The dramatic works of Massinger and Ford

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^

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'/ r,-/.:

THE

PLAYS

OF

PHILIP MASSINGER,

IN FOUR VOLUMES.
WITH NOTES CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY,

Bt W. GIFFORD, Esq.

HAUO TAMEN INVIDEAS TATI QUEM PULPITA PA9CUNT.

THE SECOND EDITION.

VOLUME THE FIRST.

CONTAINING

ADVBRTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION.
INTRODUCTION, ESSAY, &c.
THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.
THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.
THE DUKE OF MILAN.

LONDON:

FaiNTED FOR G. AND W. NICOI. ; F. C. AND J. BIYIN6T0N ; CADSLX.
AND DATIES; LONGMAN AND CO.; I.ACKINGTON AND CO.;

J. barker; white and Cochrane; r. h. eyans; /. Murray;
J. mawman; j. faulder; and r. Baldwin;

B$f W. Bulmer and Co. develmnd-BaWf St. Jmme$^».

1813.

TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

CHARLES LONG,

ONE OF THE LORDS OF HIS MAJESTY'S TREASURY,

THIS EDITION
OF

THE WORKS

OF

PHILIP MASSINGER,

IS INSCRIBED,

AS A SINCERE TESTIMONY OF RESPECT FOR HIS

PUBUC CHARACTER,

AND or

GRATITUDE FOfl MANY ACTS OF FRIENDSHIP AND

PERSONAL KINDNESS,

BY
HIS OBLIGED AKD FAITHFUL SEHVANT,

THE EDITOR.

May, 1805.

ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE SECOND EDITION.

If I am vaia enough to believe that a certain species of
good fortune has attended my transactions with Mas-
singer^ the reader must pardon my simple credulity.
The first Edition of this Poet, I was enabled to enrich
with a Drama^ of which nothing but the mere existence
was previously known ; and while the present Edition
was preparing for the press, the following information
was transmitted to me by my zealous friend, Mr.
Gilchrist.

'* Since the publication of your Massinger, I have
obtained, through the kindness of a friend, a literary relic
of great curiosity; .namely^ the first edition of the Duke
of Miiaine, (4to. I62i3,) corrected throughout by the
author. When Mr. Blore was collecting materials foe
a history of Derbyshire, he discovered, among the papers
of the late Mr. Cell of Hopton, a copy of the Duke
of Milan> the dedication of which he conceived to be
in the band-writing of the poet ; and, for the sake of Sir
Francis Foljambe, a Derbyshire gentleman to whom
it was addressed, he wa« desirous to have it engraved
in fac'similc for his work. Upon expressing this wish
to his friend, the play was frankly given to him* Mr.

VOL. I. a

ii ADVERTISEMENT.

Blore subsequently discovered that what he had taken
for the original dedication^ was a short poem addressed
to Sir Francis Foljambe. Perhaps the relic lost some-
thing of its value in Mr. Blore's estimation, when he
perceived it was no longier d^icated to his coun-
tryman : it was stilly however, a curiosity of no ordinary
sort. When Mr. fibre's favourite pursuit led him to
investigate the antiquities of the county of Rutland, a
common love of literatare brought us acquainted* Know*
ing my fondness for Massinger, he mentioned the circuit-
stances which I have related : and shortly afterwards
presented me with the Play, which I now transmit to you
with pleasure for the advantage of your present Edition.
I will anticipate your examination of it only by observing
that you will feel some satisfaction in discovering that,
in two or three instances, the MS* corrections of Mas^
singer confirm your conjectures, and that another
explains a passage, which, by the blunder of the printer,
or the interpolation of the prompter, had hitherto, baffled
ingenuity."

That such a treasure should have laiiv for nearly two
centuries unnoticed and uninjured, must appear some-
what extraordinary y and paturally tends to encourage a
hope that chance, or more industrious researches, may
yet bring to light other valuable matter, of which the
existence is unknown, and which m^y oonduce not a
little to the literary advantage and honour of the country.
Scarcely six years passed between the death of Shak-
speare, and the appearance of the Duke of Milan ; it
cannot, therefore, be deemed altogether, visionary, to
indulge a hope that something more of the immortal
bard than is al; present in our. hands, may reward a careful
inquisition into the unsunned libraries of some of ojur
ancient families.
The Duke of JSftVan (which accompanied Mr. 6il^

ADVERTISEMENT. Hi

Christ's letter^) was presented by the poet» as a token of
respect^ to Sir F. Foljambe, the generous patron to whom
he afterwards dedicated the Maid of Honour. Previously
to putting the copy into his hands, Massinger had gone
carefully over it with hjs pen, and corrected not only >the
errors of the press^ but even the spelling where it did
not agree with the system of orthography which he ap<-
pears to have adopted. He also wrote the short address.,
of which a facsimile is given in the last volume, (p. 5Q3,)
asaspecimen of his penmanship; it is clear and neat, and
proves, beyond a doubt, that the MS. of the Parliament
of Love, is froih his own hand. I have, of course,
adopted all his corrections, and their value has often
drawn from me a wish that they had not been confined to
a single play.*

It remains for me to express my grateful sense of the
kindness with which the Public have been pleased to
accept the former Edition, I am gratified to find that I
was not greatly mistaken in my estimate of Massinger's
merits, and in believing that he only required to be
placed before them in a genuine text, to be very exten«
sively read and admired.

The present Edition has been revised^ and the few
errors which I have been enabled to detect, carefully
removed. I speak merely of the notes : the text remains as
it stood ; for such were the unwearied pains with which it
was at first established, not only from a collation of all
the editions, but of numerous copies of the same edition,
that a subsequent examination has not furnished me
with a single variation for notice.

* Mr. Malone had coa?iaced himtelf that 4he proper nanie of
our poet was Messenger, because it it so spelt in the title-page of
the first edition of the Duke of Milan* In thi» copy, it is corrected
as we now faaye it, and as it stands at the bottom of his little
address.

aS

iv ADVERTISEMENT.

Here I should gladly have closed this ^' Advertisement"
had I not conceived it necessarjr to trespass a little
longer on the reader's patience^ in Consequence of some
remarks which appeared on the former Edition.

Four years after the publication of these Plays^ the
Edinburgh Reviewers thought proper to niaice them the
subject of an Article in their twenty-third Number. It
seemed to be dictated by personal animosity, (altogether
unprovoked on my part,) and had all the worst charac-
teristics of a pretended review of my Translation of
Juvenal, which appeared in some forgotten journal. Like
that critique, the present also, not content with demolish-
ing the work in hand, deems it a part of justice, to go
back some fifteen or twenty years, and fall upon the
Baviad, which is condemned as '^ austere, morose, and
oyer-bearing/' aiid which the writers strenuously affirm,
^n summing up their censure, " would probably have
been thought too harsh, if the corrupt taste of the times
had not justified its asperity.' Ed» Rev, No. 23, p. 99*

It is almost too much to be summoned to account for
what was published near twenty years ago; nor can [
readily recal the precise ideas which floated in my mind,
when I wrote the quatrain quoted by them for the most
unworthy purpose. Assuredly, however, I had no more
intent to say that Mr. Kemble knew not what he bought,
than Persius (for all my strictures were allusive to Us
examples) had to affirm that Pacuvius knew not what he
wrote. Ignorant and affected imitators were, in both cases,
the objects of the satire. That I ridiculed the purchase of
old plays, is a mere conceit of the Edinburgh Reviewers,
who have shewn a degree of muddy-headedness through
the whole of their attack on me, which is truly pitiable.
My litie (verse they will not call it) is,

** Buy, at va$t sumif the traih of ancif at days."

ADVERTISEMENT. t

i

Could any but themselves suppose^ that bj trash I meant
the works of Shakspeare and Jonson ! I set quite as
high a value upon old plays as they deserve: the dif-
ference between me and the critics is, (for I shall not
affect a modesty which I do not feel in the present case>)
that I know something of their merits, and that they are
ignorant of them altogether.

In the couplet which immediately follows their quota»
tion, I have even specified the object of my satire, the
'' Boke ofgode advice,*' which happens not to be a play*
I regret, indeed, that the wicked necessity of rhyming
obliged me to sophisticate the title, w^hich is, the ^' Boke
of gode maners;*' a treasure which the critics might have
had the pleasure of seeing sold, within the last three
months, for more pounds than it was^ worth pence, and
thus have consoled themselves with reflecting that my
^ asperity" against the high price of trash, had done no
harm, and what is rather more to their purpose, no good*
With respect to Mr. Kemble, who saw that the drift of
my satire was to check the mad competition for every rag
and scrap of black letter, I have reason to believe that
he thought it well directed. He was far more interested
in the matter than myself, and had suftered severely fron:
this indiscriminate passion.

So much for the Baviad, which, I trust, it will hot be
necessary for me to defend a third time. The critics,
however, have not yet done with it. " Mr. Gifford (they
say) must, as we conceive, have repented him of this
attack upon Mr. Kemble — because it precluded him from
the advantage of consulting his collection, a liberty which
otherwise would have been willingly granted." p. 100.

The neverrdying rancour of the Edinburgh Reviewers
IS proverbial. I am still, however, at a loss to know on
what pretence they venture to invest Mr. Kembie with
their own feelings. If I have been unjust to this

Ti ADVERTISEMENT.

gentleman^ in taxing him (as they say) with unwise pro-
fusion^ the offence shrinks to nothing before the infamy
of their imputation. Mr. Kemble^ however, instead
of brooding over his resentment for the space of twenty
years, as the critics " conceive/' no soonef heard
that I was engaged on the present work, than with a
kindness inherent in his nature, he desired a common
friend to offer me, from himself, the free use of
his magnificent library, and the loan of every copy
of Massinger in his possession ! That I did not avail
myself of this generous offer is true; but I was not
therefore the less obliged by it. The fact is, that I
was already possessed not only of every edition of Mas-
singer known to exist, but of^ several copies of each
edition respectively.

The dream of interminable malice, so congenial to
their dispositions, still follows them. In the same pstge,
they accuse me of '* handling Lord Lansdown harshly ;"
and they add, in the tender tone of an inquisitor
General, *^ We regret that this nobleman's three MS.
plays were withheld (ifae thty were) from Mr. Giflfbrd*«
examination ; vre regret that Mr. Kemble*s library, (what,
again !) was shut against him by his own impetuosity*'*
p. 100.

I have already stated, that I declined the use of
Mr. Kemble's collection, which was voluntarily tendered
to nie, because I had no occasion for it ; and I now add,
(for the further satisfaction of the critics,) that if the three
MS, plays in question, had been in my own library in-
stead of Lord Lansdown*s, I would not have turned over
a sitigle page of them. To what purpose should I i
Massinger has few difficulties, which my habitual course
of reading did not enable me toexplain. lam not without
my suspicions, however, that the critics " conceive" the
three plays,on which they dwell so mucb^ to be Massinger's.

ADVERTISEMENT. ^ ^ii

It wba]d be well for them^ if all tbeir mistakes were
equally innocent ! — Bnt what do they mean I Admit*
ting, for a moment^ that Mr. Kemble was justly offended^
what injury had Lord Lansdown received, from me, that
he should '^ withhold hb treasures^ if th^ were withheld i**
No mention of him occurs in the Baviad, and, as he was
not a dealer in blaek letter, he could scarcely take um<-
brage at the reflections in Massinger, especially as he was
dead long before they appeared.

' But'— to the '^harshness with which he is bandied." Mr.
Warburton, who was possessed of more than fifty old MS.
plays, very wisely,([ must not say ^'foolishly," it seems,)put
them in a place of common access, and forgot them.: the
cook-maid, finding them to be go6d for somethings which
her master never appears to have suspected, turned them to
account, and tore them up to cover her pies. Now, allowing
^f.Warburton three pies a week, and he surely could not
eat more, this economical process must have gone quietly
on for the space of ten years, during which he never ap-
pears to have made a single inquiry about the fate of his
waste paper. He recollects it at last, however ; and upoa
V^iting his kitchen, or perhaps his coaUhole^ finds his
fifty-two MSS. reduced to three : — *^ these, (I add>) it is
said, are now in the library of the. Marquis of Lansdown,
where they will probably remain in safety, till moths, or
damps, or fires, mingle their forgotten dust with that of
dieir late companions." This is '^ the very head and
front of ray offending" against the Marquis; for, with
respect to what follows, it is a genoral reflection, of
which not one word applies to him, and forms a separate
section, in my '^ Introduction," (p. lii,) though the critics
found it more expedient for their purpose^ to join it to
the pseceding sentence.

The critics are nearly as judicious in their defence
of others as in their accusation of me. I had dismissed

vifi ADVERTISEMENT-

L6rd Lansdown from my thoughts; but since he i^
Wought forward by them as offering me a rudeness^it
may be as well to look at him once more. Isaac Reed,
a man of no fortune and no pretensions^ procures a
curious MS. play^ and prints it at bis own expense. Lord
Lansdown^ (who could convey, more money into his
pocket in one morning than Isaac possessed in the
whole course ot his life,) — a begger of dedications^-^a
magnificenk; Maculonus, — becomes possessed of three
MS. plays, (saved from the wreck of f]fty*two,}and is
applauded, for not laying out five pounds to place them
beyond the reach of destruction, because he might not.
have found a sufficient number of purchasers to indemnify
him for the daring speculation ! *' Few" (the critics say)
'' would buy them/' p. 109* But did Isaac Reed sell his
copies of the Witch? This conversion of a nobleman inta
a bookseller, must be allowed to be a most brilliant idea,
and every way worthy of the Edinburgh Reviewers.

But we have not yet done with these MSS. '^ It is
said,^' (I had occasion to observe, Introd. p. lii.) <' that
they are now/' &c The critics catch at the words it 93
said, and broadly insinuate that I spoke thus doubtfully,
because Lord Lan?down, in resentment of I know not
what injury, denied me the means of ascertaining the fact.
Now mark — the whole of what is brought forward respect*
ing the list of plays in the hands of Warburton and Lord
Lansdown, even to the very titles, is taken verbatim
from the common editions of Shakspeare, and has per-
haps been copied, in various publications, fifty or a hun-
dred times within the space of the last twenty years \
** It is said,*' refers to the account given by Steevens,
M alone, Reed, and others; and I only forbore to mention
it, because it never occurred to me, that any one who
might- take up a book of this kind, could possibly be
Ignorant of the circumstance. To have done with Lord

ADVERTISEMENT. ix

Lansdown — if be was inflamed against mej he kept, I
presnme^his magnanimoos indignation in his ewn breast ;
for I never heard of it before. Something, however, may
be gleaned from the ravings of absurdity. Whatever
Deed I may have to consult the library of an Edinburgh
Reviewer, I will, as Shakspeare says, '' rather dwell in
my necessity/' than afford his rancour the despicable
triumph of a refusal. ~^

The reader who has formed his opinion of the nature
of my ** Introduction/' from this hypocritical whining
about <' libraries shut" — ^^ access denied/' &c. cannot
fail to conclude that it is filled with complaints. Bat
what is the fact ^ That I speak of nothing but the un-
bounded liberality which not only met but prevented my
requests. My words are — '' the kindness of indi-
viduals SUPPLIED MB WITH ALL THAT I WANTED."

(p. c.) Indeed, I might have gone further : — for I had
more copies than I used, and refused more copies than I
had. For what precise object these illiberal insinuations'
were hazarded in the face of my express declaration>
kindred minds (if such there are) must determine.

I am next accused of calling Mr. Warburton a fool ;*-^
whether the critics confound him with Dr« Warburton,
J know not, nor is it of much consequence:-— the charge,
however, is made out by implication. Locherhas placed
in his Ship ofFoles^ the person who ^' bought books which
he could not read, but which he," as my quotation goes on
to say, '^ nevertheless, preserved with the utmost care and
veneration^— daily brushing the dust from them with a
plume of feathers/' Mr. Warburton, whom I would em«
bark in his stead, collects a number of valuable MSS.
(most of them unique,) and *^ lodges them," as he says
himself, <' in the hands of an ignorant servant," who
having no charge, it seems, to the contrary,. puts them
to the best use which her faculties could .suggest, and

X ADVERTISEMENT.

sends them, one after another, to the oven. As all
my acquaintance with this gentleman is derived from the
notes on Shakspeare, I know not the precise extent of
the injury done him by the projected exchange; but I
can inform the critics, that in the Ship, which they sup-»
pose to be freighted solely with idiots, there wer^ cha-
racters to which, in spite of their wisdom, they might
hare looked with humility. Mr. Warburton, however^
like Lord Lansdown, finds, in their tenderness, ample
consolation for my *^ asperity." The MSS. they tell ub,
(p» 100), *' were destroyed by the nkglect of his
sebvawt''— Poor Malkin !

The critics cannot (they say) bestow the unqualified
praise of accuracy upon the text, p. 101. I did not expect
this. I will take ufion me to assert, that a inore perfect
text of. an old poet, never issued from the English press*
It was revised, in the first instance, with a care of which
there is scarcely an example, and a subsequent examina-
tion enables me to speak with a degree of po^itiveness
on the subject, which sets all fear of contradiction at
defiance. This cbai^ of inaccuracy, be it observed,
comes from a set of men who never looked into Coxeter

m

or M. Mason, and never saw, at least never compared,
one line of the old copies with my edition. I say this,
because the critique itself furnishes me with numerous
proofs of the fact. All that they know of M\assinger and
his editors, they have learned from me.

We come now to the grand assault, that firom which,
as Mr* Gilchrist assured me, (long before the article
appeared) the final overthrow of my reputation was con-
fidently anticipated.

*' It would be difficult,*' the critics say, >' to bring
together more errors than are contained in the following
note:

ADVERTISEMENT. xi

« In tfaoie three memorable oyerthrowt
At Granson, Morat, Nancy, where hit mattery
The warlike Charalois, Ipst.mea and, life.

These were indeed " memorable/' since ibey were given
by ill.armed^ undisciplined rustics (invigorated indeed by
the calm and fearless spirit of genuine liberty) to armies
superior in number to themselves, and composed of
regular troops from some of the most warlike nations of
Europe. The overthrow of Granson took place, March
5d, 1476 ; that of Mprat, June 2£d, in the same year, and
that of Nancy, Jan. 5th, 1477. In this Charles (or, as
he is here called, from the Latin, Charalois,) Duke of
Burgundy, fell." Vol. iii. p. 372.

" How would Mr. Gifford '* (they insultingly

e:icclaim) '* have handled Coxeter or M. Mason, if thet/

bad written * the battle of Agincourt, gained by Henry

(or as he was called from the Greek aXta-xeo, Wales) king

of England' V* p. 101. I answer without hesitation, that

meanly as I thought of Coxeter and M. Mason, I never

conceived them capable of writing such execrable trash

as the Edinburgh Keviewers, out of the abundance of

their charity, have imposed upon them. If this abortive

ribaldry be meant to insinuate, that it is a part of my

character to make a parade of my no«learning, I can for*

giv^ their ignorance, and smile at their ineffectual malice,

** Charolois," they proceed, *' which he confounds with

the Latin Carolus, was a county subject to the Duke of

Burgundy ; and the title of Comte de Charolois was

borne by Charles till the death of his father in 1467f

when he succeeded to the dukedom." p. 101.

Twenty years ago I read Phil, de Comines in Lord Gros-
venor's library. I have not looked into him since : yet I
could not possibly forget that Charolois is not mentioned
dnce or twice by thfe historian, but probably as many hun-
dred times. Nor is this all* I had extracted from Lodge's

xii ADVERTISEMENT.

Illustrations, (a work worthy of all praise, and long faror-^
liar to me,) the following passage, *' Biron was to have had
Burgundy, Franche Comt^, and the county of Charolois,''
and given it to the printers with other matter. It waa^
recalled, (fortunately the proof-sheet is yet in my
hands,) partly from a' dislike to long notes, and partly
from thinking that to term the Duke of Burgundy,
Charolois, ten years after the title had merged in a
superior one, was not much unlike designating the
Kestoration of Charles, by calling it the landing of the
Earl of Chester. All this is very foolish^ it must be al-
* lowed ; but, in truth, I suspected M assinger of an error
of judgment in this place, which I was desirous of passing
dightly over, and did not observe, till long after the work
was printed, that the poet had committed this imaginary
impropriety, in order to account for the name of his hero.
The Reviewers, however, could know nothing of what is
here advanced : .they have, therefore, full consent to be as-
merry at my expense, as they are wise :

** Laugh, happy 80ul»l enjoy, while yet you may.
Short pleasure,— for long woes are to succeed."

^' The historical statement is not less inaccurate. Mf.
Gifford had a general impression, that the Swiss were
vigorous rustics, contending for their liberty^and, without
referring to the particulars of their contest," 8lc. p. 101.

The arrogance of these men is intolerable. On what
authority do they assume the license of meteing out the
quantum of my information on this subject i I have pru«
bably read as much of the Swiss as the critics themselves,
and, as I think, seen a great deal more of them. My state-
ments were taken from their own historians ; and 1 believe
them : they are welcome to trust in Phil, de Commes. It is
my delight to dwell on the inspiring story of their valour^
their patriotism, and their glory ; <^ it is the baseand bitter
disposition" of the Edinburgh Reviewers to sacrifice theoi

ADVERTISEMENT. xiii

^1i to their hatred of whatever appears to obscare the
resowD of '^ regenerated France." And what a moment
Was chosen to insult over the reputation of the Swiss!
While -— *' not the subtle fox/' (as Massinger calls
Louis XI.) but the blood-thirsty tiger ** of France/'
was growling over his prostrate and mangled prey. Bat
this is as it should be — ^tbis is characteristic of the men,
who watch the moment of divine visitation to trample
rudely on a just and merciful Sovereign — their own sove-
reign too^ be it remembered '' though he wasjetchedfrom
Hanover** — while they crouch, and tremble, and abjectly
crawl in the mire to lick the gory feet of a frantic and
ferocious usurper.

But to my '^ blunders." I had said in three words, that
the enemies of the Swiss outnumbered them. The critics
repel this assertion with great indignation, and prove
by many long and laborious extracts from Philip de
Comines, that, though their enemies certainly <' outnum-
bered them at the battle of Granson," yet I ought to have
added, that *' the Swiss were strongly posted T This is
excellent. It will henceforth be Expedient, instead of
a passing allusion in a note, to copy the minute details
of every event. After my death, I trust that the hint will
be taken, and Massinger, like Mr. Maloue's promised.
Shakspeare, appear in five and twenty volumes quarto.

At the battle of Granson, too, I am wrong. From a
grave calculation by PbiU de Comines, it is apparent^
" that the Swiss had 31,000 troops of all kinds/ whereas^
the Duke of Burgundy had but 23,000 regulars, besidu
artillery, and those who attended the baggage," who, for
any thing that the Reviewers knew to the contrary, might
amount to as many more. And aJl this formidable dis*
play of accuracy, which contains its. own refutation, is
4rawn up against an incidental remark of half a line!

At the battle of Mancy, it is still worse. The Duke of

x'n ADVERTISEMENT.

Burgundy was indeed defeated and killed^aa I had stated
in one word^ but then it seems, ^' some persons who
thought they knew, told Pbil« de Comines, that the Duke
of Burgundy had but 4,000 men^ and of those^ not more
than lyCOO were in a condition to fight;" while "^the
Swiss had*— I cannot tell how many^ nor Phil, de Comines
either ! — And thus^ like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, '' I am
put down."

'^ We bate dwtlt,'^ they sgy, " upon this note, because
we are always (what always!) anxious to maintain bisto-^
rical truths and because we cannot better exemplify the
inaccuracy with which Mr. GifTord appears to write/'
p. 103. Their notion of maintaining historical truth, is not
a little curious.. They content themselves with referring
to a particular authority, and because they do not find my
statements agree with it> candidly conclude, that I either
fabricated them, or picked them up at random ! As to their
Oracle, I have nothing to say to him : he was, I believe,
as honest a man, as a deserter of two or three masters can
well be ; and far honester than those who accuse me of
ignorance and prejudice, because I presume to consult
other authorities than their own. Be this as it may, I
have made a most ungrateful return for the three ponder-*-
ous pages which the critics have painfully drawn up for
my edification, since I have left the note precisely as it
stood : nay, — such is the perversity of poor human nature,
«—I am more confirmed in its accuracy, by what is urged
against it.

The three yfovdsfrom the Latin, ought, however,to have
been excepted. I never possessed as many books in my
life, as would cover one of the Reviewers' tables : but I
have always had access to noble libraries ; and the strength
of my memory for more than twenty years, rendered it
almost superfluous to set down any very brief passage
which engaged my particular attention. But, alas !

ADVERTISEMENT. x?

Omnia fert stai , antmum quoque— •

I now bot regret is unavailing. In some writer^ I
found (the Reviewers will not believe me) the derivation
which has so amused them, and laid it up in my mind for
this very passage. When I came, long afterwards, to the
work, the author had escaped me. I thought it had been
Mezerai; but I searched him in vain, and had no heart,
to go beyond him. 1 do, however, in despite of the critics,
re-iterate my assertion, that Carolus and Charolois^ are
the same word, and that the latter is an idiomatic ennnoit*
ation of the former That from the Latin might and should
have been spared, as making no part of Massinger's
thought, must be admitted; but that the words justified
the wretched sneer of ^' Henry, calkd from the Greek
aXifTKco, fVales"^-^v/\\l admit of some question.

^' It seems that Mr. Gifford must have printed the first
volumes, before he had even read through the author he
was editing." He says, vol. iv. p. 172, " this expression"
(candour) *' reconciles me to a passage in the Parliament
of Love, vol. ii. of which, though copied with my best
care, I was extremely doubtful.. It now appears, that
Massinger uses candour in both places, as synonymous
with honour," p. 103.

The Reviewers are in the state of poor old Gobbo,
high gravel blind." I must again quote my own words,
Mr. Evans proposed to me a new edition of M assingert
This poet was a favourite ; and I had frequently lamented
that he had fallen into such hands : I saw, without the
assistance of the old eopies, Sec." Introd, xcix. Again :
After meotioniilgikiy intire familiarity with the poet, in
the modern editions, I add — '* my Jirst care (on under-
taking io re*edite him,) was to look round for the old
copies," ibid. It was then that Mr. Malone sent me
all his editions; that Mr. Kembie voluntarily offered me
the use of his library ; that Mr. Gilchrist transmitted to

a

xvi ADVERTISEM ENT.

xne, the whole of his collection, from Stamford ; that Isaac
Reed furnished me with his most valuable copies; that
assistance poured in to me from every quarter — ^yet, at
this. very time, the Reviewers are pleased to assert, that I
had not even read Massinger!

'' Anxiously wishing/' I add, " to render this Edition
as perfect as possible, I wrote to Mr. Malone (with whom
I had not the pleasure of being acquainted) to know where
the manuscript of the Parliament of Love was to be
found/* (p. c.) Yet this is the PJay which they accuse me
of printing before I had even read Massinger!

Nor is this all. After recurring to my Ipng acquaint-
ance with the Poet, in Coxeter and M. Mason, (p^ cii.)
and detailing the number of old copies which had come
to hand subsequently to my engagement with Mr. Evans,
I observe that, " with these aids, I sat down to — what ? — to
the business of collation.** Yet I am charged with having
printed the first and second volcfmes before I had even
read the third and fourth ! If this be stupidity, it is por-
tentous; if it be personal malice, all is as it should be,
and I am satisfied*

With respect to the word candour, my offence is con-
fined to deeming it rather more modest to establish its use
by referring to a printed passage of which no doubt was
entertained, than to an ancient MS. copied entirely by
myself* Such lynxes as the Edinburgh Reviewers, will be
surprised to hear that it is not altogether impossible to
doubt of the genuineness of a word in a faint and disco-
loured hand of two centuries, especially when it is of rare
occurrence. Indeed, a gentleman of the law, (James
Hill, Esq.) to whom I shewed the passage, advised me to
read, honour, which he conceived to be the author's word:
against this, I had nothing to produce from Massinger,
but the present passage, which, as* I have stated, satisfied
me^ and — finally convinced the critics that I must have

ADVERTISEMENT. xvii

printed one half of the work before I h^d even read the
other. <

It detracts a little from- their boasted perspicacity, that
they should so inopportanely have overlooked a preceding
passage. On pale-^spirited, vol. iii. 509, (first edit.) I ob-
. serve, (after rescuing it from the corruption of the former
editors,) '''since this was written, I have found the
word in the Parliament of Love" It follows, therefore,
with the critics' leave, that I had not only* read the last two
yolames of Massinger, but written notes on them, before
the others were printed. In short,— for this absurd burst
of spleen has detained me too long, — the Parliament of
Love was necesaarily the last of Massinger's plays which
fQceived a comment.

The Reviewers, in pure niilkiness of nature, next fall
upon me for my. treatment of Coxeter and M. Mason

upon the mms of whose reputations (they say) it hat
been my constant aim to build my own :" p* 103. My
ambition is then most humble —

'fitrtit immanihti emftum ett

(EtMpodas $edi»9e locai

But eVen this vile passion, to which, it seems, I have
sacrificed even my duty to Massinger, is not the only one
which actuates me. ^ So strong,'* the critics add, '' is Mr.
Gifford^s spirit of anger, that if either of these unfortunate
editors' had been within his reach, he would probably have
cidled for a staff to knock them down," p. 103. Certainly
not. If I had callidfor a staff (which the goodness of

* Id the beati^al ranimary whieh closes ibe fonrtb volnine» Dr.
Irekn^obnervesy '* the Editor^ hwmg mlrea^ remivtd an ihepub'
UeMSem^ axd r&srARS» tbs tbxt f«]i vbb Fassst requested of me
a nrvisioD of these piay^, and such observ«tioiM»** Ac. p. 66S. Yet»
with this pasiage staring them in the fiice, they have the hardihood
to assure their readers that I mtttl have priatod Ike ftnt two
volumes before I had evea rrod the lastl

VOI«. I. b

XTui ADVERTISEMENT.

Providence has hitherto made annecessary) it would be
to support my steps/ Such " knock-me-down doings"
are fitter for the Edinburgh Reviewers. But this is from
the purpose — let us see the proofs of what they call my
errors si la mode of Coxeter and M. Mason.

** In the Duke of Milan we find this note : Scarabs
means beetles. M. Mason. Very true : and beetles means
scarabs." — *^ In the same play we find> Dian, a contrac-
tion for Diana. M.Mason. And so it is!" p. 104.

I had casually observed in the Introd. p. cv.^that
'^ the readers of our old plays were treated by modern
editors as if they wer« ignorant of common things;"
but I gave no instances of it^ at the time. When the
occasion presented itself^ I remarked^ and certainly, naso
adunco, that a beetle was really a scarab — I beg pardon,
that a scarab was really a beetle ; and that Dian was^ as
Mr. M. Mason had cautiously observed, a contraction of
Diana. If, as the Re'^iewers say, there are persons to
whom either of these pieces of information can be useful,
they have no just ground of complaint against me, for I
laid it fairly before them.*

^ A third instance of error" (the reader had just seen
, the first and second instances) is to be found in the Virgin
Martyr. The author's expression is— the Roman angef$
wings shall melt. This, says Mr. M. Mason, should ceT'-
tainlybe the Roman augeVs wings, I defend the text,
and quote several passages from our old poets, where angel
is used, as here, for bird. Yet, because I object to the

* The hint, however, has not been loBt9«-and I sincerelj felicitate
the crilicf on the satiifaction with which they must have recently
contemplated the '* useful information" conyeyed in the ezplana-
.tions of ** sudden,*' ** ever," ** but," &c. &c. dispersed through that
matchless publication which baified all their' efforts to disceyer a
fieinlt, and afforded them another opportunity to sneer at the
*' errors" of the liate edition of Massin^er.

99

ADVERTISEMENT. . xix

editor's certainly, in a case where he is positively wrong;
ai^d, fa noticing a remark of Mr. Hole, that Mandeville
supposed *'.the angels (messengers) of God to feed on
dead carcases^ add, surely, by angels he meant fowls of
the air, — I am in an *' error," and my " harsh assurance,
is insultingly opposed to M. Mason's " quiet certainly,'
p. ]04.

" Mr. Gifford's animosity against M. Mason has induced
him to reject scornfully his suggestions, though not devoid
of ingenuity. For example, in the Duke of Milan,

** To see those chuffs, that every day may spend,
A soldier's entertainment for a year,
Yet make a third meal of a hunch of raisins."

So all the copies — but M. Mason, whose sagacity nothing
escapes^ detected the blunder, and, for third, suggest^,
nay actually printed; thin. ** This passage (quoth he)
appears to be erroneous : the making a third meal on a
bunch of raisins^ if they had made two good meals
before^ would be no proof of penuriousness." Was ever
alteration so capricious? was* ever reasoning so absurd f
where is itjsaid that these chuffs had made two good meals
before f is not the whole drift of the speech to shew
that they starved themselves in the midst of abundance f
vol. i. 28 J.

** It is so," exclaim the critics, ** and on that very
account, did M. Mason object to third, because, though
liot perhaps two good meals, it did imply that they had
made two before, and that would not be much like starva-
tion!" p. 104.

- When the critics shall be pleased to mak^ the experi-
ment, it will be time enough to take their word. Mean-
while, they must permit me to express my utter astonish-
nient at their ** portentous'* folly. When the note on
tbis' plain passage was written, I did most confidently be-
lieve Mr. M. Mason to be the only person that ever could

ba

ADVERTISEMENT.

or would mistake its meaning, — and lo ! we have here a
bevy of critics from the North running headlong into the
same error, and like Dindinaut's sheep, blindly following
their baaing leader, to their own confusion.

To observe that these chuffs made three mefils on the
same bunch of raisins, and that the poet*s words can pos*
sibly have no other sense, seems a deplorable waste of
time. Even the Reviewers^ it will be thought, might have
seen tbis^ from the quotation subjoined to my remarks; —

« ■ ■ ■ . I have known him wifeit
Upon a bunch ofraitins.'*

The man who surfeited upon a bunch of raisins, might
surely have made more than«one meal on it. But to what
wretched mintUia may not '' the malice of a carper" (espe-
cially of a stupid one) reduce a writer who is willing to
suppose his readers endowed with a little common sense !

After all, I am only defending the genuine reading : —
this, however, the critics honestly assure the public, is not
done by me from any regard for the purity of Massinger's
text^ but from mere animosity to Mr. M. Mason ! p. 104.
As some atonement- to that gentleman, I will give their
favourable judgment of his exertions. '^ M. Mason's alter-
ation oT third to thin is ingenious, and makes the sentence
clearer"! p. 105.

But the reader is not yet acquainted with all my de-
merits in this unfortunate passage. In the first line of the
quotation M. Mason altered *^ chuffs*' to choughs, i. e. as
he informed us, to *^ magpies.'' Magpies seem rather
oddly placed here ; but the critics pass rapidly over this,
to pour their whole indignation on me for saying that
a chuff was always used in a bad-sense^ and meant ,a
coarse, unmannered clown, at once sordid and wealthy."
On this they first give me the '' lie direct," and then
proye, by a quotation of great wisdom, that '' chuff is
spoken of a citisen !'' And of what else have I been talk-

ADVERTISEMENT. xxl

ing all this while? My words are— ^' these reproaches are
sach as have been cast by soldiers of fortune in all ages,
on the sober and frugal citizen/^ Vol. I. $81. What can
I say to snch eternal blunderers ! Vi^hen I interpreted
chuff a clown, I never expected to be understood as liter*
ally describing one whose sole occupation was following
the plough ; neither did I, as the critics imagine, mistake
the city of Milan for a grange. I meant by clown, as
every one else does in common speech, a man 6f rude
and vulgar manners : they send me, upon another ocda*
sion, to Johnson ; if they will not be offended at receiving
the advice which they so politely give, I would intreat
them to turn to the same author, — they will find '' Clown,
a^coarse, ill bred man.? '^ Clownish^ rough, uncivil/' To be
reduced to this child's play, is a miseryi which I flattered
myself I had long since escaped.

After affirming that my interpretation is wrong, and
doubting whether chuff eoer means a clown, they have
the monstrous folly to add, ** that . the word has much
more affinity with citizen,** p. 105. Again, let me beseech
them to " turn to Johnson,'' — they will find (one meaning
for all) ** Chuff, a blunt clown." I have had the curiosity
to examine, at least, a dozen dictionaries ; the Reviewers
may, if they please, examine as many more, and, if one
of them be found to .explain the word otherwise than I
explained it, or give citizen as a synonym, I will consent
- to chaiige places with the critics, add pass for the most
bungling of the fraternity.

'' We find a proper interpretation of Mason's rejected

with scorn as unintelligible ^

He's a man
Of strange aad r^seived parts.

Strange here signifies distant. M. Mason. I do not pre-
tend to know the meaning of distant parts : Massinger,
however, is clear enough," Vol. II. 8.

xxii ADVERTISEMENT.

*' If Mr. Gifford bad found leisure ta 9|;^ Johnson'9
DictioaarjTy (though socomoiop aplKase ought perhaps to
be familiar to him^) be would have aeen^ under the word
strangeness^ that explanation which he could not pretend
to furnish/' p. 105.

It is not nay fault if the critics either will not read, or
cannot understand what is before them. I say^ simplyi that
I do not pretend to know the meaning of a man of distant
parts; and they, with their usual suavity of language^
send me to consult Johnson for the meaning of strange-
ness! I tell them that Massinger's expression is sufficiently
clear, and means strangely reserved ; and they affirm ttmt
I pretend not to be able to give the sense of it 1 My ob-
jection was to the explanation of a simple term by one
that was, at best, obscure. A man of distant parts, is more
commonly spoken of one of a remote country, than one of
a ^^y or reserved character. Yet af distant, Mr. M.
Mason's word, they say not one syllable ; while all their
folly and all their fury are let loose upon an expression
which no where occurs but in their own criticism.

By this time the critics are ready to exclaim with one
of Massinger's worthies, " Would we were hanged, rather
than thus be told of our faults!''— 'But they m4ist hear
more.

, ^* Mr. Gifford's irritation against the editors/ displays
itself curiously in a note to the Renegadaf\&ic. p. 105.

By corrupting the text, Coxeter and JVI* Mason hs^d
turned a line of tolerably good metre iuto vile dactylics^
(by the way, I never loved dactylics,) this I expressed by
the significant word lum-ti*ti, vol. ii. 13^- The critics
do not, 1 believe, understand much of dactylics, and I am
, qui^e sure that my alfusioo has escaped them altogether.
This, however, is of no moment — but they burst into
a tone of triumph on the occasion. '^ As Eqnius has
used taratantara for the sound of a trumpet^ so Mr.

ADVERTISEMENT. xxiii

Gifford may perbapft be justified for expressiog by tarn-
titi"— but I will not afflict the reader with the dull ribaldry
which follows—" We were surprised'' (they conclude)
'' at discovering that the gentlemen who have been re-
bukedy might retort the tumtiti upon Mr. Giffbrd with
equal propriety. We will give an instance, p. 106*

* Hogtt. I DOW repeat I ever
Intended to be honest.

SerJ, Here he comes
You had best tell so.

Fort. Worshipful sir, ^

You come in time»' &c.

Mr. M. Mason reads.

Here he comes;

Yoo had best (Urn) ten so.

Uh fake pointing made his barbarous interpolation ne-
cessary; The old copy is evidently right.'* Vol. IV. 87.
This is what I say ; now for the critics. '* Mr. Mason made
his interpolation solely for the purpose of supporting the
metre, which was defective; and Mr. Gifford's m^^rtca/
HTiribility must have quite deserted him, when he asserted
that a dramatic Terse hobbling with only nine syllables,
^as evidently right." p. 106.*

' I am not obliged, thank heaven ! to find comprehension
for the Edinburgh Reviewers, and I will take upon me to
say that no Other persons ever mistook so egregiously the
sense of a plain passage. In all that they have advanced
there is not one word of truth or sense. It is difficult to
know where to begin with such a farrago of absurdity ;
but let us take the words in their order. *^ Mr. Mason
made his interpolation to support the metre." He did no
such thing : he made it to support the sense, which he
had marred by his false pointing. Indifferent as his ear

* Let not the reader ibrget that this was produced by the critics
u ^** ta iMtuioe of the tum-ti.ti." Can he discover anj trace of it ?

xxw ADVERTISEMENT.

was^ he could not possibly imagine that the Hoe Was re-
stored to verse by his addition :^*that was an idea exda-
sively reserved for the Edinburgh 5ipviewers; and never,
certainly, since the days that King Midas sat in judgment
on Apollo^ did such a tribunal meet for the arbitrement of
a musical question. This is the verse,

** You had best (him) tell so. Worshipful sir."

I seriously declare that I had read it twenty times before
I discovered it to be even measure^ (rhythm is out of the
question,) but on trying it by my fiogets^ it unexpectedly
came out to be ten syliables^e. g.

1S34 56 789 It)
You had best him tell so, Wor ship fal sir!

Is not here fine fooling!

^' Mr. Gifford's metrical sensibility" (the sneer is admi-
raBiy timed) *^ must have deserted him when be asserted
that a verse hobbling with nine syllables^ was evidently
right."

If the critics have wilfully or ignorantly mistaken my
words^ to their own canfusion be it. I disclaim their inter-
pretation. Of metre or of verse I never thought^ and
never spoke. By placing a semicolon after ''comes" (I say)
Mr. M. Mason made his interpolation necessary; be-
cause^ otherwise, the hemistich would have bad no senses
What word^ what syllable of mine could lead them to
dream that I spoke of the me.tref Ihey might have
learned from the prologue of I4ic. BQttpMi> (of'' metrical
sensibility/') that the false pointing of a preceding line
might destroy the meaning of that which immediately foU
lows, but could not, by any means, affect its metre. Ail this
wisdom, however, is overlooked by the critics, while tbey
are driving headlong after the harmony of their new Or-
pheus. *' There is undoubtedly" they continue^ " an error
in the passage,^ — some readers may think this Aar^A

/

AI>r£RTIS£M£NT.

XXT

^* uDcloabiedljr/' quite at objectionable m Mr. Gifford't
qmei ** evideDtly/' especially ad it is palpably wroag;.^
There is no error whatever. The omission of tbe relative
is characteristic of o&r old writers, and of Massinger among
the rest : — *^ but there is undoubtedly an error, for''— -I
beseech tbe reader to attend, — ^^ forMasstnger is nsv br

BBFECTIVS IN HIS MBTRB."

In this very scene, nay page, there are several nnroe-
trical lines* In fact, our old dramatists (with theexceptton
of Jonsoo) gave themselves no trouble about their broken
lines; if they ran with tolerable smoothness, the number
of syllables was left to chance. In Massinger, who is
'^ NEVER defective in his metre," I have counted several
HrNORBJD instances of deficiency ; and in Beaumont and
Fletcher, and Shirley, as many thousands.

'< We will produce," they continue, p. 106, '^ a passage
in which Mr. GifFord has been guilty of an interpolation
not less objectionable and more in/uHoM to the sense,
imagining that a foot was wanting to make the fkeire
perfect.

* Secret. Dead doings, daughter.

I^uive, Doings I sufferings, mother:
[For poor] men have forgot what doing is ;
And, such as have to pay for what they do,
Are impotent, or eunuchs.'

' A foot is lost in the originals I liave anhstilated the
words between brackets, in the hope of rtsioring iheseftse
of the pastege,' vol. iv p. 50.

It is a little hard upon me, that my own words are
never taken; bnf Ihe bhindering no-meaning wfa)ch the
critics choose to put upon something that does not appear.
I had no more idea of completeing the metre here, than
above : for, tbongh Ihe Jine had not its requisite number
of syllables^ it was not unrhythmical ; and that would have

^

xxvi ADVERTISEMENT*

been quite sufficient for me^ had not the sense appeared
defective. '^ And/' in tbe4hird line, is a disjunctive ; and
makes the whole passaga^^s it stood, either inconsequen*
tial or contradictory. If ctl men have *^ forgot " a cir-
cumstance, with what propriety can the rick alone be said
to remember it i It was a consideration of this kind, which
induced, mi^ to suggest the words marked in the text;
*' in the hope," as I expressly state, ** of restoring the sense
(not the metre) of the passage." It would be a pity,
however, to deprive the reader of tlie exquisite harmony
which the critics have struck out, by a new arrangement of
the lines :

" Dead do | iikgSf daugh | ter. Do { ings, suf |.fer iagst
** Mother, | men have | forgot | what do | ing is."

And this tuneless, tasteless drawling, which has not a
trait of Massipger's manner^ is palmed upon the reader
as *^ a rectification of the metre." Metre, however, it is:
this I can venture to assure the reader, for I have counted
the lines twiee upon my fingers.

But this is venial, it seems, in comparison of my sub«
sequent enormities. *' Notwithstanding Mr. Gifford's
indignation (again !) at M. Mason, he has left many por^
tentous HneSf which might he easily reduced within proper
dimensions by the process employed above"— —^with such
admirable effect!-:-^' For instance:

Geifu I would we were to rid of them.
Get. Whj?

Goth. I fear, one hath.
The art of memory, aniSf will rememher.

. '' One hath, shovULbe the commencemMt of the second,
which will bear tt^e addition," p. 107.
The line will l)i^n st^nd thus.

One hath the art of memory, and will rememherl
Is this verse? is It any thing like verse? And these are

ADVERTLSEMENT. zxru

the Arcana pecuatia bj whose taata ud feeling, the
metre of Massioger is to be finally broaght to perfection!
I have already observed, that tlus Poet was little soli-
citous about the measure of bk broken lines, provided
they fell into any thing like rhythm; and the whole of
my enormity, therefore, consists in rather choosing to
throw the superabundant syllables into the hemistich,
where they do not injure the flow of the verse, than upon
the perfect line, with the critics, where they convert it
ibto downright prose.

But they proceed, p. 107. " In the Ciiy Madam we
encountered ihhformidable verse,

* I once held you an upright honest man. I am henester now.*'

If it he formidable, they have made it so ; and it is pot
a little amusing to see them start, like children, at the
ghost which they have just dressed up. It did not, per-
haps, suit their object altogether, to let the reader know
that this '' verse '* consists of the broken speeches of
two characters, and that it stands thus in Massinger :

** Lacy, I once held you an uprightyhonest man. ^

Luke» I am honester now.
By a hundred thousand pounds, I thank my stars for't "*'

Here, as before, my only object was to throw the super*
numerary syllables, as the poet had taught me, into the
broken line, where they did no injury to the metre of the
rest. But to—" the easy remedy." ^' I <mce held you^
(they say,) '' ought to have been at the conclusion of the
foregoing line. Though burthm*d by the additions,*^ (have
the critics no bowels !) " it will still come within the rules
of Massinger*itiotiiic metre, which is purposely superabun*
dent in unacctnted syllables, a liberty %hich be takes in
imitation of the comic iambics, .that admit anapssts and
dactyW — Mefcyon us! what have we beref Upton on
the trochaic-dimeter-bracbjrcatalecticl-r-But dismissing

xxviii ADVBRTISEMENT.

0

this deplorftUe affectation of profandity, let lis see the
reformed metre.

** You are T^|rj p^mpltory, praylyou ftay ;|I once h6ld | joa/

" We could adduce many instances/' (they add,) *' to
shew that this verse is conformable to Massinger's rules of
comic versification. One line of similar structure will be
{sufficient.

** And p6iush|ment o|Yert&ke him] when he Ie&ft|exp6ct8|it."

p. 107.

The two unfortunate syllables '' you " and '' it/' which
are shut out of the pale^ are meant> I presume, for ^' beau*
tiful specimens" of the pes proceleusmaticus.

Seriously^ 1 must either be as stupid as the critics, or
have a most degrading opinion of the understanding of the
reader, if I condescended to waste one word in proving,
that neither of these notable ** verses " possesses a single
feature of poetry. With respect to the last line, (the
former is not Massinger's,) which is spoken as the cha*
racters are leaving the stage, it has neither modulation
nor n^etre, and was never meant for verse. It is easy prose,
and that is all. Yet of this, the critics say, after more
pompous jargon about unaccented syllables, &c. that its
metre has been, perhaps, as studsotisly arranged as the
mdst melodious lines of his^it^r passages !" p. 107. And
]| is by ^* these long*eared judges/' (they know where to'
find the quotation,} who, when they have erected five
perpendiculars upon aqy given number of sylliables in a
right line, contend that it is thereby converted into poetry,
that I am accused of defortning the metre of Massinger I

The next observation is confined to a circumstance> in
which I take little or no concern. I believed (as I still
do believe,) that a line was lost at the press, tiecanse the
passage was devoid of meaning ; and therefore gave, at
tlie fool of the page, what I imi^ined to be it* import.

ADVERTISEMENT. mxi^

For this, I must refer to the {rface^ voK i. 187« The Re*
viewers, as they have a right to do, propose an emenda*
tion of their owo*; and^those who can find either rhythm
or sense in it, will naturally prefer it to what I ham
suggested. The line stands thus^

** Repented to hare brought forth, ad companion/'

All, they suppose to be a misprint for wiihoui, which,
(from the striking similarity of the two words) is very
likely ; and with respect to the extra-syllable, tbat^ they
say, ^' restores the metre according to the author's man*
ner,'' p. 106. I suspect that there is still a fmsprini, and
that, for the author's manner, we should read our manner*

They now come to my application of the character of
Dr. Rut to Dr. D — n, p. 108. It is pertinent and it ]»
just. When I find occasion to change my opinion it will
be quite time enough ta remoye theofiensive passage;
meanwhile, the Doctor's friends may console themselves
for my '^ satire," in tbe^^rdial approbation of the Edin*
burgh Reviewers. It would be ungrateful, however, in
me to pass their censure unnoticed.-— And truly, when
their natural disposition to '^ courtesy and . gentleness/'
their proverbial candour and liberality, their freedom jfrom
all prejudice, their abhorrence of '^ all personalities/'
their rigid abstinence from all '^ harshness and invective,''
are considered, the most zealous of thrir friends will find
it difficult to determine whether the modesty, or the
consistency, of their reproof, be the fittest subject for
admiration.

As a set^ofi* to my *' satire" on Dr. D— — these " soft
sprited gentlemen" hold it fit to turn their Tibaldry against
Dr. Ireland. His offence is an mexpiable one in the
eyes of an Edinburgh Reviewer ; it is, as far as I can dis-
cover, his piety, or, as the critics term it^his '^ preaching/'
p. 11 1 . I will not inji^re my fri^d so much as to ofii^r one

arxx ADVERTISEMENT.

word in his defence-^but I have yet something to say in
my own.

Of the ' two passages which they have, quoted from
Dr. Ireland, they ane pleased to express their surprise
that I should condescend to print the last. Their indig-
nation (which is very hot) is levelled at a few passages
pHnted in italics, such as ^' glorious vision/' '* heavenly
garden," " fruit of immortality," 8ic. which they term
ridiculous in the wretched state of the stage at that time,
without seeing that every syllable of it is taken from
Massinger himself! ''thus it appears that they wrote
their observations on the last part of the play before they
bad even read the first." As U> the contradictions which
I am accused of admittiogi they exist only in the cod*
fused head of the critics.* The stage was certainly
without decorations; nor had it amy moveable scenery;
but in the description to which they object, there is
nothing bnt a procession, a bteliet of flowers, and a
wreath. Abundance of passages scattered among our
old plays shew that the stage was not without a con-
siderable portion of expensive dresses in those days,i?
which were viewed with pleasure by our ancestors, who
had seen no better; and this is all that was meant. The
vision of Dorothea in the Virgin Martyr, is of the same
nature as that of Queen Katherine in Henry Vill., and

f Perbap§, the coDfasion liei in another part — but it is really
itrange that my own words are ne^er taken. I say — ** Scourging^
rackingfVMd beheadings Rre circumstances of no very agreeable kind,
and with the poor aids of which the stage was then possessed, must
be somewhat worse than ridiculous." Vol. i. p. 1 18. Yet the critics,
without shame, or dread of detection, apply the quotation to the
<* glorious Tision" of Dorothea } p. 111.

f In Greene's Groats Worth of fFity published many years before
the Ftr^'nJtfarf^r, a player is introduced boasting, that ** his shar^
in stage apparel would ndt be sold for two hundrbo povvimI"

ADVERTISEMENT. xxxi

was perhaps exhibited on the same stage^ and with the
same materials. Costly dresses were more common in
Massinger's age than in our own; gorgeous robes were
occasionally procored from the nobility ; and there was,
at all times, abundance of cast finery to be cheaply pur-
chased. The Reviewers are as ignorant of the customs
of those days as of the language.

" Perhaps,** (continue the critics, p. 1 12,) " Mr. Gifford
will be offended at the little ceremony with which we
have treated his favourite dramatist.'* Not In the least.
Judgment is free to all, and the decision rests with the
public. In the present case, indeed, if the anxious call
for another Edition be permitted to stand for any thing,
they have already determined the question in my favour.
At any ra(e, Massinger has taken his place on our shelves ;
he is noticed by those who qverlooked him in the blander-
ing volumes of Coxeter.and M. Ma<)on, and cannot i^ain
be thrown entirely SJj^^^of the estimate of our ancient
literature. \. ►

But though 1 have no desire . to change the critics'
opinion of Massinger, I must not lightly forego my own.
I incidentally produced a passage from the Par/tame^^
of Love, where every pause, of which verse is susceptible, is
introduced with such exquisite feeling, suqh- rhythmical
variety, that I spoke of it with the warmth which its
unparalleled artifice appeared to demand. The Reviewers
'^ are at a loss,'* they say^ *^ to discover that pre-eminent
beauty which called fc^th such unqualified praise," p. 112*
I believe it ;— the ears which relaxed, with delight, over
such soothing melody, as /

■" ** You are -very peremptory, pray you, ftay. 1 once held you.*'
** And punishment overtake him when he least expects it"-^.

may well be pricked up in scorn at the verses which I
bom'mended,-^and which the reader will find, vol. ii«
p. 246..

txxii i^DVKRTISEMENT.

f

But have not the critics> ia their anxiety to ^precwte
Massinger, been somewhat inconsiderate i They say that
'* Massinger has not a single passage which can call forth
a tear, amidst all bis butchery,^' p. 1 13. His butchery (if it
must be so termed) is not more bloody than that of his con*
temporaries.— -But has he really no pathos ? Cumberland
declares that a scene in the Fatal Dowry is one of the
most pathetic in the English language; and many others
might be pointed out, which cannot easily be read ^^ dry-*
eyed:"-— But where men have tears of sympathy only
for axioms and postulates, obduracy to fantastic miseries
is a matter of course.

^ut their taste is not more alive than their natural
feelings. When young Beaufort (not ** Belgarde/' the
buffoon of the play,) first discovers the body of the injured,
the innocent Theocrine, he bursts into tears, with this
simple and touching adjuration to hia friends :

** All that have eyea to weep,
Spare one tear with me : Theocrine's dead."

He hears an incidental remark, that the thunder-bolt
which killed her wicked father, had deformed his features,
when he interrupts his sorrows, and exclaims, with trium-
phant affection,

** Btit here's one, retains

Her natiTe innocence, that neTer yet
Called down heaven's anger I"

And the piece concludes with a paternal and pious ap-
plication of- the catastrophe, (or what the Reviewers meer*
ingly call '< a dry moral,") by old Beaufort. This '^ cursory*
dismission of the circumstance'' is attributed to the incom-
petency of Massinger to call forth a tear: and certain it
isi that a modern writer would have yelled out many sylla^
hies of dolour on the occasion. But this was not Mas-
singer's mode; and it yet remains to be proved tbat>
the modern writer would be right*

ADVERTISEMENT. xxxiii

The critics now recur to the Parliament of Love.
Here thej seem to be in the situation of poor Elbow^ and
would discover my offences if they could* I attribute
this p!ay to Massinger, but am ^^ very sparing, it seems,
of the grounds of my opinion.*' One word is sufficient*
The entry on the Stationers' book which gives the
ParliameMt of Love to Rowley, is, as they ought to know,
of no authority whatever; whereas the license of the
Master of the Revels, which I produced, is an authentic
document. Mr. Malone, who believed (what has since
been contirmed) that the MS. which I copied was from
the poet's own hand, shewed me the blank leaf where the
license of Sir Henry Herbert once stood, and which had
been cut off with equal folly and dishonesty by some one
to whom k had been entrusted.

And would it have, proved derogatory to the critics'
candour, if, when they blamed my forbearance, they had
condescended to notice the apology for it, which lay
immediately before them ? ^^' I have been sparing of my
observations, being desirous that the fragment should
enjoy the reader's undivided attention." Vol. ii. 239.

This brings me to their' last correction. '^ In page
254 of this drama we observe an error of the MS. (or
perhaps of the press) which has escaped Mr. Gifford's
observation. ^* I'll not out for a second," should have been,
/' I'll out for a second," as appears clearly by a reference

top. 270." (p. 119.)

Bos lassus pes frmius ponits we know; and these gen-
tlemen tread cruelly heavy at the end of th^ir journey.
My observation, which is somewhat belter thaq the critic^
expected to find it, has not failed me in this place ; nei-
ther is there any error of the MS. — there is nothing, in
short, but a fresh proof (which was by no means wanted)
of the utter incompetency of the Edinburgh Reviewers for
the task to which they have unluckily set their hands.

VOL. I. c

xxxir ADVERTISEMENT.

'f I'll not otkV' should have been '' Til out/' Good ! You
have studied Massioger to an excellent purpose, gentlemen^
and admirably qualified, undoubtedly, yon are, to read me
lectures on the language of our old dramatists. I could
produce fifty examples of this expression, (which the critics
do not even novr understand,) but I am weary^ and must
content myself with those in my immediate recollection.
In the very volume where they reprove my oscitancy^
the expression occurs, and, I believe, more than once ;

** Nor am 1 00 precise but I can drab too,
I will noi out, for my yart" Renegade.

Again^

^' I could ha^e drank my share, boy;
Though I am old, I will not out." Lojfoi Subject,

Again,

" I have no great devotion to this matter,
But for a prayer or two, I will net out." Knighi of Mmita.

Again,

" I would 'twere toothsome, too, boys i
But all agree, and Til not out." Boniuca. ,

Sympson, whp knew little of our old language, elegantly
inserted stick before '< out,^ tor which be is praised by Mr.
Weber, who knows nothing at all of it, and who tells uti,
'^ that it seems requisite to the sense V^ the critics bhmder
therefore, in very admirable company.— •^t I have done.

It is the fashion, it seems, to part good friends* The
Reviewers, after all the specimens which they have pro*
duced of my stupidity, end with gravely declaring tb»t
<' they respect my talents.'^ Bien oblig^, Messieors ! and
I beg leave to subjoin, (for I would not willingly be outf»
done in politeness,) that I admire yours.

It is material to add that the respect for my talents, was
extended by these gentlemen even to the Index lo this
Article ; where the changes are rung, with great glee, oil

ADVERTISEMENT.

XXXV

the '^ numerous errors of Mr. Gifford/' the '' frequent
errors of Mr. GifFord," &c. Whether the reader, (who has
had evtry one of them fairly laid before him^) will feel any
obligation to this extrajudicial attack, I know not ; but it
was this striking proof of Systematic hostility, which de-
termined me, as occasion should offer, to rise" against it. I
have reason to think that the merriment of the critics has
since been somewhat Sardonic, and that they would not
be quite inconsolable if this last triumph had been spared.

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INTRODUCTION.

X HiLiP Massinger, the Author of the
following Plays, was born in the year 1584.
Of his mother nothing is known; but his father
was Arthur Massinger,* a gentleman attached
to the family of Henry, second earl of Pem-
broke : " Many years," says the Poet, to his
descendant, Philip earl of Montgomery, " my
father spent in the service of your honourable
house, and died a servant to it."

The writers of Massinger's life have thought
it necessary to observe in this place, that the

* His father was Arthar Massinger^l " I cannot guess,*'
Dayies says, ^^ from what information Oldjs, in his manuscript
notes, (to Langbaine,) gives the Christian name of Arthur to
Massinger's father, nor vihy he should reproach Wood for
calling him Philip ; since Massinger himself, in the Dedication^
of the Bondmanj to the Earl of Montgomery, says expressly
that his father Philip Massinger lived and died in the service,
of the honourable house of Peml^roke." Life of Massinger,^
prefixed to the last edition.

This preliminary obnervation augurs but ill for the accuracy
of what follows. Oldys, who was a very careful writer, got
his information from the first edition of^^e Bondman^ 1093,
which^ it appears from this, Mr. Davies never saw. In the
second edition, published many years after the first, (1638,)
^he is, indeed, called Philip ; but that is not the only error in
the Dedication, which, as well as the Flay itself, is most
carelessly printed.

xxxviii INTRODUCTION.

word servant carries with it no sense of degra-
dation. This requires no proof: at a period
when the great lords arid officers of the court
numbered inferior nobles among their followers,
we may be confident, that neither the name,
nor the situation, was looked uponas humiliating.
Many considerations united to render this state
of dependance respectable, and even honour-
able. The secretaries, clerks, and assistants, of
various departments, were not then, as now,
nominated by the government ; but left to the
choice of the person who held the employment ;
and as no particular dwelling was officially set
apart for their residence, they were entertained
in the house of their principal.

That communication too, between noblemen
of power and trust, both of a public and private
nature, which is now committed to the post,
was, in those days, managed by confidential
servants, who were dispatched from one to the
other, and even to the sovereign :* when to this
we add the unbounded state and grandeur
which the great men of Elizabeth's days assumed
on a variety of occasions ; we may form some
idea of the nature of those services discharged

^ An instance of this occurs with respect to Massinger'a
father^ ivho D^as thus cmplo^red to Elizabeth : ^' Mr. Massin.
ger is newly come up from the Earl of Pembroke with letters
to the queen, for his lordship's leave to be awaj this St.
George's day." Sidney Letters^ Vol. IL p. 933. The bearer of
letters to Elizabeth on an occasion which she perhaps th.ough^

INTRODUCTION. xxxix-

by men of birth and fortune, and the manner in
Mrhich such numbers of them were employed*^

Massiager was born, as all the writers of his lif^.
agree, at Salisbury;* and educated, probably, at
Wilton, the scat of the earl of Pembroke. When
be had reached his sixteenth year, be sustained
an irreparable loss in the death of that worthy
nobleman,* who, from attachment to the father^
would, not improbably, have extended his pow-
erful patronage to the young poet. He. was
succeeded in bis titles and estates by hia scm

important, could, as Dayies jastly obserTes, be no mean per«
son ; for no monarch ever exacted from the nobility in general,
and the officers of state in particular, a more rigid and icru«
pnious compliance with stated order, than this princess.

* The followmg extract of a letter from a friend, vill shew
the result of my inquiries at' Salisbury. ^^ Agreeably to your
request particular search has been made in all the parishes for
the birth of Philip Massinger; bat without effect. There is a
vacuum in the Register of St. Edmund from 1582 to 1507.*'
Whether Massinger's birth was registered here it is impo6sil»Ie
to say : but the iotenral certainly comprises the date of that

^ Death cf that worthy nohlemani\ This to<lk place on the
19^h of January^ 1601. It is impossible to speak of him with-
out mentioning, at the same time, that he was the husband of
sir Philip Sidney's sister, the all- accomplished lady for Whom
JoBSon wrote the celebrated epiti^h :

<< Underneath this marble herse

^< Lias the subject of all verse,

^^ Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; .

^' Death, ere thou hast skun another,

'^ Leam'd, and fair, and good as she^

^^ Time shall throw a dart at-tiiee."

xl INTRODUCTION.

William, the third carl of Pembroke ; one of
the brightest characters that adorned' the court
of Elizabeth and James. , He was, says Wood,
" not only a great favourer of learned and in-
genious me,n, but was himself learned and en-
dowed to admiration with a poetical geny,
(Antony's notions of *' poetical geny" are suffi-
ciently humble) as by those amorous and
poetical aires and poems of his composition
doth evidently appear ; some of which had
musical notes set to them by Hen. Lawes and
Nich„ Laneare." Ath. I. 546.

Massinger's father continued in the service
of this nobleman till his death. It is not pos-
sible to ascertain the precise period at which
this took place, but it was not later, perhaps^
than 1606: in the interim he had bestowed, as
Langbaine says, a liberal education on his son,
and sent him to the University of Oxford, where
he became a commoner of St. Alban's Hall,*
(1602,) in the eighteenth year of his age.
Wood's account varies from this in several par-
ticulars. He says, he was entered at St. Alban's
Hall in I6OI, when he was in his seventeenth
year, and supported there, not by his father,
but the earl of Pembroke. Antony had many
opportunities for ascertaining these facts, if he
had desired to avail himself of them, and there-

5 A Thomas Massinger, of Magdalen College, has a copy
of Terses on the death of queen Elizabeth, in 1603, amon|(
the Oxford Collection.

INTRODUCTION. xU

fore Davies inclines to his auihority. . The
seeming difference, he adds, between the two
periods respectively assigned for Massinger's ma-
triculation, may be easily reconciled^ for the year
then began and ended according to that mode
which took place before the alteration of the
style. It is seldom safe to speak by guess, and
Davies had no authority for his ingenious solu-
tion; which, unfortunately, will not apply in the
present case. The memorandum of Massinger's
entrance now lies before me, and proves Wood
to be incorrect: it is dated May 14, 1 602.*
How he came to mistake in a matter wherie it
required so little pains to be accurate, is diffi.
cult to say. .

Langbaine and Wood nearly agree in the time
which Massinger spent at Oxford, but seem to
differ as to the objects of his pursuit. The for-
mer observes, that during his residence, there
he applied himself closely to his studies; while
the latter writes, that he *^ gave his mind more
to poetry and romances for about four years or
more, than to logic, and philosophy, which he
ought to hcpoe done, as he was patronized to. that
end." What ideas this ^' tasteless but useful
drudge" had of logic and philosophy it may be
,vain to enquire^ .but, with respect to the first,
.Massinger's rea&oning will not be found deficient

»

^ In it he is styled tbe son of a gentleman ; <^ Phihp Mas-
tinger, Sarisburiensisy generosi^lius.**

xlii INTRODUCTION.

either in method or effect; and it might easily
be proved that he was' no mean proficient in
philosophy of the noblest kind : the truth is^
that he must have applied himself to study with
uncommon energy, for his literary acquisitions
at this early period appear to be multifarious
and extensive.

From the account of Wood, however, Davies
concludes that the earl of Pembroke was of-*
fended at this misapplication of his time to the
superficial but alluring pursuits of poetry and
romance, and therefore withdrew his support,
which compelled the young man to quit the
University without a degree; " for which,"
adds he, ^^ attention to logic and philosophy
was absolutely necessary ; as the candidate for
that honour must pass through an examination
in both, before he can obtain it." Dans lepays
des aveuglesy says the proverb, Ics borgnes sont
rou: and Davies, who apparently had not these
valiEiable acquisitions, entertained probably a
vast idea, of their magnitude and importance.
A shorter period, however, than four years,
would be found amply sufficient, at that period,
to furnish even an ordinary mind with enough
of school logic and philosophy, to pass the ex-
amination for a bachelor's degree ; and I am,
therefore, unwilling to believe that Massinger
missed it on the score of incapacity in these
notable ^.rts.

However this may be, he certainly left the

INTRODUCTION. xliii

University abruptly,; not, I appreliend, on
account of the earl of Pembroke withholding his
assistance, for it does not appear that he evei^
afforded any, bat of a much more ealamitpus
event, the death of his father ; from whom, I
inclineto think, with Langbaine, his sole support
was derived. »

• Wby the earl of Pembroke, the liberal friead
and protector of literature in all its branches,''
neglected a young man to whom his assistance
was so necessary ,» and who, from the acknow-
ledged services of his father, had so many and
just claims on it; one, too, who would have
done his patronage such singtilar honour, I have
no means of ascertaining: that he was never
indebted to it is, I fear, indisputable; since the
Poet, of whose character gratitude forms a
striking part, while he recurs perpetually to his
hereditary obligations to the Herbert family,
anxiously avoids all mention of his name. I
sometimes, indeed, imagine that I have dis«
covered the cause of this alienation, but cannot
flatter myself that it will be very generally or
even partially allowed : not to keep the reader
in suspense, I attribute it to the Poet's having,
during his residence at the University, ex*

7 To this noblemaTi (and his younger brother, Philip) He.
mingeand Cohdell dedicated their edition ofShakspeare*d Plays';
to him, also, Jonson inscribed his Epigrams, ^^ as the great
Example of honour and yirtuc," an idea on which he enlarged
in one of his minor poems.

-h

xliv INTRODUCTION.

«

changed the religiojti of his father, for one, at
this time/the objectof persecution, hatred, and
terror. A close and repeated perusal of Mas-
singer's works has convinced me that he was^
a Catholic: the Virgin^ Martyr^ the Renegado^
the Maid of Honour^ exhibit innumerable proofs
of it; to- say nothing of those casual intimations
which are scattered over his remaining dramas.
A consciousness of this might prevent him from
applying to the earl of Pembroke for assistance,
or a knowledge of it might determine that
nobleman to withhold his hand : for it is diffi-
cult to believe that his displeasure (if he really
entertained any) could arise from Massinger's
Attachment to an art of which he and his bro-
ther* were universally considered as the patrons,
and which, indeed, he himself cultivated with
assiduity, at least, if not with success.'

However this be, the period of Massinger's
misfortunes commenced with his arrival in
London^ His father had probably applied most
of his property to the education of his son, and
when the . small , remainder was exhausted, he

' The first folio edition of Beaamont and Fletcher's Plaj>8
was dedicated, by the players, to the earl of Montgomery.

9 In 1660 mras published a collection of ^^ amorous and
poetical airs and compositions,'^ Wood tells us, ^^ with thi|i.
title : Poems written by William Earl of Pembroke^ &c. many
of which are answered by way of repartee^ by Sir Benj. Rudyard^
with oth^r Poems written by them occasionally and apart J,^
Athen. Vol. I. p. 546.

INTRODUCTION. xlv

was driven (as he more than once observes) by
his necessities, and somewhat inclined perhaps,
by the peculiar, bent of his talents, to dedicate
himself to the service of the stage.

This expedient, though not the most prudent,
nor, indeed, the most encouraging to a young
adventurer, was not altogether hopeless. .Men
who will ever be considered as the pride and
boast of their country, Shakspeare, Jonson, and
Fletcher, were solely, or in a considerable degee,
dependant on it : nor were there wanting others
of an inferior rank, such as Rowley, Middleton,
Chapman, Field, Decker, Shirley, &a; writers
to whom Massinger, without any impeachment
of his modesty, might consider himself as fully
equal, who subsisted Qn the emoluments derived
from dramatic writing. There was also some-
thing to tempt the ambition, or, if it must be
so, the vanity, of a young adventurer, in this
pursuit : literature was the sole means by which
a person undistinguished by birth and fortune,
could, at this time, hope to acquire the familia-
rity or secure the friendship of the great ; and
of all its branches none was so favourably re-
ceived, or so. liberally encouraged, as that of
the drama. Tilts and tournaments, the boister-
x)us but magnificent entertainments of the court,
together with pageantries and processions, the
absurd and costly mummeries of the city, were
rapidly giving way to more elegant and rational
iimusementS; to revels, masques, and plays : not

xlvi INTRODUCTION.

•

were the latter merely encouraged by the pre-
seijcc of the nobility ; the writers of them were
adopted into the number of their acquaintance,
and made at once the objects of their bounty
and esteem. It is gratifying to observe how
the names of Shakspeare, Jonson, &c. are come
down to us in connexion with the Sidneys, the
Pembrokes, the Southamptons, and other great
and splendid ornaments of the courts of Eliza-
beth and James.

Considerations of this or a similar kind may
naturally be supposed to have had their M'eight
with Massinger, as with so mjlny others: but
whatever was the motive, Wood informs us,
that ** being sufficiently famed for several spe-
cimens of wit, he betook himself to making
plays." Of what description these specimens
were, Antony does not say ; he probably spoke
without much examination into a subject for
which he had little relish or solicitude ; and,
indeed, it seems more reasonable to conclude,
from the peculiar nature of Massinger's talents,
that the drama was his first and sol6 pursuit.
' It must appear singular, after what has been
observed, that, with only one exception, we
should hear nothing of Massinger for the long
period of sixteen years, that is, from his first
appearance in London, 1606, to 1622, when his
Virgin' Martyr y the first of his printed works;
was given to the public. That his necessities
'would not admit of relaxation in his eiforts for

INTRODUCTION. xlvii

subsistence is certain^and we have the testimony
of a contemporary poet, as preserved by Lang-
baine, for the, rapidity with which he usually
composed :

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

The best solution of the difficulty which
occurs to me, is, that the Poet's modesty, com-
bined with the urgency of his wants, deteri'ed
him, at first, from attempting to write alone :
and that he, therefore, lent his assistance to
others of a more confirmed reputation, who
could depend on a ready vent for their joint
productions. When men labour for the demands
of the day, it is imprudent to leave much to
hazard ; such certainly was the case with
Massinger.

Sir Aston Cockayne, the affectionate friend
and patron of our author, printed a collection
of, what he is pleased to call, Poems, Epigrams,
&c. in 1658. Among these is one addressed tp
Humphrey Moseley, the publisher of Beaumont
and Fletcher in folio :

<^ In the large book of pUiys you late did print
^^ In Beaumont and in Fletcher's name, why in't
*- •« Did yon not justice, gire to each his due ?
^' For Beaumont of those many writ but few ;

xlviii INTRODUCTION.

*^ And Massinger in other few ; the main
^^ Bein|( sweet issues of sweet Fletcher's brain.
^^ Bat how came I, you ask, so much to know ?
^^ Fletchcr^s chief bosom friend informed me so/''

Davies^ for what reason I cannot discover,
seems inclined to dispute that part of the asser-
tion which relates to Massinger: he calls it
vague and hearsay evidence, and adds, with
sufficient want of precision, " Sir Aston was
well acquainted with Massinger, who would,
in all probability, have communicated to his
friend a circumstance so honourable to himself."
There can be no doubt of it ; and we may be
confident that ihe information did come from
him ; but Mr. Davies mistakes the drift of Sir
Aston's expostulation : the fact was notorious
that Beaumont and Massinger had written in
conjunction with Fletcher ; what he complains
of is, that the mairiy the bulk of the book, should
not be attributed to the latter, by whom it was
undoubtedly composed. Beaumontdied in 1615,.

' And in the former part of the Epistle to Ch. Cotton, (of
which the conclusion is cited by Langbaine,) Sir Aston says
of the Edition of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays^

^^ And my good friend, old Philip Massinger,

<^ With Fletcher, writ in some that are seen there/'

The circumstance is also repeated in his epitaph (p. Ixxi?.) so
that the fact is placed beyond dispute.

INTRODUCTION. xlix

and Fletcher produced, in the interval between
that year and the period of his own death,
{1625) between thirty and forty plays: it is
not, therefore, unreasonable to suppose that he
was assisted in a few of them by Massinger, as
Sir Aston affirms : it happens, however, that
the fact does not rest solely on his testimony ;
for we can produce a melancholy proof of it,
from an authentic voucher, which the enqui-
ries set on foot by the unwearied assiduity of
Mr. Malone, have occasioned to be dragged
from the dust of Dulwich College :

** To our most loving friend, Mr. Philip Hinch-

low, esquire, These,

" Mr. Hinchlow,

. ^* You understand our unfortunate
cxtremitie, and I doc not thincke you so void
of cristianitie but that you would throw so much
money into the Thames as wee request now of
you, rather than endanger so many innocent
jives- You know there is x/. more at least to be
receaved of you for the play. We desire you to
,lend ui^ y/. of that; which shall be allowed to
you, without which we cannot be bay led, nor /
play any more till this be dispatch'd. It will lose
*ypu xxl. ere the* end of the next weeke, besides
the hinderance of the next new play. Pray, sir,
-<;onsider our cases with humanity, and now give
us cause to acknowledge you our true freind

VOL, I. d

1 INTRODUCTION.

in time of neede. Wee have entreated Mt. Da-
vison to deliver this note, as well to witness
your love, as our prpmises, and alwayes acknow-
ledgement to be ever

'* Your most thanckfuU and loving friends,

"Nat. Fielx).'*

" The money shall be abated out of the money '
remay ns for the play of Mr. Fletcher and ours.

Rob, Daborne.'*

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

Philip Massinger.**

Indorsed :
** Received by mee Robert Davison of Mr.
Hinchlow, for the use of Mr. Daboerne, Mr.
Fceld, Mr. Meissenger, the sum of v/.

'' Rob. Davison.'"

This letter tripartite, which it is impossible

* Robert Daborne is the author of two Plays^ the Christian
turned Turk, 4* l6l2, and the Poor Man's Comfort, 4<* l655.
He was a gentleman of a liberal education, master of arts,
and in holjr orders. His humble fortunes appear to haYe im-
proved after this period, for there is extant a sermon preached
by him at Waterford in Ireland, 1618, where the authors of
the Biographia Dramatica think it probable that he had a
liTing.

* Additions to M^lont^s Historical Account qf the English
Stiigei^. 488*

INTRODUCTION. U

to read without the mo&t poignant regret at the
distress of such in6n, fully establishes the part-
nership between Massinger and Fletcher, who
must, indeed, have had considerable assistance
to enable him to bring forward the numerous
plays attributed to his name.

We can now account for a part of the time
which Massinger spent in London before his
appearance in print as a professed writer for the
stage: but this is not all. Among the manu-
script plays collected with such care by Mr.
Warburton, (Somerset Herald,) and applied
with such perseverance by his cook to the
covering of her pies, were no less than twelve,
said to be written by Massinger i* and though
it is now made probable that two of the number

3 No les8 than tiielvef ftc.] Their titles, as gi?en hj Mr.
WarbnrtoDy are—

Minerva^s Sacrifice,

Tke Farced Lady.

Antonio and VaHa*

The Woman's Plot.

The Tyrant.

Philenzo and HippoHta*

The Judge.

Fast and Welcome.

Bdieoe as you. last.

The Honour of Women.

The Noble Choice. And

The Parliament of Love.
When it is added that, together with these, forty other
manuscript plays of varions authors were destroyed, it will
readily be allowed that English literature has seldom sustained

da

Hi JNTRODUCTION.

do not belong to him, yet scattered notices of
others which assuredly do, prove that he va«

not inactive. =

Four only of the plays named in Mr. Warbur-
ton's list occur in the Office-book of Sir Henry
Herbert, which is continued up to the latest

a greater loss than by the strange conduct of Mr. Warburton,
who becoming the master of treasores which ages may not re-
produce, lodges them, as he says, «t tie hand* of an ignorarit
Menant, and when, after a lapse of years, he condescends to
rcTisit his hoards, finds that they hare been burnt from an
economical wish to sare him the charges of more faluabto
brown paper. It is time to bring on shore the book-hunting
passenger* in Locher's NoKis StuUi/era, and exchange htm for
one more suitable to the rest of the cargo.

Tardy, howerer, as Mt. Warburton was, i|.appear8 that he
■came in time to preserre three dramas from the fjeneral

wreck:
-•■ : The Second Maid^s Trtfgedy.

TheBugbean, And '

The Queen of Corsica.

These, it is said, are now in the library of the marquis of
Lknsdown, where they will, probably, remain in safety tOl
moths, or damps,+ or fires mingle their "forgotten dust" with
that of their late companions.

When it is considered at how trifling an expense a manu-
script play may be placed beyond the reach of accident, the
withholding it from the press will be allowed to prove a strange
indifierence to the ancient literature of the country. The fact,
however, seems to be, that these treasures are made subserfi-
ent to the gratification of a spurious rage for notoriety: itw

• Span guoqve nee paroam colleita yolumina praibent. . ,
Calleo nee verbum, nee Hb'ri sentio mentem,
Attamtn m maono per me serrantur Hosoaz.

^ J)amf»hiAnn^i\jie»txojei the. Parliament of Love.

INTRODUCTION. liii ^

period of Massingcr's life: It is, therefore, evi-
dent that they must have been written pre-
viously to its commencement: these, therefore,
with the Old LaWy iht Virgin^MartyTy the Unna^
tural Combat J and the Duke of Milarij which are
also unnoticed in it, will sufficiently fill up the
time till 1622. -

not that any benefit may accrue from them either to the pro-
prietors or others, that manuscripts are now hoarded, but that
A or B may be celebrated for possessing what no other letter
df the alphabet can hope to acquire. Nor is this all. The
hateful passion of literary avarice (a compound of vanity and*
envy) is becoming epidemic, and branching out in every direo*
tion. It has many of the worst symptoms of that madnesr
which once raged among the Dutch for the possession of tulips :
-^here, as well as in Holland, an artificial rarity is first created,
and then made a plea for extortion, or a ground for low-
minded and selfish exultation. I speak not of works never
intended for sale, and of which, therefore, the owner may '
pjrint as few or as many as his feelings will allow^ but of those-
which are ostensibly designed for the public, and which, not-
withstanding, prove the editors to labour under this odious
disease.- Here, an old manuscript is brought forward^ and'
alter a few copies are printed, the press is broken up, that*
t|iere may be a pretence for selling them at a price, which none
but a collector can reach : there, explanatory plates are en-,
graved for a work of general use, and, as soon as twenty or
thirty impressions are taken off, destroyed with gratuitous
niAlice, (for it deserves no other name,) that there may be a
nm4 competition for the favoured copies! To conclude, for
this is no pleasant subject, books are purchased now at extra-
vagant rates, not because they are good, but because they are!
scarce^ so that a fire or an enterprising trunk-maker that
should take off nearly the whole of a worthless work, would
instanUy render the small remainder invaluable.

liv INTRODUCTION.

There are no data to ascertain the respective
periods at which these plays were produced.
The Virgin-Martyr is confidently mentioned by
the former editors as the earliest of Massinger's
works, probably because it was the first that
appeared in print : bjit this drama, which they
have considerably under-ratedj^ia eon&equence,
perhaps, of the dull ribaldry with which it is
vitiated by Decker, evinces a style decidedly
formed, a hand accustomed to composition, and
a mind stored with the richest acquisitions of a
long and successful study.

The Old LaxOj which was not printed till many
years after Massinger's death, is said to have
been written by him in conjunction with Mid-
dleton and Rowley/ The latter of these is.
ranked by the Author of the Companion to the
Play House, in the third class of dramatic
writers; higher it is impossible to place him:
but the former was a man of considerable
powers, who has lately been the object of much
discussion, on account of the liberal use which
Shakspeare is ascertained to have made of his
recently discovered tragi-comedy, the Witch.^

^ The Parliament of Love is entered on the Stationers' books
as the production of William Rowley. It is now known frem
infinitely better authority, the Official Register of the Mastoid
of the Revels, to be the composition of Massinger ; indeed^
the abilities of Rowley were altogether unequal to the execii^
tion of such a work, to the style and manner of which his ae^
knowledgcd performanees bear not the slightest resemblance.

* It would be uiyust to montiou this mamucript play witl^'

INTRODUCTION. Iv

It is said, by Stecvens, that the Old Law was
acted in 1599. If it be really so, Massinger's
name must in future be erased from the title-
page of that play, for he was, at that date, only
in the fifteenth year of his age, and probably had
not left the residence of his father. Steevens
produces no authority for his assertion ; but as
he does not usually write at random, unless
when Jonson is concerned, it is entitled to
notice. In Act III. Sc. I. of that play, in which
the Clown consults the church-book on the age
of his wife, th^ Clerk reads and comments upon
it thus: — " Agatha, the daughter of Pollux,
born in an. 1540, and now 'tis 1599.** The ob-
servation of Steevens is probably founded upon
this passage, (at least I am aware of no other, )
and it will not, perhaps, be easy to conjecture
why the authors should fix upon this particular
year, unless it really were the current one. It
is to no purpose to object that the scene is laid
in a distant country, and the period of action
necessarily remote, for the dramatic, writers of
those days confounded all climes and all ages with

oat noticing, at the same time, the striking contrast which the
conduct of its possessor, Mr. Isaac Reed, forms with that of
those alluded to in the preceding note. The Wifchy from the
circumstance mentioned above, was a literary curiosity of the
most valuable kind, yet he printed it at his own eiLpcnse, and,
with a liberality which has found more admirers than imitators,
gratuitously distributed the copies among his friends. It is
thus pldced out of the reach of accident.

lyi INTRODUCTION.

^ facility truly wonderful. On the whole^ I am
inclined to attribute the greater part of Mc Old.
Law to Middleton and Rowley : it has not muny
characteristic traits of Massinger, and the
style, with the exception of a few places which
are pointed out by Dr. Ireland, is very unlike
that of his acknowledged pieces.

It is by no means improbable that Massinger,^.
aA author in high repute, was employed by the
actors to alter or to add a few scenes to a po-
pular drama, and that his pretensions to this
partnership of wit were thus recognized and
established. A process like this was consonant
to th^ manners of the age, M'hen the players^;
' vho were usually the proprietors, exerted, and
not unfrequeiitly abused, the privilege of inter-
larding such pieces as were once in vogue, from
time to time, with newmatter/ Whowill say that
Shakspeare's claims to many dramas which for-
merly passed under his name, and probably with

' A Terj curious instance ef tbis occurs in the Office.book
of sir Henry Herbert : ^^ Received for the adding of a new
scene to the Virgin^Martifithis7ih of July, 1624,^0. IQ.O."*
Such were the liberties taken with our old plays ! The Virgin
Martyr bad now been more than a twelvemoiith before the
public, being printed in 1622 ; the new scene does not appear
in the subsequent editions, whieh are mere copies of the first :
had that, however, not been committed to the press previously
to these additions, we may be pretty confident that the whole

* This was sir Henry's fee ; for this mean and rapacious,
overseer not only insisted on being paid for allowing a new
play, but for every trifling addition which might subsequently;
be xpitde to it. '

INTRODUCTION Ivii

no intent, on the part of the publishers, to dc-
eeive, had not this or a similar foundation ?

What has been said of the Virgin^Mariyr ap-
plies with equal, perhaps with greater force, to
the Unnatural Combat ^ and the Duke ofMilan^ of
which the style is easy, vigorous, and harmo<-
nious, bespeaking a confirmed habit of compo«^
sition, and serving, with the rest, to prove that
Massinger began to write for the stage at an
earlier period than has been hitherto supposed*

Massinger jappears for the first time in the
Office-book of the Master of the Kevels, Dec. S,
16S3, on which day the Bondman was brought
forward. About this time too, he printed the
Duke of Milany with a short dedication to lady
Katherine Stanhope ;* in which he speaks with

would haye come down to us as the joint prodnction of Massinger
md Decker*.

Since this note first appeared, an additional proof has been
discovered both of the popularity of this play, and of the
practice here mentioned^ Sir Henry Herbert's Office*book
contains a few memorandums^ extracted from that of his pre-
decessor^ Sir George Bnck^ and among them the following,
^' Oct. 0, 1620. For new reforming the VirgiumMarti/r for
Hke Red Boll, 40<."

This entry shews it to have been even then an oldr play».
I^obabljr it was produced before the year 1609, in the time of
Mr. Tyl^ey, who was not so scrupulous in licensing plays, as
his immediate successor, Buck«

' Ladif Katherine -Stanhope ;"] Daughter of Francis lord
Hastings, and first wife of ^Philip Stanhope, baron of Sbelford^
»nd afterwards (1628) earl of Chesterfield ; a nobleman o{
great honour ai\d virtue. He opposed the high court meaaureii.

I ^

Iviii INTRODUCTION.

great modesty of his course of studies, to which
he insinuates, (what he more than once repeats
in his subsequent publications,) misfortune ra-
ther than choice had determined him.

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

till he discovered that the parliament were Wolently usurping
on the prerogatives of the other branches of the^tate ; when,
after an ineffectual struggle to bring them within constittttionai
limits, and preserve peace, he joined the arms of his royal
matter; Shelford, the seat from wbic]i he derived his title, was
burnt in the conflict, two of his sons fell in battle, and he
himself suffered a long and severe imprisonment ; yet he pre*
served his loyalty and faith, and died as he had lived, unble*
mished.

^ On his marriage] There is an account of this marriage in
a letter* from sir Dudley Carlton to Mr. Winwood, which is
pi^eserveid in the second volume of his Memoiresy and which, as
affcH^ng a very curious picture of the grossness that prevailed
at the court of James t. may not be unworthy of insertion t
*^ On St. John's day we had the marriage of sir Philip Herbert
and the lady Susan performed at Whitehall, with all the ho-
Boutr could be done a great favourite. The court was great ;
and for that day put on the best braverie. The prince and duke

INTRODUCTION- lix

Susan Vere,* daughter of Edward carl of Ox-
ford, and grandaughter of William lord Burleigh,

of Hoist led the bride to church ; the queen followed her from
thence. The king gare her ; and she, in her tresses and trin-
kets, brided and bridled it so handsomely, and indeed became
herself so well, that the king said if he were anmarri«d, he
would notgiye her but keep her himself. The marriage dinner
was kept in the great chamber, where the prince and the duke
of Hoist, and the great lords and ladies, accompanied the bride.
The ambassadour of Venice was the only bidden guest of stran-
gers, and he had pli^ce above the duke of Hoist, which the
duke took not well. But after dinner he was as little pleased
himself; for being brought into the closet toi retire himself, he
If as then Buffered to walk out, his supper unthought of. At
night there wa3 a mask in the hall, which, for conceit and
fashion, was. suitable to the occasion. The actors were, the
earl of Peoobroke, the lord Willoby, sir Samuel Hays, sir
Thomas Germain^ sir Robert Gary, sir John Lee, sir Hichard
Preston, and sir Thomas Bager. There was no small loss that
night of dii^ne&l and jewels, and many great ladies were made
shorter by the skirts, and w^re yery well served, that they
coq}d keep cut no better. The presents of plate and other
thiitgs given by the nqblemen were valued at ^31500. ; but
thfit which made it a good marriage was a gift of the king's of
£5iQQ» l»nA, for the bride's jointure. They were lodged in the
comicQ chamber, where the king, in bis shirt and night-gown,
g^re theni ^ reoeUle-maHu before they were up, and spent a
good time ia or upon the bed ; chuse which you will belieTe.
1^0 ceremony was omitted 6f bride-cakes, points, garters, and
glQTe^ which hare been ever since the livery o^ the court, and
at night there was sewing into the sheet, casting off the bride'a
left hose, with many other petty sorceries.* Jan. l505.'*

' ' Lctdy Susan Fere,] To this lady Jonson addressed the
poem beginning,

' * There is an allusion to one of these " petty sorceries" in
the'i&peech of Mirtiila, Guardian^ Act III. sc. ii.

