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w 



A 



-^^ 



4' 







'//.^.;>. 



THE 



PLAYS 



OF 



PHILIP MASSINGER, 



IN FOUR VOLUMES. 



WITH NOTES CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY, 

* 

By W. GIFFORD, Esq. 



HAUD TAKEN INVIDEAS YATI QUEM PULPITA 



jAv 



NT. 



^■■■■■■iHniMaaiHiiB^BH* 

1. • 
VOLUME THE FIRST* 



CONTAINING 

INTRODUCTION, ESSAY, &c. 
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 
THE DUKE OF MILAN. 



Vv i.]lif> 



LONDON : 




'W-Y<> 




PRINTED FOR O. AND W. NICOl; P. AND C. RIVINSTOK ; 

payne; barker; cadeil and davies; miller; evans; 
kawxaw; and longman, hurst, rees, and co. 

By W. Bttlmer and Co. CUveland-Row, St. James's. 



1805. 



; / 






I 



/■■, 



TO 
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 

CHARLES LONG, 

ONE OF THE LORDS OF HIS MAJESTY'S TREASURY, 

I 

THIS EDITION 
or 

THE WORKS 

f 

OP 

PHILIP MASSINGER, 






IS :iN50I«BEDi: ':••:!•: 



• *» •• ' 



' • . • * ^ ' ' ^. 



AS A SINCERE TESTIM6li;fY"0li':RfeSPECT FOR HIS 



. J J * » * 
AND OF 



GRATITUDE'FOR MANY ACTS OF FRIENDSfflP AND 

PERSONAL KINDNESS, 



BY 



HIS OBUGED ANI> FAITHFUL SERVANT^ 



THE EDITOR. 















• ••• • 
• •• 

> « •• • 

•• • •* 

• ••• •• 



• •• • • 

* • • • 






e «■ • • • • 






" " 1 ' •• 

■"*■ ,*•• • • 

* * • * fc I 



•••••• • 

• • • • 



• • ••• • 

• • • • • • 

• ••••••• 



t \ 



A 



INTRODUCTION. 



s 



& 



1 HiLip Massinger, the Author of the 
following Plays, was bom in the year 1584,. 
Of his mother . nothing is known, but his 
father was Arthur Massinger,* a gentleman ' 

■ His father wd$ Arthur Massinger^ *' I cannot 
guess/' Davies says, ^* frct«f V^hat .infoj-rpatipfi^Aldys, ia 
his manuscript notes, (td Larngbdtte,), gives, the Christiaa ' 
name of Arthur to Massidg(ir'3»<ithei> nor why 
should reproach Wood for'callinz him/Philip ; since 
Massinger himself, in the De'cfflpMiotiof ihi Bondman, 
to the earl of Montgomery, says expressly that his 
father PAi/i/j Massinger lived and died in the service 
of the honourable house of Pembroke." Life of Mas^ 
singer prefixed to the last edition. 

This preliminary observation augtirs but ill for the ac- 
curacy of what follows. Oldys, who was a very carefiil 
writer, got his information from the first edition of the 
Bondman, l6'23, which, it appears from this, Mr. Davies 

• • - - - , 

never saw. In the second edition, published many years 
after the first, (l638,) he is, indeed, called Philip ; but 
that is not the only errour in the Dedication, which^ as 
well as the Play itself, is most care)«ssly printed^ 
VOL. I. a 



ii INTRODUCTION. 

attached to the family of Henry, second earl 
of Pembroke: " Many years/' says the Poet, 
to his descendant^ Philip earl of Montgo- 
mery, " my father spent in the service of 
your honourable house, and died a servant 
to it/' 

The writers of Massinger's life have 
thought it necessary to observe in this pla<s9, 
that the word servant carries with it no settse 
of degradation. This requiresf no proof: at 
a period when the great lords and officers of 
the court numbered inferibur nobles among 
their followers, we Haay be conffideot that 
neither ffe iiifire ii6i*'tlw jsitu^ticMn was looked 
tipori as httpsi^Iiatingj!/Many considerations 
imited tp ]Tfender<*.thi$ state of dependance 

l"espect<al3^;:'^iVJ\^^:"^^^^r^^^ '^^ se^ 
oretaries, clerks^, and assistants, of various 

df?partmentsr. Were not then, as now, nomi- 

nated b3r the • government ; but left to the 

choice of the person who held the employ- 

laent;; 5^4 a& no? particular dwelling was offi- 

eially set apart foi? their r^idence, they wene 

enterf ained in the house of their principal. 

That Communication, too, between noble- 

men of power and trust,, both of a publick 

and priv^e n^u£e^ wJbJ^ i§.ci)Qw coB^Bitteid 



JNTftOBUCTION. iii 

* • - - ^ 

tathe post, wkB, in those days, managed by 
psijpftd^^al servants, who were dispatched 
fron^ one to the oth^r, and even to the sover 
peign;* when to this: we add the unbounded 
6t^e and gi'andeur which the great men o£ 
Elizabeth's days assumed on a variety of ocr 
casiQnSi we may form some idea of the nature 
9f ^wae sefvieet discharged by men of birth 
u;Qd fortuii^^ and the manner in whidi audi 
^mber% of theppr were employed. 

M^^^W^^ ^w? born, as all the writers of 
his life agree^ at Salisbury, jarobably at Wil* 
ton, the se^t of the earl of Pembroke, in' 
whpw femiiy he iJ|)|jear;5 to hftve^l^een edu- 
cated. When he had reached hi;? aixfiee^tb 
year,, he su5*a|ned an . irtejUir^ibie , loss in the 
death of tha[t wprthy n^M^^iWjmv: %ho,, froB0> 

* An instance of this occurs Wiih respect to Massin- 
giti^s^ fcjrtier, who was thus Employed to Elizabeth : '' If n 
Mas»ing«r is newly come up from the earl of Pembroke 
wiA totters to the queen, for his lordship's leave to be 
awary ibis St. Gfeorge's day." Sidntt/ Letters, Vol. If. 
p. 933. The bearer of letters to Elizabeth on an occt»- 
sbn which she perhaps thought important, could, as 
Davies justly observes, be no me^n person; for no 
monarch ^ver exacted from the nobility in general, and 
the officers of state in parlioular, a more rigid and scru- 
pulous compliance to stated order, than this princess. 

* Death of that worthy^ nobleman,^ Thistook place on 

a « 



iv INTRODUCTION. 

attachment to the father, would, not impro-i- 
bably, have extended his powerful patronage 
to the young poet. He was succeeded in his 
titles and estates by his son William, the third 
earl of Pembroke ; one of the brightest cha- 
racters that adorned the court of Elizabeth 
and James. He was, says Wood, '^ not only 
a great favourer of learned and ingenious 
men, but was himself learned and endowed 
to admiration with a poetical gerty , as by^ 
those amorous and poetical -aires and poem$^ 
of his composition doth evidently ajppear;' 
fiome of which had musical notes set td 
them ]^yvl|€!tf;/l^ Nich. Laneare/"^ 

^<A. I. 54$.. : : ..:. \.:r • 

M assingeifs.iafiki' 'Continued in the ^Service 

<rf this nc^&hji^ death. It is not pos^ 

r-' " ■ - ' ■ ' ,• 

I . . ' ■ • 

V • • ■ • » 

the 19th .of JanaaVy, : 1 €fO 1 . It is impossible 4o e^ak of 
him without mentioning, at the same time, that he was 
the husband of Sir Philip Sidney's sister, the all-aecom^ 
priished lady for whom Jon^on wrote the celebrated 
ppitaph: . • 

'^ Underneath this marble. hersc 

'^ Lie§ the subject of all v^rs^i 
_ '^ Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother^ 

'' peal h, ere thou hast slain anothfBT, . 
/' Learn'd, and fair, and good as she,. 
*^ Time ^ail throw a dart at thee." 



INTRODUCTION. t 

aible to ascertain the precise period at which 
this took place, Initit was not later, perhaps, 
than 1606 : in the interim he had bestowed, 
as I^ngbaine says, a liberal education on his 
son,, and sent him to the University of Ox- 
ford, where he became a commoner of St. 
Alban'sHall, ( 1602,) in the eighteenth year 
of his age. Wood's account varies from this 
ift 'Several particulars. He says, he was en^ 
t^Fed rat St. Alfean's Hall in 1601, when he 
wasin HisfSeyeBteenth year, and supported 
th^re, not by his father, but t)ie earl of Pem- 
bipke. Antony had mahy opportunities for 
ascertaining these facts, if he had desired to 
avail himself of them, and therefore Da vies 
inclines to his atithority. The seeming dif- 
ference, he adds, between the two periods 
respectively assigned for Massinger's matri- 
culation, may he easily reconcikd-ior the' year 
thenliegan and ended according to that mode 
which took place before the alteration of the 
style. It is seldom safe to speak by guess, 
an4 Davies had no authority for his ingenious 
3olution ; which unfortunately will not apply 
in the present case. The memorandum of 
Massinger's entrance now lies before me, 
and proves Wood to be incorrect; it is dated 



vi INTftODUCtlOR 

t 

May 14, j6b2,* How he came to mistakfe in 
a matter where it reqmred so Ktde paira to 
be accurate, is (fiffiailt to say. 

LangbaJne and Wood agree in die toie 
Massinger spent at Oxford, but diflfer as to 
Ae objects of his pursuit. The former <»b^ 
serves, that during his residence thesre lie 
applied himself closely to his studies ; while 
the latter writes, that he " gave his mind more 
to poetry and romances for about four yeara 
or more, than to logick and philosophy, wMch 

» 

he ought to have doncy as he was patrottiaied-to 
that end/' What ideas this tasteless but »*e- 
ful drudge had of logick and philosophy it 
may be vain to enquire ; but, with respect to 
the jSrst, Massinger's reasoning will not be 
found deiident either in method or effect; 
and it might easily be jwx>ved that he was na 
mean proficient in philosophy of the noblest 
kind : the truth is, that he must hav^ applied 
himself to study i?vith uncommon energy ^ for 
Jhs literary acquisitions at this eariiy period 
appear to be multifarious and extensive. 

From the account of Wood, however, 
Davies concludes that the earl of Pembroke 

* In it he is styled the son of a gentleman ; '^ Philip 
Massinger^ Sarisburiensis, generosi filius" 



s 

s 



r 



( •» 



INTRODUCTION. yii 

vms offended at this misappiicstion of ids tiijite 
to the i0u]»erficial but alluiing pursuits of 
poetry and romance, and therefore withdrew 
ii^ support, which compelled the youtaig man 
to qmt the University withoi^t a degree ; ** for 
which/' adds he, " Attention to logick and 
philosophy wz% al>S(dutely necessary ; as the , 
candidate for that hcmour must pass through 
anrexatnlnation ki both^ before he caii obtain 
it/' Dans le pays des svmgieSj says the pro^ 
¥frb, ies bm^$ijts sont ms: and Davies, who 
apparently had not these valuable acquisi- 
tions^ entertained probably a vast idea of their 
magnitude and importance. A shorter period, 
•however, than four years, would be found 
amply sufficient to furnish even an ordinary 
* mind with enough of school logick and phi- 
losophy, to pass the examination for a bache- 
lor's degree ; and I am, therefore, unwilling 
to believe ^at Massinger missed it on the 
score of incapacity in tliese notable arts. 

However this may be, he certainly left 
the University abruptly ; not, I apprehend^ 
on account of the learl of Pembroke with- 
holding his assistance, for it does not ap- 
pear that he ever afforded any, but of a 
much more calamitous event;, die death of 



via INTBlODITCrriON.: 

his father; from whom, I incline to think, 
with Langbaine, his sole support was de- 
rived. 

Why the earl of Pembroke, the liberal 
friend and protector of literature in all it&* 
branches,' neglected a young man to whom 
his assistance was so necessary, and who, 
from the acknowledged services of his fa- 
ther, had so many arid just claims on it; 
one, too, who would have done his patron- 
BgQ such singular honour, I have no means 
ctf ascertaining ; that he was never indebted 
to it is, I fear, indisputable ; since the Poet, 
of whose character gratitude forms a striking 
part, while he recurs perpetually to his he- 
reditary obligations to the Herbert family, 

^ To this nobleman (and his younger brother, Philip) 
Heminge and Condell dedicated their edition of Shak- 
speare's Plays; to him, also, Jonson inscribed his Epi- 
grams, ^' as the great exaipple of honour and virtue," 
an idea oji which he enlarged in one of his minor poems. 
It is evident that there was little cordiality between 
Jonson and our Author ; the former could bear no rival 
near the throne ; 

nnnquam partitur amicuin, 

Solus habet ; 
yet it would be unjust to accuse^ or even to suspect him 
of doing Massinger an ill gffice with his father's friend, 
on no better grounds than his unhappy disposition. 



I 
I 



IKTEX)jDl)jC!TION; ii 

anxiotisly avoids all meiition of his naine^ 
I; iS5mn§tim6$, inde^di imaginethaf I have 
discovered the cause of this alienation, but 
cannot flattet myself that it. will be very 
generally or even partially allowed : not to 
keep the reader in suspense, I attribute it to 
the Poet's having, during his residence at tho^ 
University, exchanged the religion of his fa- 
ther, for one, at this time, the object of per-r 
secution, hatred, and terroui-. A close and 
repeated perusal of Mass^nger's works has 
cpiivinced me thatt he was a Cathohck. The 
Virgin ' Martyr, the Renegado, the Maid of 
Honour J exhibit innumerable proofs of it ; to 
say nothing of those casual intimations that 
are scattered over his remaining dramas : a 
consciousness of this might prevent him from 
applying to the earl of Pembroke for assist- 
ance, or a knowledge of it might determine 
that nobleman to withhold his hand : for it is 
difficult to believe that his displeasure (if he 
really entertained any ) / could arise from 
Massinger's attachment to an art of which he 
and his brother* were universally considered 

^ The first folio edition of Beaumont and Fletcher's 
Plajs was dedicated^ by the pla^ers^ to the earl of Mont- 
gomery. ' 



X INTRODUCTION. 

as tlie patrons, and which, indeed, he himse^ 
odtivated vnth assiduity, at least, if not with 
success.^ 

However this be, the period cf Massinger's 
inisfcMlunes commenced with his arrival in 
Londcm, His father had probably applied 
most of his fffoperty to the education of his 
seal, and when the small remainder was ex- 
hausted, he was driveai ( as he more than once 
observes) by bis necessities, and somewhat 
inclined, perhaps, by the peculiar bent of his 
talents^ to dedicate himself to lite service of 
the stage. 

This expedient, though not the most pru- 
dent, nor, indeed, the most encouraging to a^ 
young adventurer, was not altogether hope- 
less. Men who will ever be considered as the 
pride and boast of their country, Shakspeare, 
JoDscm, and Fletcher, were solely, or in a con- 
siderable degree, dependant on it : nor were 
there wanting others of an inferiour rank, 

' In 1660 wfts publushed a tnlTection of *^ enofous 
and poetical airs and compositions," Wood telts us^ 
*' with this title i Poems written by William Earl of Pem^ 
broke, Sic. many of which are answered by way cfrrpar^ 
^^^9 ^^jSir Benj. Rudyard, with other Poem^ written. £y 
them occasionally and apart^^ Athen, Vol. I. p. ^46» 



V 



IJfTRODUCtlOJl. XI 

WS^ as Rowley, Middleton, Retd, Deck^, 
'Hiirley, and Ford ; writers to whom Massaft- 
ger, without any impeachment of his modesty, 
mi^ht consider himself as fuHy equal, who 
subsisted on the emoluments derived from 

J dramatick writing. There ,was also some- 
tifiing to tempt the ambition, or, If it must be 
so, the vanity, of a young adventurer, in tMs 

-pursuit: literature was the sole means by 
'which a person undistinguished by birth and 
-fortuife, could, at this time, hope to acquire 
the familiarity or secure th^ friendship of the 
great ; and of all its branches none was so fa- 
vourably received, or so liberally ehcduriged, 
as that of the drama. Tilts and tournaments, 
the boisterous but magnificent entertainments 
of the court, together with pageantries and 
processions, the absurd and costly muhime- 
ries of the city, were rapidly giving way to 
more elegant and rational amusementife, ' to 
revels, masks, and plays : nor were the latter 
merely encouraged by the presence of the 

■ nobility ; the writers of them were adopted 
into the number of their acquaintancJe, and 
made at once the objects of their bounty and 
esteem. It is gratifying to observe how the 
names of Shakspeare, Jcwnson, 8oc. are yx>me 



xii INTRODUCTION. 

down to us In connexion with the Sidneys, 
the Pembrokes, the Southamptons, and other 
great and splendid ornaments of the courts 
of Elizabeth and James. 

Considerations of this or a similar kind 
may naturally be supposed to have had their 
weight with Massinger, as with so many 
others : but whatever was the motive, Wood 
informs us, that " being sufficiently famed 
for several ispecimens of wit, he betook him- 
self to making plays." Of what description 
these specimens were, Antony does not say ; 
he probably spoke without much examination 
into a subject for which he had little relish 
or solicitude; and, indeed, it seems more rea-' 
sOnabl6 to conclude, from the peculiar nature > 
of Mas^inger's talents^ that the drama was 
has first and sole pursuit. 

It must appear singular, after what has 
heen observed, thatj with only one exception, 
we should hear nothing of Massinger for, the 
long period of sixteen years, that is, from his 
fkst appearance in London, 1606, to 1622, 
when his Virgin ^ Martyr, the first of his 
printed works, was given to the publick. 
That his necessities would not admit , of re- 
laxation in Juis efforts j&m- subsistence isx^ertain, 



INT K O D U CT ion; xii 



and we have the testimony of a conttempo- 
rary poet, as preserved by Langbaine, far the 
rapidity with which be usually composed : 

*' Ingenious Shakespeare^ Massinger that knows 
'^ The strength of plot, to write in verse and prose^ 
*^ Whose easy Pegasus will amble o'er 
' ' ** Some threescore miles of fancy in a hotir.'* 

, The best solution of the difficulty which 
occurs to me, is, that the Poet's modesty, com- 
bined with the urgency of his wants, de- 
terred him, at first, from attempting to write 
alone : ♦and that he, therefore, lent his assist- 
ance to others of a more confirmed reputar 
tiQn, who could depend on a ready vent for 
tb^ir joint productions. , When . men labour 
f0]r the demands of the day, it is imprudent 
to leave much to hazard ; such certainly wa? 
the case of Massinger. 

ISir Aston Cockayne, the affectionate friend 
and patron of our author, printed a collectioij 
of, what he is pleased to call, Poems, EJpi^ 
grams?, &c. in 1658. Among these isf one 
addressed to Humphrey Mosieley, the pub- 
lisher of Beaumont and Fletcher in folio : 



i€ 



In the large book of plays you late did print 
'^ la Beatimont and ki Fi^tcher'^ iiame^ why in't 



. ^ 'f picUy^ Bot ju6tice> give to each^ his due f 
'* For Beaumont of those many,writ but few : 
'* jfnd Massinger in other few ;^ the mam 
** Behig sweet i^qes of sweet Fletcher s braim 
^ But how came I, you ask^ so much to know i 
«* Flelcher^s cfcicf bosom friend informed me ^J 



Davk», for what reason I canjoot discover, 
Seems inclined to dispute that part of the 
assertion which relates to Massinger: he 
calls it vague and hearsay evidence, and 
adds, with sufficient want of precision, " SSr 
Aston was well acquainted wilit Massinger, 
who would, in all probability, have cx^m^ 
municated to his friend a circumstance so 
honouraWe to himself/' There can lie no 
doubt of it ; and we may be confident that 
the information did come from himt but Mr: 
DavieS mistakes the drift of Sir Aston -s ex- 
postulation : the fact was notorious that Beau- 
mont and Massinger had written in cohjimc- 
Hon with Fletcher ; what he complains of is, 
that the main J the bulk of the book, should 
Hot be attributed to the latter, by ^hom it 
tVas undoubtedly composed. Beaumont died 
in 161^, and Fletcher produced in the mter- 
val between tiiit year and the period of his 
owti death ^( 1625) between thirty and forty 



iiitroduction; xt 

playsrr % is not, tberefbre, ittireasomlile t6 
ttippose that ke was assisted in a few of them 
by Massinger, as Sir Aston affirms : it hap- 
pens, however, that the fact doe^sr not rest 
solely on hts testimony ; for we cam prodooe 
a mehuneholy proof of it, from an authentidc 
youfiteear, which the enquiries set on foot by 
the unwearied assiduity of Mr. Malone, ha*^ 
QCfcasioned to/be dragged from the dust of 
Ddiwich College : 

; . . . ' • ■ 

.'^Ta out nwst loving friend^ Mr. Philip 
Hftichlow, esquire. These, 

" Mr. Hinchlow,^ , 

1 ; i " You understand our unfortunate^ 

exjremitie, and I doc not thkicke you so void 
of ^ri^S^nitie but that you would throw so 
mueb money into tiie Thames as wee request 
now of you, rather than endanger so ma^iy 
innocent lives. You know .there is x/. mor^ 
ftt least to. be receavedof you for the pla;)jt 
We desire yow to lend us vl. of that ; whjcJl 
shall be allowed to you, without which we 
cannot be bay led, nor / play any more tiU 
this be dispatched. It will Ip^e you xx/, eire 
the end of the next weeke, besides: th« 



xvi rNTRODircTioN: 

hinderance of the next new play. Pray, sir, 
consider our cases with humanity, and now 
give us cause to acknowledge you our 
true freind in time of neede. Wee have en- 
treated Mr. Davison to deliver tWs note, 
as well to witness your love as our pro- 
mises, and alwaye3 acknowledgeniCTit to 
•be ever 

** Your most thanckfull and loving friends, 

" Nat. Field/' 

"The money shall be abated out of the 
money remayns for the play of Mr. Fletcher 
and ours. Rob. Dabornd."* 

" I , have ever found you a true loving 
friend to mee, and in soe small a suite, it 
beeinge honest, I hope you will not fail us. 

" Philip Massinger." 

• Robert Daborne is tbe author of two Plays, the 
Christian turned Turk, 4^ l6l2, and the Poor Marts 
Comforty 4° l6o5. He was a gendeman of a liberal 
educatioB, master of arts, and in holy orders. His 
humble fortunes appear to have improved after this 
period, for there is extant a sermon preached by him at 
Waterford in Ireland, 16I8, where the authors of the 
Siographia Dramatica think it probable that he had a 
Jtiving, . ' 



iNl'RODtTCTION. xvii 

*\ Indorsed: 
" Received by mee Robert Davison of Mr. 
Hinchlow, for the use of Mr. Daboerne, Mr. 
Feeld, Mr. Messenger, the sum of vl. 

" Rob. Davison.''* 

This letter tripartite, which it is impossible 
to read without the most poignant regret at 
the distress of such men, fully establishes 
the partnership between Massinger and 
Fletcher, who must, indeed, have had con- 
siderable assistance to enable him to bring 
forward the numerous plays attributed to his 
name. 

We can now account for a part of the 
time which Massinger spent in London be- 
fore his appearance in print as a professed 
writer for the stage : but this is not all. 
Among the manuscript plays collected with 
such care by Mr. Warburton, (Somerset^ 
Herald, ) and applied with such perseverance 
by his cook to the covering of his pies, were 
no less than twelve, said to be written by 

^ Additions to Malonc's Historical Account of the 
Mnglish Stage, p. 488, 

VOL. I. b 



xviii INTRODUCTION. 

Massinger :" and though it is now made pro- 
bable that two of the number do not belong^ 
to him, yet scattered notices of others which 
assuredly do, prove that he was not inactive. 
Four only of the plays named in Mr. 
Warburton's list occur in the Office-book 
of Sir Henry Herbert, which is continued up 

* No less than twelve, &c.] Their titles, as given by 

Mr. Warburton, are — 

Minerva^s Sacrifice. 

The Forced Lady. 

Antonio and Valia. 

The Woman's Plot. 

The Tyrant. 

Philenzo and Hippolita. 

The Judge. 

Fast and Welcome. 

Believe as you list. 

The Honour of Women. 

The Noble Choice. Aiid 

The Parliament of Love. 
Wheq it is added tbat^ together with these, forty other 
manuscript plays of various authors were destroyed, it 
will readily be allowed that English literature has seldom 
sustained a greater loss than by the strange conduct of 
Mr. Warburton, who becoming the master of treasures 
which ages may not reproduce, lodges them, as he says, 
in the hands of an ignorant servant, and when, after a 
lapse of years, he condescends to revisit his hoards, finds 



INTRODUCTION. xix 

to the latest period of Massinger^s life: it 
is, therefore, evident that they must have 
been written previous to its commencement : 

that they have been burnt from an economical wish to 
save him the charges of more valuable brown paper ! U 
is time to bring on shore the book-hunting passenger* 
in Locher's ^avis Stultifera, and exchange him for one 
more suitable to the rest of the cargo. - 

Tardy, however, as Mr. Warburton was, it appear* 
that he came in time to preserve three dramas from the 
general wreck ; 

The Second Maid's Tragedy. 
The Bucrbears, And 
The Queen of Corsica. 

These, it is said, are now in the library of the marqui* 
of Lansdowne, where they will, probably, remain in 
safety till moths, or damps, or fires mingle their " for- 
gotten dubt*' with that of their late companions. 

When it is considered at how trifling an expense a 
manuscript play may be placed beyond the reach of 
accident, the withholding it froni the press will be 
allowed to prove a strange indifference to the ancient 
literature of the country. The fact, however, seems to 
be, that these treasures are made subservient to the gra- 
tification of a spurious rage for notoriety 2 it is not that 
any benefit may accrue from them either to the pro- 
prietors or others,, that manuscripts are now hoarded, 
but that A or B may be celebrated for possessing what 
no other letter of the alphabet can hope to Acquire. 

* Spem quoque nee parvdm colltcta volumina prttbent 
Calleo nee verbunif nee libri sentio mentem, 
Attamen in magno per me servanlur honore. 



\ 



XX INTRODUCTION. 

these, therefore, with the Old Law, the Virgin^ 
Martyr y the Unnatural Combat , and the Duke of 
Milan, which are also unnoticed in it, will 
sufficiently fill up the time till 1622. 

Nor is this all. The hateful passion of literary avarice 
(a compound of vanity and envy) is becoming epidemick, 
and branching out in every direction. It has many of 
the worst symptoms of that madness which once raged 
among the Dutch for the possession of tulips : — here, as 
well as in Holland, an artificial rarity is first created, 
and then made a plea for extortion, or a ground for 
low-minded and selfish exultation, t speak not of works 
never intended for sale, and of which, therefore, the owner 
may print as few or as many as his feelings will allow, 
but of those which are ostensibly designed for the publick, 
and which, notwithstanding, prove the editors to labour 
under this odious disease. Here, ah old manuscript is 
'brought forward, and after a few copies are printed, the 
press is broken up, that there may be a pretence for 
selling them at a price which none but a collector can 
reach: there, explanatory plates are engraved for a 
work of general use, and, as soon as twenty or thirty 
impressions are taken off, destroyed with gratuitous 
malice, (for it deserves no other name,) that there may 
be a mad competition for the favoured copies! To 
conclude, for this is no pleasant subject, books are 
purchased now at extravagant rates, not because they 
are good, but because they are scarce, so that a fire or 
an enterprising trunk-maker that should take ofi* nearly^ 
the whole of a worthless work, would instantly render 
the small remainder invaluable. 



INTRODUCTION. xxi 

There are no data to ascertain the re- 
spective periods at which these plays were 
produced. The Virgin-Martyr is confidently 
mentioned by the former editors as the 
earliest of Massinger's works, probably be- 
cause it was the first that appeared in print : 
but this draiiia, which they have considerably 
under-rated, in consequence, perhaps, of the 
dull ribaldry with which it is vitiated by 
Decker, evinces a style decidedly formed, a 
hand accustomed to composition, and a mind 
stored with ^he richest acquisitions of a long 
and successful stTidy. 

The Old Law, which was not printed till 
many years after Massinger's death, is said 
to have been written by him in conjunction 
with Middlelon and Rowley.* The latter of 
these is ranked by ^e Author of the Com-' 
panion to the Pl^y House, in the third class 
of dra^aatick writers ; higher it is impossible 

* The Parliament qf Love is entered on the Stationer's 
books as the production of William Rowley. It is now 
known from infinitely better authority, the Official 
Register of the Masted of the Revels, to be the compo- 
sition of Massinger: indeed, the abilities of Rowley 
were altogether unequal to the execution of such a work, 
to the style and manner of which his acknowledged 
perforQ\ances bear not the slightest resemblance. 



y 



xxii INTRODUCTION. 

I 

t 

to place him : but the former was a man of 
considerable powers, who has lately been the 
object of much discussion, on account of the 
liberal use Shakspeare is supposed to have 
made of his recently discovered tragi-comedy 
oiihemtch^ 

It is said, by Steevens, that the Old Law 
was acted in 1599. If it be really so, Mas* 
singer's name must in future be erased from 
the title-page of that play, for he was, at that 
date, only in the fifteenth year of his age, and 
probably had not left the residence of his fa- 
ther. Steevens produces no authority for his 
assertion ; but as he does not usually write 
at random, jt is entitled to notice. In Act IIL 
sc. i. of that play, in which the Clown consults 
the church-book on the age of his wife, the 
Clerk reads and comments upon it thus : — . 

^ It would be unjust tf> mention this manuscript play 
Ti^ithout noticing, at the $anie time, the striking contrast 
which the conduct of its possessor, Mr. Isaac Reed, 
forms with that of those alhided to in the preceding 
note. The Witch, from the circumstance mentioned 
above. Was a liteiary curiosity of the most valuable kind, 
yet he printed it at his own expense, and, with at libe- 
rality that has found more admirers than imitators, gra^ 
tuitously distributed the copies among his friends. It is 
thus placed out of the reach of accident. 



INTRODUCTION. xxiii 

" Agatha^ the daughter of Pbllux, bom in an., 
1540, and NOW 'tis 1599." The obser va*fion' df 
Steevens is probably founded lipon thisf pis- 
sage, (at least I am aware of no other,) and 
ft vs^ill not, perhaps, be easy to conjectul*e 
why the authors should fix upon this parti- 
cular year,- unless it really were the cut-rent 
one. ft is to no purpose tb object that the 
scene is laid in a distant country, and the 
period of action necessarily remote, for the 
d:if-amatlck writers of those days cohfounded' 
all climes and all ages with a facility truly 
wonderful. On the whole, I am inclined to 
attribute the greater part of the Old Law to 
Middleton and Rowley : it has not many cha- 
racteristick traits of Massinger, and the style, 
with the exception of a few places which are 
pointed out by Dr. Ireland, is very unlike 
that of his acknowledged pieces. 

It is by rto means improbable that Massin- 
ger, an authot in high reputfe, w^as employed^ 
by tfee actors to alter or to add a few scenes 
to a popular drama, and that his pretensions 
to this partnership of wit were thus recog- 
nized and established. A process like this 
Wais consonant tb the manners of the age, 
when the players, AVho wei^e usually the' 



/ 



xxiv INTRODUCTION. 

proprietors, exerted, and not unfrequently 
abused, the privilege of interlarding such 
pieces as were once in vogue, from time to 
time, with new matter.* Who will say that 
Shakspeare's claims to many dramas which 
formerly passed under his name, and proba- 
bly with no intent, on the part of the pub- 
lishers, to deceive, had not this or a similar ^ 
foundation? 

What has been said of the Virgin-Martyr 
applies with equal, perhaps with greater force, 
to the Unnatural Combat and the Duke of Milan ^ 

* A very curious instance of this occurs in the Office- 
book of sir Henry Herbert : *^ Received for the adding 
of a new scene to the Firgin-Martyr this 7th of July, 
1624, £0. 10. 0."* Such were the the Hbefties taken 
with our old plays! The Virgin-Martyr had now been 
a twelvemonth before the publick, being^ printed in 1632 ; 
the new scenes which was probably a piece of low buf- 
foonery, does not appear in the subsequent editions, 
which are mere, copies of the first: had that, however, 
not been committed to the press previous to these addi- 
tions, we may be pretty confident that the whole would 
have come down to us as the joint production of Mas- 
singer and Decker, 

* This was sir Henry's fee; for this mean and rapa- 
cious overseer not only insisted on being paid for allow- 
ing a new play, but for every trifling addition which 
ipight subsequently be made to it* 



INTRODUCTION. xxr 

of which the style is easy, vigorous, and har- 
monious, bespeaking a confirmed habit of 
composition, and serving, with the rest, to 
prove that Massinger began to write for the 
stage at an earlier period than has been hi- 
therto supposed. 

Massinger appears for the first time in the 
Office-book of the Master of the Revels, 
Dec. 3, 1623, on which day his play of the 
Bondman was brought forward. About this 
time, too, he printed the Duke of Milan, with 
a jshort dedication to lady Katherine Stan- 
hope ; ' in which he speaks with great mo- 
desty of his course of studies, to which he 
insinuates, ( what he more than once repeats 

' Lady Katherine Stanhope;'] Daughter of Francis 
lord Hastings, and first wife of Philip Stanhope, baron 
of Shelford, and afterwards (1628) earl of Chesterfield ; 
a nobleman of great honour and virtue. He opposed the 
high court measures, till he discovered that the parha- 
ment were violently usurping on the prerogatives of the 
other branches of the state ; when, after an ineffectual 
struggle to bring them into constitutional limits, and 
preserve peace, he joined the arms of his royal master. 
Shelford, the seat from which he derived his title, was 
burnt in the conflict, two of his sons fell in battle, and 
he himself suffered a long and severe imprisonment; 
yet he preserved his loyalty and faiths and died as he 
Jiad liv^d, uubiemished. 



xxvi INTRODUCTION. 

in his subsequent publications,) misfortune 
rather than choice had determined him. 

In 1624, he published the Bondman ^ and de- 
^Qated it to Philip earl of Montgomery, who 
being present at the first representation, had 
shewn his discernment and good taste, by 
what the Author calls a liberal suffrage in its 
favour. Philip was the second son of Henry 
earl of Pembroke, the friend and patron of 
Massinger's father. At an early age he came 
to court, and was distinguished by the parti- 
cular favour of James I. who conferred the 
honour of knighthood upon him ; and, on his 
marriage* with lady Susan Vere/ daughter of 

• On his marriage] Tliere is an account of this mar- 
riage in a letter from sir Dudley Carlton to Mr. Win- 
wood, which is pfesietved in the second volume of his 
Memoires, and which, as affording a very curious picture 
of the grossness that prevailed at the court of James I. 
may not be unworthy of insertion : ^* On St. John's day 
we had the marriage of sir Philip Herbert and the lady 
9usan performed at Whitehall, with all the honour could 
be done a great favourite. The cburt was great ; and 
for that day put on the best braverie. Th^ prince and 
duke of Hoist led the bride to church ; tHe qu^eii follbwed 
jher from thence. The king gav^ her ; atid shfe, in^ her 
tresses and trinkets, brided'and brfdlfed' it so handsbrnely, 
acnd indeed became her^lf so. well, that the king said if 
he were unmarried, he would not give her but keep her " 



\ 



INTRODUCTION. xxvii 

Edward earl of Oxford, and grandaughter 
of William lord Burleigh, gave him lands to ' 

himself. The marriage dinner was kept in the great 
chamber, where the prince and the duke of Hoist, and 
the great lords and ladies, accompanied the bride. The 
ambassadonr. of Venice was the only bidden guest of 
strangers, and he had place above the duke of Hoist, 
which the duke took not well. But after dinner he was 
as little pleased himself; for being brought into the 
closet to retire himself, lie was then suffered to walk out, 
his supper unthought of. At night there was a mask in 
the hall, which, for conceit and fashion, was suitable to 
the occasion. The actors were, the earl of Pembroke, 
the lord Willoby, sir Samuel Hays, sir Thomas Germain, 
sir Robert Gary, sir John Lee, sir Richard Preston, and. 
sir Thomas Bager. There was no small loss that night 
of chaines and jewels, and many great ladies were made 
shorter by the skirts, and were very well served, that they 
could keep cut no better. The presents of plate and other 
things given by the noblemen were valued at £9,500.;^ 
but that which made it a good marriage was a gift of 
the king's of ^^500. land, for the bride's joynture. They 
were lodged in the council chamber, where the king, in 
his shirt and night-gown, gave them< a revetlle-matin be- 
fore they were ppi and spent a good time in or upon the 
bed ; chuse which you will believe. No ceremony was 
omitted of bride-cakes, points, garters, and gloves, which . 
have been ever since the livery of the court, and at night 
^here was sewing into the sheet, casting off the bride's 
left hose, with many other petty sorceries^* Jan. l605.*' 

* There is an allusion to one of these ^^ petty sorce- 
fips** in the speech of Mirtilla, Guardian^ Act III. sc. ii. 



scxviii INTRODUCTION. 

a considerable amount, and soon afterwards 
created him a baron and an earl.' 

^ Lady Susan Vere^ To this lady Jonson addressed 
the poem beginnings 

'V Were they that named you prophets ? did they see, 

** Even in the dew of grace, what you would be ? 

•* Or did our times require it, to behold 

" A new Susanna equal to that old ?" &c. JEptg. civ^ 
The dew of grace is an elegant and beautiful periphrasis 
for the baptismal sprinkling. 

' Davies, after noticing the favours heaped on him, as 
recorded by lord Clarendon, petulantly adds, '* But Cla- 
rendon, perhaps, did not know the real cause of lord 
Herbert's advancement. The behaviour of the Scots on 
James's accession to the throne of England was gene- 
rally obnoxious and much resented. At a meeting of 
English and Scotch at a horse-race near Croydon, a 
sudden quarrel arose between them, occasioned by a 
Mr. Ramsey's striking Philip lord Herbert in the face 
with a switch. The English would have made it a na- 
tional quarrel, and Mr. John Pinchbeck rode about 
the field with a dagger in his hand, crying. Let us 
break our fast with tkem here, and dine with them in 
London. But Herbert not resenting it, the king was so 
charmed with his peaceable disposition, that he made 
him a knight, a baron, a viscount, and an earl, in one 
day." Life of Massinger, p. liii. This is taken from 
Osborne, one of those gossi^^ping talemongers in which 
the times of James so gt-eatly abounded, and who, with 
Weldon, Wilson, Peyton, Sanderson, and others, con-, 
tributed to propagate an infinite number of scandalous 
stories, which should have been left suh Mice, vvhei:e 



INTRODUCTION. xxi^ 

This dedication, which is sensible, modest, 
and affecting, serves to prove that whatever 
might be the unfortunate circumstance which 

most of them perhaps had birth. What reliance may 
be placed on them, in general, is sufficiently apparent 
from the assertion of Osborne. The fact is, that Her- 
bert had long been a knight, and was never a viscount. 
He was married in the beginning of l605, (he was 
then sir Philip,) and created baron Herbert of Shur- 
land in the Isle of Sheppy, and earl of Montgomery, 
June 4th, in the same year : and so far were these 
titles from being the reward of what Osborne calk 
his cowardice at Croydon, that they were all con- 
ferred on him two years before that event took place* 
Osborne himself allows that if Montgomery had not, 
by his forbearance, ^^ stanched the blood then ready to 
be spilt, not only that day, but all after, must have 
proved fatal to the Scots, so long as any had staid in 
England, the royal family excepted, which, in respect 
to majesty, or their own safety, they must have spared, 
or the kingdom be^n left to the misery of seeing sp 
much blood laid out as the trial of so many crabbed 
titles would have required." The prevention of these 
horrours might, in some minds, have raised feelings fa- 
vourable to the temperance of the young earl ; but Os^ 
borne, whose object, and whose office, was calumny, 
contrives to convert it into a new accusation: ^^ they 
could not be these considerations," he says, '^ that re- 
strained Herbert, who wanted leisure, no less than capa- 
city, to use them, though laid in his way by others" ! 

Memoirs of King James. 



XXX INTRODUCTION. 

~ - » 

deprived the Author of the patronage and 
protection of the elder branch of the Her- 
berts, he did not imagine it to be of a dis- 
graceful nature ; or he would not, in the face 
of the piiblick, have appealed to his con- 
nexions with the family : at the same time, it 
is manifest that some cause of alienation ex- 
isted, otherwise he would scarcely have over- 
looked so fair an opportunity of alluding to 
the characteristick generosity of the earl of 
Pembroke, whom, on this as on every other 
occasion, he scrupulously forbears to name, 
or even to hint at. 

This dedication, which was kindly received, 
led the way to a closer connexion, and a cer- 
tain degree of familiarity, for which, perhaps, 
the approbation, so openly expressed, of the 
Bondman, might be designed by Montgomery 
as an overture : at a subsequent period,^ Mas- 
singer styles the earl his " most singular 
good lord and patron,'' and speaks of the 
greatness of his obligatic»is : 

mine being more 






Thian they could owe, who since, or heretofore. 



9 On the loss of his eldest son, who died of the small-^ 
pox at Florence, Jan. l6S5v 



INTRODUCTION. xxxi 

" Have labour'd with exalted lines to raise 
^' Brave piles or rather pyramids of praise 
*' To Pembroke,' and his family." 

What pecuniary advantages he derived from 
the present addreiss, cannot be known ; v^^hat- 
ever they were, they did not preclude th^ 
necessity of writing for the stage, which h# 
continued to do with great industry, seldom 
producing less than two new pieces annually. 
In 1629, his occasions, perhaps, again press- 
ing upon him, he gave to the press the Rene-^ 
gado and the Roman Actor, both of which had 
now been several y^ars before the publick. 
The first of these he inscribed to lord Berkeley 
in a short address, composed with taste and 
elegance. He speaks with some complacency 
of the merits of the piece, but trusts that he 
shall live *^ to tender his humble thankfulness 
m some higher strain :" this confidence »in his 
abilities, the pleasing concomitant of true ge- 
nius, M^ssinger often felt and expressed. 
The latter play he presented to sir Philip 
Knyvet apd sir Thomas Jes^y,* with a desire, 

* Montgomery had now succeeded to the title and 
estates of his elder brother, who deceased April JQ, 1630. 

* Sir Thomas Jeay was himself a poet: several com- 
mendatory copies of verses by him are prefixed to Mas- 



a:xxii INTRODUCTION. 

/ 

as he says, that the world might take notice 
of his being indebted to their support for 
power to compose the piece : he expatiates 
on their kindness in warm and energetick 
language, and accounts for addressing " the 
most perfect birth of his Minerva'' to them, 
from their superiour demands on his grati- 
tude. 

Little more than four years had elapsed 
since the Bondman was printed; in that period 

r 

Massinger had v/ritten seven plays, all of 
which, it is probable, were favourably re- 
ceived : it therefore becomes a question, what 
were the emoluments derived from the stage, 
which could thus leave a popular and success- 
ful writer to struggle with adversity ? 

There seem to have been two methods of 
disposing of a new piece ; the first, and per- 
haps the most general, was to sell the copy 
to one of the theatres ; the price cannot be 
exactly ascertained, but appears to have fluc- 
tuated between ten and twenty pounds, seldom 
falling short of the former, and still more 
seldom, I believe, exceeding the latter. In 

singer's Plays. He calls the Author his worthy friend, 
and gives many proofs that his esteem was founded on 
judgment, and his kindness candid and sincere. 



INTRODUCTION. xxxiii 

this case, the author could only print his 
play by permission of the proprietors, a fa- 
vour which was sometimes granted to the 
necessities of a favourtte writer, and to none, 
perhaps, more frequently than to Massinger. 
The other method was by offering it to the 
stage for the advantage of a benefit, which 
was commonly taken on the second or third 
night, and which seldom produced, there is 
reason to suppose, the net sum of twenty 
pounds. There yet remain the profits of pub- 
lication: Mr. Malone, from whose Historical 
Account of the English Stage ^ (one of the 
ftiost instructive essays that ever appeared 
on the subject,) many of these notices are 
taken, says, that, in the time of Shakspeare, 
the customary price was twenty nobles; 

[£6. 135. 4^0 ^^> ^^ ^ somewhat later period, 
we fix it at thirty, {£10,) we shall not pro- 
bably be far from the truth. The usual de- 
dication fee, which yet remains to be added, 
was forty shillings: where any connexion 
subsisted between the parties, it was doubt- 
less increased; ^ 

We may be pretty confident, therefore, 
that Massinger seldom, if ever, received for 
his most strenuous, and fortumtte exertions, 

VOL. I. c 



xxxiv INTRODUCTION. 

more than fifty pounds a year; this indeed, 
if regularly enjoyed, would be suificient, with 
decent economy, to have preserved him from 
absolute want : but nothing is better known 
than the precarious nature of dramatick writ- 
ing. Some of his pieces might fail of success, 
( indeed, we are assured that they actually did 
so,) others might experience a " thin third 
day \' and a variety of circumstances, not dif- 
ficult to enumerate, contribute to diminish the 
petty sum which we have ventured to state as 
the maximum of the poet's revenue. Nor 
could the benefit which he derived from the 
press be very extensive, as of the seventeen 
dramas which make up his printed works, 
( exclusive of the Parliament of Love, which 
now appears for the first time,) only twelve 
were published during his life, and of these, 
two (the Virgin-Martyr and the Fatal Dowry) 
were not wholly his own. 

In 1630, he printed the Picture, which had 
appeared on the stage the preceding year. 
This play was warmly supported by many 
of the " noble Society of the Inner Temple,'' 
to whom it is addressed. These gentlemen 
' were so sensible of the extraord nary inerits 
of this admirable performance, that they gave 



INTRODUCTION. xxxv 

the Author feave to particularize their names 
at the head of the dedication, an honour which 
he declined, because, as he modestly observes, 
and evidently with an allusion to some of his 
contemporaries, he " had rather enjoy the 
real proofs of their friendship, than, moun- 
tebank-like, boast their numbers in a cata- 
logue/* 

In 1631 Massinger appears to have been 
unusually industrious, for he brought forward 
three pieces in little more than as many 
months. Two of these. Believe as you List, 
and the Unfortunate Piety, are lost, the third 
is the Emperor of the East, which was pub- 
lished in the following year, and inscribed 
to lord Mohun, who was so much pleased 
with the perusal of the Author's printed 
works, that he commissioned his nephew, 
sir Aston Cockayne,' to express his high 

' This is the only place in which Massinger makes any 
mention of sir Aston, who was not less delighted with 
the Emperor of the East than his uncle, and who, in a 
copy of verses which he prefixed to it, calls Massinger 
his worthy friend. It is to the praise of sir Aston 
Cockayne that he not only maintained his esteem and 
admiration of Massinger during the Poet's life, but 
preserved an affectionate regard for his memory, of 
which his writings furnish many proofs. He was, as I 

OS 



\ ^ 



xxxvi INTRODUCTION. 

opinion T>f them, and to present the writer 
" with a token of his love and intended 
favour." 

The Fatal Dowry was printed in 1632. I 
once supposed this to be the play which is 
menticMied above by the name of the Unjor^ 
tunate Piety, as it does not appear under its 
present title in di^ Office-book of sir Henry 
Herbert ; but I now believe it to have been 
written previously to 1623. ^^^ coadjutor 
in this play was Nathaniel Field, of whom I 
can give the reader but little account. His 
name stands at the head of the principal 
comedians who performed Cynthia's Revels, 
and he is joined with Heminge, Condell, 
Burbadge, and others, in the preface to fhe 
folio edition of Shakspeare. He was also the 
author of two c6medies, A fFoman is a Wea-- 
thercodkj 1612, and Amends for Ladies , 161 8. 
Mr. Reed, however, conjectures the writer 
of these plays, the assistant of Massinger in 
th^ Fatal Dowry, to be a distinct person frotfi 

have supposed Massinger to be,a Catholick, and suffered 
much for his religion. I will not take upon myself to 
say that this community of faith strengthened their mutual 
attachment^ though I do not think it altogether im- 
probable. 



INTRODUCTION. xxxvii 

/ 

the actor above mentioned, and " a Nath. 
Field, M. A. fellow of New Coll. M^ho wrote 
some Latin verses printed in Oxon^ Academia 
ParentaliUy 1625, and Who, being of the same 
University with Massinger, might there join 
with him in the composition of the play 
ascribed to them/'* Jt is seldom safe to 
differ from Mr. Reed on subjects of this na- 
ture, yet I still incline to think that Field the 
actor was the person meant. There is no 
authority for supposing that Massinger wrote 
plays at College ; and if there were, it is not 
likely that the Fatal Dowry should be one of 
them. But Mr. Reed's chief reason for his 
assertion is, that no contemporary author 
speaks of Field as a writer : this argument, 
in the refutation of which I can claim no 
merit, is now Completely disproved by the 
discovery of the letter to Mr. Henslowe. 
Mr. Malone too thinks that the person whp 
wrote the two comedies here mentioned, and 
assisted Massinger, could not be Field the 
actor, since the first of them was printed in 
1612, at which time he must have been a 
youth, having performed as ,one of the chil- 
dren of the revels in Jonson's Silent Woman, 

* Old Plays, Vol. XII. p. 350. 



xxxviii INTRODUCTION. 

iffo9.' I know not to what age these children 
were confined, but Barkstead, who was one 
of them, and who, from his situation in the 
list, was probably younger than Field, pub- 
lished, in 1611, a poem called Hiren (Irene) 
the Fair Greek, consisting of 114 stanzas, 
which is yet earlier than the date of Woman's 
a Weathercock. 

Mr. Malone conjectures that the affecting 
letter (p. xv. ) was written between 1612 
and 1615 : if we tajce the latest period. Field 
will then be not far from his twenty-eighth 
year, a period sufficiently advanced for the 
production of any work of fancy. I have 
sometimes felt a pang at imagining that the 
play on which they were then engaged, and 
for which they solicit a trifling advance in 
such moving terms, was the Fatal Dowry y 
one of the noblest compositions that ever 
graced the English stage ! Even though it 
should not be so, it is yet impossible to be 

5 It had probably escaped Mr. Malone's observation, 
that Fi^ld appears as the principal performer in Cifnthia's 
Revelsy acted in ]a99 or I6OO. He could not then have 
well been less than twelve years old, and at the time 
mentioned by Mr. Malone, as too early for the pro- 
duction of his first play, must have been turned of one- 
aud-twenty. . 



INTRODUCTION. xxxix 
unaiFected when we consider that those who 

* , 

actually did produce it, were in danger of 
perishing in goal for want of a loan of five 
pounds ! 

In the following y^ar Massinger brought 
forward the City Madam, As this play was 
undoubtedly disposed of to the performers, 
it remained in manuscript till the distress 
brought on the stage by the persecution of 
the Puritans induced them to commit it to 
the press. The person' to whom we are in- 
debted for its appearance was Andrew Pen- 
nycuicke, an actor of some note. In the 
dedication to the countess of Oxford,* he ob- 
serves, with a spirited reference to the re- 
strictions then laid on the drama, " In that, 
age wh^YLwit and learning were not conquered by 
injury and violence , this poem was the object of 
love and conimendations:" he then adds " the 
encouragement I had to prefer this dedication 
to your powerful protection proceeds from 
the tiniversal fame of the deceased author,^ 

^ Countess of Oxford, &c.] Ann, first wife of Aubrey 
de Vere, twentieth and last earl of Oxford. She was a 
distanf relation of the Perabrpke famjly. 

^ The deceased author^] The City Madam was 
printed in 1659. Thi^ sufficiently proves the absurdity 



\ 



xl INTRODUCTION. 

# 

who (aithmigh he composed many) wrote 
none amisss and this may justly be ranked 
anfoiig his best/' Penny ciiicke might have 
gone further ; but this little address is suf- 
ficient; to shew in what estimation the poet 
was held by his ^\ fellows/' He had now 
been dead nineteen years. 

Abo^t this time too (1632) Massinger 
printed the Maid of Honour, with a dedication 
to sir Francis Foljambe* and sir Thomas 
Bland, which cannot be read without sorrow. 
He observes, that these gentlemen, who ap- 
pear to have been engaged in an amicable 
suit at law, had continued, for many years, 
the patron of him and his despised studies, 

of the account given by Langbaine, Jacob, Whincop, 
and Gibber, who concur in placing his death in 1669, 
and who, certainly, never perused his works with any 
attention : nor is that of Chetwood more rational, who 
asserts that he died 1659> since his epitaph is printed 
among the poems of ^ir Aston Cockayne, which were 
published' in 1^58, and written much earlier. It is, 1 
tJierefore, worse than a waste of time to repeat fram 
book to book such palpable errours. 

* Sir Francis Foljambe, &c.} I suspect that sir Francis 
was also a Catholick. From the brief account of this 
ancient family which is given in Lodge's Illustrations, 
they appear to have suffered severely on account of 
their religion, ^o which they were zealously attached. 



INTRODUCTION. xU 

and he calls upon the world to take notice, 
as from himself, that he had not to that time 
subsisted, but that he was supported by their 
frequent courtesies and favours. 

It is not improbable, however, that he was 
now labouring under the pressure of niore than 
usual want; as the failure of two of his plays 
had damped his spirits, and materially checked 
the prosecution of his dramatick studies. No 
account of the unsuccessful pieces is come 
down to us : their names do not occur in the 
Office-book of sir H. Herbert, nor should we 
have known the circumstance, had not the 
Author, with a modesty which shames some 
of his contemporaries, and a deference to the 
judgment of the publick, which becomes all 
who write. for it, recorded the fact in the 
prologue to the Guardian. To this, probably, 
we owe the publication of A New fVwy to 
pay Old Debts y which was now first printed 
with a sensible and manly address to the earl 
of Caernarvon, who had married lady Sophia 
Herbert, the sister of his patron, Philip earl of 
Pembroke and Montgomery. " I was born,'' 
he says, " a devoted servant to the thrice noble 
familyof your incomparablelady, and am maSt 
ambitious, but with a becoming distance, to 



xlii ' INTRODUCTION. 

be known to yoar lordship/' All Massinger's 
patrons appear to be persons of worth and 
eminence. Philip had not at this time 
tarnished the name of Pembroke by ingra- 
titude, and the earl of Caernarvon was a man 
of unimpeachable honour and integrity. He 
followed the declining fortunes of his royal 
master, and fell at Newbury, where he com- 
manded the cavalry, after defeating that part 
of the parliamentary army to which he was 
opposed. In his last moments, says Fuller, 
as he lay on the field, a nobleman of the 
royal party desired to know if he had any 
request to make to the king, to whom he 
was deservedly dear, comforting him with 
the assurance that it would be readily grant- 
ed. His reply was such as became a brave 
and conscientious soldier : I will not die 
with a suit in my mouth, but to the King of 
kings ! 

Flattered by the success of the Guardian^ 
which was licensed on the 31st of October 
1633, Massinger exerted himself with un- 
usual energy, and produced three plays be- 
fore the expiration of the following year. 
One of them, the dehghtful comedy of A 
Very Woman, is come down to us; of the 



INTRODUCTION. xliii 

I 

I 

Others, nothing is known but the names, 
which are registered by the Master of the 
Revels. In 1635, it does not appear that he 
brought any thing forward ; but in 1636 he 
wrote the Bashful Lover^ and printed the 
Great Duke of Florence, which had now been 
many years on the stage, with a dedication 
to sir Robert Wiseman of Thorrells Hall, 
in Essex. In this, which is merely expressive 
of his gratitude for a long continuation of 
kindness, he acknowledges, " and with a 
zealous thankfulness, that, for many years, 
he had but faintly subsisted, if he had not 
often tasted of his bounty/' In this precarious 
state of dependance passed the life of a man 
who is charged with no want of industry^ 
suspected of no extravagance, and whose 
works were, at that very period, the boast 
and delight of the stage ! 

The Bashful Lover is the latest play of 
Massinger's writing vvhich we possess, but 
there were three others posterior to it, of 
which the last, the Anchoress of Pausilippo, was 
acted Jan. 26, 1640, about six weeks before 
his death. Previous to this, he sent to the 
press one of his early plays, the Unnatural 
Combat y which he inscribed to Anthony 



xHv INTRODUCTION. 

Sentleger, (whose father, sir Wareham, had 
been his particular admirer, ) being, as he says, 
ambitious to publish hrs many favours to the 
world. It is pleasant to find the Author, at 
the close of his blameless life, avowing, as he 
here does, with an amiable modesty, that the 
noble and eminent persons to whom his 
former works were dedicated, did not think 
tfiemselves disparaged by being *' celebrated 
B^ the patrons of his humble studies, in 
the first file of which,'' he continues, ^' I dm < 
< eorifident you shall have no cause to blush, to 
find your name written/' 

Massinger ' died on the 17th of March, 
1640- He went to bed in good health, says 
tangbaine, and was found dead in the morn- 
ing in his own house on the Bankside. He 
was buried in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, 
and the comedians paid the last sad duty to 
his name, by attending him to the grave. 

sit does not appear, from the strictest se^irch,. 
that a stone, or inscription of any kind, 
marked the place where his dust was depo- 
sited : even the memorial of his mortality is 
given with a pathetick brevity, which accords 
but too well with the obscure and humble 
passages of his life: " March so, 1639-40/ 



INTRODUCTION. 



xlr 



buried Philip Massinger, a stranger'' ! No 

flowers were flung into his grave, no elegies 

" soothed his hovering spirit/' and of all 

the admirers of his talents and his worth, 

none but sir Aston Cockayne dedicated a Kne 

to his memory. It would be an abuse, of 

language to honour any composition of sir 

Aston with the name of ^poetry, but the 

steadiness of his regard for Massinger may 

be justly praised. In that collection of 

doggrel rhymes, which I have already 

mentioned, (p. xiii.) there is " ah epitaph on 

Mr. John Fletcher, and Mr. Philip Massinger, 

who lie both buried in one grave in St 

Mary Overy's church, in Southwark : 

• • • 

'^ In the same grave was Fletcher buried, here 
'* Lies the stage poet, Philip Massinger ; 
" Plays they did write together, were great friencfe, 
^* And now one grave includes them in their ends* 
'' To whom on earth nothing could pait, beneath 
^' Here in their fame they lie,, in spight of death," 

It is surely somewhat singular that of a 
man of such eminence nqthing should be 
known. What I have presumed to give is 
merely the history of the successive ap- 
pearance of his works ; and I am aware of 
no source from whence any additional 



xlvi INTRODUCTION. 

information can be derived : no anecdotes are 
recorded of him by his contemporaries, few 
casual mentions of his name occur in the 
writings of the time, and he had not the 
good fortune which attended many of less 
eminence, to attract attention at the revival 
of dramatick literature from the deathlike 
torpor of the Interregnum/ But though we 
are ignorant of every circumstance respecting 
Massinger, but that he lived and died,' we 
may yet form to ourselves some idea of 
his personal character from the incidental 
hints scattered through his works. In what 
light he was regarded may be collected from 
the recommendatory poems prefixed to his 
several plays, in which the language of his 
panegyrists, though warm, expresses an at- 
tachment apparently derived not so much 

^ One exception we shall hereafter mention. Even 
in this the Poet's ill fate pursued him, and he was flung 
back into obscurity, that his spoils might be worn with- 
out detection. 

* It is seriously to be lamented that sir Aston 
Cockayne, instead of wasting his leisure in measuring 
out dull prose which cannot be read^ had not employed 
a part of it in furnishing some notices of the dramatick 
poets, with whom he was so well acquainted, and wjiom 
he professes so much to admire. 



INTRODUCTION. xlvii 

from his talents as his virtues: he is, as 
Davies has observed, their beloved, much- 
esteemed, dear, worthy, deserving, honoured^ 
long-known, and long-loved friend, &c. &c. 
All the writers of his life unite in representing 
him as a man of singular modesty, gentle- 
ness, candour, and affability ; nor does it 
appear that he ever made or found an enemy. 
He speaks indeed of opponents on the stage, 
but the contention of rival candidates for 
popular favour must not be confounded with 
personal hostility. With all this, however, 
he appears to have maintained a constant 
struggle with adversity ; since not only the 
stage, from which, perhaps, his natural 
reserve prevented him from deriving the 
usual advantages, but even the bounty of his 
particular friends, on which he chiefly relied, 
left him in a state of absolute dependance. 
Jonson, Fletcher, Shirley, and others, not 
superiour to him in abilities, had their periods 
of good fortune, their bright as well as their 
stormy hours ; but M assinger seems to have 
enjoyed no gleam of sunshine; his life was 
all one wintry day, and "shadows, clpuds, 
and darkness,'' rented upon it. 



xlviii INTRODUGTION. 

' Davies finds a servility in his dedications 
which I have not been able to discover: they 
are principally characterised by gratitude and 
humility, without a single trait of that gross 
and servile adulation which distinguishes and 
disgi'aces the addresses of some of his contem- 
poraries. That he did not conceal his misery, 
his editors appear inclined to reckcwti among 
his faults ; he bore it, however, without im- 
patience, and we only hear of it when it is 
relieved. Poverty made him no flatterer, 
and, what is still more rare, no maligner of 
the great: nor is cwne symptom of envy 
manifested in any part of his compositions!. 

His principles of patriotism appear irre- 
prehensible: the extravagant and slavish? 
doctrines which are found in the dranias.^ 
of his great contemporaries make no part 
of his creed, in which the warmest loyalty 
is skilfully combined wilh just and ratioruil 
ideas of political freedom. Nor is this the 
only instance in which the rectitude of his 
mind is apparent; the writers of his day 
abound in recommendations of suicide ; he 
is uniform in the reprehension of it, with a 
single exception, to which, perhaps, he was 



INTBanUCTION. xHi 

J^ by the peculiar turn erf ¥is studies.^ Guilt 
of every kind is usually left to the punishment 
0f divifte justipe : even tiie wretched Malefort 
excuses himself to his son on his supernatural 
appearance, because the latter was not marked 
mt by heaven for his mother's avenger ; and 
the young, the brave, the pious Charalois acir 
counts his death fallen upon hiiri by the will 
of heaven, because " he made himself ajUd^ 
in his own cause.** 

But the great, the glorious diatineticm of 
Massinger, is the imiform respect with whi<5h 
he treats religion and its ministers, in m age 
when it was found necessary to add regulars 
tion to regulation, to stop the growth of im'r 
jnety on the stage* No priests are introduced 
by him, " to set on s^ome quantity of barren 
spectators* V to laugh at their licentious fol* 
lies ; the sacred name is not lightly invQked> 
nox daringly sported with ; nor is Scripture 

V 

^Se^thfi DuH of Milan, Vol. I. p- 25«. The frequent 
violatiou of female chastity, which took place on the 
irruption of the barbarians into Italy, gave rise to many 
curious disquisitions among the fathers of the church, 
. respecting the degree of guilt occurred in preventing it 
by self-mutder. Massinger had these, probably, in h^ 
^9ughts, 






1 INTRODtJCTION. 

profaned l)y ^ buHbori ^ alhisioiis lavishly ^W 
into the moijths of fools and women. 

To liiis brief and desultory delineation^ 6f 
his mind, it may be expected that something 
should here be. added of his talents for> drar i ^ 
matick ccmiposition ; but this is happily ren- 
dered unnecessary. The kindness of, Dr, 
Ferriar has allowed me to annex to^this In*^ ^ 
troduction the elegant and ingenious Essdy 
on Massznger, first printed in the third vo^ 
lume of the Mtmckester TransactioHs ; and I 
shall presently have to notice, in a more 
particular manner^ the value of the assistr 
ance which: has been expressly given to me 
for thiji work. These, if I do not decelvfe 
myself, leaive little or nothing to be desired, 
on the peculiar qualities, the excellencies and 
drfeets, of this much heglected and much 
ihjiired writer. 

Mr. M. Mason has remarked the general 
harmony of his numbers, in which, indeed, 
Massinger stands unrivalled. He seems,4iow- 
ever, inclined to make a partial exception in 
favour of Shakspeare'; but I cannot admit of^ 
its propriety. The claims of this gre^t poet otf 
the admiration of mankind are innumerable, 
but rhythmical modulation is not one of them : 



( ' 



INTRODUCTION- H 

iipr do Itiiink it either wise or just to hold 
him forth as supereminent in every quality 
which cpnstitutes genius ;^ is as 

sublime^ Fletcher a? pathetick, and Jonson as , 
nervous: — ^n^r let it be accounted poor or 
niggard -praise, to allow him only an equality 
i^ith dJbese extraordinary, men in their pecu- 
l^r excellencies, while he is admitted to posr 
^em many others, to which they make no 
jtpproaches. Indeed, if I were asked for the 
.discriminating quality of Shakspeare's mind, 
tjiat by which he is raised above all comper 
j^tion, above all prospect of rivalry, I should 
?^y it was wit. To wit Massinger has no 
,pj;etenaions, though he is not without a con- 
siderable portion of humour ; in which, how- 
ever, he is isurpassed by Fletcher, whose style 
ibe^rs some affinity to his own : there is, in- 
deed^ a morbid softness in the poetry of the 
jjiatt^r, which is not visible in the flowing 
iBuad vigorous metre of Massinger, but the 
general manijer is not unlike.^ 

^ There is yet a peculiarity which i£ may be proper to 
notice, as it contributes, in a slight degree, to the fluency 
of Massinger's style; it is, the resolution pf his words 
(and principally of those which are derived from the 
Latin through the mediunfi of the French) into their 

d2 \ 



iii INTRODUCTION. 

\ 

With Massinger terminated the triiihiph 
of dramatick poetry ; irideed, the «tage itself 
survived him but a short time. The nation 
was convulsed to its centre by cdntehdihg 
factions, and a set of austere and gfoortiy fa- 
naticks, enfertiies to every elegant amiisenieht> 
and every social relaxation, rose upon the 
ruins of the state. Exasperated by the ridi- 
cule with Which they had long beeti coVer6d 
by the stage, they persiecuted the actors wi^ 
unrelenting severity, and conisigned thein, 
together with the writers, to hopeless obscu- 
rity and wretchedness. Taylor died in the 
extreme of poverty, Shirley opened a little 
school, and LoWin, the boast of the stage, 
kept an alehouse at Brentford : 

Balneolum Gabiis,furnos conducere Romm 
Tentarunt !-^ - 

Others, and those the far greater number^ 

component syllables. Firiuous, partial^ nation, &c. &c. 
he usually makes dactyh, (if it be'^ not pedantrcfc to ap- 
ply terms of measure to a language acquainted only with 
accent,) passing over the last two syllables with a gentle 
but distinct enunciation. This practice, inde^^d, is occa- 
sionally adopted by all the writers of his time, but in 
Massinger it is frequent and habitual. This singularity 
may slightly embarrass the reader at first, but a little 
acquaintance will shew its advantages, and render it not 
only easy but deliglitfuK 






?NTH0DUCTI0N. liii 

joined the royal standard, and e^ferted them- 
selves with more gallantry than good fortune 
in the service of their old ^nd indulgent 
master. 

We^ have not yet, perhaps; fully estimated, 
arid certainly not yet' fully recovered, what 
was lost in that unfortunate struggle. The 
arts *were rapidly advancing to perfection 
iinder the fostering wing of a monarch who 
uriited in hinisplf taste to fp^l, spirit to un- 
dertake^ and munificenc:e to reward. Archi- 
tecture, painting, and poetry, were by turns, 
the objects of his paternal care. Shakspeare 
was his " closet companion,"* Jonson his 
poet, ^ni^ in conjunction with Imgo Jones:, 
his favoAir^d architect, produced thosje inag- 

\ . ■ 

* ffis *' chstt companion f^} Milton, and cei'taiiily with 
nd symptotDs of disapprobatioo,) mentions, as a fact uni- 
Vje^^ally knQMn, the fondness of the uofartuna^ Gharles 
for the pl^ys pf Shakspeare : and it apiiears ffom those 
earioui^ particulars collected from sir Henry Herbi^rt by 
])dr. Malone, that his attachment to the drama, and his, 
anxiety fo? i^ perfection, b^an with his reig.n. The 
plot of the Qamester, o^e of the l?est of Shirley's piec^s^ 
was given V? ^im J^y the king ; ^nd there is ajn anecdote 
r^cord^ by the Master of the Revels, which sheiYs that 
be njras not ^tiattentiye to ^t;he suqcess of Massinger. 

♦^ At Gy^eawich this ^ of June (l63S) Mr. W. Murray , 



€€ 



liv INTRODUCTION. 

nificent entertainments which, though mo- 
dern refinement may affect to despise them, 
modem splendour never reached even in 
thought.' 

X 

gave mee power from thef king to allow of the Kinga^ 
'ik$ Subject^ and tould mee that he would warrapt it : , 

*' Monies ! We'll raise suppliies what way we pl^afe> - 
And force you to subscribe to blanks^ in which 
We'll mulct you as we shall think fit. - The Caesars 
- *' In Rome were wise, acknowledging no laws 
** But what their swords did ratify, the wives 
■ 'V. And daughters of the abators bowing to ^ 
. '^ Their will, as deities," 8cc. • ^ , 

t '^l^his is a peec^ t^ken out of Philip Mes^nger's play 

.called //le King and the Subject, and enterd here for 

. ever to bee. rememberd by my son and those that' cast 

their eyes on it^ in honour of king Charles, my master, 

^vfho iTeadinge over the play at Newmarket, set hi$ mad^e 

' npQii the place with his. own hande, and in thes words ;— 

:y^h^.uioo^imolcnt, and to bee changed. 

'' Note, that the poett makes it the speech of a king, 
Don Pedro of Spayne, and spoken to his subjects.'^ 

' That the exhibition of those masks was attended 
with a considerable degree of expense, cannot he-denied : 
and yet a question may be modestly started^ whether a 
^thousand pounds might not have been as rationally. and as 
creditably laid out on one of them at Tibbald's, Altboipe, 
or Ludlow Castle, as on a basket of unripe fruit ! ./ 

But we are fallen indeed ! The festival of the knights 
of the Bath^ presented an oppo^tQii|ty for a mask appro- 



.^ 



JNTJ^ODUCTION. Iv 

, ^^hfSit the tyranny of the commonwealth 
^^^Hld s\yeep all this away, was to be ex- 
^ j^^ted^: the circumstance not less to be won- 
dered at than regretted is, that wnen the 
revival of monarchy afforded an opportunity 
for-^^ restoring every thing to its pristine place, 
no advantage should be taken of it. Such, 
hcfweVet^ was the horrour created in the ge- 
neral mind, by*^the perverse and unsocial go- 
vemnient f jroip which they had so fortunately 
escaped) that the people appear to have anxi- 
ously avoided all retrospect; and with Prynne 
and Vicars, to have lost sight of Shakspeare 
and *''his iellbWs/' Instead, therefore, of 
,takiri(g up dramatick poetry (foir to this my 
J sul^je0;, confines ^le) where it aWuptly ceased 
4n^the^ labours of Massinger, they elicited, as 
it W61*e,^ manner of their own, or fetched it 
fix)m the heavy monotony of their cohtinetttal 
neighfepurs. , The ease, the elegance, the sjpi- 
plicity, the copioysness of the former period, 

priaie to the sabject, in which taste should have linited 
litjtii grandeur. Whose. talents were employed on the 
great occasion I cannot pretend to say ; but assuredly the 
frequenters of Bartholomew fair were never invito to so 
Tile and senseless an exhibition, as was produced at Ra- 
nelagh for the entertainmeiit of the nobility and^ntry 
^ the wited kixigdwi. 



Ivi INTRODUCTION, 

were as if they had never been ; and jm^ing 
arid blustering declamation tpok place c^ na- 
ture, truth, and sense. Even criticism, wMch, 
in the former reign, had been making no ini-* 
considerable progress imder the influence and 
direction of the gre^rt masters of Italy, wa& 
now diverted into a new channel, and only 
studied in the puny and jejune canons of their 
unworthy followers, the French. 

The Restoration did little for Massinger^ 
this, however, will the less surprise us^ when 
we find that he but shared the fortune of a 
greater name, It appears from a list of re^ 
yived plays preserved by Downes the.prompr 
ter, that of twenty-one, two only* wer^ written 
by Shakspeare ! The Bondman and /A^ Roman 
Actor were at length brought forward by 
Betterton, who probably conceived them to 
be favourable to his fine powers of declama- 
tion. We are told by Downes^ thfithe gained 
" great applause" in them : his success, how- 
ever, did not incite him to the revival of the 
rest, though he might have found, among the 
number ample spope for the display of his 
highest talents. I can find but two more of 

^ Ttm Qnly] And of these two, one was Titus 4v<^o^ 
inicus! 



INTRODUCTION. IvU 

\ 
I 

V ' 

Massinger's plays which were acted in the 
period immediately following the Restora- 
tion, tHe Virgiti'-Martyr and the Renegado; I 
have, indeed, some idea that the Old Law 
should be added to the scanty list ; but having 
mislaid my memorandums, I cannot affirm iL 

The time, however, arrived when he wasr 
to be remembered. Nicholas Rowe, a man 
gifted by nature with taste and feeling, dis- 
gusted at the tumid va{»dity of his own times, 
turned his attention to the poets of a former 
age, and', among the rest, to Maswiger, 
Pleased at the discovery of a mind congenial 
to his own, he studied him with attenticm, and 
endeavoured to form a style on his modeL 
Suavity, ease, elegance, all that close appli- 
cation and sedulous imitation could give, Rowe 
acquired from the perusal of Massinger : hu- 
mour, richness, vigour, and sublimity, the 
gifts of nature, were not to be caught, and 
do not, indeed, appesu* in any of his multifa- 
rious compositions. 

Rowe, however, had discrimination and 
judgment: he was alive to the great and 
striking excellencies of the Poet, and formed 
the resolution of presenting him to the world 
in a correct and uniform edition. It is told in 



kiii , I^NTiRODUCTIpN; 

therpf efi^ce to the Bmdman^(prmtedin ?719,) 
mid therenis no redson-to doubt the veracity 
of the affirmaticm, that Ro we had revis^^t til? 
whole of Massinger's works> with a Vi^W;^ 
4heir pubfiqation?: unfortiinately, how^vpr>^ti(^ 
M^as tieduced from his purpose by^ the menitf} 
of the Fatal Dowry. The pathetick and iiJiRf- 
rastihg scenes 6f this domc^tick draitn^i i h^M? 
^uch Irresistible power ^er the b^t. fpeteagp 
tof the Jreader, thatiie determined to i^vail himt 
self of their excellence, and frame a second 
tragedy on the saihe story;. How He altered 
^hd adapted the eVehts to his oWh c6n6ep1$6rfs 
is told by Mr. Cumberland /with eqiiar^le- 
jg^nce and ta^te,Lin the Essay w^ch foUo^^s 
the originali piece/ > t /^ : ? -/" 



jii 1^,'. 



^.^ ipftp^t^lyjSHP^riouj: to tb^t qf ^A^ jFa^ J^^l^V^«/;, whi^ 
indeed^ is little better than a i^p^ipus ap9Jy(>gy. for ftd^I- 
. IcU'y. Rowe has ^yished the most seducing cqIqu^ of 
jbis eloq^u^nce on X^otharip^ apa acted, througliout tire 
, piece, as if he studied to frame an excuse for Caiistal: 
\^hereas Massinger has placed the crime of Beauipeue 
m £m odioys and proper light. Beaumelle can have ho 
lollowers in her guilt: — ^no frail one can urge that she 
was misl^ b^ l^ef e^a^ple ; for No^all has nothing wit 
personal charms, and even in these he is surpassed by 
Charalois. For the unhappy iiusbancl ofCalista, Itowe 



INTRODUCTION. Ux 

r Pteased with the Success of his perform-^ 
tooe,"* Rowe ■ fednceiVed the ungenerous idea 
df ^a^propri^ttng the 'whole of its merits ; iand, 
from that instant, appears not only to have 
given up all thoughts of Massinger, but to 
Wave avoided all mention of his name. In the 
Msfe and servile dedication of his tragedy to 
thfe dutche^s of Ormond, while he founds his 
^^^aittt to her patronage on the interesting na- 
Mre tof the- scenes, he suffers not a hint to 

S . ' ■ 

^l^ykice& no consicktation, while Massiiiger has ^rendered 
.Ch^raloisf the mo9t ioterestip^ character th^t was;^ver 
prodi^ced on the stage. 

Beaumelle^ who falls a sacrifice, in some measure, to 
i^e artifices of her maid^ the profligate agent of young 
Novall, is much superiour to Calista. Indeed, the itti- 
pression which she piade on Rowe was so strong, that 
be named his tragedy after her, and not after the heroine 
;bf his own piece: Beaumelle is truly the Fair Penitent, 
'tirhereai^ Calista is neither more nor less thail a haughty 
wd abandoned strumpet. 

■ The success of his performance,^ This was somewhat 
pro1>ieina^ical at first. For though the Fair Penitent be 
now a general favourite^ with the town, it experienced 
fponsiderable opposition on its appearance, owing, as 
Downes informs us> *^ to the flatness of the fourth apd 
fifth acts." The poverty of Rowe's genius is principally 
apparent in the last ; of which the plot and the execu- 
tion are e^u^Uy contemptible. 



Ix: 



INTRODUCTION. 



escape him that he was indebted for them to 
any preceding writer. 

It may §em strange that Rowe should 
flatter himself with the hope of evading: 
detection : that hope, however, was not so 
extravagant as it may appear at present, 
Fewof oiir old dramas were then on sale: 
thoseof Shakspeare, Jonson, and Fletcher^ 
indeed, had been collected ; depredations on 
them, therefore, though frequently made^ 
were attended with some degree of hazard; 
but the works of Massiijger, few qf whiclj. 
had reached a second edition, lay scattered 
in single playS, and might be appropriated 
without fear. What printed copies or ma- 
nuscripts were extant, were chiiejBy to Bq 
fottnd in private libraries, not easily acoe^T^ 
sible, nor often brought to sale ; and it is not, 
perhaps, top much to say that more old plays 
may now be found in th^ hands of a single 
bookseller, than,^ in the days of Rowe, were, 
Supposed to be in exiateii^e. / 

The Fair Pmitent wias produced in J 7^3,^ 
and the Author, having abandoned his first' 
design, uudertook to prepare for the press 
the works of a poet more worthy, it must be 
confessed, of his care, but not in equal want 



INTRODUCTION. Ijti 

of his assistance, aftd, in 1709, gave the pub- 
lick the first octavo edition of iShakspeare. 

What might have been the present rank 
of Massinger, if Rowe had completed his 
purpose, it would be presumptuous to deter- 
mine: it ma,y^ however, be conjectured that, 
reprkited with accuracy, corrected- with 
judgment, and illustrated with ingenuity, he 
would, at least, have been more generally 
known/ and suffered to occupy a station pf 

^ More generally knozpn,'] It does i^ot appear from 
johnsoh^s observation^ on the Fair Penitent^ that he had 
any knowledge of Massiiiger; Steeven9> I have some 
reasoft to think, took him up late in hfe; and Mr* 
Malotie observes to me, that he only consulted him for 
verbal illustrations of Shak^peare. Thiy is merely a 
subject fof regret ; but we may be allowed to complain 
a little df those who discuss his merits withdut examiniiifg 
his wolte, and traduce his character on their own mis- , 
conceptions. Capell, whose dull fidelity forms tlies<^le . 
clairh on our kindness, becomes both inaccurate and 
unjust thie instant he speaks of Massinger; he accuses 
hii3Q of feeing one of the props of Jonson's throne, in ' 
opposition to the "pretensions of Shakspeare ! * The te- ^ 
verse of this is the tt-uth: he was the admirer and itnitat«r 
of Shakspeare; atid it is scarcely possible to look into 
one of his prologues, without discovering some allusion, 

more or less concealed, to the overweening pride, an^ 

'■''■»., . ■ > , , • 

* See bis JntrodH4^fion to Shakspear^^s Plays, Vol, I. 
p. 14. 



Ixii INTI^OBUCTIPN. 

greater res|)ectabiUty than he has Jwth??;^ 
been permitted to assume. - , i 

Massinger, thus plundered and abandoc^ 
byRowe, was, after a cojnsiderable lapse )<^ 

■ • -..Ml* 

arrogance of Joiison. This disinclination to the latter 
was no secret to his contemporaries, while his partirffty 
to tlieftiraier wi«450 notorious, that in a mock rooaimtf ^ 
emikdWH wd Fancy in a Maze, or Don Zai^ij^, i^[l 
J'ijgo, laqao- 165Q^ (the knowled^e^ of which \f?» 
obligingly commanicated to me \>y the Rev. W.Todd^ 
where an uproar amongst the English poets is descritea, 
Massinger is expressly intreducc^d as ^^ one of thfd lifi- 
-gtfards^ to SbakspeaoK/* Sa much for the sneer ,«c|f 
CapelU — but Massipger's ill fate still pursues^jin, .Jsi 
a Ifite Essayon the staire, written with considerable 
ingenuity, the author, in giving a chronological history 
of dramatick writers frona Sackville downwards, oVei- 
loOksMafesiii^er'lSlI he- artiies at our bwn times: *^ He 
then refloUec^ith^t ba ffw^one.of the fathers cC^tbe 
I d^mja^.afldja^dsj^ t|iat^^^s style waii ^Qf^h, fi^nly, 
and vigorous, ^t)i^t he pressed upon his subject with a 
severe buC^masterly hand, that his wit was caushc^ ^c. 
Jf^).]^i3^e^t|einaq haji ever looked iato the ppet h^ thus 
jcjjyj^^tprises, be must h^ve instantly recogii|sed Jj^is 

.ifi^ft^r* .Massi^iger has no a^iY, and hi? huinour,^ 4*V 
which he al^ouads^^ 7^ <>f a light, and frolick nature ; he 
pressies not o^ bis subject ^ith sevpity, but with fullness 
of knowledge ; a|id bis style is so far from rouglmefs, 

;i that its characteristick excellence is a sweetness beyoxid 
example. '^ Whoever," says Johnson, ^' wishes to .attain 
an English style familiar but npt coarse^ and d^ant 



IN TROD 13! CTI ON. ixiii 

tifiift; taken up by ThomilS'ecfxetfer,! of iwhoq^ 

I know nothing revive thssi Is deliveijed.by 

!Mr. Egerton Brydges, in hU:^ usefjul ^antt in- 

jg'emdus additions' 1» the jTi^afmw BoetOhumf 

" He was born of an ancient and respectable 

{smil]ff at Lechla4e* i^ . Gl9]uc^stershir^, in 

.1689, Bind educated ^t Trinity,>Coilteg#„ Ox- 

^forrf, whete he 'vvora a civilfcih's^ gbwo^ and 

'^lit 1710, aBariadhinjr thfe tivil 1S4\r/^»^iid 

eyerv ^ other profession, came to ±joifdi)n. 

M^m contiftuing iwiAout any settled purppf^, 

%e became acquainted with booksellers and 

Authors, and amassed materials for a bid- 

^^aphy of bur old pbets. He had a cuHbtis 

ppllection pf old /plays, and was the ii|-st 

^who formed the scheme adopted by JP^dsley, 

^f iniHishing a selection of them/' &e». u 

Wartoii too calls Coxeter a fkithful ahd 

industrious amasser of our old English fite- 

bii ii6t bstehtalioite, inti^t give his day^iirid W^ts^Ao ' 

'the Voltimes of Addisdii/' Whoever wtiuld add t6^h^ 
' the qualities of simplicity, purity, sweetness, Und sUbiigtli, 

ikosi devote his hours to the study of 'Sfasi5?n^^t; ' 
'■' "I tkke the offered opportunily to e^^jit-esi'tn/thattks 

'16 this 'gentleman fdr the^dfiliging manner in iehVch' he 
^'transmitted to me the mahrfscript notes of ^fdyi'&^d 
'dlhers, copied into his edfrion of Lattgbaine, fOttfaerly 
Mw^j^e«don(rf'M,lSte^6u^l^ r ' ^^ 



Ixiv INTRODUCTION. 

rature, and this praise, whatever be its wartl!, 
is all that can be fairly said to belong to him :* 
as an editor he is miserably defident ; though 
it appears that he was not without assi^stance 
which, in other hands, might have been 
turned to some account. *' When I left 
Lond<Mi," says th6 accis^te imd mgenious 
Gldys, " in the year 17^4, : to reside in 
Yorkshire, I left in the care of the Rev. Mr. 
Burridge's family,' wkh whom I had several 
years lodgai, amongst many other books, a 
copy of this Langbaine, in which I had written 
several notes and references to further the 
kftowledge of these poets. When I r^iimed 
to London in 1730, I understood my books 
had been dispersed ; and afterwards becoming 
acquainted with Mr. Coxeter, I found that he 
had bought my Langbaine of a bookseller, 
as he was a great collector of plays and 
poetical books. This must have been of 

* Johnson told Boswdl that ^ a Mr. Coxeter, whom 
be knew, had collected about five hundred volumes of 
poets whose works were most known ; but that, upon his 
death, Tom Osborne bought them, and they were dis- 
persed, which he thought a pity; as it was curious to 
)iee any series complete, and in every volume of poems 
something good might be found," BosweU's Life, &c, 
VoLir. p.452. ^ ^ 



INTRODUCTION hv 

i ' ' ' 

i 

iiervice to him, and he has kept it so carefull}^ 
from my sight, that I never could have th^ 
opportunity of transcribing into this I am no^ 
writing, , th^ nptes I h?id collected ^in that. 
.Whether I had entered any remarks upp^ 
i^Iassinger, I remember not ; but he had 
communications from me concerning hipi^ 
when he v^as undertaking to give us^ new 
cation of his plays, wMch is not p]Libli3h^4 
yet He (^fr. Coxeter) died op the loth 
(or 19th, I cannot tell which) of, April, 
being Easter Sunday, 1747, of a fever which 
grew, from a cold he caught at an auction of 
books over Exeter Change, or by sittmgup 
late at the tavern afterwards/ " . * , , ^ 
. On the deathx>f Coxeter, his collections £Qr 
the purppsed edition of Massipg^rj^.f^ll into, 
the hands of a bookseller* of^the^^nap^je of 
Dell, who gave them to the world ,j?i 1759. 
From the publisher's preface it^pj^ar^ that , 
Coxeter did not live to complete his design. 
" The late ingenious Mr. Coxeter,'^ he jsays, 
*' had corrected and coHated alL t^e varioju^ 
editions;* and, if I may judge from his^ 

** » 'i ■ ■ , ' ■ • 

^ Manuscript notes on Langbaine^ in the Britishi. 
Museum* 
^ This is also asserted in the title-page : bq^ it is not sp., 

VOL. I. e 



ixvi INTRODUCTION. 

copies, he had Spared no diligence an* care 
to make them as correct as possible. Several 
ingenious observations and ; notes he had 
likewise prepared- for his intended edition, 
which are all inserted in the present. Had 
he lived to have completed his design, I dare 
say he would have added many more, and 
:that his work would have met with a very 
favourable reception from every person of 
.true taste and genius." 
^ A&Dell professesto have followed Coxeter Js 
-papers, and given all his notes, we may for^n 
' no inadequatei idea of what the edition would 
have been. Though educated at the Univer- 
sity, Coxeter exhibits no proofs of literature. 
: To critical sagacity he has not the smallest 
pretension ; his conjectures are void alike of 
ingenuity and probability, and his historical 
references at once pueril^ and incorrect. 
Even his parallel passages ( the easiest part 
of an editor'js.JalK)ur) are more calculated to 
produce a smile at the collector's expense, 
than to illustrate his author; while every 
page of his work bears the strongest impres- 
sion of imbedlity. The praise of fidelity 
may be allowed hin^; but in doing this, the 
unfortunate Dell must be charged (how 



INTRODUCTION. Ixvii' 

justly I know not) with the innumerable 
eiTours which over-run and deform the edi- • 
tion. I need not inforai those who afe 
conversant with old copies, that the> printers 
Were less attentive to the measure of the 
original, than to filling up the: Une^ and 
saving their paper: this Coxeter attempted 
to remedy; his success, however, was but 
partial ; his vigilance relaxed; or his ear 
failed him, and hundreds, perHa^ps thousands; 
of Verses ar* giwen in the cdcophanous and 
unmetrical state in which they appear in the 
early editions. A few palpable blunders are 
removed, others, not less remarkable, are 
Continued, and where a word is altered, 
under the idea of improving the sense, it is 
almost invariably for the worse. Upon the 
Nyhole, Massinger appeared to less advan- 
tage than m the old copies. . 

Two years afterwards, (1761,) ^, second 
edition' of this work was published by Mr. 

' ji second edition] So, at least, it insinuates: but 

^Mr. Waldron, of Drury L<ane Theatre,Xa most friendly 

and ingenious man, to whose small but curious library 

lam much indebted,) who is better acquainted wfth the-^ 

adroitness of boojcsellers than I pretend to be> informs 

. me that it is only ]>eU's with tt new title-page. ^ , j < ^ , , 

e 2 



Ixx I N T R O D U C T J O N. 

tet which had completely escaped him ) that 
the great duty of an editor is fidelity: that 
Ae ignorance of Coxeter in admitting so 
many gross faults could give no reasonable 
mind the slightest plea for relying on his ge- 
neral accuracy, and that however high they 
might rate their friend's sagadty, it was not 
morally certairj that when he displaced his 
predecessor's words to make room for his 
own, he fell upon the genmne text. Nothing 
of this, however, occurred to them, and Mr, 
M, Mason was prevailed upon, in evil hour, 
to send his corrected Coxeter to the pre$s. 

In a preface which accords but too well with 
the rest of the work, he observes, that he had 
" never heard of Massinger till about two years 
bef6re he reprinted him." ^ It must be con^ 
fessed that he lost no time in boasting of his 

^ Yet if is strange (he adds) that a writer of such evU 
dent excellence should be so little knbwii^,' Preface, p. i. 
As some alleviation of Mr. M. Mason*8 amazement, J 
will tell him a short story : *' Tradition says, that on a 
certain time, a man, who had occasion to rise very early, 
wa^ met by another person, who expressed his astbnish* 
ment at bis getting up at so unseasonable an hour: th6 
nian answered, O master wonder-monger ! as you hav^ 
done the same thing, what reasop have you to be siur-* 
prised ?'* ^ 



acquaintance :- — it appears, . however, to have 
been but superficial. In the setond page he, 
asserts, that the whole of Massioger's play% 
were published while the author was living I 
This is a specimen of the care with which he. 
usually proceeds : the life of th^ Author, pre^ 
fixed to his own edition, tells that he died in 
1640, and in the list which immediately fol- 
lows it, no less thai;i four plays are given in 
succession, which were not published till near 
twenty years after that period ! , 

The oscitancy of Mr, M. Mason is so greats 
that it is impossible to say whether he supposed 
there was any older edition than that before 
him. He talks indeed of Massinger, but he 
jalways means Coxeter ; and it is beyond any 
common powers of face to hear him discourse 
of the verbal and grammatical inaccuracies of 
an author whose works he probably never 
saw, without a smile of pity or contempt. 

He says, ♦* I have admitted into the text all 
my own amendments y in order that those who 
may wish to give free scope tq their fancy 
and their feelings, and without turning aside 
to verbal criticism, may read these plays in 
that which appears to me the most perfect 
state ;" ( what intolerable conceit ! ) ^< but for 



Ixxii JNTRODUCTION. 

