on an anvil. 
Dec. I am weary. 
Pet. So am I. 

Car. Send more swords to me. [Exeunt Britons unpursued. 
Jun. Let 's sit and rest. [They sit down. 

Drus. "What think you now ? 
Pen. Oh, Drusius, 

I have lost mine honour, lost my name, 

Lost all that was my light. These are true Romans, 

And I a Briton coward, a base coward ! 

Guide me where nothing is but desolation, 

That I may never more behold the face 

Of man, or mankind know me ! Oh, blind Fortune, 

Hast thou abus'd me thus ? 

BOlSDirCA. 115 

Drus. Good sir, be comforted ; 

It was your wisdom rul'd you. Pray you go home ; 
Tour day is yet to come, when this great fortune 
Shall be but foil unto it. [Retreat. 

Pen. Tool, fool, coward ! 

[Exeunt Pe:stt;s, and Deesixs into the Tent. 

Enter Suetonius, Demeteies, Soldiers, drum and colours. 

Suet. Draw in, draw in ! — Well have you fought, and worthy 
Eome's noble recompense. Look to your wounds ; 
The ground is cold and hurtful. The proud queen 
Has got a fort, and there she and her daughters 
Defy us once again. To-morrow morning 
We'll seek her out, and make her know, our fortunes 
Stop at no stubborn walls. — Come, sons of Honour, 
True Virtue's heirs, thus hatch' d 1 with Britain blood 
Let's march to rest, and set in gules like suns. 
Beat a soft march, and each one ease his neighbours ! 2 



The child Hengo^ while carried away on his uncle's back, talks with him of 


Caratach. How does my boy ? 

Hengo. I would do well : my head 's well : 
I do not fear. 

Car. My good boy ! 

Hen. I know, uncle, 

"We must all die : my little brother died, 
I saw him die ; and he died smiling. Sure, 
There's no great pain in 't, uncle. But pray tell me, 
Whither must we go, when we are dead ? 

Car. (aside). Strange questions ! 

Why, to the blessed' st place, boy! ever sweetness 
And happiness dwells there. 

Hen, Will you come to me ? 

Car. Tes, my sweet boy. 

1 Hatcti d with Britain blood.~] Adorned; coloured like the heraldic 
shield called an atchievement, or hatchment. The image is finely kept up 
in the ensuing line — "set in gules like suns." 

2 Ease his neighbours.'] March loosely ? at easy distance from one 
another ? 


Hen. Mine aunt too, and my cousins ? 

Car. All, my good child. 

Hen. No Romans, uncle ? 

Car. jSTo, boy. 

Hen. I should be loath to meet them there. 

Car. ]STo ill men 

That live by violence and strong oppression 

Come thither. 'Tis for those the gods love ; good ones. 
Hen. "Why then I care not when I go, for surely 

I am persuaded they love me. I never 

Blasphem'd 'em, uncle, nor transgress'd my parents ; 

I always said my prayers. 
Car. Thou shalt go then ; 

Indeed thou shalt. 
Hen. "When they please. 
Car. That *s my good boy. 

Art thou not weary, Hengo ? 
Hen. "Weary, uncle ? 

I've heard you say you've march' d all day in armour. 
Car. I have, boy. 
Hen. Am I not your kinsman ? 
Car. Yes. 
Hen. And am I not as fully allied to you 

In those rare things as blood ? 
Car. Thou art too tender. 
Hen. To go upon my legs ? they were made to bear me. 

I can play twenty mile a day : I see n© reason 

But, to preserve my country and myself, 

I should march forty. 
Car. "What would' st thou be, living 

To wear a man's strength ? 
Hen. "Why, a Caratach, 

A Eoman-hater, a scourge sent from Heaven [Hark ! 

To whip these proud thieves from our kingdom, — 

Hark, uncle, hark! I hear a drum. 

Enter Judas (a Roman Corporal), with other Soldiers, and 
remains at the side of the stage. 

Judas. Beat softly. 

Softly, I say. They 're here. "Who dare charge ? 


1st Soldier. He [near him. 

That dares be knock' d o' the head. I'll not come 
Jud. Retire again, and watch then. How he stares ! 

H' has eyes would kill a dragon. Mark the boy well ; 

If we could take or kill him — A [plague] on you, 

How fierce you look ! See, how he broods the boy ! 

The devil dwells in 's scabbard. Back, I say, 

Apace, apace ! h' has found us. [Exit with Soldiers. 
Car. Do ye hunt us ? 
Men. Uncle, good uncle, see ! the thin starv'd rascal, 

The eating Roman ; see where he thrids the thickets ! 

Kill him, dear uncle, kill him. 
Car. Do ye make us foxes r — 

Here, hold my charging- staff, and keep the place, boy : 

I am at bay, and like a bull I'll bear me. 

Stand, stand, ye rogues, ye squirrels ! [Exit* 

Hen. Now he pays 'em : 

Oh, that I had a man's strength ! 

He-enter Jtjdas. 
Jud. Here's the boy; 

Mine own, I thank my fortune. 
Hen. (calling out for CaratacK). Uncle, uncle! 

Famine is faH'n upon me, uncle. 1 
Jud. Come, sir ; 

Yield willingly : your uncle 's out of hearing. 
Hen. Thou mock-made man of mat ! Charge home, sirrah ! 

Hang thee, base slave ; thou shak'st ! 
Jud. Upon my conscience, 

The boy will beat me ! Yield, or I cut thy head off. 
Hen. Thou dar'st not cut my finger. Here 'tis. Touch it 
Jud. The boy speaks sword and buckler. — Pr'ythee yield,boy. 

Come ; here 's an apple. Yield. 
Sen. By Heaven, he fears me ! 

I'll give you sharper language. — "When, you coward, 

"When come you up ? 

Jud. If he should beat me 

Sen. "When, sir ? 

I long to kill thee. Come ; thou canst not 'scape me: 

1 Famine, §*c.~] The little hero jests upon the starved look of his eneiry. 


I've twenty ways to charge thee. Twenty deaths 

Attend my bloody staff. 
Jud. Sure, 'tis the devil ; 

A dwarf-devil in a doublet ! 
Sen. I have killed a captain, sirrah, a brave captain, 

And when I have done, I have kick'd him ; — thus ; — look 

See how I charge this staff. [here ; 

Jud. Most certain, 

This boy will cut my throat yet. 

Re- enter Two Soldiers running. 

1st Soldier. Flee, flee ! he kills us ! 
2nd Soldier. He comes ! he comes ! 
Jud. The devil take the hindmost. 

[Exeunt Judas and Soldiers. 
Sen. Run, run, ye rogues, ye precious rogues, ye rank 
rogues ! 

A'comes, a' comes, a'comes, a'comes! That's he, boys 

"What a brave cry they make ! 
Car. How does my chicken ? 
Sen. Faith, uncle, grown a soldier, a great soldier : 

For by the virtue of your charging- staff, 

And a strange fighting face I put upon 't, 

I've out-brav'd Hunger ! 
Car. That 's my boy, my sweet boy ! 

Here ; here 's a Roman's head for thee. 
Sen. Good provision. 

Before I starve, my sweet-faced gentleman, 

I'll try your favour. 
Car. A right complete soldier ! 

Come, chicken ; let's go seek some place of strength 

(The country 's full of scouts) to rest awhile in ; 

Thou wilt not else be able to endure 

The journey to my country. Fruits and water 

Must be your food awhile, boy. 
Sen. Anything ; 

I can eat moss ; nay, I can live on anger, 

To vex these Romans. Let's be wary, uncle. 
Car. I warrant thee. Come cheerfully. 
Sen. And boldly. [Exeunt. 

B0NDUCA. 110 


Penius cannot endure the mortifying consequences of his refusal to join 

the fight. 

Scene— The Tent of Penius. 
Enter Penius, Drusius, and Eegulus. 

Reg. The soldier shall not grieve you. 

Pen. Pray ye, forsake me ; 

Look not upon me, as ye love your honours ! 
I am so cold a coward, my infection 
Will choke your virtues like a damp else. 

Drus. Dear captain ! 

Reg. Most honoured sir ! 

Pen. Most hated, most abhorr'd! 

Say so, and then ye know me ; nay, ye please me. 
Oh, my dear credit, my dear credit ! 

Reg. Sure 

His mind is dangerous. 

Drus. The good gods cure it ! [breaches, 

Pen. My honour, got through fire, through stubborn 
Through battles that have been as hard to win as heaven, 
Through Death himself, in all his horrid trims, 
Is gone for ever, ever, ever, gentlemen ! 
And now I am left to scornful tales and laughters, 
To hootings at, pointing with fingers, " That's he, 
That's the brave gentleman forsook the battle, 
The most wise Penius, the disputing coward. ' 
Oh, my good sword, break from my side, and kill me ; 
Cut out the coward from my heart ! 

Reg. You are none. 

Pen. He lies that says so ; by Heaven, he lies, lies basely, 
Baser than I have done ! Come, soldiers, seek me ; 
I have robb'd ye of your virtues ! Justice seek me ; 
I have broke my fair obedience ! lost ! Shame take me, 
Take me, and swallow me, make ballads of me, 
Shame, endless shame ! and pray do you forsake me ! 

Br us. "What shall we do ? 

Pen. Good gentlemen, forsake me ; [do it, 

Tou were not wont to be commanded. Friends, pray 

120 BOtfDTJCA. 

And do not fear ; for, as I am a coward, 

I will not hurt myself (when that mind takes me, 

I'll call to you, and ask your help), I dare not. 

[Throws himself upon the ground. 

Enter Petillius. 

Pet. G-ood-morrow, gentlemen ! Where's the tribune ? 

Reg. There. 

Drus. "Whence come you, good Petillius ? 

Pet. Prom the general. 

Br us. With what, for Heaven's sake ? 

Pet. With good counsel, Drusius, 
And love, to comfort him. 

Drus. G-ood Eegulus, 

Step to the soldier and allay his anger ; 
Por he is wild as winter. 

[Exeunt Deusius and Beotltts. 

Pet. Oh, are you there ? have at you ! — Sure he's dead, 

[Half aside. 
It cannot be he dare outlive this fortune ; 
He must die ; 'tis most necessary ; men expect it, 
And thought of life in him goes beyond coward, 
Porsake the field so basely ? Py upon't ! 
So poorly to betray his worth ? So coldly 
To cut all credit from the soldier ? Sure 
If this man mean to live (as I should think it 
Beyond belief), he must retire where never 
The name of Borne, the voice of arms, or honour, 
Was known or heard of yet. He's certain dead, 
Or strongly means it ; he's no soldier else, 
No Soman in him ; all he has done but outside, 
Pought either drunk or desperate. Now he rises. — 
How does lord Penius ? 

Pen* As you see. 

Pet. I am glad on't ! 

Continue so still. The lord general, 
The valiant general, great Suetonius 

Pen. No more of me is spoken ; my name's perish'd. 

Pet. He that commanded fortune and the day, 
By his own, valour and discretion 


(When, as some say, Penius refus'd to come, 
But I believe 'em not), sent me to see you. 

Pen. Ye are welcome ; and pray see me, see me well ; 
You shall not see me long. 

Pet. I hope so, Penius. — [Aside. 

The gods defend, sir ! 

Pen. See me and understand me. This is he, 
Left to fill up your triumph ; he that basely 
"Whistled his honour off to th' wind ; that coldly 
Shrunk in his politic head, when Home, like reapers, 
Sweat blood and spirit for a glorious harvest, 
And bound it up, and brought it off; that fool, 
That having gold and copper offered him, 
Refused the wealth, and took the waste ; that soldier, 
That being courted by loud Fame and Fortune, 
Labour in one hand that propounds us gods, 
And in the other Grlory that creates us, 
Yet durst doubt and be damn'd ! 

Pet. It was an error. 

Pen. A foul one, and a black one. 

Pet. Yet the blackest 

May be washed white again. 

Pen. Never. 

Pet. Your leave, sir ; 

And I beseech you note me, for I love you, 
And bring along all comfort. Are we gods, 
Allied to no infirmities ? are our natures 
More than men's natures ? When we slip a little 
Out of the way of virtue, are we lost ? 
Is there no medicine called sweet mercy ? 

Pen. JSTone, Petiilius ; 

There is no mercy in mankind can reach me, 
Nor is it fit it should ; I have sinned beyond it. 

Pet. Forgiveness meets with all faults. 

Pen. 'Tis all faults, 

All sins I can commit, to be forgiven ; 

'Tis loss of whole man in me, my discretion, 

To be so stupid to arrive at pardon ! 

Pet. Oh, but the general 

Pen. He is a brave gentleman, 


A valiant, and a loving ; and I dare say 

He would, as far as honour durst direct him, 

Make even with my fault ; but 'tis not honest, 

~Nor in his power. Examples that may nourish 

Neglect and disobedience in whole bodies, 

And totter the estates and faiths of armies, 

Must not be play'd withal ; nor out of pity 

Make [such] a general forget his duty ; 

Nor dare I hope more from him than is worthy. 

Pet. What would you do ? 

Pen. Die. 

Pet. So would sullen children, 

"Women that want their wills, slaves disobedient, 
That fear the law. Die ? Iy, great captain ! you 
A man to rule men, to have thousand lives 
Under your regiment, and let your passion 
Betray your reason ? I bring you all forgiveness. 

Pen. Pr'ythee no more ; 'tis foolish. Didst not thou 
(By Heaven, thou didst ; I overheard thee, there, 
There where thou stand' st now) deliver me for rascal, 

A/ Poor, dead, cold, cowar, miserable, wretched, 

/ If I out-lived this ruin r 

'Pet. I ? 

Pen. And thou didst it nobly, 

Like a true man, a soldier ; and I thank thee, 
I thank thee, good Petillius, thus I thank thee ! 

Pet. Since you are so justly made up, let me tell you, 
'Tis fit you die indeed. 

Pen. Oh, how thou lovest me ! 

Pet. Por say he had forgiven you, say the people's whispers 
Were tame again, the time run out for wonder, 
What must your own command think, from whose swords 
Tou have taken off the edges, from whose valours 
The due and recompense of arms ; nay, made it doubtful 
Whether they knew obedience ? must not these kill you? 
Say they are won to pardon you, by mere miracle 
Brought to forgive you, what old valiant soldier, 
What man that loves to fight, and fight for Borne, 
Will ever follow you more ? Dare you know these 
If so, I bring you comfort; dare you take it ? [ventures ? 

BOiJDUCA. 123 

Pen. No, no, Pctillius, no. 
Pet. If your mind serve you, 

You may live still ; but how ? — yet pardon me : 
You may out-wear all too ; — but when ? — and certain 

There is a mercy for each fault, if tamely 

A man will tak't upon conditions. 
Pen. No, by no means : I am only thinking now, sir 

(lor I am resolved to go), of a most base death, 

Fitting the baseness of wj fault. I'll hang. 
Pet. You shall not ; you're a gentleman I honour, 

I would else natter you, and force you live, 

"Which is far baser. Hanging ! 'tis a dog's death, 

An end for slaves. 
Pen. The fitter for my baseness. 
Pet. Besides, the man that's hang'd preaches his end, 

And sits a sign for all the world to gape at. 
Pen. That's true ; I'll take a fitter ; poison. 
Pet. No; 

'Tis equal ill ; the death of rats and women, 

Lovers, and lazy boys, that fear correction ; 

Die like a man. 
Pen. Why, my sword, then. 
Pet. Ay, if your sword be sharp, sir. 

There's nothing under Heaven that's like your sword ; 

Your sword's a death indeed ! 
Pen. It shall be sharp, sir. 
Pet. Why, Mithridates was an arrant ass 

To die by poison, 1 if all Bosphorus 

Could lend him swords. Your sword must do the deed 

'Tis shame to die chok'd, fame to die and bleed. 
Pen. Thou hast confirm'd me; and, my good Petillius, 

Tell me no more I may live. 

1 Mithridates was an arrant ass 
To die by poison, fyc.~\ Some commentators have charged this 
passage with inadvertency ; since Mithridates did not actually die by 
poison, though he had studied that mode of death, and preferred it. 
But the passage does not of necessity imply that Mithridates died by 
poison. Facts are every day assumed hypothetically, in common 
discourse. Mithridates contemplated dying by poison, " Well," says 
a converser on the subject, " he was a fool to die by poison, when he 
had so many swords to recur to." 

124 BOtfDUCA. 

Pet. 'Twas my commission ; 

But now I see you in a nobler way, 
A way to make all even. 

Pen. Pare well, captain ! 

Be a good man, and fight well ; be obedient ; 
Command thyself, and then thy men. Why sliak'st 

Pet. I do not, sir. [thou ? 

Pen. I would thou hadst, Petillius ! 

I would find something to forsake the world with, 
"Worthy the man that dies ; a kind of earthquake 
Through all stern valours but mine own. 

Pet. I feel now 

A kind of trembling in me. 

Pen. Keep it still ; 

As thou lov'st virtue, keep it. 

Pet. And, brave captain, 

The great and honour' d Penius ! 

Pen. That again ! 

Oh, how it heightens me ! again, Petillius ! 

Pet. Most excellent commander 

Pen. Those were mine ! 
Mine, only mine ! 

Pet. They are still. 

Pen. Then, to keep 'em 

Por ever falling more, have at ye ! — Heavens, 

Te everlasting powers, I am yours : 

The work is done, \_Falls upon his sword. 

That neither fire, nor age, nor melting envy, 

Shall ever conquer. Carry my last words 

To the great general : kiss his hands, and say, 

My soul I give to Heaven, my fault to justice, 

"Which I have done upon myself; my virtue, 

If ever there was any in poor Penius, 

Made more, and happier, light on him ! -—I faint — 

And where there is a foe, I wish him fortune. 

I die : lie lightly on my ashes, gentle earth ! [Dies. 

Pet. And on my sin I 1 Parewell, great Penius ! — 

1 My sinJ] Petillius had at one time felt the same doubts of victory 
as Penius. Or did he mean, by sin, his having doubted the latter' s 
courage ? 


The soldier is in fury ; now I am glad [Noise within. 

'Tis done before lie comes. This way for me, 

The way of toil ; — for thee, the way of honour ! [Exit. 

Drusius, Begttltjs, and Soldiers are heard without. 

Sold. Kill him, kill him, kill him! 

Brus. "What will ye do ? 

Reg. G-ood soldiers, honest soldiers 

Sold. Kill him, kill him, kill him ! 

Dries. Kill us first : we command too. 

Reg. Valiant soldiers, 

Consider but whose life ye seek. — Oh, Drusius, 

Bid him be gone ; he dies else. — [Drusius enters. 

—Shall Borne say, 
Te most approved soldiers, her dear children 
Devour' d the fathers of the fights ? shall rage 
And stubborn fury guide those swords to slaughter, 
To slaughter of their own, to civil ruin ? 

Brus. Oh, let 'em in; all's done, all's ended, Begulus; 
Penius has found his last eclipse. Come, soldiers, 
Come and behold your miseries ; come bravely, 
Bull of your mutinous and bloody angers, 
And here bestow your darts. — Oh, only Boman, 
Oh, father of the wars ! 

Enter Begttltjs and Soldiers. 

Reg. "Why stand ye stupid ? 

"Where be your killing furies ? whose sword now 
Shall be first sheathed in Penius ? Do ye weep ? 
Howl out, ye wretches ; ye have cause ; howl ever ! 
"Who shall now lead ye fortunate ? whose valour 
Preserve ye to the glory of your country ? 
"Who shall march out before ye, coyed and courted 
By all the mistresses of war, care, counsel, 
Quick-eyed experience, and victory twined to him ? 
Who shall beget ye deeds beyond inheritance 
To speak your names, and keep your honours living, 
"When children fail, and Time, that takes all with him, 
Builds houses for ye to oblivion ? 

Brus. Oh, ye poor desperate fools, no more now soldiers, 

126 B0KDTTCA. 

Gro home, and hang your arms up ; let rust rot 'em ; 
And humble your stern valours to soft prayers ! 
Por ye have sunk the frame of all your virtues ; 
The sun that warmed your bloods is set for ever.— 
I'll kiss thy honour' d cheek. Pare well, great Penius ; 
Thou thunderbolt, farewell ! — Take up the body : 
To-morrow morning to the camp convey it, 
There to receive due ceremonies. That eye, 
That blinds himself with weeping, gets most glory. 

[Exeunt, bearing out the body. A dead march. 


Hengo, entrapped and slain by the soldier Judas, dies in the arms of his 
uncle Caratach, who is taken captive and honoured by the Rowans. 

Enter Caratach and Heistgo on a rock. 

Car. Courage, my boy ! I have found meat ; look, Hengo ; 

Look where some blessed Briton, to preserve thee, 

Has hung a little food and drink. Cheer up, boy : 

Do not forsake me now. 
Hengo. Oh uncle, uncle, 

I feel I cannot stay long ! yet I'll fetch it, 

To keep your noble life. Uncle, I'm heart-whole, 

And would live. 
Car. Thou shalt ; long, I hope. 
Hengo. But my head, uncle. 

Methinks the rock goes round. 
Car. Oh my poor chicken ! 
Hengo. Pie, faint-hearted uncle ! 

Come, tie me in your belt, and let me down. 
Car. I'll go myself, boy. 
Hengo. No, as you love me, uncle ! 

I will not eat it if I do not fetch it.„ 

Pray tie me. 
Car. I will ; and all my care hang o'er thee. 

Come, child, my valiant child. 
Hengo. Let me down apace, uncle, 

And you shall see how like a daw I'll whip it 

Prom all their policies ; for 'tis, most certain, 

A Roman train ; and you must hold me sure too : 

bondttca. 127 

You'll spoil all else. When I have brought it, uncle, 

"We'll be as merry ! 
Car. Go, in the name of Heaven, boy. 

{Lets Hengo down by his hell. 
Hen. Quick, quick, uncle ; I have it 

[Judas shoots Hen go with an arrow. 

Car. "What ails't thou ? 
Hen. Oh my best uncle, I am slain ! 
Car. (to Judas). I see you, 

And Heaven direct my hand ! destruction 

Go with thy coward soul ! 
{Kills Jtjdas with a stone, and then draws up Hengo. 

How dost thou, boy ? 

Oh, viLlain, [abject] villain ! 
Hen. Oh uncle, uncle, 

Oh, how it pricks me ! am I preserv'd for this ? 

Extremely pricks me ! 
Car. Coward, rascal coward ! 

Dogs eat thy flesh. 
Hen. Oh, I bleed hard ! I faint too ! out upon't. 

How sick I am ! — The lean rogue, uncle. 
Car. Look, boy. 

I have laid him, sure enough. 
Hen. Have you knock' d his brains out ? 
Car. I warrant thee for stirring more : cheer up, child. 
Hen. Hold my sides hard ; — stop, stop ; — oh, wretched 

Must we part thus ? Still I grow sicker, uncle. 
Car. Heav'n look upon this noble child. 
Hen. I hoped 

I should have liv'd to have met these bloody Romans 

At my sword's point ; to have reveng'd my father ; 

To have beaten them ; oh, hold me hard ; — but uncle — 
Car. Thou shalt live still, I hope, boy. Shall I draw it ? 

{Meaning the arrow. 
Hen. You draw away my soul then ; — I would live 

A little longer (spare me, Heavens !), but only 

To thank you for your tender love ! Q-ood uncle, 

Good noble uncle, weep not ! 


Car. Oh, my chicken, 

My dear boy, what shall I lose ? 
Hen. Why, a child, 

That must have died however ; had this 'scaped me, 

.Fever or famine I was born to die, sir. 

Car. But thus unblown, my boy ? 
Hen. I go the straighter 

My journey to the gods. Sure I shall know you. 

When you come, uncle ? 
Car. Tes, boy. 
Hen. And I hope 

We shall enjoy together that great blessedness 

Tou told me of. 
Car. Most certain, child. 
Hen. I grow cold ; 

Mine eyes are going. 
Car. Lift 'em up ! 
Hen. Pray for me ; 

And, noble uncle, when my bones are ashes, 

Think of your little nephew ! Mercy ! 
Car. Mercy! 

You blessed angels, take him ! 
Hen. Kiss me ! so. 

Farewell, farewell ! [Dies. 

Car. Farewell the hopes of Britain ! 

Thou royal graft, farewell for ever ! — Time and Death, 

Ye have done your worst. Fortune, now see, now 

Pluck off thy veil, and view thy triumph : look, 

Look what thou hast brought this land to. — Oh, fair 

How lovely yet thy ruins show, how sweetly [flower, 

Even death embraces thee ! The peace of Heaven, 

The fellowship of all great souls, be with thee ! 

Enter Petillius and J touts, on the rock. 

Ha ! Dare ye, Romans ? Ye shall win me bravely. 

Thou'rt mine ! [Fight. 

Jun. Not yet, sir. 
Car. Breathe ye, ye poor Eomans, 


And come up all, with all your ancient valours ; 

Like a rough wind I'll shake your souls, and send 'em — 

Enter Suetonius, and all the Roman Captains. 

Suet. Yield thee, bold Caratach ! By all the gods, 

As I am a soldier, as I envy thee, 

I'll use thee like thyself, the valiant Briton. 
Pet. Brave soldier, yield, thou stock of arms and honour, 

Thou filler of the world with fame and glory ! 
Jun. Most worthy man, we'll woo thee, be thy prisoners. 
Suet. Excellent Briton, do me but that honour, 

That more to me than conquests, that true happiness. 

To be my friend ! 
Car, Oh, Romans, see what here is ! 

Had this boy liv'd 

Suet. For fame's sake, for thy sword's sake, 

As thou desir'st to build thy virtues greater, 

By all that's excellent in man, and honest 

Car. I do believe. Te have had me a brave foe ; 

Make me a noble friend, and from your goodness 

Give this boy honourable earth to lie in ! 
Suet. He shall have fitting funeral. 
Car. I yield then, 

Not to your blows, but your brave courtesies. 
Pet. Thus we conduct then to the arms of peace 

The wonder of the world ! 
Suet. Thus I embrace thee ; [Flourish. 

And let it be no flattery that I tell thee, 

Thou art the only soldier ! 
Car. How to thank ye, 

I must hereafter find upon vour usage. 

I am for Rome ? 
Suet. Tou must. 
Car. Then Rome shall know 

The man that makes her spring of giory grow. 
Suet. March on, and through the camp, in every tongue, 

The virtues of great Caratach be sung ! [Exeunt 

[" With all the faults of the tragedy of £ Bonduca,' its British subject 
and its native heroes attach our hearts. We follow Caractacus to battle 
and captivity with a proud satisfaction in his virtue. The stubbornness 



of the old soldier is finely tempered by his wise, just, and candid respect 
for his enemies the Romans, and by his tender affection for his princely 
ward. He never gives way to sorrow till he looks on the dead body of 
his nephew Hengo. The character must be well supported which 
yields a sensation of triumph in the act of surrendering to victorious 
enemies. Caractacus does not tell us that when a brave man has done 
his duty he cannot be humbled by fortune, but he makes us feel it in 
his behaviour. The few and simple sentences which he utters in sub- 
mitting to the Romans, together with their respectful behaviour to him, 
give a sublime composure to his appearance in the closing scene." — 



Mountferrat, one of the Knights of Malta, being rejected in his unworthy 
suit to Oriana, sister of the Grand Master, determines to revenge his 

A Room in Mounteerrat's Mouse. 

Enter Mountferrat. 

Mount/. Dares she despise me thus ? me, that with spoil 
And hazardous exploits, full sixteen years 
Have led (as hand-maids) Fortune, Victory, 
Whom the Maltezzi call my servitors ? 
Tempests I have subdued, and fought them calm, 
Out-lighten' d lightning in my chivalry, 
Kid (tame as patience) billows that kick'd Heaven, 
"Whistled enraged Boreas till his gusts 
"Were grown so gentle that he seem'd to sigh 
Because he could not show the air my keel ; 
And yet I cannot conquer her bright eyes, 
Which, though they blaze, both comfort and invite ; 
Neither by force, nor fraud, pass through her ear, 
Whose guard is only blushing innocence, 
To take the least possession of her heart. 
Did I attempt her with a thread-bare name, 
Un-napt with meritorious actions, 
She might with colour disallow my suit : 
But, by the honour of this Christian cross 
(In blood of infidels so often dyed, 


Which mine own soul and sword, hath fixed here, 
And neither favour nor birth's privilege), 
Oriana shall confess (although she be 
Valetta's sister, our grand-master here) 
The wages of scorn' d love is baneful hate, 
And, if I rule not her, I'll rule her fate 

Enter Eocca. 

Eocca, my trusty servant, welcome ! 
Rocca. Sir, 

I wish my news deserv'd it ! Hapless I, 

That being lov'd and trusted, fail to bring 

The loving answer that you do expect. [forth 

Mount/. "Why speak'st thou from me? thy pleas' d eyes send 

Beams brighter than the star that ushers day ; 

Thy smiles restore sick expectation. 
Eocca. I bring you, sir, her smiles, not mine. 
Mount/. Her smiles ? 

Why, they are presents for kings' eldest sons : 

Great Solyman is not so rich as I 

In this one smile, from Oriana sent. 
Eocca. Sir, fare you well ! 
Mount/. Oh, Eocca ! thou art wise, 

And wouldst not have the torrent of my joy 

Euin me headlong ! Aptly thou conceiv'st, 

If one reviving smile can raise me thus, 

What trances will the sweet words which thou bring' st 

Cast me into. I felt, my dearest friend 

(No more my servant), when I employ 5 d thee, 

That knew'st to love and speak as lovers should, 

And carry faithfully thy master's sighs, 

That it must work some heat in her cold heart ; 

And all my labours now come fraughted home 

With ten-fold prize. 
Eocca. Will you yet hear me ? 
Mount/ Yes: 

But take heed, gentle Eocca, that thou dost 

Tenderly by degrees assault mine ears 

With her consent, now to embrace my love ; 


Eor thou well know'st I've been so plung'd, so torn, 
With her resolv'd rejection and neglect, 
That to report her soft acceptance now 
Will stupify sense in me, if not kill. — 
Why show'st thou this distemper? 

Rocca* Draw your sword, 

And when I with my breath have blasted you, 
Kill me with it : 

I bring you smiles of pity, not affection, 
Eor such she sent. 

Mount f. Oh ! can she pity me ? 

Of all the paths lead to a woman's love, 
Pity's the straightest. 

Hocca. Waken, sir, and know 

That her contempt (if you can name it so) 
Continues still ; she bids you throw your pearl 
Into strong streams, and hope to turn them so, 
Ere her to foul dishonour ; write your plaints 
In rocks of coral grown above the sea ; 
Them hope to soften to compassion, 
Or change their modest blush to love-sick pale, 
Ere work her to your impious requests. 
All your loose thoughts she chides you home again, 
But with such calm behaviour and mild looks, 
She gentlier denies than others grant ; 
Eor just as others love, so doth she hate. 
She says, that by your order you are bound 
Erom marrying ever, and much marvels then 
Tou would thus violate her and your own faith ; 
That being the virgin you should now protect, 
Hitherto, she professes, she has conceal' d 
Tour lustful batteries ; but the next, she vows 
(In open hall, before the honour' d cross, 
And her great brother) she will quite disclose, 
Calling for justice, to your utter shame. 

Mount/. Hence ! find the Blackamoor that waits upon her, 
Bring her unto me ; she doth love me yet, 
And I must her now ; at least seem to do. — 
Cupid, thy brands that glow thus in my veins, 
I will with blood extinguish ! — Art not gone ? 



Mountferrat, by the help of Oriana's servant, Zanthia, having succeeded in 
fixing on her a charge of endeavouring to betray the island into the hands 
of the Basha of Tripoli (who had solicited her to that end with a promise 
of marriage), Miranda, an Italian gentleman, who is in love with her, 
contrives, on pretence of believing her guilty, to save her life ; though, in 
doing so, he knowingly risks her marriage with another ; which accord- 
ingly takes place, 

Miranda and Mountferrat. 

Mir. (aside.) Alone, 

And troubled too, I take it. How he starts ! 
All is not handsome in thy heart, Mountferrat. — 
(aloud.) God speed you, sir. I have been seeking of 
They say you are to fight to-day. [you ; 

Mount/. What then ? 

Mir. ISTay, nothing, but good fortune to your sword, sir ! 
You have a cause requires it ; the island's safety, 
The order's, and your honour's. 

Mount/. And do you make a question 
I will not fight it nobly ? 

Mir. You dare fight ; 

You have ; and with as great a confidence as justice, 
I have seen you strike as home, and hit as deadly. 

Mount/ Why are these questions then ? 

Mir. I'll tell you quickly. 

You have a lady in your cause, a fair one ; 
A gentler never trod on ground, a nobler 

Mount/ (aside.) Do you come on so fast ? I have it for 

Mir. The sun ne'er saw a sweeter. [you. 

Mount/ These I grant you ; 

Nor dare I against beauty heave my hand up ; 

It were unmanly, sir, too much unmanly. 

But when these excellencies turn to ruin, 

To ruin of themselves, and those protect 'em 

Mir. Do you think 'tis so ? 

Mount/ Too sure. 

Mir. And can it be ? 

Can it be thought, Mountferrat, so much sweetness, 

So great a magazine of all things precious, 

A mind so heavenly made — Pr'ythee observe me, 


Mount/. I thought so too. Now, by my holy order, 
He that had told me (till experience found it, 
Too bold a proof) this ladj had been vicious — 
I wear no dull sword, sir, nor hate I virtue. 

Mir. Against her brother ? to the man has bred her ? 
Her blood and honour ? 

Mount/. Chastity, cold Duty, 

Like fashions old forgot, she flings behind her, 
And puts on blood and mischief, death and ruin, 
To raise her new-built hopes, new faith to fasten her : 
Ma foy, she is as foul as Heaven is beauteous ! 

Mir. Thou liest, thou liest, Mountferrat, thou liest basely ; 
Stare not, nor swell not with thy pride ! thou liest ; 
And this {laying his hand on his sword) shall make it 

Mount/. Out with your heat first ! [good. 

You shall be fought withal. 

Mir. By Heaven, that lady, 

The virtue of that woman, were all the good deeds 
Of all thy families bound in one faggot, 
From Adam to this hour, but with one sparkle 
"Would fire that whisp, and turn it to light ashes. 

Mount/. Oh, pitiful young man, struck blind with beauty ! 
Shot with a woman's smile ! Poor, poor Miranda ! 
Thou hopeful young man once, but now thou lost man, 
Thou naked man of all that we call noble, 
How art thou cozen' d ! Didst thou know what I do, 
And how far thy dear honour (mark me, fool !), 
"Which like a father I have kept from blasting, 
Thy tender honour, is abused — But fight first, 
And then, too late, thou shalt know ail. 

Mir. Thou liest still ! [thee : 

Mount/ Stay! now I'll show thee all, and then 111 kill 
I love thee so dear, time shall not disgrace thee. 
Read that ! [Gives him a letter. 

Mir. It is her hand, it is most certain. 

Good angels keep me ! that I should be her agent 
To betray Malta, and bring her to the basha ! 
That on my tender love lay all her project ! 
Eyes never see again, melt out for sorrow ! 
Did the devil do this ? 


Mount/. No, but his dam did it, 

The virtuous lady that you love so dearly. 
Come, will you fight again ? 
Mir. No ; pr'ythee kill me, 

For Heaven's sake, and for goodness' sake, despatch me ! 
For the disgrace' sake that I gave thee, kill me ! 
Mount/. Why, are you guilty ? 
Jlir. I have liv'd, Mountferrat, 

To see dishonour swallow up all virtue, 
And now would die. By Heaven's eternal brightness, 
I am as clear as innocence ! 
Mount/ I knew it, 

And therefore kept this letter from all knowledge, 
And this sword from [all] anger ; you had died else — 
(aside.) And yet I lie, and basely lie. 
Mir. Virtue, 

Unspotted Virtue, whither art thou vanish' d ? 
"What hast thou left us to abuse our frailties, 
In shape of goodness ? 
Mount/ Come, take courage, man ! 

I have forgiven and forgot your rashness, 
And hold you fair as light in all your actions ; 
And by my troth I griev'd your love. Take comfort ! 
There be more women. 
Mir. And more mischief in 'em ! 

Mount/ The justice I shall do, to right these villainies, 
Shall make you man again : I'll strike it sure, sir. 
Come, look up bravely ; put this puling passion 
Out of your mind. One knock for thee, Miranda, 
And for the boy 1 the grave Gomera gave thee, 
"When she accepted thee her champion, 
And in thy absence, like a valiant gentleman ; 
I yet remember it : " He is too young, 
Too boyish, and too tender, to adventure :" 
I'll give him one sound rap for that : I love thee ; 
Thou art a brave young spark. 
Mir. Boy did he call me ? 
Gomera call me boy ? 

1 The boy.~\ That is, the appellation of boy. 


Mount/. It pleased his gravity, 

To think so of you then. They that do service, 

And honest service, such as thou and I do, 

Are either knaves or boys. 
Mir. Boy, by Gomera ? 

How look'd he when he said it ? for Gomera 

"Was ever wont to be a virtuous gentleman, 

Humane and sweet. 
Mount/. Yes, when he will, he can be. 

But let it go ; I would not breed dissension ; 

'Tis an unfriendly office. And had it been 

To any of a higher strain 1 than you, sir, 

The well-known, well-approv'd, and lov'd Miranda, 

I had not thought on't. 'Twas happily his haste too, 

And zeal to her. 
Mir. A traitor and a hoy too ? 

Shame take me, if I suffer it ! — Puff! farewell, love ! 
Mount/. You know my business ; I must leave you, sir ; 

My hour grows on apace. 
Mir. I must not leave you ; 

I dare not, nor I will not, till your goodness 

Have granted me one courtesy. You say you love me ? 
Mount/. I do, and dearly ; ask, and let that courtesy 

Nothing concern mine honour 

Mir. You must do it, 

Or you will never see me more. 
Mount f. What is it ? 

It shall be great that puts you off: pray speak it. 
Mir. Pray let me fight to-day, good, dear Mountferrat ! 

Let me, and bold Gomera 

Mount/. Py, Miranda ! 

Do you weigh my worth so little ? 
Mir. On my knees ! 

As ever thou hadst true touch of a sorrow 

Thy friend conceiv'd, as ever honour lov'd thee — 
Mount/. Shall I turn recreant now ? 
Mir. 'Tis not thy cause ; 

Thou hast no reputation wounded in it ; 

1 Higher strain?^ A nobler breeding and sentiment, 


Thine's but a general zeal : 'Death ! I am tainted ; 

The dearest twin to life, my credit, 's murder'd, 

Baffled and bot/d. 
Mount/, (aside.) I am glad you have swallow' d it, — 

(aloud.) I must confess I pity you ; and 'tis a justice, 

A great one too, you should revenge these injuries ; 

I know it, and I know you fit and bold to do it, 

And man as much as man may : but, Miranda — 

Why do you kneel ? 
Mir. By Heaven, I'll grow to the ground here, 

And with my sword dig up my grave, and fall in't, 

Unless thou grant me — Dear Mountferrat ! friend ! 

Is anything in my power ? to my life, sir ! 

The honour shall be yours. 
Mount/. I love you dearly ; 

Yet so much I should tender — 
Mir. I'll preserve all ; 

By Heaven, I will, or all the sin fall with me S 

Pray let me. 
Mount/. You have won ; I'll once be cow T ard 

To pleasure you. 
Mir. I kiss your hands, and thank you. 
Mount/. Be tender of my credit, and fight bravely. 
Mir. Blow not the fire that flames. 
Mount/. I'll send mine armour ; 

My man shall presently attend you with it 

(For you must arm immediately ; the hour calls), 

I know 'twill fit you right. Be sure, and secret, 

And last be fortunate ! farewell ! (aside.) You're fitted : 

I am glad the load's off me. 
Mir. My best Mountferrat ! [Exeunt • 

Scene — A Room in the House 0/ Nobafdike, a brave 


Enter Woeakdine and Doctor. 

Nor. Doctor, I'll see the combat, that's the truth on't ; 

If I had ne'er a leg, I would crawl to see it. 
Doctor. You are most unfit, if I might counsel you, 

Your wounds so many, and the air 


Nor. The halter ! 

The air's as good an air, as fine an air — 
"Wouldst thou have me live in an oven ? 

Doctor. Beside, the noise, sir ; 
Which, to a tender body 

Nor. That's it, Doctor, 

My body must be cured. If you'll heal me quickly, 
Boil a drum-head in my broth. I never prosper 
"With knuckles o' veal, and birds in sorrel sops, 
Caudles and cullisses. 1 If thou wilt cure me, 
A pickled herring, and a pottle of sack, Doctor, 
And half a dozen trumpets 1 

Doctor. I am glad you are grown so merry. 

Enter Astobitjs and Castbiot. 

Nor. "Welcome, gentlemen! 

Asto. "We come to see you, sir ; and glad we are 

To see you thus, thus forward to your health, sir. 
Nor. I thank my Doctor here. 
Doctor. Nay, thank yourself, sir ; 

For, by my troth, I know not how he's cured ! 

He ne'er observes any of our prescriptions. 
Nor. Grive me my money again then, good sweet Doctor ! 

"Wilt thou have twenty shillings a day for vexing me ? 
Doctor. That shall not serve you, sir. 
Nor. Then forty shall, sir, 

And that will make you speak well. Hark, the drums ! 

[Drums afar off. A low march. 
Cast. They begin to beat to th' field. Oh, noble Dane, 

Never was such a stake, I hope, of innocence, 

Play'd for in Malta, and in blood, before. 
Asto. It makes us hang our heads all. 
Nor. A bold villain ! 

If there be treason in it. — Accuse poor ladies ! 

And yet they may do mischief too. I'll be with ye 

If she be innocent I shall find it quickly, 

And something then I'll say 

Asto. Come, lean on us, sir. 

1 Cuttmes.~\ Broths of boiled meat strained through cullenders. 


Nor. I thank ye, gentlemen ; and domine Doctor, 

Pray bring a little sneezing powder in yonr pocket, 
For. fear I swoon when I see blood. 

Doctor. Ton are pleasant. [Exeunt. 

ScEOTi — An open Field before the City ; a Scaffold hung with 
Black in the Back-ground; Stairs leading up to it. 

Enter Two Marshals. 

1 Marsh. Are the combatants come in ? 

2 Marsh. Yes. 

1 Marsh, Make the field clear there ! 

2 Marsh. That's done too. 

1 Marsh. Then to the prisoner. The Grand-master's coming. 

Let's see that all be ready there. 

2 Marsh. Too ready. 

How ceremonious our very ends are ! 

Alas, sweet lady, if she be innocent, 

~No doubt but justice will direct her champion. 

Away ! I hear 'em come. 
1 Marsh. Pray Heaven she prosper ! 

Enter Valetta, INoeakdiin'e, Astobius, Castbigt, fyc. 

VaL Give captain Korandine a chair. 

Nor. I thank your lordship. 

VaL Sit, sir, and take your ease ; your hurts require it : 
You come to see a woman's cause decided 
(That's all the knowledge now, or name I have for her) ; 
They say a false, a base, and treacherous woman, 
And partly prov'd too. 

Nor. 'Pity it should be so ; 

And, if your lordship durst ask my opinion, 

Sure I should answer, JN"o (so much I honour her), 

And answer it with my life too. But Gomera 

Is a brave gentleman ; the other valiant, 

And if he be not good, dogs gnaw his flesh off! 

And one above 'em both will find the truth out ; 

He never fails, sir. 


VaL That's the hope rests with me. 

Nor. How nature and his honour struggle in him ! 

A sweet, clear, noble gentleman ! 
Guard (within.} Make room there ! 

Enter Obiana, Ladies, Executioner, Zaetthia, and Guard, 

Vol. Go up, and what you have to say, say there. 

Ori. (goes up to the scaffold.) Thus I ascend ; nearer, I 
hope, to Heaven ! 
Nor do I fear to tread this dark black mansion, 
The image of my grave ; each foot we move 
Goes to it still, each hour we leave behind us 
Knolls sadly toward it. My noble brother 
(For yet mine innocence dares call you so), 
And you the friends to virtue, that come hither, 
The chorus of this tragic scene, behold me, 
Behold me with your justice, not with pity 
(My cause was ne'er so poor to ask compassion) ; 
Behold me in this spotless white I wear, 
The emblem of my life, of all my actions ; 
So ye shall find my story, though I perish. 
Behold me in my sex ; I am no soldier ; 
Tender and full of fears our blushing sex is, 
Unharden'd with relentless thoughts ; unhatcht 
"With blood and bloody practice : alas, we tremble 
But when an angry dream afflicts our fancies ; 
Die with a tale well told. Had I been practis'd, 
And known the way of mischief, travell'd in it, 
And given my blood and honour up to reach it, 
Forgot religion, and the line I sprung on, 
Oh, Heaven ! I had been fit then for thy justice, 
And then in black, as dark as hell, I had howl'd here. 
Last, in your own opinions weigh mine innocence : 
Amongst ye I was planted from an infant 
('Would then, if Heaven had been so pleased, I had 

perish' d !), 
Grew up, and goodly, ready to bear fruit, 
The honourable fruit of marriage ; 
And I am blasted in my bud, with treason ? 
Boldly and basely of my fair name ravish' d, 


And hither brought to find my rest in ruin ? 

But he that knows all, he that rights all wrongs, 

And in his time restores, knows me ! — I have spoken. 
Veil. If ye be innocent, Heaven will protect ye, 

And so I leave ye to his sword strikes for ye ; 

Farewell ! 
Ori. Oh, that went deep ! Farewell, dear brother, 

And howsoe'er my cause goes, see my body 

(Upon my knees I ask it) buried chastely ; 

For yet, by holy truth, it never trespass'd. 
Asto. Justice sit on your cause, and Heaven fight for ye! 
Nor. Two of ye, gentlemen, do me but the honour 

To lead me to her ; good my lord, your leave too. 
Val. Tou have it, sir. 
Nor. Give me your fair hands fearless : 

As white as this I see your innocence, 

As spotless and as pure ; be not afraid, lady ! 

You are but here brought to your nobler fortune, 

To add unto your life immortal story : 

Virtue through hardest things arrives at happiness. 

Shame follow that blunt sword that loses you ; 

And he that' strikes against you, I shall study 

A curse or two for him. Once more your fair hands ! 

I ne'er brought ill-luck yet ; be fearless, happy. 
Ori. I thank ye, noble captain. 
Nor. So I leave ye. 
Val. Call in the knights severally. 

Enter severally, GrOMEEA, and Mibakda in the armour of 


Ori. But two words to my champion ; 

And then to Heaven and him I give my cause up. 

Val. Speak quickly, and speak short. 

Ori. I have not much, sir.— 

Xoble G-omera, from your own free virtue 

You have undertaken here a poor maid's honour, 

And with the hazard of your life ; and happily 

You may suspect the cause, though in your true worth 

You will not show it ; therefore take this testimony 

(And, as I hope for happiness, a true one!), 


And may it steel your heart, and edge your good sword ! 

Tou fight for her, as spotless of these mischiefs, 

As Heaven is of our sins, or Truth of errors ; 

And so defy that treacherous man, and prosper ! 
Nor. Blessing o' thy heart, lady ! 

Val. Give the signal to 'em. [Low alarms. They fight. 

Nor. 'Tis bravely fought, Gomera, follow that blow — 

Well struck again, boy ! — look upon the lady, 

And gather spirit ! brave again ! lie close, 

Lie close, I say ! he fights aloft and strongly ; 

Close for thy life ! — A pox o' that fell buffet ! 

Betire and gather breath ; ye have day enough, knights — 

Look lovely on him, lady ! to't again, now ! 

Stand, stand, Gomera, stand ! — one blow for all now ! 

Gather thy strength together ; God bless the woman ! 

"Why, where' s thy noble heart ? Heaven bless the lady ! 
All. Oh, oh! 

Val. She is gone, she is gone. 
Nor. Now strike it. [Miranda falls. 

Hold, hold — he yields : Hold thy brave sword, he's 
conquer' d — 

He's thine, Gomera. Now be joyful, lady ! 

What could this thief have done, had his cause been 

He made my heart-strings tremble. [equal ! 

Val. Off with his casque there ; 

And, executioner, take you his head next. 
Zanthia. Oh, cursed Fortune ! [Aside. 

Gom. Stay, 1 beseech you, sir ! and this one honour 

Grant me, — I have deserv'd it, — that this villain 

May live one day, to envy at my justice ; 

That he may pine and die, before the sword fall, 

Viewing the glory I have won, her goodness. 
Val. He shall ; and you the harvest of your valour 

Shall reap, brave sir, abundantly. 
Gom. I have sav'd her, 

Preserv'd her spotless worth from black destruction 

(Her white name to eternity delivered), 

Her youth and sweetness from a timeless ruin. 

Now, lord Valetta, if this bloody labour 

May but deserve her favour 


Mir. Stay, and hear me first. 

Val. Off with his casque ! This is Miranda's voice. 

Nor. 'Tis he indeed, or else mine eyes abuse me : 
What makes he here thus ? 

Ori. The young Miranda ? 
Is he mine enemy too ? 

Mir. Xone has deserv'd her, 

If worth must carry it, and service seek her, 
But he that saved her honour. 

Gom. That is I, Miranda. 

Mir. No, no ; that's I, Gromera ; be not so forward ! 
In bargain for my love you cannot cozen me. 

Gom. I fought it. 

Mir. And I gave it, which is nobler. 

Why, every gentleman would have done as much 
.As you did. Fought it ? that's a poor desert, sir ; 
They are bound to that. But then to make that fight 
To do as I did, take all danger from it, [sure, 

Suffer that coldness that must call me now 
Into disgrace for ever, into pity 

Gom. I undertook first, to preserve from hazard. 

Jlir. And I made sure no hazard should come near her. 

Gom. 'Twas I defied Mountferrat. 

Mir. 'Twas I wrought him 

(You had had a dark day else), 'twas I defied 
His conscience first, 'twas I that shook him there. 
Which is the brave defiance. 

Gom. My life and honour 
At stake I laid. 