Ix INTRODUCTION.

gave him lands to a considerable amount, and
soon afterwards created him a baron and an
earl/

*^ Were they that named you prophets ? did they see^

*^ Eyen in the dew of grace, what you would be I

'^ Or did our times require it, to behold

^^ A new Susanna equal to that old?" &c. ^ig* cW^

The dew of grace is aa elegant and beautiful periphrasis for the^
baptismal sprinkling.

* Davies, after noticing the farours heaped on him, as re*
corded by lord Clarendon, petulantly adds, ^^ But Clarendon,
perhaps, did not know the real cause of lord Herbert's ad*
Tancem,ent. The behaYiour of the Scots on James's accession
to the throne of England was generally obnoxious and much
resented* At a meeting of English and Scotch at a horse-race
near Croydon, a sudden quarrel arose between them, occa*
sioned by a Mr. Ramsey's* striking Philip lord Herbert in the
face with a switch* The English would have made it a national
quarrel, and Mr. John Pinchbeck rode about the field with a
dagger in his hand, crying, ' Let us break our fast with them
here^ and dine with them in London.' But Herbert not resent*
ing it, the king was so charmed with his peaceable disposition^
that he made him a knight, a baron, a Tiseount, and an earl,
in one day." Life of Massinger^ p. Hi. This is taken from
Osborne, one of those gossipping talemongers in which the
times of James so greatly abounded, and who, with Weldon^
Wilson, Peyton^ Sanderson, and others, contributed to propa*
gate an infinite number of scandalous stories, which should
hate been left suh lodiuy where most of them perhaps had birth.

* This ^^ Mr. Bamsey," as DaTieS' calls him, was viscount
Haddington ; (the person who killed the earl of Gowrie, in
the mysterious attempt to seize James at Perth, August 5,
1600.) In consequence of the assault at Croydon, he was
forbid the court; but I know npt how long the interdictic^
continued. He was subsequently created earl of Holderness^

INTRODUCTION. Ixi

This dedication, which is sensible, modest,
and affecting, serves to prove that whatever
might be the unfortunate circumstance which
deprived the Author of the patronage and pro-
tection of the eldf r branch of the Herberts, he
did not imagine it. to be of a disgraceful nature;
or he would not, in the face of the public, have
appealed to his connexions with the family:

What reliance maj be placed on them, in general, is sufficiently
apparent from the assertion of Osborne. The fact is, that Her-
bert had long been a knight, and was nerer a yiscount. He
was married in the beginning of 1605, (he was then fir Philip,)
and created baron Herbert of Sharland in the Isle of Sheppjr^
and earl of Montgomery, Jane 4th, in the same year: and so
far were these titles from being the reward of what Osborna
calls his cowardice at Croydon, that they were all conferred on
him se?en years before that event took place !* Osborne him«
self allows that if Montgomery had not, by his forbearance^
^^ stanched the blood then ready to be spilt, not only that day,
bat all after, must have proved fatal to the Scots, so long as
any had staid in England, the royal family excerpted, which^
in respect to majesty, or their own safety, they must have
spared, or the kingdom been left to the ihisery of seeing so
much blood laid out as the trial of so many crabbed titles
would have required." The prevention of these horrors might|
in some minds, have raised feelings favourable to the tempci-
ranee of the young earl; but OsbornOi whose object, and
whose office, was calumny, contrives to convert it into a new
accusation : ^^ they could not be these considerations," he says^
"^^ that restrained Herbert, who wanted leisure, no less than
capacity, to use them* though laid iahis way by others'M

Memoirs of King James*

^ The hone-race at Croydon, was in March 161 1«19. Thi|
is ascertained by a MS. in the Museam,

Ixii INTRODUCTION.

at ihe same time, it is manifest that some cause
of alienation existed, otherwise he would
scarcely have overlooked so fair an opportunity
of alluding to the characteristic generosity of'
the earl of Pembroke, whom, on this, as on
every other occasion, he scrupulously forbears
to name, or even to hint at.

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

<* '" ■■ mine being more

<^ Than they could owe, who since, or heretofore,

^^ Have labouT'd with exalted lines to raise

^^ Brave piles or rather pjrramids of praise

*' To Pembroke,* and his family.''

What pecuniary advantages he derived from
the present address, cannot be known; what-
ever they were, they did not preclude the
necessity of writing for the stage, which he
continued to do with great industry, seldom
producing less than two new pieces annually.

* On the loss of his eldest son^ who died of the small-pox
at Florence, Jan. 1635.

* Montgomery had now succeeded td the title and estates of
his elder brother, who deceased April 10, 163.0.

INTRODUCTIOR Ixiii

In 1629, his occasions, perhaps, again pressing
upon him, he gave to the press the Renegado
and the Roman Actor, both of which had now-
been several years before the public. The first
of these, he inscribed to lord Berkeley in a short
address, composed with taste and elegance. He
speaks with some complacency of the merits of
the piece, but trusts that he shall live " to ten-
der his humble thankfulness in some higher
strain:'* this confidence in his abilities, the
pleasing concomitant of true genius, Massinger
cHften felt and often expressed. Thd latter play
he presented to sir Philip Knyvet, and sir
Thomas Jeay,* with a desire, as he says, that
the world mfght take notice of his being in-
debted to their support for power to compose
the piece: he expatiates on their kindness in
warm and energetic language, and accounts for
addressing " the most perfect birth of his
Minerva" to them, from their superior demands
on his gratitude.

Little more than four years had elapsed since
the Bondman wi^s printed; in that period Mas-
singer had written seven plays, all of which, it
is probable, were favourably received: it there-
fore becomes a question, what where the emo-

^ Sir Thomas ieuj iras himself a poet : several cdmmendapi
tory copies of verses by him are prefixed to Massinger's Flays.
He calls the Author his worthy friend, and gives many proofs
that his esteem was founded on judgment, and his kindness
•andid and sincere.

Ixiv INTRODUCTION.

luments derived from the stage, which could
thus leave a popular and successful writer to
struggle with adversity ?

There seem to have been two methods of dis-
posing of a new piece ; the first, and perhaps
the most general, was to sell the copy to one of
the theatres; the price cannot be exactly ascer-
tained, but appears to have fluctuated between
ten and twenty pounds, seldom falling short of
the former, and still more seldom, I believe,
exceeding the latter. In this case, the author
could only print his play by permission of
the proprietors, a favour which was sometimes
granted to the necessities of a favourite writer,
and to non«, perhaps, more frequently than to
Massinger. The other method was by offering
it to the stage for the advantage of a benefit^
which was commonly taken on the second or
third night, and which seldom produced, there
is reason to suppose, the net sum of twenty
pounds. There yet remain the profits of puhf
lication: Mr. Malone, from whose Historical
Account of the English Stage, (one of the most
instructive essays that ever appeared on the
subject,) many of these notices are taken, says»
that, in the time of Shakspeare, the custonmry
price was, twenty nobles; (£6. 13^. 4d.) if, at a
somewhat later period, we fix it at thirty, (£10.)
we shall not probably be far from the truth.
The' usual dedication fee, which yet remains to
be added, was forty shillings : where any coa^

INTRODUCTION. Ixv

nexfon. subsisted: between the parties, it was
doubtless increased.

We may be pretty confident, therefore; that
Massinger seldom, if ever, received for his most
strenuous and fortunate exertions, more than
fifty pounds a year ;• this indeed, if regularly
enjoyed, would, at that period, be sufficient,
with decent economy, to have preserved him
from absolute want : but nothing is better
known than the precarious nature of dramatic
writing. Some of his pieces might fail- of suc-
cess, (indeed, we are assured that they actually
did so,). others might experience a ** thin third
day ;" and a variety of circumstances, not dif-
ficult to enumerate, contribute to diminish the
petty sum which I have ventured to state as
the mai^imum of the poet's revenue. Nor
could the benefit which he derived from the
press be very extensive, as of the seventeen
dramas which make up his printed works, (ex-
clusive of the Parliament of Lov^^ which now
appears for the first time,) only twelve were
published during his life; and of these, two
(the Virgin^ Martyr and the Fatal Dowry) were
not wholly his own.

In 1630, he printed the Picturej which had
appeared on the stage the preceding year. This
play was warmly supported by many of the
" noble Society of the Inner Temple,*' to whom
it. is addressed. These gentlemen were so sen-
sible of the extraordinary merits of this admire

VOL. I. e

Ixvi INTRODUCTION.

ahle performance^ that they gave tlie A%tthor
leave to particularize their namea at the bead
of the dedication^ an honour which he declined,
because, as he modestly observes, and evidently
with an allusion to some of his contemporaries,
h« ^* had rather enjoy the real proofs of their
friendship, than, mountebank-like, boa^t their
numbers in a catalogue."

In 1631, Massinger appears to have beenun^
usually industrious, for he brought forward
three pieces in little mtxre than asi many months^
Two of these, Believe us you List^ and the Unfor*
innate Piety ^ are lost, the third is the Emperor
of the East J which was published in the follow-
ing year, and inscribed to lord Mobun, wba
was so much piieased with the perusal of tbe
Author's printed works, that he commissioned
his nephiew, sir Aston Cockayn®,* to expresS'
bis high opinioni of tbemr, and to pveasnt the

^ This is the only .place in inrhich Massinger makes anj
mention of sir Aston, who was not less delighted with theEnim
perot of the East Aian his Uncle, and who', id a copj of rer^e§
which h^ prefixed to* it, ca^te Mio^sfngifef . his^ vderihyfrknd. It
is to the praise tff sir Aston Cockayne th^t be noti ovify maiBK
iained his esteem and admiration of Masisiiger. during the
poet's life, but preserved ^n affectionate regard for bis noemory,
of which' his writings furnish many proofs. Se was, as I hate
supposed l^assinger to be, a Catholl<^, and suffered mach for
Kis religieif . I will not take upon myself i6 sAf tfaftt this com.
Binnity of faith strengtheined their loataal aitaidHOeilt^lhiMigk
I do Hoi thii^ it aUo|«tiief imj^obabk*

INTltOBUCTIOM. lavii

writer ** Mrith a token of bi$. love and intended
favour/'^

7%r Fa^l Domy waa printed i6 I63S. I oAce
su|)f>osed this to be the play which is mentioned
above by the name of tke Unfortunate Piety ^ m
it does not appear under its presetitt title in the
Office-book of sir Henrj- Herbert ; but I now
believe it to have been written, previously to
l€£S. His coadjutor in this play was Nathaniel^
Field, of whom I can give the reader but little
account. His name stands at the head of the
principal comedians who performed Cynthia's
Reodsy and be is joined with Heminge, Condell,
. Burbadg^, and othiers, in the preface to the'
foUo edition of Shakspeare. He was also the
author of two comedies, A Weman is a Weather*
cecky }6lfl, and Amends for Ladies, 161S. Mh
Reedy however, conjectures the writer of these
playa, tbe assistant of Massinger in the Fatal
DiMvyy to be a distinct person from the actor
above meaitioned, and *^ a Nath» Field, M. A#
fellow of New. ColL who Wfote some Lati^
verses printed in Oxon. Academics Parentalia,
l69iSf and who, being of the same University
with Massinger, might there join with him in
the composition of the play ascribed to them,'*'
It 13 seldom safe to difiTer from 'Sfir. Reed on
subjects of this nature, yet I still incline
to think that Field the actor was the person
xueant. There is no authority for supposing that

7 Old Playsy Vol. XII. p. 350.

e 3

Ixviii , INTRODUCTION.

Massinget Wrote plays at College; and if there
were, it is not likely that the Fatal Dowry should
be one' of them. ' But Mr. Reed's chief reason
for his assertion is, that no contemporary author
speaks of Field as a writer ; this argument, in
the refutation of which I can claim no merit,
is now corrtpletely disproved by the discovery
of the letter to Mr. Henslowe. Mr, Malone too
thinks that the. person who wrote the two co-
medies here mentioned, and assisted Massinger,
could not be Field the actor, since the first of
them was printed in 1612, at which time he
must have been a youth, having performed as
one of the children of the revels in Jonson's
&knt fVbman, I609.* I know not to what age
these children were confined, but Barkstead^
who was one of them„and who, from his situa*
tion in the list, was probably younger than
Field, published, in I6II, a poem called Hiren
(Irene) th^ Fair Greeks consisting of 114 stan-
zas, which is yet earlier than the date of JVo-
marCsa fVeaikercock,

* It had probably escaped Mr. Malone's obseriration, that
Field appears as the principal performer in Cynthia's RtveUy
acted in 1599 or 1600. He could not then have well been less
than twelve years old, and at the time mentioned by Mr. Ma-
lone, as too early tor the production of his first play, mast
have l)een turned of one^and -twenty.

Mr. Malone informed me, not long before his dt^ath, that
he was satisfied from what is here adduced, that the author
and the actor were the same person.

INTRODUCTION. Ixix

Mr. Malone conjectures that the affecting let-
ter (p. xlix.) was written between I6l2and 1615 :
if we take the latest period, Field will then be
not far from his twenty-eighth year, a period
sufficiently advanced for the production of any
work of fancy. I have sometimes felt a pang at
imagining that the play on which they were
then engaged, and for which they solicit a tri-
fling advance in such moving terms, was the
Fatal Dowry^ one of the noblest compositions
that ever graced the English stage ! Even
though it should not be so, it is yet impossible
to be unaffected when we consider that those
who actually did produce it, were in danger of
perishing in gaol for want of a loan of five
pounds !

In the following year Massinger brought
forward the City Madam. As this play was
undoubtedly disposed of to the performers, it
remained in manuscript till tlie distress brought
on the stage by the persecution of the Puritans,
induced them to commit it to the press. The
person to whom we are indebted for its appear-
ance, was Andrew Penny cuicke, an actor of
some note. In the dedication to the countess of
Oxford,* he observes, with a spirited reference
to the restrictions then laid on the drama, " In

r

^ Countess of Oxford, SccJ] Ann, first wife of Aubrey de
Yere, tweotieth and last earl of Oxford. She was a distant
relation of the Pembroke family.

Ixx INTRODUCTION.

that age wiien mt and learning 'wer^'nQiimiqfiered
btfif^Wy andmoknee, this poem was the object
of love and C6mnieK>datioiis :'' he then adds,
" the eocourageraent I had to prefer thi^dedi*
cation to jowr powerful protection proceeds
from the u^rversal fame of the deceased author,*
who (although he composed many) wrote none
amiss, atid this may justly be ranked among his
best." PcnnycuicTce might have gone further ;
but this little address is sufficient to shew in
what estimation the poet was held by his " fel*
lows/' He had then been dead nineteen years.
About this time too ( 16S2) Massinger printed
fhe Maid of Honour^ with a dedication to sir
Francis Foljambe ' and sir Thomas Bland; which

^ The deceased author^'] The City Madam was printed in 1^59.
This sufficiently proves the absurdity of the account given
by Ijangbaine, Jacob^ Wbincop, and Gibber, who concur In
placing Ma^inger^s death in 1660, and'who, ceftainly, nc«ver
perused his works with any attention : nor is that ofChetwood
more rational, who asserts that he died 1659, since his epitaph
is printed among the poems of sir Aston Cockayne, which
were published in 1658, and written much earlier. It is, there*
fore, worse than a Waste of time to repeat from book to book
such palpable errours. (1805.) It is necessary to place the date
here, lest I should be supposed to reflect on Mr. Stephen
Jones> who had not, at that time, been gailty of diis tale and
tiresome blunder.

3 Sir Francis Foljambcy &c.] I suspect that sir Francis was
also a Catholick. From the brief account of this ancient family
which is given in Lodge's Illustrationsj they appear to have
suffered severely on account oif their religion, to which they
were eealously attached.

INTRODUCTION. U%1

canbot be read vMiout aotrow. He observe9»
tfeaft tliese geiidemen, Avho appear to have been
engaged in an amicable suit at lav, bad cooti*
nned, for many years, the patrons of hiim and
fais despised studies, and be calk upoiu the world
to tefce notice, as fix>m himself, that he had no f
t^ykat time svAmtedy but that 3bie was supported
by tlieir frequent courtesiles and favours.

It h not improbahlq, however, that he was
now labouring landecr.the pressure of more than
nsied want; as the fkilnre of two of his plays
had damped his spirits, and mateiially checked
the prosecution df bis dramatic studies. No
account of the unsuccessful pieces is come down
to us.: their names ^do not occur in the Office-
book of sir H. Herbert; nor should we have
known tbe circumstance, had not the Author,
with a modesty which shames some of his con*
temporaries, and a deference to the judgment
of the pn^blic, which becomes all who write
for it, recorded the fact in the prologue to th^
Guardian. To this, probably, we owe the publi*
cation of A Nba> Way to pay Old DebtSy which
was now first printed with a sensible and manly
address to the «irl of Caernarvon, who bad
married lady Sophia Herbert, the sister of his
patron, Philip earl of Pembroke and Montgo-
mery. ** I was born," he says, ** a devoted ser-
vant to the thrice noble family of your incom*
parable lady, and am most ambitious, but with
a becoming distance, to be known to your

Ixxii INTRODUCTION.

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

Flattered by the success of the Guardian^
which was licensed on the 31st of October 1633,
Massinger exerted himself with unusual energy,
and produced three plays before the expiration
of the following year. One of them, the de-
lightful comedy of A Very Woman^ is come
down to us ; of the others, nothing is known
but the names, which are registered by. the
Master of the Revels. In 1635, it does not ap-
pear that he brought any thing forward ; but
in 16S6 he wrote the Bashful Lover^ and printed
the Great Duke of Florence^ which haci now
been many years on the stage, with a dedication

I N T R O D U C T:I O.N. Ixxiii

to dir Robert Wiseman of ThorrcUs Hall, in
Essex. In this, which is merely expressive of
his gratitude for a long., continuation of kind-
ness, he acknowledges, ^' and with a zealous
thankfulness, that, for many years, he had. but
faintly subsisted, if he had not often tasted of
his bounty/' In this precarious state of depen*
dance passed the life of a man who is charged
with no want of industry, suspected of no ex-
travagance, and* whose, works were, at this very
period, the boast and delight of the stage 1 •

The Bashful Lwer is the latest play of Mas-
singer's writing which we possess, but thi^re
were three others posterior, to it, of which the
last, the Anchoress of Pausilippo, was acted Jun,
26, 1640, about six weeks before his death.
Previously to this, he sent to the press one of
his early plays, the Unnatural Combat, which he
inscribed to Anthony Sentleger, (whose. father,
sir Wareham, had been his. particular admirer,)
being, as he says, ambitious to publish his many
favours to the world. It is pleasant to find the
Author, at the close of his blameless life, avow-
ing, as he iiere does, with an amiable modesty,
that the noble and eminent persons, to whom
his former works were dedicated, did not think
themselves disparaged by being ^* celebrated as
the patrons of his humble studies^ in the .first
file of which," he continues, ^' lam confident you
shall have no cause to blush, to find your name
written."

Ijrxiv I^THODUCTION^

Massin^er (died oq the 17th of Mardi, Ij&4(%
He went to lied m good health, saiys Langbaioe,
and was found dead in the morniog in his own
lioose on the Bankside. He was buried Jn .tbe
efaurcbyard of St Saviour's, atid the comediant
paid the last sad duty to his naitie^ by attending
him to the grave.

It does not appear, from tiie strictest seaxch,*
tbart: a stone, or inscription :of any icind, marked
the place where his dust was deposited : even
the memorial of his mortality is given with a
pathetic brevity, which accords but too well
with the obscune and humble passages of his
life : " March «0, i€a9-40, buried Philip Mas-
singer, A sTRAKOER !" No tlowers were flung
into his grave, no elegies " soothed his hovcr-
ingspirit," and of all the admirers of his talentp
and his worth, none bat sir Aston Cockayne
dedicated a line to his memoiy. It would hi
an abuse 'of language, to honour any composi^
tion of sir Aston with the name of poetry ; but
the steadiness of bis regard for Massinger may
be justly praised. In that collection of doggrel
rhymes, which I have already mentioned,
(p. xlvii.) there is ** an epitaph on Mr. John
Fletoher, and Mr. Philip Massinger^ who lie
both buried in one gravis in St Mary Overy's
church, in South war k :

^^ In the same grave was Fletcher buried, here
^< Life tiie.9t«ge .poet, Philip l^aasinger ;

* Every stone^ and every fragment of a stone^ have been
examined.

IWTRiODUCTIOK

^^ Pliijw^cu did write ^geiUier, wove great «fvu^p|
, ^^ And now one grave inclodes them in their ends.
^^ To whom on earth nothing could party beneath >
' *^ Here in their fame they lie, in spight of death."

It is surely somewhat singular that of a man
of such eminence nothing should be known.
What I have presumed to give, is merely the
history of the successive appearance of iiis
works; and I am aware of no source from
whence any additional information can be de*
rived : no anecdotes are recorded of him by his
contemporaries; few casual mentions of his
name occur in the writings of the time; and h^
had not the good fortune which attended many '
of less eminence, to attract attention at the
revival of dramatic literature from the deathlike
torpor of the Interregnum.' But though we are
ignorant of every circumstance respecting Mas-
singer, but that he lived, wrote, and died,* we
may yet form to ourselves some idea of his per-
sonal character from the incidental hints scat-
tered through his works* In what light he was
r<^garded may be collected from the recom-
mendatory poems prefixed to his several playi^

^ One exception we shall hereafter mention. Eren in this
-the Poet^s ill fate pursaed him, and he was flung back into
obscurity, that his spoils might be worn without detection.

^ it IS iseriously to be lamented that sir Atton Cockayne,
instead of wasting his leisure in measuring out dull prose
which cannot be read, had not employed a part of it in furnish-
ing some notices of the dran^tic poets, with whom he was so
'vr^U acquainted^ and whom he professes so much to admire*

ixxvi intrqductio:n,

in which the language of his panegyrists, though
warm, expresses an attachment apparently de-
rived not so much from his talents as his virtues :
he is, as Davies has observed, their beloved^ much*
esteemed^ dear, worthy j deserving, honoured, long-
known, and long - loved Jr tend, Sec. &c. AH the
writers of his life unite in representing him as
a man of singular modesty, gentleness, candour,
and affability ; nor does it appear that he ever
made, or found an enemy. He speaks indeed
of opponents on the stage ; but the contention
of rival candidates for popular favour must not
be confounded with personal hostility. With
all this, however, he appears to have maintained
a constant struggle with adversity ; since not
only the stage, from which, perhaps, his natural
reserve prevented him from deriving the usual
advantages, but even the bounty of his particu-
lar friends, on which he chiefly relied, left him
in a state of absolute dependance. Other
writers for the stage, not superior to him in
abilities, had their periods of good fortune, their
bright as well as their stormy hours ; but Mas-
singer seems to have enjoyed no gleam of sun-
shine; his life was all one wintry day, and
." shadows, clouds, and darkness," rested upon
it.

Davies finds a servility in- his dedications
which I have not been able to discover : they
are principally characterised by gratitude and
humility, without a single trait of that gro^

INTRODUCTION. Uxvii

and servile adulation which distinguishes and
disgraces the addresses of some of his contem-
poraries. That he did not conceal his misery,
his editors appear inclined to reckon among his
faults; he bore it, however, without impatience,
and we only hear of it when it is relieved.
Poverty made him no flatterer, and, what is still
more rare, no maligner of the great: nor is one
symptom of envy manifested in any part of his
compositions.

His principles of patriotism appear irrepre-
hensible: the extravagant and slavish doctrines
which are found in the dramas of his gre^t con-
temporaries make no part of his creed, in which
the warmest loyalty is skilfully combined with
just and rational ideas of political freedom. Nor
is this the only instance in which the rectitude
of his mind is apparent ; the writers of his day
abound in recommendations of suicide; he is
uniform in the reprehension of it, with a single
exception, to which, perhaps, he was led by the
peculiar turn of his studies.^ Guilt of every
kind js usually left to the punishment of divine
justice: even the wretched Malefort excuses
himself to his son on his supernatural appear-
ance, because the latter was not marked out by

* See the Duke of Milan^ Vol. I. p. 264. The fr^queni
Tiolation of female chastity, which took place on the irruption
of the barbarians into Italy, gave rise to many curious disqui*
iitions among the fathers of the church, respecting the degree
of guilt incurred in preventing it by self-murder* Malinger
hftd these, probably, in his thoughts.

Ixxviii INTRODUCTIONl

keaxoen for his nicxther'a avenger; and the yeung^,
the brave, the pious Charalois accounts his
death fallen upon him by the will of heaven,
because ^^ he made himself a judge in his own
cause.**

Biit the great, the glorious^ distinction of
Massinger, is the uniform respect with, which
he treats religion and its ministers, in an age
when it was found necessary to add regulation
to regulation, to stop the growth of impiety on
the stage. No priests are introduced by him,
^* to set on some quantity of barren spectators"
to laugh at their Hcentious follies; the sacred
name is not lightly invoked; nor daringly sported
with; nor is Scripture profaned by buffoon allu-
sions lavishly put in the mouths of fodis and
women.

• To this brief and desultory delineation of his
mind, it may be expected that something should
here be added of his talents for dramatic com*
position ; but this is happily rendered unneces-
sary. The kipdness of Dr. Ferriar has allowed
me to annex to this Introduction the elegant
and ingeaious Essay on Massingery first printed
in the third volume of the Manchester Transac-^
tions; and I shall presently have to notice, in a
more particular manner, the value of the assist-
ance \yhich has been expressly given to me for
this work. . These, if I do not deceive myself,
leave little or nothing to be desired on the
peculiar qualities, the excellencies and defects,
of this much neglected and much injured writer*

iNTRODtTCTION. Ixxix

Mr. M. Mason has remarked the general har-
rtJtony of his numbers^ in which, indeed, Mas-
singer stands unrivalled. He seems, however,
inclined to make a partial exception in favour
of Shakspeare ; but I cannot admit of its pro*
priety. The claims of this great poet on the
admiration of mankind are innumerable, but
rhythmical modulation is not one of them : nor
do I think it either wise or just to hold him
forth as supereminent in every quality which
constitutes genius : Beaumont is as sublime,
Fletcher as pathetic, and Jonson as nervous :—
ttor let it be accounted poor or niggard praise,
to allow him only an equality with these extra-
ordinary men in their peculiar excellencies,
while he is admitted to possess many others, to
which they make no approaches. Indeed, if I
were asked for the discriminating quality of
Shakspeare's mind, that by which he is raised
above all competition, above all prospect of
rivalry, I should say it was wit. To wit Mas-
singer has no pretensions, though he is not
without a considerable portion of htimour ; in
which, however, he is surpasaed by Fletcher,
whose style bears some affinity to his own:
there is, indeed, a.morbid softness in the poetry
of the latter, which is not visible in the ftowing
and vigorous metre of Massinger, but the ge-
neral manner is not unlike/

. * There to y^ a pecfdiaiky vhich it vmj %e proper io natieii

Ixxx INTRODUCTION.

With Massinger terminated the triumph of
dramatic poetry ; indeed^ the stage itself sur*
vived him but a short time. The nation was
convulsed to its centre by contending factions^
and a set of austere and gloomy fanatics, enemies
to every elegant amusement, and every social
relaxation, rose upon the ruins of the state.
Exasperated by the ridicule with which they
had long been covered by the stage, they per-
secuted the actors with unrelenting severity,
and consigned them, together with the writers,
to hopeless obscurity and wretchedness. Taylor
died in the extreme of poverty, Shirley opened
a little school, and Lowin, the boast of the stage^
kept an alehouse at Brentford :

Balncolum Gabiis^Jitmos condvcerc Rom(e
Tentarunt I

«

Others, and those the far greater number, joined
the royal standard, and exerted themselves with

as It contributes in a slight degree, to the flaency of Massinger't
style ; it is, the resolution of his words (and principally of
those derived from the Latin through the medium of the
French) into their component syllables. Virtuous^ partial,
nation^ &c. &c. he usually makes dactyls, (if it be not pedantie
to apply terms of measure to a language acquainted only with
accent,) passing OTer the last two syllables with a gentle but
distinct enunciation. This practice, indeed, is occasionally
adopted by all the writers of his time, but in Massinger it is
frequent and habitual. This singularity may slightly embarrass
the reader at first, but a little acquaintance will shew its ad«
TBliiages, and render it not only easy but delightfuL

»i

«

]tNTR0Dir61?lUN; Ixxxi

more gallantry tlian good fortune^ in( the service
of their old fiind indulgent master.*

We have not yet, perhaps, fully estimated^
and certaiuly not yet fully recovered, what was
lost in that unfortunate struggle. The arts were
rapidly advancing^ to perfection under the fos-
tering wing of a monarch who united in himself
taste to feel, spirit to undertake, and munifi-
cence to reward. Architecture, painting, and
poetry, were by turns the objects of his paternal
care. Shakspeare was his " closet companion,"*
Jonson his poet, and in conjunction with Inigo
Jones, bis" favoured architect, produced those

^ It is gratefol to notice tlie noble contrast which the En-
glish stage of that day offers to thatof Rerolutionary France.
One wretched actor, only, deserted his Sorereign, and fonght
on the side of the Parliament, while of the Tast multitude
fostered hy the nobiiitj and the royal family of France,
not an individaal adhered to their cause. All rushed madly
forward to plunder and assassinate their benefactors ; and,
with few exceptions, were recognized as the most bloody and
remorseless miscreants of that horrible period.

* His ^^ closet companion^*^'} Milton mentions, as a fact uni.
Tcrsally known, the fondness of the unfortunate Charles for
the plays of Shakspeare : and it appears from those curious
particulars collected from sir Henry Herbert by Mr. Malone,
that his attachment to the drama, and his anxiety for its per-
fection, began with his retgn. The plot of the Gamester^ one
of the best of Shirley's pieces, was giTen to him by the king ;
and there is an anecdote recorded by the Master of the Revels,
which shews that he was not Inattentlra to the success of
Massinger.

<< At Greenwich thif 4 •f Jnne (16S8) Mr. W. Murray

VOL. I. ■ f

ixKxii introduction:

magniiiGent entertainments which, though mo^
dern refinement may affect to despise them^
dfipdern splendour never reached even in
thought*

gate mee power frotn the king to allow of the King and the
Svbject^ and tould mee that he would warrant it :

^^ Monies ! We'll raise supplies what waj we please

^^ And force you to sobscribe to blanks, in which

^' We'll mulct you as wee shall think fit. The Caesars -

^^ In Rome were wise, acknowledging no laws

** But what their swords did ratify, the wiYes

^^ And daughters of the senators bowing to

<* Their will, s^s deities," &c.

^^ This is a peece taken out of Philip Messenger's play called
the King and the Subject^ and enterd here for. ever to bee re«
membef d by my son and those that cast their eyes on it, in
honour of king Charles,- ipy master, who readinge oter the
play at Newmarket, ^et his marke upon the place with his
own hande, ^nd in thes words i — Th^ia is top insoleptj and to kte
changed.

^^ Note, that the poett makes it the speech of a king, Don
Pedro of Spayne, and spoken to his subjects.'^ This play is
lost. It was probably a refived one, as sir }(enry receiyed but
^l. for reading it.

f That the exhibition of those masques was attended with a
considerable degree of expense, cannot be denied : and jet a
question may be modestly started, whether a thousand pounds
might not have been as rationally and as creditably laid out on
one of thtm at Tibbald's, ^Ithorpe, or Ludlow Castle, as on
a basket of unripe trash, in Grosvenor Square.

But we are fallen indeed ! The/estiTal of the knights of the
Bath, presentefl an ppportunity for a masqiie appropriate to
the subject, in which taste should have united with grandeur*
Whose talents were employed on the great occasion I cannot
pretend to say ; but assuredly the frequenters of Bartholomew

INTRODUCTION. Ixxxiii

That the tyranny of the commonwealth should
sweep all this away, was to be expected : the'
circumstance not less to be wondered at than
regretted is, that when the revival of monarchy
afforded an opportunity for restoring every
thing to its pristine place, no advantage should
be taken of it. Such, however, was- the horror
created in the general mind, by the perverse
and unsocial government from which they had
so fortunately escaped, that the people appear
* to have anxiously avoided all retrospect ; and
with Prynne and Vicars, to have lost sight of
Shakspeare and ^' his fellows." Instead, there-
fore, of taking up dramatic poetry (for to this
my subject confines me) where it abruptly
ceased in the labours of Massinger, they elicited,
as it were,* aimanner of their own, or fetched it
from the heavy monotony of their continental
neighbours. The ease, the elegance, the -sim-
plicity, the copiousness of the former periodi
were as if they had never been ; and jangling
and blustering declamation took place of nature,
truth, and sense. Even criticism, which, in the
former reign, had been making no inconsider-
able progress under the influence and direction
of the great masters of Italy, was now diverted
into a new channel, and only studied in the
puny and jejune canons of their degenerate
followers, the French.

fair were oerer inyited to so vile and senseleis an exhibition,'
as was produced at Ranelagh for the entertainment of the do-
bility and gentry of the united kingdom.

Ixxxiv INTRODUCTIQN. ^

> The Restoration did little for Mal3singer ;
this, however, will the less surprise lus, wheu
we find that he but shared the fortune of a
greater name. It appeat-s from a Ust of revived
plays preserved by Downes the prompter, that
of twenty-one, two onjy * werp written by Sbak-*
speare ! The Bondman and the Roman Actor were
at length brought forward by Betterton, who
probably conceived them to be favourable to
his fine powers of declamation. We are to\d by
Downes, that he gained ^^ great* applause'' in
them : his success, however, did not incite him
to the revival of the rest, though he might have
found among the number ample scope for the
display of his highest talents. I cap discover but
two more of Massinger*s plays which were acted
in the period immediately following the Resto-
ration, the Virgin' Martyr^ and the Renegado ; I
have, indeed, some idea that the Old Law should
be added to the scanty list ; but having mislaid
my memorandums, I cannot afiSrm it

The time, however, arrived when he Was to
be retnembered. Nicholas Rowe, a man gifted
by nature with taste and feeling, disgusted at
the tumid vapidity of his own times,^turued his
attention to the poets of a former age, and,
among the rest, to Massinger. Pleased at the
discovery of a nxind congenial with his own, he
studied him with attention, and endeavoured to
form a style on his model. Suavity, ease, ele-

. ' Thoo.onljfl And of these two, oii6 was Titut AndronkusI

INTRODUCTION. hcxxv

gance, all that close application and sedulous
imitation could give, Rowe acquired from tb^
perusal of Massinger: humour, richness, vigouTj
and sublimity, the gifts of nature, were not to
be caught, and do not, indeed, appear in any of
his multifarious compositions.

Rowe, however, had discrimination and judg-«
ment : he was alive to the great and striking
excellencies of the Poet, and formed the reso-
lution of presenting him £o the world in a cor-
rect and uniform edition. It is told in the pre-
face to the Bondmafiy (printed in 1719,) and there
is no reason to doubt the veracity of the affir-
mation, that I^owe had revised the whole of
Massinger's works, with a view to their publi-
cation : unfortunately, however, he was seduced
from his purpose by the merits of the Fatal
Dowry. The pathetic and interesting scenes
of this domestic drama have such irresistible
power over the best feelings of the reader, that
he determined to avail himself of their excel*
lence, and frame a second tragedy on the same
story. How he altered and adapted the events
to his own conceptions is told by Mn Cumber-
land, with equal elegance and taste, in the
Essay which follows the origiual piece.*

* S.^ Yd). III. p. 465. A few words may yet be haearded
on tbis subject. The moral of the Fatal Dojory is infinitely su-
perior to that oi the Fair PemVeitf, which, indeed^ is littlo.
better thaa a specious apology for adultery. Rowe has lavished
the most seducing colours of his eloquence on Lothario, and

Ixxxvi INTRODUCTION.

Pleased with the success of his performance,*
Rbwe conceived the ungbnerous idea of appro-
priating, the whole of its merits ; and, from that
instant, appears not only to have given up all
thoughts of Massinger, but to have avoided all
mention of his name. In' the base and servile
dedication of his tragedy to the dutchess of
Ormond, while he founds his claim to her pa-
tronage on the interesting nature of thestenes,
he suffers not a hint to escape him that he was
indebted for them to any preceding writer.

acted, throughout the piece, as if he studied to frame an ex-
cuse for Calista : whereas Massinger has placed the crime of
Beaumelle in an odious and proper light. Beaumelle can have
no followers in her guilt : — ;no- frail one can urge that she was
misled by her example; ^or NoTall has nothing but personal
charms, and even in these he is surpassed bj Charalois. For
the unhappy husband of Calista, Rowe evinces no consideration,
while Massinger has rendered Charalois the most interesting
character that was ever produced on the stage.

Beautbelle, who falls a sacrifice, in some measure, to the
artifices of her maid, the profligate agent of young Norall, is
much superior to Calista. Indeed, the impression which she
made on Rowe was so strong, that he n^ed his tragedy after
her, and not after the heroine of his own piece : Beaumelle is
truly the Fair Penitent, whereas Calista is neither more nor
less than a haughty and abandoned strumpet.

' The sjtccess of his performance ^'\ This was somewhat pro.
blematical at ^ni. Yqt though the Fair Penitent be now a
general favourite with the town, it experienced considerable
dpposition on its appearance, owing, as Downes informs us,
^* to the flatness of the fourth and fifth acts." The poverty of
Rowers genius is principally apparent in the last ; of which
Ae plot and the execution are equally contemptible.

/^

INTRODUCTION. Ixxxvll

It may seem strange that Rowe should flatter
himself with the hope of evading detection :
that hope,. however, was not so extravagant as
it may appear at present.* Few of our old dra-
mas were then on sale : those of Shakspeare,
Jonson^ and Fletcher, isideed, had been col-
lected; depredations on them, therefore, though
frequently made, were attended with some de-
gree of hazard ; but the works of Massinger,
few of which had reached a second edition^ lay
scattered in single plays, and might be appro*-
priated without fear. What printed copies or
manuscripts were extant, were chiefly to be
found in private libraries, not easily accessible^
nor often brought to sale ; and it is not, per-
haps, too much to say that rtiore old plays may
now be found in the hands of a single book-*
seller, than, in the days of Rowe, were supposed
to be in existence.

The Fair Penitent was produced in 1703^ and
the Authqr, having abandoned his first design,
undertook to prepare for the press the works' of
af poet more worthy, it must be confessed, of
his care, but not in equal want of his assistance^
and, in 1709, gave the public the first octavo
edition of Shakspeare.

What might have been the present rank of

* Indeed it was justified by the event.. No suspicion of the
plligiarism was entertained,. I belie?e, during his life ; and for
iqqre than ha^f a century the Fair Penitent was spoken of a9
ihc sole'propertyof Rowe,

ixwviii introduction;

Massitiger, if Rowe had completed his ptirp6le,
it would be presumptuous to determine : it
may, However^ be conjectured that, reprinted
with accuracy, corrected with judgment, and
illustrated with ingenuity, he would, at least,
have been more generally known,^ and suffered

* More gaieraUy known jl It does not appear from Johnson'^ '
obflerTations od the Fair Penitent^ that he had any knowledge
of MaMinger ; Steevens^ I have lome reason to think, took
him up late in life ; and Mr. J^alone observes to me^ Aat he
only coosuited him for verbal illostrations of Shakspeare« This
is merely a subject for regret; but we may be allowed to
complain a little of those who discuss his merits without exa-
mining his works, and traduce his character on their own mis-
conceptions. Capell, whose dull fidelity forms the sole claim on
oar kindnesS) becomes both ioaccufate and unjust the instant
he speaks of S^assinger ; he accuses him of being one of the
props of Jonson's throne, in opposition to the pretensions of
Shakspeare !* The reverse of this is the truth : he was the ad-
mirer and imitator of Shakspeare ; and it is scarcely possible
to look into one of his prologues, without discovering some
allusion, more or less concealed, to tiie overweening pride and
arrogance of Jonson* This disinelination to the latter was no
secret to his contemporaries, while his partiality to the former
was so notorious, that in a mock romance, entitled Wit and
Fancy in a Maze^ or Don Zara del FogOy 12mo. 1 656, (noticed b y
Mr. Todd,) where an uproar amongst the English poets is de-
scribed, Massinger is expressly introduced as ^' one of the life*
guards to Shakspeare/' So much for the sneer of Capell!— ^
bi]|t Massinger's ill fate still pursues him. In a late Essay on
the stage, written with considerable ingenuity^ the author, in
• giving a chronological history of dramatic writers from Sack-
ville downwards, overlooks* Massinger till he arrives at our

* See his Introduction to Sltakspeart^s Playt^ Vol. L p. 14.

INTRODUCTION. lxxx»

to ocaupy a s^tioa of grei^ter respectability
tban he h^s hitherto been permitted to assume*:
Maa^inger, thus plundered and abandoned by
Rowe, wa$> aftier a considerable lapse, of time/
t^ken up by Tiiomas Coxeter, of whom I l^nowi
nothing more than is delivered by Mr. Egertoa
Brydgefy in his useful and ingenious additions
to the Theatrutn Pottarum^ " He was born of
an ancient and respectable family, at Lechladet
in Gloucestershire, in 1689,^ and educated at
Trinity College^ Oxford, where he wore a civi-.
lian'i$ gown, and about 1710, abandoning the
civil law, and every other profession, came to
Londoln. Here continuing without any settled

own times. He tben recollects that he was one of the fathers of
tile drama ; and adds, that ^^ his style was roughy manly, and
tigoroas, that he pressed upon his subject with a severe but
masterly hand, that his wit was caustic^ Sec. If this gentleman

■s.

had erer looked into the poet thus characterised^he must hare
instantly recognised his error. Massinger has no wity and hit
humour, in which he abounds, is of a light and frolic nature;
and his style is so far from roughness^ that its characteristic
excdieujee is a sweetney beyond example. ^* Whoetier^l*
says Johnson, ^^ wishes to attain ad English s^e familiar bja^
not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must giie his*
days and nights to the Tolumes of Addison.'' Whoever would
add to these the qualities of simplicity, purity, sweetness^ and
strength, must devote his hours to the study of Massinger.

' I take the offered opportunity to express my thanks to
this gentleman for the obliging manner in which he transmitted
to me the manuscript notes of Oldys and others, copied into
his edition of Langbain^, tormexlj in the ppssession of Mr*
Steerens*

xc INTRODUCTION.

purpose, he became acquainted with booksellei'8
and authors, atid amassed materials for a bio-
graphy of our old poets. He had a curious col-
lection of old plays, and was the first who formed
the scheme adopted by Dodsley, of publishing a
selection of them," &c.

Warton too calls Coxeter a faithful istnd in-^
dustrious amasser of our old English litersLture,
abd this praise, whatever be its worth, is all
that can be fairly said to belong to him :* as an
editor he is miserably deficient ; though it ap«
pears that he was not without assistance which>
in other hands, might have been turned tosomd
account. " When I left London," says the ac-
curate £(nd ingenious Oldys, *^ in the year 1724,
to reside in Yorkshire, I left in the care of th^
Rev. Mr. Burridge's family, with whom I had
several years lodged, amongst many other books,
a copy of this Langbaine, in which I had written
several notes and references to further the
knowledge of these poets. When I returned to
London in 17S0, I underis^tood my books had
been dispersed ; and afterwards becoming ac-
iquainted with Mr. Coxeter, I found that he

* Johnson , told Bos well that ^^ a Mr. Coxeter, whom he
knew, had collected about fi^e hundred Tolumes of poets who«e
works were little known ; but that, upon his death, Tom Os*
borne bought them, and they were dispersed, which he thought
apitj; as it was curious to see any seriei^ complete, And ii|
eTery volume of poems something good might be found/' Bag-
well's Life^ See. Vol. III. p. 172.

introduction; xci

had bought my Langbaine of a bookseller, as
he was a great collector of plays and poetical
books« This must have been of service to him,
and he has kept it so carefully from my sights
that I never could have the opportunity of
transcribing into *this I am now writing, the
notes I had collected in that. Whether I had
entered any remarks upon Massinger, I re-
member not ; but he had communications from
me concerning him, when he was undertaking
to give us a new edition of his plays, which is
not published* yet. He (Mr. Coxeter) died on
the 10th (or Ifith, I cannot tell which) of AprH,
being Easter Sunday, 1747» of a fever which
grew from a cold he caught at an auction of
books over Exeter Change, or by sitting up late
at the tavern afterwards/'*

On the death of Coxeter,^ his collections for

* Manuscript notes on Langbaine, in the British Maseom.

7 The following adrertisement, which has been recovered
from the London Gazeteer^ Oct. 29, 1761, relates, I presumei
to Goxeter's edition ; and was probably drawn np bj himself;
at least, I ha?e been unable to discorer any other person, who,
about that period, had formed the design '^ of publishing the
Dramatic Works of Massinger." It appears that Dell changed
the form of the proposed edition.

^' This day is published^ proposals for printing by&ibscrip*
tion, the Dramatic Works of Philip Massinger, Gebtt. in fire
Tolnmes, duodecimo. Conditions.

I. ^' The price to subscribers will be twelfe shillings and
six-pence ; fife shillings to be paid at the time of subscribing|
and the remainder upon the delivery of a set in fife yolnmei
isewed in blue paper.

kfAi

INTEODUCTION.

tbe purposed edition of Massinger fell into the
bands of a bookseller of the name of Dell, who
gate them to the world in 1759. From the
publisher's preface it appears that Coxeter did
IH>t live to complete his design. ^^ The late
ingenious Mr. Coxeter," he says, "had cor-
rected and collated all the various editions;*
and» if I may judge from his copies, he had
spared nQ diligence and care to. make them as
correct as possible. Several ingenious observa*
ttons and notes he had likewise prepared for his

II. ^^ The work will be put to press as soon as four
hundred sets are subscribed for, and finished with all the ex-
pedition that is^ consistent with correctness and elegance.

^^ Proposals with a spedmen are delirered, and sabBcriptions
taken in by J. Payne and J. Bouquet, at the While*Hart, in
Pater-noster.Row, London.'' (Here follow the names of
other booksellers in different parts of the kingdom.)

^^ It is hoped, that all who can distinguish literary meriti
and enjoy the beauties of poeti*j, will be induced to enconrige
fhis undertaking, by tho character which Missinoee has
Hlways maintained* Among the dramatic writers of his time
lie is unif ersally allowed to hold the third place ; and, in the
opinion of many, for his plot, his sentiments, and his moral, he
ttOgy joMy contend for the second, and claim the precedence
tf JBeatimont and Fletcher.

^^ Great care will be taken to correct the innumerable typo«
graphical ertors'of idl the former editions ; and no alteration
•f importance will be adopts, without preserfing the old
reading. Historical notes will be inserted, where the per*
]ilexity of the diction, or the obscurity of the allusion, render
them necessary ; and to tib* whcaie will be prefixed the fullest
and most circumstantial life of I3ie author that dan be obtained.'

y This is also asserted in the title-page : but it is not to.

IN T ROD U C T I O N. ji6iH

intended edition, which are all insert^ id thfe
present. Had he lived to have oompleted hii^
design, I dftre say he would have added many'
more, and that his work would have met with ^
very fkvourable reception, from everj^ jJersoii,
of true taste and genius."

As Dell professes to have followed CoxttferV
papers, and given all his notes, we ttiiy fortn no
inadequate ideii of what the edition would have
bc^ai. Though educated at the University,
Coxetet exhibits no proofs of literature. To
critical sis^aetty he has not the smallest preten-
sion; his conjectures are void alike of ingentiity
and probability, and his historical referencet^ at
once puerile and. incorrect. £ven his parallel
passages (the easiest part of an editor's labour)
are more calculated to produce a, smile at the
^ collector's expense, than to illustrate his author;
while every page of his work bears the sttongest
impression of imbecility. The praise of fidelity
may be allowed him; but in doing this, the
unfortunate Dell must be charged (how justly
I know not) witlv the innumerable errors which
over-rdn and deform the edition. I need not
inform ihose who are con versant with old copies,
that tlie printers were frequently less attentive
to the measure of the original, than to filling up
the line, and saving their paper : this Coxettr
attempted to remedy ; his success, however,
was but^partial; his vigilance relaxed, or his ear
failed him, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of
verses are given in the cacophonous and anine*

xciv INTRODUCTION.

trical state in which they appear in the early
editions. A few palpable blunders are removed^
others, not less remarkable, are continued, and
^here a word is altered, under the idea of im-
proving the sense, it is almost invariably for the
worse. Upon the whole, Massinger appeared to
less advantage than in the old copies.

Two years afterwards, (17^1,) a second edi-
tion* of this work was published by Mr. Thomas
Davies^ accompanied by an Essay on . the Old
English Dramatic Writers^ furnished by Mr.
Colman, and addressed to David Garrick, Esq.
to whom Dell's edition was also inscribed.

It may tend to mortify those, who, after
bestowing unwearied pains on a work, look for
some trifling return of praise, to find the appro-
bation, which should be reserved for themselves,
thoughtlessly lavished on the most worthless
productions. Of this publication, the most igno-
rant and incorrect (if we except that of Mr. M.
Mason, to which we shall speedily arrive) that
ever issued from the press, bishop Percy thus
speaks: ^^ Mr. Coxeter's v£ry corkect edition
of M^singer's Plays has lately been published
in 4 vols. 8vo. by Mr. T. Davies^ (which T.
Dayies was many years an actor on Drury-lane
9tage, and I believe still continues so, notwith-

* A second edition] So, at least, it insinnates: bnt my
friend, Mr. Waldron, of Drury Iiane Theatre, (to whose imall
but carious collection I am much indebted, and on whose accu-
racy, I can always rely,) who is far better acquainted with the
adroitness of boolcsellers than I pretend to be, informs me that
it is only DelPs with a new title-page.

INTRODUCTION. xcv

standing his shop.) To. this edition is prefixed
a superficial letter to Mn Garrick, written by
Mr. Colman, but giving not the least account of
Massinger, or of the old editions from whence
this was composed. 'Tis great pity Mr. Coxeter
did not live to finish it himself." It is manifest
^hat his lordship never compared a single page
of this *^ very correct edition,", with the old
copies : and: I mention the circumstance, to
point out to writers of eminence the folly, as
well as the danger, of deciding at random on
any isubject which they have not previously
considered.

It 'will readily be supposed that a publication
like this was not much calculated to extend the
celebrity, or raise the reputation, of the Poet;
it found, however, a certain quantity of readers,
and was now growing scarce, when it fell by acci*
dent into the hands x>f John Monck Mason, Esq.

In 1777» this gentleman, as he tells the stQry,
was favoured, by a friend, with ^ copy of Mas-*
singer. He received from it a high degree of
pleasure, and having contracted a habit of
rectifying, in the margin, the mistakes of such
books as he read, he proceeded in this manner
with those before him ; his emendations were
accidentally discovered by two of his acquaint-
ance, whq expressed their approbation of theni
in very flatjtering terms, and requested th^
author to give them to the public.*

' Preface to Mr. M. Mason's editioD, p. ii«

xcvi INTRODUCTION.

Mr. M. Mason was unfortunate in Bis friends :
they should Have considered (a matter which
had completely escaped himself,) that the great
duty of an editor is fidelity : that the ignorance
of Coxeter, in admitting so many gross faults,
could give no reasonable mind tlie slightest plea
for relying on his general accuracy, and that
however high they might rate their fnend's
sagacity, it was not morally certain that, when
he displaced his predecessor's words to make
room for his own, he fell upon the genuine text.
Nothing of this, however, occurred to them ;
and Mn M. Mason was prevailed upon^ in evil
hour, to send his corrected Coxeter to the press.

In a preface which accords but too well with
the rest of the work, he observes, that he had
'^ never heard of Massinger till about two years
before he reprinted him.'"* It must be con*
fessed that he lest no time in boasting of bis
acquaintance :—^it appears, however, to have
been but superficial. In the seqond page he
asserts, that the whole of Massinger's plays

^ Tet it is strange (he adds) that a writer df luch erident
•xeellence should be so little knows. Prcfoce, p« L As same
ilte? latum of Mr. M. Mason's amasement, I will tell him a
short story : ^^ Tradition says^ that on a certain timt^ a man^
who had occasion to rise Tcry early, was met by another per-
aoD, who expressed his astonishment at his getting np at so
unseasonable an hourr the man answered, O master wonder-
monger 1 as yon have done th€ hm€ tkmg^ what reaton have
50M to be surprised 2"

INTRODUCTION. xcvii

were published while the author was living!
This is a specimen o£ the care with which he
usually proceeds : the life of the Author, pre-
fixed to his own edition, tells that he died in
1640, and in the list which immediately follows
it, no less than four plays are-given in succes-
sion, which were not published till near twenty
years after that period !

The oscitancy of Mr. M. Mason is so great,
that it is impossible to say whether he supposed
there was any older edition than that before
him or not He talks indeed of Massinger, but
he always seems to mean Coxeter; and it is
beyond any common powers of face to hear him
discourse of the verbal and grammatical i nap-
curacies of an author whose text he probably
never saw, without a smile of pity or contempt.

He says, " I have admitted into the text all
my own amendments^ in order that those who
may wish to give free scope to their fancy and
their feelings, and without turning aside tp
verbal criticism, may read these plays in that
•which appears to me the most perfect state;"
.(what intolerable conceit!) " but for the satis-
faction of more critical readers, I have direqted
that the words rejected by me should be inserted
in the margin."^ This is not the case; and I
cannot account, on any common principles of
prudence, for the gratuitous temerity .with
which so strange an assertion is advanced : not^

^ Preface, p. iz.
VOL. I. g

xcviii INTRODUCTION.

one in twenty is noticed^ and the reader is misled
on almost every occasion.

I do not wish to examine the preface further;^
and shall therefore conclude with observing,
that Mr. M. Mason's edition is infinitely wor^e
than Coxeter*s. It rectifies a few mistakes, and
suggests a few improvements ; but, on the other
hand, it abounds in errors and omlissions, not
only beyond thatj but, perhaps, beyond any
other work that ever appeared in prihti* Nor
h this all : the ignorant fidelity of Coxeter hai
certainly given us n\any absurd readings of thu
old printers or transcribers J this, however, ii
far moTt tolerable than the ^mischievous inge^
nuity of Mr« M. Mason : the Words which be has
silently introduced bear ^ specious appearance
of truth, and ^are therefore calculated to elude
the vigilance of many readers whom the text
of Coxeter would have startled, and compelled
to seek the genuine sense elsewhere. To sum
dp the accoliiit between the two editions,—
both bear the marks of ignorance, inexperience,
and inattention ; in both the faults are incredi-
bly nuFmerous; but where Coxetfer drops words,
Mr. M. Mason drops litaes; and where the for^
mer omits lines, the latter leaves out whole
speeches! -

' After what I have just said, the reader^ per*-
haps, will feel an inclination to smile at the

4 When this was written, 1805, the obser?ation was correct.

# * ' <

I am sorry to say tharit is so no longer.

INTRODUCTION. xcix

concluding sentence of Mr. M. Mason's Preface:

"I FLATTER MYSELF,^THAT THIS EDITION OF
MaSSINGBR will be FOUND MORE CORRECT
(and CORRECTNilSS 18 THE ONLY MERIT IT
PRETENDS to) ^HAN THE BEST OF THOSE WHICH
HAVE AS YET BE-EN PUBLISHED OF ANY OTHER
ANCIENT DRAMATIC iV^RITER.'M*

The genuine nlerits bf the Poet, however,
were strong enough to overcomethese wretched
remoras. The impression was become scarce,
and though neVer worth the paper on S^rhich it
was printed, sold at an extravagant price, when
a new editioil was proposed to me by Mr. Evans
of Pali-Mall. Massinger was a favourite ; and
I had frequently lamented, with many others^
that he had fallen into such hands. I saw,
without the assistance of the old copies, that
his metre was disregarded, that his sense was
disjointed and broken, that his dialogue was
imperfect, and that he was encumbered with
^explanatory trash which would disgrace the
pages of a sixpenny magazine; and in the hope
of rcthedying these, and enabling the Author to
take his place on the same shelf, I will hot say
with Shakspeare, but with Jonson, Beaumont^
and his associate, Fletcher, I readily undertook
the labour.

--'My iSrst care was to look round tor the old
editions, * To collect these is not at all times
possiblei and, in every case, is a work of trouble

»

' Preface, p. xi*

c INTRODUCTION.

and expense; but the kindness of individuals
supplied me with all that I wanted. Octavius
Gilchrist, a gentleman of Stamford,* no sooner
beard of my design, than he obligingly sent me
all the copies which he possessed; the Rev. P.
Bayles of Colchester (only known to me by this
act of kindness) presented me with a small but
choice selection: and Mr. Malone, with a liber-
ality which I shall ever remember with gratitude
and delight, furnished me, unsolicited, with his
invaluable collection/ among which I found all

^ I must not omit that Mr. Gilchrist, (whose name will
occur more than once in the ensuing pages,) together with his
copies of Massinger, transmitted a number of useful and judi-
cious obseryations on the Poet, derived from his extensive
acquaintance with our old historians. ''

7 For this, I owe Mr. Malone my peculiar thanks : but the
admirers of Massin^er must join with me in expressing their
gratittfde to him for an obligation of a more public kind ; for
the communication of that beautiful fragment, which now
appears in print for the first time, the Parliament of Love,
From the History of the English StagCy prefixed to Mr. Malone's
edition of Shakspeare, I learned that ^^ four acts of an uapub.
lished drama bj Massinger were still extant in manuscript.^'
Anxiously wishing to render this Edition as perfect as possible,
I wrote to Mr. Malone, with whom I had not the pleasure of
being personally acquainted, to know where it might be found ?
in return, he informed me that the manuscript was in his pos«
session : its state, he added, was such, thai he doubted whe-
ther much advantage could be derived from it, bu^that.! was
entirely welcome to make the experiment.* Of this permission,

* I subjoin, an extract from Mr. Malone's letter which now
Jies before me, ^^ Mr. Malone presents his compliments to Mr.

INTRODUCTION. ci

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

^ which I accepted with singular pleasure, I instantly atailed
mjself, and receired the manuscript. It was, indeed, in a
forlorn condition : seYeral leayes were torn from the beginnings
and the top and bottom of erery page wasted by dataps, to
which it had formerly been exposed. On examination, how-
ever, I had the satisfaction to find, that a considerable part of '
the first act, which was supposed to be totally lost, jet existed,
and that a certain degree of attention, which I was not nnwill*
ing to bestow on it, might recover nearly the whole of the
relnainder. How I succeeded may be seen in the second
volume; where the reader will find such an account, as was
consistent with the brevity of my plan, of the singular institu-
tion on which the fable is founded. Perhaps the subject merits
no further consideration : I would, however, just observe, that,
since the article was printed, I have been furnished by my
friend, the Rev. R. Nares, with a curious old volume, called
Arreita Amorum^ or Arrets dAmgury writtten in French by
Martial d'Auvergne, who died in 1508. It is not possible to
imagine any thing more frivolous than the causes, or rather
appeals, which are supposed to be heard in this Court of Love.

Gifford — ^he has sent the Parliament of Love by his servant, for
Mr. Gifford's inspection, and transcription, if he should think
it worth that trouble. This piece, however, is in such a
mutilated stjLte, wanting the whole of the first act and part of
the second (to say nothing of its other defects from damp and
time) that it is feared, it can be of little use.
Queen Anne Street Easty Fehrvary 1, 1803."
The copying of this fragmentengaged me about six. weeks,
(for I worked diligently,) and on the 24th of March, in that
year, I had the pleasure of returning Mr. Malone his MS. with
a fair copy of it. In his answer, which is dated March 95,
1803, and is also before me, he says, *^ Your transcript of the
FarUament of Lffoe quite astonishes me, for I feaced that a
good part of the concluding lines of several pages was irre«
trievable."

cii INTRODUCTION.

booksellers, in addition to the copies in the
Museum, and in the rich collection of His
Majesty, which I consulted from time to time,
form the basis of the present work.

With these aids I sat down to the business of
collation : if was now I discovered,, with no less
surprise than indignation, those alterations and
omissions of which I have already spoken ; and
which I made it my first care to reform and
supply. At the outset, finding it difficult to

What IS, howerer, somewhat extraordinary is, that these
miserable trifles are commented upon by Benoit le. Court, a
celebrated jarisconsult o( those times, with a degree of serious-
ness which would not disgrace the most important questions.
Every Greek and Roman writer, then known, js quoted with
profusion, to proie some trite position dropt at random : occa«
sion is also taken to descant on many subtile points of law,
which might not be altogether, perhaps, without their in?
terest. I hare nothing further to say of this elaborate piece
of foolery, which I read with equal wearisomeness and disgust,
but which serves, perhaps, to shew that these Parliaments 6f
Love, though confessedly imaginary, occupied much of the
public attention, than that it had probably fallen inta Mas^
ginger's hands, as the scene betw^n Beliisant and Clarindore
(Vol. II. p. ^80) seems to be founded on the^^firsi-ft^^eal
which is heard in the Arrets ^ Amour. ' - ♦ • - ' -

' I have no intention of entering into the dispute respecting
the comparative merits of the first and second foltOA of Shak-
speare. Of Massinger,^ howeverj I-mAy-be a1id'Wed<to «ay tfrnt
I constatntly. found the earliest editions' tlf6 nfost correct A
palpable error might be, and, indeed, sometimes wal removed
in the subsequent ones; but the spirit, and what I would call
the raciness, of the author only appeared complete in th«
•riginal copids*.

INTRODUCTION. ^iii

conceive that the variations in Coxeteraa4 Mr..
M.Mason were the effect of ignorance or caprice^
I imagined that an authority for them might be
somewhere found; and therefore collated not
only every edition, but even several copies of
the same edition;' what began in necessity was
continued by choice, and every play has under-
gone, at least, five close examinations with the
original text. On this strictness of revision
rests the great distinction of this edition from
the preceding ones, from which itwill.be found
to vary in an infinite number of places : indeed,
accuracy, as Mr. M. Mason says, is all the merit
to which it pretends ; and though I would not
provoke, yet I see no reason to deprecate the
consequences of the severest scrutiny/ , .;
There is yet another distinction. The old
copies rarely specify the place of action : sqcb»
indeed, was the poverty of the stage, that it
admitted of little variety. A .plain curtain
hung up in a corner, separated distant regions;
and if a board was advanced with Milan or
Florence written upon it, the delusion was com-
plete. ^^ A table with pen and ink thrust in,"
signified that the stage was a counting-house;
if these were withdrawn, and two stools put in
their places, it was then a tavern. Instances of

' In several of tbese plajSi I discoTered that an error had
been detected aftei^ a patt of the impression was worked off,
and consequently corrected, or what was more frequentlj
the case» exchanged for another*

civ INTRODUCT^O^f.

•

this may be found in the margin of all our oW
plays, which seem to be copied from the
prompter's books; and Mr. Malone might have
produced from his Massinger alone, more than
enough to satisfy the veriest sceptic, that the
notion of scenery, as we now understand it, was
utterly unknown to the stage* Indeed, he had
so much the advantage of the argument without
these aids, that I have always wondered how
Steevens could so long support, and so strenu-
ously contend for, his most hopeless cause. But
he was a wit and a scholar; and there is some
pride in shewing how dexterously a clumsy
weapon may be wielded by a practised swords-
man. With all this, however, 1 have ventured
on an arrangement of the scenery. Coxeter
and Mr. M. Mason attempted it in two or three
plays, and their ill success, in a matter of no
extraordinary difficulty, proves how much they
mistook their talents, when they commenced
the trade of editorship, with little more than
the negative qualities of heedlessness and inex-
perience.*

* Heedlessness and inexperience.] Those ^ho recollect the
boast of Mr. M. Mason, mrill be somewhat surprised, perhaps,
eTcn after all which they have heard, at learning that, in so
simple a matter as marking the exitSy this gentleman blunders
at eyery step. If Pope were now alive, he need not apply to
his black-letter plaj^s for such niceties as exit omnes, enter three
witchei ioluSf* &c. Mr. M. Mason's edition, which he ^^ flatters
himself will be found more correct than the hest of those which

* See his Preface to Shakspeare.

INTRODUCTION. cv

I come now to the notes. Those who arc
accustomed to the crowded pages of our modern

hare been yet published of any other ancient dramatic writer/'
would furnish abundance of them. His copy of the Fatal
Dowri/ now lies before me, and, in the compass of a few pages,
I observe, Exit Oficers with Nqvoll, (196») Bxit Churaloi^
Creditors, and Officers, (200,) Exit Romont and Servant, (215»)
Exit Novail senior^ and Fontalier, (258,) &c. All exit, occurs
in the Emperor of the East, (311,) Exit Gentlemen, (224,) and
Exit Tiberio and Stephana, (245,) in the Duke of Milan : thes^
last blunders are Toluntary on the part of the editor : Coxeter^.
whom he usually follows, reads Ex, for Exeunt, the filling «pi
therefore, is solely due to his own ingenuity. Similar instances
might be produced from e? ery play. I woald not infer from
this that Mr. M. Mason is unacquainted with the meaning of
so common a word ; but if we relieye him from the charge of
ignorance, what becomes of his accuracy ? Indeed, it is diffi«
cult to say on what precise exertion of this faculty his claims
tOxfayoar were founded. Sometimes characters come in that
nerer go out,, and go out that neyer come in ; at other times
they speak before they enter, or after they have left the stage,
nay, ^^ to make it the more gracious," after they are asleep or
dead ! Here one mode of spelling is adopted, there another )
hereCoxeter is servilely followed, there, capriciously deserted ;
herp ,the scenes are numbered, there continued without dis-
tinction; here asides are multiplied without necessity, there
suppressed with manifest injury to the sense ; while the page
is every where encumbered with marginal directions, which,
being intended solely for the property-man, who, as has been
already mentioned, had but few properties at his .disposal, can
now only be regarded as designed to excite a smile at the ex?
pense of the author. Nor is this all: the absurd scenery
introduced by Coxeter is continued in despite of common
sense ; the lists of dramatis personae are, imperfectly givea in
every instance ; and even that of the Fatal Dowry, which has
no description of the characters^ is left by Mr. M. Mason as

^vi INTRanUCTION.

editors,, will probably be somewhat startled at
the comparative nakedness of mine. If this be
ap error, it is a voluntary one. I never could
l^onceive why the readers of our old dramatists
should.be suspected of labouring under a greater
degree of ignorance than those of any other
class of writers ; yet, from the trite and insig*
pificapt materials amassed for their information,
it is evident that. a persuasion of this nature is
uncommonly prevalent. Customs which «are
universal, and expressions ^^ familiar as house-
hold words" in every mouth, are illustrated,
that is to say, overlaid, by an immensity of
^aralleLpassages, with jpstas ipuch wisdom and
jeach^of thought as. would be evinced by bin) ^
who, to explain any simple word in this « line,
should empty upon the reader all the examples
to be found under it in Johnson's Dictionary !

This cheap and miserable display of minute
erudition grew up, in great measure, with

he fonnd it, though nothing can be more' destructi? e of that
imiformitj which the reader is led to expect from the l)6ld
pretensions of his preface,; in which (he will hear with some
surprise, after what he has just read) Cbxeter is bitt^rlj re^
proached for ^^ has want of attcntum^^ and accused of ^^ retaining,
in the text, a number of palpable blnilders!" I liope it is need-
less to add that these irregularities will not be fouiid in th^
present volumes. 1805.

' Sereral short nptes, relatiye to Mr. M.Hason's errors, h'ayt
been omitted in this edition. I protest, however, kgailiSt ererjr
attempt to take advantage of this forbearance, and' to represent
me as not sufficiently justified in my reproof of the editor, bj
the small number of mistakes now brought forward.

INTRODTJOTION. cvH

Warton : — peace to bis manes ! the <ause ^ of
sound literature ha» been fearfully, avenged
yj>on his head^ and the knight^errant who,
with his attendant Bowles^ the dullest ^ of all
mortal squires, ( whose ^driyellings are yet suf*
fered to defile the pages of the last editions,)
sallied forth in quest of the original proprietor
of every common word in Milton, has had his
copulatives and disjunctives, his buts^ and his
andSf sedulously ferretted out from aU the school-
books in the kingdom. As a prose- writer, he will
long continue to instruct and delight; but as a
poet, he is buried— lost» He is not of the race of
the Titans, nor does he possess sufiicient vigour
to shake off the weight of incumbent mountains.
However this may be, I have proceeded on a
different plan. Passages which only exercise
the memory, by suggesting similar thoughts
and expressions in other writers, are, if some-
what obvious,- generally left to the reader's own
discovery. Uncommon and obsolete words arc
briefly explained, and, where the phraseology
^as doubtful or p^cj^re,, jlt^jsj illu^tr^.^d. and
confirmed, by quotations from contemporary
authors. In this part of the work, no abuse has
been attempted of the reader's patience : the
most positive that qould.be fouu3., ar^^given,
and a sqrupulous at|;ention Js cyery where paid
to brevity ; as it has been ^Ijy^^ysany persuasion^

^^ That ivhere one's ptoofs are aptlj chosen^
'^ Foar are a3 valid as four doxeo."

cviii INTRODUCTION.

I do not know whether it may be proper to
add here, that the freedoms of the Author (of
which, as. none can be more sensible than
ipyself, so none can more lament them) have
obtained little of my solicitude : those, there-
fore, who examine the notes with a prurient eye,
will find no gratification of their licentiousness.
I have called in no Amner to drivel out gra-
tuitous obscenities in uncouth language;* no
Collins (whose name should be devoted to
lasting infamy) to ransack the annals of a bro*
thel for secrets ** better hid ;"' where I wished
not to.detfiin the readef, I have been silent, and
instead of aspiring to the fame of a licentious
commentator, sought only for the quiet appro-
bation with which the guardians of youth and
innocence may reward the faithful editor.

But whatever may be thought of my own

^ In uncouth language/] It is singular that Mr. Steeyens,
who was so well acquainted with.the words of our ancient
writers, should be so ignorant of their style. The language
which he has put into the mouth of Amner is a barbarous
jutable of different ages, that n^Tcr had, and neyer could haye,
a prototype,

^ One book wh'ich (not being, perhaps, among the archiyes
so carefully explored for the benefit of the youthful readers of
Shakspeare) seems to haye escaped the notice of Mr. Collins,
may yet be safely commended to his future researches, as not
unlikely to reward his pains. He will find in it, among many
other things equally yalnable, that,^^^ The knowledge of tricked'
ness ii not wisdom^ neither, at any time, the council of sinners
prudence/' EccUs, xix. 22*

INTRODUCTION. cix

notes, the critical observations which follow each
play, and, above all, the eloquent and masterly^
delineation of Massinger's character, subjoined
to the Old Law, by the companion of my youth,
the friend of my maturer years, the inseparable
and affectionate associate of my pleasures and
my pains, my graver and my lighter studies, the
Rev. Dr. Ireland,* will, I am persuaded, be re-
ceived with peculiar pleasure, if precision,
vigour, discrimination, and originality, preserve
their usual claims to esteem.

The head of Massinger, pre6xed to this
volume, was copied by ftiy young friend, Las-
celles Hoppner, from the print before the three
octavo plays published by H. Moseley, 1655.*
Whether it be really the ** vera effigies" of the
Poet, I cannot pretend to say : it was produced
sufficiently near his time to be accurate, and it
has not the air of a fancy portrait. There is, I
believe, no other.

^ Prebendary and sub-dean of Westminster, and vicar of
Croydon, in Surrey.

i The date on the plate is 1633. This mistake of thd
engraver, which was not discovered till it was printed off, th«
reader will have the goodness to correct witif the pen.

\

ESSAY ON THE DRAMATIC WRITINGS

OF MASSIN.GER.

4 1

By JOHN FERRIAR, M.D.

Manchester, October 35, 1786*

.... Ret antiquct laudU et artis
Ingrtdior^ sanctos ausut recluderefontes. Virg.

It might be urged, as a proof of our possessing
ar superfluity of good plays in our language, that
one of our best drannttic writers is very gener-
ally disregarded. But whatever conQlusion may
be drawn from thit^ fact, it will not be easy to
free 'the public from the £»ispicio« of capricci
while it continues to idolize Sh^kspeare, ^nd to
neglect an author nqt ^fteo^ mvtch inferior^^ and
sometimes nearly equal, to that wonderful poe<K
llf ussi n ger's fat efaas, i nd ^ed^been hard, far beyond
tht donkmon topics of the infelieity of genius.
He was not merely denied the fortune for which
hm laboured, and tii9 fame which he merited j^

cxii ESSAY ON THE

a still more cruel circumstance has attended his
productions : literary pilferers have built their
reputation on his obscurity, and the popularity
of their stolen beauties has diverted the public
attention from the excellent original.

An attempt was made in favour of this in-
jured Poet, in 1761, by a new edition of his
works, attended with a critical dissertation on
the old English dramatists, in which, though
composed with spirit and elegance, there is little
to be found respecting Massinger. Another
edition appeared in 177S, but the Poet remained
unexamined. Perhaps Massinger is still unfor-
tunate in his vindicator.

The same irregularity of plot, and disregard
of rules, appear in Massinger's productions, as
in those of his cotemporaries. On this subject,
Shakspeare has been so well defended, that it is
unnecessary to add any arguments in vindication
of our Poet. There is every reason to suppose
that Massinger did not neglect the ancient rules
From ignorance, for he appears to be one of
our most learned writers, (notwithstanding, the
insipid^ sneer of Antony Wood j?) and Cart-
wright, who was confessedly a man of great
erudition, is not more attentive to the unities,
than any other poet of that age. But our Au-
thor, like Shakspeare, wrote for bread : it ap-
pears, from different parts of his works,* that

* Athena Oxon. Vol. I.

* See particularly the dedication of Y/ie Maid of Honour ^ and
Great Duke of Florence.

• ««t

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxiii

much of his life had passed in slavish dependance,
and penury is not apt to eneourage a desire of
fame.
One observation, however, may be risked;^ on

. our irregular and regular plays ; that the for-
mer are more pleasing to the taste, and the
latter to the understanding ; readers must de-
termine, then, whether it is better to feel, or to
approve. Massinger^s dramatic art is too great
to allow a faint sense of propriety to dwell on
the mind, in perusing his pieces; he inflames or
soothes, excites the strongest . terror, or the
softest pity, Vith all the energy and power of a
true poet.

But if we must admit, that an irregular plot
subjects a writer to peculiar disadvantages, the
force of Massinger's genius will appear more
evidently, from this very concession. The
interest of his pieces is, for the most part, strong
and well defined ; the story, though worked up
to a studied intricacy, is, in general, resolved with
as much ease and probability as its nature will
permit ; attention is never disgusted by antici-
pation,, nor tortured with unnecessary delay.
These characters are applicable to most of Mas-
singer's own productions; but in those which
he wrote jointly with other dramatists, the in-
terest is often weakened, by incidents which

, that age permitted, but which ihe present would
not endure. Thus, in the RenegadOy^ the honour

' This play wai written by Massinger alone.
TOL. I. h

c?iv ESSAY ON THE

of Paulina is preserve4 from the brutality of
her Turkish master, by the influence of a relicy
which she wears on her breast : in the Virgin- •
Mart'^r^ the heroine is attended, through* all her
sufferings, by an angel disguised as her page ;
her persecutor is urged on to destroy her by an
attendant fiend/ also iq disguise. Here our
anxiety for the distressed, and our hatre4 of
the wicked, are completely stifled, and we are
more easily affected by 3ome burlesque passages
which follow, in the same legendary strain. In
the last quoted play, the attendant angel picks
the pockets of two debauchees, and Theopbilus^
overcomes the devil by means of a cr.oss com-,
posed of flow0i:s, which Dorothea had sent him
from. Paradise.

The story of the Bondman is more intricate than
that of the Duke of Milan, yet the former is a more
interesting play ; for in the latter the motives of
Francisco's conduct, which occasions the distress
of the piece, are.only disclosed in narration, at
the beginning of the fifth act : we therefore
consider hiQi:^ till that moment, as a man absurdly,
and unnaturally vicious: hut in the Bandmanf m^tq'
have frequent glimpses of sl ccmcedled splen-i
dour in the character of Pisander, which .keep
our attention fixed, and exalt our expfictation^
of the catastrophe. A more striking jcomparison
might be instituted between the Fatal Dtmry ^
of our Author, and Rowe's copy of it in his Fmr
Penitent; but this is very fully and judiciously

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxv

done, by the author of the Observer ^"^ who has
prorved sufBciently, that the interest of the Fair
Penitent is much weakened, by throwing into
narration what Masai nger had forcibly repre-
sented on the.stagc. uYet Howe's play is ren-
dered much more regular by alteration* Far-
quhar's Inconstant^ which is taken from our
Author's Guar&an^ and Fletcher's TVild-goose
Chace^ is considerably less elegant and less in-
teresting, by the plagiary's indiscretion; the
lively, facetious Durazzo of Massinger is trans-
formed into a nauseous buffboui in the cha-
racter of old Mirabel.

The art and judgment with which our Poet
conducts his incidents are every where admira-
ble. In the Duke ofMilan^ our pity for Marcelia
would inspire a detestation of all the other cha-
ractersi if she did not facilitate her ruin by the
indulgence of an excessive pride. In the Bond'^
man, Cleora would be despicable when she
changed her lover, if Leosthenes had not ren-
dered himself unworthy of her, by a mean jea-
lousy» The violence: of Almira's passion in the
Fhfy ff^oman^ prepares us for its decay. Many
detached scenes in these pieces possess uncom-
mon beauties of incident and situation. Of this
kind, are the interview between Charles V. and
Sforza,*. which, though notoriously contrary to
true history, and very deficient in the repre-

4 NovLXXXViri, LXXXIX. XC

9 Duke ff Milan, Act 11.

ha

cxvi ESSAY ON THE

mentation of the emperor, arrests our attention^
and awakens our feelings in the strongest man-
ner; the conference of Mathias and Baptista,
when Sophia's virtue becomes suspected;* the
pleadings in the Fatal Dcfwry^ respecting the
funeral rites of Charalois; the interview be-
tween don John, disguised as a slave, and his
mistress, to whom he relates his story;' but,
above all, the meeting of Pisander and Cleora,*
after he has excited the revolt of the slaves, in
order to get her within his power. These
scenes are eminently distinguished by their
novelty, correctness, and interest; the most'
minute critic will find little wanting, and the
lover of truth and nature can suffer nothing to
be taken away.

It is no reproach of our Author, that the
foundation of several, perhaps all, of his plots
may be traced in different historians, or novel-
lists ; for in supplying himself from these sources,
he followed the practice . of the age. Shak-
speare, Jonson, and the rest, are not more ori-
ginal, in this respect, than our Poet ; if Cart-
wright may be exempted, he is the only excep-
tion to this remark. As the minds of an audi-
ence, unacquainted with the models of antiquity,
could only be affected by immediate applica-
tion to their passions, our old. writers crowded
as many incidents, add of as perplexing a. nature
as possible, into their works, to support anxiety

• Picture, ^ A Very Woman. • Bondman.

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxvii

and expectation to their utmost height. Iti our
reformed tragic school, our pleasure arises from
the coDtemplation of the writer's art; and
instead of eagerly watching for the unfolding
of the plot, (the imagination being left at liberty
by the simplicity of the action,) we consider
whether it be properly conducted* Another
reason, however, may be assigned for the intri-
cacy of those plots, namely, the prevailing taste
for the manners and writings of Italy, During
the whole of the. sixteenth, and part of the
seventeenth century, Italy was the seat of
elegance and arts, which the other European
natrons had begun to admire, but not to imitate.
From causes which it would be foreign to the
present purpose to enumerate, the Italian writers
abounded in complicated and interesting stories,
which were eagerly seized by a people not well
qualified for invention;' but the richness, va-
riety, and distinctness of character which our
writers added to those tales, conferred beauties
on them which charm us at this hour, however
disguised by the alterations of manners and
langujige.

Exact discrimination and consistency of cha*
racter appear in all Massinger's productions:
sometimes, indeed, the interest of the play suf-

' Cartwriglit and. Congreve, . who resemble each other
ttrongly in some remarkable circumstances, are almost our
only drainatists who hate any claim to originality in their
plotf*

cxviii ESSAY ON THE

fers by his scrupulous attention to them; Thus^^
in the Fatal Htmryy Charalois's fortitude and
determined sense of honour are carried to a
most unfeeling and barbarous degree: and
Francisco's villainy, in the Duke of' Milan, is cold
and considerate beyond nature. But here We
must again plead the sad necessity under which
our Poet laboured, of pleasing his audience at
any rate. It was the prevailing opinion, that
the characters ought to approach towards each
other as little as possible. This was termed arty
and in consequence of this, as Dr. Hurd ob-
serves,* some writers of that time have founded
their characters on abstract ideas, instead of
copying from real life. Those delicate and
beautiful shades of manners, which we admire
in Shakspeare, were reckoned inaccuracies by
his contemporaries. Thus Cartwright says, in
his verses to Fletcher, speaking of Shakspeare,
whom he undervalues, " nature was alt his art:**
General manners must always influence the
stage; unhappily, the manners of Massinger's
age were pedantic. Yet it must be allowed that
our Author's characters are less abstract than
those of Jonson or Cartwright, and that^ with
more dignity, they are equally natural with
those of Fletcher. His conceptions are, for the
most part, just and noble. We have a fine
instance of this in the character of Dioclesian,
who, very differently from the ranting tyrants

■

' Essay on the Provinces of the Drama*

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxix

by whom the stage has been so long possessed,
is generous to his vanquished enemies, and per-
secutes from policy as mucfi as f;rom zeal. He
attracts our respect, immediately, on. his ap-
pearance, by the following sentiments :

I

^* m. l Ir. all ^cowing empires,
Even cruelty is ase&l ; ^ some nost saffer, .
« , And be set up examples^ to- strike terror '
In others, though far off ; but, .when a state
Is raised to her perfection, and her bases
Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy,
And do't with safety :

Virgin Martyr^ Act I. sc* i.

Sforza is an elevated character, cast in a diffe-
rent mould; brave, frank, and generous, he is
hurried, by the unrestrained force of his pas-
sions, into fatal excesses in love and friendship.
He appears with great dignity before the em-
peror, on whose mercy he is thrown, by the
defeat of his allies, the French, at the battle of
Pavia* After recounting his obligations to
Francis, he proceeds .\ »

If that, then, to be grateful
For courtesies received, or not to leate
A friend in his necessities, be a crime
Amongst you Spaniards, ...

, . . Sforza brings his head

To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slare,
Pinion'd and fetter'd, in a squalid weed,
Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling.
For a forestaU*d remission : that xrere poor,

cxx ESSAY ON THE

And ^ould but shame thj Tietory ; for Gonquest

Oyer base foes, is a captiTity,

And not a triumph* I ne'er fear'd to die,

More than I wish'd to lire. When I had reach'd

My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes,

This crown upon my head, and to my side

This sword was girt ; and witness truth, that, now

'Tis in another's power when I shall part

With them and life together, I'm* the same :

My veins then did not swell with pride ; nor now

Shrink they for fear.

The Duke of Mila»h Act III. sc. ii.

In the scene where Sforza enjoins Francisco to
dispatch Marcelia, in case of the emperor's pro-
ceeding to extremities against him, the Poet
has given him a strong expression of horror at
his own purpose. After disposing Francisco to
ohey his commands without reserve, by reca-
pitulating the favours conferred on him, Sforza
proceeds to impress him with the blackest view
of the intended deed :

•

- - - But you must swear it ;

And put into the oath all joys or torments

That fright the wicked, or confirm the good ;

Not to conceal it only, that is nothing,

But, whensoe'er my will shall speak. Strike now.

To fall upon't like thunder.

- • Thou must do, then,

What no malerolent star will dare to look on,
It is so wicked : for which men will^ curse thee
For being the instrument ; and the blest angels
• Forsake me at my need, for being the author :
For 'tis a deed of night, of night, Francisco I ,

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxi

I ,

t

In which the memory of all good actions
We can pretend' to^ shall be buried quick :
Or, if we be remember*^* it shall be
To fright posterity by our example, /
That have outgone all precedents of ? iliaint
lliat were before us ;

The Duke ofMUan^ Act I. sc. nlt«
* • . ^

If we compare this scene, and especially the
passage quoted, with the celebrated scene be-
tween king John and Hubert, we shall perceive
this remarkable difference, that Sforza, while
he proposes to his brother-in-law and favourite,
the eventual murder of his wife, whom he ido-
lizes, is consistent and determined ; his mind is
filled with the horror of the deed, but borne to
the execution of it by the impulse of an extra-
vagant and fantastic delicacy : John, who is
actuated solely by the desire of removing his
rival in the crown, not only fears to communi-
cate his purpose to Hubert, though he perceives
him to be

A fellow by the hand of nature markM,
Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame ;

but after he has sounded him, and found him
ready to execute whatever he can propose^ he
only hints at the deed. Sforza enlarges on the
cruelty and atrocity of his design; John is
afraid to utter his^ in the view of the sun : nay,
the sanguinary Richard hesitates in proposing
the murder of his nephews to Buckingham. In
this instance then, as well as that of Cbaralois,

cxxii ESSAY ON I'HE

our Poet may seem to deviate from nature, for
ambition is a stronger passion than love, yet
Sforza decides with more promptness and con-
fid euce than either of Shakspeare's characters.
We must consider, however, that timidity and
irresolution are characteristics of John, and that
Richard's hesitation appears to be assumed, only
in order to transfer the^ guilt and odi'Um of the
action to Buckingham.

It was hinted before, that the character of
Pisander in the Bondman^ is tnore interesting
than that of Sforza. His virtues, so unsuitable
to the character of a slave, the boldness of his
desigps, and the ^steadiness of his courage, ex«*
cite attention a;nd anxiety iti the most powerful
manner. He is perfectly consistent, and though
lightly shaded with chivalry is not deficient in
nature or pfission, Leosthenes is also the child

•

of nature, whom perhaps we trace in some later
jealous characters. Cleora is finely drawn, but
to the presetit age, perhaps, appears rather too
masculine : the exhibition of characters which
should wear an unalterable charm, in their finest;
and almost insensible touches, wlas peculiar to
the prophetic genius of Shakspeare.* Massinger
has given a strong proof of his genius, by in-
troducing in a different play, a similar character,

* If Massinger formed the lingular character of sir Giles
Orer-reach from his own imagination, what should we think
of his sagacity, who have seen this poetical phantom realised
in our days ? Its apparent eztraragance required this support*

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxiii

in a like situation to that of Pisatideri yet with
snfficient discriroination of manners and inci-
dent; I mean don John, in the Very fVaman^
who, like Pisander, gains bis mistress's heart,
under the disguise of a slave. Don John is a
model of magnanimity^ superior to Cato^ because
he is free from pedantry- and ostentation. I
believe, he may be regarded as an original cha-
racter. It was easy to interest our feelings for
all the characters already described, but no
writer, before Massinger, had attempted td
make a player the hero of tragedy. This, how-
ever, he has executed, with surprising address,
in. the Roman Actor. It must be confessed that
Paris, the actor, owes much of his dignity to
incidents: at the opening of the play, he de-
fends his profession successfully before the
senate; this artful introduction raises him in
our ideas, above the level of his situation, for
the Poet has " graced him with all the power of
words;" the empress's passion for him places
him in a -still more distinguished light, and he
meets his death from the hand of the emperor
himself, in a mock-play. It is, perhaps, from
a sense of the difficulty of exalting Paris's
character, and of the dexterity requisite to fix
the attention of the audience on it, that Mas-
singer says, in the dedication of this play, that
" he ever held it the most perfect birth of his
Minerva." I know not whether it is owing to
design, or to want of art, that Romont, in the

cxxiv ESSAY ON THE

Fatal Dor&ry f .interests us aa much as Charalois^
the hero. If Charalois surrenders his liberty to
procure funeral rites for his father, Romont
previously provokes the court to imprison him,
by speaking with too much animation in the
cause of. his friend. Romont, though insulted
by Charalois, who discredits his report of Beau-
melle*s infidelity, flies to him with alt the eager*-
ness of attachment, when Cbaralois is involved
in difficulties by the murder of Novall and his
wife, and revenges his death, when he is asgas*
sinated by Pontalier. Rowe, who neglected
the finest parts of this tragedy in his plagiarism,
(the Fair P^nitent^) has not failed to copy the
fault I have pointed out His Horatio is a much
finer character than his Altamont, yet he is but
a puppet when compared with Massinger's
Romont. Camiola (the Maid of Honour) is a
most delightful character; her fidelity, genero-?
sity, dignity of manners, and elevation of senti-
ments, are finely displayed, and nobly sustained
throughout. It is pity that the Poet thought
himself obliged to debase all the other charac-
ters in the piece in order to exalt her. There is
an admirable portrait of Old Malefort, in that
extravagant composition, the Unnatural Combat.
The Poet seems to equal the art of the writer
whom he here imitates :

. - . I hare known him

From his first youth, but never jet observed^

In all the passages of his life and fortunes^ ^

WRITINGS OF MASSINGEft. cxxv

Virtues so mix'd with rices : valiant the .world speaks him,

Bat with that, bloody ; liberal in his gifts too.

But to maintain his prodigal expense,

A fierce extortioner ; an impotent loYcr

Of women for a' flash, bat, his fires quenchM,

Hating as deadly : Act. III. sc. ii*

Alraira and Cardenes, in the Very JVoman^ are
copied from nature, and therefore never obsolete.
They appear like many favourite characters in
our present comedy, amiable in their tempers,
and warm in their attachments, but capricious,
and impatient of control. Massinger, with
unusual charity, has introduced a physician in
a respectable point of view, in this play. We
are agreeably interested in Durazzo,' who has
all the good nature of Terence's Micib, with
more spirit. His picture of country sports may
be viewed with delight even by those who might
not relish the reality :

rise before the son,
Then make a breakfast of the morning dew,
SerTed up by nature on some grassy hill ;
T6aMi find it nectar, .

In the City Maddniy we are presented with the
character of a finished hypocrite, but so artfully
drawn, that he appears to be rather governed
by external circumstances, to which he adapts
himself; than to act, like Moliere's Tartuffe,
from a formal system of wickedness. His humi-
lity and benevolence, while he appears as a

' The Guardian.

cxxvi ESSAY ON THE

ruined man/ and ad his. brother's servanti are
evidently produced by the pressure of his mis-
fortunes, and he discovers a tameness, amidst
the insults of his relations, that indicates an
inherent baseness of disposition/ — ^When he is
informed that his brother has retired from the
world, and has left him his immense fortune, he
seems at first to apprehend a deception :

Omj good lord !
This heap of wealth which yoa possess me of,
Which to a worldly Ddan had been a blessing, /
And to the messenger might with justice challenge
A kind of adoralion, is to me . .
A curse I cannot thank jou for ; and much less
Rejoice in that tranquillity of mind
My brother's tows inast purchase. I have made
A dear exchange with him : he now enjoys
My peace and po?erty, the trouble of
His wealth conferred on me, and that a burthen
Too heafy for my weak shoulders. Act. III. sc. ii.