/ 

the satisfaction of more critical readers, I have 
directed that the words rejected by me should 
be insertef[ in the margin/'* This is not the 
ca$e ; and I cannot account, on any common 
principles of prudence, for the gratuitous te- 
merity with which so strange an assertion is 
advanced : not one in twenty is noticed, and 
the reader is misled on almost every occasion. 
I do not wish to examine the preface fur- 
ther ; and shall therefore conclude with ob- 
serving, that 'Mr. M. Mason's edition is iniBi- 
nitely worse than Coxeter's. It rectifies a 
few mistakes, and suggests a feW improve- 
ments ; but, on the other hand, it abounds in 
errours and omissions, hot only beyond that, 
but, perhaps, beyond any other work that 
eVef appeared in print. Nor is this all : the 
ignorant fidelity of Coxeter has certainly 
given us many absurd readings of the old 
printers or transcribers ; this, however, is far 
more, tolerable than tKe mischievous inge- 
nuity of Mr. M. Mason : the words he has 
silently introduced bear a specious appearance 
of truth, and are therefore calculated to elude 
the vigilance of many^readers, whom the text 
of Coxeter would havie §tartled, and compelled 

* PrefacPjp. ix. 



INTRODUCTION. Ixxm 

to seek the genuine s^nse elsewhere. To sum 
tip the account between the two editions, both 
bear the marks of ignorance, inexperience, and 
inattention ; in both the faults are Incredibly 
numerous ; but where Coxeter drops words, 
Mr. M. Mason drops lines, and where the 
former omits lines, the latter leaves oiit whole 
speeches t 

After what I have just said, the reader > 
perhaps, will feel an inclination to smile at 
the concluding sentence of Mr. M. Mason's 

Preface :, " I flatter myself, that thiS edi- 

# 

tion' OF Massinger will be found more 

CORRECT (and CORRECTNESS IS THE ONLY ME- 
RIT IT PRETENDS TO ) THAN THE BEST OF THOSE 
WHICH HAVE AS YET BEEN PUBLISHED OF ANY 
OTHER ANCIENT DRAMATICK WRITER." [* , 

The genuine merits of the Poet, however, 
were strong enough to overcome these 
wretched remoras. The impression was be- 
come scarce, and though never worth the 
paper on which it was printed, sold at an ex- 
travagant price, when a new edition was pro- 
posed to me by Mr. Evans of Pall -Mall. 
Massinger was a favourite; and I had fre- 
quently lamented, with many others, that he 

^ Preface, p. xi. 



Ixxiv INTRODUCTION. 

had fallen into suth hands. I saw^ without 
the assistance of the old copies, that hi3 metre 
was disregarded, that his sense was disjointed 
and broken, that his dialogue was imperfect, 
and that he was encumbered with explana- 
tory trash whifch would disgrace the pages 
of a sixpenny magazine ; and in the hope of 
remedying these, and enabling the Author to 
take his place on the same shelf, I will not 
say with Shakspeare, but with Jonson, Beau- 
mont, and his associate Fletcher, T readily 
undentook the labour. 

My jfirst care was to look round for the 
old editions. To collect these is not at all 
times possible, and,. in every case, is a work 
of trouble and expense ; but the kindness of 
individuals supplied me with all that! wanted. 
Octavius Gilchrist, a gentleman of Stamford,' 
no sooner heard of my design, than he oblig- 
ingly sent me all the copies which he pos-, 
sessed; the Rev. P. Bayles of Colchester 
(-only known to me by tliis act of kindness ) 

■ I must not omit that Mr. Gilchrist, (whose name 
will occur more than once in the ensuing pages,) toge- 
ther with his copies of Massinger transmitted a number 
of useful and judicious observations on the Poet, derived 
from his extensive acquaiatance with our old historians^ 



INTRODUCTION. Ixxv 

- - ' 

1 

/ 

presented me Avith a small but choice selec-- 
tion ; and Mr. Malone, with a liberality which 
I shall ever remember with gratitude and de- 
light, furnished me, unsolicited, with hl3 inva- 
luable collection,* among which I found all the 

• For this, I owe Mr. Malone my peculiar thanks: 
but the admirers of Massingei" must join with me in ex- 
pressing their gratitude to him for an obligation of a 
more p'ubtick kind ; for the communication of that beau* 
tiful fragment, which now appears in print for the first 
time, the Parliament of Love. From the History of the 
English Stagey prefixed to Mr. Malone's edition of 
Shakspeare, 1 learned that ^^ four acts of an unpublished 
drama by Massinger wei'e still extant in manuscript." As 
I anxiously wished to render this Edition as perfect as 
possible, I wrote to Mr. Malone, with whom 1 had not 
the pleasure of being personally acquainted, to know 
where it might be found ; in return he informed me that 
the manuscript was in his possession r its state, he added^ 
was such> that he doubted whether much advantage 
6ould be derived from it, but that I was entirely welcome 
to make the experiment. Of this permission, which I 
accepted with singular pleasure, I instantly availed my- 
self, and received the manuscript. It was, indeed, in a 
forlorn conditioii : several leaves were torn from the be- 
ginning, and the top and bottom of every page wasted 
by damps, to which it had formerly been exposed. On 
examination, however, I had the satisfaction to find^ 
that a considerable part of the first act, which was sup- 
posed to be lost, yet existed, 'and that a certain decree 
of attention, which I was not unwilling to bestow on it, 
might recover nearly the whole of the remainder. How 



y 



Ixxvi INTRODUCTION. 

first editions : I these, with such as I could 
procure in the course ot a few months from . 

I succeeded may be seen in the second volume ; where 
the reader will find such an account, as was consistent 
with the brevity of my plan, of the singular institution on 
which the fable is founded. Perhaps the subject merits 
no further consideration : I would, however, just obsei've, 
that, since the article was printed, I have been furnished 
by my friend, the Rev. R. Nares, with a curious old vo- 
lume, called Arresta jimorum, or Arrets tF Amour, writ^ 
ten in French by Martial d'Auvergne, who died in 1508* 
It is not possible to imagine any thing mo^e frivolous 
than the causes, or rather appeals, which are supposed 
to be' beard in this Court of Love. What is> however, 
somewhat extraordinary is, that these miserable trifle^ 
are commented upon by Benoit le Court, a celebrated 
jurisconsult of those times, with a degree of seriousness 
which would not disgrace the most important questions. 
Every Greek and Roman writer, then known, is quoted 
with prpfusion, to prove some trite position dropt at ran- 
. dom : occasion is al^o taken to desqant on many subtile 
points of law, which might not be altogether,, perhaps, 
^ithout their interest. 1 have nothing further to say of 
this elaborate piece. of foolery. Which I xead with equal 
wearjspmeness and disgust, but which serves, perhaps, tp 
shew that these Parliaments of Love, though confessedly 
imaginary, occupied much of the publick attention, than 
that ^ had probably fallen into Massinger's hands, a^ 
the scene between B^llisant and Clarindore (Vol. IL 
^.278) sipems to be founded on the first appeal which 
is heard ii^ the Arrtts d* Amour, 

^ I have no intention of entering into the dispute 



INTRODUGTION. Ixxvu 

the booksellers, in addition to the copies iu 
the Museum, and in the rich collection of his 
Afajesty, which I consulted from time to 
time, form the basis of the present v/ork. 

With these aids I sat down to the business 
of collation : it was now that I discovered, 
with no less surprise than indignation, those 
alternations and- omissions of which I have 
already spoken ; and which I made it my 
first care to reform and supply. At the 
outset, finding it difficult to conceive that the 
variations in Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason were 
the effect of ignorance or caprice, I imagined 
that an authority for them might be some- 
where found, and therefore collated not only 
every edition, but even several copies of 
the same edition ;* what began in necessity 
was continued by choice, and- every play has 

respecting the comparative merits of the first and second 
folios of Shakspeare. Of Massinger, however, I may 
be' allowed to say that I constantly found the earliest 
editions the most correct. A palpable errour might be, 
and, indeed, sometimes was removed in the subsequent 
ones, but the spirit, and what I would call the raciness, 
of the author only appeared complete in the original 
copies. . 

* In some of these plays I discovered that an errour 
had been detected after a part of the impressioQ was 



ixxriii rNTROI>tTeTION. 

J 

undergone, at least, five close examinatiirfis 
with the original text On this strictness of 
revision rests the great distinction of this 
edition from the preceding ones, from which 
it will be found to vary in an infinite number 
of places: indeed, accuracy, as Mr. M. Mason 
says, is all the merit to which it pretends ; 
and though I would not provoke, yet I see 
no reason to deprecate the consequences of 
the severest scrutiny. 

There is yet another distinction. The old 
copies rarely specify the place of actbnr 
such, indeed, was the poverty of the stage, 
that it admitted of little variety. A plain 
curtain hung up in a comer, separated distant 
regions ; and if a board were advanced with 
Milan or Florence written upon it, the de- 
lusion was complete. */ A table with pen 
and ink thrust in,'' signifi^ed that. the stage 
was a counting-house ; if these were with-^ 
drawn, and two stools put in. their places^, 
it was then a tavern. Instances of this may 
be found in the margin of all our old plays, 
which seem to be copied from the prompter's 
books ^ and Mr. Malone might have pro-r 

trorked off, and consequently corrected, or what was 
inore frequently the case, exchanged for another. 



IN TR O D tJ C T I O N. Ixxix 

duc6d from his Massinger alone, more than 
enough to satisfy the veriest sceptick, that 
the notion of scenery, as we naw understand 
it, was utterly unknown to the stage. In- 
deed, he had so much the advantage of the 
argument without these aids, that I have al- 
ways wcmdered how Steevens could so long 
support, and so strenuously contend for, his 
most hopeless cause. But he was a wit and 
a scholar ; and there is some pride in shew- 
ing how dexterously a clumsy weapon may 
be wielded by a practised swordsman. With 
all this, however, I have ventured on an ar- 
rangement of the scenery. Coxeteiv and 
Mr. M. Mason attempted it in two or three 
plays, and their ill success, in a matter of no 
extraordinary difficulty, proves how much 
they mistook their talents, when they com- 
menced the trade of editorship,, with little 
more than the negative qualities of heedless- 
ness and inexperience.' 

I come now to the notes. Those who are 
accustomed to the Crowded pages of our 

* Heedlessness and inexperieffce,'] Those who recollect 
the boast of Mr. M. Mason, will be somewhat surprised^ 
perhaps, even after all which they have beard, at learning 
that^ in so simple a. matter as marking the exits, this 



Ixw^ INTRODUCTION. 

modem editors, will probably be sgraf^y^hxt 
\ startled at the comparative nak9jcil^e^§ pf 

gentleman blunders at every step. If Pope were tjow' 

alive^ he need not apply to lira black-letter 'plays iok 

such niceties z& txit omnes^ enter three f^tpfks sotut^ 

&.C. Mr. M« Mason's e4ition> wbiqb be ^^. flatten 

bimself will be found inore correct tbap the best j>f 

those which have been yet published of any other 

ancient dramatick writer/' would furnish abundance 6t 

theml His copy of Me Fatal Dowry now lies b^ifere 

me, and, in the compass of a feit^ pages,;! icdMtoiive/ 

Exit Officers with Novall,{\96,) Exit Charalois, Creditors^ 

ana Officers, (200,) Exit Romont and Servant, (215,) 

Exit Novall senior, and Pontalier, (258,) &c. All exit, 

occurs in the Emperor of the East; (311;) Exit Gentlemen. 

(224,) and Exit Tiberio and Stephano,(245,) \n t/ie Duke 

of Milan : these last blunders are voluntary on the part of 

tlie editor: Coxeter, whom he usually follows, reads tlx. 

for Exeujit, the filling up, therefore. Is solely due to nis 

oWn ingenuity! Similar instances might be produced 

from every play, I would not infer from this that Mr. 

M. Mason is unacquainted with the meaning of so 

common a word ; but if we relieve him from the charge 

of ignorance, what becomes of his accuracy ? Indeed, 

it is difficult to say on what precise exertion of this 

faculty his claims to favour were founded. Sometime^ 

characters come in that never eo out, and ffo oiit that, 

I' ' *'' 

nevejr come in; at other times they speak before they 

enter, or after they have left the stage, nay, " to make 

li the more gracious," after they are asleep or dead! 

. * See his Preface to Sfaakspeare. ' 



\ ' 



If this te an errdiir, it is a voluntary cine; I 
heviea^ could cmceive tvhy the readers' of our 
old dramatisais shoiildbe suspoected of labouring 
under a greater degree of ignorance than 
thotse of any other class of writers ; yet, frisjin 
the ti^ite alid insignificant materials amassfedfor 
their inforihatioiiy it is evident that k persua- 
sion x)f this nature is uncommonly prevalent. 
Ci^oms which are universal , and expressidm^ 
'^ f«nitiar as househdld^ words'" in every 

Here 6ne mode of spelling is adopted, there another; 

here' Coxeter is selflrilely followed, there capriciously 

ddsarled ; here the scenes are numbet^d; there continued 

Wifch6|jit distiiiction; here asidt^ are multiplied wUhoiM; 

necessity, there suppfessed with manifest injury, to the 

seose; while the page is every where encumbered with 

marginal directioi)S> which, being intended solely for 

the properiy-ma«, Who, as has been already mentioned, 

had but few properties at his disposal, can now only he 

k^arded as designed to excite a smile at the expense 

of the author. Nor is this all: the absurd scenery' 

introduced by Coxeter is continued in despite of commoa 

sense; .the lists of dramatis personae are imperfectly 

"^iven in every instance ; and even that of tht Fatal 

Doary, which has no description of the characters, is 

left by Mr. M. Mason as he found it, tliough nothing 

can -be- more destructive of that uniformity which the 

reader is led to expect from the bold pretensions of his 

preface; I hope it is needless to add that these irregu- ^ 

kirities will not be found in :the present volumes* 

VOL. J. f 



;! 




rmonth, are illustrated/ that is'io sstj^/6^&^ 
laid, by an itiimensity of parallel plSsa^iJ, 
^ with jiist as much wisdom and r^cH W 
thought as would be evinced by him -who, t6 
explain any simple word in this Ikie,- shkAild 
Hehipty upon the reader all the lexamples ^i 
be fbund under it in Johnson's DictiiDiiiiry !^ ^ 

This cheap and miserable display of rcilMik 
erudition grew lup, in great irieasStfe; ^itH 
Warton:— peace tahb itianfesFtfie^tba'iW^'<j|' 
Sdurid literature has been T^iarfulfy aVeh^i^ 
upon his head: arid th6 kmgltt^^htnt 1^li6[ 
with his atti^ndant Bowleis, the duU^^tof all 
mortal squirea,^ sallied forth in questof the 
original proprietor of every common word 
in Milton, Has* had his copulatives arid dSs- 
junctiVes, his huts and his and^j sedulbusly 
feitetted out fi*6m all the schbol-books iri tW 
kirigdbrii. Aii a prbse writer, hie ivill ^ lorij 
coritinue t6 instruct and^ de%ht V "biit as^ 
poet. Be is buried—lost^ He is hot M iK^ 
race of the Titans, nor does' he poissesi* 
sufficient vigour to shake off the weigfit^yf 
iricumberit mountains. : ' .>/rib 

However this may be, I have proceeded tSii' 
a. different plan. Passages that only exerdse 
the memory, by suggesting similar thoughts 



..•> 



p,w|^ ;<li*CQy^ry^ ]^n«qon(imo?i and obsolete 
3^fo^^ are briefly, ^^^ and, wh,ere-t|i!9 

|ij[j[^j^ol(qgy \yas dopbtfiii o^r obscu^ ilr 

ii|isjtc?it^^d cQnfirnied,^ by quotations frpm 
con^^ipppr^fy .autbprs.: In thi? part of -th^ 
y^qtkjt no al^use has been attempted of ;the 
f^eT'i^^^Jlc^j.^tke mostpo$^ave thatCQul4 
^ Ipjifti^i^jwe gjjfen, ajt^4 ^ scrupulous atl;en^ 
l^fisi^y^jr where .paid to brjevity ; as it his 
,W» fAwys my: persuasion., 

Mi \Qg ^TKit where cinq's probft a¥e aptly chosen;, '^^ 

i^^^ j[j)^}^9, that the freedoms of the 4uthoc 
4g^ ]ylu(^^ 9^ pphe cat! ,be mpt^e^^setisibl^^ th?i^ 
ipy;5dfi,3p nf^tie^c^ ^pre l^igent then?} have} 
9l)^(|ned I lit%pf'roy solicitude : tho^^, ^e^y^y, 
f9T^/.\y^o^3f ifim ine, the noteiS^^ith a prurient 

driver out gratuitous obsqenities in ^9putili 
l^gpage;*np Collins (whos^ name sl\ould 

f^ In ^uncMdh language ;"] It is singular that Mr. 
%eQYeos^,twho,was so wejl acquainted with the words of 



Ix^^^iv I N t R O D if C¥l O Ni 

be tfevdted to lasting inTamy) to ransack 'ifffe 
annals of a brothel for secrets/^ better Ind^"^ 
where I Mshed^ riot to detaini the reader, 1 
have bcteri silS^t^ and instead of asjMrihg tb 
the fame of a licentious commentator, sougllt 
bni3rfor the qiiiet approbation with' whicH the 
father or the husband may reward^ the FAitfi?- 
ilil editor. ' i 

But whatever may be thought of ftiy owft 
niotes, the critical observations mat foUdw 
each jilay, and, above all, the eloquent iEUW 
masterly delineation of Massinger's character, 
subjoined to ^A^ p/i Late;, by the companioiti 
of my youth, the friend of my maturer year*, 
the inseparable and affectionate associate of 
my pleasures and my pains, my graver and 

« 

our aQcient writer^, should be so ignorant of their style* 
The language which he has put into the mouth of 
Amner is a barbarous jumble of different ages, that 
never had, and never could have, a prototype. 

^ One book which (not being, perhaps, among the 
archives so carefully explored for the benefit of the 
youthful readers of Shakspeare) seems to have escaped 
the notice of Mr. Collins, may yet be safely commended 
to his future researches, as not unlikely to reward his 
pains. He will find in it^ among many other thinga 
equally valuable, that, '' The knowledge of wickedrtess is 
not wisdom, neither, at any time, the counsel of sinners 
prudence/' Eccles. xix. 22. 



INTRO D U C T I O N. Ixxxv 

my lighter studies, the Rev. Dr. Ireland/ will, 
I am persuaded, be received with peculiar 
pleasure, if precision, vigour, discrimination, 
and originality, preserve their usual claimsto 
.esteem. 

, The head of Massinger, prefixed to this 
volume, was copied by my young friend, 
Lascelles Hoppner, from the print before the 
^three octavo plays published by H. Moseley, 
j^6s5*^ Whether it be really the " vera effi- 
igies" of the Poet, I cannot pretend to say: 
it was produced sufficiently near his time to 
be accurate, and it has not the air qf a fancy 
portrait. There is, I believe, no other. 

• iPrebendary of Westminster, and vicar of Croydon, 
■fa Surrey. 

» The date in the plate is 1623. This mistake of the 
eogri^ver^ which was not discovered till it was printed 
off, the reader will have the goodness to correct with 



V 



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[ Ixxxvii 3 



ESSAY ON THE DRAMATICK WRITINGS 



OF MASSINGER. 



By JOHN FEURIAR, M.D. 



Manchester, October 25> 1786. 

- ^ - - Jtes antiqtuB laudis et artis 
Ingredior^ sanctos ausus recluderefontes. Virg, 

It might be urged, as a proof of our pos^ 
sessing a superfluity of good plays in our 
language, that cMie of oiir best dratnatick 
writers is very generally disregarded. But 
whatever conclusion may be drawn from this 
fact, it will not be easy to free the publick 
from the suspicion of caprice, while it conti- 
nues to idolize Shakspeare, and to neglect an 
aitfhor not often much inferiour, and some- 
times nearly equal, to that wonderful poet. 
Massinger's fate Has, indeed, been hard, far 
beyond the common topicks of the infelicity 



of genius. He was not mertely denied t dbte 
fortune for which he laboured;, and uthe 
fame which he merited; a still more cruel 
circumstance has attended his productionsr]: 
JSterary. pjifexer^.have huilttkeir jreputatiop 
on his ol?scurity^ and the popularity of theit 
stolen beauties has diveiited thepublick attend 
tion from the excellent original. q 

An attempt .was made in favour of this inf 
jured Poet, in 1761, by a new edition of >his^ 
works, attended with a critical dissertation on 
the o^dl^Jlglish drMJ*tists, in which, thot^h 
composed with spirit and elegance, there is 
little to be found respecting Massin^er. Ano^, 
ther edition appeared in 1773, but the Poet 
rMfiained toiexamjited. P^r^ps M^issanger p 
ftiM unfortunate in hi§ vindicator. > 

; TJaen^arae irreg^I^irity Qf p]b?t j and 4iis^f' 
gard of jml^fl^^ appear iite Massi^^ prodiiip*- 
tions, as in ihose of Ms fiotejnpor^rie^. ^Qo 
1^ subject, l^takspeare h%$ been so wjsll de^ 
fdidied, tfiai k jis qjuj^cessury to sdd $fly ^ 
gumenlts in yinidiisatiQB of jcmr Poet. There i« 
every neason to suppose that Magsiiiggr di4 
not neglect the ancient rulies from ignorance, 
for he appears to be one of our most le^rne4 
writers, (notwithstaijdiiig tl^ iqsipjd ^neerai" 



WRITIN0S DrM^9Sa«JER. Ixxi^ 

iaMKf«i^s8fil}r<^ wm& bf 'gi^esit ^etodition^ is not 
InD^rAtteniive^ the njmitMSi]ik^msa^ 

•pe»[s,?inr0lefor bread : it afipeara, ff bin dif*- 
Iranmt flirts ttett-wiich of h^ 

tife ) had' pkssed ih siftvtsh dep^idftilpe^ md 
peawify is ■not apt ixrescditriage a ^sire of 

I QoeicrfiiseimitkMjthowevOT^^ may be risked, 
i«5i jDilr It-Fcgiilar ami i^ pluys ; tbat the 
fnmi^caaie more pk&psktg to th^ t^ste, ai^ 
tfae>lattbrtD the uiidetf*$tafidkg : readers ri^ust 
determhie, tken^ wheijier «t is better to f^eJ, 
ar to approv^e- Massinger^ drajWtJck art la 
t0o greaH: t© alkxwr a feint ^aiite <a|f propriety 
(o idm^il on: the mmd, in p^rusjng his pieces^ 
he infl^imes or sooAs, excites the ^tf ongestf 
iCTMfiiryOr tfifi)SK)fbest pity, withrall die enei^y 
attd powfisr (rf a true poet. 

But if we must adwiit, that an irregular 
ptot subjects a ^vrker to peculiar disadvan^* 
ta^^, tJie forjC5e of Massinger's genius wiU 
appear mpre evidently, from tWs very cem*^ 

■J 

' ^theniid Oxon. Vol. 1. 
' * See particularly the dedication of the Maid of 
Honour, and Grwt Duke of F^renet. 



ic ESSAY ON VimiS 



* 4 i, 



tttffiion. TKe i»terest of his i^©ce»«, Iob tlife 
»ost part, strong awd well desfin^*; die story i 
tfcough wofrkted .ap to a ^u^d intitiGacy ^ i«j 
m general, resolved with as tmich^ ease wad 
probability as its nature will permit; att^n- 
^on is never disgusted by Imtkipatioit^ mNC 
tortured wkh unnecessary delay. These ieha>^ 
iracters are applicable ta most of Maisingw'tfl 
own productions ; but in those which he vrrattf 
jointly with other dra^fxatists, the Mteresti (w 
often weakened, by inddraits whidi ihat a^ 
j>armitted> but which the present would' nbfr 
endure. 'Thus, in the^ Ren^ada* tfaet hmaaim 
4if Paulina is preserved from the teutaKlJy iQ# 
l^r ' Turkififh ma*ter, by the influenGci of IcfB 
rellck, which she^wear« dn iier rbreast r m^fid 
Wrgin - Marty f, thie beroine ^ i attended 
through air her sufferings, by an; angel dise 
gained as her^page ; her persecutor is lurged 
6n to dfestroy her by an attendaht fiend, alsitsi 
In dis^ise. Here ouir anxiety for the dis*l 
treSSed, and our hatred of the wicked,^ arift 
d3ittplettely stifled, and we are more feasilr^ 
^flfect^ by some burlesque passages jwhwrihr 
fbiloW, in the same legendary sfcrainr In <^iSi 
last quoted play, the attendaitt angel piite 

^ This play was written by Mtis^EfgCT alone. 



WRITlSECfjr OF MiASSlKGER. xfct 

tbfr jkAkkff ^ twdf^^ and Theophi^ 

li^si^d^eiitoiAesitSbe devil *y means of a crasB 
^dmppsed^^tif tfkPmrSy ^ichlDorDthea had 
iWfl: kl» fffomtParadise. -i 

-rWhe siotj'A)fithe Bmdman is more intri^ 
asm thartithiati of JA^ Duh ef Milm, yet th« 
fdilEfier is a^ntorfe mteresting play ;f off in the 
kttet; tfe inotrves of Francisco's conduct/ 
Biroh <!Kxsisidns ♦the disti^^^^ the jriece, ^e 
cmJ^ndisdiDsbd' in iiarrat^ the beginning 
tii thet *frW* * act : ^ we therefore consider hiufc^ 
diir that^^^o^rt^nt, as^ik; man absui^dly mid 
tmnatiiirally viciQus ! b in the Bondman; 
UCB >^ire tfreqiient gl^ps^ of a concealed 
aprtililcanr'in/the charatter of Pisander, whidi 
ktepioiqrattebtiohr fixed, and exalt? oiir ex-it 
pbetHticU^of 'the catastrophe. A mote itriking 
eoitipaidstHi mi^t be instituted between tha 
Fa$fd*Jhwfy^ of our Author, and Rowe's* copjl 
ftf I it in^ his • Fair Penitent ; but /this m vep^ 
Mly ^aiKl jadiciously done, by the authop o| 
H^ Obserm^f^ who has ^proved i sufficientiyi 
feHat rtfae mferest of ihd yFair Penitent is much 
iteaiwhedi by throwing into narration what 
Masdihger had fotdbly represented on the 
9(jig€f. ' Yet Rowe's^ play is rendered Amuc;h 

♦ No. LXXXVIIi. LXXXJX. XC. 



*ca WBK^ XW Tim ' : . 

BUJire regular .by ilteritiott. F«fi|<di^'^ J^ 
antstant^ which is taken frpjn : ow A^lthc^'s 
Guardim, aid FJtetdber's fFM-^stiCfyt^f.^^ 
considerably less eleg^t^d lessjquter^t^l^ 
by. the plagiary 'smdisCretiQn ; .the lively^, fa-i 
c^ous puraz^o of Massing^ is^^^ffin^dfqt^ 
into n Q^^eous btt£Ebon, in ihe. .cbai^afier ^f 
Cttd Mirabel.. . . i,l 

T^ie art arid iu%m«at)with which wriR^ 
Qcmdttpts his incWenfc5ai«jeyei!ry .^¥het^ ad^^^ 

Marcelia wiaild inspire a dsl^jS^^n^pf alj 
the oth^i? characteiau if she did not jactlita^ 
her ririn by Ihe .mdidgenqe pf «n ?*€€«5siv^ 
pride, in the Bdndman, Cleorn woul^ ^4^2 
fps^le when she:.cteK^s her lovers jfjieps* 
Irenes had not rendeiredhiniself, unworthy _ 
her, by -a. mean jealousy. The yiol^^ce 5^ 
.i\lnara'& p^sion in the Very, ff(o9u0i» p^ 
pares ns for its deejay . Ma«iy detached sQ^iref 
in these pieces possess uncQjninon b^^^ti^$ pf 
inqdent and situation. Of this l^in4 ii?e» th? 
B^rview between Charl^ V. ai^i §1(9^^ 
ivhich, though notoriously imnttaty to txv^ff 
history, and very deficient ih Ihei representsr 
lion of iiis, emperor^ arrests oitf attention, aft4 

' * Duke of MUan, Ael IL 



WRITmCS Of MASSINGER* xciti 

aWaReris our feelings in ther strongest maii^ 
her; the c6nfer6nde bf MdttHias and Baptistjr, 
^hen Sophia's Virtue bedomes suspected;* the 
pleadings in the Fdtdt JMvfy, respecting the 
funeral rites of Charalois ; the interview be- 
twefen don John j disguised'as a slave, and his 
distress- to whom he related his story ;^ but, 
above all, the meeting of Pisander aftd Cleora,* 
ktte\^ he has excited the revolt of the slaves, 
rri'Brder to get her withiri hii; power. These 
i^cenes are eminently distinguished by theif 
novelty, correctness, ahd interest ; the most 
hiinute critick will find little wanting, and the 
lover of truth and natui^e Can suffer nothmg 
to beitaken away. ' . 
"' It IS no reproach of our Author, that the 
Ibundation of several; perhaps afl; of his plotl 
hiay be traced in different historians, or nd^ 
ve%sts; for in supplying himself from these 
sources, he followed the practice 6f the agei 
Shakspeare, Jonson, and the rest; ire not 
ihbre original, in this respect, than our Poeti 
if^" fcartwright may be Exempted, hfe is the 
^My exception to this remark. As the mirid;^ 
of an audience, unacquainted with the models 
of antiquity, could only be afFectfed by imme- 

• Picture* ''A Very Woman, • Bondman, 



r 



4i«te. ^pfdk^adon ltd their pwsicHus/ duf x)M 
writers crowded as many incident:^ ]aind^i3s 
fieridexing a nature^ as possibk, iinto*> their 
^lyprlgs^to support anxiety and expectaiiQii ftch 
their utmost height : In our refprmedtragiek 
iw:h0ol> our pleajiure arisen i from the loattttin- 
l^lation pfthe wiiter'^ art; aad; instea^iof 

mg^vly .wat<?hmg ,for tfee unfolding ofithr 
l^otic . ( the imagination being left at j libertgf 

jby the sifnpUdty (^f tfee\actipn* ) wfe coiwiditr 

whe^he^ it ]>e j^operly e^dttistwit > Aoot^r 
:^^spp, however, rinaybe^ assj^ed forit&e ia*^ 
iricacy of thps^e plots, namely^ tb^ j)i;€^ling 
ta^te for the m^wner^aftd' waiting 
Puring the whple of the sixt^^^dii and pacbof 
the seyen^^^ntJi^entory, Italy WasitheiSeat'of 
^leg^pet pnd,^^ j^l»eh;:th©i otberu£^m)p6^ 
»^tos^dj^^40 

fg-(^tfia^§efit3^^k it wPWld^^^ 

pgggei^t ^pgrfosje to ^purai^l^te^ IthelfcdiMf 

i^f^t^rs abpwded in 9pmpli(^ed and iMeff 

:^pple MQt w?lJ^yaU§ed for. inMeniiaon;'^^ 4^^^ 



.*.< t . '. > •> ■ ; .' • . ■>■: 



'^''^ -^^ :» ^ ■ .^ I .-/ ^< ity: " u ■ -'ti. 



? Cartwrieht JUid Consfreve, who resemble each other 
strorigfy in some remarkable circumstances, are almost 
ik^- on}f dramatists wbo have arij ckim to originality 
in their plotj*. - , a ■. . 



WRITINGS OF^ MJiSmiGER. >xm 

ithe lidiness; varfety , and di«*w*^ 
araoter which^ our writers *id^d to those tSakfS, 
conferred beauties cai diero which chahn tis 
at this hour, however disguised by the altera^ 
itejis of manners and language. ^ 

-I Exact discrimination and consistency of 
tdiaratter ajppear in all Ma^sisinger's prodtic^ 
tiijnsi; isoftietimpsy kideed, the infcefest of the 
play- suflfei^s by his scrupulous attention td 
"^emj^ Th^s, in ifc? Fii^/I>*t)t^ry, Ghamt6iS% 
fdi^iMde and determined sense of hofiotit ai'g 
mttmd /to a mosfc unfeeling and barfoar&ufi^ 
46^1^ ; and ^Francisco's villainy, in tki I^kt 
(fMilmi/wm\dL and considerate beyond rta4 
tuite*- ; But here we must ag^ plead the sai 
hecessity' under which our P6et laboiiri^d,- bF 
:{^«isang his audienee at any i^e. It wsts-tlici 
{ftsevafling opinion, th^ the tebarae^^ dught 
td^aplfiroach itowatids each olhfei^ ^aisf^Ht^^^ 
possible. Thi^ ^WaS termed W; Md^in iidftdSQ . 
^puence of ^is, as DfT'Hurd' observes/ ^^(^i 
writers x>f that time> have founded theiif xfta^ 
fadters ^ cm abstracts ideas^ instead^ of ^ copyki^ 
from real life. . Those delicate and beautiful 
shades of maiihers, wfiicn we adniire in Shakr 
^Are,. were reckoned; in^?i|ra,9a^5i %>.^ 

% ' . ^ ■., J, .^ 

* Essay on the Provinces of the DralikaA ^' ' ' ' 



A. 



xcvi EBSSAY ON raE. 

contemporaries. Thus Cartwright: s^ji^si ih 
his verses to Fletcher, speaking of JShftfe* 
speare, whom he undervalues^ " nature wi^ 
^11 his art/' ^ 

General manners must al way&infhienee th^ 
stage; unhappily, the manners of MaSOTiger'jS 
age were pedantick. Yet it mus|t be allowed 
that our Author's characters are less abstraiGl^ 
than those of Jonson or Cartwright, and that, 
with more digmty , they are equally natural 
with those of Fletcher. His conceptions ar^, 
for the most part, just and noble. We have 
a fine instance of this in the character of JMo- 
clesiah, who, very dMferently from the ranting 
tyrants by whom the afaige has been so long 
possessed, is generous to his vanquished en» 
mies, and persecutes from policy as mttdi^ias 
f roiii zeal . He attracts oyr resped:^ itxmiedl^ 
ately on his appeai^uice, by the following 
sentiments : ^. ^ 

- - - - In all growing empires^ 
Even cruelty is useful ; some must suffer, 
And be set up examples to Mcikt terrour 
In others, though far off: bat, when a state 
Is raised to her perfection, and her bases,. 
Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy/ 
And do't with safety : 

Virgin MaPtyrgAci.h sc. u 




^ •< 



WRITIi^GS OF I^AisiNGER. *cvii 

iSforza is 'aft elevated cliaracter, cast ih a dif- 
lirent moiild ; bfave, frjuik, and generous, 
hr is hurried, hy the unresttairied force of 
feis passions, into fatal excesses in love and 
fe-ifendsHlj). He appears with great dignity^ 
befc^fe the enlpet*or, on whose mercy he 
is tiii^bWh, by the defeat df his allies, the 
M%ftch, at the bittle of PaVia. After recount- 
his obligatidAs to Francis, he proceeds : 

- - - If thiit, theD> to be grateful 
For conrtesieft received, or not to leave 
A friend in his necessities^ be a crime 
^^ Ainotigst ybu^S^anikrttsi - - - -, 

\j.-J ^;, * -in: |9fbrzikb^ibgs his head 

^ T^ I'^^X**^ fcfffeit-. Nor cqme I a» a slave, 
Jr^iion ^ aiM felter'd^ in a squalid weed^ 
JaDHig liefore thy feet, kneeling and Jbowling, 
'iFbrtflbir^ilPd remission :t^^^ '* 

- f ABdjUkdlld^btit sil^faie thy >kJt<it|^; for conquest 
Over Imse foies, is a captivity, " / 

And not a triumph. I ne'er fear'd to clie, 
. More tbali I ^istfd to IfV^V When I had reach'd 
My ends itt 'being a ddke, I wore these robes,' 
This crowii tlfWn My head, and to my side 
This swbrd Was gift ; Hiid witness Ituth, tfiat^ liow 
Tis ill itnortrt^rf iJbWer ^H^n I shall part ; ' 
With them and life togiether,rm the same: 
My vdnis then did not swell widi pride ; nor now 
Shrink they fot. fear: ' 7 

■ ^-^ ^ Tfi^Duke of Milan, Act IIL sc. ii. 

VOL. I. g 



t' - 



xcvui ESSAY ON 



• • • 




In the scene where Sforza enjoms Fnilicisca 
to dispatch Marcelia, m case pf the^ emperor s 
proceeding to extremities affaihst him, the 
Poet has given him a strong expression of 
horrour at his own purpose. After disposing 
Francisco to obey his conmiands withojut re- 
serve,, by recapitulating the favours confej^rea . 
on hito, Sforza proceeds to impress him with 
the blackest view of the intended deed : ^v 

.,7 - " But you must f wear It ^ . mjIJ 

And put into the oath all joys or tonnents , _ 
That fright the wicked, or confirm tfie good ; 
Not to conceal it only, that is nothing, : ^ 

But, whensoe'er my will shall sp^ak^ Strike now^ 
To fall upon't like thunder* ,^ 

- - - Thou must do, then. , . 

What no malevolent star will dare to look on. 
It is so wicked : for which men will curse thee 
^ - For heing the instrument ; and the blest ftngek^ ' ''^ 
t j^orsake me at my need, for being IJie author: < it 
For 'tis a deed of night, ^f nighl^ Fri^nci^cp ! 
In which the memory of ^11 good actiona 
We can pretend to, shall be buried quick : ' 

Or, if we be remember'd, it shall be • '* ? 

^ To fright posterity by our example^ . ^ ;^ ; j 

That have outgone all precedents of vill«iiuir ' ' t 
That were before us ; 

The Duke of Milan, Acihacvit^ 

If we compare this scene, and especially the 



WRITING? OJT ly^ASSINGER. xcisf 



r V *: -.' • it ^- ' .'' 



passage Quoted, with the celebrated scenes be-^ 
tween king John and Hubert, we shall per^ 
ceive thi§ remarkable difference, that Sforzaw 
ivhije he proposes to his brother-in-law an(| 

tavourite, the eventual murder pf his wife^ 

"-j' — « '■ ■ ' •■ 

whom he idolizes, is consistent and deter-? 
mined; his mind is filled with the horrour 
tf the aped, but born to the execution of it 
>y the, impulse of an extravagant and fantas-- 
tick delicacy : John, Who is aptuated solely by 
the desire <if removing his rival in the crown^ 
not only fears to communicate his purpose tor 
Hubert, though he perceives him to be 

A Jfellow by the liand of nature mark'd. 
Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame; 

hA aft^r he has soimded him, and found him 
ready to e:?:ecute whatever he can propose, he 
only^ldiUs at the deed* Sforza enlarges oti 
the cauielty and atrocity of his design ; John 
is afraid to utter his, in the view of the sun t 
nay, the sanguinary Richard hesitates in pro- 
posing the milder of his nephews to ^i|ck- 
ingham. In thi&anstancethen, as well as^that 
of Ch^Ecalois, our Poet may seem to deviate 
from nature, for ambition is a stronger ^as- 
jsion thaA IbVe, yet Sforza decides with more 



i IMATONTHE 

promptness and cc»^dence than i^i^lr o{ 
JShakspeare's characters. We must consider, 
however^ that timidity and irresolution are 
diaracteristicks of John> and tliat Richard^^ 
faesitatioii appears to be assumed, only m, 
order to tranijfer the guilt and odium of th^ 
action to Buckingham. ^ 

It was hinted before, that the character of 
Pis^der, in the Bondman^ is more interesting 
ihim that of Sforza. His virtues, so unsuit- 
able to the chara^cter of a slave, the boldness 
of his designs, and the steadinesi^ of his cou-^ 
rage, exdte attention and anxiety in the most 
.powerful manner. He is perfectly consistent, 
and, though lightly shaded with chivalry, is 
not deficient in nature or passion. Leosthenes 
is also the child of nature, whom perfiaps we 
trace in some later jealous characters. Cleoi^a 
is finely d^awn, but to the present age, per- 
haps., appears father too masculine : the exr 
hibition of characters which should Wear an 
unalterable charm, in their finest and almost 
insensible touches, was peculiar to the pro- 
phetick genius of Shakspeare.* Massinger 

* If Massinger formed the singular character of sir 
Gilei Over-reach^ from his own imagination,. what. should 
iv^e thiiik of his sagacity, who have seen this poetical 



WRITlKaS OF MASSINGER. . ci 

V 

his given a strong proof of his genius>*by iife- 
troduc^g in a diflferent pl^y, a similar c^^raci 
ter, in a like situation to that of Pisander; yet 
with $iuffici^t discrimindtidn of itianhers and 
mddent: I mean doa John, in the Very Woi^ 
man, who, like PijaafiLdQr,'gaiiisJiia!i!mstress'5 
h^att^ ^nder the disguise of aislitvev Dc«i 
John i3 a jnodel of magnanijtiity , superibidr 
feo PatQ, because be is free from pedwttry and 
ostentatidn. I believe he m^y be regarded as 
an original character. It^as easy to interei* 
pur feelings for all the chaj*acters, already (fei- 
scribed, but no writer, before IVf assiriger, hifl 
^ttenifpted to make a player the hero oi tmh 
gedy. This, ho^vever, he ha^ executed, wiA 
surprising address, in the Roman Actor^ It 
must !)e confessed that Paris, the actor, owi^ 
much of hi§ dignity to incidents : at theopehf- 
pig of the play /he defends his profession siie^ 
cessfully before the senate ; thjs artful intrdi^ 
ductioii raii?es him in oujr ideas, above the 
level of his situation, for the Poet has ^^gracefl 
him with all the power of words ;" the im- 
press's passion for him places him in a still 

jBiOTe distinguished light, ajpd he meets- Ws 

phantom i^alised in bar days ? Its apparetit extravagance^ 
required tliig ^pport, ■ 



■^ ' xi. :L-, <u.iti: ^ ■. .1 v-^ 



cli ESSAY ON THE 



- ■ T-, 



■5 » 1 




\ 



^death from the hand of the emperor himsel 
in a mock-iday. It is, perhaps, from a sense 
of the difficulty of exaltifig Paris's character, 
and of the dexterity reqmsite to fix the atten-^ 
tioii of the audience on it^, that Massinger 
says, in the dedication of this play, that " he 
ever held it the most perfect birth of his 
'Minerva/' 1 know not whether it is owini 
to design J or to want of art, that Romont, il 
the Fatal Dowry, interests us as much as Cha^ 
ralbis, the hero. If Charalois surrenders Ms 
liberty to procure funeral rites for his father, 
Homont previously pi*oVok6s the court to im- 
prison him, by sipeikihg with loo much' ani-» 
mation in the cause of his frieiid. Rowont, 
though insulted by Charalois, who discredits 
his report of Beaumelle's infidelity, fli^s to 
him with all the eagerness of attachiJient, 
when Charalois is involved in difficulties by 
the murder of Novall and his wife, ai)4 re- 
venges his death, when he is assassinated by 
^htiiier. ^Rowe, who riegtected^'^Hfe^^^est 
Jj^rts of this tragedy in Ms plagiarism^, fihe 
W^Mr Penitent,) hks iM Med^to copyihe^ 
^k I hav6^ libinted outj llis Hbratib is" a 
Biuch finer character than his Altamont, yet 
Ite is but a puppet when oompated with 



WRITIIf |3|S P^ J^A^JNGEIL ciii 

fassinger's Romont. Camplayf the Maid of 
Monour.) is. a: most delightful character: her 
fidelity, generosity, dignity of manners, and 
Elevation of sentiihents, are finely displayed, 
arid nobly sustmned throughout. It is pity 
mat the Poet thought himself obliged to de- 
base all the other characters in t|ie piece in 
order to exalt h^r. There i§ an admirable 
l)ortrait of Old Malefort, in that extravagai^t 
composiition^ the Unnatural Combat., Xhe^Poet 
seems to equal the art pf the writer whom he 
nere imitates ; 

f-inc ^W Jji^c^^* ^P}"^> bi^it qey^ y^t .observed,, ^ . 

In all tlie passages of his life ^and fortunes, 
< yirtues so mix d with vices ; valiant the worla 
8tH-^ ^ speakshim; ' ^ ' 1 .^ *^ i^ - 

oi »'Bttt with thiti* bloody ;; liberal in his gifts to6; 1 

,1norRf**^W*^^^^^? prodigal ^pe6fee, N :1 

yrj Afierce,^^toftioper; aniinpotentloyeir ^ ,. ^ 
^ Of wom^a for a flfisli, b,qt, hi§ ^res quei|ch'di 
•^^ ^iatingW deadly V ActJlLWiK 

jj,, ,^li3rwa and C^ in the^iFVry ff^q^fift, 

^^ QQPftf d fix?jtn jnature, and therefore Beyf r 

s/f?^^M^f • . T^ ^RP^F H!^^ ^^^y favpiwte 
^ c||^ap^i:s jin Qpr present comedy., an^iajijp |n 



< 



civ jmAY mim n 

duced a physician in $ TQ$p^taUe point.Qf 
yiew, in thi? pUy, We ?ire agreeably infier 
rested in Duraazp,* who ha^ all the good 
nature of Terence's Micio, with, more apirit* 
His picture of country sports teay he vievrad 
w|tl> delight qven^ by ,those wha might not 
rejjsh th^ reality: 

rise before the son, ^ 

Then make a breakfast of the moraiog dew, ^ 
Served up by |ia|are on ^oine grftfsy hill ; 
You'll find it nectar^ 

In the City Madam, we are presented with 
the character of a finished hypocrite, but so 
artfully drawn, that he appears to be rather 
governed by external circumstances, to which 
he adapts himself, than to act, like Moliere's 
TJartufFe, from a formal system of wicked- 
ness. His humility and benevolence, while 
he appears as a ruined man, and as his bro- 
t^^0r's servant, are evidently produced by the 
pi?^ssure of his importunes, and he disco^sers 
alanDeness, amid$t the insults of hisTelatioisa, 
^t indicates an inherent baseness of dispo^ 
sj[ljont,*-^Wh^ he is informed that his bEX)dm* 

^ The Guardian, 

^ See particularly his solilojquy. Act III. sc« ii. 



WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. tv 

has retired from the world, and has left hiim 
hfes immense forttme, he seems at firist to ap^ 
;»rehend a deception : 

- - - O my good lord ! ' 
TSls heap of wealth which you possess me of, 
' Which to 'a worlcHy man hbd been a bksdtlg, - 
/ tAi^ to the messenger im^twit|ijiMti9e 
A kind of adoration^ is to me 
A curse I canuot thank you for ; and much less 
Rejoice in that tranquillity of mind 
My brother's vows must purchase. I have made 
A de9T exchange with him : he now enjoys 
My peace and poverty, the trouble of , 

His wealth conferr'd on me, and that a burthen 
Too heavy for my weak shoulderis. Act. III. so. li. 

On receiving the will, he begins to promise 
unbounded lenity to his servants, and makes 
professions and promises to the ladies who 
used him so cruelly in his adversity, which 
appear at last to be ironical, though they 
take them to be sincere. He does pot dis- 
play himself till he has visited his wealth, 
the sight of which dazzles and astonishes him 
iso far as to throw him off his guard, and to 
render him insolent. Massinger displays a 
knowledge of man not very usual with dra- 
matick writers, while he represents the same 
person as prodigal of a small fortune in his 



^i . .'! =-; r^'^T^M ^ 5BttE T^i- 



. n 



youthv rfierviter and hj^pocritical in hisr^iisi^ 
tresses/ arbitrary^ and rapadotis in ihe^^^s- 
session of wealth suddenly adquired : for tAose 
seeming changes of character depend on^the 
same |(^ppjsitipn,y?irio]ti^]iy infl IlWan, 

on a baseband feeble mind) incapable of resist- 
ing the f)bwer 6f 6KtfenifaJ crrcniflstances.^' In 
ordTer, howeyer/to'^t^^^ us foi^ th^ extra- 
vagances of this character, dter he is ^en- 
riched, the Ppet dejineates his excessive triuis- 
ports cki viewing his wealth, in a speech which 
cannot be injured by ^ comparison With any 
soliloquy in bur language : 

TTwas io fant^stick object, but a truth, 
"A reail truth ; n6t dream : I did not slumber. 
And could wake ever' with a brooding eye 
To gaze upoh'*t ! it did endure the touch, 
, I satr anil' felt it ! Yet what I beheld 

Andi handfed oft, did so transcend belief, '^ 

(My 'wonder arid astonishment passM o*er,) 
/c v^il SemiiAji cbold give <;redtt to my senses* 
V, -TtNm domb magician^^H^S^dfcing out> a ft^.Jr— that 
«fiJL' ♦ (» without a charm ■' -^ 

i' Bidfst m^ke my entrance easy, to possess i 

' , vWh&t wise. men wish, and toil for ! Hermes' molyyv 
f J ^SibyHa's golden bough, the great elii^ir, .* ^ M 
Imagined only :by the akhymist, - . * h 

r^Gontpared with thee oceBhadqws^ — thou the substance, 
^nd guardiai) of felicity ! No marvel, ^ - i 



.>.'''-i^ 



^^i 



WRITING ^ M^fSiNGER. gviS 

^^^K;^brof6%r blade Uiypliu^e 6f f^st hb loiDia^ ' V 
, I 3110III beh^ ^keeper' of bb hm^i & miB treM ; i^ 
. '^o.jbevhugg'd ever! In by-comers of .. 

This sacred room^ silver in bags, heap'd op 
Like billets saw'd and ready for the fire, 
Unworthy to hold fellowship with bright goH ' 
' That flow'd about the room, conceal'd itself/ i 

p> l^er^needs no artificial light; itberSpleiidoiic ; y . >. 
^ ^ Makes a perpetual day there, night and darknest 
By that still-burning lamp for ever banished ! 
But when,' guided by that, my eyes had made 
" * ' Discovery of the caskets, and they open'd, 
r. ^Eacfi sparkling diamond Jrom itself shot forth 
^ Ajnfmmid ofjlames, and in the roof . . 

Fix'd it a. glorious star, and made the place 
Heaven*s abstract, or epitome /*— rubies, sapphiresi 
And ropes of oriental pearl ; these seen, I could, not 
But look on gold with contempt.' And yet I found 
WKat weak credulity could have no faith in, 
A treasure far exceeding these : ^lere lay * 

A manor bound fast in a skin of p^rchment^ ^ 
The wax continuing hard, the acres n(ie]itipg; . i^ 
Here^a sure deed of gift for a n|^rket-.tgwi\, , , 

^ In these potations, the present edition fa«5^ei| 
kitheifto followed^ Dr. Ferrjar, it^appears^, made Use of 
Mr. M. Mason's^ to whose vitiated readings it is necessary 
to recur on the present occasion, as the Doctor founds 
.ontJoiem his exdeplion to the general excelleiite of 
Massinger's verification^ l%e reader who wisiies to" 
know bow fhese lines weise really given byi the Poet,. 
,SiQ»t4urn to Vol. IV. p^ 66, where he will find tkem to 
be as flowing and harmonious as any part of the speech. 

EniTOR. 



cySI n'\ ' tSSkV ON THE; / : 

If not fedeeni'd Ah daj, yirhidli is not ill i«^^ ' 
T\m vmAmft*9i^cmer V these being scarce one sHire 
In Wales or £i^Iaiid> whepe my monies aro'noi 
Lent qnt at nsnrj^ the obtain lK>ok. 
To draw in more. I am sublimed I gross earth 
SufEports me not ; L walk on air !— -Who's there ? 

I^er JLoM ' liAt^Y, with Sir John Tbvga'l,^ Sir 
Mav&icb LacYj and Plenty^ i&^i^ed as Indians* 

Thieves ! raise the street ! thieves ! Act III. sc» iii. 

'i ' , ' ■ ' "■■.*.,■■' . ' . ■ - 

It was a great effort by which such a train 
of violent emotions and beautiful images was 
drawn, with the strictest propriety, from the 
indulgence of a passion to which other poets 
can only give interest in its anxieties and dis- 
appointments. Every sentiment in this fine 
soliloquy is touched with the hand of a mas- 
ter ; the speaker, overcome by the splendour 
of his acquisitions, can scarcely persuade him* 
self that the event is real ; "it is no fantasy, 
but a truth ; a real truth, no dream ; he does 
riot slumber;" the natural language of one 

who strives to convince himself that he is for- 

,•■ •'■'•'. ■ ' - • - 

tunate beyond all probable expectation ; for 
^ he could wake ever to gaze upon his trea- 
sure:" again he reverts to his assurances; 
" it did endure the touch ; he saw and felt 
it/' These broken exclamations and anxious 



WRITINGS Of liJfASSlNGER. ciit 

^ petitipns, ar« the pure voice of nature. Re^ 
3vering from his astonishment, his mind di- 
ates with the value of his possessions, and 
the Poet finely directs th^'^whole gratitude of 
this mean character to the key of his stores. 
Jn the description which follows, there is k 
striking climax in sordid luxury; that passage 
where ^ 

Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth 
A pyramid of flames, and in the roof 
' Fix'd it a glorious star, and made the place 
Heaven's abstract, or epitome ! 

tliough founded on a false idea in natural his- 
tory, long since exploded, is amply excused 
by the singular and beautiful image which it 
presents. The contemplation of his enormous 
wealth, still amplified by his fancy, transports 
him at length to a degree of frenzy ; and now 
seeing strangers approach, he cannot conceive 
them to come upon any design but that pjf 
robbing him, and with the appeasing of his 
ridiculous alarm this storm of passion svh^ 
sides, which stands unrivalled in its kind, ir| 
dramatick history. The soliloquy possesses 
a very uncommon beauty, that of forcible de-* 
scnption united; with passion and character. 
I should scarcely hesitate to prefer the de- 



3cHptio?i of sir JphntFjugal's cQunti?ig-hQW<| 
to S^nsier's hpui^ .of ridies- . , , 

^ It is yery remarkably, that in this passag^^ 
the versification is so exact, (two liues onlj; 
excepted*) and the diction so pure and ele-» 
gant, that, although much more than a^ cen'^ 
tury has elapsed since it was written^ it would 
be perhaps impossible to alter the measure or 
language without injury, and certainly veyjj 
difficult to produce an equal length of blank 
verse, from any modem poet, which should 
bear a comparison with Massinger's, evep in 
the mechanical part of its construction. This 
observation may be extended to all our Poet'si 
productions: majesty, elegance, and sweet-^ 
liess of diction predominate in them. It is 
needless to quote any single passage for proof 
of this, because none of those which I am go-^ 
ing tpi introduce will afford any exception. tP) 
the I remark. Independent of character, tha 
iHrritJings of this great Poet abound with i>pbl% 
pillages. It is only in the productions of tru^ 
poetical genius that we meet with suceessfiilj, 
allusions to sublime natural objects ; the at- 
tempts of an inferiour writer, in this kind, jire 
either ^cwnrpwed or disgusting. If M^ssinger 

* But see the nute^ p, onu 



WRITIiteS 6f M§^GER, cxI 



y^ftte b^be MM hfms'taHe ^idn6':mmm 

rank him very hi^h ; ' a fe^v^' iiistitoGeis' "will 
pi^avfe tWs. ; Theophilu^, speakiri^ of IWod©- 
^"is arrival, says, - ' 

- - - - ITie marches of great princes, *■ " 
"' ■ lilce tp the motions of prbdigbttsinfeteort^ '"" ' 



< • I 



blAi^step by step observed; : 

lo vv; Virgin Martyr, ^ctJ^ac»i« . 

l^he introductory circumstances of a threaten- 
ilig piece of intelligence, arfe* 

^ -. - - but creeping billows, 
. Kot got to shore yet : lb. Act II. sc. il. 

]^ the; same play, we meet with this charming^ 
iqijige^ applied to a modest young nobleman;^ 

el The sufibeams ^hich the emperor throws updti him^l 
1( uShin^ tjiere but a^ in water, ao<cl gil4 him i 

^^^jf«Io|;withonespot of prides^ /J.^c^iii,. 

Jlb%ther figure could so happily illustratte the^ 
pliafce ihd purity of an ingenuous mirtd,un^ 
eti^iijpted by favour. Massinger seems <brt# 
ctf^lh^ thought; we meet with a similar otfeli 

I Ijave seen those eyes with pleasant glances play 
"^'^IJlion Addno'sJikePhcBb^'ss^^^ ''' ^*' ' ' ''' 
^ ^©}Wiitg» costal river J i' - - - ' ^Adt^lVjfW:* iV 

There are two parallel passages inShakspearc, 



eKii ESSAY ON THE 

to whom we are probably indebted fdr this, 
tt$ well as for many other fine images of 
PUT Poet. The first is in the Winters Tale : 

He says he loves my daughter ; 
I thinjc 80 too : for never gaz'd the moon 
Upon ,the watery as hell standi and read^ 

As 'twere, my daughter's eyes. Act IV. ec. iv, 

• ■ *p • • ' . 

The second is ludicrous : 

King* Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to 
shine 
(Those clouds remov'd) upon our wat'ry eyne. 
Jfto$m O vain petitioner ! beg a greater matter ; 

Thou nowrequest'st but moon-shine in the water. 

Love's Labour's Lost /ActV, sc. ii. 

The following images are applied, I think, in 
a new manner : 

- - - - us the sun. 
Thou did'at rise gloriously, kept'st a constant course 
In all thy journey ; aqd now, in the evening. 
When thou should'stpass with honour to thy rest. 
Wilt thou fall like a meteor i 

Virgin-Martyr, Act V. sc. ii. 

O summed friendship, 
, Whose flattering leaves that shadow'd us in our 
Prosperity, with the least gUst drop off 
In the ;autumn of adversity. 

Maid of Honour^ Act III. sc. i. 






WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxiii 

in the last quoted play, Camiola says, in per- 
plexity, 

- - - - What a sea 

Of melting ice I walk on ! Act IIL sc, i\\ 

A very noble figure, in the following passage, 
Keems borrowed from Shakspeare : 

* - -^ What a bridge 
Of glass I walk upon, over a river ^ 

i^i Qexl2xvL xmvky mhit own weighty fewn 
Cracking what should support me ! 

The Bondman, Act IV. sc. iii. 

I'll read yoU matter deep and dangerous ; 
As full of peril, and advent'rous spirit. 
As to o'er-walk a current, roaring loiid. 
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. 

Henry IF. Part I., Act I. sc. iii. 

/ 

It cannot be denied that Massinger has im- 
proved on his original : he cannot be said to 
borrow, so properly as to imitate. This re- - 
mark may be applied to many other passages : 
thus Harpax's menace, 

I'll take thee - *• and hang thee 
In a contorted chain of isicles 
In the frigid zone : 

The Firgin- Martyr, Act V. sc. i. 

is derived from the same source with that 

VOL. I. h 



catir ESSAY ON THE 

passage in Measure for Measure y where it » 
said to be a punishment in a future state» 

- - - to reside 
la thrilling regions of thic^'ribbed ice. 

Again, in the Old Law, we meet with a pas- 
sage similar to a much celebrated one of 
Shakspeare's, but copied with no common 
hand: 

- . - In my youth 
I was a soldier, no coward in my age; 
I never tum'd my back upon my foe ; 
■ I have felt nature's winters, sickpesses, 
, Yet ever kept a lively sap in me 

To greet the cheerful spring of health again. 

Act I. Sc, i. 

Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty: 

For in my youth I never did apply 

Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood; 

Nor did not with unhashfnl forehead woo 

llie means of weakness and debility ; 

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 

Frosty, but kindly.' Ai You Uke It, Act 11, sc. iii. 

' In an expression of Archidamas, in f^ Bondman,ve 
discover, perhaps, the origin of an image i n Paradise Lo»t : 

- - - O'er our beads, with sail-stretch'd wings. 
Destruction hovers. The Bondman, Act I. sc. iii, 

MiltOD says of Satan, 

- - - HU sail-broad vanm ■ 
He spreads for flight. 



WRITINGS OF MASSINQER. cxv 

Our PDet'5 writings are stored with fine 
sentiments, and the same observation which 
das been made on Shakspeare's, holds true 
Df our Author, that his sentiments are so art- 
fully introduced, that they appear to come 
uncalled, and to force themselves on the mind 
of the speaker.' In the legendary play of 
Ihe Virgin-Martyr y Angelo delivers a beautiful 
sentiment, perfectly in the spirit of the piece : 

- - Look on the poor 
With gentle eyes, for in such habits^ oflen. 
Angels desire an alnis^ 

When Francisco, in the Thike of Milan^ suc- 
ceeds in his designs against the life of Mar- 
::elia, he remarks with exultation, that 

When he's a suitor, that brings cunning arm'd 
With power, to be his advocates, the denial 
Is a disease as killing as the plague. 
And chastity a clue that leads to death. 

Act IV. sc, ii, 

Pisander, in the Bondman^ moralizes the in- 
solence of the slaves to their late tyrants, after 
the revolt, in a manner that tends strongly to 

interest us in his character : 

< » ■ 

Here they, that never see tliemselves, but in 
The glass of servile flattery, might behold 
The weak foundation upon which they build 

• Mrs. Montagu's JBssay o» SAaAspfflfrc. 

h % 



cxvi , ESSAY ON THE 

Their trust in human frailty. Happy are fho8e> 
That knowing, in their births, they are subject to 
Uncertain change, are still prepared, and arm'd 
For either fortune : a rare principle. 
And with much labour, learn'd in wisdom's school ! 
For, Siii these bondmen, by their actions, shew 
That their prosperity, like too large a sail 
For their small bark of judgment, sinks them with 
A fore-right gale of liberty, ere they reach 
The port they long to touch at : so these wretches. 
Swollen with the false opinion of their worth. 
And proud of blessings left them^ not acquired ; ^ 
That did believe they could with giant arms 
Fathom the earth, and were above their fates. 
Those borrowed helps, that did support them, vanished. 
Fall of themselves, and by unmanly suffering. 
Betray their proper weakness. Act III. sc, iii. 

His complaint of the hardships of slavery 
must not be entirely passed over : 

- The noble horse. 
That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils 
Neighed courage to his rider, and brake through 
Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord 
Safe to triumphant^ictory ; old or wounded 

■ 

Was set at liberty, and freed from service. 
The Athenian mules, that from thfe quarry drew 
Marble, hew'd for the temples of the gods. 
The great work ended, were dismiss'd, and fed 
At the publick cost ; n^y, faithful dogs have found 
Their sepulchres ; but man, to man more cruel. 
Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave. 

lb. Act IV. sc. ii. 



WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxvii 

The sense of degradation in a lofty mind, 
hurried into vice by a furious and irresistible 
passion, is expressed very happily in th£ Re^ 
negado, by Donusa : 

• - - What poor means 

Must I make use of now ! and flatter such. 

To whom^ till I betray'd my liberty. 

One gracious look of mine would have erected 

An altar to my se^Tice! ActIL sc. i. 

Again, 

- ' O that I should blush 
To speak ^hat I so much desire to do ! ^ 

When Mathias, in the Picture, is informed by 
the magical skill of Ijis friend, that his wife's 
honour is in danger, his first exclamations 
have at least as much sentiment as passion : 

- - - - • It is more 
Impossible in nature for gross bodies. 
Descending of themselves, to hang in the air; 

^ Or with my single arm to underprop 

A falling tower ; nay, in its violent course 
To stop the lightning/ than to stay a woman 
Hurried by two faries, lust and falsehood, 
in her %11 career to wickedn^s ! 

- - • I am thrown 
From a steep rock headlong into a gulph 
Of misery, and find myself past hope. 
In the siwe moment that I apprehend 

That I am falling. Act IV. sc. i. 



ex via 



ESSAY ON THE 



But if Masisinger does hot alWays exhflbit the 
liveliest and most natural expressions of pas- 
sion ; if, like most other poets, he sometimeis 
substitutes declamation for those expressions; 
in description at least he puts forth all Ws 
strength, and never disappoints us of an asto- 
nishing exertion. We may be content to rest 
his character, in the description of passion, on 
the following single instance! In the Very 
Woman y Almira's lover, Cardenes, is danger- 
ously wounded in a quarrel, by don John An- 
tonio, who pays his addresses to her. Take, 
now, a description of Almira's frenzy on this 
event, which the prodigal author has put into 
the mouth of a chambermaid : 

- ' - If she slumbered, slraighty 
As if some dreadful vision had -appear'd, • 
She started up, her hair unbound, and, with 
Pistracted looks stanng about the chamber. 
She asks aloud. Where is Martino ? where 
Have you tonceafd him ? sometimes names Antonio, 
Trembling in evtry joint, her brows contracted. 
Her fair face as ^iwere changed into a curse, 
Her hands held up thus ; and, as if her words 
Were too big to find passage through hejr mouth. 
She groans, then throws herself upon her bed. 
Beating her breast. * Act II. sc. iii. 

To praise or to elucidate this passage, would 



WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxix 

be equally superfluous ; I am acquainted with 
nothing superiour to it, in descriptive poetry, 
and it would be hardy to bring any single 
instance in competition with it Our Poet is 
not less happy in his descriptions of inanimate 
nature, and his descriptions bear the peculiar 
stamp of true 'genius in their beautiful con- 
ciseness. What an exquisite picture does he 
present in the c6mpass of less than two lines ! 

- - - yon hanging cliff, that glasses 
His rugged forehead in the neighbouring lake, 

Renegado^ Act II. sc. v.^ 

Thus also Dorothea's description of Paradise : 

There^s a perpetual spring, perpetual youth : 
No joint-benumbing cold, or sicorching heat. 
Famine, nor age, have any beings there. 

The Virgin Martyr y Act IV. sc. iii. 

After all the encomiums on a rural life, 
and after all .the soothing sentiments and 
beautiful images lavished on it, by poets who 
never lived in the country, Massinger has 
furnished one of the most charming unbor- 
rowed descriptions that can be produced on 
the subject : 

Happy the golden mean ! had I been born 
In a poor sordid cottage, notnurs'd up 



fxx ESSAY ON THE 

With eicpecti^tioii lo command a court, 

I mighty like such of your condition, sweetest. 

Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not. 

As I am now, against my choice, compeird 

Or to lie groyelling on the earth, or raised 

So high upon the pinnacles of state. 

That I must either keep my height with danger,. 

Or fall with certain ruin • - - 

- - .*. - we might walk 

In solitary groves, or in choice gardens ; 

From the viuriety of curious flowers 

Contemplate nature's workmanship, and wonders ; 

And then, for change, near to the murmur of 

Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing. 

And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue^ 

In my imagination conceive 

With what melodious harmony a quire 

Of angels sing above their Maker's praises. 

And then with chaste discourse, as we return'd^ 

Imp feathers to the brokea wings of time ;— 

^ - * - walk into 
Tlie silent groves, and hear the amorous birds 
Warbling their wanton notes; here, a sure shade 
^ Of barren sicamores, which, the all-seeing sun 

Could not pierce through; near that, an arbour 

hung 
With spreading eglantine ; there, a bubbling spring 
Watering a bank of hyacinths and lilies ; 

The Great Duke of Florence, Act I. sc, i. and 
Act IV. sq. ii. 

Let US oppose to these peaceful and inglori-^ 



WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxi 

ous images, the picture of a triumph by the 
same masterly hand : 

- - - when she views you. 
Like a triumphant conqueror, carried through 
The streets of Syracusa, the glad people 
Pressing to meet you, and the senators 
Contending who shall heap most honours on you ; 
The oxen, crown'd with garlands, led before you. 
Appointed for the sacrifice ; and the altars 
Smoaking with thankful incense to the ^ods : 
The soldiers chanting loud hymns to your praise^ 
The windows fill'd with matrons and with virgins. 
Throwing upon your head, as you pass by. 
The choicest flowers, and silently invoking 
The queen of love, with their particular vows. 
To be thought worthy of you. 

- * The Bondman, Act III. sc. iv. 

Every thing here is animated, yet every ac- 
tion is appropriated : a painter might work 
after this sketch, without requiring an addi- 
tional circumstance. 

The speech of young Charalois, in the fu- 
neral procession, if too metaphorical for his 
character and situation, is at least highly poe- 
tical : 

How like a silent stream shaded with nighty 
And gliding softly with our windy sighs. 
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity ! 



cxxii ESSATONTHE 

WMlat; Ij th^ fHixlj iniirrour in diis ^ove 
Of deaths thus hollowly break forth. 

The Fatal Dowry, Act H. ,sc. i. 

It may afford some consolation to inferiour 
genius, to remark that even'Massinger some- 
times employs pedantick and overstrained al- 
lusions. He was fond of displaying the little 
military knowledge he possessed, which he 
introduces in the following passage, in a 
most extraordinary manner: one beautiful 
image in it must excuse the rest : 

- , Were Margaret only fan-. 
The cannon of her more than earthly form. 
Though mounted high, commanding all beneath il, 
Ancl raniiq*d^wkh bullets of her sparkling eyes. 
Of all the bulwarks that defend your senses 

Could batter none, but that which guards your sight. 
But * . 

- when you feel her touch, and breathy 

Like a soft western wind, when it glides o'er 
Arabia, creating gums and spices; 
And in the van, the nectar of her lips. 
Which you must taste, bring the battalia on, 
. Well arm'd, and strongly Imed with her discourse, 

Hippolytus himself would leave Diana, 
To fallow such a Venus. 

A New Way to pay Old Debts, Act III. so. i. 

What pity, that he should ever write so extra- 



r 



WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cixiH 

vagandy, who could prdduce this tender wA 
dielicate image, in another piece : 

What's that? oh^ nothing but the whispering wind ' 
Breathes through yon churlish hawthorn, thiit grei^ 
ru^> ; 

As if it chid the gentle breath that kiss'd it. 

^ The Old Lawy Act IV. so. ii. 

I wishit cpuld be added to Massinger's jiist 
praises, that he had presterved his scenes froni 
the impure dialogue which disgusts us in most 
of our old writers, i But we may observe, in 
defence of his failure, that several causes ope-* 
rated at that time to produce such a dialogue) 
and that a!n author who subsisted by writing 
was absolutely subjected to the influence of 
those causes. The manners of the age per^ 
mitted great freedoms in language; the 
theatre was not frequented by the best conr* 
pany ; the male part of the audience was by 
much the jnore numerous ; and, wHat perhaps 
had a greater effect than any of these, t^ie 
wonien's parts were performed by boys. So 
powerful was the eflect of those circum* 
stances^ that Cartwright is the only dramatist 
of that age whose works are tolerably free 
from indecency, Massinger's errbur, per^ 
haps, ^appears more strong'ly, because his ift-^ 



exxiv ' ESSAY ON THE 

delicacy has not always the apology of wit ; 
for, either from a natural deficiency in that 
quality, or from the peculiar model on which 
he had formed himself, his comick characters 
are less witty than those of his cotemporaries, 
and when he attempts wit, he frequently de- 
generates into buffoonery. But he has shew- 
ed, in a remarkable manner, the justness of 
hista^te, in declining the practice of quibbling; 
taA as wit and a quibble were supposed, in^that 
age^ to be inseparable, we are perhq>s to seek, 
in his a version to the prevailing folly, the true 
cause of his sparing employment of wit. 

Our Poet excels more, in the description 
than in the expression of jJassion ; this may 
be ascribed, in some measure, to his nice at- 
tention to the fable : while his scenes are 
managed with ponsummate skill, the lighter 
, shades of ch?lracter and sentiment are lost in 
the tendency of each part to the cataslMfphe. 
.The prevailing beauties of his productions 
are dignity and elegance ; their predominant 
fault m want of passion, 
i; The melody, force, and variety of his ver- 
ification are every where remarkable : ad- 
uakfing the force of all the objectioi^s which 
are madeto^tlie employment of blank verse in 



WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. 



comedy, Massinger possesses charms suffici^ 
eiit to dissipate theirf alL It is indeed equalljft 
different from that which modem authors are 
pleased to style blank verse, and from thd 
flippant prose so loudly celebrated in the co^^ 
medies of the day. The neglect of our oH 
comedies seems to arise from other causes; 
than from the employment of blank verse in 
their dialogue ; for, in general, its ccwi8truo4 
tion is so natural, that in the mouth of a good 
actor it runs into elegant prose. The fre^uem 
delineations of perishable manners, in our old 
comedy, have occasioned this neglect, and we 
may foresee the fate of our present fashionable 
pieces, in that which has attended Jonsort'sj 
Fletcher's, and Massinger's : they are eitheir 
entirely overlooked, or so mutilated, to fit 
them for representation, as neither to retain 
the dignity of the old comedy, nor to acquire 
the graces of the new. < : 

' The changes of manners have necessarily 
produced very remarkable effects on theatric* 
cal performances. In proportion as our best 
writers are further removed from the present 
times, they exhibit bolder and more diversified 
characters, because the prevailing manners ad- 
mitted a fuller display of sentiments, jin the, 



«xxvi . ESSAY ON THE 

common intercourse of life. Our own tkne^^ 
in which the intention of polite education is 
to produce a general, uniform manner, aiJbrd 
little diversity of character for the stage. Our 
dramatists, therefore, mark the distinctions 
of their characters, by incidents more thari 
by sentiments, and aboimd more in striking 
situations than interesting dialogue. In th^ 
old comedy, the catastrophe is occasioned, in 
general, by a change in the mind of some 
principal character, artfully prepared, and 
cautiously conducted ; in the modefn,^ the un^ 
folding of the plot is effected by the over- 
turning of a screen, the opening of a door, 
or by some other equally dignified machine. 

When we compare Massinger with the 
ol;her dramatick writers of his age, we cannot 
long hesitate where to place him. More natu- 
ral in his characters, and more poetical in his 
diction, than Jonson or Cartwright, more ele- 
vated and nervous than Fletcher, the only 
writers who can be supposed to contest his 
pre-eminence, Massinger ranks immediately 
under Shakspeare himself. 

It must be confessed, that in comedy Mas- 
singer fills considerably beneath Shakspeare ; 
his wit is less brilliant, and his ridicule les» 



WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxvii 

delicate and various ; but he affords a speci- 
men of elegant comedy/ of which there m 
no archetype in his great predecessor. By 
the rules of a very judicious critick/ the cha- 
racters in this piece appear to be of too ele- 
vated a rank for comedy ; yet though the 
plot is somewhat embarrassed by this circum- 
stance, the diversity, spirit, and consistency 
of the characters render it a most interesting 
play. In tragedy, Massinger is rather elo- 
quent than pathetick ; yet he is often as ma- 
jestick, and generally more elegant than his 
master ; he is as powerful a ruler of the un- 
derstanding, as Shakspeare is of the passions t 
with the disadvantage of succeeding that 
matchless poet, there is still much original 
beauty in his works ; and the most extensive 
acquaintance with poetry will hardly diminish 
the pleasure of a reader and admirer of Mas- 
singer. 

' The Great Duke of Florence, 

* See the Essay on the Provinces of the Drama. 



/ 



£ cxxix ] 



COMMENDATORY VERSES 

ON MASSINGER. 



Upon this Work [The Duke of Milan] of his be* 

laved Friend the Author. 

1 AM snapt already, and may go my way ; 

The poet-critick's come ; I hear him say 

This youth's mistook, the author's work's a play. 

He could not miss it, he will straight appear 
At such a bait; 'twas laid on purpose there 
To take the vermin, and I have him here. 

Sirrah ! you will be nibbling ; a small bit, 
A syllable, when you're in the hungry fit, 
Will serve to stay the stomach of your wit. 

Fool, knave, what worse, for worse cannot de- 
prave thee; 
And were the devil now instantly to have thee, 
Thou canst not instance such a work to save 
thee, 

'Mongst all the ballets which thou dost compose, 
And what thou stylest thy Poems, ill as those, 
And void of rhyme and reason, thy worse prose: 

Yet like a rude jack-sauce in poesy, 
With thoughts unblest, and hand unmannerly, 
Ravishing branches from Apollo's tree j 
vox.. J. i 



cxxx COMMENDATORY VERSES 

Thou mak'st a garland, for thy touch unfit, 
And boldly deck'st thy pig-brain'd sconce with 

As if it were the supreme head of wit : 

The blameless Muses blush ; who not allow 
That reverend order to each vulgar brow. 
Whose sinful touch profanes the holy bough. 

Hence, shallow prophet, and admire the strain 
Of thine own pen, or thy poor cope-mate's vein; 
This piece too curious is for thy coarse brain. 

Here wit, more fortunate, is join'd with art, 
And that most sacred frenzy bears a part. 
Infused by nature in the Poet's heart. 

Here may the puny wits themselves direct. 
Here may the wisest find what to affect. 
And kings may learn their proper dialect. 

On then, dear friend, thy pen, thy name, shall 

spread. 
And shouldst thou write, while thou shalt not 

be read. 
The Muse must labour, when thy hand is dead. 

W. B.* 

« W. B.] 'Tis the opinion of Mr. Reed, that the initials W. B. 
stand for Wiiliam Brown, the author of Britannia* s Pastorals, I 
see no reason to think otherwise, except that Ben Jonson, whoin 
W. B. seems to attack all through this Poem, had greatly cele- 
brated Brown's Pastoia/s ; but indeed Jonson was so capricious 
in his temper, that we must not suppose him to be very constant 
in his friendships. ' Daties. 

This is a pretty early specimen of the judgment which Davies 
brought to the elucidation of. his work. Not a line, not a syl- 
lable of this little poem can, by any violence, be tortured into 
a reflection on Jonson, whom he supposes to be '^ attacked all 
through it" I In 1622, when it was written, that great poet was 
at the height of his reputation, the envy, the admiration, and 
the terrourj of his contemporaries ; would a ^^ young" writer 



ON MASSINGER cxxxi 



77ie Author's Friend to the Reader, on the Bondman. 

The printer^s haste calls on ; I must not drive 

My time past six, though I begin at five. 

One hour I have entire, and 'tis enough, 

Here are no gipsy jigs, no drumming-stuff, 

Dances, or other trumpery to delight. 

Or take, by common way, the common sight. 

The author of this poem, as he dares 

To stand the austerest censure, so he cares 

As little what it is ; his own best way 

Is to be judge, and author of his play : 

It is his knowledge makes him thus secure ; 

Nor does he write to please, but to endure. 

And, reader, if you have disburs'd a shilling. 

To see this worthy story, and are willing 

To have a large increase, if ruled by me, j 

iYou may a merchant and a poet be. 

'Tis granted for ypur twelve-pence you did sit, 

And see, and bear, and understand not yet. 

presume to term such a man ^^ fool^ knave," &c. ? ^ would he — 
but the enquiry is too absurd for further pursuit. 

I know not the motives which induced Mr. Reed to attribute 
these stanzas to W. Brown ; they may, I think, with some pro- 
bability, be referred to W, Basse, a minor poet, whose tribute 
of praise is placed at the head of the commendatory verses on 
Shak«peare ; or to W. Barksted, author of Myrrha the Mother 
of Adonis^ a poem, 1607. Barksted was an actor, as appear^ 
from a list of '^ the principal comedians" who represented 
Jonson's Silent Woman ; and therefore not less likely than the 
author of Britannia's Pastorals to say, that, 

<t — in the way of poetry, now-a-days, 

** Of all that are calPd works the best are plays." 
- There is not much to be said for these introductory poems^ 
which must be viewed rather as proofs of friendship than of 
talents. In the former editions they are given with a degree of 
ignorance and inattention truly scandalous* 

12 



cxxxii COMMENDATORY VERSE^ 

The author, in a Christian pity, takes 
Care of your good, and prints it for your sakes, 
That such as will but venture sixpence more, 
May know what they but saw and heard before: 
^Twill not be money lost, if you can read, 
(There's all the doubt now,) but your gains 

exceed. 
If you can understand, and you are made 
Free of the freest and the noblest trade ; 
And in the way of poetry, now-a-days, 
Of all that are call'd works the best are play«. 

W. B. 



To my honoured Friend, Master Philip 
^ASsiNGXR, upon his Renegado. 

Dabblers in poetry, that only can 
Court this weak lady, or that gentleman. 

With some loose wit in rhyme; 
. Others that fright the time 
Into belief, with mighty words that tear 
A passage through the ear ; 
Or nicer men. 
That through a perspective will see a play. 
And use it the wrong way, 
(Not worth thy pen,) 
Though all their pride exalt them, cannot be 
Competent judges of thy lines or thee. 

I must confess I have no publick name 
To rescue judgment, no poetick flame 

To dress thy Muse with praise, 

And Phoebus his own bays ; 
Yet I commend this poem, and dare tell , 
The world I liked it well ; 



ON MASSINGER. cxxxiii 

And if there be 

A tribe who in their wisdoms dare accuse 

This offspring of thy Muse, 

Let them agree 

Conspire one comedy, and they will say, 

Tis easier to commend than make a play. 

Jam£s Shirley.* 



To his worthy Friend^ MasterPniLiF Massinger, 
on his Play call'd the RenGg*ddOy 

The bosom of a friend canndt breathe forth 
A flattering phrase to speak the noble worth 
Of him that hath lodged in his honest breast 
So large a title: I, among the rest 
That honour thee, do only seem to praise, 
Wanting the flowers of art to deck that bays 
Merit has crown'd thy temples with. Know, 

friend, 
Though there are some who merely do commend 
To live i' the world's opinion, such as can 
Censure with judgment, no such piece of mati 
Makes up my spirit; where desert does live. 
There will I plant my wonder, and there give 
My best endeavours to build up his story 
That truly merits. I did ever glory 
To behold virtue rich; though cruel Fate 
In scornful malice does beat low their state 
That best deserve ; when others, that but know 
Only to scribble, and no more, oft grow 

* James Shirley.] A well-knotni drstmatick writer. Hii 
works, which are very volttminous, have never been collected iu 
an uniform edition, though highly deserving of it. He assiste4 
Fletcher in many of his plays ; and some, say his biographer^ 
thought him equal to that great poet. He died in 1660% 



cxxxiv COM&ffiNDATORY VERSES 



Great in their favours, that would seem to be 

Patrons of wit, and modest poesy : 

Yet, with your abler friends, let me^ say this, 

Many may strive to equal you, but miss 

Of your fair scope ; this work of yours men miy 

Throw in the face of envy, and then say 

To those, that are in gr^at men's thoughts more 

blest, 
Imitate this, and call that work your best. 
Yet wise men, in this, and too often, err, 
When they their love before the work prefer. 
If I should say more, some may blame me for% 
Seeing your merits speak you, not report. 

Daniel Lakyn. 



y 



To his dear Friend the Author^ on the Roman Actor. 

I AM no great admirer of the plays. 

Poets, or actors, that are now-a-days; - 

Yet, in this work of thine, methinks, I see 

Sufficient reason for idolatry. 

Each line thou hast taught Caesar is as high 

As he could speak, when groveling flattery. 

And his own pride (forgetting heaven's rod) 

By his edicts styled himself great Lord and God. 

By thee, again the laurel crowns his head, 

And, thus revived, who can affirm him dead ? 

Such power lies in this lofty strain as can 

Give swords and legions to Domitiati : 

And when thy Paris pleads in the defence 

Of a^ctors, every grace and excellence 

Of argument for that subject, are by thee , 

Contracted in a sweet epitome. 

Nor do thy women the tired hearers vex 

With language i^o way proper to their sex* 



ON MASSINGER. cxxxv 

V 

Just like a cunning painter thou let'st fall 

Copies more fair than the original. 

ril add but this : from all the modern plays 

The stage^ath lately born, this wins the bays; 

And if it come to trial, boldly look 

To carry it clear, thy witness being thy book. 

T. J.' 



'/;^ PHiLrppi Massingeri, Poetce elegantiss. 
Actorem Roman uin, typis ejccmum. 

EccE Philippinae celebrata Tragoedia Musas, 
' Quam Roseus Britonum Roscius* egit, adest. 
Semper fronde ambo vireant Parnasside, sempejr 

Liber ab invidiae dentibus esto, liber, 
Crebra papyrivori spernas incendia pseti. 

Thus, vaenum expositi tegmina suta libri : 
Nee metuas raucos, Momorum sibila, rhoncos, . 

Tam bardus nebulo si tamen ullus erit. 
Nam toties festis, actum, placuisse theatris 

Quod liquet, hoc, cusum, crede, placebit, opus. 

Tho. GOFF.* 

5 T. J.] Coxeter gives these initials to sir Thomas. Jay, or 
Jeay, to whom the play is dedicated : (see p. xxxi.) he is, pro., 
bably, right. Sir Thomas, who was " no great admirer" of the 
plays of his days, when Jonson, Shirley, Ford, &c. were in full 
?igoar, would not, I suspect, be altogether enraptured if he 
coald M^ltness^hose of ours I 

^ Roicius/l This was Joseph Taylor, whose name occurs in 
a subsequent page. 

5 Tho. Goi^f.] Goff was a man of considerable learning, and 

highly celebrated for his oratorical powers, which he turned to 

the best of purposes, in the Service of the church. He aha 

wrote several plays; but these do no honour to his memory, 

liciug fall of the most ridiculous bombasts 



\ 



cxxxvi COMMENDATOJIY VERSES 



1 ' 

To his destMng Friend, Mr. Philip Massinger, 
upon his Tragedy, the Roman Actor. 

PakIs, the best of actors in his age, 

Acts yet, and speaks upon our Roman stage 

Such lines by thee, as do not derogate 

From Rome's proud heights, and her then learned 

state. 
Nor great Domitian*s favour ; nor the embraces 
Of a fair empress, nor those often graces , 
Which from th' applauding theatres were paid 
To his brave action, nor his ashes laid 
In the Flaminian way, where people strow'd 
His grave with flowers, and Martial's wit bestowed 
A lasting epitaph ; not all these same 
Do a^d so much renown to Paris' name 
As this that thou present'st his history 
So well to us : for which, in thatiks, would he 
(If that his soul, as thought f^ythagoras. 
Could into any of our actors pass) 
Life to these lines by action gladly give, 
Whose pen so well has made his story live. 

Tho, May.' 



Upon Mr. Massinger his Ron^an Actor. 

To write is grown so common in our time. 
That every one who can but frame a rhyme, 
However monstrous, gives himself that praise 
Which only he should claim, that may wear bays 

^ Tho. May.] May translated Lucan into English Terse, and 
was a candidate for the office of Poet Laureat with sir WiHiam 
DaTenant. He wrote several plays ; his Latin Supplement to 
Lucan is much admired by the learned. Daties. 



ON MASSmOJ^K. cxx*vil 

By their applause whose judgments apprehend 
The weight and truth of what they dare com- 
mend. 
In this besotted age, friend, 'tis thy glory 
That here thou hast outdone the Roman story. 
Domitian's pride ; his wifie's lust unabated 
In death; with Paris, merely were related 
Without a soul, until thy abler pen 
Spoke them, and made them speak, nay act again 
In such a height, that here to know their deeds. 
He may become an actor that but reads. 

John Ford/ 



Upon Mr, Massinger's Roman Actor. 

Long'st thou to see proud Cajsar set in stat^ 
His morning greatness, or his evening fate, 
With admiration here behold him fall, 
And yet outlive his tragick funeral : 
For 'tis a question whether Caesar's glory 
Rose to its height before, or in this story j 
Or whether Paris, in Domitian's favour, 
Were more exalted, than in this thy labour. 
Each line speaks him an emperor, every pTirase 
Crowns thy deserving temples with the bays ; 
So that reciprocally both agree, 
Thou liv'st in him, and he survives in thee. 

RoBERt Harvey. 

7 John Ford.] Ford wals a very good poet. Wchave eleyen 
plays of his writing, none of which are without merit. The 
Writers of his time opposed him^ with, some success, to Jonsdn* 



cxxxviii COMMENDATORY VERSES 



To his lang'knozvn and loved Friend^ Mir. Philip 
Massinger, upon his Roman Actor. 

If that my lines, being placed before thy book. 
Could make it sell, or alter but a look 
Of some sour censurer, who's apt to say, 
No one in these times can produce a play 
Worthy his reading, since of late, 'tis true. 
The old accepted are more than^the new : 
Or, could I on some spot o'the court work so, 
To make hira speak no more than he doth know; 
Not borrowing from his flatt'ring flatter'd friend 
What to dispraise, or wherefore to commend : 
Then, gentle friend, I should ^>ot blush to be 
Rank'd 'mongst those worthy ones which here I 

sec 
Ushering this work ; but why I write to thee 
Is, to profess our love's antiquity, 
Which to this tragedy must give my test, 
•Thou hast made many good, but this thy best. 

JosEi?H Taylor, 



To Mr. Philip Massinger, iny much-esteenCd 
. Friend^ on his Great Duke of Florence. 

Enjoy thy laurel ! 'tis a noble choice. 

Not by the suffrages of voice 
Procured, but by a conquest so achieved, 

As that thou hast at full relieved 
Almost neglected poetry, whose bays, 

Sullied by childish thirst of praise,^ 



ON MASSINGER. cxxxix 

Withered into a dullness of despair^ 

Had not thy later labour (heir 
Unto a former industry) made known 

This work, which thou mayst call thine own. 
So rich in worth, that th' ignorant may grudge 
Jo find true virtue is become their judge. 

George Donne, 



To the deseroing Memory of this worthy TVork^ 
[the Great Duke of Florence,] and the Author^ 
Mr. Philip Massinger. 

Action gives many poems right to live; 
This piece gave life to action ; and will give 
For state and language, in each change of age, 
To time delight, and honour to the stage. 
Should late prescription fail which fames that 

seat, 
This pen might style the Duke of Florence Greats 
Let many write, let much be printed, read 
And censur'd ;,toys, no sooner hatch'd than dead. 
Here, without blush to truth of commendation, 
Is proved, how art hath outgone imitation? 

John Ford, 



To my worthy Friend the Author ^ upon his Tragi- 
comedy the Maid of Honour. 

Was not thy Emperor enough before 
For thee to give, that thou dost give us more? 
I would be just, but cannot : that I know 
I did not slander, this I fear I do. 



cxl COMMENDATORY VERSES 

But pardon me, if I offend; thy fire 
Let equal poets praise, while I admire. 
If any say that I enough have writ, 
They are thy foes, and envy at thy wit. 
Believe not them, nor me ; they know thy lines 
Reserve applause, but speak against their minds; 
1, out of justice, would commend thy play, 
But ^friend, forgive me) 'tis above my way. 
One word, and I have done, (and from my heart 
Would I could speak the whole truth, not the part. 
Because 'tis thine,) it henceforth will be said. 
Not the Maid of Honour, but the Honoured Maid. 

Aston Cockaine.* 



To his worthy Friendj Mr. Philip Massinger, 
upon his Tragi'Comedy styled the Picture. 

Methinks I hear some busy critick say. 
Who's this that singly ushers in this play ? 
'Tis boldnesi, I confess, and yet perchance 
It iriay be construed love, not arrogance. 
I do not here upon this leaf intrude. 
By praising one to wrong a multitude. 
Nor do I tnink, that all are tied to be 
(Forced by my vote) in the same creed with me, 
Each man hath liberty to judge; free will. 
At his own pleasure, to speak good or ill. 
But yet your Muse already 's known so well 
Her worth will hardly find an infidel. 
Here she hath drawn a picture, which shall lie 
Safe for all future times to practise by ; 
Whate'er shall follow are but copies, some 
Preceding works were types of this to come. 



8 



Aston Cockaini:.] See th« Introduction jE?a^^. 






ON MASSINGER. exit 

^Tis your own lively image, and sets forth, 

When we are dust, the beauty of your worth. 

He that shall duly read, and not advance 

Aught that is here, betrays bis ignorance.: 

Yet whosoe'er beyond desert commends, 

Errs more by much than he that reprehends ; 

For praise misplaced, and honour set upon 

A worthless subject, is detraction. 

I ^annot sin so here, unless I went 

About to style you only excellent. 

Apollo's gifts are not confined alone 

To your dispose, he hath more heirs than one, 

And such as do derive from his blest hand 

A la;rge inheritance in the poets' land. 