Mir. My care and truth lay by it, 

Lest that stake might be lost. I have deserv'd her, 
And none but I. The lady might have perish' d 
Had fell Mountferrat struck it, from whose malice, 
With cunning and bold confidence, I catch' d it ; 
And 'twas high time. And such a service, lady, 
For you and for your innocence — for who knows not 
The all-devouring sword of fierce Mountferrat ? 
I show'd you what I could do, had I been spiteful. 
Or master of but half the poison he bears [madam, 

(Hell take his heart for 't !) : and beshrew these hands, 


With all my heart, I wish a mischief on 'em ! 
They made you once look sad. Such another fright 
I would not put you in, to own the island. 
Yet, pardon me ; t'was but to show a soldier, 
"Which when I had done, I ended your poor coward. 

Val. Let some look out for the base knight Mountferrat. 

Zan. {aside). I hope he's far enough, if his man be trusty. 
This was a strange misfortune ; I must not know it. 

Val. That most deboshed 1 knight. Come down, sweet sister, 
My spotless sister now ! Pray thank these gentlemen ; 
They have deserv'd both truly, nobly of you, 
Both excellently, dearly, both all the honour, 
All the respect and favour 

Ori. Beth shall have it ; 

And as my life their memories I'll nourish. 

Val. Te are both true knights, and both most worthy lovers ; 
Here stands a lady ripen' d with your service, 
Young, fair, and (now I dare say) truly honourable ; 
'Tis my will she shall marry, and one of you. 
She cannot take more nobly. Your deserts 
Begot this will, and bred it. Both her beauty 
Cannot enjoy ; dare you make me your umpire ? 

Gom. Mir. With all our souls. 

Val. He must not then be angry 
That loses her. 

Gom. Oh, that were, sir, unworthy. 

Mir. A little sorrow he may find. 

Val. 'Tis manlv. — 

Gromera, you're a brave accomplish'd gentleman \ 
A braver nowhere lives than is Miranda. 
In the white way of virtue, and true valour, 
You have been a pilgrim long ; yet no man farther 
Has trod those thorny steps than young Miranda. 
You are gentle, he is gentleness itself. Experience 
Calls you her brother ; this her hopeful heir. 

Nor. The young man now, an't be thy will ! 

Val. Your hand, sir ! 

You undertook first, noblv undertook. 

Debos/ied.'] An old form of the word debauched. 


This lady's cause ; you made it good, and fought it ; 
You must be serv'd first. Take her and enjoy her ! 
I give her to you. Kiss her ! Are you pleas' d now ? 
Gom. My joy 's so much, I cannot speak. 
Val. (to Miranda). Nay, fairest sir, 

You must not be displeas'd ; you break your promise. 
Jfir. I never griev'd at good, nor dare I now, sir, 

Though something seem strange to me. 
Val, I have provided 

A better match for you, more full of beauty ; 
I'll wed you to our order. There's a mistress 
Whose beauty ne'er decays (Time stands below her) ; 
"Whose honour, ermin-like, can never suffer 
Spot or black soil ; whose eternal issue 
Fame brings up at her breasts, and leaves them sainted ; 
Her you shall marry. 
Mir. I must humbly thank you. 
Val. Saint Thomas' Eort, a charge of no small value, 
I give you too, in present, to keep waking 
Tour noble spirits ; and, to breed you pious, 
I'll send you a probation-robe ; wear that, 
Till you shall please to be our brother. — How now ? 

Enter Astoeitjs. 

Asto. Mountferrat 's fled, sir. 

Val. Let him go a while, 

Till we have done these rites, and seen these coupled, 
His mischief now lies open. Come, all friends now ! 
And so let's march to th' temple. Sound those instru- 
That were the signal to a day of blood ! [ments. 

Evil-beginning hours may end in good. 



HicardO) in despair, bewails the vice through which he fears he has lost his 

mistress, Viola, 

Scene — A Street. Enter Kicardo. 
Eic. Am I not mad ? Can this weak-temper' d head, 
That will be mad with drink, endure the wrong 



That T have done a virgin, and my love ? 
"Be mad, for so thou ought' st, or I will beat 
The walls and trees down with thee, and will let 
Either thy memory out, or madness in! 
But sure I never lov'd fair Viola ; 
I never lov'd my father, nor my mother, 
Or anything but drink ! Had I had love, 
Nay, had I known [but] so much charity 
. As would have sav'd an infant from the fire, 
I had been naked, raving in the street 
"With half a face, gashing myself with knives, 
Two hours ere this time. 

Enter Pedeo, Sxlyio, and Ubeetq. 

Pedro, Grood-morrow, sir ! 
Hie. G-ood-morrow, gentlemen ! 

Shall we go drink again ? I have my wits. 
Pedro. So have I, but they are unsettled ones : 

'Would I had some porridge ! 
Pic. The tavern-boy was here this morning with me, 

And told me that there was a gentlewoman 

For whom we quarrell'd, and I know not what. 
Pedro. I' faith, nor I. 
Tiber to. I have a glimmering 

Of some such thing. 
Etc. Was it you, Silvio, 

That made me drink so much ? 'twas you or Pedro. 
Pedro. I know not who. 
Silvio. "We were all apt enough. 
Ric. But I will lay the fault on none but me, 

That I would be so entreated ! — Come, Silvio, 

Shall we go drink again ? Come, gentlemen, 

Why do you stay ? Let's never leave off now, 

Whilst we have wine and throats ! I'll practise it, 

Till I have made it my best quality ; 

Por what is best for me to do but that ? 

Por God's sake, come and drink ! When I am nam'd. 

Men shall make answer, " Which Eicardo mean you ? 

The excellent drinker ?" I will have it so. 

Will you go drink ? 


Silvio. We drank too much too lately. 

Ric. Why, there is then the less behind to drink. 

Let's end it all ! dispatch that, we'll send abroad, 
And purchase all the wine the world can yield. 
And drink it off; then take the fruits o' th' earth, 
Distil the juice from them, and drink that off; 
AW 11 catch the rain before it fall to ground, 
And drink off that, that never more may grow ; 
We'll set our mouths to springs, and drink them off ; 
And all this while we'll never think of those 
That love us best, 1 more than we did last night. 
We will not give unto the poor a drop 
Of all this drink : but, when we see them weep, 
We'll run to them, and drink their tears off too : 
We'll never leave whilst there is heai> or moisture 
In this large globe, but suck it cold and dry, 
Till we have made it elemental earth, 
Merely by drinking. 

Pedro. Is it flattery 

To tell you, you are mad ? 

Ric. If it be false, 

There's no such way to bind me to a man : 
He that will have me lay my goods and lands, 
My life down for him, need no more but say, 
" Ricardo, thou art mad !" and then all these 
Are at his service ; then he pleases me, 
And makes me think that I had virtue in me, 
That I had love and tenderness of heart ; 
That, though I have committed such a fault 
As never creature did, yet running mad, 
As honest men should do for such a crime, 
I have express' d some worth, though it be late : 

1 And all this while we'll never think of those 
That love us best.~] This is most affecting. So indeed are a hundred 
passages in this selection, which equally need no indication to the 
reader ; but the sudden appearance of this heart -felt evidence of regret, 
in the shape of a pretended resolution, and in the midst of so many 
fanciful ones (all excellent, nevertheless, as expressions of frenzied re- 
morse), doubles the effect of the pathos by its unexpectedness. It is like 
a tear suddenly starting into wild eyes. 


But I, alas, have none of these in me, 
But keep iny wits still like a frozen man, 
That had no fire within him. 

Silvio. .Nay, good Eicardo, 

Leave this wild talk, and send a letter to her ! 
I will deliver it. 

Ric. 'Tis to no purpose ; 

Perhaps she's lost last night ; or, [if] she [is] 
Grot home again, she 's now so strictly look'd to, 
The wind can scarce come to her : or, admit 
She were herself, if she would hear from me, 
"From me unworthy, that have used her thus, 
She were so foolish that she were no more 
To be beloved. 

Enter Andkugio, and Servant with a night-gown. 

Serv. Sir, we have found this night-gown she took with her. 

Andr. "Where ? 

Ric. Where ? where ? speak quickly ! 

Serv. Searching in the suburbs. 

Ric. Murdered ! [Grasps his sword. 

Silvio. What ail you, man ? 

Ric. Why, all this doth not make 
Me mad. 

Silvio. It does ; you would not offer this else. 

Good Pedro, look to his sword ! [Pedeo takes his sword. 

Andr. Sir, I will only 

Entreat you this, — that as you were the greatest 

Occasion of her loss, you will be pleased 

To urge your friends, and be yourself earnest in 

The search of her. God keep you, gentlemen ! [Exit. 

Silvio. Alas, good man ! 

Ric. What think ye now of me ? I think this lump 
Is nothing but a piece of phlegm congeal' d, 
Without a soul ; for where there's so much spirit 
As would but warm a flea, those faults of mine 
Would make it glow and flame in this dull heart, 
And run like molten gold through every sin, 
Til] it could burst these walls and fly away 


Shall I entreat you all to fake your horses, 

And search this innocent ? 
Pedro. With all our hearts. 
JRic. Po not divide yourselves. I'll follow too; 

But never to return till she be found. 


Scene — A Field. 
Enter Yai.eeio and Bicaedo. 

Yah This is the place ; here did I leave the maid 
Alone last night, drying her tender eyes, 
Uncertain what to do, and yet desirous 
To have me gone. 

JRic. How rude are all we men, 

That take the name of civil to ourselves ! 
If she had set her foot upon an earth 
Where people live that we call barbarous, 
Though they had had no house to bring her to, 
They would have spoil' cl the glory that the spring; 
Has deck'd the trees in, and with willing hands 
Have torn their branches down ; and every man 
"Would have become a builder for her sake. — 
What time left you her here ? 

Val. I left her when the sun had so much to set, 
As he is now got from his place of rise. 

Hie. So near the night, she could not wander far. 
— Fair Yiola ! 

Val It is in vain to call ; she sought a bouse, 
Without all question. 

Hie. Peace ! — Fair Yiola ! 

Fair Yiola ! — Who would have left her here 
On such a ground ? If you had meant to lose her s 
You might have found there were no echoes here 
To take her name, and carry it about. 
When her true lover came to mourn for her, 
Till all the neighbouring valleys and the hills 
Eesounded Yiola ; and such a place 
You should have chose ! You pity us 
Because the dew a little wets our feet 


(Unworthy far to seek her, in the wet !) ; 

And what becomes of her ? where wander'd she. 

With two showers raining on her, from her eyes 

Continually, abundantly, from which 

There's neither tree nor house to shelter her ? — 

"Will vou go with me to travel ? 

Val. Whither? 

Ric. Over all the world. 

Val. No, by my faith ; I'll make a shorter journey 
When I do travel. 

Ric. But there is no hope 

To gain my end in any shorter way. 

Val. Why, what's your end ? 

Ric. It is to search the earth, 

Till we have found two in the shapes of men, 
As wicked as ourselves. 

Val. 'Twere not so hard 
To find out those. 

Ric. Why, if we find them out, 

It were the better ; for what brave villainy 
Might we four do ! — We would not keep together; 
For every one has treachery enough 
Eor twenty countries. One should trouble Asia ; 
Another should sow strife in Africa ; 
But you should play the knave at home in Europe ; 
And for America, let me alone. 
Val. Sir, I am honester 

Than you know how to be, and can no more 
Be wrong' d, but I shall find myself a right. 

Ric. If you had any spark of honesty, 

Tou would not think that honester than I 
Were a praise high enough to serve your turn : 
If men were commonly so bad as I, 
Thieves would be put in calendars for saints, 
And bones of murderers would work miracles. 
I am a kind of knave ; of knave so much 
There is betwixt me and the vilest else ; x 
But the next place of all to mine is yours. 

1 The vilest else."] That is, a knave to the amount of what lies 
between me and the vilest, 


Enter Viola, Nan, and Madqe. (Viola had been sheltered 
in a farm-house and had joined in its se?*vices.) 

Vol. That last is she ; 'tis she ! 
Rie. Let us away ; 

"We shall infect her ! let her have the wind 

And we will kneel down here 
Viola. Wenches, away, 

For here are men. 
YaL Fair maid, I pray you stay. [Takes AoM 0/ Viola. 

Viola. Alas ! again ? 
Eic. Why do you lay hold on her ? 

I pray heartily, let her go. 
Vol. With all my heart ; I do not mean to hurt her. 
Eic. But stand away then ! for the purest bodies 

Will sooner take infection ; stand away ! 

But for infecting her myself, by Heaven, 

I would come there, and beat thee further off. 
Viola. I know that voice and face. 
Vol. You are finely mad ! 

God b' w' ye, sir ! Now you are here together, 

I'll leave you so. God send you good luck, both ! 

When you are soberer, you'll give me thanks. [Exit. 
Madge. Wilt thou go milk ? come. 
Nan. Why dost not come ? 
Madge. She nods, she's asleep. 

Nan. What, wert up so early ? [Recabdo kneels. 

Madge* I think yon man's mad to kneel there. 

Nay, come, come away. 

'Uds body, Nan, help ! she looks black V th' face ; 

She's in a swound. [Viola faints* 

Nan. An' you be a man, come hither, 

And help a woman I 
Rie. Come thither ? You are a fool. 
Nan. And you a knave and a beast, that you are. 
Eic. Come hither ? 'twas my being now so near 

That made her swoon ; and you are wicked people, 

Or you would do so too : my venom eyes 

Strike innocency dead at such a distance ; 

Here I will kneel, for this is out of distance. 


JSfan. Thou art a prating ass ! there's no goodness in thee, 

I warrant. — How dost thou ? [Viola recovers. 

Viola, "Why, well. 
Madge. Art thou able to go ? 
Viola. No ; pray go you and milk. If I be able 

To come, I'll follow you ; if not, I'll sit here 

Till you come back. 
Nan. I am loth to leave thee here with yon wild fool. 
Viola. I know him well ; I warrant thee he will not hurt me. 
Madge. Come then, JSTan. \_Exeunt Maids. 

Eic. How do you ? Be not fearful, for I hold 

My hands before my mouth, and speak, and so 

My breath can never blast you. 
Viola. 'Twas enough 

To use me ill, though you had never sought me 

To mock me too. "Why kneel you so far off? 

Were not that gesture better used in prayer ? 

Had I dealt so with you, I should not sleep, 

Till God and you had both forgiven me. 
Eic. I do not mock ; nor lives there such a villain 

That can do anything contemptible 

To you : but I do kneel, because it is 

An action very fit and reverent, 

In presence of so pure a creature ; 

And so far off, as fearful to offend 

One too much wrong' d already. 
Viola. Tou confess you did the fault, yet scorn to come 

So far as hither, to ask pardon for't ; 

Which I could willingly afford to come 

To you to grant. May the next maid you try 

Love you no worse, nor be no worse than I ! 
Eic. Do not leave me yet, for all my fault ! 

Search out the next things to impossible, 

And put me on them ; when they are effected, 

I may with better modesty receive 

Forgiveness from you. 
Viola. I will set no penance, 

And all his secrets, at the first acquaintance ; 

Never so crafty to be eaten i' th' shell, 

But is out-stripp'd of all he has at first, 


To gain the great forgiveness you desire, 
But to come hither, and take me and it ; 
Or else, I'll come and beg, so you will grant 
That you will be content to be forgiven ! 

I?ic. (ris?s.) Nay, I will come, since you will have it so, 
And, since you please to pardon me, I hope 
Free from infection. Here I am by you, 
A careless man, a breaker of my faith, 
A loathsome drunkard ; and in that wild fury, 

A hunter after ! I do beseech you 

To pardon all these faults, and take me up 
An honest, sober, and a faithful man ! 

Viola. For God's sake urge your faults no more, but mend! 
All the forgiveness I can make you, is, 
To love you ; which I will do, and desire 
Nothing but love again ; which if I have not, 
Yet I will love you still. 

Ric. Oh, women ! that some one of you will take 
An everlasting pen into your hands, 
And grave in paper (which the writ shall make 
More lasting than the marble monuments) 
Tour matchless virtues to posterities ; 
Which the defective race of envious man 
Strives to conceal ! 



Witty. I tell you, cousin, 

You cannot be too cautelous, nice, or dainty, 

In your society here, especially 

When you come raw from the university, 

Before the world has harden' d you a little ; 

Tor as a butter' d loaf is a scholar's breakfast there, 

So a poach' d scholar is a cheater's dinner here : 

I ha 5 known seven of 'em supp'd up at a meal. 

Credulous. Why a poach' d scholar ? 

Witty. 'Cause he pours himself forth, 


And goes down glib ; he's swallow' d with sharp mt, 
Stead of wine vinegar. 
Cred. I shall think, cousin, 

O' your poach' d scholar, while I live. 




Enter Speaker of the Prologue. The Citizen, Ms Wife, and Ealph, 
sitting below the stage among the spectators. Several Gentlemen sit- 
ting upon the Stage. 1 

Prologue. From all that's near the court, from all that's 
Within the compass of the city-walls, [great 

We now have brought our scene 2 

Citizen leaps upon the Stage. 

Cit. Hold your peace, goodman boy ! 

Prol. "What do you mean, sir ? 

Cit. That you have no good meaning. This seven years 
there hath been plays in this house, I have observed it, 
you have still girds at citizens ; and now you call your 
play, " The London Merchant."* Down with your title, 
boy ; down with your title ! 

Prol. Are you a member of the noble city ? 

Cit. I am. 

Prol. And a freeman ? 

Cit. Tea, and a grocer. 

Prol. So, grocer ; then, by your sweet favour, we intend no 
abuse to the city. 

Cit. No, sir ? yes, sir. If you were not resolved to play the 
Jacks, 4 what need you study for new subjects, purposely 
to abuse your betters ? "Why could not you be con- 

1 Sitting upon the stage.'] A custom in those days. 

2 We now have brought our scene.] A commencement common with 
old plays. 

3 The London Merchant."] A play by Ford, not extant. 

4 Jacks.] An old word for blackguards. 


tented, as well as others, with the legendof Whittington, 1 
or the Life and Death of Sir Thomas Gresham, with the 
Building of the Royal Exchange ? or the story of Queen 
Eleanor, ivith the Rearing of London Bridge upon 
Woolsacks ? 

Prol. You seem to be an understanding man; what would 
you have us do, sir ? 

Cit. Why, present something notably in honour of the 
commons of the city. 

Prol. Why, what do you say to the Life and Death of Fat 
Drake ? 

Cit. I do not like that ; but I will have a citizen, and he 
shall be of my own trade. 

Prol. Oh, you should have told us your mind a month since ; 
our play is ready to begin now. 

Cit. 'Tis all one for that ; but I will have a grocer, and he 
shall do admirable things. 

Prol. What will you have him do ? 

Cit. Marry, I will have him 

Wife (below). Husband, husband! 

Ralph (below). Peace, mistress! 

Wife. Hold thy peace, Ealph ; I know what I do, I warrant 
thee. Husband, husband ! 

Cit. What say'st thou ? 

Wife. Let him kill a lion with a Pestle, husband ! let him 
kill a lion with a Pestle ! 

Cit. So he shall. I'll have him kill a lion with a Pestle. 2 

Wife. Husband ! shall I come up, husband ? 

Cit. Ealph, help your mistress this way. — Pray, gentlemen, 
make her a little room. I pray you, sir, lend me your 
hand to help up my wife. I thank you, sir : so ! 

[Wife comes uponjhe stage. 

Wife. By your leave, gentlemen all ! I'm something trouble- 
some ! I'm a stranger here ; I was ne'er at one of these 

Legend of WhittingionJ] The productions here mentioned are child- 
ish stories and dramas, the popularity of which our poets take this 
opportunity of laughing at. 

* A lion vjith a Fest/e.~\ There was a famous story of a London Tren- 
tice who tore out the hearts of two lions, and chucked them in a 
Sultan's face. 


plays, as they say, before; but I should have seen 
Jane Shore once ; and my husband hath promised me 
any time this twelvemonth to carry me to the Bold 
Beauchamps, but in truth he did not. I pray you bear 
with me. 

Cit. Boy, let my wife and I have a couple of stools, and then 
begin ; and let the grocer do rare things. 

[Stools are brought, and they sit down. 

Prol. But, sir, we have never a boy to play him : every one 
hath a part already. 

Wife. Husband, husband, for Grod's sake let Ralph play 
him. Beshrew me, if I don't think he will go beyond 
them all. 

at. "Well remember' d, wife. — Come up, Ralph ! I'll tell 
you, gentlemen; let them but lend him a suit of 

reparrel, and necessaries, and by gad, if 

[Ralph comes on the stage. 

Wife. I pray you, youth, let him have a suit of reparrel ! 
I'll be sworn, gentlemen, my husband tells you true. 
He will act you sometimes at our house, that all the 
neighbours cry out on him ; he will fetch you up a 
couraging part so in the garret, that we are all as 
feared, I warrant you, that we quake again. "We'll 
fear our children with him. If they be never so unruly, 
do but cry, " Ralph comes, Ralph comes," to them, and 
they'll be as quiet as lambs. — Hold up thy head, Ralph ; 
show the gentleman what thou canst do ; speak a huffing 
part; I warrant you the gentlemen will accept of it. 

at. Do, Ralph, do. 

Ralph. By Heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap 
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon, 
Or dive into the bottom of the sea 9 
Where never fathom-line touched any ground. 
And pluck up drowned honour from the lake of hell.* 

at. How say you, gentlemen, is it not as I told you ? 

Wife. Nay, gentlemen, he hath played before, my husband 
says, Musidorus, before the wardens of our company. 

1 By Heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap, Sfc.\ The famous passage 
(with a variation in the last line) spouted by Hotspur. 


Cit. Ay, and lie should have played Jeronimo with a shoe- 
maker for a wager. 

Prol. He shall have a suit of apparel, if he will go in. 

Cit. In, Ralph ; in, Ealph ! and set out the grocery in their 
kind, if thou lovest me. 

Wife, I warrant our Ralph will look finely when he's dress' d. 

Prol. But what will you have it call'd? 

Cit. " The Grocer's Honour:' [better. 

Prol. Methinks " The Knight of the Burning Pestle " were 

Wife. I'll be sworn, husband, that's as good a name as 
can be. 

Cit. Let it be so ; begin, begin : my wife and I will sit down. 

Prol. I pray you do. 

Cit. What stately music have you ? you have shawms P 1 

Prol. Shawms ? No. 

Cit. No ? I'm a thief if my mind did not give me so. Ealph 
plays a stately part, and he must needs have shawms. 
I'll be at the charge of them myself, rather than we'll 
be without them. 

ProL So you are like to be. 

Cit. "Why, and so I will be. There's two shillings ; let's 
have the waits of Southwark ! they are as rare fellows 
as any are in England ; and that will fetch them all o'er 
the water, with a vengeance, as if they were mad. 

ProL Ton shall have them. Will you sit down then ? 

Cit. Ay. — Come, wife. 

Wife. Sit you merry all, gentlemen. I'm bold to sit 
amongst you for my ease. 

Prol. From all that's near the court, from all that's great 
Within the coynpass of the city-walls, 
We now have brought our scene. Fly far from hence 
All private taxes? [alT] immodest phrases, 
Whatever may but show like vicious ! 
For wicked mirth never true pleasure brings, 
But honest minds are pleased vjith honest things. 

1 Shawms.'] The shawm or shalm (French Chalumelle, Latin Calamus 
was a pipe resembling a hautboy, with a protuberance in the middle 
— Dyce. 

* All private taxes.] Attacks on private lives. 


Thus much for what we do ; but, for Ralph's part, you 
must answer for yourself. 1 


Scene — A Grocer's Shop. 

Enter Ralph, like a Grocer, with Two Apprentices, reading 
Palmerin of England. 2 

[Wife. Oh, husband, husband, now, now I there's Ralph, 

there's Ralph. 
Cit. Peace, fool I let Ralph alone. — Hark you, Ralph; do 

not strain yourself too much at the first. Peace I Begin, 

Ralph. ~] 

Ralph (reads). Then Palmerin and Trineus, snatching their lances 
from their dwarfs, and clasping their helmets, gallop' d amain after the 
giant ; and Palmerin having gotten a sight of him, came posting amain, 
saying, ' Stay, traitorous thief ! for thou mayst not so carry away her 
that is worth the greatest lord in the world ;' and, with these words, 
gave him a blow on the shoulder, that he struck him besides his 
elephant. And Trineus coming to the knight that had Agricola behind 
laim, set him soon besides his horse, with his neck broken in the fall ; so 
that the princess getting out of the throng, between joy and grief, said, 
' All happy knight, the mirror of all such as follow arms, now may I be 
Veil assured of the love thou bearest me.' 

I wonder why the kings do not raise an army of fourteen 
or fifteen hundred thousand men, as big as the army 

Answer for yourself] We are to suppose that the part taken by 
Ralph in these performances is extemporised, — a proceeding not without 
example in those times. 

2 Palmerin of England.'] A mistake for Palmerin d'Oliva. — Webeb. 
Both the romances so named were translated by Anthony Munday. 
His version of the first was reprinted, with corrections, by Mr. Southey, 
to whom the public have been also indebted for an excellent version of 
another beautiful romance, Amadis de Gaul. For Palmerin of England 
is a beautiful romance too, though of a less order. It possesses noble sen- 
timent, affecting incident, delicate sketches of landscape, and has a truly 
heraldic eye for colour and costume. Everything which a poet banters 
or parodies is not to be supposed an object of his contempt. His parody 
is often a compliment, and his banter intended for such readers as do 
not read wisely. 


that the prince of Portigo brought against Rosicler, 1 
and destroy these giants ; they do much hurt to wan- 
dering damsels, that go in quest of their knights. 

[Wife. 'Faith, husband, and Ralph says true ; for they 
say the King of Portugal cannot sit at his meat, hut the 
giants and the ettins" will come and snatch it from 

Cit. Hold thy tongue. — On, Ralph /] 

Ralph. And certainly those knights are much to be com- 
mended, who, neglecting their possessions, wander with 
a squire and a dwarf through the deserts, to relieve poor 

[Wife. Ay, by my faith are they, Ralph; let 'em say what 
they will, they are indeed. Our knights neglect their 
possessions v: ell enough, but they do not the rest.~\ 

Ralph. What brave spirit could be content to sit in his 
shop, with a flappet of wood, 3 and a blue apron before 
him, selling mithridatum, 4 that might pursue feats of 
arms, and, through his noble achievements, procure 
such a famous history to be written of his heroic 
prowess ? 

[Cit. Well said, Ralph ; some more of those words, Ralph ! 

Wife . Th ey g o fin ely, by my troth . ] 

Ralph. Why should not I then pursue this course, both for 
the credit of myself and our company ? for amongst all 
the worthy books of achievements, I do not call to mind 
that I yet read of a Grocer-Errant ; I will be the said 
Knight, — Have you heard of any that hath wandered 
unfurnished of his squire and dwarf ? My elder 'prentice 
Tim shall be my trusty squire, and little George my 

1 Brought against Rosicleer.~\ In another Spanish romance. 

2 The giant and the ettins.'] Supposed to be cannibals ; from the 
Anglo-Saxon etan, to eat. Query, Heathens ? 

3 A flappet of v:ood.'] To drive away flies ? Butchers use a leather 
flap for the purpose, with a wooden handle. 

4 Mithridatum.'] " This composition originally consisted of but few 
ingredients ; viz. twenty leaves of rue, two walnuts, two figs, and a little 
salt. Of this we are informed, that Mithridates took a dose every 
morning, to guard himself against the effects of poison. It was after- 
wards altered, and the number of ingredients increased to sixty-one. 
A preparation of this kind is still made at Apothecaries' Hall, though 
seldom used." — Hoopee's Medical Dictionary. 


dwarf. Hence, my blue apron ! Yet, in remembrance 
of my former trade, upon my shield shall be pourtrayed 
a Burning Pestle, and I will be called the Knight of 
the Burning Pestle. 
["Wife. Nay, I dare swear thou wilt not forget thy old 

trade ; .thou wert ever meek.~\ 
Ralph. Tim! 
Tim. Anon. 

Ralph. My beloved squire, and George my dwarf, I charge 
you that from henceforth you never call me by any 
other name but the Right courteous and valiant Knight 
of the Burning Pestle ; and that you never call any 
female by the name of woman or wench, but fair lady, 
if she have her desires ; if not, distressed damsel ; that 
you call all forests and heaths, deserts, and all horses, 
pa {fries ! 
[Wife. This is very fine ! — ' Faith, do the gentlemen like 

Ralph, think you, husband? 
Cit. Ay, I warrant thee ; the players would give all the 

shoes in their shop for him.'] 
Ralph. My beloved squire Tim, stand out. Admit this were 
a desert, and over it a knight- errant pricking, 1 and I 
should bid you enquire of his intents, what would you 
Tim. c Sir, my master sent me to know whither you are 

riding ? ' 
Ralph. No ! thus ; c Pair sir ! the Right courteous and 
valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle commanded me to 
enquire upon what adventure you are bound, whether 
to relieve some distressed damsels, or otherwise.' 
[Cit. Blockhead! cannot remember? 

Wife. I faith, and Ralph told him orCt before; all the 
gentlemen heard him ; did he not, gentlemen ? did not 
Ralph tell him on' t ?~\ 
George. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning 
Pestle, here is a distressed damsel, to have a halfpenny- 
worth of pepper. 

Pricking.'] Spurring. 

" A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine." — Spenser* 


[Wife. That's a good boy! see, the little boy can hit it: 

by my troth, it's a fine childJ] 
Ralph. Eelieve ber with all courteous language. 

IVow shut up shop ; no more my 'prentice, but 

My trusty squire and dwarf. I must bespeak 

My shield, and arming Pestle. 
[Cit. Go thy ways, Ralph I As I am a true man, thou art 

the best on 'em all. 
Wife. Ralph, Ralph ! 
Ralph. What say you, mistress ? 
Wife. I pr'ythee come again quickly, sweet Ralph. 
Ralph. Bye-and-bye.~\ 

Scene — A Room in the Bell Inn. 

Enter Mrs. Merrythought, Ralph, Michael, Tim, 
George, Host, and a Tapster. 

Tapster. Master, the reckoning is not paid. 

Ralph. Right courteous Knight, who, for the order's sake, 
Which thou hast ta'en, hang'st out the holy Bell, 
As I this naming Pestle bear about, 
We render thanks to your puissant self, 
Tour beauteous lady, and your gentle squires, 
Per thus refreshing of our wearied limbs, 
Stiffen' d with hard achievements in wild desart. 

Tap. Sir, there is twelve shillings to pay. 

Ralph. Thou merry squire Tapstero, thanks to thee 
For comforting our souls with double jug ! 
And if adventurous Fortune prick thee forth, 
Thou jovial squire, to follow feats of arms ? 
Take heed thou tender every lady's cause, 
Every true knight, and every damsel fair ! 
But spill the blood of treacherous Saracens, 
And false enchanters, that with magic spells 
Have done to death full many a noble knight. 

Host. Thou valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, give ear 
to me; there is twelve shillings to pay, and, as I am a 
true Knight, I will not bate a penny. 

[Wife. George, I pray thee tell me; must Ralph pay twelve 
shillings now ? 


Cit. No, Nell, no; nothing but the old Knight is merry 

with Ralph. 
Wife. Oh, is't nothing else ? Ralph will be as merry as he.~] 
Ralph. Sir Knight, this mirth of yours becomes you well ; 
But, to requite this liberal courtesy, 
If any of your squires will follow arms, 
He shall receive from my heroic hand 
A knighthood, by the virtue of this Pestle. 
Host. Pair Knight, I thank you for your noble offer ; there- 
fore, gentle Knight, twelve shillings you must pay, or I 
must cap 1 you. 
[Wife. Look, George ! did not I tell thee as much ? the 
Knight of the Bell is in earnest. Ralph shall not be 
beholding to him. Give him his money, George, and let 
him go snick up. 2 
Cit. Cap Ralph ? No ; hold your hand, Sir Knight of the 
Bell ! There's your money ; have you anything to say 
to Ralph now ? Cap Ralph ? 
Wife. I would you should know it, Ralph has friends that 
will not suffer him to be captfor ten times so much, and 
ten times to the end of that. Now take thy course, Ralph /"] 
Mrs. Mer. Come, Michael ; thou and I will go home to thy 
father ; he hath enough left to keep us a day or two, 
and we'll set fellows abroad to cry our purse and our 
casket : shall we, Michael ? 
Mich. Ay, I pray, mother ; in truth my feet are full of chil- 
blains with travelling. 
[Wife. 'Faith, and those chilblains are a foul trouble. 
Mistress Merrythought, when your youth comes home, let 
him rub all the soles of his feet, and his heels, and his 
ankles, with a mouse-skin ; or, if none of your people can 
catch a mouse, when he goes to bed, let him roll his feet 
in the warm embers, and I warrant you he shall be well.'] 
Mrs. Mer. Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, my son 

1 Cap you.] Arrest you ; a cant abbreviation of a law term : I must 
serve you with a capias. 

2 Snick up.'] "A meek or snick of a door (says Eichardson in his 
Dictionary) is the catch or latch ; that which snatches or catches hold. 
To snech tip or snick up is supposed to be equivalent to ' Gro hang your- 
self :' (q. d.) snick up, catch up, latch up, the noose or cord." 


Michael and I bid you farewell. I thank your worship 
heartily for your kindness. 

Ralph. Farewell, fair lady, and your tender squire ! 
If, pricking through these desarts, I do hear 
Of any traitorous knight who through his guile 
Hath lit upon your casket and your purse, 
I will despoil him of them, and restore them. 

Mrs. Mer. I thank your worship. [Exit with Michael. 

Ralph. Dwarf, bear my shield ; squire, elevate my lance ; 
And now farewell, you Knight of holy Bell ! 

[Cit. Ay, ay, Ralph, all is paid.~] 

Ralph. But yet, before I go, speak, worthy knight, 
If aught you do of sad adventures know, 
Where errant-knight may through his prowess win 
Eternal fame, and free some gentle souls 
From endless bonds of steel and lingering pain. 

Host. Sirrah, go to Nick the barber, and bid him prepare 
himself, as I told you before, quickly. 

Tap. I am gone, sir. [Exit. 

Host. Sir Knight, this wilderness affordeth none 

But the great venture, where full many a knight 
Hath tried his prowess, and come off with shame, 
And where I would not, have you lose your life, 
Against no man, but furious fiend of hell. 

Ralph. Speak on, Sir Knight ; tell what he is, and where : 
For here I vow upon my blazing badge, 
Never to blaze a day in quietness, 
But bread and water will I only eat, 
And the green herb and rock shall be my couch, 
Till I have quell' d that man, or beast, or fiend, 
That works such damage to all errant-knights. 

Host. Not far from hence, near to a craggy cliff, 
At the north end of this distressed town, 
There doth stand a lowly house 1 

1 A lowly housed It has been proposed for this imperfect line to read — 

"A mansion there doth stand, a lonely house ;" 

and probably this was nearer to the line as the poet wrote it ; but there 
would be no end of the endeavour to supply the imperfections of old 
misprinted books. The lowly house, too, is a barber's shop, which is 
not likely to have been a lonely one. 


Ruggedly builded, and in it a cave 

In which an ugly giant now doth won, 

Tcleped Barbaroso ; in his hand 

He shakes a naked lance of purest steel, 

With sleeves turn'd up ; and, him before, he wears 

A motley garment, to preserve his clothes 

From blood of those knights which he massacres, 

And ladies gent : without his door doth hang 

A copper bason, on a prickant spear, 

At which no sooner gentle knights can knock 

But the shrill sound fierce Barbaroso hears, 

And rushing forth, brings in the errant-knight, 

And sets him down in an enchanted chair : 

Then with an engine, which he hath prepar'd, 

With forty teeth, he claws his courtly crown, 

Next makes him wink, and underneath his chin 

He 'plants a brazen piece of mighty bord, 1 

And knocks his bullets round about his cheeks 5 

"Whilst with his fingers, and an instrument 

With which he snaps his hair off, he doth fill 

The wretch's ears with a most hideous noise. 

Thus every knight-adventurer he doth trim, 

And now no creature dares encounter him. 

Ralph. In God's name, I will fight with him. Kind sir, 
Go but before me to this dismal cave 
Where this huge giant Barbaroso dwells, 
And, by that virtue that brave Eosicler 
That damned brood of ugly giants slew, 
And Palmerin Frannarco overthrew, 
I doubt not but to curb this traitor foul, 
And to the devil send his guilty soul. 

Host. Brave-sprighted Knight, thus far I will perform 
This your request ; I'll bring you within sight 
Of this most loathsome place, inhabited 
By a more loathsome man ; but dare not stay, 
,Por his main force swoops all he sees away. 

1 MigMy bordJ] Bore, depth. Or perhaps he means mighty breadth. 
A" board " is a broad or breadth* The barber's bason, by a violent image, 
is described as if it were a piece of ordnance. What is meant by likening 
the shaving brush to bullets, I cannot say. 


Ralph. Saint George ! Set on, before ; march, squire and 
page ! [Exeunt. 

[Wife. George, dost think Ralph will confound the giant ? 
Cit. I hold my cap to a farthing he does. Why, Nell, 1 

saw him wrestle with the great Dutchman, and hurl him.'] 

#jfc . • , Jfc .jfc . . «at» ■ At. jti ju 

W IP W It "78* "7V" W 

[After some previous great deeds atchieved by this Mower 
of Grocery, the "Wife exclaims — 

Ay marry, Ralph, this has some savour irCt ; I would see 
the proudest of them all offer to carry his books 1 after 
him. But, George, I will not have him go away so soon ; 
I shall'be sick if he go away, that I shall ; call Ralph 
again, George ; call Ralph again, I pr'ythee, sweetheart ; 
let him come fight before me, and let's ha 9 some drums, 
and some trumpets, and let him kill all that comes near 
him, an' thou lov'st me, George I 

Cit. Peace a little, bird ! he shall kill them all, ari they 
were twenty more on 'em than there are. 

Again, on another occasion, the "Wife says — 

George, let Ralph travel over great hills, and let him be very 
weary, and come to the king of Cracovia's house, covered 
with [black] velvet, and there let the king's daughter stand 
in her window all in beaten gold, combing her golden locks 
with a comb of ivory ; and let her spy Ralph, and fall in 
love with him, and come down to him, and carry him into 
her father's home, and then let Ralph talk with her ! 

Cit. Well said, Nell; it shall be so. Boy, let's ha? it 
done quickly. 

Boy. Sir, if you will imagine all this to be done already, 
you shall hear them talk together ; but we cannot present a 
house covered with black velvet, and a lady in beaten gold. 

Cit. Sir Boy, lefs ha' it as you can then. 

Boy. Resides, it will show ill-favour edly to have a grocer's 
'prentice to court a king's daughter. 

Cit. Will it so, sir ? You are well read in histories ! I pray 
you, what was Sir Dagonet ? Was not he 'prentice to a 
grocer in London ? Read the play of the Four 'Prentices 
of London, where they toss, their pikes so.] 

1 Carry his books.] Query, looks ? — sustain the like haughty deport- 
ment ? I do not know what is meant by the phrase, " carry his books." 




Scene— A Room in Merrythought's House. 

Enter Jasper and Mrs. Merrythought. 

Mrs. Mer. Give thee my blessing ? No, I'll ne'er give thee 
my blessing ; I'll see thee hang'd first. It shall ne'er 
be said I gave thee my blessing. Thou art thy father's 
own son, of the right blood of the Merrythoughts. I 
may curse the time that e'er I knew thy father. He 
hath spent all his own, and mine too, and when I tell 
him of it, he laughs and dances, and sings, and cries, 
" A merry heart lives long-a." And thou art a waste- 
thrift, and art run away from thy master that loved thee 
well, and art come to me ; and I have laid up a little 
for my younger son Michael, and thou think' st to 
'bezzle that ; but thou shalt never be able to do it. 

Enter Michael. 

Come hither, Michael ; come, Michael ; down on thy 

knees. Thou shalt have my blessing. 
Mich, {kneels?) I pray you, mother, pray to Grod to bless 

me ! 
Mrs. Mer. God bless thee ! but Jasper shall never have my 

blessing ; he shall be hanged first, shall he not, Michael ? 

how say'st thou ? 
Mich. Tes, forsooth, mother, and grace of Grod. 
Mrs. Mer. That's a good boy ! 
[Wife. Y faith, it's a fine spoken child I'] 
Jasp. Mother, though you forget a parent's love, 

I must preserve the duty of a child. 

I ran not from my master, nor return 

To have your stock maintain my idleness. 
[Wife. Ungracious child, Y warrant him! hark, how he 

chops logic with his mother. Thou hadst best tell her she 

lies ; do tell her she lies. 
Cit. Yf he were my son, Y would hang him up by the heels, 

and flea him, and salt him.^\ 
Jasp. My coming only is to beg your love, 

Which I must ever, though I never gain it ; 


And, howsoever you esteem of me, 
There is no drop of blood hid in these veins, 
But I remember well belongs to you, 
That brought me forth, and would be glad for you 
To rip them all again, and let it out. 
.Mrs. Mer. I'faith, I had sorrow enough for thee (God 
knows) ; but I'll hamper thee well enough. — Get thee 
in, thou vagabond, get thee in, and learn of thy brother 

Mer. {singing within). Nose, nose, jolly red nose, 

And who gave thee this jolly red nose ? 

Mrs. Mer. Hark, my husband! he's singing and hoiting, 
and I'm fain to cark and care, and all little enough. — 
Husband ! Charles ! Charles Merrythought ! 

Enter Old Meeeythotjght. 

Mer. {singing). Nutmegs and ginger, cinnamon and cloves ; 
And they gave me this jolly red nose. 

Mrs. Mer. If you would consider your state, you would 
have little lust to sing, I wis. 

Mer. It should never be considered, while it were an estate, 
if I thought it would spoil my singing. 

Mrs. Mer. But how wilt thou do, Charles ? thou art an old 
man, and thou canst not work, and thou hast not forty 
shillings left, and thou eatest good meat, and drinkest 
good drink, and laughest. 

Mer. And will do. 

Mrs. Mer. But how wilt thou come by it, Charles ? 

Mer. How ? Why, how have I done hitherto these forty 
years ? I never came into my dining-room, but, at 
eleven and six o'clock, I found excellent meat and drink 
o' th' table ; my clothes were never worn out, but next 
morning a tailor brought me a new suit ; and without 
question it will be so ever ! Use makes perfectness ; if 
all should fail, it is but a little straining myself extra- 
ordinary, and laugh myself to death. 

1 Jolly red nose.'] Part of a clever old drinking song, still known 
among singers as a favourite glee. 


[Wife. Its a foolish old man this ; is not he, George ? Give 
me a penny i 9 tK purse while I live. 

Cit. Ay, by 9 r lady, hold thee there /] 

Mrs. Mer. Well, Charles ; you promised to provide for 
Jasper, and I have laid up for Michael : I pray you pay 
Jasper his portion ; he's come home, and he shall not 
consume Michael's stock ; he says his master turned 
him away, but I promise you truly I think he ran 

[Wife. No, indeed, mistress Merrythought, though he be a 
notable gallows, yet Vll assure you his master did turn 
him away, even in this place ; 'twas,? faith, within this 
half -hour, about his daughter ; my husband was by. 

Git. Sang him, rogue I he served him well enough. Love 
his master's daughter ? 

Wife. Ay, George; but yet truth is truth.~\ 

Mer. Where is Jasper ? he's welcome, however. Call him 
in ; he shall have his portion. Is he merry ? 

Mrs. Mer. Ay, foul chive hiin,* he is too merry. Jasper ! 
Michael ! 

Enter Jasper and Michael. 

Mer. Welcome, Jasper ! though thou runn'st away, 
welcome ! God bless thee ! 'Tis thy mother's mind 
thou shouldst receive thy portion. Thou hast been 
abroad, and I hope hast learn'd experience enough to 
govern it ; thou art of sufficient years ; hold thy hand. 
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine ; there 
is ten shillings for thee ; thrust thyself into the world 
with that, and take some settled course. If Fortune 
cross thee, thou hast a retiring place ; come home to 
me ; I have twenty shillings left. Be a good husband ; 
that is, wear ordinary clothes, eat the best meat, and 
drink the best drink ; be merry, and give to the poor, 
and, believe me, thou hast no end of thy goods. 

1 Foul chive him.'] Bad luck master him, or get us rid of him. Fr. 
chevir. To this French word, at least, the phrase has been traced. But 
I know not whether Weber's conjecture of its, being a provincialism for 
shall have him is not as well founded. 


Jasper. Long may you live free from all thought of ill, 

And long have cause to be thus merry still ! 

But, father 

Mer. ~No more words, Jasper ; get thee gone ! Thou hast 

my blessing ; thy father's spirit upon thee ! Farewell, 

Jasper ! 

But yet, or ere you part (oh, cruel !) 

Kiss me, kiss me, sweeting, mine own dear jewel ! 

So ; now begone ; no words ! [Exit Jaspeb. 

Mrs. Mer. So, Michael ; now get thee gone too. 

Mick. Yes, forsooth, mother; but I'll have my father's 
blessing first. 

Mrs. Mer. No, Michael; 'tis no matter for his blessing; 
thou hast my blessing ; begone. I'll fetch my money 
and jewels, and follow thee. I'll stay no longer with 
him, I warrant thee. — Truly, Charles, I'll be gone too. 

Mer. What ? you will not ? 

Mrs. Mer, Tes, indeed will I. 

Mer. (sijigs.) Hey-ho, farewell, Nan ! 

I'll never trust wench more again, if I can. 

Mrs. Mer. Tou shall not think (when all your own is gone) 
to spend that I have been scraping up for Michael. 

Mer. Farewell, good wife ! I expect it not ; all I have to do 
in this world, is to be merry ; which I shall, if the 
ground be not taken from me ; and if it be, [Sings. 

When earth and seas from me are reft, 

The skies aloft for me are left. \_Exeunt. 

[Wife. Til be sworn he's a mer 7*y old gentleman, for all that. 
Hark, hark, husband, hark ! fiddles, fiddles ! [Music] 
Now surely they go finely. They say 'tis present death 
for these fiddlers to tune their rebecks before the great 
Turk's grace; is't not, George! [Boy danceth.] But 
look, look ! here's a youth dances ! now, good youth, 
do a turn o' th' toe. Sweetheart, i' faith I'll have Ralph 
come and do some of his gambols ; he'll ride the wild- 
mare, gentlemen, 'twould do your hearts good to see him. 
I thank you, kind youth ; pray bid Ralph come. 

Cit. Sirrah, you scurvy boy, bid the players send Ralph* 


Art they do not, Til tear some of their perriwigs beside 
their heads. This is all riff-raff ;] 


Merrythought (sings). Wlien it was grown to dark midnight, 

And all were fast asleep, 
In came Margaret's grimly ghost, 
And stood at William's feet. 

I have money, and meat, and drink, before-hand, till to- 
morrow at noon ; why should I be sad ? Methinks I 
have half-a-dozen jovial spirits within me. [Sings."] 
" I am three merry men, and three merry men!" — To 
what end should any man be sad in this world ? I 
have seen a man come by my door with a serious face, 
in a black cloak, without a hat-band, carrying his head 
as if he look'd for pins in the street. I have look'd 
out of my window half-a-year after, and have spied that 
man's head upon London-bridge. 'Tis vile. Never 
trust a tailor that does not sing at his work : his mind 
is on nothing but niching. 
[Wife. Mark this, George! 'tis worth noting. Godfrey, 
my tailor, you know, never sings ; and he had fourteen 
yards to make this gown, and Til be sworn, mistress 
Penistone, the draper's wife, had one made with twelve.] 

Mer. 'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood, 

More than wine, or sleep, or food : 
Let each man keep his heart at ease 5 
"No man dies of that disease. 
He that would his body keep 
From diseases, must not weep ; 
But whoever laughs and sings, 
Never he his body brings 
Into fevers, gouts, or rheums, 
Or ling'ringly his lungs consumes, 
Or meets with aches in the bone, 
Or catarrhs, or griping stone, 
But contented lives for aye ; 
The more he laughs, the more he may. 

[" The Knight of the Burning Pestle of Beaumont and Fletcher is an 
incomparable and singular work in its kind. It is a parody of the 
chivalry romances ; the thought is borrowed from Don Quixote, but the 
imitation is handled with freedom, and so particularly applied to Spenser's 

cupid's revenge. 171 

Fairy Queen (query, the old stage plays and story-books ?) that it may 
pass for a second invention. But the peculiarly ingenious novelty of the 
piece consists in the combination of the irony of a chimerical abuse of 
poetry, with another irony exactly the contrary, of the incapacity to 
comprehend any fable, and the dramatic form more particularly. A 
grocer and his wife come as spectators to the theatre ; they are discon- 
tented with the piece which has just been announced ; they demand a 
play in honour of the Corporation, and Ralph, their apprentice, is to 
act a principal part in it. They are well received ; but still they are not 
satisfied, make their observations on everything, and incessantly address 
themselves to the players. Ben Jonsonhad already exhibited imaginary 
spectators, but they were either benevolent expounders, or awkward 
eensurers, of the views of the poet ; consequently they always conducted 
his, the poet's, own cause. But the grocer and his wife represent a 
whole genus ; namely, those unpoetical spectators who are destitute of a 
feeling for art. The illusion with them becomes a passive error ; the 
subject represented has all the effect of reality on them : they therefore 
resign themselves to the impression of each moment, and take part for 
or against the persons of the drama: on the other hand, they show them- 
selves insensible to all genuine illusion, — that is, of entering vividly into 
the spirit of the fable. Ralph, however heroically and chivalrously he may 
conduct himself, is always for them Ralph their apprentice : and they 
take upon them, in the whim of the moment, to demand scenes which 
are quite inconsistent with the plan of the piece that has commenced. 
In short, the views and demands with which poets are often oppressed 
by a prosaical public are personified in the most ingenious and amusing 
manner in these caricatures of spectators." — Schlegel, as above i 
Bolin's edition, p. 473.] 


He is like 
Nothing that we have seen, yet doth resemble 
Apollo, as I oft have fancied him, 
When rising from his bed he stirs himself, 
And shakes day from his hair. 



The nsage I have had, I know, would make 
Wisdom herself run frantic through the streets, 
And Patience quarrel with her shadow. 




Leucippus and Urania ; the latter, who is disguised as his page, having 


Leuc. How dost thou ? 

Let not thy misery vex me ; thou, shalt have 
"What thy poor heart can wish : I am a prince, 
And I will keep thee in the gayest clothes, 
And the finest things that ever pretty boy 
Had given him. 

Urania. I know you well enough. 