On receiving the will, he begins to promise
unbounded lenity to his servants, and makes
professions and promises to the ladies who used
him so cruelly in his adversity, which appear at
last to be ironical, though they take them to be
sincere. He does not disf>lay himself till he has
visited his wealth, the sight, of which, dazzles
and astonishes him so far as to throw him oiF hia
guard; and to render him insolent. Massinger
displays a knowledge of man not very usual

^ See particularly his soUioquy, Aet III. sc. ii.

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxvii

with dramatic writers, while he reprwents the
same person as prodigal of a small fortune in his
youth, servile and hypocritical in his distresses,
arbitrary and rapacious in the possession of
wealth suddenly acquired: for those- seeming
changes of character depend on the same dis-
position variously infiuenced; I mean, on a
base and feeble mind, incapable of resisting the
power of external circumstances. In order,
however, to prepare us for the extravagances of
this character, after he is enriched, the Poet
delineates his excessive transports on viewing
his wealth, in a speech which cannot be injured
by a comparison with any soliloquy in our lan-
guage :

'Twas no fantastic object, but a truth,

A real truth ; nor dream : I did not slumber^

And could wake ever with a brooding eye

To gaze upon't! it did endure the touch,

I saw and felt it ! Yet what I beheld

And handled oft, did so transcend belief,

(Mj wonder and astonishment pass'd o'er,)

I faintly could gifc credit to my tenses.

Thou dumb magician,-— -[raA:t»^ oui a A:tf^.]-*that without

a charm
Did'st make my entrance easy, to possess
What wise men wish, and toil for ! Hermes* moly,
Sibylla's golden bough, the great elixir,
Imagined only by the alchymist,

Compared with thee are shadows, — thou the substance^
And guardian of felicity I No marvel,
My brother made thy place of rest his bosom^
Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress

cxxviii ESSAY ON THE

To be hagg'd eTer ! In bj-corners of
, oThis sacred room, siWer in bags, heap'd np
Like billets sawM and ready for the fire,
Unworthy to hold fellowship, with bright gold
That flowM about the room, concealed itself.
There needs no artificial light ; the splendor
Makes a perpetaal day there, night and darkness
By that still-burning lamp for erer banish'd !
Bat when, guided by that, my eyes had made
DiscoTery of the caskets, and they open'd.
Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth
A pyramid of flames^ and in the roof
Fix'd it a glorious star^ and made the place
Heaven's abstract, or epitome! — rubies, sapphires,
And ropes of oriental pearl ; these seen, I could not
But look on gold with contempt.^ And yet I found
What weak credulity could have no faith in,
^ treasure far exceeding these : here lay
A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment,
The wax continuing hard, the acres melting ;
Here a sure deed of gift for a market.town,
If not redeemed this day, which is not in
The nnthriffs power : there being scarce one ahire
In Wales, or England, where my monies are not
Lent out at usury, the certain hodk
To draw in more. I am sublimed ! gross earth
Supports me not ; I walk on air ! — Who's there ?

' In these quotations, the present edition has been hitherto
followed. Dr. Ferriar, it appears, made use of Mr. M. Mason's,
to whose vitiated readings it is necessary to recur on the pre-
sent occasion, as the Doctor founds on them his exception to
the general excellence of Massingers Tersification. The reader
who wishes to know how these lines were really given by the
Poety must turn to Vol. IV. p. 67, where he will find them to
be as flowing and harmonious as any part of the speech.

Editor.

^^

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxix

Enter Lord Lact, with Sir John Frugal, Sir Maurice hxctf

and Plenty, disguised as Indians.

Thieves! raise the street! thi^yes! Act IIL sc, iif.

It was a great effort by which such a train
of violent emotions and beautiful images was
drawn, with the strictest propriety, from the.
indulgence of a passion to which other poets
can only give interest in its anxieties and dis-
iappointments. Every sentiment in this fine
soliloquy is touched with the hand of a master;
the speaker, overcome by the splendour of his
acquisitions, can scarcely persuade himself that
the event is real; " it is no fantasy, but a truth;
a real truth, no dream ; he does not slumber ;"
the natural language of one who strives to con-
vince himself that he is fortunate beyond all
probable expectation; for ** he could wake
ever to gaze- upon his treasure :" again he re-
verts to his assurances; " it did endure the
touch; he saw and felt it." These broken ex-
clamations and anxious repetitions, are the pure
voice of nature. Recovering from his astonish-
ment, his mind dilates with the value of his
possessions, and the Poet finely directs the
whole gratitude of this mean character to the
key of his stores. In the description which
follows, there is a striking climax in sordid
luxury; that passage where

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

VOL. I. i

exxx ESSAY ON THE

though founded on a false idea in natural his-
tory, long since exploded, is amply excused by
the singular and beautiful image which it pre*
sents. The contemplation of his enormous
wealth, still amplified by his fancy, transports
him at length to a degree of frenzy ; and now
seeing strangers approach, he cannot conceive
them to come upon any design but that of rob-
bing him, and with the appeasing of his ridicu*
ious alarm this storm of passion subsides, which
stands unrivalled in its kind, in dramatic his-
tory. The soliloquy possesses a very uncommon
beautj", that of forcible description united with
J passion and character. I should scarcely hesi-
tate to prefer the description of sir John FrugaPs
counting-house to Spenser's house of riches.

It is very remarkable, that in this passage,
the versification is so exact, (two lines only
excepted*) and the diction so pure and elegantj^
that, although much more than a century has
elapsed since it was written, it would be per-
haps impossible to alter the measure or language
without injury, and certainly very difficult to
produce an equal length of blank verse, from
any modern poet, which should bear a com-
parison with Massingcr's, even in the mechani-
cal part of its construction. This observation
may be extended, to all our Poet's productions:
majesty, elegance, and sweetness of diction
predominate in them. It is needless to quote
any single passage for. proof of this, because

^ Bat see the preceding note, p. czxTiii.

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxxl

noBe of those which I am gotag to introduce
will afford any exception to the remark, Indcr
pendent of character, the writings of this great
Poet abound with noble passages. It is only in
the productions of true poetical genius that we
meet with successful allusions to sublime natural
objects ; the attempts of an inferior writer, in
this kind, are either borrowed or disgusting.
If Massinger were to be tried by this rule alone,
we must rank him very high; a few instances
will prove this. Theophilus, speaking of Dio-
clesian's arrival, says,

• - • - The marches of great princes,
Like to the motions of prodigious meteors,

Are step by step obseryetl; Virgin Martyr^ Act I. sc. i.

The introductory circumstances of a threaten-
ing piece of intelligence, are

• - - - bat creeping billows.

Not got to shore yeii lb* Act II. sc. ii.

In the same play, we meet with this charming
image, applied to a modest young nobleman :

The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him,

Shine there but as in water, and gild him

Not with one spot of pride: Ih. sc. iii.

No Other fig\ire could so happily illustrate the
peace and purity of an ingenuous mind, uncor-
rupted by favour. Massinger seems fond of
this thought; we meet with a similar one in the
Guardian t

I have seen those eyes with pleasant glances play
Upon Adorio's, like Pfaoebe's shine^
Gilding a crystal ri?er ; Act IV. sc. i.

is

cxxxii : ESSAY ON THE '

There are two parallel passages in Shakspearc,
to whom we are probably indebted for this, as
well as for many other fine images of our Poet,
The first is in tht'JVinter' s Tale*

He says h« lores my daughter ; ,

I think so too : for neyer gazM the moon
Upon the water, as he'll stand, and read.
As 'twere, my daughter's eyes. Act IV. ac. if.

The second is ludicrous :

JS!ing, Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine
(Those clouds remov'd) upon our wat'ry eyne.

l^o^. O Tain petitioner! beg a greater matter;

Thou now requesfst but moon-shine in the water.

Love*s Labour's Losty Acf V. sc. if.

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

. . - • as the suDy
Thou did'st rise gloriously, kept'st a constant course
In all thy journey ; and now, in the evening,
When thou should'st pass with honour to thy rest.
Wilt thou fall like a meteor ?

Virgin Martyr^ Act V. sc. ii.

O summer-friendship,
Whose flattering leaves, that sbadow'd us in our
Prosperity, with the least gust drop off
In the autumn of adversity.

Maid of Honour^ Act III* sc. i.

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

- - - What a sea

Of melting ice I walk on ! Act III. sc. iv.

A very noble figure, in the following passage,
seems borrowed from Sbakspeare :

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxxiii

- - ' What a bridge

* Of glass I walk upon, orer a river
Of certain ruin, mine-cmi weighty fears
Cracking what should support me !

The Bondman^ Act IV* sc. iii.

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

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

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

I'll take thee " and hang thee
In a contorted chain of isicles
In the frigid zone : Virgin Martyr^ Act V. sc. i.

is derived from the same source with that pas-
sage in Measure for Measure^ where it is said
to be a punishment in a future state,

. • - to reside

In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice.

Again, in the Old Law^ we meet with a passage
similar to a much celebrated oneof Shakspeare's,
but copied with no common hand :

- - In my youth

I YiVA a soldier, no coward in my age;

I nerer turn'd my back upon my foe ;

I hare felt nature^s winters, sicknesses,

Tet ever kept a lively sap in me

To greet the cheerful spring of health again. Act I* sc. i.

\

\

cxxxiv ESSAY ON THE

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

For in my youth I never did appl)r

Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood ;

Nor did not i¥ith unbashful forehead wop

The means of weakness and debility ;

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,

Frosty, but kindly. 7 As You Like J/, Act II. sc. iii*

Our Poet's writings are stored with fine sen-
timents, and thie same observatioa which has
bein made on Shakspeare's, holds true of our
Author, that his sentiments are so artfully in-»
troduced, that they appear to come uncjilledi
and to force themselves on the mind of the
speaker.* In the legendary play of the Virgin^
Martyr, Angelo delivers a beautiful sentiment,
perfectly iu the spirit of the piece :

Lpok oi^ the pppr
Witfi geqt|e eyes, for in such lu^bits, often,
Angels desire an alms.

When Francisco, in the.Duke of MilaUj succeeds
in his designs against the life of Marcelja; he
remarks with exultation, that

When he's a suitor, that brings cunning arm'd
With [^wer, to be his advocates, the denial

7 In an expression of Archidacpus, in the Bondman^ we dif«
cover, perhaps^ the origin of an image in Paradise Lost :
. . ^ O'er our heads, with sail-stretch 'd wings,
Destruction borers. T^e ^mdman^ Act I. sc. iii.

Milton says of Satan,
. • - His sail-broad vanns

He spreads .for flight*
* Mrs* MoniAgii^s Essay on Shakspeare.

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. (jxxxr

Is a disease as Ulling as the plague^
And chastity a clue that leads to death.

Act IV. sc. it.

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

Here they, that nerer see themselves, bat in
The glass of servile flattery, might behold
The weak foandatioa apon which they baild
Their trust in human frailty. Happy are those^
That knowing, in their births, they are subject to
Uncertain change, are still prepared, and arm'd
For either fortune : a rare principle,
And with much labour, learn'd in wisdom's school}
For, as these bondmen, by their actions, shew
That their prosperity, like too large a sail
For their small bark of judgment, sinks them with
A fore-right gale of liberty, ere they reach
The port they long to touch at : so these wretches,
Swollen with the false opinion of their worth.
And proud of blessings left them, not acquired ;
That did believe they could with giant arms
Fathom the earth, and were above their fates,
Those borrow'd helps, that did support them, vanish'd^
Fall of themselyes, and by unmanly suffering,
• Betray their proper weakness. Act III. sc iii«

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

. - The noble hor&e,
That^ in his fiery youth^ftwn his wide nostrils
Neighed courage to his ridir, and brake through
Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord
Safe to triumphant victory ; old or wounded
Was set at liberty, and freed from service.

cxxxvi ESSAY ON THE

The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew
Marble, hew'd for the temples of the gods.
The great work ended, were dismiss'd, and fed
At the public cost ; nay, faithful dogs haye found
Their sepulchres ; but man, to man more cruel,
Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave.

lb. Act IV. sc. ii*

The sense of degradation in a lofty mind, hur-
ried Into vice by a furious and irresistible pas-
sion, is expressed very happily in tlie Renegade,
by Donusa :

- - - What poor means

Must I make use of now ! and flatter such,

To whom, till I betray'd my liberty,

One gracious look of mine would hare erected

An altar to my service ! Act II. sc. i.

Again,

- . . O that I should blush
To speak what I so much desire to do I

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

It is more
Impossible in nature for gross bodies,
Descending of themselves, to hang in the air ;
Or with my single arm to underprop
A falling tower ; nay, in its violent course
To stop the lightning, than to stay a woman
Hurried by two furies, lust and falsehood,
In her full career to wickedness !

- - . I am thrown •

From a steep rock headlong into a gulph

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxxxvii

Of misery, and find myself past hope,
In the same moment that I apprehend
That I am falling. Act IV. sc. i.

But if Massinger does not always ^exhibit the
liveliest and most natural expressions of pas-
sion ; if, like most other poets, he sometimes
substitutes declamation for those expressions ;
in description at least he puts forth all his
strength, and never disappoints us of an asto-
nishing exertion. We may be content to rest
his character, in the description of passion, on
the following single instance. In the Feri/
Womatiy Almira's lover, Cardenes, is danger-
ously wounded in a quarrel, by don John An-
tonio, who pays his addresses to her.. Take,
now, a description of Aluiira's frenzy on this
event, which the prodigal author has put into
the mouth of a chambermaid :

• - - If she slnmber'd, straight,
As if some dreadful Tision had appear'd.
She started ap, her hair unbound, and, with
Distracted looks staring about the chamber.
She asks aloud, Where is Martino f where
Have you conceal'd him f sometimes names Antonio,
Trembling in every joint^ her brows contracted^
Her fair face as 'twere changed into a curse^
Her hands held up thus; and, as if her words
Were too big to find passage through her mouth,
She groans, then throws herself upon her bed,
Beating her breast. Act II. sc. iii.

To praise or to elucidate this passage, would
be equally superfluous; I am acquainted with

•xxxviii ESSAY ON THE

« ■

nothing superior to it, in descriptive pofstry,
and it would be hardy to bring any single in*
stance in competition with it. Our Poet is not
less happy in his descriptions of inanimate
nature^ and his descriptions bear the peculiar
stamp of true genius in their beautiful concise-
ness. What an exquisite picture does he present
in the compass of less than two lines !

jon haoging cliff, that glasses
His rugged forehead in the neighbouriDg lake,

RenegadOf Act II. sc. r.

Thus also Dorothea's description of Paradise :

Ther€U a perpetual spring, perpetual youth :
Ko joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat,
Famine, nor age, hare any being there.

The Virgin Martyr, Act 17. sc. iii.

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

Happy the golden mean ! had I been bonk

In a poor sordid cottage, not nurs'd up

With expectation to command a court^

I might, like such of your condition, sweetest,

Haye ta^en a safe and middle course, and not^

As I am now, against my choice, compcU'd

Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised

So high upon the pinnacles of state,

That I must, either keep my height with danger.

Or fall with certain ruin - - •

» • Pi » we Bught walk

WRITINGS OF MA^SINGER, cxxxijf

In solitary groves^ or in choice gardens ;

From the variety of curious flowers

Contemplate nature's workmanship, and wonders ;

And then, tor change, near to the murmur of

Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing,

And, from the w'ell-tuned accents of your tongue^

In my imagination conceive

With what melodious harmony a quire

Of angels sing abore their Maker's praises*

A-nd then with qhaste discourse, as we return'dj^

Imp feathers to the broken wings of time :— «

. - - walk into

. The silent groves, and hear the amorous birds
Warbling their wanton notes ; here, a sure shad#
Of barren sycamores, which the all.seeing sun
Could not pierce through ; near that, an arbour hung
With spreading eglantine ; there, a bubbling spring
Watering a bank of hyacinths and lilies ;

The Great Duke of Florence^ Act \p sc, i. and
Act IV. sc« ii.

Let U3 pppwe to the§e peaceful and inglorious
images^ the picture of a triumph by tHe same
masterly h^n^ :

r when she views you,

like a triumphant conqueror, carried through
The streets of Syracusa, the glad people
Pressing to meet you, and the senators
Contending who shall heap most honours on you ;
The oxen, erown^d with garlands, led before yoD^
Appointed for the sacrifice ; and the altars
Smoaking with thankful inoense to the gods :
The soldiers chanting loud hymns io yoar pn^e,
The windows fill'd with matrons and with virginsy
Throwing upon your head, as you pass by,
The choicest iowers, and sUeady invoking

cxl ESSAY ON THE

The queen of Iotc, with tbeir particular rowf 9
To be thought worthy of you.

The Bondmatty Act III. sc. in

Every thing here is animated, yet every action
is appropriated : a painter might work after
this sketch, without requiring an additional
circumstance.

The speech of young Charalois, in the funeral
procession, if too metaphorical for his character
and situation, is at l^ast highly poetical :

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

Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove
Of death, thus hollowly break forth.

The Fatal Dofwry^ Act II. sc* i.

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

• . - were Margaret only fair,
The cannon of her more than earthly form,
Though mounted high, commanding all beneath it.
And ramm'd with bullets of her sparkling eyes.
Of all the bulwarks that defend your senses

Could batter none, but that which guards your sight.

But . - - -

• • when you feel her^ouch, and breath

WRITINGS OF MASSINGER. cxli

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

Hippoljtus himself would Uare Dlana^
To follow such a Venus.

A New Way to pay Old Debts^ Act III. sc. !•

What pity, that he should ever write so extra-
vagantly, who could produce this tender and
delicate image, in another piece :

What's that ? oh, nothing but the whispering wind
Breathes through yon churlish hawthorn, that grew

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

The Old Lawy Act IV. sc. ii.

I wish it could be added to Massinger's just
praises, that he had preserved his scenes from
the impure dialogue which disgusts us in most
of our old writers. But we may observe, in
defence of his failure, that several causes ope-
rated at that time to produce such a dialogue,
and that an author who subsisted by writing was
absolutely subjected to the influence of those
causes. The manners of the age permitted
great freedoms in language ;" the theatre was
not frequented by the best company; the male
part of the audience was by much the more
numerous ; and, what perhaps had a greater
effect than any of these, the women's parts were
performed by boys. So ]f)Owerful was the effect
of those circumstanceSf that Cartwright is the

elxii ESSAY ON THE

only dramatist of that age whose works are
tolerably, free from indecency. Massinger's
error, perhaps, appears more strongly, because
his indelicacy has not always the apology of
wit ; for, either from a natural deficiency in that
quality, or from the peculiar model on which
he had formed himself, his comic characters are
less witty than those of his cotemporaries, and
when he attempts wit, he frequently dege-
nerates into buffoonery. But he has shewed,
in a remarkable manner, the justness of his
taste, in declining the practice of quibbling ;
and as wit and a quibble were supposed, in that
age, to be inseparable^ we are perhaps to seek,
in his aversion to the prevailing folly, the true
cause of his sparing employment of wit.

Our Poet excels more in the description than
in the expression of passion ; this may be as-
cribedi in somb measure, to his nice attention
to the fable : while bis scenes are managed
with consumnKtte skill, the lighter shades of
character and sentiment ate lost in the tendency
of each part to the catastr(^he.

The prevailing beauties of his productions
are dignity and elegance; their predominant
fault is want of passion.

The melody, force, and variety of his versi-
fication are every where remarkable : admitting
the force of all the objections which are made
to the enqxloyment of blank verse in comedy,
Massittger possesses charms sufficient to dissipitte

WRITINGS OF MAS8INGER. cxliu

them all. It is indeed equally different from
that which modem authors are pleased to style
blank verse, and from the flippant prose so
loudly celebrated in the comedies of the day*
The neglect of our old comedies seems to arise
from other causes, than from the employment
of blank verse in their dialogue ; for, in general,
its construction is so natural, that in the mouth
of a good actor it runs into elegant prose. The
frequent delineations of perishable manners, in
our old comedy, have occasioned this neglect,
and we may foresee the fate of our present
fashionable pieces^ in that which has attended
Jonson's, Fletcher's, and Massinger's : they are
either entirely overlooked, or so mutilated, to
fit them for representation, as neither to retain
the dignity of the old comedy, nor to acquire
the graces of the new.

Tlie changes of manners have necessarily
produced very remarkable effects on theatrical
performances. In proportion as our best writers
are further removed from the present times, they
exhibit bolder and more diversified characten,
because the prevailing manners admitted a fuller
display of sentiments, in the common inter*
course of life. Our own times, in which the
^intention of polite education is to produce a
general, uniform manner, afford little diversity
of character for the stage. Our dramatistSi
therefore, mark the distinctions of their cha-
racters, by incideats more than by sentiments.

cxliv: ESSAY ON THE

and abound more in striking situations than
interesting dialogue. In the old comedy, , the
catastrophe is occasioned, in general, by a
change in the mind of some principal character,
artfully prepared, and cautiously conducted;
in the modern, the unfolding of the plot is
effected by .the overturning of a screen, the
opening of a door, or by some other equally
dignified machine.

When we compare Massinger with the other
dramatic writers of his age, we cannot long
hesitate where to place him. More natural in
his characters, and more poetical in his diction,
than Jonson or Cartwright, more elevated and
nervous than Fletcher, the only writers who
can be supposed to contest his pre-eminence,
Massinger ranks immediately under Shakspeare
himself.

It must be confessed, that in comedy Mas-
singer falls considerably beneath Shakspeare ;
his wit is less brilliant, and his ridicule less deli-
cate and various ; but he affords a specimen of
elegant comedy,* of which there is no archetype
in his great predecessor. By the rules of a very
judicious critic,* the characters in this piece
appear to be of too elevated a rank for comedy;
. yet though the plot is somewhat embarrassed
by this circumstance, the diversity, spirit, and
, consistency of the characters render it a most

9 The Great Duke of Florence.

' See the Essatf an the Provinces of the Drama,

WRITINGS OF MASSING ER. cxlv

teresting play. In tragedy, Massinger is rather
eloquent than pathetic ; yet he is often as ma-
jestic, and generally more elegant than his
master ; he is as powerful a ruler of the under-
standing, as Shakspeare is of the passions : with
the disadvantage of succeeding that matchless
poet, there is still much original beauty in his
works; and the most extensive acquaintance
with poetry will hardly diminish the pleasure
of a reader and admirer of Massinger.

VOL. I.

[ cxlvli ]

COMMENDATORY VERSES

ON MASSINGER.

Upon this Work [The Duke of Milan] of his be-
loved Friend the Author.

X A M snapt already, and may go my way ;

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet like a rude jack-sauce in poesy,
With thoughts unblest, and hand unmannerly,
Ravishing branches from Apollo's tree ;

k S

cxlviii COMMENDATORY VERSES

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

As if it were the supreme head of wit :

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

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

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

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

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

spread, ^
And shouldst thou write, while thou shalt not be

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

W. B/ N

■ W, B.] 'Tis the opinion of Mr. Reed, that the initials W. B.
stand for William Brown, the author of Britannia's Pastorals. I
see no reason to think otherwise, except that Ben Jon&on, whom
W. B. seems to attack all through this Poem, had greatly cele.
brated Brown's Pastorals ; but indeed Jonson was so capricious
in his tepiper, that we must not suppose him to be ferj constat
in his friendships. Daties.

This is a pretty early specimen of the judgment which Davies
brought to the elucidation of his work. Not a line, not a syl-
lable of this little poem can, by any Tiolence, be tortured into
a reHection on Jonson, whom he supposes to be ^^ attacked all
through it!" In 162^, when it was written^ that great poet w^
§t the heigjit of kis reputation. Would a ^^ yoaog" wetter

ON MASSINGER. cxlix

The Author^ s Friend to the Reader^ on the Bondman.

The printer's haste calls on ; I must nor drive

My time past six, though I begin at five.

One hour I have entire, and 'tis enough ;

Here are no gipsy jigs, no drumming-stuff,

Dances, or other trumpery to delight,

Or take, by common way, the common sight

The author of this poem, as he dares

To stand the austerest censure, so he cares

As little what it is; his own best way

Is, to be judge, and author of his play:

It is his knowledge makes him thus secure ;

Nor does he write to please, but to endure.

And, feader, if you have disbursed a shilling,

To see this worthy story, and are willing

To have a large increase, if ruled by me,

You may a merchant and a poet be.

Tis granted for your twelve-pence you did sit,

And see, and hear, and understand not yet.

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

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

« ' ' in the way of poetry^ now-a-days,

** or all that are call'd works the best are plays/'
There is not much to be said for these introductory poems,
which must be viewed rather as proofs of friendship than of
talents, ki the former editions they are given with a degree of
ignorance and inattention truly scandalous.

cl COMMENDATORY VERSES

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

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

W. B.

To my honoured Friend^ Master Philip Mas-
siNQEii, upon his Renegado.

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

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

I must confess I have no public name
To rescue judgment, no poetic flame

To dress thy Muse with praise.

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

ON IAASSINGER. cli

And if there be
A tribe who in their wisdoms dare accuse
This offspring of thy Muse,
Let them agree
Conspire one comedy, and they will say,
'Tis easier to commend, than make a play.

James Shirlet."

To his worthy Friend, Master Philip Massinger,
on his Play calVd the Renegado.

The bosdm of a friend cannot breathe forth
A flattering phrase to speak the noble worth
Of him that hath lodged in his honest breast
So large a title : I, among the rest

* James Shirley.] A weli-known dramatic writer. His
works, which are rery Yoluminous, have never been collected
in an uniform edition^ though highly deserving of it. He assisted
Fletcher in many of his plays ; and some, say his biographers,
thought him equal to that great poet. He died in 1666.

Shirley was of Catharine *Hall} and in a MS. poem, whieh.I
have seen in Mr. Waldron's hands, is the followiog pretty allu-
sion to it, in the taste of the times:

^^ Jatnesj you and I have spent some precious years
^^ At Catharine Hall, as by the Book appears :
^^ Since which we, sometimes, are too apt to feel
^^ Poetic whirlings, caught from Catharine's Wheel." *

Shirley's plays, as Dr. Farmer says, in a letter now lying before
me, are '* cursedly printed.** In hundreds of places, as I have
found, to my regret, it is scarcely possible, to discover what
the author really wrote. I notice this, lest the Booksellers, at
a time when ignoc^nce and inexperience are prowling in every
shop for jobs, should be tempted, by the cheapness of the offer,
to trust Uiem to unworthy hands.

* A well known tavem> the name of which frequently occuH in oui old dia*
madtts*

clii COMMENDATORY VERSES

That honour thee, do only sectti to praise,
Wanting the flowers^ of art to deck that bays
Merit has crown'd thy temples with. Know,

friend,
Though there are some who merely do commend
To live i' the world's opinion, such as can
Censure with judgment, no such piece of man
Makes up my spirit; where desert does live,
There wift I plant my wonder, and there give
My best endeavours to build up his story
That truly merits. I did ever glory
To behold virtue rich ; though cruel Fate
In scornful malice does beat low their state
That best deserve ; when others, that but know
Only to scribble, and no more, oft grow
Great in their favours, that would seem to be
Patrons of wit, and modest poesy :
Yet, with your abler friends, let me say this.
Many mav strive to equal you, but miss
Of your fair scope; this work of yours men may'
Throw in the face of envy, and then say
To those, that are in great men's thoughts more

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

Daniel Lakyn,

0 ^ ■ — m*t%

- — this fvork of your9y -ftc] The ^enegttSo WJrt
always accomited an i^xcellent play by the poet'« con temporaries.
The following curious notice of it is taketi from Sliepfacrd^s
Times displayed^ kc. After metitioningsoine who shall ettt \U^
on earth, in spite of enty« the writtdr adds,

ii

and, Fletcher, so shall you,

*^ With him that the sweet Renegado penned,
'^ And him that Cressy sung and Poictiers too«"

ON MASSINGER. diii

To his, dear Friend the Author, on the Romaa Actor.

I AM no great admirer of the plays,
Poets, or actors, that are tiow-adays ;
Yet, in this work of thine, methinks, I sec
Sufficient reason for idolatry.
Each line thou hast taught Caesar is as high
As he could speak, when groveling flattery,
And his own pride (forgetting heaven's rod)
By his edicts styled himself great Lord and God.
By thee, again the laurel crowns his head,
And, thus revived, who can affirm him dead?
Such power lies in this lofty strain as Can
Give swords and legions to Domitian :
And when thy Paris pleads in the defence
Of actors, every grace and excellence
Of argument for that subject, are by thee
Contracted in a sweet epitome.
Nor do thy women the tired hearers vex
With language no way proper to their sex.
Just like a cunning painter thou let'st fall
Copies more fair than the original.
I'll add but this : from all the modern plays
The stage hath lately born, this wins the bays;
And if it come to trial, boldly look
To carry it clear, thy witness being thy book.

T. J.*

^ T. J.] Coteter giVBli tbese initials to sir Thomas Jay, or
Jeaj, to whom the plaj is dedicated; (sec p. Ixiii.) but without
Mithority^ and, indeed, 5^HHoiit ndve^ting to his real setttitnents
on the subject ; see p. clix. The writer before us, Mrho was ^^ no
^eat admiret" 0i tbe piays of liis days, when Jolison, Shirley,
Ford, &c. w^pe in full rigottr, wottld not, 1 suspect, be ahogetlier
fslraptared if be could witness those of ours ! .

cliv COMMENDATORY VERSES

In Philippi Massinoeri, Poeicdj ekgantiss.
Actorem Romanum, typis excusum.

m

EccE PhilippinsB celebrata Tragoedia Musse,

Quam Roseus Britonum Roscius* egit, adest.
Semper frbnde ambo vireant Parnasside, semper

Liber ab invidiam dentibus esto, liber.
Crebra papyrivQri spernas incendia pseti,

Thus, vaenum exf^siti tegmina suta libri :
Nee metuas rauQos, Momorum sibila, rhoncos,

Tarn bardus nebulo si tamen uUus erit.
Nam toties festis, actum, placuisse theatris

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

Tho. Goff/

To his deserving Friendj Mr. Philip Massingkr,
upon his Tragedy^ the Roman Actor.

Paris, the best of actors in his age,

Acts yet, and speaks upon our Roman stage

Such lines by thee, as do not derogate

From Rome's proud heights, and her then learned

state.
Nor great Domitian's favour; nor the embraces
Of a fair empress, nor those often graces

^ RosciusJ] This was Joseph Taylor, whose namt occun in
a subsequent page.

^ Tho. Goff.] Goff was a man of considerable learning, and
highly celebrated for his oratorical powers, which he turned to
the best of purposes, in the serrice of the church. He also
wrote ieyeral tragedies; but these do no honour to his memory,
being full of the most ridiculous bombast; and one comedy,
which is not without merit.

ON MASSINGER. civ

Which from th* applauding theatres were paid

To his brave action, nor his ashes laid

In the Flaminian way, where people strow'd'

His grave with flowers,, and Martial's wit bestow'd

A lasting epitaph ; not all these same

Do add so much renown to Paris' name

As this, that thou present'st his history

So well to us : for which, in thanks, would he,

(If that his soul, as thought Pythagoras,

Could into any of our actors pass,)

Life to these lines by action gladly give,

Whose pen so well has made his story live.

Tho. May/

Upon Mr. Massinger Ids Roman Actor.

To write is grown so common in our time,
That every one who can but/rame a rhyme,
However monstrous, gives himself that praise.
Which only he should claim, that may wear bays
By their applause, whose judgments apprehend
The weight and truth of what they dare com-
mend.
In this besotted age, friend, 'tis thy glory
That here thou hast outdone the Roman story.
Domitian's pride, his wife's lust, unabated
In death, with Paris, merely were related,

^ Tho. Mat.] May translated Lucan into English yerse, and
"was a candidate for the office of Poet Laureat with sir Willam
Dayenant. He wrote seyeral plays ; his Latin Supplement to
Lucan is much admired by the learned. Daties.

This, ^^ admired," supplement May dedicated to the ^' best
and greatest of kings, his most sacred Majesty Charles I." But
bis most ^^ sacred majesty" or his minister, having refused him
the laurdyhe threw himself into the arms of the rebels^ and per.
leeuted his soTereign with implacable malignity.

clvi COMMENDATORY VERSES

Without a soul, until thy abler pen
Spoke them, and made them speak, nay act again
In such a height, that here to know their deeds,
He may become an actor that but reads.

John Fokd.

Upon Mr. Massinger's Roman Actor.

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

ROBEBT HaRVET.

To his hng^hnoxvn and loved Friend^ Mr. Phiiif
Massinger, upon his Roman Actor.

If that my lines, being placed before thy book,
Could make it sell, or alter but a look
Of some sour censurer, who's apt to say.
No one in these times can produce a play
Worthy his reading, since of late, 'tis true,
The old accepted are more than the new :
Or, could I on some spot o'the court work so, .
To make him speak no more than he doth know;

ON MASSINGER. dvii

Not borrowing from his flattering flattered friend
What to dispraise, or wherefore to commend:
Then, gentle friend, I should not blush to be
Rank'd 'mongst those worthy ones which here I

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

Joseph Tayloe/

To Mr. PHTLrp Massinoer, my muck^esiecm^d
Friend, on his Great Duke of Florence,

Enjoy thy laurel ! 'tis a noble choicfc,

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

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

Sullied by childish thirst of praise,
Withered into a dullness of despair.

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

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

G£ORGE Donne.

* Joseph Tat]:*or, wbo, in 1611, was at the head of tke ladj
Elizabeth's players, is said to have beea the original performer
of Hamlet and lago. When he represented Pads in Massioger^
Tragedy, he was one of the king's players. In 1639, he was
appointed yeoman of the Revels, under sir Henry Herbert, anjf
in 1647, was one of the actors who joined in dedicating -Beau,
mont and Fletcher's plays to the earl of PembrokfQ* Taylor
died at Richmond, in 1654, at a very adf aiu^d s^^ ancl i<i tht
•xtremce of poverty* Gilchrist.

clviii COMMENDATORY VERSES

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

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

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

John Ford.

To my worthy Friend the Author ^ upon his Tragic
Comedy the Maid of Honour.

Was not thy Emperor enough ^before
For thee to give, that thou dost give us more?
I would be just, but cannot; that I know
r did not slander, this I fear I do.
But pardon me, if I offend ; thy fire
Let equal poets praise, while I admire.
If any say that I enough have writ,
They are thy foes, and envy at thy wit.
Believe not them, nor me ; they know thy lines
I>eserve applause, but speak against their mind3«
I, out of justice, would commend thy play.
But (friend, forgive me) 'tis above my way.

ON MASSINGER- clix

One word, and I have done, (and from my heart
Would I could speak the whole truth, not the part,
Because 'tis thine,) it henceforth will be said,
Not the Maid of Honour, but the Honoured Maid.

Aston Cockaiwe.*

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

Methinks I hear some busy critic say,
Who's this that singly ushers in this play ?
Tis boldness, I confess, and yet perchance
It may be construed love, not arrogance.
I do not here upon this leaf intrude,
By praising one to wrong a multitude.
N^or do I think, that all are tied to be
(Forced by my vote) in the same creed with me,
Each man hath liberty to judge; free will,
At his own pleasure, to speak good or ill.
But yet your Muse already's known so well
Her worth will hardly find an infideL
Here she hath drawn a Picture, which shall lie
Safe for all future times to practise by ;
Whatever shall follow are but copies, some
Preceding works were types of this to come.
'Tis'your own lively image, and sets forth,
When we are dust, the beauty of your worth.
He that shall duly read, and not advance
Aught that is here, betrays his ignorance :
Yet whosoe'er beyond desert commends,
Errs more by much than he that reprehends ;
For praise misplaced, and honour set upon
A worthless subject, is detraction.

* Aston Cockixite.] Set the Introduction pasHm.

clx COMMENDATORY VERSES

I cannot sin so liere, unless I went

About to style you only excellent*

Apollo's gifts arc not confined alone

To your dispose, he hath more heirs {han one,

And such as do derive^ from his blest hand

A large inheritance in the poets' land,

As well as you ; nor are you, I assure

Myself, so envious, but you can endure

To hear their praise, whose worth long since was

known,
And justly too preferred before your own.
I know you'd take it for an injury,
(And *tis a weJUbecoming modesty,)
To be parallel'd with Beaumont, or to hear
Your name by some too partial friend writ near
Unequaird Jonson; being men whose fire.
At distance, and with reverence, you admire.
Do so, and you shall find your gain will be
Much more, by yielding them priority,
Thali, with a certainty of loss, to hold
A foolish competition : 'tis too bokl
A task, and to beshunn'd : n&r shall my praise.
With too mueh weighty ruin what it would rais«.

Thomas J at.

. . '

To my worthy Friend^ Mr. Philip Massinceb,
upon his TragihQmi^dy called the Emperor of
the East.

Suffer, my friend, these lines to have the grace,
That they may be a mole on Venus' face.
There is no fault about thy book but thij.
And it will shew how fdir thy Emperor is,
Thou more than poet ! our Mercury, that art
Apollo's messenger, and dost impart

I

r

ON MASSINGER.

clxt

His best expressions to our ears, live long

To purify the slighted English tongue,

That both the nymphs of Tagus and of Po,

May not henceforth despise our language so.

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

The matchless features of the Fairy Queen ;

Read Jonson, Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, or

Thy neat-limn'd pieces, skilful Massinger.

Thou known, all the Castilians must confess

Vego de Carpio thy foil, and bless

His language can translate thee, and the fine

Italian wits yield to this work of thine.

Were old Pythagoras alive again.

In thee he might find reason to maintain

His paradox, that souls by transmigration

In divers bodies make their habitation:

And more, than all poetic souls yet known.

Are met in thee, contracted into one.

This is a truth, not an applause : I am

One that at furthest distance views thy flame^

Yet nlay pronounce, that, were Apollo dead,

In thee his poesy might all be read.

Forbear thy modesty : thy Emperor's vein

Shall live admired, when poets shall complain

It is a pattern i)f too high a reach,

And what great Phoebus might the Muses teach.

Let it live, therefore, and I dare be bold

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

ASTOK COCKAINE.

VOL. I»

1

4

clxii COMMENDATORY VERSES

A Friend to the Author, and Well-wisher to th€
Reader, on the Emperor of the East.

Who with a liberal hand freely bestows

His bounty on all comers, and yet knows

No ebb, nor formal limits, but proceeds.

Continuing his hospitable deeds.

With daily welcome shall advance his name

Beyond the art of flattery ; with such fame,

May yours, dear friend, compare. Your Muse

hath beea >

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

John CiiAVELL.*

' John Cla?ell, ^^ in the aatumn of his years," published A
recantation of an ilU'ledde Lifty &c. dated from ^^ his lonely, sad
and unfrequented chamber in the King's Bench, Oct. 1627,"
where he lad been committed for a high-way robbery, for which
offence he was tried and cdndemnedt He was afterwards par*
doned through the. interest of the Queen, moved by the earnest j

solicitations of his wife :— of whose attachment during his im-
prisonment, Clayell speaks, in a prefatory poem, with the I
tenderest expressions of gratitude and affection. He was living
in 1634, (two years after the appearance of his commendatory
verses,) reformed and respected. Gilchsist.

ON MASSINGER. clxiii

To my true Friend and Kinsman^ Philip Mas-
singer^ on hh Emperor of the East.

I TAKE' not upon trust, nor am I led
By an itnplicit faith : what I have read
With an impartial censure I dare crown
With a deserved applause, howe'er cried down
By such whose malice will not let them be
Equal to any piece limn'd forth by thee.
Contemn their poor detraction, and still write
Poems like this, that can endure the light,
And search of abler judgments. This will raise
Thy name ; the others' scandal is thy praise.
Thi9, oft perused by grave wits, shall live long,
Not die-as soon as past the ^actor's tongue.
The fate of slighter toys; and I must say,
'Tis not enough to make a passing play
In a true poet : works that should endure
Must have a genius in them strong as pure,
And such is thine, friend : nor shall time devour
The Well-forih'd features of thy Emperor,

William Singleton.

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

'Tis a rare charity, and thou couldst not
So proper to the time have found a plot :
Yet whilst you teach to pay, you lend ; the age
We wretches live in, that to come the stage.
The thronged audience that was thither brought,
Invited by your fame, and to be taught

12

clxiv COMMENDATORY VERSES

This lesson ; all are grown indebted more,
And when they look for freedom, ran in score.
It was a cruel courtesy to call
In hope of liberty, and then^ inthrall.
The nobles are your bondmen, gentry, and
All besides those that did not understand.
They were no men of credit, bankrupts bom,
Fit to be trusted with no stock but scorn.
You have more wisely credited to such,
That though they cannot pay, can value much.
I am your debtor too, but, to my shame.
Repay you nothing back but your own fame.

Henry Moody.V Miles*

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

Old Debts.

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

' Henrv Mooot.] Sir Henrj Moody plays on the title of
the piece. He hat not mucli of the poet in him, bat appears to
be a friendly, good-natured man. A short poem of his, is pre-
fixed to the folio edition of Beanmont and Fletcher. He was
one of the gentlemen who had honorary degrees conferred on
them by Charles I. on his return to Oxford from the battle of
Edgehill,

ON MASSINGER. clxv

♦

A shamefaced blushing would become the brow

Of some weak virgin writer; we allow

To you a kind of pride, and there where most

Should blush at commendations, you should boast.

If any think I flatter, let him look

Off from my idle trifles on thy book.

Thomas Jay. Miles.

[ clzvii ]

A LIST

OV

MASSING ER'S PLAYS.

These marked thus * are in the present EdUion.

1. T HC Forced Lad/, T. This was one of the plays destroyed
by Mr. Warburton's seryant.f

a. The Noble Choice, C. • ^ Entered on theStationers'

3. The WinderiHg Lover., C. . [j^fpl'^xe^jtrnJ?
4e Philenzo and Hippolita, T. C. 3 printed. These were
among the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's seryant.

5. Antonio and Yallia, j; C. \ Entered on the Stationeia'

6. The Tyrant, T. > ^^^^^^^ , Sn^w *''^:

^ ' \r June a9, 1660, but not

7. Fast and Welcome, G. / printed. These, too, were

among the plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton's seryant.

f After this, I bad entered, in the former edition, the Secretary ^ of which the
tide appears in the catalogue which fumrshed the materials for Poole's Pamastus,
Mr. (jruchrist, who seems destined to serve the cause of Massinger, by his for-
tunate d^coveries, has enabled me to correct my statement. The person men-
tioned by Poole is John Massinger, and the work to which he refers is a transla-
tion of Familiar Letters, by Mons. La Serre, historiographer of France. From a
Indrico-pompous introduction to this little manual, which Mr: Gilchrist disco*
vered among some old rubbish in a yillage library, John might be taken for
a schoolAiaster, though he signs himself J. M. Gent, instead of Philomath,
The full title of his work is, the Secretanr in Fashion^ or a compendious and
refined way ofexpremon in aU manner of Letters, It is dated 1640, the year of
the Poet's death.

X In that most curious MS. Register discovered at Dulwich College, and
subjoined by Mr. Malone to his Historical Account of the English Stage, is the
fdlowing entiy '* R. so of June, 1505, at antor^ asnd vallea ol, xxs, od/' If this
be itie play entered by Moseley, Massinger's clums can only arise from his hay-
ing revised and altered it : for ne must have becai a mere child when it was firK
produced. See the IntioductioDf p. Ivi.

clxviii LIST OF MASSINGER'SJPLAYS.

S. The Woman's Plot, C. Acted at court 1621* Destroyed
by Mr. Warbarton*8 seryant.

9. *The Old Law, C.

10. *The Virgin-Martyr, T. Acted by the serrants of his

Majesty's revels. Quarto, 1622; Quarto, 1631 ; Quarto,
1661.

11. ^The Unnatural Combat, T. Acted at the Globe. Quarto^

1639.

12. ^The Duke of Milan, T. Acted at Black-Friars. -Qaarto,

1623; Quarto, 1638.

13. *The Bondman, T. C. Acted Dec. 3, 1623, at the Cockpit,

Drory Lane. Quarto, 1624; Quarto, 1638.

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

Cockpit, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1630.

15. *The Parliament of LoVe, C' , Acted Not. 3, 1624, at the

Cockpit, Drury Lane.

16. The Spanish Viceroy, C. Acted in 1624. Entered on the

Stationers' books Sept. 9, 1653, by H. Moseley, but not
printed. This was one of the plays destroyed by Mr.
Warburton's servant.

17. *The Roman Actor, T. Acted October 11, 1626, by the

King's company. I^narto, 1629.

1^. The Judge. Acted June 6, 1627, by the King's company.
This play is lost.

19. *The Great Duke of Florencj. Acted July 5, 1627, at

the Phoenix, Drury Lane. Quarto, 1636.

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

is lost.

" »

21. *The Maid of Honour, T. C.+ Acted at the Phoenix, Drnry

Lane. Date of its first appearance uncertain. Quarto^
1632.

22. *The Picture, T. C. ' Acted June 8, 1629, at the Globe.

Quarto, 1630.

23. Minenra's Sacrifice, T. Acted Not. 3, 1629, by the King's

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

Mr. Malone thinks this to be the play immediately preoediog it^ with a
title. This isy howeTtr, extremely ooaotfiil.

LIST OF MASSINGER'S PLAYS, clxix

24. ^The Emperor of the East, T. C« Acted March 11, 1631,

at Black-Friars. Quarto^ 1632.

25. Believe as you List, C. Acted Maj 7, 1631. Entered

on the Stationers' books Sept. 9, 1653, and again June
*29, 1660, but not printed. This also was one of the
plays destroyed by Mr. Warburton*s servant*

26. The Unfortunate Piety, T. Acted June 13, 1631, by the

King's company. This play is lost.

27. •Th^ Fatal Dowry, T. Acted by the Ring's company.

Quarto, 1632.

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

Drnry Lane. Quarto^ 1633.

29. *The City Madam, C. Acted May 2S, 1632, by the King's

company. Quarto, 1659.

30. •The Guardian, C. Acted October 31, 1633, by the

King's company. Octavo, 1655.

31. The Tragedy of Oleander. Acted May 7, 1634, by the

King's company. This play is lost.+

32. 'A Very Woman, T. C. Acted June 6, 1634, by the

King's company. Octavo, 1655.

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

pany. This play is lost.

34.. *The Bashful Lover, T. C. Acted May. 9, 1636, by the
King's company. Octavo, 1^55.^

35. The King and the Subject. :|: Acted June 5, 1638, by the

King's company. This play is lost.

36. Alexius, or the Chaste Lover. Acted Sept* 25, 1639, by

the King's company. This play is lost.

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

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

f This play must fiave been possessed of more than common merit, since it
drew the GLueen (Henrietta-Maria) to Black-Friars. A remarkable event at that
time» ¥7b«n our sovereigns were not accustomed to visit the public theatres.
She honoured it with her presence on the I3th of May, six dajrs after its first ap.
pearance. ' I hope that it was the Poet's benefit-day. The circumstance is re-
corded by the Master of the Revels.

t The title of this play, sir H. Herbert tells us, was changed. Mr. Malone
conjectures it ^im named the Tyrant^ one of Warburton's unfortunate col-
lection.

[ clxxi ]

GLOSSARIAL INDEX.

A.

Abram men, iii. 522*

absurd, iii. 280.

abuse, iii. 65.

acts of parliament, iv. 469.

actuate, ii. 396.

aerie, i. 276.

- - - iii. 25.

affects, ii. 30.

Alba Regalis, iii. 125.

iii. 188. '

altar, ii. 274.
a many, i. 35.
amorous, ii. 465.
Amsterdam, ii. 127.
Anaxarete, ii. 381.
angel (bird), i. 36.
ape, ii. 6i.
apostata, i. 93.

i. III.

------ i. 140.

i. 145.

apple, iii. 324.
Argiers,i. 139,
arrearages, iii. i6o*
as (as if), iii. 593.
astrology, iv. 38.
at all, iv. 78.
atheism, iii. 66*
atonement, i. 315.
Aventine, ii. 333.

B.
bake-house, ii. 304.

bandog, i, 44.
banquet, i. 167.
- - - - . - iv. 29.
banqueting-house, ii. 13.
Baptista Porta, iii. 122.
bar, ii. 267.
barathrum, iii. 551.
barley-break, i. 103.
bases, iii. 145.
basket, iii. 449.
----- iii. 511.
----- iv. 12,
battalia, iii. 144,
battle of Sabla, iv. 366.
beadsmen, iv. 26*

---.-- "7 »▼• 57;

bearing dishes, iii. 594.

Beaumelle, iii. 392.

becco, iii. 233*

bees, iv. 91.

beetles, i. 281.

beg estates, iii. 256. .

beglerbeg, ii. 182.

Bellona, iii. 152.

bells ring. backward, i. 238<

bend the bpdyi i. 277.

- -iv. 411.

beneath the salt, iv. 7. '
beso las manos, ii. 488.
betake, i. 140.
----- iv. 89.
bind with, iv. 14a
bird-bolts, iv. 172.
birthright, ii. 40.
Biscan, iv. 321.

elxxii

GLOSSARIAL INDEX.

bisognion. Hi. 70.
blacks> iii. 380.
blasphemous^ ii. 476.
bloods, lii. 436.
blue gown, iv. 84.

- iv. 113.

bocnan, iv. 85.
box-keeper, iv. 4.
....... iv, 14,

braches, i. 210.
iii. 493,

--iv. 53-

brave, ii. 210.

iv. 331.

braveries, ii. I2»
...... ii. 258.

bravery, t. 208.
..... Ill, 148,
... - .It. 486,
Breda, iii. 503.
Brennus, iii. 459. -
breadside (to shew), ii. 232.
brother in arms, iii. 39.
buck, i. 88.
bue, iii. 556.
bullion, iii. 389.
buov'd, iii. 51^.
bunal denied, iii. 368.
burse, iv. 50. ~
bury money, iv. 539.
but, ii. 133.
- - - iii. 329.
Butler, dr. iv. 496.

C.

calver'd salmon, iii. 54.
• ....-•*..iv. 2o6.
camel, iii. 394.
canceller, iv. 142,
candour, ii. 294.
... iv, 171,

canters, iii. 497.
Caranza, i. 159.
.••..- iv. 178.
carcanet, iv. g^,
carc«net> iv. 243,

caroch, ii. 135.

iii. 95-

carouse, i. 239.

carpet knights, iii. 47.

caster, iv. 82.

casting, iii. 220.

cast suit, iii. 206.

cater, iv. 34.

catsjLick, iii. 32.

cautelous, ii. 46*

cavallery, iii. 43.

censure, ii. 107.

----- ii. 517,

ceruse, iv. 80.

chamber, ii. 231.

chapel fkll, ii. 11 6.

chapines, ii. 135.

Charles the robber, iv. 163.

charms on rubies, ii. 463.

cheese-trenchers, iv. 489.

chiaus, ii. 182.

chine evil, iii. 204.

choice and richest, ii. 148*

chreokopia, iv. 465.

chuff's, i. 281.

church 'book, iv. 468.

circular, iii. 288.

civil, ii. 2 1 8.

- - - iv. 18.
clap-dish, ii. 257.
clemm'd, ii. 366.
close breeches, iii. 426.
clubs, ii. 142.

• - --iv. 16.
coats, iv. 509.
Colbrand, iii. 426.
colon, i. 1 32 J

- --- iii. 146,
come aloft, ii. 6i. •
comfort, iv. 370.
coming in, i. 283.
commence, i. 308.
.•••... ill, 279,

commodities, ii. 51.
come off*, i. 210,
commoner, i. ^3.
comparison^ iii. 159.

GLOSSARIAL INDEX. clxxiii

comrogues> iv. 72. IX

conceited^ ii. 47. dag, iii. 429.

conclusions, i. 308. dalliance, i. 8i*

condition, iv. 492. danger, iii. 374*

conduit, ii. 304. - . . . iv, io8,

conquering Romans, ii. 62. dead pays, i. 207.

consort, iii.- 140. death, the, i. 252.

----- iii. 427. decimo sexto, iii, 32*

constable, to steal a, iii. 9* deck, iv. 177.

constant ih> i. 7. decline, iii. 13.
constantly, ii. 515. , deduct, iv. 506.

cooks' shops, iii. 530. deep ascent, iv. 403.

Corinth, ii.' 13. . deer of ten, iii. 309,

corsives, ii. 406. defeature, ii. 73.

• - - - - iii. 340. defended, iv. 206.
counsel, i. 283. ^ defensible, iv. 136.
----- ii. 396. degrees, ii. 376.
counterfeit gold thread, ii. 52. Delphos, iii. 459.

--•-- ----iii. 517. demeans, iii. ii8,

courtesy, ii. 467. denying burial» iii. 368.

courtship, i. 304. depart, ii. 136.

...... i. 297. dependencies, iii. 9.

------ ii. 446. -,-.-- .-iv. 1^7.

... ii. j;o5. deserved mei iii. 575,

• •••.. iv. 244. Dianaj i. 317.

courtsies, iii. 586. discourse and reason, i. 148.

cow eyes, i. 196. .--*-..-.-. ii. 208.

------ iii. 279. -...---.--. iv, 57^

crack, i. 120. disclose, iii. 2^.

crincomes, iv. 209. dispartations, ii. 165*

crone, i. 130. dissolve, i. 321.
erosses, ii, 161. - - - - ii* 382.

crowd, iv. 569. distaste, i. 188,

crowns o'the sun, i. 133. • ii- 133.

.........ii, 274. distempered, i, 238.

cry absurd ! iii. 280. divert, ii. 44.5 .

cry aim, ii. 27. doctor, go out^ i. 308.

- - - - - ii. 131, doctrine, iii. 11. .
Cupid and Death, i. 91. .... - iii. 293.
cullions, iv. 167, drad, i. 22.
cunning, iv. 160. drawer-on, iv. 157.
cuHosify, iv. 9. dresser, cook's drum, i. 166,

Curious Impertinent, iii. 418. • • iv. 177.

curiousness, i. 190. drum, iv. 24.

- ----- ii. 242. drum-wine, iv. 51,
cypressj iv. 407. Dunkirk, i. 294.

Dutch hangman* iv. 1 10.

dxxiv GLOSSARIAL INDEX.

elenchs, iii. 280.
elysium, i. 94.
empiric^ iii. 317.
enghle, iv, 70.
entradas^ iv. 222.
equal, i. 133.
equal mart, ivt 393.
estridge train, i. 206.
estridge, iii. 43.
extend, iii. 590.

- - - - iv. 109.
eyasses, iii. 220.

F.

faith, i. 61.
fame, iv. j3^.
far-fetch'df, iv. 167.
fault, ii. 98.

iv. 520.

fautors, ii. 1IO.

fellow, iii. 169.

festival exceedings, iii. 216.

.---,•-_. ^ iv. 12,

fetch in, ii. 390.
fewterer, iii. 32.

- - • - • iii. 219.
Fielding, iv. 87.
fineness, ii. 190*
Fiorinda, ii. 432*
files, i« 35.

for, i. loi.
forks, ii. 48!^.
forms, i. 178.
fore -right, ii. 232.
forth, iii. 335.
frequent, ii. 333*
------ ii. 343.

frippery, iv. 11.
fur, iv. 13,

G.

galley foist, iii. 389.
galliard, iv. 524.
garded, ii. 332.
garden-house, ii 13.
gauntlets to feed in, i. 182.
Gay, iii. 381.
gazet, iii. 53.
gemonies, ii. 336.
Geneva print, i. 238.
gimcrack, i. 320.
Giovanni, ii, 432.
glad to, i. 34.
glorious, i 142.
----- i. 198.

"• 445-

go by, iii. 91.

God be wi' you, iv. 49.

gods to friend, ii. 337.

gold and store, iii. 158.

------- iv. 82.

golden arrow, ii. 382.

------ *-iv. 138.

go less, iv. 66.

- - - - iv. 419.

-golls, iv. 73. -

go near, ii. 159.

good, iv. 69.

good fellows, iv. 222.

....... iv. 229.

good lord, iii. 242.
good man, iii. 373.
good mistress, ii. 342.
goody wisdom, iii. 386.
Gorgon, iv. 369.
governor's place, i. 24.
Granson, iii. 372.
Great Britain, i. 100.
green aproQ, ii. 128.
Gresset, iv. 365.
grim sir, i. 170.
grub up forests, iv. 165.
guard, iii. 131.

H.

gabel,^iii. 263. hairy comet, i. 139.*

gallantofthelasf edition,iv. 14. hand, ii. 194.

OLOSSARIAL INDEX.

clxxv -

hawking, lii. 220.
heats> ii. 30.
h^catombaion, iv. 508.
Hecuba, ii. 386.
hell, iv. 7.

Herbert, sir H., ii. 3U.
high forehead, i. 129.
hole, iv. 7.

horned moons, ii. 161.
horse- trick, iv. 521.
hose, ii. 4^6.
humanity, iii. 378.
hunt's up, i. 273.
hurricano, i. 226.

I.

Jane of apes, ii. 64*
jewel, iv. 217.

- - - iv. 314^
imp, ii. 230.
* - - ii. 421.

- - - ii. 440.
impotence, ii. 408.

- - . - - . iv, 260. -

impotent, i. 173.
Indians, iv. 10 1.
induction, iii. 441 •
ingles, iv. 72.
interess, i. 241.
Iphis, ii. 381.

K.

ka meka thee, iv 34.
katexochcn, iv. 171. '
keeper of the door, ii. 296.
knock on the dresser, i. i66.

L.

'Lachrymac, iii. 10.
•- _ — * - iii. 232.
viackey ing," i. 9.

lady Compton, iv 43.

lady of the lake, iii. 522.

lamia, i. 84.

lanceprezado, iii, 52.
lapwing's cunning, iv. 546.
last edition, iv. 15..
lavender, iii. 588,
lavolta, ii. 496.

iv. 55,

leaden dart, i. 19*
leaguer, iii. 121.

- - - - iii. 408.
leege, iii. 310.
Lent* ii. 213.
PenVoy, iv. 421.

- • - iv. 442.
leper, ii. 257.
lets, i. 25.

- - - i. 220.
lightly, ii. 6^.
lime-hound, iv. sco.
hne, 1. 37.

little, i. 26c.

- - • ui. 156.
little legs, iv« 284.
lively grave, iii, 379.
living funeral, ii. 85.
looking-glasses at the girdle^

iv. 8.
lost, ii. 227.
loth to depart, iv. 538.
lottery, u. 31c*
lovers peijurics, ii. 470. .
Ludgate, iv. 23.
Luke, iv. 10 1.
lye abroad, ii. 126.

M.

M. for master, iv. 86.
master iv. 59.
magic picture, iii* 125*
magnificent, iii* 273. ,
Mahomet, ii. 125.
Malefort, i. 135.
Mammon, ii. 364^
manchets, iii. 447,
mandrakes, i. 1 27,
mankind, iv. 53^
marginal fingers, iiii 419,

clxxvi GLOSSARIAL INDEX.

marmoset, iv. 51.

MaFS>iii. ij2«

MarseilieSj 1. I3i> 193.

.•••-. ii. 245.

masters of depeadencies» iii. 9.

Mephostophilus> iii. 229.

mermaid, vr. 536.

micher, iv. 182.

Minerva, ii. 41^.

miniver cap, iv. 04.

mirror of knighthood^ iv. 145.

mistress, i. 193.

- - • - - ii. 246.
mistress' colours, iL 106.
moppes, ii. 61.
Morat, iii. 372.

more, iii. 15$.
most an end, iv. 282.
music, iii. 432. .
music-master, iii. 432.

N.

Nancy, iii. 372.
peat^house, iv. 51.
never falling iii. 258.
Nell of Greece, iv. 534.
niggle, iii. 345.
nightingale, ii. ^44.
night-rai], iv. 60.
nimming, iv. 217.
no cunning quean, ii. 10.
north passage, iv. 48*
Novall, iii. 423.*
number his years, ii. 352.

O.

October^ ii. 34.

often and return, iv. 541.

oil of angels, i. 292.

oil of talc, iv. 79. .

Olympus, iii. 566.

once, ii. 365.

only, ii. 208.

— - iv 66.
Ovid>i. 191. . .

Ovid, iv. 418.
outcry, iv. 25.
owe, ii. 39.
owes, i. i8.
ii. 154.

packing, ii 485.
padder, iii. 522.
pale-spirited, iii. 521
Pandarus, iv. 172. .
paned hose, ii. 486.

iv, 485.

pantofle, sworn to» i. 175.
parallel, i. 314.

- .... iii. 24.

parle, iv. 368.
parted, i. 40.

- - - - ii. 502.
parts, iii. 77.
pash, i. 38.
passionate, ii. 439.
passionately, iv. 513. •
passions, iv. 466.

iv. 575.

pastry fortifications, iii. 505.
Patch, iii. 553.

- - - - m. 591.
Pavia, battle of, i. nz.
peat, iii. 36.
peevish i. 71.
peevishness, iii. 580.
perfected, u 189.
persever, i. 7.
----- iii. 105. ^
personate, ii. 504.

• • • - - iii. 120.
Pescara, i. 255.
petty j iii. 65.
physicians, iv. 266.
piety, iv. 38^.
pig-sconce, iv. 55.
pine*tree, i. 268.
pip, iii. 386.
place, iv. 14K

- - - - iv. 448.

GLOSSARIAL INDEX. clxxvii

play my prize, iii. 576. R.

plumed victory, i. 154.

plurisy, i. 197. rag, iii. 408.

riymouth cloak, iii. 494* ragged, ii. 30^.

- • - - • - iy. 82.' Ram Alley, iii. 530.

Pontalier, iii. 414. remarkable, i. 157*

poor John, ii. 126. relic, ii. 132.

-•-.... iii. 167. remember, ii. 86.

porter's lodge, i. 294. .--.-.- ii. 263,

-- iii. 500- .-«...- iy. 175.

ports, i. 8. re-refine, iii. 260.

- • - - ii. 224. resolved, i. 277.
possessed,, ii. 472. ------ iii, 230.

power of things, ii. 336. rest on it, ii. 21.

practice, ii. 308. riches of catholic king, iv. 417.

- - ii. 525. ride, iv. 54.

practic, iii. 279. rivo, ii. 167.

precisian, iii. 493^ roarer, ii. 145.

prest, iv. 64. Roman, iv. 82.

pretty, iii. 6^, roses, iv. 11,

prevent, iii. 581. - - - - iv. 95.

-"»■--- iv. 474. rouse, i. 239.

prevented, ii. 147. - - . - ii, 49.

prodigious, i. 125. royal merchant, ii. 156.

' IN*ogress, iv. 130. rubies* ii. 463.
provant sword, iii. id.

providence, iii. 542. S.

pull down the side, i. 150.

. .-ii 501. Sabla, battle of, iv. 371.

puppet, i. 268. sacer, iii. 325.

purer, i. 260. sacratus, iii. 325.

purge, iii. 167. sacred badge, ii. 209. •

put on, i. 305. sacrifice, iii. 382.

- - - - - ill. 358. sail-stretch'd, i. 141.

- . - . - iii. j;49. - • - - • - - « - ii. 12.
. iv. 105, sainted, iii- 213.

St. Dennis, ii. 255.

Q^ St. Martin's, iv. 80.

sanzacke, ii. 182.

quality, ii. 344. salt, above the, i. 1 70.

- ... - iii. 146. scarabs, i. 281.

- • - . . iii. 4^2. scarlet, iv. ai.
quellio ruffs, iv. 95. scenery, iv. 21.
quirpo, iii. 390. scholar, iii.^ 122.
quited, iv* 502. *» scirophorion, iv. 508.

scotomy, iv. 526.
sedan-chairs, ii. 7.

VOL. I* m

clxxviii GLOSSARIAL INDEX.

sea-rats«iv. 329.
Sedgley curse, iv. 41.
seeX to> i. 223.

iii. 135-

seisactheia> iv. 465.

servant,!. 185.

i- ^93-

• - - - - iv. 148.

shadows, i. 165.
shall b^e, is» iv. 154.
shape, ii. 113.

- • - - ii. 279.

• - - . ii. 374.

- - - - ii. 381.

- - - - iii. 301.
she-Dunkirk, i. 295.
sheriff's basket, iv. 12.
shew water, iii. 5.
shining shoes, iv. 166.
siege, IV. 140. ^

sir Giles Mompesson» iii. 517.
skills not, i. 239.

!^-3*»-

--- --U. 331.-

sleep on either ear, iv. 155.

small legs, iv. 284.

softer neck, i. 192.

so, ho, birds, iii. 220.

solve, i. 321.

sort, i. 71.

sovereign, iv. 569.

sought to, i. 222.

sparred, i. 79.

Spartan boy, iv. 192.

sphered, i. 79.

spit, i. 107.

spital, iv. 53*

spittle, iii. 202.

- - - - iii. 409.

iv. S3.

spot, i. 244.
spring, i. 184.

squire o' dames, ii. 29$.
......-..•lu, 253.

squire o' Troy, iv. 172,
stale the jest, i. 204.
startup, iii. 221.

state, ii. 16.

ii. 523.

states, ii. 5II.

statute against witches, iii. 590.

statute lace, ii. 303.

staunch, ii. 14.

ste^l a constable, iii. 9.

steal courtesy from heaven, ii.

+^7- ...
Sterne, iii. 388.

stiletto, iii. 190.

still an end, iv. 282,

stones, iii* 220.

stool, to bring with one, i* 181.

. ---•-•. ---.lu. 54.

story, ii. 496.

strange, ii. 8.

strongly, iii. 311.

street fired, ii. 116.

strengths, ii. 199.

*.••-- ii; 228.

- - iii. 307.

striker, i. 209.
suit, iv. 56.
supplant, ii. 197.
sweating sickness, i. 210.
sworn servant, ii. 365.
Swiss, iii. 370.
syhonyma, iii. 253.
iii.-447.

T.

table, iv, 489.

tailors, iii. 447.

taint, ii. 296.

take in, iii. 592.

take me with you, ii. 49$.

.......•••. iii, 68.

-^iT. 323.

take up, ii. 447.

- • - - - iii, 228.
tall ships, i. 112.

tall trenchermen, i. 166.
tamin, iii. 543.«
tattered, i. 66.
Termagant, ii. 125.

GLOSSARIAL INDEX.

clxxix

theatre, ii. .33 1 .
Theocrine> u 145.
thick- skinned, i. 317.
thing of things, ii. 50.
third meal, i. 281.
thought for, iii'. 591.
Thrace, iii. 152.
Timariots, iii. 117.
time, ii. 361.
Timoleon, ii. 17.
Timophanes, ii. i8.
to 'to, iv. 300.
token, iii. 496.

iv. 88.

toothful, i. 106.
toothpicks, ii. 486.
tosses, iii. 160.
touch, iv. 420.
train, i. 206.
tramontanes, ii. 458*
trillibuhs, iv. 523.
trimmed, ii. 252*
tripe, iii. 54.
try conclusions, i. 308*
tune, ii. 361.
turn Turk, ii. 222.

- iii. 33-

twines, iv. 136.

unbidden guests, i. 181.
uncivil, iii. 420.
unequal, iii. 337.
untappice, iv. 298.
Uses, iii. II.
- • - iii. 293.

V.

vail, ill. 71.
«>• -iii. 261.
varlets,.4ii. 446.^^
Venice glasses, ii. 144.
Virbius, ii. 380.
voley, iii- 186.
votes, iv. 212.

W.

waistcoateer, iv. 52.
walk after supper, i. i68.
walk the round, iii. 141.
• •--••.^••- iv, 184*
Walstein, iv. 430.
ward, iii. 131.
wards, iv. 129.
wardship, iv. 128.
watchmen, iv. 471.
water, to shew, iii. 5.
way of youth, ii. 339.

iv. 309.

weakness, the last, iv. 335.

wear the caster, iv. 82.

wear scarlet, iv. 21.

well, iii. 396.

wheel, iii, 155.

where, (whereas) ii. 248.

-.-----..-. iii. 360.

.-..-•..•.. in. 4<^6.

.....«.....iv. 344.
while, ii. 414.
- - - - iv. 476.
whiting-mop, iv. 207.
whole field wide, iii. 31.
.••......- iv, 64.

why, when! ii. 405.

witches, iii. 590.

witness, iii. 286.

wishes^ as well as, iv. 305,

wolf, iv. 369.

work of grace, ii. 190.

worm, ii. 290.

wreak, ii. 131.

Y.

yaws, iv. 297.
yellow, i. 310.
yeoman fewterer, iii. 32.
-»--.-... ..iii, 219.

youthful heats, ii. 30.

THE

VIRGIN-MARTYR,

VOL. I.

B

/

The Virgtw-Mamtr.] Of this Tragedyj which appears to
hare been very popular, there are four editions in qaarto,
16^^^ 1631, 1651, and 1661 ; the last of which is infinitely the
worst. It is not possible to ascertain ^vhen it wjis first produced ;
but it was certainly amongst the Authors earliest efforts. In
* the composition of it he was assisted by Decker, a poet of no
mean reputation, and the writer of several plays much esteemed
by his contemporaries.

In the first edition of this Tragedy it is said to have been
^^ divers times publicly acted with great applause by the jBer«
yants of his Majesty's Revels.*' The plot of it, as Coxeter
observes, is founded on the tenth and last general persecution
of the Christians, which broke out in the nineteenth year of
Dioclesian's reign, with a fury hardly to J>e expressed ; th&
Christians being every where, without distinction of sex, age,
or condition, dragged to execution, and subjected to the most
exquisite tonnents that rage, cruelty^ and hatred could suggest...

Bs

* DRAMATIS PERSONJE.

TVT • • > Emperors of Rome.
Maximmus, J ^ ^^

King of Pontus,

King ^Epire.

Kin^ e>/*Macedon.

Sapritius, Gwerwor 0/ Caesarea.

Theophilus, ^? zealous persecutor of the Christians.

Sempronius, captain 0/ Sapritius' gf<fl/*^A\

Antoninus, son to Saf)ritius.

MacrinuSj^newrf to Antoninus.

Harpax, an evil spirit, following Theophilus m the

shape of a secretary.
Angelo, a good spirit^ serving Dorothea in the

habit of a page.

Hire i u s « whore^naster. \ ^ . r-n 11

c ' ^ J 1 ^^^ > servants of Dorothea.
Spungius, a drunkard^ J "^ . .

Get^'^"^^ Uert?awif5 oyTTheopl^ilus. /

Priest of Jupiter* ,

British Slave.

Artemia, daughter to Dioclesian.

Oalistci 1

Clirist'e'ta ?^"g^^^^^ '<' Theophilus.

Dorothea, the Virgin- Martyr.
Officers and Executioners.

SCENE, Cssarea.

THE

VIRGIN-MARTYR;

ACT I. SCENE I.

The Governor's Palace.
Enter Theophilus and Harpax.

TheopK Come to Caesarea to-night !

Harp. Most true, sir.

Theoph. The emperor in person !

Harp, Do I live?

Theoph. 'Tis wondrous strange ! The marches
of great princes,
Like to the motions of prodigious meteors,
Are step by step observed ; and loud-tongued

Fame
The harbinger, to prepare their entertainment :
And, were it possible so great an army,
Though cover'd with the night, could be so near,
The governor cannot be so unfriended
Among the many that attend his person,
But, by some secret means, he should have notice
Of Caesar's purpose ;^ — in this, then, excuse me,
If I appear mcredulous.

' Of CcBsar^s purpose ; — in this then excuse we,] Before Mr.
M. Mason's edition, it stood :

he should have notice
Of Casars purpose in thisy^ '

meaning, perhaps, in this hasty and unexpected visit : I haye
not, however, altered his pointing.

6 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Harp. At your ple^asiire.

Theoph. Yet, when I call to mind you never

faird me
In things more difficult, hut have discovered
Deeds that were done thousand leagues distant

from me,
When neither woods^ nor caves, nor secret

vaults.
No, nor the Power they serve, could keep these

Christians
Or from my reach or punishment, but thy magic
Still laid them open; I begin again
To be as confident as heretofore,
It is not possible thy powerful art
Should meet a check, or fail.

Enter the Priest of Jupiter ^ bearing an linage^ and
followed by Calista and Chkisteta,

Harp. Look on the Vestals,
The holy pledges that the gods have given you.
Your chaste, fair daughters. Were't not to up-
braid
A^service to a master not unthankful,
I could say these, in spite of your prevention.
Seduced by an imagined faith, not reason,
(Which is the strength of nature,) quite forsaking
The Gentile gods, had yielded up themselves
To this new-found religion. This I cross'd,
Discover'd their intents, taught you to use,
With gentle words and mild persuasions.
The power and the authority of a father,
Set off with cruel threats ; and so reclaimed them :
And, whereas they with torment should have died,
(Hell's furies to me, had they undergone it !)

[Aside.
They are now votaries in great Jupiter's temple,

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. y

And, by his priest instructed, grown familiar
With all the mysteries, nay, themost abstruse oneSi
Belonging to his deity. .

Theoph. 'Twas a benefit.
For which I ever owe you. — Hail, Jove's flamen !
Have these my daughters reconciled themselves^
Abandoning for ever the Christian way,
To your opinion ?

Priest. And are constant in' it.
They teach their teachers with their depth of

judgment,
And are wiih arguments able to convert
The enemies to our gods, and answer all.
They can object against us.
Theoph, My dear daughters !
Cal. We dare dispute against this new-sprung
sect,
In private or in public.
Harp. My best lady,
Persever' in it,

Chris. And what we maintain.
We will seal with our bloods.

Harp. Brave resolution !
I e'en grow fat to see my labours prosper.
Theoph. I young again. To your devotions.
Harp. Do —
My prayers be present with you.

\Ej:eunt Priest^ Cal. and Chris.

* * Priest. And are constant in tV.] So the first two editions.
The last, tihich is very incorrectly printed, reads to % and is
followed by the modern editors.

' Perse?er in iV.] So this word was anciently written and
pronounced: thus the king, in Hamlet:

. but to pers^yer

In obstinate condofement.
Coiceter adopts the unmetrical reading of the third quarto^
persevere in it, and is followed by Mr. M. Mason, who^ howerer^
irarn9 the reader to lay the siccent on the p«naUimate«

8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYE-

Theopk. O my Harpax ! . ' -

Thou entwine of my wishes, thou that stcel'st
My bloody resolutions, thou that arm'st
My eyes 'gainst womanish tears and soft com-
passion,
Instructing me, without a sigh, to look on
Babes torn by violence from their mothers*

breasts
To feed the fire, . and with them m.ake one
flame ; . . ,

Old men, as beasts, in beasts' skins torn by

dogs;
Virgins and matrons tire the executioneris ;
Yet I, unsatisfied, think their torments easy — ,
Harp. And in that, just, not cruel.
Theoph. Were all sceptres
That grace the hands of kings, made into one,
And ofFer'd mc, all crowns laid at my feet,
I would contemn them all, — :thus^pit at them;
So I to all posterities might be call'd
The strongest champion of the Pagan gods,
And rooter out of Christians.

Harp. Oh, mine own.
Mine own dear lord ! to further this great work^
I ever live thy slave.

- ♦ .

JEnier Sapritius and Sempronius.

TheGph. No more — ^The governor, ^
Sap. Keep the ports close,'* and let the guards
be doubled ;

^ Sap. Keep the ports closed Tliis word, which is directly
from the Latin, is so frequeutly used by Massingcr and the wri-
ters of his time, for the gates of a town, that it appears super*

iluoas to produce aoy 6xaxopl«9 of it.. To have noticed it 6oc«
i8 9a£cieat.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 9

Disarm the Christians ; call it death in any
To wear a swonl, or in his house to have one.

Semp I shall be careful, sir.
- Sop. Twill well become you,
Swcl) as refuse to offer sacrifice
To any of our ofods, put to the torture-
Grub up this growing mischief by the roots;
And know, when we are merciful to them.
We to ourselves are crueL

Snap. You pour oil
On fire that burns ali^adyat the height:
1 know the emperor's edict, and my charge,
And they shall find no favour.

Theoph. My good lord,
Tiiis care is timely for the entertainment
Of our great master, who this night in person
Comes here to thank you.

Sap, Who! the emperor? . .

Harp, To clear your doubts, he doth-return in
triumph,
Kings lackeying' by his triumphant ichariot;
And in this glorious victory, my. lord, . ',
You have an ample share : for know, your son.
The ne'er-enough commended Antoninus,
So well hath flesh'd his maiden sword,* and died
His wowy pluBfies so deep^Jn enemiesV bloody, \

s Kings lackeying by his triumphant chariot ;^'] Running by
the si(le<of it like lackiesy or fodt-boys. So in Marston's An*
tonio and Mellida :

" Oh that" our power

" Could lackey or keep pace with our desire I"

^ So well kathJiesh^d^Sic,] Massinger was a great reader and
admirer of Shakspeare : he has here not only adopted his senti*
ment, but his words:

*^ Come, brother John, fdll bravely hast thoii^esh'd
" Thy maiden stoord'*
But Shakspeare h ux ercry one's head, or, at least, in ev«ry

10 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

That, besides public grace beyond his hopes,
There are rewards propounded.

Sap. 1 would know
No mean in thine, could this be true.

Harp. My head
Answer the forfeit.

Sap. Of his victory
There was some rumour: but it was assured,
The army passed a full day's journey higher,
Into the country.

Harp. It was so determined ;
But, for the further honour of your son,
And to observe the government of the city,
And with what rigour, or remiss indulgence,
The Christians are pursued, he makes his stay
here : [Trumpets^

For proof, his trumpets speak his near arrival.

Sap. Haste, good Sempronius, draw up our
guards.
And with all ceremonious pomp receive
The conquering army. Let our garrison speak
Their welcome in loud shouts, the city shew
Her state and wealth.

Semp. I'm gone. [Ea^it.

Sap. O, I am ravish*d
With this great honour ! cherish, good Thco-
philus,

one's hand ; aiid I should therefore be constantly anticipated in
such remarks as these.

I will take this opportunity to saj, that it is not mj intention
to encumber the page with tracing every expression of Massin*
ger to its imaginary source. This is a compliment which should
only be paid to ^ great and mighty geniuses; with respect to
those of a second or third order, it is somewhat worse than
superfluous to hunt them through innumerable works of all
descriptions, for the purpose of discoTcring whence erery com«
mon epithet, or trivial phrase is taken. Of this folly we haTC
lately had enough, and more than enough.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 11

This knowing scholar. Send [for] your fair daugh*

ters;'
I will present them to the emperor,
And in their sweet conversion, as a mirror,
Express your zeal and duty.

Theopfi. Fetch them, good Harpax.

[Esit Harpar.

Enter Semprontus, at the head of the guards
soldiers leading three kings bound; An ton i n u$
and Macri^vs bearing /Ae Emperor's eagles;
DiocLESiAN with a gilt laurel on his head^
leading in Artem^a : Sa^pritius kisses the
Emperor's handy then embraces his Son ;
Harpax brings in Calista and Christsta,
Loud shouts.

Diocle. So : at all parts I find Cassarea . ,
Completely govern'd : the licentious soldier*
Confined in modest limits, and the people
Taught to obey, and not compell'd with rigour;
The ancient Roman discipline revived,
Which raised Jlome to her greatness, and pro-
claimed her
The glorious mistress of the conquer'd world ;
But, above all, the service of the gods,

7 send [for] your fair daughters;] All the copies read,—

send yoiirfair daughters : for^ which I have inserted, seems ae.-
cessarj to complete the sense as well as the metre; as Ilarpaz
is immediately dispatched to bring them.

« ■ the licentious soldier] Mr. M. Mason, reads sol*

dierSy the old and true lection is soldier. The stage direction ia
this place is very strangely given by the former editors. It may
be here obserTed that I do not mean to notice every slight cof*
rection : already several errors have been silently reformed by
the assistance of the first quarto : to say nothing of the removal
of such barbarous contractions as conq'ring^ ad'mant, ranc'rouSj
ignorance, rhet'rick, &c. with which the modern editiong artt
•very where deformed without authority or reason.

12

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

So zealously observed, that, good Sapritius,
In words to thank you for your care and duty,
Were much unworthy Dioclesian's honour,
Or his magnificence to his loyal servants. —
But I shall find a time with noble titles
To recompense your merits.

Sap. Mightiest Caesar,
•Whose power upon this globe of earth is equal
To Jove's in heav-en ; whose victorious triumphs
On proud rebellious kings that stir against it,
Are perfect figures of his immortal trophies
Won in the Giants' war; whose conqueringsword,
Guided by his strong arm, as deadly kills
As did His thunder ! all that I have done,
Or, if my strength were centupled, could do,
Comes short of what my loyalty must challenge.
But, if in any thing I have deserved
Great Caesar's smile, 'tis in my humble care
Still to, preserve the honour of those gods.
That make him what he is : my zeal to them
I ever have express'd in my fell hate
Against the Christian sect that, with one blow,
(Ascribing all things to an unknown Power,)
Would strike down all their temples, and allows

them*
Nor sacrifice nor altars. ; ;:^

Diocle. Thou, in this,
Walk'st hand in hand with* me : my will and

power

• Whose power y kc] An imitation of the well-known line,

Divisum imperium cum Jove Ccesar habet,

• and allows them

Nor sacrifice^ nor altarsJ] The modern editors hare,

antl allow them

No sacrifice nor altars :
which is the corrupt reading of the quarto, 1661. .

- I

THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. 13

Shall not alone confirm, but honour all
That are in this most forward.

Sap. Sacred Caesar,
If your imperial majesty stand pleased
To shower your favours upon such as are
The boldest champions of our religion ;
Look on this reverend xain^Scpinnts to Tkeophilus.]

to whom the power* r

Of searching out, and punishing such delin-
quents, '
Was by your choice committed ; and, for proof,
He bath deserv'd the grace imposed upon him,
And with a fair and even hand proceeded.
Partial to none, not to himself, or those
Of equal nearness to himself ; behold
.*This pair of virgins;
' Diode. What are these ?
Sap. His daughters. .

Artem. Now by your sacred fortune, t^ey are
fair ones,
Exceeding fair ones : would 'twere in my power
To make tbemitiine! / '
/ Theoph. They are the gods', great lady.
They were most ha|)py>in your service else:
On these, when they fell from their father's

faith, ' ' '- . •> . .

I uised a judge's power, entrJeati^ failing
.(They being seduced) to -win them to adore
The holy Powers we worship ; I put on
The scarlet robe of boW authority,
And, as they had been strangers to my bloody
Presented them in the most horrid form.
All kind of tortures; part of which they sufFer'd
With Roman constancy.

Artem^ And could vou endure,

* This pair of virgins^ Changed, I know not why, by the
modern editors^ into-r-l hese pair of virgins*

14 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Being a father, to behold their liinbs
Extended on the rack ?

Theoph. I did ; but must
Confess there was a strange contention in me,
Between the impartial office of a judge.
And pity of a father; to help justice
Religion stept in, under which odds
Compassion fell : — yet still I was a father.
For e'en then, when the flinty hangman's whips
Were worn with stripes spent on their tender

limbs,
I kneel'd, and wept, and bcgg'd them, though

they would
Be cruel to themselves, they would take pity
On m}' g^ay hairs; now note a sudden change^
W!iich I with joy remember; those, whom torture,.
Nor fear of death could terrify, were overcome
By seeing of my sufferings ; and so won,
lieturning to the faith that they were born in,
I gave them to the gods. And be assured,
I that used justice with a rigorous hand,
Upon such beauteous virgins, and mine own,
Will use no favour, where the cause commands me,
To any other ; but, as rocks, be deaf
To ail entreaties.

Diode. Thou deserv'st thy place ;
Still hold it, and with honour. Things thus ordered
Touching the gods, 'tis lawful to descend
To human cares, and exercise that power
Heaven has conferr'd upon me ; — which that you,
Rebels and traitors to the power of Rome,
Should not with all extremities undergo,
Wijat can you urge to qualify your crimes.
Or mitigate my anger?

•iC. oj Epire. We are now

' K. of Rpire. We are now

Slates to % powery &c.] I hare obsenred sereral imiiatiosi

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. iS

Slaves to thy power, that yesterday were kingi,
And had command o'er others; we confess
Our grandsires paid yours tribute, yet left \Xi,
As their forefathers had, Atsivt of freedom.
And, if you Romans hold it glorious honour,
Not only to defend what is your own, -
But to enlarge your empire, (though our fortune
Denies that happiness,) who can accuse
The famished mouth, if it attempt to feed ?
Or such, whose fetters eat into their freedoms,
If they desire to shake them off?

K. ofFontus. We stand
The last examples, to prove how uncertain
AH human happiness is ; and are prepared
To endure the worst.

K. ofMacedon. That spoke, which now is highest
In Fortune's wheel, must, when she turns it next^
Decline as low as we are. This consider'd.
Taught the ^Egyptian Hercules, Sesostris,
That had his chariot drawn by captive kings,
To free them from that slavery; — but to hope
Such mercy from a Roman, were mere madness :
We are familiar with what cruelty
Rome, since her infant greatness, ever used
Such as she triumph d uvci , age uui sex
Exempted from her tyranny ; seepter'd princes
Kept in her common dungeons, and their cnildren.
In scorn train'd up in base mechanic art^,

of Massinger in the dramas of Mason : there is, for instance, a
Striking similarity betwecn'this spirited speech, and the indignant
exclamation of the brave but unfortunate Caractacus :
■ *^ Soldier, I had arms»

^^ Had neighing steeds to whirl my iron cars,
*^ Had wealth, dominions : Dost (hou wonder, Romany
^^ I fought to save them ? What if Cassar aims
^^ To lord it universal o'er the world,
<^ Shall the world tamely crouch to Cassar's footstool ?^

16 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

For public bondmen. In the catalogue

Of those unfortunate mefl^ we expect to have

Our natfi^s remembered.

Diode, In all growing empires,
Even cruelty is useful; some must suffer,
And be set up examples to strike terror
In others, though far off: but, when a state
Is raised to her perfection, and her bases
Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy,
And do't with safety :* but to whom ? not

cowards.
Or such whose baseness shames the conqueror,
And robs him of his victory, as-weak Perseus
Did great ^milius.' Know, therefore, kings
Of Epire, Pontiis, and of Macedon,
That I with courtiesy can use my prisoners.
As well as make them mine by force, provided
That they are noble enemies : such I found you,
Before I made you mine ; and, since you were so,
You have not lost the courages of princes.
Although the fortune. Had you born yourselves
Dejectedly, and base, no slavery
Had been too easy for you : but such is
The power of noble valour, that we love it

4 And do*t with Bofety :] This is admirably vxpretised ; ^^
maxim, howeyer, though just, is of the most dangerous nature,
for what ambitious chief will erer allow the state to be ^' raised
to her perfection," or ' that the time for using '* merej with
safety'' is arriTcd ? Even Dioclesian has his exceptions, — strong
ones too I for Rome was old enough in his time. There is an
allusion to Virgil, in the ppening of this speech :

Res dura^et novitas regni me talia cogunt
Molirij &c.

5 ■ ■■■ as weak Perseus

Did great Xmilius.} It is said that Perseus sent to desire
Paulns iGmilius not to exhibit him as a spectacle to the Romans,
and to spare him the indignity of being led in triumph, ^milius
replied coldly : The favour he asks of' me is in his own power ; ht
can procure it for Umself* Coxsxbb*

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 1?

Even in our enemies, and taken with it,
Desire to make them friends, as I will you,
K. of Epire. Mock us not, Caesar.
Diode, By the gods, I do not.
Unloose their bonds : — I now as friends embrace

you.
Give them their crowns again,

K, qf'Pontus. We are twice o'ercome ;
By courage, and by courtesy.

K. of Macedon. But this latter,
Shall teach us to live ever faithful vassals '
To Dioclesian, and the power of Rome.
K, of Epire. All kingdoms fall before her !
K. of Pontus. And all kings
Contend to honour Caesar !

Diocle. I believe
Your tongues are the true trumpets of your

hearts,
And in it I most happy. Queen of fate,
Imperious Fortune ! mix some light disaster
With my so many joys, to season them,
And give them sweeter relish : Fm girt round
With true felicity ; faithful subjects here,
Here bold commanders, here with new-made

friends :
But, what's the crown of all, in thee, Artemia,
My only child, whose love to me and duty,
Strive to exceed each other !

Artem. I make payment
But of a debt, which I stand bound to terrier
As a daughter and a subject. *

Diode. Which requfres yet
A retribution from me, Artemia,
Tied by a father's care, how to bestaw
A jewel, of all things to me most precious:
Nor will I therefore longer keep thee from
The chief joys of creation, marriage rites;

VOL. I. C *

18 THE VTRGIN-MARTYR.

Which that thou inay'st with greater pleasures

taste of,
Thou shalt not like with mine eyes, but thine own.
Among these kings, forgetting they were ''cap-
tives ;
Or those, remembering not they are my subjects.
Make choice of any : By Jove's dreadful thunder.
My will shall rank with thine.

Artem. It is a bounty
The daughters of great princes seldom meet

with ;
For they, to make up breaches in the state,
Or for some other public ends, are forced
To match where they affect not.* May my life
Deserve this favour !

Diode. Speak ; I long to know
The man thou wilt make happy.

Artem. If that titles,
Or the adored name of Queen could take me,
Here would I fix mine eyes, and look no further;
But these are baits to take a mean-born lady,
'Not her, that boldly may call Caesar father:
In that I can bring nonour unto any,
But from no king that lives receive addition :
To raise desert and virtue by my fortune,
Though in a low estate^ were greater glory.
Than to mix greatness with a prince that owes*
No worth but that name only.

Diode. I commend thee ;
'Tis like myself.

^ To matcH where they affect not.l This d«es better for modera
than Roman practice ; and indeed the author was thinking moie
of Hamlet than Dioclesian, ia this part of the dialogue.

^ Than to mix greatness vdth a prince that owes] Wherever
the former editors meet with this word, in the sense of possess^
they alter it into ottms ; though it is 80 used ux almost Qif^rj
page of our old dramatists.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYE. 19

Artem. If, then, of men beneath me,
My choice is to be made, where shall I seek.
But among those that best deserve from you ?
That have served you most faithfully ; that in

dangers .
Have stood next to you ; that have interposed
Their breasts as shields of proof, to dull the'

swords
Aim'd at your bosom; that have spent their

blood
To croM'n your brows with laurel ?