As well as you ; nor are you, I assure 

Myself, so envious, but you can endure 

To hear their praise, whose worth long since 

was known. 
And justly too preferr'd before your own. 
I know you'd take it for an injury, 
(And 'tis* a well-becoming modesty,) 
To be parallel'd with Beaumont, or to hear 
Your name by some too partial friend writ near 
Unequall'd Jonson ; being men whose fire, 
At distance, and with reverence, you admire. 
Do so, and you shall find your gam will be 
Much more, by yielding them priority, 
Than, with a certainty of loss, to hold 
A foolish competition : 'tis too bold 
A task, and to be shunn'd : nor shall my praise, 
With too much weight,. ruin what it would raise. 

Thomas Jay. 



cxlii COMMENDATORY VERSE5 



To my worthy Friend, 3fr. Philip Massinxjeb^ 
upon his Tragi-Comedy called the Emperor of 
tne East. 

Suffer, my friend, these lines to have the grace. 

That they may be a mole on Venus' face. 

There is no fault about thy book but this, 

And it will shew how fair thy Eiriperor is, 

Thou more than poet ! our Mercury, that art 

Apollo's messenger, and dost impart 

His best expressions to our ears, live long 

To purify the slighted English tohgue. 

That bodi the nymphs of Tagus and of Po 

May not henceforth despise our language so. } 

Nor could they do it, if they e'er had seen 

The matchless features of the Fairy Queen i . .^. 

Read Jonson, Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, or 

Thy neat-limned pieces, skilful Massinger. 

Thou known, all the Castilians must confesa. s ] 

Vego de Carpio thy foil, and bless 

His language can translate thee, and the fin^, .. 

Italian wits yield to this work of thine. 

Were old Pythagoras alive again, > 

In thee he might find reason to maintain 

His paradox, that souls by transtnigratio^ 

In divers bodies make their habitation : i 

And more, than all poetick souls yet known^ 

Are met in thee, contracted into one. 

This is a truth, not an applause : I am 

One that at furthest distance views thy fiame. 

Yet may pronounce, that, were Apollo dead^ 

In thee his poesy might all be read. 

Forbear thy modesty : thy Emperor's vein 

Shall live admired, when poets shall complain 



ON MASStNGER. 



cxliil 



It is a pattern of too high a reach, 

And what great Phoebus might the Muses teach. 

Let it live, therefore, and I dare be bold 

To say, it with the world shall not grow old. 

Aston Cockaine. 



A Friend to the Author ^ and Well-wisher to tht 
Reader^ on the Emperor of the Ea^st. 

Who with a liberal hand freely bestows 

His bounty on all comers, and yet knows 

No ebb, nor formal limits, but proceeds 

Continuing his hospitable deeds. 

With daily welcome shall advance his name 

Beyond the art of flattery ; with such fame 

May yours, dear friend, compare- Your Muse 

hath been 
Mos^t bountiful, and I have often seen 
The willing seats receive such as have fed, 
And risen thankful ; yet were some misled 
By NICETY, when this fair banquet came 
(So I allude) their stomachs were to blame, 
Because that excellent, sharp, and poignant sauce 
Was wanting, they arose without due grace, 
Lo I thus a second time he doth inyite you : 
Be your own carvers, and it may delight yoii. 

John Clavelj^ 



COMMENDATORY VERSES 



To my true Friend and Kinsman^ Philip Mas^ 
siniGEUf i>n hU Emperor of the East. 

I TAKE not upon trust, nor am I led 
By an implicit faith : what I have read 
With an impartial censure I dare crown 
With a deserved applause, howe'er cried down 
By such whose malice will not let them be 
jEqual to any piece limn'd forth by thee. 
Contemn their poor detraction^ and still write 
Poems like this, that can endure the light, 
And search of abler judgments. This will raise 
Thy name ; the others' scandal is thy praise. 
This, oft perused by grave wits, shall live long, 
Not die as soon as past the actor's tongue, 
The fate of slighter toys ; and I must say, 
'Tis not enough to make a passing play 
in a true poet : works that should endure 
Must have a genius in them strong as pure, 
And such is thine, friend : noor shall time devour 
Tlie well-form'd features of thy Emperor/ 

William SiNOLEtoy. 



To the ingenious Author, Master Philip Mas- 
singer, on his Comedy called A New Way to 
Pay Old Debts. 

'Tis a rare charity, and thou couldst not 

So proper to the time have found a plot : 

Y^t whilst you teach to pay, you lend ; the age 

We wretches live in, that to come the stage, 

Thp thronged audience that was thither broughV 

Invited by your fame, and to be taught 



ON MASSINGER. cxlv 

This lesson; all are grown indebted more, 
And when they look for freedom, ran in score. 
It was a cruel courtesy to call 
In hope of liberty, and then, inthrall. 
The nobles are your bondmen, gentry, and 
All besides those that did not understand. 
They were no men of Credit, bankrupts born. 
Fit to be trusted with no stock but scorn. 
You have more wisely credited to such, 
That though they cannot pay, can value much, 
I am your debtor too, but, to my shame, 
Repay you toothing back but your own fame. 

Henry Moody/ Miles. 



To his Friend the Author^ on A New Way to Pay 

Old Debts. 



*. 



You may remember how you chid me, when 
I rank'd you equal with those glorious men, 
Beaumont and Fletcher: if you love not praise, 
You must forbear the publishing of plays. 
The crafty mazes of the cunning plot. 
The polish'd phrase, the sweet expressions, got 
Neither by theft nor violence ; the conceit 
Fresh and unsullied ; all is of weight, 
Able to make the captive reader know 
I did but justice when I placed yoii so. 

* ^ Henrt Moody.] Sir Henry Moody plays on the title of 
the piece. He has not much of the poet in him, but appears to 
be a friendly, good-natured roan. A short poem of his is pre- 
fixed to the folio edition of Beaumont and Fletcher. He was 
one of the gentlemen who had honorary degrees conferred on 
them by Charles I. oa.his return to Oxford from th^e battle of^ 
JBdgehilL 

VOL, r, k 



i 



cxlvi COMMENDATORY VERSES, &c. 

A shamefaced blushing would become the brow 

Of some weak virgin writer ; we allow 

To you a kind of pride, and there where most. ; 

Should blush at commendations, you should boast. 

If any think I flatter, let him look 

Off from my idle trifles on thy book, 

Thomas Jay. Miles« 



[ cxlvii ] 



/ 



A L I S T 

OF 

MASSINGER'S PLAYS. 



I ■ 



Those marked thus * a^e in the present Edition. 



1. XHt Forced Lady, T. This was one of the plays destroyed 
by Mr. Warburtoh's servant. 

% The Secretary. + This play is lost. 

3. The Noble Choice, C- 1 Entered on the Stationers* 

4. The Wandering Lorers, C. >5Z'''o''^,«?4 ^^T'^^l 

^ ' (Sept. 9, 1653; but not 

5. Philenzo and Hippolita, T. C. j^Tmt9d, These were 

among the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant* 

i5. :lntonio and Yallia,:}: C. ^Entered on the Stationers' 

'8. Fast and Welcome, C. 3 printed. These too were 

among the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant, 

9. The Woman's Plot, C. Acted at court 1621. Destroyed 
by Mr. Warburton's servant. 

10. *The Old Law, C. 

f The Secretary.] This drama, which no collection of plays has hitherto 
nientioneds^s quoted in Poole's Par%assuf. I regret the loss of this piece 
very much, as, from its being selected by Joshua, it was probabiy of singular 
merit. 

X In that most curious MS, Register discovered ' at Dulwich College, 
aad subjoined by Mr. Malone to his Histsrical Account of the English Stage, it 
the following entry " R. ao of June, 1595, at antony and vallea ol. xxj. od,** 
If this be the play entered by Moseley, Massinger's claims can ouiy aris^ 
from his having revised and altered it ; for he must have been a mere child 
when it wa« first produced. See the Introduction, p. xxiii. 



I 



exlviii LIST OF MASSINGER'S PLAYS. 

11. *Thc Virgin-Martyr, T. Acted by the serrants of hit 
Majesty's revels. Qaarto, 16i3 ; Qnarto, 1631 ; Quarto, 
1661. 

1% «The Unnatural Combat, T. Acted at the Globe. Quarto, 
1639. » 

13. ♦The Duke of Milan, T. Acted at Black-Friars. Quarto, 

1623 ; Quarto, 1638. 

14. *Tbe Bondman, T. C. Acted Dec. 3, 1623, at the Cockpit, 

Drury Lane. Quarto, 1624; Quarto, 1638. 

15. *The Renegado, T, C. Acted April 17, 1624, at the 

Cockpit, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1630. 

16. *The Parliament of Love, C. Acted Nov. 3, 1624, at the 

Cockpit, Drury Lane. 

17 The Spanish Viceroy, C. Acted in 1624. Entered en the 
Stationers' books Sept. 9, 1653, by H. Moseley, but not 
printed. iThis was one of the plays destroyed by Mr* 
Warburton's servant. 

18. *The Roman Actor, T. Acted October 11, 1626, by th^ 

King's company. Quarto, 1629. 

19. The Judge. Acted June 6, 1627, by the King's company. 

This play is lost. 

20. *The Great Duke of Florence. Acted July 5, 1627, at 

the Phoenix, Dr^ry Lane. Quarto, 1636. 

21. The Honour of Women. Acted May 6, 1628. This play 

is lost. 

22. *The Maid of Honour, T. C.+ Acted at the Phoenix, Drury 

Lane. Date of its fir9t appearance uncertaiA^ Quarto, 
' 1632. 

23. *The Picture, T. C. Acted June 8, 1629, at the Globe. 

Quarto, 1630. 

24. Minerva's Sacrifice, T. Acted Nov. 3, 1629^ by the King's 

company. Entered on the Stationers' books Sept. 9, 
' ^ 1653, but not printed. This was one of the plays de^' 
stroyed by Mr. Warburton's servant. 

-f Mr. Malone thinks this to be the play immediately preceding it, with. 
a new title. This is, however, extremely doubtful. 



LIST OF MASSINGER^S plays: cxla 

5^5. *The Emperor of the Ed,st, T. C. Acted March 11, I63I7 
at Black.Friars. Quarto, 1633. 

26. Believe as you List, C. Acted May 7, 1631. Entered 
on the Stationers' books Sept. 9, 1653, and again June 
29, 1660, but not printed. This also was one of the 
plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's senrant. 

i7. The Unfortunate Piety, T. Acted June 13, 1631, by the 
King's company. This play is lost. 

28. ♦The Fatal Dowry, T. Acted by the King's company. 

Quarto, 1632. 

29. *A New Way to pay Old Debts, C. Acted at the Phoenix, * * 

Drury Lane. Quarto, 1633 , J 

30. ♦The City Madam, C. Acted May 25, 1632, by the King's 

company. Quarto, 1659. 

31. ♦The Guardian, C. Acted October 31, 1633, by the 

King's company. Octavo, 1655. 

32. The Tragedy of Cleander. Acted May 7, 1634, by the 

King's company. This play is lost. 

33. ♦A Very Woman, T. C. Acted June 6, 1634, by the 

King's company. Octavo, 1655. 

34. The Orator. Acted June 10, 1635, by the King's com- 

pany. This play is lost. 

35. ♦The Bashful Lover, T. C. Acted May 9, 1686, by the 

King's company, f Octavo, 1655. 

36. The King and the Subject, f Acted June 5, 163d, by the; 

King's company. This play is lost. 

37. Alexins, or the Chaste Lover. Acted Sept. 25, 1639, bjr 

the King's company. This play is lost. 

38. The Fair Anchoress of Pausilippo. Acted Jan. 26, 1640, 

by the King's company. This play is lost. 



'^ The title of this play, sir H Herbert tells us, was changed. Mr. Malone 
conjectures it was named the Tyrant ^ one of Warburton's unfortunate coU 
lection* 



V. 



[cli] 



\ 



GLOSS ARIAL INDEX 



A. 

Abram men« iii. 521. 

absurd, iii. 273. 

abase, iii. 63. 

acts of parliament, iv.465. 

actuate, ii. 392. 

aerie, i. 274. 

- - - 111. 25. 

affects, ii. 29. ^ 

alba regalis^ iii. 183. 

altar, ii. 271. 

a many, i. 35. 

amorous, ii. 459. 

Amsterdam, ii. 125. 

Anaxarete, ii. 376. 

angel (bird), i. 36. 

ape, ii. 60. 
apostata, i. 93. 

« . i. III. 

i. 140. 

.-.»• H5» 

apple, iii. 317* 
Argiers, i. 139. 
arrearag:es, iii. 155- 
as (as it), iii» 521. 
astrology, iv. 38. 
atheism, iii. 65. 
atonement, i. 313. 
Aventine, ii. 329. 

B. 
bake-house, ii. 301. 

bandog, i. 44- 
banquet^ i. 167. 



banquet Iv. 29. 
banqueting'house» u. 13* 
bar, ii. 264. ^ 
barathrum, iii. 539* 
b^ley -break, i. 105« 
bases, iii* 141. 
basket, iii. 438. 

• • iii. 498. 

battalia, iii. 140* 
battle of Sabla, iv. 366. 
beadsmen, iv. 25. ' 
---.. .-iv, 50. 
bearing dishes, iii. 581. 
Beaumelle, iii. 382. 
becco, iii. 226. 
b^es, iv. 38. ^ 

beetles, L 279. 
beg estates, ifi. 250, 
beglerbeg, ii. ito. 
Bellona, iii. 148. 
bells ring backward, i. 236* 
bend the body, i. 275. 

-.----- iv. 407. 

beneath the salt, iv. 7. 
beso las manos, ii. 487* 
betake, iv. 87. 
bind with, iv. 136. 
bird-bolts, iv. 167, 
birthright, ii. 39. 
Biscan, iv. 31^. 
bisognion, iii. Sj. 
blacks, iii. 372. 
blasphemous, ii. 469. 
bloods, Iii. 425. 



"^ 



clii 



GtOSSARUL INDEX. 



blue gown« iv* no* 

braches, i. 209* 

iii. 481. \ 

- - -r - iv. 53. 
brave, ii. 208. 
braveries, ii. 11. 
1: ----- ii. 256. 
bravery, i.* 207. 
----- iii. 144. 

iv 482. 

Breda, iii. 491. 
Brennus, iii 448. 
broadside (to shew), ii. 229» 
brother in armsj iii. 39. 
buck, i. 88. ' 

bug, iii. 544. 
bullion,^ iii. 380, 
buoy'd, iii. 501. 
burial denied, iii. 360. 
burse, iv. 50. 
bury money, iv. 533, 
but, ii. 131. 

- • iii. 322. 

- - - iii. 335. 
Butler; dn iv. 491. 

C. 

« * » 

calver*d salmon, iii. 53. 
. . - . - - iv, 202. 

camel, iii. 384. 
canctflier, iv, 137^ 
canter';, iii. 484. 
Caranza, i. 152. 

- - iv. 175. 

carcanet, iv. 92. 

- - - -- - iv, 239. 
carocli, ii» 133. 

- iii. 93. 

carouse, i. 237. 
carpet ktiights, iii. 46. 
caster, iv, 79.. 
casting, iii. 214. 

cast suit, iii. 201. 
cater, iv. 34. 
cautelous, iu 45. 
cavallery, iii, 42. 



censure, ii. io6* 
ii. 509. 

ceruse, iv. 77. ' 
chamber, ii. 238. 
chapel ^11, ii. 1 14. 
chapines, ii^ 133* 
Charles the robber, iv. 158. 
charms on rubies, iL 456. 
cheese-trenchers, iv. 485. 
chiaus, ii. i8o. 
chine evil, iii. 198. ^ 
choice and richest, ii. 145. 
chreokopia, iv. 461. 
chuffs, i. 279. 
chufch-book, iv. 464. 
circular^ iii. 281. 
civil, ii. 215. 

- . - i^. 18. 
clap-dish, ii. 294. 
clemm'd, ii. 362. 
close breeches, iii. 416. 
clubs, ii. 140. 

- - - - iv. 16. 
coats, iv. 504. 
Colbrand, iii. 416. . 
colon, i. 132. 1 

- - - - iii. 142. 
come aloft, ii. .60. 
comfort, iv. '3,66. 
coming in, i. 281. 
commence, i. 305. 

- - iii. 272. 

commodities, ii. 50. 
come off, i. 209. 
commoner, i. 73. 
comparison, iii. 152. 
comrogues, iv. 71. 
conceited, ii. 40. 
conclusions, i. 306. 
conduit, ii. 301. 
conquering Romans, ii. 6i. 
consort, iii. 137. 

iii. 417. 

constable, to steal a, iii. 8. 
constant in, i. 7. 
constantly, ii. 497. 
cocks' shops, iii. 518. 



(S^LOSSARIAL INDEX. 



cliii 



Corinth ii. I2. 
corsives> ii*40l« 
----- iii. 332. 
counsel} i. 281. 

- ii. 392. 

counterfeit gold thread, iii. 505 
courtesy, ii, 460. 
courtship, i, 302. 
. .....^ i. ^5, 

------- ii. 240. 

"•497- 

..... L . iv. 240, 

courtsies, iii. 573. 
cow-eyes, i. 195, 

iii. 272. 

crack, i. 129. 
crincomes, iv. 204* 
crone, i. i3o» 
crosses, ii, 159, 
crowd, iv. 563* 
crowns o'the sun, i* 131* 

--.--. ii. 272. 

cry absurd ! iii. 273 . 
cry aim, ii. 27. 

ii. 129. 

Cupid and Death, i. 91* 

cullions, iv. 161. 

cunning, iv. 155; 

curiosit)', iv. 9. 

Curious loipertinent, iii. 408. 

curiousness, i. 189. 

• ......•11, 240. 

cypress, iv. 403, 

D. 

dag, iii. 419. 
dalliance^ i. 8i. 
danger, iii. 366. 
----- iv. 105. 
dead pays, i. 207* 
death, the, i. 249* 
deck, iv. 171. 
decline, iii. 13. 
deduct, iv. 501. 
de^p ascent, iv. 399, 
deer of ten, iii. 302* 



defeature, ii. 72* 
defensible, iv. 132. 
degrees, ii. 371. 
Delphos, iii. 448* 
demeans, iii. 1 14. 
denying burial, iii. 360. 
depart, ii. 134. 
dependencies, iii. 9. 

- iv. 123, 

deserved me, iii. 561* 
Diana, i. 315. 
(lisbecome, iii. 446. 
discourse and reason, i^ 149. 

iv.57. 

disclose, ii. 25, 
dispartationSy ii. 165. 
dissolve, i. 319. 
. - - - - ii. 377. 
distaste, 1. 187. 

ii. 131. 

divert, ii. 436. 

doctor, go out, i* 306^ 

doctrine, iii. ii« 

- . - - - . iii. 2S6. 

drad, i. 22. 

drawer-on, iv. 152. 

dresser, cook's drum, i. i66. 

« iy, |y2. 

drum, iv. 24. 
drum-wine, iv. 50, 
Dunkirk^ i. 292^ 

elenchs, iii. 273. 
elysium, i. 94. 
-cmpirick, iii; 310. 
enghle, iv. 70. 
entradas, iv. 218. 
equal, i. 133* 
equal mart, iv, 389* 
estridge, iii. 42, 
extend, iii. 577. 
----- iv. io6» 
eyasses, iii. 214. 



, cHv^ 



GLOSSARIAL INiDEX. 



F. 

/ faiths i. 6i* 
fame, iv. 330. 
far-fetch'd, iv. i6z. 
fault, ii. 97« 
----iv. 515. 
fautors, ii. io8. 
fear> iii. 56a. 
felloW, iii. 164* 
festival exceedings, iii. 21 !• 

^ - • -iv. ia» 

fetch in, H. 3S5. 
fewterer, iii. 32. 

- iii. 213. 

Fielding, iv. 84. 
fineness, ii. i38. 
Piorinda, ii. 426. 
flies, i. 35. 

flower de luce, iii. 16, 
for, i, 101. 
forks, ii. 479. 
forms, i. 177. 
fore-right, ii, 229, 
forth, iii. 326. 
frequent, ii. 329. 

;: ii.338. 

tnppery, iv^ n. 
fiir, iv. 13. 

G. 

gabel, ill. 257. 

gallant of the last edition, iv* 14 

galley foist, iii. 380. 

galliard, iv. 518. 

garden-house, ii.. 13; 

gauntlets, i. 181. 

Gay, iii. 373. 

gazet, iii. 52. 

gemonies, ii. 331. 

gimcrack, i. 317. 

Giovanni, ii. 426, 

glad to, i. 34. 

glorious, i. 142. 

}'^97' 

- 11-438. * 

go by, iii, 89. 



God be wi* you, iv. 48. 
gods to friend, ii. 333. 
gold and store, iii. 153^ 

iv. 79* 

golden arrow, ii. 378, 
. .iv. 134^ 

go less, iv. 64. 

iv. 415, 

golls, iv. 71. 
go near, il. 156. 
good, iv. 6j, 
good fellows, IV. 217. 
^ ---. iv, 225. 

good lord, iii. 236. 
good man, iii. 365. 
good mistress, ii. 337. 
goody wisdom, iii. 377. 
Gorgon, iv. 365. 
governor's place, i, 24. 
Granson, iii. 364, 
Great Britain, i. 100, 
green apron, ii. 126. 
Gressct, iv. 361. 
grim sir, i. 176. 
grub up forests, iv. 160. 
guard, ul. 127. 
guarded, ii. 325. 

H. 

hairy comet, i. 1 39. 
hand, ii., 1^2. 
hawking, iii. 214. 
heats, ii. 29. 
hecatombdion, iv. 503, 
Hecuba, ii. 381. , 
hell, iv. 7. 

high forehead,!, 129. 
hole, iv. 7. 

horned moons, ii. 159. 
hose, ii. 479, 
humanity, iii. 370, 
hunt's up, i. 270. 
hujTricano, i. 225, 

I. 

Jane of apes, ii. 63. 



GLOSSARIAL INt>EX. 



clv) 



jewel, IV. 213. 
- - - - iv. 5o8, 
imp, ii. 227. 
-- - ii. 415, 
• - - ii; 434. 
impotence, ii. 405. 
----... iv. 256. 
impotent, i. 172. 
Indians, iv. 99. 
induction, iii. 431, 
ingles, iv. 70. , 
interess, i. 239* 
Iphis, ii. 376. 

K. 

ka me ka thee, iv. 33; 
iiatexochen, iv. 166. 
keeper of the door, ii. 293. 
knock on the dresser, i* 1661 

L. 

Lachrymae, iii. lo. 
...... ill. 225, 

lackeying, i. 9. 
lady Compton, iv..43. - 
lady of the lake, iiL 5 1. 
lanceprezado, iii. 51. 
lapwing's canning, iv. ^41. 
lavender, iii. 575. 
lavcdta, ii. 489. 
----- iv. 54. . . 
leaden dart, i. 19. 
leaguer, iii. 117. 
. iii. 398, . 

leege, iii. 303. 
Lent, ii. 211. 
I'envoy, iv. 417. 

. iv. 438. 

leper, ii. 254* 
lets, i. 25. 
-• - i. 219. 
lightly, ii. 66. 
line, i. 37. 

little, i. 263. 

••• 



lively grave, iii. 371. 
living funeral, ii. 84. 
looking-glasses at the girdle» 

iv. 8. 
lost, ii. 224. 
loth to depart, iv. 532. 
lottery, ii. 307. 

16vers perjuries, ii. 463. i 

Ludgate, iV. 22. 
Luke, iv. 98* 
lye abroad, ii. 124. 

M. for master, iv. 83. 
magick picture, iiL 120. 
magnificent, iii. 267. 
M^omet, ii. 123* 
Malefort, i. 135* 
Mammon, ii. 3C0. 
mandrakes, L 1^7. 
mankind, iv. 53. 
marginal fingers, iii. 409.^ 
marmoset, iv. 51. 
Mars, iii. 148. 
Marseilles, i. 131. 

--11-243^ 

masters of dependencies^ iiL 9. 

Mephostophilus, iiL 222* 

mermaid, iv. 531. 

Minerva, ii. 411. 

fflipiver cap, iv. 91. 

mirror of knighthood, iv. 14ft 

mistress, i. 185. 

----- ii. 244. 

mistress' colours, ii. 105 » 

moppes, ii. 160. 

Morat, iii. 364. 

more, iiL 151. 

most an end, iv, 278. 

musick, ui. 422. 

mujBick-master, iii. 422. 

N. 

Nancy, iii. 364. 
never-falling, iii. 252* 



dvi GLOSSARIAL INDEX* 

Nell of Greece, iv. 529! perfected,!. 189* 

niggle, iii. 337. persever, i. 7. 

nightingale, H. 438. - '- ii'i. 104^^ . 

nimming, iv. 213. personate, ii. 497* 

no cunning quean, ii. 9. - ill. 1 1^« 

north passage, iv« 47* Pescara, l. 25 a. 

Kovall| iii. 413. physicians, iv. 262^ 

number his years, ii* 348, piety, iv. 385. 

pine-tree, i. 2,66« 

O. pip* iii- 377- 

place, iv. 1 37. 

October, ii. 33. P^ay my ^rize, iiL 564. 

oil of angels, i. 290. plumed victory, i. 154. 

oil of talc, iv. yy, plurisy, i. 196. 
Olympus, iii. 555* Plymouth cloaks iii. 492* 

Ovid, iv. 414. - - - iv. 8a. 

outcry, iv. i24. Pontalier, iii. 404. 

owe, ii. 88. poor John, ii. 124. 
owes, i. i8. - - - - - » - iiL 162. 

-•*>-ii. 15J. porter's ledge, i. 292. . 

• ----••-- ui* 4^9^ 

pj ports', i. 8. 

possessed, ii. 465. 
packing, ii. 4784: power of things, ii* 321. 

padder, iit. 510 practice, ii. 304. 

pale-spirited, iii. 509. ii. 517. 

randarus, iv. 167. practick, iii. 273. 

paned hoaet ii. 479* precisian, iii. 491* 

... - p. - - iv.^48i, . , prest, iv. 63. 

pantofle, sworn to, L 175, pretty, iii. 64. 

parallel, i. 312. : prevent, iii. 568* 

..... iii. 23. - iv. 470. 

parle, iv. 363. prevented, ii. 145. 

parted, i. 40. prodigious, i. 125, 

--•--11.495. progress, iv. 126. 

parts, iti. 75. provant sword,, iii. io« 

pash, i. 38. ^ providence, iii. 530. 

passionately, iv. .joS, pull down the side, i. 150. 

passions, iv. 463. ..-*..ii. 45^ 

...... iv. 569. ^^^ puppet, i. 266. 

pastry fortifications, iii. 491, purer, i. 257. 

Patch, iii. 541. purge, iii. 162. 

- -- - iii. 578. ^ put on, i. 303, 

Pavia, battle of, u 240, - iii. 350. 

peat, iii. 36. - -- -- iii. 537. 

peevish,!. 71.^ -•••-iv. loj. 
peevishness^ iii* 566. 



GLOSSARIAL INDEX. 



olvH 



quality, ii. 33.9, 

iii. 141. 

iii. 42?. 

..... iv. 517. 

quirpo, iii 380* 
quired, iv. 498. 

rag, iii. 396. 
Ram Alley, iiL 518. 
remarkable, i. 157. 
relick, ii. 1 30. 
remembfer, ii. 84. 
- . . ii. ^6i. 

••---•- iv. 169. 
re-refine, Iii. 254. 
resolved, i. 275. 
...... Iii, 224. 

rest on it, ii. 20. 

riches of cathoUck kihg,tv. 41 3, 

ride, iv. 54. 

rivo, ii. 174. 

roarer, ii. 142, 

Roman, iv. 8z* 

roses, iv. 11. 

iv. 93. 

rouse, I. 237. 
ii. 48. 

royal merchant, iL 154. 
rubies, ii. 456. 

S. 

Sabla, battle of, iv. 366. 
sacer, iii. 318. 
sacratus, iii. 318. 

sacred badge, ii. 207. 
sacrifice, ill. 373. 

sail-stretch'd, i. 141, 

--- - . ii.M. 

sainted, iii. 207. 
St. Dennis, ii. 252, 
sanzacke, ii. 180, 
salt, above the, i. 170. 
scarabs, i. 279. 



scenery, iv. 21. 
scholar, iii. 118. 
scirophorion, iv. 503., 
scotomy, iv. 521. 
sea-rats, iv. 324. 
Sedgely curse, iv. 20. 
seisactheia, iv. 461. 
servant, i. 185. 

- i. 192. 

iv. 143. 

shadows, i. 165. 
shall be, is, iv. 149. 
shape, ii. iii. 

- - - - ii. 369. 

--' - JI-377* 

- - - - iii. 294. 
. . - . iv. 326. 

she-Dunkirk, i. 292. 
sheriff's basket, iv. 12. 
shining shoes, iv. 161. 
sir Giles Mompesson, iii. 505. 
Skills not, i. 237. 
------ ii. 318. 

- }^'3^7' 

Sleep on either ear, iv. 150. 

small legs, iv. 280. 

jsofterneck, i. 191 » 

so, ho, bird$„iii. 21^ . 

solve, i. 319, 

sort, i. 71. 

sovereign, iv. 564. 

sought to, i. 221. 

sparred, i. 79. 

Spartan boy, iv. 188. 

sphered, i. 79. 

spit, i. 107. 

spital, iv. 52. « 

spittle, iii. 196. 

iii. 359- 

IV. 52. 

spring, i. 183. 

squire o* dames, ii. 292. ' 

' ' ' iii. 247. 

squire o' Troy, iv. 167. 
stale the jest, i. 203. 

• iv. 427. 

startup, iii. 214. 



«Iriii GLOSSARIAL INDEX. 

State, iL 14. Thrace, iii. 148. 

--- - ii. 15. time, ii. 356. 

"-SIS- Timoleon, ii. 17. 

statute against witches, iii. 577' to*to, iv. 295. 

staunch, ii. 14. token, iii. 484. 

steal a constable, iii. 8. .... iy. 84. 
steal courtesy from heaven, ii* toothful, i. 106. 

460. toothpicks, ii. 4^. 

Sterne, iii. 379. ^tosses, iii. 155. 

stiletto, iii. 184. touch, iv. 416. 

still an end, iv. 278. train, i. 205. 

stones, iii. 214. tramontanes, ii. 451. 

story, ii.'489. trillibubs, iv. 518. 

strange, ii. 8. trimmed, ii. 250. ^ 

strongly, iii. 304. try conclusions, i. 306. 

street fired, ii. 114. ^ tune, ii. 356. 

strengths, ii. 197. turn Turk, ii. 220. 

- - li. 226. ------- iii. 32. 

...... iii. 3CX). twines, iv. 1 3^2. 

striker, i. 208. 

suit, iv. 55. U. 

sworn servant, ii. 360. . ., ... 

Swiss, iii. 362. uncivil, m. 410. 

synonyma, ii. 247. unequal, in. 33a 

-..,--.-m.43&. ...iii. 286. 

T. V. 

table, ly. 484. ^^^^ -^^ 5^^ 

taint, n. 293. .- -iii. 255. 

take in, m. 579. ^ y^rlets, iii. 435. 

take me with you, 11. 488. Venice glasses, u. 14a. 

- - - - ."'• 6^- ' Virbius,i i. 375. 

" " * 1." IV. 310. voley, iii. 181. 

take up, 11. 441. votes, iv. 208. 

tall ships, 1. 1 1 2. 

tall trenchermen,, i. 166. -^^ 

tamin, iii. 531. 

tattered, i. 66. ' waistcoate^r, iv. 52. 

Termagant, ii. 123. walk after supper, i. 168. 

theatre, ii. 327. walk the round, iii. 127. 

Theocrine, i. 145. iv. 179* 

thick-skinned, i. 314. ward, iii. 127. 

thing of things, ii. 49. wards, iv. 1 24. 

third meal, i. 279. wardship, iv. 125. 

thought for, iii. 578. watchm^, iv. 467. 



/ * 

GLOSSARIAL INDEX. cttx 

way of youth> iL 334. whole field wide, iv. 63. 

iv. 304, why, when ! ii. 400. 

weakness the )ast, iv. 330. witches, iii. 577. 

wear the caster, iv. 79. witness, iii. 280. 

wear scarlet, iv. 20. wishes, as well as, iv. 30 !• 

well, iii. 386. • wolf, iv. 365. 

wheel, iii. 151. work of grace, ii. 188. 

where, (whereas) ii. 246. wreak, ii. 129. 

iii. 3S2. 

•-••.••• iii. 484. y^ 

-.-.-• iv. 247. 

...... . iv. 349, yaws, iv. 292. 

while, ii. 409. yellow, i. 308. 

- - - - iv* 472. yeoman fewterer, iii. 32. 

whiting-mop, iv. 202. ------iii. 213. 

whole field wide, iii. 30. 



ERRATA. 

P. Ixzx, 1. 2> ajltr of insert mine. 
^ 34, 1, c^Uf parents imert a semicolon* 
35, Sj^/or curtesy r 6042 courtesy* 
84, 28,ybr ams read arms. 
192, ^9 for duty ? read duty, 
355, 36,/br nobing read nptbingi 



r 



THE 



VIRGIN-MARTYR. 



VOL. r. 



B 



V 



/ 



The Virgi;^.Martyr.] Of this Tragedy, whicii^ppears to 
haye been very popular, there are three editions in qncurto, 
1622, 1631, and 1661 ; the last of which is infii^itely the worst. 
It is not possible to ascertain when it was first produced ; b«t 
as it is not mentioned among the dramatic pieces '' r^ad and 
allowed" by Sir H. Herbert, whose account commences with 
1622, it was probably amongst ihe Author's earliest efforts. In 
the composition of it he was assisted, by Decker, a pi>et of 
sufficient reputation to pro?oke the hostility or the expry of 
Jonson, and the writer of several plays much esteemed by his 
contemporaries. 

In the first edition of this Tragedy it is said to hare been 
'' diyers times publickly acted with great applswse by 4jie ser- 
vants of his Majesty's Revels." The plot of it, as Coxeter 
observes, is founded on the tenth and last general persecudoo 
of the Christians, which broke out in the nineteenth year of 
Dioclesian's . reign, with a fury hardly to be expressed ; the 
Christians being^ every where, without distinction of sex, SLQBy 
or condition, dragged to execution, and subjected to the most 
exquisite torments that rage, crudty, and hatred could suggest. 



B2 



1 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Dipclesian, 1 n ^ r o 

King of Pohtus. 

King of Epire. 

King of Macedon. 

Sapritius, Governor of Caesarea. 

Theophilus, a zealous persecutor of the Christians. 

Spippronius, captain of Sapritius' guards. 

Antoninus,/ son to Sapritius. 

Macriilus,yHewrf to Antoninus. 

Harpax, an evil spirit, following Theoiphilxis in the 

shape of a secretary. 
Angelo, a good spirit, serving Dorothea in the 

habit of a page. 

^\xq\m^, a whoremaster^y . ^r-n^^^^-i.^^ 

c- • J 1 J yservantsoj Dorothea, 

bpungius, a drunkardy j *^ 

Priest of Jupiter. 

British Slave. 

Artemia, daughter to Dioclesian. 
Ch ' t V \ daughters to Theophilus. 
Dorothea, the Virgin- Martyr. 

, Officers and Ea^ecutioners. 

SCENE, Caesarea. 



THE 



( 



VIRGINMARTYR. 



ACT 1. SCENE I. 
The Governor's Palace. 

Enter Theophilus and Harpax« 

Theoph. Come to Caesarea to-night 1 
Harp. Most true, Sir. 
Theoph. The emperor in person ! 
Harp. Do I live ? . 

Theoph. 'Tis wondrous strange ! The marches 
of great princes, 
Like to the motions of prodigious meteors, 
Are step by step observed; and loud-tongued 

Fame 
The harbinger to prepare their entertainment : 
And, were it possible so great an army. 
Though cover'd with the night, could be so near, 
The governor cannot be so unfriended 
: Among the many that attend his person, 

j But, by some secret means, he should have notice 

I Of Caesar's purpose ;* — in this then excuse me, 

If I appear incredulous. 

■ Of Caesafs purpose; — in this then excuse me f] Before Mr. 
M. Mason's edition, it stood : 

— ■ — he should have notice 
Of CcBsars purpose in this^ — 
meaning, perhaps, in this hasty and unexpected visit : I hare 
not^ however, altered the pointing. 



6 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Harp. At your pleasure. 

Theoph. Yet, when I call to mind you never 

fail'd me. 
In things more difficult, but hare discover'd 
Deeds that were done thousand leagues distant 

from me, 
When neither woods, nor caves, nor secret 

vaults, ^ 

No, nor the Power they serve, could keep these 

Christians 
Or from my reach or punishment, but thy magick 
Still laid tnem open, I begin again 
To be as confident as heretofore. 
It is not posrsible thy powerfnl art 
Should meet a check, or fail. 

Enter a Priest mth the Image of Jupiter ^ Calista 

and Christeta. 

Harp. Look on the Vestals, 
The holy pledges that the gods have given you, 
Your chaste, fair daughters. Wer't not to up- 
braid 
A service to a master not unthankful, 
I could say these, in spite of your prevention, 
Seduced by an imagined faith, not reason, 
(Which is the strength of nature,) quite forsaking 
The Gentile gods, nad yielded up themselves 
To this new-found religion. This I crossed, 
Discover'd their intentions, taught you to use. 
With gentle words and mild persuasions. 
The power and the authority of a father 
Set off with cruel threats • and so reclaim'd them : 
And, whereasthey with torments should have died, 
(Hell's furies tome, had they undergone it!) 

[Aside. 
They are now votaries in great Jupiter's temple. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 7 

And, by his priest instructed, groum familiar 
With all the mysteries^nayythe most abstruse ones^ 
Belonging to his deity. 

Theoph. 'Twas a benefit, 
For which I ever owe you. Hail, Joye's flamen ! 
Have these niy daughters reconciled themselves, 
Abandoning for ever the Christian way, 
To your opmion ? 

Priest7 And are constant in* it. 
They teach their teachers with their depth of 

jud^ent, ^ 

And are with arguments able to convert 
The enemies to our gods, and answer all 
They can object against us. 

Theoph. My dear daughters ! 

Cal. We dare dispute against this new-sprung 
sect, 
In private or in publick. 

Harp. My best lady, 
Pers6ver' in it. 

Chris. And what we maintain, 
We will seal with our bloods. 

Harp. Brave resolution ! 
I e'en grow fat to see my labours prosper* 

Theoph. I young again. To your devotions. 

Harp. Do — 
My prayers be present with you. 

[^Eweunt Priest a;nd Daughters. 

^ Priest. And are constant in tV.] So the first two editions. 
The last, which is very incorrectly printed, reads to it, and is 
injudiciously followed by the modern editors. 

' Pers^er iw ff.J So this word was anciently written and 
pronounced : thus the king, in Hamlet : 

— —but to perseTCr 
In obstinate condolement. 
Coxeter adopts the unmetrical reading of the^ third quarto, 
persevere in it, and is followed by Mr. M. Mason, who, however, 
warns the reader to lay the accent on the penultimate. 



8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Theoph. O my Harpax ! 
Thou engine of my wishes, thou thatsteePst 
My bloody resolutions; thou that arm'st 
My eyes 'gainst womanish tears and soft com- 
passion ; 
Instructing me, without a sigh, to look on 
Babes torn , by violence from their mothers' 

breasts 
To feed the fire, and with them make one 

flame: 
Old men, as beasts, in beasts' skins torn by 

dogs; 
Virgins and matrons tire the executioners j 
Yet I, unsatisfied, think their torments easy. 
Harp. And in that, just, not cruel. 
Theoph. Were all sceptres 
That grace the hands of kings, made into one. 
And offer' d me, all crowns laid ^t my feet, 
I would contemn them all, — ^thus spit at them ; 
So I to all posterities might be call'd 
The strongest champion of the Pagan gods. 
And rooter out of Christians. 

Harp. Oh, mine own. 
Mind own. dear lord 1 to further this great work, 
I ever live thy slave. 

Enter Sapritids awrfSEMPRONius. 

Theoph. ^^o more — ^the governor. 
Sap. Keep the ports close,"* and let the guards 
be doubled ; 

* Sap. Keep the ports close^^ This word, which is directly 
from the Latin, is so frequently used by Massinger and the wri- 
ters of his time, for the gates o^ a town^ that it appes^'s super- 
fluous to produce any examples of it. To hare ];H>ticed it obc» 
for all is sufficients 



/ 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 9 

Disarm the Christians, call it death in any 
To wear a sword, or in his house to have one. 

Semp. I shall be careful, Sir. 

Sap. 'Twill well become you. 
Such as refuse to offer sacrifice 
To any of our gods, put to the torture. 
Grub up this growing mischief by the roots j 
And know, when we are merciful to them. 
We to ourselves are cruel. 

Semp. You pour oil , 
On fire that bums already at the height : 
I know the emperor's edict, and my charge, 
And they shall find no favour. 

Thtoph. My good lord. 
This care is timely for the entertainment 
Pf our great master, who this night in person 
Comes here to thank you. 

Sap. Who ! the empei'or ? 
^ Harp. To clear your doubts, he doth return in 
triumph. 
Kings lackeying* by his triumphant chariot ; 
And in this glorious victory, my lord. 
You have an ample share : for know, your son, 
The ne'er-enough commended Antoninus, 
So well hath flesh'd his maiden sword,* and died 
His snowy plumes so deep in enemies' blood, 



^ Kings lackeying by his triumphant chariot;'] Running by 
the side of it like lackiesy or foot-boys. So in Marston's An-^ 
tonio and Mellida : 

'^ Oh that our power 

" Could lackey or keep pace with our desire!" 

* So well hath flesh' dy &c.] Massinger was a great reader and 
admirer of Shakspeare :' he has here not only adopted his sehti- 
pient, but his words : 

'^ Come, brother John, full bravely hast ihovL flesh'd 

'' Thy maiden sword" — — 
But Shakspeare is in every one^s head, or^ at least, in every 



/ 



\ 



10 THE VIRGIN- MARTYa 

That, besides publick grace beyond bis hopes. 
There are rewards propounded. 

Sap. I would know 
No mean in thine, could this be true. 

Harp. My head 
Ai^swer the forfeit. 

Sc^. Of his victory 
There was some rumour ; but it was assured, 
The army pass'd a full day's journey higher, 
Into the country. 

Harp. It was so determined ; 
But, for the further honour of ypur son, 
And tp observe the government of the city. 
And with what rigour, or remiss indulgence. 
The Christians' are pursued, he makes his stay 
here : ' \Trumptts ajar off. 

For proof, his trumpets speak his near arrival. 

Sap. Haste, good Sempronius, draw up our^ 
guards, 
And with all ceremonious pomp receive 
The conquering army. Let our garrison speak ' 
Their welcome in loud shouts, the city shew 
Her state and wealth. 

Semp. I'm gone. \Ex%i. 

Sap. G, I am ravish'd 
With this great honour! cherish, good Theo- 
philus. 



V V 



one's hand ; and I should therefore be constantly suiiicipated, if 
I indulged in' such remarks as these. 

I will take this opportunity to say, that it is not my intention 
to encumber the page with tracing every thought of Massinger to 
its imaginary source. This is a compliment which should only 
be paid to great and mighty geniuses ; with respect to those ii 
a second or third order, it is somewhat worse than superfluous 
to hunt them througli innumerable w^rks of all descriptions, 
for the purpose of discoyering from whence every common 
epithet, or tririal phnise was ti^en. 






THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. n 

This knowing scholar ; send for your fair daugh- 
ters;' * 
I will present them to the emperor^ 
And in their sweet conversion, as a mirror, 
Express your zeal and duty. 
Theoph. Fetch them, good HarpaXi 

[Exit Harpax. 

A guard brought in by SeMpronius, ^oWiVr^ 
leading in three kings bound; Antoninu^ 
and MAcni'Nvs carrying Me Emperor's eagles;^ 
DiocLESiAN with a gilt laurel on his kead^ 
leading in Artemia: Sapritius kisses the 
Emperor's hand^ then embraces his Son; 
Harpax in/jg*^ m Calista ^rwrfCHRisTETA. 
Loud shouts. 

Diode. So : at all parts I find Caesarea 
Completely govern'd ; the licentious soldier' 
Condned in modest limits, and the people 
Taught to obey, and, not cprnpell'd with rigourj 
The ancient Roman discipline revived. 
Which raised Rome to her greatness, and pro* 

claim 'd her 
The glorious mistress of the conquer'd world ; 
But, above all, the service of the gods 

7 send iov your fair daughters;'] All the Copies read, — 

send your fair daughters ; for^ which I havd ins^rtei, seems ne- 
cessary to oomplete the sense as well as the metre ; as Harpax 
is immediately dispatched to bring them. 

« \ the licentious soldier] Mr. M. Mason reads soU 

diera^ the old and true lection is soldier^ The stage direction in 
this place is very strangely given by the former editors. I may 
here observe, that I do not mean to notice eyery slight correction: 
already several errors have been silently r^ormed by the assist- 
ance of the first quarto : among which, however, I do not xeckoii 
the removal of sueh barbarous contractions as conq'ring, ad'mant^ 
ranc'rous, ign'rance, rhet'rick, &c. with which the modern 
editions are every where deformed without authority or reason* 



12 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR/ 

So zealously observed, that, good Sapritius, 
In words to thank you for your care and ddty, 
Were much unworthy Dioclesian's honour, 
Or his magnificence to his loyal servants. — 
But I shall find a time with noble titles 
To recompense your merits. 

Sap. Mightiest Caesar, 
'Whose power upon this globe of earth is equal 
To Jove's in heaven ; whose victoripus triumphs 
On proud rebellious kings that stir against it, 
Are perfect figures of his immortal trophies 
Won in the Giants' war; whose conquering sword, 
Guided by his strong arm, as deadly kills 
As did his thunder ! all that I have done, 
Or, if mv strength were centupled, could do. 
Comes short of what my loyalty must challenge. 
But, it in any thing I have deserved 
Great Caesar's smile, 'tis in my humble care 
Still to preserve the honour of those gods. 
That make him what he is : my zeal to them, 
I ever have express'd in my fell hate , 
Against the Christian sect that, with one blow, 
(Ascribing all things to an unknown power,) 
Would strike down all their temples, and allows 

them* 
Nor sacrifice nor altkrs. 

Diode. Thou, in this, 
Walk'st hand in hand with me: my will and 
power 

^ Whose power f &c.] A translation of the well-known line : 
Dvoi&um impefium cum Jove Ccesar habet. 

' and allows them 

Nor sacrifice, nor altars,] So the first two copies. The modem 



editors have, 



and allow thef/i 



'So sacrifice nor altars : 
which is tile corrupt reading of the quarto, 1661. 



THE virgin-martyr: is 

Shall not alone confirm, but honour all 
That are in this most forward. 

Sap. Sacred Caesar, 
If your imperial majesty stand pleased 
To shower your favours upon such as are 
The boldest champions of our religion ; 
Look on this reverend man, to whom the power 
Of searching out, and punishing such delin- 
quents. 
Was by your choice committed ; and, for proof, 
He hath deserved the grace imposed upon him, 
And with a fair and even hand proceeaed. 
Partial to none, not to himself, or those 
Of equal nearness to himself ; behold 
'This pair of virgins. 

Diode, What are these ? 

Sap. His daughters. 

Artem. Now by your sacred fortune, they are 
fair ones, 
Exceeding fair ones : would 'twere in my power 
To make them mine ! 

Theoph. They are the gods', great lady, 
They were most happy in your service else : 
On these, when they fell from their father's 

faith, 
I used a judge's power, entreaties failing 
(They being seduced) to win them to adore 
The holy Powers we worship ; I put on 
The scarlet robe of bold authority. 
And, as they had been strangers to my blood. 
Presented them, in the most horrid form, 
All kind of tortures ; part of which they sufFir'd 
With Roman constancy. 

Artem. And could you endure, 

* This pair of mrginsJ] Changed, I know not why, by the 
modern editor^, into— These pair 4>f virgins^ 



14 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Being a father, to behold their limbs 
Extended on the rack ? 

Theopk. I did ; but must 
Confess there was a strange contention in me, 
Between the impartial office of a judge, 
And pity of a father ; to help justice 
Religion stept in, under which odds 
Compassion fell : — yet still 1 was a father ; 
For e'en then, when the flinty hangman's whips 
Were worn with stripes spent on their tender 

limbs, 
I kneel'd, and wept, and begg'd them, though 

they nfould 
Be cruel to themselves, they would take pity 
On my gray hairs : now note a sudden change, 
WhichI with joy remember; those, whom torture, 
Nor fear of death could terrify, were o'ercome 
By seeing of my sufferings ; and so won, 
Returning to the faith that they were born in, 
I gave them to the gods : and be assured,^ 
I that used justice with a rigorous hand. 
Upon such beauteous virgins, and mine own. 
Will use no favour, where thecause commajid^me,^ 
To any other ; but, as rocks, be deaf 
To all entreaties. 

Diode. Thou deserv'st thy place ; 
Still hol4 it> 2.nd with honour. Things thus ordered 
Touching the gods, 'tis lawful to descend 
To human cares, and exercise that power 
Heaven has conferr'd upon me ; — which that you, 
Rebels and traitors to the power of Rome, 
Should not with all extremities undergo. 
What can you urge to qualify your crimes, 
Or mitigate my anger ? 

^K. ofEpire. We are now ^ 

' K. of £pire. We are now 
Slaves to thy powers &c.] I have obseryeA sereral imitfttioiis 






THE VIRGIN-MARTYB. IS 

Slaves to thy power, that yesterday were Wngs, 
And had command o'er others ; we confess 
Our grandsires paid yours tribute, yet left ns, 
As their forefathers nad, desire of freedom. 
And, if you Romans hold it glorious honour^ 
Not only to defend what is your own. 
But to enlarge your empire, (though our fortune 
Denies that nappin^ss, ) who can accuse 
The famish 'd mouth, if it attempt to feed ? 
Or such, whose fetters eat into their freedoms, 
If they desire to shake them off? 

K. of Pontiis. We stand 
The last examples, to prove hbw uncertain 
All human happiness is ; and are prepared 
To endure the worst. 

K. ofMacedon. That spoke, which now is highest 
In fortune's wheel, must when she turns it next, 
Decline as low as we are. This, consider'd, 
Taifght the jEgyptian Hercules, Sesostris, 
That had his clmriot drawn by captive kings, 
To free them from that slavery ; — but to hope 
Such mercy from a Roman, were mere madness : 
We are familiar with what cruelty 
Rome, since her infant greatness, ever used 
Such as she triumph'd over; age nor sex 
Exempted from her tyranny ; scepter'd princes 
K^t in her common dungeons, and their children, 
In scorn train'd up in base mechanic arts. 



of Massinger in the dramas of Mbsob : tliere is, for instance, a^ 
j;triking similarity between this spirited speech, and the indignant 
exclamation of the brare but unfortunate Garactacos : 

=- *' Soldier, I had arms, 

^' Jlad nei^ifi^ steeds to whiri my iron cais^ 

^^ Had w^<^ dominions: Dort thou wonder, Roman, 

^^ I fought to save them ? What if Cesar aims 

^* To lord it universal o'er the world, 

^^ Shall the world tamelf cioudi to Caesar's footstool V* 



16 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

• 

l^'or public 'bondmen. In the catalogue 

Of those unfortunate men, we expect to have 

Our nam.es remember'd. 

Diode. In all growing empires, 
Even cruelty is useful; some must suffer, 
And be set up examples to strike terror 
In others, though far off: but, when a state, 
Is raised to her perfection, and her bases 
Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy. 
And do't with safety:*, but to whom? not 

cowards. 
Or such whose baseness shames the conqueror. 
And ix)bs him of his victory, as weak Perseus 
Did great iEmilius.* Know, therefore, kings 
Of Epire, Pontus, and of Macedon, 
That I with courtesy can use my prisoners. 
As well as make them mine by force, provided 
That they are noble enemies : such 1 fi)und you. 
Before I made you mine; and, since you were so. 
You have not lost the courages of princes, 
Although the fortune. Had you born yourselves 
Dejectedly, and base, no slavery 
Had been too easy for you : but such is 
The power of noble valour, that we love it 

^ And do't with safety:] This is admirably expressed; the 
lilaxim how ever, though just, is of the most dangerous nature, 
for what ambitious chief will ever allow the state to be '^ raised 
to her perfection," or that the time for/ using ^^ mercy with 
safety" is arrived ? even Dioclesian has his exceptions, — strong 
ones too ! for Rome was old enough in his time. There is ao 
allusion to Virgil, in the opening of this speech : 

Res duroj et novitas regni me talia cogunt 

Moliri, &c/ 

5 ■ as weak Perseus 

Did great ^mUius,^ It, is said that Perseus sent to desire 
Paujius iBmilius not to exhibit him as a spectacle to the Romans, 
and to spare him the indignity of being led in triumph. £milius 
replied coldly : The favour he asks of me is in his ovmpoxoer;' he 
can procure it fir hin^elf. Coxkter. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 17 

Even in our enemies, and taken with it, 
Desire to make them friends, as I will you. 

K. of Epire. Mock us not, Caesar. 

Diode, By the gods, I do not. 
Unloose their bonds ; — I now as friends embrace 

Give them their crowns again. 

K. of Pontus. We are twice overcome ; 
By courage and by courtesy. 

K. of Macedon. But this latter, 
Shall teach us to live ever faithful vassals 
To Dioclesian, and the power of Rome. 

K. of Epire. All kingdoms fall before her! 

K. qfPontus. And all kings 
Contend to honour Caesar ! 

Diode. I believe 
Your tongues are the true trumpets of your 

hearts, 
And in it I most happy. Queen of fate, 
Imperious Fortune ! mix some light disaster 
With my so many joys, to season them. 
And give them sweeter relish: I'm girt round 
With true felicity; faithful subjects here, 
Here bold commanders, here with new-made 

friends; 
But, what's the crown of all, in thee, Artemia, 
My only child, whose love to me and duty, 
Strive to exceed each other ! 

Artem. I make payment 
But of a debt, which I stand bound to tender 
As a daughter and a subject. 

Diode. Which requires yet 
A retribution from me, Artemia, 
Tied by a father's care, how to bestow 
A jewel, of all things to me most precious : 
Nor will I therefore longer keep tnee from 
The chief joys of creation, marriage rites; 

VOL. I. • C 



18 THE VIJlGIN-MARTYft. 

Which that thou . may 'st with gre?iter plpa^ures 

taste of, 
Thou shalt notljkq with mine eyes, but thine own. 
Among these kings, forgetting they were cap- 
tives. 
Or those, remembering not they are my subjects, 
Make choice ©f any ; by Jove's dreadful thunder, 
My will shall rank with thine. 

Artem. It is a bounty 
The daughters of great princes seldom meet 

with; 
For they, to make up breaches in the stated 
Or for some other public^ends, are forced 
To match where they affect not.* May my life 
Deserve this favour ! " 

Diode. Speak ; I long to know 
The man thou wilt make happy. 

Artem. If that titles, 
Or the adored name of Queen could ta^e me, 
Here would I fix mine eyes, and look no further : 
But these are baits to- take a mean- born lady, 
Not her, that boldly may call Csesar father; 
In that I can bring honour unto any, 
But from no king that lives receive addition: 
To raise desert and virtue by my fortune, 
Though in a low estate, were greater glory, 
Thali to mix greatness with a prince that owes^ 
No worth but that name only. 

Diode. I commend thee, 
TTis like myself. 

* To match where thty affect «of.] This does better fof modern 
than Roman practice ; and indeed the author was^ thinking more 
pf Hamlet than of Dioclesian, in this part of the dialogue. 

^ Than to mix greatness with a prince that bwes] Wherever 
the former editors meet T^ith this word, in the sense of possess^ 
they alter it into own^^ though it is so used iQ al^ps^ ey^ry 
page of our old dramatists. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR, 19 

Artem. If then, of men beneath me, 
My choice is to be made, where shall I seek, 
But among those that best deserve from you ? 
Th^t have served you most faithfully ; that in 

dangers 
Have stood next to you ; that have interposed 
Their breasts as shields of proof, to dull the' 

swords 
Aim'd at your bosom; that have spent their 

blbod 
To crown your brows with laurel? 

Macr. Cytherea, 
Great Queen of Love,* be now propitious to me ! 

Harp. Now mark what I foretold. 

Anton. Her eye'« on me. 
Fair Venus' son, draw forth a leaden dart," 
And, that she may hate me, transfix her with it; 
Or, if thou needs wilt use a golden one. 
Shoot it in the-i)ehalf of any other : 
Thou know'st I am thy votary elsewhere. 

Artem. Sir. 

Theoph. How he blushes ! 

Sap. Welcome, fool, thy fortune. 
Stand like a block when such an angel courts 
thee ! 

Artem. I am no object to divert your eye 
From the beholding, 

7 to dull the swords] So the old copies. Mr. M . 

Mason reads, to dull their swords I 

* Fair Venus' son draw forth n leaden dart^] The idea of this 
double effect, to which Massinger has more than one -allusion, 
is from Ovid : 

Films huic Veneris; Figat tuus omnia^ Fhcsbe^ 

Te meus arcusy ait: — Parnassi constitit arce, 

Eque sagittifera pramsit duo tela pharetra 
I Diversorum operum : fugat hocyfacit illud amorem. 

Quodfadty auratum est, et cuspidefulget acuta ; 

Quod fugat f obtusum est, et habet sub arundine plumbum. 

Met. lib. 1. 470. 

C2 



20 THE VIRGIN-MARTYRw 

Anton. Rather a bright sun, 
Too glorious for him to gaze upon, 
That took not first flight from the eagle's aerie. 
As I look on the temples, or the gods, 
And with that reverence, lady, I behold you. 
And shall do ever. , 

Artem. And it will become you. 
While thus we stand at distance ; but, if love, 
Love born out of the assurance of your virtues, 
Teach me fo stoop so low 

Anton. O, rathet take 
A higher flight. 

Artem. Why, fear you to be raised ? 
Say I put off the dreadful awe that waits 
On majesty, or with you share my beams, 
Nay, make you to outshine me; change the name 
Of Subject into Lord, rob you of service 
That's due from you to me, and in me make it 
Duty to honour you, would you refuse me ? 

Anton. Refuse you, madam I such a worm as 
I am, 
Refuse what kings upon their knees would sue 

Call it, great lady, by another name ; 

An humble modesty, that would not match 

A molehill with Olympus. 

Artem. He that's famous 
For honourable actions in the war, 
As you are, Antoninus, a proved soldier. 
Is fellow to a king. 

Anton. If you love valour. 
As 'tis a kingly virtue, seek it out. 
And cherish it in a king; there it shines brightest, 
And yields the bravest lustre. Look on Epire, 
A prince, in Whom it is incorporate ; 
And let it not disgrace him that he was 
O ercome by Caesar; it was victory, 



THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. 21 

To stand so long against him : had you seen him, 
How in one bloody scene he did discharge 
The parts of a commander and a soldier, 
Wise in direction, bold in execution ; 
You would have said. Great Csesar's self ex- 
cepted, 
The world yields not his equal. 

Artem. Yet I have heard, 
Encountering him alone in the head of his troop, 
You took him prisoner. 

K. ofEpire. 'Tis a truth, great princess ; 
I'll not detract from valour. 

Anton. 'Twas mere fortune : 
Courage had no hand in it. 

Theoph. Did ever man 
Strive so against his own good ? 

Sap. Spiritless villain ! 
How I am tortured ! By the immortal gods, 
I now could kill him. 

Diode. Hold, Sapritius, hold. 
On our displeasure hold ! 

Harp. Why, this would make 
A father mad, 'tis not to be endured ; 
Your honour's tainted in't. 

Sap. By heaven, it is ; 
I shall think ofit. , . 
'Harp. 'Tis not to be forgotten* 

Artem. Nay, kneel not, sir, I am no ravishcr, 
Nor so far gone in fond affection to you. 
But that I can retire, my honour safe : — 
Yet say, hereafter, that thou hast neglected . 
What, but seen in possession of another. 
Will make thee mad with envy. 

Anton. In her looks 
Revenge is written. 

Mac. As you love your life, 
Study to appease her. 



* 

9 



22 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Anton. Gracious madam, hear me. 

Artem. And be again refused ? . 

Anton. The tender of 
My life, my service, or, since you vouchsafe it,'' 
My love, my heart, my all : and pardon me, 
Pardon, dread princess, that I made "some 

scruple 
To leave a valley of security, 
To mount up to the hill of majesty, 
On which, the nearer Jove, the nearer lightning. 
What knew I, but your gi-ace made trial of me; 
Durst I presume to embrace, where but to touch 
With an unmanner'd hand, was death ? The fox, 
When he saw first the forest's king, the lion, 
Was almost dead with fear;* the second view 
Only a little daunted him; the third, 
He durst salute him boldly : pray you, apply this ; 
And you shall find a little time will teach me 
To look with more familiar eyes upon you, 
Than duty yet allows me. 

Sap. Well excused. 

Artem. You may redeem all yet. 

Diode. And, that he may 
Have means and opportunity to do so, 
Artemia, I leave you my substitute 
In fair Caesarea. 

Sap. And here, as yourself. 
We will obey and serve he;'^ 

Diode. Antoninus, 
So you prove hers, I wish no other heir; 

^ My life^ my service^ or, smcc you vouchsafe iV, 
My iovcy ^c] This is the readiBg of the first edition, and is 
eridently right. Coxeter follows the second and third, which read 
not instead of or. How did this nonsense escape Mr. M. Mason? 

* Was almost dead with/ear;^ The reading of the first quarto 
is drad^ which may, perhaps, be the genuine word. The fable 
*is from the Greek. In a preceding line there is an allusion to 
the proTerb : — Proad a Jove, sed procul afulmine. 



THE virgin-martyr: g*' 

Think on't : — be careful of your chargfe^ Th6o- 

^ philus; 
Sapritius, be you my daughter's giiaf diari. 
Your company I wish, confederate prihcei^, 
In our Dalmatian" wars, which finii^ed 
Witb victory I hppej ^tid Maximitius, 
Our brother and copartner in the eitipire, 
At my request won to confirm as much, 
The kingdoms I took from you we'll restore, 
And make you greater than you were before. 

[Exeunt all but Antoninusund Macrinus. 

Anton. Oh, I am lost for ever ! lost, Macrinus ! 
The anchor of the wretched, hope, forsakes me, 
And with otie blast of Fortune all my light 
Of happiness is put out. 

Mac. You are like to those 
That are ill only, 'cause they are too well; 
That, surfeiting in the excess of blessings. 
Call their abundance want. What could you wish, 
That is not fall'n upon you ? honour, greatness, 
Respect, wealth, favour, the whole world for a 

dower ; 
And with a princess, whose excelling form 
Exceeds her fortune. 

Anton. Yet poison still is poison, 
Though drunk in o:old ; and all these flattering: 

glories 
To me, ready to starve, a painted banquet, 
And no essential food. When I am scorch'd 
With fire, can flames in any other quench me ? 
What is her love to me, greatness, or empire, 
That am slave to another, who alone 
Can give me ease or freedom ? 

Mac. Sir, you point at 
Your dotage on the scornful Dorothea : 
Is she, though fair, the same day to be named 
With best Artemia ? In all their courses, 



24 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 




; men propose their ends: with sweet 

Artemia, 

There comes along pleasure, security, 
Usher'd by all that in this life is precious : 
With Dorothea (though her birth be noble, 
The daughter to a senator of Rome, 
By him left rich, yet with a private wealth. 
And far inferiour to yours) arrives 
The emperor's frown, which, like a mortal 

plague. 
Speaks death is near ; the princess' heavy scorn, 
Under which you will shrink;* your father's 

fury. 
Which to resist, even piety forbids : — 
And but remember that 'she stands suspected 
A favourer of the Christian sect ; she brings 
Not danger, but assured destruction with her. 
This truly weigh'd, one smile of great Artemia 
Is to be cherish'd, and preferr'd before 
All joys in Dorothea : therefore leave her. 
Anton. In what thou think'st thou art most 

wise, thou art 
Grossly albused, Macrinus, and most foolish. 
For any man to match above his rank, 
Is but to sell his liberty. With Artemia 
I still must live a servant ; but enjoying 
Divinest Dorothea, I shall rule, 
Rule as becomes a husband : for the dangCTy 
Or call it, if you will, assured destruction, 
I slight it thus. — If, then, thou art my friend. 
As I dare, swear thou art, and wilt not take 
A governor's place upon thee,' be my helper. 

* Under which you will shrink;] So all the old copies. Mo- 
dern editors incorroctly. and unmetrically read: 

Under which you'll sink, kc. 

^ A goiernor's place upon thee,'] From the Latin: ne sis mUi 
tutor. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 25 

Mac. You know I dare, and will do any thing ; 
Put me unto the test. 

Anton. Go then, Macrinus, 
To Dorothea ; tell her I have worn, 
In all the battles I have fought, her figure, 
Her figure in my heart, which, like a deity, 
Hath still protected me. Thou can'st speak well, 
And of thy choicest language spare a little, 
To make ner understand how much I love her, 
And how I languish for her. Bear these jewels, 
Sent in the way of sacrifice, not service. 
As to my goddess : all lets* thrown behind me, 
Or fears that may deter me, say, this morning 
I mean to visit her by the name of friendship : 
— No words to contradict this. 

Mac I am yours : 
And, if my travail this way be ill spent. 
Judge not my readier will by the event. [Exeunt 



ACT II. SCENE I. 
A Room in Dorothea's House, 

JEwferSpuNGius, and Hi^civs.^ 

spun. Turn Christian ! Woiild he that first 
tempted me to have my shoes walk upon Chris- 
tian soles, had turn'd me into a capon ; for I am 

. * " All lets thrown behind we,] i. e. All impediments* 

So in the Mayor of Quinboraugh : 

'' Hope, and be sure I'll soon remove the let 
" That stands.between thee and thy glory." 

' Very few of our old English plays are free from these dia- 
logues of low wit and buflfoonery : 'twks the vice of the age ; 



36 THE VIRGIN-MARTYII. 

sure nbw, the stones of all my pleasure, in this 
fleshly life, are cut off. 

Hir. So then, if any coxcomb has a gdloping 
desire to ride, here's a gelding, if he can but sit 
him. 

Spun. I kick, for all that, like a hor^e ; — ^look 
else. 

Hir. But that is a kickish jade, fellow 
Spungius. Have not I as much caiise to com- 
plain as thou hast ? When I wa^ a pagan, thete 
was an infidel punk of mine, would have let me 
come upon trust for my curvetting : a pox_ on 
your Christian cockatrices, they cry, like poul- 
terers' wives : — ^No money, no coney. 

Spim. Bacchus, the gcJd of brew'cf wiiie and 
sugar, grand patron of rob-pots, upsy-freesy 

nor is Massinger less free from it than his cotemporaries. . To 
defend them is impossible, nor shall I attempt it. They are of 
this use, that they mark the taste, display the manners, and 
shew us what was the chief delight and entertainment of our 
forefathers. Coxeter. 

It should, however, be observed, in justice to our old plays, 
that few, or rather none of them, are cotitaminated with 9uch 
detestable ribaldry as the present. To "low wit," or indeed 
to wit Of any kind, it has not the slightest pretension ; being, 
in fact, nothing more than a loathsome sooterkin engendered of 
filth and dulness. That Massinger is not free from dialogues of 
low wit and buffoonery (though certainly, notwithstanding Coxe- 
ter^s assertion, he is much more so than his contemporaries), 
may readily be granted ; bnt the person who, after perusing 
this execrable trash, can imagine it to bear any resemblance to 
his style and manner, must have read him to very little purpose. 
It was assuredly written by Decker, as was the rest of this act, 
in which there is much to approve : with respect to this scene, 
and every other i^ which the present speakers are introduced, 
I recommend them to' the reader's supreme scorn and contempt ; 
if he pass them entirely over, he will lose little of the story, 
and nothing of his respect for the author. ' I have carefully 
corrected the text in innum'eraible places, but given it no farther 
consideration. I repeat nfy entreaty that the reader would re- 
ject it altogiether. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. ar 

I 

I 

tipplers, andsuper-naciilutn ts^kers; this Bacchus^ 
who is head warden of Vintners'-hall, ale-conner, 
mayor of all victualling-houses, the sole liquid 
benefactor to bawdy houses ; lanceprezade to 
red noses, and invincible adelantado over the 
armado of pimpled, deep-scarleted, rubified, and 
car bunded faqes-^ — r- 

Hir. What of all this ? 

Spun. This boon Bacchanalian skinker, did I 
make legs to. 

Hir. Scurvy -ones, when thou wert drunk. ^ 

Spun. There is no danger of losing a man's 
ears by making these indentures; he that will 
* not now and then be Calabingo, is worse than 
a Calambothe. When I was a pagan, and kneeled 
to this Bacchus, I durst out-drink a lord ; but 
your Christian lords out-bowl me. I was in hope 
to lead a sober life, when I was converted ; but, 
now amongst the Christians, I .can no sooner 
stagger out of one alehouse^ but I reel into 
another : they have whole streets of nothing but 
drinking-rooms, and drabbing-chambers, jumbled 
together. 

Hir. Bawdy Priapus, the first schoolmaster 
that taught butchers how to stick pricks in flesh, 
and make it swell, thou know'st, was the only 
ningle that I cared for under the moon; but, 
. since I left him to follow a scurvy lady, what 
with her praying and our fasting, if now I come 
to a wench, and offer to use her any thing hardly 
(telling her, being a Christian, she must endure}, 
jBhe presently handles me as if I were a clove, and 
cleaves me with disdain, as if I were a calf's head. 

Spun. I see tio remedy, fellow Hircius, but 
that thou and I must be half pagans, and half 
Christians; for we know very fools that are 
Christians . 



as THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Hir. Right : the quarters of Christians are 
good for nothing but to feed crows. 

Spun. True: Christian brokers, thou know'st, 
are made up of the quarters of Christians ; par- 
boil one of these rogues, and he is not meat for 
a dog : no, Tlo, I am resolved to have an infidePs 
heart, though in shew I carry a Christian's face. 

Hir, Thy last shall serve my foot : so will I. 

Spun. Our whimpering lady and mistress sent 
me with two great baskets full of beef, mutton, 
veal, and goose, fellow Hircius 

Hir. And woodcock, fellow Spungius. 
. Spun. Upon the poor lean ass-fellow, on which 
I ride, to all the almswomen : what think'st thou 
I have done with all this good cheer ? 

Hir^ Eat it; or be choked else. 

Spun. Would my ass, basket and all, were in 
thy maw, if I did! No, as I am a demi-pagan, I 
sold the victuals, and coined the money into 
pottle pots of wine. 

Hir. Therein thou shewed'st thyself a perfect 
demi- christian too, to let the poor beg, starve^ 
and hang, or die of the pip. Our puling, snotty- 
nose lady sent me out likewise with a purse of 
money, to relieve and release prisoners :-—^Did I 
so, think you? 

Spun. Would thy ribs were turned into grates 
of iron then. 

Hir. As I am a total pagan, I swore they 
should be hanged first ; for, sirrah Spungius, 1 
lay at my old ward of lechery, and cried, a pox 
on your two-penny wards 1 and so I took scurvy 
common flesh for the money. 

Spun. And wisely done ; for our lady, sending 
it to prisoners, had bestowed it out upon lousy 
knaves: and thou, to save that labour, cast'st it 
away uppn rotten whores. 



V 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. S9 

, Hir. AH my fear is of that pink-an-eye jack- 
^n-apes boy, her^page. 

Spun. As I am a pagan from my cod-piece 
downward, that white-faced monkey frights me 
too : I stole but a dirty pudding, last day, out of 
an almsbasket, to\give my dog when he was 
hungry, and the peaking chitty-face^page hit 
me in the teeth with it. 

Hir. With the dirty pudding ! so he did me 
once with a cow-turd, which in knavery I would 
have crumb'd into one's porridge, who was half 
a pagan too. The smug dandiprat smells us out, 
whatsoever we are doing. 

Spun. Does he ? let him take heed I prove 
not his back-friend: I'll make him curse his 
smelling what I do. 

Hir. 'Tis my lady spoils the boy ; for he is 
ever at her tail, and she is never well but in his 
company. 

• 
Enter Angelo with a hooky and a taper lighted; 
they seeing him, counterfeit devotion. 

Ang. O ! now your hearts make ladders of 
your eyes. 
In shew to climb to heaven, when your devdtion 
Walks upon crutches. Where did you waste 

your time, * 

When the religious man was on his knees, 
Speaking the heavenly language? 

Spun. Why, fellow Aiigelo, we were ispeaking 
in pedlar's French, I hope, >. 

Hir. We have not been idle, take it upon my word. 
Ang. Have you the baskets emptied, which 
your lady 
Sent from her charitable hands to women 
That dwell upon her pity ? 



30 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

* Spun. Emptied them ! yes ; I'd be loth to have 
my belly so empty ; yet, I am sure, I munched 
not one hit of them neither. 

Ang. And went your money to the prisoners ? 

Hir. Went ! no ; I carried it, and with these 
fingers paid it away. • 

Ang. What way ? the devil's way, the way of sin, 
The way of hot damnation, way of lust ! 
And you, to wash away the poor man's bread 
In bowls of drunkenness. 

Spun. Drunkenness ! yes, yes, I use to be 
drunk ; our next neighbour's man, called Chris- 
topher, hath often seen me drunk, hath he not ? 

Hir.^Or me given so to the flesh ! my cheeks 
speak my doings. 

Ang. Avaunt, ye thieves, and hoUowhypocrites! 
Your hearts to. me lie open like black books, 
And there I read your doings. . 

J^un. And what do you read in my heart ? 

Hir. Or in mine ? come, amiable Angelo, beat 
the flint of your brains. 

Spun. And let's see what sparks of wit fly out 
to kindle your cerebrum. 

Ang. Your names even brand you ; you are 
Spungius call'd, 
And like a spunge, you suck up lickerish wines, 
Till your soul reels to hell. ' 

Spun. To hell ! can any drunkard's legs carry 
him so far ? ' 

Ang. For blood of g;rapes you sold the widows' 
food, 
And starving them 'tis murder : what's this but 

hell?. 

Hircius your name, and goatish is your nature : , 
You snatch the meat out of the prisoner's mouth, 
To fatten harlots : is not this hell too ?■ 
No angel, but the devil, waita^ on you. 



THE VIRGIN-MAilTYR. 31 

• 

mn. Shall I cut his throat ? 
^ir. No ; better burn him, fpr I think he is % 
witch ; but sooth, sooth him. 

Spun. Fellow Angelo, true it is, that falling 
into the company of wicked h.e- christians, for 
my part — — 

Mpr. And she-ones, for mine, — ^we have them 
swim in shoals hard by 

Spun. We must confess, I took too much out 
of the pot ; and he of t'other hollow commodity. 

Her. Yes, indeed, we laid Jill on both of us ; 
we cozen'd the poor ; but tis a common thing ; 
many a one, that counts himself a better Chris- 
tian than we two, has done it, by this light. 

Spun. But pray, sweet Angelo, play not the 
tell-tale to my lady; and, if you take us creep- 
ing into any of these mouse-holes of sin any 
more, let cats flay off our skins. 

Hir And put nothing but the poisoned tails of 
rats into those skins. 

Ang. Will you dishonour her sweet charity. 
Who sayed you from the tree of death and shame? 

Hir. Would I were hang'd, rather than thus . 
be told of my faults. 

Spun. She took us, 'tis true, from the gallows ; 
yet I hope she will not bar yeomen sprats to 
have their swing. 

Ang. She comes, — beware and mend, 

Hir. Let's break his neck, and bid him mend. 

» 

Ent^r Dorothea. 

Dor. Have you my messages, sent to the poor, 
Deliver'd with good hands, not robbing them 
Of any jot was theirs ? 

Spun. Rob them, lady ! I hope neither my fel*. • 
low nor I am thieves. 



32 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Hir. Delivered with good hands, madam! 
else let me never lick my fingers more when I 
eat butter'd fish. 
Dor, Who cheat the poor, and from them 
pluck their alms, 
Pilfer from heaven; and there are thunderbolts 
From thence to beat them ever. Do n6t lie, 
Were you both faithful, true distributers ? 

Spun. Lie, madam ! what grief is it to see you 
turn swaggerer, and give your poor-minded ras- 
cally servants ^he lie. 

Dor. I'm glad you do not ; if those wretched 
people 
Tell you they pine for want of any thing. 
Whisper but to mine ear, and you shall furnish 
them. 
Hir. Whisper ! nay, lady, for my part I'll cry 

whoop. 
Ang. Play no more, villains, with so good a 
lady; 
For, if you do— — 
, Spun. Are we Christians ? 
tlir. The foul fiend snap all pagans for me. 
Ang. Away, and, once more, mend. 
l%un. Takes us for botchers. 
Hir. A patch, a patch ! [iljreunt Spun, and Hir. 
Dor. My book and taper.* 
Ang. Here, most holy mistress. 
Dor. Thy voice sends forth such musick, that 
I never 
Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. 



6 



Der. My book and taper. ^ What follows, to the end of the 
scene, is exquisitely beautiful. What pity that a man so capa* 
ble of interesting .our best passions (for I add pe.rsttaded that 
this also was written by Decker), should prostitute his genius 
and his judgment to the production of what could only disgrace 
liimself, and disgust his readet. 



THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. 33 

Were every servant in the world like thee, 
So full of goodness, angels would come down 
To dwell with us : thy name is Angdo, 
And like that name thou art; get thee to rest, 
Thy youth with^too much watching is opprest. 
Ang. No, my dear lady, I could weary stars, 
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes , 
By my late watching, but to wait on you. 
When at your prayers you kne?l before the altar, 
Methinks Fm singing with some quire in heaven, 
So blest I hold me in your company : 
Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid 
Your boy, so serviqeable^ to get hence ; 
For then you break his heart. 

Dor. Be nigh me still, then ; 
In golden letters down I'll set that .day, 
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope 
To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, 
This little, pretty body ; when I, coming 
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy. 
My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an 

alms, 
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand !— 
And, when I took thee home, my most chaste 

bosom, 
Methought, was fiU'd with no hot wanton fire, 
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, 
On wings of cherubins, than it did before. 

^ng. Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye 
So likes so poor a servant. 

Dor. I have oiFer'd 
Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. 
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of 

some. 
To dwell with thy good father ; for, the son 
Bewitching me so deeply with His presence. 
He that begot him must do't ten times more. 

VOL. I. D 



34 THE VlRGIN-jMAYRTIt 

I pray thee, tny sweet boy^ shew me thy parents 
Be not ashamed. 

Ang. I am not : I did never 
Know who my mother was ; but, by yon palace, 
Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare 

assure you, 
And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand. 
My father is in heaven : and, pretty mistress, 
If your illustrious hourglass spend his sand 
No worse than yet it does, upon my life. 
You and I both shall meet my father there, 
And he shall bid you welcome. 

Do7\ A blessed day ! 
We all long to be there^ but lose the way. 

[Ea^eunt. 

SCENE II. 

A Streety we^r Dorothea's House. 

Enter Macrinus, met iy Theophij^us arid 

Harpax. 

Theop. The Sun, god of the day, guide thee, 
Macrinus ! 

Mac. And thee, Theophilus ! 

Theoph. Glad'st thou in such scorn?' 
I call my wish back. 

Mac. I'm in haste. , 

Theoph. One word, 
Take the least hand of time up : — stay. 

7 The&j^. Glad'st thm iff such *con?f] This is the rekdinis 
of all the old copies, and appears to be the genuine one. 
Theophilus, who is represented as a furious zealot for pstganislfr, 
is mortified at the indifference with which Macrinus returns tfce 
happiness he had wished him by hinged. Mr. M. M^on re^dB, 
Gaddest thou in such scorn f 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 55 

Mac. Be brief. ' 

Theoph. As thought : 1 prithee tell me, good 
Macrinus, 
How health and our fair princess lay together 
This uiglit, for you can tell ; courtiers have flies* 
That buzz all news unto them. 

Mac. She slept but ill. 

Tlieop. Double thy curtesy; how does An^ 
toninus? 

Mac. Ill, well, straight, crooked, — ^I know not 
how. 

Theoph. Once more ; 
— ^Thy head is full of windmills :-— when doth 

the princess 
Fill a. bed mil of beauty, and bestow it 
On Antoninus, on the wedding-night ? 

Mac. I know not. 

Theoph. No ! thou art the manuscript, 
Where Antoninus writes down all his secrets: 
Honest Macrinus, tell me. 
' Mac. Fare you well, sir. [Exit, 

Harp. Honesty is some fiend, and frights him 
hence; 
A many courtiers love it not. * 

Theoph. What piece 
Of this state- wheel, which winds up Antoninus, 
Is broke, it runs so jarringly ? the man 
Is from himself divided : O thou, the eye 
By which I wonders see, tell me, my Harpax, 
What gad -fly tickles this Macrinus so. 
That, flinging up the tail, he breaks thus from me. 

« -courtiers hove flies] This word i^ used by Ben 

Jonson, a close and devoted imitator of the ancients, lor a 
domestic parasite, a familiar, &c. andfrotn hiia, probably, Decker 
adopted it in the present sense. 

9 A mant/ courtiers love it not.^ This is the reading of the 
first quarto. The editors follow that of the last two :— And 
many &c. which is not so good. 

D S 



36 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

• 

Harp. Ohy sir, his brain-pan is a bed of snakes. 
Whose, stings shoot througn his eye-balls, whose 

poisonous spawn 
Ingenders such a fry of speckled villainies, 
That, unless charms more strong than adamant 
Be used, the Roman angel's * wings shall melt, 
And Caesar's diadem be from his head 
Spurn'd by base feet ; the laurel which he wears, 
Returning victor, be enforced to kiss, 

* the Roman angel's] As angels were no part of 

the pagan' theology, this should certainly be augel from the Ita- 
lian augello^ which means a bird. M. Mason. 

It were to be wished that critics would sometimes apply to 
themselves the advice which Goneril gives to poor old Lear : 

'' I pray yow, father, being weaky seem so^" 
we should not thenfind so many of these certainlies. The bar- 
barous word angely of which Mr. M. Mason speaks so confi- 
dently, is foreign from our language, whereas angel^ in the sense 
of bird^ occurs frequently. Jonson beautifully calls the night- 
ingale, '^ the dear good angel of the spring ;" and if this should 
be thought, as it probably is, a Grccism ; yet we have the same 
term in another passage, which will admit of no dispute: 

^^ Not an angel of the air 
*^ Bird melodious, or bird fair, &c." 

Two Noble Kinsmen. 

In Mandeville, the barbarous Herodotus of a barbarous age, 
there is an account of a people (probably the remains of the old 
Guebres) who exposed the dead bodies of their parents to the 
fogies of the air. They reserved, however, the sculls, of which, 
says he, the son, ^^ letethe make a cuppe, and thereof dry nkethe 
he with gret devocioun, in remembraunce of the holy man that 
the aunge/es of' God han eten." 

" By this expression," says Mr. Hole, " Mandeville possibly 
meant to insinuate that they were considered as sacred messen^ 
gers.'** No, surely : aungeles ofGod^ was synonymous in Mande- 
ville's vocabulary, tofowles rfthe air. With Greek phraseology 
he was, perhaps, but little acquainted, but he knew his owd 
language welh 

The reader cannot but have already observed how ill the 
style of Decker assimilates with that of Massinger : in the 
former act Harpax had spoken sufficiently plain, and told Theo- 
philus of strange and important events, without these harsh 
and violent starts and mbtaphors 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR/ 37 

That which it hates, the fire. ^ And can this ram, 
This Antoninus-Engine, being made ready 
To so much mischief, keep a steady motion?— 
His eyes and feet, you see, give strange assaults; 
Theoph. I'm turn'd a marble statue at thy Ian* 



o;uagej 



Which printed is in such crabb'd characters, 
It puzzles all my reading: what, in the name 
Of Pluto, now is hatching ? 

Harp. This Macrinus* 
The line is, upon which love-errands run 
'Twixt Antoninus and that ghost of women^ 
The bloodless Dorothea, who in prayer 
And meditation, mocking all your gods, 
Drinks up her ruby colour : yet Antoninus 
Plays the Endymion to this pale-faced Moon, 
Courts, seeks to catch her eyes — 

Theoph. And what of this ? 

Harp. These are but creeping billows, 
Not got to shore yet : but if Dorothea 
Fall on his bosom, and be fired with love, 
(Your coldest women do so), — ^had you ink 
Brew'd from the infernal Styx, not all that 

blackness 
Can make a thing so foul, as the dishonours. 
Disgraces, buffetings, and most base affronts 
Upon the bright Artemia, star o'th' court, 
Crreat Caesar's daugbter. 
' Theoph. I now conster thee. 



* Harp. This Macrinus 

The line is S^cJ] The old copies read time. Before I saw Mr. 
M. Mason's emendation, I had altered it to twine. Whether 
either of us have hit upon the genuine word, I cannot tell ; but 
I prefer the former. The allusion is to the rude fire-works of 
our ancestors. So, in the Fawne^ by Marston : 

^^ Page, There be squibs, sir, running upon lineSy like some of 
our gawdy gallants," &c. 



S8 THE VIRGtN-MARTYR. 

Harp. Nay, more; a firmament of clouds^, 
being fiil'd 
With Jove's artillery, shot down at once. 
To ©ash ' your gods in pieces, cannot give, 
Witn all those thunderbolts, so deep a blow 
To the religion there, and pagan lore. 
As this ; for Dorothea hates your gods. 
And, if she once blast Antoninus' soul. 
Making it foul like hers, Oh ! the example — r 
Theoph. Eats through Cassarea's heart like 
liquid poison. 
Have I invented tortures to tear Christians, 
To see but ^hich, could all that feel heil's tor^ 
^ meats 

Have leav« to stand aloof here on earth's stage, 
They would be mad 'till they again descended,- 
Holding the pains most horid of such souls. 
May-games to those of mine : has this my hand 
Set down a Christian's execution 
In such dire postures, that the very hangman 
Fell at my fbot dead, hearing but their figures; 
And shall Macrinus and his fellow-masker 
Strangle me in a dance ? 

' To pash your gods in pieces^'] So the old copies. Coxeter 
(who is followed, as usual, by Mr. M. Mason), ignorant perhaps 
of the sense of pash^ changed it to dash^ a word of far les* energy^ 
and of a different meaning. The latter signififes, to throw one 
thing with violence against another ; the foitner, to «trike a 
thing with such force as to crush it to pieces. Thus in Act IV* 
of this tragedy : 

'' — when the battering ram 

'' Was fetching his career backwards, to pash 
'' Me with his horns in pieces." 
The word is now obsolete; which Is t6 be regretted, as n^ 
have none that qan adeq'uately supply Its place: it is used in ![ 
proper sense by Dryden, which is thB latest ifistaace I reof 

lect: ( 

^' Thy cntinhig engines hatie with labour raised * 

^^ My heavy anger, like a mighty weight, .1 

^< To foil and pa«A thee." .1 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 39 

Harp. No ; — on ; I hug thee, 
For drilling thy quick br^iins in this rich plot 
Of tortures 'gainst these Christians : on; I, hug 
thee ! 

Theoph. Both hug and holy me ; to this 
Dorothea 
Fly fhou and I in thunder. 

Harp. Not for kingdoms 
Piled upon kingdoms : there's a villain page 
Waits on her, whom I would not for the world 
Hold traffick with ; I do so hate his sight 
That, should I look on him, I rami sink down. \ 

Theoph. I will not lose thee lihcn, her to 
confound; 
None but this head with glorias shall be crown'd. 

Harp. Oh! mine own as I iri>uld wish thee. 

SCENE III. 

A Room in Dorothea's House. 

-Ew/(gr Dorothea, Mac»inus, and A^oj^ho. 

Dor. My trusty Angelp, with that curious eye 
Of thine, Avhich ever waits upon my business, 
Iprithee watch those my still-negligeqt servants, 
Tnatthey perform my will, in whaTs enjoin'd them 
To the good of others ; else will you find them 

flies,^ 
Not lying still, yet in them no good lies : 
Be care ml, dear boy. 

Ang Yes, my sweetest mistress. * \Ikit. 

Dor. Now, sir, you may go on. 

* Aug* Fe5, 7?i3/ sweete&t OTWfw*.] So the old €(^ies: the 
modem editors re^d. Yes my sweet mistre^Sy which destroys the 
metre. 



40 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR- 

Mac. I then must study 
A new arithmetick, to sum up the virtues 
Which Antoninus gracefully become. 
There is in him so much man, so much goodness. 
So much of honour, and of all things else, 
Which make our being excellent, that from his 

store 
He can enough lend others; yet, much ta'en 

from him, 
The want shall be as little, as when Iseas 
Lend from their bounty, to fill up the poorness* 
Of needy rivers. 

Dor. Sir, he is more indebted 
To you for praise, than you to him that owes it. 
Mac. If queens, viewing his presents paid to 

the whiteness 
Of your chaste hand alone, should be ambitious 
But to be parted in their numerous shares ;* 
This he counts nothing: could you see main 

armies 
Make battles in the quarrel of his valour. 
That 'tis the best, the truest, this were nothing; 
The greatness of his state, his father's voice 
And arm awing Caesarea,' he ne'er boasts of ; 
The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him, 

5 *i to Jill up the poorness^ The modem editors read, 

I know not why — toJiU up their poorness ! 

^ But to be parted in their numerous shares;'} This the former 
editors have modernized into 

But to be pantners, &c. 
a better word, perhaps, but not for that, to be unwarrantably 
thrust into the text. The expression, though somewhat uncom* 
mon, may be found in the writers of our author's age, in the 
sense here required : to be parted; to be favoured, or endowed 
with a part, 

7 And arm awing Ccesarea^} I have ventured to differ here 
from all the copies, which read owing ; the error, if it be one, 
as I think it is, probably arose from the expression being taken 
down by the ear. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 41 

Shine there hut as in water, and gild him 
Not with one spot of pride : no, dearest beauty^ 
All these, heap'd up together in one scaley 
Cannot weigh down the love he bears to you, 
Being put into the other. 

Dor. Could gold buy you 
To speak thus for a friend,, you, sir^ are worthy 
Of more than I will number; and this your 

language 
Hath power to win upon another woman, 
'Top of whose heart the feathers of this world 
Are gaily stuck : but all which first you named, 
And now this last, his love, to toe are nothing. 
Mac. You make me a sad messenger ;— but 

himself 

• 

-Ew/er Antoninus. 

Being come in person, shall, I hope, hear from you 
Musick more pleasing. 

Anton. Has your ear, Macrinus, 
Heard none, then ? 

Mac. None I like. 

Anton. But can there be 
In such a noble casket, wheriein lie 
Beauty and chastity in their full perfections, 
A rocky heart, killing with cruelty 
A life that's prostrated beneath your feet ? 

Dor. I am guilty of a shame I yet ne'er knew, 
Thus to hold parley with you; — pray, sir, pardon. 

Anton. Good sweetness, you now have it, and 
shall go : 
Be but so merciful, before your wounding me 
With such a mortal weapon as Farewell, 
To let me murmur to your virgin 6ar, 
What I was loth to lay on any tongue 
But this mine own. 



43 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Dor. If one immodest accent 
Ply out, I hate you everlastingly. 

Anton. My true love dares not do it. 
' Mac Hermes inspire thee! 