'Faith, I am dying ; and now you know all too. 

Leuc. But stir thyself. Look, what a jewel here is ; 
See how it glisters ! what a pretty show 
"Will this make in thy little ear ! ha, speak ! 
Eat but a bit, and take it. 

lira. Do you not know me ? 

Leuc. I pr'ythee mind thy health ! why, that's well said ; 
My good boy, smile still. 

Ura. I shall smile till death, 

An' I see you. I am TJrania. 

Leuc. How ! 

Ura. I am Urania. 

Leuc. Dulness did seize me ! now I know thee well : 
Alas, why eam'st thou hither ? 

Ura. 'Faith, for love : 

I would not let you know till I was dying ; 
For you could not love me, my mother was 
So naught. [Dies. 


Theodoret. But that I know these tears, I could dote on 
And kneel to catch 'em as they fall, then knit 'em 
Into an armlet, ever to be honour' d : 
But, woman, they are dangerous drops, deceitful, 
Full of the weeper, anger and ill nature. 



Enter King, Thierry, and Theodoret, from hunting. 

Theod. This stag stood well, and cunningly. 

Thierry. My horse, 

I am sure, has found it, for his sides are blooded 
From flank to shoulder. Where's the troop ? 

Enter Martell. 

Theod. Pass'd homeward, 

Weary and tired as we are. — Now, Martell ; 
Have you remember' d what we thought of? 

Thi. What is that ? 

May not I know too ? 

Theod. Yes, sir ; to that end 
We cast the project. 

Thi. 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, 
Tour mother's wandering eyes, and your obedience, 
Have flung upon us ; to assure your knowledge, 
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, unmanner'd, 
TJnhonest, unaffected, undone fool, 
And most unheard-of coward. 

Thi. No more ! I know him ; 

I now repent my error. Take your time, 
And try him home, ever thus far reserved, 
Tou tie your anger up ! 

Mart. I lose 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 halloo in the troop ! [Exeunt. Wind horns. 

Enter Two Huntsmen, and to them Peotaldye. 

Prot. How now, keepers ? 

Saw you the king ? 
1 Hunts. Tes, sir ; he's newly mounted, 

And, as we take it, ridden home. 
Prot. Farewell then ! [Exeunt Huntsmen. 

Enter Maetell. 

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, 
]STor what your fortune means. 

Mart. Pew words shall serve. 

I am betray' d, 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 me, 
I have met a noble guard. 

Prot. Tour meaning, sir ? 

For I have present business. 

Mart. Oh, my lord, 

Tour 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, 


What can six do, or six score, now you're present ? 
Your name will blow 'em off. Say they have shot too ; 
"Who dare present a piece ? your valour's proof, sir. 
n rot. ]NTo, I'll assure you, sir, nor my discretion, 
Against a multitude. 'Tis true, I dare fight 
Eoough, 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 yours, 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 ? Why, Hercules 
Avoided two, man. Tet, not to give example, 
But only for your present danger's sake, sir, 
Were there but four, sir, I cared not if I kill'd them ; 
They'll serve to whet my sword. 

Mart. There are but four, sir ; 

I did mistake them ; but four such as Europe, 
Excepting your great valour 

Trot. Well consider' d ! 

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. 

ProL That I find not. 

Mart. You will not leave me thus ? 

Proi. I would not leave you ; but look you, sir, 
Men of my place and business must not 
Be question'd 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'll 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, 


So hew'd and tortur'd, that the truth is, sir, 

I have mainly vow'd against 'em. Yet, for your sake, 

If, as you say, there be but one, I'll stay 

And see fair play o' both sides. 

Mart. There is no 

More, sir, and, as I doubt, a base one too. 

Prot. Py on him ! Gro, lag him out by th' ears ! 

Mart. Yes, this is he, sir ; the basest in the kingdom. 

[Seizes him. 

Prot. Do you know me ? 

Mart. Yes, for a general fool, 

A knave, a coward ; puppy, that dares not bite. 

Prot. The best man best knows patience. 

Mart. Yes, 

This way, sir ; now draw your sword, and right you, 

[Kicks him. 
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 ! 

Mart. JN!ow get you home, and tell your lady mistress, 

She has shot up a sweet mushroom ! quit your place too, 
And say you are counsell'd well ; thou wilt be beaten 

By thine own lanceprisadoes 1 (when they know thee), 
That tuns of oil of roses will not cure thee : 
Go ; 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. 

Scene changes to a Hall in the Palace, with Thierry, Theo- 
doret, and others. Enter to them Martell, with 
Protaldye's sword. 

Theod. Look, sir ; he has it ! 

Nay, we shall have peace when so great a soldier 
As the renown' d Protaldye will give up 
His sword rather than use it. 

1 Lanceprisadoes.'] Sometimes written lancepesades, from lancia 
spezzata, Italian. "A lance-spezzado (says Florio's Dictionary), a 
broken lance, a demi-lance ; also one that in time of war, or great need, 
comes armed on horseback to assist his prince." 


Thi. Pray you speak ; 

How won you him to part from't P 

Mart. Won hiin, sir ? 

He would have yielded it upon Ids knees, 

Before he would have hazarded the exchange 

Of a fillip of the forehead. Had you wilPd me, 

I durst have undertook he should have sent you 

His nose, provided that the loss of it 

Might have saved the rest of his face. He is, sir, 

The most unutterable coward that e'er nature 

Bless'd with hard shoulders ; which were only given him 

To the ruin of bastinadoes. — I'll hazard 

My life upon it, that a boy of twelve 

Should scourge him hither like a parish top, 

And make him dance before you. 


Thierry, ly a wicked contrivance between his mother and a pretended 
astrologer, is persuaded to kill the first woman he meets coming out of a 
place of worship, in order that he may free his Queen from barrenness. 
He meets the Queen herself % without hioiving her. 

Scene — Before the Temple of Diana, 

Enter Thierry and Martell. 

Mart. Tour grace is early stirring. 

Thi. How can he sleep, 

"Whose happiness is laid up in an hour 

He knows comes stealing toward him ? 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 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 ! 

Thi. But ten time happier, 

That lives to do the greater ! Oh, Mart oil, 
The gods have heard me now ; and those that scorned me, 
Mothers of many children, and bless'd fathers, 



That see their issues like the stars unnumber'd, 
Their comforts more than them, shall in my praises 
l$ow 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 bless'd Ordella, 
That comes so near the sacrament itself, 
The priests doubt whether purer ! 

[He stands musing, in a hind of ecstasy. 

Mart. Sir, you are lost ! 

Thi. I pr'ythee 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 ? 

Thi. This hand, Martell ; 

For who less dare presume to give the gods 
An incense of this offering ? 

Mart. 'Would I were she ! 

For such a way to die, and such a blessing, 
Can never crown my parting. — 
Here comes a woman. 

Enter Oedella, veiled. 

Thi. 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 pleased with, 
And, offering at their altars, gives his soul 
Ear purer than those fires) pull heaven upon her ! 
Tou holy powers, no human spot dwell in her ! — 
No love of anything, 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 bequeath to women! Hear me. Heaven! 
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 increase, 

So ]et 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 will receive a blessing, 

The king and kingdom, not a private safety, 

A general blessing, lady ? 
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, 

Tou 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 

It 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 womasL 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 anything 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 

"With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, 
With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay 
For in the silent grave no conversation, [reason ! 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
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 age blow out their lights, or rotten humours 
Bring them dispersed to th' earth. 

Thi. Then you can suffer ? 

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. 

Thi. 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 ? 


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. 
Tin. Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledge, 

And what I must do, lady. 
Ord. Tou are the king, sir, 

And what you do I'll suffer ; and that blessing 

That you desire, the gods shower on the kingdom ! 
Tin. Thus much before I strike then ; for I must kill you, 

The gods have will'd it so. Thou'rt made the blessing 

Must make Prance young again, and me a man. 

Keep up your strength still nobly ! 
Ord. Fear me not. 

Thi. And meet death like a measure I 1 
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. 

Thi. Ha ! \_Pulls off her veil, lets fall 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 ! 

And if in my poor death fair France may merit, 

Give me a thousand blows ! be killing me 

A thousand days ! 
Thi. First, let the earth be barren, 

And man no more remember' d ! [Rise, Ordella, 

1 Like a measure.'] That is, harmoniously and firmly. A " measure 
was a stately dance. 


The nearest to thy Maker, and the purest 
That ever dull flesh show'd us ! — Oh, my heartstrings! 


[" I have always considered this to be the finest scene in [Fletcher, and 
Ordella the most perfect idea of the female heroic character, next to 
Calantha in the Broken Heart of Ford, that has been embodied in fiction. 
She is a piece of sainted nature. Yet, noble as the whole scene is, 
it must be confessed, that the manner of it, compared with Shakspeare' s 
finest scenes, is slow and languid. Its motion is circular, not pro- 
gressive. Each line revolves on itself in a sort of separate orbit. They 
do not join into one another like a running hand. Every step that we 
go, we are stopped to admire some single object, like walking in beautiful 
scenery with a guide. Another striking difference between Fletcher and 
Shakspeare is the fondness of the former for unnatural and violent 
situations, like that in the scene before us. He seems to have thought 
that nothing great could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief 
incidents in the Wife for a Month, in Cupid's Revenge, in the Double 
Marriage, and in many more of his tragedies, show this. Shakspeare 
had nothing of this contortion in his mind, none of that craving after 
romantic incidents and flights of strained and improbable virtue, which 
I think always betrays an imperfect moral sensibility." — Lamb.] 

Ordella 's life is saved for the present; but Thierry, who is ultimately 

poisoned by a handkerchief which his mother had given him to dry his 

tears with for her supposed loss under other circumstances, beholds, in 

his last moments, the criminal delivered up to justice, and his wife 

restored to him only to partake his death, 

Thieeey on a bed, with Doctors and Attendants. 

1 Doctor. How does your grace now feel yourself? 

Thl What's that ? 

1 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 extinguish' d ? 
Is there a grave ? (and do not natter me, 
Nor fear to tell me truth) and in that grave 
Is there a hope I shall sleep ? can I die ? 
Why do you crucify me thus with faces. 


And gaping strangely upon one another ! 
When shall I rest ? 
2 Doctor. Oh, sir, be patient ! 

1 Doctor. We do beseech your grace be more reclaim' d I 1 

This talk doth but distemper you. 
Thi. Well, I will die, 

In spite of all your potions ! One of you sleep ; 
Lie down and sleep here, that I may behold 
What blessed rest it is my eyes are robb'd of! — 
See ; he can sleep, sleep anywhere, sleep now, 
When he that wakes for him can never slumber ! 
Is't not a dainty ease ? 

2 Doctor, Your grace shall feel it. 

Thi. Oh, never, never I ! 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 piece ; but my fix'd fires 
Shall never, never set ! — Who's that ? 

Enter Martell, Brufhalt, De Vitry, and Soldiers. 

Mart. No, woman, 

Mother of mischief, no ! the day shall die first, 
And all good things live in a worse than thou art, 
Ere thou shalt sleep ! Dost thou see him ? 

Brun. Tes, 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, nor 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. 

1 More reclaim W.] Less wild. The expression is taken from falconn- . 
To reclaim a hawk, is to tame him. 


Till this man rest. 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, 
Tour murdering 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 I 1 

Thi. 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, 
This snatching from me all my youth together, 
All that you made me for, and happy mothers 
Crown' d with eternal time are proud to finish, 
Done by your will ? 

Brun. It was, and by that will 

Thi. 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 penons ! 

Brun. Holy fool, 

Whose patience to prevent my wrongs has killed thee, 
Preach not to me of punishments or fears, 
Or what I ought to be ; but what I am, 

1 Swinge her."] Scourge her. 


A woman in her liberal will defeated, 

In all her greatness cross' d, in pleasure blasted! 

My angers have been laugh' d at, my ends slighted, 

And all those glories that had crown' d my fortunes, 

Suffer'd 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. Protaldye we have taken, 
Aji equal agent with her, to whose care, 
After the damn'd defeat on you, she trusted 
The bringing-in of Leonor the bastard, 
Son to your murder' d brother. Her physician 
By this time is attach' d too, that damn'd devil! 

Enter Messenger. 

Mess. 'Tis like he will be so ; for ere we came, 

Fearing an equal justice for his mischiefs, 

He drench' d himself. 1 
Brun. He did like one of mine then ! 
Thi. Must I still see these miseries ? no night 

To hide me from their horrors ? That Protaldye 

See justice fall upon ! 
Brun. jSTow I could sleep too. 
Mart. I'll give you yet more poppy. Bring the lady, 

And Heaven in her embraces give him quiet ! 

Enter Oedella. 

Madam, unveil yourself. 
Ord. I do forgive you ; 

And though you sought my blood, yet I'll pray fcr 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 Protaldye' s broke o' th ? wheel, 

And let his cries and roars be music to her ! 

I mean to waken her. 

1 Drench 'd himself ,] Took poison. 


Thi. Do her no wrong ! -. * 

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 Bbtjnhalt with a Guard. 
Thi. "What's that appears so sweetly ? There's that face— 
Mart. Be moderate, lady ! 

Thi. That's angel's face 

Hart. 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 comest — 

Do ye see her, hoa ? 
Mart. Tes, sir ; and you shall know her. 
Thi. Down, down again ! — To be revenged 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 is 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 ? 
Mart. 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 ! 
Oh, hless'd 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 ! 

Enter Messenger and Membebge. 

Mess. Brunhalt, impatient of her constraint to see 

Protaldye tortured, has chok'd herself. 
Mart. No more ! 

Her sins go with her ! 
Thi. Love, I must die ; I faint : 

Close up my glasses I 1 

1 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 line alive ! — Nay, weep not, lady ! 

Take me ! I go. [Dies. 

Ord. Take me too ! Farewell, Honour ! [Dies. 

2 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. 

All. We your subjects ! 

Mart. De Vitry, for your services, be near us ! 

Whip out these instruments of this mad mother 

Prom court, and all good people ; and, because 

She was born noble, let that title find her 

A private grave, but neither tongue nor honour ! 

And now lead on ! They that shall read this story, 

Shall find that "Virtue lives in good, not glory. [Exeunt. 

1 My glasses?^ I. e. my glazed or dying eyes, through which the soul 
begins to see dimly. A beautiful expression. The whole of this scene 
is most affecting and terrible. 



Nothing is a misery, 
"Unless our weakness apprehend it so. 
"We cannot be more faithful to ourselves 
In anything that's manly, than to make 
111 fortune as contemptible to us, 
As it makes us to others. 


I am not yet oppress'd, 
Having the pow'r to help one that's distressed, 1 


A noble soul is like a ship at sea, 
That sleeps at anchor when the ocean "s calm ; 
But when she rages, and the wind blows high, 
He cuts his way with skill and majesty. 


Hear, ye ladies that despise, 

"What the mighty Love has done ; 
Tear examples, and be wise : 

Fair Calisto was a nun ; 
Leda, sailing on the stream 

To deceive the hopes of man, 
Love accounting but a dream, 

Doted on a silver swan ; 
Danae, in a brazen tower, 
"Where no love was, lov'd a shower. 

1 lam not yet oppressed, fyc.~] I. e. I do not consider myself thoroughly 
kept down, or overwhelmed, by calamity, as long as I can help misfortune 
in another. This noble sentiment was first expressed, I believe, by Sir 
Philip Sidney, in his Arcadia, 


Hear, ye ladies that are coy, 

What the mighty Love can do ; 
Fear the fierceness of the boy : 

The chaste moon he makes to woo ; 
Vesta, kindling holy fires, 

Circled round about with spies, 
Never dreaming loose desires, 

Doting at the altar dies ; 

Ilion, in a short hour, higher 
He can build, and once more fire. 


The Emperor Valentinian dies of poison, which has been given him for. his 
tyrannies and licentiousness. 

Enter Ltcias and Peocultjs. 

Lycias. Sicker and sicker, Proculus ? 

Proc. Oh, Lycias, 

"What shall become of us ? 'Would we had died 
With happy Chilax, or with Balbus bed-rid, 
And made too lame for justice ! 

Enter LiciNius. 

Licin. The soft music ; 

And let one sing to fasten sleep upon him. — 
Oh, friends, the emperor ! 
Proc. What say the doctors ? 
Licin. Eor us a most sad saying ; he is poison* d, 

'Beyond all cure too. 
Lycias. Who ? 
Licin. The wretch Aretus, 

That most unhappy villain. 
Lycias. How do you know it ? 

Licin. He gave him drink last. Let's disperse, and find him; 
And, since he has opened misery to all, 
- Let it begin with him first. Softly ; he slumbers. 



Valentiniak brought in sick in a chair, with EuBOXlA, 
Physicians, and Attendants. 


Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, 
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
On this afflicted prince ; fall, like a cloud, 
In gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud, 
Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet, 
And as a purling stream, thou son of Mght. 1 
Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his pain, 
Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain. 
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, 
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 

Val. Oh, gods, gods ! Drink, drink ! colder, colder 

Than snow on Scythian mountains ! Oh, my heart- 
Fud. How does your grace ? [strings ! 

Phys. The empress speaks, sir. 
Val. Dying ; 

Dying, Eudoxia, dying. 
Phys. Grood sir, patience. 
End. "What have you given him ? 
Phys. Precious things, dear lady, 

We hope shall comfort him. 
Val. Oh, flatter'd fool, 

See what thy god-head's come to ! Oh, Eudoxia ! 
Eud. Oh, patience, patience, sir ! 

1 "Easy, sweety 

And as a purling stream, thou son of Night.'] " In rhymes like night and 
sweet the fine ears of our ancestors discerned a harmony to which we 
have been unaccustomed. They perceived the double ee which is in the 
vowel i, — night, nah-eet. There is an instance in a passage in the Mid- 
summer Night's Bream, where the word bees, as well as mulberries and 
dewberries, is made to rhyme with eyes, arise, &c. Indeed in such words 
as mulberries the practice is still retained, and e and i considered corre- 
sponding sounds in the fainter termination of polysyllables -.—free, com- 
pany ; fly, company. 

" Was ever the last line of the invocation surpassed ? But it is all in 
the finest tone of mingled softness and earnestness. The verses are 
probably Fletcher's. He has repeated a passage of it in his poem 
entitled An Honest Man's Fortune." — Imagination and fancy, p. 217. 

VALENTiyTAjS-. 191 

VaL Danubius 

I'll have brought through my body 

End. Gods give comfort ! 

/ at. And Volga, on whose face the north wind freezes. 
I am an hundred hells ! an hundred piles 
Alreadv to my funeral are flaming ! 
Shall I not drink? 

Phvs. Tou must not, sir. 

VaL By Heaven, 

I'll let my breath out, that shall burn ye all, 
If ye deny me longer ! Tempests blow me, 
And inundations that have drunk up kingdoms, 
Flow over me and quench me ! "Where's the villain ? 
Am I immortal now, ye slaves ? By Xuma, 
If he do 'scape — Oh, oh ! 

End. Dear sir ! 

VaL Like Xero, 

But far more terrible, and full of slaughter, 
In the midst of all my flames, I'll fire the empire ! 
A thousand fans, a thousand fans to cool me ' 
Invite the gentle winds, Eudoxia. 

End, Sir! 

Vol. Oh, do not flatter me ! I am but flesh, — 

A man, a mortal man. Drink, drink, ye dunces I 
"What can your doses now do, and your scrapings, 
Tour oils, and Mithridates r L If I do die, 
Tou only words of health, and names of sickness, 
Finding no true disease in man but money, 
That talk yourselves into revenues — oh ! — 
And, ere you kill your patients, beggar 'em, 

I'll have ve flea'd and dried ! 


Enter PsocrLrs and Licnaus, with Aeettis. 

Proc. The villain, sir ; 

The most accursed wretch. 
VaL Begone, my queen ; 

This is no sight for thee. Go to the vestals, 

Cast holy incense in the fire, and offer 

One powerful sacrifice to free thy Caesar. 
1 See note at p. 159. 


Proc. Go, go, and be happy. [Exit Eudoxia. 

Are. Go ; but give no ease. — 

The gods have set thy last hour, Valentinian ; 
Thou art but man, a bad man too, a beast, 
And, like a sensual bloody thing, thou diest ! 

Proc. Oh, damned traitor ! 

Are. Curse yourselves, ye flatterers, 

And howl your miseries to come, ye wretches ! 
You taught him to be poison' d. 

Val. Yet no comfort ? 

Are. Be not abus'd with priests nor 'pothecaries, 
They cannot help thee. Thou hast now to live 
A short half-hour, no more, and I ten minutes. 
I gave thee poison for Aecius' sake, 
Such a destroying poison would kill nature ; 
And, for thou shalt not die alone, I took it. 
If mankind had been in thee at this murder, 
No more to people earth again, the wings 
Of old Time clipp'd for ever, Reason lost, 
In what I had attempted, yet, Caesar, 
To purchase fair revenge, I had poison'd them too. 

Val. Oh, villain ! — I grow hotter, hotter. 

Are. Yes; 

But not near my heat yet. What thou feel'st now 
(Mark me with horror, Caesar) are but embers 
Of lust and lechery thou hast committed ; 
But there be flames of murder ! 

Val. Fetch out tortures. 

Are. Do, and I'll flatter thee; nay, more, I'll love thee. 
Thy tortures, to what now I suffer, Caesar, 
At which thou must arrive too, ere thou diest, 
Are lighter, and more full of mirth, than laughter. 

Val. Let 'em alone. I must drink. 

Are. Now be mad ; 

But not near me yet. 

Val. Hold me, hold me, hold me ! 
Hold me, or I shall burst else ! 

Are. See me, Caesar, 

And see to what thou must come for thy murder. 
Millions of women's labours, all diseases 

VALENTI^IAtf. 198 

Vol. Oh, my afflicted soul too ! 
Are. Women's fears, horrors, 

Despairs, and all the plagues the hot sun breeds — 
Vol, Aecius, oh, Aecius ! oh, Lucina ! 
Are. Are but my torments' shadows ! 
Veil. Hide me, mountains ! 

The gods have found my sins. jNow break ] . 
Are. Not .yet, sir; 

Thou hast a pull beyond all these. 
Vol. Oh, hell ! 

Oh, villain, cursed villain ! 
Are. Oh, brave villain! 

My poison dances in me at this deed ! 

Now, Caesar, now behold me ; this is torment^ 

And this is thine before thou diest : I'm wild-fire ! 

The brazen bull of Phalaris was feign' d, 

The miseries of souls despising heaven 

But emblems of my torment, 

Vol. Oh, quench me, quench me, quench me ! 
Are. Fire's a flattery, 

And all the poets' tales of sad Avernus 

To my pains less than fictions. Yet, to show thee 

What constant love I bore my murder' d master, 

Like a south wind, I have sung through all these 

My heart, my wither' d heart ! Fear, fear, thou monster ! 

Fear the just gods ! I have my peace ! [Dies, 

Val. More drink ! 

A thousand April showers fall in my bosom ! 

How dare ye let me be tormented thus ? 

Away with that prodigious body. Gods, 

Gods, let me ask ye what I am, ye lay 

All your inflictions on me ? Hear me, hear me I 

I do confess I am a ravisher, 

A murderer, a hated Caesar. — Oh ! 

Are there not vows enough, and flaming altars, 

The fat of all the world for sacrifice. 

And, where that fails, the blood of thousand captives, 

To purge those sins, but I must make the incense ? 

I do despise ye ail ! ye have no mercy, 



And wanting that, ye are no gods ! Your parole 

Is only preach' d abroad to make fools fearful, 

And women, made of awe, believe your heaven ! 

Oh, torments, torments, torments ! Pains above pains ! 

If ye be anything but dreams, and ghosts, 

And truly hold the guidance of things mortal, 

Have in yourselves times past, to come, and present, 

Fashion the souls of men, and make flesh for 'em, 

"Weighing our fates and fortunes beyond reason, 

Be more than all, ye gods, great in forgiveness ! 

Break not the goodly frame ye build in anger, 

.For you are things, men teach us, without passions. 

Give me an hour to know ye in ; oh, save me ! 

But so much perfect time ye make a soul in ; 

Take this destruction from me ! — JSTo, ye cannot : 

The more I would believe ye, more I suffer. 

My brains are ashes ! now my heart, my eyes ! Friends, 

I go, I go ! More air, more air ! — I am mortal ! [Dies. 



Juliana, thinking to deliver her husband, Virolet, from the plots of a wicked 
man and woman who had conspired to murder him, hills Virolet himself 
while he is disguised in his enemy* s apparel. 

A Room in Vibolet's House. 

Enter Juliana. 

Jul. This woman's threats, her eyes, ev'n red with fury, 
"Which, like prodigious meteors, foretold 
Assur'd destruction, are still before me. 
Besides, I know such natures unacquainted 
With any mean, or in their love or hatred ; 
And she that dar'd all dangers to possess him, 
Will check at nothing, to revenge the loss 
Of what she held so dear. I first discover' d 
Her bloody purposes, which she made good, 


And openly profess'd 'em. That in .me 
Was but a cold affection ; charity 
Commands so much to all ; for Virolet, 
Metlrinks, I should forget my sex's weakness, 
Eise up, and dare beyond a woman's strength ; 
Then do, not counsel. He is too secure; 
And, in my judgment, 'twere a greater service 
To free him from a deadly enemy, 
Than to get him a friend. I undertook too 
To cross her plots ; opposed my piety 
Against her malice ; and shall virtue suffer ? 
No, Martia ; wert thou here equally arm'd, 
I have a cause, 'spite of thy masculine breeding, 
That would assure the victory. My angel 
Direct and help me ! 

JSnter Virolet, habited like Eonvere. Juliana, unseen 
by him, stands apart, 

Vir. The state in combustion, 

Part of the citadel fore' d, the treasure seiz'd on ; 

The guards, corrupted, arm themselves against 

Their late protected master ; Ferrand fled too, 

And with small strength, into the castle's tower, 

The only Aventine 1 that now is left him ; 

And yet the undertakers, nay, performers, 

Of such a brave and glorious enterprise, 

Are yet unknown. They did proceed like men, 

I like a child ; and had I never trusted 

So deep a practice unto shallow fools, 

Besides my soul's peace in my Juliana, 

The honour of this action had been mine, 

In which, accurs'd, I now can claim no share. 

Jul. Eonvere ! 'tis he ! a thing, next to the devil, 
I most detest, and like him terrible ; 
Martia' s right hand ; the instrument, I fear too, 
That is to put her bloody will into act. 
Have I not will enough, and cause too mighty ? 
Weak women's fear, fly from me ! 

Vir. Sure this habit, 

This likeness to Eonvere, which I have studied, 

1 Only Aventine.'] Only hill of refuge. 


Either admits me safe to my design, 
Which I too cowardly have halted after, 
And suffer' d to be ravish' d from my glory, 
Or sinks me and my miseries together ; 
Either 1 concludes me happy. 

Jul. He stands musing ; 

Some mischief is now hatching : 

In the full meditation of his wickedness, 

I'll sink his cursed soul. Guide my hand, Heaven, 

And to my tender arm give strength and fortune, 

That I may do a pious deed, all ages 

Shall bless my name for, all remembrance crown me ! 

Vir. {aloud). It shall be so. 

Jut. It shall not ! Take that token, [Stabs him. 

And bear it to the lustful arms of Martia ! 
Tell her, for Virolet's dear sake, I sent it. 

Vir. Oh, I am happy ! Let me see thee, that I 
May bless the hand that gave me liberty ! 
Oh, courteous hand ! Nay, thou hast done most nobly, 
And Heaven has guided thee ; 'twas their great justice. 
Oh, blessed wound, that I could come to kiss thee ! 
How beautiful and sweet thou show'st ! 

Jul. Oh ! 

Vir. Sigh not, 

Nor weep not, dear ! shed not those sovereign balsams 

Into my blood, which must recover me ; 

Then I shall live, again to do a mischief 

Against the mightiness of love and virtue. 

Some base unhallow'd hand shall rob thy right of-— 

Help me ; I faint. So. 

Jul. Oh, unhappy wench ! 

How has my zeal abus'd me ! You that guard virtue, 
Were ye asleep ? or do ye laugh at innocence, 
Tou suffer' d this mistake ? Oh, my dear Virolet ! 
An everlasting curse follow that form 
I struck thee in ! his name be ever blasted ! 

1 Either.'] Either the one or the other of those results ends in making 
him happy. 

2 Rob thy right of.~\ He had, in a rash moment, and as though he had 
been unmarried, engaged himself to Martia for delivering him out of the 
hand3 of pirates. 


For his accursed shadow has betray' d 
The sweetness of all youth, the nobleness, 
The honour, and the valour; wither' d for ever 
The beauty and the bravery of all mankind ! 
Oh ! my dull devil's eyes ! 

Vir. I do forgive you ; [Kisses her. 

By this, and this, I do. I know you were cozen' d ; 
The shadow of Ronvere I know you aim'd at, 
And not at me ; but 'twas most necessary 
I should be struck ; some hand above directed you ; 
For Juliana could not show her justice, 
"Without depriving high Heaven of his glory, 
On any subject fit for her, but Virol et. 
Forgive me too, and take my last breath, sweet one ! 
This the new marriage of our souls together. 
Think of me, Juliana ; but not often, 
For fear my faults should burthen your affections. 
Pray for me, for I faint. 

Jul. Oh, stay a little, 

A little, little, sir ! [Offers to kill herself. 

Vir. Fy, Juliana. 

Jul. Shall I out-live the virtue I have murder' d ? 

Vir. Hold, or thou hat'st my peace ! Give me the dagger ; 
On your obedience, and your love, deliver it ! 
If you do thus, we shall not meet in heaven, sweet ; 
No guilty blood comes there. Kill your intentions, 
And then you conquer. There, where I am going, 
Would you not meet me, dear ? 

Jul. Yes. 

Vir. And still love me ? 

Jul. And still behold you. 

Vir. Live then, till Heaven calls you : 

Then, ripe and full of sweetness, you rise sainted ; 

Then I, that went before you to prepare, 

Shall meet and welcome you, and daily court you 

With hymns of holy love. Grod ! I go out ! 

Give me your hand. Farewell ! in peace, farewell i 

Remember me ! farewell ! [Dies. 

Jul. Sleep you, sweet glasses I 1 

An everlasting slumber crown those crystals ! 
1 Sweet glasses."] Addressing his eyes. 


All my delight, adieu ! farewell, dear Virolet, 

Dear, dear, most dear ! Oh, I can weep no more ; 

My body now is fire, and all-consuming. 

Here will I sit, forget the world and all things, 

And only wait what Heaven shall turn me to ; 

For now methinks I should not live. [She sits down. 

Enter Pakdtjlpho (Yieolet's Father), with a book. 

Pand. Oh, my sweet daughter, 

The work is finish' d now I promis'd thee : 

Here are thy virtues show'd, here register' d, 

And here shall live for ever. 
Jul. Blot it, burn it ! 

I have no virtue ; hateful I am as hell is ! 
Pand. Is not this Yirolet ? 
Jul. Ask no more questions ! 

Mistaking him, I kill' d him. 
Pand. Oh, my son ! 

Nature turns to my heart again. My dear son ! 

Son of my age ! wouldst thou go out so quickly ? 

So poorly take thy leave, and never see me? 

Was this a kind stroke, daughter ? Could you love him, 

Honour his father, and so deadly strike him ? 

Oh, wither' d timeless youth ! are all thy promises, 

Thy goodly growth of honours, come to this ? 

Do I halt still i' th' world, and trouble Nature, 

When her main pieces founder, and fail daily ? 

Enter Ltjcio, and Three Servants. 

Lucio. He does weep certain. What body's that lies by him? 

How do you, sir ? 
Pand. Oh, look there, Lucio, 

Thy master, thy best master ! 
Lucio. Woe is me ! 

They have kill'd him, sfein him basely ! Oh, my master ! 
Pand. Well, daughter, well ! what heart you had to do this ! 

I know he did you wrong ; but 'twas his fortune, 

And not his fault. Tor my sake, that have lov'd you — 

But I see now you scorn me too. 
Lucio. Oh, mistress ! 


Can you sit there, and his cold body breathless, 

Basely upon the earth ? 
Pand. Let her alone, boy : 

She glories in his end. 
Lucio. You shall not sit here, 

And suffer him you loved — Ha! good sir, come hither, 

Come hither quickly ! heave her up ! Oh, Heaven, sir ! 

Oh, God, my heart! she's cold, cold, cold, and stiff too. 

Stiff as a stake ; she's dead ! 
Pand. She's gone ; ne'er bend her : 

I know her heart, she could not want his company. 

Blessing go with thy soul ! sweet angels shadow it ! 

Oh, that I were the third now ! what a happiness ! 

But I must live to see you laid in earth both ; 

Then build a chapel to your memories, 

"Where all my wealth shall fashion out your stories • 

Then dig a little grave besides, and all's done. 

How sweet she looks ! her eyes are open, smiling : 

I thought she had been alive. 1 



Violanta, having home a child without her father 's, but not her mother's 
knowledge, is comforted by the latter during her confinement. 

Viol. Mother — I'd not offend you — might not G-errard 

Steal in, and see me in the evening ? 
Aug. "Well; 

Bid him do so. 
Viol. Heaven's blessing o 5 your heart ! — 

Do you not call child-bearing travel^ mother ? 
Ang. Yes. 
Viol. It well may be. The bare-foot traveller 

1 1 thought she had been alive.'] This is one of the most affecting 
deaths, and the involuntary murder of Yirolet one of the most startling 
incidents, in the whole circle of dramatic writing. 


That's born a prince, and walks his pilgrimage, 

"Whose tender feet kiss the remorseless stones 

Only, ne'er felt a travel like to it. 

Alas, dear mother, you groan' d thus for me ; 

And yet, how disobedient have I been ! 
Ang. Peace, Violante ; thou hast always been 

Grentle and good. 
Viol. Gerrard is better, mother. 

Oh, if you knew the implicit innocency 

Dwells in his breast, you'd love him like your pray'rs. 

I see no reason but my father might 

Be told the truth, being pleased for Ferdinand 

To woo himself; and Gerrard ever was 

His full comparative. My uncle loves him, 

As he loves Ferdinand. 
Ang. jSo, not for the world ! 
Viol. As you please, mother. I am now, methinks, 

Even in the land of Ease ; I'll sleep, 
Ang. Draw in 

The bed nearer the fire. — Silken rest 

Tie all thy cares up ! 

[" "Violanta's prattle is so very pretty, and so natural in her situation^ 
that I could not resist giving it a place. Juno Lucina was never in« 
voked with more elegance. Pope has been praised for giving dignity to a 
game of cards. It required at least as much address to ennoble a lying- 
in.' ' — Lamb, 

I must express my disagreement with this fine critic on his concluding 
observation. " Address" indeed it may require, with those who have 
at no time any but ignoble ideas of humanity ; but to an earnest and 
loving heart, capable of expressing itself on such a subject, what could 
readily suggest more affecting and exalting words than an occasion which 
excites every tenderest fear, hope, and sympathy of a human creature ? 
I am afraid we must say of our admirable friend, on this slip of his pen, 
as Queen Constance said of the Cardinal, — 

" He talks to me, that never had a son."] 




Shake off your heavy trance, 

And leap into a dance, 

Such as no mortals use to tread 5 

Pit only for Apollo 
To play to, for the Moon to lead 3 

And all the stars to follow ! 



. Andrew arrives toiih the looks of his master Charles^ the Elder Brother, 
Enter Andeew, Cook, and Butler, with books. 

And. Unload part of the library, and make room 

For th 5 other dozen of carts ; I'll strait be with you. 

Cook. Why, hath he more books ? 

And. More than ten marts send over. 

Butler. And can he tell their names ? 

And. Their names ! he has 'em 

As perfect as his Pater Isoster ; but that's nothing ; 
He has read them over, leaf by leaf, three thousand 

But here's the wonder ; though their weight would sink 
A Spanish carrack, 1 without other ballast, 
He carrieth them all in his head, and yet 
He walks upright. 

But. Surely he has a strong brain. 

And. If all thy pipes of wine were filled with books, 
Made of the barks of trees, or mysteries writ 
In old moth-eaten vellum, he would sip thy cellar 
Quite dry, and still be thirsty. Then, for's diet, 
He eats and digests more volumes at a meal, 
Than there would be larks (though the sky should fall) 
Devour' d in a month in Paris. Yet fear not, 

1 Carrack.'] A large ship of burthen. 


Sons o' th' buttery and kitchen ! though his learned 

Cannot be appeas'd, he'll seldom trouble you; 

His knowing stomach contemns your black-jacks,butler, 

And your flagons ; and, cook, thy boil'd, thy roast, thy 
Cook. How liveth he ? [baked ! 

And. Not as other men do ; 

Few princes fare like him. He breaks his fast 

With Aristotle, dines with Tully, takes 

His watering with the Muses, 1 sups with Livy, 

Then walks a turn or two in Via Lactea? 

And, after six hours' conference with the stars, 

Sleeps with old Erra Pater? 


Miramont and Brisac. 
Mir. Nay, brother, brother ! 

1 Watering with the Muses.~\ Watering, in the sense of a refreshment 
between dinner and supper, would answer well (sometimes too well) to 
the modern tea ; but in Beaumont and Fletcher's time, when tea was 
unknown, it seems to have meant taking any drink during that interval. 

2 Via Lacteal The Milky Way. 

3 JErra Pater.'] " Erra Pater" (Father Erra), the "Francis Moore 
Physician" of ancient almanacks, is said to have been some old astro- 
loger, now forgotten. 

" In mathematicks he was greater 
Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater." — Hudibras. 
The appellation sometimes meant the almanack itself. Perhaps it was a 
name for astrology in general (from err are, to wander), typified under the 
aspect of a bearded sage, — old Father Wanderer ; i. e. the Companion 
of the Planets ; such being the meaning of the word planet. His face 
appears to have been a frontispiece to almanacks. In the Scornful 
Lady (Act IV. Scene I.), an elderly waiting- woman is accused by a dis- 
appointed lover of having 

" A face as old as Erra Pater ; 
Such a prognosticating nose." 

This passage in the Elder Brother is supposed by the commentators, 
with great probability, to have been in the recollection of Congreve 
when he wrote the beginning of Love for Love, where Valentine eulogises 
reading, and speaks of a page in Epictetus as " a feast for an emperor." 
It is probable also, as others think, that the character of Valentine was 
further indebted to the Elder Brother. It may be observed that the 
title of Congreve's play is to be found in the closing speech of Charles, 
as given in the present volume. 


Bri. Pray, sir, be not mov'd ; 

I meddle with no business but mine own ; 
And, in mine own, 'tis reason I should govern. 

Mir. But know to govern then, and understand, sir, 
And be as wise as you're hasty. Though you be 
My brother, and from one blood sprung, I must tell you, 
Heartily and home too 

Bri. What, sir ? 

Mir. What I grieve to find ; 

You are a fool, and an old fool, and that's two. 

Bri. We'll part 'em, if you please, 

Mir. jS"o, they're entail'd to you. 

Seek to deprive an honest noble spirit, 
Tour eldest son, sir, and your very image 
(But he's so like you, that he fares the worse for't), 
Because he loves his book, and dotes on that, 
And only studies how to know things excellent, 
Above the reach of such coarse brains as yours, 
Such muddy fancies, that never will know farther 
Than when to cut your vines, and cozen merchants. 
And choke your hide-bound tenants with musty harvests I 

Bri. You go too fast. 

Mir. I'm hot come to my pace yet. 

Because he has made his study all his pleasure, 
And is retired into his contemplation, 
Not meddling with the dirt arid chaff of nature, 
That makes the spirit of the mind mud too, 
Therefore must he be flung from his inheritance ? 
Must he be dispossessed, and Monsieur Gingleboy, 
His younger brother 

Bri. You forget yourself. 

Mir. Because he has been at court, andlearn'dnew tongues, 
And how to speak a tedious piece of nothing, 
To vary his face as seamen do their compass, 
To worship images of gold and silver, 
And fall before the she-calves of the season, 
Therefore must he jump into his brother's land? 
Bri. Have you done yet, and have you spake enough 

In praise of learning, sir ? 
Mir. Never enough. 


Bri. But, brother, do you know what learning is ? 

Mir. 'Tis not to be a justice of peace, as you are, 
And palter out your time i 5 th' penal statutes ; 
To hear the curious tenets controverted 
Between a Protestant constable and Jesuit cobbler ; 
Nor 'tis not the main moral of blind justice 
(Which is deep learning), when your worship's tenants 
Bring a light cause and heavy hens before you, 
Both fat and feasible, a goose or pig ; 
And then you sit, like Equity, with both hands 
"Weighing indifferently the state o' th' question. 
These are your quodlibets, 1 but no learning, brother. 

Bri. Tou are so parlously in love with learning, 

That I'd be glad to know what you understand, brother : 
I'm sure you have read all Aristotle. 

Mir. 'Faith, no : 

But I believe ; I have a learned faith, sir ; 
And that's it makes a gentleman of my sort. 
Though I can speak no Greek, I love the sound on't: 
It goes so thundering as it conjured devils : 
Charles speaks it loftily, and, if thou wert a man, 
Or hadst but ever heard of Homer's Iliads, 
Hesiod, and the Greek poets, thou wouldst run mad, 
And hang thyself for joy thou hadst such a gentleman 
To be thy son. Oh, he has read such things to me ! 

Bri. And you do understand 'em, brother ? 

Mir. I tell thee, no ; that's not material ; the sound's 
Sufficient to confirm an honest man. 
Good brother Brisac, does your young courtier, 
That wears the fine clothes, and is the excellent gentle- 
The traveller, the soldier, as you think too, [man, 

Understand any other power than his tailor ? 
Or know what motion is, more than an horse-race ? 
What the moon means, but to light him home from 
taverns ? [clothes in ? 

Or the comfort of the sun is, but to wear slash' d 
And must this piece of ignorance be popp'd up, 

1 Quodlibets.~] " Quillet or quidlibet, what you please ;" — anything 
affirmed or denied, as any one pleases. — Richaedsgn's Dictionary. 


Because 't can kiss the band, and cry, "Sweet lady ? n 
Say, it had been at liome, and seen the relics, 
Drunk your Verdea wine, 1 and rid at Naples : 
Must this thing therefore 

Bri. Yes, sir, this thing must ! 

I will not trust my land to one so sotted, 

So grown like a disease unto his study. 

He that will fling off all occasions 

And cares, to make him understand what state is, 

And how to govern it, must, by that reason, 

Be flung himself aside from managing : 

My younger boy is a fine gentleman. 

Mir. He is an ass, a piece of gingerbread, 

Grilt over to please foolish girls [and] puppets, 

BrL You are my elder brother. 

Mir. So I had need, 

And have an elder wit; thou'dst shame us all else. 
G-o to ! I say Charles shall inherit. 

Bri. I say no, 

Unless Charles had a soul to understand it. 
Can he manage six thousand crowns a-year 
Out of the metaphysics ? or can all 
His learn' d astronomy look to my vineyards ? 
Can the drunken old poets make up my vines ? 
(I know, they can drink 'em) or your excellent human- 
Sell 'em the merchants for my best advantage P [ists 
Can history cut my hay, or get my corn in ? 
And can geometry vent it in the market ? 
Shall I have my sheep kept with a Jacob's staff, now ? 
I wonder you will magnify this madman ; 
You that are old and should understand. 

Mir. Should, say'st thou, 

Thou monstrous piece of ignorance in office ! 

Thou that hast no more knowledge than thy clerk infuses, 

Thy dapper clerk, larded with ends of Latin, 

And he no more than custom of his oflice ; 

Thouunreprievable dunce! (that thy formal band-strings, 

Thy ring, nor pomander, 1 cannot expiate for) 

1 Verdea wine.~] A celebrated Tuscan white wine, called verdea from 
its having a tint inclining to green. 


Dost thou tell me I should ? I'll poze thy worship 

In thine own library, an almanack ; 

Which thou art daily poring on, to pick out 

Days of iniquity to cozen fools in, 

And full moons to cut cattle ! Dosfc thou taint me, 

That have run over story, poetry, 

Humanity ? 
Bri. As a cold nipping shadow 

Does over ears of corn, and leave 'em blasted. 

Put up your anger ; what I'll do, I'll do. 
Mir. Thou shalt not do. 
Bri. I will. 
Mir. Thou art an ass, then, 

A dull old tedious ass ; thou art ten times worse, 

And of less credit, than dunce Hollingshed, 2 

The Englishman, that writes of shows and sheriffs. 


The Elder Brother, who was about to give up his birthright to the Younger 
out of contempt of everything but his books, is diverted from his purpose 
by love. 

Scene — A Room in the House of Angelina' s Father. 

Enter the Father, the Lady, Eustace {the Younger Brother), 
the Uncle, Priest, Notary, and others, 

Notary. Come, let him bring his son's hand, and ail's done. 

Is yours ready ? 
Priest. Yes, I'll despatch ye presently, 

Immediately ; for in truth I'm a-hungry. 
Eustace. Do ; speak apace, for we believe exactly. — 

Do we not stay long, mistress ? 
Angelina. I find no fault : — 

Better things well done, than want time to do them. — 

Uncle, why are you sad ? 

1 Pomander."] From the French, pomme d'ambre, an apple of amber. 
A ball of perfumes. — Richardson's Dictionary. 

2 Dunce Hollingshed.'] I know not what antiquaries think of this 
summary estimate of one of their favourite historians. Probably he 
ofiended our poets for the same reason (whatever it was) that got him 
into trouble with the censorship under Queen Elizabeth. 


Mirabel. Sweet-smelling blossom ! 

Would I were thine uncle to thine own content : 
Td make thy husband's state a thousand better, 
A yearly thousand. Thou hast miss'd a man 
(But that he is addicted to his study, 
And knows no other mistress than his mind) 
Would weigh down bundles of these empty kexes. 1 

Ang. Can he speak, sir ? 

Mir. 'Faith, yes ; but not to women : 

His language is to Heaven and heavenly wonder. 
To nature, and her dark and secret causes. 

Ang. And does he speak well there ? 

Mir. Oh, admirably ! 

But he's too bashful to behold a woman ; 
There's none that sees him, nor he troubles none,, 

Ang. He is a man. 

Mir. 'Faith, yes, and a clear sweet spirit. 

Ang. Then conversation, methinks 

Mir. So think I ; 

But 'tis his rugged fate, and so I leave you. 

Ang. I like thy nobleness. 

Eust. See, my mad uncle 

Is courting my fair mistress. 

Lew. Let him alone ; 

There's nothing that allays an angry mind 
So soon as a sweet beauty. 2 He'll come to us. 

Enter Brisac and Charles. 

Eust. My father's here, my brother too! that's a wonder; 

Broke like a spirit from his cell. 
Bri. Come hither, 

Come nearer, Charles ; 'twas your desire to see 

My noble daughter, and the company, 

And give your brother joy, and then to seal, boy. 

You do like a good brother. 

1 Kexes, .] Hollow, withered stems. 

2 A sweet beauty.~\ 

"So easy 'tis to appease the stormy wind 
Of malice, in the calm of pleasant womankind." 



Lew. Marry, does he, 

And lie shall have my love for ever for*!;, 

Put to your hand now. 
Not. Here's the deed, sir, ready. 
Char. JSTo, you must pardon me awhile. I tell you, 

I am in contemplation ; do not trouble me. 
Bri. Come, leave thy study, Charles. 
Char. I'll leave my life first : 

I study now to be a man ; I've found it. 

[Looking at A:n"GELI2?a„ 

Before, what man was, was but my argument. 
Mir, I like this best of all ; he has taken fire : 

His dull mist flies away. 
Eust. "Will you write, brother ? 
Char. No, brother, no ; I have no time for poor things ; 

I'm taking the height of that bright constellation. 
Bri. I say you trifle time, son. 
Char. I will not seal, sir : 

I am your eldest, and I'll keep my birthright ; 

For, Heaven forbid I should become example. 

Had you only show'd me land, I had deliver' d it, 

And been a proud man to have parted with it ; 

"lis dirt, and labour. — Do I speak right, uncle ? 
Mir. Bravely, my boy ; and bless thy tongue ! 
Char. I'll forward. 

But you have open'd to me such a treasure,-— [tune !) 

{Aside. I find my mind free ; Heaven direct my for- 
Mir. Can he speak now ? Is this a son to sacrifice ? 
Char. Such an inimitable piece of beauty, 

That I have studied long, and now found only, 

That I'll part sooner with my soul of reason. 

And be a plant, a beast, a fish, a fly, 

And only make the number of things up, 

Than yield one foot of land, if she be tied to l t ! 
Lew. He speaks unhappily. 
Ang. And, methinks, bravely. 

This the mere scholar ? 
Eust. Tou but vex yourself, brother, 

And vex your study too. 
Char. Go you and study ; 


For 'tis time, young Eustace. You want man and 

manners ; 
I have studied both, although I made no show on ? t, 
G-o, turn the volumes over I have read, 
Eat and digest them, that they may grow in thee : 
"Wear out the tedious night with thy dim lamp, 
And sooner lose the day than leave a doubt ; 
Distil the sweetness from the poet's spring, 
And learn to love ; thou know'st not what fair is: 
Traverse the stories of the great heroes ;* 
The wise and civil lives of good men walk through : 
Thou hast seen nothing but the face of countries, 
And brought home nothing but their empty words ■ 
Why shouldst thou wear a jewel of this worth, 
That hast no worth within thee to preserve her ? 

{He addresses Angelina.) 

Beauty clear and fair, 
Where the ah' 

Rather like a perfume dwells ; 
Where the violet aud the rose 
Their blue veins in blush disclose, 

And come to honour nothing else $ 2 

Where to live near, 

And planted there, 

Is to live, and still live new 5 
Where to gain a favour is 
More than light, perpetual bliss,— 

Make me live by serving you. 

Dear, again back recall 3 
To this light, 

A stranger to himself and all. 
Both the wonder and the story 
Shall be yours, and eke the glory : 

I am your servant, and your thrall. 

1 Heroes?^ The Latin trisyllable plural, not then discontinued in 

2 Come to honour nothing else,"] This is obscure. Perhaps it means that 
they come to honour nothing less meritorious than what such modest 
beauty can approve. 

3 Again lack recall. 1 This monstrous tautology (to say nothing of the 
ameness of the verse) could hardly have been in the original manu- 


Mir. Speak such another ode, and take all yet I 
What say you to the scholar now ? 