Macr. Cytherea,
Great Queen of Love, be now propitious to me !

Harp, [to Sap."] Now mark what I foretold.

Anton. Her eye's on me.
Fair Venus' son, draw forth a leaden dart,'
And, that she may hate me, transfix her with it ;
Or, if thou needs wilt use a golden one,
Shoot it in the behalf of any other :
Thou know'stlam thy votary elsewhere. [Aside.

Artem. [advances to Anton,} Sir.

Theoph. How he blushes !

Sap. Welcome, fool, thy fortune.
Stand like a block when such an angel courts
thee !

Artem. I am no object to divert your eye
From the beholding.

7 ■ to dull the swords] So the old copies. Mr. M.

Mason reads, to dull their sTi/ords !

* Fair Venus* son draw forth a leaden dartf} The idea of this
doable effect, to which Massinger has more than one allusion,
is from Ofid :

filius huic Veneris ; Figat tuus omnia, Phabe^
Te mens arcusy ait i^—Parnassi constitit arce^
Eque sugittifera promsit duo tela pharetra
Diversorum operum : fugat hoCffacit iUud amorem.
Quod/acity auratum estf et cuspidefulget acuta ;
Quodjugatf obtusum est, et habet sub arundine plumbum.

Met. lib. U 470.

Cft

20 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Anton. Rather a bright sun.
Too glorious for him to gaze upon,
That took not first flight from the eagle's aerie.
As I look on the temples, or the gods,
And with that reverence, lady, I behold you.
And shall do ever.

Artem. And it will become you,
While thus we stand at distance ; but, if love,
Love born out of the assurance of your virtues.
Teach me to stoop so low —

Antoft. O, rather take
A higher flight.

Artem. Why, fear you to be raised ?
Say I put off the dreadful awe that waits
On majesty, or with you share my beams,
Nay, make you to outshine me ; change the name
Of Subject into Lord, rob you of service
That's due from you to me, and in me make it
Duty to honour you, would you refuse me ?
Anton. Refuse you, madam ! such a worm as
lam,
Refuse what kings upon their knees would sue

for!
Call it, great lady, by another name ;
An humble modesty, that would not match
A molehill with Olympus.
Artem. He that's famous
For honourable actions in the war.
As you are, Antoninus, a proved soldier^
Is fellow to a king.

Anton. If you love valour.
As 'tis a kingly virtue, seek it out.
And cherish it in a king ; there it shines brightest,
And yields the bravest lustre. Look on Epire,
A prince, in whom it is incorporate ;
And let it not disgrace him that he was
O'eicome by Caesar; it was victory,

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 21

To stand so long against him : had you seen him,
How in one bloody scene he did discharge
The parts of a commander and a soldier,
Wise in direction, bold in execution ;
You would have said, Great Caesar's self ex-
cepted,
The world yields not his equal.

Artem. Yet I have heard,
Encountering him alone in the head of his troop,
You took him prisoner.

K. 9fEpire. 'Tis a truth, great princess ;
I'll not detract from valour.

Anion. Twas mere fortune ;
Courage had nto hand in it.

Theoph Did ever man
Strive so against his own good ?

Sap, Spiritless villain !
How I am tortured ! By the immortal gods,
I now could kill him.

Diode-. Hold, Sapritius, hold,
On our displeasure hold !

Harp. Why, this would make
A father mad ; 'tis not to be endured;
Your honour's tainted in't.

Sap. By heaven, it is :
I shall think of it.

Harp. 'Tis not to be forgotten.

Artem. Nay, kneel not, sir, I am no ravisher,
Nor so far gone in fond affection to you.
But that I can retire, my honour safe :—
Yet say, hereafter, that thou hast neglected
What, but seen in possession of another,
Will make thee mad with envy.

Anton. In her looks
Revenge is written.

Mac. As you love your life,
Study to appease her.

83 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Anton. Gracious madam, hear me.

Arttm. And be again refused ?

Anton. .The tender of
My life, my service, or, since you vouchsafe it,*
My love, my heart, my all : and pardon me,
Pardon, dread princess, that I made some

scruple
To leave a valley of security,
To mount up to the hill of majesty,
On which, the nearer Jove, the nearer lightning.
What knew I, but your grace made trial of me;
Durst I presume to embrace, where but to touch
With an unmanner'd hand, was death ? The fox,
When he saw first the forest's king, the lion.
Was almost dead with fear ;* the second view
Only a little daunted him ; the third.
He durst salute him boldly : pray you, apply this ;
And you shall find a little time will teach me
To look with more familiar eyes upon you,
Than duty yet allows me.

Sap. Well excused.

Ariem. You may redeem all yet.

Diode. And, that he may
Have means and opportunity to do so,
Artemia, I leave you my substitute
In fair Caesarca.

Sap. And here, as yourself.
We will obey and serve her.

Diode. Antoninus,
So you prove hers, I wish no other heir;

9 My life^ my service^ or, since you vouchsafe tV,
My love^ &c.] This is the reading of the first edition, and if
etidently right. Coxeter follows the second and third, which read
not instead of or. How did this nonsense escape Mr. M. Mason ?

' Was almost dead with fear ;] The reading of the first quarto
is dradf which may, perhaps, be the genuine word* The fable
is from the Greek. In a preceding line there is an allusion to
the proverb— Proctt/ a /we, sedprocul a/ulmine.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 23^

Think on't^ — be careful of your charge, Thco-

philus;
Sapritius, be you my daughter's guardian.
Your company I wish, confederate princes,
In our Dalmatian wars; which finished
With victory I hope, and Maximinus,
Our brother and copartner in the empire,
At my request won to confirm as much,
The kingdoms I took from you weHl restore.
And make you greater than you were before,

[La^eunt all but Antoninus and Macrinus.

Anton. Oh, I am lost for ever ! lost, Macrinus !
The anchor of the wretched, hope, forsakes me,
And with one blast of Fortune all my light
Of happiness is put out.

Mac. You are like to those
That are ill only, 'cause they are too well;
That, surfeiting in the excess of blessings.
Call theirabundance want. What could you wish,
That is not fall'n upon you ? honour, greatness,
Respect, wealth, favour, the whole world for a

dower ;
And with a princess, whose excelling form
Exceeds her fortune.

Anton. Yiet poison still is poison.
Though drunk in gold ; and all these flattering

glories
To me, ready to starve, a painted banquet.
And no essential food. When I am scorch'd
With fire, can flames in any other quench me?
What is her love to me, greatness, or empire^
That am slave to another, who alone
Can give me ease or freedom ?

Mac. Sir, you point at
Your dotage on the scornful Dorothea :
Is she, though fair, the same day to be named
With best Artemia ? Jn ail their courses,

24 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Wise men propose their ends : with sweet

Artemia,
There comes along pleasure, security,
Usher'd by all that in this life is precious :
With Dorothea (though her birth be noble,
The daughter to a senator of Rome,
By him left rich, yet with a private wealth,
And far inferior to yours) arrives
The emperor's frown, which, like a mortkl

plague^
Speaks death is near ; the princess' heavy scorn,
Under which you will shrink ; your father's

fury,
Which to resist, even piety forbids : —
And but remember that she stands suspected
A favourer of the Christian sect ; she brings
Not danger, but assured destruction with her.
This truly weigh'd, one smile of great Artemia
Is to be cherish'd, and preferred before
All ioys in Dorothea: therefore leave her.
Anton. In what thou think*st thou art most

wise, thou art
Grossly abused, Macrinus, and most foolish.
For any man to match above his rank.
Is but to sell his liberty. With Artemia
I still must live a servant ; but enjoying
Divinest Dorothea, I shall rule,
Rule as becomes a husband : for the danger^
Or call it, if you will, assured destruction^
I slight it thus. — If, then, thou art my friend,
As I dare swear thou art, and wilt not take
A governor's place upon thee,* be my helper.

Mac. You know I dare, and will do any thing ;
Put me unto the test.

Anton. Go then, Macrinus,

^ A gofoernofs place upon thee,] From the Latin : ne sis mihi
tutor.

THE VIRGIN. MARTYR, £5

To Dorothea ; tell her I have worn,
In all the battles I have fought, her figure,
Her figure in my heart, which, like a deity,
Hath still protected me. Thou can'st speak well ;
And of thy choicest language spare a little,
To make her understand how much I love her,
And how I languish for. her. Bear these jewels,
Sent in the way of sacrifice, not service,
As to my goddess: all lets' thrown behind me,
Or fears that may deter me, say, this morning
I mean to visit her by the name of friendship :
— No words to contradict this.

Mac, I am yours:
And, if my travail this way be ill spent,
Judge not my readier will by the event. [Exeunt.

A CT II. SCENE I.

A Room in Dorothea's House.
Enter Spungius, and Hiucius/

Spun. Turn Christian! Would he that first
tempted me to have my shoes walk upon Chris-
tian soles, had turn'd me into a capon ; for I am
sure now, the stones of all my pleasure, in this
fleshly life, are cut off.

Hir. So then, if any coxcomb has a galloping

3 All lets thrown behind me,] i. e. All impediments.

So in the Mayor of Quinborough :

" Hope, and be sure I'll soon remove the let
'^ That stands between thee and thy glory.''

* Very few of our old English plays are free from these dia-
logues of low wit and buflbonery : 'twas the vice of the age ;

as THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. .

desire to ride^ here's a geldings if he can but sit
him.

J^n. I kick, for all that, like a horse ; — ^look
else.

Hir. But that is a kickish iade, fellow
Spungius. Have not I as much cause to com-
plain as thou hast ? When I was a pagan, there
was an infidel punk of mine, would have let me
come upon trust for my curvetting : a pox on
your Christian cockatrices ! they cry, like pouU
terers* wives: — No money, no coney.

Spun. Bacchus, the god of brew'd wine and
sugar, grand patron of rob-pots, upsy-freesy

nor is Massinger less free from it than his cotemporaries. To
defend them is impossible, nor shaU I attempt it. They are of
this use, that they mark the taste, display the manners, and
shew us what was the chief delight and entertainment of oar
forefathers. Coxeter.

It should, however, be obsenred, in justice to our old plays^
that few, or rather none of them, are contaminated with such
detestable ribaldry as the present. To ^' low wit,'* or indeed
to wit of any kind, it hais not the slightest pretension ; being,
in fact, nothing more than a loathsome sooterkin engendered of
filth and dulness. Hircius and Spungius were evidently brought
forward by the writer as personifications of Lust and Drunk.
ENNESS ; this indeed forms no excuse for the vile language in
which they indulge, though it may serre in some degree to ac.
eount for it. That Massinger himself is not free from dialogues
ef low wit and bufibonery, (though certainly, notwithstanding
Cozeter'sasserticMi, he is much more so than his contemporaries,)
may readily be granted; but the person who^ after perusing
this execrable trash, can imagine it to bear any resemblance to
his style and manner, must have read him to very little purpose*
It was assuredly written by Decker, as was the rest of this act,
in which there is much to approve : with respect to this scene,
and every other in which the present speakers are introduced,
I recommend them to the reader's supreme scorn and contempt ;
if he pass them entirely over, he will lose little of the story,
and nothing of his respect for the writer. I have carefully
corrected the text in Innumerable places, but given it no farther
consideration. I repeat my entreaty that the reader would re-
ject it altogether^

THE VIRGlN-MARTYR. sr

tipplers, and super-naculum takers ; this Bacchus,
who is head warden of Vintners'-hall, ale-conner,
mayor of all victiialling-houscs, the sole liquid
benefactor to bawdy-houses ; lanceprezade to
red noses, and invincible adelantado over the
armado of piriipled, deep-scarleted, fubified, and
carbuncled faces ^

Hir. What of all this ?

Spun. This boon Bacchanalian skinker, 'did I
make legs to.

Hir, Scurvy ones, when thou wert drunk.

Spun. There is no danger of losing a man's
ears by making these indentures; he that will
not now and then be Calabingo, is worse than
a Calamootbe, When I wap a pagan, and kneeled
to. this Bacchus, t durst out-drink a lord ; but
your Christian lord^ out-bowl me. I was in hope
to lead a sober life, when I was converted ; but,
now amongst the Christians, I can no sooner
stagger out of one alehouse, but I reel into
another: they hav^ whole streets of nothing
but drinking- roonis,' and drabbing-chambers,
jumbled together. \ ^

Hir. Bawdy Priapus, the first schoolmaster
thattaught butchers how to stick pricks in flesh,
and make it swell, thou know'st, was the only
ningle that I cared for under the moon ; but,
since I left him to follow a scurvy lady, what
with her praying and our fasting, if now I come
to a wench, and offer to use her any thing hardly,
(telling her, being* a Christian, she must endure,)
she presently handles me as if I were a clove, and
cleaves me with disdain, as if I were a calPs head.

Spun. I See no. remedy, fellow Hircius, but
that thou and I must be half pagans, and half
Christians; for we know very fools that are
Christians

^

S8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

i

Hir. Right : the quarters of Christiaus are
good for nothing but to feed crows.

Spun. True : Christian brokers, thou know'st,
are made up of the quarters of Christians ; par-
boil one of these rogues, and he is not meat for
a dog : no, no, I am resolved to have an infidel's
heart, though in shew I carry a Christian's face.

Hir. Thy last shall serve my foot : so will I.

Spun. Our whimpering lady and mistress sent
me with two great baskets full of beef, mutton,
veal, and goose, fellow Hircius

Hir. And woodcock, fellow Spungius.

Spun. Upon the poor lean ass-fellow, on which
I ride, to all the almswomen : what think'st thou
I have done with all this good cheer ?

Hir. Eat it ; or be choked else.

Spun. Would my ass, basket and all, were in
thy maw, if I did ! No, as I am a demi-pagan, I
sold the victuals, and coined the money into
pottle pots of wine.

Hir. ITierein thou shewed'st thyself a perfect
demi-christian too, to let the poor beg, starve,
and hang, or die of the pip. Our puling, snotty-
nose lady sent me out likewise with a purse of
money, to relieve and release prisoners :— Did I
so, think you ?

Spun. Would thy ribs were turned into grates
of iron then.

Hir. As I am a total pagan, I swore they
should be hanged first : for, sirrah Spungius, I
lay at my old ward of lechery, and cried, a pox
on your two-penny wards ! and so I took scurvy
common flesh for the money.

Spun. And wisely done ; for our lady, sending
it to prisoners, had bestowed it out upon lousy
knaves : and thou, to save that labour, cast'st it
away upon rotten whores.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

29

Hir. All my fear is of that pink-an-eye jack-
an-apes boy, her page.

Spun. As I am a pagan from my cod -piece
downward, that white-faced monkey frights me
too. I stole but a dirty pudding, last day, out of
an almsbasket, to give ' my dog when he was
hungry, and the peaking chitty-face page hit
me in the teeth with it.

Hir. With the dirty pudding ! so he did me
once with a cow-turd, which in knavery I would
have crumb'd into one's porridge, .uJio was half
a pagan too. The smug dandiprat smells us out,
wnatsoevcr we are doing.

Spun. Does he ? let him take heed I prove
not his back-friend : I'll make him curse his
smelling what I do.

Hir. Tis my lady spoils the boy; for he is
ever at her tail, and she is never well but in his
company.

Enter A^gelo with a booky and a taper lighted i
seeing him, they counterfeit devotion.

Ang. 0\ now your hearts make ladders of
your eyes,
In shew to climb to heaven, when your devotion
Walks upon crutches. Where did you waste

your time,
When the religious man was on his knees,
Speaking the heavenly language ?

Spun. Why, fellow Angelo, we were speaking
in pedlar's French, I. hope.

^ir. We havetiot been idle, take it upon my word.

Ang. Have you the baskets emptied, which
your lady
Sent, from her charitable hands, to women
That dwdl upon her pity ?

^ ^

...^-.T^.• ^k

»». >

•v',», r

30 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Spun. Emptied them ! yes ; I'd be loth to have
my belly so empty: yet, I am sure, I munched
not one bit of them neither.

Ang. And went your money to the prisoners ?
' Hir. Went 1 no ; I carried it, and with these

fingers paid it away.

Ang. What way ? the devil's way, th^ way of sin,
The way of hot damnation, way of lust ?
And you, to wash away the poor man's bread,
In bowls of drunkenness ?

Spun. Drunkenness ! yes, yes, I use to be
drunk; our next neighbour's man, called Chris-
topher, hath often seen me drunk, hath. he not?

Hir. Or me given so to the flesh : my cheeks
speak my doings*

Ang. Avaunt, ye thieves, andhollow hypocrites !
Your hearts to me lie open like black books,
And there I read your doings.

Spun. And what do you read in my heart ?

Hir. Or in mine ? come, amiable Angelo, beat
the flint of your brains.

Spun. And let's see what sparks of wit fly out
to kindle your cerebrum.
>* Ang. Your names even brand you ; you are

Spungius call'd.
And like a spunge, you suck up lickerish wines.
Till your soul reels to hell.

Spung. To hell ! can any drunkard 'is legs carry
him so far?

Ang. For blood of grapes you^old the widows*
food.
And, starving them, 'tis murder; what's this but

hell?

Hircius your name, and goatish J5 your nature ;
You snatch the meat out of the prisoner's mouth.
To fatten harlots : is not this hell too ?
No angel, but the devil, waits on you.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 31

^un. Shall I cut his throat ?

Hir. No; better burn him, for I. think he is a
witch : but sooth, sooth him.

Spun. Fellow Aogelo, true it is, that falling
into the company of wicked he- christians, for
my part

Hir. And $he ones, for mine, — we have them
swim in shoals hard by

Spun. We must confess, I took too much out
of the pot ; and he of t'other hollow commodity.

Her. Yes, indeed, .we laid Jill on both of us ;
we cozen'd the poor; but 'tis a common thing :
many a one, that counts himself a better Chris-
tian than we two» has done it, by this light !

Spun. But pray, sweet Angelo, play not the
tell-tale to my lady ; and, if ypu take us creep-
ing into any of these mouse-holes of sin any
more, let cats flay off our skins.

Hir. And put nothing but the poison'd tails of
rats into those skins.

Ang, Will you dishonour her sweet charity,
Who saved you from the tree of death and shame ?

Hir. Would I were hang'd, rather than thus
be told of my faults 1

Spun. She took us, 'tis true, from the gallows j
yet I hope she will not bar yeomen sprats to
have their swing.

Ang. She comes, — beware, and mend.

Hir. Let's break his neck, and bid him mend.

/

Enter Dorothea.

Dor. Have you my messages, sent to the poor,
Delivered with good hands, not robbing them
Of any jot was theirs ?

Spun. Rob them, lady ! I hope neither my fcl-
low nor I am thieves*

32 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Hir. Delivered with good hands, madam !
else let me never lick my fingers more when I
eat biitter'd fish.

Dor. Who cheat the poor, and from them
pluck their alms,
Pilfer from heaven ; and there arc thunderbolts.
From thence to beat them ever. Do not lie ;
Were you both faithful, true distributers?

Spun, Lie, madam ! what grief is it to see you
turn swaggerer, and give your poor-minded ras-
cally servants the lie !

Dor. Fm glad you do not; if those wretched
people.
Tell you they pine for want of any thing,
Whisper but to mine ear, and you shall furnish
them.

Hir. Whisper! nay, lady, for my part I'll cry
whoop.

Ang. Play no more, villains, with so good a
lady;
For, if you do

Spun. Are we Christians ?

Hir. The foul fiend snap all pagans for me !

Ang. Away, and, once more, mend.

Spun. 'Takes us for botchers.

Hir. A patch, a patch !* [E.veunt Spun, and Hir.

Dor. My book and taper.*'

Ang. Here, most holy mistress.

Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that
I never
Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound.

5 A patch, a patch !] i. c. A fool, a fool !

* Dor. Mt/ book and taper.] What follows, .to the end of th«
scene, is exquisitely beautiful. What pity that a man so capa-
ble of interesting our best pMSsions (for I am persuaded that
this also ^^as written by Decker), should prostitute his genius
and his judgment to the, production of what could only disgrace
himself, and disgust his reader.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 8a

Were every servant in the world like thee,.
So full of goodness, angels would- come down
To dwell with us : thy name is Angelo,
And like tbtt name thou art; get thee to rest,
Thy youth with too much watching is opprest

Jing. No, my dear lady, I could weary stars,
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes,
By my late watching, but to wait on you.
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar,
Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven.
So blest I hold me in your company t
Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ;
For then you break his heart-

Dor. Be nigh me still, then :
In golden letters down Til set that day.
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope
To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself.
This little, pretty body ; when I, coming
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy,
My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an

alms,
.Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand \ —
And, when I took thee home, my most chaste

bosom,
Methought, was fill'd with no hot wanton fire,
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher,
On wings of cherubins, than it did before.

jdng. Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye
So likes so poor a servant.

Dor. I have ott'er'd
Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents.
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of

some,
To dwell with thy good father; for, the son
Bewitching me so deeply witii his presence,
lie that begot him must do't ten times more.

VOL. I. D

34 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

I pray thee, my sweet boy, shew me thy parents ;
Be not ashamed.

Ang. I am not : I did never
Know who my mother was ; but, by yon palace,
Fiird with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare

assure you.
And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand.
My father ia in heaven : and, pretty mistress.
If your illustrious hourglass spend his sand,
No worse than yet it does ; upon my life,
You and I both shall meet my father there,
And he shall bid you welcome.

Dor. A blessed day !
We all long to be there, hut lose the way.

\Ea;eunt.

SCENE IL

A Street^ near Dorothea's House.

Enter Maceinus, met by Theophilus and

, Harpax.

Theoph. The Sun, "god of the day, guide thee,
Macrinus !

Mac. And thee, Theophilus !

Theoph. Glad'st thou in such scorn ? '
I call my wish back.

Mac. I'm in haste.

Theoph. One word,
Take the least hand of time up: — stay.

^ Theoph. Giad'st thou in such scorn ?] Theophilas, who 19
represented as a furious zealot for paganism, is mortified at the
indi£ference with which Macrinus returns the happiness he had
wished him by his god. Mr. M. Mason reads, Gaddest thou id
such scorn ? He roaj be right ; for Macrinus is evidently anxious
to pass on : the reading of the text^ however, is that of all the
old copies.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 35

Mac. Be brief.

Theoph. As thought : I prithee tell tne, good
Macrinus,
How health and our fair princess lay together
This night, for you can tell; courtiers have flies,'
Th?it buzz all news unto them.

Mac. She slept but ill.

Theoph. Double thy courtesy ; how does An-
toninus?

Mac. Ill, well, straight, crooked, — I know not
how.

Theoph. Once more ;
— Thy head is full of windmills : — when doth

the princess
Fill ja bed full of beauty, and bestow it
On Antoninus, on the wedding-night?

Mac. I know not.

Theoph. No ! thou art the manuscript,
Wher^ Antoninus writes down all his secrets :
Honest Macrinus, tell me.

Mac. Fare you well, sir. [E.vit.

Harp. Honesty' is some fiend, and frights him
hence ;
A many courtiers love it not. '

Theoph^ What piece
Of this state-wheel, which winds up Antoninus,
Is broke, it runs so jarringly ? the man
Is from himself divided: O thou, the eye,
By which I wonders see, tell me, my Harpax,
What gad-fly tickles this Macrinus so,
That, flinging up the tail, he breaks thus from me.

• courtiers have flies,] This word is used by Ben

Jonson, a close and devoted imitator of the ancients, for a
domestic parasite, a familiar, Sec. and from him, probably. Decker
adopted it in the present sense.

9 A mani/ courtiers love it not.'] This is the reading of the
fifst quarto. The editors folio vr that of the last two: — And
mantff &c* which is not scr good.

\

36 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Harp. Oh, sir, his brain-pan is a bed of snakes,
Whose stings shoot through his eye-balls, whose

poisonous spawn
Ingenderu such a fry of speckled villainies,
That, unless charms more strong than adamant
Be used, the Roman angel's* wings shall melt,
And Caesar's diadem be from his head

' « the Roman angel's] As angels were no part of

the pagan thex)logy, this should certainly be augel from the liir
lian augello^ which means a bird. M. Mason.

It were to be wished that critics would sometimes apply to
themselves the advice which Gonerill gives to poor old Lear:

^* I pray you, father, being weak^ seem so ;"
we should not then find so many of these certmnlics. The bar-
barous word augel^ of which Mr. M. Mason speaks so confi.
dttBtiy, is foreign to our language ; whereas angel^ in the sense,
of bird, occurs frequently. Jonson beautifully calls the night-
ingale, '' the dear good angel of the spring ;" and if this should
be thought, as it probably is, a Grecism ; yet we have the same
term in another passage, which will admit of no dispute :

*' Not an angel of the air,
f* Bird melodious, or bird fair, &c."

Two Noble Kwsmen,
In Mandeville, the barbarous Herodotus of a barbarous age,
there is an account of a people (probably the remains of the old
Guebrcs) who exposed the dead bodies of their parents to the
fowles of the air. They reserved, however, the sculls, of which,
says he, the son, " letethe make a cuppe, and thereof dryrikethe
he with gret devocioun, in remembraunce of the holy man that
the avngeles of God han eten/'

'' By this expression,'' says Mr. Hole, " Mandeville possibly
meant to insinuate that they were considered as sacred mtssenm
gers.'^ Not so: aww^c/^* 0/ Gorf, was probably synonymous in
Mandeville's vocabulary, to fowles' of' the air. With Greek
phraseology he was, perhaps, but little acquainted; but he
knew his own language well. To return to the ie%t\ it can
scarcely be necessary to add, that by the " Roman angel," is
meant the eagle, the well-known military ensign.

The reader cannot but have already observed how ill the
style of Decker assimilates with that of Massinger: in the
former act, Ilarpax had spoken sufficiently plain, and told
Theophilus of strange and important events^ ifithout these
harsh and violent starts and metaphors.

THEVIRGIN-MARTYR. 37

Spurn'd by bjise feet ; the Uurel which he wears,

Returning victor, be enforced to kiss

That which it hates, the fire.' And can this ram,

This Antoninus-Engine, being made ready

To so much mischief, keep a steady motion ? —

His eyes and feet, you see, give strange assaults.

Theopii. I'm turn'd a marble statue at thy lan-
guage,
Which printed is in such crabb'd characters, "
It puzzles all my reading : what, in the name
Of Pluto, ^low is hatching ?

Harp. This Macrinus,*
The line is, upon which love-errands run
Twixt Antoninus and that ^host of women,
The bloodless Dorothea ; who in prayer
And meditation, mycking all your gods,
Drinks up her ruby colour: yet Antoninus
Plays the Endymion to this pale-faced Moon,
Courts, s6eks to catch her eyes —

Theoph. And what of this ?

Harp.. These are* but creeping billows.
Not got to shore yet : but if Dorothea
Fall on his bosom, and be fired with love,
(Your coldest women do so), — had you ink
Brew'd from the infernal Styx, not all that black- -

ness
Can make a thing so foul, as the dishonours,

* Harp. This Macrinus

The line is &c.] The old copies read iime. Before I saw Mr.
M. Mason's emendation, I had altered it to twine. This, how-
ever, appears to be the genuine reading, and I have therefore
placed it in the text. The allusion is to the ri\de firQ-works of
our ancestors. So, in the Fawne^ by Marston :

*'' Page. There be squibs, sir, running upon Rms^ like some
of our gawdy gallants," &c.

And in the Honest Whore by Decker, the author of the pas-
sage before us: *' Troth, mistress, to tell you true, the fire->
works then ran from me upon lines ^^^ &c*

38 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Disgraces, bufFetings, and most base affronts
Upon the bright Artemia, star o' the court,
Great Caesar's daughter.

Theopk. I now conster thee.

Harp. Nay, more; a firmament of clouds,
being fill'd
With Jove's artillery, shot down at once,
To pash' your gods in pieces, cannot give,
With all those thunderbolts, so deep a blow
To the religion there, and pagan lore,
As this; for Dorothea hates your gods,
And, if she once blast Antoninus' soul,
Making it foul like hers, Oh ! the example —

Theoph. Eats through Csesarea's heart like
. liquid poison
Have I invented tortures to tear Christians,
To see but which, could all that feel hell's tor-
ments
Have leave to stand aloof here on earth's stage,
They would be mad till they again descended,
Holding the pains most horrid of such souls,
May-games to those of mine; has this my hand

' To pash your gods in pieces^] So the old copies. Coxeter,
(who is /ollowfd, as usual, bj Mr. M. Mason,) ignorant perhaps
of the sense of pash, changed it to dash^ a word of far less energy,
and of a different meani r.g. The latter signifies, to throw one
thing with violence against another ; the former, to strike a
thing with such force as to crush it to pieces. Thus in Act IV.
of this tragedy :

'* when the battering ram

*^ Was fetching his career backwards, topash
*' Me with his hums in pieces.''

The word is now obsolete; which is to be regretted, as we
have none that can adequately supply its place : it is used in its
proper sense by Drydcn, which is the latest instance I recol-
lect :

^' Thy cunning engines have with labour raised
^^ My heavy anger, like a mighty weight,
" To fall and pash thee."

THE VIRGIN-MAHTYR. 39

Set down a Christikn's execution
In such dire postures, that the very hangman
Fell at my foot dead, hearing but their figure^ ; *^
And shall Macrinus and his feliow-masqiier
Strangle me in a dance ?

Harp. No : — on ; I hug thee,
For drilling thy quick brains in this rich plot
Of tortures 'gainst these Christians: on; I hug
thee !

Theoph. Both hug and holy me : to this
Dorothea,
Fly thou and I in thunder*

Harp. Not for kingdoms
Piled upon kingdoms : there's a villain page
Waits on her, whom I would not for the world
Hold traffic with ; I do so hate his sight,, ,
That, should I Ipok on him, I muist sink down.

Theoph. I >yill not lose thee then, her to con-
found:
None but this head with glories shall be crown'd.

Harp. Oh! mine own as I would wish thee!

[Exeunt^

SCENE Ilf.

J Room in Dorothea's ^Toe^^.

JE^zfer Dorothea, Macrikus, tfwrf Angelo,

Dor. My trusty Angelo, with that curio^s eye
Of thine, which ever waits upon my business,
I prithee watch those my still-negligent servants,
That they perform my will, in what's enjoin'd them
To the good of others j else will' you find them

flies,
Not lying still, yet in thc^m no good lies ;
Be careful, dear boy. \ ^

, . ... • I'. * > '-** '^j.j^nA >\

40 THE YIRGIN-MARTYJl.

Ang. Yes, my sweetest mistress/ [JBjtV.

Dor. Now, sir, you may go oa.
^ Mac. I then must study

A new arithmetic, to sum up the virtues
Which Antoninus gracefully become.
There is in him so much man, so much goodness,
So much of honour, and of all things else,
Which make our being excellent, that from his

store
He can enough lend others; yet, much ta'en

from him,
The want shall be as little, as when seas
Lend from their bounty, to fill up the poorness*
Of needy rivers.

Dor. Sir, he is more indebted
To you for praise, than you to him that owes it.

Mac. If qujeens, viewing his presents^ paid to
the whiteness
Of your chaste hand alone, should be ambitious
But to be parted in their numerous shares ;*
This he counts nothing: could you see main

armies
Make battles in the quarrel of his valour,
That 'tis the best, the truest; this were nothing :
The greatness of his state, his father's voice,

♦ Ang. Yesy my sweetest mistress^ So the old copies: the
modern e^It^rs read^ Yes^ my sweet mistress^ whiclji destroys the
metre.

5 ■ to Jill up the poorness^ The modern editors read,

I know not vf\yy*-^tojiU up their poorness !

^ Btct to be- parted in their numerous shares ;] This tlie. former
editors \i^,\e. modernized into

But to be partners, &c.

% better word, perh^^^ bijt not, for that, to be unwarrantably
thrust into the text. The expression may be found in most of
the writers of our author's ago, in the sense here required;
to be parted ; to be favoured or endowed with a part. It fre-
/ . jt quently occurs in Jonson. ^ ^ , . ^ >^

THE VIRGIN^MABTYJI, 4\

And arm, awing C^evsarea/ he ne'er boasts of;
The sunbeams which the emperor thro H^aupon him,
Shine there but as in water, and gild him
Not with one spot of .pride ; no, dearest beauty^
All these, hcap'd up together in onescale,^
Cannot weigh down the love he bears to you,
Being put into the other.

Dor. Could gold buy you
To speak thus for a friend, you, sir, are worthy
Of more than I will number ; and tbi^ your Ian*

guage
Hath power to win upon another woman,
'Top of whose heart th« fe;athers of this world
Are gaily stuck : but all which first you named,
And now this last, his love, to me are nothing.

Mac. You make me a sad mes&enger j^—but
himself

Enter Akvokinus«

Being come in person, shall, I hope, hear from you
Music more pleasing.

Anton. Has your ear, Macrinus,
Heard none, then ?

Mac. None I like,

Anton. But can there be
In such a noble casket, wherein lie
Beauty and chastity in their full perfection,
A rocky heart, killing with cruelty
A life that's prostrated beneath your feet?

JDor. I am guilty of a shame I yet ne'er knew.
Thus to hold parley with you ;-^pray, sir, pardon.

[Going.

7 And army awing Casareay] I hay^ ventured to differ 4iere
from aU the copies, which read ovHng ; the error, if it be one,
as I think it is, probably arose from the ezpression being taken
down by the ear.

4i THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Anton. Good sweetness, you now have it, and
shall go :
Be but so merciful, before your wounding me
With such a mortal weapon as Farewell,
To let me murmur to your virgin ear,
What I was loth to lay on any tongue
But this mine own.

Dor. If one immodest accent
Fly out, I hate you everlastingly.

Anton. My true love dares not do it.

Mac. Hermes inspire thee !

Enter aiove, Artemia, Sapritius, Tueophilus,

Spunoius, andYLiB^civs.

Spun. So, now, do you see ? — Our work is done ;
the fish you angle for is nibbling at the hook,
and therefore untruss the cod-piece-point of our
reward, no matter if the breeches of conscience
fall about our heels.

Theoph. The gold you earn is here; dam up
your mouths.
And no words of it.

Hir. No ; nor no words from ydu of too much
damning neither. I know women sell themselves
daily, and are hacknied out for silver : why nuiy
not we, then, betray a scurvy mistress for gold ?

Spun. She saved us from the gallows, and, only,
to ketp one proverb from breaking his neck>.
we'll hang her.

Theoph. Tis well done ; go, go, you're my fine
white boys.

Spun. If your red boys, ^tis well known more
ill-favoured faces than ours are painted.

Sap. Those fellows trouble us.

Theoph Away, away !

^v

• y

THfe VIRGIN-MARTYR. 43

Hir. I to my sweet placket.

Spun, And I to my full pot.

* [EMmit- Hir. and Spun*

Anton. Come, let me tune you: — glaze not
thus your eyes
With self-love of a vow*d virginity,
Make every man your glass ; you see our sex
Do never murder propagation;
We all desire your sweet society,
But if you bar me from it, you do kill me,
And of my blood are guilty.

Artem. O base villain !

Sap. Bridle your rage, sweet princess.

Anton. Could not my fortunes,
Rear'd higher far than yours, be worthy of you,
Methinks my dear affection makes you mine.

Dor. Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines
of gold.
He that I love is richer ; and for worth,
You are to him lower than any slave,
Is to a monarch.

Sap. So insolent, base Christian !

Dor. Can I, with wearing out my knees before
him,
Get you but be his servant, you shall boast
You're equal to a king.

Sap. Confusion on thee,
For playing thus the lying sorceress !

Anton. Your mocks are great onesj none
beneath the sun
Will I be servant to. — On my knees I beg it,
Pity me, wondrous maid.

Sap, I cutse thy baseness.

Theoph. Listen to more.

Dor. O kneel not, sir, to me.

Anton. This knee is emblem of an humbled
heart :

44 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

That heart which tortured is with yourdisds^in,
Justly for scorning others, even this heart,
To which for pity such a princess sues,
As in her hand oifers me all the world.
Great Caesar's daughter.

Arttnu Slave, thou liest.

Anton. Yet this
Is adamant to her, that melts to you
In drops of blood.

Theoph. A very dog !

Anton. Perhaps
'Tis my religion makes you knit the brow;
Yet be you mine, and ever be your own :
I ne'er will screw your conscience from that

Power,
On which you Christians lean.

Sap. I can no longer
Fret out my life with weeping at thee, villain.
Sirrah ! [Aloud.

Would, when I got thee, thehiffh Thunderer's hand
Had struck thee in the womb !

Mac. We arc betray'd.

Artem. Is that the idol, traitor, which thou
kneel'st to.
Trampling upon my beauty ?

Theoph. Sirrah, bandog !•
Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter

• Theoph. Sirrah, bandog !
Wilt thou in pieces fear our Jupiterl A bandogs as the name
imports, was a dog so fierce, as to require to be chained up.
Bandogs are frequently mentioned by our •Id wrtteri (Indeed
the word occurs three times in Ms play) and always with a
reference to their savage nature* If the term was appropFiated
to a species,' it probably meant a large dog, of the mastift' kind,
which, though no longer met with here, is still common in many
parts of Germany : it was familiar to Snyders, and is found in
most of his hunting-pieces.

In this country the bandog was kept to bait bears: with th«

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 45

t

For her ? our Mars for her ^ dur Sol for her? —
A u'hore 1 a hell-hound ! In this globe of brains^
Where a whole world of furies for such tortures
Have fought, as in a chaos, which should exceed,
These nails shall grubbing lie from skull to skull.
To find one horrider than all, for you,
You three !

Artem. Threateri not, but strike : quick ven*
geance flies
Into my bosom;* caitiff! here all love dies.

[Exeunt ^above.

Anton. O ! I am thunderstruck ! We are both
o'erwhelm'd

Mac, With one high-raging billow.

Dor. You a soldier,
And sink beneath the violence of a woman !

Anton. A woman ! a wrong'd princess. From
such a star
Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for,
But tragical events ? my life is now .
The subject of her tyranny.

Dor. That fear is base,
Of death, when that death doth but life displace

decline of that '^ nol)1e sport/' perhaps, the animal fell into
disuse, as he was too ferocious for any domestic purpose. Mr.
Gilchrist has furnished me with a curious passage from Laneham,
which renders any further details on the subject unnecessary.
"On the syxth day of her Majestyes cnmming, a great sort of
bandogs whear thear tyed in the utter coourt, and thy rtcen bears
in the inner. Whoosoevcr made the pannell thear wear enoow
for a queast, and one for a challenge and need wear. A wight
of great wisdoom and grayitie seemed their foreman to be, had it
cum to a jury : but it fell oout that they wear causd to appeer
thear upon no such matter, but onlietoo onswear too an auncitnt
qnarnle betwem them and the bandogs^'^ &c. Queen EHzabeth^s
Entertainment at Killingwoorth Castle^in 1575.

9 quick vengeancejiies

Into my bosom &c.] The old copies read, Into thy bosom.
For the change, which is obTiously necessary^ I am answerable*

46 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Out of her house of earth ; you only dread
The stroke, and not what follows when you're

dead;
There's the great fear, indeed :* come, let your

eyes
Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies.

Re-enter bclow^ Artemia, Sapritius, Theophi-
Lus, a guard ; Anoelo comes and stands close
by Dorothea.

Artem. My father's nerves put vigour in mine
arm.
And I his strength must use. Because I once
Shed beams of favour on thee, and, with the lion,
Pl^y'd with thee gently, when thou struck'st my

heart,
I'll not insult on a base, humbled prey,
Bylingering out thy terrors; but, with one frown,
Kill thee : — hence with them all to execution.
Seize him ; but let even death itself be weary
In torturing her. I'll change those smiles to

shrieks ;
Give the fool what she's proud of, martyrdom :
In pieces rack that bawd too, [points to Macr.

Sap. Albeit the reverence
I owe our gods and you, are, in my bosom.
Torrents so strong, that pity quite lies drown'd
From saving this young man; yet, when I see
What face death gives him, and that a thing

within me
Says, 'tis my son, I am forced to be a man.
And grow fond of his life, which thus I beg.

Artem. And I deny.

' There s the gresLtfear^ indeed:'] The modern editors omit
greaty which is found in the first aed second quartos.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 47

Anton. Sir, you cfishonour me,
To sue for that which I disclaim to have.
I shall more glory in my sufferings gain,
Than you in giving judgment, since I offer
My blood up to your anger ; nor do I kneel
To keep a wretched life of mine from ruin :
Preserve this temple, builded fair as yours is,*
And Caesar never went in greater triumph.
Than I shall to the scaffold.

Artem. Are you so brave, sir?
Set forward to his triumph, and let those two
Go cursing along with him. .

Dor. No, but pitying,
For my part, J, that you lose ten times more
By torturing me, than I that dare your tortures:
Through all the army of my sins, I have even
Labour'd to break, ^nd cope with death to th'

face.
The visage of a hangman frights not me ;
The sight of whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fire^.
Are scaffoldings by which my soul climbs up
To an eternal habitation.

Theoph. CaBsar*s imperial daughter, hear me
speak.
Let not this Christian thing, in this her pageantry
Of proud deriding both our gods and Caesar,

* Preserve thU temple^ build it fair/is yours «,] As this line
stands, Antoninus's request is, not merely that Artemia should
preserve Dorothea, but that she shouM raise her to a degree of
splendour equal to her own. The absurdity of supposing that
he should make this request to a princess, who had condemned
him to death, in favour of her rival, made me suppose that there
must be an error in this passage, and suggested the amendment.
M. Mason.

Wonderfully sagacious I A single glanqe at either of the first
three editions would have saved all this labour : build it is the
blunder of the quarto, 1661, which Coxeter followed; in., the
others, it stands as in the text. -

48 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR*

Build to herself a kingdom in her death.
Going* laughing from us: no; her bitterest

torment
Shall be, to feel her constancy b<iaten down ;
The bravery of her resolution lie
Batter'd, by argument, into such pieCelb,
That she again shall, on her belly, creep
To kiss the pavementii of our paynim gods. '

Artem. How to be done ?

Theoph. I'll ierid my daughters to her,
And they shall turn her rocky faith to wax ;
Else spit at me, let me be made your slave,
And meet no Roman's but a villain's grave.

Artem. Thy prisoner let her be, theti; and,
Sapritius,
Your son and that/ be yours : death shall be sent
To him that suffers them, by voice or letters,
To greet each other. Rifle her estate ;
Christians to beggary brought, grow desperate.

Dot. Still on the bread of poverty let me feed.

Ang. O ! my admired mistress, quench not out
The holy fires within you, though temptations
Show6r down upon you : Clasp thine armour on,
Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars,
Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch
stars. \Ej:eunt all but Angela.

Enter Hircius and Spukgius.

Hir. How now, Angelo ; how is it, how is it ?
What thread spins that whore Fortune upon her
wheel now ?

Spun. Com' esta^ com' esta^ poor knave ?

' Going laughing from m :] So the old copies, which is far
more correct than the modern reading — Go, laughing from us.

^ Your Bcn and that,] Macrinus, whom before she had called
a bawd. M. Mason.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 49

Hir. Comment portez^vouz, comment portez**t>wZy
mon petit gargon ?

Spun. My pretty wee comrade, my half-inch
of man's flesh, how rua the dice of this chedting
world, ha?

^ng. Too well on your sides; you are hid in gold,
O'er h6ad and cars.

Hir. We thank our fates, the sign of the
gingle-hoys hangs at the doors of our pockets.

Mun. Who would think that we, coming forth
of tne a — , as it were, or fag*end of the world,
should yet see the golden age, when so little
s^ilver is stirring?

Hir. Nay, who can say any citizen is an ass,
for loading his own back with money till his soul
cracks again, onlv to leave his son like a gilded
coxcomb behind him ? Will not any fool take me
for a wise man now, seeing me draw out of the
pit of my treasury this little god with his belly
full of gold ?

Spun. And this, full of the same meat, out of
my ambry?

Ang. That gold will melt to poison.

Spun. Poison ! would it wOuld ! whole pints for
healths should down my throat.

Hir. Gold, poison! there is never a she-
thrasher in Caesarea, that lives on the flail of
money, will call it so.

Ang. Like slaves you sold your souls for
golden dross.
Bewraying her to death, who stept between
You and the gallows. .

Spun. It was an easy matter to save us. she
being so well back'dL

Mr. The gallows and we fell out; so she did
but part us. '

voir. I. E *

dO THE VIRGIN..MARTYR.

Ang^ The misery of that mistress is mine own ;
She bcggar'd, I left wretched.

Hvr. I can but let my nose drop in sorrow,
with wet eyes for her.

Spun. The petticoat of her estate is uiilaced, I
confess.

Hir. Yes, and the smock of her charity is now
all to pieces.

Ang. For love you bearto her, for some good turns
Done you by me, give me one piece of silver.

Hir. How ! a piece of silver ! if thou wert an
angel of gold, I would not put thee into white
money, unless I weighed thee ; and I weigh thee
not a rush.

Spun. A piece of silver ! I never had but two
calves in my life, and those my mether left me;
I will rather part from the fat of them, than from
a mustard-token's worth of argent.

Hm And so, sweet nit, we crawl from thee.

Spun. Adieu, demi-dandiprat, adieu !

Ang. Stay, — one word yet; you now are full
of gold.

Hir. I would be sorry my dog were so full of
the pox.

Spun. Or any sow of mine of the meazles either.

Ang. Go, go ! you're beggars bojth ; you are
not worth
That leather on your feet.

Hir. Away, away, boy!

Spun. Page, you do nothing but set patches on
the soles of your jests.

Ang. I am glad I tried your love, which, see! I
want not,
So long as this is full.

Both. And so long as this, so long as this.

Hir. Spungius, you are a pickpocket.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 51

Spun. Hircius, thouhast nimm^ A:— Solong as ! —
not so much money is left as will buy a louse.

Hir. Thou art a thief, and thou liest in that gut
through which thy wine runs, if thou deniest it.

Spun. Thou liest deeper, than the bottom of
mine enraged pockety if thou affrontest it.

Ang. No blows, no bitter language ; — all your
gold gone !

Spun. Can the devil creep into one's breeches ?

Hir. Yes, if his horns once get into the cod-
piece.

Ang. Come, sigh not; I so little am in love
With that whose loss kills you, that, see! 'tis yours»
All yours : divide the heap in equal share.
So "you will go along with me to prison,
And in our mistress' sorrows bear a part :
Say, will you ?

Both. Will we I

Spun^ If she were going to hanging, no gallows
should part. us.

Hir. Let us both he turn'd into a rope of
onions, if we do not.

Ang. Follow me, then ; repair your bad deeds
past ;
Happy are men, when their best days are last !

Spun. True, master Angelo ; pray, sir, lead the
way. [Ea^it Angelo.

Hir. Let him lead that way, but follow thou
me this way.
Spun. I live in a. gaol !

Hir. Away, and shift for ourselves: — She'll
do well enough there; for prisoners are more
hungry after mutton, than catchpoles after pri-
^soners.

" Spun. Let her starve then, if a whole gaol will
not fill her belly. [Eseunt.

E2*

52 THE VlRGlN^MARtYR.

ACT in. SCENE L

A ttbom in Dordthest's ffouse*

Uw^er Sapeitius, Theophilus, Ptlcst, Calista,

^/z^Christeta.

Sap. Sick to the death, I fear.*

Thtoph. I mtti your sorron^,
With my true feelitig of it.

Sap. Sbe*d & Witch^
A sorceress, Theophilus \ tny sort
Is charmed by her enchanting eyes ; and, like
An image made of wax, her beams of beauty
Melt him to nothing : all my hopes in him,
And all his gotten honoufs^ find their grave
In his strange dotage on her. Would, when first
He saw atid MVed hef, that the earth had open'd.
And swallowed both alive !

Thtoph. Thete'6 hope left yet

Sap. Not any : though the princdss Were ap-
peetsed,
All title ih her love surfetider'd up ;
Yet this coy Christian is so transported
With het i*eligion, that unless my son
(But let him perish first !) drink the same potion.
And be of her belief, she'll Hot vouchsafe
To be his lalirful wife.

Priest. But, ontJfe removed

i Sap. Sick to the death, I fear.] It is delightfnl, after th^tife
ribaldry and ttarshnew of the pree«diiig act, to fall In a^ain with
the clear and harmonions periods of Massinger. Frotn hence to
the conclusion of the second scene, where Decker takes up the
atory, eyery page is crowded with beauties of no common kind*

THE VlftGIN MARTYR. S9

■

From her opinion, as I rest assured
The reasons of these holy maids will win her,
You'll find hier tractable to any thing.
For your content or his.

Tkeoph. If she refuse it,
The Stygian damps, breeding infectious airs,
The mandrake's shrieks, the basilisk's killing ey«^
The dreadful lightning that does crush the bones,
And never singe the skin, shall not appear
Less fatal to her, than my zeal made hot
With love unto my gods, I have deferred it,
In hopes to draw back this apostata,
Which will be greater honour than her death,
Unto her father's faith; and, to that end,
Htve brought my daughters hither.

CaL And ve doubt not
To do what you desire.

Sap. Let her be sent for.
Prosper in your good work ; and were I not
To attend the princess, I would see and hear
How you succeed.

Theoph. I am commanded too,
I'll bear you company.

Sap. Give them your ring.
To lead her as in triumph, if they win her,
Before her highness. \Emt.

Theoph. Spare no promises,
Persuasions, or threats, I do conjure you :
If you prevail, 'tis the most glorious work
You ever undertook.

Enter Doboth]ea and Angxlo.

Priest* She comes.
Theoph. We leave you ;
Be i&onstant, and be carcfuL

[Ewetmt Theoph. and Priest.

54 THE virgin-martyr:

Cat. We are sorry
To meet you under guard.

Dor. But I more grieved
You are at liberty. So well I love you,
That I coyld wish, for such a cause as mine,
You were my fellow-prisoners : Prithee, Angelo,
Reach us some chairs. Please you sit — ^

Cal. We thank you :
Our visit is for love, love to your safety.

Christ. Our conference must be private, pray
you, therefore,
Command your boy to leave us.

Dor. You may trust him
With any secret that concerns my life.
Falsehood and he are strangers : bad you, ladies,
Been bless'd with such a servant, you had never
Forsook that way, your journey even half ended,
That leads to joys eternal. In the place
Of loose lascivious mirth, he would have stirr'd

you
To holy meditations ; and so far
He is from flattery, that he would have told you,
Your pride being at the height, how miserable
And wretched things you were, that, for an hour
Of pleasure here, have made a desperate sale
Of all your right in happiness hereafter.
He must not leave me ; without him I fall :
In this life he's my servant, in the other
A wish'd companion.

Aug. 'Tis not in the devil,
Nor ail his wicked arts, to shake such goodness.

Dor, But you were speaking, lady.

CaL As a friend
' And lover of your safety, and I pray you

So to receive it; and, if you remember
V How near in love our parents were, that we,
Even from the cradle, were brought up together.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 55

Our amity increasing with our years,
We cannot stand suspected.

Dor. To the purpose.

CaL We come, then, as good angels, Dorothea,
To make you happy ; and the* means so easy.
That, be not you an enemy to yourself,
Already you enjoy it.

Christ. Look on us,
Ruin'd as you are, once, and brought unto it,
By your persuasion.

CaL But what foUowM, lady ?
Leaving those blessings which our gods gave

freely,
And shower'd upon us with a prodigal hand.
As to be noble born, youth, beauty, wealth.
And the free use of these without control.
Check, curb, or stop, such is our law's indulgence!
All happiness forsook us ; bonds and fetters.
For amorous twines; the rack and hangman's

whips.
In place of choice delights ; our parents' curses
Instead of blessings ; scorn, neglect, contempt.
Fell thick upon us.

Christ. This consider'd wisely.
We made a fair retreat; and reconciled
To our forsaken gods, we live again
In all prosperity.

CaL By our example.
Bequeathing misery to such as love it,
Learn to be happy. The Christian yoke's too

heavy
For such a dainty neck ; it was framed rather
To be the shrine of Venus, or a piUar,
More precious than crystal, to support
Our Cupid's image : our religion, lady.
Is but a varied pleasure; yours a toil
Slaves would shrink under.

56 THE VIEGIN-MARTYR.

Dor. Have you not cloven feet P^ are you not

devils ?
Dare any say so much, or dare I hear it
Without a virtuous and religious aager ?
Now to put on a virgin modesty.
Or maiden silence^ when His power is questioned
That is omnipotent, were a greater crimei
Than in a bad cause to be impudent.
Your gods ! your temples! brothel-houses rather,
Or wicked actions of the worst of men,
Pursued and practised. Your religious rites!
Oh ! call them rather Juggling mysteries,
The baits and nets of hell : your souls the prey
For which the devil angles ; your false pleasures
A steep descent, by which you headlong fall
Into eternal torments.

Col. Do not tempt
Our powerful gods.

Dor. Which of your powerful gods ?
Your gold, your silver, brass, or wooden ones,
That can nor do me hurt, nor protect you?*
Most pitied women ! will you sacrifice
To such, — or call them gods or goddes^es^
Your parents would disdain to be the same,
Or you yourselves ? O blinded ignorance \
Tell me, Calista, by the truth, I charge you,
Or any thing you hold more dear, would yon^
To have him deified to posterity.
Desire your father an adulterer,
A ravisher, almost a parricide^
A vile incestuous wretch ?

CaL That, piety
And duty anst^er for me.

• That can nor do m^ hnrt, nor protect you f] More 8piriM>
and more in the author^s manner, than the reading of U^p la^^
quarto^ which the modern editing follow :

That cannot do me hwrt^ nor fr^tect you f

THE VIRGIN^MARTYR. St

Dor. Or you, Christeta,
To be hereafter registered a godd^ft,
Give your chaste body up to the embraces
Of goatish lust ? have it writ on your forehead,
" This is the common whore, the prostitute,
The mistress in the art of wantonness.
Knows every trick, and labyrinth of desires
That are immodest?''

Christ. You judge better of me.
Or my affection i$ ill placed on you ;
Shall I turn strumpet?

Dor. No, I think you •vrould not
Yet Venus, whom you worship, was a whore ;
Flora, the f<>undres8 of the public stews.
And has, for that, her sacrifice ; your great god.
Your Jupiter, a loose adulterer,
Incestuous with his sister: read but those
That have canonized them, yonUtfind them worse
Than, in chaste language, I can speak them to

yott-
Are they immortal then, that did partake

Of human weakness, and had ample share

In men^B most base affections ; subject to

Unchaste loves, an^er, bondage, wounds, as men

are ?

Here, Jupiter, tp serve liis lust, turn*d bull.

The shape, indeed, in which he stole Europa ;

Neptune, for gain, builds up the walls of Troy,

A3 a day-labourer; Apollo keeps

Admetus' sheep for bread ; the Lemnian smith

Sweats at the forge for hire ; Prometheus here,

With his stijl-growtng liver, feeds the vulture ;

Saturn bound fa$t in hell with adamaiit chains;

And thousands more, on whom abused error

Bestows a deity. Will you then, dear sisters.

For I would have you such, pay your devotions

To things of less power than yourselves ?

58 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

CaL We worship
Their good deeds in their images.

Dor. By whom fashion'd ?
By sinful men. I'll tell you a short tale,*
Nor can you but confess it is a true one :
A king of Egypt, being to erect
The image of Osiris, whom they honour,
Took from thematrons' necks the richest jewels,
And purest gold, as the materials,
To finish up his work ; which perfected.
With all solemnity he set it up,
To be adored, and served himself his idol ;
Desiring it to give him victory
Against his enemies z^but, being overthrown,
Enraged against his god, (these are fine gods,
Subject to human fury !) he took down
The senseless thing, and melting it again, .
He made a bason, in which eunuchs wash'd
His concubine's feet ; and for this sordid use,
Some months it served : his mistress proving

false.
As most indeed do so, and grace concluded
Between him and the priests, of the same bason
He made his god again ! — ^Think, think, of this.
And then consider, if all worldly honours,
Or pleasures that do leave sharp stings behind
them.

• ril tell you a short tale, &c ] I once thought

that I had read this short tale in Arnobius, from whom, and
from Augustin, much of the preceding speech is taken ; but,
upon looking him over again, I can scarcely find a trace of it.
Herodotus has, indeed, a story of a king of Egypt (Amasis),
which bears a distant resemblance to it ; but the application is
altogether different : — there is a hason of gold in which he and
hts guests were accustomed to spit, wash their feet ^ &c. which is
formed into a god; but whether this furnished the poet with
any himts, I cannot undertake to say«

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 59

Have power to win such as have reasonable souls,
To put their trust in dross.

Cat. Oh, that I had been born -
Without a father !

Christ. Piety to him
Hath ruin'd us for ever.

Dor. Think not so ;
You may repair all yet: the attribute
That speaks his Godhead most, is merciful : ^
Revenge is proper to the fiends you worship,
Yetcannotstrikewithouthisleave. — You weep, —
Oh, 'tis a heavenly shower! celestial balm
To cure your wounded conscience ! let it fall,
Fall thick upon it; and, when that is spent,
I'll l;ielp it with another of my tears :
And may your true repentance prove the child
Of my true sorrow, never mother had
A birth so happy !

Cal. We are caught ourselves.
That came to take you ; and, assured of conquest.
We are your captives.

Dor. And in that you triumph :
Your victory had been eternal loss,
And this your loss immortal gain. Fix here,
And you shall feel yourselves inwardly arm'd
'Gainst tortures, death, and hell: — but, take

heed, sisters,
That, or through weakness, threats, or mild perr

suasions.
Though of a father, you fall not into
A second and a worse apostacy.

Cal. Never, oh never ! steel'd by your ex-
ample,
We dare the worst of tyranny.

Christ. Here's our warrant,
You shall along and witness it.

Dor. Be confirm'd then ;

€0 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

And rest assured, the more you suffer here,
The more your glory, you ta he^-vea mort^ dear.

SCENE IL

The Governor's Pahce.

Enter AnTEu J A, Sapeitiup, THPOPfiiLys,

and Ha^jpai^.

Jrtem. Sapritius, though ypur spa deserve no
pity,
We grieve his sickness : his contempt of u»,
We cast behind us, and look back upon
His service done to Caesar, that weighs down
Our just displeasure. If his malady
Have growtn from his restraint, or that y#u think
His liberty can cure him, let luro h?ive it:
Say, we forgive him freely.

Sap. Your grace binds us,
Ever your humblest vassfils*

Artem. Use all means
For his recovery ; though yet I love him,
I will uot force affection. If the Chri^tiaUi
Whose beauty hath out-rivaird me, be iBFon
To be of our belief, let hipn enjoy her ;
That all may know, when the cause wiUs, I can
Command my own desires,

Theoph. Be happy then,
My lord Sapritius ; I am confident.
Such eloquence and sweet persuasion dwell
Upon my daughters' tongues, that they wHl

work her
To any thing they pleape*

Sap. I wish they may !

T^HIl VIRGIN-MARTYR. 61

Yet 'tis no easy task to undertake,

To alter a perverse and obstinate woman.

[A shout within : hud rmmc.

Artem. What means this shout?

Sap. 'Tis seconded with music, *

Triumphant music. — Ha !

' -Ewifer Sempronius*

Semp. My lord, your daughters,
The pillars of our faith/ having conveftedj
For so report gives out, the Christian lady,
The image of great Jupiter born before them,
Sue for access.

Theoph. My soul divined as much.
Blest be the time when first they saw this

light !
Their mother, when she 1bdre them to support
My feeble age, filled not my longing heart
With so much joy, as they in this good work
Have thrown upon me.

Enter Priest with the Image of Jupiter^ intense
and censers ; followed by Calista and Chris*
TETA, leading Dorothea.

Welcome, oh, thrice welcome,

Daughters, both of my body and my mind J

Let me embrace in you my bliss, my comfort ;

And, Dorothea, now more welcome too,

Than if you never had fallen off! I am ravish'd

With the excess of joy : — «peak, happy daughters,

The blest event.

9 The pillars qfour faith, &c.] Here, as ir man j other ]>la«#%
the language of Christianit)r and paganism is confounded; ^atM

WM always the diitiaotife term for the imvmt^ in o[^o8itioit,to
heathenism*

6£ THE VIRGIN-MAllTYll.

CaL We never gain'd so much
By any undertaking.

Theoph. O my dear girl,
Our gods reward thee !

Dor. Nor was ever time,
On my part, better spent.

Christ. We are all now
Of one opinion.

Theoph. My best Christeta !
Midam,'if ever you did grace to worthy
Vouchsafe your princely hands.

Artem. Most willingly

Do you refuse it ?*

CaL Let us first deserve it.

Theoph. My own child still ! here set our god ;
prepare
The incense quickly : Come, fair Dorothea,
I will myself support you ;— now kneel down.
And pay your vows to Jupiter.

Dor. I shall do it
Better by their example.

Theoph. They shall guide you,
They are familiar with the sacrifice. .
Forward, my twins of comfort, and, to teach her.
Make a joint offering,

Christ. Thus {they both spit at the image,

CaL And thus [throw it dmn, and spurn it*

Harp. Profane,
And impious ! stand you now like a statue ?
Are you the champion of the gods ? where is
Your holy zeal, your anger ?

Theoph. I am blasted ;
And, as my feet were rooted here, I find
I have no motion ; I would I had no sight too !
Or if my eyes can serve to any use,*

' Ortfmifeyescanseroetoanyusey} The modem editors roftdx
Or ^ my eyes can serve to any other use.

THE VIRGIN- MARTYR. 63

Give me, thou injured Power ! a sea of tears.
To expiate this madness in my daughters ;
For, being themselves, they would have trem-
bled at

So blasphemous a deed in any other :

For my sake, hold awhile thy dreadful thurider,
And give me patience to demand a reason
For this accursed act.
Dor, 'Twas bravely done.
Theoph. Peace, damn'd enchantress, peace!— ^
I should look on you
With eyes made red with fiiry, and niy hand,
That shakes with rage, should much outstrip my

tongue.
And seal my vengeance on your hearts ;-but nature,
To you that have fallen once, bids me again
To be a father. Oh ! how durst you tempt
The anger of great Jove ? ' ,

Dor. Alack, poor Jove 1
He is no swaggerer; how smug he stands !
He'll take a kick, or any thing.
Sap. Stop her mouth.

Dor. Itisthepatient'stgodling I'donotfearhim;
He would not hurt the thief that stole away
Two of his golden locks; indeed he could not:
And still 'tis the same quiet thing.

Thtoph. Blasphemer!
IngeniQus cruelty shall punish this :
Thou art past hope : but for you yet, ' dear
daughters,

OiheVy which destroys at once the metre and the sense, is an
absurd interpolation of the quartos 1631 and 1661.

^ Dor. It is the patienfst godling ;] I have inserted this word
at the recommendation of Mr. M. Mason. The old copies con-
car in -reading antient^st^ which may yet be the proper word.

' "but for you yet,] Yet^ which completes the verse,

is now restored from the tot editioii^

64 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.

Again bewitch'd, the dew of mild forgiveness
May gently fall, provided you deserve it,
With true contrition : be yourselves again ;
Sue to the offended deity.

Christ. Not to be
The mistress of the eartL

CaL I will not offer
A grain of incense to it, much less kneel,
Nor look on it but with contemj>t and scorn.
To have a thousand years eonferr'd upon me
Of worldly blessings. We profess ourselves
To be, like Dorothea, Christians ;
And owe her for that happiness.

Theoph. My ears
Receive, in hearing this, all deadly charms,
Powerful to make man wretched.

Artem. Are these they
You bragg'd could convert others !

Sap. That want strength
To stand, themselves !

Harp. Your honour is engaged,
The credit of your cause depends upon it;
Something you must do suddenly.

Theoph. And I will.

Harp. They merit death ; but, falling by your
hand,
'Twill be recordjed for a just revenge.
And holy fury in you.

Theoph. Do not blow
The furnace of a wrath thrice hot already ;
iEtna is in my breast, wildfire burns here,
Which only blood must quench. Incensed Powef I
Which from my infancy I have adored.
Look down with favourable beams upon .
The sacrifice, though not allow'd thy priest,
Which I will offer to thee ; and be pleased.
My fiery zeal inciting me to act^

THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. 65

To call that justice others may style murder.
Come, you accurs'd, thus by the hair I drag

you
Before this holy altar; thus look on you,
Less pitiful than tigers to their prey :
And thus, with mine own hand, I take that life
Which I gave to you. {^Kills them.

Dor/O most cruel butcher !
Theoph. My anger ends not here : hell's dread-
ful porter.
Receive into thy. ever-open gates,
Their damned souls, and let the Furies' whips
On them alone be wasted ; and, when death
Closes these eyes, 'twill be Elysium to me
To hear their shrieks and bowlings. Make me,

Pluto,
Thy instrument to furnish thee with souls
Of that accursed sect ; nor let me fall,
Till my fell vengeance hath consumed them all.

[Exit, with Harpax.
. Artem. 'Tis a brave zeal.*

Enter Angelo, smiling.

Dor. Oh, call him back again.
Call back your hangman ! here's one prisoner

left
To be the subject of his, knife.

Artem. Not so ;
We arc not so near reconciled unto thee ;
Thou shalt not perish such an easy way.

^ Artem. *Tis a brave zeaL} The first two qaartos bare a
stage direction here, which Coxeter and M. Mason follow:
Enter Artemia laughing. But Artemia continues on the stage :
tile error was seen and remoTedby the qaarto 1651. It is worth
obserTing with what care Harpax and Angelo are kept apart,
> till the catastrophe^

VOL. I. F ♦

66 THE VIRGII^.MARTYR.

■ r

Be she yoiir charge, Sapritius, novr i and suffer
None to come near her, till we have found out
Some torments worthy of her.

Ang. Courage, mistress ;
These martyrs but prepare your glorious fate ;
You shall exceed them, and not imitate. [^Eo'eunt^

SCENE III.

A Room in Dorothea's 'House.

Enter Spungius and Hircius, raggedy at opposite

doors.

Hir. Spungius!

Spun. My fine rogue, how is it ? how goes this
tattered world ?•

Hir. Hast any money ?

Spun. Money ! no. The tavern ivy clings
about my money, and kills it. Hast thou any
money ?

Hir. No. My money is a mad bull ; and
finding any gap opened, away it runs.

Spun. I see then a tavern and a bawdyhouse
have faces much alike; the one hath red grates
next the door, the other hath peeping-holes
within doors : the tavern hath evermore a bush,
the bawdyhouse sometimes neither hedge nor
bush. From a tavern a man comes reeling ;

y • how goes this tattered world?] These odious

wretches'^: — but they are not worth a thought, Mr. Malone
•obserTes that tattered is spelt with an.o in the old editions of
: Shakspeare : this is the first opportunity I have had for men-
tioning, that Ms^ssipger conforms to. the same practice. The
modern editors sometimes adopt q^e mode of spelling it, and
sometimes another^ as if the words were different* li is best ^
be uniform.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 67

from a bawdyhouse, not able to stand. In the
tavern you are cozen'd with paltry ivine ; in a
bawdyhouse; by a painted whore: money may
hare wine, and a whore will have money ; but
to neither can you cry, Drawer, you rogue!
or, Keep door, rotten bawd ! without a silver
whistle : — We are justly plagued, therefore, for
running from our mistress.

Hir. Thou didst ; I did not : Yet I had run too,
but that one gave me turpentine pills, and that
^taid my running.

Sptm. Well! the thread of my life is drawn
through the needle of necessity, whose, eye,
looking upon my lousy breeches, cries out it
Cannot mend them ; which so pricks the linings
of my body, (and those are, heart, lights, lungs,
guts, and midriff,) that I beg on my knees, to have
Atropos, the tailor to the Destinies, to take her
sheers, and cut my thread in two ; or to heat the
iron goose of mortality, and so press me to death.

Hir. Sure thy father was som€ botcher, and
thy hungfjr tongue bit off these shreds of com-
plaints, to patch up the elbows of thy nitty
eloquence.

I^n. And what was thy father?

Hir. A low-minded cobler, a cobler whose
zeal set many a woman upright; the remem-
brance of whose awl (I now having nothing)
thrusts such scurvy stitches into my soul, that
the heel of my happiness is gone awry.

I^un. Pity that e'er thou trod'st thy shoe awry«

Hir. Long I cann\)t last ; for all sowterly wax
of comfort melting away, and misery taking the
length of my foot, it boots not me to sue for
life, when all my hopes arc seamrrent, and go
wet-shod.

Spun. This shows thou art a cobler's son, by

F*2

€8 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

going through stitch : O Hircius, would thou
aud I were so happy to be coblers !

Hir. So would I ; for both of us being weary
of our lives, should then be sure of shoemakers'
ends.

Spun. I see the beginning of my end, for I am
almost starved.

Hir. So am not I; but I am more than famished.

Spun. All the members in my body are in a
rebellion one against another.

Hir. So are mine; and nothing but a cook,
being a constable,, can appease them, presenting
to my nose, instead of his painted staff, a spit
full of roast meat.

Spun. But in this rebellion, what uproars do
they make ! my belly cries to my mouth. Why
dost not gape and feed me ?

Hir. And my mouth sets out a throat to my
hand, Why dost not thou lift up meat, and cram
my chops with it?

Spun. Then my hand hatha fling at mine eyes,
because they look not out, and shark for victuals.

Hir. Which mine eyes seeing, full of tears,
cry aloud, and curse my feet, for not ambling
up and down to feed colon ; sithence if good
meat be in any place, *tis known my feet can
smell.

Spun. But then my feet, like lazy rogues, lie
still, and had rather do nothing, than run to and
fro to purchase any thing.
^ Hir. Why, among so many millions of people,
should thou and I only be miserable tatterdemal-
Ijons, ragamuffins, and lousy desperates ?

Spun. Thou art a mere I-am-an-o, I-am-an-as :
consider the whole world, and 'tis as we are.

Hir. Lousy, beggarly ! thou whoreson assa
foetida? " >

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 69

Spun. Worse ; all tottering, all oat of frame,
thou fooliamini !

Hir. As how, arsenic ? come, make the world
smart.

Spun. Old honour goes on crutches, beggary
rides caroched ; honest men make feasts, knaves
sit at tables, cowards are'lapp'd in velvet, soldiers
(as we) in rags; beauty turns whore, whore,
bawd, and both die of the pox : why then, when
all the world stumbles, should thou and 1 walk
upright ?

Hir. Stop, look ! who's yonder ?

Enter Angelo.

Spun. Fellow Angelo ! how does my little man?

well ?
Jng. Yes;
And would you did so too! Where are your clothes?
Hir. Clothes ! You see every woman almost

go in her loose gown, and why should not we
ave our clothes loose ?
Spun. Would they were loose !
Ang. Why, where are they ?
Spun. Where many a velvet cloak, I warrant,
at this hour, keeps them company; they are
pawned to a broker.

Ang. Why pawn'd? where's all the gold I

left with you ?
Hir. The gold ! we put that into a scrivener's
hands, and he hath cozen'd us.

Spun. And therefore, I prithee, Angelo, if
thou hast another purse, let it be confiscate, and
brought to devastation.
Ang. Are you made all of lies r I know which
way
Your guilt-wing*d pieces flew. I will no more

70 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Be mock'd by you : be sorry for your riots,
Tame your wild flesh by labour; eat the bread
Got with hard hands ; let sorrow be your whip,
To draw drops of repentance from your heart:
When I read this amendment in your eyes,
You shall nqt want ; till then, my pity dies.

Spun. Is it not a shame, that this scurvy puerilis
should give us lessons?

J2/r. I have dwelt, thou know'st, a long time
in the suburbs of conscience, and they are ever
bawdy; but now my heart shall take a. house
within the walls of honesty.

Enter Harp ax behind.

Spun. O you drawers of wine, draw me no
more to the bar of beggary ; the sound of Score
a pottle ofsackf is worse than the noise of ascold-
ing oysterwench, or two cats incoi^orating.
Harp. This must not be— I do not like whep
conscience ,
Thaws ; keep her frozen still, \c07nes Jbrwdrd."]

How now, niy masters !
Dejected? drooping? drown- d in tear^ ? clothes

torn?
Lean, and ill colour'd? sighing? where's the

whirlwind
Which raises all these mischiefs ? I have seen you
Drawn better on't. O ! but a spirit told me
You both M^ould come to this, when in you thrust*
Yourselves into the service of that lady,

* when in you thrusf\ In^ wbloh completes the rer^^t

was omitted by Mr. M. MasoD, from an opinion, perhaps, that it
was superfluous to the sense. But this was the language of the
times : for the rest, this whole act is most carelessly printed bj
the last editors.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 71

Who shortly now must die. \5fhere's now her

praying ?
What good got you by wearing out your feet,
To run on scurvy errands to the poor,
And to bear money to a sort' of rogues,
And lousy prisoners ?

Hir. Pox on them 1 I never prospered since I
did it.

Spun. Had I been a pagan stilly I should not
have spit white for want of drink ; but come to
any vintner now, and bid him trust me, because
I turned Christian, and he cries, Poh !

Harp. You're rightly served; before that
peevish' lady
Had to do with you, women, wine, and money
Flow'd in abundance with you, did it not ?

V

^ And to hear money to a sort qfrogues^ Sec] Or, as we now,
saj — to a set, or parcel of rogues. The word occurs so fre-
quently ia this sense, In our old writers, tiiat it seems almost^
unnecessary to give any examples of it :

^* Here are a sort of poor petitioners,
<^ That are importunate/^ Spanish Tragedy •

Again :

^^ And, like a sort of trne born scayengers,
^^ Scour me this famous reahnof enemies/'

Khight of the Burning Testle.

« ■ before that peevish lady

Had to do toith you^^ Peevish is foolish ; thus, in the Merry
Wives of Windsor J Mrs. Quickly says of her fellow-servant,
^^ His worst fault is, that he is given to prayer ; he is something
peevish that way.** Mr. Malone thinks this' to be one of dame
Quickly's blunders, and that she means to say precise : but he
is mistaken. In Mycke Scomer^ the word is used in the very
sense here given :

^* For an I sholde do after your scole
** To learn to pater to make me pevysse/'

Again, in God's Revenge against Adultery ; '^ Albemare kept a
man-fool of some forty years old in his house, who indeed was
so naturally peedshj as not Milan> hardly Italy, could match him
for simplicity.''

72 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR:

Hir. Oh, those days ! those days !
Harp. Beat not your breasts, tear not your
hair in madness ;
Those days shall come again, be ruled by me;
And better, mark me, better.

Spun. I have seen you, sir, as I take it, an
attendant on the lord Theophilus.

Harp. Yes, yes ; in shew his servant : but
— ^hark, hither ! —
Take heed no body listens.
Spun. Not a mouse stirs.
harp. I am a prince disguised.
Hir. Disguised! how? drunk?
Harp. Yes, my fine boy ! I'll drink too, and
be drunk ;
I am a prince, and any man by me,
Let him but keep my rules, shall soon grow

rich, ,

Exceeding rich, most infinitely rich :
He that shall serve me, is not starved from

pleasures
As other poor knaves are ; no, take their fill.

Spun, But that, sir, we're so ragged

Harp. You'll say, you'd serve me ?
Hir. Before any master under the zodiac.
Harp. For clothes no matter ; I've a mind to
both.
And one thing I like in you ; now that you see.
The bonfire of your lady's state burnt out,
You give it over, do you not?
Hir. Let her be hang'd !
Spun. And pox'd !
Harp. Why, now you're mine j
Come, let my bosom touch you.
Spun. We have bugs, sir.
Harp. There's money, fetch your clothes home;
there's for you.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 73

Hir. Avoid, vermin ! give over our mistress ! a
man cannot prosper worse, if he serve the devil.
Harp. How! the devil? I'll tell you what
now of the devil, .
He's no such horrid creature ; cloven-footed,
Black, saucer-eyed, his nostrils breathing fire.
As these Ij'ing Christians make him.

Both. No!

Harp. He's more loving
To man, than man to man is.'

Hir. Is he so ? Would we two might come
acquainted with him !

Harp. You shall : he's a wondrous good fellow,
loves a cup of wine, a whore, any thing ; if you
have money, it's ten to one but I'll bring him to
some tavern to you or other.

Spun, I'll bespeak the best room in the house
for him.

Harp. Some people he cannot endure.

Hir. We'll give him no such cause.

Harp. He hates a civil lawyer, as a soldier
does peace.

Spun. How a commoner?*

Harp. Loves him from the teeth outward.

Spun. Pray, my lord and prince, let me en-
counter you with one foolish question : does the
devil eat any mace in his broth?

Harp. Exceeding much, when his burning

9 Harp. He*s more loving

To mmiy than man to man w.] Though this horrid prostita-
tion of that fine sentiment in JuYenal, Carior eat illis homo quafn
«i6f, may not be altogether ont of character for the speaker* it
were to be wished that it had not been employed. To say the
' truth, the whole of this scene, more especially what yet re*
mains of it, is as profligate as it is stupid,

' Spun. How a commouer ?J That is, a common lawyer*
M. Mason.

74 THE VIRGIN-MABTYR.

feyer takes him ; and then he has the knuckles
of a bailiff boiled to his breakfast.

Hir. Then, my lord, he loves a catchpole, does
he not?

Harp. As a bearward doth a dog. A catch-
pole ! he hath sworn, if ever he dies, to niake a
Serjeant his heir, and a yeoman bis overseer.

Spun. How if he come to any great man's gate,
will the porter let him come in, sir?

Harp. Oh ! he loves porters of great men's
gates, because they are ever so near the wicket.

Hir. Do not they whom he makes much on,
for all his stroaking their cheeks, lead hellish
lives under him ?

Harp. No, no, no, no ; he will be damnM be-
fore he hurts any man : do but you (when you
are throughly acquainted with him) ask for any
thing, see if it does not come.

Spun. Any thing I

Harp. Call for a delicate rare whore, she is
brought you.

Hir. Oh ! my elbow itches. Will the devil
keep the door ?

Harp. Be drunk as a beggar, he helps you
home.

Spun. O my fine devil! some watchman, I
warrant ; I wonder who is his constable.
• Harp. Will you swear, roar, swagger? he
claps you

Hir. How? on the chaps?

Harp. No, on the shoulder ; and cries, O, my
brave boys ! Will any of you kill a man?

Spun. Ves, yes; 1, I.

iJarp. What is his word? Hang! hang! 'tis
nothing. — Or stab a woman?

Hir. Yes, yes ; I, I.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 75

Harp. Here is the worst word he gives you :
A pox on't, go on !

Hir. O inveigling rascal I— I am ravish'd.

Harp, Go, get your clothes ; turn up your glass
of youth,
And let the sands run merrily : nor do I care
From what a lavish hand your mpney flies,
So you give none away to beggars;

Hir. Hang them !

Harp, And to the scrubbing poor,

Hir. I'll see them hang'd first.

Harp. One service you must do me.

Both. Any thing*

Harp. Your ipjstress, Dorothea, ere she siiflPprs,
Is to be put to tortures :. h^v^ you hearts
To tear ner ip^to shrieks, to fetch her soul
Up in the pangs of death, yet not to die?

Hir. Suppose this §he> and that I had no hands,
here's my teeth. . .

Spun. Suppose this sh^ and that I had no
teeth, here's my nails.

Hir. But will not you be there, sir ?

Harp^ No, not for hjUs of diamonds ; the grand
master, i

Who schools her in the Christian discipline,
Abhors my company : should I be there,
You'd think all hell broke loose, we should so

quarrel.
Ply you this business ; he, her flesh who spares,
Is lost, and in my love^ never more shares. [Exit*

Spun. Here's a master, you rogue !

Hir. Sure he cannot choQse but h^ve ^ horrible
number of servants. [Exeunt.

76 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR,

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The Governor's Palace.

Antoninus on a couch, asleep, with Doctors about
him; Satritws and Macki^vs.

Sap. O you, that are half gods, lengthen that
life
Their deities lend us ; turn o*er all the volumes
Of your mysterious ^sculapian science,
T' increase the number of this young man's days:
And, for each minute of his time prolong'd,
^ Your fee shall be a piece of Roman gold
With Caesar's stamp, such as he sends his captains
When in the wars they earn well : do but save him^
And, as he's half myself, be you all mine.

1 Doct. What art can do, we promise ; physic's
hand
As apt is to destroy as to preserve,
If heaven make not the med'cine : all this while,
Our skill hath combat held with his disease;
But 'tis so arm'd, and a deep melancholy,
To be such in part with death,* we arc in fear
The grave must mock our labours.

Mac. I have been
His keeper in this sickness> with such eyes
As I have seen my mother watch o'er me;
And, from that observation, sure I find
It is a midwife must deliver him.

* To be such in part with deaths] Mr. M. Mason reads, after
Coxeter, To such in part with death j and explains it to mean ^^ To
such a degree." I doubt whether he understood his own expla*
nation or not. The genuine reading, which I haye restored^
takes away all difficulty from the passage.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. n

ISap. Is he with child? a midwife !'

Mac, Yes, with child ;
And will, I fear, lose life, if by a woman
He is not brought to bed. Stand by his pillow
Some little while, and, in his broken slumbers,.
Him shall you hear cry out on Dorothea;
And, when his arms fly open to catch her,
Closing together, he falls fast asleep.
Pleased with embraoings of her airy form.
Physicians but torment him, his diseasp
Laughs at their gibberish language ; let him hear
The voice of Dorothea, nay, but the name.
He starts up with high colour in his face :
She, or none, cures him ; and how that can be.
The princess' strict command barring that hap-
piness,
To me impossible seems.

Sap. To me it shall not ;
I'll be no subject to the greatest Caesar
Was ever crown'd with laurel, rather than cease
To be a father, [Exit.

Mac. Silence, sir, he wakes.

Anton.Tho\i\ii\Vstmty Dorothea; oh, Dorothea!

Mac. She's here :-■ — enjoy her.

Anton. Where ? Why do you mock me?
Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet.
Yet I'm an old man, a fond doating fool
Upon a woman, I, to buy her beauty,
{In truth I am bewitch'd,) offer my life,
And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers:
Yet, for our equal sufferings, none holds out
A hand of pity.

J Doct. Let him have some music.

Anton. Hell on your fidling !

[Starting from his couch.

3 Sap. Is he with child f a midwife /] The modern e^ort
cead^ A midw^'e I i$ he %vith child? Had thej no earn!

78 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

\ Doct. Take again your bed, sir;
Sleep is a sovereign physic.

Anton. Take an ass's head, sir:
Confusion on your fooleries, your charms ! —
Thou stinking clyster-pipe, where*s the god of

rest.
Thy pills and base apothecary drugs
Threaten'd to bring un tome? Out, you impostors!
Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks! your skill
Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill.

Mac. Oh, be yourself, dear friend.

Anion. Myself, Macrinus !
How can I be ittyself, when I am mangled
Into a thousand pieces ? h^re moves my head,
But where *s my heart ? wherever — that lies dead.

Re-enter Sapritius, drttgging in Dorothea by
the hairy Aihgelo following.

Sap* Follow mo, thou damn'd sorceress ! Call
up thy spirits.
And, if they can, now let them frotn my hand
Untwine thes^ witching hairs.

Anton. I am that spirit :
Or, if I be not, were you not my father,
One made of iron should hew that hand in pieces,
That so defaces this sweet monument
Of my love's beauty.

Sap. Art thou sick ?

Anion. To death.

Sap. Wouldst thou recover ?

Anton. Would I live in bliss !

Sap. And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that
man
That brings thee health ?

Anton. It is not in the world.

Sap.- It's here.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 79

Anton. To treasure/ by enchantment locked
In caves as deep as hell, am I as near.

Sap. Break that enchanted cave : enter, and
rifle
The spoils thy lust hunts after ; I descend
To a base office, and become thy pander.
In bringing thee this proud thing : make her thy

whore.
Thy health lies here ; if she deny to give it.
Force it : imagine thou assault'st a town*s
Weakwall ; to't, *tis thine own, but beat this down*
Come, and, unseen, be witness to this battery,
How the coy strumpet yields.*

1 Doct. Shall the boy stay, sir ?

Sap. No matter for the boy : — pages are used
To these odd bawdy shufflings ; and, indeed, are
Those little young snakes in a Fury's head.

Will sting worse than the great ones.

Let the pimp stay. [Exeunt Sap. Mac. and Doct

Dor. O, guard me, angels !
What tragedy must begin now ?

Anton. When a tiger
Leaps into a timorous herd, with ravenous jaws.
Being hunger-starv'd, what tragedy then begins?

Dor. Death ; I am happy so ; you, hitherto.
Have still had goodness sphered within your eyes,
Let not that orb be broken.*

Ang. Fear not, mistress ;

4 Ant. To treasure^ &c.] This is the emendation of Mr. M.
Mason. It appears a happy substitution for the old reading,
which was, O treasure^ &c.

5 Come, and J unseen^ be toitiiess to this battery j ,

How the coy strumptt yklds^] These two lines are addressed

to Macrinus and the doctors. M. Mason.
• . yoUy hitherto^

Have still had goodness spar'd mthin your eyes^

Let not that orb be broken.] The word orb in this last linf

proTes that we should read sphered instead of spar'd; the latter^

80 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

If he dare offer violence, we two

Are strong enough for such a sickly man.

Dor. Whatisyour horrid purpose, sir? your eye
Bears danger in it.

Anton. I must

Dor. What?

Sap, [within.] Speak it out.

Anton. Climb that sweet virgin tree.

Sap] [within.] Plague o' your trees !

Anton. And pluck that fruit which none, I
think, e'er tasted.

Sap. [within.] A soldier, and stand fumbling so !

Dor. Oh, kill me, [kneels.

And heaven will take it as a sacrifice;
But, if you play the ravisher, there is
A hell to swallow you.

Sap. [within.} Lev her swallow thee !

Anton. Rise : — for the Roman empire, Dorothea,
I would not wound thine honour. Pleasures forced,
Are unripe apples; sour, not worth the plucking:
Yet, let me tell you, 'tis my father's will,
That I should seize upon you, as my prey ;
Which I abhor, as much as the blackest sin
The villainy of man did ever act.

[Sapj^itius breaks in with Macrinus.

Dor. Die happy for this language !

Sap. Die a slave,
A blockish idiot !

Mac. Dear sir, vex him not.

Sap. Yes, and vex thee too ; both, I think, arc
< geldings :

indeed, made the passage nonsense^ which is now yerj poetical*
TVI. Mason.

Mr. M. Mason if somewhat rash in his assertion : sparred^
is, shut upy inclosed^ it is not therefore nonsense. I hare, how*
ever adopted his emendation, which, if not just, is at least
Ingenious.

THE VIRGIN^MARTYR. 81

Cold, phlegmatic bastard, thou'ct no brat of

mine;
Qne spark of me, when I had heat like thine,
By this had made a bonfire: a tempting whore,
For whom thou'rt mad, thrust e'en into thine

. arms.
And stand'st thou puling ! Had a tailor seen her
At this advantage, he, with his cross capers,
Had ruffled her by this : but thou shalt curse
Thy dalliance,' and here, before her eyes,
Tear thy own flesh in pieces, when a slave
In hot lust bathes himself, and gluts those plea-
sures
Thy niceness durst not touch. Call out a slave;
You, captain of our guard, fetch a slave hither.
Anton. What will you do, dear sir ?
Sap. Teach, her a trade, which many a one
would learn
In less than half an hour, — to play the whore.

Enter Soldiers with a Slave.

Mac. A slave is come ; what now ?

Sap. Thou hast bones and flesh
Enough to ply thy labour : from what country
Wert thou ta'en prisoner, here to be our slave ?

Slave. From Britain.

Sap. In the west ocean ?

Slave. Yes.

Sap. An island ?

Slave. Yes.

Sap. I'm fitted : of all nations
Our Roman swords e'er conquer'd, none comes near

hut thou skalt curse

Thi/ dalliance,] i. e. thj hesitation, thy delay :
^^ Good lord ! you use this dalliance to excuse
*' Your breach of promise.'* Comedy of Errors.

VOL.1. G*

8S THE VIRGIN-MA^TYK

The Briton for true whoring. Sirrah fellow,
What wouldst thou do to gain thy liberty ?

Slwoe. Do ! liberty ! fight naked with a lion,
Venture to pluck a standard from the heart
Of an arm'd legion. Liberty ! Td thus
Bestride a rampire, and defiance spit
I' the face of death, then, when the battering-ram
Was fetching his career backward, to pash
Me with his horns in pieces. To sliake my chains

off.
And that I could not do't but by thy death,
Stoodst thou on this dry shore, I on a rock
Ten pyramids high, down would I leap to kill

thee,
Or die myself: what is for man to do,
III venture on, to be no more a slave.

Sap. Thou shalt, then, be no slave, for I will
set thee
Upon a piece of wprk is, fit for man ;
Brave for a Briton : — drag that thing aside.
And ravish her.

SUwe. And ravish her ! is this your manly
service ?
A devil scorns to do it ; 'tis for a beast,
A villain, not a man : I am, as yet^
But half a slave ; but, when that work is past,
A damned whole one, a black ugly slave.
The slave of all base slaves : — do't thyself, Roman,
Tis drudgery fit for thee.

Sap. He's be witch 'd too :
Bind him, and with a bastinado give him,
Upon his naked belly, two hundred blows.

Slme. Thou art more slave than L

[He is carried in.

Dor. That Power supernal, on whom waits my
soul,
Is captain o'er my chastity.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR/

83

Anton. Good sir, give o*er :
The more you wrong her, yourselPs vexM the
more.
Sap. Plagues light on her and thee ! — thus
down I throw
Thy harlot, thus by the hair nail her to earth.
Call in ten slaves, let every one discover
What lust desires, and surfeit here his fill.
Call in ten slaves.

Enter Slaves.

Mac* Thev are come, sir, at your call.

Sap. Oh, oh ! [Falls dorm.

Enter Theophilus.

Theoph. Where is the governor ?

Anton. There's my wretched father.

Theoph. My lord Sapritius — he's not dead ! —
my lord !
That witch there —

Anton. 'Tis no Roman gods can strike
These fearful terrors. O, thou happy maid,
Fore:ivc this wicked purpose of my father.

i5or, I do.

Theoph. Gone, gone ; he's peppered. It is thou
Hast done this act infernal.

Dor. Heaven pardon you !
And if my wrongs from thence puU vengeance

down,
{I can no miracles work,) yet, from my soul,
Pray to those Powers I serve, he may recover.

Theoph. He stirs — help, raise him up, — my
lord!

' Mac. Tkey are come, &c.] Tbe old copies give this speech
to Angelo: it is, however, so palpable an error, that the emen-
dation which I hare introduced requires no apology.