Enter above^ Artemia,Sapritius, Theophilus, 

Spunojus, und Hircius, 

Spun. So, now, do you see ? — Our work is done ; 
the fish you angle for is nibbling at the hook, 
and therefore untruss the cod-piece-point of our 
reward, no matter if the breeches of conscience 
fall about our heelsi 

Thtoph. The (gold you cam is hefe; dam up 
your mouths. 
And no words of it, 

Ilir. No ; nor no words from you of too much 
damning neither. I know women sell themselves 
daily, and are hacknicd out for silver : why may 
not we, then, betray a scurvy mistress for 
gold? 

Spun. She saved us from the gallows^ aod, only 
to keep one Proverb from breaking his neck, 
we'll hang her. 

Tfieopk. .'Tis well done; go, go, you're my fine 
white boys. 

Spun. If your red boys, 'tis well known more 
ill-favoured faces than ours are painted. 

Sap. Those fellows trouble us. 

Theoph. Away, aw^y ! 

Hir. I to my sweet placket." 

Spun. And I to my full pot. 

[Exeunf Hir. nnd Spun. 

Anton. Come, let me tune yoju: — glaze not 
thus your ^qyes 
With self-love of a vow'd virginity, 
Make every man your glass ; ypu see our sex 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. A$ 

Do never murder propagation ; 

We all desire your sweet society, 

And if you bar me from it, you do kill me, 

And of my blood are guilty. 

Artem. O base villain ! 

Sap. Bridle your rage, sweet princess. 

Anton. Could not my fortunes, 
Rear'd higher far than yours, be worthy of you, 
Methinks my dear affection makes you mine. 

Dor. Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines 
of gold. 
He that I love is richer ; and for worth, 
You are to him lower than any slave 
Is to a monarch. 

Sap. So insolent, base Christian ! 

Dor. Can I, with wearing out my knees before 
him. 
Get you but be his servant, you shall boast 
You're equal to a king. 

Sap. Confusion on thee, 
For playing thus the lying sorceress !^ 

Anton. Your mocks are great ones; none 
beneath the sun 
Will I be servant to. — On my knees I beg it, 
Pity me, wondrous maid. 

Sap. I curse thy baseness. 

Theoph. Listen to more. 

Dor. O kneel not, sir, to me. 

Anton. This knee is emblem of au humbled 
heart : 
That heart which tortured is with your disdain, 
Justly for scorning others, even this heart, 
To which for pity such a princess sues. 
As in her hand offers me all the world, 
Great Cesar's daughter, 

Artem. Slave, thou liest. 

Anton. Yet this 



44 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Is adamant to her, that melts to you 
In drops of blood. 

Theoph. A very dog ! 

Anton. Perhaps, 
'Tis my religion makers you knit the brow ; 
Yet be you mine, and ever be your own : 
I ne'er will screw your conscience from that 

Power, 
On which you Christians lean. 

Sap. I can no longer 
Fret out my life with weeping at thee, villain. 
Sirrah ! * [Aloud. 

Would, when I got thee, the high Thunderer's hand 
Had struck thee in the womb ! 

Mac. We are betray'd. 

Artem. Is that the idol, traitor, which thou 
kneel'st to, 
Trampling upon my beauty ? 

Theoph. Sirrah, bandog !' 
Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter 

* Theoph. Sir rah J bandog I 

' Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter^ A bandog^ as the name 
imports, was a dog so fierce, as to require to be chained up. 
Bandogs are frequently mentioned by our old writers (indeed 
the word occurs three times in this very play), and always with 
a reference to their savage nature. If the term was appropriated 
to a species, it probably meant a large dog, of the masti£f kind, 
which, though no longer met with here, is still common in many 
parts of Germany : it was familiar to Snyders^ and is fotind in 
most of his hunting-pieces. 

In this country the bandog was kept to bait bears : with the 
decline of that '' noble sport," perhaps, the animal feU into 
disuse, as he was too ferocious for any domestic purpose. Mr; 
Gilchrist has furnished me with a curious passage from Lanebam, 
which renders any further details on the subject unnecessary. 
^' On the syxth day of her Majestyes cumming, a great sfort of 
bandogs whear thear tyed in the utter coourt, and thyrteen bears 
in the inner. Whoosoever made the pannell thear wear enoow 
for a queast, and one for a challenge and need wear. A wight 
of great wisdoom and gravitie seemed their foreman to be, had it 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. U 

/ 

For her ? our Mars for her ? our Sol for her ? 
A whore ! a hell-hound ! In this globe of brains, 
Adhere a whole world of furies for such tortures 
Have fought, jis in a chaos, which should exceed, 
These nails shall grubbing lie from skull to skull, 
To find one horrider than all, for you. 
You three ! 

Artem. Threaten not, but strike : quick ven- 
geance flies 
Into my bosom;' caitiff! here all love dies. 

[Ejceunt above. 
Anton. O ! I am thunderstruck ! We are both 

o'erwhelm'd — — , 
Mac. With one high-raging billow. 
Dor. You a soldier. 
And sink beneath the violence of a woman ! 
Anton. A woman ! a wrong'd princess. From 
such a star , 
Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for, 
But tragical events ? my life is now 
The subject of her tyranny. 

Dor. That fear is base, 
Of death, when that death doth but life displace 
Out of her house of earth ; you only dread 
The stroke, and not what follows when you're 

. dea,d ; 
There's the great fear, indeed:* coine, let your 

eyes 
Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies. 

cum to a jury : but it fell oout thsLt they wear causd to appeer 
thear upon no such matter, but onlie too onswear too an aundent 
quarrele between them and the bandogs,'*^ &c. Queen Elizabeth's 
Entertainment mt KiUingxtioorth Castle, in 1575. 

9 . ■ quick vengeance flies 

Into my bosom <&c.j The old copies read, Into thy bosom. 
For the change, which is obviously necessary, I am answerable. 

" There's the great Jear indeed:^ The modern editors omit 
' great ^ which is found in the first and second quartos. 



/• 



46 THE VIRGIN-MARTYIL 



Re-enter beloWy Artemia, Sapritius, Theophi- 
Lus, a guard; Angelo comes and stands chse 
by Dorothea. 

Artem. My father's nerves put vigour in mine 
arm, 
And I his strength must use. Because I once 
Shed beams of favour on thee, and, with the libn. 
Played with thee gently, when thou struck*st my 

heart, 
I'll not insult on a base, humbled prey, 
By lingering out thy terrors ; but with one frown 
Kill thee : — hence with 'em all to exec^ution. 
Seize him ; but let even death itself be weary 
In torturing her. I'll change those smiles to 

shrieks; 
Give the fool what she's proud of, martyrdom : 
In pieces rack that bawd t6o. 

oap. Albeit the reverence 
I owe our gods, and you, are in my bosom. 
Torrents so strong, that pity quite lies drown'd 
From saving this young man ; yet, when I see 
What face death gives him, and that a thing 

within me 
Says, 'tis my son, I am forced to be a man, 
And grow rond of his life, which thus I beg. 

Artem. And I deny. 

Anton. Sir, you dishonour me. 
To sue for that which I disclaim to have. 
I shall more glory in my sufferings gain 
Than you in giving judgment, since I offer 
My blood up to your anger; nor do I kneel 
To keep a wretched life of mine from ruin : 
Preserve this temple, builded fair as yours is,' 

* Preserve this temj^^ build it fair m yours i*,] As tiiis lin^ 
stands, AjOtonmus'B lequest is, not loeMl^ tiutt Artemia sboxihf 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR 4^ 

And Casar never went in greater triumph, 
Than I shall to the scaffold. 

Artem. Are you so brave,, sir ? 
Set forward to his triumph, and let those two 
Go, cursing along with him. 

Don No, but pitying, 
For my part, I, tnat you lose ten times more 
By torturing me, than I that dare your tortures : 
Through all the army of my sins, I have even 
Labour'd to break, and cope with death to th' 

face. 
The visage of a hangman frights not me ; 
The sight of whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fires^ 
Are scaffoldings by which my soul climbs up 
To an eternal habitation. , 

Theoph. Caesar's imperial daughter, hear me 
speak. 
Let not this Christian thing, in this her pageantry 
Of proud deriding both our gods and Caesar, 
Build to herself a kingdom in her death, 
Going* laughing from us : no ; her bitterest- 

torment 
Shall be, to feel her constancy beaten down ; 
The bravery of her resolution lie 
JBatter'd, by argument, into such pieces^ 
That she again shall, on her belly, creep 
To kiss the pavements of our painim gods. 

preserve Dorothea, but that she should raise her to a degree of 
Splendour equal to her own. The absurdity of supposing that 
he should make this request to a princess, who had condemned 
him to death, in favour of her rival, made me suppose that there 
must be an error in this passage, and suggested the amendment. 
M. Mason. 

Wonderfully sagacious ! A single glance at either of the first 
two editions would have saved all this labour : build it is the 
Uander of the quarto, 1661, which Cox«ter followed; in those 
of 16^ and 1631, it stands as in the text. 

^ Going laughing from i»;] So the old copies ; which is far 
more correct than the modern readiiig — Go^ laughing from us. 



48 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

/ 

Artem. How to be done ? 

Theopk. I'll send my daughters to her, 
And they shall turn her rocky faith to wax ; 
Else spit at me, let me be/ made your slave, 
And meet no Roman's but a villain's grave. 

Artem. Thy prisoner let her be, then ; and, 
Sapritius, 
Your son and that,* be yours : death shall be sent 
To him that suffers them, by voice or letters. 
To greet each other. Rifle her estate ; 
Christians to beggary brought, grow desparate. 

Dor. Still on the bread of poverty let me feed. 

Ang. O ! my admired mistress, quench not out 
The holy fires within you, though temptations 
Shower down upon you : clasp thine armour on. 
Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars. 
Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch 
stars* [Exeunt all but Angela. 

JE^fer HiRcius andSpv^Givs. 

Hit. How now, Angelo; how is it, how is it? 
What thread spins that whore Fortune upon her 
wheel now?. 

Spun. Corn" esta, com' esta^ poor knave ? 

Hir. Commi^nt porteZ'VouZy comment portez-^vouz, 
man petit gargon ? 

Spun. My pretty wee comrade, my half-inch 
of man's flesh, how run the dice of this cheating 
world, ha ? 

Ang. Too well oh your sides j you are hid in gold 
O'er head and ears. 

Hir. We thank our fates, the sign of the 
gingle-boys hangs at the doors of our pockets. 

Spun. Who would think that we, coming forth 

^ Tour son and that,] Meaning Macrinus, whom before she 
had called a bawd. M. Masoit. 



/ 



THE VIRGIN-MAilTyR. 49 

of the a — , as it were, or fag-end of the world, 
should yet see the golden age, when so little 
silver is stirring ? 

Hir. Nay, who can say any citizen is an as^, 
for loading his own back with money till his soul 
cracks again, 6nly to leave his son like a gilded 
coxcomb behind him ? -Will not any fool take me 
for a wise man now, seeing me draw out of the 
pit of my treasury thia little god with his belly 
full of gold?. 

Spun. And this, full bf the same meat, out of 
riiy ambry. 

Ang. That gold will melt to poison. 

Spun. Poison ! would it would ; whole pihts for 
healths should down my throat. 

Hir. Gold, poison! there is never a she- 
thrasher in Cgesarea, that lives on the flail of 
money^ will callit so. 

Ang. Like slaves you sold your souls for 
golden dross, 
Bewraying her to death, who stept between 
You and the gallows. 

Spun. It was an easy matter to save us, she 
being so well back'd. 

Hir. The gallows and we fell out; so she did 
but part us. 

Ang. The misery of that mistress is mine own; 
She beggarM, I left wretched. 

Hir. I can but let my nose drop in sorrow, 
with wet eyes for hen 

Spim^ The petticoat of her estate is unlaced, I 
confess, 

Hir. Yes, and the smock of her charity is now 
all to pieces. 

Ang. For loveyoubeartoherjforsome good turns 
Done you by me, give me one piece of silver. 

Hir. How! a piece of silver ! ifthouwertan 

VOL. I. E 



so THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

angel of gold, I would not put thee into white^ 
money, unless I weighed thee ; and I weigh thee 
not a rush. 

SpuTL A piece of silver ! I never had but two 
calves in my life, and those my mother left me j 
I will rather part from the fat of them, than from 
a mustard-token's worth of argent. 

Hir. And so, sweet nit, we crawl from thee. 

Spun. Adieu, demi-dandiprat, adieu I 

Ang. Stay, — one word yet ; you now are full 
of gold. 

Hir: I would be sorry my dog were so full of 
the pox. , ' 

Spun. Or any sow of mine of the meazles either. 
^ Ang. Go, go ! you're beggars both ; you are 

not worth 
That leather on your feet. 

Hir. Away, away, boy ! 

Spun. Page, you do nothing but set patches on 
the soles of your jests. 

Ang. I am glad I tried your love, which, see 1 1 
want not, 
So long as this is full. 

Both. And so long as this, so long as this. 

Hir. Spungius, you are a pickpocket. 

Spun. Hircius, thou hast nim'd : — So long as!-^ 
not so much money is left as will buy a louse. 

Hir. Thou art a thief, and thou liest in that gut 
through which thy wine runs, if thou deniest it. 

Spun. Thou liest deeper than the bottom o£" 
mine enraged pocket, if thou affrontest it. 

Ang. No blows, no bitter language ;-^all youir 
gold gone ! .. 

Spun. Can the devil creep into one's breeches? 

Hir. Yes, if his horns once get into the cod- 
piece. 

.Ang. Come, sigh not ; I so little am in love 



* \ 



THE Virgin- MARTYR. 51 

With that whoseloss kills you, that, see ! 'tis yours, 
All yours : divide the heap in equal share, 
So you will go along with me to prison. 
And in our mistress' sorrows bear a part : 
Say, will you ? 

Both. Will we ! 

Spun. If she were going to hanging, no gallows , 
should part us. 

Hir. Let us both be turn'd into a rope of 
onions, if we do not. , 

Ang. Follow me, then; repair your bad deeds 
past; 
Happy are men, when their best days are last ! 

Spun. True, master Angelo ; pray, sir, lead the 
way. [Esit Angela. 

, Ilit. Let him lead that way, but follow thou 
me this way. 

Spunks I live in a gaol ! 

jHir. Away, and shift for ourselves :^ — She'll 
do well enough there; for prisoners are more 
hungry fl^fter mutton, than catchpoles after pri- 
soners. 

Spun. Let her starve then, if a whole gaol will 
act fill her belly. \Exmnt. 



r 



•'^fmr \ 



m 



i£ . THE VIRGIN*MARTYB. 



-' V .■ . J. • 






ACT III. Scene I. • ; 

ARoominDoTdthesi'^House^^ 

-Ew^er Sapiiitius,Theophilus, Priest, Cax-isja, 

and Christeta. 

, Sap. Sick to the death, I fear. * 

. Theoph. I meet your sorrow, 

With rny true feeling of it. 

•^ Sap. She's a witch, 

A sorceress, Theophilus ; my son 

Is charm'd by her enchai>ting eyes ; and, like 

An image made of wax, her beams of beauty 

Melt him to nothing : all my hopes in him, 

Aijd all his gotten honours, find their grave . 

In his strange dotage on her. Would, when first 

H^ saw and loved her, that the. earth had opien'.d. 

And swallow'd both alive ! 

Thi^oph. There's hope left yet. 

Sap, Not any: though the pI'i^cess were ap- 
peased, 
'AH title in her love surrender'd up ; 
Yet this coy Christian is so transported 
With her religion, that unless my son 
(But let him perish first !) drink the same potioi»^ 
And be.of her belief, she'll not vouchsafe 
To be hiis lawful wife. 

Priest. But, once removed 

5 Sap. Sick to the death j I fear.'] It is delightful, after the vile 
^ribaldry and harshness of the preceding act, to fall in again with 
the clear and harmonious periods of Massingef. From hence to 
the conclusion of the second scene, where Decker takes up the 
story, eyery page is crowded with beauties of no common kind. 



THE -VltlGlN-MAkTYR. 53 

From her opinion, as I rest assured 
The reasons of these holy maids will Win hier, 
You'll find her tractable to any thing, 
For your content or his. 

Theoph. If she refuse it, 
The Stygian damps, breeding infectious airs, 
The mandrake's shrieks, the basilisk's killing eye, 
The dreadful lightning that does crush th6 bones, 
And never singe the skin, shall not appear 
Less fatal to her, than my zeal made hot 
With love unto my gods. I have deferr'd it. 
In hopes to draw back this apostatk, 
Which will be greater honour than Her death, 
Unto her father's faith; and, to that end, 
Have brought my daughters hither. 

Kfe/. And we doubt not 
To do what you desire. 

Sap. Let ner be sent for. 
Prosper in your good work ; and were I not 
To attend the princess, I would see and hear 
How you succeed. / 

Theoph. I am commanded too, ^ 

I'll bear you company;' 

Sup. Give them your ring, . 

To lead her as in triumph, if they win her, 
Before her highness. . [Exit. 

Theoph. Spare no promises. 
Persuasions, oi' threats, I do conjure you : 
If you prevail, 'tis the most glorious work 
You ever undertook. 

£wf<?r Dorothea awt/ANGELO. 

Priest. She comes. 
Theoph. Wei leave you ; 
Be constant, and be careful. 

[Exeunt Theoph. land Prkst. 



\ 
54 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Cal. We are sorry 
To meet you under guard. 

Dor. But I more grieved 
You are at liberty. , So well I love you. 
That I could wish, for such a cause as miue. 
You were my fellow-prisoners : Prithee, Angela, 
Reach us some chairs. Please you sit— — 

Cal. We thank you : 
Our visit is for love, love to your safety. 

Christ. Our conference must be private, pray 
you, therefore, 
Command your boy to leave us. 

Dor. You may trust him 
With any secret that concerns my life, 
Falsehood and he are strangers': had you, ladies. 
Been bless'd with such a servant, you had noK^er 
Forsook that way, your journey even half ended, 
That leads to joys eternal. In the place 
Of loose lascivious mirth, he would have stirr'd 

you 
To holy meditations ; and so far / 

He is from flattery, that he would have told you, 
Your pride being at the height, how miserable 
And wretched things you were, that, for an hour 
Of pleasure here, have made a desperate sale 
Of all your right in happiness hereafter. 
He must not leave me ; without him I fall : 
In this life he's.niy servant, in the other 
A wish'd companion. 

Ang. 'Tis not in the devil, 
Nor all his wicked arts, to shake such goodness, 

Dor^ But you were speaking, lady. 
' Cal. As a friend 
And lover of your safety, and I pray you 
So to receive it ; and, it you remember 
How near in love our parents were, that we, 
Even from tlie cradle, were brought up togetl^er^ 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 



55 



Gur amity increasing Vith our years. 
We cannot stand suspected. 

Dor. To the purpose, 

Cal. We come, then, as good angels, Dorothea^ 
To make you happy ; and the means so easy^ 
That, be not you an 6nemy to yourself, 
Already you enjoy it: 

Christy Look on us, 
Ruin'd as you are, once, and brought unto it 
By your persuasion, 

Cal. But what foUow'd, lady ? 
Leaving those blessings which our gods gave 

freely, 
And shower'd iipon us with a prodigal hand, 
As to be noble born, youth, beauty, wealth, 
And the free use of these without control, 
Check, curb, or stop, such is our law*s indulgence ! 
All happiness forsook us j bonds and fetters 
For amorous twines ; the racfk and hangman's 

whips 
In place of choice deh'ghts ; our parents' curses 
Instead of blessings ; scorn, neglect, contempt^^ 
Fell thick upon usv 

Chri&t. This considered wisdy. 
We made a fair retreat ; and reconciled 
To our forsaken gods, we live again 
In all prosperity. 

Cal. By our example, • 

Bequeathing misery to such as love it. 
Learn to be happy. The Christian yoke*s too 

heavy ' ^ 

For such a dainty lieck; it was/framed rather 
To be the shrine of Venus, or a pillar 
More precious tlian crystal, to support; 
Our Cupid^s image : our religiou, lady, 
Is but a varied pleasure ; yours a toil, 
SUves would shrink under; 



( > i 



iV 



56 THE VIRGIN^MARTYR. 

*. Dor. Have you not cloven feet ? are you not 

devils? 
Dare any say so much, or dare I hear it 
Without a virtuous dnd religious anger r 
Now to put on a virgin modesty, 
Or maiden silence, when His power is questioned 
That is omnipotent, were a greater crime 
Than in a bad cause to b,e impudent. 
Your gods ! your temples ! brothelhouses rather, 
Or wicked actions of the worst of men 
Pursued and practiced. Your religious rites ! 
Oh! call them rather juggling mysteries. 
The baits and nets of hell: your souls the prey 
For which t|ie devil angles; your false pleasures 
A steep descent, by which you headlong fall 
Into eternal torments. 

Cal. Do not tempt 
Oqr powerful gods. 

Dor. Which of your powerful gods ? 
Your gold, your silver, brass, or wooden ones, 
That can nor do me hurt, nor protect you ? * 
Mpst pitied woijieh ! will you sacrifice 
T6 such,^ — or call them gods or goddesses, 
Your parents would disdain to be the same. 
Or you yourselves ? O blinded ignorance ! 
Tell me, Calista, by the truth, I charge you. 
Or any thing you hold more dear, .would you> 
To have him deified to posterity, 
Desire your father an adulterer, 
A ravisher, al^Q3t a parricide, 
A vile incektuoiis wretch ? 

Cjal. Tha)t, piety 
And duty answei; for me. /, 

* That can nor do me kurt, nor proieet you f ] More spirited, 
and more in Hvq author's manner, than the reading af the last 
quarto, which thje nfodbrn editors follow : ^ 
That cannot ^o mc hurty nor protect you ? 



THE V'mOIN-MARTYR. ' 57 

Dor. Or you, Christeta, t 

To be hereafter register'd a goddess, 
Give your chaste body up to the embraces 
Of goatish lust ? have It writ on your forehe?id i 
This is the common whore, the prostitute, 
The mistress in the art of waotonness. 
Knows every trick and labyrinth of desires 
That are immodest ? 

Christ. You judge better of me, 
Or my afFection is ill placed on you ; 
Shall I turn strumpet ? 

Dor. No, I think you would not ; 
Yet Venus, whom you worship, was a whore; 
Flora, the foundress of the publick stews. 
And has, for that, her sacrifice ; your great god, 
Your Jupiter, a loose adulterer. 
Incestuous with his sister : read but those 
That have canonized them, you'll find them worse 
Than, in chaste language, I can speak them to 

you. 
Are they immortal then, that did partake 
Of human weakness, and had ample share 
In men's most base affections ; subject to 
Unchaste loves, anger, bondage, wounds, as men 

are? \ 

Here, Jupiter, to serve his lust, turn'd bull. 
The shape,' indeed, in which he stole Europa; 
Neptune, for gain, builds up the walls of Troy, 
As a day-labourer ; Apollo keeps 
Admetus' sheep for bread ; the Lemnian smith 
Sweats at the forge for hire; Prometheus here. 
With his still-growing liver, feeds the vulture ; 
Saturn bound fast in hell with adamant chains; 
Aiid thousands more, on whom abused errour 
Bejstows a cleity. Will you then, dear sisters, 

7 The shape, inJeedy 4*^.] The old copies read, The ship, m- 
^eedy &c. Corrected by Coxeter. 



58 T*HE VIRGIN-MARTYR. . 

^ 

For I would have you such, pay your devotions 
To things of less power thaii yourselves ? 

CaL We worship 
Their good deeds in their Images. 

Dor. By whom fashion'd ? 
By sinful men. I'll tell you a short tale, • 
Nor can you but confess it is a true one : 
A king of Egypt, being to erect 
The image of Osiris, whom they honour, 
Took from the matrons' necks the richest jewels, 
And purest gold, as the materials. 
To finish up his work ; which perfected. 
With all solemnity he set it up, 
To be adored, and served himself his idol ; ^ 
Desiring it to give him victory 
Against his enemies : but, being overthrown, 
Enraged against his god (these are fine gods, 
Subject to human fury !), he took down 
The senseless thing, and melting it again. 
He made a bason, in which eunuchs wash'd 
His concubine's feet ; and for this sordid use 
Some months it served: his mistress proving 

false, 
As most indeed do so, and grace concluded < 
Between him and the priests, of the same bason 
He made his god again ! — ^Think, think of this, 
And then consider, if all worldly honours. 
Or pleasures that do leave sharp stings behind 
them, 

. ' I'll tell t/ou a short tale, &c.] I once thought I had 

read this short tale in Arnobius, from whom, and from Augustin, 
ianch of the preceding speech is taken ; but, upon looking 
him over again, I can scarcely find a traqe of it. Herodotus has, 
indeed, a story of a king of Egypt (Amasis), which (ears a 
distant resemblance to it; but the application is altogether 
different : — there is a bason of gold in which he and his guests 
were accustomed to spit, wash their feet^ &c. which is formed inio 
a god: but whether this furnished the poet with any hints, \ 
cannot undertake to say. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYia. 59 

vHave power to win such as have reasonable ^ouls^ 
To put their trust in dross. 

Cat. Oh, that I had beep born 
Without a father ! 

Christ. Piety to him 
Hath ruin'd us for ever. 

Dor. Think not so^ 
You may repair all yet : the attribute 
That speaks his Godhead most, is merciful :- 
Revenge is proper to the fiends you worship, 
Yet cannot strike without his leave. — You weep^— 
Oh, 'tis a heavenly shower ! celestial balm 
To cure your wounded conscience ! let it fall, 
Fall thick upon it ; and, when that is spenty 
I'll help it with another of my tears : 
And may your true repentance prove the child 
Of my true sorrow, never mother had 
A birth so happy ! 

Cat. We are caught ourselves. 
That came to take you ; and, assured of conquest, 
We are your captives. 

Dor. And in that you triumph : , ^ 

Your victory had been eternal loss. 
And this your loss immortal gain. Fix here, 
And you shall feel yourselves inwardly arm'd 
'Gainst tortures, death, and hell: — but, take 

heed, sisters, 
That, or through weakness, threats, or mild per- 
suasions, 
Though of a father, you fall not into 
A second and a worse apostacyi 

Cal. Never, oh never! steel'd by your ex- 
ample, 
W^ dare the worst of tyranny. 

Christ. Here's our warrant. 
You shall along and witness it. 

Dor. Be confirm'd then ; 



60 THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. 

Atid rest assured^ the more you suffer here, 
The more your glory, you to heaven more dear. 

[Ea^eunt. 



SCENE 11. 

Tke Governor's Palace. 

Enter Artemia, Sapritius, Theophilus, 

and Harpax. 

» Artem. Sapritius, though your son deserve no 

pity, ^ 

We grieve his sickness : his contempt of us, 

We cast behind us, and look back upon 

His service done to Caesar, that weighs down 

Our just displeasure. If his malady 

Have growth from his restraint, or that you think 

His liberty can cure him, let him have it : 

Say, we forgive him freely. 

Sap. Your grace binds us 
Ever your humblest vassals. 

Artem. Use all means 
For his recovery ; though yet I love him, 
I will not force affection* If the Christian, 
Whose beauty hath out-rivall'd me, be won 
To be of our belief, let him enjoy her ; 
That all may know, when the cause wills, I can 
Command my own desires. 

Theoph. Be happy then. 
My lord Sapritius : I am confident. 
Such eloquence and sweet persuasion dwell 
Upon my daughters' tongues, that they Will 

work her 
To any thing they please. 

Sap. I wish they may : 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 61 

Yet '^tis no easy task to undertake, 

To alter a perverse and obstinate ^oman. 

[A shout within : loudmusick, 

Artem. What means this shout ? 

Sap. 'Tis seconded with musick, 
Triumphant musick. — Ha ! 

Enter Sem p ro n i u s* 

Sem^. My lord, your daughters, 
The pillars of our faith,'* having converted, 
For so report gives out, the Christian lady, 
The image of great Jupiter born, before them^ 
Sue for access. 

7%e(?j&A. My soul divined. as much. 
Blest be the time when first they saw this 

light ! 
Their mother, when she bore them to support 
My feeble age, fiU'd not ipy longing heart 
With so much joy, as they in this good work 
Have thrown upon me. 

Enter Priest with the Image of Jupiter, incense 
^ and censers ; followed hy^ CaIista and Chris- 
TETA, ledding Dorothea, 

Welcome, oh, thrice welcome. 

Daughters, both of my body and my mind ! 

Let me embrace in you my bliss, my cpmfort ; 

And, Dorothea, now more welcome too. 

Than if you never had fallen off ! I am ravish'd 

With the excess of joy :— speak, happy daughters. 

The blest event. 

^ The pillars of our faith, &c. ] Here, as in many other places^ 
the language of Christianity and paganism is confounded ;/aiM 
was always the distinctire term for the former, in oppositK>n 
to heathenism. 



64 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Again bewitch'd, the dew of mild forgiveness 
May gently fall, provided you deserve it ' 
With true contrition : . be yourselves again ; 
Sue to the offended deity. 

Christ. Not to be 
The mistress of the eartli* 

CaL I will not offer 
A grain of incense to it, much less kneel, 
Nor look on it but with contempt and scorn. 
To have a thousand years conferr'd upon me 
Of worldly blessings. We profess ourselves 
To be, like Dorothea, Christians, 
And owe her for that happiness. 

Theop. My ears 
Receive, in hearing this, all cieadly charms. 
Powerful to make man wretched. 

Artem. Are these they , 
You bragg'd could convert others ! 

Sap. That want strength ^ 

To stand themselves ! 

Harp. Your honour is engaged, 
The credit of your cause depends upon it; 
Something you must do suddenly. 

Theoph. And I will. « 

Harp. They merit death; but, falling by your 
hand, ' 

'Twill be recorded for a just revenge, 
And holy fury in you. 
\ Jliedph. Do not blow 
The furnace of a wrath thrice hot already ; 
jEtria is in my breast, wildfire burns here, 
Which only blood must quench. Incensed Power! 
Which from my infancy I have adored, / ; 
Look down with favourable heam^ upon 
The sacrifice, though not allQw'd thy priest, 
Which I will offer to thee ; and be pleased 
(My fiery zeal inciting me to act) 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 65 

V 

To call that justice others may style murder. 
Come, you accurs'd, thus by the hair I drag 

you 
Before this holy altar ; thus look on you, 
Less pitiful than tigers to their prey : 
And thus with mine own hand I take that life 
Which I gave to you. [KiUs them. 

Dor. O most cruel butcher ! 

Theoph. My anger ends not here : hell's dread- 
ful porter, 
Receive into thy ever-open gates. 
Their damned souls, and let the Furies' whips 
On them alone be wasted; and, when death 
Closes these eyes, 'twill be Elysium to me 
To hear their shrieks and bowlings. Make me, 

Pluto, 
Thy instrument to furnish thee with souls 
Of that accursed sect ; nor let me fall. 
Till my fell vengeance hath consumed them aH. 

[Exit, Harpax hugging him. 

Art. 'Tis a brave zeal.* 

Hot. Oh, call him back again. 
Call back your hangman! here's one prisoner 

left 
To be the subject of his knife. 

Art. Not so ; 
We are not so near reconciled unto thee ; 
Thou shalt not perish such an easy way. 
Be she your charge, Sapritius, now ; and suffer 
None to come near her, till we have found out 
Some torments worthy of hei% 

Ang. Courage, mistress, 

4 Artem. 'Tis a brave zeaL ] The first two quartos haTC a 
stage direction here, which Coxeter and M. Mason fol^w ( 
Enter Artemia laughing. But Artemia continues on the stage : 
the error was seen and removed hy the quarto 1661, which 
re^ds as I hate given it. 

VOL. I. F 



66 TH[E VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

These martyrs but prepare your glorious fate ; 
You shall exceed them, and not imitate. \Exeunt. 



SCENE m. 

, A Room in Dorothea's House. 

JS»^er Spungius a/2(/HiRCius, raggedy at opposite 

doors. 

Hir. Spuhgius ! 

Spun. My fine rogue, how is it ?' how goes 
this tattered world ? * 

Hi7\ Hast any money ? 

Spun. Money ! no. The tavern ivy clings 
about my money, and kills it. Hast thou any 
money? 

Hir. No. My money is a mad bull j and 
finding any gap opened, away it runs. 

Spun. I see then a tavern and a bawdyhouse 
have faces much alike; the one hath red grates 
next the door, the other hath peeping-holes 
within doors : the tavern hath evermore a bush, 
the bawdyhouse sometimes neither hedge nor 
bush. From a tavern a man comes reeling; 
from a bawdyhouse, not able to stand. In the 
tavern you are cozen'd with paltry wine ; in a 
bawdyhouse, by a painted whore : money may 
have wine, and a whore will have money ; but 

5 how goes this tattered world f^ These odious 

wretches but they are not worth a line. Mr. Malone ob- 
serves that tattered is spelt with an o in the old editions of 
Shakspeare : this is the first opportunity I have had for men- 
tioning, that Massinger conforms to the same practice. The 
modern editors sometimes adopt one mode of spelling it, and 
sometimes another, as if the words were diiterent ! It is best to 
be uniform. 



TH£ VlRGlN-MARTVn. ^7 

to neither can you cry, Drawer^ you ro^ue ! 
or, Keep door, rotten bawd ! without a silver 
whistle : — ^We are justly plagued, therefore, for 
running from our mistress. 

Hir. Thou didst; I did not : Yet I had run too^ 
• but that one gave me turpentine pills, arid that 
staid my running. 

Spun. Well ! the thread of my life is drawn 
through the needle of necessity, whose eye, 
looking upon my lousy breeches, cries out it 
cannot mend them ; which so pricks the linings 
of my body (and those are, hearts, lights, Jungs, 
guts, and midriff), that I beg on my knees, to have 
Atropos, the tailor to the Destinies, to take her 
sheers, and cut my thread in two, or to heat the 
iron goose of mortality, and so press me to death* 

Hir. Sure thy father was some botcher, and 
thy hungry tongue bit off these shreds of com- 
plaints, to patch up the elbows of thy nitty 
eloquence. 

Spun. And what was fhy father 1^ 

Hir. A low-minded cobler, a cobler whose 
zeal set many a woman upright; the remem- 
brance of whose awl (I now having nothing) 
thrusts such scurvy stitches into my soul, that 
the heel of my happiness is gone awry. 

Spun. Pity that e'er thou trod'st thy shoe awry. 

Air. Long I cannot last; for all sowterly wax 
of comfort melting away, and misery taking the 
length of my foot, it boots not me to sue for 
life, when all my hopes are seam-rent, and go 
wet-shod. 

Spun. This shews thou art a cobler's son, by 
going through stitch: O Hircius, would thou 
and I were so happy to be coblers ! 

Hir. So would I ; for both of us being weary of 
our lives, should then be sure of shoemakers' ends. 

52 



68 THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. 

■ 

Spun. I see, the beginning of my end, for I 
am almost starved. 

Hir. So am not I; but I am more than famish'd. 

Spun. All the members in my body are in a 
rebellion one against another. 

yHir. So are mine; and nothing but a cook, 
being a constable, can appease them, presenting 
to my nose, instead of his painted staff, a spit 
full of roast meat. 

Spun. But in this rebellion, what uproars do 
they make ! my belly cries to my mouth, Why 
dost not gape and feed me ? 

Hir. And my mouth sets out a throat to my 
hand. Why dost not thou lift up meat, and cram 
;ray chops with it ? 

Spun. Then my hand hath a fling at mine eyes, 
because they look not out, and shark for victuals. 

Hir. Which mine eyes seeing, full of tears, 
cry aloud, and curse my feet, for not ambling 
np and down to feed colon, sithence if good 
meat be in any place, 'tis known my feet can 
smell. 

Spun. But then my feet, like lazy rogues, lie 
still, ^,nd had rather do nothing, than run to and 
fro to purchase any thing. 

Hir. Why, among so many millions of people, 
should thou and 1 only be miserable tatterdemal- 
lions, ragamuffins, and lousy desperates ? ' 

Spun. Thou art a mere I-am-an-o, I-am-an-as: 
consider the whole world, and 'tis as we are. 

Hir. Lousy, beggarly ! thou whoreson assa 
foetida.? 

. Spun. Worse; all tottering, all but of frame, 
thou fooliamini ! 

Hir. As how, arsenick ? come, make the world 
smart. 

Spun. Old honour goes on crutches, beggary 



' I 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR: 69 

ride^caroched; honest men make feasts, knaves 
sit at tables, cowards are lapp'd in velvet, soldiers 
(as we) in rags ; beauty turns whore, whore, 
bawd, and both die of the pox : why then, when 
all the world stumbles, should thou and I walk 
upright? 

Hir. Stop, look ! who's yonder ? 

Enter Angelo, 

Spun. Fellow Angelo ! how does my little man, 
well? 

Ang. Yes ; 
And would you did so, too. Where are your clothes? 

Hir. Clothes ! You see every woman almost 
go in her loose gown, and why should not we 
have our clothes loose ? 

Spun. Would they were loose ! 

Ang, Why, where are they ? 

Spun. Where many a velvet cloak, I warranty 
at this hour, keeps them company ; they are 
pawned to a broker. 

Ang. Why pawn'd ? wher^'s all the gold I 
left with you? 

Hi7\ The gold ! \<^e put that into a scrivener's 
hands, and he hath cozened us. 

Spun. And therefor^, I prithee, Angelo, if 
thou hast anotl^er purse, let it be confiscate, and 
brought to (devastation.^ • 

Ang. Are you made all pf lies ? I know which 

wa^ ■■ ' "v'' ■ ■'■'"' "•'■■ "' ■ '■ ' • ;^, , 

Your guilt-Ving'd pieces fi^w.^ I will: no more 
Be mpck'd b^ you : be sorry for your riots, 
Tam^j^puf wild flesh by labqur; eat the bread 
(Jpt wiitlj hard Jiau4a.; /Jet sor your 

whip, \ • > ^ , i 

To draw drops of repentance from your heart: 



70 THE VIRGlN-MARTYIt. 

When I read this amendment in your eycSj^ 
You shall not want; till then, my pity dies. , 

Spun. Is it not a shame, that this scurvy puerilis 
should give us lessons ? 

Hir. I have dwelt, thou know'st, a long time 
in the suburbs of conscience, and they are ever 
bawdy-; but now my heart shall take a house 
within the walls of honesty. 

Enter Harpax behind. 

Spun. O you drawers of wine, draw^me no 
more to the bar of beggary ; the sound of Score 
a potile of sacky is worse than the noise bf a scold- 
ing oysterwench, or two cats incorporating. 
Harp. This must not be — I do not like when 

conscience 
Thaws; keep her frozen still. How now, my 

masters ! 
Dejected ? drooping ^ drown'd in tears ? clothes 

torn ? 
Lean, and ill colour'd ? sighing ? where's the 

whirlwind 
Which raises all these miscjiiefs ? I have seen you 
Drawn better on't. O ! but a spirit told me 
Youboth would come to this, when inyou thrust* 
Yourselves intp the service of that: lady. 
Who shortly nOw must . die,^ Where's now her 

praying? 



«d ^ ^-^ ! \, I - 



What good got you by wearing out yout feet, 
To run an scurvy, erranda^ to tj&e poior^ , 

.1 * 

. . ■ , . I. . ^ ■ 

^6 ^j^gj^ 5n you thrust J In, wkich completes tjie yerse, 

was omitted by Mr. M.' Mason, from an bpinion, perhaps, that it 
'"^4s 8upei*fluous to the seiYse. But this was the language of the 
times : for the rest, this whole aot is most carf l^ssly i^rinted by 
thd last Editors. . . . . _ - 



THE VIRGTN-MAUTYR. 71 

And to bear money to a sort' of rogues, 
And lousy prisoners r 

Hir. Pox on them I I never prospered since I 
did it. 

Spun. Had I been a pagan still, I should not 
have spit white for want of drink ; but come to 
any vintner now, and bid him trust me, because 
I turned Christian, and he cries Poh ! 

Harpr You're rightly served; before that 
peevish* lady 
Had to do with you, women, wine and money 
Flow'd in abundance with you, did it not ? 

Hir. Oh, those days ! those days ! 

Harp. Beat not your breasts, tear not your 
V— hair in madness ; ' 

Tliose days shall come again, be ruled by me. 
And better, mark me, better. 

7 And to jbear money to a sort of rogues^ &c.] Or, as we should 
now, say — to a set, or parcel of rogues. The word occurs so frc- 
queiitly in this sense, in our old writers, that it seems almost 
unnecessary to give any examples of it : 

" Here are a sort of poor petitioners, 
^' That are importunate." Spanish Tragedy, 

Again: 

^^ And, like a sort of true bom scavengers, 
^^ Scour me this famous realm of enemies." 

Knight of the Burning Pestle. 
• ■ b^ore ^Aa^ peevish lady 

Had to do^ith.jfOUy] Peevish is foolish^ thus, in the Merry 
Wives of Windsor^ Mrs. Quickly says of her feilow-servan^ 
^' His worst fault is, thjat he is given to prayer; he is iiomething 
peevish that way." Mr. Maldne thinks this to be one of dame 
Quickly 's blunders, and that she means to say precise: but I 
believe he is mistaken. In Hycke Scorner, the word is used in 
the very sense here given : 

<< For an I sholde do after youf scole 
V : ** To learn to pater to make me pevysse.** 

Again, in God^s Revenge against Adultery; ^' Albemare kept % 
BUin«fool of some forty years old in his house, who indeed was^ 
ib naturally peevish^ m not Milan^ hardly Italy, could match himi 
lor simpltcify." ^ 

I. * 



72 TlfB VIBGIN-MARTYR. 

Spun. . I have seen you^ sir, as I take it, atx 
attendant on the lord Theophilus, 

Harp, . Yes, yes ; ia shew his servant : but 
hark, hither !— 
Take heed no body listens. 

Spun. Not a mouse stirs, 

Harp. I am a prince disguised. 

Hir. Disguised! ho\V'? drunk? 

Harp. Yes, my fine; boy ! I'll drink too, and 
be drunk ; 
I am a prince, and any man by me, 
Let him but keep my rules, shall soon grow 

rich, . ^ ' ' 

Exceeding rich, most infinitely rich: 
He that shall serve me, is not starved from 

pleasures 
As other poor knaves are ; no, take their fill. 

Spun. But that, sir, we're so ragged 

Harp. You'll say, youM serve me ? 

Hir. Before any master under the zodiack. 

Harp. For clothes no matter ; I've a mind to 
both. ' 
And one thing I like in you ; now that you see 
The bonfire of your lady's state burnt out. 
You give it over, do you not ? 

Hir. Let her be hang'd ! 

Spun. And pox'd ! 

Harp. Why, now youVe mine ; 
Come, let my bosom touch you. 

Spun. We have bugs, sir. 

Harp. There's money, fetch your clothes home; 
there^s for you* 

Hiir. Avoid, vermin 1 ^ive over our mistress ! a 
nfen cannot prosper worse, if he serve the devil 

Harp. How f the devil? I'll tell yoii what 
now of the devil, 
He's no such horrid creature; cloven-footed. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 75 

Biack, saucer-eyed, his nostrils breathing fire, 
As these lying Christians make him. 

Both. No ! 

Harp. He's more loving 
To man, than man to man is. * 

Hir. Is he so ? Would we two might come 
acquainted with him ! 

Harp. You shall : he's a wondrous good fellow, 
loves a cup of wine, a whore, any thing; if you 
have money, it's ten to one but I'll bring him to 
some tavern to you or other. ^ 

Spun. I'll bespeak the best room in the house 
for him. 

Harp. Some people he cannot endure. 

Hir. Well give him no such cause. 

Harp. He hates a civil lawyer, as a soldier 
does peace. 

Spun. How a commoner ?* 

Harp. Loves him from the teeth outward. 

Spun. Pray^ my lord and prince, let me en- 
counter you with one foolish question : dpes the 
devil eat any mace in his broth ? 

Harp. Exceeding much, when his burning 
fever takes him; and then he has the knuckles 
of a bailiff boiled to his breakfast. 

Hir. Then, my lord, he loves a catchpole, does 
he not? 

Harp. As a bearward doth a dog. A catch- 
pole ! he hath sworn, if ever he die^, to make a 
Serjeant his heir, and a yeoman his overseer. 

' Harp. Hes more loving ' 

To m^n, than man to man is.'] .Though this horrid prostitu- 
tion of that fine sentiment in Juvei^a), Cax'wr est Ulis homoquam 
sibij may not be altogether out of character for the speaker ; it 
were to be wished it had not been employed. To^say th^ truth, 
the whole bf this scene, more especially what yet remains of it, 
is as foolish as it is profl%a:te. ' : I £« i' 

'Spun. How a comi^X)nei^?] That is, a common lawyer. 
M. Mason. 



^4 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Spun. How if he come to any great man's gate, 
will the porter tet him come in, sir? 

Harp. Oh ! he loves porters of great men's 
gates, because they are eVer so neat the wicket. 

Hir. Do not they whom he makes much on, 
for all his stroaking their cheeks, lead hellish 
lives under him ? 

Harp. No, no, no, no; he will be damn'd 
before he hurts any man : do but you (when you 
are throughly acquainted with him) ask for any 
thing, see if it does not come. 

Spun. Any thing ! 

Harp. Call for a delicate rare whore, she is 
brought you. 

Hir. Oh ! my elbow itches. Will the devil 
keep the door ? 

Harp. Be drunk as a beggar, he helps you 
home. 

Spun. O my fine devil ! some watchman, I 
warrant ; I wonder who is his constable. 

Harp. Will you swear, roar, swagger? he 
claps you 

Hir. How ? on the chaps ? 

Harp. No, on the shoulder; and cries, O, my 
brave boys ! Will any of you kill a man ? 

Spun^ Yes, yes; I, I. 

Harp. What is his word ? Hang ! hang I 'tis 
pothing. — Or stab a woman ? 

Hir. Yes, yes ; I, I. 

Harp. Here is the worst word he gives you : 
A pox on't, go on ! 
^ Hir. O inveigling rascal !— I am ravish'd. 

Harp. Go, get your clothes ; turn up your glass 
of youth, 
And let the sands run merrily ; nor do I care 
From what a lavish hand your money flies, 
So you give none away to beggars- 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 



75 



Uir. Hang them V 

Harp, And to the scrubbing poor. 

Hir. I'll see them hang'd first. 
. Harp. One service you must do me. 

Both. Anything. 

Harp. Your mistress, Dorothea, ere she suffers, 
Is to be put to tortures : have you hearts 
To tear her into shrieks, to fetch her soul 
Up in the pangs of death, yet not to die ? 

Hir. Suppose this she, and that I had no hands, 
here's my teeth. 

"Spun. Suppose this she, and that I had no 
teeth, here's my nails. 

Hir. But will not you be there, sir?^ 

Harp. No, not for nills of diamonds; the grand 
master 
Who schools her in the Christian discipline^ ' 
Abhors my company : should I be there, 
YouM think dl hell broke loose, we should so 

quarrel . • , 

Ply you this business ; he, her flesh who spares. 
Is lost, and in my love nevermore shares. [EanL 

Spun. Here's a master, you rogue ! 

Hir. Sure he cannot choose but have a horrijble 
number of servants. [Exeunt.. 



s.. f.. 



76 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 

The Governor's Palace. 

Antoninus sick^ with Doctors about him ; 
Sapritius and Mackinvs. 

Sap. O you, that are half gods, lengthen that 
life 
Their deities lend us ; turn o'er all the volumes 
Of your mysterious iEsculapian science, 
T' increase the number of this young man's days ; 
And, for each minute of his time prolong'd, 
Your fee shall be a piece of Roman gold 
With CsBsar's sta,mp, such as he sends his captains 
When in the wars they earn well : do but save him, 
And, as he's half myself, be you all mine. 

Doct. What art can do, we promise ; physick's 
hand .: • - 

As apt is to destroy. as to preserve, 
If heaven make Jipt the med'cine : all this while, 
Our skill hath combat held with his disease; 
But 'tis so arm'd, and a deep melancholy, 
To be such in part with death,* we are in fear 
The grave must mock our labours. 

Mac. I have been » 

His keeper in this sickness, with such eyes 
As I have seen my mother watch o'er me ; 
And, from that observation, sure I find 
It is 9* midwife must deliver him. 

* To be hich in part with death^^ Mr. M. Mason reads,- d,fter 
Coxeter, To such in part with death j and explains it to mean " To 
such a degree." I doubt whether he understood his own expla- 
nation or not. The genuine reading, which I have restored, 
takes away all difficulty from the passage; 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 1% 

Sap. Is he with child ? a midwife !^ 

Mac. Yes, with child ; 
And will, I fear, lose life, if by a woman 
He is not brought to bed. Stand by his pillow 
Some little while^ and, in his broken slumbers, 
Him shall you hear cry out on Dorothea ; 
And, when his ^rms fly open to catch her, 
Closing together, he falls fast asleep. 
Pleased with embracings of her airy form. 
Physicians but torment him, his diaease 
Laughs at their gibberish language ; let him hear 
The voice of Dorothea, nay^ biit the name, 
He starts up with high colour in his face : 
She, or none, cures him ;; and how that can be, '. 
The prinpess' strict command barring that hap- 
piness. 
To me impossible seeips, 

Sap^. To me it shall not; 
I'll be no subject to the greatest Caesar 
Was ever crown'd with laurel,, rather than cease 
To be a father. [jE*rif. 

Mac. Silence, sir, he wakes. 
Anton. Thou kill'st me, Dorothea; oh, Dorothea! 

Mac. She's here : — ^enjoy her. . 

Anton. Where ? Why do you mock me ? 
Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet, 
Yet I'm an old man, a fond doating fool 
Upon a woman. I, to buy her beauty, 
(In truth I am bewitch'd), offer my life, 
And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers ; 
Yet, for our equal sufferings, none holds out 
A hand of pity. 

Doct. Let him have some musick, 

Anton. Hell on your fiddling ! 

' Sap. Is he with child ? a midwife /] The modern . editors 
read, A midwife I is he withdiildf Had they no ears! 



78 THE VIRGIN-MARXrR. 

Doct. Take again your bed, sir ; 
Sleep is a sovereign physick. 

Anton. Take an ass's head, sir : 
Confusion on your fooleries, your charms ! — 
Thou stinking clyster-pipe, where's the god of 
^ rest, 

Thy pills and base apothecary drugs 
Threaten'd to bring unto me ? Out, you impostors ! 
Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks ! your skill 
Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill. 

Mac. Oh, be yourself, dear friend. 

Anton. Myself, Macrinus ! 
How can I be myself, when I am mangled 
Into a thousand pieces? here moves my head, 
But where's my heart? wherever— that lies dead. 

Re-enter Sapritius, dragging in Dorothea by 
the hair; Angelo attending. 

Sap. Follow me, thou damn'd sorceress ! CaH 
up thy spirits, 
And, if they can, now let them from my hand 
Untwine these witching hairs. 

Anton. . I am that spirit : 
Or, if I be not, were you not my father, 
One madiB of iron should hew that hand in pieces, . 
That so defaces this sweet monument 
Of my love's beauty. 

Sap. Art thou sick ? 

Anton. To death. 
. Sap. Wouldst thou recover ? 

Anton. Would I live in bliss ! 

Sap. And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that: 
man 
That brings thee health ? 

Anton. It is not in the world. 

Sap. It's here. 



THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. 79 

Anton. To treasure,* by enchantment lacked 
In caves as deep as hell, am I as near. 
Sap. Break that enchanted cave: enter, and 
rifle 
The spoils thy lust hunts after ; I descend 
To a base office, and become thy pander, 
In bringing thee this proud thing : make her thy 

whore. 
Thy health lies here ; if she deny to give it, 
Force it; imagine thou assault'st a town's 
Weak wall; to't, 'tis thine own, but beat this down, 
Come, and, unseen, be witness to this battery 
How the coy strumpet yields.* 

Doct. Shall the boy stay, sir ? 

Sap. No matter for the boy : — ^pages are used 
To these odd bawdy shufflings ; and, indeed, are 
Those little young snakes in a Fury's head, 
Will sting worse than the great ones. 
Let the pimp stay. [E:veunt Sap. Mac. and Doct. 

Dor. O, guard me, angels ! 
What tragedy must begin now ? 

Anton. When a tiger 
Leaps into a timorous herd, with ravenous jaws^ 
Being hunger-starved, what tragedy then begins? 

Dor. Death : I am happy so ; you, hitherto. 
Have still had goodness sphered within your eyes, 
Let not that orb be broken.* 

Ang. Fear not, mistress ; 

4 Ant. To treasure^ &c.] This is the emendation of Mr. M. 
Mason. It appears a happy substitution for the old reading^ 
which was, O treasure^ &c. 

5 Comcy andj unseen^ be witness to thh battery 

How the coy strumpet yields. '\ These two lines are addressed 
to Macrinus and the doctors. M. Mason. 

^ yofi, hitherto^ 

Have still had goodness spar'd within your eyes. 
Let not that orb be broken.} The word orb in this last line 
proves that we should read sphered instead oi spared; the latter^ 



80 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 



If he dare offer violence, we two 

Are strong enough for such a sickly man. 

Dor. What is your horrid purpose, sir? your eye 
Bears danger in it. 

Anton. I must 

Dor. What? 

Sap. [within.-] Speak it out. 

Anton. Climb that sweet virgin tree. 

Sap. [within.] Plague o' your trees ! 

Anton. Arid pluck that fruit which none, I 
think, e'er tasted. 

Sap. [within.] A soldier, and stand fumbling so ! 

Dor. Oh, kill me, [kneels. 

And heaven will take it as a sacrifice ; 
But, if you play the ravisher, there is 
A hell to swallow you. 

Sap. [within.] Let her swallow thee ! 

Anton. Rise:— for the Roman empire, Dorothea, 
I would not wound thine honour*. Pleasures forced 
Are unripe apples; sour, not worth the plucking: 
Yet, let me tell you, 'tis my father's* will. 
That I should seize upon you, as my prey ; 
Which I abhor, as much as the blackest sin 
The villainy of man did ever act. 

[Sapritius breaks in with Macrinus. 

Ang. Die happy for this language 1 

Sap. Die a slave, 
A blockish idiot ! 
' Mac. Dear sir, vex him not. 

^ap. Yes, and vex thee too ; both, I think, are 
geldings : 

indeed, made the passage nonsense^ which is now very poeticaL 
M. Mason. 

Mr. M. Mason is somewhat rash in his assertion : sparredy 
is, shut vpj inclosed^ it is not therefore nonsense. I have^ 
however, adopted his emendation^ which, if not just, i& at least 
ingenious. 



THE VJRGIN-MA^TYIlr 8> 

Cold, phlegmatick bastard, thou'rt^uo br^t of 
wne; I /. . 

One spark of me, when I had heat like thine. 
By this^ had made a bonfire;: a tempting whorg, 
For whom ^hou'rt mad, thrust e'en intQ thin^ 
arms^ , ,'^ < 

And«tand'st thou puling ! Had a tailor seen her » 
At this advantage, he, with his cross caper^, 
Had jt^nifled her by; this : but thou shalt curse 
Thy dalliance,' and here, before her eyes. 
Tear thy own flesh in pieces, whei; a slave : 
In hot lust bathes himself, and gluts those pl^^i? 
i sures ; ' 

Thy niceness durst not touch. Call out a slave ; 
You, captain of pur gnard, fetch a sl^ve; hjtljiei?. ^ 

Anton. What will you do,, dear sir ?.; ■> 
' fSap. > ^tdich heX; a trad e,j which many ^ one 

would learn :, 

In less than half an hour, —--to play the whqre. 

Enter a Slave. . ' 

'»■■■'*■)' , • ' . ( . .• 

Mac. A slave is come ; what now? 

Sap. Thou hast bones and flesh 
Enough to ply thy labour : from what couintry 
Wert thou ta en prisoner, here to be our slav.e? 

Slave. From Britain. 

&[^, In the west ocean ? 

Slave! Yes. 

Sap. An island ? ;. , 

Slave. Yes. . ^ r 

Sap. I'm fitted : of all nations 
Our Romanswords e'er conq^er'd^nonecomesnear 

7 but thou shalt curse 

T% dalliance,] L e. thy hesitation, thy delay : ' 
'' Good lord ! you use this dalliance to excuse 
** Your breach of promise*'* ♦ Camedif of Errors, 
VOL. I. G 



82 THfc VtAGIN-JkiARTYRi 

* 

, The Britoii for true whoring. Sirrah fellow, 
What wouldst thou do to gain thy liberty? 

Stnve, Do! liberty! fight naked with a lion, 
Vieftture to pluck a standard from the heart 
Of an irm'd legion. Liberty ! I'd thus - 
Bestride a rapipire, and defiance spit 
I' the face of death, then, when the battering-rttih 
Was fetching his career backward, to pash 
Me with his horns in pieces. To shike my chains 

oflF, ^ 

And th^t I eduld not do't but by thy death, 
Stoodst thou on this dry shore, I on a r6ck 
Ten pyramids high, down would I leap to kill 

thee, 
Or die my$^elf : what is for math to do 
I'll venture oij,* to 'b^ no more a sliVe. 

Sap. Thou^halt, then, he nd islave, fori will 
. set thee 
Upon a piede of \vx)rk is fit for man, 
Brave for a Briton: — drag that thing aside, - 
And ravish her. ' 

Slave. And ravish her ! is this your manly 
service? 
A devil scorns' to' d6 it ; *tis for a beast, 
A'Vil^iti, not a ma'n: I am, as yet, 
But half a'slave ; but, when that work is pa^t, 
, A damned whole one, a black itgly slave, 
Theslaveof allbase slaves i^^dd^ttnys.ejif,^ Rbman, 
'Tis drudgery *fit for thee. , ^ ^ / " - ' 
Sap, lie's bewitch'd too : ./ ^ 

Bind him, and with a bastinado give hirn. 
Upon his naked belly; two hundred blows} ' 
^•'>S?r/r(f/ Thou art riio^^ '' 

[He is carried in. 
Dor. That Power supernal, on whom w^aits my 



Is CU'pt*in oler my chastity. 



» w ' 



THE VIRGINrMARTyR. 83 

Anton. Good sir, give o'er : 
The more you wrong her; yourself s v^x'd the 
more. 

Sap. Plagues light on her and thee!-*rthus 
down I throw ^ 

Thy hs^rlot, thus by the hair nail hor to eatth* 
Call in ten slaves, let every o«ie disicaver 
What liist desires, and surfeit hejre his fill. 
Call in ten slaves- .. 

Mac* They are come^ f$ir, a* your call. . 
: S0p. Ohj' 6h i . [Falis down. 

Enter Theophilus. 

f 

Theoph. Where is the governor ? 

Anton. There's niy wretebed father. 

Theoph. My lord Sapritius — he's not dead I— 
imy lor^l: .- i : .; . 

That witch there 

A^ton. 'Ti3 no ■ Roman godiS can strike 
These fearful terrors. 0, thou happy maid, 
Forgive this wicked purpbaejof myf<father. 

0or. I do* , vt 

Th^ph. Gqn^, gone; he'stpepper'd^ Itisihoii 
Hast done this mX infernal; ' , ; 

Dor. Heaven pardon yo_u I 
And if my wrotug^from thencerpull vengetoce 

down^ ; : 
(I caB iio mijfi^ckp wo^'k) yet,. from my soul, 
Pray to those Powjers I ^erve, he may i^e<?Qver. . 

Iheopk. He^ stirs— help, raisie him up,— my 
lord! 

>&/>. Wher^ am I ? 
* Theoph. Qne cheejc is Wasted. - ' 

* Mac/ Thet/ are comcj &c,] The old copies gire this speech 
to Angelo : it is, howerer, so palpable an error, that the emen« 
datioa iwhich I haiee iutraduced requires no apology. . 

G 2 



H 



the: liriRGIK^MARTYR. 



Sap. Blasted! where's the lamia 
That tears my entrails ? I'm bewitch'd ; sei^e c^ 

her. 
Dor. I'm here ; do what you please. • 
Theoph. Spurn her to the bar. 
Dot: Gome, boy, being there, more near ta, 

heaven we are. 
Sap. Kick harder; go out, witch! [Exeunt 
Anton. O bloody hangmen I Thine owfi god? 

give thee breath \ ' ' ' 

Each of thy tortures is my several deaith. [Mtx^it. 



SCENE 11. 

[''^ A Publick Square. 
Enter Harp ax, Hircius, and Spv if giv^. 



• ( 



Harp. Do yon like my service now ? say; am 
■ ' not I; ' ^" ■ ':.>•:. 1 . 

A master worth attend^nc^ ? - 

Spun. Attendance ! I had rather lidk cl6an the 
isoliefs of your dirty, boots, than ;^ear the richest 
suit of any infected lord, whose rotten lifehan^ 
between the two poles. < 

Hir. A lord's ^suit ! I would not* give up the 
cloak of your service, to meet the splayfoot 
estate' of any left-fey ed knight above the anti- 
podes ; because they are' unlucky to meet. 

HarJ). This day I'll try your loves to me ; v'tis 
only 
But well to use the agility of your ams. ' ! 

Spun. Or legs^ I am ^lusty at them, 
: jfiTir., Orany Qther member that has no le:gs. 

Spun. Thpy.'rt run into some hole. 

Hir. If I i^cet one that's more .than my match. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 85 

and that I cannot stand in their hands^ I must 

and will creep on my knees. / 

♦ Harp. Hear me, my little team of villains, 

hear me, 
I cannot teach you fencing with these cudgels, 
Yet you must use them; lay them on but 
soundly; ' 

That's all. 

Hir. Nay, if we come to mauling once, pah ! 

Spun. But what walnut-tree is it we must beat? 

Harp. Your mistress. 

Hir. How! my mistress? I begin to have a 
Christian's heart made of sweet butter, I melt; 
I cannot strike a woman. 

Spun. Nor I, unless she scratch ; bum my 
mistress ! 

Harp. You're coxcombs, silly animals. 

Hir. What's that ? 

Harp. Prones, asses, blinded moles, that dare 
not thrust 
Your arms out to catch fortune ; say, you fall off, 
It must be done. You are converted rascals, 
And, that once spread abroad, why every slave 
Will kick you, call you motley Christians, 
And half- faced Christians. 

Spun. The guts of my Conscience begin to be 
of whitieather. 

Hir. I doubt me, I shall have no sweet butter 
in me. 

Harp. Deny this, and each pagan* whom you 
meet,' 
Shall forked fingers thrust into your eyes 

Hir. If we be cuckolds. 

9 and each pagan} So the first two quartos,- the 

Iftst reads everi^ : "which, as it mars the T«rse, is followed bjr 
the modern editors. 

I. 



8(5 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR, 

Harp. Do this, and every god the Gentiles 
bow to, ^ 
Shall add a fathom to your line of years. 

Spun. A hundred fatliom, I desire no more. 

Jair. I desire but one inch longer. 

Harp. The senators will, as you pass along. 
Clap you upon your shoulders with this hand. 
And with this give you gold : when you are dead, 
Happy that man shall be, can get a nail, 
The paring, — nay, the dirt under the nail, 
Of any of you both, to say, this dirt 
Belonged to Spungius or Hircius. 

Spun. They shall not want dirt under my nails. 
Twill keep them long of purpose, for now my 
fingers itcn to be at her. 

Mr. The first thing I do, I'll take her over 
the lips. 

Spun, And I the hips, — WQ may strike any 
where ? 

Harp. Yes, any where. 

Hir. Then I know where I'll hit her. 

Harp. Prosper, and be mine own ; stand by, I 
must not 
To see this done, great business calls me hence : 
He's made can make her curse his violence. [£jtf. 

Spun. Fear it not, sir ; her ribs shall be basted. 

Hir. I'll come upon her with rounce, robble- 
hobble, and thwick-thwack thirlery bouncing. 

Enter Dorothea, led prisoner; Sapritius, 
Theophilus, Angelo, and a Hangman^ who 
sets up a Pillar ; Sapritius an^f Theophilus 
sit ; Angelo stands by Dorothea. :i4 Guard 
attending. 

Sap. According to our Roman customs, bind 
That Christian to a pillar. 



THE VIRGIl^-MARTYR. §7 

Tk^oph. Infernal Fi]fri€s, 
Gould ifi^y into my hand tl^rust a]il their whips 
To tcjar thy flesh, t)>y spul, 'tis nof i^ tortufjs 
Fit to the vengeance I should heap on thee. 
For wr^^gs done^ipe j me! for ((^giltipus fects 
By thee done to our gods : yet, so it st^hd 
To great Gqesarea's gove:rnQ^'s high ple?jauf;e. 
Bow but thy knee to Jupiter, and offer - 
Any slight sacrifice, or do but pwe^r 
By Caesar's fortune, and be free. 

Sap. Thou ^halt. 

Dor. Not for all Cap&ar's fortune, were^ 4* 
chain'd 
To more worlds tli&n are kingdoms .in, title woiid. 
And all thpse worlds drawii after him, I 4c^y 
Your hangmen ; 3^ou now shew me whither to fly. 

Sap. Are her tormentors ready ? 

Ang. Shrink not, dear mistre^. 

S^un. and Hir. My lord, we are ready for the 
business. 

Dor. You two ! whom I like foster'd children fed, 
And lengthen'd out yoyrstarved life with bread : 
You be my hangmeA ! whopa, when up the ladder 
Death haled you to be strangled, I fetch'd down, 
Clothed you, and warm'd you, you two my 
tormentors ! 

Both. Yes, we. 

Dpr. Ditvine Powers pardon you !* 

Sap. Strike. 
\They strike at her : Angelo kneeling holds her fast. 

Theoph. Beat out her brains. 

Dor. Receive me, you bright angels ! 

#foj&. Faster, slaves. 

* Dor. Divine Powers pardon yon I J I know not. whether by 
inad?ertence or design ; but M. Mason, in opposition to all 
the editions, reads, Divine Powers^ pardon me I 



88 THE VIRGIN-MAYRTII. 

Spun. Faster ! I am out of breath, I am sur 
if I were to beat a buc]^,' I can strike no harder. ^ 
Hir. O mine arms ! I cannot lift them to my 

head. 

Dor. Joy above joys 1 are my tormentors 
weary . , 

In torturing me, and, in my sufferings, 
I fainting in no limb ^. tyrants, strike hprhe, 
And feast your fury full. 
Theoph. These dogs are curs, 

[Comes from his seat. 
; Which snarl, yet bite not. See, my lord, her 
face 
Has more bewitching beauty than before : ■ 
Proud ^hore, it smiles !' cannot an eye start out 
With these? ' 

Hir. Njq, sir, nor the bridge of her nose fall; 
'tis full of iron work. 
Sap. Let's view the cudgels, are they not coun- 
terfeit? 
Ang. There fix thine eye still; — thy glorious 
crown must come 
Not from soft pleasure, but by martyrdom. 
There fix thine eye still ; — when we next do meet, 
Not thorns, but roses, shall bear up thy feet: 
There fix thine eye still. [Ej^it, 

* If I were to beat a buck, I can strike no harder,^ To buchy 
Johnson says, " is to wash clothes." This is (ut a lame expla-^ 
naHon of the term : to buck is to wash clothes by laying them 
on a smooth stone, and beating them with a pole flattened at 
the end. 

5 Proud whore^ it smiles /] So the old copies ; the modern 
editors read, she smiles. In every page, and almost in eyery 
speech, I have had to remove these imaginary improf ements of 
llie author's phraseology^ 



THE VIRGIN-MA^RTVR. «9 






Enter Harpax, sneaking. '/ ; ~ 

Dor. Ever, ever, ever! 

jHieoph. Wt've mock'd ; thiese bats have power 
to fell down giants, ■ ' • ■ 

Yet her skin is not scarr'd: 
Sap. What rogues are these ? 
Theoph. Cannot these force a shriek ? 

[Beats Spungius. 
Spun. Oh ! a woman has one o.f my ribs, and 
now five more are broken. 

Theoph. Cannot this make her roar? 

[Beats Hircius ; he roars. 
Sap. Who hired these slaves ? what are they ? 
Spun. We serve that noble gentleman,* there ; 
he enticed us to tliis dry beating: oh 1 for one 
half pot. ' ' 

Hairp/ My servants ! ifwo base rogues, and 
sometime servants 
To her, and for that cause forbear to hurt her. 
Sap. Unbind her, hang up these. 
Theoph. Hang the two hounds on the next 

tree. 
Hir. Hang us ! master Harpax, what a devil, 
shall we be thus used ? 

Harp. What bandogs but you two would worry 
a woman? 
Your mistress ? I but clapt you, you flew on. 
Say I should get your lives, each rascal beggar 
Would, when he met you, cr}^ out. Hell-hounds! 

traitors ! ^ 

Spit at you, fling dirt at you;, and no woniaii 
Ever endure your sight : 'tis your best course 

^ Spun. We serre that nobk gentleman^ &;c.] Tkis is. the- lec- 
tion of the first quarto. The modern editors follow the others, 
which incorrectly read, We «e/tJ'</, &c. 



90 THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. 

Now, had you secret knives, to stab yourselves; 
But, since you have not, go and be hang'd. 

Hir. I thank you. 

Harp. 'Tis your best course. 

Theoph^ Why stay they trifling here ? 
To th' gallows drag them by the heels j-^i— away. 

Spun. By the heels ! no, sir, we have legs to 
do us that service. 

Hir. Ay, ay, if no woman can endure my sights 
away with me. ' 

Harp. Dispatch them. 

Spun. The devil dispatch thee ! 

[Exeunt Guard with Spungius and Hircius. 

Sap., Death this day rides in triumph, Theo- 
philus. 
See this witch made away too. 

Tkeoph. My soul thirsts ibr it ; 
Come, I myself the hangman's paft could play, 

Dor. O ha^te me to my coronation day ! 

[Ea^eunt. 

SCENE III.* 

The Place of Execution. A scaffold, block, S^c. 
JB;2/er Antoninus, Maceinus, «w<? Servants. 

* 

Anton. Is this the place, where virtue is to 
suffer, 
And heavenly beauty, leaving this base earth,^ 
To make a glad return from wh^ce it came ? 
Is it, Macrinus ? 

Mac, By this prep^rati(H)y 

' From hefice, to the conclusion of the act, I. recognise the 
hand of Massinger. There nuby be (and prol^ljr are) &^er pas. 
sages in out dramatic podts, liuit I .am not itcqaainte^ ifith 
them. 



THE VIRGlN-MAHTTft. $l 

You well riiay rest assured that Dorothea 
This hour is to die here. 

Anton. Then wit;h her dies 
The abstract of all sweetness that's in woman ! 
Set me down, friend, that, ere the iron hand 
Of death close up mine eyes, they may at once 
Take my last leave both of this light and her : 
Por, she being gone, the glorious sun himself 
To tne's C>immerian darkness. 

Mac. Strange affection !* 
Cupid once more hath changed his ahafts with 

Death, 
And kills, instead of giving life. 

Anton. Nay, weep not ; 
Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm. 
On me they're cast away. It is decreed 
That I 'hiust die with her; our due of life 
Was spiin together. 

Mac. Yet, sir, 'tis my wonder, 
That you, who, hearing only what she suffers, 

* Mac. Strange affection ! 
Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with Deaths 
And kills ^ instead of giving life.~\ 'Hm is a most beautiful alln- 
flion to a little poetn amopg the Elegies of Secundus. Cupid and 
Death unit'C in the destruction of a loyer, and in endeavouring 
to recoTer their weapons from the body of the victim, comiBit a 
mutual mistake, each plucking out the '' shafts" of the <>tl|er. 
The consequences of this are prettily described : 
Missa peregrinis sparguntur vulnera nereis^ 

Et manus ignoto sceoit utrinque malo. 
Jrrita Mors arcus validi molimina damnaty 

Plorat Amor teneras tarn valuisse manus ; 
Tadabant jwoenes primas in pulvere malas 

Oicula qvasy hev, ad blanda vocabat Amor, 
Canicies vemisjlorebat mnlta corollis 

Persephone crinem vulserat undejUd, 
Qvifijacerent ? falsas protul abjecere sagittaSf 

De phar^tra jaculum prompsit aterquenffoum. 
Res bona ! sed virus pueri penetravit in arctim ; 

Ex aUo miseros tot dedit Uk neci. I^^ib. ii* Jileig. t* 



92 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Partabe of all her tortures, yet will be, 
To add to your calamity, an eyewitness ' 

Of her last tragick scene, which must pierce 
» deeper,' 

And make the wound more desperate, 

Anton. Oh, Macrinus ! 
*T would linger out my torments else, not kill me, 
Which is the end I aim at : being to die too. 
What instrument more glorious can I wish for, 
Than what is made sharp by my constant love 
And true affection ? It may l>e, the duty 
And loyal service, with which I p^rsueQ her, 
And seal'd it with my death, will be remembei*'d 
Among her blessed actions ; and what honour 
Can I desire beyond it? 

_ Enter A Guards bringing mDoROTHEA, /? Headsman 
before her; followed by Theophilus^ Sapritius, 
and Harpax. 

See, she comes; 
How sweet her innocence appears ! more like 
To heaven itself, than any sacrifice 
That can be offered to it. By my hopes 
Of jpys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful 
la my. belief ; nor can I think our gods 
Are good, or to be served, that take dejight ; 
In offerings of this kind : that, to maintain 
Their power, deface the master-piece of nature, 
Which they themselves come short of. She 

ascends. 
And every step raises her nearer' heaven. 
What god soe'er thou art, that must enjoy iier, 
Receive in her .a boundless happiness ! 

^ n^^wr/i n^4£st pi«rce d0eper,] So the first editions. 

The quarto 1661, reads, in defiance of metre^— which tQust th' 
,7de€per pierce, ^^jid is follow^4 by Coj;eter and J^. Mason ! 



I 



THE ^TilRGIN-MARTYR.. m 

Sap. You are to blame :j / 

To let him come abroad. ; . ' 

Mac. It was his will; ^ 

And we were left to serve him, not command himi 

Anton. Good sir, be not offended ; nor deny '^ 
My fast of pleasures in this happy object, • T 
That I shall e'er be blest with. ' .f 

I^eoph. Now, proud contemner' ^ >; 

Of US, and of our gods^ tremble to- think rf 

It is not in the Power thou serv'st to save thee.r 
Not all the riches of the sea, increased I' 

By violent shipwrecks, nor the unsearch'd mines: 
(Mammon's tinknown exchequer), shall redeeni 
thee; • : • '' -' ■ \ - , ■ ..^'l 

And, therefore, having first with horror weigh'd) 
What 'tis to die, and to die young; to parfcwitK 
All pleasures? and delights ; lastly, to go ^i 
Where all antipathies to comfort dwell, ) 

Futies behind, about thee, and before thee ; u. 
And, to add to affliction, the remembrance 
Of the Elysian joys thou might'st have tast-ed, 
Hadst thou not turn'd apostata* to those gods 
That so reward their servants; ; ^let despair' 
Prevent the hangnian's sword, ahd on this scaflPbld 
Make :thy first entrance into hell< i7 i 

Antom She smiles : V f 

Unmoved, by Mars! as if she* werfe assured ti 
Death, looking'bnher comtkncyj^ would forgfl^f- 
Xbe ui^e of his inevitable hand.. . ^ ^^ r J"^' 

• TfitQph. Derided too ! dispatch,! I say. , ;>ot > 

Dor. Thou foOl ! ^ ,^ 

That gloriest iii having power to rkvish ' * 

. '■ ■ . I ' , ' ' "' ■ 

i t I ' 

• Hadst thou not tum'd apostata to those gods^ Our old writers 
usually^ said, apostata^ statua, &c. where we now; $ay, apostate^ 
statue^^ Massinger^s editors, however, who were ignorant alike 
of his language and that of his contemporaries, resolutely persist 
in moderoStixig |iisi upon all occasions : they read, apo^to^e)/ 






^4 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

A trifle from me I am weary of: 
What is this life to me ? not worth a thpught ;, 
Or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it 
To win a better: even thy malice servea 
To me but as a ladder to monqt up 
To such a height of hq-ppiness, whei'e I shall 
Lool^ down with scorn on thee, and on the worl4i 
Where, circled with true pleasures, placed ^bove 
The reach of death or time, 'twill be my glqry 
To think at what an easy price I bought it. 
There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth : 
No joint- benumbing cold, ox scorching heat. 
Famine, nor age, have' any being ther^. 
Forget, for shame, your Tempe ; bury iu 
Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards ;—^ 
The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragijp. 
Which did require a Hercules to get* it, ' 

Compared with what grows in all plenty ther^^ 
Deserves not to be named. The Powfet I seirY^, 



9 ' "J . ' ' ' — haye «^ being ^ierf.J P^f© ag^, t># 

moment editors foUo^ the miserable quarto of 16Q1, and ti^e^T 
read — h»,\mg ani/ bemg there. 

* Which did require a Hercules to get it^J The modem edito^ 
read, to guard it. This deyiation from the old copies is at tl^ 
expense of sense. It was the dragon which guarded it : the oh* 
ject of Hercules was to get it. In almost every speech Maaiiitiger 
is thqs injured hy carelessh^ss or ' ignorance. Itisthei^ii^ 
i^excusajble here, as t]ie,Tery s^me ei^pre^sion is to be |ou|id. ii^ 
the Emperor of the East, 

This beautiful description of Elysium^, as Mr. GilchHst'oh 
gertes to me, has b^en imitated by Nabbes, in that rery poed 
rhapsody, Microcosmus : some of the Ki^es n^ay be ^vei| ; 
^^ Cold there compels no use of rugged furs, 
^^ Nor makes the mountains barren ; there's ho dog 
^^ To rage, and scorch the land. Spring's always there^ 
*' ^* And paints the valleys ; whilst a temperate air 
*^ Sweeps their embroider'd face with his curl^ galeSj 
^^ And breathes perfumes : — there night doth never sprcNt 
'* Her ebon wings ; bjut day-lighf s always there, 
^^ And one blest season crowns the et^rnai j^dJ^ 



THE! VIRGIN- MA^RTYK. $5 

Laughs at your happy Araby, ar the 
Elysian shades, for h^ hath made his bowers 
Better in deed, than you can fancy yours. 
^nton. O, take me thither with yo^ I 
Dor. Trace my steps, r 
And be assured you. shall. 

Sap. Withr my own hands ■ ) - 

I'll rather vstop that little bijeath is left the^ < 
A^d rob thy killing fever. 

Thepph. By no means ; < 

Let him go with her : do, seduced young ms^ 
And wait upon thy saint in death ; do, do : 
And, when you come to'*h^t ima^ned place,. 
That place of all delights^-rpray you, obsexive me^ 
Afid meet those ou^rsed things I once cair4 

Daughters,. 
Whom I have sent as harbingers before you ; 
If there be any truth in your ijeligion. 
In thankfulness to me, that. with care hasten 
Your journey thither, pray you sead me some 
Small pittance of that curious fruit you boast of. 
^M^ow.* <jrrant that I may go with her,; and I will. 
S^. Wilt thou in thy last minute damn thyself ? 
Theoph. The gates to hell are open. * 
Dvr. Know, thou tyrint. 
Thou agent for the devil, thy great maister. 
Though thou art most unworthy to taste /of it^ 
lean, and will. : : j i . ' , 



')\ I- ■ ' ■' 5 •■ ' 



JEnter Angeld, in the AngeVs hahit^ 

Harp, Oh ! mountains fall upon me, » 
t hide me in the bottom of the deep, 
Inhere light may never find me ! 

• • • * 

• EwlffT AiwuiLO, in the Ansel's 'h2ih% ^tJ} It appears that 
Angelo was not meant to be 8^c« -o'l' heard bj any of the peoplt 
prciieut, but Dorothea. In the invenitoTy of the Lord Admiral' 



96 THE TlkGW-MARTYRv 

, Theoph. What's the matter? T 

Sapi This is prodigious, and confirms her witch-' 
craft. 

Theoph. Harpax, my Harpax, speak 1 

Harp. I dare not stay : 
Should I but hear her once more, I were lost. . 
Some whirlwind snatch me from this cursed place^ 
To which compared (and with what^ now I suffer) j 
Hell's torments are sweet slumbers ! \Kvit 

Sap. Follow him, 

2%»oj&A. He is distracted, and I must not lose 
. him. : f: 

Thy charms upon my servant, curse4 witch, 
Give/tbee a short reprieve. Let her not die 
Till my return. . \Exeunt Sap. and Theoph. 

Anton. She minds him not : . what object 
Is her eye fix'd on? ' '^ x . / 

Mac. I see nothing. ^ 

Anton. Mark her. . 

Dor. Thou> glorious minister of the Powenl 
■ iserve ■ • ^ • . ;.....'! 

(Foil thou art more than mortal), is't for me, 
Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave 
Thy heavenly habitation, and vouctisafest. 
Though glorified, to. take my servant's habit?-— 
For, put off' thy diyitiity^ $0 iook^d ' 

My lovely Angela ^ •• ' (; i . ^ 

Ang. Know, I am the same; • 
And still the servant to your piety. 
Your zealous prayer;?, and pious deeds first won 

me 
(But 'twas by His command to Whom you sent 
them) i 

prpperties, given by Mr. Malone, is, " a roobe for to goe in- 
visibell.Vlt was probably of a light gauzy texture, and afforded 
a sufficient hint to our good-natured ancestors, not to see Ike 
character, invested with it. . . , 



THE VIRGIN- MA'itltYR. 97 

To guide your steps. I trred your charity, ^ 
When in a beggar's shape you took me upj 
And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed, 
As you believed, my famish'd mouth* Learn all, 
By your example, to look on the poor 
With gentle eyes ! for in such habits, often, 
Angels desire an alms.' I never left you, 
Nor will Inow ; for I am* sent to carry 
Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal, 
Your martyrdom once sufFer'd ; and befo« it, 
Ask any thing from me, and rest assured 
You shall obtain it. , 

Dor. I am largely paid * 

For all my torments: since I find such grace. 
Grant that the love of this young man to me, 
In which he languisheth to death, may be 
Changed to the love of heaven. 

Ang. I will perform it; 
And in that instant when the sword sets free 
Your happy soul, his shall have liberty. 
Is there aught else ? 

Dor. For proof that I forgive 
My persecutor, who in scorn desired 
To taste of that most sacred fruit I go to ; 
After my death, as sent from me, be pleaded 
To give him of it. 

^w^. Willingly, dear mistress. 

3fac. I am amazed. 

Anton. I feel a holy fire. 
That yields a comfortable heat within me ; 
I am quite alter'd from the thing I was. 



'licarn ally 



By your example^ to look on the poor 

With gentle eyes ! for in such habits^ often^ 

Angels desire an almsJ] '^ Be not forgetful to entertain stran^ 
gers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." 
Heb^ c. xiii. t. % Here is also a beaatiful allusion to the parting 
ipeech of the ^^ sociable archangel,'^ to Tobit and bis son. 

VOL..!. ' H 



99 



THR VIRGIN-MARTYR. 



See ! I can $Und, and go alone ; thus knied 
To hejivenly Dorothea, touch her hand 
With a religious kiss. 



f-» 



Re-enter Sapbitius dEwrfTHEOPHiLvs. 

Sap. He is well now, 
But will not be drawn back- 

Theoph. It matters not, 
W,e.Q^n discharge this work without his help. 
But see your son. 

Sap. Villain ! _ 

Anton. Sir, I beseech you, 
' Being so near our ends, divorce us not. 

Theoph, 111 quickly make a separation of them : 
Hast thou aught else to say ? 

Dor. Nothing, but to blame 
Thy tardiness, in sending' nie to rest; 
My peace is made with heaven, to which my soul 
Begins to take her flight: strike, O! strike 

quickly; 
And, though you are unmoved to see my death, 
Hereafter, when my, story shall be read. 
As they were present now, M:he hearers shall 
Say this of Dorothea, with wet eyes. 
She lived a virgin, and a virgin dies. 

[Her head struck off . 

Anton. O, take my soul along, to wait on thine ! 

Mac. Your son sinks too. [Antoninm dnh. 

Sap. Already dead 1 

Theoph. Die all , . 

That are, or favour this accursed^ sect : 

4 That are, or favour this accursed sect ;] So the old copies: 
. ike moderB editors, to adapt the text to their own ideas of ac- 
curacy, read I That are of, or favour^ &c. bat there is no need, 
of alteration ; this mode of expression recuri perpeto<my : acU 
too, that the mterpoIatioQ destroys th(& mfStUo. , 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 99 

I triumph in their ends, and will raise up 
A hill of their dead carcasses, to overlook 
The Pyrenean hills, but Til root out 
These superstitious fools, and leave the world 
No name of Christian. ' 

[Loud musick : Exit Angelo^ having first laid his 
hand ^pon the mouths of Anton, and Doh 

iSajpt Ha ! heavenly musick ! 

Mac. 'Yth in the air. 

Theoph, Illusions of the devil, 
Wrought by some witch of her religion. 
That fain would make her death a miracle ; 
It frights not me. Because he is your soifi, 
Let him have burial, but let her body 
Be cast forth with contempt in some highway, 
And be to vultures and to dogs a prey. [Exeunt. 



ACT V. SCENE I. 

Theoph I Lus discovered in his ^tudy : booh about 

him. 

Theoph. Is't holiday, O CasSar, that thy servant, 
Thy provost, to see execution done 
On these base Christians in Caesarea, 
Should now want work? Sleep these idolaters, 
That none ai'e stirring ? — As a curious painter, 
When he has made some honourable piece, 
Stands oflF, and with a searching eye examines 
Each colour, how 'tis sweetened; and then hugs 
Himself for his rare workmanship — soJiere 
Willi my drolleries, atid bloody landscapes^ 
Long past wrapt up, unfold, to make me merry 
With shadows, now I want the subststnces. 

H2 



y 



•^6 



100 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

My 'muster-book of hell-hounds. Were the 

Christians, 
Whose names stand here, alive and ai^mM, not 

Rome ^ 

Could move upon her hinges. What I've done, 
Or shall hereafter, is not out of hate 
To poor tormented wretches;* no, I'm carried 
With violence of zeal, and streams of service 
I owe our Roman gods. Great Britain, — what? 

\reads. 
A thousand wiveSy with brats sucking their breasts^ 
Had hat irons pinch them off^ and thrown to swine; 
Andthen their fleshy back-parts^ hew' d with hatchets, 
JVere minced, and baked in pies, to feed starved 

Christians. 
Ha ! ha !, 

Again, again, — East Angles, — oh. East Angles: 
Bandogs, kept three days hungry, worried 
A thousana British rascals, stied up fat 
Of purpose, stripped naked, and disarmed. 
I could outstare ayear of suns and tnoonsy 
To sit at these sweet bull-baitings, so I 
Could thereby but one Christian win to fall 
In adoration to my Jupiter. — Twelve hundred 
Eyes bored with augres out— Oh ! eleven thousand 
Torn by wild beasts: two hundred ramm'd in the 

earth 



s I isnot out of hate 

To poor tormented wretches, &c» J This is said ta distinguish 
his character from that of Sapritius, whose zeal is influenced by 
motitres of interest, and by many other considerations, which 
appear to weigh nothing with Theophilus. 

* Great Britain, — what?^ Great Britain, is a curious ana- 
chronism ; but this our old draroatick writer's were little solicit- 
ous to aToid. The reader wants not my assistance to discover 
^hat this rugged narrative is by Decker: the horrible enumenN 
lion of facts, is t^en from the histories of those times^ 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 101 

To the armpits^ and full platters roundabout them, 
But far enough for reaching -J Eat, dogs, ha ! 
ha! ha! ' [He rises. 

Tush, all these tortures are but fillipings, 
Fleabitings; I, before the Destinies 

Enter AjiiGELO with a basket filed with fruit and 

fowers. 

My bottom did wind up, would flesh myself 
Once more upon some one remarkable 
Above all these. This Christian slut was well, 
A pretty one ; but let such horror follow 
The next I feed Vith torments, that when Rome 
Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound 
May feel an earthquake. How now ? . \_Musick. 

Ang. Are you amazed, sir ? 
So great a Roman spidt — and doth it tremble ! 

Theoph. How cam st thou in ? to whom thy 
business?, x 

7 But far enough for reaching ;] For occurs perpetually in 
these plays, in the sense of prevention, yet the modern editors 
have here altered it to frond indeed, the word is thus used by 
every writer of Massinger's age ; thus Fletcher : 
" Walk off, sirrah, 
'' And stir my horsej^r taking cold," 

Love's Pilgrimage. 
Again: 

« *> he'll not tell me, 

^' For breaking of my heart." 

Maid in the MiU. 
Now I am on the subject, let me just observe, that a^ similar 
alteration has been unnecessarily made in Pericles. The old 
and genuine reading is, 

" And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist 
^' For going on death's net, which none resist." 
^This is corrupt," says the editor, ^^ I think it should be 
Jrom goipg," and so he has printed it ; place a comma after 
desist y and all will be right: "/pr going," i. ^. for fear t|f 
goings &c. 



lOfi THE VIRGIN-MARTYE. 

Ang. To you : 
I had a mistress, late sent hence by you 
Upon a bloody errand ; you entreated^ 
That, when^he came into that blessed garden 
Whither she knew she went, and where, now 

happy. 
She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you 
Some of that garden fruit aiid flowers ; which 

here. 
To have, her promise saved, are brought by me. 

Theoph, Cannot I see this garden ? 

Ang. Yes, if the master 
Will give you entrance. [HevanuhetK 

Theoph: 'Tis a tempting fruit, 
And the most bright-che^k'd child I ever view'd; 
Sweet smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are 

' these ? 
In Dioclesian's gardens, tfie most beauteous, 
Compared with these, are- weeds : is it not 

February, 
The second day she died ? frost, ice, and snow, 
Hang on the beard of winter : where's the sun 
That gilds this summer? pretty, sweet boy, say. 
In what country shall a man find this garden ? — 
My delicate boy, — gone! vanished ! within there, 
Jujianus ! Geta ! — 

JEw/er Ju LI ANUS a«(i Geta. 

Both: My lord. 

Theoph. Are my gates shut ? r. 

Geta. And guarded. 

Theoph. Saw ^you not 
A boy ? 

>Tul. Where ? / 

Theoph. Here he enter'd ; a young lad; 
A thousand blessings danced upon hi§ eyes. 



THE VIRGIN.MARTYB. Ip3' 

A smoothfaced, glorious thing, that brought ^Xis 
basket,' 

Geta. No, sir ! ' . 

Theoph. Away — but be in reach, if iriy voice 
calls you. [Ej^eunt 

No ! — ivanish'd, and not seen 1— Be thou a spirit 
Sent from*that witch to mock me, I am sure 
This is essential, andj howe'er it grows, 
Will taste it. [Eats. 

Harp, [within.] Ha, ha, ha, ha! 

Theoph. So good ! I'll have some more, sure. 

Harp. Ha^ ha, ha, ha ! great liquorish fool ! 

Theoph. What art thou ? . 

Harp. A fisherman. 
' Theoph. What dost thou catch ? 

Harp. Souls, souls ; a fish call'd souls« 

Theoph. Geta! 

Enter Geta. 

i 

Geta. My lord. 

Harp. [witAin.] Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Theoph. What insolent slave is this, dares 
laugh at me? 
Or what is't the dog grins at so ? - 

Geta, I neither know, my lord, at what, nor 
whom; for there is none without, but my fellqvir 
Julianus,'and he is making a garland for Jupiter, 

Theoph. Jupiter ! all within me is not well; 
And yet nbt sick. 