Ang. I wonder ! — 

Is he your brother, sir ? 

East, Yes. — Would he were buried ! 

I fear he'll make an ass of me ; a vounker. 

Ang. Speak not so softly, sir ; 'tis very likely. 

hri. Come, leave your finical talk, and let's dispatch, Charles. 

Char. Dispatch what ? 

Bri. Why, the land. 

Char. Tou are deceiv'd, sir : 

Now I perceive what 'tis that wooes a woman, 

And what maintains her when she's woo'd. I'll stop here; 

A wilful poverty ne'er made a beauty, 

jNTor want of means maintain' d it virtuously. 

Though land and monies be no happiness, 

Yet they are counted good additions. 

That use I'll make ; he that neglects a blessing, 

Though he want present knowledge how to use iu, 

Neglects himself. — May be, I have done you wrong, lady, 

Whose love and hope went hand in hand together ; 

May be, my brother, that has long expected 

The happy hour, and bless' d my ignorance — 

Pray give me leave, sir, — I shall clear all doubts — 

Why did they show me you ? Pray tell me that. 

Mir. He'll talk thee into a pension 1 for thy knavery. 

Char. You, happy you ! why did you break unto me ? 
The rosy-finger' d morn ne'er broke so sweetly. 
I am a man, and have desires within me, 
Affections too, though they were drown' d awhile, 

script. The want of rhyme also to the word light, and the difference in 
that respect from the other stanzas, with the still further aggravation 
of a rhyme twice repeated, show clearly that there must be some 
mistake here, either of printer or copyist. Might not the words have 
been dear, re-unite ? or dear, again unite ? or dear a?igel, re-unite ? The 
first lines of the two preceding stanzas are not of equal length ; so that 
the metre of any one of these substitutes would not have been incon- 

1 Talk thee into a pension."] Make a scholar of thee against thy will 
by his eloquence ? An allusion to an order of students so called at 
Cambridge?— Or does it mean, that he will talk the Younger Brother 
into the petty allowance of money, common to such juniors ? 


And lay dead, till the spring of beauty rais'd them : 

Till I saw those eyes, I was but a lump, 

A chaos of confusedness dwelt in me ; 

Then from those eyes shot Love, and he distinguish'd 

And into form he drew my faculties ; 

And now I know my land, and now I love too. 
BrL "We had best remove the maid. 
Char. It is too late, sir ; 

I have her figure here. Nay, frown not, Eustace, 

There are less worthy souls for younger brothers : 

This is no form of silk, but sanctity, 

"Which wild lascivious hearts can never dignify. 

Remove her where you will, I walk along still, 

For, like the light, we make no separation. 

Tou may sooner part the billows of the sea, 

And put a bar betwixt their fellowships, 

Than blot out my remembrance ; sooner shut 

Old Time into a den, and stay his motion ; 

Wash off the swift hours from his downy wings, 

Or steal eternity to stop his glass, 

Than shut the sweet idea I have in me. 

Room for an Elder Brother ! Pray give place, sir ! 
Mir, He has studied duel too : take heed, he'll beat thee ! 

He has frighted the old justice into a fever ! 

I liope, he'll disinherit him too for an ass ; 

]?or, though he be grave with years, he's a great baby 
Char. Do not you think me mad ? 
Ang, No, certain, sir : 

I have heard nothing from you but things excellent. 
Char. Tou look upon my clothes, and laugh at me ; 

My scurvy clothes! 
Ang. They have rich linings, sir. 

I would your brother— 

Char. His are gold, and gaudy. 

Ang. But touch 'em inwardly, they smell of copper. 

Char. Can you love me ? I am an heir, sweet lady, 

However I appear a poor dependant. 

Love you with honour ? I shall love so ever. 

Is your eye ambitious ? I may be a great man. 

Is 't wealth or lands you covet ? my father must die. 


Mir. That was well put in ; I hope he'll take it deeply. 

Char. Old men are not immortal, as I take it. 
Is it you look for youth and handsomeness ? 
I do confess my brother's a handsome gentleman : 
But he shall give me leave to lead the way, lady. 
Can you love for love, and make that the reward ? 
The old man shall not love his heaps of gold 
"With a more doting superstition, 
Than I'll love you ; the young man, his delights ; 
The merchant, when he ploughs the angry sea up, 
And sees the mountain-billows falling on him, 
As if all elements, and all their angers, 
"Were turn'd into one vow'd destruction, 
Shall not with greater joy embrace his safety. 
We'll live together like two wanton vines, 
Circling our souls and loves in one another ; 
"We'll spring together, and we'll bear one fruit ; 
One joy shall make us smile, and one grief mourn, 
One age go with us, and one hour of death 
Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us happy. 

Ang. And one hand seal the match. I am yours for ever ! 

[" The Elder Brother has been generally reckoned among the best of 
Fletcher's comedies. It displays in a new form an idea not very new in 
fiction, — the power of love, on the first sight of woman, to vivify a soul 
utterly ignorant of the passion. Charles, the Elder Brother, much unlike 
the Cymon of Dryden, is absorbed in study ; a mere scholar without a 
thought beyond his books. His indifference, perhaps, and ignorance of 
the world are rather exaggerated, and border on stupidity ; but it was 
the custom of tho dramatists in that age to produce effect in repre- 
sentation by very sudden developments, if not changes, of character. 
The other persona are not ill conceived ; the honest testy Miramont, 
who admires learning, without much more of it than enables him to sign 
his name, the two selfish worldly fathers of Charles and Angelina, 
believing themselves shrewd, yet the easy dupes of coxcomb manners 
from the court, the spoiled but not worthless Eustace, show Fletcher's 
great talent in dramatic invention. In none of his mere comedies has 
he sustained so uniformly elegant and pleasing a style of poetry ; the 
language of Charles is naturally that of a fine scholar ; but now and then, 
perhaps, we find old Miramont talk above himself." — H all am.] 




Leandro, in furtherance of an adventure on which he is bound, employs 
a mode of persuasion with Lopez the Spanish Curate, and Diego his 
Sexton, by which they are suddenly convinced of their extreme in- 
timacy with a gentleman, of whose existence they were ignorant the 
minute before. 

Lopez and Diego, Leandro overhearing them. 

Lop. Poor stirring for poor vicars. 

Die, And poor sextons. 

Lop. We pray, and pray, but to no purpose ; 

Those that enjoy our lands, choke our devotions ; 

Our poor thin stipends make us arrant dunces. 
Die. If you live miserably, how shall we do, master, 

That are fed only with the sound of prayers ? 

We rise and ring the bells to get good stomachs, 

And must be fain to eat the ropes with reverence. 
Lop. When was there a christ'ning, Diego ? 
Die. Isot this ten weeks. 

They are so hard-hearted here too, 

They will not die ; there's nothing got by burials. 
Lop. Diego, the air's too pure, they cannot perish. 

To have a thin stipend, and an everlasting parish, 

Lord, what a torment 'tis ! 
Die. Good sensible master, 

Tou are allow' d to pray against all weathers, 

Both foul and fair, as you shall find occasion ; 

Why not against all airs ? 
Lop. That's not i' th' canons. 

We must remove into a muddy air, 

A most contagious climate. 
Die. We must, certain; 

An air that is the nursery of agues. 
Lop. Grouts and dead palsies. 
Die. Surfeits, if we had 'em ; 

Those are rich marie, they make a church-yard fat. 
Lop. Then wills and funeral sermons come in season, 

And feasts that make us frolic. 
Die. 'Would I could see 'em ! 


Lop. And though I weep i' th' pulpit for my brother. 
Yet, Diego, here I laugh. 

Die. The cause requires it. 

Lean. A precious pair of youths ! I must make toward 'em. 

[Coming forward. 

Lop. "Who's that ? Look out ; it seems he would speak to us. 
I hope a marriage, or some will to make, Diego. 

Die. My friend, your business ? 

Lean. 'Tis to that grave gentleman. — 
Bless your good learning, sir ! 

Lop. And bless you also ! 

He bears a promising face ; there's some hope toward. 

Lean. I have a letter to your worship. [Gives a letter. 

Lop. Well, sir. 

Erom whence, I pray you ? 

Lean. Erom Nova Hispania, sir, 

And from an ancient friend of yours. 

Lop. 'Tis well, sir ; 

5 Tis very well. — {Aside!) The devil a one I know there. 

Die. {aside to Lop.) Take heed of a snap, sir ; he has a 
I do not like his way. [cozening countenance. 

Lop. Let him go forward. 

Cantabit vacuus j 1 they that have nothing, fear nothing. 

[Reads the letter. 

Signior Lopez, since my arrival from Cordova to these parts, 
I have written divers letters unto you, but as yet re- 
ceived no answer of any — Good and very good — And 
although so great a forgetfulness might cause a want 
%n my due correspondence, yet the desire I have still to 
serve you 9 must more prevail with me — Better and bet- 
ter : The devil a man know I yet — and therefore, with 
the present occasion offered, I am willing to crave a con- 

1 " Cantabit vacuus coram lafcrone viator." 
(Your penniless traveller shall sing in the thief s presence.) 

From a passage in Juvenal, thus translated by Dry den : — 
" The fearful passenger who travels late, 
Charg'd with the carriage of a paltry plate, 
Shakes at the moonshine shadow of a rush, 
And sees a red-coat rise from every bush ; 
The beggar sings, even when he sees the place 
Beset with thieves, mid never mends his pace." 


tinuancc of the favours which I have heretofore received 
from you, and do recommend my son, Leandro, the bearer, 
to you, with request that he may be admitted in that 
university, till such time as I shall arrive at home. His 
studies he will make you acquainted withal. This kind- 
ness shall supply the want of your slackness : and so, 
Heaven keep you. Yours, Alonzo Tiveria. 

Alonzo Tiveria ! Very well. 

A very ancient friend of mine, I take it ; 

For, till this hour, I never heard his name yet. 
Lean. Tou look, sir, as if yon had forgot my father. 
Lop. No, no, I look as [if] I would remember him ; 

For that I never remember' d, I cannot forget, sir. 

Alonzo Tiveria ? 
Lean. The same, sir. 
Lop. A nd now i' th' Indies ? 
Lean. Tes. 
Lop. He may be anywhere, 

For aught that I consider. 
Lean. Think again, sir; 

Tou were students both at one time in Salamanca, 

And as I take it, chamber-fellows. 
Lop. Ha ? 

Lean. ISTay, sure, you must remember. 
Lop. 'Would I could ! 

Lean. I have heard him say you were gossips too. 
Lop. Very likely ; 

Tou did not hear him say to whom ? for we students 

May oft-times over-reach our memories. — 

{Aside!) Dost thou remember, Diego, this same signior r 

Thou hast been mine these twenty years. 
| {aside?) Eemember ? 

"Why, this fellow would make ye mad. Nova Hispania ? 

And Signior Tiveria ? "What are these ? 

He may as well name ye friends out of Cataya. 1 

Take heed, I beseech your worship. — Do you hear, my 

You have no letters for me ? [friend ? 

1 Cataya."] Cathay : — China, or Chinese Tartary. The word was 
popularly used for the one, but by geographers appropriated to the other. 


Lean. Not any letter ; 

But I was charged to do my father's love 

To the old honest sexton, Diego. Are you he, sir ? 

Die. Ha ! have I friends, and know 'em not ? My name 
is Diego ; 
But if either I remember you or your father, 
Or Nova Hispania (I was never there, sir), 
Or any kindred that you have — (aside.) For Heaven 
Let's cast about a little, and consider ; [sake, master, 
We may dream out our time. 

Lean . It seems I am deceiv'd, sir : 

Yet, that you are Don Lopez, all men tell me, 

The curate here, and have been some time, sir, 

And you the sexton Diego ; such I am sent to ; 

The letter tells as much. May be they're dead, 

And you of the like names succeed, I thank ye, gen- 

Te have done honestly in telling the truth ; [tlemen ; 

I might have been forward else ; for to that Lopez, 

That was my father's friend, I had a charge, 

A charge of money to deliver, gentlemen ; 

Five hundred ducats, a poor small gratuity. 

But since you are not he [Preparing to go. 

Lop. Good sir, let me think ; [Interrupting. 

I pray ye be patient ; pray ye, stay a little : 
Nay, let me remember ; I beseech you stay, sir. 

Die. An honest noble friend, that sends so lovingly . 
An old friend too ; I shall remember, sure, sir. 

Lop. Thou say'st true, Diego. 

Die. (aside to Lop.) 'Pray ye consider quickly ; 

Do, do, by any means. — (Aloud). Methinks, already,^ 
A grave staid gentleman comes to my memory. 

Lean. He's old indeed, sir. 

Die. "With a goodly white beard : 

(For now he must be so ; I know he must be. 
Signior Alonzo, master. 

Lop. I begin to have him. 

Die. He has been from hence about some twenty years, sir. 

Lean. Some five-and-twenty, sir. 

Die. Tou say most true, sir ; 

Just to an hour, 'tis now just five-and-twenty. 


A fine straight timber' d man, and a brave soldier. 

He married — let me see 

Lean. De Castro's daughter. 

Die. The very same. 

Lean, {aside). Thou art a very rascal ! 

De Castro is the Turk to thee, or anything. 

The money rubs 'em into strange remembrances ; 

For as many ducats more they would remember Adam. 
Lop. Give me your hand ; you are welcome to your coun- 

Now I remember plainly, manifestly, [try ; 

As freshly as if yesterday I had seen him. 

Most heartily welcome ! Sinful that I am, 

Most sinful man ! why should I lose this gentleman ? 

This loving old companion ? We had all one soul, sir. 

He dwelt here hard by, at a handsome 

Lean. Farm, sir : 

You say most true. 
Lop. Alonzo Tiveria ! [knave thus ! 

Lord, lord, that time should play the treacherous 

"Why, he was the only friend I had in Spain, sir. 

I knew your mother too, a handsome gentlewoman ; 

She was married very young : I married 'em. 

I do remember now the masques and sports then, 

The fire-works, and the fine delights. Good faith, sir, 

Now I look in your face — whose eyes are those, Diego ? 

Nay, if he be not just Alonzo' s picture 

Lean, {aside). Lord, how I blush for these two impudents ! 
Die. Well, gentleman, I think your name's Leandro. 
Lean. It is, indeed, sir. [else. 

(Aside). Gra' -mercy, letter ; thou hadst never known 
Die. I have dandled you, and kiss'd you, and play'd with 

A hundred and a hundred times, and danced you, 

And swung you in my bell-ropes — you loved swinging. 
Lop. A. sweet boy. [for thousands ? 

Lean, (aside). Sweet lying knaves ! What would these do 
L p. A wondrous sweet boy then it was. See now, 

Time, that consumes us, shoots him up still sweeter. 

How does the noble gentleman P how fares he ? [try ? 

When shall we see him ? when will he bless his couu- 


Lean. Oh, very shortly, sir. Till his return, 

He has sent me over to your charge. 
Lop. And welcome ; 

Nay, you shall know you are welcome to your friend, sir. 
Lean. And to my study, sir, which must be the law. 

To further which, he would entreat your care 

To plant me in the favour of some man 

That's expert in that knowledge. For his pains 

I have three hundred ducats more ; for my diet, 

Enough, sir, to defray me ; which I am charg'd 

To take still, as I use it, from your custody. 

I have the money ready, and I am weary. 
Lop. Sit down, sit down ; and, once more, you're most 

The law you have hit upon most happily ; [welcome. 

Here is a master in that art, Bartolus, 

A neighbour by ; to him I wiJl prefer you ; 

A learned man, and my most loving neighbour. 

I'll do you faithful service, sir. 
Die. (aside to Lopez). He's an ass, 

And so we'll use him ; he shall be a lawyer ! 
Lop. But, if ever he recover this money again — Before, Diego, 

And get some pretty pittance ; my pupil's hungry. 
Lean. 'Pray you, sir, unlade me. 
Lop. I'll refresh you, sir : 

When you want, you know your exchequer. 
Lean, (aside) . If all this get me but access, I am happy. 


Dearest, do not you delay me, 

Since thou know'st I must be gone ; 
"Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me, 
But 'tis wind that must be blown 

Erom that breath, whose native smell 
Indian odours doth excel. 

Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair, 

Kill not him that vows to serve thee ; 
But perfume this neighbouring air, 
Else dull silence, sure, will starve me : 
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, 
Which being restrain'd, a heart is broken. 



Tiego, pretending to be dying, bequeaths imaginary sums of money to 

Bartolus and others. 

Scene — A Boom with a Curtain in the background. A Table 
set out with a Standish, Pens, and Paper. 

Enter Lopez the Curate, and Bartolus the Lawyer. 

Bar. Is't possible lie should be rich ? 
Lop. Most possible ; 

He hath been long (though he'd but little gettings) 

Drawing together, sir. 
Bar. Accounted a poor sexton ! 

Honest, poor Diego. 
Lop. I assure you, a close fellow ; 

Both close and scraping ; and that fills the bags, sir. 
Bar. A notable good fellow too. 
Lop. Sometimes, sir ; 

"When he hoped to drink a man into a surfeit, 

That he might gain by his grave. 
Bar. So many thousands ? 
Lop. Heaven knows what. 
Bar. 'Tis strange, 'tis very strange. But, we see, by endea- 

And honest labour [vour, 

Lop. Milo, by continuance, 

Grew, from a silly calf (with your worship's reverence), 

To carry a bull. Prom a penny to a pound, sir, 

And from a pound to many. 'Tis the progress. 
Bar. You say true. But he loved to feed well also ; 

And that, methinks 

Lop. From another man's trencher, sir, 

And there he found it season' d with small charge ; 

There he would play the tyrant, and would devour you 

More than the graves he made. At home he liv'd 

Like a cameleon; suck'd the air of misery ; 

And grew fat by the brewis of an egg-shell ; 

"Would smell a cook's shop, and go home and surfeit, 

And be a month in fasting out that fever. 
Bar. These are good symptoms. Does he lie so sick, say 
Lop. Oh, very sick. [ vou ? 

Bar. And chosen me executor? 


Lop. Only your worship. 

Bar. No hope of his amendment P 

Lop. None, that we find. 

Bar. He hath no kinsmen neither? 

Lop. 'Truth, very few. 

Bar. His mind will be the quieter. 
What doctors has he ? 

Lop. There's none, sir, he believes in. 

Bar. They are but needless things, in such extremities. 
Who draws the good man's will? 

Lop. Marry that do I, sir ; 
And to my grief. 

Bar. Grief will do little now, sir ; 

Draw it to your comfort, friend, and as I counse you, 
An honest man : but such men live not always. 
Who are about him ? 

Lop. Many, now he is passing, [men 

That would pretend to his love ; yes, and some gentle- 
That would fain counsel him, and be of his kindred. 
Rich men can want no heirs, sir. 

Bar. They do ill, 

Indeed they do, to trouble him ; very ill, sir. 
But we shall take a care. 

[The Curtain is drawn, and Diego discovered in a bed. 
Milages, Aesekio, and Parishioners, about him.'] 

Lop. Now you may see in what state 

Give him fresh air. 
Bar. I am sorry, neighbour Diego, 

To find you in so weak a state. 
Lie. You're welcome ; 

But I am fleeting, sir. 
Bar. Methinks he looks weL ; 

His colour fresh, and strong ; his eyes are cheerful. 
Lop. A glimmering before death ; 'tis nothing else, sir. 

Do you see how he fumbles with the sheet ? do you 
note that ? 
Die. My learned sir, 'pray you sit. I am bold to send for 

To take a care of what I leave. {you, 

Lop. Do you hear that ? 


Ars. (aside to Diego). Play the knave finely ! 

Die. So I will, I warrant you, 
A n d carefully. — 

Bar. 'Pray ye do not trouble him ; 

Tou see he's weak, and has a wand 'ring fancy. 

Die. My honest neighbours, weep not ; I must leave ye ; 
I cannot always bear ye company ; 
We must drop still ; there is no remedy. — 
'Pray ye, master curate, will you write my testament, 
And write it largely, it may be remember'd? 
And be witness to my legacies, good gentlemen. 
Tour worship I do make my full executor; [To Babtoltjs. 
Tou are a man of wit and understanding. 
Give me a cup of wine to raise my spirits, 
For I speak low. I would, before these neighbours, 
Have you to swear, sir, that you'll see it executed. 
And what I give let equally be render' d, 
For my soul's health. 

Bar. I vow it truly, neighbours : 

Let not that trouble you ; before all these, 
Once more I give my oath. 

Die. Then set me higher, 

And pray ye come near me all. 

Lop. We're ready for you. 

Die. First, then, 

After I have given my body to the worms 

(For they must be serv'd first, they're seldom co- 

Lop. Bemember your parish, neighbour. [zen'd)- 

Die. Tou speak truly ; 

I do remember it, — a vile parish, — 

And pray it may be mended. To the poor of it, 

"Which is to all the parish, I give nothing ; 

For nothing unto nothing is most natural : 

Tet leave as much space as will build an hospital i~ 

Their children may pray for me. 

Bar. What do you give to it ? 

Die. Set down two thousand ducats. 

Bar. 'Tis a good gift, 

And will be long remember'd. 

Die. To your worship, 


Because you must take pains to see all finish' d, 

I give two thousand more — it maybe three, sir — 

A poor gratuity for your pains-taking. 
Bar. These are large sums. 
Lop. Nothing to him that has 'em. 
Die. To my old master vicar I give five hundred ; 

Eve hundred and five hundred are too few, sir ; 

But there be more to serve. 
Bar. (aside)* This fellow coins, sure. 
Die. Give me some more drink. 
Bar. If he be worth all these, I'm made for ever. 
Die. I give five hundred pounds to buy a church-yard, 

A spacious church-yard, to lie thieves and knaves in : 

Each men and honest men take all the room up. 
Lop. Are you not weary ? 
Die. Never of well-doing. 
Bar. These are mad legacies. 
Die. They were got as madly. 

My sheep and oxen, and my moveables, 

My plate and jewels, and five hundred acres— 

I have no heirs — 
Bar. This cannot be ; 'tis monstrous. 
Die. Three ships at sea too — 
Bar. Tou have made me full executor ? 
Die. Full, full, and total. 'Would I had more to give you; 

But these may serve an honest mind. 
Bar. Tou say true, 

A very honest mind, and make it rich too ; [monies ? 

Bich, wondrous rich! But, where shall I raise these 

About your house, I see no such great promises, 

"Where shall I find these sums ? 
Die. Even where you please, sir ; 

You're wise and provident, and know business, [able. 

Even raise 'em where you shall think good ; I'm reason- 
Bar. Think good ? will that raise thousands ? 

What do you make me ? 
Die. Tou have sworn to see it done ; that's all my comfort. 
Bar. Where I please ? This is pack'd sure to disgrace me ! 
Die. Tou' re just, and honest, and I know you'll do it ; 

Even where you please, for you know where the wealth is. 


Bar. I am abus'd, betray'd ! I am laugh' d at, scorn'd, 

Baffled, and bored, it seems ! 
Ars. Xo, no ; you are fool'd. 
Lop. Most finely fool'd, and handsomely, and neatly ; 

Such cunning masters must be fool'd sometimes, sir ; 

We are but quit. Tou fool us of our monies. 
Die. Ha, ha, ha, ha! some more drink for my heart, gentle- 

This merry lawyer — Ha, ha, ha, ha ! this scholar — [men. 

I think this fit will cure me ! This executor 

I shall laugh out my lungs ! 
Bar. This is derision above sufferance ; villainy 

Plotted and set against me ! 
Die. 'Faith, 'tis knavery; 

In troth, I must confess thou art fool'd indeed, lawyer. 

Mil. Did you think, had this man been rich 

Bar. 'Tis well, sir. 

Mil. He would have chosen such a wolf, a canker, 

A maggot-pate, to be his whole executor ? 
Lop. A lawyer, that entangles all men's honesties, 

And lives like a spider in a cobweb lurking, 

And catching at all flies that pass his pitfalls, — 

Would he trust you ? Do you deserve 
Die, I find, gentlemen, 

This cataplasm of a well-cozen' d lawyer 

Laid to my stomach, lenifies my fever. 

Methinks I could eat now, and walk a little. 
Bar. I am ashamed to feel how flat I'm cheated; 

How grossly, and maliciously, made a may-game f 

God yield you, and God thank you ! I am fool'd, gentle- 

The lawyer is an ass, I do confess it, [men ! 

A weak, dull, shallow ass ! G-ood even to your worships ! 

Vicar, remember, vicar ! Rascal, remember. 

Thou notable rich rascal ! 


beggars' holiday so^g. 

Cast our caps and cares away % 
This is beggars' holiday ! 


At the crowning of our king, 
Thus we ever dance and sing. 
In the world look out and see, 
"Where's so happy a prince as hep 
Where the nation lives so free, 
And so merry as do we? 
Be it peace, or be it war, 
Here at liberty we are, 
And enjoy our ease and rest : 
To the field we are not press'd ; 
!N"of are call'd into the town, 
To be troubled with the gown. 
Hang all offices, we cry, 
And the magistrate too, by. 
When the subsidy's increas'd, 
We are not a penny sess'd ; 
Nor will any go to law 
With the beggar for a straw. 
All which happiness, he brags, 
JEe doth owe unto his rags. 


Elorez, Prince of Flanders, disguised as a merchant under the name of Gos- 
toin, during the usurpation of his right, rtbukes one of the usurper's cap- 
tains, who does not know him, for treating his addresses to his niece with 

Goswik, Hempskibke, Httbeet, Vakdtjkke, Maegaeet 
(his Wife), and Geeteude. 

Hemp, (to Gert.) You must not only know me for your uncle 
Now, but obey me : You go cast yourself 
Away, upon a dunghill here ! a merchant ! 
A petty fellow ! one that makes his trade 
With oaths and perjuries ! 

Gos. What is that you say, sir ? 

If it be me you speak of, as your eye 

Seems to direct, I wish you'd speak to me, sir. 

Hemp. Sir, I do say, she is no merchandize ; 
Will that suffice you ? 

Gqs* Merchandize, good sir ! 

Tho' you be kinsman to her, take no leave thence 


To use me with contempt : I ever thought 

Tour niece above all price. 
Hemp, And do so still, sir. 

I assure you, her rate's at more than you are worth. 
Gos. You do not know what a gentleman's worth, sir, 

Nor can you value him. 
Hub. Well said, merchant ! 
Vand. ]N T ay, 

Let him alone, and ply your matter. 
Hemp. A gentleman ? 

What, of the wool-pack ? or the sugar-chest ? 

Or lists of velvet ? Which is't, pound or yard, 

Tou vent your gentry by ? 
Hub. Oh, Hempskirke, fie ! 
Vand. Come, do not mind 'em; drink! — He is no Wolfort, 

Captain, I advise you. 
Hemp. Alas, my pretty man, 

I think't be angry, by its look. Come hither ; 

Turn this way a little. If it were the blood 

Of Charlemagne, as't may, for aught I know, 

Be some good botcher's issue, here in Bruges 

Gos. How ? 

Hemp. Nay, I'm not certain of that ; of this I am, 

If it once buy and sell, its gentry's gone. 
Gos. Ha, ha ! 

Hemp. You're angry, though you laugh. 
Gos. No, now 'tis pity 

Of your poor argument. Do not you, the lords 

Of land (if you be any), sell the grass, 

The corn, the straw, the milk, the cheese 

Vand. And butter : 

Bemember butter : do not leave out butter. 
Gos. The beefs and muttons, that your grounds are stor'd 

Swine, with the very mast, beside the woods ? [with ? 
Hemp. No, for those sordid uses we have tenants, 

Or else our bailiffs. 
Gos. Have not we, sir, chapmen, 

And factors, then, to answer these ? Your honour, 

Fetch' d from the heralds' ABC, and said over 

With your court faces, once an hour, shall never 



Make me mistake myself. Do not your lawyers 
Sell all their practice, as your priests their prayers r 
What is not bought and sold ? The company 
That you had last, what had you for't, i' faith ? 

Hemp. Tou now grow saucy. 

Gos. Sure, I have been bred 

Still with my honest liberty, and must use it. 

Hemp. Upon your equals then. 

Gos. Sir, he that will 

Provoke me first, doth make himself my equal. 

Hemp. Do you hear ? No more ! 

Gos. Tes, sir, this little, I pray you, 

And it shall be aside ; then, after, as you please ! 

Tou appear the uncle, sir, to her I love 

More than mine eyes ; and I have heard your scorns 

"With so much scoffing, and so much shame, 

As each strive which is greater : but, believe me, 

I suck' d, not in this patience with my milk. 

Do not presume, because you see me young, 

Or cast despites on my profession, 

For the civility and tameness of it. 

A good man bears a contumely worse 

Than he would do an injury. Proceed not 

To my offence. "Wrong is not still successful ; 

Indeed it is not. • I would approach your kinswoman 

"With all respect done to yourself and her. 

[Takes hold of Gertrude' s hand. 

Hemp. Away, companion ! handling her ? take that. 

[Strikes him. 

Gos. Nay,- 1 do love no blows, sir. There's exchange ! 
[He gets Hempskirke's sword, and cuts him on the head. 

Hub. Hold, sir! 

Marg. Oh, murder ! 

Gert. Help my Gos win. 

Marg. Man ! " 

Vand. Let 'em alone. My life for one ! 

Gos. JSTay, come, 
If you have will. 

Hub. JS r one to offend you I, sir. 

Gos. He that had, thank himself ! Not hand her? Yes, sir, 

THE beggars' bush. 227 

And clasp her, and embrace her ; and (would she 
Now go with me) bear her thro' all her race, 
Her father, brethren, and her uncles, arm'd, 
And all their nephews, though they stood a wood 
Of pikes, and wall of cannon ! — Kiss me, Gertrude ! 
Quake not, but kiss me ! 

Vand. Kiss him, girl ; I bid you. — 

My merchant-royal ! Fear no uncles ! Hang 'em , 
Hang up all uncles ! Are we not in Bruges, 
Under the rose, here ? 

Gos. In this circle, love, 

Thou art as safe as in a tower of brass. 
Let such as do wrong, fear. 

Vand. Ay, that is good ; 

Let "Wolfort look to that. 

Gos, Sir, here she stands, 

Tour niece, arid my belov'd. One of these titles 

She must apply to. If unto the last, 

Not all the anger can be sent unto her, 

In frown, or voice, or other art, shall force her, 

Had Hercules a hand in't ! — Come, my joy, 

Say thou art mine aloud, love, and profess it. 

Vand. Do ; and I drink to it. 

Gos. Pr'ythee say so, love. 

Gert. 'Twould take away the honour from my blushes 

(Do not you play the tyrant, sweet !) : — -they speak it. 

Hemp, I thank you, niece. 

Gos. Sir, thank her for your life ; 
And fetch your sword within. 

Hemp. Tou insult too much 

With your good fortune, sir. [Exeunt Gos. and Geet. 

Hub. A brave clear spirit ! — 

Hempskirke, you were to blame. A civil habit 
Oft covers a good man ; and you may meet, 
In person of a merchant, with a soul 
As resolute and free, and all ways worthy, 
As else in any file of mankind. Pray you, 
"What meant you so to slight him ? 

Hemp. "lis done now ; 

Ask no more of it ; I must suffer. [Exit. 


Sub. This 

Is still the punishment of rashness — sorrow. 


1st Usher. Make all things perfect. Would you have these 

Enter Ladies and Gentlemen. 

They that come here to see the show, these beauties 
That have been labouring to set off their sweetness, 
And wash'd and curl'd, lose all their expectations ? 
Madams, the best way is the upper lodgings ; 
There you may see at ease. 

Ladies, We thank you, sir. [Exeunt Ladies and Gentlemen. 

1st Usher. Would you have all these slighted ? Who should 
report then, 
The ambassadors were handsome men ? His beard 
A neat one : the fire of his eyes quicker than lightning, 
And, when it breaks, as blasting ; his legs, tho' little 
Yet movers of a mass of understanding ? [ones, 

Who shall commend their clothes ? who shall take notice 
Of the most wise behaviour of their feathers ? l 


Seleucus, Lysimachus, and Ptolemy {three of the kings made out of the 
generals of Alexander) send ami assadors to their brother king, Jntigonus y 
io remonstrate with him on his ambition. 

Antjgostus, Timon, Charikthtis, and Meisippus. 

Ant. Conduct in the ambassadors. 

I si Usher, Make room there. 

Ant. They shall not long wait answer. 

1 Wise behaviour of their feathers ^\ This witty expression is a match 
for the "embonpoint" of the coxcomb's s< plumes" inMolieres Precieuses 


Flourish. Enter Three Ambassadors. 

Ant. Now jour grievance. 

Speak short ; and have as short dispatch, 

ljtf Ambassador. Then thus, sir, 

In all our royal masters' names, we tell you 

You have done injustice ; — broke the bounds of concord ; 

And from their equal shares (from Alexander 

Parted, and so possess' d), not like a brother, 

But as an open enemy, you have hedg'd in 

AV'hole provinces ; mann'd and maintain'd these injuries; 

And daily with your sword, though they still honour you, 

Make bloody roads, take towns, and ruin castles ; 

And still their sufferance feels the weight. 

Think of that love, great sir, that honour' d friendship, 

Yourself held with our masters ; think of that strength, 

"When you were all one body, all one mind ; 

When all your swords struck one way ; when your 

Like so many brother billows, rose together, [angers, 

And, curling up your foaming crests, defied 

Even mighty kings, and in their falls entomb' d 'em. 

Oh, think of these ! and you that have been conquerors, 

That ever led your fortunes open-eyed, 

Chain' d fast by confidence ; you that Fame courted, 

Now ye want enemies and men to match ye, 

Let not your own swords seek your ends, to shame ye ! 

3rd Ami. Chuse which you will, or peace or war ; 
We come prepared for either. 

Enter Demetbius, with a javelin, and Gentlemen. 

1st Usher. Room for the prince there ! 

Dem. Hail, royal father ! 

Ant. You're welcome from your sport, sir. — D'ye see this 
gentleman, [quakes 

You that bring thunders in your mouths, and earth- 
To shake and totter my designs ? Can you imagine, 
You men of poor and common apprehensions, 
While I admit this man my son, this nature 
That in one look carries more fire and fierceness 
Than all your masters in their lives, — dare I admit him, 
Admit him thus, even to my side, my bosom, 


When he is fit to rule, when all men cry him, 3 
And all hopes hang about his head, thus place 
His weapon hatch' d in blood, — all these attending 
"When he shall make their fortunes, all as sudden 
In any expedition he shall point 'em, 
As arrows from a Tartar's bow, and speeding ; 
Dare I do this, and fear an enemy ? 
Fear your great master ? yours ? or yours ? 
Dem. Oh, Hercules ! 

"Who says you do, sir? Is there anything 

In these men's faces, or their masters' actions. 

Able to work such wonders ? 

Tou call 'em kings : they never wore those royalties \ 

Nor in the progress of their lives arriv'd yet 

At any thought of king. Imperial dignities, 

And powerful godlike actions, fit for princes, 

They can no more put on, and make 'em sit right, 

Than I can with this mortal hand hold Heaven. 

Poor petty men ! Nor have I yet forgot, 

The chiefest honours time and merit gave 'em : 

Lysimachus, your master, at his best, 

His highest, and his hopeful' st dignities, 

"Was but grand master of the elephants ; 

Seleucus of the treasure ; and, for Ptolemy, 

A thing not thought on then, scarce heard of yet, 

Some master of ammunition. And must these men — 

Must these examine what the wills of kings are ? 

Prescribe to their designs, and chain their actions 

To their restraints ? be friends and foes when they 

Send out their thunders and their menaces, [please ? 

As if the fate of mortal things were theirs ? — 

Go home, good men, and tell your masters from us, 

We do 'em too much honour to force from 'em 

Their barren countries, ruin their waste cities ; 

And tell 'em, out of love, we mean to leave 'em, 

Since they will needs be kings, no more to tread on 

Than they have able wits and powers to manage ; 

And so we shall befriend 'em. 

1 Cry him.'] Cry him up ; extol him. 


3rd Amb. Once more, sir, 

We ask your resolutions : Peace, or war, yet f 
Bern, "War, war, my noble father ! 
1st Amb. Thus I fling it : 

And, fair-eyed Peace, farewell ! 


I scorn to say I saw you fall, sigh for you, 

And tell a whining tale, some ten years after, 

To boys and girls in an old chimney-corner, 

Of what a prince we had, how bravely spirited, 

How young and fair he fell. We'll all go with you ; 

And you shall see us all, like sacrifices, 

In our best trim, fill up the mouth of ruin ! 


Leon. You are too tender : 

Fortune has hours of loss, and hours of honour, 
And the most valiant feel them both. Take comfort; 
The next is ours ; I have a soul descries it. 
The angry bull never goes back for breath, 
But when he means to arm his fury double. 


How now, Lieutenant ? 

Enter Lieutenant, wounded. 

Lieut. I know not ; I am maul'd ; we are bravely beaten ; 

All our young gallants lost. 
Leontius. Thou'rt hurt. 
Lieut. I'm pepper'd ; 

I was i' th' midst of all, and bang'd of all hands : 

They made an anvil of my head ; it rings yet ; 

Never so thresh' d. Do you call this fame ? I have famed 

I have got immortal fame, but I'll no more on't ; [it ; 

I'll no such scratching saint to serve hereafter. 

O' my conscience, I was kill' d above twenty times ; 

And yet, I know not what a devil's in't, 

I crawl'd away, and liv'd again still. I'm hurt plaguily : 


Demetrius. All the young men lost ? 

Lieut. I'm glad 

You're here ; but they are all in the pound, sir ; 
They'll never ride o'er other men's corn again, I take it 
Such frisking, and such flaunting with their feathers, 
And such careering with their mistress' favours ! 
And here must he be pricking out for honour, 
And there got he a knock, and down goes pilgarlick, 
Commends his soul to his she-saint, and exit. 
Another spurs in there, cries, " Make room, villains ! 
I am a lord !" scarce spoken, but, with reverence, 
A rascal takes him o'er the face, and fells him : 
There lies the lord ; the Lord be with him ! 



Clorin, the Faithful Shepherdess, vows eternal constancy to her deceased 


Scene — A Wood. 

Enter Clorin, having buried her Love in an Arbour. 

Clorin. Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace 
The truest man that ever fed his flocks 
By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly ! 
Thus I salute thy grave ; thus do I pay 
My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes, 
To thy still-loved ashes ; thus I free 
Myself from all ensuing heats and fires 
Of love ; — all sports, delights, and jolly games 
That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off. 
Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirfc 
With youthful coronals, and lead the dance ; 
No more the company of fresh fair maids 
And wanton shepherds be to me delightful, 
Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes 
Under some shady dell, when the cool wind 
Plays on the leaves. All be far away, 
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side 


How often have I sat crown'd with fresh flowers 
For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's hoy- 
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook, 
And hanging scrip of finest cordevan* 1 
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee, 
And all are dead but thy dear memory ; 
That shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring 
Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing ; 
And here will I, in honour of thy love, 
Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys 
That former times made precious to mine eyes ; 
Only remembering what my youth did gain 
In the dark, hidden virtuous use of herbs : 
That will 1 practise, and as freely give 
All my endeavours, as I gain'd them free. 
Of all green wounds I know the remedies 
In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes, 
Or charm' d with powerful words of wicked art, 
Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat 
Grown wild or lunatic, their eyes or ears 
Thicken' d with misty film of dulling rheum ; 
These I can cure, such secret virtue lies 
In herbs, applied by a virgin's hand. 
My meat shall be what these wild woods afford, 
Berries and chestnuts, plantanes on whose cheeks 
The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit 
Pull'd from the fair head of the straight-grown pine; 
On these I'll feed with free content and rest, 
"When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest. 

Enter a Satyr with a Basket of Fruit. 

Sat. Thorough yon same bending plain 

That flings his arms down to the main, 
And through these thick woods, have I run, 
Whose bottom never kiss'd the sun 
Since the lusty spring began. — 
All to please my master Pan 
Have I trotted without rest 

1 Cordevan.'] Spanish leather 5 leather of Cordova. 


To get him fruit ; for at a feast 

He entertains, this coming night, 

His paramour, the Syrinx bright. — 

But, behold a fairer sight ! [Seeing Clobin, 

By that heavenly form of thine, 

Brightest fair, thou art divine, 

Sprung from great immortal race 

Of the gods ; for in thy face 

Shines more awful majesty 

Than dull weak mortality 

Dare with misty eyes behold, 

And live ! Therefore on this mould 

Lowly do I bend my knee, ' 

In worship of thy deity. 

Deign it, goddess, from my hand 

To receive whate'er this land 

From her fertile w-omb doth send 

Of her choice fruits ; and but lend 

Belief to that the Satyr tells. 

Fairer by the famous wells, 

To this present day ne'er grew ; 

Never better nor more true. 

Here be grapes, whose lusty blood 

Is the learned poets' good ; 

Sweeter yet did never crown 

The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown 

Than the squirrel's teeth that crack them \ 

Deign, O fairest fair, to take them. 

For these black-eyed Driope 

Hath oftentimes commanded me 

With my clasped knee to climb : 

See how well the lusty time 

Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in rei 

Such as on your lips is spread. 

Here be berries for a queen, 

Some be red, some be green ; 

These are of that luscious meat, 

The great god Pan himself doth eat : 

All these, and what the woods can yields 

The hanging mountain or the field, 


I freely offer, and ere long 
"Will bring you more, more sweet and strong ; 
Till when humbly leave I take, 
Lest the great Pan do awake, 
That sleeping lies in a deep glade, 
Under a broad beech's shade. 
I must go, I must run 

Swifter than the fiery sun. [Exit. 

Col. And all my fears go with thee. 

"What greatness or what private hidden power 

Is there in me, to draw submission 

From this rude man and beast .' Sure I am mortal : 

The daughter of a shepherd ; he was mortal. 

And she that bore me mortal. Prick my hand 

And it will bleed ; a fever shakes me, and 

The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink. 

Makes me a-cold. My fear says I am mortal. 

Yet I have heard (my mother told it me, 

And now I do believe it) if I keep 

My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, 

Ko goblin, wood-god, fairy, elfe, or fiend, 

Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves, 

Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion 

Draw me to wander after idle fires ; 

Or voices calling me in dead of night, 

To make me follow, and so tole me on 

Through mire and standing pools, to find my ruin : 

Else, whv should this rough thing, who never knew 

Manners, nor smooth humanity, whose heats 

Are rougher than himself, and more mis-shapen, 

Thus mildly kneel to me ? Sure there's a power 

In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast 

All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites 

That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity, 

Be thou my strongest guard ; for here I'll dwell 

In opposition against fate and hell ! 

[She retires into the arbour. 



Sing his praises that doth keep 

Our flocks from harm, 
Pan, the father of our sheep ; 

And arm in arm 
Tread we softly in a round, 
While the hollow neighb'ring ground 
Fills the music with her sound. 

Pan, great god Pan, fco thee 

Thus do we sing : 
Thou that keep'st us chaste and free, 

As the young spring. 
Ever be thy honour spoke, 
From that place the morn is broke, 
To that place day doth unyoke ! 


To that holy wood is consecrate 

A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks 

The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds 

By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes 

Their stolen children, so to make them free 

From dying flesh and dull mortality. 

By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn, 

And given away his freedom : many a troth 

Been plight, which neither envy, nor old time 

Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given, 

In hope of coming happiness : 

By this fresh fountain many a blushing maid 

Hath crown' d the head of her long-loved shepherd 

"With gaudy flowers, whilst he, happy, sung 

Lays of his love and dear captivity. 


I pray thee stay ! Where hast thou been ? 

Or whither goest thou ? Here be woods as green 

As any ; air likewise as fresh and sweet 

As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet 


Face of the curled streams, with flowers as many 
As the young spring gives, and as choice as any ; 
Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, 
Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines ; caves and dells ; 
Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing, 
Or gather rushes, to make many a ring 
For thy long fingers ; tell thee tales of love, 
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, 
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes 
She took eternal fire that never dies ; 
How she convey' d him softly in a sleep, 
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep 
Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night, 
Gilding the mountain with her brother's light, 
To kiss her sweetest. 


Amoret, whose shape has been magically assumed by another shepherdess in 
order to ?nislead Perigot, is ivounded by him in the belief that she has 
been unfaithful, and then cast into a vjell by an accomplice of the 
criminal, called from his selfish and lonely habits the Sullen Shepherd* 
But her life is saved by the River God, who has the well in his keeping. 

Amoeet, and then Pebigot, 

Amo. Many a weary step, in yonder path, 

Poor hopeless Amoret twice trodden hath, 
To seek her Perigot, yet cannot hear 
His voice. My Perigot ! She loves thee dear 
That calls. 

Peri. See yonder where she is ! how fair 

She shows ! and yet her breath infects the air* 

Amo. My Perigot ' 

Peri. Here. 

A mo. Happy ! 

Peri. Hapless ! first 

It lights on thee : the next blow is the worst. 

[ Wounds her and exit. 

Sull. Shep. ISTow shall their love be cross' d ; for, being struck, 
I'll throw her in the fount, lest being took 
By some night traveller, whose honest care 


May help to cure her — Shepherdess, prepare 
Yourself to die ! 

Arno. I\To mercy I do crave : 

Thou canst not give a worse blow than I have. 
Tell him, that gave me this, who lov'd him too, 
He struck my soul, and not my body through. 
Tell him, when I am dead, my soul shall be 
At peace, if he but think he injur'd me. 

Suit. Skep. In this fount be thy grave. Thou were not 
Sure for a woman, thou'rt so innocent. — [meant 

[Flings her into the well. 
She cannot 'scape, for, underneath the ground, 
In a long hollow the clear spring is bound, 
Till on yon side, where the morn's sun doth look, 
The struggling water breaks out in a brook. [Exit. 

The Grod of the River riseth with Amoeet in his arms. 

God. "What powerful charms my streams do bring 
Back again unto their spring, 
With such force, that I their God, 
Three times striking with my rod, 
Could not keep them in their ranks ? 
My fishes shoot into the banks ; 
There is not one that stays and feeds ; 
All have hid them in the weeds. 
Here's a mortal almost dead, 
Fallen into my river head, 
Hallow' d so with many a spell, 
That till now none ever fell. 
See upon her breast a wound, ^ 
On which there is no plaister bound : 
Yet she's warm, her pulses beat ; 
'Tis a sign of life and heat. — 
If thou be'st a virgin pure, 
I can give a present cure : 
Take a drop into thy wound 
From my wat'ry locks, more round 
Than orient pearl, and far more pure 
Than unchaste flesh may endure. — 
See, she pants, and from her flesh 


The warm blood gusheth out afresh. 

She is an unpolluted maid ; 

I must have this bleeding staid. 

From my banks I pluck this flower 

With holy hand, whose virtuous power 

Is at once to heal and draw. 

The blood returns. I never saw 

A fairer mortal. Now doth break 

Her deadly slumber. Virgin, speak. 
Amo. Who hath restor'd my sense, giv'n me new breath. 

And brought me back out of the arms of death ? 
God. I have heal'd thy wounds. 
Amo. Ay, me ! 
God. Fear not him that succour' d thee : 

I am this fountain's G-od. Below 

My waters to a river grow ; 

And 'twixt two banks with osiers set, 

That only prosper in the wet, 

Through the meadows do they glide, 

"Wheeling still on every side, 

Sometimes winding round about, 

To find the evenest channel out : 

And if thou wilt go with me, 

Leaving mortal company, 

In the cool stream shalt thou lie, 

IVee from harm as well as I. 

I will give thee for thy food 

No fish that useth in the mud ; 

But trout and pike, that love to swim 

Where the gravel from the brim 

Through the pure streams may be seen : 

Orient pearl fit for a queen 

Will I give, thy love to win, 

And a shell to keep them in. 

Not a fish in all my brook 

That shall disobey thy look, 

But, when thou wilt, come sliding by, 

And from thy white hand take a fly. 

And to make thee understand 

How I can my waves command, 


They shall bubble whilst 1 sing, 
Sweeter than the silver string, 


Do not fear to put thy feet 
Naked in the river, sweet ; 
Think not leech, or newt, or toad, 
Will bite thy foot, when thou hast trod ; 
Nor let the water rising high, 
As thou wad'st in, make thee cry 
And sob ; but ever live with me, 
And not a wave shall trouble thee ! 

Amo. Immortal power, that ruPst this holy flood, 
I know myself unworthy to be woo'd 
By thee, a God ! For ere this, but for thee, 
I should have shown my weak mortality. 
Besides, by holy oath betwixt us twain, 
I am betroth' d unto a shepherd swain, 
Whose comely face I know the gods above 
May make me leave to see, but not to love. 

God. May he prove to thee as true. 
Fairest virgin, now adieu ! 
I must make my waters fly, 
Lest they leave their channels dry, 
And beasts that come unto the spring 
Miss their morning's watering, 
"Which I would not ; for of late 
All the neighbour people sate 
On my banks, and from the fold 
Two white lambs of three weeks old 
Offer' d to my deity : 
For which this year they shall be free 
From raging floods, that as they pass 
Leave their gravel in the grass : 
Nor shall their meads be overflown^ 
When their grass is newly mown. 

Amo. For thy kindness to me shown, 
]STever from thy banks be blown 
Any tree, with windy force, 
Cross thy streams ? to stop thy course; 


May no beast that comes to drink, 

With bis horns cast down thy brink ; 

May none that for thy fish do look, 

Cut thy banks to dam thy brook ; 

Barefoot may no neighbour wade 

In thy cool streams, wife or maid, 

"When the spawns on stones do lie, 

To wash their hemp, and spoil the fry ! 
God. Thanks, virgin ! I must down again. 

Thy wound will put thee to no pain : 

"Wonder not so soon 'tis gone, 

A holy hand was laid upon. \JEodU 

Amo. And I, unhappy born to be, 

Must follow him that flies from me. [Exit* 

Scene — The Grove before Clobin's Arbour. 
Enter Satte, with Alexis hurt. 
Sat. Softly gliding as I go, 

With this burthen full of woe, 
Through still silence of the night, 
Guided by the glow-worm's light, 
Hither am I come at last. 
Many a thicket have I past ; 
Not a twig that durst deny me, 
Not a bush that durst descry me 
To the little bird, that sleeps 
On the tender spray ; nor creeps 
That hardy worm with pointed tail, 
But if I be under sail, 
Flying faster than the wind, 
Leaving all the clouds behind, 
But doth hide her tender head 
In some hollow tree, or bed 
Of seeded nettles ; not a hare 
Can be started from his fare 
By my footing ; nor a wish. 
Is more sudden ; nor a fish 
Can be found with greater ease 
Cut the vast unbounded seas, 
Leaving neither print nor sound^ 


Than I, when nimbly on the ground 

I measure many a league an hour. 