♦Gg

84 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Sap. Where am I?
Theoph. One cheek is blasted.
Sap. Blasted ! where's the lamia'
That tears my entrails? I'm bewitch'd ; seize on
her.
Dor. I'm here ; do what you please.
Theoph. Spurn her to the bar.
Dor. Come, boy, being there, more near to

heaven we are.
Sap. Kick harder ; go out, witch ! [Exeunt.
Anton. O bloody hangmen ! Thine own gods
give thee breath !
Each of thy tortures is my several death. [Exit.

SCENE IL
A Public Square.

Enter Hahvaxj Hircius, and Sfv in Givfi.

Harp. Do you like my service now ? say, am
jiot I
A master worth attendance ?

Spun. Attendance ! I had rather lick clean the
soles of your dirty boots, than wear the richest
suit of any infected lord, whose rotten life hangs
between the two poles.

Hir. A lord's suit ! 1 would not give up the
cloak of your service, to meet the splayfoot
estate of any left-eyed knight above the anti-
podes ; because they are unlucky to meet.

Harp. This day I'll try your loves to mc ; 'tis
only
But well to use the agility of your arms.

9 Whereas f^c lamia, SfcJ The sorceress, the hag : the wwd
is pure Latin

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 85

l^un. Or legs, I am lusty at them.

Hir. Or any other member that has na legs.

Spun. Thou'It run into some hole.

Hir. If I meet one that's more than my match,
and that I cannot stand in their hands, I must
and will x;reep on my knees.
* Harp. Hear me, my little team of villains,

hear me;
I cannot teach you fencing with these cudgels,
Yet^ you must use them; lay them on but

soundly;
That's all.

Hir. Nay, if we come to mauling once, pah!

Spun. But what walnut-tree is it we must beat?

Harp. Your mistress. :

Hir. How ! my mistress ? I begin to have a
Christian's heart made of sweet butter, I melt ;
I cannot strike a woman.

Spun. Nor I, unless she scratch; bum my
mistress 1

Harp. You're coxcombs, silly animals.

Hir. What's that ?

Harp. Drones, asses, blinded moles, that dare
not thrust
Your arms out to catch fortune : say, you fall off.
It must be done. You are converted rascals.
And, that once spread abroad, why every slave
Will kick you, call you motley Christians,
And half-faced Christians.

Spun. The guts of my conscience begin to be
of whitleather.

Hir. 1 doubt me, I shall have no sweet butter
in me.

Harp. Deny this, and each pagan whom you
meet,
Shall forked fingers thrust into your eyes

Hir. If w« be cuckolds.

86 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Harp. Do this, and every god the Gentiles
bow to,
Shall add a fathom to your line of years.

Spun. A hundred fathom, I desire no mote.

Hir. I desire but one inch longer.

Harp. The senators will, as you pass along,
Clap you upon your shoulders with this hand.
And with this give you gold : when you are dead,
Happy that man shall be, can get a nail.
The paring, — nay, the dirt under the nail.
Of any of you both, to say, this dirt
Belonged to Spungius or Hircius.

Spun. They shall not want dirt under my nails,
I will keep them long of purpose, for now my
fingers itch to be at her.

Hir. The first thing I do, I'll take her over
the lips.

Spun. And I the hips, — we may strike any
where? ^

Harp. Yes, any where.

Hir. Then I know wiiere I'll hit her.

Harp. Prosper, and be mine own; stand by, I-
must not
To see this done, great business calls me hence:
He's made can make her curse his violence. [Exit.

Stmn. Fear it not, sir ; her ribs shall be basted.

tlir. I'll come upon her with rounce, robble*
hobble, and thwick-thwack-thirlery bouncing.

Enter Dorothea, led prisoner; SAPRifius,
Theophilus, Akgelo, and a Hangman, who
sets up a Pillar; Sapritius and Theophilus
sit ; Angelo stands ^j^.Dorothea. A Guard
attending.

Sap. According to our Roman custonuii bind

That Christian to a pillar.

THE VIRGIN- MARTYR, 87

, Tkeoph. Infernal Furies,
Gould they into my hand thrust all their whips
To tear thy flesh, thy soul, 'tis not a torture
Fit to the vengeance I should heap on thee,
For wrongs done m? ; me ! for flagitious facts,
By thee done to our gods : yet, so it stand
To great Caesarea's governor's high pleasure.
Bow but thy knee to Jupiter, and offer
Any slight sacrifice ; or do but swear
By Caesar's fortune, and be free.

Sap. Thou shalt.

Dor. Not for all C»sar*s fortune, were it
chain'd
To more worlds than are kingdoms in the world,
And all those worlds drawn after him. I defy
Yourhangmen ; you now shew me whither to fly.

Sap. Are her tormentors ready ?

Ang. Shrink not, dear mistress.

S^un. and Hir. My lord, we are ready for the
business.

Dor. You two ! whom I like foster'd children fed,
And lengthened out your starved life with bread.
You be my hangmen ! whom, when up the ladder
Death haled you to be strangled, I fetch'd down.
Clothed you, and .warm'd you, you two my
tormentors !

Both. Yes, we.

Dor. Divine Powers pardon you !*

Sap» Strike.
[They strike at her : Angela kneeUng holds her fast.

Theoph. Beat out her brains.

Dor. Receive me, you bright angels^

Sap. Faster, slaves.

' Dor. pvoine Powers pardon yon !] I know not whether by
inadTertence or design ; but M. Mason, in opposition to all
the editions, reads. Divine Powers pardon me !

88 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.

Slmn. Faster ! I am out of breath, I am sure ;
if 1 were to beat a buck,' I can strike no harder.

Hir. O mine arms ! I cannot lift them to my
head.

Dor. Joy above joys ! are my tormentors
weary
In torturing me, and, in my sufferings,
I. fainting in no limb ! tyrants, strike home,
And feast your fury fulL

Theoph. These dogs are curs,

[Comes from his seat.
Which snarl, yet bite not. See, my lord, her

face
Has more bewitching beauty than before :
Proud whore, it smiles !' cannot an eye start out,
With these ?

Hir. No, sir, nor the bridge of her nose fall ;
'tis full of iron work.

Sap. Let's view the cudgels, are they not
counterfeit ?

Ang. There fix thine eye still ; — thy glorious
crown must come
Not from soft pleasure, ^but by martyrdom.
There fix thine eye still ; — when we next do meet,
Not thorns, but roses, shall bear up thy feet :
There fix thine eye still. [Eant.

Dor. Ever, ever, ever !

^Ifl were to heat a buck, I can strike no harder,"] To huck^
Johnson says, '^ is to wash clothes." This is but a lame expla-
nation of the term : to buck is to wash clothes by laying them
on a smooth plank, or stone, and beating them with a pole flat-
tened at the sides.

3 Proud whorcy it smiles /] So the old copies ; the modern
editors read, she smiles. In every page, and almost in every
speech, I haye had to remove these imaginary improrements of
the author's phraseology.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR, 89

Enter Harpax, sneaking.

Theaph. We're mock'd ; these bats have power
to fell down giants.
Yet her skin is not scarr'd.
Sap. What rogues are these ?
Theoph. Cannot these force a shriek ?

{Beats Spungius.
Spun. Oh ! a woman has one of my ribs, and
now five more are broken.

Theoph. Cannot this make her roar?

[Beats Hircius ; he roars.

Sap. Who hired these slaves ? what are they ?

Spun. We serve that noble gentleman/ there ;

he enticed us to this dry beating : oh ! for one

half pot.

Harp. My servants! two base rogues, and
sometime servants
To her, and for that cause forbear to hurt her,
Sap. Unbind her ; hang up these.
Theoph. Hang the two hounds on the next

tree.
Hir. Hang us ! master Harpax, what a devil,
shall we be thus used ?

Harp. What bandogs but you two would worry
a woman ?
Your mistress ? I but clapt you, you flew on.
Say I should get your lives, each rascal beggar
Would, when he met you, cry out, Hell-hounds !

traitors !
Spit at you, fling dirt at you ; and no woman
Ever dndure your sight : 'tis your best course

^ Span. We serre that noble gentleman, SfC.} This is the lec-
tion of the first quarto. The modern editors follow the others^
which incorrectlj read, We sero^df &c

90 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Now, had you secret knives, to stab yourselves; —
But, since you have not, go and be hang'd.

Hir. I thank you.

Harp, 'Tis your best course.

Theoph. Why stay they trifling here ?
To the gallows drag them by the heels ; — away 1

Spun. By the heels !. no, sir, we have legs to
do us that service.

Hir. Ay, ay, if no woman can endure my sight,
away with me.

Jnarp. Dispatch them.

Spun. The devil dispatch thee !

[Exeunt Guard with Spungius and Hircius.

Sap. Death this day rides in triumph, Theo-
philus.
See this witch made away too.

Theoph. My soul thirsts for it ;
Come, I myself the hangman's part could play.

Dor. O naste me to my coronation day !

[Ejmcnt.

SCENE III.»

ITie Place of Execution. A scaffold^ blocks Sgc.

Enter Antoninus, supported by Macrihus, and

Servants.

Anton. Is this the place^ where virtue is to
suffer,
And heavenly beauty, leaving this base earth.
To make a glad return from whence it came ?
Is it, Macrinus ? ^

Mac. By this preparation,

5 From hence, to the conclusion of the act, I recognise the
hand of Massinger. There may be (and probably are) finer pas-
sagei in our dramatic poets^ bv^ I am not acquainted with
them.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 91

You wiell may rest assured that Dorothea
This hour is to die here.

Anton. Then with her dies
The abstract of all sweetness that's in woman 1
Set me down, friend, that, ere the iron hand
Of death close up mine eyes, they may at once
Take my last leave both of this light and her :
For, she being gone, the glorious sun himself
To me's Cimmerian darkness.

Mac. Strange affection!*
Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with

Death, f

And kill's, instead of giving life.

Anton. Nay, weep not ;
Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm,
On me they're cast away. It is decreed
That I must die with her; our clue of life
Was spun together.

Mac. Yet) sir, 'tis my wonder,

^ Mac* Strange ejection !
Cupid once more hath changed his shafts vMh Deaths
'And kUls^ instead of giving Ufe.l This is a beautiful allusion
to a little poem among the Elegies ofSecundus. Cupid and
Death unite in the destruction of a loTer, and in endeavouring
to recoyer their weapons from the body of the victim, commit a
mutual mistake^ each plucking out the '^ shafts" of the other*
The consequences of this are prettily described :
Missaperegrinis sparguntur vulnera nerois,

Et manus ignoto savit utrinque moLo.
Jbrrita Mors arcus vdUdi molimina damnatf

Plorat Amor teneras tarn valuifse numus ;
Foedabcmtjuvenesprinias in puloere malas

Oscula qttas, heu, ad blanda vocabat Arnor^
Ckmicies vemisjlorebat multa corollis

Persephone ainem vulserat tinde «i^.
Quid facetent 9 fahas procul aJbjecere sagittate

De pharetra jaculum prompsit uterque novum.
Bes bona ! sed virus pueri penetravit in arcum ;

Ex ilia miseros tot dedii iUe neci. Lib. ii. El6g. 0*
The lable, howevery is very ancient.

92 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.

That you, who, hearing only what she suffers.

Partake of all her tortures, yet will be,

To add to your calamity, an eyewitness

Of her last tragic scene/ which must pierce

deeper,'
And make the wound more desperate.

Anton. Oh, M acrinus !
*Twould linger out my torments else, not kill me,
Which is the end I aim at : being to die too,
What instrument more glorious can I wish for,
Than what is made sharp by my constant love
And true affection ? It may be, the duty
And loyal service, with which I pursued her.
And seard it with my death, will be remembered
Among her blessed actions ; and what honour
Can I desire beyond it ?

Enter a Guard bringing in Dorothea, a Headsman
before her ; JbUowedbyTHEOTRihvs,SAPKiTiV8f
and Haktax.

See, she comes ;
How sweet her innocence appears ! more like
To heaven itself, than any sacrifice
That can be offer'd to it. By my hopes
Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful
In my belief; nor can I thitifc our gods
Are good, or to be served,- that take delight
In offerings of this kind : that, to maintain
Their power, deface the master-piece of nature.
Which they themselves come short of. She

ascends.
And every step raises her nearer heaven.
What god soe'er thou art, that must enjoy her,
Receive in her a boundless happiness !

7 , which must pierce deeper,] So the first edition.

The quarto 1661 reads, in defiance of metre, — which must th*
deeper pierce^ and is followed by Coxeter and M. Mason !

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 93

Sap. You arc to blame
To let him come abroad.

McX, It was his will ;
And we were left to serve him, not command
him.

Anton. Good sir, be not offended ; nor deny
My last of pleasures in this happy object,
That I shall e'er be blest with.

Theoph. Now, proud contemner
Of us, and of our gods, tremble to think,
It is not in the Power thou serv'st to save thee.
Not all the riches of the sea, increased
By violent shipwrecks, nor the unsearch'd mines,
(Mammon's unknown exchequer,) shall redeem

thee: .
And, therefore, having first with horror weigh'd
What 'tis to die, and to die young ; to part with
All pleasures and delights ; lastly, to go
Where all antipathies to comfort dwell,
Furies behind, about thee, and before thee ;
And, to add to affliction, the remembrance
Of the Elysian joys thou might'st have tasted,
Hadst thoii not tum'd apostata' to those gods
That so feward their servants; let despair
Prevent the hangman's sword, and on this scaffold
Make thy first entrance into hell.

Anton. She smiles,
Unmoved, by Mars ! as if she were assured
Death, looking on her constancy, would forget
The use of his inevitable hand,

Theoph, Derided too ! dispatch, I say.

Dor. Thou fool !

f ^ Hadst thou not turned apostata to those gods'] Oar o(d writers
usaally said, apostata^ statua^ &c. where we now say, apostate^
statue. Massinger's editors, however, who were ignorant alike
of his language^and that of his contemporaries, resolutef j persist
in moderuiziog him upon all occasions : they read, apostate.

94 THE VIRGIN-MARTYE.

That gloriest in having power to ravish
A trifle from me I am weary of,
What is this life to me ? not worth a thoftght ;
Or, if it be esteemM, 'tis that I lose it
To win a better : even thy malice serves
To me but as a ladder to mount up
To such a height of happiness, where I shall
Look down with scorn on thee, and on the world ;
Where, circled with true pleasures, placed above
The reach of death or time, 'twill be my ^lory
To think at what an easy price I bought it.
There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth :
Ko joint«benumbing cold, or scorching heat,
Famine, nor age, have any being there.
Foreet, for shame, your Tempe ; bury in
Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards :-^
The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon,
Which did require a Hercules to get* it.
Compared with what grows in all plenty there,
Deserves not to be named* The Power I serve,
Laughs at your happy Araby^ or the

' Whkh did require a Hercules to get tV ,] The modern editors
read, to ffamrd U» This deviation from tlie old copies is at the
expeose of «eBse. It was the dragon which gMHirdfid it t the ot>-
ject of Hercules was to get lU In almost ejerj speech Massinger
is thus injured bj carelessness or ignorance. It is the more^
inexcusable here, as the rery same expression !$ to be found>i* '
the Emperor of the East*

This beautiful description of E^jsium^ as Mr. Gllchiist ^«
serves to me, has been imitated hy Nabbes, in that lery poet|c
rhapsod J, Microcosmus : some of the lines may be giTen s
'^ Cold there compels no use of rugged furs,
^' Nor makes the mountains barren-; there's no dog
^^ To rage, and scorch the land. Spring's always there,
^' And paints the valleys; whilst a temperate air
<^ Sfreeps their embroider'd face with his curi'd gales^
^' And breathes perfumes: — ^there night doth never spread
" Her ebon wings; but day.l^ht's always there*
'' AM one blest season crqwns the eternal year.''

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 9S

Elysian shades ; for he hath made his bowers
Better in deed, than you can fancy yours.

Anton. O, take me thither with you !

Dor. Trade my steps.
And be assured you snalL

Sap. With my own hands
I'll rather stop that little breath is left thee.
And rob thy killing fever.

Theoph. By no means ;
Let him go with her : do, seduced young man»
And wait upon thy saint in death ; do, do :
And, when you come to that imagined place^
That place of all delights — pray you, observe me^
And meet those cursed things I once call'd

Daughters,
M^om I have sent as harbingers before you ;
If there be any truth in your religion,
In thankfulness to me, that with care hasten
Your journey thither, pray you send me some
Small pittance of that curious fruityou boast of,

Anton. Grant that I may go with her, and I will.

Sap. Wilt thou in thy last minute damn thyself?

Theoph. The gates to hell are open.

Dor. Know, thou tyrant,
Thou agent for the devil, thy great master.
Though thou art most unworthy to taste of it,
I can, and will.

Enter Angelo, in the AngeTs habit.^

Harp. Oh ! mountains fall upon me,
Or hide me in the bottom of the deep,
Where light may never find me !

* Enter Akoelo, tn the AngtVs habit, &c. J It appears that
Angelo was not meant to be seen or heard bj -any of the people
present, but Dorothea. In the inventory of the Lord Admiral's

96 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Theoph. What's the matter ?

Sap. This is prodigious, and confirms her witch-
craft.

Theoph. Harpaxy my Harpax, speak !

Harp I dare not stay :
Should I but hear her once more, I were lost
Some whirlwind snatch me from thiscursed plape»
To which compared, (and with what nowIsufFer,)
Hell's torments are sweet slumbers ! [Exit.

Sap. Follow him.

Theoph. He is distracted, and I must not lose
him.
Thy charms upon my servant, cursed witch.
Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die.
Till my return. [Ea^eunt JSap. and Theoph.

Anton. She minds him not : what object
Is her eye fix'd on ?

Mac. 1 see nothing.

Anton. Mark her.

Dor. Thou glorious minister of the Power I
serve !
(For thou art more than mortal,) is't for me,
Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave
Thy heavenly habitation, and vouchsafest.
Though glorified, to take my servant's habit } —
For, put off thy divinity, so look'd
My lovely Angelo.

Ang. Know, I am the same ;
And still the servant to your piety.
Your zealous prayers, and pious deeds first won

me
(But 'twas by His command to whom you sent
them)

properties, given by Mr. Malone, is, ^^ a roobe for to goe in-
Tisibell." It was probably of a ligbt gauzy texture, and afforded
a sufficient hint to our ancestors, not to sec the person inrested
with it ; or rather, to understand that some of the characters on
the stage were not to see him.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 97

To guide your steps. I tried your charity,
When in a beggar's shape you took me up,
And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed,
As you believed, my famish'd mouth. Learn all,
By your example, to look on the poor
With gentle eyes ! for in such habits, often,
Angels desire an alms.* I never left you,
Nor will I now ; for I am sent to carry
Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal,
Your martyrdom once suffer'd; and before it,
Ask any thing from me, and rest assured,
You shall obtain it.

Dor. I am largely paid
For all my Xorments. Since I find such grace,
Grant that the love of this yoiing man to me.
In which he languisheth to death, may be
Changed to the love of heaven.

Ang. I will perform it;
And in that instant when the sword sets free
Your happy soul, his shall have liberty.
Is there aught else ?

Dor. For proof that I forgive
My persecutor, who in scorn desired'
To taste of that most sacred fruit I go to ;
After my death, assent from me, be pleased
To give him of it.

Ang. Willingly, dear mistress.

Mac. I am amazed.

Anton. I feel a holy fire.
That yields a comfortably heat within me ;
I am quite altered from the thing I was.
See ! I can stand, and go alone ; thus kneel

Learn ally

By your example^ i^c.] ^^ Be not forgetfal to entertain stran.
gers ; for thereby sonie have entertained angels aiiawares.''
Heb. c.xiii. t. 2. Here is also a beautiful allusion to the parting
speech of the '' sociable archangel,*' to Tobit and his son.
VOL. T, H *

08 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.

To heavenly Dorothea, touch her hand

With a religious kiss. [Kneeh.

Re-enter Sapritius ^^^Theophilus.

Sap. He is well now,
But will not be drawn back.

Theoph. It matters not.
We can discharge this work without hit help.
But see your son.

Sap. Villain!

Anton. Sir, I beseech you,
Being so near our ends, divorce us not.

Theoph. I'll quickly make a separation of them :
Hast thou aught else to say r

Dor. Nothing, but to blame
Thy tardiness in sending me to rest ;
My peace is made witii heaven, to which my soul
Begins to take her flight ; strike, O ! strike

quickly ;
And, though you are unmoved to sec my death.
Hereafter, when my story shall be read,
As they were present now, the hearers shall
Say-this of Dorothea, with wet eyes,
*' She lived a virgin, and a virgin dies."

[Her head is struck off[

Anton. O, take my soul along, to wait on thine !

Mac. Your son sinks too. [Antoninm falls.

Sap. Already dead !

Theoph. Die all
That are, or favour this accursed * sect :
I triumph in their ends, and will raise up .

^ That are^ or favour this accursed sect ;J So the old copies t
the modern editors, to adapt the text- to their own idi^ of ac
curacy, read : That .are of, ^rfawwt^ ftc* but tfaore is no need
of alteration ; this mode of ezpeeailoai recurs perpetftally : Mdd
top, that the interpolation de8troys the metr«.

THE VIRGIN-MAHTYIt

99

A hill of their dead carcasses, to o'erlook
The Pyrenean hills, but I'll root out
These superstitious fools, and leave the world
No name of Christian.

\^Loud music : Exit Jngelo, having first laid his
hand upon the mouths of Anton, and Dot.

S^. Ha! heavenly mujic !

Mac. 'Tis in the air.

Theoph. Illusions of the devil,
Wrought by some witch of her religion,
That fain would make her death a miracle ;
It frights ti^t me« Because he is your son,
Let him have burial ; but let her body
Be cast forth with contempt in some highway,
And be to vultures and to dogSB prrey, [Exeunt.

ACT V. SCENE L

Theothilvs discovered sitting in his Study : books

about him.

Theoph. Is't holiday, O Caesar, that thy servant,
Thy provost, to see execution done
On these base Christians in Caesarea,
Should now want work ? Sleep these idolaters,
That none arc stirring ? — As a curious painter.
When he has made some honourable piece,
Stands off, and with a searching eye examines
Each colour, how 'tis sweetened ; and then hugs
Himself for his rare workmanship— so here.
Will 1 my drolleries, and bloody landscapes,
Long past wrapt up, unfold, to make me merry
With shadows, now I want the substances.

100 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

My muster book of hell-hounds. Were the

Christians,
Whose names stand here, alive and arm'd, not

Rome
Could move upon her hinges. What I've done,
Or shall hereafter, is not out of hate
To poor tormented wretches ;* no, I'm carried
With violence of zeal, and streams of service
I owe our Roman gods. Great Britain^ — what ?*

[reads.
A thousand wives, with brats sucking their breasts^
Had hot irons pinch them off, and thrown to swine ;
And thentheir fleshy back'pai^tSy hew^dwith hatchets.
Were minced, and baked in pies, to feed starved

Christians.
Ha! hal

Again, again, — East Angles, — oh. East Angles:
Bandogs, kept three days huitgry^ worried
A thousand British rascals, stied up fat
Of purpose, stripped naked, and disarmed.
I could outstare a year of suns and moons.
To sit at these sweet bull-baitings, so I
Could thereby but one Christian win to fall
In adoration to my Jupiter. — Twelve hundred
Eyes bored with augres out — Oh ! eleven thousand
Torn by wild beasts : two hundred ramm'd in the

earth

is not out dfhate

To poor tormented wretches^ &c.] This is said to distinguisk
his character from that of Sapritias, whose zeal is influenced by
motives of interest, and by many other considerations^ which
appear to weigh nothing with Theophiias.

* Great Britain^ — what?} Great Britain, is a curious ana-
chronism ; but this our oid dramatic writers were little solicit-
ous to avoid. The reader wants not vay assistance to discover
that this rugged narrative is by Decker : the horrible enumera-
tion of facts> is taken from the histories of those times.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 101

To the armpit Sy and full platters round about them^
But far enough for reaching ;' Eat, dogs, ha !
ha! ha! ^ [He rises.

Tush, all these tortures are but fillipings,
Fleabitings ; I, before the Destinies

JEnter Anoelo with a basket filled with fruit and

flowers.

My bottom did wind up, would flesh myself

Once more upon some one remarkable

Above all these. This Christian sluf was well,

A pretty one ; but let such horror follow

The next I feed with torments, that when Rome

Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound

May feel an earthquake. How now ? [Munc.

Ang. Are you amazed, sir ?
So great a Roman spirit — and doth it tremble!

Theoph. How cam'st thou in? to whom thy
business ?

7 But far enough for reaching :2 -For occurs perpetually ia
these plays, in the sense of prevention^ y^t the modern editors
have altered it to from : indeed, the word is thus used by eyery
writer of Massinger's age ; thus Fletcher :

" Walk oflF, sirrah,

^^ And stir my horse^r taking cold/'

Love*8 Pilgrimagei
Again:

" he'll not tell me,

<< For breaking of my heart/'

Maid in the Mill.

Now I am on the subject, let me observe, that a similar altera-
tion has been unnecessarily made in Pericles. The old reading is^

^' And with dead cheeks adrise thee to desist
<c For going on death's net, which none resist."

** This is corrupt," says the editor, *' I think it should be/r<wi
going,'^ and so he has printed it; place a comma after desist^
and all will be right : ^'for going," i. ^mforfedr of going, &c«

102 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Ang. To you :
I had a mistress, late sent hence by you
Upon a bloody errand ; you entreated,
That, when she came into that blessed garden
Whither she knew she went, and where, now

happy,
She feeds upon all joy, ate.would send to you
Some of that garden fruit and flowers ; which

here,
To have her promise saved, are brought by roe.

Theoph. Cannot I see this garden ?

Ang. Yes, if the master
Will give you entrance, [He vamshe$.

Theoph^ 'Tis a tempting fruit.
And the most bright-cheek 'd child I ever view'd;
Sweet smelling, goodly fruit What flowers are

these ?
lu Dio.clesian's gardens, the most beauteous.
Compared with these^ are weeds : is it not

February,
The second day she died ? frost, ice, and snow,
Hang on the beard of winter : where's the sun
That gilds this suipmer ? pretty, sweet boy, say,
In what country shall a man find this garden ? —
My delicate boy, — gone! vanish'dl within there,
Julianus ! Oeta !—

Enter Julianus and Geta»

Both. My lord.

Theoph. Are my g^tes shut ?

Geta. And guarded.

Theoph. Saw you not
A boy?

Jul. Where?

Theoph. Here he entered ; a young lad ;
A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes :

THE V I RG IN - M A R T Y R. 103

A smoothfaced, glorious thing, that brought this
basket'

Geta. No, sir !

Theoph. Away — but be in reach, if my voice
calls you, [Eo'dunt Jul. and Geta.

No ! — vanish'd, and not seen ! — Be thou a spirit,
Sent from that witch to mock me, I am sure
This is essentia], and, howe'er it grows.
Will taste it. [Eats of the fruit.

Harp. \withinJ\ Ha, ha, ha, ha !

Theoph. So good ! I'll have some more, sure.

Harp. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! great liquorish fool I

Theoph. What art thou ?

Harp. A fisherman.

Theoph. What dost thou catch ?

Harp. Souls, souls ; a fish call'd souls.

TheopU. Geta!

Re-enter Geta.

Geta. My lord.

Harp, [within.l Ha, ha, ha, ha !

Theoph. What insolent slave is this, dares
laugh at me ?
Or what is't the dog grins at so ?

Geta. I neither know, my lord, at what, nor
whom ; for there is none without, but my fellow
Julianus, and he is making a garland for Jupiter.

Theoph, Jupiter I all within me is not well ;
And yet not sick,

• Theoph. Here he entered; &c.\ It may give the. reader
some idea of the metrical skiU with which Massinger has been
hitherto treated, to print these lines as they stand in Cox«ter
knd M. Mason :

Theoph. Here he enter^d^ a ^9ung lad ; a thousand
Biemngs damfd upon his eyes ; a smooth fac'd glorious
Tkmg<, that brought this basket.

104 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Harp. [tt?iVAi«.] Ha, ha, ha, ha !

Theoph. What's thy name, slave ?

Harp, \at one end of the room.'] Go look.

Geta. Tis Harpax' voice.

Theoph. Harpax ! go, drag the caitiff to my foot,
That I may stamp upon him.

Harp, [at tfie other end.'] Fool, thou lieat !

Geta. He's yonder, now, my lord.

Theoph. Watch thou that end,
Whilst I make good this.

Harp., [in the middle.] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha !

Theoph. He is at barley-break, and the last
couple
Are now in hell.'
Search for him. [Exit Geta.] All this ground,

methinks, is bloody.
And paved with thousands of those Christians' eyes
Whom I have tortured ; and they stare upon me.
What was I his apparition ? sure it had
A shape angelical. Mine eyes, though dazzled,

9 Theoph. He is at barley-break, and the last couple
Are now in hell.] i. e. in the middle ; alluding to the situation
of Harpax. This wretched copy of a wretched original, the
hie et ubique of the Ghost in Hamlet, is much too puerile for the
occasion, and the character : — decipit exemplar vitiis imiiabile.
With respect to the amusement of barley-break, allusions to it
occur repeatedly in our old writers; and their commentators
have piled one parallel passage upon another, without advancing
a single step towards explaining what this celebrated pastime
really was* It was played by six people, (three of each sex,)
who were coupled by lot. A piece of ground was then choaeD^
and divided into three compartments, of which the middle one
was called hell. It was the object of the couple condemned to
this division, to catch the others, who advanced from the two
extremities ; in which case a change of situation took place,
and hell was tilled by the couple who were excluded by preoc-
cupation, from the other places : in this " catching,*' however,
there was some difficulty, as, by the regulations of the game, the
middle couple were not to separate before they had succeeded,
while the others might break hands whenever they found them-'

THE VIRGIN'MARTYR. 105

And daunted at first sight, tell me, it wore

A pair of glorious wings ; yes, they were wings ;

And hence h« flew : 'tis vanish'd ! Jupiter,

For all my sacrifices done to him,

Never once gave me smile. — How can stone

smile ?
Or wooden image laugh? [fnusic.'] Ha! I re-
member,
Such music gave a welcome to mine ear.
When the fair youth came to me : — 'tis in the air,
Or from some better place ; * a Power divine,

Belves hard pressed. When aU had been takea in turn, the
last couple was said to ht in hell^ and the game ended. In tenui
labor I — Mr. M. Mason has given the following description of
this pastime with allegorical personages, from sir John Suckling :

*' Love, Reason, Hate, did once bespeak

^^ Three mates to play at barley-break ;

^^ LoYe Folly took ; and Reason Fancy ;

'^ And Hate consorts with Pride ; so dance they :

^^ LoTe coupled last, and so it fell

** That Lote and Folly were in hell.

^^ They break ; and Lo?e would Reason meet,

^^ But Hate was nimbler on her feet ;

^^ Fancy looks for Pride, and thither

^^ Hies, and they two hug together :

^'. Yet this new coupling still doth tell

^^ That LoYC and Folly were in hell.

^^ The rtst do break again, and Pride
^^ Hath now got Reason on her side 4
^^ Hate and Fancy meet, and stand
^^ Untouch'd by Lote in Folly's hand ;
" Folly was dull, but Love ran well,
** So Lore and Folly were in hell."-

' Or from some better place ;] In Cozeter's edition, place was
dropt at the press, I suppose : and M. Mason, who seems to haye
had no conception of any older or other copy, blindly followed
him ; though the line has neither measure nor sense without the
word, inserted from the oldijuartos : — but indeed the whole of
this scene, as it stands in the two former editions^ especially the
last, is full of the most shameful blunders*

106 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Through my djatrk ignorance, on my soul 4q0s

shine,
And makes me see a conscience all staiq'd o'er,
Nay, drown'd and damn'd for ever in Christian

gorct
Harp, [within.'] Ha^ ha, ha !
Theoph. Again! — Whaf dainty relish on my

tongue
This fruit hath left ! some angel hath me fed ;
If so toothful],^ I will be banqueted. [Eats again.

Enter Harpax in a fearful shape^ fire flashing out

of the Study.

Harp. Hold!

Theoph. Not for Cassar.

Harp. But for me thou shalt*

Theoph. Thou art no twin to him that last was
here.
Ye Powers, whom my soul bids me reverence,

guard me !
What art thou ?

Harp: I am thy master.

Theoph. Mine !

Harp. And thou my everlasting slave: that
Harpax,
Who hand m hand hath jied tbee to thy hell.
Am L

Theoph. Avaunt!

Harp. I will not ; cast thou down
That basket with the things in't, and fetch up
What thou hast swallowed, and then take a

drinkj
Which I shall give thee^ and Fm gone.

* If 90 toothfiiU, &&] So the old copies; tht modern editions
have toothsome.: it may perhaps be a better word, but should
not hare been silently foisted upon the author.

THE VIRGIN. MARTYR. 107

Theoph. My fruit !
Does tnis offend thee ? see ! [Eats again.

Harp. Spit it to the earth/
And tread upon it, or Fll peieemeal tear thee.
Theoph. Art thou with this affrighted ? see,

here *s more. \PulU out a handful of flowers.
Harp. Fling them away, I'll take thee else,
and hang thee
In a contorted chain of isicles.
In the frigid zone : down with them I

Theoph. At the bottom
One thing I found not yet. See !

[Holds up a cross of flowers.
Harp. Oh ! I am tortured.
Theoph. Can this do't? hence, thou fiend

infernal, hence !
Harpi Glasp Jupiter's image, and away with

that.
Theoph. At thee I'll fling that Jupiter ; for,
methinks,
I serve a better master : he now checks me
For murdering my two daughters, put on* by

thee.-^
By thy damn'd rhetorte did I hunt the life
Of Dorothea, the holy virgin-martyn
She i$ not angry with the axe, nor me,
But sends these presents to me ; and I'll travel
O er worlds to find her, and from her white hand
Beg a forgiveness.

s Harp. SpH it to the earth^'\ Tke fint ami second quartos
read«/7f^, which was now beginniag t» grow obsolete^ in the
succeeding one it is ipit.

♦ ■ ■ ■ ■ — put on by ^Aec— ] i. e. encouraged, instigated.
So in Shakspeare :

^^ ■ Macbeth

^^ Is ripe for shaking, and the Powers aboTO

^^ Fut on their instraments."

108 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Harp. No ; I'll bind thee here.
The^h. I serve a strength above thine ; this
small weapon,*
Methinks, is armour hard enough.

Harp. Keep from me, [Sinks a little.

Theoph. Art posting to thy centre? down, hell-
hound! down!
Me thou hast lost. That arm, which hurls thee
hence, [Harpaa? disappears.

Save me, and set me up, the strong defence,
In the fair Christian's quarrel !

Enter Angelo.

V Ang. Fix thy foot there.
Nor be thou shaken with a Caesar's voice,
Though thousand deaths were in it ; and I then
Will bring thee to a river, that shall wash
Thy bloody hands clean and more white than

snow ;
And to that garden where these blest things

grow,
And to that martyr'd virgin, who hath sent
That heavenly token to thee : spread this brave

wing,
And serve, than Caesar, afar greater king. [Eant.
Theoph. It is, it is, some angel. Vanish'd again !
Oh, comeback, ravishingboy 1 bright messenger !
Thou hast, by these mine eyes fix'd on thy beauty,
Illumined all my soul. Now look I back
On my black tyrannies, which, as they did
Outdare the bloodiest, thou, blest spirit, that

lead'st me,

5 this small weapon,] Meaning, I believe, th9

(( cross of flowers," which he had just found. The language
and ideas of this play are .purely ca^thoUc.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 109

Teach me what I must to do, and, to do well,
That my last act the best may parallel.* [Ejnt.

SCENE II.

Dioclesian's Palace.

*

Enter Dioclesian, Maximinus, the Kings of
Epire, Pontus and Macedon, meeting Artemia ;
Attendants.

Artem. Glory and conquest still attend upon
Triumphant Caesar ! '

Diocle. Let thy wish, fair daughter,
Be equally divided ; and hereafter
Learn thou to know and reverence Maximinus,
Whose power, withmine united, makes oneCaesar.

Mao:. But that I fear 'twould be held flattery.
The bonds considered in which we stand tied.
As love and empire, I should say, till now
I ne'er had seen a lady I thought worthy
To be my mistress.

Artem. Sir, you shew yourself
Both courtier and soldier; but take heed,
Take heed, my lord, though my dull-pointed '

beauty,
Stain'd by a harsh refusal in my servant.
Cannot dart forth such beams as may inflame you.
You may encounter such a powerful one.
That with a pleasing heat will thaw your Jieart,
Though bound in ribs of ice. Love still is Love ;
His bow and arrows are the same: Great Julius,
That to his successors left the name of Csesar,
Whom war could never tame, that with dry eyes

^ That my last act the best may parallel.^ Thus far Decker ;
^hat follows, I apprehend, was written by Massinger. In pathos,
gtrength, and harmony it is not .surpassed by any passage of
i;qual length) in the English language.

no THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Beheld tht large plains of Phar»alia covered

With the dead carcasses of senators,

And citizens of Rome ; when the world knew

No other lord but him, struck deep in years too,

(And men gray-hair*d forget the lusts of youth,)

After all this, meeting fair Cleopatra,

A suppliant too, the magic of her eye,

Even in his pride of conquest, took nim captive :

Nor are you more secure,

Mao;. Were you deform'd,
(But, by the gods, your are most excellent,)
Your gravity and discretion ^ould o'ercom« me ;
And I should be more proud in being prisoner
To your fair virtues, tnan of all Ihd nonouTS,
Wealth, title, empire, that my sword hath
purchased.

Diode. This meets my wishes. Welcome it,
Artemia,
With outstretched arms, and study to forget
That Antoninus ever was : thy fate
Reserved thee for this better choice ; embrace it.

Mas J' This happv match brings new nerves to
give strength
To our continued league.

Diock. Hymen himself
Will bless this marriage, which we-'U solemnize
In the presence of these kings.

K. ofPontus. Who rest most happy.
To be eyewitnesses of a match that brings
Peace to the empire.

Diode. We much thank your loves :
But Where's Sapritius, our governor,
And our most zealous provost, good Theophilus?
If ever prince were blest in a true servant^
Or could the gods be debtors to a man,

^ Max. This happi/ match &c.] The old copies gire this to the
iC. of Epire ; it is evident, however, that he cannot be the
speaker : I make no apology for restoring it to Maximinus.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. Ill

Both they and we stand far engaged to jcheritdi
His piety apd. service.

Artem. Sir, the governor
Brooks sadly his son's loss, although he ttirn!d
Apostata in death;" but bold Theophilus,
Who for the same cause, in ttiy presence, seal'd
His holy anger on his daughters' hearts ;
Having with tortures first tried to convert her,
Dragg'd the bewitching Christian to the scaffold,
And sajv her lose her head.

Diode. He is all worthy :
And from his own mouth I would gladly hear
The manner how she suffered.

Artem. 'Twill be deliver'd
With such contempt and scorn, (I know bis nature,)
That rather 'twill beget your highness' laughter,
Than the least pity.

Diock. To that end 1 would hear.it.

%

JSwfer TrtjEpBHii-us, SArFniTiua, a/i^ Macrinus.

Artem. He comes ; with him the governor.
Diode. O, Sapritius, ^

I am to chide yo\x\i for your tenderness ; p^^ yZ^."^^
But yet, remembering that.yQu are a. father, ^

I will forget it. Good Theophilus^
I'll speak with you anon. — Nearer, your ear.

\to SapFiiitis.
Theoph. [aside to MacrinmJ] - By Antoninus*
soul, I do conjure yc\u,\
And though not for religion, for his friendship,
Without demanding what's the cause that moves
me,

' Apostata in death ;] Here again the modern editors, read,
Apostate in ieath^ though it absolutely destroys the measure.
It is Tery strange that the frequent recarrence of^thit'word
ihrould not teach them to hesitale on' the prc^piety p€ .corrupt-
ing it upon all occasions.

Ui THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Receive my signet :— By the power of this,
Go to my prisons, and release all Christians,
That are in fetters there by my command.

Mac. But what shall follow ?

Theoph. Haste then to the port ;
You there shall find two tall ships ready rigg*d/
In which embark the poor distressed souls,
And bear them from the reach of tyranny.
Enquire not whither you are bound : the Deity
That they adore will give you prosperous winds,
And make your voyage such, and largely pay for
Your hazard, and your travail. Leave me here ;
There is a scene that I must act alone :
Haste, good Macrinus ; and the ^reat God guide
you 1

Mac. I'll undertake't; there's something
prompts me to it;
'Tis to save innocent blood, a saint-like act :
And to be merciful has never been
By moral men theniselves* esteem'd a sin, [^E.vit.

Diode. You know your charge ?

Sap. And will with care observe it.

Diock. For I profess he. is not Caesar's friend,
That sheds a tear for any torture that
A Christian suffers. Welcome, ray best servant,
My careful, zealous provost! thou hasttoil'd
To satisfy my will, though in extremes :
I love thee for't ; thou art firm rock, no changeling.
Prithee deliver, and for my sake do it,
Without excess of bitterness, or scoffs.
Before my brother and these kings, how took
The Christian her death ?

Theoph. And such a presence.
Though every private head in this large room

9 You there shall Jind two tall ships ready rig^d^ We should
DOW say^ two stout ships ; but see the Unnatural Combat. *

' hy moral men themselves &c.] This is the reading Qtthe
first copy : all the others haTe, mortal men.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 113

Were circled round with an imperial crown,
Her story will deserve, it is so full
Of excellence and w'onder.

Diocle. Ha ! how is this ?

Theoph. O ! mark it, therefore, and with that
attention,
As you would hear an embassy from heaven
By a wing'd legate; for the truth deliver'd,
Both how, and what, this blessed virgin sufFer'd,
And Dorothea but hereafter named.
You will rise up with reverence, and no morC;
As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember
What the canonized Spartan ladies were,
Which lying Greece so boasts of. Your own

matrons^
Your Roman dames, whose figures you yet keep
As holy relics, in her history
Will find a second urn : Gracchus' Cornelia,*
Paulina, that in death desired to follow
Her husband Seneca, nor Brutus/ Portia,
That swallow'd burning coals to overtake him,
Though all their several worths were given to one,
With this is to be mention'd.

Max. Is he mad ?

Diocle. Why, they did die, Theophiius, and
boldly ;
This did no more*

Theoph. They, out of desperation,
Or for vain glory of an after-name.
Parted with life : this had not mutinous sons,

* Gracchui' Cornelia^'] This passage, as printed in the old
edition, is nonsense. M. Masoi^ .

This is somewhat bold in one who never saw the old editions.
In Coxeter, indeed, it is printed, or rather, pointed as nonsense ;
but to Ck\\\ his the old edition, is scarcely correct. The first
quarto reads as in the text^ with the exception of an apostrophe
accidentally misplaced; the second foUovrs it, and both are
more correct than Mr. M. Mason, either in his text or note.

VOL. I. I*

114 THE VIRGIN. MARTYR.

As the rash Gracchi were ; nor was this saint

A doating mother, as Cornelia was.

This lost no husband, in whose overthrow

Her wealth and honour sunk ; no fear of want

Did make her being tedious; but^ aiming

At an immortal crown, and in His cause

Who only can bestow it ; who sent down

Legions of ministering angels to bear up

Her spotless soul to heaven, wko entertain'd it

With choice celestial music, equal to

The motion of the spheres ; she, uncompell'd.

Changed this life for a better. My lord Sapritius,

You were present at her death ; did you e'er hear

Such ravisning sounds ?

Sap. Yet you said then 'twas witchcraft,
And devilish illusions.

Theoph. I then heard it
With sinful ears,and belch'd outblasphemouswordg
Against his Deity, which then I knew not,
Nor did believe in him.

Diode. Why, dost thou now ?
Or dar'st thou, in our hearing

Theoph. Were my voice
As loud as is His thunder, to be heard
Through all the world, all potentates on earth
Ready to burst with rage, should they but hear it;
Though hell, to aid their malice, lent her furies,
Yet I would speak, and speak again, and boldly,
I am a Christian, and the Powers you worship,
But dreams of fools and madmen.

Max. Lay hands on him.

Diode. Thou twice a child! for doating age
so makes thee.
Thou couldst not else, thy pilgrimage of life
Being almost past through, in. this last moment
Destroy whatever thou hast done good or great —
Thy youth did promise much ; and| grown a maii|

THE yiKGIN. MARTYR. 115

Thou mad'st it good, and, with increase of years,

Thy actions still bettered : as the sun,

Thou did'st rise gloriously, kept'st a constant

course
In all thy journey; and now, in the evening,
When thou should'st pass with honour to thy rest,
Wilt thou fall like a meteor?

Sap. Yet confess
That thou art mad, and that thy tongue and heart
Had no agreement.

Max. Do ; no way is left, else.
To save thy life, Theophilus.

Diode. But, refuse it,
Destruction as horrid, and as sudden.
Shall fall upon thee, as if hell stood open,
And thou wert sinking thither.

Theoph. Hear me, yet ;
Hear, for my service past.

Artem. What will he say ?

Theoph. As ever I deserved your favour,hear me,
And grant one boon; 'tis not for life I sue for;*
Nor is it fit that I, that ne'er knew pity
To any Christian, being one myself.
Should look for any ; no, I rather beg
The utmost of your cruelty. I stand
Accomptabk for thousand Christians' deaths ;
And, were it possible that I could die
A day for every one, then live again
To be again tormented, 'twere to me
An easy penance, and I should pass through
A gentle cleansing fire ; but, that denied me.
It being beyond the strength of feeble nature,

' Ti$ not for lift Isueior;] The modern editors omit the last
for : but they are too squeamish. This reduplication was prac.
tised by all the writers of oar author's time ; of which I could,
if it wore necessary, gire a thousand examples ; Massinger him-
self would idrnish a considerable niuober.

12*

116 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

My suit is, you would have no pity on me.

Tn mine own house there are a thousand engines

Of studied cruelty, which I did prepare

For miserable Christians ; let me feel,

As the Sicilian did his brazen bull,

The horrid'st you can find ; and I will say,

In death, that you are merciful.

Diode. Despair not;
In this thou shalt prevail. Go fetch them hither :

[Exit some of' the Guard.
Death shall put on a thousand shapes at once,
And so appear before thee; racks, and whips I — —
Thy flesh, with burning pincers torn, shall feed
The fire that heats them ; and what's wanting to
The torture of thy body, I'll supply
In punishing thy mind. Fetch all the Christians
That are in hold ; and here, before his face,
Cut them in pieces.

Theoph. Tis not in thy power :
It was the first good deed I ever did.
They .are removed out of thy reach ; howe'er,
I was determined for my sins to die,
I first took order for their liberty ;
And still I dare thy worst.

Re-enter Guard with racks and other instruments

of torture.

Diode. Bind him, I say ;
Make every artery and sinew crack :
The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek,*
Shall have ten thousand drachmas : wretch ! I'll

force thee
To curse the Power thou worship'st.

.- 4 The 9[2iSQ that makts him give the loudest shrUk^} 'So read
all thie editions before theiast ; when Mr. M. Mason, to soit the
line to his own ideas of harmony, discarded The sUgoe iot He!

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 117

Theoph. Never, never:
No breath of mine shall e'er be spent on Him,

\They torment him.
But what shall speak His majesty or mercy.
Fm honoured in my sufferings. Weak tormentors,
More tortures, more : — alas ! you are unskilful —
For heaven's sake more ; my breast is yet untorn :
Here purchase the reward that was propounded.
The irons cool, — here are arms yet, and thighs;
Spare no part of me.

Max. He endures beyond
The sufferance of a man.

Sap. No sigh nor groan.
To witness he hath feeling.

Diock. Harder, villains \

Enter Harp ax.

Harp. Unless that he blaspheme, he's lost for
ever.
If torments ever could bring forth despair,
Let these compel him to it : — Oh me 1
My ancient enemies again ! [Falls down.

Enter Dorothea in a white robe^ a crown upof^
her heady led in by Angelo ; Antoninds^
Calista, and Christ kt a following, all in white,
but less glorious ; Angelo holds out a crown to
Theophilus. »

Theoph. Most glorious vision f —
Did e*er so hard a bed yiold man a dream
So heavenly as this ? I am confirmed.
Confirmed, yoii blessed spirits, and make haste
To take that crown of immortality
You offer to me. Death! till this blest minute^
I never thought thee slow-paced ; nor would I

118 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

Hasten thee now, for any pain I suffer,
But that thou keep'st me from a glorious wreath,
Which through this stormy way I would creep to,
And, humbly kneeling, with humility wear it.
Oh ! now I feel thee : — blessed spirits ! I come;
And, witness for me all these wounds and scars,
I die a soldier in the Christian wars. [^Dies.

Sap. I have seen thousands tortured, but ne'er
yet
A constancy like this.

Harp. I am twice damn'd.
Ang. Haste to thy place appointed, cursed
fiend !

l^Harpax sinks with thunder and lightning.
In spite of hell, this soldier's not thy prey ;
Tis I have won, thou that hast lost the day.

{^Exit with Dor. Sgc.
Diode. I think the centre of the earth be
crack'd —
Yet I stand still unmoved, and will go on :
The persecution that is here begun,
Through all the world with violence shall run.

[Flourish. Exeunt.*

^ Mr. M. Mason capriciously deranged the order in. whicli
Coxeter printed these Plays, and began vith the Picture^ a piece
which bears the strongest internal marks of being a late pro-^
duction. With rtspect to the Virgin-Martyr ^ he considerably
under-rates it, and indeed displays no portion of judgment in
appreciating either its beauties or defects. He adopts Goxeter's
idea that it was indebted for its success to the abominable
scenes between HirciHS and Spungins ; pronounces the subject
of the tragedy to be unpleasant, the incidents unnaturaty and
the supernatural agents empl^ed to bring them about, destitute
of the singularity and wildness which distinguish the fictitious
beings of Shakspeare. With respect to the subject^ it is un^
doubtedly ill chosen. Scourging, racking, and beheaiding, are
circumstances of no very agreeable kind ; and with the poor
aids of which the stage was then possessed, must hate been
somewhat worse than ridiculous. Allowing} howeyer^ for tho

V.

<,

THE VIRGIN MARTYR. 119

Agency of flupemataral beings, I scarcely see how the incldeDts
which they produce can, as Mr. M. Mason represents them, be
unnatural. The comparison drawn between them and the ficti-
tious beings of Shakspeare is incorrect. Shakspeare has nO
angels nor devils ; his wonderful judgment, perhaps, instructed
him to avoid such untractable machinery. With fairies f^nd
spirits he might wapton in the regions of fancy, but the cha-
racter of a heavenly messenger was of too sacred a nature for
wildness and singularity j and that of a fiend too horrible for the
•portiveness of imagination. It appears to me, that Massinger
and his associate had conceived the idea of combining the pro-
minent parts of the old Mystery, with the Morality, which
-was not yet obliterated from the niemoriesi nor perhaps from
'the affections, of many of the spectators: to this, I am willing
to hope, and not to the ribaldry, which Mr. M. Mason so pro-
perly reprobates, the great success of this singular medley
might be in some measure owing. I have taken notice of many
beautiful passages ; but it would be unjust to the authors to con-
clude, without again remarking on the good sense and dexterity
with which they have avoided the untimely concurrence of the
good and evil spirit ; an error into which Tasso, and others of
greater name than Massinger, have inadvertently fallen.

With a neglect of precision which pervades all the arguments
of Mr. M. Mason, he declares it to be easy to distinguish the
hand of Decker from that of Massinger ; yet finds a difficulty in
appropriating their most characteristic language! If I have
spoken with more confidence, it is not done lightly ; but from
a long and careful study of Massinger's manner, and from that
species of internal evidence which, though it might not perhaps
sufficiently strike the common reader, is with me decisive.
With respect to the scenes between the Uyo buffoons, it would
be an injury to the name of Massinger to waste a single argu-
ment in proving them not to be his. In saying this, I am ac-
tuated by no hostility to Decker, who in this Play has many
passages which evince that he wanted not talents to rival^ if ht
had pleased; his friend and associate. Editor.

Notwithstanding the blemishes which have been justly ob-
jected to this Play, it possesses beauties of no ordinary kind,
— ^Indeed, nothing more biise and filthy can be conceived than
~ the dialogues between Hircius and Spungius ; but the genuine
and dignified piety of Dorothea, her unsullied innocence,
her unshaken constancy, the lofty pity which she expresses for
her persecuf ors, her calm contempt of tortures, and her heroic
death^ exalt the^ mind iji no common degree, and miake the

J

*"

M<

120 THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

reader almost insensible of the sarroatiding tmpuritjr, throngli
. the bo)y contempt of it which they inspire.

How sentiments and images thns opposite should be contained
in the same piece, it is soinewhat difficult to conceive. If
Decker had furnished none but the comic parts, the doubt
would be soon at an end. But there is good reason to suppose
that he wrote the whole of the second act: and the very first
scene of it has the same mixture of loathsome beastliness and
angelic purity, which are observed in those passages that are
more distant from each otfler. — It is the strange and forced con.
junction of Mezentius:

Morfua • • jungebat corpora vivUy
Tormenti genus ; — —

The subject in general is certainly extravagant; and the intro«
duction of a good and evil spirit, disguised in human shapes^
was not to be expected in what aspired to the credit of a regular
tragedy. Yet it should be remembered, that poetic license
' calls in '^ a thousand liveried ajagels" to ^* lackey saintly chas-
" tity ;" — that, whatever be their departure from propriety,
^such representations had a most solemn origin ; and that, with
this allowance, the business in which the spirits are engaged
has a substantial conformity with the opinions of the early
ages in which the plot is laid. The permitted but vain op-
position of the demons to the progress of the faith, and the
reasoning and raillery which Dorothea expresses, under the
influence of Angelo, against the pagan gods, are to be found in
Justin, Tatian, Arnobius, and others.— The separate agency of
the spirits, and the consequence of their personal encounter,
are also described in a characteristic manner.

Apart from Angelo, Harpax seems to advance in his malig-
nant work. When the daughters of Theophilus express their
zeal for paganism, he '' grows fat to see his labours prosper."
Yet he cannot look forward to the defeat of those labours in
their approaching conversion, thougb on some occasions, we
find he could '^ see a thousand leagues" in his master's service.
Atid this agrees with the doctrine, that when some signal
triumph of the faith was at hand, the evil spirits were abridged
of their usual powers. Again^ when Harpax expects to meet
Angelo, he thus expresses the dread of his presenee, and the
effect which it afterwards produced on him :

« I do so hate his sight,

^^ That, should I look on him, I should sink down."

Act II. sc. 2.
And this, too, perfectly agrees with the power attributed to the
superior spirits of quelling the demons by those indications of

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR. 121

tbeir' quality wbich were not to be perceived by mortals : per
occultissima signa pratsentke^ qua angelicU sensibus etiam maUgno^
rum spiriiuum, potius quam infirmitati hominum^potsunt esse perspu
cua. Civ, Dei, lib. ix.

Tbe other parts of the Play do not require macb observation.
Indeed, the characters of Calista and Christeta are well sus-
tained. Hasty, self-confident, readily promising for their
steadiness, soon forgetting their resolutions, and equally secure
in every change of opinion, they are well contrasted with
Dorothea, whose fixed principles always guard her against rash-
ness, and therefore preserve her from, contradiction. As to
Dioclesian and his captive kings, they come in and go out with
little of our admiration, or our pity. Artemia's love for Anto-
ninus would be wholly without interest, if we were not moved
for a moment by her indignation at the rejection of her offer ;
and we see her at length consigned to Maximinus with as little
emotion as is shewn by themselves. This, however, is somewhat
relieved by Antoninus's passion, a genuine one, for Dorothea.

Certainly there is too much horror in this tragedy. The
daughters of Theophilus are killed on the stage. Theophilus
himself is racked, and Dorothea is dragged by the hair, kicked,
tortured, and beheaded. Its popularity must therefore in a con-
siderable degree be attributed to the interest occasioned by the
contrary agencies of the two spirits, to the ^^ glorious vision" of
the beatified Dorothea at the conclusion of the piece, and the re-
appearance of Angelo, in his proper character, with the sacred
fruit and flowers, from the ^^ heavenly garden," and the ^^ crown
of immortality," for Theophilus.

THE

UNNATURAL COMBAT.

The Unnatural Combat.] Of this Tragedy there is bat one
edition, which was printed for John Waterson, in 1639. It does
not occur in sir Henry Herbert's Office^book ; so that it is pro.
bably of a yery early date : and indeed M assinger himself calls
it ^^ an old tragedy." Like the Virgin-Jdartyr^ it has neither
Prologue nor Epilogue, for which the author accounts in. his
Dedication, by obser?ing that the play was composed at a time
^^ when such by-ornaments were not advanced abore the fabric
of the whole work."

The Editors of the Biographia Dramatica speak in rapturous
terms of the various excellencies of this piece, and think, ^^ that
with very little' alteration, it might be rendered a valuable ac.
quisition to the present stage." This I doubt : it is indeed a
noble performante; grand in conception, and powerful in
execution ; but the passion on which the main part of the story
hingesy is of too revoltihg a nature for public representation :
we may admire in the closet what we should turn from on fiie
stage.

It is said, in the title-page, to have been ^^ presented by the
King's Majesty's Servants, at the Globe."

TO

I

MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,

ANTHONY SENTLEGER,

OF OAKHAM IN KENT, ESQ.

SIR,

I HAT the patronage of trifies, in this kind, hath long
since rendered dedications, and inscriptions obsolete^ and out
of fashion, I perfectly understand, and cannot but ingenu"
ously confess, that I walking in the same path, may be truly
argued by you of weakness, or wilful error: but the reasons
and defences, for the tender of my service this way to you,
are so just, that J cannot (in my thankfulness for so many
favours received) but be ambitious to publish them. Tour
noble father, Sir Warham Sentleger (whose remarkable
virtues must be ever remembered) being, while he lived, a
master, for his pleasure, in poetry, feared not to hold con-
verse with divers, whose necessitous fortunes made it their pro^
fession, among which, by the clemency of his judgment, I was
not in the last place admitted. You (the heir, of his honour
and estate) inherited his good inclinations to men of my poor
quality, of which I cannot give any ampler testimony, than
Ay ^y fi^^ ^^^ S^^^ profession of it to the world. Besides
(and tt was not the least encouragement to me) many of
eminence, and the best of such, who disdained not to take
notice of me, have not thought themselves disparaged, I dare
not say honoured, to be celebrated the patrons of my humble
studies. In the first file of which, I am confident, you shall
have no cause to blush, to find your name written. I present
you with this old tragedy, without prologue or epilogue, it
being composed in a time (and that too, peradventure, as
knowing as this) when such by-ornaments were not advanced
above the fabric of the whole work. Accept it, I beseech
you, as it is, and continue your favour to the author,

'^vi Your Servant,

PHILIP MASSINGER.

DRAMATIS PERSONiE.

Beaufort senior y governor of Marseilles.

Beaufort jwwior, his son.

Malcfort senior j admiral o/* Marseilles.

Malefort /wwior, his son.

Chamont, ^

Montaigne, ^assistants to the governor.

Lanour, 3

Montv^vxWe^ a pretended friend to Malefort senior.

Belgarde, a poor captain^

Three Sea Captains^ of the navy o/* Malefort j'wmor

A Steward.

An Usher.

A Page.

Theocrine, daughter to Malefort senior.
Two Waiting-women.
Two Courtezans*
A Bawd*

Servients and Soldiers.

SCENE, Marseilles.

THE

UNNATURAL COMBAT.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Hall in the Court of Justice.

jE;i/tfr MoNTREviLLE, Theocrinb, Usher^ Page,

and Waiting-women,

Montr. Now tobe modest, madam, when youare
A suitor for your father, would appear
Coarser than boldness; you awhile must pari with
Soft silence, and the blushings of a virgin :
Though I must grant, did not this cause com-
mand it, >
They arc rich jewels you have ever worn
To all men's admiration. In this age.
If, by our own forced importunity.
Or others purchased intercession, or
Corrupting bribes, we can make our approaches
To justice, guarded from us by stem power,
We bless the means and industry.

Ush, Here's music
In this bag shall wake her, though she had drunk

opium.
Or eaten mandrakes.* Let commanders talk
Of cannons to make breaches, give but fire

' Or eaten nandrakes.] Dr.'Hill obserres, that '' the mandrake
has a soporific quality, and that it was used by the ancients
"when they wanted a narcotic of a most powerful kind.'^ To
this there are perpetual allusions in our old writers.

128

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT,

To this petard, it shall blow open, madam.
The iron doors of a judge, and make you entrance ;
When they (let them do what they can) with all
Their mines, their culvcrins, and basiliscos.
Shall cool their feet without; this being the

picklock
That never fails.

Montr. 'Tis true, gold can do much,
But beauty more. Were I the governor,
Though the admiral, your father, stood convicted
Of what he's only doubted, half a dozen
Of sweet close kisses from these cherry lips,
With some short active conference in private,
Should sign his general pardon.

Theoc. These light words, sir,
Do ill become the weight of my sad fortune ;
And I much wonder, .you, that do profess
Yourself to be my father's bosom friend,
Can raise mirth from* his misery.

Montr. You mistake me ;
I share in his calamity, and only
Deliver my thoughts freely, what I should do
For such a rare petitioner : and if
You'll follow the directions I prescribe.
With my best judgment I'll mark out the way
For his' enlargement.

Theoc. With all real joy
I shall put what you counsel into act,
Provided it be honest.

Montr. Honesty
In a fair she client (trust to my experience)
Seldom or never prospers; the world's wicked.
We are men, not saints, sweet lady ; you must

practise
The manners of the time, if you intend
To have favour from it : do not deceive yourself.
By building too much on the false foundations.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 129

Of chastity and virtue. Bid your waiters
Stand further off, and Til come nearer to you.

1. Worn. Some wicked counsel, on my life.

2. Worn. Ne'er doubt it/
If it proceed from him.

Page. I wonder that
My lord so much affects him,

Ush. Thou'rt a child,*
And dost not understand on what strong basis
This friendship's raised between this Montreville
And our lord, monsieur Malefort; but I'll teach thee:
From thy years they have been joint purchasers
In fire and water works, and truck'd together.

Page. In fire and water works !

Ush. Commodities, boy.
Which you may know hereafter.

Page. And deal in them,
When the trade has given you over, as appears by
The increase of your high forehead/

Ush. Here's a crack ! *
I think they suck this knowledge in their milk.

Page. I had an ignorant nurse else. I have
tied, sir.
My lady's garter, and can guess —

Ush, Peace, infant ; , •

* 2 Worn. Ne'er doubt itj

If it proceed from him.'] The character of Montreyille is opened
with great beauty and propriety. The freedom of his language^
and the advice he gtres Theocrine, fally prepare us for any act
of treachery or cruelty he may hereafter perpetrate.

♦ CL8 appears by

The increase of your high forehead.] Alluding, perhaps, to the
jpreraature baldness occasioned by dealing in the commodities
just mentioned j or, it may be, to the falling oif of his hair from
age : so the women to Anacreon, YiAoy h aw fMrungnu

5 Ush. Here's a crack ! J A crack is an arch, sprightly boy.
Thus, in the Devil's an Ass :

^' If we could get a witty boy, now,- Engine,
^' That were an excellent cracky I could instruct him
" To the true height"
The word occurs again in the Bashful Lffoer^ and^ indeed, in
most of our old plays.

K*

130 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT^ '

Tales out of school! take heed^ you will be,
breech'd else.

1 fVhm. My Udy*s colour changes.

2 IVom. She falls off too,

Theoc. You are a naughty man, indeed you are j
And I will sooner perish with my father,
Than at this price redeem him*

Montr. Take your own way.
Your modest, legal way : 'tis not your veil,
Nor mourning habit, nor these creatures taught
To howl, and cry, when you begin to whimper ;
Nor following my lord's coach in the dirt.
Nor that which you rely upon, a bribe,
Will do it, when there's somethinghe likes better.
These courses in an old crone or threescore,*
That had seven years together tired the court
With tedious petitions, and clamours.
For the recovery of a straggling' husband.
To pay, forsooth, the duties of one to her ;—
But for a lady of your tempting beauties, -
Your youth, and ravishing features, to hope only
In such a suit as this is, to gain favour.
Without exchange of courtesy,-you conceive me-

* These courses in an old crone of threescore^"] This egEpressioD,
which, as Johnsoa says, means on old toothless ewe, is con-
temptuously used for an old woman, hj ftll the writers of
Massi«ger'4 tine. Thus Shakspeftre :

" .■■ -' ' ■ taJte up the bastard;

^^ Takel up, I say ; gire't 49 thy crone,'* WhutirU T&k,
And Jonson translates,

Sed mala toilet unum vitiato meUe cicuta,

^^ '— let him alone

^^ With temper'^ poison to rtmawe the crone.'' FoeUister,

^ Fw thef\ecfyceiry of a straf^gling husband^'] The old copy readv
strangling. This evident mispriflt is qnoteid by Steeveiis, as an
instotice oftiie irregular use ol'the active participle : strangling
— he says, — -i. e. one that was to be strangled I And so languagO
is confounded. Can any thing be plainer, from the context, than
that Montrerille means a husband who' had abandoned his wife,
and was to be brought back to her? — ButSteevens never read
the pAMUiige, aiwd, probably, picked up the line^ as in a hundred
other instances^ from a chance quotation.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 131

Enter Beaufort Jwwfor, and Belgarde.

Were madness at the height/ Here's brave young

Beaufort,
The meteor of Marseilles,' one that holds
The governor his father's will and power
In more awe than his own! Come, come, ad-
vance,
Present your bag, cramm'd with crowns of the

sun ;•
Do you think he cares for money ? he loves plea-
sure.
Burn your petition, burn it ; he doats on you,
Upon my knowledge : to his cabinet, do.
And he will point you out a certain course,
Be the cause right or wrong, to have your father
Released with much facility. [Exit.

Theoc. Do you hear ?
Take a pander with you.

Beauf.jun. I tell thee there is neither
Euiployment yet, nor money.

Belg. I have commanded,
And spent my own means in my country's service,
In hope to raise a fortune.

Beazif.jun. Many have hoped so ;
But hopes prove seldom certainties with soldiers.

Belg. If no preferment, let me but receive
My pay that is behind, to set mc up
A tavern, or a vaulting- house ; while men love

* The meteor o^ Marseilles,] It maf be proper to observe
Ihere, once for all, that Marseilles, or, as Massinger spells it,
Marsellis, is commonly ased by him as a trisyllable, which, in
fact, it is.

9 ■ crowns of the sun ;] Escus de soleil^ the best kind

of crowns, says Cotgrave, that are now made ; they have a kind
of little star (sun) on one side. This coin is f frequently men*
tioned by our old writers.

K2»

138 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Or drunkenness, or lechery, they'll ne'er fail me :
Shall I have that?

Beaiifjun. As our prizes are brought in;
Till then you must be patient.

Belg. In the mean time,
How shall I do for clothes ?

Beauf.jun. As most captains do:
Philosopher-like, carry all you have about you.*

Belg. But how shall I do, to satisfy colon/
monsieur?
There lies the doubt.

Beatif jun. That's easily decided ;
My father's table's free for any man
That hath born arms.

Belg. And there's good store of meat?

Beauf.jun. Never fear that.

Belg. I'll seek no other ordinary then,
But be his daily guest without invitement;
And if my stomach hold, I'll feed so heartily,
As he shall pay me suddenly, to be quit of me.

Beauf.jun. 'Tis she.

Belg. And further ■ *

Beauf.jun. Away, you are troublesome;
Designs of more weight

Belg, Ha ! fair Theocrine.
Nay, if a velvet petticoat move in the front.
Buff jerkins must to the rear; I know my

manners:
This is, indeed, great business, mine a gewgaw.

' Philosophermlikef capry all you have about youJ] Alluding to
the well-known sajing of Simonides. Omnia mea mecum porto.
* ■ to Matufy colon, monsieur f'\ i. e. the crayings of

hunger : the colon is the largest of the human intestines : it fre-
quently occurs in the same sense as here, in our old poets. So
in the Wits :

^^ Abstain from flesh— whilst colon keeps more noise
** Than mariners at plays, or apple*wiTes,
V That wrangle for a sieve/'

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 133

I may dance attendance, this must be dispatch 'd,
And suddenly, or all will go to wreck;
Charge her home in the flank, my lord : nay, I
am gone, sir, [Ea^it.

Beauf.jun. [raising Theoc.from her knees.'] Nay,
pray you, madam, rise, or I'll kneel with you.

Page. I would bring you on your knees, were
I a woman.

Beatif. jun. What is it can deserve so poor a
name.
As a suit to me ? This more than mortal form
Was fashion'd to command^ and not entreat :
Your will but known is served.

Theoc. Great sir, my father,
My brave, deserving father; — but that sorrow
Forbids the use of speech

Beauf.jun. I understand you,
Without the aids of those interpreters
That fall from your fair eyes : I know you labour
The liberty of your father ; at the least,
An equal' hearing to acquit himself:
And, 'tis not to endear my service to you,
Though I must add, and pray you with patience

hear it,
*Tis hard to be effected, in respect
The state's incensed against him: all presuming^
The world of outrages his impious son,
Turn'd worse than pirate in his cruelties,
Express'd to this poor country, could not be
With such ease put in execution, if
Your father, of late our great admiral,
Held not or correspondence, or connived
At his proceedings.

' An equal hearing] A just, impartial hearing ; so equal is
constantly used by Massingcr and his contemporaries: thus
Fletcher:

^^ What could this thief haye done, had his cause been equal/
^^ He made my heartstrings tremble." Knight qf Malta.

134 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Theoc. And must he then suffer,
His cause unheard ?

Beauf.jun. As yet it is resolved so.
In their determination. But suppose
(For I would nourish hope, not kill it, in you)
I should divert the torrent of their purpose,
And render them, that are implacable.
Impartial judges, and not sway'd with spleen ;
Will you, I dare not say in recompense.
For that includes a debt you cannot owe me,
But in your liberal bounty, in my suit
To you, be gracious ?

Theoc. You entreat of me, sir, .
What I should offer to you, with confession
That you much undervalue your own worth.
Should you receive me, since there come with you
Not lustful fires, but fair and lawful flames*
But I\ must be excused, 'tis now no time
For me to think of Hymeneal joys.
Can he (and pray you, sir, consider it)
That gave me life, and faculties to love,
Be, as he's now, ready to be devour'd
By ravenous wolves, and at that instant, I
But entertain a thought of those delights.
In which, perhaps, my ardour meets with yours!
Duty arid piety forbid it, sir.

Beauf.jun. But this efFected,andyour fatherfrcc,
What is your answer ?

Theoc. Every minute to me
Will be a tedious age, till our embraces
Are warrantable to the world.

Beauf.jun. I urge no more ;
Confirm it with a kiss.

Theoc. [Kissing him.'] I doubly seal it.

Ush. This would do better abed, the business
ended : —
They are the loving'st couple !

THE UNNATORAL COMBAT. 155

Ent£r BzAV¥o fLT'senior, Montaigne, Chamont,

Beauf.jun. Here comes my father,
With the Council of War: deliver your peti-
tion,
And leave the rest to me. [Theoc. offers a paper.

Beauf. sen. I am sorry, lady.
Your father's guilt compels your innocence
To ask what I in justice must deny.

Beaiif.jun. For my sake, sir, pray you receive

and read it.
Beauf'. sen. Thou foolish boy ! I can deny thee
nothing. [Takes the paper from Theoc.

Beauf.jun. Thus far we are happy, madam :
quit the place ;
You shall hear how we succeed.
Thejoc. Goodness reward you !

\JEiXeunt Theocrine^ Usher ^ P(^gCy and Women.
Mont. It is apparent ; and we stay too long
To censure Malefort* as he deserves.

[Tkey take their seats.
Cham. There is no colour of reason that make9
for him:
Had he discharged the trust committed to him,
With that experience and fidelity
He practised heretofore, it could not be
Our navy should be block'd up, and, in our

sight, .

Our goods made prize, our sailors sold for

slaves.
By his prodigious issue.*

^ To censure Malefort &o.] Malefwt vk b^re, 9^d gcd^^rsllj
throughout the play, pruperly o^ed aa a trisjUaUa.

^ By his prad^ioil# ffMM*] }• ^n miiuUjiral, hofril^ie, portsaist

1S6 THE lETNNATURAL COMBAT.

Lan. I much grieve,
After so many brave and high achievements,
He should in one ill forfeit all the good
He ever did his country.

Beauf. sen. Well, 'tis granted.*

Beauf.jun. I humbly thank you, sir.

Beauf. sen. He shall have hearing,
His irons too struck off; bring him before us,
But seek no further favour.

Beauf. jun. Sir, I dare not. [Exit.

Beauf. sen. Monsieur Cham on t, Montaigne,
Lanour, assistants,
By a commission from the most Christian king,
In punishing or freeing Malefort,
Our late great admiral : though I know you need

not
Instructions from me, how to dispose of
Yourselves in this man's trial, that exacts
Your clearest judgments, give me leave, with

favour.
To offer my opinion, "^e arc to hear him,
A little looking back on his fair actions,
Loyal, and true demeanour; not as now
By the general voice already he's condemned.
But if we find, as most believe, he hath held
Intelligence with his accursed son,

of eWl : in ibis sense it is often applied to comets, and other
extraiordinary appearances in the sky :

^' Behold yon comet shews his head again !

*' Twice hath he thus at cross turns thrown on us

*^ Prodigious looks." The Honest Whore.

Again :

'' This woman's threats, her eyes e'en red with fury,

$^ Which, like prodigious meteors, foretold

*^ Assured destruction, are still before me.'* The Captain.

* Beauf. sen. Well^ ^tis granted.] It appears, from the subse-
quent speeches, that young Beaufort had been soliciting his
father to allow Malefort to plead without his chains.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 137

Fallen off from all allegiance, and turned

(But for what cause wc know not) the most

bloody
And fatal enemy this country ever

Repented to have brought forth ; all compassion'

« # * « # « **#

Of what he was, or may be, if now pardon'd ;
We sit engasred to censure him with all
Extremity and rigour.

Cham. Your lordship shews us
A path which we will tread in.

Lan. He that leaves
To follow, as you lead, will lose himself.

Mont. I'll not be singular.

Re-enter Beav tort junior, with Montreville,
Malefort senior^ Beloarde, and Officers.

Beauf. sen. He comes, but with
A strange distracted look.

7 * all compassion ^

Of what Sicc'l The quarto reads,

all compassion

Of what he was^ or may be^ if now pardon d ;
Upon which Mr. M. Mason observes, ^^ This sentence as it
stands is not sense ; if the words cdl compassion are right, we
must necessarily suppose that bexng laid aside^ or words of a
similar import, have been omitted in the printing : but the most
natural manner of amending the passage, is bj reading no conu
passion^ the word having being understood."

I can neither recoucilemy self to no compassion qfwhafhf; maybcy
nor to all. He might, if acquitted, be af successful commander,
as before, and to such a circumstance Beaufort evidently alludes.
I believe that a line is lost, and with due hesitation would
propose to supply the chasm somewhat in this way:

■ all compassion

Of his years pass'd over, all consideration
Of what he was f or may be^ if now pardon d ;
We sity &c.

138 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT;

Malef. sen. Live I once more'
To see these hands and arms free ! tl^se, that

often,
In the most dreadful horror of a fight,
Have been as seamarks to teach such as were
Seconds in my attempts, to steer between
The rocks of too much daring, and pale fear,
To reach the port of victory ! when my sword,
Advanced thus, to my enemies appear'd
A hairy comet, threatening death and ruin*
To such as durst behold it ! These the legs,
That, when our ships were grappled, carried

me
With such swift motion from deck to decki
As they that saw it, with amazement cried.
He dDes not run, but flies J

Mont. He still retains
The greatness of his spirit

Malef. sen. Now crampt with irons,
Hunger, and cold, they hardly do support me— *•
But I forget myself. O, my good lords,

' Malf. sen. Livt I.ence more^ &e.] Tkewe is lomeihlng very
striking in the indignant burst of savage ostentation with which
this old warrior introduces himself on the seene«

» A hairy comet ^ &c.] So in Fuimus Troes:

« comets shook their Jlaming hair :

'^ Thus ail our wars were acted first on high,
^^ And we iaught what to look for.''

From this, and the passage in the iext^ Milton, who appears, by
various marks of imitation, to have been a careful reader of
Massinger, probably formed the magnificent and awful picture
which follows :

** ' On the other side,

^^ Incensed with indignation, Satan stood
^* Unterrified, and like a comet burn'df
** That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge
*^ In the arctic sky, and from his horrid AaiV
" Shakes pestilence and war."—

V-

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 1S9

That sit there as my judges, to determine*
The life, and death of Malefort, where are now
Those shouts, those cheerful looks, those loud

applauses,
With which, when I return'd loaden with spoil,
You entertain'd your admiral ? all's forgotten :
And I stand here to gire account of that
Of which I am as free and innocent
As he that never saw the eyes of him/
For whom I stand suspected.

Beauf. sen. Monsieur Malefort,
Let not your passion so far transport you,
As to believe from any private malice,
Or envy to your person, you are question'd :
Nor do the suppositions want weight,
That do invite us to a strong assurance,
Your son

Malef. sen. My shame !

Beauf. sen. Pray you, hear with patience,—
never
Without assistance or sure aids from you,
Could, with the pirates of Argiers' and Tunis,
Even those that you had almost twice defeated.
Acquire such credit, as with them to be
Made absolute commander ; (pray you observe

me;)
If there had not some contractpass'd between you.
That, when occasion serv'd, you would join with

them,
To the ruin of Marseilles ?

■^ That sit there as mjjudgesy to determine^'] My^ which com»
pletes the metre, is now first inserted from the old copj,

* The eyes of him^ So the old copy : .the modern editors
read eye*

^ Could with the pirates of Argiers] Argiers is the old read*
ing, and is that of erery author of Massinger's time. The
editon iarariably modernise it into AlgUrt.

140 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Mont: More, what urged
Your son to turn apostata?*

Cham. Had he from
The state, or governor, the least neglect,
Which envy could interpret for a wrong ?

Lan. Or, if you slept not in your charge, hovir
could
So many ships as do infest our coast.
And have in our own harbour shut our navy.
Come In unfought with?

Beauf.jun. They put him hardly to it.

Malef. sen. My lords, with as much brevity as

I can,
I'll answer each particular objection
With which you charge me. The main ground,

on which
You raise the building of your accusation,
Hath reference to my son: should I now curse him,
Or wish, in the agony of my troubled soul.
Lightning had found him in his mother's womb.
You'll say 'tis from the purpose ; and I, therefore,*
Betake him to the devil, and so leave him !
Did never loyal father but myself
Beget a treacherous issue ? was't in me,
With as much ease to fashion up his mind>
As, in his generation, to form
The organs to his body? Must it follow,

Because that he is impious, I am false ?

I would not boast my actions, yet 'tis lawful
To upbraid my benefits to unthankful men.
Who sunk the Turkish gallies in the streights.
But Malefort? Who rescued the French mer-
chants,

4 Your son to turn apostata?] The modern editors, as before,
Yead apostate !

5 I afid I therefore

Betake him to the devil &c.] i. e. consign, make him t>Te»»
See the City Madam,

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 14l

When they were boarded, and stow'fl under

hatches
By the pirates of Argiers, when every minute
They did expect to be chained to the oar,
But your now doubted admiral ? then you filled
The air with shouts of joy, and did proclaim,
When hope had left them, and grim-look'd

despair
Hover'd with sail-stretch'd wings over their

heads, *
To me, as to the Neptune of the sea,
They owed the restitution of their goods,
Their lives, their liberties. O, can it then
Be probable, my lords, that he that never
Became the master of a pirate's ship,
But at the mainyard hung the captain up,
And caused the rest to be thrown over-board;
Should, after all these proofs of deadly hate.
So oft expressed against them, entertain
A thought of quarter with them; but much less
(To the perpetual ruin of my glories)
To join with them to lift a wicked arm
Against my mother-country, this Marseilles,
Which, with my prodigal expense of blood,
I have so oft protected !

Bcauf. sen. What you have done
Is granted^ and applauded ; but yet know

* Hovered with sail-stretch'd wings over their headsy] So
Jonson :

« " o'er our heads

^' Black ravenous ruin, with her saihstretch^d wmgs^

*^ Readj to sink us down, and cover us.''

Everi/ Man out of his Humour ^
And Fletcher :

^^ Fix here and rest awhile your sailmStretch^d wings^

*' That hare outstript the winds." The Prophetess.

Milton, too, has the same bold expression : the original to which
they are all indebted, is, perhaps^ a Sttblime passage in the Fairjf
Queefiy B. I. c. xi. st. 10.

14« THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

This glorious relation' of your actions
Must not 80 blind our judgments, as to suffer
This most unnatural crime you stand accused of,
Tp pass unquestioned.

Cham* No; you must produce
Reasons of more validity and weight.
To plead in your defence, or we shall hardly
Conclude you innocent.

Mont. The large volume of
Your former worthy deeds, with your experience.
Both what and when to do, but makes against you.

Lan. For had your care and courage been the
same
As heretofore, the dangers we are plunged in
Had been with ease prevented.

Maltf. sen. What have I
Omitted, in the power of flesh and blood,
Even in the birth to strangle the designs of
This hell-bred wolf, my son ? alas ! my lords,
I am no god, nor like him could foresee
His cruel thoughts, and cursed purposes ;
Nor would the sun at my command forbear
To make his progress to the other world,
Affording to us one continued light.
Nor could my breath disperse those foggy mists,
Cover'd with which, and darkness of the night,
Their navy undiscern'd, without resistance.
Beset our harbour : make not that my fault,
Which you in justice must ascribe to fortune. —
But if that nor my former acts, nor what
I have deli ver'd, can prevail with you,
To make good my integrity and truth ;
Rip up this bosom, and pluck out the heart
That hath been ever loyal. [A trumpet within.

T Tkis glorious relationl Our old writers frequently use thi»
:irord in the sense of gloriosusy vain^ boastful^ pstentatiotts.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. US

Beauf. sen. How ! a trumpet ?
Enquire the cause. [Eant Montreville.

Malef. sen. Thou searcher of men's hearts^
And sure defender of the innocent,
(My other crying sins — awhile not looked on) .
If I in this am guilty, strike me dead,
Or by some unexpected means confirm,
I am accused unjustly \ {Aside.

Re-enter Montreville mth a Sea Captain*

Beauf. sen. Speak, the motives
That bring thee hither ?

Ctrpt. From our admiral thus :
He does salute you fairly, and desires
It may be understood no public hate
Hath brought him to Marseilles; nor seeks be
The ruin of his country, but aims only
To wreak a private wrong : and if from you
He may have leave* ah<l liberty to decide it
In single combat, he'll give tip good pledges,
If he fall in the trial of his right,
We shall weigh anchor, and no more molest
This town with hostile arms.

Beauf. sen. Speak to the man,
If in this presence he appear to you,
To whom you bring this challenge.

Capu Tis to you*

Beauf. sen. His father I

Montr. Can it be?

Beaif. jun. Sirange and prodigious \ '

Malef. sen. Thou seest I stand unmoved : were
thy voice thunder,
Itshould not shake me; say, what would the viper ?

and, if from you,

fie may have leave &c.] This passage is rery incorrectly
pointed in the former editions.

144 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Capt. The reverence a father's name inay
challenge,
And duty of a son no more remember'd,
He does defy thee to the death.

Makf. sen. Go on.

Capt. And with bis sword will prove it on thy
head,
Thou art a murderer, an atheist ;
And that all attributes of men turn'd furies,
Cannot express, thee : this he will make good,
If thou dar'st give him meeting.

Malef. sen. Dare I live !
Dare I^ when mountains of my sins o'erwhelm

me,
At, my last gasp ask for mercy ! How I bless
Thy coming, captain ; never man to me
Arrived so opportunely; and thy message,
However it may seem to threaten death,
Does yield to me a second life in curing
My wounded honour. Statid I yet suspected
As a confederate with this enemy.
Whom of all men, against all ties of nature,
He marks out for destruction ! you are just.
Immortal Powers, and in this merciful ;
And it takes from my sorrow, and my shame
For being the father to so bad a son,
In that you are pleased to offer up the monster
To my correction. Blush and repent.
As you are bound, my honourable lords,
Your ill opinions of me. Not great Brutus,
The father of the Roman liberty,*
With more assured constancy beheld
His traitor spns, for labouring to calf home
The banish'd Tarquins, scourged with rods to

death.
Than I will shew, when I take back the life
This prodigy of mankind received from me.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 145

Beauf. sen. We are sorry, monsieur Malefort,

for our error,
And are much taken with your resolution ;
But the disparity of years and strength,
Between you and your son, duly considerM,
We would not so expose you.

Malef. sen. Then you kill me,
Under pretence to save me. O my lords,
As you love honour, and a wrong'd man's

fame,
Deny me not this fair and noble means
To make me right again to all the world.
Should any other but myself be chosen
To punish this apostata with death,*
You rob a wretched father of a justice
That to all after times will be recorded,
I wish his strength were centuple, his skill

equal
To my experience, that in his fall
He may not shame my victory I I feel
The powers and spirits^ of twenty strong men in

me.
Were he with wild fire circled, I undaunted
Would make way to him. — M you do affect,

sir,
My daughter Theocrine ;* as you are

*. Tojptim«A this apostata with death^l Both the editors read,
To punish this apostate son with death I Here is the mischief of
altering an author's language. When the metre does not suit our
'newfangled terms, we are obliged to insert words of our own,
to complete it. Apostata stood in the Terse very well; but
Coxeter and M. Mason having determined to write apostate^
found themselves compelled to tack son to it, and thus enfeebled
the original expression.

* My daughter Theocrine ;] Theocrine is used us a quadrisyl-
lable. It should be observed that as the story and the names
are French, Massinger adopts the French mode of enouncing
them. The reader must bear this in mind.
VOL. I. L •

146 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

•

. My true and ancient friend ; as thou art valiant;*
And as all love a soldier, second me

\They all sue to the governor.
In this my just petition. In your looks
I see a grant, my lord.

Beauf\ sen. You shall o'erbear me ;
And since you are so confident in your cause,
Prepare you for the combat.
Malef. sen. With more joy
Than yet I ever tasted : by the next sun^
The disobedient rebef shall hear from me,
And so return in safety. \To the Captain.'] My

good lords,
To all my service. — I will die, or purchase
Rest to Marseilles ; nor can I mak^ doubt,
But his impiety is a potent charm,
To edge my sword, and add strength to ray arm.

[Ejceunt.

ACT II. SCENE I.

An open Space without the City.

Enter three Sea Captains.

2. Capt. He did accept the challenge, then ?

1. Capt. Nay more,
Was overjoy'd in't ; and, ^s it had been
A fair invitement to a solemn feast.
And not a combat to conclude with death,
He cheerfully embraced it.

' as thou ^art valiant;} This is said to the captain

who brought the chaUenge : the other persons adjured are youog
Beaufort, and Montreville. It appears, from the pointing of the
former editions, that the passage was not understood.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 147

3. Capt. Are the articles
Sign'd to on* both parts?

1. Cap. At the father's suit,

With much unwillingness the governor
Consented to them.

2. Capt. You are inward with

Our admiral; could you yet never learn
What the nature of the quarrel is, that renders
The son more than incensed, implacable,
Against the father?

1. Capt. Never; yet I have,

As far as manners would give warrant to it.
With my best curiousncss of care observed him.
I have sat with him in his cabin a day together,*
Yet not a syllable exchanged between us.
Sigh he did often, as if inward grief
And melancholy at that instant would
Choke up his vital spirits, and now and then
A tear or two, as in derision of
The toughness of his rugged temper, would
Fall on his hollow cheeks, which but once felt,
A sudden flash of fury did dry up ;
And laying then his hand upon his sword.
He would murmur, but yet so as I oft heard him,
We shall meet, cruel father, yes, we shall ;
When I'll exact, for every womanish drop
Of sorrow from these eyes, a strict accompt
Of much more from thy heart.

2. Capt. 'Tis wondroys strange.

3. Capt. And past my apprehension.
1. Capt. Yet what makes

The miracle greater, when from the maintop
A sail's descried, all thoughts that do concern
Himself laid by, no lion, pinch 'd with hunger,

^ I have sat with him in his cabin &c.] This beautiful passage,
expressing concealed resentment, deserves to be remarked bj
every reader of taste and judgment. Coxeter.

•Ls

148 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Rouses himself more fiercely from his den,
Than he comes on the deck ; and there how wisely
He gives directions, and how stout he is
In his executions, we, to admiration,
Have been eyewitnesses : yet he never minds
The booty when 'tis made ours ; but as if
The danger, in the purchase of the prey,
Delighted him much more than th« reward,
His will made known, he does retire himself
To his private contemplation, no joy
Expressed by him for victory.

Enter Ma lefoet junior.

S. Capt. Here he comes.
But with more cheerful looks than ever yet
I saw him wean

Malef.jun. It was long since resolved on,
Nor must I stagger now [in't.*] May the cause,
That forces me to this unnatural act
Be buried in everlasting silence.
And I find rest in death, or my revenge !
To either I stand equal. Pray you, gentlemen,
Be charitable in your censures of me,
And do not entertain a false belief
That I am mad, for undertaking that
Which must be, when effected, still repented.
It adds to my calamity, that I have
Discourse^ and reason, aqd but too well know

0

3 Nor must I stagger now [in't].] In the old copy, a. syllable
has dropt out, which renders the line quite finmetricaL I hare
no great confidence in the genuineness of what is inserted be-
tween brackets : It is harmless, however, and senres, as Fal*
staff says, to fill a pit as well as a better.

^ It adds to my calamity^ that I have

IKscourse and reason^ It is Tery difficult to determine the
precise meaning which our ancestors gave to discourse ; or to

THE UNNATUBAL COMBAT. 149

I can nor live, nor end a wretched life.

But both ways I am impious. Do not, therefore,

Ascribe the perturbation of my soul

To a servile fear of death : I oft have viewed

All kinds of his inevitable darts.

Nor are they terrible. Were I condemned to leap

From the cloud-cover'd brows of a steep rock^

Into the deep; or, Curtius like, to fill up.

For my country's safety, and an after-name,

A bottomless abyss, or charge through fire.