• Thcoplr. Here he entered; &c.] It may give the reader 
%<3ftnt idea 6f the metrical skiU with which Massinger hav been 
hitherto treated, to print these lines as they stand in Coxetm 
and M. Mason : 

Theoph. Here he enter^4y o young lad; a thousand 

Blessings danced upon his eyes ; a smooth fac*d glorious 

Thing f that brought this basket. 



104 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Harp. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Theoph. What's thy name, slave ? 

Harp, [at one end.] Go look. 

Geta. Tis Harpax' voice, 

Theoph. Harpax! go, drag thecal tifF to my foot. 
That I may stamp upon him. 

Harp, [at the other ew^f.] Fool, thou liest! 

Geta. He's yonder, now, my lord. 

Theoph. Watch thou that eud„ 
Whilst I make good this. 

Harp, [at the middle.] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! 

Theoph. He is at barley-break, aud the last 
couple . ' '- 

Are now in hell.' 
Search for him. [jB^iV Geta.] AH this ground, 

methinks, is bloody. 
And paved with thousands of those Christians'eyes 
Whom I hav^ tortured, and they stare upon me, 
What was this apparition? sure it had 
A shape angelical. Mine eyes, though dazzled 

9 Theoph. He u at barley-break, and the last couple 
Are now in hell.] i. e. in the middle \ alluding to the situa-i 
tion of Harpax. This wretched copy of a wretched original, 
the hie et vhtqueolihe Ghost in Hamlet^ is much too puerile for the 
pcc^sion, and the character: — decipit exemplar vitiis imiiabile. 
With respect to the amusement of barley-break, allusions to it 
occur repeatedly in our old writers ; and their commentators 
have piled one parallel passage upon another, without advancing 
a single step towards explaining what this celebrated pastime 
really was. It was played by six people (three of each sex), 
who were coupled by lot. A piece of ground was tlien choseA, 
aiid divided into three compartments, of which the middle one 
was called hell. It was the object of t;he couple condemned to 
this division^ to catch the others^ who advanced from the two 
extremities; in which case a change of situation took place, 
and hell was filled by the couple who were excluded by preoc- 
cupation, from the other places: in this ^^ catching," however, 
there was some difficulty, as, by the regulations of the game, the, 
middle Muple were not to separate before they had succeeded^ 
yhile the others might break hands whenever they found then^-- 



- THE. VIRGIN-MARTYR. 105 

And daunted at first sight, tell me, it wote "- 
A pair of glorious wings ; yes, they were wings, 

And hence he flew : ^'tis vanish'd ! Jupiter, 

For all my sacrifices done to him, 

Never once gave me smile.^ — How can stone^ 

^mile, / 
Or wooden image laugh? [musick.] Ha! I re- 
member 
Such musick gave a welcome to mine ear, 
When the fair youth came to me : — 'tis in the airv 
Or from some better place ;* a Power divine, 

selves hard pressed. When all had been taken in turn, the 
last couple -was said to be in heU^ and the game ended. In tenui 
labor I-^Mt, M. Mason has given the following description of 
this pastime with allegorical personages, from Sir John SuckliQg: 
^' Love, H^ason, Hate, did once bespeak • 

^' Three mates to play at barley-break; • ' 

'^ Love Folly took ; and Reason Fancy ; 
'' And Hate consorts wjth Pride ; so dance they : 
^' Love coupled last, and so it fell 
^' That Love and Folly were in hell. 

^' They break ; and Love would Reason meet^ 

^' But Hate was nimbler on her feet ; 

^' Fancy looks for Pride, and thither 

^' Hies, and they two hug together : 

^' Yet this new coupling sti^l doth tell 

*' That Love and Folly w^re in hell. 

'' The rest do break again, and Pridci 

^' Hath now got Reason on her side; 

^' Hate and Fancy meet, and stand 

^^ Untouph'd by Love in Folly's hand; , 

^^ Folly was dull, but liOve ran well, 

^' So Love and Folly were in hell." 

■ Or from some better place ;] In Coxeter's edition^ place waa 
4ropt at the press, I suppose : and M. Mason, who seems to have 
had no conception of any older or other copy, blindly followed 
him; thougli the line has neither measure nor sense without the- 
word, inserted from the old quartos :^— but indeed the whole of 
this scene, as it stands in the two former editiops, especii^ly th§ 
iast^ is fall of the most shapieful Inlanders. 



106 tut VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

Through my dark ignorance on my soul does 

shine, 
And makes me see a conscience all stain'd o^er, 
Nay, drown'd and damn'd for ever in Christian 
' gore. V 

Harp, [within.'] Ha, ha, ha ! 
Theoph. Again ! — What dainty relish on my 
tongue 
This fruit hath left ! some angel hath me fed ; 
If so tobthfull,* I will be bt^nqueted, [Eats. 

Enter Harp ax in a fearful shape^ Jire flashing out 

of the Study. 

Harp. Hold! 

Theoph. Not for Ccesar. 

jffi^rp., But for me thou shalt 

Theoph. Thou art no twin to him that last 
was here. 
Ye Powers, whom my soul bids m6 reverence, 

guard me ! - 

What art thou ? 

Harp. I am thy master. 

Theoph. Mine! 

Harp. And thou my everlasting slave ; that 
' Harpax, V 

Who hand in hand hath led thee to thy hell^ 
Am I. 

Theoph. Avaunt ! '^ 

Harp. I will not; cast thou down 
That basket with the things in't, and fetch up 
What thou hast swaUow'd, and then take a 

drink, - 

Which I shall give thee, and I'm gone. 

V * If$o toothfull, &C.3 So the old copies, the modern editioBS 
have toothsome; it may perhags be a better word^ but diould 
not have been silently foisted upon the auihor. 



»N 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 107 

Theoph. My fruit! 
Does this offend thee ? see ! 

Harp. Spit it to the earth, ^ 
And tread upon it, or I'll piecemeal tear th^e. 
Theoph, Art thou with this affrighted? see^ 
here's more. [Pulls out a fiandful ofjlmers. 
Harp. Fling them away, I'll take thee else, 
and hang thee 
In a contorted chain of isic es 
Xn the frigid zone : down with them 4^ 

Theoph. At the bottom 
One thing I found itot yet. See ! 

. [Holds up a cross of flowers. 
Harp. Oh ! I am tortured. 
Theoph. Can this do't? hence, thou fiend 

infernal, henpc ! 
Harp^ Clasp Jupiter's image, and away with 

that. 
Theoph. M thee I'll fling that Jupiter; for^ 
methinks, 
I serve u better master : he now checks me 
For murdering my two daughters, put on^ by 

thee — 
By thy damn'd rhetorick did I hunt the life 
Of Dorothea, the holy virgin-martyr. 
She is not angry with the axe, nor me. 
But sends these presents to me ^ and I'll travel 
O'er worlds to find her, and from her white hand 
Beg a forgiveness. 

3 Harp. %^i it to the ttirth^'\ The first and secdnd quartos 
read spct^ which was now beginning to grOw obsolete ; in the 
succeeding one it is spit. 

* -put on by thee — ] i. e. encouraged, instigated. 

So in Shakspeare : 

•* * ■^ rt ii i ii i i uM JiiTtM?i>etii ■ 

'' Is ripe for taking, and Ihe Powers abore 
" Vut on their instamitott.^' 



108 THE VIRGIN- MARTYR 

Harp. No ; I'll bind thee here* 
Theoph. I serve a strength above thine ; this 
small weapon,* 
Methinks, is armour hard enough. 

Harp. Keep from me. [girths a little. 

Thebph. Art posting to thy centre? down, hell- 
hound ! down ; V 
Me thou hast lost : that arm, which hurls thee 
hence, [Harpax disappears. 

Save me, and set me up, the strong defence 
In the fair Christian's quarrel ! 

Enter Angelo. 

Ang. Fix thy foot there, 
Nor be thou shaken with a Caesar's voice, 
Though thousand deaths were in it ; and I then 
Will bring thee to a river, that shall wash 
Thy bloody hands clean and more white than 

snow ; 
And to that garden where these blest things 

grow, 
Ai^d to that martyr'd virgin, who hath sent 
That heavenly token to thee : spread this brave 

wing. 
And serve, than Caesar, a far greater king, [£a?j7. 
Theop. It is, it is some angel. Vanish'd again ! 
Oh, comeback, ravishing boy ! bright messenger ! 
Thou hast, by thesie mine eyes fix'd on thy beauty, 
Illumined all my soul. Now look I back 
On my black tyrannies, which, as they did 
Outdare the bloodiest, thou, blest spirit, that 

lead'st me, 



;>■..,. • ■-' - > • ■ 



* this «;na// weapon,] Meaning, I belieye, the 

" cross of flowers," whidi he had just found. The language 
find ideaft of this play are purely cathoiick. - 



^ / 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 109 

Teach me what I must to do, and, to do well, 
That my last act the best may parallel.* [Esit 



SCENE IL 

Dioclesian's Palace. 

f 

Enter Dioclesian, Maximinus, the Kings of 
Epire, Pontus,flj»rfMacedon,7weefi;i^ Artemia; 
Attendants. 

Artem. Glory and conquest still attend upon 
Triumphant Caesar ! . , 

Diocle. L6t thy wish, fair daughter. 
Be equally divided ; and hereafter 
Learn thou to know and reverence Maximinus, 
Whose power, with mine united, makes one Caesar. 

Mas. But that I fear 'twould be held ftattery, 
The bonds consider'd in which we stand tied, 
As love and empire, I should say, till now . 
I ne'er had seen a lady I thought worthy 
To be my mistress. 
• Artem, Sir, you shew yourself 
Both courtier and soldier; but take heed. 
Take heed, my lord, though my dull-pointed 

beauty, 
Stain'd by a harsh refusal in my servant, 
Cannot diart forth such beams as may inflame you, 
You may encounter such a powerful one. 
That with a pleasing heat will thaw your heart, 
Though bound in ribs of ice. Love still is love, 
His bow and arrows are the same : great Julius, 
That to his successors left the name of Caesar, 
Whom' war could never tame, that with dry eyes 

^ That my last act the best may parallel.^ Thus far Dicker; 
what follows^ I apprehend^ was written by Massinger. 



1I« THE VIRGIN-MAHtYR. 

/ 

Beheld the hv^ plains of Pharsalia cover'd 

With the dead caxcaa«£3 of senators 

And citizens of Rome, whe»^ the world knew 

No other loi;d but him, struck deep in ycars^ tcwt, 

(And men gray-hair'd forget the lusts of youth) 

After ail this, meeting fair Cleopatra, 

A suppliant too, the magick of her eye, 

Even in his pride pf conquest, took him captive; 

Nor are you more secure. 

Mcuv. Wei;^ you deform'd 
(But, by the gods, you are most excellent). 
Your gravity and discretion would overcome me ; 
And I should be more proud in being a prisoner 
To your fair virtues, than of dl the honoui's, 
Wealth, title, empire, that my sword hath 
purchased. 

Diocle. This meets my wishes. Welcome it, 
Artemia, 
With outstretched arms, and study to forget 
That Antoninus ever was ; thy fate 
Reserved thee for this bettet* choice, embrace it. 

Max? , This happy match brings new nerves to 
give strength 
To our continued league. • 

Dioole. Hymen himself 
Will bless this marriage, which we'll solemnize 
In the presence of these kings. 

K. o/Pantus. Who rest most happy. 
To be eyewitnesses of a match that brings 
Peace to the empire. 

Diocle. We much thank your loves ; 
But where'^ Sapritius, our governor, 
And our most zealous provost, good Theophilus ? 
If ever prince were blest in a true servant, 
Or could the gods be debtcM-s to a man, 

7 Max. This happy match &c.] The old copies give this to the 
IT. t>f Epire; it is evident^ however, that he catinot be th» 
speaker : I make no apology for restoring it to Maximintis* 



THE ViatGIN.MA'UTyR. •ill 

t 

Both ihey and We stand far engaged to cberis^h 
His piety and service, . 

Artem. Sir, ther governor x 

Brooks sadly his son's loss, although he tm^^d 
Apostata in death;' but bold Theophilua^ 
Who, for the same cau«e, intny preiaence^ eeaVd 
His holy anger on his daughters' hearts ; / f 
Having with tortures first tried to convert her, 
Dragg'd the bewitching Christian to the seaffoidp 
And saw her lose her head. 

IHocle. He is all worthy: 
And from his own mouth I.would gladly hear 
The manner how she suffer'd. 

Artem, 'Twill be deliver'd 
Withsuchcontemptandscorn(Iknow^ his nature) 
That rather 'twill beget your highness' laughter, 
Than the least pity. 

Diode. To that end I would hear it. 



Enter Theophilus, Sapeitius, andMAcnivvs. 

Artem. He comes ; with fiim the governot. 
Diacle. O, Sapritius, 
I am to chide you for your tenderness ; 
But yet, remembering that you are a father, 
I will forget it. G6od Theophilus, 
I'll speak with you anon.^ — Nearer, yattr car. 

[<^ SaprUms. 

Theoph. [aside ta Macrbm^.'] By Aiitoninia^' 

soul, I do conjure you, 

And though not for religion, for his friendship, 

Without demanding what's the cause that moves 

me, 

? Apostata «w death ;^ Here again the modern editors readl^ 
Apostate in deaths though it absoLutely destroys the meiMQre. 
It is v^ry' strfinge that the frequent recurrence . of this word 
j^hpuld not teach th^m to hesitiUe on the propriety of corrupt^ 
Ing it upon air occasions. 



112 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

R ceive my signet ;— by the power of this, 
Go to my prisons, and release all Chris|:ians 
That are in fetters there by my command. 

Mac. But what shall follow ? 

Theoph. Haste then to the port; 
You there shall find two tall ships ready rigg'd,* 
In which embark the poor distressed souls, 
And bear them from the reach of tyranny. 
Enquire not whither you are bound ; the Deity 
That they adore will give you prosperous winds, 
And make your voyage such, and largely pay for 
Your hazard, and your travail. Leave me here; 
There is a scene that I must act alone. 
Haste, good Macrinus ; and the great God guide 
you! 

Mac. I'll undertake't, there's something 
prompts me to it ; 
'Tis to save innocent blood, a saint-like act ; 
And to be merciful has never been 
By moral men themselves* esteem'd a %m.\Ex%t. 

Diode. You know your charge ? 

Sap. And will with care observe it. 

Diode. Fori profess he is not Caesar's friend. 
That sheds a tear for any torture that 
A Christian suffers. Welcome, my best servant^ 
My careful zealous provost ! thou hast toil'd 
To satisfy my will, though in extremes : 
I love thee for't ; thou art firm rock, no changeling* 
Prithee deliver, and for my sake do it. 
Without excess of bitterness, or scoffs, 
. Before my brother and these kings, how took 
The Christian her death ? 

Theoph. And such a presence, 
/Though every private head in this large room 

9 You there shall find two tall ships ready rigg'd^^ We should 
now say, two stout shyifs ; but see the Unnatural Combat. 

' By moral men .themselves &c.] This » the reading qf the 
irst copy : all the others haye, mortal men^ 



THE VIRGIN- MART Y-R. US 

Were circled round with an imperial crown, 
Her story will deserve, it is so full 
Of excellence and wonder. 

Diode. Ha ! how is this ? 

Theoph. O ! mark it, therefore, and with that 
' attention, 

As you would hear an embassy from heaven 
By a wing'd legate ; for the truth deliver'd, 
Both ho^Y, and what, this blessed virgin suffer'd, 
And Dorothea but hereafter named, 
You will rise up with reverence, and no more. 
As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember 
What the canonized Spartan ladies were. 
Which lying Greece so boasts of Your own 

matrons, ■ i.^ 

Your Roman dames, whose figures you yet keep 
As holy relicks, in her history 
Will find a second urn : Gracchus' Cornelia,* 
Paulina, that in death desired to follow 
Her husband Seneca, nor Brutus' Portia, 
That swallow'd burning coals to overtake him, 
Though all their severalworths were given to one, 
With this is to be mention'd. 

Max. Is he mad ? 

Diode. Why, they did die, Theophilus, and 
boldly; 
This did no more. 

Theoph. They, out of desjperation, 
Or for vain glory of an after-name, 
Parted with life : this had not mutinous sons, 

^ Gracchus' Comeliay^ This passage, as printed in the old 
edition, is nonsense. M. Maso^. 

This is somewhat bold in one who never saw the old editions. 
In Coxeter, indeed, it is printed, or rather pointed, as nonsense; 
hut to call his the old edition, is scarcely correct. The first 
qaarto reads as in the text^ with the exception of an apostrophe 
accidentally misplaced ; the second follows it, and both are 
|Bore (^orrect than Mr. M, Mason, either in his text or note. 

VOL. I. ' I 



114 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

V 

As the rash Gracchi were ; nor was this saint 
A doating mother^ as Cornelia was : 
This lost no husband, in->vhose overthrow 
Her wealth and honour sunk ; no fear of Avant - 
Did make her being tedious ; but, aiming^ 
- At an immortal crown, and in his cause . 
Who only can bestow it, who sent down 
Legions of ministering angels to bear up 
Her spotless soul to heaven ; who entertain'd it 
With choice celestial musick, equal to 
The motion of the spheres, she, uncompell'd, 
Changed this life for a better. My lord Sapritius, 
You were present at her death; did you e'er hear 
Such ravishing sounds ? 

Sap. Yet you sard then 'twas witchcraft, 
And devilish illusions. 

Theoph. I then heard it 
With sinful ears,and^elch'doutblasphemouswords 
Against his Deity, which then I knew not, 
Nor did believe in him* 

Diode. Why, dost thou now ? 
Or dar'st thou, in our hearing 

Theoph. Were my voice 
As loud as is his thunder, to be heard 
Through all the world, all potentates on earth 
Ready to burst with rage, should they but hear it; 
Though hell, to aid their malice, lent her furies^ 
Yet I would speak, and speak again^ and boldly, 
I am a Christian^ and the Powers you worship 
But dreams of fools and madmen* 

Max. Lay hands on him. 

Diode. Thou twice a child! for doating age^ 
so makes thee. 
Thou couldst not else, thy pilgrimage of life 
Being almost past through, in this last moment 
Destroy whate'er thou hast done good or great— 
Thy youth did pramise much ; and, grown a man, 



V 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 115 

Thou inad^st it good, and, with increase of years, 

Thy actions still better'd : as the sun, 

Thou did'st rise gloriously, kepst a constant 

course 
In all thy journey ; and now, in the evening, 
When thou should'st pass with honour to thy rest, 
Wilt thou fall like a meteor ?* 

Sap. Yet confess 
That thou art mad, and that thy tongue and heart 
Had no agreement. 

Max. Do ; no way is left, else, 
To save thy life, Theo^hilus. 

Diode, But, refuse it. 
Destruction as horrid, and as sudden, 
Shall fall upon thee, as if hell stood open, 
And thou wert sinking thither. 

Thtoph. Hear me, yet ; 
Hear, for my service past. 

Artem. What will he say ? 

Theoph. AseverIdeservedyourfavour,hearme, 
"And grant one boon ; 'tis not for life I sue for, ' 
Nor is itfit that I, that ne'er knew pity 
To any Christian, being one myself. 
Should look for any ; no, 1 rather beg 
The utmost of your cruelty ; I stand 
Accomptable for thousand Christians' deaths; 
And, were it possible that I could die 
A day for every one, then live again 
To be again tormented, 'twere to me ^ 

An easy penance, and I should pass through 
A gentle cleansing fire; but, that denied me, 
It being beyond the strength of feeble nature, . 

' 'Tu not for life I sue for,] The modern editors omit tjie last 

for; but they are too squeamish. This reduplication was prac« 

tised by all the writi^rs of our author's time; pf which I could^ 

if it were necessary, give a thousand examples ; Massinger hiift* 

telf would furnish a considerable number. 

IS 



11^ THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 

t 

My suit is, you would have no/pity on me. 

In mine own house there are a thousand engines 

Of studied cruelty, which I did prepare 

For miserable Christians ; let me feel, 

As the Sicilian did his brazen bull, 

-The horrid'styou can find, and I w,ill say, 

In death, that you are merciful. 

Diode. Despair not, 
In this thou shalt prevail. Go fetch them hither: 

[Ej^it Guard. 
Death shall put on a thousand shapes at once. 
And so appear before thee ; racks, and whips ! — : — 
Thy flesn, with burning pincers torn, shall feed 
The fire that heats them ; and what's wanting to 
The torture of thy body, I'll supply 
In punishing thy mind. Fetch all the Christians 
That are in hold ; and here, before his face, 
Cut them in pieces. 

Theoph: 'Tis not in thy power : 
It was the first good deed I ever did. 
They are removed out of thy reach ; howe'er 
I was determined for my sins to die, 
I first took order for their liberty. 
And still I dare thy worst. 

Re-enter Guard with the instruments of torture. 

Diode. Bind him, I say; 
Make every artery and sinew crack : 
The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek,^ 
Shall have ten thousand drachmas : wretch ! I'll 

force thee 
To curse the Power thou worship'st : 

* The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek^'\ So read 
all the editions before the last ; when Mr. M. Mason, to suit 
the line to his own ideas of harmony, discarded Jkc slaxCf 
iw He!. 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Ut 

Theoph. Never, never: 
No breath of mine shall e'er be spent on him, 

[They torment him, 
But what shall speak his majesty or mercy. 
I'n^hoaour'd in my sufferings. Weak tormentors, 
More tortures, more :— alas ! you are unskilful — 
For heaven's sake more ; my breast is yet untorn : 
Hei^ purchase the reward that was propounded. 
The; irons cool,^^ — ^here are arms yet, and thighs; 
Spare no part of me. 

Mar. He endures beyond 
The^iufferance of a man* 

fS^jE>, .No sigh nor groan, 
To witness he hath feeling. 

Diode. Harder, villains ! 

'- "' ■• '"•'< ' • , ' " 

jEw/er Harpax. 

tJarp. Unless that he blaspheme, he'^s lost for 
ever. 
If torments ever could bring forth despair, 
Let these compel him to it : Oh me. 
My ancient enemies again ! \Falls dawn. 

£»i^^r Dorothea in a white robe, a crown upon 
her heady led in by Angelo; Antoninus^ 
Calista, and Christ et a Jollowingj allinwhite; 
h^t les^ glorious ; Angelo holds out a crown to 

THEGPHILyS. 

- Thedph. Most glorious viaion ! 

Did e'er S9 hard a bed yield man a dream 
So heavenly as this? 1 am confirmed, 
Confirm'd, you blessed spirits, arid ma4e haste 
To take that crown of immortality 
You offer to me. D^ath, till this blest minuti^^r 
I never thought thee slow-paced; nor would I^ 
^ -I. ' " ■ ■■■'■■- ■ ' [ * 



118 THE VIRGIN-MARTYK 

Hasten thee now, for any pain I suffer, 
But; that thou keep'st me from a glorious wreath, 
Which through this stormy way I would creep to. 
And, humbly kneeling, with humility wear it. 
Oh ! now I feel thee : — blessed spirits ! I come; 
And, witness for me all these wounds and scars, 
I die a soldier in the Christian wars; [Dies. 

Sap. I have seen thousands tortured, but ne'er 

yet 

A constancy like this. 

Marp. I am twice damn'd. 
Ang. Haste to thy place appointed, cursed 
fiend ! 
In spite of hell, this soldier's not thy prey ; 
'Tis I have won, thou that hast lost the day. [Ea:ii. 
[Harpax sinks with thunder and lightning. 
Diode. I think the centre of the earth be 
crack'd, 
Yet I stand still unmoved, and will go on : 
The persecution that is here begun. 
Through all the world with violence shall run. 

[Flourish. Exeunt.^ 

5 Mr. M. Mason capriciously deranged the order in which 
Coxeter printed these Plays, and began with the Picture^ a piece 
which bears the strongest internal marks of being a late pro- 
duction. With respect to the Virgin-Martyit^ he considerably 
under-rates it, and indeed displays no portion of judgment in 
appreciating either Its beauties or defects, lie adopts Coxeter's 
idea that it was indebted for its success to the abominable 
scenes between Ilircius and Spongius, pronounces the subject 
of the tragedy to be unpleasant, the incidents unnatural j and 
the supernatural agents employed to bring them about, destitute 
of the singularity and wildness which distinguish the fictitious 
^beings of Shakspeare. With respect to the subject, it is ub- 
doubtedly ill chosen. Scourging, racking, and beheading, are 
circumstances of no very agreable kind; and ^rith the poor 
aids of which the stage was -then possessed, must hare been 
somewhat worse than ridiculous. Allowing, howerer, for tie 
ageac^ of superaatural beiiigs, I scarcely see h^w the meidents 



XHE VIBlGIN->fAR.TYRi: lift 

%!^ prp!^ii€e caO} af Mr. M. Mason represents them, bev un- ^ 
natural. ^ The comparison drawn between them and the flcki- 
' tiotts beings of Shakspeare is injudicious. Shakspeare has no 
angels nor derilat; hi# wonderful judgment, perhaps, instructeil' 
him to. i^¥fMd giich. untractable macbmery. With fairies ^d 
spirits he might wanton in the regions of fancy, but the cha- 
racter of a heavenly messenger was of too sacred a nature for 
wUdfieas iindsingultirityj and that of a fiend too horrible* for the 
sportiireness of imagination. It appears to me, that Massinger 
anH >hiA ^associate had conceived the idea of combining the pro- 
minent parts of the old Mystery, with the Morality, which 
was not yet obliterated from the memories, nor perhaps from 
the affections, of many of the spectators ; to this, I am willing 
to hope, and not to the ribaldry, which Mr. M. Mason so pro* 
perly reprobates, the great sucees^ of this singular medley 
mi^^t be iniSome ineasure owing. I hare taken notice of many 
beautiful passages ; but it would be unjust to the authors to 
conclude, without i^emarking on the good sense and dexterity 
with which they have avoided the concurrence of Angclo and 
Hftvpax, till the ecHicluding scene ; an errour into which Tasso^t 
and 9||ers of greater name than Massinger, have inadvertently 
fallen. - . 

"With a neglect of precision which pervades s^ll the arguments 
of Mr. M. Mason, he declares it is easy to distinguish the hand 
of Decker from that of Massinger, yet finds a difficulty in 
appropriating tl^ir .n^ostc^arac^eristick language! If I. have 
sppk^«w^tl),n)ore cpnfidence, it i^ not done lightly, but from 
along'and careful study of Massinger'^s manner, and froi^ that 
species of internal evidence which, though it might not perhaps 
i^uificifetit^ strike 'the common reader, is with me deci^ve.' 
W|tJ[| Inspect <^tb^ scenes between the two buffoons, itwQuld. 
be»a(; ipj^ry^tp the name of Massinger to waste a single argu.^ 
men^ in proving them not to be his. In saying this, I am ab« 
tuateS by no hostility to Decker, who in this Play has maiiy 
passa^ wbi<6h evince that l^e wanted not talents to. rival, if< ha: 
had pleased, his friend and associate. Ejoitqr. 

Notwithstanding the blemishes which have been justly ob- 
jected to this Play, it possesses beauties of an extraordinary 
kind*— Ihdeed, nothing liiore base and filthy can be conceived 
tha,mJh& dialogues betwtjden Hircius and Spungius; but the 
genuine and dignified piety of Dorothea, her unsullied inno^. 
cence, her unshaken constancy, the lofty pity she expresses for 
her persecutors, her calm contempt of torture^, and her heroick 
death, exalt the mind in no common degre6<^ and mak6 the 

J. 



120 THE VIRGIN-MAR'ryR. 

reader almost insennble of the sarroiinding impariiy) tkfongk 
the holy contempt of it which they inspire. 

How sentiments and images thus opposite should be contained 
in the same piece, it is somewhat difficult to conceiye. if 
Decker had furnished none but the cmnick parts, the doubt 
would be soon at an end. But there is good reason to suppose 
that he wrote the whole of the second act : and the ¥ery first 
scene of it has the same mixturie of loathsome beastliness and 
angelick purity, which are observed in those passages that are 
more distant from each other. — It is the strange and forced con* 
junction of Meaentius : 

Mortua — l jungebat corpora vioisj 

Tormenti genus 

The subject in general is certainly Extravagant ; and the intro« 
duction of a good and eyil spirit, disguised in human shapes, 
was not to be expected in what aspired to the credit of a regular 
tragedy. Yet it should be rmembered, that poetick license 
calls in ^' a thousand liveried angels" to '' lackey saintly chas- 
^^ tity^" — that, whatever be their departure ffom propriety^ 
such representations had a most solemn origin ; i^nd that, with 
this allowance, the business in which the spirits are e|||aged 
has a substantial conformity with the opinions of the early 
ages in which the plot i^ laid. The permitted but vain op- 
position of the demons to the progress of th^ faith, and the 
reasoning and raillery Which Dorothea expresses, under the 
influence of Angelo, against the pagan gods, are to be found in 
Justin, Tatian, Arnobius, and others. — The separate ag^icy ol 
the spirits, and the consequence of their personal encoi»nter} 
are also described in a oharacteristick manner. 

Apart from Angelo, Harpax seems to advance in his malign 
nant work. When the daughters of Theophihis express their 
zeal for paganism, he '^ grows fat to see his labours prosper.'' 
Yet he cannot look forward to the defeat of those labours in 
their approaching conversion, though, on some occasions, we 
find he could '^ see a thousand leagues" in his master's service* 
And this agrees with the doctrine, that when some signal 
triumph of the faith was at hand, the evil spirits were abridged 
of their usual powers. Again, when Harpax expects to meet 
Angelo, he thus expresses the dread of his presence, and the 
effect which it afterwards produced on him : 

<t I do so hate his sight, 

^' That, should I look on him, I should sink down." 

Act II. sc. ii* 
And this, too, perfectly agrees with the power attributed to the 
superiour spirits of quelling the d^nons by those indications of 



THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 1^1 

their quality which were not to be perceired by mortals : pef 
ecciUtissimce signa prce^entice, quce angelicis sensibns etiam maligno^ 
rum spirituuniy potius quam infirmitati hominum^ possunt esse perspi^ 
cita. Civ, Dei. lib. ix. 

The ether parts of the Play do not require much observa|:ionk^ 
tndeed, the characters of Calista and Christeta are well sus« 
tained. Hasty, self-confident, readily promising for theii^ 
steadiness, soon forgetting their resolutions, and equally secure 
in every change of opinion, they are well contrasted with 
Dorothea, whose fixed principles always guard her against rash- 
ness, and therefore preserve her from contradiction. As to 
Dioclesian and his captive kings, they come in and go out with 
little of our admiration, or our pity. Artemia's love for Anto*. 
ninus would be wholly without interest, if we were not moved 
for a moment by her indignation at the rejection of her offer 5 
and we see her at length consigned to Maximinus with as little 
emotion as Is shewn by themselves. This, however, is somewhat 
relieved by Antoninus's passion, a genuine one, for Dorothea. 

Certainly there is too much horfour in this tragedy. The 
daughters of Theophilus are killed on the stage. Theophilus 
himself is racked, and Dorothea is dragged by the hair, kicked, 
tortured,' and beheaded. Its popularity must therefore in a con* 
siderable degree be attributed to the interest Occasioned by the 
Contrary agencies of the two spirits, to the glorious vision of the 
beatified Dorothea at the conclusion of the piece, and the re* 
appearance of Angelo; in his proper character, with the sacred 
fruit and flowers, from the '* heavenly garden," and the '' crown 
of immortality," for Theophilus. Dr. Ireland. 



/ 



THE 



UNNATURAL COMBAT, 



_ I 



The Unnatural Combat.] Of this Tragedy there is but one 
edition, which was printed for John Waterson, in 1639. It does 
not occur in Sir Henry Herbert's Office-book ; so that it is pro- 
bably of a very early date : and indeed Massinger himself calls 
it " an old tragedy." Like the Virgiri'Martyrj it has neither 
Prologue nor Epilogue, for which the author accounts in his 
Dedication, by observing that the play wa;s composed at a time 
^^ when such by-ornaments were not advanced above the fabrick 
of the whole work." 

The editors of the Biograpkia Dramatica speak in' rapturous 
terms of the various excellencies of this piece, and think, '^ that 
with very little alteration, it might be rendered a valuable ac- 
quisition to the present stage." This I doubt : it is indeed a 
most noble performance ; grand in conception, and powerful in 
execution ; but the passion on which the main part of the story 
hinges, is of too revolting a nature for public representation : 
we may admire in the closet what we should turn from on the 
stage. 

It is said, in the title-page, to have been ^^ presented by the 
King's Majesty!s Servants, at the Globe." 



TO 

> 

MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

ANTHONY SENTLEGER^ 

OF OAKHAM IN KENT, ESQ. 
SIR, 

1 HAT the patronage of trifles^ in this kind, hath long 
since rendered dedications, and inscriptions obsolete, and out 
offashiony I perfectly understand, an^d carinot but ingenU" 
ouslif confess, that I walking in the same path, may be truly 
argued by you oftsoeakness, or wilful errour : but the reasons 
and defences, for the tender of my service this way to you, 
are so just, that I cannot (in my thankfulness for so many 
favours received) but be ambitious to publish them. Your 
noble father. Sir Warham Sentleger (whose remarkable 
virtues must be ever remembered), being, while he lived, a 
master, for his pleasure, in poetry, feared not to hold con- 
verse with divers, whose necessitous fortunes made it their pro- 
fession, among which, by the clemency of his judgment, I was 
not in the last place admitted. You (the heir of his honour 
and estate) inherited his good inclinations to menofmypoor 
quality, of which I cannot give any ampler testimony, than 
by my free and glad prof ession of it to the world. Besides 
(and it was not the hast encouragement to me) many of 
eminence, and the best of such, who disdained not to take 
notice of me, have not thought themselves disparaged, I dare 
not say honoured, to be celebrated the patrons oj my humble 
studies. In the first file of which, I am confident, you shall 
have no cause to blush, to find your name written. I present 
you with this old tragedy, without prologue or epilogue, it 
being composed in a time '(and that too, peradventure, as 
knowing as this) zchen such by-ornaments were not advanced 
above thefabrick of the whole work. Accept it, I beseech 
you, as it is, and continue your favour to the author, ^ 

Your Servant, 

PHILIP MJSSINGER. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Beiufort senioTy governor of Marseilles. 

Beaufort J wmor, his son. 

Malefort senior ^ admiral of Marseilles. 

Malefort jMmor, his son. 

Chamont, y 

Montaigne, >assistants to the governor. 

Lanour, J 

Montreville, a pretended friend to Malefort senior. 

Belgarde, a poor captain. 

Three Sea Captains^ of the nwoy of Malefort jrt^wior. 

An Usher. 

A Page. 

Theocrine, daughter to Malefort senior. 
Two Waiting fijomen. 
Two Courtezans. 
A Bawd. ' 

Servants and Soldiers. 

SCENE, Marseilles. 



THE 



UNNATURAL COMBAT. 



ACT I. SCENE I. 

I 

A Hall in the Court of Justice. 

-Ewfer MoNTREViLLE, Theo€rine, Usher, Page, 

and Waiting Women. 

Montr. Nowto be modest, madam, when you a^e 
A suitor for your fatlier, would appear 
Coarser than boldness; you awhile must part witk 
Soft silence, and the blushings of a virgin : 
Though I must grant, did not this cause com- 
mand it, 
They are rich jeMrels you have ever worn 
To ^11 men's admiration. In this age, -^ 

If, by our own forced importunity. 
Or others purchased intercession, or 
Corrupting bribes, we can make our approaches 
To justice, guarded from us by stern power, 
We bless the means and industry. 

Ush. Here's musick 
In this bag shall wake her, though she had drunk 

opium. 
Or eaten mandrakes/ Let commanders talk 
Of eaniaons to make breaches, ^ive but fire 

■ Or eaters mandrakes. J Hill observes, that " the man4rakr 
has a soporifick quality, and that it was used by the antients 
when they wanted a na^cotick of a most powerful kind.'V To 
thit there^ are perpetual allusions 4n^our old^ writers. ' 



1^8 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

To this petard, it shall blow open, madam, 
The iron doors of a judge, and make you entrance; 
When they (let them do Avhat they can) with all 
Their mines, their culverins, and basiliscos, 
Shall cool their feet without; this being th« 

picklock 
That never fails. 

Montr, 'Tis true, gold can do much, 
But beauty more. Were I the governor, 
Though the admiral, your father, stood convicted 
Of what he's only doubted, half a dozen 
Of sweet close kisses from these cherry lips. 
With some short active conference in private, 
Should sign his general pardon. 
Theoc. These light words, sir, 
Do ill become the weight of my sad fortune; 
And I much wonder, you, that do profess 
Yourself to be my father's bosom friend, 
Can faise mirth rrom his misery. 

Montr. You mistake me ; 
I share in his calamity, and only 
Deliver my thoughts freely, what I should do 
For such a raje petitioner: and if 
You'll follow the directions I prescribe, 
'With my best judgment I'll mark out the way 
For his enlargement. 

7%e?(?c. With ^11 real joy 
I shall put what you counsel into act,. 
Provided it be honest. 

Montr. Honesty 
In a fair she client (trust to my experience) 
Seldom or never prospers; the world's wicked: 
We are men, not i^aints, sweet lady ; you must 

practice 
The manners of the tirae^ if you intend 
To have favour from it : do not deceive yourself 
By building too much on the false foundations 



THE tlNNAWiiAL CbMAt. 129 

» ■ - _ 

OF chastity and virtue. Bid your waiters 
Stand further off, and I'll come nearer to you. 

1 Worn. Some wicked counsel, on my life. 

2 Worn. sNe'er doubt it/ 
If it proceed from him. 

Page. I wonder that 
My lord so much affects him. 

Ush. Thou'rt a child/ 
And dost not understand on what strong basis 
This friendship's raised ^)etween this Montreville 
And ourlord,monsieur Malefort, but I'll teach thee: 
From thy years they have been joint purchasers 
In fire and water works, and truck'd together. 

Page. In fire and water works ! 

Ush. Commodities, boy, 
Which you may know hereafter. 

Page. And deal in them, 
When the trade has given you over, as appears by 
The increase of your high forehead.* 

Ush. Here^s a crack ! * 

^ 2 Worn. Ne^er doubt it^ 

If it proceed from him.'] The character of Montreville is Opened 
Witii great beauty and propriety. The freedom of his language, 
and the advice he gives Theocrin^, fully prepare us* for any act 
of treachery or cruelty he may herearfter perpetrate* 

^ \J%)x. ThottWt a cldld, 

And dost not understand &c.] This speech, it is impossible to 
Bay why, has been hitherto printed as prose, though nothing is 
clearer than that the author meant it for verse, into which, in- 
deed, it runs as readily as any other part of the play.. 

* — as appears by 

The increase off/our high forehead.] Alluding, perhaps, to the 
premature b£^ldness occasioned by dealing in the commodities 
just mentioned ; or, it may be, to the falling off of his hair from 
age : so the women to Anacreon, 'F»^oy h a-ev {xsTuirov, 

5 Ush. Kerens a crack!] A. crack is an archj sprightly boy, 

l^'hus, in the Devils an Ass: 

" If we could get a witty boy now, Engine, 

^' That were an excellent cracky I could instruct him 

" To the true height.'^ 

The word occurs again in the Bashful Loxetj and, indeed, in 

most of our old plays. 

VOL. I. R 



190 THi: UNNATURAL CO^IBAT. 

I think they suck this knowledge iu their milk. 
Page. I nad an jgnorfint; nurse else* I have 
tied, sir, 
My lady's garter, and can guc^s— 

Ush. Peace, infant; 
Tales out o' school ! take heed, you will be 
breecli'd else. [Th^Qcrinti r^tif^i: 

1 fVom. My lady's colour change^. 

2 fVom. She falls off too. • 

jHieac. You are a naughty man, indeed ypu are ; 
And I will sooner perish with my father, 
Than at this price redeem hinj. 

Montr. Take your own way, 
Your modest, legal way : 'tis not your veil, 
Nor mourning iiabit, nor these creatures taught 
To howl, and cry,. when you begin to whimper; 
Nor following my lord's coach in the dirt. 
Nor that which you rely upon, a bribe, 
Wiirdo it, when thei'e's something he^ likes better. 
The^e courses in an old crone of threesicore/ 
That had seven years together tired the court* 
With tedious petitions, and clamours, 
For the recovery of a straggling' husband,^ 
To pay, forsooth, the duties of one to her ;-^ 
But for a lady of yaur tempting beauties, 
Your youth, and ravishing features, to hope only 
In such a suit as this is, to gain favour. 
Without exchange of courtesy, — you cpnceive 
me— 

^ These courses in an old crone of threescore ^^ This expression, 
which, as Johnson says, means an old toothkss ewe, is con- 
temptuously u^ed for an old woman, by all the writers of 
Massinger's time. Thus Jonson : 

'' — —— let him alone 

." With temper'd poison to remove the cr&ne.^^ Foetgster, 
And Shakspeare z , , ' 

" — take up th^ bastard ; " 

" Take't up, I say ; glTe't to thy crone.'' Wint€i^s Talc, 

7 For the tyecooery (fa straggling^^M^ftfln^iJ The old copj reAds 
strangling ; corrected by Mr. M. Mason. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 181 



Enter Beavfokt junior, and BkhCA'^jiE. 

Were madness at the height. Here's brave yotm^ 

Beaufprt, 
The meteor of Marseilles/ onB that holds 
The governor his fathered will aftd powef 
Ih more awe than bid own ! Come^ eonie, ad^* 

Vance, 
Present your bag, cramm'd with Growns of the 

sun ;' 
Do you think he owes foif fti^Aey ? he lo^e* plea- 
sure. 
Burn your petition, burn it j he doats 6n f6vLy 
Upon my knowledge : to his cabiiiet, do, 
And he will point you out a certain course, 
Be the cause right or wrotrg, to have your father 
Released with much facility. [Edit 

Thede. Do, you hear? 
Take a pandar with you. 

Beauf.jun. I tell thee there li neithei^ 
Employment yet, nor^money. 

Belg. I have comtnanded, 
And spent my own means in my cottfitryVservic^ 
In hope to raise a fortune. 

Beauf.jun. Many have hoped so; 
But hopes prove s^ld^m certainties with soldietil. 

Belg, If no preferment, let me but receive 
My pay that is behind to set me up 
A tavern, or a vaulting house ; while men love 

* The meteor 9/ Marseilles,] It may be proper to obserre 
here, once for all, that Marseilles, or, as Massinger spells it, 
Bfarsellis, is COBstantly used bjyr him as a trisyllable, which, in 
feet, it is. 

9 crowns of the sun ;] Esctts de soleit^ the best kind 

of crowns^ 8ay» Cotgranre, that are now Bdade ; they hare a kind 
of little star (sun) on one side. This coin is frequently men* 
tioned by our old writers. 

■ K2 . 



132 TH]^ UNNATUEALTCOMBAT. 

Or drunkenness, or lechery, they'll ne'er fail me: 
ShaUL have that ? 

Beauf.jun. As our prizes are brought in ; 
TilLtheu.you must be patient. 

Belg. In the mean time, 
How shall I do for clothes ? 

Beauf.jun. As most captains do : 
Pliilosopher-like, carry all you have about you/ 

Belg. But how shall I do, to satisfy colon/ 
monsieur? ^ 
There lies the doubt. 

jBcaw/l JMW. That's easily decided ; 
My father's table's free for any man 
That hath born arms. 

Belg. And there's good store of meat ? 

Beauf.jun. Never fear that. 

Belg. I'll seek no other ordinary then. 
But be his daily guest without invitement ; 
And if my stomach hold, I'll feed so heartily, 
As he shall pay me suddenly, to be quit of me. 

Beauf. jun. 'Tis she: 

Belg. And further 

Beauf. jun. Away, you are troublesome ; 
Designs of more weight 

Belg. Ha 1 fair Theocrine. 
Nay, if a velvet petticoat move in the front, 
.Buff jerkins must to the rear; I know my 

manners : 
This is, indeed^ great business, mine a gewgaw. 

* Philosopker-likef carry all you have about yoa.] Alluding ta 
the well-known saying of Simonidcs. • 

» p- to satisfy colon, monsieur ?] i. e. the cravings of 

hunger : the colon is the largest of the human intestines : it fre- 
quently occurs in the same sense as here, in our old poets, ^o 
in the Wits : 

'^ Abstain from flesh —whilst colon keeps more noise 

'^ Than mariners at plays, or apple- wiyes, 

^^ That wrangle for a sieyeil' 



THE UNNATURAL combat: 133 

I may dance attendance, this must be dispatch'd, 

And suddenly, or all will go to wreck ; 

Charge her home in the flank, my lord : nay^ I 

am gone, sir. [JEj^U. 

Beauf.jun. Nay, pray you, madam, rise, or I'll 

kneel with you. 
Page. 1 would bring you on your knees, were 

la woman. 
Beauf.jun. What is it can deserve so poor a 

name, 
As a suit to me ? This more than mortal form 
Was fashion'd to command, and not entreat : 
Your will but known is served. 

Theoc. Great sir, my father. 
My brave, deserving father ; — but that sorrow 

Forbids the use of speech ' 

Beatif.jun. I understand you. 
Without the aids of those interpreters 
That fall from your fair eyes : I know you labour 
The liberty of your father ; at the least, 
An equal^ hearing to acquit himself : 
And, 'tis not to endear my service to you. 
Though I must add, and pray you with patience 

hear it, 
*TLs hard to be effected, in respect 
The state's incensed against him : all presuming, 
The. world of outrages his impious son, 
Turn'd worse than pirate in his cruelties, 
Express'd to this poor country, could not be 
With such ease put in execution, if 
Your father, of late our great admiral. 
Held not or correspondence, or connived 
At, his proceedings. 

. f,An equal hearing^ A. just, impartial hearing; so equal is 
constantly used by Massinger and his contemporaries: thus 
Fletcher : 

'' What coi;ld this thief, hare done, had his cause been equal f 
" He made my heartstrings tremble." Knight of Malta. 



154 THE UNNATUEAL COMBAT. 

77ie0c. And must he then suffer, 
His cause unheard ? 

Beauf.jun. As yet it is resolved so, 
In their determination. But suppose 
(For I u'ould nourish hope, not kill it, in you) 
I should divert the torrent of their purpose. 
And render them, that are implacable, 
Impartial judges', and not sway 'd with' spleen; 
Will you, I dare not' say in recompense, 
For that includes a debt you cannot owe mc, 
But in your liberal bounty, in my suit 
To you, be gracious ? 

Theoc. You entreat of me, sir. 
What I should offer to you, with confession 
That you much undervalue your own worth, 
Should you receive me, since there come with you 
Not lustful fires, but fair and lawful flames* 
But I must be excused, \h now no time 
For me to think of Hymeneal joys. 
Catilie (and pray you, sir, consider it) 
That gave me life, and faculties to love. 
Be, as he's now, r^ady to be devoured 
By ravenous Avolyes, and at that instant, I 
But entertain a thought of those delights, 
In which, perhaps, my ardour meets with yours! 
Duty and piety forbid it, sir. 

Beauf.jun. Butthis effected, and your father free^ 
What is your answer? 

Theoe. Every minute to me 
Will be a tedious- age, till our emhraces 
Are warrantable to the world. 

Beauf. Jun. I urge no more ; \ 
Confirm it with a kiss. 

Theoc. I doubly seal it 

Ush. This would do better ab^d, the business 

ended : — 
They are the loving'st couple } -^ 



THE UNNATUilAL COMBAT. 13^ 



JEnter He Av TORT senior, Mont AiGHJBj Chamoni, 

and LAinov^. 

Beauf.jun. Here comes tnj father, 
With the Coiiticil of War: deliver your peti- 
tion, 
And leave the rest to me. [Theoc. offets a paper. 

jBeatif. sen. I am sorry, lady, 
Your father's guilt compels your innocence 
To ask what I in justice must deny. 

Beaiff.jun. For my sake, sir, pray you receive 

and read it. 
Beauf. sen. Thou foolidh boy ! I can deny thee 
nothing. J 

Beauf.jun. Thus far we are happy, madam.: 
quit the place ; 
You shall hear now we succeed. 
Theoe. Goodness reward you ! 

[Exeunt Theocriney Ushery ^age, and Women*, 
Mmtt. It It apparent ; and we stay too long 
To cenrarc Maiefort* as he deserves. 

\They take their staU. 
Cham. There is no colour of reason that makes 
for him: 
Had he discharge^d the trust committed to him, 
With that experience and fidelity 
He practised heretofore, it could not be 
Our navy should be block'd up, and, in our 

sigK 
QhM goods made prize, our sailors sold for 

slaves, 

By his prodigious issue.* 

^ T9 cwsure MilefoFt^c«3 Maiefort h here, a&d i|ir<diighout 
ifae plaj, properly used as a trisyllable. 

f B^ Aif piOdifiei»i^MMie«] i» e* umaititral kerrH>Ie,porteiitckii 



m THE UNNATURAL COMBATi 

Lan. I much grieve, 
After so many brave and high achievements; 
tie should in one ill forfeit all the good 
He ever did his country. 

Beduf.sen. Well, 'tis granted/ 

JBeauf.jun. I humbly thank you, sir. 

Beauf. sen. He shall have hearing, 
His irons too struck off; bring him before us, 
Biit seek no further favour. 

B^atif.jun. Sir, I dare not. {Ej:it. 

Beauf. sen. Monsieur Chamont, Montaigne, 
Lanour, assistants, 
By a commission from the most Christian king, 
In punishing or freeing Malcfort, 
Our late great admiral : though I know you need 

, . JiQt 
Instructions from me, how to dispose of 

Yourselves in this maxVs trial, that exacts 

Your clearest judgments, give me leave, with 

favour, , 

To offer my opinion. We are to hear him, ; 

A little loojcing back 9n his fair actions. 

Loyal, and true demeanour ; not as now 

By the general voice ah'eady he's condemn'd. 

But if we find, as most believe, he hath held 

Intelligence with his accursed son, 

' ' ■ * \ 

'of evil; in thb sense it is often applied to comets, and other 

extraordinary appearances in the sky: 

" Behold yon comet shews his head again! 
" Twice hath he thus at cross turns thrawn on us 
;^^. i^forf?^i<>w« looW' , The Honest fVhorp^ 

Again :^ 

.^ . ." This woman's threats, her eyes e'en red with fury, 
" Which^ like prorf/g^ipM* meteors, foretold 
'' Assured destruction, are still before me." The Captain. 

* Bi^uf. sen. fVelly'tis granted.^ It appears, from the subse- 
quent speeches, that young Beaufort had b^en soliciting his 
father to allow Malefort to plead without hi^ cfiaina. . 



THE iJNmTimA:L combat: isr 

Fallen off from all allegiance, and turn'd 

(But for what cause we know not) the most' 

bloody 
And fatal enemy this country ever 

Repented to have brought forth ; all compasston' 

* * .# *_ * # # *. ._ « 

Of what he was, or iriay be, if now pardon'd ; 
We sit engaged to censure him with all 
Extremity and rigour. 

Cham. Your lordship shews us 
A path which we will tread in. 

Lan. He that leaves • 

To follow, as you lead, will loije himself. ' 

Mont. I'll not be singular. 

He-enter 'Ri£.a\5 v 6 vlt junior j with Montreville^ 

Malefort senior^ Belgarde, and Officers. 

>. 

Beauf. sen. He comes, but with , 
A strange distracted look. 

7 __ all compassion 

^p ^r ^r ^p ^p ^p ^p ^p 1ft 

Of what &c.] The quarto readaj, 

— all coinpassion 

Of what he was^ or mayhe^ if now pardon\d ; 
' Upon M^hich Mr. M. Mason observes, " This sentence ^ ij 
stands is not sense ; if the words all compassion are right, we 
must necessarily suppose that being laid aside^ or words of a 
similar import, have been omitted in the printing : but the most 
natural manner of amending^ the passage, is by reading no ccm^- 
passion^ the word having being understood." 

I can neitherreconcilemyself to wo compassion of what he may he^ 
nor to all. Her might, if acquitted, be a successful commander, 
as before, and to such a circumstance Beaufort evidently alludes. 
I believe that a line is lost, and with due hesita^tion WQal4 
propose to supply the chasm somewhat in this way : 

— ^ — . — ' all compassion 

• Of his years pas^d over, all consideration 

' " ■: Of what he waSf or may be^ if now pardoned; 
Wesitf Sec. 



X98 THE UNNATtJRAL COMBAT. 

Malef. sen. Live I once more* ' 

To tee these handis and arms free I these, that 

often, 
In the most dreadful horror of a fight, 
Have been as seamarks to teach such as were 
Seconds in my attempts, to steer between 
The rocks of too much darmg, and pale fear, 
To reach the port of victory ! when my sword, 
Advanced thus, to my enemies app^r'd 
A hairy comet, threatening death and ruin' 
To such as durst behold it ! These the legs. 
That, when our ships were grappled, carried 

me 
With such swift motion from deck to deck, 
As they that saw it, with amazement cried, 
He does not run^ but flies ! 

Mont. He still retains 
The greatness of his spirit. 

Malef. sen. Now crarapt with irons, 
Hunger, and cold, they hardly do support me— 
But I forget myself. O, my good lords. 



'Malf. sen. lAve I once more &c.] There is something yerj 
striking in the indignant burst of saTage ostentation with which 
this old warriour introdtices himself on tiie scene. 

5 A hairy comtt^ &c.] So in Fuimus Troes: 

u eomets shook their Jlammg hair i 

'^ Thus all our wars were acted first oh Ugh^ 
^' And we taught what to look for." 
From tiiis, and the passage ia the ie^ty MiUo% who appears, bj 
Tarious marks of imitation, to have been a careftil reader of 
Massbger, probably formed the mdgaificent and awful picturt 
which foUows: 

« ' ■ ■ ■ Oft the other sidcy 

^^ Incensed with indignatiooy Satan stood 
^^ Unterrified,' and like a comet ^rim'(/, 
^^ That fires tiie length of Ophuicus huge 
^' In the arctic sky, and from hi^ horrid 
^^ Shakes pestilence and war."- 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 139 ^ 

That sit there as my judges, to determine*' 
The life and death of Malefbrt, where are How 
Those shouts, those cheerful looks, those loud , 

applauses, 
With which, when I returned loaden with spoil, 
You entertain'd your admiral? all's forgotten: 
And I stand here to give account for that 
Of which I am as free and innocent 
As he that never saw the eyes of him,* 
For whom I stand suspected. 

Beauf. sen. Monsieur Malefort, 
Let not your passion so far transport you, 
As to believe from any private malice, 
Or envy to your person, you are question'd : 
Nor do the suppositions want weight. 
That do invite us to a strong assuranciS, 
Your son 

Maltf. sen. My shame J 

Beauf. sen Pray you, hear with patience, — 
never 
Without assistance or sure aids from you. 
Could, with the pirates of Argiers* and Tunis, 
Even those that you had almost twice defeated, 
Acquire such credit, as with them to be 
Made absolute commander (pray you observe 

I f there had not some contract pass'd between you, 
That, when occasion served, you would join with 

them. 
To the ruin of Marseilles ? 

' That iit there a$mjjudgfii^ to determine^'] Mify wkiekcoin. 
pletes the metrt , is now fii:8t inserted from ^q old copy. 

^ The eyes of hm] So the old copy : the modern editors 
read eye ! , 

^ Could with the pirates of Aifgiers] Argiers is the old read- 
faig, and is that of eyery author af MassingeFs time. The 
eiUtors inyariably modernize it into Algiers. 



14<J THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 

J/o«t More, what urged 
Your son to turn apostata ?* 

Cham. Had he from 
The state, or governor, the least neglect 
Which envy could interpret for a wrong? 

Lan. Or, if you slept not in your charge, how 
could 
So many ships as do infest our coast, 
And have in our own harbour shut our navy. 
Come in unfought with? n 

Beauf.jun. They put him hardly to it. 

Malef. sen. My lords, with as much brevity as 
I can, 
I'll answer each particular objection 
With which you charge me. The main ground, 

' on which 
You raise the building of your accusation, 
Hath reference to my son : should I now curse 

him, 
Or wish, in the agony of my troubled soul. 
Lightning had found him in his mother's womb. 
You'll say 'tis from the purpose ; and I therefore 
Betake him to the devil, and so leave him. 
l)id never loyal father but myself 
Beget a treacherous issue ? was't in me 
With as much ease to fashion up his mind, 
As in his generation to form 
The organs to his body ? Must it follow. 

Because that he is impious, I am false ? 

I would not boast my actions, yet 'tis lawful 
To upbraid my benefits to unthankful n\en. 
Who sunk the Turkish gallies in the streiglits, 
But Malefort ? Who rescued the French mer- 
chants, 

* Your son to turn apostata] The modern editors, as before, 
^ TeB.d apostate I 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 14t 

When they were boarded, and stow'd under 

hatches 
By the pirates of Argiers, when every minutei 
They did expect to be chain'd to the oar, 
But your now doubted admiral ? then you fiU'd 
The air with shouts of joy, and did proclaim, 
When hope had left them, and grim-look'd 

despair 
Hover'd with sail-stretch'd wings over their 

heads,* 
To me, as to the Neptune of the sea. 
They owed the restitution of their goods, ^ 
Th^ir lives, their liberties. O, can it then 
Be probable, my lords, that he that never 
Became the master of a pirate's ship. 
But at the mainyard hung the captain lip. 
And caused the rest to be thrown over-board:' 
Should, after all these proofs of deadly hate. 
So oft express'd against them, entertain 
A thought of quarter with them ; but much les6 
(To the perpetual ruin of my glories) 
To join with them to lift a wicked arm 
Against my mother-country, this Marseilles, 
Which, with my prodigal expense of bloody 
I have so oft protected ! 

Beauf. sen. What you have done 
Is granted and applauded ; but yet know 

5 Horoer'd . with sail-stretch'd wings over their hads^^ Si> 
Jonson : 

« — o'er our heads 

'^ Black ravenous ruin, with her sail'StretcKdwifigs^ 

^' Ready to sink us down, and cover us." 

Every Manoutofhk Humour » 
And Fletcher : 

'^ Fix here and rest awhile your saU-stretcKd wings 

" That have outstript the winds." The Prophetess. 

Milton, too, has the same bold expression : the original to which 
they are all indebted, is a sublime passage in th^ Fairy Queen^ 
B. I. c. xi, St 10. 



143 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Thi« glorious relation* of your actions 
Must not so blind our judgments, as to suffer 
This most unnatural crime you stand accused of, 
Topass 4inqucstion'd. 

(jham. No ; you must produce 
Reasons of more validity and weight. 
To plead in your defence, or we shall hardly 
Conclude you innocefit. 

Mom: The large volume of 
Your former worthy deeds, with your experience, 
Both what, and when to do, but makes against you, 

Lan. For had your care and courage been the 
same ' 

As heretofore, the dangers we are plunged in 
Had been with ease prevented. 

Malef. sen. What have I 
Omitted, in the power of flesh and blood. 
Even in the birth to strangle the designs of 
This helUbred wolf, my son ? alas ! my lords, 
I am no god, nor like him could foresee 
His cruel thoughts, and cursed purposes ; 
Nor would the sun at my command forbcur 
To make his progress to the other world, 
Affording to us one continued light/ 
Nor could my breath disperse those foggy mist% 
Cover'd with which, and darkness of the night. 
Their navy undiseernVl, without resistance. 
Beset our harbour : make not that my fault. 
Which you in justice must ascribe to fortune. — 
But if that nor my former acts, nor what 
I have deliver'd, can prevail with you, 
Jo make good my integrity and truth ; 
Rip up this bosom, and pluck out the heart 
That hath been ever loyal [A trumpet mithin. 

® T-^zV glorious relation^'] Our old writers fFequeatly use. this 
word in the sense of gloriosus^ vain, boastful, osteatatious. 



THE UNNATURAL COMB Air. l*8 

Beauf. sen. How ! a trumpet ! 
Enquire the cause. [Exit Menlreoille. 

Malef. s^n. Thou searcher of men's hearts, ^ 
And sure defender of the innocent, 
(My other crying sins — awhile not look'd on) 
If I in this am guilty, strike me dead, 
Or by some unexpected means confirm^ 
I am accused unjustly ! 

Re-enter Mo^treville with a Sea Captain. 

Beauf. sen. Speak, the motives 
That bring thee hither ? 

Capt. From our admiral thus : 
He does salute you fairly, and desires 
It may be understood no publick hate 
Hath brought him to Marseilles ; nor seeks btf 
The ruin of his country,, but aims only 
To wreak a private Mnrong : and if from yott 
He may have leave' and liberty to decide it 
In single combat, he'll give up good pledges, 
If he fall in the trial of his right. 
We shall weigh anchor, and no mo^e molest 
This town with hostile arms. 

Beauf. sen. Speak to the mati. 
If in this presence h^e appear to you^ 
To whom you bring this challen^ 

Capt. 'Tis to you- * 

Beauf sem HIh father! 

M<mtr. Pwikitbe? 

Beauf. jun. Strange and prodigious ! 

Malef. se^ . 'thou seest I stand unmoved ; were 
- tj3y;T<oice thunder, 
It should tto t shake mt ; say, what would the viper ? 



mdiffrom ym 



tie may have leave &c. J This passage i& rery lACOcrectly 
points iu ^ former editions. ' 



U4 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT 

Capt. The reverence a father's name liiay 
challenge, 
And duty of^ son no more remember'd, 
He does defy thee to the death. 

Malef. sen. Go on. 

Capt. And with his sword will prove it on thy 
hjead, 
Thon art a murderer, an atheist ; 
And that all attributes of men turn'^ furies 
Cannot express thee : this he will make goody 
If thou dar'st give him meeting. 

Malef. sen. Dare I live ! 
Dare 1, when mountains of my sins overwhelm 

me, 
At my last gasp ask for mercy ! How I bless 
Thy coming, captain ; never man to me 
Arrived so opportunely ; and thy message, 
However it may seem to threaten death, 
Does yield to me a second life in curing 
My wounded honour. Stand I yet suspected 
As a confederate with this enemy, 
Whom of all men, against all ties of nature, 
He marks out for destruction ! you are just, 
Immortal Powers, and in this merciful ; 
And it ta^es from my sorrow, and my shame 
For being the father to so bad a son, 
In that you are pleased to offer up the monsfer 
To my correction. Blush and repent, 
As you are bound, my honourable lords. 
Your ill opinions of me. Not great Brutus, 
The father of the Roman liberty, 
With more assured constancy beheld 
His traitor sons, for labouring to call hume. 
The banish 'd Tarquins, scourged with tods to 

death. 
Than I will shew, Avhen I take back the life 
This prodigy- of mankind received from me. 



' — ^ 

Beauf. sen. We are sorry, monsieur Malefort^ 
for our errour, , » ^ 

And are much taken with your resolution ; ."^ 
But the disparity of years and strength, ^ ' 

Between you and your son, duly gonsider'd, 
We would not so expose you. 

Malef. sen. Then you kill me> 
Under pretence to save me. O my lords, 
As you love horipur, and a wrong'd man's 

fame, 
Deny me not^his fair and noble means 
To make me right again to all the world. 
Should any other but myself be chosen '- 

To punish this apostata with death,* 
You rob a wretcned father of a justice 
That to all after times will be recotded. 
I wish his strength were centuple, his skill 

equal 
To my experietice, that in his fall 
H6 may not shame nty victory \ I feel 
The powers and spirits of twenty strong men ia 

me. * ' 

Were he with wild fire circled, I undaunted 
Would make way to him.— As you do affect, 

•Sir, ^ , ^ 

My daughter Theodrine ;* as you are 



w « < 



• To jtmwpAtiJS'ipostata a;fVA Jea^.] Both the editors read, ^ 
To punish ^^ d^^tff^^^An tipith death! Here isT the mischief of 
altering:q!ll2|jitib0^i^t^9g.iiage. When the metre does not suit our • 
newfangled terms, w^'^r.e ^obliged to insert words of our own, 
to complete it.j Aiostata stood in the Terse very well ; feut - 
Coxeter and |i^.^M[a^on having determined' to writ^ apostate^ 
found^lffe^kvtBil^'bdmp^lkd to tick son to it, and thus enfeebled : 
^he }irigiDal^^](pres^9^ •! :'0 

"9 My daughter Theocrine ;]' Theocrine is constantly used as a 
quadri^i|abte. I^^uld be observed that as the story knd the 
names, are. ^rench, Massinger adopts the French mode bi 
enouncing tnem. The reader must bear this in mind. } 

VOL. I. L , /■ 



146 THE UNNATURAl, COMBAT. 

My true and ancient friend ; as thou art valiant;* 
And as all love a soldier, second me 

\They all sue to the governor. 
In this my just petition. In your looks 
I see a grant, my lord. 

^Beauf. sen. You shall o'erbear me ; 
And since you are so confident in your cause, 
Prepare you for the combat. 

Malef. sen. With more joy 
Than yet I ever tasted : by the next sun, 
The disobedient rebel shall hear from me. 
And so return in safety. \To the Captain.] My 

good lords, 
To all my service. — ^I will die, or purchase 
Rest to Marseilles ;^ nor can I make doubt, 
But his impiety is a potent charm, 
To edge my sword, and add strei^gth to my arm. 

[Ea^eunt. 



ACT 11. SCENE I. 

An open Space without the City. 

Enter three Sea Captains. 

2 Capt. He did accept the challenge, then ? 

1 Capt. Nay more, 
Was overjoy'd in't ; and^ as it had been 
A fair invitement to a solemn feast. 
And not a combat to conclude with death. 
He cheerfully embraced it. 

' ' as thou art valiant ;] This is said to the captain 

"V^ho brought the challenge : the other persons adjured are young 
Beaufort, and Montreville. It appears, from the pointing of th« 
former editions^ that the passage was not understood. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 147 

3 Capt. Are the articles 
Sign 'd to on both parts ? 

1 Capt. At the father's suit, 
With much unwillingness the governor 
Consented to them. 

9* Capt. You are inward with 
Our admiral ; could you yet ne vet: learn 
What the nature of the quarrel is, that retxders 
The son more than incensed, implacable, ^ 
Against the father ? ' 

1 Capt. Never ; yet I have, 
As far as manners would give warrant to it, 
With my best curiousness of care observed him. 
I have sat with him in his cabin a day together,' 
Yet not a syllable exchanged between us. 
Sigh he did often, as if inward grief 
And pielancholy at that instant would 
Choke up his vital spiqts, and now and then 
A tear or two, as in derision of 
The toughness of his rugged temper, would 
Fall onliis hollow cheeks^ which but once felt, 
A sudden flash of fury did dry up ; 
And laying then his hand upon his sword. 
He would murmur, but yet so as I oft heard him, 
We shall meet, cruel father, yes, we shall; 
When I'll exact, for every womanish drop 
Of sorrow from these eyes, a strict accompt 
Of much more from thy heart. 

9^ Capt. 'Tis wondrous strange. 

3 Capt. And past my apprehension. 

1 Capt. Yet what makes 
The miracle greater, when from the maintop 
A sail's descried, all thoughts that do concern 
Himself laid by, no lion, pinch'd with hunger, 

^ I have sat with him in his cabin &c.l This beautiful passage, 
expressing concealed resentment, dejserves to be remarked by 
ewerj' reader of taste and judgment. Coxetkb* 

L2 



148 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Rouses himself morefiercely from his den, 
Than he comes on the deck ; and there hoy wisely 
He gives directions, and how stout he is 
In his executions, we, to admiration, 
Have been eyewitnesses : yet he never minds 
The booty when 'tis made ours ; but as if 
The danger, in the purchase of the prey, , 
Delighted him mutn more than the reward, 
His will made known, he does retire himself 
To his private contemplation, no joy 
Expressed by him for victory. 

Enter MaIuEfort junior. 

2 Capt. Here he comes, 
But with more cheerful looks than ever yet 
I saw him wear, 

Malef.Jun. It was long since resolved on. 
Nor must I stagger now [in't/] May the cause. 
That forced me>to this unnatural act, . 
Be buried in everlasting silence, 
And I find rest in death, or my revenge I 
To either I stand equal- Pray you, gentlemen. 
Be charitable in your censures of me. 
And do not entertain a; false belief 
That I am mad, for undertaking that 
^Which must be, when effected, still repented. 
It adds to my calamity, that I have 
Discourse"* and reason, and but too well know 

5 Nor must I stagger now [in't].} In the old copy, a syllable 
has dropt oat, which renders the line quite unmetrical. I have 
no great confidence in the genuineness of what I have inserted 
between brackets : it is harinless, however, and serves, as Fal- 
staff says, to fill a pit as. well as a better. 

* It adds to my calamity ^ that I have ^ 

Discourse and reason^'] It is very difficult to determine the 
precise meaniiig which our ancestors gave to discourse i or to 



THE UNNATURAL (COMBAT. U9 

I can nor live, nor end a wretchecj life, 

iut both ways I am impious. Do not, therefore,' 

Ascribe the perturbation of my soul 

To a servile fear of death : I oft have view'd 

All kinds of his inevitable darts, 

Nor are they terrible. Were I conden>n'd to leap 

From the cloud^cover'd brows of a steep rock, 

Into the deep; or,'Curtius like, to fill up, 

For my country 's safety, and an after-name, 

A bottomless abyss, or charge through fire, 

It could/ not so much shake me, as ih' encounter 

Of this day's siiigle enemy. 



distinguisli the line which separated it from reason. I^erhaps, it 
indicated a more rapid deduction of consequences from premises, 
than was supposed to be effected by reason :— -but I speak with 
hesitation. The acute Glanville says, " The act of the mind 
which connects propositions, and deduceth conclusions from 
them, the schools call discourse^ and we shall not miscall it, if 
.we^ame it reqsonJ*^ Whateyer be the sense, it frequently ap- 
pears in our old writers, by whom it is usually coupled with 
rettson or judg^hentj^ which last shoiild seem to^be the more proper 
word. Thus in the City Madam : 

:-^ "Such as want 

^' Discourse ajii judgment^ and through weakness fall, 

'' May merit men's compassion." 
Again, in the Coxcomb : 

*' Why should ^ man that has disomtrse and reason^ 

^' And knows how^ near he loses all in these things, 

'^ Covet to have his wishes satisfied ?'* 
The reader remembers the exclamation of Haifilet, 

" Oh heaven ! a beast that wants discourse of reason,'* &c, ' 
*^ This," says WarJjurton, who contrived to blunder with more 
ingenuity than usually falls to the lot of a commentator, ^^ is 
iinely expressed, aud with a philosophical exactness! Beasts' 
want not reason^^ (this is a new discovery,) " but the discourse of 
reason : i. e. the regular inferring one thing from another by^ the 
assistance of universals!' ! Discourse of reason is so .poor and 
perplexed a phrase, that, without regard for the '^philosophical 
exactness" of Shakspeare, I should dismiss it at once, for what 
J believe to be his genuine language : n/ 

" beave^ ! ^ beast that wants discourse and reason," S^q^ 



150 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

1 Capt. If you please, sir, 
You may shun it, or defer it. ' ^ 

Malef.jun. Not for the world : 
Yet two things I entreat you ; the first is. 
You'll not enquire the difference between 
Myself and him, which as a father onqe 
I honour'd, now my deadliest enemy ; 
The last is, if I fall, to bear my body 
Far from this place, and where you please in- 
ter it. — I 
V I should say more, but by his sudden coming 
I am cut off. 

I 

JEiTiter B^Av TORT junior and Montreville, /e^zrf- 
ing in MAiaT,TOfiT senior ; Belgardv. Jbllozvingf 
with others. 

\ Beauf.juri' Let me, sir, have the honour 
To be your second. 

Montr. With your pardon, sir, 
I must put in for that, since our tried friendship 
Hath lasted from our infancy. 

Belg. I have served 
Under your command, and you have seen me 

fight, ' 

And handsomely, though I say it ; and if now,* 
At this downright game, I may but hold your 

cards, ' 
I'll not pull down the side. 



and if now. 



At this dovmrigjit game, I may hut hold your cardsy 
Til not pull down the side.]/ i. e. I'll not injure your cause : 
the same expressioil occurs in the Grand Duke of Florence: 
'' Caz. Pray you pause a little. 
, ^^ If I hold your cards', I shall pull down the side, 
' ^' I am not good at the game." , 

The allusion is to a party at cards : to set up a side^ was to become 
partners in a g^tm^y {o puU or pluck down a ^de (for l^oth 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 151 

Makf. sen. I rest much bound ■ - \ ' 

*To your so noble offers, and I hope 
Shall find your pardon, though I now refuse them ; 
For which I'll yield strong reasons, but as briefly 
As the time will give me leave. For me to bori:o)v 
(That am supposied the weaker) any aid 
From the assistance of my second's sword, 
Might write me down in the black list of those 
That have nor fire nor spirit of their own ; 
But darei, and do, as they derive their courage 
From his example, on whose help and valour 
They wholly do depend. Let this suffice 
In my excuse for that. Now, if you please, 
On both parts, to retire to yonder moiint, 
Where you, as in a Roman theatre. 
May see tbe bloody diff*erence determined, 
Your favours meet my wishes. 

Malefjjun. 'Tis approved of * 

By me ; and I command you [7b his Captains.'] lead 

the way, 
And leave me to my fortune. 

Beauf.jun. I would gladly 
Be a spectator (since I am denied 
To be an actor) of ^ach blow and thrust, 
And punctually observe them. 

Malef.jun. You shall have 
All you desire ; for in a word or two 
I must make bold to entertain the time. 
If he gjv^ suffrage to it. 

Malef. sen. Yes, I will ; 
I'll hear thee, and then kill thee : nay, fare wclU 

these terms are found in our old plays) was to oceasion its loss, 
"by ignorance qr treachery. Thus, in the Fatsons Wedding : 
" Pteas. A traitor ! bind him^ he has pull* ddown a side J* 
And in the Maid^s Tragedif : 

" Evad. Aspat'ia, take her part. 
^' ^Dela. I will refuse it, 
'' She ^ill pluck down a side^ she does not use it." / 



152 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT: 

Malef.jun. Embrace with, love on both aides, 

% , and with us 
Leave deadly hate and fury. 

Malef. sen. From this place 
You ne'er shall see both living, 

Bttg. What's past help, is 
Beyond prevention. 

\Thty embrace on both sides, and take ieace 
severalty of the J'ather and son. 

Malef. sen. Now we are alone, sir ; 
And thou hast liberty to unload the burthen 
Which thou groan'st under. Speak thy griefs, 

Malef. jun. I shall, sir ; . . ' 

But in a perplex'd form and method, which 
You only can interpret : Would you had not 
A guilty knowledge in your bosom, of 
The language which you force me to deliver, 
So I were nothing ! As you are my father, 
I bend my knee,, and, uncompell'd, profess 
My life, and all that's mine, to be your gift; 
And that in a son's duty I stand bound 
To lay this head beneath your feet, and run 
AH desperate hazards for your ease and safety ; 
But this confest on my part, I rise up, 
And not as with a father, (all respect. 
Love, fear, and reverence cast off,) but as 
A wicked man, I thus expostulate with you. 
Why have you done that which I dare not speaks 
And in the action changed the humble shape 
Of my obedience, to rebellious rage, 
And insolent pride ? and with shut eyes con- 

strain'd me 
To run my bark of honour on a shelf 
I must not see, nor, if I saw it, shun it ? 
In my wrongs nature suffers, and looks backward, 
And mankind trembles to see m§ pursue 
What beasts >v^ould fly from, Fpr when I advance 



-THE UNfTATURAL COMBAT. 153 

This sword,- as I must do, against your head, 
Piety will weep, and filial duty mourn, 
To see their altars which you built up in me, 
In a moment razed and'ruin'd. *That you could 
{From my grieved soul I wish it) but produce, 
To qualify, not excuse, your deed of horror, ^ 
One seeming reason, that I might fix here, 
And move no further ! 

Makf. sen. Have I so far lost 
A father's power, that I must give acGOi^nt 
Df my/actions to.my son? or must I plead 
As a fearful prisoner at the bar, Avhile he 
That owes his being to me sits a judge 
To censure that, which only by myself 
Ought to be questibn'di^ mountains sooner fall 
Beneath their valleys, and the lofty pine 
Pay homage to the bramble, or what else is 
preposterous in nature, ere my tongue 
In one short syllable yields satisfaction 
To any doubt of thine; nay, though it were 
. A certainty disdaining argument ! 
Since, though my deeds wore hell's black livery, 
To thee they should appear triumphal robes, 
Set off with glorious honour, thou being bound 
To see Avith my eyes, and to hold that reason, 
That takes or birth or fashion from my wilL 

Male/, jun. This sword divides that i^lavish 
knot. 

Mahf. sen. It cannot : 
It cannot, wretch; and if thon but remember 
^rom whom thou hadst this ^spirit, thou dar'st not 

hope it, 
M^ho'train'd thee up in arms but I ? Who taught 
thee V 

^ That you could kc.'] that^ ^c. This omission Of the 
«ign of the optatire interjection U common to all our old dra« 
Biatists. . " ' 



154 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Men were men only when they durst look down 

With scorn on death and danger, anU contemn'd 

All opposition, till plunged Vicipry^ 

}Iad made her constant staqd upon their helmets? 

Under my shield thou hast fought as securely 

As the young eaglet, cover'd with the wings 

Of her fierce dam, learns how and where to prey. 

All that is manly in thee, I call mine ; 

But what is weak and womanish, thine own. 

And what I gave, since thou art proud, ungratc- 

Presuming to contend with him, to whom 
Submission is due, I will take from thee. 
Look, therefore, fpr extremities, and expect not 
I will correct thee ^s a son, but kill thee 
As a serpent swollen, with poison ; who surviving 
A little longer, w^ith infectious breath. 
Would render all things near him, like itself, 
Contagious. Nay, now my anger's up, 
Ten thousand virgins kneeling at my feet, 
Ahd with one general cry howling fpr mercy, 
Shall not redeem, thee. 

Malcf.jun, Thou incensed Power, - 
Awhile forbear thy thunder ! let me have 
No aid in my revenge, if from the grave 
My mother 

Matef. sen. Thou shalt never name her more. 

/ \TheyJight. 

7 — , — .; tm plufned Victory 

Had made her constant stand upon their helmets ?] This noWe 
image seems to have been copied by Milton^ who describiBg 
Satan, says, « 

" His stature reach'd the sky^ and on his crest 

" Sat Horror pfoiwerf ;**- 

And^ in another place : 

" — \ — at his right hand Vittory 
" Sat eagle-wing* d,*' — — 
The whole speech of Malefort here notiqed is truly sublime, 
and above all commendation. Cosleter. 



' THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 155 



BEAUFGRT/e/m'orjMoNTREVILLEjBELGARDEjtfW^/ 

the three Sea Captaips, appear on the Mo.unt. 

• 

Beauf.jun. They are at it. 

2 Capt. That thrust was put strongly home. 

Montr. But with more strength avoided. 

Belg. Well come in ; 
He haiS dra\?n blood of him yet: well done, old 
cock. 

1 Capt. That was a strange miss. 

Beauf.jun. Tljat a certain hit. 

[Young Malefort is slain. 

Belg. He's fallen, the day is ours ! 

Q Capt. The admiral's slain. 

Montr. The father is victorious ! 

Belg. Let us haste 
To gratulate his conquest 

1 Capt. We to mourn 
The fortune of the son. - 

Beauf. jun. With utmost speed 
Acquaint the governor with the good success, 
That he may entertain, to^ his full merit. 
The father of his^ country's peace and safety. 
, \They retire. 

Malef. sen. Were a new life hid in each ngiangled 
limb, 
I would search, and find it : and howe'er to some 
I may seem cruel thus to tyrannize 
Upon this senseless flesh, I glory in it— 
That I have power to be unnatural. 
Is my security ; die all my fears. 
And waking jealousies, which have so long 
Been my tormentors ! there's now no suspicion : 
A fact, which I alone am conscious of, \ 
Can never be disco ver'd, or the cause 
That call'd this duel on, I being above 



U6 , THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

All perturbations ; nor is it in 

The power of fate, again to make me wretched. 

Re-enter BEAvroRTjunwr^ Montreville, Bel- 
garde, and tke three Sea. Captain's., 

Beauf.jun. All honour to the conqueror! who 
dares tax 
My friend of treachery now ? 

Belg. I am very glad, sir, 
You have sped so well : but I must tdl you thus" 

much, . 

To put you in mind that a low ebb must follow 
Your high-swoU'n tide of happiness, you have 

purchased 
This honour at a high price. 

Malef. 'Tis, B^elgarde, 
Above all estimation, and a little 
To be exalted with it fcannot savour 
Of arrogance. That to this arm and sword 
Marseilles owes the freedom of her fears, 
Or that my loyalty, not long since eclipsed, 
Shines now morie bright than ever, are not things 
.To be lamented : though, indeed, they may 
Appear too dearly bought, my falling glories 

Being made up again, and c6mente4 

With a son's blood. 'Tis true, he wa^ my son, 

While he was worthy ; but vhen he shook off 
His duty to me, (which my fond indulgence. 
Upon submission, might perhaps have pardbn'd,) 
And grew his country's enemy, I look'd on him 
As a stranger to my family, and a. traitor 
Justly proscribed, and he to be rewarded 
That could bring in his head. I know in this 
That I am censtired rugged, and austere^ 
That will vouchsafe not one sad sigh or tear 
Upon his slaughtered body -\ but I rest 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 157 

Well saj:isfied in myself, being assured 
That extraordinary virtues, when they soar ' 
Too high a pitch for common sights to judge ofy 
Losing their proper splendour, are condemn'd ' 
For most remarkable vices." 

' Beatif.jun. 'Tis too true, sir, 
In the opinion of the multitude ; 
But for -myself, that would be held your friend, 
And hope to know you by a nearer name, 
They are as they deserve, receivedf. 

Malef. My daughter 
Shall thank you for the favour. 

Beatif. jun. I can wish ; 

No happiness beyond it. 

1 Cap. Shall we have leave 
To bear the corpse of our dead admiral, 
As he enjoin'd us, from this coast? 

Malef. Provided 
The articles agreed on be observed. 
And you depart hence with it, making oath 
Never hereafter, but as friends, to touch 
Upon this shore. 

1 Capt. We'll faithfully perform it. 

Malef. Then as you please dispose of it : 'tjis 
^n object ^ ^ 
That I could wish removed. His sins die with 

him ! 
So far he has my charity. 

1 CapL He shall have 
A soldier's funeral. 

[The Captains bear the body off, with sad musich 

Malef. Farewell ! 

« 

^ Tor most remarkable v£ce«.] Remarkable had in Massinger's 

/time a more dignified sound, and a more appropriate meaning, 

than it ^ears at present. With him it constantly stands for 

surprising, highly striking, or observable in an uncommon 

degree; of this it will be well to take notice. 



/ I 



Ma THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 

Beauf.jun. These rites ^ 

Paid tq the dead, the conqueror that survives 
Must reap the harvest of his bloody labour. 
Sound all loud instruments of Joy and triumph, 
And with all circumstance ana ceremony, 
Wait on the patron of our liberty, 
Which he at all parts merits. 

Malef. I am honour'd 
Beyond my ho{)es. 

Beauf.jun. Tis short of your deserts. 
Lead on : oh, sir, you must ; you are too modest. 

[Exeunt with laudmusick. 



SCENE IL 

A Room in Malefort's House. 

Enter Theocrine, Page, and Waiting Women. 

Theoc. Talk not of comfort ; I am both ways 
wretched, 
And so distracted tvith my doubts and fears, 
I know not where to fix my hopes. My loss 
Is certain in a fiather, or a brother, 
Or both ; such is the cruelty of my fete, 
And not to be avoided. 

1 Worn. You must bear it, / 
With patience, madam. 

2 Worn. And what's not in you 

To be prevented, should not cause a sorrow 
Which cannot hdp it. 

Page. Fear not my brave lord, 
Your noble father; fighting is to him 
Familiao* as eating. He can teach 
t)ur modern duellists how to cleave a button, 



1 1 



THE, UNNATURAL CbMBAt. 159 

And in a new way, never yet found out 
By old Caranza.' 

1 Worn. May he be victorious, 
And punish disobedience in his son ! 

Whose death, in reason, should at no part move you, 
He being but half your brother, and the nearness 
Which that might challenge from you, forfeited 
. By his impious purpose to kill him, from whom 
lie receiv(?d life. ' [A shout within. 

2 JVom. A general shout ■' 

1 fVom. Of joy. 

Page. Look up, dear lady ; sad news never came 
Usher'd wath loud applause, 

Theoc. I stand prepared 
To endure the shock of it 

Enter Usher. 
Ush. I am out of breath. 



With running to deliver first 

Theoc. What? 

Ush. We are all made. 
Mylovd has won the day; your brother's slain; 
The pirates gone: and by the governor. 
And states, and all the men of war, he is , 
Brought home in triumph : — nay, no musing, pay 

me . 

For my good news hereafter. 

77/£foc. Heaven is just! 

Ush. Give thanks at leisure; make all haste 
to meet him. 
I could wish I were a horse, that I might bear yoa 
To him upon my back. 

Page. Thou ait an ass, 
And this is a sweet burthen. 

Ush. Peace, you crack- rope ! [Exeunt. 

9 5j/ oU Caranza.] See the Guardian^ Vol. IV. p. X75. 
I. 



i60 THE XJNNATURAL COMBAT. 



: SCENE III. 

i 

A Street. 

• / . 

I ■ i ■ 

Loudmusujt. JE^fi/^r MoNTREviLLE, Bexgarbe, 
Beaufort senior^ Beaufort junior ; Male^ 
FOETj^b/foweflf Ay Montaigne, GHAMONT>*<iwrf 
Lanour. 

.■-'■> i '■ 

Beauf. sen. AH honours we can give you/ anfl 
rewards, 
Though all that's rich or precious in Marseilles 
Were laid down at your feet, can hold no weight 
With your deservings: let me glory in 'T 

Your action, as if it were mine own; ; » > • ^ / 
And have the honour, with the arms of love. 
To embrace the^great performer of a deed 
Transcending all this country e'er could boaat pjf, 

Mont. Imagine, noble sir, in what we may 
Express our thankfulness, and rest^ftssured 
Xt shall be freely granted. 

Cham. He's an enemy 
To goodness and to virtue, that dares think 
There's any thing within our po>yer to give,* 
Which you in justice may not boldly challenge. 

Lan. And as your own; for we will ever bis 
At your devotion. ' 

Malef. Much honour 'd sir, 
And you, my noble lords, I can say only, ^ 

The greatness, of your favours ov^erwhelms pie, 

" There s any thing •within our power to give,] The old copy 
iucorrectljr reads, There* s^ any other thing &c. and in the next 
speech, overwhelm for oterwhtlms—ilie last is so common a mode 
of expression, that I should not hay^ corrQf:t«d it, if mks hack 
jiot linmediately followed. 



■/' .'^ 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. l6l 

And like too large a sail, for the small bark 

Of my poor merits, sinks me. That I stand . 

Upright in your opinions, is an honour , 

Exceeding my deserts, I having done 

Nothing but what in duty I stood bound to: 

And to expect a recompense were base^ 

Good deeds being ever in themselves rewarded. 

Yet since your liberal bounties tell me that 

I may, witkyour allowance, be a suitor, 

To you, tny lord, I am an humble one. 

And must ask that, which knowji, I fear you 

will 
Censure me over bold. 

Beauf. sen. It must be something 
Of a strange nature, if it find from me 
Denial or delay. 

Malef. Thus then, my lord, 
Since you encourage me : You are happy in 
A worthy ^son, and all the comfort that 
Fortune has left me, is one daughter; now, 
If it may not appear too much presumption, 
To seek to match my lowness with your height, 
I should desire (and if I may obtain it, 
I write mV ultra to my largest hopes) 
She may in your opinion be thought worthy 
To be received into your family, 
And married to your son ; their yeafs are equal, • 
And their desires, I think, too ; she is not 
Ignoble, nor my state contemptible, 
And if you think me worthy your alliance, 
'Tis all I do aspire to. 

Beauf. jun. You demand 
That which with all the service of my life 
I should have labour'd to obtain from you. 
O sir, why are you slow to meet so fair 
And noble an offer? call France shew a viroin 
That may be parallel'd with her ? is she not 

VOL. I. M . 



164 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

This veil removed, in her own natural pureness. 
How far she will transport you. 
Beatff.jun. Did she need it, 
The praise which you (and well deserved) give 

to her, 
Must of necessity raise new desires 
In one indebted more to years ; to me 
Your words are but as oil pour'd on a fire, 
That flames already at the height. 

Malef. No more ; 
I do believe you, and let me from you 
Find so much credit ; when I make her yours, 
I do possess you of a gift, which I 
With much unwillingness part from. My good 

lords, . 

Forbear your further trouble ; give me leave, 
For on the sudden I am indisposed, 
To retire to my own house, and rest : to morrow, 
As you command me, I will be your guest, 
And having deck'd my daughter like herself, 
You shall have further conference. 

Beauf, sen. You are master 
Of your own will; but fail not, I'll expect you. 
Malef. Nay, I will be excused; I must part 
with you. [To young Beaufort and the rest. 
My dearest Theocrine, give me thy hand, 
^ I will support thee. 

Theoc: I ou gripe it too hard, sir. 
.Ma/e/! Indeed I do^ but have no further end 
in it 
But love and tenderness, such as I may challenge. 
And you must grant. Thou art a sweet one ; yes, 
And to be cherish'd. 

Theoc. May I still deserve it ! 

\E:teunt several ways. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBATi ' m 



ACT III. SCENE L : ! 



I ♦ 



A Banqueting-room in Beaufort's House,; 
Enter Beaufort senior, and ScrvantJ 

Beauf. sen. Have you been careful ? ' ^ 

Serv. With my best endeavours. 
Let them bring stomachs, there's no want of 

meat, sir. 
Portly and curious viands are prepared, ' 
To please all kinds of appetites. ^* 

Beaiif. sen. 'Tis well. 
I love a table furnish'd with full plenty, ■■ ■ 

And store of friends to eat it: but with this 

caution, 
I would not have my house a common inn, 
For some men that come rather to devour me, 
Than to present their service. At this time, too, 
It being a serious and solemn meeting, 
I must not have my board pester'd with shadows,* 
Thatj under other men's protection, break in. 
Without invitement. 

Serv. With your favour, then, 



^ Enter Beaufort senior, and Serrant.] This servant, it after- 
wards appears, is the steward, and so, perhaps, he should have 
been termed in this pl.ace. 

♦ I must not have my board pestered mth shadows, ] It was con- 
sidered, Plutarch says, as a mark of politeness^ to let an invited 
guest know that he was at liberty to bring a friend or two with 
him ; a permission thit was, however, sometimes abused. 
These friends the Romans called skadowsy {umbmi) a term, 
which Massinger has very happily explained. 



166 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

You must double your guard, my lord, for on my 

knowledge, 
There are some so sharp set, not to be kept out 
By a file of musketeers : and 'tis less danger, 
I'll undertake, to stand at push of pike 
With an enemy in a breach, that undermined too. 
And the cannon playing on it, than to stop 
One harpy, your perpetual guest, from entrance, 
When tne dresser, the cook's drum, thunders, 

Come on. 
The service will be lost else ! * 

Beauf. sen. What is he ? 