But behold the happy power, [Seeing Lloein, 

That must ease me of my charge, 

And by holy hand enlarge 

The soul of this sad man, that yet 

Lies fast bound in deadly fit. 

Heaven and great Pan succour it ! — 

Enter Cloeis*. 

Hail, thou beauty of the bower, 
"Whiter than the paramour 
Of thy master ! Let me crave 
Thy virtuous help to keep from grave 
This poor mortal, that here lies, 
"Waiting when the destinies 
"Will undo his thread of life. 
View the wound by cruel knife 
Trench' d into him. 
Clo. What art thou call'st me from my holy rites, 
And, with the feared name of death, affrights 
My tender ears ? Speak me thy name and will. 
Sat. I am the Satyr that did fill 

Tour lap with early fruit ; and will, 
"When I hap to gather more, 
Bring you better and more store, 
Tet I come not empty now : 

See a blossom from the bough ; 

But beshrew his heart that pull'd it, 

And his perfect sight that cull'd it 

From the other springing blooms ! 

For a sweeter youth the grooms 

Cannot show me, nor the downs, 

Nor the many neighbouring towns. 

Low in yonder glade I found him ; 

Softly in mine arms I bound him ; 

Hither have I brought him sleeping 

In a trance, his wounds fresh weeping- 

In remembrance such youth may 

Spring and perish in a day. 


Clo. Satyr, they wrong thee, that do term thee rude ; 
Though thou be'st outward rough, and tawny-hued, 
Thy manners are as gentle and as fair 
As his who brags himself born only heir 
To all humanity. Let me see the wound. 

\_She applies herbs to the wound, and cures it. 
Sat. Brightest, if there be remaining 

Any service, without feigning 
I will do it. Were I set 
To catch the nimble wind, or get 
Shadows gliding on the green, 
Or to steal from the great queen 
Of the fairies all her beauty, 
I would do it ; so much duty 
Do I owe those precious eyes. 
Clo. I thank thee, honest Satyr. If the cries 
Of any other, that be hurt, or ill, 
Draw thee unto them, pr'ythee, do thy will 
To bring them hither. 
Sat. I will ; and when the weather 

Serves to angle in the brook, 
I will bring a silver hook, 
With a line of finest silk, 
And a rod as white as milk, 
To deceive the little fish : 
So I take my leave, and wish 
On this bower may ever dwell 
Spring and summer ! 
Clo. Friend, farewell ! 


See, the day begins to break, 
Ajid the light shoots like a streak 
Of subtle fire. The wind blows cold, 
"While the morning doth unfold. 


Priest. Wherefore hast thou wander' d ? 
Thenot. 'Twas a vow 

That drew me out last night, which I have now 


Strictly perform' d, and homewards go to give 

Eresh pasture to my sheep, that they may live. 
Priest. 'Tis good to hear you, shepherd, if the heart 

In this well-sounding music bear his part. 

Where have you left the rest ? 
The. I have not seen, 

Since yesternight we met upon this green 

To fold our flocks up, any of that train ; 

Yet have I walk'd those woods round, and have lain 

All this same night under an aged tree ; 

Yet neither wand'ring shepherd did I see, 

Or shepherdess, or drew infco mine ear 

The sound of living thing, unless it were 

The nightingale among the thick-leav'd spring, 

That sits alone in sorrow, and doth sing 

"Whole nights away in mourning ; or the owl 

Or our great enemy, that still doth howl 

Against the moon's cold beams. 


Enter Amarillis, running. 

Amar. If there be 

Ever a neighbour-brook, or hollow tree 

[Receive my body. — Pan, for her dear sake 

That loves the river's brinks, and still doth shake 

In cold remembrance of thy quick pursuit, 1 

Let me be made a reed, and ever mute, 

Nod to the waters' fall, whilst every blast 

Sings through my slender leaves that I was chaste ! 

Amoret, again wounded^ is hr ought to the Faithful Shepherdess for help* 
Enter Satyr, carrying her. 

Amo. Be'st thou the wildest creature of the wood, 
That bear' st me thus away, drown'd in my blood, 

1 For her dear sake, fyc7\ For the sake of Syrinx, who .was turned into 
reeds. The fancy is beautiful ; but Fletcher seems to have forgotten 
that in this very pastoral he has restored Syrinx to her former state ; 
for she is mentioned in the first scene as about to be entertained by Pan 
at supper. 


And dying, know I cannot injured be ; 
I am a maid ; let that name fight for me I 
Sat. Fairest virgin, do not fear 

Me, that doth thy body bear, 

Not to hurt, but heal'd to be ; 

Men are ruder far than we. 

See, fair goddess, in the wood \_Speahing to Clobin 

They have let out yet more blood : 

Some savage man hath struck her breast, 

So soft and white, that no wild beast 

Durst have touch' d, asleep, or 'wake ; 

So sweet, that adder, newt, or snake, 

Would have lain from arm to arm 

On her bosom to be warm 

All a night, and, being hot, 

Gone away, and stung her not. 

Quickly clap herbs to her breast : 

A man sure is a kind of beast ! 
Clo. With spotless hand on spotless breast 

I put these herbs, to give thee rest. 


The Satyr takes leave of the Faithful Shepherdess, 

Sat, Thou divinest, fairest, brightest, 

Thou most powerful maid, and whitest, 
Thou most virtuous and most blessed, 
Eyes of stars, and golden tressed 
Like Apollo ! tell me, sweetest, 
What new service now is metest 
Tor the Satyr ? Shall I stray 
In the middle air, and stay 
The sailing rack, or nimbly take 
Hold by the moon, and gently make 
Suit to the pale queen of night 
For a beam to give thee light ? 
Shall I dive into the sea, 
And bring thee coral, making way 
Through the rising waves that fall 
In snowy fleeces ? Dearest, shall 


I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies 

"Whose woven wings the summer dyes 

Of many colours ? get thee fruit ? 

Or steal from heav'n old Orpheus' lute ? 

All these I'll venture for, and more 

To do her service all these woods adore. 
Glo. !N"o other service, Satyr, than to watch 

About these thicks, lest harmless people catch 

Mischief or sad mischance. 
Sat. Holy virgin, I will dance 

Round' about these woods as quick 

As the breaking light, and prick 1 

Down the lawns, and down the vales, 

Taster than the windmill sails. 

So I take my leave, and pray, 

All the comforts of the day, 

Such as Phoebus' heat doth send 

On the earth, may still befriend 

Thee and this arbour. 
do. And to thee 

All thy master's love be free. 

1 Prick ] Hasten rapidly ; go at speed ; — a term originating in the 
haste made by the horseman with his spurs. 

[" If all the parts of this play had been in unison with these innocent 
scenes, and sweetly ric intermixtures, it had been a poem fit to vie with 
Comus or the Arcadia ; to have been put into the hands of boys and 
virgins ; to have made matter for young dreams, like the loves of Hermia 
and Lysander. But a spot is on the face of this moon. Nothing short 
of infatuation could have driven Fletcher upon mixing up with this 
blessedness such an ugly deformity as Cloe, the wanton shepherdess. 
Coarse words do but wound the ears ; but a character of lewdness 
affronts the mind. Female lewdness at once shocks nature and mora- 
lity. If Cloe was meant to set off Clorin by contrast, Fletcher should 
have known that such weeds, by juxtaposition, do not set off but kill 
sweet flowers." — Lamb. [It need not be added that there is nothing of 
Cloe in this selection.] 

" The Faithful Shepherdess, by Fletcher alone, is c a perpetual feast of 
nectar' d sweets, where no crude surfeit reigns.' [The critic overlooks 
here what Lamb has been noticing.] The author has in it given a loose 
to his fancy, and his fancy was his most delightful and genial quality, 
where, to use his own words, 

c He takes most ease, and grows ambitious 
Through his own wanton fire, and pride delicious.* 


The songs and lyrical descriptions throughout are luxuriant and delicate 
in a high degree. He came near to Spenser in a certain tender and 
voluptuous sense of natural beauty ; he came near to Shakspeare in the 
playful and fantastic expression of it. The whole composition is an 
exquisite union of dramatic and pastoral poetry, where the local de- 
scriptions receive a tincture from the sentiments and purposes of the 
speaker, and each character, cradled in the lap of nature, paints c her 
virgin fancies wild' with romantic grace and classic elegance." — - 

Schlegel is as severe on this play as Hazlitt is panegyrical. He 
charges it with heaviness and ultra -mythology ; and Mr. Hallam has 
objected, with justice, to some of the fancies of the Satyr as being " not 
much in the character of these sylvans." He says of the whole play, that 
it is very characteristic of Fletcher, being a mixture of tenderness, 
temerity, indecency, and absurdity. But he adds that it is impossible 
to withhold our praise from its "poetical beauties."] 



King Astobax, his GenerallsIxKXOit, Calxs, anc?CLEAKTHE. 

Memnon. I know no court but martial, 

No oily language, but the shock of arms, 

No dalliance but with death ; no lofty measures, 

But weary and sad marches, cold and hunger, 

'Larums at midnight Valour's self would shake at ; 

Tet I ne'er shrank. Balls of consuming wildfire, 

That lick'd men up like lightning, have I laugh'd at ; 

And toss'd 'em back again like children's trifles. 

Upon the edges of my enemies' swords [waiting, 

I have march' d like whirlwinds; Fury at this hand 

Death at my right, Fortune my forlorn hope : 

"When I have grappled with Destruction, 

And tugg'd with pale-fac'd Euin, night and mischief, 

Frighted to see a new day break in blood ! 

And everywhere I conquer' d ; those that griev'd you 

I've taken order for, i' th' earth. Those fools 

That shall hereafter . 


Astorax. No more wars, my soldier ; 

"We must dow treat of peace, sir. 

[He takesl&&W8QT$ aside, and talks with him. 
Cleanthe. How he talks ! 

How gloriously ! 
Calls. A goodly timber'd fellow ; 

Valiant, no doubt. 
Cle. If valour dwell in vaunting. 

In what a phrase he speaks ! as if his actions 

Could be set off in nothing but a noise ! 

Sure ? h' has a drum in his mouth. 


O divinest star of Heaven, 
Thou, in power above the seven : 
Thou sweet kindler of desires, 
Till they grow to mutual fires : 
Thou, gentle queen, that art 
Curer of each wounded heart : 
Thou, the fuel and the flame : 
Thou, in Heaven and here the same : 
Thou, the wooer and the woo'd : 
Thou, the hunger and the food : 
Thou, the prayer and the pray'd : 
Thou, what is or shall be said :• 
Thou, still young, and golden tressed,' 
Make me by thy answer blessed ! 


{A Masque presented to cure the Mad Lover.) 

Enter Oepheus. 
Orpheus I am, come from the deeps below 
To thee, fond man, the plagues of love to show. 
To the fair fields where loves eternal dwell 
There's none that come, but first they pass through helL 
Hark, and beware ! unless thou hast lov'd, ever 
Belov'd. again, thou shalt see those joys never. 

Hark, how they groan that died despairing ! 

Oh, take heed then ! 
Hark how they howl for over-daring ! 

All these were men. 


They that be fools, and die for fame, 
They lose their name ; 
And they that bleed, 
Hark how they speed ! 

Now in cold frosts, now scorching fires, 

They sit, and curse their lost desires : 
Nor shall these souls be free from pains and fears, 
Till women waft them over in their tears. 

Mem. How ? Should I know my passage is denied me/ 

Or which of all the devils dare 

Eum. This song 

Was rarely form'd to fit him. [Apart. 

Orj)h. Charon, O Charon, 

Thou wafter of the souls to bliss or bane ! 
Cha. Who calls the ferryman of hell ? 
Orph. Come near, 

And say who lives in joy, and who in fear. 
Cha. Those that die well, eternal joy shall follow; 

Those that die ill, their own foul fate shall swallow. 
Orph. Shall thy black bark those guilty spirits stow, 

That kill themselves for love ? 
Cha. Oh, no, no, no. 

My cordage cracks when such great sins are near % 

No wind blows fair, nor I myself can steer. 
Orph. What lovers pass, and in Elyzium reign ? 
Cha, Those gentle loves that are belov'd again. 
Orph. This soldier loves, and fain would die to win ; 

Shall he go on ? 
Cha. No, 'tis too foul a sin. 

He must not come aboard ; I dare not row ; 

Storms of despair and guilty blood will blow. 
Orph. Shall time release him, say ? 
Cha, No, no, no, no. 

Nor time nor death can alter us, nor prayer : 

My boat is Destiny ; and who then dare, 

But those appointed, come aboard ? Live still, 

And love by reason, mortal, not by will. 

Orph. And when thy mistress shall close up thine eyes 

Cha. Then come aboard, and pass. 
Orph. Till when, be wise. 
Cha. Till when, be wise. 

1 How ? Should I know, $*c.~] That is,— cc How is this ? Were I to 
be made certain that my passage is denied me, or which of all the devils 

dare dispute it, I would" Here we are to suppose him breaking 

off in a fury. 




Archas, a faithful Minister, accused of ivrongfully secreting a treasure from 
his Prince, is forced by his accuser to show it. 

Scene — *d Room in a Country-house, with a Door in the 


Enter Duke, Aechas, Boeoskie, Bueeis, G-entleman, and 


Duke. They are handsome rooms all, well contriv'd and fitted. 

Eull of convenience : the prospect's excellent. 
Archas. Now, will your grace pass down, and do me but the 

To taste a country banquet ? [honour 

Duke. What room's that ? 

I would see all now ; what conveyance has it ? 

I see you have kept the best part yet : pray open it. , 
Archas {aside). Ha! I misdoubted this. — 'Tis of no receipt; 

For your eyes most unfit. [sir 

Duke. I long to see it, [cellent painting* 

Because I would judge of the whole piece. Some ex- 

Or some rare spoils, you would keep to entertain me 

Another time, I know. 
Archas. In troth there is not, 

Nor anything worth your sight. Below I have 

Some fountains and some ponds. 
Duke. I would see this now, [nothing 

Archas {aside). Boroskie, thou art a knave ! — It contains 

But rubbish from the other rooms, and unnecessaries ; 

"Will't please you see a strange clock ? 
Duke. This, or nothing. 

Why should you bar it up thus with defences 

Above the rest, unless it contain' d something 

More excellent, and curious of keeping ? 

Open't, for I will see it. 
Archas. The keys are lost, sir. 

Does your grace think, if it were fit for you, 

I could be so unmannerly ? 
Duke. I will see it ; 

And either show it 

Archas. Good sir 


Duke. Thank you, Arenas ; 

You show your love abundantly. 

Do I use to entreat thus ? — Force it open. 
Burris. That were inhospitable ; you are his guest, sir, 

And 'tis his greatest joy to entertain you. 
Duke. Hold thy peace, fool. — Will you open it ? 
Archas. Sir, I cannot. 

I must not, if I could. 
Duke. Go, break it open. [gentlemen ! 

Archas. I must withstand that force. Be not too rash, 
Duke. TJnarm him first ; then, if he be not obstinate, 

Preserve his life. 
Archas. I thank your grace ; I take it : 

And now take you the keys ; go in, and see, sir ; 

[The door is opened. 

There, feed your eyes with wonder, and thank that 

That thing that sells his faith for favour ! [traitor, 

Burris. Sir, what moves you ? 
Archas. I have kept mine pure. — Lord Burris, there's a Judas 

That for a smile will sell ye all. A gentleman ? 

The devil has more truth, and has maintain' d it. 

Enter Duke. 

Duke. What's all this, Archas ? 

I cannot blame you to conceal it so, 
This most inestimable treasure. 

Archas. Tours, sir. 

Duke. Nor do I wonder now the soldier slights me. 

Archas. Be not deceiv'd: he has had no favour here, sir, 
Nor had you known this now, but for that pickthank, 
That lost man in his faith ! he has revealed it ; 
To suck a little honey from you, has betray' d it. — 
I swear he smiles upon me, and foresworn too ! 
Thou crack'd, uncurrent lord ! — I'll tell you all, sir. 
Tour sire, before his death, knowing your temper 
To be as bounteous as the air, and open, 
As flowing as the sea to all that follow'd you, 
Tour great mind fit for war and glory, thriftily, 

1 Thou crack'd, uncurrent lord.~\ I. e. Thou bad coin, that must not be 
suffered to pass for a good one. 


Like a great husband, to preserve jour actions, 

Collected all this treasure ; to our trusts, — 

To mine I mean, and to that long-tongued lord's there, — 

He gave the knowledge and the charge of all this ; 

Upon his death-bed too ; and on the sacrament 

He swore us thus, never to let this treasure 

Part from our secret keepings, till no hope 

Of subject could relieve you, all your own wasted, 

No help of those that lov'd you could supply you, 

And then some great exploit a-foot. My honesty 

I would have kept till I had made this useful 

(I show'd it, and I stood it to the tempest), 

And useful to the end 'twas left : I am cozen' d, 

And so are you too, if you spend this vainly. 

This worm that crept into you has abus'd you, 

Abus'd your father's care, abus'd his faith too ; 

Nor can this mass of money make him man more ! 

A flead dog has more soul, an ape more honesty ! 

All mine you have amongst it ; farewell that ! 

I cannot part with't nobler ; my heart's clear, 

My conscience smooth as that, no rub upon't.— 

But, oh, thy hell — [To Boeoskie. 

Bor. I seek no heaven from you, sir. 

Archas. Thy gnawing hell, Boroskie ! it will find thee. 

Would you heap coals upon his head has wrong' d you, 
Has ruin'd your estate ? give him this money, 
Melt it into his mouth. 

Duke. What little trunk's that ? 

That there o' th' top, that's lock'd ? 

Bor. You'll find it rich, sir ; 
Richer, I think, than all. 

Archas. Tou were not covetous, 

JSTor wont to weave your thoughts with such a coarse- 
Pray rack not honesty ! [ness 3 

Bor. Be sure you see it. 

Duk . Bring out the trunk. 

Enter Attendant, with a trunk. 

Archas. You'll find that treasure too ; 

All I have left me now. [The trunk is opened. 


Duke. What's this ? a poor gown ? 
And this, a piece of Seneca ? 

Arch (is. Yes, sure, sir, 

More worth than all your gold (yet you have enough 
And of a mine far purer, and more precious. [on't), 
This sells no friends, nor searches into counsels, 
And yet all counsel, and all friends live here, sir ; 
Betrays no faith, yet handles all that's trusty. 
"Will't please you leave me this ? 

Duke. "With all my heart, sir. 

Archas. "What says your lordship to't ? 

Bor. I dare not rob you. [both ! — 

Archas. Poor miserable man, you have robb'd yourselves 
This gown, and this unvalued treasure, your brave father 
Found me a child at school with, in his progress ; 
"Where such a love he took to some few answers 
(Unhappy boyish toys, hit in my head then) 
That suddenly I made him, thus as I was 
(For here was all the wealth I brought his highness) 
He carried me to court, there bred me up, 
Bestow' d his favours on me, taught me arms first, 
With those an honest mind : I serv'd him truly, 
And where he gave me trust, I think I fail'd not ; 
Let the world speak. I humbly thank your highness ; 
Xou have done more, and nobler ; eas'd mine age, sir : 
And to this care a fair quietus given. 
Now to my book again ! 


Leon and Margarita. 

Leon. Come, we'll away unto your country-house, 
And there we'll learn to live contentedly : 
This place is full of charge, and full of hurry; 
~S"o part of sweetness dwells about these cities. 

Marg. W r hither you will ; I wait upon your pleasure 
Live in a hollow tree, sir, I'll live with you. 

Leon. Ay, now you strike a harmony, a true one, 


When your obedience waits upon your husband, 

And your sick will aims at the care of honour. 

Why, now I dote upon you, love you dearly, 

And my rough nature falls, like roaring streams, 

Cearly and sweetly into your embraces. 

Oh, what a jewel is a woman excellent, 

A wise, a virtuous, and a noble woman ! 

When we meet such, we bear our stamps on both sides, 

And thro' the world we hold our current virtues ; 

Alone, we're single medals, only faces, 

And wear our fortunes out in useless shadows. 

Command you now, and ease me of that trouble ; 

I'll be as humble to you as a servant : 

Bid whom you please, invite your noble friends, 

They shall be welcome all ; visit acquaintance, 

Go at your pleasure, now experience 

Has link'd you fast unto the chain of goodness ! 


loye's cruelty deprecated. 

A Song to a lute. 

Merciless Love, whom nature hath denied 
The use of eyes, lest thou shouldst take a pride 
And glory in thy murders ; why am I, 
That never yet transgress' d thy deity, 
Never broke vow, from whose eyes never flew 
Disdainful dart, whose hard heart never slew, 
Thus ill rewarded ? Thou art young and fair, 
Thy mother soft and gentle as the air, 
Thy holy fire still burning, blown with prayer. 4 
Then everlasting Love, restrain thy will : 
'Tis godlike to have power, but not to kill. 


Followed by soft music. 

Appear ! appear ! 
And you, soft winds so clear, 
That dance upon the leaves and make them sing 


Gentle love-lays to the spring, 
Gilding all the vales below 
With your verdure, as ye blow, 
Raise these forms from under ground 
With a soft and happy sound. 



A woman of a loving mind, a quiet, 

And one that weighs the worth of him that loves her/ 


Pinac. Self-will in a woman 

Chain'd to an overweening thought, is pestilent, 
Murders fair Fortune first, then fair Opinion. 

Lil. I can but grieve my ignorance. 

Repentance, some say too, is the best sacrifice ; 
For sure, sir, if my chance had been so happy 
(As I confess I was mine own destroyer) 
As to have arriv'd at you (I will not prophesy, 
But certain, as I think), I should have pleas' d you 5 
Have made you as much wonder at my courtesy, 
My love, and duty, as I have dishearten'd you. 
Some hours we have of youth, and some of folly ; 
And being free-born maids, we take a liberty, 
And to maintain that, sometimes we strain highly. 

Pinac. Now you talk reason, 

LiL But being yoak'd and govern' d, 

How fair we grow ! how gentle and how tender 
We twine about those loves that shoot up with us. 
A sullen woman fear, that talks not to you ; 
She has a sad and darken' d soul ; loves dully : 
A merry and a free wench, give her liberty, 
Believe her, in the lightest form she appears to you, 
Believe her excellent, though she despise you ; 


Let but these fits and flashes pass, she'll show to you 
As jewels rubb'd from dust, or gold new burnish/ d : 
Such had I been, had you believM! 

Pinac. Is't possible ? 

Lil. And to your happiness I dare assure you, 

If true love be accounted so. Tour pleasure, 
Tour will, and your command, had tied my motions : 
But that hope's gone. I know you are young and 
And^ till you have a wife can govern with you, [giddy, 
Tou sail upon this world's sea, light and empty \ 
Tour bark in danger daily. ? Tis not the name neither 
Of wife can steer you, but the noble nature, 
The diligence, the care, the love, the patience. 
She makes the pilot, and preserves the husband, 
That knows and reckons every rib he is built on. 
But this I tell you to my shame. 

Pinac. I admire you ; 

And now am sorry that I aim beyond you. 1 


dlphonso. Give me more air, air, more air ! blow, blow ! 
Open, thou Eastern gate, and blow upon me ! 
Distil thy cold dews, O thou icy moon, 
And rivers run through my afflicted spirit ! 
I am all fire, fire, fire ! The raging Dog-star 
Keigns in my blood ! Oh, which way shall I turn me ? 
JEtna, and all his flames, burn in my head. 
Fling me into the ocean, or I perish ! 
Dig, dig, dig, till the springs fly up, 
The cold, cold springs, that I may leap into 'em, 
And bathe my scorch'd limbs in their purling pleasures ! 
Qr shoot me up into the higher region, 
Where treasures of delicious snow are nourish' d, 
And banquets of sweet hail ! 

1 Am sorry that I aim beyond you."] He means, that he is sorry he 
has transferred his addresses elsewhere. 


Rugio. Hold him fast, friar ; 
Ob, how be burns ! 

Alph. What, will ye sacrifice me ? 

Upon the altar lay my willing body, 
And pile your wood up, fling your holy incense ; 
And, as I turn me, you shall see all flame, 
Consuming flame.— Oh, hell, hell, hell ! Oh, horror. 

Marco. To bed, good sir. 

Alph. My bed will burn about me : 

Like Phaeton, in all-consuming flashes 

I am enclos'd ! Oh, for a cake of ice now, 

To clap unto my heart to comfort me ! 

My eyes burn out, and sink into their sockets, 

And my infected brain like brimstone boils ! 

I live in hell, and several furies vex me ! 

Oh, carry me where no sun ever show'd yet 

A face of comfort, where the earth is crystal, 

Never to be dissolv'd ! where nought inhabits 

But night and cold, and nipping frosts, and winds 

That cut the stubborn rocks and make them shiver. 



Twenty sweet summers I will tie together. 


(To intimate to a Bride and Bridegroom that their Happiness will end in 


Cupid, with his eyes hound, descends in a chariot, the Graces 

sitting by him. 

Cupid. Unbind me, my delight : this night is mine. 

[The Graces unbind his eyes. 
Now let me look upon what stars here shine : 
Let me behold the beauties ; then clap high 
My colour'd wings, proud of my deity. 
I am satisfied. Bind me again, and fast : 
My angry bow will make too great a waste 
Of beauty else. Now call my masquers in ; 
Call with a song ; and let the sports begin : 


Call all my servants, the effects of love s 
And to a measure let them nobly move. 


Come, you servants of proud Love, 

Come away ! 
Fairly, nobly, gently move : 
Too long, too long, you make us stay. 
Fancy, Desire, Delight, Hope, Fear; — 
Distrust and jealousy, be you too here ; 
Consuming Care, and raging Ire, 
And Poverty in poor attire, 
March fairly in ; and last, Despair. — 
Now, full music strike the air. 

Enter the Masquers, as above mentioned, and join in a measure. 
After which Cupid speaks. 

Away ! I have done : the day begins to light : 
Lovers, you know your fate : good night, good night ! 
[Cupid and the Graces ascend in the chariot. 

[This Masque, the best thing in which is the ironical congratulation 
with which it terminates, is a small and very slight sketch after the noble 
Masque of Cupid in Spenser, the persons of which include all the 
miseries of life, in midst of whom the God rides in triumph on 
a lion : — 

Next, after her, the Winged G-od himselfe 

Came riding on a lion ravenous 

Taught to obey the menage of that Elfe 

That man and beast, with powre imperious, 

Subdewethto his kingdom tyrannous : 

His blindfold eies he bad awhile unbinde, 

That his prowd spoile of that same dolorous 

Fair Dame he might behold in perfect kinde : 
Which seene, he much rejoyced in his cruell minde. 

Of which full prowd, himselfe uprearing hye, 
He looked round about with sterne disdavne, 
And did survay his goodly company ; 
And, marshalling the evill-ordered trayne, 
With that, the darts which his right hand did strayne 
Full dreadfully he shooke, that all did quake, 
And clapt on hye his colour'd winges twaine, 
That all his many it affraide did make : 
Tho [then] blinding him againe, his way he forth did take. 

Faerie Queene, Book iii. Canto 12, Stanza 22.][ 




Alinda, disguised as a boy, and confined for supposed madness, cannot contain 
her transports on meeting unexpectedly with her lover. 

Alinda {looking in at the door), Pedeo, and the Master of a 


AUn. Must I come in too ? 
Master. No, my pretty lad; 

Keep in thy chamber, boy ; 'shalt have thy supper. 
Pedro. I pray you what is he, sir ? 
Mast. A strange boy, that last night 

"Was found i' th' town, a little craz'd, distracted, 

And so sent hither. 
Pedro. How the pretty knave looks, 

And plays, and peeps upon me ! — Sure such eyes 

I have seen and lov'd ! — What fair hands ! — Certainly— 
ITast. Good sir, you'll make him worse. 
Pedro. I pray believe not : 

Alas, why should I hurt him ! — How he smiles ! 

The very shape and sweetness of Alinda ! 

Let me look once again. Were it in such clothes 

As when I saw her last 

Mast. Pray you be mild, sir ! 

I must attend elsewhere. [Exit, and enter Alinda. 

Pedro. Pray you be secure, sir. — [bles ! 

What would you say ? — How my heart beats and trem- 

He holds me hard by th 5 hand. O' my life, her flesh too ! 

I know not what to think ! Her tears, her true ones, 

Pure orient tears ! — Hark, do you know me, little one ! 
AUn. Oh, Pedro, Pedro ! 
Pedro. Oh, my soul ! 
Aim- Let me hold thee ; 

And now come all the world, and all that hate me ! 
Pedro. Be wise, and not discover' d. Oh, how I love you ! 

How do you now ? 
AUn. I have been miserable ; 

But your most virtuous eyes have cured me, Pedro. 

Pray you think it no immodesty, I kis3 you ; 

My head 's wild still ! 


Pedro. Be not so full of passion 7 

Nor do not hang so greedily upon me ; 

'Twill be ill taken. 
Alin. Are you weary of me ? 

I will hang here eternally, kiss ever, 

And weep away for joy. 


Alinda, to save herself from a new peril, again acts the part of a lunatic 

Alinda and Alphokso. 

Alphonso. Dost thou dwell in Segovia, fool ? 
Alin. No, no, I dwell in Heaven ; 

And I have a fine little house, made of marmalade, 

And I am a lone woman, and I spin for Saint Peter ; 

I have a hundred little children, and they sing psalms 
with me. 
Alph. 'lis pity this pretty thing should want understanding. 

But why do I stand talking. — Is this the way to the 
town, fool ? 
Alin. Tou must go o'er the top of that high steeple, gaffer, 

And then you shall come to a river twenty mile over, 

And twenty mile, and ten ; and then you must pray, 

And still you must pray, and pray. [gaffer, 

Alph. Pray Heaven deliver me 

Prom such an ass as thou art. 
Alin. Amen, sweet gaffer ! 

And fling a sop of sugar- cake into it ; 

And then you must leap in, naked, 

And sink seven days together. Can you sink, gaffer ? 
Alph. Yes, yes. Pr'ythee, farewell : 

A plague o' that fool too, that set me upon thee 
Alin. And then I'll bring you a sup of milk shall serve you 

I am going to get apples. [She sings 

I am not proud, nor full of wine 
(This little flower will make me fine), 
Cruel in heart (for I shall cry, 
If I see a sparrow die) : 


I am not watchful to do ill, 
Nor glorious to pursue it still : 
Nor pitiless to those that weep ; 
Such as are, bid them go sleep. 

Aim. I'll bid you good even: for my boat stays for me 
And I must sup with the moon to-night in the 
Mediterranean, [Exit. 



Away, delights ; go seek some other dwelling, 

For I must die : 
Farewell, false love ; thy tongue is ever telling 

Lie after lie. 
For ever let me rest now from thy smarts ; 

Alas, for pity go, 

And fire their hearts 
That have been hard to thee ; mine was not so. 

Never again deluding Love shall know me, 

For I will die ; 
And all those griefs that think to over-grow me, 

Shall be as I : 
For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry, 
" Alas, for pity stay, 

And let us die 
"With thee ; men cannot mock us in the clay." l 


Tell me, dearest, what is Love ? 
'Tis a lightning from above, 
'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire, 
'Tis a boy they call Desire. 2 

x Mock us in the clay.'] Exquisite are the conclusions of both these 

2 Tell me, dearest, §*c.~] This is the beautiful beginning of a song the 
rest of which is so poor, that I can hardly think Beaumont or Fletcher 
completed it. Mark the variety and tone of the vowels, — 
'Tis an arrow, 'tis a/r*, 
'Tis a %, &c. 




The Emperor Bioclesian, having triumphed over his enemies, and returned 
and pardonedfalse friends, abdicates at the highest moment of his glory. 

Scene — Before the Tent of Dioclesiak, 

Enter (in triumph with Roman ensigns) Guard, Diocleslajs", 
Chartnus, Attrelia, Maximilian, Niger, Geta, and 
others; Cosroe, Cassaka, Persians, as Prisoners; and 
Drusilla, privately. 

Bio. I am rewarded in the act : your freedom 

To me's ten thousand triumphs : you, sir, share 
In all my glories : and, unkind Aurelia, 
JVom being a captive, still command the victor. 
Nephew, remember by whose gift you are free. 
Tou I afford my pity : baser minds 
Insult on the afflicted : you shall know, 
Virtue and courage are admir'd and lov'd 
In enemies ; but more of that hereafter. — 
Thanks to your valour ; to your swords I owe 
This wreath triumphant. Nor be thou forgot, 
My first poor bondman ! Geta, I am glad 
Thou art turn'd a fighter. 

Geta. ? Twas against my will; 

But now I am content with't. 

Char. But imagine 

"What honours can be done to you beyond these, 
Transcending all example ; 'tis in you 
To will, in us to serve it. 

Niger. We will have 

His statue of pure gold set in the Capitol, 
And he that bows not to it as a god, 
Makes forfeit of his head. 

Maxi. {aside). I burst with envy ! 

And yet these honours, which, conferr'd on me, 
Would make me pace on air, seem not to move him. 

Bio. Suppose this done, or were it possible 
I could rise higher still, I am a man ; 
And all these glories, empires heap'd upon me, 
Confirm' d by constant friends, and faithful guards, 


Cannot defend me from a shaking fever, 

Or bribe the uncorrupted dart of Death 

To spare me one short minute. Thus adorn' d 

In these triumphant robes, my body yields not 

A greater shadow than it did when I 

Liv'd both poor and obscure ; a sword's sharp point 

Enters my flesh as far ; dreams break my sleep, 

As when I was a private man ; my passions 

Are stronger tyrants on me ; nor is greatness 

A saving antidote to keep me from 

A traitor's poison. Shall I praise my fortune, 

Or raise the building of my happiness 

On her uncertain favour ? or presume 

She is my own, and sure, that yet was never 

Constant to any ? Should my reason fail me 

(As flattery oft corrupts it), here's an example 

To speak, how far her smiles are to be trusted. 

The rising sun, this morning, saw this man 

The Persian monarch, and those subjects proud 

That had the honour but to kiss his feet ; 

And yefc, ere his diurnal progress ends, 

He is the scorn of Fortune. Bat you'll say 

That she forsook him for his want of courage, 

But never leaves the bold ? S"ow, by my hopes 

Of peace and quiet here, I never met 

A braver enemy ! And, to make it good, 

Cosroe, Cassana, and the rest, be free, 

And ransomless return ! 

Cos. To see this virtue 

Is more to me than empire ; and to be 
O'ercome by you a glorious victory. 

Maxi. {aside). "What a devil means he next ! 

Bio. I know that glory 

Is like Alcides' shirt, if it stay on us 
Till pride hath mix'd it with our blood ; nor can we 
Part with it at pleasure ; when we would uncase, 
It brings along with it both flesh and sinews, 
And leaves us living monsters. 

Maxi. {aside). Would 'twere come 

To my turn to put it on ! I'd run the hazard, 


Bio. No ; T will not be pluck' d out by the ears, 
Out of this glorious castle ; uncompell'd, 
I will surrender rather : Let it suffice 
I have touch'd the height of human happiness, 
And here I fix nil ultra. Hitherto 
I have liv'd a servant to ambitious thoughts, 
And fading glories ; what remains of life, 
I dedicate to Virtue ; and, to keep 
My faith untainted, farewell pride and pomp ! 
And circumstance of glorious majesty, 
Farewell for ever ! — Nephew, I have noted 
That you have long with sore eyes look'd upon 
My flourishing fortune ; you shall have possession 
Of my felicity ; I deliver up 
My empire, and this gem I priz'd above it, 
And all things else that made me worth your envy, 
Freely unto you. — Gentle sir, your suffrage, 

[To Chaeinus, 
To strengthen this. The soldier's love I doubt not : 
His valour, gentlemen, will deserve your favours, 
Which let my prayers further. All is yours. — 
But I have been too liberal, and given that 
I must beg back again. 

Maxi. "What am I fallen from ! 

Bio. Nay, start not : — it is only the poor grange. 
The patrimony which my father left me, 
I would be tenant to. 

Maxi. Sir, I am yours : 

I will attend you there. 

Dio. No ; keep the court ; 

Seek you in Eome for honour : I will labour 
To find content elsewhere. Dissuade me not ; 
By Heaven, I am resolv'd ! — And now, Drusilla, 
Being as poor as when I vow'd to make thee 
My wife, if thy love since hath felt no change, 
I'm ready to perform it. 

Br us. I still lov'd 

Tour person, not your fortunes. In a cottage, 
Being yours. I am an empress. 


dioclesian and BRTTSILLA. 

Dio. Come, Drusilla, 

The partner of my best contents ! I hope now 
Tou dare believe me. 

Drus. Yes, and dare say to yon, 
I think you now most happy. 

Dio. You say true, sweet : 

For, by my soul, I find now by experience, 
Content was never courtier. 

Drus. I pray you walk on, sir ; 

The cool shades of the grove invite you. 

Dio. Oh, my dearest ! 

When man has cast off his ambitious greatness* 
And sunk into the sweetness of himself, 
Built his foundation upon honest thoughts, 
~Not great, but good desires his daily servants, 
How quietly lie sleeps ! How joyfully 
He wakes again, and looks on his possessions, 
And from his willing labours feeds with pleasure ! 
Here hang no comets in the shapes of crowns 
To shake our sweet contents ; nor here, Drusilla, 
Cares, like eclipses, darken our endeavours : 
"We love here without rivals, kiss with innocence : 
Our thoughts as gentle as our lips ; our children 
The double heirs both of our forms and faiths. 

Drus* I am glad ye make this right use of this sweetness, 
This sweet retiredness. 

Dio. 'Tis sweet, indeed, love, 

And every circumstance about it shows it. 

How liberal is the spring in every place here ! 

The artificial court shows but a shadow, 

A painted imitation of this glory. 

Smell to this flower; here Nature has her excellence; 

Let all the perfumes of the empire pass this, 

The carefull'st lady's cheek show such a colour; 

They are gilded and adulterate vanities ; 

And here in poverty dwells noble nature. 

266 love's cube ; on, the maetial maid. 


Lucio, who had been bred effeminately, teaches a lesson of true valour to 


[Fight. Lucio disarms Lamoeal. 

Lamoral. She Is yours ! this and my life too. Follow your 
fortune ; [Gives up his lady's glove. 

And give not only back that part the loser 
Scorns to accept of! 

Lucio. What's that ? 

Lam. My poor life ; 

"Which do not leave me as a further torment, 
Having despoil' d me of my sword, mine honour, 
Hope of my lady's grace, fame, and all else 
That made it worth the keeping. 

Lucio. I take back 

No more from you than what you forced from me, 

And with a worser title. Tet think not 

That I'll dispute this, as made insolent 

By my success, but as one equal with you, 

If so you will accept me. That new courage 

(Or call it fortune if you please) that is 

Conferr'd upon me by the only sight 

Of fair Grenevora, was not bestow' d on me 

To bloody purposes ; nor did her command 

Deprive me of the happiness to see her, 

But till I did redeem her favour from you ; 

Which only I rejoice in, and share with you 

In all you suffer else. 

Lam. This courtesy 

Wounds deeper than your sword can, or mine own : 
Pray you make use of either, and dispatch me ! 

Lucio. The barbarous Turk is satisfied with spoil; 
And shall I, being possess'd of what I came for, 
Prove the more infidel ? 

Lam. You were better be so 

Than publish my disgrace, as 'tis the custom, 
And which I must expect. 

Lucio. Judge better of me : 


I have no tongue to trumpet mine own praise 

To your dishonour ; 'tis a bastard courage 

That seeks a name out that way, no true-born one. 

Pray you be comforted ! for, by all goodness, 

But to her virtuous self (the best part of it) 

I never will discover on what terms 

I came by these : which yet I take not from you, 

But leave you, in exchange of them, mine own, 

"With the desire of being a friend ; which if 

Tou will not grant me, but on further trial 

Of manhood in me, seek me when you please 

(And though I might refuse it with mine honour), 

Win them again, and wear them. So good-morrow ! 

[Gives him his own hat, and exit. 
Lam. I ne'er knew what true valour was till now ; 
And have gain'd more by this disgrace, than all 
The honours I have won. They made me proud, 
Presumptuous of my fortune, a mere beast, 
Pashion'd by them, only to dare and do, 
Yielding no reasons for my wilful actions 
But what I stuck on my sword's point, presuming 
It was the best revenue. How unequal 
Wrongs, well maintain' d, make us to others ; which 
Ending with shame, teach us to know ourselves ! 


Lopez at a tahle with jewels and money upon it; an egg roasting by a candle, 

Lopez. Whilst prodigal young gaudy fools are banqueting, 
And launching out their states to catch the giddy, 
Thus do I study to preserve my fortune, 
And hatch with care at home the wealth that saints me. 
Here's rubies of Bengala, rich, rich, glorious ; 
These diamonds of Ormus, bought for little, 
Here vented at the price of princes' ransoms, 
How bright they shine, like constellations I 


The South-sea's treasure here, pearl, fair and orient, 

Able to equal Cleopatra's banquet ; 

Here chains of lesser stones for ladies' lustres, 

Ingots of gold, rings, brooches, bars of silver, 

These are my studies to set off in sale well, 

And not in sensual surfeits to consume 'em. — 

How roasts mine egg ? he heats apace ; I'll turn him. 1 — 

Penurio ! where, you knave, do you wait ? Penurio, 

You lazy knave ! 

Enter Penurio. 

Pen. Did you call, sir ? 

Lopez. Where's your mistress ? 

What vanity holds her from her attendance ? 
Pen. She is within, sir. 
Lopez. Within, sir ? at what thrift, you knave? what getting ? 

1 How roasts mine egg ? §*c.~] This soliloquy is in imitation — I hope 
not in emulation, much less in malicious burlesque (as if from conscious 
failure) — of the magnificent one of theJ^ of 31aUa> part of which I will 
take the opportunity of repeating. If the passage was written in good 
faith, it is to be commended as something of a pleasant echo, voluntarily 
playing second to its original, and terminating in a good bit of parody 
JBut nothing can sully the lustre of the lines in Marlowe : — 

Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts, 

Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, 

Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds, 

And seld-seen costly stones of so great price, 

As one of them, indifferently rated, 

And of a carat 2 of this quality, 

May serve, in peril of calamity, 

To ransom great kings from captivity : — 

This is the ware wherein consists my wealth ; 

And thus, methinks, should men of judgment frame 

Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, 

And, as their wealth increaseth, so enclose 

Infinite riches in a little room. — 

But how now stands the wind ? 

Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill ? &c. 

Marlowe's lines were familiar to the audiences of Fletcher, and the 
" How roasts mine egg ?" must have appeared to them very ludicrous. 

' J A carat of this quality. "\ The worth of a twenty -fourth part of an ounce 
of it. A carat is a weight of four grains, and an ounce of gold consists 
of twenty-four carats. Diamonds are valued at eight pounds per carat, 
rubies at four pounds, and other gems at three. 


Pen. Getting a good stomach, sir, an she knew where to 
get meat to't ; 
She's praying heartily upon her knees, sir, 
That Heaven would send her a good dinner. 

Lopez. Nothing but gluttony and surfeit thought on ! 

Health flung behind ! — Had she not yesternight, sirrah, 
Two sprats to supper, and the oil allowable ? 
"Was she not sick with eating ? Hadst not thou 
(Thou most ungrateful knave, that nothing satisfies) 
The water that I boil'd my other egg in, 
To make thee hearty broth ? 

Pen. 'Tis true, I had, sir ; 

But I might as soon make the philosopher's stone on't. 

Enter Isabella. 

Lopez. "Welcome, my dove ! 

hab. Pray you keep your welcome to you, 

Unless it carries more than words to please me. 
Is this the joy to be a wife ? to bring with me, 
Besides the nobleness of blood I spring from, 
A full and able portion to maintain me ? 
Is this the happiness of youth and beauty, 
The great content of being made a mistress, 
To live a slave subject to wants and hungers, 
To jealousies for every eye that wanders, 
Unmanly jealousy ? 

Lopez. Good Isabella 

hab. Too good for you ! Do you think to famish me, 
Or keep me like an alms-woman in such raiment, 
Such poor unhandsome weeds ? am I old, or ugly ? 
I never was bred thus. Had you love in you, 
Or had humanity but ever known you, 
You would shame to use a woman of my way thus, 
So poor, and basely ! 

Lopez. 'Tis to keep you healthful 

(Surfeits destroy more than the sword) that I am careful 
Tour meat should be both neat and cleanly handled ; 
See, sweet, I am cook myself, and mine own cater. 
I'll add another dish ; you shall have milk to't ; 
'Tis nourishing and good. 

Pen. With butter in't ; sir ? 


Lopez, (aside). This knave would breed a famine in a 
kingdom ! — 
{aloud). And clothes that shall content you; you must 

be wise then, 
And live sequester' d to yourself and me, 
Not wand'ring after every toy comes cross you, 
Nor struck with every spleen. — What's the knave 
doing ? Penurio ! 

Pen. Hunting, sir, for a second course of flies here. 

Lopes. Untemperate knave, will nothing quench thy appe- 
I saw him eat two apples, which is monstrous. [tite ? 

Pen. If you had given me those, 't had been more monstrous , 

.Lopez. 'Tis a main miracle to feed this villain. — 
Come, Isabella, let us in to supper, 
And think the Roman dainties at our table ! 
'Tis all but thought. \JExeunt. 

Pen. 'Would all my thoughts would do it ! 

The devil should think of purchasing that egg-shell, 
To victual out a witch for the Burmoothees. 
'Tis treason to any good stomach living now 
To hear a tedious grace said, and no meat to't ! 
I have a radish yet, but that's but transitory. 


Take heed of lies. Truth, though it trouble some minds, 
Some wicked minds, that are both dark and dangerous, 
Yet it preserves itself, comes off pure, innocent, 
And, like the sun, though never so eclips'd, 
Must break in glory. 


Oh, my old friend, my tried friend, my Baptista ! 
Tbese days of rest and feasting suit not with 


Our tougher natures ; those were golden ones, 

Which were enjoy' d at sea ! that's our true mother ; 

The land 's to us a step-dame. There we sought 

Honour and wealth through dangers ; yet those dangers 

Delighted more than their rewards, though great ones, 

And worth the undertakers. Here we study 

The kitchen arts, to sharpen appetite, 

Dull'd with abundance ; and dispute with Heaven, 

If that the least puff of the rough north wind 

Blast our time's burden, rendering to our palates 

The charming juice less pleasing; whereas there, 

If we had biscuit, powder' d flesh, fresh water, 

We thought them Persian delicates ; and, for music, 

If a strong gale but made the main-yard crack, 

We danced to the loud minstrel. 


Bear thy wrongs 
With noble patience, the afflicted' s friend, 
Which ever, in all actions, crowns the end, 



Three widowed queens ash aid from Theseus against their enemies t on 1m 

bridal day. 

Scene — Athens. Before the Temple. 

Music. Enter Hymen with a torch burning ; a Boy, in a 
white robe, before, singing and strewing , flowers ; after 
Hymen, a Nymph, encompassed in her tresses, bearing 
a wheat en garland ; then Theseus, between two other 
Nymphs, with wheaten chaplets on their heads ; then Hip- 
POLTTA, led by Peeithous, and another holding a garland 
over her head, her tresses likewise hanging; after her, 
Emilia, holding up her train. Aetesius and Attendants. 


Roses, their sharp spines being gone, 
Not royal in their smells alone, 

But in their hue ; 
Maiden pinks, of odour faint, 
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, 

And sweet thime true ; 

Primrose, first-born child of Ver, 
Merry spring-time's harbinger, 

With her bells dim : 
Oxlips in their cradles growing, 
Marigolds on death-beds blowing, 

Lark-heels trim ; 

All dear Nature's children sweet, 
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, 

Blessing their sense ! [Stremng fattens* 

Not an angel of the air, 
Bird melodious or bird fair, 

Be absent hence ! 

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor 
The boding raven, nor chough hoar, 

Nor chatt'ring pie, 
May on our bridehouse perch or sing, 
Or with them any discord bring, 

But from it fly I 

Enter Three Queens, in blacft, with veils stained, with Imperial 
Crowns. The First Queen falls down at the foot of 
Thesetjs ; the Second falls down at the foot o/'Hippolita ; 
the Third before Emilia. 

1 Queen. For pity's sake, and true gentility's, 

Hear and respect me ! 

2 Queen. For your mother's sake, 

And as you wish ycur womb may thrive with fair ones, 
Hear, and respect me ! 

3 Queen. Now for the love of him whom Jove hath mark'd 

The honour of your bed, and for the sake 
Of clear virginity, be advocate 
For us, and our distresses ! This good deed 
Shall raze you, out o' the book of trespasses, 
All you are set down there. 
T/ies. Sad lady, rise ! 




Hip. Stand up ! 

Emi. No knees to ine ! What woman I 

May stead, that is distress' d, does bind me to her 

Thes. What's your request ? Deliver you for all. 

1 Queen. We are three queens whose sovereigns fell before 
The wrath of cruel Creon ; who endur'd 
The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites, 
And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes. 
He will not suffer us to burn their bones, 
To urn their ashes, nor to take th' offence 
Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye 
Of holy Phcebus, but infects the winds 
With stench of our slain lords. Oh, pity, duke ! 
Thou purger of the earth, draw thy fear'd sword 
That does good turns to th' world ; give us the bones 
Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them ! 
And of thy boundless goodness, take some note 
That for our crowned heads we have no roof 
Save this, which is the lion's and the bear's. 
And vault to everything ! 

Thes. Pray you kneel not ! 

I wa3 transported with your speech, and suffer' d 
Tour knees to wrong themselves. I have heard the 

Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting 
As wake3 my vengeance and revenge for 'em. 
King Capaneus was your lord. The day 
That he should marry you, at such a season 
As now it is with me, I met your groom 1 
By Mars' s altar ; you were that time fair, 
Not Juno's mantle fairer than your tresses, 
Nor in more bounty spread her ; your wheaten wreath 
Was then nor thresh' d nor blasted ; Fortune at you 
Dimpled her cheek with smiles ; Hercules our kinsman 
(Then weaker than your eyes) laid by his club, 
He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide, 
And swore his sinews thaw'd. 2 Grief and Time, 
• Tearful consumers, you will all devour ! 