It could not so much shake me, as th' encounter

Of this day's single enemy,

distifignish the line which separated it from reason. Perhaps, it
isdicaled a more rapid deduction •»£ consequences from premises,
than was supposed to be effected by reason : — but I speak witii
hesitation. The acate GlanriUe says* ^^ The act of the mind
which connects propositions, and deduceth conclusions from
them, the schools call dUcourscy and we shall not miscall it, if
we name it reason/^ Whateyer be the sense, it frequently ap-
pears in our old writers, by whom it is usually coupled with^
reason or judgment j which last should seem to be the more proper
word. Thus in the City Madam :

" ■ ** Such aff want

'< Discourse BJidJudgment^ and through weakness fidl^
^^ May merit mea's compassion/'
Again in the Coxcomb :

^' Why should a man that has discourse and reason^
'^ And knows how near he loses all in these things,
^^ Co? et to haye his wishes satisfied ?**
The reader remembers the exclamation of Hamlet,

^^ Oh heayen ! a beast that wants discourse of reason,'' &e«
" This," says Warburton, who contriyed to blunder with more
ingenuity than usually falls to the lot of a commentator, ^^ is
finely expressed, and with a philosophical exactness. Beasts
want not reason^'' (this is a new discoyery,) *^ but the discourse of
reason ; i. e. the regular inferring one thing from another by the
assistance of universals."' Discourse of reason is so poor and
perplexed a phrase, that, without regard for the '' philosophical
exactness" of Shakspeare, 1 should dismiss it at once, for what
I belieye to be his genuine language :

'^ 0 hearen ! a beast that wants discourse and reason," &c.

150 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

1. Capt. If you please, sir,
• You may shun it, or defer it

Malef.jun. Not for the world • .

Yet two things I entreat you ; the first is.
You'll not enquire the difference between
Myself and him, which as a father once
I honoured, now my deadliest enemy ;
The last is, if I fall, to bear my body
Far from this place, and where you please in-
ter it. —
I should say more, but by his sudden coming

I am cut off.

Enter BEAVfORT junior and Mo^t rev ille, lead-
ing in Malefort senior; Belg arve follawtngy
with others.

Beauf.jun, Let me, sir, have the honour
To be your second.

Montr. With your pardon, sir,
I must put in for that, since out tried friendship
Hath lasted from our infancy.

Belg. I have served
Under your command, and you have seen me

fight, ^5

And handsomely, though I say it ; and if now.
At this downright game, I may but hold your

cards,
I'll not pull down the side.

and if now f

At this downright game^ I may but hold your cards.
Til not pull down the side.] i. e. I'll not injure your cause ;
the same expression occurs in the Grand Duke of Florence:
^' Coz, Vt2Lj you pause a little.
" If I hold yoar cards, 1 shall j^W/ down the hide;
" I am not good atihe game."
The allusion is to a party at cards : to set up a side, was to become
partners in a game ; to pull or pluck down a side, (for both

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 151

Malef. sen. I rest much bound
To. your so noble offers, and I hope
Shall find your pardon, though I now refuse them;
For which I'll yield strong reasons, but as briefly
As the time will give me leave. For me to borrow
(That am supposed the weaker) any aid
From the assistance of my second's sword,
Might write me down in the black list of those
That have nor fire nor spirit of their own ;
But dare, and do, as they derive their courage
From his example, on whose help and valour
They wholly do depend. Let this suffice.
In my excuse, for that. Now, if you please.
On both parts, to retire to yonder mount.
Where you, as in a Roman theatre.
May see the bloody diflFerence determined,
Your favours meetmv wishes.

Malef. jun, 'Tis approved of
By me ; and I command you [To his Captains.^

lead the way.
And leave me to my fortune.

Beauf.jun. I would gladly
Be a spectator (since I am denied
To be an actor) of each blow and thrust,
And punctually observe them. c

Malef. jun. You shall have .
All you desire ; for in a word or two
I must make bold to entertain the time.
If he-give suffrage to it.

Malef. sen. Yes, I will ;
I'll hear thee, and. then kill thee : nay, farewell.

these terms are found in our old plays) was to occasion its loss
by ignorance or treachery. Thus, in the ParsorCs Wedding :

<^ Pkas, A trfiitor ! bind him, he has ptdPd down a side."
And in the Maid^s Tragedy :

^' Evad. Aspatia, take her part.
" Dela. T will refuse it,
^^ She wil] pluck down a side^ she does not use it.^'

152 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Malef.jun. Embrace with love on both sides,
and with us
Leave deadly hate and fury.

Male/, sen. From this place
You ne^er shall see both living.

Belg. What's past help, is
Beyond prevention.

[They embrace on both sides:, and take leave
severally of the father and son.

Malefi sen. Now we are alone, sir ;
And thou hast liberty to unload the burthen
Which thou groan'st under. Speak thy griefs.

Malefjun. I shall, sir;
But in a perplex'd form and method, which
You only can interpret : Would you had not
A guilty knowledge in your bosom, of
The language which you f<^ce me to deliver,
So I were nothing ! As you are my father,
I bend my knee, and, uncompell'd, profess
My lif?, and all that's mine, to be your gift ; '
-And that in a son's duty I stand bound
To lay this head beneath your feet,, and run
All desperate hazards for your ease and safety :
But this confest on my part, I rise up.
And not#s with a father, (all respect.
Love, fear, and reverence cast oflf,) but as
A wicked man, I thus expostulate with you.
Why have you done th^t which I dare not speak.
And in the action changed the humble shape
Of my obedience, to rebellious rage.
And insolent pride? and with shut eyes con-

strain'd me
To run my bark of honour on a shelf
I must not see, nor, if I saw it, shun it?
In my wrongs nature suffers, and looks backward,
And mankind trembles to see me pursue
What beasts would fly from. For when I advance

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 153

This sword, as I must do, against your head,
Piety will weep, and filial duty mourn.
To see their altars which you bailt qp in me.
In a moment razed and ruin'd. That you could
(From my grieved soul I wish it) but produce,
To quality, not excuse, your deed of horror,
One seeming reason, that I might fix here,
And move no further!

Malef. sen. Have I so far lost
A father's power, that I mu«t give account
Of my actions to my son ? or must I plead
As a fearful prisoner at the bar, while he
That owes his bein^ to me sits a judge
To censure that, wnicb only by myself
Ough;^ to be questioned? mountains sooner fall
Beneath their valleys, and the lofty pine
Pay homage to the bramble, or what else is
Preposterous in nature, ere my tongue
In one short syllable yield satisfaction
To any doubt of thine ; nay, though it were
A certainty disdainhtg argument I
Since, though my deeds wore hell's black livery,
To thee they should appear triumphal robes,
Set ofi^ with glorious honour, thou being bound
To see with my eyes, and to hold that reason.
That takes or birth or fashion from my will.

Midef. jun. This sword divides that slavish
knot.

Malef. sen. It cannot :
It cannot, wretch ; and if thou but remember
From whom thou hadst this spirit, thou dar'st not

hope it.
Who train'd thee "up in arms but I? Who taught
thee

^ That you could, SfC.'] 0 thaty &c. This omission of the
sign of the optattTe^interjection is common to all oar old dra-
matists.

154 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Men were men only when they durst look down
With scorn on death and danger, and contemn'd
All opposition, till plumed Victory^
Had made her constant stand upon their helmets?
Under my shield thou bast fought as securely
As the young eaglet, cover'd with the wings
Of her fierce dam, learns how and where to prey.
All that is manly in thee, I call mine ;
But what is weak and womanish, thine own.
And what I gave, since thou art proud, ungrate-
ful,
Presuming to contend with him, to whom
Submission is due, I will take from thee.
Look, therefore, for extremities, and expect not
I will correct. thee as a son, but kill thee. .
-As a serpent swollen with poison ; who surviving
A little longer, with infectious breath.
Would render all things near him, like itself,
Contagious. Nay, now my anger's up,
Ten thousand virgins kneeling at my feet.
And with one general cry howling for mercy,
Shall not redeem thee.

Malef.jun. Thou incensed Power,
Awhile forbear thy thunder! let me have
No aid in my revenge, if from the^grave
My mother

Malef. sen. Thou shalt never name her more.

IThty fight.

^ i till plumed Victory

Had made her constant stand upon their helmets f ] This noble
image seems to have been copied by Milton, who describing
Satan, says,

^' His stature reach'd the sky, and on his crest
^' Sat Horror plumed ;*'
And^ in another place :

" at his right hand Victory

*' Sat eagle^wing'd,*^ — ,
The whole speech of Malefort here noticed is truly sublime^
and above ail commendation. Coxeter.

F'-

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 1 55

BEAUFORTJWWfor,MoNTREVlLLE,BELGAllDEjtfwJ

the three Sea Captains, appear on the Mount.

Beauf.jun. They are at it.

2. Capt. That thrust was put strongly home.
. Montr, But with more strength avoided.

Belg. Well come in ;
He has drawn blood of him yet: well done^ old
cock.

J. Capt. That was a strange miss.

Beauf.jun. That a certain hit.

[Young Makfort is slain.

Belg. He's fallen, the day is ours !

2. Capt. The admiral's slain.

Montr. The father is victorious !

Belg. Let us haste
To gratulate his conquest*

I. Capt. We to mourn
The fortune of the son.

Beauf.jun. With utmost speed
Acquaint the governor with the good success^
That he may entertain, to his full merit,
The father of his country's peace and safety.

[They retire.

Malef. sen. Were a new life hid in each mangled
limb,
I would search, and find it : and howe'er tosome
I may seem cruel thus to tyrannize
Upon this senseless flesh, 1 glory in it. —
That I have power to be unnatural,
Is my security ; die all my fears.
And waking jealousies, which have so long
Been my tormentors ! there's now no suspicion:
A fact, which I alone am conscious of,
Can never be discovered, or the cause
That call'd this duel on, I being above^

156 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

All perturbations; nor is it in

The power of fate, again to make me wretched.

Re-enter Be Avtonrjuniory Monteeville, Bel-
GARDEy and the three Sea Captains.

Beauf.jun. All honour to the conqueror! who
dares tax
My friend of treachery now ?

Belg. I am very glad, sir,
You have sped so well: but I must tell you thus

much.
To put you in mind that a low ebb must follow
Your hi^h-swoU'n tide of happiness, you have

purchased
This honour at a high price.

Makf. Tis, Belgarde,
Above all estimation, and a little
To be exalted with it cannot savour
Of arrogance. That to this arm and sword
Marseilles owes the freedom of hpr fears,
Or that my loyalty, not long since eclipsed,
Shines now more bright than ever, are not things
To be lamented : though, indeed, they may
Appear too dearly bought, my falling glories
Being made up again, and cemented
With a son's blood. 'Tis true, he was my son,
While he was worthy ; but when he shook off
His duty to me, (which my fond indulgence.
Upon submissioB, might perhaps have pardon'd,)
And grew his country's enemy, 1 look'd on him
As a stranger to my family, and a traitor
Justly proscribed, and he to be rewarded .
That could bring in his head. I know in this
That I am censured rugged, and austere.
That will vouchsafe not one sad sigh or tear
Upon his slaughter'd body : but I rest

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 157

Well satisfied in myself, being assured that
Extraordinary virtues, when they soar
Too high a pitch for common sights to judge of.
Losing their proper splendor, are condemned
For most remarkable vices.*

Beatif.jun. 'Tis too true, sir,
In the opinion of the multitude;
But for myself, that would be held your friend^
And hope to know you by a nearer name,
They are as they deserve, received,

Malef. My daughter
Shall tJiank you for the favour.

Beauf.Jun. I can wish
No happiness beyond it*

1. Capt. Shall we have leave
To bear the corpse of our dead admiral,
As he enjoin'd us, from this coast ?

Malef. Provided
The articles agreed on be observed,
And you depart hence with it, making oath
Never hereafter, but as friends, to touch
Upon this shore,

1. Capt. We'll faithfully perform it.
Malef. Then as you please dispose of it : 'tis
an object
That I could wish removed. His sins die with

him !
So far he has my charity.
1. Capt. He snail have
A soldier's funeral.

[The Captains bear the body off] with sad rmme,
Malef. Farewell !

' For most remSLTkMe vices, 1 RemarkablelkSid inMassinget\
time a more dignified sound, and a more appropriate meaning^
than it bears at present. With him it constantly stands for
surprising, highly striking, or obserfable in an uncommon
degree ; of this it will be well to take notice.

\5S THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Beauf.jun. Thes^ rites
Paid to the dead, the conqueror that survives
Must reap the harvest of his bloody labour.
Sound all loud instruments of joy and triumph,
And with all circumstance and ceremony,
Wait on the patron of our liberty,
Whrch he at all parts merits.

Maltf. I am honoured
Beyond my hopes.

Beauf.jun. 'Tis short of your deserts.
Lead on : oh, sir, you must ; you are too modest.

. [Ejteunt with loud music.

SCENE IL

A Roam in Malefort's House.
Enter Theocrine, Page, flfwrf Waiting-women.

Theoc. Talk not of comfort ; I am both ways
wretched, •

And so distracted with my doubts and fears,
I know not where to fix my hopes. My loss
Is certain in a father, or a brother,
Or both ; such is the cruelty of my fate,
And not to be avoided.

1. fFom. You must bear it
With patience, madam.

. 2. PFom. And what's not in you
To be prevented, should not cause a sorrow
Which cannot help it.

Page. Fear not my brave lord,
Your noble father ; fighting is to him
Familiar as eating. He can teach
Our modern duellists how to cleave a button.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 159

And in a new way, never yet found out
By old Caranza.*

1. JVom. May he be victorious,
And punish disobedience in his son !
Whose death, in reason, should at no part move you.
He being but half your brother, and the nearness
Which that might challenge from you, forfeited
By his impious purpose to kill hjm, from whom
He received life. [A shout witfun,

2- fFom. A general shout

1. fFom. Of joy.

Page. Lookup, dear lady; sad news never came
Usher'd with loud applause. ^

Theoc. I stand prepared
To endure the shock of i(.

Enter Usher.

Ush. I am out of breath
With running to deliver first '

Theoc. What?

Ush. We are all made.
My lord has won the day; your brother*s slaiu;
The pirates gone : and by the goveraor.
And states, and all the men of war, he is
Brought home in triumph : — nay, no musing, pay

me
For my good news hereafter.

Theoc. Heaven is just !

Ush. Give thanks at leisure ; .make all haste
to meet him.
I could wish I were a horse, that I might bear you
To him upon my back.

Page. Thou art an ass,
And this is a sweet burthen,

Ush. Peace, you crack -rope ! [Exeunt.

9 % old Caranza.'\ See ike Guardian^ Vol. IV.

leo THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

SCENE III.
A Street.

Loud musk. Enter Montbevillx, Bbigardx,
Beaufort senior^ Beaufort jauwr; Male-
vonTy followed by Montaigne, Chamont, and
Lanour.

Btauf. ten. All honours we can give you, and
rewards,
Though all that's rich or precious in Mai^lles
Were laid down at your feet, can hold no weight
With your deservings : let me glory in
Your action, as if it were mine own ;
And have the honour, with the arms of love,
To embrace the great performer of a deed
Transcending all this country e'er could boast of.

Mont. Imagine, noble sir, in what we may
Express our thankfulness, and rest assured
It shall be freely granted.

Cham. He's an enemy.
To goodness and to virtue, that dares think
There's any thing within our power to give,*
Which you injustice may not boldly challenge.

Lan. And as your own ; for we will ever be
At your devotion.

Malef. Much honour'd sir.
And you, my nobljB lords, I can say only.
The greatness of your favours overwhelms me,

■ There s any thing within our power to give^'] The old copy
incorrectly reads, There's any other thiag &c. and in tlie next
speech, overwhelm for overwhelms — the last is so common a mode
of expression, that I should not hare corrected it, if sinks had
not immediately followed.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. I6l

And like too large a sail, for the small bark

Of my poor merits, sinks me. That I stand

Upright in your opinions, is an honour

Exceeding my deserts, I having done

Nothing but what in duty I stood bound to :

And to expect a recompense were base,

Good deeds being ever in themselves rewarded.

Yet since your liberal bounties tell me that

I may, with your allowance, be a suitor.

To you, my lord, I am an humble one,

And must ask that, which known, I fear you

will
Censure me over bold.

Beauf. sen. It must be something
Of a strange nature, if it find from me
Denial or delay.

Malef. Thus then, my lord,
Since you encourage me: You are happy in
A worthy son, and all the comfort that
Fortune has left me, is one daughter; now,
If it may not appear too much presumption,
To seek to match my lowness with your height,
I should desire (and if I may obtain it,
I write nil ultra to my largest hopes)
She may in your opinion be thought worthy
To be received into your family,
And married to your son : their years are equal.
And their desires, I think, too ; she is not
Ignoble, nor my state contemptible.
And if you think me worthy your alliance,
'Tis all I do aspire to.

Beauf.jun. You demand
That which with all the service of my life
I should have laboured to obtain from you.
O sir, why arc you slow to meet so fair
And noble an offer ? can France shew a virgin
That may be parallel'd with her ? is she not

VOL. I. * M

162 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

The phoenix of the time, the fairest star
In the bright sphere of women ?

Beauf. sen. Be not rapt so :
Though I dislike not what is motion'd, yet
In what so near concerns me, it is fit
I should proceed with judgment.

Enter Usher, Theocrine, Page, and Waiting-
women.

Beauf, jun. Here she comes :
Look on her with impartial eyes, and then
Let envy, if it can, name one graced feature
In which she is defective.

Malef. Welcome, girl !
My joy, my comfort, my delight, my all,
Why dost thou come to greet my victory
In such a sable habit? This shew'd well
When thy father was a prisoner, and suspected ;
But now his faith and loyalty are admired,
Rather than doubted, in your outward garments
You are to express the joy you feel within :
Nor should you with more curiousness and care
Pace to the temple to be made a bride,
Than now, when all men's eyes are fixt upon you,
You should appear to entertain the honour
From me descending to you, and in which
You have an equal share.

Theoc. Heaven has my thanks,
With all humility paid for your fair fortune,
And so far duty binds me; yet a little
To mourn a brother's loss, however wicked,
The tenderness familiar to pur sex
May, if you please, excuse.

Malef. Thou art deceived.
He, living, was a blemish to thy beauties.
But in his death gives ornament and lustre

THE UNNAtURAL COMBAT. 168

To thy perfections, but that they are

So exquisitely rare, that they admit not

The least addition. Ha ! here's yet a print

Of a sad tear oh thy cheek ; how it takes

from
Our present happiness ! with a father's lips,
A loving father's lips, I'll kiss it off,
The cause no more remcmber'd.

Theoc. You forget, sir,
The presence we are in.

Malef. Tis well consider'd;
And yet, who is the owner of a treasure
Above all value, but, without offence,
May glory in the glad possession of it ?
Nor let it in your excellence beget wonder,
Or any here, that looking on the daughter,
I feast myself in the imagination
Of those sweet pleasures, and allowed delights,
I tasted from the mother, who still lives
In this her perfect model; for she had
Such smooth and high-arch'd brows, such spark-
ling eyes.
Whose evefy glance stored Cupid's emptied

• quiver.

Such fuby lips, — and such a lovely bloom,*

Disdaining all adulterate aids of art.

Kept a perpetual spring upon her face.

As Death himself lamented, being forced

To blast it with his paleness ! and if now,

Her brightness dimm'd with sorrow, take and

please you,
Think, think, young lord, when she appears

herself,

* And tuck a lately bloom,] For this reading we are indebted

to Mr. M. Mason. All the former editions read brown ; vrhich
the cooclading linei of this beautiful speech incontestibly pro?«
to be a mlsprijDt*

*M2

164 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

/

This veil removed, in her own natural pureness/
How far she will transport you.

Beauf.jun. Did she need it,
The praise which you (and well deserved) give

to her,
Must 6f necessity raise new desires
In one indebted more to years ; to me
Your words are but as oil pour'd on a fire,
That flames already at the height.

Malef. No more ;
I do believe you, and let me from you
Find so mucn credit; when I make her yours,
I do possess you of a gift, which I
With much unwillingness part from. My good

lords,
Forbear your further trouble ; give me leave,
For on the sudden I am indisposed,
To retire to my own house, and rest : to morrow.
As you command me, I will be your guest.
And having dcck'd my daughter like herself,
You shall have further conference.

Beauf. sen. You are master
Of your own will ; but fail not, I'll expect you.

Malef. Nay, I will be excused ; I must part
with you. \To young Beaufort and the rest.
My dearest Theocrine, give me thy hand,
I will support thee.

Ttieoc. You gripe it too hard, sir.

Malef. Indeed I do, but have no further end
in it
But love and tenderness, such as I may challenge,
And you must grant. Thou art a sweet one ; yes,
And to be cherish'd.

Theoc. May I still deserve it!

[Ejceunt several ways.

THE UNNATURAL CQMBAT. 165

ACT III. SCENE I.

1

A Banqueting-room in Beaufort's Hotue.
Enter Beau fort senior^ and Steward..

Beauf. sen. Have you been careful ?

Stew. With my best endeavours.
Let them bring stomachs, there's no want of

meat, sir.
Portly and curious viands are prepared,
To please all kinds of appetites.

Beauf, sen. 'Tis well.
I love a table furnish'd with full plenty.
And store of friends to eat it : but with this

caution,
I would not have my house a common inn,
For some men that come rather to devour me.
Than to present their service. At this time, too,
It being a serious and solemn meeting,
I must not have my board pester'd with shadows,*
That, under other men's protection, break in
Without invitement.

Stew. With your favour, then,
You must double your guard, my lord, for on my

knowledge.
There are some so sharp set, not to be kept out
By a file of musketeers : and 'tis less danger^

3 I must not have my board peaterd with shadows,] It was con-
tidered, Plutarch days, as a mark of politeness, to let an invited
guest know that he was at liberty to bring a friend or two with
him ; a permission that was, however, sometimes abased.
These friends the Romans called shadows^ (^umbroty) a term
which Massinger has Tery happily explained.

165 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

I'll undertake, to stand at push of pile ,
With an enemy in a breach, that undermined too.
And the cannon p^ayins^ on it, than to stop
One harpy, your perpetual guest, from entrance,
When the dresser, the cook's drum, thunders,

Come on,
The service will be lost else !*

Beauf. sen. What is he?

Stew. As tall a trencherman,* that is most
Certain,
As e'er demolish 'd pye-fortification
As soon as batter'd ; and if the rim of his belly
Were not made up of a much tougher stuff
Than his buft jerkin, there were no defence
Against the charge of his guts : you needs must

kuow him,
He's eminent for his eating.

Beauf. sen. O, Belgarde!

* When the dresser^ the cook's drum^ thunders^ Come on^
The service will he lost else /] It was formerlj customary
for the cook, when dinner was neady, to knock on the dresser
with his knife, by wa) of summoning the serfants to carry it
into the hall ; to this there are many allusions. In i/ie Merry
Beggars^ Old-rents says, " Hark ! they knock to the dresser.**
Servants were not then allowed, as at present, to frequent the
kitchen, lest they should interfere with the momentous con-
cerns of tiie cook. Mr. Heed says that this practice '^ was
continued in the family of Lord Fairfax'' (and doubtless in that
of many others) '' after the civil wars: in that nobleman's
orders for the servants of his household, is the following : Then
must he warn^to the dresser. Gentlemen and yeomen, to the dresser.*
Old Plays, xii, 430.

s Stew. As tall a trencherman^ &c.] Tall, in the language of
our old writers, meant stout, or rather bold and fearless.; but
they abused the word (of which they seem fond) in a great
variety of senses. A tall man of' his hands was a great fighter ; a
tall man of his tongue, a licentious speaker ; and a tall man of his
trencher, or, as above, a tall trencherman^ a hearty feeder. In-
stances of these phrases occur so frequently, that it would be a
waste of time to dwell upon them.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 167

Stew. The same; one of the admirars cast
captains.
Who swear/ there being no war, nor hope of any,
Th^ only drilling is to eat devoutly,
And to be ever drinking— that's allow'd of.
But they know not where to get it, there's the
spite on't.
BeauJ. sen. The more their misery ; yet, if you
can.
For this day put him oiF/

Stew. It is beyond
The invention of man.

Btauf. sen. No : — say this only, \Whispers to him.
And as from me; you apprehend me?
Ste^K Yes, sir.

Beauf. sen. But it must be done gravely.
Stew. Never doubt me, sir.
Beauf. sen. We'll dine in the great room, but
let the music
And banquet' be prepared here. [Ejcit^

Stew. This will make him
Lose his dinner at the least, and that will vex him.
As for the sweetmeats, when they are trod under

foot.
Let him take his share with the pages and the

lackies,
Or scramble in the rushes.

Enter Belgarde,

Belg. Tis near twelve;

^ Who swear, &c.] So the old copy : the modern editors
re^A swears y than which nothing can be more injudicious.

' Beauf. sen. The more their misery ; yety if you can,

For this d/iy put him iiff^ This has been hitherto giyen as an
imperfect speech ; why, it is difficult to imagine*

» ; — « but let the music

And banquet be prepared here.} That is^ the dessert. See the
City Madam. Vol. IV.

168 I'HE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

I keep a watch within me never misses. —
, Save thee, master steward !

Stew. You are most welcome, sir.

Belg. Has thy lord slept well to-night? I
come to enquire.
I had a foolish dream, that, against my will,
Carried me from my lodging, to learn only
How he's disposed.

Stew. He's in most perfect health, sir.

Belg. Let me but see him feed heartily at dinner,
And I'll believe so too ; for from that ever
I make a certain judgment.

Stew. It holds surely
In your own constitution.

Belg. And in all men's,
'Tis the best symptom ; let us lose no time,
Delay is dangerous.

Stew. Troth, sir, if I might.
Without offence, deliver what my lord has
Committed to my trust, I shall receive it
As a special favour.

Belg. We'll see it, and discourse.
As the proverb says, for health sake, after dinner,
Or rather after supper; willingly then
I'll walk a mile to hear thee.''

Stew. Nay, good sir,
I will be brief and pithy.

Belg. Prithee be so.

Steiv. He bid me say, of all his guests, that he
Stands most affected to you, for the freedom
And plainness of your manners. He ne'er ob-
served you
To twirl a dish about, you did not like of,
All being pleasing to you; or to take

^ Or rather after supper ; willingly then

lUl walk a mile to hear thee.] Alluding to the good old pro-
Terb, which inculcates temperance at this meal, by recom.
mending a walk after it.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 1^9

A say of venison,* or stale fowl, by your nose,
Which is a solecism at another's table ;
But by strong eating of them, did confirm
They never were delicious to your palate,
But when they were mortified, as the Hugonot

says.
And so your part grows greater ; nor do you
Find fault with the sauce, keen hunger being the

best,
Which ever, to your much praise, you bring with

you ;
Nor will you with impertinent relations.
Which is a master-piece when meat's before you,
Forget your teeth, to use your nimble tongue,
But do the feat you come for.

Belg. Be advised,
And end your jeering ; for, if you proceed.
You'll feel, as I can eat I can be angry ;
And beating may ensue.

Stew. I'll take your counsel,
And roundly come to the point : my lord much

wonders.
That you, that are a courtier as a soldier.

' A B3LJ cf venison^'] i.e. a taste, a proof, a sample. It has
been notified to me that the word should be printed with a
mark of elision, as if it were corrupted from as$a^ : bat the
truth is, that the corruption, if there be any, is in the latter
wordi The expression is so common that I should not havs
Boticed it, but as it tends to my own justification :

** but pray do not

*' Take the first say of her yourself." Chapman,

^' So good a say in?ites the eye

'^ A little downward to espy.'' Sir P. Sidney.

** Wolsey makes dukes and erles to serve him of wine, with
a say taken." Holings,

'^ I could cite more, but these shall suffice for a say** Old
Translation of the Andria.

iro THE UNNATURAL COMBAT-

_ •

111 all things else, and every day can vary
Your actions and discourse, continue constant
To this one suit.

Btlg. To one ! 'tis well I have one,
Uupawn'd, in these days ; every cast commander
Is not blest with the fortune, I assure you.
But why this question? does this offend him?

Stew. Not much; but he believes it is the
reason
Your ne'er presume to sit above the salt ;*
And therefore, this day, our great admiral,
With other states, being invited guests,
lie does entreat you to appear among them.
In some fresh habit.

Btlg. This staff shall not serve
To beat the dog off ; these are soldier's garments.
And so by consequence grow contemptible.

Stew. It has stung him. [Aside.

* You ne*er presume to di above the salt ;J This refers to the
manner in which oar ancestors were usually seated at their
meals The tables being long, the salt was commonly placed
about the middle, and serred as a kind of boundary to the diffe-
rent quality of the guests invited* Those of distinction were
ranked above ; the space below was assigned to the dependents,
inferior relations of the master of the house, Sec. It argues
little for the delicacy of our ancestors, that they should admit
of such distinctions at their board ; but, in truth, they seem to
bave placed their guests below the salt, for no better purpose
than that of mortifying them. Nixon, iit his Strange Footpostj
(F. 3.) gives a very admirable account of the miseries ^^ of a
poor scholar," (Hall's well known satire, ^^ A gentle squire/* Sec.
is a versification of it,) from which I have taken the following
characteristic traits : ^^ Now as for his fare, it is lightly at the
cheapest table, but he must sit under the saltj that is an axiome
in such places: — then having drawne his knife leisurably, un-
folded his napkin mannerly^ after twice or thrice wyping his
beard, if he have it^-iie may reach the bread on his knife's point,
and fall to his porrige, and between every sponefull take as
much deliberation, as a capon craming, lest he be out ofhisporm
rige before they have burkd part of their jfirst course in their bellies**'

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 171

Belg. I would I were acquaiated with thcj

players,
In charity they might furnish me : bat there i?
No faith in brokers; and for believing tailors,
They are only to be read of, but not seen ;
And sure they are confined to their own hells,
And there they live invisible. Well, I must not
Be fubb'd off thus : pray you, report my service
To the lord governor; I will obey him :
And though my wardrobe's poor, rather than lose
His compariy at this feast, I will put on
The richest suit I have, and fill the chair
That makes me worthy of.' [Ejcit.

^Stew. We are shut of him.
He will be seen no more here : how my fellows
Will bless me for his absence ! he had starved them,
Had he staid a little longer. Would he could.
For his own sake, shift a shirt ! and that's the

utmost
Of his ambition : adieu, good captain. [jEj;«V.

SCENE II.

The same.
Enter Beaufort senior, and Bi,avvokt junior.

Beattf. sen. Tis a strange fondness.

Beauf.jun. Tis beyond example.
His resolution to part with his estate,
To make her dower the weightier, is nothing ;,

and Jill the chair

That makes me worthy of.] This too has been hitherto printed
as an imperfect sentence; but, surely without necessity. The
meaning is, ^' I will fill the chair of which that (i. e. the richest
ffuit I have) makes me worthy/*

173 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

But to observe how curious he is

In his own person, to add ornament

To his daughter'ar ravishing features, is the

wonder.
I sent a page of mine in the way of courtship
This .morning to her, to present my service,
From whom I understand all. There he found him
Solicitous in what shape she should appear;
This gown was, rich, but the fashion stale; the

other
Was quaint, and neat, but the stuff not rich

enough :
Then does he curse the tailor, and in rage
Falls on her shoemaker, for wanting art
To express in every circumstance the form
Of her most delicate foot ; then sits in council
With much deliberation, to find out
What tire would best adorn her ; and one chosen.
Varying in his opinion, he tears off,
And stamps it under foot; then tries a second,
A third, and fourth,, and satisfied at length,
With much ado, in that, he grows again
Perplex'd and troubled where to place her jewels.
To be most mark'd, and whether she should wear
This diamond on her forehead,. or between
Her milkwhite paps, disputing on it both ways.
Then taking in his hand a rope of pearl,
(The best of France,) he seriously considers.
Whether he should dispose it on her arm.
Or on her neck ; with twenty other trifles.
Too tedious to deliver.

Beauf. sen. I have known him
From his first youth, but never yet observed.
In all the passages of his life and fortunes.
Virtues so mix'd with vices: valiant the world

speaks him.
But with that, bloody ; liberal in his gifts too,

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 173

But to maintain his prodigal expense,
A fierce extortioner ; an impotent lover
Of women for a flash/ but, his fires quench'd.
Hating as deadly : the truth is, I am not
Ambitious of this match ; nor will I cross you
In your affections.

Beauf. jun. I have ever found you
(And 'tis my happiness) a loving father,

\^Loud music.
And careful of my good :- — by the loud music,
As you gave order, for his entertainment,
lie's come into the house. Two long hours since^
The colonels, commissioners, and captains.
To pay him all the rites his worth can challenge^
Went to wait on him hither.

Enter Malefort, Montaigne, Chamont, La-

NOUR, MONTREVILLE, ThEOCRINE, Ushcr,

Page, and Waiting-women.

Beauf. sen. You are most welcome,
And what I speak to you, does from my heart
Disperse Itself to all.

Malef. You meet, my lord,
Your trouble.

Beauf. sen. Rather, sir, increase of honour,
When you are pleased to grace my hou^e.

Beauf. jun. The favour
Is doubled on my part, most worthy sir.
Since your fair daughter, my incomparable

mistress,
Deigns us her presence.

Malef. View her well, brave Beaufort,

an impotent loDer

Oftoomenfor a flashy &€.] Wild, fierce, uncontrollable in his
passions ; this is a Latiniun^ impotess amom^ and is a rery strong
•zpression.

174 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT,

But yet at distance ; you hereafter may
Make your approaches nearer, when the pri^t
Hath made it lawful : and were not she mine,
I durst aloud proclaim it, Hymen never
Put on his saffron- colourM robe, to change
A barren virgin name, with more good omens
Than at her nuptials. Look on her again,
Then tell me if she now appear the same.
That she was yesterday.

Beatif. sen. Being herself,
She cannot but be excellent ; these rich
And curious dressings, which in others might
Cover deformities, from her take lustre,
Nor can add to her.

Malef. You conceive her right,
And in your admiration of her sweetness.
You only can deserve her. Blush not, girl.
Thou art above his praise, or mine ; nor can
Obsequious Flattery, though she should use
Her thousand oil'd tongues to advance thy worth,
Give aught, (for that's impossible,) but take from
Thy more than human graces ; and even then.
When she hath spent herself with her best

strength,
The wrong she has done thee shall be so ap«-

pareat,
That, losing her qwn servile shape and name,
She will* be thought Detraction : but I
Forget myself; and something whispers to mfe,
I have said too much.

Mont. I know not what to think on't.
But there's some mystery in it, which 1 fear
Will be too soon discovered,

Malef. I much wrong
Your patience, noble sir, by too much hugging
My proper issue, and, like the foolish crow,
Believe my black brood swans.

THE UNNATtJilAL COMBAT. 17^

Beauf. sen. There needs not, sir,
The least excuse for this; nay, I must have
Your arm, you being the master of the feast,
And this the mistress.

Theoc. I am any thing
That you shall please to make me.

Beauf. jun. Nay, 'tis yours,
Without more compliment.

Mont.^ Your will's a law, sir.

[Loud music. Exeunt Beaiifort senior^ Male*
forty Theocrinej Beaufort junior^ Montaigne^
Chamonty Lanour^ Montreville.

Ush. Would I had been born a lord !

1. IVom. Or I a lady !

Page. It may be you were both begot in court,
Though bred up in the city ; for your mothers,
As I have heard, loved the lobby ; and there,

nightly,
Arc seen strange apparitions : and who knows
But that some noble faun, heated with wine,
And cloy'd with partridge, had a kind of longing
To trade in sprats ? this needs no exposition : —
But can you yield a reason for your wishes ?

Ush. Why, had I been born a lord, I had be6n
no servant.

1. Worn. And whereas now necessity makes us
waiters,
We had been attended on.

9. IVom. And might have slept then ^

As long as we pleased, and fed when we had

stomachs.
And worn new clothes, nor lived as now, in hope
Of a cast gown, or petticoat.

Page. You are fools,
;^ud ignorant of your happiness. Ere I was

' Mont^ So the old copy : it mnst, howerer, be a nistak*
for Thepc. or rather, perhaps^ for Mtd^.

176 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Sworn to the pantoflei* I have heard my tutor
Prove it by logic, that a servant's life
Was better than his master's ; and by that
I learn 'd from him, if that my memory fail not,
ril make it good.

Ush. Proceed, my little wit
In decimo sexto.

Page, Thus then : From the king
To the beggar, by gradation^ all arc servants ;
And you must grant, the slavery is less
To study to please one, than many.

Ush. True.

Page. Well then; and first to you, sir: you
complain
You serve one lord, but your lord serves a thousand,
Besides his passions, that are his worst masters ;
You must humour him, and he is bound to sooth
Every grim sir above him :' if he frown,
For the least neglect you fear to lose your place ;
But if, and with all slavish observation,
From the minion's self, to the groom of his close-
stool.
He hourly seeks not favour, he is sure
To be eased of his office^ though perhaps he
bought it.

Ere I was

Sworn to the paatofle,] i. e taken from attending in the por-
ter*s lodge, (which seems to hare been the first degree of servi-
tude,) to wait on Theocrine.

7 ' he is bound to sooth

Every grim sir above him :^ Grim sir, Mr. Dodsley injudici-
ously altered to trim sir ; for this he is honoured with the ap*
probation of Coxeter ; though nothing can be more certain than
that the old reading is right. Skelton calls WoJsey a grim sire^
and Fletcher has a simitar expression in the Elder Brother :

*' Cowst/. It is a faith
*^ That we will die in ; since from the blackguard
^' To the t^rim sir, in office^ there are few
<^ Hold other tenets/'

r

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 177

Nay, more ; that high disposer of all such

That are subordinate to him, screes and fears

The fury of the many -headed monster,

The giddy multitude : and as a horse

Is still a horse, for all his golden trappings,

So your men of purchased titles, at their best, are

But serving-men in rich liveries.

Ush. Most rare infant !
Where leamd'st thou this morality ?

Page. Why, thou dull pate.
As I told thee, of my tutor.

2. Worn. Now for us, boy.

Page. I am cut off: — the governor.

Enter Beaufort seni(yr and Be av fort junior;
Servants setting forth a banquet.

Beauf. sen. Quick, quick, sirs.
See all things perfect.

Serv. Let the blame be ours else.

Beauf. sen. And, as I said, when we ate at the
banquet.
And high in our cups, for 'tis no feast without it,
Especially among soldiers ; Theocrine
Being retired, as that's no place for her,
Take you occasion to rise from the table,
And lose no opportunity.

Beauf. jun. 'Tis my purpose ;
And if I can win her to give her heart,
I have a holy man in readiness
To join our hands ; for the admiral, her father,
Repents him of his grant to me, and seems
So far transported with a strange opinion
Of her fair features, that, should we defer it,
I think, ere long, he will believe, and strongly,
The dauphin. is not worthy of her: I
Am much amazed wrth't.

VOL.1. N*

178 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

t

Beauf. sen. Nay, dispatch there, fellows.

[Kveunt Beaufort senior and Beauf ort junior.
Serv. Wq are ready, when you please. Sweet
forms,' your pardon !
It has been such a busy time, I could not
Tender that ceremonious respect
Which you deserve ; but now, the great work

ended,
I will attend the less, and with all care
Observe and serve you.

'Page. This is a penn'd speech,
And serves as a perpetual preface to
A dinner made of fragments.

Ush. We wait on you. [EMunf.

SCENE III.
The same. A Banquet set forth.

Loud music. Enter Beaufort senior^ Malefort,
Montaigne, Chamont, Lanour, Beaufort,
junior^ Montreville, ^y^rf Servants.

Beauf sen. You are not merry, sir.
Malef Yes, my good lord.
You have given us ample means to drown all

cares : —
And yet I nourish strange thoughts, which I

would
Most willingly destroy. [Aside.

Beauf sen. Pray you, take your place.

• Sweet forms, &c.] This is a paltry play on words. Th#
foiiyns meant by the servant, are the benches on which the
guests were to sit^ The trite pedantry of the speech is well
exposed by the Page.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 179

Beaufjun. And drink a health; and let it be,
if you please,
To the worthiest of women. — Now observe him.

Malef. Give me the bowl; since you do me
the honour,
1 will begin it.

Qham. May we know her name, sir ?

Malef, You shall ; I will not choose a foreign
queen's,
Nor yet our ov\hi, for that would relish of
Tame flattery; nor do their height of title,
Or absolute power, confirm their worth and

goodness,
These being heaven's gifts, and frequently con-

ferr'd
On such as are beneath them ; nor will I
Name the king's mistress, howsoever she
In his esteem may carry it : but if I,
As wine gives liberty, may use my freedom,
Not sway'd this way or that, with confidence,
(And I will make it good on any equal,)
If it must be to her whose outward form
Is better'd by the beauty of her mind,
She lives not that with justice can pretend
An interest to this so sacred health.
But my fair daughter. He that only doubts it,
I do pronounce a villain : this to her, then.

[Drinks.

Mont. What may we think of this ?

Beauf. sen. It matters not.

Lan. For my part, I will sooth him, rather than
Draw on a quarrel.'

9 J)raw on a quarrel.] This has hitherto been printed,
Draw on a quarrel j Chamont ; and the next speech giren to
MontreTille. It is not very probable that the latter should re-
ply to an observation addressed to Chamont, with whom he dueg
not appear to be familiar : and besides, the excess of metre seems

180 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Cham. It is the safest coarse;
And one I mean to follow.

Beauf.jun. It has gone round, sir. [Exit.

Malef. Now you have done her right ; if there
be any
Worthy to second this, propose it boldly,
I am your pledge.

Beauf. sen. Let's pause here, if you please,
And entertain the time with something else.
Music there 1 in some lofty strain ; the song too
That I gave order for ; the new one, call'd
The Soldier's Delight » [Mtisic and a song.

Enter Belgarde in armour^ a case of carbines by

his side.

Belg. Who stops me now ?
Or who dares only say that I appear not
In the most rich and glorious habit that
Renders a man complete ^ What court so set off
With state and ceremonious pomp, but, thus
Accoutred, 1 may enter? Or what feast,
Though all the elements at once were ransack'd
To store it with variety transcending
The curiousness and cost on Trajan's birthday ;
(Where princes only, and confederate kings,
Did sit as guests, served and attended on
By the senators of Rome,) at which* a soldier.

to prove that the name has slipt from the margin of the succeed-
ing line into the text of this.

* - ■ at which a soldier^ &c.] The old copy reads,

9at with a soldier. The emendation, which is a very happy one,
was made by Mr. M. Mason. The corruption is easily accounted
for : the printer mistook the second parenthesis for an/, and haT«
ing given fat for af , was obliged to alter the next word, to make
sense of the line. This will be understood at once by a reference

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 181

*

In this his natural and proper shape,
Might not, and boldly, fill a seat, and by
His presence make the great solemnity
More honour'd and remarkable ?

Btauf. sen. 'Tis acknowledged ;
And this a grace done to me unexpected.

Mont. But why in armour ?

Makf. What's the mystery ?
Pray you, reveal that.

^Belg. Soldiers out of action, m

That very rare ***** ^

* * * * ^ jj^j^^ ijj^g unbidden guests.
Bring their stools with them, for their own de-
fence,

to the quarto, where the first parenthesis only appears, which
wa» therefore omitted b j the sacceeding editors. I know not
where Massinger fonnd this anecdote of Trajan ; he was, indeed,
a magnificent, and, in some cases, an ostentatious prince ; but
neither his pride, nor his prudence, I believe, would have al-
lowed the '' senators of Rome'' to degrade themselves by wait*
ing on the allies of the republic.

* Belg. Solditrs out of actiouy

That very rare *******

* * * * ^e> * i^f. ii]^g unhidden guests^

Bring their stools with them, &c.] So I have ventured to print
this passage, being persuaded that a Une is lost. The breaks
* cannot be filled up, but the sense might be. Soldiers out of action^
that very rarefy find seats reserved for them, i. e. are invited^
but like, &c. How the modern editors understood this passage^
I know not, but they all give it thus :

Belg. . Soldiers out of action^
That very rarcy but like unbidden guests
Bring &c.

T.he«singular custom of uninvited or unexpected guests bring,
ing seats with them, is frequently noticed by the writers of Mas*
singer's time. Thus Rowley : '' Widow. What copesmate's this
trow V (speaking of Young, who had just taken aplace at table,)
<^ Who let him in ? Jarvis. By this light, a fellow of an excellent
breeding ! he came unbidden, and brought his stool with kimJ'
Match at Midnight. And it appears, from a subsequent sf ene^
that this was really the case^ for Jarvis says^ ^^ What tlTink yoa

182 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

At co\irt should feed in gauntlets ;* they may havtf
Their fingers cut else : there your carpet knights.
That never charged heyond a mistress' lips,
Are still most keen, and valiant. But to you,

of the irentleman (Young) that brought a stool with him out of
the hall, and sat down at dinner witbtyou in the parlour?''

It is probable that the practice originated in n^^cessitj. Our
ancient houses were not much encumbered with furniture, and
the little which they had, was moTed from place to place at
occasion required ; an unexpected guest, therefore, was obliged
to provide for his own accommodation. A singular instance of
this occurs in the story of Ursini^ duke of Brachiano. The
circumstance, which is matter of fact, is thus tpld in Webster's
White Devil:

Fron, A chair there for his lordship!
Brack, [laying a rich gown under Aim] Forbear^
Forbpar your kindness ; an unbidden guest
Should travel as Dutch women go to church,
Bear their stool with them.

It is likewise noticed by Howell, in a passage almost too
solemn for this occasion. Of th« Holy Sacrament, and the Soul,
he says :

*' She need not bring her stoolj
As some unbidden fool ;
The master of this beavenly feast
Invites and wooi her for his guest.''

Lib, iii. lett, 4«
J .jof lJii;glf 0117^ defence J

At court should feed in gauntlets ; they may have
Their fingers cut else :] Here is the bon-mot for which Quin was
80 much celebrated ; that '^ at city feasts it was neither safe nor
prudent to help one's self without a basket-hilted knife.''
Massinger got it, I suppose, from -Barclay's second Eclogue^
which has great merit for the tim* in which it was written :

^' If the dishe be pleasannt eyther fleshe or fishe,

^^ Ten handes at once swarme in the dishe

*^ To put there thy handes is peril without fayle,
^^ Without a gauntlet^ or els a-glove ofma^le;
^^ Among all those knives, thou one of both must haye,
*' Or eU it is harde thy fingers to save.''

Where Barclay found it, I cannot tell ; but there is sdmething
of the kind in Diogenes Laertius. ^^ There it nothing new under
the sun !"

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 183

Whom it does roost concern, my lord, I will
Address my speech, and, with a soldier's freedom,
In my reproof, return the bitter scoff
You threw upon my poverty : you contemn'd
My coarser outside, and from that concluded
(As by your groom you made me understand)
I was unworthy to sit at your table,
Among these tissues and embroideries.
Unless I changed my habit : I have done it,
And shew myself in that which I have worn
In the heat and fervpur of a bloody fight ;
And then it was in fashion, not as now,
Ridiculous and despised. This hath past through
A wood of pikes, and every one aim'd at it,
Yet scorn'd to take impression from their fury :
With this, as still you see it, fresh and new,
I've charged through fire that would have singed

your sables.
Black fox, and ermines, and changed the proud

colour
Of scarlet, though of the right Tyrian die. —
But now, as if the trappings made the man.
Such only are admired that come adorn'd
With what's no part of them. This is mine own,
My richest suit, a suit I must not part from,
But not regarded now : and yet remember,
'Tis we that bring you in the means offcasts,*
Banquets, and revels, which, when you possess,
With barbarous ingratitude you deny us
To be made sharers in the harvest, which
Our sweat and industry reap'd, and sow'd for you.
The^ilks you wear, we with our blood spin for

\ you ; •

This massy plate, that with the ponderous weight
Does make your cupboards crack, we (unaf-

frighted
With tempests, or the long and tedious way,

184 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Or dreadful monsters of the deep, that wait
With open jaws still ready to devour us,)
Fetch from the other world. Let it not then,
In after ages, to your shame he spoken.
That you, with no relenting eyes, look on
Our wants that feed your plenty : or consume.
In prodigal and wanton gifts on drones.
The kingdom's treasure; yet detain from us
The debt that with the hazard of our lives.
We have made you stand engaged for ; or force

us.
Against all civil government, in armour
To require that, which with all willingness
Should be tender'd ere demanded.

Beauf. sen. I commend
This wholesome sharpness in you, and prefer it
Before obsequious tameness ; it shews lovely :
Nor shall the rain of your good counsel fall
Upon the barren sands, but spring up fruit,*
Sucl> as you long have wish'd for. And the rest
Of your profession, like you, discontented
For want of means, shall, in their presentjpay ment^
Be bound to praise your boldness : and hereafter
I will take order you shall have no cause.
For want of change, to put your armour on.
But in the face of an enemy ; not as now.
Among your friends. To that which is due to you.
To furnish you like yourself, of mine own bounty
I'll add five hundred crowns.

Cham. I, to my power,
Will follow the example.

Mont. Take this, captain,
'Tis all my present store ; but when you please.
Command me further.

* hut spring up fruity'] i. e. cause it to spring np.

This sense of the word is familiar to Massinger and his contem-
poraries.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 185

Lan. I could wish it more.

Belg. This is the luckiest jest ever came from
me.
I et a soldier use no other scribe to draw
The form of his petition. This will speed
When your thrice-humble supplications,
With prayers for increase of health and honours
To their grave lordships, shall, as soon as read,
Be pocketed up, the cause no more remember'd:
When this dumb rhetoric [Aside.l — Well, I have

a life,
Which I, in thankfulness for your great favours.
My noble lords, when you please to command it,
Must never think mine own. — Broker, be happy,
These golden birds fly to thee. [Kvit.

Beauf. sen. You are dull, sir,
And seem not to be taken with the passage
You saw presented.

Malef. Passage ! I observed none,
My thoughts were elsewhere busied. Ha! she is
In danger to be lost, to be lost for ever.
If speedily I come not to her rescue.
For so my genius tells me.

Montr. What chimeras
Work on your fantasy ?

Malef. Fantasies ! they are truths.
Where is my Theocrine? you have plotted
To rob me of my daughter ; bring me to her.
Or I'll call dqwn the saints to witness for me,
You are inhospitable.

Beauf. sen. You amaze me.
Your daughter's safe, and now exchanging

courtship
With my son, her servant.* Why do you hear this

* Your daughter's safe^ and now exchanging courtship

With mi/ son, her senrant*] Servant was at this time the in-

1H6 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

With such distracted looks, since to that end
You brought her hither?

Malef. 'Tis confessed I did ;
But novv^, pray you, pardon me ; and, if you please.
Ere she delivers up her virgin fort,
I would observe what is the art he uses
In planting his artillery against it : '
She is my only care, nor must she yield.
But upon noble terms.

Beauf. sen. 'Tis so determined.

Malef. Yet I am jealous,

Mont. Overmuch, I fear.
What passions are these ? \^Aside.

Beauf. sen. Come, I will bring you
Where you, with these, if they so please, may see
The love-scene acted.

Montr. There is something more
Than fatherly love in this. [Aside*

Mont. We wait upon you. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Another Room in Beaufort's House.

Enter Beavtokt junior, andTuEoCRi^E.

Beattf. jun. Since then you meet my flames
with equal ardour,
As you profess, it is your bounty, mistress,
Nor must I call it debt; yet 'tis your glory,

tariable term for a suitor, who, in return, called the object of
his addresses, mistress. Thus Shirley, (one example for all,)

^' Bon. What's the gentleman she has married?

*' Serv. A man of pretty, fortune, that has been
^' Her servant many years.

" Bon, How do you mean,
'^ Wantonly, or does he serve for wages?

" Serv. Neither; I mean her suUor.'^ Hyde Park.

THE UNNATUHAL combat., 187

That your excess supplies my want, and makes me
Strong in ray weakness, which could never be,
But in your good opinion.

Theoc. You teach me, sir,
What I should say ; since from your sun of favour,
I, like dim Phoebe, in herself obscure.
Borrow that light I have.

Beauf.jun. Which you return
With large increase, since that you will o'ercome.
And I dare not contend, were you but pleased
To make what's yet divided one.

Theoc I have
Already in niy wishes; modesty
Forbids me to Speak more.

Beauf.jun. But what assurance,
But still without offence, may I demand.
That may secure me that your heart and tongue
Join to make harmony ?

Theoc. Choose any,
Suiting your love, distinguished from lust,
To ask, and mine to grant.

Ent^ at a distance Beaufort senior^ Malefort,
MoNTREviLLE, and the rest.

Beauf. sen. Yonder they are.

Malef. At drstance too ! 'tis yet well.

Beauf.jun. I may take then
This hand, and with a thousand burning kisses.
Swear 'tis the anchor to my hopes ?

Th^oc. You may, sir.

Malef. Somewhat too much.

Beauf.jun. And this done, view myself
In these true mirrors?

Theoc. Ever true to you, sir :
And may they lose the ability of sight,
When they seek other object!

188 THE UNNATUfeAL COMBAT.

Malef. This is more
Than I can give consent to.

Beattf.jun. And a kiss
Thus printed on your lips, will not distaste you r*

Makf, Her lips !

Montr. Why, where should he kiss? are you
distracted ?

Beattf.jun. Then, when this holy man hath
made it lawful [Brings in a Priest.

Malef. A priest so ready too I I must break in.

BeauJ.jun. And what's spoke here is register'd
above ;
I must engross those favours to myself
Which are not to be named.

Theoc. All I can give,
But what they are I know not.

Beauf.jun. I'll instruct you.

Malef. O how my blood boils !

Montr. Pray you, contain yourself ;
Methinks his courtship's modest/

Beaufjun. Then being mine,
And wholly mine, the river of your love
To kinsmen ^nd allies, nay, to your father,
(Howe'er out of his tenderness he admires you,)
Must in the ocean of your affection
To me, be swallow'd up, and want a name^
Compared with what you owe me..

Theoc. 'Tis most fit, sir.

^ Beauf. Jan. And a kiss

Thus printed on your lips^ will not distaste you f\ i. e. displease
yov> : the ivord perpetually recurs in this sense.

7 Methinks his courtship's modest."] For his the modern editdrs
have this. The change is unnecessary. The next speech, as
Mr. Gilchrist obserres, bears a distant resemblance to the first
fionnet of Daniel to Delia :

" Unto the boundlesse ocean of thy beautie

^^ Runnes this poor river, charg'd with strearaes of zcale^

" Returning thee the tribute of my datie,

" Which here my love, my truth^ my plaints reveale.'*

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. m

The stronger bond that binds me to you, must
Dissolve the weaker.

Malef. I am ruin'd, if
I come not fairly off.

Beauf. sen. There^s nothing wanting
But your consent.

Malef. Some strange invention aid me !
This ! yes, it must be so. [Aside

Montr, Why do you stagger,
When what you seem'd so much to wish, is ofFer'd,
Both parties being agreed too ?

Beauf. sen. I'll not court
A grant from you, nor do I wrong-your daughter,
Though J say my son deserves her.

Malef. Tis far from
My humble thoughts to undervalue him
I cannot prize too high : for howsoever
From my own fond indulgence I have sung
Mer praises with too prodigal a tongue;
That tenderness laid by, I stand confirm'd,
All that I fancied excellent in her.
Balanced with what is really his own,
Holds weight in no proportion.

Montr. New turnings !

Beauf. sen. Whither tends this ?

Malef. Had you observed, my lord.
With what a sweet gradation he woo'd.
As I did punctually, you cannot blame her,
Though she did listen with a greedy ear
To his fair modest oiFers : but so great
A good as then flow'd to her, should have been
With more deliberation entertain'd, ^

And not with such haste swallow'd ; she shall first
Consider seriously what the blessing is,
And in what ample manner to give thanks for't,
And then receive it. And though I shall think
Short minutes years, till it be perfected," ,

» ^tiU it he perfected,] The old orthography wai

I(?0 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

I will defer that which I moist desire ;
And so must she, till longing expectation,
That heightens pleagurc, makes her truly know
Her happiness, and with what outstretched arms
She must embrace it,

Beauf.jun, This is curiousness
Beyond example.*

Malef. Let it then begin
From me : in what's mine own I'll use my will,
And yield no further reason. I lay claim to
The liberty of a subject. [Rushes J^orward and

seizes JTieoc] — Fall not off,
But be obedient, or by the hair
I'll drag thee home. Censure me as you please,
I'll take my own way. — O, the inward fires
That, wanting vent, consume me !

[Ea;it with Theocrine.

Montr. Tis most certain
He's mad, or worse.

Beauf. sen. How worse ?

Montr. ISlay^ there I leave you ;
My thoughts are- free.

Beauf. jun. This I forcsaM'.

Beauf. sen. Take comfort.
He shall walk in clouds, but I'll discover him :
And he shall find and feel, if he excuse not.
And with strong reasons, this gross injury,
I can make use of my authority. [Exeunt.

perfittedy a mode of spelling much better adapted to poetry* and
which I am sorry we have suffered to grow obsolete.

' Beauf. jun. T^is is curiousness

Beyond exawpl^*] i- e. a refined and oyer scrupulous considera-
tion of the subject. So the word is frequently used by our
old writers.

* Beauf. sen. How worse f] This short speech is not appro,
priated in the old copy. Dodsley gi?es it to the present
speaker, and is evidently right. M. Mason follows Coxeter^
who gires it to no one ! ^

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 191

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A Room in Malefort's House.
Enter Male fort.

What flames are these my wild desires fan in me ?
The torch that feeds them was not lighted at
Thy altars, Cupid : vindicate thyself,
And do not own it ; and confirm it rather,
That this infernal brand, that turns me cinders,
Was by the snake-hair'd sisters thrown into
My guilty bosom. O that I was ever
Accurs'd in having issue ! my son's blood,
(That like the poison'd shirt of Hercules
Grows to each part about me,) which my hate
Forced from him with much willingness, may

admit
Some weak defence; but my most impious love
To my fair daughter Theocrine, none ;
Since my affection (rather wicked lust)
That does pursue her, is a greater crime
Than any detestation, with which
I should af&ict her innocence. With what cunning
I have betray'd myself,* and did not feel
The scorching heat that now with fury rages !
Why was I tender of her? cover'd with
That fond disguise, this mischief stole upon me.
I thought it no offence to kiss her often.

IFith what cunning

I have betrafd myself^ Src^ I hare earsonly said in a subse-
quent scene, that Malefort had been studying 0?id : but the
ipeech before as is so close a translatiQu of the description of

192 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Or twine mine arms about her softer neck/

And by false shadows of a father's kindness

I long deceived myself: but now the effect

Is too apparent. How I strove to be

In her opinion held the worthiest man

In courtship, form, and feature! envying him

That was preferr'd before me ; and yet then

the fatal passion of By bits, that the reader, perhaps, may not
dislike the opportunity of comparing a few lines :

lUa quidem primb nitllos inteUigit ignes ;

Nee peeeare putat, quod s^epius ascula jungat :

Qiwd suafratemo eircumdet brdchia eoUo:

Mendadque diu pietatis faUitur temhrd,

Paullatim declinat amor; visuraqtte fratrem

Culta venit; nimvamque eupitformosa videri:

Et, si qua est Ulic formosior, invidet UU.

Sed nondum manifesta sibi est ; nuUumque sub ilh

Ignefacit voium; verumtamen astuat intus.

Jam dominum adpellat ; jam nomina sanguinis odit :

Byblidajam mavult, quam se vocet ille sororem,

Spes tamen obscanas animo demittere non est

Ausa suo vigikms, placidd resoluta quiete

ScBpe videt, qv^d amat, visa est quoque jungere frairi

Corpus; et erubuit, quamvis sopitajaeebat,

Metam. Lib. ix. 456*

4 Or twine mine arms about her softer neck^l i. e. her soft neck :
our old poets frequently'^dopt, and indeed with singular good
taste, the comparative for the positive. Thus, in a very pretty
passage in the Combat of Love and Friendship, by R. Mead :

•

^^ When I shall sit circled within your armes,
^^ How shall I cast a blemish on your honour, *
'^ And appear onely like some falser stone,
^^ Placed in a ring of gold, which grows a jewel
^' But from the seat which holds it !"

And indeed Massinger himself furnishes numerous instances of
this practice ;. one occurs just below :

«6 which your gentler temper,

^^ On my submission, I hope, infill pardon."

Another we have already had, in the Virgin'Martyr :

^^ Judge not my readier will by the event."

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 193

My wishes to myself were not discoverM.
But still my fires increased, and with delight
I would call her mistress,* willingly forgetting
The name of daughter, choosing rather she
Should style me servant, than, with reverence,

fatner :
Yet, waking, I ne'er cheri8h!d obscene hopes,*
But in my troubled slumbers often thought
She was too near to me, and then sleeping blush'd
At my imagination ; which pass'd,
(My eyes being open not condemning it,)
I was ravish'd with the pleasure of the dream.
Yet, spite of these temptations, I have reason .
That pleads against them, and commands me to
Extinguish these abominable fires :
And I will do it ; I will send her back
To him that loves her lawfully. Within there !

Enter Theocrine.

Theoc. Sir, did you call ?

Makf. I look no sooner on her.
But all my boasted power of reason leaves me,
And passion again usurps her empire. —
Does none else wait me?

Theoc. I am wretched, sir.
Should any owe more duty.

Malef. This is worse
Than disobedience ; leave me.

'^ I would call her mistress, &c.] See p. 185.

^ Ytt^ nf aking, I ne^er cherish*d obscene hope$,] The old copy
reads. Yet mocking,— -if this be the genuine word, it must mean
^' notwithstanding my wanton abuse of the terms mentioned
aboTe, I ne? er cherished,*' &c. ; this is certainly not defectiTe in
tense ; but the rest of the sentence calls so loudly for viaking^
(in allusion to the vigilans of the quotation above) that I have
not scrupled to insert it iii the te%i ; the corruption, at the
press, was sufficiently easy.

VOL, I. O ♦

194 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Theoc. On my knees, sir,
As I have ever squared mv will by yours,
And liked and loathed with your eyes, I beseech

you
To teach me what the nature of my fault is,
That hath incens'd you ; sure 'tis one of weak-
ness
And not of malice, vvhjch your gentler temper^
On my submission, I hope, will pardon :
Whicn granted by your piety, if that I,
Out of the least neglect of mine hereafter,
Make you re'member it, may I sink ever
Under your dread command, sir.

Malef. O my stars !
Who can but aoat on this humility.

That sweetens Lovely in her tears ! The

fetters
That seem'd to lessen in their weight but now,'
By this grow heavier on me. [Aside,

Tfieoc. Dear sir —

7 0 my stars f

Who can hut doat on this humility ^

That siDeetenS'-''''^Lo'oely in her tears /— — The fetters,

That seem'd to lessen in their weight but now,

By this groro heavier on me.] So 1 Tentnre to point the passage :
it is abrupt, aod denotes the distracted state of the speaker^!
mind* It stands thns in Mr. M. Mason :

Malef. 0 my stars ! who can hut d'oat on this humility *
Thai sweetens (lovely in her tears J the fetters
That seemed to lessen in their weight ; hut now
By this grow heavier on me.

Coxeter follow^ the old copies, which only differ from this, in
placing a note of interrogation after tears. Both are evidently
wrong, becaase nninteUigible.

The reader must not be surprised at the portentous verse
which begins the quotation from Mr. M. Mason. Neither he,
norCoxeter, nor Dodsley^ seems to have had the smallest solici-
tude (I will notiKty kiiowledge) respecting the metre of their
author: and Massinger, the most harmonious of poets, appears.
In their desultory pages, as uatuneable as Marston or Donne.

THE UNNATURAL CX)MBAT. 195

■

Malef. Peace!
I must not hear thee.

Thcoc. Nor look on me ?

Makf. No,
Thy- looks and words are charms.

Tkeoc. May they have power then
To calm the tempest of your wrath ! Alas, sir,
Did I but know in what I give offence,
In my repentance I would shew my sorrow
For what is past, and, in my care hereafter.
Kill the occasion, or cease to be:
Since life, without your favour, is to me
A load I would cast off.

Makf. O that my heart
Were rent in sunder,^hat I might expire,
The cause in my death buried!* yet I know

. not

With such prevailing oratory 'tis begg'd from me,
That to deny thee would convince me to
Have suck*cl the milk of tigers ; rise, and I,
* But in a perplex'd and tnysterious method^
Will make relation ; That which all the world
Admires and cries \ip in thee for perfections.
Are to unhappy me foul blemishes,
And mulcts in nature. If thou hadst been born*

* The cause in my decUh buried ! yet I know not ] Meaning,

I apprehend, that his incestuous passion tras perhaps suspected.
As this passage has been hitherto pointed, it was not to be an-
derstood.

' But in a perplexed and mysterioua methodfl We haye already
had this expression from the son :

^^ But in a perpiex'd form and method,'' &c. p. 152.

And nothing can more strongly express the character of this
most vicious father, whose crimes were too horrible for his son
to express, and whose wishes are too flagitioas for bia^oghter
to hear.
9 If thou hadst been bom^ 8cqJ\ Thus in King John:

^^ If thou, that bid'st me be content, wcrt grim,

02 *

196 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Deform'd and crooked in the features of
^hy body, as- the manners of thy mind ;
Moor-lipp'd, flat-nosed, dim-eyed, and beetle-
browed,
With a dwarfs stature to a giant's waist ;
Sour-breath 'd, <^ith claws for fingers on thy

hands,
Splay-footed, gouty-legg'd, and over all .
A loathsome leprosy had spread itself,
And made thee shunn'd of human fellowships;
I had been blest.

Theoc. Why, would you wish a monster
(For such a one, or worse, you have described)
To call you father ?

Malef. Rather than as now,
(Though I had drown'd t15ee for it in the sea,)
Appearing, as thou dost, a new Pandora,
With Juno's fair cow-eyes,* Minerva's brow;,
Aurora's blushing cheeks, Hebe's fresh youth,
Venus' soft paps, with Thetis' silver feet,

Theoc. Sir, you have liked and loved them, and
oft forced.
With your hyperboles of praise pour'd on them.
My modesty to a defensive red,

** Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb,
^^ Full of nnpleasing blots, and sightless stains,
*^ Lame, foolish^ crooked, swart, prodigious,
^^ Patch'd with foul moles, and eye*offending marks,
^^ I would not care, I then would be content ;
^^ For then I should not loye thee ;" Coxeteb.

' With JunoUfair cow-eyes, &<c«] These lines are an imme-
diate translation from a pretty Greek epigram :

O^/aat' f vi (( HfDf, Mf Arm, Tac ^itf Af AOijvd^,

T»$ ^i^mfyq Xla^vnq^ T» a^vpet m; GfTtlb;, 8cc, DoDD*

These cow^es^ howerer, make but a sorry kind of an appear*
ance in English poetry ; but so it ever will be when the figura-
tive terms of one language are literally applied to another. See
the Emperor of the Easty Vol. III.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 197

Strew'd o'er that paleness, which you then were

pleased
To style the purest white.

Makf. And in that cup
I drank the poison I now feel dispersed
Through every vein and artery. Wherefore -art

thou
So cruel to me ? This thy outward shape
Brought a fierce war against nie, not to be '
By flesh and blood resisted : but to leave me
No hope of freedom, from the magazine
Of thy mind's forces, treacherously thou drcw'st up
Auxiliary helps to strengthen that
Which was already in itself too patent.
Thy beauty gave the first charge, but thy duty^
Seconded with thy care and watchful studies
To please^ and serve my will, in all that might
Raise up content in me, like thunder brake

tnrough
All opposition ; and, my ranks of reason
Disbanded, my victorious passions fell
To bloody execution, and compelled me
With willing hands to tie on my own chains,
And, with a kind of flattering joy; to glory
In my captivity.

Theoc. I, in this you speak, sir,
Am ignorance itself.

Malef. And so continue ;
For knowledge of the arms thou bear'st against me,
Would make thee curse thyself^ but yield no aids
For thee to help me : and 'twere cruelty
In me to wound that spotless innocence,
However it make me guilty. In a word,
Thy plurisy* of goodness is thy ill ;

^Thy plarisy of goodness is thy ill;] i. e. thy superabundance
of goodness : the wonght is from Shakspeare :

^^ For goodness, growing to a plurisyy
^^ IMes in his own too much.''

198 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT,

Thy virtacs vices, and thy humble lowtiess
Far worse than stubborn sullenness and pride ;
Thy looks, that ravish all beholders else,
As killing as the basilisk's^ thy tears,
Expressed in sorrow for the much I suiFer»
A glorious insultaticti,' and no sign
Of pity in thee ; and to hear thee speak
In thy defence, though but in silent action,
Would make the hurt, already deeply fester'd,.
Incurable : and therefore, as thou wouldst not
By thy presence raise fresh furies to torment me,
I do conjure thee by a father's power,
(And 'tis my curse I dare not tnink it lawful
To sue unto thee in a nearer name,)
Without reply to leave me.

Theoc. My obedience
Never learn'd yet to question your com.mands,
But willingly to serve them ; yet I must,
Since that your will forbids the knowledge of
My fault, lament my fortune. [Exit.

Malef. O that I
Have reason to discern the better way.
And yet pursue the worse !* When I look on her,
I burn with heat, and in her absence freeze
With the cold blasts of jealousy, that another
Should e'er taste those delights that are denied
«. me;

And which of these afflictions brings less torture,
I hardly can distinguish : Is there then
No mean? no \ so my understanding tells me,

^ A glorions insultation^] See p. 14^
♦ Malef. 0 that I

Have reason to discern the better Wi^y,

And yet pursue the worse /] This had been said before by
Medea:

— _ >oideo meliora, proboquef

Deteriora sequor*

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 199

And that by my cross fates it is determined
That I am both ways wretched.

Enter Usher and Monteeville.

Ush. Yonder he wallcs, sir,
In much vexation : he hath sent my lady,
His daughter, weeping in ; but what the cause is^
Rests yet in supposition.

Montr, I guess at it,
But must be further satisfied ; I will sift him
In private, therefore quit the room.

XJ^h. I am gone, sir. \Es%t.

Malef. Ha! who disturbs me? Montreville !
your pardon.

Montr. Would you could grant one to your*
self! I speak it
With the assumnce of a friend, and yet,
Before it be too late, make reparation
Of the gross wrong your indiscretion oiFer'd
To the governor and his son; nay, to yourself;
For there begins my sorrow.

Makf. Would I had
No greater cause to mourn, than their displeasure!
For I dare justify — —

Montr. We must not do*
All that we dare. We're private, friend. I ob-
served
Your alterations with a stricter eye,
Perhaps, than others ; and, to lose no time
In repetition, your strange demeanour
To your sweet daughter.

Makf. Would you could find out
Some other theme to treat of!

^ We must not do &c.] This and the two next speeches art
jjftmbled eotirelj oat of metre hy )the modern, editors. It seems
odd that thejr should not knoir whether they were printing
prose or verse.

200 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT

Montr. None but this ;
And this I'll dwell on ; how ridiculous^
And subject to construction •

Malef. No more !

Montr. You made yourself, amazes me, and if
The frequent trials interchanged between us
Of love and friendship, be to their desert
Esteemed by you, as tney hold weight with me,
No inward trouble should be of ^ shape
So horrid to yourself, but that to me
You stand bound to discover it, and unlock
Youi secret'st thoughts ; though the most inno-
cent were
Loud crying sins«

Malef, And so, perhaps, they are :
And therefore be not curious to learn that
Which, known, must make you hate me.

Montr. Think not so.
I am yours in right and wrong ; nor shall you

find
A verbal friendship in me, but an active ;
And here I vow, I shall no sooner know
What the disease is, but, if you give leave,
I will apply a remedy. Is it madness?
*I am familiarly acquainted with
A deep-read man, that can with charms and herbs
Restore you to your reason : or, suppose
You are bewitch'd, — he with more potent spells

^ I am familiarly acquainted toith a deepTead matif
That can with charms and herbs] So the lines stand in all th&
editions: upon which Mr. M. Mason remarks, for the first and
only time, that the metre requires a different division. This is
well thought of! In hi^ edition, the Unnatural Combat stands
towards the end of the third volume, and, to speak moderately,
I have already corrected his Tersification in a hundred places
within the compass of as many pages: nay, of the little which
has passed since the entrance of Montre? ille, nearly a moiety
ha3 undergone a new arrangement*

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. «6l

And magical rites shall cure you. Is't heaven's
anger?

With penitence and sacrifice appease it.

Beyond this, there is nothing tnat I can
Imagine dreadful : in your rame and fortunes
You are secure ; your impious son removed too,
That render'd you suspected to the state ;
And your fair daughter

Malef. Oh ! press me no further.

Montr. Are you wrung there ! Why, what of
her? hath she
Made shipwreck of her honour, or conspired
Against your life ? or seal'd a contract with
The devil of hell, for the recovery of
Her young Inamorato ?

Malef. None of these ;
And yet, what must increase the wonder in you.
Being innocent in herself, she hath wounded me;
But where, enquire not. Yet, I know not how
I am persuaded, from my confidence
Of your vow'd love to me, to trust you with
My dearest secret ; pray you chide me for it.
But with a kind of pity, not insulting
On my calamity.

Montr. Forward.

Malef. This same daughter

Montr. What is her fault ?

Malef. i^e is too fair to me.

Montr. Ha ! how is this ?

Malef. And I have look'd upon her
More than a father should, and languish to
Enjoy her as a husband.

Montr. Heaven forbid it !

Malef. And this is all the comfort you can give
me !
Where are.your promised aids, your charms, your
herbs.

aoa THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Your dcep*read scholar's spells and magic rites?
Can all these disenchant me ? -No, I must be
My own physician, and upon myself
Practise a desperate cure,

Montr. Do not contemn me :
Enjoin me what you please, with any hazard
ril undertake it. What means hj^ve you practised
To quench this hellish fire ?

Malef. All I could think on.
But to no purpose ; and yet sometimes absence .
Does yield a kind of intermission to
The fury of th§ fit

Montr. See her no more, then.

Makf. Tis my last refuge ; and *t was my intent.
And still 'tis, to desire your help«

Montr. Command it.

Malef. Thus then : you have a fort, of which
you are
The absolute lord, whither, I pray you, bear her:
And that the sight of her may not again
JSourish those flames, which I feel something

lessen'd,
By all the ties of friendship I conjure you,
And by a solemn oath you must confirm it,
That though my now calm'd passions should rage

higher
Than ever heretofore, and so compel me
Once more to wish to see her; though I use
Persuasions mix'd with threatnings, (nay, add

to it.
That I^ this failjng, should with hands held up

thus,
Kneel at your feet, and bathe them with my tears,)
Prayers or curses, vows or imprecations,
Only to look upon her, though at distance, .
You still must be obdurate.

Montr. If it be

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 203

Your pleasure, sir, that I shall be unmoved,
I will eaddavour.

Malef. You must swear to be
Inexorable, as you would prevent
The greatest mischief to your friend, that, fate
Could throw upon him.

Montr. Well, I will obey you.
But how the governor will be answer'd yet.
And 'tis material, is not consider'd.

Makf. Leave that to me* I'll presently give
order
How you shall surprise her; be not frighted

^ with
Her exclamations.

Montr. Be you constant to
Your resolution, I will not fail
In what concerns my part.

Malef. Be ever bless'd for't ! ' \Exeunt.

SCENE IL

A Street.

Enter Beaufort junior^ Chamont, and

Lanoub.

Cham. Not to be spoke with, say you ?

Beauf.jun. No.

Lan. Nor you
Admitted to have conference with herP

Beauf.jun. Neither.
His doors are fast lock'd up, and solitude
Dwells round about them, no access allow'd
To friend or enemy ; but

Cham. Nay, be not moved, sir ;

804 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

IiCt his passion work, and, like a hot-rein'd horse/
Twill quickly tire itself.

Beauf.jun. Or in his death,
Which, for her sake, till now I have forborn,
I will revenge the injury he hath done to
My true and lawful love.

Lan. How does your father.
The governor, relish it ?

Beauf. jun. Troth, he never had
Affection to the match ; yet in his pity
To me, he's gone in person to his house,
Nor will he be denied ; and if he find not
Strong and fai r reasons, Malefort will hear from him
In a kind he does not look for.

Cham. In the mean time,
Pray you put on cheerful looks.

Enter Montaigne.

Beatif.jun. Mine suit my fortune.

Lan. O, here's Montaign.

Mont I never could have met you
More opportunely. I'll not stale the jest
By my relation;' but if you will look on

andy like a hoUrtifCd horse^

'Twill quickly tire itself. "l This is from Shakspeare,

^^ ———Anger is like

^" A full hot horse, who being allow'd his way,
^^ Self-mettle tires him." Coxeter.

ril not stale the jest

By my relation ;] i. e. render it flat, deprire it of zest by
preTious intimation. This is one of a thousand instances which
mi^ht be brought to prove that the true reading in. C§riolanus,
Act J. sc. 1, is,

" I shall tell you

" A pretty tale ; it may be, you hate heard it ;

*^ But since it serres my purpose* I will renture

" To staUn a little more/'.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. S05

«

The malecontent Belgarde, newly rigg'd up,
With the train that follows him/twill be an object
Worthy of your noting.

Beauf.jun. Look you the comedy
Make good the prologue, or the scorn will dwell
Upon yourself.

Mont. I'll hazard that ; observe now.

Beloarde comes out of his house in a gallant habit ;
stays at the door with his sword drawn.

Seoeral voices within. Nay, captain ! glorious
captain !

Belg. Fall back, rascals !
Do you make an owl of me ? this day I will
Receive no more petitions. —
Here are bills of all occasions, and all sizes !
If this be the pleasure of a rich suit, would I were
Again in my buff jerkin, or my armour !
Then I walked securely by my creditors* noses,
Not a dog marked me ; every officer shunn'd me,
And not one lousy prison would receive me :

The old copies bare scale^ for which Theobald judiciously pro.
posed stale. To this Warburton objects petulantly enough, it
must be confessed, because to fca^ signifies to weigh; so, indeed,
it does, and many other things; none of which, however, bear
any relation to the text. Steevens, too, prefers ectde^ which
he proves, from a Tariety of authorities, to mean ^^ scatter,
disperse, spread ;'' to make any of them, however, suit his pur-
pose, he is obliged to give an unfaithful version of the text :
^' Though 9omt of you have heard the story, I will spread it yet
wider, and diflfhse it among the rest J* There' is notiiing of this
in Shakspeare; and indeed I cannot avoid looking upon the
whole of his long note, as a feeble attempt to justify a palpable
^rror of the press, at the cost of taste and sense.
^ The mistakes of Steevens are dangerous, and should be noticed*
They have seduced the editors of Beaumont and Fletcher, who
have brought back to the text of their authors, a corruption long
since removed, on the authority (as they say) of the quotations
produced in the note to Coriolanus. See Vol. V II. p. 958«

S06 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

• I

But now, as the ballad says, I am turned gallant^
Tb^re does not live that thing I owe a sous to^
But does torment nie* A faithful cobler told xne»
With his awl in his hand, I was behindhand with

him
For setting me upright, and bade me look to

myself.
A sempstress too, that traded but in socks,
Swore she would set a serjeant on my back
For a borrowed ^hirt : my pay, and the benevo-
lence
The governor and the states bestow'd upon me.
The city cormorants, my money-mongers,
Have swallow'd down already ; they were sums,
I grant, — ^but that I should be such a fool.
Against my oath, being a cashierM. cap tain,
To pay debts, though grown up to one and

twenty,
Deserves more reprehension, in my judgment,
Than a shopkeeper, or a lawyer that lends

money,
In a long dead vacation.

Mont. How do you like
His meditation ?

Cham. Peace 1 let him proceed.
Bdg, I cannot now go on the score for shame.
And where I shall begin to pawn— ay, marry.
That is consider'd timely! 1 paid for
This train of yours, dame Estridge,* fourteen

crowns, , '

And yet it is so light, 'twill hardly pass
For a tavern reckoning, unless it be,
To save the charge of painting^ nail'd on a post.
For the sign of the feathers. Pox upon the fashion.

I paid for

This train of yours^ dame Estridge^'] i.e. this tail; there if
some humour in this liTely apostrophe to the ostrich.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 207

That a captain cannot think himself a captain.
If he wear not this, like a fore-horse ! yet it is

not
Staple commodity : these are perfumed too
O* the Roman wash, and yet a stale red herring
Would fill the belly better, and hurt the head

less :
And this is Venice gold ; would I had it again
In French crowns in my pocket ! O you com-
mander,
That, like me, have no dead pays, nor can

cozen
The commissary at a muster,' let me stand
For an example to you ! as you would
Enjoy your privileges, videUcet^
To pay your debts, and take your letchery

gratis;
To have your issue warm*d by others fires ;
To be ofjten drunk, and swear, yet pay no

forfeit
To the poor, but when you share with one

another ;
With all your other choice immunities :
Only of this I seriously advise you.

O you commanderiy

Thatf like me, have no dead pays^ nor can cozen
The commmary at a muiter^ The collasoiy practices hem
aHoded to (as Mr. Gilchrist obienres) appear not to hare been
unfrequent, and indeed, sir W. D* ATenaat, with this, mentions
many similar corruptions in the ^^ war department'* of his
time :

*^ Can you not gull the state finely,
^^ Muster up your ammuniUon cassocks staff'd with straw,
<^ Number a hundred forty nine dead pays,
^^ And thaiik hearen for yenr arithmetic ?
^' Cannot you clothe your ragged infantry
^^ With cabbage leares ? devour the reckonings,
^^ And grow fat in the ribs, but you must hinder
^^ Poor ancients from eating warm beef?'* The Siege^ Act III.

«08 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Let courtiers* trip like courtiers, and your lordd
Of dirt and dunghills mete their woods and

acres,
In velvets, satins, tissues ; but keep you
Constant to cloth and shamois.

Mont. Have you heard
Of such a penitent homily ?

Belg. I am studying now
Where I shall hide myself till the rumour of
My wealth and bravery vanish :' let me see,
There is a kind of vaulting-house not far off,
Where I used to spend my afternoons, among
Suburb she-gamesters ; and yet, now I think on't,
I have crack'd a ring or two there, which they

made
Others to solder: No

Enter a Bawd, and two Courtezans with two

Children.

1. Court. O ! have we spied you !

Bawd. Upon him without ceremony ! now's

the time. '

While he's in the paying vein.
S. Court. Save you, brave captain !
Beauf.jun. 'Slight, how he stares ! they are

worse than she-wolves to him.

* Let courtiersj &c.] The reader will smile at the accarate
notions of metre possessed bj the former editors : this and the
four following lines stand thus in Coxeter, and M. Mason :

Let courtieri trip like courtiers,
And your lords of dirt and dunghills mete
Their woods and acres, in velvets^ satinSy tissues ;
But keep you^ constant to cloth and shamois.

Mont. Have you heard of such a penitent homily f

^ My wealth and bravery Danish.] Braoery is used by all the
writers of Massinger's time^ for ostentations finery of appareL

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. S09

Belg. Shame me not in the streets; I was
cominff to vou.

1 Court. O, sir, you may in public pay for the

fiddling
You had in private.

2 Court, We hear you are full of crowns, sir.

1 Court And therefore, knowing you are open-

handed, \

Before all be destroyed, I'll put you in mind, sir,
Of your young heir here.

2 Court. Here's a second, sir.
That looks for a child's portion.

J5^r£;rf.^ There are reckonings
For muscadine and eggs too, m\ist be thought on.
- 1 Court. We have not been hasty, sir.

Bawd. But staid your leisure :
But now you are ripe, and loaden with fruit

2 Court. 'Tis fit you should be puU'd ; here's
a boy, sir,
Pray you, kiss him ; 'tis your own, sir.

1 Court. Nay, buss this first.
It hath just your eyes; and such a promising

nose,
That, if the sign deceive me not, in time
'Twill prove a notable striker,* like his father.

Belg. And. yet you laid it to another.

1 Court. True,
While you were poor ; and it was policy ;
But she that has variety of fathers,
And makes not choice of him that can maintain it,
Ne'er studied Aristotle/

Lan. A smart quean !

^ ^Tmll prove a notable sinkeTy] A striker is a, xoencher : th^
word occurs again in the Parliament of Love.

s Ne^er studied Aristotle.] This has been hitherto printed,
Ne^er studied Aristotle's problems: a prosaic redundancy, of
which every reader of Massinger will readily acquit him.

VOL. I, P *

210 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Belg. Why, braches, will you worry me ?•

2 Court. No, but ease you
Of your golden burthen ; the heavy carriage may
Bring you to a sweating sickness.

Belg. Very likely ;
I foam all o'er already.

1 Court. Will you come off, sir?'

Belg. Would I had ne'er come on ! Hear me
with patience,
Or I will anger you. Go to, you know me ;
And do not vex me further : by my sins,
And your diseases, which are certain truths.
Whatever you think, I am not master, at
This instant, of a livre.

^ Belg. Why J braches, will pau worry ntef ] A brache is a female
hound. It is strange to see what quantities of paper have been
wasted in confounding the sense of this plain word. The pages
of Shakspeare, and Jonson, and Fletcher, are incumbered with
endless quotations, which generally leave the reader as ignorant
as they found him. One, however, which has escaped the
commentators, at least the material part of it, is worth all that
they hare advanced on the word : The GentlemarCs Recreation^ p.28«
^^ There are in England and Scotland two kinds of hunting dogs,
and no where else in the world ; the first kind is called a rache^
and this is a foot scenting creature both of wilde-beasts, birds,
and fishes also which lie hid among the rocks. The female hereof in
England is called a brache: a brache is A mankerit name for all
houndJfitches :^^ and, when we Siddyforall others, it will surely be
allowed that enough has been said on the subject.

* Bring you to a sweating ^itekness.] This alludes to a species
of plague, (sudor anglicus^J peculiar, the physicians say, to this
country, where it made dreadful ravages in the 16th century. It
is frequently mentioned by our old writers.

^ 1 Court. Will you come off, sir f } 1. e. Will yott pay, sir ?
so the word is used by all our old dramatic wrileifs :

" -~ if he

^^ In the old justice's: suit, whom he robb'd lately^
*' Will come ^roundly, we'll set him free too.*'

The Widow.
Again^ i^ the Wedding j by Shirley:

^f yfhdt was the price you took for Gratiana ?

^' Did Marwood come cff roundly with his wages ?"

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 2 1 1

2 Court. What, and in
Such a glorious suit !

Belg. The liker, wretched things,
To have no money.

Bawd. You may pawn your clothes, sir.

1 Court. Wjll you see your issue starve ?

2 Court. Or the mothers beg ?

Belg. Why, you unconscionable strumpets,
would you have me,
Transform my hat to double clouts and biggins?
My corselet to a cradle ?. or my belt
To swaddlebands ? or turn my cloak to blankets?
Or to sell my sword and spurs, for soap and

candles?
Have you no mercy ? what a chargeable devil
We carry in our breeches !

Beaiif.jun. Now 'tis time
To fetch him off. \They comejorward.

Enter Beaufort senior.

Mont. Your father does it for us.

Bawd. The governor ! \

Beauf. sen. What are these ?

1 Court. An it like your lordship.
Very poor spinsters.

Bawd. I am his nurse and laundress.

Belg. You have nurs'd and launder'd me, hell
take you for it !
Vanish !

Cham. Do, do, and talk with him hereafter.

1 Court. Tis our best course.

2 Court. We'll find a time to .fit him.

{Exeunt Bawd and Courtesans.
Beauf. sen. Why in this heat, Belgarde?
Belg. You are the cause oft.
Beauf. sen. Who, I ?
Belg. Yes, your pied livery and your gold

212 THE. UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Draw these vexations on me ; pray you strip me,
And let me be as I was : I will not lose
The pleasures and the freedom which I had
In my certain poverty, for all the wealth
Fair France is proud of.

Beauf. 6'en. We at better leisure
Will learn the cause of this.

Beauf. jun. What answer, sir,
From the admiral ?

Beauf. sen. None ; his daughter is removed
To the fort of Montreville, and he himself
In person fled, but where, is not disco ver'd :
I could tell you wonders, but the time denies me
Fit liberty. In a word, let it suffice
The power of our great master is contemn'd,-
The sacred laws of God and man profandd ;
And if I sit down with this injury,
I am unworthy of my place, and thou
Of my acknowledgment : draw up all the troops ;
As l.go, I will instruct you to what purpose.
Such as have power to punish, and yet spare,
From fear or from connivance, others ill,
Though not in act, assist them in their will.

[Exeunt.

ACT V. SCENE I,

A Street near Malefort's House.

Enter Montrevii/J.e and Servants, a;iM Theo-
"cRiNE, Page, flrwrf Waiting- wonien.

^Montr. Bind them, and gag their mouths sure ;
I alone
Will be your convoy.
1 Worn. Madam I

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT, 213

2 IVoin. Dearest lady !

Page. Let me fight for my mistress.

Serv. Tis in vain,
Little cockerel of the kind.

Montr. Away with them,
And do as I command you.

[Exeunt Servants with Page and fVaiiing-women.

Theoc. Montreville,
You are my father's friend ;. nay more, a soldier,
And if a right one, as I hope to find you,
Though in a lawful war you had surprised
A city, that bow'd humbly to your pleasure,
In honour you stand bound to guard a virgin
From violence ; but in a free estate.
Of which you are a limb, to do a wrong
Which noble enemies never consent to,
Is such an insolence

Montr. How her heart beats !'
Much like a partridge in a sparhawk's foot,
That with a panting silence does lament
The fate she cannot fly from ! — Sweet, take com-
fort.
You are safe, and nothing is intended to you.
But love and service.

Theoc. They came never clothed
In force and outrage. Upon what assurance
(Remembering, only that my father lives,
Who will not tamely 3ufFer the disgrace,)
Have you presumed to hurry me from his house.
And, as I were not worth the waiting on,
To snatch me from the duty and attendance
Of my poor servants ?

Montr. Let not that afflict you,
You shall not want observance ; I will be

* Montr. How fier heartbeats/ &c«] This is a?ery pretty simile,
and, though not altogether new^ is made striking by the eleganct
with which it is expressed*

214 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Your page, your woman, parasite, or fool,
Or any other property, provided
You answer my affection.

Theoc. In what kind ?

Montr. As you had done young Beaufort's.

Theoc. How !

Montr. So, lady ;
Or, if the name of wife appear a yoke
Too heavy for your tender neck, sal
Enjoy you as a private friend or mistress,
Twill be sufficient.

Theoc. Blessed angels guard me !
What frontl^ss impudence is this? what devil
Hath, to thy certain ruin, tempted thee
To otfer me this motion? by my hopes
Of after joys, submission nor repentance
Shall expiate this foul intent.

Montr. Intent !
'Tis more, I'll make it act.