Serv. As tall a trencherman,* that is most 
certain, 
As e'er demolish'd pye-fortification 
As soon as batter'd ; and if the rim of his belly 
Were not made up of a much tougher stuff 
Than his buff jerkin, there were no defence 

^ tiTAcn the dresser i the cooVs drum^ thunders y Come on^ ' 
The service wUl be lost elsel^ It was formerly customary 
for the cook, when dinner was ready, to knock on the dresser 
with his knife, by wdy of summoning the servants to carry it 
into the hall ; to this there are many allusions. In the Merry 
Beggars y Old Rents says^ '^ Hark! they knock to the dresser** 
Servants were not then allowed, as at present, to frequent the 
kitchen, lest they should interfere with the momentous con- 
cerns of the cook. Mr. Reed says that this practice '' was 
continued in the family of Lord Fairfax'* (and doubtless in that 
of many others) ^^ after the ciyil wars: in that nobleman^s 
orders for the servants of his household, is the following : Then 
must he warn to the dresser y Qentlemen and yeomen, to the dresser'* 
Old Plays xii. 430. 

* Sery. AsiMa trenchermany &c.] Tall, in the laQgnage of 
our old writers, meant stout, or rather bold and fearless ; but 
they abused the word (of which they seem fopd) in a great 
variety of senses. A tall man (^ his hxinds wm % gre^t figbter; ^ 
t4ill man of his tongue, a licentious speaker; and a tall, man of his 
trencher, or, as above, c tall trencherman, a hearty feeder. In- 
ftances of diese phrases occur so frequently, that it would be« 
waste of time to dwell upon them. . 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT 167 

Against the charge of his guts : you needs must 

know him, 
He's eminent for his eating. 

Beauf. sen. O, Belgarde ! ' \ 

Serv. The same j one of the admiral's cast 
captains, 
Who swear,' there being no war, nor hope of any, 
The only drilling is to eat devoutly, 
And to be ever drinking — that's allow'd of, 
But they know not where to get it, there's the 
spite on't. 

Beatif. sen. The more their misery ; yet, if you 
can, 
For this day put him off/ , 

Serv. It is beyond 
The invention of man. 

Beauf. sen. No : — say this only, [IVhispers to him: 
And as from me; you apprehend m,e? 

Serv. Yes, sir. 

Beauf. sen. But it must be done gravely, 

Serv. Never doubt me, sir. 

Beatif. sen. We'll dine in t|ie great room,^ hxft 
let the musick , ^ 

And banquet' be prepared here. \Exii. 

Serv. This will make him 
Lose his dinner at the least, and that will vex him. 
As for the sweetmeats, when they are trod under 

foot, 
Lethim take his sharewith thepages andthelackies, 
Or scramble in the rushes. 

7 Who swear, &c.] So the old copy: the modern editors 
read swears^ than which nothing can be more injudicious. 

* Beauf. sen. Themore their misery; yet y if you cany' 
For this day put him ^.] This has been hitherto given as an 
imperfect speech ; why, it is difficult to hhagine. 

9 — ; . • but let the musick 

And hanqnet be prepared here,] That is, the dessert. See tike 
City Madam. Vol. IV. 



168 THE .UNNATURAL COMBAT. 



£nter Belgabde. 

Belg. 'Tis near twelve ; 
I keep a watch within me never misses. 
Save thee, master steward ! 

Serv. You are most welcome, sir. 

Belg. Has thy lord slept well to night ? I 
come to enquire. 
I had a foplish dream, that, against my will, 
Carried me from my Ibdging, to learn only 
How he's disposed. 

Strv. He's in most perfect health, sir. ^ 

Belg. Let me but see him feed heartily at dinner. 
And I'll believe so too ; for from that ever 
I make a certain judgment. 

Sero._ It holds surely 
In.your own constitution. 

Belg. And in all men's, 
'Tis the best symptom ; let us lose no time> 
Delay is dangerous. 

^erv. Troth, sir, if I might, 
Without offence, deliver what my lord has 
Committed tO/my trust, I shall receive it 
As a special favour. 
, Belg, W^'U spe it, and discourse. 
As the jpro verb says, for health sake, after dinner, 
Or rather after supper ; willingly then 
rU walk a, mile to hear thee/ 

Serv. Nay, good sir,, ^ 
I win be brief and pithy. 

Belg. Prithee be so, , 

Serv. He bid me say, of allliis guests, that he 

* Or rather after supper ; 'willingly then 

2HI walk a mile to hear thee.^ Alluding to the good old pro-i 
verb, which inculcates temperance at this meal, by recom-* 
mending a walk after it. " 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 169 

Stands most affected to you, for the freedom 
And plainness of your manners. He ne'er 

observed you 
To twirl a dish about, you did not like of, 
AH being pleasing to you ; or to take 
A say of venison^ or stale fowl, by your nose, 
Which is a solecism at another's table ; 
But by strong eating of them, did confirm 
They never were delicious to your palate, 
But when they we're mortified, as the Hugoiiot 

says. 
And so your part grow^ greater; nor do you 
Find fault with the sauce, keen hunger being the 

best, 
Which ever, to your much praise, you bring with 

.you ; 
Nor will you with impertinent relations, 
Which is a masterpiece when meat's before you, 
Forget your teeth, to use your nimble tongue. 
But do the feat you come for. 

Belg. Be advised. 
And end your jeering ; for if you proceed. 
You'll feel, as I can eat I can be angry, 
And beating may ensue. 

Serv. I'll take your counsel, 
And roundly come to the point : my lord much 

wonders, 
That you, that are a courtier as a soldier, 
In all things else, and every day can vary 
Your actions and discourse, contitiue cbnstant 
To this one suit. 

Belg. To one ! 'tis well I have one, 
Unpawn'd, in these days; every cast commander 
Is not blest with the fortune, I assure you. 
But why this question ? does this offend him ? 
Serv. Not much; but he believes it is the 
reason 



170 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

You ne'er presume to sit above the salt;' 
And therefore, this day, our great admiral, 
With other states, being invited guests, 
He does entreat you to appear among them. 
In some fresh habit. 

Belg. This staff shall not serve 
To beat the dog off; these are soldier's garments, 
And so by consequence grow contemptible. 

Serv, It has stung him. 

Belg. I would I were acquainted with the 
players. 
In charity they might furnish me : but there is 
No faith in brokers; and for believing tailors, 
They are only to be read of, but not seen ; 
And sure they are confined to their own hells, 
And there they live invisible. Well, I must not 
Be fubb'd off thus : pray you, report my service 

* Youne^er presume to sit above the salt;] This refers to the 
manner in which our ancestors were usually siBated at iheir 
meals. The tables being long, the salt was commonly placed 
about the middle, and served as a kind of boundary to the diffe- 
rent quality of the guests invited. Those of distinction were 
ranked above ; the space below was assigned to the dependents, 
inferiour relations of the master of the house, &c. See Mr. 
Whalley's edition of Ben Jonson^ VoK I. p. 327. It argues 
Uttle for the delicacy^ of our ancestors, that they should admit 
of such distinctions at their board ; but, in truth, they seem to 
have placed their guests beUm the salty for no better purpose 
than that of mortifying them. Nixon, in his Strange Footposty 
(F. 3.) gives a very admirable account, of the miseries "of a 
poor scholar," (Hall's well knOMfn satire, " A gentle squire^' &c. 
is a versification of it,) from which I have taken the following 
characteristick traits: " Now as for his fare, it is lightly at the 
cheapest table, but he must sit under the salty that is an axiome 
in such places : — ^then, having drawne his knife leisurably, un- 
folded his napkin mannerly, after twice or thrice wryping his 
beard, if he have it, he may reach the bread on his knife's point, 
and fall to his porrige, and between every sponefuU take as 
mueh deliberation, as a capon craming, lest he be out of his for- 
rige before they have buried part of their Jirst course in their bellies ** 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT- 171 

To the lord governor ; I will obey him ; 
And though my wardrobe's poor, rather than lose 
His company at this feast, I will put on 
The richest suit I have, and fill the chair 
That makes me worthy of.' [Ej:'it. 

Serv, We are shut of him, 
He will be seen no more here: how my fellows 
Will bless me forhis absence! helhad starved them, 
Had he staid a little longer. Would he could, 
For his own sake, shift a shirt ! and that's the 

utmost 
Of his ambition: adieu, good captain. [Esit, 



SCENE n. 

The same. 
Enter Beaufort senior^ and Beavto^t junior. 

Beauf. sen. 'Tis a strange fondness. 

Beauf.jun. Ti$ beyond example. 
His resolution to part with his estate, 
To make her dower the weightier, is nothing ; 
But to observe how curious he is 
In his own person, to add ornament 
To his daughter's ravishing features, is the 

wonder. 
I sent a page of mine in the way of courtship 
This morning to her, to present my service. 
From whom I understand all : there he found him 
Solicitous in what shape she should appear ; 



-and fill the chair 



That makes me worthy of,^ This too has been hitherto printed 
as an imperfect sentence ; but, surely, without necessity. 
The meaning is, ^^ I will fill the chair of which that (i. e. the 
ricbest suit I have) makes me i^rorthy." 



1 72 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

This gown was rich, but the fashion stale-; the 

other 
Was quaint, and neat, but the stuff not rich 

enough : 
Then does he curse the tailor, and in rage 
Falls on her shoemaker, for wanting art 
To express in every circumstance the form 
Of her most delicate foot; then sits in council 
With much deliberation, to find out 
What tire would best adorn her ; * and one chosen, 
Varying in his opinion, he tears off. 
And stamps it under foot; then tries a second, 
A third, and fourth, and satisfied at length. 
With much ado, in that, he grows again 
Perplex'd and troubled where to place her jewels, 
Ta be most mark'd, and whether she should wear 
This diamond, on her forehead, or between 
Her milkwhite paps, disputing on it both ways; 
Then taking in nis hand a rope of pearl, 
(The best of France, ) he seriously considers, 
Whether he should dispose it on her arm. 
Or on her neck; with twenty other trifles, 
Too tedious to deliver. 

Beaitf. sen. I have known him 
From his first youth, but never yet observed. 
In all the passages of his life and fortunes, 
Virtues so mix'd with vices: valiant the world 

speaks him,^ 
But with that, bloody ; liberal in his gifts too, 
But to maintain his prodigal expense, 
A fierce extortioner; an impotent lover 
Of women for a flashy* but, his fires quench'd, 
Hating as deadly : the truth is, I am not 



-an impotent lover 



Of women for a flashy &c.] Wild, fierce, uncontrollable in 
his passions; this is a Latinism, impotent amoris^ and is a Tery 
strong expression. ' 



t>. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 175 

..* * 

Ambitious of this match; nor will I crpss you 
In your affections. 

Beaicf.jun. I have ever found you 
(And 'tis my happiness) a loving father, 

[Loud musich. 

And careful of my good:- by the loud musick, 

As you gave order for his entertainment, 

He's come into the house. Two long hours since, 

The colonels, commissioners, and captains. 

To pay him all the rites his worth can challenge, 

Went to wait on him hijther. 

Enter Malefort, Montaigne, Chamont, La- 

NOUR, MONTREVILLE, ThEOCRINE, Ushcr, 

Page, ^w(/ Waiting Women. 

Beaiif. sen. You are most welcome, * 
And what I speak to you, does from my heart 
Disperse itself to all. 

Malef. You meet, my lord. 
Your trouble. 

Beatif, sen. Rather, sir, increase of honour, 
When you are pleased to grace my house. 

Beauf.jun. The favour 
Is'doubled on my part, most worthy sir. 
Since your fair daughter5my incomparable mistress. 
Deigns us her presence. 

Malef. View her well, braVe Beaufort, 
But yet at distance ; you hereafter may 
Make your approaches nearer, when the priest 
Hath made it lawful : and were not she mine, 
I durst aloud proclaim it, Hymen never 
Put on his saffron-cblour'd robe, to change 
A barren virgin name, with more good omens 
Than at her nuptials. Look on her again, 
Then tell me if she now appear the same, 
That she was yesterday. ' 



m THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Beatif. sen. Being herself, 
She capnot but be excellent ; these rich 
And curious dressings, which in others might 
Cover deformities, from her take lustre, 
Nor can add to her. 

Malef. You conceive her right, 
And in your admiration of her sweetness. 
You only can deserve her. Blush not, girl. 
Thou art above his praise, or mine ; nor can 
Obsequious Flattery, though she should use 
Hef thousand oil'd tongues to advance thy worth, 
Give aught, (for that's impossible,) but take 

from 
Thy more than human graces ; and even then. 
When she hath spent herself with her best 

strength. 
The wrong she has done thee shall be so ap- 
parent, 
That, losing her own servile shape atid name, 
She will be thought Detraction : but I 
Forget myself; and something whimpers to me, 
I have said too much. 

Mont. I know not what to think on't. 
But there's some mystery in it, which I fear 
Will be too soon discover'd. 

Malef. I much wrong 
Your patience, noble sir, by too much hugging 
My proper issue, and, like the foolish crow, 
Believe my black brood swans. 

Beauf. sen. There needs not, sir. 
The least excuse for this ; nay, I must have 
Your arm, you being the master of the feast. 
And this the mistress. ' 

Theoc. I am any thing 
That you shall please to make mt* 

Beatcf.jun. Nay, 'tis yours, 
Without more compliment. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 175 

Mont* Your will's a law, sir. 
[Loudmusick. Exeunt Beaitfbrt senior^ Mak" 
forty Theocrine, Beaifort junior^ Montaigne^ 
Chamonty Lanour^ Montreoilk. 
Ush. Would I had been born a lord ! 
1 Worn. Or I a lady ! 

Page. It may be you were both begot itt court, 
Though bred up in the city ; for your mothers, 
As I have heard, loved tne lobby ; and there, 

nightly. 
Are seen strange apparitions : and who knows 
But that some noble faun, heated with wine, 
And cloy'd with partridge, had a kind of longing 
To trade ^n sprats ? this needs no exposition ir^ 
But can you yield a reason for your wishes ? 
Ush. Why, had I been born a lord, I had been 
no servant. 

1 fVom. And whereas now necessity makes us 

waiters, 
We had been attended on. 

2 Worn. And might have slept then 

As long as we pleased,* and fed when we had 

stomachs. 
And worn new clothes, nor lived, as now, in hope 
Of a cast gown, or petticoat. 

Page. You are fools, 
And ignorant of your happiness. Ere I was 
Sworn to the pantofle,* I have heard my tutor 
Pi'ove it by logick, that a servant's life 
Was better than his master's ; and by that 

* Mont,] So the old copy : it must, however, be a mistakA 
for Theoc, or rather, perhaps, for Makf. 

^ As long as we pleased,] So the old copy : modern editions, 
less properly, please. 

6 — Ere I was 

Sworn to the pantofle,] i. e. taken from attending in the por- 
ter's lodge, (which seems to have been the first degree of serri* 
tude,) to wait on Theocrine. 



176 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 

i learn'd from him, if that my memory fail not, 
I'll make it good. 

Ush. Proceed, my little wit 
In decimo sexto. 

Page. Thus then : From the king 
To the beggar, by gradation, all are servants ; 
And you must graiit, the slavery is less 
'to study to please one, than many, 

Ush. True. 

Page. Well then; and first to you, sir: you 
complain 
You serve one lord, but your lord serves a thousand, 
Besides his passions, that are his worst masters; 
You must humour him, and he is bound to sooth 
Every grim sir above him :^ if he frown. 
For the least neglect you fear to lose your place; 
But if, and with all slavish observation, 
From the minion's self, to the groom of his close- 
stool. 
He hourly seeks not favour, he is sure 
To be eased of his office, though perhaps he 

bought it. 
Nay, more ; tTiat high disposer of all such 
That are subordinate to him, serves and fears 
The fury of the many-^headed monster, 
The giddy multitude : and as a horse 
Is still a horse, for all his golden trappings. 
So your men of purchased titles, at their best, are 
But ?erving-men in rich liveries. 

7 ■ he is bound to ^ooth 



Every grim sir above him:'] Grim sir, Mr. Dodsley injudici- 
ously altered to trim sir ; for this he is honoured with the ap- 
probation of Coxeter ; though nothing can be more certain than 
that the old reading is right. Skelton calls Wolsey a grim sircj 
and Fletcher has a similar expression in the Elder Brother : 
" Cowsy, It is a faith 
" That we will die in ; since from the blackguard 
^' To the grim sir in office, there are few ^ , 
" Hold other tenets." 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 177 

Ush Most rare infant ! 
Where learnd'st thou this morality ? 

Page. Why, thou dull pate, 
As I told thee, of my tutor. 

2 JVom. Now for us, bay. 

Page. I am cut oiF: — the governor. 

£w?er Beaufort senior, and Be av fort Junior ; 
Servants setting Jbrth a banquet. 

Beauf. sen. Quick, quick, sirs. 
See all things perfect. 

Serv. Let the blame be ours else. 

Beaiif. sen. And, as I said, when we are at the 
banquet. 
And high in our cups, for 'tis no feast without it, 
Especially among soldiers; Theocrine 
Being retired, as that's no place for her, 
Take you occasion to rise from the table, 
And lose no opportunity. 

Beauf.jun. 'Tis my purpose ; 
And if I can win her to give her heart, 
I have a holy man in readiness 
To join our hands ; for the admiral, her father, 
Repents him of his grant to me, and seems 
So far transported with a strange opinion 
Of her fair features, that, should we defer it, 
I. think, ere long, he will believe, and strongly, 
The dauphin is not worthy of her : I 
Am much amazed with't. 

Beauf. sen. Nay, dispatch there, fellows. 
{Exeunt Beaufort senior and B^ufort junior. 

Serv. We are ready, when you please. Sweet 
forms,* your pardon ! 
It has been such a busy time, I could not 

i SiDcet forms, &c.] This is a paltry play on words. The 
VOL. I. N 



178 TJIE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 

Tender that ceremonious respect 

Which you deserve; but now, the great\work 

ended, 
I will attend the less, and with all cavcr . 
Observe and serve you, 

Page, This is a penn'd speech, - 
And serves as a perpetual preface to 
A dinner made of fragments, 

Uah. We wait on you. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

The same^ A Banquet set forth. 

Loudmusick. Enter Beaufort senior^ Malefobt, 
MoNTAiGNj:, Chamont, Lanoujei, Beaufort 
junior^ Montreville, and Servants. 

■' ■ >. ' > 

Beauf. sen. You are not merry, sir. 
Malef. Yes, my good lord. 
You have given ,us ample means to drown all 

cares:; — 
And yet I nourish strange thougJits, which I 

would 
Most willingly destroy. [Aside. 

Beauf. sen. Pray you, take your place. 
Beauf. jun. And drink a health; and let it be, 
if you please. 
To the worthiest of women. Now observe 
him. 
Malef Give me the bowl; since you do me 
the honour, 
I will begin it. 

forms meant by the servant, are the long benches on which the 
guests were to sit: they are still called by this name. Th« 
trite pedantry of the speech is well exposed by the Page.^ 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 179 

% 

Cham. May we know her name, sir? 
Malef. You shall ; I will not choose a foreign 
queen's, ^ t 

Nor yet our own, for that would relish of 
Tame flattery ; nor do their height of title, 
Or absolute power, confirm their worth and 

goodness, 
These being heaven's gifts, and frequently con- 

ferr'd 
On such as are beneath them ; nor will I 
Name the king's mistress, howsoever she 
In his esteem may carry it : but if I, 
As wine gives liberty, may use my freedom, 
^ Not sway'd this way or tha/fe, with confidence, 
(And I will make it good on any ^qual,) 
If it must be to her whose outward form 
Is better 'd by the beauty of her mind. 
She lives jnot that with justice can pretend 
An intere*>t to this so sacred health, 
. But my fair daughter. He that only doubts it, 
I do pronounce a villain : this to her, then. 

^ ^ [Drinks. 
Mont. What may we think of this ? 
Beauf. sen. It matters not. 
» Lan. For my part, I will sooth him, rather 
, than 

Draw on a quarrel.* 

Cham. It is the safest course ; 
And one I mean to follow. 

Beatif.jun. It has gone round, sir. {Ea^it. 

* Draw on a qtmrreLl This has hitherto been printed^ 
Draw on a quarrety Chamont ;^ and the next speech given to 
Montreville. It is not very probable that the latter sho)ir)d ra- 
ply to an observation addressed to Chamont, with whom he does 
not appear to be familiar : and besides, the excess of metre seems 
to. prove that the name has slipt from the margin of th# SJO/^^eed* 
ing line into the text of this. 

NS 



180 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT: 

Malef. Now you have done her right ; if there 
be any 
Worthy to second this, propose it boldly, 
I am your pledge. 

Beauf\ sen. Let's pause here, if you please. 
And entertain the time with something else. 
Musick there ! in some lofty strain ; the song too 
That I gave order for; the new one, caU'd 
The Soldier's Delight. [Musick nnd a song. 

I 

Enter Belgarde in armoury^ a case of carbines by 

his side. 

I 

Belg. Who stops me now ? 
Or who dares only say that I appear not 
In the most rich and glorious habit that 
Renders a man complete ? What court so set off 
With state and ceremonious pomp, but, thus 
Accoutred, I may enter? Or what feast, 
Though all the elements at once were ransack'd 
To store it with variety transcending 
The curiousness and cost on Trajan's birthday; 
(Where princes only, and confederate kings, 
Did sit as guests, served and attended on 
By the senators of Rome), at which' a soldier, 
In this his natural and proper shape. 

The old copy reads, 



at which a soldier &c. 



gat with a soldier. The emendation, which is a very happy one, 
was made by Mr. M. Mason. The corruption is easily accounted 
'for : the printer mistook the second parenthesis, fox anfy and hay- 
ing giyen^a^ for at, was obliged to alter the next word, to make 
sense of the line. This will be understood at once by a reference 
to the qiiarto, where the first parenthesis only appears, which 
was therefore omitted by the succeeding editors. I know not 
where Massinger found this anecdote of Trajan ; he was, indeed, 
a magnificent, and, in some cases, an ostentatious prince ; but 
neither 'his pride, nor his prudetice, I believe, would have ak 
lowed the^' senators of Rome" to degrade themseWes by vf&i^ 
ing on the allies of the republick.^ 



THE UNNAT UR A L C OM BAT.. 1 81 

IVIight not, and boldly, fill a seat, and by 
His presence make the great solemnity 
More honour'd ancj remarkable ? 

Beauf. sen. 'Tis acknowledged ; 
And this a grace done to me unexpected. 

Mont. But why in armour ? 

Malef. What's the mystery ? 
Pray you, reveal that. 

*Bdg. Soldiers out of action, 
That very rare * * * # * 

***** but, like unbidden guests, 
Bring their stools with them, for their ow'n de- 
fence,' 
At court should feed in gauntlets, they may have 

* Belg. Soldiers out of action ^ \ 
That very rare ***♦♦•» 
«««««« l^^f.^ I^j^^ jifihidden guests, ' 
Bring their stools with them, &c.] So I have yentured to print 
this passage, being persuaded that a line is lost. The breaks 
cannot be filled up, but the sense might be, Soldiers out of action, 
that very rarely find seats reserved for ihem^but, like &c. HoW 
the modern editors understood this passage I know not,^ but^ 
they all give it thus : 

Belg. Soldiers out of action, 
That f^cry rare, but like unbidden guests 
Bring &ۥ ' 

-for their own defence. 



At court should feed in gauntlets, ^they may have 
Their fngers cut else ;] Here is the bon-mot for which Quin was 
so much celebrated ; that " at city feasts it was neither safe nor 
prudent to help one's self without a basket -hil ted knife.*' 
M assinger got it, I suppose, from Barclay's second Eclogue^ 
which has great merit for the time in which it was written 2 
" If the dishe be pleasaunt eyther fleshe or fishe^ 

^* Ten handes at once swarme in the dishe 

'' To put there thy handes is peril without fayle, 
'' Without a gauntlet, or els a glove ofmayle; 
'^ Among all those knives, thou one of both must have, 
'' Or els it is harde thy fingers to save." 
Where Barclay found it, I cannot tell ; but there is something 
of the kind in Diogenes Laertius, ^' There is nothing new U94er 
the sun !" 



182 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Their fingers cut else : there your carpet knights, 
That never charged beyond a mistress' lips, 
Are still most keen, and valiant. But to you, 
Whom it does most concern, my lord, I will 
Address my speech, and with a soldier's freedom 
In my reproof, return the bitter scoff 
You threw upon my poverty : you contemn'd 
My coarser outside, and from that concluded 
(As by your groom you made me understand) 
I was unworthy to sit at your table. 
Among these tissues and embroideries, 
Unless I changed my habit : I have done it. 
And shew myself in that which I have worn 
In the heat and fervour of a bloody fight ; 
And then it was in fashion, not as now, 
Ridiculous and despised. This hath past through 
A wood of pikes, and every one aim'd at it. 
Yet scorn'd to take impression from their fury : 
With this, as still you see it, fresh and new, 
I've charged through fire that would have singed 

your sables, 
Black fox, and ermines, and changed the proud 

colour 
Of scarlet, though of the right Tyrian die. — 
But now,- as if the trappings made the man, 
Such only are admired that come adorn'd 
With what's no part of them. This is mine own, 
My richest ^uit, a suit I must not part from, 
But not regarded now : and yet remember, 
'Tis we that bring you in the means, of feasts. 
Banquets, and revels, which, when you possess, 
With barbarous ingratitude you deny us 
To be made sharers in the harvest, Avhich 
Our sweat and industry reap'd, and sow'd for you. 
The silks you wear, we with our blood spin for 

you; 
This massy plate, that with the ponderous weight 



THE UNNATURAL COMBATr ISi 

Does make your cupboards crack, we (un4f- 

frighted 
With tempests, or the long and tedious way, 
Or dreadtul monsters of the deep, that wait 
With open jaws still ready to devour us,) 
Fetch from the other world. Let it not then^^ 
In after ages, to your shame be spoken, 
That you, with no relenting eyes, look oa 
Our wants that feed your plenty : or consume, 
In prodigal and wanton gifts on drones, 
The kingdom's treasure, yet detain from us 
The debt that with the hazard of our lives. 
We have made you stand engaged for; or force 

us. 
Against all civil government, in armour 
To require that, which with all willingness 
Should be tender'd ere demande^, 

Beaicf. sen. I commend 
This wholesome iSharptiess in you, and prefer it 
Before obsequious tameness; it shews lovely: 
Nor shall the rain of your good counsel fall 
Upon the barren sands, but spring up fruit,* 
Such as you long have wish'd for. And the test 
Of your profession, like you, discontented 
For want of means, shall in their present payment 
Be bound to praise your boldness: and hereafter 
I will take order you shall have no cause. 
For want of change, to put your armour on, 
iRtit in the face oi an enemy ; not as now. 
Among your friends. To that which is due to 

you. 
To furnish you like yourself, of mine own bounty 
I'll add five hundred crowns. 



I ^t spring upfruitj^ i. e. cause it to spring up. 

''This sense of the word is familiar to Massinger and his cbntetti- 
poraries. 



m THE UNNATURAL GOMBAT. 

. Chant. I, to my power, 
Will follow the example. 

Mont Take this, captain, 
'Tis all my present store ; but when you* please, 
Command me further. 

Lan. I could wish it more. 

Belg. This is the luckiest jest ever came from 
me. 
Let a soldieimse no other scribe to draw 
The forn{ of his petition. This will speed 
When your thrice-hiimble supplications, 
With prayers for increase of health and honours 
To their grave lordships, shall, as soon as read, 
Be pocketed up, the cause no more remember'd : 
When this dumb rhetorick — ^Well, I have a life. 
Which I, in thankfulness for your great favours. 
My noble lords, when you please to command it> 
Must never tjiink mine own. Broker, be happy. 
These golden birds fly to thee. [Esit, 

Beauf, sen. You are dull, sir, 
And seem not to be taken with the passage 
You saw pi*esented, 

Malef. Passage ! I observed none. 
My thoughts were elsewhere busied. Ha ! she is 
In danger to be lost, to be lost for ever, 
If speedily I come not to her rescue, 
For so my genius tells me. 

Montr. What chimeras 
Work on your fantasy r 

Malef. Fantasies ! they are truths. 
Where is my Theocrine? you have plotted 
To rob me of my daughter; bring me to her. 
Or ril call down the ss^ints to witness for me, 
You are inhospitable. 

Beauf. sen. You amaze me. 
Your daughter*)5 safe, and now exchanging 
courtship 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 185 

With my son, her servant.* Why do you hear this 
With such distracted looks, since to that end 
You brought her hither ? 

Malef. 'Tis confess'd I did; 
But now, pray you, pardon me ; and, if you please, 
Ere she delivers up her virgin fort, 
I would observe what is the art he uses 
In planting his artillery against it : 
She is my only care, nor must she yield, 
But upon noble terms. 

Beauf. sen. 'Tis so determined. 

Malef. Yet I am jealous. 

Mont. Overmuch, I fear. 
What passions are these ? 

Beaiif. sen. Come, I will bring you 
Where you, with these, if they so please, may see 
The love-3cene acted. 

Montr. There is something more 
Than fatherly love in this. 

Mont. We ^ait upon you. [Ej^eunt 

^ Your daughter's safcf and now exchanging courtship 
With mi/ son, her servant.] Servant was at this time the in-* 
Tariable term for a suitor, who, in return, called the object- of 
)iis addresses, mistress^ Thus Shirley, (one example for all,) ' 
'' Bon. What's the gentleman she has married ? 
'' Serv, A man of pretty fortune^ that has beeq 
'^ Her servant many years. 
'' B'jn^ How do you mean, 
- ^^ Wantonly, or does he serve for wages? 
^' Serv, Neither ; I mean her suitor ^'^ 



18« THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 



/ 



SCENE IV. 

Another Room in Beaufort's House. 

Enter Be av tort junior, and Th^ocrine. 

Beatif. jun. Since then you meet my flatnes 
with equal ardour^ - 
As you profes5, it is your bounty, mistress, 
Nor must I call it debt; yet 'tis your glory. 
That your excess supplies my want, and makes me 
Strong in my weakness, which could never be, 
But in your good opinion. 

Theoc. You teach me, sir, 
What I should ^ay ; since from your suh of favour, 
I, like dim Phoebe, in herselRobscure, 
Borrow that light I have. 

Beauf.jun^ Which you return 
With large increase, since that you will o'ercome, 
And I dare not contend, were you but pleased 
To make what's yet divided one. 

Theoc. I have 
Alrea^dy in my wishes ; modesty 
Forbids me to speak more. 

Beauf.jun. But what assurance, 
But still without offence, may I demand, 
That may secure me that your heart and tongue 
Join to make harmony^ 

Theoc. Choose any, 
Suiting your fove,xdistinguished from lust, 
To ask, and mine to grant. 

Enter, behind, Beaufort senior, Malefort, 
MoinTREYiLLE, and thereof. 

Beatif. sen. Yonder Jthey are. 



THE UNNAtURAl COMBAT. 187 

Malef. At distance too ! 't;is yet well. 

Beaufjun. I may take then , 

This hand, and with a thousand burning kisses, 
Swear 'tis the anchor to my hopes ? 

Theoc. You may, sir. 

MaleJ. Som^ewhat too much. 

Beauf.jun. And this done, view myself 
In these true mirrors ? 

Theoc. Ever true^ to you, sir : 
And may they lose the ability of sight, 
When they seek other object ! 

Malef. This is more 
Than 1 can give consent to. 

Beauf.jun. And a k^iss 
Thus printed on yourlips, will not distaste you ?* 

Malef. Her lips ! 

Montr. Why, where should he kiss? are yoil 
distracted? 

Beauf.jun. Then, when thi$ holy man hath 

made it lawful--^ — [Brings in a Priest. 

. Malef. A priest so ready too ! I mu,st break in. 

Beauf. jun. And what's spoke here is register'd 
above; 
I must engross those favours to myself 
Which are not to be named. 

Theoc. All I can give, 
But what they are I kno# not. 

Beauf jun. I'll instruct you. 

Malef O how my blood boils ! 

Montr. Pray you, contain yourself; 
Methinks his courtship's modest.* 

Beauf.jun. Then being mine, 

' beauf. jun. And a kiss 

Thus printed on ytmr lips, will not distaste ^ou ?] i. e. displeaito 
you : the word perpetually reeurs id this sense. 

* Methinks his courtship* s modest.^ For his the modern editors 
haye this. The change is unnecessary. The next speech, as 



188, THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Aiid wholly mine, the river of your love 

To kinsmen and allies, nay, to your father, 

(Howe'er out of his tenderness he admires you,) 

Must in the ocean of your affection 

To me, be swallow'd up, and want a name, 

Compared with what you owe me. 

Theoc. 'Tis most fit, sir. 
The stronger bond that binds me to you, mu&t 
Dissolve the weaker 

Malef. I am ruin'd, if 
I come not fairly off. 

Beauf. sen. There's nothing wanting 
But your consent, 

Malef. Some strange invention aid me ! 
This ! yes, it must be so. [Aside 

Montr. Why do you stagger, 
When what you seem'd so much to wish, is offer'd. 
Both parties being agreed too?* 

Beauf. ^en, I'll not court 
A grant from you, nor do I wrong your daughter. 
Though I say my son deserves^ her. 

Malef. 'Tis far from 
My humble thoughts to undervalue him 
I cannot prize too high; for howsoever 
From my own fond indulgence I have sung 

Mr. Gilchrist 6bsenres, bears ^ distant resemblance to the first 

sonnet ojf Daniel to Delia: 

"i Unto the boundlesse ocean of thy beautie 

^' Runnes this poor river, charged with streames of zeale, 

" Returning thee the tribute of my dutie, 

*^ Which here my love, my truth, my plaints reteale," 

* Both parties being agreed too?] The old copy gives this 
hemistich to Beaufort junior, and is probably right, as Male- 
fort had by this^ time interposed between the lovers. The alte- 
ration is by Coxeter. For tOy which stands in all the editions^ 
I read too. It should be observed that our old writers usually 
spell those two words alike, leaving the sense to be discovQre^ 
by the context. < 



r. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 189 

Her praises with too prodigal a tongue, 
That tenderness laid by, I stand confirm'd 
All that 1 fancied excellent in her, 
Balanced with what is really his own, 
Holds weight in no proportion, 
JI/(?;2/r. New turnings ! 
Beauf. sen. Whither tends this ? 
Malef. Had you observed, my lord. 
With what a sweet gradation he woo'd, 
As I did punctually, you cannot blame her, 
Though she did listen with a greedy ear 
To his fair modest offers : but so great 
A good as then flow'd to her, should have been 
With more deliberation entertain'd. 
And not with such haste swallow'd ; she shall first 
Consider seriously what the blessing is, 
And in what ample manner to give thanks for't, 
And then receive it. And though I shall think 
Short minutes years, till it be perfected,* 
I will defer that which I most desire; 
And so must she, till longing expectation, 
That heightens pleasure, makes her truly know 
Her happiness, and with what outstretch'd arms 

She must' embrace it. 

Beauf. jun. This is curiousness 

Beyond example/ 

Malef. Let it then begin i 

From me: in what's mine own I'll use my will, . 

And yield no further reason. I lay claim )to 

The liberty of a subject. Fall not oiF, 

'till it be perfected,] The old orthography was 



perfittedj a mode of apelling much better, adapted to poetry , and 
which I am sorry we have suffered to grow obsolete. 

7 Beauf. jun. TAitf t9 curiousness 

Bet^nd example.^ i, e. a refined and orer scrupulous consider 
ration of the subject. So the word is frequently applied'by out 
old writers. 



1 90 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

But be^ obedient, or by the hair 
I'll drag th6e home. Cem^ire .me as you please, 
I'll take my own way. — O the inward fires 
That, wanting vent, consume me ! 

[Eait with Theocrine, 

Montr. 'Tis most certain 
He's mad, or worse. 

Beauf. sen. How worse ? • 

Montr. Nay, there I leave you ; 
My thoughts are free. 

Beauf. jun. This I foresaw. 

Beauf. sen. Take comfort, 
He shall walk in clouds, but I'll discover him : 
And he shall find and feel, if he excuse not, 
And with strong reasons,-this gross injury, 
I can make use of my authority. [Ej^eunt. 



•-^ 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 

A Room in Malefort's House. 

JBwfer Male FORT. 

What flames are these myWild desires fan in me? 
The torch that feeds them was not lighted at 
Thy altars, Cupid : vindicate thyself. 
And do not own it; and confirm it rather, 
That this infernal brand, that turns me cinders, 
Was by the snake-hair'd sisters thrown into 
My gnilty bosom. O that I was ever 

* Beauf. sen. jGToa? mir%e^^ This short speech is not appro- 
priated in the old copy, Dodsley gtres it io the present 
speaker, and is evidently right. M. Mason follows Coxeter^ 
Mrho gives it to no one! * , 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 191 

Accurs'd in having issue 1 my son's blood, 
(That like the poison'd shirt of Hercules 
Grows to each part about me,) which my hate 
^forced from him with much willingness,^ may 

admits 
Soihe weak defence ; but my most impious love 
To my fair daughter Theocriue, none; 
Since my affection (rather wicked lust) 
That does pursue her, is , a greater crim^ 
Than any detestation, with which'^ 
I should afflict her innocence. With what cuuniag 
I have betray 'd myself, and did not feel 
The scorching heat that now with fury rstges ! 
Why was I tender of her? cover'd with 
That fond disguise, this mischief stole upcMi me. 
I thought it no offence to kiss her often, 
Or twine mine arms about her softer neck,' 
And by false shadows of a father's kindness 
I long deceived myself: but now the effect 
Is too apparent. How I strove to bte 
In her opinion held the worthiest mau 
In couftship, form, and feature ! envying him 
That was preferr'd before me ; and yet then 
My wishes to myself were not discovered. 

9 Or twine mine arms about her softer neckyj i. e. her soft nec^: 
-OUT old poets frequently adopt, and indeed with singular good 
taste, the comparatiye for the positive. Thus, in a very pretty 
passage in the Combat of Love and Friendship, hy R. Mead : 
" /When I shall sit circled within your armes,. 
^^ How shall I cast a blemish on ypur hoppur, 
^' And appear onely lik,e some falser stone, 
" Placed in a ring of gold, which grows a jewel 
** But from the seat which holds it !" 
And indeed Massinger himself* furnishes numerous instanoe^of 
this practice; one occurs ju^t below : 

^^ ; — ^which your g«i//cr temper, 

. " On my. submission, I hope, will pardon." 

Another we have already had, la the Virgin^Martpn : 
^^ Judge not my readier will by the event." 



192 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT/ 

But still my fires increased, and with delight 
I would call her mistress,* willingly forgetting 
The name of daughter, choosing rather she 
Should style me servant, than, with reverence, 

father: * 

Yet, waking, I ne'er cherish'd obscene hopes,'^ 
But in my troubled slumbers often thought • 
She -^as too near to me, and then sleeping blush'd' 
At my imagination ; which pass'd, 
(My eyes being open not condemning it, ) 
I was ravish'd with the pleasure of the dream. 
Yet spite of these temptations 1 have reason 
That pleads against them, and commands me to 
Extinguish these abominable fires; 
And I will do it; I will send her back 
To him that loves her lawfully. Within there ! 

Enter Theocrine. 

Theoc. Sir, did you call? 

Malef. I look no sooner on her, 
But all my boasted power of reason leaves me. 
And passion again usurps her empire; 
Does none else wait me ? 

Theoc. I am wretched, sir, 
Should any owe more duty ? 

Malef. This is worse 
Than disobedience ; leave me. 

Theoc. On my knees, sir, 
As I have ever squared my will by yours, 

■ 1 tLOuld call her mistress, &c.] See p. 185. 

* Yet waking, I ne'er cherished (dfscene hopes^^ The old copj 
reads, Fei^ mocking, — ^if this be the genuine word, it must m^ 
^^ notwithstanding my wanton abuse of the terms mentioned 
aibove, I never cherished," &c. this is certainly not defectire in 
sense ; but the rest of the sentence calls so loudly for . waking f 
that I have not scrupled to insert it in the text; the, corruptioB^ 
at the press, was sufficiently easy. 



\ 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 193 

And liked and loath'd with your eyes, I beseech 

you 
To teach me what the nature of my fault is, 
That hath incensed you ; sure 'tis one of weak- 
ness 
And not of malice, which your gentler temper, 
On my submission, I hope, will pardon : 
Which granted by your piety, if that I, 
Out of the least neglect of mine hereafter. 
Make you remember it, may I sink ever 
Under your dread command, sin 

Makf. O my stars ! 
Who can but aoat en this humility. 

That sweetens Lovely in her tears !- The 

fetters 
That seem'd to lessen in their weight but now,* 
By this grow heavier on me, 

Thtoc. Dear sin 

Makf. Peace ! 
I must not hear thee. 

* Malef. my stars I ^ 

Who can hut doat on this humility^ 

Thdt sweetens -Lovely in her tears ! Thefetlers^ 

That se€fn*d to lessen in their weight but nowy 

By this grow heavier on me J] So I yentare to point the passage : 
it is abrupt, and denotes the distracted state of the speaker's 
fflmd. It stands thus in Mr. M. Mason : 

Malef. my stars ! who can but doat on this humility 

That sweetens (lovely in her tears) the fetters 

That seem'd to lessen in their weight ; hut now 

By this grow heavier on me, 
Coxeter follows the old copies, which only differ from this^ in 
placing a note of interrogation after tears. Both are eyidently 
wrong, because unintelligible. 

The reader must not be surprised at the portentous verse 
which begins the quotation from Mr. M. Mason. Neither he, 
nor Coxeter, nor Dodsley, seems to have had the smallest solici- 
tude (I will not say knowledge) respecting the metre of their 
au|lior : and Massinger, the most harmonious of poets, appekrs^ 
in their desultory pages, as untuneable as Marston or Donne. 

vp h. I. O 



,94 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Theoc. Nor look o^n me ? 

Male/. No, 
Thy looks and words are charms. 

Theoc. May they have power then 
To calm the tempest of your wrath ! Alas, sir. 
Did I but know in what I give offence, 
In my repentance I would shew my sorrow 
For what is past, and, in my care hereafter. 
Kill the occasion, or cease to be ; 
Since life, Avithout your favour, is to me 
y A load I would cast off. 

Maief. O that my heart , 

Were rent in sunder, that I might expire, 
The cause in my death buried!* yet I know 

not. 

With such prevailing oratory 'tis begg'd from me> 
That to deny thee would convince me to 
Have suck'd the milk of tigers ; rise, and I, 
*iBut in a perplex'd and mysterious method, 
Will make relation; That which all the world 
Admires and cries up in thee for perfections, 
Are to unhappy me foul blemishes, 
And mulcts in nature. If thou hadst been bom' 

^' The came in my death buried ! yet I know not. ^] Meaning, 

I' apprehend, that his incestuous passion was perhaps suspected. 
As this passage hath been hitherto pointed:^ i^ is not to be un^ 
derstood. 

^ But in a perplex'd and mysterious method^ We have alreadj 
had this /expression from the son : 

" But in a perplex'd form and method," &c. p. 1524 
And nothing can more strongly express the character of thii 
most vicious father, whose crimes were too horrible for his son 
to express, and whose wishes are too flagitious for his daughter 
to hear. 

7 If thou hadst been born, &;c.] Thus in King John : 
'^ If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim, 
^' Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb, ' 
'^ Full of unpleasin^ blots, and sightless stains, / 
'^ Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 195 

I>eform'd and crooked in the features of 

Thy body, as the manners of-thy mind ; 

M oor-Hpp'd, flat-nosed, dim-eyed, and • beetle- 

brow'd, 
With a dwarf's stature to a giant's waist; 
Soujr-breath'd, with claws for fingers oh thy 

hands, 
Splay-footed, gbuty-legg'd,- and over all 
A loathsome leprosy had spread itself, 
And made ,thee shunn'd of human fellowships ; 
I had been blest. 

Tkeoc. Why, would you wish a monster 
(For such a one, or worse, you have described) 
To call you father ? 

Malej. Rather than as* now, 
(Though I had drown'd thee for it in the sea,) 
Appearing, as thou dost, a new Pandora, 
With Juno's fair cow-eyes,* Minerva's brow, . 
, Aurora's blushing cheeks, Hebe's fresh youth, 
Venus' soft paps, with Thetis' silver feet, 

Theoc. Sir, you have liked and loved them, and 
oft forced, 
With your hyperboles of praise pour'd on them, 
My modesty to a defensive red, 
Strew'd o'er that paleness, whicih you then were 

pleased , 

To style the purest white. 

^^ Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offendirig nlarks^ 
^' I would not care, I then would be content ; 
^* Yor th'en I should not love thee ;" Coxeter. 

• With Juno s fair cow-eyes, &c.] These lines of Massinger 
are an immedi^e translation from a pretty Greek epigram ; 

These cow-e^s^ however, msL^e but a sorry kind of an appear- 
ance in English poetry ; but so it ever will be when the iigura- 
tWe terms of one language are literally applied to another. See 
the Emparor of the East, Vol. 111. 

OS 



196 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

^ Malef. And in that cup 

I dranic the poison I now feel dispersed 

Through every vein an4 artery. Wherefore art 

thou 
So cruel to me ? This thy outward shape 
Brought a fierce war against me, not to be 
By flesh and blood-resisted : but to leave me ' 
No hope of freedom, from the magazine 
Of thy mind's forces, treacherously thou drew'st up 
Auxiliary helps to strengthen that 
Which was alregidy in itself too potent. 
Thy beauty gave the first charge, but thy duty, 
Seconded with thy care and watchful studies 
To please, and serve my will, in all that might 
Raise up content in me, like thunder brake 

through 
AH. opposition; and, my ranks df reason 
Disbanded, my victorious passions fell 
To bloody execution, and compell'd me 
With willing hands to tie on my own chains, 
And, with a kind of flattering joy, to glory 
In my captivity. 

Thtoc. I, in this you speak, sir, 
Am ignorance itself. 

Malef. And so continue; 
Forknowledge of the arms thou bear'st against me, 
Would make thee curse thyself, but yield no aids 
For thee to help me; and 'twere cruelty 
In me to wound that spotless innocence, 
Howe'er it make me guilty. In a word, 
Thy plurisy ^ of goodness is thy ill ; 

9 Thy plurisy of goodness is thy ill ;] i. e. thy superabundance 
of goodness : the thought is from Shakspeare : 

'' For goodness, growing to a plurisy^ 

'' Dies in his own too much." 
For thy J the old copy reads the; it is, however, an etidenj 
error of the pj-ess. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT; m 

Thy virtues vices, and thy humble lowness 
Far worse than stubborn sullenness and pride j 
Thy looks, that ravish aU beholders else, 
As killing as the basilisk's, thy tears, 
txpress'd in sorrow for the much I suffer, 
A glorious insultation,* and no sign 
Of pity in thee; and to hear thee speak 
In thy defence, though but in silent action. 
Would make the hurt, already deeply fester'd. 
Incurable : and therefore, as thou wouldst not 
By thy presence raise fresh furies to torment me, 
I do conjure thee by a father's power, 
(And 'tis my curse I dare not think it lawful 
To sue unto thee in a nearer name,) 
Without reply to leave me, 

Theoc. My obedience 
Never learn'd yet to question your commands, 
But willingly to serve them ; yet I must. 
Since that your will forbids the knowledge of 
My fault, lament my fortune. [Exit. 

Malef. O that I 
Have reason to discern the better way, 
And yet pursue the worse ! ' When I look on her> 
I burn with heat, and in her absence freeze 
With the cold blasts of jealousy, that another 
Should e'er taste those delights that are denied 

me ; 
And which of these afflictions brings less torture, 
I hardly can distinguish : Is there then 
No mean ? No; so my understanding tells me, 

* A ^oxioviS irrndtation^ See p. 142. 

' * Malef. that I 

Have reason to discern the better way^ 

And yet pursue the worse /] This bad been said before by 
Medea: - 

•■ -— video ?neliora, proboqut^ 

Deteriorn seqtwr. 

\ 



108 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

And that by my cross fates it is determined 
That J 3,m both ways wretched. 

Enter Usher /rwrf Montreville. 

Ush. Yonder he walks, sir, 
In much vexation : he hath sent my lady. 
His dalighter, weeping in ; but what the cause is, 
Rests yet in supposition. 

Montr. I guess at it, 
But must be further satisfied ; I will sift him 
In private, therefore quit the room. 

Ush. I am gone, sir. \_^a:it. 

Malef. Ha! who disturbs ^me? Montreville I 
your pardon. 

Montr. Would you could grant one to your- 
self ! I speak it 
With the assurance of a friend, and yet. 
Before it be too late, make reparation 
Qf the gross Wrong your indiscretion offered 
To the governor and his son ; nay, to yourself ; 
For there begins my sorrow. 

^fl/e/: Would I had 
No greater cause to mourn, than their displeasure! 
For I dare justify — — 
, Montr. We must not do' 
All that we dare. We're private, frien|l. I ob- 
served * . ^ 
. Your alterations with a stricter eye, 
Perhaps, than others; and, to lose no time 
In repetition, your strange demeanour 
To your sweet daughter. 

Malef. Would you could find out 
Some other theme to treat o£ 

^ We must not do &c.] This and the two next speeches arc 
jumbled entirely o^t of metre by the modern editors. It seems 
odd that they should no^t know wjiether they Were printing 
prose or verse. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 199 

- Monir. None but this^ , 

And this I'll dwell on ; how ridiculous, 
And subiect to construetion— — 

MaleJ. No more ! . 

Montr. Yoii made yourself, anis^es me, and if 
The frequent trials interchanged between us 
Ofjoye and friendship, be to their desert 
Esteem'd by you, as they hold weight with mCj. 
No inward trouble should be of a shape 
So horrid to yourself, but that to me 
You stand bound to discover it, and unlock 
Your secret'st thoughts ; though the mdst inno- 
cent \^ere^ 
Loud crying sins. 

Malef. And so, perhaps, they are : 
And therefore be not curious to learn that 
-Which, known, must muke you hate me. 
. MoMr. Think not so. 

I am yours in right and wrong ; nor shall yOu 
find S' 

A verbal friendship in me, but an active; 
A^d here I vow, I shall no sooner know 
What the disease is, but, if you give leave, 
I will apply a remedy. Is it madness ? 
*I am familiarly acquainted with 
A deep-read man, that can with charms and herbs 
Restore you to your reason ; or suppose * 

You are bewitch'd } be with more potent spells 

* I amjamiliarly (acquainted with a deep-read man, 
That can with charms and herbs] So the lipes stand in all the 
editions : upon which Mr. M. Mason remarks, for the first time, 
that the metre requires a, different division. This is well thought 
of! In his edition, the Ifnnaturat Combat stands towards the end 
of the third Tohime, and, to speak moderattely, I have already 
corrected his versification in a hundred places within the com- 
pass of as many pages : nay, of the little which has passed since 
the entrance^? Montreville, nearly a moiety has undergone a new 
arrangement 



200 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

And magical rites shall cure you. Is't heavea*^* 
ahger? 

With penitence and sacrifice appease it: , 

Beyond this, there is nothing that I can 
Imagine dreadful ; in your fame and fortunes 
You are secure ; your impious son removed too, 
That render 'd you suspected to the state ; 
And your fair daughter 

MaleJ. Oh ! press me no further, 

Montr. Are you wrung there ! Why, what of 
her ? hath she 
Made shipwreck of her honour, or conspired 
Against your life?' or seal'd a contract with 
The devil of hell, for the recovery of 
iHer young Inamorato ? • 

Malef. None of these ; 
And yet, what mus^ increase the wonder in you, 
Being innocent in herself, she hath wounded me; 
But where, enquire not. Yet, I know not how 
I am persuaded, from my confidence 
Of your vow'd love to me, tp trust you with 
My dearest secret ; pray you chide me. for it, 
But with a kind of pity, not insulting 
On my calamity. 

Montr. Forward. 

Malef. This same daughter 

Montr. What is her fault ? 

Malef. She is too fair to me. 

Montr. Ha ! how is this ? 

Malef. And I have look'd upon her 
More than a father should, and languish to 
Enjoy her as a husband. 

Montr. Heaven forbid it ! 

Malef. And this is all the comfort you can-^ive 
me ! 
Where are your promised aids, your charms, your 
herbs, 



THE' XJlSr^NAWtiiiL C6^BA^. m 

Your deep-i*ead scholar's shells an*d magick rites ? 
Can all these disenchant me? No, 1 must be 
My own physician, and upon myself 
Practise a desperate cure. 

'Montr. Do not contemn me : 
Enjoin me what you please, with any haizard 
I'll undertake it. Wh^t means have you practised 
To quench this hellish fire ? 

Male/, All I could think on, 
But to no purpose ; and yet sometimes absence 
Does yield a kind of intermission to 
The fury of the fit. 

Montr: See her no more, then. 

Malef. 'Tis my last refuge, and 'twas my intent, 
And still 'tis, to desire your help. 

Montr. Command it. 

Malef. Thus then : you have a fort, of which 
you are 
The absolute lord, whither, I pray you, bear her : 
And that the sight of her may not again \ 

Nourish those flames, which I feel something 

lessen'd. 
By all the ties of friendship I conjure you,' 
And by a solemn oath you must confirm it, 
That though my now calm'd passions should rage 

higher 
Than ever heretofore, and so compel me 
Once more to wish to see her ; though I use 
Persuasions mix'd with threatnings, (nay, add 

to it, 
That I, this failing, should with hands held up 

thus, 
Kneel at your feet, and bathe them with my tears,) 
Prayers or curses, vows or imprecations. 
Only to look upon her, though at distance. 
You still must be obdurate. 

Montr. If it be 



208 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. • 

Your pleasure, 'sir, that I shall be unmoved, ' 
I will endeavour. 

^alej. You must swear to be 
Inexorable, as you would prevent 
The greatest mischief to your friend, that fate 
Coidd throw upon him. 

Montr. Well, I will obey you. 
But how the governor will be answfer'd yet, 
And 'tis material, is not cdnsidqr'd. 

Malef. Leave that to me. I'll presently give 
order 
How you shall surprise her ; be not frighted 

with 
Her exclamations. 

Montr. Be you constant to 
Your resolution, I will not' fail 
In what concerns my part. 

Malef. Be ever bless'd for't ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE 11 
A Street. 

* 

Enter Beaufort junior^ Chamont,^ and 

Lanour. 

CAdwi. Not to be spofce with, ^y you ? 

Beaufijun. No. 

Lan^ Nor you 
Admitted to have conference with her ? 

Beauf.jun. Neither; 
His doors are fast lock'd up, and solitude 
Dwells round about them> no access allow'd 
To friend or enemy ; but— — - 

Cham. Nay;^ be not moved, sir ; 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. ,303 

Lethis passion work, and, likea hot-rqin'd horse,* 
'Twill quickly tire itself. 

Beauf.jun. Or in his death, 
Which, for her sake, 'till now I have forborn, . 
I will revenge th^ injury he hath done to 
My true and lawful love. ^ 

Lan. How does your father, - 
The governor, relish it ? 

Beauf.jun. Troth, he never had 
Affection to the match ; yet in his pity 
To me, he's gone in person to his house, 
Nor will he be denied ; and if he find not 
Strong and fair reasons, Malefort wiU|iear i^romhim 
In a kind he does not look for, 

Cham. In the mean time, 
Pray you put on cheerful looks. 

4 A 

^»^er Mqntaioni:. 

Bmuf.jun. Mine suit my fortune. 

Lm- O here's Mmit^-igiie. 

Mont. I nev^r could have met you 
More opportunely. I'll not st3,le the jest 
Ey my relation f hut if you will look on 

5 -, „-^ and^ l^ a hot-rMd horse, 

'Tviitt quickly tire itself.'^ Tkis is directly copi«d from Sliak. 
Bpeare, 

*' ^ ■ '^ Anger is like 

^ A full hot korse, wko beitg allow'd \m waj, 
*^^Self-mettle tires bin." Coxiiter. 

* ni not; stale the jest 

By my relation;^ i. e. render !t flat^ deprive it of zest by 
previous intimation. This is one of a thousand instances which 
might be brought to prove that the true reaiding in CoriolaniiSj 
Act. I. sc. i. is, 

" I shall tell you 

" A pretty tale ; it may be, you have heard it ; 
*' But since it serves my purpose, I will venture 
" To *^fl^^t » little more." 



204 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

The malecontent Belgarde, newly rigg'd up, 
With the train that follows him, 'twill be an object 
Worthy of your noting. 

Beauf.jun, Look you the comedy 
Make good the prologue, or the scorn will dwell 
Upon yourself. 

Mont. I'll hazard that; observe now. 

Belgarde comes out in a gallant habit ; stays at 
the door with his sword drawn. 

Several voices within. Nay, captain ! glorious 
captain ! 

Belg. Fall back, rascals ! 
Do you make an owl of me ? this day I will 
Receive no more petitions. — 
Here are bills of all occasions, »and all sizes ! 
If this be the pleasure of a rich suit, would I were 
Again in my buff jerkin, or my arnjour ! 
Then I walk'd securely by my creditors' noses. 
Not a dog mark'd me ; ^very officer shunn'd me, 
And not one lousy prison would receive me : 

The old copies have scale^ for which Theobald judiciously pro- 
posed stale. To this Warburton objects petulantly enough, it 
miist be confessed, because to scale signifies to weigh; so, indeed, 
it does, and many other things; none of which, however, bear 
any relation to the text. Steevens, too, prefers scale^ which he 
proves, from a variety of learned authorities, to mean ^' scatter, 
dispeirse, spread :" to make any of them, however, suit his puri 
pose, he is obliged to give an unfaithful version of the text: 
*^ Though some of you have heard the story ^ I will spread it yet 
wider, and diffuse it among. Me rest."*^ ! There is nothing of this 
in Shakspeare ; and indeed I cannot ^.void looking upon the 
whole of his long note, as a feeble attempt to justify a palpable 
error of the press, at the cost of taste and sense. 

The mistakes of Steevens are dangerous^ and should be noticed. 
They have seduced the editors of Beaumont and Fletcher, who 
have brought back to the tQxt of their authors, a corruption 
tong since removed, on the authority (as they say) oif the quo- 
tations produced in the note to Coriolanus. See Vol. Vll.p.258. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 205 

But now, as the ballad says, I am turn' d gallant^ 
There does not live that thing I owe a sous tp. 
But does torment me. A faithful cobler told me, 
With his awl in his hand, I was behindhand with 

him 
For setting me upright, and bade me look to 

myself. 
A sempstress too, that traded but in socks, 
Swore she would set a serjeant on my back 
For a borrbw'd shirt : my pay, and the benevo- 
lence 
The governor and the states bestow'd upon me, 
The city cormorants, my money-mongers, 
Have swallow'd down already ;, they were sums, 
I grant, — but thut I should be such a fool, 
Against my oath, being a cashier'd captain, 
To pay debts, though grown up to one and 

twenty. 
Deserves more reprehension, in my judgment. 
Than a shopkeeper, or a lawyer that lends 

money. 
In a long, dead vacation. 

Mont. How do you like 
His meditation ? 

Cham. Peace ! let him proceed. 

Belg. I cannot now go on the score for shame, 
And where I shall begin to pawn — ay, marry, 
That is consider'd timely ! I paid for 
This train qf yours, dame Estridge,' fourteen 

crowns, 
And yet it is so light, 'twill hardly pass 
For a tavern reckoning, unless it be 
To save the charge of painting, naiPd oii a post 
For the sign of the feathers. Pox upon the fashion, 

7 — I paid for 

This train ofyoun^ dame Estridgt^ i. e. this tail; there is some 
' Immour in this iiyelj apostrophe to the ostrich. 



20^ THE triSf NAT URAL COMBAT. 

s 

That a captain cannot thihk himself a captain^ 
If he wear not this, like a fore-horse ! yet it is 

not 
Staple eonntiodiCy : these are perfumed too - 
.O' the Roman wash, and yet a stale red herring 
WouM fill the belly bfetter, and hurt the head 

less : 
And this is Venice gold ; would I had it again 
In French crowns in my pocket ! O you com- 
manders, 
That, like me, have no dead pays, nor can 

cozen 
The commissary at a muster,* let me stand 
For lan example to you ! as you would 
Enjoy your privileges, videlicet^ 
To pay your debts, and take your letchery 

gratis; 
To have youif issue warm'd by others fires; 
To be often drunk, and swear, yet pay no 

forfeit ; 

To the poor, but when you share with one 

another ; 
With all your other choice immunities^: 
Only of this I seriously advise you, 

• — - — you cOfiihidH&erSj 

That; like me, hwoe m dead p^s, rnn' can cozen 
The commissary at a muster^} The " eollUsory- practices here 
alluded to (as Mr. Gilchrist observes) appear not to hay^e bees 
unfrequeut, and indeed, Sir W. D'Averiant, with this, mentions 
many similar corruptions in the '' war department'' . of his 
time: 

" Can you not gull ihe state finely, 

^^ Muster up your ammunition cassocks stuffed with straW| 
*^ Number a hundred forty nine dead pays y 
:^^ And thank heaven ifor your arithmetick? 
^' Cannot you clothe your ragged infantry 
'^ With cabbage leaves? devour the reckonings, 
* *^ And grow fat in the ribs, but you must hinder 
," Poor ancients from eating warm bfeef ?" The Stege\ Adt IH. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. «0y 

Let courtiers' trip like cb^rti«rs, aoiid your lords 
Of dirt and dunghills mete their irooxis and 

acres, ' 

In velvets, satins, tissues ; but keep youi 
Constant to cloth and shamois- 

Mont. Have you. heard 
Of siich a penitent homily ? 

Belg. I am studying now 
Where I shall hide myself till the rumour of 
My wealth and bravery vanish :^ let me see, 
There is a kind of vaulting house not far ofly 
Where I used to spend my afterooonsy amon^v 
Suburb she gamesters; and'yet, nowlthinkon't, 
I have crack 'd a ring or tw^o there^ \?hich they 

made 
Others to solder: : No— — 

Enter a BaAvd, and two Courtezans with two 

Children. 

1 Court. O ! hav-e we spied you ! 
Bawd. Upon him without ceremony \ now^i 
the time, 
While he's in the paying vein. , 

' ^ Court. Save you, brave captain ! 
' Beauf.jun. 'Slight, how he stares ! they ar« 
worse than she- wolves to him. 



^ Let courtier Sykc.~\ The reader wiU sfiiile at' the accnratt 
notions of metre possessed by the former- edlto-rs : thk • and ' tha 
four following lines'stand thus in CoKet^l ^d;Mi:. M* JVIaspn^ . 
Let courtiers trip like courtiers^ ^ 

^ And your lords of dirt and dunghiUs mete * 

Their woods and acres, in velvets, sattins, tissues; < 
But keep you constant to tldtb and shanudsi 

Mont. Have you heard of suph a penitent JiomUyf 

^ My wealth and bravery vanish ;] Bravery is used by alt th# 
writers of Massingcf'^ time, for ostentaiioas fiaery Qf appareL 



c 



«08 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Belg. Shame me not in the streets; I tras 
coming to you. 

1 Court. O sir, you may in pilblick pay for the 

fiddling 
You had iu private. 

2 Court. We hear you are fuU of cro\¥^ns, sir, 

1 Court. And therefore, knowing you are open- 
hande'd, 
Before all be destroy'd, I'll put you in mind, sir, 
Of your young heir here. 

i Court. Here's a second, sir, 
That looks for a child's portion. 

Bawd. There are reckonings . 
For muskadine and eggs too, must be thought on. 

1 Court. We have not been hasty, sir. . 
Bawd. But staid your leisure : 

But now you are ripe, and loaden with fruit- 

2 Court. 'Tis fit you should be pull'd ; here's a 
^ boy, sir. 

Pray you, kiss him, 'tis, your own, sir. 

1 Court. Nay, buss this first. 
It hath just you): eyes; and such a promising 

tiose. 
That if the sign deceive me not, in time 
'Twill prove a notable striker,* like his father* 

Belg. And yet you laid it to another. 

1 Court. True, 
While you were poor • and it was policy ; 
But she that has variety of fathers, ,- 

And makes not choice of him that can maintain it, 
Ne'er studied Aristotle.^ 

Lan. A smart quean ! 

• 'Twill pnyve a notable striker,] A striker;^ is ti watcher: the 
word occurs again in the Parliament of Lofoe. 

^ Ne'er studied Aristotle.'] This has been hidrerto printed^ 
Ne'er studied Aristotle's problems : a prosaick reduDdaiMgr^ o{ 
which eyery reader of Massinger will readily acquit him* 



I 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. SG® 

Belg. Why, braches, will you worry me ?"* 

Q Court No, but ease you ' 
Of your golden burthen ; the heavy carriage njay 
Bring you to a sweating sickness. 

Belg. Very likely ; 
I foam all o'er already. 

1 Court. Will you^ come off, sir?' 

Belg. Would I had ne'er come on ! Hear me 
■ ' with patience,. 

Or I will anger you. Go to, you know me, . 
And do not vex me further : by my sins, 
A4id your diseases, which are certain truths, 
Whate'er you think, I am not master, at 
This instant, of a livre. 1 

2 Court What, and in 
Such a glorious suit ! 

* Belg. ^F%, braches, willt/ou worry fne f ] Abrache is a female 
hound. It is strange to see what quantities of paper have been 
wasted in confounding the sense of this plain word! The pages 
of Shaksp^are, and Jonson, and Fletcher, are incumbered witli 
endless quotations, which generally leave the reader as ignorant 
as they found him. One, however, which has escaped th« 
commentators, at least the material part of It, is worth all th^t 
they have advanced on thp word : " There are in England and 
Scotland two kinds of hunting dogs, and no where else in the 
world; the first kind ^ called a rache^ and this is a foot-scent- 
iftg' creature both of wilde-beasts, birds, and fishes also which 
lie hid among the rocks. The female hereof in En^lanSl is called a 
brache: a brache is A mannerly name for all hound-^i^c^e* ;'^ 
and when we add^or all others, it will be allowed that enough 
hs^ been said on the subject. The Gentleman s Recreation, p. 28^ 

1 Court. If^ill you come off, sir ?] i. e. Will you pay, sir ? 
so the word is used by all our old dramatick writers : 

" ^ \ — -if he 

"In the old justice's suit, whom he robb'd lately, . 
'^ Will cowe ^ roundly, we'll set him free too.*' 

TheWidoxv: 
Agaiia, in the Wedding, by Shirley : 
'- X'^^^ What was the price you took for Gratiana ? 

^^•Did MarwQodco??!^^ roundly with his wages?" 

VOL. I. P . 



210 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT: 

Belg. The Uker, wretched things, 
To have no money. 

Bazvd. You may pawn your clothes, sir. ' 

1 Court. Will you see your issue starve? 

2 Court. Or the mothers be^ ? 

Belg. Why, you unconscionable strumpets, 
would you have me 
Transform my hat to double clouts and biggins? 
My corselet to a cradle? or my belt 
To swaddlebands ? or turn my cloak to blankets? 
Or to sell my sword an4 spurs, for soap aiid 

candles? 
Have you no mercy ? what a chargeable devil 
We carry in our breeches ! 

Beauf. jun. Now 'tis time 
To fetch him off. 

Enter Beaufort senior. 

Mont. Your father does it for us. 

Bawd. The governor ! 

Beatif. sen. What are these ? 

1 Court, An it like your lordship, 
Very poor spinsters. 

Bawd. I am hisi nurse and laundress. 

Belg. You have nurs'd and launder'd me, hell 
take you for it ! 
Vanish ! 
. Cham. Do, do, and talk with him hereafter. 

1 Court. 'Tis our best course. 

2 Court. We'll find a time to fit him. 

[E.veunl Bawd and Courtezans. 
Beauf. sen. Why in this heat, Belgarde ? 
Belg. You are the cause pf 't. 
Beau/, sen. Who, I ? 

Belg. Yes, your pied livery and your gold 
Draw these vexatiops on me ; pray you strip me, 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 211 

And let me be' as I was : I will not lose 
The pleasures and the freedom which I had 
In my certain poverty, for all the wealth 
Fair France is proud pf. 

Beauf. sen. We at better leisure 
Will learn the cause of this. 

Beauf, jun. What answer, sir, 
From the admiral ? 

Beauf . sen. None; his daughter is removed 
To the fort of Montreville, and he himself 
In person fled, but where, is not discover'd ; 
I could tell you wonders, but the time denies me 
Fit liberty. In a word, let it suffice 
The power of our great master is contemn'd, 
The sacred laws of God and man profaned ; 
And if I sit down with this injuryj 
I am unworthy of my place, and thou 
Of my ac"knowledgment : draw Up all the troops; 
As J go, I will instruct you to what purpose. 
Such as have power to punish, and yet spare, 
From fear or from connivance, others ill, 
Though not in act, assist them in their will. 

[Exeunt^ 



> I I ' 



ACT V. SCENE I. 

A Street near Malefort's House. 

.E/2?er Montreville wiM Servants, Theocrine, 

Page, «;2rf Waiting Women. 

Montr. Bind them, and gag their mouths sure ; 
I alone 
Will be your convoy. 
1 Worn. Madam ! 

P2 



212 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 

I 

2 IVom. Dearest lady ! 

Page. Let me fight for my mistress. 

Serv. 'Tis in vain, 
LittlcLCockerel of the kind. 

Montr. Away with them, 
And do as I command you. 
\Exeunt Servants with Page and Waiting JVomen. 

Theoc. Montreville, 
You are my father's friend; nay more, a soldier. 
And if a right one, as I hope to find you, 
Though in a lawful war you had surprised 
A city, that bow'd humbly to your pleasure, 
In honour you stand bound to guard a virgin 
From violence ; but in a free estate. 
Of which you ard a limb, to do a wrong 
Which noble enemies never consent to, 
Is such an insolence- 

Montr. How her heart beats !* 
Much like a partridge in a sparhawk's foot, 
That with a panting silence does lament 
The fate she cannot fly from ! Sweet, take com- 
fort, 
You ^re safe, and nothing is intended to you, 
But love and service. 

Theoc. They came n^ver clothed 
In force and outrage. Upon what assurance 
(Remembering only that my father lives, 
Who will not tamely suffer the disgrace) 
Have yoii presumed to hurry nie from his house. 
And, as I were not worth the waiting on, ' 
To snatch me from the duty and attendance 
Of my poor servants ? 

Montr. Let noH:-that afflict you. 



^ Montr. How her heart heats ! &c. ] This \^ a je^y pretty simile, 
^nd, though hot altogether newj is made striking by the elegance 
with which it is expressed. * ^.. 



\ 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 213 

You shall not want observ^^nce ; I will be 
Your page, your woman, parasite, or fool, 
Or any other property, providei'd 
You answer my affection. 

Theoc. In what kind? 

Montr. As you had done young Beaufort's. 

Theoc. How ! ' 

Montr. So, lady ; 
Or, if the name of wife appear a yoke . 
Too' heavy for your tended neck, so I 
Enjoy you as a private friisnd or mistress, 
'Twill be sufficient. 

Theoc. Blessed angels guard me ! 
What frontless impudence is this ? what devil 
'Hath, to thy certain ruin, tempted thee 
To offer me this motion ? by my hopes 
Of after joys, submission nor repentance 
Shall expiate this foul intent. 

Montr. Intent ! 
'Tis more, I'll make it act. 

Theoc. Ribald,, thou darest not : 
And if (and with a fever to thy soul) 
Thou but consider that I have a father, ' 
And such a father, as, when this arrives af 
His knowledge, as it shall, the terrour of 
His vengeance, which as sure as fate must follow. 
Will make thee curse the hour in which lust ^ 

taught thee 
To nourish these bad hopes ; — and 'tis my wonder 
Thou darest forget bow tender he is of me. 
And that each shadow of wrong done to me, , 
Will raise in him a tempest not to be 
But with thy hfcartTblood calm'd : this, when I see 

him—: r- 

Montr. As thgu shalt never. 

Theoc. WHt thou murder me ? 

Montr. No, no, 'tis otherwise determined, fool. 



214 T HE ITNNAT UR A L C 0MB AT. 

The master which in passion kills his slave 

That may be useful to him, does himself 

The injury : know, thou most wretched creature, 

That father thou presumest upon, that father, 

That, when I sought thee in a noble way, 

Denied thee to me, fancying in his hope 

A higher match from his excess of dotage, 

Hath in his bowels kindled such. a flame 

Of impious and most unnatural lust, 

That now he fears his furious desires 

May force him to do that, he shakes to think on. 

Theoc. O me, mpst wretched \ 

Montr. Never hope again 
To blast him with those eyes : their golden beams 
Are unto him arrows of death and hell. 
But unto me divine artillery. 
And therefore, since what I so long in vain 
Pursued, is offer'd to me, and by him 
Given up to my possession; do not flatter 
Thyself with an imaginary hope, 
But that I'll take occasion by the forelock, 
And make use of my fortune. As we walk, 
I'll tell thee more. 

Theoc. I Avill not stir. 

Montr. I'll force thee. 

Theoc: Help, help ! , 

Montr. In vain. 

Theoc. In me my brother's blood 
Is punish'd at the height. 

Montr. The coach there ! 

Theoc. Dear sir 

Montr. Tears, curses, prayers, are alike tome; 
I can, and must enjoy my present pleasure, 
And shall take time to mourn for it at leisure. 

\Jiie bears her off. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. .215 



SCENE 11. 

I 
/ 

j4 l^pace before the Fort 
Enter Malefort. 

I have play'd the fpol, the gross fool, to believe 
The bosom of a friend will hold a secret, 
Mine own could not contain ;*and my industry 
In taking /liberty from my innocent daughter, 
Out of false hopes of freedom to myself. 
Is, in the little help it yields me, punish'd. 
She's absent, but I have her figure here ; 
And every grace and rarity about her, 
Are by the pencil of my memory, 
In living colours painted on my heart. 
My fires too, a short intlerim closed up, , 
Break out with greater fury; Why was I, 
Since 'twas my fate, and not to be declined, 
In this so tender-cbnscienced? Say I had 
Enjoy'd what I desired, what had it been 
But incest? and there's something here that tells 

me 
I stand acconiptable for greater sins 
I never check'd at/ Neither had the crime 
Wanted a precedent: I have read in story,' 

and t1i€re*s something here that tells me 



I stand acconiptable for gj^eater sins 

I never checked at r\ These dark allusions to a, drea^I fact, 
are introduced with admirable judgment, as they awaken, with, 
out gratifying, the curiosity of the reader, and continue the 
interest of the story. y 

* / have read in story ^ &c.] He had been study- 

ing Ovid* This wretched attempt of Malefort (a Christian, at 
least in name, we may suppose) to palliate, or defend his medi« 
tated crime, by the examples of fabulous deities, menin a ^tate 



/ 



216 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Those first great her6es, that for their/brave deeds 
Were in the world's first infancy styled gocjs, 
Frfeely enjoy'd what I denied myself. 
Old Satumj in the golden age, embraced 
His sister Ops, and, in the same degree, 
The Thunderer Juno, Neptune Thetis, and, 
By their example, after the fii*st delug€, 
Deucalion Pyrrha, Universal nature, 
As every day 'tis evident, allows it 
To creatures of all kinds : the gallant horse 
plovers the mare to which he was the sire ; 
The bird with Vertile seed gives new increase 
To her that hatch'd him : why should envious 

man then 
Brand tliat clo>se act, which adds proxiijiity 
To what's most near him, with the abhorred 

title 
Of incest ? or our later laws forbid 
What by the first was granted ? Let old men, 
That are not capable of these delights, ^ 
And solemn s^perstitious fools, prescribe 
Rules to themselves ; I will not curb my freedomj^ 
But constantly go on, with thi^ a$surance, 
I but walk in a- path which greater nlen 
Have trod before me. Ha !' this is the fojt ; 
Open the gate ! Within, there ! 

Enter ttvo Soldiers. 

'= ■ - ' '' 

1 Sold. With your pardon 

We must forbid your entrance, , 

Malef. Do you know me? 

of nature, and beasts, is a just and striking picture of the eager- 
ness with which a mind resolved on guilt ministers to its own 
deception. This, in theScripture phraseology, is called, "harden- 
ing the heart;" and seems to be the last stage of hutnan depr»- 
"ration. 



T|IE UNNATURAL COMBAT. S17 

SSoid. Perfectly, my lord. 

ifcfa/e/! I am your captain's friei^dl' 

1 Sold. It may be so; but till we* know his 

pleasure, 
You must excuse us. 

2 Sold. We'll acquaint him with 

Your waiting here. ' 

Male/'. Waiting, slave ! he was ever 
By me commanded. 

1 Sold. As we are by him. 

Mdlef. So punctual! pray you then, in my 
name entreat 
His presence. ' , 

2 Sold. That we shall do. [Exeunt 
Malef. I must use 

Some strange persuasions to work him to 
Deliver her, and to forget the vows, 
And horrid oaths I, in my madness, made him 
Take to the contrary: and may I get her 
Once more in my possession, I will bear her 
Into some close cave or desert, where M^e'll 

end 
Our lu&ts and lives together. 

Enter MontrjivilLe, crwrf Soldiers. 

Montr. Fail not, on 
The forfeit of your lives, to execute 
What I command, [Exeunt Soldiers. 

Malef. Montreville! how is't friend ? 

Montr. I am glad to see you wear such cheerful 
looks } 
The world's well alter'd. 



.9 Malef. / afn your captain* s friend.^ Coxeter, following the 
old copy, reads, I am this captairCs friend. Mr. M. Mason altered 
thu to thy: if any change be necessary, of which I am doubtful, 
the word now inserted bids fairest to be genuine, 



220 THE UNNATUR A L COMBAT. 

(Unless in wealth* and fame you were above me) 
Yoil woivher from me; and, her grant obtain'd, 
A marriage with the second waited on 
The burial of the first, that to the world 
Brought your dead son : thislsat tamely down by, 
Wanting, indeed, occasion and power 
Tobe at the height revenged. , 

Malef. Yet this you seem'd 
Freely to pardon, 

Montr. *As perhaps I did. 
Youn daughter Theocrine :growing ripe, 
(Her mother too jdeceased,) and fit for marriage, 
I was a suitor for her, had your word. 
Upon your honour, and our friendship made 
Alithentical, and ratified with an oath. 
She should be mine: but vows with you being like 
To your religion^ a no^ of wax 
To be turn'd every \^ay, that very day 
The governor's son but making his approaches 
Of courtship to her, the wind of your ambition 
For her advancement, scatter'd the thin sand 
In which you wrote your full consent tp me. 
And drew you to his party. What hath pass'd since, 
You bear a register in your own bosom, 
That caa at large inform you, 

Malef. Montreville, 
I do confess all that you charge me with 
To be strong truth, and that I bring a cause 
Most miserably guilty, and acknowledge 
That though y bur goodness made me mine own 

I should not shew the least compassion 

Or mercy to myself. O, Jet not yet 

My foulness taint your pureness, or my falsehood 

Divert the torrent of your loyal faith i 

f (Unlets in wealth, &c,] i. e. Utikss it were tbat in juealthy &c. 



THE UNNATtJR A L COMBAT. 221 

^y ills, if not return'd by yoii, will add 
Lustre to your much good ; and to o'ercome 
With noble sufferance, will express your strength 
And triumph o'er my weakness. If you please too^ 
My black deeds being only known to you, 
And, in surrendering up my daughter, buried, 
You not alone make me your slave, (for I 
At no part do deserve the name of friend,) 
But in your own breast raise a monument 
Of pity to a wretch, on whoni with justice • 
You may express all cruelty. ^ 

Montr. You- much move me. 

Malef. O that I could but hope it ! To revenge 
An injury is proper to the wishes 
Of feeble women, that want strength to act it:' 
But to have power to punish, and yet pardon, . ; 
Peculiar to princes. See ! these kiiees, ' 

That have been ever stiff to bend to heaven, 
To you are supple. Is there aught beyonc^, this 
That niay speak my submission ? or can pride 
(Though I well know it is a stranger to you) 
Desire a feast of more humility, 
To kill her growing appetite? 

Montr. I required not 
To be sought to this poor way;* yet 'tis so far 
A kind of satisfaction, that I will 
Dispense a little with those serious oaths - 



•To revenge 



An injury is proj^er to the wishes 

Of feeble women, that want strength to act it :] 

-^— Quippe mhiuti 

Semper et infirmi est animi eaiguique voluptas 
Ultio. Continub sic collige, qubd vindicta 

Nemo tnagis gamietp qudmfcsmina,'' 

Juv. Saf. xili. 192. 
* Montr. I required not 

To be sought to this poor way;] So the old copy: the modern 
editors^ ignorant of the language of the time, arbitrarily exchange 



232 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

You made me take : your daughter shall come 

to you, 
I will not say, as you delivered her, 
But as she is^ you may dispose of her 
As you shall think most requisite. \_Esit^ 

Mcilef. His last words 
Are riddles tome. Here the lion's force 
Would have proved useless, and, agai nst my nature, 
Compell'd me from the crocodile to borrow 
Her counterfeit tears : there's now no turning 

backward. 
May I but quench these fires that rage within me. 
And fall what can fall, I am arm'd to bear it ! 

jBw^er Soldiers, thnusting forth Tii'E.ocRi^'E.; her 
, garments loose, her hair dishevelled. 

2 Sold. You must be packing. 
, Theoc.HBXh he robb'a me of 
Mine honour, and denies me now a room 
To hide my shame ! 

Q,Sold. My lord the admiral 
Attends your ladyship. 

1 Sold. Close the port, and leave them. 

[Ea^eunt Soldiers. 

to for f«, and thus pervert the sense. To seek to^ is to suppli- 
cate, entreat, have earnest recourse to,^ &c. which is- the mean- 
ing of the t&%i. , 

There was a book, mudh read by our ancestors, from which, 
as being the pure well-head of English prose, they derived a 
number of phrases that have sorely puzzled their descendants. 
This book, which is fortunately still in existence, is the Bible: 
and I venture to affirm, without fear of contradiction, that 
those old fashioned people who have studied it well, are as com- 
petent judges of the meaning of our ancient writers, as most of 
the devourers of bluck literature, from Theobald to Steevens. 
The expression in the tent frequently occurs in it : " And 
Asa was diseased in his feet — yet in his disease he sought not to 
tbe Lord, but to the phy^ciails." 2* Chron. xvi. 12. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 32a 

Malef. Ha ! wbo is this ? how alter'd \ ho^ 
deform'd ! ' 

It cannot be : and yet this creature has 
A kind of a resemblance to my daughter, 
My Theocrine ! but as different 
From that she was, as bodies dead are, in 
Their best perfections, from what they were 
When they had life and motion. 

Theoc, 'Tis most true, sir; 
I am dead indeed to all but misery. 

come not near mc, sir, I am infectious : 
To look on meat distance, is as dangerous 
As from a pinnacle's cloud-kissing spire. 
With giddy eyes to view the steep descent; 
But to acknowledge me, a certain ruin. 

O, sir ! 

Malef. Speak, Theocrine, force me not 
To further question ; my fears already 
Have choked my vital spirits. 

Theoc. Pray you turn away 
Your face and hear me, and with my last breath: 
Give me leave to accuse you : What offence. 
From my first infancy, did I commit. 
That for a punishment you should give up 
My virgin chastity to the treacherous guard 
Of goatish Montreville? 

Malef. What hath he done ? 

Theoc. Abused me, sir, by violence; and this 
told, 

1 cannot live to speak more: may the cause 
In you fipd pardon, but the speeding curse 
Of a ravish'd maid fall hedvy, heavy on him ! 
Beaufort, my lawful love, farewell for ever. \Dies. 

Malef. Take not thy flight so soon, immacu- 
late spirit ! 
'Tis fled already. — How the innocent, 
As in a gentle slumber, pass away ! 



I 



fiS4 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT/ 

But to cut off the knotty thread of life 

In guilty men, mi^st force stern Atrqpos . 

To use her sharp knife often. I would help 

The edge of her's with the sharp point pf mine, 

But that I dare not die, till I have rent 

This dog's heart piecemeal. O, that I had wings 

To scale these walls, or that my hands were 

cannons, 
To bore their flinty sides! That I might bring 
The villain in the reach of my good sword ! 
The Turkish empire ofFerM for his ransome, 
Should not redeem his life. O that my voice 
Were loud as thunder, and with horrid sounds - 
Might force a dreadful passage to his ears. 
And through them reach his soul ! Libidinous 

monster ! 
Foul ravisher ! as tKou durst do a deed 
Which forced the sun to hide hh gloriousjFace 
Behind a sable mask of clouds, appear, 
And as a man defend it; or, like me, 
Shew some compunction for it. 

Enter Montreville on the f Falls above. 

Montr. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Malef. Is this an object to raise mirth ? 

Montr. Yes, yes. ^ - 

Maltf. My daughter's dead. 

Montr. Thou hadst best follow her ; 
Or if thou art the thing thou art reported, 
Thou shouldst have -led the way. Do tear thy 

hair, 
Like a village nurse, and mourn, while I laugh at 

. thee. 
Be but a just examiner of thyself. 
And in an equal balance poize the nothings 
Or little mischief I have done, compared 



, ^ 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 4fL$ 

With the ponderous weight of thine: and how 

canst thou 
Accuse or argue with me ? mine was a rape, 
And she being in a kind contracted to me,^ 
The fact may challenge some qualification : 
But thy intent made nature's self run backward, 
And done, had caused an earthquake. 

jEw^er Soldiers above. 

\ Sold. Captain ! 

Montr. Ha ! 

2 Sold. Our outworks are surprised, the centinel 
slain, 
The corps de guard defeated too. 

Montr. By whom? 

1 Sold. The sudden storm and darkness of the 
night 
Forbids the knowledge,- make up speedily, ' 
Or all is lost. [Exeunt. 

Montr. In the devil's name, whence comes 

this ? [Exit. 

[A storm; with thunder and lightning. 

Malef. Do, do rage on ! rend open, iEolus, 
Thy brazen prison, and let loos6 at once 
Thy stormy issue ! Blustering Boreas, 
Aided with all the gales the pilot numbers 
Upon his compass, cannot raise a tempest 
Through the vast region of the air, like that 
I feel within me : for I am possess'd 
With whirlwinds, and each guilty thought to meis 
A dreadful hurricano.* Though this centre 

' A dreadfulhnrricano,^ So the old copy, and rightly: the 
modern editors prefer hunicane, a simple improyement, which 
merely destroys the metre! How they contrived to read the 
line, thus printed, I cannot conceive. With respect to hurricane^ 
I doubt whether it was much in use in.Massinger's time; h» ' 
VOL. I. Q 



326 THE tNNATURAL COMBAT. 

Labour to bring forth earthquakes, atid hell open 
Her wide-stretch'd jaws, a^d let out all her furies, 
Thev cannot add an atom to the mountain 
Of fears and terrours that each minute threaten 
To fall on my accursed head. 

Enter the Ghost of jpung Malefqrt, naked from 
the waist ^ full of wounds^ leading in the Sfiadatt of 
a Lady, her face leprous. 

Ha ! is''t fancy ?^ 
Or hath hell heard me, and makeS proof if I 
Dare stand the trial ? Yes, I do ; and now 
I view these apparitions, I feel 
I once did know the substances. For what come 

^you? 
Are your aerial forma deprived of language, 
.And so denied to tell me, that by signs 

\The Ghosts use several gestures. 
You bid me ask here of myself?* 'Tis so : 
And there is something here makes answer for 

you. 
You- come to lance my sear'd-up conscience ; 

yes,. 
And to instruct me, that those thunderbolts. 
That hurl'd me headlong from the height of 

glory, 
Wealth, honours, worldly happiness, were forged 
Upon the anvil of my impious wrongs 
And cruelty to you ! I do confess it ; 
And that my lust compelling me to make way 
For tf* second wife, I poisgny f hee ; and that 

a.iid .his coi^temporaries :;almost inyariably write hurrkano, 
just as they received it from the Portuguese narrators of 
Toyages, &c. < ^ 

' "^'Yxm bid me ask' here of myself fl AiiitT»x«?, pointing to his 
. breast , 



THE UNNATCRAL GOMBAT. ?27 

The cause '(which to the world is undiscovered) 
That forced thee to shake off thy filial duty 
To me, thy father, had its spring and source 
From thy impatience, to know thy mother,. 
That with all duty and obedience served me, 
(For now with horrour I acknowledge it,) 
Removed unjustly : yet, thou being my son, 
Wert not a competent judge mark'd out by 

heaven 
For her revenger, which thy falling by 
My weaker hand confirm'd. — [Anszcered still by 

signs.'] — 'Tis granted by -thee. 
Can any penance expiate my guilt, 
Or can repentance save me ?— 

[The Ghosts disappear. 
They are vanish'd ! 
What^s left tp do then ? I'll accuse my fate, 
That did not fashion me for nobler uses : 
tor if those stars, cro$s .to me in my birth, 
Had not denied their prosperous influence to it, 
With peace of conscience, like to innocent men, 
I might have ceased to be, and not as now. 
To curse my causte of being — — 

[He is kiWd with a flash of lightning. 

Enter Belgarde, with Soldiers. 

Belg. Here's a night i 

To season my silks ! Buff-jerkin, now I miss thee ; v 
Thou hast endured many foul nights, but nreVer 
One like to this* How fine my feather looks now ! 
Just like a capon's tail stol'u out of the pen, 
And hid in the sink; and yet 'thad been dishonour 
To have charged without jjl:.«»^Wilt thou never 
cease?/ 

7 Wilt thou never cease J] This short a|u>stropbe is addressed 
to the storm. 

Q2 



838 THE UNNATURAL. CO MBAT. 

Is the petard, as I gave directions, fasten'd 
On thie portcullis ? 

I Sold. It hath been attempted 
By divers, but in vain, 

Bel^. These are your gallants, 
That at a feast take the first place, poor I 
Hardly allow'd to follow ; marry, in 
* These foolish businesses they are content 
That,! shall have precedence : I much thank 
Their manners, or their fear. Second me, soldiers; 
Thev have had no time to undermine, or if 
They have, it is but blowing up, and fetching 
A caper or two in the air ; and I will do it, 
Rather than blow my nails here. 

Q Sold^ O brave captain ! [Ejpeunt. 

/ 

An Alarum ; noise and cries within. After afiourishy 
enter Br aufort senior^ Beau fort Jwmor, Mon- 
taigne, Chamont, Lanour, Belgarde, and 
Soldiers tiri/^ MoNTREviLLE. 

Montr • Racks cannot force more from me than 
I have 
Already told you : I expect no favour; 
I have cast up my accompt. 

BeauJ. sen. Take you the charge 
Of the fort, Belgarde ; your dangers have de- 
I served it. 

Belg. I thank your excellence; this will keep 
me safe yet 
From being puU'd by the sleeve, and bid remember 
The thing I wot of. 

; Beauf.jun. AW that have eyes to weep. 
Spare oiie tear witkoyie. Theocrine's dead. . 
, Mont): HtT father too lies breathless here, I 
thmk 
Struck dead Vith thunder. 



THE UNNATURAX COMBAT; 229 

Cham. 'Tis apparent t Show 
His carcass smells ! 

Lan. His face is alter'd to 
Another colour. ' . 

Beaiif.Jun. But here's one retains 
Her native innocence, that never yet 
Call'd down heaven's anger. 

Beauf. sen,, 'Tis in vain to niqurn 
For what's past help. We will refer, bad man, 
Your sentence to the king. May we make use of 
This great example, and learn from it, that 
There cannot be a want of power above, 
To punish murder, and unlawful love ! 