1 Groom.'] Bridegroom. 

3 And swore his sinews thavfd.~] This is Shakspeare all over. 



1 Queen. Oh, I hope some god, 

Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood, 
"Whereto he'll infuse power, and press you forth 
Our undertaker ! 
Thes. Oh, no knees ; none, widow ! 

Unto the helmeted Beliona use them, 

And pray forme, your soldier. — Troubled I am. 

[Turns away. 

2 Queen. Honour' d Hippolita, 

Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain 

The scythe-tusk' d boar; that, with tby 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 in that honour 

Eirst Nature styled it in) shrunk thee into 

The bound thou wast o'er-flowing, at once subduing 

Thy force and thy affection ; soldieress, 

That equally canst poise sternness with pity, 1 

"Who now, I know, hast much more power on him 

Than e'er he had on thee ; who ow'sts his strength 

And his love too, who is a servant to 

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 key, 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 h 

1 Soldieress, 

That equally canst poise sternness with pity.'] This, too, is the great 
dramatist, and in his noblest manner. So is what follows about the 
shadow of the sword. 

2 Ov?st.~] Ownest ; possessest. 

3 But touch the ground for us no longer time 

Than a dove's motion, when the head's pluck* d off /] This also has been 
supposed proof positive of Shakspeare's hand. I think it is ; but I 
must also be of opinion, that it is his hand in its excess, and that he 
might possibly have withheld the passage on revision. If not, I cannot 
help regarding it as one of those superfluities to which Ben Jonson alluded, 


Tell him, if he i' th' blood-siz'd 1 field lay swoln, 
Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon, 
AVhat you would do ! 

Hip. Poor lad j, say no more ! 

I had as lief trace this good action with you 
As that whereto I am going, and never yet 
"Went I so willing way. My lord is taken 
Heart-deep with your distress : let him consider ; 
I'll speak anon. 

3 Queen. Oh, my petition was [To Emilia. 

Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied 
Melts into drops : so sorrow wanting form 
Is press' d with deeper matter. 

End, Pray stand up ; 

Tour grief is written in your cheek. 

3 Queen, Oh, woe ! 

You cannot read it there ; here, through my tears, 

Like wrinkled pebbles in a giassy stream, 

You may behold 'em ! Lady, lady, alack, 

He that will all the treasure know o' th' earth, 

Must know the centre too ; he that will fish 

Por my least minnow, let him lead his line 

To catch one at my heart. Oh, pardon me ! 

Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits, 

Makes me a fool. 

Emi. Pray you say nothing ; pray you ! 

Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in't, 
Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you were 

when, in answer to a remark of the players, that Shakspeare never blotted 
a line, he expressed a wish that he had blotted a thousand. My objec- 
tion is, that whatever may be its truth to nature in regard to the 
matter of fact which it describes, it is wholly out of place in regard to 
feeling. It is fantastically brought in ; makes a show (in consequence) 
of a knowledge not worth the showing ; presents a revolting image 
where everything ought to be attaching and graceful ; in short, is more 
suitable to the mouth of a cook-maid than a queen, and would not have 
been creditable to a petitioner in the mouth of anyone. What follows 
respecting the *- blood-sized field," the " swollen limbs," and the 
teeth grinning at sun and moon, is not, I think, a detail which a 
woman would allow herself to give on such an occasion. It would 
better become a person less bereaved, and a narrator rather than a 

1 Blood'Siz'd.] Blood-pasted or glewed. 


The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you, 
To instruct me gainst a capital grief indeed 
(Such heart-pierc'd demonstration !) ; but, alas, 
Being a natural sister of our sex, 
Tour sorrow beats so ardently upon me, 
That it shall make a counter-reflect 'gainst 
My brother's heart, and warm it to some pity [fort. 
Though it were made of stone. Pray have good com- 
Thes. Forward to th' temple ! leave not out a jot 
O' th' sacred ceremony. 

1 Queen. Oh, this celebration 

"Will longer last, and be more costly, than 

Your suppliants' war ! Remember that your fame 

Knolls in the ears o' th' world. "What you do quickly 

Is not done rashly ; your first thought is more 

Than others' labour' d meditance ; your premeditating 

More than their actions ; but (oh, Jove !) your actions, 

Soon as they move, as osprays do the fish, 

Subdue before they touch. Think, dear duke, think 

"What beds our slain kings have ! 

2 Queen. What griefs our beds, 

That our dear lords have none ! 

3 Queez, None fit for the dead. 

Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance, 

"Weary of this world's light, have to themselves 

Been Death's most horrid agents, human grace 

AiFords them dust and shadow. 
1 Queen. But our lords 

Lie blist'ring 'fore the visitating sun, 

And were good kings when living. 
Thes. It is true ; 

And I will give you comfort, 

To give your dead lords' graves : l 

The which to do must make some work with Creon. 
1 Queen. And that work [now] presents itself to the doing 

Now 'twiU take form ; the heats 2 are gone to-mo rrow 

Then bootless Toil must recompense itself 

1 To give your dead lords' graves."] That is to say, I will give you such 
comfort as you require, for your purpose of giving it to the dead. 

2 The heats.] The opportunities; the occasion for striking while 
-there is heat in the iron. 


"With its own sweat ; now he's secure, 
Not dreams we stand before your puissance, 
Kinsing our holy begging in our eyes, 
To make petition clear. 

2 Queen. Now you may take him, 

Drunk with his victory. 


3 Queen. And his army full 

Of bread and sloth. 
Tkes. Artesius, that best know'st 

How to draw out, fit to this enterprise, 

The prim'st for this proceeding, and the number 

To carry such a business ; forth and levy 

Our worthiest instruments ; whilst we dispatch 

This grand act of our life, this daring deed 

Of fate in wedlock ! 

1 Queen. Dowagers, take hands ! 

Let us be widows to our woes ! Delay 
Commends us to a famishing hope. 
All the Queens. Farewell ! 

2 Queen. "We come unseasonably ; but when could Grief 

Cull forth, as unpang'd Judgment can, fit'st time 
For best solicitation. 

Thes. Why, good ladies, 

This is a service, whereto I am going, 
Greater than any war ; it more imports me 
Than all the actions that I have foregone, 
Or futurely can cope. 

1 Queen. The more proclaiming 

Our suit shall be neglected. "When her arms, 
Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall 
By warranting moon-light corslet thee, oh, when 
Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall 
Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think 
Of rotten kings, or blubber'! queens P 1 what care 
For what thou feel'st not, what thou feel'st being able 
To make Mars spurn his drum ? 

1 Rotten kings or blubber' 'd queens.'] The "moonlight" and the 
rt twinning cherries" are beautiful, and of the right Shakspearian sweet- 
ness ; but what are we to say to the remainder of this passage ? " The 
reader ought to recollect," says Mr. Dyce, <c that formerly this word 
[blubber' d] did not convey the somewhat ludicrous idea which it does 


Sip. Though much unlike 1 [K?ieels. 

Tou should be so transported, as much sorry 
I should be such a suitor, yet I think, 
Did I not, by th' abstaining of my joy, 
"Which breeds a deeper longing, cure the surfeit, 
That craves a present medicine, I should pluck 
All ladies' scandal on me. Therefore, sir, 
As I shall here make trial of my prayers, 
Either presuming them to have some force, 
Or sentencing for aye their vigour dumb, 
Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang 
Tour shield afore your heart, about that neck 
Which is my fee, and which I freely lend 
To do these poor queens service ! 

ill Queens. Oh, help now ! [To Emilia. 

Oar cause cries for your knee. 

End, If you grant not 

My sister her petition, in that force, 
"With that celerity and nature, which 
She makes it in, from henceforth I'll not dare 
To ask you anything, nor be so hardy 
Ever to take a husband. 

Thes. Pray stand up ! 

I am entreating of myself to do 
That which you kneel to have me. — Perithous, 
Lead on the bride ! Get you and pray the gods 
Eor success and return ; omit not anything 
In the pretended 2 celebration. Queens, 
Follow your soldier. — As before, hence you, 
And at the banks of Aulis meet us with 
The forces you can raise, where we shall find 
The moiety of a number, for a business 

at present." Not of necessity, I conceive ; yet still not without instances 
of the modern impression : and it seems evident that a disparaging 
sense is intended, otherwise why so strong and offensive an epithet as 
" rotten" applied to the dead kings ? There will probably be a wish in 
the minds of most readers, that both of the epithets had been spared. 

1 Though much unlike, 8fc^\ L e. Though it is very unlikely you 
should be so carried away by your feelings, and though, on the other 
hand, I am equally sorry to second the violence done to them at such a 
moment, yet I think, &c. 

2 Pietended.~\ Predetermined. 



More bigger look'd ! — [Exit Abtesius.] Since that our 
theme is haste, 

I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip ; 

Sweet, keep it as niy token ! Set you forward ; 

For I will see you gone. 
[Exeunt towards the Temple all but Pertthotjs, Theseus, 
and Queens.] 

Farewell, my beauteous sister ! Perithous, 

Keep the feast full ; bate not an hour on't ! 
Per. Sir, 

I'll follow you at heels. The feast's solemnity 

Shall want till your return. 
Thes. Cousin, I charge you 

Budge not from Athens ; we shall be returning 

Ere you can end this feast, of which I pray you 

Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all ! 

1 Queen. Thus dost thou still make good the tongue o* th' 

2 Queen. And earn'st a deity equal with Mars. [world. 

3 Queen. If not above him, for 

Thou being but mortal, mak'st affections bend 
To godlike honours ; they themselves, some say, 
Groan under such a mastery. 
Thes. As we are men, 

Thus should we do ; being sensually subdued, 
We lose our human title. Good cheer, ladies ! 

Now turn we towards your comforts. [Exeunt. 

fbiendship in g-iblhood. 

" Hippolita and Emilia discoursing of the friendship letween Perithous and 
Theseus^ Emilia relates a parallel instance of the love between herself and 
Flavia^ being girls." 

Emilia. I was acquainted 

Once with a time, when I enjoy' d a playfellow ; 
Tou were at wars when she the grave enrich' d, 
Who made too proud the bed, took leave o' th' moon 
(Which then look'd pale at parting) when our count 
Was each eleven. 


Hijp. lb was Flavia. 
Emu Yes. 

Ton talk of Perithous' and Theseus' love : 

Theirs has more ground, is more maturely season' d, 

More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs 

The one of th' other may be said to water 

Their intertangled roots of love ; but I 

And she (I sigh and spoke of) were things innocent ; 

Lov'd, for we did j 1 and like the elements 

That know not what nor why, yet do effect 

Bare issues by their operance, our souls 

Did so to one another. "What she liked, 

"Was then of me approv'd ; what not, condemn'd,- — 

No more arraignment ; the flower that I would pluck 

And put between my breasts, (then but beginning 

To swell about the blossom) she would long 

Till she had such another, and commit it 

To the like innocent cradle, where, phoenix-like, 

They died in perfume ; on my head no toy 

But was her pattern ; her affections 2 (pretty, 

Though happily her careless wear) I follow' d 

For my most serious decking ; had mine ear 

Stol'n some new air, or at adventure humm'd one 

From musical coinage, why, it was a note 

Whereon her spirits would sojourn (rather dwell on) 

And sing it in her slumbers. This rehearsal 

(Which, every innocent wots well, comes in 

Like old Importment's bastard) 3 has this end, 

That the true love 'tween maid and maid may be 

More than in sex dividual. 

1 Lov'd, for toe did."] Loved because we did ; loved for loving' s sake. 

2 Affections.'] Fancies ; tastes in apparel. 

3 Like old Importmenfs bastard.] Who was he ? and who was <c old 
Importment" himself ? The sense is very obscure. Mr. Weber's in- 
terpretation appears to be adopted by the commentators. He con- 
strues the passage thus : — This rehearsal of our affections (which, 
every innocent soul well knows, comes in like the mere bastard, the faint 
shadow of the true import, the real extent of our natural affections) has 
this end, or purpose, — to prove that the love between two maidens, &c. — 
I suspect that " old Importment" was something special and significant. 
He looks very like our old friend " Moral," who is so officious in ex- 
plaining iEsop'3 Fables. 



Palamon and Arcite, two friends in prison, are turned into enemies by love. 

Scene — A Room in a Prison, looking out on a garden. 

Enter the Two Captives from opposite doors. 

Pal. How do you, noble cousin ? 

Arc. How do you, sir ? 

Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh at Misery, 

And bear the chance of war yet. We are prisoners, 
I fear, for ever, cousin. 

Arc. I believe it ; 

And to that destiny have patiently 
Laid up my hour to come. 

Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite, 

Where is Thebes now ? where is our noble country ? 
Where are our friends, and kindreds ? Never more 
Must we behold those comforts ; never see 
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour. 
Hung with the painted favours of their ladies, 
Like tall ships under sail ; then start amongst 'em, 
And, as an east wind, leave 'em all behind us 
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, 
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, 
Out-stript the people's praises, won the garlands, 
Ere they have time to wish 'em ours. Oh, never 
Shall we two exercise, like twins of Honour, 
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses, 
Like proud seas under us ! Our good swords now 
(Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore), 
Eavish'd our sides, like age must run to rust, 
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us ; 
These hands shall never draw 'em out like lightning, 
To blast whole armies, more ! 

Arc. 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 heaviest, Palamon, unmarried ; 
The sweet embraces of a loving wife 
Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand Cunids, 


Shall never clasp our necks ! no issue know us ; 
No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see, 
To glad our age, and like young eagles teach 'em 
Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say 
[Remember what your fathers were, and conquer ! 
The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments, 
And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune, 
Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done 
To Youth and Nature. This is all our world ; 
"We shall know nothing here, but one another ; 
Hear nothing, but the clock that tells our 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 ! 

Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite ! To our Theban hounds, 
That shook the aged forest with their echoes, 
No more now must we halloo ; no more shake 
Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine 
Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, 
Stuck with our well- steel' d darts ! All valiant uses 
(The food and nourishment of noble minds) 
In us two here shall perish ; we shall die 
(Which is the curse of Honour!), lastly, 
Children of Grief and Ignorance. 

Arc. Yet, cousin, 

Even from the bottom of these miseries, 
From all that Fortune can inflict upon us, 
I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, 
If the gods please to hold here 1 ; a brave patience, 
And the enjoying of our griefs together. 
Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish 
If I think this our prison ! 

Pal. Certainly 

'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes 
W T ere twined together. 'Tis most true, two souls 
Put in two noble bodies, let 'em suffer 
The gall of hazard, so they grow together, 
Will never sink ; they must not ; say they could, 
A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done. 

1 To hold here.'] To keep station ; to maintain superintendence. 


Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place, 
That all men hate so much ? 

Pal. How, gentle cousin ? 

Arc. Let's think this prison a holy sanctuary, 
To keep us from corruption of worse men ! 
We are young, and yet desire the ways of Honour ; 
That, liberty and common conversation, 
The poison of pure spirits, might, like women, 
Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing 
Can be, but our imaginations 
May make it ours ? and here being thus together, 
We are an endless mine to one another ; 
We are one another's wife, ever begetting 
New births of Love ; we are father, friends, acquaint- 
We are, in one another, families ; [ance ; 

I am your heir, and you are mine ; this place 
Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor 
Dare take this from us : here, with a little patience, 
We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek us ; 
The hand of War hurts none here, nor the seas 
Swallow their youth ; were we at liberty, 
A wife might part us lawfully, or business ; 
Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men 
Grave 1 our acquaintance ; I might sicken, cousin, 
Where you should never know it, and so perish 
Without your noble hand to close mine eyes, 
Or prayers to the gods. A thousand chances, 
Were we from hence, would sever us. 
Pal. Tou have made me 

(I thank you, cousin Arcite!) almost wanton 

With my captivity. What a misery 

It is to live abroad, and everywhere ! 

'Tis like a beast methinks ! I find the court here, 

I am sure, a more content f and all those pleasures 

1 Grave."] Put an end to ; bury. 

<c Ditches grave you all." 

Timon of Athens. 

2 A more content.] This word more, must surely be a misprint for 
mere: "a mere content ;" that is, a court which gives thorough con- 
tentment. The word mere > used in this way, is of constant occurrence 
in writings of the time. 


That woo the wills of men to vanity, 

I see through now ; and am sufficient 

To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow 

That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him. 

"What had we been, old in the court of Creon, 

Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance 

The virtues of the great ones ? Cousin Arcite, 

Had not the loving gods found this place for us, 

We had died as they do, ill old men unwept, 

And had their epitaphs, the people's curses I 1 

Shall I say more ? 

Arc. I would hear you still. 

Pal. Tou shall. 

Is there record of any two that lov'd 
Better than we do, Arcite ? 

Arc. Sure there cannot. 

Pal. I do not think it possible our friendship 
Should ever leave us. 

Arc. Till our deaths it cannot; 

And after death our spirits shall be led 

To those that love eternally. Speak on, sir ! 

Enter Emilia, and her Servant, below. 

Emi. This garden has a world of pleasure in't. 

What flower is this ? 
Serv. 'Tis call'd Narcissus, madam. 
Emi. That was a fair boy certain, but a fool 

To love himself; were there not maids enough ? — 
Arc. Pray, forward ! 
Pal. Yes.— 

Emi. Or were they all hard-hearted ? 
Serv. They could not be to one so fair. 
Emi. Thou wouldst not ? 
Serv. I think I should not, madam. 
Emi. That's a good wench ! 

But take heed to your kindness though ! 

1 The people's curses.'] "This scene," observes Lamb, "bears indubit- 
able marks of Fletcher ; the two which precede it [Theseus with the 
queen, and a scene not here given] give strong countenance to the tra- 
dition that Shakspeare had a hand in this play. The same judgment may- 
be formed of the death of Arcite and some other passages." 


Serv. Why, madam ? 
Emi. Men are mad things. — 
Arc. "Will you go forward, cousin ? — 
Emi. Canst not thou work such flowers in silk, wench ? 
Serv. Yes. 

Emu I'll have a gown full of 'em ; and of these ; 
This is a pretty colour. "Will 't not do 
Rarely upon a skirt, wench ? 
Serv. Dainty, madam. — 

Arc. Cousin ! Cousin ! How do you, sir ? Why, Palamon! 
Pal. Never till now I was in prison, Arcite. 
Arc. "Why, what's the matter, man ? 
Pal. Behold, and wonder ! 

By Heaven, she is a goddess ! 
Arc. Ha ! 
Pal. Do reverence ! 

She is a goddess, Arcite ! — 
Emi. Of all flowers, 

Methinks a rose is best. 
Serv. Why, gentle madam ? 
Emi. It is the very emblem of a maid : 

For when the west wind courts her gently, 
How modestly she blows, and paints the sun 
AVith her chaste blushes ! when the north comes near 
Bude and impatient, then, like Chastity, [her, 

She locks her beauties in her bud again, 
And leaves him to base briers. 
Arc. She's wond'rous fair ! 
Pal. She's all the beauty extant ! 

Emi. The sun grows high -, let's walk in ! Keep these flowers ; 
We' 11 see how near Art can come near their colours. 

\Exit with Servant. 
Pal. What think you of this beauty ? 
Are. 'Tis a rare one. 
Pal. Is't but a rare one ? 
Arc. Yes, a matchless beauty. 

Pal. Might not a man well lose himself, and love her ? 
Arc. I cannot tell what you have done ; I have : 

Beshrew mine eyes for't ! Now I feel my shackles. 
Pal. You love her, then ? 
Arc. Who would not ? 


Pal. And desire her ? 

Arc. Before my liberty. 

Pal. I saw her first. 

Arc. That's nothing. 

Pal. But it shall be. 

Arc. I saw her too. 

Pal. Yes ; but you must not love her. 

Arc. I will not, as you do ; to worship her, 

As she is heavenly, and a blessed goddess : 

I love her as a woman ; 

So both may love. 
Pal. Tou shall not love at all ! 
Arc. Not love at all ? who shall deny me ? l 
Pal. I that first saw her ; I, that took possession 

Eirst with mine eye on all those beauties in her 

Reveal' d to mankind ! If thou lovest her ; 

Or entertain 7 st a hope to blast my wishes, 

Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow 

Ealse as thy title to her.— -Friendship, blood, 

And all the ties between us, I disclaim, 

If thou once think upon her ! 
Arc. Tes, I love her ; 

And if the lives of all my name lay on it, 

I must do so. I love her with my soul. 

If that will lose you, farewell, Palamon ! 

I say again, I love ; and, in loving her, maintain 

I am as worthy and as free a lover, 

And have as just a title to her beauty, 

As any Palamon, or any living, 

That is a man's son. 
Pal. Have I call'd thee friend ? 
Arc. Tes, and have found me so. "Why are you mov'dthus? 

Let me deal coldly with you ! am not I 

1 Who shall deny me f\ I cannot help thinking that an " I " is 
wanting at the end of this line, to commence the answer of Palamon. 
A syllable is wanting to complete the verse ; the personal pronoun sug- 
gests itself as the syllable ; it is warranted, perhaps necessarily implied 
by the I's which follow, and which sound like reasons for it ; it is im- 
petuous, instantaneous, and leaves nothing to be desired. 

Arc. Xot love at all ! Who shall deny me ? 

Pal. I. 

/that first saw her ; i" that took possession, &c. 


Part of jour blood, part of your soul. ? you have told me 

That I was Palamon, and you were Arcite. 
Pal Tes. 
Arc. Am not I liable to those affections, 

Those joys, griefs, angers, fears, my friend shall suffer ? 
Pal You may be. 
Arc. Why then would you deal so cunningly, 

So strangely, so unlike a Noble Kinsman, 

To love alone ? Speak truly ; do you think me 

Unworthy of her sight ? 
Pal N"o ; but unjust, 

If thou pursue that sight. 
Arc. Because another 

First sees the enemy, shall I stand still, 

And let mine honour down, and never charge ? 
Pal Tes, if he be but one. 
Arc. But say that one 

Had rather combat me ? 
Pal Let that one say so, 

And use thy freedom ! else, if thou pursuest her, 

Be as that cursed man that hates his country, 

A branded villain ! 
Arc. Tou are mad. 
Pal I must be, 

Till thou art worthy, Arcite ; it concerns me ! 

And, in this madness, if I hazard thee 

And take thy life, I deal but truly. 
Arc. Py, sir ! 

Tou play the child extremely : I will love her, 

I must, I ought to do so, and I dare ; 

And all this justly. 
Pal Oh, that now, that now 

Thy false self, and thy friend, had but this fortune, 

To be one hour at liberty, and grasp 

Our good swords in our hands, I'd quickly teach thee 

What 'twere to filch affection from another ! 

Thou art baser in it than a cutpurse ! 

Put but thy head out of this window more, 

And, as I have a soul, I'll nail thy life to't ! 
Arc. Thou dar'st not, fool ; thou can'st not ; thou art feeble ' 

Put my head out ? I'll throw my body out, 


And leap the garden, when I see her next, 
And pitch between her arms, to anger thee. 

Enter Jailor. 
Pal. ISTo more ! the Keeper's coming : I shall live 

To knock thy brains out with my shackles. 
Arc. Do ! 

Jailor. By your leave, gentlemen ! 
Pal. Now, honest Keeper ? 
Jailor. Lord Arcite, you must presently to the duke : 

The cause I know not yet. 
Arc. I am ready, Keeper. 
Jailor. Prince Palamon, I must awhile bereave you 

Of your fair cousin's company. [Exit with Arcite. 

Pal. And me too, 

Even when you please, of life ! 


Palamon and Arcite being allowed by Theseus to fight for Emilia, Arcite 
puts up a prayer to Mars. 

Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast turn'd 
G-reen Neptune into purple ; [whose approach] 
Comets prewarn ; whose havock in vast field 
Unearthed skulls proclaim ; whose breath blows down 
The teeming Ceres' foyzon ; who dost pluck 1 

1 Who dost pluck 

With hand armipotent, fy'c.'] A most magnificent image. The epithet 
armipotent is from Chaucer, and employed in a manner not unworthy of 
that ill-understood master of versification.. Chaucer took it from Boccac- 
cio, but turned it from prose into poetry, by putting it in a right place : — 
Yide in questa la casa del suo Dio 
Armipotent 'e, ed essa edifieata 
Tutta d' acciajo isplendido e pulio, &c. 

Teseide, lib. vii. st. 32. 
And downward from an hill, under a bent, 
There stood the temple of Mars armipotent, 
Wrought all of burned stele &c. 

Boccaccio's work is full of beauties, and of such beauties as have a 
right to sing, and become poetry ; but music singularly fails him, and his 
beauties are full of redundancies. Chaucer took up the lax exuberance of 
the great Tuscan proser, squeezed it together as if wi r .h one grasp of smil- 
ing and loving rectification, crushed out of it all that was superfluous, 
condensing the admirable remainder, and sent it forth among the orbs 
of song, spinning and singing for ever as became it. 


"With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds 

The mason' d turrets ; that bothmak'st andbreak'st 

The stony girths of cities; me thy pupil, 

Youngest follower of thy drum, instruct this day 1 

"With military skill, that to thy laud 

I may advance my streamer, and by thee 

Be styled the lord o' th' day ! Give me, great Mars, 

Some token of thy pleasure ! 

[Here Aecite and his suite fall on their faces, and there is 
heard clanging of armour, with a short thunder, as the burst 
of a battle, whereupon they all rise, and bow to the altar. 

O great corrector of enormous times, 
Shaker of o'er-rank states, thou grand decider 
Of dusty and old titles, that heal'st with blood 
The earth when it is sick, and cur'st the world 
O' th' plurisy of people ; 2 I do take 
Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name 
To my design march boldly. 

1 Young est follower, fycJ] This line, which would have been a stretch 
of rhythmical license, even in the hands of Fletcher, and which would 
certainly never have come out of those of Shakspeare, is so easily and 
unobjectionably alterable for the better, that I cannot think it could 
have stood as it here does in the original manuscript. The article 
the is wanting in its commencement, and the two words this day 
are evidently superfluous at the end. They render the word day in the 
third line following, a tautology. Were the line to be read thus : 

Me thy pupil, 
The youngest follower of thy drum, instruct 
With military skill, &c. 

it would set all right. But the text of Beaumont and Fletcher was 
incorrectly transcribed or printed from the first, and remedy seems now 

2 Plurisy of people."] Superabundance, overplus. This address to 
War is also most noble, and full of the finest Shakspearian excogitation. 
Here is a good half of all that can be said in vindication of war, and quite 
as much as a martialist need be supposed to utter. Mr. Charles Knight 
is of opinion that the participator with Fletcher in this play was 
Chapman. I really believe that if any poet in those times, besides 
Shakspeare, could have written passages of this kind, Chapman was the 
man ; but I cannot think he could, have sustained them with 
a vigour at once so weighty and so unforced, with so much equality of 
power throughout, or with so dramatic a propriety. 



Scene — The Temple of Diana. 

[Still music of records. 
Enter Emilia, in white, her hair about her shoulders, a 
wheat en wreath ; one in white holding up her train, her 
hair stuck with flowers ; one before her carrying a silver 
hind, in which is conveyed incense and siueet odours, which 
being set upon the altar, her Maid standing aloof, she sets 
fire to it ; then they curtesy and kneel. 

Emi. O sacred, shadowy, cold and constant queen, 
Abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative, 
Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure 
As wind-fann'd snow, who to thy female knights 
Allow' st no more blood than will make a blush, 
"Which is their order's robe ; I here, thy priest, 
Am humbled 'fore thine altar. Oh, vouchsafe, 
With that thy rare green eye, 1 which never yet 
Beheld thing maculate, look on thy virgin ! 
And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear 
(Which ne'er heard scurril term, into whose port 
Ne'er enter' d wanton sound) to my petition, 
Season' d with holy fear ! This is my last 
Of vestal office ; I am bride-habited, 
But maiden-hearted ; a husband I have, 'pointed, 2 
But do not know him ; out of two I should 
Chuse one, and pray for his success, but I 
Am guiltless of election of mine eyes ; 
Were I to lose one (they are equal precious), 
I could doom neither ; that which perish' d should 
Go to't unsentenc'd. Therefore, most modest queen, 
He, of the two pretenders, that best loves me 
And has the truest title in't, let him 
Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant 
The file 3 and quality I hold, I may 
Continue, in thy band ! 

[Here the hind vanishes under the altar, and in the 
place ascends a rose-tree, having one rose upon it. 

1 Rare green eye.~] Eyes tinted with green were formerly much admired. 

2 * Pointed. ~] Appointed. 

3 File,"] Rank. Station on the same line. 


See what our general of ebbs and flows, 
Out from the bowels of her holy altar, 
With sacred act advances ? But one rose ? 
If well inspir'd, this battle shall confound 
Both these brave knights, and I a virgin flower 
Must grow alone unpluck'd. 

\_Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments, and 
the rose falls from the tree. 
The flower is fall'n, the tree descends ! Oh, mistress, 
Thou here dischargest me ; I shall be gather" d ; 
I think so ; but I know not thine own will : 
Unclasp thy mystery ! — I hope she's pleas' d ; 
Her signs were gracious. [They curtesy, and exeunt. 


Arcite, liaviny conquered in his fight with Palamon, loses the fruits of his 
victory by an accident. 

Enter Peeithotts to Palamof. 

Per. jSToble Palamon, 

The gods will show their glory in a life 
That thou art yet to lead. 

Pal. Can that be, when 

Venus, I have said, is false ? How do things fare ? 

Per. Arise, great sir, and give the tidings ear 
That are most dearly sweet and bitter ! 

Pal. What 

Hath wak'd us from our dream ? 

Per. List then ! Tour cousin 

Mounted upon a steed that Emily 

Did first bestow on him ; a black one ; owing 

Not a hair worth of white, which some will say 

Weakens his price, and many will not buy 

His goodness with this note ; which superstition 

Here finds allowance. On this horse is Arcite, 

Trotting the stones at Athens, which the calkins 1 

Did rather tell than trample ; for the horse 

Would make his length a mile, 2 if 't pleas' d his rider 

1 Calkins.'] The prominent parts of a horse shoe, that secure it from 

2 Would make his length a mile '.] I am ignorant of the meaning of 
this ; nor can I procure it from persons to whom I have applied, and 
who are technically conversant with horses. 



To put pride in him. As he thus went counting 

The flinty pavement, dancing as 'twere to the music 

His own hoofs made (for, as they say, from iron 

Came music's origin) what envious flint, 

Cold as old Saturn, and like him possess'd 

With fire malevolent, darted a spark, 

Or what fierce sulphur else, to this end made, 

I comment not ; the hot horse, hot as fire, 

Took toy 1 at this, and fell to what disorder 

His power could give his will ; bounds ; comes on end ; 

[Forgets school-doing, being therein train' d, 

And of kind manage ; pig-like he whines 

At the sharp 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. When nought serv'd, 

When neither curb would crack, girth break, nor 

diff'ring plunges 
Dis-root his rider whence he grew, but that 
He kept him 'tween his legs, on his hind hoofs 
On end he stands, 

That Arcite's legs being higher than his head, 
Seem'd with strange art to hang. His victor's wreath 
Even then fell off his head ; and presently 
Backward the jade comes o'er, and his full poize 
Becomes the rider's load. Yet is he living, 
But such a vessel 'tis that floats but for 
The surge that next approaches. He much desires 
To have some speech with you. Lo, he appears P 

1 Took tot/,'] Began to be playful. 

2 Zo 9 he appears /] This description of the horse is most admirable 
as a description ; and I have no doubt that the author of Venus and 
Adonis wrote it : but what does it do in this place ? Lamb, speaking of 
passages in the Two Noble Kinsmen, including this " death of Arcite," 
says that they have a " luxuriance in them which strongly resembles 
Shakspeare's manner in those parts of his plays where, the progress of 
the interest being subordinate, the poet was at leisure for description.' ' 
This remark was surely a strange oversight on the part of Lamb. How 
can " the progress of the interest" in which a lover must be impatient to 
the very last degree for the result of what his informant is describing, be 
looked upon as subordinate to the description ! — to a long story of a horse, 
the close of which can be all that he cares about, and for delay of which 
close he must be inwardly cursing the exquisite impertinence of the nar- 


Enter Theseus, Hippolita, Emtlta, and Aecite, the last 
brought in a chair. 

Pal. Oh, miserable end of our alliance ! 

The gods are mighty ! — Areite, if thy heart, 
Thy worthy manly heart, be yet unbroken, 
Give me thy last words ! I am Palamon, 
One that yet loves thee dying. 

Arc. Take Emilia, 

And with her all the world's joy. Eeach thy hand ; 
Farewell ! I have told my last hour. I was false, 
Tet never treacherous. Forgive me, cousin ! 
One kiss from fair Emilia ! {Kisses her.) 'Tis done : 
Take her. I die ! [Dies. 

Pal. Thy brave soul seek Elysium ! 

JEmi. I'll close thine eyes, prince ; blessed souls be with thee ; 
Thou art a right good man ; and while I live, 
This day I give to tears. 

Pal. And I to honour. 

Thes. In this place first you fought ; even very here 
I sunder' d you : acknowledge to the gods 
Our thanks that you are living. 1 
His part is play'd, and, though it were too short, 
He did it well : your day is lengthen' d, and 
The blissful dew of Heaven does arrose 2 you ; 
The powerful Venus well hath graced her altar, 
And given you your love ; our master Mars 
Has vouch' d his oracle, and to Areite gave 
The grace of the contention. So the deities 
Have show'd due justice. Bear this hence ! 

Pal. Oh, cousin, 

That we should things desire, which do cost us 

rator, all the -while he is parading his horse-knowledge. This I hold to 
be another of the passages which either would have been blotted by 
Shakspeare when he revised his play, or which Ben Jonson would justly 
have found fault with, as a dramatist, for his not blotting. 

1 Our thanks, fyc7\ Surely this our ought to be your. "What could 
be the meaning of Palamon's acknowledging to the gods the thanks of 
Theseus ? 

2 Arrose."] Besprinkle. — I suppose from ros, a dew-drop. It is a 
word of very pleasing sound, though on what principle it was formed, I 
know not, — nor where else it is to be met with. Arrosion means gnawing. 


The loss of our desire ! That nought could buy 
Dear love, but loss of dear love ! 
Thes. Never Fortune 

Did play a subtler game. The conquer' d triumphs, 

The victor has the loss ; yet in the passage 

The gods have been most equal. Palamon, 

Tour kinsman hath confess' d the right o' the lady 

Did lie in you ; for you first saw her, and 

Even then proclaim' d your fancy ; he restor'd her, 

As your stolen jewel, and desir'd your spirit 

To send him hence forgiv'n. The gods my justice 

Take from my hand, and they themselves become 

The executioners. Lead your lady off ; 

And call your lovers 1 from the stage of death ; 

"Whom I adopt my friends ! A day or two 

Let us look sadly, and give grace unto 

The funeral of Arcite ! in whose end 

The visages of bridegrooms we'll put on, 

And smile with Palamon ; for whom an hour, 

But one hour since, I was as dearly sorry, 

As glad of Arcite, and am now as glad, 

As for him sorry. — Oh, you heavenly charmers, 

What things you make of us ! For what we lack, 

We laugh ; for what we have, are sorry ; still 

Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful 

For that which is ; and with Tou leave dispute, 

That are above our question ! 

1 Lovers."] Partisans ; lovers of his cause. 

[This play was given to the world as the joint production of Fletcher 
and Shakspeare ; and the majority of critics, among whom are Cole- 
ridge and Lamb, agree in so thinking it. Others are of opinion that 
Shakspeare had nothing to do with it ; and others, that the scenes at- 
tributed to him are but imitations of his manner and turn of thought. 
Such readers as are not acquainted with the controversy, may take this 
opportunity of judging for themselves. My own opinion is, that 
Shakspeare left behind him considerable uncorrected portions of the 
play ; and that Fletcher, without touching those portions, was induced 
by some manager to complete it. All the scenes here given are sup- 
posed (and justly, I think) to be the production of Shakspeare, with 
the exception of that between the two friends in prison. 

The main story (the whole of which is gatherable from these scenes) 
is from Chaucer's noble abridgment of these Teseide of Boccaccio.! 




Ptolemy, King of Egypt, is advised to refuse hospitality to Pom peg, defeated 

by Ccesar. 

Photinus, Achoeetjs {Priest oflsis), and Achillas. 

Pho. Good day, Achoreus. — ~Mv best friend, Achillas, 
Hath fame deliver'd yet no certain rumour 
Of the great Eoman action ? 

AchiL That we are 

To inquire and learn of you, sir, whose grave care 
Tor Egypt's happiness, and great Ptolemy's good, 
Hath eyes and ears in all parts. 

Pho. I'll not boast 

"What niv intelligence costs me ; but ere long 

You shall know more. — The king, with him a Eoman. 

Enter Ptolemy, Lab tents wounded, and Guard. 

Achor. The scarlet livery of unfortunate war 
Dy'd deeply on his face. 

AchiL 'Tis Labienus, 

Caesar's lieutenant in the wars of Gaul, 
And fortunate in all his undertakings : 
But, since these civil jars, he turn'd to Pompey, 
And, though he followed the better cause, 
jSTot with the like success. 

Pho. Such as are wise 

Leave falling buildings, fly to those that rise : 
But more of that hereafter.- — 

Lab. (to Ptolemy). In a word, sir, 

These gaping wounds, not taken as a slave, 
Speak Pompey' s loss. To tell you of the battle, 
How many thousand several bloody shapes 
Death wore that day in triumph ; how we bore 
The shock of Caesar's charge ; or with what fury 
His soldiers came on, as if they had been 
So many Caesars, and, like him, ambitious 
To tread upon the liberty of Borne ; 
How fathers kill'd their sons, or sons their fathers; 
Or how the Eoman piles 1 on either side 
1 Piles.'] Javelins $ — the pttutru 

296 THE false oke. 

Drew Eoman blood, which spent, the prince of weapons 

(The sword) succeeded, which, in civil wars, 

Appoints the tent on which wing'd victory 

Shall make a certain stand ; then, how the plains 

Flow'd o'er with blood, and what a cloud of vultures, 

And other birds of prey, hung o'er both armies, • 

Attending when their ready servitors, 

The soldiers, from whom the angry gods 

Had took all sense of reason and of pity, 

"Would serve in their own carcases for a feast ; 

How Csesar with his javelin forc'd them on 

That made the least stop, when their angry hands 

Were lifted up against some known friend's face ; 

Then coming to the body of the army, 

He shows the sacred senate, and forbids them 

To waste their force upon the common soldier 

(Whom willingly, if e'er he did know pity, 

He would have spar'd) 

PtoL The reason, Labienus ? 

Lab. Full well he knows that in their blood he was 
To pass to empire, and that through their bowels 
He must invade the laws of Rome, and give 
A period to the liberty of the world. 
Then fell the Lepidi, and the bold Corvini, 
The famed Torquati, Scipio's, and Marcelli, — 
Names, next to Pompey's, most renown' d on earth. 
The nobles and the commons lay together, 
And Pontick, Punick, and Assyrian blood, 
Made up one crimson lake : which Pompey seeing, 
And that his and the fate of Eome had left him, 
Standing upon the rampire of his camp, 
Though scorning all that could fall on himself, 
He pities them whose fortunes are embark'd 
In his unlucky quarrel ; cries aloud too 
That they should sound retreat, and save themselves : 
That he desir'd not so much noble blood 
Should be lost in his service, or attend 
On his misfortunes : and then, taking horse 
With some few of his friends, he came to Lesbos, 
And with Cornelia, his wife, and sons, 


He's touch'd upon your shore. The king of Parthia, 

Famous in his defeature of the Crassi, 
Offer'd him his protection, but Pompey, 
Kelvins: on his benefits and vour faith, 
Hath chosen Egypt for his sanctuary, 
Till he may re-collect his scatter'd powers, 
And try a second day. Now Ptolemy, 
Though he appear not like that glorious thing 
That three times rode in triumph, and gave laws 
To conquer'd nations, and made crowns his gift 
(As this, of yours, your noble father took 
Prom his victorious hand, and you still wear it 
At his devotion), to do you more honour 
In his declin'd estate, as the straightest pine 
In a full grove of his yet-flourishing friends, 
He flies to you for succour, and expects 
The entertainment of your father's friend, 
And guardian to yourself. 

Ptol. To say I grieve his fortune, 

As much as if the crown I wear (his gift) 

"Were ravish' d from me, is a holy truth, 

Our gods can witness for me ; yet, being young, 

And not a free disposer of myself, 

Let not a few hours, borrow' a for advice, 

Beget suspicion of unthankfulness, 

"Which next to hell I hate. Pray you retire, 

And take a little rest ; and (to the others) let his wounds 

Be with that care attended, as they were 

Carv'd on my flesh. — Good Labienus, think 

The little respite I desire shall be 

Wholly employ' d to find the readiest way 

To do great Pompey service. 

Lab. May the gods, 

As you intend, protect you ! [Exit with Attendants. 

Ptol. Sit, sit all ; 

It is my pleasure. Tour advice, and freely. 

Achor. A short deliberation in this, 

May serve to give you counsel. To be honest, 

Religious, and thankful, in themselves 

Are forcible motives, and can need no flourish 


Or gloss in the persuader ; your kept faith, 
Though Pompey never rise to the height he's fallen 
Csesar himself will love ; and my opinion [from, 

<Is, still committing it to graver censure, 
Tou pay the debt you owe him, with the hazard 
Of all you can call yours. 

Ptol. What's yours, Photinus ? 

Pho. Achoreus, great Ptolemy, hath counsell'd 
Like a religious and honest man, 
"Worthy the honour that he justly holds 
In being priest to Isis. But, alas, 
What in a man sequester' d from the world, 
Or in a private person, is preferr'd, 
No policy allows of in a king : 
To be or just, or thankful, makes kings guilty ; 
And faith, though prais'd, is punish' d, that supports 
Such as good fate forsakes. Join with the gods, 
Observe the man they favour, leave the wretched ; 
The stars are not more distant from the earth 
Than profit is from honesty ; all the power, 
Prerogative, and greatness of a prince 
Is lost, if he descend once but to steer 
His course, as what's right guides him. Let him leave 
The sceptre, that strives only to be good, 
Since kingdoms are maintain'd by force and blood. 

Achor. Oh, wicked ! 

Ptol. Peace ! — Go on. 

Pho. Proud Pompey shows how much he scorns your youth, 
In thinking that you cannot keep your own 
From such as are o'ercome. If you are tir'd 
With being a king, let not a stranger take 
What nearer pledges challenge. Resign rather 
The government of Egypt and of Mle 
To Cleopatra, that has title to them ; 
At least, defend them from the Roman gripe : 
What was not Pompey' s, while the wars endured, 
The conqueror will not challenge. By all the world 
Forsaken and despis'd, your gentle guardian, 
His hopes and fortunes desperate, makes choice of 
What nation he shall fall with ; and pursued 


By their pale ghosts slain in this civil war, 

He flies not Caesar only, but the senate, 

Of which the greater part have cloy'd the hunger 

Of sharp Pharsalian fowl ; he flies the nations 

That he drew to his quarrel, whose estates 

Are sunk in his ; and, in no place received, 

Hath found out Egypt, by him yet not ruin'd. 

4nd Ptolemy, things consider'd justly, may 

Complain of Pompey. "Wherefore should he stain 

Our Egypt with the spots of civil war, 

Or make the peaceable, or quiet Nile, 

Doubted of Caesar ? Wherefore should he draw 

His loss and overthrow upon our heads, 

Or choose this place to suffer in ? Already 

We have offended Csesar in our wishes, 

And no way left us to redeem his favour 

But by the head of Pompey. 

Achor. Great Osiris, 

Defend thy Egypt from such cruelty, 
And barbarous ingratitude ; 

Pho. Holy trifles, 

And not to have place in designs of state. 

This sword, which fate commands me to unsheath, 

I would not draw on Pompey, if not vanquish'd ; 

I grant, it rather should have pass'd through Csesar ; 

But we must follow where his fortune leads us : 

All provident princes measure their intents 

According to their power, and so dispose them. 

And think' st thou, Ptolemy, that thou canst prop 

His ruins, under whom sad Rome now suffers, 

Or tempt the conqueror's force when 'tis confirm'd? 

Shall we, that in the battle sat as neuters, 

Serve him that's overcome ? No, no, he's lost : 

And though 'tis noble to a sinking friend 

To lend a helping hand, while there is hope 

He may recover, thy part not engaged, 

Though one most dear, when all his hopes are dead, 

To drown him, set thy foot upon his head. 

Achor. Most execrable counsel! 

Achil. To be follow'd • 

'Tis for the kingdom's safety. 


PtoL "We give up 

Our absolute power to thee. Dispose of it 

As reason shall direct thee. 
Pho. Good Achillas, 

Seek out Septimius. Do you but soothe him ; 

He is already wrought. Leave the dispatch 

To me, of Labienus. 'Tis determin'd 

Already how you shall proceed. Nor fate 

Shall alter it, since now the dye is cast, 

But that this hour to Pompey is his last [Exeunt. 


Song to Cleopatra while kept in a state of seclusion. 

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air ; 
Ev'n in shadows you are fair ; 
Shut-up beauty is like fire, 
That breaks out clearer still and higher. 

Though your body be confin'd, 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Tet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain hath found. 

Look out nobly then, and dare 
Ev'n the fetters that you wear. 


Enter Septimius with the head of Pompey, Achillas, and 


Sept. 'Tis here ! 'tis done ! — Behold, you fearful viewers, 
That, that whole armies, nay, whole nations, 
Many and mighty kings, have been struck blind at, 
And fled before, wing'd with their fears and terrors ; 
That steel' d War waited on, and Fortune courted ; 
That high-plum' d Honour built up for her own. 
Behold that mightiness, behold that fierceness, 
Behold that child of war, with al] his glories, 
By this poor hand made breathless ! Here, my Achillas ; 
Egypt and Caesar owe me for this service, 
And all the conquer' d nations. 


AchiL Peace, Septimius ; 

Thy words sound more ungrateful than thy actions. 
Though sometimes safety seek an instrument 
Of thy unworthy nature, thou loud boaster, 
Think not she's bound to love him too that's bar- 
Why did not I, if this be meritorious, [barous. 
And binds the king unto me, and his bounties, 
Strike this rude stroke ? I'll tell thee, thou poor Roman. 
It was a sacred head I durst not heave at ; 
Not heave a thought. 
Sept. It was ? 
AchiL I'll tell thee truly, 

And, if thou ever yet heard' st tell of honour, 
I'll make thee blush. It was thy general's ! [thee ; 
That man's that fed thee once, that man's that bred 
The air thou breath' dst was his, the fire that warm'd 

From his care kindled ever ! Nay, I'll show thee, 
Because I'll make thee sensible of thy business, 
And why a noble man durst not touch at it, 
There was no piece of earth thou put'st thy foot on 
But was his conquest, and he gave thee motion ! 
He triumph' d three times. Who durst touch his per- 
The very walls of Rome bow'd to his presence ; [son ? 
Dear to the gods he was : to them that feared him 
A fair and noble enemy. Didst thou hate him, 
And for thy love to Caesar sought his ruin ? 
Arm'd, in the red Pharsalian fields, Septimius, 
Where killing was in grace, and wounds were glorious, 
Where kings were fair competitors for honour, 
Thou shouldst have come up to him, there have fought 
There, sword to sword. [him, 

Sept. I kill'd him on commandment, 

If kings' commands be fair, when you all fainted, 

When none of you durst look 

Achil. On deeds so barbarous. 

What hast thou got ? 
Sept. The king's love, and his bounty, 

The honour of the service ; which though you rail at, 
Or a thousand envious souls fling their foams on me. 


Will dignify the cause, and make me glorious ; 

And I shall live 

Achil. A miserable villain. 

"What reputation and reward belongs to it, 

[Seizes the head. 

Thus, with the head, I seize on, and make mine : 

And be not impudent to ask mo why, sirrah, 

Nor bold to stay ; read in mine eyes the reason. 

The shame and obloquy I leave thine own. 
Sept. The king will yet consider. [Exit. 

Enter Ptolemy, Achoeetts, and Photlsttjs.. 

Achil. Here he comes, sir, 

Achor. {to Ptolemy). Tet, if it be undone, hear me, great 
If this inhuman stroke be yet unstricken, [ s ^ r 

If that adored head be not yet sever'd 
.From the most noble body, weigh the miseries, 
The desolations, that this great eclipse works. 
Tou are young ; be provident. Fix not your empire 
Upon the tomb of him will shake all Egypt ; 

; "Whose warlike groans will raise ten thousand spirits 
Great as himself, in every hand a thunder ; 
Destructions darting from their looks, and sorrows 
That easy women's eyes shall never empty. 

Pho. {aside to Achillas). Tou have done well, and 'tis done. — 
{to Ptolemy) See Achillas, 
And in his hand the head. 

Ptol. Stay; come no nearer ! 

Methinks I feel the very earth shake under me ! 
I do remember him : he was my guardian, 
Appointed by the senate to preserve me. 
What a full majesty sits in his face yet ! 

Pho. The king is troubled. — Be not frighted, sir ; 

Be not abus'd with fears ; his death was necessary ; 

Not to be miss'd : and humbly thank great Isis, 

He came so opportunely to your hand. 

Pity must now give place to rules of safety. 

Is not victorious Csesar new arriv'd, 

And enter' d Alexandria with his friends, 

His navy riding by to wait his charges ? 


Did he not beat this Pompey, and pursue him ? 
Was not this great man his great enemy ? 
This godlike virtuous man, as people held him ? 
But what fool dare be friend to flying virtue ? [Flourish. 
I hear their trumpets ; 'tis too late to stagger. 
Give me the head ; and be you confident. 

Enter C^sab, Antony, Dolabella, Sceva, and Soldiers. 

Hail, conqueror of the world, the head of all, 
Now this head's off! 

Ccesar. Ha ! 

Pho. Do not shun me, Caesar. 