Theoc. Ribald, thou darest not :
And if (and with a fever to thy soul)
Thou but consider that I have a father,
And such a father, as, when this arrives at
His knowledge, as it shall, the terror of
His vengeance, which as sure as fate must follow.
Will make thee curse the hour in which lust

taught thee
To nourish tiiese bad hopes; — and 'tis my wonder
Thou darest forget how tender he is of me.
And that each shadow of wrong done to me.
Will raise in him a tempest not to be
But with thy heart-blood calm'd : this, when I see
him

Montr. As thou shalt never,

Theoc. Wilt thou murder me ?

Montr. No, no, 'tis otherwise determined, fool.
The master which in passion kills his slave

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 215

That may be useful to him, does himself

The injury: know, thou most wretched creature,

That father thou presumcst upon, that father.

That, when I sought thee in a noble way,

Denied thee to me, fancying in his hope

A higher match, from his excess of dotage,

Hath in his bowels kindled such a flame

or impious and most unnatural lust.

That now he fears his furious desires

May force him to do that, he shakes to think on,

Theoc. O me, most wretched !

Montr. Never hope again
To blast'him with those eyes : their golden beams
Are unto him arrows of death and hell,
But untq me divine artillery.
And therefore, since what I so long in vain
Pursued, is offered to me, and by him
Given up to my possession ; do not flatter
Thyself with an imaginary hope.
But that I'll take occasion by the forelock,
And make use of my fortune. As we walk,
ril tell thee more.

Theoc. I will not stir.

Montr. I'll force thee.

Theoc. Help, help !

Montr. In vain.

Theoc. In me my brother's blood
Is punish'd at the height.

Montr. The coach there!

Theoc. Dear sir

Montr. Tears, curses, prayers, are alike to me ;
I can, and must enjoy my present pleasure.
And shall take time to mourn for it at leisure.

[He bears her off.

216 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

SCENE II.

» A Space before the Fort.

Enter Malefobt.

I have play'd the fool, the gross fool, to believe
The bosom of a friend will hold a secret,
Mine own could not contain ; and my industry
In taking liberty from my innocent daughter,
Out of false hopes of freedom to myself.
Is, in the little help it yields me, punish'd.
She's absent, but I have her figure here ;
And every grace and rarity about her,
Are by the pencil of my memory,
In living colours painted on my heart.
My fires too, a short interim closed up.
Break out with greater fury. Why was I,
Since 'twas my fate, and not to be declined.
In this so tender-conscienccd? Say I had
Enjoy'd what I desired, what had it been
But incest ? and there's something here that tells

me
I stand accomptable for greater sins
I never check'd at.* Neither had the crime
Wanted a precedent : I have read in story,*

9 and there 8 something here that tells me

I stand accomptable for greater sins

I ntoer checked at.} These dark allusions to a dreadful fact,
are introduced with admirable judgment, as they awaken, with,
out gratifying, the curiosity of the reader, and continue the
interest of the story.

* • ''I have read in story, &c.] He had been study.

ing Oyid, and particularly the dreadful story of Myrrha. This
wretched attempt of Malefort (a Christian, at least in name, we
may suppose) to palliate, or defend his meditated crime^ by the

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 217

Those first great heroes, that, for their brave

deeds,
Were in the world's first infancy styled gods,
Freely cnjoy'd what I denied myself.
Old Saturn, in the golden age, embraced
His sister Ops, and, in the same degree.
The Thunderer Juno, Neptune Thetis, and.
By their example, after the first deluge,
Deucalion Pyrrha. Universal nature,
As every day 'tis evident, allows it
To creatures of all kinds : the gallant horse
Covers the mare to which he was the sire ;
The bird with fertile seed gives new increase
To her that hatch'd him : why should envious

man then
Brand that close act, which adds proximity
To what's most near him, with the abhorred

title
Of incest? or our later laws forbid.
What by the first was granted ? Let old men,
That arc not capable of these delights,
And solemn superstitious fools, prescribe
Rules to themselves ; I will not curb my freedom,
But constantly go on, with this assurance,
I but walk in a path which greater men
Have trod before me. Ha ! this is the fort : ,
Open the gate ! Within, there !

Enter two Soldiers.

1 Sold. With your pardon
Wd must forbid your entrance.

examples of fabulous deities, men in a state of nature, and beasts,
is a just and striking picture of the eagerness with which a
mind resolved on guilt, ministers to its own deception. This,
in^he Scripture phraseology, is called, ^^ hardening the hefirt;"
and seems to be the last stage of human depraration.

«18 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

Malef. Do you know me ?
. 2 Sold. Perfectly, my lord.

Malef. I am [your] captain's friend.

\ S^ld. It may be so; but till we know his
pleasure.
You must excuse us.

2 Sold. We'll acquaint him with
Your waiting here.

Malef. Waiting, slave I he was ever
By me commanded.

1 Sold. As we are by him.

Malef. So punctual ! pray you then, in my
name entreat
His presence.

i Sold. That we shall do. [Exeunt Sold.

Malef. I must use
Some strange persuasions to work hina to
Deliver her, and to forget the vows,
And horrid oaths I, in my madness, made him
Take to the contrary : and may I get her
Once more in my possession, I will bear her
Into some dose cave or desert, where we'll

end
Our lusts and lives together.

Enter Montbevi lle and Soldiers, vpon the fFalk.

Montr. Fail not, on
The forfeit of your lives, to execute
What I command. ^Exeunt Soldiers.

Malef. Montreville ! bow is't friend ?

Montr. I am gl^d to see you wear such cheerful
looks;
The world's well alter'd.

Malef. Yes, I thank my stars :
But methinks thou art troubled.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 219

Montr. Some ligbt croas^ • .'

But of no moment.

Malef. So I hope : beware
Of sad and impious thoughts ; you kno:<«r hiDW far
They wrought on me. ^

Montr. No such come near me, sir. . ■ -

I have, like you, no daughter, and much wi^h
You tiever had been eurs'd with one*' . ; "

Malef. Who, I? ■

Thou art deceived, I am most happy in bcr. .

Montr. I am glad to hear it.

Malef. My incestuous fires
To'ards her are quite burnt out ; I love her now
As a father, and no further.

Montr. Fix there then
Your constant peace, and do not try a second
Temptation from her.

Malef Yt^^ friend, though she' were
By millions of degrees more excellent
In her perfections ; nay, though she could borrow
A form angelical to take ray frailty,
It would not do : and therefore, Montreviile^
My chief delight next her, I come to tell thee,
The governor and I are reconciled,
And I confirmed, and with all possible speed,
To make large satisfaction to 3'oung Beaufort,
And her, whom I have so mucn wrong'd; and for
Thy trouble in her custody, of which
I'll now discharge thee, there is nothing in
My nerves or fortunes, but shall ever be
At thy devotion.

Montr. You promise fairly,
Nor doubt I the performance ; yet I would not
Hereafter be reported to have been
The principal occasion of your falling
Into a relapse : or but suppose, out of

220 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

The easiness of my nature, and assurance
You are firm and can hold out, I could consent ;
You needs must know there are so manv lets*
That make against it, that it is my wonder
You offer me the motion ; having bound me,
With oaths and imprecations, on no terms,
Reasons, or arguments, you could propose,
I ever should admit you to her sight,
Much less restore her to you.

Malef. Are we soldiers,
And stand on oaths !

Montr. It is beyond my knowledge
In what we are more worthy, than in keeping^
Our words, much more our vows.

Malef. Heaven pardon all !
How many thousands, in bur heat of wine.
Quarrels, -and play, and in our younger days,
In private I may say, between ourselves, "^
In points of love, have we to answer for,
Should we be scrupulous that way ?

Montr. You say well :
And very aptly call to memory
Two oaths, against all ties and rites of friendship,
Broken by you to me.

Malef, No more of that.

Montr. Yes, 'tis material, and to the purpose :
The first (and think upon't) was, when I brought you
As a visitant to my mistress then, (the mother
Of this same daughter,) whom, with dreadful

words,
Too hideous to remember, you swore deeply
For my sake never to attempt; yet then,
Then, when you had a sweet wife of your own,
I know not with what arts, philtres, and charms

* You needs mitst know there are so many lets] i. e. impedi-
mentS) obstacles, &c. See the Virgin'Martyr^ p. 25.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 221

(Unless in wealth' and fame you were above me)
You won her from me ; and, her grant o'btain'd,
A marriage with the second waited on
The burial of the first, that to the world
Brought your dead son: this! sat tamely down by,
Wanting, indeed-, occasion and power
To be at the height reveilged.

Malef. Yet this you seem'd
Freely to pardon.

Montr. As perhaps I did.
Your daughter Theocrine growing ripe,
(Her mother too deceased,) and fit for marriage,
I was a suitor for her, had your word,
Upon your honour, and our friendship made
Authentical, and ratified with an oath,
She should be mine: but vows with you beinglike
To your religion, a nose of wax
To be turn'd every way, that very day
The governor's son but making his approaches
Of courtship to her, the wind of your ambition
For her advancement, scatter'd the thin sand
In which you wrote your full consent to me,
- And drew you to his party. What hath pass'd since,
You bear a register in your own bosom,
That can at large inform you,

Malef. Montreville,
I do confess all that you charge me with
To be strong truth, and that I bring a cause
Most miserably guilty, and acknowledge
That though your goodness made me mine awn

j^idge,
I should not shew the least compassion
Or mercy to myself. O, let not yet
My foulness taint your pureness, or my falsehood
Divert the torrent of your loyal faith !

a

{Unkss in wealth &c.] i. e. Unkss it ivere that in wealthy &c.

222 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

My ills, if not return'd by you, will add
Lustre to your much good ; and to overcome
With noble sufferance, will express your strength,
And triumph o'er my weakness. If you please too.
My black deeds being only known to you,
And, in surrendering up my daughter, buried,
You not alone make me your slave, (for I
At, no part do deserve the name of friend,)
But in your own breast raise a monument
Of pity to a wretch, on whom with justice
You may express all cruelty.

Montr. You much move me.

Malef. O that I could but hope it! To revenge
An injury, is proper to the wishes
Of feeble women, that want strength to act it :'
But to have power to punish, and yet pardon,
Peculiar to princes. See ! these kneea, [Kneels.
That have been ever stiff to bend to heaven.
To you are supple. Is there aught beyond this
That may speak my submission ? or can pride
(Though I well know it is a stranger to you)
Desire a feast of more humility,
To kill her growing appetite r

Montr. I required not
To be sought to this poor way;* yet 'tis so far
A kind of satisfaction, that I will
Dispense a little with those serious oaths

To revenge

An injury is proper to the wiskes
Of feeble wotnen, that want strength to act it .*]

' ■■ Quippe nunuti
Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas
Ultio, Continub sic coUige^ qubd vindicta
Nemo f/td^ gaudet, qudm fosrnina.

Jut. Sat. xMi. 19^.
* Montr. I required not

To be sought to this poor wwj J So the old copy : the modem
editors, ignorant of the language of the time, arbitrarily exchange

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 223

You made me take : your daughter shall come

to you,
I will not say, as you deliver'd her,
But, as she is, you may dispose of her
As you shall think most requisite. [E.vit,

Malef. His last words
Are riddles to me. Here the lion's force
Would have proved useless, and, against my nature,
Compeird me from the crocodile to borrow
Her counterfeit tears: there's now no turning

backward.
May I but quench these fires that rage within me.
And fall what can fall, I am arm'd to bear it !

*

Enter Soldiers below^ thrusting forthTn^ocKrs's.;
her garments loose, her hair dishevelled.

2 Sold. You must be packing.

Theoc, Hath he robb'd me of
Mine honour, and denies me now a room
To hide my shame !

2 Sold. My lord the admiral
Attends your ladyship.

1 Sold. Close the port, and leave them.

[Exeunt Soldiers.

to for tit, and thus perrert the sense. To seek tOj is to suppli-
cate, entreat, have earnest recourse to, &c. which is the mean-
ing of the text.

There was a book much read by our ancestors, from which
as being the puro well-head of English prose, they derived a
number of phrases that have sorely puzzled their descendants.
This book, which Is fortunately stitl in existence, is the Bible :
and 1 yenture to affiria, without fear of contradiction, that
those old fashioned people who have studied it well, are as conu
petent judges of the meaning of our ancient writers, as most of
the devourers of black literature^, from Theobald to Steevens.
The expression in the text frequently occurs in it : ^^ And Asa
was diseased in his feet— yet in his disease he sought not to th^
Lord, bat to the physicians." 2 Chron. xtI. 1%

224 THE UNNATURAL 'COMB AT.

Malef. Ha ! who is this ? how alter'd ! how
deform '(I!
It cannot be : and yet this creature has ,
A kind of a resemblance to my daughter,
My Theocrine ! but as different
From that she was, as bodies dead are, in
Their best perfections, from what they were
When they had life and motion.

Theoc. 'Tis most true, sir ;
I am dead indeed to all but misery.

0 come not near me, sir, I am infectious:
To look on me at distance, is as dangerous
As, from a pinnacle's cloud- kissing spire.
With giddy eyes to view the deep descent;
But to acknowledge me, a certain ruin.

O, sir !

Malef. Speak, Theocrine, force me not
To further question ; my fears already
Have choked my vital spirits.

Theoc. Pray you turn away
Your face and hear me, and with my last breath
Give me leave to accuse you : What offence,
From my first infancy, did I commit.
That for a punishment you should give up
My virgin chastity to the treacherous guard
Of goatish Montreville ?

Malef. What hath he doiie?

Theoc. Abused me, sir, by violence; and this
told,

1 cannot live to speak more : may the cause
In you find pardon, but the speeding curse

Of a ravish'd maid fall heavy, heavy on him ! —
Beaufort, my lawful love, farewell for ever. [Dies.
Malef. Take not thy flight so soon, immacu-
late spirit !
Tis fled already.— How the innocent,
As in a gentle slumber, pass away !

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 2£5

Bat to cut off the knotty thread of life
In guilty men, must force stefn Atropos
To use her sharp knife often. I would help
The edge of her's with thjB sharp point of mine,
But that I dare not die, till I have rent
This dog's heart piecemeal. G, that I had wings
To scale these walls, or that my hands were
cannons,

^ To bore their flinty sides, that I might bring
The villain in the reach of my good sword !
The Turkish empire ofFer'd for his ransom,

^ Should not redeem his life. O that my voice
Were loud as thunder, and with horrid sounds
Might force a dreadful passage to his ears.
And through them reach his soul ! Libidinous

monster !
Foul ravisher ! as thou dur3t do a deed
Which forced the sun to hide his glorious face
Behind a sable mask of clouds, appear,
And as a man defend it; or, like me,
Shew some compunction for it.

Enter Montreville on the Walls, above.

Montr. Ha, ha, ha !

Malef. Is this an object to raise mirth ?

Montr. Yes, yes.

Malef. My daughter's dead.
• Montr. Thou hadst best follow her ;
Or, if thou art the thing thou art reported.
Thou shouldst have led the way. Do tear thy

hair.
Like a village nurse, and mourn, while I laugh at

thee.
Be but a just examiner of thyself.
And in an equal balance poise the nothing.
Or little mischief I have done, compared

vox. I. ♦ Q*

286 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

With the pondVous weight -of thine : and how

canst thou
Accuse or argue with me? mine was a rape,
And she being in a kind contracted to me,
The fact may challenge some qualification:
But thy intent made nature's self run backward.
And done, had caused an earthquake.

Enter Soldiers above.

1. Sold* Captain!
Montr. Ha!

2. sSSo/J. Our outworks are surprised, the centinel

slain,
The corps de guard defeated too.
Montr. By whom ?

1. Sold. The sudden storm and darkness of the
night
Forbids the knowledge.; make up speedily,
Or all is lost. \_Exeunt.

Montr. In the deviKs name, whence comes
this ? [Exit.

\A storm ; with thunder and lightning.
Malef, Do, do rage on ! rend open, iEolus,
Thy brazen prison, and let loose at once
Thy stormy issue ! Blustering Boreas,
Aided with all the gales the pilot numbers
Upon his compasS; cannot raise a tempest
Through the vast region of the air, like that
I feel within me : for I am possessed
With whirlwinds, and each guilty thought to me is
A dreadful hurricano.* Though this centre

' A dreadful hurricano.] So the old copy, and rightly : the
modern editors prefer hurricane^ a simple improTement, which
merely destroys the metre ! How they contrived to read the
line^ thus printed, I canmot conceive. With respect to httrricane^
I doubt whether it was much in use in Massinger's time; he

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 227

Labour to tring forth earthquakes, and hell open
Her ^ide-strctch'd jaws, and let out all her furies,
They cannot add an atom to the mountain
Of fears and terrors that each minute threaten
To fall on my accursed head.— •

Enter the Ghost of young Malefort, naked from
the waist ^ full of wounds^ leading in the Shadow of
a Lady^ her face leprous.

Ha ! is't fancy ?
Or hath hell heard me, and makes proof if I
Dare .stand the trial ? Yes, I do; and now
I view these apparitions, I feel
I once did know the substances. For what come

you?
Are your aerial forms deprived orianguage.
And so denied to tell me, that by signs

\The Ghosts use various gestures.
You bid me ask here of myself?* 'Tis so :
And there is something here makes answer for

you.
You come to lance my sear'd-up conscience;

yes,
And to instruct me, that those thunderbolts,
That hurl'd me headlong from the height of

glory,
Wealth, honours, worldly happiness, were forged
Upon the anvil of my impious wrongs.
And cruelty to you ! I do confess it ;
And that my lust compelling me to make way
For a second wife, I poison'd thee ; and that

and his contemporaries almost inyariably write hurricann\
jast as they received it from the Portuguese narrators of
voyages, &c.

* You bid me ask here of myself f] AnKruttf^^ pointing to hii
breast

SS8 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT.

The cause (which to the world is undiscovered)
That forced thee to shake off thy fiJial duty
To me, thy father, had its spring and source
From thy impatience, to know thy mother,
That with all duty and obedience served me,
(For now with horror I acknowledge it,)
Removed unjustly : yet, thou being my son,
Wert not a competent judge mark'd out by

heaven
For her revenger, which thy falling by
My weaker band con firm'd. — [Anstoered still by

signs.] — Tis granted by thee.

Can ai|y penance expiate my guilt,
Or can repentance save me ?—

[The G hosts disappear^
They are vanished !
What's left to do then ? I'll accuse my fate,
That did not fashion me for nobler uses :
For if those stars, cross to me in my birth,
Had not denied their prosperous influence to it,
With peace of conscience, like to innocent men,
I might have ceased to be, and not as now.

To curse my cause of being

[He is kilVd with a flash of lightning.

Enter Belgarde, with Soldiers.

Belg. Here's a night
To season my silks ! BufF-jerkin, now I miss thee:
Thou hast endured man)'- foul nights, but never
One like to this. How fine my feather looks now !
Just like a capon's tail stol'n out of the pen,
And hid in the sink; and yet 't had been dishonour
To have charged without it, — Wilt thou, never
cease ?

7 Wilt thou never cease f] This short apostrophe is addressed
to the storm.

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 229

Is the petard, as I gave directions, fastened
On the portcullis ?

1. Sold. It hath been attempted
By divers, but in vain.

Belg. These are your gallants.
That at a feast take the first place, poor I
Hardly allow'd to follow ; marry, in :
These foolish businesses they are content
That I shall have precedence : ' I much thank
Their manners, or their fear. Second me, soldiers;
They have had no time to undermine, or if
They have, it is but blowing up, and fetching
A caper or two in the air ; and I will do it, .
Rather than blow my nails here,.

S. Sold. O brave captain ! [Eseunt.

An Alarum ; noiseandcries within. After a flourish^
enterB^AVVORT senior, Be av tort junior, Mon-
taigne, Chamont, Lanour, Belgarde, and
Soldiers, with Movtreville, prisoner.

Montr. Racks cannot force more from me than
I have
Already told you : I expect no favour ;
I have cast up my accompt.

Beauf. sen. Take you the charge
Of the fort, Belgarde ; your dangers have de-
served it,
Belg. I thank your excellence : this will keep
me safe yet
From being puird by the sleeve, and bid remember
The thing 1 wot of;

Beauf. jun. All that have eyes to weep,
Spare one tear with me, Theocrine's dead.
Mont. Her father too lies breathless here, I
think
Struck dead with thunder.

230 THE UNNATURAL COMBAT,

Cham, Tis apparent : how
His carcass smells !

Lan. His face is altered to
Another colour.

Beauf.jun. But here's one retains
Her native-innocence, that never yet
Caird down heaven's anger.

Beatifl sen. 'Tis in vain to mourn
For what's past help. — We will refer, bad man,
Your sentence to the king. May we make use of
This great example, and learn from it, that
There cannot be a want of power above^
To punish murder, and unlawful love !

[Eseunt*

• This Play opens with considerable interest and vigour ; but
the principal action is quickly exhausted by its own briskness.
The Unnattaral Combat ends early in the second act, and leaves the
reader at a loss what further to expect. The remaining part, at
least fron the beginning of the fourth act, might be called the
Unnatural Attachment, Yet the two subjects are not without
connexion ; and this is afforded chiefly by the projected mar-
riage of young Beaufort and Theocrine, which Malefort urges
as the consequence of his victory.

The piece is therefore to be considered not so much in its
plot, as in its characters ; and these are dr^wn with great force,
and admirable discrimination. The pity felt at first for old
Malefort, is soon changed into horror and detestation ; while the
dread inspired by the son is somewhat relieved by the suspicion
that he avenges the cause of a murdered mother. Their parley
is as terrible as their combat; and they encounter with a fury
of passion and a deadliness of hatred approaching to savage na-
ture.— Claudian will almost describe them : —

Torvus aper,fulv usque leo coiere superbis
Viribus ; hie setd scevior, illejubd.
On the other hand, Montreviile artfully conceals his enmity till
he can be *' at the height revenged." Deprived of Theocrine by
Malefort^s treachery, be yet appears his '' bosom friend,'' offers
to be his second in the combat, on account of their tried affec^
tion *^ from his infancy," and seems even to recommend the
marriage of Theocrine with his rival. To Theocrine herself,
who can less comprehend his designs, he shews some glimpses of

TH^ UNNATURAL COMBAT. 831

•pleen from the beginning. He takes a malignant pleasure in
vonnding her delicacj with light and vicious talking ; and when
at length he has possession of her person, and is preparing the
dishonour which ends in her death, he talks to her of his yil-
lainous purpose with a coolness which shews him determined
on his revenge, and secure of its accomplishment.

Theocrine herself is admirable throughout the piece. She has
a true virgin modesty, and, perhaps, one of the best marks of
modesty, a true virgin frankness. We admire her fearless purity
of thought, her filial reverence, and her unconsciousness of the
iniquity that approaches her ; and we are filled with the most
tender concern for the indignities to which she is exposed, and
the fate which she suffers.

Among the lighter characters, Montaigne, Chamont, and
Lanonr are well drawn. They are some of those insignificant
people who endeavour to support themselves in society by a ready
subjection to the will of others. When Malefort is on his trial,
they are glad to be h.is accusers ; and it is allowed that they
^^ push him hard." After his victory, they are most eager to
profess themselves his friends and admirers. When he is in his
moody humour, they sooth him, that being the ^' safest course ;'' *
and when Beaufort at length takes up the neglected Belgarde,
they are the first to lavish their money upon him.

* This consistency in their insipid characters woold of itself dtCennine ta
whom these words hdong, if the editor bad not given them to Chamont on other
accounts. See p. 179*

Tab DtTKS of Milav.] Of thU tragedy there are two editioiu in quarto i
the fint, which is very correct, and dow very rare, hears date 1023 1 the
other, of little value, 1638. It does oot appear in the Office-hook of the
licenser; from which, we may be pretty certain that it was among the
author*8 earliest performances.

The plot, as the editor of the Companion to the Play Home informs us,
is founded on Guicciardini, Lib. viii. This is not the case, and the writer,
who probably never looked into Guicciardini, must have picked up his
mistafken re^rence at second hand. If Massinger was at all indebted to
this historian, it was to his zvth and xixth books; but it is more likely
that he derived his plot (as was then the practice) from some popular
collection of interesting events. However this may be, he has strangely
perverted the few historical facts on which he touches, and brought
together events considerably distant in time. When the French king
invaded Italy in 1525, Sforza was on the side of the Emperor — in fact, the
French began by an incursion into the Milanese, and the siege of the
capital, which they continued, at intervals, till their route before Pavia,
In the foUowinz year, indeed, the duke of Milan entered into a league
with Francis, who had now regained his liberty, against the Emperor,
and was driven out of his dutcny, which he did not recover till 1530,
when he presented himself before Charles, at Bologna, but not in the way
described by Massinger, for he abjectly surrendered all his rights to the
Emperor, who re*iastated him in them, on his i^reeing to certain stipula-
tions. The duke is named Ludovico in the list of dramatis personas ; and
it is observable that Massinger has entered with great accuracy into the
Tigorous and active character of that prince : he, however, had long been
dead, and Francis Sforza, the real agent in this play, was little capable of
the spirited part allotted to him. The Italian writers term him a weak and
irresolute prince, the sport of fortune, and the victim of indecision.

Injustice to Massinger, it should be observed that he appears aware of
the distinction here noticed, and probably also of the fabulous nature of
his materials, for, in the list of dramatis personie, Ludovico Sforza i» called
a iupposed duke of Milan.

The remaining part of the plot is from Joseph ns*s HUtary of ike Jew$f
lib. XV. ch. 4 ; an wteresting story, which has been told in manv languages,
and more than once in our own. The last piece on the subject was, I
believe, the Mariamne of Fenton, which,. though infinitely inferior to the
Duke of Milan, was, as I have heard, very welireceived.

That Fenton had read Massinger before he wrote his tragedy, is certain
from internal evidence : there are not, however, many marks of simila-
rity : on the whole, the former is as cold, uninteresting, and improbable,
as the latter is ardent, natural, and affecting. Massineer has but two deaths,
while, in Fenton, six out of eleiren personi^es perish, with nearly as much
rapidity, and as little necessity, as the heroes of Tom Thumb or Chronan"
hotonthologos.

The Duke of Milan is said, in the title-page, to have ** been often acte4
by his Majesty's Servants at the Black Friars." Either through ignorance
or disingenuity, Coxeter and M. Mason represent it as frequently per-
formed in 1623, giving, as in every other instance, the time of publication
for that of its appearance on the stage.

TO

The Right Honourable, and nmch esteemed for her high
birth, but more admired for her virtue,

THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE,

WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE,
BARON OF SHELFORD.

MADAM,

IF I were not most assured that works of this nature hate
found both patronage and protection amongst the greatest
princesses* of Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons
most eminent in our kingdom, I should not presume to offer
these my weak and imperfect labours at the altar of your
favour. Let the example of others, more knowing, and more
experienced, in this kindness {if my boldness offend) plead my
pardon, and the rather, since there is no other means left 9ne
(my misfortunes having cast me on this course) to publish to
the fvorld (if it hold the least good opinion of me) that I am
ever your ladyship*s creature. Vouchsafe, therefore, with the
never-failing clemency of your noble disposition, not to con*
temn the tender of las duty, who, while he is, will ever be

An humble Servant to your ^
Ladyship, and yours.

PHILIP MASSINGER.

* Princesses] So the quarto 1623. That of 1638 exhibits
princes^ which Goxeter, and consequently M. Mason, follows.

DRAMATIS PERSONS.

Ludovico Sforza, supposed duke o/* Milan.
Francisco, his especial favourite.

C4. u ' \lords of his council.
Mepnano, J ^

GracchOi a creature of Mariana.

Julio, )

r';^,ro««; c courtiers.
Ijriovanni, i

Charles, the emperor.

Pescara, an imperialist, but a friend to Sforsa.

Hernando, i

Medina, ^captains to the emperor.

Alphonso, J

Three Gentlemen.

Fiddlers.

An Officer.

Two Doctors. Two Couriers.

' Marcelia, the dutchess, wife to Sforza.
Isabella, mother to Sforza.
Mariana, wfe to Francisco, and sister to Sforza.
Eugenia, sister to Francisco.
A Gentlewoman.

Guards^ Servants, Attendants.

SCENE, for the first and second acts, in Milan;
during part of the third, in tJie Imperial Camp
near Pavia ; the rest of the play, in Milan, and
its neighbourhood.

THE

DUKE OF MILAN

«S£

ACT I. SCENE L
Milan. An outer Room in the Castled

Enter Graccho, Julio, and Giovanni,* with

Flaggons.

Grac. Take every man hisflaggon: give the
oath
To all yoameet; lam this day the state-drunkard,
I am sure against my will ; and if j^ou find
A man at ten that's sober, he's a traitor.
And, in my name, arrest him.

' ' Milan. An outer Room in the Castle.^ The old copies have
' no distiDction of scenery ; indeed, they could Jiare none with
their miserable platform and raised gallery, but what was furnished
by a board with Milan or Rhodes painted upon it. I have ven.
tured to supply it, iu conformity to the modern mode of printing
Shakspeare^ and to consult the ease of the general reader. I
know not what pricked forward Coxeter, but he thought proper
(for the first time) to be precise in this Play, and specify the
place of action. I can neither compliment him upon his judg.
ment, nor Mr. M. Mason upon his good sense in following him :
the description here is, ^^ Scene^ a public Palace in Pisa," Pisa!
a place which is not onee mentioned, nor even hinted at, in the
whole play.

* Juuo, and Giotakni,] These are not found among the old
dramatis personae, nor are they of much importance. In a sub-
sequent scene, where they make their appearance, as Isf and ^nd
Gentlemen^ I have taken the liberty to name them again. Jovio^
which stood in this scene, appears to be. a misprint lor Jtdio^

238 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

JuL Very good, sir :
But, say he be a sexton?

Grac. If the bells
Ring out of tune,' as if the street were burning.
And he cry, '7?^ rare music ! bid him sleep :
Tis a sign he has ta'en his liquor ; and if you meet
An officer preaching of sobriety,*
Unless he read it in Geneva print,*
Lay him by the heels.

Jul. But think you 'tis a fault
To be found sober?

Grac. It' is capital treason;
Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay
Forty crowns to the poor : but give a pension
To all the magistrates you find singing catches,
Or their wives dancing; for the courtiers reeling,
And the duke himself, I dare not say distempcr'd,*
But kind, and in his tottering* chair carousing,
They do the country service. If you meet
One that cats bread, a child of ignorance,

* Grac. If the belU

Ring out of tune, &c.] i. e. backward: the usual signal * of
alarm, on the breaking out of fires. So in the Captain:

" certainly, my body

^* Is all a wildfire, for my head rings backward.**
Again : in t/ie City Match :

«< ^Then, sir, in time

'^ You may be remember'd at the quenching of
^^ Fired houses, when the bells ring backward^ by
'^ Your name upon the buckets."

^ Unless he read it in Genera print^"] Alluding to the spirituous
liquor so called. M. Mason.

' 1 dare not say distemper'd,] i. e. intoxicated : so the

word is frequently used by our old writers. Thus Shirley :

" Clear. My lord, he's gone.

« Lod. How ?

" Clear, Distempered.

" Lod. Not with wine ?" Tlie Grateful Servant.
ft occurs also in Hamlet*

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 239

<

And bred up in the darkness of no drinking,
Against his will you may initiate him
In the truie posture ; though he die in the taking
His drench, it skills not :* what's a private man,
For the public honour! We've nought else to

think on.
And so, dear friends, copartners in my travails,
Drink hard; and let the health run through the city,
Until it reel again, and with me cry,
Long live the dutchess !

Enter Tiberio and Stephano.

Jul. Here are two lords ; — what think you ?
Shall we give the oath to them ?

Grac. Fie ! no : I know them,
You need not swear them ; your lord, by his

patent, ^

Stands bound to take his rouse/ Long live the
dutchess ! [Eseunt Grac. Jul. and Gio.

Steph. The cause of this ? but yesterday the
court
Wore the sad livery of distrust and fear;
No smile, not in a buffoon to be seen,
Or common jester : the Great Duke hin^self
Had sorrow in his face ! which, waited on
By his mother, sister, and his fairest dutchess,
Dispersed a silent mourning through all Milan ;

though he die in the taking

His drench, it skills not : &c.] It matters or signifies not. So
in the Gamester :

^' Nepk. I desire no roan's privilege : it skills not whether
^^ I be kin to any man living."

7 ■ f/our lord hy his patent.

Stands bound to take his rouse.] This word has never been
properly explained. It occurs in Hamlet, where it is said by
Steevens, as well as Johnson, to mean a quantity of liquor rather
too large : the latter derives it fromrti5cA,^half drunk, Germ, while
he brings caroiMe from ^aratf^z^ali out \ Hou^eandcaroKje^howerer,

S40 THE DUKE OF MILAN,

As if some great blow had been given the state,
Or were at least expected.

like vye and reoycy are but the reciprocation of the same action,
and must therefore be derived from the same source. A rouse
was a large glass (^^ not past a pint," as lago says) in which a
health was giren, the drinking of which bj the rest of the com-
, pany formed a carouse, Bamabj Rich is exeeedkigly angrj
with the inventor of this custom, which, howeyer, with a lau-
dable zeal for the honour of his country, he attributes to an
Englishman, who, it seems, ^^ had his brains beat out with a
pottlepot*' for his ingenuity. ^* In former ages,'' says he, ** they
had no conceit whereby to draw on drunkencsse,'' (Barnaby was
no great historian,) ^^ their best was, I drinke to you, and I
pledge you, till at length some shallow-witted drunkard found
out the carouse^^* an invention of that worth and worthinesse
as it is pitie the first founder was not hanged, that we might
have found out his name in the antient record of the hangman's
register." English Hue and Cry^ I6I75 P* ^* I^ is necessary to
add, that there could be bo rouse or carouse^ unless the glasses
were emptied : ^' The leader," continues honest Barnaby,
^^ soupes up his broath, turnes the bottom of the cuppe upward,
and in ostentation of his dexterite, gives it a phylip, to make it
cry tynge ! id.

In process of time, both these words were used in a laxer
sei\se ; but I believe that what is here advanced, will serve to
explain many passages of our old dramatists, in which they oc-
cur in their primal and appropriate signification ; .
" Nor. I've ta'en, since supper,
^^ A rouse or two too much, and by the gods
*' It warms my blood." Knight of Malta.

This proves that Johnson and Steevens are wrong : a rouse has
here a fixed and determinate sense* In the language of the
present day it would be, a bumper or two; or, still more vulgarly,
a toast or two too much. Again :

<^ Duke. Come, bring some wine. Here's to my sister^
gentlemeji,
^< A Aea/^^, and mirth to all!

*^ Archas. PrAjJiU it fully sir ;
<^ 'Tis a high health to virtue. Here, lord Bnrris,
^ A maiden health 1 ■ ■

^' Duke, Go to, no more of this.
^' Archas, Take the rouse freely j sir,
<« 'Twill warm your blood, and mii^ke you fit for jollity."

The Loyal Subject.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 241

Tib. Stephano,
I know as you are noble, you are honest,
And capable of secrets of more weight
Than now I shall deliver. If that Sforza,
The present duke, (though his whole life hath

been
But one continued pilgrimage through dangers,
Affrights, and horrors, which his fortune, guided
By his strong judgment, still hath overcome,)
Appears now shaken, it deserves no wonder:
All that his youth hath laboured for, the harvest
Sown by hi» industry ready to be rcap'd too.
Being now at stake ; and all his hopes confirmed,
Or lost for ever.,

Steph. I know no such hazard :
His guards are strong and sure, his coffers full ;
The people well affected ; and so wisely
His provident care hath wrought, that though

war rages
In most parts of our. western world, there is
No enemy near us.

Tib. Dangers, that we see
To threaten ruin, are with ease prevented ;
But those strike deadly, that come unexpected ;
The lightning is far off, yet, soon as seen.
We may behold the terrible effects
That it produceth. But Til help your knowledge,
And make his cause of fear familiar to you.
The wars so long continued between
The emperor Charles, and Francis the French king.
Have interess'd, in cither's cause, the most
Of the Italian princes ;• among which, Sforza,

* Have intereBs'd in eitker's came the most

Of the Italian princes ; Ssc] So the old copies. The modern
editors, much to the adYantage of the rhythm, read :

^^ Have interested in citherns dtwe, the mostj &c.
Probably they were ignorant of the existence of such » word

VOL. I. * R

£42 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

As one of greatest power, was sought by both ;
But with assurance, having one his friend.
The other lived his enemy.

Steph. 'Tis true :
And 'twas a doubtful choice. *.

Tib. But he, well knowing,
And hating too, it seems, the Spanish pride,
Lent his assistance to the king of France :
Which hath so far incensed the emperor,
That all his hopes and honours are embark'd
With his great patron's fortune.

Stepfu Which stands fair,
For aught I yet can hear.

Tib. But should it change,
The duke's undone. They have drawn to the field
Two royal armies, full of fiery youth ;
Of equal spirit to dare, and power to do :
So near intrench'd,' that 'tis beyond all hope
Of hum'an counsel they can e'er be severed.
Until it be determined by the swordj
Who hath the better cause : for the success,
Concludes thevictorinnocent, and the vanquished
Most miserably guilty. How uncertain
The fortune of the war is, children know ;
And, it being in suspense, on whose fair tent
Wing'd Victory will noake her glorious stand,
You capBot blame the duke, though he appear
Perplex'd and troubled.

as inti^rtaSy which occors, however^ pretty fr^qaently In oor old
writers. Johnson considers it as synonymous with ipteresiy hnt
in some of the examples which he gives, and in many others
which might be produced, it seems to convey an idea of a more
intimate connexion than is usually understood by that terra ;
somewhat, for instance, like impKcate, in voire, inwekve, «&c«
in wMc^ case, it, must be deiiTed from tntrtcciOy through the
medium of the French. ^

9 So near intrench' d, &c.] The French army "^as at this time
engaged in the tftege of Ptfvia, un^er the waUs of which .the de-
eisive battle was fought, on the S4th of February^ 16^^' - '

THE DUKE OF MILAN. US

Steph. But why, then,
In such a time, when every knee should bend ■
For the success and safety of his person,
Are these loud triumphs? in my weak opinion,
They are unseasonable.

I\b. Ijudgesotoo; *

But only in the cause to be excused.
It is the dutchess' birthday, once a year
Solemnized with all pomp and ceremony ;
In which the duke is qot his own, but her's:
Nay, every day, indeed, he is her creature,
For never man so doated ; — but to tell .
The tenth part of his fondness to a stranger,
Would argu^ me of fiction*

Steph. She's, indeed,
A lady of most exquisite f6rm.

Tib. She knows it.
And how to prize it.

Steph. I ne'er heard her tainted
In any point of honour.

Tib. On my life,
She's constant to his bed, and well deserves
His largest favours. But, when beauty is
Stamped on great women, great in birth and

fortune,
And blown by flatterers greater than it is,
'Tis seldoni unaccompanied* with pride;
Nor is she that way n'ee : presuming on
The'duke's affection, and her own desert,
She bears herself with such a majesty,
Lookinff with scorn on all as things beneath her,
That Sforza's mother, that would lose no part
Of what was once her own, nor his fair sist6r,
A lady too acquainted with her worth,
Will brook it well j and howsoe'er their hate
Is smother'd for a time, 'tia more than feared
It will at length break out.

•RS

244 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Steph. He in whose power it is,
Turn all to the best !

Tib. Come, let us to the court ;
We there shall see all bravery and cost^
That art can boast of.

Steph. I'll bear you company. [Exeunt.

SCENE IL
Another Room in the same.

Enter Trav CISCO, Isabella, andMAKijiHA.

Mari. 1 will not go; I scorn to be a spot*
In her proud train.

Isab. Shall I, that am his mother.
Be so indulgent, as to wait on her
That owes me duty ?

Fran. *Tis done to the duke.
And not to her : and, my sweet wife, remember,
And, madam, if you please, receive my counsel.
As Sforza is your son, you may command him ;
And, as a sister, you may challenge from him
A brother's love and favour : but, this granted,
Consider he's the prince, and you his subjects.
And not to question or contend with her
Whom he is pleased to honour. Private men
Prefer their wives; and shall he, being a prince,
And blest with one that is the paradise
Of sweetness, and of beauty, to whose charge
The stock of women's goodness is given up,
Nat use her like herself?

Isab. You are ever forward
To sing her praises.

ft

* I scorn to be a spot, &c.] Mariana alludes to the spoi$
(eyes) in the peacock's tail.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 245

Mari. Others are as fair;
I am sure, as noble. '

Fran. I detract from none,
In giving her what's due. Were she dcform'd,
Yet being the dutchess, I stand bound to serve

her;
But, as she is, to admire her. Never wife
Met with a purer heat her husband's fervour;
A happy pair, one in the other blest !
She coufident in herself he's wholly her's,
And cannot seek for change ; and he secure,
That 'tis not in the power of man to tempt hen
And therefore to contest with her, thatds
The stronger and the better part of him,
Is more than folly : you know him of a nature
Not to be played with ; and, should you forget
To obey him as your prince, he'll not remember
The duty that he owes you.

Isab. 'Tis but truth :
Come, clear our brows, and let us to the banquet ;
JBut not to serve his idol.

Mart. I shall do
What may become the sister of a prince;
But will not stoop beneath it.

Fran. Yet, be wise ;
Soar not too high, to fall ; but stoop to rise.

lEj^eunt

SCENE III.

A State Room in the same.

<

Enter three Gentlemen, setting forth a banquet,

1 Gent. Quick, quick, for love's sake ! let the
court put on '

Her choicest outside : cost and bravery
Be only thought of.

s.

2^*6 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

2 Gent. All that may be had

To please the eye, the ear, tas.te> touch, or amell.
Are carefully provided.

3 Gent. There's a masque :

Have you heard what's the invention ?
1 Gent. No matter :

*

It is intended for the dutchess' honour ;
And if it give her glorious attributes,
As the most fair, most virtuous, and the rest,
Twill please the duke [Loud music.'] They come.
S.Gent. All is in order.

Flourish. EnterTiBZKio, StephaiJo, Francisco,
Sforza, Marcelia, Isabella, Mariana,
-and Attendaffts.

J^hr. Yoii are the mistress of the feast — sit
here,
O my soul's comfort ! and when Sforza bows
Thus low to do you honour, let none think
The meanest service they can pay my love.
But as a fair addition to those titles
They stand possest of. Let me glory in
My happiness, and mighty kings look pale
With envy, while I triumph in mine own.
O mother, look on her ! sister, admire her !
And, since this present age yields not a woman
Worthy to be her second, borrow of
Times past, and let imagination help,
Of those canonized ladies Sparta boasts of,
And, in her greatness, Rome was proud to owe.
To fashion one ; yet still you must confess,*

, *

' To fashion one ; yet still you must confe^^ The reader if
'already acquainted with t^e recent discorery of a ^presentation
copy of this play, in which the errors of the press are corrected
by Massinger's own hand. The line above stands in all the old
editions,

To fashion, aii(2 yet still yoa must confew.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 247

The pho&nix of perfection ne'er was seen,
But in my fair Marcelia.

Fran. She's, indeed,
The wonder of all times.

Tib. Your exrcellence,
Though I confess, you give her but her own,
Forces* her modesty to the defence
Of a sweet blush.

Sj'or. It need riot, my Marcelia ;
When most I strive to praise thee, I appear
A poor detractor : for tliou art, indeed,
So absolute' in body and in mind,
That, but to speak the least part to the height,
Would ask an angel's tongue, and yet then end
In silent admiration !

Isab. You still court her,
As if she were a mistress, not your wife.

Sfor. A mistress, mother ! s ae is more to me.
And every day deserves more to be sued to.
Such as are cloy'd with those they have cm-
braced.
May think their wooing done : no night to me
But is a bridal one, where Hymen lights
His torches fresh and new; and those delights.
Which are not to be clothed in airy sounds,
Enjoy 'd, beget desires as full of heat.
And jovial fervour, as when -first I tasted

I need not point out how mncb the sense, aa weU as the spif;it
of the passage, is improTed by this simple alteration ; nor how
unlikely it was that any of the poet's editors, if the change had
even occurred to them, should haf e rentured on such an ernen-
dation,

* FoTceg hermodestif] So the edition 16^, which Coxeter
docs not appear to hare often consulted. He reads, after that
of 1638, enforces f though it destroys the metre. Mr. M. Mason^
of course, follows him.

' So absolute in body and in mindy] For this spirjted reading,
which is that of the first edition, the second, has, So perfect botn
in body and in mind^ and thus it stands in Coxeter andM. Mason t

248 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Her virgin fruit — Blest night ! and be it num*

ber'd
Amongst those happy ones, in which a blessing
Was, by the full consent of all the stars^
Conferred upon mankind.

Marc. My worthiest lord !
The only object I behold with pleasure,—
My pride, my glory, in a word, my all !
Bear witness, heaven, that I esteem myself
In nothing worthy of the meanest praise
You can bestow, unless it be in this,
That in my heart I love and honour you.
And, but that it would smell of arrogance,
To speak my strong desire and zeal to serve you,
I then could say, these eyes yet never saw
The rising sun, but that my vows and prayers
Were sent to heaven for the prosperity
And safety of my lord : nor have I ever
Had other study, but how to appear
Worthy your favour ; and that my embraces
Might yield a fruitful harvest of content
For all your noble travail, in the purchase
Of her that's still your servant : By these lips.
Which, pardon me, that I presume to kiss

Sfor. O swear, for ever swear!*

Marc. I ne*er will seek
Delight but in your pleasure : and desire.
When you are sated with all earthly glories,
And age and honours make you fit for heaven,
That one grave may receive us.

Sfor. Tis believed,
Believed, my blest one.

Mari, How she winds herself
Into his soul !

♦ Sfor. 0 swe^Tf for ever swear f] This is the lection of the
' first quarto 5 the second poorly reads, 0 uwe^tyjvr ever swear !
•and is followed by both the former editors.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. U9

Sfor. Sit all. — Let others feed
On those gross catcs, while Sforza banquets with
Immortal viands ta'en in at his eyes,
I coald live ever thus* — Command the eunuch
To sing the ditty that 1 last composed,

E^ter a Convitr. . ^

In praise of my Marcelia. From whence?

Cour. From Pavia, my dread lord.

Sfor. Speak, is all lost ?

Uour. [Delivers a letterJ] The letter will inform
you. [Ea^t.

Fran. How his hand shakes, '
As he receives it !

Mart. This is some allay
To his hot passion.

Sfor. Though it bring death, I'll read it:

Majf it please your ejpcellence to understand^ that
the *oery hour I wrote tkisy I heard a bold defiance
delivered by a herald from the empero7% which was
cheerfully received by the king of Prance. The bat-
tailes being ready to join^ and the vanguard com-
mitted to my charge, enforces me to end abruptly. .
Your Highnesses humble servant-

Gaspzro.

Ready to join ! — By this, then, I am nothing,
Or my estate secure. . [Aside.

Marc. My lord.

Sfor. To doubt,
Is worse than to have lost ; and to despair,
Is but to antedate those miseries
That must f»ll on us ; all my hopes depending
Upon this battle's fortune. In my soul,
Methinks, there should be that imperious power,
By supernatural, not usual means.

S50 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

T' inform me what I am. The cause cohsider*d,
Why should I fear ? The French arc bold and

strong,
Their numbers full, and in their councils wise ;
But then, the haughty Spaniard is all fire,
Hot in his executions ; fortunate
In his attempts ; married to victory : —
Ay, there it is that shakes me. \^Aside.

Fran. Excellent lady,
This day was dedicated to your honour ;
One gale of your sweet breath will easily
Disperse these clouds ; and, but yourself, there's

none
That dare speak to him.

Marc. I will run the hazard. —
My lord !

Sfor. Ha! — pardon me, Marcelia,Iam troubled;
And stand uncertain, whether I am master
Of aught that's worth the owning*

Marc. I am yours, sir ;
And I have heard you swear, I being safe,
There was no loss could move you. This day,

. sir.
Is by your gift made mine. Can you revoke
A grant made to Marcelia ? your Marcelia ? —
For whose love, nay, whose honour, gentle sir,
All deep designs, and state-affairs deferr'd,
3e, as you purposed, merry.

Sfor. Out of my sight ! [Throws away thedetter.
And all thoughts that may strangle mirth forsake

me.
Fall Avhat can fall, I dare the worst of fate :
Though the foundation of the earth should

shrink,
The glorious eye of heaven lose his splendour,
Supported thus, I'll stand upon the ruins.
And seek for new life here. Why are you sad ?

THE DUKE OF MILAN. jMl

No other sports I by heaven, he's not my

friend,
That^^ears one furrow ia his face. I was told
There was a masque*.

Fram They wait your highness* pleasure^
And when you please to have it

Bfor. Bid them enter :
Come, jnake me happy once again. I am rapt —
*Tis not to day, to morrow, or the nejtt,
But all my days, and years, shall be employed
To do thee honour.

Marc. And my life to serve you.

[A barn without.
Sfor. Another ^ost ! Go hang him, hang him,
I say ;
I will not interrupt my present pleasures,
"Although his message should import my head :
Hang him, I say.

Marc. Nay, good sir, I am pleased
To grant a little intermissiou to you ;
Who knows but he brings news we wish to hear,
To heighten our delights.
Sfor. As wise as fair!

. > • , .

Enter onQth&r CoxxxiQT.

» •
From Gaspero?

Cour. That was, my lord.

< ^r.. How! dead? * :\ . ^

Cour. [Delivers a letter. '\ With the delivery of

this, and prayers,

To guard your excellency from ceitain dangers,

He ceased to be'a man. . [Exik

Sfor. All that ray fears
Could fashion to me, or my enemies wish,
Is fallen upon me,— Silence that harsh music j
'Tis now unseasonable : a tolling bell.

S5S THE DUKE OF MILAN.

As a sad harbinger to tell tne» that

This pamper'd lump of flesh must feast the

worms,
Is fitter for me : — I am sick.
Marc. My lord !

Sfor. Sick to the death/ Marcelia. Remove
These signs of mirth; they. were ominous, and

but usher'd
Sorrow and ruin.
Marc. Bless us, heaven !
Isah. My son.

Marc. What sudden change is this ?
SJor. All leave the room ;
I'll bear alone the burden of my grief,
.And must admit no partner. I am yet *
Your prince, where's your obedience? — Stay,

Marcelia ;
I cannot be so greedy of a sorrow,
In which you must not share.

\Exmnt liberie, Stephano^ Francisco, iMbeUa^
Mariana, and Attendants.
Marc. And cheerfully
I will sustain my part. Why look you pale ?
Where is that wonted coi^stancy and courage.
That dared the worst of fortune? where is SK)rza,
To whom all dangers that fright common men.
Appeared but panic terrors? why do you eye

me
With such fix'd looks? Love, counsel, duty,

service.
May flow from me, not danger. '■

»^or. O, Marcelia !
It is for thee I fear ; for thee, thy Sforza
Shakes like a coward : for myself, unmoved,

^ Sick to the d€ath^'\ The modern editors omit the article,
no less to the injury of the metre than of the language of the
X>oet) ivbich was, indeied^ that of the time.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 853

I could have heard my troops were cut in pieceS|
My general slain, and he, on whom my hopes
Of rule, of state, of life, had their dependence.
The king of France, my greatest friend, made

prisoner
To so proud enemies.*

Marc. Then you have just cause
To shew vou are a man.

Ǥ/ir. All this were nothing,
Though I add to it, that I am assured^
For giving aid to this unfortunate king^
The emperor, incens'd, lays his command
On his victorious army, flesh'd with spoil,
And bold of conquest, to march up against me,
And seize on my estates ; suppose that done too,
The city ta'en, the kennels running blood,
The ransack'd temples falling on their saints ;<
My mother, in my sight, toss'd on their pikes.
And sister ravishM ; and myself bound fast
In chains, to grace their triumph ; or what else
An enemy's insolence could load me with,
I would be Sforza still. But, when I think
That my Marcelia, to whom all these •
Are but as atoms to the greatest hill,
Must suffer in my cause, and for me suffer !
All earthly torments, nay, even those the damn'd
Howl for in hell, are gentle strokes, compared
To what I feel, Marcelia.

Marc. Oood sir, have patience :
I can as well partake your adverse fortune,

* There is a striking similaritj (as Mr. Gilchrist observes)
between this passage, and the parting speech of Hector to
Andromache :

Ov/ auiifii 'ExaCigf , art JlfmiAoto aveutlotj
Ovrt Koatynrtifff ot xi» voXii? ri nat i aSXoi

Otrirof ^11, «. T. •. Il.TI. 4fi0

«54 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

As I thus long have had an ample share
In your prosperity. Tis not in the power
Of fate to alter me ; for while I am,
In spite of it, Vm yours.

Sfor. But should that will
To be so - - - forced,* Marcelia ; and I live
To see those eyes I prize above my own,
Dart favours, though compelPd, upon another ;
Or those sweet lips, yielding immortal nectar,
Be gently touched by any but myself;
Think, think, Marcelia, what a cursed thing
I were, beyond expression !

Marc. Do not feed
Those jealous thoughts ; the only blessing that
Heaven hath bestow'd on us, more than on beasts.
Is, that 'tis in our pleasure when to die.
Besides, were I now in another's power.
There are so many ways to let out life,
I would not live, for one short minute, his ;
I was born only youfs, and I will die so.

Sfor. Angels reward the goodness of this
woman !

Enter FRAKCieco.

All I can pay is nothing. — ^Why, uncall'd for ?
Fran. It is of weight, sir, that makes me thus
press
Upon your privacies. Your constant friend,
The marquis of Pescara, tired with haste.
Hath business that concerns your life and for-
tunes.
And with speed, to impart.

^ To be «o - . - forced^ Marcelia ;1 In the former edition I
Tentnredy eyen at the risk of a little harshness, to Insert be in
the break. Something is evidently wrong, though the metre is
complete: but as it escaped thenotice of the author,! have merelj
pointed out the defect.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. . -^s

*" Sfor. Wait on him hither. [Exit Francesco.
And, dearest, to thy closet. Let thy prayers
Assist my councils*

Marc. To spare imprecations
Against myself, without you I am nothing, [JEa?iV.

Sfor. The marquis of Pescara! a great sol-
dier ; '
And, though he serv'd upon the adverse party,
Ever my constant friend,

Re-enttr Feancisgo with Psscara.

Fran^ Yonder he walks, '
Full of sad thoughts*

Pesc. Blame him not, good Francisco,
He hath much caui^e to grieve; would I might

end so, .
And not add this, — to fear !

Sfor. My dear Pescara;
' A miracle in these times I a friend, and happy,
Cleaves to a falling fortune I

Pesc. If it were
As well in my weak power, in act, to raise it,
As 'tis to bear a part of sorrow with you.
You then should have just cause to say, Pescara
Looked not upon your state, but on your virtues,.
When he made suit to be writ in the list

Of those you favoured* But my haste forbids

All compliment; thus, then, sir, to the purpose:
The cause that, unattended, brought me hither,
Was not to tell you of your loss, or danger ;

7 Sfor. The'frtatquis of Pescara! a great soldier ;] The dmkt.
does not exaggerate the merits of Pescara : he was, indeed, a
great soldier^ a fortunate commander, an able negociator, in a
vord, one of the chief ornaments of a period which abounded
in extraordinary characters.

fU6 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

For fame hath many wings to bring ill tidings.
And I presume youVe heard it ; but to give you
Such friendly counsel, as, perhaps, may make
Your sad disaster less.

Sfor. You are all goodness ;
And I give up myself to be disposed of,
. As in your wisdom you think fit.

Pesc, Thus, then, sir :
To hope you can hold out against the emperor,
Were flattery in yourself,' to your undoing :
Therefore, tne safest course that you can take,
Is, to give up yourself to his discretion,
Before you be compell'd ; for, rest assured,
A voluntary yielding may find grace.
And will admit defence, at least, excuse :
But, should you linger doubtful, till his powers
Have seized your person and estates pertbrce,
. You must expect extremes.
, Sfor. I understand you ;
And I will put your counsel into act,
And speedily. I only will take order
For some domestical affairs, that do
Concern me nearly, and with the next sun
Ride with you: in the mean time, my best

friend.
Pray take your rest.

Pesc. Indeed, I have travell'd hard ; i
And will embrace your counsel. [Eait.

Sfor. With all care.
Attend my noble friend. Stay you, Francisco»
You see how things stand with me ?

Fran. To my grief:
And if the loss of my poor life could be

* Were flattery in yourself^ So, both the quartos*^ the moders
editors read, Were flattering yourself*

- THE DUKE OF MILAN. 257

A sacrifice to restore them as they wete,
I willingly would lay it down.

Sfor. I think so ;
For I have ever found you true ahd thankful,
Which makes me love the building I have raised
In your advancement ; and repent no gf*ace •
I have conferred upon you. And, believe me,
Though now I should repeat my favours to you,
The titles I have given you, arid the means
Suitable to your honours ; that I thought you
Worthy my sister and my family.
And in my dukedom made yoii next myself;
It is not to upbraid you ; but to tell you
I find you are wbrthy of f hem, in your love
And service tt) mfe.

Fran. Sii", I am your creature;
And any shape, thit you would have me wear,
I gladly will put on.

Sfor. Thus, then, Francisdo : *
I now am to ddiver to yout trust
A weighty secret ; of so stratige a nature,
And 'twill, I know, appear so moiiistrous to you,
That you will tremble m the execution,
As much as I am tortured to coramand.it :
For 'tis a deed so horrid, that, but to hear it,
Would strike into a ruffiati flesh'd in muriders,
Or an obdurate hangman, soft compassion;
And yet, Francisco, of all men the dearest.
And from me most deserving, such my state
And strange condition is, that thou alonie
Must know the fatal service, and perform it.

Fran. These preparations, sir, to wotk jx
stranger.
Or to one unacquaiuted with yoiir bouhties.
Might appear useful ; but to me they are
Needless impertinencies : for I dare do
Whate'er you dare command.

VOL. I. * S

fi5« THE DUKE OF MILAR

Sfar. But you must swear it ;
And put into the oath all joys or torments
That fright the wicked, or confirm the good ;
Not to conceal it only» that is nothing.
But, whensoe*er my will shall speak. Strike now !
To fall upon't like thunder.

JV<i;i.. Minister
The oath in any way or form you please,
I stand resolved to take it.

iS/br. Thou must do, then.
What no malevolent star will dare to look on,
It is so wicked : for which men will curse thee
For being the instrument ; and the blest angels
Forsake me at my need, for being the author :
For 'tis a deed of night, of night, Francisco !
In which the memory of all good actions
We can pretend to, shall be buried quick :
Or, if we be remembered, it shall be
To fright posterity by our example,
That have outgone all precedents of villains
That were before us ; and such as succeed,
Though taught in hell's black school, shall ne'er

come near us. —
Art thou not shaken yet?

Fran, I grant you move me :
But to a man confirm'4

Sfar. I'll try your temper :
What think you of my wife ?

Fran. As a thing sacred ;
To whose fair name and memory I pay gladly
These signs of duty.

Sfor. Is she not the abstract
Of all that*s rare, or to be wish'd in woman ? •

Fran. It were a kind of blasphemy to dispute
it:
But to the purpose, sir.

^or. Add too, her goodness,

THE DUKE OF MILAN. asg

Her tenderness of me, her care to please me,
Her unsuspected chastity, ne'er equalled ;
Her innocence, her honour : — O, I am lost
In the ocean of her virtues and her graces,
When I think of them !

Fran. Now I find the end
Of all your conjurations ; there's some service
To be done for this sweet lady. If she have

enemies.
That she would have removed

Sfor. Alas ! Francisco,
Her greatest enemy is her greatest lover ;
Yet, in that hatred, her idolater.
One smile of her's would make a savage tame ;
One accent of that tongue would calm the seas^
Though all the winds at once strove there for

empire.
Yet I, for whom she thinks all this too little.
Should I miscarry in this present journey.
From whence it is all number to a cipher,
I ne'er return with honour, by thy hand
Must have hermurder'd.

Fran. Murder'd ! — She that loves so.
And so deserves to be beloved again !
And I, who sometimes you were pleased to favour,
Pick'd out the inst^rument !

Sfor. Do not fly off :
What is decreed can never be recall'd ;
'Tis more than love to her, that marks her out
A wish'd companion to me in both fortunes :
And strong assurance of thy zealous faith,
That gives up to thy trust a secret, that
Racks should not «have forced from me. O,

Francisco !
There is no heaven without her ; nor a hell.
Where she resides. I ask from her but justice.
And what I would have paid to her, had sickness,

♦S2

260 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Or any other accident, divorced

Her purer soul from her unspotted body.*

The slavish Indian princes, when they die,

Are cheerfully attended to the fire,

By the wife and slave that, living, they loved best,

To do them service in another world :

Nor will I be less honour'd, that love more.

And therefore trifle not, but, in thy looks,

Express a ready purpose to perform

What I command ; or, by Marcelia's soul,

This is thy latest minute.

Fran. Tis not fear
Of death, but love to you, makes me cmbi^ce it;
But for mine own security, when 'tis done,
What'warrant have I? If you please to sign

one,
I shall, though with unwillingness and horror,
Perform your dreadful charge.

Sfor. I will, Francisco :
But still remember, that a prince's secrets
Are balm conceal'd ; but poison, if discovered.
I may come back ; then this is but a trial
To purchase thee, if it were possible,
A nearer place in my affection : — but
I know thee honest.

Fran. 'Tis a character
I will not p^rt with.

Sfor. I may live to reward it.' IKreunf.

4

• Her purer s^mlfrom her umpotted 6<%.] The ferlaer edition
read kisy wi(h the old copies. In the lax use of pronouns
which pretailed among our old writers, it appeared to staiid for
its, and to refer to soul. It is now printed, as Corrected by
Massinger. I make no apology for harhi^ refusM to admit the
conjecture of Coxeter and Monck Mason. With f espect to
purer ^ it is used in perfect concurrence with the pracjtice, of the
poet> contemporaries, for jot/re, the comparatire for the positive.
See the ITnnatural Combat^ p. 192.

» TWe obserrktioni in ^•^ Eilaj^ i^refiiWl 1o ftff»'Volih»e>

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 261

ACT II. SCENE I.

The same. An open Space before the Castle.
Enter Txberio and Stephano.

Steph. How ! left the court ?

Tib. Without guard or retinue
Fitting a prince.

Steph. No enemy near, to force him
.To leave his own strengths, yet deliver up
Himself, as 'twere, in bonds, to the discretion
Of him that hates him ! 'tis beyond example.
You never heard the motives th^t induced him
To this strange course ?

Tih. No, those are cabinet councils,
And not to be communicated, but
To such as are his own, and sure. Alas I
We fill up empty places, and in public
Are taught to give our suffrages fo that
Which was before determined ; and are safe so.
Signior Francisco (upon whom alone
His absolute power is, with all strength, conferr'd.
During his absence) can with es|.se. resolve you :
To me they are riddles.

Sttph. Well) he shall no}: he

preclude the necessity of any farther remarks on this admirably
spene : ac^ it seemS) howeyer, to haTe engrossed the critics' atteo*
tionj (to the manifiest neglect of the rest,) let n^e suggest, in ju9^
tice to Massinger, tliat it is equalled, if not 8urpas«e(d» by sonM
of the succeeding ones, and, among the re^t, by. tl^at which
concludes the second act.

262 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

My (Edipus ; I'll rather dwell in darkness.
But, my good lord Tiberio, this Francisco
Is, on the sudden, strangely raised.

Tib. O sir,
He took the thriving course : he had a sister/
A fair one too, with whom, as it is rumour'd.
The duke was too familiar; but she, cast off,
(What promises soever past between them,)
Upon the sight of this,' forsook the court,
And since was never seen. To smother this.
As honours never fail to purchase silence,
Francisco first was graced, and, step by step.
Is raised up to this height.

Steph. But how is
His absence born ?

Tib. Sadly, it seems, by the dutchess ;
For since he left the court,
For the most part she hath kept her private

chamber,
No visitants admitted. In the church.
She hath been seen to pay her pure devotions,
Seasoned with tears; and sure her sorrow's true.
Or deeply counterfeited ; pomp, and state.
And bravery cast off : and she, that lately
Rivall'd Poppsea in her varied shapes.
Or the Egyptian queen, now, widow-like.
In sable colours, as her husband's dangers

« ■ He had a sister^ &c.] There is great art in this

introduction of the sister. In tiie management of these prepa-
ratory hints, Massinger surpasses all his contemporaries. In
Beaumont and Fletcher, '^ the end sometimes forgets the be-
ginning ;" and eien Shakspeare is not entirely free from jpat-
tentions of a similar nature. I will not here praise the general
felicity of our author's plots : but whateyer they were, he seems
to have minutely arranged all the component parts before a Hne
of the dialogue was written.

* Upon the tight cf this, &c«] i. e. of the present dutchess.

THE DUKE OF MILAN.

S65

Strangled in her the use of any pleasure.
Mourns for his absence.

Steph. It becomes her virtue,
And does confirm what was reported of her. ,

Tib. You take it right : but, on the other side,
The darling of his mother, Mariana,
As there were an antipathy between
Her and the dutchess' passions ; and as
She'd no dependence on her brotheir's fortune,
She ne'er appeared so full of mirth.

Steph. 'Tis strange.

Enter Graccho with Fiddlers.

But see ! her favourite, and accompanied.
To your report.

Grac. You shall scrape, and I will sing
A scurvy ditty to a scurvy tune.
Repine who dares.

1 Fid. But if we should offend.
The dutchess having silenced us ; — and these lords.
Stand by to hear us. —

Grac. They in name are lords, "•

But I am one in power : and, for the dutchess,
But yesterday we were merry for her pleasure,^
We now '11 be for my lady's.

Tib. Signior Graccho, ^

Grac. A poor man, sir, aservant to* the princess;
But you, great lords' and counsellors of state.
Whom I stand bound to reverence.

Tib. Come ; we know
You are a man in grace.

Grac. Fie ! no : I grant,
I bear my fortunes patiently ; serve the princess,
And have access at all times to her closet,

' But y(m^ great lords &cJ\ So the old copies. Mr. If. Mason ^
chooses to deriate from them, and read But you are great lards
&C. Neter was alteration more uanecessaiy.

264 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Such is my impudeace ! when your grave lordships

Are masters of the modesty t;o attend

Three hours, nay sometin^es* four ; and then bid

wait
Upon her the oext mofning.

Steph. He derides us.

Tib. Pray, you, what news is stirring ? yoa
know all.

Grac. Who, I ? alas ! IVe no intelligence
At home nor abroad ; I only sometimes guess
The change of the times : I should ask of your

lordships,
Who are to keep their honours, who to lose them ;
Who the dutchess smiled on last, or on whom

frown'd.
You only can resolve me ; we poor waiters
Deal, as you see, in mirth, ami foolish fiddles :
It is our element ; and — could yon tell me
What point of state 'tis that I am commanded
To muster up this music, on mine honesty^
Yon should much befriend me.

Steph. Sirrah, you grow saucy.

Tib. And would be laid by the heelsi.

Grac. Not by your lordships,^
Without a special warrant ; look to your own

stakes ;
Were I committed, here cooae those would bail me :
Perhaps, we might change places too.

Enter Isabella, and Maui ana j Graccho

whispers the latter.

Tib. The princess !
We must be patient.

Steph. There is no contending.

Tib. See, the informing rogue !

Steph. That we should stoop
To such a mushropn^ !

Mart. Thou dost mistake ; they durst not

THE DUKE OF MILAN. «65

Use the least word of scorn, although provoked,
To any thing of mine. — Go, get you home,
And to your servants, friends, and flatterersi

number
How many descents you're noble :— look to your

wives too;
The smooth-chinn'd courtiers are abroad.

Tib. No way to be a freeman !

[Exeunt Tiberio and Stephana^

Grac. Your Excellence hath the best gift to
dispatch
These arras pictures of nobility,
I ever read of.

Mari. I can speak sometimes.

Grac. And cover so your bitter pills with
sweetness
Of princely language to forbid risply,
They are greedily swallow'd.

Isah. But the purpose, daughter,
That brings us hither? Is it td bestow
A visit on this woman, that, because
She only would be thought truly to grieve
The absence and the dangers of my s^oq,
Proclaims a general sadness ?

Mari. If to vex her
May be interpreted to do her honour.
She shall hare many of them. I'll make use
Of my short reign : my lord now governs alt ;
And she shall kiK>w that her idolater.
My brother, being not by now to protect her,
I' am her equal.

Grac. Of a little thin

Qty

It is so full of gall !^ A devil of this size,

^ Grac. Of a Kttte tiiii>^,

It is icfull 0fgaU / j Nottnng more strongly tanrks «ie poferfy
of the itaji^e in |ho«e tiateVj tbati the frequent aHusioiis wiiiclt we
find to the size of the acto^rs^ ani v/iaA ma^r be eonaidercd as a

i66 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Should they run for a wager to be spiteful,
Gets not a horse-head of her. [Aside.

Mari. On her birthday,
We were forced to be merry, and now she's musty,
'We must be sad, on pajn of her displeasure:
We will, we will ! this is her private chamber,
Where, like an hypocrite, not a true turtle.
She seems to mourn her absent mate ; her servants
Attending her like mutes : but I'll speak to her.
And in a high key too. — Play any thing
That's light and loud enough but to torment her.
And we will have rare sport [Music and a song.*

Marcel r A appears at a Windtw above^ in black.

Isab. She frowns as if
Her looks could fright us.

Mari. May it please your greatness,
We heard that your late physic hath not work'd ;
And that breeds melancholy,asyour doctor tells us:
To purge which, we, that arc born your highness*

vassals,
And are to play the fool to do you service,
Present you with a fit of mirth. What think you
Of a new antic ?

kjnd of apology to the audience. It is not possible to ascertain
who played the part of Mariana, but it was not improbably^
Theophilus Bourne, who acted Paulina in the Henegodo, where an
expression of the same nature occurs. Domitilla, in the Roman
Actor J is also little ; she was played by John Hunnieman. I do
not condemn these indirect apologies ; indeed, there appears to
be something of good sense in them, and of proper deference
to the understandings of the audience. At present, we run
intrepidly into erery species of absurdity: men and women un-
wieldy at once from age and fatness, take upon them the parts
of actiTe boys and girls ; and it is not only in a pantomime that we
are accustomed to see children of six feet high in leading strings!
' A song.] This, like many othen^ does not appear ; it was
probably supplied at pleasure^ by the actors.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. S67

Isaby 'T would shew rare in ladies.

Mari. Being intended for so sweet a creature,
Were she but pleased to grace it.

Isab. Fie ! sne will.
Be it ne'er so mean ; shq's made of courtesy.

MarL The mistress of all hearts. One smile, I
pray you,
On your poor servants, or a fiddler's fee ;
Coming from thosefair hands, though but a ducat,
We will enshrine it as a holy relic.

Isab. 'Tis wormwood, and it works.

Marc. If I lay by
My fearsand griefs, in which youshould be sharers,
If doting age could let you but remember,
You have a son ; or frontless impudence,
You are a sister ; and, in making answer
To what was most unfit for you to speak,
Or me to hear, borrow of my just anger

Isab. A set speech, on my life.

MarL Penn'd by her chaplain.

Marc. Yes, it* can speak, without instruction
speak.
And tell your want of manners, that you are rude,
And saucily rude, too.

Grac. Now the game begins.

Marc. You durst not, else, on any hire or
hope,
Remembering what I am, and whose I am.
Put on the desperate boldness, to disturb
The least of my retirements.

Mari Note her, now.

Marc. For both shall understand, though the
one presume
Upon the privilege due to a mother,

* Marc. Fm, it can speakf] So the old copies ; the modem
editions, Fe», I am speak /

868 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

The duke stands now on his own legs^ ^nd needs
No nurse to lead him.

Isab. How, a nurse !

Marc. A dry one,
And useless too : — but I am mercifuli
And dotage signs your pardon.

Isab. I defy thee ;
Thee, and thy pardons, proud one !

Marc. For you, puppet

Mari. What of me, pine-tree ?^

Marc. Little you are, I grant,
And have as little worth, but much less wit;
You durst not else, the duke being wholly mine,
His power and honour mine, and the allegiance.
You owe him, as ^ subject, due to me

Mari. To you ?

Marc. To me : and therefore, as a vassal,
From this hour learn to serve m^f, or yoM^'ll feel
I must make use of my authority.
And, as a princei^s, punish it.

Isab. A princess !

Mari. I had rather be a slave unto a Moor,
Than know thee for my equal.

Isab. Scornful thing !
Proud of a white face,

Mari. Let her but reme^iber'
The issue in her leg.

7 Marc. For j^v, PYippis^rT'

Mari. What of me, pine-tcee?]

^^ Now I percciTe that she hath made compare
^' Between our statures'*——
Pvfpet and may-poky and Boanj othef terms of .equal ekgaQce,
are bandied about in the quarrel between Heri^ia and Helena,
in Midsummer'Night's Prcam^ which is here too closely imitated.
I forbear to quote the passages, which are familiar to every
reader of Shakspeare.

' Mari. Let her but remember^ &c.] Fpr this IJ^lassinger is in*
debted to less respectable authority, to the troftK^drajd* iQigmacltTl

^ THE DUKE OP MILAN. 259

Isab. The charge she puts
The state to, for perfumei.

Maru And howsoever
She seems when she's made up, as she's herself,
She stinks above the ground. O that I could

reach you !
The little one you scorn so, with her nails
Would tear your painted face, and scratbh those

eyes out.
Do but come down*

Marc. Were there no other way.
But leaping on thy neck, to break mitie own,
Rather than be outbraved thus. [She retires.

Grac. Forty ducats
Upon the little hen ; she's of the kind,
And will not leave the pit. [Aside.

Mari. That it Were lawful
To meet her with a poniard and a pistol !
But these weak hands shall shew my spleen—

Ri* enter MaHoelia betow.

Marc. Where are you.
You modicum, yon dwarf!
Mari. Here, giantess, here.

of the dntchess'8 waiUng.wottian, m her ihfdliight cdftfer^nce
with Don Qaixote. These traits, faowerer disgaiting, are not
without their valae ; they strongly mark the preTaiiing features
of the times, which were uniyersaUy coarse and indelicate!
they exhibit also a circumstance worthy of particular notice,
namely, that those' Vfgofous powers Of genias, whJeh carry men
far beyond the literacy state of th^ir age, do not enable thenf tb
outgo that of its maBiiers. This- must serre as an apology for
our author; indeed, it is the only one which can be offered for
many Who stand higher in the ranks of fame tiian Massivger,
and who ha?e still more need of it.

270 THE DUKE OP MILAK

Enter Francisco, Tiberio, St£phano, and

Gtuird$.

Fran. A tumult in the court !

Maris Let her come on.

Fran. What wind hath raised this tempest ?
Sever them, I command you. What's the cause ?
Speak, Mariana.

MarL I am out of breath ;
But we shall meet| we shall. — ^And do you hear,

sir I
Or right me on this monster, (she's three feet
Too high for a woman,) or ne'er look to have
A quiet hour with me.

Isab. If my son >vere here,
And would endure this, may a mother's curse
Pursue and overtake him !

Fran. O forbear :
In me he's present, both in power and will ;
And, madam, I much grieve that, in his absence,
There should arise tlie least distaste to move you;
It being his principal, nay, only charge,
To have you, in his absence, served and honour'd,
As when himself perform'd the willing office.

Mari. This is nne, i'faith.

Grac. I would I were well off !

Fran. And therefore, I beseech you, madam,
frown not.
Till most unwittingly he hath deserved it.
On your poor servant ; to your excellence
I ever was and will be such ; and lay
The duke's authority, trusted to me,
With willingness at your feet,

Mari. O base ! '

Imb. We are like
To have an equal judge !

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 871

Tran. But, should I find
That you are touched in any point of honour,
Or that the least neglect is fall'n upon you,
I then stand up a prince.

1 Fid. Without reward,
Pray you dismiss us.

Grac. Would I were five leagues hence I

Fran. I will be partial
To none, not to myself ;
Be you but pleased to shew me my offence,
Or if you hold me in your good opinion,
Name those that have offended you.

hab. I am one.
And I will justify it.

Mart. Thou art a base fellow,
To take her part.

Fran. Remember, she's the dutchess.

Marc. But used with more contempt, than if
I were
A peasant's daughter ; baited, and hooted at,
Like to a common strumpet ; with loud noises
Forced from my prayers; and niy private chamber.
Which with all willingness, I would make my

prison ,
During the absence of my lord, denied me :
But if he e'er return —

Fran. Were you an actor
In this lewd comedy?

Mart. Ay, marry was I ;
And will be one again.

Isah. I'll join with her,"
Though you repine at it.

Fran. Think not, then, I speak,
For I stand bound to honour, and to serve you ;
But that the duke, that lives in this great lady,
For the contempt of him in her, commands you
To be close prisoners.

trs THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Isab. Mart. Prisoners !

Fran. Bear them hence ;
This is your charge, my lord Tiberio,
And, Stephano, this is yours.

Marc. I am not cruel,
But pleased they may have liberty.

Isab. Pleased, with a mischief!

Mari, 1*11 ratherlive inany loathsome dungeon,
Than in a paradise at her entreaty :
And, for you, upstart— —

Steph. There is no contending.

Ttb. What shall become df these?

Fran. See them well whipp'd,
As you will answer it,

Tib. Now, signior Graccho, ,

What think you • of your greatness ?

Grac. I preach patience,
And must endure my fortune.

1 Fid. I was never yet
At such a hunt's-up,* nor was so rewarded.

[Eseunt all but Francisco and Marcelia.

Fran. Let them first knbw themselves, and
how you are
To be served and honoured; which, when they
confess,

• Tib. Now^ signior Graccho^

What think you of your greatness 9'\ So the first quarto. Cox-
eter and Mr. M. Mason follow the second, which reads^ What's
become of your greatness f

■ 1 Fid. / was never yet

At Slick a hunt's-upj The hunt^S'Upir^B a leflson on the bom,
played under the windows of sportsmen, to. call them up in the
morning. It was, probably, sufficiently obstreperous,' for it is
frequently applied by our old writers, as in this place, to any
noise or clamour of an awakening or alarming nature. The
tune^ or rather, perhaps, the words to it,. was composed by one
Gray, in the time of Henry VIII. who, as Puttenham tdls ua,
in his Art of English Poesy , was much pleased with ,it. Of its
popularity there can be no doubt, for it was one of the songs

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 273

You may again receive them to your favour :
And then it will shew nobly.

Marc. With my thanks
The duke shall pay you his, if he return
To bless us with his presence.

Fran. There is nothing
That can be added to your fair acceptance ;
That is the prize^ indeed ; all else are blanks.
And of no value. As, in virtuous actions,
The undertaker finds a full reward,
Although conferred upon unthankful men;
So, any service done to so much sweetness,
However dangerous, and subject to
An ill construction, in your fovour finds
A wish'd, and glorious end.

Marc. From yoq, I take this
As loyal duty; but, in any other,
It would appear gross flattery.

Fran. Flattery, madam !
You are so rare and excellent in all things.
And raised so high upon a rock of goodness.
As that vice cannot reach you ;* who but looks
on

travestied by the Scotch Reformers into ^^ ane gade and godly
ballate/' for the edification of the elect. The first stanza of the
original is come down to us :

^* The hunte is up, the hunte is up,

" And nowe it is almost daye ;
^^ And he thaf s in bed with another man's wife,

". It is iim« Jto g<^t awaye/'

The tune, I suppose, is lost ; bat we hare a hunt*s»up of our own,
which is still played under the windows of the sluggish sports-
man, and consists of a chorus of men, dogs, and horns, not a
little alarming.

• • v^« that vice cwMXoi reach you ;] i. e, flattery : Coxeter desertf
ih0 old copies .hvre^ and raads, I know not for what reason,

That vice can never reach you :
His^ Achates foitowi hirn^ as asnal.
VOL, I. * T

274 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

This temple, built by nature to perfectioYi,
But must bow to it ; and out of that zeal,
Not only learn to adore it, but to love it ?

Marc. Whither will this fellow ? [Aside.

Fran. Pardon, therefore, madam,
If an excess in me of humble duty,
Teach me to hope, and though it be not in
The power of man to merit such a blessing,
My piety, far it is mbre than love,
May find reward. '

Marc. You have it in my thanks ;
And, on my hand, I am pleased that you shall take
A full possession of it : but, take heed
That you fix here, and feed no hope beyond it j
If you do, it will prove fatal.

Fran. Be it death.
And death with torments tyrants ne'er found out,
Yet I mast say, I love you.

Marc. As a subject ;
And 'twill beqome you.

Fran, Farewell, circumstance !
And since you are not pleased to understand me.
But by a plain and usual form of speech ;
All superstitious reverence laid by,
I love you as a man, and, as a man,
I would enjoy you. Why do you start, and fly me?
I am no monster, and you but a woman,
A woman made to yield, and by example
Told it is lawful : favours of this nature,
Are, in our age, no miracles in the greatest ;
And, therefore, lady

Marc. Keep off ! — O you Powers !

Libidinous beast ! and, add to that, unthankful !
A crime, vhich creatures wanting reason, fly trom.
Are all the princely bounties, favours, honours, ■
Which, with some prejudice to his own wisdom.
Thy lord and raiser hath conferr'd upon thee, j

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 275

In three days absence buried ? Hath he made thee,
A thing obscure, almost without a name,
The envy of great fortunes ? Have I graced thee,
Beyond thy rank, and entertain'd thee, as
A friend, and not a servant ? and is this.
This impudent attempt to taint mine honour,
The fair return of both our ventured favours !

Fran. Hear my excuse^.

Marc. The devil may plead mercy.
And with as much assurance, as thou yield one.
Burns lust so hot in thee ? or is thy pride
Grown up to such a height, that, but a princess.
No woman can content thee ; and, add to it,
His wife and princess, to whom thou art tied
In all the bonds of duty ? — Read my life,
. And find one act of mine so loosely carried.
That could invite a most self-loving fool.
Set off with all that fortune could throw on him,
To the least hope to find way to my favour;
And, what's the worst mine enemiescould wishme,
I'll be thy strumpet.

Fran. 'Tis acknowledged, madam,
That your whole course of life hath been a pattern
For chaste and virtuous women. In your beauty,
Which I first. saw, and loved, as a fair crystal,
I read your heavenly mind, clear and untainted ;
And while the duke did prize you to your value,
Could it have been in man to pay that duty,
I well might envy him, but durst not hope
To stop you in your full career of goodness :
But now I find that he's fall'n from his fortune,
And, howsoever he would appear doting.
Grown cold in his affection ; I presume, >

From his most barbarous neglect of you.
To offer my true service. Nor stand I boun^,
To look back on the courtesies of him,
That, of all living men, is most unthankful.

Marc. Unheatd-of impudence !

T*2 .. -. ^...

376 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Fran. Youll say I am modest,
When I have told the story. Can he tax me,
That have received some worldly trifles fromhim.
For being ungrateful ; when he, that first tasted,
And hath so long enjoy'd, your sweet embraces.
In which all blessings that our frail condition
Is capable of, are wholly comprehended,
As cloy'd with happiness, contemns the giver
Of his felicity ; and, as he reach'd not
The masterpiece of mischief which he aims at,
Unless he pay those favours he stands bound to,
With fell and deadly hate!- You think he loves you
With unexampled fervour; nay, dotes on you,
As there were something in you more than woman :
When, on my knowledge, he long since hath wish'd
You were among the dead ; — and I, you scorn so,
Perhaps, am your preserver.

Marc. Bless me, good angels,
Or I am blasted ! Lies so false and wicked,
And fashion'd to so damnable a purpose.
Cannot be spoken by a human tongue.
My husband hate me ! give thyself the lie.
False and aceiirs'd ! Thy soul, if thou hast any,
Can witness, never lady stood so bound
To the unfeign'd affection of ber lord,
'As I do to my Sforza. If thou wouldst work
Upon my weak credulity, tell me, rather,
That the earth moves ; the sun and stars standstill ;
The ocean keeps nor floods nor ebbs ; or that '
There's peace between the lion and the lamb ;
Or that the ravenous eagle atid the dove
Keep in one aerie,' and bring up their young j
Or any thing that is averse to nature :

3 Or that ^e ravenous eagte and the dove
Keep in one aerie,] i. e. in one nest. Mr. M. Mason degrades
Massinger and himself, by reading, Keep in one aviary ! Such
rashness, and incompetence^ it is to be hoped, do not often meet
in one person*

THE DUKE OF MILAN. ?77

And I will sooner credit it, than that

My lord can think of me, but as a jewel,

He lovei more than himself, and all the world.

Fran. O innocence abused! simplicity cozen'd !
It were a sin, for which we have no name,
To keep you longer in>this wilful error.
Read his affection here; — \Givesherapaper^--^^nA

then observe
How dear he holds you ! Tis his character,
Which cunning yet could never counterfeit.

Marc. Tis his hand, I'm resolved* of it. I'litry
What the inscription is.

Fran. Pray you, do iso.

Marc, [reads.] You know mypleasurCj and the hour
of Marcelia's deaths whichfail not to execute^ as you
will answer the contrary j not with your head alone,
hut with the ruin of your whole family. And this,
written with mine own hand, and signed with my
privy signet^ shall be your sufficient warrant

LoDOvico Sforza.

I do obey it ! every word's a poniard.

And reaches to my heart. \Swoons.

Fran. What have I done ?
Madam ! for heaven's sake, madam !— O my fate !
I'll bend her body •/ this is yet some pleasure :

^ ^Tis his hand, Fm resolved qfit^ I am conrinced of it; 80
the word is frequently used by Massinger's contemporaries.
Thus Fletcher, in the Faithful Shepherdess :

^' But be they far from me with their fond terror !«-

^^ I am resolved my Chloe yet is true."
And Webster, in the White Devil:

** I am resohedf

'^ Were there a second paradise to lose,

«' This devil would betray it."
' I'll bend her body:^ — ^to try if there be any life in it. Thus,
pk the Maid^s Tragedy :

'^ Pre heard, if there be any life, but bow

<< The body thus, and it will show itself.''

J78 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

I'll kiss her into a new life. Dear lady ! —
Shestirs. For the duke's sake, for Sforza's sake —

Marc. Sforza's ! stand off; though dead, I
will be his,
And even my ashes shall abhor the touch
Of any other. — O unkind, and cruel !
Learn, women, learn to trust in one another;
There is no faith in man : Sforza is false,
False to Marcelia !

Fran. But I am true,
And live to make you happy. All the pomp,
State, and observance you had, being his.
Compared to what you shall enjoy, when mine.
Shall be no more remembered. Lose his memory.
And look with cheerful beams on your new

creature ;
And know, what he hath plotted for your good,
Fate cannot alter. If the emperor
Take not his life, at his return he dies,
And by my hand ; my wife, that is his heir.
Shall quickly follow : — then we reign alone !
For with this arm I'll swim through seas of

blood.
Or make a bridge, arch'd with the bones of men,
But I will grasp my aims in you, my dearest,
Dearest, and best of women I*

Marc. Thou art a villain !
All attributes of arch-villains made into one.
Cannot express thee. I prefer the hatp.

^ But I mil grasp my aims in you, mydearestf^
Dearest f and best of women /] It would scarcely be credited*
if we had not the proof before us, that for his bold and ani«
mated expression, which is that of both the quartos, Mr. M.
^ason should presume to print, But I mil grasp you in my arms,
"in the tame rant of modern comedy. Coscter's reading is simple
nonsense, which is better than specious sophist ication, as it
excites suspipioa.

THE DUKE OF MILAN.

279

Of Sforza, though it mark me for the grave,
Before thy base aifection. I am yet
Pure and unspotted in my true love to him ;
Nor shall it be'corrupted, though he's tainted :
Nor will I part with innocence, because
He is found guilty. For thyself, thou art
A thing, that, equal with the devil himself,
I do detest and scorn.

Fran. Thou, then, art nothing :
Thy life is in my power, disdainful woman I
Think on't, and tremble.

Marc, No, though thou wert now
To play thy hangman's part — ^Thou well may 'st be
My executioner, and art only fit
For such employment; but ne'er hope to have
The least grace from me. I will never see thee.
But as the shame of men : so, with my curses
Of horror'to thy conscience in this life,
And pains in hell hereafter, I spit at thee \
And, making haste to make my peace with heaven,
Expect thee as my hangman. [Exit.

Fran. 1 am lost
In the discovery of this fatal secret.
Curs'd hope, that flatter'd me, that wrongs could

make her
A stranger to her goodness ! all my plots
Turn back upon myself; but I am in.
And must go on : and, since T have put off '
From theshore of innocence, guilt be now my pilotl
Revenge first wrought me ; ' murder's his twin-
brother :
One deadly sin, then, help to cure another! [Exit,

7 Reoengejirst wrought me^ &c.] The reader should not suffer
these hints, of which he will find several in the succeeding
pages, to escape him : they are not thrown out at random by
Massinger, but intended to prepare the mind for the dreadful
retaliation which follows.

230 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

ACT III. SCENE I.

The Imperial Camp, before Pavia.

Enter Medina, Hernando, and Alphonso.

Med. The spoil, the spoil ! 'tis that the soldier
fights fpr.
Our victory, as yet, affords us nothing
But wounds and empty honour. We have pass'd
The hazard of a dreadful day, and forced .
A passage with our swords through all the dan-
gers
That, page-like, wait oft the success of war;
And now expect reward.

Hem. Hell put it in
The enemy's mind to be desperate, and hold

out !
Yieldings and compositions will undo us ;
And what is that way given, for the most part.
Conies to the emperor's coffers, to defray
The charge of the great action, as 'tis rumour'd :
When, usually, some thing in grace, that ne'er

heard
The cannon's roaring tongue, but at a triumph,
Puts in, and for his intercession shares
All that we fought for ; the poor soldier left
To starve, or fill up hospitals,

Alph. But, when
We entfer towns by force, and carve ourselves,
Pleasure with pillage, and the richest wines
Open our shrunk-up veins, and pour into them

New blood and fervour-^

Med. I long to be at it ;

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 281

To see these chuffs, • that every day may spend
A soldier's entertainment for a year,
Yet make a third meal of a bunch of raisins :*
These sponges, that suck up a kingdom's fat,
Battening like scarabs* in the dung of peace,
To be sq^ueezed out by the rough hand of war ;
And all that their whole lives have heap'd

together,
By cozenage, perjury, or sordid thrift.
With one gripe to be ravish'd.