^ [Ejceunt.^ 



' This Play opens with considerable* interest atid vigour ; but 
the principal action is quickly exhausted by its own brisUiiess. 
The Unnatural Combat ends early in the second act, and leaves the 
reader at a loss what further to expect. The remaining part, at 
least from the beginning of the fourth act, might be called the 
Unnatural Attachment. Yet the two subjects are not without 
connexion ; and this id afforded chiefly by the projected mar- 
riage of young Beaufort and Theocrine, which Malefort urges 
as the consequence of his victory. 

The piece is therefore to be considered not so much in its 
plot, as in its characters; and these are drawn with great force, 
and admirable discrimination. The pity felt at first for old 
Malefort, is soon changed into horrour and detestation ; while the 
dread inspired by the son is somewhat relieved by the suspicion 
that he avenges the cause of a murdered mother. Their parley 
is as terrible as their combat ; and^ they encounter with a fury 
of passion and a deadliness of hatred approaching to savage na- 
ture. — Claudian will almost describe them : — 
Torcus aper^fulvusque leo coiere superbis 
Viribus ; hie setd sceviory iUejubd, 
On the other hand, Montreville artfully conceals his enmity till 
he can be '^ at the height revenged." Deprived of Theocrine by 
Malefort's treachery, he yet appears his '' bosom friend," ofiers 
to be his second in the combat, on aqcount of their tried a£fec« 
tion " from his infancy," and seems even to recommend the 
marriage of Theocrine with his rival. To Theocrine herself, 
who can less comprehend his designs, he shews some glimpses of 



r ' 



230 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 

spleen from the beginning. He takes a malignant pleasure in 
wounding her delicacy with light and ricions talking ; and when 
at length he has possession of her person, and is preparing the 
dishonour, which ends in he^r death, he talks to her of his Til-> 
lainous purpose with a coolness which shews him determined on 
his rerenge, and secure oHts accomplishment. 

. Theocrine herself is admirable throughout the piece. She has 
a true yirgin modesty, and, perhaps, one of the best marks of 
modesty, a true yirgin frankness. We admire her fearless purity 
Of thought, her filial reverence, and her, unconsciousness of the 
Iniquity that approaches her ; and we are filled with the most 
tender concern for the indignities to which she is exposed, and 
the fate which she suffers. 

Among the lighter characters, Montaigne, Chamont, and 
Lanour are well drawn. They are some of those insignificant 
people who endeavour to support themselves in society by a ready 
subjection to the will of others.- When Malefort is on his trial^ 
they are glad to be his accusers; and it is allowed that they 
*^ push him hard.^' After his victory, they are most eager to 
profess themielves'his fri^ds and admirers. .When he. is in his 
moody humour, th^y jsooth him, that being the ^^ safest course ;" * 
and when Beaufort at length takes up the neglected Belgarde, 
they are ,the first to lavish their money upon him« 

' Dr. IiiiiLANn. 

* This consistency in their insipid characters would of itsdf determine t^ 
^ivtiom these words belong, if the editor had not given them to Chamont on othcf 
accounts. See p. 179* i 



•\ 



'I w ^ 



THE 



DUKE OF MILAN, 



TO ' 

The Right Honourable, and much esteemed for her high 
birth, but more admired for her virtue, 

THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE, 

WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, 
BARON OF SHELFORD. 

MADAM, 

If I were not most assured that works of this nature have 

found both patronage and protection amongst the greatest 

princesses* of Italy y and are at this day cherished by persons 

most eminent in our kingdom , I should not presume to offer 

these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar ofyimr 

favour. Let the example ofothers^more knowing, and more 

experienced in this kindness (if my boldness offend) plead my 

pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left me 

(my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to 

the world (if it hold the least good opinion of me) that I am 

ever your ladyship's creature. Fouchsafe, therefore, with 

the never-failing clemency of your noblt disposition, not to 

contemn ^t he tender of his duty, who, while he is, will ever be 

jin humble Servant to your 

Ladyship, and yours. ^ 

PHILIP MJSSINGER. 



I 

( 



* Vrincesses'] So the quarto 1623. That of 1638 exhibits 
princes^ which Coxeter^ and consequently M. Mason, follows. 



. i 



The Duke of Milan.] Of this iTragedy there are two edi-v x 
tions in quartp y the first, which is very correct, and now very rare, 
bears date 1623 ; the other, of little value, 1638. It does not 
appear in the Oflice-book of the licenser; from which, and its 
being without prologue or epilogue, we may be certain that it 
was among the author's earliest performances. 

The plot, as the editor of the Companion to the Play House 
6bserves, is founded on Guicciardini, Lib. viii. It should be 
added, however, that by this expression nothing more must bo 
understood than that a leading circumstance or two is taken 
from the historian. There was certainly a struggle in Italy 
between the emperor and the king of France, in which the duke 
of Milan sided with the latter, who was defeated a,nd taken 
prisoner at the fatal battle of Pavia. The rest the poet has 
supplied, as suited his design. Charles was not in Italy when, 
this victory was gained by his generals ; and the final restora- 
tion pf the Milanese to Sforza^tpok place at a period long sub-^ 
sequent to that event. The duke is named Ludovico in the list 
of dramatis personae ; and it is observable that Massinger, either 
from oversight or design, has entered with great accuracy into 
the vigorous and active character of that' prince : he, however, 
had long been dead, and Francis Sforza, the real agent in 
this play, was little capable of the spirited part here allotted to 
him. The Italian writers term him a weak and irresolute 
prince, the sport of fortune, and the victim of indecision. 

The remainfng part of the, plot is from Josephus's History of 
the Jews^ lib. xv. ch. 4 ; an interesting story, which has been 
told in many languages, and more than once in our own. The 
last piece on the subject was, I believe, the Mariamne of Fenton, 
which, though infinitely inferiour to the Duke of Milan, was, as 
I have heard, very well received. 

That Fenton had read Massinger before he wrote his tragedy, 
is certain from internal evidence ; there are not, however, many 
marks of similarity : on the whole, the former is as cold, unin- 
teresting, and improbable, as the latter is ardent, natural, and 
afiecting. Massinger has but two deaths; while, in Fenton, 
six out of eleven personages perish, with nearly as much rapi- 
dity, and as little necessity, as the heroes of Tom Thumb or 
Chrononhotonthohgos. . 

It is said, in the title-page, to have " been often acted by his 
Majesty's Servants at the Black Friars." Either through igno- 
rance or disingenuity, Coxeter and M. Mason represent it as 
frequeiitly performed in 1623, giving, as in every other instanpe, 
the time of publication for that of its appearance on the stage. 



TO ' 

J%e Right Honourable, and much esteemed for her high 
birth, but more admired for her virtue, 

THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE, 

WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, 
BARON OF SHELFORD. 

MADAM, 

If I were not most assured that works of this nature have 

found Both patronage and protection amongst the greatest 

princesses* of Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons 

most eminent in our kingdom, I should not presume to offer 

these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar of your 

favour. Let the example ofothers^more knowing, and more 

experienced in this kindness (if my boldness offend) plead my 

pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left me 

(my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to 

the world (if it hold the least good opinion of me) that I am 

ever your ladyship's creature. Vouchsafe, therefore, with 

the never-failing clemency of your noble disposition, not to 

contemn ^the tender of his duty, who, while he is, will ever be 

jin humble Servant to your 

Ladyship, and yours. ^ 

PHILIP MJSSINGER. 



I 

( 



* Vrincesses'] So the quarto 1623. That of 1638 exhibits 
princes^ which Coxeter^ and consequently M. Mason, follows. 



The Duke of Milan,] Of this iTragedy there are two edi-v v 
tions in quartp y the first, which is very correct, and now very rare, 
bears date 1623; the other, of little value, 1638. It does not 
appear in the Office-book of the licenser ; from which, and its 
being without prologue or epilogue, we may be certain that it 
was among the author's earliest performances. 

The plot, as the editor of the Companion to the Play House 
6bserves, is founded on Guicciardini, Lib. viii. It should be 
added, however, that by this expression nothing more must bo 
understood than that a leading circumstance or two is taken 
from the historian. , There was certainly a struggle in Italy 
between the emperor and the king of France, in which the duke 
of Milan sided with the latter, who was defeated and taken 
prisoner at the fatal battle of Pavia. The rest the poet has 
supplied, as suited his design. Charles was not in Italy when, 
this victory was gained by his generals ; and the final restora- 
tion pf the Milanese to Sforza^tpok place at a period long sub^^ 
sequent to that event. The duke is named Ludovico in the list 
of dramatis personae ; and it is observable that Massinger, either 
from oversight oir design, has entered with great accuracy into 
the vigorous and active character of that' prince : he, however, 
had long been dead, and Francis Sforza, the real agent in 
this play, was little capable of the spirited part here allotted to 
him. The Italian writers term him a weak and irresolute 
prince, the sport of fortune, and the victim of indecision. 

The remainfug part of the. plot is from Josephus's flistory of 
the Jews^ lib. xv. ch. 4 ; an interesting story, which has been 
told in many languages, and more than once in our own. The 
last piece on the subject was, I believe, the Mariamne of Fenton, 
which, though infinitely inferiour to the Duke of MilaUf was, as 
I have heard, very well received. 

That Fenton had read Massinger before he wrote his tragedy, 
is certain from internal evidence ; there are not, however, many 
marks of similarity : on the whole, the former is as cold, unin- 
teresting, and improbable, as the latter is ardent, natural, and 
afiecting. Massinger has but two deaths; while, in Fenton, 
six out of eleven personages perish, with nearly as much rapi- 
dity, and as little necessity, as the heroes of Tom Thumb or 
Chrononhotonthologos. . 

It is said, in the title-page, to have " been often acted by his 
Majesty's Servants at the Black Friars." Either through igno- 
rance or disingenuity, Coxeter and M. Mason represent it as 
frequeiitly performed in 1623, giving, as in every other instance, 
the time of publication for that of its appearance on the stage. 



TO ' 

The Right Honourable, and much esteemed for her high 
birth, but more admired for her virtue, 

THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE, 

WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, 
BARON OF SHEUFORD. 

MADAM, 

If I were not most assured that works of this nature have 

found both patronage and protection amongst the greatest 

princesses* of Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons 

most eminent in our kingdom, I should not presume to offer 

these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar of your 

favour. Let the example ofothers^more knowing, and more 

experienced in this kindness (if my boldness offend) plead my 

pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left me 

(my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to 

the world (if it hold the least good opinion of me) that I am 

ever your ladyship's creature, Fouchsafe, therefore, with 

the never-failing clemency of your noblt disposition, not to 

contemn ^t he tender of his duty, wlio, while he is, will ever be 

jin humble Servant to your 

Ladyship, and yours. ^ 

PHILIP MJSSINGER. 



t 

\ 



* Princesses'] So the quarto 1623. That of 1638 exhibits 
princes^ which Coxeter^ and consequently M. Mason, follows. 



The Duke of Milan.] Of this ^tragedy there are two edi-v x 
tions in quartp y the first, which is very correct, and now very rare, 
bears date 1623 ; the other, of little value, 1638. It does not 
appear in the Oflice-book of the licenser ; from which, and its 
being without prologue or epilogue, we may be certain that it 
was among the author's earliest performances. 

The plot, as the editor of the Companion to the Flay House 
observes, is founded on Guicciardini, Lib. viii. It should be 
added, however, that by this expression nothing more must be 
understood than that a leading circumstance or two is taken 
from the historian. There was certainly a struggle in Italy 
between the emperor and the king of France, in which the duke 
of Milan sided with the latter, who was defeated ^and taken 
prisoner at the fatal battle of Pavia. The rest the poet has 
supplied, as suited his design. Charles was not in Italy when, 
this victory was gained by his generals ; and the final restora- 
tion pf the Milanese to Sforza took place at a period long sub^^ 
sequent to that event. The duke is named Ludovico in the list 
of dramatis personae ; and it is observable that Massinger, either 
from oversight or design, has entered with great accuracy into 
the vigorous and active character of that' prince : he,, however, 
had long been dead, and Francis Sforza, the real agent in 
this play, was little capable of the spirited part here allotted to 
him. The Italian writers term him a weak and irresolute 
prince, the sport of fortune, and the victim of indecision. 

The remaining part of the plot is from Josephus's History of 
the Jews^ lib. xv. ch. 4 ; an interesting story, which has been 
told in many languages, and more than once in our own. The 
last piece on the subject was, I believe, the Mariamne of Fenton, 
which, though infinitely inferiour to the Duke of MilaUf was, as 
I have heard, very well received. 

That Fenton had read Massinger before he wrote his tragedy, 
is certain from internal evidence ; there are not, however, many 
marks of similarity : on the whole, the former is as cold, nnin« 
teresting, and improbable, as the latter is ardent, natural, and 
afiecting. Massinger has but two deaths; while, in Fenton, 
six out of eleven personages perish, with nearly as much rapi- 
dity, and as little necessity, as the heroes of Tom Thumb or 
Chrononhotojtthologos. 

It is said, in the title-page, to have " been often acted by his 
Majesty's Servants at the Black Friars." Either through igno- 
rance or disingenuity, Coxeter and M. Mason represent it as 
frequeiitly performed in 1623, giving, as in every other instance, 
the time of publication for that of its appearance on the stage. 



TO ' 

The Right Honourable, and much esteemed for her high 
birth, but more admired for her virtue, 

THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE, 

WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, 
BARON OF SHELFORD. 

MADAM, 

If I were not most assured that works of this nature have 

fdund both patronage and protection amongst the greatest 

princesses* of Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons 

most eminent in our kingdom, I should not presume to offer 

these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar of your 

favour, Let the example ofothers^ more knowing, and more 

experienced in this kindness (if my boldness offend) plead my 

pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left me 

(my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to 

the world (if it hold the least good opinion of me) that I am 

ever your ladyship's creature, Vouchsafe, therefore, with 

the never-failing clemency of your nobh disposition, not to 

contemn Jt he tender of his duty, wlu), while he is, will ever be 

, An humble Servant to your 

Ladyship, and yours, ^ 

PHILIP MJSSINGER. 



I 
I 



* Vrincesses'] So the quarto 1623. That of 1638 exhibits 
princes^ which Coxeter^ and consequently M. Mason, follows. 



The Duke of Milan.] Of this iTragedy there are two edi-v v 
tions in quartp y the first, which is very correct, and now very rare, 
bears date 1623 ; the other, of little value, 1638. It does not 
appear in the Office-book of the licenser; from which, and its 
being without prologue or epilogue, we may be certain that it 
was among the author's earliest performances. 

The plot, as the editor of the Companion to the Play House 
6bserves, is founded on Guicciardini, Lib. viii. It should be 
added, however, that by this expression nothing more must bo 
understood than that a leading circumstance or two is taken 
from the historian. , There was certainly a struggle in Italy 
between the emperor and the king of France, in which the duke 
of Milan sided with the latter, who was defeated and taken 
prisoner at the fatal battle of Pavia. The rest the poet has 
supplied, as suited his design. Charles was not in Italy when, 
this victory was gained by his generals ; and the final restora- 
tion pf the Milanese to Sforza^tpok place at a period long sub-^ 
sequent to that event. The duke is named Ludovico in the list 
of dramatis personae ; and it is observable that Massinger, either 
from oversight or design, has entered with great accuracy into 
the vigorous and active character of that' prince : he^ however, 
had long been dead, and Francis Sforza, the real agent in 
this play, was little capable of the spirited part here allotted to 
him. The Italian writers term him a weak and irresolute 
prince, the sport of fortune, and the victim of indecision. 

The remainfng part of the plot is from Josephus's History of 
the Jews^ lib. xv. ch. 4 ; an interesting story, which has been 
told in many languages, and more than once in our own. The 
last piece on the subject was, I believe, the Mariamne of Fenton, 
which, though infinitely inferiour to the Duke of MilaUf was, as 
I have heard, very well received. 

That Fenton had read Massinger before he wrote his tragedy, 
is certain from internal evidence ; there are not, however, many 
marks of similarity : on the whole, the former is as cold, unin« 
teresting, and improbable, as the iatter is ardent, natural, and 
afiecting. Massinger has but two deaths; while, in Fenton, 
six out of eleven personages perish, with nearly as much rapi- 
dity, and as little necessity, as the heroes of Tom Thumb or 
Chronanhotoitthologos* . 

It is said, in the title-page, to have " been often acted by his 
Majesty's Servants at the Black Friars." Either through igno- 
rance or disingenuity, Coxeter and M. Mason represent it as 
frequeiitly performed in 1623, giving, as in every other instance, 
the time of publication for that of its appearance on the stage. 



TO ' 

The jRight Honourable, and much esteemed for her high 
birth, but more admired for her virtue, 

THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE, 

WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, 
BARON OF SHELFORD. 

MADAM, 

If I were not most assured that works of this nature have 

found both patronage and protection amongst the greatest 

princesses* of Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons 

most eminent in our kingdom, I should not presume to offer 

these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar ofy(sur 

favour. Let the example ofothers^more knowing, and more 

experienced in this kindness (if my boldness offend) plead my 

pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left me 

(my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to 

the world (if it hold the least good opinion of me) that lam 

ever your ladyship's creature, Fouchsafe, therefore, with 

the never-failing clemency of your noble disposition, not to 

contemn f he tender of his duty, who, while he is, will ever be 

An humble Servant to your 

Ladyship, and yours* ^ 

PHILIP MJSSINGER. 



t 
I 



\ 
I 



* Princesses^ So the quarto 1623. That of 1638 exhibits 
princesy which Goxeter^ and consequently M. Mason, follows. 



, / 



The Duke of Milan.] Of this Tragedy there are two edi-^ ^ 
tions in quartp y the first, which is very correct, and now very rare, 
bears date 1623 ; the other, of little value, 1638. It does not 
appear in the Office-book of the licenser ; from which, and its 
being without prologue or epilogue, we may be certain that it 
was among the author's earliest performances. 

The plot, as the editor of the Companion to the Flay House 
6bserves, is founded on Guicciardini, Lib. viii. It should be 
added, however, that by this expression nothing more must be 
understood than that a leading circumstance or two is taken 
from the historian. There was certainly a struggle in Italy 
between the emperor and the king of France, in which the duke 
of Milan sided with the latter, who was defeated ^nd taken 
prisoner at the fatal battle of Pavia. The rest the poet has 
supplied, as suited his design. Charles was not in Italy when, 
this victory was gained by his generals ; and the final restora- 
tion pf the Milanese to Sforza^tpok place at a period long sub«i 
sequent to that event. The duke is named Ludovico in the list 
of dramatis personae ; and it is observable that Massinger, either 
from oversight oir design, has entered with great accuracy into 
the vigorous and active character ef that' prince : he, however, 
had long been dead, and Francis Sforza, the real agent in 
this play, was little capable of the spirited part here allotted to 
him. The Italian writers term him a weak and irresolute 
prince, the sport of fortune, and the victim of indecision. 

The remaining part of the plot is from Josephus's History of 
the Jews J lib. xv. ch. 4 ; an interesting story, which has been 
told in many languages, and more than once in our own. The 
last piece on the subject was, I believe, the Mariamne of Fenton, 
which, though infinitely inferiour to the Duke of Milan, was, as 
I have heard, very well received. 

That Fenton had read Massinger before he wrote his tragedy, 
is certain from internal evidence ; there are not, however, many 
marks of similarity : on the whole, the former is as cold, unin- 
teresting, and improbable, as the latter is ardent, natural, and 
affecting. Massinger has but two deaths; while, in Fenton, 
six out of eleven personages perish, with nearly as much rapi- 
dity, and as littie necessity, as the heroes of Tom Thumb or 
Chrononhotojithologos. . 

It is said, in the title-page, to have ^' been often acted by his 
Majesty's Servants at the Black Friars." Either through igno- 
rance or disingenui ty, Coxeter and M. Mason represent it as 
frequently performed in 1623, giving, as in every other instanpe, 
the time of publication for that of its appearance on the stage. 



TO 

T%e Right Honourable, and much esteemed for her high 
birth, but more admired for her virtue, 

THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE, 

WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, 

I 

BARON OF SHELFORD. 

MADAM, 

dF I were not most assured that works of this nature have 

found both patronage and protection amongst the greatest 

princesses* of Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons 

most eminent in our kingdom, I should not presume to offer 

these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar of your 

favour. Let the example of others, more knowing, and more 

experienced in this kindness (if my boldness offend) plead my 

pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left me 

(my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to 

the world (if it hold the least good opinion of me) that lam 

ever your ladyship's creature, Fouchsafe, therefore, with 

the never-failing clemency of your nobh disposition, not to 

tontemnfhe tender of his duty, wlio, while he is, will ever be 

jin humble Servant to your 

Ladyship, and yours. ^ 

PHILIP MJSSINGER. 



* Princesses'] So the quarto 1623, That of 1638 exhibits 
princesy which Coxeter^ and consequently M. Mason, follows. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. i 

Ludovico Sforza, dukt o/* Milan. 
Francisco, hU especial firoourite. ^ . 

11 erio, 1 ^^^^^ ^r f^^g council, 

Stepnano, J ^ 

Gi^ccho, a creature o/* Mariana. 

u lo, \cQur tiers. 

Giovanni, / * . 

Charles the emperor. 

iPescara; an imperialist^ but a friend to Sforza. 

Hernando, "^ 

Medina, > captains to the emperor. 

Alphonso,' J 

Three Gentlemen. ' 

>An O^cer. 

Two Doctors. Two Couriers. 

Marcelia, the dutchesSy mife to Sforza. 

Isabella, mother to Sforza. 

Mariana, wife to Francisco, and sister to Sforza. 

Eugenia, sister to Francisco. 

A Gentlewoman. 

A Gudrdy Servants^ Fiddler s^ Attendants. 

SCENE J for the first and second acts, in Milan ; 
during part of the third, in the Imperial Camp 
near Pavia ; the rest of the plajfy in Milan, and 
its neighbourhood. ^ 



. t 



THE 



DUKE OF MILAN. 



S5S 



ACT I. SCENE I. 

Milan. An outer Room in the Castle:^ 

Enter Graccho, Julio, ii;?rf Giovanni," wi^A 

^ Flaggons. 

Grac Take every man his flaggon: give the 
oath 
To all you meet; lam this day the state-druijkard, 
I'm sure against my will; and if you find 
A man at ten that's sober, he's a traitor, 
And, in my name, arrest him, 

' Milan. An outer Room in the Castle,'] The old copies hare 
no distinction of scenery ; indeed, they could have none ¥p;ith 
their miserable platform and raised gallery, bat what was furnished 
by a board with Milan or Rhodes painted upon it. I have ven- 
tared to supply it, in conformity to the modern mode of printing 
Shakspeare, and to consult th'e ease of the general reader. I 
know not what pricked forward ,Coxeter, but he thought (tfoper 
(for the first time) to be precise in this Play, and specify the 
,place of action. I can neither compliment him upon his judg- 
ment,' nor Mr. M. Mason upon his good sense in following him : 
the description here is, '', Scene y a. public Faldce in Pisa," Pisa! 
a place which is not once mentioned, nor even hinted at, in the 
whole play. * 

^ Julio, and GioVanni,] These are not found among the ol4 
dramatis personae, nor are they of much importance. In a sub- 
sequent scene, where they make their appearance as \st and ^d 
Gentlemen^ I have taken the liberty to name them again. Jorcio, 
which stood in this scene, appears to be a misprint for Julio. 



236 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Jul. Very good, sir: 
But, say he be a sexton? 

Orac, If the bells 
Ring out of tune,' as if the street were burning. 
And he cry, 'Tis rare musick ; bid him sleep : 
'Tis a sign he has ta'en his liquor ; and if you meet 
An officer preaching of sobriety, 
Unless he read it in Geneva print,* , 
Lay him by the heels. 

Jul. But think you 'tis a fault 
To be found sober? 

Grac. It is capital treason ; 
Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay 
Forty crowns to the poor : but give a pension 
To all the magistrates you find singing catches, 
Or their wives dancing ; for the courtiers reeling, 
And the duke himself, Idare not say distemper'd,* 
But kind, and in his tottering chair carousing, 
They do the country service. If you meet 
One thit eats bread, a child of ignorance, 

5 Grac. If the bells 

Ring o\it of tune, &c. J i. e. backward : the usual signal of 
alarm, pn the breaking out of fires. So in the Captain : 

'' — I certainly, my body 

'' Is all a wildfire, for my head rings hackwardJ*^ 
Again : in the City Match : 

u Then, sir, in time 

'' You may be remember'd at the quenching of 
'' Fired houses, when the bells ring bac'kwardj by 
^^ Your name upon the buckets." 

4 Unless he read it in Geneva />m^,] Alluding to the spirituous 
liquor so called. M. Mason. 

5 — / dare not say distemper'd,] i. e. intoxicated : so the 

word is frequeiitly used by our old writers. Thus Shirley : 

^' Clear, My lord, he's gone. 
^'Lod. How? 
'^ Clear. Distempered. 

<< Lod. Not with wine ?" The Grateful Servant. 
It occurs also in Hamlet. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. / 237 

And. bred up in the darkness of no drinking, 
Against his will you may initiate him 
In the true posture; though he die in the taking 
His drench, it skills not:* what's a private man, 
For thfi publick honour? We've nought else ta 

think on: 
And so, dear friends, copartners in my travails, 
Drinkhard ; and let the health run through the city^ 
Until it reel again, and with me cry. 
Long live the dutchess ! ' 

Enter Tiberio and Stephano. ^ 

Jul. Here are two lords; — what think you ? 
Shall we give the oath to them ? 

Grac. Fie ! no : I know them, 
You need not swear them; your lord^ by hi3 

patent, 
Stands boiind to take his rouse/ Long live the 
dutchess! \Exeuht Grac. Jul. and Gio. 

Steph. The cause of this? but yesterday the 
court 
Wore the sad livery of distrust and fear ; 
No smile, not in a buffoon to be seen. 
Or common jester: the great duke himself 
Had sorrow in his face; which, waited on 
By his mother, sister, and his fairest dutchess. 
Dispersed a silent mourning through all Milan; 

6 , though he die in the taking 

His drench^ it skills not: &c.] It matters or signifies not. So 
in the Gamester : ' 

'' Neph. I desire no man's privilege: if skiUs not -wteihet 
^^ I be kin to any mati living." 

7 I — 1/our lord J by his patent^ 

Stands bound to take his rouse.] This word has never been 
properly explained. It occurs in Hamlet, where it is said by 
Steevens, as well as Johnson, to mean a quantity of liquor rather 
too large : the latter derives it from rusch, half drunk, Gerpi. while 
he brings carouse fromgar at^;z,all out ! Rouse and carcm^e^however, 



I 

\ 



2^35 THE DUEE OF MILAN. 

As if some great blow had been given the state^ 
Or were at least expected. 

like vye and reoye^ are but the reciprocation of the same action, 
.and mijnst therefore be derived from the same sonrceu A roiuc 
was a large glass i^' not past a pint," as lago says) in which a 
health was given, the drinking of which by the rest of the com- 
pany formed a carouse, Barnaby Rich is exceedingly angry 
with the inventor of this custom, which, however, with a lau- 
dable zeal for the honour of his country, he attributes to an 
Englishman, who, it seems, '' had his brains beat out with a 
pottlepot" for his ingenuity. " In former ages," says he, ^' they 
had no concejt whereby to draw on.drunkenesse," (Barnaby was 
no great historian,) ^^ their best was, I drinke to you, and I 
pledge you, till at length some shallow-witted drunkard found 
out the carouse,^^ an invention of that worth and worthiness^ 
as it is pitie the first founder was not hanged, that we might 
have found bu^his name in the antient record of the hangman's 
register." English hue and Cry^ 1617, p. 24. It is necessary to 
add, that there could be no nmsc or carouse^ unless the glasses 
were emptied: ^' The leader," continues honest Barnaby^ 
^^ soupes up his broath, turnes the bottom of the cuppe upward, 
and in ostentation of his dexteritie, gives it a phylip, to make it 
cry tynge** ! id. 

In process of time, both these words were used in a, lax^r 
sense; but I believe that what is here advanced, will serve to 
explain many passages of pur old dramatists, in which they oc- 
cur in their primal and appropriate signification : 
''Nor, I've ta^'eh. Since supper, 
'' A rouse ot two too much, and by the gods . 
'* It warms my blood." i Knight of Malta, 

This proves that Johnson and Steevens are wrong: a rouse has 
liere a fixed and determinate sense. In the colloquial language 
of the present day it would be, a bumper or two too much. 
Again: 

/^ i)uA:e., Come, bring some wine. Here's to my sister^ 
gentlemen, 
^^ A //e<z/M, and mirth to all ! 

'^ Archas, Prayji'// itfull^ sir ; \ ' -- 

^' 'Tis a high health to virtue. Here, lordBurris, 
^^ A maiden health ! — — 

''Duke, Go to, no tno re of this. 
" Archas, Take the rouse freely, sir, 
" Twill warm your blood, and make you fit for jollity." 
^ - . The Loyal Subject, 



THE DUI^E OF MILAN. 9^9 

Tib. Stephano, 
I know as you are noble, you are honest, 
And capable of secrets of more weight 
Than now I shall deliver. If that Sforza, 
The present duke, (though his whole life hath ' 

been ' 
But pne continued pilgrimage through dangers, 
Affrights, and horrourfe, which his fortune, guided 
By his strong judgment, still hath overcome,) 
Appears now shaken, it deserves no wonder: 
All that his youth hath laboured for, the haifvest 
Sown by his iniiustry ready to be reap'd too. 
Being now at stake; and all his hopes confirjii'd, 
Or lost for ever. 

Steph. I know no such hazard : 
His guards are strong and sure, his coffers full; 
The people well affected ; and so wisely 
His provident care hath wrought, that though 

war rages 
In most parts of our western world, there i^ 
No enemy near us. 

Tib. Dangers, that we see 
To threaten ruin, are with ease prevented ; 
But those strike deadly, that come unexpected: 
The lightning is far off, yet, soon as seen, 
We may behold the terrible effects 
That it produceth. But I'll h^lp your knowledge, 
And make his cause of fear familiar to you. 
The wars so long continued between 
The emperoj; Charles, and Francis the French king, 
Have interess'd, in cither's cause, the most 
Of the Italian princes;' among which, Sforza, 

• Have interessM in eithcr^s came the most 

Of the Italian princes ; kc."] So the old copies. The modem 
editors, much to the advantage of the rhythm, read : 

" Have interested in cither's cause, the mast &c. 
Probably thpy were ignorant of th^ existence of sach a. word 



840 THE 0UKE OF MILAN* 

As one. of greatest power, was sought by "bath ; 
But with assurance, having One his friend, 
The other lived his enemy. 

Steph. 'Tis true : 
And 'twas a doubtful choice. 

Tib. But he, well knowing, . 
And hating too, it seems, the Spanish pride. 
Lent his assistance to the king of France : 
Which hath so far incensed the emperor, 
That all his hopes and honours are embark'd 
With his great patron's fortune. 

Steph. Which stands fair, 
For aught I yet can hear. 

Tib. But should it change, 
The duke's undone. They have drawn to the 

field 
Two royal armies, full of fiery youth; 
Of equal spirit to dare, and power to do: 
So near intrench'd,' that 'tis beyond all hope 
Of human counsel they can e'er be severed, 
Until it be determined by the sword. 
Who hath the better cause: for the success. 
Concludes th6 victor innocent, and the vanquish'd 
Most miserably guilty. How. uncertain 
The fortune of the war is, children know; 
And, it being in suspense, on whose fair'tent 
Wing'd Victory will make her glorious stand, 

as interessy which occurs, however, pretty frequently in our old 
writers. Johnson considers it as synonymous with interest^ but 
in some of the examples' which he gives, and' in many others 
which I could produce, it seems to convey an idea of a more 
intimate connexion than is usually understood by that term ; 
somewhat, for instance, Hke implicate, involve, inweave, &c. 
in whicih case, it must be derived from intreccio^ through the 
medium of the French. , 

9 So near intrencKd^ &c.] The French army was at this time 
engaged in the siege Of Pavia, under the walls of which the de- 
cisive b«ttle was fought^ oa the 24th of Febru)»ry^ 1 525. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. ^1 

You cannot blame the duke, though he appear 
Perplex'd and troubled. 

Steph. But why, then, 
In such a time, when every knee should b^nd . 
For the success and safety of his person. 
Are these loud triumphs? in my weak opinion, 
They are unseasonable. 

Tib. I judge so too; ' 

But only in the cause to be excused. 
It is the dutchess' birthday, once a year 
Solemnized with all pomp and ceremony; 
In which the duke is not his own, but hers : 
Nay, every day, indeed, he is her creature, 
For never man so doated ; — but to tell 
The tenth part of his fondness to a stranger^ 
Would argue me of fiction. 

Steph. She's, indeed, 
A lady of most exquisite fornl. 

Hb. She knows it, , 

And how to prize it. 

Steph. I ne'er heard her tainted 
In any point of honour. 

Jib: On my life, 
She's constant to his bed, and well deserves 
His largest favours. But, when beauty is 
Stamp'd on great women, great iii birth and for- 
tune, . 
And blown by flatterers greater than it is, 
^Tis seldom unaccompanied with pride; 
Nor is she that way free : presuming on 
The duke's affection, and her own desert. 
She bears herself with such a majesty. 
Looking with scorn on all as things beneath her. 
That Sforza's mother, that would lose no part 
Of what was once her oj^rn, nor his fair sister, 
A ladv too acquainted with her worth. 
Will brook it well; and howsoe'er their hate 

VOL. I. R 



S4S THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Is smotberM for $ tiiae, *tU m^re thm. fcar'd 
It will at length break out, 

Steph. He in whose p<>w^r it i$, 
TuTO all to tbe be^t ! ^ 

Tib. CQme, let us to thq court ; 
We there shall see all bravery aad co6^ 
That art can boast of. 

Steph. I'll bear you coiupAQy. [E^nunt. 



SCENE n. 

J^fiother R^om m the stumg. 
EfUer FftANciaco, I^abei^i^a^ andMAniAUA. 

Mari. I will not ga; I scorn to fee a spot 
In her proud train. 

Isab. Shall I, that am his mother^ 
Be so indulgent, as to wait on her 
That Qwes me duty ? 

Fran. 'Tis done to the diuke, 
And not to her : and, my sweet wife, remefliber^ 
And, n^adam, if you please, receive my eouxisielv 
As Sfor^a is your son, yqu md.y coietniand hina. ;^ 
And, as a sis.ter^ you ma<y challenge from him . 
A brother's love and fayour; but, this granted, 
<I!onsider he's the prince, and yQu his. siibjiects, 
And not to question or contejwi with, her 
Whom he is pleaded to honouii\ Private Hie» 
Prefer their wiveis ; and shall \u^y being a priaaice, 
And blest with oqie that is the paradois^ 
Of sweetness, arid of beauty, t© whose charge 
The stock of woman's goodoess. is given upy 
Not use her like herself ? 

Isab, Yoii are ever forward 
To sing hejr pi'aises. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 



S43 



Mari. Others are as fair j 
I am sure, a^ noble. 

Fran. I detract from nime, 
In giving her what's due. Were she defdriA'd, 
Yet being the dutcbess, I stan^ bound to serve her; 
But, as she is, to admire her. Never wife 
Met with a purer beat her husband's fervotir ; 
A happy pair, one in the other blest ! 
She confident in herself he's t^holly her's, 
And cannot seek for change; and he secure 
That 'tis not in the power of mafif to tempt her. 
And therefore to contest with her, that is 
The stronger and the better part of him, 
Is more than folly : you know him of a nature 
Not to be play'd with; and, should you forget 
To obey him as your prince, he'll not remember 
I'he doty thait he owes you. 

Isab. 'Tis but truth : 
Come, clear our brows, arid let us to the banquet; 
But not to serve his idol. 

Mart. I shall do 
What may become the sister of 2t prince ; 
But will not stobp beneath it. 

Fran. Yet, be wise ; 
Soar not too high to fall; but stoop t6 rise; 

\Eseuht 

SGENE III. 

A Stat6 Mooin in' tkt sarhe. 

Enter #^ree Gentlemen, setting Jhrth a banquet. 

1 Gent. Quick, quick, for love's sake !' Jet thte 
.court put on 
Her choicest outside : cost a^d bravery 
Be only thought of. 

RS 



S4* THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

2 Gent All that may be had 

To please the eye, the ear, taste, touch, or 8lnel^j 
Are carefully provided. 

3 Gew^. There's a Ttiask : 

Have you heard what's the invention ? 

1 Gent. No matter : 
It is intendeai for the dutchess' honour; 
And if it give her glorious attributes, 
As the most fair, most virtuous, and the rest, 
'Twill please the duke. They come* 

3 Gent. All is in order. 

jBw^erTiBERio, Stephano, Francisco, Sforza, 
Marcelia, Isabella, Mariana, and Attend^ 
ants, 

Sfor. You are the mistress of the feast-Hsit 
/ here, 
O my soul's comfort ! and when Sforza bows 
Thus low to do you honour, let none think 
/ The meanest service they can pay my love, 
But as a fair addition tp those titles 
They stand possest of. Let me glory in 
My happiness, and mighty kings look pale 
With envy, while I triumph in mine own. 
O mother, look on her ! sister, admire her ! 
And, since this present age yields not a woman 
Worthy to be her second, borrow of 
Times past, and let imagination help, 
Of those canonized ladies Sparta boasts of. 
And, in her greatness, Rome was proud to owe, 
To fashion, and yet still you must confess, 
The phoenix of perfection ne'er was seen, 
But in my fair Marcelia, 

Fran. She's, indeed, 
The wonder of all times, 

Tib. Your excellence, 



\ ■ 



THE DUKE OF MILAM 345 

Though I confess, you give her but her owri^ ' 
Forces* her modesty to the defence 
Of a sweet blush. 

S/br* It need not, my Marcelia; 
When most I strive to praise thee» I iappear 
A poor detractor: for thou art, indeed, 
So absolute* in body atid in mind, '- '■ 
That, but to speak the least part to the height, 
Would ask an angel's tongue, and yet then etid 
In silent admiration ! 

Isab. You still court her, 
As if she were a mistress, not your wife, 

Sfbr. A mistress, mother ! She is more to me, 
And every day deserves more to be sued to. 
Such as are cloy'd with those they have em-^ 

braced, ! 

May think their wooing done : no night to me 
But is a bridal one, where Hymeti lights 
His torches fresh and new ; and those delights, 
Which are not tq be clothed in airy sounds, ^ 
Enjoy'd, beget desires as full of heat 
And jovial fervour, as when first I tasted 
Her virgin fruit. — Blest night ! and be it ntimr 

ber'd 
Amongst those happy ones, in which a blessing 
Was, by the full consent of all the stars, 
Conferr'd upon mankind. 

Marc. My worthiest lord ! 
The only object I behold with pleasure, — 
My pride, my glory, in a word, my all ! 

' Forces her modesty'] So the edition 1623, which Coxeter 
does not appear to have often consulted. He reads, after that 
of 1638, enforces J though it destroys the metre. Mr. M. Mason^ 
of course^ follows him. 

^ So absolute in body and in mhid,'] For this spirited reading, 
which is that of the first edition, the second has^ So perfect^ both 
in body and in mindy and thus it stands 4n Coxeter and'.M^ M^^on ! 



«46 THE DUKE OF MII/AN. 

* 

Bear wi|:nes6, heaven, that I esteem myfeelf 
In nothing worthy of the meanest praise 
You can bestow, unless it be in this, 
That in my heart I love and honour you. 
And, but that it would smell of arrogance, 
To speak my strong desire apd zeal to serve yoUj 
I then could say, these eyes yet never saw 
The rising sun, but that my yaws' and prayers 
Were sent to heaven for the prosperity 
And safety of my lord : nor h^ve I ever 
Had other study, but how to appear 
Worthy your favour ; ajid that my embraces 
Mijght yield a fruitful harvest of content 
For all your noble travail, in the purchase . 
Of her that's still your servant; by these lips. 
Which, pardon me, that I presume to kiss 

#S^r* O swear, for ever swear!' 

Marc. I ne'er will seek 
Deligiit hut in your pleasure ; and desire, 
When you are sated with all earthly glories, 
And age and honours piake you fit for heaven. 
That one grave may receive us. 

iSjfi^r. 'Tis believed, 
Believed, my blest one. 

Mart. How she winds herself 
Into his soul ! 

Sfor. Sit all.— Let others feed 
On those gross cates, while Sforza ban^uete with 
Immortal viainls ta'eu i|i at his eye«, ' 

I could live ever th^s. Command the eunuch 
To sing the ditty that I last composed. 

Enter a Courier. 
|a piaiae of my Maroeiia.— -*From whence? 

^ Sfoi-. swear, for ever fnoeoff] TWs ia tke leotiw of tiie 
^st quarto ^ tke se<:otu} poorly reads, O sweety for\ tmr swear I 
ind i3^11[a%4 % poxeter and M. Ma^oa. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN: 947. 

Cour. From Paria, my dread lotd* ' 

Sfor. Speak, is all lost ? 
V €our. [Delwers a letter.] The letter will inform 
you. [Ea^it. 

Fran. How his hand shakes, . , 
As he'receives it !. 

Mari This is some allay 
To his hot passioti^ 

Sfor. Though it bring death, I'll read it : 

May it please your excellenc6 to understdM, thai 
the "very hour I wrote this, I heard la bold dejiance 
delivered by a herald from the emperor^ which wai 
cheerfully received by the king of Frdnce. The bat- 
Miles being ready to join, and the vangUdrd cam^ 
mitted to my charge, enforces me to end abruptly. , 

Your highnesses servant, 

(jrASPERQ. 

Ready to join ! — By this, then, I am nothing, 
Or my estate secure. 

Mare. My lord. 

Sfor. To doubt. 
Is worse tjian to have lost ; and td despair, 
Is but to antedate those miseries 
That must fall on us; all my hopes depetiding 
Uptm thi« battle's fortune. In my sauly 
Methinks, there should be that imperious power, 
By Mpematurali not usual mea»s, 
T' inform mtc what I am. The cause consider'd, 
Why should I fear? The French are bold and 

strong, 
Their numbers full, and in their councils wi»e^ 
But tben^ the haughty Spaniard is all fite, 
Hot in his executions ; fottonj^te ^ 
In his attempts ; married to victory :•*«■ 
Ayy there it is that shakes me. 

Fran. £xceHeiJit lady. 



X 



248 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

This day was dedicated to your honour ; 
One gale of your sweet breath will easily 
J)isperse these clouds ; and, but yourself, there's 

none 
That dare speak to him. 

Marc. I will run the hazard. 
My lord ! 

Sfor. Ha ! — pardon me, Marcelia,' I am troubled; 
And stand uncertain, whether I am master 
Qf aught that's worth the owning. 

Marc. I am yours, sir ; 
And I have heard you swear, I being safe. 
There was pQ loss could move you. This day, 

sir, 
Is by your gift made mine. Can you revoke 
A grant made to Marcelia ? your Marcelia r — 
For whose love, nay, whose honour, gentle sir. 
All deep designs, and state-aft airs deferr'd, 
Be, as you purposed, merry. 

Sfor. Out of my sight! [Throws away the letter. 
^d all thoughts that may strangle mirth forisake 

me, 
Fall what can fall, I dare the worst of fate : 
Though the foundation of the earth should 

shrink. 
The glorious eye of heaven lose his splendour, 
Supported thus. 111 stand upon the ruins. 
And seek for new life here. Why are you sad? 
No . other sports ! by heaven, he's not my 

. friend, . 
That wears one furrow in his face. I was told 
There was a mask. 

Fran. They wait your highness' pleasure, 
And when you please to hq,ve it. 

S/or. Bid them enter : 
Come, make me happy once again. I am rapt—* 
'Tis not to day, to morrow, or the next. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. S49 

But all my days, and years, shall be employ'd 
To do thee honour. ^ 

Marc. And my life to serve you. 

[4 horn mounded. 

Sfor. Another post ! Go hang him, hang him^ 
I say ; N 
I will not interrupt my present pleasures, 
Although his message should import my head : 
Hang him, I say. 

Marc. Nay, good sir, I am pleased 
To grant a little intermission to you ; 
Who knows but he brings news we wish to hear^ 
To heighten our delights. 

Sfor. As wise as fair ! 

Enter another Courier. 

From Gaspero ? 

, Cour. That was, my lord. ' 

^or. How ! dead ? 

Cour. [Delivers a letter.^ With the delivery of 
this, and prayers. 
To guard your excellency from certain dangers, 
He ceased to be a man. [Exit. 

Sfor. All that my fears 
Could fashion to me, or my enemies wish, 
Is fallen upon me. Silence that harsh nxusick ; 
'Tis now unseasonable : a tolling bell, 
As a sad hai^binger to tell me, that 
This pamper'd lump of flesh must feast the 

worms. 
Is fitter for me :— -I am sick. 

Marc. My lord ! 

Sfor. Sick to the death,* Marcelia. Remove 

♦ Sick to the rfea/A,] The modern editors omit the article, no 
less to the injury of the metre than of the language of the ppet^ 
^hich was, indeed, that of the time. 



$jfQ THE DUKE OF MILAN- 

These signs of mirth; they were ominous^ and 

but usher'd 
Sorrow and ruin. 

Msrc . Blesfs us, heaven ! 

Isak My son. 

Marc. What sudden change is this ? 

Sfor. Ail leave the room ; 
I'll bear alone the burden of my grief^ 
And must admit no partner. I ^un yet 
Your prince, where's your obedience ? JStay, 

Marcelia; 
I cannot be so greedy of a sorrow^ 
In which you must not. share. 

[Eji'eunt Tiber io J StephanOj Francismy Isabella^ 
Mariana, and Attendants. 

Marc And cheerfully 
I will sustain my part. Why look yoit pale ? 
Where is that wonted constancy, and courage. 
That dared the worst of fortune ? where is Sforfca,. 
To whom all dangers, that fright common men. 
Appeared but panick terrouHB ? why do yoa eye 

me 
With such fix'd looks? love, counsel, duty, 

service, 
May flow from me, not danger. 

Sfor. O, Marcelia ! 
It is for thee I fear ; for tliee, thy Sforza 
Shakes likq a coward ; for myself, umnoved 
I could have heard my troops were cut in {neces^ 
My general slain, and hc^ on whom my Hopes 
Of rule, of state, of life, had their depemience, 
The king of France, my greatest friciid, made 

prisoner 
To so |>ri6ud enemies^ 

Marc, Then you have just cause 
To shew ypu ate a mati. 

Sfor. AH this were nothiag, 



TJHE DUKE OF MILAN, 851 

Thoiigh I ^dd to it, that I am assured, 
For giving aid to this unfortunate king, 
The emperor, incens'd, lays his command 
On, his victorious ar4iiy, flesh'd with spoil, 
And bold of conquest, to march up against mtp 
And seize on my estates : s^uppose that don« too, 
The city ta'en, thi? kennels running blood. 
The ransack'd temples falling on thfeir saintis ; 
My mother, in my sight, toss*d on their pikes. 
And sister ravish'd ; and myself bound fast 
In chains, to grace their triumph ; or what else 
An enemy's insolence could load ftie with, 
I would be Sforza still. But, when I think 
That my Marcelia,' to whom all these 
Are but as atoms to the greatest hill, 
Must suffer in my cause, arid for me suffer ! 
All earthly torments^ nay, even those the damn'd 
Howl for in hell, are gentle strokes, compared 
To what I feel, Marcelia. 

Marc. Good sir, have patience : 
I can as weU partake your adverse fortune. 
As I thus long have had an ample share 
In your prosperity. Tis not in the power 
Of fate to alter me ; for while I am. 
In spite of it, I'm yours. 

Sfbr. But should that Avill 
To be so, be forced^* Marcelia ; and I live 
To see those eyes I prize above my own^ 
Dart favours, though compcU'd, ilpon another; 
Or those sweet lips, yielding immortal a^ictar, 
Be gently touch'd by any but saysi^lf ; 

I 

5 But should that xvill 
To be soyheforcedy^ I faav^TentH^d iaiasmibey whidl urm 
probably dropt at the press, before jfarccii. la the preeedh^ 
iBie, Ocncetev and M. M as am read, But w^e that will, &c, wbict 
cannot be rigbt ; both the old ^narto^ hare ^auiiy as it staadi 
here. 



353 THE DITKE OF MILAN. 

Think, think, Marcplia, what a cursed thing 
I were, beyond expression I 

Marc. Do not feed 
Those jealous thoughts ; the only blesi^ing that 
Heaven hath bestow'd on us, more than on bea&ts, 
Is, that 'tis in our pleasure when to die. 
Besides, were I now in another's power, 
There are so many ways to let out life, 
I would not live, for one short minute, his ; 
I was born only yours, and I will die so. . 

J^or. Angels reward the goodness of this 
woman ! 

Enter Francisco. 

All I can pay is nothing, — ^Why, uncall'd for? 

Fran. It is of weight, sir, that makes me thus 
press 
Upon your privacies. Your constant friend, 
The marquis of Pescara, tired with haste, 
Hath business that concerns your life and for- 
tunes, 
And with speed,. to impart. 

Sfor. Wait on him hither : [Ejcit Francisco. 
And, dearest, to thy closet. Let thy prayers 
Assist my councils. 

Marc. To spare imprecations 
Against myself, without you I am nothing. [Ej^if. 

Sfor. The marqiiis of Pescara ! a great sol- 
dier;* 
And, though he serv'd upon the adverse party, 
Ever my constant friend. 

* Sfor. The marquis of Pescara ! a great soldier;] The duke 
does not exaggerate the merits of Pescara : he was, indeed, a 
great soldier^ a fortunate commander, an able negociator, in a 
word, one of the greatest ornami^ts of a period which abounded 
W extraordinary characters. 



/ 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. «5» 



Enter Francisco ^wrfPESCARA, 

Fran^ Yonder he walks, 
Fuji of sad thoughts. 

Peso. Blame him not, good Francisco, 
He hath much cause to grieve; would I might 

end so, 
And not add this,— to fear. 

Sfor. My dear Pescara; 
A miracle in these times ! a friend, and happy^ 
Clekves to a falling fortune ! 

Pesc. If it were 
As well in my weak power, in act, to raise it, 
As 'tis to bear a part of sorrow with you, 
You then should have jjust cause to say, Pescara 
Look'd not upon your state, but on your virtues, 
When he made suit to be writ in the list 
Of those you favour'd.— But my haste forbids 
All compliment; thus, then, sir, to the purpose: 
The cause that, unattended, brought me hither, 
Was not to tell you of your loss, or danger ; 
For fame hath many wings to bring ill tidings, 
And I presume you've heard it ; but to give you 
Such friendly counsel, as, perhaps, may makfe 
Your Sjad disaster less. 

Sfor. You are all goodness ; 
And I give up myself to be disposed of, '< 

As in your wisdom you think fit. 

Pesc. Thus, then, sir: 
To hope you can hold out against the emperor, 
Were flattery in yourself,' to your undoing : ^ 
Therefore, the safest course that you can take. 
Is, to give up yourself to his discretion, 

7 Were flattery in ytmrself,'] So, both the quartos ; the mod^nra 
editors read, Were flattering yourseJIf, 



\ 



U% THE DtTKE OP MILANl 

Before you be compeird ; for, rest assured, 
A voluntary yielding may find grace, 
And wHI admit defence, at least excuse : 
But, should you linger dombtful, till his jpoirers 
Have seized your person and eatates periarce. 
You mu»t expect extremes^ 

J^ar. I understand you; 
And I will put your counsel into actj 
And speedily. I only will take order 
For some domestical affairs, that do 
. Concern me nearly, and with the next sun 
Ride with you: in the nfYcan time, my best 

friend, 
Prs^y take your rest. 

Fesc. Indeed, I have traveled hard ; 
And will embrace your counsel. [Eaii. 

l^or. With all care, 
Attend my noble friend. Stay you, Francisco. 
You see how things stand ^\tk tkt ? 

Fran. To my grief : 
And if the loss of my p€kMr life could be 
A sacrifice to restore them as they were^ 
I willingly woutd lay il dowtJ. 
^ Sfor. I think sx>; 

Fop I have ever found you true and thankful, 
Which makes me love the budlding I have 

raised 
In your advancement ; and repent no grace 
I have conferred upon you; Audi, bdieve n*c, 
Though now I should repeat my favowrs to you, 
The titles I have given you, and the means 
Suitable to your honours^^ ; tha;C I thought you 
Worthy my sister and my femily. 
And in my dulc^domi made you next myself; 
It is not to upbraid you ; but to tell you 
I find you are worthy of th^aa^ ia yoiir kxve 
And service to me. • 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. US 

Fran. Sir, I am your creature ; 
And any shape, that you would have me wesir, 
I gladly will put on. 

Sfor. Thus, then, Francisco: 
I now am to deliver to your trust ' 
A weighty secret ; df so strange a nature, 
And 'twill, I know, appear so monfi^trous to you, 
That you will tremble in the execution, 
As much as I am tortured to command it : 
For 'tis a deed so horrid, that, bnt to hear it, 
Would strike into a ruffian flesh'd m murders, 
Or ^n obdurate hangman, soft compassion ; 
And yet, Francisco, of all men the dearest, 
And from md most deserving^ such my state 
And strange condition is, that thou alone 
Must know the fatal service, and perfonn it. - 

Fran. These preparations, sir, to work a 
stranger, 
Or to one unacquainted with your boumties. 
Might appear useful ; but to me they are 
Needless impertinencies : for I dare da 
Whate'er you dare command. 

J^or. But you must swear it; 
And put into the oath all Joys or torments' 
That fright the wicked, or confirm: the gw)d; 
Not to conceal it only, that is nohing. 
But, whensoe'er my will shall speak, Strike now, 
To fall upon't like thunder. 

Fran. Minister 
The oecth in any way or fonn you please^ 
I stand resolved to take it. 

Sfor. Thou must do, then. 
What no malevolent star wiM dare to look on, 
It is S0 wicked : for which men wiH curse thete 
For being the ins^trument ; and' the blest angels 
Forsake me at my n^ed, for being the authour : 
JPof 'tis a deed of night, of nighty Francisco ! 



256 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

In which the memory of all good actions 

We can pretend to, shall be buried quick : 

Or, if we be remember'd, it shall be 

To fright posterity by our example, 

That have outgone all precedents of villains 

That were before us ; and such as succeed, 

Though taught in hell's black school, shall ne'er 

come near us. 
Art thou not shaken yet ? 

Fran. I grant you move me : 
Bui to a man confirmed 

Sfor. I'll try your temper : 
What think you of my wife ? 

Fran. As a thing sacred ; 
To whose fair name and memory I pay gladly 
These signs of duty. 

Sfor. Is she not the abstract 
Of all that's rare, or to be wish'd in woman ? 

Fran. It were a kind of blasphemy to dispute 
it ; 
But to the purpose, sir. 
^ Sfor, Add too, her goodness, 
Her tenderness of me, her care to please me, 
Her unsuspected chastity, ne'er equall'd ; 
Her innocence, her honour : — O, I ahi lost 
In the ocean of her virtues and her graces, 
When I think of them ! 

Fran. Now I find the end 
Of all your conjurations ; there's some service 
To be done for this sweet lady. If she have 

enemies 
That she would have removed 

Sfor. Alas ! Francisco, 
Her greatest enemy is her greatest lover j 
Yet^ in that hatred, her idolater. 
One smile of her's would niakfe a savage tame; 
One accent of that tongue would calm the seas, 



THE DUKE OF MILAN, 257 

Though all the winds at once strove there for 

empire* 
Yet I, for whom she thinks all this too little, 
Should I miscarry in this present journey, 
From whence it is all number to a cipher, 
I ne'er return with honour, by thy hand 
Must have her murder'd. 

Fran. Murder'd ! — She that loves so, 
And so deserves to be beloved again ! 
And I, who sometimes you were pleased to favour, 
Pick'd out the instrument 1 

Sfor. Donot fly off: 
What is decreed can never be recall'd; 
'Tis more than love to her, that marks her out 
A wish'd companion to me in both fortunes : 
And strong assurance of thy zealous faith, / 

That gives up to thy trust a secret, that 
Racks should not have forced from me. O, 

Francisco ! 
There is no heaven without her ; nor a hell. 
Where she resides. I ask from her but justice, ' 
And what I would have paid to her, had sicknesSgi, 
Or any other accident, divorced 
Her purer soul from his unspotted body.* 
The slavish Indian princes, when they die, 
Are cheerfully attended to the fire. 
By the wife and slave that, liying, they lovedbest. 
To do thenl service in another world : 
Nor will I be less honour'd, that love more. 

t 
- - i. . , • 

^ Her purer soul from his unspotted bqdi/,^ This is the old read- 
ing, and should not have l^een changed. The modern editprs-, 
who are in a state of constant warfare with the language of the 
poet's time, read Aer, as if the pronoun related to Marcelia, but 
it must be referred to soul. With respect to purer ^ it is used in 
perfect concurrency with* the practice of Massinger's . contem- 
poraries, for purCf the comparative for the positiTe< See the 
Unnfltural Combat y ^, 191, 

VOL. I. S 



258 THE DUKE OF HILAR 

And tbcTefore trifle not, but in thy looks 
Express a ready purpose to perform 
What r comniaDa ; or, by Marcelia's soul, 
This i& thy latest minute, 

Fran. 'Tis not fear 
Of death, but love to you, makes me embrace 

it; 
But for mine own security, when 'tis done, 

What warrant hav^ I? If you please to sign 

one, 

I shall, though with unwillingness and borrour< 

Perform your dreadful charge. 

Sfor I will, Francisco : 
But still remember, that a prince's secrets 
Are balm, conceal'd ; but poison, if discover'd. 
I may come back ; then this is but a trial 
To purchase thee, if it were possible, 
A nearer place in my affection : — but 
I know thee honest. - ^ 

Fran. 'Tis a character 
I. will not part with. 
^ ^(»r. I may liye to reward it.' {ExeuM. 

9 The judida^s observatliong wbich wiU l)e found in tke Essay 
prefixed to this Volume, preclude the necessity of ainy remairks 
from me, on this admirable scene : as it seems, howeyer, to hav^e 
engrossed the criticks' attention, (to the manifest neglect of Che 
rest,) let me suggest, in justice to the authour, that it is equalled, 
if not surpassed, by some of the succeeding ones, and, -itmoBg 
the re^t, by that which concludes the second act 

There is a striking similarity (as Mr. Gilchrist obseryes to 
me) between a passage in the duke's conference with his wife, 
^ ^0, (where, indeed, the circumstance should have been 
^aieiitioned,^) and the parting speech of Hector and Andronache : 

OvTf xxviyimrm, at xfy nrdXa^ rs tteu •0'SXm 

'Oacxt¥ ^ttyiL^r^ti, .^ Il.iiiki«4^« 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 259 



-ACT II. SCENE I. 
The same. An open Space before the Castk. 
Enter TiBERio and Stephano, ^ 

Steph. How, left the court ! 

Tib. Without guard, or retinue 
Fitting a prince. 

Steph. No enemy near, to force him 
To leave his own strengths, yet deliver up 
Himself, as 'twere, in bonds, to the di^cr^tigin 
Of him that hates him ! 'tis beyond example. 
You never heard the motives that induced hha- 
To this strange course ? 

Tib. No, those are cabinet QounciljS, 
And not to be communicated, bi^t 
To such as are his own, and sure. Alas ! _ 
We fill up empty places, and in publick 
Are taught to give our suffrages to that 
Which was before determined j^aud are saf^ so* 
Signior Francisco (upon whom alone. 
His absolute power as with all strength conferr'd, 
During his absence) can with ease resolve you: 
To me they are riddles. 

Steph. Well, he shall not be 
My (Edipus ; I'll rather dwell in darkness. 
But, mv good lord Tiberio, this Francisco 
Jf, on the sudden, strangely jraiaiBd. 

Tib. O sir, 
He tobk the thriving course: he had a sister/ 

' ■ He had a sister^ Sec."] There is great art in this 

iatrddvclion c^t^ sister. * In the management of these prepa« 
ratory hints, Massinger surpasses all his contemporaries. Ip 

S2 



260 THE DUKE OE MILAK 

A fair one too, with whom, as it is rumour'd. 
The duke was too familiar ; but she, cast off 
(What promises; soever past between them) 
Upon the sight of this,* forsook the court. 
And since Was never seen. To smother this, 
As honours never fail to purchase silence, 
Francisco first was graced, and, step by step, 
Is raised up to this height. ^ 

Steph. But how is 
His absence born? 

Tib. Sadly, it seems, by the dutchess; 
For since he left the court, 
For the most part she hath kept her private 

chamber, 
No visitants admitted. In the church. 
She hath been seen to pay her pure devotions, 
Seasoned with t^ars; and sure her sorrow's true^. 
Or deeply counterfeited ;' pomp, and state, 
And bravery east off: and she, that lately 
Rivall'd Poppsea in her varied shapes, 
Or the Egyptian queen, now, widow-like, 
In sable colours, as her husband's dangers 
Strangled in her the use of any pleasure, 
Mourns for his absence. 

Steph. It becomes her virtue, 
And does confirm what was reported of her. 
; TiJb. You take it right: but, on the other side. 
The darling of his mother, Mariana, 
As there Avere an antipathy between 

Beaumont and Fletcher, ^^ the end sometimes forgets the be^ 
ginning ;" and even Shakspe^re is not entirely free from inat« 
tentions of a similar nature. I will not here praise the general 
felidity of our authottr's plots ; but whatever they were,' fie,aeenl9 
to have minutely arranged all the component parts before a 
line of the dialogue was written. ,. * "' -' 

. * Upon the sight of thisy &c.] i. e. of the pi^esent dutchess. 
M. Mason. .. • ^ . 



^ THE DUKE OF MILAN, 261 

Her and the dutchess' passions ; and as 
She'd no dependence on her brother's fortune, 
She ne'er appear'd so full of mirth. 
Steph. 'Tis strange. 

Enter GvLACcno with YiAAX^rs. 

But see ! her favourite, and accompanied. 
To your report. 

Grac. You shall scrape, and I will sing 
A scurvy ditty to a scurvy tune. 
Repine who dares. 

1 Fid. But, if we should offend, 
Thedutchess having silencedus j— and these lords 
Stand by to hear us. 

Grac. They in name are lords,' 
But I am one in power: and, for the dutchess. 
But yesterday we were merry for her pleasure, 
We now'U be for my lady's. 

7?A. Signior Graccho. 

Grac. A poor man, sir, a serviant to the princess ; 
But you, great lords' arid counsellors of state, 
Whom I stand bound to reverence, 

Tib. Come ; we know 
You are a man in grace. 

Grac. Fie ! no : I grant, 
I bear my fortunes patiently; serve the princess. 
And have access at all times to her closet, 
Such is my impudence ! when your grave lordships 
Are masters of the modesty to attend 
Three hours, nay sometimes four; and then bid 
wait < 

Upon her the next morning. 

^ But you^ great lords &c.] So the old copies. Mr. M^ Ma30A 
cjtoodes to deviate from them, and re^d But you are great lords^^ 
krC. Never was alteration more unnecessary^ 



^S THE DUKE OF MILAN/ 

Steph. lie derides us. 

Tib. Pray you, what news is stirring ? you 
know all. 

Grac Who, I ? alas ! I've no intelligence 
At home nor abroad ; I pnly sonfietimes guess 
The change o' the times : I should ask of your 

lordships 
Who are to keep their nonour^j who to lose them ; 
Who the dutchess smiled on last, or on whom 

frown'd, 
You only can resolve me ; we poor waiters 
Deal, as you seei, in mirth, and foolish fiddles : 
It is our element; and — could you tell me 
What point of state 'tis that I am commanded 
To muster up this musick, on mine honesty, 
You should much befHcnd me. 

Steph. Sirrah, you grow saucy. 

Tib. And would b^ laid by the heels. 

Grac. Not by your lordships, 
Without a special warrant;, look to your olirn 

stakes; 
Were I committed, here come those would bail me: 
Perhaps, we might change places too. 

Enter Isabella, and Makiana. 

Tib. The princess ! 
We must be patient. 

Steph. There is no contending. 

Tib. See, the informing rogue t 

Steph. That we should stoop 
To such a mushroom ! 

Mai'i. Thou dost mistake ; they durst not 
Use the least word of scorn, although provoked, 
To any thing of mine. Go, get you home, - 
And to your servants, friends, and flatterers^ 
number 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. S6? 

How niany descents you're noble :-^laofc to yont 

wives too ; . 
The smooth-chinn'd courtiers are abroad* 

Tik No way to be a freeman ! 

Ecveuni Tiberio and Stephana. 

Grtfc. Your excellence hath the best gift to 
dispatch 
These arras pictures of nobility, 
I ever read of. 

Maru I can speak sometimes. * 

Grac. And cover so your bitter pills, with 
sweetness 
Of princely language to forbid reply, 
They are greedily swallowed. 

Isab. But to the purpose, daughter. 
That brings us hither. Is it to bestow 
A visit on this woman, that, because 
She only would be thought truly to grieve 
The absence and the dangers of my son, 
Proclaims a general sadness ? 

Mari. If to vjbx her 
May be interpreted to do her honour, 
She shall have many of them. I'll make use 
Of my short reign: my lord now governs all; 
And she shall know that her idolater, v 

My brother, being not by now to protect her, 
I am her equal. 

Grac. Of a little thing, 
It is so full of gall !* A devil of this size, 

* Grac. Of a little thing, 

It u so fuU of gaU !'\ Nothing more strongly marks the po- 
Terty of the stage in those times, than the frequent allusions we 
find to the size of the actors, which may be considered as a kind 
of apology to the audience. It is not possible to ascertain who 
played the part of Mariana, but it was, not improbably, Theo- 
philns Bourne, who acted Paulina in the Renegado^ where an 
expression of tj^e same nature occurs. Domitilla, in tJie Roman 
Actor^ is also little ; she was played by John Hunnieman. I do 
not condemn these indirect apologies;, indeed, there appears to 



264 THE DUKE 0¥r MILAN. 

Should they run for a wager to be spiteful, 
Gets not a horse-head of her. [Aside. 

Mari. On her birthday, 
We were forced to be merry, and now she's musty. 
We must be sad, on pain of her displeasure ; 
We will, we will ! this is her private chamber, 
Where, like an hypocrite, not a true turtle. 
She seems to mourn her absent mate ; her servants 
Attending her like mutes: but I'll speak to her, 
And in a high key too. Play any thing 
That's light and loud enough but to torment her, 
And we will have rare sport. [Mustek and a song.^ 

Marge LI A appears at a Window above, in black 

Isab. She frowns as if 
Her looks could fright us. 

Mari. May it please your greatness. 
We heard that your late physick hath not work'd; 
And thatbreedsmelancholy,asyourdoctor tells us: 
To purge which, we, that are born your highness' 

vassals. 
And are to play the fool to do you service. 
Present you with a fit of mirth. What think you 
Of a new antick ? 

Isab. 'Twould shew rare in ladies. 

Mari. Being intended for so sweet a creature, 
Were she but pleased to grace it. 

Isab. Fie ! she will, 
Be it ne'er so mean ; she's made of courtesy. 

he something of good sense in them, and of proper deference 
;to the understandings of the audience. At present, we run 
intrepidly into every species of absurdity, men and women un- 
weildy at once from age and fatness, take upon them the part$ 
of active boys and girls ; and it is not only in a pantomine that we 
^re accustomed to see children of six feet high in leading strings ! 

* A song. ^ This, like many others^ does not appear ; it was 
probably supplied at pleasure, by the actors. 



THE DUKU of MILAN. i6S 

Mart. The mistresi^ of all hearts. One smile> I 
pray you, 
Oa your poor servants, or a fiddler's fee; 
Coming from those fair hands, though butadu<:at, 
We will inshrine it as a holy relick. 

Isab. 'Tis wormwood, and it works. 

Marc. If I lay by 
My fearsandgriefs,in which you should besharers, 
If doting age could let you but remember, 
You have a son ; or frontless impudence, 
You are a sister; and in making answer. 
To what was most unfit for you to speak. 
Or me to hear, borrow of my just anger — — 

Isab. A set speech, on my life. 

Marl. Penn'd by her chaplain. 

Marc. Yes, it* can speak, without instruction 
speak. 
And tell your want of maimers, that you are rude, 
And saucily rude, too. 

Grac. Now the game begins. 

Marc. You durst not, else, on any hire or* 
hope. 
Remembering what I am, and whose I am, 
put on the desperate boldness, to disturb 
The least of my retirements. 

Maru Note her, now. 

Marc. For both shall understand, though the 
one presume 
Upon the privirege due to a mother. 
The duke stands now on his own legs, and needs 
No nurse to lead him. 

/^flj^. How, a nurse ! 

Marc. A dry one. 
And useless too:— but I am merciful, 
And dotage sigqs your pardon. 

* Marc. YeSf it can speak,] So th^ old copies : the moderu 
editions^ J^e*, I Qan speak ! ' ' 



266 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Isab. I defy thee ; 
Thee, and thy pardons, proud one. 

Marc. For you, puppet—— 

Mari. What of me, pine-tree ? * 

Marc. Little you are, I grant, 
And have as little worth, kmt mucH less wit ; 
You durst not else, the duke being whoHy mine, 
His power and honour mine, and the allegiance. 
You owe hiro, as a subject, due to me 

Mari. To you ? 

Marc. To me : and therefore, as a vassal, 
From this hour learn to serve me, or you'll feel 
I must make use of my authority. 
And, as a princess, punish it. 

Isab. A princess! 

Mari. I had rather be a slave unto a Moor, 
Than know thee for my equal. 

Isab. Scornful thing ! 
Proud of a white face. 

Mari. Let her but remember' 
The issue in her leg. 



* Marc. Tor you^ puppet 

Mari. What ofme^ pine-tree ?] 

'' Now I perceive that she hath made compare 

^^ Between our statures" 

Puppet and fnay-pole^ and many other terms of equal elegance, 
are bandied about between Hermia and Hekna, m Mtdnimmcr- 
NighVs Dream^ which is here too closely imitated. I forbear 
to quote the passages, which are familiar to erery reader of 
Shakspeare. 

7 Mari. Let her but remember &c.] For this Massinger is in- 
debted to less respectable authority, to the treacherous loquacity 
of the dutchess's waiting woman, in her midnight conference 
with Don Quixote. These traits, however 4i6gufting, are not 
without their ralue ; they strongly mark the prevailing features 
of the times, which were universally coarse and indelicate : 
they exhibit also a circumstance worthy of particular notice, 
namely, that those rigorous powers of genius, which carry men 
far beyond the literary state of their age, do not enable them to 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 26r 

Isab. The charge she puts 
The state to, for perfumes. 

Mart. And howsoe'er 
She seems when she's made up, as she's herself, 
Slie stinks above the ground. O that I could 

reach you ! 
The little one you scorn so, with her nails 
Would tear your painted face, and scratch those 

eyes out. ' , 

Do but come down. 

Marc. Were there no other way, 
But leaping on thy neck, to break mine own, 
Rather than be outbraved thus. \She reth'es. 

Grac. Forty ducats 
Upon the little hen: she's of the kind, 
And will not leave the pit. 

MarL That it were lawful 
To meet her >vith a poniard and a pistol ! 
But these weak hands shall shew my spleen. 

If 

Re-enter Marcelia below. 

Marc. Where are you, 
You modicum, you dwarf? 
Mart. Here, giantess, here. 

Enter Francisco, Tiberio, and Stephano, 

\ 

Tran. A tumult in the court ! 

Mari. Let her come on. 

Fran. What wind hath raised this tempest ? 
Sever them, I command you. What's the cause ? 
Speak, Mariana. 

outgo tkat of its manners. This must serve as an apology^ for 
our authour ; indeed, it is the only one that can be offered for 
many who stand higher in the ranks of fame than Massinger, 
and who have still more need of It. . 



1268 THE DUkE OF klLAN. 

Mari I am out of breath; 
But we shall meet, we shall. — ^And do you heal*, 

sir ! 
, Or right me on this monster, (she's three feet 
Too high for a woman,) or ne'er look to have 
A quiet hour with me. 

Isab, If my son were here, 
And would endure this, may a mother-s curse 
Pursue and overtake him ! 

Fran. O forbear : 
In me he's present, both in power and wilt ; 
And, madam, I much grieve that, in his absence, 
There should arise the least distaste to move you: 
It being his principal, nay, only charge, 
To have you, in his absence, served and honour'd, 
As when himself perform'd the willing office. 

Mari. This is fine, i'faith. 

Grac. I would I were well off ! 

Fran. And therefore, I beseech you, madam, 
frown not, 
Till most unwittingly he hath deserved it. 
On your poor servant; to your excellence 
I ever was and will be such ; and lay 
The duke's authority, trusted to me, 
With willingness at your feet. 

Mart. O base ! 

Isab. We are like 
To have an equal judge ! 

Fran. But, should 1 find 
That you are touch'd in any point of honour, 
Or that the least neglect is fall'n upon you, 
I then stand up a prince. 

\ Fid. Without re, ward, 
Pray you dismiss us, 

Grac. Would I were five leagues hence ! 

Fran, I will be partial 
To none, not to myself; 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 263 

Be yoil but pleased to shew me my oiFence, 
Or if you hold me in your good opmion, . 
Name those that have oiFended you. 

Isab. I am one, 
And I will justify it. 

Mari, Thou art a base fellow, 
To take her part, 

Fran. Remember, she's the dutchess. 

Marc. But used with more contempt, than if 
-I were 
A peasant's daughter; baited, and hooted at. 
Like to a common strumpet ; with loud noises 
Forced from my prayers ; and my private cham- 
ber. 
Which, with all willingness, I would make my 

prison 
During the absence of my lord, denied me : 
But if he e'er return ) 

Fran. Were you an actor 
In this lewd comedy ? 

Mari. Ay, marry was I ; 
And will be one again. 

Isab. I'll join with her. 
Though you repine at it. 

Fran. Think not, then, I speak. 
For I stand bound to honour, and to serve you, 
But that the duke, that lives in this great lady, 
For the contempt of him in her, commands you 
To be close prisoners. 

Isab. Mari. Prisoners ! 

Fran. Bear them hence ; 
This is your charge, my lord Tiberio, 
And, Stephano, this is yours. 

Marc. I am not cruel. 
But pleased they may have liberty. 

4sab. Pleased, with k mischief ! 

Mari. I'll rather live in any loathsome dungeon, 



My piety, for St is iHOi^ th^ifa love, : T • S 

MAy^ikid reward. ^ v*' 

J/fljrd. You hare it in my Ibank^; -• » \'^ 

And^ on my hand, I am pleased diaU you shaM tak^^ 

A full possession of it: but, take heed '-" "A 

That you fixhertj and feejd no hope feeyondit ; i? 

If you do, it will prove fatal; i ^^ > ^ ^J- 

jRrafifc Be^t death, ^ ^-' > t i o- j i a 

And deafth with tormentg tymntsiie'erifoiiKd tmt^ 

Yct^F*iiusfesay^ I^love 3rdUi i i j t <^ ; i*l 

MardyAk asuhject; ^ ; , , ^ ^ ^ / ^ j X 

And 'tewill become yom^ ' ^ . ^^ ^ ~) i ;n. A 

Fran. Farewell circumstance ! 
And since you are not pleased ^punderstomdniie^ 
But by a plain-aiid ii^ualfohnjofispeedJ^ 
All Np©i^i^tii>us'r«v^re»iceilaki by;,*^ - { ?:.iT 
I love you as a man, and, as a man, i . ^ 
I would enjoy jAou/ Why dayotr$tjai*^andi^^:ni^^ 
I am no mounter,- and you but a^ woman, I i ; ; i 4^ 
A^ woman made to yield, and by ^example ■ I 

l^d it is lawful : favouripf this iiature, A 

Are, ill our age, no^miraclesan 'tiie-gi!eatBst ; > 
And, therefore, lad y--***^ ^ i. . ^ 

Jl/dffc* -Keep :offi> O you! Powers 1h^ .^ 

Lil^inOtks %ea($t !: atid, add to thati^.untliaBkftillll 
A crime,:?irhich creatfirrei usaffting reasKin, fly from^ 
Are all the*:pimiciely ^bounties, favours^ honoursy * 
Which, with some prejudice itohis jows wisdom. 
Thy lord and raiser hath: conferr'd upon thee, T 
In three days absence buried ? Hath he made thee^' 
A thi»g obscure,' almost without a name, 
The envy of greatfctrtjuues ? MHaveJtg^iced tbec; 
Beyond thy rank^ randien*erlain'd tiifiiBi as^ 
A f ^i^ii d; -^nd not , a servant ? and is this, ^ 
This impudent at tempt, to taint mine:^ honour, f 
The fair return of both^our ventured favours t .. 
>i2rwi.>.dy[eac Hi^ exeuse.Y . . , ,.. . ,, . , . ^uA 






\ 



THE DUKE OP MILAN. «73 

Marc. The devil may plead mercy, 
And with as much assurance, as thou yield one. 
Burns lust so hot in thee ? or is thy pride 
Grown up to such a height, that, but a princess, 
No woman can content thee ; and, add to it, 
His wife and princess, to whoni thou art tied 
In all the bonds of duty P-r-Read my life. 
And find one act of mine so loosely cs^rried, 
That could invite a most self- loving fool, 
Set off with all that fortune could throw on him^. 
To the least hope to find way to my favour; 
And, what's the worst mine enemies could wish 

me, 
I'll be thy strumpet. i 

Fran. 'Tis acknowledged, madam^ 
That your whole course of life hath been a pat* 

tern 
For chaste and virtuous .women. In your beauty. 
Which I first saw, and loved, as a fair crystal, 
{ read your heavenly mind, clear and untainted ; 
And while the duke did prize you to your value, 
Could it have been in man to pay that duty, 
I well might envy him, but durst not hope 
To stop you in your full career of goodness: 
But now I find that he's fall'n from his fortune, 
And, howsoever he would appear doting,^ 
Grown cold in his affection ; I presume, 
Frotn his most barbarous neglect of you, 
To offer niy true service. Nor stand I boundj^. 
To look back on the courtesies of him, 
That, of all living men, is most unthankfuly 

Marc, Unheard-of impudence ! 

Fran. You'll say I am modest, 
When I have told th^ f tory. C^ he tax me, 
^hat have received jiotne worldly trifies from hitn, 
IFoT Hbcing utigrate'ful; wti^en he, that first tasted, 
And hath so long enji^y'd, your sweet embritG^^, 

VOL. I. T 



j274 THE PUKE aF MILAN. 

In which all blessings that our frail condition 

Is. capable of, are wholly comprehended, 

As cloy'd with happiness, contemns the giver 

Of his felicity 1 and, as he reach'd not 

The masterpiece of mischief which he aims at, 

Unless he pay those favours he stands bound to, 

With fell and deadly haXp !— You think he loves 

you 
With unexampled fervour ; nay, dotes oji you, 
As there were something in you inore than woman : 
When, on my knowledge, he long since hath wish'd 
You were among the dead;--r-and I, you scorn so, 
Perhaps, am your preserver. 

Marc. Bless me, good angels. 
Or I am blasted ! Lies so false and wicked, 
And fashion'd to so damnable a purpose, 
Cannot be spoken by a human tongue. 
My husband hate me ' give thyself the lie, 
False and accurs'd ! Thy soul, if thou hast any, 
Can witness, never Udy stood so bound 
To the unfeign'd affection of her lord, ^ 
As J do. to my Sforza. If thou wouldst work 
Upon my weak credulity, tell me, rather, 
Thatthe earth moves; the sun and stars stajid still; 
The ocean keeps nor floods nor ebbs ; or that 
There's^ peace between the lion and the lamb ; 
Or that the ravenous eagle and the dove 
Keep in one aerie,* and bring up their yonng ; 
Or any thing that is averse to nature : 
And I will sooner credit it, than that 
My lord can think of me, but as a jewel, 
He loves more than himself, and all the world. 






-Or that the rais^aus eqgle mi ^ dobis 

Keep in one aerie,] i. e. m oue neifctv Mr. M. Mason degrades 
Massiiiger and himseh, by reading, Keep in one av^iary I Suph 
rashness, and such incompetence^ it is to be hoped, do not often 
ia6et<4a one pepson. - . . . . = 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 275 

Fran. O innocence abused ! simplicity cozen'c| ! 
It were a sin, for which we have no name, 
To keep you longer iti this wilful errour. 
Read his affection here; — [Gives herapaper.'] — ^an^ 

then obsprve 
How dear he holds you ! -'Tis his character, 
Which cunning yet could never counterfeit. 

Marc. Tis his hand, I'm resolved* of it. I'll 
try 
What the inscription is. 

Fran. Pray you, do so. 

Marc, [reads.] You know my pleasure^ and the hour 
of Mar ceiid' s death, which fail not to execute, as you 
will answer the contrary, not with your head alon^, 
but with the ruin of your whole family. And this,^ 
written with mine own hand, and signed with my 
privy signet, shall be your sufficient warrant. 

LoDovico Sforza. 

I do obey it ; every word'« a poniard, 

And reaches to my heart. [She swoons. 

Fran. What have I done ! 
Madam ! for heaven's sake, madam ! — O my 

fate! 
I'll bend her body :* this is, yet, some pleasure : 

' 'Tis his hand, Pm resoWed of it.'] I am convinced of it: so 
the word if frequently used by Massinger's cqntemporsiri^s. 
Thus Fletcher, in th^ Faithful Shepherdess: 

'*' But be they far from me with their fond terrour ! — ^ 

" I am resolved my Chloe yet is trn«." ' 
And Webster, in the IVhite Devil : 

^^ J am resolved, 

^' Were there a second paradise to' lose, 

'' This devil would betray it." 

4 rU^hend her body :] — to try if there be any life in it. Thus, 
'^Ike Maid* 8 Tragedy: 

^^I'v«- beard, if ther« be any life, but bow^ 
" The body thus, and it will show itself.^* 

TS 



S7t? THE DtKE OF MlfANL 

V\l kiss her into a new life. I>^r lady !— ^ 
She stirs. For the duke's sake, for Sforza's sake— ^ 

Marc. Sforia's! stand off; though desid, 1 
will be bis; 
And even my ashes shall abhor the touch 
Of any other. — O unkind, and cruel ! 
Learn, womfen, learn to trust in one another; ' 
There is no faith in man : Sforza is false; 
False to Marcelia ! . 

Fran. But I am true, : < » ; i 

And live to make you happy. All the ponSp, 
State, and observance you had, being his, 
Compared to what you shall enjoy, when niine>; 
Shall be no more reniemberM. Lose his memory> 
And look .with cheerful beams on your mew 

creature ; 
And know, what he hath plotted for your good, 
Fate cannot alter. If the^mperor 
Take not his life, at his' return he dies, 
And by my hand; my wife, that is his heir. 
Shall quickly follow : — then^ we reign alone ! • 
For with this arm I'll swim through seas' of 

blood, 
Or make a bridge,, arch'd with the bbnes of men, 
But I will grasp my aims in you, my dearest, 
Dearest, and best of women !* 

Marc. Thou art a villain 1 
.All attributes of archvillains made into one,< ^ 
Cannot express thee, I prefer the hate 

5 But I will grasp my aims in you, my diarestf 
Dearest^ and best i^' women f"] 3t wbuti searCdy 'bift credited, 
< if we had not the proof before us, that for this bold and ani« 
mated. expression, which is that of bath the quartos, Mr^ M. 
Mason should presume to i^int, But I will gra^p you uoif my armSj 
in the tame rant of modern comedy. Coxeter'a reading is .^inyJE*. 
nonsense, whijc^Us, better thi^n speQiOui jophistic^on^ as^t 
excites suspicion. ^ . . . . ' » . 



TH JE D IT K E F MI LA N7 m% 

Of Sfa«a, though it mark m€, for the grave, 
Before thy base affection. I am yet 
Pure and unspotted in my true love to him ; 
Nor shall it b^ corrupted, though h0's tainted : . 
Nor will I part with innocence, because 
He is found guilty. For thyself, thou art 
A thing, that, equal with the devil himself, 
I do de|;e$t and jsfpora. 

Fran. Thou, then, art nothing: 
Thy life is in my power, disdainful woman ! 
Think on't, anjd tremble, 

Jfiarrc, No, though thou wert now * 

Xo play thy hangman'^ part.— Thou well may'stbc 
My executioner^ and>rt only fit 
3Fpj such emplqymeRt ; hut ne'er hppe to have 
The least grace from me. I will never see thee. 
But as thA sh^l^c of tne4 ^ s^^ with my curses 
Of hbrrour to thy iCQuscience in this life, 
And painiS in hell hereafter, I spit at thee ; 
And, paking haste to make my peace with heaven. 
Expect thee as my hangman. [Exit. 

: Pl^an. I 9^ Iqst , , 

In the discovery of this fatal secret. 
J^ur«*d hppe, that flattered me, that wrongs could 

: make her j 
A stranger to her gQo4ness ! all my plots 
Turn back upon myself; but I am in. 
And :must go on : and, since I have put off 
From the shore qf innpcence, gu,ilt be no w my pilot ! 
Revenge first wrought me ;* murder's his twin- 
brother : 
One deadly sin, then, help to cure anotherl [Ea^it 

^ Keot^ge first wrought me^ &c.] The reader should not suffer 

these hints, of which he will find several in the succeeding 

"" pages, to escape him : they are not thrown out at random by 

Missinger, but lutefided to prepare tiiB mhidfor the dreadful 

retaliation which follows. .: ^ . . 



278 THE DUKE OF MILAN, 



ACT III. SCENE I. 

The Imperial Camp, before Pavia. 

EnterM^m^A, Hernando, and khvno'S&o. 

Med. The spoil, the spoil ! 'tis that the soldier 
fights for. 
Our victory, as yet, affords us nothing 
But wounds and empty honour. We have pass'd^ 
The hazard of a dreadful day, and forced 
A passage with our swords through all the dan- 
gers 
That, page-like, wait on the success of war ; 
And now expec^ reward. 

Hern, Hell put it in 
The enemy's mind to be desperate, and hold 

out! 
Yield^ngs and compositions will undo us ; . 
And what is that way given, for the most part, 
Comes to the empefor's coffers, to defray 
The charge of the great action, as 'tis rumour'd ; 
When, usually, some thing in grace, that ne'er 
heard 
' The cannon's roaring tongue, but at a triumph, 
puts in, and for his intercession shares 
All that we fought for ; the poor soldier left 
To starve, or fill up hospitals. 

Alph. But, when 
We enter towns by force, and carve ourselves, 
Pleasure with pillage, and the richest wines, 
• Open our shrunk-up veins, and pour into them 

New blood and fervour r 

Med. I long to be at it ; 



THE DtTKE OF MILAN.V 2?9-' 

To see these chuffs/ that every day may ^end . 
A soldier's entertainment for a year, ^ 
Yet make a third meal of a banch of raisins :' 
These sponges, that suck up -a kingdom's fat, 
Battening like scarabs' in the dung of peace, 
To be squeezed out by the rough' hand of war; 
And all that their whole lives have heap'd 

together. 
By cozenage, perjury, or sordid thrift. 
With onb gripe to be ravish'd* ^ 

7 To see ^toe chuffs,] So it stood in every edition before Mr. 
M. Mason's, when it was altered to choughs^ and explained it, \ 
•a note, to ineam magpies / What magpies could have to do hei^, 
it would, perhaps, have puzzled the editor, had he thought at 
all on the subject, to discover/ The truth is, that cktff is the 
genuine word : it is always used in a bad sense, and means tL. 
coarse unmannered clown, at once sordid and wealthy. 

* Yet make a third meal of a bunch qf raisins ;'\ So all tlie old 
copies : and so, indeed, Coxeter ; but Mr. M. Mason, wiiose 
sagacity nothing escapes, detected the poet's blunder, and for 
third suggested, nay, actually printed^ thin. " This passage^" 
quothj he, '' appears to be erronepus : the making a third meal 
of raisins, if they made two good meals before, would be no 
proof of penuriousness. I therefore read thift." 

Seriously, was ever alteration so capricious) was ^VBr reason-' 
ing so absurd? Where is it said that these chaffs ^^ had made twc| 
good meals before?" Is not the whole tendency of the speeck to 
shew that they starved themselves in the midst of abundance ?^ 
and af e not the reproached such, as have been cast, in all ag^s, 
by men of Medina's stamp, on the sobej^ and frugal citizen, who 
lived within his income? " Surely," says Piotweli, in tfrnCity 
Match, 

" Surely, myself, 

" Cipher his factor, and an ancient cat, 

^' Did keep strict diet, bad our Spanish faj^, 
^^ Four blives among three! My uncle would 

^^ Look fiat with fasting; I have known him surfeit 

" Upon a hunch of raisins, swoon at sight 

^* Of a whole joint, and rise an epicure 

^* From half an orange." 

9 Battening tike scarabs] Scarabs means beetles. M. Mason^ 
Very true } and beetles means flcaralil! 



^^, TKii >Jf?(SlSXi ail MILAN} 



- r- ■■• ;\ 



i 



f. J. 






Hern. I would be tousing . 
Their fair madohfks, tjbat in iittle dog^ ^Ll 
Monkeys, and paraquittos, consom^s thJ)U8aBAs : 
Yet, for the ^vam^tiM^tol i nobte action, ' 
Re|p(^'t^ partcwiitji ^pobr piece of eight : T 

War's plagues upon tbf iSkl i hasro .seeB th^ 

stop n.''"l;)siii:7 ■':■■ V ^4:>\ 

Their scornful noses first, then seem to swoon, 
At ^]g)[}t pf d. h\^^ ^^xliw.jf^ty(^^ not V \ 
Periumed, ani hi4 with go|d: yet these nice 
wantons,. 

Spqxr'^ o^ bjLlH%|,:f:^yei''d TO'«^ 

To meet some rough court-st^Uon^ and be 

t>urst enter into any common brot^fsly ^ 
Though.^j^r Yaarifj^p§,(3ff-§tii^ contend there > 
Y-et rjra^&,9 $be, e^^ 

'■ Med! t.fll^Jivp/; ,': -,1 ,v;> .i.-;:a>:j 

fTo &?f .tHe^ ^ter'<ir'«t> rjyi^^^f ^ 

Drag them out of their clbsiats witha vcng-eanc^l 

When neither threalenipg, flattjering, kneeling, 

Can fansome one poor jewel,i^cii5^irfedeeiB ^ 'a 
Themisel v#?, fe)m tl^^r bl^nt iwooingl j 

To begin the spQrjt.^i MIMt^^/ihiS^'s enough, i 
J^^j^ ^\n4^,^]^bs^me^wi^A:»n wi^ for, : 
To satisfy the most coy^g^§, 
Alph. Every d^.w : i . • : 

Med. For Lodo wick Sforza, , 

The 4uke of Milfoi, I,, qji mine own knowli^ge. 

Can sjiy tlins miic);! ; ne is tpp roueh a soUUer, 

„Tqo jpontident of his^^owP worth^^oo-rich too. ' 

And understands too w^U the emperor hates 

him, ,,3r - M :> : ^ 

To hope fdr composition. - .! 



i ^<. 