From kingly Ptolemy I bring this present, 
The crown and sweat of thy Pharsalian labour, 
The goal and mark of high ambitious honour, 
Before, thy victory had no name, Caesar, 
Thy travel and thy loss of blood, no recompense ; 
Thou dream'dst of being worthy, and of war, 
And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers : 
Here they take life ; here they inherit honour, 
Grow fix'd, and shoot up everlasting triumphs. 
Take it, and look upon thy humble servant ; 
With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolemy, 
That offers with this head, most mighty Caesar, 
What thou wouldst once have given for it, all Egypt. 

Achil. Nor do not question it, most royal conqueror, 
Nor disesteem the benefit that meets thee, 
Because 'tis easily got : it comes the safer : 
Yet, let me tell thee, most imperious Caesar, 
Though he oppos'd no strength of swords to win this, 
Nor labour' d through no showers of darts and lances, 
Tet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly, 
An inward war : he was his grandsire's guest, 
Priend to his father, and, when he was expell'd 
And beaten from this kingdom by strong hand, 
And had none left him to restore his honour, 
No hope to find a friend in such a misery, 
Then in stept Pompey, took his feeble fortune, 
Strengthen' d and cherish' d it, and set it right again. 
This was a love to Caesar. 

804 THE FALSE 01TB. 

See, Give me hate, gods ! 

Pho. This Csesar may account a little wicked ; 

But yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, 
Had fall'n upon him, what it had been then ; 
If thine own sword had touch' d his throat, what that 
He was thy son-in-law ; there to be tainted [way ! 

Had been most terrible ! Let the worst be render' d, 
We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent* 

Casar. Oh, Sceva, Sceva, see that head ! See, captains, 
The head of godlike Pompey ! 

See. He was basely ruin'd ; 

But let the gods be griev'd that suffer' d it, 
And be you Caesar. 

Caesar. O thou conqueror, [addressing the head. 

Thou glory of the world once, now the pity, 
Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ! 
What poor fate follow'd thee, and pluck'd thee on, 
To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ? 
The light and life of Rome, to a blind stranger, 
That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness, 
2STor worthy circumstance show'd what a man was ? 
That never heard thy name sung, but in banquets, 
And loose lascivious pleasures ? to a boy, 
That had no fnith to comprehend thy greatness, 
No study of thy life, to know thy goodness ? 
And leave thy nation, nay, fchy noble friend, 
Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee, 
In soft relenting tears ? Hear me, great Pompey, 
If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee ! 
Thou hast most unnobly robb'd me of my victory, 
My love and mercy. 

Ant. Oh, how brave these tears show ! 

How excellent is sorrow in an enemy ! 

Dol. Glory appears not greater than this goodness. 

(Jcesar. Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyramids, 
Built to out-dure the sun, as you suppose, 
"Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes, 
Are monuments fit for him ? no, brood of Nilus ; 
Nothing can cover his high fame but Heaven ; 
No pyramids set off his memories, 

the lover's progress. 305 

But the eternal substance of bis greatness, 

To which I leave him. Take the head away, 

And, with the body, give it noble burial : 

Your earth shall now be bless'd, to hold a Roman, 

Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance. 


Ccesar. Pray you, undo this riddle, 

And tell me how I have vex'd you. 
Cleopatra. Let me think first, 

Whether I may put on a patience, 

That will with honour suffer me. Know, I hate you : 

Let that begin the story : now, I'll tell you. 
Ccesar. But do it milder. In a noble lady, 

Softness of spirit, and a sober nature, 

That moves like summer winds, cools, and blows sweet* 

Shows, blessed, like herself. [ness 5 


Adieu, fond love ! farewell, you wanton Powers i 

I am free again ; 
Thou dull disease of blood and idle hours, 

Bewitching pain, 
Ply to the fools that sigh away their time ! 
My nobler love, to Heaven climb, 

And there behold beauty still young, 
That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy ; 

Immortal sweetness bv fair angels sung. 
And honour' d by eternity and joy ! 
There lives my love, thither my hopes aspire ; 
Pond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher, 

love's gentleness. 

Love is a gentle spirit ; 
The wind that blows the April flowers not softer ; 


306 the loves' s pbogeess. 

She's drawn with doves to show her peacefulness ; 

Lions and bloody pards are Mars' s servants. 

"Would you serve Love ? do it with humbleness, 

Without a noise, with still prayers, and soft murmurs ; 

Upon her altars offer your obedience, 

And not your brawls ; she's won with tears, not terrors : 

The fire you kindle to her deity 

Is only grateful when it's blown with sighs, 

And holy incense flung with white-hand innocence. 


Dorilaus and Oleander , sitting up at night drinking, are visited hy the 

Landlord's Ghost, 

Scene — A Country Inn. 

Enter Dobilatts, Cleandeb, Chamberlain ; a table, tapers, 

and chairs. 

Cle. We have supp'd well, friend. Let our beds be ready ; 

We must be stirring early. 
Cham. They are made, sir. 
Dor. I cannot sleep yet. Where's the jovial host 

You told me of? 'T has been my custom ever 

To parley with mine host. 
Cle. He's a good fellow, 

And such a one I know you love to laugh with. — 

Go call your master up. 
Cham. He. cannot come, sir. 
Dor. Is he a-bed ? 
Cham. No, certainly. 
Cle. Why then he shall come, by your leave, my friend ; 

I'll fetch him up myself. 
Cham. Indeed you'll fail, sir. 
Dor. Is he i' th' house ? 
Cham. No, but he's hard by, sir; 

He is fast in 's grave ; he has been dead these three week& 
Dor, Then o' my conscience he will come but lamely, 

And discourse worse. 
Cle. Farewell, mine honest host then, 

Mine honest merry host ! — Will you to bed yet ? 
Dor. No, not this hour ; I pr'ythee, sit and chat by me. 
Cle. Give us a quart of wine then ; we'll be merry. 

the loveb's peogeess. 307 

Dor. A match, ray son. Pray let your wine be living, 

Or lay it by your master. 
Cham. It shall be quick, sir. [Exit. 

Dor. Had not mine host a wife ? 
Cle. A good old woman. 
Dor. Another coffin! that is not so handsome; 

Tour hostesses in inns should be blithe things ; 

Pretty and young, to draw in passengers. 

Enter Chamberlain with Wine. 

"Well done. Here's to Lisander ! 
Cle. My full love meets it. — Make fire in our lodgings , 

We'll trouble thee no farther. — [Exit Chamberlain. 

To your son ! (Drinks again.) 
Dor. Put in Clarange too ; off with't. I thank you. 

This wine drinks merrier still. Oh, for mine host now ! 

"Were he alive again, and well disposed, 

I would so claw his pate ! 
Cle. You're a hard drinker. 
Dor. I love to make mine host drunk ; he will lie then 

The rarest, and the roundest, of his friends, 

[A lute is struck within 

His quarrels, and his guests. What's that ? a lute ? 

'Tis at the door, I think. 
Cle. The doors are shut fast. 
Dor. 'Tis morning ; sure the fiddlers are got up 

To fright men's sleeps. 
Cle. I've heard mine host that's dead 

Touch a lute rarely, and as rarely sing too, 

A brave still mean. 1 
Dor. I would give a brace of Prench crowns 

To see him rise and fiddle. 
Cle. Hark ; a song ! 

A SONG- [within."] 

'Tis late and cold ; stir up the fire ; 
Sit close, and draw the table nigher ; 
Be merry, and drink wine that's old. 
A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold I 

.] A middle voice ; a tenor. 

308 the lovee's pbogbess. 

Call for the best the house may ring ; 
Sack, white, and claret let them bring ; 
And drink apace, ^ hile breath you have 5 
You'll find but cold drink m the grave : 
Welcome, welcome, shall fly round, 
And I shall smile, though under ground. 

Cle. Now, as I live, it is his voice ! 
Dor. He sings well ; 

The devil has a pleasant pipe. 
Cle. The fellow lied, sure. 

Enter the Host s Ghost. 

He is not dead ; he's here. How pale he looka ! 
Dor. Is this he ? 
Cle. Tes. 
Host. Ton are welcome, noble gentlemen ! 

My brave old guest, most welcome ! 
Cle. Lying knaves, 

To tell us you were dead. Come, sit down by us. 

We thank you for your song. 
Host. 'Would 't had been better ! 
Dor. Speak, are you dead ? 
Host. Yes, indeed am I, gentlemen ; 

I have been dead these three weeks. 
Dor. Then here's to you, 

To comfort your cold body ! 
Cle. "What do you mean ? 

Stand further off. 
Dor. I will stand nearer to him. 

Shall he come out on's coffin to bear us company, 

And we not bid him welcome ? — Come, mine host ? 

Mine honest host, here's to you ! 
Host. Spirits, sir, drink not. 
Cle. Why do you appear ? 
Host. To wait upon ye, gentlemen ; 

('T has been my duty living, now my farewell) 

I fear ye are not used accordingly. 
Dor. I could wish you warmer company, mine host, 

Howe'er we are used. 

tue lovjbb's pkogkess. 309 

Host. Next, to entreat a courtesy ; 

And then I go to peace. 
Cle. Is't in our power ? 

Host. Yes, and 'tis this ; to see my body buried 
In holy ground, for now I lie unhallow'd, 

By the clerk's fault ; let my new grave be made 

Amongst good fellows, that have died before me, 

And merry hosts of my kind. 
Cle. It shall be done. 

Dor. And forty stoops of wine drank at thy funeral. 
Cle. Do you know our travel ? 
Host. Yes, to seek your friends, 

That in afflictions wander now. 
Cle. Alas ! 
Host. Seek 'em no farther, but be confident 

They shall return in peace. 
Dor. There's comfort yet. 
Cle. Pray one word more s Is't in your power, mine host, 

(Answer me softly) some hours before my death, 

To give me warning ? 
Host. I cannot tell you truly ; 

But if I can, so much alive I lov'd you, 

I will appear again. Adieu ! [Exit. 

Dor. Adieu, sir. 
Cle. I am troubled. These strange apparitions are 

For the most part fatal. 
Dor. This, if told, will not 

Find credit. The light breaks apace ; let's lie down, 

And take some little rest, an hour or two, 

Then do mine host's desire, and so return. 

I do believe him. 
Cle. So do I. To rest, sir! [Exeunt. 


Scene — A Room in Cleander^s House. 
Enter Cleandeb, with a Book. 

Cle. Nothing more certain than to die ; but when 
Is most uncertain. If so, every hour 

310 the lover's progress. 

We should prepare us for the journey, which 
Is not to be put off. I must submit 
To the divine decree, not argue it, 
And cheerfully I welcome it. I have 
Dispos'd of my estate, confess' d my sins, 
And have remission from my ghostly father, 
Being at peace too here. The apparition 
Proceeded not from fancy : Dorilaus 
Saw it, and heard it with me. It made answer 
To our demands, and promis'd, if 'twere not 
Denied to him by Pate, he would forewarn me 
Of my approaching end. I feel no symptom 
Of sickness ; yet, I know not how, a dulness 
Invadeth me all over. — Ha ! 

Enter the Spirit of the Host. 

Most. I come, sir, 

To keep my promise ; and, as far as spirits 
Are sensible of sorrow for the living, 
I grieve to be the messenger to tell you, 
Ere many hours pass, you must resolve 
To fill a grave. 

Cle. And feast the worms ? 

Host. Even so, sir. 

Cle, I hear it like a man. 

Host. It well becomes you ; 
There's no evading it. 

Cle. Can you discover 

By whose means I must die ? 

Host. That is denied me : 

But my prediction is too sure. Prepare 

To make your peace with Heaven ; so farewell, sir ! 


Cle. I see no enemy near ; and yet I tremble, 

Like a pale coward ! My sad doom pronounc'd 

By this aerial voice, as in a glass 

Shows me my death in its most dreadful shape. 

What rampire can my human frailty raise 

Against the assault of Eate ? I do begin 

To fear myself ! my inward strength forsakes me ; 



I must call out for help. — Within there ! haste, 
And break in to my rescue ! 

Enter Dorilatts, Calista, Olinda, Beronte, Alcidok, 
Servants, and Clarikda, at several doors. 

Dor. Rescue ? where ? 

Show me your danger. 

Cal. I will interpose 

My loyal breast between you and all hazard. 

Ber. Your brother's sword secures you. 

Ale. A true friend 

Will die in your defence. 

Cle. I thank ye ! 

To all my thanks ! Encompass' d thus with friends, 
How can I fear ? and yet I do ! I'm wounded, 
Mortally wounded. Nay, it is within ; 
I am hurt in my mind. One word — 

Dor. A thousand. 

Cle. I shall not live to speak so many to you. 

Dor. Why ? what forbids you ? 

Cle. But even now the spirit 

Of my dead host appear' d, and told me, that 

This night I should be with him. Did you not meet 

It went out at that door. [it ? 

Dor. A vain chimera 

Of your imagination ! Can you think 
Mine Host would not as well have spoke to me now, 
As he did in the inn ? These waking dreams 
Not alone trouble you, but strike a strange 
Distraction in your family. See the tears 
Of my poor daughter, fair Olinda's sadness, 
Tour brother's and your friend's grief, servants' sorrow. 
Good son, bear up ; you have many years to live 
A comfort to us all. Let's in to supper. 
Ghosts never walk till after midnight, if 
I may believe my grannam. We will wash 
These thoughts away with wine, 'spite of hobgoblins. 
Cle. You reprehend me justly.— Gentle madam, 
And all the rest forgive me ; I'll endeavour 

312 the loveb's progbess, 

To be merry with you. 
Dor. That's well said. 

[T have introduced these two scenes of the ghost, rather out of re- 
spect to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, who admired them, than 
from any sense of their merit. There is merit in the idea, but the idea 
is not properly borne out. What Sir Walter observes respecting a 
mixture of the ludicrous and the terrible, is very true in the abstract ; 
and the same may be said of any other familiarity so combined. 
Those jarrings of the every-day world with the supernatural world 
render the latter so much the more startling. But surely a more dull 
as well as matter-of-fact ghost than that of the innkeeper has never been 
seen. He has not a touch in him of fancy or expression ; scarcely any 
thing of his boasted old jollity ; and very little of Ins new solemnity. His 
presence neither sustains the posthumous merriment of the song which 
he is supposed to sing behind the scenes ; nor, when he says, " Spirits, 
sir, drink not," do we conceive him saying it either like a proper ghost, 
or with a more bewildering, familiar significance. He is simply com- 
2nonplace and insipid. Indeed, from the prosaicalnes3 of the versifica- 
tion, I doubt whether Fletcher had any hand in these scenes. They 
look more like Shirley. It is to be allowed at the same time, that 
Fletcher, for so fine a poet, was singularly deficient in a sense of the 
supernatural. I do not know that he has given any instance to the 
contrary but one, and that is in a passage in the Faithful Shepherdecs, 
where he speaks of " voices calling in the dead of night." Walter 
Scott, who was far otherwise, put, I suspect, into the scenes before us, 
" out of his own head," all the impressions which he found in them. 
His opinion, however, gives them a zest of its own ; and it enables 
me to add two interesting passages from his Life. 

Among the family readings of the great novelist, his biographer men- 
tions " certain detached scenes of Beaumont and Fletcher, especially 
that in the Lover's Progress, where the ghost of the musical innkeeper 
makes his appearance (Vol. iv. p. 163). 

And in Vol. vi. (p . 158) is the following entry in his Diary : — " De- 
cember 11 (1825.) — A touch of the morbus eruditorum, to which I am 
as little subject as most folks, and have it less now than when young. 
It is a tremor of the head, the pulsation of which becomes painfully 
sensible — a disposition to causeless alarm — much lassitude — and decay of 
vigour and activity of intellect. The veins feel weary and painful, and 
the mind is apt to receive and encourage gloomy apprehensions. 
Fighting with this fiend is not always the best way to conquer him. 
I have found exercise and the open air better than reasoning. But 
such weather as is now without doors does not encourage la petitt 
guerre ; so we must give battle in form, by letting both mind and 
body know, that, supposing one the House of Commons and the other 
the House of Peers, my will is sovereign over both. There is a fine de- 
scription of this species of mental weakness in the fine play of Beau- 


mont and Fletcher called the Lover's Progress, where the man, warned 
that his death is approaching, works himself into an agony of fear, and 
calls for assistance, though there is no apparent danger. The appari- 
tion of the innkeeper's ghost, in the same play, hovers between the 
ludicrous and the terrible ; and to me the touches of the former quality 
which it contains, seem to augment the effect of the latter— they seem 
to give reality to the supernatural, as being a circumstance with which 
an inventor would hardly have garnished his story."— Locxhaet's Life 
of Scott, 1st edit.] 


Marine, or Mount- Marine, a simple-witted gentleman, being resolved to 
return into the country, in conseauence of his disappointments at court, is 
persuaded by some courtiers who wish to retain his vnfe there, that he is 
successively made a knight, baron, earl, and duke. 

Enter Lo^gkceyille to Mou^t-Maeine and another 


Long. Where's monsieur Mount-Marine ? 

Gent. Why, there he stands ; will ye aught with him ? 

Long. Yes. — Good day, monsieur Marine ! 

Mar. Good day to you ! 

Long, His majesty doth commend himself 

Most kindly to you, sir, and hath, by me, 

Sent you this favour. Kneel down ; rise a knight ! 
Mar. I thank his majesty ! 
Long. And he doth further 

^Request you not to leave the court so soon ; 

For though your former merits have been slighted, 

AJter this time there shall no office fall 

"Worthy your spirit (as he doth confess 

There's none so great) but you shall surely have it 
Gent. Do you hear ? If you yield yet, you are an ass. 
Mar. I'll show my service to his majesty 

In greater things than these : but for this small one 

I must entreat his highness to excuse me. 
Long. I'll bear your knightly words unto the king, 

And bring his princely answer back again. [Exit. 

Gent. Well said ! Be resolute awhile ; I know 


There is a tide of honours coming on, 
I warrant you ! 

Enter Beaufobt. 

Beau. Where is this new-made knight ? 

Mar. Here, sir. 

Beau. Let me enfold you in my arms, 

Then call you lord ! the king will have it so : 
"Who doth entreat your lordship to remember 
His message sent to you by Longueville. 

Gent, (aside to Mar.) If you be dirty and dare not mount 
Tou may yield now; I know what I would do. [aloft, 

Mar, Peace ! I will fit him. — Tell his Majesty 
I am a subject, and I do confess 
I serve a gracious prince, that thus hath heap'd 
Honours on me without desert ; but yet 
As for the message, business urgeth me ; 
I must begone, and he must pardon me, 
"Were he ten thousand kings and emperors. 

Beau. I'll tell him so. 

Gent, (aside). "Why, this was like yourself ! 

Beau, (aside). As he hath wrought him, 'tis the finest fellow 
That e'er was Christmas-lord ! he carries it 
So truly to the life, as though he were 
One of the plot to gull himself. [Exit. 

Gent. Why, so ! 

Tou sent the wisest and the shrewdest answer 
Unto the king, I swear, my honour' d friend, 
That ever any subject sent his liege. 

Mar. Nay, now 1 know I have him on the hip, , 
I'll follow it. 

Re-enter Longueville. 

Long. My honourable lord ! 

Give me your noble hand, right courteous peer, 
And from henceforth be a courtly earl ; 
The king so wills, and subjects must obey : 
Only he doth desire you to consider 
Of his request. 


Gent. Why, faith, you are well, my lord ; 

Yield to him. 

Mar. Yield ? Why, 'twas iny plot 

Gent, (aside). Nay, 

'Twas your wife's plot. 
Mar. To get preferment by it ; 

And thinks he now to pop me in the mouth 

But with an earldom ? I'll be one step higher. 
Gent, (aside). It is the finest lord ! I am afraid anon 

He will stand upon 't to share the kingdom with him. 

Enter Beatjeobt. 

Beau. "Where's this courtly earl ? 

His majesty commends his love unto you, 

And will you but now grant to his request, 

He bids you be a duke, and chuse of whence. 
Gent. Why, if you yield not now, you are undone ; 

What can you wish to have more, but the kingdom ? 
Mar. So please his majesty, I would be duke 

Of Burgundy, because I like the place. 
Beau. 'I know the king is pleas' d. 
Mar. Then will I stay, 

And kiss his highness' hand. 
Beau. His majesty 

Will be a glad man when he hears it. 
Long. But how shall we keep this from the world's ear, 

[Aside to the Gentleman. 

That some one tell him not he is no duke ? 
Gent. We'll think of that anon. — Why, gentlemen, 

Is this a gracious habit for a duke ? 

Each gentle body set a finger to, 

To pluck the clouds (of these his riding weeds) 

Prom off the orient sun, off his best clothes ; 

I'll pluck one boot and spur off. 
Long. I another. 
Beau. I'll pluck his jerkin off. 
Gent. Sit down, my lord. — 

Both his spurs off at once, good Longueville ! 

And, Beaufort, take that scarf off, and that hat. 

Now set your gracious foot to this of mine ; 

One pluck will do it ; so ! Off with the other ! 


Long. Lo, thus your servant Longueville doth pluck 
The trophy of your former gentry off. — 
Off with his jerkin, Beaufort ! 

Gent, {apart). Didst thou never see 

A nimble-footed tailor stand so in his stockings, 
Whilst some friend help'd to pluck his jerkin off, 
To dance a jig ? 

Enter Jaqttes. 

Long. Here's his man Jaques come, 

Booted and ready still. 
Jaques. My mistress stays. — 

"Why, how now, sir ? "What do your worship mean, 

To pluck your grave and thrifty habit off ? 
Mar. My slippers, Jaques ! 
Long. Oh, thou mighty Duke ! pardon this man, 

That thus hath trespassed in ignorance. 
Mar. I pardon him. 
Long. His grace's slippers, Jaques ! 
Jaques. Why, what's the matter ? 
Long. Footman, he's a duke : 

The king hath rais'd him above all his land. 
Jaques. I'll to his cousin presently, and tell him so ; 

Oh, what a dunghill country rogue was I ! [Exit. 


Marine being again resolved, though for happier reasons, to return into the 
country, is as suddenly deprived of his titles as he was gifted with them. 

Enter to him and others, Longueville. 

Long. Stand, thou proud man ! 

Mar. Thieves, Jaques ! raise the people. 

Long. No ; raise no people : 'tis the king's command 

Which bids thee once more stand, thou haughty man ! 

Thou art a monster ; for thou art ungrateful, 

And, like a fellow with a rebel nature, 

Hast flung from his embraces, and, for 

His honours given thee, hast not return' d 

So much as thanks, and, to oppose his will, 

Eesolv'd to leave the court, and set the realm 


A-fire, in discontent and open action * 

Therefore he bids thee stand, thou proud man, 

Whilst, with the whisking of my sword about, 

I take thy honours off. This first sad whisk 

Takes off thy dukedom ; thou art but an earl. 
Mar. You are mistaken, Longueville. 
Long. Oh, 'would I were ! This second whisk divides 

Thy earldom from thee ; thou art yet a baron. 
Mar. No more whisks if you love me, Longueville ! 
Long. Two whisks are past, and two are yet behind, 

Yet all must come. But not to linger time, 

With these two whisks I end. Now Mount-Marine, 

Tor thou art now no more, so says the king ; 

And I have done his highness' will with grief. 
Gent. "Why do you stand so dead, monsieur Marine ? 
Mar. So Caesar fell, when in the capitol 

They gave his body two-and-thirty wounds. 

Be warned, all ye peers ; and, by my fall, 

Hereafter learn to let your wives rule all ! 
Gent. Monsieur Marine, pray let me speak with you. 

Sir, I must wave you 1 to conceal this party ; 

It stands upon my utter overthrow, 

Seem not discontented, nor do not stir a foot. 

Tor, if you do, you and your hope — 

I swear vou are a lost man, if vou stir ! 

And have an eye to Beaufort, he will tempt you. 
Beau. Come, come ; for shame go down ; 

Were I Marine, by Heaven I would go down ; 

And being there, I would rattle him such an answer 

Should make him smoke. 
Mar. Grood monsieur Beaufort, peace ! 

Leave these rebellious words ; 

Or, by the honours which I once enjoy' d, 

And yet may swear by, I will tell the king 

Of your proceedings ! I am satisfied. 
Lady, You talk'd of going down 

When 'twas not fit ; but now let's see your spirit ! 

A thousand and a thousand will expect it. 
Mar. Why, wife, are you mad ? [strength, 

Lady. No, nor drunk ; but I'd have you know your own 
1 Wave you.~\ Move you. 


Mar. You talk like a foolish woman, wife ; 

I tell you I will stay ! Yet I have 

A crotchet troubles ine. 
Long. More crotchets yet ? 
Mar. Follow me, Jaques ! 1 must have thy counsel. — 

I will return again ; stay you there, wife ! 

[Exit, with Jaques, 
Lady. He will not stir a foot, I'll lay my life. 
Beau. Ay, but he's discontented ; how shall we 

Resolve that, and make him stay with comfort ? 
Lady. 'Faith, Beaufort, we must even let Nature work ; 

For he's the sweetest-temper' d man for that 

As one can wish ; for let men but go about to fool him, 

And he'll have his finger as deep in't as the best. 

But see where he comes frowning : 

Bless us all ! 

Re-enter Mabiste. 

Mar. Off with your hats ! for here doth come 
The high and mighty duke of Burgundy. 
"Whatever you may think, I have thought, and thought, 
And thought upon it ; and I find it plain, 
The king cannot take back what he has given, 
Unless I forfeit it by course of law. 
Not all the water in the river Seine 
Can wash the blood out of these princely veins. 
I am a prince as great within my thoughts 
As when the whole state did adore my person. 
What trial can be made to try a prince ? 
I will oppose this noble corpse of mine 
To any danger that may end the doubt. [way 

Madame Marine. Great duke and husband, there is but one 
To testify the world of our true right, 
And it is dangerous. 

Mar. What may it be ? 

Were it to bring the great Turk bound in chains 
Through France in triumph, or to couple up 
The Sophy and great Prester John together, 1 
I would attempt it. Duchess, tell the course. 

1 The Sophy, ,] The Persian king of the Soofee dynasty. The myste- 
rious personage entitled Prester, i. e. Presbyter, or Priest, John, is 


Madam liar. There is a strong opinion through the world, 

And, no doubt, grounded on experience, 

That lions will not touch a lawful prince : 

If you be confident then of your right, 

Amongst the lions bear your naked body : 

And if you come off clear, and never wince, 

The world will say you are a perfect prince. 
Mar. I thank you, Duchess, for your kind advice, 

But know, we don't affect those ravenous beasts. 
Long. A lion is a beast to try a king ; 

But for the trial of such a state as this, 

Pliny reports, a mastiff-dog will serve. 
Mar. We will not deal with dogs at all, but men. 
J st Gent. Tou shall not need to deal with these at all. 

Hark you, sir ; the king doth know you are a duke. 
Mar. ]STo ! does he ? 

1st Gent. Tes ; and is content you shall be ; but with this 

That none know it but yourself ; for, if you do, 

He'll take't away by act of parliament. 
Mar. Here is my hand ; and whilst I live or breathe, 

No living wight shall know I am a duke. 
Gent. Mark me directly, sir ; your wife may know it. 
Mar. May not Jaques ? 
Gent. Tes, he may. 
Mar. May not my country cousin ? 
Gent. By no means, sir, if you love your life and state. 
Mar. "Well then, know all, I am no duke. 
Gent, {aside to Jaques). Jaques ? 
Jaques. Sir? 

Mar. I am a duke, " 

Both. Are you ? 
Mar. Tes, 'faith, yes, 'faith ; 

But it must only run among ourselves. 

And, Jaques, thou shalt be my secretary still. 

supposed by some to have been the Grand Lama of Thibet ; by some 
a minor Eastern Prince, of the Nestorian sect of Christians ; by others, 
a Khan of Tartary, whose native appellation was equivalent to that title ; 
and by others, the King of Abyssinia. 

320 love's pilgkimage. 


Scene — An Inn at Ossuna. 

Enter Incubo and Diego. 

Incuho. Signor Don Diego, and mine host, save thee ! 

Diego. I thank you, master Baily. 

Inc. Oh, the block ! 

Diego. Why, how should I have answer'd ? 

Inc. Not with that 

Negligent rudeness ; but, " I kiss your hands, 

Signor Don Incubo de Hambre : " and then 

My titles ; " master Baily of Castel-Blanco." 

Thou ne'er wilt have the elegancy of an host ; 

I sorrow for thee, as my friend and gossip ! — 

No smoke, nor steam out-breathing from the kitchen ? 

There's little life i' th' hearth then. 

Diego. Ay ; there, there ! 

That is his friendship, hearkening for the spit, 
And sorry that he cannot smell the pot boil. 

Inc. Strange an inn should be so curs' d, and not the sign 
Blasted nor wither' d ; very strange ! three days now, 
And not an egg eat in it, or an onion. 

Diego. I think they ha' strew' d the highways with caltraps, 1 1. 
No horse dares pass 'em ; I did never know 
A week of so sad doings, since I first 
Stood to my sign-post. 

Inc. Gossip, I have found 

The root of all. Kneel, pray ; it is thyself 
Art cause thereof ; each person is the founder 
Of his own fortune, good or bad. But mend it ; 
Call for thy cloak and rapier. 
Diego. How! 
Inc. Do, call, 

And put 'em on in haste. Alter thy fortune, 

1 Caltraps.~\ Anglo-saxon, colt?-cepj)e, star- thistle : — Italian, calcatrippa, 
contrivances for impeding cavalry. They were armed with spikes, one of 
which turned up whichever way they fell. 


By appearing worthy of her. Dost thou think 

Her good face e'er will know a man in cuerjio f l 

In single body, thus ? in hose and doublet, 

The horse-boy's garb ? base blank, and half-blank 

Did I, or master dean of Sevil, our neighbour, [cuerpo P 

E'er reach our dignities in cuerpo ? jSTo ; 

There went more to't : there were cloaks, gowns, cas- 

And other paramenia*? Call, I say. — [socks, 

His cloak and rapier here ! 

Enter Hostess. 

Hostess. "What means your worship ? 

Inc. Bring forth thy husband's sword, — So ! hang it on. 
And now his cloak; here, cast it up. — I mean, 
Gossip, to change your luck, and bring you guests. 

Hostess. Why, is there charm in this ? 

Inc. Expect. Xow walk ; 

But not the pace of one that runs on errands ! 

Eor want of gravity in an host is odious. 

Tou may remember, gossip, if you please 

(Your wife being then th' infanta of the gipsies, 

And yourself governing a great man's mules then), 

Me a poor 'squire at Madrid, attending 

A master of ceremonies (but a man, believe it, 

That knew his place to the gold- weight 4 ) ; and suck, 

Have I heard him oft say, ought every host 

"Within the catholic king's dominions 

Be, in his own house. 

Diego. How ? 

Inc. A master of ceremonies ; 

At least, vice-master, and to do nought in cuerpo ; 
That was his maxim. I will tell thee of him. 

1 Cuerpo."] Body (Spanish) : to be in cuerpo was to be hi' an undress 
closely fitting the body, without a cloak. Hence the ludicrous and more 
proper application of the term, hi Smollett and others, to no dress at all. 

2 Blank and half -blank cuerjoo.] I know not what is meant by this, nor 
do the commentators inform us. Is it white and half- white ? or a close 
fit with a difference ? 

3 Paramentos.] Apparellings (Spanish). 

4 To the gold-weight.'] To the degree of nicety attainable by the 
weights used in weighing gold. 

322 love's pilgbima&e. 

He would not speak with an ambassador's cook, 

See a cold bake-meat from a foreign part, 

In cuerpo. Had a dog but sfcay'd without, 

Or beast of quality, as an English cow, 

But to present itself, he would put on 

His Savoy chain about his neck, the ruff 

And cuffs of Holland, then the Naples hat. 

With the Borne hatband, and the Florentine agate, 

The Milan sword, the cloak of Genoa, set 

With Flemish buttons ; all his given pieces, 

To entertain 'em in ; and compliment 

With a tame cony, 1 as with the priuce that sent it. 

[Knock within. 

Diego. List ! who is there ? 

Inc. A guest, an't be thy will ! 

Diego. Look, spouse ; cry " luck," an' we be encounter'd. Ha!| 

Hostess. Luck then, and good ; for 'tis a fine brave guest, 
With a brave horse. 

Inc. Why now, believe of cuerpo, 

As you shall see occasion. Go, and meet him. 

Enter Theodosia in men's clothes. 

Theod. Look to my horse, I pray you, well. 

Diego. He shall, sir. 

Inc. Oh, how beneath his rank and call was that now ! 

" Your horse shall be entreated as becomes 

A horse of fashion, and his inches." 
Theod. Oh ! {Faints.) 
Inc. Look to the cavalier ! What ails he ? Stay ! 

If it concerns his horse, let it not trouble him ; 

He shall have all respect the place can yield hiia. 

Either of barley or fresh straw, 
Diego. Good sir, 

Look up. 
Inc. He sinks ! Somewhat to cast upon nini ; 

He'll go away in cuerpo else. 
Diego. What, wife ! 

Oh, your hot waters quickly, and some cold 

To cast in his sweet face. 

1 Co7iy.~\ Babbit. 

love's pilgkimage. 323 

Hostess. Ala3, fair flower ! 

Inc. Does anybody entertain bis horse ? 

Diego. Yes ; Lazaro bas bim. 

Enter Hostess with a glass of water. 

Inc. Gro you see him in person. \_Exit Diego. 

Hostess. Sir, taste a little of tbis. 

Sweet lily, look upon me ; 

You are but newly blown, my pretty tulip ; 

Faint not upon your stalk. 'Tis firm and fresb. 

Stand up. So ! bolt upright. You are yet in growing, 
Theod. Pray you let me have a chamber. 
Hostess. That you shall, sir. 

Theod. And where I may be private, I entreat you. 
Hostess. For that, in troth, sir, we have no choice. Our 

Is but a vent of need, 1 that now and then [house 

Eeceives a guest between the greater towns, 

As they come late ; only one room 

Inc. She means, sir, 'tis none 

Of those wild scatter' d heaps call'd inns, where scarce 

The host's heard, though he wind his horn to his people ; 

Here is a competent pile, wherein the man, 

"Wife, servants, all, do live within the whistle. 

Hostess. Only one room 

Inc. A pretty modest quadrangle ! 

She will describe to you. 
Hostess. (Wherein stand two beds, sir) 

We have : and where, if any guest do come, 

He must of force be lodg'd ; that is the truth, sir. 


The Landlord and his Hostler confer about their treatment of people's 

Diego. Lazaro ! 

Enter Lazabo. 

How do the horses ? 

3 A vent of need."] An inn only to be resorted to for want of a better : — 
an inn by the wayside, remote from neighbourhood. Vent a is Spanish 
for inn. 

824 loye's pilgetmage. 

Laz. 'Would you would go and see, sir ! 

A plague of all jades, what a clap he has given me ! 
As sure as you live, master, he knew perfectly 
I cozen' d him on's oats ; he look'd upon me, [sirrah !" 
And then he sneer' d, as who should say, " Take heed, 
And when he saw our half-peck, which you know 
"Was but an old court-dish, Lord, how he stampt ! 
, I thought 't had been for joy ; when suddenly 
He cuts me a back caper with his heels, 
And takes me just o' th' crupper ; down came I, 
And all my ounce of oats. 

Diego. 'Faith, Lazaro, 

We are to blame, to use the poor dumb servitors 
So cruelly. 

Laz. Yonder' s this other gentleman's horse, 
Keeping our Lady-eve ; the devil a bit 
He has got since he came in yet ; there he stands, 
And looks, and looks — But 'tis your pleasure, sir, 
He shall look lean enough. He has hay before him, 
But tis as big as hemp, and will as soon choak him, 
Unless he eat it butter' d. He had four shoes, 
And good ones, when he came ; 'tis a strange wonder 
With standing still he should cast three. 

Diego. Oh, Lazaro, 

The devil's in this trade ! Truth never knew it ; 
And to the devil we shall travel, Lazaro, 
Unless we mend our manners. Once every week 
I meet with such a knock to mollify me, 
Sometimes a dozen to awake my conscience, 
Tet still I sleep securely. 

Laz. Certain, master, 

We must use better dealing. 

Diego. 'Faith, for mine own part 

(Not to give ill example to our issues) 
I could be well content to steal but two girths, 
And now and then a saddle-cloth ; change a bridle, 
Only for exercise. 

Laz. If we could stay there, 

There were some hope on's, master; but the devil is 
We are drunk so early we mistake whole saddles, 

lote's pilgrimage. 325 

Sometimes a horse ; and then it seems to us too 
Every poor jade has his whole peck, and tumbles 
Up to his ears in clean straw ; and every bottle 
Shows at the least a dozen ; when the truth is, sir, 
There's no such matter, not a smell of provender, 
Wot so much straw as would tie up a horse-tail, 
jSTor anything i' th' rack but two old cobwebs, 
And so much rotten hay as had been a hen's nest. 

Diego. Well, these mistakings must be mended, Lazaro, 
These apparitions, that abuse our senses, 
And make us ever apt to sweep the manger, 
But put in nothing ; these fancies must be forgot, 
And we must pray it may be reveal' d to us 
"Whose horse we ought, in conscience, to cozen, 
And how, and when. A parson's horse may suffer 
A little greasing in his teeth ; 'tis wholesome, 
And keeps him in a sober shuffle ; x and his saddle 
May want a stirrup, and it may be sworn 
His learning lay on one side, and so broke it : 
He has ever oats in's cloak-bag to prevent us, 2 
And therefore 'tis a meritorious office 
To tithe him soundly. 

Laz. And a grazier may 

(For those are pinching puckfoists, 3 and suspicious) 
Suffer a mist before his eyes sometimes too, 
And think he sees his horse eat half a bushel ; 
When the truth is, rubbing his gums with salt, 
Till all the skin come off, he shall but mumble 
Like an old woman that were chewing brawn, 
And drop 'em out again. 

Diego. That may do well too, 

And no doubt 'tis but venial. But, good Lazaro, 
Have you a care of understanding horses, 

1 A sober shuffled] Weber informs us, that greasing the teeth with 
candle snuff was " a common trick of the ostlers at the time, to pre- 
vent the horses from eating the hay." 

2 To prevent us.'] To hinder our profits ; — to anticipate, and render 
us unnecessary. 

3 Puckfoists. ~\ Puck-fists, pickpockets. Richardson derives the 
word from Pack (the fairy) and foist, to '* introduce surreptitiously " 
{videlicet, the fingers). 


Horses with angry heels, gentlemen's horses, 
Horses that know the world ! Let them have meat 
Till their teeth ache, and rnbbing till their ribs 
Shine like a wench's forehead ; they are devils 

Laz. And look into our dealings. As sure as we live, 

These courtiers' horses are a kind of Welch prophets ; 
Nothing can be hid from 'em ! For mine own part, 
The next I cozen of that kind shall be foundered, 
And of all four too. I'll no more such compliments 
Upon my crupper. 

Diego. Steal but a little longer, 

Till I am lam'd too, and we'll repent together ; 
It will not be above two days. 

Laz. By that time 

I shall be well again, and all forgot, sir. 

Diego. "Why then, I'll stay for thee. 

[I hesitated to insert this and the preceding scene in the present volume . 
because the chief portions of them are taken from Ben Jonson's comedy, 
the New Inn. The copy, however, has variations, and good ones ; we 
cannor be certain that Jonson may not have owed portions of the 
original to his friend Fletcher, and some playwright or manager have re- 
stored them to the co-partner, when " getting up" the piece for per- 
formance ; and at all events this posthumous treatment of dramatists 
by the caterers for public amusement leaves the question to be settled as 
it may. It is not difficult to discern where the lighter, tenderer, and more 
off-hand manner of Fletcher comes into play ; but the learned de- 
nunciation of cuerpo, and enumeration of the ornaments on the dress of 
ceremony, are Jonson's own beyond a doubt. The reader may fancy the 
two friends composing the scenes together, and thus give me the plea- 
santest warrant for their introduction.] 


<c Leocadia leaves her father's house, disguised in man's apparel, to travel in 
search of Marc-Antonio, to whom she is contracted, but has been deserted 
by him. When at length she meets with him, she finds that, by a precon- 
tract, he is the husband of Theodosia. In this extremity, Philippo^ brother 
to Theodosia, offers Leocadia marriage." 

Scene — A Harbour. 

Enter Philippo and Leocadia. 

Phil. "Will you not hear me ? 
Leoc. I have heard so much 

Will keep me deaf for ever ! No, Marc- Antonio, 


After thy sentence, I may hear no more : 
Thou hast pronounced me dead ! 

Pi il. Appeal to Eeason : 

She "will reprieve you from the power of grief, 
Which rules but in her absence. Hear me say 
A sovereign message from her, which in duty, 
And love to your own safety, you ought hear. 
Why do you strive so ? whither would you fly ? 
You cannot wrest yourself away from care, 
You may from counsel ; you may shift your place, 
But not your person ; and another clime 
Makes you no other. 

Leoc. Oh! 

Phil, For passion's sake 

(Which I do serve, honour, and love in you), 
If you will sigh, sigh here ; if you would vary 
A sigh to tears, or outcry, do it here ! 
Xo shade, no desart, darkness, nor the grave, 
Shall be more equal to your thoughts than I. 
Only but hear me speak ! 

Leoc. What would you say ? 

Phil. That which shall raise your heart, or pull down mint', 
Quiet your passion, or provoke mine own ; 
We must have both, one balsam, or one wound. 
For know, lov'd fair, since the first providence 
Made me your rescue, I have read you through, 
And with a wond'ring pity look'd on you ; 
I have observ'd the method of your blood, 
And waited on it even with sympathy 
Of a like red and paleness in mine own ; 
I knew which blush was Anger's, which was Love's, 
Which was the eye of Sorrow, which of Truth ; 
And could distinguish honour from disdain 
In every change ; and you are worth my study. 
I saw your voluntary misery 
Sustain' d in travel : a disguised maid, 
Wearied with seeking, and with finding lost ; 
Neglected, where yon hop'd most, or put by ; — 
I saw it, and have laid it to my heart : 
And though it were my sister which was righted, 
Yet being by your wrong, I put off nature, 

328 lote's pilgeimage. 

Could not be glad, where I was bound to triumph, 
My care for you so drown' d respect of her. 
Nor did I only apprehend your bonds, 
But studied your release ; and for that day 
Have I made up a ransom, brought you health, 
Preservative 'gainst chance, or injury, 
Please you apply it to the grief; myself. 

Leoc. Humph! 

Phih Nay, do not think me less than such a cure ; 
Antonio was not ; and, 'tis possible, 
Philippo may succeed. My blood and house 
Are as deep-rooted, and as fairly spread, 
As Marc- Antonio's ; and in that all seek, 
Fortune hath given him no precedency. 
As for our thanks to Nature, I may burn 
Incense as much as he ; I ever durst 
"Walk with Antonio by the self-same light 
At any feast, or triumph, and ne'er cared 
"Which side my lady or her woman took 
In their survey : I durst have told my tale too, 
Though his discourse new ended. 

Leoc, My repulse 

Phil. Let not that torture you, which makes me happy ; 
Nor think that conscience, fair, which is no shame ! 
'Twas no repulse ; it was your dowry rather : 
For then, methought, a thousand graces met 
To make you lovely, and ten thousand stories 
Of constant virtue, which you then out-reach' d, 
In one example did proclaim you rich : 
Nor do I think you wretched, or disgrac'd, 
After this suffering, and do therefore take 
Advantage of your need ; but rather know 
You are the charge and business of those powers, 
Who, like best tutors, do inflict hard tasks 
"Upon great natures, and of noblest hopes. 1 

1 Who^ like lest tutors^ $rc.~\ This noble sentiment has been still more 
nobly, though very ruggedly, put by another poet ; though whether by 
Daniel, or by Sir John Beaumont (our dramatist's brother), its appearance 
in both their works does not allow us to determine. 

" Only the firmest and the constant'st hearts 
God sets to act the stout'st and hardest parts.' 

love's pilgrimage. 329 

Head trivial lessons, and half lines to slugs ; 
They that live long, and never feel mischance, 
Spend more than half their age in ignorance. 

Leoc. 'Tis well you think so. 

Phil. You shall think so too ; 

Tou shall, sweet Leoeadia, and do so. 

Leoc. Good sir, no more ! you have too fair a shape 
To play so foul a part in as the tempter. 
Say that I could make peace with Fortune, who, 
Who should absolve me of my vow yet ? ha ? 
My contract made ? 

Phil. Tour contract ? 

Leoc. Tes, my contract. 

Am I not his ? his wife ? 

Phil. Sweet, nothing less. 

Leoc. I have no name then ? 

Phil. Truly then, you have not : 

How can you be his wife, who was before 
Another's husband ? 

Leoc. Oh, though he dispense 

"With his faith given, I cannot with mine. 

Phil. Tou do mistake, clear soul ; his precontract 
Doth annul yours, and you have given no faith 
That ties you in religion, or humanity ; 
Tou rather sin against that greater precept, 
To covet what's another's ; sweet, you do : 
[Believe me, you dare not urge dishonest things 
[Remove that scruple therefore, and but take 
Tour dangers now into your judgment's scale, 
And weigh them with your safeties. Think but whither 
Now you can go ; what you can do to live ; 
How near you ha' barred all ports to your own succour, 
Except this one that I here open, love. 
Should you be left alone, you were a prey 
To the wild lust of any, who would look 
Upon this shape like a temptation, 
And think you want the man you personate ; 
"Would not regard this shift, 1 which love put on 

1 Shift.'] Pretext. 


As virtue forc'd, but covet it like vice ; 
So should you live the slander of each sex, 
And be the child of error and of shame ; 
And, which is worse, even Marc-Antony 
Would be call'd just, to turn a wanderer off, 
And fame report you worthy his contempt ; 
"Where, 1 if you make new choice, and settle here. 
There is no further tumult in this flood ; 
Each current keeps his course, and all suspicions 
Shall return honours. Came you forth a maid ? 
Gro home a wife. Alone r and in disguise ? 
G-o home a waited Leocadia. 
Gro home, and, by the virtue of that charm, 
Transform all mischiefs, as you are transform' d ; 
Turn your offended father's wrath to wonder, 
And all his loud grief to a silent welcome ; 
Unfold the riddles you have made. "What say you ? 
Now is the time ; delay is but despair ; 
If you be chang'd, let a kiss tell me so ! [Kisses her. 
Leoc. I am ; but how, I rather feel than know. 

[" This is one of the most pleasing, if not the most shining, scenes 
in Fletcher. All is sweet, natural, and unforced. It is a copy which 
we may suppose Massinger to have profited by the studying." — Lamb.] 



Maria, the mistress of Heartlove, after having been subjected to equivocal 
appearances by the plot of a wild cousin, in the hope of forwarding her 
marriage with her lover, has been put into' a coffin for dead during a 
swoon, aud thus becomes the means of saving them from killing one 

Scene — A Churchyard. 

Enter Heabtloye- 

Heartl. The night, and all the evils the night covers, 

The goblins, hags, and the black spawn of darkness, 

1 Where.'] Whereas. 


Cannot fright me. No, Death, I dare thy cruelty ! 

For I am weary both of life and light too. 

Keep my wits, Heaven ! They say spirits appear 

To melancholy minds, and the graves open : 

I would fain see the fair Maria's shadow; 

But speak unto her spirit, ere I died ; 

But ask upon my knees a mercy from her. 

I was a villain ; but her wretched kinsman, 

That set his plot, shall with his heart-blood satisfy 

Her injur' d life and honour. — "What light 's this ? 

Enter "Wildbeain, with a lanthorn. 

Wildb. It is but melancholy walking thus ; 
The tavern-doors are barricadoed too, 
"Where I might drink till morn, in expectation ; 
I cannot meet the watch neither ; nothing in 
The likeness of a constable, whom I might, 
In my distress, abuse, and so be carried, 
For want of other ]odging, to the Counter. 

HeartL 'Tis his voice. Tate, I thank thee ! 

Wildb. Ha ! who's that ? An' thou be'st a man, speak. 
Frank Heartlove ? then I bear my destinies ! 
Thou art the man of all the world I wish'd for : 
My aunt has turn'd me out of doors ; she has, 
At this unchristian hour ; and I do walk 
Methinks like Gruido Faux, with my dark lanthorn^ 
Stealing to set the town a-fire. I' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 
Or Eobin Good-fellow. And how dost, Frank ? 

HeartL The worse for you ! 

Wildb. Come, thou'rt a fool. Art going to thy lodging ? 
I'll lie with thee to-night, and tell thee stories, 
How many devils we ha' met withal ; 

Our house is haunted, Frank ; whole legions- 

I saw fifty for my share. 

HeartL Didst not* fright 'em ? 

Wildb. How ! fright 'em ? No, they frighted me sufficiently. 

HeartL Thou hadst wickedness enough to make them stare, 
And be afraid o J thee, malicious devil ! [Lraws, 


And draw thy sword ; for, by Maria's soul, 

I will not let thee 'scape, to do more mischief. 
Wildb. Thou art mad ! what dost mean ? 
Hearth To kill thee ; nothing else will ease my anger : 

The injury is fresh I bleed withal ; 

Nor can that word express it; there's no peace in't; 

JSTor must it be forgiven, but in death. 

Therefore call up thy valour, if thou hast any, 

And summon up thy spirits to defend thee ! 

Thy heart must suffer for thy damned practices 

Against thy noble cousin, and my innocence. 
Wildb. Hold ! hear a word ! did I do anything 

But for your good ? That you might have her ? 

That in that desperate time I might redeem her, 

Although with show of loss ? 
Hearth Out, ugly villain ! 

Eling on her the most hated name [could blast her] 

To the world's eye, and face it out in courtesy ? 

Bring him to see't, and make me drunk to attempt it ? 

Enter Mabia, in her shroud. 

Maria. I hear some voices this way. 
Hearth No more ! if you can pray, 

Do it as you fight. 
Maria. "What new frights oppose me ? 

I have heard that tongue. 
Wildb. 'Tis my fortune ; 

Tou could not take me in a better time, sir : 

I have nothing to lose, but the love I lent thee. 

My life my sword protect ! [Draws. They fight. 

Maria. I know 'em both ; but, to prevent their ruins, 

Must not discover— Stay, men most desperate ! 

The mischief you are forward to commit 

"Will keep me from my grave, and tie my spirit 

To endless troubles else. 
Wildb. Ha! 'tis her ghost! 
Heartl. Maria ! 
Maria. Hear me, both ! each wound you make 

Runs through my soul, and is a new death to me ; 


Each threatening danger will affright my rest. 