' To see these chuffs,] So it stood in every edition before Mr.
M* Mason's, when it was altered to choughsy and said, in a
note, to mean magpies ! ViThat magpies could have to do here,
it would, perhaps, puzzle the editor, had he thought at all on
the subject, to discoVer. The truth is, that chuff is the genuine
word : it is always used in a bad sense, and means a coarse un-
mannered clown, at once sordid and wealthy.

9 Yet make a third meal of a bunch of raisins :]. So all the old
copies, and so, indeed, Goxeter ; but Mr. M. Mason, whose
sagacity nothing escapes, detected the poefs blunder, and for
third suggested, nay, actually printed, thin. • ^^ This passage,''
quoth he, ^^ appears to be erroneous : the making a third meal
of raisins, if they made two good meals before, would be no
proof of penuriousness. I therefore read thin,*'

Seriously, was erer alteration so capricious, was ever reason-
ing so absurd I Where is it said that these chuffs ^' had made
two good meals before ?" Is not the whole tendency of the
speech to shew that they starred themselves in the midst of
abundance ? and are not the reproaches such, as have been east,
in all ages, by men of Medina's stamp, on the sober and frugal
citizen, who lived within his income ? '' Surely," says Flotwell,
in the City Matchy

*' Surely, myself,

^^ Cipher his factor, and an ancient cat,
^^ Did keep strict diet, had our Spanish fare,
^* Four olives among three ! My uncle would
^^ Look fat with fasting ; I have known him surfeit
^^ Upim a bunch ef raisinsy swoon at sight
^^ Of a whole joint, and rise an epicure
^^ From half an orange."
' Battening like scarabs] Scarabs .means beetles. M. Masok.
Very true ; and beetles means scarabs t

S8S THE DUKE OF MILAN.

«

Hern. I would be tousing
Their fair madonas, that in little dogs.
Monkeys, and paraquittos, consume thousands ;
Yet, for the advancement of a noble action,
Repine to part with a poor piece of eight :
War's plagues upon them ! I hJive seen them

stop
Their scornful noses first, then seem to swoon,
At sight of a buff jerkin, if it were not
Perfumed, and hid with gold : yet these nice

wantons,
Spurr'd on by lust, covered in some disguise,
To meet some rough court-stallion, and be

leap'd.
Durst enter into any common brothel,
Though all varieties of stink contend there ;
Yet praise the entertainment.

Med, I may live
To see the tatter 'd'st rascals of my troop
Drag them out of their closets, with a vengeance !
When neither threatening, flattering, kneeling,

howling,
Can ransome one poor jewel, or redeem
Themselves, from their blunt wooing.

Hern. My main hope is.
To begin the sport at Milan : there's enough.
And of all kinds of pleasure we can wish for.
To satisfy the most covetous.

AlphJ Every day,
We look for a remove.

Med. For Lodowick Sforza,
The duke of Milan, I, on mine own knowledge,
Can say thus much : he is too much a soldier.
Too confident of his own worth, too rich too.
And understands top well the emperor hatea

him.
To hope for composition.

THE DUKE OF MILAN, 283

Alph. On my life,
We need not fear his coming in."

Hern. On mine,
I do not wish it : I had^ rather that,
To shew his valour, he'd put us to the trouble
To fetch him in by the ears,

Med. The emperor !

Flourish. Enter Charles, Pescara, and

Attendants.

CharL You make me wonder: — nay, it is no
counsel,'
You may partake it, gentlemen : who'd have

thought,
That he, that scorn'd our proiFer'd amity
When he was sued to, should, ere he be summon'd,
(Whether persuaded to it by base fear.
Or flatter'd by false hope, which, 'tis uncertain,)
First kneel for mercy ?

Med, When your majesty
Shall please to instruct us who it is, we may
Admire it with you.

CharL Who, but the duke of Milan,
The right hand of the French ! of alLthat stand
In our displeasure, whom necessity
Compels to seek our favour, I would have sworn
Sforza had been the last.

Hern. And should be writ so,
In the list of those you pardon. Would his city

* Alph, On my life
We need not fear his coming in.] His surrender of himself.
Hernando, in the next speech, plays upon the word.

3 nay^ it is no eounselj i. e. no secret: so

in Cu'pid*s Revenge :

^* I would worry her,

** As never cur was worried, I would, neighbour,

" Till my teeth met I know where ? but that is counsel.**

284 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Had rather held us out a siege, like Trov,
Than, by a feign'd submission, he should cheat

you
Of a just revenge ; or us, of those fair glories
Wc have sweat blood to purchase !

Med. With your honour
You cannot hear him.

Alph. The sack alone of Milan
Will pay the army.

Chart. I am not so weak,
To be wrought on, as you fear ; nor ignorant
That money is the sinew of the war :
And on what terms soever he seek peace,
'Tis in our power to grant it, or deny it :
Yet, for our glory, and to shew him that
We've brought him on his knees, it is resolved
To hear him as a suppliant. Bring him in ;
But let him see the effects of our just anger.
In the guard that you make for him.

[Exit Pescara.

Hern. I am now
Familiar with the issue ; all plagues on it !
He will appear in some dejected habit.
His countenance suitable, and for his order,
A rope about his neck : then kneel, and tell
Old stories, what a worthy thing it is
To have power, and not to use it ; then add to

that
A tale of king Tigranes, and great Pompey,
Who said, forsooth, and wisely! 'twas more

honour
To make a king, than kill one : which, applied
To the emperor, and himself, a pardon's granted
To him an enemy; and we, his servants,
Condemn'd to beggary. [Aside to Med.

Med. Yonder he comes ;
But not as you expected.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. «85

Jte-enter Pescara «?iVA Sforza, strongly guarded.

Alph, He looks as if
He would outface his dangers.

Hern. I am cozen'd :
A suitor, in the devil's name !

Med. Hear him speak.

Sfo7\ I come not, emperor, to invade thy
mercy.
By fawning on thy fortune ; nor bring with me
Excuses, or denials. I profess,
And with a good man's confidence, even this

instant
That I am in thy power, I was thine enemy ; -
Thy deadly and vow'd enemy : one that wish'd
Confusion to thy person and estates;
And with my utmost powers, and deepest coun-
sels,
Had they been truly followed, furthered it.
Nor will I now, although my neck were under
The hangman's axe, with one poor syllable
Confess, but that I honoured the French king,
More than thyself, and all men,

Med. By saint Jaques,
This is no flattery.

Hem. There is fire and spirit in't ;
Bat not long-lived, I hope.

Sfor. Now give n\e leave.
My hate against thyself, and love to him
Freely acknowledged, to give up the reasons
That made me so affected : In my wants '
I ever found him faithful ; had supplies
Of men and monies from him ; and my hopes.
Quite sunk, were, by his grace, buoy'd up

again:
He was, indeed, to me, as my good angel ,

fi86 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

To guard me from all dangers. I dare speak,
Nay, must and will, his praise now, in as high
And loud a key, as when he was thy equal. —
The benefits he sow'd in me, met not
Unthankful ground, but yielded him his own
With fair increase, and I still glory in it.
And, though my fortunes, poor, compared to his,
And Milan, weighed with France, appear as

nothing.
Are in thy fury burnt, let it be mentioned,
They served but as small tapers to attend
The solemn flame at this great funeral :*
And with them I will gladly waste myself,
Rather than undergo the imputation
Of being base, or unthankful.

Alph. Nobly spoken I

'Hern. I do begin, I know not why, to hate
him
Less than I did.

Sfor. If that, then, to be grateful
For courtesies received, or not to leave
A friend in his necessities, be a crime
Amongst you Spaniards, which other nations
That, like you, aim'd at empire^ loved, and

cherish'd
Where'er they found it, Sforza brings his head
To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slave,
Pinion'd and fetter'd, in a squalid weed,
Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling,
For a forestaird remission : that were poor,
And would but shame thy victory ; for conquest
Over base foes^ is a captivity,
And not a triumph. I ne'er fear'd to die,

4 at this great funeral :] Mr. M. Mason,

•whether by design or not, I will not say, reads, his great funeral:
meaning, perhaps, the French king's; bat the old reading is
)i>etter in e?ery respect ..

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 287

More than I wish'd to live. When I had reach'd
My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes,
This crown upon my head, and to my side
This sword was girt ; and witness truth, that, now
'Tis in another's power, when I shall part
With them and life together, I'm the same :
My veins then did not swell with pride; nor

now
Shrink they for fear. Know, sir, that Sforza

stands
Prepared for either fortune.

Htm As I live,
I do begin strangely to love this fellow;
And could part with three quarters of ray share in
The promised spoil, to save him.

Sjor. But, if example
Of my fidelity to the French, whose honours,
Titles, and glories, are now mix'd with yours.
As brooks, devour'd by rivers, lose their names.
Has power to invite you to make him a friend,
That hath given evident proof, he knows to love.
And to be thankful : this my crown, now yours,
You may restore me, and in me instruct
These brave bommanders, should your fortune

change.
Which now I wish not, what they may expect
From noble enemies, for being faithful.
The charges of the ^var I will defray.
And, what you may, not without hazard, force,
Bring freely to you : I'll prevent the cries
Of murder'd infants, and of r^vish'd maids.
Which, in a city sack'd, call on heaven's justice,
And stop the course of glorious victories :
And, when I know the captains and the soldiers,
Thai have in the late battle done best service,
And are to be rewarded, I myself.
According to their quality and merits,

288 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Will see them largely recompensed. — ^I have

- said,
And now expect my senteace.

Alph. By this light,
TTis a brave gentleman.

Med. How like a block
The emperor sits !

Hern. He hath delivered reasons/
Especially in his purpose to enrich
Such as fought bravely, (I myself am one,
I care not who knows it,) as I wonder that
He can be so stupid. Now he begins to stir :
Mercy, an't be thy will !

CbarL Thou hast so far
Outgone my expectation, noble Sforza,
For such I nold thee ; — and true constancy,
Raised on a brave foundation, bears such palm
And privilege with it, that where we behold it.
Though in an enemy, it does command us
To love and honour it. By my future hopes,
I am glad, for thy sake, that, in seeking favour,
Thou didst not borrow of vice her indirect.
Crooked, and abject means ; and for mine own.
That, since my purposes must now be changed,
Touching thy life and fortunes, the world can-
not
Tax me of levity in my settled counsels ;
I being neither wrought by tempting bribes,

^ He hath delivered reasons,] Hernando eyidently means to say
that Sforza has spoken rationally, especially in expressing his
purpose of enriching those who fought brarely : the word
remans in the plural will not express that sense. M. Masos.

He therefore alters it to reason ! T(^«tt0inpt to prore that tira>
old copies ar« right, would be superfluous:— but I «aonot refteci^,
without some indignation, on the scandalous manner in which
Mr. M. Mason has given this speech. He first deprives it of
metre and sense^ and then builds up new readings on his ows
blunders. -

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 289

Nor servile flattery ; but forced into it
By a fair war of virtue.

Hern. This sounds well.

Charl. Ail former passages of hate be buried :
For thus with open arms I meet thy love,
And as a friend embrace it ; and so far
I am from robbing thee of the least honour,
That with my hands, to make it sit the faster,
I set thy crown once more upon thy head ;
And do not only style thee, Duke of Milan,
But vow to keep thee so. Yet, not to take
From others to give only to myself,*
I will not hinder your magnificence
To my commanders, neither will I urge it ;
But in that, as in all things else, I leave you
To be your own disposer.

[Flourish, Eant with Attendants.

Sfor. May I live
To seal my loyalty, though with loss of life,
In some brave service worthy Caesar's favour,
And I shall die most happy i Gentlemen,
Receive me to your loves; and if henceforth
There can arise a difference between us,
It shall be in a noble emulation .
Who hath the fairest sword, or dare go farthest.
To fight for Charles the emperor.

Hern. We embrace you.
As one well read in all the points of honour :
And there we are your scholars.

l^or. True ; but such
As far outstrip the master. We'll contend

•Fef , not to take

From others^ lo give only to myself,] This is the readitig of ait
the old copies, and nothing can be clearer than that it is per-
fectly proper. The modern editors, howerer, choose to weaJten
both the sense and the sentiment, by a conceit of their own :
they print^ » . ..^.fo give otUy to thyself !

VOL. I. U *

290 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

In love hereafter; ip the mean time, pray you.
Let me discharge my debt, and, as an earnest
Of what's to come, divide this cabinet :
In the small body of it there are jewels
Will yield a hundred thousand pistoleta,
Which honour me to receive.

Med. You bind us to you.

Sfar. And when great Charles conimands me
to his presence,
If you will please to excuse my abrupt departure^
Designs that most concern mel, next this mercy.
Calling me home, I shall hereafter meet you,
And gratify the favour.

Hern. In this, and all things, •

We are your servants. :

Sfor. A name I ever owe you.

{^E^teunt Medina^ Hernando^ and Alphonso.

Peso. So, sir ; this tempest is well overblpwu.
And all things fall out tx> our wish^/« but.
In my opinion, this quick return.
Before you've made a jparty in the court
Among the great ones, (for these needy c^ptains^
Have little power in peace,) may beget danger,^
At least suspicion.

Sfor. Where true honour lives^
Doubt hath no being : I desire no pa^a
Beyond an emperor's word, for 'my aiisuiiance*
Besides, Pescara, to thyself, of all men,
I will confess my weakness :r*-tthough way state
And crown's restored me, though. I am in grac6>
And that a. little stay might be a step
To greater honours, I must hence. Alas !
I live not here ; my wife, my wife, Pescara,'
Being absent, I am dead* Prithee, excirse,

•my QN^i;, m j wifid, Peti^arc,] Mn. M. Mason fee^ljr

and. vBmetrically reads^— -^*-oty »t^, Peveara^ Thero k greal
beauty in the repetition ; it \$y lleskte»y pei^o^ m eiia^ttclep:

T^kE btJKE OF MiLAN. 891

Aiid' dd ribt chide, fdr friendsht[i's hike, nly

fondness,
But ride along with me ; I'll give ydu reasons.
And strong ones, to plead fbr ine.

Pesc. Use your bwri pI^Etsure;
I'll bear you cotnpany.

^r. Fareweii, grief ! I aitl stored with
Two blessirig^ most desired in "human life,
A constdiit mend, an unsqspectcd wife. [JEi^eutit

SCENE II.

Milan. A room in tfiH Cmtte.*
Enter an Officer with Graccho.

Offic. What I did, I had warrant for ; you havfe
tasted
My office gently, and fo*" those ioft strokes,
Flea-bitings to the jerks I could have lent you,
There does belong a ftelihg.'^

Grac. Must I pay
For being tortnebted, and dUhonoor'd?

Offic. Fie ! no,
Your honour's pot impair'd in't. What's the,

■letting oiit
Of a little corrupt blftod/ arid th6 neit way too?
There is no surgeon like me, to take oiF
A eoortier's itch that's rampant at great ladiis;
Or torns knave for prcfermeiit, or grows proud

• Mifan. ARoMiril s tot* C6i6ter priKfei'

*<' Siene changes tn Pisa f i it followed by thd

^' iaoA AztwtMk oi editoi b.

9 Of a little com^i bl popiec the modem

edHon read, Of a Utile c This rcdncea the Im*

to rerjr good prote, wliic j merit.

adS THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Of his rich cloaks and sqits, though got by

brokage,
And so forgets his betters:

Grac. Very good, sir :
But am I the first man of quality
That e'er came under your fingers r

Offic. Not by a thousand ;
And they have said I have a lucky hand too :
Both men and women of all sorts have bow'd.
Under this sceptre. I have had a fellow
That could endite, forsooth, and make fine metres
To tinkle in the ears of ignorant mad am s.
That, for defaming of great men, was sent me
Threadbare and lousy, and in- three days after,
Discharged by anotner that set him on, I have

seen him
Cap k pi6 gallant, and his stripes wash'd of
With oil of angels.*

Grac. *Twas a sovereign cure.

Offic. There was a sectary* too, that would
not be ■ '

Conformable to the orders of the church,
Nor yield to any argument of reason,
But still rail at authority, brought to me,
When I had worm'd his tongue, and truss'd his

haunches,
Grew a fine pulpitman, and was beneficed :
Had he not cause to thank me ?

* Wxtk oil of angeU.] It maj be jast necessary to obserre^
thiit this is a pleasant allusion to the gold coin of that name. ;

' There was a sectary f oo, &c.] In the former editions, secrC'^
iary* We owe this change, which- improres at once the metre
apd the sense, to Massinger's pen. The emendation was sug-
gested to me during the first passage^of this play through the
press ; but an oyer scrupulous adherence to the old copies
induced me to decline ceceiving it.

• THE DUKE OF MILAN. 293

Grac. There was physic
Was to the purpose.

Qffic. Now, for women, sir,
For your more consolation, I could tell you
Twenty fine stories, but Fll end in one.
And 'tis the last that's memorable.

Grac. Prithee, do ;
For I grow weary of thee.

Offic. There was lately'
A fine she- waiter in the court, that doted
Extremely of a gentleman, that h^d
His main dependence on a signior's favour
I will not name, but could not compass him
On any terms. This wanton, at dead midnight,
Was found at the exercise behind the arras.
With the 'foresaid signior: he got clear off.
But she was seized on, and, t6 save his honour.
Endured the lash; and, though I made her often
Curvet and caper, she would never tell
Who play'd at pushpin with her,

Grac. But what follow'd ?
Prithee be brief.

Offic. Why this, sir: She delivered.
Had store of crowns assign'd her by her patron.
Who forced the gentleman, to save her credit,
To marry her, and say he was the party
Found in Lob's pound: so she, that, before, gladly

' Offic. There -mas lately &c.] I have little doubt but that this
lively story njras founded in fact, and well understood by the
poet^s contemporaries. The courtiers were not slow in indem-
nifying themselves for the morose and gloomy hours wKich they
had passed during the last two or three years of Elizabeth ; and
the coarse and inelegant manners of James, which bordered
closely on licentiousness, afforded them ample opportunities.

It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader, that wherever
our old dramatists laid the scene of their plays, the habits and
manners of them are, generally speaking, as truly English, as
the language.

S94 THE DUKE OF MILAN*

Would have been his whore, reigns o'er Vw as

his wife;
Nor dares he grumble at it. Speak but trutlv then.
Is not my office lucky ?

Grac. Go, there's for thee ;
But what will be my fortune r

Offic. If you thrive not
After that soft correction, come again.

Grac. I thank you, knave,

(Mc, And then, knave, I will fit you. [EfiK

U^rac. Whipt like a rogue ! no lighter punish-
ment serve
To balance with a little mirth ! Tis well ;
My credit sunk for ever, I am now
Fit company only for pages and for footboys.
That have perused the porter's lodge/

Enter Julio and Giovanni.*

Giw. See, Julio,
Yonder the proud slave is. How he looks now.
After his castigation !

Jul. As he came
From a close fight* at sea under the hatches,

♦. Fit company for pages andforfootboys^

That have perused the porter's lodge.] i. e. that hare been
whipt there. The porter's lodge, ia onr author's days, when
the great claimed, and, indeed, frequently exercised, the right
of chastising their servants, was the usual place of punishment.

Thus Shirley, in the Grateful Servant : ^* My friend, what

make you here ? Begone, begone, I say ; — there is a porter's
lodge else, where you may have due chastisement."

' Enter' JvLi'o and Giovanni.] This has been hitherto print,
ed. Enter two Gentlemen, though one of them is immediately
named< Not to multiply characters unnecessarily, I have sup.
posed them to be the same that appear with Graccho, in tho
first scene of the first act.

^ Jul. As he came

From a close Jight &c.] Our old poets made irery free witK

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 295

With a she-Dunkirk, that was shot before
Between wind and water; and he hath sprung a

leak too,
Or I am cozen'd.

Griov. Let's be merry with him.

Grac. How they stare at me ! am I turn'd to
an owl ? —
The wonder, gentlemen ?

Jul. I read, this morning,
Strange stories of the passive fortitude
Of men in forn^er ages, which I thought
Impossible, and not to be believed :
But now I look on you, my wonder ceases.

Grac. The reason, sir?

Jul. Why, sir, you have been whipt,
Whipt, signior Graccho ; and the whip, I take it,
Is to a gentleman, the greatest trial
That may be of his patience.

Grac. Sir, I'll call you
To a strict account for this.

6riw. I'll not deal with you,
Unless I have a beadle for my second :
And then I'll answer you.

Jul. Farewell, poor Graccho.

[Ea^eunt Julio and Giovanni.

Grac. Better and better still. If ever wrongs
Could teach a wretch to find the way to
vengeance,

one another's property.: it mast be confessed, how e?er, that
their literary rapine did not originate in pover^, for they gave
as liberally as they took. This speech has been '' conveyed"
by Fletcher or his editor, into his excellent comedy of the Elder
Brother:

ci . ' — They look ruefully,

^ As they had newly come from a yaulting house,
^^ And had been quite shot through between wind and water
** By a she-Dunkirk, and had sprung a leak, sir.''
The meaning is sufficiently obvious.

996 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Enter Francisco and a Servant.

Hell now inspire me! How, the lord protector!
My judge; I thank him ! Whither thus in private ?
I will not see him. [Stands aside.

Fran. If I am sought for,
Say I am indisposed, and will not hear
Or suits, or suitors.

Serv.^But, sir, if the princess
Enquire, what shall I answer?

Fran. Say, I am rid'
Abroad to take the air ; but by no means*
Let her know I'm in court.

Sera. So I shall tell her. [Ejcii.

Fran. Within there, ladies!

Enter a Gentlewoman.

Gentlew. My good lord, your pleasure?

Fran. Prithee, let me beg thy lavour for access
To the dutchess.

Gentlew. In good sooth, my lord, I dare not;
She's very private.

F^^an. Come, there's gold to buy thee
A new gown, and a rich one.

Gentlew. I once swore*
If e'er I lost my maidenhead, it should be

7 Fran. 5ay, I am rid

Abroad &c.] So the old copies: the modern editors, with
equal accuracy and elegance,

Sai/ I'm rode
Abroad^ &c.

' / once swore] Both the quartos hare a marginal hemistich
here: they read, This vnll tempt me; an addition of the promp-
ter, or an unnecessary interpolation of the copyist, which spoils
the metre. Cozeter and Mr. M. Mason have adyanced it into
the text

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 297

With a great lord, as you are ; and, I know not

how,
I feel a yielding inclination in me,
If you have appetite.

Fran. Pox on thy maidenhead !
Where is thy lady ?

Gentlew. If you venture on her,
She's walking in the gallery ; perhaps,
You will find her less tractable.

Fran. Bring me to her.

Gentlew. I fear you'll have cold entertainment,
when .
You are at your journey's end; and 'twere

discretion
To take a snatch by the way.

Fran. Prithee, leave fooling :
My page waits in the lobby; give him sweetmeats;
He IS train'd up for his master's ease,
And he will cool thee. {Exeunt Fran, and Gentlew.

Grac. A brave discovery beyond my hope,
A plot even ofFer'd lo my hand to work on 4
If I am dull now, may I live and die
The scorn of worms and slaves! — Let meconsider;
My lady and her mother first committed,
In the favour of the dutchess ; and I whipt !
That, with an iron pen, is writ in brass '
On my tough heart, now grown a harder metal. —
And all his bribed approaches to the dutchess
To be conceal'd ! good, good. This to my lady
Deliver'd, as I'll order it, runs her mad. —
But this may prove but courtship ! * let it be,
I care not, so it feed her jealous3\ {Exit.

* But this may prove but coortship! &c.3 This is^ merelj.
paying his court to her as datchess. M. Masok.

99S THE DUKE OF MILAN.

SCENE III.
Another Room in the same.

Enter Marcklia and Vkakcisco.

Marc. Believe thy tears or oaths ! can it be
hoped,
After a practice so abhorr'd and horrid.
Repentance e'er can find thee?

Fran. Dearest lady,
Great in your fortune, greater inyoar goodness.
Make a superlative of excellence,
In being greatest in your saving mercy.
I do confess, humbly confess my fault,
To be beyond all pity ; my attempt,
So barbarously rude^ that it \rould turn
A saint-like patience into savage fury.
But you, that are all innocence and virtue.
No spleen or anger in you of a woman^
But when a holy zeal to piety fires you.
May, if you please, impute the fault to lovis.
Or call it beastly lust, for 'tis no better;
A sin, a monstrous sin ! yet with it many
That did prove good men after, have been

tempted;
And, though I'm crooked now, 'tis in your power
To make me straight again.

Marc, Is't possible ^

This can be cunning ! [Aside*

. Fran. But, if no submission,
Nor prayers can appease you, that you may know
'Tis not the fear of death that makes me sue
thus,

TUE DUJCEOF MII^AN. 9$9

*

But a loatVd destestatiqin of my madue^a^
Wbjcb makes 9^e wish to live to have your

pardon \
I will not wait the sentence of the duke, .
Since his return is doubtful, but I myself
Will do ^ fearful justice on myself.
No witness by hut you, there being np more,
When \ offended. Y et, b^fo^-e I 4o it.
For I perceive in ypu no signs of mercy,
I will, disclosei ^ secret, which, dyi^g with me.
May pi^ov^ your j\\\xy*

Mari^., Speak it; \t will take from
The burthen of thy conscience,

Frun. TfauSy thep, n^^d^m :
The warrant by my lofd sign'd for your de$tl),
Was but conditional ; biit you must swea^r
By your unspotted truths not tQ T^v^al it.
Or I end here abruptly.

Marc. By my hopes
Of joys hereafter. On.

Fran. Nor was it hate
That forced him to it, but excess of love
Andy if I ne'er return^ (so said gr^at Sforza,)
No living man deserving to enjoy
My best MarcelMy with the first ne^s
That 1 am deady (J or no man ajter me
Must e'er enjoy ^rjjfail not to kill ker ■■ ^
But till certain proof

Assure thee X cm lost ^ (these were hia words,)
Observe and honour her^ as if the soul

• And if I ne'er return^ &c.] I have regulated thig gpeeds
which was exceedingly harsh and confused in all the printed
copies, according to Massinger's manuscript corrections. The re*
petitions must foe attrib|ite4 to. the embarrassed state of f rapcisco's
mind.

In the^ seventh lint, the poet has altered ^^ 4eal of woman'i
goodness,'^ (the*rtading of all the copies^) to sauf^ No f^a^iifi

300. THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Of womatCs goodness only dwelt in her*s.

This trust I have abused, and basely wrong'd;

And, if the excelling pity of your mind

Cannot forgive it^ as I dare not hope it,

Rather than look on my offended lord,

I stand resolved to punish it. [Draws hissfword.

Marc. Hold ! 'tis forgiven,
And by me freely pardoned. In thy fair life
Hereafter, study to deserve this bounty,
Which thy true penitence, such I believe it,
Against my resolution hath forced from me. — •
But that my lord, my Sforza, should esteem
My life fit only as a page, to wait on
The various course of his uncertain fortunes ;
Or cherish in himself that sensual hope,
In death to know me as a wife, afflicts me;
Nor does his envy less deserve mine anger.
Which though, such is my love, I would not

nourish.
Will slack the ardour that I had to see him
Return in safety.

Fran. But if your entertainment
Shoukl give the least ground to his jealousy.
To raise up an opinion I am false,
You then destroy your mercy. Therefore,

madam,
(Though I shall ever look on you as on
My life's preserver, and the miracle
Of human pity,) would you but vouchsafe,
In company, to do me those fair graces.
And favours, which your innocence and honour
May safely warrant, it would to the duke,

in another could hare furnisbed this most happy emendation,
-which now appears so necessarj, and so obvious. I haye been
tempted to smile in the course of this revision at the surpris-
ing gravity with which we sometimes labour to explain the un.*
intelligible blunders of a careless compositor.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 301

I being to your best self alone known guilty.
Make me appear most innocent.

Marc. Have your wishes ;
And something I may do to try his temper.
At least, to make him know a constant wife
Is not so slaved to her husband's doting humours,
But that she may deserve to live a widow,
Her fate appointing it.

Fran. It is enough ;
Nay, all I could desire, and will make way
To my revenge, which shall disperse itself
On him, on her, and all,

[Aside and exit — Shout andJiourUh.

Marc. What shout is that ?

Enter Tiberio and Stephano.

7tb. All happiness to the dutchess, that may
flow
From the duke's new and wish'd return!
Marc. He's welcome.
Steph. How coldly she receives it!
Tib. Observe the encounter.

Flourish. Enter Sforza, Pescara, Isabella,
Mariana, Gbaccuo, and Attendants.

Mart. What you have told me, Graccho^ is
believed.
And I'll find time to stir in't.

Grac. As you see cause ;
I will not do ill offices.

Sfor. I have stood
Silent thus long, Marcelia, expecting
When, with more than a greedy haste, thou

wouldst
Have flown into my arms, and on my lips
Have printed a deep welcome. My desires

\

80i THE DI/KE OF MILAN.

To glass myself in these fair eyes, have born me
With more than human speed : nor durst 1 stay
In any temple, or to any saint
To pay my V6ws and thanks for my t*eturn,
Till I had seen thee.

Afarc. Sir, I am most happy
To look upon you safe, and would exprfess
My love and duty in a modest fashion,
Such as might suit with the behaviour
Of one that knows herself k wife, and how
To temper her desires, not like a wantdil
Fired with hot appetite; nor can it wrdrig tttt
To love discreetly.

Sf'or. How ! why, can there b^
A mean in your, affections to Sforza?
Or any act, though ne'er so Idose, that may
Invite or heighten appetite, appear
Immodest or uncomely i^ t>o not move m^ ;
My passions to you are in extremesy
And know no bounds : — come ; kiss me.

Marc. I obey you. .

Sfar. By all the joys of love, she docs salute me
As if I were her grandfather ! What witch,
With carstd spells, hath quench'd the amoroils

beat
That lived upon these lips ? Tell me, Marcelia,
Aftd truly tell me, is't a ftult of fnin6
That hath begot this coldness ? or negiwi
Of others, in my ajbsencc ?

Marc. Neither, sir :
I stand indebted to your substitdie;
Noble and good Francisco, for his oat e
And fair observance 6f me : there wtiS i^hihg
With whi<rh yoo, beitrg pres^iit, could supply Hie,
That I dare say I wanted.

Sf'or. Howl

Marc. The pleasu^s^*

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 303

That sacred Hymen warrants us, excepted.
Of which, in troth, you are too great a doterj
And there is more of beast in it than man.
Let us love temperately; things violent last

not,
And too much dotage rather argues folly
Than tine aiFection.

Grac. Observe but this,
And how she praised my lord's care and observe

ance;
And then judge, madam, if my intelligeiKre
Have any ground of truth.

Mari. No more ; I mark it.

Steph. How the duke stands !

Tib. As he were rooted there,
And had no motion.

Pesc. My lord, from whence
Grows this a^azem^ent ?

Sfor. It is more, dear my friend ;
For I am doubtful whether I've a beings
But certain that my life's a burden to me.
Take me back, good Pescara, shew me to Cassftt
In all his. rage and fury ;. I disclaim
His mercy : to live now^ which is his gift,
Is worse than death, and with all studied tor«*

ments.
Marcelia is unkind, nay, worse, grown cold
' In her affection ; my excess of fervour.

Which yet was never equall'd, grown distasteful.
. — But have thy wishes, woman ; thou shalt know
That I can be myself, and thus shake q&
Th« fetters of fond dotage. Fjom my »ight^
Without reply ; for I am apt to do
Something I may repent. — [Ejcit MarcJ] — Oh!

. who would place
His happiness, in most accursed womaB,
Jn whom obsequiousness engenders pride ;

304 THE DUKE OF MILAN

And harshness deadly hatred ! From this hour
I'll labour to forget there are such creatures ;
True friends be now my mistresses... Clear your

brows, ^ ' . .

And, though my heart-strings crack for% I will be
To all a free example of delight.
We will have sports of all kinds, and propound
Rewards to such as can produce us pjew ;
Unsatisfied, though we surfeit in their store :
And never think of curs'd Marcelia more.

' ;

ACT IV. SCENE L
Tht same. A Room in the Castle.
Enter Francisco and Graccho.

Fran. And is it possible thou shouldst forget
A wrong of such a nature, and then study
My safety and content?

Gruc. Sir, but allow me
Only to have read the elements of courtship,"
Not the abstruse and hidden arts to thrive there ;

' Jnd harshness deadly hatred!] This necessary word is sup.
plied bj the hand of Massinger. It had either dropt oat at the
press, or prored illegible. The old copies read, And harshness
deadly ; on which the following note was made in the first edi-
tion. I preserve it merely to shew that I was not inattentive to
the verbal errors of the original, though I could not remove
them •: ^^ These inversions are not common in Massinger ; nor
was this probably intended by him : the metre, too, is defective
by a foot, so that some word has been lost at the press."

» ■■• the elements of courtship^] i. e. of

«oart-policy« M« Mason.

\

THE DUKE OF MILAN- 305

And you may please to grant me do much know-

That injuries from one Jn grace, like you,
Are noble favours. Is it not grown common,*
In every sect, for those that want, to suffer
From such as have to give ? Your captain cast,
If poor, though not thought daring, but ap-
proved so.
To raise a coward into name,^ that's rich,
Suffers disgraces publicly; but receives
Rewards for them in private.

Fran. Well observed.
Put on ;* we'll be familiar, and discourse
A little of this argument. That day,
In which it was first rumour'd, then .confirmed.
Great Sforza thought me worthy pf his favour,
I found myself to be another thing ;
Not what I was before. I passed then
For a pretty fellow, and of pretty parts too,
And was perhaps recelvjed so^ but, once raised,
The liberal courtier made me master of
Those virtues which I ne'er knew in myself:
If I pretended to a jest^ 'twas made one
By their interpretation ; if I offer'd
To reason of philosophy, though absurdly.
They had helps to save me, and without a blush
Would swear that I, by nature, bad .maie kaow-

ledge.
Than others could acquire by any labour:
Nay, all I did, indeed, which in another
Was not remarkable, in me shew'd rarely.

Grac, But tb^a they tasted of your bounty.

Frm* True :

* -.......-. Js it not groton common &c.] Graccho is an apt

tcbolar : these notable obserrations are deiiTed from the les-
ions of the Ofteer^ in the last act.

^ Fut M ;] Be cmeMtA ;. a frequent expreenon in these plajs*

VOL. I. • X

"H

306 THE DUKE OF MILAN-

They gave me those good parts I was not born to.

And, by my intercession, they got that

Which, had I cross'd them, they durst not have

hoped for.
Grac. All this is oracle : and shall I, then,
For a foolish whipping, leave to honour him,
That holds the wheel of fortune? no; that savours
Too much of the ancient freedom. Since great

men
Receive disgraces and give thanks, poor knaves
Must have nor spleen, nor anger. Though I love
My limbs as well as any man, if you had now
A humour to kick me lame into an office,
Where I might sit in state and undo others,
Stood I not bound to kiss the foot that did it? —
Though it seem strange, there have been such

things seen
In the memory of man.

Fran. But to the purpose, .
And then, that service done, make thine own

fortunes.
My wife, thou say'st, is jealous I am too
Familiar with the dutchess.

Grac. And incensed
For her commitment in her brother's absence ;
And by her mother's anger is spurr'd on
To make discovery of it. This her purpose
Was trusted to my charge, whch I declined
As much as in me lay ; but, finding her
Determinately bent to undertake it,
Though breaking my faith to her may destroy
My credit with. your lordship, I yet thought,
Though at my peril, I stood hound to reveal it»
Frati. I thank thy care, and will deserve this

secret,
In making thee acquainted with a greater.
And of more nioment Come intomy bo^om,

THE* DUKE OF MILAN. SO?

And take it from me: Canst thoii thinks dull

Graccho,
My power and honours were conferr'd upon me,
And, add to them, this form, to have my pleasures
Confined and limited ? I delight in change,
And sweet variety; that's my heaven on earth,
For which I love life only. 1 confess,
My wife pleased me a day, the dutchess, two,
(And yet I must not say I have enjoy 'd her,)
But now I care for neither: tTierefore, Graccho,
So far I am from stopping Mariana
In making her complaint, that I desire thee >
To urge her to it.

Grac^ That may prove your ruin:
The duke already being, as 'tis reported,
Doubtful she hath play'd false.

Fran. There thou art cozen' d ; . .
His dotage, like an ague, keeps his course.
And now 'tis strongly onjiim. But! lose time.
And therefore know, whether thou wilt or no,
Thou art to be my instrument ; and, in spite
Qf the old saw, that says, It is not safe
On any terms to trust a man that's . wrong'd,
I dare thee to be false.

Grac. This is a language.
My lord, I understand not.

Fran. You thought, sirrah,
To put a trick on me for the relation
Of what I knew before, and, having won
Some weighty secret from me, in revenge
To play the traitor. Know, thou wretched thing,
By my command thou wert whipt ; and every day
I'll have thee freshly tortured, if thou miss
In the least charge, that I impose upon thee.
Though what I speak, for the most part, is true :
Nay, grant thou hadst a thousand witnesses
To be deposed they heard it, 'tis in me^

308 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

With one word, such is Sforza's confideacc
Of my fidelity not to be shaken,
To make all void, and ruin my accusers.
Therefore look to't ; bring my wife hotly on
To accuse me to the duke — I have an end in%
Or think vrhat 'tis makes man most miserable.
And that shall fall upon thee. Thou wert a fool
To hope, by being acquainted with my courses,
To curb and awe me ; or that I should live
Thy slave, as thou didst saucily divine:
For prying in my counsels, still live mine. [Eait.
Grac, I am caught on both sides. This 'tis for

a puisne
In policy's Protean school, to try conclusions
With one that hath commenced, and gone out

doctor/
If I discover what but new he bragg'd of,
I shall not be believed : if I fall off
From him, his threats, and actions go together,
And there's no hope of safety. Till I gjet
A plummet that may sound his deepest counsels^
I must obey and* serve him : Want of skill
Now makes me play the rogue against my will.

to try coodasioBS

With one that hath commenced^ and gone- out doctoral To try
conclusions^ a very common expression, is, to try experifneAts.:.
'' God help them," says Oabtiel Hervey, in bis OAtA Htttr^
^^ that haire. neither hibWityto helpe, nor' trit to pitie them*
selres, but will needs fr^ conclusions betweeiv th«ir bead3 and
the neat wall.*' Commencfd, and gone out^ which occur in the
next line, are UniTergity t«rms, and to be met with in most of
our old dramas :

• • ' - •

"How many that bare dobp ill, mi proceed^

" Women that take degrees ill' wantonn^ss^

^^ Cmmekct^ and ilse in radiments of last^^' &4r.

TlteQ,ucmofCopi$ak.

THE DUKE OF MIXAN. 509

SCENE il.

Another Ream in the Same.

Enter Marcelta, Ti^eiiio, Stefhano^ ^nd

Gentlewoman.

Marc. Command me from his sight, and with
such scorn
As be would rate his slave !

Tib. 'Twas in his fury.

St^h. And he repents it, n^am.

Marc. Was I borti
To observe his humofu^rs ? or, because he dotes,
Must I run mad ?

lib. If that yom* ExceileBce
Would please but to sreceiive a fedkig know"

ledge
Of what he suffers, and iio^ decsp the least
Unkiadsiess woiuids from yt>u, you would excuse
His hasty ian^a^^

Steph. He hath paid the forfeit
Of his t>flende> I^ sure, with such a sorrowi
As, if it had been greater, would deserve
A full remission*

Marc. Why, perhaps, he hath it ;
And I stand more afflicted for his absence,
Thau fae can be for mine :-^80, pray you, tell

him. ^^ ^

But, till I have digested some sad thoughts^
And reconciled passions that are at war
Within myself, I purpose to be private :
And have you care, unless it be Francisco,
That no man be admitted. [Esit Gentlewoman^

Tib. How ! Francisco ?

\

310 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Steph. He, that at every stage keeps livery-
mistresses ;
The stallion of the state !

Tib. They are things above us,
And so no way concern us.

Steph. If I were
The duke, (I freely must confess my weakness,)

-Bw^er Francisco.

I should wear yellow breeches.* Here he comes.

Tib. Nay, spare your labour, lady, we know
our duty,'
And quit the room.

Steph. Is this her privacy !
Though with the hazard of a check, perhaps.
This may go to the duke.

[^Exeunt Hberio and Stephana.

Marc. Your face is full
Of fears and doubts : the reason?

Fran., O, best madam,
They are not counterfeit. I, your poor convert,
That only wish to live in sad repentance,
To mourn my desperate attempt of you.
That have no ends nor aims, but that your good-
ness
Might be a witness of my penitence,

* I should wear yeWow •breeches,'] i.e. Be jealous; yellow,

with our old -poets, being the lirory of jealousy ; probably, be*

caus3 it was that of Hymen. This expression needs no example.

7 Nay^ spare your labour ^ lady, pe kfiow our duty,

And quit the room,] Duty was inserted by Cbzeter, on the

supposition of this, or a word of similar import, having been

dropt at the press. Both the quartos hare, we know our exit,

with this difference, that the last (1638) exhibits exit^ in italic

characters. Massinger has made no alteration here^ so that exit

is perhaps the genuine reading. I have, hoWeyer, left the text

undisturbed.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 311

Which seen, would teach yoij how to love your

mercy,
Am robb'd of that last hope. The duke, the duke,
I more than fear, hath found that I am guilty.

Marc. By my unspotted honour, not from me;
Nor have i with him changed one syllable,
Since his return, but what you heard.

Fran. Yet malice
Is eagle eyed, and would see that which is riot;
And jealousy's too apt to build ujxon
Unsure foundations.

Marc. Jealousy !

Fran. {^Aside.'] It takes.

Marc. Who dares but only think I can be
' tainted ?
But for him, though ^almost on certain proof,
To give it hearing, not belief, deserves
My hate for ever.

Fran. Whether grounded on
Your noble, yet chaste favours shewn unto me ;
Or her imprisonment, for her contempt
To you, by my command, my frantic wife
Hath put it in his head.

Marc. Have I then lived
So long, now to be doubted ? Are my favours
The themes of her discourse? or what I do,
That never trod in a suspected path,
Subject to base construction ? Be undaunted ;
For now, as of a creature that is mine,
I rise up your protectress : all the grace
I hitherto have done you, was bestow'd
With a shut hand ; it shall be now more free,
Opeii, and liberal. But let it not.
Though counterfeited to the life, teach you
To nourish saucy hopes.

Fran. May I be blasted^
When I prove such a monster !

» V

312 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Marc. I will stand then
Betvvreen you and all danger. He shall know,
Suspicion overturns what confidence builds ;
And he that dares but doubt when there's no

ground,
Is neither to himself nor others sound. \Ejnt.

Fran. So, let it work I Her goodness, that
denied
My service, branded with the hariie of lust.
Shall now destroy itself; and sfie shall find,
When he's a suitor, that brings cunning afm'd
With power, to be his advocates; tlie denial
Is a disease as killing as the plague,
And chastity a clue that leads to death.
Hold but thy nature, duke, and be h\\t rash
And violent enorrgh, and then at leisure
Repent; I care not.

And let my plots produce this longM-fbr birth.
In my revenge I have my heaven on earth. [Exit.

SCENE III.

Another Room in the same.

Enter Sforz a, PeIscaha, and three Gentlemen.

iPesc. You promised to be merry.

1 Gent. There are pleasures,

And of all kinds, to entertain the time*

2 Gtnt. Your excellence vouchsafing to make

choice
Of that which best a^ects you.

Sfor. Hold your pi'ating.
Learn manners too ; you are rude.

S Gent. I hav.e my answer.
Before I ask the question. {^Aside*

THE DUKE OF M1;LAN. 813

Ptsc. I riiut borrow
The privilege of a friend, ind will ; or elsp
I am like thes^, a servant or, what's worse,
A parasite to the sorrow Sfora^a worships
In spite of reason.

^wr. Pray you, use your freedom;
Ana so far, if you please^ allow me minib,
To hear you only ; not to be compeU'd
To take your moral potions. I am a man.
And, though philosophy^ your mistress, rage fort,
Now I have cause to grieve, I must be sad ;
And I dare shew it.

Pe$c. Would it were bcstow'd
Upon a worthier subject 1

SJor. Take beed^ friend.
You rub a sore, whose pain will make me mad^
And I shall then forget myself and you.
Lance it no further.

Pe^c. Have you stood the shock
Of thousand enemies, and outfaced the anger
Of a great -semperor, that vow'd your ruin,
Though by a desperate, a glorious way,
That nad no precedent? are you returned with

honour,
Lovfed by yo^r subjects'^ does your fortune

court yon, '

Or rather say, your courage does command it ?
Have you given proof, to this hour of your life,
Prosperity, that searches the best temper,
"Could never puff you np,tior adverse fate
Deject your valour? Shall, I say, tbeise virtues,
So many and so various trials of
Your constant mind, be buried in the frown
(To please you, I Will say so) of a fair woman ?
— ^Yet I have seen -her equals*

SjoT. Good Pescara,
This language in another were profane ;

S14 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

In yoirit is unmannerly. — Her equal !

I tetl you as a friend, and tell you plainly,

(To all men else my sword should make reply^)

Her goodness does disdain comparison,

And, but herself, admits no parallel.*

But you will say she's cross ; 'tis fit she should be^

When I am foolish ; for she's wise, Pescara,

And knows how far she may dispose her bounties.

Her honour safe; or, if she were averse,

'Twas a prevention of a greater sin

Ready to fall upon me ; for she's not ignorant,

But truly understands how much I love her,

And that her rare parts do deserve all honour.

Her excellence increasing with her years too,

I might have fallen into idolatry,

And, from the admiration of her worth,

* Her goodness docs disdain comparison^
Andy but herself, admits no parallel.] The reader who has
any acquaintance with the literary squabbles of the last century,
cannot but recollect how Theobald was annoyed by the jests
levelled at him for this line in the Double Faleshood :

^' None but himself can be his parallel."
He justified it, indeed, at some length; but ^Mt is not for
gravity," as Sir Toby well observes, " to play at cherry-pit with
Satan/' His waggish antagonists drove him out of his patience,
and he, who had every thing bat wit on his side, is at this moment
labouring under the consequences of his imagined defeat. With
respect to the phrase in question, it is sufficiently common : and I
could produce, if it were necessary, twenty instances of it from
Massinger's contemporaries alone: nor is it peculiar to this
country, but exists in every language with which I am acquainted.
Even while I*am writing this note, the following pretty example
lies before me, in the address of a grateful Hindoo to Sir William
Jones :

'' To you there are many like me ; yet to me there is none
like you^ but yourself; there are numerous groves of night
flowers; yet the night flower sees nothing /i^e themoon^but
the moon. A hundred chiefs rule the world, but thou art an
ocean, and they are mere wells ; many luminaries are awake
in the sky, but which of them can be compared to the sun V*
See Memoirs ofhisIAfe^ by Lord Teignmouth.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 315

Been taught to think there is no Power above her;
And yet I do believe, had angels sexes,
The most would be' such women, and assume
No other shape, when they were to appear
In their fuU glory.

Pesc. Wei!, sir, 1*11 not -cross you,
Nor labour to diminish your esteem,
Hereafter, of her. Since your happiness,
As you will have it, has alone dependence
Upon her favour, from my soul I wish you
A fair atonement.*

Sfor. Time, and my submission,

■ *

Enter Tiberio and Stephano.

May work her to it. — O ! you are well return'd j
Say, am I blest? hath she vouchsafed to hear

you?
Is there hope left that she may be appeased ?
I^et her propound, and gladly I'll subscribe
To her conditions.

7?^. She, sir, yet is froward,
And desires respite, and some privacy.

Stcph. She was harsh at first ; but, ere we
parted, se^m'd not
Implacable.

Sfor. There's comfort yet : I'll ply her
Each hour with new. ambassadors of more honours,
Titles, and eminence : my second self,
Francisco, shall solicit hen-

Steph. That a wise man,

9 A fair atonement.] i. e. as Mr. M. Mason obserires^ a re-
conciliation. To a^one has often this sense in oar old Writers:
so Shakspeare :

^' He and Aufidiiui can no more atoncy

^' Than violentest contrarieties^' Coriolanus^

316 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

And what is morei a prince tbat may command.
Should sue thus poorly, and treat With his wifci
As she were a victorious enemy,
At whose proud feet, himself, his statCi and

country,
Basely hcgg'd mercy !

Sfor. What is^ that you mutter ?
I'll have thy thoughts*

Steph. You shalL You are too fond,
And feed a pride that's swollen too big already.
And surfeits with observance.

Sfor. O my patience !
My vassal speak thus ?

Steph. Let my head answer it,
If I offend. She, that you think a saint,
I fear, may play the devil.

Pesc. Well said, old fellow, [A^ide.

Steph. And he that hath so long engross'd
your favours,
Though to be named with reverence, lord Fran-
cisco,
Who, as you purpose, shall solicit for you,
I think's too near her.

\Sforza lays his hand on his mord.

Peso. Hold, sir ! this is madness.

Steph. It may be they confer of joining lord^
ships ;•
I'm sure he's private with her.

Sfor. Let me go,
I scorn to touch himj he deserves my pity,
And not my anger. Dotard ! and to be one
Is thy protection, else thou durst not think
That love to my Marcelia hath left room

' It may he they confer of" joining lordships ;] This material
improTement we owe to Maasinger's reiirion. It formerly stood
—of winning lordships.

THE DUKE OP MILAN. 317

In my full heart for any jealous thought :—
That idle passion dwell with thick»skinn'd

tradesmen,'
The undeserving lord, or the unable !
Lock up thy own wife/ fool, that must take

physic
From her young doctor, physic upon her back,*
Because tnou hast the palsy in that part
That makes her active. I could smile to think
What wretched things they are that dare be

jealous :
Were I match'd to anotlier Messaline,
While I found merit in miyself to please her,
I should believe her chaste, and would not seek
To find oat my own torment ; bu^ alas !
Enjoying one that, but to me, 's a Dian,^
I am too secure.

Tib. This is a confidence
Beyond example.

Enter Graccho, Isabelia, ivni/ Mariawa*

Grac. There he is— now speak.
Or be for ever silent.
Sfor. If you come

* ThatidUptt8S$aH.dwdlmiiththkk9$lLMn'dtrades»MH^] Thkkf
siLinn'd is the reading of both the ^qa^tos ; the modern editori
wantonly, and, I moy add, ignojantly, displaced it for thiclp'
slLull'd. It is not to a want of understanding, but to a bluntne8»
of ifeeling, that'the speaker alludes.

* From her young doctor ^ physic, i&c.} The old .copies lpL& a
break here, to shew that the WHud was illegible at. the press :
Cozeter and M. Manctn fiUed up 0^ sppfae.wit)^ (mil. I chose
rather to continue the break,.i|i .which the po8sei38ors of the fijyst
edition may now, if they please, insert the genuine word, which
is taken from Massinger's corrected copy.

♦, ^ * ' ihatfimfio^meifUMjMmy} AfOHtrac*

tioD- ofDioiui. M. Mason. 4tnd. saat is^l

318 THE DUKE OP MILAN^

To bring me comfort, say. that you have made
My peace with my Marcelia.

Isab. I had rather
Wait on you to your funeral.

Sfor. You are my mother ; ^
Or, by her life, you were dead else.

JUari. Would you were,
To your dishonour ! and, since dotage makes you
Wilfully blind, Ijorrow of me my eyes.
Or some part of my spirit. Are you all flesh ?
A lump of patience only ?* no fire in you r
But do your pleasure : — here your mother was
Committed by your servant, (for I scorn
To call him husband,) and.myself, your sister.
If that ypu dare remember such a name,
Mew'd up, to make the, way open and free
For the adultress, I am unwilling
To say, a part of Sforza.

Sfor. Take her head off !
She hath blasphemed, and by our law must die.

Isab. Blasphemed ! for calling of a whore, a
whore ?

Sfor. O hell, what do I suffer !

Mari. Or is it treason
For me, that am a subject, to endeavour
To save the honour of the duke, and that
He should not be a wittol on record?
♦For by posterity 'twill be believed,
As certainly as now it can be proved,
Francisco, the great minion, tnat sways all,
To meet the chaste embraces of the dutchess,
tiath leap'd into her bed.

Sfor. Some proof, vile creature !
Or thou hast spoke thy last..

^ 4 l^nip of patience only f] In all the copies^ a limh of pati-
ence only. Corrected by MasaiDger. .

THE DUKE OF MILAN, 319

MarL The public fame,
Their hourly private meetings ; and, e'en now,
When, under a pretence of grief or anger,
You are denied the joys due to a husband,
And made a stranger to her, at all times
The door stands open to him. To a Dutchman,
This were enough, but to a right Italian,
A hundred thousand witnesses.

Isab. Would you have us
To be her bawds ?

Sfor. O the malice
And envy of base women, that, with horror, .
Knowing their own defects and inward guilt,
Dare lie, and swear, and damn, for what's most

false.
To cast aspersions upon one untainted !
Ye are in your natures devils, and your ends.
Knowing your reputation sunk for ever,
And not to be recovered, to have all
Wear your black livery. Wretches ! you have

raised
A monumental trophy to her pureness.
In this your studied purpose to deprave ber :
And all the shot made by your foul detraction,
Falling upon her sure-arm 'd innocence.
Returns upon yourselves; and, if my love
Could suffer an addition, I'm so far
From giving credit to you, this would teach me
More to admire and serve her. You are not

worthy
To fall as sacrifices to appease her ;
And therefor^ liye till your own envy burst you.

Isab. All is in vain ; he is not to be moved.

Maru She has bewitch'd him.

Peso. 'Tis so past belief,
To me it shews a fable.

3S0 THE DUKE OF MILAN-

Enter YfLA^ciscQf speaking to^a Servant within.

Fran. On thy life,
Provide ray horses, and without the port
With care attend me.

Sere. \within.^ I shall, my lord.

Grac. He's come.
What gimcrack have we next r*

Fran. Great sir.

Sfor. Francisco,
Though all the joys in woman are led from me.
In thee I do em brace jiie full delight
That I can hope from man»

Fran. I would impart,
Please yoU to lend your ear, a weighty secret,
I am in labour to deliver to you.

Sfor. All leave, title room, [JSfeunt hab. Maru
and Graceiu>I\ — ^Excuse me, good Pescara,
Ere long I will wait on you.

Ptsc. You speak, sir,
The language. Lshould uae. . \Ent.

SfoT. (Be within call,
Perhaps we .may have .use. of. you.

Tib. Weshall^sini [Exeunt Tib. and Steph.

Sfor. Say oo, my comfort.

Fran. Comfort ! no, your torment,

^ What gimcrack hflive Vfe^mxt f] It nay be that Goxet^r hat
hit upon the right word ; but the first syllable is omitted in the
old copies; probably it was of an offensive tendency. Besides
the terror of t^e law which hung over the poet's head about this
tiffie, the Master of the Revels kept a scrutinising eye upon
every pusage of an indecent (indecent lov the times) or proone
tendency. It is Massioger'fl peculiar puraise^ that )^e i» altoge-
ther free from the latter. 180^.

My suspicion was wrong. Massinger has completed fho word
as It stands inCoxeter; I have continued the note, however.
In justice to his memory.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 321

For so my fate appoints me. I could curse
The hour that gave me being.

Sfor* What new monsters
Of misery stand ready to devour me ?
Let them at once dispatch me.

Fran. Draw your sword then,
And, as you wish your own peace, quickly kill

me ;
Consider not, but do it.

Sfor. Art thou mad ?

Fran. Or, if to take my life be too much
mercy,
As death, indeed, concludes all human sorrows,
Cut off my nose and ears ; pull out an eye.
The other only left to lend me light
To see my own deformities. Why was I born
Without some mulct imposed on me by nature ?
Would from my youth a loathsome leprosy
Had run upon this face, or that my breath
Had been infectious, and so made me shunn'd
Of all societies ! Curs'd be he that taught me
Discourse or manners, or lent any grace
That makes the owner pleasing in the eye
Of wanton women ! since those parts, which

others
Value as blessings^ are to me afflictions,
Such my condition is.

Sfor. I am on the rack :
Dissolve this doubtful riddle.'

Fran. That I alone,

7 Dissolve this doubtful riddle.] Our old writers used dissolve
and solve indiscriminately ; or, if they made any difference, it
was in favour of the former :

ci ■ ■ ' * he is pointed at

^^ Far the fine courtier^ the woman's man,

^* That tells my lady stories, dissohes riddles^

The Queen of Corinth*

VOL, I.

822 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

»

Of all mankind) that stand most baund to love

you,
And study your content, should be appointed.
Not by my will, but forced by cruel fate.
To be your greatest enemy ! — not to hold you
In this amazement longer, in a word,
Your dutchess loves me,

Sfor. Loves thee !

Fran. Is mad for me,
Pursues me hourly.

Sfor. Oh!

Fran. And from hence grew
Her late neglect of you.

Sfor. O women ! women !

Fran. I laboured to divert her by persuasion.
Then urged your much love to her, and the danger;
Denied her, and with scorn.

Sfor. Twas like thyself

Fran. But when I saw her smile, then heard
her say.
Your love and extreme dotage, as a. cloak.
Should cover our embraces, and your power
Fright others from suspicion ; and all favours
That should preserve her in her innocence,
By lust inverted to be used as bawds ;
I could not but in duty (though I know
That the relation kills in you all hope
Of peace hereafter, and in me 'twill shew
Both base and poor to rise up her accuser)
Freely discover it.

Sfor. Eternal plagues '
Pursue and overtake her ! for her sake,
To all posterity may he prove a cuckold,
And, like to me, a thing, so miserable
As words may not express him, that gives trust
To all'deceiving women I Or, since it is
The will of heaven, to preserve mankind,

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 323

That we must know and couple with these

serpents,
No wise man ever, taught by my example,
Hereafter use his wife with more respect
Than he would do his horse that does him service ;
Base woman being in her creation made
A slave to man. But, like a village nurse,
Stand I now cursing and considering, when
The tamest fool would do ! — Within there !

Stephano,

Tiberio, and the rest ! 1 will be sudden.

And she shall know and'feel, love in extremes
Abused, knows no .degree in hate/

-Ew^er Tiberio ^wrf Stephano.

Tib. My lord^

Sfor. Go to the chamber of that wicked
woman —

Steph What wicked woman, sir ?

Sfor. The devil, my wife.
Force a rude ejitry, and, if she refuse
To follow you, drag her hither by the hair.
And know no pity ; any gentle usage
To her will call on cruelty from me,
To such as shew it. — Stand you staring ! Go,
And put my will in act.

Steph. There's no disputing. '

Tib. But 'tis a tempest, on the sudden raised,
Who durst have dream'd of?

[Exeunt Tiberio and Stephano^

Sfor. Nay, since she dares damnation,
I'll be a fury to her.

Fran. Yet, great sir,

no degree in hate.] For no degree in hate^ the modem

editors yery incorrectly read, no degree of hate*

YS*

3«4 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Exceed not in your fury ; she's yet guilty
" Only in her intent.

iS/br. Intent, Francisco !
It does include all fact ; and I might sooner
Be won to pardon treason to my crown,
Or one that kiird my father.

Tran. You are wise,
And know what's best to do : — ^yet, if you please,
To prove her temper to the height, say only
That I am dead, and then observe how far
She'll be transported. I'll remove a little,
Bat be within your call. — ^Now to the upshot !^
Howe'er, I'll shift for one. \A8idt and exit.

Re-enter Tiberio, Stephano, and Guard with

Marcelia.

Marc. Where is this monster.
This walking tree of jealousy, this drieamer,
This horned beast that would be ? Oh ! are you

here, sir?
Is it by your commandment or allowance,
I am thus basely used? Which of my virtues,
My labours, services, and cares to please you,
For, to a man suspicious and unthankful^
Without a blush I may be mine own trumpet,
Invites this barbarous course ? dare you look on

me
Without a seal of shame?

Sfor. Impudence,
How ugly thou appeat*st now ! Thy intent
To be a whore, leaves thee not blood enough
To make an honest blush : what had the act dbne?
Marc. Return'd thee the dishonour thou de-

serv'st;
Though willingly I had giveia up myself
To every conimon letcher.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. S25

^or. Your chief minion,
Your chosen favourite, your woo'd Francisco,
Has dearly paid fot*t; fot-,wr6tch ! know, he's

dead,
And by my hand.

Marc. The bloodier villain thou !
Biit 't^s not to be wonder'd at, thv love
Doesknownootherobject: — thou hast kilPd then,
A man I do profess I loved ; a man
For ivhom a thousand queens might well be rivals.
But he, I iSpeak it to thy teeth, that dares be
A jealous fool, dares be a murderer,
And knows no end in mischief.

Sfor. I begin now
In this my Justice. [Stabs her.

Marc. Oh ! I have fool'd myself
Into my grave, and only grieve for that
Which, when you know you've slain an innocent,
You needs must suffer.

Sfor. An innocent ! Let one
Call in Francisco ; — ^for he liv^s, vile creature,

[Ejcit Stephana.
To justify thy falsehood, and how often,
With whorish flatteries, thou hast tempted him ;
I being only fit to live a stale,
A bawd and property to your wantonness.

Re-enter Stephano.

Steph. Signior Francisco, sir, but even now.
Took horse without the ports.

Marc. We are both abused,
And both by him undone. Stay, death, a little,
Till I have clear'd me to my lord, and then*
I willingly obey thee. — O my Sforza !

9 Till I haoe cleat^d me to my lord, and then} This is the read-

326 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Francisco was not tempted, but the tempter ;
And, as he thought to win me, shew'd the warrant
That you sign'd for my death. .

Sfor. Then I believe thee ;
Believe thee innocent too.

Marc, But, being contemn'd.
Upon his knees with tears he did beseech me.
Not to reveal it ; I, soft-hearted fool,
Judging his penitence true, was won unto it:
Indeed, the unkindness to be sentenced by you.
Before that I was guilty in a thought,
Made me put on a seeming anger towards you.
And now — behold the issue ! As I do,
May heaven forgive you ! [Dies.

Tib. Her sweet soul has left
Her beauteous prison.

Steph. Look to the duke ; he stands
As if he wanted motion.

Tib. Grief hath stopp'd
The organ of his speech.

Steph. Take up this body.
And call for his physicians.

Sfor. O my heart-strings ! [Exeunt.

ing of the first quarto : tbe second, which is that followed bj
the modern editors, gives the line in this unmetrical manner :

Till I have clear d mjself nnto my lord^ and then !

Ford has imitated this fine scene, to which a parallel will not
easilj be found, in the Lady*s Trial : but with as little success
as judgment. It is singular that Ford's editor should take no
notice of his frequent plagiarisms from Massinger^ unless
(which I incline to think,) he ncTer read more of Massinger
than the notes appended to him.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 327

ACT V. SCENE I.

The Milanese. A Room in Eugenia's House.

Enter Francisco, and Eugenia in male attire.

Fran. Why, couldst thou think, Eugenia, that
rewards, *

Graces, or favours, though strew'd thick upon

mc,
Could ever bribe me to forget mine honour ?
Or that I tamely would sit down, before
I had dried these eyes still wet with showers of

tears,
By the fire of my revenge ? look up, my dearest !
For that proud fair, that, thief-like, stepped

between
Thy promised hopes, and robb'd thee of a fortune
Almost in thy possession, hath found,
With horrid proof, his love, she thought her glory,
And an assurance of all happiness,
But hastened her sad ruin.

Eug. Do not flatter
A grief that is beneath it ; for, however
The credulous duke to me proved false and cruel,
It is impossible he could be wrought
To look on her, but with the eyes of dotage.
And so to serve hen

Fran. Such, indeed, I grant.
The stream of his affection was, and ran
A constant course, till I, with cunning malicer—
And yet I wrong my act, for it was justice,
Made it turn backward ; and hate, in eictremes^

328 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

*

(Love banish'd from his heart,) to fill the room :
In a word, know the fair Marcelia's dead/

Eug. Dead !

Fran. And by Sforza's hand. Does it not move
you r
How coldly you receive it ! I expected
The mere relation of so great a blessing,
Born proudly on the wings of sweet revenge,
Would have call'd on a sacrifice of thanks.
And joy not to be bounded or conceal'd.
You entertain it with a look, as if
You wish'd it were undone.

Eug. Indeed I do :
For, if my sorrows could receive addition,
Her sad rate would increase, not lessen them.
She never injured me^ but entertain'd
A fortune humbly ofFef*d to her band.
Which a wise lady gladly would have kneeled for.
Unless you would impute it as a crimen
She was mote fair than I, and had discretion
Not to deliver up her virgin fort, ^
Though strait besieged with flatteries, vows, and
tears, . ,. . :

Until the church had made it safe a;id lawful.
And had I been the mistress of faier iudgment
And constant temper, skilful in the knowledge
Of man's malicious falsehoodi'I h^Miever,
Upon his hell-deep oaths tb marry in e,
Given up my fair name, and my maiden honour.
To his foul lust; nor lived now, being branded
In the forehead for his whore, the scorn and shame
Of all good women. '

Fran. Have you then no gall,
Anger, or spleen, familiar to yx)ur sex?

^ Ina wordy know i}iefa%r Marcelid^s dead,"] Coxe^er and Me.
M. Mason omit the article, which utterly destroys the rhythm
ofthelitie.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. S29

Or is it possible, that you could see
Another to possess what was your due,
And not grow pale with envy ?

Eug. Yes, of him
That did deceive me. There's no passion, that
A maid so injured ever could partake of, - .

But I have dearly suflfer'd. Tbes6 three years,
In my desire andf l^bo\it of revenge.
Trusted to you, I have endured the throes
Of teeming women ; and will hazard all
Fate can inflict on me, but I will resch
Thy heart, false Sforza! You have trifled with me,
And not proceeded with that fiery zeal.
I look'd for from a brother of your spirit.
Sorrow forsake me, and all signs of grief
Farewell for ever ! Vengeance, arm'd with fury,
Possess me wholly now ! **

Fran. The reason, sister.
Of this strange metamorphosis ?

Eug. Ask thy f pairs':
Thy base, unmanly* fears, thy poor delays.
Thy dull forgetfuiness eiqual with deatfh ;
My wrong, else, and the scandal whioh can never
Be washed off from our house, but in his 'blodd.
Would have stiryVi up a coward to a deed '
In which, though be had fallen, the brave intent
Had crown!d itself with a fair mbHumient
Of noble resolution. In this shape
I hope to get access ; and, then, with shame.
Hearing my sudden execution, judge
What honour thou hast lost, in being transcended
By a weak woinan. ' '

-Pr^w. Stiii tdine own, and dearer!
And yet lii this you but |)0ur oil on fire,
And offer your asststahcc where it needs not,
And, that you may perceive I lay not fallow,

330 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

But had your wrongs stamped deeply on iny

heart
By the iron pen of vengeance, I attempted^
By whoring ner, to cuckold him : that failing,
I did begin his tragedy in her death,
To whicn it served as prologue, and will make
A memorable story of your fortunes
In my assured revenge : Only, best sister,
Let us not lose ourselves in the performance.
By your rash undertaking ; we will be
As sudden as you could wish.

Eug. Upon those terms
I yield myself and cause to be disposed of
As you think fit.

Enter a Servant.

Fran. Thy purpose ?

Serv. There's one Graccho,
That foUow'd you, it seems, upon the track,
Since you left Milan, that's importunate
To have access, and will not be denied :
His haste, he says, concerns you*

Fran. Bring him to me. [E:pit Seroant.

Though he hath laid an ambush for my life,
Or apprehension, yet I will prevent him,
And work mine own ends out

Enter Graccho.

Grac. Now for my whipping !
And if I now outstrip him not, and catch him,
And by a new and strange way too, hereafter
I'll swear there are worms in my brains. [Aside.

Fran. Now, my good Graccho I
We meet as 'twere by miracle.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 3S1

Grac. Love, and duty,
And vigilance in me for my lord's safety,
First taught me to imagine you were here.
And then to follow you. AlPs come forth, my

lord,
That you could wish conceal'd. The dutchess*

wound,
In the duke^s rage put home, yet gave her leave
To acquaint him with your practices, which your

flight
Did easily conGnn.

Fran. This I expected ;
But sure you come provided of good counsel.
To help in my extremes.

Grac. I would not hurt you.

Fran, How! hurt me? such another word's thy
death ;
Why, dar'st thou think it can fall in thy will,
To outlive what I determine ?

Grac. How he awes me ! [Aside.

Fran. Be brief; what brought thee hither?

Grac. Care to inform you
You are a condemned man, pursued and sought

for.
And your head rated at ten thousand ducats
To him that brings it.

Fran. Very good.

Grac. All passages
Are intercepted, and choice troops of horse
Scour o'er the neighbour plains ; your picture

sent - .

To every state confederate with Milan :
That, though I grieve to speak it, in my judgment,
So thick your dangers meet, and run upon you,
It is impossible you should escape .
Their curious search.

sas THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Eug. Why^ let us then turo Jtomansi
Andy falling by our own hand s, mpck their threats.
And dreadful preparations.

Fran. Twould show nobly ;
But that the honour of our full revenge
Were lost in the rash action. No, Eugeoia,
Graccho is wise, my friend too, not>my 3ervant»
And I dare trust him with my latest secret.
We would, and thou must help us to perform it,
First kill the duke — then, fall what c'an upon us !
For injuries are wr|t in brass, kind Graccno,
And not to be forgotten.

Grac. He instructs me
What I should do. [Aside,

Fran. What's that ?

'Grac. I labour with
A strong desire, to assist you with my aervicc;
And now I am delivered oPt.

Fran. I told you. —
Speak, my oraculous Graccho.

Grac. I have heard, sir.
Of men in debt that, lay'd for by their creditors,
In all such places where it could be thought
They would take shelter, chose, for sanctuary.
Their lodgings underneath their creditors' noses,
Or near that prison to which they were designed,
If apprehended ; confident that there
They never should be sought for.

Eug. Tis a strange one !

Fran. But what infer you from it ?

Grac. This, my lord ;
That, since all ways of your escape are stopped,
In Milan only, or, what's more, in the court,
Whither it is presumed you dare not come,
Conceard in some disguise, you may" live safe*

Fran. And not to be discovered ?

THE DUKE OP MILAN. S3S

Grac. But by myself.

Fran. By thee! Alas! I know thee honest,
Graccho,
And I will put thy counsel into act,
And suddenly. Yet, not to be ungrateful
For all thy loving travail to preserve me,
What bloody end soe'er my stars appoint.
Thou shalt be safe, good Graccho, — Who's within
there ?

Grac. In the devil's name, what means he !*

Enter Servants.

Fran. Take my friend
Into your custody, and bind him fast :
I would not part with him.

Grac. My good lord.

Fran. Dispatch <
Tis for your good, to keep you honest, Graccho :
I would not have ten thousand ducats tempt you.
Being of a soft and wax-like disposition,
To play the traitor ; nor a foolish itch
To be revenged for your late excellent whipping,
Give you the opportunity to offer
My head for satisfaction. Why, thou fool!
I can look through and through thee ? thy intents
Appear to me as written in thy forehead.
In plain and easy characters : and but that
I scorn a slave's base blood should rust that sword
That from a prince expects a scarlet dye.
Thou now wert dead ; but live, only to pray

* Grac. In the deciPs name^ xAat tnians he /] The iieeoad
quarto omks the adjaraiion aihd tilmelj je^dSf^-^hat means ket
The licenser, in many casei, seems to h%ve aqi^d Cfipricfpn^ly I'
here, as weU as in seTeral other places, he has strained at a gnat
and swallowed a camel. The expression has already occnrred In.
the Unnatural Cannot.

334 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

For good success to crown my undertakings ;
And then, at my return, perhaps, I'll free thee,
To make me further sport. Away with him !
I will not hear a syllable.

[Ejceunt Servants with Graccho.
We miist trust
Ourselves, Eugenia ; and though we make use of
The counsel of our servants, that oil spent,
Like snuffs that do offend, we tread them out. —
But now to our last scene,^ which we'll so carry,
That few shall understand how 'twas begun.
Till all, with half an eye, may see 'tis done.

\ExeunU

SCENE IL

Milan. A Room in the Castk.

Enter VzscARAj Tiberio, and Stethxno.

Pesc. The like was never read of,

Steph. In my judgment,
To all that shall but hear it, 'twill appear
A most impossible fable.

Tib. For FrancisQo,
My wonder is the less, because there are
Too many precedents of unthankful men
Raised up to greatness, which have after studied
The ruin of their makers.

Steph. But that melancholy,
Though ending in distraction, should work
So far upon a man, as to compel him
To court a thing that has nor sense nor being,
Is unto me a miracle.

Pesc. Troth, I'll tell you.
And briefly as I can, by what degrees

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 335

He fell into this madness. When, by the care

Of his physicians, he was brought to life,

As he had only pass'd a fearful dream,

And had not acted what I grieve to think on,

He caird for fair Marcelia, and being told

That s]\e was dead, he broke forth in extremes,

(I would not i^ay blasphemed,) and cried that

heaven,
For all the offences that mankind could do.
Would never be so cruel as to rob it
Of so much sweetness, and of so much goodness ;
That not alone was sacred in herself.
But did preserve all others innocent,
That haa but converse with hen Then it came
Into his fancy that she was accused
By his mother and hissister; thrice he curs 'd them,
And thrice his desperate hand was on his sword
T'have kilPd them both ; but he restrained, and

they
Shunning his fury, spite of all prevention
He would have turned his rage upon himself;
When wisely his physicians, looking on
The Dutchess' wound, to stay his ready hand,
Cried out, it was not mortaL

Tih. 'Twas well thought on.

Pesc. He easily believing what he wish'd,
More than a perpetuity of pleasure
In any ohject else; flattered by hope,
Forgetting his own greatness, he fell prostrate
At the doctors' feet, implored their aid, and swore,
Provided they recover'd her, he would live
A private man, and they, should share his duke-
dom.
They seem'd to promise fair, and every hour
Vary their judgments, as they find his fit
To suffer intermission or extremes :
For his behaviour since— —

V

336 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Sfor. \a)it}iin\ As you have pity,
Support her gently.

^tsc. Nqvv, be your own witnesses ;
I am prevented,

Enttr Sforza, Isabella, Mariana, Doctors
and Servants mth the body oj Marcelia.

Sfor. Carefully, I beseech you,
The gentlest touch torments her ; and then think
What I shall suffer. O you earthly' gods.
You second natures, that from your great master.
Who join^ the limbs of torn Hippolitus,
And drew upon himself the Thunderer's envy.
Are taught those hidden secrets that restore
To life death-wounded men ! you have a patient.
On whom to express the excellence of art.
Will bind even heaven your debtor, though it

pleases
To make your hands the organs of a work
The saints will smile to look on, and good angels
Clap their celestial wings to give it plaudits.
How pale and wan she looks ! O pardon me,
That I presume (dyed o'er with bloody guilt.
Which makes me, I confess, far, far unworthy)
To touch this snow-white hand. How cold it is !
This once was Cupid's fire-brand, and still
'Tis so to me. How slow her pulses beat too !
Yet in this temper, she is all perfection.
And mistress or a heat so full of sweetness.
The blood of virgins, in their pride of youth.
Are balls of snow or ice compared unto her.

Mart. Is not this strange ?

hob. Oh I cross him not, dear daughter;

' Oy(M earthlj god&^ Corrected by Massioger from wrihy^
the former reading.

THE DUKE OF MILAN, 337

Our conscience tells us we have been abused,
Wrought to accuse the innocent| and with him
Are guilty of a fact

Enter a Servant, and whispers Pescara.

Mart. Tis now past help.

Pesc. With me? What is he?

Seri). He has a strange aspect ;
A Jew by birth, and a physician
By his profession, as he savs, who, hearing
Of the duke's frenzy, on the forfeit of
His life will undertake to render him
Perfect in every part : — provided that
Your lordship's favour gain him free access,
And your power with the duke a safe protection,
Till the great work be ended.

Pesc. Bring me to him ;
As I find cause, I'll do. [Exeunt Peso, and Serv.

Sfor. How sound she sleeps !

Heaven keep her from a lethargy ! How long

(But answer me with comfort, I beseech you)
Does your sure judgment tell you'^ that these

lids.
That cover richer jewels than themselves,
Like envious night, will bar these glorious suns
From shining on me?

1 Doct. We have given her, sir,
A sleepy potion, that will hold her long,
That she may be less sensible of the torment
The searching of her wound will put her to.

S Doct. She now feels little ; but, if we should
wake her,
To hear her speak would fright both us and you.
And therefore dare not hasten it.

Sfor. I am patient.
You see I do not rage, but wait your pleasure.

VOL. I. * Z

338 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

What do you think she dreams of now ? for sure,
Although her body's organs are bound fast, ^
Her fancy cannot slumber.

1 Doct. That, sir, looks on
Your sorrow for your late rash act, with pity
Of what you suffer for it, and prepares
To meet the free confession of your guilt
With a glad pardon.

Sfor. She was ever kind ;
And her displeasure, though call'd on, short-lived
Upon the least submission. O you Powers,
Tnat can convey our thoughts to one another
Without the aid of eyes or ears, assist me !
Let her behold me in a pleasing dream [Kneels.
Thus, on my knees before her ; (yet that duty
In me is not sufficient;) let her see me
Compel my mother, from whom I took life,
And this my sister, partner of my being,
To bow thus low unto her ; let her hear us
In my acknowledgment freely confess
That we in a degree as high are guilty
,Aa she is innocent. Bite your tongues, vile

creatures.
And let your inward horror fright your souls.
For having belied that pureness, to come near

which.
All women that posterity can bring forth
Must be, though striving to be good, poor rivals.
And for that dog Francisco, that ^educed me,
In wounding her, to rase a temple built
. To chastity and sweetness, let her know
I'll follow^ him to hell, but I will find him.
And there live a fourth Fury to torment.him.
Then, for this cursed hand and arm that guided
The wicked steel, I'll have them, joint by joint,
With burning irons sear'd off, which I will eat,

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 339

I being a vulture fit to taste such carrion ;

Lastly

1 Doct. You are too loud, sir ; you disturb

Her sweet repose.

Sfor. I am hush'd. Yet give us leave,
Thus prostrate at her feet, our eyes bent down-
wards,
Unworthy, and ashamed, to look upon her,
To expect her gracious sentence.

2 Doct. He's past hope.

1 Doct. The body too will putrify, and then
We can no longer cover the imposture.

Tib. Which, in his* death, will quickly be dis-
cover'd.
I can but weep his fortune.

Steph. Yet be careful
You lose no minute to preserve him ; time
May lessen his distraction.

Re-enter Pescara, roith Feancisco, as a Jew
doctor^ and Eugenia disguised as before.

Fran. I am no god, sir.
To give a new life to her ; yet I'll hazard
My head, I'll work the senseless trunk t'appear
To him as it had got a second being,
Or that the soul that's fled from't, were call'd

back
To govern it again. I will preserve it
In the first sweetness, and by a strange vapour,
Which I'll infuse into her mouth, create
A seeming breath ; I'll make her veins run high

too,
As if they had true motion.

* Tib. Which in his death will quickly be discover*d^ I know
not how the modern editors understood this line, but for his^
thej ready her death: a strange sophistication I

•Z2

340 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

Pesc. Do but this,
Till we use means to win upon his passions
T'endure to hear she's dead with some small

patience,
And make thy own reward.

Fran. The art I use
Admits no looker on : I only ask
The fourth part of an hour, to perfect that
I boldly undertake.

Pesc. I will procure it.

2 Doct. What stranger's this ?

Pesc. Sooth me in all I say ;
There 's a main end in it.

Fran. Beware !

Eug. I am warn'd.

Pesc. Look up, sir^ cheerfully ; comfort in me
Flows strongly to you.

Sfor. From whence came that sound ?
Was it from my Marcelia? If it were, \Rtses.
I rise, and joy will give me wings to meet it.

Pesc. Nor shall your expectation be cieferr'd
But a few minutes. Your physicians are
Mere voice, and no performance ; I have found
A man that can do wonders. Do not hinder
The dutchess' wish'd recovery, to enquire
Or what he is, or to give thanks, but leave him
To work this miracle.

Sfor. Sure, 'tis my good angel.
I do obey in all things : be it death
For any to disturb him, or come near,
Till he be pleased to call us. O, be prosperous,
And make a duke thy bondman !

[Exeunt all but Francisco and Eugenia.

Fran. 'Tis my purpose ;
If that to fall a Jong-wish'd sacrifice
To my revenge can be a benefit.
J'U first make fast the doors ; — so !

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 341

Eug. You amaze me :
What follows now?

Fran. A full conclusion
Of all thy wishes. Look on this, Eugenia,
Even such a thing, the proudest fair on earth
(For whose delight the elements are ransacked,
And art with nature studied to preserve her,)
Must be, when she is summon'd to appear
In the court of Death. But I lose time.

Eug. What mean you ?

Fran. Disturb me not. — ^Your ladyship looks^
pale;
But I, your doctor, have a ceruse for you, —
See, my Eugenia, how many faces.
That are adored in court, borrow these helps,

[Paints the checks.
And pass for excellence, when the better part
Of tnem are like to this. — Your mouth smells

sour too.
But here is that shall take away the scent ;
A precious antidote old ladies use,
when they would kiss, knowing their gums are
rotten. [Paints the lips.

These hands too, that disdain'd to take a toucn
From any lip, whose owner writ not lord,*
Are now but as the coarsest earth ; but I
Am at the charge, my bill not to be paid too.
To give them seeming beauty. [Paints the hands.]

— So ! 'tis done.
How do you like my workmanship ?

^ From any lip whose owner writ not lordj'] This raluable
improTement is from the corrected copy, which originally had
honour^ as it stands in all our editions/ It is impossible to pass
OTer these corrections without a sigh for the fallacy of criticism.
Alas 1 alas ! who knows whether much of the ingenious toil to
explain nonsense, in the Variomm edition of Shakspeare, is not
absolutely wasted upon mere errors of the press !

542 THE DUKE OF MILAN;

Eug. I tremble :
And thus to tyrannize upon the dead.
Is most inhuman.

Fran. Come we for revenge,
And can we think on pity ! Now to the upshot.
And, as it proves, applaud it. — My lord the duke!
Enter with joy, and see the sudden change
Your servant's hand hath wrought.

Re-enter Sforza and the rest.

Sfor. I live again
In my full confidence thsit Marcelia may
Pronounce my pardon. Can she speak yet ?

Fran. No :
You must not look for all your joys at once ;
That will ask longer time. ,

Pesc. 'Tis wondrous strange !

Sfor. By all the dues of love I have had from
her.
This hand seems as it was when first I kiss'd it.
These lips invite too : I could ever feed
Upon these roses, they still keep their colour
And native sweetness : only the nectar's wanting.
That, like the morning dew in flowery May,
Preserved them in their beauty.

JE«/er Graccho hastily.

Grac. Treason, treason !

Tib. Call up the guard.

Fran. Graccho ! then we are lost \ Aside.

Enter Guard.

Grac. I am got off, sir Jew ; a bribe hath done
it^ ,

THE DUKE OF MILAK 343

For all your serious charge ; there*s no disguise
Can keep you from my knowledge*

Sfor. Speak.

Grac. I am out of breath,
But this is

Fran. Spare thy labour, fool, — Francisco.*

AIL Monster of men !

Fran. Give me all attributes
Of all you can imagine, yet I glory
To be the thing I was born. I am Francisco ;
Francisco, that was raised by you, and made .
The minion of the time ; the same Francisco,
That would have whored this trunk, when it had

life;
And, after, breathed a jealousy upon thee,
As killing as those damps that belch out plagues
When the foundation of the earth is shaken :
I made thee do a deed heaven will not pardon,
Which was — to kill an innocent.

Sfor. Call forth the tortures
For all that flesh can feel.

Fran. I dare the worst.
Only, to yield some reason to the world
Why I pursued this course, look on this face.
Made old by thy base falsehood : 'tis Eugenia.

Sfor. Eugenia 1

Fran. Does it start you, sir? my sister.
Seduced and fool'd by thee : but thou must pay

• Fran. Spare thy labour fool^'-^Francisco.'] Francisco*6 bold"
ayowal of his guilt, with an emphatical repetition of his name^
and the enumeration of liis several acts of rillainy, which he
justifies from a spirit of reyenge, in all probability gare rise t(y
one of the most animated scenes in dramatic poetry. The
reader will easily see, that I refer to the last act of Dr. Young's
Revenge^ where Zanga, like Francisco, defends every cruel and
treacherous act he has committed from a principle o( deep re-
sentment. Dayies.

344 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

The forfeit of thy falsehood. Does it not work

yet !—
Whate'er becomes of me, which I esteem not,
Thou art mark'd for the grave : I've given thee

poison
In this cup/ now observe me, which, thy lust
Carousing deeply of, made thee forget
Thy vow*d faith to Eugenia.

Pesc. O damn'd villain !

Isab. How do you, sir?

Sfor. Like one
That learns to know in death what punishment
Waits on the breach of faith. Oh ! now I feel
An JEtna in my entrails. — I have lived
A prince, and my last breath shall be command.
— 1 bum, I burn! yet ere life be consumed,
Let me pronounce upon this wretch all torture
That witty cruelty can invent.

Pesc. Away with him !

. 754. In all things we will serve you.

Fran. Farewell, sister !
Now I have kept my word, torments I scorn :
I leave the world with glory. They are men,

J'Of given thee poUon

In this cap, now observe me, which, % last, &c.] i. e. in th.e
lips of Marcelia. This is a terrible scene, and has the air of
being taken from some Italian story. The circumstance of rub*
bing p<H8on on the lips of a dead beauty, occurs in a dreadful
passage in the Revenger's Tragedy, by Cyril Tourner, 1609.
There too the Duke is poisoned by kissing them.

In the former edition I had accounted for the confusion which
appeared in the grammatical construction of this speech, from the
perturbed state of the speaker's mind. I might have spared my
sagacity, it seems, for it had no better foundation than the
printer's errors. The line which stood,

^^ In this cup, now obserre me, with thy lasf'

is corrected by Massinger as it appears in the text, and the.
grammar of the speech is now as perfect as the sense.

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 845

And leave behind them name and memory,
That, wrong'd, do right themselves before they
die. [Kveunt Guard with Francisco.

Stepk. A desperate wretch !

l^or. I come : Death ! I obey thee.
.Yet I will not die raging ; for, alas !
My whole life was a frenzy. Good Eugenia^
In death forgive me. — As you love me, bear her
To some religious house, there let her spend
The remnant of her life : when I am ashes.
Perhaps she'll be appeased, and spare a prayer
For my poor soul. Bury me with Marcelia,
And let our epitaph be \Dies.

Tib. His speech is stopp*d.

Steph. Already dead !

Pesc. It is in vain to labour
To call him back. We'll give him funeral,
And then determine of the state affairs :
And learn, from this example, There's no trust
In a foundation that is built on lust. [Exeunt.^

' Mr. M. Mason, cont^ry to his custom, has giTen an account
of this play : but it is too loose and unsatisfactory to be pre*
rented to the reader. He has obserYed, indeed, what could not
easily be missed, — ^the beauty of the language, the eleyatioB of
the sentiments, the interesting nature of the situations, &c. But
the interior motire of the piece,— ^Ihe spring of action from
which the tragic events are made' to flow, — seems to hare
utterly escaped him. He has taken the accessory for the pri-
mary passion of it, and, upon his own error, founded a compa-
rison between the Duke of Milan and Othello. — But let us hear
Massinger himself. Fearing that, in a reverse of fortune, his
wife may fall into the possession of another, Sforza gives a secret
order for her murder, and attributes his resolution, to the excestf
of his attachment :

'^ 'Tis more than love' to her, that marks her out
^^ A wish'd companion to me in both fortunes."

Act. I. sc. iiit

This is carefully remembered in the conference between Mar*

346 THE DUKE OF MILAN.

celia and Franciico, and connected with the feelings which '
occasions in her :

** that my lord, my Sforza, should esteem .

'^ My life fit only as a pag;p, to wait on
'^ The rarious coarse of his uncertain fortunes :
^' Or cherish in himself that sensual hope,
^^ In death to know me as a wife, afilicts me."

^ Act III. sc. ii.

Upon this disapprobation of his selfish motire, is founded her
reserve towards him, — a reserre, however, more allied to ten-
derness than to anger, and meant as a prudent corrective of his.
unreasonable d'esires. And from this reserve, ill interpreted by
Sforza, proceeds that jealousy of his in the fourth act, which
Mr. M. Mason will have to be the groundwork of the whole
subject.

But if Massinger must be compared with somebody, let it be
with himself: for, as the reader will by and by perceive, tfte
Duke of Milan has more substantial connexion with the Picture
than with Othello* In his uxoriousness,—- his doating entreaties of
his wife's favours, — his abject requests of the mediation of others
for him, &c. &c. Sforza strongly resembles Ladislaus ; while the
friendly and bold reproofs of his fondness by Pescara and Ste-
phano prepare us for the rebukes afterwards employed against
the same failing by the intrepid kindness of Eubulus^ And not
only do we find this similarity in some<of the leading sentiments
of the two plays, but occasionally the very language of the one
is carried into the other.

As to the action itself of this piece, it is highly animating and
interesting ; and its connexion, at the very opening, with an
important passage of history, procures for it at once a decided
attention. This is, for the most part, well maintained by strong
and rapid alternations of fortune, till the catastrophe is matured
by the ever-working vengeance of Francisco. Even here, the
author has contrived a novelty of interest little expected by the
teaider : and the late appearance of the injured Eugenia throws
a fresh emotion into the conclusion of the play, while it explains
a considerable part of the plot, with which, indeed, it is essen-
tially connected.

The character of Sforza himself is strongly conceived. His
passionate fondness for Marcelia — his sudden rage at her appa-
rent coolness, — his resolute renunciation of her, — his speedy
repentance and fretful impatience of her absence, — his vehement
defence of her innocence^, — his quick and destructive vengeance
against her, upon a false asbertion of her dishonour, — and his
prostrations and mad embraces of her dead body^ — shew the

THE DUKE OF MILAN. 847

force of dotage and hate in their extremes. His actions^ire wild
and ungOYerned, and his whole life (as he says) is made up of
frenzjr.

One important lesson is to be drawn from the principal fea-
ture of this character. From Sforza's ill-regulated fondness for
Marcelia flows his own order for her murder. The discovery
of it occasions the distant behaviour of the wife^ the revenge of
the husband, and the death of both.-^Let us use the blessings
of life with modesty and thankfulness. He wlio aims at intem-
perate gratifications, disturbs the order of Providence; and, in
the premature loss of the object which he too fondly covets, is
made to feel the just punishment of unreasonable wishes, and
ungoverned indulgence.

e'nd of vol, i^

k*.««.

London : Printed by W. Bulmer and Co.
Cleveland'Tow, Stt James's.