THE IDU KE- aK M ILAW ^ 






^//»A. On imr life, . 
We need uoJ^i^ar bis cotnmg in/ 

H&m, Ob miaie, ' - 

I do. not wish it :: I had ratter that, ^ '{ 

To shew his valour; he'd put 4i8 to the troiiblft ^ 
"To fetch him in b^ the cars.^ ^ 

Med. The emperor. ^, 

'-- ■■ , .- r- , ,- .-V . ■•'-.-■: t; ; ■ ^ , ■ :^ . '^ ^ : ■ ■.. - ^ " : ' 

Flourish. JBnf cr GharleS, PescAra, inii/ ^: 
^ - - ^ \ Attendants. ^ ' 

Charl. Yoa make mr wotadcr t-r-nay, tt/is njj 

You may partake it, gentlemen :- who'd hayjp 
thought, ; > - ■', - *^ \!; 

Tha^ he, that scorned our profFet'd amity 
When he was sued to, should, ^re he be summjpn*!^^ 
(Whether persuaded to it by base fear, ^ " '^ ^^ 
Or flatter'd by felsehope, whichj 'tis lincertiin^ 
First kneel for mercy ? 

3^ieii. When your majesty " ^ 

Shall please to instruct us who it is, V^e'inay 
Admire it wilii yOu* 

Charl. Who, but the duke of Milan, ^ 

The right hand pf the French ! of all that 9taq4 
In OUT displeasure, whom necessity * '' - 

Compel&t^ seek our favour, I would have svirQ^ 
Sforza had been the last. m 

Hern. And should be writ so, ^ . 

In the list of those you pardon. Would'his city 

■j Al^h. pnmy life" \ : "^^ 

f'^ "^ Wtnm^ hoffictr his coming in.] His surrender of ]iims<d|[f. 
HjeraandO) ia die ne^t speisdi, plays upon the word. 

* . ■ I nay^ it is ^o counsel,] i. e. no secret: so 

*' ' ' I would worry her, 

^^ As never cur was worried^ I would, neighbour, ! 

^^ Till my teeth met I know where; but tibat is comsdJ* 






I 



2S2 THE DIJKE OF MILAN. 

Had rather held us out a siege, like Troy, 
Than, by a feign'd submission, he should cheaf 

you 
Of a just revenge; or us, of those fair glories 
We have s\<reat blood to purchase ! 

Med. With your honour 
You cannot hear him. 

Alph. The sack alone of Milan 
Will pay the army. 

Chart. I am not so weak, 
To be wrought on, as you f6ar ; nor ignorant 
That money is the sinew of the war : 
And on what terms soever he seek peace, 

?i$an our power to grant it, or deny it : 
et, for our glory, and to shew him that 
We've brought him on hts knees, it is resolved 
To hear him as a suppliant. Bring him in ; 
But let him see the effects of our just anger. 
In the guard that you make for him. 

[jEcTiV Pescara. 
Hem. I am now 
Familiar with the issue ; all plagues on it 1 
He will appear in some dejected habit, 
His countenance suitable, and, for his order, 
A rope about his neck : then kneel, and teH 
Old stories, what a worthy thing it is 
To have power, and not to use it ; then add to 

that, 
A tale of king Tigranes, and great Pompey, 
Who said, forsooth, and M^isdy ! Twas more 

honour 
To make a king, than kill one : which, applied 
To the emperor, and himself, a pardon's granted 
To him, an, enemy ; and we, his servants, 
Condemn'd to beggary. 

Med. Yonder he comes ; 
But not as you expected. 



\ / 



THE DUKE OF MILAN; 2M 



Re-enter Pescara koith Sfohza. 

I 

Alph. He looks as if 
He would outface his dangers. 

Hern. I am cozen'd : 
A suitor, in the devil's name ! 

Med. Hear him i^eak. 

Sfor. I come not, emperor, to invade thy 
mercy, 
By fawning on thy fortune ; nor bring with me 
Excuses, or denials. I profess, 
And with a good man's confidence, even thid 

instant 
That I am in thy power, I was thine enemy ; 
Thy deadly and vow'd enemy : one that wish'd 
Confusion, to thy person and estates ; 
And with ipy utmost powers, and deepest coun- 
sels, 
Had they been truly foUpw'd, furthered it. 
Nor will I now, although my neck were under 
The hangman's axe, with one poor syllable 
Confess, but that I honour'd the French king^ 
More than thyself, and all men, 

Med. By saint Jaques, 
This is no flattery. 

Hern. There is fire and' spirit in't ; 
But not long-lived, I hope. 
, SfoPi Now give me leave. 
My hate against thyself, and love to him 
Freely acknowledged, to give up the reasons 
That made m^ so affected : In my wants 
I ever found him faithful ; had supplies 
Of men and monies from him ; and my hopes, 
Quite sunk, were, by his grace^ buoy'd up 

again: 
He was, indeed, to me, as my good angel, 



t$$ Ttf E jJtJKE OF iltLANV 

To guard irie from all danger^. I dare «peak^ 
Nay, must and will, his praise iow, iu as high 
And loud a key,' as when he was thy equal. 
The benefits he sdw'd in me, met not 
Unthankfn} ground^ but yielded him his own - 
With fair increase, and I still glory in it. 
And, though my fortunes, poor^ c^Mipared to bis. 
And Milan, weigh'd witn France, appear as 

Arc in thy fury burnt, let it be mentioned, 

They served but as smail tapers to attend - ^ 

The solemn flame at this great funeral:^ 

And with them I m\l gla^y wieste myiself, 

Bather tb»n undergo the imputatit^n ■ 

Of being base, or unthankAil; r - ^ \ * 

4iph. Nobly spoken! 

Hern. I did begiHi I krmirif not why, to hatd 

li^w-thaul^didw - ■■••^ V '- ^ ■■- ..:>-■ -i A 

Sjfbr^ If that, tUtm, to be: grateful ^ v i ^ 
For courteries reeeivei^, ornot to leave 
A frierid'ili histiecepsitieSj beacfimfe 
Amongst you l^niardi^ which ^ther nati<(»ns ' 
That, like you, aim'd at empire, loved, and 

cherish'd i /^ ' 

Whei^e^H^r they ^ftwihd it^ Sf^ h^d 

To pay the^fo'rftit; Nbr domei I as a slave^ 
Pinion'd and fetter'd; in a squalid 'weed, ^ 

Falling h^fo^rt thy fe^t, kfieeling and howling^ 
For a TOfestaird rettiisi^ioii : that were po6r^ 
And wouM but shame^^tby victory ; Jior eonquest 
Over base f^es, is a c^tivity^ v i >. 1 V 

And not a triumph; Ine'er fear'd to dip: 

^c K : ^ /.. i '."... -^ ■->-■., ...... .i-i:..- A J '>A-i.- -"^..-lA^i -/-N iA.;..-.V ,:-■*;-■■'■ 

»? it. ii j^ i c": . L mi tkk srtat ^ftmendJi^ iUri^ 'M. I Masox, 
whether by design or opt, J nfillnpt^aj, refd^ hi^gre^tjuneral: 
meaning, perji^ps,, the f rencji kingV; but dbc pld reA^ingu 
better ia evcty respect. ^ \ P ^ ^ T^i v.u-^< 



More ;thj*h I rwith'd ita Hn*. J^hfiil baAiJ^OJkcVt 
My ends ii^ being a duke, I M^ore thies^nrobes, 1 
This crown upoi^j^y bead, atid totHy side 'a 
This sword w^ gift; and witnefisi truths tbati ntf^ 
Tis in a^iQther's powep \i^en I shall p^^ i j 
With tljem and life together, I'no the same; ' 
]Vfy vem theil clid gipfe isweU wi*h pHde ; not 

Shrink they for fear. Know, sir, that; Sforza 

Preparf/i ftxi^ either fwtu^ . / ^ 

I do begin atrangdyto love this fellow j 

And could pjitrt with th^ee^quarteraiof i»y shate # 

The promised spoil, toi save hini. • ; 

Sfor. But, if example , . > ? v ^ ;^ ^^ 

Of my fidelity to the* Ir^^ wlio$o honanii^ 
Titles, and glories, are now mix'd with yours. 
As brooks, devour'd by rivers, lQ$e tbeir name^ 
Has power to mvite y^u .to iiial^ a friend^ 

That hath given evideiit proof, he Mttows to lovej 
And to be^^h^nkful; this my crow% now youira, 
YoH ipay restore me^ and in me instruct > 

Th^sp braye cpmmiinijers, should your fortiiixe 

change. 
Which now I wish not, what they miy expect / 
From noble enemies, for being faithful. 
The charges of the war I will defray, 
Apd, what you m^y, not without hazard, force,^ 
Bring freely to you : I'll prevent the cries T 
Of murder'd infants, and of ravish'd maid^, a 
Which, in a city sack'd, call on heaven's justice^ 
And stop the course of glorious yictbries ; , \ 
And, when I know the captains and the soldiers, 
That have in the late battle done iest^ervice, 
And are to be rewarded, I myself, ^ 
Aecording to. their quality and merits^ ^' 



UBS THE DUKE OF MILAN. 



/ 



Will sec them largely recompensed. — I have 

said. 
And now expect my sentence. 

Alpk. By thi3 light, 
Tis a bnlve gentleman. 

Med. How like a block 
The emperor sits ! 

Hem. He hath deliver'd reasons/ 
Especially in his purpose to enrich 
Such as fought bravely, I myself am one, 
I care not who knows it, as I wonder that 
lie can be so stupid. Now he begins to stir : 
Mercy, an't be thy will ! 

Chart. Thou hast so far 
Outgone my expectation, noble Sforza, 
For such I hold thee ; — ^and true constancy, 
Raised on a brave foundation, bears such palm 
And privilege with it, that where we behold it, 
Though in an enemy, it does command us 
To love ami honour it. By my future hopes, 
I am glad, for thy sake, that, in seeking favour, 
Thou didst not borrow of vice her indirect. 
Crooked, and abject means; and for mine own, 
That, since my purposes must now be changed. 
Touching thy life and fortunes, the world can- 
not 
Tax me ^f levity in my settled counsels ; 
I being neither wrought by tempting bribes, 

i * 

^ He hath dtUter'd reasonsj Httrnando-efideiitly moaiis to saj 
that Sforza h^s.9poken rationaUy;, especially i9 ei^pfessiag his 
purpose of enriching those who fought bravely: the word 
'reasons in the plural will not express that sense. M. Mason. 

He therefore alters it to reason / To attempt^o prove that the 
old copies are right, would be Superfluous : — but I cannot reflect, 
without some iiklignation, on the scandalous manner in which 
Mr. M. Mason has given this apeeeh. He first d^riTes it of 
metre and seos^^ and then builds b]^ hqw re^din|S 9a hj» own 
blunders. 



THE DUKE OF MILAm «87 



K 



Nor servile flattery ; but farced into it 
By a fair war of virtue. 

Hern, :This sounds w«ll. 

Chart. All former passages of hate be buried: 
For thus with open arms I meet thy love, 
And as a friend embrace it ; 'and so far 
I am from robbing thee of the least honour, 
That with my hands, to make it sit the faster, 
I set thy crown once more upon thy head ; 
And do not only style thee, Duke of Milan, 
JBut vow to keep thee so. Yet, not to take . 
From others to givei only to myself,^ 
I will not hinder your magnificence 
To my commanders, neither will 1 urge it; 
But in that, as in all things else, I leave y6u 
To be your own disnoscr, 

[tlourish. Exit with Attendants. 
. Sfqr. May I live 

To seal my. loyalty, though with loss of life. 
In some brave service worthy Caesar's favour, 
And I shall die most happy ! Gentlemen, ' 

.Receive m^ to your Loves ; and if henceforth 
^Thcre can arise a difference between us, 
It shall be in a noble emulation 
Who hath the fairest sword, or dare go farthest. 
To fight for Charles the emperor. 

Hem. We embrace you. 
As one well read in all the points of honour : 
And there we are your scholars, 

.^r. True; but such 
As far outstrip the master. We'll contend 

•Fe^5 not to tak^ 



From otherSf to^ive ottlj/ to myself,] This isthe rea4ing of a)! 
the old copies, and nothing caii be clearer than that it is per- 
fect]/ proper. The modern editors, how ever, choose to weaken 
X>ot)x the sense and the sentiment, by a tonc^it of their own : 
they print, ■ ■ " p 4ogive only to thyself! 



288 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

In love hereafter; in the mean time, pray you, 
Let me discharge my debt, and, as an eimest . 
Of what's to come, divide this cabinet: 
In the small body of it there are jewels 
Will yield a hundred thousand pistolets, 
Which honour me to receive. 

Med. You bind us to you. 

Sfor. AnA when great .Charles commands me 
to his presence, 
If you will please to excuse my abrupt departure, 
Designs that most concern me, next this mercy. 
Calling me home, I shall hereafter meet you, 
And gratify the favour. 

Hern. In this, and all things. 
We are your iServants. 

Sfor. A name I ever owe you. 

[Exeunt Medina^ Hernando^ and Alphonso. 

Pesc. So, sir ; this tempest is well overblown. 
And all things fall out to our wishes : but. 
In my opinion, this quick return. 
Before you've made a party in the court 
Aitibng the great ones, (for these needy captains 
Have little power in peace, ) may beget danger. 
At least suspicion. 

Sfor. Where true honour lives, 
Doubt hath no being : I desire no pawn 
Beyond an emperor's word, for my assurance. 
Besides, Pescara, to thyself, of all men, 
I will confess my weakness :— though my state 
And crown's restored me, though I am in grace. 
And that a little stay might be a step 
To greater honours, I must hence. Alas ! 
I live not here ; my wife, my wife Pescara,* 
Being absent, I am dead. Prithee, excuse, 

-wy wife^ my wife, Pescara^] Mr. M. Mason feel^j 



and unmetrically reads, my wife^ Pescara. There is great 

beauty in Uie repetittoa; it is, b^det, perfectiy in character. 



1 



t -^ ^j '5 -: ? »Tf» r. I**. '^ 



THte^iitfiG4'6¥MitAk^ ^89* 







J V 



! V^f 



And strong dtids/fb pl^ad fbr me. 



Pe^c. Useyotiro^h pleasuris; ' 
Til bear you company. ' ' ' ' ^ 

4§^r. Farewell, grie;f 1 I ain stofed'^>i^ith 
T^o W^sfiiigs m6^t *ddsfred irt human life, / 
A constant friend, an unsuspected wilTe* {ltxmnt.\ 












' 1 ■ 




» J 


< 


N 








It 


... 1 1, . ; 


y> • " 


» 1 ' i 


- 1* 




Milan. 


'M^kbdmin 




Castley 


> 1 




^f 






Enter an Officei' ivith' OkACci^qi.^ 

,®«i!l 'WtAlJ'P 4ia, ITiia x^raffihf for-; ybutave.. 

My office gently, atifl^ for tlibke' soft str6k''9s,,,',f 
Flea-bitingsf to the jerk? I eoiild have lent ypu^ ( 
Tbw^-tf<*Sib^drfg^afeyiing/''V '''^ "' '" N7 

»i0-«*CiaMUSf>I |)-iy i.'-^i"' '"■','■';,"'"*' ;\.\ 
For being tormented, and dishoiiour'd? " 

O^c. Fie! no,*^' ' ' ' ' " ', ' * ; f 

Your hondut^f^-; ttbt fmpaiV'd in't'. 'Whkt^s, tlic i 

-tlsttiilrdyt ■• ' ."^ •"' • • - -^ '' 'v ••'•;:'/' 

Of a little cori'upt'blood,*'a[na the next way too? 
Thicreis fid surgeott tike tti^, t6 t^ke'^ol^' l ',^ ,^ 
A:c4^i$j©r's itch that^s YaWpant altgreal: ladies^* ^^ 
Or turns knave for prefisrihent, br grows p^ y 

" ■.{■■•'' i 

7 Milani ji'Hoom-in tfie Castl^j Here too Coxetei^ printe, ^ 
** Scene ct^ug&ioPii6!^'l^9.ii& here- too hfe is^foiloWd d^ the ' 
** most accurate of.edttorg," Mr, M* M^^l^* - - * 

f 0/^a Zf^rie cory upt iiooi,] So 1;^e old cepies^;- il|^Hi<*#ft*fi%di- 

Tery good prose^ which is indeed its only merit. 
VOL. I. U 



i 



290 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Of his rich cloidts and Suits, though got by 

];)rokage, 
And so forgets his betters. 

Grac. Very good, sir : 
But am I the first man of quality 
That e'er came under your fingers ? 

Offic. Not by a thousand ; - 

And they have said I have a luckv hand too : 
Both men and women of all sorts navebow'd . 
Under this sceptre. I have had a fellow 
That could endite, forsooth, and make fine metres 
To tinkle in the ears of ignorant madams. 
That, for defaming of great men, was sent me 
Threadbare and lousy, and in thre^. days after, 
Discharged by another that set him on, I have 

seen him 
Cap k pie gallant, and his stripes wash'd of 

With oil of angels,' , 

(jrrac. 'Twas a sovereign cure. 

Offic. There was a secretary too, that wonki 
not be 
Conformable to the orders of the church, 
Nor yield to any argument of reason. 
But still rail at authority, brought to nw, 
When I had worm'd his tongue, auid trujss-dhis 
hatches, : i 

Grew a fine.pulpitman, and wasbenefided : 
Hatl he not cause to thank n^e ? 

6rr«c, There wats phy sick 
Wasr to the puf ppse. 

Offic. Now^ for women, sir, i 

For your more consolation, I could tell you 
Twenty fine stories, but I'll end iuoBue, 
Ajid 'tis the last that's memorable. ^ 



- 1 ' 



^ Trr^Ao27o/*angels.] It may be just nece^sairy %o qbsenfy 
ihat i^vs 1% a pleasant allusion to the |[old coin of thjat n^me* 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 29t 

Grac. Prithee, do ; 
For I grow weary of thee. 

Offic. There was lately * 
A fine she- waiter in the court, that doted 
Extremely of a gentleman, that had 
His main dependence on a signior's favour 
r will not name, but could not compass him 
On any terms. This wanton, at dead midnight. 
Was found at the exercise behind the arras. 
With the 'foresaid signior : he got clear off. 
But she was seized on, and, to save his honour. 
Endured the lash ; and, though I made her often 
Curvet and caper, she would never tell 
Who play'd at pushpin with her. 

Grac. But what folio w'd? 
Prithee be brief. 

Offic. Why this, sir: She, deliver'd. 
Had store of crov/ns assign'd her by her patron, 
Who forced the gentleman, to save her credit. 
To marry her, and say he was the party 
Found in lob's pound : so she, that, before, gladly 
Would have been his whore, reigns o'er him as 

his wife ; 
Nor dares he grumble at it. Speak but truth, then, 
Is not my office lucky ? 

Grac. Go, there's for thee ; 
But what will be my fortune ? 

' Offic. There was latdy &c.] I have little doubt but that this 
liyely story was founded in fact,, and well understood by the 
poet's contemporaries. The courtiers were not slow in indem- 
nifying themselves for the morose and gloomy hours which they 
had passed during the last two or three years of Elizabeth; and 
the coarse and inelegant manners of James, which bordered 
closely on licentiousness, afforded, them ample opportunities. 

It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader, that wherever 
our old dramatists laid the scene of their plays, the habits and 
manners of them are^ generally speaking, as truly English as the 
language. 

U2 



292 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Offic, If you thrive not 
After that soft correction, come again, 

Grac. I th^ink you, knave. 

Offic. And then, knave, I virill fit you. [Exit. 

Grac. Whipt like a rogue ! no lighter punish- 
ment serve 
To balance with a little mirth ! 'tis well. 
]V|y credit sunk for ever, I am now 
Fit company only for pages and for footboys, 
That have perused the porter's lodge.* 

Enter JvLio and GiovA^^i.^ 

Giov. See, Julio, 
Yonder the proud slave is ; how he looks now, 
After his castigation ! 

Jul. As he came 
From a close fight* at sea under the hatches, 
With a she-Dunkirk, that was shot before 
Between wind and water; and he hath sprung a 
, leak too. 

Or I am cozen'd. 

* Fit company for pages andforfoothoys^ 

That have penised the porter's lodge.] i. e. that have been 

whipt there. The porter's lodge, in our authour's days, when 

the great claimed, and, indeed, frequently exercised, the right 

of chastising 4:heir servants, was the usual place of punishment 

Thus Shirley, in the Grateful Servant: " My friend, what 

make you here ? Begone, begone, I say ; — there is a porter's lodge 
else, where you may have due chastisement." 

5 Enter J VLio and Giovanjii,] This has been hitherto print- 
ed, Enter two Gentlemen^ though one of them is immediately 
named. Not to multiply characters unnecessarily, I have sup- 
posed them to be the same that appear with Graccho^ in the 
§rst scene of the first act. 

^ Jul. As he came 

From a close Jight &c.] Our old poets made very free with 
one another's property: it must be confessed^ however, that 
their literary rapine did not originate in poverty, for they gave 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 293 

Giov. Let's be merry with him. 

Grac. How they stare at me! am I turn'd to 
an owl ? 
The wonder, gentlemen ? 

Jul. I read, this morning, 
Strange stories of the passive fortitude 
Of men in former ages, which I tjiought 
Impossible, and not to be believed : * 
But, now I look on yoii, my wonder ceases. 

Grac. The reason, sir? 

Jul. Why, sir, you have been whipt, 
Whipt, signior Graccho; and the whip, I take it, 
Is, to a gentleman, the greatest trial 
That may be of his patience. 

Grac. Sir, I'll call you 
To a strict account for this. 

Giov. I'll not deal with you. 
Unless I have a beadle for my second ; 
And then I'll answer you. 

Jul. Farewell, poor Graccho. 

[Ej:eunt Julio a7id Giovanni. 

Grac. Better and better still. If ever wrongs 
Could teach a wretch to find the way to 
vengeance. 

Enter Francisco a72d a Servant 

Hell now inspire me ! How, the lord protector ! 



as liberally as they took. This speech has been '' conveyed" - 
by Fletcher into his excellent comedy of the Elder Brother: 

" -_ ^They look ruefully, 

. " As they had newly come from a vaulting house, 

^* And had been quite shot through between wind and water 
^^ By a she-Dunkirk, and had sprung a leak, sir.*' 
I charge the petty depredation' on Fletcher, because the publi- 
cation of the Duke of Mi(an preceeded that of the Elder B rot her y 
by many years. 



254 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

« 

My judge; I thank him ! Whither thus in private? 
I will not see him. [Stands aside. 

Fran. If I am sought for, 
Say I am indisposed, and will not hear 
Or suits, or suitors. 

Serv. But, sir, if the princess 
Enquire, what shall I answer,? 

Fran. Say, I am rid* 
Abroad to take the air; but by no means 
Let her know I'm in court. 

Serv. So I shall tell her. [Esit 

Fran. Within there, ladies ! 

Enter a Gentlewoman. 

Gentlew. My good lord, your pleasure ? 

Fran. Prithee, let me beg thy favour for access 
To the dutchess. 

Gentlew. In good sooth, my lord, I dare not^ 
She's very private. 

Fran. Come, there's gold to buy thee 
A new gown, and a rich ope. 

Gentlew. I once swore* 
If e'er I lost my maidenhead, it should be 
With a great lord, as you are; and, 1 know not 

how, 
I feel a yielding inclination in me. 
If yoti have appetite. 

' Fran. Say I am rid 
; Abroad &c,^ So the old copies: the modem editors, with 
' equal accuracy and elegance, 

Sai/ I'm rode 

Abroad^ &c. 

^ I once swore^ Both the quartos have a marginal hemistich 
here: they read, This will tempt me ; an addition of the promp* 
ter, or an unnecessary interpolation of Ithe copyist, which spoilt 
the metre. Coxeter and Mr. M. Mason haye advanced it into 
the text. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. Spi^ 

Fran. Pox on thy maidenhead ! 
Where is thy lady ? 

Gentlew. If you venture on her, 
She's walking in tlie gallery; perhaps, 
You will find her less tractable. 

Fran. Bring me to her. 

Gentlew. I fear you'll have cold entertainment, 
when 
You are at your journey's eiid; and 'twere 

discretion 
To take a snatch by the way. 

Fran. Prithee, leave fooling : 
My page waits in the lobby; give him sweetmeats ; 
He is trainM up- for his master's ease, 
And he will cool thee. [Exeunt Fran, and Gervtle:w. 

Grac. A brave discovery beyond my hope, 
A plot even offer'tl to my nand to work on ! 
If lam dull now, may I live and die 
The scorn of worms and slaves !— Let me consider; 
My lady and her mother first committed. 
In the favour of the dutchess, and I whipt ! . 
That, with an iron pen, is writ in brass 
On my tough heart, now grown a harder metal. — 
And all his bribed approaches to the dutthess 
To be conceal'd ! good, good. This to my lady 
Delivered, as I'll order it, runs her mad. * 
But this may prove but courtship ;' let it be, 
I care not, so it feed her jealousy. [Exit. 

7 He is trained up &c.] A hemistich, or more, is lost here, or^ 
not improbably, purposely omitted. I only mention it to ac- 
count for the defect of metre ; for the circumstance itself is not 
worth regretting. ' 

* But this may prove hut courtship; &c.] That is, merely 
paying his court to her as'dutchess. M. Mason. 



H9^ . THE DUKE OF MILAN. 



SCENE in. 

Another Room in the same. 
Enter Marc£lxa and Francisco 

JWflfrc, Believe thy tears or oaths! can it bfe 
hoped, 
After a practice so abhorr'd and horrid, 
Repentance e'er can find thee ? 

Fran. Dearest lady, 
Great in your fortune, greater in your goodness^ 
Make a superlative of excellence, 
In being greatest iu your saving mercy* 
I do confess, humbly confess my fault. 
To be beyond all pity ; my attempt. 
So barbarously rude, that it would turn 
A saint-like patience into savage fury.- 
But you, that are all innocence a«id virtue. 
No spleen or anger in you of a woman. 
But when a holy zeal to piety fires you, 
May, if you please, impute the fault to love, 
Or call it beastly lust, for 'tis no better ; 
A sin, a monstrous sin ! yet with it many 
That did prove good men after, have be^n 

tempted; 
And, though I'm crooked now, 'tis in your power 
To make me straight again'. ' 

Marc. Is't possible 
This can be cunning ! ^ 

Frm- But, if uq submission, 
Nor prayers can appease you, that you may know 
'Tis not the fear of death that makes me sue 

thus. 
But a loath'd detestation of my madness, 



THE DUKE OP MILAN. sm 

Which makes me wish, to live to have yout 

pardon ; 
I will not wait the sentence of the duke, 
Since his return is doubtful, but I myself 
Will do a fearful justice on myself, 
No witness by but you, there being no more, 
When I offended. Yet, before I do it. 
For I perceive in you no. signs of mercy, 
I will disclose a secret, whiich, dying with me, 
May, prove your ruin. 

Marc. Speak it ; it will take from 
The burthen of thy conscience. 

Fran. Thus, then, madan? : 
The warrant by my lord sign'd for your death. 
Was but conditional ; but you must swear 
By your unspotted truth, not to reveal it, 
Or I end here abruptly. 

Marc. By my hopes 
Of joys hereafter. On. . 

Fran. Nor was it hate 
That forced him to it, but excess of love: 
And^ if I ne'er return, (so said great Sforza,) . 
No living man deserving to enjoy 
My best Marcelia, with thejirst news 
That I)am dead, for no man after me 

Might e'er enjoy her But till certain proof 

Assure thee lam lost, (these were his words,) 
Observe and honour her^ as if the seal 

^ —with thejirst news 

That I am dead, for no man after me 

Might, e'er enjoy her But till certain proof 

Assure thee I am losty (these w^re his words,) 

Observe and honour her, ] For, i. t.for that, hecav^e no man 

&Cv I have followed the old copies, which are ipuch confused 
in this place, and seem to be carelessly made up from two diffe. 
rent readings in the prompter's books* After the break in the 
third line, the words^yiii/ not to kill her, which stand in the 
quartos as a marginal reference, (in allusion, perhaps, to the 



\ 



99B THt DUKE OF MILAN. 

Ofwoman's goodness only dwelt inheres. 

This trust 1 have abused, and basely wroBg'd ; 

And, if the excelling pity of your mind 

Cannot forgive it, as I dare not hope it, 

Rather than look on my offended lord, 

I stand resolved to punish it. 

Marc. Hold ! 'tis forgiven. 
And by me freely pardon'd. In thy fair life 
Hereafter, study to deserve this bounty,^ 
Which thy true penitence, such I believe it, 
Against my resolution hath forced from me. — 
But that my lord,, my Sforza, should esteem 
My life fit only as a page, to wait on 
The various course of his uncertain fortunes ; 
Or cherish in himself that sensual hope. 
In death to know me as a wife, afflicts me ; 
Nor does his envy less deserve mine anger. 
Which, though, such is my love^ I wonld not 

nourish. 
Will slack the ardour that I had to see him 
Return in safety. 

Fran. But if your entertainment 
Should give the least ground to his jealousy, 
To raise up an opinion I am false, 
Yoii then destroy your mercy. Therefore, 

madam, 
(Though I shall ever look on you as on 
My life's preserver, and the miracle 
Of human pity,) would you but vouchsafe. 
In company, to do me those fair graces, 
And favours, which your innocence and honour 
May safely warrant, it would to the duke, 

tfenns of .the sedret order left by the duke, p. 257,) or others of 
a similar import, should be inserted, or rather understood, as 
Francisco might now be desirous of avoiding the irritating ex- 
pression. The modem editors are yery harsh and unmetrical 
in this apelech. . 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 299 

I being to your best self alone ktiown guilty, 
Make me appear most innocent. 

Marc. Have your wishes ; 
And something I may do to try his temper. 
At least, to make him know a constant wife 
Is not so slaved to her husband's doting humours, 
But that she may deserve to live a widow, 
Her fate appointing it. 

Fran^ It is enough ; 
Nay, all I dould desire, and will make way 
'To my revenge, which shall disperse itself 
On him, on her, and all. \Slwut end flourish. 

Marc. What shout is that ? 

jEw^erTlBlERIO ^wrfSTEPHAl^O. 

Tib. All happiness to the dutchess, that may 
flow 
From the duke's new and wish'd return ! 
Marc. He's welcome. 
Steph. How coldly she receives it ! 
Tib. Observe the encounter. 

* 

Flourish. Enter Sforza, Pesca^a, Isabella^ 
Mariana, Graccho, and Attendants. 

Mari. What you have told me, Graccho, is 
believed. 
And I'll find time to stir in't. 

Grac. As you see cause ; 
I will not do ill offices. 

Sfor. I have stood 
Silent thus long, Marcelia, expecting 
When, with more than a greedy hlste, thou 

wouldst 
Have flown into my arms, and on my lips 
Have printed a deep welcome. My desires 



SOO TH^ DtJKE OF MILAN. 

To glass myself in these fair eyes, have bom me 
With more than human speed : nor durst I stay 
In any temple, or to any saint 
To pay my vows and thanks for my return, 
Till I had seen thee. 

Marc. Sir, I am most happy 
To look upon you safe, and would express 
My love and duty in a modest fashion. 
Such as might suit with the behaviour 
Of one that knows herself a wife, and how 
To temper her desires, not like a wanton 
Fired with hot appetite ; nor can it wrong me 
To Idve discreet! V. 

Sfor. How ! wny, can there be 
A'mean in your affections to Sforza? 
Or any act, though ,ne'er so loose, that may 
Invite or heighten appetite, appear ' 
Immodest or uncomely ? Do not move me ; 
My passions to you are in extremes, 
And know no bounds : — come ; kiss me. 
Marc. I obey you. 

Sfor. By all the joys of love, she does salute me 
As if I were her grandfather ! What witch. 
With cursed spells, hath quench'd^the amorous 

heat 
That lived upon these lips ? Tell me, Marcelia, 
And truly tell me, is't a fault of mine 
That hath begot this coldness? or neglect - 
Of others, in my absence ? 

Marc. Neither, sir : 
I stand indebted to your substitute, 
Noble and good Francisco, for his care 
And fair observance of me : there was nothing 
With which you, being present, could supply me, 
That I dare say I wanted. 
Sfor. How 1 
Marc. The pleasures 



THE DUKE OP MILAN. SOI 

That sacred Hymen warrants us, excepted^' ' 
Of which, in troth, you are too great a xloter ; 
And there is more of beast in it than maiv, 
Let us love temperately; things violent last 

not, 
And too much dotage rather argues folly 
Than true affection. 

6rrflfc. Observe but this. 
And how she praii^ed my lord's care and observ- 
ance; 
And then judge, madam, if my intelligence 
Have any ground of truth. 

Mart. No more ; I mark it. 

Steph. How the duke stands ! 

Tib, As he were rooted there, 
And had no motion. 

Pesc. My lord, from whence 
Grows this amazement ? 

Sfor, It is more, dear my friend ; 
For I am doubtful whether I've a being, 
But certain that my life's a burthen to me. 
Take me back, good Pescara, shew me to Caesar 
In all his rage and fury ; I disclaim s 
His mercy : to live now, which is his gift. 
Is worse than death, and with all studied tor^* 

ments. 
Marcelia is unkind, nay, worse, grown cold > 
In her affection ; my excess of fervour. 
Which yet was never equall'd, grown distasteful. 
— But have thy wishes, woman ; thou shalt know 
That I can be myself, and thus shake off 
The fetters of fond dotage. From my sight, 
Without reply ; for I am apt to do 
Something I may repent. — [Exit Marc.l—OhX 

who would place 
His happiness in most accursed woman. 
In whom obsequiousness engenders pride ; 



Sas THE OUKE OF MILAN. 

And hkrshness deadly* — I From this hour 
I'll labour to forget there are such creatures ; 
True friends be now my mistresses. Clear youy 

brows, 
And, though my heart-strings crack for't, I will be 
To all a free example of delight : 
We will have sports of all kinds, and propound 
Rewards to sucn as can produce us new : 
Unsatisfied, though we surfeit in their store, 
And never think of curs'd Marcelia more. 



ACT IV. SCENE L 
The same. A Room in the Castle. 
Enter 'Francisco and Gb,accb.o. 

Fran. And is it- possible thou, shouldat forget 
A wrong of such a nature, and then study 
My safety and contenit ? 

Grac. Sir, but allow me 
Only to have read the elements of courtship,* 
Not the abstruse and hidden arts to thrive there; 
And you may please to grant me so much know- 
ledge. 
That injuries from one in grace, like you. 
Are noble favours. Is it not grown common^ 

■ Jnd harshness deadly — !] These inversions ar,e not common 
inMassinger; nor was this probably intended by him: the 
metre, too, is defectire by a foot, so that some word has been 
lost at the press. 



* the elements ^courtship,] i. e. of 

court-policy. M. Mason. 

* . I " Is it not grown common Sec. ] jGrraccha is an apt 



THE DU1LE OF MILAN. 30S 

In every sect, for those that want, to suffer 
From such as have to give ? Your captain cast, 
If poor, though not thought daring, but approved 

so, 
To raise a coward into name, that*s rich, 
Suffers disgraced publickly ; but receives 
Rewards for them in private. 

Fran. Well observed. 
Put on ;' we'll be familiar, and discourse 
A little of this argument. That day, 
In which it was first rumour'd, then confirmed. 
Great Sforza thought me worthy of his favour, 
I found myself to be another thing ; 
Not what I was before. I passed then 
For a pi;etty fellow, aftd of pretty parts too. 
And was perhaps received so ; but, once raised, 
The liberal courtier mad^ me master of 
Those virtues which I ne'er knew in^myself : 
If I pretended to a jest, 'twas made one 
By their interpretation; if I offer'd 
To reason of j^hrlosophy, though absurdly, 
They had h^lps to 8a^ve me, and without ablusli 
Would swear that I, by nature, had more know- 
ledge, ♦ 
Than others could acquire by any labour ; 
Nay, all I did, Indeed, whicn in another 
Was not remarfe^bi^, in me shew'd rarely. 

Grac, But then they tasted of your bounty. 

Fran. True: 
They gave me those good parts I was not born to, 
And, by my intercession, they got that 
Which, had I cross'd th^m, they durst not have 
hoped for. • 

Grac. AH this is oracle : and shall I, then, 

scholar : these notable observations are derived from the les« 
<Sons of the Officer, in the lasJt iict. See p. 289. 

* Pi^ CNti;] BeoOTcr^dJ a frequent expression in these playsii 



304 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

For a foolish whipping, leave to honour him, 
That holds the wheel of fortune ? no ; that savoure 
Too much of the ancient freedom. Since great 

men 
Receive disgraces and give thanks, poor khavesi 
Must have nor spleen, nor anger. Though I lov^ 
My limbs as well as any man, if you had now 
A humour to kick me lame into an office, 
Where I might sit- in state and undo others, 
Stood I not bound to kiss.the foot that did it? 
Though it seem strange, there have beeoi such 

things seen 
In the memory of man. 

Fran, But to the purpose, 
And then, that service done, make thine own 

fortunes. 
My wife, thou say'st, is jealous I am too 
Familiar with the dutchess. 

Grac. And incensed 
For her commitment in her brother's absence ; 
And by her mother's anger is spurr'd on 
To make discovery of it. This her purpose 
Was trusted to my charge, which I declined 
As much as in me lay ; but, finding her 
Determinately bent to undertake it, 
Though breakirig^my faith to her may destroy 
My credit with your lordship, I yet thought, 
Though at my peril, I stood bound to reveal it. 
Fran. I thank thy care, and will dese^ve^ this ' 

secret. 
In making thee acqainted with a greater, . 
And of more moment. Coipe into my bosom. 
And take it from me : Canst thou think, dull 

Graccho, 
My power and honours were conferr'd upon i^e. 
And, add to them, this form, to have my pleasurej^ 
Confined and limited ? I delight in change^ 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 805 

And sweet variety ; that's my heaven on earth, 

For which I love life only. I confess, 

My wife pleased me a day, the dutchess, two, 

(And yet I must not say I have 'enjoy 'd her,) 

But now I care for neither: thererore, Graccho^ 

So far I am from stopping Mariana 

In making her complaint, that I desire thee 

To urge her to it 

Grac. That may prove your ruin : 
The duke already being, as 'tis reported, 
Doubtful she hath play 'd false. 

Fran. There thou art cozen'd; 
His dotage, like an ague, keeps his course, 
And now 'tis strongly on him. But I lose time, 
And therefore know, whether thou wilt or no, 
Thou art to be my instrument; and, in spite 
Of the old saw, that says, It is not safe 
On any terms to trust a man that's wrong'd, 
I dare thee to be false. 

Grac. This is a language, 
My lord, I understand not. 

Fran. You thought, sirrah; 
To put a trick on me for the relation 
Of whp.t I knew before, and, having won 
Some weighty secret from me, in revenge 
To play the traitor. Know, thou wretched thing. 
By my cpmmand thou wert whipt ; and every day 
I'll have thee freshly tortured, if thou miss 
In the least charge that I impose upon thee. 
Though what I speak, for the most part, is true; 
Nay, grant thou hadst a thousand witnesses 
To be deposed they heard it, 'tis in me. 
With one word, such is Sforza's confidence 
Of my fidelity riot to be shaken. 
To make all void, and ruin my accusers. 
Therefore look to't ; bring my wife hotly oii 
To accuse me to the* duke^^— l^have an end iu't, 

VOL. I. X . 



\ 
I 



306 THE DUKE OF MILAN'. 

Or think what 'tis makes man most miSiCrable, ' 
And that shall fall upon thee. Thou wert a fool 
To hope, by being acquainted with my ccTurseb^ 
To Curb and awe me ; or that I should live 
Thy slave, as thou didst saucily divine : 
For prying in my counsels, still live mine. [E:pit 
Grac. I am caught on both sides. This -'tis for 

a puisne 
In policy's Protean school, to try conclusions 
With one that hath commenced, and gone out 

doctor/ > 

If I discover what but now he bragg'd of, 
I shall not be believed : if I fall off 
From him, his threats and actions go together, 
And there's no hope of safety. Till I get 
A plummet that may sound his deepest counsels, 
I must obey and serve him : Want of skill 
Now makes me play the rogue against my will. 

. [Exit. 

to try condosions 



With one that hath comnieiiced, an^ gone out doctor J\ To try 
conclusions^ a very common expression, is, to try experiments: 
^' God help them,^' says Gabriel Her?ey, in his third letter, 
^' that haye neither hability to helpe, nor wit to pitie them- 
selyes, but will needs try conclusions between their heads and 
the next wall." Commenced, and gone ont^ wkich occur in the 
next line, axfi Uniyersity terms, and to be met with in most of 
our old dramas : 

^' How many that have done ill, and proceed^ 
. '' Women that tdke degrees in wantonness, 
^' Commenoi£f and rise in rudiments of lust," &c. 

The Queen ofCorintk 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 307 



SCENE IL 

. Another Room in tfte same. 

Enter MarceIia, Tiberio, Stephano, and 

Gentlewoman. 

Marc. Command me from his sight, and with 
such scorn 
As he would rate his slave ! 

75^. .'Twas in his fury; 

Steph And he repents it, madam* 

Marc. Was I born 
To observe hii^ humours ? or, because he dotes, 
Must I run mad ? 

Tib. If that your excellence 
Would please but to receive a feeling know- 
ledge 
Of what he suffers, and how deep the least 
Unkindness wounds from you, you would excuse 
His hasty language. 

Steph. He hath paid the forfeit 
Of his offence, I'm sure, with such a sorrow, 
As, if it had been greater, would deserve 
A full remissionl 

Marc. Why, perhaps, he hath it * 
And I stand more afflicted for his absence. 
Than he can be for mine:— so, pray you, tell 

liim* 
But, till I have digested some sad thoughts/ 
And reconciled passions that are at war 
Within myself, I purpose to be private. 
And have you care, unless it be Francisco, 
That no man be admitted. [Exit Gentlewoman. 

Tib. How, Francisco 1 ^ 

X. 3 



/ / 



308 taE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Steph. He, that at every stage keeps livery 
mistresses ; 
The stallion of the state ! 

Tib. They are things above us, 
And so no way concern us. 

Steph. If I were 
The duke, (I freely must confess my weakness,) 

Enter Francisco. 

I should wear yellow breeches.* Here he comes. 
iib. Nay, spare your labour, lady, we know 
our duty,*' 
And quit the room. 

. Steph. Is this her privacy ! 
Though with the hazard of a check, perhaps, 
This may go to the duke. 

[Exeunt Tiberio and StepJiano, 
Marc. Your face is full 
Of fears and doubts : the reason ? 

Fran. O best madam, 
They are not counterfeit. I, your poor convert, 
That only wish to live in sad repentance, 
To mourn my desperate attempt of you, . 
That have no ends nor aims, but that your good- 
ness 
Might be a witness of my penitence. 
Which seen, would teach you hoy{ to loye your 
mercy, 

5 I should wear yellow breeches.'] i,e. Be jealous; yellow, 
with our old poets, being the livery of jealousy : this needs no 
example. . 

^ Nay^ spare your labour y lady^ we know our duty, 

And quit the room.] Duty was inserted by Coxeter ; -that, 

or a word, of similar import, having been dropt.at the press. 

Both the quartos have, we know our exit, with this difference^ 

that the last (1638) exhibits exit^ as here, in italick characters. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 30g 

Am robb'd of that last hope^ The duke, the duke, 
I more than fear, hath found that I am guilty. 

Marc, By my unspotted honour, not from me ; 
Nor have I with him changed one syllable. 
Since his return, but what you heard. 

Fran. Yet malice 
Is eagle-eyed, and would see that which is not ; 
And jealousy's too apt to build upon 
Unsure foundations. 

Marc. Jealousy ! 

Fran. \Aside^ It takes. 

Marc. Who dares but only think I can be 
tainted ? 
But for him, though almost on certain proof. 
To give it hearing, not belief, deserves 
My hate for ever. 

Fran. Whether grounded on 
Your noble, yet chaste favours shewn unto me ; 
Or her imprisonment, for her contempt 
To you, by my command, my frantick wife 
Hath put it in his head. 

• Marc. Have I then lived 
So long, now to be doubted ? Are my favours 
The themes of her discourse? or w^hatl do, 
That never trod in a suspeqted path, 
Subject to base construction ? Be undaunted; 
For now, as of a creature that is mine, 
I rise up your protectress : all the grace 
I hitherto have done you, was bestow'd 
With a shut hand ; it shall be now more free, 
Open, and liberal. But let it not, 
Though counterfeited to the life, teach you 
To nourish saucy hopes. 

Fran. May I be blasted, 
When I prove such a monster ! 

Marc. I will stand then 
Between you and all danger. He shall know. 



y 



310 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Suspicion overturns what confidence builds ; 
And he that dares but doubt when there's no 

ground, 
Is neither to himself nor others sound. '\JE,xit. 
Fran. So, let it work ! Her goodness, that 

denied 
My servicer branded with the name of lust, 
Shall now destroy itself; and she shall find. 
When he's a suitor, that brings cunnii|;ig arm'd 
^With power, to be his advocates, theMenial 
Is a disease as killing as the plague, 
And chastity a clue that leads to death. 
Hold but thy nature, duke, and be but rash 
And violent enough, and then at leisure 
Repent ; I care not. 

And let my plots produce this long'd-for birth. 
In my revenge I have ipy heaven on earth. [JEo^'i^ 



SCENE III. 

N 

f 

Another Room in the same. 

*• ■ ^^ 

Enter Sforza, Pescara, and three Gentlemen, 

Peso. You promised to be merry, 

1 Gent. There aje pleasures, 

And of all kinds, to entertain the time. 

2 Gent. Your excellence vouchsafing to make 
, choice , 

Of that which best affects you, 

Sfor. Hold your prating. 
Learn- manners too ; you are rude, 

3 Gent. I have my ahswer, 
Before I ask the question, 

Pesc. I must borrow 
The privilege of a friend, and will ; or else 



THE DUKE OF MILAN, SU 

I am like these, a servant, or, what's worse, , 
A parasite to the sorrow Sforza worships 
In spite of reason. 

Sfor. Pray you, use yqur freedom ; 
And so far, if you please, allow me mine, ' 
To hear you only ; not to be compell'd 
To take your moral potions. I am a man, 
And, though philosophy, your mistress, rage for't, 
Now I have cause to grieve, I must be sad y 
And I -dare shew it. 
. Pissc. Would it were bestow'd 
Upon a worthier subject. 

Sfor. Take heed, friend ! 
You rub a sore, whose pain will make me mad ; 
And I shall then forget myi^elf and you. ' 
Lance it no further. 

Peso. Have you stood the shock 
Of thousand enemies, and outfaced the anger 
Of a great emperor, that vow'd your ruin, 
Though by a desperate, a glorious way^ 
That had no precedent ? are you return'd with 

honour, 
Loved by your subjects? does your fortune 

court you, . 

Or rather say, your courage does command it ? 
Have you given proof, to this hour of your life. 
Prosperity, thslt searches the best temper, 
Could never puff you up, nor adverse fate 
Deject your valour ? Shall, I say, these virtues, 
So many and so various trials of 
Your constant mind, be buried in the frown 
(To please you, I wJU say so) of a fair woman; 
Yet t have seen her equals ? . . 

Sfor. Good Pescara, 
This language in another were profane ; 
In you it is unmannerly. — Her equal ! 
I tell you as a friend^ and tell you, plainly, 



'^ 



^ 



312 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

(To all men else my sword should make reply,) 

Her goodness does disdain comparison, 

And, but herself, admits no parallel/ 

But you will say she's cross ; 'tis fit she should be, 

When I am foolish ; for she's wise, Pescara, 

And knows how far she may dispose her bounties. 

Her honour safe ; or, if she were averse, 

'Twajs a prevention of a greater sin 

Ready to fall upon me ; for she's not ignorant, 

But truly understands how much I love her, 

And that her rare parts do deserve all honour. 

Her excellence increasing with her years t6o, 

I might have fallenr into idolatry, 

And, from the admiration of her worth, 

Been taught to think there is no Power above her; 

And yet I do believe, had angels sexes, 

7 Her goodness does disdain comparison^ 
And^ but herself, admits no parallel.] The reader who has 
any acquaintance with the literary squabbles of the last century, 
cannot but recollect how Theobald was annoyed by the jests 
levelled at him for this line in the Double Falsehood: 
'' None but himself can be his parallel." 
He justified it, indeed, at some length ; but " it is not for 
gravity," as Sir Toby well observes, " to play at cherry-pit with 
Satan ;" his waggish antagonists drove him out of his patience, 
and he, who had every thing but wit on his side, is at this moment 
labouring under the consequences 6f his imagined defeat. With 
respect to the phrase in question, it is sufficiently common; and I 
could produce, if it were necessary, twenty instances of it from 
Massinger's contemporaries alone : nor is it peculiar to this 
country, but exists in every language with which I am acquainted. 
Even while I am writing this note^ the following pretty example 
lies before me, in ihe address of a grateful Hindoo to Sir William 
Jones: 

" To you there are many like me ; yet to me there is none 
like youy but yourself; there are numerous groves of night 
flowers ; y^t the night flower sees nothing like the moon^ hut 
the moon, A hundred chiefs rule the world, but thou art an 
ocean, and they are mere wells ; many luminaries are awake 
in the sky, but which of them can be compared to the sun ?" 
^ee Memoirs of his Life^ by Lord Teigumouth. 



THE DURE OF MILAN. 513 

/ 

The most would be such women, and assumei 
No other shape, when they were to appear 
In their full glory • 

Pesc. Well, sir. Til not cross you, 
Nor labour to diminish your esteem, 
Hereafter, of her. Since your happiness, 
As you will have it, has alone dependence 
Upon her favour, from my soul I wish you 
A fair atonement.* 

Sfor. Time, and my submission, 

jEw/er TiBERIO flJWrfSxjSPHANO, 

I 

May work her to it. — O ! you are well retiurn'd; 
Say, am I blest ? hath she vouchsafed to hear 

you ? 
Is there hope left that she may be appeased ? 
Let her propound, and gladly Til subscribe 
To her conditions. 

Tib. She, sir, yet is froward, 
And desires respite, and some privacy. 

Steph. She was harsh at first ; but, ere we 
parted, seem'd not 
Implacable. 

Sfor. There's comfort yet : I'll ply her 
Each hour with new ambassadors of more honours, 
Titles, and eminence : my secc^nd self^ 
Francisco, shall solicit her. 

Steph. That a wise man. 
And what is more, a prince that may command, 
Should sue thus poorly, and treat with his wife, 
As she were a victorious enemy, 

* A fair atonement.] i. e. as Mr. M. Mason observes, a re- 
conciliation. To atone has often this sense in our old writers : 
so Shakspeare: 

'^ He and Aufidius can no more atone^ 
^ '' Than yiolentest contrarieties." Coriolanus* 



514 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

At whose proud feet, himself, his state, and 

country, 
Basely begg'd iliercy ! 

^or. What is that you mutter ? 
I'U have thy thoughts. 

Steph. You shall. You are too fond, 
And feed a pride that's swollen too big already, 
And surfeits with observance. 

iSjTor. O my patience ! / 
My vassal speak thus ? ^ 

Steph. Let my head answer it. 
If I offend. She, that you think a saint, 
I fear, may play the devil. 

Pesc. Well said, old fellow. 

Steph. And he that hath so long engross'd 
your favours^ 
Though to be named with reverence, lord Fran- 
cisco, 
Who, as you purpose, shall Solicit for you, 
I think's too near her. 

Pesc. Hold, sir! this is madness. 

Steph, It may be they confer of winning lord- 
ships; 
I'm sure he's private with her. 

Sfor. Let me go/ , 

I scorn to touch him ; he iJes.erves my pity, 
And not my anger. Dotard ! and to be one 
Is thy protection, else thou durst not think 
That love to my Marcelia hath left room 
In my full heart for any jealous thought : — 
That idle passion dwell with thick-skinn'd trades- 
men, ** 

9 That idle passion dwell tcitk ^^icA:-skinn'd tradesmen^'] Thick* 
skinn'd is the reading of both t^e quartos ; the ipodern editors 
wantonly, and, I may add, ignorantly, displaced it for tl^ck^ 
sknird. It is not io a want of loinderstanding, but to a blunt- 
ness of feeHng, that the speaker alludes. 



/ . 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. SIS 

The undeserving lord, or the unable ! 

Lock up' thy own wife,- fool, that must take 

physick - 

From her young doctor upon her back/ 

Because thou hast the. palsy in that part 
That makes her active. I -could smile to think 
What wretched things they are that dare be 

jealous : ' 

.Were I match 'd to another Messaline, 
While I found merit in myself to, please her, 
I should believe her chaste, and would not seek 
To find but my own torment ; but, alas ! 
Enjoying one that, but to me, 's a Dian,* 
i am too secure, 

Tib. This is a confidence 
Beyond example. 

Enter GKACcnOy Isabella, fljwrf Mariana, 

Grac. There he is — now speak, 
Or be for ever silent. 
\ Sfor, If you come ' 

To bring ine comfort, say thiat you hiv>e made 
My peace with any Marcelia. ' . 

Isab. I had rather 
Wait on you to your funeral. 

Sfor. Ypu are my mother ; 
Or, by her life, you were dead else. 

Maru Would* you were, 
To your dishonour ! and, since dotage makes you 
Wilfully blind, borrow of me my eyes, 

■ From her youfig doctor upon her back,'\ This break,, 

which i^ found in both the quartos, the modern editors have 
filled up with and: it was probably a monosyllable of more im- 
portance. Whatever it might be, however (for I will not enquire^ 
into it) it is but justice to the original to print it fairly. 

' thaty but to we, *s a Dian, J A contrac* 

tion of Diana. M.Mason. And so it is! 



SI6 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Or some part of my spirit Are you all flesh ? 
A limb of patience only ? no fire in you ? 
But do your pleasure : — here your mother was 
Committed by your servant, (for I scorn 
To call him husband,) and myself, your sister, 
If that you dare remember such a name, 
Mew'd up, to make the way open and free 
For the adul tress, I am unwilling 
T^'o say, a part of Sforza. 

-SJTor. Take her head off! 
She hath blasphemed, and by out law must die. 

Isak Blasphemed ! for calling of a whore, ^ 
whore? 

*S^r. O hell, what do I suffer ! 

Mart. Oris it treason 
For me, that am a subject, to endeavour 
To save the honour of the duke, and that 
He should not be a wittol on record ? 
For by posterity 'twill be believed. 
As certainly as now it can be proved, 
Francisco, the great minion that^ sways all, 
To meet the chaste embraces of the dutchess. 
Hath leap'd into her bed. 

Sfor\ Some proof, vile creature! 
Or thou hast spoke thy last. 

Maru The publick fame. 
Their hourly private meetings ; and, e'en now, 
When, under a pretence of grief or anger. 
You are denied the joys due to a husband, 
And made a stranger to her, at all times 
The door stands open to him. To a Dutchman, 
This were enough, but to a right Italian, 
A hundred thousand witnesses. 

Isab. Would you have us 
To be her bawds ? 

Sfoj\ O the malice 
And envy of base women, that, with horrour. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN, 317 

Knowing their own defects and inward guilt, 
Dare lie, and swear, and damn, for what's. mo3t 

false. 
To cast aspersions vpon one untainted ! 
Ye are in your nature's devils, and your ends, ^ 
Knowing your reputations sunk for ever, , 
And not t6 be recover'd, to have ajl 
Wear your black livery. Wretches! you have, 

raised ' 

A monumental trophy to her pureness, 
In this your studied purpose to deprave her: 
And all the shot made by your foul detraqtipn, 
Falling upon her sure-arm'd innocence. 
Returns upon yourselves; and, if my loye , 
Could suffer an addition, I'm so far 
From giving credit to you, this would teach me 
More to admire and serve her^ You are not 

worthy 
To fall as sacrifices to appease her ; 
And therefore live till your own envy .burst yoju. ; 

Isab, All is in vain ; he is not to be moved. 

MarL She has bewitch'd him. 

Pesc. 'Tis so past belief, 
To me it shews a fable. i. 

Enter Y vl a^ci^co^ speaking 'ifo/i Servant within. 

Fran. On thy life. 
Provide my horses, and without the port / . 
With care attend me. 

Sero. [within.l I shall, my lord. 

Grac. He's come. 
What gimcrack have we next?*. 

* Tf^hat gimcrack have we next?] It may be that Coxeter has 
hit upon the right word; but the first syllable is omitted in the 
old copies ^ probably it was of an offensiye tendeficy. Besides 
the terrour of the law that hung oyer the poet's head about this 



320 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Then urged yourmuch love to her, and the danger; 
Denied her, and with scorn. 

Sfor. 'Twas like thyself. 

Fran. But when I saw her smile, then heard 
her say, i 

Your love and extreme dotage, as a cloak, 
Should cover our embraces, aiid your power 
Fright others from suspicion ; and .all favours 
That should preserve her in her innocence, 
By lust inverted to be used as bawds ; 
I could not but in duty (though I know 
That the relation kills in you all hop? 
Of peace hereafter, and in me 'twill shew 
Both base and poor to rise up her accuser) 
Freely discover it. 

Sfor. Eternal plagues 
Pursue and overtake her 1 for her sake, 
To all posterity may he prove a cuckold, 
AncJ, like to me, a thing so miserable 
As words may not express him, that gives trust 
To all-deceiving. women ! Or, since it is 
The will of heaven, to preserve mankind, 
That we must know and couple with these 

serpents. 
No wise man ever, taught by my example. 
Hereafter use his wife with more respect 
Than he would do his horse that does him service; 
Base woman being in her creation made' 
A slave to man. But, like a village nurse, 
Stand I now cursing and coniiideripg, Vhen 
The tamest fool would do !— Within there ! 
Stephano, 

Tiberio, and the rest. 1 will be sudden. 

And she shall know and feel, love in extremes 
Abused, knows no degree in hate.* 

no decree in hate.~\ For no degree in hate^ the modern 



editors very incorrectly read^ no degree of hate. 



THE DUEE OF MILAN. 321 



Enter Tiberio and Stephano. / 

Tib. My lord, 

Sfor. Go to the chamber of that wicked 
woman — 

Steph. What wicked wortian, sir ? 

Sfor. The devil, my wife. 
Force a rude entry, and, if she refuse 
To follow you, drag her hither by the hair, 
And know no pity ; any gentle usage 
To her will czXX on cruelty 'from me, 
To such as shew it.-^-Stand yoii staring ! Go, 
And put my will in act. 

Steph. There's no disputing. 

Tib. But 'tis a tempest, on the sudden raised, 
Who durst have dream'd of? 

[Exeunt Tiberio and Stephano. 

Sfor. Nay, since she dares damnation, 
I'll be a fury to hen, 

Fran. Yttj great mVy 
Exceed not in your fury ; she's yet guilty 
Only in her intent. 

J^or. Intent, Francisco! 
It aoes include all fact; and I might sooner ' 
Be won to pardon treason to my crown, 
Or one that kill'd my father. 

Fran. You are wise, 
And know what's best to do : — ^yet, if you please, 
To prove her temper to the height, say only 
That I am dead, and then observe how far . 
She'll be transported. I'll remove a little, 
But be within your call. Now to the upshot ! . 
Howe'er I'll shift for one. [E:vit. 



VOL. I. 



322 THE DUKE OF MILAN, 



Re-enter Tiberio, Stephano, and Guard with 

Marcelia. 

Marc. Where is this monster, 
This walking tree of jealousy, this dreamer. 
This homed beast that would be? Oh! are you 

here, sir? 
Is it by your commandment or allowance, 
I am thus basely u§ed ? Which of my virtues, 
M^y labours, services, and/ cares to please you^ 
For, to a man suspicibus and unthankful^ 
Without a blush I may be mine owtt trumpet. 
Invites this barbarous courser dare you look on 

me 
Without a seal of shame ? 

Sfor. Impudence, 
How ugly thou appear'st now ! thy intent 
To be a whore, leaves thee not blood enough 
To make an honest blush ; what had the act done ? 

Marc. Return'd thee the dishonour thou 
deservest; ^ 
Though willingly I had given up myself 
To every common letcher. 

S/'or. Your chief minion, 
Your chosen favourite, your wooM Francisco, 

Has dearly paid for't ; for, wretch ! know, he's 

dead, 
And by my hand. 

Marc. The bloodier villain thou ! 
But 'tis not to be wonder'd at, thy love 
Does know no other object; — thou hast kill'd then, 
A man I do profess I Joved; a man 
For whom a thousand .queens might well be rivals. 
But he, I speak it to thy teeth, that dares be 
A jealous fool, dares be a murderer, 
And knows no end in mischief. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN- 323 

' Sfor. I begin ndw 
In thr& my justice. [Stabs her. 

Marc. Oil ! I have fooFd myself 
Into my grave, and only grieve for that 
Which, when you know you've slain an innocent, 
You needs must suffer, 

Sfor, An innocent ! Let one 
C^U in Francisco, for he lives, vile creature, 

[Exit Stephano. 
To justify thy falsehood, and how often, 
With whorish flatteries, thou hast tempted him; 
I being only fit to live a stale, 
A baWd and property to your wantonness. 

Re-enter Stephano. 

Steph. Siginor Francisco, sir, but even now. 
Took horse without the ports. 

Marc. We are both abused, 
And both by him undone. Stay, death, a little. 
Till I have clear'd me to my lord, and then * , 
I willingly obey thee. O my Sforza ! % 

Francisco was not tempted, but the teinpter ; 
And, as he thought to win me, sbew'd the warrant 
That you sign'd for my death. 

Sfor. Then I believe thee ; 
Believe thee innocent too. 

Marc. But, being contemn'd. 
Upon his knees with tears he did beseech me, 
Not to reveal it ; I, soft-hearted fool, 
Judging his penitence true, was won untoj^t: 
Indeed, the unkindness to be sentenced by you, 
Before that I was guilty ip a thought, 

^ Till I have clear'd me to my Idrd^ and then] This is the read- 
ing of the first quarto : the second, which is that followed b^ 
the modern editors, giyes the line in this unmetrical manner : 
Till I have cleared myself unto wiy lord^ and then I 

Y2 



^24 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Made me put on a seeming anger towards you. 

And now— behold the issue. As I do, 

May heaven forgive you ! [Dies. 

Tib. Her sweet soul has left 
Her beauteous prison. 

Steph. Look to the duke ; he stands 
As if he wanted motion. 

Tib. Grief hath stopp'd 
The organ of his speech. 

Stcph. Take up this body, 
And call for his physicians. 

Sfor. O my heart-strings ! [Ejeeunt. 



ACT V. SCENE L 

The Milanese. A Room in Eugenia's House. 
Enter Francisco and Eugenia. 

Fran. Why, couldst thou think, Eugenia, that 

rewards, 
Graces, or favours, though strew'd thick upon 

me. 
Could ever bribe me to forget mine honour? 
Or that I tamely would sit down, before 
I had dried these eyes still wet with showers of 

tears, 
By the fire of my revenge? look up, my dearest ! 
For that proud fair, that, thief-like, stepp'd 

between 
Thy promised hopes, and robb'd thee of a fortune 
4klmost in thj^ possession, hath found, 
With horrid proof^ his love, she thought her glory, 



THE T)UKE OF MILAN. S25 

And an assurance of all happiness, 
But hastened her sad ruin. 

Eug. Do not flatter , 
A grief that is beneath it ; for, however 
The credulous duke to me proved false and cruel^ 
It is impossible he could be wrought 
To look on her, but with the eyes of dotage, 
And so to serve her. ^ 

Fran. Such, indeed, I grant, ^ r 

The stream of his affection was, and ran r 

A constant course, till I, with cunning malice, > 
And yet I wrong my act, for it was justice, 
Made it turn backward ; and hate, in extremes^ 
(Love banish'd from his heart,) to fill the room: 
In a word, know the fair Marcelia's dead.^ 

Eug. Dead ! 

Fran. And by Sforza's hand. Does it not move 
you? 
How coldly you receive it ! I expected 
The mere relation of so great a blessiiig, , 

Born proudly on the wings of sweet, revenge, - 
Would have call'd on a sacrifice of tnanks, 
And joy not to be bounded. or conccal'd. ^ \ 
You entertain it with a look^ as if • 

You wish'd it were undone, ^ 

Eu^. Indeed I do ; . 

For, if my sorrows could receive addition,; ; | 
Her sad fate would increase, pot lessen thein. ,. 
She never injured me^ but entertained ^ 

A fortune humbly ofFer'd to her hand, V ^ - 
Which a wise lady gladly would have^^neel'd for. 
Unless you would impute it as a crime, . 

She was more fair than I, and had discretion 
Not to deliver up her virgin fort, r-^ 

T In a xoord^ know th^ fair Marceliasdead,] Coxeter'^nd Mr. 
M. MasQuomit the article, which utterly destroys^he rhy#iin 
ofttve.Unti. . . , . ' 



326 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Though strait bedeged with flatteries, vows, and 

tears, 
Until the church had made it safe and lawful. 
And had I been the mistress of her judgment 
And constant temper, skilful in the knowledge 
Of man's malicious falsehood, I had never. 
Upon his hell-deep oaths to marry me, 
Given up my fair name, and my maiden honour. 
To his foul lust; nor lived now, being branded 
In the forehead for his whore, the scorn and shame 
Of all good women. 

Fran. Have you then no gall, ^ 
Anger, or spleen, familiar to your sex? 
Or is it possible that you could see 
Another to possess what was your due. 
And not grow pale with envy ? . 

Eug. Yes, of him 
That did deceive me. There's no passion, that 
A maid so injured ever could partake of. 
But I have dearly sufFer'd. These three years, 
in my desire 'and labour of revenge, 
Trusted to you, I have endured the throes 
Of teeming women ; and will hazard all 
Fate can inflict on me, but I will reach 
Thy heart, false Sforza ! You have trifled with me, 
And not proceeded with that fiery zeal 
I look'd for frpm a brother of your spirit. 
Sorro\v forsake me, and all' signs of grief 
Farewell for ever. Vengeance, arm'd with fury. 
Possess me wholly now ! 

Frdn. The reason, sister, • 

Of this strange metamorphosis ? 

Eug. Ask thy^fiears : . 
Thy base, unmanly fears, thy poor delays, , 
Thy , d vili forgetfulness equal with death ; 
My wrdng, else, and the scandal which can licver 
Be wash'd oft' from our house, but in his blood. 



THE DUKE OF. MILAN. 327 

Would have stirr'd up a coward to a deed 

In which, though he had fallen, the brave intent 

Had crown'd itself with a fair monument 

Of noble resolution. In this jshape 

I hope to get access ; and, then, with shame, 

Hearing my sudden execution, judge 

What honour thou hast lost, in being transcended 

By a weak woman. 

Fran. Still mine own, and dearer ! 
And yet in this you but pour oil pn fire. 
And offer your assistance where it needs not. 
And, that you may perceive I lay not fallow, 
But had your wrongs stamp'd deeply on my 

heart 
By fhe iron pen of vengeance, I attempted, ^ 
By whoring her, to cuckold him : that failing, 
I did begin his tragedy in her death, 
To which it served as prologue, and will make 
A memorable story of your fortunes 
In my assui^ed revenge : Only best sister,. 
Let us not lose ourselves in the performance, 
By your rash undertaking ; we will be 
As sudden as you could wish. . i • 

FiUg. Upon those terms - 

I yield myself and cause, to btj disposed of \ 
As you think fit. . ' 

Enter a Servant. ; 

: i\ ■' ■\' .'. : -! : ' ; / . ;;- i • ' . • / -: ,"•' 

Fran. Thy purpose? ; .; 

Serv. .There's one Graccho, ; 
That [foUow'dj yoH,j it ;sieem»sy \x^yx. th^ track. 
Since you left Milan^jthat'simpQiTtunfiLte . 
To hive access^ and jwill not be d^i-ed i : 
His haste, he says J: concerns you.ii' • \ 

Fran. Bring him to me. . ; . \FiXit Seriiant. 
Though he hath laid an ambUsh for my life, v ^ 



S28 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Or apprehension, yet I will prevent him. 
And work mine 6wn ends out. 

Enter Graccho. 

Grac. Now for my whipping ! 
And if I now outstrip him not, and catch him. 
And by a new and strange way too, hereafter 
I'll swear there are worms in my brains. 

Fran, Now, my good Graccho ; 
We meet as 'twere by miracle, 

Grac. Love, and duty^ 
And vigilance in me for ray lord's safety. 
First taught me to imagine you were here, 
And then to follow you. All's come forthj my 

lord. 
That you could wish conceal'd. Tlie dutchess' 

wound, ' 

In the duke's rage put home, yet gave her leave- 
To acquaint him with your practices, which your 

flight i 

Did easily confirm. 

Fran. This I expected ; 
But sure you come provided of good counsel, 
To help in my extremes. 

Grac. I would not hurt you. 

Fran. How ! hurt me? such another word's thy 
death ; 
Why, dar'st thou think it can fall in thy will, 
To outlive what I determiiie ? 

Grac. How he awes me<!' . 

Fran. Be brief,; what brbught thee hither? 

Gmc. Care to inform ydu ^ ^ 

You are a ^oiidemn'dmany pursued and sought for. 
And your head rated at teri^thousand ducats 
Tohimth^t brings it. - 

Fran4 Very good; :f ; i 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. S29 

Grac^ All passages 
Are intercepted, and choice troops of horse 
Scour o'er the neighbour plains; your picture 

sent 
To every state confederate with Milan : 
That, though I grieve to speak it, in nay judgment, 
So thick your dangers meet, and run upon yoU,: 
It is impossible you should escape 
Their curious search. 

Eug. Why, let us then turn Romans, 
And, falling by our own hands, mock their threats. 
And dreadful preparations. 

Fran. 'Twould ighow nobly ; 
But that the honour of our full revenge 
Were lost in the rash action. No, Eugenia, 
Graccho is wise, my friend too, not my servant, 
And I dare trust him with my latest secret. 
We would, and thou must help us to perform it, 
First kill the duke— then, fall what can upon us ! 
For injuries are writ in bra,ss, kind Graccno, 
And not to be forgotten. 

Grac. He instructs me 
What I should do/ 

Fran. What's that ? 

Grac. I labour with 
A strong desire to assist you with my service; 
And now I am deliver'd dft. 

Fran. I told you. . i 

Speak, my oraculous Graccho. 

Grac. I have heard, sir, 
Of men in debt that, lay'd for by their creditor^, 
In all such places where it could be thought 
They would take shelter, chose, for sanctuary, 
Their lodgings underneath their creditors' noses. 
Or near that prison to which they were design'd, 
if apprehended ; confident that there 
They never should be sought for. 



830 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Eug. Tis a strange one ! 

Fran. But what infer you from it ? 

Grac. This, my lord ; 
Tliat, since all ways of your escape are stopp'd. 
In Milan only, or, what's more, in the court, 
Whither it is presumed you dare not come, 
Conceal'd in some disguise, you may live safe. 
\ Fran. And not to be discovcr'd ? 

Grac. But by myself. 

Fran. By thee I Alas ! I know thee honest, 
Graccho, 
And I will put thy counsel into act, 
And suddenly. Yet, not to be ungrateful 
For all thy loving travail to preserve me, 
What bloody end soe'er my stars appoint, 
Thou shalt be safe, good Graccho. —Who's within 
there ? 

GraCi In the devil's name, what means be !• 

Enter Servants. 

Fran. Take my friend 
Into your custody, and bind him fast ; 
I would not part with him. 

Grac. My good lord. - - 

Fram Dispatch : 
Tis for your good, to keep yon honest, Graccho : 
I would not have ten thousand ducats tempt you, 
Being of a soft and wax-like disposition, 
To play the traitor; nor a foolish itch 
To ote revenged for your late excellent whipping, 

* Grac. In the deoiVs mme^ what means he /] The second 
qaarto omits the adjuration and tamely reads, — what means he? 
'The licenser, in many cases, seems to have acted capriciously : 
here, as well as in several other places, he has strained at a gnat 
and swallowed a camel. The expression has already occurred 
In the Unnatural Combat. 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 331 

Give you the opportunity to offer 

My head for satisfaction. Why, thou fool ! 

I can look through and through thee ; thy intents 

Appear to me as written in thy forehead 

In plain and easy characters : and but that 

I scorn a stave's base blood should rust that sword 

That from a prince expects a scarlet die, 

Thou now wert dead; but li've, only to pray 

For good success to crown iny undertakings ; 

And then, at my return, perhaps, I'll free thee, 

To make me further sport. Away with him ! 

I will not hear a syllable, 

[Ea:eunt Servants with Gracchi. 
We must trust 
Ourselves, Eugenia; and though we make use of 
The counsel of our servants, that oil spent, 
Like snuffs that do offend, we tread them out,— ^ 
But now to our last scene, which we'll so carry, 
That few shall understand how 'twas begun, 
Till all, with half an eye, may see 'tis done. 

[Extunt. 

SCENE II. 

Milan. A Room in the Castlei 

Enter Fesc An Aj Tiberio, and Stzi^ha^o. 

Peso. The like was never read of. 

Steph. In my judgment. 
To all that shall but hear it, 'twill appear 
A most impossible fable. 

Tib. For Francisco, 
My wonder is the less, because there are 
Too mai^y precedents of unthankful men 
Raised up to greatness, which haye after studied 
The ruin of their makers. 



332 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Steph. But that melancholy, 
Though ending in distraction, should work 
So far upon a man, as to compel him 
To court a thing that has nor sense nor being. 
Is unto me a miracle. 

Pesc. 'Troth, I'll tell you, 
And briefly as I can, by what degrees 
He fell into this madness. When, by the care 
Of his physicians, he was brought to life, 
As he had only pass'd a fearful dream. 
And had not acted what I grieve to think on. 
He call'd for fair Marcelia, and being told 
That she was dead, he broke forth in extremes, 
(I would not say blasphemed,) and cried that 

heaven, 
For all the offences that mankind could do, 
Would never be so cruel as to rob.it 
Of so much sweetness, and of so n^uch goodness ; 
That not alone was sacred in herself, 
But did preserve all others innocent, 
That had but converse with her. Then it came 
Into his fancy that she was accused 
Byhismotherandhissister; thrice he curs'd them. 
And thrice his desperate hand was on his sword 
T'have kill'd them both ; but he restrain'd, and 

they 
Shunning his fury, spite of all prevention 
He would have turn'd his rage upon himself; 
When wisely his physicians looking on 
The dutchess' wound, to stay his ready hand. 
Cried out, it was not mortal, 

Tib. 'Twas well thought on. 

Pesc. He easily believing what he wish'd, 
More than a perpetuity of pleasure 
In any object else; flatter'd by hope, 
Forgetting his own greatness, he fell prostrate 
At the doctors' feet, implored their aid, and sworci 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 339 

Provided they recover'd her, he would live 
A private man, and they should share his duke- 
dom. 
They seem'd to promise fair, and every hour 
Vary their judgments, as they find his fit 
To suffer intermission or extremes : 
For his behaviour since 

Sfor. [within.^ As you have pity, 
Support her gently. 

Pesc, Now, be your own witnesses ; 
I am prevented. 

Enter Sforza, Isabella, Mariana, Doctors 
and Servants with the Body o/'Marcelia. 

Sfor. Carefully, I beseech you, 
The gentlest touch torments ner ; and then think 
What I shall suffer. O you earthy gods. 
You second natures, that from your great master, 
Who join'd the limbs 6f torn Hippolitus, 
And drew upon himself the Thunderer's envy, 
Are taught those hidden secrets that restore 
To life death- wounded men ! you have a patient, 
On whom to express the excellence of art. 
Will bind even heaven your debtor, though it 

pleases 
To make your hands the organs of a work 
The saints will smile to look on, and good angels 
Clap their celestial wings to give it plaudits. 
How pale and wan she looks ! O pardon me. 
That I presume (died o'er with bloody guilt. 
Which makes me, I confess, far, far unworthy) 
To touch this snow-white hand. How cold it is! 
This once was Cupid's fire-brand, and still 
^Tis so to me. How slow her pulses beat too ! 
Yet, in this temper, she is all perfection, 
And mistress of a heat so full of sweetness, 



S9f THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

The blood of virgins, in their pride of youth. 
Are balls of snow or ice compared unto her, 

Mari. Is not this strange ? 

Isab. Oh ! cross him not, dear daughter ; 
Our conscience tells us we have been abused^ 
Wrought to accuse the innocent, and with him 
Are guilty of a fact-- — 

Enter a Servant, and wki^ers^^ Pkscara. 

Mari. 'Tis now past help. 

Pesc. With me ? What is he ? 

Serv. He has a strange aspect ; 
A Jew by birth, and a physician 
By his profession, as he says, who, hearing 
Of the duke's frensy, on the forfeit of 
His life will undertake to render him 
Perfect in every part : — ^provided that 
Your lordship's favour gain him free access, 
And your power with the duke a safe protection, 
Till the great work be ended. 

Peso. Bring me to him ; 
As I find cause, I'll do. [^Exeunt Pesc. and Sero, 

Sfor. How sound she sleeps 1 

Heaven keep her from a lethargy ! How long 

(But answer me with comfort, I beseech you) 
Does your sure judgment tell you, that these 

^lids, 
That cover richer jewels than themselves, 
Like envious night, will bar these glorious suns 
From shining on me ? 

1 Doct. We have given her, sir, 

A sleepy potion, that will hold her long. 
That she may be less sensible of the torment 
The searching of her wound will put her to. 

2 Doct. She now feels little ; but,- if we should 

wake heri 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 335 

To hear her speak would fright both us amd yc^ 
And therefore dare not hasten it. 

Sfor. I am patient/ *■■ , 

You see I do not rage^ but wait your pleasure; 
WTiat do yo» think she dreams of now ? for surcj 
Although her body's organs are bound fast, 
Her fancy cannot slumber. 

\ Doct. That, sir, looks on 
Your sorrow for'your late rash act, with pity 
Of what you suffer for it, and prepares 
To meet the free confession of your guilt 
With a glad pardon, 

Sfor. She was ever kind ; 
And her displeasure, though call'd on, short-lived 
Upon the least submission. O you Powers, 
That can convey our thoughts to out anotheic 
Without the aid of eyes or ears, assist me ! 
Let her behold me in a pleasing dream 
Thus, on my knees before her ; (yet that duty 
In me is iiot sufficient ;) let her see me 
Compel my mother, from whom I took lifp, 
And this my sister, partner of my being, 
To bow thus low unto h^r ; let her hear us 
In my acknowledgment freely confess 
That we in a degree as high are guilty 
As she is innocent. Bite your tongues, vile 

creatures. 
And let your inward horrour fright your souls, 
For having belied that pureness, to come near 
which, ; 

All women that posterity can bring forth 
Must be, though striving to be good, poor rivals. 
And for that dog Francisco, that seduced me,/ 
In wounding her, to rase a temple built 
To chastity and sweetness, let her know 
I'll follow him to hell, but I will find him, 
And there live a fourth Fury to torment him. 



336 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

Then, for this cursed hand and arm, that guided 
The wicked steel, I'll have them, joint by joint, 
With burning irons sear'd 6ff, which I will eat, 
I being a vulture fit to taste such carrion ; 
Lastly 

1 Doct. You are too loud, sir ; you disturb 
Her sweet repose. 

Sfor. I am hush'd. Yet give^us leave, 
Thus prostrate at her feet, our eyes bent down- 
wards. 
Unworthy, and ashamed, to look upon her. 
To expect her gracious sentence. 

2 Doct. He's past hope. 

1 Doct. The body too will putrify, and then 
We can no longer cover the. imposture. 

Jib. Which in his* death will quickly be dis- 
cover'd. 
I can but weep his fortune. 

Steph. Yet be careful 
You lose no minute to preserve him ; time 
May lessen his distraction. 

> 

Ue-ew/erPEscARA, a;i^A Francisco ^rwrfEucENiA 

* disguised. 

Fran. I am no gpd, sir. 
To give a new life to her ; yet I'll hazard 
My head, I'll work the senseless trunk t'appear 
To him as it had got a second being, 
Or that the soul that's fled from't, were call'd 

back 
To govern it again. I will preserve it 
In the first sweetness, and by a strange vapour. 
Which I'll infuse into her mouth, create 

9 Tib. Which in his death wUl quickly be disc(yC€r*d\ I know 
not how the modern editors undierstobd this line^ but for hu, 
they read, her death : 2l strange sofphistitJttion' !' 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 357 

A seeming breath ; I'll make her veins run high 

too, 
As if they had true iiiotion. 

Pesc. Do but this, 
Till we use means to win upon hh passions ^ 
T'endure to hear she*s dead with some small 

patience, - 
And make thy oij^n reward. 

Fran. The art I use 
Admits no laok^ on : I only ask 
The fourth part of an hour to perfect that 
I boldly undertake. 
Pesc. 1 will procure it- 
fi Docf. What stranger's this ? 
Pesc. Sooth me in all I say ; 
There is a main end in't. 
Fran. Beware ! 
Eug. I am warn'd. 

Pesc. Look up, sir, cheerfully ; comfort in me 
Flows strongly to you. 

Sfor. From whence came that sound ? 
Was it from my Marcelia ? If it were, 
I rise, and joy will give nie wings to meet it. 

Pesc. Nor shall your expectation be deferred 
But a few minutes. Your physicians are 
Mere voice, and no performance ; I have found 
A man that can do wonders. Do not hinder 
The dutchess' wish'd recovery, to enquire 
Or what he is, or to give thanks, but leave him 
To work this miracle. 

Sfor. Sure, 'tis my good angel. 
I do obey in all things ; be it death 
For any to disturb him, or come near. 
Till he be pleased to call us. O, be prosperous, 
And make a duke thy bondman 1 

[Ea^eunt all, but Francisco and Eugenia. 
Fran. 'Tis my purpose ; 
VOL. r. Z 



338 THE DUKE OF MILA^/ 

If that to fall a long- wish'd sacrifice 
To my revenge can be a benefit. 
I'll first make fast the doors ; — ^so I 

JEfUg. You amaze me : 
What follows now ? 

Fran. A full conclusion 
Of all thy wishes. Look on this, Eugenia, 
Even such a thing, the proudest fair on earth 
(For whose delight the elements are ransack'd. 
And art with nature studied to preserve her,) 
Must be, when she is summon'd to appear 
In the court of Death. But I lose time. 

Eug. What mean you ? 

Fran. Disturb me not. Your ladyship looks 
pale ; 
But I, your doctor, have a ceruse for you. 
See, my Eugenia, how many faces. 
That are adored in court, borrow these helps, 

[Paints the cheeks. 
And pass for excellence, when the better part 
Of them are like to this. Your mouth smells 

sour too. 
But here is that shall take away the scent ; 
A precious antidote old ladies use. 
When they would kiss, knowing their gums arc 

rotten. 
These hands too, that disdain'd to take a touch 
From any lip, whose honour writ hot lord. 
Are now but as the coarsest earth ; but I 
Am at the charge, my bill not to be paid too, 
To give them seeming beauty. So ! 'tis done. 
How do you like my workmanship ? 

Eug. I trenible : 
And thus to tyrannize upon the dead 
Is most inhuman. 

Fran. Come we "for revenge, 
And can we think on pity ! Now to the upshot, 



THE DtTKE OF MILAN. 339 

And, as it proves, applaud it. My lord the ^uke, 
Enter with joy, and see the sudden change 
Your servant's hand hath wrought. 

Re-enter Sforza and the rest. 

Sfor. I live again 
In my full confidence that Marcelia may 
Pronounce my pardon. Can she speak yet ? 

Fran. No: 
You must not look for all your joys at once ; 
That will ask longer time. 

Peso. 'Tis wonderous strange ! 

Sfor. By all the dues of love I have had from 
her, 
This hand seems as it was when first I kiss'd it. 
These lips invite too : I could ever feed 
Upon these roses, they still keep their colour 
And native sweetness : only the nectar's waiiting. 
That, like the morning dew in flowery May, 
Preserved them in their beauty. 

Enter Graccho hastily. 

Grac. Treason, treason ! 

Tib. Call up the guard. 

Fran. Graccho 1 then we are lost. 

Grac. I am got off, sir Jew ; a bribe hath done 
it, 
For all your serious charge; there's no disguise 
Can keep you from my knowledge. 

Sfor. Speak. 

Grac. I am out of breath. 
But this is- 

Fran. Spare thy labour, fool,— Francisco.* 

* Fran. Spare thy labmr^fody — Francisco.'] Francisco's bold 
'aYOwal of his guilt, with an emphatical repetition of his name, 



340 THE nUKE OF MILAN. 

All. Monster of men ! - 

Fran. Give me all attributes ' 

Of all you ckn imagine, yet I glory 
To be the thing I was born. I am Francisco ; 
Francisco, that was raised by you, and made 
The minion of the time ; the same Francisco, 
That would have whored this trunk, when it had 

life; 
And, after, breathed a jealousy upon thee, 
As killing as those damps that belch out plagues 
When the foundation of the earth is shaken : 
I made thee do a deed heaven will not pardon^ 
Which was — to kill an innocent. 

Sfor. Call forth the tortures 
For all that flesh can feel. 

Fran. I dare the worst : 
Only, to yield some, reason tQ the world 
Why I pursued this course, look on this face, 
Made old by thy base falsehood ; 'tis Eugenia. 

Sfor. Eugenia ! 

Fran. Does it start you, sir ? my sister, 
Seduced and fool'd by thee : but thou must pay 
The forfeit of thy falsehood. Does it not work 

yet ! 
Whate'er becomes of me, which I esteem not. 
Thou art mark'd for the grave : I've given thee 

poison 
In this cup,^ (now observe me,) which thy last 

and the enumeration of his seyeral acts of yillainy, which he 
justifies from a spirit of revenge, in all probability gaye rise to 
one of the most animated scenes in dramatick poetry. The 
reader will easily see, that I refer to the last act of Dr. Young's 
Revenge, where Zanga, like Francisco, defends dvery cmel and 
treacherous act he has committed from a principle of d^ep re- 
sentment. Davies. 

Fve given thee poison 



In this cup. See.'] i. e. in the lips of Marcelia. This is a ter- 
rible scene^ and hai) ihe air of being taken from some ItftUan 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 341 

Carousing deeply of, made thee forget 
Thy vow'd faith to Eugenia. 

Pesc. O damn'^d villain ! 

Isab. How do you, sir ? 

Sfor. Like one 
That learns to know in death what punishment 
Waits on the breach of faith. Oh ! now I feel 
An -Etna in my entrails. — I have lived 
A prince, aini my last breath shall be command, 
' — I bum, I burn ! yet ere life be consumed. 
Let me pronounce upon this wretch all torture 
That witty cruelty can invent. 

Pesc. Away with him ! 

Tib. In all things we will serve you. 

Fran. Farewell, sister ! 
Now I have kept my word, torments I scorn : 
I leave the world with glory. They are men, 
And leave behind them name and memory. 
That wrong'd, do. right themselves before they 
die. [Ea^eunt Guard with Francisco. 

Steph. A desperate wretch ! 

Sfor. I come : Death ! I obey thee. 
Yet I will not die raging ; for, alas ! 
My whole life was a frenzy. Good Eugenia, 
In death forgive me.-r-As you love me, bear her 
To some religious house, there let her spend 
The remnant of her life : when I am ashes, 
Perhaps she'll be appeased, and spare a prayer 
For my poor soul. Bury me with Marcelia, 
And let our epitaph be [Dies. 

Tib. His speech is stopt. 

Steph. Already dead ! 

Pesc, It is in vain to labour 

« 

history. I would not interrupt the reader'^ attention to it by 
Terbal criticitims, or slight remarks on grammatical inaccuracies, 
which, perhaps, may be accounted for by the state of the 
speaker's mind. 



342 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 

To call him back. We'll give him funeral, 
And then determine of the state affairs : 
And learn, from this example, There's no trust 
In a foundation that is built on lust. [Ej^eunL^ 

^ Mr. M. Mason, contrary to his custom, has given an account 
of this play ; but it is too loose and unsatisfactory to be pre- 
sented to the reader. He has observed, indeed, what could not 
easily be missed, — the beauty of the language, the elevation of 
the sentiments, the interesting nature of the situations, &c. But 
the interiour motive of the piece, — the spring of action from 
-which the tragick events are made to flow, — seems to have 
utterly escaped him. He has taken the accessory for the pri« 
mary passion of it, and, upon his own errour, founded a compa- 
rison between the Duke of' Milan and Othello, — ^But let us hear 
Massinger himself. Fearing that, in a reverse of fortune, his 
wife may fall into the possession of another, Sforza gives a secret 
order for her murder, and attributes his resolution to the excess 
of his attachmient : 

• ^' 'Tis more than love to her, thiat marks her out 
' ^ A wish'd companion to me in both fortunes." 

Act I. sc. iii. 
This is carefully remembered in the conference between Mar- 
celia and Francisco, and connected with the feelings which it 
occasions in her : 

", that my lord, my Sfoirza, should esteem 

^' My life fit only as a page, to wait on 

'' The various course of his uncertain fortunes ; 

"Or cherish in himself that sensual hope, 

^^ In death to know me as a wife^ afflicts me." 

Act III. sc. ii. 
Upon this disapprobation of his selfish motive, is founded her 
reserve towards him, — a reserve, however, more allied to ten- 
derness than to anger, and meant as a prudent corrective of his 
unreasonable desires. And from this reserve, ill interpreted by 
Sforza, proceeds that jealousy of his in the fourth act, which Mr. 
M.. Mason will have to Jbe the groundwork of the whole subject ! 
But if Massinger must be compared with somebody, let it be 
with himself: for, as the reader will by and by perceive, the 
Duke of Milan has more substantial connexion with the Picture 
than with Othello. In his uxoriousness, — his doting entreaties of 
his wife's favours, — his abjecttequests of the mediatibn of others 
for him, &c. &c. Sforza strongly resembles Ladislaus ; while the 
friendly and bold reproofs of his fondness by Pescara and Ste- 
phano prepare us for the rebukes afterwards employed against 



THE DUKE OF MILAN. 343 

the same failing by the intrepid kindness of Eubulus. Jkid not 
only do we find this similarity in some of the leading sentiments 
' of the two plays, but occasionally the very language of the one 
is carried into the other. 

As to the action itself of this piece, it is highly animating and 
interesting ; and its connexion, at the very opening, with an 
important passage of history, procures for it at once a decided 
attention. This is, for the most part, well maintained by strong 
and rapid alternations of fortune, till the catastrophe is matured 
by the ever-working vengeance of Francisco. Even here, the 
authour has contrived a novelty of interest little expected by the 
reader : and the late appearance of the injured Eugenia throws 
a fresh emotion into the conclusion of the play, while it explains 
a considerable part of the plot, with which, indeed, it is essen-. 
tially connected. 

The character of Sforza himself is strongly conceived. His 
passionate fondness forMarcelia, — ^his sudden rage at her appa* 
rent coolness, — his resolute renunciation of her, — his speedy 
repentance and fretful impatience of her absence, — his vehement 
defence of her innocence, —his quick and destructive vengeance 
against her, upon a false assertion of her dishonour, — and his 
prostrations and mad embraces of her dead body, — shew the 
force of dotage and hate in their extremes. His actions are wild 
and ungoverned, and his whole life is made up of frenzy. 

One important lesson is to be drawn from the principal fea- 
ture of this character. From Sforza' s ill-regulated fondness for 
Marcelia flows his oWn order for her murder. The discovery 
of it occasions the distant behaviour of the wife, the revenge of 
the husband, and the death of both. — Let us use the blessings 
of life with modesty and thankfulness. He who ajms at intem- 
perate gratifications, disturbs the order of Providence ; and, in 
the premature loss of the object whicli he too fondly covets, is 
made to feel the just punishment of unreasonable wishes, and 
ungoverned indulgence. Dr. Ireland. 



END OF VOL. I. 



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