Look on me, Heartlove ; and, my kinsman, view me ; 

Was I not late, in my unhappy marriage, 

Sufficient miserable, full of all misfortunes, 

But you must add, with your most impious angers, 

Unto my sleeping dust this insolence ? 

"Would you teach Time to speak eternally 

Of my disgraces ? make records to keep them, 

Keep them in brass ? Fight then, and kill my honour. 

Fight deadly, both ; and let your bloody swords 

Through my reviv'd and reeking infamy, 

That never shall be purg'd, find your own ruins. 

Heartlove, I lov'd thee once, and hop'd again 

In a more blessed love to meet thy spirit : 

If thou kill'st him, thou art a murderer ; 

And murder never shall inherit Heaven. 

My time is come ; my conceal' d grave expects me : 

Farewell, and follow not ; your feet are bloody, 

And will pollute my peace. [Exit 

Heartl. Stav, blessed soul. 

Wildb. "Would she had 

Come sooner, and sav'd some blood ! 

Heartl. Dost bleed ? 

Wildb. Yes, certainly ; I can both see and feel it. 

Heartl. JSTow I well hope it is not dangerous, 

Give me thy hand. As far as honour guides me, 
I'll know thee again* 

Wildb. I thank thee heartily. 





Scene— A Servant's Hall. 

Enter the Master Cook, Butler, Pantler, Yeoman of the Cellar 
with a jack of beer 1 and a dish. 

Cook. A hot day, a hot day, vengeance hot day, boys ! 
Give me some drink ; this fire 's a plaguy fretter ! 

\Drinks out of the dish* 
Body of me, I am dry still ! give me the jack, boy ; 
This wooden skiff holds nothing. 

[Drinks out of the jack. 

Pant. And, 'faith, master, 

"What brave new meats ? for here will be old eating. 

Cook. Old and young, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it ; 
Let 'em have ten tire of teeth a-piece, I care not. 

But. But what new rare munition ? 

Cook. Pho ! a thousand : 

I'll make you pigs speak French at table, and a fat swan 

Come sailing out of England with a challenge ; 

I'll make you a dish of calves' feet dance the canaries, 4 

And a consort of cramm'd capons fiddle to 'em : 

A calf's head speak an oracle, and a dozen of larks 

Rise from the dish, and sing all supper time. 

'Tis nothing, boys. I have framed a fortification 

1 A jack of beer. ~] A jack was (and is, for it is extant still in old in- 
stitutions) a tall vessel for holding liquor, made of stiffened leather, 
lined with rosin, and shaped like a boot ; whence a great stiffened boot 
is called a jack-boot. 

2 Drinks out of the disk.'] The term disk was not always confined, as it 
is now, to something shallow, or at best something unused for holding 
drink. The phrase, disk of tea y still lingers perhaps in some old domestic 

3 With a challenge.'} An allusion, perhaps, to some circumstance of 
the day. 

4 The canaries.] " A dance," says Richardson, " common to the 
Canary Isles, and thence introduced into this country." Query, from a 
passage which he refers to in Shakspeare, whether the name of the dance 


Out of rye-paste, which is impregnable ; 

And against that, for two long hours together, 

Two dozen of marrow-bones shall play continually. 

.For fish, I'll make you a standing lake of white-broth, 

And pikes come plowing up the plums before them ; 

Arion, on a dolphin, playing Lachrymae ; l 

And brave king Herring, 2 with his oil and onion 

Crown' d with a lemon peel, his way prepar'd 

"With his strong guard of pilchers. 

Pant. Ay marry, master ! 

Cook. All these are nothing : I'll make you a stubble goose 
Turn o' th' toe thrice, do a cross-point presently, 
And then sit down again, and cry, " Come eat me !" 
These are for mirth. Now, sir, for matter of mourning, 
I'll bring you in the lady Loin-of-veal, 
With the long love she bore the Prince of Orange. 

All. Thou boy, thou ! 

Cook. I have a trick for thee too, 

And a rare trick, and I have done it for thee. 

Yeo. What's that, good master ? 

Cook. 'Tis a sacrifice : 

A full vine bending, like an arch, and under 
The blown god Bacchus, sitting on a hogshead, 
His altar here ; before that, a plump vintner 
Kneeling, and offering incense to his deity, 
Which shall be only this, red sprats and pilchers, 

may not have been derived from the trained canary bird, and its move- 
ments while singing ? 

Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl ? \A kind 

of dance]. 
Armado. How mean'st thou ? brawling in French ? 
Moth. No, my complete master ; but to jig off a tune at the tongfte's 
end, canary to it with 
Your feet, humour' d with turning up your eye-lids ; sigh a 
note, and sing a note, &c. 

Love's Labour Lost, Act iii. Sc. 1. 

Lachrymce.] A popular air by Dowland, the lute-master of his 

a King Herring."] The herring has been called the King of Fish from 
its supposed conquest of the whale, by going down his throat and 
choaking him. 


But. This when the table's drawn, to draw the wine on. 

Cook. Thou hast it right ; and then comes thy song, butler. 

Pant. This will be admirable ! 

Yeo. Oh, sir, most admirable ! 

Cook. If you will have the pasty speak, 'tis in my power ; 
I have fire enough to work it. Come, stand close, 
And now rehearse the song ; the drinking song. 

\Thcy sing, 


Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow, 
You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow* 
Best, while you have it, use your breath; 
There is no drinking after death. 

Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, 
There is no cure 'gainst age but it ; 
It helps the head-ach, cough, and ptisic. 
And is for all diseases physic. 

Then let us swill, boys, for our health ; 
Who drinks well, loves the commonwealth 5 
And he that will to bed go sober, 
Falls with the leaf, still in October. 1 


Rollo, the Bloody Brother ', joint Duke of Normandy, impatient of his 
brother Otto's share in the sovereignty, kills him in presence of their 
mother, Sophia. 

Scene — The Mother* s Private Room in the Palace, where she, 
and her son Otto, her daughter Matilda, and Edith 
daughter of Polio* s tutor Baldwin, have been conversing. 
Pinter to them Hollo, armed, and his favourite minister 

Polio. Perish all the world 

Ere I but lose one foot of possible empire, 

By sleights and colour used by slaves and wretches ! 2 

1 Still in October."] This song appears to have become very popular. 
A variation of it, I believe, is not yet gone out of fashion among drinking 
parties. I remember to have heard it in my youth, in Fletcher's uni- 
versity, roaring away at a good " witching time of night," 

2 By sleights and colour, fcc.~] Through the poor pretences and argu- 
ments in use with slavish minds. 


I am exempt by birth from both those curbs. 

And sit above them in all justice, since 

I sit above in power. "Where power is given, 

Is all the right suppos'd of earth and heaven. 
Lai. Prove both, sir ; see the traitor ! 
Otto. He comes arai'd ; 

See, mother, now your confidence ! 
Soph. What rage affects this monster? 
Rollo* Give me way, or perish ! 
Soph. Make thy way, viper, if thou thus affect it ! 
Otto {embracing his mother). This is a treason like thee ! 
Rollo. Let her go ! 
Soph. Embrace me, wear me as thy shield, my son ; 

And through my breast let his rude weapon run 

To thy life's innocence ! 
Otto. Play not two parts, 

Treacher 1 and coward both, but yield a sword, 

And let thy arming thee 2 be odds enough 

Against my naked bosom ! 
Rollo. Loose his hold ! 
Matilda. Forbear, base murderer 
Rollo. Forsake our mother. 
Soph. Mother dost thou name me, 

And put off nature thus ? 
Rollo. Porsake her, traitor ; 

Or, by the spoil of nature, thorough hers, 

This leads unto thy heart ! 
Otto. Hold ! [Quits his mother. 

Soph. Hold me still. 
Otto (to his mother). For twenty hearts and lives, 1 will 

One drop of blood in yours. [not hazard 

Soph. Oh, thou art lost then ! 
Otto. Protect my innocence, Heaven I 
Soph. Call out murder ! 
Mat. Be murder'd all, but save him! 
Edith. Murder ! murder ! 
Rollo. Cannot I reach you yet ? 
Otto. No, fiend. [They wrestle. T&vulo falls. 

1 Treacher. ~] Traitor. 

2 Thy arming thee.'] Thy wearing of armour. 



Rollo. Latorch, 

Rescue ! I'm down. 
Lat. Up then ; your sword cools, sir : 

Ply it i' th' flame, and work your ends out. 
Hollo. Ha! 

Have at you there, sir ! 

Enter Aubeey. 

Aub. Author of prodigies ! 
"What sights are these ? 

Otto. Oh, give me a weapon, Aubrey ! [He is stabbed. 

Soph. Oh, part 'em, part 'em ! 

Aub. For Heaven's sake, no more ! 

Otto. No more resist his fury ; no rage can 

Add to his mischief done. [Dies. 

Soph. Take spirit, my Otto ; 

Heaven will not see thee die thus. 

Mat. He is dead, 

And nothing lives hut death of every goodness. 

Soph. Oh, he hath slain his brother ; curse him, Heaven ! 

Hollo. Curse and be curs' d! it is the fruit of cursing. — 
Latorch, take off here ; bring too of that blood 
To colour o'er my shirt ; then raise the court, 
And give it out; how he attempted us, 
In our bed naked. Shall the name of brother 
Forbid us to enlarge our state and powers ? 
Or place affects of blood above our reason, 
That tells us, all things good against another, 
Are good in the same line against a brother ? 

Jlollo, among his other slaughters, having ordered the death of his tutor 
Baldwin, is implored by the latter *s daughter to spare it, and cursed by 
her for being implored in vain. During her execrations he falls in love 
with her. 

Rollo. G-o, take this dotard here, and take his head 

Off with a sword. 
Hamond. Tour schoolmaster ? 

Rollo. Even he. [Ba:ldwik is seized. 

Bald. For teaching thee no better ; 'tis the best 

Of all thy damned justices ! — Away, 

Captain ; I'll follow. 


Edith. Oh, stay there, Duke ; [Coming forward and kneeling. 
And in the midst of all thy blood and fury 
Hear a poor maid's petitions, hear a daughter, 
The only daughter of a wretched father ! 
Oh, stay your haste, as you shall need this mercy ! 

Rollo. Away with this fond woman ! 

Edith. You must hear me, 

If there be any spark of pity in you, 
If sweet humanity and mercy rule you ! 
I do confess you are a prince, your anger 
As great as you, your execution greater 

Hollo. Away with him ! 

Edith. Oh, captain, by thy manhood, 

By her soft soul that bare thee — I do confess, sir, 
Tour doom of justice on your foes most righteous — 
Good noble prince, look on me ! 

Hollo. Take her from me ! 

Edith'. A curse upon his life that hinders me ! 
May father's blessing never fall upon him, 
May Heaven ne'er hear his prayers ! I beseech you, 
Oh, sir, these tears beseech you, these chaste hands woo- 
That never yet were heav'd but to things holy, [you, 
Things like yourself ! Tou are a god above us ; 
Ee as a god then, full of saving mercy ! 
Mercy, oh, mercy, sir, for His sake mercy, 
That, when your stout heart weeps, shall give you pity ! 
Here I must grow. 

Rollo. By heaven, I'll strike thee, woman ! 
Edith. Most willingly ; let all thy anger seize me, 
All the most studied torments, so this good man, 
This old man, and this innocent, escape thee ! 

Rollo. Carry him away, I say ! 

Edith. Now, blessing on thee ! Oh, sweet pity J 
I see it in thy eyes. — I charge you, soldiers, 
Even by the prince's power, release my father ! 
The prince is merciful ; why do you hold him ? 
The prince forgets his fury ; why do you tug him ? 
He is old ; why do you hurt him ? Speak, oh, speak, sir ! 
Speak, as you are a man ! a man's life hangs, sir, 
A friend's life, and a foster life, upon you. 


'Tis but a word, but mercy quickly spoke, sir. 
Oh, speak, prince, speak ! 

Hollo, Will no man here obey me ? 

Have I no rule yet ? As I live, he dies 
That does not execute my will, and suddenly ! 

Bald. All that thou canst do takes but one short hour from 

Hollo. Hew off her hands ! [me. 

Sam. Lady, hold off! 

Edith. No, hew 'em ; 

Hew off my innocent hands, as he commands you ! 
They'll hang the faster on for death's convulsion. — 

[Exit Baldwin with the Guard. 
Thou seed of rocks, will nothing move thee then ? 
Are all my tears lost ? all my righteous prayers 
Drown' d in thy drunken wrath ? I stand up thus, then ; 
Thus boldly, bloody tyrant ; 

And to thy face, in Heaven's high name defy thee ! 
And may sweet mercy, when thy soul sighs for it, 
When under thy black mischiefs thy flesh trembles, 
"When neither strength, nor youth, nor friends, nor gold, 
Can stay one hour ; when thy most wretched conscience, 
"Wak'd from her dream of death, like fire shall melt thee ; 
When all thy mother's tears, thy brother's wounds, 
Thy people's fears and curses, and my loss, 
My aged father's loss, shall stand before thee 

Rollo. Save him, I say ; run, save him, save her father ; 

Fly, and redeem his head ! [Exit Latoech. 

Edith. May then that pity, 

That comfort thou expect' st from Heaven, that mercy, 
Be lock'd up from thee, fly thee ! howlings find thee, 
Despair (oh, my sweet father !), storms of terrors, 
Blood till thou burst again ! 

Rollo. Oh, fair sweet anger ! 

Enter Latoech and Hamodn, with Baldwin's head. 

Lat. I came too late, sir, 'twas dispatch' d before ; 

His head is here. 
Rollo. And my heart there ! Go, bury him ; 

Give him fair rites of funeral, decent honours. 


Edith. Wilt thou not take rue, monster ? Highest Heaven, 
Give him a punishment fit for his mischief ! 

[Falls down, 

[" I scarcely know a more deeply tragic scene anywhere than that in 
Ro/lo, in which Edith pleads for her father's life, and then, when she 
cannot prevail, rises up and imprecates vengeance on his murderer." — 

Most pathetic is all the pleading of Edith, particularly the remon- 
strances with the soldiers in the speech beginning " Now, blessing on 
thee." We love also the falsehoods and flatteries which she uses towards 
the scoundrel before her ; and hear, with the tears in our eyes, her poor 
voice speaking fondly to him in her convulsed and agonising throat.] 

Hollo, while making love to Edith, and touching her with jpitg, is slain hy 
his captain of the guards Hamond, with her encouragement. 

Scene — A Room in Baldwin's House, with a banquet set out. 

Enter Edith. 

Edith {speaking to herself). Now for thy father's murder 
and the rain 
Ail chastity shall suffer if he reign ! [Kneels. 

Thou blessed soul, look down, and steel thy daughter ! 
Look on the sacrifice she comes to send thee, 
And through the bloody clouds behold my piety ! 
Take from my cold heart fear, from my sex pity. 
And as I wipe these tears off, shed for thee, 
So all remembrance may I lose of mercy ! 
Give me a woman's anger bent to blood, 
The wildness of the winds to drown his prayers ! 
Storm-like may my destruction fall upon him, 
My rage, like roving billows as they rise, 
Pour'd on his soul to sink it ! Give me flattery 
(Eor yet my constant soul ne'er knew dissembling} 
Mattery the food of fools, that I may rock him 
And lull him in the down of his desires ; 
That in the height of all his hopes and wishes, 
His Heaven forgot, and all his lusts upon him, 
My hand, like thunder from a cloud, may seize him ! — 



Enter Eollo. 

Rollo. What bright star, taking Beauty's form upon her. 

In all the happy lustre of Heaven's glory, 

Has dropp'd down from the sky to comfort me ? 

"Wonder of nature, let it not prophane thee 

My rude hand touch thy beauty ; nor this kiss, 

The gentle sacrifice of love and service, 

Be offer'd to the honour of thy sweetness. 
Edith, My gracious lord, no deity dwells here, 

Nor nothing of that virtue, but obedience ; 

The servant to your will affects no flattery. 
Hollo. Can it be flattery to swear those eyes 

Are Love's eternal lamps he fires all hearts with ? 

That tongue the smart string to his bow ? those sighs 

The deadly shafts he sends into our souls ? 

Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty ! 
Edith, Tour grace is full of game. 
Rollo, By heaven, my Edith, 

Thy mother fed on roses when she bred thee. 
Edith (aside). And thine on brambles, that have prick' d her 

heart out ! 
Rollo. The sweetness of the Arabian wind, still blowing 

Upon the treasures of perfumes and spices, 

In all their pride and pleasures, call thee mistress ! 
Edith. "Will't please you sit, sir ? 
Rollo. So you please sit by me. [They sit. 

Pair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee ; 

The excellency that appears upon thee 

Ties up my tongue ! Pray speak to me. 
Edith. Of what, sir ? 
Rollo. Of anything ; anything is excellent. 

Will you take my directions ? Speak of love then ; 

Speak of thy fair self, Edith ; and while thou speak' st, 

Let me, thus languishing, give up myself, wench. 
Edith (aside). He has a strange cunning tongue. — Why 
do you sigh, sir ? — 

How masterly he turns himself to catch me ! 
Rollo. The way to Paradise, my gentle maid, 

Is hard and crooked, scarce repentance finding, 


"With all her holy helps, the door to enter. 
Give me thy hand : what dost thou feel ! 
Edith. Tour tears, sir ; [justice ! — 

Xou weep extremely. — {Aside.') Strengthen me now, 
Why are these sorrows, sir ? 
Rollo. Thou wilt never love me 

If I should tell thee ; yet there's no way left 
Ever to purchase this bless' d Paradise, 
But swimming thither in these tears. 
Edith. I stagger ! 

Rollo. Are they not drops of blood ? 
Edith. JS T o. 
Rollo. They are for blood then, 

For guiltless blood ! and they must drop, my Edith, 
They must thus drop, till I have drown' d my mischiefs. 
Edith {aside). If this be true, I have no strength to touch 
Rollo. I pr'ythee look upon me ; turn not from me ! [him. 
Alas, I do confess I'm made of mischief, 
Begot with ail men's miseries upon me ; 
But see my sorrows, maid, and do not thou, 
"Whose only sweetest sacrifice is softness, 

"Whose true condition tenderness of nature 

Edith {aside). My anger melts ; oh, I shall lose my justice ! 
Rollo. Do not thou learn to kill with cruelty, 
As I have done ; to murder with thy eyes, 
Those blessed eyes, as I have done with malice. 
"When thou hast wounded me to death with scorn 
(As I deserve it, lady) for my true love, 
"When thou hast loaden me with earth for ever, 
Take heed my sorrows, and the stings I suffer, 
Take heed my nightly dreams of death and horror, 
Pursue thee not ; no time shall tell thy griefs then, 
Nor shall an hour of joy add to thy beauties. 
Look not upon me as I kill'd thy father; 
As I was smear'd in blood, do thou not hate me ; 
But thus, in whiteness of my wash'd repentance, 
In my heart's tears and truth of love to Edith, 

In my fair life hereafter 

Edith {aside) . He will fool me ! 

Rollo. Oh, with thine angel-eyes behold and bless me ! 


Of Heaven we call for mercy, and obtain it ; 
To Justice for our right on earth, and have it ; 
Of thee I beg for love ; save me, and give it ! 
Edith (aside). Now, Heaven, thy help, or I am gone for 
His tongue has turn'd me into melting pity ! [ever ; 

Enter Hamond and Guard. 

Ham. Keep the doors safe ; and, upon pain of death, 

Let no man enter till I give the word. 
Guard. We shall, sir. 
Ham. Here he is, in all his pleasure : 

I have my wish. 
RoIIo. How now ? why dost thou stare so ? 
Edith. A help, I hope ! 

Rollo. "What dost thou here ? who sent thee ? 
Ham. My brother, and the base malicious office 

Thou mad'st me do to Aubrey. Pray ! 
Rollo. Pray? 
Ham. Pray ! 

Pray, if thou canst pray ! I shall kill thy soul else ! 

Pray suddenly ! 
Rollo. Thou canst not be so traitorous ! 
Ham. It is a justice. — Stay, lady ! 

For I perceive your end : a woman's hand 

Must not rob me of vengeance. 
Edith. 'Tis my glory ! [Eollo, 

Ham. 'Tis mine; stay, and share with me.— By the gods, 

There is no way to save thy life ! 
Rollo. No? 
Ham. No: 

It is so monstrous, no repentance cures it ! 
Rollo. "Why then, thou shalt kill her first; and what this 
blood [Seizes Edith. 

Will cast upon thy cursed head 

Ham. Poor guard, sir ! 

Edith. Spare not, brave captain ! 

Rollo. Pear, or the devil have thee ! 

Ham. Such fear, sir, as you gave your honour' d mother, 

When your most virtuous brother shield-like held her, 

Such I'll give you. Put her away. 


Rollo. I will not ; 

I will not die so tamely. 
Ham. Murderous villain, 

Wilt thou draw seas of blood upon thee ? 
Edith. Fear not ; 

Kill him, good captain ! any way dispatch him ! 

My body's honour'd with that sword that through me 

Sends his black soul to hell ! Oh, but for one hand ! 
Ham. Shake him off bravely. 
Edith. He is too strong. Strike him ! 

Ham, (Th ey struggle, Eollo seizes Edith's dagger.) Oh, am 
I with you, sir ? Now keep you from him ! 

"What, has he got a knife ? 
Edith. Look to him, captain ; 

For now he will be mischievous. 
Ham. Do you smile, sir ? 

Does it so tickle you ? Have at you once more ! 
Edith. Oh, bravely thrust ! Take heed he come not in, sir, 

To him again ; you give him too much respite. 
Rollo. Tet wilt thou save my life ? and I'll forgive thee. 

And give thee all ; all honours, all advancements ; 

Call thee my friend ! 
Edith. Strike, strike, and hear him not ! 

His tongue will tempt a saint. 
Rollo. Oh, for my soul sake ! 
Edith. Save nothing of him ! 
Ham. Now for your farewell ! 

Are you so wary ? take you that ! [Stabs him. 

Rollo. Thou that too ! [Stabs him. 

Oh, thou hast kill'd me basely, basely, basely ! [Dies* 
Edith. The just reward of murder falls upon thee ! 

How do you,, sir ? has he not hurt you ? 
Ham. No ; 

I feel not any thins:. 
Auh. (within). I charge you let us pass ! 
Guard (within). Tou cannot yet, sir. 
Aub. I'll make way then. 
Guard. We are sworn to our captain : 

And, till he give the word 

Ham. Now let them in there. 


Enter Sophia, Matilda, Aubrey, Lords, and Attendants. 

Soph. Oh, there he lies ! Sorrow on sorrow seeks me ! 

Oh, in his blood he lies ! 
Auh. Had you spoke sooner, 

This might have been prevented. Take the duchess, 
And lead her off; this is no sight for her eyes. 

[Sophia led out 
Mat. Oh, bravely done, wench ! 
Edith. There stands the noble doer. 
Mat. May honour ever seek thee for thy justice ! 
Oh, 'twas a deed of high and brave adventure, 
A justice even for Heaven to envy at ! 
Aarewell, my sorrows, and my tears take truce ; 
My wishes are come round ! Oh, bloody brother, 
Till this hour never beauteous ; till thy life, 
Like a fall sacrifice for all thy mischiefs, 
Plow'd from thee in these rivers, never righteous ! 
Oh, how my eyes are quarried with their joys now ! 
My longing heart even leaping out for lightness ! 
Eut, die thy black sins with thee ; I forgive thee ! 
Auh. Who did this deed ? 

Ham. I, and I'll answer it ! [Dies. 

Edith. He faints ! Oh, that same cursed knife has kill 5 d 
Aub. How? [him! 

Edith. He snatch' d it from my hand for whom I bore it ; 

And as they grappled — — 
Aub. Justice is ever equal ! 

Had it not been on him, thou hadst died too honest. 
Did you know of his death ? 
Edith. Tes, and rejoice in't. 

Aub. I am sorry for your youth then, for though the strictness 
Of law shall not fall on you, that of life 
Must presently. Go, to a cloister carry her ; 
And there for ever lead your life in penitence. 
Edith. Best father to my soul, I give you thanks, sir ! 
And now my fair revenges have their ends, 
My vows shall be my kin, my prayers my friends ! 

[I have inserted the scene between Edith and Eollo out of respect to 
the judgment of Lamb, who has put it in his Dramatic Specimens. But 


I confess I do not like it ; I do not take its truthfulness to nature for 
granted, whatever mixed feelings it may imply, or whatever Shakspearean 
shrewdness be supposed to emulate ; and I think it easts a blot on the 
beautiful scene preceding it in this volume. There are women, of course, 
and there are men, who may be flattered into any airworthiness ; but 
the first Edith, in this instance, is not fashioned to become the second ; 
and such conduct, be the poet who he may that implies otherwise, is a 
libel on the sex in general.] 



Beliza, a rick and noble-minded lady^ welcomes her poor bid equally generous 

Lover from the wars. 

Enter Eupha^tes. 

Bel. Could I in one word speak a thousand welcomes, 
And hearty ones, you have 'em. Fy ! my hand ? 
We stand at no such distance. By my life, 
The parting kiss you took before your travel 
Is yet a virgin on my lips, preserved 
With as much care as I would do my fame, 
To entertain your wish'd return. 

Euph. Best lady, 

That I do honour you, and with as much reason 
As ever man did virtue, — that I love you, 
Tet look upon you with that reverence 
As holy men behold the sun, the stars, 
The temples, and their gods, — they all can witness ; 
And that you have deserved this duty from me, 
The life, and means of life, for which I owe you, 
Commands me to profess it, since my fortune 
Affords no other payment. 

Bel. I had thought, 

That for the trifling courtesies, as I call them 
(Though you give them another name), you had 
Made ample satisfaction in the acceptance ; 
And therefore did presume you had brought home 
Some other language. 


Euph. No one I have learn' d 

Yields words sufficient to express jour goodness ; 
Nor can I ever chuse another theme, 
And not be thought unthankful. 

Bel. Pray you no more, 
As you respect me. 

Euph. That charm is too powerful 

Eor me to disobey it. 'Tis your pleasure, 
And not my boldness, madam. 

Bel. Good Euphanes, 

Believe I am not one of those weak ladies, 

That (barren of all inward worth) are proud 

Of what they cannot truly call their own, 

Their birth or fortune, which are things without them : 

Nor in this will I imitate the world, 

"Whose greater part of men think, when they give, 

They purchase bondmen, not make worthy friends. 

By all that's good I swear, I never thought 

My great estate was an addition to me, 

Or that your wants took from you. 

Euph. There are few 

So truly understanding, or themselves, 
Or what they do possess. 

Bel. Good Euphanes, where benefits 

Are ill conferr'd, as on unworthy men, 

That turn them to bad uses, the bestower, 

Eor wanting judgment how and on whom to place them- 

Is partly guilty : but when we do favours 

To such as make them grounds on which they build 

Their noble actions, there we improve our fortunes 

To the most fair advantage. If I speak 

Too much, though I confess I speak well, 

Prythee remember 'tis a woman's weakness, 

And then thou wilt forgive it. 

Euph. Tou speak nothing 

But what would well become the wisest man: 
And that by you deliver' d is so pleasing - 
That I could hear you ever. 

Bel. Fly not from 


Tour word, for I arrest it, and will now 
Express myself a little more, and prove 
That whereas you profess yourself my debtor, 
That I am, yours. 

Euph. Your ladyship then must use 
Some sophistry I ne'er heard of. 

Bel. By plain reasons ; 

For, look you, had you never sunk beneath 
Your wants, or if those wants had found supply 
From Crates, your unkind and covetous brother, 
Or any other man, I then had miss'd 
A subject upon which I worthily 
Might exercise my bounty : whereas now. 
By having happy opportunity 
To furnish you before, and in your travels, 
"With all conveniences that you thought useful, 
That gold which would have rusted in my coffers, 
Being thus employ' d, has render' d me a partner 
In all your glorious actions. And whereas, 
Had you not been, I should have died a thing 
Scarce known, or soon, forgotten, there's no trophy 
In which Euphanes for his worth is mention' d, 
But there you have been careful to remember, 
That all the good you did came from Beliza. 

Euph. That was but thankfulness. 

Bel. 'Twas such an honour, 

And such a large return for the poor trash 
I ventured with you, that, if I should part 
With all that I possess, and myself too, 
In satisfaction for it, 'twere still short 
Of your deservings. 

Euph. You o'erprize them, madam. 

Bel. The queen herself hath given me gracious thanks 
In your behalf ; for she hath heard, Euphanes, 
How gallantly you have maintain' d her honour 
In all the courts of Greece. And rest assur'd 
(Though yet unknown), when I present you to her, 
Which I will do this evening, you shall find 
That she intends good to you. 

Euph. Worthiest lady, 


Since all you labour for is the advancement 
Of him that will live ever your poor servant, 
He must not contradict it. 


Well, thou'rt the composition of a god : 
My lion, lamb, my eaglet, and my dove, 
Whose soul runs clearer than Diana's fount ! 
Nature picked several flowers from her choice banks, 
And bound them up in thee, sending thee forth 
A posy for the bosom of a queen. 


Weep no more, nor sigh nor groan, 
Sorrow calls no time that's gone ; 
Violets pluck' d the sweetest rain 
Makes not fresh nor grow again ; 
Trim thy locks, look chearfully, 
Pate's hidden ends eyes cannot see. 
Joys as winged dreams fly fast, 
Why should sadness longer last ? 
Grief is but a wound to woe ; 
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe. 


An April day, 
In which the sun and west- wind play together, 
Striving to catch and drink the balmy drops. 


Antonio and Maetine. 

Ant. Peace, heretic ! thou judge of beauties ? 

Thou hast an excellent sense for a sign-post, friend. 
Didst thou not see (I'll swear thou art stone-blind else, 
As blind as Ignorance), when she appeared first, 


Aurora breaking in the East ? and through her face 

(As if the hours and graces had strew' d roses) 

A blush of wonder flying ? when she was frighted 

At our uncivil swords, didst thou not mark 

How far beyond the purity of snow 

The soft wind drives, whiteness of innocence, 

Or anything that bears celestial paleness, 

She appear' d o' th' sudden? Didst thou not see her 

When she entreated ? Oh, thou reprobate ! [tears 

Didst thou not see those orient tears flow'd from her, 

The little worlds of love ? A set, Martine, 

Of such sanctified beads, and a holy heart? to love, 

I could live ever a religious hermit. 

Mart. I do believe a little ; and yet, methinks, 
She was of the lowest stature. 

Ant. A rich diamond, 

Set neat and deep ! Nature's chief art, Martiue r 
Is to reserve her models curious, 
Not cumbersome and great ; and such a one, 
For fear she should exceed upon her matter, 
Has she framed this. Oh, 'tis a spark of beauty \ 



Chamont, a proud lord, confers with a Poltroon* 

Chamont and La Note. 

La Nove. And how does noble Chamont ? 
Chamont. Never ill, man, 

Until I hear of baseness. Then I sicken. 

I am the heathfuliest man i' th' kingdom else. 

Enter Lapet, walking apart. 

La Nove. Be arm'd then for a fit. Here comes a fellow 

"Will make you sick at heart, if baseness do't. 
Cham. Let me be gone ! "What is he ? 


La Nove. Let me tell you first ; 

It can be but a qualm. Pray stay it out, sir! 

Come, you have borne more than this. 
Cham. Borne ? never anything 

That was injurious. 
La Nove. Ha ! I am far from that. 
Cham. He looks as like a man as I have seen one : 

What would you speak of him ? Speak well, I pr'yihee, 

Even for humanity's cause. 
La Nove. Tou would have it truth, though ? 
Cham. What else, sir ? I have no reason to wrong Heaven 

To favour Nature ; let her bear her own shame, 

If she be faulty ! 
La Nove. Monstrous faulty there, sir. 
Cham. I'm ill at ease already. 
La 'Nove. Pray bear up, sir. 
Cham. I pr'ythee let me take him down with speed then 

Like a wild object that I would not look upon. 
La Nove. Then thus ; he's one that will endure as much 

As can be laid upon him. 
Cham. That may be noble ; 

I'm kept too long from his acquaintance. 
La Nove. Oh, sir, 

Take heed of rash repentance ! you're too forward 

To find out virtue where it never settled : 

Take the particulars, first, of what he endures ; 

Videlicet, bastinadoes by the great. 
Cham. How! 

La Nove. Thumps by the dozen, and your kicks by wholesale. 
Cham. No more of him ! 
La Nove. The twinges by the nostril he snuffs up, 

And holds it the best remedy for sneezing. 
Cham. Away ! 
La Nove. He's been thrice switch' d from seven o'clock till 

Yet. with a cart-horse stomach, fell to breakfast, [nine ; 

Forgetful of his smart. 
Cham. Nay, the disgrace on't ; 

There is no smart but that. Base things are felt 

More by their shames than hurts. — {Goes up to 
Lapet.)— Sir. I know vou not- 


But that you live an injury to Nature, 

I'm heartily angry with you. 
Lapet. Pray give your blow or kick, and begone then ; 

For I ne'er saw you before ; and indeed 

Have nothing to say to you, for I know you not 
Cham. Why, wouldst thou take a blow? 
Lapet. I would not, sir, 

Unless 'twere offer'd me ; and, if from an enemy, 

I would be loth to deny it from a stranger. 
Cham. What ! a blow ? 

Endure a blow ? and shall he live that gives it ? 
Lapet. Many a fair year. Why not, sir ? 
Cham. Let me wonder ! 

As full a man to see too, and as perfect ! — 

I pr'ythee live not long. 
Lapet. How ! 
Cham. Let me entreat it ! 

Thou dost not know what wrong thou dost mankind, 

To walk so long here ; not to die betimes, 

Let me advise thee, while thou hast to live here, 

Even for man's honour sake, take not a blow more ! 
Lapet. Tou should advise them not to strike me then, sir ; 

For I'll take none, I assure you, 'less they're given. 
Cham. How fain would I preserve man's form from shame, 

And cannot get it done ! — However, sir, 

I charge thee live not long, 
Lapet. This is worse than beating. 
Cham. Of what profession art thou, tell me, sir, 

Besides a tailor ? for I'll know the truth. 
Lapet. A tailor ? I'm as good a gentleman — 

Can show my arms and all. 
Cham. How black and blue they are : 

Is that your manifestation ? Upon pain 

Of pounding thee to dust, assume not wrongfully 

The name of gentleman, because I am one 

That must not let thee live ! 
Lapet. I have done, I have done, sir. 

If there be any harm, beshrew the herald ! 

I'm sure I ha' not been so long a gentleman, 

A A 

354 THE tflCE YAL01JE. 

To make this anger. I have nothing, nowhere, 
But what I dearly pay for. 
Cham. Groom, 'begone ! — [Exit Lafet, 

I never was so heart-sick yet of man. 

Enter the Lady (Chamont's beloved), with Lapet's Wife. 

La None. Here comes a cordial, sir, from the other sex. 

Able to make a dying face look cheerful. 
Cham. The blessedness of ladies ! 
Lady. You're well met, sir. 
Cham. The sight of you has put an evil from me, 

"Whose breath was able to make Virtue sicken 
Lady. I'm glad I came so fortunately. What was it, sir ? 
Cham. A thing that takes a blow, lives and eats after it,, 

In very good health. Tou ha' not seen the like J madam ; 

A monster worth your sixpence, lowly worth. 
Lady {aside). Speak low, sir! by all likelihoods 'tis her hus- 

That now bestow' d a visitation on me. [band, 

Farewell, sir. [Exit. 

Cham. Husband ? is't possible that he has a wife ? 

Would any creature have him? 'tis some forced match ! 

If he were not kick'd to th' church o' th' wedding day, 

I'll never come at court. 'Can be no otherwise ; 

Perhaps he was rich ; speak, Mistress Lapet, was't not 
Wife. JSTay, that's without all question. [so ? 

Cham. Oh, ho ! he would not want kickers enough then. 

If you are wise, I much suspect your honesty, 

For Wisdom never fastens constantly, 

But upon Merit. If you incline to fool, 

You are alike unfit for his society ; 

Nay, if it were not boldness in the man 

That honours you, to advise you, 'troth, his company 

Should not be frequent with you. 
Wife. 3 Tis good counsel, sir. 
Cham, Oh, I'm so careful where I reverence, 

So just to Goodness, and her precious purity, 

I am as equally jealous, and as fearful, 

That any undeserved stain might fall 

Upon her sanctified whiteness, as of the sin 

That comes by wilfulness. 


Wife. Sir, I love your thoughts, 

And honour you for your counsel and your care. 
Cham. We are your servants. 
Wife (aside) . He is but a gentleman o* th' chamber ; 

He might have kiss'd me, 'faith ! 

Where shall one find less courtesy than at court ? 

Say I have an undeserver to my husband. 

That's ne'er the worse for him. 


Thou deity, swift- winged Love, 
Sometimes below, sometimes above, 
Little in shape, but great in power ; 
Thou, that mak'st a heart thy tower, 
And thy loop-holes ladies' eyes, 
Prom whence thou strik'st the fond and wiae$ 
Did all the shafts in thy fair quiver 
Stick fast in my ambitious liver, 
Tet thy power would I adore, 
And call upon thee to shoot more, 
Shoot more, shoot more ! 


Hence, all you vain delights, 
As short as are the nights 

"Wherein you spend your folly ! 
There's nought in this life sweet, 
If man were wise to see't, 

But only melancholy ; 

Oh, sweetest melancholy ! 

"Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
A sigh, that piercing, mortifies, 
A look that's fasten' d to the ground, 
A tongue chain' d up, without a sound ! 

Fountain-heads, and pathless groves, 
Places which pale passion loves I 1 

1 " Places which pale passion loves.'] Beaumont, while writing this 
verse, perhaps the finest in the poem, probably had in his memory that 
TiC Marlowe, in his description of Tamburlaine — 

1 Pale of complexion, wrought in him with passion.' " 

Imagination and Fancy \ p. 212. 


Moon-light walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ! 

A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 

These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; 
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 

[Tradition has given these verses to Beaumont, though they appeared 
after his death, and perhaps after Fletcher's, in a play in which the 
former has been thought to have had no share. Indeed, the Nice Valour, 
or Passionate Madman, with its poor plot and fantastical characters, is 
not a production worthy of the best reputation of either, with the ex- 
ception of the scene given in this volume, and the present exquisite 
song. The song answers completely to the idea one entertains of the 
graver genius of Beaumont. ; and the probability is, that it was left by 
him in the hands of his friend, and inserted in the Nice Valour by some 
playwright who made use of other fragments of theirs, 'and so "got 
up" the whole drama. 

" I cannot help thinking that a couplet has been lost after the words 
€ bats and owls. 5 It is true the four verse3 ending with those words 
might be made to belong to the preceding four, as among the things 
6 welcomed;' but the junction would be forced, and the modulation in- 
jured. They may remain, too, where they are, as combining to suggest 
the ' sounds ' which the melancholy man feeds upon ; £ fountain-heads ' 
being audible, i groves' whispering, and the ' moonlight walks' being 
attended by the hooting owl (and the 'short shrill shriek' of the 
bat) . They also modulate beautifully in this case. Yet these intima- 
tions themselves appear a little forced ; whereas, supposing a couplet 
to be supplied, there would be a distinct reference to melancholy sights 
as well as sounds. 

" The conclusion is divine. Indeed, the whole poem, as Hazlitt says, 
is the 4 perfection of this kind of writing.' Orpheus might have hung 
it, like a pearl, in the ear of Proserpina. It has naturally been thought 
to have suggested the Penseroso to Milton, and is worthy to have done 
so ; for, fine as that is, it is still finer. It is the concentration of a 
hundred melancholies."— Imagination and Fancy ^ p. 211.] 



Mortality, behold and fear, 

"What a change of flesh is here ! 

Think how many royal bones 

Sleep within this heap of stones ; 

Here they lie had realms and lands, 

Who now want help to stir tbeir hands ; 

Where, from their pulpits, seal'd with dust, 

They preach, "In greatness is no trust !" 

Here's an acre sown indeed 

With the richest, royal' st seed 

That the earth did e'er suck in, 

Since the first man died for sin : 

Here the bones of birth have cried, 

" Though gods they were, as men they died:" 

Here are sands, igno ble things, 

Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings. 

Here's a world of pomp and state 

Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 1 

1 Dust, once dear! by fate.'] This is a very forced and not very intelli- 
gible expression. What is "the meaning of " Buried in dust, once dead 
by fate ?" Does it mean that kings are buried in dust, when they are 
dead ? If so, what is the meaning of the phrase ? Or does it mean 
that the dust was once dead — that is, killed — by fate ? and if so, what is 
the meaning of that ? Why, too, dead " by fate ?" By what else could 
they supposed to be dead ? 

I cannot but think there is some mistake of the press. May not the 
author have written, " once dread like fate ?" that is to say, They have 
now undergone the fate of all men, and are dust ; although this dust 
itself was once dreaded like fate. Or, to come closer to a printer's error, 
may dead by fate have been, in the manuscript, deadly fate ? so that an 
I was merely substituted for a b ? The meaning would still be similar to 
the one just mentioned ; namely, that this dust, now dead, was once, 
itself, a deadly fate ; that is to say, could give death to others. But the 
expression, in this case, would not be so unforced. 



(From a Letter to Ben Jonson.) 

The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring 

To absent friends, because the self-same thing 

They know they see, however absent) is 

Here our best hay-maker (forgive me this ! 

It is our country's style.) In this warm shine 

I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine. 

Oh, we have water mix'd with claret lees, 

Drink apt to bring in drier heresies 

Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain, 

"With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain: 

I think, with one draught man's invention fades s 

Two cups had quite spoil' d Homer's Iliads. 

5 Tis liquor that will find out SutclifFs wit, 1 

Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet, 

Pill'd with such moisture, in most greivous qualms, 

Did Robert Wisdoms write his singing psalins. 

And so must I do this. And yet I think 
It is a potion sent us down to drink, 
By special Providence, keeps us from fights, 
Makes us not laugh when we make legs to knights. 
5 Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states, 
A medicine to obey our magistrates : 
For we do live more free than you ; no hate, 
E"o envy at one another's happy state, 
Moves us ; we are all equal : every whit 
Of land that Grod gives men here is their wit, 
If we consider fully ; for our best 
And gravest man will with his main house jest 

1 Sutcliff's wit.~] Matthew Sutcliffe, Dean of Exeter, a controver- 
sialist of the day, who, though a zealous Protestant, and founder of 
Chelsea College (on its first plan, as a school of polemics), was at one 
time out of favour with the court, — perhaps at the date of this letter. 
An investigation of his writings would probably show us the reason of 
Beaumont's dislike of him ; but the commentators appear to have been 
afraid of encountering them. 

2 Robert Wisdom.'] A contributor to the Psalms of Sternhold and 


Scarce please you ; we want subtiity to do 
The cifcy-tricks, lie. hate, and natter too: 
Here are none that can bear a painted show, 
Strike when you wink, and then lament the blow ; 
"Who, like mills, set the right way for to grind, 
Can make their gains alike with every winds 
Only some fellows, with the subtlest pate 
Amongst us, may perchance equivocate 
At selling of a horse, and that's the most. 

Methinks the little wit I had is lost 
Since I saw you ; for wit is like a rest 
Held up at tennis, which men do the best 
"With the best gamesters. Y\ r hat things have we seen 
Done at the Mermaid I 1 heard words that have been 
So nimble, and so full of subtile name, 
As if that every cue from whence they came 
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest 7 
And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
Of his dull life ; then when there hath been thrown 
Wit able enough to justify the town 
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 5 
We left an air behind us, which alone 
Was able to make the two next companies 
Eight witty ; though but downright fools, mere wise. 


I know too well, that, no more than the man, 
That travels through the burning desarts, can, 

1 Bene at the Mermaicl7\ This celebrated tavern, famous for a club 
which is said to have numbered among its associates others of the great- 
est wits and poets of the time, Shakspeare included, was first supposed 
to have been in Cornhiil, then in Friday Street, and now, upon the 
strength of a passage in Ben Jonson, is concluded to have been in 
Bread Street. But as the passage in Ben Jonson speaks of it simply as 
" the Bread Street Mermaid," and does not associate it with the club, 
directly or indirectly, the conclusion appears to have been hasty. The 
specification of the tavern as " the Bread Street Mermaid" might even 
have been intended to distinguish it from a greater namesake, 


When lie is beaten with the raging sun, 
Half-smother' d with the dust, have power to run 
From a cool river, which himself doth find, 
Ere he be slaked ; no more can he, whose mind 
Joys in the Muses, hold from that de Light, 
When Nature and his full thoughts bid him write. 
Yet wish I those, whom I for friends have known, 
To sing their thoughts to no ears but their own. 
"Why should the man, whose wit ne'er had a stain, 
Upon the public stage present his vein, 
And make a thousand men in judgment sit, 
To call in question his undoubted wit, 
Scarce two of which can understand the laws 
Which they should judge by, nor the party's cause ? 
Among the rout, there is not one that hath 
In his own censure an explicit faith ; 
One company, knowing they judgment lack, 
Ground their belief on the next man in black ; 
Others, on him that makes signs, and is mute ; 
Some like, as he does in the fairest suit ; 
He, as his mistress doth ; and she, by chance ; 
Nor want there those, who, as the boy doth dance 
Between the acts, will censure the whole play : 
Some like if the wax* lights be new that day : 
Eut multitudes there are, whose judgment goes 
Headlong according to the actors' clothes. 
For this, these public things and I agree 
So ill, that, but to do a right to thee, 
I had not been persuaded to have hurl'd 
These few ill-spoken lines into the world, 
Both to be read and censur'd of by those 
Whose very reading makes verse senseless prose : 
Such as must spend above an hour to spell 
A challenge on a post, to know it well ; 
But since it was thy hap to throw away 
Much wit, for which the people did not pay 
Because they saw it not, I not dislike 
This second publication, which may strike 
Their consciences, to see the thing they scorn' d, 
To be with so much wit and art adorn' d. 


Besides, one 'vantage more in this I see ; 
Your censurers must have the quality 
Of reading ; which I am afraid is more 
Than half your shrewdest judges had before. 

[The Faithful Shepherdess, on its first appearance, was damned, — a 
catastrophe which the poet and his friends attributed partly to 
the habitual ignorance of the audience, and partly to their disappoint- 
ment at finding it a work of elegance, instead of a vulgar clap-trap full 
of clovs-nish pastimes and drollery. But after what the poets themselves 
had led audiences to expect by the sort of writing with which they were 
in the habit of indulging them, it was hardly fair to demand of the 
public a sudden appreciation of their idealisms ; nor is it certain that 
refinement itself, and even common sense, did not take a part in the con- 
demnation of the piece ; for Schlegel has called it an c; unchaste eulogimx 
of chastity ;" and what was to be thought by anybody, refined or vulgar, 
of the Shepherdess's fantastical lover, who passionately desires what it 
would grieve him to obtain, and adores her because she will not have 
him ? 

Besides the beauties, however, which this pastoral drama contains, its 
very damnation was a gain to posterity ; for it produced us these ex- 
cellent verses of Beaumont, and a like enthusiastic "adhesion 15 from 
Ben Jonson, ending with, one of his happiest assumptions of the right 
of sovereign arbitration : — 

" I that am glad thy innocence was thy guilt 
[He attributes the damnation to the absence of ribaldry] 
Do crovm thy murder' 'd poem ; which, shall rise 
A glorified work to time, when fire 
Or moths shall eat what all these fools admire,"] 


From ike verses entitled et Upon an Honest Man's Fortune," thai were 
printed at the end of the play so called. 

You that can look through heaven, and tell the stars, 
Observe their kind conjunctions, and their wars ; 
Find out new lights, and give them where you please, 
To those men honours, pleasures, to those ease ; 
You that are God's surveyors, and can show 
How far, and when, and why the wind doth blow ; 
Know all the charges of the dreadful thunder, 
And when it will shoot over, or fall under ; 


Tell me, by all your art I conjure ye, 

Yes, and by truth, what shall become of me ? 

Find out my star, if each one, as you say, 

Have his peculiar angel, and his way ; 

Observe my fate, next fall into your dreams, 

Sweep clean your houses, 1 and new-line your seams/ 

Then say your worst ! Or have I none at all ? 

Or, is it burnt out lately ? or did fall ? 

Or, am I poor ? not able, no full flame ? 

My star, like me, unworthy of a name ? 

Is it, your art can only work on those 

That deal with dangers, dignities, and clothes ? 

#ith love, or new opinions ? Ton all lie ! 

A fish- wife hath a fate, and so have I. 

Man is his own star, and the soul that can 
Render an honest and a perfect man, 
Commands all light, all influence, all fate ; 
Nothing to him falls early, or too late. 
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. 

man ! thou image of thy Maker's good, 
"What canst thou fear, when breath' d into thy blood 
His spirit is, that built thee ? what dull sense 
Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence, 
Who made the morning, and who placed the light 
Guide to thy labours ; who call'd up the night, 
And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers 
In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers ; 
"WTto gave thee knowledge ; who so trusted thee, 
To let thee grow so near himself, the tree ? 
Must he then be distrusted ? shall his frame 
Discourse with him, why thus and thus I am ? 
He made th3 angels thine, thy fellows all, 
]STay, even thy servants, when devotions call. 
Oh, canst thou be so stupid then, so dim, 
To seek a saving influence, and lose him ? 
Can stars protect thee ? or can poverty 

1 Houses. ~] A term in astrology for the places occupied by the planets. 

2 Seams.'] I know not what this means, unless it be the junctures of 
the planets. 



Which is the light to Heaven, put out his eye ? 
He is my star ; — in him all truth I find, 
All influence, all fate ! — and when my mind 
Is furnish' d with his fulness, my poor story 
Shall out-live ail their age, and all their glory ! 

The hand of danger cannot fall amiss, 
TThen I know what, and in whose power it is : 
~Nor want, the curse of man, shall make me groan ; 
A holy hermit is a mind alone. 

Doth not experience teach us all we can, 
To work ourselves into a glorious man ? 
Affliction, when I know it is but this, — 
A deep alia}', whereby man tougher is 
To bear the hammer, a^ad, the deeper still, 
"We still arise more image of his will ; — 
Sickness, an humorous cloud 'twixt us and light,— ■ 
And death, at longest, but another night. 

Man is his own star, and that soul that can 
Be honest, is the only perfect man. 





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